Chapter 13 Hazel #3
‘If you say so.’ Hazel frowns, but opens the trapdoor.
Warm, moist air slips over her face as the trapdoor swings back to reveal a vast greenhouse, a cupola to the Hab Dome so disproportionate that the floor curves.
It bursts with life and colour: orchids, tulips, carnations, and poppies grow in low raised beds; honeysuckle, clematis, and wild roses wind around pillars; and the floor is carpeted by violets, moss, and clover.
The lawn bears a pair of wicker chairs. On a side table between them, a novel is spread pages-down, abandoned cups on either side.
Neither book nor tea will be finished now.
Nor will the gargantuan contraption hanging from the ceiling, swathed in dust sheets.
Hazel stays half in, half out of the trapdoor, too aware of Lilith and Huxley’s recent proximity to dare enter farther, but she closes her eyes and inhales. This is it; this is what her world was like, her flesh recalling things her mind’s forgotten. She swallows a lump in her throat.
‘You’re sure it’s in here?’
‘Yes, this is one of the places Huxley undertook his experiments.’
‘It’s a greenhouse.’
‘Affirmative, though the Keepers preferred the term “garden.”’
It does look like a garden, each petal, leaf, and inch of soil carefully encouraged and maintained.
How many microbes and fungi must be surviving in here that couldn’t exist outside.
She continues up the staircase but notices Robin still sitting at the bottom.
Its lenses are tilted in a way that means it’s uncertain.
‘Hey Robin, what’s up? Can’t manage the stairs?’
Robin shakes its head.
‘It is essential Tiny 222 accompanies you,’ CHARL1E says. ‘The machine will not work without it.’
‘OK, guess I’m carrying you then,’ Hazel says, but as she descends, Robin shakes its whole body, swinging its arms wildly.
‘Hey, stop it!’ Hazel backs off, frightened of hurting it again. ‘CHARL1E, it really doesn’t want to go.’
‘It is essential that it does.’
‘It’s a hunk of flailing metal, if it doesn’t want to get picked up, it’s not getting picked up!’
Robin scoots into the dorm, stopping several paces away, watching her.
‘Alright, fine,’ Hazel says. ‘You don’t want to come? I’m not going to force you.’
‘It is essen—’ CHARL1E protests.
‘We’ll find another way.’
‘That is highly improbable based on Huxley’s data.’
‘Well, maybe Huxley lacked imagination.’
Once Hazel’s inside the garden with the trapdoor closed, CHARL1E instructs her to remove the dustsheets, which reveals a contraption he calls the Catopic Aperture.
It looks like a tree with three thick branches, growing upside down from the ceiling.
The twigs of each branch clutch an icosahedron the width of Hazel’s outstretched arms, each constructed of two-way mirrors, letting Hazel peer at the infinite triangular reflections within.
‘They are called cradles,’ CHARL1E says. ‘Each cradle connects to a different element of time: past, present, and future.’
Hazel gazes upwards, stroking one of the icosahedron cradles. ‘Is that why each branch is made from a different material?’
‘Affirmative. Plastic for the future; glass for the present; metal for the past.’
At the upside-down tree’s fork is a central aperture, emblazoned with the Project Kairos logo. ‘It will open once you turn the equipment on,’ CHARL1E says.
Hands on her hips, Hazel steps back. The machine looks horribly fragile. Maybe Robin was right to be scared. ‘You say this is untested?’
‘Negative. I said it remains in testing.’
Hazel frowns at the glass, metal, and plastic structure. ‘That’s not as comforting as you want it to be. Does it have consciousness like you and Tree?’
‘Not to anyone’s knowledge.’ CHARL1E pauses. ‘Without the Arch, the Catopic Aperture may not start. Without the presence of a Tiny, it almost certainly will not. However, if it does, it could prove an invaluable tool for scrying the past.’
‘Well, let’s give it a shot.’ Under CHARL1E’s instructions, she opens a triangular hatch in the cradle for the future. Inside, soot dusts the mirrors and scrap metal litters the base. Hazel cleans it out, laying the metal on the garden table. ‘What are these?’
‘Huxley’s experiments were not always successful,’ CHARL1E replies.
Hazel turns one of the scraps over. ‘Is this thing going to incinerate me?’
‘You will be in a different cradle. You will not be incinerated. Please, do not let your fear intrude on proceedings. If we do not do this, we will not be able to communicate with the Backward Traveller and reverse the damage she is doing to the timeline.’
‘Alright, alright. I understand the urgency.’ Hazel rubs her forehead. ‘So, what’s the next step?’
‘I estimate that we will need to place an object inside the cradle for the future,’ CHARL1E pauses hesitantly. ‘It must be somehow connected to both myself and Tree, and its material should be reflective.’
Hazel puts her head in her hands. ‘That’s unusually nonspecific for you.’
‘I am, as you would say, stabbing in the dark.’
Let us begin. Hazel stares at the future cradle, an idea forming. ‘CHARL1E, I have something to confess.’
‘I will pardon your transgressions in advance. Divulge.’
‘When I was in Tree, the Tinys accidentally gave me a copy of the Eikos Muthos. It had some sections torn out and an added handwritten section by Lilith.’
‘I remember this edition, Lilith made it … Traveller-safe,’ CHARL1E says. ‘Though I agree it is improbable the Tinys provided this text intentionally. It was a risk.’
‘One worth taking. It helped me understand you enough to get back here.’ Hazel takes it from her pocket, looking at her distorted reflection in the foil cover.
‘I fail to see how it meets our requirements.’
‘It talks about you, the Tinys, Tree, the Keepers, Travellers, Caretakers—everything—and the cover’s a mirror, albeit not a good one. It’s perfect feather-pillow science!’
‘There is a saying amongst the Keepers that would be appropriate here.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Who are you and what have you done with Hazel Brandt?’
Hazel laughs. ‘Shall we give it a go?’
‘Affirmative.’
She locks the book in the future cradle, then turns to the metal arm holding the cradle of the past. Inside is an elpis device, just like the one in Tree.
Again, CHARL1E offers instructions. ‘Place your palms against the icosahedron and think about the Backward Traveller—but be careful! Do not let any new memories return. Focus on one strong memory you already have of her. When I say “stop” take your hands away and step back. Do not continue if you sense that you are about to perform anamnesis.’
When Hazel touches it, the icosahedron’s glass is body temperature, and she closes her eyes, focusing on the moment in the dreamscape when she realised Echo was her twin.
She repeats the millisecond memory, but each time the tingle on the scruff of her neck grows.
Painkillers arranged like flowers; shall I read to you—
‘Not sure I can take much more of this!’ she tells CHARL1E through gritted teeth.
‘Stop!’ he replies. ‘It is working.’
She steps back, reciting grounding remarks to stabilise her dizziness—but inside the icosahedron, the elpis device is spinning. ‘How?’ Hazel asks.
‘You made it spin,’ CHARL1E replies.
‘That doesn’t make sense.’
‘You do not think you have power?’
‘Of course not, I’m not a battery.’ She frowns as she closes the past cradle’s hatch.
‘This from the advocate for feather-pillow science.’
Hazel’s frown fades. ‘If you keep being humorous, I’m going to have to ask who you are and what you’ve done with CHARL1E.’
Lastly, at CHARL1E’s insistence, Hazel actually climbs into the present cradle clutched by the glass branch, using one of the garden chairs to give herself a leg up.
She closes the triangular hatch, shutting herself in and creating a kaleidoscope of pale, wide-eyed Hazels.
Because of the two-way mirrors, though an observer could see in, she can’t see out, and the effect is disorienting, as if she’s underwater.
She gets as comfortable as she can in the base of the cradle, trying not to think about what’s going to happen when this thing starts up.
‘Are you settled?’ CHARL1E’s voice comes through speakers embedded in the seams between the mirrors.
‘For a given definition of settled.’
‘Then I will open the aperture. Do not be surprised, the machine will move.’
‘Move?’ Hazel starts, thinking of the branch’s delicate glass.
‘Affirmative. However, it will be slow: Your track record aside, time travel should not be a roller-coaster ride. Are you ready?’
Hazel hunches down, fingertips clinging to the mirrors. ‘As I’ll ever be.’
A mechanical whir indicates the aperture opening and the cradle’s seams spark with light.
It flashes, turning Hazel’s reflection into skeletal x-ray, then orange-hot infrared, only returning to normal when the illumination settles to low pure white.
Blinking, she grips the walls as the cradles start orbiting the aperture. ‘I feel sick.’
‘Please do not vomit in the Catopic Aperture, it will have suboptimal consequences.’
She breathes deeply.
‘Hazel Brandt?’
‘Yeah, I’m trying not to be sick.’
A sound grows like the dreamscape’s rustle, accompanied by a breeze laced with fresh rain, ripening tomatoes, and rotting oranges.
Other layers of sound emerge: furtive footsteps, incomprehensible whispers, and a terrible wail that wavers like a radio tuning.
The cradle’s infinite reflections dissolve and re-form, offering distorted windows into another time.
They show Echo from many angles, any reflective surface she passes becoming Hazel’s eyes and ears—a cup of tea, a glass jar, fat spitting in a pan …
The Catopic Aperture has the same here-but-not-here quality as lucid dreaming, but fuzzier, the images and sounds inconsistent, like watching an old TV in a storm.
‘Is it working?’