really true.
That’s when An knows it’s not a dream.
It’s better than a dream.
He will miss the internet, though. Sorely.
An turns from the news and hops up and moves. He needs to get back on the road, to get out of this city before it goes completely insane. The asteroid will hit on the far side of the globe, but he wants to be in the countryside for Abaddon, not in Kolkata or anywhere like it.
He has a quick breakfast of fish cakes and warm Coke. In the garage he loads his bulletproof Land Rover Defender with his go box and the cans of extra gasoline and his guns and bombs and Nobuyuki Takeda’s katana and the other box too, the precious box that contains the vest should he ever need it. The 20-kilo suicide vest that is his fail-safe.
By 9:13 he is ready to go.
But now that he’s sitting in his Defender and looking at the monitors that show what’s happening outside his safe house, he’s a little worried.
An didn’t expect this.
Not at all.
Hundreds of people choke the alleyway outside. All men. All crammed into the narrow street that is his Defender’s sole egress. They sit on the ground, lean against walls, mill around. Someone must have followed him from the cemetery and called their friends, and then they called friends, and they called friends. The men have sticks and pipes and machetes and a few have semiautomatic rifles. Some have dogs on ropes. Many are shirtless and rail thin and wear the ubiquitous loose cotton pants seen all over India. Some carry placards. Most of these are in Bengali or Hindi, which An can’t read, but some are in English. They say, WE SEE YOU! and BROTHERHOOD OF MAN! and EARTH IS OURS! and NO TO ENDGAME! NO TO THE PLAYERS! NO TO KEPLER 22B!
More than a few have blood smeared over their faces and arms. Blood from chickens or goats or dogs, sacrificed in ceremonies at local temples.
An understands. These men know who he is—the Shang, An Liu, Player of Endgame—and they want his pain. His life. His blood.
He understands perfectly.
BLINKshiverBLINK.
An pounds something into a laptop mounted in the center of the car. He hits enter. Like all Shang safe houses, this one is wired to blow, and blow dirty, irradiating this section of Kolkata. But the bomb will only detonate when his system detects that he and his vehicle have reached a safe distance.
He flicks the laptop closed.
“Are you ready, Chiyoko?”
And then he hears a small sound deep in his mind.
“Chi”—BLINK—“Chi”—SHIVER—“Chiyoko?”
The sound grows a little louder, like a hum in the distance.
“Are you ready?”
SHIVERSHIVERSHIVER.
And then—I am, she says in the voice she never had.
The quality of her voice doesn’t surprise him. Calm but firm. It is her. It is perfectly, succinctly, fully her.
He’s been expecting her.
He says, “You are always ready and I love you for it.”
An taps a button and the garage doors crack open.
“I love you.” An repeats. And she says it too, at the exact same moment, his voice mingling and weaving with hers.
He smiles.
Chiyoko and An. The Mu and the Shang.
They are the same.
The mob outside stirs and crackles.
Those who were sitting stand.
He hits the button again and the doors swing wide. A Kalashnikov fires. Shots explode across the Defender’s bulletproof windshield.
BLINK. SHIVER.
He flips the key in the ignition. The engine comes to life. He jams the gas and the engine roars. The men howl and gesticulate, wave their arms and sticks and their ridiculous placards, as if An cares for any of what they have to say.
This is not a protest, it is a war.
And he will fight it with his beloved.
Gulfstream G650, Bogdogra Airport, Siliguri, West Bengal, India
Sarah and Jago recline in very comfortable seats in Jordan’s very comfortable private jet trying to figure out what to do. It took them a long time to get down from the Himalayas, and now they’re stuck waiting for permission to take off.
The wait is agonizing.
Aisling and Jordan are in the cockpit going through preflight stuff. Marrs is outside dealing with airport personnel. Pop sits in a seat alone near the bulkhead, staring out the window, his rocky knuckles white with tension. Shari is unconscious in the rear of the plane, already seat-belted in place, an IV bag hanging from the overhead compartment. Her chest rises and falls evenly.
Sarah is envious of Shari. Being knocked out would quell the hate and guilt and doubt and fear roiling inside her. Being knocked out would quiet her mind, her soul.
She leans into Jago’s side and whispers, “I wish we were fighting, Feo. Right now. I wish we were moving—Playing.”
“I know,” he says. “Me too.”
Action or oblivion, she thinks. Those are the only options right now.
Aisling emerges from the cockpit, interrupting Sarah’s train of thought.
“How long till we’re outta here?” Jago asks.
Aisling drops into the nearest seat. She reaches for her Falcata and lays it over her thighs. She runs her fingertips over the sword.
“At least an hour,” she says. “Maybe less if Marrs can bribe the right air traffic controller. But for the moment we’re holding.” She pulls a stone from a pocket and runs it over her blade’s edge. It’s razor sharp and doesn’t need the attention, but she needs something to do.
Also restless, Sarah thinks.
Sarah straightens and asks, “All right if Jago and I take over the lav for a little while?”
Jago snickers.
“Really?” Aisling’s eyebrows spring upward. “Now?”
Jago
