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 and 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.”