Aftermath: 24 - A Borrower of the Night (2020)

“I see you’re conscious again,” Hermann says. “Felicitations.”

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-four – A Borrower of the Night)

Afternoon snow falls softly on the small waves that break against the deployment dock. Hermann looks up, courtesy of coincidence or some sixth sense, to see Newton appear in his doorway. He doesn’t ask to be invited in, he doesn’t knock, he simply walks through the doorframe, drops into the seat opposite Hermann’s desk, leans back, props his right ankle on his left knee, crosses his arms, smiles brilliantly, and says, “Hi.”

Hermann shuts his eyes, no more than a long blink, as relief propagates through all he’s done since Newton collapsed, all he will do in the future.

It will be all right. At least, for a time.

“I see you’re conscious again,” Hermann says. “Felicitations.”

“Don’t try to pull that with me, Hermann,” Newton replies, amused. The man seems happy about something. Hermann cannot imagine what such a thing might be, given the models are predicting a Category Four event sometime in the next few weeks, and no one seems to know exactly what such a thing might look like. “Guess what happened when I returned to the land of the living?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.” Hermann shuffles the papers on his desk.

“I opened my email to find someone had submitted a grant on my behalf.”

“Your point?” Hermann stares down at spacetime topologies.

“Um, my point is thank you?” Newton opens his arms expansively. “My point is thank you.”

“Do not thank me, Newton,” Hermann says waspishly. “I simply wished to avoid listening to you complain about takedown experiments without adequate staffing for years on end.”

“Say whatever you want,” Newton says. “It doesn’t matter. I’m still grateful. This is a very nice moment, and no matter how hard you try to ruin it, I’m not gonna let you.” The other man pulls a flash drive out of his pocket and tosses it onto Hermann’s desk. “I’ve been saving this for a rainy day. And we’ve had several.”

“What is it?” Hermann picks up the little piece of solid-state memory.

“Remember, like, fourteen months ago we got drunk together and went over your Quantum Cartography Methods paper, and you simultaneously both held my hand and didn’t hold my hand, quantum mechanically? And I said I’d get back to you about my thoughts on your thoughts on pair production and the decay of the vacuum, but instead—” and here he drops his eyes, his tenuous bridge of casual tone not built to span the gap it’s meant for, but he rallies, steels himself, and finishes with, “—Lightcap died?”

“Yes,” Hermann replies.

“Well,” Newton says, eyes on the flash drive, “that’s me, getting back to you. I know the paper’s long since out. You’ve never needed me, really, but I know you like it when I talk mathematically to you, which I haven’t done for a while. I’m rusty. Don’t expect too much.”

Hermann smiles faintly. “I never do.”

“Ouch, Dr. Gottlieb, ouch. Well, it’s there when you want it. Can I interest you in some coffee?”

It is so easy for Newton to say such things. Hermann envies him deeply for the casual way he extends the offer. It feels particularly cruel in this moment, only days after Hermann has decided he cannot confess his feelings. 

Outside, snow falls from a gray sky, covering the deployment dock, melting into blue-gray water. Newton, miraculously alive, looks at him hopefully.

“No,” Hermann says after a prolonged pause. “I’m much too busy, Newton, please leave.”

“Please leave?” Newton asks, incredulous.

“Yes.” Hermann has his bearings now and can bring real ice into his tone. “If you think submitting a grant on your behalf was some attempt at fence mending, think again. I consider you to be irresponsible, reckless, and a poor choice for the head of the K-science Division. I have always been of that opinion, but I am convinced now. Go and scrape what remains of your department into a semblance of order prior to the Category Four event that’s predicted to arrive as soon as ten days from now. Do it immediately.”

Newton’s face closes. “Fine.” He stands with remarkable poise. In the doorway he stops, one hand on the frame. He does not look at Hermann. “I loved your paper,” he says simply. “You’ve never written a paper I haven’t loved.”