Dark Star

by Oliver Langmead

  ***

  The lecture theatre is bright, noisy

  And brimming with moving bodies, fighting

  For space among the seats with each other:

  Students carrying heavy bags of notes.

  Doctor Magnusson ascends towards us,

  Up the steps dividing the room in two,

  Checking his pocket-watch as he climbs up,

  Like he’s got somewhere important to be.

  Mostly, I’m impressed by the chandelier.

  It’s like the one the Norths have, but bigger;

  So many curls of crystal hanging up

  It looks like they’ve captured stars in the glass.

  Students pass us, streaming to find seating,

  Jostling around us. Magnusson looks pleased,

  Like we’ve come here to give him an award.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he says, without a stutter.

  I take a moment to make sure it’s him,

  And it definitely looks like the man,

  But not the same terrified, stuttering

  Doctor who came to talk about the Heart.

  ‘I’m afraid I have a lecture starting,’

  He tells us from the step below, and yet

  He appears taller than we are, somehow.

  ‘Tell me, how can I be of assistance?’

  Dante looks to me and raises a brow

  As if to tell me to do the talking.

  I clear my throat. ‘You know about Hearts, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I know a lot about them.’

  ‘There’s a word that keeps coming up, you see.

  We were hoping that you could explain it.’

  Magnusson glances at his watch again.

  ‘Certainly. Which word, pray tell?’ ‘“Conversion”.’

  And it’s like I’ve spoken a magic word.

  The doctor’s face becomes cheerful. He claps,

  Says, ‘Wonderful!’ and then, ‘Please, take a seat.

  I’ll have the class explain it all for you.’

  Magnusson turns, hopping from step to step

  Away from us, towards his tall lectern.

  I exchange a confused glance with Dante,

  But neither of us go after the man.

  Instead, we do as we’re told, finding seats

  At the back, the closest to the shadows.

  I keep my hat on and so does Dante,

  Like we’re afraid the bright lights might burn us.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ I ask of Dante,

  And he doesn’t say much to me, just shrugs,

  Settles back in his seat. ‘Hell if I know.’

  I lean forwards, wait for it to begin.

  Magnusson stands up behind his lectern

  And addresses his quiet audience.

  I could have sworn he was smaller, fragile;

  On the verge of breaking into pieces.

  ‘Class,’ he calls, ‘we have some guests this cycle.

  As such, we won’t be discussing matter.

  Instead, we’ll be going back to basics.

  Our guests need to know about Conversion.

  ‘Who,’ he goes on, ‘can tell me what it is?’

  Maybe a hundred hands raise in the air,

  Like they’re reaching for the lights up above,

  Grasping for the stars in the chandelier.

  ‘You there,’ points Magnusson to a student.

  The boy in question stands, says, ‘Conversion

  Is a change from one state to another.’

  ‘Very good. Now. Conversion Theory?’

  A new student is pointed out, stands up.

  ‘Conversion Theory states that matter

  Can be changed into light and back again,

  Provided that the light is engineered.’

  ‘Superb. The practical applications?’

  ‘Varying,’ says the next student, standing,

  ‘But, according to ancient principles,

  Conversion lets us travel between stars.’

  ‘So!’ says Magnusson, somewhat delighted,

  ‘What you’re saying is that our ancestors

  Travelled seemingly endless distances

  By, effectively, turning into light?’

  ‘Sort of,’ says a quiet voice near the front.

  The doctor stops, smiling even wider,

  And turns towards it. ‘Ah! Dear Benedict.

  Please, tell us all what you mean by “sort of”.’

  All eyes turn to the student who spoke up:

  A small guy with a quiet voice, who says,

  ‘Well. That’s putting it simply. It’s more like…

  It’s not really a Conversion, you see.’

  ‘No? Then what is it?’ ‘It’s a… destruction.

  From what I’ve read, Conversion Theory

  Requires three different stages in order

  For it to work properly. Three stages.’

  ‘Brilliant, Benedict. And what are they?’

  ‘Destruction, Transit and Reconstruction.’

  ‘Correct. Can you explain them for the class?’

  ‘I can try.’ ‘Take your time,’ says Magnusson.

  Benedict pauses and gathers his thoughts,

  Then says, ‘Destruction. The original

  Item, be it a person or vessel,

  Is deconstructed into code. Data.

  ‘That data is kept in the form of light,

  A kind of programmable meta-light,

  Which knows to reconstruct at its End Point.

  As such, the original is no more.

  ‘But the data, the light, can then travel.

  That’s stage two. Transit. One small flash of light.

  That burst from the Conversion Point travels

  In every direction across the stars.

  ‘Only when a part of that burst of light

  Reaches its pre-programmed destination

  Does stage three occur. That’s Reconstruction.

  A copy of the vessel is then made.

  ‘But that’s what I meant, sir. It’s a copy.

  “Conversion” makes it sound like the vessel

  Beams across the universe on a wave,’

  There’s some chuckling, ‘but that’s just not quite right.’

  ‘Very clever, Benedict. Be careful,

  However. While our ancestors struggled

  With the philosophy of Conversion,

  Our place this cycle is somewhat simpler.

  ‘Our guests are only wanting a quick brief

  On what Conversion is. A summary

  Would suit our needs perfectly. Anyone?’

  Magnusson sweeps his hand across the room.

  One or two hands rise up hesitantly,

  But not enough to satisfy the man.

  He returns to his lectern, leans on it

  And looks up to where we’re sat, at the back.

  ‘I think we had it at the beginning,’

  He says, almost softly, just loud enough.

  ‘Conversion means light. A beautiful thing.

  Turning something or someone into light.’

  ***

  ‘Did you get any of that?’ asks Dante.

  The theatre is emptying slowly,

  Students clumped together and discussing

  The class. They shuffle past us, where we sit.

  I shrug. ‘Some of it. The important parts.

  Like how it’s possible to turn someone

  Into light. Reminds me of Vivian,

  Or something close, maybe. Could explain her.’

  ‘Sure.’ Dante’s eyes are narrowed and glaring

  At Magnusson as he gathers his things

  At the front of the hall, still smiling wide.

  Looks like Dante has something on his mind.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Dante shakes his head.

  ‘He reminds me of… you know those suspects

  Who reckon they can’t be caught? That they’ve won?<
br />
  That they’re better, much smarter, than we are?’

  I’ve seen my fair share of those through the years,

  And I’m surprised that I hadn’t noticed,

  But Dante’s right. It’s like he’s done some crime

  He thinks we can’t catch him for; that he’s safe.

  ‘I fucking hate people who think like that,’

  Dante mutters. I lean back, look around.

  The theatre’s mostly emptied out now,

  The last student’s footfalls echoing loud.

  ‘What are we gonna do, then?’ asks Dante.

  ‘Catch the bastard.’ ‘Magnusson?’ ‘Both of them.

  Magnusson, Norton and whoever else

  Happens to be involved. Are you with me?’

  Dante lifts a cigarette to his lips

  And strikes a match, igniting it. ‘Hell yeah.

  I don’t care who he’s killed or what he stole;

  I want to wipe that smug look off his face.’

  I wonder, then, why it took me so long

  To get Dante involved. He’s like a dog

  Who’s caught a scent; a better cop than me,

  And I’m sure glad to have him on my side.

  ‘Excuse me!’ calls Magnusson as he steps

  Up to meet us, ‘I’m sorry, you can’t smoke.

  There’s no smoking in lecture theatres.’

  Dante makes no move to put his smoke out.

  I stand. ‘Interesting lecture, Magnusson.’

  Irritated, but still smiling, he nods.

  ‘I hope that everything was clear enough.

  It can be a tricky subject at first.’

  I figure we’re past the point of lying

  And come right out with, ‘Where’s the Heart, doctor?’

  And without skipping a beat, he replies,

  Says, ‘I’d be happy to take you to it.’

  There’s a short pause as each of us takes stock

  Of the exchange, broken when Dante says,

  ‘And Norton?’ ‘Certainly. He’s there as well.’

  Magnusson wrinkles his nose at the smoke.

  I figure he’s in the mood to confess,

  And try, ‘What about Vivian, doctor?’

  He frowns, says, ‘Who—’ before realising,

  Then says, ‘Ah. The girl. Yes, I can explain.’

  Dante smoothly draws out a pen, paper,

  And is poised to take some notes. ‘Go ahead.’

  The doctor smiles thinly at him, as if

  The cigarette is some kind of insult.

  ‘Gentlemen. I am happy to explain,

  But not here. Let me take you to the Heart.

  I have a car and I can drive us there.

  It’s not far, I promise. Not far at all.’

  I exchange a glance with Dante, who shrugs.

  Looks like it’s up to me. I weigh the odds,

  And while I’m certain it’ll be a trap,

  I'm way too curious to turn him down.

  And hell, both Dante and I have weapons,

  We can look after ourselves. Magnusson

  Doesn’t look like he’d be much of a threat.

  I know it’s foolish, but still I’m nodding.

  ‘Why not. Lead the way, doctor,’ I tell him,

  And he strides up through the doors, expecting

  Us to follow, through bright shining hallways

  And back out, into the dark parking lot.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Virgil,’

  Mutters Dante to me as we follow.

  ‘Me too,’ I tell him, fingering my gun

  And feeling the cold weight of it. ‘Me too.’

  ***

  I keep my hand on my gun while he drives.

  Dante’s in the back, one hand on his seat,

  Ready if he tries to do anything:

  Drive us off a bridge or onto some tracks.

  I've been so desperate to find some answers,

  It's taken me this long to realise

  We should have just cuffed him, made him direct

  Us wherever we're going. Too late now.

  The temperature’s dropped significantly.

  I can see my breath, and outside there’s frost

  Sparkling in the car’s single white headlight.

  I hold my coat closed to keep the warmth in.

  Magnusson has his watch on the dashboard

  And keeps glancing at it, seconds ticking.

  ‘Got some place important to be?’ I ask,

  But he shakes his head. ‘Just keeping an eye.’

  He’s driving us away from central Vox

  And out towards the suburbs, the outskirts,

  Through darker districts and slum-like buildings.

  We pass less cars as we go, less headlights.

  Eventually, it’s just us on the road,

  The single point of illumination

  Along the mostly empty roads and streets,

  Skittering slowly across frozen ground.

  There are some shapes moving around out there,

  Lost-looking wire-frame figures following

  The light of our car, shivering pale ghosts

  Huddling together in the sudden cold.

  There’s a hell of a lot of them out here,

  Near the edges of Vox, where there’s no light:

  The remnants of light-addicted people

  Turned mad and frail by their own poverty.

  ‘Do you know how many there are in Vox?’

  Asks Magnusson, steering us through the slums.

  We pass what looks like a whole family

  Of ghosts huddled together to keep warm.

  ‘Ghosts?’ I watch their eyes glinting hungrily,

  That glint fading as we round a corner.

  ‘A few hundred?’ Magnusson takes us on

  Past the ruins of old buildings collapsed.

  ‘Wrong. Two per cent of the population.’

  The slums start to give way to the country,

  And we leave Vox, and its ghosts, behind us,

  Traded for long fences and foliage.

  ‘No. That can’t be right,’ I tell Magnusson.

  ‘That would mean… thousands.’ ‘Hundreds of thousands.’

  He doesn’t say more than that, turns quiet,

  Lets that statistic sink in; all those ghosts.

  The headlight illuminates some cattle,

  Standing in groups for warmth, like Vox’s ghosts,

  Breath steaming from their quivering nostrils,

  Hooves stamping against the cold, frozen earth.

  I realise he’s taking us way out

  Of Vox, and a sudden sense of panic

  Fills me, that we might get lost on the way.

  ‘Just where are you taking us, Magnusson?’

  The man himself isn’t wearing too much,

  Just a jacket, but he’s not shivering.

  Smiling, glancing at the time, he drives on,

  Confident through the dark of the country.

  ‘Not much further,’ he claims, tapping the watch,

  And I’m beginning to regret coming.

  We should have just stayed and interviewed him,

  Applied some pressure and got some answers.

  Dante’s starting to get restless as well,

  Shifting his weight in the back and smoking

  Another cigarette, uncomfortable

  With being this far out from the city.

  There’s a flash I assume is the headlight,

  And for a moment the country around

  Is lit up, all frosted and sparkling white.

  Magnusson lets out a cry of laughter.

  He slows the car to a crawl and then stops.

  ‘Something’s wrong with the engine,’ he tells us,

  Stepping out into the cold open air

  And pulling open the engine cover.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ growls Dante, as a flashr />
  Of light illuminates the white country

  For the second time, the low, cloudy sky

  And the solid glinting grasses below.

  I realise it can’t be the headlight

  Causing the flashes: they’re too bright, too big.

  I open the car’s door and step outside

  With Dante, looking around for the source.

  We’re on a road somewhere way out of Vox,

  And there’s nothing to see except cold fields,

  But what’s important is that we can see

  Those fields even though the headlight is off.

  I have to blink as there’s another flash,

  Like someone’s lit up the whole world at once

  With some massive lamp. We can see the sky,

  And silhouetted against it is Vox.

  There’s a crunch and a clank from the engine

  And Magnusson throws something to the ground

  That looks important. He then faces us,

  Hands coated in oil, grinning in triumph.

  ‘What have you done?’ I’m turning on the spot,

  But I can’t work out what’s happening here.

  I draw my gun, point it at Magnusson,

  Who raises his black hands. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘The engine’s broken. We’ll have to walk back.’

  This time, the flash doesn’t stop, the light stays,

  And it feels like I can see forever,

  Such vast distances; the world filled with light.

  ‘There’s something wrong with the sky,’ says Dante,

  And, panicked, I look up. He’s right. The sky

  Is all wrong. It’s white, and behind the clouds

  Is a vast beacon, our sun, glowing bright.

  Magnusson says nothing. It starts to snow,

  And it feels like I’m frozen in one place,

  Staring at the sun, our dark sun, so bright,

  Unable to think or react. Staring.

  ***

  ‘Why?’ I ask, stood on the tips of my toes,

  Trying to buy some time for me, for her.

  He looks at me. ‘You all ask that question.

  Why does it matter? You’re about to die.’

  ‘Because it’s got to mean something,’ I choke.

  ‘Fine.’ He sighs. ‘Because nothing changes here.

  Because people live out their lives content,

  While the city around them gets darker.

  ‘Because I am a force of change in Vox.’

  ‘You’re insane,’ I tell him, struggling to breathe.

  ‘Possibly. Probably. But am I wrong?’

  In one quick motion, he kicks my chair out.

  Sixth Cycle

  The snow has turned the gun cold, my hand numb,

  But still I keep it aimed at Magnusson,

  Trying to comprehend the bright above;