DAY 189, 8:28 P.M.

Aboard Genesis 11

We gather before a sheer black wall near the back of the ship. It has the characteristic shine of nyxia. For the first time, we see the entirety of our crew. Genesis 11 is a small village of astronauts and medics, techies and marines. They watch as Defoe marches us into the room.

We’re lined up in order, first to last, between the nyxian wall and the crew. My stomach tightens with anticipation. Word works through the ranks that there will be thirty more days before the contest is over and we’re ready to leave the ship. A new challenge awaits. Whatever the design, I know it will be harder. Babel always demands more, never less.

My eyes slip over to the scoreboard on our right:

Eight out of ten will go. I’m already ahead of Roathy, but it’s not the kind of lead that lets you sleep comfortably at night. My eyes drift up to Bilal’s score. He’s performed so well, but this final injury might keep him out for a few weeks. I know I can beat Roathy, but what if we both catch Bilal in the process? I’ve made promises to myself, to Moms and Pops, to Kaya’s memory. I’m going to Eden. But if I can, I’m taking Bilal with me too.

Outside, metal kisses metal. The ship shudders, and I can feel the vibration in both legs. Defoe is delivering us with surprisingly little pageantry. Even though our most important accomplishments are written in bold on the scoreboard, there are other successes that have been set aside and forgotten. We are space travelers. Astronauts. When I’m older, I’ll tell my kids about this voyage. No one else, not PJ or any of the Most Excellent Brothers, can say what I will say. They cannot tell the stories I will tell.

But Eden’s still out of reach. Thirty more days, I think, just thirty more days.

I glance over at Bilal. His attendant’s wheeled him into the room, and a hard, nyxian cast covers his leg. Even injured, he’s still smiling beneath his mask. Always smiling. The sound of grinding metal ceases. We all stand a little taller, straightening our shoulders. Defoe separates from the crowd to stand before us. His nyxian suit shimmers like the fine edge of a knife.

“Thank you,” he says with a wide, sweeping gesture. “To the crew for their precision, to the medics for their care, to the competitors for their fortitude. We’ve just completed a voyage that marks a new era in man’s ventures into space. It is an honor to be at the helm of a mission such as this with people such as you. Today, the days that precede it, and the days to follow, will be recorded in history alongside the other markers of human progress. You will be remembered.”

Our medics step forward to stand behind their pairings. There is an empty space on my right where Kaya should be standing. Vandemeer pats my shoulder kindly as Defoe dismisses the astronauts and techies. They drift back into the underbelly of the ship, and when the last footsteps fade, Defoe continues.

“We are now entering the next phase of the competition. You will have thirty more days and no more Sabbaths. In that time, you will be able to add to your overall scores through a competition called the Waterway. There you will learn to navigate similar conditions to what you will see on Eden. The only major difference is that you will do this as a team.”

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.