Prime Minister Vincenti opens the door, stepping into the room where I’ve been sequestered with Dr. Schroder since just after the news broke.
“Leo, security is still trying to contain the crowd, but the public is demanding another look at you. Would you be willing to go back out there and just . . . smile at the cameras for a few minutes?”
“What?” I stare at the prime minister, wondering if I heard him correctly. “But most of those people already know me. They’ve probably seen me cross the passerelle hundreds of times. Why—”
“That was before,” he interrupts. “You may look the same and feel the same, but you’re someone different now. After today, you’re no longer just another neighbor or survivor—you’re a legend in the making.”
And as he speaks, I can hear their voices, growing louder as their chants carry toward our closed door.
“Leo, Leo, forza, Leo! L’italia é fiera di te!”
Emotion swells in my chest. It seems unthinkable that they’re cheering for me, of all people—the same me who came so close to throwing my life away in the sea.
But I didn’t, I remind myself. I’m still here, and somehow, I earned a place among the Twenty-Four. And I won’t let this second chance go. I’ll be worthy of it; I’ll make my country proud.
“Okay,” I tell the prime minister. “I want to see them.”
A security guard posted at the door springs into action as we step out of the media room. He leads the three of us into the marble hallway and toward the noise, his eyes darting over to me every few seconds, as though I’m the VIP to be protected instead of our prime minister.
We return to the Neo-Gothic Salon, and the crowd has nearly doubled. People are spilling out of the room, with barely an inch of breathing space between them. When they see us, their cheers escalate to a frenzied pitch.
“Leo, Leo, forza, Leo!”
They look at me as though I’m someone else entirely—like I’ve shed my old skin and revealed a superhero underneath. I want to laugh, to wave my hands in front of their faces and bring them back to earth, remind them that I’m just Leo from the crumbling Pensione Danieli. But then the realization hits me: if I make it to space, if I succeed in the mission . . . a hero is exactly what I’ll be.
The thought sends a burst of adrenaline through my body, and I move with new purpose. I smile at the crowd of my neighbors, and I let myself soak in their roaring approval as the security guard steers the prime minister, Dr. Schroder, and me to the front of the packed room. Sergeant Rossi is still there, along with the prime minister’s wife and Elena, the three of them attempting to calm the feverish crowd. But there’s no restraining them now. A voice breaks into “L’Italiano,” our unofficial anthem, and soon everyone is joining in—singing at the top of their lungs, clapping and swaying to the rhythm.
I can’t stop grinning, even as a lump rises in my throat. This is the first time I’ve seen any of my fellow survivors emerge from the shadow of our grief, celebrating life the way we used to. Looking at the faces in front of me, it’s clear I wasn’t the only one who had lost hope, who was searching for something to cling to. Somehow, today I changed that for us all. Me.
Sergeant Rossi hands me the microphone.
“Thank you.” My voice comes out shaky, and I clear my throat. “Thank you for your love, your support. I won’t let you down. I’m going to represent our country, not just in front of the world . . . but in front of the cosmos.”
The room fills with whoops and whistles. Their voices drown me out, giving me a moment to say something to the one empty sliver of space I can find in the room—the place my parents and sister should be.
“This is for you.”
My transformation continues with an offer to spend my last weekend in Italy at Palazzo Senatorio, as the Vincentis’ guest of honor. I know the real reason for the invitation is so the prime minister’s guards can keep their watchful eyes on me until I take off for International Space Training Camp, but it’s a gift all the same. I can’t imagine returning to the pensione now—its emptiness would suck me back in, would make today’s news feel like it never happened. And so I jump at the chance to stay at the Palazzo, telling the prime minister I don’t even need to go home to pack. The only possession I’m taking is safe on my finger—the Danieli family signet ring.
Instead of the deflated mattress and moldy comforter back at home, I’m now lying in a plush double bed under a soft duvet, my stomach full for the first time in months. I’m just drifting off to sleep when I hear a knock at the door. I pull the covers up over my head with a groan. Maybe if I ignore them, whoever is knocking will get the hint? But then I hear a voice.
“Leo, it’s me, Elena. Can you let me in?”
Huh. That’s not who I was expecting.
I drag myself out of bed and throw on the ESA shirt Dr. Schroder left for me. Is Elena here to hit on me or something? It almost makes me laugh to think about, until I remember that she is fifteen now, only two years younger than me. Still, I don’t think I could ever go through with it. There’s too much history. But Elena seems to have something else on her mind when I open the door.
“Sorry if I woke you,” she says, shutting the door behind her. “I just . . . I needed to talk to you before I lost the nerve.”
“Why? What’s going on?” I take a seat at the foot of the bed, but she remains standing, her face creased with worry.
“It’s—it’s something I overheard my parents talking about in their room. I’ve spent the past hour going over it in my head, wondering whether or not I should tell you. My papà says that repeating state secrets is treason, and I don’t want to go against him, but if something happened to you and I hadn’t said anything . . .” Her voice trails off. Now she’s got me nervous.
“What is it, Elena? Please, just say it.”
“He . . . told my mom that there’s a deeper reason you were chosen for the draft. He said the director of ESA—Dr. Schroder’s boss—has been watching you for years.”
It takes me a minute to digest her words, and then I grin with relief. That doesn’t sound so bad. “Okay, so I was carefully vetted. Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Except they were tracking you long before the Europa Mission was even approved,” Elena says with a frown. “I heard Papà saying that it all started three years ago, after you got some attention from your first big swim championship. The ESA director reached out to him and asked for government permission to investigate you. He told my father that your speed, and ability to hold your breath underwater so much longer than normal, could make you some kind of . . . weapon for them.”
I stare at Elena. “You sure you heard that right?”
“I know I did, because then Mamma asked what he meant, what kind of weapon? Papà said all he knows is that it has to do with Europa. He told her she couldn’t say a word about any of this, and then he changed the subject. That’s when I left.”
I pause, letting this sink in. “So what you’re saying is that ESA spied on me, and your dad helped them? Because they think I have some deadly underwater skills?” I try to make a joke out of it, but there’s something chilling about the realization that these people have been watching me, invading my privacy, while I was in the dark.
Elena winces. “Yes. And that’s why I’m convinced there’s more to this mission than we’ve been told. These people obviously see you as something more than just a potential astronaut, and based on the secrecy . . . whatever they have in store for the Final Six has to be far more dangerous than they’re letting on.”
I take a moment to think. Elena’s revelation might change the way I look at ESA and the prime minister, but it doesn’t alter my feelings about the mission. Even if she is right and there is an untold danger on Europa, some unlikely reason that I’d be used as a weapon—what else do I have to live for? I can either help ensure humanity’s survival, or I can remain a useless waste of space on Earth. There is no scenario where I don’t choose the former.
&n
bsp; “I’m glad you told me, but I wouldn’t back out even if I could,” I say. “If my skills are needed, and that’s what gets me out of here and into space . . . then I consider that good news.”
“But you can stay on guard while you’re at training camp. Keep your eyes and ears open for anything amiss. If you get there and it turns out the mission is a whole lot riskier than we’ve all been told, promise you’ll find a way to get word to me.” Elena lowers her voice. “You’re Angelica’s brother. I don’t want to see anything happen to you.”
Angelica’s brother. The words twist at my insides. It’s been so long since anyone spoke of my sister like she still exists.
“Okay.” My voice catches. “I promise.”
Four
NAOMI
I DON’T GET TO SAY GOOD-BYE TO MY FRIENDS OR TEACHERS. I don’t even get the honor of cleaning out my own locker. As soon as the press conference ends, the NASA-appointed guard whisks me and my family away from the auditorium and off school property, citing “crowd concerns.” I glance over at my brother while the guard, Thompson, ushers us toward the elevated train. What will we do without each other? I can barely stomach the thought.
When we were little kids, I used to constantly refer to Sam as “mine,” and I guess I never really shook the feeling. Maybe it’s because I used some of my first words to beg our parents for a sibling, or because they let me pick out his name. Maybe it’s the nights I sat up late at his bedside, studying charts that I swiped from our doctor’s office as I tried to hack the code of his DNA—tried to understand how two kids of the same genetic makeup could be born with desperately different hearts. I promised him I wouldn’t rest until he was better, that we would never be apart. But now I’m breaking my promise. I’m leaving him.
My body turns cold as I imagine what could happen while I’m away. Sam is stable now, but it’s the unpredictability of his heart defect that makes it so terrifying. You never know when his body will reject the current medication, when he’ll need to be rushed to the hospital and put through another invasive, short-term fix to stave off heart failure—
“Hey.” Sam grabs my arm as we approach the train platform. “Remember what you always say: no problem has ever been solved by panicking.”
I smile in spite of myself. My brother has once again read my thoughts.
“You’re going to have enough to think about in the coming days,” he continues. “You can’t be worrying about me, too.”
“I can’t help it. It’s what I do when it comes to you.” My smile fades as I look at Sam, his sweatshirt practically hanging off of him. Even though I’ve been forcing him to take my extra meal portions, he still looks somehow thinner than yesterday. “There is just no way I can go—”
Sam stops me from finishing my sentence, elbowing me in the ribs and nodding at the guard. Thompson is to our right, his head cocked in our direction even as he answers a question of Dad’s.
I know why my brother is being so careful. We’ve all been warned that resisting the draft is the surest way to land in prison. I can’t afford to let anyone involved with NASA think of me as anything other than obedient—even when it’s the last thing I feel.
The train comes rumbling across the tracks toward us, looking eerily empty without the after-school hordes. Sam and I climb in first, heading for our usual spot in the third car, but Thompson insists on us cramming into the front with the conductor, for “security purposes.” It’s a silent and stiff ride home, none of us able to say anything real with a guard listening in. I turn my face to the window, feeling a flash of longing for the days when we had the privacy of our own car. Most countries outlawed all motor vehicles after climate change was declared an international emergency, but by then it was too late. The gas emissions had already played their role, to devastating effect.
As the train rattles forward, I watch the sights go by, drinking in every dreary image—just in case today is the last chance I’ll get to see my city. Then again, it’s not really my city, not anymore. This place is just a sad imposter, only pretending to be Los Angeles.
From Burbank to Los Feliz, the number of families on the streets seems to swell. They huddle together on unpaved roads slick with mud, they cower under downed power lines, as they beg the passersby for something, anything. I want to close my eyes—but every day I force myself to look, to see them.
The train curves around a bend, and now we’re traveling over the Hollywood Hills, where there’s no longer any flashy Hollywood sign to serve as a beacon. Instead, there are houses and buildings covered with thick layers of ash, and deep crevices in the streets marking where the earthquakes hit.
“You’re lucky to be leaving.”
I turn sharply at the sound of Sam’s voice. He is staring out the window alongside me, his expression unreadable. He forces a smile when our eyes meet, and I shake my head, wishing I could reassure him that I don’t see it that way, that I’ll find a way back home. How could I ever abandon him, especially now? But Thompson is listening. Instead, I loop my arm through my brother’s and lean my head on his shoulder. We don’t speak, but we stay close as the train hurtles toward home.
That night, while Thompson holds back the growing crowd of spectators outside our duplex, the four of us pile onto the couch in our combined living room/kitchen, planning to drown out the noise with TV. Dad flicks on the remote, and my stomach lurches at the face filling the screen. It’s me.
“Ho-ly crap!” Sam exclaims.
“Our little girl,” Mom murmurs to Dad, her voice quivering.
It’s the footage from today’s press conference. My skin turns hot as I watch myself onstage beside Dr. Anderson, looking woefully unprepared for my primetime debut in a worn pair of jeans and turquoise hoodie, my dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. A close-up reveals the beads of perspiration on my forehead, the panicky expression in my eyes. I have the urge to crawl under the couch cushions and hide, but thankfully, the image on the screen quickly shifts from me to the Newsline desk as anchor Robin Richmond faces the camera.
“There she is, folks: one of our American finalists and a two-time World Science Fair champion, Naomi Ardalan.” Robin’s melodic voice dances across the syllables of my last name, and I shake my head in disbelief. “While she’ll be representing the US, Naomi is actually a second-generation American. Her grandparents emigrated here from Iran, and sources tell me Naomi’s interest in science and technology was spurred on by their stories from home, of the ancient Persians who invented algebra and hydrodynamics.”
“Not to mention al-Sufi, who only discovered the Andromeda Galaxy,” I say to the TV. Despite how weird this all is, I can’t deny the warm glow in my chest at hearing my grandparents mentioned, their influence on my life recognized.
“If they could see you now . . . ,” Mom says softly, and I squeeze her hand.
The graying anchorman Seymour Lewis takes the mic, his deep voice booming through the screen. “From the granddaughter of immigrants, we move on to a finalist whose family has been in the good ol’ USA since just about the Mayflower: Beckett Wolfe, also known as the nephew of the president of the United States.”
The footage flashes to the White House lawn, where a tall, muscular blond boy in a prep school uniform strolls beside President Wolfe. Dad and I exchange a glance. Back on the screen, Robin Richmond arches an eyebrow at her cohost.
“Smells a bit like nepotism, wouldn’t you say?”
“Hold on a second.” Seymour, the anchor known for flying to the president’s defense, sits up straighter. “You know as well as I do that NASA and the Europa Mission leaders had final say in choosing the American finalists. Not POTUS.”
“Right.” Robin gives him a condescending nod. “And it’s safe to say the president made his wishes abundantly clear: to have his own blood on the first Europan settlement. I wouldn’t be surprised if he gave NASA some real incentives to pick Beckett.”
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Seymour sputters, but Robin continues.
“I’ll grant you that Beckett Wolfe had to have met the basic criteria, but let’s be honest here: he is no Naomi Ardalan.”
“Damn, Sis!” Sam yells, thumping my back proudly. “You just showed up the First Nephew on national TV!”
I can’t help laughing, and for one brief moment, the mood among the four of us lightens. But then Robin turns back to the camera, a solemn expression on her face.
“When we return, two former astronauts who oppose the mission will join us to discuss the deadly risks these teenagers will face as they set out into space.”
At those words, all our smiles vanish. Sam and I exchange a grim look. He follows the Space Conspirator just like I do . . . and we can both guess what the astronauts are about to say.
“They always have to interview the naysayers. It doesn’t make them right,” Dad says, aiming for a breezy tone even as the shakiness in his voice gives him away.
“Let’s see what else is on,” I tell him. The last thing we need is to sit here in fear, listening to all the dangers I’m about to encounter.
He changes the channel to Breaking News Tonight just in time for a segment titled “The Twenty-Four: Why They Were Chosen.” Show anchor Sanford Pearce is settled in at his sleek glass desk, hands folded as he addresses the audience.
“From an Olympic medalist to the world’s youngest tech titan, tonight we introduce you to the twenty-four teenagers who are setting out on a galaxy-spanning journey to change all of our lives.”
A montage begins, set to a cinematic score. The strangers from today’s press conference return, but instead of a collection of faces, I now get to see snippets of them in action. A boy with dark skin and black curls leads an interviewer through a garage-turned-office, proudly showing off the app he created to predict incoming earthquakes. A red-haired girl dressed in a white lab coat stands in the center of a formal room, while the man I recognize as King William V of England taps a sword against her left shoulder and then her right in some kind of ceremonial gesture. An Asian boy pilots a plane over the ocean, swerving past another incoming aircraft and calling out instructions to a copilot who looks a good decade his senior. And then someone familiar takes the screen, a tall, tanned boy stepping up to a diving board. It’s the Italian finalist—the one who tried to comfort me.
The Final Six Page 3