Warcross (Warcross #1)(17)
An hour later, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I hoist my backpack and skateboard over my shoulders and step out of the apartment, then glance back, my eyes settling on Keira. I have a strange feeling I’m studying a life that I won’t be returning to. That this will be the last time I ever see her. And I find myself softening toward her, quietly wishing her well. She’ll have a rent-free apartment until the end of next year; maybe that’ll help her get back on her feet.
“Hey,” I say, feeling unsure of how to say good-bye. “The corner diner is going to need someone now. If you’re looking.”
“Yeah.” She smiles. “Thanks.”
“Good luck.”
She gives me a single, solemn nod. Like she also knows this may be permanent. “You too,” she replies.
Then I close the door behind me and don’t look back.
When I push open the building’s main entrance doors, an explosion of flashing lights blinds me. I squint and throw a hand over my face. A roar of voices go up. “Miss Chen. Miss Chen! Emika!” I wonder for an instant how the hell these people recognize me, before I remember that, with the rainbow of colors in my hair, it’s pretty obvious that I’m the same girl from the published screenshots.
An enormous figure bounds up the steps, pushing journalists aside in the process. “Allow me, ma’am,” he says in a friendly tone as he takes my backpack and board. He holds an arm out in front of me and starts making a path down the steps. When one journalist gets pushy, he shoves him back with a growl. I follow my new bodyguard dutifully, ignoring the questions thrown at me from all sides.
We finally push our way over to a car—the most beautifully sleek auto-car I’ve ever seen. I bet it’s the first time one has ever been spotted on our street. The bodyguard puts my stuff in the trunk. One of the car doors opens automatically, waits for me to shuffle inside, and then closes. The sudden silence, and the separation from the din outside, is a relief. Everything in it looks so luxurious that I feel like I’m ruining it just by sitting here. The clean scent of a new car hangs in the space. Bottles of champagne sit in a molded block of ice. Through the windows, I can see an overlay of virtual markers over the streets and buildings. Randall Avenue, reads a string of white letters overlaid across the street we’re on. Colorful little text bubbles pop up over each of the buildings. Green Hills Apartment Complex. Laundr-O-Matic. Chinese Food. This car has the NeuroLink fully integrated into it.
The car’s interior lights up. A voice comes on. “Hello, Miss Chen,” it says. I startle.
“Hi,” I say back, unsure where I should be looking.
“A preference for the car mood?” the voice continues. “Something serene, perhaps?”
I glance out at the mob of journalists still shouting at the car’s shaded windows. “Serene would be nice, Mr. . . . Car.”
“Fred,” the car says.
“Fred,” I reply, trying not to feel weird about talking to a bottle of champagne in an ice block. “Hi.”
All of the windows suddenly shift, and the journalists outside are replaced with a view of a stunning landscape—long grasses blowing in the wind, white cliffs out along the horizon, clear ocean and white foam, and a sunset tinting the clouds orange and pink. Even the chaos outside now sounds muffled, covered by calling seagulls and the crash of the virtual ocean.
“I’m George,” the bodyguard says as the car starts to drive us forward. “You must have had quite a morning.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “So . . . do you know why we’re heading for the airport?”
“My instructions from Mr. Tanaka were only to escort you safely to the jet.”
I go back to staring at the virtual seascape passing us. Instructions from Hideo. Maybe it’s not an elaborate prank after all.
Half an hour later, the serene views on the windows fade away, and the real world comes back into view. We’ve arrived at the airport. Instead of pulling into the usual circle where all the other vehicles go, though, ours turns into a small looping road that takes us toward the expanse of tarmac behind the airport. Here, the car pulls into a private garage that is situated next to a small row of jets.
I scoot out of the car’s dark interior, then squint in the light. One jet has Henka Games written on its side. It’s enormous, nearly the size of a commercial liner—except thin and sleek, with an elegant, sharp-nosed design that distinguishes it from the other jets. The panels along the sides of the plane look strange, almost translucent. The main door is open, and a set of stairs leads down to the tarmac, where a plush red rug lies. This is the plane that Hideo himself uses whenever he travels.
“This way, Miss Chen,” George says to me with a slight bow of his head. I’m about to go around to the back of the car to grab my backpack, but he stops me. “You won’t need to lift anything on this trip,” he adds with a smile. I stand there awkwardly, empty-handed, as George grabs my stuff and leads me in the direction of the jet.
I make my way up the steps. At the top, two flight attendants dressed in impeccable uniforms give me dazzling smiles and a bow of their heads. “Mr. Tanaka welcomes you on board,” one of them says to me. I nod back, unsure what to say to that. Is Hideo being kept up-to-date on where I am right now? Does he know I’m boarding his plane at this very moment? My thoughts linger on the flight attendant’s words—until I turn to look at the inside of the jet.