Designations Congruent with Things: Chapter 6

Ugh. Biologists.

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

Text iteration: Midnight.

Additional notes: None.

Chapter 6

Hermann spends most of his ninety minute MRI trying not to focus on the incessant banging resulting from undesired vibrations in the magnetic coils that surround him.

Since he’s required to be here, doing nothing, absolutely motionless, his eyes shut and still, he tries to occupy his mind in a useful manner. His thoughts are disorganized at present, but perhaps he can use this time to sort himself out.

He’s highly tempted to return to the paralyzing question of impossible choice Newton had posed earlier in a thoughtless, curious, typical fit of insight, but he does not want to vomit in an enclosed space.

As long as he avoids making an evaluation of superiority or a ranked list, he finds he is indeed capable of holding two separate preferences in his mind at one time. He wonders if the electrophysiological reality of the situation is something more analogous to multitasking or to true parallel processing.

He will be interested to hear Newton’s thoughts on this.

Later.

Not today.

For the remainder of the afternoon and evening he will make a sincere and sustained effort to keep his colleague as mentally solvent as possible, which means most items of intellectual interest will have to wait until the point Newton has recovered enough to refrain from weeping over formal logic.

He understands that impulse, as he finds himself surprised by a fierce and passionate affinity for the Nietzschean trappings that Newton has strangely and singularly woven in and through his conceptual rather than mathematical understanding of the disorderly complexity of life.

Ugh. Biologists.

He has the impulse to shake his head, but he doesn’t, because that would disrupt the slowly assembling image of his brain.

Biologists rarely bother to understand things quantitatively when it’s not overtly required, and so, in the absence of mathematical absolutes, Hermann supposes they must cling to something.

There’s no reason it shouldn’t be Nietzsche.

Hermann has no inclination to weep over it though.

He does feel extremely, just extremely, affectionate towards Kierkegaard, he will admit. That’s clearly a synergistic phenomenon; a function of “only the difficult inspires the noble-hearted,” meeting, “once you label me you negate me,” meeting finally, “one understands only in proportion to becoming himself that which he understands,” in an elegant coup de grâce of adjusted self-hood.

But he won’t weep about that either, no matter how aesthetically lovely and achingly satisfying he finds it.

Though, he may stencil “once you label me you negate me” onto Newton’s laptop.

Except—no.

He’ll be doing nothing of the kind, because that particular impulse is the confused product of Newton’s predilection for semiotics and for invading Hermann’s personal space, combined with Hermann’s preference for understated irony, combined with that bizarrely strong affection for Kierkegaard he simply cannot shake.

This is why he needs to sort himself out.

The maddening thing about all of this is that he’s certain Newton won’t bother trying to work through it, he’ll simply take his new and inappropriate passion for Descartes, his improved quantitative reasoning, and an infinite number of other mental biases large and small, as givens. The man will effortlessly proceed with his new reality in blithe unconcern. He will, certainly, subject Hermann to poorly organized soliloquies on the fractal nature of the musical compositions of J.S. Bach or the intricacies of set theory, and he will probably inappropriately blend these things in novel ways with his own expertise in a manner fascinating and infinitely frustrating.

But that is not what Newton should do.

And it is not what Hermann will do.

How he’ll work himself out of his current identity confusion isn’t yet clear, and he’s not inclined to problem-solve his way free from conflicting biases while inside a 3-Tesla magnet. As for the why behind his resolve, well.

It’s complex.

Hermann likes his identity as it is—or, as it was, thank you very much. He also, though he’d be unlikely to admit as much in so many words, likes Newton’s identity as it was as well, and would prefer his colleague to remain relatively unscathed by the events of the past day.

Unfortunately, he cannot convince himself such an outcome is likely.

Fortunately, it’s more likely than it would be had Newton drifted for a second time alone, as was his original, asinine intention.

Hermann still cannot believe the man was able to drift with dead alien tissue, for god’s sake. The entire concept, when Newton proposed it, had struck Hermann as offensively, revoltingly counter-intuitive and flagrantly irresponsible, given that the almost certain outcome of his experiment as outlined was a reduction in the PPDC science staff by fifty percent.

But.

It had worked.

Experientially, the Drift had been terrifying, monumental, overwhelming—a simultaneous revelation between himself and two other parties—trying to ignore the fascinating stream of Newton’s memories and identity mingling with his own while chasing down alien relevancies through horrific landscapes of psychic vastness.

He still, even now, has no idea how Newton had managed it alone the first time.

Drifting with the kaiju hive mind had been a double violation of identity. The first had been the one he’d already articulated: the merging of his selfhood with the selfhood of two other parties. The second violation was a violation of Hermann’s autocategorization of himself as victim. Objectively, the truth of this was unambiguous. Kaiju were invading his planet, destroying his culture, and trying to consume his species with the ultimate goal of harvesting the resources of the Earth; there was no ambiguity as to who was the injured party.

Except.

Except.

To become the kaiju hive mind was to become the aggressor. Hermann had not looked for their rationale, but their need, for a time, had become his need, even as he'd tried to shut it out, even as he and Newton, in flawless mental accord, had sought out the objective details of the Breach that might make it amenable to closure.

And this, most fundamentally, is the why of his resolution to recover himself.

Not because he fears Newton, whose most terrifying characteristic is his own capacity for thoughtless and metaphorical self-immolation.

No.

It’s because he fears mental contamination from the kaiju.

He wants the ability to recognize such contamination in himself.

He dreads the possibility of recognizing it in Newton.

Because Newton’s mind, after all, was and is a unique thing, impatient and quick and well-intentioned and sloppy, brashly arrogant to the point of blindness, inventive and adaptable, creating the clash of intellectual discord wherever it’s directed—in short, not the sort of mind that one comes across every day and not the kind of mind one would necessarily choose to expose to the kaiju anteverse, if one had a choice in the matter.

They’d had a choice, Hermann realizes—he and Marshal Pentecost—but they hadn’t recognized it as such.

He does not fault his own reasoning.

But that does not mean he doesn’t regret it.

When Hermann’s MRI is completed, the medical technician tells him his results will be available shortly, pending review by their offsite teleradiology service, informs him he can substitute his scrubs for his clothes, and asks him to fetch Dr. Geiszler.

Hermann dons his slacks and sweater and straightens his hair to the best of his ability in absence of comb or mirror, and then, resolutely ignoring his headache, eye ache, and leg pain, proceeds into the main floorspace of the med bay.

Newton is sitting at a computer meant for medical staff, which he has coaxed into playing an obnoxious and relatively obscure example of “alternative hip-hop” from the mid nineteen nineties that Hermann very much wishes he could not identify.

Alas, he can.

This is now a skill set he possesses.

He hopes that nothing was overwritten in his brain to make room for all this irrelevant knowledge. He supposes he’ll never know.

He finds this maddening and comforting.

Newton is listening to one Dr. Octagon, also known as “Kool Keith,” properly known as Keith Thornton, performing a work entitled “Biology 101,” from his debut solo album.

Hermann spends a moment in mental preparation so that what’s about to come out of his mouth sounds appropriately vexed.

Because he is vexed.

He likes Bach, he does not like this.

“Someone in Medical has magnificent musical taste.” Newton doesn’t look up from the computer as he blithely ruins Hermann’s impending waspish propriety before it’s fully brought to bear. “Do you think it’s the med tech back there?  If so, that’s unfortunate, seeing as I’m pretty sure he hates me after all the obliquely insulting comments I made regarding PPDC Medical, for which I blame you, man, I was trying to be tactful about the whole thing. I didn’t know the guy would be cool, if this is even his music. Whoever did this is a closet rule bender though, because they don’t like you putting music on government issued hardware. I’ve looked into this.”

“Will you shut off that deplorable racket?” Hermann asks politely, if at high volume.

Newton looks over at him in obvious, provocative amusement but the man’s appearance is so atrocious relative to his typical state, which Hermann would generally describe as “disheveled” or possibly “intellectually debauched,” that the effect on Hermann turns out to be a mixture between vexation, horror, and sympathy.

This, perhaps, explains what happens next.

“You’re looking singularly soigné post neural imaging, Dr. Gottlieb, if you’ll permit me to say so. Now answer me this: Hendrix or Clapton? Go.”

“Hendrix,” Hermann replies, then exhales in short aggravation, rapping his cane against the base of Newton’s chair. “Will you stop that?”

“There will never be a time that this will not be fun for me,” Newton informs him.

Mercifully, the man decides to shut off his “music.”

“That computer is for use by medical personnel,” Hermann says.

“Do you see any medical personnel?” Newton asks. “Because I don’t, other than our traumatized junior partner holding down the fort back there. Everyone’s either deployed cityside or scooping up Mako and Raleigh. This is great for us. I’d get out of here before anyone realizes they might have the authority or cause to keep you, file an abbreviated report that you flag to Pentecost, then bury yourself in the post-apocalypse shenanigans that will be starting shortly. That’s the essence of my plan.”

“Pentecost is dead,” Hermann says.

Newton flinches. “I know.”

They look at one another.

“I know that,” Newton continues, “but even so. Do it anyway.” He brings the tips of his fingers to his bloodshot eye and runs them over his eyelid, brief and delicate.

“Trying to obfuscate the enormity of what has happened to you won’t solve any problems,” Hermann says, “and will certainly create new ones.”

“Do not let them label you, man,” Newton replies. “Huge mistake. I forwarded you my crappy report as a template, so you can avoid making yours into an unmitigated disaster for both of us.”

“Thank you, Newton,” Hermann snaps, “for the inspiring amount of trust you’ve invested in me, your colleague for the past decade.”

“Don’t start with me, dude; I let you into my brain.”

“You also let the hive mind of a hostile alien race into your brain, so you’ll excuse me if I do not feel flattered,” Hermann replies.

“Aw,” Newton says. “You’re a unique, fractalline, infinite snowflake, man. Now listen, I mean this in the nicest possible way, but you’re also a perfectionist, law-abiding nerd, who’s going to write something really horrendously accurate in your report that causes us worlds of trouble so consider sending it to me before you file it?”

“Did you just use ‘law-abiding’ as a pejorative then offer yourself as an editor of my report?”

“A little bit, maybe.” Newton loosens his already too-loose tie.

They look at one another for the span of several seconds.

Hermann does his best to keep to their familiar, confrontational pattern, but Newton seems too tired for any such effort, and it takes two to have a satisfying mutual glare.

“I’ll consider it.” Still, Hermann is unwilling to admit defeat. “You are supposed to be lying down.”

“You’re exceptionally worried about me.” Newton leans back in his chair in unmistakable, self-perceived, victorious superiority. “You’re not even bothering to couch most of this scolding as closet disapproval about my life, my science, or life science as a discipline, which is the best, by the way. For sure. Anyway, the point is that I win. And since I’m magnanimous in my interpersonal victories, I’ll tell you, so you can just stop asking, that in regards to this ‘lying down’ you keep pushing like cheap cocaine, I’d like to, man, believe me I would, because I am tired, but it’s just not working for me right now. Cognitively. And I need to get my brain imaged anyway, just in case this banner headache is the headache of massive neuronal excitotoxic cell death, which, before you yell at me, is probably not happening; I think I’d be comatose or a lot weirder if it were, I probably shouldn’t have even mentioned it, based on the face you’re making right now, but, as you know, self-censorship isn’t one of my best qualities unless it comes to obfuscating facts so they can’t lead to crappy hypothesis generation by old guys with stars on their epaulettes, in which case I’m awesome and offer you my services. Still. And always. For free. Standing offer. In return for saving my brain, at least partially, so that I can live to clone some kaiju, because who’s going to do that other than me and off-their-rocker-billionaire-think-tanks à la Jurassic Park? I ask you. Do you know when I read that book I promised myself, promised myself, that I’d never leave academia so I wouldn’t accidentally annihilate mankind? And now look at me.” Newton raises his eyebrows, exhausted, faintly amused, and far, far, more wanderingly insightful than Hermann was prepared to give him credit for, even now, after all that has happened.

Even so.

Hermann has no plans to touch any part of what’s just come out of Newton’s mouth and mind because he can think of only one thing to say in response, and he’s not inclined to say it.

He’s especially not inclined to say it because Newton is thinking it as well. And waiting for it.

Hermann can see it in his eyes, in the roguishly bleak tilt of the other man’s head. He feels the idea resonate between them, either because they still share a shadowed connection or because it derives from a simpatico subsequent to shared consciousness.

“It’s cliché,” Newton continues, slower now, because of course he’ll say it, of course, out of the two of them, it’ll be Newton who articulates the thing slowly and quietly terrifying them both, “to the point it’s become a cultural axiom. You know how it goes, Hermann.”

“Newton.”

“‘When you gaze long—’”

“Newton,” Hermann snarls, succeeding this time in cutting him off. “You’ve made a life of escaping clichés. I recommend you continue this trend.”

Newton raises his eyebrows.

“May I also suggest confining yourself to Kierkegaard?”

“Noted, dude.”

“Finally, you will clone a kaiju over my dead body. Literally.”

“Yeah.” Newton looks relieved, looks exhaustedly grateful for this stream of censorship applied from outside his own mind.

They regard one another for a long moment, until Hermann says, “they’re ready for you.” He inclines his head, brief and lateral and painful, in the direction of the room he just left.

“Great.” Newton looks across the floorspace toward the room with the 3-Tesla magnet but doesn’t move. “I will get right on that.”

“Do you want me to stay?” Hermann asks.

“No, dude,” Newton says, looking for a moment as though he means “yes,” then snapping his face and his tone into a paradigm that Hermann finds both familiar and reassuring. “Am I five? Go sleep or something. I’ll meet you at the kickass party that’s a few hours away from self-organizing out of the confused, elated humans who aren’t sure what they’re doing and have subsequently decided to seek out alcohol and other humans. Based on my extensive experience with self-organizing systems, I’d say it’ll be something like three hours before a critical mass is reached. You’d better be there. I’ll be pissed if I have to come find you and drag you out of your hermetically sealed room, even though I’m positive there’s a one hundred percent chance of that exact outcome.”

Hermann rolls his eyes.

Newton gets to his feet with an atypical precision that suggests he’s unconvinced of his own stability.

Hermann has the impulse to take his arm but doesn’t, because that impulse comes only from a post-drift proprietary familiarity he’s resolved to identify and isolate.

Newton has no such resolution, obviously, because one of his hands lands on Hermann’s shoulder as he staggers past, working up a forward momentum that mostly stabilizes his trajectory.

Hermann watches him for a moment, to ensure that the man makes it to the back room without falling over.

He does.

Hermann stands, undecided, considering the door vis-à-vis the computer Newton just vacated.

He should return to his quarters and begin his report there, on a computer not reserved for medical personnel.

That’s certainly the decision he’d have made forty-eight hours ago.

Isn’t it?

Is he hesitating because improper use of a medical terminal now seems less inappropriate than prior, due to Newton’s influence on his thoughts?

Is he hesitating because he’s concerned about Newton’s ability to lie motionless in a confined space for ninety minutes while his brain is imaged?

Is he hesitating because he doesn’t believe he should leave this infirmary without permission from the Chief Medical Officer, who isn’t here?

Is he hesitating because he doesn’t want Newton to be here, alone, when the medical personnel do return?

He has no idea.

This is miserable.

And certainly Newton’s fault.

He sits down at the computer.