Dark Matter

by Luke Donegan

  “We are going to the Museum,” said the Curator of History to the soldiers. “I outrank your Captain. Do not try to stop us.”

  They stepped towards the west, pausing as they faced the soldiers barring their passage. The Captain mumbled an order and the soldiers reluctantly parted, allowing the emu people to continue on their way.

  They crossed the piazza then made their way slowly along the Boulevard, Paris Aristotle at their head. When Saskareth wearied of his burden he passed Xia Tsang’s body to another of his people.

  The company of soldiers followed them. They arrived at the Museum as the sun touched the ocean.

  As they approached the doors, Saskareth looked up at the great structure towering above. He remembered his first sight of the Museum when he had arrived with Erys, in awe of its grandeur. Look at what the mighty hands of humans have wrought, he remembered thinking. But he had lost that awe and wonder. As he entered the Museum with his people bearing the dead body of Xia Tsang, and the doors closed solidly behind him, he had the terrible feeling he was entering his grave.

  First thing first, she thought. Straighten up the laboratory. See what can be used. And throw out the rest.

  She stood in the centre of the second laboratory. The secret laboratory that only a few had known about. The animal implantations had taken place in this room. They had carried animals down from the Nature Dome to the first laboratory – the public one. There they had practised true taxidermy. Then, at night, or when the Builder stood watch in the workshops, they had carried the animals into the second laboratory and performed the insemination process. After which the animal was returned to the Nature Dome. Or alternatively, they had brought in animals close to term. The Taxidermist performed caesarians on the beasts, and passed the foetus to Clara. He had always allowed Clara to carry the baby animals down to the Ark and place them in the capsules.

  That had been the best part! Not just holding the little creatures, but the feeling that the Taxidermist and the Curator of Nature trusted her with this important job. Trusted her with fledgling life.

  She had been the luckiest girl in the world. The Taxidermist had found her in Sand-dune Hearth. A silent, cowering girl, afraid of the other children, unable to speak. He found her, sitting apart from others, caring for two honeyeater chicks that had fallen from their nest. He found her and brought her to the Museum, and revealed to her the secrets of Nature. He revealed its design, its structures, the exchanges of heat and nutrients that kept animals alive. And he revealed himself, his true nature, reptile man. He trusted her, and slowly over time, she learnt to trust him. She learnt to talk, to him at least.

  But he was gone now. And not just him, but the Curator of Nature, the Curator of History, and Sian also. And all the animals, all the beautiful animals she had carried into the Ark. All gone!

  She dispelled the thought. Not all gone. There is still the Nature Dome, she told herself. And I am the Taxidermist. I have a job to do.

  She faced the devastation of the laboratory. So much work to do. But Erys would help her. And the Builder. She was not alone.

  The soldiers had been thorough in their destruction. The laboratory was a shambles. One by one she looked over the workbenches, pushing anything smashed or broken onto the floor. Broken glass and wrecked machinery rained on the floor around her, adding to the litter. But slowly tabletops emerged with items that had survived – tools, instruments, tubing, the occasional beaker or canister. She discovered an entire life support system including pump and nutrient canisters intact. Somehow the soldiers had missed it, and this lifted her spirits. It would serve as a model on which to base new life support systems. The Builder and Sian, if she ever returned, could use it to make more.

  Two hours after beginning her work she cleared the final workbench. She stepped back and surveyed the results. Not a lot, but more than she had hoped for. With the lasting life-support system and the tools and components she had gathered, there would be enough to start again. Perhaps.

  She turned her attention now to the floor of the laboratory. It was a field of debris. But there was the possibility that amongst the rubble other useful items had survived. She began at one end of the room and slowly picked her way across the floor, examining each piece of debris. She had set aside an empty workbench to hold items that had potential, of items that would help in the design and rebuilding of machinery.

  The work was slow and monotonous. She cut her hand deeply on a piece of ragged metal and fought back tears as she wrapped a strip of cloth around the wound. For half an hour she sat in a corner hugging her hand waiting for the pain to subside. She closed her eyes and thoughts rolled across her mind.

  She had found him in the Nature Dome, sitting on the grass. He looked so dark, so devastated, as if he had just seen the worst thing in the world. His eyes glazed over, black as midnight. Could she trust him? Or would he reveal her to the soldiers?

  “Scion-Teacher?”

  No, Erys would never betray them. Not Erys. He had always been on their side. He had fought to save the Taxidermist.

  “Scion-Teacher? I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before …”

  And she had told him what she only realised that morning. That the animals were alive. That all was not lost. That the Ark could, with much work and much time, be restored. Not perhaps to what it had been, for it had taken decades to build, and many species had been lost. The Nature Dome did not contain all that they had in the Ark.

  But it was somewhere to start.

  “Yes, I see it,” Erys had told her.

  She remembered his smile, and it had soaked through her like a morning breeze.

  Erys’ smile. How many times had she wished for it? It gave her the confidence to rekindle hope.

  “Taxidermist,” he said as they walked through the dome, viewing the animals. “Who else have you told of this?”

  “No-one but you, Scion-Teacher.”

  He stopped and knelt before her.

  “Clara,” he said earnestly. “For the time being, keep it that way. There are some in the Museum who cannot be trusted. And it is not easy to know who they are. Don’t tell anyone else.”

  “Okay. I won’t tell anyone.”

  He held her in his gaze, his black eyes oozing and smoking. But she did not fear him.

  “It will be our secret,” he said finally. “We must think very carefully, you and I, about who we can trust. About what we need to do, to protect the Nature Dome.”

  “Yes Scion-Teacher.” She felt her knees going weak.

  Our secret, she thought. Erys and I have a secret. Just for us.

  The pain in her hand did not subside. She chose to ignore it. She stood and returned to her work. After another two hours she had retrieved everything she felt could have some use. Two workbenches were crammed with pipes, wire, tools, plastic housing, machinery parts, gloves and goggles. She also had found the Taxidermist’s notebooks, battered but intact, filled with invaluable notes and diagrams.

  She smiled as she carried the notebooks to the security of her room. In the records of his great work, part of him had survived.

  Clara returned to the laboratory. She faced the debris-strewn floor. She took a deep breath, gathered a large broom and began sweeping the debris into piles.

  The Builder found her an hour later. She had managed to clear less than a quarter of the floor space. Her frame was slight and the pain in her hand stopped her from gaining an effective grip on the broom handle.

  “Taxidermist,” said the Builder from the door. “Why didn’t you request help?”

  She wiped her brow, looked at him nervously. He had been a jovial man once, gregarious and loud. And then he had lost himself in despair. Only recently had he returned to something like his former self. She was uncertain with him.

  “Your hand,” he said, approaching.

  “I cut it. It’s okay.”

  “Hmm.” He took the broom from her hands. “Time for you to rest.”

  He swept the bro
om across the floor, his muscles making quick work of the task. Clara sat on a workbench and watched as the Builder swept the debris into four large piles, one in each corner of the laboratory.

  “I will get the children to load all this into barrows and take it into the workshop. Some of it we may be able to use. The rest can go to the furnace.”

  “Thank you, Builder.”

  “You know Clara, you and I are now equals. I want you to treat me as such.”

  “Yes, Builder.”

  He stopped and leaned on the broom handle.

  “My name is Lucien,” he said. “You can call me that if you like.”

  She smiled and looked away. She would never have the nerve to use his real name.

  “Clara, it would please Gregor to see you now. You have … responded with great strength. He would be very proud of you, Taxidermist.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  But in that instant he had disarmed her. She wanted to run to her room, as she had done hundreds of times in the past, when teased by a workshop child, or growled at by the Taxidermist. She wanted to hide beneath her pillows and sheets, leaving the insecurities, the fears, the loneliness and the sorrows, to billow above her bed like clouds.

  Before she could think of an excuse to leave, Felicity, the Scion-Builder ran into the laboratory.

  “Builder,” she said, out of breath. “Come, quick.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Curator of History,” she said excitedly. “He has returned.”

  “The Curator of History has returned,” said the attendant.

  “Where?” Jaime was startled. “Where is he?”

  “In the foyer. People are gathering.”

  “I will come.”

  He met the Scion-Teacher in the elevator.

  “What do you think?” the Scion-Teacher asked him.

  Jaime looked at the young man he had once admired. As a boy, Jaime saw in Erys what he wanted to be. Handsome. Confident. Driven. But once his station elevated above that of the Scion-Teacher, he began to recognise other traits. Confidence, born from arrogance. A recklessness. A face ravaged by scars.

  And his eyes. Black, tainted, unreadable. These eyes searched him now.

  “I am excited,” replied Jaime. He faced the closed doors.

  And he was in truth excited, for he loved Paris Aristotle deeply. But this excitement was tempered by the sadness around him. Paris was returning to a community that had lost all sense of hope. His master was about to discover things that would break his heart.

  A large group of people gathered in the foyer. Most of the Museum employees were there, but also others. Jaime knew them immediately to be Saskareth’s people. They wore the same dusty linen shifts that Saskareth had worn. Their thick, black hair, braided and feathered was the same.

  He has brought them as he promised, he thought. The emu people!

  And then he smiled when he saw Saskareth. The sight of the desert man pleased him immensely.

  But his smile slipped as he realised that the desert people were rattled. As he and Erys approached through the foyer, he saw sadness and confusion on their faces.

  Jaime scanned the newcomers. There he was. His master looked thin and tired. His jaw was set, and his eyes hollow. Museum employees and old friends surrounded him but his eyes did not seem to see them. He nodded greetings and accepted embraces, but part of him was absent.

  As Jaime approached he saw the Builder embrace his master.

  “Paris,” said the Builder. “It is good to see you.”

  The Curator smiled. “Lucien.”

  “Paris,” he said, holding the thin man by his shoulders. “We have much sad news.”

  “Some I know already.” The Curator looked around. “Where are the others? I do not see Jack here? Is he now Director?”

  “Yes,” said the Builder. “Jack has ascended.”

  Paris’ eyes scanned the group. They slid across Jaime without seeing him.

  “What about Gregor? Where is the Taxidermist?”

  What about me? thought Jaime. You do not ask for me?

  The Builder shook his head.

  The young girl Clara stepped forward. “I am the Taxidermist now,” she said boldly.

  The Curator looked at her sadly. “Taxidermist,” he said. “I wish I could celebrate this news. But it is good to see you.”

  The Curator hugged the girl. Jaime saw that Erys had joined Saskareth. The two met with a strong embrace. The emu man was obviously moved to meet his old companion again. Feathers appeared briefly on his head and neck.

  Jaime backed away from the group. Masodi pushed past, shouldering him to the side. He turned towards the corridor. He saw the Doctor and the Scion-Doctor run into the foyer to join the meeting, eager expectation on their faces.

  Jaime was rocked by emotion and needed to find steady ground. He took a few steps away before a soft hand on his shoulder spun him around.

  Paris Aristotle stood before him. “Jaime?” His master looked confused. “Why are you leaving?” he asked.

  “I ... I don’t ...” he stumbled.

  “My boy,” said Paris, taking Jaime in his arms. “You’ve grown.”

  And he felt it as the man embraced him, Aristotle’s arms across his shoulders where once they had been around his waist.

  “My boy,” said Paris. He was crying now. “It is good to see you.”

  He held Jaime at arm’s length to take in his face.

  Like a father, but more so. His teacher, his guide, his companion. His closest friend. Jaime pulled the man to him and hugged him fiercely.

  “It is good to see you too.”

  “Let us go,” said the man with muffled voice. “I just want to rest, and talk with you.”

  “Yes Curator.”

  He was stretched across time. Part of him pinned to that first moment, that first taste of Spirit. His self, stretching out into the endless future, growing thinner and thinner. His senses stretching too. Sight. Sound. Taste. Even thought. The ways the words rippled across his mind. All faded. All quiet.

  The only thing undiluted by time, the one thing strong and concentrated, was his hunger. His all-consuming hunger. The taste of life, of Spirit.

  Nothing else mattered. Not the room in which he sat. The Museum. The landscape, etched on his mind, the ocean, the desert, and the city between. Nor the things that were lost. Snow in the mountains. Rain in the meadow. Gone now, and distant memories. They did not matter.

  He walked on the edge of the world. People passed him like shadows. The lives of people were like brief flickers of lightning on the dark horizon, like a bird flying past the window. They were ghosts that he hardly noticed anymore. Mortals.

  He cared only for the taste of their Spirit. Their delicious taste, their succor.

  And the threat now growing.

  More mouths at the table, he thought. Not enough for all. Not enough to go around.

  He thought about the Teacher and the Scion-Teacher. Whimpering whelps, crying for food. But there was nothing he and his immortal companions could do. These newly-made were fused to Dark Matter. It would protect them. They could not be killed, for like he they were now immortal.

  He had seen the Scion-Teacher at the vent above the elevator doors. Watching him, like a baby, discovering life, blackness oozing from his pores. He knew the Scion-Teacher was there, but he did not care to move or to acknowledge the intruder. He would not share his table with this infant. Go and find your own corner of the world.

  He remembered the wandering. Hundreds of years across yellow lands, sometimes with his companions, sometimes alone. Endless and empty lands. Until finally they had come to the great land in the south. Was it nostalgia for people that led them to settle finally in this struggling community? People scratching a living in the dusty soil. The immortals had made this place their own and took control. They had raised glorious buildings. Monuments to their immortality. He had built the Museum. What for? A Museum, containing memories of
a world long past. An attempt perhaps, to reconnect with something. But the attempt had ultimately failed. He connected with nothing.

  As he sat in his empty room, a voice entered his mind. The General.

  Animists have come, from the desert. They are in the Museum.

  Another voice. The Judge.

  The newling joins them. Is there risk?

  No risk, he thought. Nothing can touch us. There will be no dawn for this endless night.

  There is a risk, said the Ascendant inside his mind. It lies within your Museum. The animists and the newly-born, together. Open your eyes.

  The Director sighed. He reached for the golden mask on the table beside his chair and lifted it to his face. He could not remember when he had first worn the mask. Hundreds of years ago, when they began to perpetuate the myth of ascendancy. This golden mask that hid the truth, it was like his true face now. Without life, without emotion.

  He left his room and caught the elevator to the ground level. It was the dead of night and he passed no-one as he walked to the Nature Dome. There the people from the desert would be. He entered the dome and walked across the grass. It had been his idea to recreate the world they had lost. A part of him missed that world, and even felt guilt at what they had done. But that was a long time ago.

  He passed through the dome to the Desert Zone. There he fpund the animists sleeping on the ground. One hundred figures lay on the dust and sand, seeking the comfort of their home in this inexact reproduction. Some twitched as they slept. Some, with a biological response to their dreams, half transformed into the animal, feathers flowing across their heads, black beaks growing from their faces and disappearing just as quickly.

  He smelt the exhalations of these creatures, a fragrant reminder of the taste of their Spirit. Such strong Spirit. He loved the Passage of animists and their particular flavor.

  They were merely food. He did not share the concerns of the Ascendant. They had no power to threaten them. He would return to his room and say as much. But as he turned to leave, he heard the quiet voices of figures talking a short way off.

  Across the Desert Zone he spied them, sitting near the trees. He silently approached. He made out the newly-made immortal, the taller, less dangerous one. This man was in conversation with two others, the leader of the animists and the Builder.