“Do I need to lay it out for you? Let’s see.” Kenn holds up a finger. “You walked out in the middle of an interview because a reporter asked you about Emika.” He holds up another. “Your knuckles have been a bloody mess—literally—since you talked to her.” He holds up a third. “Has there been a single day when you haven’t brought her up?”
My face is hot now. Hideo has brought me up every day?
“I’m not in the mood, Kenn,” Hideo mutters.
Kenn shoves his hands in his pockets and leans toward Hideo. “You were going to agree with me on this, remember? That this whole suicide thing was a rumor. Then you have one conversation with Emika, you tell me you’re not interested in seeing her again—and now you’re having Mari start a whole investigation.”
Hideo’s frown deepens, but he doesn’t deny it. “This isn’t about her.”
“Isn’t it?” Kenn replies. “For a girl that you claim you don’t care about, that little wild card sure has a grip on you.”
“That’s enough.” Hideo’s words cut the tension between them like a pair of shears, and Kenn halts immediately, his unspoken words practically dangling in midair.
Hideo glares at him. “I expect us to do this right. Up until now, I thought you had the same standards.” He nods once at the door.
At that, Kenn turns slightly pale. “You’re dismissing me?”
“Well, I’m certainly not asking you to dance, am I?”
Kenn scoffs and pushes up from his chair. “You used to get these insufferable airs in uni, too,” he mutters. “Guess nothing’s changed.” He waves a flippant hand. “Do whatever you want. I just never took you for an idiot.”
They watch as Kenn steps out of the room. Down below, another burst of excitement comes from the crowd. Jackie Nguyen, the Phoenix Riders’ new Fighter, has managed to seal the Andromedan Fighter in a crevice on a mountainside. Asher targets Shahira with a purple-gold Toxin power-up and slows her movements to a lurch.
With Kenn gone, Hideo lets his shoulders relax for a moment. He stares down at the arena with a grave expression.
“He’s too eager,” Mari says to Hideo as she glances at the sliding glass door. “He wants to see the positive impact in our bottom line already.”
“He’s always been eager,” Hideo replies in a low voice. He leans his arms against his knees and watches the game halfheartedly.
“It will be fine,” Mari says gently. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I want Kenn to be right, that the suicides don’t have anything to do with the algorithm.”
“And if it does?”
Mari doesn’t answer. She clears her throat. “I’ll field the calls today,” she finally says.
“No. Let me deal with the Americans. You get back to me with results on this investigation as soon as you can.”
“Of course,” Mari replies with a bow of her head.
There’s a brief silence between them. Then Hideo gets up and walks over to the glass window. He rests his hands in his pockets. On the holograms, Roshan and Hammie are in a heated battle with two of the Andromedans, each team protecting their Captain’s Artifact while trying to break through to grab the enemy’s.
“Any other news for me?” Hideo says after a while, turning his head slightly without taking his eyes off the game.
Mari seems to know exactly what he’s talking about. “I’m sorry,” she replies. “But we still have many other potential suspects left in Japan.”
Hideo’s expression is bleak, his eyes lit by dark anger. It’s the same fury I’d seen in him when I’d once hacked into his Memory, when I saw him training with the ferocity of a beast. I recognize it as the look he gets when he’s thinking about his brother.
“Dozens of predators that had previously escaped the justice system have already turned themselves in,” Mari adds. “Did you hear about the two men responsible for running illegal sex shops in Kabukichō?”
Hideo glances at her. His shoulders are stiff now.
“Well, they showed up at a police station this morning, sobbing. Confessed everything. Tried to stab themselves before they were brought into custody. You’ve taken a lot of dangerous people off the streets.”
“Good,” Hideo murmurs and turns back to the game. “But they’re not the ones, are they?”
Mari tightens her lips. “No,” she admits. “Nothing in their mind palettes generated by the algorithm matches Sasuke’s time and location of disappearance.”
Of course. Now I understand why Hideo refuses to let the algorithm stop running.
He’s using it to hunt for his brother’s kidnapper, probably scanning through millions of minds in search of a memory, a spark of recognition, an emotion that hints at someone being responsible for what happened to Sasuke.
Perhaps this was always his goal, the entire reason why he created the NeuroLink in the first place.
“Maybe Emika was right,” Hideo says quietly. His voice is so soft that I barely catch it. But I do, and my heart tightens. “That we’re not here to bring the world peace.”
“You’re doing your best,” Mari answers.
Hideo just stares down at the game. Then, he turns to face her. “Keep searching.”
Down in the arena, Asher seizes Shahira’s Artifact. The rematch is over—the Phoenix Riders win again, officially. Everyone in the stadium jumps to their feet, screaming loud enough to shake the dome. The analysts join in the shouts.
Hideo raises his glass stoically, nodding once down at the ecstatic crowds. His distant, controlled smile plays on the giant screens around the dome. And even though he is already breaking his promise—his vow that he and the algorithm would be two separate things—even now, my heart cracks for him. It’s hard not to feel drawn to Hideo’s relentless drive, not to ache for his determination.
What would he do, if I told him his brother is alive?
What will he do, once he figures out who took his brother?
Maybe Emika was right.
I clench my hands into fists. It’s not too late. If Hideo is having doubts, if he’s truly worried about what his algorithm might be doing . . . maybe, maybe there’s still time to pull him back from the abyss. Before he goes too far. Before I’m forced to turn away from him for good.
And the only way I can do that is to uncover what happened to Sasuke.
I’m walking a tightrope between Hideo and Zero, the algorithm and the Blackcoats. And I have to be very careful not to slip.
I stand up and pull my hoodie over my head. There isn’t much time left. The algorithm is supposed to make the world a safer place—but if Mari’s right about the algorithm, then safety’s exactly what we’ll need to worry about.
An incoming message from Tremaine snaps me out of my whirling thoughts. His voice fills my ears.
“Em,” he says. “I’ve made contact, and they have info on that symbol you sent me, the one from Sasuke Tanaka’s sleeve.”
I swallow hard at Tremaine’s words as red and gold confetti rains down from the arena’s ceiling. “What is it?”
“They won’t share it with you over a message.” He pauses. “You’re going to want to hear this in person.”
12
I have no trouble exiting the arena, not with all the rowdy, dressed-up fans flooding out around me. Phoenix Rider supporters are screaming at the top of their lungs. Andromedans look sullen but satisfied. A crowd has already lined up near the back entrance to watch the black cars take the players away. Others are making a beeline down to the overstuffed subways. The cool night wind whips my hair over my shoulders as I hop on my board and turn myself in the direction of Akihabara.
Some of Tokyo’s districts always close down a few of their main streets once a week, turning them into hokoten, giant pedestrian walkways. Since it’s a game night tonight, almost every district in Tokyo has done so, and none more grandly than Akihabar
a, temporarily earning it the nickname Hokoku, or a mash-up of “Pedestrian District.” The entire area looks like a light show, populated by masses of people swarming up and down eight-lane roads usually crammed with cars. Each towering building has the smiling face of a Phoenix Rider playing against its walls, accompanied by their best moves from the rematch.
In spite of everything that’s going on, I still feel a swell of team pride at the images of Asher, Hammie, and Roshan. Right now, all I want is to celebrate with them and collapse into their arms, their uncomplicated friendship.
Dozens of neon streaks linger in the air, the trails from racing drones that the police are too overworked to deal with. Music blares in the streets, where a DJ has set up temporary camp in the middle of the road and is currently surrounded by jumping fans. The ground is lit up with virtual red lava flowing in grids, and virtual phoenix feathers glitter, hovering, in the bushes, on the ground, or in front of buildings, each worth twenty points if you can grab it.
Welcome to Akihabara!
Double points during Hokoku Night!
You leveled up!
By the time I arrive in front of a massive entertainment complex draped on every side with my teammates’ faces, the black cars carrying the teams have already parked in a line in front of the building, blocking off access to this part of the street from the masses. One of the guards catches sight of me. When I approach the lineup, he shakes his head, unwilling to let me pass. He can’t tell who I am, not with my randomized identity hovering over me.
I send a quick message to Asher.
Here now. Your boys are blocking me out.
Asher doesn’t reply. But a beat later, the guard gives me a slight bow of his head, then steps aside so that I can squeeze between the black cars. I duck into the complex and through the entrance’s sliding doors.
The first floor of the building is crammed with Warcross merchandise, hats and figurines and claw machines where you can try your luck at winning plush versions of team mascots. I make my way down the corridor until I reach the stairs, then hop up them to the second floor.
Here, I step into a surreal realm.
It’s a gaming hall, with a high ceiling probably built by knocking down one floor to combine it with another. There’s fog everywhere, creeping down from a stage where a virtual pop star is performing. Neon lights sweep from the ceiling, lighting up the smoke with streaks of color. Crowds of people are dancing near the front of the stage, while the rest of the room is full of tables with games projected on them, where people are playing each other at a variety of games. I see several tables of checkers, while others play card games or board games enhanced with virtual images. Service drones zip from one table to the next, serving drinks with animated colors hovering over them and skewers of tender, grilled meat.
I recognize members from several other teams: Max Martin’s in a corner with Jena MacNeil, hunched over a table game of some sort and laughing his head off at something his Captain has just said. Shahira Boulous is gesturing wildly with a drink as she explains a game technique to Ziggy Frost, who just listens quietly with wide eyes. Pretty much everyone in here is either some current team member or a former one. I pass invisibly through their ranks, feeling a strange mixture of belonging and not belonging, while I search for the Riders.
They’re gathered near the stage, where the tables end and the dancing begins. As I draw nearer, I realize they’re almost hidden from view behind a crowd of spectators, all shouting and cheering over something.
Then I see Hammie appear over the crowd as she hops onto a chair. She raises both her fists up with a whoop. Her knot of braids has loosened a bit, and a light sheen of sweat beads on her dark skin, catching neon outlines from the ceiling lights. She has a huge grin on her face.
“Checkmate!” she calls out.
They’re playing speed chess. She’s sitting across from Roshan, who knocks his king flat with a defeated grimace. As the crowd shouts out new challenges and exchanges bets, Roshan gets out of his seat so that someone else can play Hammie, then heads over to wrap an arm around the waist of Kento Park.
They exchange some intimate words I can’t hear. I look around, wondering whether Tremaine’s here to see them.
“Move over, move over.” Asher’s voice comes from the crowd, and some people part to let him through. He shoves the chair Roshan was sitting in out of his way and wheels himself into its place, then smirks at Hammie and leans against the table. “You can’t win two rounds against me in the same night,” he says. The crowd roars with approval at the challenge.
“Oh? Can’t I?” Hammie cocks her head at him and hops down from her chair. Her eyes are still bright from her win.
As I watch, the chess game before them resets. Virtual fire engulfs the edges of the chessboard, and a magnified version of the game appears over their heads for everyone to see. It’s no static chessboard, either—the knights are real knights, the rooks real castle towers, the bishops replaced with fire-breathing dragons that now lunge their necks forward.
A new timer appears to float over the table. I glance at it. Each player gets one second to make a move.
The game starts. Everyone cheers.
Hammie’s playful banter silences, replaced by a look I know well from our training days. Smug, wicked confidence. I shake my head, lost for a moment in awe as I watch her move. Pawn. Knight. Queen. Each play sends a column of fire racing around the hovering chessboard. Hammie’s eyes dart from position to position—her hand flies out without the slightest hesitation each time her turn comes up. Over her head, the virtual, animated chessboard is aflame, each position waging an epic war. Hammie’s knight clashes with one of Asher’s bishops, skewering the character with her lance; the opponent’s queen walks right into a trap she set up with several pawns and her rook.
The crowd around Hammie screams at each move. Asher’s brow furrows deeper as he fights a losing battle, but Hammie ignores him blissfully, singing along to the music at the top of her lungs, even dancing in place in between moves.
I smile along. I’ve never seen Hammie play in person. She’s even better than I thought; it’s like watching a game already preset and planned out, and she’s merely executing the moves. If I could only be as sure of my next steps as she is.
“Checkmate, son!”
The crowd around her bursts into a mass of cheers as Hammie corners Asher’s king. She slaps her hands down hard on the table, hops onto her chair in one nimble move, and lifts an arm up high in a V-for-victory sign. Her level bumps up by one, and her notes tick frantically upward. Asher throws his head back with a loud groan as Hammie does a little dance on the chair.
When the crowd settles and some move on to watch another nearby game, I finally walk up to their table. Roshan notices me first. He blinks in surprise—and then steps away from Kento, breaks into a grin, and claps his hands loudly at Asher and Hammie.
“Team reunion?” I manage to shout at them over the music, unable to stop myself from returning Roshan’s smile.
Asher lets out an exclamation at the same time Hammie hops down from her chair and makes a beeline for me. And before I can say anything more, I’m swept off my feet by a hug from both her and Roshan.
For a moment, I forget why I’m here. I forget about the Blackcoats and Hideo and the mess I’ve somehow gotten myself into. Right now, I’m with my friends, indulging in their messy, jostling greeting.
Asher looks bright-eyed, his cheeks flushed, his hair as rumpled as his clothing. He joins us as Hammie and Roshan finally let go of me. “You scared the hell out of us when you went MIA, you know that?” he exclaims.
“Captain,” I reply with a forced wink, trying to keep myself looking lighthearted here.
Hammie’s bright, glittering eyes turn serious. “Tremaine’s been waiting for you,” she says to me. “He says he has something to show us.”
At her
words, I glimpse someone standing in the crowds nearby. It’s Tremaine, leaning against a wall with an uncertain look on his face. My momentary happiness wavers at the sight of him.
You’re going to want to hear this in person.
“Come on.” Hammie gestures up at the ceiling. “The next floor is full of private karaoke rooms. You can fill us in up there.”
I nod wordlessly back, and together, we all cut our way through the throngs until we make our way into the elevator.
A private suite is already waiting for us in the karaoke hall. Muffled music thuds around us from parties raging in the other rooms. I notice immediately that someone’s already in here, a barely perceptible figure sitting in the dark corner of the sofas. Then Roshan shuts the door behind us, sealing us in, and the shouts and music outside suddenly turn into a muffled din. My ears ring in the silence.
Tremaine speaks first. “This is the contact I told you about,” he says to me, nodding at the stranger now sitting beside us. “Jesse. Prefers they.”
At that, Jesse leans back against the sofa and studies me without acknowledging the others. I study them back. They have strikingly pale green eyes set against light brown skin, and a lean physique that gives off a false impression of fragility—but I see their slender fingers tapping with precision against the sofa. I recognize gestures like that. They’re the signs of a racer.
“I owe Tremaine a debt,” they finally say, skipping any formal greetings and instead fixing their green eyes on me. “He went into my records once and deleted a citation from the police.”
“They’d gotten caught drone racing,” Tremaine explains. “Jesse’s one of the best in London’s underground scene.”
“I remember you,” Roshan says, eyeing Jesse with his arms crossed.
“Same,” Jesse replies, returning the look. “You’d earned quite the name for yourself in the underground, Ahmadi.”
Asher lifts an eyebrow at him. “You never told us you used to race drones.”
“Why would I tell my Captain I was doing something illegal?” Roshan replies. “I wanted you to pick me for the Riders.”