Endgame: The Calling (48 page)

“—gathered at Stonehenge,” she finishes, glad Pop isn’t there to see her slip up.

“Hmm,” he says. “One of our places.”

Most consider Stonehenge to be a burial ground, a healing station, a temple.

It was these things.

But more.

Much more.

Aisling has had the astronomical significance of Stonehenge drilled into her since she was a child. The Heel Stone—a rough-hewn 35-ton monolith that lies 256 feet northeast of the ruin’s center—marks the exact point on the horizon where the sun rises on the summer solstice. Other parts mark the winter solstice, sunrises and sunsets, moonrises and moonsets; parts that have been destroyed predicted solar eclipses. Which means, to those who want to understand, who want to believe, that whoever built the turn of massive rocks understood not only that Earth was spherical but also that it had a place in the known universe.

All of this circa 3000 BCE.

A simple circle of stone, but it symbolizes so much.

Aisling stifles a yawn.

“What are they doing at Stonehenge?” Pop asks.

“Screaming, mostly,” Aisling replies. “There’s a Dia coming down from space ahead of a fireball. Most of the twelve look freaked out. Except for one—the same lady from the boat—she’s fitting a stone into some altar.”

Her grandfather is quiet, mulling this over. Aisling stands up and goes to the pictograph, runs her fingers across the rough wall, touching the fireball that careens down from space.

“It’s pretty morbid,” she says.

“Aisling,” her grandfather begins hesitantly, “what if you have the order wrong?”

“What order?” she asks, stepping back from the painting, taking it all in.

“You said that the Dia comes with its fire, and then the woman uses the altar.”

“Uh-huh,” Aisling says, patting her pockets for a stick of gum. “So?”

“What if the woman uses the altar,
and then
the fire comes?”

Aisling freezes, a stick of spearmint halfway to her lips. She looks at the chaos of the first pictograph, then turns her head, looking at the desolation of the second. The lone woman with her disk.

“She won,” whispers Aisling. “And she’s alone.”

She whips her head back to the first painting. Stonehenge. The altar. The stone disk. The Mu.

“Aisling? Are you still there?”

“It’s a cycle,” Aisling replies, thinking of the words her long-dead father used before he went mad. “We’re all part of an endless cycle.”

Church of the Covenant, Kingdom of Aksum, Northern Ethiopia

“I know I am right,” Hilal says. Hilal takes Eben’s hands. The old master looks wary, but his protégé is enthused.

“But why? Why do we have our traditions, and our knowledge, and our secrets, if what you say is true?”

“Because it is a
game
.” Hilal takes his hands away, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Or, perhaps, it’s a test. A game within a game. A way to prove not just the worthiness of our line, but of all humanity.”

“Slow down,” Eben cautions. “These are dangerous thoughts.”

“True thoughts,” Hilal insists. “Certainties.”

Eben ibn Mohammed al-Julan asks wearily, “But why would the being give you this clue?”

Hilal has wondered this himself. He meditated long on the circle that kepler 22b forced into his brain. Hilal believes he understands it, but he can only guess at the being’s true motivation. So he guesses.

“It was a mistake. It has to be. A circle has so many meanings. Too many. But paired with his words, it comes into focus. He said it. The Event is part of Endgame. The reason for it. The beginning, middle, and end!”

Eben strokes his chin. “I don’t know.”

“Or it
wasn’t
a mistake!” Hilal shouts, his mind on overdrive. He knows he is right, feels it in his gut, like faith, and he must convince Eben. “Perhaps he
wanted
one of us to figure it out.”

There’s a spark in Eben’s eyes: long-held ideas being reconsidered. He says, “Or perhaps they are testing your worthiness. This is a parable of sorts—we kill, therefore we must
be
killed.”

“If that is so, Master Eben, I must tell the others.”

Eben cocks his head. His dark skin is weathered. His brilliant blue eyes are troubled. “This is unexpected.”

“Of course it is. The future is unwritten. The being meant something else—that anything is possible. Our very history—that we have been visited, altered, taught by the beings for millennia—would suggest that anything is possible. Master, I must warn the others!”

“If you are wrong, you will be playing from behind. They will have advantages that you don’t, ideas, alliances, ancient objects, Earth Key.”

“But if I am right, it won’t matter. The future is unwritten.”

“Perhaps.”

Hilal shakes his master’s arms. Peers deeply into his eyes. Hilal is full of love and life. The Coptic cross that is tattooed over his chest and stomach hums with electricity. “Fathers Christ and Mohammed would agree. Uncle Moses. Grandfather Buddha. All of them would say it is worth a try. For love, Master Eben ibn Mohammed al-Julan, for love.”

The wizened ex-Player takes one of his hands and places it lightly on Hilal’s eyes. They close.

“Why do we believe in these figures—the Christ, Mohammed, Buddha—when we have seen the true forces that shape life and knowledge?” Eben asks his young Player this question not for the first time. It is a familiar refrain amongst their line. A powerful one.

“Because,” Hilal answers, “we believe that one person
can
make a difference.”

The sun wobbles 11.187 cm and peels off a flare of historic magnitude. It explodes into the void with the power of 200,000,000,000 megatons of TNT. The CME is so massive and intense and fast that it will reach Earth in only nine hours and 34 minutes.

Sürmeli Hotel, Suite 101, Ankara, Turkey

Maccabee can’t sleep. He’s spread out on a couch just big enough for his body. He rolls onto his side and looks over to the bed where young, brash, murderous, vengeful Baitsakhan is curled up.

Asleep.

With a smile on his face.

They’re sharing a hotel suite in Ankara. They disagreed about the best way to celebrate their acquisition of Earth Key. Maccabee wanted women; Baitsakhan would only agree if he could kill them when they were done. Maccabee wanted a drink; Baitsakhan insisted he would never touch the stuff. Maccabee wanted to see the city; Baitsakhan hates any city but Ulaanbaatar.

So they bought an XboxOne and played
Call of Duty: Ghosts
until their eyes fell out. Maccabee got killed more than Baitsakhan, which is why he’s stuck on the couch. He looks at the scar on his hand, the scar caused when he made a blood bond with the boy. He knew it was a lie. He knew Baitsakhan was lying, too. He runs his fingers along the grip of his pistol. He could take the pillow and hold it up and shoot the boy and that would be it. He could take Earth Key and Play on.

He could.

The sleeping boy snorts.

Grins.

His brother just died. He should be mourning. What is wrong with him?

Maccabee picks up the gun with one hand, the pillow with the other. Puts the barrel into the face of the pillow. He flips the safety, puts some pressure on the trigger. The pillow will muffle the sound. Allow him to work in silence.

Baitsakhan screams. Maccabee jumps. The gun does not go off. He lets the pillow fall on top of it as Baitsakhan scrambles with the sheets, as if they are suddenly infested with snakes and rats and scorpions.

“You all right, Baitsakhan?”

The boy yells and works his hands into his clothing, pulls out the orb, which is white-hot and glowing. He juggles it as if it is 1,000 degrees, throws it across the room. Maccabee reaches out, catches it, and the light inside dims. It is not hot at all. If anything, it is slightly cool. Baitsakhan looks around as if there are more creepy-crawly things coming for him. Finally his eyes settle on Maccabee. “How are you holding that?”

“Why couldn’t you?”

“It was burning me.” The young Player holds out his hands. They’re red, blisters already forming.

“It’s not burning me.” Maccabee gives the orb a good look, turns it in his hand. “I think there’s a message here.”

Baitsakhan stands. “Where?”

“Here.”

The Donghu crosses the room. “I told you it was Earth Key.”

“I don’t dispute it, brother,” Maccabee says.

“It is only a matter of time until kepler 22b confirms it.”

“Maybe it’s doing that right now. Look.”

Baitsakhan peers into the orb. Reaches out a finger and touches it. His skin sizzles and he recoils. “Ack!”

“I’ll hold it, brother. Don’t worry.”

Baitsakhan leans forward tentatively, looks. First there is a symbol.

Then a face.

“The Aksumite!” the two say together.

The map of the world swirls into view, and zooms in, and in, and in. They are looking at rural Ethiopia. For a brief second, a point of light is illuminated, as if there’s a star inside the orb. It vanishes; Maccabee looks at Baitsakhan; Baitsakhan looks at Maccabee.

At the same time, they smile. “Time to Play.”

Millennial Residence Hotel, Istanbul, Turkey