Real fear is always quiet. All of a sudden, we’re statues. Not a breath, except from the white kid. He cracks a knuckle and reclines in his chair. He’s not like us. I don’t know how I know, but I do. The rest of the group waits for Defoe to say he’s just kidding, but of course he’s not. A heavyset Asian kid at the end of the table makes a snarky comment. Whatever the joke is, Defoe doesn’t find it funny.
“Katsu wants to know what will happen to the other two,” Defoe explains. “Our yearlong flight will be a competition of sorts. Every test you perform will be measured. Every task we set you to will be analyzed. From the moment we enter space, you will be under a microscope. Rankings will be posted throughout the ship. Only eight of you will be permitted to travel to Eden upon arrival. Those eight will receive the beneficial packages we’ve discussed.”
More silence. Hearts are breaking.
“The other two will still receive a smaller monetary sum. The average salary for a Babel Communications employee is right around one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. You’ll be paid for two years of service and sent back to your home. The other benefits won’t be available to you.”
In my neighborhood, that kind of consolation prize would be more than enough. I’m sure it’s better money than anyone at this table could have imagined before today. But we already know there’s something better. We already know there’s a promise of riches that stretches on forever. The table’s full of greedy faces. Babel’s curveball is working.
Competition. Supply and demand. Cage-style.
“Shall we begin?” Defoe asks.
His question echoes and echoes and echoes.
DAY 1, 9:13 A.M.
Aboard Genesis 11
A Babel employee leads me to one of the ship’s comfort pods and tells me to enjoy the view. The docking bay is chaos. Layered glass mutes everything. It’s like watching a silent movie without the subtitles. This launch has probably been on tap for a decade, but the worker ants always have more to do. Techies with glowing headsets scan crates, bark commands, and watch the heavies wheel them out of sight. I sigh, shuffle through songs, and wait.
The door behind me looks like a model blast door straight from the set of one of those remade Star Wars movies. The floor tiles are temperature controlled. Plush cushions grow out of every corner like mushrooms. They call it a comfort pod, but I’m a nervous wreck. Dimmed lighting, lavender walls, and a help-yourself espresso machine. The whole spread just makes me feel more out of place.
The player’s scramble lands on a reggae infusion my cousin Taylor produced last year. PJ and the Most Excellent Brothers worship Taylor because they think he rubs shoulders with the rise-and-grind rappers of our generation. Really, though, he’s defaulting on loans and working night shifts with my pops. That’s the way things go in Detroit. I think of my family, my boys, everyone. Where I come from, low expectations are generational.
So I have to wonder, why me? No easy answers there.
The numbers are clear enough:
Eight out of ten.
Fifty thousand dollars a month. Forever.
I watch the worker bees and breathe deep breaths until the blast door hisses open. I wasn’t sure who Babel Communications would fly in to say goodbye, but I should have known. Moms has never been on a plane. And the doctors don’t like her traveling long distances anyway. So it’s Pops who takes two steps into the room. He’s wearing a leather jacket and worn jeans. He has on the newsboy cap that he knows I love. He doesn’t smile, because he’s already crying.
He offers his hand like I’ve graduated college or joined the army or something. When we shake, his hand swallows mine whole. We sit down together, and he doesn’t bother to wipe the tears away from his bloodshot eyes. Babel recruited me just a month ago. It’s crazy how fast all of this has happened, how little time we have left.
“Mr. Defoe told us it’d be three years.” His voice is a stalled engine. “Emmett, I know it’s a great opportunity. Lord knows I never saw any scholarship money. But are you sure?” He looks around at the strange seats and the glowing tiles. “Does it feel right?”
He asks the question I’ve been jammed on all morning. What’s the fine print? Who’s the wizard behind the curtain? Babel has its secrets, but so do I, so do all of us.
“I can’t say no, Pops.”
“You can always say no.”
“They’re offering fifty thousand dollars—”
He cuts me off. “Money’s money, Emmett. I could’ve had us sitting pretty if I earned a living doing the wrong things. Does it feel right?”
“A month, Pops. Fifty thousand a month.” I avoid his eyes, pretending to watch the workers. I know how much he makes every year. I know how small it is compared to what they’re offering me. I know life isn’t fair. “Forever. Free health care too. You can take Moms tomorrow. Free treatment at any clinic in Detroit. I’ve seen the bills, Pops. I’ve seen how long that transplant list is. Babel’s the kind of company that will get her to the top of the list. They’re the kind of people who pull the strings we can’t reach. I know we need this. She needs it.”
He ignores all of that. “I asked you a question.”
I sigh, but his eyes drill me to the wall. Does it feel right?
“I really don’t know,” I say. “It’s hard to tell the difference between rich and wrong.”
I’m pretty sure that’s a lyric, but it’s exactly how I feel. Babel Communications strikes a strange chord, but every billionaire strikes a strange chord. They live in different worlds, move in different crowds, and breathe different air. It’s always been that way and it always will be.
Pops looks out at the worker bees. “Never seen anything like it.”
“Me neither.”
We watch a guy almost get speared by a forklift.
“You scared?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Just means you’re smart.”
“Yeah.”
“If they ask you to do something that isn’t right, what you say?”
“No.”
“If they push you to the very edge, what you do?”
“Fly.”
“What’s your name?”
He used to ask me all this before football games. It’s a tradition, a reminder.
“Emmett Ethan Atwater,” I say.
“What’s Ethan mean?”
“Steady.”
“What’s Emmett mean?”
“Hard worker.”
“What’s Atwater mean?”
I hitch. “You never told me that….”
He smiles. “I don’t know either.”
The fact that he can tell a joke right now unties a thousand knots in my stomach.
“So, they’re going to set you up nice, huh?”
“Not just me. You and Moms too.” I look away again. “I want it bad, Pops.”
“Want it for you first. When you’re up there.” He looks at the ceiling like it’s not there, like the galaxies are spread out in their infinity. “Want it for yourself. I work hard, but you deserve so much more than we’ve been able to give you. Take what’s yours first. Got that?”
I feel weak all of a sudden. A set of bones without a heart.
“They’re only going to take eight of us down to Eden.”
He nods like he expected there to be a twist. “Out of how many?”
“Ten.”
“Pretty good odds.”
Oxygen seems hard to come by. The words scratch their way out.
“What if I don’t win?”
“What if you do?” he asks.
A second later he’s up on his feet. He’s not crying now.
“You get in there and fight, Emmett. Be worthy. Not in their eyes, but in yours. Break the rules you need to, but never forget who you are and where you come from. When they knock you down, and they will, don’t you quit on me.”
I shake my head in promise.
“Ever,” he punctuates.
We hug. After, we sit and w
atch the cargo bay until all the crates are packed. My father holds out a brass key, and my heart stops. I’ve only ever seen it in a glass case in my parents’ bedroom. It’s ancient. Scratched all over and about as big as my palm. I turn it over and over and think about all the Atwaters who have held this key. He doesn’t bother to explain why he’s giving it to me, because I already know. Break the chains, the key cries. Take what is yours.
DAY 1, 9:33 A.M.
Aboard Genesis 11
And just like that, I’m leaving Earth behind.
Not forever, but this isn’t the same as boarding a bus for summer camp. It feels wrong, having to abandon Moms just to make sure she gets the treatment she needs. I won’t get to be there for her through the hardest stages of treatment, but leaving her and Pops means she has a chance of beating the odds. I have to believe that both of them will be here when I get back, alive and well and on their way to rich and retired. It still feels like something’s slipped through my fingers as one of the techies leads me through the ship.
It’s massive. Space tunnels lead through a technological stomach. I try to memorize our route, but we go up three levels, down two corridors, and through way too many doors for me to pull it off. A snare drum is wreaking havoc in my headphones, so I miss the first round of instructions.
“What?” I ask, spinning the volume down.
“Your room, Mr. Atwater.”
The techie punches digits and swipes a card, and the door gasps open. For a second I forget we’re on a spaceship. The floors are carpeted, the couches are leather, and the library is stacked. Past the living room I spot two doors and figure they’re bed and bath. The techie is punching another code into the data pad. Everything about the place is robotic blue and sleek.
“Do I get one of those cards?” I ask. “In Detroit we still use keys.”
“Your suits are coded to your room.”
“I get a suit?”
He nods. “And a gun.”
“Really?”
“No.”
For the first time, the guy has a face. He actually made a joke. Something about that makes him more than another piston in Babel’s finely tuned engines. He’s all sharp angles, light skin, and dark eyes. He looks like someone’s uncle. Smiling, I offer him dap. He glances down the hallway, smiles to himself, and bumps my fist.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Donovan Vandemeer.”
“That’s not American, is it?”
Mr. Vandemeer shakes his head. “Dutch.”
“Oh, I love Denmark.”
Vandemeer tilts his head, correction on his lips. Then he figures out I’m kidding.
“Very good, Mr. Atwater.”
It’s clear that Vandemeer needs to be elsewhere. I see his data pad blinking with a new assignment, and even though he’s standing stock-still, I can sense which direction he wants to start walking. The well-oiled cogs of Genesis 11 are waiting on me. It feels kind of good.
“How long do I have to get ready? Before the launch.”
Vandemeer’s smile widens. “The launch is happening as we speak, Mr. Atwater.”
I grin at that. I’ve seen one too many Makers of Mars movies to believe him. The launches in that series were always filled with chaos and sweat. Vandemeer just smiles as I start across the room. “Of course, my mistake. I got it from here, Vandemeer.”
“Your bedroom is the door on the left.”
Nodding, I call back over one shoulder, “And the bathroom’s on the right?”
Before Vandemeer can respond, the door opens. An Asian girl exits the room on the right. She’s wearing a sleek gunmetal jumpsuit. It’s hip-hugging leather with ribbed padding around the vital organs. A black metallic mask runs across her jawline. Above it, her eyes are dark and her hair is clipped into a neat ponytail by a plastic strawberry. She walks past, and my soft-spoken hello goes unheard. She waves at Vandemeer and vanishes down the hallway.
I catch the Dutchman grinning and ask, “What’s she doing in here?”
“She lives in one room. You live in the other.”
“But…” I gesture uselessly. “She’s a girl!”
Vandemeer smiles. “My knowledge of America is sparse. Are there no girls there?”
“Yeah, but that’s different. We don’t…they don’t…We have our own bathrooms, right?”
For some reason, the idea of using the same bathroom as her terrifies me. What if she thinks I smell? What if she smells? What if I forget to lock the door?
“Separate rooms, separate bathrooms. You simply share a common area.”
“Right,” I say. It’s still weird. “Do I have to talk to her?”
“It would be polite,” Vandemeer points out.
“Is she American?”
“I believe she’s Japanese.”
“Right, Japanese. How am I supposed to learn Japanese?”
“You might have noticed the apparatus she was wearing. The mask.”
I nod. “It looked like something out of a comic book.”
Vandemeer laughs. “It’s a nyxian language converter. You’ll find one in your room.” His data pad vibrates, and the playful smile vanishes. “Any other questions, Mr. Atwater?”
“She’s pretty,” I accidentally say out loud.
Vandemeer laughs again and departs. The blast door hisses shut and I’m all alone.
DAY 1, 10:30 A.M.
Aboard Genesis 11
After I’m all suited up, I check myself out in the space mirror.
I look like straight fire. The suit makes me seem way more muscular than I am. It tugs my stomach in and broadens my shoulders. The padding suggests a six-pack, which I don’t have. Aside from the lack of a gun, the suit has me feeling like a galactic James Bond.
Too bad there’s only been one black James Bond, and he was a much lighter-skinned brother than me. I take a step closer to the mirror. Every day I look more and more like Pops. Moms always jokes that the only thing she gave me is elbows. I have his nose, his brown eyes, and his round cheeks. I even have the faintest trace of his mustache along my upper lip. It hits me that he never taught me to shave. Babel’s schedule has me turning eighteen before I’m back on Earth. One more thing I’ll have to figure out for myself.
To the left of my reflection, numbers appear like a medical readout. Body temperature, blood pressure, heart and breathing rate. I eye them for a second, but I don’t have a clue if they’re good or bad. I pick up the last piece of my arsenal: the nyxian language converter. I’m totally lost. The thing doesn’t have hooks or clips or anything I can use to fasten it to my face. If this is the first test from Babel, the Japanese girl’s already lapping me.
I put it up to my mouth, just to see how it’s supposed to fit, and the thing snarls to life. I freak as the metal clamps to my skin and the leather padding slaps down against my jaw. It stops just short of my ears, fully attached and a surprisingly perfect fit. I release the front of the mask and it stays like a magic trick. I check my reflection again.
Badass. That’s the only word for it. I look like a strange demigod from the future. My eyes are huge and menacing above metallic black. Throw in the gunmetal suit and I feel ready for whatever Babel has planned for us. I duck out of the room, take two steps into the corridor, and realize I have no clue where I am. Genesis 11, I remember, is huge.
I follow the walkway, passing clear walls that expose intricate wiring beneath. Through another blast door, I find a new hallway that leads into a broad, open space with rattling metal boardwalks and crisscrossing staircases. All of them lead down. I lean over the railing and see a handful of other challengers hanging out on the lowest level. That’s how I already think of them. Challengers. Every one of them wants what is mine.
I pretend to admire the alien lighting overhead as I formulate strategies. Fact-check:
1. There are four girls.
2. There are six boys.
3. I live with the Japanese girl.
4. From what I can tell,
this is a global effort. Kumbaya and cooperation.
5. But only eight of us get chosen. So it’s about competition too.
6. Babel is rich. Really rich.
There are a lot of ways to play it. I can keep my mouth shut and my ears open. I’ll learn a lot but might get pegged as a spy. Or I can pick out the strongest competitors and try to ride coattails. Maybe form an alliance or two. Problem is I have no idea what our competition will be like.
Before I can decide, someone taps my arm, and I almost freak over the railing. I remember the kid from the meeting. One of the two who flinched at the word cancer. Maybe he’s here for the same reasons I am. Maybe he’s got someone like Moms at home, someone who needs all the help Babel’s contract can give them. He looks Middle Eastern. His eyes are a galaxy of browns. Different shades pieced together in an intricate puzzle. The skin above and below his mask is deeply tanned. Even the bulky converter can’t hide the kid’s smile.
“Hello,” he says hesitantly. He pairs the word with a polite wave, like he’s worried the device isn’t going to work. “My name”—he pokes himself in the chest—“is Bilal.”
I give him a head nod and hold out my hand. “Emmett.”
We shake. He looks over the railing. “Whoa, big drop. The ship is huge, yeah?”
“Definitely. We don’t have anything like this in Detroit,” I say, eyeing the drop.
“This is where you’re from? Detroit?”
He’s doing the get-to-know-you thing adults do, but I’m not sure if I’m game yet. So I shrug and turn the question back at him. “What about you? Where you from?”
“Palestine.” That draws a blank, so he tries again. “The West Bank.”
Seeing my confusion, he adds, “Bible lands.”
I’m not all that familiar with my Lord and Savior, but I nod like I know exactly what he means now. Not sure what else to talk about, I say, “You sound good in English.”
He lets out a delighted laugh. With a tug and a click, the mask unmolds into his palm. He smiles wide and speaks in his own brand of Arabic. I can barely separate one word from another. With another quick manipulation, the mask snaps back onto his face.
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