Game Over

Chapter 24





WHEN IT COMES to schools and children, Japanese culture is pretty serious. We’re talking proper terms of respect for teachers (sensei), loudspeaker announcements alerting the public to use caution when students are headed to and from school, and meticulous attention to students’ safety while they’re at school too.

Which meant that even with a perfectly tailored uniform and the universe’s most pleasant demeanor, I wasn’t going to be able to just march into Kildare’s school and sit at the desk next to him.

It was a little exhausting, but I basically had to brainwash my way into Kildare’s class. From the first group of kids I bumped into on the sidewalk to the crossing guard to the homeroom teacher—I mentally created for each of them the impression that I was somebody they knew, somebody they shouldn’t be suspicious of or throw off the premises.

It’s easier done than explained in this case—human psychology isn’t the easiest thing to understand, much less manipulate—but Mom had given me a smattering of psychological operations training, and somehow I managed to pull it off.

Just being let into the school wasn’t enough; I still had to find Kildare. I’d hacked into the school server and swiped his class schedule, but he wasn’t in the classroom it indicated he’d be in. I wandered the hallways, peering into classrooms, checking the playground, the music rooms, the cafeteria, and then, as I made my way past the gymnasium, I heard a bunch of boys laughing and taunting somebody.

That’s when I first saw him, standing without a shred of resistance in front of five mean-looking boys. One of them, the spiky-haired ringleader, gave Kildare a push that sent him spinning into a wood-and-glass display case that lined the wall. I suppressed the urge to put an end to this unfair fight, but it wasn’t easy. If there’s one thing that never fails to tick me off, it’s bullies.

But this kid they were shoving around was the child of the most powerful alien couple I’d ever encountered. And something told me, if push came to shove, he’d be able to take care of himself.

I slunk back out of sight and watched the scene from around the corner.

“You going to give us your homework, bug boy?” asked the ringleader.

“Of course, Ichi,” replied Kildare without a trace of sarcasm or defiance. He produced a notebook from his bag. “You want me to copy it into your notebooks for you?”

“In your handwriting? Then the teacher would know it isn’t ours, stupid,” he barked, shoving Kildare harder this time.

I again fought the urge to go over and kick their butts and stayed out of sight where I was.

“Get that garbage can,” the ringleader said, gesturing to a round plastic trash barrel just down the hall. Two of the little brutes got the can. And the next thing I knew, the five of them had taken Kildare’s book bag, thrown it in the garbage, and shoved him, butt-first, into the can. He was wedged so far in that the crooks of his knees hung over one side and his armpits over another.

“Now put him up there,” commanded the leader, pointing to the top of the trophy case. His hench-bullies looked at each other quizzically, and first one, then all of them started to laugh.

“Quickly!” the leader urged. They stopped laughing and hoisted the garbage can—with Kildare in it—atop the trophy case.

Then they fled down the hallway, one of them yelling, “Hey, somebody needs to take out the trash down here!”

With little choice but to wait for a janitor to discover him, Kildare was in quite a pickle. He could probably have toppled the can over by rocking his weight back and forth, but if he did that he’d plummet at least six feet to the concrete floor and might land on his head. Seriously, I couldn’t envision any other way he could unwedge himself from the can. The human body has limitations, and extricating one from a round plastic waste barrel into which it has been forced butt-first is a biggie.

But he wasn’t human, was he?

Why had he let a bunch of bullies do this to him? And why was he just sitting up there, slowly counting backward to himself in Japanese, “Ju, kyu, hachi, shichi, roku, go, shi, san, ni, ichi—”

When he reached zero, he drew a breath and—mindfreak—turned gray and then dissolved into little tiny particles. At least that’s what it looked like to me.

I don’t think I actually said “Holy frijoles!” out loud, but I must have inhaled or something, because his color and former shape instantly returned and his head swiveled toward me, his piercing dark eyes locking on mine as a chill shot up my spine.

“Who are you!?” he wanted to know.