Dr. Anderson gives me a hint of a smile. “You might want to tighten your seat belt for this. The changing topography and climate in Texas have made landing extra turbulent here.”
“How did you guys manage to keep Houston above sea level when the Gulf of Mexico swallowed other parts of Texas?” I ask as I tug my seat belt tighter. “Was it all because of the Houston Flood Barrier Project? And why didn’t other cities do the same?”
My mind flashes back to the submerged Santa Monica Pier back home, and the old coastal communities of Venice Beach and Marina Del Rey—now nothing more than an endless blue graveyard. I wonder if they might have been saved, too.
“It took an eye-watering amount of money to build the Flood Barrier gates,” Dr. Anderson acknowledges. “The only reason we were able to do it is because at the UN Climate Conference, back when the first indisputable signs of the change began, Houston was chosen as the site to protect and preserve at all costs. With the greatest minds from Stephen Hawking to Elon Musk insisting that the only way forward for humans was to colonize new planets, it was clear to the UN that all resources needed to go toward the best space training and launch program in the world. That would be here.”
“That’s why budgets were cut everywhere else,” I realize aloud. “All the money is going toward getting us off Earth—instead of protecting the people on it.”
Dr. Anderson gives me a sideways look. “NASA doesn’t see it that way. The fact is, we have limited resources and we’re facing a dying planet. We can either spread ourselves thin and make little impact—or we can focus all efforts on the Europa Mission and have a real shot at success.”
It’s obvious Dr. Anderson’s been drinking the mission Kool-Aid. While I can somewhat follow her logic, I feel a wave of fury at the thought of all the people who told me no these past two years. No money for the genome surgery to fix Sam’s heart, no grant for my radio telescope, no to so many things that could have improved the world for the living.
They’d better hope and pray Europa is the miracle they’ve built it up to be.
“Here we go,” Dr. Anderson says over my shoulder as the jet shudders downward, giving us a clear view of the Houston cityscape, with still-standing skyscrapers connected by a network of skywalks. And then, my temporary new home appears in the near distance: the sprawling campus of Johnson Space Center.
“Something else we did to preserve the Space Center was elevate the buildings and move all facilities to the uppermost floors,” Dr. Anderson comments, nodding at the window. “This way, even when the storms come, our staff and equipment remain safe.”
The plane takes another swoop, and I grab the sides of my seat as the air sends us rocking and jerking toward a large runway spread out below us: the Ellington Field. But I’ve never seen a runway like this, teeming with people. While half the tarmac is like an airplane parking lot, with a row of small jets stationed side by side, the other half might as well be a stage. A dozen figures stand opposite the planes, dressed in the same uniform as me and surrounded by a cluster of photographers, cheering spectators, and an actual marching band. As our jet skids to the ground, I hear the faint strains of “You’re a Grand Old Flag.”
“That’s for you,” Dr. Anderson says with a smile.
My heartbeat picks up speed, my stage fright returning with a vengeance. Dr. Anderson unbuckles her seat belt and retrieves my carry-on luggage, but I stay put. I’m nowhere near ready.
“Go on,” she says, touching my shoulder. “You can do this. I’ll be right behind you—though you probably won’t see me again after today.”
I can hear the drumroll coming from the marching band, the shouts of my name from the crowd, and I swallow hard. She’s right. I can do this. Besides . . . I have no choice.
I stand up, lift my chin, and make the shaky walk to the front of the plane. The door juts open, the stairs unfurl. And as I appear at the top of the steps, the band launches into “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Cameras flash in wild succession, and my fellow finalists assembled at the center of the tarmac all look up to stare at me. Standing in front of them are the mission leaders, the same pair the Space Conspirator depicted as holding the puppet strings: Dr. Takumi from NASA and General Sokolov of Roscosmos, the Russian Space Agency.
Beyond the barricades of the air base, hundreds of onlookers swarm, some even hopping to the top of the fence as they wave flags from the different represented countries, their faces almost manic as they scream a chant: “God bless the Twenty-Four, for they are our only hope!”
A knot forms in the pit of my stomach. If this collection of strangers pinning their hopes on us is representative of the world, then that means millions are depending on the success of the Twenty-Four. But don’t they realize all the risks involved with the mission? Don’t they know that we’re just glorified guinea pigs, forced to perform under Murphy’s Law, which practically guarantees something going horribly wrong in space or on Europa?
No, of course they don’t. Without doing the research, there’s no way to know the risks. Maybe they don’t even want to know.
Dr. Anderson gives me a slight push, and I make my way down the airplane steps. When we reach the foot of the stairs, she takes my arm, steering me to the mission leaders. Dr. Takumi, Solar System Ambassador and the president of International Space Training Camp, moves forward first. Something about his presence causes me to take an involuntary step back.
Maybe it’s his stature, which requires me to crane my neck to meet his eyes. Or maybe it’s his eyes themselves, which have a fierce glint to them, even as his lips form a thin smile. His head is shaved, highlighting his sharp features and the lines creasing his face. As he looks at me and extends a hand, I think of the puppet master on the Space Conspirator home page, and a shiver runs through me.
“Welcome, Naomi, to International Space Training Camp,” he says, his voice deep and authoritative. “I am Dr. Ren Takumi, and this is General Irina Sokolov, the commanding general of the Europa Mission.”
“Nice to meet you,” I reply, my throat feeling like sandpaper.
While Dr. Takumi wears a black variation of our uniform, his second in command is dressed in red, the color of the Russian space program. General Sokolov’s auburn hair is cropped in a pixie cut, and her brown eyes are intent as she studies me.
“Congratulations on making the Twenty-Four, Naomi,” she greets me. “I hope you’re prepared to work hard.”
“I—yes. Thank you.” I glance up at the sound of another jet overhead, and Dr. Takumi points me to the line of arrivals.
“Please join your fellow finalists, and once everyone is here, we will proceed to the Space Center.”
I can feel my heart thumping loudly in my chest as I approach the others. What are they like? Will I get along with them? Is this going to be at all bearable? I recognize a couple of their faces from the news segments, particularly my fellow American, Beckett Wolfe, who stands at the end of the line. I fill the empty space beside him, just as a jet nearly identical to mine swoops down.
“Hi, I’m Naomi,” I half yell over the sound of the plane. “You’re Beckett, right?”
Beckett turns and peers down his nose at me. He points to the name sewn across the pocket of his jacket uniform. “Obviously.”
Ew. Let’s hope the other finalists aren’t anything like the First Nephew, who rolls his eyes as he turns away from me. I can see it written clearly on his face—his disdain for the too-ethnic noncelebrity he’s forced to share the American spotlight with. Sorry, dude. I didn’t ask to be here.
As the next jet hits the ground, the marching band transitions into a pulsating new song, swapping their snare drums for a pair of tablas. The music is electric, the melody beautiful. And as an Indian boy with a mile-wide grin steps off the plane, I’m surprised to feel myself getting caught up in the spectacle, joining in the crowd’s applause. There is something powerful in the seamless transition from one country’s music to another, in the sight of so many different flags wavin
g together in the wind, and my chest swells with unexpected emotion.
The Indian finalist, Dev Khanna, joins me in line, and I can tell right away that he’s much friendlier than Beckett. He returns my smile and we share a quick handshake before the band segues into its next song. Another plane touches down, its wings painted in the colors of the Italian flag. Italy . . . that means it’s the boy from the videoconference. The one who tried to comfort me.
I stand up a little straighter as Leonardo Danieli emerges from the jet. His face lights up at the sight of all of us, at the sound of the music from his country, and he half dances down the steps of the plane. I can’t help but grin as I watch him.
Our eyes meet for a split second—I can tell he recognizes me, too. And in that moment, his smile seems to grow.
LEO
It feels like I’m living someone else’s life as I take in the scene on the tarmac. It’s too thrilling, too awe-inspiring, to actually be happening to me. Adrenaline surges through my veins as I stand with the rest of the Twenty-Four, listening to Dr. Takumi deliver a speech for the cameras broadcasting us live to the world.
“Today marks the start of mankind’s most important step—the very step that will secure our future.” His voice rings out across the airfield. “On behalf of the six space agencies and our staff at ISTC, we are delighted to welcome the most extraordinary teenagers from around the world to our campus at Johnson Space Center. We combed the globe to find these unique individuals standing before you, all of whom possess the strength, smarts, and youth necessary to achieve our highest aim.”
And I’m one of them. It still seems unthinkable that I made it this far, especially compared to the geniuses all around me.
“From the get-go, the Europa Mission’s stringent prerequisites kept the draft pool relatively low. Our finalists were required to be between the ages of sixteen and nineteen, with clean bills of health and near-perfect vision. Their bodies needed to meet the anthropometric requirements for long-duration space suits, while their minds had to test above the eighty-fifth percentile for IQ. They were also required to speak fluent English, the home language of Space Training Camp, in addition to their native tongue. Yet even with all these boxes to tick, we were still able to select finalists who brought something else—something unique—to the table.”
It must be my imagination, but I could swear Dr. Takumi is looking straight at me as he says those last words.
“In the coming weeks, we will train, challenge, and test the Twenty-Four, both physically and mentally, to prepare them for a life in space. This training period will help us carefully evaluate each finalist and ensure that we choose the right team of six,” he continues. “One day, years from now, this mission will be taught in schools; it will be known as the defining moment for the continuation of the human race. But those future students won’t be learning about it here on Earth.” Dr. Takumi pauses, a ghost of a smile on his face. “They will study the mission from their new schools, their new homes, on Europa!”
The crowd roars, the onlookers whooping and rattling the fence surrounding the airfield in their exhilaration, as Dr. Takumi gives credence to our deepest, wildest hopes.
“It all starts now!”
He lets out a piercing whistle, and suddenly two open-air trolleys come rolling toward us, driven by men in US Army camouflage. Dr. Takumi and General Sokolov jump onto separate vehicles, as Takumi calls out his first official command. “Finalists, come aboard!”
I make a beeline for Dr. Takumi’s trolley, and I sprint past the other competitors to land a seat up front. Maybe it’s silly of me to take the ride so seriously, but I’m determined to seize any face time I can get with the key figure deciding my fate.
The trolley rumbles forward, leaving Ellington Field behind and heading onto a main street. It’s my first time seeing sidewalks and stoplights again, and I glance around in shock, feeling like I’ve traveled back to the past—to when the world was normal. Of course, there’s nothing normal about riding in a motorcade, with a marching band in the trolley behind us playing a medley of national anthems from our represented countries. When the Chinese national anthem transitions into my own, it’s like hearing from an old friend. I smile up at the sky.
Our motorcade turns onto NASA Parkway, and I draw in a sharp breath. If I thought I’d seen crowds in Rome, or even just minutes ago on the tarmac, that was nothing compared to the hordes lining these blocks in the sweltering heat. They brandish flags and posters; they jump up and down in hysterics as our procession passes, some in tears, others shouting out “good luck” in multiple languages. I can feel what each stranger on the sidewalk is thinking: Please let this work. Let them save us.
The trolley pulls through an open gate, and our group cheers as the Johnson Space Center sign looms before us. The campus is vast as a city and protected like a fortress, with barricades on all sides to hold back the rising tides. We pass dozens of numbered buildings and bunkers before the trolley stops at the largest one, Building 9. Twin flags soar above it, one featuring the American Stars and Stripes for NASA, the other bearing the international logo of the ISTC.
Dr. Takumi jumps off the trolley first, and we follow him to the front steps as the photographers and reporters on our tail clamor for one last good shot.
“Wave good-bye,” Dr. Takumi instructs as the twenty-four of us gather before him and General Sokolov. “This is the last time anyone outside of training camp will get to see you until the first round of eliminations.”
First round? My palms begin to sweat.
I glance at my fellow finalists, gauging their reactions. Some of them are beaming for the cameras and waving, while others can’t hide their nerves. But as I scan the group, I realize I’m looking for someone in particular—the American from the videoconference. The girl whose sadness struck me that day.
When I finally spot her, I notice she is mouthing something to the cameras, her dark eyes urgent. What is she trying to say? I take a step closer to her, just as the doors to Building 9 fly open and Dr. Takumi beckons us inside.
This is it. My pulse quickens as we follow Dr. Takumi, leaving the old world behind.
Six
NAOMI
I TURN AROUND FOR ONE LAST LOOK BEFORE THE DOORS CLOSE behind us, cutting me off from any semblance of normal life. I can feel the gravity of this place pulling me farther away from Sam and my parents, and for a moment my feet refuse to move. And then a girl with chin-length dark hair and a nose ring elbows me in the ribs, muttering, “Hurry up,” and I force myself into motion, following the pack of finalists down a long hallway.
Dr. Takumi and General Sokolov bring us to a halt in front of the elevator bay, where framed, autographed photos of astronauts from the past adorn the walls. I move closer, my heartbeat picking up speed at the image of Sally Ride upside down in zero gravity, at Scott Kelly and Mikhail Kornienko stepping into the Soyuz. It’s surreal to think we’re standing within the same walls where, ages ago, these legends were made. I wonder what they would think of the Europa Mission—if they, too, would balk at the risks.
“Armstrong shouldn’t have to share a wall with that guy,” Beckett Wolfe comments to no one in particular, making a face at the portrait of Yuri Gagarin hanging beside Neil Armstrong’s. “There was just no one at his level in those days.”
I cringe, dying to correct him but not quite in the mood to draw attention to myself. Thankfully, there are other finalists here eager to school him.
“You do know Yuri Gagarin was the first human in space, right?” interjects a boy I recognize from the TV segment on the Twenty-Four. Jian from China, I remember. The pilot.
“Sure, but the goal of the space race was to get to the moon,” Beckett says, drawing out the word to prove his point. “Not to just chill out in orbit. That’s why we won.”
“Yuri Gagarin was a hero.” General Sokolov steps in, narrowing her eyes at Beckett. “I’d hardly refer to his landmark achievement as ‘chilling out.’”
&
nbsp; That shuts Beckett right up. I meet Jian’s eyes, and we exchange a grin. I have a feeling this will be the perfect place for the First Nephew to overcome his superiority complex.
The general leads half of us into one of the oversize elevators and up to the third floor, where we reconvene with Dr. Takumi and the rest of the finalists in a stark white corridor, with signs pointing the way to the Space Center Auditorium. I recognize the gray-carpeted theater as soon as we walk inside, with its array of flags framing a curved stage. This is the setting of every historic NASA press conference I’ve seen on-screen—only this time the audience seats are empty, waiting for us to fill them. A group of adults in ISTC uniforms mills about onstage, a hush falling over them as we enter with Dr. Takumi.
“Take your seats in the first two rows,” he instructs us, before sweeping up the steps and onto the stage.
I sit between a boy with wavy brown hair and a lopsided grin, who introduces himself as Callum Turner from Australia, and the girl with the nose ring and lilting accent, Ana Martinez from Spain.
“Nice to meet you,” I whisper to the two of them before Dr. Takumi steps up to the podium, harnessing everyone’s attention with his direct gaze.
“Finalists, welcome to your new home and training grounds. Joining me onstage are the ISTC faculty, made up of the top minds in aerospace and science, who will be preparing you for the mission ahead,” he announces. “We’ll begin by dividing you into four teams of six. Each team will be overseen by one of our faculty: experienced, retired astronauts known as team leaders, who will serve as your chaperone and guide throughout this process. Meanwhile, your teammates are the finalists you’ll be training and spending most of your time with here—and you will be evaluated on how well you work together and get along. We’ve put careful thought and consideration into each team, to encourage a spirit of both competition and cooperation.”
It’s like the first day of school, but with fatal consequences. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, wondering which of these strangers I’ll be stuck with.