The Final Six (The Final Six #1) - Alexandra Monir Page 0,74

the main medical facility on Johnson Space Center campus, and as we step onto the main outpatient floor, five doors open in unison. One for each of us.

“Go on.” Lark ushers us forward, and I exchange one last look with Naomi before we each disappear into one of the patient rooms.

I sit on the examination chair, staring straight ahead as a soft-spoken nurse checks my vitals and draws multiple vials of blood for the array of tests. She listens to my ears and heart and puts me through one of those mindless letter-chart vision tests, all while I silently command my body to stay calm, to not betray my nerves with a jittery heartbeat or anything that the nurse might question. And then, after nearly an hour, I’m ushered into the next room—a small, sterile space with only a table and two chairs to fill it. A bearded man sits at one end of the table, consulting a clipboard.

“I’m Dr. Dwyer,” he greets me, extending his palm for a handshake. “I’ll be administering your final psych evaluation. If you make the Final Six, you will be hearing from me regularly while in space, as mental check-ins are a crucial part of the process when leaving Earth.”

“Sounds good.” I smile at him, trying to appear even-keeled and confident, despite the sight of this stranger giving me a chill of foreboding. To have someone brand-new evaluating us at the very last moment makes me even more vulnerable than I was before. What if I make the wrong first impression and have no time to change his mind?

“Have a seat,” he instructs me. “Today you’ll be completing the MMPI-3 standardized psychological test, which consists of a series of statements that you will label true or false. Let me know when you’re ready.”

I nod.

“Ready.”

“First statement. ‘A person should try to understand his dreams and be guided by or take warning from them.’ True or false?”

“Um.” I have no clue what he wants to hear—which leaves me no choice but to answer with my gut reaction and hope it produces the desired result. “True.”

“Next. ‘Once in a while, you think of things too bad to talk about.’ True or false?” My mind flashes back to the day that was supposed to be my last, when I came so close to making a terrible choice. If they knew . . . would they see me as another Callum?

I shake my head, giving Dr. Dwyer what I hope is a calm glance.

“False.”

And on it goes for the next hour, each question more unpredictable than the next, leaving me increasingly uncertain how I’m doing. Finally, we reach the last one.

“‘If confronted with a potentially threatening creature of foreign origin, your first instinct is to kill it and protect yourself.’ True or false?”

My head snaps up. What in the world?

“F-false.”

Dr. Dwyer nods and makes a series of scribbled notes before finally excusing me out into the hall where Lark waits. But I can’t get that last question off my mind.

I wonder if it has to do with Europa.

By five p.m., the judges are still deliberating our fates. Lark informs us that Dr. Takumi, General Sokolov, and the robots are sequestered somewhere on campus, reviewing our Astronaut Physical results and discussing the pros and cons of all twenty-two of us—and there’s no telling how long we’ll be waiting. With no training to occupy us, and no Wi-Fi, cell phones, or TV to distract us, we are alone with our suspense.

The teams are intermingled as we wait in the lounge, and I share a couch with Asher and Naomi, the three of us making a hopeless attempt at talking about something, anything, other than the draft. Seated on the other side of us are Dev Khanna and the Canadian finalist, a tall, slender girl with dark skin and eyes, named Sydney Pearle. She sits with her head between her knees, muttering something under her breath while Dev awkwardly pats her on the back.

“I know how you feel,” I say, leaning over to her. “There’s no real way to prepare for a competition on this scale.”

She lifts her face with a groan. “That’s not it.”

“She doesn’t know whether she wants to stay or go home,” Dev explains. “Which is a bit unusual in this crowd.”

Naomi and I exchange a look.

“Trust me,” she tells Sydney. “It’s not that unusual. And it’s hard to feel so . . . out of control.”

Sydney nods, looking at Naomi as if seeing her for the first time.