Dark Matter

by S. W. Ahmed

  Within the hour, she packed her bags and stormed out the door, without offering any explanation for the abrupt change in her behavior.

  It was one shock after the next. A phone call came from the Nobel Committee a couple of hours later, informing him that he was not to be awarded the Nobel Prize this year after all. The head of the physics department at MIT called next, to let him know that his tenure at the university would not be extended after the current month. No explanation was given.

  Marc’s perfect world was falling apart, and so was he. He went into the bathroom, and waited for the ghost to reappear. He waited and waited, all night long. But all he could see in the mirror was his own self.

  As he waited, he thought about his life, how perfect everything had always been. And then, a series of memories abruptly flashed through his mind. Things actually hadn’t been that perfect. His father had indeed died before he was born. And his mother hadn’t just died the day before – she had been dead for over four years.

  It was all coming back to him now. Iman hadn’t left him today – she had left him right before his graduation from MIT. That was why he had ended up at Cornell for his graduate studies, not MIT. Cornell, the place where desperation had led him to that unattainable quest to build a time machine.

  “A time machine!” a voice said. “What were you thinking? No wonder Cornell put you on probation.”

  Hooray, the ghost was back! Looking younger and fitter, his appearance now was identical to Marc’s, especially after all Marc had been through over the past few days. Both of them had the same weight, the same number of gray hairs and wrinkles, and the same amount of darkness in the circles under their eyes. Marc was staring at his true mirror image now.

  “How else was I to get out of the rut I was in?” Marc said.

  The ghost in the mirror smiled. “By escaping into an alternate reality? That isn’t the solution, my friend. Apart from the fact that it’s not even scientifically possible, it never brings true happiness. Sooner or later, your own true reality will always catch up with you. And the longer you leave your problems unattended, the more they will have grown in the meantime. Don’t you see what’s happened to you here in this world?

  “You can’t alter your past, as much as you try. You have to face it for what it is, and make the best of it. You can learn from it, and you can change your future as a result of what you’ve learned, but you can’t go back.”

  Marc looked down, deep in thought.

  “The way forward is forward, not backward,” the ghost added.

  “How do you know all this?” Marc asked, looking up again.

  “Because I know what you’ve been through. I’m the part of you that still remembers, the part they haven’t been able to tamper with.”

  “I remember now too!”

  “Ah, but there’s still one thing you don’t remember.”

  Marc raised his eyebrows with curiosity.

  “Where you are and how you got here,” the ghost said. “In order to find that out, you need to rejoin me.”

  “How?”

  “First, you have to be absolutely certain that you believe me. Otherwise, any attempt to rejoin me will fail. You will most likely end up in some transitional state that you will never be able to get out of. Next, you have to give up the imaginary world you’ve been living in. Let it go, leave it behind, think of it no more. There’s nothing left for you there. Then, close your eyes and step through this mirror toward me.”

  It was going to be a big risk and an even bigger leap of faith, but Marc knew the ghost was right. Everything the ghost had said would happen had indeed happened.

  He closed his eyes and let go of his surroundings. The wonderful married life with Iman, all the get-togethers with his parents, his successful career, the beautiful house, the cliff, the ocean – he let all those memories vanish from his mind. He felt his body moving in the direction of the mirror. He didn’t even have conscious control over it anymore. It was just moving of its own accord.

  The fingers on his right hand came into contact with the mirror first. It felt like a solid surface. But once he applied more pressure, the mirror gave way, feeling more like a cold, thick liquid. His left hand came next, then his right foot. Finally, his eyes closed as his nose touched the mirror. The cold fluid quickly rushed all over his face, around his head and over his whole body. With his left foot, he lunged forward, passing completely into the realm of the mirror.

  The icy liquid splashed all around him, causing him to shiver. He felt like he was being bathed from top to bottom, getting a thorough cleansing of both the body and the mind. The liquid seeped into his head, down his neck and into the rest of his body. He felt his heartbeat slow down and his thoughts fade away, and for a moment he wondered if he was dying. But then, the liquid began draining out through his legs and feet, and his strength slowly came back.

  One more step, then another, and out he came on the other side of the mirror. As he did, he opened his eyes again. What he saw stunned him at first, but then all the memories came back in a flash. He realized right away why the ghost in the mirror had been so secretive about where he was and how he had arrived here. The ghost, now back inside his head, was nowhere to be seen. His mind was whole again, reunited with his real body.

  Chapter 19

  The tall figure walked silently down the dark, deserted passage, an ancient hallway with high ceilings and vaulted arches made of white stone. The hallway was long, so long that it would be impossible for the human eye to see from one end to the other.

  Like a typical Aftaran, the figure took long strides with a quick pace. But this was no ordinary Aftaran. He was taller than most, standing at a height of 8.3 feet, and thinner. His robe was bright green, not the standard brown, black or white that most Aftarans wore, with a high collar that circled all around his neck. And, most unlike Aftaran tradition, his somewhat elongated head and face were uncovered. His face had the characteristic Aftaran features – owl-like eyes and ears, a short but wide beak, and feathers that covered the skin. But the feathers were greenish in color, as opposed to the far more common tan or gray feathers. Even his eyes were green, eyes that were unusually elongated in shape like his face. He appeared middle-aged, and he had an authoritative and confident air about him, a contrast from the humble, subdued demeanor of most Aftarans.

  Yes, this particular individual definitely stood out in any crowd. He knew that, and that was the way he preferred it. He also knew that it wasn’t just because of his appearance, but largely because of his identity.

  “May the Creator protect you from harm, Lord Wazilban.” The two Aftaran guards, one on each side of the heavy metal door marking the end of the hallway, bowed as they both greeted him in Mareefi. They wore black robes that covered their bodies, heads and faces, everything except for their eyes. Both guards had boryals in their right hands.

  Lord Wazilban didn’t respond, or offer any acknowledgment of their presence. Instead, he waited silently for the guards to open the door, and then walked right past them. The door immediately swung shut behind him, sending off a deep, loud echo across the chamber he had just entered. The chamber was midsized, with thick brick walls on all sides and no windows. There were a number of dim lamps on the high ceiling, dispersing an orange glow around the room. Due to its underground location, the air inside the chamber was cool and damp.

  But Wazilban paid no attention to any of that. The only thing he was interested in was the row of Aftarans against the far wall. They were latched onto the wall with heavy chains, their arms and legs spread apart as far as their bodies allowed. There were five of them, all cloaked in white robes, their heads covered but their faces unveiled. They didn’t look at all comfortable.

  Wazilban stopped in front of the prisoner in the middle. “I trust you are enjoying your stay,” he said. His voice was deep and loud, and echoed across the chamber.

  The prisoner in the middle slowly lifted her head to look at him, but kept quiet.

&
nbsp; Another prisoner to her left opened his mouth. “We were, until you filled the room with your vile odor.” His voice quivered from the pain in his limbs.

  Wazilban laughed, with a deep, croaking resonance. “Rayim, always the courageous one! Your insolence knows no bounds.”

  “What do you want?” the prisoner in the middle said, addressing Wazilban. She sounded old, very old, and weak from the tormenting position she had been kept in for days, maybe weeks on end.

  “I have a question for you, your Eminence Ouria,” Wazilban said.

  “Why should we answer you?” Ouria asked with her crackling voice. Every word she spoke seemed to take the last bit of energy in her body out of her.

  “Because if you don’t, then one of you will die tonight.” Wazilban glanced briefly at Rayim.

  “We will all die anyway,” Rayim countered. “We’re not afraid of your threats! The Creator watches over us in life and in death.”

  Wazilban laughed again. “You may not be afraid of death, you fool, but can you withstand pain?”

  He walked over to the side wall, where there was a station with a number of controls. The controls looked quite archaic, consisting of no more than a few knobs and some analog dials. He pressed on a knob and began turning one of the dials.

  Rayim screamed in agony almost immediately. Streaks of lightning flashed all over his robe, and his body began shaking violently.

  All the other prisoners stared at him in fright, but kept quiet. Wazilban moved the dial even more, intensifying the torture. Rayim’s squeals grew louder and louder.

  It was a sight that Aftarans would normally find intensely horrifying and just plain unimaginable, but Wazilban seemed to be enjoying it. “Where is your Creator now?” he said mockingly between guffaws of laughter.

  “Enough!” Ouria wailed. “Stop it, I beg of you! In the name of the Creator, please stop!”

  Wazilban turned the dial all the way back to its starting point. All was quiet again, except for an occasional whimper from Rayim.

  Wazilban walked back toward Ouria. “I knew you would come to your senses, your Eminence.”

  “What is your question?” she demanded. Her face looked as old as her voice sounded, with white and gray feathers and faded eyes. She looked much older even than Autamrin. She was, in fact, one of the oldest Aftarans alive, at an age of 1215 Earth years. The ages of the other High Clerics ranged from 900 to 1130 years.

  “Something has happened, something unexpected,” Wazilban said. “I need to know if it is in any way tied to a prophecy in the Hidden Scripture.”

  He took out a silver coin-like object from inside his robe, and ran his one of his long, thin fingers around the circumference. The coin instantly turned golden and glowed. Words in the ancient Altareezyan script appeared in bright letters in the air above the coin, clearly visible for everyone in the chamber to see:

  When the Sign advances in the darkest hour,

  Arise, unite, and shun your differences.

  Fight the forces of evil and drive them away,

  And take back what is rightfully yours.

  Hasten not its startling advent,

  For it follows not your command.

  Hasten not to act without it,

  For you will fail in your quest.

  But delay not when it comes,

  For it shall not linger.

  Ouria bowed her head in front of the verse. She didn’t bother to read it, probably because she knew it by heart. “I never thought the day would come that you would begin believing in the Hidden Scripture, or any of the other Scriptures,” she said. “The evil mentioned here refers to none other than you.”

  Wazilban laughed. “I don’t believe in any of them,” he said dismissively. “As I don’t in your Creator.”

  Whispers filled the room. The prisoners were begging for forgiveness from the Creator for listening to such blasphemy.

  “I do have a certain image to keep in front of the public, of course,” Wazilban continued. “I find their blind religious fervor to be quite useful, to steer them in any direction I want. But none of that is your concern anymore, as you are dead to them. It was quite easy to see to that, mind you, as it was to obscure any evidence of the ‘killers’. The only reason I’ve chosen to keep you alive in secret, for some time at least, is for my own fancy. And in case I need your expert advice, like now.

  “I’m interested in this prophecy because of the insubordination it will incite in the Dominion. There are three known copies of the Hidden Scripture. When I had you arrested, my troops only found one of them.” He pointed at the coin in his hand. “The other two copies were undoubtedly given away by you before you were arrested.”

  “The Hidden Scripture is meant only for the eyes of the High Clerics,” the prisoner to Ouria’s immediate right said. “Not for yours or anybody else’s.”

  “And yet her Eminence here has given it away,” Wazilban said, pointing his finger at Ouria.

  Ouria was silent.

  “Your silence on this topic is of no consequence,” Wazilban went on. “I have no doubt that you gave at least one of the two copies to your beloved Autamrin, if not both. He is now just waiting to pounce at the right moment. With the arrival of this ‘Sign’, he will try to join forces with the few unruly elements in the Dominion. He will lure them with these verses and will then lead a rebellion against me. I need to be prepared for that event, so that I can squash them in one swoop.

  “That is, if my surveyors don’t get to Autamrin first. Any day now, I look forward to the news that he and his pesky followers have been destroyed.”

  Ouria looked crestfallen.

  “So, tell me, what kind of ‘Sign’ is it that Autamrin is waiting for?” Wazilban demanded.

  Ouria shook her head. “The Sign cannot be seen ahead of time. Its identity and characteristics are hidden until the time it is ordained to appear.”

  “I didn’t come here to listen to a paraphrase of the verses. I want to know what kind of event would be interpreted by Autamrin as a valid Sign. Since you are the official keepers and interpreters of the Hidden Scripture, you should know that better than anyone else.”

  “There are no criteria for the Sign,” Ouria said. “The only way for us to recognize it is for it to unveil itself.”

  Wazilban sneered. “You expect something to come out in the open and say ‘here I am, I am the Sign’?”

  Ouria shook her head again. “No, I expect to recognize it when it appears, not wallow in endless speculation beforehand.”

  Wazilban began pacing up and down, visibly irritated. “I’m getting tired of your empty talk! I will ask one more time, before I walk back to those controls. How will you recognize the Sign?”

  “You hear, O Wazilban, but you don’t listen. That has always been your trait. The only way to recognize the Sign is for us to hear about it with our ears, to see it with our eyes. We will feel it in our minds, our hearts and our souls. It isn’t something we can quantify, nor can we expect it to fulfill specified conditions. Those are not the ways of the Creator, nor are they our ways.”

  Wazilban stopped pacing and stood still. “Very well, have it your way,” he said. “My spies tell me there has been a Mendoken attack on Volonan territory.”

  “That says nothing to me,” Ouria said frankly. “Those two nations are always at war.” She sighed.

  “Yes, but the difference is that this attack was deep within Volonan space. They completely bypassed the insurmountable Volonan border defenses. There is only one way to do that.”

  The prisoner on Ouria’s far right spoke for the first time. “So they must have used consars. The Mendoken have been accusing the Volona of the same thing for a while now. What’s so surprising about that?”

  “The surprising thing is that the Mendoken don’t have consar technology. They signed the transportation treaty, didn’t they? The Mendoken aren’t the kind to build something in secret or against the law.”

  Silence.

 
“Do I need to spell it out?” Wazilban continued in frustration. “The Mendoken are getting help from somewhere else, an unknown force in the galaxy. I want to know if this could be interpreted as a ‘Sign’ by our rebel friends, to try and make contact with this new force.”

  More silence. Ouria closed her eyes.

  Wazilban began moving towards the controls. Rayim tensed up in anticipation.

  Ouria opened her eyes again, and broke the silence. “This could not be the Sign.”

  Wazilban turned and came back. “What makes you so sure?” he asked, staring closely into her eyes for any indication of deception.

  “Neither the Mendoken nor the Volona share our religion or our way of life. The Creator would never reveal our Sign amongst unbelievers, especially not those who have nothing to do with our struggle.”

  “So the Sign has to appear within the Dominion?” Wazilban asked, still staring into her eyes.

  “There is no other way,” Ouria replied calmly and confidently. “Otherwise it will never be accepted by our people. And surely the Creator wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  “Interesting,” Wazilban said. “Very, very interesting.” He glanced at Rayim. “Well, Rayim, once again your leader has saved your skin. You will live to see another day, although numbered they surely remain. May the Creator protect you from harm.”

  He laughed as he said the last sentence, then turned around and walked towards the metal door, the only door into and out of the chamber. The guards opened the door from the outside as he approached it, and sealed it shut behind him.

  Another Aftaran had arrived in the meantime, and was waiting outside. His robe was green, similar to Wazilban’s, but his head was covered and his face veiled. As soon as he saw Wazilban, he bowed.

  “Any indications, my Lord?” he asked, as they began walking together along the hallway.

  “She claims it is not the Sign, and she seems certain of it,” Wazilban said. “But I don’t trust her, as honest as she may seem. First she stated there were no criteria to identify the Sign. But when I mentioned the consar attack, she hastily added that the Sign had to appear within the Dominion.”