Tech Support

Hi

What am I supposed to do if my phone starts swelling?

Put it down and don’t touch it

I’m coming over

---

The last time Sebastian Moran braved Covent Garden in December was just after his first tour in Helmand. He’d been Christmas shopping with his mother.

What he remembered most clearly was the sheer noise of the place: music blaring from every shop crammed along the narrow streets, signs and window displays lit up and flashing, all of it underlaid by the din of the overwhelming crowd. There were too many people; too many loose coats and large bags. Too many places to conceal a weapon, or a bomb.

They didn’t get much shopping done that day.

Sebastian would’ve preferred not to repeat the experience, but Covent Garden was home to the only Different Store within reasonable range of his flat in Chelsea. And Jay had insisted on coming along to monitor the situation with Sebastian’s phone, which meant there was at least one person around having a worse time than he was.

Thanks to a series of overenthusiastic house-warming gifts, Sebastian owned two cast-iron Dutch ovens. His less favourite of the two currently contained his phone, its lid sealed in place with a generous amount of duct tape. He tucked it under his arm to free up a hand as he opened the door for Jay. “Four months?”

“There’s only a handful of surgeons in the country who do … procedures like that.” Jay’s eyes flicked over the shoppers around them, leery of saying the words “top surgery” in mixed company. “All of them have waiting lists. Long ones.”

Rents in Covent Garden were astronomical even by London standards, to the point where most luxury brands found themselves settling for small, boutique store-fronts. Despite this, the Different Store had managed to buy out the entirety of what was once a Victorian produce market. The market’s open courtyard was now roofed over with glass, the interior of the store a sleek marriage of old, exposed brick and brushed steel. Phones and tablets lined display shelves on the walls, while ultra-thin laptop computers and all-in-one desktops were arrayed on polished wooden tables.

Sebastian forged a path through the crowd to the tech support bar up on the second floor. There, they were intercepted by a young woman with an overzealous smile and a lanyard.

“Hi!” she said. “Do you have an appointment?”

“I don’t.” Sebastian gestured to the Dutch oven under his arm. “I need a new phone. This one’s about to explode.”

The woman’s smile froze in place, but she forged onward: “I’m afraid you need to book a tech support appointment through the Different App.”

“I can’t do that,” Sebastian patiently explained, “since my phone is about to explode.”

The woman’s mouth opened, then shut as she adjusted to this departure from the usual script. She waved Sebastian toward one of the tall, round tables arranged neatly around the room. “Wait here. I’ll see if a technician is available.”

She hurried away while Sebastian propped his elbows on the edge of the table and placed the Dutch oven gingerly in front of him. Jay perched in a chair next to him.

“Is the phone really about to explode?” Sebastian felt the need to ask.

Jay nodded. “Lithium batteries only swell when they’ve started to overheat and fail. It’s probably not seconds away from going off, but it will eventually.”

Sebastian turned the idea over in his head. “Could you overheat a battery like that on purpose? Remotely, maybe?”

By now, Jay could tell exactly where this train of thought was going. “You can use malware to overclock a phone, but you probably couldn’t detonate it like a grenade.”

Sebastian made a dissatisfied noise as the theoretical he’d been concocting fell apart.

The woman who’d met them at the door returned to her designated station, but there was no sign of the technician she’d gone to fetch. They were in for a wait, then. Sebastian had a tolerance for boredom honed by twelve years in the army—a soldier who wasn’t bored was generally being shot at—but Jay was getting restless.

Sebastian bumped Jay’s shoulder with his own. “Have you considered going abroad?”

Jay blinked at him, confused. “What?”

“For your surgery,” Sebastian elaborated. “If you’re getting it done privately anyway …”

Jay looked away. His fingers drummed on the tabletop. “Dr. Stamford offered to refer me to a clinic in Marbella.”

“Is the wait time any shorter?”

Jay nodded. There was something here he didn’t want to talk about.

Sebastian asked, “Have you ever been to Spain?”

“No.” Jay relaxed a little. “You?”

“Some lads’ holidays in uni. And a few times after that, for work.”

Jay gave him a knowing look. “The kind of work you can’t talk about?”

Sebastian shrugged. The British government did not officially comment on the activities of the SAS, and neither did he. “If you’re going to be laid up after surgery, a hotel in Spain seems like a nicer place to do it than a flat in London. In fucking March.”

Before Jay had a chance to answer, the technician finally arrived at their table. He was dressed identically to the other staff—same t-shirt, same lanyard—and therefore his elevated status was indicated entirely by the impressive size of his beard.

“Hey,” the technician said in a bored tone. “What’s the problem?”

Sebastian pointed at the Dutch oven. “Phone’s about to explode.”

The technician suppressed a roll of his eyes. He reached forward and casually peeled away the duct tape, then lifted the lid.

His eyes went wide. The lid fell back into place with a firm clonk.

“I need to go get my manager,” the technician said, and scurried off.

Jay had barely acknowledged the technician’s appearance and disappearance. The relentless tapping of his fingers on the table stilled. “Going to Spain means flying to Spain.”

“You’re afraid of flying?”

“Not exactly.” Jay’s voice was strained; he’d bitten down on his lower lip, worrying at it with his teeth. He took a slow breath. “Testosterone is a controlled substance. If I try to take it on a plane—through customs, especially—then I need proof it’s been prescribed. That usually means I have to explain why I’m taking it.” His expression was flat, bitter. “And that’s if I haven’t already been outed by the fucking body scanner.”

He met Sebastian’s eyes—he had a focused look, as if he were working up to something.

Sebastian waited.

“Come with me,” Jay said, just barely loud enough to be heard over the ambient noise of the room.

It wasn’t a casual invitation. There was something fragile and guarded about it.

And then a middle-aged woman with an air of authority and a politely inquisitive look stepped up to the table.

Sebastian groaned and once again pointed at the Dutch oven. “Phone. Explode.”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve heard.” The manager carefully cracked the lid open and peered inside. Her face settled into a rigidly neutral mask, and she untucked a tablet from under her arm. “Let’s just pull up your account …”

Sebastian rattled off his name and phone number. The manager studied the results on her tablet, then frowned.

“It looks like Different dropped your carrier a few months ago,” she said. “It’ll be just a few minutes to switch you over to a new plan.”

“I don’t want to switch carriers,” Sebastian said.

“I can’t replace the phone if you’re not with an approved carrier.”

Sebastian sighed. “All right, how much will this cost me without the warranty?”

The manager gave him an apologetic look. “I’m afraid we can’t sell you a phone, either, unless you switch.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Jay’s limited patience finally ran out. “Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, and snatched the lid off the Dutch oven.

The screen of Sebastian’s phone had started to break free of its frame, bowing outward as the battery beneath it swelled up like a balloon. Jay popped the SIM tray open, retrieved the card, and dropped the phone back into the Dutch oven, slamming the lid into place.

Then he was gone, striding toward the exit.

The manager stared after him.

“I suppose we’re done here.” Sebastian slid the Dutch oven across the table toward the manager. “That’s yours. Thank you.”

He caught up with Jay on the street outside, tucked up against the wall to avoid the flow of foot traffic as he scrolled through what looked to be search results on his phone.

“There’s a third-party shop a block away,” he said, as Sebastian approached. “Don’t worry about the warranty. I’ll cover the new phone.”

“I can afford it.”

“I know.” Jay’s eyes didn’t move from the screen. “Besides, it’ll be half what you’d have paid in there.”

They were a good distance from the door. Sebastian leaned against the wall, rested his shoulder against Jay’s, and lit a cigarette. He took a long drag, awaiting the nicotine hit that would soothe his frayed patience.

Exhaling a lungful of smoke, he said, “When would you be going?”

Jay gave him a sidelong glance. “Just before Christmas.”

The sky overhead was a dull grey, heavy clouds hanging low. It was starting to rain, and the damp cold seemed to cut right through Sebastian’s wool coat, seeping into his bones.

Only an idiot could stand in this and turn down a holiday in Spain.