6

The closer we get, the warmer the corridor becomes—until we’re right up against the hatch that leads into the engine room (which is easy to identify because it says “Engine Room”) and the air around us feels like Mercury in July.

I put my hands on the wheel and instantly pull back.

“Ow!” I yelp, blowing on my palms. “So hot.”

The sweat from my hands sizzles and evaporates off the wheel.

Becka turns to Ari. “Can’t you use the Pencil to make a glove or something?”

Ari thinks for a second but shakes his head, disappointed in himself. “I think it’ll take me too long to write out the code.”

“Wait a minute,” I say. “You can make high-powered forehead lamp stickers in, like, thirty seconds. But it’ll take you too long to make a glove?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Ari like this is obvious. “Synthesizing the fibers of the cloth would—”

“No worries,” Becka cuts him off. “We’ll open the door together. That way, it’ll be easier and quicker to open, and we won’t burn ourselves as badly as we would if any of us opened it alone. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Ari responds instantly.

“Okay,” I say a beat later. “Whatever.”

Becka nods, spits, and rubs her hands together.

I stare at her. “That’s so gross.”

“So?” She shrugs.

We hold our fingers inches from the wheel and count—“One! Two! Three!”—and together, we grab hold, turn, and swing the hatch wide open. The room on the other side hisses with a release of pressure, and my face burns as a puff of hot steam shoots out into the corridor behind us. But Becka was right: my hands only hurt a little.

And I’m only panicking a little.

“Wow,” Ari says, as we step inside.

“Yeah,” Becka agrees.

I’m still worried that we’re making a mistake. My second thoughts are having second thoughts. But I’ve never seen a fusion propulsion engine up close before. This place is way more interesting than any other part of the 118.

The room is shaped like a giant glass doughnut suspended in the middle of a large metal box. The doughnut is only attached to the ship by the door we just came through. Beneath our feet, there’s a walkway made of rusty steel. Through the glass all around us, we can see the heart of the ship, with engine parts moving and rattling, up and out in at least four stories in every direction. Huge tube-shaped machines, the ones causing all the noise and vibrations, are sliding up and down alongside the outer walls. One of the tubes, on the far left side of the room, is crushed and bent inward, moving out of rhythm with the others and carving a hole little-by-little into the adjacent wall. And directly ahead of us—in what I can only describe as the doughnut hole—there’s a bright blue light pulsing like a giant laser. It shoots up from the bottom of the engine room, into the roof above, and out of sight—to power the ship’s Hall thrusters, I assume.

“QUARANTINE IN THREE MINUTES.”

We’re running out of time, so I lift my left hand and open my fingers wide, in that way that gets the ring to listen closely.

“Text my dad,” I tell it.

The ring glows green, acknowledging my instructions.

“We’re here,” I say. “In the engine room. Now what?”

I take my right hand and touch it to the bottom of my left, then brush it over my open palm—toward the tips of my fingers—like I’m wiping away dirt. That motion sends the message. The ring glows green again, to tell me that it was successfully delivered to my dad on Ganymede.

Me, Ari, and Becka stare at my hand for a few seconds, hoping that my dad will text us back right away. Which of course he doesn’t. Because why would he start making things easy now?

“Um, okay,” Ari stutters. “We can probably figure this out ourselves, right? There’s got to be a control panel around here somewhere.”

But while there are computers and machines lining the walls of the outer engine room—the metal box—the inner doughnut just looks like one solid piece of glass. There isn’t a single panel or button. I run around in a circle, trying to see if any part of the smooth surface looks different.

“Hey, Ship,” Becka tries, “you there?”

No answer, which isn’t surprising. The 118’s AI isn’t supposed to respond to kids, just teachers and crewmembers.

Ari presses his hand to the glass above his head in case the walls are touch-sensitive. Nothing. Far past where we’re standing—flush against the portside wall of the engine room—some random timer is ticking up, reminding us of the seconds that are speeding by: 00:37:20. 00:37.21. 00:37.22.

“Jack,” Ari says, “maybe I was wrong. Maybe we shouldn’t have come here.”

“You think?”

“QUARANTINE IN TWO MINUTES.”

I stop pacing next to Ari. Tired and frustrated, I lean against the glass. As soon as my hand touches its surface, the voice of the AI booms, “WELCOME, JACKSONVILLE GRAHAM.”

At the sound of my name, we all freeze.

“WAIT. JACK GRAHAM? YOU’RE DEFINITELY NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE. OR YOU, ARIZONA. UGH, OR YOU, BECKENHAM.”

“Nice to speak to you too, Ship,” Becka says, as if she has one-on-one conversations with it all the time.

“AND YOU’RE CERTAINLY NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ABLE TO ACCESS MY INTERFACE, JACK. HOW DID YOU DO THAT?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I say, desperately trying to stay calm. My dad must have done this—must’ve given me this access.

“WELL, YOU CAN BET THAT LOCHNER IS GOING TO HEAR ABOUT—”

“Ship, we don’t have time for this!” I slap the glass with my other hand to emphasize my point.

“HUH,” says the ship. “DUAL AUTHENTICATION ACCEPTED. ADDITIONAL VOICE RECOGNITION REQUIRED FOR SIGNATURE PROTOCOL.” It pauses. “WHAT THE HECK AM I SAYING?”

And the room flickers to life.

Images and graphs appear all around us, some flat against the glass, others as 3D holograms floating between the inner chamber and the outer walls. Numbers made of light shoot out toward the engine room, tracing the outlines of unfamiliar machines. Across from Ari, a detailed diagram of the ship slowly spins, blinking yellow, orange, and red in places where the hull is damaged. A bar graph appears above Becka’s head, displaying the status of the ship’s fuel, water, and oxygen supplies. And, directly in front of me, a detailed and colorful map of the solar system pops up. Toward the middle of the map, close to the biggest planet, a tiny moving blip is moving fast into open space.

Just beneath the spec, a message reads, “Current Location: Jovian Sector 1151.”

“What the . . .” I mumble.

“ADDITIONAL VOICE ALGORITHM CONFIRMED,” the computer responds. “TOUCH AGAIN TO INITIATE SIGNATURE PROTOCOL.”

As quickly as the images appeared, they dissolve like fireworks falling back to the ground, leaving only a single flashing red button on the glass where I’d put my right hand.

My ring beeps with the receipt of a new message. It’s from my dad. “Touch the glass a couple times and then speak a few words.”

I roll my eyes. Perfect timing, as usual.

The ring chimes again.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to reach you after. But I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. I love you and am so proud of you. Be safe. Come home.”

I stare at the words floating in my palm, not even caring that Ari and Becka can see them too. It feels like my heart is going to pound out of my chest. What did you do, Dad? What’s going on?

“Touch it!” Becka urges, reminding me of the ship’s last instructions. “Touch the glass again!”

I move a finger close to the blinking red button. My mind is racing. My dad thinks what is all his fault? Getting fired? This weird attack? Why did it seem like he was saying good-bye to me? And why does he want me to press this button so badly? I feel dizzy.

And I still don’t know if doing what he tells me—trusting him—is actually a good idea.

“QUARANTINE IN ONE MINUTE.”

“Oh fine!” Becka shouts, impatient. She shoves me out of the way and presses the button herself. But nothing happens. She taps the screen again and again. But the button just continues flashing.

“I think it has to be Jack,” Ari tells her.

So before I can think clearly, before I can process everything that’s happening, Becka grabs my hand and slams it against the glass, pressing a finger down on the button.

“Hey!” I shout.

But it’s too late. All of a sudden, the engines shut down. Completely. The room jolts and we all tumble down to the floor.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more terrified. I never should have let Becka come along. If the engines are stopped, then we’re stopped. Before, we were at least running away from whatever was happening near Jupiter. Now we’re sitting ducks. Because of me.

It’s dark all around us, except for a faint glow coming from where the red button had been, replaced now by text: A word and some numbers. It reads, “Protocol 061999.”

And the ship is speaking the same word over and over: “ENGAGE?”

“Great job, Becka!” I yell as we all scramble to our feet. “Now we’ve shut down the engines and destroyed our chances of getting away! Thanks so much for the help!”

“No, that can’t be it!” Becka shouts back. “The computer is still waiting for something.”

As if on cue, the sinister voice returns with its final countdown. “THIRTY. TWENTY-NINE. TWENTY-EIGHT . . .”

The voice continues, one second after the other, as the ship’s computer asks its question again and again: “ENGAGE? ENGAGE? ENGAGE?”

“What does the screen say?” Becka asks.

Ari reads the numbers out loud—“Zero. Six. One. Nine. Nine. Nine.”—as we just stand there. Three stupid kids, in way over our heads. Staring at a random string of numbers, glowing in the dark.

No—not random. “Six. Nineteen. Ninety-nine,” I say. “It’s—it’s my birthday.”

“FIFTEEN. FOURTEEN. THIRTEEN . . .”

If it wasn’t obvious before, it’s staring me in the face now: My dad created this whole secret protocol with me in mind. He was doing something for me. Thinking about me. For months, I’ve felt like all his covert experimenting was selfish. Like, if he really cared about me, he wouldn’t have taken such a ridiculous risk. But maybe it wasn’t all about him. Maybe some part of it was about me too.

“TEN.”

I don’t know what to do. This countdown feels dangerous, but following my dad’s instructions could make things worse instead of better. What if we need to be quarantined? Or, what if I press this button and it blows up the ship? What if, instead of saving us, I destroy us?

“FIVE.”

“ENGAGE?”

“FOUR.”

“ENGAGE?”

“Do something!” Becka screams.

“THREE.”

“ENGAGE?”

The words and voices swirling around me beat in my mind like fists punching me over and over.

“Engage!” Becka calls out desperately, spinning around. “Engage! Engage!”

But the computer won’t listen to Becka.

“TWO.”

“ENGAGE?”

“ONE.”

“ENGAGE?”

I have to make a choice. There’s no more time to think it through. So I lean in close to the glass, as if whispering the word instead of shouting it will somehow make my decision a little less real.

“Engage,” I say.

“ZERO.”