LEO
“LEO, LEO, FORZA LEO!”
I pull back the curtains of the guest bedroom with a smile. It’s just past eight in the morning on Departure Day, but my neighbors are already here, waiting on the docks to see me off. The sight fills me with warmth, and I can’t resist cranking open the window.
“Vi amo tutti!” I call, waving at the faces below. And it’s true—right now I love every last one of them standing there in the cold, cheering my name. My appearance at the window sends their cheers into overdrive, and I laugh to myself as I imagine what my sister would say. They do know it’s you, right?
Just then, a knock sounds at my door.
“Leo, it’s Dr. Schroder. Are you up?”
“Come in,” I call, and he steps inside, carrying a small trunk.
“I have something you’ll need for the trip. The Europa Mission leaders requested that all finalists arrive at International Space Training Camp already in uniform.”
He hands me the trunk, and as I lift the lid, my pulse begins to race.
The first thing I see is a dark blue flight jacket lined with wool, warmer and softer than any of the threadbare clothes I’ve been wearing since the flood. The jacket is adorned with military-style patches: one bearing the ISTC logo, another with the logo of ESA, and a third patch emblazoned with my own name. The back of the jacket reads Mission: Europa in striking bold letters, and for a moment I can’t speak. This is really happening.
Beneath the jacket is a pair of khakis, some high-tech sneakers, and a blue ISTC polo shirt glinting with a flash of gold. I take a second look—it’s a golden pin of the Italian flag. My breath catches. I won’t be leaving my country behind, after all. I’ll be wearing our colors proudly against my chest.
I look up to meet Dr. Schroder’s eyes.
“It’s perfect. Thank you.”
He grins.
“Glad you approve. See you downstairs in twenty minutes?”
I nod, adrenaline working its way through my body as the countdown begins. Stepping into the ISTC uniform and leaving Europe for the first time in my life seems almost like assuming a new identity. It’s the second chance I never expected, even though a part of me still clings to who I used to be—when I was with my parents and with Angelica.
I pull the polo shirt over my head and step into the khakis and sneakers, which are as comfortable as they look. I drape the Mission: Europa jacket over my shoulders, and now I look the part. I am ready.
The guards escort the Vincentis, Dr. Schroder, and me to the Palazzo boat dock, where the crowd of onlookers breaks into a chorus of hurrahs at our arrival. I turn to Elena with a grin, and though she returns my smile, it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I can tell she’s still preoccupied with last night’s discovery, and I wish I could reassure her that it doesn’t faze me. What matters isn’t how I got picked—it’s that I was chosen at all.
“There it is.” The prime minister points straight ahead, where the boat’s mast breaks the monotonous stretch of water. My heart lifts at the return of the vessel that saved—and changed—my life.
“Are you ready, Leo?” Dr. Schroder asks.
I take one last look around me, at the sunken new face of Rome. Even in its wrecked state, there is still something beautiful about my homeland. I know I’ll never forget the way it looks right now, the morning sun gleaming against the waves.
“Arrivederci, Roma,” I murmur. And then I glance at Dr. Schroder. “Let’s go.”
I’ve already said my good-byes to the Vincentis inside, but just before I step onto the boat, Elena grabs my wrist. She flings her arms around me in one last hug before whispering in my ear, “Remember everything I told you. Keep your eyes and ears open, and your guard up.”
“I will. Don’t worry, Elena.”
But as I settle into my seat on the boat, watching my neighbors on the docks grow smaller, all I can think about is the adventure ahead.
Elena’s warnings are already forgotten.
The sleek white Gulfstream lowers in the sky toward us, its engine emitting an earsplitting roar. Dr. Schroder pulls me back, and the two of us duck as the jet slides onto the Tuscan Airfield runway in a perfect landing.
“Did I tell you I’ve never been on an airplane before?” I shout above the noise.
Dr. Schroder’s eyebrows shoot up.
“It’s true,” I say with a chuckle. “We never had the money for transcontinental travel, so all our family trips were by train, within Europe.”
He places a hand on my shoulder. “And now you might be one of the few to travel farther than anyone else on this Earth.”
The thought sends a flash of excitement through me. The farther I get from Rome, the more I want this—and the harder it is to imagine ever returning.
The jet parks on the concrete before us. Its automatic doors slide open, and a set of stairs unfurls from them. Our pilot, a captain from the Italian army, steps outside to greet Dr. Schroder and me, ushering us into the compact passenger cabin where we take our seats.
“It’s so much more personal than it looks on TV,” I comment to Dr. Schroder.
“Yeah, well, those big commercial airliners are a thing of the past,” he says grimly. “Now that more than half of the world’s tourist destinations are underwater, there’s no need for them. This generation of kids growing up will likely never experience air travel, unless they work for the government or military.”
“Speaking of, am I now considered part of the Italian army?” I ask. “Since I’ve technically been drafted?”
“You are representing Italy, but as part of a new World Army,” Dr. Schroder explains. “It’s all of us fighting together now . . . fighting to save the human race.”
I nod, trying to appear calm, even as his words push my anticipation into overdrive.
“We’re cleared for takeoff.” The captain’s voice echoes over the loudspeaker. “Please ensure your seat belts are fastened.”
“Copy that,” Dr. Schroder calls back.
I grip my armrest as the jet lurches forward. And then, like a thrill ride from the old amusement parks, we hurtle up into the sky at breakneck speed. The cabin shakes as the plane skims the clouds, my stomach flipping over with each pitch of the aircraft.
“Are flights usually this bumpy?”
Dr. Schroder shifts in his seat to face me, looking almost as queasy as I feel. “They didn’t used to be. It’s another one of climate change’s side effects—the warming temperatures strengthened the jet stream winds and turned the skies hostile. But believe it or not, we’re safer up here than we are down there.”
“I believe it!”
I turn to the window, keeping my eyes locked on the glass to distract from the bumps and dips of the plane, and soon I’ve lost track of how much time has elapsed. It isn’t until the anxiety presses against my chest that I realize I’m waiting for something that isn’t coming—a break from the blue. The endless ocean dominates my view, overwhelming the dots of green and tiny slivers of land.
“You can see it clearly from up here: why this mission is so crucial,” Dr. Schroder says, following my gaze. “Not long ago, when you were a child, the scenery below was vastly different. The scientists and climatologists tried to warn the public about the risks of carbon emissions and pollution, but . . .” He shakes his head. “Well, it’s too late now. And we don’t have much time left if we’re going to escape the rising seas.”
“No,” I agree, staring at the foreboding stretch of blue. “We don’t have much time at all.”
NAOMI
It seems like all of Los Angeles is on the tarmac at Burbank Airport, watching as my heart breaks. I hold on to my family, trying to block out the noise and the pressure as the crowd shrieks my name, flashing their camera-phones and waving signs proclaiming the Twenty-Four “Our last chance for survival!” Only a few minutes remain until the NASA official and army major will come tear me away from my family. Dad pulls the three of us into a tight-knit group hug, and I bury my head in his shoulder, hiding my face.
“Naomi, azizam, we’re going to miss you more than we can bear,” he says in my ear, his voice choked with tears. “But . . . we know you weren’t born for this planet. You were meant for something bigger.”
“He’s right.” Mom cradles my chin in her hands. “As much as I want you beside me, you have too much to offer to stay in a world that’s failing you. Go out there and—and change the universe.”
“I—I would if I could, but . . .” My words falter as I watch my little brother wipe his eyes on his sleeve. Maybe in another life I would have leaped at this opportunity, but not now, not with my heart pulling me toward home. As if reading my thoughts, Mom adds, “Don’t forget—if you make the Final Six and the mission succeeds, then the three of us are guaranteed a seat on the first human settlement spacecraft to Europa.” She gives me a shaky smile. “So you see, we can all be together again . . . but in a better place.”
I meet Sam’s eyes, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing. Mom is an eternal optimist, but whether the mission will succeed is a gigantic if—and even if it does, my brother’s heart could never withstand a rocket launch into space. And there’s no way anyone else is leaving him behind. So, no—there won’t be a fairy-tale reunion for the four of us on Europa. Not a chance. Still, I force myself to nod along with her words, to let her hold on to hope. But then Sam is in front of me and I can’t say good-bye to him, I can’t; I choke on the words.
“I love you, Sis. It’s—it’s going to be okay.” He lowers his voice. “You’re going to go to Houston and show everyone what’s possible . . . what’s really out there. And then you’ll come home.” He looks at me hopefully. “Right?”
“Right,” I whisper back.
I reach into the pocket of my Mission: Europa jacket and hand him a folded square of paper. “To read when you need me.”
Sam smiles at me through his tears. “Our telepathy game remains strong.”
My eyes well up all over again as he reaches into his coat pocket and hands me an envelope of his own. But instead of just a letter, I feel something small and bulky inside.
“Keep it safe.” Sam gives me a warning look and I nod, stashing the envelope in the front pocket of my backpack.
“Naomi? Let’s go.”
I turn sharply at the sound of Dr. Anderson’s voice. It’s too soon; I’m not ready—but now the army officers are approaching, the jet doors are sliding open, the plane’s engine is revving. I’m running out of time. I reach for my parents once more.
“Take care of my brother. Take care of each other. I love you all so much.”
I get in one last hug with Sam before Dr. Anderson and Major Lewis’s hands are on my shoulders, pulling me away from my family—and ushering me into a new life.
I peer through the jet window, watching as an island of concrete materializes below. This must be it: Space City, Houston. The land that gave us the Apollo missions and the International Space Station, that launched a million childhood daydreams—including mine.
When my mom showed a six-year-old me the historic video of Anousheh Ansari climbing inside the Soyuz rocket, becoming the first Iranian-American woman in space, I remember instantly picturing myself in her place. “That’s what I want to do,” I told Mom then, brimming with confidence. “Me and Sam can be the first brother-sister duo in orbit!” Even then, I never wanted to leave him. So once I learned the truth about Sam’s condition, that it would preclude him from ever venturing beyond our Earth, I dropped the astronaut dream like a bad habit. And now the childhood wish is coming true . . . in spite of me.
“We’ll be touching down any minute,” Dr. Anderson says from her seat beside me. “Do you want to freshen up for the cameras?”
I shrug. “Not really.”
At this point, looking attractive for strangers is the very last item on my priority list.
Dr. Anderson gives me a hint of a smile. “You might want to tighten your seat belt for this. The changing topography and climate in Texas have made landing extra turbulent here.”
“How did you guys manage to keep Houston above sea level when the Gulf of Mexico swallowed other parts of Texas?” I ask as I tug my seat belt tighter. “Was it all because of the Houston Flood Barrier Project? And why didn’t other cities do the same?”
My mind flashes back to the submerged Santa Monica Pier back home, and the old coastal communities of Venice Beach and Marina Del Rey—now nothing more than an endless blue graveyard. I wonder if they might have been saved, too.
“It took an eye-watering amount of money to build the Flood Barrier gates,” Dr. Anderson acknowledges. “The only reason we were able to do it is because at the UN Climate Conference, back when the first indisputable signs of the change began, Houston was chosen as the site to protect and preserve at all costs. With the greatest minds from Stephen Hawking to Elon Musk insisting that the only way forward for humans was to colonize new planets, it was clear to the UN that all resources needed to go toward the best space training and launch program in the world. That would be here.”
“That’s why budgets were cut everywhere else,” I realize aloud. “All the money is going toward getting us off Earth—instead of protecting the people on it.”
Dr. Anderson gives me a sideways look. “NASA doesn’t see it that way. The fact is, we have limited resources and we’re facing a dying planet. We can either spread ourselves thin and make little impact—or we can focus all efforts on the Europa Mission and have a real shot at success.”
It’s obvious Dr. Anderson’s been drinking the mission Kool-Aid. While I can somewhat follow her logic, I feel a wave of fury at the thought of all the people who told me no these past two years. No money for the genome surgery to fix Sam’s heart, no grant for my radio telescope, no to so many things that could have improved the world for the living.
They’d better hope and pray Europa is the miracle they’ve built it up to be.
“Here we go,” Dr. Anderson says over my shoulder as the jet shudders downward, giving us a clear view of the Houston cityscape, with still-standing skyscrapers connected by a network of skywalks. And then, my temporary new home appears in the near distance: the sprawling campus of Johnson Space Center.
“Something else we did to preserve the Space Center was elevate the buildings and move all facilities to the uppermost floors,” Dr. Anderson comments, nodding at the window. “This way, even when the storms come, our staff and equipment remain safe.”
The plane takes another swoop, and I grab the sides of my seat as the air sends us rocking and jerking toward a large runway spread out below us: the Ellington Field. But I’ve never seen a runway like this, teeming with people. While half the tarmac is like an airplane parking lot, with a row of small jets stationed side by side, the other half might as well be a stage. A dozen figures stand opposite the planes, dressed in the same uniform as me and surrounded by a cluster of photographers, cheering spectators, and an actual marching band. As our jet skids to the ground, I hear the faint strains of “You’re a Grand Old Flag.”
“That’s for you,” Dr. Anderson says with a smile.
My heartbeat picks up speed, my stage fright returning with a vengeance. Dr. Anderson unbuckles her seat belt and retrieves my carry-on luggage, but I stay put. I’m nowhere near ready.
“Go on,” she says, touching my shoulder. “You can do this. I’ll be right behind you—though you probably won’t see me again after today.”
I can hear the drumroll coming from the marching band, the shouts of my name from the crowd, and I swallow hard. She’s right. I can do this. Besides . . . I have no choice.
I stand up, lift my chin, and make the shaky walk to the front of the plane. The door juts open, the stairs unfurl. And as I appear at the top of the steps, the band launches into “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Cameras flash in wild succession, and my fellow finalists assembled at the center of the tarmac all look up to stare at me. Standing in front of them are the mission leaders, the same pair the Space Conspirator depicted as holding the puppet strings: Dr. Takumi from NASA and General Sokolov of Roscosmos, the Russian Space Agency.
Beyond the barricades of the air base, hundreds of onlookers swarm, some even hopping to the top of the fence as they wave flags from the different represented countries, their faces almost manic as they scream a chant: “God bless the Twenty-Four, for they are our only hope!”
A knot forms in the pit of my stomach. If this collection of strangers pinning their hopes on us is representative of the world, then that means millions are depending on the success of the Twenty-Four. But don’t they realize all the risks involved with the mission? Don’t they know that we’re just glorified guinea pigs, forced to perform under Murphy’s Law, which practically guarantees something going horribly wrong in space or on Europa?
No, of course they don’t. Without doing the research, there’s no way to know the risks. Maybe they don’t even want to know.
Dr. Anderson gives me a slight push, and I make my way down the airplane steps. When we reach the foot of the stairs, she takes my arm, steering me to the mission leaders. Dr. Takumi, Solar System Ambassador and the president of International Space Training Camp, moves forward first. Something about his presence causes me to take an involuntary step back.
Maybe it’s his stature, which requires me to crane my neck to meet his eyes. Or maybe it’s his eyes themselves, which have a fierce glint to them, even as his lips form a thin smile. His head is shaved, highlighting his sharp features and the lines creasing his face. As he looks at me and extends a hand, I think of the puppet master on the Space Conspirator home page, and a shiver runs through me.
“Welcome, Naomi, to International Space Training Camp,” he says, his voice deep and authoritative. “I am Dr. Ren Takumi, and this is General Irina Sokolov, the commanding general of the Europa Mission.”
“Nice to meet you,” I reply, my throat feeling like sandpaper.
While Dr. Takumi wears a black variation of our uniform, his second in command is dressed in red, the color of the Russian space program. General Sokolov’s auburn hair is cropped in a pixie cut, and her brown eyes are intent as she studies me.
“Congratulations on making the Twenty-Four, Naomi,” she greets me. “I hope you’re prepared to work hard.”
“I—yes. Thank you.” I glance up at the sound of another jet overhead, and Dr. Takumi points me to the line of arrivals.
“Please join your fellow finalists, and once everyone is here, we will proceed to the Space Center.”
I can feel my heart thumping loudly in my chest as I approach the others. What are they like? Will I get along with them? Is this going to be at all bearable? I recognize a couple of their faces from the news segments, particularly my fellow American, Beckett Wolfe, who stands at the end of the line. I fill the empty space beside him, just as a jet nearly identical to mine swoops down.
“Hi, I’m Naomi,” I half yell over the sound of the plane. “You’re Beckett, right?”
Beckett turns and peers down his nose at me. He points to the name sewn across the pocket of his jacket uniform. “Obviously.”
Ew. Let’s hope the other finalists aren’t anything like the First Nephew, who rolls his eyes as he turns away from me. I can see it written clearly on his face—his disdain for the too-ethnic noncelebrity he’s forced to share the American spotlight with. Sorry, dude. I didn’t ask to be here.
As the next jet hits the ground, the marching band transitions into a pulsating new song, swapping their snare drums for a pair of tablas. The music is electric, the melody beautiful. And as an Indian boy with a mile-wide grin steps off the plane, I’m surprised to feel myself getting caught up in the spectacle, joining in the crowd’s applause. There is something powerful in the seamless transition from one country’s music to another, in the sight of so many different flags waving together in the wind, and my chest swells with unexpected emotion.
The Indian finalist, Dev Khanna, joins me in line, and I can tell right away that he’s much friendlier than Beckett. He returns my smile and we share a quick handshake before the band segues into its next song. Another plane touches down, its wings painted in the colors of the Italian flag. Italy . . . that means it’s the boy from the videoconference. The one who tried to comfort me.
I stand up a little straighter as Leonardo Danieli emerges from the jet. His face lights up at the sight of all of us, at the sound of the music from his country, and he half dances down the steps of the plane. I can’t help but grin as I watch him.
Our eyes meet for a split second—I can tell he recognizes me, too. And in that moment, his smile seems to grow.
LEO
It feels like I’m living someone else’s life as I take in the scene on the tarmac. It’s too thrilling, too awe-inspiring, to actually be happening to me. Adrenaline surges through my veins as I stand with the rest of the Twenty-Four, listening to Dr. Takumi deliver a speech for the cameras broadcasting us live to the world.
“Today marks the start of mankind’s most important step—the very step that will secure our future.” His voice rings out across the airfield. “On behalf of the six space agencies and our staff at ISTC, we are delighted to welcome the most extraordinary teenagers from around the world to our campus at Johnson Space Center. We combed the globe to find these unique individuals standing before you, all of whom possess the strength, smarts, and youth necessary to achieve our highest aim.”
And I’m one of them. It still seems unthinkable that I made it this far, especially compared to the geniuses all around me.
“From the get-go, the Europa Mission’s stringent prerequisites kept the draft pool relatively low. Our finalists were required to be between the ages of sixteen and nineteen, with clean bills of health and near-perfect vision. Their bodies needed to meet the anthropometric requirements for long-duration space suits, while their minds had to test above the eighty-fifth percentile for IQ. They were also required to speak fluent English, the home language of Space Training Camp, in addition to their native tongue. Yet even with all these boxes to tick, we were still able to select finalists who brought something else—something unique—to the table.”
It must be my imagination, but I could swear Dr. Takumi is looking straight at me as he says those last words.
“In the coming weeks, we will train, challenge, and test the Twenty-Four, both physically and mentally, to prepare them for a life in space. This training period will help us carefully evaluate each finalist and ensure that we choose the right team of six,” he continues. “One day, years from now, this mission will be taught in schools; it will be known as the defining moment for the continuation of the human race. But those future students won’t be learning about it here on Earth.” Dr. Takumi pauses, a ghost of a smile on his face. “They will study the mission from their new schools, their new homes, on Europa!”
The crowd roars, the onlookers whooping and rattling the fence surrounding the airfield in their exhilaration, as Dr. Takumi gives credence to our deepest, wildest hopes.
“It all starts now!”
He lets out a piercing whistle, and suddenly two open-air trolleys come rolling toward us, driven by men in US Army camouflage. Dr. Takumi and General Sokolov jump onto separate vehicles, as Takumi calls out his first official command. “Finalists, come aboard!”
I make a beeline for Dr. Takumi’s trolley, and I sprint past the other competitors to land a seat up front. Maybe it’s silly of me to take the ride so seriously, but I’m determined to seize any face time I can get with the key figure deciding my fate.
The trolley rumbles forward, leaving Ellington Field behind and heading onto a main street. It’s my first time seeing sidewalks and stoplights again, and I glance around in shock, feeling like I’ve traveled back to the past—to when the world was normal. Of course, there’s nothing normal about riding in a motorcade, with a marching band in the trolley behind us playing a medley of national anthems from our represented countries. When the Chinese national anthem transitions into my own, it’s like hearing from an old friend. I smile up at the sky.
Our motorcade turns onto NASA Parkway, and I draw in a sharp breath. If I thought I’d seen crowds in Rome, or even just minutes ago on the tarmac, that was nothing compared to the hordes lining these blocks in the sweltering heat. They brandish flags and posters; they jump up and down in hysterics as our procession passes, some in tears, others shouting out “good luck” in multiple languages. I can feel what each stranger on the sidewalk is thinking: Please let this work. Let them save us.
The trolley pulls through an open gate, and our group cheers as the Johnson Space Center sign looms before us. The campus is vast as a city and protected like a fortress, with barricades on all sides to hold back the rising tides. We pass dozens of numbered buildings and bunkers before the trolley stops at the largest one, Building 9. Twin flags soar above it, one featuring the American Stars and Stripes for NASA, the other bearing the international logo of the ISTC.
Dr. Takumi jumps off the trolley first, and we follow him to the front steps as the photographers and reporters on our tail clamor for one last good shot.
“Wave good-bye,” Dr. Takumi instructs as the twenty-four of us gather before him and General Sokolov. “This is the last time anyone outside of training camp will get to see you until the first round of eliminations.”
First round? My palms begin to sweat.
I glance at my fellow finalists, gauging their reactions. Some of them are beaming for the cameras and waving, while others can’t hide their nerves. But as I scan the group, I realize I’m looking for someone in particular—the American from the videoconference. The girl whose sadness struck me that day.
When I finally spot her, I notice she is mouthing something to the cameras, her dark eyes urgent. What is she trying to say? I take a step closer to her, just as the doors to Building 9 fly open and Dr. Takumi beckons us inside.
This is it. My pulse quickens as we follow Dr. Takumi, leaving the old world behind.