Maccabee Adlai, the Player of the 8th line, settles into the 1st-class cabin on Aeroflot 3501 from Warsaw to Moscow, which will take 93 minutes. In Moscow he will make a connection for a flight to Beijing, which lasts 433 minutes. He is 16 years old but has the build of a decathlete 10 years his senior. He is six feet five inches tall, and he weighs 240 pounds. He has the facial stubble as well, one of those kids who never really looked like a kid. Even when he was seven, he was much taller and stronger than his peers.

      He likes being taller and stronger than his peers.

      It gives him advantages.

      He removes the jacket of a three-button custom silk suit. He settles into his aisle seat. His French-cuffed shirt is powder blue and white gingham. His rose-patterned tie is held in place with a silver clip. His cuff links are made of fossilized mammoth ivory. They are shaped like Tibetan skull beads and have ruby chips for eyes. On his left pinkie is a large brass ring inset with a drab tan stone carved in the shape of a flower.

      Maccabee smells like lavender and honey. His black hair is wavy and full and slicked back. His forehead is broad and his skull is apparent, as if his skin is almost too thin. His temples are a little sunken and his cheekbones high. His eyes are blue. His nose is narrow but large with a hook in the bridge.

      It has been broken five times.

      He likes fighting. So what? When you’re Maccabee’s size, fights have a tendency to find you. People want to see how they measure up. In Maccabee’s case, they always come up short.

      His only bag—a leather monogrammed shoulder satchel—is in the overhead compartment. He expects other Players to be burdened with packs and suitcases and all kinds of expectations. Maccabee doesn’t like to be burdened. He prefers to be nimble, fast, to be able to move and strike at will. Plus, the world has not ended yet. Until it does, money will suffice.

      Lots of money.

      He fastens his seat belt and turns on a smartphone and listens to a recorded message. He has listened to the message dozens of times:

       NASA/ESA/ROSCOSMOS Joint Press Release, 15 June:

      At 22:03 GMT on 11 June a large and previously undetected Near Earth Asteroid (NEA), since designated CK46B, passed within 500,000 miles of Earth. Accompanying this parent NEA were several hundred children of varying magnitudes. At least 100 of these objects are confirmed to have been drawn into Earth’s gravitational field. Like most “shooting stars,” the majority of these burned up in the atmosphere, leaving nothing but visual evidence of their descent and demise. However, as worldwide press coverage has well documented, at least 12 bolides did survive the rigors of atmospheric entry.

      While the sudden appearance of an NEA as large as CK46B is disturbing, it is the purpose of this release to assuage fears of a larger impact in the future. Impacts like these—especially like those that occurred in Warsaw, Poland; Jodhpur, India; Addis Ababa, Ethiopia; and Forest Hills, Queens, New York, USA—are exceedingly rare. Through joint efforts of our agencies, plus those of the ISA, JAXA, UKSA, and AEB, you can be assured that other NEAs and Near Earth Objects (NEOs) are identified and tracked on a regular basis and that at this time it is our consensus opinion that our planet is in no danger whatsoever of being struck by anything larger than the meteorites mentioned above.

      Finally, it is also our opinion that the shower propagated by CK46B is complete and that no additional meteors can be expected. CK46B has been charted and it is not due to reappear in our vicinity for another 403.56 years. For now, the possible danger posed by this NEA is considered past. Any further information—

      “Excuse me,” a man says in Polish as he knocks into Maccabee, yanking the cord of his headphones from his ears.

      “I should say so,” Maccabee says in perfect English with equal parts confidence and annoyance.

      “You speak the English?” the man asks, also in English, dropping heavily into his window seat. He is 40 or so, sweating, overweight.

      “Yes,” Maccabee says. He glances across the aisle. A very pretty woman in a form-fitting dark suit rolls her green bespectacled eyes. Maccabee returns the gesture.

      “Then I will speak the English too,” the man announces. “I will practice. Yes? Onto you?”

      “Practice with me,” Maccabee corrects, winding the cord of his headphones around his hand.

      “Yes. With you.” The man manages to shove his valise under the seat in front of him. He struggles to find his seat belt, pulling hard at the buckled end, which does not move.

      “You have to let out the buckle. Like this.” Maccabee unfastens his seat belt and shows the man how it works.

      “Ah, how silly of me,” the man says in Polish.

      “They should do away with them, in my opinion,” Maccabee says, still speaking English and clicking his back together. “If the plane crashes, this is not going to help anyone.”

      “I agree,” the pretty woman says in English, her eyes remaining on the magazine she’s browsing.

      The man leans past Maccabee, eyes the woman. “Aha. There hello.” He’s back to English.

      Maccabee leans forward to intercept the man’s prying eyes. “It’s ‘Hello, there.’ And she wasn’t talking to you.”

      The man recoils. “Gentle, young one. She is the pretty woman. She knows it. I just let her know I know it too. What is wrong by that?”

      “It’s rude.”

      The man waves his hand dismissively. “Ah! Rude! A good English word!

      I like. It is meaning ‘not nice,’ no? What is it … ‘unpolite’?”

      “Impolite,” the woman answers. “It’s okay. I’ve had worse.”

      “There. See? You have the nice suit, but me, I have the … the … experience.” This last word is in Polish.

      “Experience,” Maccabee translates.

      The man jabs a finger into Maccabee’s shoulder. “Yes, experience.” Maccabee looks at the man’s finger, still pushed into his shoulder. Maccabee is being underestimated, which is the way he likes it. “Don’t do that,” Maccabee says calmly.

      The man jabs him again. “What, this?”

      As Maccabee prepares to respond, a flight attendant appears and asks in Polish, “Is there anything wrong?”

      “Ah, another one,” the man says, his eyes just as greedy for the attendant. She is also pretty. “Yes, there is something wrong, as a matter of fact.” The man animatedly drops his tray table in front of him and taps it. “I haven’t got my drink yet.”

      The attendant joins her hands in front of her. “What would you like, Mr. Duda?”

      The woman across the aisle chuckles at the appropriateness of his name—which usually means “booby”—but Duda doesn’t hear. “Two champagnes and two Stolichnayas. All in sealed bottles. Two glasses. No ice.”

      The attendant doesn’t even bristle. She works for Aeroflot and has seen her share of drunks. She nods at Maccabee. “And for you, Mr. Adlai?”

      “Orange juice, please. In a glass with ice.”

      “Adlai, hm? You a Jew?” Duda