Sky Key

This is Pravheet, a youthful 59, perhaps the most respected member of the Harappan line, even more than Jov. He was the Player during a false start of Endgame, one of only three false starts in history. The infamous Chasm-game perpetrated by the Zero line in 1972. The one that he alone exposed, but not before felling four Players of other lines. It was Pravheet who single-handedly obliterated the Zero line—that delusional band of outsiders—in the aftermath of the Chasm-game. Most importantly, Pravheet is the one who, after lapsing, swore never to kill again. He became an ascetic for 23 years before taking Una as his wife and making a family of his own. During his seclusion he studied the ways of the ancient seers, deciphering the secret texts of the Harappan and the Buddha that their line has protected for millennia.

“Pravheet is right to ask,” Jov says. “I think it is time we hear from the Player herself.” And now, all their eyes turn to Shari Chopra. Jamal takes her hand and straightens next to her, as if he’s readying for an onslaught.

“Elders,” Shari says, her voice serene. “We needn’t look for Sky Key.”

And sure enough the voices come fast and furious. Shari can make out only snatches of their confusion, their anger, their exasperation.

“But this is Endgame” … “What is this blasphemy” … “not look for Sky Key?” … “lose” … “We’ll lose” … “She dooms us all” … “All is lost and the dark is coming” … “What does she mean” … “Surely she’s loony” … “She is giving up” … “Maybe she knows” … “no no no” … “How can this child be a Player?”…

“ENOUGH!” Jov shouts. Even the cavorting children in the adjoining room stop playing. He holds out his hand, palm up, in Shari’s direction. “Please, my Player. Explain.”

“We needn’t look for Sky Key because we already have it.”

These words have the opposite effect on the assembly. Instead of vociferous objection, there is disbelieving silence.

Finally, Chipper says, “Already have it?”

Shari lowers her eyes. “Yes, Uncle.”

“Where? When did you go and get it? You can’t have gotten it before Earth Key,” Helena says, her voice accusatory.

“In a manner of speaking, Auntie, I did.”

“What are you saying, Player? Please, speak plainly.” It is Pravheet again.

“Sky Key is my Little Alice.”

All the adults go deathly quiet, save for Una and Ghala, who both gasp. Paru’s voice is quavering as he asks, “B-but how can y-you be sure?”

“It was my clue from the kepler. And it is what Little Alice has told me too, in her own way. She’s been having dreams. I’ve been having them as well.”

“But why would the Makers do this?” Chipper asks. “It is immoral to involve a child in this way.”

“The Makers are immoral, Uncle,” Shari says emphatically. “Endgame is immoral. Or rather … amoral.”

More gasps.

Over half the people in this hall truly believe that the keplers exist on a plane higher than the gods. The gods are Their children, after all, and humans are at another remove, the children of the gods. The keplers are the gods of the gods and, for many here, they are beyond reproach.

“I will not listen to this heresy!” Gup blurts. He stands quickly from his chair and stalks out of the room. Short-tempered and slow-witted Gup. No one follows him.

“I do not wish to cause dissension, elders, but I alone have met a kepler. After gaining some distance from it, and considering the clue it gave me, I have come to the conclusion that the one I met was … detached. At best. It came to announce the commencement of Endgame, and the coming of the Great Extinction, and all it really did was talk as if it were reciting some kind of history already passed. Don’t get me wrong—it was physically wondrous, unlike anything I have ever seen, and it had abilities that go far beyond anything we have learned. Yet for all this power, its message was thus: ‘Nearly every human and animal will die. You twelve will fight to figure out who doesn’t. Good luck.’ Like a child plucking wings off a butterfly. There is no nobility in that.”

Shari pauses. She expects another rush of questions. This time, the other Harappan stay silent. Shari continues.

“As for the other Players, they fall into two camps—those who should win, and those who shouldn’t. At least half were twisted monsters, poisoned by their vanity, by the knowledge that they are among the deadliest people on Earth. The others were different, more self-aware, perhaps capable of feelings beyond bloodlust. I would say that fewer than half deserve to win. In our brief meeting, only two distinguished themselves—and shamefully, I was not one. The first was the Aksumite, a dark-skinned and regal boy with the bluest of eyes, who begged us to pool our knowledge and work together in an effort to perhaps spare Earth from undue suffering. The other was the Koori, a wild woman of Australia, who saved my life in Chengdu. But mostly the Players were … just people. People driven by a purpose they don’t—we don’t—wholly understand.”

Another pause. Shari watches the children in the next room. Some of the older ones have stopped playing and instead stand in the doorway, listening.

She continues. “Helena—you said that I am not a natural killer, and I concede that I am not. But I have killed, and I will kill again if Endgame requires it. But I will not take pleasure in it. Do you understand?” Helena makes an audible huff. Shari ignores this. “I will not kill a person who is a true human being, do you see? The boy I killed was a monster. I broke a chair to pieces and drove a wooden stake through his heart.”

Shari stands and looks over the faces in the room, meeting the gaze of each of her elders with a sad smile on her lips. She can see that many do understand. Jov and Paru and Ana and Pravheet and Una and Chem especially. She finishes by turning to Jamal. He squeezes her hand tightly. As she speaks, she doesn’t take her eyes from Jamal. “I do not tell you of this murder of mine to boast,” she says quietly, “but to demonstrate that I will stand for my people. I have stood for my people, and chief among all of you, I will stand for Little Alice. She is Sky Key. I know it, and it is only a matter of time before the others do too. They will come for her. We, all of us, every initiated member of our line, must protect her.”

“You mean you must protect her,” Helena says, a desperate bitterness creeping into her voice.

Shari looks lovingly at Helena. “No, Auntie. I mean we. I mean you especially. With respect to all of you, please listen. I have thought long and hard on this. The kepler said explicitly that there are no rules in Endgame. I am the Player, and the Event is coming in fewer than ninety days—perhaps even sooner if the kepler wills it. We must prepare. If the keplers have the, the, the”—she searches for the words—“the immorality, the cynicism, to make a child, one of our own children, a piece of the Great Game, then I say we can do whatever we like. I propose that we go to the Valley of Eternal Life and take Sky Key with us. We take our people there. That ancient fortress is one of the most defensible keeps in the entire world. Let the others Play the way they want to—by hunting and killing and saying to themselves, ‘I am the best, I am the best, I am the best.’ We will wait. We will wait for them to bring Earth Key to us, and they will break hard on our walls, and we will take Earth Key. I will take it, and bring it together with my Sky Key for the last leg of the game. But I need you, and want you. We are the Harappan, and we are going to protect our own. We are going to save our line. We.”

She sits down. Everyone is still. The only sounds come from the very small children still playing in the next room. Shari watches as Little Alice pushes through the legs and arms of her cousins and says, “Did you say my name, Mama?”

Shari’s eyes well with tears. “Yes, meri jaan. Come sit with us.”

Little Alice, precocious and far more confident in her movements and speaking than an average two-year-old, prances across the hall to her mother and father. She is oblivious to all the eyes upon her. As she climbs onto Jamal’s lap, Jov says, “I will consider your words before deciding on a course of action, Shari. But I would like to talk more with you, along with Helena, Paru, Pravheet, and Jamal. I want some more assurance that what you say about Sky Key is true.”

Shari bows her head. “Yes, Jovinderpihainu.”

And as each individual in the room thinks about what Shari has just said, Shari’s maid steps into the hall, practically folded in half out of deference, and says with her voice shaking, “Madam Chopra, please forgive me but I have an extremely urgent message.”

Shari holds out her hand. “Come, Sara. Stand and don’t be afraid. What is it?”

Sara straightens and shuffles forward, the balls of her feet scuffing the floor, and hands Shari a piece of white paper.

Shari takes it and reads.

“It is a message from the Koori,” Shari says. “She found me. She found us.”

Shari pauses.

“What does it say?” Paru asks.

Shari shows it to Jamal, who stands and carries Little Alice in his arms back to the playroom, whispering silly things in her ear as they go, Little Alice giggling and nuzzling her father’s neck. The wall of teenagers parts for them, and they disappear into the next room. The teenagers come back together and stare at Shari.

When her husband and daughter are out of earshot, she says, “The note reads, ‘Stay sharp. Your Little Alice is in danger. Grave danger. The others will come for her. I don’t know why, but I have seen it. The Old People have shown me in my dreams. I will try to stop them. The keplers have given me a way to do this. Keep her safe. Keep yourself safe, until the end. May we be the last standing, and fight it out then. Two of the good ones. Yours, Big A.’”

Jov claps, and it is like a giant clapping away a covering of clouds.

No more confirmation is needed.

The 893rd meeting of the Harappan line is over.

They must move.

They must Play.

They are going to fight.

Together.

An’s interrogator—still slumped across An’s chest—is shut up and BLINK shut up BLINK shut up and quiet and dead. An needs to get out of shiverblinkblinkblink out of his restraints and blinkblink and move.

He closes his eyes blink closes his eyes and sees her. Remembers the smell of her shiver her hair and the taste of her breath, BLINK full and aromatic, like some kind of ceremonial blinkblinkblink some kind of ceremonial tea.

CHIYOKOCHIYOKOCHIYOKOCHIYOKOTAKEDA

CHIYOKOTAKEDA

CHIYOKO TAKEDA CHIYOKO TAKEDA CHIYOKO TAKEDA CHIYOKO TAKEDA CHIYOKO TAKEDA CHIYOKO TAKEDA

The tics subside just enough to shivershiver just enough to …

An wedges his left hand between his hip and blinkblink and the edge of the metal gurney. He twists so that the base of his thumb is pressed against the cold metal. Then An pushes all of his weight down, onto his thumb, until he hears blinkCHIYOKOblink until he hears the pop. His thumb dislocates, flops loose and rubbery against his palm. It is blink excruciating, but An doesn’t care. He pulls, squeezes his hand through the restraint and pushes his shoulder into Charlie. The interrogator slides to the floor with a thump. An unbuckles the strap on his right. When his other hand is free, he grips his dislocated thumb and shoves it back into place. It is sore, swollen, and bruised.

But it works.

A loud alarm wails outside the door. He works the restraint off his forehead and sits up. Pain surges through his head, front to back, like a sponge soaking up water. It throbs and fills his ears and pushes at his eyeballs.

The gunshot wound. Charlie said he was concussed.

An must ignore it.

An takes stock of himself. He is wearing a V-neck T-shirt and drawstring scrubs, scratchy fabric, dressed like a prisoner or a mental patient. He unfastens his blinkCHIYOKOTAKEDAblink unfastens the restraints from his ankles with both hands, climbs off the gurney, lands next to Charlie, kneels. He pats down blink the interrogator for anything useful. He finds a rolled-up sleeve that feels like it contains blinkblink contains syringes. This could be more of the wonder drug, the one that cleared his mind. It made An tell the truth too. So much truth. He hopes that the remnants of the drug still in his system keep his tics to a minimum.

So he can blinkblink so he can escape.

He rips off Charlie’s suitcoat and shrugs it on. He pats the man down a final time, finds a gun holstered under Charlie’s armpit. Glock 17. Stupid cocky military blink military types. Bringing a gun into a room with a blinkblinkSHIVER a Player of Endgame. Might as well shoot himself.

An unholsters it. Releases the safety. Closes his eyes tight. Fights back the pain blink and the pain SHIVER and the pain blink and the image of …

CHIYOKOCHIYOKOCHIYOKOTAKEDA

Flat and dead Chiyoko Takeda.

Her name is his now.

In him.

His.

An hears a creak. SHIVER. Not the ship shifting on the waves. Blink. He looks up.

The wheel on the steel door is turning.

“Chiyoko,” he says.

He breaths in and out, in and out.

“Chiyoko.”

The storm inside blinkblink calms some more.

Time to go.

An pushes up the sleeves of Charlie’s coat and gets ready. The wheel on the door stops turning and swings inward. Two men slide into the doorway, rifles ready.

Bang, bang. An fires the Glock from his hip, shoots both soldiers in the face, between the eyes. They fall to the floor, one on top of the other.

An moves. SHIVERblinkSHIVER. Moves quickly.

The alarm is louder with the door open. It echoes off the metal walls, down the corridors, in his ears, makes the pain worse, but whatever. An can deal with pain, perhaps better than any of the Players.

He steps toward the two men. SHIVERBLINK. He crouches, searches them. The rifles are wedged under their torsos. Voices come from the corridor. Men, angry, scared, excited. At least 10 meters off. Approaching cautiously. He feels the drone of the engines through his bare feet. Guesses which way is aft.

Left.

That’s where he’ll go. Get to the back of the ship.

The voices are closer.

CHIYOKOTAKEDA. He unclips two M67 grenades from one of the dead men. An desperately pats him down for more of these beautiful little bombs, but there aren’t SHIVER there aren’t any. An stuffs the Glock in the front of his pants and stands, a spherical grenade in each hand. He pulls the wire pin from each with his teeth. He positions himself on the uneven flesh of the men and waits.

CHIYOKOCHIYOKO.

You play for death, she said to him. I play for life.

SHIVERblinkblinkSHIVER

Why? An wonders desperately. Why did she have to be taken from me?

BLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINK

He bites his lower lip so hard it bleeds.

“Chiyoko …” he says quietly.

The voices are closer. He can make out phrases. “Armed and dangerous.” “Fire when ready.” “Shoot to kill.”

An smiles. He hears the rubber soles of their boots squeaking in the corridor.

I play for death.

He lets the spoon pop on the first grenade. An knows exactly how BLINK how much time he has. Four seconds. Waits 1.2 before slinging it out the door.

An whips behind the wall, plugs his ears, the remaining grenade pressed up against his cheek, clenches his jaw, ignores the pain in his head.

He doesn’t close his eyes.

SHIVERSHIVER.

The 400-gram, 6-centimeter metal sphere arcs soundlessly through the air. Four men move into position as it comes down. They don’t even see it. As soon as it clanks to the floor, it explodes at their feet.

Pressure waves roll through the ship. The sound is deafening. An pulls his fingers from his ears. Transfers the other grenade to his left hand, draws the blinkSHIVERSHIVERblink draws the Glock. He hears new sounds.

A man screaming. Blink. A steam pipe hissing. Blink. The alarm, still going, but fainter since the blast temporarily took some of his hearing.

Blink.

An waves through the doorway, half expecting his hand to get shot off. It doesn’t. He peeks shiverBLINKshiver. Checks right, where the explosion was, then left blinkblink then right again. Sees two dead men and another under them, his arm gone, moving slightly and moaning. A steam pipe over them hisses, a white jet filling the air.

CHIYOKO.

An moves into the corridor, holds his right arm out straight, and shoots.

The man stops moaning.

A bit of violence always clears the head.

A bit of death.

He moves aft. The metal floor is cold. The ship tilts. The air is warm and getting warmer from the steam. The corridor goes straight for five meters, has closed doors on either side, turns right at the end. More sounds up ahead. Footfalls, clicks and clanks of metal things. Men, but no voices this time. The men at the forward end of the hall were amateurs. These aren’t.

These are blinkblink these are special forces.

An takes eight quick steps, his bare feet completely silent, and stops where the corridor turns right. BlinkCHIYOKOshiverBLINK. An guesses that the men have assembled around the corner, at the far end. They’re waiting for him.

BLINKSHIVER.

They kill the lights.

It is completely black. They killed the lights because they have night vision and he doesn’t. But no matter.

BLINKSHIVERBLINKBLINK

An releases the spoon of his last grenade. Counts one second and throws it, overhand and hard, so that it caroms off the wall and hits the floor, bouncing crazily out of sight toward the special-forces men.

“GRENADE!” and two quick shots, the slugs ricocheting off the metal with high-pitched zings. An throws himself back the way he came and plugs his ears before the 2nd blast.

This blast is even more deafening than the first. An unplugs his ears before the echoes are done reverberating. He has maybe three more minutes before he loses the element of surprise. After those three minutes they will stop trying to contain him and instead simply contain the ship, making it impossible blink impossible blink impossible for him to escape, even if it’s just to jump over the side and take his chances in the water, which would not be ideal to say the least.

BLINKshivershiverCHIYOKOblink.

Time to go.

He raises the Glock and slips around the corner, running quickly and blind-firing into the darkness.

Twelve rounds, and by the sound of them, three find flesh and bone. No return fire. He runs 5.4 meters and slides like a midfielder trying to steal the ball from a charging forward. He reaches out and feels in the darkness—a head. Just a head.

BLINKBLINKSHIVER

The darkness in front of him is more open, the smoke from the grenade rising and rising. An guesses that he has just entered the ship’s hangar.

More moaning. But also a scrambling sound.

An lifts up the head he slid into and blink and blink and blink and gets his fingers around a pair of night-vision goggles. He yanks them free. As An pulls the goggles over his face, he realizes for the first time that his head is blinkSHIVERblink is bandaged. He tightens the straps and they squeeze blinkblinkblink they squeeze blinkblinkblink they squeeze the swollen skin and pull at the fresh stitches across his forehead and his hairline. He winces and stifles the urge to cry out. The goggles are in place, but they aren’t working.

“Who has eyes?” a faraway voice whispers, the sound echoing through the hangar.

He’s not alone.

“Almost online,” a 2nd voice answers, this one closer. “Come ON!”

This voice is only feet away. SHIVERblinkSHIVER An sees the soft green glow as the goggles come to life. Only three meters away.

“I see him!” the man blurts.

But he doesn’t shoot. He must have lost his rifle in the explosion. The ghostly light frames the edge of his face, his scruffy beard, gnashing teeth. It all surges toward An, who flops to the floor, aims his pistol, and fires.

The man falls against him. Dead. A knife stabs the floor just next to An’s ear.

BLINKBLINKshiverBLINKshiver.

Close one.

An pushes the man off shiver and feels the goggles blink again and finds the switch.

The room turns green.

It is indeed the hangar.

A shot screams from the far side of the room and misses An by a less than a meter. He spots a large blinkblink a large man shouldering a rifle. No goggles. He’s guessing. Firing toward the commotion. An raises the Glock, takes his time, and fires a single round. It passes through the man’s front hand and enters his skull directly over his right eye. He falls.

An pries a knife from the dead man’s hand, inspects it. Blinkblink. It has a 30-centimeter straight blade with a single edge and no serrations. Shiver. It’s more like a small sword than a military tactical knife. Probably this man’s prize possession, his weapon of choice. His signature.

Not anymore.

BLINKBLINKSHIVERSHIVERBLINK

An slaps himself, runs across the hangar, whispering, “Chiyoko Takeda Chiyoko Takeda Chiyoko Takeda.” He bobs and weaves just in case, but no shots come. He finds it blinkblink finds it odd. This is a large ship, probably a Type 45 destroyer, and even a skeleton crew would require over 100 seamen. By his count, he’s only killed 17. That means more will be coming.

Or maybe it means the rest of the ship doesn’t know about An. They don’t know what’s happening below deck. Maybe An’s a secret.

He scurries around an amphibious vehicle and between two pallets stacked with cargo blinkshivershiverblinkblink with cargo wrapped in plastic and nylon webbing. Three meters away is an open doorway, a set of stairs inside, going up, up, up.

A Type 45 destroyer has a blink has a blink has a helipad. Maybe a Merlin Mk1or a Lynx Mk8.

An has logged 278 simulated hours on the Merlin and 944 on the Lynx, plus 28 hours in a real one.

An makes for the door.

blinkblinkblinkblinkblink

He hits the narrow stairs and goes up.

One deck.

Up.

Two.

Up.

Three.

The air cools and he smells the blinkblinkblink the salty sweetness of the sea and best of all SHIVER best of all SHIVER best of all he hears the whomp-whomp-whomp of a chopper’s rotors coming to speed.

Thank you, special forces.

BLINKBLINK.

An is a few steps below the door that leads to the helipad. It’s open. The ship’s engines throttle up, as if the hunk of metal and electronics and weaponry is nervous. He feels the first breeze of the rotor wash from the helicopter and pulls Charlie’s coat closed around him. He sees the sharp, full moon, the sky clear and the stars bright and the void limitless above.