Dedication
For the real Leo:
My son,
My heart,
My love.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Alexandra Monir
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
One
LEO
Rome, Italy
A FUNNY THING HAPPENS WHEN YOU HAVE NOTHING LEFT TO live for. Your existence loses all its sharp edges. There are no more steep drops, no hills to climb. Colors blur and muddle together until your surroundings are a bunch of meaningless shapes and figures painted in the same shade of gray. There’s nothing that could possibly surprise you or resurrect those old sensations of joy or fear. No human could be as unfeeling, as numb, as you are. And then, just when you’re getting lulled into the monotonous routine, something snaps. No more.
I hope I won’t be judged harshly for what I’m about to do. The truth is, I’m not sure I ever had a choice. This day has been beckoning me for a year—ever since the water rose up and swallowed our city. I’m supposed to be one of the “lucky ones” because I survived, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. There’s nothing lucky about hearing the screams of the dead every time you close your eyes, or waking up each morning alone, forced to remember all over again. The horror never loosens its grip. It follows everywhere you move, breathing down your neck, whispering in your ear.
I glance up at the clock, the numbers blinking 4:35 a.m. It’s time to make my exit, before the neighbors wake up and spot me. But first, I let myself take one last look at home—or what remains of it.
The fourth floor of our pensione, once known as the Michelangelo Suite, is all that survived the flood. The high tide and storm swells pulled the first three floors under that day, sentencing everyone in those rooms to the worst kind of death. I should have gone down with them—I would have, if it hadn’t been for the couple in the Michelangelo Suite requesting room service, sending me to the top floor with a breakfast tray at the moment the waves crashed through the windows below. You could say those hungry guests and this room saved me, but why? Why should I have survived with a couple of strangers when my family was drowning?
My eyes linger on the remnants of them that I salvaged from the sea floor. Papà’s threadbare slippers sit on the ottoman beside Mamma’s Elena Ferrante novel, the corner of page 152 turned down to mark her place. The ink is smeared, the words running together like tears, yet I can still see that the page ends in an incomplete sentence. One more thing Mamma never got to finish.
Angelica beams at me from her last school photo, and I pick up the cracked silver frame from its shelf. I study my little sister’s bright eyes and dimpled smile one last time, memorizing her features. And then I take a breath and pull back the heavy sheet metal that covers the door, protecting against the tide.
This room once opened into a bright hallway lined with paintings, surrounding a stone staircase—but that was before La Grande Inondazione, the greatest flood Rome has ever known. Now the Tyrrhenian Sea laps at my doorstep, and when I venture outside, only a small wooden ledge separates me from the water.
In this new Rome, the only place to go is up. Each surviving structure has a ledge or makeshift dock like mine that connects to the passerelle: raised walkways far above the ground that lead us like a map to the places we need most. The upper stories of the basilica, hospital, and city hall; the Wi-Fi café; and even the public school’s remaining classrooms are all accessible from here. Of course, most of us stopped going to school after the flood. The Wi-Fi café is the most common gathering place for the survivors and where I’d ordinarily be heading myself in a few hours, to watch the news with my neighbors and listen to accounts of similar catastrophes wreaking havoc in other parts of the world. It’s our daily reminder that the Earth doesn’t hate us alone.
We’ve all seen the jarring photos of New York’s Times Square, its bright thoroughfares transformed into a deep river marked by the roofs of sagging Broadway theaters. We’ve followed the never-ending media reports about the curious case of our disappearing beaches, from America to Australia and beyond. The sea change is coming for everyone, rich and poor alike.
For those of us who want to travel across the Tyrrhenian, each of our docks houses a small wooden motorboat. It sounds like an easy out, right? Just hop in your boat and steer north toward Tuscany, leaving this sinking city behind. . . . Only it’s not so simple. The rising tides and rough waves make the hours-long trip a risky one, and those who do arrive in the Tuscany region find it an overcrowded mess. It’s not exactly an easy glide from there to the train station or airport, either. There’s a months-long waiting list to escape, and only those flush with euros can afford it. Even if you do manage to get out, who’s to say your new city or country of refuge won’t be the next one hit by the climate’s destructive sweep?
I wasn’t always a quitter. In the first months following the flood, I was like any other survivor, scrambling to stay alive. Some of my neighbors had a safety net—relatives from dry regions who could take them in, or bank accounts filled with savings to help them rebuild. Not me. There was nothing to do but wait for the EU Disaster Relief funds to trickle their way toward me, if they came at all. So I found my own way.
I knew there were treasures at the bottom of the sea, mementos my neighbors would pay a mint for, but none of them would venture into the water where so many of us drowned. Only I was hungry enough, desperate enough—and could survive the deep dives. I’d done it before without any breathing equipment, back in my competitive swimming days, only then I was just showing off for my teammates. Now, my skill could actually keep me alive. So I became a scavenger.
My first week, I unearthed Raphael’s Madonna of Foligno from the wreckage of the Vatican. It was so water-damaged that you could barely make out the Virgin Mary and child in the foreground, but I knew someone would see its value. I was right. The painting paid for a month of my meals. And in my second week I found a purse of commemorative coins from 2004, their emblem featuring the centenary of Puccini’s Madama Butterfly. They were worth only five euros each, but being collector’s items, I was able to fetch double. I kept going, scavenging and selling as each day bled into the next—until I found the true riches, curled up together in a bed of algae.
Papà’s slippers, Mamma’s book, and Angelica’s photograph were all right there, waiting for me. It had to be more than a coincidence that these three small relics managed to stay entwined. It was a sign. And in that moment, with my sister’s face staring up at me, I realized just what I’d been doing: ransacking and profiting from the dead. The guilt replaced the hunger in my stomach, and I promised myself I would never do it again.
Since then, all I’ve wanted to do is join them.
I strap my heavy backpack over my shoulders and open the door, stepping out onto the ledge of the pensione. The cold water rushes at my feet, the dark sky
closing in around me. And then I jump.
The murky water rises to my neck. I could just let myself go, right here . . . but I can’t do it in front of my home. Instead I begin to swim, persisting against the weight of my backpack as I head for the deeper center, where the half-sunken Colosseum rests in the middle of the waves. The words of a Lord Byron poem I learned in school echo in my mind as I swim, making my way closer and closer to the ruins.
While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;
And when Rome falls—the World.
I grasp one of the arches of the Colosseum and rest my forehead against the stone in a silent good-bye. And then I let go—slipping my head underwater, relaxing my body like a limp rag. I let myself fall.
The disgusting taste of seawater fills my mouth, threatening to choke me if I don’t drown first. I can hear the waves crashing overhead, feel the tide beginning to perform its job, pulling me down, down, down.
My adrenaline briefly spikes, and I could swear I hear Angelica’s voice snapping in my ear: “Swim, you idiot! Swim!” But I squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring every physical instinct that begs me to move, letting the water snatch me instead.
If you saw me now, you wouldn’t believe the swimmer and athlete I used to be. The truth is, I could propel myself up to the surface in a matter of seconds if I wanted to. But that’s the problem. I don’t want to.
My thoughts are bleeding together now, playing a strange, jumbled movie just for me. Sleep is coming; I can feel it. And then—
An engine roars. Ripples form in the water overhead.
I know that sound. It’s a—a boat.
I should just keep my eyes closed and let the fog of my drowsiness pull me further toward the brink. But my mind is still half-awake, warning me that the presence of a boat means something is amiss. No vehicles are allowed to cross the water outside of daylight hours, one of the many new rules enforced since La Grande Inondazione. Of course, the coast guard always has the option of sidestepping this rule—if they spot someone in danger.
And just like that, the haze before my eyes disappears. Consciousness returns, the death wish replaced by something else—shame. I know I can’t let this innocent coast guard jump into the deep sea and do battle with the tide just to save me. That can’t be my final act.
I spit the water out of my mouth and hold my breath, wriggling free of the backpack and pushing my body up, up. My limp arms and legs are swinging back to life as I finally listen to my kid sister. Swim.
My head hits the surface. Air—sweet, beautiful air—fills my lungs, and I gasp, clinging to it.
The hum of the motor comes closer, and I rise up, waving my arms.
“I’m here!” I try to shout, though my voice has gone ragged and barely makes a sound. “Don’t jump!”
But as the boat glides into view, my mouth falls open. It’s not a coast guard boat. It’s a sleek catamaran, with painted blue lettering on the side revealing a familiar logo: European Space Agency.
What is ESA doing here, of all places? Why now?
A man and woman stand at the bow of the vessel, wearing matching expressions of fierce concentration as they scan the surroundings. The woman is dressed in the dark blue uniform of the Italian military, the man in a business suit with an ESA shirt beneath the blazer. Thankfully, neither of them seems to notice me.
I didn’t think anything could surprise me anymore, but it turns out I was wrong. Instead of sinking to the bottom of the sea, I am now swimming in the boat’s wake. Whatever ESA is doing here in our wreckage of a city, it must be something big—and I don’t want to miss it.
I keep pace with the boat, my breaststroke getting me through the last stretch of choppy water until we reach the makeshift docks. I can see my dilapidated home now, the Pensione Danieli sign still hanging hopefully from the roof. And then, as the first rays of morning light filter through the sky, the boat turns toward Palazzo Senatorio, our city hall. Waiting on the front stoop that juts above the water is Prime Minister Vincenti with his wife, Francesca, and their daughter, Elena—my sister’s best friend.
I duck back underwater, holding my breath as the boat docks. I can’t let any of them see me. Lord knows how I would answer their questions.
After what feels like an eternity, I splash back up to the surface. The prime minister and his wife have disappeared inside, along with the two from ESA—but Elena is still there, angling a camera in front of the space agency boat. As I lift my head above the water, a flash of light sparks before my eyes. I blink rapidly, watching as Elena does a double take. Shit. I’ve been caught in the photo.
“Leo?” She rushes to the dock’s edge. “What are you doing?”
I could make up a story—I could tell her I just felt like taking a crack-of-dawn swim. But no one would believe it in these treacherous waters, and I’ve never been a good liar anyway. My shame, the step I came this close to taking, will be written all over my face.
“Ciao, Elena,” I call back, trying to make my voice as normal as possible. “It’s . . . a long story. Nothing important.”
She gives me a sideways look, and I know there’s no getting away from her now. I might as well have this inevitable conversation on dry ground.
I swim forward, closing the distance between us, and then grip the bottom of the wooden dock, mustering my strength to pull myself up and over the edge. I land on shaky legs, my soaking clothes forming a puddle around me. Elena raises an eyebrow.
“At least you remembered to take off your shoes before you jumped in. Why not drop the clothes, too?” Two pink spots appear in her cheeks. “That came out wrong, I meant—um, let me get you something to dry off with. Wait here.”
“Thanks.” I avoid her eyes but not out of embarrassment. I can’t look at Elena without seeing the empty space where my sister should be. And now I wish I’d never followed that stupid boat, that I’d never ended up here.
Suddenly, a thunder of footsteps descends on the elevated walkway, accompanied by raised voices. I crane my neck to look. My neighbors are awake far earlier than they should be—and they’re heading straight for the top-floor entrance to Palazzo Senatorio.
This day just keeps getting stranger.
Elena returns with a large overcoat, and I drape it over my drenched clothes. I can hear the beginnings of a question forming on her lips, but I interrupt her.
“What’s going on? Who were those people in the ESA boat, and what are they doing in Rome?”
Elena stares at me. “Do you really not know?”
“Apparently not.”
“It’s the calling of the draft. The Twenty-Four are being announced today!”
“The Twenty-Four?” I repeat. The words are familiar, like a long-forgotten taste on my tongue. My mind rushes back in time, before the sinking of Rome, before I lost everything. And then—
“Europa.”
Elena nods, a slight smile lighting her features.
The memories feel like snippets from another life. I can remember sitting around the TV with Angelica and our parents, the four of us glued to the live United Nations press conference, where world leaders declared a state of war between humanity and our environment. I remember the government official showing up at our door with the Europa Mission & Draft pamphlets, outlining a plan to deploy young astronauts to build a new home on Jupiter’s most promising moon, Europa. Then came the strangers, infiltrating our school the following week—“scouts,” they were called—who studied us in their search for the perfect teenage candidates for the Europa Draft. Because, as the scientists said on TV, “Only the young can tolerate the radiation-resistant bacteria that will enable humans to thrive in the current conditions on Jupiter’s moon. Only the young will still be fertile and able to procreate on Europa by the time it is terraformed and ready for a full human settlement.”
Those heady days are a blur, like a dream washed away by the flood. I guess I never thought they would actually go thr
ough with the whole extravagant idea.
I turn back to Elena. “So you’re saying they already picked the finalists? But why wouldn’t ESA and NASA just announce the names online? Why come all the way—”
I stop short, the realization practically knocking the wind out of me. “One of the finalists is from Rome?”
“Yes! Thrilling, isn’t it? Unless it’s me—then I’ll have a heart attack.” Elena shivers. “They’re going to announce who it is in a live-streaming press conference at five thirty.”
“Are you serious? We have to get inside!”
I break into a run, ignoring Elena’s protests that I can’t enter the Palazzo barefoot and dripping wet. There’s no way I’m missing this, not when one of my friends or neighbors is about to be named a finalist to go to Jupiter’s moon. I can just see my father pumping his fists in pride that a Roman was chosen, while my mother would clap her hand over her mouth in her usual dramatic way, torn between the excitement of it all and pain for the parents left behind.
The city hall’s portico entrance sank in the Great Flood along with its lower floors, so I run straight from the dock up to the covered arcade that leads into the piano nobile, the new main floor. Inside, the old masters on the walls are caked in a coat of film from water damage, while the elaborate painted ceilings are marred with cracks. But the old hum of activity remains, and I follow the sound of voices into the Neo-Gothic Salon, a large foyer still standing with the support of its marble columns. A glass chandelier swings tenuously from the ceiling, a shaky vestige of the pre-flood days.
Filling nearly every square inch of the room are fellow survivors: “the Last Romans,” as they call us in the media. Everyone watches, rapt, as the Italian military officer and her companion from the ESA boat approach the podium at the front of the room, flanked by the prime minister and his wife. A trio of cameramen stand in position nearby, their equipment at the ready. My heartbeat quickens.
“I should go join my parents, but let’s talk later, okay? You still need to tell me what you were doing when I found you.” Elena’s voice over my shoulder catches me off guard. I’d almost forgotten she was still here, eyeing me as water drips from my clothes onto the floor.
The Final Six Page 1
