Aftermath: 19 - A Borrower of the Night (2020)

Meridians and mermaids. Field lines and fairies. Lively little ghosts and loop quantum gravity. String theory and song.

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

Text iteration: Witching hour.

Additional notes: None.

2020 (Nineteen – A Borrower of the Night)

The night-darkened Shatterdome seems an abandoned relic of an unfriendly future. Long corridors, lit only by pale fluorescence, are so quiet that one can hear the echo of every footfall. Not that there are many footfalls to note. Already, the Coastal Wall has begun to suck the life from the Jaeger Program. What a curse a slow, inexorable death can be. The kind one can see coming. For years. The Wall goes up. The Jaegers go down.

When they’re all dead, when humanity is no more, this Shatterdome’s nuclear-powered emergency lighting will burn on, ghostly and efficient, for thousands of years. 

Cold comfort. 

It’s cold in an absolute sense as well. Hermann, having exchanged his usual blazer for a cardigan layered over, admittedly, another cardigan, still finds the temperature barely tolerable. The damp seems to have set up shop in the marrow of his bones. Any colder and his breath would be condensing in the air. Or, at least, it feels that way.

When Hermann was a child, his mother had been partial to the telling of ghost stories, always with some tragic, romantic bent. Of Hans Christian Anderson she had been particularly fond. Mermaids turning into sea foam. Honestly. But there is something about the Shatterdome at night that reminds Hermann of the Palace of the Snow Queen. As a child, he had envisioned it nearly this way, frozen labyrinthine corridors opening onto the Mirror of Reason. Iced over, the deployment dock would serve quite nicely. 

You have a certain fairy-tale quality about you, Dr. Geiszler, Hermann thinks. He rubs his hands together, watching Newton for a moment. Blue gown, white blankets, green screens. His hair too dark, with its colored highlights grown out. No glasses. He looks profoundly different. Nearly unrecognizable.

Hermann would like to rip Herc Hansen’s heart straight out of his chest with his bare hands. 

From Pentecost, Hermann expects little, but from Hansen—Hansen who had seen Hermann’s mind, who knows, or should, the depth of his discernment, who had seen and understood, however briefly, the mathematics behind the opening of a trans-dimensional portal—

Such thoughts are wasted. A cucumber is bitter; throw it away, Marcus Aurelius had said. There are briars in the road; turn aside from them. Something along those lines.

So. The Mirror of Reason. The story had been about two children. A girl and boy. The boy, he recalls, numb to the cold, ice in his heart, had knelt on the frozen water for an endless time, trying to form broken icicles into equations. 

Or, had it been words? 

He checks his watch. Three hours past midnight. He stands, paces the room a few times, trying to warm up. He studies each of the monitors in turn, satisfied he understands the parameters on which they report. He looks down at Newton. Insensible, relying on a combination of medical elixirs and mechanical ventilation to sustain his life, deserving, certainly, some fairy-tale ending. He won’t be getting it.

The girl is dead.

This is Lightcap’s fault. Twice over. First because of the Reckoner Incident in 2017, when she’d sent him out and nearly killed him. Second because she inconsiderately died and Newton has been disinclined to take care of himself in her absence.

You are irresponsible, he thinks at her. You devalue human life at the expense of overarching progress. You are unethical. You, I am certain, will be responsible for his death even though he’s outlived you.

But all he can see is the way she had cried, on her knees on the floor of the UV decon suite, under those violet lights, her stitches broken open, blood soaking through her shirt, her face in her hands, inconsolable. He shakes his head, tries to make the image go, but it won’t. Nor can he forget the way she looked in that dim karaoke bar, laughing, with glitter in her hair. Nor the other—sitting in that chair, neck craned back, eyes empty, and, in his mind a musical whisper, a terrible entreaty, you break it to him. You do it. Please. Please, Gottlieb. Please.

He’d hated her in life, he’d hated her in the moment of her death, and he hates her now. He will always hate her, he is certain. His throat aches. Promise me, she’d said. And he had promised. She was always extracting such things, wrenching them from people, unfairly. And yet—he’s failed her. He can feel her disappointment in this very room. It’s crushing. 

Hey, she had said, in 2017, hands on bedrails, leaning over the man Hermann now looks down upon, Baby genius. Bitch-Prince of the Alien Xenome. Listen. Don’t you dare die on me. I love you. I love you forever, okay? To the ends of the Earth. To the bottom of the Pacific. I couldn’t love you more. You’re brilliant. You’re funny. You’re fun. You’re cute as shit. You’re bitter like great coffee. I love your fucking band. Humanity would be screwed without you. You have to live, okay kiddo? You adorable angel-faced, devil-minded little nerd. I loved you before I met you. I’ll love you when I’m dead. If you die, it will eviscerate me. I hope you’re hearing this. You’re the one who lives. I decided that a long time ago, so don’t make me wrong. I hate being wrong as much as you do. God doesn’t get you back. You’re mine. You stay here. You don’t go anywhere. I love you. I love you. I love you.

“How anticlimactic this must seem,” Hermann murmurs, slipping his fingers into Newton’s hand, pressing, briefly, his palm, mindful of the pulse oximeter taped to the man’s thumb. His hand is cool. Lifeless. “She would have been furious with you, Dr. Geiszler.”

Hermann sighs, shakes his head, returns to his seat, to the bedside table where Newton’s laptop glows with a warm and circadian-friendly light. He has the man’s grant open and is working his way through the budget section. It is so infernally complicated—what is the price of whole exome sequencing? Relatively easy to find. What about when Biohazard Level 5 substances are involved? Less easy. How is anyone supposed to discover these things? He searches Newton’s folders, looking through previous grants, trying to find an estimate. 

It takes him another half hour, but he finally locates something useful.

Kai, he remembers suddenly. That had been the boy. Gerda the girl. His mother had taken particular pleasure in telling this specific story to Hermann and Karla. Karla, no doubt, had always struck her as particularly intrepid. Hermann, surely, as particularly icy. Someone in need of saving from his own coldly rational tendencies. He sighs. Too bad Karla had been unsuccessful. Hermann had taken after his father in too many ways. And yet. Still. Not quite enough. 

If there’s a boy with ice in his heart on this Mirror of Reason, it certainly isn’t Dr. Geiszler.

All right. The budgeting is done. Now he needs to prepare the Description of Facilities section. Wonderful. He has no idea what half the machines in the man’s lab are for. They certainly seem to make a great deal of noise, but that hardly narrows anything down. He begins searching Newton’s hard drive and finds about six iterations of what he wants. He scans the most recent document, which is, curse Hermann’s luck, an unmistakable description of the Alaskan Shatterdome’s Biosciences Wing. He’ll need to modify this.

He searches the man’s hard drive for the names of pieces of equipment, and, thank God, finds a spreadsheet containing his current lab inventory. Shockingly well-organized. 

“You won’t hear me say this, Newton,” he mutters, glancing at his colleague, “but you deserve slightly more credit than I generally give you.”

“Maybe he should,” Herc Hansen says, from behind Hermann’s shoulder.

Hermann startles violently, the movement painful. 

“Hear you say it,” Hansen says, walking forward, his ridiculous dog in tow, waddling across the floor. Hermann glares at the pair of them. The dog is not sanitary. This is a medical bay. Hansen looks exhausted, as well he should. Everyone is exhausted. Newton is nearly dead.

“It’s three in the morning,” Hermann snaps. “What are you doing here?”

Hansen shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d look in on him.”

Hermann makes an ironically expansive gesture that takes in Newton’s bed, his anesthetized form, the ventilator, the IV fluids, and antibiotics, the array of tubes and monitors. “Look away,” Hermann says, with more than a trace of acidity. “Look to your heart’s content.” 

This is too much. He’s not Caitlin Lightcap. He does not lose control in front of his colleagues. Except for Newton, who doesn’t count. He takes a slow breath in, a slower breath out. 

“We should’ve listened to you,” Hansen admits, his dog panting at his feet. 

“Yes,” Hermann says. “I agree. You should have listened.”

The subtle emphasis is not lost on Hansen. He inclines his head, then moves to stand at the foot of Newton’s bed. “The thing that you two don’t seem to understand,” the man says, looking at Newton, “is that this thing doesn’t ride on you. The math won’t stop these things. Learning their biology isn’t either. You don’t have to run yourselves into the ground so hard.”

Oh really. 

As though what he and Newton are doing is some decorative embroidery around the edges of the kaiju killing and the Coastal Wall? Lightcap understood the primacy of the science, the deadly consequences of acting without understanding. This is your battle, Lightcap whispers, out of time and memory. Yours, Gottlieb. You make them see. Make them all see.

“Herc,” Hermann says, quietly. 

The other man looks up, startled. Hermann hasn’t used his first name in years, not since their Jaeger Academy days. He eyes Hermann expectantly, like a revelation might be forthcoming. One is. 

“Go. Away.”

I know it’s my battle, Hermann had told Lightcap. It’s the only one you’ll give me.

“Why are you here, Hermann?” Hansen asks, not quite ready to give in. “You’ll end up right next to him if you don’t get some rest.”

“Why am I here?” Hermann repeats. “Do you see anyone else here? Medical, like the rest of this place, is grossly understaffed. He should be at the University of Washington.”

“Yeah,” Hansen says. “Okay.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You want me to lay it out for you?” Hansen asks, still avoiding Hermann’s gaze, looking fixedly at Newton. “I’ll lay it out for you, but you won’t thank me. Look, Hermann, our handshake wasn’t strong. But we weren’t incompatible.”

“Your point?” Hermann asks, the words enough to salt the common ground between them. This is not something they have ever talked about. Hermann sees no reason to start now. Whatever understanding Hansen thinks he has is five years old and irrelevant.

“I know what you thought of him then,” Hansen says. “I know how he seemed in his letters. No one could’ve ever lived up to the image of him you’d built up in your mind. No one.” He straightens an already straight blanket, and pats Dr. Geiszler’s foot in what is no doubt meant to be an encouraging manner. Newton, chemically anesthetized, cannot appreciate the effort.

“You could do worse,” Hansen says, finally looking at Hermann. “He’s smart enough to keep up with you. He’s already gotten you to live a little. And he’s pretty damn capable when he’s not focused on being an arrogant asshat.”

“I could do worse?” Hemann hisses, incredulous. 

Hansen raises both hands, palms out.

“Leave,” Hermann demands, the word pure venom. 

“Sorry,” Hansen says. “I overstepped.”

“Never,” Hermann snarls, “mention that drift, to me, again. Certainly not in his presence, regardless of his consciousness level. You—”

“I’m going,” Hansen says. “before you say something you’re gonna regret for days. Just—think about it.” He heads for the door.

You’re right, Lightcap had said, years ago, without sympathy. It is the only battle I’ll ever give you. Fight it or go home and leave it to Geiszler.

“Wait,” Hermann says, grudgingly.

Hansen turns back. 

“It does, you know,” Hermann says. “It does ride on us. Everything rides on us. On us, Herc. On myself and Newton. The Coastal Wall is going up. The Jaeger program is coming down.”

Hansen shakes his head.

“I know you disagree,” Hermann says. “But it’s important to me that you understand something.”

“What?” Hansen asks into Hermann’s prolonged pause.

“I want you to understand that I’ve heard your argument, such as it is. I understand your argument. I’ve thought about your argument. I think you’re wrong.” Hermann tries to keep everything out of his voice but the words; he knows he’s failing. 

Hansen raises his eyebrows.

“Dr. Geiszler thinks you’re wrong. Dr. Lightcap, were she here, would think you’re wrong. It does ride on us. It has. It will. More than ever.”

Hansen looks at him. “Get some rest then,” is all he says, and turns to go.

Once Hansen has well and truly absented himself, Hermann raises an eyebrow at Newton. “You’re lucky you were unconscious for that,” he says. “I’m not sure your career would have survived the inevitable reprimand that would have ensued had you been capable of commenting.” 

If he’d been awake, Newton wouldn’t have allowed Hansen to so much as complete a phrase. Hermann has always suspected that Newton carries a particular antipathy toward Hansen because of those Jaeger Academy days, because he knows Hermann had drifted with the man. Hermann, admittedly, quite likes the idea of an envious Dr. Geiszler.

An idea that likely has zero bearing on reality. 

“And he thinks I should tell you?” Hermann asks. “How would you react to that, I wonder? I can’t see it going well, if you care to know. Or rather—” he breaks off, rests his head against a hand. 

Newton just lies there, motionless.

Hermann feels profoundly depressed. 

He has nearly decided to confess his feelings to Newton. It will not be easy. He’ll have to apologize for so much. Newton won’t understand why Hermann has been so aggressive, so hard, so distant at times. It will be horrible, Hermann thinks. But afterward—

“Newton,” he will say, when the man isn’t dragged down by his grief for Lightcap or his anxiety about the looming Coastal Wall. “Newton, I need to have a serious discussion with you.”

“All your discussions are serious,” Newton will say, smirking, looking up from whatever he’s doing—assembling the next grant, analyzing new data. “You’re a serious guy.” When he sees Hermann’s face, he’ll say, “Very well, sit down, Dr. Gottlieb.”

No he won’t. Hermann ought to be as accurate as possible. 

He’ll probably say, “Door,” with an imperious tone, and point at the thing. Hermann will shut his door. Then Newton will say, “Out with it, man. I haven’t got all day.”

“I’m aware,” Hermann will reply, sitting. 

He will hesitate. 

Newton will look up at him. 

“I’m in love with you,” Hermann will confess.

Newton will stare at him, mouth slightly open. Perhaps, if he is holding something, such as a pen, or a cup of coffee, he will lose his grip on it. “What?” he’ll say, when he’s sure he’s processed Hermann’s message correctly. Then, again, beginning to laugh, with a slight edge of hysteria, “WHAT?”

“I believe you heard me correctly,” Hermann will say.

“You believe I—” Newton will say. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Most people would evaluate their own feelings and respond, either positively or negatively.”

Newton stares at him, gathering his thoughts. “Look, Hermann, I basically told you when we met that I had infinite love for your brain. And that I was available. To you. At pretty much any time for pretty much anything. Of course I’m going to respond positively.” He doesn’t seem happy. 

“You still feel that way?”

“Hermann,” Newton says. “YES. I mean, I guess so? But none of this makes sense. You hate me. In fact, just last week you told me that you literally despised me, like, using the words: ‘Newton, I quite literally despise you.’ I get you were probably abusing the word ‘literally’ there, but—Hermann,” Newton sighs. “This just doesn’t make any sense. If you weren’t you, I’d accuse J-Tech of hazing me. As it is, I just feel—kinda sad.”

They look at one another.

Newton fidgets, toying with his pen.

Hermann sighs.

“Myeah, I wouldn’t do it this way,” his imagined version of Newton says, stepping out of his role for a moment, taking on an advisory capacity. “I’m not sure where the sad comes from? But I’m pretty sure you’ll make him sad if you do this. Probably it has something to do with his parents abandoning him, and then his uncle shipping him off to be raised by MIT. Feeling like no one liked him his whole life? Like, really. When you’re eight? Think about you at eight.”

Hermann opens a hand, hopeless.

“It’s just sad. And then the guy who shouts at him, files dozens of HR complaints about the music he plays, the way he dresses? The guy who points out how annoying he is at every turn, the guy who criticizes his life choices? Turns out THAT’S the guy who’s secretly in love with him? Not gonna fly. Not easily. Not well. Try something different. Sad as it is, his self-esteem is probably low enough you could do to him what Mr. Darcy tried on Elizabeth Bennet. The you-suck-but-I-find-you-irresistible shtick.”

That doesn’t seem ideal. 

“Against my better judgement, I find you incredibly attractive,” Hermann tries, half-heartedly.

“You do, do you?” Newton replies archly, eyebrows quirked suggestively. “I’ve had my suspicions.”

“Would you, ah—be inclined to—”

“Yup,” Newton says. “I would be inclined. Extremely inclined. In fact, I would be inclined tonight. You want to incline around oh, I don’t know, twenty-two hundred hours?”

Hermann plays out an entire relationship in his head, beginning to end, because all relationships end, everything ends. Point of fact, there is an expiration date on the human species that is his unique responsibility to calculate. He feels physically ill imagining Newton in the coming years. Already Hermann wants to protect him, already Hermann wants him out of this life; it will get worse, everything will get worse—his own father has thrown in with those who would build the Coastal Wall—

It does ride on you, Lightcap’s memory whispers. It does. You know it does. Don’t fuck it up, Gottlieb. Don’t let me down. Map the foam on that quantum sea. Who knows what it was before it was foam. Meridians and mermaids. Field lines and fairies. Lively little ghosts and loop quantum gravity. String theory and song.

He opens his eyes to Newton, still motionless, doing nothing for himself except keeping his own heart beating. 

Hermann returns to the grant.

He finishes the Facilities Description with, he thinks, reasonable accuracy, and the rest of the grant package is relatively straight forward. By half past four, everything is complete. He decides to look over Newton’s Specific Aims for typos, and then, because he’s feeling particularly sentimental, he keeps reading, through the Background, the Materials and Methods, the Preliminary Data. He can practically hear the man’s voice rise off the page—a blend of what he had imagined in those early letters and the man Dr. Geiszler had turned out to be, in the flesh. 

By six in the morning, he’s read the grant through. It’s ready to submit. 

He stands, walks another circuit of the room and returns to Newton’s bedside, looking down at the man. “You are a singular intellect, you know,” he murmurs, “which I can tell you now, because I know it won’t go to your head. Your grant is excellent; you’ll be pleased to know that I cannot, in good conscience, fail to submit it on your behalf.”