Chapter Text
February 6
Mom’s on my case again—still trying to get me to move back to Heidelberg.
“It’s not like it used to be, Schatzi. The US and Japan are the old guard,” Mom says from the kitchen of our old place. I can see that stupid Matryoshka set on the window sill behind her.
I make sure she can see me rolling my eyes, but she just plunges forward with her typical spiel.
“Heidelberg is establishing itself as…”
“The place for quantum computing. Yes, Mom, I heard your pitch the last four times. You really need some new material. Talk up the local bierhalls or something.”
I swing my legs off the bed and sit up. “Look, Mom, Tokyo-3 is S2 research. The States have one or two places that aren’t completely embarrassing themselves. Germany isn’t even in the minor leagues.”
“S2,” Mom snorts. “Please. Astrology has replicated more results.”
“Sure.” I tilt my head. ”And I’ve also heard that ‘God doesn’t play dice with the universe.’ Your entire field is an affront to the Deity himself, remember?”
Mom tries to hide her smile behind her coffee mug.
“Germany’s always here when you’re ready for real work, Schatzi.”
I snort. “I’ll try to remember to mention you when I’m accepting my Nobel in physics.”
The call’s over a few minutes later. I boil some water for ramen and check my email for the sixtieth time today. It’s not nerves or anything—I’m a dead lock for Tokyo after that last interview—but I’m ready to get on with it.
Note to self: buy some OTC sleeping pills or something. It’s a long way from Boston to Japan and I can only handle so many crappy airplane movies.
February 7
I’m on a shopping trip in the old city this afternoon. Summer clothes, shoes, a new suitcase, etc.
Lastly, I’m in Boots leafing through their absurdly huge variety of airsickness meds when I get Gunther’s text.
Gunther: in case you haven’t seen
There’s a link to a Globe article timestamped about ten minutes ago: “Tokyo-3’s Famed IFRA Silent on Possible S2 Incident.”
I tap the link and skim through it. It’s about what you’d expect: the Tokyo branch is temporarily shut down, rumors, “can neither confirm nor deny,” etc.
I cross-reference a few more news sites—there’s nothing any more substantial.
Then I call Gunther.
He picks up on the second ring: “Hey, Langley.” Only trace amounts of an accent—it’s even less than mine, to be honest.
“The hell?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Nothing even semi-official yet.”
“Of course not. But what are the real people saying?”
“Langley, it happened less than three hours ago—“
“Gunther.”
Pause. A defeated sigh all the way from California.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve already asked. Japan branch is saying essential personnel only for a few weeks but—”
“What?”
“Langley—“
“So the internship’s kaput, is what you’re telling me.”
“I didn’t say—“
“Dammit, Gunther.”
“Hey, lady.” Some Boots employee is trying to get my attention. He’s pointing a mop handle at me—I kid you not.
I ignore him.
“So, what’s gonna happen? Am I going to Phoenix now or what?”
Boots Guy is right on top of me now, mop and all. Ordinarily, I'd dare him to try something, but I don’t have time for this crap.
“Trottel,” I mutter as I head towards the exit.
Gunther exhales sharply. “You did not just call me a…”
“No, not you,” I hiss. “Just some random moron. Okay, so Phoenix, right? At least until they get this mess cleaned up?”
Silence.
I’m outside now, my face getting lacerated by the wind. My breath is turning into fog.
“Listen. I’ve got two offers on the table right now in Germany. Quantum computing. I could make a hell of a lot more—“
“I’m working on it, okay?” Gunther’s finally sounding agitated. Good. “Look, you’re getting into IFRA. We’re not going to lose you. I just need to work some things out.”
“Okay, fine. Just let me know.”
I hang up and glare at the parking lot, which looks like it’s had a giant, dirty slushie spilled all over it.
Unbelievable. Now I have to go to a second-rate location because the supposed first-stringers screwed up.
I get in my Porsche and turn on the seat warmer.
At least Phoenix won’t have any of this garbage—the mixture of slush and wind that passes for winter in Boston. All the old people around here never quit moaning about how they used to get “real snow" pre-Impact.
Also, Arizona isn’t humid year-round like Tokyo-3 apparently is, and I can’t imagine it has a cicada infestation problem either.
I’ve worked out a new career path by the time I cross the bridge. I’d already have the Nobel if I weren’t always compensating for other people’s incompetence.
February 9
Lunch with Dad at this new Thai place. MIT’s got him working on some new Skunk Works project he can’t talk about, which hallelujah because otherwise he’d yak about it for three hours straight.
He’s growing a beard again. Linda apparently thinks his “salt and pepper” look makes him look like “George Klooney,” whoever that is, but it really makes him look like a retired longshoreman.
“You don’t remember the old Fenway,” he’s saying between bites of Pad Thai. “But the new one feels almost the same. Of course, they made the seats bigger. The purists whined, of course, but the average Bostonian posterior has…expanded, let’s say, since 1934.”
I take a bite of a crab rangoon and try not to check my watch.
“Baseball isn’t what it was, of course, but I believe it’s making a real comeback. Still. The Yankees play in Yonkers now, which is a travesty. I wish you could have experienced the transgressive delights of arriving in the Bronx dressed in full Red Sox regalia.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Some drunk New Yorker chucking a beer bottle at me is my idea of a good time.”
Dad chuckles. “Japan is the undisputed baseball capital of the world, now. Maybe Linda and I could take you to a Chunichi game sometime once you’re established there?”
“Yeah.”
We eat in silence for a minute.
“I’m not going to Japan, at least not yet,” I say as casually as I can.
He raises an eyebrow.
“Oh,” he says. “IFRA’s little ‘incident’ wasn’t so little, then?”
“I don’t know.” I pick at my noodles. “Obviously, IFRA-Tokyo isn’t sharing details, but my contact thinks their internship program is probably offline for a while.”
“Any ETA?”
“He said months.”
Dad leans back in his chair and frowns. “Well then, in the meantime that leaves, what? Phoenix and Huntsville?”
“Phoenix,” I growl.
He smirks. “Oh, you shouldn’t be so dismissive of the Dirty South, Asuka. I imagine someone with your disposition would rather enjoy Nascar--”
I roll my eyes. “Yep. You really know me, Dad. I can’t get enough of farmboys cosplaying bootleggers.”
He’s smiling now. “Never pictured you as a desert dweller. When you were little, you never wanted to leave the Black Forest when we...”
His voice trails off and he takes a sip of water.
Great. The sentimentality alarm is sounding in my head.
“I’m going to Japan as soon as they reopen,” I begin, but it’s already too late.
“You’re at the absolute cutting edge, Asuka. Your mother is--she’s brilliant of course, but she’s always been overcautious, from a career perspective if not a scientific one. You’re going to do great things.”
I stare at the decorative tiger just to his left.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says.
“Hey,” I say, reaching for his hand. I don’t know why I always fall for this crap from him. “Save your pride for later. I haven’t gotten started yet.”
He wipes his eye with his free hand. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”