We all stiffen. A few sideways glances. We are not a team. We have our friends and enemies here, but in no way are we a team. And if we have to work together, how do we gain ground? How do we get points or keep others from getting points? I glance back at the scoreboard and smile. Is it possible I just beat Roathy on a technicality? If he can’t gain ground, then being a thousand points ahead of him is a great place to be.
Roathy and Isadora look like they’re thinking the opposite. His face is tight and furious. Hers is a softer, prettier kind of rage. Good. I want them angry and unfocused and trapped. I want them separated and broken. I want them to pay for what they tried to do to me.
“Shall we begin?” Defoe asks.
The question takes us back to the beginning. We’ve come a long way, but we still know nothing. Nothing of what waits behind this wall, nothing of what Eden is really like. The walls grind to life. Our collective breath catches as one turns to two. The slightest sliver of light separates the seamless edges of the retracting walls. It sounds like a massive engine throwing out revolutions. We watch and wait as the gap grows.
The room opposite ours is high-ceilinged and brightly lit. A man walks forward as soon as the gap is wide enough. He’s old, with something familiar in his face. His hair is fine silver, but disorganized by a hand constantly running through it. Downcast eyes, crooked nose, stress lines. He wears a nyxian suit that matches Defoe’s. As the walls continue to part, and as he and Defoe shake hands, we see them for the first time.
The sight is heartbreaking. It’s like looking at ourselves in a fun-house mirror. The base image is reflected back, but all the details are distorted. They are ten to our nine. They wear nyxian masks too, but the faces and eyes above them are painted with different colors and different expressions. We stare at each other, speechless.
Ten of them. There are ten of them. There were ten of us. Anger burns up my throat in the place of oxygen. I do not want these ten people to exist, because their presence can only mean one thing. We aren’t the only ones vying for a chance to travel to Eden. We aren’t the only Genesis. Each new face is a new threat. One more person in my way.
Babel’s changed the game again.
DAY 0, 8:42 P.M.
Aboard the Tower Space Station
I want them to be an illusion. They’re not.
One girl stands in front of the others. Dark hair rests over one shoulder in a thick braid. The months in space haven’t faded her deeply tan skin. Both eyes narrow and I can tell she’s taking our measure, drinking in the details of our team. I wait for surprise or fear or concern, but it’s like we’re a new challenge, a new Rabbit Room. It’s like she’s already figuring out how she’s going to beat us.
Behind her stands a redheaded girl who’s tall and gangly. Two other girls have dark skin and dark hair; one looks like she’s from India and the other from the Middle East. They have two boys bigger than Katsu. One’s a good five inches taller than me, and all muscle. His shoulders are broad beneath a face that any sculptor would find worthy of stone. The other boy’s big and meaty, his face a mess of freckles.
Like us, they also appear to have a pair of lovers. Two blondes, both stunning. The girl’s got the brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen outside a magazine. The boy styles his hair up like a famous soccer player. The last two boys stand shoulder to shoulder, though they look nothing alike. One’s short and cruel-looking, a thick brute of a boy. The other’s got golden curls above a tan face. His eyes are so startling that they look like a new color, a green swallowed by blue. The two of them are picturesque opposites, Jekyll and Hyde.
On the wall to our right, something clicks and rattles. We take our eyes off each other long enough to watch the scoreboard change. Ten more spots are added. The names shuffle and the points organize. We all watch as our standing in the competition changes:
My heart stops beating. I can’t take all the information in at once, so I break it down, forcing everything into more manageable pieces. First, I’m in thirteenth. Not exactly a lucky number, but it seems like a solid place to be.
Second, bold names. They’ve italicized the leaders and the rest of the girls. After Kaya’s death, Defoe guaranteed their passage. But my passage? Far from a guarantee. My name is bold on the scoreboard, and that’s what really matters. Mine and eight others. We’re the last ones fighting for spots. I realize that if my name is bold, that means I can lose my spot. At least three will be eliminated. I’m closer to the bottom three than I want to be. I am in danger.
The last piece of information comes as a guilty afterthought: Babel removed Kaya’s name from the scoreboard. Her absence there almost levels the walls I’ve been rebuilding with Vandemeer. I squeeze both eyes shut, whisper a prayer, and promise I won’t forget her, even if Babel does. The rest of the room is silent. No one speaks for a long minute. We knew Babel would change the game, but this kind of change was unimaginable.
Longwei finds his voice first. “That is total bullshit.”
I can’t help but laugh. His score, so insurmountable in our eyes, has almost been doubled by Morning. I find the name on the suit of the girl with the dark braid, the one standing apart from the others. As we watch, she turns and walks the lines of her team, whispering to them, either informing or rallying. It’s obvious that we don’t have anyone like her.
We have Longwei, who is talented and hateful. Jaime, who performs each task competently but never demonstrates an excellence worth following. Azima, who hasn’t once volunteered to lead in our group competitions. Katsu, who can’t take anything seriously. The rest, myself included, have not scored well enough to demand respect. If Bilal wasn’t hurt, I’d peg him as the most likely person to rise into a leadership position.
“Genesis 11, meet Genesis 12,” Defoe announces. It takes a moment to realize that we’re Genesis 11. We never identified that way because the challenge has always been an individual struggle. Defoe goes on: “They are your competition. Genesis 12, I am Marcus Defoe, one of the Babel Communications CEOs. Please know that both teams have been through the exact same training. The same courses in the Rabbit Room, the same battles in the pit, the same explorations of simulated Eden. The scores you see are a reflection of what you did with that same opportunity. That being said, our numbers for the descent to Eden have changed.”
Fear thunders back through me. The game is changing. Air leaks from Babel’s promises.
“One of the contestants aboard Genesis 11 died during our flight. It was agreed then that we would appoint three captains for three different mining units. We are likely to take the top three for those positions. So even if you have already qualified for Eden, you still need to fight. Our three captains will have their salaries doubled, in perpetuity. That’s your incentive. The rest of you are fighting to go to Eden. Each unit will be made up of five members in order to maximize nyxia extraction and mobility on Eden. That means fifteen out of twenty will go.”
One more person eliminated. I glance back at the scoreboard. I’m clear of the bottom four by just a thousand points. Everything is crumbling. Defoe retreats, and the silver-haired man takes his cue. His voice is deeper than a well.
“My name is David Requin. We’ve done our best to simplify things on the scoreboard. Those of you in italics are safe. Your flight to Eden is virtually secured. Congratulations.” He pauses and begins listing those who aren’t safe. “Jaime, Anton, Emmett, Bilal, Alex, Roathy, Loche, Omar, and Brett. Step forward.”
Feet shuffle as we obey. Five on their side. Four on ours. Bilal looks like an easy target in his wheelchair. If he misses a few weeks, he’s seriously in trouble now. I glance at the scoreboard again. Loche and Brett are in the deepest hole. I scan the fronts of their suits. Loche, the lover with pretty, spiked hair. Brett, the lumbering boy with the freckled face. I dismiss Omar. He’s way too far ahead. But the other two? They might be my biggest threats.
The two opposites. Alex, athletic and curly-headed, is just a thousand points back. Anton, short a
nd wicked, is well ahead. I have new enemies to add to the old ones.
Requin and Defoe let the uncomfortable moment stretch its legs. As the seconds pass, my nyxian rings dance with nervous energy. They want to transform, into sharp blades or steady shields. I am back to the thin line between black holes. Am I the danger? Or are they? Anton smiles wickedly at us and I decide it’s them. They’re the dangerous ones.
Requin explains. “You’re all fighting for spots. Bold names are still on the fence. As long as your name is bold, you have a mathematical chance to join the italicized names and secure a spot on Eden. But bold also works in the other direction. If your name is bold, it’s still mathematically possible that you can lose your spot. All of you have thirty days to decide your fate. We reserve the right to remove anyone who cannot meet our standards in the Waterway. If you can’t operate there, we don’t want you on-planet. Is that understood?”
Everyone nods. It feels like the beginning did. Everyone’s a threat.
“Medics,” Defoe calls. “Escort your participants to their new quarters. The first round will begin in the morning. Contestants, get your rest. You’ll need it.”
We’re led through the Tower Space Station. Morning walks at the front of their group. The rest march behind her like eager soldiers. They don’t look defeated or tired. A few of them, maybe, the stragglers, but the rest of the group looks excited about what’s ahead. I hear them laughing together. Our group walks in silence. Even Katsu doesn’t make any jokes.
Our new rooms are smaller, ten separate compartments honeycombed around the same living space. Genesis 12 files into identical rooms on the floor below us. I have hundreds of questions about the station, but I don’t ask them because I know Vandemeer doesn’t know either. Genesis 12 was a surprise to him. I can still see the gears turning in his head. First the enslaved Adamite. Now a secret group of contestants. What else have they hidden from him? From us?
We split from the others. Vandemeer scans us into the room. He pulls out his data pad and punches a few buttons. One of the walls starts to retract like a window curtain.
“Thirty days,” Vandemeer reminds me. “Just in case you need an incentive. This is what you’re fighting for. This is where you’re going.”
The edges of the window are dark. The frightening black of space. But at center, Eden. It’s breathtaking. A darker blue than what I remember of Earth’s portraits. A sea that hides its dangers in darkness. The green and brown of its continents are more broken up, dashed in twos and fours and twenties by fat-tongued rivers. Swirling white storms cover up mountains and plains, islands and jungles. It is familiar and foreign all at once.
Vandemeer nods at the new world. “There is no one on this ship who can take that away from you. No one but yourself. Remember that. Fight for it. For yourself and for Kaya. You will go down to Eden, Emmett.”
DAY 1, 9:45 A.M.
Aboard the Tower Space Station
We form single-file lines and follow Defoe and Requin down to the Waterway. A natural hype snakes its way through both groups. Their crew definitely looks more organized, but that might just be the effect of Morning marching fearlessly through the corridors. I try to mimic her calm and focus, but Katsu starts in with the smack talk. The back-and-forth feels so much like home that I start grinning. It reminds me of PJ walking out to half-court before rec-league games, finding the best player on the other team and calling their number.
“Look how cute they are,” Katsu says. “Marching in step like little ducklings.”
“At least we know which group is the good-looking one,” Anton jabs back.
“Good-looking?” Katsu laughs obnoxiously and points a finger at Anton. “I’ve found things in gutters that looked prettier than you, little man.”
Anton’s cheeks burn red. “If we were in Russia, I’d slip you into a river, nice and quiet. It’d be easy. You don’t look like the kind that floats. Straight down to the mud, big boy.”
Katsu laughs even louder. “You’re just adorable. Like an action figure.”
Anton’s cheeks grow brighter, but Morning shoots him a look from the front of the group. It cracks like a whip. Anton bites his tongue and keeps walking.
Defoe and Requin lead us through a network of tunneled hallways. The path ends in a massive hatch that opens with a scan from both their access cards. Lights drone above, reflected in the dashing rapids below.
A river. Babel has a damn river on their space station. We stand on an observation deck above the foaming trenches. The Waterway is about one hundred meters wide. It winds through artificial rocks and twisting plant life. Dark blue, it rolls out some two hundred meters before coiling around a corner. Below, two boats bob at anchor.
I look over and I’m surprised to see Bilal being wheeled into the room by his caretaker. He looks like he’s been through seven hells down in the med unit. His eyes are sunken and withdrawn, his frame stick thin. I’m amazed he’s even here.
“Welcome to the Waterway,” Requin says, sweeping us down a narrow ramp.
Babel’s made makeshift docks and gangplanks. Defoe leads Genesis 11 to the left; Requin leads Genesis 12 to the right. “Later, gargoyle.” Katsu blows a kiss at the little Russian.
Before Anton can call back, Morning pushes him across the gangplank. She’s a head taller than him and stronger than she looks. Katsu can laugh all he wants, but their team seems more focused than ours, and it’s not hard to see that it’s because of her. I watch her stand at the top of the gangplank as the others file past. They nod their respect to her. She’s what Kaya would have been for us if she were still alive.
As we cross our own gangplank, my stomach knots. We’re in more trouble than I thought. I’m in more trouble than I thought. Genesis 12 is what Defoe could have made us, but we weren’t fitted together like a puzzle. We were pitted against each other like gladiators. There’s too much bad blood between us now to change that.
The boat is yet another marvel of Babel’s endless innovation. Every railing is sleek, every floorboard flawless. Though the wooden planks smell freshly lacquered, they still groan beneath our weight like good planks should groan. Standing at center is a nyxian throne. A captain’s chair, more likely, but it looks regal as all get-out. Webs of nyxia weave from the chair’s base and along the wooden planks, lashing the throne to eight nyxian consoles that are built into the ship railings. I find myself searching for oars or sails or ropes, but there’s nothing. Just the captain’s chair and the consoles.
“Welcome to your tutorial session,” Defoe says, pulling all eyes back to him. “The ship is a replica of a watercraft the Adamites use on Eden. These next thirty days will require you to navigate the Waterway, ward off predators, and participate in ship raids. We want you prepped for everything that could happen on Eden. Water travel is a necessity on the planet to be held. You will be tested three times a day. All competitions are on the Waterway.”
“How much are they worth?” Isadora asks. Roathy stands behind her like a gaunt shadow. They’re worried, and they should be. “How many points?”
“There are two team matches a day, worth three thousand points each. That’s a total of one hundred eighty thousand points. Every member of the winning team will receive the bonus. The losing team gets nothing. The third event every day will be individual nyxia battles. That is where you can climb or fall within your own ranks. Fathom?”
Defoe makes our slang sound like it’s his. We all nod because we all fathom. The bulk of the points will be through teamwork, but there are still opportunities to draw blood from our own. I glance over at the other ship. Requin is standing to one side as Genesis 12 explores their vessel. Morning’s pointing out things and directing her team to certain stations. We need to get moving. Defoe’s noticed it too. He claps his hands together with finality.
“You have thirty minutes to familiarize yourself with the ship, establish a captain, and determine which nyxian stations each of you will man during the coming weeks. Genesis 12 has one
more participant than you do, so they will be sitting out one person each day in a rotating order.” He glances over at Requin and lowers his voice. “Choose your captain first. The back station should be manned by the strongest nyxia manipulator in the group. Pure strength and stamina. Front station needs to be able to scout. Drivers are right and left. The rest you’ll need to figure out yourselves.” He glances at his watch. “Make that twenty-nine minutes. Get to work.”
Defoe exits and the arguments begin.
“I should be captain,” Katsu says.
Longwei rounds on him. “I’m in first.”
“You’re in second,” Katsu snaps, thumbing at the scoreboard. “And points don’t matter.”
“Points are the only thing that matter,” Longwei replies.
“You’re not a leader.” Katsu looks around and shrugs. “You don’t even talk to us. How are you supposed to lead us? No one will follow you.”
Longwei sweeps his front tuft to one side and goes quiet. His eyes stay sharp and angry. Before Katsu can claim the captain’s seat, Jaime steps forward.
“I should be the captain,” he says. “I can multitask better than anyone. And I’ll actually take the command of the ship seriously. All you do is tell jokes, Katsu.”
“Raise your hand if you remember anything Jaime’s done better than anyone else,” Katsu says. When the others hesitate, he smiles over at the Swiss. “That settles that.”
“What about me?” Azima suggests quietly. “I can lead.”
A new round of arguments follows. Frustrated, I look back to the other ship. A few steps takes me to our right railing, close enough to hear Genesis 12. They’re not at stations yet, but they aren’t arguing over who should be captain either, because their captain is already seated in her chair.
“Omar, you’re at the back station,” Morning instructs. “I’ll add my strength to yours as often as I can. Anton and Alex, wings, please. You work together better than anyone.”
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