Nyxia

by Scott Reintgen

  “I think he wins.”

  “Not so fast,” Katsu says. “Kaya and Isadora still have to go.”

  There’s a little noise of protest from my left. Kaya’s eyes are dark and forbidding above her mask. I know what she’ll say even as she opens her mouth to answer.

  “There are some competitions I don’t want to win.”

  Katsu looks annoyed by that but says nothing. The attention of the room shifts Isadora’s way. She stands and crosses the room, accepting the box from Bilal’s gentle hands. A little gasp sounds as she flips the lid, snatches the candy, and plops it in her mouth.

  We hear the crunch. Dust powders the air around her lips.

  She says, “I don’t have to tell my story to know I would be the winner.”

  With that, she leaves. Her departure tolls through our group like midnight in a fairy tale. The magic Bilal created for us starts to slip through every finger. Roathy follows Isadora out. The rest of us stay and play cards, but we’re no longer laughing. Hushed conversation revolves around Isadora. She’s always been the quietest in the group, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t left clues here and there. She apparently told Jazzy once that there’s nothing more important to her than being a mother. And occasionally she and Katsu mourn the fact that they’re missing the approaching World Cup.

  It’s only after these facts are fully examined that we turn the conversation to the real mystery about Isadora: her tattoo. Everyone’s seen the crowned eight etched on her neck by now, but it’s clear we’ve each heard very different explanations.

  “It’s the number of her favorite soccer player,” Bilal explains.

  Azima shakes her head. “She told me it’s the day her mother died.”

  “I thought it symbolizes making it into the top eight,” Jazzy offers. “Isn’t that why there’s a crown?”

  Katsu laughs at that. “How would she have known about being in the top eight? You think she got the tattoo after boarding the ship?”

  “She’s the youngest in a family of eight,” Kaya says firmly. “That’s why she originally got the tattoo. She always felt like she was in last place. That’s what she said.”

  When we question Isadora the next day, her eyes narrow playfully. “I would have thought it was obvious. Eight. The number of fools it takes to figure out the meaning of a tattoo.”

  One night of playing cards has drawn the colors out of the dark world Babel’s trying to build. We still dig and fight and scrape for each point, but there’s something human beneath every mask now. I know some of their secrets, some of their stories. I know now that I’m not the only one who comes from a broken world and I’m not the only one who’s desperate to fix it.

  Only Longwei continues to hold himself apart. As the weeks pass, he never sits down to talk with anyone. He doesn’t play cards on Sabbaths. He doesn’t tell stories about his childhood. His actions still speak volumes. He enters every event like a man possessed. Failure is not an option. Second place is a mark of shame. Even in silence, Longwei is proving Kaya’s theory right. We all are. She said each one of us was broken. She claimed she could see it in us, bright as paint on a canvas. Hearing the truth of that in each of our stories has me wondering how Babel chose us.

  I remember getting called out of algebra. The principal took me to a conference room. There were three of them. All in suits. It scared the hell out of me.

  When I sat down, they slid the first contract across the table and said I’d been chosen. Wasn’t I lucky? I’d been drawn from a lottery out of thousands of applicants.

  Funny thing is, I know I never applied.

  DAY 99, 4:35 P.M.

  Aboard Genesis 11

  As we get closer and closer to the Tower Space Station, we learn that this is a competition of highs and lows. Bones break, ankles twist, muscles pull.

  Babel pushes us over cliffs and expects us to fly. Sometimes we do.

  I stand in front of the mirror. There is no longer a gut for my suit to tighten. The ribbed leather six-pack actually represents the muscles underneath now. Babel and Karpinski took my soul’s softness in weeks. It’s taken a little longer to remove the physical softness, to carve me into something hard and powerful.

  Vandemeer waits in the living room with Kaya. Every morning we train. Every night we study Eden and the Adamites. Every day the two of them help me claw my way back up the scoreboard. Our alliance is earning its weight in gold. After crunches and push-ups, Vandemeer quizzes me on the climates of Eden. The more I learn, the more of a mystery their world seems. Eden isn’t Earth. The Adamites aren’t humans. The similarities are there, but underestimating the differences might get us killed. It helps knowing that almost the entire Adamite population lives in one massive city. It helps knowing their average age of mortality is more than double ours. Even little things, like the fact that they never communicate through head nods or hand motions, could matter when we’re on the surface and face to face with another species.

  We walk down to breakfast together. The others have changed too. Katsu’s still massive, but muscle has formed in his arms and chest. Kaya was right about him. There are days where he can’t hide his sadness behind clever jokes. On those days, he’s darker and more bitter than any of us.

  Bilal has actually grown a few inches. He’s tall and goofy-looking now, but still always smiling. Jaime’s face has thinned. The change emphasizes his cheekbones, makes him look even more like a medieval prince. I’ve been slowly setting aside my natural distrust of him. He’s been slowly forgiving me for all the early accusations. Only Azima looks the same. She claims this kind of chaos is in her blood. She says she was born to survive far crueler conditions.

  I used to think that was true of me.

  Vandemeer’s training isn’t only physical. It’s mental too. One lesson that won’t stick is his request that I don’t obsess over the scoreboard. In spite of his reminders about psychology and positive thinking, I glance at it after every activity, every meal, every anything:

  It took weeks to catch up and solidify my position. But getting here won’t be enough. A twisted ankle or a punctured lung or a broken bone can stop my point flow at any time. Now the focus is on building a lead and keeping my distance from the bottom two. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that no one’s safe. Not until they tally up the totals and we unload for Eden.

  Another thing I’ve learned is that none of my competitors are the lazy rabbit from Aesop’s fables. They all keep running. They all wake up in the morning with purpose.

  Everyone has a specialty that keeps netting them points. Azima never loses in the pit. Bilal and Jazzy have set themselves apart in the classroom. Katsu is one of the most clever nyxia manipulators, and Kaya’s always one step ahead in strategy. Jaime’s a little good at everything and Longwei’s a lot good at everything. I know I can compete with any of them, but I’m forced to take it all one step at a time. It’s a game of small victories, little milestones.

  This morning, Defoe has us gripping. Of all Babel’s exercises, it’s my favorite. A flat-topped podium stands between two competitors. Defoe manipulates nyxia and hides it beneath a tablecloth. When he pulls back the curtain, we fight for control of the nyxian item.

  I take my place across from Bilal. A deep breath lets me push away every thought. I go to a place of cold stones and still waters before Defoe makes the pull.

  A smoked-wood clock. Bilal and I both reach for the nyxia at the same time, but I’m faster than him. I can feel him in my mind, shouldering and reaching for a handle on what I already have in my mental hands. I let my eyes close and hold tighter to the image of the clock, with its black numbers and gold ticking hands. When I have it there firmly, I shove back against Bilal and manipulate the substance into a leather-bound book.

  “Time,” Defoe calls.

  We both open our eyes and my creation sits on the podium, title and all.

  Bilal shakes his head in disbelief but says, “Nice pull.”

  Points trickle
into my score. Small victories, I remind myself. I got the points and Bilal didn’t. I just need it to happen a few hundred more times. Most days I can beat everyone except Longwei. His strength in this exercise feels like stepping in front of a two-ton truck. Dude still doesn’t smile when he wins. I’m not sure he’ll smile until a spaceship sets him down on Eden’s foggy shores. Maybe not even then.

  Bilal and I walk to the end of the line and watch as Longwei lines up across from Katsu. He closes his eyes, keeping his whole body completely still. We watch Defoe pull the covering and barely catch a glimpse of shape and size before Longwei grips it. Katsu groans as Longwei’s trademark gold medallion clatters onto the podium. He doesn’t even smile as Defoe dismisses us for the day.

  “How do you do that?” Bilal asks. “You always leave me stranded out of the gate.”

  “I don’t know. It’s all about focus. You can’t be thinking about anything else.”

  This is the line I toe every day with him. Bilal, who comes up to my room on Sabbaths and tells me stories. Bilal, who reads Kaya and me lines from his favorite poems, who never stops smiling at everyone. But he’s already in second place. So do I help him? Do I answer his questions if I’m the one playing catch-up?

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted,” Bilal says. “If tomorrow wasn’t Sabbath, I’d probably have taken the day off to get my knee looked at.”

  His knee’s been bugging him for a week. His medic thinks it might be a torn meniscus. An injury like that could keep him out at least a week if it needs surgery. After my time in the med unit, I don’t wish poor health on anyone. But we all get injured. Jazzy was out for a week with a high ankle sprain. Isadora was sidelined with some kind of space vertigo. Babel’s well-oiled engines push on with or without us. Only Longwei hasn’t needed a day off.

  Which makes sense: he’s more machine than man.

  “You’re sitting in second,” I tell Bilal. “I’d be happy to trade places. Those first few weeks cost me an arm and a leg. I’m barely keeping my head above water.”

  “I’ve just been lucky. Keep going, fathom?”

  I nod. “Trust me, I fathom.”

  Fathom and lurch and seat-talk. The slang’s developed in the past few months. A hybrid of Earth lingo and something we’re creating ourselves. Everyone’s added phrases to the mix from their corner of the world. Jaime was the first, calling me a lurch the day I flipped on him. That and lurk alternate as the best way to remind someone they’re acting like an idiot. I threw fathom into the bunch. Azima gave us seat-talk. Jazzy started the popular go suck on an egg. I speak the same language as her and I wasn’t even sure what that meant. The new slang gives our group the feel of a family. Like most families, we have rivalries and fights and skeletons piling up in the closet. Like most families, we fall apart more often than we come together.

  “Hey, get that knee looked at tomorrow,” I tell Bilal. “I’m going to be catching up on sleep, so I’m not sure I’ll have time to hang out unless it’s at breakfast.”

  Bilal nods and we bump knuckles. He splits his way and I split mine. Kaya’s waiting in our room for me.

  “So why’d I just lie to Bilal? I always feel guilty doing that. It’s like lying to an angel.”

  “He is an angel,” Kaya replies. “Which is why he’s a bad fit for tomorrow’s activities.”

  I roll my eyes. “Let me guess…more exploring?”

  The competition’s not the only thing that’s changed. Kaya’s interest in Babel has grown into an obsession. I almost blame myself for it. Discovering the no-grav room only made her more curious. I dream about moving up the scoreboard. Kaya dreams about what’s behind Babel’s locked door.

  It doesn’t help that Vandemeer started printing journals for us to read. He calls it positive-reinforcement research. He thinks giving us more information on Babel and the Adamites will have us believing we’re going down to Eden. The dense reads that were supposed to set Kaya’s eyes on Eden have done the opposite. She keeps finding new things that feed new suspicions. She’s convinced Babel has something hidden, and she thinks we’re the detectives who are supposed to solve the riddle. It’s not hard to understand her obsession. She thrives in finding solutions to problems. The door’s the one mystery she hasn’t solved.

  She forces me to take her down to the no-grav room even though we’ve never made it past the second air lock. Judging from the look on her face, tomorrow will involve more exploration. Really, every time we come back without a Babel marine escort I’m surprised. Vandemeer doesn’t miss much. Maybe he noticed the missing card and hasn’t said anything because he knows Babel’s consequences for errors have a cost. An image of Karpinski bound and on his knees rises in my mind. If that’s how Babel handles their own stepping out of line, it’d be wise of Vandemeer to keep his mouth shut about losing it.

  “More exploring,” Kaya confirms. “But this time I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  I laugh. “Whatever you say. I’ve got an appointment to call home and an afternoon in the steamer. Want to meet up at the usual time?”

  She nods. “Sleep well, Emmett.”

  DAY 100, 10:33 A.M.

  Aboard Genesis 11

  Meals are unpredictable on Sabbaths. Everyone’s schedule changes so drastically. People eat late or early or not at all. Once, Katsu slept through the entire day. He woke up just in time to start another week of Babel’s endless grind.

  So it’s only by dumb luck that I bump into Bilal on the way to breakfast. We exchange good mornings and stumble downstairs together. Naturally, Longwei’s the only other person awake this early. Our annoying leader doesn’t even look up as Bilal and I walk the length of the buffet. It feels so normal to joke with Bilal and sit down for a meal that I almost don’t notice how weird he’s acting. He’s always been a little awkward, but today he’s straight jumpy. His normally tidy hair looks chaotic. As I chew on a piece of bacon, I realize he’s blushing. Sweating too.

  I point at him with my fork. “Hey, the hell’s wrong with you today?”

  His eyes flick over to the other end of the table, in Longwei’s direction. He’s standing at the buffet, back to us, picking through the deviled eggs. Bilal turns back, content knowing that whatever he wants to share won’t be overheard.

  “Last night, Azima kissed me.”

  I stare at him. “Sorry, I think your mask’s broken, Bilal. It sounded like you said that Azima kissed you last night.”

  His face goes a deeper shade of red. “I did.”

  “Azima? Kissed you?”

  He nods. “On the lips.”

  The widest smile splits my face. No wonder he looks like the world’s ending. Bilal’s probably the nicest kid in the world, but it’s not hard to imagine this was his first kiss. Laughing, I reach out for dap. Bilal pounds my fist, half laughing himself, but then he shakes his head.

  “I should not laugh. It is not honorable.”

  “Kissing?” I ask. “Dude, nothing wrong with a little kissing.”

  Bilal shakes his head again. “But I must ask her parents for their approval.”

  “Good luck.” I thumb back. “He’s a few million kilometers that way.”

  “Exactly,” Bilal replies, face lined with concern. “It’s not right to—”

  The sound of a crashing plate cuts him off. We both look up like startled birds. Longwei’s standing by the edge of the table, his deviled eggs a smash of white and yellow on the floor. But he’s not looking at the fallen plate or the mess. His eyes are locked on Bilal. It takes a second to realize that he’s blushing too.

  “Can we help you, Longwei?” I ask.

  His fists are clenching and unclenching.

  “But I kissed Azima.”

  All the color drains from Bilal’s face. The two of them stare daggers at each other as I burst into laughter. It’s too funny not to laugh. All this time Longwei’s built himself up as the untouchable competitor. He works harder and smarter and faster than any of us, but with just four
words he’s shattered all my illusions. It’s hard to even imagine him kissing someone. He doesn’t usually do anything that won’t earn points on the scoreboard.

  But a glance at Bilal cuts my laughter off. The stare he’s leveling Longwei with is a furious one. It’s not even the presence of anger, really. It’s the absence of his normal smile.

  “Look, guys,” I say, trying to play peacemaker. “I’m sure it’s an honest mistake.”

  Longwei ignores me. “I kissed her first.”

  Before Bilal can answer, Longwei storms out of the room. I have to fight back the laughter because, seriously? He kissed Azima first? That’s his argument? Bilal’s taking deep breaths as I scramble for the right words. Thankfully, he finds them first.

  “How could she?” he asks.

  I shrug. “It’s not 2020 anymore, man. Girl’s got the right to kiss who she wants.”

  “No, not that,” Bilal replies. “I agree that it is her right. But Longwei? How could she ever kiss Longwei? I have to take a shower. I do not feel clean.”

  He starts walking off in the wrong direction.

  “Bilal.” My voice pulls his attention. “That way. You have to go that way.”

  He nods once and changes direction. “Longwei, of all people…”

  I wait until he rounds a corner before dying from laughter. I’ll have to thank Azima later. This might have been my favorite moment aboard Genesis 11. I still remember her giving a speech about finding a man worthy of her, but I didn’t realize she’d been conducting interviews. Neither of her choices surprises me. Longwei’s name has been first or second on the scoreboard since the beginning, and Bilal’s the nicest person I’ve ever met. It doesn’t hurt that he’s competed well too. Both of them are worthy, in their own ways, but I have a hard time imagining Azima settling for either one.

  Sighing, I make a mental note to talk to Bilal later. Knowing him, he’d never actually take revenge on Longwei, but I’m sure he’ll run circles in his own head about all of it. I start in on a second helping of breakfast when Vandemeer tracks me down.