Seventh Grade vs. the Galaxy Page 13

  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 eith
er.”

  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.”

  21

  Becka doesn’t like being kept in the dark. “You ready to tell us your genius plan?”

  “Not yet. Let’s wake them up first so I can explain to all of you at once.”

  We’re back on the ship, in the kitchen. And we’re standing by the lunch robots with our fingers hovering over their “on” switches.

  “Whatever it is,” Ari says, “they’re not gonna like it.”

  “Nope,” I agree. “Definitely not.”

  But in our defense, they don’t really like anything. When I was in fifth grade, the teachers threw a birthday party for Stingy. But instead of blowing out the candles, Stingy poured motor oil all over the cake. Stingy said it was an accident, but I’m telling you it was on purpose.

  “Here we go,” Becka announces.

  Ari’s got Creaky, Becka’s got Cranky, and I’m stuck with Stingy. (We played a round of rock-paper-scissors that I lost best-two-out-of-three.) All at once, we push down on the small power buttons on the backs of the robots’ necks and the gears inside whir to life.

  “Oh my,” Creaky says, opening its eyes and immediately stretching out its arms—but one of them falls and hits the floor with a clang. These robots are not the realistic, humanish kind of robots. I’ve seen some of those around on Ganymede—the ones with fake skin and transplanted hair and everything. Sometimes, you can’t even tell. These robots are much, much older models. They’re the boxy, machiney type—soda cans with arms and legs.

  “That was a longer assembly than usual,” Creaky says, picking up its severed limb and casually screwing it back on. Creaky twists it around a few times and, even though the arm stays put, it still looks a little crooked.

  “Yes,” Stingy agrees, standing up straight as if cracking its back. “I’m sure Lochner droned on and on.”

  “I’m still tired,” Cranky whines. “Can I just go back to sleep?”

  Classic Cranky.

  Stingy looks around the kitchen and out toward the cafeteria. “Look at the mess they’ve made! Who do they expect will clean everything up? Us? Absolutely not. The school year is up for us just as it is for them. They have no respect for free robots. Our ancestors didn’t—”

  “Whatever,” Cranky interrupts. “If anyone asks me to clean, I’m going back into sleep mode.”

  “I’ll have a word with Lochner,” Stingy declares, “about the need to show some discipline to these messy, disrespectful—”

  “Ahem,” I clear my throat.

  The three robots spin around and—surprise, surprise—aren’t happy to see us.

  “Graham, Bowman, Pierce!” Stingy barks like a drill sergeant. “You shouldn’t be here. You were supposed to go home for the summer! Did you get lost on the way to the shuttles? And where is the principal with our end-of-the-year paychecks? I have bills to pay.”

  I try to cut him off. “Listen, Stingy—”

  “Not my name.”

  Oh come on. I know that their nicknames aren’t exactly complimentary, but they’ve earned them fair and square. Besides, their real names are way too hard to remember. “Um, sorry . . . Z-4H7?”

  “No!” Cranky whines. “I’m Z-4H7!”

  “Oh, sorry. Anyway—”

  “You don’t know my name, Graham?” Stingy asks, clearly offended. “I’ve been making you food for three years and you don’t know my name?”

  I sigh. We haven’t even gotten to the hard part yet. “Z-8I3?”

  “Ha,” Creaky laughs. “That’s me!”

  Creaky smacks Stingy in the shoulder, which makes a sound like two baking trays clanking against each other. Creaky’s arm falls off again. “Ignore it,” Creaky says, reattaching it for the second time. “This thing gets worse and worse every year.”

  “What is my name?” Stingy bellows.

  One more guess. “Z-
9B4?”

  “Z-9B4!” Creaky is cracking up now. “Isn’t that your second cousin, Stingy? The CEO of that shipping company? The one your grandparents are so proud of?”

  Stingy roars with rage, which sounds like a clogged garbage disposal.

  “A little jealous of a cousin,” Creaky whispers in my ear. “Pride of the family. Definitely got all the looks.” I’m a little fuzzy on how robot families work—like, how’s one robot the grandparent of another?—but now’s not really the time to get into that.

  “If you cannot remember my name,” Stingy says, “then how will you ever succeed in eighth grade?”

  “I’ll never get to eighth grade if you don’t let this go! And we have more important things to talk about than whatever name is on your manufacturing certificate!”

  “Well, I can’t b—”

  Becka sticks two fingers in her mouth and whistles like she’s hailing a cab from the Andromeda galaxy. “We need your help,” she explains to the now-silent room.

  “No need to be obnoxious about it,” Cranky mumbles.

  “What kind of help?” Creaky asks.

  I press my hand against the nearest control panel.

  “WELCOME, JACKSONVILLE GRAHAM. OH—I SEE YOU WOKE UP EVERYONE’S FAVORITE ROBOTS.”

  “Because everyone just loves your sunny disposition, right?” Creaky says.

  “WELL, IF IT’S A COMPETITION, THEN—”

  “Ship,” I interrupt, “not now. Can you just, I don’t know, download your logs into their memory banks? So we don’t have to catch them up on everything’s that’s been going on?”

  “Ugh,” Cranky complains. “Can we not? I really don’t feel like interfacing with the ship right now. It’s so glitchy.”

  “SPEAK FOR YOURSELF. ALSO, I FORGET—WHO WAS IT WHO NEEDED TWO WEEKS OF MAINTENANCE LAST SUMMER?”

  “Logs,” Becka insists. “Now.”

  “WITH PLEASURE.”

  And for the next few seconds, the robots all make a low ticking noise that I guess is them connecting with the ship’s computer. Their eyes spin around and around in their sockets.

  Stingy speaks first. “You mean . . .”

  “Yep,” I confirm.