LEO
I WAKE UP WITH HER SKIN AGAINST MINE, HER HAIR TICKLING my neck. It’s like a dream I didn’t dare hope for, and I smile at the sight of her sleeping face pressed against my shoulder.
And then I hear the rapping at the door.
“One hour till departure!” someone shouts as yesterday’s heartbreak comes slamming back to the fore. I feel the blow in my chest, in my stomach, and I sit up, head in my hands. Naomi stirs as I move, and I reach for her hand.
“It’s—it’s time,” I say as she wakes, my voice coming out thick, unlike my own.
She sits up in panic. “I can’t say good-bye to you. I can’t.”
I take a deep breath, realizing I need to be strong for her. I’ll have plenty of time later, the rest of my life, to give in to my emotions. But not now. Not in front of her.
“You don’t have to say good-bye,” I say, tracing her collarbone with my finger. “I’ll send you video messages and emails every day, and maybe—maybe when Europa is ready for more settlers from Earth, I can be one of them. It’ll be a long time to wait, but I—I’ll wait for you.”
Naomi doesn’t answer, and I know why. I know what she’s thinking. What if they don’t even make it to Europa? What if the extraterrestrial life is intelligent enough to slaughter them as soon as they arrive? What if while she’s on the months-long journey through space, another natural disaster happens on Earth, and this time I don’t make it?
I know what she’s thinking, because these are the same questions playing on a never-ending loop in my own mind.
The six of us also-rans tail the Final Six in a motorcade to the Ellington Field, where we’ll be flown home immediately following their departure to the Europa launch site. Whatever hopes I had about staying in America have been swiftly nipped in the bud. As Dr. Takumi informed me yesterday, my time in the United States has come to a close. I have no choice but to go from one setting of heartbreak to another.
As our tram approaches the airfield, the crowds return in full force, waving flags and hoisting up signs bearing the names of the Final Six. It hurts to remember the last time I witnessed this patriotism and celebration . . . when I was still a part of it.
Our tram stops in front of the runway, where Air Force One waits to escort the Final Six. A searing fury runs through me at the thought of Beckett smirking alongside his uncle as he takes my place. It should be me on the jet, it should be me in the rocket launch beside Naomi. How could Dr. Takumi make such a huge mistake?
The security guards lead us to a roped-off section of the runway, away from the clamoring crowds, but not nearly close enough to the Final Six—to Naomi. I watch from afar as she stands with her new crewmates, Cyb, and the new backup robot, the eight of them lined up alongside Dr. Takumi, General Sokolov, and President Wolfe. All of them smile proudly, posing for what’s sure to be the most legendary photo in human history—all but Naomi. I watch as she searches the crowd, her expression panicked. I raise my hand in a forlorn wave, letting her know I’m here. And suddenly, she darts away from the others.
I hold my breath as she pushes her way toward me, ignoring the shocked murmurs of the crowd. And then she’s in my arms, her lips on mine, her tears against my cheeks.
“I love you so much,” I whisper.
Two guards break in, pulling her away from me—but not before before I slip my Danieli signet ring off my finger and slide it onto hers. She looks from me to the ring, her voice breaking as she says, “I love you, too.”
I am forced to watch as she climbs into the jet behind the others, leaving me forever. She presses her face to the window, gazing down at me. I blow her a final kiss. And as the plane soars up into the sky, I double over in pain.
Ana Martinez approaches me, patting my shoulder awkwardly.
“I know. This sucks. But it’ll be okay. . . . You’ll feel better once you’re home.” She looks up. “Our rides will be here any minute.”
I know Ana is trying to be nice, but her words only make me feel worse. I don’t have anyone or anything to go home to—only ghosts.
“To the eliminated six, we thank you for your service,” Dr. Takumi’s voice booms from the microphone. “You’ve been a pride to your countries, and you will be welcomed home with open arms.”
I glance around for Lark. Before I go, I want to say good-bye to the only other person here who really knew Naomi . . . who knew us. But I don’t see her anywhere. She’s not with the rest of the faculty, so—where is she?
But before I can ask anyone, the engine of the first return jet roars. We watch as it swoops down from the sky, bearing the French flag, and Henri gives the five of us a friendly salute.
“Au revoir, mes amis,” he calls before stepping into his homebound jet.
I brace myself, knowing my plane from Italy is likely to follow France. Sure enough, when the next jet circles, I can spot the green, white, and red of the Italian flag from high in the sky.
The plane skids to a stop on the runway, and the security guard pushes me forward. I turn around for one last look at Johnson Space Center, the place that changed my life, that brought me painfully close to my dreams—and then I force myself to move forward.
I sense something is wrong as soon as I step into the plane. This isn’t the same basic military jet I flew in on—it only looks identical from the outside. This one is surprisingly spacious inside, filled with plush furniture and an array of computer screens, consoles, and blinking sensors. What’s more, no one is here to greet me—not Dr. Schroder or anyone else from ESA, not even a flight attendant.
My eyes catch on one of the computer screens. I blink and lean in for a second look, to make sure my eyes aren’t deceiving me. But there it is on the screen, the Space Conspirator home page—the same website whose theories Naomi talked so much about. And right there, in the top corner, is the telltale text: LOGGED IN: ADMINISTRATOR.
What the hell? How did I end up on this plane?
“Hello?” I call out, stumbling as the jet lifts off. “What is this? What’s going on?”
“Thank you, Lark,” I hear an unfamiliar female voice say. “He’s here.”
And then a silver-haired woman steps out of the cockpit—the same woman from the photo on Naomi’s desk.
“Greta Wagner?” I whisper.
She hangs up the phone and flashes me a smile.
“Hello, Leonardo. Have a seat. We have much to discuss.”