“You sound very good in Arabic,” he says.
“It’s kind of cool.”
Bilal mimes being cold. “In my room too. Maybe that’s just how space is.”
I laugh. “No, like good. Cool means ‘good.’ ”
Bilal looks at me awkwardly. “You like it cold?”
“Never mind,” I say. I gesture down below us. “Should we join them?”
Bilal looks down, takes a deep breath, and nods. We start walking, and I notice that his hands are shaking. It’s kind of nice to see that someone’s more nervous than I am. We make the loud, rattling descent together. Four flights down, we arrive in a room that looks partly like a cafeteria and partly like a gymnasium. Bilal’s pointing at everything excitedly, but my eyes are locked on the seated challengers. Five of them wait in the brightly lit cafeteria. The masks make them look like a band of misfit superheroes. One, the heavyset Asian kid who’s as tall as me, stands up and surprises Bilal with a massive hug.
“My name is Katsu,” he says. “I’m from Japan.”
I offer a hand before he can get me in his big mitts. As we shake, he does that little trick where one finger scratches your palm. I pull away, and he laughs loud enough to shake the floors.
“That’s it. The best trick in Japan. My toolbox is empty now. What’s your name?”
“I’m Emmett. From Detroit. This is Bilal…he’s from the Bible lands.”
Bilal laughs. “Palestine. The West Bank.”
Katsu points in random directions. “In space there are no directions! So now you’re just from Bank. Everyone!” he shouts loudly. “If you need money, go to Bilal!”
We laugh and nod our greetings at the others. It’s strange to have our language barriers removed so easily. I don’t know much about the Bible, but I do remember the story of Babel. I always thought it was weird. God scatters the people and gives them different languages. Babel Communications has gathered the peoples of Earth and reversed it. There’s something sacred to our easy, borderless conversation. Either something sacred or something forbidden.
Across the table, the blond girl with the southern accent sweeps her pink-dyed lock of hair behind an ear and waves at us like a pageant queen. I remember Defoe calling her Jasmine.
“Detroit? I know Detroit! My name’s Jasmine, but y’all can call me Jazzy. I’m from Memphis, Tennessee. In the States.”
Next to her, the African girl waves at us. She’s still wearing the colorful beaded bracelet around her wrist. A handful of silver dime-sized coins dance as she reaches out to shake my hand. Her eyes are dark pools in an even darker face. I have to make her say her name twice to get it right. The syllables sound like the start of a song.
“Azima,” she says. “Ah-zee-mah. I am from Kenya.”
The last two sit at the end of the table, ignoring us and ignoring each other. Katsu pounds on the table with his meaty fists until both look up. “Friends! Make friends! Don’t be pisspots!”
One is the white kid I watched in the first meeting. In his jumpsuit he looks like any of us. His hair looks neater now, and he’s got a face you’d find in the portraits decorating a mansion hallway. His eyes are pale green, his complexion pale stone. He offers his hand to us like it’s a business card. “Jaime,” he says. “I’m from Switzerland.”
Katsu laughs. “How painfully neutral!”
The kid shrugs and studies his fingernails. Across from him is the Asian kid I annoyed in the first meeting. He takes us all in, finds us boring, and closes his eyes. I have to admit that he looks pretty cool. His head is completely shaved except for a patch of bangs he sweeps to the left. I remember Defoe calling him Longwei. I wonder where he comes from; I wonder what his strategy is. We all take seats, and Katsu starts telling a long, winding joke about a priest, a zombie, and a cactus that walk into a bar. He forgets the punch line, though, laughs riotously, and points at a handful of other challengers descending the stairs.
My Japanese roommate flutters forward and taps Bilal politely on the shoulder. He looks up in confusion until it’s clear she wants him to move over a seat. He slides over and she sits down next to me, like we always sit together or something. In a weird way, she reminds me of PJ. We never had a moment where we decided to be friends. He just sat down next to me in school and decided it was the place he wanted to be. She doesn’t say a word, but it’s clear she’s taking everything in, eyes bright and knowing. I kind of like her already.
The other two take seats at opposite ends of the table. I recognize the girl from the first meeting. As she crosses the room, I can’t help noticing a tattoo on the back of her neck. A dark etching of the number eight, or maybe an inverted infinity symbol, wearing a slanted crown on its round head. She offers the table a wave and introduces herself as Isadora.
“From Brazil,” she says. “The best country in the world.”
Katsu rolls his eyes at that. We all turn our attention toward the other kid. He has dark skin and light-brown hair. His face pinches to thin lips, and the way he holds his shoulders makes it look like he’s bracing for impact. Almost like he’s waiting for one of us to throw a punch. He says his name is Roathy. We all wait for him to say where he’s from, but he picks at a callus on his palm and ignores us.
My Japanese roommate blinks to life, realizing the rest of us are there, and introduces herself as Kaya. When we’re all seated and pushing into awkward-silence territory, Defoe enters through a damn magician’s door I didn’t even notice. His bald head shines in the fluorescence as he offers us that predatory smile.
“Our intrepid crew, welcome. Did you know that you are officially the youngest crew to ever enter space? Already setting records.”
The wall behind him parts like a movie curtain. The black panels slide away and reveal…Earth. Everyone’s caught off guard by the surprise. I thought Vandemeer was kidding. There was no countdown, no Houston, nothing. We’re in space. I can see oceans, atmospheres, everything. But where’s the lack of gravity you always have in movies? Shouldn’t we be floating around and laughing as our pocket change drifts to the corners of the ship? Defoe waits for us to fully appreciate the situation before smiling again.
“Welcome to the final frontier.” He sweeps out his good hand in a magnificent and dramatic gesture. “Allow me to introduce you to Commander Crocker.”
From the shadows on our right, a real astronaut marches out. He’s in a bulky, movie-costume kind of suit. He doesn’t look as sleek as we do, but all the bells and whistles look professional enough. His face is neatly shaved and his hair is cut high and tight. The only similarity between us and him is the nyxian language converter suctioned to his jaw. I’m surprised when he speaks with a deep southern drawl.
“Welcome to the end of the world, minions. I’m Commander Crocker, but you can call me Crock. I’ll be your flight operations commander. If all goes well, you won’t see my pretty face until we reach the Tower Space Station.”
The marble-sized view of Earth is replaced by holoscreen images. We all eye an architectural layout of the ship. Crock uses a meter stick to indicate grayed areas on the diagram.
“This is where we perform our no-gravity operations. My crew has a heck of a time making sure this ship does all the things a ship ought to do. The best way you can help us keep everyone safe is by not adventuring out where you’re not supposed to.”
I glance sidelong at Kaya. Crock’s using a language converter, but is his southern slang really translating? My new friend looks like she’s tracking, but who knows? I jump a little at the idea of friends. Kaya and Bilal seem nice enough. Even Katsu’s kind of fun. But this is a competition, plain and simple. Points first and friends second. That has to be my mentality if I want to come home with the gold.
“This black outline indicates the nyxia-sealed corridors. Everything inside that perimeter is available to you,” Crock explains. “Just a few reminders. You’re in space. People experience changes in space. Report anything unusual to your medics. If you have repetitive nig
htmares, if you have stomach cramps, if you feel sad at night. Anything. We have an amazing staff, but they can’t help you if you’re not willing to talk. Any questions?”
Azima raises a hand. “In the movies, there’s no gravity in space. Everyone knows this. Why aren’t we floating around?” She frowns a little. “I wanted to float around.”
Crock smiles. “You know how the Trojans stole away Helen and the whole Greek fleet went after her? Well, Helen ain’t nearly as pretty as nyxia. How did we cut our trip by twenty-something years? Nyxia-enhanced fuel. How do we enclose sections of the ship and maintain gravity? Nyxian sealants and filters. How do you poop in space? Nyxia.”
That gets a laugh from everyone except Jazzy, who just looks disgusted.
“Actually, we had that last one figured out a while ago. But the magic word is nyxia. Babel put the majority of their initial mining deposits back into the space program. Inside this section of the ship, it’s not even going to feel like space. Nyxia’s helping seal this environment. As a result, your bodies won’t even experience the usual effects. My crew and I will be a little taller by the time we get to the Tower Space Station, but you all will be too busy competing to deal with any of that. Honestly, this ship, the station, and Babel’s ground operations on Earth are all about one hundred years more advanced than what you’re used to using. All thanks to the new black gold.”
And we’re the only ones who can get more of it, I realize. Which means we have a little weight to throw around. Babel might have recruited us because we’re young, but they’re hiding that power beneath the competition. I file the thought away under P for Power.
Without us, they get no more nyxia. Without us, this entire operation is a waste. But that power’s meaningless if we’re not in the top eight. Clever cats, these Babel folks. Once the eight victors are decided, though, some of that power will shift back into our hands.
“Any other questions?” Crock asks.
Roathy—his sharp eyes narrowed—throws up a hand.
“What if one of us dies?”
The room tightens. Even Commander Crocker pales a little.
“Well, we have policies in place, but the history of space exploration has very few casualties. Babel’s records are immaculate, so I wouldn’t worry about that.”
Roathy nods, but I can see the distrust in his eyes. Crock moves quickly onto a new subject. I should listen to what he’s saying, but my eyes drift back to Roathy. He’s wound up so tight. His eyes are so knife-sharp that I can imagine them cutting through everything he sees, digging down beneath the bright outer layers. It takes me about thirty seconds to figure out what’s so weird about him. He’s seeing the world like I see it. The brighter the colors, the more likely something dark is hiding underneath. We both want the truth more than the show.
When I glance back up, Crock is retreating into the bowels of the ship and Defoe has retaken his place.
“My name, as all of you know, is Marcus Defoe. I am in charge of making sure that you arrive prepared for operations. Our competition is designed to be a system of merit. We want the best of the best to go down to Eden and work for us. You already know the rewards we’ve arranged for being one of the best. My job is to hone the skills and impart the knowledge you’ll need before you go to the Adamites’ home planet. This process will be very difficult.”
He snaps his fingers and Babel assistants ghost into the room. Their padded footsteps are the only sound. I notice that Vandemeer is one of them. I nod at him and he smiles back. The workers place a black ring in front of each of us. They’re plain and undecorated. Like curious kids, we pluck the rings up and start examining them. Mine’s cold to the touch. I can feel something too. Something pulling at me as I turn it over in my palm. The substance feels active, frenetic with energy. It wants something. I slide it onto a ring finger, and I’m not surprised it fits perfectly. Babel seems like the kind of company that gets the details right.
“You’ll learn to use nyxia through a series of different tasks,” Defoe explains. “The first of which will begin right now.”
Another shock ripples across the table. Already? We didn’t even know we were in space two minutes ago. Bilal glances over at Kaya and me. His hands are still trembling nervously, but he whispers, “Good luck, yeah?”
“You too,” I reply. And I mean it. I’m glad we bumped into each other. He’s a nice kid.
A nice kid who I still want to beat. Have to beat. When this is all over, Bilal will go back to Palestine and I’ll go back to Detroit, and I want to do it as a winner, as one of the eight who succeeded. I look away, hoping he won’t be in the bottom two, but hoping even more that I can beat him. Defoe holds up the dagger he threw this morning, an eternity ago. Light shivers down its length.
“One of the most crucial functions of your training will be the creative manipulation of nyxia. We want you to be able to use the resource you’re mining for us. It takes concentration.” With a flick, the dagger shrinks down to the size of a perfectly round stone. Defoe holds it up for all of us to see. “Step one: transform your ring into a stone. You may begin.”
I scramble to get the ring off my finger. The whole group is drawn into concentrated silence. That connection I felt earlier kicks back to life. I do my best to hold on to that link, and I imagine a stone. The thought physically leaves my brain. For a second I stare blankly at my hands. What was I trying to do? And then the thought appears in the surface of the pitch-black metal. My ring shudders in my palm and molds itself into a marble. I smile in relief and look around the table. Most of the others have completed the task too.
Only Bilal and the Brazilian girl, Isadora, haven’t. My first instinct is to help Bilal, but I don’t know how I would help him, and I don’t know why I would help him. If this is a test, let him struggle. The thought’s a cold one, and I shiver a little as the screen behind Defoe produces an image. A pair of leather driving gloves.
“Step two: manipulate your substance into this pair of gloves.”
This one’s harder. My first thought trembles into the stone before I’ve settled the color of the picture into my brain. It leaves half formed, and I’m holding gloves that are missing a few fingers. I’m amazed at how soft they feel, how like real gloves they look. I stare at the image, focus, and summon the thought again. Just like before, it slips from my brain and leaves me half lost. Then the nyxia reacts and I have my gloves.
On the walls around us, scores appear.
I’m seventh. The thought makes my hands sweat. Only Bilal, Jazzy, and Isadora are below me. Longwei, the stubborn Asian kid with the front sweep, has the highest point total. By a long shot too. Babel’s message is loud and clear: winning matters. Defoe eyes the results, and the whole room waits as Isadora continues attempting to make her gloves. She’s sweating, and I feel for her, but I’m just glad it’s not me. Bilal’s eighth. He gives me a nervous look.
“It will get better, yeah?” he whispers. I shoot him a quick nod, but I’m too focused to give him anything more than that. I don’t have time to pat backs and press pedals.
Defoe touches a button and the image disappears.
“Lastly, I need you to produce a flower with a purple stem and ten petals.”
I wait for him to hold up an image, but instead he crosses the room and starts sorting through papers. No guiding image this time, then. I try to picture the strange flower, but I get distracted when Longwei’s name goes bold on the scoreboard. A bunch of points get added into his total. I glance across the table and see him tucking the flower into his suit pocket. His eyes narrow in a satisfied smile. He knows we’d all like to see what his looks like to make our own transformation easier. I force myself to concentrate.
Purple stem, purple stem. Ten petals, ten petals.
My nyxian gloves merge and shrink into a lavender stem. The petals, though, are missing. A few more names go bold on the scoreboard, and I’m sweating as I form another thought and release it. The flower appears, but I have too many petals.
Panicking, I try it again. And fail again.
By the time I’ve created the right flower, seven others have already finished. Including Bilal. I’ve defeated only Isadora and Roathy. If they did cuts today, I would have avoided walking away empty-handed by exactly 4.3 seconds. I stare at my inept purple flower and try not to have a panic attack. Slow and steady wins the race. This is just one event. Just one.
Defoe turns to us when the scores solidify. “As we progress, I will ask you to make bigger and more complex images and items. You’re welcome to consult each other for advice on successful manipulation, but I wouldn’t want to trade secrets if I knew something everyone else didn’t. Please transform your substance back into a ring and follow me.”
I glance up to see that Longwei is already sliding his over his finger. My roommate, Kaya, and Azima follow shortly after. The top five form up ranks as the stragglers, including me, stumble after them. I try to keep my chin up, but I feel like I’m lagging behind already. What makes them so much better at it? How is Longwei so unnaturally fast?
For the next three hours, Defoe takes us through a host of other random tasks. Each of us swims for ten minutes in a turbine tank that simulates gale-force winds. Katsu makes a joke about whales, and the attendants have to pull him out just one minute into swimming. He lies on the floor with his hands on his stomach and laughs. Defoe doesn’t look amused.
I’m not the fastest swimmer in the group, but I manage a top three that pushes me more safely up the scoreboard. After drying off, we spend an hour in an actual classroom learning about Eden’s plant life and some indigenous species. We’re surprised by a quiz at the end, which I fail. I was listening, but the names got jumbled in my head. I beat myself up over the mistake. Every point matters, every single point.
Longwei aces the quiz and keeps his distance at the top of the scoreboard. Luckily, Roathy scores worse than me, and his numbers continue to sink with each new task. Our eyes always drift to the scoreboards. It’s addicting, to see where we stand, to see what we could have improved upon. Only Longwei never looks, because where else would he be except for first place?
Nyxia Page 3