fictionpage Chapter 79 The Ugly Duckling and the Swan
Chapter 79 The Ugly Duckling and the Swan
Inside a top-tier resort hotel on Santa Monica Beach, the open-air terrace faces the shimmering Pacific Ocean. The sea breeze, filtered through the windproof glass walls, is reduced to a gentle rustling, softly ruffling the corners of the linen napkins on the table.
Satsuki leaned back in a white wicker chair, holding a glass of iced tea with mint leaves in her hand.
Today she wore a minimalist silk blouse, the cuffs casually rolled up to reveal a delicate antique women's watch on her wrist. She tilted her head slightly, listening to a Hollywood producer across from her, wearing sunglasses and with slicked-back hair, discuss the latest trends in film investment.
Her posture was relaxed, even somewhat languid. Power can indeed cultivate a person's character well—in any social setting, she could treat the place as her own backyard.
"Believe me, Ms. Saionji, next year will definitely be a breakout year for science fiction films."
The producer pointed to the Hollywood Hills in the distance, speaking in an exaggerated tone.
"Audiences are tired of clichéd romance dramas. They want space, lasers, aliens! We have a film in development with a fantastic script—it's the next Star Wars! All you have to do is invest thirty million dollars..."
Sitting next to her, Amy seemed like a wind-up doll.
She was wearing the Chanel tweed suit she had just bought on Rodeo Drive yesterday. The pink fabric was exquisite and expensive, every button was fastened perfectly, and even the neckline had been carefully adjusted.
She was not at a loss.
In fact, she had memorized the entire book of "The Complete Guide to Western Social Etiquette" at home in preparation for this trip to the United States. She knew how to hold a teacup, where to place a napkin on her lap, and even knew that at this moment, she should give the talkative producer a smile that showed "three parts interest and seven parts approval".
But the problem is that she "knows" too much.
Her back was ramrod straight, almost stiff, her back muscles constantly tense, refusing to lean back even slightly. Her smile was as precise as if measured with a ruler, but if you didn't look closely, you could see a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth.
This is a typical example of "new money" anxiety.
Although the Suzuki family was wealthy, that wealth was accumulated by her father's generation through the smell of factory oil. Amy was taught from a young age to be a lady, but this teaching became a shackle. She tried desperately to act like an aristocrat, but ended up acting like a soldier being inspected.
The waiter brought out a three-tiered tower for English afternoon tea.
The freshly baked scones exuded an enticing aroma of butter.
No, no! Satsuki-san specially brought me out to broaden my horizons! I can't embarrass her!
Amy took a deep breath. She quickly went through the steps in the etiquette book in her mind: first, cut horizontally with a knife, but don't cut all the way through; break it open with your hands. Then spread jam first, then cream...
She reached out and picked up the round-headed silver knife.
The movements were standard and without any errors.
But she cut slowly and forcefully. She held her breath as the silver knife sliced into the crumbly pastry, afraid of dropping a single crumb and ruining the table's neatness. Her wrist was stiff, as if performing a delicate surgical procedure rather than enjoying a pastry.
too tired.
This tension made the producer sitting opposite her glance at her a few more times, his eyes filled with amusement at her as if she were a "nouveau riche who's trying too hard."
Just then.
"Crunch."
A soft, crisp sound broke Amy's concentration.
She turned her head instinctively.
Satsuki didn't even look at the plate. She remained gazing at the sea, holding the silver knife in one hand, casually making a cut on the scones, then using the tip of the knife to scoop up a dollop of cream and nonchalantly spreading it on top.
The cut wasn't clean; a piece even fell onto the tablecloth.
But Satsuki didn't care at all.
She put down the knife, picked up the slightly broken scones with two fingers, and naturally took a bite.
Then, she picked up a napkin, gently touched the corner of her mouth, and interrupted the producer's incessant chatter.
"Science fiction films are definitely a hot trend."
Satsuki's voice was calm, but it immediately silenced the producer.
"But I heard that director Cameron is working on a film called 'The Abyss'?"
The producer paused for a moment, then gave a look that said, "You really know your stuff," but was also somewhat disdainful.
"Oh, that madman. Yes, he's working on a deep-sea theme. I heard he nearly drove the people at Industrial Light & Magic (ILM) crazy trying to make a few minutes of underwater special effects footage. The project went way over budget, and nobody had high hopes for it."
"But I'm optimistic."
Satsuki put down her iced tea, and water droplets from the glass slid down onto the tablecloth, spreading out in a small dark patch.
"What interests me isn't the script, but the technology that 'drives people crazy.' Computer graphics (CGI) that can simulate the flow of liquid water—that's the goldmine of the future."
At this point, Satsuki suddenly turned her head and looked at Amy, who was still pretending to be invisible and struggling with the scones.
"Amy."
"Yes! I'm here!"
Amy was startled, nearly dropping the silver knife from her hand onto the plate with a sharp clang. Her face flushed instantly, and she instinctively wanted to apologize.
"Never mind that pancake."
Satsuki pointed to the producer.
"Did those English magazines you read in school mention this technology? About fluid simulation?"
The moment the word "technology" was mentioned, Amy's previously flustered and wandering eyes instantly focused.
This touched her comfort zone. In the world of code and logic, there aren't so many tedious table manners, only right and wrong, 0 and 1.
"Ah...yes!"
Amy pushed up her glasses, and the awkwardness she felt in the new social setting faded somewhat, replaced by a seriousness unique to geeks.
"As mentioned in *Computer Graphics World*, there's a program called 'Pseudopod.' Current algorithms struggle to handle water refraction and deformation because the computational load is too high. If Industrial Light & Magic could actually create one..."
She glanced at the bewildered producer, and although her voice was still a little timid, it became clear and articulate.
"That means they've cracked the algorithm for software ray tracing. This isn't just for movies; it's a revolutionary breakthrough for future industrial design and even flight simulators."
The producer was stunned. He only knew how to find celebrities and create scandals; he knew nothing about light tracking. But he could sense that every word spoken by this little girl, who just moments before seemed unable to even use a knife and fork, was extremely valuable.
Satsuki smiled.
She was very pleased with the "unfathomable yet impressive" expression on the producer's face.
"Did you hear that, sir?"
Satsuki picked up her iced tea again, turning her gaze to the distant sea—a gesture that signaled her departure.
"After this movie is released, could you get me a few premiere tickets? Also, if I have the chance, I'd like to meet the technical team at Industrial Light & Magic. I'm very interested in the computers they use."
The producer wiped his sweat and quickly stood up: "Y-Of course! I'll go find out right away!"
The producer left in a hurry.
Only two people remained at the table.
Amy looked at Satsuki's profile, then at the neatly cut scone in her hand, which had long since gone cold.
She understood, of course, that Satsuki was trying to steer the conversation towards an area she knew to help her out of the predicament.
She suddenly felt that the knife and fork in her hands were no longer so heavy.
It turns out that in this gilded arena of fame and fortune, what truly makes one stand tall is not a Chanel suit, nor perfect table manners.
It's not what's in your head.
As long as you hold the key to the future, even if you can't cut a pie, even if you're an unruly "nouveau riche," those arrogant so-called high society members will have to sit down and listen to your lecture.
Amy put down her knife and fork, picked up the piece of bread, and, imitating Satsuki, took a big bite.
This time, she finally tasted a little sweetness.
……
The time for aircraft delivery has arrived.
Santa Monica Airport, private helipad.
The California sun poured down on the concrete track without restraint, and the sea breeze, carrying waves of heat, made it hard to open one's eyes.
Smith stood in front of a plane that had just been refurbished, his smile brighter than his Hermès tie.
"Miss Saionji! This is your 'Silver Falcon'—no, it should be called 'Midnight Ghost' now!"
In the middle of that empty tarmac, the Gulfstream G4 lay quietly dormant.
The original plain white paint job has disappeared.
Instead, a deep, almost black midnight blue was applied. Under the intense sunlight, the metallic paint shimmered with a faint, deep blue luster, like a huge deep-sea sapphire, cold and mysterious.
The fuselage is long and streamlined, with a tall vertical tail fin. At the very top of the tail fin is a silver emblem.
Three-point pattern.
It is no longer some Middle Eastern prince's toy; it now belongs to "Saionji".
Satsuki took off her sunglasses and stepped forward.
The sound of high heels clicking on the ground was crisp and powerful.
She reached out and pressed her palm against the cold, metallic skin of the fuselage. The touch was hard and smooth, carrying the unique power of industrial creation.
In her past life on Wall Street, she had flown Gulfstream countless times. But those were company assets, or chartered planes charged by the hour. She sat in them to make money for others, or to appease the anger of some shareholder.
And this time...
This steel behemoth, which cost $20 million to build, is entirely her private property.
It is the scepter that allows her to control time even at 30,000 feet in the air.
"This color is nice; it's much more sophisticated than bright gold."
Satsuki withdrew her hand and nodded to Smith.
"Of course! We used DuPont's latest aviation paint, the same color as stealth fighters!" Smith explained enthusiastically. "All the paperwork is done, it has a legal 'N' registration number, and it's ready to take off at any time."
"Let's go, Amy."
Satsuki stepped onto the automatically lowered gangway and walked upwards.
"Let's go see our new palace."
……
The hatch closed slowly.
The thick sealing strips completely isolated the outside noise and heat. The cabin instantly became quiet, with only the slight sound of airflow from the air conditioning vents.
The air was filled with the leather smell of a new car, mixed with a faint scent of walnut wood.
There are none of the tacky gold jewelry and leopard-print sheets from that previous Boeing 727 here.
Instead, there are large areas of off-white genuine leather upholstery, dark solid wood veneer, and gray wool carpets. The layout has been changed to a minimalist business style: four large airline-style seats are arranged facing each other, with an unfoldable desk behind them.
Cold and restrained.
"call……"
The moment the hatch lock indicator light came on.
Amy, who had been following behind with her chest out and stomach in, maintaining the demeanor of a socialite, gently exhaled a long breath.
But she did not collapse.
She still gripped the handles of the Chanel quilted bag tightly with both hands, her back ramrod straight. She turned her head, her round almond-shaped eyes sparkling with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation, and cautiously looked at Satsuki.
"Um... Satsuki-chan..."
Amy's voice was a little dry, a sign of excessive nervousness.
"Just now on the tarmac...did I take too big of a step? And when I said goodbye to Mr. Smith, was my smile not natural enough?"
She even bit her lip in annoyance.
"I practiced in front of the mirror for so long... but when I stand next to you, I still feel like a clumsy penguin."
Even now, her mind isn't filled with thoughts of "finally I can rest," but rather "Is there something I haven't done well enough?" She desperately wants to be like Satsuki—that composure, that elegance, that aura that commands the world. She doesn't want to be just a machine-fixing assistant; she wants to be a worthy right-hand woman standing beside Satsuki.
Satsuki sat on the independent sofa by the porthole, accepted the champagne handed to her by Fujita, and looked at Amy, who was still tense, with a hint of approval in her eyes.
This child is much more resilient than I imagined.
"You did a great job, Amy."
Satsuki's voice softened.
"However, this isn't Beverly Hills, and there are no Hollywood cameras here. This plane is my territory, and here..."
Satsuki pointed to the bag in Amy's hand, which was covered in sweat, and then to her tense shoulders.
"You can be yourself again."
"To...to be myself again?"
Amy paused for a moment, not fully understanding the meaning of the sentence.
Just then, a low electronic self-test sound came from the front of the cabin.
That's the distinctive beeping sound that comes when avionics equipment starts up.
Amy's ears twitched.
She subconsciously turned her head, her gaze passing over the leather seats and through the half-open hatch, landing directly inside the cockpit.
next second.
Her eyes, which had been agonizing over whether her smile was perfect, suddenly contracted, then burst forth with an unprecedented light.
That brilliance was more dazzling than any diamond she had ever seen on Rodeo Drive.
"That is..."
Her body reacted before her brain did.
She jumped up, her perfectly maintained posture instantly ruined, and she didn't even notice that her Chanel bag had slipped off her hand and fallen onto the carpet.
"An all-glass cockpit?!"
Amy's voice trembled with extreme excitement.
At this moment, all notions of social etiquette and gait management are thrown to the winds.
She lifted her skirt and rushed toward the cockpit in two quick steps.
"Hello! Um... may I come in?"
Before the American captain inside could answer, she had already climbed halfway inside.
Satsuki sat on the independent sofa by the porthole, accepted the champagne handed to her by Fujita, and watched this scene with a playful smile on her lips.
Amy's barely suppressed screams echoed from the cockpit.
"My God...it really is an all-glass cockpit!"
Amy pulled out the well-worn English technical manual from her pocket, pointing at the six huge CRT displays on the instrument panel, her fingers trembling.
Honeywell SPZ-8000! Fully digital fly-by-wire control!
She leaned over the dashboard, her face almost touching the screen, and the fervent light in her eyes was something she had never seen when looking at jewelry.
"Captain! What is the operating logic of this FMS (Flight Management System)? Can it access the latest GPS signals? I read in the manual that its inertial navigation drift rate is only 0.5 knots per hour, is that true?"
"And this! The EICAS (Engine Indication and Crew Warning System) interface is so futuristic! It's even cooler than the special effects in a sci-fi movie!"
The two experienced American captains looked at each other in bewilderment.
They've carried countless heiresses. Usually, those girls only care about whether they can make phone calls on the plane, or whether the champagne is chilled. I've never seen a young woman in a Chanel suit ask about the inertial navigation drift rate right off the bat.
That's so hardcore.
Satsuki took a sip of champagne.
The bubbles burst on the tip of the tongue, bringing a slightly tipsy, pleasant sensation. (Never mind, this is private territory.)
She watched as Amy's previously stiff back became incredibly lively, her hand holding the instruction manual no longer trembling, but filled with confidence and control.
On the terrace of Santa Monica, Amy is a poor imitator, a new money lady bound by rules.
But in the cockpit, she is the queen.
"Amy."
Satsuki's voice drifted through the cabin, carrying a hint of indulgence.
"Don't scare the captain. We're about to take off."
"Okay! Coming right away!"
Amy reluctantly stepped out of the cockpit. She sat back on the sofa opposite Satsuki, fastening her seatbelt while glancing back at the instrument panels.
"Satsuki-chan! This plane is amazing!"
Her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkled, and she completely forgot about ladylike etiquette.
"Its wiring logic is simply a work of art! A million times better than that Boeing that only knows how to pile on gold! This is a true industrial miracle! This is what we should be striving for!"
"Buzz—"
The fuselage vibrated slightly.
A tremendous thrust came from behind.
Pull up at an upward angle.
The palm trees and coastline receded rapidly, becoming a blurry map. The intense feeling of being pushed back against the ground resonated in one's heart.
The aircraft quickly broke through the clouds and entered a stable cruising altitude.
The sunlight spread across the sea of clouds, dazzling and vast.
Amy unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned against the porthole, looking down at the deep blue Pacific Ocean.
"Satsuki-chan".
She turned around, her eyes full of excitement.
"Where do we go next? Back to Tokyo? Or to New York?"
In her view, this aircraft, representing the pinnacle of human industrial technology, should naturally fly to the world's most prosperous cities to enjoy more sophisticated afternoon tea.
Satsuki swirled the sake cup in her hand.
The golden liquid clung to the glass and slowly slid down.
"No, Amy."
Satsuki turned her head, her gaze fixed on the north direction the wing pointed.
"We're not going to Fifth Avenue, nor to Ginza."
"We're going to San Jose."
"San Jose?" Amy paused, then paused. "That... big rural area full of orchards and warehouses?"
"That was before."
Satsuki put down her wine glass and gently tapped her fingertips on the walnut wood grain of the armrest.
"Now, a bunch of lunatics live there."
"They wore T-shirts and slippers, lived in dilapidated garages, ate cold pizzas, and typed on keyboards day and night."
"But, Amy."
Satsuki's gaze pierced through the clouds, as if she could see the valley where a storm was brewing.
"The stuff in those people's heads is more valuable than these hundred Gulfstream jets."
"Let's go see them."
The plane tilted slightly at an altitude of 30,000 feet to adjust its course.
Target: Northern California.
Silicon Valley, which will dominate the world in the next thirty years, is now lying quietly under the California sun, waiting for capital from Tokyo to knock on its door.