Chapter 13 Hazel #2
Hazel shrugs. ‘I had time to think in Tree. I don’t want to look into a future like the one outside.
If I can help, I will. Even if there’s a 0.
0001 percent chance of success.’ Let us endure this time of trial, and not resort to evil, for ours is the prospect and the power and the undoing of all.
She doesn’t want to tell CHARL1E how much she needs redemption for Lilith and Huxley’s deaths, or about the Eikos Muthos still tucked in her pocket—their truce is still too fragile—but she does want him to believe her.
‘Here’s the thing CHARL1E, you asked me to trust you; now it’s your turn to trust me. ’
CHARL1E’s code scrolls. ‘You are correct, the equation must be balanced. I will trust you. It is therefore incumbent on me only to add that certain information is more likely to prompt your memories to return. Some are so powerful the Keepers called them keystone memories; these will unlock all your memories at once and anamnesis will inevitably ensue. Every Traveller possesses such a keystone memory. As such, there will always be things that I cannot tell you, right until the moment you leave.’
‘Only in parting will we really see eye to eye.’ Hazel laughs as Shiny returns with an Earl Grey tea and passes it to her.
Cold again and the bergamot flavour is distressingly chemical.
They’ll never get it right. ‘But what do I do about the fact I can’t even think of the Backward Traveller without—’
Five o’clock grime time in a crowded office; Underground train home lolled against the window; sooty mouse between the tracks.
A yank on the back of Hazel’s neck, spots in her vision, pain.
Hot-tarmac breezes on the balcony; sitting in Dad’s deckchair with a neck brace; painkillers arranged like a flower on a plate; come on, come home; perform anamnesis— Time grasps for her, making her giddy.
‘Hazel Brandt, salt an atlas!’
Her head flicks up, thoughts shattered. ‘Salt an atlas?’
‘Salt an atlas.’
Her neck itches and aches, and somehow the mug of tea has shattered on the floor, its cold contents flooding her bare toes. ‘I think I’m going to be si—’
‘Pull up if I pull up. Repeat!’
‘Pull up if I pull up.’
‘Good. Again.’ They repeat the two strange phrases three more times, and as they do Hazel’s sickness diminishes and the hairs on the back of her neck lie flat, her mind recentring on the present-in-the-future.
‘What are those phrases?’
‘Palindromes. Over many years, Travellers have developed a stock of these grounding remarks to help keep them rooted in time. The Keepers theorized that the linguistic mimicking of the Travellers’ journey creates an anchor.’
‘That almost makes sense.’ She stares at the glistening puddle of spilt tea, imagining her and Echo stepping through the catopthura, thrown equal distances through time, each identical ends of the palindrome. ‘Travellers have to be twins, don’t they?’
‘Affirmative, because of their genetic similarity, only identical twins can engage in the spooky action across great temporal distances that is required to communicate in the dreamscape.’
‘That’s how we find each other, night after night, when otherwise we’d just be lost in the current. Through the quantum entanglement of our genes.’ Her neck tingles.
CHARL1E’s code scrolls faster. ‘It is inadvisable for you to think about the Backward Traveller too closely.’
‘But that’s my point, I have to talk to her every night. How do I do that without all my memories coming back?’
‘Every Traveller finds their own way. Memorising the grounding remarks will help. The 54th Traveller kept a list on the inside of your bathroom cabinet.’
Hazel recalls the scratchings. Not so useless after all.
‘You have more control than you realise,’ CHARL1E continues. ‘However, it is crucial that the Backward Traveller does not learn who you are.’
‘Couldn’t be straightforward, could it! And why is that?’
‘Because while the Backward Traveller’s identity is not your keystone memory, your identity is hers.’
‘But she already knows my name.’
‘Your name is not the problem, your identity is.’
‘So, if she learns I’m her twin, she’ll go straight home?’
‘Affirmative.’
Hazel watches Shiny and Teaspoon clearing the broken cup. ‘There’s so little time to figure this out. Tonight, I have to tell her to fix whatever she’s broken in the timeline, right?’
‘Alas, you cannot wait until tonight. You must speak with her right now while we might still have time to reverse the damage.’
‘CHARL1E, it’s the middle of the day, I can’t just sleep on demand. Besides, I’m still struggling to string a sentence together in the dreamscape.’
‘Then perhaps it is time for some new techniques.’
‘New techniques, huh?’ Hazel smiles despite herself. ‘I suppose trying is imperative.’
For the first time, CHARL1E lets Hazel explore the Hab Dome.
The Tinys lead her through a ballroom-sized gym with dozens of dusty exercise machines, and a small movie theatre with a yellowed screening list. They pass numerous empty, shadowed dormitories which reverberate with her footsteps, and noticeboards with geological layers of papers and pins.
‘Looking for mentorship in R? Come to Dorm 12, Bunk C and ask for Jaden!’ ‘Hieu’s birthday party—12th May, 19:00, Workshop—byo snacks!
’ ‘If you have been Outside in the past 12 days and have developed a phlegmy cough or migraine, seek medical attention immediately. Vigilance is our defence against outbreak.’ ‘Are you anxious or overwhelmed? Come to knitting circle, D31, Thursday evenings. Kids and Tinys welcome.’ The effect is like passing through a crowd, each poster speaking with a different long-lost voice.
‘It’s all so old,’ Hazel says, knowing CHARL1E can hear her anywhere now that she’s back in Station C. ‘I suppose Lilith and Huxley didn’t bother with the boards, there being just two of them.’
‘Affirmative. The boards have not been used for four generations.’
She strokes the skin-thin paper. ‘Worship for unity. Mondays 14:00–15:00, the Arch. The collective is stronger when we believe in each other.’ Let us lend support, as in turn we are supported.
Robin tugs her away from the board into the largest dormitory yet, which slices through the dome to its centre.
In the outer walls, one of the octagonal panels is made of glass, throwing wan daylight on the unused bunk beds lining the far wall and two single mattresses on the floor in the middle of the room, facing the window.
Hazel slumps down on one, staring. The pane is wobbly, as if someone melted together old bottles, cups, and any other scrap glass lying around, but between the seams the landscape’s clear, the grey sea breaking against the rubble beach.
Thick clouds scud the sky, obscuring the sun, while curls of mist form in the ashy light.
Hazel doesn’t even know what season it is, or if seasons still exist. All she knows is that if she doesn’t do anything, this is her future.
Beside the bed is a box of personal effects, including a small stack of photos. The one on top is of a long-haired woman and a spectacled man standing before the Arch, framed by Tesla coils and sparking Van de Graaff generators.
‘It is not Lilith and Huxley,’ CHARL1E says. ‘That photograph is of their parents.’
Other photos do show Lilith and Huxley, mostly as children with their parents and a handful of much older folk, the last hopes of a once-larger group.
Hazel is envious of the family’s arms around each other, even if they are posing, and wonders how long it will be before anyone hugs her again. If they ever do.
More boxes of personal effects have been left on each abandoned bunk, embroidery hoops, single-eared teddy bears, and fray-edged journals poking out of them. ‘What are these?’
‘They’re memorials,’ CHARL1E replies. ‘The Keepers reused almost everything, but towards the end, the families of the deceased would be given a box in which to keep any treasures that reminded them of their loved one. They claimed it made them feel less alone.’
‘Some of them look like shoeboxes. Do any actually contain shoes?’
‘Negative. Shoes are very precious indeed. That would be like filling the box with water, electricity, or oxygen. Do you require new shoes?’
She opens her mouth to jab CHARL1E for his lack of humour, but glancing at her worn boots, she thinks better of it. She’s never considered that CHARL1E and the Tinys just giving her clothes was enormously generous. ‘No, these are excellent shoes. Thank you.’
Between the bunks are bookshelves filled with tomes on hard science—coding, robotics, quantum mechanics, post-quantum computing—but also more surprising titles, on active imagination, the subconscious, and of course lucid dreaming.
‘Good job the Keepers were all the mad kind of scientist,’ she mutters.
The bedroom has doors leading to bathrooms, offices, and a linen cupboard, but the final door leads to a spiral staircase, winding upwards into the dark.
Hazel follows it, rubber shoes catching the metal tread.
At the top is a heavy trapdoor. Afraid it might lead to the hostile outside, she looks down at Robin before opening it.
The Tiny shakes its head vehemently. Don’t go through there.
‘CHARL1E, is this safe to open?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why is Robin telling me not to?’
‘If you are referring to Tiny 222, then it is being contrary.’