20

In the time it takes us to head upstairs, I get two more texts to my ring: “Leave this place” and “Go, now.”

“What do you want?” is all I’ve been able to text back without Ari and Becka noticing. And again: THIS MESSAGE CANNOT BE DELIVERED.

I put the texts out of my mind. Stay focused, Jack.

“You sure we’re in the right place?” I ask Becka, worried she’s led us off course again.

Because this level of the mall is in bad shape: Flickering lights (the spooky kind, not the arcade kind). Sparks shooting out from exposed wires in a crumbling ceiling. And water all over the floor. Like the other two levels we’ve visited, this one has a fountain in the center. But it’s bone dry and cracked clean down the middle. The debris-filled puddles all around us are so dirty that the water looks black.

A dozen robots push mops back and forth, collecting pieces of the broken roof in a portable dumpster. But they’re barely making a dent.

“I’m sure,” Becka says, triple-checking her map.

Ari points to a sign that’s dangling sideways above a nearby store—Fuel! Fuel! Fuel!—and another sign at the opposite end of the atrium—Fuel Emporium. We’re definitely in the right place. They’ve just had a rough day. Or maybe an awesome party.

“You again?” an alien shouts, staring at me from underneath the Fuel! Fuel! Fuel! sign. She looks almost human, except for her bright purple skin and orange hair.

I stop in my tracks and glance around. “Me?” I ask, pointing to myself.

“Yes, you,” she points back. “What do you want?”

“Uh, fuel? For a light speed engine?”

“Oh, now you want fuel? You haven’t ruined me enough for one day?”

She turns her head left and right, waving her arms at the few shoppers slowly trudging in and out of stores. They all look a little worse for wear.

“You scared everyone away!”

“What’s she talking about?” Becka mutters.

“I don’t think I am who you think I am,” I tell her. “This is literally the first time I’ve ever been here.”

She squints at me and slumps her shoulders. She’s got a tag on her shirt that my digital contacts can’t seem to translate. It only says: My name is [UNKNOWN NAME].

“Oh,” says UNKNOWN NAME, rubbing her eyes, “I guess you’re right. I’m a little jumpy. Those overpriced hooligans over at Fuel Emporium are messing with me again. They set this whole thing up. I’m sure of it.”

“Well,” I say, hoping to get the conversation back on track, “we do need some fuel.”

UNKNOWN NAME clasps her hands together.

“You’ve come to the right place,” she cheers, leading us into her store. “I’m glad you decided to avoid those crooks”—she says the word at the top of her lungs, like she wants everyone on the floor to hear her—“at Fuel Emporium! More like Low Quality Emporium if you ask me!”

She laughs hysterically, as if this is a really clever insult. I see the translator bracelet on her wrist and wonder whether it was funnier in whatever language purple people speak. Maybe it rhymed or something.

Fuel! Fuel! Fuel! is a small, cluttered, L-shaped store, with only a single aisle running down the middle and cutting quick to the left. Some of the shelves are stocked—but most are empty and a few are even broken.

“Maybe we should just go straight to Fuel Emporium instead,” Becka whispers to me.

“Don’t mind the mess,” the shopkeeper explains. “It’s been a long day.”

Except it doesn’t really look like “the mess” has anything to do with this particular day.

She turns her head toward the closest shelf.

“Oh dear, that isn’t right,” she huffs, flipping over a small machine that looks like a Slinky. She puts it back down and the shelf cracks underneath, snapping in two and spilling parts all over the floor. A plume of dust rises into the air, but the woman just brushes the dirt off of her face and keeps talking.

“We’re between seasons, you understand. Almost entirely sold out for the trisolar festival. I can barely keep up with demand.”

There isn’t a single other customer in this store. I peek across the way at Fuel Emporium, which is a lot larger and, compared to Fuel! Fuel! Fuel!, packed with shoppers.

“So what exactly are you looking for?” she asks.

“Fuel for a light speed engine. Enough to travel about 1,500 light years.” That should give us enough to get back to Ganymede, return with a rescue party, and then bring everyone home—with a little to spare.

“Of course. Which type of engine, though? Artificial black hole? Wormhole piercer? Gravitation well hyperdrive?”

We stare at her with open mouths. In retrospect (and I’ll only ever say this once in my life), we probably should have done a little more homework before coming here. It didn’t even occur to me that there were different types of light speed engines.

Doesn’t mean I wasn’t paying attention during my dad’s message, though.

“It’s an Alcubierre drive?” I try.

She nods. “Inefficient. But they get the job done.”

And I know one other thing too: “Our engine runs on quantum hexachloride.”

“Doesn’t everyone’s,” she comments. “You stay here and I’ll fetch some Alcubierre QHC from my safe.”

She steps away from us and rounds the corner at the back of her store. We browse while we wait, even though all the merchandise looks like junkyard trash. The only other things in the shop are a door in the back—now ajar, which must be where she went to access her safe—and a security desk with three screens: One shows the entrance of the shop; another shows the aisle and the desk (I wave my hands and watch myself on the feed); and the third—clearly on the fritz, as it flickers a bit every few seconds—displays a small metal hatch in the corner of a closet-sized room.

At first I figure that the hatch is her safe—it’s got a keypad with strange symbols on it. But UNKNOWN NAME comes out after a minute, holding something in her hand, having never once showed up on that third screen. So I guess not.

“Got it,” she says, pushing the backroom door shut behind her. She shows us what looks like a ball of tinfoil.

“That’s quantum hexachloride?” Ari asks.

“Purest blend in the galaxy. That’ll be one hundred and fifty-seven Elvidian credits.”

I blink at her.

“Okay,” UNKNOWN NAME says. “You seem like nice folks. Let’s make it a hundred fifty, even.”

But all we ever came up with was Ari’s “ask nicely” idea.

“We don’t have any money,” Becka tells her bluntly.

The shopkeeper bursts out laughing. Why do people keep doing that? “Oh you got me! No money. Good one.”

We try to explain that we’re kids and need help. But she just laughs even harder, muttering as she shoves us out of her store. “Tell your Fuel Emporium bosses they’re gonna have to try harder than that!”

“Told you,” Becka mutters to us.

I swallow back my disappointment. “Let’s try the other place.”

We head to the opposite end of the level. Even with the loud cleanup going on around us, I can faintly hear UNKNOWN NAME greeting another happy customer outside her shop: “Go away! Bother those cheats”—she really does project her voice pretty impressively—“over at Fuel Emporium instead.”

“Now this is a store,” Ari says.

Fuel Emporium is massive and clean and beautiful—full of neat shelves stocked high with shiny machines. Little flying drones whiz around the store, grabbing items, delivering them to shoppers, and restocking the merchandise. Dozens of aliens (mostly Elvidian) are browsing and buying. There’s even an area in the middle where some scientist is demonstrating the power of different types of engines to ooohs and aahhs.

“Welcome to the Fuel Emporium,” an Elvidian tells us, opening his arms up wide. “Winner of Fuel Cell Distributor of the Year, every year, since we opened our doors. Proud sponsor of the Galactic Run. I’m Rick.”

I share a look with the others. Not the most alieny name we’ve ever heard.

“How can we serve you?”

I take a deep breath. I don’t know why I think this might work better here than in the dingy place across the level.

“We need light speed fuel,” I explain. “Quantum hexachloride—”

“Naturally,” he mutters.

“—but we don’t have any money.”

Right on cue: He starts laughing. Another dead end. “Who put you up to this?” Rick asks. “It wasn’t that huckster over in Fuel! Fuel! Fuel!, was it? She hasn’t done enough today? I’m telling you—can’t trust a non-Elvidian for an eighth credit.” He gives us a second look. “No offense.”

Becka shrugs. “Well, I don’t think she trusts you either.”

He laughs again. “She doesn’t, huh? Because I’m the thief around here. Right.”

“Please,” I beg, changing the subject. “We need the fuel for our friends.” I look at Becka. “And family. They’re in trouble and need our help.”

He crouches down to look at us at eye level.

“If you’re in trouble, why haven’t you called the Minister’s office? I’m sure she would be happy to help.” He stands back at attention. “Long Live the Minister, of course.”

“Of course,” Becka copies, saluting. “We love, love, love the Minister, don’t we? She’s great.”

“Love her,” I say.

“Wanna marry her!” Ari doubles down.

The guy looks at us strangely as Becka chokes down a laugh.

“Anyway,” she continues. “The Minister’s office is trying. Really trying. But it’s complicated. We need fuel. Please—isn’t there a job we can do or something? Work for you for a little and earn some fuel?”

The guy looks past us.

“It would take a long time for you to work your way to earning even an ounce of QHC. I don’t have any open positions that pay what you—”

He stops.

“That pay what we what?” Becka presses.

He’s staring out of the store at Fuel! Fuel! Fuel!

“You do seem like nice kids,” he says. “Maybe there is a job you can do for me.”

“Perfect!” Becka says. Ari and I slap five.

“Follow me,” he says in a hush, leading us toward the front of the store.

We stop next to a display window facing the atrium. Inside are maybe eighty or ninety small diamonds, hovering by themselves in rows of ten each, like stars in the corner of an American flag.

“Do you see that?” Rick says.

“See what?” I ask.

“There’s one missing,” he points. Sure enough, in the second-to-bottom row, near the right side of the window, there’s a space where a floating diamond should be.

“What are they?”

“My most valuable possessions. And that thief!”—he yells it out to make sure the Fuel! Fuel! Fuel! lady hears him—“stole it from me. I’m sure of it.”

“Why don’t you call the police?” Ari asks. “Or the Minister’s office.”

He sighs. “I’ve got no proof. It’s my word against hers.”

And that’s when it hits me. My heart thumps and my head buzzes. I can feel my fingers tingling. It’s like I’ve been hit by lightning. I don’t know if this how my dad felt when he came up with his idea for the engine, but it has to be close.

The Elvidian grins. “And I want you to steal it back for me.”

“But how are we supposed to do that?” Ari asks.

I only half-listen to the rest of the conversation, thinking everything through. The safe. Of course. We break into the safe.

“No clue,” Rick is saying. “I tried once—but her safe is impenetrable.”

Of course her safe is impenetrable. We don’t have to crack it. We need the code.

“You need the code,” Rick says like he’s reading my mind.

Ha!

“But only she knows it. And she’s so paranoid that she probably changes it twice a day.”

“Didn’t you just say that you tried to break in once?” Becka asks. “Doesn’t that make her not paranoid?”

He flicks his ear twice, which must be his species’ shorthand for “who cares.” “Whatever. She’s got a restraining order against me now. Can’t go within fifty feet of her store. So if I even set foot in that place . . . well, prison is not an option. Not worth my freedom.”

Becka, Ari, and Rick go back and forth for a few more seconds. I look at Becka—I get that she hasn’t put it all together yet—but Ari? How has he not figured it out?

“You want fuel?” Rick adds, heading off to a customer. “Break into the safe and bring me my prize. Of course.” He shrugs. “If you get caught, I never met you.”

He walks away and Ari turns to me in despair.

“How in the world are we supposed to break into an impenetrable safe?”

I grin at him. “We already have.”