Aftermath: 29 - A Borrower of the Night

Newton types: Supererogatory Quantum Cartography <3 in a text box.

Chapter warnings: Realistic depictions of neurological, physical, and bureaucratic trauma. War. Grief. Death. Mental illness. Regular illness.

Text iteration: Midnight.

Additional notes: None.

2020 (Twenty-nine – A Borrower of the Night)

Late in the evening, three days before they leave for Geneva, Hermann sits alone at his desk, silently running through his presentation. He’s been asked to give the Breach Symposium Keynote this year. Quite an honor. He’s constantly being congratulated. 

He could not be more miserable. 

Casting back in his life, looking for a time when, perhaps, he had been more upset than he is at present, huddled over his laptop at twenty-three hundred hours, he finds nothing comes to mind. He’s cold, he’s anxious, they’ll lose the war, he’ll see the end of his own civilization—

And still, he must give a talk.

Insupportable. Unfair. Too much.

His hand comes to his eyes.

“Hey.” 

He looks up. Newton stands in his doorway, a shadow of his former self, looking as miserable as Hermann feels. He’s pale, his eyes are bloodshot, and he leans against the doorframe as though he’s too tired to stand.

“Newton.” Hermann pulls himself together. Surreptitiously, he wipes his eyes.

When he looks up again, Newton’s eyes are closed, as if he too has pushed himself past what he can sustain. He lost, Hermann thinks, a tech not too long ago. His workload is untenable. And there’d been the pneumonia, of course. Only weeks ago. It feels like lifetimes.

Newton opens his eyes. “You’re working on your talk.”

“Yes,” Hermann replies, too tired to manufacture the antagonism he’d usually try to insert into their exchange.

“How’s it going?” Newton asks.

Hermann raises a hand in a how-does-it-look-like-its-going gesture.

“You want a practice audience?” Newton asks.

Hermann looks at him in surprise. “You, I’m sure, do not have time.”

“Meh.” Newton takes this as an invitation, and not improperly so. He grabs the back of the chair that sits in front of Hermann’s desk and drags it around so they’re side-by-side, looking at Hermann’s screen. 

“I do not need practice, necessarily,” Hermann says, “but I wonder if you might look at the opening.”

“Sure.” Newton’s hands hover over the keys on Hermann’s laptop. The man gives him a lateral look.

Hermann nods, granting his permission.

Newton cycles through the slides, then returns to the beginning of the talk. He advances, reverses, advances again. He saves the presentation and creates another version, appending NewtMod to the end of Hermann’s file name. He drags slide seven up to become slide four. 

“Ah—” Hermann tries to protest.

“Wait wait,” Newton mutters. He creates a new slide at position three, writes some filler text, then relocates a figure from slide five before deleting it. “You’ll have to fix the text,” Newton says, “but then, if you just—” he brings slides eight and nine up to follow his new slide four. “And—” he says, paging through the talk, “Okay, so you’re building the background, you segue to the math, and then—” he creates a new slide at position twenty-three. “You don’t need something here, but I recommend it. Keep it simple; the simpler the better, actually. Like: blank slide, one line, the talk within a talk—to let people know they need to look up from their phones for slide twenty-four. Just—” he types: Supererogatory Quantum Cartography <3 in a text box. 

Hermann smiles faintly. 

“My god, man.” Newton grins back at him. “What is that? Are you smiling? I can die now.”

“Don’t you dare,” Hermann says, unable to fully control his expression. “That was extremely helpful.”

“Good,” Newton replies, still scrolling forward and back through his talk. “Otherwise, it’s similar to the talk you gave in Beijing, maybe six months ago? That was the backbone?”

“I’m surprised you recall,” Hermann says. 

Newton looks laterally at him. Hermann gets a glimpse of emerald irises and veiled irritation before the man goes back to the talk, ensuring figures are well framed, captions are aligned, and text is uniform. It doesn’t take him long. “You want to run through it tomorrow?” he asks.

“No,” Hermann says.

“Myeah I hear that.” Newton slides Hermann’s laptop across the desk. “It’s not like you need to.” He pushes his glasses up and looks at Hermann with that peculiarly hopeful expression he occasionally wears. Tonight, Hermann finds it wrenching. 

“You look exhausted,” Hermann says.

“Exhausted is in vogue this year,” Newton replies. “Very chic. I notice you, also, are sporting this trend, Dr. Gottlieb.”

“What will you be speaking on?” Hermann asks him.

“It’s a surprise,” Newton says.

“To whom?” Hermann asks darkly.

Newton remains silent, staring into his own thoughts. “The Coastal Wall,” he says finally.

“You—you know nothing about the Coastal Wall. Your research is not on the Coastal Wall.”

“It’s not that complicated, Hermann. It’s a wall, not a biomechanical interface.”

“What session?” Hermann asks, full of trepidation.

“Day one,” Newton mutters, looking away. “Hall A.”

“Newton,” Hermann hisses. “That’s—”

“I know, Hermann. I know. Lightcap’s slot. The Defense Keynote. I asked for it and I got it.”

“That’s a large venue,” Hermann says.

“Yup.”

“What could you possibly say about the Coastal Wall to that particular crowd?”

“That, as an idea, it’s unworkable.”

“Newton, are you certain it’s wise to antagonize—”

Newton shoots Hermann a look that stops him cold. It’s a look of pure exhaustion and abject misery. “Hermann,” he says, “I’m sure it’s not. But,” he averts his eyes, steels himself, and finishes with, “if she were here, she’d kill the wall.”

In the ensuing quiet, Hermann hears the delicate tick of seconds within his wristwatch.

“I don’t think you’ll be successful,” he says as gently as possible.

“Me neither,” Newton agrees.

“Then why?” Hermann asks, disapproving and curious in equal measure. “Why put yourself through it?”

With a ghost of a smile, Newton rasps, “Can you imagine what she’d say if no one tries to bring it down? Really tries?” 

There’s a long silence.

Then, “Wear a blazer,” Hermann advises.

Newton laughs.