Phase one starts at a bar in Midtown Manhattan, and John's had this meeting on the books ever since things started to look like they weren't going to go his way.

The place is a cathedral of old wood and darkness, tastefully uncrowded. The drinks are expensive enough that the ambiance is what you pay for, a small chunk of the nineteen twenties, squirreled away in Grand Central Station. John's got a train to catch, and then a commercial flight out to London, (private, but still commercial) but before that, he's got a meeting.

Langstrom Fischler is too loud an individual for anywhere that tries to maintain any kind of ambiance, but he could also have bought and sold the place, ambiance and all, so it's allowed to slide.

"Drinking so soon after the heart attack, Mr. Tracy? Good man! Can't let a little thing like that slow you down."

This is halfway shouted from across the room, as Fischler approaches, at a decibel level that informs the entire bar that John's purportedly had a heart attack. There are a few glances from around the room, half vague interest, half vague disapproval. Not that it really matters. It's not John's lie to tell, but he's telling it tacitly, and he stands up to extend a hand as the industrialist approaches. "Mr. Fischler. It's just bitters and tonic water."

"Oh? Shame!" The hand that grasps his is surprisingly calloused, and Fischler's wearing a sport jacket and khakis, the former cut just a bit too large for his figure and the latter just a little too long. He's a small man, shorter and stockier than John, but nearly everyone is. For what he lacks in height, he radiates in the confidence of a man at ease in his success, his grip is firm as he shakes John's hand. He pulls a chair out as John sits back down, and drops into it comfortably. "You'll let me buy you a beer, of course. Studies say it helps!"

"I'll keep that in mind," John answers politely, though he's never acquired Scott and Virgil's taste for a casual beer after work. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Fischler. I was glad I happened to catch you while you were stateside."

Fischler waves a hand dismissively, and his voice is chipper, if tremendously nasal as he answers, "Only too happy to, Mr. Tracy! Least I could do, seems I probably owe you and your lot a favour. How's the old ticker holding up? Let's get a decent drink into you, to your good health." Reminded of his prescription, he flags down a waiter, makes a complicated gesture that seems to convey his desire for two pints of lager, and that's what arrives a few minutes later.

It would be impolite to refuse, and John's guest raises his glass and smacks his lips before he makes a toast. "To your first cardiac event, then! If you ask me, heart attacks are just a good sign you're making a decent clip towards success. I've had three. Here's to your first, and many more!" Fischler thumps his chest with a fist and beams, swallowing half a glass in a single gulp. He swallows, clears his throat. "Or not, as y'like. Not, uh, wishing heart attacks on you, as such."

"Uh. Thank you." John's more moderate in his answering sip of beer, and it's at least not as bad as he remembers. "Three heart attacks, Mr. Fischler?"

Fischler drains his glass and nods. "And counting! Welcome to the club, mate. They're not so bad as they make them sound, eh? Still. Up in space, that's a bit dodgy. Might wanna put a defibrillator on board. Save yourself a trip next time."

John hasn't had a heart attack, but he's been told that's the official story and it happens to suit his purpose to stick to it. He has another sip of beer, and resolves to return to his own drink. "All's well that ends well, I suppose."

"Quite right, quite right." Mr. Fischler's fingers drum on the table edge and he leans forward, a little fidgety. "Now, you've gone and scheduled with this one of my secretaries and the only reason I've turned up at all is because it's you, Mr. Tracy. Owing you a favour as I do, and that. What can I do for you?"

There's that ambiance. The low mutter of conversation around them, the soft strains of jazz from the sound system. Glasses rattle against each other, plates and cutlery. And no one's listening, except for the man he needs to talk to. Still, John's not used to secrecy, and he clears his throat and takes a drink. He feels like he needs to keep his voice low, and he doesn't quite meet Fischler's eyes as he answers. "There's something I need prototyped and manufactured. I was hoping to keep it fairly quiet."

Fischler lifts an eyebrow and his lips quirk slightly. "You, ah. You're aware that the Tracy on the tail end of your name is attached to one of the biggest industrial tech conglomerates in the world?"

John pauses, somewhat uncertain of just how much he wants to reveal. This isn't really his area. Corporate PR, media pressure, the fact that technically speaking, he's talking to a competitor-but he knows what he needs and Fischler owes him a favour. "I wouldn't say I'm on the company's good side, at the moment."

This sparks curiosity on Fischler's face and his hand catches his chin as he leans a little further forward, interested, "No? There'd been rumors, y'know, in the sorts of circles where this stuff gets talked about. The uh, the data breach from your station's systems? Damn shame, that. Bad for PR! Good thing to have a heart attack about." He leans back in his chair and tents his fingers, still looking John over with a faintly skeptical air. "Still, don't you all keep a tame engineer somewhere on that family island of yours? The kid out of Cambridge? Worked for me for a while."

"Brains," John supplies, and attempts another sip of beer. He makes a face and pushes the glass across the table to Fischler, who grins and accepts it.

"That's the one. Fastidious little bugger. Why take it to me and not to him? Can't be that big a project."

Quite the contrary. It's a very small project, but that's not the issue. John's still hesitant as he hazards, "This...this is something that'll maybe toe the line, ethically."

"Are you coming to me because you know that'd be a problem for him, or because you know it won't be a problem for me?"

"Both, I guess." And this is the first gambit in the conversation. Fischler's eyes narrow and John continues, maybe speaking a little quicker than he has to. "Mr. Fischler, you're a man who pushes limits and I respect that. Brains is a friend. And this-it's personal. It's too personal for me to want to deal with a friend, because he'll worry about the reasons I'm asking."

And then it pays off as the industrialist grins and lifts his glass. "Too right. Well, you won't go to your friend and you won't go to your family, and it'd be lying to say you haven't got me curious. So I'll ask again; what can I do for you, Mr. Tracy?" He wags a finger, warning, before he adds. "And no more beating around the bush, now. I'm a businessman, and I'm taking time out of my day because I hate to have a debt hanging over my head. So out with it."

Well.

"I need a pacemaker."

"Is it a recommendation you're after?" Fischler thumps his chest a second time, and the gesture indicates precisely what John thinks it does, knows it does, from the research he's done. "Got the Fischler Industries' Telemetrhythm, myself! Put the lads in R&D onto it pronto, after that second heart attack. Right little bit of tech, only the best. Mine's custom, of course, but it's the prototype for the latest industry standard. Can't blame you, asking. Was why I put the boffins on it, wanted to be quite sure about the quality."

John takes a deep breath and takes the plunge. "-I need it to have fifteen petabytes of clustered storage, about half that in RAM, and internal antenna capable of universal data connection. There are a few other specifics, but that's the basics. I can give you hard specs later. Don't code it. I'll do that."

Fischler blinks at him. "Bloody hell, you're not after much, are you? Prototyped and manufactured?"

"-by the end of the week," John concludes, and picks up his glass again.