Warcross, Page 21

  “To Emika!”

  “To Emika!”

  The cheers flow fast. I need to sneak out, I think as I laugh along. It might be my overactive imagination, but Ren’s smile seems tighter than everyone else’s, his happiness for me strained.

  It doesn’t take long for the chaos in the room to reach a peak. Asher leans heavily against Hammie, repeatedly telling her that he loves her. She’s whispering into his ear in return. The karaoke microphone squeals in protest as Ren yells an off-key note into it. Roshan winces at the sound. As everyone bursts into another storm of laughter, I grab my phone and text Hideo.

  Where are you now?

  A few seconds pass with no response. Maybe Kenn put too much faith in me, or too little faith in Hideo’s stubbornness. I bite my lip, then send a second message.

  I have more info for you. Best to talk in person. It’s an emergency.

  Info from his hunter—it’s the only thing I can think of to say that might get him to see me.

  More time drags on. Just when I’m starting to think Kenn has gotten it all wrong about me, an encrypted message appears. I confirm my identity to unlock it, and in return, an address pops up in my view. Hideo’s address. I almost sag in relief. Then I store the location in my GPS and delete the message.

  Beside me, Asher raises his voice. “Anyone want to play a shots game? We need the waiter to come back.”

  I hop to my feet. “I’ll go find him!” I say, then make a beeline for the door. Perfect. By the time the waiter gets to them, they’ll be so busy having fun that none of them will notice I’ve left. Plenty of time for me to come up with a good excuse. I exit the room and hurry down the hall. As I go, I bring up my map with Hideo’s current location.

  His gold dot pops up somewhere in the northern area of the city. I hurry down a side corridor. Moments later, the hall leads me out into the narrow back alley behind the building and near its garbage bins.

  A cold drizzle has dampened the sidewalk, and as I step outside, I’m hit with a blast of chilly night air. Neon lights reflect against the wetness, painting the ground a menagerie of smeared gold, green, and blue. The city block’s number—16—hovers in bright yellow letters over the pavement, while a gold dotted line leads from where I stand to the corner of the block, where it turns right and disappears from view. A cheerful Start! message and an estimated arrival time hover in the center of my vision, waiting for me to follow the map. Thirty minutes.

  I shiver, draw my hoodie tightly up so that it covers all of my hair, and pull on a black face mask. I also download a virtual face to disguise myself. Anyone on the street who’s logged in to the NeuroLink should now see me as a complete stranger instead of a face they recognize from the news. Better than no disguise. Then I throw my electric skateboard down and jump on it. It shoots me forward as I follow the gold line.

  Half an hour later, I emerge in a quiet, upper-class neighborhood on a hill overlooking the city. The travel time shifts in my view as I go, counting down the minutes that it will take for me to arrive. The drizzle has turned into a steady rain now, soaking through my hoodie and drenching my hair. I try to stop myself from trembling.

  Finally, I’m here. The gold dotted line stops in front of the gates of a warm, well-lit estate with a curved wall and carved lions outside its doorway. I don’t know how much security Hideo usually has at his residences—but tonight, at least five cars are sitting here, and two bodyguards are at the front gate, waiting to greet me. Others look like they’re scattered around the estate.

  One of them approaches me now, then tells me to hold out my arms. I turn off my virtual face and do as he says. He pats me down thoroughly, pausing to inspect my board. When he’s satisfied, he holds out an umbrella for me as I hurry to the entrance.

  “It’s okay, I don’t need the umbrella anymore,” I tell the man. When he eyes me sideways, as if he never gets this order, I gesture to my soaking clothes. “Seriously.”

  He reluctantly puts it down, and we walk in silence for a moment before reaching the front entrance. Inside the house, I hear a dog barking.

  Hideo answers the door. His bodyguard blinks in surprise, as if this is not something Hideo does often. He’s still dressed in his clothes from earlier, but one sleeve of his shirt is pushed up to his elbows, while he’s undoing the cuff link on his other sleeve. His collar is flipped up, the top buttons open, and his black tie is draped loosely over his shoulders. His hair is damp with a few drops of rain, the silver streak shining white. He looks concerned and bewildered, a sudden, startling reminder to me of just how young he is. It’s so easy to forget.

  “You’re soaking wet,” he says.

  “And you’re alive,” I reply. “That’s good.”

  The bodyguard leaves us alone. Hideo opens the door wide and ushers me inside. Beside him trots a fat orange-and-white dog with short legs and enormous fox ears. It stops in front of me, wags its stubby tail, and looks up at me with a panting smile. I pet it vigorously, then remove my wet shoes near the doorway and step inside.

  The home is impeccably clean, with soaring ceilings and beautiful, modern furniture. Soft music plays from some sort of built-in sound system. To my surprise, I see no virtual letters, colors, or numbers anywhere in the house. Everything is real. How much does a house as gorgeous as this cost in a city as expensive as Tokyo?

  “You’re trembling,” he says now.

  I shrug it off. “Just get me out of these clothes.” Then I realize what I’ve said, and heat rushes to my cheeks. “I mean, well, not that—”

  The edges of Hideo’s lips twitch with a smile, a brief respite from his grave look, and he nods for me to follow him. “I’ll bring some dry clothes for you.”

  “I got a glimpse of a single file from Ren,” I tell Hideo as we head down the hall. Then I mention its name. “It’s obvious that Zero wanted to, well . . . try an assassination today. How’s your bodyguard doing?”

  “He’ll live. There have been worse attacks than today.”

  Worse attacks. “Any word on the culprit?”

  Hideo shakes his head as he pushes his second sleeve up to his elbow. He’s weary, his dark mood still not lifted. “Kenn says the power had been thoroughly cut. In all the confusion, whomever it was managed to get away and blend in with the crowds. We’ll be studying every nook and cranny of the dome for evidence, but I won’t lie. They were ready.”

  The culprit is still out there. I try to swallow my fear. “Just because nothing happened today doesn’t mean Zero’s not waiting in the wings to act. It could be one part of his grand plan.” I take a deep breath. “They’re going to try again. They could have been trying even before this. And there will be plenty of times when you won’t be as guarded as you were in the dome.”

  Hideo’s lips tighten slightly, but it’s the only response he gives about his safety. He stops for a moment to look at me. “Did it report any data back about you?”

  I hesitate. I hadn’t thought about the possibility of Zero grabbing info of me from the object—and the idea sends a shiver through me, even as I warm at Hideo’s obvious concern. “Shouldn’t be possible,” I reply. “I’m fine. Besides, it’s not me that we should be worried about. The more pieces of this that I find, the more ominous it sounds.”

  “My security detail is used to being careful. After your warning, we did a full sweep of my home. They’ll be watchful.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Hideo, you almost died tonight. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “I’m well protected here. There are eight bodyguards on my premises alone.” He nods toward the rest of the house. “It sounds like you’re edging closer and closer to finishing this, at any rate.”

  “I don’t understand how you can be so calm about this,” I say, my frustration rising. No wonder Kenn sounded so exasperated. “You need to get out of Tokyo. It isn’t safe for you here. Every moment you stay puts you in danger.”

  Hideo casts a serious look my way. “I’m not going to be chased out
of my city by a vague threat,” he replies. For the first time since I’ve known him, a note of anger creeps into his voice. “This isn’t the first time someone has targeted me, and it won’t be the last.”

  I’m about to raise my voice, but then I sneeze. The cool air in the house is seeping straight into my soaked clothes, and I realize that my teeth are chattering.

  Hideo tightens his lips. “We’ll continue this after you warm up. Come with me.”

  We reach a spacious bedroom, its glass walls leading out into a serene Zen garden adorned with golden dangling lights. A large bathroom suite branches off from one side of the room.

  “Take your time,” Hideo says, nodding toward the suite. “When you’re ready, we’ll talk further. Would you like tea?”

  A nice cup of tea after your assassination attempt. Sure. I nod, too cold to argue. “I’d love some.”

  Hideo closes the bedroom door and leaves me alone. I let out a long, slow breath. So far, I’m not doing a very good job of convincing him of the real danger he’s in. I sigh and strip off my hoodie, jeans, and undergarments, laying all the clothes out carefully along the bathtub to dry. My reflection in the mirror catches my eye; my makeup from the tournament earlier now looks smeared and smoky, dampened by the rain, and my hair hangs in wet strands of color. No wonder Hideo isn’t listening to my advice—I look half crazy. My gaze wanders from myself to the rest of the bathroom. The shower is enormous, with a rain showerhead installed right into the ceiling. I turn the faucet and let the hot water steam for a bit, then step inside.

  The shower washes away some of my jumbled thoughts, and by the time I step out, I feel a little calmer about being here. I towel myself off and weave my wet hair into two messy side braids, then step out of the bathroom.

  A set of clean clothes has already been laid out for me. A creamy white sweater. A pair of loose pajama pants. I pull the sweater on; it smells just like Hideo, and is so large on me that it hangs down almost to my knees. The collar slides sideways, baring one of my shoulders. I don’t even try to wear the pajama pants. They’re far too long.

  I walk over to the bedroom door, open it, and emerge halfway out into the hallway to tell him I need something shorter.

  But he’s already here, holding a teacup in one hand and ready to knock on the door with his other. “Emi—” he starts to say when he sees me. We both freeze.

  Hideo blinks. His eyes dart to the loose, white sweater I’m wearing, then quickly away. “I wanted to ask if you had a tea preference,” he says.

  My shoulder and legs suddenly feel very exposed, and the flush on my cheeks now turns to magma-level red. I start to stumble some words out.

  “Sorry, I—I was going to ask if you, um, had smaller pants.” Another bad line. “I mean—not that you have small pants that would fit me”—digging a deeper hole for myself—“I mean, the pajama pants keep falling off—” I’m a very good digger. I wince, then shake my head and stop talking, letting my hands wheel in circles as if they can convey my meaning.

  Hideo laughs a little. Unless my imagination is messing with me, a slight flush colors his cheeks, too.

  I snap out of my reverie, then slam the door shut right in his face.

  There’s a pause, followed by Hideo’s familiar voice. “Sorry about that,” he says. “I’ll find something better for you.” Then his footsteps echo down the hall.

  I walk over to the bed, bury my face in the sheets, and let out a groan.

  Moments later, Hideo opens the door a crack and waves a pair of shorts blindly at me. I take them. They’re still baggy on me, but at least they stay on.

  I venture out into the hall and into the living room, where Hideo is reading by a crackling fireplace. His dog lies at his feet, snoring softly. The windows here lead out to the garden, and the bead-like patter of rain can be heard against the glass. The walls are lined with portraits and with shelves of books—pristine early editions—neatly organized and artfully arranged. Then there are shelves displaying vintage video games and consoles, as well as prototypes of what look like the earliest versions of the NeuroLink glasses. Some of them are as large as bricks, but each one gets progressively smaller and lighter, until I finally see the first edition of the official glasses propped up at the end of the shelves.

  Hideo looks up from his book when he hears me approach, then notices me studying his shelves. “My mother took good care of my early NeuroLink prototypes,” he says. “She and my father made sure to save them.”

  His neuroscientist mother and computer repair shop father. “Mint condition,” I reply, admiring the prototypes.

  “They believe that objects have souls. The more love you put into one, the more beautiful it becomes.”

  I smile at the affection in his voice. “They must be very proud of what you created.”

  Hideo just shrugs, but he looks pleased at my words.

  “You don’t have any augmented reality overlaid in your home,” I say as I sit.

  Hideo shakes his head. “I like to keep my home real. It’s too easy to lose yourself in an illusion,” he replies, nodding at his physical book.

  I’m very aware of our proximity to each other, as if I could feel the ghost of his presence against my skin.

  I take a deep breath. “Do you have any enemies you can think of? Someone who would want to hurt you like this? Maybe a former employee? An old business partner?”

  Hideo looks away. After a while, he replies, “There are enough people who dislike Warcross and the NeuroLink. Not everyone appreciates the new. Many fear it.”

  “It’s ironic that Zero fears it so much, then,” I reply, “but uses his own knowledge of technology to try to stop you.”

  “He doesn’t sound like someone who bothers with logic.”

  “And what about Ren? You should disqualify him from the games immediately. It’s pretty clear that he’s involved with this plan. He might even be involved with potentially harming you. What if the file I saw today had been meant for him? What if he had somehow sent a signal from within the game to the person who tried to attack you?”

  Hideo pauses for a moment at that, before finally shaking his head. “He’s been a reliable source of information, and he might lead to more clues. If I remove him now, it’ll be obvious to Zero that we know about him. They might suspect you.”

  I sigh, wishing I could argue with that reasoning. “Why don’t you want to leave Tokyo? You could have died today.”

  Hideo looks at me. His eyes reflect the light of the fire. “And signal to Zero that he’s won? No. If his entire plan is just a threat against me, then I’ll be relieved.”

  Our conversation fades into silence. I struggle to figure out something to say, but nothing that comes to mind seems appropriate, so I just end up staying quiet, prolonging the awkwardness. My eyes wander back to the shelves, and then to the portraits on the walls. There are photos of Hideo as a child and a teen—helping out in his father’s shop, reading by the window, playing games, posing with a bunch of medals around his neck, smiling for early press photos as he first hit the newswires. Curious. As a child, Hideo didn’t have the silver streak in his hair or the few silver threads sprinkled throughout his dark lashes.

  Then my eyes stop on one particular photo. There are two boys pictured in it.

  “You have a brother?” I say without thinking.

  Hideo is silent. Immediately, I remember the warning that I’d gotten right before I first met Hideo. Mr. Tanaka never answers questions about his family’s private affairs. I must request that you do not mention anything in that regard. I start to apologize, but my words fade as I realize it’s something even more than that. Hideo’s expression is strange now. He’s afraid. I’ve hit an old wound, a yawning abyss thinly scarred over.

  After a long moment, Hideo lowers his eyes and looks toward the rain-dotted windows. “I had a brother,” he replies.

  Mr. Tanaka never answers questions about his family. But he had just now, had opened up to me, however brie
fly. I can hear how foreign the words sound on his lips, can see the discomfort it brings him just to say them. Does that mean he never invites others to his home, either, where such a vulnerability is hanging right on his wall? I watch him, waiting for him to say more. When he doesn’t, I say the only thing I can. “I’m so sorry.”

  Hideo spares me by leaning toward the table. “You mentioned you wanted tea,” he says, sidestepping my words the same way he did on the night I’d met him at his headquarters. His moment of weakness that he’d offered me has already vanished, gone behind the shield.

  This is the piece of his history that haunts him, I think, recalling the beat of grief we’d shared when I’d mentioned my father. Whatever had happened, he hasn’t made peace with it. It might even explain his stubborn refusal to stay safe. I nod in silence, then look on as he pours a cup for me and another for himself. He hands me my cup, and I hold it with both hands, savoring the heat and the clean scent.

  “Hideo,” I begin softly, trying again. I’m careful to steer clear of whatever mystery shrouds his past. My eyes linger on the faint scars of his knuckles. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. You didn’t stand with me in the Pirate’s Den and feel the ominous presence of that guy. I don’t know what he’s up to yet, but he’s obviously dangerous. You can’t play with your life like this.”

  Hideo smiles a little. “You came all the way here tonight just to persuade me to leave Tokyo, didn’t you?”

  His teasing makes me blush again, which makes me irritated with myself. I put down my cup and shrug. “Well, I didn’t think it was something I could properly discuss with you without being here in person. And I wanted to warn you without somehow being overheard by my teammates.”

  “Emika,” he says. “You don’t need to give me a reason for coming over. I appreciate you watching out for me. You saved my life today, you know.” Whatever I was going to say next fades away at the look in his eyes. He puts his cup down, too, and leans closer to me. The movement sends a jolt up my spine. “I’m glad you’re here.”