Warcross

  “I—” I stop myself, unsure what to say next without sounding crazy. I force a laugh. “Ah, never mind.”

  Ziggy’s attention has already strayed back to the draft. But I keep my eyes on the ceiling, as if he might reappear if I look long enough. Did I catch him? As the others applaud another wild card, I bring up a small, secret panel of my screenshot.

  Sure enough, there he is. I didn’t hallucinate it.

  • • • • •

  THE REMAINDER OF the draft passes in a whirlwind. When it ends and the rest of the stadium starts filing out, guards come to usher the wild cards and the professional teams out through special exits. I walk in numbed silence, even as everyone I pass watches me and as some of the other wild cards occasionally come up to congratulate me. I smile back at them, unsure what to say. In the back of my mind, I still keep thinking about the figure.

  Maybe it was one of the other bounty hunters. Or . . . maybe it was Zero. My target.

  “Miss Chen,” one of the ushers calls to me, holding his hand out in my direction and waving. “This way, please.”

  I follow him automatically. Behind me, Ziggy and Yuebin wave farewell as they hurry off toward another usher who is rounding up the new Demon Brigade and Stormchaser drafts. “Bye! See you in a game!” Yuebin calls to me. I wave back.

  I’m taken to a waiting car, one of a dozen sleek black vehicles in a line outside a private side exit. A cluster of fans have figured out where to wait, though, and as several of us step outside, they raise their posters and scream at us, holding out pens and booklets. Behind me, Asher Wing emerges from the exit with two handlers at his side. In virtual reality, Asher looks like a standing avatar; in real life, he is paralyzed from the waist down and sits in what must be the world’s most expensive wheelchair. Now that I’m close enough to him, I can take in the details of the chair’s solid gold rims and customized engraved leather.

  I look back at his face, wondering whether I should go up to him and say a proper hello, but stop myself from interrupting as he winks at a blushing fan and scoots his chair back into the crowd for a bunch of photos. The crowd nearly swallows him up before his handlers push everyone off. Then I’m ushered into a car, and my moment passes. I’ll have to catch him later, when our team convenes.

  The cars take off one at a time, each heading in the same direction down the same road. I know where we’re going—I’ve watched it play out on TV a dozen times. In the heart of Tokyo is the secure neighborhood of Mejiro, where a gated estate of luxury quarters house Warcross teams for the duration of the tournament. It doesn’t take us long to get there. As we pull up to the gate, reporters and fans cluster on the sidewalks, flying little drones in the sky to take as much video as they can. Several of the drones hover too close to the gates—when they try to cross over, they hit an invisible shield that disables them, sending them clattering to the ground.

  “No cameras, no drones,” the guard at the gate repeats over and over in a bored tone.

  We enter the campus. Patches of green lawn dot the space, and sprinkled between them are individual buildings surrounded by trees. Through my contacts, a virtual layer of bright colors adorns the buildings, painting each one in the colors of their respective team. Team names and logos hover helpfully over each dormitory, along with a cheery Welcome! message that rotates in different languages. Approved delivery drones fly in and out of each dorm, busily dropping off packages.

  The car pulls to a stop at a dead end. Someone is waiting for me on the curb as my door swings open.

  I find myself looking at Asher’s grinning face. I hadn’t even noticed that his car was ahead of mine. Over his head floats his name, level, and Phoenix Riders Captain. “Hey,” he greets, holding a hand out to me. Behind him, clusters of other players are already making their way down the paths toward their buildings. “I’m Asher, repping Los Angeles. Call me Ash.”

  I shake his hand. “Yeah, I know,” I reply, trying not to think about the fact that this is someone I’ve watched in Warcross games for years. “I’m a fan of your brother’s movies. Didn’t think I’d get to talk to you today.”

  His expression flickers cold for an instant at the mention of his brother, but then he’s back to normal, giving me a little laugh. “Sorry,” he replies. “I wanted to greet you when we were heading to our cars, but you know—fans first.”

  I smile. “Well, thanks for picking me.”

  “Wasn’t doing it out of charity.” Asher shakes his head. “The Phoenix Riders have been struggling for years. We need some good fresh blood. There’s nothing generous about wanting the best for my team.” His wheelchair turns away, and he tilts his head at me to follow him. “This is where you’ll be staying for the next few months,” he says as we turn a corner. I look ahead to see a stunning building painted virtually with swirls of red, gold, and white. “I heard Hideo himself approved your nomination into the draft. After the stunt you pulled in the opening ceremony, it’s a pretty interesting move.”

  I smile again, a little more hesitantly this time. “I guess I’m good for the ratings,” I reply.

  “I guess you are.”

  Careful, I remind myself as I hear the curiosity in Asher’s voice. So, Hideo hadn’t forced him to draft me. Or, perhaps he knew that the intrigue he’d create over putting me in the draft would be enough to interest any captain. Whatever the real reason, at least Asher doesn’t sound like he suspects Hideo’s plans, and I intend to keep it that way. The less everyone here knows about what Hideo hired me for, the better chance I’ll have at catching our guy.

  “And it looks like it’s good for your ratings, too,” I say, shifting the topic. “The Phoenix Riders are trending online over every other team. I bet the Demon Brigade’s unhappy about that.”

  At the mention of a rival team, Asher rests his head back against his wheelchair and taps his right hand against his armrest. He smiles in a way that flashes one of his canines, turning the grin vicious. “The Demon Brigade’s always unhappy about something. Glad it’s because of us this time.”

  We reach our building. Asher rolls up the access ramp and spins his chair once in a flourish at the top. He stops at the towering main entrance, a sheer glass door painted with stripes in our team colors, and pulls aside as the panels slide open. “Wild cards first,” he says.

  I step inside, into an open space three floors high. Into a dream. The sun pours into this central atrium from a pyramid-shaped glass ceiling, flooding the place with light. Directly beneath the glass ceiling is a heated turquoise pool, perfectly square and ready to be jumped into. Brightly colored couches—all red, gold, and white—and thick white rugs dot the living room space. The walls are made out of screens from floor to ceiling. Even as I take in the luxurious interior, I scan the corners of the building, already searching for how the dorm gets online. I’ll need to find my way into the system and into everyone’s accounts.

  Something nudges me hesitantly on my calf. I look down. Standing there, blinking up at me, is a boxy little robot as tall as my knee. Its eyes are bright blue and the shape of half-moons, its body painted a cheerful yellow, and its belly is covered with a clear glass panel, through which I can see a tray of sodas being chilled inside. When it sees me staring, it sticks its belly out, pops open the glass door, and pulls out the soda tray for me.

  “His name is Wikki,” Asher says. “Our team drone. Go ahead, take a soda.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, really, so I pick a can. “He’s still staring at me,” I murmur to Asher.

  “He wants to see if you like the drink.”

  I take a sip of the soda. It’s delicious, a fizzy strawberry flavor that tickles my insides. I make an exaggerated sound of joy. Wikki seems to take note of this, and over his head, a virtual set of info pops up:

  Emika Chen | Strawberry Soda | +1

  “He’ll record your food and drink preferences throughout your stay,” Asher adds.

  A robot that tracks everyone’s info. I smile at Asher,
but not for the reason he thinks. This is my ticket in. I make a mental note to figure out how to break into Wikki’s system later.

  Wikki offers a soda to Asher, too, then pops its belly shut and rolls off to where a boy is sitting on the couches. As I look on, the boy moves his hands in midair as if turning a steering wheel, and every now and then he makes a flinging motion. On the wall is a track winding through candy-colored hills, populated by giant mushrooms. He whips down the path, outpacing other players easily.

  “Mario Kart: Link Edition, as you can see,” Asher says. “It’s a tradition around here.”

  “A tradition?”

  “We play for an hour every night during training to improve our speed reflexes. It gets pretty competitive.” Then he claps his hands together loudly and raises his voice so that it fills the dorm. “Riders! Who’s here?”

  The boy hears Asher first, pauses the game, pops his earphones off, and turns around on the couch to look at his captain. I recognize him right away: the world-famous Roshan Ahmadi, with his brown skin and head of thick, dark curls, representing Great Britain.

  “Guess who I’ve got with me?” Asher says, pointing to my hair.

  “You’re so subtle, Ash,” Roshan replies in a dry British accent that sounds more casual than Hideo’s. He nods once at me. “Hello, Emika. I’m Roshan.”

  “He’s returning as our Shield this year,” Asher adds. “And he’s also the world’s top-ranked Mario Kart player, in case you’re curious.”

  “Hey.” I take one hand out of my pocket and give him a single wave. “An honor to meet you in person.”

  Roshan seems pleased by that. He offers me a brief smile. “Likewise, love.”

  “We’ve all claimed our rooms already,” Asher says, nodding toward the hall that branches away from the main atrium. “Roshan wanted the one with the largest windows. I got the far end, which has some custom upgrades detailed specifically for me. Captain’s privileges. Ren’s back at the end of the hall. And as for you—”

  “Hey!”

  A voice calls down at us from one of the floors overhead. I look up to see a girl leaning her elbows over the balcony, loudly chewing gum. Her hair is a jumble of beautiful black curls that frames her round face, and she’s dressed in an oversize, white sports jersey that contrasts with her brown skin. On second look, her shirt isn’t a sports jersey at all—it’s a T-shirt that says QUIDDITCH TRYOUTS in giant sports lettering.

  I like her immediately.

  “That’s Hamilton Jiménez,” Asher tells me, loudly enough so that she can hear him. “Or just Hammie. She’s our Thief.” He winks at her. “And my right-hand girl.”

  She grins back at him. “Feeling sentimental today, Captain?”

  He looks at me. “Fair warning: don’t let her talk you into playing chess.”

  “Don’t hate just because you can’t win.” She blows an enormous bubble and then sucks it back in. Her gaze jumps to me. “Your room’s up here. Second floor. I took the larger bedroom, since you’re a wild card and I’m not. Hope you don’t mind.”

  I wait to see a fourth player show his face, but the house falls into a moment of silence. “Where’s DJ Ren?” I ask.

  “Won’t see him until later,” Asher replies. “Ren’s prepping for the party tonight. It’s the only free pass he’ll get from me, especially since I’m counting on him to be our new Fighter. And let that be a lesson for you, too, Emi. We’re here to win.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “Good.” He nods, considering me. “Hope you’re as good an Architect as I think you are.”

  Hearing this from him sends a jolt of excitement and anxiety through me. An Architect’s job is to manipulate the world of the level in favor of her team. If there’s an obstacle, like a bridge, I would collapse it to let us through. If there are floating rocks, I’d push them together to create a bigger platform. An Architect is a designer of the level, dedicated to changing the world on the spot in favor of her team. It’s one of the most important jobs on a team. Last year, the Phoenix Riders lost their Architect because he’d been caught gambling away millions on Warcross games. The entire team was punished heavily, too—knocked down to the bottom of the rankings and stripped of their top two players.

  “I’ll do my best,” I say.

  “Tomorrow,” Asher continues as I follow him into an elevator leading up to the second floor, “we’ll catch you and Ren up on how things work in the championship games. I’ll walk you both through an official game. Although you”—he pauses to spin around and give me a calculating look—“may already know more than you let on.”

  I hold my hands up. “It was an accident,” I say, feeling like I’ve repeated this forever. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  “You did know,” Asher counters without hesitation. “In fact, you’re a much better Warcross player than your level suggests. Aren’t you?” He nods up at the numbers above my head. “After your name went viral, I looked up your Warcross account. I studied the few games that you did play. Those are not the skills of an Architect who is only on Level 28. Why are you so much better than your level suggests?”

  “What makes you say that? I just play against other beginners.”

  “You think I can’t see through that?”

  He has been paying attention to me. It’s true—I stream my plays live, when I’m actually linked in under my public Warcross account. But my encrypted, anonymous self is the account I use more often. All the hours I rack up under it don’t count into my leveling. Still, I’m not about to tell Asher that.

  “I just haven’t had the money or time to play as often as I want,” I say. “But I’m a pretty fast learner.”

  Asher doesn’t seem to buy this at all, but he lets it slide. “Every other team is going to underestimate you. They’ll say I’ve lost my touch, that I picked you just for the news coverage it’ll get the Riders. But we know better than that, don’t we? I don’t waste my time on players with no potential. You’re a weapon in disguise—and I intend to keep it that way until our first game.”

  It seems I’m becoming the weapon in disguise for more people than I’d like.

  We reach the second floor. Asher spins to face me, leans his head against the back of his chair, and exchanges a look with Hammie. She just nods at him, bunches up her curls on her head, and lets them go again. “Hammie will show you the rest,” Asher says. “We’re heading out in a few hours to the opening party.” He starts rolling back toward the elevator. “All the players will be out in force. If you’ve never seen an opening party before, brace yourself. It’s a wild one.”

  Hammie looks me over the instant Asher leaves. She’s the same height as me, but somehow, the jut of her chin makes her look taller than she is. She motions me forward and heads to the door closest to us. “This is your room,” she says over her shoulder at me.

  I half expect the door to swing open like a regular door, but instead it slides to one side. The room is enormous—even larger than the penthouse hotel suite that I had. One entire glass wall opens up to my own private patio, half of which is taken up by a shimmering blue infinity pool that goes all the way to the edge of the balcony. A waterfall cascades into the pool from somewhere on the roof. The rest of the walls are virtually painted by my lenses with ivory and shimmering gold. When I reach out to touch the colors, they ripple under my fingers, sending waves across my room. At the same time, three small buttons right above my hand hover against the wall. One says Off, another says Switch Scene, while a third says Customize. I decide to turn off the colors for now, then press the first button. The walls are replaced by blank space. I look around. My bed is huge, piled high with furry cushions and blankets, and my rugs match the ones downstairs. A work area dominates the rest of the space—chairs, a clean desk.

  Hammie grins at my expression. “And yours is the smallest room,” she says.

  I turn back to the space. “This place is ridiculous.”

  “Everything in the dorm is gameif
ied,” she explains. “Like the rest of Tokyo. You’ll earn three notes every time you customize your walls, and one note for switching the scenery. The room’s preprogrammed to your Warcross account. If you’re logged in, then the house system knows you’re the one who’s coming inside.”

  “How does this work?” I ask.

  She walks over and nods at an On button hovering near the surface of the desk, but doesn’t try to touch it. “You’re the only one who can turn on your work area,” she says. “Press that.”

  I touch it. The instant I do, the previously blank desk lights up soft stripes in our team colors, with a welcome message for me over it in white text. A second later, a holographic screen rises up from the desk. It’s a standard desktop display—except it’s floating in midair. These types of desktops have only recently started shipping in the States, and they’re, of course, way out of my price range.

  Hammie smiles at my expression. “Swipe the screen toward your walls,” she says.

  I touch the screen with two fingers, then make a swiping motion toward the wall we’re facing. The display on the screen follows my fingers, flying from the screen onto the wall, where it fills up the entire space, fully magnified.

  “The downstairs living room has the best work area, of course,” Hammie adds. “But this is in all of our rooms. Good for any impromptu team meetings.”

  If the same system is installed downstairs, then each room’s desktop isn’t nearly as secure as she thinks it is. I can work my way into the main system, and then I’ll be able to get into each of their individual systems, too, regardless of who the work area is tailored for. I smile at the gorgeous, wall-size display. “Thanks.”

  “I was starting to think no American would ever be the number one pick.” Hammie tucks a curl behind her ear. “Nice to have you on the team. Maybe I’ll stop teasing Ash and target you for a change.” She winks and turns away before I can respond.

  I stay where I am until she steps out of my room and the door slides shut behind her. Then I put my hands on my hips and admire the room. My space. In the Phoenix Riders’ official house. I walk over to where my few belongings have been delivered and placed by my bed, then take out my Christmas ornament and Dad’s painting. I prop them carefully up on the shelf. They look small there, too simple for this luxurious room. I imagine Dad standing beside me.