The Final Six (The Final Six #1) - Alexandra Monir Page 0,18

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