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 watch 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.