There’s the hum of electronics as the lighting powers back on, a whirring noise as the metal walls retreat. I look into the faces of four equally panicked crewmates, and up at the triumphant expressions of Dr. Takumi and General Sokolov on-screen, who were clearly trying to teach us A Lesson.
“If you think you can get away with bickering, immature antics when the weight of an entire world rests on your shoulders—think again,” Dr. Takumi says, his voice a steely threat. “Don’t forget who actually controls this ship. You are merely its custodians. This means following our instructions, agree with them or not. Do you copy?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
I mouth the words along with my teammates, but inside I am seething. I knew Dr. Takumi was made of ice, but he at least used to put on a better show. If this is how he’s exerting his influence on day one, I don’t even want to think about what he’ll be up to by the time we get to Mars.
“All right, team,” Beckett says, jumping into his “leader” role early. “Let’s move on to the rest of the tour.”
No one dares contradict him while Takumi and Sokolov are still watching, but I can feel our collective resentment as we fall into step behind Beckett. The Final Six have been in space for less than an hour, but the hostility is heating up already.
Three
LEO
I THOUGHT GRETA SHOWED ME EVERYTHING WHEN SHE GAVE me the grand tour of Wagner Enterprises two days ago, but it turns out she was holding back the most important part. She leads me there now, through hallways that seem to go on forever and hidden doors that appear like a magic trick behind cabinets and bookshelves, until we reach a tiny elevator at the end of the third floor. It’s so small that I have to hunch over to fit inside with Greta, and I have a feeling it was designed that way on purpose—to keep people out.
She swipes her keycard against the button marked with a U, and the elevator swoops four floors down, dropping us off in a windowless corridor underground. Looming straight ahead is an armed guard standing in front of two heavy steel doors. I swallow hard, suddenly uneasy about what I might find.
“The lab you saw before is indeed the official Wagner Enterprises facility, but this is where I keep my most high-security work,” Greta says, striding toward the doors. “I call it my bulletproof lair of secrets.” She nods at the guard. “Afternoon, Nikolas.”
“Afternoon, ma’am.”
He opens the door, and we step through the threshold. At first all I see is a blank white foyer, empty except for an open cabinet with uniforms tucked inside. Greta hands me a white lab coat and a clear helmet she calls a “bionic face shield,” and then, once we’ve both donned our gear, she leads me around the corner—where the wall falls away, and the view begins.
We’re standing at a railing looking down, deeper underground, at a sprawling space as big as the ISTC Mission Floor. Towering clear shelves display what seem to be thousands of foreign-looking specimens, and a long lab table stretches half the width of the room, occupied by just three scientists studying samples under microscopes. They must be the lucky few Greta trusts in here, and I can’t help thinking about what Naomi would give to be one of them. It seems . . . wrong almost, that I’m the one exploring her hero’s domain. But maybe—if I’m lucky—it can be the first thing I tell her about when we meet again.
“This way.” Greta motions me forward and I follow her down the stairs and onto the lab floor, past the microscope tables and conveyor belts of robotic machinery, until we reach a black curtain. There’s another heavy steel door behind it, and before entering, Greta reaches her palm up to the wall. My eyes widen as a rectangular portion of the wall edges forward at her touch, jutting out like an opened drawer. It’s some kind of . . . camouflaged locker?
Greta turns an unseen knob and the cabinet in the wall swings open. I peer over her shoulder, but before I can identify anything among the shadowy heap of items, she pulls out two heavy-looking down coats and seals the locker shut. I watch in confusion as Greta slips hers on over her lab uniform and hands me the other. Of all the things I expected her to grab from this secret stash, another coat wasn’t one of them. But once we step through this new door, I feel the chill, my teeth beginning to chatter.
“Welcome to ‘Europa,’” Greta says, the lights switching on automatically at a flick of her wrist.
My eyes widen as the room transforms from dark shadows to . . . a miniature world of ice. A thick frozen shell lined with blood-red ridges and cracks stretches beneath my feet and around the lab, covering the length of a stadium. I take a step forward and yelp as my body bounces up in the air. I land with a thud halfway across the ice, laughing in astonishment.
“How did you do this?”
“It’s just a climate-controlled vacuum chamber with the floors engineered to mimic Europa’s lower gravity,” she answers breezily. “It was crucial for me to re-create a portion of the environment in order to test and study what kind of life could form and survive on the real Europa. Watch out behind you, by the way.”
I turn around and then scramble forward with another, clumsier flying leap. There’s a field of lethal-looking frozen spikes behind me, their blades more than three times my height.
“What are those things?”
“They’re penitentes. Spires of ice and snow,” Greta explains, looking at them as though they’re something to be admired as much as feared. “They’re caused by sublimation on the surface, so there’s no getting rid of them, at least not until Europa is terraformed. Right now, penitentes have only been confirmed at the equator, so Dr. Takumi and General Sokolov have the Pontus landing at Thera Macula, the chaos terrain, instead. Which is one of the reasons why the Final Six need our intervention.” Her eyes take on a new intensity as she looks at me. “Navigating your way around giant ice spikes is nothing compared to what is likely waiting at Thera Macula.”
My heart starts beating faster.
“What do you mean?”
“The ISTC was right to set their sights on Europa,” she says, her foot tracing one of the red grooves of the model moon. “It is a world made for life. But they missed the most important discovery of all. . . . Follow me.”
Adjacent to the mock-up of Europa’s surface is an arcade-like stall, a compact structure that reminds me of the old-fashioned shooting games at Oasi Park back in Rome. I find a strange-looking gun holstered to the railing when we step inside, with a target straight ahead—but instead of a wall of candy-colored prizes, the target is just a huge chunk of ice, floating behind a barbed-wire fence. What in the world?
“Popular science tells us that these red lines crisscrossing the surface are nothing more than the effects of radiation-blasted sea salt flowing upward from Europa’s buried ocean. But I always had another suspicion,” she begins. “During my time under contract with ISTC, while designing the Pontus, I found an opportunity to test my hypothesis: by mimicking the conditions of Europa right here, inside this vacuum chamber. I took a sample of the sodium chloride that was retrieved from the earlier robotic mission, combined it with water, and froze it to the same temperature you will find on Europa’s surface.”
I watch, still not quite following her, as Greta pulls the rocket-shaped gun out of its holster.
“And now, through this tool, we can re-create the effect of years’ worth of radiation.”
Greta fires the gun, and I’m transfixed as electron beams start flying through the air, leaving glowing blue lines in their wake when they hit the salted ice. After several strikes, she beckons me forward for a closer look.
I raise my eyebrows. The electron rays did make an impact—but instead of Europa’s defining dark lines, they show up as light-colored circles dotting the ice. So . . . what does it mean?
“I spent hours, days, months testing this,” Greta tells me. “A few hours of direct, up-close radiation blasting is equivalent to a hundred or so years of what Europa experiences on the surface, yet none of the effects I found here came close to resembling the red ridges. So I
tried something else.”
She leads me out of the stall, back to the model Europa. This time, she instructs me to place my hand on one of the crisscrossing ridges—and I jump as the lines light up, vibrations and heat fizzing under my palm.
“What was that?”
“I re-created the placement of the anomalous signatures that the robots, Cyb and Dot, picked up through their magnetometers when probing Europa’s magnetic field,” she says, her tone as matter-of-fact as if “re-creating anomalous signatures” is some kind of everyday activity. I’m still trying to figure out what half those words even mean when she continues, “Notice where the strongest energy is felt: the same surface coordinates where—as your friend Naomi already uncovered—the biosignatures of chlorophyll and methane were found. The darkest division of red ridges.”
She takes a breath, looking at me with eyes more animated than I’ve seen them yet.
“The signatures build and increase when you follow the lines in a specific pattern—one I’ve spent more than a year deciphering. Do you realize what this means?”
“Um. Maybe? You do know I wasn’t drafted to space camp for my science abilities, right?” I manage a grin, even as I feel a pang in my chest for Naomi. If only she were here—then this might all make sense.
“Europa’s red ridges, the veins of this moon, make up a map!” The words come tumbling out of her, a note of triumph in her voice. “It’s a map that shows us where Europa’s ancient alien life once existed, but is no more—and where its current life thrives. On Thera Macula.” She draws in a breath. “Only I know how to read it. And with my help, you will be able to swim its route, and lead the others to the clear Habitable Zone.”
I can feel the blood roaring in my ears as I stare at her.
“If this is real, then why—why haven’t you told everyone? Why aren’t the space agencies and ISTC working on it, showing the Final Six how to navigate the map right now?”
“Of course I told them,” she says curtly. “But they refused to hear me, because accepting the map as reality would require them to publicly acknowledge the existence of extraterrestrial life on Europa—that it’s not ours for the taking. And that’s something the mission leaders will never do. They’ve risen to unforeseen power and prominence based on this dream they’ve sold to the world, and my findings threaten that dream. Our disagreement on this point is what ended our work together. So now I bring the question to you.”
She looks in my eyes, her steely-blue gaze so intent it makes me flinch.
“Do you believe? Are you willing to risk it all, to face down potential terrors more frightening than death, for my hypothesis? For the chance that we might actually salvage this mission?”
And for Naomi.
“I’ll do it.” My hands shake, but my voice remains steady. “I understand what I’m signing up for . . . and I’ll take my chances.”
Four
NAOMI
MOMENTS AFTER DR. TAKUMI AND GENERAL SOKOLOV SIGN off, their images on-screen fizzling to static, the hatch door to the Astronauts’ Residence swings open. I freeze, half convinced one of them is about to walk through the hatch in another “gotcha!” moment. But then I hear the whir of machinery and the precise, mechanical footsteps that could only belong to something nonhuman. Sure enough, it’s our new backup robot, Tera—the AI who is only here because of my mistake.
My stomach twists as I look up at Tera’s bronze mask of a face, at the electronic suit of armor that makes up her body. You were supposed to be Dot. If it wasn’t for me hacking into the AI back at space camp, tricking Dot into retrieving and showing me the classified Europa data, then Tera would still be in Houston, undergoing new model testing, while Dot—the safer, proven robot—would be the one sharing the ship with us. But instead, because of me, she is an empty vessel back on Earth with her memory and settings scrubbed, while Tera was rushed through production ahead of schedule to make our launch. I try to swallow the guilt as I glance from the unfamiliar robot to my crewmates, and back again. I can only hope my mistake won’t cost us much more.
The robots are humanoids, meaning their design is loosely based on our bodies: between six and seven feet tall, with two legs and two arms, ten fingers, but no toes. Sensors and encoders fill the gaps where organs should be, while the Artificial Intelligence Operating System (AIOS), the brains and heart that make the robots tick, is held within a touch screen hidden behind the metal plates of their torsos.
“Hello, astronauts,” Tera greets us in a soft voice that strikes me as a beat too slow. “I’m here to show you around the rest of your quarters.”
Chaperoned again. What was even the point of Dr. Takumi and the general giving Beckett this false sense of power over us when they clearly don’t intend on ever leaving us alone? I guess it’s a contingency plan, but still—him? Nothing adds up.
I follow Tera and my crewmates into the elevator pod, which feels like a flying jump as it ascends to the next floor. Here, on the left side of the atrium, we find a gym with cardio machines, stationary bikes, and weights, while something called “SpaceTube Fitness” plays on the overhead screen: a guided workout starring an annoyingly perky, high-ponytailed athlete who beams into the camera through her sprints. Something tells me I won’t look quite so peppy when it’s my turn.
“To prevent bone loss in space, and to remain at optimal health for the duration of our trip, you will each be assigned ninety minutes of fitness, five days per week,” Tera says in the monotone drawl of someone reciting preprogrammed words. I groan aloud at that one. Tera’s head swivels in my direction, registering my reaction.
“It isn’t so bad. Each machine connects to the above virtual reality screen. You can select scenes to accompany your workouts, such as running through a forest while on the treadmill, or boating through the Pacific while using the rowing machine.”
“You mean—it’ll feel like we’re back on Earth?” Sydney’s voice rises with hope, and I feel a rush of warmth toward her. Maybe I’m not the only one who wasn’t so ready to leave.
“Correct,” Tera answers. “Though you will also find a few scenes set on Europa. Moving along . . .”
She leads us around the curve to the other wing of the second floor. The smell of disinfectant greets us first, and my heart sinks as soon as I see the exam table and the white cabinet marked Devices—Sterile. We’re in the medical bay. I’d almost managed to put out of my mind what happens here.
“Your evenings will follow the same routine as at space camp, beginning here at six p.m. with an injection of radiation-resistant bacteria, followed by dinner upstairs. Sydney, as mission medical officer, you will administer and supervise the injections.”
“Roger that,” she says while my stomach plummets and my palms begin to sweat. We can’t—we can’t let it in again. Not after losing Callum and Suki, not after I learned the truth about the serum. There has to be another way for us to stave off the radiation on Europa without injecting alien cells into our bodies. We already have a next-gen heat shield protecting us through our space suits, so maybe I could spend my time on the ship designing something else wearable instead of us taking this risk—
“Naomi?”
Jian’s voice pulls me back to the moment, where I see my crewmates filing into the elevator pod behind Tera. I force my thoughts away from the RRB conundrum—if only for now—and fall into step with the rest.
The third floor is the kitchen and dining area, with one section for food prep and storage, the other for bolted-down seating. Four smaller round-top tables surround the main dining table for six, thankfully giving us a choice between eating as a group or on our own. It’s already asking a lot for us near-strangers to spend the rest of our lives together without losing all sanity. I’m pretty sure if that included sitting for a mandatory three meals a day together too, some fork stabbings would inevitably follow.
“General Sokolov has mandated that you will take turns preparing meals for the group. We’ll go in alphabetical order, b
eginning tonight with Naomi Ardalan. And now, one floor up, you’ll find your bed-and-baths.”
We quicken our footsteps, all of us eager to see the one place we can claim as ours alone, free from the cameras and observing eyes. Upstairs, we find six identical capsules with sliding teak doors, three on each side of the atrium.
“Boys on the left, girls to the right,” Tera directs us. “Your bags have been brought up from the cargo module, and are waiting in your respective rooms.”
My heart ticks a beat faster at the thought of getting to see my stuff again. It’s only been a day since I packed, but the physical distance makes it seem so much longer—like I haven’t laid eyes on my clothes or books or photographs in months.
There are no names posted to the doors, but when Tera taps the mini-tablet screen attached to her bronze wrist, they slide open on cue, revealing a row of matching interiors distinguished only by the bags sitting on the beds. As soon as I spot my two navy blue duffels from home, I run forward, into the 120-square-foot compartment serving as my bedroom.
I know we’re lucky to even have individual rooms, considering the astronauts before us had to make do with shared bunk beds, but still—this is tiny. The bed takes up the vast majority, with a few rows of shelving built into the wall beside it. There’s no real floor space, unless you count the few steps between the bed and the plexiglass-enclosed “bathroom” behind it: basically a toilet, shower, and sink all within tripping distance of each other. But there’s a porthole window above my pillow, and I lie on my stomach to peer out of it now. I can see the stars, the same wash of glitter against black that I used to look up at from Earth. The sight makes me feel just a little bit calmer, a little more at home.
I sit up on the bed, opening one of my duffels and riffling inside. We had to remove all jewelry for liftoff, and there are two pieces I’m looking for now that I need to hold against my skin. The first is Leo’s signet ring, with its swooping, carved cursive D for Danieli. The second is my grandmother’s necklace from Iran, which was passed down to me on my fifteenth birthday: a delicate gold chain with a large teardrop-shaped turquoise stone. With the ring on my finger and the turquoise around my neck, I feel like myself again . . . and that feeling makes it easier to stop feeling sorry for myself, to remember that I’m not just a passive player here. Maybe I never wanted to be drafted, but as the finalist who found out the truth—or at least half the truth—about Europa’s hidden extraterrestrial life, I need to be here. There’s no one else to solve the mystery of what’s waiting for us, or how to survive it.
The Life Below Page 3
