Dark Star

by Oliver Langmead

  Our dark star turned light behind those white clouds.

  ‘It was Norton’s vision,’ says the doctor,

  ‘Which is why I brought you both way out here,

  To give him some time to enjoy the sun

  Before you go and throw him somewhere dark.

  ‘He’ll be up at the Observatory,

  Watching the sky, maybe with some students.

  We have our students to thank for their help,

  Recovering some of Cancer’s machines.’

  My teeth are chattering, I’m shivering

  And I pull my coat closer, staring up,

  Unable to tear my eyes from the sky,

  From that bright bulb hanging behind the white.

  ‘Conversion takes a tremendous amount

  Of power, which is why we took the Heart.

  It was the only way to make it work.

  We launched it a few cycles back, out here.’

  And as he says that, I’m remembering

  That moment before I got stabbed, that flare

  Rising in the sky that wasn’t a flare

  But a rocket flying towards the sun.

  ‘It’s only temporary,’ he tells us,

  ‘It won’t last for more than a few short hours,

  Until the Heart is completely empty,

  And there will be a few small side-effects.

  ‘The temperature, for one. It will be cold.

  Certain kinds of radiation, as well.

  But nothing with any lasting effect.

  We calculated no long-term damage.

  ‘I suppose I should apologise, too,

  For coming in and misleading you both.

  The Heart was always in capable hands.

  We felt it necessary to buy time.’

  I can hear Dante behind me, mumbling

  And it sounds like a prayer of thanks to Phos.

  The snow is rushing down fast, covering

  The road and the car, smothering in white.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ says Magnusson,

  And he’s stood strong against the snow, smiling,

  Oily hands still black from his sabotage.

  In that moment, I hate him. I hate him.

  ‘How many people did you kill?’ I ask.

  ‘What?’ My question seems to confuse the man.

  I’m no longer looking up at the sky.

  My eyes are fixed on him, on his black hands.

  ‘How many?’ I shout, waving the cold gun.

  ‘I-I don’t know.’ His stutter has returned.

  ‘But it-it was necessary. For this.’

  ‘For change?’ ‘Y-yes… Don’t you… c-can’t you see?’

  I can hear Dante, and he’s stopped praying.

  ‘How many, Dante?’ He stands beside me,

  Glancing from me, to the gun, to the man:

  The small man with black hands stood in the snow.

  ‘Twenty-five guards,’ says Dante. ‘Twenty-five.’

  Magnusson is beginning to shiver.

  He pulls his jacket close, snow coating it

  And repeats himself: ‘All necessary.’

  And despite the cold, despite the bright sun,

  All I’m feeling is a bitter anger,

  The terrible rage I’ve been ignoring

  For two years, surging up again in me.

  Because I know this guy. I know his type:

  Using people’s lives as a currency

  To be traded in for some insane goal.

  Sure, the sun is bright, but people are dead.

  There’s something that I’m still needing to know.

  ‘What about Vivian?’ I ask the man.

  ‘You can arrest me now,’ he says to us,

  But I don’t move. ‘What about Vivian?’

  ‘L-look… she was going to reveal it,

  What we were doing. I— We had no choice.’

  I can feel my trigger finger tighten.

  ‘What did you do to her?’ I shout at him.

  He takes a step back, tracking through the snow,

  Scared of me now, his confidence all gone.

  Dante’s put a warning hand on my arm,

  Muttering at me to calm the hell down.

  ‘I-it was a test. To see if it worked,

  To see if the old machine could still run.

  And… and it didn’t quite work. We both thought

  She’d be made into light. But… only part…’

  ‘Her blood? You only converted her blood?’

  ‘Y-yes… the equipment… was still faulty…’

  ‘And she was still alive?’ ‘Y-yes… so I…’

  ‘You did what?’ ‘I… shot her… I… I had to…’

  ‘Fuck you!’ I pull the trigger, shoot him dead.

  His body thumps into the snow, bleeding,

  Running red in rivers along the white,

  And I stride across, shoot him two more times.

  ‘Fuck you!’ I’m still pulling the gun’s trigger,

  Clicking on empty, when Dante steps in.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Yorke, he’s dead! Put the gun down!’

  And he has to drag me back by the arm.

  Still, in my head I’m shooting Magnusson,

  Unloading bullets into his body,

  Releasing all the rage I’ve kept pent up

  For years, killing him over and over.

  ***

  It takes a long while for the rage to leave,

  Dissipating slow, like my steaming breath.

  I watch it rise among the flakes of snow,

  Joining the mass of white smothering all.

  The sun continues glowing bright above,

  The victim of Norton’s experiment,

  And I feel the need to keep watching it,

  Like it might vanish away if I don’t.

  I’ve never seen everything look so white.

  The fields, the car, Dante as he shuffles;

  All white beneath the white sky, the white sun.

  The only black is Vox’s silhouette.

  Even now, out here, the city looks dark.

  It’s a collection of tall rectangles

  Gathered on the horizon in a heap,

  Like someone’s piled up a bunch of boxes.

  I lift my numb fingers, catch a snowflake

  And admire the way it glitters in light,

  The light of a bright sun, and I wonder

  About what it’s like back in the city.

  I imagine it’s a kind of chaos;

  Rejoicing in the streets, bulbs being smashed,

  Noisy Phos worship and hysteria.

  Nobody’s told them it’s temporary.

  Without my surging, fiery hatred

  Filling me, the snow is taking my heat,

  Making me weak and numb inside and out.

  I’m dazed, tired, surprised at my own actions.

  The doctor’s body is slowly freezing,

  Turning to ice in the snow; turning white.

  The gun’s still on the ground and half buried.

  If we stay here, we’ll be buried as well.

  Dante’s doing something to the engine,

  But the car’s refusing to get going.

  He slams the hood shut and curses at it.

  ‘Bastard cut the fuel line. I can’t fix it.’

  The snow begins to slow, white clouds heaving

  The last of their contents on the white world.

  Dante stamps across, helps me to my feet.

  ‘You all right to walk, Virgil?’ he asks me.

  I nod, weary, drained, but able to walk.

  We trudge down the road, towards the city,

  Leaving long tracks in the snow, in our wake,

  All the way back to the car, the body.

  ‘How many cigarettes have you got left?’

  ‘I count eight, but only seven matches.’

  ‘I’ve got four, but a fresh book of matches.’
/>   ‘You reckon they’ll be enough?’ ‘Sure, I guess.’

  ***

  We run out of cigarettes pretty fast,

  Taking our time with the very last pair,

  Sat on a fence, watching the clouds roll by

  And the sun glowing coldly behind them.

  ‘He was right, you know. It is beautiful.’

  I don’t disagree, squinting up at it.

  It’s probably the finest thing I’ve seen,

  But I don’t feel anything. Only numb.

  We take a short-cut through a grassy field,

  Boots crunching swathes through the snow in long streaks,

  The unseeing eyes of cattle glinting

  Across at a nearby wooden shelter.

  The most confusing thing is the distance.

  I’ve never been able to see this far

  All at once, and it keeps surprising me

  How big the world is and how small we are.

  I feel insignificant beneath stars,

  But right now I feel even less than that,

  And I find myself longing for shadows;

  For a place to hide myself from the light.

  The lack of shadows makes me feel nervous.

  I keep wondering where they’re all hiding,

  Where all that dark I know so well has gone,

  Like it’s hidden, buried beneath the snow.

  I’ve never seen my own shadow so small

  And so pale, following hesitantly

  As if it might vanish among the white

  Overpowering everything out here.

  Vox doesn’t seem to get any closer.

  Those looming silhouettes in the distance

  Only seem to get taller as we go,

  And I wonder just how far up they go.

  Some cycles, when the sky is clear, stars out,

  You can get a sense of Vox’s towers

  From the space they darken, scratching at stars,

  But from here they look infinitely tall.

  Without any cigarettes, I’m restless,

  Trudging, irritated through the long field,

  Climbing over gates and through more paddocks.

  I’m trusting Dante’s sense of direction.

  The only thing that’s keeping me going

  Is Dante, resolute against the snow,

  Silently ploughing on, eyes to the sky

  And lips moving, saying a prayer to Phos.

  There’s a look on his face I’ve seen before,

  A few cycles back, at the cathedral.

  Dante is in awe of the sky, the sun.

  I am humbled by his humility.

  He takes my hand, helps me over a fence,

  And I’m wishing I knew what it was like

  To feel anything except hot anger

  Or this endless, freezing cold hollowness.

  We reach the edge of land and I stumble,

  Dante holding me back from the cliff-side.

  I wasn’t expecting the drop to come,

  The sudden view, going on forever.

  We have, unwittingly, come to the sea,

  And there it is before us, endless white

  Reflecting the white sky and the white sun,

  And I can’t see where the sky meets the sea.

  Dante braces himself against the winds

  And stares into the white, admiring it

  While I cower behind him, panicking

  And trying to slow my quickened breathing.

  I work up enough courage to join him,

  And there, hands in pockets, we watch the sea.

  For the first time, I match some sounds to sights:

  The crashing, spraying waves meeting the shore.

  I would gladly collapse before that view,

  Fall to my knees and watch the white ocean

  Until the sun’s brightness begins to fade,

  Except for Dante, who turns to me, says,

  ‘Come on then, Yorke. Not much further to go.’

  There’s a new emotion etched on his face,

  Something close to a smile, but genuine,

  Like the man’s had one of his prayers answered.

  And I follow, more in awe of Dante

  Than the sky. In awe of my only friend.

  The only guy who’s put up with my shit

  These past two years without any complaints.

  We travel carefully along the cliff,

  Keeping to the coast and watching bats fly,

  Fluttering, confused in the open air,

  Black dots sweeping around against the white.

  More fences block our way, but we cross them,

  Grumbling about the lack of cigarettes

  And all the usual noise between us:

  The news, the city and all the darkness.

  And as we get closer to the city,

  Close enough to see the shape of the quay

  And the boats there, none sailing this cycle,

  I say to Dante, ‘Hey, wait a minute.’

  He doesn’t stop, just turns to me, scowling,

  ‘Get a move on, Yorke. We’ve got shit to do.’

  ‘Wait. Dante. What if I paid for your kids?’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about, Yorke?’

  I don’t know why I never thought of it,

  Something so obvious. ‘The Uni’ fees.

  You can’t afford them, right? Well. Let me help.

  I’ve got a whole bunch of money saved up.’

  Dante keeps walking. He doesn’t react,

  Doesn’t reply for nearly ten minutes.

  Before he does, he lets out a long sigh,

  Like he’s breathing out all the dark in him.

  Then, he says, ‘Why would you do that, Virgil?’

  I shrug. ‘I’m not using any of it.’

  ‘I’d pay you back. It’d be on a loan.’

  ‘Sure,’ I tell him. ‘But you won’t be paying.’

  He stops at last, turns to me, glowering,

  His coat billowing out, dark in the snow.

  ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I won’t take your money.

  We can make your kids pay me back after.’

  And I’ve never seen Dante laugh this way

  Before, like it’s heaving out from his ribs.

  He shakes his head at me and turns away,

  Keeps on walking towards the dark city.

  ‘You’re a piece of work, Virgil. You know that?

  A piece of work.’ He glares out at the sea.

  ‘Phos and fire, I’d kill for something to smoke.’

  I follow behind, eyes to the white sun.

  ***

  We hit the suburbs without much trouble,

  But Vox, central Vox, still looks far away.

  Despite the collapsed ruins of houses,

  It doesn’t feel like we’re in the city.

  We walk right down the centre of the street,

  Tracing the planted glinting reflectors

  Because there’s nobody driving out here.

  In fact, there’s nobody out here at all.

  I was expecting chaos, riots, noise,

  But there’s nothing and nobody to see.

  The streets are still and there’s a calm quiet,

  Like the settled snow’s muffled all the sounds.

  The twittering of bats echoes around

  As they flutter between collapsed buildings,

  Spiralling around an open church spire

  Snagging at the white clouds drifting above.

  ‘Where is everybody?’ I ask Dante,

  But he doesn’t reply, steps round a car

  Left in the middle of the street, coated

  In a light layer of half-melted snow.

  The snow is beginning to melt at last

  As the temperature rises, the sun’s warmth

  Returning to some degree. I wonder

  If the clouds will go, if we’ll see the sky.

  As the houses
get closer together,

  Becoming detached and semi-detached,

  The lack of people starts to worry me.

  I wonder if they’re all inside, frightened.

  Heck, I wonder if they’ve noticed at all.

  There’s no windows in these houses, designed

  To keep the light in and away from ghosts.

  Could be they’re all still inside with their bulbs.

  We cross some invisible division

  In the streets and enter the slums at once,

  Confronted by the filth and the squalor

  All too obvious in the bright white light.

  There’s still no movement, no people to see,

  Not even a ghost wandering these streets.

  Only dirty flaps of canvas, old bricks

  And steel drums where they light their fires for warmth.

  I stop for a moment to catch my breath.

  We've been walking for what must be hours now,

  And I’m pretty exhausted, need a smoke,

  Something to eat: those base human urges.

  Dante’s kind enough to wait a small while,

  Rubbing his hands together to warm them

  And glancing at the empty cloth houses,

  Empty of their wasted ghost residents.

  ‘Where do you reckon they’ve all gone?’ I ask.

  Dante shrugs. ‘I don’t know. What would you do?

  If you were a ghost and you got that sun?

  All your prayers answered at once. I’d go mad.’

  I glance up again, make sure the sky’s white,

  Relieved to see that the sun’s still glowing.

  I’m not sure how much longer it’ll last,

  And I realise I don’t want it gone.

  We’ve wasted near half the cycle walking,

  Exactly as Magnusson had planned it,

  Buying time for Norton to enjoy it.

  I shake my feet to get blood back in them.

  What’s keeping me walking is the knowing

  That we need to find and arrest Norton.

  That he can’t win; get away with murder,

  Even for the sake of that bright white sun.

  We carry on past tumbled-down buildings,

  Entering a nice district, no people,

  Gates abandoned, street lamps still glowing dull,

  But Vox feels like it’s getting close at last.

  Its tall towers are taking up some sky

  Instead of just lining the horizon.

  It won’t take us much longer to reach them,

  Maybe find out where everybody’s gone.

  Dante spots some cigarettes in a car

  And wastes no time in breaking the window,

  Grabbing the pack and igniting a smoke.

  ‘Hell,’ he says, ‘nobody around to see.’

  We smoke in silence and round a corner,

  Come to one of the five bridges in Vox,

  All crossing the city’s unseen river,