The Final Six (The Final Six #1) - Alexandra Monir Page 0,17

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