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kepler22bAnLiuSarahAlopay,JagoTlaloc,AislingKopp,PopKopp,GregJordan,GriffinMarrsMaccabeeAdlai,LittleAliceChopraAnLiuAislingKopp,GregJordan,GriffinMarrs,PopKopp,SarahAlopay,JagoTlaloc,ShariChopraSarahAlopay,JagoTlalocHilalibnIsaal-SaltAnLiuSarahAlopay,JagoTlalocAnLiuMaccabeeAdlai,LittleAliceChopraAnLiu,NoriKoShariChopraAislingKopp,SarahAlopay,JagoTlaloc,ShariChopra,HilalibnIsaal-Salt,StellaVyctory,PopKopp,GregJordan,GriffinMarsShariChopra,HilalibnIsaal-Salt,AislingKopp,SarahAlopay,JagoTlaloc,PopKopp,GregJordan,GriffinMarsShariChopra,PopKoppMaccabeeAdlai,LittleAliceChopraAnLiu,NoriKoShariChopra,AislingKopp,HilalibnIsaal-Salt,SarahAlopay,JagoTlaloc,PopKopp,GregJordan,GriffinMarrsAnLiu,NoriKoMaccabeeAdlai,LittleAliceChopraAislingKopp,ShariChopra,HilalibnIsaal-Salt,SarahAlopay,JagoTlaloc,GregJordan,GriffinMarrskepler22bMaccabeeAdlai,LittleAliceChopra

AnLiu,NoriKoSarahAlopay,JagoTlalockepler22bAislingKopp,GregJordan,GriffinMarrs

HilalibnIsaal-Salt,ShariChopraSarahAlopay,JagoTlaloc,SimonAlopayAislingKopp,PopKopp,kepler22bSarahAlopay,JagoTlaloc,SimonAlopayAnLiu,NoriKokepler22bHilalibnIsaal-Salt,ShariChopra,JennyUlapalaShariChopraHilalibnIsaal-Salt,ShariChopra,JennyUlapalaMaccabeeAdlai,LittleAliceChoprakepler22bAnLiu,NoriKo,MaccabeeAdlai,LittleAliceChoprakepler22bHilalibnIsaal-Salt,ShariChopra,JennyUlapalaAnLiu,MaccabeeAdlai,LittleAliceChopraHilalibnIsaal-Salt,ShariChopra,JennyUlapalaAnLiu,MaccabeeAdlai,LittleAliceChopraHilalibnIsaal-Salt,ShariChopra,JennyUlapalaAnLiu,MaccabeeAdlai,LittleAliceChopra,NoriKokepler22bAnLiu,NoriKo,LittleAliceChopraSarahAlopay,JagoTlaloc,SimonAlopayGregJordanAnLiu,NoriKo,LittleAliceChopraSarahAlopay,JagoTlaloc,SimonAlopayHilalibnIsaal-SaltSarahAlopay,JagoTlaloc,SimonAlopayAnLiu,NoriKo,LittleAliceChopraHilalibnIsaal-SaltAnLiu,NoriKo,LittleAliceChoprakepler22bAnLiu,NoriKo,LittleAliceChopraHilalibnIsaal-SaltShariChopra,JennyUlapalaNoriKoHilalibnIsaal-Salt,NoriKoAnLiu,LittleAliceChopraShariChopra,JennyUlapalaAnLiu,kepler22b,LittleAliceChopra,JennyUlapala,ShariChopraHilalibnIsaal-Salt,LittleAliceChopra,kepler22bJennyUlapalaHilalibnIsaal-Salt,LittleAliceChopra,JennyUlapala,kepler22b,AislingKopp23Months,5DaysLaterEndnotes

ExcerptfromEndgame:TheFugitiveArchivesVolume1:ProjectBerlin

BackAdsAbouttheAuthorsBooksintheEndgameSeriesCreditsCopyrightAboutthePublisher

KEPLER22BAnsiblechamberonboardtheSeedrakSare’en,activegeosynchronousorbitabovetheMartianNorth

Pole

kepler22bsitsinashinychairinthecenterofablack,low-ceilingedroom.Hisseven-fingeredhandsarewoventogether,hisplatinumhairboundintoaperfectsphereperchedontopofhishead.Hereviewsthereportheisabouttogiveovertheansibletohisconclave,manylightyearsaway.Thegametakingplaceontheblue-and-whiteplanetinthenextorbithasexperiencedhitchesandunforeseendevelopments,butitprogressesnonetheless.Mostofwhathastranspiredisnotterriblyworrying,withthenotableexceptionofthedestructionofoneofEarth’s12greatmonuments.ThiswastheonethatbelongedtotheLaTèneCelts,theonecalledStonehenge,anditisnowutterlygoneanduseless.kepler22bisdeeplydisturbedbythis.Atleastoneoftheseancientstructures—onesthatwereerectedmanymillenniaago,whenhispeoplewalkedalongsidetheyounghumansofEarth—atleastoneisrequiredtofinishEndgame.Andthis,morethananything,iswhathewishestoseehappen.ForaPlayertowin.APlayer.Heturnshisattentionfromthereport toa transmissionhologramprojected into theairnotfarfromhisface.Adimreal-timeblipmovesoverthemapofacityontheIndiansubcontinent.APlayer.Judgingbythespeed,heusessomekindofvehicle.ThisPlayerisnottheonethatkepler22bexpectstowin,butitistheonehehasbeenmostcuriousabout.HeisashrewdandincautiousPlayer.Unpredictable.Excitable.Merciless.HeistheShang,AnLiu.Andkepler22bwouldcontinue towatchbut then theansiblehumsand thehologramflicksoffand theroomfillswithpitchblacknessandthetemperaturedropsto-60degreesFahrenheit.Momentslatertheblackness pricks with drifting motes of light and the room glows bright and there they are, theirprojectionssurroundinghimonallsides.Theconclave.kepler22bwouldprefertowatchtheShang,buthecannot.Itistimetogivehisreport.

ANLIU

BeckBagan,Ballygunge,Kolkata,India

TheShang.SHIVER.blink.SHIVER.AnLiuridesaSuzukiGSX-R1000,tryingtogainspeedbutgettingthwartedbytheKolkatanthrong.Hetwiststhegrips.Thewheelsspinovertheunevenpavement.Nohelmet,teethgritting,lungsburning,eyeslikeslits.Chiyoko’sremnantspressintohischest.NexttothenecklaceofhisbelovedisaSIG226andasmallcollectionofcustom-madegrenades.Allofthesearehiddenfromviewbyacottonshirt.HepushesnorthforSouthParkStreetCemetery.Pushes,pushes,pushes.Thecemetery.It iswhereheis.Oneof thePlayerswhoChiyokohadnickedwitha tracker.Oneof thePlayersthatAnisnowtracking.Thecemetery iswherehewill find theNabataean.MaccabeeAdlai.WhohasEarthKeyandSkyKey.Whoiswinning.Orbelievesheiswinning.Becausethereisadifferencebetweenthese.IfAngetstheresoon,therewillcertainlybeadifference.IfAngetsthere,Maccabeewillnotbewinning.Notatall.Hewillbedead.AndAnislessthantwokilometersaway.Soclose.Butthestreetsarefull.Kolkatahaspouredhercitizensoutofdoorsthisevening,allofthemclamoringforinformation,forlovedones,foradecentcellsignal.Andodgesbusinessmenandspicewallahs,brightlydressedwomenandstraydogs,cryingchildrenandstalledAmbassadortaxis,rickshawswithreed-thinmenpullingtheircarriagesalonghaphazardstreetslikefishworkingupstream.HecurlsthebikearoundanobliviousBrahmanbull.Somepeopleget inAn’sway.TheseeithergetnudgedbythebikeorgetaswiftkickfromAn’sfoot.OutofSHIVERSHIVERoutoftheway.Inhiswakearescreamsandbruisesandcursingandshakingfists.Therearenocops.Notasingleofficerofthelaw.Isitbecausetheworldisonthecuspoflawlessness?IsitbecauseofAbaddon,evennow,beforeithasstruck?Coulditbe?Yes.Ansmiles.Yes,Chiyoko.Theendisnear.

TwolargemenappearattheintersectionofLowerRangeRoadandCircusAvenue.Theypointandshout.Theyrecognizehim.Theysawhisvideo—everyoneintheworldhasseenhisvideobynow—andtheywant tostophim.Theymay try tokillhim,whichAn findspreposterous.He revs thebikeandpeoplescatter,butthemenholdstrongandlockarms.Fools.Anridesstraightforthem,throughthem,knockingthemasideandrunningoverone,tearingskinfromanarm.Themenyell andone produces an ancient-lookingpistol fromnowhere.Hepulls the trigger, butinsteadoffiringproperlyitexplodesinhishands.Hefalls,screaming.Thegunwasfaulty.Old.Broken.LikethisBLINKBLINKBLINKthisworld.Anmightfeelsorryforthemanandhismangledhand,butheistheShangandhedoesn’tcare.Hejamsthethrottleandrisesoutofthesaddleandweavesthebike’srearwheelbackandforthandscuttlesaway,oneofthemenscreamingashislegismomentarilycaughtundertherubberandmadebloodyandraw.An’ssmilegrows.Heleavesthemenbehind.Passesabarbershop,asweetshop,amobilephoneshop,anelectronicsshopcrowdedwithpeople.OnthescreensinthewindowsofthisstoreAncatchestheimageofkepler22b.ThealienoutedhimselfwhenhegavehisannouncementaboutSkyKey.kepler22bbegantoshowhistruecolors.Endgameisrealforeveryonenow.Itisrealforrichpeopleandpoorpeople,thepowerfulandtheimpotent.Thebrutalandthekind.Everyone.AndAnlovesit.Nowthewholeworldknowsthatthefirsttwokeysaretogether.ThatMaccabeehasthem.ThatEndgamecontinuesdespitesomeoftheotherPlayers’misguidedattemptstostopit.Thatitcontinuesdespitefearandhopeandmurderandevenlove.Bestofall,kepler22btoldthepeopleofEarththatAbaddoncan’tbestopped.Thatthegiantasteroidwillfallinlessthanthreedaysandthereisnothinganyonecandoaboutit.Thatmillionswilldie.Anlovesit.Thebikechurns.Thestreetwidens.ThecrowdspartandAnmovesalittlefaster,upto60kphnow.HeglancesatChiyoko’swatch.Seesthetracker’sdisplayscreenedoverthenumbers.Blip-blip.There.MaccabeeAdlai.SoBLINKsoSHIVERsoclose.SoclosethatAncansmellthem.An screams across Shakespeare Sarani Road and goes twomore blocks and spins northwest on ParkStreet.Helooksatthewatchagainandseesit.Blip-blip.Blip-blip.Onlyblocksaway.BLINKshiverChiyokoPlayedforlife.SHIVERblinkButISHIVERIPlayfordeath.

SARAHALOPAY,JAGOTLALOC,AISLINGKOPP,POPKOPP,GREGJORDAN,GRIFFINMARRS

TheDepths, ,ValleyofEternalLife,Sikkim,India

“Everybodychillthefuckout!”amanyells.He’smid-40s,weathered,drenchedinsweat,alittlechubby.HestandsinthemiddleofthehallwaythatiscrowdedwithPlayersandtheirfriends.Sarah and Jago are at the far end, their backs to an open doorway. The Donghu, the Harappan, theNabataean,andbothEarthKeyandSkyKeywereintheroombeyondthedoorwaynotminutesbefore.BaitsakhanwasveryaliveandveryintentonkillingShariChopraoutofapsychoticsenseofrevenge,butMaccabeefeltsorryfortheHarappan,andhestoppedtheDonghu.HewasabouttotakesolepossessionofbothEarthKeyandSkyKeywhenSarahandJagosurgedintotheroom.AsBaitsakhanlaydying,theOlmec jumped forwardandattackedMaccabee, andwhile the fightwasclose, Jagowon.Sarahhadachance to kill Little Alice Chopra, the girl who is Sky Key, a death that should have put a stop toEndgame.ButSarahcouldn’tdoit.AndJagocouldn’tdoiteither.Aisling’ssquadarrivedmomentsafterthefightended.TheCelthadachancetokillSkyKeytoo,andshetriedtotakeashotwithhersniperrifle,butat thelastmomentSkyKeyreachedoutandtouchedEarthKeyandinaflashoflightthelittlegirldisappeared,takinganunconsciousMaccabeewithher,andthemutilatedbodyofBaitsakhanaswell.The only living person left in that room is ShariChopra, knocked out,with a large lumpon her headcourtesy of Maccabee. He could have killed her too but, perhaps out of mercy or righteousness orempathy,Maccabeeletherlive.WhereMaccabeeandthekeysarenow,noneofthemknow.ItcouldbethattheywenttoBolivia,ortothebottomoftheocean,orareinanEndgame-finishingaudiencewithkepler22bhimself.All that is left here, in the routedHarappan fortress carvedoutof theSikkimeseHimalayas, are thesePlayersandAisling’sfriends.Allthatisleftistheirfearandtheirangerandtheirconfusion.Andtheirguns.Mostofwhicharepointedatoneanother.“Justchillout,”themanimploresagain.“Nooneelsehastodietoday,”hesays.Youmight,Sarahthinks,herpistoltrainedontheman’sthroat.SarahrefusedtokilltheChopragirl,butshewouldn’tthinktwiceaboutshootingthisman,orthepeoplewithhim,ifitmeansescape.ThemanstepsaroundAisling,placesahandonthebarrelofherrifle,forcesitdowntwoinches.It’snowaimedatSarah’schest rather thanher forehead.Theman’sotherhand isemptyandpalmforward.Hiseyesarewideandpleading.Hisbreathquick.Apeacemaker,Sarahthinks.

Themanlickshislips.Sarahsays,“I’llchilloutwhennoneofyouarestandinginourway.”Hervoiceiscalm.SarahnoticesthatAislingKoppisflushed.Shehasasmearofbloodonherskin—maybehers,butprobablynot.Blood.Andsweat.Andgrime.Aislingasks,“Where’sSkyKey?”Sarah’sgunislight.Onebullet.Maybetwo.“Moveoutofourway,”Jagoinsists.HispistolisaimedatAisling’shead.Aislinglooksdifferentfromwhenhelastsawher.Older,harder,sadder.Theymustallappearso.Endgamewassimplerintheearlystages,beforeanyofthekeyshadbeenrecovered.Nowitisvastlymorecomplicated.“We’re not going anywhere,”Aisling says, her eyes notmoving from Sarah’s. “Not until we find outwhereSkyKeyis.”Sarahsays,“Well,she’snothere.”Shoother!Sarahordersherself.Doit!Butshedoesn’t.Shecan’t.AislingtriedtodowhatSarahcouldn’t.Shetriedtokillthelittlegirl.AislingtriedtostopEndgame.WhichmeansthatAislingandherfriendscan’tbeallbad.Sarah glances at the othermen in the room, the oneswho 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, acontemporaryofthePeacemaker.Hehasabandannatiedoverhishead,wearsroundeyeglasses,andisstrappedwith a heavy-lookingpack spillingwith communications equipment.He also carries a sniperrifle,whichhedoesn’tbothertoaimatanyone.Instead,hereachesintohisshirtpocketandpullsoutahand-rolledcigarette.Heputsitinhismouthbutdoesn’tlightit.Bothmenlookspent.Longday,Sarahthinks.Longweek.Longfuckinglife.Sarah figures she could jump backward and fire simultaneously, killing Peacemaker. Aisling wouldinstantly return fire,but sincePeacemakerhashishandparkedonher rifle, this shotwouldmiss. JagowouldkillAisling.ThentheywouldfinishtheoldCeltandthehippiewalkie-talkie.Providednooneelseishiddennearby,sheandJagocouldlettheirguarddownandfallintoeachother’sarmsandexhale.Theycouldwalkoutunscathed.TheycouldcontinuetheirmissiontostopEndgame.Sarahputstheirchancesofkillingthesefourpeopleat60or65percent.Notbadodds,butnotgreat.“Don’tdoit,”Peacemakersays,asifhecanreadSarah’sthoughts.“Whynot?”sheasks.“Justhearmeout.”HeglancesatAisling.“Please.”“Hereitcomes,”themanwiththecigarettemumbles,breakinghissilence.Theoldmanwiththewhiteeyestaysmum,hisgazedancingfrompersontoperson.Themansays,“MynameisGregJordan.I’maretired,twenty-plus-yearvetoftheCIA.I’massociates—no,friends—withAislinghere.IknowallaboutEndgame.Maybemorethananyofyouknowaboutit,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 Mexicanstandoffs,andthisqualifiesbigtime.Onewrongmoveandwealldieinthishallwayprettyeasily.LikeIsaid,nooneelsehastodietoday.Alotofpeoplealreadyhave.”Sarahdoesn’tknowwhathe’stalking

about.Shedoesn’tknow thatAislingandGregand theother twomen—andalsoawoman,nowdead,namedBridgetMcCloskey—spentthepreviousdaymarchingintothemountainsandkillingeveryonetheymet.Killing,killing,killing.Bytheendofthedaymany,manyHarappanweredead.Wellover50.Toomany.Themansighs.“Let’snotaddtothebodycount.”Aisling’sshouldersslump,herburgeoningguiltpalpable.GregJordan’swordssofarmakesomesense.Bulletsremaininchambers.Feetremainplantedontheground.Sarah’sandJago’sfacessay,Goon.GregJordancontinues.“I’mgoingtogooutonalimbandsaythatIthinkwecanallbefriends.Ithinkweallwantthesamething—namely,toputastoptothismadness.AmIright?Whadyasay,guys?Friends?Atleastuntilwe’vehadafewminutestochatandareoutofthisHimalayanfortress?”Pause.ThenJagowhispers,“Screwtheseguys,Sarah.”AndapartofSarahisinclinedtoagree,butbeforeshedoesanythingrashAislingasks,“Whydidn’tyoukillher,Sarah?Whycouldn’tyoudoit?”Asshespeakssheletsherriflefalltoherside.Aislingisnowcompletelydefenseless,andthatcountsforsomething.TheCeltstepspastGregJordan.“Why?”sherepeats,staringintentlyatSarah,hervoicebarelyaboveawhisper.Aislingwantsthegametoendbadly.Shewantstostopit.Shewantstosavelives.JustlikeSarahandJagodo.Sarah’s forearm pounds, reminding her that in the fightwithMaccabee andBaitsakhan she suffered agunshotwound that needs attention.Her head spins a little.Her grip on the pistol loosens. “I know Ishouldhave...”“Damnrightyoushouldhave,”Aislingsays.“Iwantedittostop.Ineededittostop.”“Thenyoushouldhavepulledthetrigger!”“You’re...you’reright.ButIneededittostop,”Sarahrepeats.“It’snotgoingtostopuntilthatgirlisdead,”Aislingpointsout.“That’snotwhatImean,”Sarahsays,hervoicedroppinghalfanoctave.“IwantEndgametostoptoo,Aisling,butIneeded—whatdidyousay,Greg?Madness?Ineededthemadnesstostop.Themadnessinmyhead.IfI’dpulledthattrigger,thenitwould’ve...itwould’ve...”“Destroyedyou,”Jagosays,alsolettingdownhisguardalittle.“Ialsotried,Celt.Icouldn’tdoit.Itmayhavebeen selfish,but I thinkSarahwas rightnot tokillSkyKey.Shewasa child.Ababy.Whateverhappens,shewasright.”Aislingsighs.“Fuck.”Noonespeaksforamoment.“Igetit.Truthis,IwasprayingthewholewayupherethatIwouldn’thavetodoitupcloseandpersonal.ThatI’dhaveaclearandlongshotwiththis.”She jostles her rifle and peers around Sarah into the dark room at the end of the hall. “But I guess Imissed,right?”Sarahnods.“She’sgone.Shewasrepeating‘EarthKey’overandoverandIthinkshetoucheditand—”Jagoclickshistongue.“Poof.”“Whatdoyoumean,‘poof’?”Jordanasks.“Theyjustdisappeared,”Sarahsays.“It’snotthatcrazywhenyouconsiderthataboutthirtyminutesagoJagoandIandtheothertwoPlayerswereinBolivia.”“Bullshit,”Aislingsays.“What, you didn’t teleport here too?” Jago asks, trying to make a joke, even while he still aims atAisling’stemple.

Aislingdoesn’tcareanymore.It’snotthefirsttimesomeone’saimedagunatheranditwon’tbethelast.“No,wedidn’tteleport,”Aislingsays.“Justgoodold-fashionedplanes,trains,andautomobiles...andfeet.Lotsoffeet.”“ButSkyKey—sheisgone,right?”Jordanasks.Sarahnods.“Hermother’sinthere,though.”Aislingdouble-takesandtriestopeerintotheroom.“Who—Chopra?”“Yeah,”Sarahsays.“Alive?”Aislingasks,hervoicealittletoodesperate.“Sí,”Jagoanswers.“Shit,”Jordansays.“That’snotgood.”“Whynot?”Sarahasks.Aislingsays,“Weuh...wejustkilledherentirefamily.”“¿Que?”Jagosays.“ThisisaHarappanstronghold,”theoldmanexplainsfromthebackoftheroom,pridelacinghiswords.“Exceptitwasn’tstrongenough.”“She’snotgoingtolikemetoomuchwhenshewakesup,”Aislingsays.“Iwouldn’tlikeme,either.”“Shit,”Sarahsays.“Sí.Mierda.”“Weshouldkillher,”theoldmansays.ButAislingraisesahand.“No.Jordan’sright.It’sbeentoomuchtoday.Marrs”—SarahandJagorealizethatAislingistalkingtothemanwiththewalkie-talkie—“youcankeepherallSleepingBeauty,right?”“Sure,noproblem,”Marrsanswers,hisvoicenasalandhigh-pitched.Jordansays,“Hey,weallsoundcool.We’recool,right?”“Cooler,”Sarahsays.Butshegetswherehe’sgoingandlowershergun.Jagodoesthesame.Aisling lays her rifle on the floor. “Listen, Sarah, Jago. I’m donePlaying. I thought for awhile that Iwould try towin,but there’snowinninghere.We’reall losers—maybe theonewhowinswillendupbeing the biggest loser of all.Whowants the right to live on Earth if it’s ugly and dying and full ofmisery?Notme.”“Notmeeither,”Sarahsays,thinkingagainofhowshesetthewholethinginmotionwhenshetookEarthKeyatStonehenge.ThinkingagainofChristopherandherguilt.AislingdriftstowardSarah,holdingoutherhand.“WhenmeandJordanandMarrsteamedupItoldthemthat if we couldn’t win Endgame thenwewould try to find like-minded Players.We’d give them theoptionofteamingupwithussowecouldstopthiswholefuckingmess.Forinstance,ifIeverfindHilal,Iwant to fightwith him.Hewas right,way back at theCalling.We should haveworked together then.Hopefullyit’snottoolatetoworktogethernow.”Sarahstepscloserbutdoesn’ttakeAisling’shand.“Howdoweknowwecantrustyou?”Aislingfrowns,thecornerofhermouthturningup.“Youdon’tknow.Notyet.”“Trustmustbeearned,”Sarahsays,asifshe’squotingsomethingoutofatrainingmanual.Aislingnods.She’sheardthat.Theyallhave.“That’sright.Butyoucanhavesomefaith.Ididn’tshootyouwhenItriedtokillSkyKey.Ididn’tshootyouinthebackinItalywhenIhadthechance,thoughIarguably shouldhave.Popover therecertainly thinks so.”Theoldmangrunts. “Anda fewdaysago Ithoughtthesamething.ButmaybeIdidn’tdoitsowecouldmeetrightnow.MaybeIdidn’tbecausethethreeofusaren’tdoneyet.Whatwillbewillbe,right?”“Sí.Whatwillbewillbe,”Jagomutters.

Aislingsays,“Ifwe try tostop this thing together, really try, thenIwon’thurtyou.Noneof theseguyswill.Youhavemyword.”Sarahcradlesherinjuredleftarm.ShestaresatJagoandtiltsherhead.SuddenlyallshewantsistofallasleepinJago’sarms.Shecantellthathewantsthesamething.Hesnapsoffaquicknod.Sarahleansintohisbody.“Okay,AislingKopp,”Jagosaysforthem.HeputsouthishandandtakestheCelt’s.“We’llputourfaithinyou,andyouwilldothesamewithus.We’llkillEndgame.Together.Butoneofmymanyquestionscan’twait.”Aislingsmiles.It’sasifagustofairhasblownintothehallway.Sarahfeelsittoo,andreliefwashesoverher.Nomorefightingonthisday.JordanmakesalowwhistleandMarrslightshiscigarette.Hecrossesthehallway,mumblingsomethingaboutcheckingonShariChopraashepassesSarahandJago.Theonlyonewhostaysonedgeistheoldman.Aislingignoreshimandgivesherfullattentiontohernewallies.Maybehernewfriends.“Whatquestionisthat,JagoTlaloc?”“IfSkyKeysurvivedandwemissedourchance,thenhowdowegoaboutstoppingEndgamenow?”AislinglookstoJordan.“I’mguessingthat’swhereyoucomein,isn’tit?”Jordanshrugs.“Yeah.”Aislingsighs.“Iknowyou’vebeenholdingsomethingbacksincethedaywemet,Jordan.So,youreadytogetonthelevelhere?”Marrs laughs loudlyfromthenext room.Jordanstraightens.Hesays,“Friends, it’s timeyoumetStellaVyctory.”

ds2=–c2dt2+dl2+(k2+l2)(dθ2+sin2θdϕ2).

MACCABEEADLAI,LITTLEALICECHOPRASouthParkStreetCemetery,Kolkata,India

Maccabee thumbs a Zippo lighter. The flame pops and flickers. They are in a small and pitch-blackchamber, one thatMaccabeedoesn’t recognize.Apparently,Maccabeehas been teleported somewherebeyondhiscontrolyetagain.Helowerstheflameandthere,yes,isSkyKey.Shetremblesbeforehim.Bigeyes,beautifuldarkhair.Fistsballedatherchest.Aterrifiedchild.Allthegirlcanmanageis,“Y-y-y-y-y-you.”“MynameisMaccabeeAdlai.I’maPlayer,likeyourmother.”Hiswordsaremuffled,hisvoicetwangyfromthebeatinghe took fromJagoTlalocbeforehewokeuphere in thedarkness.He reachesupandshiftshisjawbackintoplacewithaloudsnap!“Y-y-y-y-you.”Hiswholebodyhurts,especiallyhisgroin,thepitofhisstomach,hisleftpinkie,andhisjaw.Thepinkieisbentcompletelybackward.Atleasthehashisring.Heflipsthering’slidshutsothepoisonedneedleiscovered,thenhecrackshisfingerstraightbypushingitagainsthisthigh.Alineofpainshootsuphisarmandintohisneck.Thefingerwon’tbendattheknuckles,butit’snotstickingoutatanoddangleanymore.WhenIdowinthisthingthere’llhardlybeanyofmeleft,hethinks.“Y-y-y-y-y-you,”thegirlsaysagain.Hemovestowardher.Sherecoils.Colordrainsfromherface.Shecan’tbeolderthanthree.Soyoung.Soinnocent.Soundeservingofwhat’shappenedtoher.Thegameisbullshit,ShariChoprasaid.AndinthatmomentMaccabeeagreedwithher.HerealizesthatthissentimentwasprobablytheonethatsavedShari’slife—theonethatpromptedhimtoknockheroutinsteadofgunherdown.LookingatAlicenow,hedoesn’tregretthisdecision.Soyoung.“Yourmotherlives,”Maccabeesays.“Isavedherfromabadperson.HecameforherandI...Istoppedhim.”Healmostsaidkilled,but thatwouldbeinappropriate,wouldn’t it?Withachild?Hesays,“Shelives,butshe’snothere—whereverweare.”“Y-y-y-y-you,”sherepeats,hereyeswidening.Maccabee shuffles forward another foot, his chin tucked to his chest, the back of his head grazing thestoneceiling.Theair isdamp.Theonlysoundis theirbreath.Maccabeewiggleshisfingersather, theunmovingpinkie likea stickgrowingoutofhishand.“It’sokay, sweetie. Iwon’thurtyou. IpromisedyourmotherIwouldn’tandImeantit.”Hestumblesoversomething.Looksdown.Aclumpofcloth.“Y-y-y-y-you.Frommydream.You-you-youhurtpeople....”

“Iwon’thurtyou,”herepeats.Helowersthelighterandpushesthethingonthegroundwithhisfoot.It’sheavy.He looks.A limb.A leg.Aholeburned in the cargopocketon the thigh.He sweeps theZippothrough the air, illuminating theblood-spattered faceofBaitsakhan,his eyesvacant and staring, slack-jawed,thethroattornopenbythebionichandthatstillclutchesthecervicalsectionofhisownspine.Baitsakhan.Take.Kill....Lose.HisEndgameisover.Goodriddance.Maccabee spits on the floor as thegirl gasps andpoints. “No!Not you!Him!He is the one!He tookMama’sfinger!Hehurtpeople!Heistheone!Heistheone!”MaccabeekickstheDonghu’sbodysothatitflipsfacedown.HestepsbetweenSkyKeyandBaitsakhan.Sheshouldn’tseethat.Nochildshouldseethat.“It’sokay.You’reokay.Hecan’thurtyou.”“Mama.”“Hecan’thurthereither.Notanymore.”MaccabeeissuddenlyafraidthatSharialsomadethetriptowherevertheyare.AndtheOlmectoo,andmaybetheCahokian.Hespins,searchingtherestofthechamber,butnooneisthere.ItisjusthimandSkyKeyand—“EarthKey!”hesays.WHEREISIT?Thegirlshudders.Shejumpsupandthenherbodystiffensasifshe’spossessed.Herrighthandfallstoherside,herlefthandjutsout,palmup.Maccabeeleanscloser.Shedoesn’tmove.It’slikeherfearhasbeen spirited away and replaced with emptiness. Shock, Maccabee thinks. Or maybe a force morepowerful.Hepeersintoherhand.Alittleball.EarthKey.Heswipesitfromher.Hereyebrowtwitchesbutotherwiseshe’sexpressionless.“I’llkeepthat.”Heslipsitintoazipperedpocketonhisvestandpatsit.“EarthKey,”shesays.“That’sright,”hesays.Heinspectsthesmallroom.Wherethehellarewe?Thefloorisearth,everythingelseisfeaturelessstone.Therearenowindows,nodoors.Nowayinorout.Ashelooksaroundherunsahandoverhis torso,checkingtoseewhathe’sgot toworkwith.Noguns,buthehashissmartphone,apackofgum,andhisancientNabataeanblade.Awaveof pain crashes over himas the adrenaline fades fromhis system.He realizes that everythingthat’shappenedrecently—findingSarahandJagoinBolivia, tracking themthroughtheTiwanakuruins,getting teleported somewhere through that ancientportal, fighting,killing, fighting somemore, and thengettingknockedcleanoutbythelive-wireOlmec,whois20or30kiloslighterthanhim,andthengettingteleportedyetagain—allofthatprobablyhappenedinonlythelastcouplehours.Heneedsrest.Soon.“EarthKeysaysthat...”thegirlsaysinamonotone.Hispantlegvibrates.“...saysthatoneiscoming.”Itvibratesviolently.Hetoucheshisleg—thetrackerorb!

AnotherPlayer!He looks left and right and up and down and can’t figure outwhere to go. Is another Player going toappearinthissmallroom?Ishegoingtohavetofightwithabroken-downbodyinthisbox?This,this—sarcophagus?Hewhipsaround,thelighter’sflameblowsout.Hethumbstheflint.Flick,flick,flick—thesparksdon’ttake.But in the total darkness something catches his eye.Right before his face.A thinwhite line.Hefollowsit,tracingafaintsquareontheceiling.Hestuffsthelighterinapocketandplacesbothhandsonthe stone overhead and pushes. It’s heavy and he strains and grunts as his panting mingles with thescrapingsoundofrockonrock.Anopening.Light.Hotairpoursintothesmallroomashegetshisfingersaroundtheedgeofthesix-centimeter-wideslab,heavingitaway.Hegetsonhistiptoesandlooksovertheedge.Theyareinaholeintheground.Theholeiscoveredbyapillaredgothiccupolalikeonethatmightcoveragraveoramonument.Apointoforangelightfromastreetlampsomewhere,themutedglowofduskintheskybeyondthecupola,theblackboughsofleafytreeshangingovereverythinglikeacurtain.Adovecoosandthenflapsaway.Themutedjostleofacity—traffic,AChum,voices—intheneardistance.MaccabeegrabsSkyKeyandpushesheroutofthehole.Hejumpsout.They’reinthemiddleofavastcemetery fromabygoneera, everygravemarkergrandand significant andcarved fromstone—domedVictorian tombs thatmust hold entire families, and seven-meter-tall obelisks and basalt pedestals thatweigh thousands of kilos.Many are covered in moss and lichen and all are splotchily weatherworn.Plantsgrow in everyavailablenookandpatch—grasses,palms,hardwoods,weeds, sprawlingbanyantrees with their air roots diving down to the ground here and there. It’s one of the most impressivecemeteriesMaccabeehaseverseen.SkyKeystepsontothepath,herarmsgluedtohersides,herlegsmovinglikearobot’s.She’scompletelyzonedoutbutmanagestosay,“Oneiscoming.Heisclose.”Maccabeegetsouttheorbwithhisrighthandandpullshisknifewithhisleft.Hisunbendingpinkiesticksout.AswhenAliceUlapala closed in on his hideout inBerlin, the orb simply glows itswarning, notgivinganyintelligenceastowhoiscomingorfromwhichdirection.Maccabeeknowsthatforthefirsttimeinhislifeheisgoingtohavetorun.He’stoohurtandtoounarmedandtoodisorientedandtoovulnerablewithSkyKeytostandhisground.Hestuffstheorbinapocketandsnagsthegirl,tuckingherunderhisarmlikeaparcel.Hetakesoffalongadirtpath,thecemeterydarkandclaustrophobic,until thetreesandmassivegravesgivewaytoanopenarea.Athree-meter-highstonewallrisesinfrontofthem,plainconcretebuildingsbeyonditonthestreetside.WherethehellamI?Thisdoesn’tlooklikePeruorBoliviaatall.OrevenSouthAmerica!Hegoestothesolidwall,peersleftthenright.It’sroughenoughtoscale,butnotwhilecarryingSkyKey.Heturnsleftandtrotsalong,keepingthewallonhisright.Theorbinhispockethascalmedalittle,somaybewhoever’scominggotthrownoffthetrail.SkyKeyweighsabout15kilos.Heholdshersideways,herheadforwardandherlegsfloppingbehindhim.It’slikehe’scarryingalife-sizedtoddlerdoll.Near the interior corner of thewallMaccabee comes across a cache of gravediggers’ tools: a shovelstuckinapileofsand,apickax,acoilofsturdyrope.HecarefullyputsdownSkyKeyandcutsafour-meterlengthofrope.HelashesitaroundhiswaistandshouldersandthenworksSkyKeyontohisbackandloopstheropeunderherbuttandtwiceoverherback.Hepullshertight,tyingahitchintheXofropethatcrosseshischest.She’ssecureinthismakeshiftchildcarrier,andhehastheuseofbothhands.Hefeelsherquickbreathonhisneck.Sheremainszonedout,likelyfromthetraumaofbeingtakenfromher

mama,andfromcomingintocontactwithEarthKey.Hewantstoclimbthewallandgetoutontothestreetofwhatevercityhe’sin,butthewallissmootherhereandthere’snothingforhimtograb.He’sabouttodoublebacktowherehecanclimbbutthenfreezes.Therope!Thepickax!He ties the rope to thewoodenhandleandhurls thepickaxover thewall,creatingakindofgrapplinghook.Hegivesitahardtuganditholds.Heplaceshisfeetonthewallandstartsup.Butthen,atthesameinstant,theorbinhispocketjostleslikeatinyearthquake,andSkyKeyshakesoffherzombie-likestateandgrabsahandfulofhishairandyanksit.Heloseshisfootingandswingsahalfmeter totheside.Theaircracksaroundhim.Achunkofwallexplodesnext tohisface,followedbyapistolreport.“He’shere,”SkyKeysays.Maccabeedivesbehind a stonegravemarker as threemore rounds tear by them, eachbarelymissing.Maccabeekickstheshovelintotheairandsnatchesit.Hespinstohisright,butSkyKeyyankshishairagainandsays,“Otherway.”Thatwouldtakethemacross thelineoffire,butMaccabeetrustsher.Hequicklyguesses that themalePlayermustbetheShang,AnLiu.MarcusandBaitsaredead,Jago’swithSarah,andHilalisprobablyrecoveringfromhiswoundsbackinEthiopia.AndifitisLiu,thenhe’sprobablygotsomebombs.ThatmeansthatMaccabeehastoMOVE!Hetakesashovelfulofsandandthrowsitintotheair,creatingasmokescreen,andsprintsbehindit.Hehearsamutedclunk,andhespinsaroundathicktreetrunkandthrowshishandsoverSkyKey’sheadandboom!Anexplosionfromwheretheyjustwere,debrisshoweringallaround,leaveswhippingalongontheshockwave,bitsofwoodandrockpinginghereandthere.Itwasasmallexplosionbutbigenoughtohavehurtthemifhehadn’tmoved.“Turnrighthere,”thegirlsayscalmly.He’sblindinthisplaceandhisbodyachesfromeverythingthat’shappenedbutshedidsavethem,sohelistens.“Lefthere.Straight.Left.Left.Straight.Right.Left,left,left.”Hefollowseveryinstruction,evenifitfeelslikethey’regoingincircles.Theybobandweave,pivotandfly.They’renarrowlymissedbyseveralmoreshotsandonemoresmallexplosion.She’stransformingthedensecemeteryintoamaze,andit’sworking.SomehowsheknowswhereAnis.Maccabeerealizesthatthisgirl,atleastinthismoment,isvastlysuperiortothemysteriousorbthathe’sbeenusingtotrackthePlayers.Finally theyroundablackstoneblockandfindanarchedbreak in thewallbigenoughforacar.Twosmall buildings flanking it are painted pink.Awrought-iron fence is on the far side. Past that awidestreet,carsmovingalong,alate-modelmotorcycleparkedonthecurb.Theexit.It’s10metersaway,astraightshot.Butthose10metersarecompletelyexposed.“It’stoofar,”Maccabeesays.Theorbinhispocketmovesbackandforthsofasthe’safraidit’sgoingtojumpout.“He’llkillus.”SkyKeyscratchesthesideofhisneck.“Here,”shesays.“Iseetheexit,butit’stoofar!”Theydon’thavemorethanafewseconds.Shescratchesharder,beginstoclawathisflesh.“Here!”shewhispersintohisear.ThenMaccabeeunderstands.Somethingisinhisneck:atracker.OnethatAnandwhoknowshowmanyotherPlayershavebeenusingtofollowhim!

Hewhipsuphisknifeandexpertlycarvesalumpofskinfromhisneck.He’scarefulnottonickanythingimportantorshredamuscleortendon.Thepainisn’ttoobad,butthere’salotofblood.“That’sit,”thegirlsays.Maccabeepullstheknifeawayandstaresintothelumpoffleshand,yes,thereitis.Asmallblackblob.Heballsupthefleshandchucksitaway.Thebloodyprojectilesailsoveragravestoneanddisappears.Hegetsreadytorun,butthegirldigsanailintothislatestwoundandwhispers,“Wait.”Hestiflesacryanddoeswhathe’stold.Onesecond.Two.Three.“Now.Straight.”Hedropstheshovelandrunsasfastashecanfortheexit.Noshotscome.TheywerewaitingforAntotakethebaitofthediscardedtracker,andapparentlyhedid.Theexitgetscloserandcloserandthey’regoingtomakeit.Apersonwalksbyoutside,awomanwearinganorangesari.AbusdrivespastandMaccabeeseesacigaretteadontheside.ThewritingisHindi.India.We’reinIndia.They’regoingtomakeit.Theorbinhispocketisgoingcrazynow.Hereachesdowntosecureitbutthenitpopsoutandheskidstoastop.“Leaveit!”thegirlsays.Maccabeebacktracks,theorbglowingbrightandyellowandbouncingaroundonthegroundlikealivingthing.“No!”shesays.SomethingcatchesMaccabee’seye.There,onthepath,isAnLiu,adarkpistolinhisfist.Hehasn’tseenthemyet,he’sswingingbackandforthandMaccabeealmosthastheorbbutthen—toolate.AnLiulocksontoMaccabeeandMaccabeedivessidewaysandtheorbglowssobrightthatitslighteatsupthewallandthepathandAntoo.ShotscomebutallmisssinceAnisblindedbythelightandcan’tseeMaccabeeanymore.“Leaveit!Iamusingit!Go!”thegirlimplores.Onceagainhedoeswhathe’stold.Hevaultstowardthestreet.Heseesthemotorcycleandbreaksopenitsignitionswitchandhot-wiresitintheblinkofaneye.Hejumpson.Itzingstolifeandtheytakeoff,fast.Thelightfromtheorbchokesouteverythingfor20metersnowandpeopleonthestreetareyelling,pointing,running.“Iamusingit,”thegirlrepeatsinasoftvoice,herheadslumpingontoMaccabee’sshoulder.“Iamusingit.”Herbodyfeelslimp.Sheisexhaustedtoo.A block later the light gives way to a high-pitched whine and then it’s snuffed out and then—FFFUHWHAM!—theentirestreetpuffsupinaballofsmoke.Maccabeedipsthebikearoundacorner,itsrearwheelskiddingandhisfootplantingonthegroundasapivot.Bitsofbuildingsandcarsandtreeswhipthroughtheairattheirbacks.Thegirlpassesout,theIndiancityisablur,andforthemomentAnLiuisnolongerhuntingthem.For the first time in his lifeMaccabee ran from a fight. And it worked.With the help of this small,remarkable,maybepossessedSkyKey,itworked.Iwon’tletanyonehurtyou,hethinks.Andhemeansit.

ANLIU

SouthParkStreetCemetery,Kolkata,India

Ankneels.Heshakeshishead,tryingtogetitclear.Almostgotthem.SHIVER.Almost.BLINK.Thatwasabigblast.Anhadthrownagrenadeintothelightatthelastsecond,butthatexplosionwasfromsomethingelse.TheNabataeanmusthaveplanted thatglowing thingand set it off inorder to create some space and sometime.Itwassuccessful.TheNabataeanisgonenow.Withthefirsttwokeys.Gone.BLINK.AnpeeksunderhisshirtattheChiyokonecklace.Likeeverythingaroundhimit’scoveredinafinedust.Hepullsthenecklaceoverhisheadandshakesitgently,wipesitwithhisfingertips,blowsonit.Whenit’sreasonablycleanheslipsitbackon.Hebrusheshimselfoff,findshisSIG.Heloadsanewmagazine.Sirensinthedistance.Shivershiver.TheworldknowsaboutEndgame,andAbaddoniscoming,butthelawisn’tallthewaygone.Notyet.Hetrotstotheexit.TheNabataeanisgone,andAn’sbikeisgonetoo.Anspits,thestreamthickwithblackash.TheNabataeanisgone.

AISLINGKOPP,GREGJORDAN,GRIFFINMARRS,POPKOPP,SARAHALOPAY,JAGOTLALOC,SHARICHOPRAHeadingsouthalongtheTeestaRivernearMangan,Sikkim,India

Aisling looksover her shoulder into thebackof the jeep.ShariChopra slumps inher seat, an IVbagpinnedabovethewindow,atuberunningintoaspikeinthebackofherhand.DrippingintothatlineonaregulatorisasmalldoseofBZD,keepinghergoodandasleepforaslongasnecessary.AllthewaytoThailand,whereJordanistakingthemandwhereStellaVyctoryawaits.The jeep bumps along the road, mountains looming all around. Aisling thinks about Shari. After thestandoffwithSarahandJago,AislingfollowedMarrsintothedeepestchamberoftheHarappanfortressandsawtheraven-hairedmotherofSkyKey,aliveandmore-or-lesswell.ThisisawrinklethathasAislingfeelingveryconflicted.Ononehand,AislingsuspectsthatShariisoneofthedecentPlayers,onewhodoesn’tdeserveameaninglessdeathatthehandofapsychopathicPlayer.She’s glad that Baitsakhan and Maccabee didn’t kill her. But on the other hand, as far as Shari’sconcerned,AislingprobablyisthatpsychopathicPlayer.Ifitweren’tforAisling,Shari’sfamilywouldbealive.Sure,herdaughterwouldprobably stillhavebeen takenby theNabataean,butall theHarappanwho’d taken refuge in themountainswouldbe breathing if itweren’t forAisling andher ragtagdeathsquad.AislingtriestoreasonoutofthisbyblamingEndgameforwhathappened—Aislingdidn’tmakeShari’sdaughteroneofthefuckingkeys,Endgamedid.AislingwasonlydoingwhatshethoughtshehadtodotostopEndgame,andShari,forherpart,wasonlydoingwhatanymotherwoulddo.AllofwhichmakesAislingwanttostopEndgame—andpunishtheMakers,especiallykepler22b—allthemore.AislingknowsinherbonesthatwhenShariwakesupshewon’tbeinaveryforgivingmood.AllShariwill want is revenge, and Aisling knows that revenge is a soul-gnashing affliction that operatescompletely outside the realm of logic. Sure, Aisling could wave her hands at Chopra and plead forreason,insistingthatEndgamekilledallofChopra’speople,butAislingalsoknowsthat’sbullshit.Shekilledthosepeople,alongwithJordanandPopandtherestofherteam.Andforbetterorworse,ChopraisnowslumpedbehindAislinginthejeep.Jordandrives,AislingwedgedbetweenhimandMarrsinthefrontseat.WheneverJordanshiftsgearshereachesbetweenAisling’slegs.HehalfapologizeseachtimeuntilAislingtellshimtoshutup.Hedoes.Sarah’s in themiddleof thebackseat,betweenShariandJago,herbodyfoldedawkwardly intoJago’slap,her injuredarm,whichAislingpatchedup,bent intoasling.Jago isawakeandmostlysilent.His

handrestsontopofSarah’shead,hisfingersentwinedinherhair.He’ssaidverylittle,butwhenhedoesspeakhe’sbeeneven-temperedandfriendly.Popisadifferentstory.He’s in the wayback, jigsawed into the gear they couldn’t leave behind—mainly guns and a mobilesatelliteuplinkthatMarrsusesforinternetaccess.Pophasnotsaidasinglewordsincetheyforgedthislatestalliance.Hehasn’taskedaboutSkyKeyorspokentoSarahorJagoatall.Hehasn’tsaidifhe’sonboardwiththeplantomeetStella,andhehasn’tsaidhe’sagainstit.ToAisling,hissilenceisthesameasafull-throatedscream.SheknowsthatPophatesthecoursethey’recharting.Itgoesagainsteveryoneofhisbeliefs.ItisnotwhatEndgameismeanttobe.Aisling isnotsurehowshe’sgoing tohandlePop,butsheknows that itwill fallonher tohandlehimwhenthetimecomes.Theothersdon’tseemasconcerned.EspeciallyJordanandMarrs.Ever since getting into the jeep,Marrs has been tearing around the internet, going from news sites toencrypted government forums to deep-web hovels full of rumor and intrigue, providing an account ofrecentworldeventsandbanteringwithJordanonprettymucheverypoint.“Thespaceagencieshavebeenscramblingsincethekepler’sannouncement.Atthemoment,NASA’sgotAbaddonfallingintheNorthAtlantic,”Marrssaysinhisnasalmonotone.“SouthofHalifax.Gonnawipeoutalotofland.Alot.”“Fuckinghell,”Jordansays.“What’sDCdoing?”“Moving.Lock,stock,andbarrel.LooksliketoColorado.”“NORAD?”“Naturally.Gold’sgoingthroughtheroof,NewYork’sundermartiallawbutseemsprettytame.Bostoniscomingapartattheseams,though.OneoftheNewEnglandPatriotsdidamurder-suicidewithhiswifeandkids—dogtoo.”“AnyflagsonotherPlayers?”Jordanasks.“There’ssomeindicationthattheShangisinKolkata,butit’sprettytenuous,andmyBengaliisshit.NosignoftheNabataeanyet.Oh—andlookslikesomeone’sdestroyingmonuments.”“BesidesStonehenge?”Jordanasksincredulously.“Yeah.Thismorningwhileweweretrekkingfromthefortress,agroupofnongovernmentaloperatorsthatremainsanonymous,atleasttoourguys,blewupthezigguratatChoghaZanbil.ThatwastheSumerianone.”“Stellawon’tlikethat.”“No,shewon’t,”Marrssays.Jordan whips the jeep around a slow-moving truck, guiding them into oncoming traffic, which is derigueurforIndia.Amotorscooterbuzzesoutofthewayintotheshoulderandpassesthem.“Whatthehellareyouguystalkingabout?”Jagodemands.Aislingnods.“Yeah,whatareyoutalkingabout?”“Yourlinehasamonumentthatismoresacredthananyother—right,Aisling?”Jordanasks.“Jordan,youknowitwasStonehenge.”Asshole,Aislingthinks.Jordansays,“Andyou,Tlaloc?”“Wedo.It’sontheYucatánPeninsulainMexico.”“LaVenta,”Marrssays.Jagolooksalittlesurprised,andthinksthatmaybetheseguysreallydoknowmorethanhethoughttheycouldaboutEndgame.“Sí.That’swhatwecallit.”Jordanasks,“Andyourgirlfriend?”

“Iwouldn’t know,” Jago says.He’s lying, though.Heknows the exact location of the primeCahokianmonument. It’s calledMonksMound, and it’s in southern Illinois,not far fromSt.Louis,Missouri.Heknows thisbecause it’swhere theCahokianRebellionof1613occurred.The rebellion that theOlmecoracle,AucapomaHuayna,toldhimallabout.TherebellionthatbrandedtheCahokiansasunworthyofwinningEndgame,whichwaspreciselywhyAucapomahadimploredJagotoendhisalliancewithSarahAlopay.No,morethanthat—theCahokiansweresodangerousthatAucapomahadorderedJagotokillSarahsohecouldprovetotheMakersthathe’dnotbeenpoisonedbytheCahokianPlayer.Toolateforthat.Asmuchashemightwant,Jagoisn’tabouttostarttalkingaboutallofthis.Itwouldbetoorevealing,too...complicating.Soheplaysdumb,andtheybelievehim.“Well, her line has one,” Marrs says. “Called Monks Mound. Big tourist attraction now, kinda likeStonehengebutnotaswell-known.”“Neverheardofit,”Jagosays.“Ihave,”Aislingsays.“UsedtobethecenterofsomehugeNativeAmericancity.”“Onceupona time itwas the largestcity inallof theAmericas, longbeforeanyEuropeansoutsideofVikingsevenknewabouttheNewWorld,”Jordansays.“Allright,”Jagosays,“butwhyaretheseplacessoimportanttofinishingEndgame?”“Whathesaid,”Aislingadds,stickingathumbinJago’sdirection.“I’mgoingtoletStellafillyouinonthedetails,”Jordansaysasheworksthejeepthroughaseriesofaccordion-liketurns,“butwe’recertainthatSunKeyishiddeninoneofthem.”Jagoleansforward,nearlypushingSarah’sheadoffhisleg.“Noshit?”“Noshit,”Marrssays.“AndiftheyallgettoastedbeforethePlayerwiththefirsttwokeysfindsit,well...”“Noonewillbeabletowin,”Aislingsays.“Bingo,”Jordansays.“WhoisthisStellawoman?”Aislingasks.“You’llfindoutsoonenough,”Jordansays.Jagoleansbackinhisseat,resettlingSarah’sheadacrosshisthigh.“Whoeversheis,you’vegottenmyattention,Mr.Jordan.Ilookforwardtomeetingher.”“Icanpromisethatthefeelingismutual.Shehasbeenwaitingtomeetyou—allofyou—foravery,verylongtime.”

SARAHALOPAY,JAGOTLALOCHeadingsouthalongtheTeestaRivernearMangan,Sikkim,India

Sarahisnotasleep.Shehasn’tsleptatall.AndwhileJagohasbeenfriendlywiththeothers,andtrulydoeswanttomeetthisStellaVyctory,he’snotconvinced.Notbyalongshot.SarahslumpsacrossJago’slap,herhandrestingunderherhairandonJago’sthigh.ShetapsoutmessagestohiminMorsecode,andheanswersinthesamecodebysqueezingherscalpsosoftlythatthemovementcanonlybefeltbyherandnotseenbyanyoneelse.Their conversation has been long and a little testy, and it revolves aroundone question,which in thismomentSarahasksfortheseventhtime:Shouldwereallytrustthesepeople?AndJagoanswers,Wehavetofornow.IfwhatJordansaysistrue,thenmaybewenowknowofanotherwaytostopthisthing.EvenifAbaddonhits,andtheworldischanged,wemighthaveawaytopreventaPlayer fromwinning.And ifJordan isn’tright, it seems that thesepeoplereallydowant thesamething.Theycanhelpus,Sarah.Wecanhelpthem.Helpussothatwecanstaytogether.Yes.Sothatwecanstaytogether.Westickwiththem,then.Yes.Allright,shetaps.Ionlywish...What?Iwishwewerealone,Feo.Iwishitwerejustyouandme.Thisisthefirsttimeshe’ssaiditallday.AndJagosqueezesback,Idotoo,Sarah.Idotoo.

HILALIBNISAAL-SALTAyutthaya,Thailand

HilalisalsoheadedtoStellaVyctory,exceptheismuch,muchcloser.HehustlesoutofthePhraNakhonProvincialRailwayStation,turningthiswayandthat,slicingthroughamassofpeople.HewentdirectlyfromtheBangkokairport,wherehelastspoketoStella,tothecentralBangkoktrainstation.HegotonthefirsttraintoAyutthayaandnowhemakeshiswayonfoottoStella,whoisashortfourkilometersaway.Hegoessouthfromthestationthroughaplatoonoffoodcarts,smellingfriedthingsandsaltythingsandsweet things. Squid,mushrooms, pork, onions, garlic, sugar, basil, citrus, peanuts. His large rucksackclapshisshouldersashejogs.Itcontainshistwinmachetes,achangeofclothing,afirstaidkitforhiswounds, thedevice from theark (whichhasceasedworkingsince thekepler’sannouncement),and theincomprehensiblebookhetookfromWaylandVyctory’shotelsuiteinLasVegas.AfewblocksfromthestationalargegroupofworshippersblocksthestreetandforceshimtodetourintotheWat Pichai Songkram temple complex. Monks are everywhere. Bald and saffron-robed and busy.Devoteeswearingconical shadehats andcarryingparasols surround theholymen,pleading formercyandprayingtoLordBuddha.Hilaldoesthesameinhismindasherushespastthegilt iconcoveredinmarigolds and lotus blossoms and surrounded by a pyre of incense.He searches for away out of thecomplexsohecanpickupthepaceagainandgettoStellaassoonaspossible.Afteraminutehe findshimselfon thebanksof thePaSakRiver.He turns southand resumes running.Longtail boats ply the cloudywater and schools of huge catfish boil to the surface to eat bread beingthrownbychildren.Itisnicetoseeyoungpeopledoingeverydaythings,towitnessinnocence.Itisalsonicetofeelthesun.Heisafraidthat,thankstotheimpactwinterthatislikelytoshroudtheskiesafterAbaddon,sunlightwillbesomethingofaluxurysoon.Heisveryafraidofthis.HetiltshisdisfiguredfacetoourstarashisfeetcarryhimtowardStella.Thesun.Earth’slifeforce.Thephotonsthatbounceoffhisskinandeverythingelsearoundhimleftthesolarsurfaceeightminutesand20secondsago.Eightminutesand20seconds!Theyhurtledthroughthevoidof spaceandentered theatmosphereandmadeabeeline for this spot, righthere,onEarth, in thecontinent called Asia, in the country called Thailand, in the city called Ayutthaya, onto the man andEndgamePlayernamedHilalibnIsaal-Salt.Agreatcosmicaccidentthathappensoverandoverandoveragaintoeverythingthesun’slighttouches.Overandoverandoveragain.Stella.

Hequickenshispace.Stella.Hernamemeans“star,”likethesun.Mayshegiveuslight,Hilalthinks.He turns eastonto thewideRojanaRoad.He jogsnow,passes cardealerships andbeauty salons andtourist offices and convenience stores and Thai motorcycle cops in brown uniforms who give himsuspiciouslooksbutwhodon’tdoanything.Hepassesatwo-storystuparight inthemiddleof thesix-lane road. He passes a group of teenage boys loitering on souped-up scooters, smoking filterlesscigarettes,whistlingatgirls,laughing.Hilalslowstoabriskwalkwhenheseestheseyoungmen.Fourofthemwearmakeshiftmasksofafacethateveryonehasseenandeveryonehasmemorizedandeveryoneisconfusedbyandmanyareterrifiedby.Thepalefaceofkepler22b.TherewereMeteorKidsthrowingravesandpartyingafterthetwelvemeteorsthatannouncedEndgame,andnowtherearekeplerKids.TheteensareloudasHilalapproaches,butwhentheynoticehimthesilencehits.Theyseehisscarredfaceandhisdiscoloredeyesandhislackofhairandhismissingear.Twoofthekidspullthemasksfromthetopsoftheirheadsandovertheirfaces,asiftohide.Hilaldoesn’tbreakstride.“Krap,”hesays,dippinghischinandraisinghishand.Noneofthemsayanythinginreturn.Heresumesrunning.AnotherkilometerandhereachestheClassicKameoHotel,acollectionofglassandcement blocks, allwhite andmodern and clean.Hilal imagines it caters to upscale tourists andAsianbusinessmen.ThisiswherehewillfindStella.Hegoes inside.Theair conditioningslapshim in the face.Hemoves through it, crossinghisarms forwarmth.Nicelobby,bigchairs,frontdesk,clerk,elevator,hallway,room.Itsnumberis702.Heisabouttoknockwhenheisovercomewithnerves.Heisgoingtoseeheragain.Stella.Thewomanwhobeathiminafight,whohelpedhim,whoclaimedWaylandVyctoryasherfather.HilaltrustedherinLasVegas,andhetrustsherstill,butnowthatheisontheedgeofwhatevercomesnextinEndgamehepauses.Breathes.Knocks.Hehearsthesoftpadoffootstepsonthefarsideofthedoor.Theworldturnssomemore.Thedooropens.Thewomansmiles.“Hilal,”Stellasays.“Comein.Itissogoodtoseeyouagain.”

ANLIU

ShangSafeHouse,UnnamedStreetoffAhiripukurSecondLane,Ballygunge,Kolkata,India

Anwalksfromthecemeterybacktohissafehouse.Hewalksbriskly,angryandred-eyedandoblivioustotheworldaroundhim.Hehad them.TheNabataeanandSkyKeyandEarthKey too.Right inhissights.Hehad themandhisshotsmissedandtheyoutplayedhim!Andtheygotaway.Theyaregone.“Gone,Chiyoko,gone!HowcouldIletithappen?”hecursesBLINKshiverBLINKhecurseshimselfashemarchesthroughthechokedstreets,andwhenhefinallyreachesthesecludedsideentranceofhishideouthisemotionsareatempest.Heopensthedoorandboltsitshutfromtheinsideandpunchesacodeintothesecuritysystem.Hestalkstowardthebathroom,strippingoffhisclothesashemoves,lettinghisgarmentsfalltothefloorinheaps.He rants the whole way. “I had”—BLINKBLINK—“I had them! I could have killed”—shiverBLINK—“killed”—shivershivershiver—“killed”—BLINK—“them.” SHIVERshiver. “Couldhave”—SHIVERshiver—“Could have”—SHIVERshiver—“Could have stuffed a grenade in his mouthand stepped back and laughed and watched the whole thing burn!” BLINK. “No”—BLINK—“No”—BLINK—“No”—BLINK—“No winner could be”—shiverSHIVERshiver—“no winner couldbe”—BLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKshiverBLINKBLINK—“Nowinnercouldbe!”He’sinthebathroomandnakedexceptforChiyoko’snecklace.Heputshishandstoitbuttheyshaketoomuch.Shecan’t calmhim rightnow, shecan’t, andhe letsgoof thenecklacebecausehe’s shaking somuchthathe’safraidhe’llbreakit,thathe’llhurther,andheraiseshisarmandbitesitandclampsdown,gnashes,grinds.Ithurtsandstingsandalittlebloodcomesandhestopsshaking.Heturnsonthehotwatertap, and his hands calm.He removesChiyoko and sets her gingerly on the edge of the sink and stepsthrough thecurtain and into the stall. It is scaldingandhis skin turns redandhewinces andholdshisbreathfromtheshockofthetemperature.Hecalmssomemore.Hisarmthrobs.Heduckshisstubblyheadunderthewaterstream.Itburns.“Theworldwouldhavegottenwhatitdeserves,”Ansays.And in thatmoment there isa small sounddeep inhismindandheknows it isherandshe’s trying tospeaktohimbuthecan’thear.Hestrainsandconcentratesbuthecan’thearher.“Whatitdeserves.Allbecauseofme.”He feelsbetter.Hewashes,dries, cleans thenecklace,getsdressed, eats, and thenmoves toa controlroomandsettlesdown.HechecksthetrackingprogramthatmarkstheOlmec’sposition,andthenturnsonseveralmonitorsatonceandwatchesthenews.Thenews.Thenews.Thenews.Itisgloriousandbeautifulandamazing.BBC,CNNInternational,AlJazeera,FoxNews,TASS,France24,CCTV.Fearisrampant.MartiallawineveryWesterncountry.Policeforcesthinningoutastheirmembersfleetobewithfamily.Fullmilitary

battalionsbeingrepositionedtominimumsafedistances.Nuclearenergyfacilitiesbeingputonlockdown.Chemicalplantsfollowingemergencyshutdownprotocols.Municipalairspacestheworldoverthickwithhelicoptersanddrones.AstronautsandcosmonautsontheInternationalSpaceStationinitiatingemergencysequencesandpreparingforaprolongedisolationfromMissionControl.ThedestructionoftheancientmonumentsofStonehengeandChoghaZanbil—theformerofprincipalimportancetotheLaTèneCelts,thelatterequallyasessentialtotheSumerianline.Nooneknowswhoisobliteratingthem,oriftheydoknow,nooneistelling.Areothersuchmonumentsslatedfordestructionaswell?WillthosebelongingtotheOlmec,theCahokian,theNabataean,theHarappan,theShang,andalltheothersbedestroyedintime?Isthekeplerdestroyingthem?Aconsortiumoftheworld’smilitaries?Somegroupasyetunknown?Anisunsure. Hewatches a dozen segments about the alien called kepler 22b. Interviewswith peoplewhoreverehimorhatehimorwanttobefriendhimorkillhim.Peoplewhowanttosubjugatethemselvestohim.Peoplewhowanttoenslavehim.Butmostlypeoplewhowanttorunawayfromhim,evenifthereisnowheretorun.Don’ttell theleadersoftheworldthat, though.Don’ttell therich.AnwatchesstoriesaboutpresidentsandprimeministersandscientistsandeducatorsandMPsandthewealthy,allfleeing,allbunkering,allburying themselves. Trying to disappear. Everyone else looting or taping upwindows or trying to getinland and for themost part failing. Shoot-outs on clogged highways up and down theAmericanEastCoast.Throngsofpeopleatchurchesandmosquesandtemplesandsynagoguesprayingtotheirgods.TheVatican, theDome of theRock, theWesternWall—all three so crowded thatworshippers at each arebeingtrampledandcrushed.Anfallsasleeptothisbeautifulchaoticdanceataroundthreeinthemorning.Hewakes2.4hourslater.Thetelevisionscreensarestillfulloffearandconfusionandquestions.WhenwillAbaddonhit?Howbigisitandwhat’sitmadeofandhowmanywilldie?Andsomeanswers.Abaddonisadensenickel-and-ironmeteorthatwillstrikesoonontheedgeoftheNovaScotiashelf,300kilometerssouthofHalifax.Theasteroid issphericalwithadiameterof justunder threekilometers. Itwillpunchaholeintheatmosphereandtheskywilllightup,snuffingoutthesun’slight.Theinitialblastwillvaporizeeverythingarounditandunderneathitandoveritforhundredsofmiles.Theimpactwilltriggeramassiveearthquaketorippleacrosstheglobe,whichwillevenbefeltontheothersideoftheworld.Afterthequakecomestheairborneshockwave,destroyingeverythingforhundredsandhundredsofmiles.Andlastbutcertainlynotleastwillbethetsunamis,affectingeveryNorthAtlanticcityfromSanJuantoWashington,DC,toLisbontoDakar.In the hours and days that follow, the secondary effects ofAbaddonwillwreak havoc over the entireplanet.Thesearelesscertain.Theycouldincludeeruptionsoflong-dormantvolcanoesastheyareshakenfrom their slumbers. TheBig Island ofHawaii could crack and calve a huge section into the Pacific,causingmassivetsunamisupanddownthePacificRim.Acidraincouldfalleverywhere,butespeciallywithin a few thousand miles of the crater, poisoning the sea and all drinking water in the vicinity.Electricalstormsandhurricanescouldwhipupandravagethelandandseaaroundthecrater.An flips through the channels. There will be tornadoes, floods, landslides, ash, fear, depravation,suffering,death.Therewillbefirestorms.Impactwinters.Nomoreinternetinalotofplaces.Nomoreairtravelforalongtime.Andonandonandonand,yes,soon,verysoon,alotofthingsaregoingtodie.Ataroundsixinthemorningthefirstreportofavisualcomesonair.SpottedintheskyovertheSouthPacific.Adarkspeckskirtingacrossthesun’sdisc.AvideoplaysonCNNInternationalinaGIFloop:fishermen in smallwoodenboatshoistingMylar-coveredbinoculars to the sky.They’re surroundedbybluewaterandwhitesandandgreentreesandtheskyasclearasever,andthemenpointandscreamand

yell.That’swheneveryoneknowsthatit’sreallytrue.That’swhenAnknowsit’snotadream.It’sbetterthanadream.Hewillmisstheinternet,though.Sorely.Anturnsfromthenewsandhopsupandmoves.Heneedstogetbackontheroad,togetoutofthiscitybeforeitgoescompletelyinsane.Theasteroidwillhitonthefarsideoftheglobe,buthewantstobeinthecountrysideforAbaddon,notinKolkataoranywherelikeit.HehasaquickbreakfastoffishcakesandwarmCoke.InthegarageheloadshisbulletproofLandRoverDefenderwithhisgoboxandthecansofextragasolineandhisgunsandbombsandNobuyukiTakeda’skatanaandtheotherboxtoo,thepreciousboxthatcontainsthevestshouldheeverneedit.The20-kilosuicidevestthatishisfail-safe.By9:13heisreadytogo.Butnowthathe’ssittinginhisDefenderandlookingatthemonitorsthatshowwhat’shappeningoutsidehissafehouse,he’salittleworried.Andidn’texpectthis.Notatall.Hundredsofpeoplechokethealleywayoutside.Allmen.AllcrammedintothenarrowstreetthatishisDefender’s sole egress. They sit on the ground, lean against walls, mill around. Someone must havefollowedhim from the cemetery andcalled their friends, and then they called friends, and they calledfriends.Themenhave sticksandpipesandmachetesanda fewhave semiautomatic rifles.Somehavedogsonropes.ManyareshirtlessandrailthinandweartheubiquitousloosecottonpantsseenalloverIndia.Somecarryplacards.MostoftheseareinBengaliorHindi,whichAncan’tread,butsomeareinEnglish.Theysay,WESEEYOU!andBROTHERHOODOFMAN!andEARTHISOURS!andNOTOENDGAME!NOTOTHEPLAYERS!NOTOKEPLER22B!Morethanafewhavebloodsmearedovertheirfacesandarms.Bloodfromchickensorgoatsordogs,sacrificedinceremoniesatlocaltemples.Anunderstands.Thesemenknowwhoheis—theShang,AnLiu,PlayerofEndgame—andtheywanthispain.Hislife.Hisblood.Heunderstandsperfectly.BLINKshiverBLINK.Anpounds something into a laptopmounted in the centerof the car.Hehits enter.LikeallShang safehouses,thisoneiswiredtoblow,andblowdirty,irradiatingthissectionofKolkata.Butthebombwillonlydetonatewhenhissystemdetectsthatheandhisvehiclehavereachedasafedistance.Heflicksthelaptopclosed.“Areyouready,Chiyoko?”Andthenhehearsasmallsounddeepinhismind.“Chi”—BLINK—“Chi”—SHIVER—“Chiyoko?”Thesoundgrowsalittlelouder,likeahuminthedistance.“Areyouready?”SHIVERSHIVERSHIVER.Andthen—Iam,shesaysinthevoicesheneverhad.Thequalityofhervoicedoesn’tsurprisehim.Calmbutfirm.Itisher.Itisperfectly,succinctly,fullyher.He’sbeenexpectingher.Hesays,“YouarealwaysreadyandIloveyouforit.”

Antapsabuttonandthegaragedoorscrackopen.“Iloveyou.”Anrepeats.Andshesaysittoo,attheexactsamemoment,hisvoiceminglingandweavingwithhers.Hesmiles.ChiyokoandAn.TheMuandtheShang.Theyarethesame.Themoboutsidestirsandcrackles.Thosewhoweresittingstand.He hits the button again and the doors swing wide. A Kalashnikov fires. Shots explode across theDefender’sbulletproofwindshield.BLINK.SHIVER.Heflipsthekeyintheignition.Theenginecomestolife.Hejamsthegasandtheengineroars.Themenhowlandgesticulate,wavetheirarmsandsticksandtheirridiculousplacards,asifAncaresforanyofwhattheyhavetosay.Thisisnotaprotest,itisawar.Andhewillfightitwithhisbeloved.

SARAHALOPAY,JAGOTLALOCGulfstreamG650,BogdograAirport,Siliguri,WestBengal,India

SarahandJagoreclineinverycomfortableseatsinJordan’sverycomfortableprivatejettryingtofigureoutwhattodo.IttookthemalongtimetogetdownfromtheHimalayas,andnowthey’restuckwaitingforpermissiontotakeoff.Thewaitisagonizing.AislingandJordanareinthecockpitgoingthroughpreflightstuff.Marrsisoutsidedealingwithairportpersonnel.Popsits inaseatalonenear thebulkhead,staringout thewindow,hisrockyknuckleswhitewithtension.Shariisunconsciousintherearoftheplane,alreadyseat-beltedinplace,anIVbaghangingfromtheoverheadcompartment.Herchestrisesandfallsevenly.Sarah isenviousofShari.Beingknockedoutwouldquell thehateandguiltanddoubtandfear roilinginsideher.Beingknockedoutwouldquiethermind,hersoul.She leans into Jago’s side andwhispers, “Iwishwewere fighting, Feo. Right now. Iwishweweremoving—Playing.”“Iknow,”hesays.“Metoo.”Actionoroblivion,shethinks.Thosearetheonlyoptionsrightnow.Aislingemergesfromthecockpit,interruptingSarah’strainofthought.“Howlongtillwe’reouttahere?”Jagoasks.Aislingdropsintothenearestseat.ShereachesforherFalcataandlaysitoverherthighs.Sherunsherfingertipsoverthesword.“At leastanhour,”shesays.“Maybe less ifMarrscanbribe therightair trafficcontroller.But for themomentwe’reholding.”Shepullsastonefromapocketandrunsitoverherblade’sedge.It’srazorsharpanddoesn’tneedtheattention,butsheneedssomethingtodo.Alsorestless,Sarahthinks.Sarahstraightensandasks,“AllrightifJagoandItakeoverthelavforalittlewhile?”Jagosnickers.“Really?”Aisling’seyebrowsspringupward.“Now?”JagoflasheshisglitterysmileandstrokesSarah’sknee.“Sí.Notimelikethepresent,¿sabes?”Sarahjabshimwithherelbow.“Don’tlistentohim.JagopickedupadyekitbackinPeru.I’mgonnaberaven-hairedfromnowon.SinceLiu’svideocameoutandwecanallbemade,Idon’twanttotakeanychances.”Herunshis fingers throughhisplatinumhair.“I’msureyoucouldn’t tell,Aisling,but I’mnotanaturalblond.”

Aislingshakesherheadandtiltsthebladeinherlap,eyeingaminisculenick.“Goforit.It’sallyours.”SarahandJagomovetotherearoftheplane.Thelavatoryisverynice.There’sspacebetweenthetoiletandthesink,andthesinkisnormal-sized,notatinybowlwedgedintothecorner.Thetowelsarereal,thetoiletpaperplushandsoft.Jagoclosesthedoorbehindthem.HehelpsSarahoutofhershirt,beingcarefulwithherwoundedarm.Sheleansoverthebasin,facedown,andJagowashesherhairusingaplasticcupandtheliquidsoaponthecounter.“Rosemary,”Sarahsays.“Andlemon.Smellsnice.”“Mmm,”Jagosays.Hemassagesherscalp,rinsingoutthesoap.Herunshisfingersalonghernapeandletsthemtraildownherbackandoverthebandofhersportsbra.“Givemeatowel,”shesays.Hedoes.Shewraps itaroundherheadandstands.They’re face-to-face.Herbrabrusheshis shirtandashotofelectricityracesupherback.Shesmiles.“Canyoudrymyhair?”sheasks.“Sí.”But insteadhe immediately leans forwardand theykiss.Sheholdshishead tightlybetweenher stronghandsandpullshimcloser.Andtheykiss.Andkiss.Theystop.Shesitsontheclosedtoiletseat.Hedriesherhair.Shebrushesit,workingthroughthetangles,whileheprepsthedye.Whenshe’sdonebrushing,Jagoseparatesherhairintosectionsandfastensatoweloverherbareshoulders.Heputsonlatexglovesandgetstowork,movingmethodicallyfromthebackofherheadandoverthecrown.“Feelsgood,Feo.”“Iknow.”Hepusheshislegintohersinashowofaffection.Shepushesback.“I’mgladwe’realive,”hewhispers.“Metoo.Weshouldn’tbe,though.”Jagopausessoshecanspeak.“BaitsakhanhadusdeadtorightsbackintheHarappanfortress,”sheexplains.“YouwereoutandIwaspretendingtobe.Hehadtheopportunity,themotive,andthegun.Would’vetakenasecond.Pop,pop.”Jago’shandsresumeworking.“Whydidn’the?”“Whoknows.Arrogance?Hewasmessedupfromtheteleportation?Whocares?”Theplane’shydraulicsandservosmakesomepreflightmusic.JordansaysoverthePA,“Justgotwordthatwe’reclose,amigos.”SarahlooksupatJago,hisuglyscar,hissterneyes.“Knowwhatweshoulddo,Feo?Stealaplanefirstchancewe get,” she jokes. “Run away andmake babies and teach them how to fight and survive andlove.”“Soundsgreat.”“Itwillbe.”Theybothchuckleattheimpossibilityofallthat.Theyaresilentforawhile.“Ifwewanttodothatsomeday—andIdo—thenwereallyneedtostopEndgame,”Jagosaysseriously.“Yes,wedo.”“Andyouthinkthesepeoplewillshowushow?”

Sarahshrugs.“Ihopeso.”Then,veryquietly,asifshe’sworriedthey’rebeinglistenedto,shesays,“DoyoubelieveAisling?Doyoutrustherpeople?”Jagoshrugs.“Theyhaven’ttriedtokillus.”“No.AndIguesswehaven’ttriedtokillthem,sowe’reeventhere.”“True.”Heremovessomeclipsfromherhair,placesthemcarefullyinthesink.“Okay.Done.”Hedrapesanothertoweloverher.Heopensthedoorandangleshisheadintothecabin.“Sarah,Ihavetotellyousomething.”Sarahfrowns,takeshishand,andheleadshertotheclosestpairofemptyseats.Aislingisnearthefront,sitting next to Pop in silence. Shari is across the aisle, the closed window shade by her shoulderilluminatedbythedawn’searlylight.SarahlacesherfingersintoJago’s.“Whatisit,Feo?”“Icouldn’ttellyoubefore.Itwastoomuch.ItwasAucapomaHuayna.Myline’selder.Shetoldmethat...shetoldmethatyouneededtodie.”SarahreleasesJago’shand.“What?”Aislingturnstolookatthemforabriefmoment.SarahandJagolowertheirvoices.“AndshesaidthatIwastheonewhohadtodoit.”Sarahclencheshishandtightly,painfully.“Whywouldshesaythat?”Jagolooksherdirectlyintheeye,notwavering,notshowinganysignsofbeingdishonest.Hewantshertohear.Heneedsherto.“Ithadsomethingtodowithyourline.ShesaidtheMakerswouldneverallowtheCahokianstowin,norwouldtheyallowmylinetowinsolongasIwalkedalongsideorPlayedwithyou.”Sarahwinces.“That’snonsense.”“Shesaidyourlinedidsomethingextraordinary.ShesaidthatbackinthesixteenhundredstheCahokiansactuallyfoughttheMakers!”Sarahshakesherhead.“Whatdoyoumean?”“According to her, before the very last group of Makers left Earth—back in 1613—They asked theCahokians to fulfill an old bargain.You had to give up a thousand young people in a grand and finalsacrifice,IguessforThemtotakewiththemontheirships.”“And?”“Andyourpeoplerefused.ShesaidthatbythentheCahokiansunderstoodthattheMakersweremortalandthattheyappearedtobegodlikesimplybecausetheypossessedmoreknowledgeandtechnologythanhumans.Shesaidyourpeoplefought,usinganoldMakerweaponagainstThem,andthatasalastresortthebattlefieldwasicedfromorbitingships,killingeveryonethere,Makersoldiersincluded.”“AMakerweapon?”“Yes.Andshesaidyourlinereceivedmorepunishment.Shesaidyouweremadetoforgetyourrebellionandmuchofyourancientpast,eventheoriginalnameofyourline.‘Cahokian’isapparentlywhatyou’vecalledyourselfsincethisbattle.Beforethatyouwereknownassomethingelse.”Marrsboundsbackintotheplaneandclosesthedoorbehindhim.Heplantshishandsonthebulkheadandleansforward.“Buckleup.We’reflyinginfive.”Sarahpulls theseatbeltoverher lap.“Idon’tknowwhatyou’re talkingabout,”shesaysa littlemoreloudly as the plane’s engines come to life. “TheCahokians have plenty of documents goingway past1613. I’ve seen them.Wehaveplentyof languageandknowledge, Jago.Plentyofhistory.And Ihaveneverheardanythinglikewhatyou’redescribing—”Jagoraisesahand.“I’mmerelytellingyouwhatshesaid.It’sbeeneatingatme.ObviouslyI’mnotgoingtokillyou,Sarah.AndobviouslyIdon’tcarewhattheMakersthinkorwantforthemselves.Iwantyou,

andIwanttostayalive,andtosavemyfamilyifIcan,asfuckedupastheyare.Iwanttofight—andfighthard—forwhat’sright.”Heshrugsas theplanelurchesbackward.“Whoknows,”hesays.“Maybeshedidn’texpectmetokillyou.Maybeshewantedmetodoubtyou—doubtus—sothatI’dleaveyouatmyparents’estate.Sotheycoulddealwithyou.”“We’renumberonefortakeoff,”JordanannouncesonthePA.Theplanepullsaroundaturnandjerkstoastop.“Flightattendants,cross-check,andalltherest.Sitdownanddoacrossword.”AislingpeersaroundtheedgeofherseatatSarah,smilingatJordan’slamejoke.Sarahsmilesback,notlettingherexpressionrelaytheseriousnessoftheconversationshe’shavingwithJago.“Youdidn’tletmefinish,”Sarahsays,thankfulforthesuddenhissoftheenginesasthejetthrottlesdowntherunway.“Idon’tknowaboutthisbattle,butIdoknowabouttheweapon.I’veneverseenit,ofcourse.NoCahokianPlayerhassince—getthis—1614.ButIknowwhereit’shidden.”“Where?”“AlittlesouthofMonksMound.TheCahokianmonumentMarrswastalkingaboutearlier.”“Aplacethatsomeone,forsomereason,mighttrytodestroy.”Sarahshakesherheaddecisively.Theplanejostlesthroughasmallcloud,sunlightlancingthecabinassoonastheyclearit.“Maybe,Feo.Butnotifwecangettherefirst.”

ANLIUShangSafeHouse,UnnamedStreetoffAhiripukurSecondLane,Ballygunge,Kolkata,India

AnLiu’sDefendermoves into thedaylight tomeet themob.HisBerettaARX160, speciallymodifiedwithapoweredpicatinny rail, fires throughaslotbelow thewindshield.The report is loud inside thevehicleandhelikesit.Thebulletssailintothecrowd.Thecasingspitterontohislap.Afewmenarehit.Theydiveandscattertothesidebutthemobdoesn’tdissipate.Hegivestheriflefourmorelongbursts,swingingitsidetoside.Redspraysofbloodandsmallcloudsofdustasbodiesfallandfeetscamper.Anputsthecarinsecondandletsouttheclutch,andtheDefenderjumpsforward.Anothervolley.Hehopesthemenwillthinenoughforhimtoescapetothewiderstreetattheendofthealleyway.And for amoment this is exactlywhathappens.But then themenyell and turnbackall at once like aschoolof fish, surging towardhis car.They throw rocksandpipes, and the soldierswith rifles fireatwill.Theseprojectilesbounceoffhiscarwithoutcausinganyrealdamage,butnowthingsareabouttogettrickier.They’reblockinghisescape.He’llhavetorunthemdownlikedogs.Whichisfinewithhim.Anyankshis rifle into the interior, the flapunder thewindshieldclosing immediately.He flipsopenapanelonthedashboard.Twocoveredswitchesandapistolgripwithatriggerarebuiltintotheconsole.Hesnapsopentheswitchcovers.Pressestheleftbutton.Itglowsred.Hetakesthegripandanglesitupand pulls the trigger. Awhite arc traces from the front of the car, the projectile rainbowing over thecrowd,sailing30,40,50metersbeforehittingthegroundattheendofthealleyanddetonating.Theairthereturnsorangeandblackasthegrenadedoesitsjob.Anfeelsgiddy.Heslamstheclutch,putsthecarinthethird,andgrindsforward.Hemeetsthemen.Thesoundissickening,lovely,unusual.Yellsofdefianceturntoscreamsofpainandterror,butstillthemenpressinonhim.TheDefenderridesoverabody.Facesmashintohiswindows,theirfleshgoingflatandpinkandbrownandwhiteagainsttheglass.Apairofmengrabsthedoorhandlesandtriesinvaintoworkthemopen.Thecarslowsalittle.Andropsitintosecondgear.Themenbeatthecarandgrabatitandjumpontopofit.ThecarrockssidetosideasAnjogsthewheel,pinningmenonthesidesbetweenthecarandbuildings,bloodsmearingacrossthehoodandthenthewindshield.Somemenwiththekeplermasksgetcaughtandcrumpleundertherearwheels.Thecarisafour-wheel-drivebeast.Heletsoutalittlelaugh.Heflicksthewipers.Badidea—thebloodsmearsandobscureshisview.Thecarmovesforwardmoreslowlynow,thementreatingitlikeadrum,butit’suseless.It’stooheavy

forthemtotoppleandtheycan’tgetinorbreachitsarmor.Anissurethathe’llmakeitoutandgetaway.Butthenagiantmanjumpsfromalowbuildingontothehood.Heturnsandsitsontheroof,facingout,hisfeetplantedwide.Anpeersthroughthearcsofbloodswipedacrosstheglassandseesthathe’salmostreachedthestreetwherethegrenadewentoff.Aburned-outcar,afewbodies,adyingcow.Astrangelydressedwoman—croppedhair,asticktiedtoherback—dartsacrossthestreet.Amattedstraydoglimpsfromlefttoright.Thegrenadeclearedapathandifhecangettherethenheshouldbeabletogainsomespeedandgetawayandthen,oncehe’sthreekilometersdistant,poof!HisbombwilldetonateandthatwillbetheendofthemobandtheendofthissafehouseandtheendofthisdanklittlecornerofKolkata,India.But then,BAM!An is rattled.Theman on the hood has swung a heavymaul into thewindshield.Thebulletproofglassholds.Themenoutsidewhoopandyelland—blinkSHIVERSHIVERblink—An’sheartnearlystopsasatrioofmenheaveathickmetalbaracrosstheendofthealleywayandboltitintoplace.It’sameterofftheground,andthere’snowayhe’llbeabletodriveoverit.Anpullsthecartowithinfivemetersofthebarricadeandstops.SHIVERSHIVERSHIVERblinkSHIVER.“Thiscan’tbe it,Chiyoko,can it?Doweabandon thecar?”He turns left and rightand looks into thecargoareaforideas.Hisequipment,hisweapons,thesword.Hisvest.Itwouldbeawastetousethatnow.Thestreet.Thebarricade.“Wehavetoatleasttry.”BAM!Themaulagainandthecarshakes.BAM!Again.Asmallspiderwebintheglass.Achinkinthearmor.Anputsthecarinreverseandgunsit.Themaulerfallsontohishandsandknees,hisweaponslidingoffthehoodtotheground.Themobatthebackfoldsunderthecarasitridesoverthem.Moremashing.Morepopping.Themaulerlooksoverhisshoulder,staresrightatAn.Anger,menace,stupidity.Anslamsthebrakeandthemaulerslidesupthehoodandintothewindshield,hislegsbunchingunderhim.Angrabstherifleandsticksitbackintothehingedflap,andhefiresdirectlyintothemauler’sthighandbuttocks.Themaulerrollstothesideinagony.Anputsthecarinfirstanditjumpsforwardandthemaulertumblesoffthehood.Clutch,second,gas,clutch, third,gas.He’sup to55kph inno time, themenflyingawayfromthecar,gunshotshittingtherearwindow.Hetakesthewheelwithbothblinkblinkblinkbothhandsandpeersatthebarricade.Willithold?Willitbuckle?Willhemakeit?Ansquints,readyingforimpact.Andthen—whatisthat?Aheadsailingthroughtheair?Whateverit is, itrollsunderthebarricade,andthenanotherhead-likeball,andthen,at thelastsecondbeforeimpact,thebarricadeisunlockedandthegrilleslamsintoitandthebarswingsviolentlyawayandintothestreet.Hehitsthebrakes.Thecarswervesandstops.Thestreetaheadisclearenoughforhimtocompletehisgetaway.Butbeforeheleaveshelooksbackdownthealley,fullofbodieslivinganddyinganddead.Whatisleftofthemobcomesforhim.Butanothercomesforhimtoo.Thewomanwiththecroppedhair.She’swiryandfastandstrong.Astick—no,asword—inherhand.Andherface.Herface.ItlookslikeChiyoko’s,except20or30yearsolder.SHIVERSHIVERSHIVERSHIVERSHIVERblinkblinkblinkblinkSHIVERblink SHIVERSHIVERSHIVER

SHIVERSHIVERblinkblinkblinkblinkSHIVERblinkSHIVERSHIVERSHIVERSHIVERSHIVERblinkblinkblinkblinkSHIVERblinkBAM!BAM!BAM!“Go, go, go!” thewoman yells inMandarin. She stands on the running board, right next toAn on theoutsideofthecar,slappingherhandontheroof.“Go!They’llkillus!”“Whoareyou?”“IamNoriKo.IamMu.IknewChiyoko.Icanhelpyou.Now,wehavetogo!”AndAn’sheartfillsandhefeelslightandfreeandhewondershowmanyhashekilledtodayandhowmanymorewilldiewhenthebombgoesoffandChiyokoChiyokoChiyokoNoriKoNoriKoChiyokoandhefeelsfreeandlightandAn’sheartfills.Hedrives.Half a kilometer later he stops.He lets her in. “Watch,” he says, and she saysnothing.Hedrivessomemoreandashortwhilelatertheskybehindthemlightsup,andtheyarefree.

MACCABEEADLAI,LITTLEALICECHOPRA

RoadSH2,JoypurForest,WestBengal,India

Maccabeerunsastraight razoroverhisbarescalp.Heswishes theblade inacopperbowlhalf-filledwithastewofwaterandblackstubbleandsoap.Nexttothebowlisapairofscissorscoveredbyapileofthickhair.Hesquintsathisreflectioninacloudedmirrorthat’sproppedagainstthewall.He’snevershavedhisheadbeforeandhelikesthewayitfeels.Thesmoothness,thelightness.Also,withhisbruisesandhiscrookednoseandhisphysique,thebaldnessmakeshimlooklikearealbadass.Whichofcourseheis.“Whatdoyouthink,SkyKey?”Thegirl sitsnext tohim.She leans intohis side.Herbody iswarm, andhe feels comfortedby it.Hewondersifsheiscomfortedinturn.Probablynot.Herlegsaretuckedupandherarmsarewrappedoverherknees.Shedoesn’tanswerhisquestion.Hebrieflytouchesherhair.It’sthickandsoft,thehairofagirlwho’sbeenwellcaredfor.Ifhe’sgoingtogethertotheend,he’llhavetotakegoodcareofhertoo.Hepassesherabowlofriceandlentils,astiffcircleofdalbalancedontop.“Here.Havesomemorefood.”Shedigsinwithherbarehandsandeats.Herappetiteisstrongand,sofar,insatiable.Theyareinanabandonedroadsidehut130kilometerswestandnorthofKolkata.It’smidmorning.Thelandscapeoutsideislushandverdant.Junglesurroundsthehut,butfieldsofjuteandpotatoeslielessthanakilometertothenorth.Sporadiccarsandbusespassontheroad,butotherthanthattherearenosignsofpeoplehere.Whichisgood.EarlythatmorningheandSkyKeywanderedthroughashoppingcenterwestofKolkatabuyingsupplies.Rice,soap,candles,batteries, towels,asewingkit,asmallbutanecampstovewithaliteroffuel.Babywipes,pull-updiapersforSkyKeytosleepin,ablanket,andthreechangesofclothingforthegirl.Healsoluckedintofindingoneofthoseclothchildcarriersthatstrapsovertheshouldersandholds the kid tightly on the back. At a pharmacy he bought generic ibuprofen, amoxicillin, Cipro,zolpidem,andasmallfirstaidkitwithanextrabottleofiodine.BackatthehotelhepackedallofthisintoanewknapsackaswellasintothestolenSuzuki’stouringpanniers,oneofwhichblessedlycontainedaSIG226andtwomagazines.ThesamekindofgunAnLiuhadfiredatthembackinthecemetery.Itwasthenthatherealizedhe’dhadthegoodfortunetostealAnLiu’sbike.HecheckedtheSIG’sdecockerandstuffeditintothetopofhispants.Throughoutthemorninghe’ddealtwithmerchantsandforthemostparttheywerenicetohim.Hehadtopay a small fortune for everything, though—prices were going through the roof under the threat ofAbaddon,evenhereontheothersideoftheworldwheretheeffectsoftheasteroidwouldbelessurgent.The fact that he wasn’t Indian didn’t make things any cheaper. Regardless, none of the shopkeepers

recognizedhimasaPlayer,whichwasfortunate.But then they stopped for breakfast at a dosa stall, and as they sat at a plastic picnic table the ownerturnedupthenewsonthesmalltelevisionmountedoverthecounter.HegabbedoninBengaliwithoneofhisworkers,nodoubttalkingaboutallthecrazinesshappeningintheworld,whilestillsfromAnLiu’svideoclickedpastonebyoneonthescreen.Andthat’swhenMaccabeesawhisownface,clearasday.Hedidn’tworryabout itatfirst.Hewasbangedupfromall thefightshe’dbeenthroughandhedidn’tthink that the shop ownerwas paying close enough attention tomake the connection. But hewas. HeturnedonMaccabeeandSkyKeyinaflash,pointedafinger,startedyelling.Maccabeestood,hismouthhalf-full of curried potatoes, and hoisted up the girl. Theman stepped around the counterwith a longkitchenknife.Maccabeebackedaway,swallowedhisfood,liftedhisshirttorevealthebuttofthepistol,andsaid,“Youdon’tneedtogethurt,myfriend.Noneofusdo.”Stunned,themanquietedforafewmomentsasMaccabeeandSkyKeyleft.Heresumedyellingassoonastheywereoutonthestreet,andpeoplebegangawking,butthepairmadeitontothebikeinfrontofthehotelandMaccabeegotSkyKeyintothechildcarrierandtheywhiskedoutofthere.Theyrodeallmorning,stoppingoncetobuysomericeandlentilsatafoodstall.Notlongagohecaughtsightofthishutflickeringthroughthetrees.SkyKeyhadbeensquirmingfortheprevious10kilometers,andMaccabeehadtopiss,sohepulledover.Hehidthebikeinthebushandcrepttowardthecorrugatedmetalbuilding,theSIGpistolinhand.Thehutwasemptyofpeople.Itcontainedsomebasicitemslikebowlsandamirrorandafewbedrollsandalowtable.Maccabeefigureditwasacrashpadforitinerantfarmhands,butitdidn’tlooklikeithadbeenusedinawhile.TheywentinandhefedSkyKeysomealreadycookedriceandlentilsthatcameinsimpleplasticbags.Thenhegotgoingwiththescissorsandthestraightrazor.Andnowheisdone.Itisn’taperfectdisguise,buthedoesn’tlookanythinglikehedidinthevideo.Itwilldo.“Well,Ilikeit,”Maccabeesaysofhisnewlook.SkyKeychewsandmanagesagrunt.Oneofthefirstnoisesshe’smadeallmorning.Maccabeescootsoversothathe’ssittingoppositethegirl.Awarmbreezepushesthroughthewindows.Theleavesoutsiderustle,atreetrunkcreaks.Soyoung,hethinks.Tooyoung.HedipshisfingersintothebowlofriceandlentilsandtakesahandfulintheIndianfashionandbringsittohislips.Forfoodpurchasedfromaroadsidehawker,it’ssurprisinglygood.SkyKey’sfaceiswindwornandstreakedwithgrime.Hereachesacrossthebowlanduseshisthumbtowipehercheek.Shedoesn’tmoveaway.Hereyesarelockedforward,staringatMaccabee’schest.“I’llstealacarsoon.Youshouldn’tridelikethat.Tooexposed.”Shechews.Stares.Swallows.“Good,”shesays,breakinghersilencesincethedaybefore.“Soyouaregoingtotalk?”hesays,tryingtosoundkind.“Idon’tlikeit.Themotorbike.”“We’llgetridofitthen.”“Good,”sherepeats.Shetakesanothermouthfuloffood.“Theproblemis—oncewegetacar,wheredowego?”Shedoesn’tsayanything.“Imean,weshouldprobablywaitouttheimpactbeforewekeepgoing,”hesays,thinkingoutloudmorethantalkingtoher.“Butwherewillwebesafe?AndhowwillwefindSunKey?”

“We’llbesafe,Uncle,”sheannouncesemphatically.Hefrowns.Shetakesanotherbiteoffoodinherfingertips,pushesitintohermouth.Strangegirl,hethinks.“Please,callmeMaccabee.OrMac.”“Allright,Uncle,”shesays,asifshe’sagreeingtoadifferentrequest.Heignoresit.“Howdoyouknowwe’llbesafe?”Thegirlswallowsherfoodbeforeanswering.“TheMakerswon’tdestroymeorEarthKey.Mamasaid.Thebadthingwillhappenfarfromhere.Fromme.Fromwhoiswithme.Whatweneedtobeafraidofaretheothers.Likethemanfromyesterday.That’swhatMamasaidtoo.”“Yourmama,”hesaysslowly.“Yes.Thankyouforkillingthebadman,Uncle,”shesaysinasmallerthanusualvoice.“Thankyou.”Verystrangegirl,hethinksaspangsofguiltshudderthroughhim.Baitsakhanwasabsolutelybad,butthatdidn’tmakeMaccabeeasaint.Notbyalongshot.Afterall,henearlykilledShariChopratoo.Buthedidn’t.Andthisgirl,shedoesnotneedtoknowotherwise.“You’re . . .welcome,”hesays.Hewonders if she’salwaysspokenbeyondheryears.Hewonders iftouchingEarthKeymadeherthisway,orifshewaslikethisbefore.Hecan’tknowthatshewas.ThatLittleAlicewasalwaysprecocious,alwaysspecial.Hesays,“Allright,let’sassumewearesafefromtheasteroid.Istilldon’tknowwheretogo.HowdoIwin?WhereisSunKey?”Shechews.Swallows.Thenshesticksoutherarmandpointsafewdegreessouthofdueeast.“Iknow,Uncle.”Maccabeefrowns.“Youknow?”“Twotwodottwothreefour.Sixeightdotninesixtwo.”Hegetshissmartphone,launchesGoogleMaps,andpunchesinthecoordinates.Apinoverwaterpopsup,ashortdistancefromthecoastofthewesternIndianportcityofDwarka.HeshowsittoSkyKey.“This?Isthiswherewe’llfindSunKey?”Thegirlnods.“It’snotthatfaratall!”Giddinesswellsinhisheartandworksintohisthroat.“Yes,Uncle.SunKeyisthere.”“You’recertain?”“Yes.”Hefumbleswiththesmartphoneandhissmilegrows.Twothousandfourhundredthirty-fourkilometers.Thirty-sixor37hoursofdriving.Maybefasterifhecanfindaplanetosteal.HecanwinEndgame,hecanguaranteethesurvivaloftheNabataeanlineafterthecataclysm,hecanseethenewEarthand liveon ituntilhe isoldandfrail.Maybehecan save thisyounggirlandfulfill thepromisehemadetohermother.Maybehecanwinandrightsomewrongs.He jumps tohis feet, intentongoingoutsideand flaggingdown thenextdecent-lookingcar thatcomesalongtheroadandcarjackingit.Hecanhardlycontainhimself.“SkyKey,thisisamazing!”“Iknow,Uncle.”Thegirltakesanotherbite.“TheycallmeLittleAlice.”“Icouldwin,Alice!TheNabataeanscouldwin!”Shechews.Swallows.“Iknow.”

ANLIU,NORIKOHP Petrol Pump, Baba Lokenath Service Station off SH 2, Joypur Jungle, West Bengal, India

An’sheartisfull.AftertheexplosionNoriKomovedtotheDefender’sbackseat.ShesaidinMandarin,“Drivewest.”Hedid.Hewatched the road slip under the car and continue to unfurl before them and hewatched her in therearviewmirrorandhewatchedtheroadandhewatchedher.Theroadandher.Roadandher.Hedidnotspeak.Hedidnotneedwords.Hedidnotspeakforoverthreehours.Shedidnotbotherhimwithwordseither.Chiyokowouldhavedonethesame.ChiyokoChiyokoNoriKoChiyoko.Nowthey’vestoppedtorefuel.He’soutside.She’sinthecar,herheadproppedagainstthefarwindow.He’sinthestiflingheat,agaspumpinhishand.Thepavedhighwayliestothenorth.Afewkilometersearlier theyentereda jungle reserveandnowtrees riseallaround,making theairacoupleofdegreescooler than it is out by the open fields of jute and corn. Behind the filling station is a low concretebuilding,awhitebulllollingunderajackfruittree,itsleafyboughsheavywithoblongfruit.Asidefromtheattendantintheair-conditionedbooth,nopeoplearearound.Anfinishesandpaysandgetsinanddrives.“West?”heasks.“West.”HemergesontoStateHighway2,headedforBishnupur.Theydrivethroughthejungle.Andoesn’tseeanybuildingsor signsofpeople except for the road they’reonandabriefglimpseof aderelictmetalhuthidingbehindthetrees.Hethinksnothingofit.After another quarter hour, An says, “I’m ready”—blink—“I’m ready”—blink—“I’m ready to talk.”SHIVER.“Wehavetotalk.”“Wedo,”NoriKosays.ShemovesAn’s rifle from the frontpassengerseatandclimbs forward.“Youhavequestions.”Annods.“Whydidyoufindme?”“IfoundyoubecauseIalsolovedChiyoko.”Hisskincrawlsathearinganotherpersonsayhername.Even thisone,whocomesfromherstockandlookssomuchlikeher.He’sremindedoftheBritishinterrogatoronthedestroyerwhoinsistedonsayingit.Thatonewhowieldedthenamelikeablade.DroveitintoAn’searsandtwistedit.AnalmosttellshisnewallythatsheshouldnotsayChiyoko’snameeither,butheknowshedoesn’thavetheright.WhoeverNoriKois,shewassomeonetoChiyoko.Thatcountsforsomething.“Chiyoko,”NoriKosaysquietly.Yes,itcountsforsomething.But...

Thenameisminenow,hethinks.Chiyoko.ChiyokoTakeda.Myname.NoriKoreachesacrosstheinsideofthecar,herfingersyearningforthenecklacethathangsaroundAn’sneck,breakinghistrainofthought.SHIVER.Hemovesawayfromher.“It’sokay,”shesays.“Iwanttotouchher.Likeyoudo.”BLINKSHIVERBLINK.She touches the necklace. After a moment Nori Ko returns her hands to her lap. Her fingertips rubtogether,theresidueofChiyokoonthem.“Iloveher,”NoriKoclarifies.“AfterwhathappenedIcouldn’tsitidlyby.That’swhyIfoundyou.”“Afterwhathappened?”“IamMu.Ahighmemberofthetrainingcouncil.IknowmuchaboutEndgame.”Shepauses,andthensaysquietly,“IsawarecordingofyourconversationwithNobuyuki.Isawhowyoukilledhim.”SHIVERSHIVER.“Yes,Isawit,Shang.TherewasablackboxcontainingsurveillancerecordingsthatsurvivedthefireinNaha.Iheardwhatyousaid,whathesaid.IthoughtNobuyukiwasunfairtoyou.UndernocircumstanceswouldhehaveallowedyoutoPlayfortheMu,butIthoughtitnotrightofhimtotestyoulikethat.”“Hedeservedwhathegot,”Ansays.“No,hedidnot.”SHIVER.She says, “You didn’t need to honor his request for Chiyoko’s remains. You did not have to respectNobuyukithewayyourespectedChiyoko.Butforthatsamereason,youshouldhavesparedhim.Notforhissake,butforhers.KillinghimdishonoredChiyoko,An.Aswellasyourself.ItdidnothingtotarnishthehonorofNobuyukiTakeda.”BLINKBLINK.Hervoiceiscold.SHIVERBLINKblink.“Youspeaklikehim,”Anfinallysays.“Icanspeaklikehim.ButIamnothim.”An wrings the wheel in his hands. His knuckles whiten. He pushes the gas a little more. The caraccelerates.Hervoiceiscold.Herwordscut.“IlovedNobuyukitoo,”shesays.“Butdon’tworry,I’mnotinterestedinhonorlikehewas.I’mnothereto punish you for his death.” The thought of this woman punishing him almost makes An laugh. Shecontinues.“IchoseyoupreciselybecauseI’veseenwhatyou’recapableof.”Death,hethinks.Shewantsdeath.“Whatwereyoutoher?”Anasks.“A trainer.Bladedarts, karate, acrobatics, evasion,disguise.Shewasmybest student. I’venevermetanyonefasterormoreruthless.Shewas—”“Sheshouldnothavedied.”“No.Sheshouldn’thave.”Silence.Onekilometer.Two.“Youloveher,”Ansays.“Iloveher.Thisdoesn’texplainwhyyou’rehere.”“BecauseIwantthesamethingyouwant.”

“Andthatis?”He’sgladtobewearingChiyokorightnow.Shegiveshimstrength.Allowshimtospeakwithouttoomanyglitchesortics.Soglad.Sheislikeyou,love,Chiyokosaystohim.NoriKosays,“Whatyouwantisasplainasthenoseonyourface,AnLiu.Lovemultipliedbydeath—bymurder—hasonlyonesolution.”Pause.“Revenge,”Ansays.“Revenge,”NoriKosays.Moresilence.Theskyisbright.TheypassamulticoloredTatatruckladenwithrebar.Shedoesn’tlie,love,Chiyokosays.Herangermakesherstrong.Iknow,Anthinks.Itisthesamewithme.Chiyokodoesn’tsayanythingtothis.“Howdidyoufindme?”Anasks.“I’vebeenonyourtrailsinceNaha.Iwasgoingtoapproachyoutheotherday,rightafteryouarrivedinKolkata,butthenEndgamecaughtusbysurprise,didn’tit?”“Itdid.Thingshappenedquickly.Veryquickly.Weweresoclose.”“ToAdlai?”WeweresoclosetokillingtheNabataean,love,Chiyokoremindshim.Henods.“Yes.Wewereveryclose,”AnsaystoChiyokoandNoriKo.NoriKoignoresAn’suseofthefirstpersonpluralandsays,“Itriedtoreachthecemetery,butIwastoolatetohelpyou.Believeme,Iwouldhave.”AnthinksofwhatshedidtothemobinBallygunge.Hesays,“Ibelieveyou.”“Good.”Silenceagain.Theypassroadsidethings.Agroupofwomeninbrightclothing,aflockofpigeonsrisingfromthetreetops,aroadcrewpatchingpotholesintheoncominglane.Theothersideoftheworldfacestheapocalypse,butinIndialifegoeson.“Whatdoyouthinkofwhenyouthinkofrevenge,An?”“Blood.Ashes.Swollenthings.”NoriKoshakesherhead.“No.Imean,whodoyouthinkof?”Theanswerisquick.“TheCahokian.TheOlmec.Theyweretherewhenshedied.Iftheyhadn’tbeen,shewould’velived.”AbriefsilencebeforeNoriKointones,“ThenIwanttheirdeathstoo,AnLiu.”SHIVERshiverSHIVERshiverSHIVERshiver.“Buttellme,AnLiu—istheresomeoneelseyouwantdead?”The car jounces over a bump. Neither speaks for a moment. He looks at the instrument panel. TheDefenderwhipsalongat123kph.Theenginehumsat2,900rpms.Itis37degreesCelsiusoutside.“Yes,”heanswers.NoriKosays,“Thekepler.”Annods.“Him.It.”NoriKogrunts.“I’malsointhemoodforhisblood.AndIwillseethatyouhaveit.Thatwebothhaveit.”Ansays,“You’renotlikeChiyoko.”“I’molderthanshewas.Agedoesthingstoaperson,andpeoplewhoknowofEndgameageevenfasterandindifferentways.”Shewavesherhandasiftobatawayaflyoranunpleasantmemory.“Ihadidealsonce,ifthat’swhatyoumean.”

BLINKshiverblink.“Itis.”“I’velearnedalotaboutEndgameovertheyears,An.Fromalotofdifferentpeople,notallofthemMu.Notallof themwantingEndgame theway thePlayersdid.My ideals, suchas theywere, suffered themorethatIlearned.”Pause.“TheyweredashedforgoodwhenChiyokowaskilled.”Hearinghernameagainhurts.Sheshouldn’tsayit,hethinks.Chiyokowhispers,It’sallright.Shewillhelpyou.Don’tbehardonher.Shewillhelpyou.Shewillhelpus.Anshakeshishead—notatic,justahardshaketoquiethervoice,whichechoesinhisbrain.Acarappearsintherearviewmirror,drivingveryfast.“Sotellme—whereareweheaded,MuNoriKo?”“You’vebeenwatchingthenews?”“Yes.”“Andseenthatsomeone’sdestroyingmonumentsfromMaker-humanantiquity?”“Yes.Doyouknowwho?”“Ihaveahunch,butthat’snotimportant.Whatisimportantisthatwegettothenextclosestmonument—whichhappenstobetheHarappanoneinwesternIndia.OddsarethatiswheretheNabataeanistakingthefirsttwokeys.Itiswherehethinkshewillwin.”“Whereexactly?”“AsunkentempleneartheGujaratitownofDwarka.”AnjamsthebrakesandholdsthewheeltightlyandNoriKobracesherselfonthedashboardandthetiressquealandtheycometoalurchinghalt.Thecar that isdrivingfastsofastovertakes them.Asmall late-modelsedan,onedriver,baldandinahurry.Nopassengers.ThedriverlooksnothinglikeMaccabeeandthereisnooneelseinthecarsoAndoesn’tpayitanymind.EveryonedriveslikeaspeeddemoninIndiaanyway.“WhyisAdlaigoingthere?”heasksurgently.“IsitbecauseofSunKey?”“Yes.”“Isitthere?”“Idon’tknowforsure.”“Butyouthinkit’satoneofthesemonuments?Theonesthatarebeingdestroyed?”“Yes.Itis.AlthoughIdon’tknowwhichone.”Hepauses.Squints.Thecardisappearsaroundthenextturn.Hesays,“ThenSunKeycouldalsobeattheMumonument?OrtheCahokian?OrtheOlmec?Or—theShang?”“Yes.Itcould.”Anputsthecarbackingear,whipsthewheelaround,pullsatightU-turn,andheadsbackinthedirectionfromwhichtheycame,goingfastfastfast.“Whatareyoudoing?”NoriKodemands.BlinkSHIVERSHIVERblinkBLINKBLINKSHIVERshiverBLINK.Shereachesoutandputsahandonhisarm.Heyanksitaway.China,Chiyokosays.Yes,heanswers.“TheNabataeancouldalreadybehalfwaytoDwarka!”NoriKoprotests.“Iknow.Andifhe’sluckyenoughtofindSunKeythere,thenhe’salreadywon,andwearealreadytoolate,”An says through clenched teeth. “Nothingwedowillmatter.Weneed to get the keys to see thekeplerface-to-face.Ifhewins,thenwewillhavelostourchancetomeetandthenkilltheMaker.But..

.”AndthenNoriKounderstands.“ThepyramidofEmperorZhao.”“Yes.WestartattheShangmonument.IfDwarkadoesn’thaveSunKey—andtheoddsaredecentthatitwon’t—thenAdlaiwillgotothenextclosestmonument.Mine.”“China,”NoriKosays.Accepting.Approving.“Yes.We’regoinghome,”hesays,thinkingofallthethingshehatedaboutit,ofallthepainheenduredduringhistraining,ofallthesuffering.“Myhellishhome.”

SHARICHOPRA

MercedesSprinterVan,Ayutthaya,Thailand

ShariChopra isnot inherhome,althoughthat iswhereshewouldratherbemore thananything.Inherhome,smellingcookingfood,watchingherchildrunthroughthegarden,holdingherhusband’shand.Butherhusbandisdead.Sheisnothome,butsheisawake,andnoneoftheothersknowityet.Hereyesremainclosedbutherreawakeningsensestellhermuch.Sheisbound,intherearofavehicle,probablyavan.She came around 15 minutes ago. She’s been counting slowly in her mind, partly to keep calm andfocused,partlynottocryoutforherdaughter,partlytogetherbearings.Shepicturesthenumbersinsteadofsayingtheminhermind.Someofthenumbersaremadeofgreenleaves,somearesimplelineslikethestrokesofpenonpaper,somearemadeofsticks,somearemadeofblood.ShariiscarefulthatnoneoftheseimagesremindherofLittleAlice.Nopeacockfeathers,nopakoras,notoys,nonumbersscrawledincrayonbyachild’shand.OfcourseLittleAliceisthereinShari’smemory.She always is.But right now, in order to keep up her subterfuge, Shari has shiftedLittleAlice to thewingsofherconsciousness.Becauseifshebroughthertocenterstagenowitwouldbetoopainfulanddangerous.Shecounts.984.985.987.No.Iskippedone.986.Sheisstillgroggy.Shehearsthevoicesofotherstalking.ShehearsAislingKoppandJagoTlalocandSarahAlopay.SherememberseachoftheirvoicesfromtheCalling.Sherememberstheiraccents.SheremembersthesharpandtinnyedgeofJago’svoice,thethroatyinnocenceofSarah’s,thesanguinetwangofAisling’s.AislingKopp.TheCelt.ThePlayerwhokilledtheHarappan.ThePlayerwhoShariwillkillsomedayinturn.Hopefullysoonerthanlater.Myenemies.987.988.989.Myenemiesaresoclose.Thereareothervoicesshedoesn’trecognize.Twomen.Middle-aged.Andathirdmanbehindherinthevanwhodoesn’tspeak,butwhosebreathisplainandaudible.Hehasarattledeepinhisthroat.Perhapshesleeps.Perhapshe’sangry.Perhapshetooisaprisoner.

Thevehiclecomestoastop.Everyonebutthesilentmangetsout.Theairwaftingintothevanishotandhumid.They’renot in themountains anymore.Thevoices talkoutside. “This is theplace?” “Where isshe?”“Areyousureyourfriendwillhelpus?”“WillshebeabletostopEndgame?”Yes,yes,yes,yes,oneoftheunknownmenanswers.Theymoveoutofearshot.Shariconsidersopeninghereyesnow,springingtoaction,gettingrevenge.Butshestays.Sheisboundandshecan’ttrustherbodyyet,itsresponsiveness,itsstrength.Shedoesn’tknowwheresheisorwhythesethreePlayersaretogetherandnottryingtokilloneanother.Havetheycalledatruce?Havetheycometoanunderstanding, likesheandAliceUlapaladid?Aretheyworkingtogether?Shedoesn’tknow.Shestays.Sheneedstobesurethatifrevengeisthetonicsheseeks,shewillgetit.Theothersmoveback intoearshotand thenclimb into thevanand restart theengine.None talk.Sharifeelsthetensionbetweenthem.DidonementiontryingtostopEndgame?Yes.Onedid.Isthatpossible?Shewantstoserveherrevenge,butshealsowantstosatehercuriosityoverwhatthesepeopleareupto.Shestays.Shestays.Mostofallshewantstolive,andactingnowwouldnotguaranteethat.ShehastoliveifthereisanychancethatLittleAliceissafe.Thevanmoves forward.Makesa tight turn, ridesoverabump in thepavement, and feelsas though itmovesinside.Thegroundpitchesdownwardfiveorsixdegrees.Theydriveforseveralminutes,makingtwistingturnslikeonewouldinamultistorygarage.Thenthegroundlevelsandtheystop.Shecounts.1,009.1,010.1,011.Doorsopen.Peoplegetout.“Don’tforgettheHarappan,”oneofthemensays.JagoTlalocgruntsasheworksSharioutofherseatandheavesheroverhisshoulder.Ashotofpaininherside.Shewantstocalloutbutshedoesn’t.Shewelcomesthepain.Itmeanssheisalive.Thathersensesarereturning.Bythesoundshecantellthattheymoveintoahard-walledroom.Thesmelloffood,spicyandoilyandsaltyandpepperyanddoughyandfresh.Herstomachturns.Shehopesitwon’tcalloutandgrumble.Shecounts.Sheconcentratesonseveringtheconnectionbetweenhergutandherwokenbrain.Shecounts.Jagoplacesheronachair.Shekeepsherbodylimp.Hepropsherup.Theziptiesonherwrists,whicharenotterriblytight,digatherflesh.Herlegsarenotbound.Ifitcomestoit,shecanrun.Shecounts.Some eat.The threePlayers sound unsure ofwhy they’re here.They talk in short bursts, their tensionpalpable.They’rewaitingforsomeone.SomeoneSharihasneverheardof.

SomeonenamedStellaVyctory.Shecounts.1,050,madeofwhitefeathers.1,051,madeofwaterdropletssuspendedinspace.Pleaselive,Sharithinks.Letmychildlive.1,052,madeofbloodandbones.

AISLING KOPP, SARAH ALOPAY, JAGO TLALOC, SHARICHOPRA, HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT, STELLA VYCTORY, POPKOPP,GREGJORDAN,GRIFFINMARSBunkerbeneathClassicKameoHotelandServicedApartments,Ayutthaya,Thailand

They are assembled in a brightly lit conference room 103 feet underground. Its northern and southernwallsaremadeofconcrete,theeasternandwesternonesofthickstructuralglass,eachwithahigh-techslidingdoorsetinit.Atthemoment,bothofthesedoorsareclosed.Beyond the westernmost glass door is a large garage containing a late modelMercedes sedan and aSprinterVanthattheydrovehereinfromtheairstripnortheastoftown.ThevanwascourtesyofStellaVyctory,andit’sfullofweaponsandsuppliesandacoolerofice-coldCokes,andtheyarethankfulforallofit.EspeciallytheCokes.Behindthevehiclesisasteepdrivewaythatleadstothesurface.Theonlyotherobviouswayinoroutofthebunkerisastairwaybehindametaldoorjustoutsidetheeasternmostglasspartition.Thisstairway,Jordansays,istheonethatStellawillusetojointhemfromthehotelabove.Sheisalmosthere.Astheywaittheysitaroundalargeteaktablesetwithfood,thoughonlyJordanandMarrsbothertoeat.Theothersareclearlyanxious.JagohasejectedthemagazinefromanewGlock20andplayswiththeslide.SarahandAisling,whoalsohavenewpistolsfromthevan,aremotionless.AislingwatchesShari.Shari,whoeveryoneassumesisunconscious,keepshereyesshutandtriestokeephermindcalm.And then the doorway swings open and Stella appears. She is Caucasian, tall, dark-haired,muscular,confident,late20sorearly30s,andshestridesintotheconferenceroomaccompaniedbyadark-skinnedmanwhose face has recently been hideously burned, his hands clasped easily at hiswaist.Hewearsloosecottonclothingandcarriesaheavyrucksackbytheshoulderstrapsathisside.StellaisdressedinblackjeansandagrayV-neckT-shirtanddarkrunningshoes.Shehasnojewelryandnovisibleweapons.Themanwithheralsodoesnotappeartobearmed.JordanrisestogreetStella,grabbingherbytheshouldersandpullingherintoaheartyhug.“It’sgoodtoseeyouagain,”hesays.“I’msorrywepartedwaysforawhile.”Sheshrugsitoff.“It’sgoodtoseeyoutoo,Greg.”Thenshegentlypusheshimasideandsaystotheroom,“Iamsogladtoseeyou.I’vebeenwaitingmyentirelifetobeinaroomfullofEndgamePlayers.”Thereliefandjoyandgratitudeinhervoicearepalpableandalittleinfectious.Agoodfirstimpression,Sarahthinks.AislingandJagothinkthesame.

Sharithinks,WhereamI?Whoisthisnewstranger?Issheanenemytoo?Stellaaddresseseachofthemindividually.“Aisling...Sarah...Jago.ThankyouforagreeingtotrustGreg.Iknowithasn’tbeeneasy.I’msorryyoucouldn’tkillthelittlegirlthatisSkyKey,asterribleasthatsounds.I’msorryyoucouldn’tstoptheNabataeanfromtakingher.”LittleAliceisalive!LittleAliceisalive!LittleAliceisalive!Shariwants toscreamfor joyandrelief,buther trainingcontrolsherbody,notpermittingher tomoveevenacentimeter.Herchestdoesn’theave,herfingersdon’ttwitch,hereyelidsdon’tflutter.LittleAliceisalive,Sharithinks.Andthensomethingterriblestrikesher:Coulditbethatmycaptorsandthesestrangersarealsomy...myfriends?Thatlikeme,theyknowthatEndgameisamoral?Thatitiswrong?Herstomachturnsatthisthoughtandittakesallherconcentrationnottovomitalloverherlap.“AndyoumustbeMr.Kopp,”Stellasays,interruptingShari’strainofthought.Pop,atthefarendofthetableandhalfturnedawayfromStella,gruntsdisapprovingly.So that’s the silentone,Shari thinks.A linememberofAisling’s.Hemusthavebeenwithher in themountains.Healsowillhavetodieforwhathappenedtomyline.AndthenStellasays,“AndShariChopraisheretoo.I’mhappytoseeher.”Howdoessheknowallofournames?Stellacontinues,“Butdoessheneedtobekeptunconsc—”She’scutoffasAislingandSarahblurtinperfectunison,“Whothehellareyou?”ThetwoPlayerslookateachotherandalmostsmile.Sharithinks,Yes.Who?Stellamakes a small curtsy. “Well, as Greg has told you,my name is Stella Vyctory. And I am veryinterestedinEndgame.”“Why?”Jagodemands.“You’renoPlayer.”“Whatlineareyouwith?”Aislingasks.AndSarahsays,“HowdoyouknowanythingaboutEndgame?”Stellapatstheairinfrontofher.“Ipromise,I’lltellyoueverythingthemorewegettoknowoneanother.Butwe’reshortontime,sofornowI’llsaythatmyadoptivefathertaughtmeaboutEndgame.Hewasn’twithanyofthelines,but—”“Yourfather?”Sarahsays.“Whyisn’thehere?”Jagoasks.AndAislingsays,“ItrustJordan,buthowdoIknowIcantrustyou?”“Please,”Stellapleads. “Youcan trustme.Youmust ifwe are going to stopEndgame. I can tell youhow.”“Thepropheciessaynothingaboutnon-Playersintervening,”Sarahsays.“LeastofalltostopEndgame.”Stellashakesherhead.“No.Theydon’t.Buttheprophesiesarefalse.Andtherules—”“Therulesofthegamehavechanged,”Jagosaysgravely.“That’sright,JagoTlaloc,”Stellasays.“Orrather,therearenorules,”Aislingremindsthem.“That’swhatkepler22bsaid.IfwereallyaregoingtostopEndgame,thenIguesswe’refinallygoingtohavetoembracethat,completely.”“Iunderstandyourconcern,Sarah,”Stellasays.“IfIwereinanyofyourshoesIwouldn’ttrustmeatfirsteither.AndafterwhatItellyouaboutmyfatherIwouldprobablytrustmeevenless.”

Jagoleansforward.“Andthatis?”“My fatherknewa lot about theMakers.More thananyof the linesdo,more thanallof the lines puttogether.Heknewalotbecause,well,becausehewasoneofThem.”What?Sharithinks.LooksofdoubtdominatethePlayers’faces.“It’strue,”Jordansaysquietly.Popgruntsagain,barelymaskinghisdislikeforJordanorStellaoranythingeitherhastosay.FinallySarahsays,“So—you’reaMakertoo?”Andincasetheanswerisyes,JagoquietlyslidesthemagazinebackintohisGlockandgetsreadytofire.Stellastayscool.ShekeepshereyeslockedonSarah.“Absolutelynot.AllIwantistostopEndgame.”Themanwith the terrible burns steps forward. “I beg you,my fellowPlayers. Listen.Ms.Vyctory issincere.Itrusthercompletely.Iimploreyoutodothesame.”Sarahclapsherhandoverhermouth.Jagoblurts,“Aksumite?”“What...whathappened?”Aislingasks.Shariyearnstoopenhereyes,toseewhatissodisturbingaboutHilalibnIsaal-Salt.ShewantstoseethePlayerwhorevealedthelocationandidentityofherdaughter,themanwhoenabledthedecimationofherline.Shewantstoseehimandshewantstokillhim.Hilalsays,“IwasattackedbytheDonghuandtheNabataeanaftertheCalling.Sadly,bothsurvived.”“One’sdeadnow,”Sarahwhispers.“Baitsakhan.JagoandIsawhisbody.”GoosebumpsriseonShari’snapeandalongherforearmsatthementionoftheDonghu’sname.Shehopesnoonenotices.“Iamgladheisdead,atleast,”Hilalsays.“ButIamalsoashamedtosaythatIamsorrythegirllived.”“Icouldn’tdoit,”Sarahsaysafteramoment.“Shewassoyoung.Sovulnerable.Itwastoomuch.”“Icouldn’teither,”Jagosaysquietly.Hilalsighs.“IdonotthinkIcouldhavedoneitmyself.”Theyarefriends,Sharirealizes.Theyaremyenemiesandmyfriends.HilalandAislingtoo.Orifnotfriendstheyareatleasthumanbeings,likeIam.Likeweare.Oncemoreshepushesbacktheurgetoretch.HilallookstoStella.“MayI?”Stellanods,holdingupahandforHilaltospeak.“If you remember, in China I asked us to pause before we began to Play. I asked that we pool ourknowledgeofEndgameandworktogether.Iaskyounowtodothesame.EverythingIhavelearnedsinceEndgamebeganhasledmetobelievethatitisanevilendeavor,onethatweandourforebearshavebeentrickedintopreparingforandprosecuting.Thisisourchancetomakeamends,notonlyforourselves,butforourlines.IdonotknowthemotivationsofthekeplerandnordoesMs.Vyctory,but ifwecanstopEndgamefromprogressinganyfurther,thenthatisagoodthingfortheworld.IforonewishnevertoseetheMakeragain,unlessIamlookingdownonhisdeathmask.”Heclearshisthroat.“Barringamiracle,Abaddonwillarriveontheothersideoftheglobeinamatterofhours.Itwillkilluntoldmillionsandwillmaketheworldahardplaceinwhichtoliveforaverylongtime.Bethatasitmay,wecanliveinit—together.Butfirstwemustputasidetheprejudices,hate,andmyopiaofourseparateheritagessothatwecanfightback—together.”Thereisalongpause.Thelightsflicker.Stellafrownsbrieflybeforedecidingit’snothing.“Whatdoyouwantustodo?”Jagofinallyasks.

Stellaplacesherhandsfirmlyonthetableandleansforward.“WemustfindSunKeybeforeeithertheNabataean or the Shang does.AsGreg has told you, I know that SunKey is hidden at one of twelveancientmonumentsscatteredacrosstheworld.Asyouknow,twohavealreadybeendestroyed.”“Youknowwho’sdoingthis?”Aislingasks.Stellanods.“Theyareabrotherhoodasoldasthelines—maybeolder.Anditsmembersworkagainstus.Luckily,thisbrotherhoodalsoworksagainsttheMakers,otherwisewe’dbetotallyfucked.Unluckily,inadditiontodestroyingyourlines’mostsacredmonuments,they’realsotryingtodestroyme.And ifyouacceptmyhelp,theywillalsotrytodestroyyou.”“Butwhoarethey?”Jagoasks.“That’ssimple.They’repeopleloyalto—”AsnappyhissfollowedbyasmallbitingsoundandStellaVyctorygasps.Shebringsherhandsfromthetabletoherthroat.Hilalreachesoverandgrabsherarmtosteadyher,butherbreathcutsshortandtheveins inher templepopand thecapillariesaroundhernosedarkenandhereyesbulgeandwater.Shedoesn’tlookafraidorangrysomuchasdisappointedandsad.“Pop!”Aislingyells,spinningtohergrandfather.Stella’skneesbuckle.Hilalcatchesher,supportingherfullweight,whileeveryoneelsestandsatonce.Popspitsametaltubefromhismouthanditclinksontothetable.He’sstandingtoo,onehandafistandthe other reaching for the pistol resting on his hip. “Blasphemy!” he hisses as he backpedals,Aislingquicklyadvancingonhim.ShehashersheathedFalcatainherhandsandshewhipsitathergrandfather,simultaneouslyknockinghishandfromhisgunandthegunoffhisbelt.Thelightsflickeragain,plungingtheroomintocompletedarknessfornearlyasecond,whichfeelslikeaneternity.Whentheycomebackon,SarahandJagolookallaround,tryingtomakesenseofwhat’shappened,theirshoulderstouchingastheyguardeachotherbeforehelpinganyoneelse.HilalstandsoverStella,cradlingherhead.Jordanisonherotherside,grippingherarmandcursing.Stellasputtersandbeginstoturnpalegreen.Shaririskshalfopeninganeyetowitnessallofthis.Noonenotices.Marrshashispistolupandhe’spointingitatPop.He shoots as Pop surges towardAisling. The shotmisses. “Traitor!” Pop yells, raising his arms andcrashingforwardtohead-buttAisling.She’sshockedbythisattackbuthertrainingkicksinandshemovesbyrote,grabbingoneofPop’swristsand pirouetting around him and twisting his arm painfully. His knees crumple.With his free hand hereachesfora longknifeonhis thigh.Aislingmashesherfootontopofhishand,anditcrunches to thefloor.Theknifecomesfree,Aislingflicksitwithherfoot,anditslidesacrosstheroom.Aislingdoesn’tnoticethatitstopsatShariChopra’sfeet.“Christ,Pop!”Aislingexclaims.Marrs takes careful aim now. He has a bead on Pop, except that the line of fire goes right throughAisling’sthigh.Still,hedoesn’thesitate.Hepullsthetrigger.But he does not see Jordan sliding around the table, his eyeswild.He tacklesMarrs full-tilt and thesecondshotringsoutastheslugbouncesoffthefloornexttoAisling’slegandembedsintheundersideofthetable.Jordansays,“Damnit,Marrs!Notlikethis!”MarrsprotestsbutJordanismuchstrongerandbettertrainedforthissortofthing,andhebringshisfriendandcolleagueundercontrol.AtthesametimeAislingsays,“Someonehelpme!”Jordaneyesabagonthetable.“There’satranqinthere,Jago.BroughtitforShari.Useit!”JagoglancesatSarah.“Goon,”shewhispers.Jagojumpsontothetableandrunsoverit,grabbingthebagashemoves.

HereachesAislinginseconds.She’sgrindingherkneeintohergrandfather’sback,hisvertebraecrackingaudibly.Aislinglooksuptocallforhelpagain,butJago’srightthere,asyringeaimedforexposedflesh.HeputsitinPop’sneckandpressestheplungerandPopKopprelaxes.“Christ,Pop,”Aislingrepeatsinawhisper.“Whythefuckdidyoudothat?”Poppassesout.Shestandsandlooksacrosstheroom.Hilalisononekneenow,StellaVyctorydrapedoverhisthigh,herarmshanging limpand lifelessathersides,her legscrossedunderherhipsatanuncomfortableangle.Thebrightfletchingofasmalldartsticksoutofthecenterofherthroat.Herfaceandneckarecoatedinsaliva andmucus as these stream out of hermouth and nose.Her chest rises and falls quickly, a fewbubblesformingonherswollenlips,andthenthisstops.StellaVyctoryisdead.Thenthelightsflickeroncemoreandasoundlikeanexplosionrattlesdownthetunnelthatleadstothesurfaceandthelightsgooutforgood.Allthatisleftisblacknessandthesuddensilenceandtheuncertainty.Hilalsays,hisvoicenowhardandbitter,“Itistoolate.Theyhavefoundus—together.”

SHARI CHOPRA, HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT, AISLING KOPP,SARAHALOPAY,JAGOTLALOC,POPKOPP,GREGJORDAN,GRIFFINMARSBunkerbeneathClassicKameoHotelandServicedApartments,Ayutthaya,Thailand

Sharidoesn’thesitate.Shecan’tthinkaboutwhoeveritisthat’scomingforthem.Becauseshe’snotoneofthem.SheistheHarappan,andherdaughterisouttheresomewhere.AndinordertogettoherSharineedstobefree.Sheslidesoutofherchairandfeelsaroundonthefloor,herfingertipssearching,andshefinds it.PopKopp’sblade.Shesnagsitandflipsitaroundandslipsitcarefullybetweenherboundwristsandthensnapsthebladeup,cuttingtheziptiethatbindsherhandstogether.Theziptiefallstotheground.Shebitesthebladebetweenherteethlikeapirateandhunkersdownandwaitsforherchancetorun.Aflashlight’swhitebeampiercesthedark.ItbelongstoSarah.Thebeamskirtsaroundtheroomassheasks,“Who’scoming,Hilal?”“Thepeopledestroyingthemonuments.Thepeoplewhowant—wanted—tokillStella,”Hilalexplains,Sarah’slightilluminatingthesideofhisfaceandthatofaverydeadStellaVyctory.WhiletheytalkSharitakesadvantageoftheflashlight’sshiftingambientlighttogetherbearings.Aislingstands over her grandfather, near the sliding door that leads to the cars. Shari’ll need one of those toescape.ThisdooropensasJagoslipsintothegarage.Shemoveshereyesoverthefloor,searchingforPop’sgun,andyes—thereitis—ashadowylumpnearthesameslidingdoor.Jagoboundsbackintotheroom.“Peoplearecomingdowntheramp.They’retryingtobequietbutIcanhearthem.”Sarah racksherpistol andmoves toward Jago. “I’mcoming.We’ll cover the tunnel.Won’t let anyonedownitalive.”“Good,”Jordansaysthroughclenchedteeth.“Go!”Sarahsprintsoutoftheroom,brushingpastAisling.Marrsuses thehemofhisT-shirt tocleanoffStella’s face.“Goddamn it,whydidyourgrandfatherdothis?”AislingflicksonaflashlightandwatchesMarrswipethecornersofStella’seyes,hermouth,thebridgeofhernose.“Ishouldhaveknownbetter.IshouldhaveleftPopinthevan,”shesays.“Iwanttoknowtoo,”Jordansays.“Stellaislike—waslike...”Hetrailsoff.Theirgriefandconfusioniscutshortbythesoundoftwogunreportsfromthetunnel.

“Nowisnotthetime,myfriends,”Hilalsays.Jordanstraightens.“No.Itisn’t.”AislingshakesoffwhatPophasdoneandforcesherselftoconcentrate.“Weneedtogetoutofhere.Thestairs!”Jordanpointsatthevaninthegarage.“Butallthoseguns.Allthosesupplies.”“Therearemorewheretheycamefrom,”Hilalsays,unzippingthetopofhisrucksack.Hereachesinanddrawsoutasinglemachete,thewordLOVEengravedonitshilt.“StellabriefedmeafterIarrivedlastnight.ShehasanothersupplycachehereinThailand,thoughitisafewhoursaway.”“Shealsobriefyouonwhoexactlythesepeopleare,Hilal?”Aislingasks,takingafewstepsawayfromherunconsciousgrandfather.Shari sensesanopening.Shecreeps toward thecars.Another flashlightgoeson, thisonebelonging toMarrs.Hilalsays,“Theyarepeopleloyaltoheradoptivefather—tothemannamedWaylandVyctory.”“Thehotelguy?”Aislingasksincredulously.“Thesame,”Hilalanswers.Aislingdoesn’tunderstand.EveryonehasheardofWaylandVyctory—everyoneinAmericaatleast.He’soneoftherichestandmostsuccessfulmeninLasVegas.Hisbusinessiscasinosandshowgirlsandfive-star restaurantsandgolfcourses,notEndgame.Shesays,“WhythehellwouldahotelbillionairehaveanythingtodowithEnd—”Butshe’scutoffbyanotherloudblast,thisonemuch,muchcloser.Thewholebunkerflashesbrightly,andtheglassdoorsontheeasternsideoftheconferenceroompushinwiththeshockwavebutdon’tbreak.Jordan runs to a keypad by the glass doors and enters a code. Behind the doors is a cloud of whitebillowing smoke.This cloud lightswithmuzzle flash as hidden shooters let loosewith semiautomaticrifles. Jordanwincesas theshots strike thebulletproofpartitionandbounceawaynext tohis faceandchest.Hehitsenter.Thedoorslockshut.Theyaresafefromthemencomingdownthestairs,atleastforafewmoments.AislingleaveshergrandfatherandjoinsJordan,Marrs,andHilal.ThisisShari’schance.Shedoesn’twait.She’sinthemiddleoftheactionbuteveryoneispreoccupied.Sheslipsacrossthefloor.Shetakesthegunandstuffs it inherwaistandhooksherhandsunderPop’sshouldersanddragshimtowardthevehicles.Sheworksquickly,silently,reachingtheMercedesinunder20 seconds.There’s enough light from the flashlights forher tooperate.Sheopens thepassengerdoorquietlyandgetsintheMercedesanddragsPopintoit.Sheslidesoverthecenterconsole,workingPopintothepassengerseat.Oncehe’sinshepullsthedoorshut,locksit,andgetsbeltedintothedriver’sseat.Sherunsherhandsoverthesteeringcolumnandyes,thereisthekey.Thevan’sonherleft,SarahandJagooutofsightonthefarside.Theothersareintheconferenceroomonherright.There’saconcretewalldirectlyinfrontofthecar.Theonlywayoutisthewaytheycamein:thetunnel.She looksoverher shoulder at it.Lightsdance somedistanceup the ramp.Amanappears around thecorner,hisrifleup,andJagoandSarahfireonhim.Hefallsandrollsdowntheincline.Theyarecoming.Shecan’tthinkaboutthisshittysituationthey’rein.Shehastoact.Sharitakesadeepbreath.She’lltakethetunnel.She’llrunoverwhoevershefindsinit,probablytakingfire thewholeway.Shehopes thecar isbulletproof.Sheexpects it isbutwon’tknowuntilsomeone’sshootingather.Shegripsthewheelwithonehandandholdstheotherovertheignitionandtakesadeepbreathandgetsreadytoturnthekey.

Shejustwaitsfortherightmoment.Meanwhile,Aisling,Hilal,andJordanstandshouldertoshoulderasfourmen—tallandathleticinhead-to-toe tactical gear, their faces coveredbyhelmets andgoggles—emerge from the cloudobscuring thestairwell.Theymoveintoposition,onlyafewfeetfromAislingandJordanandHilal,behindthelockedandverywellarmoredglassdoor.Theyopentwoduffelbagscontainingexplosivesanddetonatorsandgettowork.Oneofthemenflipsuphisgoggles.Jordanshinesalightonhisface.Themanblinks.Hisskinispaleandhiseyesaresetalittlewiderthantheyshouldbe.Hismouthisopen,andHilalcanplainlyseethathehasnotongue.Amute.LikeWayland’sguardsinLasVegas.“Nethinim,”Hilalsaysquietly.“Shit,”Jordansays.Hilal twirlshismachete.“Theyarenotso tough.I tookdowntwoinLasVegas.Butwhenthosedoorsopenwecannotwait.Wemuststrikeatonce.”Aislingdoesn’thaveacluewhatthey’retalkingabout,butnowisn’tthetimetoask.“Wecantakethem,”Aislingsays.“Wewilltakethem,”Hilalsays.“Maybewewon’thaveto,”Jordansays.HespinstoMarrs,Stelladrapedoverhisshoulder.“Gethertothevan,Marrs.Seeifthere’sanotherwayoutofhere.Stellawouldn’tblindalleyherselflikethis.”Marrsanswersbydouble-timingittotheSprinter.He’ssoshockedtobecarryingthedeadbodyofStellaVyctory,andthedarknessissocomplete,thathedoesn’tnoticeShariorPopisgone.Hewalksaroundthesedan anddoesn’t seeShari sitting in thedriver’s seat, staring at himhard,waiting for themoment tomakeherrunforit.Marrsopensthevan’ssidedoorandgentlylaysStellaacrossthebackseat.Thenhejumpsinandfiresupa laptop mounted on the dashboard. He pounds the keyboard furiously, trying to access the bunker’ssecuritysystemtoseeifitwilldivulgeanyofitssecrets.IntheconferenceroomAisling,Hilal,andJordanwatchoneoftheirambusherssprayaeratedC4ontheglassdoorinastarlikepattern.Anotherpointsarifleatthem,itsmuzzledancingbetweentheirheads,asmileonhisface.Jordansticksupameatymiddlefingerathimbeforesaying,“I’msurewecantaketheseguys,butIthinkweshouldget in thevan too. It’sourbestcover. It’sbullet- andbomb-proofand fullofguns.” Jordantakesahalfsteptowardthegarage.“Comeon!”The beamof Jordan’s light bounces betweenAisling andHilal’s faces.Aisling looks ready to followJordan,butHilalislesscertain.It’shardtoreadhisexpressionbecauseofhisinjuries.Afterabeat,Hilalsays,“Youareright.”Hepicksuphisrucksackandswingsitoverhisshoulders.Hehasn’ttoldthemwhatelseisinthisbagofhis—theMakerbookfromWaylandVyctory’shotelsuite.Hehasn’ttoldthemhowimportantitcouldturnouttobe,andhowessentialitisthatWayland’sNethinimdonot,underanycircumstances,regainpossessionofthisbook.Hilalholdsoutahand forAisling.“Weshould fight thesemenonour terms,not theirs.Come,AislingKopp.”Aisling doesn’t need to hold his hand or anyone else’s. She bats it away and takes the lead, runningtowardthegarage,butat thefarendofthetableshestopsshort.“GivemeahandwithPop,willyou?Wait.Whatthe—?”HilalcontinuesforthevanwhileJordanbumpsintoher.“Whatisit?”Aislingpointsatthefloor.“Wherethehellishe?Marrs!”sheyells.“DidyougetPop?”

“No!”Marrsanswersfromthevan.“Whatthefuck?”Aislingsays,movingtheflashlightallovertheground.“Hewasknockedout.”Andthensheremembers.Shari.ThebeamoflightwhipstoSharisittinginherchair.Exceptthatnowitisempty.Jordan grabs her roughly by the arm and tugs her toward the van. “Come on,Aisling!We don’t havetime!”ButAislingignoreshim.Sheshinesthelighthereandhereandhere.Thecutziptie.Pop’smissinggun.Ascuffmarkonthefloorleadingtothecars.She raises the light and shines it directly at theMercedes sedan, a circle of white light on the darkwindow. On the other side of that window is Pop, slumped in the passenger seat. And next to him,grippingthewheelandstaringmurderouslyatAisling,isShariChopra.“No!”Aislingyells,wrigglingfreeofJordan’sgrasp.SheisabouttosprintforthecarandsavePopbutatthatverymomentAislingandJordanareliftedofftheirfeetandsentsailingthroughtheair.Theyslampainfully into the side of the sedan. The men have blown open the glass door at the far end of theconferenceroom.Theblastislargeanddeafening,itsshockwaverattlingaroundthebunkerwithgreatforce.Bothvehiclesrock,andinsidethesedanSharibracesherselfandcatchesthesunvisor,knockingitopen.Somethingfallsintoherlap.Sheshakesofftheringinginherearsandreachesbetweenherlegsandpicksupasmallremotewithtwobuttons.Onegreen,onered.Theblast alsoknocksSarahand Jagooff their feet, but they’re the farthest from the explosion so theydon’tsuffertoomuch.TheydiveintothevanasMarrsstartstheengine,steelinghimselfforaroughdrivebackupthetunnelandthroughwhoknowshowmanyenemies.“Comeon,Aisling!”Hilalyells.Jordanscrambles tohisfeet,hisearsstuffedbyahigh-pitchedwhine,grabbingAisling.Gunfirerat-a-tats from the tunnel. Shari turns on her car’s engine. Marrs revs the van. Aisling follows Jordanreluctantly—she so badly wants to get Pop away from Shari. Jordan and Aisling move between thevehiclesandnowAislingislessthanafootfromShari,thesedan’scloseddoorbetweenthem.Aislingreachesforthedoorhandleandyanksitbutit’snouse.Locked.SharieyesAislingcontemptuously,shakingherhead.He’smine,Sharimouths.Moregunfire,thistimeontheirotherflankfromthemenwho’vebreachedtheconferenceroom.BulletszingoffthearmorandwhizpastAisling.Jordanyanksherhardasslugscrackleallaroundandthenshe’sinsideandthedoor’sclosedandshe’ssafe.Everyoneisoutofbreath.“Icouldn’tfindanything,”Marrssays,pointingatthelaptop.“We’retrapped.”The pitter of bullets bounce off the outside of the vehicles like franticmusic.Aisling stares at Shari.Marrs stares at Jordan. Jordan stares at Stella’s feet hanging off the backseat, the shock of her deathgrabbinghim.SarahandJagostareateachother,holdinghands.Hilalsays,“Whatnow?”Sharirememberstheobjectthatfellinherlap.Shetakesitbackup.Greenbutton.Redbutton.Shepicksred.As soonas shepushes it theconcretewall in frontof thevehicles slidesdown ina flash, revealingasubterraneanroadwideenoughfortwocars.Again,Shari doesn’t hesitate.She jams thegas and squeals away, her car’s highbeams illuminating along,straighttunnel.“Go,go,go!”Jordanshouts.

Marrs punches it too, fishtailing into the void, the red taillights of Shari’s much-faster car alreadyrecedingintothedistance.Shariissohappyshedoesn’tknowwhattodoexceptdriveasfastasshecan.Sheknowstheothersarebehindher,butsowhat?Thiscarhas280kphonthespeedometer.Evenifthey’vealsoescaped,she’llsurelyoutrunthem.Then,toseewhathappens,shepressesthegreenbutton.Shecan’tseefromhervantagepointanddistance,butthedoorthatsoserendipitouslyopenedforthemcloses,sealingthemenhuntingthemintothebunker.Andthenthebunkerandthehiddentunnelandthegroundshakeandshakeandshake.Themenaren’thuntingthemanymore.Themenaredead.All of them—Shari, Aisling, Jordan, Marrs, Hilal, Sarah, Jago—are in disbelief. They escaped anambush.Theymadeitoutandtheyarenotbeingchasedanymore.Sharithinks,I’llfindyou,merijaan.AndAislingthinks,Fuck,fuck,fuck.Pleasedon’tkillhim.Fuck.Fuck!

SHARICHOPRA,POPKOPP

Subterraneantunnel,Ayutthaya,Thailand

Shari drives like a hellcat, one eye on the road and one eye on the unconsciousman bouncing in thepassengerseat.Shedriveswithonehandonthewheelandherotherhandontheknifeshetookfromthefloor.“Iknowwhatyoudid,”shesays toPop, thinkingofall theHarappanhehelped tokill.Allof themsobeautifulandtrueandloyal.ParuandAnaandPravheetandPeeteeandVarjandGharandBrundiniandBoortandHelena.ShariremembersthehatethatfilledherheartwhenHelenadied.WhentheCeltsaidtoher,truthfully,thattheywerebothalreadyinhell.Yes,thisishell.Shelooksattheman.“Iknowwhatyoudid.”Theroadcurvesleft.Shehandlesitexpertly.“Ishouldkillyourightnow.”Sheholdstheknifetohisthroat.Sheroundsawideturnandthelightsofthevandisappearbehindthecurvingwall.She pushes the blade forward and it touches his neck andmakes a thin depression.Theman’s skin iswrinkledandlooseanditfoldsoverthemetalalittle.ThewrinklesmakeherthinkofJovinderpihainu.Shari wonders if Jov was killed too. Perhaps not. There could have been survivors at the Harappanfortress,peoplewhohidandwaitedandlived.Jovcouldhavedonethis.IfJov—all94yearsofhim—wasanything,hewasasurvivor.Whatwouldyoudoinmyplace,Jov?shewonders.Theroadstraightensandafewmomentslaterthevan’slightsappearbehindher.Shelooksattheinstrumentpanel.Theyhavetraveled0.9kilometers.Thecarishummingnicelyat126kph.She thinks,Jovwould spare him.Vengeance doesn’t run in his blood, certainly notwhen there is achancetobestrategic.ImustbestrategictohavethebestchanceoffindingLittleAlice.Sheslowlypullstheknifeawayfromhisneckandthenstabsitontothedashboardoutoffrustrationandangerandgrief,aboveeverythinggrief.Ican’tkillyou.Theheadlightsrevealachangeintheroadahead.Afork.Shehitsthebrake.Thecarstops.ShelookstoPop.Shegrabstheknife’shandleagain,itsbladeagoodfourcentimetersintheleatherandplasticconsole.“Ishouldkillyourightnow,”shesaysonelasttime.Thevangetscloser.Shedoesn’twanttoseethem.Shepicksapassageandgunstheengineagain,taking

theleft-handtunnel.Whenthevanreachesthefork,itfollows.Ican’tkillyou.Ihavetoholdthehateback.IhavetoletitgoasmuchasIcan.

MACCABEEADLAI,LITTLEALICECHOPRAUnnamedroadnearShreeDwarkadhishTemple,Dwarka,Gujarat,India

LittleAliceisstrappedtoMaccabee’sbackinthechildcarrier.Menallaroundyellandthrowuptheirhandsandwarbleinhalfadozenlanguages,amélangeofGujaratiandHindiandEnglishandUrduandPunjabi.MaccabeeandLittleAlicegetsweptupandarefunneledthroughanalleyofconcretebuildings.A 2,000-year-old Hindu temple is on their right, its main feature a towering cone of carved stone,weather-beaten and grandiose.Amulticolored flag stands at attention in the stiffwind coming off theIndianOceanonlyastone’sthrowtothewest.Theyturnacornerandthealleyopensontotheghat,aconcretewalkwaywithstairsleadingdowntotheGomtiRiver.It’slowtidesotheriverisinretreat,exposingsandandsiltmixedwithrefuse,thewater’sdarksurfaceafewmoremetersaway.Thefarbankisalsoman-madebutlooksmoreindustrial.Afewpeoplearescatteredhereandthereonitsrockyslope.Thewalkwayhereisnarrowandcrowded,however.Everyoneisturnedtothesouthwest, towheretheriverendsandtheIndianOceanbegins.Manyeithertalkintocellphonesorholdthemuptotakepicturesorshootvideo.Maccabee shoves hisway to the top of the steps.He stops next to aman nearly his heightwearing aperfectlytailoredwesternbusinesssuit.Maccabee’sbrieflyenviousoftheclothing.Hemissesthewayagoodsuit feels, thewayaperfect shirthugshis shouldersandarms, the touchof finecottonandwoolagainsthisskin.HemissestheorderandneatnessoftheworldbeforeEndgame.Splotchesofsweatstaintheneckoftheman’syellowdressshirt.Maccabeeasks,“What’shappened?”Themanlookshimupanddown.HisnosewrinklesatthesightofMaccabee’sbaldheadandhisbustednoseandtheblackringsunderhiseyes,butmostlyatthesmallIndianchildfastenedtohisback,herheadpeekingoverthetopofMaccabee’sshoulder.“Therewasalargeblastnotfaroffthecoast,”heanswers.“Some think itwas a smallmeteoric companion toAbaddon, but rather one fallingon this sideof theglobe,”hesayswithapoeticlilt.Hepoints.“Doyouseethat?”Adenseswarmofdive-bombingseabirdsconfettistheairlessthanakilometeraway.“Yeah.”“Itwasthere.Thebirdsarepickingoffchum,itseems.”Maccabeepeersatthebirds.LittleAlicesays,“That’swhereitis.Theunderwatertemple.Twotwodottwothreefour.Sixeightdotninesixtwo.”

ThebusinessmansquintsatLittleAlice.“Whatdidshesay?”Heleansclosetoher.“Howoldareyou,pakora?Two?Three?”Sheshakesherheadfuriously.“Notpakora.OnlyMamacallsmethat.”Maccabeeanglesherawayfromtheman,buthepersists.“Where isyourmama?Is thisyourchild,myboy?”LittleAlicesays,“Twotwodottwothreefour.Sixeightdotninesixtwo.”“Thankyou,sir,”Maccabeesays,shufflingaway.ThemanreachesforMaccabeeandasksagainhowoldLittleAliceis,butthecrowdclosesaroundthemanandhedoesn’tfollow.AlittlefartheronMaccabeestopsnexttoaslightmansittingonaburlyfriend’sshoulders.Themanontoppressesawornbrasstelescopetohiseye.Maccabeeholdsuphishand.“MindifIhavealook?”ThemanbarksatMaccabeeinalanguagehedoesn’tunderstand.“Friend,Ineedtohavealook,”MaccabeesaysforcefullyinEnglish.“I’llgiveitback.”Thelittlemanprotestsagainbuthandsitoverandthencupshishandsoverhiseyestowardoffthesun.ThelargermanstaresatMaccabee’sprofile.Maccabeeholdstheglasstohiseyewithbothhands.LittleAlicesays,“Twotwodottwothreefour.Sixeightdotninesixtwo.”“Quiet,sweetie,”Maccabeesays.“I’mtryingtoseeifanotherPlayerbeatushere,”hesaysquietly.Hedoesn’tseehowitwouldbepossible,butmaybeAnLiu,oradifferentPlayeraltogether,knowsthatthisiswhereSunKeyis.Maybesomeonehasnarrowlybeathimtoit.Hescans theskyand finds thebirds.Whitegullsanddarkcormorantsandmaskedboobies teemingasone. He moves the telescope to the water’s surface, which is roiled by the wind but otherwiseunexceptional.Thecrowdhootsandahs.LittleAlicebatsthetelescope.“Look,Uncle.”Hepulls the telescopeawayandseesa large,darkobject risingverticallyabove thebirds.Maccabeerecognizes it immediatelyas amedium-sized four-rotordrone. It shootsup30or40meters and stops,tiltingintothestiffwindinordertostayinplace.Hepeersthroughthetelescopeandcatchessightofthethingbeforeitzipsaway,movingtowardtheshore.Thelittlemanshakeshishandforthetelescope.ThelargermannudgesMaccabee’sshoulder.LittleAlicesays, “Two two dot two three four. Six eight dot nine six two.” Everyone butMaccabeewatches thedrone.Helookstotheoceanagain.Andthenthegroundshakesviolently.Thecrowdcrouchesall atonce,butnotMaccabee.Hemerelywincesand turnshishead.LittleAlicebarelyflinchesatall.“Twotwodottwothreefour!Sixeightdotninesixtwo!”Anexplosionmuch larger than thepreviousonehas just detonatedunder thewater.A thick columnofwatergrowsskyward,instantlyrising50,75,100meters.Manyofthebirdsareswallowedbyit,therestare scattered and cast away.A halo ofwater rises next, ringing the bottomof the column, and almostimmediately afterward black spikes of debris arc through the foam. It remindsMaccabee of a grandfireworksdisplay,butfarmoreimpressive,asthisisnotashowoflightbutanexplosionmovingweightandmass,displacinganythingnearit.Withinafewsecondsthecrowdispeltedbydebris,somechunksasbigasafistslamminghereandthere.MaccabeedeftlyunfastensLittleAlice’scarrierandswingsherintohisarms,shieldingherwithhisbody.Thecrowdpanics.FeetandlegsandhandspushonMaccabee,butheislikearock.Thebombardmentdoesn’tlastlong,andwhenit’soverheasks,“Areyouallright?”“Twotwodottwothreefour.Sixeightdotninesixtwo,”LittleAlicesays.“Yeah,you’reallright.”

Thecrowdthinsoutquickly.Afewpeoplelieontheground,moaningandbloodied.LittleAlicepoints.Maccabee sees it. The drone is headed back out to the water. It flew in to take cover, and now it’sreturningtothesiteoftheexplosion.HeshiftsLittleAliceintohisleftarmandliftsthetelescope.“It’stakingreadings,”hesaysfrantically.“LittleAlice—doyouthinkSunKeyis...gone?”Beforeshecananswer,thetelescope’sownerappearsandtugsatMaccabee’sshirt.Themanholdsouthishand.Maccabeeshakeshishead.“Notnow,friend.I’mkeepingit.”Thelargecompanionstepsnexttothesmallman,atoothlessgrinonhisface.Maccabeeknowsthatlook.Themanlikesagoodfight.SodoesMaccabee,butthesetwoaren’tworththetrouble.HestashesthetelescopeinapocketandwhipsouttheSIG,levelingitonthelittleman’sface.“IsaidI’mkeepingit.Movealong.Now!”The men backpedal. “Acha, acha, acha,” they say. They head back to the streets of Dwarka anddisappear.Maccabeereholstersthegunandreturnstothetelescope.Thedronemakestheblastsite.Foraminuteortwoitzipsthereandthereandthere,risingandloweringandrising.Itfinishesitsworkandbeginstheshorttripbacktothecity,againheadeddirectlytowardtheriver.“Someone’srunningthatthing.Someonecloseby.”Hescansthetopsofthebuildingsandthelengthoftheghatbutdoesn’tspotanyonesuspicious.“Tellmeitisn’tgone,LittleAlice.”“Theplacewhereitwasisgone,”thegirlsaysslowly.“What?”hedemands.“Youmean...?”“Wehavetoleavehere,Uncle.”“ButhowwillIwinif—”“Move,Uncle!”thegirlyelps,andMaccabeegetsanoverwhelmingsensationofsomethingbearingdownonhim.Hedivestothestepsoftheghat,beingcarefulnottolandonLittleAlice,andachunkofconcreteexplodes less thanameter above them.He rollsontohisback, theedgesof the stairsdigging intohisspine,asthereportsoundsinhisears.Inhisperipheryheseesthedronecominginlow,andonthefarbankheseestwothingsandknowsinstantlywhattheyare.ThelonglineofanRCantennaandtheglintofasniper’sscope.Hemakes them for120meters.Avery long shot for a pistol.He’s flat onhis back,LittleAlice lyingacrosshischest.HesightsoverLittleAlice’sheadanddownhisarmwiththeSIG.HethrowshisleftarmoverLittleAlice,whoatthismomentishishumanshield,asituationhecan’tabide.Hepullsthetriggeron the shooter, three times quick,makingmicro adjustments for recoil and the wind coming from theocean.Theglintofthesniperscopeblinksoutandadarkfigurepopsupandfallssideways.Hit.TheonewiththeRCcontrollermovesquicklyforcoverandMaccabeefirestwicemore,strikingthehipandthefleshaboveit.Thepersonfallsanddisappearsbehindtheoppositeembankment.Hezipsthegunleftandright,searchingforothers,butfindsnone.“Youokay,sweetie?”LittleAlicedipsherchin.Herhandsarecuppedoverherears.She’sshaking.“I’msorry,”hesays.“Butyou’reokay?”“Yes,Uncle.”“Whothehellwasthat?”MaccabeewaslisteningtothenewsastheytoreacrossIndia,andheheardallabout the other monuments. He says, “First Stonehenge, then Chogha Zanbil, now Dwarka. Who’sdestroyingtheseplaces?Notthekepler.NotanotherPlayer.Right?”“Look,Uncle.”Shepointsatthedrone,hoveringpracticallyoverhead,30orsometersaway.Maccabeepopsupandaims.“Coveryourearsagain.”Shedoes.He fires twice.Thecasingsbounceoff the concrete.Two rotors arehit, and the thing loses

altitude.Halfaminutelaterithitsthewalkwayalongtheghat,nowabsentofanyotherpeople.HeworksLittleAliceintothebackcarrierandgoestothedrone.Itwhineslikeawingedhouseflybouncingonastonefloor.Hestompsouttheotherrotors.Heflipsitoverandseesthecameraandthesensorsandtheportable drive hooked into the frame. He unplugs the drive, pries it free, and slips it into a pocket.“Maybethiswillhavesomeanswers.”Helooksbacktotheocean.Thewaterchurnsfromtheexplosion.Itwasmassive.Waveswashintotheriver’smouthlikeafastmovingtide.“It’sgone,”hewhispers.“Isn’tit?”HowwillIwin?“Yes.The temple isgone,Uncle . . .ButSunKey . . .SunKey.”She isquiet foramoment.Hereyesflutteras ifshe’sbeenstruckwithsomenewinformation.Shepoints to thenorthwestandsays,“Threefourdotthreesixtwotwosix.Onezeroeightdotsixfourzerotwosixtwo.”“Idon’tunderstand,Alice.”Maccabeefrowns.“Threefourdotthreesixtwotwosix.Onezeroeightdotsixfourzerotwosixtwo.”“Areyousayingit—itmoved?”“Yes,Uncle.Threefourdotthreesixtwotwosix.Onezeroeightdotsixfourzerotwosixtwo.”“That’sin...”Herunsthroughthebasiccoordinatesystemsearedintohisbrain.“That’sinChina,Alice.NearXi’an.”“Threefourdotthreesixtwotwosix.Onezeroeightdotsixfourzerotwosixtwo.”Maccabeenods.“Xi’an.We’regoingbacktowhereitallstarted.”

ANLIU,NORIKONathulaBorderCrossingStation,India-ChinaBorder,Sikkim,India

NoriKobribedtheirwayuptoNathula,oneofthreeoverlandtradingpostsontheSino-Indianborder.Atover4,300metersitisextremelyremote,withthemountainstateofSikkimontheIndiansideand,afterthe tripdown theHimalayas, theTibetanPlateauon theChineseside.The landaround isdesolateandrockyandsteepandtuftedbyroughalpinegrass.Itisalittlepastnoon,andthegrayskyhangslow.Theairisdampandcoolandveryoutofplaceformidsummer.LegallyonlyIndiancitizensareallowedthisclosetothecrossing,requiringapermitandregistrationwiththe Indian Army. But legal concerns have “gone the way of Abaddon,” as Nori Ko put it aptly afterbribingthelastsoldierwithameasly10Americandollarsandacheapballpointpen.Thesoldierassuredthemtherewerenomoremenatthegates.NomoreIndianmen,anyway.They’ve stopped a few jagged switchbacks below the pass. The mountains’ teeth disappear into theclouds.Weatherwornprayerflagswhipinthewindonplasticpoles.NoriKolightsaGoldenBatcigarette.Herwindowisrolleddownandshepropsherelbowontheedgeofthedoor.“Thisplaceistoofar-flungforpeopletocareaboutnow,”shesays,staringatthetidyred-roofedadministrativebuildingssurroundingthepass.AnstrokesChiyoko’shair.“Iwouldlovetoseeaplacewherepeopledocare,”hesays.“IwouldlovetoseeNewYorkCity.Itmustbeterrifying.Itmustbebeautiful.”Sheblowsastreamofsmoke.Thewindcatchesitandtakesitoutofthecar,awayfromhisnoseandhissenses.An is happy for this.He does not like the smell or taste or the sight of cigarettes.His fathersmokedthem.Hisuncles.Themenwhohurthim.Whobrokehim.Themenwhoputtheircigarettesoutonhisskin.Themenwhosingedhimandburnedhimandscarredhimwithjoyandglee.Sheisnotoneofthesemensoheletshersmoke.Shesays,“Trustme,An.Youdon’twanttobeinNewYorkCityrightnow.Itmustbehellonearth.”“ButIwanttoseehell,Mu.LikeaGodwouldseeit.LikeaMaker.”“Likeadevil.”“Yes.Likeadevil.Iwanttosmellit.Hearit.Touchit.”Pause.Agustofsweetairslicesintothecar.

“Let’sgo,”NoriKosays,changingthesubject.Shepointsthecigarette’semberuptheroad.Anputsthecar in gear and after a few meters she adds, “I know what I see in you, An Liu—opportunity. ButsometimesI’mnotsurewhatChiyokosaw.”Anwhipshisheadtohispassenger,abouttospit,Don’tsayhername!It’smynamenow!ButinsteadshiverBLINKshivershiverblinkshiverBLINKBLINKblinkSHIVERSHIVERSHIVERblinkBLINKSHIVERblink—NoriKosnagsthewheelwithonehandandslapshimhardacrossthecheekwiththeother.“Snapoutofit,An!”shesays,thecigarettedancingbetweenherlips.Hedoes.Hepushesthebrake.Thecarstopsagain.Hischeekstings.Itfeelsgood.Hetakesthenecklaceinbothhandsandbringsittohisfaceandburieshisnoseinit.Thereissolittleofhersmellremainingthatitmightaswellbeodorless,butitdoesthetrick.Hisbodyquiets.Hisheartpounds.“Shedidn’tseemelikethat,”Ansays.“Sheneversawthat.Iwaswholearoundher.Iwas...better.”NoriKotakesadeepdragandflicksthehotfilteroutthewindow.Shealmostsays,Soshepitiedyou,butthinksbetterofit.Instead she says, “Chiyoko eschewed relationships—mutes tend to do that—but she always liked aproject.”Antightenshisgriponthewheel.It’sallhecandonottolashoutatthiswoman.Hecouldkillher,butheneedsher.Fornow.ThankfullyChiyoko says, I love your vulnerability, An. I love your broken heart. I love your buriedtenderness,likeyoushowedmeonouronenighttogether.Ilovethatyou’reaPlayer,likeme,butonecompletelyunlikeme.IloveyoubecauseIshouldn’t.Becauseitisimpossible.Helovesthesoundofhervoice.Whycouldn’tshehaveshareditwithhimwhenshewasBLINKalive?“That’snothowitwas,”Ansaysaftera fewmoments.Hewillnotshare thesefeelingswithNoriKo.Theyare toopersonal, too revealing.Hesays, “Iwasnotaproject.She loves—loved—me,NoriKo.That’sallyouneedtoknow.”NoriKo releases the steeringwheel. “Well, love ismysterious.”Pause. “Sorry. I’m just on edge.Youmight want theworld to end but, believe it or not, I prefer if it didn’t.” She lights another cigarette.“Nothing I candoaboutAbaddonnow.Nothingexceptmake sure thatkeplerbastarddiesonewayoranother.”“Yes.”“Let’sbothshutupforawhileandgettoChina.”“Yes.”Heresumesdriving.AstheywindupthemountainsideChiyokosaysoverandover,China.You’regoinghome.China.You’regoinghome.China.You’regoinghome.Hervoiceissoftandflowingandsweet.LikethewaterinthepaintingthatusedtohanginherroominNaha.You’regoinghome.The road squeezes between a set of buildings and these give way to walls that rise on either side,hemmingthemin.Thetraderouteisliterallyapassagewaycutfromthemountainpass.Atallwhitegatehangsbetweenthewallslikeacurtain.AbovethegateisaredsignwithwhiteletteringinChineseandEnglish.BothreadNATHULABUSINESSCHANNELFORCHINA-INDIABORDERTRADE.Andnowthereisaman.AsolitaryChinesesoldieronthefarsideofthegate,paradingbackandforth.Hehasthedarkgreenuniformandthewide-toppedgreenmilitarycapwiththeredbandandthestiffblackvisorandtheredstaronfront.Hisbreathisvisibleinthecoolair.Abolt-actionservicerifleleansonhisshoulder.Hisfeetgohigh,hespins,hepaces,hisfeetgohigh,he

spins,hepaces.Repeat.TheDefenderisplainforhimtosee,buthedoesn’tacknowledgeit.Hejustkeepspacing.“I’llhandlethis,”Ansays.Heopensthedoor,pullingtheMukatanafromunderthedriver’sseat.“Youwon’tneedthat.He’saboy,”NoriKosays.Anpausesbeforeclosingthedoor.“Somewouldsaythesameofme.”Shegiveshimalookthatsays,Youhaveapoint,butdoesn’tspeak.An’sfeetandlegsmoveinhurried,stabbingsteps.Hisshouldershuncharoundhischest.Hiseyesstareattheground.Heholdstheswordinhislefthand.Hepullsthehoodofhisthicksweatshirtoverhisbaldhead,nowspeckledwithblackstubble.Hestopsatthegate.Thesoldierreallyisaboy.Allof15or16.Theuniformbarelyfitshim.It’scuffedattheanklesandthewrists,andthehatistoobig.Hecontinuestopace.“Openthegate,soldier,”Anorders.Theboypasseslessthanameterinfrontofhim.Thegate—easilyclimbed,andsoporousthatitwouldserveasmoreofachannelthanabarriertoaswordoranyotherslenderweapon—remainsclosed.Thesoldierremainssilent.Hepaceslefttoright,hitshisspot,spinsonhisheel,andpacesback.Anunsheathesthekatanaandslidesitthroughthegate,blockingtheboysoldier’spath.Hestops.Hehaspaleskinandrosycheeksfromthechill.AnguessesbyhisfeaturesthatheisethnicallyHan.Blackpeachfuzzlineshisupperlip.“Openthegate,”Ansays.“Thisisnotarequest.”“Iknowwhoyouare,”theboysays,hisMandarinthickwithaQinghaiaccent.“Myfathershowedme.You’retheShang.You’reinEndgame.”“Who’syourfather?”“Myfather’sdead.”“Soismine.”“Hesentmeupherebeforehedied.Todohisjobwhenhenolongercould.Toprotectthehomelandfrom...”Thisboyisn’tevenanofficialsoldier.He’sapretender.Amisguidedpatriot.“Openthegate.Iwon’tsayitagain.”Theboyhalfspinsandbringstherifletofiringposition,aimingforAn’schest.AnhearsthedooroftheDefender clickopenbehindhim,but hedoesn’t look.NoriKo is undoubtedly aiming aBeretta at thischild.Buthisoldrifleisrocksteady.“You’recalm.It’simpressive,”Ansays.TheboymovesthemuzzlefromAntoNoriKo.Anpullstheswordbackhalfameterandanglesthetipsothatitpressesthefleshoftheboy’sstomach.Itdoesnotcut.Notyet.“Keeptherifleonher.Putitonmeagainandyou’redead.Likeyourfather.”Theboydoesn’tmove.“She’sJapanese.Youknowwhattheydidtousinthewar,yes?”Ansays,tryingtostokehisnationalisticire.Andoesn’twantNoriKotodie,buthe’scurioustoseewhatthisonemightdo.Hedoesnothing.Theriflestays.“Whataretheysayingaboutme?”Anasks.Theboydoesn’tspeak.

Anpushestheswordforwardacentimeter.Iteffortlesslyslidesthroughthefirstlayeroftheuniform.Theboysays, “Thegovernment saysyoushouldbekilledonsight,but thegenerals sayyoushouldbecaptured. Somepeople say you are amonster.Others say youwill save all ofChina fromAbaddon’scomingwinter.”“Whatdoyousay?Whatdidyourfathersay?”Hesaysnothing.“Answer.IamaPlayerofEndgame,andIamcominghome.Youcanfacilitatethat,oryoucandie.”Theboyshakeshisheadeversoslightly.“Youcan’tcomehome.Noonecan.Fathersaid.‘Thebordersaresealed.Nooneisallowedinorout.Guardthem,son.Keepthem.’Theborderissealed.”Noitisn’t,Anthinks.Hethruststheswordforwardinaflash.Thehilt’shandguardclanksintothemetalgate.Theboylurchesforward.Heconvulsesandsqueezesoffaround,buttheslughitsthepavementandbouncesawayharmlessly.Thebladejutsoutoftheboy’sbackanddripsthickblood.Anslideshishandthroughthegateandliftsasmallboxofftheboy’sbelt.Hepullstheswordfree.Theboycrumplestohisknees.Bloodpoolsonhislips.“Theborderissealed,”theboysaysbeforepitchingontohisside.Anpressesthebuttononthebox.Thegatecreaksandclattersasitslidesopen.“Noitisn’t.”Angoesbacktothecar.Hisstepscurt.Hisshouldersslumped.Hissworddripping.Hewipesaflatsideofthebladeonhispalm,transferringsomeofthebloodtohisskin.Theliquidiswarmandcomforting,likeanoldglove.NoriKouttersherdisbeliefinJapanese.Ancan’tunderstandherexactwordsbuthedoesn’tneedtoandhedoesn’tcare.Chiyokosays,China.You’regoinghome.Ansmiles.Heisgladtobegoinghomewithbloodonhishands.

SHARI CHOPRA, AISLING KOPP, HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT,SARAHALOPAY,JAGOTLALOC,POPKOPP,GREGJORDAN,GRIFFINMARRSEnroutetohiddenairstrip,Thailand

Shari emerges from the escape tunnel six klicks north of the hotel. It opens onto a paved road hiddenbetweenapairofjutefields.Shedrivesfastforafewminutes,wantingnothingmorethantodriveandkeepdriving.Awayfromthepeoplebehindher.Towardherdaughter.ButwhereisLittleAlice?ShelooksfromtheroadtoPoptotheroadtoPop.Ididn’tkillhimbecauseitwasthestrategicthingtodo.Thestrategicthing.Whatelsewouldbestrategic?She’sso far in frontof thevannowthat shecan’t see it in the rearviewmirror,but sheknows they’refollowingher.SheknowstheymighthaveinformationaboutLittleAlice.Muchasshehatesit,sheknowsshecouldusetheirhelp.Sheslamsthebrakes,comingtoascreechinghaltonthesideoftheroad.Sheexitsthecarandstalkstothepassengerdoorandopensit.ShetakesPopbythecollarandpullshimout,lettinghimfallontothegroundinaheap.Shegoestothebackofthecarandsitsonthetrunkandwaits,remindingherselfeveryfewmomentsthatnotkillingPopKoppisthesmartthingtodo.Evenifshewantstodothenot-smartthingvery,verybadly.Thevanappearsinthedistance.Itisnotbeingpursued.Sharicanseethatthey’reseveralkilometerswestofAyutthayanow,atendrilofsmokerisingabovethecity’sskyline.Thismusthavebeenwherethehotelwas.WherethepeoplehuntingStellawere.Thevaniscloser.LittleAlice.You’redoingthisforher.Closer.Close.Here.SharipopsoffthetrunkastheSprinterscreechestoahaltinthemiddleoftheroad.BeforethevancomestoacompletestopAislingopensherdoorandjumpsout.“Whereishe?”Aislingdemands,joggingtoastopafewmetersawayfromShari.“He’sfine,”Sharisays.Aislingmarchestowardher.“Butwhere?”

Sharipointstowardthefrontofthecar.Aislingstopsforamoment,glaringatShari.Shariglaresstraightback.“I’mtellingyou,he’sfine.”“Hebetterbe,”Marrssaysfrominsidethevan.“BecauseI’mgoingtofuckingkillhim.”AislingshootsMarrsanangrylookbeforecheckingonPop.He’sbeendraggedintothedirtandthere’sabloodynickonhisneck,butShari’stellingthetruth.AislingpropsPopintoamorecomfortable-lookingpositionandslowlywalksbacktotheHarappan,eyeingherwarily.“Listen,Shari,”Aislingsays,intendingtooffersomeexplanationastowhysomanyHarappanhadtodie.ButShari’sheadtwitches.“No.Youlisten.TherearethingsIneedtosaytoyou.”Shepointsatthevan.“Youtoo,al-Salt.Allofyou,infact.”Thevan’sdoorsopenandeveryonefilesout.HilaltakesaspotnexttoAisling.Hisheadheldhighbuthiseyesforlornandcontrite.JordanandMarrsstandbehind them, their facesredwithangeroverStella’sdeathandshameoverthedeathofShari’sfamily.SarahandJago,sensingthishaslittletodowiththem,standofftotheside.Shariasks,“First—arewebeingfollowed?”“Idon’tthinkso,”Marrssays.“Didyousetthatbomboff?”Jagoasks.“Yes,”Sharisays.“Ifoundaremotedetonatorinthecar.Igotlucky.”“Youmeanwegotlucky,”Sarahpointsout.“Yes,”Sharisaysreluctantly.“Wedid.Butthat’snotwhatIwanttotalkabout.IwanttotalkaboutwhatIheardinthatplace.WhatIheardthisStellasay.Iwanttotalkaboutyou.”Shebitesherlowerlip.“Iwanttokillyou,”shesays,squintingatAisling.“Forwhatyoudidtomyfamilyandwhatyouwantedtodotomydaughter.”Aisling takes a breath to speak but Shari cuts her off again. “No.Don’t talk. I can’t hear your voiceanymore.It’stoopainful.Thesamegoesforyou,Aksumite.”Hilalnods.Aislingisstock-still.“IknowEndgameisamoral,”Sharisays.“IknowthattheMakersareamoral.Iknowitmustbestopped.IthinkIknewthisthemomentIunderstoodwho—what—mydaughteris.Mychild,LittleAlice.SheistheonlyreasonIdidn’tkillyourlinemember,Aisling.TheonlyreasonIhavenottriedtokillyourighthereandnow.”“CanIasksomething?”Sarahsays.“Yes.”“Whatifweweretohelpyou?Whatifwepromisedtohelpyoufindyourdaughter?Wouldyouhelpus?BecauseIthinkwe’regoingtoneedallthehelpwecanget.”“Sarahspeaksformeaswell,”Jagosays.“I’mtrulysorryweintendedtokillyourchild.Butyouheardus.Wecouldn’tdoit.Wewouldn’t.”“IthinkIspeakforAislingandHilaltoo,”Sarahsays.“Andforthesemen.TheirnamesareGregJordanandGriffinMarrs.”Smartofhertonamethem.Humanizesthem,Sharithinks.“I’ll consider it,”Shari says slowly.“ButHilal, Ihaveaquestion.YousaidStellahadanother supplycachein—we’reinThailand,right?”“Weare,”Hilalsays.“Andyes,shedoes.Atanairstrip in thenorth.Thisplace isat least threehoursaway.”Sharibitesherlipagain.“Allright.Thenlet’sgo.I’llfollowyou.AndI’llthinkaboutyourofferwhilewedrive.Isthisacceptable?”“Soundsgoodtome,”Sarahsays.

“Measwell,”Hilalsays.Theothersnodsilently.AfteramomentSharisays,“IfIdoagree,I’llhavetwoconditions.FirstisthatifwesplitupIcannotgowith Aisling or hermen. You have hurt me toomuch. Second is that wemake savingmy daughter apriority.Wedon’tplaceitabovestoppingEndgame,butwedoplaceitaboveeverythingelse,includingourownlives.LittleAliceisspecial,andifthisworldistosurviveIbelieveitwillneedher.Ifyouthinkthat’sabunchofnonsense,thenatleastagreetothisconditionbecauseofwhatyou’vedone.Youowemeat least thismuch.”Shetakesadeepbreath.“LittleAliceis threeyearsold.EverychildwhosurvivesAbaddonwillinheritthisworld.Butitwillbehers.”Shepointstothesky.“NottheMakers’.”Shepatsherchest.“Notmine.”Shepointsatthem.“Notyours.”Sheletsherhandfalltoherside.“IfIagree,thenIaskyoutohelpmedeliverittoher.”Afternooncricketsinthebrownfield.Thegrowlofageneratorinthedistance.Thesmellofabrushfireupwind.DefyingShari’sorderforsilence,Aislingsays,“IswearIwillhelpyou,ShariChopra.”Buthervoiceissolowandsosmallandsoheartfeltthattheyallunderstandthatshe’sreallysaying,“I’msorry.Sosorry.”JordanandMarrsswearitnext,theirvoicesequallycontrite,beforehelpingAislingretrievePop.Theytakehimtothevanandputhiminthebackandthengetinthemselves.SarahandJagopromisetheirhelpandalsogobacktotheSprinter.Finally,Hilalsaysdefiantly,“Iswearshewilllive.Onmylife.”Thenheclimbsintothevanandclosesthedoor.Theymoveout,Sharifollowingthemaloneinthecar.Hilaliswrong.IttakesthemfivehourstogettoStella’sairstrip.TheyloopwesttowardSaiYokNationalPark,thenheadnorthonsmallroadsthroughhillyjungles.Jordaninsistsonthiscircuitousroutetomakesurenoonefollowsthem.TheyeventuallylinkupwithamainroadinTakandheadnorth-northeastforLampang, turningwest againbefore reaching thecitycenter and then leaving it todetourdeep into thejungle.AstheydriveHilalbriefs themonStella’splan.Hesays that theairstriphas threeBombardierGlobal8000jets,eachmodifiedforextendedrangeandequippedwithenoughfood,weapons,andsupplies tolast themweeks.“ShewantedustoformthreeteamsthatwouldgooutintotheworldinsearchofSunKey.StellaandIweretobeonesuchteam.WeweretogototheKoorimonumentinAustraliaandthentotheMumonumentintheSouthChinaSea.”“IassumeSarahandIwouldbeanother?”Jagosays.“Naturally. Shewanted you to go to theCahokian andOlmecmonuments.You knowwhere these are,yes?”“Ofcourse,”Sarahsays.“Sí.IknowLaVenta.Noproblema.”Hilalpointstothesky,whichisnowclearanddark,afewstarshereandthere.“WhatwillbeaproblemforyouisAbaddon.Itisduetohitverysoon.Yoursideoftheworldwillbevery...”“Different,”Sarahsaysdejectedly.“Yes. Your lines’ monuments, even though they are thousands of miles from where the asteroid issupposedtohit,maynotsurvive.”“Onewaytofindout,”Jagosays.“Wegotothem.”Hilal strokes his arm—the same arm that’s wrapped with the wooden ouroboros from his fight withWaylandVyctorybackinLasVegas—andshrugs.Sarahgetstheimpressionhe’snottellingthemsomething.BeforeSarahcanaskwhatthisis,Aislingsays,“Andwhataboutus?Obviouslywe’renotheadingtomy

line’smonument,sinceStonehengeislonggone.”Hilal tiltshishead.“Stellasuggested theDonghumonument inMongolia followedby theShangone inChina.”“I’mgame,Hilal,butbymycountyou’releavingfourout,”Jordansays.“TheNabataean,Minoan,andHarappanmonuments—andyours.”Hilal holds up a finger. “You are right,Mr. Jordan. I can assure you that theAksumitemonument hasalreadybeensearchedand isbeingguardedbymymasterandour linemembers.SunKeyisnot there.Categorically.AndWayland’speoplewillnotbeabletobreachitordestroyit.”“Andtheotherthree?”Sarahasks.“Wewillbeincontactaswefinishsearchingtheseplaces,andwilldecidewhowillgotothemafterthisfirst phase.With any luck, wemay not have to. Hopefully we will have found Sun Key and therebypreventedAdlaiorLiufromwinning.”“Aboutthat,”Aislingsays.“Basedonthewayit’sgonesofar,I’mprettysurewecanagreethattheShangisn’tinterestedinwinning.”“Soyouwouldconsiderhimanally?”Hilalasksincredulously.Aislingshakesherheadvehemently.“Fuckno.He’sgothisownagenda,whateverthatis.I’monlysayingIdon’tthinkhewantstowin.Thatdoesn’tmeanhewantstostopAdlaifromwinningorstopEndgameormakesuretheMakersdon’tgetwhateveritistheywant.Itsimplymeansthat,well,he’sunpredictable.”“Honey,”Sarahsays,“we’reallunpredictableatthispoint.”“True,”Aislingsayswithasnicker.“We’re almost there, guys,”Marrs says from the wheel. “Another klick or two up this road, if yourcoordinatesareright,Hilal.”ThevandipsthroughalargebumpintheroadasHilalsays,“Theyarecorrect,Mr.Marrs.”Theyfallintosilenceforthislastlegoftheirtrip.Theroadthey’reonisnotmuchmorethanadirttrack,andthejungleistightonallsides,includingoverhead.Eachofthemispreoccupiedwithwhat’scoming—theconcertedsearchforSunKey,yes,butalsotheimpactofAbaddon.Howwillitaltertheirworld?They know itwill be big, butwill they feel it on this side of the planet?Will it be a geologic-levelextinction event like the one that killed the dinosaurs 65million years ago?Will the entire planet beshroudedindarknessformonthsoryears,orwilltheybesparedanimpactwinter?Willalltheplantsandalltheanimalsthatdependonthemdie?Ifthesunisblottedout,howlongwillitbeuntiltheycanstandontheearthandlookupandseethelife-givingsolardiskagain?Andwhatofhumanity?Willnearlyeveryonedie,aspromisedbytheMakers?IfAdlaimanagestowin,willhislinereallybetheonlyonetosurvive?HowwilltheMakersensurethateveryoneelseperishes?Noneofthemcananswerthesequestions.Noamountoftrainingorstudyinghaschangedthisfact.Alltheycandonowisact,anddothisingoodfaith,withhopeintheirhearts.Thetruthisthatnomatterwhatthepropheciessay, lifemustbelivedtobeexperienced.Therulesof thegamemayhavechanged,but thisruleisimmutable.Timewilltell.Whatwillbewillbe.Sharithinksofthesethingstooasshefollowsthevanintothejungle.Shedoesn’tknowthedetailsoftheirplan,butshedoesknowthatthereckoningpromisedbytheMakersisimminent.Finally, at a little after midnight, they stop at a chain-link fence running right through the jungle’sundergrowth.Shariwatches asHilal jumpsout of thevan andmoves to akioskhiddenunder a thick-trunkedtree.Afewredlightsflickerhereandthereandthenthefencestartstoslideopen.Hilal—stark-lookinginthehalogenglowofhersedan’sheadlights—givesSharialittlesalute.

Shedoesn’tsaluteback.Hewouldn’thavebeenabletoseeheranyway.AsSharifollowsthevanthroughthegateshenoticesseveralgunsmountedonswivelturretsandafewcamerashereandthere.Sheconcludes—rightly—thatwhenthegateclosesbehindher, theperimeterofthishiddenairstripwillbeguardedbyacomputerizedsentinelsystem.Sharifollowsthevandownthelengthofasmoothrunway.Itiswellhidden.Nearlytheentirelengthofthestripiscoveredbyjunglecanopy,withanopeninginthetreesatoneendfortakeoffsandlandings.Theystopnearthreeprivatejetsparkedonthesideofthetarmac.Sharistaysbehindthewheelwhiletheothersgetoutandformasemicirclenearhercar.They’rewaitingforher.“My enemies are my friends. For now.My enemies are my friends,” she repeats, trying to convinceherself.“I’llusethemtogetLittleAlice.Then...thenIdon’tknow.”Shegetsoutandjoinsthem.Theystandinsilenceforamoment.Friends.Enemies.No.TheMakeristheenemyrightnow.“Well?”Sarahasks.“Youin?”“Yes,”Sharisays.“I’min.”

Theywillleaveatfirstlight.RightafterAbaddonfallsintotheoceanontheothersideoftheworld.Buttheydon’ttalkaboutAbaddon.It’stoomuch.Theycan’t.Insteadtheygetready,spendingthenighttakingcareofbusiness.TheycleanoffStella’sbodyanddressherinfreshclothesandbindherinastark-whitesheetfromoneoftheairplanes.Hilalwrapsabulletandtheredbloomofalocalflowerhedoesnotknowthenameofinapiece of cloth and tucks this package into Stella’s rigor-mortised hand.They bury her in an unmarkedgrave under a tall rubber tree, Jordan andMarrs pushing back tears,Hilal giving a brief but heartfelteulogyforthisremarkablewomanheknewforlessthanaweek.TheysweartobetruetohermemorybydoingeverythingintheirpowertostopEndgame.They also check weapons, go through preflight routines on the planes, establish channels ofcommunication.Theychargesatellitephonesandradios,andMarrssetsupanencryptedclosedchanneldesignatedAlphaRomeoFiveSeven.Theyagreeoncheck-intimesoverthecomingdays.Jordansharesastring of clandestine clearance codes used by spy planes so that they can safely navigate restrictedairspaces.AislingandMarrstendtoPop,placinghimsafelyintheplane,bindinghiswristsandanklesandhookinghimupwiththesameIVcocktailtheyhadinSharitokeephimunconsciousandharmless.MostimportantlytheybringShariuptospeedontheirplan.Theyaskherwhoshe’dliketogowithand,totheirsurprise,shechoosesHilal.“Itcan’tbeAisling,”shereasons,“andIthinkSarahandJagoshouldgototheirplacesalone.Thatleavesyou,Aksumite.”“Ihappilyaccept,”Hilalsays.“Ican’tsaythesame.ButIwon’ttrytokillyou.Ipromiseyouthat.”“Understood.Andallthesame,Iampleased.”Ataround four in themorningSarahand Jagogatherwood from the jungleandmakea fire.Hilal andSharijointhem,whileAisling,Jordan,andMarrsretiretotheirplaneforsomemuch-neededrest.Sarah, Jago,Hilal, andShari pass the rest of thenight talking.Each tells ofwhere they’vebeen,whothey’vefought,whothey’velost.Shariisreluctanttospeakatfirst,butSarahmovesnexttoherandputs

anarmoverhershouldersandsays,“It’sokay.Wewanttohear.”Sharitakesabreathtospeakbutinsteadofwordscometears,fastandhard,andforeightsolidminutesshebawlsandshakesandclingstoSarahbecauseSarahistheonlyonethereisandsheneedstoclingtosomeone.Whenshe’sdonecryingshesaysweakly,“Ican’ttalkaboutthem,myfamily.SoletmespeakaboutBigAliceUlapala.”She tells themabout seeingAliceon thebusafter theCalling,abouthowSharideliveredababy rightthere,abouthowAlicehelped.ShetoldthemaboutAlice’sspecialconnectiontoShariandaboutathingBigAlicecalled theDreaming.She toldabouthowBigAlicerescuedher fromtheDonghu,andabouthowBigAlicehadalsofiguredoutthatLittleAlicewasSkyKey.Shesaid,“Idon’tknowhowshedied,butBigAliceshouldn’thave.Sheshouldbeherenow,withus.Shewouldhavewantedtostopallthisneedlesssufferingtoo,Ithink.”TheotherPlayersbelieveher.When she’s finished, Sarah and Jago speak about how they escaped the Calling and decided to Playtogether,aboutmeetingChiyokoandwatchingherfreeChristopherfromMaccabeeandBaitsakhan,aboutStonehengeandAnLiu, andof course aboutRenzo. Jagobriefly eulogizeshis friend,pointingout thatbothheandSarahwouldbedeadifitweren’tforhim.Asifwaitinghisturn,Hilalgoeslast.Hespeakscarefullyabouthisbeliefinthegoodnessofman,andabouthowhecametorealizethatthere’ssomethingwrongwithEndgame.HetalksabouttheArkoftheCovenantandMasterEbenandthemenwhoperishedwhenthearkwasopened.Hetalksaboutthedevicehefoundintheark.HetalksaboutmeetingStella,andhowhecametobelieveher.Hetalksabouthowheconfrontedandkilledherfather,WaylandVyctory,anancientalienalsoknownasEa.And,atlonglast,hetellsthemaboutthebook.“AccordingtoStella,itistenthousandyearsoldatleast,andisoneofaveryfewartifactshereonEarththatcamefromtheMakers’homeplanet.”“Willithelpus?”Sarahasks.“It alreadyhas,”Hilal says, before remembering thatShari is sitting right here.He looks down to thegroundandsays,“Iusedittodiscover...tofigureoutwhyyourdaughterisimportanttoEndgame.”Anawkwardsilencedriftsoverthefire.Itcracksandglows.Thecreaturesofthejungleclickandwhoop,andthebirdscallandsing,astheskybrightenswiththedawn.“Letmeshowittoyou,”Hilalsays.Hegoestohisplaneandcomesbackwithalargesilvertomeheldoutinbothhands.Hesitsonthegroundandplacesitonhislap.Hetraceshisdarkfingersoverthefinecover, pointing out a coin-sized glyph tucked into the lower left corner.A pair of snakes twisted in afigureeightanddevouringeachother,setoveraneyeshapeinsideacircle.“ThemarkofEndgame,”hesays.Thenheopensthebookandbeckonsthemtocomeandlook.SarahandJagomovetoeithersideofhimwhileSharistandsoffalittle.She’snotsureshewantstoseethethingthatexposedherchildandherfamilytoruin.Inherminditisevilandnottobetrusted.Butsheiscurious.Hilalleafsthroughthebook’svellum-likepages.Theyseediagramsofancientmonuments,analphabetoflinesanddots,pagesfullofthingsthatappeartobemathematicalformulas,constellationsandspiralsandwebs of complex systems that describe who-knows-what. They see long passages of indecipherableglyphs. They see graphs and line plots and sweeping arcs that describe orbits or light-year parabolasthrough time and space. They see a few things they recognize—monuments, details from stones andhieroglyphs,shapeslikepyramidsandobelisksandsphereslacedwithcoordinatesystems.Butmostlyitismystifying.Astheyperusethebook’spagesJagoasks,“Stellacouldreadthis?”

Hilalshakeshishead.“No.Hardlyatall.”“Butyoureadpartofit,right?TofigureoutwhatSkyKeywas?”Sarahasks.“Correct.ThedeviceItoldyouabouttranslatedthatsection,andonlythatsection,whenIpointeditatthebook.”“Thedevicethat’sbustednow,”Jagosays.“Unfortunately.”Sarahputsafingeronapassage.“AndthisisMakerlanguage?”“Yes.Itis.”“Andit’saboutEndgame?”“Thatandmuchmore,Iwouldpresume,”Hilalsays.“Soitcouldhelpus—ifwecouldfigureoutwhatitsays?”Sarahasksagain.“Yes.Doyouhaveanideaofhowwemayaccomplishthis?”Sheshakesherhead.“No,I’mjustthinkingoutloud.”“It’suseless,then,”Jagosays.AndhereHilalholdsupafinger.“Ah.Itisnotatalluseless.Look.”Heflipstoasectionatthebackofthebookandthengoesthroughitpagebypageuntilhestops.Heplantsaforefingerinthemiddleofthepage.“Doyourecognizethisdrawing,Sarah?”Sheleanscloser.Thejungleanimalscontinuetheirdawnsymphonyallaround.“Well,it’salittledifferent—lesseroded,newerlooking—butIthinkit’sMonksMound.”“Thatiscorrect.”Heflipsafewmorepages.“Andhereismyline’smonument—theTempleofYeha.”Itisastoneworktowerwithanornate,pyramidalroof.Heflipsthroughmorepages.TheyrecognizethemonumentsfortheOlmec,Nabataean,andMinoanlines,and theyseeother,unknownmonuments for theother lines.After lookingatone that looksmore likeagardenthanabuilding,Hilalstops.Thedrawingonthispagehasbeenblottedoutbyanorderlyseriesoflines.“What’sthat?”Jagoasks.“ThatwasStonehenge.Assoonasitwasdestroyed, thispageflickeredandchangedintowhatyouseenow.” He flips to another. “This was the Sumerian monument. It also was snuffed out the momentWayland’speopledestroyedit.Thisisalivingbook.SomehowconnectedtoEarth’sinnateenergy.Evenif we cannot understand its words, it is useful, Jago Tlaloc. It will tell us what monuments surviveAbaddon,andwhichmayfalltofurtherdestructionatthehandsofWayland’sbrotherhood.”“Goodforpreventingwildgoosechases,”Sarahsays.“Ihavenotheardthatexpressionbefore,butifIunderstand,yes.Nowildgooses.”Sharileansclosertoo.“Where’stheHarappanmonument?”Hilalflipsthroughafewmorepages.“Dwarka,ofcourse.Itisthelastone.Here—oh!”Hestopsonanotherpagethathasbeencrossedoutandeffectivelyerased.Shari’sshouldersslump.“I’velostthattoo,itseems.”Hilal glances at her sideways. “Yes. I am sorry for this aswell.Wayland’smen continue theirwork,apparently.”“We’llhavetobereadyforthemaswelookforSunKey,won’twe?”Sarahasks.“Sí.Muylisto,”Jagoconfirms.Helikestheideaoffighting.Infact,helovestheideaoffighting.He’stiredoftalking.HeimaginesthesameistrueforSarah.Shari sits back down. Jago takes the book fromHilal and pulls it into his lap and he andSarah lookthroughmoreofitsstrangepages.Hilalsitsandlooksatthesky.Themorningisherenow,theskyclear

andbright.HewonderswhattheskylookslikeunderthreatofAbaddon.Black.Red.Tornasunder.Onfire.Andthen,atthatverymoment,allthebirdsandinsectsandsmallcreaturesgosilent,asifapredatorhasdrawntooclose.Sarahlooksatherwatch.Jagocloseshiseyes.Sharihumsaprayertoherself.Thesilenceisdeafening.Abarelyperceptibletremorshakestheirbodies.Apieceofwoodtopplesoverinthefire.“Thatwasit,”Sarahsays.“ThatwasAbaddon.”“Sí.”Abirdofpreyscreechesinthejungle.Hilalsays,“Itisanewandterribleworld.”

Andthesecondangelblewhistrumpet,andsomethinglikeagreatmountain,burningwithfire,wasthrownintothesea.

ANLIU,NORIKO

ProvincialRoad204nearWakang,China

An Liu and Nori Ko wind their way out of the Himalayas, catching glimpses of the Tibetan Plateaubetweenpeaksandvalleys.Thegeographythey’reheadedtowardislimitlessandbarren.Skyandland,skyandland,skyandland.Anlovesitsemptiness.NoriKohasonapairofheadphonesandfiddleswiththedialsofafieldradio.ShesearchestheChinesestate-runmedia foranynewsofAbaddon,but it’suseless.Mostofwhat she findsare stationsplayingnationalisticsongsonaloopornewsprogramsdiscussingairqualityandwaterrationinginthewesternhalf of the country.China has sealed her borders, restricted her airspace, anddeclaredmartial law inmanycitiesuntilthepost-impactdustclears.“It’slikethey’repluggingtheirearsandsingingla-la-la!”NoriKosays.“They’retreatingAbaddonlikeit’saWesternproblemthattheEastcansimplyrideout.”“They’llbe”—SHIVERblinkblink—“They’llbe”—BLINKblink—“They’rewrong.”“Ihopethey’renot.Butyes—they’rewrong.”Sherollsdownherwindow.Theairiswarmingasthesunrisesandtheyloseelevation.Theyroundaturninthemountainsandthelandbelowopensup.Tanandbrownandgrayandaswideandlimitlessasthesea.Icouldstayhere,Anthinks.Iknow,Chiyokosays.Wecould.He bites his lip, trying hard not to converse with her out loud. It’s not easy. Because as far as he’sconcerned,she’shere.Nexttohim.Withhim.Always.Ifanyonebothereduswecouldkillthem,hesaystoherinhismind.Yes,love.Wecoulddothat.Chiyoko’svoiceissuppleandinviting.Wecouldbealone.Wecouldbe...Happy,hethinks,finishingherthought.Nopeople,notrouble.IcouldstayrighthereifIdidn’thavetokillthePlayerswhokilledyou.IfIdidn’thavetokillthekepler.Iknow,love.ButIdo.Iknow,love.ShiverBLINKBLINKBLINK“Ido,”hesaysoutloud.“Whatwasthat?”NoriKoasks,pushingtheheadphonesfromherear.“Hmm?Oh.”Hesweepsahandoverthedashboard,indicatingthelandscape.“WasonlysayingIdolikethisplace.Soempty.”“Ah,”NoriKosays.“It’svery—”Shecutsherselfshort.“Thechannelwentdead.”Shespinsthedialthis

wayandthat,searchingmore.Shefindsnothingatfirst,butthenhearsafewstunnedvoicesinthestudio,aproducersaying,“No,no!Playtheanthem!”Followedbythefirstbarsof“MarchoftheVolunteers.”“Ithink...Ithinkit’shappened,An,”shesays.“Good,”hesays.Andhemeansit.

MACCABEEADLAI,LITTLEALICECHOPRAHotelShivam,RailwayStationRoad,Dwarka,India

MaccabeeandLittleAliceareinadarkhotelroomincentralDwarka.Maccabeesitsonthefootofthebed.LittleAliceiscurledup,herbackpressedtohisthigh,herchestrisingandfallinginsleep.Herestsahandonhershoulder.HewatchesthenewsonNDTV,whichisabouttoairalivebroadcastfromtheIndianprimeminister.Thescreenshowsnothingmore than theNDTVlogo. Itdips toblackand theIndiangovernmentalsealfadesup.Threeclockspopupinthecorner.ThefirstreadsGMT02:26:08.ThesecondreadsIST07:56:08.ThethirdreadssimplyPA000000:00:00.Theclockstick.Thenacrackleandsomevoicesandyes.Hereheis,inasparewoodenchairagainstapatternedbackdrop.Helooksstraightintothecameraandbeginsspeaking.“Friends,Indians,fellowhumans.Abaddonisdown.”TheclocklabeledPAbeginstocountforward.Maccabeeunderstands.Post-Abaddon.AnewageofhumanexistenceonplanetEarth.LittleAlicetossesinhersleep,herlipspart,hereyesdartbackandforthbeneathhereyelids.Maccabeemutesthetelevisionandshakeshergently.“Comeon,sweetie.”Hereyesbatopen.Wetanddark.Hesays,“Wehavetoleave.Now.Ifwe’relucky,we’llgettoChinabeforeanyoftheothers.”Sherubshereyes.“Okay,Uncle.”She takesoneofhis largehands.Shesmiles.Thesmileofsomeonedecadesolder.Hecan’thelpbutmarvelatthissmallcreatureyetagain.ThisSkyKeythathewillgivetothekepler.Andwhenhedoesthis,hewillbreakhispromisetoSharithathewouldtakecareofher.Becausethekeplerwillmostlikelytakeher.Andthen,whoknowswhathewilldowiththechild?Maccabeeturnsaway.Hecan’tlookherinhereyes.Shedoesn’tseemtonoticehisremorse.Shesqueezeshishandandsays,“Yes.”Andthen,“Let’sgo.”

AISLING KOPP, SHARI CHOPRA, HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT,SARAH ALOPAY, JAGO TLALOC, GREG JORDAN, GRIFFINMARRSHiddenairstripwestofLampang,Thailand

Aislingiswokenbythestaccatoburstofsmallarmscomingfromthejungle,followedimmediatelybythewailofanairhornechoingthroughthetrees.ShepopsoutofherverynicebedontheveryniceplanethatStellaleftforherandrunstothedoornearthecockpit.Sheleansoutandseestheothers—Hilal,Sarah,Jago,andShari—standingatattentionaroundasmallcampfire.Anotherburstofgunfire.“Whatwasthat?”Aislingyellstotheothers.“Thesecuritysystemhasbeenactivated,”Hilalexclaims.“Wayland’smenmusthavefollowedus.It istimetofly.Now.”Jagokicksoutthecampfireastheothersmovetowardtheirplanes,theirweaponsalreadydrawn,theirfeetalreadyrunning,theirbrainsalreadycoursingwithadrenaline.Aislingspinsinsideherplaneandyanksthedoorshut.JordanappearsrightnexttoherasMarrswhiskspastaslumberingPop,movingintothecockpit.“Gotime,”Aislingsays.“Good,”Jordansays,hiseyebrowsdrawnacrosshisforeheadinagraveandunwaveringline.Outside, Jago and Sarah sprint side by side, Sarah pulling aheadwith each step. She bounds up theirplane’sstepsandpirouettesintothecockpit,Jagorightbehindher.Heshutsthedoorandsealsitandjoinsheratthecontrols.SharifollowsHilalintotheirplaneandbothplopintotheflightseats,Shariinthecopilotchair.Aislingsitsnext toMarrs in thecockpitofherplaneandpullson theheadphones. “We’re ready,” shesays.Theirplaneisfirstinline.Marrsisalreadypullingitontotherunway.“Youareclear,Aisling,”Hilalsays.“Wewilltalktoyouatthefirstcheck-inintwenty-fourhours.”“Rogerthat,Hilal.Goodluck.”“Andtoyou.”AislingpeersoutthewindowandseesSarahatthecontrolsofherplane,herhandwhippingoffaquicksalute.AislingreturnsthegestureasMarrspushesthethrottle.Theirjetwashobliterateswhat’sleftofthesmallcampfireastheplanehurtlesforward,thejunglecanopyrushingoverheadlikeaninkyblur.AtthemidwaypointAislingseesthegatetheydrovethroughthenightbefore,itssentinelsystemgoingfullbore,

theswivel-mountedriflesflashingandsprayingbrightcasingsontotheground.Astheypass, there’sanexplosionthattakesoutoneoftheguns,butitdoesn’tmattertoAislingorMarrsorJordanbecauseafewsecondslaterthecanopybreaksopentorevealthebluesky.Astheyhit128knotsMarrspullsthestickandthenosetiltsupandtheyshootthroughaholeinthejungleandthey’refree.Sarahspinsupherenginesandsays,“Readytofly—copyback,Hilal.Youfirstorus?”“Youfirst,Sarah,”hesays,andshecan’thelpbutthinkthatevennowHilal’smannersareimpeccable.“Getonyourheadingassoonaspossible.”Jagotakesthecontrolsandtheengineshumandtheirplaneroundsontotherunway,theribbonofconcretelaidbeforethem.Heengagesthethrottleandtheaircraftjoltsforward.AstheyzippastthebreakinthetreesthatleadstotheroadtheyseelotsofmuzzleflashesandanotherexplosionandSarahcatchessightoftwomencuttingaholeinthewirefence,eachworkingfastwithboltcutters.Sarahyellsintoherheadset,“Hilal,thegunmenaregoingtomaketherunway!Irepeat,theyaregoingtomaketherunway!”Before the treesbreakoverheadJagopullsupon theflightcontrols.Their jetspitsoutof thefringeofleaveshangingover theopen endof the runway.As soon as they’re over the jungle theybankhard tostarboard.AndthenJagopullsupandpunchesthethrottleandtheyclimbfastonasteepangleandthey’refreetoo.Butthelastplane—Hilal’s—isnot.Shariyanksoffherheadset.“Getusairborne,Hilal,butdon’tgofullspeeduntilIgiveyoutheallclear.”Sheclicksoutofherseatbeltandstandsup.“Whereareyou—”“Flytheplane,Hilal!”Shariexitsthecockpitandheadstothestoreroominthetailsection,goingrightfortheguns.Shegrabsastock M4 with an extended clip and an undermounted M203 grenade launcher preloaded not withincendiariesbutwithsmokers.Thensheboundsbacktothefrontoftheplaneanddoessomethingveryinadvisablefortakingoff.Sheopensthedoor.Itflopsopenbelowher,thestepsontheinsideofthedoorwayleadingtothegroundbelow.“Whatareyoudoing?”Hilalasksaswarninglightspingacrosstheflightconsole.“Makingsurewegetoutofhere,”Sharisays,pullingthecockpitdoorshutsoshecanconcentratebetter.“Justfly!”shecommands.Hilal yells something in a language she’s never heard, but he listens. The plane lurches forward andbeginsitsturnontotherunway.Sharidropstothefloor,agustofwarmmorningaircoatingherface.Shepeersdowntherunwayandseesthefireandtheoutlinesofthreemen—no,four—takingcovernearthegate.Shesmellsthecorditefromthefirefight.Shebracesherfeetagainstthebulkheadandquicklyfiresthegrenadelauncher.Fwomp!Fwomp!Theprojectilestravelonlowarcsbeforehittinghalfwaydowntherunway,explodinginadensebluehazethatinstantlyobscuresthegate.“Go!” she yells, but Hilal doesn’t need to be told. The plane surges, the bottom of the door scrapesnoisilyalongtheconcrete,sparksflying.Theytakefire,butduetothesmokeandtheirrapidacceleration,theseshotsallmisstotheaftofthetail.Astheytrundledowntherunway,herhairstiffeninginthewind,hereyessquintingandwatering,Sharipullstheassaultrifleintohershoulder.Shelaysdowncoverfireastheplanegoesfaster,faster,faster,thebluesmokescreengettingcloser,closer,closer,andthentheyarethroughit.ThemenstandandShariholdsherbreathasshefiresthree-shotbursts,herbodypivotingastheplanepasseshertargets.Sevenquickbursts,fourofthemfindingtheirtargets.Twoheads,onechest,oneleg.Allfourmenfallandtheonewiththeleginjuryscreamsbutshecan’thearbecausethewindisso

strongnow.AfterafewmoresecondsthetreesgivewaytotheskyandHilalpullsup.Afewstrayshotscomefrombehindthemasoneofthesurvivorsfires,blindlyandpointlessly.Sharicarefullygetstoherfeet,bracingherselfinthegalleyasairwhipsaroundherandscreamsinherears.Shegrabsthetopofthedoor’shandrailandpullswithallhermight,butit’suseless.Theforceoftheairholdsitopenandshecan’tgetittoclose.Shepicksuptheclosesthandset.“Ican’tshutit!”sheyells.Hilalsayssomethingbutshecan’tunderstandhimoverthedeafeningwhineofthewind.“What?”sheasks.HesaysitagainandthentheplaneacceleratesandjerksviolentlytoportandbeforeSharicangetaholdofsomethingshe’sfallingoverandcradlingherheadandshefeelsmomentarilyweightless.Hershouldermashes into somethinghardandher rifle fliesout theopendoorand to thegreenerybelow.Theplanestraightens and she looksupbut insteadof the ceiling she sees the floor and sheunderstands.They’reinverted,flyinginanarc.Thedoorremainsopenandshe’snotsurewhatHilalisdoingorifthey’vebeenhitandhe’slostcontroloftheplane,butbeforeshecanthinkaboutanyofthistheplaneflopsoverandissuddenlyright-sideup.Thedoorobeys the lawsofphysicsandhingesshutwitha loudclapandSharidoesn’twasteasecondasshespringstoherfeetandgrabstheleverandpushesithardintotheclosedposition.Sharispitshairoutofhermouth.Hershoulderstings.Shesmiles.“Itworked?”Hilalasksfrombehindthecockpitdoor.“Yes,Hilal!”Shefallstoherbottomandsitsthereandbeginstolaugh.Theplanepitchesupandacceleratesmore.Itworked.Theyarefreetoo.TheycanPlaythewaytheywant.TheycangoandfindLittleAliceChopra.

51.397742,84.676206i

KEPLER22BAnsible chamber on board Seedrak Sare’en, active geosynchronous orbit above theMartian North

Pole

Hesitsinthechairagain.Thedarkroompinprickstolifeandgrowsincrediblycold,thenglowsbrightly.HisbrothersandsistersontheHeedrakmothership,morethan600light-yearsaway,surroundhimonallsides.Fivemen,sixwomen.The11members of the conclave speak as one entity. Sentences start in onemouth and are finished inanother. This is the way his people communicate when they are near one another. Unfortunately, theansibletransmitssightandsoundbutnotthought,sointhischamberit’slikereceivingonlypartofwhat’sbeingsaid.Thiscutsintheirdirectiontoo—theycannothearhisthoughtseither,andallstruggleagainstthis.He takes their voices in—drinks in their tones and timbres—as they go around the room with theirobligatory salutations. Their speech—low resonant warbles punctuated by high-pitched coos andrhythmicclicks—islikemusicinhisears.ItisfarmoregraciousthanEarthhumanspeak,andheiseagerfor thedaywhenhecan sit amonghisownkindandbewoven intodiscussionswithboth thoughtandvocalization.HisNethinimareserviceabletelepaths,andhehashadmanyfineconversationswiththem,butasmutes they lack theability toconveynuanceandfeeling through theirvoices.Conversing inonemode—eitherpurelythroughspeech,aswiththeconclave,orpurelythroughthought,aswithhisNethinim—islikespeakingwithhalfhisvocabulary.Oncethesalutationsareover,theyturntothebusinessathand.Theconclavesays,“Giveusthenews,Sare’enGamerunner.”“Theasteroidhasimpacted,”hesays.“TheNabataeanPlayerisclosetopresentingthethreekeysattheShangmonument.We are confident that completion of this game is imminent.” He speaks in the firstpersonplural,asistheircustom.“Wereanyprimarymonumentsdestroyedafterimpact?”“Unluckily,theMinoanwaslosttoastraybolideaccompanyingAbaddon,andtherearesomefluctuationsattheOlmecmonument.Wearemonitoringthis.Wemayloseitaswell.”“Pity.Butwemerelyneedoneforthegametoend.WhatoftheotherPlayers?”“Mosthavebanded.It isourbeliefthattheywishtostopEndgamefromprogressing.TheShangPlays,though.HealonechasestheNabataeanPlayerinpursuitofthekeys.”“Haveweconsidereddirectintervention?”“Wehavenotasyet,butitisanoption.”“Wemayorderyoutopursuethisoption.Tellus,whoisdestroyingthemonuments?”“Thisisourmainconcern,Heedrak.Theyarepeopleloyaltotheoldmemberofourrace.Theoneweabandonedsolongago.”“Ea?”

“Yes.”“ButyoupreviouslyreportedthattheAksumitekilledhim.”“Wedid,andthisistrue.Buthisbrotherhoodliveson.Andtheyarenotpleased.Asyouknow,EadidnotwishforEndgametooccur.His loyalistsaretryingtocarryoninhisabsence.Theyaretrying, intheirowncrudeway,tostopwhathasbegun.”“Thisbrotherhoodcannotsucceed.Arewetrackingthem?”“Yes,butAbaddonhasseverelystressedEarth’ssurveillancesystems.Wewillnotbeabletofollowtheirmovements as easily.Having said that,we surmised that after destroying theHarappanmonument theywereoncoursefortheDonghumonument.”“Weareconcerned.”“Weareaswell.”“Wehaveanotion.Weencourageyoutofollowit.”“Whatisthisnotion?”“Itwouldrequire twothings.Thefirst is thatwechannelSkyKeyassoonaswecan.Inorder tohelpspeedtheNabataeanalong.”“Andthesecond?”“ThattheNethinimonyourSeedrakdescendtothesurfaceforabrieftime.”“Todowhat?”“Tostopthisbrotherhood.”“TheycangotoMongoliaanddothisassoonasoursessionends.”kepler22bhalfrisesoutofhischair.“Wait.OneNethinimcandothisinMongolia.TheotheronemustgototheCahokianmonument.”kepler22bsitsbackdown.Hefrowns.“Why?”“Weleftanobjecttherealongtimeago.Wehavenevertoldyouaboutit.Youneedtoknowaboutitnow,though.Thisthingcouldbedangeroustous.”kepler 22b leans forward, intrigued. “I am listening,” he says, intentionally using the first person toindicatehishighlevelofinterest.“Please.Dogoon.”

MACCABEEADLAI,LITTLEALICECHOPRABoeing737,enroutefromAhmedabadtoXi’an,China,crossing90˚E

Maccabeesitsinafirstclassseat,LittleAliceawakeandsilentnexttohim,inanotherwiseemptyAirChina 737.Therewere precious few flights after the impact, but he’d found one persuadableChinesepilotinAhmedabadwillingtotakethemtoXi’an,andallMaccabeehadhadtogivehimwas$300,000worthofgold.Abargain,ifitwillguaranteethathewinsEndgame.They flynorth andeast.A laptop sitson the large fold-out table afforded to all first classpassengers.LittleAlice’shandrestsonhisthigh.Hishandrestsonhers.Thistendernessalmostmakeshimsick.Hehasn’tspentmorethanafewdayswiththisgirl,butsheissofragile,andtheforcesthathavemadeherimportanttoEndgameseemsocraven,thathecannothelpbutcareforher.Andhethinksthat,despiteeverything,shecaresforhimtoo.Whatwillbewillbe.Maccabee opens and closes a fewwindows on his laptop. The hard drive he took from the drone inDwarkaishookeduptoit.Helooksfromthegirltotheclockinthecornerofthecomputerscreenandthenoutthewindow.Theflightishalfwayover.TheyhavecrossedtheHimalayas.The sky outside is unlike any he’s seen. They’re cruising at over 40,000 feet. Sooty, gray clouds areeverywhere.Thedarkbluearcoftheupperatmospherestretchesabovetheaircraft,butthehorizonisanoddgradientthat,movingfromtoptobottom,goesfrombluetowhitetobrowntoorangetothegrayflooroftheclouds.Theairisthickandpoisonouslooking.ThisisthefirstsignhehasseenofAbaddon.Soon,heassumes,sootwillblankettheearth.Winterwillcome,anditwillstayforalongtime.But he is not too concerned about this. He’s too excited. He can barely contain his anticipation. Hishappiness.Heissoclosetowinning.He turnsback to the computer.He types away.He’s accessed the innardsof thedrive, findingcuriousthings.Vestigesofnamesandorganizations.Instructions.Locations.Timelines.Names.Ea.Rima.Stella.Listsofcoordinatelocations.AnorganizationcalledtheBrotherhoodoftheSnake.“Whoarethey?”hewondersoutloud,notexpectingLittleAlicetosayanything.Butshedoes.“TheyarepeoplewhowanttostopEndgame.Whowanttostopus.”“That’swhytheyblewuptheHarappantemple?”“Yes.Andno.”

“Idon’tunderstand.SunKeywasthere,wasn’tit?”“Itwouldhavebeenifyou’dreachedthetemple’sstarchamber,butasyoudidn’t,itwasnotthere.SunKeyissafe.”“Howdoyouknowthis,LittleAlice?”“IamnotLittleAlice.Notrightnow.Iamkepler22b.”“kepler22b?”Her face snaps to him andher black eyebrows rise but otherwise shemaintains her blank expression.“Yes.Andno.IammostlyLittleAlice,daughteroftheHarappanPlayer.ButIcanalsospeakaskepler22batcertainlocationsonEarth.Weareridingalongtheninetietheasternmeridianrightnow.Thisisonesuchlocation,Nabataean.”Maccabee’sheartquickens.“Wherearewegoing?”“Thegirlknowsallof the locationswherewecanconcludeEndgame.Thenextclosest isnearXi’an,China.”“SunKeywillbethere?”“Yes.SunKeyisalwaysmoving,Player.Itisnotmerelyonething,andnotmerelyinoneplace.”“Ithasaquantumcomponent?”“YouwillfindoutwhenyoureachEmperorZhao’sburialtemple,Nabataean.”“It’llmaterializewhenIgetthere,then?”LittleAlice/kepler 22b tilts her head. “In amanner of speaking. Patience,Nabataean. Endgame is thepuzzleoflife,andthereasonfordeath.YouwillseewhenyoureachtheShangtemple.”Pause.Maccabeeasks,“WillotherPlayersbethere?”SkyKeyfrownsasifshe’stryingtopeerthroughamist.“Uncertain.Butyoushouldbeprepared.”Maccabeeactuallylaughsatthisone.“IamaPlayerofEndgame,”hesaysbywayofexplanation.“Good.”“Onemorequestion.”“Yes?”“Thegirl—what’llhappentoher?Willyou...hurther?”“No.”Maccabeebreathesasighofrelief.“I’mgladforthatatlea—”ButLittleAlice/kepler22bcutshimoff.“Herdeathwillbepainless,Nabataean.Infact,she’llbarelybeawareofitatall.”Maccabeeexpertlyhideshisemotions—shock,anger,disgust,guilt—whenhesays,“Good.”“Youaremovingoffthemeridian,Nabataean.Donottarrywhenyouland.Gotothetemple.Findthestarchamberwithin.Calltomeandclaimyourprize.WinEndgame.Foryouandforyourline.”AndthentheplanebumpsoverapatchofroughairandLittleAlice’sfacegoesslackandsheblinksfourtimes.Herheadcockstotheside.Maccabeeholdshissteelyexpression,afraidthattheMakercanstillseehim.HeonlyrelaxeswhenAlicesays,“Whatisit,Uncle?”kepler22bisgone.“Nothing,Alice.”Heturnsawayinshameandreachesforabagofchips.“Hungry?”Sheshakesherhead.“No.Thirsty.”“Letmegetyousomething.”Hestandsandwalkspasther.“Whatdoyouwant?”“Chaiiftheyhaveit.”Shewrapsherarmsaroundapillow.Herwristsarechubbywithbabyfat.Hesmilesweakly.“I’msuretheydo.I’llmakeitspecialforyou.”

“Thankyou,Uncle.”Hewalkstothegalley.Hehasneverfeltmoreemptyorfullofself-hateinhislife.Iamsorry,ShariChopra.Ilied.Icannotprotectyourdaughter.Notfromhim.Notattheend.ThisisEndgame.

ANLIU,NORIKO

G310NationalRoad,313kmwestofXi’an,China

NoriKodrives.AnLiuliesintherearseat,keepingoutofsight.HecradleshisBerettarifleandNobuyuki’skatana.HisfingertipsgraceChiyoko’shair.It’smiddaybuttheskyisdarkandcoveredwithponderousclouds.Lightrainlashesthewindshield.Thewipersdance.Thetireshiss.BLINKSHIVERBLINK.“HowwillIfindyourmurderersnow,Chiyoko?”HewhisperssothatNoriKowon’thear.Patience,Chiyokoanswers.Theywillshowthemselves.Hestaresatthewatchonhiswrist.ThesameonethatusedtobelongtoChiyoko.Theblip-blipmarkingJagoTlalocwastheretwodaysearlier.ButasheandNoriKodrovethroughthebleakdesertofwesternChina,astheOlmecmovedovernorthernSaskatchewan,hedisappearedinapoofandhasn’tcomeback.Dead?Crashed?Shotdown?Didhefinallyremovethetracker?Hebetternotbedead.Ineedtobetheonetokillhim.Heisn’t,love.“Hebetternotbe.”“What’sthat?”NoriKoasks,anunlitGoldenBatcigarettedanglingfromherlips.SheknowsbynowthatAnhatesthesmoke,soshe’srefrainedfromlightingup.“Nothing,”hesays.“Yousaidsomething.”“IsaidthatMaccabeebetternot”—blinkBLINKshiver—“betternotgettherebeforeus.”NoriKoswipesataphonemountedonthedashboard.Amappopsup,trackingtheirlocationfaithfully.Shesmiles,pleasedthatthingsstillfunctiononthissideoftheplanet.AbaddontriggeredafewseriousearthquakesontheKazakhborder,buttheydidn’tbuckleorrendanyoftheroadsAnandNoriKohavetaken.Shecanonlyimaginewhat’shappenedintheUnitedStates—didtheSanAndreasfinallytrip?DidtheMid-AtlanticRidgebuckleandrage?Istherainfallingtherepoisonousandacidic?Shedoesn’tknowandshedoesn’twanttoknow.Becausethatsideoftheworldisscrewed.They’vedrivennonstop sinceKolkata, taking turns in six-hour shifts.The car stinksofbodyodor andsocks and empty food containers. She inhales sharply, enjoying the sweet smell of the unlit cigarettebelowhernostrils.“We’llfindoutabouttheNabataeansoonenough.Lessthanfourhourstogo.”“Good,” An says. He runs a finger over Chiyoko’s hair, and then over the cool metal of his rifle’sreceiver.Patience,love,Chiyokosaysagain.They drive in silence. An listens to the rain and the wind. He listens to his heartbeat. He listens toChiyoko huma traditional Japanese song he can’t recall ever hearing before.When she is finished he

whispers,“Thatwasnice.”Thankyou.NoriKosays,“Ihaveaquestion.”“Yes?”“If—when—wegetthethreekeysandyouseetheMakeragain,howareyouplanningonkillingit?”Andoesn’thesitatetoanswer.“You’venoticedthemetalboxintheback?”“Yes.”“Ithasasuicidevestinit.”“Dirty?”“More.”BLINKSHIVERBLINKBLINK.“Nuclear.”“Ah.TheMakershouldn’tbeabletosurviveapoint-blankexplosionthatbig.”“No.EvenIhavefaithinsomethings.”“TheChurchofImmaculateDemolition.”Ancracksasmilebutdoesn’tlaugh.“That’sright.IPlayfordeath.”“AndIdotoo,”shesays.“Iknow,”hesays.Theydon’ttalkforaquarterhour.Theroadismostlystraighthere,butthentheyroundaturnandNoriKotapsthebrakes.“Shit.Checkpoint.Abouthalfakilometer.”Anthrustshisheadnexttohers.“Howmany?”NoriKosquints.“Fourcars.Atleastasmanyofficers.”“Policeorarmy?”“Lookslikepolice.”ShedownshiftstheDefender.“You’llhavetohideundersomething.”Anclimbsintothepassengerseat.“No,Iwon’t.”Hecountsfive—no,six—officers.Allstandingaroundinslickraingear.They lookbored.One isonaradio.Twootherssmoke, theirhandscuppedover theorange ends of their cigarettes.One officer looks up, throws his cigarette to the ground,moves to thecenteroftheroad.Wavesahandbackandforthdemonstratively.Anflipsopenthepanelonthedashboardthathidesthecar’sgrenadelauncher.Hepressestheleftbuttonandslideshisfingersover thepistolgrip.Hegrabs thesteeringwheelwithhisotherhandandjerks itfromNoriKo.“Hey!”sheprotests.Thecarsnapsleft.Anpullsthetrigger.Hereleasesthewheelasawhitearctracesforward, the projectile clanking into one of the police cars and then rolling in a tight spiral on thepavement.Thecopsscatterastheyanticipatetheexplosion,buttheoneinthemiddleoftheroadplantshislegsanddrawshispistolandbeginsfiring.“Speedup,”Ansayscalmly,theslugsglancingoffthebulletproofglass,noneofthemhittingthewipersthatswishbackandforth.NoriKodoesasshe’stold.Thegrenadegoesoff.Butitdoesn’texplodeinaballoffireliketheoneinKolkata.Insteaditlightsupbrightlyandfallsopenandthepolicecars’twirlingcherrylightsgoout.Infact,allofthecars’lightsgoout—thewhiteheadlamps,theredtaillights,theyellowparkinglights.“EMP?”NoriKoasks.Andoesn’tsayanything,butNoriKoseeshisheadsnapintheaffirmative.NoriKochuckles.“Isupposetheywon’tbecallingforbackup,then.”“No,”Ansays.“Theywon’t.”Thepolicepeekfrombehindcover.TheDefenderisn’tmorethan100metersaway.Anopenshiswindow.Airrushesin.“Slowdown,”hesaysoverthesoundofthewetroad.

HecasuallyhoiststheBerettatohisshoulderandsticksitoutside.Rainsplashesontotheweaponandhisarm.Heaimsquicklyandpullsthetrigger.Acasingsailsintohislap,apoliceofficertwirlsandfalls,thebackofhisheadgone.ThecopinthecenteroftheroadadjustshisaimtogetabeadonAn,butNoriKoturnsslightlysothefrontofthecarshieldstheShang.Anfiresthreemoretimesatthescramblingofficers,andthreemoreofficersdie.Theonlycopsleftaretheoneintheroadandanotherwho’sabandoningherpost,runningasfastasshecansouthacrossafieldofwaist-highgrass.“Stop,”Ansays.NoriKohitsthebrakes.TheDefenderswings90degrees,rockingtoahaltandstraddlingthecenterlineoftheroad.Theofficerfiresatwill,aimingdirectlyforNoriKo’sstoicface.Heemptieshismagazineintotheglass,notunderstandingwhyhisbulletsaren’tdoinganything.NoriKoalmostfeelssorryforhim.AnexitsontheshelteredsideoftheDefender,rifleinhand.Hedropstothegroundand,shootingbelowtheundercarriage,letsoffaburst.Thebulletshitthemanabovehisfeet.Hefallsintoaheap,screaming,reachingforhisshreddedankles.Hishandscomeupsoakingred.NoriKoshakesherhead.WhataPlayer,shethinks.Answingshisrifletothefield.Thefleeingofficerisabout50metersaway,theswayinggrassaboveherhips.Atorsoandaheadandpumpingfistsbobbingupanddown,upanddown.Aliveandscared.Fool,Anthinks.Sheshoulddropandhideamongthegreenery.Butfearcloudshermindandsherunsinstead.Heflipsopenthescope’scovers.Sightsthroughit.Tuckstherifleintohisshoulder.Shemovesinandoutofthecrosshair.Heexhales.Lethergo,Chiyokosays.ASHIVERrattleshisstomachbutdoesn’triseintohisarmsorhands.Hiseyeisunblinking.Hepressesthetrigger.Theofficeristhrownforwardwiththeshot.Abloodymistpopsintherainlikeafireworkandtheniswashedaway.Noonegetsaway,Anthinks.Heturnstothedownedofficerintheroad.Walksforward.NoriKoputstheDefenderinfirstandcreepsalong.Anreachestheofficer,afresh-facedyoungmannotmucholderthanheis.Theofficer’smouthisdrawnshutinatightline.Hiseyesareredandfullofanger.Hiseyelashesareclumpedtogetherfromrainandtears.Themanspits,butthegobofphlegmmissesAn’spantlegandlandsinapuddle.Ansmiles.Heplacesthemuzzleontheman’sforehead.Theskinturnspinkaroundthemetal.Waterrunsdownthebarrelandontoflesh.“You!”themansays.“Yes.”NoriKohonksthehorn.“Comeon!”shecallsfrominsidetheDefender.“They’llfindyou,”themansays.“No,theywon’t.”“Iseeyou.Someoneelsewilltoo.They’llfindyouand—”Thefinalshotringsoverthecountryside.NoriKohonksagain.Angetsinandtheyleave.NoriKowantstolightthecigarette,andbadly.Screwit,shethinks.Shedigsinherpocketandpullsoutalighter and flicks it on and holds it to her sweet-smelling Golden Bat. Her cheeks glow orange. Shesmokesnoisily,makingashowofenjoyingit.“Openyourwindow,”Ansays,butNoriKoalreadyis.Freshairwhisksthesmokeaway.“CanwetakebackroadstoZhao’spyramid?”Anasks,releasingtheBeretta’smagazineandcheckingit.

“I think so,”NoriKo answers, swiping at her phone’smaponcemore, trying to hide that her hand isshaking.“Good.”Anopenstheglovecompartmentandtakesoutaboxofammunition.Hesnapsnewroundsintothecartridgeoneatatime.Click,click,click.“I don’twant anymore of that today.”He holds a single brass-colored round between his thumb andforefinger.“IwanttosavethesefortheNabataean.”Hepushesitintoplace.Click.“Hebetternotbetherebeforeus,NoriKo.”Andsheunderstandsperfectly.Becauseifheis,thenAnLiuisgoingtotrytokillmetoo.Shetakesanotherpulloffthecigarette.Sheblowsthebluesmokeoutofthesideofhermouth,aimingitatAn.Shesays,“Don’tworry.Hewon’tbe.”

SARAHALOPAY,JAGOTLALOC

EnroutetoMonksMound,Collinsville,Illinois,UnitedStates

SarahandJagoflyoutofThailandonaninitialheadingof009˚35'26".Afterdouble-checkingtomakesuretheirplanedidn’tgethitduringtakeoff,theyspoketoHilalandShariandAislingtomakesuretheygot away safely too.Theydid.They synchronized theirwatches toZulu timeand reiteratedwhen theywouldcheckbackin.Theywishedoneanothergoodluckandsaidgood-byeandthatwasit.Foratleastthenexttwoorthreedays,SarahandJagowillbeontheirown.Andtheycouldn’tbehappier.They pass over Laos, China, Mongolia, Russia. The Asian air is empty of other aircraft and, in theimmediate aftermath ofAbaddon, still normal-looking.They enjoy clear skies andunlimited visibility.They encounter very little turbulence and virtually no communication from ground controllers, all ofwhomacceptJordan’stop-secretclearancecodeswithoutquestion.Theirheadingturnseasterlyasnighttimesettlesin.TheytraceovertheArcticOceanandseesignsoflifeonthesurfacebelow—theorangetwinkleoffar-flungSiberiansettlementsandthewhiteglowofshipsplyingthecold,darkwaters.Signsthatthingsperhapsarenotsobadonthesurfacebelow.BothPlayersrememberthatnightattheCalling,whenkepler22bshowedthemanimageofascarredandravagedEarth,promisingthatthiswaswhattheirplanetwouldlooklikeattheconclusionofEndgame.AndbothPlayersthink:Maybe,justmaybe,Abaddonwon’tbethatbad.Maybethekeplerwaswrong.Theplane’snavigation systemworksas it’smeant to—meaning that theGPSsatellitesorbiting20,000milesaboveEarthhaven’tbeensweptawaybytheasteroid—soninehoursintotheflighttheyactivatetheautopilotandgotothespaciouscabin.Thechairsarehuge.Thetablesarewide.Thebathroomisstately,there’snootherwordforit.And,bestofall,there’sabed.Sarahisexhaustedandteemingwithnerves,butshealsowantstofeelwhatit’sliketoforget.Jagowantsittoo.Theystandshouldertoshoulderandhandinhand,staringatthebedcoversforafewmoments.“Actionoroblivion,”shewhispers, lacingher fingers intohis.“Thoseare theonly things Iwantnow,Jago.TostopEndgame,ortohavemymemorywipedclean.”Hewrapsanarmoverhershoulder.Hislipstouchthecurlofherearashewhispers,“Icouldsaymaybethecheesiestbedroomlineeverrightnow,Alopay.”“What’sthat?”sheaskscoyly.“Ican’t.Itwouldruinthemood,whatlittlethereis.”He helps her out of her shirt and peels her legs out of her jeans and she sighswhen he inexplicablyfumbleswithherbra’sclaspandthenhetakesoffhisownclothingeagerlyandclumsilyandsheseeshowyounghereallyis,howyoungsheis,howforalltheirexperience—witheachother,andJago’swithotherwomen,andherswithChristopher—evenwithalltheyknowabouttheworldandtheirbodiesandtheirphysical limits,sheseesandshefeelsandsheknowsjusthowyoungtheyare,andhowfoolish.Whilehe’sontopofher,beingcarefulofherarm,anddeliberatewithhismovements,whileshe’senjoyingtheattentionandthesensationandfulfillmentofherimmediatedesire,sherealizeswhyitisthatthePlayers

arerequiredtobeyoung.Untilthenshethoughtitwassotheycouldhavelongleadershipsastheyhelpedtoguideandrepopulateabrokenplanet,but thereal reasonmustbebecauseonlyyoungpeoplearesosure of themselves and sowillfully foolish.Especially the youngPlayers ofEndgame,who are taughtfromthebeginningthatthey’respecial—no,unique—asifalloftheirreceivedwisdomandtrainingcouldwringtheirfoolishnessoutof them.ButnowSarahsees thatreally, it’s theirfoolishness that isexactlywhat’sbeingcounteduponbytheperpetratorsofEndgame.Shewonders if theMakerswere likewiseasfoolishatsomepoint in theircognitivedevelopment.Shewondersiftruewisdomrunsthroughtheirveinsnow.Becauseforallofherownfoolishness—whichledher to kill Christopher,which allowed her to believe that shewas responsible for findingEarthKey,whichdrovehersoquickly intoJago’sarms—shealsosees inherheart somewisdom.Baitsakhan,hewas foolish. But he was also 13. Jago, Hilal, Aisling, Shari—probably Chiyoko too—these are notfoolishpeople.Notnecessarilywise,butnotonlyfoolish,andeachofthemisproofthattheMakershavemiscalculated.MaybetheyshouldhavestartedEndgamesooner.Shewondersifkepler22bthinkssomethingsimilar.ShewondersifhemightpossiblybeworriedaboutwhetherEndgamewillgothewayhewantsittogo.Thesethoughtsflythroughhermindinrapidsuccession,butthensherefocusesonJago.Shekisseshimfullyandclumsilyandtugsathislowerlipwithherteeth.Jago,whoissohumanlyunprettyandsostrongandalsosotender.Hekissesback,andkeepsmoving,andwithinmomentsshe’sgone.Thereitis.Oblivion.Sweet,sweetoblivion.Shestaysgone—theystaygone—untilthey’refinished.Probablynotmorethanafewminutes,butwhilethey’rethereitfeelsstretchedoutandall-encompassingandtimeless.Afterwardshepullsasheetovertheirbodiesandshefallsintoadeepsleep.She’sshakenawakeastheplanepassesthroughsomeroughchopandJagositsboltupright.Sherubshereyes.“HowlongwasIout?”“Notverylong.Maybeanhour.”“Yousleepatall?”“Mmm,no.”Theplane flies smoothlyagainandhe liesbackdown.“Mainly Iwasdoingmorecheesythings.”“Like?”“Watchingyou.”“Creepy.”“Sí.”Pause.“Whatwereyougoingtosaybefore?”“¿Cuándo?”“Before.Thebedroomline.”“Ah.Iwasgoingtosay,‘Icangiveyouactionandoblivion,SarahAlopay.’”“Supercreepy!”He shrugs. “Would’ve said it in Spanish at least. ‘Yo puedo dar accióny olvido.’ Everything soundsbetterinSpanish.”Shepushesherhipintohisthigh.“Yeah,itdoes.”Theplanejostlesagainbutthistimeitdoesn’tstop.JagoboundsoutofbedinaT-shirtandunderwear

and zips to the cockpit. Sarahgoes to thebathroom.Shehas to holdonto thehandle as shepees.Sheremovesarobefromahookandpullsitoverhershoulders,keepingherinjuredarmunderneaththeplushterrycloth. She works her way through the cabin, her good hand grasping for things to help her stayupright.When she reaches the cockpit she plops into the copilot chair and buckles in, shoulder beltsincluded.Whatemergesinthedistanceisbewildering.They’rewellover3,000milesawayfromtheeasternUnitedStates,butitdoesn’tmatter.It’sthere.Abaddonisasbadaskepler22bsaiditwouldbe.There is no horizon in the east. The entire expanse from top to bottom is black, like a hole punchedthrough the sky and earth. The only light comes from high-altitude lightning flashing constantly andeverywhereoverthereachesofCanada,andwhileit’sawaysoff,they’regoingtobeflyingthroughthisstormsoon.“It’s going to get rough,” Jago says, flicking switches and punching commands into the touch screen,disablingtheautopilot.“Iknow.Wecanhandleit.”For the next several hours they fly through or over a succession of terrible storms, each growing inintensity.They stay in thecockpit anddon’t sleepas theywhite-knuckle it acrossCanada.SomewhereoverSaskatchewantheylosecontactwiththeexternalGPSsystemsandareforcedtoflybyinstrumentsalone, hoping that by the time they reach the small airport Hilalmarked for them, everythingwill beworking again, otherwise they’re not sure they’ll be able to find it.As they cross theUS border theymanagetoreconnecttothesatellitesoverhead,butfortherestoftheflightthisconnectionremainserraticandunreliable.Theygeta fewautomatedpingsfromgroundcontrolsystemsinNorthDakota,and theyanswer thesewith Jordan’s codes, but otherwise they have no indication that anyone on the ground istrackingorevenawareofthem.Dawnarrivesbutthesundoesnot.Theskybarelybrightens.Alittlelightleaksthroughthegasandashdirectlyoverhead,butotherwise it’sas if theworldhasbeendipped insmoky ink.Sarahexpected theeasternsideofthecountrytobelikethisbutnotthewesterntoo,andforawhileneithershenorJagocanfigureoutwhyit’shappening.ThejetstreamshouldbeblowingeverythingAbaddonhaskickedupovertheAtlantic,notovertheplains.Andthen,somewhereoverNebraska,theyunderstand.The plane flies into a pocket of decent visibility, andwhen they lookwest they see the contours of amassiveplumeofash, severalhundredmilesacross,billowingfromtheRockies like it’sbeingventedfromthedepthsofhell.Theplumerisessohighthatitlooksasifitreachesintospaceitself.Everynowand then crooked streaksof blue andpurple lightningweb through it, or theplumeglowswith a fieryorangelightthat’squicklysnuffedout.“TheYellowstoneCaldera,”Sarahsays.“Itblew.JesusChrist, it fuckingblew.”SheturnstoJago,herfacepale.“Myfamily’sdowntheresomewhere,Feo.”“Countlessotherfamiliesarerelyingonusrightnow,Sarah.”Sheignoresthis.“Iwanttoseethem.”“Youcan’t.Notyet.”Shealmostprotests—theywenttohisfamily,didn’tthey?—buthe’sright.Theycan’ttakeadetour.Actionoroblivion,shethinks.RunningtoMomandDadisneither.“Allright,butIdowanttoseethemeventually.”Jagocan’targuewiththat.

Her thoughtsofhomeare interruptedwhen theirvisibility returns to zeroand they slam intoawallofturbulentairthatlaststherestofNebraska.ThejostlingreachesacrescendooveracornerofKansasthatthrowstheplane20feetinalldirectionsoverseveralminutes.TheairsettlesagainoverMissouri,whichtheypassoverata relatively low25,000 feet, flyingunderahigh-altitudestormandovera low-slungbankofashcarriedon thewind.Not since the farnorthofCanadahave theyseen theground.As theyapproach the smallCreveCoeurAirport near St. Louis, Jago puts the plane into a virtual dive to getbelow2,000feet,tryingtokeeptheengineintakesfromjammingfullofparticulate.CommunicationwiththeGPSsystemisblessedlyfunctioningandtheyfindtheairport—reallynothingmorethanarunwayandanarrayofprivatehangars—tobecompletelyempty.Theytouchdownatalittleafter11a.m.localtime,and as they taxi to the hangar Hilal marked for them, the plane’s tires cut through a thin layer ofYellowstoneashthatcoatseverything.Thewindshieldwipersswishbackandforth,pushingthestufftothesideandmakingstreaksontheglass.Thesunisnearlyatitszenith,buttheskyisstuckinaconstantstateofduskytwilight,andwiththeexceptionof theairstrip’semergencylighting, includingthatontherunway,nearlyallpowerintheareaappearstobeout.After a couple hours spent getting the plane inside and packing bags with weapons and supplies andchanging clothes and putting on respirators and goggles and firing up a vintageHarley-DavidsonXLSRoadster,theyhittheroad.Theydon’tbotherwithhelmets.Nopoint.Notlikeanyone’sgoingtopullthemoverandwritethematicket.There are hardly any vehicles moving around. Sarah guesses that the blast from Abaddon, whiledevastating to large areasof the eastern seaboard, had the added effect ofwashing at least half of thecountry inagiantelectromagneticpulse, fryingnearlyeverycircuiteastof theMississippi.Andshe iscorrect.Thisiswhynoone’soutdrivingaround—theircarssimplydon’twork.Themotorcycleworksbecauseitsengineispurelymechanical—includingitskick-starter.Astheytaketheirrideandbegintogetaground’s-eyeviewofwhatAbaddonhaswrought—evenoverathousandmilesawaywayfromthepointofimpact—itdawnsonSarahthatifpeoplecouldgosomewhere,theywouldn’tknowwheretogo.Mostof themmustbeholedupathome, takingstockof food,water,batteries, fuel,clothing,pets, livestock,and,thisbeingAmerica,gunsandammunition.Peoplearehunkeringdownandwaiting,tryingtogetnewsfromtheradioorneighborsorwhateverauthorityfiguretheycanfind.Peoplearescared.Sittingonthebackofthebikeandusingapapermap,SarahnavigatesthemaroundSt.Louistothenorth,crossingtheMississippiRiveronacompletelydeadI-270,whichcutsoverChouteauIsland.Thefour-lanehighway ispepperedwithderelict cars, abandoned rightwhere theydied.Manyhave their doorsopen.Manyoverflowwithpersonalitemsandthingsthatwillsoonbethoughtofassupplies.Mightaswellbezombiesouthere,shethinksastheymotorovertheshortcausewayintoIllinois.AfterashortrideontheIllinoissideSarahsqueezesJagowithherlegsandtheyexitthehighway,takinglocalroadsthatwindeastandsouth.MonksMoundisveryclose.Sheseesitonthemap,butmorethanthatshefeelsitinherskin.TheyturnontoHorseshoeLakeRoad.Jagogoesrightdownthedoubleyellowline.Nocars,abandonedorotherwise.Awallofhardwoodsandpowerlinesontheirright.Agrasstractontheirleftabuttedbyaline ofmodest two-story homes.A few people run into their houseswhen they hear the prattle of themotorcycleengine.Onemandoesn’trun.Hehasalonghuntingrifle,thebuttparkedonhiship.Hewavesthemdown.Jagobrakestoastop.Sarahpullstherespiratorfromherface.“Needanyhelp,mister?”sheyells.“SureIdo!Canyoucleartheskiesandturnthepowerbackon?”

“WishIcould.”“Yeah,well...Iwasflaggingyou’causeyouprobablyshouldn’tgothatway,lessyouwanttrouble.”Sarahrunsafingeroverhermap,scanningitforthenameofanearbytown.“Unfortunatelywehavetogothatway.GotabigsisteroverinShilohwithtwolittleones,”Sarahlies.“Haven’theardfromhersincebefore.Needtomakesurethey’reallright.”“Ihearyou,then.Youknowwhereall thisashiscomingfrom,bytheway?Ain’tnothingontheradio.Can’tbethatAbaddon,canit?”“Nah. I heard thatYellowstone blew up.Abaddon probably triggered it or something. There’s a hugevolcanounderthere.”“Yellowstone?OldFaithfulYellowstone?”“That’stheone.”He runs a hand through his hair a couple times, clearly distressed. “Goddamn. Imean, I know this isIllinoisandall,butweain’tinKansasanymore,arewe,miss?”Sarahnearlylaughs.She’shappytobehome,ifonlyforashortvisit.“No,we’renot.”Jagosaysquietly,“What’shemean?”“I’llexplainlater,”Sarahsays.Themansays,“Well,becarefuloutthere,youtwo.”Heleanstothesideandsquints,eyeingthepistolsontheirwaistsandtherifle-shapedduffelsstrappedtotheirbike.Hesayssomethingtohimself thatSarahcan’thear,butshecanreadhislips:“Lookslikeyou’rebeingcareful.”“Wewill,mister.Youtoo.”TheywavetooneanotherandSarahandJagotakeoff.Butnotmorethanhalfamileawaytheystopagain.AblackFordpolicecruiserisditchedontherightsideoftheroad.Itsfrontdoorsandtrunkareopen.Thecommunicationsconsolemountedtothedashboardisshottopieces,probablybyashotgunblast.Butfarmoredisturbingisthetautropethatleadsfromunderthecar’srearbumper,anglingtowardthecrossbeamofanearby telephonepole,andover it, to the lifelessbodyofauniformedcophanged15 feetabove.Theycan’tseehisface.He’smissinghisshoes,andablacksockisbunchedaroundthearchofhisrightfoot.Hisgunholsterisempty.Hishandsarepurple.Oneisclenchedinafist.Jago bounds off the bike to inspect the car. Sarah slides forward in the saddle and draws her pistol.“Nada,”Jagosays.“Weaponsaregone.Handcuffs,ammo,pepperspray,allofit.”Shestaresatthedeadman.“Badomen,huh?”“Badforhim,anyway.”“Yeah.Weshouldcuthimdown.”Jagorummagesthroughthetrunk.“There’satarpinhere.Wecouldcoverhim,no?”Theyworktogethertogethimonthegroundandlaidoutandcoveredatthebaseofthetelephonepole,which takes on the double purpose of a grave marker. Sarah makes sure to close his swollen andbloodshoteyesbefore laying the tarpoverhim.She laysstonesaround itsedge tokeep thewind fromblowingitoff.ShesaysaquietprayerforhiminheroldCahokiantongue.Theycarryon.TheyturnrightontoBrunsRoad,ameagerstripoffrost-heavedasphalt,andheadsouth.Thelandisflatanddark,theroadstraight.Thesoybeanplantsoneithersideoftheroadare,likeeverything,coveredinathin layerofvolcanicash.Theypassafarmhouseandahugewillowtree.They turnrightontoanotherfarmroadandthenleft.Thelandbeginstoroll.Moretrees.Sarahlooksathermap.Closernow.Theroadpassesover I-55/I-70.Theyseemoreabandonedvehicleson thehighway.Onecarcreepsalong in thedistance,itsyellowhazardsflashinganditsheadlightscuttingeeriebeamsthroughthedustyair.

Ascavengerwho,likethem,luckedintofindingafunctioningvehicle.Sarahlookstoherleft.Ifhermemoryservesher,itshouldbethere.Andyes,overthetopsofastandoftreesshemakes itout.Aflat-toppedearthenpyramidcoveredingrass,about92feethighand951feetlong.Sarahknowsfromherstudiesthatit’salso836feetacross,meaningthatatitsbaseit’salittlelargerthantheGreatPyramidofGiza.JagobanksthebikeontoCollinsvilleRoad.Andthentheyslowdownabruptly.Yes,MonksMoundisthere,waitingforthem.MaybeSunKeyishiddeninitsdepths.Maybenot.AndtothesouthistheMakerweaponSarahwantstofind.Butfirsttheyhavetodealwiththedangerthatthenicemanwarnedthemabout.SarahtwirlsherfingernexttoJago’sface,askingifhewantstoturnaroundtoavoidtrouble.Heanswersbygunningthethrottleandrushingtowardit.Ahundredyardslaterhepullstoastop,thebikeangledacrosstheroadat45degrees.Hecutstheengineandkicksdownthestand.Neithergetsoff.Theystarestraightahead.“Thisisgonnagetugly,Feo.”“Sí.Staysharp.”“Youknowme.”Eightmotorcyclesarepulledtotheedgeofthefields.Asmanymeninleathervestsanddirtyjeansanddarkleatherbootsarenearby.Acar,apparentlystillfunctioning,ishemmedinbythebikers.Onebikehasapairofblackbootstiedtothebitchbar.Anargumentiswellunderway.“Hey!” a towering man built like a castle yells to Sarah and Jago when he notices them. He points.“Whosebike’sthat?”“Ours,amigo,”Jagosaysthroughhisrespirator.“Iain’tyourfriend.”ThebikerwalkstowardthemtogetabetterlookattheHarley.“Andthatain’tgonnabeyoursformuchlonger,hombre.Likethelookofthatgasmasktoo.”“Esbueno,”Jagoconcedes.Sarahgetsoffandrestshergoodhandonherpistol.“Nottopointouttheobvious,butbymycounteachofyoualreadyhasabike.Howdoyouplanontakingoursalso?Youusesomepixiebikerdusttoridetwoatonce?”Whileshetalksshepeekspastthebikerat thecar.It’sanearly2000ssilverFordTaurus,alotliketheonetheykeepatherfamily’sNiobraraRivercompoundinwesternNebraska.Thisoneisdingedupbadly,asifit’stakenafewdirecthitswithbaseballbatsor,asismorelikely,fallingdebris.Ithasnoplates.Thereappearstobeasingleoccupant,adriver,probablymale.Shecan’ttellifhe’sspeakingtothebikers surroundinghim,but shecan tell thathe’s lockedhimself inand that thebikersaregrowingfrustrated.“Hey,Curly,”thelargebikershoutsoverhisshoulder,“wegotussomemoresmart-asses.”Curlyleansfrombehindamanmuchbiggerthanhimandsays,“Who’sthat,Misty?”Misty?Sarahthinks.Jagolaughsquietly.“Thesetwo.Gotaniceride.Eighty-somethingXLS.”Curlygivesthegiantanorderandextractshimselffromthecarsituation.Curlyisn’tmuchtallerthanfivefeet.He’sasthinasropeandmoveslikeittoo,inaloose,bonelessgait.Hecarrieswhatisclearlythehangedpoliceofficer’sshotguninhislefthandandinhisrightabuckknife,whichhetwirlsexpertly.“Howdy,travelers.Name’sCurly.Andyouare?”HeaddressesJago.Jagoshrugs.Heslouchesnonchalantlyinthesaddle.“Sólohablounpocodeinglés.Sorry.”HemakesapointofrollinghisRs.

“We’rejustpassingthrough,”Sarahanswersforthem.Curly turns toher.“Friend’saspic,eh?GuessI’mtalking toyouthen.”Hespitsa thinstreamofclearsalivaonto the road. “Maybeyouarepassing through,miss.But it’dhave tobeafterwemakea littletrade.Yougiveus thatbike, and I’ll letyoukeepyourpretty little face. I assume there’s apretty faceunderallthat.Bestofferyou’regonnagettoday,I’msorrytosay.”Sarah’s eyes are hidden behind her goggles, soCurly can’t tell that she isn’t bothering to look at himwhilehetalks.Instead,shewatchesthegiantbrandishatireironinthebackground.“Lastwarning!”heyellstothemaninthecar,hisvoiceahigh-pitchedwhinethatcompletelycontradictshisstature.Sarahpoints.“Canwehelpyouwithanythingbackthere,Curly?”Curlyhalfglancesoverhisshoulder.“That?Nah.Nicemotoristgotlostandneedssomedirections.Funnythingis,hewon’ttake’em.”Hespitsagain.“Canyoubelievewhattheworld’scometo?AliensonTV,killerasteroids, teenageassassinsplayingsomekindofapocalypsegame,andnowthisguywhowon’ttalksensewithussimpleroadwarriors.Folksarelosingtheirmindsthesedays.Alongwithlotsofotherthings.”“Andhereyouaretoshepherdthemtosunnierpastures,”Sarahsays,raisingtheridinggogglesontoherforehead.“Figurativelyspeaking,ofcourse.”Curlyraisesaneyebrow.“Ilikethat.MindifIuseit?Inthefuturelike?”“It’sallyours.”“Say,youarepretty.Prettyeyes,anyway.”Sarahfakessoundingscaredwhenshesays,“Thanks.”“Speaking of using something that isn’t mine . . .” He raises the shotgun and rests it across his rightforearm.“Sorryforpointingthisatyou,miss,butIcanseeyou’rearmed,so—nothingpersonal.”Sarahholdsupherhands.“Allright,allright.”ShenodsatJago.Heputshishandsuptoo.“Thebike’sallyours.I’mjustgoingtotakethekeyoutoftheignition.SoIcanslideitovertoyou.Cool?”“Cool.”Curlytiltstowardtheotherbikerwithouttakinghiseyesoffthem.“Ilikethisone,Misty.”“Metoo.”Sarahpullsoutthekeyandwrapsherglovedfingersaroundit.ThegiantraisesthetireironandtakesastepawayfromtheTaurus’spassenger-sidewindow.Sheseesthedriver’seyesintherearviewmirror,wideandintenseand,oddly, lookingstraightather insteadofat themanwho’sabout toattackhiscar.Sarahwaitsfortherightmoment,andtheninsteadofslidingthekeytoCurlyshetossesitdirectlyathim.Hefumblesasheinstinctivelytriestocatchitwithhisknifehand.Hefails.Attheexactmomentthatthekeyhitstheground,thegiantsmashestheglassanditshattersandrainsdownontothepavement.MistyglancesatCurly.Jagojumpsbackwardoffthebikeanddrawshisbladeinonemotion.Thegiantleansintothecarand, tohissurpriseandSarah’saswell,heispulledhalfwayinside.Somethingcausesthebackofhisleathervesttotentupwardandthenitquicklyfalls,andthegiant’slegsliftoffthegroundandshudderandshake.He’sdead,hisnervoussystemjustdoesn’tknowityet.Meanwhile, away from the car, Sarah drops and rolls, her bad arm stinging, as Jago flings his knife,hittingCurlysquareintheneck.Curlytwistsawayandsqueezestheshotgun’strigger,buttheblastspraysharmlesslyintotheair.Curlydropsinaheap.Themenaroundthecarhootandyell,andSarahhearsmoreglassbreakinganda lotofcursingfromthebikersandshepopsupright infrontofMistywithashortknifeinherhand.Heswingsameatypawinherdirectionbutsheducksunderitandjamsherfisttowardhisneck,catchingitfullborewiththeblade.Itsinksinfourinches,severingeverythingMistyneedstoeat, breathe, and deliver blood to his brain. Sarahwhisks the knife free.Misty falls to his knees andbringshishandstohisthroatandbloodspillsoverthem.Sarah and Jago rush toward the car and draw their pistols. The five bikers on the driver’s side have

retreatedafewstepsandholduptheirguns.Notawareofwhat’shappeningwithSarahandJago, theyfirefreelyatthecar,pepperingitssidewithbulletsand,unfortunatelyforthem,maskingthesoundoftheshotsthataresimultaneouslybeingfiredintheirdirection.WithinthreesecondsSarahandJagohiteachbikerinhisunprotectedhead—they’renotwearinghelmetseither,notthatitwouldmatter—thelasttwofacingthem,theireyesfullofdisbeliefandalittlebitofterror.Keepingtheirgunsinthereadyposition,SarahandJagoadvanceonthecar,SarahintheleadandJagohalfastepbehindher.Hisgundancesfrombikertobiker,makingsurethey’rewellandtrulydown.Holesperforatethecar’ssidepanelsandtheglassisbrokenandscatteredonthepavementandtheseatsinside.Thegiant’sheadliesacrossthecenterconsole.Ittookafewshotsanditdoesnotlookprettyorveryhead-like.Both tireson thissideareflat.Theair reeksofcordite.Thedriver’sseatbackisfullyreclined.Alargeblackmoundofclothtakesupwhat’sleftoftherearseat.There’snosignofthedriver.SarahlooksatJagoquizzically.Wherecouldhebe?ButbeforeJagosaysanythingavoicefromundertheblackmoundsays,“Sarah?”Sheknowsthatvoice.She’dknowitifitwerewhisperingunderthescreamsofthousands.“D-dad?”Theblackmound,abundledpairofballisticvests,ispushedaway.AndjuttingabovetheseisthebeamingfaceofSimonAlopay.

KEPLER22BTeletranschamberonboardSeedrakSare’en,activegeosynchronousorbitabove theMartianNorth

Pole

His large hands are immersed in plasmastone—a molten rock-like substance—all the way to hisforearms.Athree-dimensionalmapofEarthspinsbeforehim,midair.ThetwoNethinimareatthefarendoftheroom,occupyingthetranspots.Eachhasasveltepackwithsuppliesstrappedtohisbackandeachis dressed in a paper-thin jumpsuit that bends and reflects all light, rendering the Nethinim virtuallyinvisible.Thesesuitsextendovertheirlonghandsandfingers,andarepulledtightlyovertheirheadsandsilveryhair.Asee-through flapcanbepulleddown tocover their faces,but theseareup fornow.Helooks at their faces. The trace of their braided hair moving back from their foreheads. Their flaringnostrils.Theirobedienteyes.Hemakesfinaladjustmentswithhisfingersintheplasmastone.Go,hetelesays.Hetwistshisarms,thefarendoftheroomgrowsunspeakablyfrigid,theportalsopen,shimmeryyetdark,like the one that took them to the GreatWhite Pyramid for the Calling. Their suits activate, and theNethinimallbutdisappear,theirfacesfloatingsevenfeetabovetheground.Returnassoonasyou’veachievedyourobjective,hetelesays.Eachnods.Eachtakesastepbackward.Andeachdisappearscompletelyfromtheroom,andtheshipthatsitsidlyinspace.

AISLINGKOPP,GREGJORDAN,GRIFFINMARRSApproaching45.1646,98.3167,Govi-AltaiProvince,Mongolia

“Bum-fuck nowheresville,” Jordan says, his feet packing the loose earth one step at a time, his gazewanderingoverthehighMongoliandesert.“Yeah,”Aislingmutters.“Thisplaceisdead.”More than anything it reminds her of pictures ofMars she’s seen over the years—the planet, not heradoptedCIAcaseofficer.ShesuspectsthattheslopinglandinthispartofMongoliaiscarpetedinstoutgreengrassesattheendofthewetseason—andsheseeslittleclumpsofdriedplantlifehereandtheretosupport this—but right now it’s reddish-whitish-grayishdirt andpebbles and rocks that culminate in arangeofstarkbutbeautifulmountainsintheneardistance.Nowheresville,likeJordansaid.Yet,heretheyare.WhileSarahandJagoandHilalandShariareallairborne,AislingandherteamhavealreadytoucheddowninMongoliaandarehoofingittotheDonghumonumenttosearchforSunKey.TheflightfromThailandtookafewhours.Itwascompletelyuneventful.Therewasnoturbulence,nosignofAbaddon’saftermath,noproblemwithgroundcontrolsystems.Theonlyroughthingswerelandingtheplane,whichtheyhadtodoonalongflatexpanseofdesertafewmilessouthofamountainrange,andthishikethey’veembarkedupontogettothetargethiddeninsaidmountainrange.Oh,anddealingwithPop.AislinghadMarrswakehimupbeforetheyshovedoff.SheexpectedPoptobegroggyanddisoriented,butassoonashiseyesopenedhepulledathis restraintsandhisneckmuscles trussedhisskinandhescreamedthroughhisteeth,“Traitor!Traitor!Traitor!”“Pop!”“Traitor!”heshouted,pickinguprightwherehe’dleftoffinthebunkerinAyutthaya.“Hithimwithanotherdose,Marrs,”Aislingsaidquietly.MarrsdidandPop’seyesflaggedandhisneckrelaxedandheslouched.“Shesatraitor,Ais.Donbeonetoo.Dontrussherfriends.”Aislingtookoneofhishands.“Ihaveto.It’stheonlywaytostopEndgame.Won’tyouhelpus?”Andthenmorequietly,“Won’tyouhelpme?”Heblinkedbeforesayingno.Aislinghungherhead.“Iwantyoutohelpme,Pop,”shesaidquietly.“No.”“Whatelsewouldyouhavemedo?”“Win.”ShelookedatthetopofPop’shead.Thinwhitehair,tanscalp,agespots.“Enoughofthatalready,Pop.

Abaddonhit.Ourhomeisprobablygone.Shit,allofNewYorkCityisprobablygone.Whoknowshowmanyaredead.Noone’swinningthisthing...exceptmaybethekepler.”“Win.win...ertrytobeatthaMakerbutonyerown.”Sheshookherheadandheldoutherhand.“I’lltakeit,”shesaidtoMarrs.HepassedherthesyringethatwaspluggedintoPop’sIV.Shecradleditinherfingers.“Iknowwhayerdoin,Ais.Whyyerdoinit.”“No,youdon’t,Pop.”Sheputherthumbovertheplunger.“I’mdoingthisforeveryone.ButmostlyI’mdoingitforyouandforDad.ForDeclan.”“FughmeandfughDeclan.Whadideeno?”Shepushed theplungerall theway in.“Heknewmore thaneitherofus. I’ll seeyou later,Pop.Sweetdreams.”“FughDeclananfughyoo...”Andthenhewasgoneoncemore.Theylefthimbelteddownintheplaneandtookoffonfoot.AccordingtoHilal,theDonghumonumentislocatedinacaveat45.1646,98.3167,4.3milesfromwheretheylanded.Theywalkeduphillovermostlyopenland,andthenthroughacrookedarroyoleadingupthemountainlikeawitch’sfinger.Aislingenjoysthemovement,thesweat,thedryandfreshairinherlungs.Sheenjoysthedesolation,too.Theskyisgrayishblue,undoubtedlyfillingwithsomeoftheashandgasandwatervaporthatAbaddonhasthrowntotheheavens.Onthegroundtherearenoscamperinganimals,noyurts,nohorsesor riders,andabsolutelyno regularpeople trying to figureoutwhat todoafter theimpact.Nopeopleatallasfarasshecantell.ItoccurstoAislingthatthemenandwomenwholivenomadicallyinthisplace—includingBaitsakhan’slinemembers—might not be affected byAbaddon at all. They’re resourceful, they knowhardship anddeprivation, and theyhavea longandunbrokenhistoryof survival in aharshenvironment.So longasAbaddondoesn’t completely cover the sky in clouds for years, theseMongolians andothers like themacrosstheEurasianSteppeanddownintothe’Stansshouldbefine.After about an hour she stops and checks the GPS. “Got a mile left. How do you think we shouldapproach?IfWayland’smenarebentondestroyingtheseplaces,wehavetoassumetheycouldbeheretoo.”Sheglancesacrosstheotherworldlylandscape.Jordanpoints.“Getonthatknollandseewhatyoucanseethroughthescopes.I’llcover.”“Gotit,”Aislingsays.SheandMarrsdroptheirpacksandscrambleuparockyhill.Aislingsightsthroughhersniper’sscopeasMarrsworkswiththerangefinderandhisGPS,scouringthemountainsideforthecave’sexactposition.Ittakesafewminutes,butthenhesays,“There.Alittletoyourleft...twodegreeshigher...That’sit.”AislingpeersatMarrs’sspot.Itdoesn’tlooklikemuch.Afoldinthesideoftherockfaceabout10feetabove a shallowcanyon floor.Marrs says, “A little fartherup the canyonare some steps cut from thestone.They’rekindofworn,butthey’redefinitelysteps.”“Oh,yeah.Iseethem.”Aislingbringshereyeawayfromthescope.“Doesn’tlooklikeanyone’sthere.”“No.”“Guessthere’sonlyonewaytofindout,huh?”“Yep.”Theykeepwalking.Theymakethecaveinunderanhour,encounteringnothingbutmorerockanddustandthecoolairrollingdownthemountainside. Inspiteof theemptinessAislingscans thesurroundingcountry thewhole time,lookingformovement,tracksinthedirt,reflections,anypatternthat’soutoftheordinary.Sheseesnone.Butsheknowshoweasyitwouldbetocamouflageoneselfinthisplace.

Tooeasy.Beforetakingthestepsuptoaledge-likepath,Aislingpopstwocanistersofteargasintothecavemouth—aroughandlowsemicirclewhosesidescurveinwardlikeanoldman’stoothlessmouth.Thegaspoursoutofthecaveandintoitatthesametime,thecanistershissing.Noonescreams,noonerunsout.Aislingpullsonagasmask.“Allright,let’sgo.”Sheleadsthemupthesteps,abeigeFNSCARpulledtohershoulder.Shewalksalongthenarrowledge,scanningthewalls,theground,thecave’sentrance.Somethingcatcheshereye.Abrightsilverhairlinenearherfeet.Shedropstooneknee.Jordanstandsoverher.“Whatisit?”Aislingrunsherfingersoverthedirt.“IswearIsawsomething,”shesays.“Tripwire,maybe.”“Where?”“Right—there!”Itflashesagain.It’scurledovertheground,notmorethanafewincheslong.“Notatripwire.Lookslike...hair.”Shepicksitupandinspectsit.“Itishair.Silverhair.”Jordanpokeshisrifleintothecave.Aislingstands.“Thekeplerhassilverhair,”shesaysslowly.NeitherJordannorMarrssaysanythingtothat.Noneofthemwanttorunintothealienprematurely.Aislingstands.“Staylooseandlet’smove.”Sheducks into theentrance,which is less than five feethigh. Jordancomesnextand thenMarrs.Theywalkthroughtheteargasinanawkwardsemicrouchfor15feetbeforethecaveopensup.Lighthereisscant,sotheyflipdownthegogglesontheirhelmetsandactivatetheirnightvision.Thechamberislargeandround.TherearenoprehistoricpaintingslikeinthecaveinItaly,nosignsofpreviousoccupantslikeafirepitorfootprints,andnoseven-foot-tallalienswaitingforthem.It’sjustacave.Exceptfortheperfectandnarrowrectanglecutfromthestone34feetaway.Aislinghoistsherrifleandwalkstoitcarefully,testingeachstepbeforeputtingherweightdown,eyeingthegroundforboobytrapsorwires.Shereachesthedoorway.Thegroundslopessharplyontheothersidethroughapassagethat’stheexactdimensionsofthedoor—8feethighand2.5feetwide.Hereyesrunuponeside,overthetop,anddowntheother.Andthere,neartheground,sheseestwothingsthatnearlystopherheart.Shekneels.Brushesawayapileofdirtcollectedinthecorner.Andyes.There.Asmallruneoftwosnakestwistedtogether,devouringtheother’stail.“ThemarkofEndgame.LikeonHilal’sbook,”Aislingsays.Shepointsat theother thing.The faintestoutlineofashoeprint.“Lookslikewemightnotbealoneafterall.”“Letmesee,”Jordansays.TheyswitchplaceswhileAislingscanstherestofthefloorinsidethechamber.“Idon’tseeanyothers.Whoeveritwaswasgoodaterasingtracks.Nosweepmarks...notelltalecratersoranything.”“Maybeitwasaghost,”Marrssays.“Maybe,”Jordansays.Aisling pushes forward and disappears through the doorway. This timeMarrs is second, and Jordancoverstherear.Down, down, down, 50 feet, 100, 150. As they descend the air gets cooler and damper. The soundschange,asifthewallsarespongessoakingupnoise.Atthebottomthetunnelmakesanabruptleft turn.Aislingstops.Shepullsasmallpen-sizedperiscopefromherbreastpocketandslidesitpasttheedgeofthewall.Shelooksinside.

Thetunnelgoesafewmorepacesandthenopensintoahard-angledroom.Itappearsempty.She stashes the periscope and brings the rifle back up and turns the corner. She steps carefully, neverletting her heels touch the ground. She checks her corners. Clear. She steps forward again. Jordansqueezes her shoulder. She stops. It is very cold here, and the night vision shows that the room issomehowilluminated.Sherisksflippinghergogglesup,andyes,theroom’swallsglowwithafaintbluephosphorescent light. There’s a round, bowl-shaped depression in the center of the room, its surfacecoveredwithshinymetallicleaf.Shepullsoutaflashlightandshinesitswhitebeamintothebowl.Gold.Theysplitupandlookaround.Theroomisshapedlikeasix-pointedstar,withoneoftheinward-facingpointsbluntandflat.Anotherdoorway—aportal,itappears—issurroundedbymoremysteriousglyphs,thoughsherecognizessomeasEgyptianandSumerianandanoldversionofherline’swrittenlanguageaswell.Sherunsherhandsoverthese.Herbreathhangsthickintheair.ThisportalremindsherexactlyoftheonesetintotheGreatWhitePyramidintheQinLinMountains.Shetouchesthejet-blackstoneinthemiddleofthedoorway,halfexpectingherhandtopassthroughit.Butitdoesn’t.It’srockhardandfreezingandherhandrecoilsfromthecold.“Whatdoyouthink?Twentydegreesinhere?Less?”Aislingasks.Butnooneanswers.MarrsistoobusysearchingtheoppositesideoftheroomandJordaninchestowardsomethingtuckedintooneofthecorners.“Comehere,”hewhispers,hisvoiceslitheringaroundinabitofacousticgymnastics.“Youshouldseethis.”Jordanstaresatfourtubelikeobjects.They’rethesizeofpeopleandthey’restackedlikelogs,oneontopoftheother.“Holyshit,”Aislingsays.Shetiptoespasthim.Sheshivers.Theairnearthetubesiswellbelowzero.“kepler22bstackedusupintheseshroudthingsatthepagodainXi’an.He’sbeenhererecently.”“What’reyoutalkingabout?”Jordanasks.UsingthemuzzleofherrifleAislingcatchestheedgeofthenearesttubeandliftsitaway.Theothersideofthematerialiscoveredwithadark,glitteringsurface,likeastar-fillednightsky.Insidethetubeisthefaceofacorpse,hisskinblueandpale,hiseyesocketslargeandsetfartherapartthanmostpeople’s.“ThatlookslikeoneoftheguyswhostormedStella’sbunker,”Aislingsays.Jordanslipstheknifebetweentheman’slipsandprieshisjawopen.Hehasnotongue.“ANethinim.Definitely one ofWayland’s guards.” Jordanpeels backmore of the shroud.Theman isdressedinfulltacticalgear,hishandsrestingonthereceiverofaBushmasterACR.“Imeanttoaskbefore—whydotheynotexactlylook...human?”“Theyarehuman,butWaylandmessedwiththeirgeneticstomakethemappearmorelikeMakers.Thesemenwerehere todestroy thisplace,Aisling.Like theydestroyedStonehengeand theothermonumentstoo.”“Towit,”Marrssaysfromacrosstheroom.“Checkitout.”AislingandJordanquicklycrossthechambertofindMarrstuckedintoastar-pointneartheportal.He’shunchedoversomething,hisrifleslungathisside,hishandsworkinginfrontofhim.“Whatisit?”Aislingasks,hereyesglancingallaroundnervously.“Abomb,”Marrssayscasually.“What?”

“Don’tworry.It’sbeendisarmed.Strangedesign.LookslikePETNisthemainexplosive,butIhaven’tseenoneconfiguredlikethisbefore.Andhere—”Hepointsatametalpanelontheside.Thesameglyphthatmarkedthethresholdintheroomabove.Jordanpoints at thebomb. “So22bcamedownhere fromwhereverhe is, killedWayland’sguys, andbrokeuptheirbomb.IthoughthewasonlysupposedtocomebacktowrapupEndgame?”“Hewas,”Aislingsays.“Apparentlytherulesofthegamehavechangedforhimtoo.”Marrsstandsandfacesthem.“Whywouldhedoanyofthat?Seemsrisky.”“BecauseSunKeyishere?”Jordanasks.Aislingshakesherheadslowly.“Idon’tknow.Itdoesn’tlooklikeit.Maybehetookitwithhim?”“ButwhygothroughthetroubleiswhatImean,”Marrssays.“It’s likeStellaandHilalsaid—oneoftheseplaceshasSunKey, therefore22bcan’tsitonhis thumbswhile they’regettingblownupbyabandofMaker-lookinghumans loyal toStella’sdeadfather.Sohedecidedtocomehereandputastoptoit.”Marrssnapshisfingers.“Aisling—whatifEndgamehasrunsofarofftherailsforhimthathe’sgettingnervous?”This feels likea revelation.Aislingsaysexcitedly,“Yeah . . .What ifhefeelssqueezedbyWayland’sdemolitioncrewononesideandusontheother?WhatifhethinksEndgamewon’thaveawinner,andforsomereasonthat’snotacceptable?HecouldbeouttheredoingwhateverittakestomakesureMaccabeeiscrownedthewinner,sinceMaccabeeistheonlyoneinterestedinwinningthewayhe’ssupposedto.22b could be bringingMaccabeeSunKey rightnow, killingwhichever other Player he comes acrossalongtheway,killingWayland’smentoo,interferingevenmorethanhedidwhen—”Herjawdropsopen.“What?”Jordanasks.“Fuck.”“What?”“Whatif22bfindsourplane?WhatifhefindsPop?Ithoughthewassafeoutthere,but...”Aislingdoesn’twait.Sheboltsoutof thechamber,JordanandMarrsfollowing.Up,up,upthroughthetunnel,outside,offtheledge,double-timingitdownthearroyotowardtheplane.AislingisinmuchbettershapeandshewantstogetherlegsintoadeadrunandJordanyells,“Go!”andshetakesoffandwithin15minutesshe’snotmuchmorethanaspecktoJordanandMarrs.Herpackdigsathershouldersandbouncespainfullyonthebaseofherback.Herrifleisheavyandafteranhourand20minutesherarmsareleadenandshehastoslowdown,butshe’salotcloser.ShestopsforamomentbehindaboulderandcheckstheGPS:0.74milestotheplane.Havealookfirst,Ais.Foolsrushin.Shegetsontopoftheboulderandsurveystheflatsectionofdesertwheretheylanded.Thescopezipsover theBombardier and her nerves ease up. It’s there. It isn’t a smoldering pile of scrapmetal. Shemovesthescopebackandfindsitandzeroesin.Andthenherheartnearlyjumpsoutofherchestandthroughhershirt.Theplaneiswheretheyleftit.It’snotengulfedinflames.Itstiresarefullyinflated.Itsdoorisclosed.Butitswingsarelyingontheground.Theyhavebeencutoffcleanandneatbywhoknowswhatandtheyarelyingontheground.Aislingspitsastringofcurses.Sheputshereyebacktothesocketandlookseverywherefor22bbutseesnosignofanything.Shescansandscansandscans.She slides down the boulder and paces and breathes and tries to calm her heart and finally after 15minutesshehearsthenoisyfootstepsofJordanandMarrsapproaching.Shetellsthemthenews.

“AndPop?”Jordanasks,badlyconcealinghisdisappointmentatlosingtheplane.“Don’t know,”Aisling says, her voice shaking. “I’vebeenwaiting for youbefore goingdown there. Ithinkyoushouldstayhereandcoverwiththelongguns.I’llgoalone.Youcanrunifthingsgosouth.”Marrsquicklysays,“Notalone,Aisling.”Jordanchargesaroundintohisrifleinagreement.Shedoesn’t argue.They strip their gear to the essentials and a fewminutes later, as the sunbegins tocradleintothehorizon,theytakeoff.Theytriple-time,gunsupthewholeway.Whenthey’re500feetfromtheplanetheyfanout,Aislinginthecenter and Jordan andMarrs 30 feet on either side. Shemoves up a little so they form a three-pointwedge.Shelooksandlooksinthelateeveningtwilight.Nothing.Theyreachtheplane.Aisling’shearthasneverbeatensofast.Marrsgawksatthewings,thinking,It’sasiflaserscutthem.Aislingindicatestheplane’sdoorwithherrifle,signalingthatshe’llcoverJordanwhileheopensit.Jordannods.Marrsmovesintoacoverpositiontoo.Thedoorswingsdownandthestairsfoldout.Morenothing.Aislingforcesher legsforward,herheart inher throat,andboundssilentlyupthestairsandclears thecockpitandpivotsintothecabin.Empty.EmptyexceptforPopKopp.Sheslidestohim,checkingbehindseats.Clear.Shekneelsnexttohim.Feelshisarm.Warm.Thepulseisthere.Hisbreathisgood.Yes,he’sagainsteverythingshe’stryingtodoinEndgame,buthe’salive,andthat’swhatmatters.Shegoesbacktothedoor.“He’sallright,”shesays.Achillwindblowsfromthesouth.Marrssays,“Good.”Andthenitgetsverycoldandaring-shapedpulsetearstheairbetweenthethreeofthemandithitsMarrsinamillisecondandhegetspushedbackafewfeetasifhe’sbeenpunchedinthechestandthenhekindofdisappears,leavingafewshredsofclothandmetalandprobablyskintoobutnoblood,andallofthesepiecesblowawayandaregone.AislingandJordanfireatwillatthespotwherethepulsecamefrom.Theroundsbounceawayandsomeseemtobeabsorbedintotheairitself,orthedirt,ortherocks,Aislingcan’treallytell.Shebreathesoutandseesherbreath in thechillyairandJordanshouts,“Fire in thehole!”andhepumpsoutone, two,threegrenades fromhis launcher,andsomehowall threearecaughtbyahuge invisiblehand,and theyexplode,andAislinghearstheexplosions,butit’sliketheywentoffmilesawayorunderwater,andshecan’tseethem.Notatall.Andthenanotherpulse,thisoneaimedatJordan,whofiresafourthgrenadeatthesamemoment,andthisonedoesexplodeasexpectedandAisling is thrownbackward into theplaneandshecan’t seewhat’shappeningtoJordan,ifhewasvaporizedtooorblownuporknockedonhisasslikeher.Shekicksherfeetinfrontofherandscootsbackward.Herbackhitsthefarsideofthecabinandtheopendoorisinfrontofherandherheartboomsallovernow,inhertemplesandtoesandarmpits.Theairshimmersandher feet are like ice andonly thendoes she realize that 22b is invisible and right in front of her!Shepressesthetriggerandholdsitdownandthebulletssimplyhit22bandslidearoundhimandcontinueoffintospace,asifhe’sTefloncoated.Hermagazineisempty.Hertriggerfingeraches.Firingthegrenadewouldbesuicidal.Butifshe’sgoingtodieanyway,shemightaswelltrytokillthisfuckertoo.Sheappliespressuretothegrenade’striggerasthepalefaceofanalien—not22b,butoneofhiskind—

appearsinfrontofherlikeaphantom.Andbeforeshecansqueezealltheway,theworldgoeslightanddarksimultaneouslyandshe’sgone.Allshe’sawareofinthatlastmomentisthecold.Theterrible,terrible,freezingcold.

19h16m52.2sii

HILALIBNISAAL-SALT,SHARICHOPRAApproaching-21.6268,129.6625,YuendumuHinterland,NorthernTerritory,Australia

HilalandShariwalksoutheast throughtheredsandgrasslandof theAustralianoutback.Nighttime.Nopeople.Nomoon.No breeze.Theyweave through stands ofmulga trees and creep aroundmounds ofgrassyspinifex,someofwhichlooklikeearthboundcorals.Theywalksilently,listeningtotheclicksandcoosofinsectsandbatsandothersmallanimalsplyingthenightforfoodandshelter.Thestarsareout,andtheyarebrilliant.Theduo’seyeshaveadjustedfromtheinsideoftheplane,whichtheyleft4.7kilometerstothenorth,andthestarlightisalltheyneed.Hilalhasbeento thesouthernhemispheremanytimes—tothebushofZimbabweandMozambiqueandBotswana—buthehasneverseenstarslikethis.HewouldtalktoShariaboutthestarsifshehadnotorderedhimtobesilentbeforetheysetoutfortheancientKoorimonument.“Iamangrybeyondangryatyou,Aksumite.”Hedidnotarguewithher.Ifhewereinherpositionitwouldtakeeveryounceofhiswillnottoslaughterhimwherehestands.Butthestars.IfhecouldtalkhewouldpointoutAchernar,afewdegreesabovethehorizon,thefinalstarinthewanderingconstellationofEridanus.Nexttoit,risingfromtheearthitself,thePhoenixtakeswing.AndtotheirrightisAcrux,thebrightwhitestarthatanchorstheSouthernCross.FromthisconstellationhearcheshisheadbackandfollowstheglowingswathofinnumerablepinpricksandpinkandblueandyellowcloudsthatstitchtheheartoftheMilkyWaytogether.ThereistheCentaur,andLupusthehound,andNormaandCircinusandAra,anddirectlyoverheadareScorpiusandthearcher,Sagittarius.Betweenthesearethethickestandbrighteststarclouds,markingthecenterofourgalaxy,26,092light-yearsaway.IfhewerespeakingtohiscompanionhewouldspinaroundandpointhismachetestowardVega,whichglowsbrightly,even throughtheAbaddondust thatbegins tosully thenorthernandwesternskies.ThisstarbelongstotheconstellationLyra,andflyingnexttoitisthelong-neckedswan,Cygnus.Hewouldtalkaboutallofthem.OfcourseShari isprobablyequallyenthralledandknowledgeable.Maybeshelooksupandplacesherdepartedlovedonesamongthestars.CertainlyshehopesthatshecansaveherLittleAlicefromreturningtothesestars.Forthatiswheretheywillultimatelyreturn,justasitisfromwheretheyultimatelycame.Tothestars.Fromthestars.Likeeveryatomofeverything.Shariis10pacesinfrontofhimandshecomestoasuddenstop.Hilalcocksanearbutonlyhearsthesamethrivingnocturnalbuzzofthebushthathasaccompaniedthemsincetheplane.Before leaving their Bombardier Global 8000, they consulted Wayland’s book to see if any ancientmonuments had been destroyed or otherwise affected by Abaddon. The book showed that the Olmec

monumenthadindeedbeendamaged,aswellastheMinoanmonument,whichwascurioussinceitwassofar from the impact zone. Hilal reasoned that perhaps Wayland’s brotherhood had reached it andconvertedittoruins.Sharididn’tappeartocare.“AllIwantistoseemydaughterandholdherinmyarms.”Again,Hilalcouldnotarguewiththat.Butheisnotthinkingaboutthatrightnow.HewonderswhatSharisensesastheystandstock-stillintheAustralian outback. She carries a holstered Glock 20 and pistol-grip Mossberg 500 Cruiser tacticalshotgun.HilalclutchesasuppressedColtM4CommandoinhisrighthandandthemachetenamedLOVEinhisleft.Theothermacheteissheathedonhiship.HealsocarriesWayland’sbookinhispack.Itistooprecioustoleaveanywhere.Sharikneelsandrunsherfingersoverthedirt.Sheinchesforwardwithoutstanding.Hilaldoesn’tmove.Thegroundunderfootslopestowardadensethicketofwanderriewattlethattheycan’tseepast.Sharipointsattheground,runningherfingerinastraightline.Hilalseesit.Twogroovesetchedintheparcheddirt,joininginapointatShari’sfeet.Thegroovesrunasstraightasarrows, theanglebetweenthemappearingtobeexactly60degrees.Insidetheselinesis thegnarledanddenseshrub,outsideissandandearth.“Itisinthere,”Hilalwhispers.“Weneedtofindtheentrance.”Shariholdsouthershotgun,indicatingthatshewantsHilaltotakethelead.Hedoesthiswithoutthinkingtwice.HeknowsthatalargepartofShariwantshimdead,andhewillnotfaultheratallifshedecidestostrikehimdown.Hewillacceptitasapricepaid.Butshedoesnotstrikehimdown.Hewalksduesouth,towardtheLargeMagellanicCloudseepingoverthehorizonlikeamilkstain.ThetwoPlayerscurvearoundtheedgeofdensewattle.Hilalseesthatthegroovesinthegrounddepictastar,suchasonewouldfindontheSealofSolomon,roughly30metersindiameter.Astheyreachthenorthernsideofthisstartheearthrisesontheirlefttoheadheight,forminganamphitheaterforthestarshape,andwhentheyreachthenorthernstar-pointtheyfindalowbutclearpaththroughtheplantlikewall.Theywillhavetocrawl.Hilaltakesoffhispackanddisappearsintothethicket.Sharifollowshimimmediately.Half aminute later they emerge not in a star-shaped interior, but in a 15-meter circle created by thefoliage.They stand on the edge of this circle, shoulder to shoulder, andHilal is almost afraid to stepforward.BothheandShariknowthattheyareinasacredplace.Luckily,theyappeartobetheonlyonesthere.NomembersofWayland’sbrotherhood.NoKoorimenandwomenguardingit.Strangely, the sounds of the outback thatwere so present outside the thicket are nonexistent here. Thebreezethatbrushedovertheirfacesfromthewestisgone.Thefinesandunderfootispebble-androck-freeandhasrecentlybeensweptbyarake,makingapatternofcentimeter-wideconcentriccircleswhosecenter is the ancient and gnarled trunk of a dead tree. This rises two meters from a bowl-shapeddepression.Theinsideofthebowlappearstobecoatedinametallicsubstance.“ThisistheplaceStellatoldmeabout,”Hilalwhispers.Hestepsforward.Theridgesandvalleysofthecirclesdrawn in thegroundare flattenedand rearranged into abootprint.Hilal adjustshisgripon themachetenamedLOVE.Sharistaysrootedtoherspot.Asuddensoundoverhead,likethewindhaspickedup.Theairgrowsperceptiblycolder.Adarkflickerlikeabirdtakingwingateye-level.Hilalraiseshismacheteandwheels,andSharispinsinasemicircle,

flashinghershotgun,butbotharecaughtoffguardasthebushitselfcomestolife.Hilalisgrabbedateachwristandhisarmsareyankedoutward,likeChristonthecross.Hetriestokick,butasnarehasjumpedfromthedirtandencircledhisankles.Stronghandstwisthisweaponsbackward,forcinghimtoreleasethem.Hisothermacheteisliftedoutofitssheath,andjustlikethatheisunarmed.Heisbound,hisbackbrushingupagainstthecoarseleavesoftheshrub.HewouldcallouttowarnShari,buthecanseethatsheisalreadysimilarlyincapacitated.Allof thishappens in less than threeseconds,andallof itwithoutasoundsave thatofa fewrustlingbranchesandtheirleaves.Hilalfeelsawarmbreathonhisneck.Ablade—oneofhisown—flashesbelowhisfaceandhefeelsthehairlinemetallicedgegracehisAdam’sapple.“Wait,”Hilalsays.Themetalpushesintohisflesh.“Kill me if youmust, but please spare the other. Shari Chopra is her name. TheHarappan. She wasfriendswithAliceUlapala,yourlinemember.ShariismothertoSkyKey.Shedeservesthechancetoseeherdaughteragain.”Themetal pushes inmore. Hilal feels a bead of warm blood trickle down his neck and settle in hissuprasternalnotch.“Stop,”araspyfemalevoicesays.Thebladeisremoved.Hilalwouldfallifthehandsrestraininghimdidnotprophimup.Adiminutiveelderlywomaninjeansandadarkwindbreakerstandsnexttothetreetrunk,herhandsthrustintoherjacket’spockets.Herheadiswrappedinawhitebandanna,herfaceispudgyandround,itsskincrumpled,hernoseturnip-like,hereyesbrightandbeady.Flankingheraretwolargefigures,presumablymen,dressedheadtotoeinbranchesandleaves.Theylooklikelivingbushes.Hilalscansthecircleandnowunderstands that the entire interiorwas linedwith theseunspeaking sentinels.Three stand aroundhim,andtwoaroundShari,whokneelsonhisright,herarmsalsopulledwide,aknifepointdimplinghertemple.TheoldwomanwavesatShari.“Easy,”shesays.Thekniferetreats.“ShowmeChopra’sface,”theoldwomansayswithabroadAustralianaccent.AlightshinesonShari.Sheblinks.“That’sher.”Thewomanpokesoutherbluntchin.Thelightgoesoff.“IseenyouintheDreaming.Seenyourdaughtertoo,”theoldKoorisays.“BeenwatchingyourssinceAlicezonedinonher.IseenbothyouandyourdaughterwhenAlicedied.”“WhereisLittleAlice?”Sharidemands.“Dunno.WishIdid.Truly.”Pause.“Iwasthere,”Sharisaysslowly.“Inthatdream.IsawAlicedie,too.”“That’stheDreamingallright.Youandyoursweretherelikeme.DifferencewasIwentthereonpurpose,whereasyoutwoendedupthereonaccountof,I’mthinkingwhatI’llcallyourinnateabilities.Thatorluck.”“Itisneverauspicioustoseeafrienddie,”Sharisaysasmuchtoherselfastotheoldwoman.“Goodwords,”theeldersaysapprovingly.Sharishakesherhead.“You’veseenmebefore,then?”“Yeah.”“Ihaven’tseenyou,though.”“Nope.”

Sharisays,“I...don’tunderstand...”“YoutriedtosaveAlicefromthatlittleDonghubrute—rememberthat?”“WhenIsawherdie?”“That’sright,Shari.Butwhileitlookedandfeltlikeadream,italsohappenedtobe—”“Real,”Sharisays,hereyescasttotheground.“Yeah,”theoldwomansays,hervoicelowandsad.“I’msorry.Itried—”“Weren’tnothingyoucoulddo.Meneither.Wewerelikeghosts.That’stheDreamingforyou.”“IwouldhavehelpedherifIcould,”Sharisaysquietly.“Andmetoo.LikeIsaid,that’stheDreamingforyou.”Hilalsays,“Madam,IamsurethatIdonotunderstandanyofthis.”Theoldwomansays,“No,youwouldn’t.”“She’srelatedtoAlice,”ShariexplainstoHilal.“I’mguessing.”“You’reguessingright.”Sharicontinues,“AliceandIhadaconnection.Ican’texplainit,butitwasthere.Itwasreal.”Hilalsays,“Isee.Madam,mayIaskyourname?”“Sure you could ask.” She snickers. “Don’t have to answer, though. But since Alice and Shari weremates,I’lltellya.Name’sJenny.JennyUlapala.GramtoAlice,amongacoupledozenothers.ElderscionoftheKoori line,evenouthereinYuendumu,whereourWarlpirisistersandbrotherskeepthemselvesandtheland.”“MynameisHilalibnIsaal-Salt,the—”“Iknow—theAksumite.Andshe’stheHarappan.TheonewholostherdaughterfornodamngoodreasonthatIcanfathom.”“Don’tkillme,Mrs.Ulapala,”Sharisaysalittleoutoftheblue.“Notplanningonit,”Jennysays.TheguardsreleaseShari’srestraints.Theknifethatwaspressedtoherheaddisappearsintoasheath.Theoldwomansays,“Notsureaboutyou,though.Whatdoyousay,Shari?”Hilal’sheartskipsabeat.Sharihasfoundanewally.Shemightnotneedhimanymore.Hilal would plead for mercy, but he knows it would be unbecoming. He also understands that, fromShari’s perspective, hemore than deserves herwrath.Hewas the onewho revealed her line’s secretfortresstotheotherPlayers,whousedthatinformationtokillnearlyallofthem.“He...”Sharisays.“He...Iwanthimdead.”“Allright,”theoldwomansays.ThebladereturnstoHilal’sneckandpressesintothenickthatwasmademomentsbefore.Morebloodtricklesdownhisskin.Hecloseshiseyes.Hedoesnotwantdeath,buthewillacceptit.“Butyoushouldnotkillhim,”Sharisaysatthelastmoment.Hilal’seyesshootopen,Jennyflicksherhand,theknifemovesaway,hislifeisspared.Fornow.“IsupposeIwillneedallthehelpIcangettoseemydaughteragain,”Shariexplains.“Iwouldratheruseyourguilttothatend,Hilal,thansuccumbtobaserevenge.”Hilalletsoutaquietsighofrelief.“Understood.AndIamgrateful,Shari.”Amomentpasses.Thestarsturn.Jennysays,“I’mcurious.Abaddonisdown.MyPlayerisgone.Whyarethetwoofyouhere,together?”“BecausewehaveseenenoughofEndgame,”Sharisays.“Wedonotwant itanymore.The linesdon’t

deserveit,andthepeopleofEarthdon’tdeserveiteither.”“Andweareherebecausewewanttofindherdaughter,”Hilalsayswithasmuchsincerity—becauseheissincere—ashecanmuster.“WewanttostopEndgame,Mrs.Ulapala.ShariandtheCahokianandtheOlmecandtheLaTènewantthisaswell.Weareworkingtogether.WedonotPlayforwhattheMakerswantedustoPlayfor.Notanymore.”Jennyfrownsbutshehasclearlylistenedcarefully.“WhatdoyouPlayfor,then?”“Manyhavegonetothestarstoday,”Hilalsays.“IdonotknowthemagnitudeofAbaddon’sdestruction,butIfeelthatitisgreat.NowwePlaytosavelives.Topreventmorefromreturningtothestars.Togetherwecanachievethis.Wehavepowerandwehaveknowledge.WeevenhavesomethingthatbelongedtotheMakers.”“Whachyamean?”“Itisinmypack,”Hilalsays.“He’stellingthetruth,”Sharisays.“If there’ssomethinginyourpackyou’llhavetoget ityourself,Aksumite.”Oneofhismacheteswhipsdownonthecordaroundhisleftwristanditisfree.Aguardgingerlyholdsopenhispackatarm’slength.“Nomalarkey,” Jenny says.Hilal feels the cold ring of a gun barrel pressed to the back of his head,behindwherehisearusedtobe.“None,”Hilalsays.“Iswearit.”Hereaches,feelsthecoldedgeofthebook,andslowlypullsitfree.“Itismerelyabook.AMakerbookfromthefirstdays.Iinviteyoutoinspectit.”Heholdsitbyoneofthecoversandletsitfallopen.“Itisharmless.”Jennyleansforward.“Bringithere.”Theguarddropsthepack,takesthebook,andwalkstoJenny.ThegunstayspressedtoHilal’shead.Hisskinwarmsthemetal.Theguardholdsthebookopeninbothhands.Jennyturnsitspagesslowly.Sheleansforward.Squints.Shinesalightonit.AfterafewmomentssheglaresatHilal.“Wheredidyougetthis?”“FromamannamedWaylandVyctory.”Jennygrunts.Hilalguessesthatsheknowswhothismanis.“Youreadthisbookalready?”Jennyasks.“What?No,”Hilalsays.“Icannot.”“Andyou,Shari?”Sharishakesherhead.“Canyou?”Hilalasks.Jennytakesthebookfromtheguardandshooshimaside.Shecontinuestoleafthroughthepages.“YouhaveallheardoftheMu,haveyounot?”“Ofcourse,”Hilalsays.“TheirPlayerwasexemplarybyallaccounts.”“They like to claim their line’s the first, only ’t’ain’t true. Oh, their line is old—going back twenty,twenty-five thousandyearsandmore thananyofyours.Butmy line,we’re theoldest.Mypeoplebeenwalking these lands on foot and in theDreaming for forty, fifty, sixty thousand years. That’swhen theBaiame—theMakers—first camedownandmetwithus.We’re the original line.We just don’t like tobragaboutit.”“Chiyokodidnotbrag,”Hilalpointsout.Jenny says, “Good on her . . .”Uneasy silence falls as Jenny continues to peruse the pages. “Flamesabove,doyouknowwhatthisis,Players?”“What?”Shariasks.Jennysmirks.“It’saninstructionmanual.CalledDomination,roughlytranslated.Herearesomesection

headings, and these are only guesses, because their language is very odd: ‘Explaining Flight to EarthBeings,’ ‘ModernDeification,’ ‘Images and Idols,’ ‘Metals Primer,’ ‘Genetic Lines of Establishment,’‘FearfortheSakeofGood.’Itgoesonandon.”Hilalbrimswithexcitement.Thatthereisapersonalivewhocandecipherthistextismagnificent.HecantellbyhervoicethatSharifeelsthesame.“Mrs.Ulapala,”shesaysrespectfully,urgently,“willyouhelpus?”Jennyclosesthebookandtucksitunderherarmcasually.Shetakesastepback.“Let’emgo,boys.Keeptheirweapons.Onefalsemoveandkill,noquestions.”Theirbindingscomefree,thegunisremovedfromHilal’shead.Shariispulledtoherfeet.Jennyretreatsanotherstepintotheshadowoftheoldtreetrunk.“What’reyouheretodo?”“TrytofindSunKeybeforetheNabataeandoes,”Sharisays.“He alone Plays the way the Makers want,” Hilal says. “He has the first two keys. He is close towinning.”Jennynodsslowly.“Iknow.IseenasmuchintheDreaming.It’swhywe’rehereguardingthisplacenow.TomakesuretheNabataeandidn’tclaimhisprize.”“We’realsoheretosavemychild,”Sharisays,hervoicemeasuredandfirm.Jennysmacksherlips.“Therearenoguaranteesthere,Shari.Likeanyofus,yourdaughtercoulddieathousanddifferentwaysinthenextdayorweek.ButIamgladtohearyou’relookin’forher.BigAlicewouldbegladtoo.”“Thankyou,”Sharisays.Jenny’sshouldersslacken.“Toomuchviolencethesedays,ifyouaskme.SinceIgotproperlyoldIkindasouredonEndgame.Ibeentelling theKooriabout it forawhile,butI’vealwaysbeenabitofanoddbird.” The bush-covered guards retreat to the edge of the circle as if on cue and seem to disappear.“Listen, now. I have a proposition like. And it will require a thingmuchmore hard to come by thanviolence.”“Trust,”Hilalsays.Jennydips her head in his direction. “Trust,Aksumite.Line to line, human to human.”Then, her headslowlyturnstoShari.“And,mostimportantly,mothertomother.”Thestarsturnoverhead.TheMilkyWaypulseswithanuntoldamountoflife,evenifitiscoldanddistantandunobservable.Hilalcanfeelit.“I’llhelpyou.Andtogetherwe’lltrytoDreamLittleAliceChoprarightonbackintohermother’sarms.”Theairgrowswarmer,andHilalagainhearsthebreeze,wherebeforeheheardnothingoftheworld.JennygrinskindlyatShari.Theoldwomanonlyhasafewteethleft.“We’llgetyouyourgirl,mum,”Jennysays.“Promise.”

SARAHALOPAY,JAGOTLALOC,SIMONALOPAY

MonksMound,Collinsville,Illinois,UnitedStates

Sarahholdsontoherfatherso,sotightly.Shecan’tbreathe.Excitement.Relief.Theimprobable—no,theimpossible—goodfortuneofcrossingpathswithhim.AndjudgingbyhowtightlySimonholdsontoher,hefeelsexactlythesameway.AfterseveralmomentsJagoclearshisthroat.SaraheasesuponherembraceandSimonpullsawayfromhisdaughter,holdsherbytheshoulders.Jagolooksthiswayandthat,watchingforanymovementonthehorizon,hisgunreloadedandready.“Whatdidyoudotoyourhair?”Simonwhispers,staringintohisdaughter’seyes.“Disguise.AftertheShangshowedusinhisvideo.”“Ofcourse.WithAbaddonandYellowstoneandeverythingelse,I’dactuallyforgottenaboutthatvideo.”“It’sallkindofoverwhelming,isn’tit?”“Ican’timaginewhatit’slikebackeast,”Simonsays.“Meeither.Don’twantto,frankly.”“Itishell,weallknowit,”Jagointerjects.Simon’sgazeshiftstoJago.Hiseyebrowsscrunch.“Andyouare?”“JagoTlaloc.TheOlmec.Sarah’s...friend.”Simonstepsbackdefensivelyandputsahandonablackpistolholsteredtohiship.Jagodoesn’tflinch.SarahclapsherhandontopofSimon’sgunhand,squeezeshisknuckles.“It’sallright.Heismyfriend.He’ssavedmylifemorethanonce.He’sheretohelp.”Simon’seyesdartbackandforth—Sarah,Jago,Sarah,Jago—ashetries todecipherwhat’shappening.“Whyareyouhere?”SimonasksSarah.“Doyouhavethekeys?Areyoureadytoendit?”“No.It’salongstory,butbasicallywe’reherebecauseweneedtofindthethirdkey.Accordingtosomepeoplewhoseemtoknow,itcouldbehidinginthere.”Shepointsatthegrass-coveredhillthatisMonksMound.“SunKey’sinthere?”Simonsays.“I’vebeeninthereahundredtimes.SunKeyisnotinthere.”“Westillhavetolook,”Sarahsays.“IfwehaveanychanceofstoppingEndgamethenwehavetofindit.It’sthebestchancewehaveatsurviving.Andby‘we’Imeanhumanity,Dad.Allofus.You.Me.Jago.Prickslikethese,”shemotionstothebikerslitteredaroundtheirfeet.“Mom...”Herfacegoeswhite.“She’sfine,Sarah.”“Omaha?”sheasks.“No.Thefarm.She’stherewithyourunclesandAuntMillicentandalsoafewneighborsfromhome.Wecouldn’tleavethembehindtofendforthemselves.WebroughttheSmithsonsandtheNixesandthe—”“Vanderkamps?”sheasks,abigpartofherhopinghe’llsay,No,nottheVanderkamps.“Yeah,theVanderkampstoo,”Simonsays.“Ithoughttheywouldholeupatoneoftheirranches,buttheydidn’twanttobealone.Especiallynotafter,well...”“What?”

“It’sChristopher.He...disappeared.Notlongafteryouleft.I’msorry,Sarah.”Shefalters.Jagoreachesoutandtouchesherarm.I’mgoingtohavetotellthem.Hisparents.I’mgoingtohavetotellthemwhatIdidtotheirson.“I’msorry,”Simonrepeats.Hecantellsomethingisn’tright,buthedoesn’tpress.“It’sokay,”Sarahsays.Jagopeerstotheeast.“Acar’scoming.Weshouldmove.”“Yeah,ofcourse.”Sheholdsoutherhands.“Dad,willyoucomewithus?Willyouhelp?”“SearchthemoundforSunKey?”heasks.“Yes,”shesays.“Butbeforethat,weneedtodosomethingelse.”“Sarah,comeon,”Jagosaysurgently.Hepointsthroughthehaze.Apairofbrighthalogenlightsisheadedrightforthem,butnotwithanyapparenturgency.“Probablynothingtoworryabout,butweare standinginthemiddleofamurderscene.Nopointinaskingformoretrouble.”“Agreed.Wedidn’tcomeheretokillpeople,”shesays,asmuchtoherselfastoJago.Thatwassoeasy,shethinksofkillingthebikers.Tooeasy.IfIreallyamgoingtogetbackmyhumanity,Ineedtoworkharderatsparingpeople.Evenpeoplelikethese.Especiallypeoplelikethese.“Areourlinemembersatthewelcomecenter?”Sarahasksherfather.“No.Itoldthemtobewiththeirfamiliesbeforetheimpact.ItoldthemIwasonmywayhereandthattheyweren’tneededanymore.”“Good,”Sarahsays.“Getthebike,Jago.”HepivotsandrunstotheHarley.“Letmehelpyouwithyourpassenger,Dad.”Shemoves around theTaurus and takes oneof thegiant’s ankleswithher goodhand.Simon takes theother.Theyheaveinunison,pullinghardonover270poundsofdeadweight.ButSarahandherfatherarestrong, and theyget thegiantoutof the car.What’s leftofhisheadmakesa sickening smack-pop-hisswhenithitsthepavement.Jagopullsupnexttothem.“Gotothewelcomecenter,”Sarahshoutsoverthebike’sengine,indicatingabuildingoffthemainroadtothesouth.Jagogunsthebikeandleavesthem.SimonslipsaroundthefrontofthecarandgetsbehindthewheelwhileSarahclimbsintothebackseat,wheretheseatsareblood-free.“We’re going to stop Endgame, Dad.” She speaks quickly, hoping Simon won’t interrupt her. “We’reworkingwithotherPlayersandsomeCIAguys.AwomannamedStellaVyctorywashelpingustoo,butshewaskilled.TheMakersmayhavebeengodstousonce,butnotanymore.They’refrauds.Maybeweallare.”Shetakesabreathandholdsit.Hereitcomes.Sheexpectshimtorailagainsther,toremindheroftheirhistory,ofhertraining,ofthehonorofbeingnamedandmoldedintoaPlayer,ofherdeadbrother,ofherdead friends,ofherdestroyed school,of theold stories and the rituals and the rites andahamamuhugobeklimu,ahamanjeje,ahamankerma.Andwhile shewaits for it she rememberswhat she saidon that commencement stage in the sun, rightbeforethemeteorscame,whenshewasstillyoungandinnocentaswell.IchoosetobethepersonthatIwant tobe,she’dsaid.ThosewordsfeltsomeaninglessafterfindingEarthKey,andthenagainsotrueasshechosenottokillSkyKey.Whatafuckingrideit’sbeen,shethinks,waitingforSimontolightintoher.Excepthedoesn’t.Shelooksintherearviewmirrorandfindsherfather’seyes.Helooksather,nottheroad.Jagobanksthebikeintoaparkinglotinfrontofthem.Simonblinks.HefollowstheHarley.Sarahleansintothefronthalfofthecar.“Dad,whyareyouhere?”“BecauseI’mscared,Sarah.”

“Ofwhat?”“Maybeofwhatyou’rehintingat.”“TheMakers...”Simonshrugs.“Attheworst,yes.Butalsoofpeople.Ofuncertainty.Ofthat.”Hetiltshisheadtotheeast,toAbaddon.“Let’snotkidourselves.Noneofusever thoughtwe’dsee it.NoPlayeror trainer reallydoes,andnowthatIhaveseenitIunderstandwhywethoughtweneverwould.”HepullsnexttoJagoinahandicapspotrightnexttotheentrance.Jagoisalreadyoffthebikeandstalkingtothewelcomecenter,gunup,toclearitofanyoneelsewhomightbehangingaround.Acrackofbrightlightningnearthemound.Aloudclapofthundershakesthecar.Agustofcoldwind.Simon runs his hands nervously over the top of the steering wheel. “Why am I here? Because onceAbaddonhappenedallIcouldthinkofwaskeepingwhat’sleftofmyfamilyandmyfriendssafe,and—”Thecornersofhismouthcrumple.Hiseyeswell.“Youlooksomucholder,Sarah.”Shetoucheshischeek.“Youtoo,Dad.”“Grown-up,huh?”“Iguess.Mostlyjustfuckingexhausted,mentallyandphysically.”“Metoo.Maybethat’sallitmeanstobegrown-up.”Pause.“I’msogladIfoundyou,”Simonsays.“Meandyourmother,notanhourhaspassedsinceyou’veleftthatwehaven’tspokenofyou.Wethinkaboutyoualways.Hopedyouwerealive,hopedyouwerePlaying,oratleastsurviving.”“Youtrainedmewell.”“Iknow.NowIunderstandwhy.Itwasn’tbecauseIwantedEndgameorevencaredfortheprophecy,ifyoucanbelieveit.ItwasbecauseIwantedtoprotectyou.You’dbeenchosenandIwantedtogiveyouthetoolsyou’dneedtosurvive,whethertheprophecycametrueornot.Butluckyus...”“Yeah,luckyus.”Jagoemergesfromthewelcomecenter,givingathumbs-up.SimongrabsoneofSarah’shands.“Icameheretogettheweapon,Sarah.Theonethestoriestellof,theonetheMakersgaveusandshowedushowtouse.IfI’mgoingtocontinuetoprotecttheonesIlove,thenyourmomandIthoughtweshouldhaveit.”“Noshit,”Sarahsays.Simondoesn’tunderstand.“I’mnotbeingflip,Dad.Theweapon?That’swhywe’reheretoo.Ifwe’regoingtoevercrosspathswithaMaker—andbeforethisthingisthrough,wemight—thenwewantittoo.”Simonsmileswanly.“Ireallydidtrainyouwell.”Jagorapsaknuckleonthepassengerwindow.Simonrollsitdown.Jagoleansin.“Donecatchingup?”“Moreorless,”Sarahsays.JagolooksatSimon.“Yougoingtohelpus,SeñorAlopay?”SimonreachesforSarah’sshoulderandkneadsitlovingly.Histhinsmilemeltsawayashiseyesdarken.“Let’sgetourgun.”

Event17iii

AISLINGKOPP,POPKOPP,KEPLER22BSeedrakSare’en,activegeosynchronousorbitabovetheMartianNorthPole

Ssssssup!Aislingcan’tseebutshecanhear.Herheadswims,hereyesflutter,herquadstwitch,herfingersclenchintofists.Shefeelslightandupside-down and twisted and her stomach turns and she strains forward to let it out but her entire body—stretchedlongfromheadtotoe,herarmspressedtohersides—islockedinplace.The vomit comes anyway.Her lastmeal and some cashew nuts andwater and bile.Mostly bile. Thevomitdoesn’tfallontohershirtorhershoesoracrossherface.Itdoesn’tlingeronherlips,shedoesn’thavetolickitaway,itdoesn’tgetstuckinhernoseorentangledinherhair.Sherealizesthatthatsuckingsoundhaswhiskedthevomitaway.Sherealizesthatherfaceiscoveredwithsomething—amask,askin,adevice,she’snotsurewhat.Shetriestoturnherheadbutcan’t.Shetriestomoveherlegsbutcan’t.Shetriestoscreambutcan’t.Theintentisthere,theneuronsarefiring,thesynapsesaretransmitting,theaxonsanddendritesaretwinkling,thebrainisconvertingherdisorientationintofear,butthereisnorelease,noflight,nofight.Becauseshecan’t.Thereisonlyherbody,andhercloudedmind,andthedarkness,andherfear.Andmorebile.Ssssssup!Gone.Anelectricpulseshootsthroughherbody,frombottomtotop.Shesensesitmostinhertoesandbehindherkneesandunderher tricepsandat thebaseofherneckandthenat the tipofher tongue. Inafitofsynesthesiasheexperiencesthepulseascolorandtaste.Blueatfirst,burstingandbright,implodingfromtheedgeandflyingtowardthecenterandconsumingeverything.Thebluespikeswithfingersofredthenpurplethenorangeandthenablobofgreenthateatsalltheothercolorsaway.Whilethesekaleidoscopethroughhervisualcortex,hertastebudsaresubjectedtoanonslaughtofmilkysweetness,tothepointofbeingdisgusting,andsheretchesagainandvomitswhatevermightbeleftinherstomachintothetube.Sssssssup.Sheflickshertongueandfindsthatit’sblockedbysomething,thatitcan’treachherteethorhergums,andinthisinstantsherealizesthatatubehasbeeninsertedintohermouth,andhertongueisinsidethetube.Sheswallowsandfeelsanextensionofthetubeinherthroat.Andthenathoughtforms—thefirstnotdedicatedtoherbodyorhersensesortoherprimalfear.WhereamI?

For some indeterminate amount of time she is unsure. She remembers Mongolia perfectly—Marrs’svaporization, Jordan’s last volley, the cool face of the kepler who wasn’t 22b, the frigid air thatenvelopedher—butthereisnothingafterthat.Sheisaprisoner,ofthatshehasnodoubt,butwhere,andwhatexactly,ishercell?Aninklingofananswercomeswhenshefinallydiscernssomething.Severalfeetfromherfacethelightchanges,andshemakesoutthehazycontoursofaceiling.Itiscurvedandreflectiveandliquidy.Wispsofwhiteandyellowtraceacrossit,andatuftofredandafun-housemirrorblobofblue.Areflection.Shesquintsthroughthefilmcoveringherfaceandunderstandsthattheredisherhair,andthetubeisherbody,shrink-wrappedinanunknownmaterial.Shetriestomoveagainbutcan’t.It’snotsomuchthatshe’sbeingrestrainedasitisthatherbodysimplydoesn’twork.Hertoesandhertongueandhereyeballsintheirsocketscanmovewhenshewillsthemto,butnoneverywell.She strains to look in as many directions as possible. She eventually sees that another form is somedistancetoherleft,toppedbywhiteinsteadofred.ThismustbePop.Herfearisnearlyall-consuming,tingedwithasmallofferingofreliefinthismoment.Sheisnotcompletelyalone.Popisnotdead.Orifheis,hisbodyisintact.MaybeIamdead,shehalfthinks.Certainlyasgoodasdead.Thereisnothingelse.Secondsorminutesorhoursordayspass.Shecan’ttell.Thesliversofcolorontheceiling change now and then, like a psychedelic dream. Something shoots through the tube and passestastelesslyoverhertongueandpassesdirectlyintoherstomach.Food.Theelectricalpulsesticklingherbodycomeandgo.She is powerless, and afraid, but she settles intoher predicament asbest she can.Whatelsecanshedo?Shedriftshereandthereandinandoutandthen...

Then...

Then...

Hereyestearupandshootopenandinfrontofherisnottheceilingorthewallbuttheunmistakablefaceofkepler22b,litheandblueandcold.Thealienbusiesitshandsoverherbody,tendingtounseencontrols.Hisdarkeyesareblank,hismouthslightlyagape.Shetriestomakeanoisebutit’suseless.kepler22bcertainlydoesn’tmakeanynoises.He doeswhatever he does and lifts away, apparently satisfied.Aisling’smind begins to cloud again.She’sbeeninjectedwithsomething.Thesicklysweettastereturns.kepler22bspinsawayandspeaks—no, he doesn’t speak, he thinks. Aisling can hear his words not as language but as ideas, clear andcompletelycomprehensible.

Sheisstrong,andthegrandfatherholdson.Bothsurvivedthetransport.Wehopetheothertwowillsurviveaswell.Wehopewecanretrieveourweapon.ItcannothurtthatwehavemorePlayer-hostages,Nethinim.Morewillbebetter.

SARAHALOPAY,JAGOTLALOC,SIMONALOPAYMonksMound,Collinsville,Illinois,UnitedStates

SarahandJagofollowSimonalongthegroomedwalkingpathsthatlooparoundthesmallerhillockssouthofMonksMound,andthenbeatatrackthroughastandofleafyhardwoods.EachwearsarespiratorandgogglesandcarriesacompactM4—Jago’swithanM203grenadelauncher—andablade.Simonconsultsasmall laminatedmapthesizeofacreditcard.Althoughit’smiddayit looksandfeelslikeacloudyevening,onewhereastormisonthehorizonorhasjustpassed.Andwhiletheyknowthesunishighoverhead,theyellowdiscisblottedoutbytheashandgaschokingtheatmosphere.Thelightsof houses and buildings in the middle distance are extinguished, the power still out. People aresomewhereoutthere,huddledinsideandconfused,butfornowthesethreeEndgamersarealone.Sarahisgladforthat.She’shadenoughofotherpeopleforoneday.TheyheadsouthforhalfamileandhittheConwayrailtracksrunningeasttowest.Notraincarsblocktheirpath.Theyskirtoverthesteelbandsandleavetheboundaryofthestatepark,joggingoveranopenandroughfield,thesettledYellowstoneashpaddingtheirfootfalls.Theydon’tspeak.Jagowatchesthecountryside like a hawk, andSarahwatches Jago.She trusts him to safeguard them,but she’s not surewhathemightsayaboutthisCahokianrebellionthattheOlmeceldertoldhimabout.Shehopeshesaysnothing.They’reheretodoajob,nottotalkfuzzyancienthistory.They pass a few squat maples and round some overgrown bluffs that belonged to the ancient pre-ColumbiancitythatonceflourishedonthisMississippianfloodplain.TakenwithMonksMound,the109mounds of this city formed the heart of a thriving Mesoamerican metropolis that was as large andpopulousasanyintheAmericas,fromtheBeringStraittoCapeHorn.Infact,thecitythatgrewaroundthemounds,withasmanyas40,000peopleatitsheight,wasthelargestcityinNorthAmericanhistoryuntilPhiladelphiasurpasseditinthemid-1780s,longafteranyculturaltraceoftheCahokianpeoplehaddisappearedfromtherecordbooks.Longaftertheirline’ssecretsweremovedanddispersedandhiddenfromthepryingeyesofEuropeansandotherNativeAmericanclans.LongaftertheCahokiansretreatedinordertostaybetterpreparedforEndgame.“Alittleoverhalfthemoundsareinthestatepark,”Simonsays,pullingtoastopinapatchofthigh-highswitchgrass.Heturnsinasemicircleandtuckshismapintoabreastpocket.Hisvoiceismuffledandhollowedoutbyhisrespirator.“Therestarescattered.Theonewe’relookingforissoerodedthatyouwouldn’trecognizeitasanythingsignificant.”Heslidesametalbraceletdownhisarm,foldinghishandthroughitscircleandyankingitoff.Heswingsitinanarc,likehe’susingittodowseforwater.Adirtydrizzle falls, a chillwindblows from thenorth.Rain streaks theirgogglesandclothing.Sarah

shiversasthewindtouchesanexposedsectionofherneck.AnotherlightningstrikenearMonksMound.They swing around to look, but it’s lightning, nothingmore. Simon resumes his search for the hiddenmound.Hewalksslowly,heeltotoe,measuringdistance.Thebraceletguideshim.SarahandJagoinchalongafewpacesbehind.Outoftheblue,Jagosays,“ObviouslySarah’stoldmeofthisweapon,SeñorAlopay.ButI’mverycurious.”“Yes?”Simonsays,concentratingonhissearch.Shit,Sarahthinks.Thetopsofthetreesontheothersideofthetracksbendandswayintheirdirection.Thedrizzleturnstolightrain.Sheunclipsaballcapfromherbeltandputsitonoverherraven-dyedhair,pullingthebrimtighttothegogglestokeepthemdry.Pleasedon’tsayit,shethinks.“Whatdoesitdoexactly?”Jagoasks.“Andwhydidyourlinehideit?Whynotkeepitanduseit?That’swhattheOlmeclinewould’vedoneifwe’dbeengivensuchagift.”Simonpauses.HetiltstowardJago.“Ourpeopleburieditbecauseit’spowerful,JagoTlaloc.Thebookssaythatitcanlighttheheavens,andthatitcankillMakers.Didmypeopleevertrytodothat?Nottomyknowledge.Tobehonest,Idon’tknowifit’sreal,orifit’llwork.It’sbeenburiedforalongtime.Astowhywehidit, Iassumeitwasbecausemyancestorswereafraidof it. It isaweaponthatbelongedtoThem.AndtheMakersweretobefeared.Surelyyourpeoplesharethisfear.”Jagosays,“Ofcourse.ButhowdidtheCahokiansgetitinthefirstplace?Didtheystealit?”SarahreachesupandflicksthebackofJago’sear.Heflinchesandgivesheralookthatsays,Okay,okay!Simon stops again. “All I know is that it’s supposed to be buried . . . here!” Simon does a littleprestidigitationwiththemetalring,andrightbeforetheireyesit’sstandingonitsnarrowedgeinthepalmofhishand,asifproppedupbyinvisibleforces.Hegoesononekneeandworkshisfingersthroughthethickgrass,partingitlikehair.“Helpmelook,”Simonsays.“Themarker’sanoblongstoneintheshapeofaneyeandaboutthesizeofafist.Thisringisakindofkey.Itwillopenanyimportantchamberinthisancientcity.Thisone,andtheoneupthere.”HetipshisheadtowardMonksMoundtothenorth.Sarahgetson thegroundseveral feet away fromSimon. Jagopicksa spot anddoes the same.Sarah’sgogglesarefogging,sosheliftsthemfromhereyesandpullsthemoverthetopofherhat.Sheworksthefingersofhergoodhandthroughthegrassandoverthedirt.Theysearchforacoupleminuteswithnoluck.Jagostraightens,scanningtheirsurroundings.Nosignofanyone.Justmoredirtyrain,probablyacidicandtoxic,andmorecoldairblowinginfromthenorth.“Yousureit’shere,señor?”“I’msure,”Simonsays.“WhenIlapsed,myfatherbroughtmetothisveryspotandshowedmetherock.He didn’t know much about the weapon either, except that it was buried and that it should only beunearthedinextremecircumstances.”“YoumeanifEndgameactuallybegan,”Sarahsays.“Thatwasthegistofit,yeah.Wesawtherockandwentbacktothepark.Hadapicnicbythetraintracks.Countedemptycoalcarsastheylumberedby,headedbacktoWestVirginia.”Sarahcrawlsforwardandissurprisedwhenherleftkneedigsintosomethinghard.Shemovesoverandusesherhandsand,yes.“Here!”shesays.Ablackandsmoothstone—completelyoutofplaceinthisnon-volcanicpartoftheworld—shapedlikeanEgyptianhieroglyphiceye.“That’sit!”Simonexclaims.Heputsthebraceletnexttothestoneandworkshisfingersarounditsedgesandpriesitfree.Thedirtunderneathiswetandbuggy,wormscorkscrewandwritheastheydiveintothesafety of the earth. Simon ignores them and digs in, pushing the dirt away and severing some unluckywormswithhisfingernails.Afteraminuteanotherhunkofsleekblackrockisrevealedatthebottomofa

12-inchhole.Therainintensifies.Theashcoatingeverythingwashesfromtheleavesandthegrassandtheirclothing.ThewateralsohelpsSimoncleanofftherock,andnowSarahseesthatinitssurfaceisaroundedindentationabouttwoinchesdeep.Anindentationthatisaperfectmatchforthebracelet.Simonfitsthebraceletintotheslot.Itslidesintoplaceandhewrapshisfingersarounditandturnsit37degrees.Aclickandahiss.Heletsgoandpullsaway.Butnothinghappens.A flicker in Sarah’s periphery and she hoists her rifle reflexively, aiming north toward the tracks andbeyondattherain-lashedtrees.“Whatisit?”SimonandJagoask.Sarahsquintsthroughtherain.“ThoughtIsawsomethingbutit’s...Eh,it’sonlythewindinthetrees.”Theyreturntheirattentiontothevesselpeekingfromtheground.Jagosays,“Whyisn’t—”butiscutshortbyarumbleunderfoot.Allthreedancedefensively.SarahandJagothinkanxiouslyofStonehenge,ofhowitmorphedandgrewaroundthemafterthediskactivatedthemonument,ofhowChiyokowascrushedbyaccident.Butthistimenothingsodramatichappens.Therumblinglastsafewmomentsandinsteadofaglass-and-stonemonstrosityrisingfromthegrounditisnothingmorethanasimpleblackpillar,sevenfeettallandthreefeetindiameter,thebraceletrootedtothetop.From where they stand the thing appears solid, with no recess or door that might hold this ancientweapon.Simonwalksaroundthepillar,lettinghisfingertipstrailoveritsglassysurface.Whenhegetstothefarsidehiseyeswidenandhemakesasoundthat’sequalpartsreliefandwonder.SarahandJagojoinhim.Thepillarhasarecesscoveredbyaclearglasspanel.Simontouchesthisanditswings open, revealing a fist-sized metal object shaped like a lump of malformed clay. The onlyindication that it might have any purpose are three finger-sized holes running through one side and acradleforathumbonitstop.Simontakesit,carefullyinsertinghisfingersthroughtheholes.Itfitsinhishandperfectly.“Itlookslikeapaperweight,notadeathray,”Jagosays.SimonpointsthethingawayfromthePlayersandanglesittowardthegroundandtapshisthumbintothecradle,expectingittoactasaswitchortrigger.Butnothinghappens.Jagoshrugsandreachesontopofthepillar,poppingoutthebracelet.“Wegotit,whateveritis,”hesaysdismissively.“Nowlet’slookforSunKeyandgetoutofhere.Weneedtocheckinwiththeotherssoon,Sarah.”Ashespeaksthespindleofstonedropsbackunderground.SarahisabouttoagreewithJagowhentheairgetsverycold.Aninvisiblepresencebrushespasther,andSimontwistsviolentlyandisthrowntotheground,theMaker“weapon”isknockedoutofhisgripandtumbles into thegrass. JagoandSarah lift their riflesbutdon’tknowwhere—orwhat—toshoot.TheytwirlandsearchandSarahcallsout,“Dad!”andSimonmoansandJagoshouts,“There!”Sarahlooks,notknowingwhattoexpect,andJagotapshistrigger,firingthreeshots.ThespacebetweenthemripplesandthendarkensandathinglikeanetappearsfromnowhereandcatchesJago’sbullets.Itsurgestowardhimandthensucksuphisarmsandhischestandhisface.Hisskinturnsblueandwithinafraction of a second his entire body is wrapped in this gossamer shroud and he’s unconscious andteeteringtothegroundlikeafallingtree.TheMaker!Sarahthinksdesperately.Simonmoansagain,strainingtowardSarah.

Shedivessidewaysasanothernet-shroudhurtlesoverhead,missingherbyinches.Sheskidsoverthedirt,herrespiratorcatchingthegroundandtwistinguncomfortablyaroundtothesideofherheadandcrunchingherear.Sheseestheclumpofmetallessthanafootawayandscramblestowardit.Shegetsit,herfingersfitperfectly,her thumbgrowsalmostunbearablyhotas it settles into the imprint.Herarm locksat theelbowandhershoulderfeelslikeit’sbeingusedasapincushionbyathousandneedles.Herbadarm,tiedtoherstomachinasling,aches.Sherollsontoherbackandpointstheweapondefensively,sightingalongherarm.Sheblinksatthethinginherhand.Itisn’talittlemoundofmetalanymorebutanelongatedspikeextendingfromthepinkiesideofherhandforaboutthreefeet.Despiteitssuddenlengthit’sfeatherlight.Theairshimmersandanothernet-shroudopensfromasmallpointaboveherandspreadsintotheairlikeaninkstain.Shesqueezesherentirehandaroundtheweaponandkeepshereyesopenandthinksofwhatshewantsittodo—revealtheMakerandcutitdown—andthespikeglowsyellowandgrayandathindiskoflightappearsfromthetip.Itflashesforamillisecond,abladeoflightextendingtothecloudsandbeyond.Thenet-shroudisshreddedintoathousandpieces.Itblowsawayonthewind.Andbehindthat,aboutsevenfeetabovetheground,amelon-sizedobjectflipsthroughtheairandthumpsontothegroundclosetoSarah’sfeet.Aformappearsbeforeher instreaks.Whatever it’susingforcamouflagefrittersandmalfunctions.Sheseesabody,skinnyandpale,headlessandfalling.Whenithitsthegroundit’scompletelyvisible,andsheknowsforcertainthatit’sdead.“YEAH!Yeah!Fuckyou!”shespits.“Fuuuuuuuuhuuuuuckyoooooouuu!”Shesitsuphastilyandyanksherbadhandfromtheslingandtearstherespiratorandgogglesandcapfromherhead.Shezipstheweaponallaround,gettingtoherknees,coveringeveryanglewhileshelooksforanother target,but there isn’toneand the thing inherhands is alreadymorphingback to its innocuousstate.Shepants,herbreathquickenedbyadrenalineandjoyanddisbeliefbutmostlyjoy.Ikilledhim.Ikilledkepler22b.Sheletsoutalaugh,fullandhearty,andcrawlstoJago.Shetugsattheshroud,whichisbitterlycoldtothetouch.Itcrinklesandcracksasshefreeshimfromit,andassoonashe’southiseyesflutterandhe’sbackwithher.Shewrapsherarmsaroundhimandkisseshisfaceallover:hislipshisscarthebridgeofhisnosehisblinkingeyes.Theyembraceawkwardlyontheground,theweaponthatisverymuchaweaponthereinherhand.Therainfallseverharder.Shedoesn’tcare.“Ikilledhim,”shewhispers,herlipsonthesoftskinofhisear.“Ikilledhim,Jago.”Hesmiles,buthiseyesdarttotheside.“Andyourfather?”Sarahpeers over Jago’s shoulder.Simonworkshiswayontohis elbows ashegets his bearings. “Helooksfine.”SarahkissesJagoonemoretime,asmileplasteredtoherface.ShejumpsupandboundstoSimon.Heisfine.Helaughs.Theyhug.Theyregroupoverthenextseveralminutes,drinkwaterandchecktheirguns.They are entranced by the alien body and its severed head. Sarah and Jago argue aboutwhether it isactuallykepler22b—itdoesn’tlookexactlythesame—butSimongiddilyasks,“Doesitreallymatter?”No,itreallydoesn’t.Theyhavetheweapon.Anditworks,anditcankillMakers.They take the alien head, slipping it into a plastic bag and tucking this into Jago’s large pack. Theyfirebombthebodywithanincendiarygrenade,makingsureitburns,andasthefireragesattheirbacks

theyreturnnorth,asenseofvictoryintheirthroats.WithinthehourtheyentertheCahokianmonumentandfindthecentralstarchamberandsearchforSunKey.Itisn’tthere.Simonisconvinced.Theywillhavetomoveonandsearchthenextmonument.Theyleaveandgoup,up,up,outsideandtothevehicles.SarahandherfathergetintheoldTaurus,bloodstainedandbullet-riddled.JagogetsontheHarley.Theygobacktotheplane.TheywilltalktotheotherPlayers.Getneworders.Mayberendezvouswiththemsomewhereelse.MaybeheadtoLaVenta,asplanned.OrIcangohomeandseeMom,Sarahthinksastheyboardtheplaneafterrefueling.Andasithurtlesuptherunwayandbumpsinto theair,Jagoat thecontrols,herheadrestingonherfather’sshoulder in themaincabin,hergoodhandholdinghishand,shesaysquietly,“OrIcangohome...”Withinminutessheisasleep,thesmellofSimon’shairinhernose,dreamingofwhatcouldbe.

ANLIU,NORIKO

Approaching34.36226,108.640262,Huzhucun,China

NoriKoturnsoffanemptysix-lanehighway,bouncingtheDefenderontoadirtserviceroad.Bothroadscutthroughflatfarmland,thefieldsgreenwithcornandsoybeansandpotatoes.Totheeastandsouthisthesemi-industrialsprawlofXi’an—watertowersandatangleofwiresoverelectricalsubstationsandsoullessbuildingsandtallconcretechimneysspewingsmokeandsteam.Counteringthese,andwatchingoverthefarmlandlikehalf-asleepdragons,arethepyramids.UnlikethehiddenGreatWhitePyramid,thesestructuressitoutintheopen.TherearedozensscatteredaroundXi’an,makingthisareaavastgraveyardforChina’sancientemperors.ThetombthatAnLiuandNoriKoareheadedtobelongstoaHanemperornamedZhao,whoonlyliveduntiltheageof20andruledforamere13yearsbetween87and74BCE.Atleastthisisthepyramid’snominalpurpose.Itsotherpurpose,andonethatismuchmoreimportantthanthatofrestingplaceforaforgottenchild-king,concernsEndgame.NoriKodrivesafewhundredmetersnorthtothenearbypyramid,althoughitdoesn’tlooklikemuchofoneanymore.It’smorelikeaslump-backedhill,crisscrossedwithwornfootpathsthroughclumpsofwildgrass.Thesiteisculturallysignificant,andtechnicallyprotectedbytheChinesegovernment,butthereisnowelcomecenter,noropescordoningitoff,noformalparkinglotforvisitors.Insteadthere’sashabbypatchofopendirtatthewesternbaseofthehilllitteredwithplasticbottlesandbagsandfoodwrappers.Acornfieldfullofleafystalksgrowsrightnexttothehill.Noothercarsarehere,andAnisgladforit.HealmostsaysasmuchtoChiyoko,whospeaksoftennow,sayingannoyingthingslikeStayandHonorlifeandLetitbeandthenthingsthatcontradictthesenicetieslikeNoquarterandTakethekeysandSeekblood,love.Seekbloodforme.AnSHIVERblinkAnSHIVERSHIVERAnandNoriKoexittheDefender.Hebiteshislowerlipinordertokeepquiet.HewantstotalktoChiyoko,butheknowsthatdoingsowouldmakeNoriKoaskquestions.Heglimpseshisreflectioninacarwindow.Hisstubblyhead,histattooedtear,hisdeep-setandsleeplesseyes,histhinpurplelips.We’renearlythere,Chiyoko,hethinks.Shedoesn’trespond.Hecheckshisweaponsandhissupplies.Hecheckshisstringofhomemadebombs.HeslingsNobuyuki’skatanaoverhisshoulder.Nori Ko’s movements mirror his. She clicks metal on guns and sheathes blades and makes sure thatclothingisnotloose.Herfaceishardandcold.HehasgrownusedtoheroverthecourseoftheirdrivefromIndia,andwhileithasn’tbeenmorethanafewdayshe’salreadybeguntotakeherforgranted.“IamgladChiyokosentyoutome,NoriKo,”Ansays.NoriKopauses.ThisisthefirsttimeAnhassaidsomethingthatsoundsgrateful,evenkind.Shesmilesalittleasshesays,“I’mgladtoo.”Sheslapsamagazineintoherrifleandsnapsthecharger.“Nowlet’sgogetthosekeys.”Shewinksandspinsawayfromthecarandslamsthedoor.

Sheleads,hefollows.Theypassatidyshrineatthebaseofthepyramid,asmallplaqueinsidenamingEmperorZhaoandgivingtheyearsofhistruncatedreign.Abouquetofwiltedflowersandthebuttendsofafewsticksofburnedincenseareinside,nodoubtleftbysomesuperstitiousfarmerwhobelievesinthegraceorireoflocalspirits.AnandNoriKomarchupthedirttrack.Annoticesforthefirsttimethatthenorthernfaceofthehilliscoveredinastandofdarkpagodatrees.Aperfectplacetohideanentrancetothisforgottenrelicfromanotherage.It’sashortclimb—thehillisonly30metershigh—andNoriKoreachesthesummitfirst.Butwhenshedoesshefreezesanddropstotheground,swingingherrifleina45-degreearc.Ancheckstheir flanks.A truckcruisingnorthon thewidehighway to thewest,andanotherancientpyramidrisesoverthefarmlandanothermilepastthat.HegetsonhisbellyandmilitarycrawlsbehindNoriKo.“What?”hewhispers.“There’sacarparkedatthebottomoftheoppositeslope.”“People?”Sheshakesherhead.An slithers next to her and peers over the lip of the hill. The car is a dark-blue late-model Fulwin,unremarkable in every way except that it’s shiny and not road-worn. “Rental,” he says. “From theairport.”Hepointstothenortheast.“Let’smove,”NoriKosays.“Crossingcover,fourmetersapart.I’lllead.Iknowwheretheentranceis.Nomoretalking.”SHIVERBLINKSHIVERbilnkblinkSHIVER.NoriKorisestoacrouchandpointsherrifletothetrees.Anrisestoo.Theymoveforwarduntilthey’reafewmetersapart.Heangleshis rifle so itcoversher frontandshepointshers so that it covershis. IfsomeonepopsoutandtriestosurpriseNoriKo,Anwillkillhim.IfsomeonetriestosurpriseAn,NoriKowillkillhim.BLINKshivershiver.Anseesmovementandheswingshisweaponinherdirection,hisfingerhoveringoverthetriggerbutnotfiring.NoriKomistakes thismotion, thinking for a briefmoment that he’s aiming at her, and she alsoswingsher rifle inhisdirection,momentarilysightinghimbefore tippingherBeretta to thegroundandmouthing,Sorry.Blinkblinkblink.Asquirrelchittersandspiralsaroundatrunkandthendisappearsintothebranchesabove.Anfollowsitwithhisweapon and then repositions to coverNoriKo.He takes a step forward.Shemouths anotherapologyandtheycontinuetoadvance.Theywalkdownhillnow,weavingthroughtrees.After10metersNoriKoputsupafistandbothstopintheir tracks.They’reon theedgeofapatchofgrass, a large treeblockingAn’s lineof sight.NoriKosignalshimtostayput.Sheslipsintothetreesandhecatchessliversofherassheflitsaround,clearingineverydirectionwithherrifle.NoriKoreappears,hergunpointeddownandheldtighttoherchest,herfacewrinkledwithconcern.Shemotionshimcloser.Hestalks toher.Acurvedobsidianspur rises fromtheclearing towaistheight.Brokenanddiscardedearthisthrowntothesideasifthestonehasgrownupfromthegroundbelow.Ancraneshisneckandseesthatonesideiscutaway,revealingaholebigenoughtoslipinto.“There’restairs,”shesayscautiously.“I’msorry,An.ButIthinktheNabataeanisalreadyhere.”Anshudders,hequakes,hiskneesbegintofalter,hisheadbeginstopound,butthroughtheriotofhisbody

hehearshervoice:It’sallright,love.SHIVERshiverSHIVERshiverIt’sallright,love.blinkblinkBLINKblinkIt’sallright.shiverBLINKLove.Anbitesthesideofhistongue.Theticsstop.Hiseyeswater.Thepainfeelsgood.“It’snotallright,An,”hesays.NoriKoregardshimwithaconfusedlookandsaysnothing.Shedoesn’tliketheticsorthefactthathe’sspeakingtohimself.SHIVERblinkblink.Youcanstillkillhim,love.shiver.Move!Chiyokoimplores.“It’sallright,”hesayscalmly.Helookstothesky,thetopsofthetreessilhouettedagainstitlikespearpoints.“Hehasn’twonyet.Wewouldknow.”“Okay,butlet’sfindoutforsure,”NoriKosays.Anhoistshisrifleandbrushespasther.“Youcanstillkillhim,”hesays.“Good,”NoriKosays.“Butwon’tyoukillhim?”“Yes.That’swhatImeant.”Hestepsaroundthestoneandintotheground.NoriKofollows.Andthenhesays,“Youcanstillkillhim,love.”NoriKodoesn’tknowwhattothinkofthat.Ishecomingundone,nowthatthey’resoclosetotheend?Sheverymuchhopesthatheisnot.Sheneedshim.Heneedsher.Hecan’tcomeundone.Notyet.

KEPLER22BTeletranschamberonboardSeedrakSare’en,activegeosynchronousorbitabove theMartianNorthPole

Hestandsaloneintheroom,staringattheblankarchwayoftranspot2.OneNethinimisdead—dead!—andtheotherissafeinstasis.TheLaTèneandhergrandfatherareinternedandsemistasised.HewantedtobringbacktheCahokianandtheOlmectooasextrainsurance,buttheyremainfreeonEarth.Butworsethanthis—much,muchworse—theyhavetheweapon.“MorePlayerswouldhavebeenbetter,”hesays.“Butnomatter.Wehaveone.Andwemaynotrequireherintheend.”Becausehere,twinklinginthedarknessofthetranspot,heseestheformofthepersonhewaitsfor.TheNabataean.Withthefirsttwokeys,andonthevergeofdiscoveringthethird.HeisenteringtheShangmonument’sstarchamber.kepler22bhasnotfeltsuchexcitementsincehefirstarrivedinthequadrantover15,000Earthyearsago.Sincehesawthelushsweepoftheblueplanetandthebarrenexpanseoftheredone.Itisnearlyover.Awinnerapproaches,andinafewmoments,kepler22bwillcrownhim.Crownhimwiththeprizeofdeath.

HILALIBNISAAL-SALT,SHARICHOPRA,JENNYULAPALA

-21.6268, 129.6625, Yuendumu Hinterland, Northern Territory, Australia

HilalandSharistandshouldertoshoulderattheheartoftheKoorimonument.Itisevening.Theskyisdark.Itislessthan24hourssincetheymetJennyUlapalabutitmightaswellbeweeks.Jennylikesthem,andwhilethey’venotyethadtheirweaponsreturned,theylikeJenny.Jenny andShari andHilal have spent the better part of the last 20 hours in a simple hut immersed inWayland’sbook,decipheringasmuchasJennycanaboutthislaststageofEndgame.Ithasn’tbeeneasy.Thebookisorganizedinamannerthatdefieslogic,soherunderstandingofthespecificsofEndgameisincomplete,butnonethelessitisgreaterthanitwasthedaybefore.Theyhavelearnedmanythings.First,JennyconfirmedthatatleastoneofthesetwelveancientmonumentsisneededtofinishEndgame,asStellabelieved.ButJennyalsolearnedthatintheheartsofthesemonumentsare“starchambers,”whichserve a secondary and, especially in the old days whenMaker ships orbited Earth by the hundreds,essentialpurpose.Theyweretransportationhubs.The Makers had a technology with an unpronounceable name that harnessed something they called“Earth’sintrinsicenergylines,”Jennyexplainedearlythatmorning.“ThesearethesamethingsweusetoworkthroughtheDreaming.WeusetheDreaminginspiritualormentalcapacities,notinphysicalones.ButtheMakers—Theycanusethisenergytogetabout.”JennylearnedthatwhileTheyhadflyingmachinesthatcouldtravelatgreatspeedsanddelivermaterialaround the globe in the days of human prehistory, the Makers preferred to get around using theirteleporters. There were many hundreds of these all around Earth in the old days—in places like thepagodainXi’anandattheGatewayoftheSuninBoliviaandintheDepthsoftheHarappanfortress—buttheseportalsjustlinkedplacesonEarth.TheydidnotpossestheabilitytomoveMakerstoandfromorbit.“Buttheportalsinthestarchambersoftheworld’smostancientmonumentsdidpossessthisability.Andtheystilldotoday,”Jennysaid.After breakfast Jenny kept reading the book, Hilal and Shari helping her to take notes. Their otherdiscoveries were far-ranging, concerning things as varied as gold extraction, genetic modification,neuropathology,advancedbioengineering,religiousindoctrination,and,ofcourse,theimplementationandexecutionofthethingthePlayershavealwaysknownasEndgame.Jennyneedsmoretime—monthsorperhapsyears—tofullyunderstandwhyit’shappeningandhow,butafterafewhoursshewasconvincedthat theultimategoalofEndgameasespousedbytheMakersandacceptedbythelineswasfalse.

AsHilalobserved,“Endgameismerelyanothertooldesignedtoexertcontroloveranalienrace.Us.Itiscoerciveinnature,designedtogetustoactagainstourbestinterests.”“TheMakersarelikebloodypoliticians,then,”Shariquipped.Jennychuckledatthatone.As the sky darkened that afternoon, the sun hidden behind gathering clouds, Jenny said, “Here’swhatwe’relookingfor.”Shestabbedasectionofthebook.HilalandSharihuddledclosertoher.“It’saboutthekeys.”“Doesitsayanythingaboutmydaughter?”“ItsayshergeneticcodecontainssomethingessentialtofinishingEndgame.Seemsliketheyhidsomebitofinformationinthelines’genes,andthatcertainchildrenarebornwiththesectionofcodetheyneed.YourAlice,unfortunately,hasthatrunningaroundherlittlesystem.”Sharisaid,“Weneedtogether,Mrs.Ulapala.”“CallmeJenny,mum.”“Allright,Jenny.”“Wewillgether,Shari.Apromiseisapromise,”Hilalsaid.“ButIwanttoknow,MasterUlapala:Whataboutthethirdkey?”“It’sallrighthere,”Jennysaid.“Andit’ssimpleassimplecanbe,Aksumite.It’syou.OrShari.Oroneofyourmates—JagoorSarahorAisling.OrAdlai.”“SunKeyisaPlayer?”Shariaskedurgently.“It’sthePlayerwho’sgotthefirsttwokeys.There’salsoacodeinyourgenome,oneyouallgot.That’swhyPlayersarechosen.Youdon’thavethiscode,youcan’tPlay.Anyway,whenit’sallsaidanddonethis code links with Sky Key’s, and when these are combined with Earth Key in one of these starchambers,thentheMakergetswhateveritishewantsoutofEndgame.”“Iwishweknewwhatexactlythatwas,”Hilalsaid.“Andmetoo.Thisbook’llshowussoonerorlater.Needmoretimetostudyitisall.Butrightnowwegottoact.SkyKeyisingravedanger,mum.”Sharifrowned.“Morethanwealreadyknowhertobein?”“Yeah.Saysherethatattheend,she’lldie,”Jennysaid.“Playerwilltoo.”ShariclappedJenny’swizenedhand.“Jenny.”Thatwasallshesaid.Jennynodded.“Iknow,mum.We’llsaveher.AndIgotanideahow.Bitrisky,butIthinkwecanusetheDreamingtofigureoutwhenLittleAlicecomesintooneofthesestarchambers.OnceweseeherIopentheportalattheKoorimonument—I’vedonethisbefore,butIwasalwaystooscaredtogothroughsinceIdidn’tknowwhereitletout.ButnowIdo.YoucanstayintheDreamingandholdtheconnectiontoLittleAlicewhileHilalandsomeofmyKoorimatesgoandwhiskheraway.Wegetherhere,Iclosetheportalrightquickonourend,andthat’sit.Endgameover—oreffectivelyover,anyway.”“Wecandefinewhatitmeanstowin,”Hilalsaid.“That’sright,”Jennysaid.“Isitsafe?”Shariasked.“That I don’t know, mum.We definitely need to try it first. Don’t want to hurt your girl out of rashstupidity.”And sohere they are, back at the heart of theKoorimonument, doing a trial runof aSkyKey rescuemission.NowJennyandSharisitcross-leggednearthetreeinthemiddleofthecircle.TheKooriguardsstandatintervalsaroundthecircle.Hilalwatchesandwaits.

“Ready,mum?”JennyasksShari.“Ready.”“Takemyhandandcloseyoureyesandfollowmylead,”theoldwomansays.Sharidoes.“Youseeyourgirl,don’tjump,understand?You’rejustapassengerfornow.”“Iunderstand.”JennysqueezesShari’shand.“It’sgoingtobefine.”Sharinodsnervously.OverhershoulderJennysays,“Hilal,whentheconnectionissolidI’llcomeoutandwe’lltestthedoor.Shari,youstayintheDreaming.Yourpresencewillholdourconnectiontotheotherportalinplace.”“I’lltry,”Sharisays.“It’llbeeasyforyou.You’llseewhenyou’rethere,mum.You’vealreadydoneitinyourdreams,youjustdidn’tknowit.”“Allright.Let’sgiveitago.”Jennyclickshertongue.“Closeyoureyesnow,mum.HerecomestheDreaming.”

SHARICHOPRA

With thosewordsherworldgoesdarkandsilent. It isnot somuchdreamlikeas it’s simplyno longerthere, like any person experiences as she givesway to sleep and is not yet delivered to her dreams,whethertheseendupbeingbanal,strangeor,asitoftenhappens,simplyforgotten.Timedoesnotexist.Spacedoesnotexist.Thedesiretoseeherdaughter,thewreckageofEndgame,thevastAustraliandesertbeyondherphysicalbody—noneoftheseexist.Inmanywaysshedoesnotexist.Shespendssometimehere.Secondsorhours—shedoesn’tknowandshedoesn’tcare.Butthen,afteraninterval,aformcomestoherthroughthedarkness.Theformissmallandherstepsarechildlikeandherhairisdarkandstraight.Sharican’tseeherface,butsheknowswhoitis.Shewouldknowwhoitisfromanydistancebythewaysheswingsherarmsandstandsonhertoeswhenshewalks.ItisLittleAliceChopra.Sheseemstowalktoherforever,nevergettingcloserorbigger,yetincreasinginpresence.Thefrontofherbodyandherfacearecastinshadow,andSharireachesoutandcallsforherbutthegirldoesn’tdoanything.Shejustkeepswalkingeasilytowardhermother.When the littlegirl finallycomes intoviewShari is shocked to find that it’snotLittleAlicebut JennyUlapala.Theoldwomanholdsoutbothhands.Shari isovercomewithsadness,andthenfear,andthensherememberswhyshe’shere.Wherehereis.“TheDreaming,”shesays.“Staywithme,mum,”Jennysays.“Don’tact.Follow.”Shari takesherhandandtheywalk,sidebyside,over thedarkness.Thegroundbeneath isnothardorsoft.Theairisnotcoldorwarm.Thevoidisnotlimitlessorpressinginonthem.Jennyswingsherhandjoyfully,andSharican’thelpbutswingittoo,likeachildwoulddowithhermotherorfather.LikeLittleAlicewoulddo.Eventually they come to the circleof dirt and shrubs in thedesert, the sameone their physical bodiesoccupy. It’s early evening. They keep walking, getting incrementally closer to the tree and the portalcarvedinitstrunk.Hilalandtheguardsarenowheretobeseen.“Willitwork?”Shariasks,herlipsandtonguetingling,hervoiceechoingthroughherskull.“Quiet,mum,”Jennyanswers.Sharibecomesawareofashadepassingnexttoher,orperhapsalsofollowing.It’stall,substantial,andwithaheadoftwirlingblackhair.Whenevershelooksdirectlyatit,itdisappears,butshedoesn’tneedtoseeittoknowwhoitis.Shari’sjusthappyshe’shere,insomeform.It’sBigAlice.

Andshehassomethingtosay.“They’reallbehindyou,Shari.Youwon’tsee’em,youcan’t,butthey’reallhere.Anunendingparade.”AtthatmomentJennyandSharireachthetreeintheDreaming,andthespaceinthedoorwayshimmersand turnsblack like ink. Jenny squeezesShari’shand reassuringly.Alice says, “Allof ’em. Jamal andParuleadingtheline,backthroughthecenturies.They’reallsmiling,Shari.Theentireline.Yourline.Allof’em.”Shari’sheartfills,andhergutemptiesofsadness,andshesmileswiththem.“They’reallhere,mate.They’reallhere.”

HILALIBNISAAL-SALT,SHARICHOPRA,JENNYULAPALA-21.6268,129.6625,YuendumuHinterland,NorthernTerritory,Australia

“BytheMakers,”Hilalsays,staringattheportal.Itchangesbeforehiseyes.ItremindshimofthedoorinthepyramidattheCalling,exceptthatthisoneisdarkerandnotreflective.Itisblackandemptysaveforthefainttwinklingoflightslikethoseofintermittentstars.“Waithere,mum,”JennywhisperstoShari.“Staypresentandholdthelink.”Sharidoesn’tspeak.Jennyreleasesherhandandrises,heroldbodycreakingupright.ShewalkshalfwaytoHilal.Jennysays,“Timetoseeifthisportallinkswithanotherstarchamber.Youhavethemarkers?”Hilalholdsupapairofflatredstonesthesizeoflargecoins.BothcomefromthispatchofAustraliandesert,andbothareeasilyspotted.Theywalktothetreetogether.Jennysays,“I’mgoingbacktoShariforasec.Thelinktotheotherportalisthere,butit’slikeonoldwindowjammedinitsframe.Needsunstickingbeforeit’sallthewayopen.”“WhenwillIknow?”“You’llknow.”ShesitsbackonthegroundgingerlyandtakesShari’shand.HilalwatchesasJenny’seyesrollforward,revealingthewhites,andthenherlidsfluttershut.Forseveralmoments nothing happens. The portal stays dark and inky and Shari and Jenny remainmotionless andsilent.Butthenthesurfaceoftheportalchangesagain.Hintsoffaintbluelightstreamfromit,andalinehereandthereliketheedgeofawall,andashinythingsetinthegroundontheothersidelikealargesaladbowl.Itisastar-shapedroom,andheknowsthatitisrealandrightthere,evenifitisthousandsofmilesaway.“Now!”Jennyblurts.Hilalhurlsoneofthestonesattheportal.Itssurfaceripplesexactlylikewhenarockdisturbsaglassylake, but the stone sails through to the other side. It slides over the floor, dipping into the bowl andshootingintotheaironthefarside,finallystoppinginoneoftheroom’spointedcorners.“Itworked!”Hilalsays.“Iseeit,Aksumite,”Jennysays.“Weshouldbeabletocrossineitherdirectionwhenthetimecomes.”Sharigrunts.HilalassumessheisspeakingintheDreamingbutisunabletomakethewordshereintheworld.Butthenanepiphany.TheworldincludestheDreaming.Thisissospirituallypleasingthathecannothelpbutsmile.WhateverhashappenedwithAbaddon,thisworldremains,anditiswondrous.“We’regonnatryanotherchamber,Hilal.GottamakesurewecangettowhereverLittleAliceshowsup.”“Understood,MasterUlapala.”

Jennyhumsalowtune.Hilalwatchestheimageoftheroomrecedeandfalloutoffocusanddisappear,thesurfaceturningplacidandblackoncemore.“It’lltakeawhiletonavigatethroughtheDreaming,”Jennywhispers.“Iwillwait,”Hilalsaysexcitedly.“Withpleasure.”

MACCABEEADLAI,LITTLEALICECHOPRA

34.36226,108.640262,Huzhucun,China

MaccabeeandLittleAlicedescendanarrowspiralstaircasecarvedfromatubeofslickblackstone.Thestaircaseislessthanameterwide,forcingMaccabeetoanglesideways.LittleAlice,whobecomesmoreafraid and unsure the deeper they go, holds his hand. The cramped tube, along with Little Alice’sincreasinglytentativesteps,causesthemtomoveslowly.Maccabee’spistolisinhisrighthand.Hehasabladeonhishipandthepoisonringonhispinkie.EarthKeysitssecurelyinthezipperedpocketofanill-fittingwindbreakerheboughtat theAhmedabadairport.Betweenhisteethheholdsacheapandweak-beamedflashlight,alsoboughtattheairport.Itsbatteriesarealreadyfailing.Thesearethethingshecarriestotheend.Thesearethethingshecarriestowin.Thesearethethingshecarriestomeetkepler22b,andtoseehowthisgirlwilldie.HesqueezesLittleAlice’shand.Shesqueezesback.“I’mscared,Uncle.”“Don’tbe,sweetie,”helies,hisbrowcoveredinacoldsweat.Hefeelsawful.Hefeelssick.Hefeelselated.Hefeelsnervous.Hefeels.After21minutesandthreesecondsofdescentthegroundlevelsandthetubeopensintoaroom.Theairisafewdegreesbelowfreezing.Hezipshisjackettohisneck.Thewallsglow,andhisbreathvisiblyplaysintheflashlight’sbeam.Hepincheshisteethandthelightclicksoff.LittleAliceshivers.“We’rehere,”shesays.“Weare.”Theroomishighceilinged,itshard-angledwallslaidoutintheshapeofasix-pointedstar.Atthefarendof the room, blunting one of the in-facing points, is a tall and slender alcove, its edge surrounded byglittering runes, a fewofwhich he recognizes.The interior of the alcove is jet black and liquefied, alimitlesspoolsetonend.Inthefloorinthemiddleoftheroomisagilt,bowl-shapeddepression.Maccabeestepsforward,butLittleAliceclutcheshislegandwon’tbudge.“I’mscared,”sherepeats.“It’sallright,”hesays.“I...”“Yes?”“Iwantmymama,”shesaysweakly.Foramomenthecan’tmove.Heswallowshard.Ifhewereher,hewouldwanthismamatoo.

KEPLER22BTeletranschamberonboardSeedrakSare’en,activegeosynchronousorbitabove theMartianNorth

Pole

kepler22bhearsthisconversationfromhisshipabovetheredplanet.Heseesthegirl.Knowsherfear.Itisrealandwell-founded.Healmoststepsthroughtorevealhimselfinthismoment,tospeak,buthewantsthemtocomecloser.TherecanbenodoubtthatthisPlayerwillclaimhisprize.None.Hewantsthemtocomecloser.

AN LIU, NORI KO, MACCABEE ADLAI, LITTLE ALICECHOPRA

34.36226,108.640262,Huzhucun,China

AnLiumovesquicklybutsilently.Maccabeeisclose.Thegirlistoo.Hecansmellboth.Don’trushtothekepler,love.Havepatience.BLINKQuiet!SHIVERThey’llhearyou!SHIVERSHIVERBLINKBLINKSHIVER.Patience.Don’thurtthegirl.They’llhearyou!Hebitestheedgeofhistonguesohardthatthetipsofhisteethmeetandgrate.Hiseyeswater.HewantsChiyokotoshutup,tolethimwork.Tolethimkill.Butshewon’t.Don’thurtthegirl,sheinsistsagain,nothearingAn’sthoughts.You’llneedherifyouwanttokill thekepler!Don’thurther!Hemoves, one foot grapevining after the other, one after the other, in the utter darkness.NoriKohasfallenfartherbehind.“Shush!”hehisses.SpillAdlai’sblood,nothers!“SHUSH!”Hestops.Thatwastooloud.Hewaitsforaresponsefrombelow,hearsnothing.NoriKocomestohisshoulder.Shenudgeshimwithherknee.They have been descending for nearly 10 minutes. He estimates that they’re more than 100 metersunderground,theairgettingcolderandcolderastheygo.Hecocksaneartothedarkness.NosoundfromMaccabee.Theholemustbethatmuchdeeper.ShivershiverBLINKshiverBLINKBLINKblink.Anreleaseshisrifle’shandguardandtakesoneofChiyoko’sshriveledearsandslipsitbetweenhislips.Ittasteslikepaper.SHIVERblink.Likenothing.blink.Butitworks.Sheisquiet.Hemoveshisfeet,fasternow.

Muchfaster.

“It’sallright,”Maccabeewhispers.HekneelsbeforeLittleAlice,holdinghergentlybytheshoulders.“Iwantmymama.”Maccabeelooksatherfeet.He’stooashamedtomeethergaze.“Whenwe’redonehere,I’lltakeyoutoher,”heliesagain.“We’llfindherandI’lltakeyoutoher.Ipromise.”“Afteryouwin?”“Yes.AfterIwin.”“Promise?”Ifshe’sgoingtodie,hedoesn’twanthertobestressed.Itshouldbepeaceful.Painless.LiketheMakerpromiseditwouldbe.Maccabee raises his face and stares at her intently, tenderly. “I swear it.” The sincerity in his voicesurprisesevenhim.Youfuckingmonster,hethinks.LittleAliceblinks.“Okay.”Shepeeksintothemiddleoftheroom.“Okay.”Maccabeerunsthebackofhishandoverhercheek.“Doyouknowwhattodooverthere?”“Yes,Uncle.”“Showme.Thesoonerwe’redone,thesoonerwecanseeyourmama.”“Okay.”Shewalkstothebowlinthemiddleofthefloor.Hefollows,unzippingthepocketthatcontainsEarthKey.Hewrapshisfingersaroundthesmallstoneball,itssurfaceunusuallywarm,andpullsitfree.Iamgoingtowin,hethinks,herationalizes.LittleAlicestopsattheedgeofthedepression,hertoeshangingoverit.Sheholdsoutherhand.Hersmallbodyshakes.“Okay,”shesays.“Givemeyourhand,Uncle.GivemeEarthKey.”

KEPLER22BTeletranschamberonboardSeedrakSare’en,activegeosynchronousorbitabove theMartianNorth

Pole

kepler22bsteps to theedgeof the transpot.Hepullshiscloakofarmoraroundhisbody.Heslips thehoodover the topknotperchedonhishead.Thehood’s edgesadhere tohis cheeksand thengrowandmeet,coveringhisface.Endgameisover,andheisgladforit.Hetakesabreath.Itisslightlytentative,shaky.Whatisthisoddfeeling?Theonehehasn’thadinsuchalongtime?Ah,yes.Nervousness.Slowly,hestepsforward.

HILALIBNISAAL-SALT,SHARICHOPRA,JENNYULAPALA

-21.6268, 129.6625, Yuendumu Hinterland, Northern Territory, Australia

HilalwatchesasJennyandShariworkthroughtheDreaming.Hewatchestheportal.Afterawhiletheblacksurfacechanges,asbefore.Alinehere,alinethere,thefaintlight.Hestartstoseeanotherroom.AndthenShariscreams.Jennythrowsbotharmsaroundher,halfpinninghertotheground.Hilalsquintsattheimageintheportal.Theroompullsintofocus.Thisroomisnotemptyliketheotherone.InthemiddlestandsMaccabeeAdlai,andclingingtohislegisLittleAliceChopra!TheNabataeanissecondsawayfromwinning!“Doyouseekepler22b?”Hilalasksdesperately.“No!”Jennyshouts.“But—”“TheShang!”Hilalyelps,pointingpastMaccabee.“ThereistheShang!”

ANLIU,MACCABEEADLAI,LITTLEALICECHOPRA34.36226,108.640262,Huzhucun,China

Anreachesthebottomofthesteps.Heisassilentandcoldastheairenvelopinghim.NoriKocouldnotkeepupwithhispace,andsheisatleastaminutebehind.TheNabataeanandSkyKeystandinthemiddleoftheroom.AdlailooksshorterthanAnremembers,butthenAnnoticesthatAdlaiisinasmallholeintheground.Onthefarsideoftheroomisadarkdoorway,its surface black andopaque.An calmly adjusts his aim for the backofAdlai’s neck, right below theskull.Heputstheslightestpressureonthetrigger.AcouplemoremillimetersandtheNabataean’sspinewillexplodeandhis throatwillcollapseandhisfacewillbe tornawayandflunginto thestar-shapedroomandhewillbeinstantaneouslykilled.SkyKeysays,“There,Uncle!”Shepoints.Ancan’thelpbutlook.Aplayoflightonthefarsideoftheroomcauseshim toeaseoff the trigger.Theblackness in thedoorwaystirs, likean invisiblestickhasswirleditssurface,andnearthefloorAnseessomethingfoot-shapedbegintostepoutofit.

HILALIBNISAAL-SALT,SHARICHOPRA,JENNYULAPALA-21.6268,129.6625,YuendumuHinterland,NorthernTerritory,Australia

“Gun!”Jennyorders.“GiveHilalhisblades!”ShariwrithesandcallsoutforLittleAlice,hereyesshut,herhandsoutstretched,herlegskicking.HilalseesMaccabeeandSkyKeyandAn,butnoneofthesepeopleappeartoseehim.Ifhecanmakeittothestarchamberontheothersideoftheportalhewillhavetheelementofsurprise.Heskidstoastopinfrontthethreshold.AKooriguardthrowsapistolathimandHilalsnatchesitfromtheair.Hetucksitunderhischinandholdsoutbothhandsashismachetesarrive,LOVEinhisrighthandandHATEinhisleft.Hehastilyslipsoneunderhisbeltandtakesthegun.“Go!”Jennyyells.“Goandgether!”

ANLIU,MACCABEEADLAI,LITTLEALICECHOPRA

34.36226,108.640262,Huzhucun,China

Thekepler!Chiyokoscreams.Stophim,An!Adlaiwillwinifyoudon’t.Stophimnow!AnreleaseshisBeretta.Itfallstohischest,makingamuffledsound.Maccabeehearsthisandhewhipsaround.InasinglemotionAnyanksaballfromthestrandofexplosiveshungaroundhisbodyandslingsitthroughtheroom.ItarcsoverMaccabee,whostabsoneofhismassivehandsintotheair,missingitbyafewcentimeters.Maccabeedropstotheground,coveringLittleAlicewithhisarms,shieldingherwithhisbroadshouldersandback.Thetinybomblandsinthemiddleofthearchwayonthefarsideoftheroom.Itisriggedtoexplodeonimpact.Anditdoespreciselythat.

HILALIBNISAAL-SALT,SHARICHOPRA,JENNYULAPALA

-21.6268, 129.6625, Yuendumu Hinterland, Northern Territory, Australia

Just asHilal steps through the portal, its surface crackles and shivers and the room on the other sideshatters and snaps. The blackness returns and he almost slams headlong into it, but someone strongsnatcheshisbeltandtwistshimtothesideandhewhiplashesintothetreetrunk,mashinghischeekonitsroughbark.ThepersonholdinghimisJennyUlapala.“It’snogood.Therewasablast.Yougothroughthatnowandyou’llendupinthevoid,Aksumite.”Shewinks.“Trustme.”Hedoes.“Shari,”hesays.Shariliesontheground,hereyesblinking,herstomachspasminginfitsofsadnessandpain.“IpulledheroutoftheDreaming,”Jennysays.“Isawher!”Shariwails.“Youdid,”Jennysaysgently.“Whycouldn’twesaveher?”“Yousaw,”Jennysays.“TheShang,”Hilalsaysquietly.“Shutup,Hilal!”Sharispitsthroughhertears.“Isawher.Yousawher.IwassocloseIcouldsmellherhair,herskin.”Hilalcastshiseyestotheground.“Youcouldn’tsmellher,mum,”Jennysays,tryingtocalmher.“Thosewereyourmemories.TheygettiedupwithwhatyouexperienceintheDreaming.Shewastherebutyouweren’t.Notreally.Notinbody.”“Icouldsmellher,”Shariinsists,hertonguerazorsharp.Amoment.Thehissandwhorlofthewind.Crickets.Asnappingbranch.“Whathappened?”Hilalasks.“AnLiuthrewoneofhisbombs,”Shariwhispers.“TheMakerwascoming.Anstoppedhim.”“Shari,that’sgood,”Jennysays.“Itmeansthegameain’tover.Itmeansyourdaughterlives.”“Noitisn’t!Idon’thaveher!”Shepointsattheblankportalinthetreetrunk.“Oneofthemhasher!Oroneofthemiskillingher!Or...or...”“Easy,mum,”Jennysays.“TheMakerdoesn’thaveher.That’swhatcounts.”Anothermoment.JennystartstospeakagainbutShariraisesahand.Shegathersherself,sitsandwipeshereyeswiththebackofherhand.“Theexplosionwasconcentrated,”shesaysquietly.“Adlaismotheredher.Theywere

alivewhenyoupulledmeout,Jenny.Isaw.Adlaiwasrisingtofight,andAlice...shewascurledup.Likealittlebug.Likeacat.Curledupandscared.”“Soshedoeslive,”Hilalsays,tryingtosoundencouraging.HemovestowardShari.“Untilitisprovedotherwise,thatiswhatistrue.”“Hilal’sright,”Jennysays.The sky is dark and featureless. The clouds cover the stars, the same that were so brilliant the nightbefore.“Shelives!”Hilalinsists.“AndifImustdietodeliverhersafelyintoyourarms,thenIwill.”Hegetsonhiskneesrightnexttoher.Hestretcheshisfingersforherarmbutdoesn’ttouch.“Ourplanwillwork.Allwehavetodoisexecuteitagain.Shelives!”herepeatslikearefrain,likeaprayer.“Youwill seeheraliveagain,ShariChopra.ThisIswear.”

AN LIU, MACCABEE ADLAI, LITTLE ALICE CHOPRA, NORIKO34.36226,108.640262,Huzhucun,China

Theportalisdestroyed.LittleAlicecowersasMaccabeerushesAnLiu.Maccabee’sgunrises.Hepulls thetrigger,aimingforAn’schest.Theshotechoesharshly throughout theroom.An is felledby theforceof thefirstshotandtwistsintotheentryway,disappearingforamoment.Maccabeeisthereinaflash.An’schestheaves,hishandsclutchathisthroat.Theshothitarmorandhegaspsforair.MaccabeereachesdownandgrabsAn’s riflestrap.Heyanks thegunawkwardlyaroundAn’ssidewhereit’simpossibleforhimtoreachit.ButAnhasotherthings.Likeasword.It flashes and cuts across themuzzle ofMaccabee’s pistol, slamming it to thewall and crunching theNabataean’sknuckles into the stoneentryway.Thepistol firesuncontrollably as it’sknocked free.Theslughitsthestoneandbouncesaroundbutdoesn’thitanyone.Andrawsadeepbreathandholdsitsohedoesn’thavetofusswithhisstrugglinglungs.Hebouncestohisfeet.Maccabee,relievedofhispistol,backpedalsasthetipofAn’sswordzipspastMaccabee’sface.Maccabeedrawsatacticalknife,double-edgedwithahilt.TheNabataeanparries the swordwith theknife,catching theedgewith thehilt andpushing theswordaway.Theknifemightbeshortnexttothesword,butMaccabee’ssuperiorstrengthmorethanmakesupforit.Theyparryandattackandcounterattackforafewsecondsaseachsetshisfeet.AnexhalesandsurgesforwardandMaccabeeleanstohislefttoavoidAn’ssteel.HestabsforAn’sexposedneckandiscertainhe’ll strikebut thenAnsteps into thebowl in themiddleof the roomandshrinksbya foot.TheknifescratchesthetopofAn’shead,butitdoesn’tdrawmuchmorethanafewdropsofblood.WhereisSkyKey?Maccabeethinks.Shewasinthebowl,terrifiedandcurleduplikeaninsect,butnowshe’sgone.DidtheMakergether?Isshesafe?Maccabeesliceshisknifedownhard,cuttingAn’sriflestrap.Hegripsthesideofthestockandpullsitfree,butAnzipsabackhandattheweakestsectionofthegun,wherethereceivermeetsthebarrel.Therifleisactuallycutintwo.ThetophalftwirlsawayandthebottomhalffallstotheirfeetasMaccabeefoldshimselfbackwardlikeacircusacrobat,narrowlyavoidingtherestoftheblade.Ansetshisfeetandgripstheswordtwo-handedandisabouttosmashitintoMaccabee’slegwhenanothershotringsintheir

ears,abulletgrazingtheShang’searandcausinghisstriketomiss.Maccabeeclamberstohisfeet.BothPlayers search desperately for the shooter, and both are shocked to see LittleAliceChopra clutchingMaccabee’spistollikeagiantdeadlytoy.AnisbetweenthegirlandtheNabataean.SheaimsatAnagainandpullsthetrigger,pullsitpullsitpullsit.Shefiresallthebulletsleftinthegun,andallmissbadly,therecoilnearlyknockingherover.Thegunclicks.Empty.Anrunstowardher,Maccabeefollows,yelling,“Leaveheralone!”Chiyokoyells,Don’thurther,love!Ancan’thelphimself.Notnow.SkyKeyisgoingtogethurt.She’sgoingtodie.Anreachesthegirl—terrifiedandcryingandshakingsobadlyshecanbarelyholdthegun—inlessthantwoseconds.Maccabeeisrightbehindhimbuthe’llbetoolate.Anisgoingtostrike.Butbeforehecan,An’sfacelightsinpainandtheworldgoessilverandthenblack.Maccabeeskidstoastop.An’sknockedhalfwayacrosstheroom,hithardintheheadwiththebuttofarifle.Hesplaysacrossthefloor,flatonhisback.AwomanstepsfromtheentrywaybehindLittleAlice,andalsobehindtheriflethatknockedAnLiutothefloor.Maccabeehasneverseen thewomanbefore,but there isnodoubt thatshe resembles theMu,ChiyokoTakeda.Maccabeeholdsouthishand toLittleAlice. “Comehere.”Thegirl sprints tohim, slams intohis leg,grabsit,digshernailsintohispants,hisflesh.Hishandclutchesthetopofherhead,hisfingersinherhair.Hecansmellit.Richandsweetandpowdery,likeababy’s.“Iwantmymama,”shesays.“Iknow,sweetie,”hesays.Hegently—lovingly—squeezesherscalp.“I’msorry,”shesays.Hethinks,No,I’mtheonewho’ssorry.Thewomanstepsallthewayintotheroom.She’sthreemetersaway,herrifletuckedtohershoulder.Hereyeisinthesight.Herfingerisonthetrigger.ItisaimedforMaccabee’scrookedandbruisednose.MaccabeesmoothsAlice’shair.HetiltshisheadinAn’sdirection.Theriflemovesincrementally.“Don’tlethimhurt—”Hisbackgoesstraightasaboard.Hisnecksnaps.Hefalls.Hedoesn’thearLittleAlicecryout.Hedoesn’tfeelanypain.Hedidn’tevenheartheshot.

KEPLER22BTeletranschamberonboardSeedrakSare’en,activegeosynchronousorbitabove theMartianNorthPole

Transpot2ripplesandshatterslikebrokenglass,blastingdebrisintotheteletranschamberandthrowingkepler22btothefloor.HebecameawareoftheShangatthelastmoment,whenitwastoolatetostophimfromdetonatingabombinsidethestarchamberoftheShangmonument.kepler22bscramblesbackward.Hisarmorprotectedhimandhe isuninjured,but transpot2 isplainlydamagedbeyondrepair.Hejumpstohisfeetandripsoffhishood.HehastenspasttheholographicmapofEarth.Hestopsinfrontoftranspot1andsinkshisarmsintotheplasmastonecontrolpanel.Itshouldn’ttakemorethanafewsecondstolinktranspot1totheportalinXi’an.Hisfingersdancefuriouslyandtheliquidystonegrowsoverhisbarearmsandpasthiselbows.Hiseyesflitbetweentranspot1andthemap,transpot1andthemap,andyes,there,heseesthelinkandyes,transpot1ispoweredupandyes,there,itisactivated!HecangototheNabataean!HecanstillfinishEndgame!Hiseyesrestontheemptyspaceofthetranspot,expectingittofillfromtheedgeswiththedarkmediumthatwillenablehimtomoveinstantlytoEarth’ssurface.Butthedarkmediumdoesnotappear.Hisfingersworkfaster,andhismindtoo,andthetranspotlightsaroundtheedge.Hechecksanddouble-checkstheswitchesandconnectionsandthey’reallcorrectbutnothinghappens.Heswingsto themap.ThedotmarkingtheShangmonumentchangescolor, indicatingthat theportal inthat room so far away—that room that contains the three keys—is no longer functional. It is utterlydestroyed.HewillhavetowaituntilaPlayergetsthekeystoadifferentstarchambernow.Hewillhavetosimplywait.UnlesshecanfinishEndgameonhisown!Hetearshishandsfromtheplasmastonequickly,peelingathinlayerofskinfromhisforearms.Hecursesaloudandstompsfromtheroom,crossingtheship’shallwayandenteringthemedbaywheretheLaTènesareinterned.HeripsthePlayerfreefromawebofwiresandbindings,checksherconsciousnesslevel,yanksthemaskfromherface,pullsoutthetubesthatsnakearoundhermouthanddownherthroattoherstomachandherlungs.Sheremainsunconsciousbutherbodyreflexivelygaspsforoxygen,ofwhichthereislittleontheSeedrak.Hepullsabagfromthewallandslipsitoverherhead,anditfiltersthenitrogen-andmethane-laden air. She breathes.He drops her on the floor and takes a storage shroud from a farcornerandwrapsherbodyinit.

Hepicksherupwithonearmandmovesbacktotheteletransroom.Helooksatthemap.HehasaPlayer.All heneeds isEarthKeyandSkyKey, and inorder toget thesehehas tomakeaguess as towhichmonumenttheywillshowupatnext.Hemustdecidecorrectly.Ifhedoesn’t,allcouldbelost.Heconsiders thesituationcarefully.TheShanghasprobablyalreadykilled theNabataean,soLiunowhasEarthKey and SkyKey. kepler 22b knows that the Shang loved theMu.He knows that Liu is assentimentalasheisdisturbed.WhichmeansthatifAnLiuhasanychoiceinthematter,andisresourcefulenoughtofigureitout,hewilltakethekeystotheMumonumentlocatedat24.43161,123.01314.kepler22bhasdecided.Heshoveshisfreehandintotheplasmastoneoftranspot1andreconfiguresitsconnections.HewillgototheMumonument.HewillgototheunderseatempleofYonaguni.

ANLIU,NORIKO,LITTLEALICECHOPRA

34.36226,108.640262,Huzhucun,China

“Comeon.Wakeup.”NoriKo nudgesAnwith her foot. She holds her rifle in one hand andSkyKey in the other. The girlslumpsoverNoriKo’sshoulder,herfacenestledinherneck,herarmjuttingoutatanoddangle.NoriKoinjectedthegirlwithaverysmalldoseofDemerolfromherfieldkit.ThegirlwasbesideherselfwithfearandanxietyoverlosingtheNabataeanandwhoknowswhatelse.“Wakeup,An,”NoriKorepeats.Anrollsontohisside.“Thereyouare.Comeon.”Hemoans.Hishandsrisetohisface,theyrubhisskinandeyes.AredweltgrowsoverhislefteyebrowandcheekwhereNoriKostruckhim.“Wha-what...”“TheNabataeanisdead.”AncraneshisneckandsquintsatMaccabeeAdlai.“How?”NoriKopatsherrifle.“Don’tknowwhyyoubotheredwiththesword.”Anpushestoasit.Hedrapeshisarmsoverhisknees.Hisheadhangsbetweenthem.Youshouldthankher,love,Chiyokosays.SHIVERSHIVERSHIVER.Hisheadquakeslikeamadman’s.SHIVERSHIVERSHIVER.Quiet!hethinks.Youshouldthankherforsavingthegirl.Youwerebeingrash,andfoolish,Chiyokosays.Thankher.BlinkSHIVERblink.An’sheadsnapsup.“Thankyou,NoriKo.”HiseyespointtoSkyKey.“Iwasn’trightinthehead.You’veseenmewhenI’mfighting.Youunderstand.”Good,Chiyokosays.“I couldn’thavedoneanyof thiswithoutyou. Iwouldn’tbeherewithoutyou.Thankyou.”Hesays itbecauseheneedsNoriKo,buthealsosaysitbecauseit’strue.NoriKoreachesdownandoffersahand.“Iunderstand.Playersaremadetokill.Youmostofall.”“Yes.”Shepullshimup.Hepressesathumbintooneofhisnostrils,shuttingonesidetight.Heexhalessharplythroughhisnose,abloodyballofphlegmsmackingMaccabee’sleg.“Youcheckhim?”Anasks.“He’sdead.”“Isheriggedtoblowifhedies?”“No.Areyou?”sheasks,halfjoking.“Notrightnow,”hesaysseriously.Andoesn’tnoticeNoriKorollhereyes.“Hedoesn’thaveanyexplosivesofanykind,”shesays.“AndEarthKey?”“Here.”NoriKoholdsoutafist.Ancradleshishandunderneathit.Sheunfurlsherfingersandastoneballdrops

intohispalm.“It’sso...small.”“I’msurethat’swhattheothersthoughttoo.”An zips it into a pocket. He picks up Nobuyuki’s sword and sheathes it, saying, “I didn’t shoot himbecausetheMakerwascoming.”Blinkshiver.“Icouldn’tletthathappen.”“Whatdoyoumean?”NoriKoasksurgently.“DidyouseetheMaker?”Anpointsat thecrackedstonesaround theportal. “Idid.Hewas stepping through there. Itwas likeadoorwaytowhereverheishiding.Igreetedhimwithfire,butIdon’tthinkhewashurt.”NoriKoreachesforhim.Heflinchesalittlewhenherhandcomestorestonhisshoulder.“Wewillhaveourrevenge,An.”“That’sallthatmatters.”“Nothingelse,”shesays.Hefingersthenecklaceofhairandflesh.Pointshischinatthegirl.“Whatdidyoudotoher?”“Drugged.Shewashysterical.Sheseemedto...carefortheNabataean.Shedidn’twanthimtodie.”Donotscareheragain,love,Chiyokochides.“I’lltry,”hesays.NoriKofrowns.“What’sthat?”BLINKshiverSHIVER.“Nothing.Thinkingout loud.TheCahokian,” he says, getting to the point. “TheOlmec.They’re next.”NoriKonods.Anunclipsabombfromhisvest.PressesafewbuttonsandthenplacesitcarefullyinthemiddleofMaccabeeAdlai’sstomach.“Onehouruntilthisexplodes,”heexplains.“NoMakerwillcomehereagain.”HepushespastNoriKoandthegirlandstepsthroughtheexit.“Noonewillevercomehereagain.”

SARAHALOPAY,JAGOTLALOC,SIMONALOPAY

FamosoAirfield,Bakersfield,California,UnitedStates

“Heythere,sweetheart.”Sarahopenshereyes.Simonstandsoverher,kneadinghershouldergently.“Whathappened?”“Youfellasleep.”Shesits.“Shit.”Sherubsherface.“Beendoingthatalotlately.”“That’swhatJagosaid.HealsosaidyouwentafewdayswithhardlyanysleepatallinPeru,whenhisparentstookyoucaptive,soit’snotverysurprising.”“Hetoldyouaboutthat,huh?”“Hedid.”Sarahglancesaroundtheinsideoftheplane.“Where’sJago,anyway?”“Outside.TryingtoconvinceRodneyQandHibbertnottokillhim,”Simonjokes.Sarahknowsbothmenwell.They’reCahokiantrainers,onespecializinginextremesurvivalskillsandtheotherinmetallurgyanddemolitions.Sarahrisestoherfeet.“Sowe’reinNebraska?”sheasks.“We’rehome?”She’sexcitedtoseeOlowa,toholdherhand,totellhershethatshelovesher,face-to-face.“No,”Simonsays.“We’reinBakersfield,California.TheWestCoastisamess—earthquakesripplingupanddowntheSanAndreasFaultsincetheimpact—butthepowergrid,alongwithradiocommunications,GPS,andvarioussatellitefeeds,areworkinghere.”Sarahfrowns.“Whatdoyoumean,we’reinCalifornia?”“Wecouldn’triskflyinghome.Yellowstone’sstilleruptingandthere’stoomuchdebristoriskit.IdrovetoIllinois,youknow.”“Thenweshouldhavedrivenback!”Sarahsays.“I’msorry,Sarah.Butyoucouldn’tabandonthisplane.Youknowthat.So longasyoucanfindfuel, itwillgetyouanywhereintheworld.”“Notanywhere,”Sarahpointsout.Simonsqueezesherarmgently.“We’renotgoing to stopEndgame inNebraska,Sarah. Jagoexplainedwhat’shappened.Allofit.Heconvincedme.Tobehonest,itwasn’tthathard.”“Allofit?”“Allofit.IncludingtheCahokianRebellion.”“Yousoundlike...youalreadyknewaboutit.”“I’veknownabout it fora long time,and Iwouldhave toldyou tooafteryouagedout.But I couldn’twhileyouweretraining.IfEndgameactuallyhappenedtoyouthenyoucouldn’tbeginwithdoubtinyourheart.Yeah,Iknewaboutourrebellion,butIalsobelievedtherewasachancethattheprophecywastrue.Itwasateenychance,butitmeantyoucouldwin,anditmeanthatwemightbeabletolivealonglife—together.AlloftheCahokians.Or,asmanyofusaspossible...”Hetrailsoffandlooksatthefloor.She

knowshe’sthinkingaboutTate,becausethat’swhoshe’sthinkingoftoo.“Dad...”TearsfillSimon’seyes.“Imisshim.”Sarah’sgriefcatchesinherthroat.Shewipeshernosewithherarm.“Metoo,”shemanagestosay.Pause.“Ishouldhavetoldyou,Sarah.Iunderstandthatnow,andI’msorry.”“It’sokay,Dad.I’msorrytoo.”“Forwhat?I’mproudofyou.Soproud.”Youshouldn’tbe,shethinks,theimageofChristopher’sfacehangingintheairnexttoherfather.Simoncontinues,“Ifyou’dknownabouttherebellionyouwouldn’thavebeenabletostopEndgamefromstarting,Sarah.”Sheshrugs.“Maybe.Icould’veblownmyselfupattheCalling,alongwitheveryotherPlayerandmaybekepler22btoo.Thatmighthavestoppedit.Itwouldhavesavedhim,ifnothingelse,thebigidiot.”“What’reyoutalkingabout?”“I—”Sarahsays,butiscutshortasJagoboundsintothecabin.“Sarah—Jordan’son the radio.Hilal andShari shouldbeonsoon too.Weneed to talk to them.” Jagoholdsouthishand.Hergazelingersonherfather—shewantstotellhimthatshekilledChristopher,sheneeds to tell him, but not right now. She grips Jago’s strong fingers. “Come on,” Jago says, a smilecreasinghisscar.SarahglancesatherfatheroncemoreasJagopullsheraway.Simonfollows,stillwonderingwhatitisthatSarahneedstosay.

GREGJORDANGovi-AltaiProvince,Mongolia

“ThisisCharlieEchoOne,onsecurechannelAlphaRomeoFiveSeven,over.Repeat,CharlieEchoOne,over.”Heclicksthetransmitterandwaits.Silence.He’sinthecockpitofthede-wingedBombardier,hisfacebruised, his nose broken.Breathing hurts.Badly.The explosion fromhis grenade as itmet the alien’sprojectilethrewhimatleast20feetovertherockyMongolianterrain.Hehasatleastonecrackedribonhis right side, and what feels like two or three on the left below his shoulder blade. He has a longabrasionupthebackofhisrightarmandagolfball–sizedlumponthebackofhishead,andhisneckissostrainedthathecan’ttuckhischintohischest.Hewasunconsciouswellintothenightoftheattack,andbarelyabletomovethewholenextday.Ittookhimanhourtogettohishandsandkneesandcrawlthe50-oddfeettotheplane.Onceinsidehedrankwaterandatesomecrackersandthrewupandatesomemorecrackersandbegantreatinghiswounds.Hetriedhardnottofallasleep,sincehewaspositivehe’dbeenconcussed.Whatever.He’stheluckyone.Becausehe’salive.He’shere.“CharlieEchoOne,onsecurechannelAlphaRomeoFiveSeven,over.Repeat,CharlieEchoOne,over.”Hetakesabreath—ortriesto—andisstoppeddeadbythepainstabbinghisside.“Fuck,”hewhispers.Hespitsintoapapercupfromthegalley.Thesalivahastrailsofbloodinit,whichisanimprovement.It’salotlessthanwhenhefirstcamearound,shiveringinthetwilight.Hisspitthenwasdarkpurpleandthick.Hewasafraidhewasbleedinginternally,butsincethenit’sletup.Theluckyone.Acrackleontheradio.Jordanclickshistransmitteragain.“CharlieEchoOne,copyback,over?”“ThisisOscarKiloFifteen.Ireadyou.”Jago.“Wehavecompany?”“Negative,”Jordansays.“Maintainsilenceforthirdparty,copyback.”“Copythat.I’llgettheother,”Jagosays,referringtoSarah.Jordanisgladthatatleastoneothergrouplives,especiallytheonethathadtogobacktoAmericaandsoclosetotheimpactzone.Hetakesthreetinysipsfromaplasticwaterbottleandwaits.Hewondershowmuchheshouldsay.Whatheshouldrevealabouthissituation,aboutMarrsandAislingandPop,incasetheMakersarelistening.Theymustbelistening.He doesn’t have long to contemplate his options. Hilal’s voice pops over the radio, crackling withurgency.“ThisisTangoLimaOne.Isanyonethere?”“OscarKiloFifteen,checkingin,”Sarahsays.“CharlieEchoOne,checkingin,”Jordansays.“Excellent,”Hilalsays.“Tellusyourstatus.”Sarahsays,“Objectivecomplete.NearWestCoastofUS.Readytomovetothenextmonument.”Jordansays,“Objectivecomplete.”Hepauses.Hilalsays,“Objectivechangedonourend,buttheresultsarepositive.Wehavesomenewsregarding—”

“Igottasaysomething,”Jordaninterrupts.Hilalsays,“AsdoI,CharlieEchoOne.Please,listen—”“I’m sure your shit is urgent too, butmynews is probablymore urgent.Wewere attacked.By one ofThem.Marrswaskilled.Ourplaneisdisabled.Ishouldhavebeenkilledtoobut...gotlucky.”Hespitsinto the cup.Hehasn’t spoken somuch since coming around, and everywordhurts. “Didn’t seewhathappenedtoAisling.She’seitherdeador...she’snothere,whateverhappenedtoher.Popisn’teither.Nosignofthem.”“Hetookthem.”It’sShari.“Hemusthave.IfwhatwelearnedaboutSunKeyistrue,thenheneedsoneofustofinishthegame.Hetookher!”Jordanturnshiseartothespeakerandraisesaneyebrow.“Whatdoyoumean?Whathaveyoulearned?”“Oneattackedustoo,”SarahsaysbeforeShariorHilalcanexplainaboutmeetingJennyUlapalaandherbeingabletoreadtheMaker’sbook.“What?”Shariasks.“Wewereambushednearourobjective.TheMakernearlygotus,butwe...”Sarahpauses.“Wefoughtback.Wesurvived.”“How the fu—” Jordan starts, remembering the invisible and bulletproof force thatwaylaid them, thethingthatobliteratedMarrswherehestood,thegiantunseenhandthatcaughtthreegrenadesandletthemexplodein itsgraspas if theywerepoppingballoons.But thenhethinksbetterof it. IfSarahandJagohavesomewayoffightingtheMakers,bestnottotalkaboutitovertheradio.Hilalsays,“CharlieEchoOne,pleasereconfirm:Youcannottravel?”“That’s right.Might as well be on the moon. But I’m safe. Have food, water, medicine, shelter, andpower.I’llbefinetillyoucancircleback.”“Andyou,OscarKiloFifteen?”“Mobileandready.Wecangowhereveryouthinkweshouldgo,”Jagosays.“YouweregoingtotellussomethingimportantaboutSunKey?”“Yes,”Hilalsays,“butIthinkitbettertodiscussinperson,incasethischanneliscompromised.Shariistransmittingcoordinatesnow.IwillmeetyouatthisrendezvousASAP.Ifyouarrivefirst,pleaseencampattheairport.Oncewearetogetherwewillmovetothenextmonumentinforce.”“Rogerthat,”Sarahsays.“We’llseeyouthere.”Hilalsays,“Safetravels,Players.Iwillseeyousoon.IwanttohearhowyoukilledtheMaker.”“Iwannahearthattoo,”Jordanchimes.“Butuntilyoucantellmeface-to-face,getoutthereandfuckingkickass,Players.ForMarrs,forMcCloskey,fortheHarappan,foreveryone.ForStella.ForAisling.Justfuckingkickass.ThisisCharlieEchoOne,out.”

ANLIU,NORIKO,LITTLEALICECHOPRA

Private plane holding area, Xianyang International Airport, Xi’an, China

Ansitsat thecontrolsofhismodifiedY-12E,a laptoponhis thighs,hisfingersstabbingthekeys.Theturboprop is dormant but otherwise fueled, its course charted, its occupants ready for take off. ItoriginallyflewmaritimesurveillanceforChinaFlyingDragonAviationoutofHarbininHeilongjiang,butit has belonged to theShang line for as long asAn remembers.Of all the planes andhelicopters he’sflown,realorinsimulation,An’sloggedmorehoursonhispreciousandreliableY-12Ethananyother.Over992hours,tobeexact.Allheneedsisafewmorehours.Except that he and Nori Ko and Sky Key can’t take off. They can’t fly to Yonaguni and to the Mumonument—whichisalsowheretheOlmecappearstobeheaded.WhentheylefttheShangpyramidAncheckedChiyoko’strackingwatch,andthere,tohisdelightandsurprise,wastheblip-blipmarkingJagoTlaloc.Hehadn’tdied.Notyet.Thefoolhadn’tfiguredoutthathe’dbeentaggedwaybackattheCalling.Now he is over halfway across the Pacific, on a heading thatwill soon cross the Japanese island ofYonaguni.Theplacewhere,iftheycouldonlygetairborne,theOlmecwillfindnothingbutdeath.ButAnandNoriKoandSkyKeycan’tflytoYonagunibecausethemilitaryclearancecodesAn’sreliedonforsomanyyearsaren’tworking.AirtrafficoverChinaandTaiwan,whichthey’llhavetoflyovertoreachYonaguni,hasbeenseverelyrestrictedsinceAbaddon.BLINKSHIVERBLINKBLINKSHIVER.Herapshisknucklesonhistemplethreetimes.Painshootsdownthesideofhisheadandthroughhisjaw.Thepain isgood.The ticssubside.He’sbeen trying tohack throughabackdoorofBeijing’saviationadministrationsotheycancrossChinawithnoquestionsasked.“How’sitgoing?”NoriKoasksfromthecabin.She’sworkingacomputertoowhilemonitoringSkyKey.Anyells,“Thislastencryptionischallenging.”SHIVER.“Howaboutyou?”“IspokewithmybrotherTsuroinYonaguni,”shesays,hervoicegettingcloser.Sheappearsbehindhimandleansintothecockpit.“I’mgladtheMuplantedhimtheresolongago.He’sgoingtohelpusout.”“I’mgladhe’stheretoo,”Ansays.“Tsurofiledtherequestforemergencymedicalsupplieswiththetrans-Asianreliefagency.Isentyouthedocnumberwithourmocked-upmanifest.That’stheoneyoushouldusewithBeijing.Asfarasanyoneknowswe’reflushwithgauze, iodine,andIVbags,notsniperrifles,explosives,andanuclearsuicidevest.”“Okay”—blink—“I”—shiver—“I”—SHIVER—“Igotit.Goodwork.”“Thanks.IalsotoldTsurothatifanyoftheothersgettherebeforeusthenheneedstostallthem.”“Withany”—blinkBLINK—“withany”—SHIVERshiver—“withanyluckthatwon’thappen.”

“Yeah.Withanyluck,”NoriKosays.Anshuddersvisibly.Heholdshisfingersoutoverthelaptop,obviouslytryingtokeepthemfromshaking.“Hey,youokay?”NoriKoasks.“Y-”—blink—“Y-”—BLINK—“Yes.”Helowershisfingerstothekeyboardandpunchesaway.“Allright.”NoriKopointsatthenavigationcomputer.“What’stheOlmec’sETA?”“Less thansixhours,”Ansays.NoriKowatchesaswindowsonhiscomputer screenopenandclose,openandclose.“Getusairborne,An.”“I’mtrying.”NoriKoturnsbacktothecabin.Getusinthesky,love.“I’mtrying,Chiyoko.”NoriKofreezes.“What?”“Isaid,I’mtrying.”

SARAHALOPAY,JAGOTLALOC,SIMONALOPAY

BombardierGlobal8000,590milesnortheastofYonaguni,Japan

Sarah Alopay pinches her nose and blows out her ears. They squeak and pop but she doesn’t care.They’retoocloseforhertocare.SheandSimonsitatashinywalnuttable.Abowlthat’sboltedtotheedgeofthetablenearthewindowholdstheunremarkable-lookingMakerweaponandapackofTridentgum.Jagofliestheplaneataleveland smooth 42,000 feet.Theypickedup the twoCahokian trainers,Hibbert andRodneyQ, for addedmuscle. Both are sacked out in the plane’s bedroom, sleeping in all of their gear like good soldiersalwaysdo.Sarah’s injuredarm isoutof its sling,her elbowextendedon the table.Shegrips abrighttennisball,releases,grips,releases.Herarm’sgettingbetter.It’sfarfromhealed,butitcanhandlesomelightduty.Sheplansonkeepingitoutoftheslingforthisnextmission.Withanyluck,theirlastmission.Simonhits redial on his satellite phone’s keypad.The phoneworks—he’s placed random test calls toseveral numbers in the eastern hemisphere—but it hasn’t been able to reach theAlopay compound inNebraska.He’stried74timesonthislongflight,and74timeshehasreceivedtheautomatedmessageofanice-soundingladysaying,“Inmarsatcannotplacethecallasdialed.Weapologizeforanyinconvenience.Pleasetryagain.”But then,as Jagoannounces they’rebeginning thedescent intoYonaguni,Simon’s face lightsup.Sarahreleasesthetennisball.Itmakesalittlespiralonthetabletopbeforerollingintoherlap.Shecatchesitwithherthighs.“What?”sheasks.Simonhitsthespeakerphonebuttonandholdsupthereceiver.Ring.Silence.Ring.Silence.Ri—“Hello?”“Mom?”Sarahsays.“Olowa?”herfathersaysatthesameinstant.“Sarah!Ohmygoodness,Sarah!Isthatreallyyou?”“It’sme,Mom!”HereyesmeetSimon’s.“It’sus!”Forafewminutestheyfawnovereachother,talkingloveandlossandhowSarahandSimonfoundeachotherandwhat’sbeenhappeninginNebraska.Olowaandtheotherscan’tgoabovegroundonaccountoftheairquality,but thebunkeriswarmandthepowerworksfine.Olowa’srationingtheirsupplies,andwhileshehasmorepeopletocareforthansheexpected(“Elevenofus!”),they’regoodforatleastfiveweeks.Olowaexplainsthatshehadtorepairarelaytothephone’santennaandthatwaswhytheyhadn’tbeenabletogetthrough.“Butwe’refine,sweetie.How’re—goodness,how’reyou?”

“She’sgood,Ole.Shehasanewboyfriend,”Simonjokes.“Dad!”“Andguesswhat.He’saPlayer!”“Dad!”“Allright,allright,”herfathersays.“Whoishe,Sarah?”hermotherasks.“It’snotimportant.”“Sureitis.”Sarahshrugs.“Hisname’sJago.He’stheOlmec.”“Andhehasdiamondstudssetinhistopincisors,”Simonadds.“What?”Olowaasks.“It’strue,”Simonsays.“He’sgoodforher,though.They’vesavedeachothermultipletimes,apparently.”Hermothersays,“Tellmeasmuchasyoucan.Howareyoudoing?”Sarahsighs.“I’vebeenbetter,Mom.Imissschoolandsoccerandworryingaboutcollege.Imissbeingnormal—orpretendingtobenormal.JagoandIhavetalkedaboutitalot.Ashe’spointedout,thosedaysaregone.Actually,hemaintainstheywereneverreallyhere.ThatIwasalwaysnotnormal.Istillmissthem,though.”“Imissallthattoo.”“ButI’malive.Iguess,allthingsconsidered,I’mgood.Ican’ttellyouhowhappyIamDad’shere.”SimontakesSarah’shand.Jagowalksoutofthecockpittousethebathroombeforelanding,ignorantthatthey’ve been talking about him.Simonmotions for Jago towake up theCahokianmen. Jago nods anddisappearstotherearoftheplane.Whenhepasses themagainaminute later,Simonjoinshimtohelpwith landingtheplane,andalsosoSarahandOlowacanbealone.Sarahgiveshermomthequickversionofallthat’shappened,leavingoutcertain things intentionally in case the kepler’s listening. She doesn’t mention theMaker weapon, oranythingabouttheirplanstostopthealiens,butshedoestalkgenerallyabouthowhardtheroad’sbeen,andaboutfindingEarthKeyandlosingit,andseeingSkyKey,andlastlyaboutkilling.“It’sbeensoeasy,Mom.Tooeasy.That’sbasicallywhyIlostitafterStonehenge,”shesays,notmentioningChristopher.Shecan’tbringherselftosayhisname.“Oh,Sarah,”Olowasays.Buthervoicesoundsstrange.Ontheirownthewordsmean,I’msosorry,butthewayOlowasaysthemitsoundsmorelike,You’restrong.Sobestrong,Sarah.Andthenitspillsoutofherlikeaflood.ShetellseverythingthathappenedrightafterleavingOmaha.ShetellsabouthowChristopher followedherandabouthowshefell in lovewithJagoas if they’dknowneachotherformonthsorevenyears.Shetalksaboutfeelingoutoftouchwithherself,abouthowatherworstmoments she’s had no ideawho she is. She tells hermother about howwhen she drove out ofLondon she nearly had a nervous breakdown in the car, screaming and crying at the top of her lungswithout being aware of it. She talks about how easy it’s been tomove and Play and kill, and to hurtpeople, includingherself.Abouthoweasyit’sbeentodeliverandreceivepain,andbearit,exceptforonekindofpainthat’sbeenimpossibletocarry.Andshestillcan’tsaywhatitis.Shecan’tsaythewordstohermother—thewomanwhogavebirthtoherandtaughthersomuchaboutlifeandlove,andyes,alsoaboutbloodandhowtomakeitflow.Shecan’tsay,IkilledChristopher.Whatshedoessayis,“Endgame’sfuckedmeup,Mom.Reallybadly.Iprobablyshouldhavekilledthatlittlegirl.SkyKey.ButIcouldn’t.I...Icouldn’t.Notafter...”Shecan’tsayit.

“Stop,sweetie.NothingcouldhavepreventedAbaddon.”“Howdoyouknow?”Sarahtakesthetennisballinherfingers.Squeezes.Releases.Squeezes.Theballcavesandbreaksandpops.Theconnectionoverthephonecrackles.“Mom?Youthere?”“I’mhere.”“Howdoyouknow?”Sarahasksagain,pleading.“Listen—Abaddon’shere,sothere’snopointinsecond-guessing.Nothingcouldhavepreventedit.Itwastoobig.TheMakerhastoomuchpower.”“Butwhat if hedoesn’thave thatmuchpower?What ifhe’s asdesperate asweare?What if I hadn’tgottenEarthKey?WhatifIhadn’t...”Shecan’t.“Youdon’thavetosayit,sweetie.”“Saywhat?”“IknowChristopher’sdead.Assoonasyousaidhisname,Iknew.”“Mom,I...I...”“Iknowyoukilledhim.”Silence.“How?”“I’myourmother,Sarah.NooneknowsyoubetterthanIdo,whetheryoulikeitornot.”“Tenminutestotouchdown,”Jagoannouncesoverthecomm.SarahhearsHibbertsaysomethingtoRodneyQfromthebedroom.“Youhavetogo,”Olowasays.“Yeah.ButIneedtotellyouwhathappened,rightnow.Imightnotgetanotherchance.”“Ialreadyknow,sweetie.”“Mom,I’mamonster!”Sarahwhispers,herlipspracticallypressedtothereceiver.“You’renot,Sarah!Oh,honey...Don’tyouseewhatChristopherreallydid?”“Hedidn’tdoanything,Mom.That’swhat’ssomessedup.HesawwhatI’dbecomeandhewantedtodie.He said he lovedme, and sure, hemeant it, but in the end that didn’t count for shit. I still pulled thetrigger.Christopher fought tostaywithmeafter theCalling,evenafterhe’dmetJagoandseen thatwewere,Idon’tknow—together.Hefoughthardtobeatmysideandhelpme.Butintheendhecouldn’t,Mom.AndIkilledhimforit.”Sarah’sashamedoverthebitternessofherwords,buttheyringtrue.UntilthismomentsheneverrealizedhowangryshewasatChristopherforfollowingher, for lovingher, forstandingthereandstaringatherandtakingitasshekilledhim.Forjudgingher.“You’rewrong,sweetie.Christopherdiddosomething.”“What?”“Hesavedyourlife,Sarah.Andnowyouhavetokeeponliving.Forhim.”Theplanebumpsthroughsomeclouds.Olowa continues, “That’swhat I’m going to tell his parents, too.That he died so that you could live.That’snotalie.I’mgoingtotellthemthatyouwerewithhimwhenhedied,andthatyoutriedtosavehimbutcouldn’t.Christopherisahero,Sarah.Youaretoo.Ifyouandyourfriendssucceed,thenyou’llallbeheroes.Endgamecouldhavegoneamilliondifferentways,butinthisEndgame?Christopher,forallhisfaults,maybethebiggestheroofall.”Severalmomentsofsilence.Sarahstaresoutthewindowatheavyclouds.Thewaterbelowisdark.Shedoesnotseeanyland.“Jesus,Mom.”“Jesushasnothingtodowithanyofthis.”

“No.ImeanIthinkyou’reright.”“OfcourseI’mright,sweetie.Ialreadytoldyou:I’myourmother.”Sarahchuckles.“Iknowyoudon’tlikekilling,Sarah.You’renotsupposedto.You’rehuman.Butyou’regoodatit.Yourfriendsaregoodatit.Andbeforethisends,you’regoingtohavetodoitagain—maybemorethanonce.Sodon’tbeatyourselfup.Forgiveyourself.Christophersavedyourlife.Endofstory.Nowgooutthereandsavewhat’sleftofourlives,beforeit’stoolate.”Theplanethumpsasthelandinggearfoldsout.“Iwill,Mom.Thankyou.”“Thankmewhenyouseeme.”“Allright.Iloveyou.”“Iloveyoutoo,sweetie.AndIalwayswill,nomatterwhat.”

HILALIBNISAAL-SALT

BombardierGlobal8000,488milessouth-southwestofYonaguni,Japan

Hilalchecksthenavigationsystem.He’sgot51minutesleft.SarahandJago,basedontheirlastcheck-in,shouldtouchdownin10minutes.Heworkstheradiocontrols.Getstherightchannelandclickson.“ThisisTangoLimaOneforOscarKiloFifteen,over.”Nothing.“TangoLimaOneforOscarKiloFifteen,over.”Staticandthen,“TangoLimaOne,wereadyou,over.”It’sJago.“WhatisyourETA?”“Nineminutes,sevenseconds.Shouldhavevisualoncewegetundercloudcover.”“Understood.Iamrightbehindyou.Alittlemorethanfortyminutesout.”“Roger,TangoLimaOne.Anyintel?”Jagoasks.“Ispokewiththeregionalairdirectortenminutesago.AmannamedTsuroMasaka.IpretendedtobeanAmericanandgavemynameasHaroldDickey.Hedoesnotknowwewillbearmed,sobepreparedtosubdueifyoudeemitappropriate.Forexplanation,tellhimweareworkingonajointUS–Japanesetop-secretmissioninresponsetoAbaddon.”“Entiendo.Anythingelse?”“Yonaguniisasmallisland.Masakaconfirmedthatnoonehasbeencomingorgoingforthelastsixty-fivehours. Ihavechecked themanifestsonlineandcanconfirmthat this isaccurate.Masakamade itsoundliketheplaceisvirtuallydeserted.”“SonoShangbogey?”“Affirmative.IfLiuiscomingheretoo,thenwehavebeathim.”“Excelente.OscarKiloFifteen,out.”

SARAHALOPAY,JAGOTLALOC,SIMONALOPAY

YonaguniAirport,Yonaguni,Japan

Jagocyclesdowntheengines.Theairportoutsideisnotmuchmorethanafewbuildingspushedagainstasinglerunway,theEastChinaSealappingatitslongnorthernfringe.There’sasmallandemptyhangartothewest and anErector set–like radio tower to the east.A few single-engineCessnas aremothballednearby, theirwindowsblockedoffanddirty.Thebuildingsareunassumingand tidy. In fact, there’snosignofanyoneuntilasmallmanswingsopenaglassdoorandwalkstowardthem.Hesmilesbroadly,hishand raised ingreeting.Anorangebag is slungoverhis shoulder, andhewearsanarmy-greenT-shirtwithalinedrawingofthemostvenerableandlovedJediofalltime.ThecaptionreadsinEnglish,MyYodaShirt,ThisIs.Jagoslidesopenthewindow.“Heythere.”“Hello!”themanannounceshappilyinEnglish.“YouareMr.Dickey’sfriends?”“That’sright!Name’sFeo.”“Wonderful,Feo!WelcometoYonaguni!”Jagoclapsthewindowshut.“That’sourguy.”Simonsays,“I’llsendRodneyQandHibbertouttoclear.”“Goodidea,”Sarahsays.Theymovetothecabin.TheCahokiantrainerspopupfromtheirseats,aColtpistolsnappedtoeachoftheirhips,anM4ineachoftheirhands.RodneyQhasablackbandannatiedlooselyaroundhisneckandHibbertchewsabigwadofpinkbubblegum.Hibbertsays,“What’stheword,Sarah?”“Gooutthere,introduceyourself,andreportback.Don’ttellhimwhywe’rearmed.”Hibbertnods.“Gun’stheonlyreasonhe’llneed,”hesaysbrusquely.“Ifwe’reclearthenstartunloading.We’llmoveoutassoonasHilalgetshere.”“Gotit.”Jago throws the latchon thedoor andpushes it out.The stairs foldquietly to theground.Theoutsidetemperature iswarm, the air humid.The sun hides behind the clouds of ash that now cover the entireglobe.RodneyQ—sixfootfour,240pounds—ducksthroughtheopeningandstepsdown.Hibbert,who’smuchshorterandlighter,followshim.“Oh, hello,” the man calls out from below. “Mr. Dickey didn’t say anything about”—he swallows—“guns.”“Sorry,”RodneyQgrunts,notsoundingatallsorry.MasakashufflestothesideasRodneyQsetsfootontheground,lookingthiswayandthat.Hibbert looksMasakadirectly in theeyeandsays,“Don’tmove,please.”He’snotpointinghisgunatMasaka,butit’sclearlyathreatbarelyconcealedasanorder.Masakastammers,“I-I’ms-sorry,sir,but—”“Andwithrespect,bequiet,”HibbertaddsinflawlessJapanese.

Masakashutsup.Sarah watches from the shadows inside the doorway as Rodney Q expertly skirts around the man,checkingthebuildingsandthecorners.Hedisappearstocircletheplane.Shelookspasttheairport.Lushtreeslinetheroad.MountUraberisestothesouth.Awhitehorselazesinafieldinthedistance.AfteraminuteRodneyQreappears.“We’regood.”Masakashiftsfromfoottofoot,hishandsjoinednervouslyathiswaist.Hibbertmovestothesideoftheplane.Thecargodoorthumpsopen.Sarahleanshalfwayoutthedoor.“Thanks,Rodney.Sorryifthiscomesasasurprise,Mr.Masaka,”shesaystotheunfortunateman.“Wemeanyounoharm.”Heblinksbutdoesn’tspeak.Sheturnsbackinside,facingJagoandSimon.“Ready?”“Morethanready,”Jagosays,smilingbroadly.Sarahsmilesback.“Metoo.”Jagotakesherarm.“Youlookdifferent,Alopay.Lighter.Easier.”“Ifeellighter,Feo.Andyouknow?Ifeelconfidenttoo.I’mgladwedecidedtoworkwiththeothers.”“Metoo.”“AndDad,havingyouhereis. . . it’sgoodforme.TalkingtoMom—thatwasreallygood.Thanksformakingithappen.”Hibbert calls for somehelpwith a heavy case. “I’ll go,”Simon says.Hepushespast thePlayers andwalksdownthestepsanddisappearsaroundthesideoftheplane.JagogivesSarahafullkissonthelips.Hisbreathisterrible.Heturnsasideandboundsdownthestairs.Sarahmovestothetopstepandinhalessharply.Theairissaltyandsweetandfresh.Earthisinjured,butitisnotdestroyedorbroken.Earthwon’tbebroken.Itcan’tbe.ShethinksofChristopher.Ofwhatshedid.Ofwhathedid.She’snotbroken,either.Shecan’tbe.Jagowavestoher.Shemovesforward.Andthentheaircracks,andJago’sheadpopssideways,andbloodandbrainssplatteroverhisshirtandthestair’shandrails,andshebarelymakesoutthesuppressedhissofarifle’sreportasitslithersdownfromthemountainside.“Sarah!”Simonyells.Sheleapsdowntheremainingsteps,alreadydrawingherpistol,alreadyrunningasfastasshecan.Theaircracks.Hereyesdon’twork.Herearsdon’twork.Herlegsdon’twork.Theworlddisappears.Shewaswrong.Itisbroken.LikeMaccabeebeforeher,shenevergotachancetoheartheshot.

ANLIU,NORIKO,LITTLEALICECHOPRA

NorthernfoothillsofMountUrabe,Yonaguni,Japan

Awhitehorseboltsacrossthefieldbelow,thehooveslikeminiaturethunder.Thankyou,love,Chiyokosaysbreathlessly.TheyarethesweetestwordsAnhaseverheard.“ItoldyouI’d”—blinkSHIVERblink—“ItoldyouI’dkillthem.”Thankyou.NoriKopeersupdownrightleftthroughtherangefinder.Tsurowavesahandintheirdirection,givingthemathumbs-up.“Thatwassomeexceptionalshooting,An,”shesays.“Fiveshots,fivekills.Fouroftheminmotion.”Shechecksthetimeintherangefinder’sHUD.“Inundereightseconds.”Complimenther,Chiyokosays.Anpullshiseyefromthescopeandangles therifle into theair.“Icouldn’thave”—blink—“Icouldn’thave done it without you, Nori Ko. Or your brother down”—SHIVER—“your brother down”—BLINKSHIVER—“yourbrother.”“Tsuro’sbeenwaitingalongtimetohelpme,”shesays.They’d landed less thananhourbefore theCahokianand theOlmecandrushed toget theirgear intoaMitsubishiMonteroanduptothispositionsouthandwestoftheairport,leavingTsurotodealwithAn’sY-12E.While they prepared for the kill shots he single-handedlymoved the plane to the back of thehangarandoutofsight.AnmovesfromhispositionontopofagrassybluffandtwiststoSkyKey.She’sdruggedandsleeping,proppedagainstNoriKo’spack.Keepmoving,Chiyokosays.“I don’twant”—BLINK—“I don’t want to wait for the others, Nori Ko.Waiting for”—BLINKBLINK—“forthisDickeypersonistoo”—SHIVERblinkSHIVER—“toounpredictable.”“Agreed.”Shestowstherangefinderinherpack,carefulnottodisturbthegirl.“Tsurowillhandlethem.”Shetapsherwatch.“Besides,wehavetokill22b,andtime’stickingaway.”Anleanshisjet-blackJS7.62rifleagainstarockandcheckshisvest.Hefumbleswithhisshirtbuttons,hiseyesblinkingandblinkingandblinking,hisshouldermusclestwitching.Hefinallygetstheshirtopenand tugs at the vest’s straps one more time, making sure they’re secure. It presses into his skin,constrictinghisribcagepainfully.It’sheavy—nearly20kilos—butitfeelsoddlycomforting,likeasnugblanket.“Youallright,An?Yourticsaregettingworse.”He’sfine,Chiyokosays.ExceptAnistheonewhospeaksthesewords.“Whatdoyoumean,‘he’?”NoriKoasks.Anstraightens.Hebuttonshisshirtbackup.HelooksNoriKointheeye.Don’ttellheraboutme,Chiyokosays.

“ImeanI’mfine,”Ansays.“It’sanoldtrick.Whenmybodydoesthis,sometimesIpretenditbelongstosomeoneelse—therefore‘he.’Ithelpsmegetahandleoneverything.”Thisisalie,butagoodone.Anditworksbecause,byluck,hisbodyiscomposedandundercontrolashespeaks.Hepushesafewbuttonsonacustomkeypadstrappedtohiswrist.Alightonthepadflashesthreetimesandthenglowsred.“It’sarmed.I’mready.”HesnagsthesniperrifleandanammunitionsatchelandheadstotheMontero, leavingNoriKotodealwiththelargepackandSkyKey.Shegathersboth,cradlingSkyKeylikeababy.ThegirlstirsasNoriKoflopsherintothebackseat.NoriKotakesSkyKey’schinandpeelsopenaneyelid.Herpupilsarewideanddilated.Theyfluttertowardhernose.She’scompletelyout.NoriKogetsinthepassengerseatandAnputsthecaringearandtheymove.Theywindover adirt track,headingeast and south,until they linkupwith themain roadoverMountUrabe.Andrivesveryfast.Thelandscapeisopenandlush,withfieldsofhayandyoungwheatanddensestandsof trees along themountain’s ridgelines.As theymake theirwaybackdownhill towarda smallmarinaonthesouthernsideoftheisland,NoriKogetsoutherphoneandmakesacall.It barely rings before she starts talking. She speaks for a few minutes in rushed Japanese. An can’tunderstandawordofit.AssoonasshehangsupAnsays,“Yourbrotheragain?”“Yes.Everything’sready.We’llhavetodivewithtanks,butit’snotdeep.Andwe’vegotafullmaskforthe child, so we can keep her unconscious.” She glances at Sky Key. “We should be inside the Mumonumentwithinthehour.”TheyapproachaTintersection.“Goleft.”Hetearsaroundthecorner,theMonterofishtailing.Anpressesthegasmore.Thecaraccelerates.Theyarenearlythere.

HILALIBNISAAL-SALT

BombardierGlobal8000,landingatYonaguniAirport,Yonaguni,Japan

Hilalbringstheplaneinsmoothandeasy.Hewatchesouttherightsideofthecockpitwindowashetaxis,theplanebouncingoverthetarmac.Heseestheotherplane,buthedoesnotseetheothers.Afewminutes later,ashebrings theplane toastop,HilalseesasmallJapaneseman inaT-shirtandjeansmaneuveringalargeandladenluggagecarttoonesideofthereceivingarea.SarahandJago’splaneisclosedupandingoodshape,ifalittledirtyandwornforhavingflownthroughwhatmusthavebeenanairbornehelloverCanadaandtheUnitedStates.Hilal cycles down the engines.Themanwaves at himgleefully, and thenmimesopening thewindow.Hilalobliges.“Mr.Dickey?”themanyellsinperfectEnglish.“That’sright,”Hilalsays,maintaininghisAmericanaccent.“Mr.Masaka?”“Oneandthesame!”“Didmyfriendsarrive?”“Yes!”Hepointsoverhisshoulder.“They’reinside,tryingtoenjoysometea.Theyareveryimpatientforyoutoarrive,though.”“I’msure.I’llberightout.”Hilalunbucklesandmovestothecabin.Heslingsonhispack.ItholdsasatellitephonehecanusetocallJennyandSharibackinAustralia,somefoodandwater,andapairofnight-visiongoggles.Hepullsonshoulder webbing with extra magazines for his rifle and slings a leather belt around his waist, hismachetesoneitherhip.FinallyhesnagsamatteblackHK416andturnstothedoor.Hilal,merelyoutofhabit,toggleshis416tofire.Hereleasesthelatchandthedoorswingsoutandthewarmseaairrushesin.Itissweetandheavy,andHilallikesit.Masaka lets out a gasp. “Ohmy,” he says, clapping a handover hismouth.Hilal knows that this is areactiontothewoundsonhisheadandface.Hilalreachesthetarmacandbows.“Mr.Masaka.Iapologizeformyappearance.Iknowitisunsettling.Andthankyouforallowingmyfriendsandmetoland.”“Ofcourse...”“Wearenotheretohurtyou.Quitethecontrary.Iamsuremyfriendstoldyousomethingsimilar.”“Yes—theydid.”“Howlongsincetheyarrived?”“Aboutthirtyminutes,”Masakasays,unabletopryhiseyesfromHilal’sface.“Good.Andyousaytheyareinside?”“Yes,over there,behind thatdoor.”He spinsandpoints at thenearestbuilding. “They’reeager to seeyou.”“AndIthem.”HilalstartstowalktowardthebuildingwhenMasakaslapshisforehead.

“Goodness! I nearly forgotmymanners.Please,onemoment.”He takes ahalf stepback. “Your friendSarahaskedmetodothis!”“Andthatis?”“Tea!Shelikedmyteasomuchsheaskedmetobringyousome.Ihavesomerighthere!”Hepointsatalacqueredtrayrestingontheedgeoftheluggagerack.“Please.It’stradition!”Hilalshrugs.“Allright.”Masakashufflestothetrayandpicksitup,carefulnottospillanything.Insecondshe’sstandingbeforeHilal.“I’msorryifthisisstrange.Youarevisitors,andIpridemyselfonwelcomingvisitorsproperly.”Heholdsuptheenamel tray,apairof jade-coloredcupson it.Steamswirlsabove them.AshedrawscloserHilal’snoseisgreetedwiththesubtlebutintoxicatingodorofearth,cutgrass,roastedgrains,andabiteofacidthattickleshisnostrils.“Itdoessmellgood,”Hilaladmits.“It’smyownspecialblend,”Masakasays.Hilal takes thecupclosest toTsuro.Masaka takes theother.The trayfalls tohisside.Theyraise theircups.A stiffbreezeblowsover the airport from thewest,whippingaroundSarahand Jago’splane. Itpushesawaythesmelloftheteaandreplacesitwiththesmelloftreesandfreshwateronconcrete,likeafterasquall.“Kampai,”Masakasays.“Kampai,”Hilalechoes,butnotveryenthusiastically.Heslowlyraisesthecuptohislips.ButthenHilalnoticesthattheconcretearoundtheotherplaneisshinyandwet,whiletheplaneitselfisutterlydry.Hilal’seyesdrifttothebaseoftheluggagecart.Hefreezes.Asingledropofdarkliquidfallsfromthecartandplopsontotheground.Blood.Hilaldropshiscup.Itshattersontheconcrete,thepipingteasplatteringhispantcuffsandshoes.Masakasays,“What’sthematter,Mr.Dickey?”HilalstepsbackandpointshisrifleatMasaka’sneck.“Whatisonthatcart?”“Luggage,”Masakasaysnervously.“Please,haveIoffendedyou?Iapologize!Yourfriends—Icanbringthemoutrightnow.Please!”“Youwilldonothingofthesort,”Hilalsays,dispensingwiththeAmericanaccent.“Iwarnyou,andonlythisonetime.Donotmove.”ButMasaka doesmove.He leaps directly sideways, slipping out of the rifle’s line of fire. Instead oftrackinghimHilaltwirlstherifleandswingsforMasaka’shead.ThestrikemissesasMasakaswipesthetray—itsedgehonedandsharp—atHilal’sneck.Hilalbendsawaytoavoidit,simultaneouslyswingingafootatMasaka’sexposedribcage.Heletsoutawhelp,andHilalsidestepshimwithlightningquicknessandsnapstherifleacrossthebacksofMasaka’sknees.Themanbucklesandfalls.InaquickmotionHilaltakesthemachetenamedLOVEand,keepingitinitssheath,bringsittoMasaka’sneckandholdsitthere,pressingitintohisAdam’sapple.Hilalcheckstheirsurroundings.Nootherpeoplearearound,hostileorotherwise.HepraysthatMasakaisworkingalone,orHilalmayalreadybeasgoodasdead.HilaldragsMasakatothesideofthecart,andheseeswhatisbehindthehighstackofbags.Abluetarpquicklyrolledandtuckedoveramisshapenlumpthesizeofalargeanimal.ButHilalknowsthatitdoesnotconcealananimal.HeappliesmorepressuretoMasaka’sneck.Themangasps.UsingthemuzzleofhisrifleHilalraisesacornerofthetarpandthenwhipsthewholethingoff.Itfliesopenonthebreeze.

Five bodies. All dead courtesy of medium-caliber head shots. Three men he has never seen before,althoughitishardtomakeouttheirfacesonaccountoftheirwounds.Andpiledontopofthesefigures,herrightarmthrownhaphazardlyoverthenarrowpartofhiswaist,areSarahAlopayandJagoTlaloc.Both killed by sniper fire.Hilal checks around one last time, concludes thatMasaka simply lured thePlayersand theirassociates into theopen,where theywerekilledfromadistance,and thendealtwiththeirbodies.Hilalreasonsthatifthesniperwerestilloutthere,thenhewouldalreadybedead.Meaningheissafe.Atleastforthemoment.MasakatriestospeakbutHilalpullsLOVE’sscabbardsohardintohisthroatthathecan’tbreathe.Hilalneedstofindsomethingbeforehedealswiththislittleman.IfSarahandJagoreallydohaveaweaponthatcankillaMakerthenheneedstotakeitfromthem.HilalquicklyfriskstheOlmec.Hedoesthesameto Sarah, moving up from the feet. He finds a strange object in a pocket—a lump of metal that fitsperfectly inhishand. It lookscompletelynonthreatening,but there’ssomethingabout itsheftandshapethatmakeshimthinkthisisit.HelooksatthefallenPlayersonelasttime.Lostcomrades.Heroes.HesaysalowprayerinAmharicandpullsthetarpoverthem.TheirEndgameisover.HepullsMasakatohisfeetanddragshimbackoutonthetarmacandthenunderthewingandfuselageoftheplane,givinghimselfsomecover.HeforcesMasakatohiskneesandunsheathesLOVEandpointsitattheman’sface.“Putyourhandsonyourhead,Mr.Masaka.”Hedoesasheistold.Hilalcantellfromhowheservedthetea,andfromthetiltofhisshoulders,thatMasakaisleft-handed.“Holdoutyourlefthand,Mr.Masaka.”HeprotestsinJapanese.“Yourheadoryourhand,Mr.Masaka.Choosenow.”“Okay,okay!”Masakasays.Hesticksouthisleftarm.“Fanyourfingers.”Masakadoes.HilalrestsLOVE’sedgeonthebaseofhispinkie.“Whoareyouworkingwith?”hedemands.MasakasayssomethingelseinJapanese,almostcertainlyastringofcurses.HilalpushesdownonLOVEand thepinkiecomesfree.Themancallsoutand tries topullhisalteredhandclosetohisbodybutHilalquicklyreachesoutandgrabsMasaka’sringfinger.Heholdsthehandinplaceandcalmlylowersthebladetotheskin.“Speak,”Hilalsays.“Fuckyou,”MasakasaysinEnglish.Hilalcutsoffthisfingertoo.Hedropsitnearthepinkieandgrabsthemiddlefinger.Bloodisalloverbothoftheirhandsnow.“Speak,”Hilalsays.“Iwon’t,”Masakablabs.Thefingerisgettingslippery,Hilalcan’tholdon.SohetakeshiswristandslideshismacheteupTsuro’sarm,stoppingathisshoulder.“Donottestme.”“Allright,allright!Itwasmysister!”“Whoisyoursister?”

“SheisMu.”“YouareMu?”“Yes.”“YourPlayerdiedalongtimeago,”Hilalsays,notunderstanding.“Fuckyou,”themansaysagain.“Whoisyoursister?”Hilaldemands.Masakadoesn’tspeak.Hilalthinksheunderstands.“Youareworkingforrevenge,yes?ThisisthebestexplanationIcancomeupwith.”“Fuck.You.”“Lastchance,”Hilalsays,pressingtheedgeofthemacheteintoMasaka’sflesh.“Whoisyoursisterandisshealone?”“IamMu.MybloodisMu.IamMu.”Hespits.AballofphlegmhitsHilal’sfoot.Hilaldoesn’tflinch.Insteadheraisesthemacheteafewinchesandthenwhipsitdown.Bloodspurtseverywhere.Hilaldropsthearm.Masakascreams.Hilalmoves the tipofhisblade toMasaka’sneck.“Mr.Masaka, timeismyenemyrightnow.Tellmeifyoursisterisalone.”Masakaquicklygoesintoshock.Hilalknowshedoesn’tfeelanypain.Theadrenalinewon’tlethim.“Answerme.”“Sh-Shang.TheShang.”“Andtheyarewhere?”“Marina.Southsideofisland.Please.”Shockisawonderfultruthserum,Hilalthinks.Hilalstepsbackthreepaces.Takesuphisrifle.Pointsit.Firesonesingleshot.Masakaslumpsforward.HilalwipeshismacheteonMasaka’spantsandsheathesit.“Thiswasunexpected,”hesaysoutloud.Hilalhookshis fingersunderMasaka’sbelt and liftshimbyhispelvis.He takes the severedarm.Hehustles to the luggagecartandputsMasakaon topof thepileofbodies,checkinghispockets firstandfindinghiscarkeys.Hedecidestoburnallofthem.Heworksquicklytodousetheimpromptupyrewithaviationfuelandwhenhe’sdonehetakesalighterandsetsitoff.HeleavestheairportandgetsinMasaka’sToyotahatchbackandtakesoff.AsthelittlecarwindsupthemountainandawayfromthewaterheusesthephonetocallJenny.Itringsoncebeforesheanswerswithacurt,“Yeah.”“Go to theDreaming now,”Hilal says. “Find theMumonument and open your portal. Itwill happenquickly,onewayoranother.TheShangwillbethere.Hehasthekeys.Andhehasanaccomplice.AMu.”“Blimey,”Jennysays.“Iknow.Iamonmywaynow.Sendthesignalwhenyouseemeinthestarchamber.ThenIwillmoveinandsaveLittleAlice.TellShariIwillbringherdaughter.”“Iwill,mate,”Jennysays.“Godspeed.”“Andtoyou,MasterUlapala.Godspeedtousall.”

FourandSixandEightandTwelveandTwentyiv

ANLIU,NORIKO,LITTLEALICECHOPRA

24.43161,123.01314,nearYonaguni,Japan

NoriKodivesoffthesmallfishingboatanchoreddirectlyoverthesunkenMumonument.Shetakesherpackandaflaregunandhasabrightnylonlinetiedtoherwaist.Shedoesnotwearawetsuit.Thewateriswarmandpleasantandbrightblue.Sheswimsdownsevenmeters,kickshardwithherfins,herarmsathersides.Sheblowsoutherearsthreetimes.Bubblesrisearoundherfaceandcarbonateherloosehair.On her left is a sprawling stepped pyramid that’s been hidden under the waves for thousands uponthousandsofyears,itsprovenanceandpurposeaneternalmysterytothetouristsandlocalswho’vediveditovertheyears.ApyramidofMu.Shereachesashelf, thebluedeepeningintodarknessonherright.Shetwistsunderanoutcroppingandbehindahugefrondoffancoral.Yes.There,likeamouthbeforeher,isthedarkentryway.Shetiesoffthenylonline,itsotherendsecuredtotheboatbouncingonthesurface.Shelightsaflareandholdsitbeforeher,theblackstonetwinklingwithorangeandpinkandwhite.Shehitsawallandlooksupandseesthesquare mirror of an air pocket a meter overhead. She detaches her weight belt and kicks twice. Sheemergesintoadryroom,itsstaleairtrappedinsidethestructureforthousandsofyears.Shetossestheflareintotheroombeforejumpingintothewaterandswimmingbackdown.Shetests thenylonline.Itholds.Sheaimstheflaregunatthesurface,makingsuretoavoidthehullofthesmallboat,andfires.Itshoots upward in a burst of bubbles and explodes, looking like a deformed firework from under thewaves.Sheswimsback to the roomandpullsherself into it.She lights threemore flaresand tosseseach toadifferentcorner.Theroomisrectangular,andsheknowsfromapreviousMumissionthatit’sthreemeterswideand4.854meterslong.Aslenderandtalldoorwaysitsinthewesternwall.Thisleadstoashaftthatanglesdownwardforseveralmetersandopensintoanotherrectangularroom.Thissecondroomisasfarasshegotwhenshelastcamehere.Ifshe’stogoanyfarthertoday—andshehopesshewill—itwillbeintounchartedterritory.WhileshewaitsforAnsheunpacksthebagandcheckstheirswordsandtheirgunsandtakeswhatishers.Aplumeofbubblesdisturbsthepatchofwaterfiveminuteslater.AnandSkyKeyappearsimultaneously.TheShangPlayerholdsupthegirlandNoriKotakesherandplaceshergentlyontopofheremptypack.Sheslipsoffthegirl’sspecializedmaskwithsealedauto-equalizingearcoversandsmoothsSkyKey’swetfaceanddarkhair,theskinaroundherchinandunderherearscreasedandreddenedfromthemask.Thegirlstirsandmoans,butshedoesn’twake.Goeasynow,love,ChiyokotellsAnashewatchestheothertwo.He BLINK he slips SHIVERSHIVERSHIVER he slips out of his scuba gear and strips toBLINKblinkshiver tohisunderwear.Heopensa largedrybagandpullsout theChiyokonecklaceandEarthKeyBLINKBLINK and the vest and the wrist pad and a dry set of cotton clothes that are likepajamas.HebringsChiyokooverhisheadandsmellsherhairandkissesherear.HeslipsEarthKeyinto

aVelcropocketandthenputshisarmsthroughthevestandpullsthestrapsextratightagainsthisribcage.Heslipsthewristpadoverhisleftforearmandputsontheclothingthatconcealsthebulkyexplosivehewilldelivertothekepler.HepassesNoriKoandthegirlwithouttalking,slingsthestrapofhisARX160overhisshoulder.HepicksupBLINKBLINKNobuyuki’sSHIVERblinkNobuyuki’skatanaandstrapsittohisback,itshiltjuttingabovehishead.Youareready,love.“Ready,”hesays,staringatSkyKeywhileaddressingNoriKo.NoriKostaresatAnintheeerielight,hisdeep-seteyeslikeblackcoals,hisbodypracticallyglowingwithvengeance,andwondersbrieflyifshe’smadeamistake.Butonlybriefly.ForthethingaboutAnthatfrightenshermostisexactlywhatdrawshertohim.Heisakillerfirst.Andinthisterriblegame,killerswin.ShethrowsAnaflare.Hecatchesitnimbly.Shepicksupthegirlandpullshertoherchest.SkyKey’sheadflopsontoNoriKo’sshoulder.Thegirlremainsutterlyunconscious.Shewillnotwitnessherend,andNoriKoisthankfulforit.Sheisachild,afterall.“Throughthere,”shesays,indicatingthedoorway.“Youfirst.”Angoes to thedoor anddisappears through it.NoriKohustles after him, and after eightminutesof acorkscrewingdescenttheyturnasharpcornerandpracticallystumbleintothenextroom.Itsproportionsarethesameastheoneabove,butit’stwiceaslarge.Abutcherblockofatablecarvedfromtheblackrock,itsedgesstraightandtrue,sitsinthemiddleoftheroom.Atthefarendisanotherdoorway,itsstonedoorsealedshut.Thekeyswillopenit,love,Chiyokosays.“Thekeys”—BLINKshiverBLINK—“thekeyswilldoit.”“Areyousure?”NoriKoasks.“Givemethegirl,”Ansays.NoriKoholdsherout.Antakesherinhisarms.Hecarrieshertothecloseddoor.Thegirlisheavy.EarthKeyisheavyinhispocket.Heisheavyandgettingheavier.Andthen—

KEPLER22B

24.43161,123.01314,nearYonaguni,Japan

His eyes pop open, black slits set against hismother-of-pearl skin. A grating sound, stone sliding onstone,fromnotveryfarabove.Itistime.Theoldtemplemoves.Inafewminutesitsuppermostpromontorywillbevisibletotheworldabovethewaves,arectilinearpillarofsea-wornstone,wetandencrustedwithbivalvesandcoralsandanemones.LikeStonehengebeforeit,thisancientmonumenthasawoken.HemustprepareforthePlayer.Hestepsfromhisspotandglidestotheroom’scenter.Hefoldsinhalfatthewaistandplacesthetipsofhisseven-fingeredhandsaroundtheperipheryofthegiltbowlsetinthefloor.Themetallicsurfaceswirlswithdarkcolorsandglimpsesofthecosmosandanoccasionalbeamofescapedlightthatlancestotheceiling.Hepullshishandsaway,carefulnottoletanypartofhisbodytouchtheinnerbowl.Itisreadyforthekeys.Hemovestotheportal.Heplaceshisrighthandonthestonedoorjambandthisliquefiesandhethrustshishandforward.Hemoveshisfingersintheplasmastone,socoldtothetouchfornothavingbeenusedforthousandsandthousandsofyears.Theblankinterioroftheportalshimmersandblackensandheleansforwardtomakesurethelinkisopen.Hisheadappears,millionsofmilesaway,intheteletransroomofhisship.Hepullshisheadback,andheiswhollyintheMustarchamber.Heswipesafingeracrossasensorinthesleeveofhisarmorandaprojectileweaponswingsoverhisrighthand.Headjustsitsshotfromthedefaultwidescattertopinpoint-thin.Hewaits.Thegratingabovecontinues.Hescanstheroomonelasttime,movingclockwisefromhisleft.There is the La Tène, should he need her, the living code embedded in her genes. There is the doorleadingup.Thereisthebowlinthemiddleoftheroom.Thewallsglowblue.Butwhat’sthis?Hesquints.Hequicklycrossestheroomintothefartheststarpointandpeersdown.Somethinghedidn’tseebefore.Aroundredstone.Astonethatshouldn’tbehere.He picks it up and smells it. The grating sound stops. The pebble smells distinct and he places itimmediately.ItisfromAustralia.FromneartheKoorimonumentinthehinterland.Heglancesoverhisshoulder.Thestonewasexactlyoppositetheportal.ItwasthrownintotheroomfromtheKoorimonument!Hedropsthestoneandthrustshislefthandbackintotheplasmastone,fine-tuningitssettings.Heknowsthat Players havemoved around theworldwith these portals, he assumed by happenstance likewhensomewentfromBoliviatotheHimalayas,butthepresenceofthistelltalepebblemeansthatatleastoneof them has learned how to use the portals. This Player has not connected to this portal yet, but he

assumesthatheorsheistryingtomakeaconnection.Afteranotherfewmomentshepullshishandfromtheplasmastoneandtossestherockattheinkyblackofthe portal. The rock bounces away and lands at his feet. Then he sticks out his hand, and it passeseffortlesslythroughthefrigidvoidandintohisship.Thetest issatisfactory.Onlyhecanpassnow,ineitherdirection.Nooneelsewillbeabletouseit toescapeortocomehere.Hespinsbacktothemiddleoftheroomandwaits.

ANLIU,NORIKO,LITTLEALICECHOPRA

24.43161,123.01314,nearYonaguni,Japan

An Liu and Nori Ko plant their feet as the ground shifts and turns. The sound of grinding stone isdeafening, and evenwith no external point of reference,An senses that the room is rising through thewater.It’shappeningagain,love,Chiyokosays.LikewhenIdied.“What’sthis?”NoriKoyells.Shestumblesandgrabsthecornerofthecarvedtable,whichisattachedtotheground.“The”—BLINKshiver—“the”—SHIVERSHIVER—“it’s changing. Stonehenge did it”—BLINKBLINKblink—“didittoo.”Itmeanswe’reontherighttrack,love,Chiyokosays.“I”—BLINK—“Iknow.”Itmeanswecangotherestalone,Chiyokosays.“Iknow.”SkyKeygrowsmorerestlessastheroomshiftsandtwistslikeaTilt-A-Whirl,butafterafewfrenziedminutesit’sfinished.Silencereigns.A gust of cold air spills into the room. SkyKey’s eyes flutter. She points. “Earth Sky Sun,” she saysquietly.Anfollowsthegirl’sfinger.Thedoorwayisopen.Anothernarrowpassagewaydescendingintodarkness.Anpusheshisheadintoit,andhisbreathrisesvisiblyaroundhisface.“EarthSkySun,”SkyKeyrepeats.Anplopsthegirlontothefloorroughly.“Hey!”NoriKosays.“Noneedfor—”She’scutoffasAnwhipshisrifleintohishandsandsightsNoriKo’sface.Blink.No.Lethergo!Chiyokoimplores.ExceptAnsaysthesewordstoo.BLINKBLINKBLINKBLINK.NoriKoraisesherhandsdefensively.Andshefinallyunderstands.NoriKosays,“Listentoher,An.Chiyokolovesyou.”“N-n-n-no,” he says. “Thank you for”—BLINKblinkBLINK—“for getting me”—SHIVERSHIVER—“gettingmehere,but—”NoriKocutshimoff.“Icanhelp.I’llmakesurenoonecomesafteryou,An.”Lethergo,Chiyokosays.“I—I—I—I—Id-d-don’tknow,”Anstammers.“Youshould”—SHIVERblinkblink—“youshoulddie.”

Why?Chiyokoasks.ButbeforeAncanexplainthatit’sbecausetheyallhavetodieandthathehastobetheonetokillthem,NoriKosays,“Iunderstandwhatyouare,An.It’swhyIpickedyou.You’reDeath!LetmeguardyousoyoucangivethistotheMaker,andfinditforyourself.Letmehelpyou.LetmehelpChiyoko.Please!”BLINKBLINKSHIVERshivershiverBLINK.“EarthSkySunKey,”thegirlsays.BLINK.Listentoher,love.Gotothekepler.Avengeme,Chiyokosays.Now!BBBBBLINK.BBBBBLINK.BBBBBBBBBLINK.His hands shake.The rifle lowers a few inches.NoriKo considers diving behind the stone table, butwhileAn’sticsgiveherachancetheyalsoshowhowonedgeheis,howunpredictable.Shestaysrootedtothespot.SHSHSHSHSHIVER.SHIVER.SHSHSHSHShiver.Noises echo from the passageway leading up and out of themonument.The hiss of crashingwaves, aclunk-clunklikeametalcontainerrepeatedlybringstrucklikeadrum,andthere,rightthereforamoment—thesoundofamansaying,“Faith.”“Morearecoming!”NoriKosaysurgently.“EarthSkySun,”thegirlsaysloudly.Annudgesherwithhisthigh.“Shh.”Lethergo.BBBBBBBBBBBBLINK.SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHIVER.TheBerettafallstohisside.“Okay.Keepme”—BLINK—“keepmesafe,NoriKo.Keepher”—SHIVER—“her”—blinkblinkblink—“her”—SHIVERSHIVERBLINKblink—“her”—SHIVERBLINKBLINK—“Chiyokosafetoo.”WithoutsayinganotherwordhegrabsSkyKeybytheshirtcollarandhalfcarries,halfdragsheroutoftheroomandintothedarkness,thegirlgurglingandmoaning.ThelastthingNoriKoseesorhearsofeitheristheredglowfromAn’swristpad,theoneindicatingthathisnuclearvestiswellandarmed.NoriKotakesthreebreathsandcentersherself.Shedrawsherswordwithherrighthand,gripsherriflewithherleft.Sheleansagainstthetableanddropsbehindit,completelyhiddenfromwhoeveriscomingfromabove.

HILALIBNISAAL-SALT

24.43161,123.01314,nearYonaguni,Japan

Hilal grips a rope that’s secured to hisZodiac’s bowandmanages to stayon theplanking.Thewaterchurnsasa twisting, telescopingpillarofstonerises fromthewaves.When it stops it juts fourmetersabovethesurfacelikeasmalllighthouse.Thediveboatthathe’slashedhisZodiacto—thesameboatthatAnandhisMuaccompliceusedtoreachthissamepoint—clanksagainstthestonerhythmically.Ahugefancoralisfloppedoveritsside,holdingtheboatinplace.Anopeninglargeenoughforapersonappearsonthesideoftherock.Thisisit.Hilalreachesintohispocketandthreadshisfingersthroughtheholesonthelumpofmetal.Againitdoesnothing.Butagainheiscertainthatsomehow,someway,itwillworkwhenneeded.“Imusthavefaith,”hesays.HecheckshismachetesonelasttimeandhisHK416rifleandstepsofftheboatandthroughtheopening,hisfaithhelpinghimtakeeachstepforwardashemovestowardtheend.

Realityisadream.v

SHARICHOPRA,JENNYULAPALA

“TheDreaming,”Sharisays.TheirphysicalbodiesareinAustralia’sYuendumuHinterland,buttheirspiritualbodiesarehere,inthesharedvoid.ShariholdsJenny’shandinbothrealms.InAustraliatheysitsidebysideontheredearth,kneestouching.IntheDreamingtheywalkbrisklythroughnothingness,havebeenwalkingforwhatcouldbefractionsofasecondorhours.Theirarmsswingwithpurpose,theirthighsoccasionallybrushagainsteachother.Sharicanseeforeverineverydirection,butwherevershelooksthereisnothingtosee.“When?”Shariasks.“Soon,mum.”Theyarealonethistime.BigAliceisnottherewhisperingthattheHarappanareatShari’sback,wavingtheirhands,mouthinghername,pushingherforward,everforward.Ablueglowappearsinthedistance.Jennyguidesthemtowardit.Shesays,“I’llstaywithyouwhenwegetthere,mum.ButwhenHilalarrivesandit’stimeforhimtobringyourdaughterthroughtheportal,I’llhavetoleaveyoutosignalhim.Otherwisehewon’tknowwe’rereadyforhim.YougottastaycenteredandquietintheDreaminguntilHilal’scrossedwithyourgirl,andyougottastaycalm.Nomatterwhatyouseehappeningthere,youstaycalmorwecouldlosetheconnectionandanychanceofgettingthemback.Youunderstand,yeah?”Thelightgrowsbrighter.“Iunderstand,Jenny.”“Good.Nomore talking.Nomorespoken thought.Silence,mentalandotherwise.This isgonnabe thehardestmeditationyou’veeverdone,’causeeveryfiberofyourbeingisgonnatellyoutomoveandactonbehalfofyourchild.Youcan’tdononeofthat.Helpherbybeingthereandnothingelse.IftheMakergetstippedtoourpresencehe’llshutthedoortousandwe’llbegoodandscrewed.”“Iunderstand.”“Benothing,likeastoneonthefloor,liketheflooritself.Youarethefoundation.”To acknowledge her, Shari squeezes Jenny’s hand, in this world and in that one. Here and there.Everywhereandnowhere.Theycontinue.Brighter.Brighter.Brighter.Theyseetheroomnow,starshapedandglowingandprepared.Theycan’tseetheMakeranywherebuttheycanfeelhispresence.

Hewaits.Hehides.Jennyfreezesneartheportal.Sharidoestoo.LittleAliceisnotthereyet.But—AislingKoppisthere,herunconsciousfaceandbright-redhairpeekingabovetheedgeofasilkenshroud.Shariwantstoknowhowthishappened,butshecan’tspeak.Shecan’tthink.ShecloseshereyesintheDreamingandbreathesbreathesbreathes.Nothing.Nothing.Nothing.Nothingiswhatwillsavethemnow.

NORIKO24.43161,123.01314,nearYonaguni,Japan

Theman’svoiceabovehasbeensilentsinceshefirstheardit.Ifhe’scomingtoher—andhemustbe—then he’s keeping quiet. Nori Ko’s repositioned herself in the passageway that An and Sky Keydisappearedthrough,proneandproppedonherelbows,herriflecoveringthedooronthefarsideoftheroom.Theairfallsaroundher likeafrigidblanket.Shemashesher teethtokeepthemfromchattering.Theroombeyondispitch-black.Sheliesmotionlessinavoid,waiting,heronlywindowonthevisibleworldanightvision–equippedriflescope.Shekeepshereyepressedtothis.Shesightsalongtheedgeofthetableanduptothedoor.Sincesheisafewshortmetersfromhertargetshecan’tfitmorethanhalfthedoorinthefieldofvision.Tokeepsharpandreadysheshiftstherifleeverythreeseconds.Upanddownandupanddownandupanddown.Theman—andwhoeveriswithhim,forhemightnotbealone—willroundthefinalcornerandappearandshewillwaitfortherightmomentandshewillcutthemdown.Thedoorwayremainsblackandemptyforfourminutes.Five.Six.Seven.Eight.ThisishowlongittookherandAnandSkyKeytogetherefromtheroomabove.Somewherebelow,AnisclosertomeetingtheMaker.AndChiyokotoo—orwhatisleftofher.Aroundhisneck,inhismind.Inhisdarkheart.Nineminutes.Upanddownandupanddownandupanddown.Upanddown.

HILALIBNISAAL-SALT,NORIKO

24.43161,123.01314,nearYonaguni,Japan

Hilal keeps his rifle up one-handed, themysteriousweapon ready in the other hand. His night-visiongogglesareflippedoverhisface.Hemovesmethodicallythroughthedarkandthecold.Aftersevenminutesofsteady,twistingdescent,Hilalstops.Thepassagewayendslessthanameteraway.Hilalmakesoutthelongwallofaroom.Ifhehadn’tbeenmovingso slowlyhewouldhavepoured into it.Whoknowswhatmightbewaiting forhimon the farside.Hemoveshisrifleasideandinspectsthefloor,lookingfortripwires.Nothing.Hecheckstheedgesofthedoorwayforsensors.Nothing.Hestandsthereforseveralseconds,thinkingaboutwhattodo.Aboutwhathemustdo.Faith,hesaystohimself.Hekneelsandreadies therifle.Hewill roll forwardand to theright,hoping tofindsomething tohidebehind.Hecounts.One.Two.Three.

ThetipofNoriKo’snosefeelslikeanicicle.Shemovestherifleupanddownandupanddown.Up.Down.Up.Afigurerollsfromthedoorway.Shepressesandholdsthetrigger,pushingtherifleagainsttherecoilandadjustingtohitthetargetonthefloor.Modifiedforfullauto,theriflespraysbulletsintotheroom,muzzleflashstrobe-lighting thecontoursofherheadandshouldersand the stonewalls.The figuredisappearsbehindtheendofthetable.She’snotsureifshescoredahit.Shereleasesthetrigger.Thelastfewshellcasingstinkleontothefloor.Herearsring.Sheparksherrifle,aimingfortheendofthetable,painfullyawarethatshecannotsimultaneouslysightthedoor.Ifthereismorethanoneofthem,sheisdonefor.Sheslidesthegunbacktothebaseofthedoor,thentothetopofit,thentothetable.Shedrawsthislittletriangle for five full seconds,which feels like fiveminutes.Shehears a child’swail fromsomewheredeepintheancientbuilding.Shedrawsthetriangleagain.Again.Again.Maybeshe’sgottenlucky.Maybethere’sonlyone.Movement. The figure that tumbled into the room sticks a rifle around the table’s corner. They fire

simultaneously.Theshotsbeingfiredathermiss,buthershotshit,andaman’svoicecallsoutinpainandhisrifledropstothefloorwithaclank.Sheshootsthisanditslidesoutofreach.Thenshesightsthetopofthedoor,thebottom,thetable.Thetriangleagain.Thetable.Thebottomofthedoor.Thetop.Again.Thenshehearsasoundlikeanarcofelectricityandseesablindingyellowlightandsherollsdefensivelytotheside,wedgingbetweenthefloorandthewall.Theflashzipspastherinamillisecondandcatchesher ARX 160 right down themiddle, cutting the scope and both receivers clean in half. This energyprojectileburnsthefleshonthebackofhertriggerhand,andalthoughhereyesareshutit’ssobrightthatallsheseesisorangeandred.Buttheflashisgoneasfastasitarrived,andthesoundtoo.There’sthesmellofburnedfleshandofwhatsheswearsismoltenmetal.Butshecan’tbesurebecausenow,withthelightlingeringinhereyesandhernight-visionscoperuined,she’scompletelyblind.Shehopstoherfeet,drawsalongtacticalknife,stepsgingerlyintotheroom.Sheswingstheknifehereandthere,hereandthere.“Comeon!”sheblurts,defyingthedarkness.“Comeon!”

Hilaltwiddlesthefingersofhisrighthand.Itwasrattledbadlywhenthe416wasshotfromhisgripandittingleslikewhenacricketbatsmangetsacurvingpitchnearthehands.Butthissensationisnothingnexttowhatishappeninginhislefthand.Assoonashisriflewashitthelumpofmetalcametolife,asifitknewhewasinimminentdangeranditsserviceswereneeded.Hisarmwentasstraightasaboard,lockingattheelbow,asalongspikegrewfromthepinkiesideofthepieceofmetal, extending for a littleover ameter.As soonas thishappenedhishand felt as if itwasjoinedwith themetal, andhis thumb found the socket, andhepressed it.His arm lit upwith a jolt ofenergyasabrightdiscflewfromthetipofthespike,careeningacrosstheroominaflashandhittinghisadversary.Butthisshotdidnotkillher.Nowhetakesmorecarefulaim.Hepeersatthiswomanforabriefmoment.Ifshehadnightvisionbeforeshedoesnotnow,asshestandsbeforehimswipingrandomlyattheair.SheisundoubtedlytheMuthatMasakatoldhimabout,asshelooksverymuchlikeanolderversionofChiyokoTakeda.HilalcanonlyguesswhythispersonishelpingtheShang,andheistoopressedfortimetoconsideritforverylong.Hepresseshisthumbintothetriggeragain.Theroomflashesyellowoncemoreandtheweaponfiresitsenergydiskandtheaircrackleswithelectricityandtwothumps.Hilallookstothefarsideoftheroom.Twohalvesofapersonlieonthefloor,thecontactedfleshandinnardscauterizedandpopping-hissing.Achildwailsfromdeeperdowninthisancientmonument.“SkyKey!”hehisses.Hestoopsandrunshisfingersoverhis416.Themagazinewasknockedfreeandthemagwellisdentedandmisshapen.Itisuseless.Hestraightens.DrawsHATEinhisrighthandandkeepsthisamazingMakerweaponreadyinhisleft.

Hestepspastthecleavedbodyandthroughthedoorwayandslipssilentlyintothedarknessandthecoldthatliesbelow.

ANLIU,LITTLEALICECHOPRA

24.43161,123.01314,nearYonaguni,Japan

Keep going, love. BlinkSHIVERSHIVERblinkblinkblinkshiverBLINKBLINK SHIVERSHIVERSHIVERBLINKSHIVERSHIVERShivershiverBLINK.AnblinkAnblinkAndragsanincreasinglyconsciousSkySHIVERSkyKeydownblinkdownSHIVERdown.Theairiscoldshivercoldblinkblinkcoldblinkit’sfreezing.Afaintglowgrowsbelow.Hisvestfeelslikeitweighsshivershiverweighs200kilosnotblinknotBLINKnot20.Walk,love.Nextfoot,nextfoot,nextfoot.Move.Move!Sheencourageshim,speakstohimwithoutanyblinkanyhitches.Noticsinhershiverinhervoice.Sheispure.Inhismind.Inhisheart.Thepurepartofhim.SHIVERSHIVERSHIVERblinkblink.SHIVERblinkshiver.He’ssoanxiousblinksoshakenshiversoblinkblinksotickinghecan’tblinkblinkblinkcan’ttalktoherSHIVERSHIVEReitheroutloudorblinkblinkorinhismind.Hismind.Hisheart.Hismind.Hisblackheart.Chiyoko.Chiyoko.BLINKSHIVERBLINK.He tightenshisgripon thegirl’scollar, catchingaclumpofblinkshivera clumpofhair.The folliclesblinkblinksnap-snap-snapoutofherskin.SheyelpsandwailsandstartsspeakinginHindiorBengali,whatever it ishecan’tblinkshiverSHIVERblinkhecan’tunderstandaword.ShekicksandswingsherarmsandAngivesherahardshakebutthisonlyblinkshiverSHIVERblinkitonlymakeshermoreupset.Shewailsagain.Gunfire,andlotsofit,echoesfromaboveandbeatsblinkbeatsshiverbeatsonhisears.Abriefsilencethenanotherburst,followedbyaloudzzzuuppp!likeashotofelectricity.Thensilence.SkyKeycriesagain.SHIVERSHIVERSHIVERBLINKBLINKSHIVER.Keepmoving,love.Don’tfailnow.Thechildwrithesandspits.NoriKosayssomethingabove.Anotherzzzzuuup!andthensilence.Don’thurtthegirl.Hecan’tblinkblinkcan’thelphimself.HeshoveshisriflearoundtohisbackandyanksupSkyKeyandshivershiverwraps both arms around her.Her back presses into his chest. He claps a hand over her

mouth.Shebitesthewebofskinbetweenhisthumbandforefingerandyellsoutonceagain.“Ack!”heblurts.Heworkshisfingersunderherblinkblinkunderherchinandclapshermouthshutandholdsitthisway.Hestopswalking.BLINKSHIVERBLINK.HeworkshisotherhandoverblinkblinkSHIVERSHIVERoverthegirl’snose,pinchingitshut.Sheneedstolive,An!Don’t!SkyKeykickshershortlegsintoAn’sgutandpelvis.Shegetshiminthegroinandhebendsovertohelprelieve thepain,crookingherbody inhis.She tries tomoveherheadside to sidebut she isn’t strongenough.Shekeepskicking,kicking.Don’t.SHIVERSHIVERSHIVERSHIVER.Herkicksdiedown.Herheadstopsstraining.Hereleaseshernose.Holdshishandunderit.Thewarmthofherbreathcoatsthetopofhishand.Shelives.Sheisunconsciousagain.BLINKBLINKBLINK.Good,love.Now.Go!Hecradlesthegirl.Hisvestissoheavy,andsoready,andthereleaseofdeathissonear.Heissohappy.Walk.NextfootSHIVERnextfootblinknextfoot.Downdowndown.Theblueglowgetsbrighter.BLINKSHIVERBLINK.Closer.Brighter.Colder.BLINKSHIVERBLINK.Closer.Brighter.Colder.Hetakesonemorestepandstops.Thestarchamber.Theticsaregone.Thegirlshuddersasifdisturbedbyabaddream.Wearehere,love.

SHARICHOPRA,JENNYULAPALA

ShariseesLittleAlice’sshakingbodyintheShang’shands.Sharican’tthinkshecan’tyellshecan’tcalloutshecan’treachshecan’tactshecan’tfeelshehastorepressitallsheispowerlesssheispowerlesssheispowerlessandshehastoembracethepowerlessness.Jennystandsnexttoher,theybothsee,theybothletwhattheyseepassthroughthem,asifeachwereanunthinkingcamera,nothingmorethanalenstoanobserver’seye.TheybothseetheShangstepforwardandlookaroundandstop.Theybothhearhimsay,“Iamhere,kepler22b.Ihavethekeys.IclaimmyprizeaswinnerofEndgame.Showyourself.”

AN LIU, KEPLER 22B, LITTLE ALICE CHOPRA, JENNYULAPALA,SHARICHOPRA

Starchamber,24.43161,123.01314,nearYonaguni,Japan

TheMakermovesandtheairshimmiesandwrinklesandheappears,asifsteppingfromarendinspaceitself.Welcome,AnLiu,ShangPlayerofthe377thlineofhumanity.An’srighthandtouchesthepadonhisleftwrist.BothareobscuredfromtheMakerbythedrapeofSkyKey’sclothing.Ansneersatthekepler.Hewouldenjoyseeinghimsuffer,buthesensesthatanyhesitationwillmakeitmorelikelythathewillnotsucceedinkillinghim.Icanalmosttouchyou,love.Cometome,Chiyokosays.Iam,hethinks.Hesmilesat theMaker. “Thankyou,kepler22b.”His finger finds thedetonatorbutton.Thevest feelslight,airy,alreadylikeitisignitingmovinginandoutatthesametime,takinghimwithitandeverythingaroundhim,warminghisfleshandspirit.Iamcoming.Hesays,“ButmynameisnotAnLiu.MynameisDeath.”Hepressesthebutton.Andnothinghappens.Hepressesitagain.Nothing.He drops the girl. She lands awkwardly at his feet and bounces. She groans.Hermouthmoves, eyesflutter.Sheisinpain.

Shari closes her eyes in theDreaming. She can’t look. Shewill keep the connection to this place byimaginingLittleAlice,asshewasintheyardinGangtok,chasingTarkithroughthebrush,asshepassedthrough the kitchen while Shari cooked, as she rode on Jamal’s broad shoulders, as she sat inJovinderpihainu’slapandsmiledathiswrinkledface.Sheimaginesthesethingswithoutputtingwordstothem.ByfillingherspirittheseimageshelpkeepherrootedinthenothingnessoftheDreaming.Itisthepracticeofhermeditationturnedonitsheadandwritoutaslargeasitcanbe:findtimelessnesssolelybybeinginthepresent,holdnothingnesssolelybyacceptingeverything.LittleAliceisalreadywithher.Shealwayshasbeen.

Thankyoufornotharmingthesecondkey,AnLiu.Andesperatelyjamshisfingerontothewristpad.Hepressesthedetonator,presses,presses.Nothing.Hepullsbackhissleeveandseesthattheredarminglightisextinguished.Helookstothekepler’spaleface.Anisslack-jawed,eyeswidened.Oh,thebombwouldkillmeandstopwhatIamheretodo.ButthedetonatorwillnotworksolongasIamaliveandclosetoit.Yousimplycannotkillme,AnLiu.Move,love!Andropsandrollsoverthegirl,comingupameterclosertotheMaker,theriflethatwasslungbehindhisbackinhishands.Hefires.Thebulletssailintothealienandhithimandbendaroundhisclothingandhisneckandhisface.Theslugsburythemselvesin thestonebeyondtheMaker,producingacloudofbluedustasadriftingbackdrop.Although thebullets donothing,Ankeeps firing.His teethgrind.Tears stream from the cornersofhiseyes.Themagazineisempty.Thegunboltclick-click-click-click-clicks.AnreleasesthemagazineandflipsitandshovesitbackinandheisabouttoresumeshootingwhentheMakerraiseshisarmandpointshisfistatAn.Apulseof invisibleenergy, likeagustofconcentratedwind, liftsAn fromhis feet into theair,throwinghimagainstthedoorwayheandSkyKeyenteredthrough.Hewouldsailthroughitexceptthatnowit’sshutbyaninvisiblebarrier.Isaidnothingwillwork,Shang.An’sentirebodyaches.HejumpstohisfeetanddrawsNobuyuki’sswordandrushestotheMaker.Heleapsoverthegirl,whowasunaffectedbytheMaker’sblast,andarrivesinfrontofthealieninlessthanthreeseconds,thesworddrivingathislongneck.ItslamsintotheMaker,whosmiles.Wholaughs.Thesword’ssharpenededgedoesnothingeither.Enough.kepler22btakesAnbytheneckandliftshimoffhisfeetandholdshimatarm’slength.Ankicks,swingstheswordhelplessly.Thealien’shandissocolditburnsAn’sskin,whichbunchesbelowhisjawline,turningblueandwhite.Antriestocursethealienbuthecan’tmakeasound.Hislipsturnpurple.Hiseyesreddenandbulgefromtheirsockets.Hecan’tbreathe.Youdon’tneedtokillhim,love.Cometomeanyway.Dieandcometomeanyway.No!Anthinks.Death!Ihearyourthoughts,youknow.Ihearthethoughtsofeveryoneinthisroom.You,thegirl,thedeadMuwho lives in your twistedmind. I hear the thoughts of theAksumite, whowill arrive at thedoorwayinafewseconds.Death!No,Shang.Notforyou.IwasgoingtokillyouwhenIusedyourbodytofinishEndgame,butnowIseethatyoudon’tdeservedeath.Life,Shang!Thatiswhatyoudespiseandthatiswhatyoushallhave.Thatiswhatyoudeserve.But...timeisprecious,so...Heliftstherail-thinPlayeranotherfoot.HeholdsouthisfreehandandopensitandoneoftheShang’spocketsvibratesandjostlesandEarthKeystrainsattheclothandshootsout,settlingintheMaker’shand.ThenhehurtlestheShangtotherightandintooneofthestar-pointrecesses.AnLiubangshisheadagainstthestoneandcrumplesintoit,aloneandsilentandcompletelyunconscious.Wecantalkaboutlifelater.HeglancesattheLaTène.

IdonotneedyourbodytofinishEndgameanyway,AnLiu.Hedrifts towardSkyKey, droppingEarthKey into the bowl in themiddle of the room. It rattles andbouncesandsettlesinthelowestpart,waitingtobejoinedbythegirlandthePlayer.HereachesSkyKeyandbendsandpicksherup.Herbackgoesasstraightasaboardashisfrigidhandstouchherandshescreams.Shescreamsandscreamsandscreams.

ThisnoiseshouldshakeShariChoprafromhermeditationwithinameditation,but itdoesnot.Instead,when the screamsdrift intoherawareness she seesaplayfulLittleAliceona swingset,pealingwithshrilldelight,smiling,filledwithlifeandjoyandhappiness.Sheseesherassheshouldbe.Assheis,always,inShari’sheart.

HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT, LITTLE ALICE CHOPRA, KEPLER22B

Starchamber,24.43161,123.01314,nearYonaguni,Japan

Hilalstopsshyofthedoor.TheMakerstandsnotthreemetersaway.Heholdsthegirl.HestaresatHilal,black-eyedandsmug.Hello,Aksumite.Hilalraisestheweapon.“Good-bye.”Heanglestheweaponsothatitwillstrikekepler22bandnotLittleAlice.Hedropshisthumbintothetriggerandsqueezes.Hisarmlightsinpainandtheweaponglowsandthediskshootsforward,thelightconsumingHilalandthedoorbetweenthemandkepler22b.Butinsteadofrelievingthealienofhishead,theblasthitstheinvisibleshieldsuspendedbetweenthemanditexplodesanddissipatesandthrowsHilalviolentlybackwardintodarkness.Fool.kepler22bplacesthegirlinthebowlwithEarthKey.AssoonasSkyKeycomesincontactwiththebowlshestopsscreaming,becomingquietandpeaceful.Theendwon’thurt.kepler22bdidn’tlietotheNabataeanaboutthat.Allheneedsnowisthethirdandfinalkey.APlayer.AllheneedsistheLaTène.

JENNYULAPALA

Veryquietly,verydiscreetly,verygently,Jennysays,“Hellwiththis.I’moldanyway.”ShereleasesShari’shandintheDreaming,keepsaholdofitinthephysicalrealmbackinAustralia.Shedriftsintothecenterofthestarchamber,hoveringoverLittleAlice.ShewatchestheMakerunwraptheredheadedPlayernamedAislingKopp.TheMakerremainsunawareofJennyandShari.Hecannotseethem.Heissosureofhimself.Toosureofhimself.Jenny turnsawayfrom theMakerand faces the limitlesspsychicvoidof theDreaming.She leaves theroomandShariandthefelledPlayersandmovestothegreatlinethatfeedsandservestheDreamingandwhichisalwaystherejustbeyondperception.Shegivesherselftoit.Theworldofherancestorsgrowsandsurgesandglows to lifearoundher.Shesees thosesheknewin the fleshand thoseshemet in theDreamingandthosesheonlyeverheardof.SheseesthegreatexpanseofthedesertandtheancienttreesandthemountainsandvalleysofhernativelandbutalsoallofEarth,riversoficeandpinnaclesofstoneandteemingjunglesandvoluminouslife-givingseasandmoltenironandnickelandblackstormslacedwithelectricityandpowerandwindsweptdunesashighas skyscrapersanddeepcavesdrippingwithmineral water and the depths of the oceans black and cold yet full of life and orange pluming ventsbubblingupfromthecenteroftheancientplanet,everyinchasancientastheMaker’shomeworld,everyinchascompleteandwondrousandandandotherworldly,righthere.Earth.Home.HometolifeanddeathandtheDreaming.BecauseJennyknowsheavenisn’tupthereinthestars—it’srighthere,onEarthandofit.Andsalvationiscoming.“Hey!”shecallsintotheDreaming,andthelandsandseasandpeaksandglaciersanddriftingtreetopsfillandoverfillwithfacesandshouldersandarmsandfists.“Comeonnow.JennyUlapalaneedsyou.”Andtheysilentlyraisetheirfistsinunison,millionsandbillionsofthedeadandgoneintheDreaming.Herarmy.Theirarmy.Ours.Greaterthananyotherwiseassembledonthisplanetoranyotheratthistimeoranyother.Sheturnsherbackonhumanity.Nottoforsakeit.Buttoleadit.ShetakesonestepbackfromthevoidandtowardtheMaker.Andthere,nexttoher,comesBigAlice.

“Oi,Jenny.”“Alice,”Jennysmiles.“Baiamefuckedupgood,yeah?”“Howso?”“Theyshouldn’tashownushowtogowalkaboutintheAfter-Afterlikethis.Itwasfoolish.”Jennyissopleased.ShesightstheheadoftheMakerintheroombackinthephysicalworld.“Itwas.”BigAlicepointsatSkyKey,atthedoorwayblockingastirringHilalibnIsaal-Salt.“Timeweshowhimhowpowerfulwe’vebecome.”“Quietnow,Alice.”“Yougotit,Gram.”Jennymarches into the star chamber. TheMaker carries the La Tène, naked and pale and asleep andbreathingshallowly,inhisarms.Shariremainscalmandconnected.Sheholdstheconnectioninspiteofeverything.Jennyconcentrateshermindtoapointandaimsthisatthedoor.ShecouldstriketheMaker,buttheweaponthatwilldefinitelykillhimliesoutsidetheroom,inHilal’shand.Jennyisready.BeforeshelaunchesforwardshewhistlesattheMaker.Hefinallyseesthem.Andheisaghast.How?“Youmadeamistake.Wealldo.”Andbeforehehasachancetosayanythingelse,shecarriesherselfforwardwiththepsychicweightofallthat’sbehindherandmaterializesinthestarchamberandsmashesintothebarrierthatsealsoffHilalandtheweaponthatcanslaytheircommonenemy.

HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT, LITTLE ALICE CHOPRA, JENNYULAPALA,KEPLER22B,AISLINGKOPPStarchamber,24.43161,123.01314,nearYonaguni,Japan

“Now!”JennyyellsassheappearsasiffromnowhereandfliesoverHilalandcollapsesbehindhim.Hilalliesontheground,hislimbsakimbo.Hetwistsandaimsandthoughhe’sgroggyandhisvisionisimperfectandcloudyheholdsuptheweapon.TheMakerdropstheLaTèneandraiseshisowngunandHilal squeezesandsqueezesandsqueezesand the first shotmeetsa shot firedby thekeplerand thesecanceleachotheroutbutthenextshotandthenextandthenextalllaunchfromHilal’shandandfireintotheroomandHilalfeelsthepowerandhisarmstingleandheseesthelightinhiseyesandthereisaloudnoiseandthenalouderoneandadeepandclamorousscreamandthen—

Silence.

Hilalsitsboltupright.Heblinks.Heissurroundedbypitchblackness.Hefeelsaroundthefloorandfindswhathe’slookingfor.Nightvision.Heslipsthegogglesoverhisheadandpressesthebuttonand,thankthestars,theywork.Jennyisunderhim.Hegentlyshakesherbytheshoulders.Shemoans.Sheisalive.Hetakesherfaceinhis hands, pinching her pockmarked cheeks, moving her head, slapping her lightly. “Master Ulapala.MasterUlapala.”“Uhn...Oh...”“Wakeup,MasterUlapala!”“Hilal?”“Yes,”hesays,fullofdisbelief.“Howdidyou. . .?Youdidnotcomethroughtheportal . . .youjustappearedinthinair...”“ItwasatrickInevertriedbefore.I’lltellyouaboutitlater.”“Areyouallright?”“Didwe?”“Yes.Imean,Ithinkso.”JennystrainstolookpastHilalbutwinces.“Ah.Myleg.Ithinkit’sbroken.”Hilalpushesasideapileofrubble.Theoldwoman’sankleisbentatastrangeangle.“Thiswillhurt,”hesays,“butIhavetocheck.”“Yeah,allright.”Herunshishandalongherleg,feelingforboneorblood.“Itisnotcompound.Youwillbefine.”“Hilal.Yougottagocheckon...”Hestands.“Yes.Iknow.Iwillberightback,MasterUlapala.Donotmove.”“Notgoinganywhere,”shesays.Hilalmovesintothestarchamber,listeningtotheachesandpainsofhisownbody.“Uncle?”LittleAlicesays.Shesitscross-leggedonthefloor,EarthKeyinherhand.Hilalrushestoher.“Hellothere.Iamafriendofyourmother’s.”“Another?”LittleAlicesays.“SowasMaccabee.”Hilalwon’targuewithher,notnow.Firsthehastoknow:“WhereistheMaker?”“What?”“TheMaker.”Shepointsdirectlytoherleft.“There,Uncle.”

Hilalspinsandlooksand

And

YesTheMaker iscut intoat least threepieces.Heisasdeadashewilleverbe.AndHilal lookspast theMaker and seesAisling, naked andher skinverypale in the strangegreenhueof thenightvision, butbreathing.Theydidit.Theydidit.“Waithere,Alice,”Hilalsays.HegoestotheportalthatwillleadthembacktoAustraliaandtosafety.Itisnotblackandinkybutbright.Hepullsoffthegogglesandseestheredearthoftheoutbackonthefarsidecastingitsdaylightintotheroom.TheKooriguardsstandalertandshocked.They’rewavingtheirarmsathimandgesturingforhimtocrossover.AttheirfeetisShariChopra,sittingontheground,eyesclosedandentranced,holdinghermeditativeplaceintheDreaming,keepingtheportalopen.Heholdsupafinger.“Iamcoming,brothers,”hesays.“Wearecoming.”Hebacktracks toJenny.Alicesays,“Uncle,”buthesays,“Onemoment.Youwillbewithyourmothersoon.Ipromise.”“Iknow,Uncle,but—”“Onemoment,”hesays,sofullofjoyandtriumphandrelief.HereachesJennyandpullsherarmoverhisbroadshouldersandpicksherup.“Wedidit,”hesays.“Youdidit.”Jennyblinks.“Really,mate?”Helaughs.“Yes,MasterUlapala.Really.”“Stopcallingmethat.Imeanit.”Helaughsagain.“Allright,MasterJenny,”hesays,histeethgleaminginabroadsmile.“AndLittleAlice?”“Come.”HeputshisotherarmaroundherwaistandtheywalkslowlytoLittleAliceandstopinfrontofher.“Auntie,”Alicesays.“LittleAlice,”Jennysaysquietly,holdingoutherhand.Alicetakesitandstands.“I’mhungry,”shesays.JennyandHilallaugh.“Iamtoo,sweets,”Jennysays.“Starved,actually.”Togethertheymovetowardtheportal.“Uncle,”Alicesays.“We’realmostthere.”“Auntie.”“I’llcrosswithyouandthencomebackforAisling,”Hilalsays.And then they reach the doorway thatwill transport them away from here, butwhen they try tomovethroughittheyareblocked.Jennyslapsahandontheimageoftheoutbackinfrontofthem,buthitswhatfeelslikeasheetofglass.Sheslapsitagain.Hilalwhispers,“No!”Jennypunchesit.GlancesaroundtheroomattheMaker’sbodyandblurts,“Hesealedit!”“Canyoutakeusbackthewayyoucame?”Hilalasks.“Can’t.Thatwasaone-waytrip,”Jennysays.“WewillhavetoleavethewayIcamethen,”Hilalsays, thinkinghowlongitwill takeandhowmucheffort.ThinkingofhowdistraughtShariwillbetohavetowaitthatmuchlongertohaveherchildinherarms.

“Uncle,”Alicesays.“Auntie.”Bothlookatthegirl.“Whatisit?”theyasktogether.Shepointstoherleft.“Him.There.”Theirheadswhip towhereshepoints.And then theysee.Theyweresoexcitedabout thedeathof thekepler,andtheendofEndgame,thattheyhadforgotten.AnLiu.Heismotionlessandwedgedintoacornerandcompletelynonthreatening.Hilalsays,“Hecannothurtyouanymore,LittleAlice.”“Iknow,”thegirlsays.“Butlook.Hisarm.”HilalsquintsattheShangandthere—yes—aflashingredlight.“Waithere,”Hilalsays,proppingJennyagainsttheshutteredportal.Hilal bounds to An, reaching him in seconds. He takes his arm. Sees the wrist pad, the buttons, thenotationsinChineseandEnglish.HepatsdownAn’sbodyandfeelsthebulkandgrabshisshirtandtearsitopen.Thenylonthestrapsthewirestheexplosives.NotC4.NotTNT.NotPETN.Hilalisnotsurewhatitis,butgivenwhatheknowsaboutAnLiu,heknowsitisworsethananyoftheseotheroptions.Theredlightflashesfaster.Andfaster.Hequickly inspects thewiring.Thereare toomanyforhimtodisarmit,andhedoesnothave tools toworkwithanyway.Hestands.“Whatisit?”Jennyasks.“Bomb!”heyells,runningtothem.“Thereisnotimerreadout,butitisarmed.”“Whatkind?”Jennyasks.“Idonotknow.Probablyasmallnucleardevice.”Jenny’seyeswiden.“Weneedtogetthroughthisportal!”“Iknow!”Hilalzipsaroundtheroomlookingforsomethinganythingsomething.Jenny runsherhandsupanddown theblockedportal, tries to ignore thepeopleon theother side,herguardsandthecalloftheOutback,theproximityofsafety.“Auntie,”Alicesays.“Notnow,honey,”Jennysays.“There,”Alicesays,ignoringher.Shepointsat the stone to the sideof thedoorway. Jenny runsherhandsup to it and—yes!—whenherfingers touch it, it liquefies and she pushes her hands into the stone. She doesn’t knowwhat it is, butinsideshefeelsbuttonsandswitchesandsliders.“Hilal,Ithink.. .”Shemovesherfingers,twistsherarm,pushesitindeeper.“Ithink...”Hilalappearsatherside.“Thisisthelock,”Jennysays.“Canyouopenit?”“Maybe?”shesaysunconvincingly.HilallooksattheShang.Theredlightblinksfaster.“Hurry.”JennyturnsherhandagainandthereisaclickfrominsidethestoneandHilalreachesforAustraliabut

no,itisstillsealedoff.“Bugger!”Jennysays.“What?”“Ican’t...Ithinkitscannedmyhand.Andyouknow,Iain’tgotMakermitts,so...”Shepullsoutherarmwithapainful-soundingpop.Hilalturnsatightcircle.Thelightblinksfaster.Faster.“Uncle.”“Notnow.Iamtryingtothink.”LittleAlicedoesn’tsayanythingelse.ShejusttugshardatHilal’sHATEmacheteandheactuallyletsitgoand the small girl drags it scraping across the floor to the Maker. Hilal and Jenny watch her withperplexedlooksasshestopsbyhispaletorsoandstrugglestolifttheblade.“Hishand,Hilal!”Jennyblurts.“Gethisbloodyhand!”HilalleapstoAliceinasingleboundandsnagsHATE.HepeelsbacktheMaker’sarmoredsleeveandliftshisbladehighandsnapsitdownandhedropsthemetalandreplacesthiswithfrozenMakerflesh.Hesnagsthegirlaroundthewaistandbouncesbacktotheportal,givingJennythelimb.ShejamsitintothestoneanditmeltsagainandthereisanotherclickandahissandthewarmdryAustralianairhitstheirfaces.HilalthrustsAlicethroughtheportalastheguardsrushtothem.TheytakethegirlandhelpJennythrough.Hilal steps through toowhenhe remembersAisling.Hepivots,catchessightofAn’s red lightflashingsofastit’spracticallysolid.HestumblesandfallsoverAislingandpicksherupandjumpsbackto the portal. He passes Aisling through to a Koori guard, the surface twinkling and snapping withelectricity,andthenhejumpsin,throughspaceandtimeandintoanotherpartoftheknownworld.LittleAlice runs tohermother andwrapsher armsaroundherneck,butShari is so far away that shedoesn’tnotice.Hilaltriestogeteveryoneawayfromtheportal,awayfromthepathofthecomingblast.TheguardsmoveJennyandAislingandthemselves.HilalcomesbacktopickupShariandthegirl,andasheleansoverthemShari’snostrilstwitchwiththescentofherdaughter’shairandhereyesshootopenand the portal flashes white for a fraction of a second before being snuffed out and sealed with theblacknessofdarkstone.Shariisawake,freeoftheDreaming.Theconnectionislost.Theportalisclosed.Theyaresafe.Hilalcollapsesontotheground,pantingandsweating.Hesitsslump-backed,staringatwhat’sinfrontofhim.Helaughs.Deepandthroaty.Helaughsatit.At the kissing, loving, fawning, pawing, desperately grateful lives of a mother and a child, broughttogetherforgoodandatlast.

Cometome,love.Anblinks.Hecan’tmove.Hisbodyisbrokenandpain-ridden.Likeithasalwaysbeen,inonewayoranother.Cometome.Hewatches theothers.The red light illuminateshis faceand the tattoo tearunderhiseye.HewatchesthemtaketheMakerhandanduseitinsomewayhecan’tunderstand.Watchesthesecondkeyleave,andhedoesn’tcare.Hewatchesthemescape.“He’s”—blink—“he’s”—SHIVER—“he’s”—BLINKBLINK—“he’s gone, Chiyoko.”BLINKSHIVERSHIVERBLINK.“He’sdead.”Iknow.Isawit.BLINKBLINKblink.“Ididn’tkillhim.”TheyPlayedforlife.“Theydid,”Ansays.Inyourway,youdidtoo.HewatchesHilalalmostleaveandthenreturnandtripoverAislingKoppandthenpickherup.“No,”Ansays.Yes.“No.”HilalpassesAislingthroughthedoorway,andthenhejumpsafterherandisgone.OnlyAnisleft.Hemanagestobringhishandtohisneck.Hefindsherdarkhairwithhisfingers.Hecaressesit.Theredlightisnearlysolid.“No.”Yes,love.“Ididn’tPlayforlife.”Yes,youdid.Hegripsthenecklacetightly.“IPlayedforyou.”Andthenabrightlight,thebrightestthewhitestthehottesthehaseverknown.

Andthennothing.

Liveblindlyanduponthehour.TheLord,WhowastheFuture,diedfulllongago.KnowledgewhichisthePastisfolly.Go,Poorchild,andbenottothyselfabhorred.Around thine earth sun-wingèdwinds do blowAnd planets roll; ameteor draws his sword;Therainbowbreakshisseven-colouredchordAndthelongstripsofriver-silverflow:Awake!Givethyselftothelovelyhours.Drinkingtheirlips,catchthouthedreaminflightAbouttheirfragilehairs’aërialgold.Thouartdivine,thoulivest,—asofoldApollospringingnakedtothelight,Andallhisislandshiveredintoflowers.

23MONTHS,5DAYSLATERBelowMercatorStation,Palisades,NewYork,UnitedStates

AislingandHilalwalk in thedawn twilightupasingle-trackdirtpath.TheHudsonRiver liesat theirback,grayandflatandwideandsilentbutflowingpowerfullytowardtheAtlanticOcean,severalmilestothesouth.Withtheexceptionofapairoffour-inchfoldingknives,neitherAislingnorHilalisarmed.Bothlikeitthatway.TheywalkwithouturgencyalongtheswitchbacktrailthatleadstoaseriesofladdersandliftsplyingtheverticalclifffaceuptotheheartofMercatorStation.Theirlungsandlegsworkagainstgravity.Thoughit’sAugust,asummerchillisintheairand,asalwaysinthispartoftheworld,theskyishungwithgrayclouds.Thesearen’tveryominous,though—worldwide,butespeciallyneartheImpactZone,thestormssubsidedsignificantlyaboutnineweeksago—sothetwoformerPlayershaven’tbotheredwithraingearfortheirmorninghike.ThebasicgeographyofthisareaismostlyunchangedPA.The200-million-year-oldbasaltcliffsthatriselike awall on thewestern shore of the river were unaffected by the impact. Being that old, and thatdurable,givesathingagoodmeasureofstayingpower.Thesecliffsarethebonesofthisancientvalley—onethatpredatestheexistenceofallsentientlifeintheMilkyWay,includingthatoftheMakers,byover150millionyears—andtheyloomnowbeforeAislingandHilal.Theyaredarkandglistening,andwhileitisn’training,thetwoPlayersstillhearsmallgurglesof water moving all around them and under their feet, making its way down into the river and, soonenough,totheoceanitself.Butifthebonesoftheworldsurvivedhere(andtheycategoricallydidnotsurviveintheCraterZone),theskinoftheworlddidnot.Theecosystemherehassimplybeenreset.Onthatdaynearlytwoyearsago,everythingwaseitherburnedawayortornfromthegroundandcarriedontheshockwavetothevastDebrisWalltothesouthandeast.Theforceoftheblastwassostrongthateventhiswidefluvialriftdidnotcatchanydetritus,anditwaslaidbare.Outintheopen,whereAislingandHilalarerightnow,it’snotmuchdifferentthanitwasintheimmediateaftermathofAbaddon.Notasinglebeamofdirectsunlighthaspenetratedthecloudssincethen,andsotheentirelandscapeisdenudedandbrownorblackorgray.Allthatremainsisdirtandrock,andallthatgrowsaremushrooms.Hilalstopsandinspectsoneofthese,bulbousandpriapic,withabrightorangetop.Aislingwalkedrightbyitwithoutnoticing.Hestoops,unfoldshisknife,andpokesthefungus.“Amanitacaesarea,”hesaysquietly.“Ayoungone.”Aislingstopsandturns.“Hmm?”“Thismushroom.”Hecutsitquicklyatthestemandslipsitintoaplasticcollectionbag.“Childresswillliketoseeit,Iamsure,”hesays.“Childresswouldliketoseeaturdsolongasitwasgrowingoutoftheground,”Aislingpointsout.Hilal simply smiles, tucks the bagged mushroom into a pocket, and stands back up. “Your phone is

buzzing,”hesays.Aislinglooksleftandrightandpatsherpockets.“Goddamnit,where—?”Shefindsherphoneandslipsitout and quizzically looks at the number display before shrugging and pressing it to her ear. “This isAisling,”shesayscurtly.Aslightfrowngiveswaytoasmileasshesays,“Ohhey,Jenny.”Theytalk.AtthismomentJennyisinKazakhstanwithGregJordan.They’repreparingtoboardabrand-newTitanXA1rocketcarryingthefinalpayloadtoanorbitingshipthatwill,intwoweeks’time,embarkonathree-year voyage to Mars. Their mission: to serve as the resident Maker and Endgame experts for aninternationalteamtaskedwithretrievingkepler22b’sshipforresearchanddevelopmentpurposes.Andalso,Aislinghopes,toretrievethebodyofPopKoppsothathecanbebroughthomeandlaidtorest.AislinggrinsbroadlyatsomejokeJennymakes,thepurplemarkonAisling’sleftcheekexpandingasitcurvesfromthecornerofhereyedowntoherjaw.Thisisthelastvisibleremnantofhertimespentin22b’sship,althoughshehasnoshortageofmorepersonalandemotionalremnants.She has nightmares once aweek ormore.AndHilal hears about each one,writing down the details,keepingalog,tryingtohelpAislingunderstandthemandgetpastthem.Thewomen continue to talk. Hilalmoves up the trail, pattingAisling’s arm as he passes. Shewinksplayfully.ThecoolairrisesaroundhisshouldersandneckfromtheHudsonRiverbelow.Hemakesthreesharp turns,goinghigherup toMercator,untilAisling’svoice isn’tmore thanamurmurfading into thebackground.He stops.He is at least 15meters higher thanAisling here, and the view is completely unobstructed.Boatsandbargesandferriesplythewatertothesouth.AboveManhattan,alongthetopsofthecliffsontheeasternbank,arenewlybuilttowersofsteeltoppedwithredblinkinglights,andattheirfeetarelinesof semipermanent buildings. Some of these are half-domed and green, others are notmuchmore thanwhiterectilineartrailers.Thesekindsofstructureslinethehorizontothenorthasfarastheeyecansee.AlmostdirectlyaboveHilalasystemofcablesspanstheriver,andHilalspiesthesodium-orangelightsilluminating the cabin of the cable car on the far side. Dark silhouettes of men or women are in it,preparingforthefirstcrossingoftheday.AbovethecaristhedomedandpinnacledcomplexthatisVanHouten Station, sister to Mercator, which is behind Hilal and just out of view over the lip of thePalisades.Aisling andHilal—andShari andLittleAlice too—live inMercator, alongwith 1,845 othermen andwomen.ShariandAislingandHilalaretruefriendsnow—thanksmostlytoLittleAlice,butalsotohoursofcounselingandadesiretosetanexamplefortheworldbyhealingtheriftthattheMakerstorebetweenthem.Ifthelinescancometogetherandheal,thenthepeopleoftheworldcantoo,andwhileEarthanditsnationshavenotbeentransformedintoanirvana,theyhavemadegreatifimperfectstridestowardit.Hilal and the others are here to lend their hands at righting what was put so wrong. Themission ofeveryoneworkinghere is twofold.The first is to terraform thisareaof the ruined ImpactZone.Undereachdomegrowsathrivingecosystemofyoungforestsandwetlandsandmeadowsthatwill,whenthesun returns, be uncovered and set free onto the land. Second is to oversee the final stages of rubbleremediationofthecitythatwasoncecalledNewYorkbutthatisnow,atleastunofficially,calledPhoenixEast.ThiswillbethefirstcitytorisePA,abeachheadfortheNewNewWorld,onebornofdefianceanddeterminationandcooperationandgoodwill.Andpreparingthelandtobuilditanewhasrequiredalotofwork.WhilemostofthestructuresinthefiveboroughsofNewYorkweretornfromthegroundandflungintotheDebrisWall,many,manymetrictonsofinfrastructureremainedunderground,allofwhichhadtobedealtwithand,inmostcases,dugupandremoved.Soon,asJennybeginsherjourneytotheRedPlanet,58headsofstatewilltravelherefromallcornersof

the world to cut a ribbon on the New Jersey side of the NewGeorgeWashington Bridge. Hilal andAislingandShariandLittleAlicewillbeattheUSpresident’sside,andonthatdaytherebuildingwillbegininearnest.Thecablestwangoverhead.Hilalsquints.Thecablecardipsoutandmovesoverthewater.Theclouds,usuallyuniformlygraylikeanunendingblanket,aregradedanddefined,likeabunchofdarkcottonballs.Aislingcallsforhimandwaves.She’sdonetalkingtoJenny.Herubshisarmbelowthewoodenringhewearsaroundhisbicep.Theouroboros.Asymbolofviolenceandallthattheyfoughtagainst,butalsoasymbolofrebirth.Allthattheyfightfor.Aislingwalkstowardhim,wendingupthepath.Hispocketvibrates.Heretrieveshisphoneandlooksatthedisplay.LittleAlicehastextedhim.Comeup,Uncle.IwanttoshowyouwhatImadethismorning.Hewrites,10minutes.Thewindpicksup.Hisphonebuzzesagain.Icanseeyou.Lookup.Heglancesoverhisshoulder.Thirtymetersabove,leaningbetweenthesteelbarsoftherailings,isLittleAlice.She’sfiveyearsoldnowandtallerthananychildherage.SheleansoutfartherthanHilallikes,butsheisyoungandexcitableandHilaliscertainthatShariisafewfeetbehindher,calmandattentive.Understandably,SharihardlyeverleavesLittleAlicealone.LittleAlicewavesfiercely.Hilalwavesback.Thewindwhistles down thevalley as a bright flash, yellowandorange, slices the air. It hits thewetbasaltcliffafewmetersbelowLittleAlice’sfeet.Thegirlpullsfrombetweentherailingsandjumpsupanddownandpointstotheskyintheeast.Hilalcan’thearher,butheknowsLittleAliceisecstatic,andthatSharimustbeecstatictoo.Hilalswingsaround.Aislingislessthanameteraway,andshetoostarestotheeast,slack-shoulderedandawestruck.Thecloudshavebroken,andthere,filteringthroughahole,arethreelongspearsofdawnsunlight.“Holyshit,Hilal,”Aislingsays.“Yes,”hesays.A loud air horn goes off atMercator, and seconds later another horn answers fromVanHouten, thensmallerhornsechoupanddownthevalleyfromsubstationsandgardendomesandmesshallsandofficeblocksanddormitories.HilalboundsdowntoAislingandwrapsanarmaroundhershoulders.Thesunstays.Thewindblows.Thecloudsmove.Thesundisappears.Thehornsblareonnonetheless.“Thatwasbeautiful,”Aislingsays.“Yes.”“We’reactuallygoingtomakeit,aren’twe?”Hilal looks Aisling directly in her eyes. His skin hideous and scarred. Hers porcelain and clear butmarked.BothmarkedbyEndgame.“Yes,”hesays.

Andthentogether:“Yes.”

Endnotes

i http://goo.gl/afsgATii http://goo.gl/D4hJFCiii https://goo.gl/b1GIbniv http://goo.gl/SGdRu8v http://goo.gl/jHDVwM

EXCERPTFROMENDGAME:THEFUGITIVEARCHIVESVOLUME1:PROJECTBERLIN

KEEPREADINGFORASNEAKPEEKAT:

ENDGAMETHEFUGITIVEARCHIVES

VOLUME1:PROJECTBERLIN

CHAPTER1BooneDecember24,1948

“Howyoudoing,Peterson?”Driscollasksaswedescendthroughthethickfog.“Youlookalittlegreen.Domeafavorandtrynottoloseyourlunchallovermyplane,okay?”TheC-54,buffetedbyacrosswind,shakesfiercely,rattlinguslikepeasinacan.It’sbeenlikethisthewholeflight.Driscollgrinsatme.Mynameisn’tPeterson,buthedoesn’tknowthat.Healsodoesn’tknowthatI’vebeeninfarmorenerve-rackingsituationsthanaroughapproach.Imaylooklikeanyother19-year-oldGI,butI’mfarmorethanthat.“Last time I flewoverBerlin, Iwasdropping eggson theirheads,”Driscoll continues, shouting tobeheardabovetheroaroftheengines.“NowI’mbringingthemeggsfortheirbreakfast.”Hisjokeaboutthebombing raids that destroyedhugeparts of the city during the last days of thewar isn’t funny. I smileanyway.IneedhimtothinkI’mjustoneoftheguys,atleastforalittlelonger.Thetruthis,Iamalittlebitnervous.I’vebeentrainingforwarsinceIwasakid.I’vebeenthroughmorethanDriscollandalltheothersoldiersontheplaneeversawinbootcamp.Butthisismybiggestmissionyet.Alotisridingonit.AndyetIdon’tevenknowexactlywhatit’sabout.Iknowthebasics.I’vegot tofindamanandgethimoutofBerlin.Iknowhisnameandhissuspectedlocation.AndIknowthatifhewon’tcomewithme,orifsomeoneelsegetstohimfirst,Ihavetokillhim.Asimpleplan.That’swhyIknowthere’smoretoitthanthecouncilhastoldme.Forsomereasontheydon’twantmetoknowthedetailsofwhythismanissoimportant,whichmeanstheydon’twantanyoneelsetohavethatinformationeither.IfIgetcaptured,myenemiescantryashardastheywanttogetmetotalk, but I can’t tell themwhat I don’t know. Not that I would talk anyway. I’d never do anything tojeopardizethesafetyofmyline.Thecouncilknowsthat,soitbothersmealittlebitthatthey’retakingthisprecaution.Morethanalittlebit,ifI’mhonest.ThisisthefirsttimesinceIbecametheCahokianPlayerthatthey’vekeptmeinthedarkaboutsomething.Idon’tlikethefeeling.Ipush that irritationfrommymindas theTempelhofairstripappears—seeminglyoutofnowhere—andmeets thewheels of the plane. The rumbling intensifies, shakingmy bones, and I hang on asDriscollapplies the brakes. Through the cockpitwindows I see groups of children standing on top of piles ofdebristhatlinetherunway.Theywaveatus,grinningandclappingtheirhands.“Lookatthat,”Driscollsays.“It’slikewe’reSantaClaus.”Inaway,weare.Afterall,it’sChristmasEve.Andalongwiththetentonsofeggs,milk,meat,flour,andotherbasicsupplies inourhold,we’rebringingbagsofwrappedgifts tohandout to thepeopleof thecity.Chocolatebarsforthekids.Cigarettesforthemen.Perfumeforthewomen.Thewarendedin1945,butmorethanthreeyearslater,Berlinisstilltryingtorecover.AndsincetheSovietscutoffallseaandlandaccesstothecity’swesternzoneearlierintheyear,lifehasgottenevenharder.Thankfully, the airlift organizedby theAmerican,French, andBritishmilitarieshasbeen successful inbringing supplies to the city. It’s also providedmewith a handyway inside. Posing as an American

soldierhasbeeneasyenough.TherearesomanyyoungmenbeingassignedtothedozensofdailyairliftflightscomingoutofRhein-MainAirBase thatnoonenoticesonemore.All Ihad todowasputonauniformandstarthelpingloadtheplane.When the Skymaster comes to a stop, we reverse the process begun three hours earlier, transferringeverythinginourcargoareaontothetrucksthatpulluponeaftertheother.“Nobody disappear!”Driscoll shouts aswe launch into action. “GeneralTunner’s orders!Weget thisstuffoff,turnaround,andlandbackinFrankfurtintimeforeggnogandcookies!”Theairliftisawell-oiledmachine.Planeslandattwo-minuteintervals,andthetotaltimefromunloadingtotakeoffis25minutes.Everythingmoveslikeclockwork,andeveryonehasajobtodo.Ican’tmakeabreak for themain terminal or someone is bound to notice themissingpair of hands.Butwhenwe’realmost finished, one of themobile coffee trucks arrives filledwith prettyGerman girlswho hand outdrinksand smiles, and I take theopportunity to slipawaywhile theothersaredistracted. Idon’t lookback,andnobodycallsPeterson’sname.Evenwhentheyfinallynoticehe’sgone,itwon’tmatter,astheUnitedStatesArmyhasnorecordofhimanyway.OnceI’mawayfromtheairport,ImakemywayintoBerlin.Inanattempttomaintainabalanceofpower,thecityhasbeendividedintofoursectors,eachonecontrolledbyoneoftheAlliedsuperpowers:GreatBritain,France,theUnitedStates,andtheSovietUnion.Inreality,though,it’sbecometheSovietsononesideandeveryoneelseontheother.Fortunately,TempelhofisintheAmericansector,andaGIwalkingthrough the streets is a common sight. I’d prefer to be dressed like a civilian, but at least wearing auniformmeansthatnobodyquestionsme.Andincasetheydo,allmyidentitypaperscarrythenameofAlanPeterson.It’searlyevening,alittlepastseven,andalreadydark.Alightsnowisfalling.Andeventhoughthestreetsare dotted with rubble—some of the buildings I pass have shattered windows and walls that havecrumbled,soyoucanseeintolivingroomsandkitchensstillfilledwithfurniture—itsomehowmanagestofeellikeChristmas.Therearewreathsonsomeofthedoors,andtreesdecoratedwithornamentsarevisible in the parlors of some of the houses. The shops I pass don’t have much displayed in theirwindows,butsignsreadingFRÖHLICHEWEIHNACHTENaretapedtotheglass.Bellschime,andwhenIturnacorner,Iseepeoplewalkingintoachurch.Theinsideislitbycandles,andthesoundofacarolbeingplayedonanorganfloatsfromtheopendoorway.Thismakesmethinkofmyown family back in Illinois. It’s just after noon there, and I knowmymother is getting ready for theChristmasEvegathering.She’sbeencookingallday.TheTomandJerrybowlandglassesthatonlycomeoutonceayeararesetoutonthesideboard.She’sprobablyalreadyhungthestockingsfromthemanteloverthefireplace,oneforeachkid,arrangedinorderfromyoungesttooldest:Marnie,Evan,Lily,Ella,Peter, me, and Jackson. In the morning, the stockings will all be filled to overflowing. Even mine,althoughIwon’tbetheretoopenit.AndevenJackson’s,althoughit’sbeenthreeyearssincehedied.ThepeopleofBerlinaren’ttheonlyoneswho’velostsomethingtothewar.Ihurrybythechurch,clearingmymindbyfocusingontheaddressthecouncilgaveme.Imemorizedit,aswellasthebestroutetoreachit.Writingthingsdownisrisky.AsmyfathertoldmerepeatedlywhenIstartedmyPlayertraining,thebrainistheonlynotebooknobodycansteal.Ittakesmeanother20minutestofindthehouse.It’sinasectionofthecitythatwashithardbytheAlliedbombing,oneofa rowofconnectedbrick townhomes.Mostof thebuildingsareempty,uninhabitablebecauseofthedamage.Thisonelooksemptytoo.Mostofthewindowsareboardedup,andthefrontdoorhas an official notice on it warning people not to enter due to unsafe conditions. But looks can bedeceiving. Just becauseyoucan’t see somebody, it doesn’tmeannobody is there.Sometimes, you justhavetolookharder.

I don’t announcemyself by knocking on the front door. This isn’t a social call. Instead, I go into thebombed-outhousenextdoor,climbthestairstothethirdfloor,andstepthroughashatteredwindowontoanarrowledgethatrunsalongthefrontofthewholerowofhouses.Ipressmyselfagainstwhat’sleftofthewall andslowlymoveone footat a time toward thehousenextdoor. If anyonenoticesme,maybethey’lljustthinkI’mSaintNicholascomingtodeliverpresents.When I reach the closestwindowof the target house, I pause beside it and look inside.Thebedroombehindthecracked,dirtyglassisempty.WhenIpushonthewindowframe,thewindowslidesup.Islipinside,turnonthesmallflashlightIcarryinmypocket,andlookaround.It’sjustascoldinhereasitisoutside,andIcanseemybreath.There’snoheat.Butcoalisinshortsupply,andnooneissupposedtobelivinghereanyway,sothismightnotmeananything.Moretellingisthateverythingintheroomiscoveredwithathicklayerofdust.Noonehasbeenhereinalongtime.ThenInoticethefootprints.Theystartjustoutsidethedoor,runalongahallway,anddisappeardownaflightofstairs.Afaintglowemanatesfromthesecondfloor.Someoneishereafterall.Icreeptotheendofthehallandpause.Icanhearvoices.Therearetwospeakers,amanandwhatsoundslikeayoungerwoman.Thisisaproblem.There’ssupposedtobeonlyonepersonhere.Aman.Ihaven’tseenhimyet,butevenifthemanIheartalkingistheoneI’mafter,whoisthegirl?Issheawife?Adaughter?Somethingelse?Ineedtogetalookatthem.IdrawmyM1911standard-issuemilitarypistolandwalkdownthestairs.It’snotmyweaponofchoice,butit’swhatPrivatePetersonwouldcarry,andnobodywouldthinktwiceaboutmehavingit,soit’swhatI’vegot.ThevoicesgrowlouderasIdescend.WhenIreachthelanding,Ipause.Thespeakersareinaroomjusttomyleft.“IwishOskarandRutgerwereherewithus,”themansays.“YouknowhowOskaris,”theyoungwomansays.“Hedidn’twanttoriskanyonefollowingustoyou.”“Ithinkeveryonemusthaveforgottenaboutmebynow,”saystheman.“Still,he’srighttobecautious.Iworryaboutyoumakingvisitshere.”“Perhapsit’stimeforyoutoleave,”thegirlsays.“You’veshutyourselfupinherelongenough.Passthedutyontosomeoneelse.OskarandI—”“Lottie,please,”themaninterrupts.“Howmanytimeshavewetalkedaboutthis?Icannotleave.”“Youmeanyouwillnot,”saysLottie.“Doyouwanttospendtherestofyourlifehere?”“I’malreadyadeadman.Remember?”Theman’swordschillme.Whatdoeshemean?Andwhoisthisgirl?Maybeitdoesn’tmatter.MaybeI’mbetteroffifIdon’tknowwhoLottieis.Iknowfromexperiencethatit’seasiertokillsomeonewhenyouknownothingabouther.“Let’s not discuss it further,” the man says. “It’s Christmas Eve. Play something for me. You know Ialwayslovetohearyouplay.”Amoment later, I hear the soundof a piano. It’s badly out of tune, but themelody is familiar. “SilentNight.”Thegirlbeginstosing,andthemanjoinsin.Iriskmovingcloserandlookingthroughthedoorway.Insidetheroom,ascragglypinetreestandsinfrontofaboarded-upwindow,itsbrancheshungwithsilvertinselandahandfulofcolorfulglassballs.Thepianoisagainstawall,withtheyoungwomanseatedatit.Themanstandsbesideher.Bothofthemarewearinglong,thickcoats.Irecognizethemanfromthephotothecouncilshowedme.It’sEvrardSauer.I’mintherightplace.Butthecouncilsaidnothingabout thegirl.NowIhave todecidewhat todoabouther.Myorderswere toleavenowitnesses,whichgivesmeonlyoneoption.IknowwhatIshoulddo—whatI’veagreedtodofor

mycouncilandmyline—butthethoughtofactuallydoingitdoesn’tsitrightwithme.Thegirlissimplyinthewrongplaceatthewrongtime.Ihatetomakeherpayforthatwithherlife.Theyfinishsinging,and themantakessomethingfromthepocketofhiscoat. It’sapresentwrapped innewspaperandtiedwithplainwhitestring.Hehandsittothegirl,whocarefullyopensit.Ahappysmilespreadsacrossherface.“Toffees!”shesays.“Whereverdidyougetthem?”She doesn’twait for an answer before taking one of the candies from the box and unwrapping it, thecellophanecrackling inher fumblingfingers.Sheputs the toffee inhermouthandsuckson it,hereyesclosed.Idon’tthinkI’veeverseensomeoneenjoyapieceofcandysomuch.Sheopenshereyesandreachesintoherownpocket.Shetakesoutapackage,thisonewrappedinbrownbutcherpaper.Shegivesittotheman.Heopensitandholdsuparedknittedscarf.“I unraveled one of my sweaters for the yarn,” the girl says, sounding embarrassed. “Wool is stillrationed.”“It’sbeautiful,”themanassuresherashewrapsitaroundhisneck.“Thankyou.”Thegirlturnsbacktothepianoandbeginstoplayagain.Thistimethesongis“OTannenbaum.”I’veobviouslyinterruptedtheirChristmasEvecelebration.AndifIdowhatI’vebeeninstructedtodo,I’mabouttomakeitawholelotworse.Istillfeellikesomethingisoff,butthere’snotimetocontactmycouncilforfurtheradvice,soIhavetomakeachoicebasedontheavailableinformationandwhatI’vebeentold.Thatmeanscompletingthemissionaccordingtoplan.Iaccepttherealityofmysituation,eventhoughIdon’tlikeit,andpreparetoact.Thenthesoundofadoorbeingkickedopencomesfromthefirstfloor.Woodsplinters.Heavyfootstepspoundupthestairs.Themanandtheyoungwomanstopsingingandlookateachother.Ihavejustenoughtimetodartbacktothestairwellbeforethreefiguresburstontothelanding.Twoofthemhavegunsdrawn.“Evrard Sauer,” one of them, a man, says. “You are under arrest for collaborating with the NationalSocialist German Workers’ Party.” He’s speaking in German, but with a heavy Russian accent. Andalthoughhe’sused themoreformalnamefor them,Iknowhe’s justaccusedSauerofworkingwith theNazis.“Whoareyou?”thegirlasks.“Bestill,Lottie,”saysSauer.“Doasyou’retold.”Hisvoiceisquiet,sad.Asifhehasfearedthismomentforalongtime.Ihuddleon thestairs,mypistolat the ready.Besides the twomen, there isawoman in the room.Shestands slightly behind themen, her hands in her pockets.As I lean forward for a better look,my footpressesagainstthefloorboards,makingafaintcreakingsound.Iseehertense.Sheturnsherheadtowardthestairwell,andforamomentIthinkshe’sseenme.ButIcan’tlookaway.She’syoungerthanIthought.Myage.Andbeautiful.Shehaslongdarkhairanddarkeyes,andforasecondI’msurethatI’veseenherbefore.Then it hitsme—she looks likeWonderWoman from the comicbooksmy sisterLily loves somuch.Ifindmyselffrozeninplace.Thensheturnsaway,andit’sasifaswitchhasbeenturnedoffandIcanbreatheagain.Iblendintotheshadows,myfingeronthetriggerofmygunincaseIneedtouseit.IknowIwillneedtouseit.Ican’tletthesepeople takeSauer. I think Iknowwho theyare.MGB.Russian intelligence.Andapparently theywanthimbecauseofhisassociationwiththeNazis.Whathedidforthem,Idon’tknow.JustasIdon’tknowwhyhe’ssoimportanttomycouncil.WhatIdoknowisthatIcan’tletthemleavewithhim.“Ifyoucomequietly,therewillbenoproblems,”thefirstmansays.Sauernods.HemotionstoLottie,whostandsup.It’stime.Istarttoraisemypistol,aimingitatoneoftheSovietagents.

BeforeIcanfire,thewomandrawsherhandfromherpocket.She’sholdingaTokarevTT-33.Therearetwoshots,andhercompanionscollapsetothefloor.Shelowersthegun.“Youhaveachoice,”shesaystoSauerandLottie.“Comewithmeandlive,orjointhem.”

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AbouttheAuthors

PhotocreditMattJordan

JAMESFREYisoriginallyfromCleveland.Allfourofhisbooks,AMillionLittlePieces,MyFriendLeonard, Bright Shiny Morning, and The Final Testament of the Holy Bible, were internationalbestsellers.

NILSJOHNSON-SHELTON is thecoauthorof the internationalbestsellerNoAngel:MyHarrowingUndercoverJourney to theInnerCircleof theHellsAngels.He isalso theauthorof theFullFathomFiveseriesfortweensOtherworldChronicles.

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BooksintheEndgameSeries

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