Every now and again, Defoe pauses and asks us to manipulate our nyxian rings into some new form. I get better as we go along, but so does everyone else. Bilal, especially, is improving, and I can’t help noticing his name climbing into the spots where mine should be. At one point, he remarks on his progress. I pretend not to hear him.
We perform simulated evasion exercises, as well as a set of situational tests designed to help us understand the way Adamites think.
When we finally break for lunch, my eyes drag down the scoreboard:
All the thrill from earlier today has vanished. We’re tired from swimming and running and thinking. Tired from seeing other names above us on the leaderboard and from trying to make small talk in between tasks. Defoe and some of the techies watch from a corner of the cafeteria as we slump into our seats and stare at our plates. I know they’re happy. Competition is afoot. Their warriors are being crafted and hardened. Iron sharpens iron, Defoe said. He was right. At the end of this, I’ll be harder and sharper and colder than I could have ever imagined. I take another bite and remember that it’s worth it. The sweat and the competition and the suffering. All I have to do is win Babel’s game and I’ll go home a king.
DAY 1, 4:03 P.M.
Aboard Genesis 11
“Afternoon activities will be group-oriented.”
I glance around and it’s clear I’m not the only one unhappy about group activities. We just spent all morning fighting tooth and nail with each other for spots. People above me on the scoreboard? Not my friends. People below? Doubt they’re excited to ball out with me either. Defoe ignores the tension and groups us at random. I mentally groan when I see Longwei sorted onto the other team. So far, he’s been unbeatable. Whatever the next competition is, his team will definitely have an edge.
Defoe leads us down two flights and through a double-wide blast door. The room is empty except for a mesh barrier that divides it in half. It almost looks like a tennis net, except that it cuts across the length of the space rather than the width. On either side of the hip-high barrier, the empty room stretches thirty meters long, twenty meters wide, and twenty meters high. The ceiling, floor, and walls are all nyxian black. Defoe sends my team to one side and Longwei’s team to the other. I scrunch my toes and test the floors with my weight. It’s a slightly bouncy material, but not so soft that you lose your balance. Maybe some kind of rubber?
Even though we don’t have Longwei, our team isn’t half bad. Jaime, Azima, and Kaya are all right behind him in the standings. Isadora, though, is in last place. I eye her like she’s deadweight until I realize Jaime and Azima are eyeing me the same way.
They think I’m one of the weak links. I’ll have to change that. Soon.
We wait for Defoe as he strides past the mesh net to the side of the room opposite the entryway. He swipes at his data pad, and clockwork mechanisms rumble to life. The floor begins to vibrate as Defoe takes his place on an elevated platform. As always, he’s smiling his hunter’s smile.
“We call this the Rabbit Room.”
He gestures to the walls on either side of him. The black spaces flicker, and identical images of a forest materialize on either side of the net, each with brilliant, lifelike color. It reminds me of the Neverland Simulators, but the digital imagery is a thousand times more realistic. Like looking through a portal into another world. I’m pretty sure the technology in the room is worth more than my neighborhood.
Defoe continues his instructions. “If you make contact with the back wall, you’re out of the competition. The team with the most people standing at the end of the exercise wins.”
Without another word, Defoe slashes his data pad and the floors literally start to move. Both teams are borne slowly toward the back wall. On the distant screen, an unseen runner begins through the trees. We’re the runners, I realize. On a gigantic treadmill.
Jaime’s the first to wake us up. “Come on!” he shouts.
At a jog, he moves away from the back of the room. Longwei’s team is already to the middle of their side. I can hear them talking strategy as our group follows Jaime forward.
“Let’s get as close to the screen as possible.”
Jaime doesn’t just sound like a captain; he looks like one too. Something about his assumed leadership annoys me, but I don’t have a better plan, so I fall in with him and Kaya. The others join us, and when we’re close enough to touch the screen, we slow to an arm-pumping speed walk. The forest is so vivid that I feel like I could break through dimensions and be there.
After just a few minutes, the speed increases. I’m already breathing hard, and so is the rest of our team. The path twists, and our first obstacle appears. A massive tree trunk splits the road in two. We keep jogging side by side, waiting for the invisible runner to pick a direction.
Which is why none of us expects the tree to appear. One second, empty air. The next, a full-sized trunk materializes onto the treadmill and levels Azima. The crunching sound echoes, and her fall clips Kaya’s legs. The two of them are carried back with the tree trunk, which is rooted absurdly into the floor of our treadmill.
I consider going back for them before Isadora shouts, “Watch out!”
Together we duck a low-hanging branch that’s just swept to life. Jaime does the same before shifting over to close the gap between us. As the path levels out, I look back to see Kaya trying to pull Azima to her feet. She’s too dazed to move, though. Just before they pancake into the back wall, Kaya rolls to one side and sprints away.
Our side of the room pulses. A brief flash of white along the walls and floors and then the speed of the treadmill increases. We’re going faster than the other group now. The punishment is clear. Lose a teammate and your odds decrease.
And now the obstacles are coming faster too. A rockslide crashes down from the left, and the three of us swing to the far right. Kaya’s nearly caught up with us when some kind of animal thrashes through the trees. I catch sight of fangs and claws and roll instinctively as it leaps to life. The creature’s lunge misses me, but it snags Jaime by a shoulder. I watch him go down, hear him cry out, and then Kaya’s cry follows his. I look back to see that the beast is gone, but both Jaime and Kaya are tangled together. Before they can recover, the treadmill ferries them to the back wall.
I curse as our side pulses twice and the treadmill goes faster, faster, faster.
We’re basically sprinting now. Isadora’s holding her side. Seeing her pain reminds me of mine. The stitch in my stomach sharpens, so I shout, “Keep going!”
Side by side, we press through the thickening forest. A massive crash sounds on our right, and I hear shouts from the other team. Their walls pulse with successive lights. I can’t risk looking over to check the numbers. Isadora and I keep moving.
Ahead, a stream crosses the forest path. I’m wondering if we’ll have to leap over it when our runner decides to go straight through. A brief flash of the floor is highlighted blue, and my feet slap down right into the colored strip. The ground snags like quicksand. The sudden change clips my footing, and I hit the treadmill hard, nailing my shoulder on the fall. Isadora screams, and we both whip back toward the entrance.
I make it to my feet. Isadora doesn’t.
The light pulses again and I’m alone. A quick glance shows Longwei, Bilal, and Jazzy are still up and running. It’s a surprise to see Jazzy running at the head of their tight knot, but a second of watching her form is answer enough. She’s composed, running like she’s halfway through a normal cross-country race. Longwei and Bilal follow her lead through each obstacle.
I pump my arms and manage to get back to the center of our side of the room. The forest clears, and I see a series of twisting ravines ahead. The road dips a little, and my stomach takes a nosedive. Cliffs and canyons wait. The first is a snaking fissure that divides the path in two. I watch the unseen runner approach the edge and leap.
You’ve got to be kidding.
A red gap appears on the treadmill. I barely leap it as th
e ravine continues and the path presses through treacherous terrain. A massive canyon cuts in on the right side, and I run on tiptoes with my shoulder scraping the far left wall. The pace is increasing, and my only reward is seeing Bilal miss a jump and get eliminated. Then two jumps come back to back, and the second catches my ankle funny. I feel it almost twist. The stumble leaves me on the wrong side of the canyon. I see the road ahead of me shrinking, ending. In desperation, I put all my momentum into a diagonal leap.
And short it. The red ground shoots a bolt of energy up through my feet. My legs go numb and I whip helplessly back to where my team is waiting, all still gasping for air. The treadmill rolls me into the wall, and the entire room goes silent. The screens blank as Longwei and Jazzy collapse. Sweat pours down our faces and all of the pain pushes its way past the adrenaline. It’s something awful.
Defoe prowls over to us. “We will visit the Rabbit Room often. These teams are permanent. The map you run will vary, but you can still discuss strategies if you want to succeed. The dynamics of the game will change as we progress in your training. Today is just a glimpse of the pace we will set for you. Get your rest. In the Bible, the Sabbath comes every seven days. Here at Babel, we break every tenth.”
The rest of the group stumbles to their feet. Jaime actually reaches out a hand to help me up and says, “Solid running, Emmett. We’ll get them next time.”
A part of me wants to tell him we’re not friends, that as long as he’s above me on the scoreboard, he’s my enemy. But thankfully, that part is really tired. I take the offered hand.
“Thanks.”
We all weave drunkenly back up the steps and into the wider halls of the cafeteria. I catch sight of the scoreboard and my jaw drops. I finished third in that exercise. Only two other competitors survived the obstacles better than I did. I was expecting to jump a few people on the scoreboard. Instead, I’ve fallen a few spots:
The others have stopped beside me. We’re all eyeing the new standings and trying to figure out how they scored the Rabbit Room. Longwei and Isadora are the only ones who find themselves in the same position. I point to the scoreboard as Defoe passes us.
“I don’t get it. I finished third.”
Defoe pauses, an eyebrow raised. “Actually, you finished second.”
“Jazzy and Longwei were still going,” I say. “If they’re the only ones that beat me, why’d I drop in the standings?”
“You were on a team. Your team finished second.”
Anger bubbles to life, the hot kind that boils up a throat. I hate tricks and fine print.
“That’s not my fault.”
“It’s a team effort,” Defoe replies. “First place receives two thousand points. Second place receives one thousand points. Next time, I suggest you do everything in your power to make sure your team wins.”
“That’s not fair.”
That makes Defoe smile. He squares his shoulders and adjusts the perfect knot of his perfect tie. Every gesture and movement is a reminder that here, in this world, he’s the king.
“I was wondering when we would first hear that word. Fair. Dismiss your idea of fair here and now. Our rules are our rules. There will be injuries and accidents and mistakes in this competition. You will be sent to the med unit at some point. You may even send others to the med unit. But never forget that this is our competition. We say what is fair and what isn’t.”
With that, he slinks off down a corridor. I glance around at the others, but no one else really looks pissed off. I’m amazed how quickly they’re willing to fall in line. Defoe’s absence draws the other Babel workers back into the room. My fists are still balled and my face is drenched in sweat. Vandemeer offers me a towel and a wrapped dinner sandwich, but I’m too angry to eat, too disgusted to do anything more than wipe away the soil and sweat.
At the end of the first day, I’m in ninth place. The stunning fact that I might not win is slowly sinking in. I think about arriving back in Detroit and having to tell my parents they didn’t win the lottery. The consolation package Babel offered would still help, but I’d spend the rest of my life working the same jobs my pops did and grinding out paychecks, wondering what it would have been like if only I’d won.
Bilal’s crossing the room, trying to get my attention, so I wrap the towel around my neck and make my way toward the stairs. Kindness is the last thing I need right now. Three flights up, down a lonely corridor, and into my room. I’m not in the mood to talk, not to Bilal, who’s ahead of me and safely in third place, not to anyone. I strip off the suit and the nyxian mask and my ring too. In just underwear, I crawl under the covers and try to pretend I’m at home. But the covers are too soft and the bed’s too soft and the scent of Moms’s herbal tea isn’t hanging in the air. This isn’t home. Until reality came crashing down, it was just my ticket to make home a better place. But I can’t even get that part right.
It’s pushing into night. Pops has a shift starting soon. I imagine him, looking just like me but wider and grayer and more ragged. He’s wearing that blue work uniform with his name slapped on the front of it: JEREMIAH. When he thinks no one’s watching, his shoulders always slump. The weight of years, of never being able to rise. It’s not his fault, but that kind of weight’s been passed down in my family for generations.
I learned our history in parables, stories of warning. My great-grandfather’s restaurant got railroaded by a new interstate project. The government took the land out of his clenched fists and gave him just enough money to try and fail in a neighboring county. My own gramps gave up his scholarship to Michigan after his mom died. He could have been All-American, but he got a factory job and looked after his brothers and sisters instead. In every branch of our family tree, someone’s brushed shoulders with real freedom. But there’s always a catch in life. There’s always been some fine print that snatched dreams just before they were real enough to hold in our hands.
Sighing, I pull the covers down, get back up, and cross the room. The brass key that Pops gave me hangs from a metallic peg. I swipe it from the wall and turn it over and over in my hands, feeling the wear of centuries. I know the story that goes with this key. My ancestors escaped north as slaves. A locksmith up near Detroit took the measure of my great-great-great-grandmother’s chains and made her a key. It was passed down as a symbol to every Atwater as a reminder that we weren’t always free to do what we wanted. Many of the men and women who have held this key still weren’t free, not really.
Pops? He’s not a slave, but he’s not truly free either. Life’s left him grinding for every single dime. Most days he looks like he’s halfway through a race he’ll never finish. He and Moms never had the chance to go to college. I have a few cousins who have, but for the most part, my family is stuck in the same grind of centuries past. I turn the key in my hands and realize I can write my own story. Not about lost dreams, but about a future bright as any golden shore.
It’s just one day, I remind myself. My fight is one of decades and generations. One bad day won’t stop me from rising up. I won’t quit, not today, not ever.
It’s tempting to go to sleep. Instead, I cross the room to my desk and palm the nyxian ring sitting on the desk. I write down a list of items that I want to create and start working. Each new image comes faster; each manipulation has fewer mistakes than the one before it. I go at it until I feel like I’m seeing double. I go at it until I know that tomorrow will be better.
DAY 2, 8:38 A.M.
Aboard Genesis 11
My dreams are black holes. In the first one, the black hole devours me atom by atom and leaves me in the nothing of the universe. In the second one, I’m the black hole. Towering and dark, I destroy the other contestants one by one. Their screams have no sound. I’m not sure which dream is scarier, the destroyed or the destroyer. As I stare at the ceiling, I realize that Babel’s competition will make me one or the other. There’s no middle ground on Genesis 11.
I know I should take a shower to freshen up, but it’s all
I can do to crawl into my suit and stumble over to my desk. My muscles are bunched and aching, but I can’t afford to be sore. Not when I need to be great. Before I leave, I manipulate my nyxian ring into a black rubber band. Yesterday, I lost precious seconds tugging the ring off a stubborn finger. But now I know that every second counts. So I slide the rubber band over my right wrist and test it. It comes on and off a lot faster than the ring did. Pops always said it’s the little things that win championships. I can dig that.
I exit my bedroom and I’m surprised to find Kaya waiting for me. She’s sitting on the nearest couch and waves as I come into view. Her hair is done up into pigtails that look oddly childish compared to the fierce-looking nyxian mask along her jaw.
“Good morning,” she says. “I have a proposition for you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Does it involve breakfast?”
“An alliance,” she replies. “You and me.”
The request splits my brain in seven different directions. She wants to team with me? What if it’s a trap? What if the competition evolves? And why make an alliance so early? I don’t think it’s the worst idea in the world, but we’ve literally marked off one day on the calendar. I expected alliances and relationships to form, but making a move this early feels risky. I did watch Kaya compete yesterday. She’d be a huge help, but I’m not sure what I can offer her. And I can’t forget my dreams either. All the black holes. Destroy or be destroyed. Can an alliance really survive what Babel’s planning for us? What if the final spot comes down to me or her?
“Tell me why.”
She nods. “I’m strategic, a strong problem solver. That’s my specialty. Finding solutions. If you struggle in a certain event, we can come up with strategies together.”
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