simon_doctor | (no subject)

(no subject)

Lavinia
September 12, 2522

In the spaceport, Simon finds a seat near the exits to the commuter monorail and taps out a quick textwave to let his father know he's here. Sends it, and then rereads the original reply from the person he intends to meet: the perfunctory agreement that confirmed this trip.

He writes a reply while studying the public transit map on the opposite wall.

I've arrived in the area and am wondering where we should meet. Ideally it ought to be somewhere public, and reasonably free of surveillance.

Other than the immediate vicinity of your uncle's flat, I'm afraid I don't have any suggestions.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The wave Simon gets in return contains the following words:

you really don't know much about lavinia at all

akihabara district, the yosemite boarding house, ask for james bond on the porch, they'll bring me out

we can go wherever

i'll be around tomorrow after 1200 and I have to be at work by 1900

if that doesn't work let me know

A return wave, about twenty minutes later:

Once again it seems I'm forced to depend on you as a native guide.

I'll see you tomorrow sometime between 1200 and 1300.

A brusque reply:

i'm not a native

and if you feel forced, don't bother

Akihabara draws its name from the old Tokyo district of the same name, and it serves the same purpose: a place close to the intersection of a few major transport lines, where outcasts of the more nerdish variety tend to gather to pursue various hobbies and vices. The upshot of this: it's one of the very few areas on Lavinia -- in the Core in general -- that it's at least moderately safe to have a sensitive conversation without fear of undue Alliance surveillance.

One of the few areas that isn't a blackout zone, at any rate.

The Yosemite Boarding House is a four-story apartment building possessed of a slightly slapped-on-looking veranda. A bored woman with a cricket bat balanced across her knees sits behind a desk.

Simon's taken public transit to get here, and he's memorized the street map so as not to have to consult it at every intersection.

He takes the stairs up to the porch and stops by the desk.

"Excuse me," he says, "a friend of mine asked me to meet him here. He said to ask for James Bond, but I don't know how serious he was about that."

The woman tosses her cricket bat up on the desk and presses a button; a buzzing sound emerges from the panel. A few seconds later, it changes tone, the pitch rising.

The woman looks up at Simon and informs him that the honorable Mr. Bond will be down shortly.

It's less than two minutes before Edward Chao emerges from the front door, unsmiling and distrustful. Without any preamble: "Should I ask what I owe the honor to, or should that wait?"

Levelly: "You've been watching the newsfeeds?"

Ed lingers in the doorway.

"I don't know any more than what they're saying, so if you're here for information, I got nothing."

The woman snaps her gum.

"That's not why I came."

Simon tilts his head in a beckoning gesture, and turns to head down the stairs.

The way he figured it, there came a point at which he stopped owing Simon anything for something Ed didn't have much control over in the first place; Uncle Andy's death just solidifed it. And then here comes Simon Tam sending him waves, wanting to meet up for a reason he won't say.

Right when Ed's not exactly in the mood to deal with anybody but family. And it's not as though Simon counts.

Ed watches Simon's back for a moment before following. At Simon's side: "I never got my copy of those captures."

"You'd have to talk to my wife about that."

Beat.

"He's done this before."

"I don't have any reason to talk to your wife. And I thought you didn't want to be surveilled." Ed's looking straight ahead; without any further hint of where they're going, he takes a right.

Simon's following now, and he doesn't say anything further until they've come to a stop.

They've come to a stop in front of a large sign that reads TEA ROOM in huge black letters on a plain white background.

Ed has his hands in his pockets. He's looking up at the sign. "This place is run by somebody I used to know when I was working with the feds. She's trustworthy. It's not public. It's what I got. You in, or are you gonna walk?"

Simon nods. "I'm still in."

Ed approaches the door. It slides open automatically.

He switches not just languages, but dialects, when speaking to the young man at the counter -- who promptly sticks his head behind a curtain, calling somebody's name. The woman who emerges is barely over five feet tall, with her hair short and spiked. She speaks to Ed sharply, with a smile; Ed winks at her, and goes so far as to bow before pointing at Simon and saying something that sounds like an interrogative phrase.

She motions for them to follow.

The door to the room she leads them to slides shut. It's small -- barely enough room for a table for two, and a small counter and cabinets on one end. There's a soft hum that comes from the cabinets.

"Jamming hardware," Ed explains, pointing at the cabinets as he takes the seat with his back to the door -- leaving the other one for Simon. "You're gonna notice when you look at the menu that the prices are jacked up. Think of it as a bribery tax. It goes to somebody she knows, and her place keeps getting a check mark by it in the system."

"Very useful place to know about," he says, settling into the other seat. "Thank you."

Pause.

"I may be the last person you want to hear this from, but please let me say first that I'm sorry."

Ed's mouth tightens, and he keeps his eyes on the menu in his hands.

"You better be saying that because you had something to do with it. I don't do sympathy."

In a way, it is an apology.

But not for what happened. For what he's about to say.

"He's done this before."

Ed's gaze flicks up. "So why's he faking it?"

It's a serious question.

Uncle Andy tends to have good reasons for the things he does. Evidence: the man sitting in front of him.

A breath.

"I don't know."

Simon's looking him in the eye.

"I can give you the explanation that makes sense, or the explanation that's closer to the truth as I know it. And you probably know your uncle well enough to know why those aren't the same thing."

The door opens on a full tea service, with the short woman behind it. She puts it (with surprising delicacy) on the table, and looks at Ed like she's considering ruffling his hair.

She settles for a pat on the shoulder -- he covers her hand, briefly -- and leaves.

As soon as the door's closed: "I got two uncles. Two that you'd know, maybe." Ed reaches for the teapot and makes motions toward Simon's cup. "And what I want to know is why you're here and the other one isn't. Considering they're on different sides, when it comes to what I'm gonna call their professional lives, I guess it would kind of make sense that a neutral party shows up, but family's family."

Simon slides his cup closer.

"I can't speak for your other uncle. I ... didn't talk to him personally, but I understand he was ... this hit him very hard."

His tone gets more bitter. "He taught me sleight of hand. When I was a kid. That's what I used with you, back in the day. Only I was better at it than he ever was." Angry as he is -- a slow simmer -- the teapot gets put back on the tray with no clatter to speak of. "If you're gonna take sugar, you better do it, because I tend to dump a lot in mine."

He draws the cup back toward himself, wraps a hand around it.

"Their professional lives, you said. And I don't think you mean Southdown Abbey and Bentley Aeronautics."

Ed starts in with the sugar. Without looking up: "Look, can we just take it for granted that I know what they are, so we can stop with the dancing around it?"