Aftermath: 42 - The Garland of the War (2027)

Hermann thinks, with compassion, of Gottfried Leibniz, fallen out of favor in November of 1716.

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

Text iteration: Witching hour.

Additional notes: None.

2027 (Forty-two – The Garland of the War)

After a rather overwhelming performance by the pair of them at the Mathematics Department trivia night, Hermann suspects they may not be invited back. Between a decade spent traveling the globe and an unfairly doubled knowledge base courtesy of EPIC Rapport; well, it’s very difficult for anyone to pose them any real competition.

They decide to stay and have dinner at the bar, primarily because David Starr won’t hear of them going home, and Newton is clearly enjoying the opportunity to get emotional about Leibniz in a socially acceptable way.

“I just,” Starr says, his voice cracking, “feel so much for the guy, you know? Isaac Newton was such a dick, but you know who’s worse?” Starr pauses dramatically.

“Voltaire,” the pair of them say, simultaneously, clinking glasses.

“Fuck Voltaire,” Newton declares, finishing off his beer and slamming it the empty glass down on the table with undue force. 

“Fuck Candide,” Starr agrees, finishing off his own beer, and doing likewise.

Hermann rolls his eyes.

“Just how much do you two gossip about the intellectual landscape of the late seventeenth century?” Hermann asks, delicately sipping his own drink, not in his cups, but not exactly out of them, either.

“A lot,” Starr admits. “We’ve been texting.”

“And Voltaire comes into play—how?” Hermann asks.

“Oh. OH. You haven’t heard about this?” Starr slurs. “Newt, what the hell, buddy? This guy is your life partner. You gotta keep him up to speed.”

“Up to speed?” Hermann repeats. “Voltaire has been dead for something like two hundred and fifty years.”

“Voltaire is so fucking mean.” Newton stares absently and morosely at his empty beer glass, his brows furrowed in a manner that Hermann most certainly does not find adorable, and never has, thank you very much. 

“So mean,” Starr repeats, motioning to a server, for what Hermann will ensure is their last round of drinks. “You tell him, Newt. You’re better at it.”

“Better at what?” Newton asks. 

“Telling things,” Starr explains.

“Oh. Right.” Newton takes this in stride, and then turns to Hermann. “Okay. So you know how Voltaire wrote this satire called Candide where, like, there’s this guy—”

“His name’s Candide,” Starr points out.

“Yes. So there’s this guy named Candide, and he has this teacher.” Newton waves a hand absently.

“Tutor,” Starr says.

“Who’s telling this story, man?” Newton asks, as the waitress returns with their next round of beer—an amber ale glowing warmly under soft lights.

“You,” Starr says. “Definitely you. Sorry, Newt.”

“Okay,” Newton continues, looking at Hermann with something of his historical verve. “So there’s this guy named Candide and he has this tutor, named Pangloss. And Pangloss is portrayed as an idiot, like, saying ‘oh, we live in the best of all possible worlds.’ But then the whole book is about shitty things happening to Candide and proving this tutor wrong in his optimistic worldview. Like, what an idiot this Pangloss guy is, right, thinking anything is even remotely okay ever.”

Starr makes a piteous whine.

Newton pats his shoulder.

“Turns out Pangloss is a caricature of Leibniz. And, like, everyone knew that, Hermann. Everyone. Because Leibniz was super famous and popular. Like Mako.”

“Mako?” Hermann and Starr echo.

“Yeah. Like, if you want to make Mako into a caricature and misrepresent her it’s super obvious who you’re talking about because she’s really distinctive but also it’s a dick move.”

Hermann shrugs philosophically, exchanging a glance with Starr.

“Honestly Newt,” Starr says, “Hermann would be a better example than Mako.”

“Nope,” Newton says emphatically, holding up a hand, looking away. “Stop right there. I don’t want to hear it. That’s a definite no. I can’t. I have too many feelings about Leibniz for any comparisons with—” Newton seems to be having a difficult time speaking.

“Ohmygod,” Starr says in a rush, clapping Newton on the shoulder. “Sorry. Hey. I get it. I’m a jerk. Definitely more like Mako. Is that better? Never mind. I’m going to stop talking now.”

“Whatever. I’m not crying, you’re crying.” Newton wipes his eyes, and continues on. “So look, his whole position is misrepresented by this Pangloss guy. It’s not that Leibniz said everything was great, that WASN’T what he was saying.”

“No it was fucking not,” Starr mutters into his beer.

“Leibniz, yes, did have kind of a we-live-in-the-best-of-all-possible-worlds shtick, but that didn’t mean he ignored the existence of evil!” 

“Not at all!” Starr adds. “God, why did Voltaire have to be so hostile? Leibniz was just doing his best, man.”

“As are we all,” Hermann agrees, egging them on to a small degree. He’s come to quite like David Starr over the past few years. And Newton—overcome with excessive academic emotion, putting a colloquial spin on a forgotten philosopher in a college-town bar with terrible food and passable beer—well, the effect is more endearing than it is anything else. But if he’s honest, there’s a strong thread of reassurance there as well.

“See!” Newton says, stealing a good portion of what remains of Hermann’s fries. “You get it. I get it. It’s a complete assault on Leibniz. As if the calculus thing with Isaac Newton wasn’t bad enough. Now we’ve got a work in the western canon basically vilifying the poor guy. Setting him up as a caricature for the rest of time! Ridiculing his optimism, which wasn’t stupid at all. He acknowledged the existence of evil! What’s he supposed to do? How are you ever supposed to win against that? You’ll just—remain misunderstood forever, because—”

And it is at this point that Newton starts crying in earnest. This is shortly followed by Starr joining him.

Hermann is not unsympathetic.

As he waits for them to master themselves, Hermann absently runs his fingers over years of names and dates, sloppily engraved into the wood of their table. He contemplates the nature of time, its arrow. Such a subtle thing, time. The dull roar of a crowd in its weekend upswing suffuses the air. They are surrounded by students, brimming with alcohol and optimism. 

Hermann thinks, with compassion, of Gottfried Leibniz, fallen out of favor in November of 1716. No one will attend your funeral, he thinks, across space and time. They will bury you in a grave that goes unmarked for fifty years. And yet, in the midst of an unfolding apocalypse, one mathematician will be so familiar with your theories that they write themselves into the mind of a brilliant biologist and a vast alien intelligence. From there, you will be chosen as the unifying avatar of a fractional alien hive mind, left behind after breach annihilation. You will help it understand understanding. Your optimism will inspire it. You will confer so much grace on this disembodied consciousness that it, in good faith, releases its hold on the biologist who gave it your form. With your aid, it will die well.

“Got you too, huh?” Newton says.

“I—” Hermann breaks off, clears his throat. He glances at Starr, who will not understand what he is about to say. Not fully. “No I simply realized—that in a very real way, Gottfried Leibniz saved your life, Newton.”

“I know,” Newton murmurs. “I know he did.”

“That really gets me,” Starr chokes out, clutching a fist to his chest. 

Newton lifts his glass, looks at it as though it contains the secrets of the universe. “To Leibniz, who did his best to fuse the objective and the subjective.”

Starr lifts his glass as well. “To Leibniz, an optimist in a world full of despair.”

Hermann carefully touches his glass to theirs. “To Leibniz. May he rest well.”

They drink. 

“You know what though,” Newton says, leaning forward, looking at Starr intently. “I bet he’d love your book.”

“Do you really think so?” Starr whispers.

“Yeah,” Newton chokes out. “I do.”

“Candide is just so influential,” Starr moans, still clinging to Newton.

“Don’t I fucking know it,” Newton says in a cracked whisper, looking like he’s fighting a fresh wave of Leibniz-induced emotion. And then, with a look Hermann knows well, has come to both anticipate and dread, he slams his hand, palm down, on the table. It’s loud enough to startle nearby patrons. “I have an idea,” he snaps, pulling out his phone.

“Oh Gott,” Hermann mutters.

Newton puts the phone to his ear. “Mako!” he says, half shouting. “Yeah, sorry, it’s loud in here. This might sound like a weird request but I feel like it’s kind of up your alley. Didn’t you say you had some kind of fancy profile piece coming up. Like for—oh. Well, damn. Sure, yeah, I mean, Rolling Stone is great if you’re into that kind of thing.”

“Is he talking to Mako Mori?” Starr asks in a stage whisper to Hermann.

Hermann manages to simultaneously nod and roll his eyes.

Newton taps Starr on the shoulder and gives him a significant look. “So I’m going to overnight you a book. Probably tonight is too late. I’ll send it first thing tomorrow. It’s about Leibniz.”

Starr flushes. “My book?” he mouths at Newton.

“Yes, obviously,” Newton says, looking impatiently at Starr. “No, sorry Mako, that wasn’t directed at you. It’s a good read, and, as you know, I’m obsessed with Leibniz. You were telling me that you’re getting bored of these photoshoots so maybe take the book with you and tell people dramatic stories about Leibniz and how great he was. Like, if it seems fun.”

Newton pauses. Starr looks like he might expire of apoplexy.

“Yeah. Like, shenanigans where he was like ‘I’m bad at math’ and then subsequently taught himself math so hard that he invented calculus and published it before Isaac Newton and then people were so mean to him about it the whole deal got a title: The Calculus Priority Dispute. Oh yeah. Of course. Of course. Yes. Hermann arguably loves Leibniz more than me. He cried about it. Just now! Yes I’m serious. No, you can’t talk to him, he’ll just deny it. Yeah, just read the book and then I’ll tell you five super-secret things about Leibniz. No, I can’t tell you now. You don’t have the foundation to appreciate it yet. Also you can meet Hermann’s Best Math Friend next time you come, because he wrote it. The Leibniz book, I mean. You probably should get Captain Sir Saves Everyone to also read it too. Hey, would you guys have any interest in a book club where we read the classics of rationalism?” Newton pauses. “Okay that’s fair, but for the record, how much time have I poured into Blue Planet?”

Hermann grabs the phone.

“Hey!” Newt says.

“I apologize for this,” Hermann says, over the sound of Mako laughing.

“Please don’t. You guys are out? ‘Out’ out? Drinking?”

“Yes,” Hermann says.

“Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?” Mako says, dramatically modulating the word. “How did that happen. Who is your best math friend? Did he do this?”

“He is indeed responsible,” Hermann says, looking at Starr significantly.

“Can I talk to him?” Mako asks.

“Of course. One moment.” Hermann looks archly at Starr and hands him the phone. “She wants to talk to you.”

Newton bursts out laughing at Hermann’s delivery and the resultant expression on Starr’s face.

Starr takes the phone from Hermann as though he’s handling an explosive device. “Hello?” he says tentatively, and then, “David. David Starr.” It’s not long before the man has relaxed enough that his prosody sounds somewhat normal. Starr describes math trivia night and then touches a bit on his admiration for Leibniz in a much more restrained tone than usual, before returning Newton’s phone.

“She is just—so cool,” Starr sighs.

“Isn’t she just,” Newton says, stealing more fries. 

Hermann motions for the check. 

It’s late, and Starr, certainly, is in dire need of a ride home.

When they finally make it into bed, Newton cannot sleep. He lies in awake with Doctor Faustus, by Thomas Mann. It’s a bit ambitious for the current state of the man’s German, and so he’s glaring determinedly at the book in that charming way he has. The light of the bedside lamp is dim, and Hermann watches him for some time before Newton realizes he’s awake.

Hermann clears his throat.

Newton looks up. “Is this keeping you up?” he asks. “Because I can—”

“I’m in love with you,” Hermann tells him, flushing.

Newton smiles at him, and Hermann can see he’s wildly happy in that moment.

I’ll say it more, Hermann promises, in silence. I’ll find a way to finally explain what I’ve always known, what you’ve never understood. It wouldn’t have taken so much time if life hadn’t been so hard. 

“It was the trivia that inspired this, wasn’t it?” Newton asks. “You’re so predictable.” He shuts his book, sets it carefully on the nightstand. He kisses Hermann gently. “I’m in love with you too, Dr. Gottlieb, but I,” he says, smiling, “was first.”

“Far be it from me to initiate some kind of priority dispute,” Hermann says. He could contest it, but it seems a pointless exercise. Maybe, one day—