Sky Key. James Frey
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Rod of Moses.
He slips one under his sash.
He holds the other.
Eben kneels and reaches for the tablet and turns it over with a thump.
It is blank on both sides.
Eben huffs and his heart feels hollow. This is the covenant with the Makers.
A blank stone tablet.
Curse them.
He doesn’t dare open the urn, which is without doubt the manna machine. The Aksumites will guard it—having a machine that potentially makes food might come in handy after the Event, so long as they can figure out how to work it—but they don’t need it yet.
All that’s left is the crumpled pile of black silk.
Eben pushes the silk aside with the cane, and there—there it is.
He leans over and picks it up. Turns it over in his hand. Runs his fingers over it.
He shakes his head in disbelief.
Knock-knock.
Someone is at the hatch.
Eben spins and crosses the Kodesh Hakodashim. He opens the latch and lets the person on the other side push it inward.
Hilal pokes his disfigured head into the chamber. “Well, Master? I couldn’t just sit there and wait.”
“You won’t believe it.”
“Is it open?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Same-El and Ithamar.”
“Did they survive?”
“No.”
“God take them.”
“Yes, my Player. God take them.”
“And what was in it?”
“These,” Eben says, indicating the snakelike rods. “They are living weapons. The rods of Aaron and Moses, the consuming snakes, the prime creators, the ouroboros. Our symbols of uncorruption, the hunters of Ea. Even if our line never finds the Corrupted One, the canes will serve you well in Endgame.”
“And what else? What of the covenant?”
“There is no covenant, Player. The tablet was blank.”
Hilal looks to the side. Through clenched teeth he asks, “Was there more, Master?”
“Yes, Player. And that is what you won’t believe.”
Eben holds it out and Hilal looks.
It is a slender sheath of black metal the size of a large smartphone, curved slightly and etched in one corner with a glyph.
Eben hands it to Hilal, and as soon as the Player of the 144th line touches it, it glows to life.
Hilal looks at Eben.
Eben looks at Hilal.
“To Endgame, my Player.”
“To Endgame, Master.”
Shiver.
He is free.
But exactly where he is free he does not know.
He inspects the instrument panel of the Lynx, locates the navigation system and the autopilot. Punches a few buttons on the touch screen and sees the English Channel. The lights to the north are Dover. He does not want to return to England, not ever, not ever blinkSHIVERblink ever blinkSHIVER ever blinkblinkSHIVERBLINKBLINKBLINK not ever.
An punches himself in the cheek to knock away the tics.
It works. “Chiyoko Takeda,” he whispers. “Chiyoko Takeda.”
Blood drips from his nose.
Shiver.
He blows out his cheeks. The adrenaline from the escape dissipates. The pain soaked into every cubic centimeter of his head revs like an engine.
He grabs the stick and arcs the Lynx low over the water, until his heading is 202?13' 35". He passes the still-burning destroyer three kilometers to the east, and prays that they don’t see him and that their guns are disabled, or that they’re too distracted by the burning ship to even bother with the guns.
And that’s when he notices a section of the controls that he isn’t familiar with, and realizes why the chopper was taking off dark, and why he is not at the moment being shot out of the air by a pair of F/A-18s.
It took off dark because it could.
The strange controls are a stealth array, and they are already active.
An can use this bird to disappear.
Blink. Shiver.
Why would stealth be active in the first place? If he had been on the Lynx as their prisoner, that would have made sense—he is a Player of Endgame, one of the deadliest people on the planet—but it was scrambling to take off before he’d even reached the flight deck.
So why take off dark?
Blink. Shiver. Blink.
And then he lurches forward, as if someone hit him in the back of the neck.
The metal box in the cargo hold.
The metal box the size of a coffin.
CHIYOKO TAKEDA.
An brings the chopper up 50 meters to keep a safe distance from the water and activates the autopilot, punching in a new heading of 140° 22' 07".
He spins out of the copilot’s seat and lands right in front of the box.
Shiver.
He takes a step forward and places his hands on it.
He doesn’t have to open it to know.
He falls forward on top of the casket, his ear and jaw cold on the metal, his arms draped over the sides.
“Chiyoko Takeda.”
The tics have stopped.
He stands, the internal world of the helicopter loud and pressing in on all sides, pain drilling the wound on his head, and he gets his fingers under the lid. It comes up more easily than he expects. He flips it away and peers inside. In the faint light he can just make out the wavy reflections of a rubber body bag. Next to the body bag is a small stuff sack.
An snatches a flashlight from a charging dock by the door and flicks it on.
The body bag looks as if it contains a broad-shouldered child.
An grabs the stuff sack first. Works his fingers into the cinched opening and pulls it open. A black analog watch, a leather sleeve containing assorted shuriken, a small knife, a ball of black silk, an eyeglasses case, some inch-long paper tubes that look like straws, a small plastic container. A thumb drive. A pen. A thin leather billfold.
Chiyoko’s things.
He closes the sack and sets it next to his feet.
The body bag.
He takes a breath and hooks