Santa Monica, California.
The open-air terrace of a five-star resort faced the sparkling Pacific. A glass windbreak tamed the sea breeze into a gentle hum, barely fluttering the linen napkins.
Satsuki leaned back in her white wicker chair, cradling a mint-infused iced tea. She wore a minimalist silk shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing a delicate antique watch. Opposite her, a Hollywood producer with slicked-back hair and oversized sunglasses droned on about film investments.
Satsuki's posture was languid. Power had a way of making any space feel like her private study.
"Believe me, Miss Saionji, next year is the year of sci-fi," the producer insisted, gesturing toward the Hollywood Hills. "Space, lasers, aliens! We have a script that's the next Star Wars. If you'd just invest thirty million dollars..."
Beside her, Suzuki Emi sat like a clockwork doll.
She was dressed in a pink Chanel tweed suit purchased just yesterday on Rodeo Drive. Every button was fastened; every seam was perfect. She had spent weeks memorizing The Complete Guide to Western Social Etiquette. She knew exactly where the napkin went and how to maintain a smile that was "three parts interested, seven parts approving."
But she knew too much. Her back was as stiff as a board, her muscles aching from refusing to lean against the chair. Her smile was measured with a ruler, but her lips twitched with "new money" anxiety.
The waiter arrived with a three-tiered afternoon tea stand. The scent of buttery scones filled the air.
I can't embarrass Satsuki, Emi thought, her heart racing. She mentally reviewed the steps: cut horizontally, break with hands, jam first, then cream. She picked up the silver knife with surgical precision, her wrist rigid with fear of dropping a single crumb.
Across from her, the producer's eyes held the subtle, patronizing amusement reserved for a "try-hard parvenu."
Crunch.
The sound of a crisp bite broke Emi's concentration. Satsuki wasn't even looking at her plate. Still gazing at the sea, she had sloppily scooped a dollop of cream onto a jaggedly broken scone. A few crumbs sat unheeded on the tablecloth. Satsuki took a natural, unhurried bite, then dabbed her mouth and interrupted the producer.
"Sci-fi is the momentum," Satsuki said, her calm voice instantly commanding the table. "But I hear James Cameron is busy with a film called The Abyss?"
The producer blinked. "Oh, that madman. He's driving the people at Industrial Light & Magic (ILM) crazy for a few minutes of underwater effects. It's way over budget; no one thinks it will work."
"I do," Satsuki said, a drop of condensation from her glass staining the tablecloth. "I'm not interested in the script. I'm interested in the technology that's 'driving people crazy.' CGI capable of simulating liquid flow—that is the gold mine of the future. Emi?"
"Yes! Present!" Emi jumped, her knife clattering against the china.
"Did those English journals you read at school mention this? Fluid dynamics simulation?"
At the word "technology," Emi's panic vanished. She was back in her comfort zone—the world of logic and 0s and 1s. She adjusted her glasses, her eyes focusing with the intensity of a geek.
"Yes," Emi said, her voice steadying. "It was in Computer Graphics World—the 'Pseudopod' program. Current algorithms struggle with the refraction and deformation of water because the computational load is massive. If ILM conquers soft-body ray tracing, it's not just for movies. It's a revolution for industrial design and flight simulators."
The producer was floored. He didn't understand a word of "ray tracing," but he recognized the value of the girl's expertise.
Satsuki smiled, enjoying his bewilderment. "Get me some tickets to that premiere when it's ready. And I want to meet the ILM technical team. I'm very interested in the computers they use."
As the producer scrambled away, Emi looked at Satsuki's profile. She realized then that in this arena, it wasn't the Chanel suit or the perfect scone-cutting that mattered. It was what was inside her head. As long as she held the key to the future, the world would listen to her lecture.
Emi put down her fork, picked up a scone with her fingers, and took a large, messy bite. It finally tasted sweet.
Santa Monica Airport. Private Apron.
The Gulfstream G4 sat waiting under the California sun. Its original white livery was gone, replaced by a deep, midnight-blue metallic finish that shimmered like a sapphire. On the tail fin stood a silver crest: The Mitsu Tomoe.
"Your 'Midnight Phantom,' Miss Saionji," Smith beamed. "N-registered and ready for takeoff."
Satsuki walked up to the steel behemoth. In her previous life, she had flown in these to appease shareholders. Now, this twenty-million-dollar scepter belonged to her alone.
Inside, there was no leopard print or gold. The cabin was a study in off-white leather, dark walnut, and grey wool. Restrained. Professional.
As the cabin door sealed, Emi let out a long breath. "Satsuki-chan... were my steps too big on the tarmac? Was my smile okay?"
"You did well, Emi," Satsuki said, taking a glass of champagne from Fujita. "But here, you can be yourself."
Just then, a low electronic hum echoed from the front. Emi's ears twitched. She recognized the sound of avionics starting up. Her socialite mask shattered instantly.
"A full glass cockpit?!" she shrieked.
Ignoring her Chanel bag as it slid to the floor, she hiked up her skirt and rushed into the cockpit. "Honeywell SPZ-8000! Full digital fly-by-wire!" she shouted at the bewildered American pilots. "What's the computational logic of the FMS? Is the inertial navigation drift really only 0.5 nautical miles?"
Satsuki watched from the cabin, a smirk playing on her lips. On the terrace, Emi was a clumsy duckling trying to be a swan. Here, in the heart of the machine, she was queen.
"Emi, don't scare the captains," Satsuki called out. "We're taking off."
The engines roared, and a massive force pressed them into their seats. The palm trees receded, turning into a map as the plane pierced the clouds.
"Where to, Satsuki-chan?" Emi asked, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "Tokyo? New York?"
Satsuki swirled her champagne, looking north toward the wing's tip.
"No, Emi. We aren't going to Fifth Avenue or Ginza."
"We're going to San Jose."
"San Jose?" Emi asked. "The orchard country?"
"It was," Satsuki said, her gaze piercing the sea of clouds. "Now, it's home to madmen in T-shirts and slippers living in garages and eating cold pizza. But what's in their minds is worth more than a hundred Gulfstreams."
The Midnight Phantom tilted its wing, banking toward Northern California. Silicon Valley lay waiting for the knock of capital from Tokyo.