Aftermath: 31 - Chimes at Midnight (2015)

“For all I know,” Newton says, “you’re mapping our salvation in the quantum foam.”

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

Text iteration: Midnight.

Additional notes: None.

2015 (Thirty-one – Chimes at Midnight)

Perched in his usual haunt at the top of the Shatterdome, Hermann looks out on the Alaskan wilderness. The deployment dock is on the opposite side of the building, facing the sea. From this vantage point, Hermann takes in the tundra, the lake, the distant mountains. 

The days are turning shorter. Soon, they will live mostly in darkness. 

Solitude is like a rain

Toward evening it rises from the sea

Rilke. The poet nearest to his thoughts in these days that might be humanity’s last. He turns his thermos of tea in his hands, but doesn’t open it. The water of the lake is clear tonight, the mountains reflected on its surface. 

He is alone. He will be alone for quite some time, he thinks.

Hermann used to come here and compose his letters to that endlessly fascinating Associate Director of JET Force. He misses his friend. The one who never existed. Strange as it sounds, in correspondence, Newton Geiszler had been a source of consistent and valued support. Unfortunately, the real man is nothing like his writing would lead one to believe. Or perhaps the real man is not only what his writing would lead one to believe.

Whoever is alone now will long remain so, 

Will stay awake, read books, write epistolary epics

And wander restless back and forth 

Along the tree-lined streets as the leaves drift down.

Terrible, these monsters that come from the sea. Delicate, the planet’s ecosystem. It’s a tragedy, but what a tragedy. More cosmic than any end humanity would have engineered for itself. What would Rilke say about it? He wonders. Newton believes in nature, red in tooth and claw. The man had said so, once. How strange to be a biologist, to internalize such truths about the world, one’s place in it. 

Did Newton ever ‘get around’ to the Rilke after his experience in Manila? Hermann wonders.

Probably not. 

Newton is tormenting him. 

TORMENTING. 

The two of them are incompatible. It is obvious. He lists the reasons. One. There are those six PhDs to contend with. Certainly, it makes the man seem more than a little indecisive. Not a good quality in a partner. An unacceptable quality, in fact. Two. The green hair. It is childish. No more need be said. Even if it intensifies the green of his eyes, that is immaterial; it is still childish. Three. He is slovenly. That alone would make any long-term association impossible. Unless his behavior could be modified. This seems vanishingly unlikely. Four. He is emotionally labile. This also is not a good quality in a partner. Hermann, for better or worse, is somewhat sensitive; he requires a steadying influence. He would like a steadying influence. Someone who brings out his strengths rather than his weaknesses. Five. The man is addicted to coffee. One cannot converse with him before he’s ingested at least 200 milligrams of caffeine. It’s disturbing. Six. His taste in clothing is atrocious, even if his sartorial choices do particularly complement his build. Seven. He is too young. He’s immature. Hermann would be better matched with someone older.

He commits the list to memory: indecisive, bad hair, slovenly, labile, addicted to coffee, poor taste, too young. He rearranges it in case he needs to make use of it in an argument one day. Newton is an indecisive, slovenly, emotionally labile child who cannot function without coffee and makes terrible choices regarding fashion and behavior.

Now all he has to do is internalize that list. 

Thus far, he’s had little success.

Is he native to this realm? No,

His wide nature grew out of both worlds.

There’s something about the man. Something that may—that may—transcend Hermann’s list. He cannot forget the letters. He can’t do it. Somewhere inside that infuriating man is the person who conceived and expressed those things. Why he chooses to behave so provocatively and immaturely ninety percent of the time, Hermann can’t say. But that other ten percent? It’s there. It is somewhere buried in the man. That eloquence, those insights, that bravery. He’s seen hints of them at times. At other times, more than hints.

Perhaps—

Perhaps he ought to apologize to Newton. Hermann himself had been—in Geneva, when they’d met—he’d been “reflexively dismissive” perhaps, is the best way of putting it? Ugh. It had been horrible. He can barely stand to think on it, so he won’t. He tips his head back against a metal support strut. 

The thing that perplexes him the most is that when they’d met, he had not found the man attractive. Is this superficial? Yes. He can admit that. In the flesh, he’d found Dr. Geiszler disappointingly short, slight of build with terrible hair made worse by tasteless dye. He carried himself poorly, spoke poorly, dressed poorly.

So why on God’s green Earth is this happening to him? Why, for months now, has the man been turning progressively compelling? Why, when he occasionally fantasizes about an artificially mature version of Dr. Geiszler, has that construct taken on Newton’s actual appearance?

Hermann cannot parse it. It must be some nonsensical epiphenomenon emerging from his consciousness. 

More than anything, really, he finds the man charming. If charm were something that had historically been known to trigger nervous breakdowns. 

Hermann will be honest with himself here. In the American vernacular, Newton might be considered “cute.” The problem—ah yes, now here he’s getting somewhere—is that Newton combines this quality with disparate elements that do not typically accompany “cute” things. Such as extreme perspicacity. Punk rock. Arrogance. Confidence. Poise. Well, certainly not poise in the typically understood sense, but there’s something strong in Newton. Something that, when it is struck, does not give. Not a millimeter. 

Admittedly, Hermann enjoys provoking the man for no other reason than to see that feature come out. Hermann can discern no such core at the heart of his own personality. Perhaps if he had such a quality, his life would have turned on different axes. Perhaps he would not have washed out as a Jaeger pilot. Perhaps he would have struck out independent of his father’s influence. Perhaps—many things. 

This insight seems pointless. It cannot guide his actions. 

As Newton continues to accomplish more and more as the head of the K-science Division, Hermann’s problem will turn more pronounced, but it should not be his focus. His focus should be on the planet. Perhaps he should read again History of the Peloponnesian War.

He finishes his tea. The sun has nearly set. The land is covered in shadow. He slides from his perch on one of the metal girders and turns to head back inside only to find—

Newton watching him. 

Hermann presses a hand to his chest, startled, then tears back the hood of his coat.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Hermann demands.

Newton, wearing only his thin leather jacket, stands with his arms crossed, his hair windblown. He looks cold and intensely beautiful in the fading light. The man shrugs, smiling faintly. “I didn’t want to disturb you.” Hermann had been contemplating the man’s poise, and it’s now on full and glorious display. He seems in this moment something more than human, invested as he is with all the acuity of Hermann’s longing, the ghost of all that Hermann’s given up. 

“For all I know,” Newton says, “you’re mapping our salvation in the quantum foam.”

“You’ll catch your death in that ridiculous coat,” Hermann snaps.

Newton sighs.

Hermann heads for the stairs.