The Final Six (The Final Six #1) - Alexandra Monir Page 0,38
whirring and beeping sounds I recognize from yesterday.
I turn around to the sight of both robots, Cyb and Dot, marching toward the general at an eerily identical stride. The six of us step back, clearing the way for them, as their presence once again sends a jolt through the room. I can see my teammates standing up a little straighter, their jaws tightening, eyes locked on the AIs. They are the wild cards in all of this—the machines with the power to sway our destinies.
The general nods at the robots in greeting, then refocuses on us.
“Dot, Cyb, and I will plug into the simulation as observers, each of us reviewing your actions on the screen, as well as your heart rate, brain waves, and other physical reactions tracked by the wearable equipment. First up . . .” She glances down at her screen. “Beckett, Leo, and Naomi.”
My competitive instincts return at the sound of my name, and I remember the mantra that used to run through my mind before every international swim meet: Go make my country proud. I plan to do just that while I’m here.
The three of us approach the chairs in front of the screen, and General Sokolov fits the VR equipment onto our bodies, attaching the bulky white rigs to our chests and strapping the elastic LED markers to our shoes. I slide my hands into the haptic gloves, watching the palm sensors light up as I stretch my fingers. Last is the headset, a wireless black-and-white mask of machinery that promises to immerse us in virtual space as soon as the general gives us the go-ahead to lower it over our eyes.
She points to the joysticks found on our armrests. “When the simulation calls for you to use your jetpack, you’ll trigger the thrust with your joystick. As you know, jetpacks are self-rescue devices filled with propulsive gases. Wearing one of these manned maneuvering units on your back is like having a power you can access whenever you’re in need—the power to, essentially, fly. But it takes skill to control the thrusters.” She reaches for the stick, demonstrating its commands. “These are the motions you’ll use to ignite the thrusters, with a long thrust for speed and smaller thrust to steady your direction.”
Dot and Cyb cross to the console rig behind us, and I can hear the low hum of their machinery as they stand near me—like an AI form of breathing.
“Dot and Cyb, plug into the sim,” General Sokolov commands.
“Copy that,” the robots answer in unison, and my skin prickles at the surreal sound of their voices. It’s the first time I’ve heard them speak, and I never realized until now that Cyb is programmed masculine, Dot feminine.
“Finalists, lower your headsets to your eyes in three . . . two . . . one. Remember, we aren’t expecting you to know exactly what to do. We’re looking to test your instincts.”
I catch one last glimpse of Asher, Katerina, and Suki, watching us with rapt attention. And then I slip the mask over my eyes.
A cry of amazement escapes me as I look up to find myself floating in an inky black sky. A majestic, colorful spinning sphere looms far in the distance above me, casting its bright shadow over the darkness. Jupiter. Even at hundreds of miles away, the gas giant dominates the sky. It’s a few moments before I can tear my eyes away and take in the rest of my surroundings.
I am hovering on the edge of one of the Pontus’s outer modules, my feet skimming a platform between the side of the ship and the glowing wing of a solar panel. When I glance down, it appears my clothing has transformed from the ISTC uniform to a heavyweight space suit, with a thick tether cord running from my suit’s harness to a handlebar on the module. I spot a flicker of movement across from me, and then Beckett appears, crouching on the opposite solar panel. A crackling sound comes over my headset.
“Houston is reporting a damaged solar array interfering with our power supply.” General Sokolov’s voice echoes over the radio. “Leo and Beckett, we need you to find and cut the snagged wire and install the stabilizers—you’ll find the tools in your equipment belts, with step-by-step instructions downloaded to your wrist monitors. Do you copy?”
“Copy,” Beckett answers, and I’m quick to echo him. But inside my suit, I’m sweating at the realization that I have no idea what I’m doing—and he