Dark Matter (35 page)

A tire-pressure gauge.

A flashlight.

And a small leather bag I know all too well.

We're sitting in our shot-up Suburban in the deserted parking lot.

I drove all night.

I study my face in the mirror. My left eye is purple, badly swollen, and the skin over my left cheekbone has turned black from the blood pooling underneath.

It's all agonizing to the touch.

I look back at Charlie, and then over at Daniela.

Reaching across the center console, she runs her fingernails down the back of my neck.

She says, “What other choice do we have?”

“Charlie? This is your decision too.”

“I don't want to leave.”

“I know.”

“But I guess we have to.”

The strangest thought passes through my consciousness like a fleeting summer cloud.

We're so clearly at the end. Everything we've built—our house, our jobs, our friends, our collective life—it's all gone. We have nothing left but one another, and yet, in this moment, I'm happier than I've ever been.

Morning sun streams through fissures in the roof, lighting patches along the dark, desolate hallway.

“This place is cool,” Charlie says.

“You know where you're going?” Daniela asks.

“Unfortunately, I could take us where we need to go blindfolded.”

As I guide us through the abandoned passages, I'm beyond tired. Running on caffeine and fear. The gun I took from the cabin is jammed down into the back of my waistband, and Jason2's leather bag is tucked under my arm. It occurs to me that as we drove down to the South Side at dawn, I never even glanced at the skyline as we passed just west of downtown.

One last glimpse would've been nice.

I register a twinge of regret, but immediately push it back.

I think of all the nights I lay in bed, wondering what it might be like if things were different, if I hadn't taken the branch in the road that made me a father and mediocre physics professor instead of a luminary in my field. I suppose it all comes down to wanting what I didn't have. What I perceived might have been mine through a different set of choices.

But the truth is, I did make those different choices.

Because I am not just me.

My understanding of identity has been shattered—I am one facet of an infinitely faceted being called Jason Dessen who
has
made every possible choice and lived every life imaginable.

I can't help thinking that we're more than the sum total of our choices, that all the paths we
might
have taken factor somehow into the math of our identity.

But none of the other Jasons matter.

I don't want their lives.

I want mine.

Because as fucked as everything is, there is no place I'd rather be than with this Daniela, this Charlie. If one tiny thing were different, they wouldn't be the people I love.

We move slowly down the stairs toward the generator room, our footfalls echoing through the vast, open space.

One flight up from the bottom, Daniela says, “There's someone down there.”

I stop.

My mouth runs dry as I gaze into the gloom below.

I see a man get up from where he's been sitting on the floor.

Then another beside him.

And another.

All throughout the darkness between the last generator and the box, versions of me are coming to their feet.

Fuck.

They came early for the lottery.

Dozens of them.

All watching us.

I look back up the stairs, the blood rushing in my ears so loud it temporarily blocks out everything in a waterfall of panic-driven white noise.

Daniela says, “We're not running.” She pulls the gun out of my waistband and links her arm through mine. “Charlie, grab your father's arm and don't let go no matter what happens.”

“You sure about this?” I ask.

“One million percent.”

With Charlie and Daniela clinging to me, I slowly descend the last few steps and start across the broken concrete.

My doppelgängers stand between us and the box.

There's no oxygen in the room.

Nothing but the sound of our footsteps and the wind blowing through the glassless window frames high above.

I hear Daniela let out a trembling breath.

Charlie's hand is sweating in mine.

“Just keep walking,” I say.

One of them steps forward.

He says to me, “This isn't what you proposed.”

I say, “Things have changed. A bunch of us tried to kill me last night, and—”

Daniela interrupts with, “One of you shot at our car with Charlie inside. Over. Done.”

She pulls me forward.

We're closing in on them.

They're not getting out of our way.

Someone says, “You're here now. Let's have that lottery.”

Daniela squeezes my arm even tighter.

She says, “Charlie and I are going into the box with
this
man.” Her voice breaks. “If there were some other way…We're all just doing the best we can.”

It's unavoidable—I make eye contact with the nearest Jason, his envy and jealousy a living thing. Dressed in tattered clothes, he reeks of homelessness and despair.

Says to me in a low growl, “Why should
you
get her?”

The Jason beside him says, “This isn't about him. It's about what she wants. What our son needs. That's all that matters now. Let them pass. All of you.”

The crowd begins to part.

We move slowly through the corridor of Jasons.

Some are crying.

Hot, angry, desperate tears.

I am too.

So is Daniela.

So is Charlie.

Others stand stoic and tense.

Finally, the last one steps out of the way.

The box looms straight ahead.

The door wide open.

Charlie enters first, followed by Daniela.

I keep waiting for something to happen as my heart hammers in my chest.

At this point, nothing would surprise me.

I cross the threshold, put my hand on the door, and catch one last glimpse of my world.

It's an image I will never forget.

Light from the high windows streaming down onto the old generators as fifty versions of me all stare toward the box in a stunned and eerie and devastated silence.

The locking mechanism to the door triggers.

The bolt shoots home.

I turn on the flashlight and look at my family.

For a moment, Daniela looks like she's about to break down, but she holds it together.

I pull out the syringes, the needles, the ampoules.

Set everything up.

Just like old times.

I help Charlie roll his sleeve above his elbow.

“First time's a little intense. You ready?”

He nods.

Holding his arm steady, I slide the needle into the vein, pull back on the plunger, see blood mix into the syringe.

As I fire the full load of Ryan's drug into my son's bloodstream, Charlie's eyes roll back and he slumps against the wall.

I tie the tourniquet around my arm.

“How long does the effect last?” Daniela asks.

“About an hour.”

Charlie sits up.

“You all right?” I ask.

“That was weird.”

I inject myself. It's been a few days since my last use, and the drug smashes into me harder than usual.

When I've recovered, I lift the last syringe.

“Your turn, my love.”

“I hate needles.”

“Don't worry. I've gotten pretty good at this.”

Soon we're all under the effect of the drug.

Daniela takes the light out of my hand and steps away from the door.

As it illuminates the corridor, I watch her face. I watch my son's face. They look afraid. Awestruck. I think back to the first time I saw the corridor, to the sense of horror and wonder that overwhelmed me.

The sense of being nowhere.

And in between.

“How far does it go?” Charlie asks.

“It never ends.”

We walk together down this corridor that runs into infinity.

I can't quite believe I'm here again.

That I'm here with them.

I'm not sure exactly what I'm feeling, but it isn't the raw fear I experienced before.

Charlie says, “So each of these doors…”

“Opens into another world.”

“Wow.”

I look at Daniela, ask, “You okay?”

“Yes. I'm with you.”

We've been walking for a while now, and our time is running short.

I say, “The drug will be wearing off soon. We should probably get going.”

And so we stop in front of a door that looks like all the rest.

Daniela says, “I was thinking—all these other Jasons found their way back to their world. What's to say one of them won't find their way into wherever we end up? In theory, they all think the same way you do, right?”

“Yeah, but I'm not going to open a door, and neither are you.”

I turn to Charlie.

He says, “Me? What if I mess up? What if I take us to some terrible place?”

“I trust you.”

“I do too,” Daniela says.

I say, “Even though you'll be opening the door, the path to this next world is actually one we're creating together. The three of us.” Charlie looks at the door, tense. “Look,” I say, “I've tried to explain to you how the box works, but forget all that for a minute. Here's the thing. The box isn't all that different from life. If you go in with fear, fear is what you'll find.”

“But I don't even know where to start,” he says.

“It's a blank canvas.”

I embrace my son.

I tell him I love him.

Tell him I'm so proud.

Then Daniela and I sit on the floor with our backs against the wall, facing Charlie and the door. She leans her head against my shoulder and holds my hand.

Driving here last night, I assumed that in this moment I'd be terrified of walking into a new world, but I'm not afraid at all.

I'm filled with a childlike excitement to see what comes next.

As long as my people are with me, I'm ready for anything.

Charlie steps toward the door and takes hold of the handle.

Just before he opens it, he draws a breath and glances back at us, as brave and strong as I've ever seen him.

A man.

I nod.

He turns the handle, and I hear the latch bolt slide from its housing.

A blade of light shears into the corridor, so brilliant I have to shield my eyes for a moment. When they finally adjust, I see Charlie silhouetted in the open doorway of the box.

Rising, I pull Daniela onto her feet, and we walk over to our son as the cold, sterile vacuum of the corridor fills with warmth and light.

A wind through the door carries the scent of wet earth and unknown flowers.

A world just after a storm.

I put my hand on Charlie's shoulder.

“You ready?” he asks.

“We're right behind you.”

Dark Matter
was the hardest work of my career, and I couldn't have pushed it across the finish line without the help and support of the constellation of generous, talented, and amazing people who brightened my sky during its writing.

My agent and friend David Hale Smith worked some serious magic this time out, and the entire team at Inkwell Management has had my back every step of the way. Thanks to Richard Pine for wise counsel when we needed it most, to Alexis Hurley for her brilliance and determination to sell my work internationally, and to Nathaniel Jacks, deal-paperer extraordinaire.

My film and TV manager, Angela Cheng Caplan, and entertainment attorney, Joel VanderKloot, are exceptional in every way. I've been so fortunate to have them on my side.

The team at Crown are some of the smartest people I've ever worked with. Their passion and dedication to this book have been nothing short of astounding. Thank you Molly Stern, Julian Pavia, Maya Mavjee, David Drake, Dyana Messina, Danielle Crabtree, Sarah Bedingfield, Chris Brand, Cindy Berman, and everyone at Penguin Random House for getting behind this book.

And a second thank you to my genius editor, Julian Pavia, who pushed me as hard as I've ever been pushed and made this book better on every page.

I couldn't ask for a stronger group trying to make
Dark Matter
, the movie, a reality. Huge thanks to Matt Tolmach, Brad Zimmerman, David Manpearl, Ryan Doherty, and Ange Giannetti at Sony. And also to Michael De Luca and Rachel O'Connor, who were wonderful champions for the book early on.

Jacque Ben-Zekry edited all my Wayward Pines novels, and even though this wasn't her book, she gave it the same care and attention as if it were.
Dark Matter
would be a shadow of itself without her insight.

The physics and astronomy professor Clifford Johnson, Ph.D., helped me to not look like a total idiot in discussing the broad-stroke concepts of quantum mechanics. If I've said anything wrong, it's my bad.

I could not have written
Dark Matter
without the work of many physicists, astronomers, and cosmologists who have dedicated their lives to seeking fundamental truths about the nature of our existence. Stephen Hawking, Carl Sagan, Neil deGrasse Tyson, Michio Kaku, Rob Bryanton, and Amanda Gefter were instrumental in helping me begin to understand all things quantum. In particular, Michio Kaku's elegant analogy of a pond, carp, and hyperspace informed my understanding of dimensionality and became the basis of Jason2's explanation of the multiverse to Daniela.

My early readers suffered through multiple drafts and gave me indispensable feedback along the way. Special thanks to my writing partner and great friend, Chad Hodge; my brother from the same mother, Jordan Crouch; my brothers from different mothers, Joe Konrath and Barry Eisler; the lovely Ann Voss Peterson; and my big-idea soul mate Marcus Sakey, who, while I was visiting Chicago two years ago, helped me spot the potential of this book in a sea of foundering ideas, and encouraged me to write it in spite of how much it scared me.
Because of
how much it scared me. And a fond shout-out to the bar at the stellar Longman & Eagle in Logan Square (Chicago), where the shape and identity of
Dark Matter
literally emerged from the fog.

And saving-the-best-for-last thanks to my family: Rebecca, Aidan, Annslee, and Adeline. For everything. I love you.