Rules of the Game

KEPLER 22B

Ansible chamber on board the Seedrak Sare’en, active geosynchronous orbit above the Martian North Pole

kepler 22b sits in a shiny chair in the center of a black, low-ceilinged room. His seven-fingered hands are woven together, his platinum hair bound into a perfect sphere perched on top of his head. He reviews the report he is about to give over the ansible to his conclave, many light years away. The game taking place on the blue-and-white planet in the next orbit has experienced hitches and unforeseen developments, but it progresses nonetheless. Most of what has transpired is not terribly worrying, with the notable exception of the destruction of one of Earth’s 12 great monuments. This was the one that belonged to the La Tène Celts, the one called Stonehenge, and it is now utterly gone and useless. kepler 22b is deeply disturbed by this. At least one of these ancient structures—ones that were erected many millennia ago, when his people walked alongside the young humans of Earth—at least one is required to finish Endgame.

And this, more than anything, is what he wishes to see happen.

For a Player to win.

A Player.

He turns his attention from the report to a transmission hologram projected into the air not far from his face. A dim real-time blip moves over the map of a city on the Indian subcontinent. A Player. Judging by the speed, he uses some kind of vehicle.

This Player is not the one that kepler 22b expects to win, but it is the one he has been most curious about.

He is a shrewd and incautious Player.

Unpredictable. Excitable. Merciless.

He is the Shang, An Liu.

And kepler 22b would continue to watch but then the ansible hums and the hologram flicks off and the room fills with pitch blackness and the temperature drops to -60 degrees Fahrenheit. Moments later the blackness pricks with drifting motes of light and the room glows bright and there they are, their projections surrounding him on all sides.

The conclave.

kepler 22b would prefer to watch the Shang, but he cannot.

It is time to give his report.

AN LIU

Beck Bagan, Ballygunge, Kolkata, India

The Shang.

SHIVER.

blink.

SHIVER.

An Liu rides a Suzuki GSX-R1000, trying to gain speed but getting thwarted by the Kolkatan throng.

He twists the grips. The wheels spin over the uneven pavement. No helmet, teeth gritting, lungs burning, eyes like slits. Chiyoko’s remnants press into his chest. Next to the necklace of his beloved is a SIG 226 and a small collection of custom-made grenades. All of these are hidden from view by a cotton shirt.

He pushes north for South Park Street Cemetery. Pushes, pushes, pushes.

The cemetery. It is where he is. One of the Players who Chiyoko had nicked with a tracker. One of the Players that An is now tracking.

The cemetery is where he will find the Nabataean. Maccabee Adlai. Who has Earth Key and Sky Key. Who is winning.

Or believes he is winning.

Because there is a difference between these.

If An gets there soon, there will certainly be a difference.

If An gets there, Maccabee will not be winning. Not at all.

He will be dead.

And An is less than two kilometers away.

So close.

But the streets are full. Kolkata has poured her citizens out of doors this evening, all of them clamoring for information, for loved ones, for a decent cell signal. An dodges businessmen and spice wallahs, brightly dressed women and stray dogs, crying children and stalled Ambassador taxis, rickshaws with reed-thin men pulling their carriages along haphazard streets like fish working upstream. He curls the bike around an oblivious Brahman bull. Some people get in An’s way. These either get nudged by the bike or get a swift kick from An’s foot.

Out of SHIVERSHIVER out of the way.

In his wake are screams and bruises and cursing and shaking fists. There are no cops. Not a single officer of the law.

Is it because the world is on the cusp of lawlessness?

Is it because of Abaddon, even now, before it has struck?

Could it be?

Yes.

An smiles.

Yes, Chiyoko. The end is near.

Two large men appear at the intersection of Lower Range Road and Circus Avenue. They point and shout. They recognize him. They saw his video—everyone in the world has seen his video by now—and they want to stop him. They may try to kill him, which An finds preposterous. He revs the bike and people scatter, but the men hold strong and lock arms.

Fools.

An rides straight for them, through them, knocking them aside and running over one, tearing skin from an arm. The men yell and one produces an ancient-looking pistol from nowhere. He pulls the trigger, but instead of firing properly it explodes in his hands.

He falls, screaming.

The gun was faulty. Old. Broken.

Like this BLINKBLINKBLINK this world.

An might feel sorry for the man and his mangled hand, but he is the Shang and he doesn’t care. He jams the throttle and rises out of the saddle and weaves the bike’s rear wheel back and forth and scuttles away, one of the men screaming as his leg is momentarily caught under the rubber and made bloody and raw.

An’s smile grows.

He leaves the men behind. Passes a barbershop, a sweetshop, a mobile phone shop, an electronics shop crowded with people. On the screens in the windows of this store An catches the image of kepler 22b.

The alien outed himself when he gave his announcement about Sky Key. kepler 22b began to show his true colors. Endgame is real for everyone now. It is real for rich people and poor people, the powerful and the impotent. The brutal and the kind. Everyone.

And An loves it.

Now the whole world knows that the first two keys are together. That Maccabee has them. That Endgame continues despite some of the other Players’ misguided attempts to stop it. That it continues despite fear and hope and murder and even love.

Best of all, kepler 22b told the people of Earth that Abaddon can’t be stopped. That the giant asteroid will fall in less than three days and there is nothing anyone can do about it.

That millions will die.

An loves it.

The bike churns. The street widens. The crowds part and An moves a little faster, up to 60 kph now. He glances at Chiyoko’s watch. Sees the tracker’s display screened over the numbers.

Blip-blip.

There. Maccabee Adlai.

So BLINK so SHIVER so close.

So close that An can smell them.

An screams across Shakespeare Sarani Road and goes two more blocks and spins northwest on Park Street. He looks at the watch again and sees it.

Blip-blip.

Blip-blip.

Only blocks away.

BLINKshiver

Chiyoko Played for life.

SHIVERblink

But I

SHIVER

I Play for death.

SARAH ALOPAY, JAGO TLALOC, AISLING KOPP, POP KOPP, GREG JORDAN, GRIFFIN MARRS

The Depths, missing image , Valley of Eternal Life, Sikkim, India

Everybody chill the fuck out! a man yells. He’s mid-40s, weathered, drenched in sweat, a little chubby. He stands in the middle of the hallway that is crowded with Players and their friends.

Sarah and Jago are at the far end, their backs to an open doorway. The Donghu, the Harappan, the Nabataean, and both Earth Key and Sky Key were in the room beyond the doorway not minutes before. Baitsakhan was very alive and very intent on killing Shari Chopra out of a psychotic sense of revenge, but Maccabee felt sorry for the Harappan, and he stopped the Donghu. He was about to take sole possession of both Earth Key and Sky Key when Sarah and Jago surged into the room. As Baitsakhan lay dying, the Olmec jumped forward and attacked Maccabee, and while the fight was close, Jago won. Sarah had a chance to kill Little Alice Chopra, the girl who is Sky Key, a death that should have put a stop to Endgame.

But Sarah couldn’t do it.

And Jago couldn’t do it either.

Aisling’s squad arrived moments after the fight ended. The Celt had a chance to kill Sky Key too, and she tried to take a shot with her sniper rifle, but at the last moment Sky Key reached out and touched Earth Key and in a flash of light the little girl disappeared, taking an unconscious Maccabee with her, and the mutilated body of Baitsakhan as well.

The only living person left in that room is Shari Chopra, knocked out, with a large lump on her head courtesy of Maccabee. He could have killed her too but, perhaps out of mercy or righteousness or empathy, Maccabee let her live.

Where Maccabee and the keys are now, none of them know. It could be that they went to Bolivia, or to the bottom of the ocean, or are in an Endgame-finishing audience with kepler 22b himself.

All that is left here, in the routed Harappan fortress carved out of the Sikkimese Himalayas, are these Players and Aisling’s friends.

All that is left is their fear and their anger and their confusion.

And their guns.

Most of which are pointed at one another.

Just chill out, the man implores again. No one else has to die today, he says.

You might, Sarah thinks, her pistol trained on the man’s throat. Sarah refused to kill the Chopra girl, but she wouldn’t think twice about shooting this man, or the people with him, if it means escape.

The man steps around Aisling, places a hand on the barrel of her rifle, forces it down two inches. It’s now aimed at Sarah’s chest rather than her forehead. The man’s other hand is empty and palm forward. His eyes are wide and pleading. His breath quick.

A peacemaker, Sarah thinks.

The man licks his lips.

Sarah says, I’ll chill out when none of you are standing in our way. Her voice is calm. Sarah notices that Aisling Kopp is flushed. She has a smear of blood on her skin—maybe hers, but probably not.

Blood. And sweat. And grime.

Aisling asks, Where’s Sky Key?

Sarah’s gun is light. One bullet. Maybe two.

Move out of our way, Jago insists. His pistol is aimed at Aisling’s head. Aisling looks different from when he last saw her. Older, harder, sadder. They must all appear so. Endgame was simpler in the early stages, before any of the keys had been recovered. Now it is vastly more complicated.

We’re not going anywhere, Aisling says, her eyes not moving from Sarah’s. Not until we find out where Sky Key is.

Sarah says, Well, she’s not here.

Shoot her! Sarah orders herself. Do it!

But she doesn’t.

She can’t.

Aisling tried to do what Sarah couldn’t. She tried to kill the little girl.

Aisling tried to stop Endgame.

Which means that Aisling and her friends can’t be all bad.

Sarah glances at the other men in the room, the ones who haven’t spoken. One is old but formidable-looking, an eye clouded and white. Maybe a former La Tène Player. The other is middle-aged, a contemporary of the Peacemaker. He has a bandanna tied over his head, wears round eyeglasses, and is strapped with a heavy-looking pack spilling with communications equipment. He also carries a sniper rifle, which he doesn’t bother to aim at anyone. Instead, he reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a hand-rolled cigarette. He puts it in his mouth but doesn’t light it.

Both men look spent.

Long day, Sarah thinks.

Long week.

Long fucking life.

Sarah figures she could jump backward and fire simultaneously, killing Peacemaker. Aisling would instantly return fire, but since Peacemaker has his hand parked on her rifle, this shot would miss. Jago would kill Aisling. Then they would finish the old Celt and the hippie walkie-talkie. Provided no one else is hidden nearby, she and Jago could let their guard down and fall into each other’s arms and exhale. They could walk out unscathed. They could continue their mission to stop Endgame. Sarah puts their chances of killing these four people at 60 or 65 percent. Not bad odds, but not great.

Don’t do it, Peacemaker says, as if he can read Sarah’s thoughts.

Why not? she asks.

Just hear me out. He glances at Aisling. Please.

Here it comes, the man with the cigarette mumbles, breaking his silence. The old man with the white eye stays mum, his gaze dancing from person to person.

The man says, "My name is Greg Jordan. I’m a retired, twenty-plus-year vet of the CIA. I’m associates—no, friends—with Aisling here. I know all about Endgame. Maybe more than any of you know about it, believe it or not. He glances at Aisling. More than I’ve been letting on, he says apologetically. Aisling’s left eye twitches. The old man exhales loudly. Anyway, I’ve seen my share of Mexican standoffs, and this qualifies big time. One wrong move and we all die in this hallway pretty easily. Like I said, no one else has to die today. A lot of people already have." Sarah doesn’t know what he’s talking about. She doesn’t know that Aisling and Greg and the other two men—and also a woman, now dead, named Bridget McCloskey—spent the previous day marching into the mountains and killing everyone they met. Killing, killing, killing. By the end of the day many, many Harappan were dead. Well over 50.

Too many.

The man sighs. Let’s not add to the body count.

Aisling’s shoulders slump, her burgeoning guilt palpable. Greg Jordan’s words so far make some sense. Bullets remain in chambers. Feet remain planted on the ground. Sarah’s and Jago’s faces say, Go on.

Greg Jordan continues. "I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I think we can all be friends. I think we all want the same thing—namely, to put a stop to this madness. Am I right? Whadya say, guys? Friends? At least until we’ve had a few minutes to chat and are out of this Himalayan fortress?"

Pause.

Then Jago whispers, Screw these guys, Sarah.

And a part of Sarah is inclined to agree, but before she does anything rash Aisling asks, Why didn’t you kill her, Sarah? Why couldn’t you do it? As she speaks she lets her rifle fall to her side. Aisling is now completely defenseless, and that counts for something.

The Celt steps past Greg Jordan. Why? she repeats, staring intently at Sarah, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aisling wants the game to end badly. She wants to stop it. She wants to save lives.

Just like Sarah and Jago do.

Sarah’s forearm pounds, reminding her that in the fight with Maccabee and Baitsakhan she suffered a gunshot wound that needs attention. Her head spins a little. Her grip on the pistol loosens. I know I should have …

Damn right you should have, Aisling says.

"I wanted it to stop. I needed it to stop."

Then you should have pulled the trigger!

You’re … you’re right. But I needed it to stop, Sarah repeats.

It’s not going to stop until that girl is dead, Aisling points out.

That’s not what I mean, Sarah says, her voice dropping half an octave. I want Endgame to stop too, Aisling, but I needed—what did you say, Greg? Madness? I needed the madness to stop. The madness in my head. If I’d pulled that trigger, then it would’ve … it would’ve …

Destroyed you, Jago says, also letting down his guard a little. I also tried, Celt. I couldn’t do it. It may have been selfish, but I think Sarah was right not to kill Sky Key. She was a child. A baby. Whatever happens, she was right.

Aisling sighs. Fuck. No one speaks for a moment. I get it. Truth is, I was praying the whole way up here that I wouldn’t have to do it up close and personal. That I’d have a clear and long shot with this. She jostles her rifle and peers around Sarah into the dark room at the end of the hall. But I guess I missed, right?

Sarah nods. She’s gone. She was repeating ‘Earth Key’ over and over and I think she touched it and—

Jago clicks his tongue. Poof.

What do you mean, ‘poof’? Jordan asks.

They just disappeared, Sarah says. It’s not that crazy when you consider that about thirty minutes ago Jago and I and the other two Players were in Bolivia.

Bullshit, Aisling says.

What, you didn’t teleport here too? Jago asks, trying to make a joke, even while he still aims at Aisling’s temple.

Aisling doesn’t care anymore. It’s not the first time someone’s aimed a gun at her and it won’t be the last. No, we didn’t teleport, Aisling says. Just good old-fashioned planes, trains, and automobiles … and feet. Lots of feet.

"But Sky Key—she is gone, right?" Jordan asks.

Sarah nods. Her mother’s in there, though.

Aisling double-takes and tries to peer into the room. Who—Chopra?

Yeah, Sarah says.

Alive? Aisling asks, her voice a little too desperate.

Sí, Jago answers.

Shit, Jordan says. That’s not good.

Why not? Sarah asks.

Aisling says, We uh … we just killed her entire family.

¿Que? Jago says.

This is a Harappan stronghold, the old man explains from the back of the room, pride lacing his words. Except it wasn’t strong enough.

She’s not going to like me too much when she wakes up, Aisling says. I wouldn’t like me, either.

Shit, Sarah says.

Sí. Mierda.

We should kill her, the old man says.

But Aisling raises a hand. No. Jordan’s right. It’s been too much today. Marrs—Sarah and Jago realize that Aisling is talking to the man with the walkie-talkie—you can keep her all Sleeping Beauty, right?

Sure, no problem, Marrs answers, his voice nasal and high-pitched.

Jordan says, Hey, we all sound cool. We’re cool, right?

"Cooler," Sarah says. But she gets where he’s going and lowers her gun. Jago does the same.

Aisling lays her rifle on the floor. Listen, Sarah, Jago. I’m done Playing. I thought for a while that I would try to win, but there’s no winning here. We’re all losers—maybe the one who wins will end up being the biggest loser of all. Who wants the right to live on Earth if it’s ugly and dying and full of misery? Not me.

Not me either, Sarah says, thinking again of how she set the whole thing in motion when she took Earth Key at Stonehenge.

Thinking again of Christopher and her guilt.

Aisling drifts toward Sarah, holding out her hand. When me and Jordan and Marrs teamed up I told them that if we couldn’t win Endgame then we would try to find like-minded Players. We’d give them the option of teaming up with us so we could stop this whole fucking mess. For instance, if I ever find Hilal, I want to fight with him. He was right, way back at the Calling. We should have worked together then. Hopefully it’s not too late to work together now.

Sarah steps closer but doesn’t take Aisling’s hand. How do we know we can trust you?

Aisling frowns, the corner of her mouth turning up. You don’t know. Not yet.

Trust must be earned, Sarah says, as if she’s quoting something out of a training manual.

Aisling nods. She’s heard that. They all have. That’s right. But you can have some faith. I didn’t shoot you when I tried to kill Sky Key. I didn’t shoot you in the back in Italy when I had the chance, though I arguably should have. Pop over there certainly thinks so. The old man grunts. And a few days ago I thought the same thing. But maybe I didn’t do it so we could meet right now. Maybe I didn’t because the three of us aren’t done yet. What will be will be, right?

"Sí. What will be will be," Jago mutters.

Aisling says, If we try to stop this thing together, really try, then I won’t hurt you. None of these guys will. You have my word.

Sarah cradles her injured left arm. She stares at Jago and tilts her head. Suddenly all she wants is to fall asleep in Jago’s arms. She can tell that he wants the same thing. He snaps off a quick nod. Sarah leans into his body.

Okay, Aisling Kopp, Jago says for them. He puts out his hand and takes the Celt’s. We’ll put our faith in you, and you will do the same with us. We’ll kill Endgame. Together. But one of my many questions can’t wait.

Aisling smiles. It’s as if a gust of air has blown into the hallway. Sarah feels it too, and relief washes over her. No more fighting on this day. Jordan makes a low whistle and Marrs lights his cigarette. He crosses the hallway, mumbling something about checking on Shari Chopra as he passes Sarah and Jago. The only one who stays on edge is the old man.

Aisling ignores him and gives her full attention to her new allies. Maybe her new friends. What question is that, Jago Tlaloc?

If Sky Key survived and we missed our chance, then how do we go about stopping Endgame now?

Aisling looks to Jordan. I’m guessing that’s where you come in, isn’t it?

Jordan shrugs. Yeah.

Aisling sighs. I know you’ve been holding something back since the day we met, Jordan. So, you ready to get on the level here?

Marrs laughs loudly from the next room. Jordan straightens. He says, Friends, it’s time you met Stella Vyctory.

MACCABEE ADLAI, LITTLE ALICE CHOPRA

South Park Street Cemetery, Kolkata, India

Maccabee thumbs a Zippo lighter. The flame pops and flickers. They are in a small and pitch-black chamber, one that Maccabee doesn’t recognize. Apparently, Maccabee has been teleported somewhere beyond his control yet again.

He lowers the flame and there, yes, is Sky Key. She trembles before him. Big eyes, beautiful dark hair. Fists balled at her chest. A terrified child.

All the girl can manage is, Y-y-y-y-y-you.

My name is Maccabee Adlai. I’m a Player, like your mother. His words are muffled, his voice twangy from the beating he took from Jago Tlaloc before he woke up here in the darkness. He reaches up and shifts his jaw back into place with a loud snap!

Y-y-y-y-you.

His whole body hurts, especially his groin, the pit of his stomach, his left pinkie, and his jaw. The pinkie is bent completely backward. At least he has his ring. He flips the ring’s lid shut so the poisoned needle is covered, then he cracks his finger straight by pushing it against his thigh. A line of pain shoots up his arm and into his neck. The finger won’t bend at the knuckles, but it’s not sticking out at an odd angle anymore.

When I do win this thing there’ll hardly be any of me left, he thinks.

Y-y-y-y-y-you, the girl says again.

He moves toward her. She recoils. Color drains from her face. She can’t be older than three. So young. So innocent. So undeserving of what’s happened to her.

The game is bullshit, Shari Chopra said. And in that moment Maccabee agreed with her. He realizes that this sentiment was probably the one that saved Shari’s life—the one that prompted him to knock her out instead of gun her down. Looking at Alice now, he doesn’t regret this decision.

So young.

Your mother lives, Maccabee says. I saved her from a bad person. He came for her and I … I stopped him. He almost said killed, but that would be inappropriate, wouldn’t it? With a child? He says, She lives, but she’s not here—wherever we are.

Y-y-y-y-you, she repeats, her eyes widening.

Maccabee shuffles forward another foot, his chin tucked to his chest, the back of his head grazing the stone ceiling. The air is damp. The only sound is their breath. Maccabee wiggles his fingers at her, the unmoving pinkie like a stick growing out of his hand. It’s okay, sweetie. I won’t hurt you. I promised your mother I wouldn’t and I meant it. He stumbles over something. Looks down. A clump of cloth.

"Y-y-y-y-you. From my dream. You-you-you hurt people …"

I won’t hurt you, he repeats. He lowers the lighter and pushes the thing on the ground with his foot. It’s heavy. He looks. A limb. A leg. A hole burned in the cargo pocket on the thigh. He sweeps the Zippo through the air, illuminating the blood-spattered face of Baitsakhan, his eyes vacant and staring, slack-jawed, the throat torn open by the bionic hand that still clutches the cervical section of his own spine.

Baitsakhan.