The counter clicked past six hundred as they were leaving.
Matt looked at the number on the tablet Angelina had handed him, then at T’mari.
“Six hundred twelve.”
“You wanted five hundred.”
“I know.”
“You appear disappointed.”
“I’m not disappointed. I’m recalculating.”
T’mari gave him the look she had learned to use when he said something technically true and socially useless.
They escaped before anyone could turn the end of the meeting into another meeting.
The ramen shop was close enough to walk, small enough that Matt almost missed it, and busy enough that nobody had prepared anything special for them. That was exactly what he wanted.
He and T’mari took two stools at the counter.
Matt was still wearing the navy kimono he had worn to meet the mayor, formal businesswear rather than ceremony, silver-grey detailing breaking the dark fabric when he moved.
T’mari’s was cut on much the same lines, navy with ivory detailing.
Together they looked considerably more coordinated than Matt intended to admit.
Their ramen arrived.
Matt leaned over the bowl and inhaled.
“Oh, fuck yes.”
T’mari looked at him.
He switched to V’ren.
“You said that about breakfast.”
“Breakfast deserved it.”
A few stools away, somebody glanced toward them, heard an alien language, and promptly lost any hope of eavesdropping.
Matt picked up his chopsticks.
His phone vibrated.
743.
He turned it toward T’mari.
She looked at the number.
Then at him.
In V’ren, she said, “You have left the meeting.”
“I noticed.”
“They are still applying.”
“I noticed that too.”
“You wanted five hundred.”
“I’m starting to think that number lacked ambition.”
“You chose it this morning.”
“It was an excellent number this morning.”
She shook her head and returned to her ramen.
The counter passed eight hundred before Matt finished half his bowl.
That was when a reporter approached.
“Lord Marmaduke?”
Matt looked up, noodles halfway to his mouth.
“Yes?”
“Just one question.”
“That phrase has never meant one question.”
She smiled.
“How did you and the V’ren actually get into Ikejiri?”
T’mari stopped eating.
Matt chewed.
Swallowed.
“Transporter.”
The reporter blinked.
Matt went back to his ramen.
“Transporter?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
Matt lifted another bundle of noodles.
“The transporting kind.”
The reporter stared at him.
Matt slurped.
Eventually she understood that nothing more useful was coming.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She left.
T’mari waited until the reporter was out of earshot, then switched immediately to V’ren.
“You did that deliberately.”
“I answered the question.”
“You said transporter.”
“Yes.”
“You know what every human who heard that word is going to think.”
“It means a thing that transports something.”
“That is not what you meant them to hear.”
Matt pointed at her with his chopsticks.
“Did we get transported to Ikejiri?”
T’mari stared at him.
“By a motorcycle.”
“Which transported us.”
“That does not make a motorcycle a transporter.”
“It performed transportation.”
“You are using functional classification to commit a cultural crime.”
Matt smiled.
“That seems excessive.”
“You knew exactly what you were doing.”
“I like Star Wars. I cannot be held responsible for what Star Trek has done to the English language.”
“You absolutely knew.”
“The ramen is excellent.”
T’mari looked down into her bowl.
“You are an asshole.”
“Sometimes.”
His phone vibrated.
912.
He showed her.
“They may reach a thousand before we leave.”
“They’re going to reach a thousand before I finish eating.”
“You are eating slowly.”
“I’m appreciating the broth.”
“You check that number every thirty seconds.”
“I contain multitudes.”
They crossed a thousand before lunch was over.
1,003.
1,011.
1,019.
Matt watched the counter for another few seconds, then put the phone facedown.
“I’m done.”
T’mari looked at him.
“You will pick it up again.”
“No.”
He lasted less than a minute.
T’mari said nothing.
She did not need to.
They paid and walked to the station.
The train toward Shibuya was crowded without being packed.
Students.
Office workers.
A mother with a small child.
Two women carrying shopping bags.
An elderly couple.
Nothing requiring Matt’s attention.
For the first several stops, the ride was almost aggressively uneventful.
Matt preferred it that way.
He and T’mari spoke quietly in V’ren.
It gave them privacy without requiring whispers.
T’mari was still irritating him about the transporter.
“You understand that they will ask again.”
“They can.”
“And what will you tell them?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“That concerns me.”
“It should.”
Then Matt noticed the older man.
One foot was in a rigid medical shoe, the sort used when broken toes needed protection without a full cast.
He was still mobile enough to make himself a nuisance.
He had positioned himself beside two young women.
Too close.
One of them edged away.
The man shifted after her.
She moved toward her friend.
He found a reason to move again.
Matt watched for another few seconds.
The young woman looked back at him.
Not casually.
Checking.
Matt stopped listening to T’mari.
She noticed the change immediately.
“What?”
Matt answered in V’ren.
“Man with the foot.”
T’mari looked without obviously looking.
She saw it.
The two women moved farther down the carriage.
The old man followed.
T’mari’s expression flattened.
Matt moved before she said anything else.
He stepped into the space between them.
Not dramatically.
He simply became inconveniently large and impossible to ignore.
The old man stopped.
Matt looked down at him and spoke in Japanese.
“Give them some room.”
The man glared.
“They’re fine.”
One of the women looked directly at Matt.
Then away.
Matt did not move.
“They moved away from you.”
“Mind your own business.”
Matt glanced past him toward the women.
Then back.
“This became my business.”
A few people nearby had started paying attention.
Not alarmed.
Interested.
The kind of quiet attention that came when everyone in the carriage had already worked out what was happening but somebody else had decided to be the first person to say it aloud.
The old man muttered something and tried to move around Matt.
Matt shifted with him.
“Enough.”
The man tried the other direction.
Matt blocked that too.
The train rocked gently through a turn.
The man leaned in as if he could force Matt to yield by making the space uncomfortable.
Matt looked at him.
Then drove his elbow sharply into the man’s face.
Not wildly.
Not hard enough to split skin or break his nose.
Hard enough that the man yelped, recoiled and grabbed his face.
The carriage went very quiet.
Matt immediately turned toward him and bowed his head slightly.
In Japanese, perfectly polite, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
T’mari lowered her eyes.
Her shoulders moved once.
The old man stared at Matt through watering eyes.
Matt’s expression was apologetic.
Several passengers were looking between them.
One middle-aged man caught Matt’s eye.
He gave him a small nod.
A woman farther down did the same.
Nobody appeared particularly confused about what had just happened.
The two young women had moved completely behind Matt now.
The old man looked around and discovered that the carriage had reached a collective verdict without anyone saying it aloud.
He turned away.
Matt watched him limp toward the far end of the car.
Only after he stopped did Matt step back toward T’mari.
She waited several seconds.
Then, in V’ren:
“You hit him in the face.”
“Yes.”
“You apologized.”
“Yes.”
“You told him you did not see him.”
“That seemed polite.”
“You looked directly at him first.”
“Did I?”
T’mari stared.
Matt looked innocent.
“He was making those women uncomfortable.”
“I know.”
“He followed them.”
“I know.”
“I asked him to stop.”
“Yes.”
“He declined.”
“Yes.”
Matt shrugged.
“Then the train became hazardous.”
T’mari turned her face toward the window.
He could see her smiling in the reflection.
A few seats away, a young man had his phone out.
He looked from the screen to Matt.
Then back at the older man.
His eyes widened.
Recognition.
He took a picture, not of Matt, but of the old man standing at the far end of the carriage with one hand still pressed to his face.
Then his thumbs started moving rapidly.
Matt noticed.
“So much for uneventful.”
T’mari followed his gaze.
“What is he doing?”
“Blogging, probably.”
“About you?”
“Hopefully about him.”
The young man glanced over again.
This time he gave Matt an unmistakable grin.
Then went back to his phone.
When the train reached Shibuya, Matt and T’mari moved toward the doors.
The two young women moved with them.
Matt noticed but said nothing.
They stepped onto the platform together.
The women stayed near Matt and T’mari while the crowd cleared around them.
One finally bowed.
“Thank you.”
Matt answered in Japanese.
“You’re welcome.”
The other glanced back toward the carriage before the doors closed.
The older man had not followed them off.
Her shoulders relaxed.
Matt looked toward the station exit.
Hotel Hiro was only a couple of blocks away.
His phone vibrated again.
He pulled it out.
The application count had continued climbing.
T’mari leaned over to see.
Then Matt noticed another notification.
Someone had tagged him.
He opened it.
A photograph of the older man on the train.
The young blogger had already posted the encounter, identifying the behavior plainly enough that there was no mystery about why Matt had intervened.
Matt read it.
T’mari read over his shoulder.
In V’ren she said, “He did not mention your elbow.”
“No.”
“He did mention the man following the women.”
“Good.”
“And several people are confirming it.”
Matt put the phone away.
“Even better.”
They started toward the station exit.
T’mari walked beside him for several steps.
Then, still in V’ren:
“You know the reporter is going to ask about the transporter again.”
Matt smiled.
“She can.”
T’mari looked at him suspiciously.
“What are you planning?”
“Nothing.”
“That answer has become evidence.”
They walked out into Shibuya with the two young women still a short distance behind them, Hotel Hiro ahead, a thousand applications behind them, and the internet already making the train ride considerably less uneventful than Matt had hoped.
