The Paradox Hotel: A Novel
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Synopsis
“Time travel, murder, corruption, restless baby dinosaurs, and a snarky robot named Ruby collide in this excellent, noir-inflected, humor-infused, science-fiction thriller.”—The Boston Globe
An impossible crime. A detective on the edge of madness. The future of time travel at stake. From the author of The Warehouse . . .
FINALIST FOR THE LAMBDA LITERARY AWARD • ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: NPR, Kirkus Reviews
January Cole’s job just got a whole lot harder.
Not that running security at the Paradox was ever really easy. Nothing’s simple at a hotel where the ultra-wealthy tourists arrive costumed for a dozen different time periods, all eagerly waiting to catch their “flights” to the past.
Or where proximity to the timeport makes the clocks run backward on occasion—and, rumor has it, allows ghosts to stroll the halls.
None of that compares to the corpse in room 526. The one that seems to be both there and not there. The one that somehow only January can see.
On top of that, some very important new guests have just checked in. Because the U.S. government is about to privatize time-travel technology—and the world’s most powerful people are on hand to stake their claims.
January is sure the timing isn’t a coincidence. Neither are those “accidents” that start stalking their bidders.
There’s a reason January can glimpse what others can’t. A reason why she’s the only one who can catch a killer who’s operating invisibly and in plain sight, all at once.
But her ability is also destroying her grip on reality—and as her past, present, and future collide, she finds herself confronting not just the hotel’s dark secrets but her own.
At once a dazzlingly time-twisting murder mystery and a story about grief, memory, and what it means to—literally—come face-to-face with our ghosts, The Paradox Hotel is another unforgettable speculative thrill ride from acclaimed author Rob Hart.
Release date: February 22, 2022
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Print pages: 321
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The Paradox Hotel: A Novel
Rob Hart
QUANTUM ENTRAPMENT
Droplets of blood pat the blue carpet, turning from red to black as they soak into the fibers. The drops come slow at first, before turning to a trickle as the bones of my skull squeeze like a hand around my brain. My body yearns to release the tension in my shoulders, to let the pressure off my knees, to lay down and go to sleep.
Except it won’t be sleep.
It won’t really be death either. Something more in-between.
A permanent vacancy.
This moment has been chasing me for years. The third stage, when the strands of my perception unravel and my ability to grasp the concept of linear time is lost.
More pats on the carpet. But the blood from my nose has stopped flowing.
Heavier, from the other end of the hallway, getting closer.
Footsteps.
Maybe I can fight this. A handful of Retronim. A cherry lollipop. What if I scream? I open my mouth. Nothing comes out but blood.
The footsteps get closer.
This is the moment when my brain will short-circuit. That’s the third stage of being Unstuck. No one really knows why it happens. The prevailing theory is your mind finds itself in a quantum state and can’t handle the load. Others think you witness the moment of your death. I don’t give a shit about the “why” of it. I just know the result doesn’t look pleasant: a glassy-eyed coma that’ll last as long as my body holds out.
The pressure increases. More blood. Maybe I’ll bleed to death first. Small victories.
In a moment I’ll be gone. Probably reality too. The timestream is broken and I’m the only one who can fix it, but instead I’m dying on the floor. Sorry, universe.
I slip again, memories rattling around my brain like rocks in a tin can. Sitting in my bed, the smell of garlic and chili paste frying in the kitchen, wafting upstairs. Graduating the academy, walking across the gymnasium stage, new heels tearing at the skin of my feet while I scan the sea of folding chairs.
The first time I let Mena kiss me, the two of us alone on the balcony overlooking the lobby.
That taste of cherries, and everything I ever needed.
The footsteps stop.
I feel it, the displacement of air, the gravity of another person, standing there, watching me writhe on this dumb blue carpet. Nothing I can do now. It’s over. But I’m not going to die on my hands and knees.
With the last of my strength I push up…
Tap-tap-tap.
Doctor Tamworth is holding his pen an inch above the flat expanse of his desk, looking at me like I might bite him. Which, the day is young.
I take a second to situate myself. The fluorescent light is so white it’s almost blue, to match the sky-blue walls and dark blue linoleum tile. So much of this place is blue, which is calming, or so I’ve been told. The room is otherwise bare, save a small tablet on the desk, a diploma on the wall from a university in his home country of Bangladesh, and a half-eaten deli sandwich in a cardboard clamshell container. I can smell the sting of the vinegar, the funk of the cheese. My stomach growls at it. Ruby is hovering in its usual spot over my shoulder, too close by half.
“Where were you just now, January?” Tamworth asks.
“Right here, Doc,” I tell him, which is only mostly a lie, because the place I slipped to is gone. Something about carpet? I reach for it, but it disappears between my fingers like smoke. Probably not important.
“It didn’t look like you were here,” Tamworth says, his voice an airy, nasal pitch that seems determined to match the creak of his desk chair. “It looked like you were somewhere else.”
“Your word against mine.”
Tamworth sighs. “No behavioral changes. That’s a start.”
He heaves his blocky frame to a standing position and turns to the cabinet. The rattle of the pill bottle lifts my soul. He places the orange tube of Retronim on the desk, just next to the sandwich.
“I’m increasing your dose,” he says. “Ten milligrams. One pill in the morning, one at night. If you’re slipping a lot you can take a third, but no more than that in a twenty-four-hour period. Your weight.” He raises his hand, spreads his fingers, waves them back and forth. “Figure by the time we get to twenty milligrams in a day, there might be a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
Tamworth slumps in his chair. “Aggression, irritability…”
“I must be OD’ing right now.”
He frowns. “Heart palpitations, confusion, hallucinations. Not to mention your kidneys won’t be too happy.”
“Got it,” I tell him, nearly snatching the sandwich, but instead palming the bottle and stuffing it in my pocket. “Take as needed. Like candy.”
His face goes dark. “Do you ever get tired of this?”
I offer him a shrug in response.
“Your latest round of scans came in. Let me show you something.” He reaches for the tablet, opens it, and tilts it toward me. The mushy oval on the screen is lit up in greens and blues and reds. “This is the brain of a woman your age who has never stepped foot in the timestream.” Then he swipes, showing another scan with slightly less color around the center of the mass. “This is your brain. Do you see the difference?”
“I’m not a doctor,” I tell him.
“There’s clear degradation in the hypothalamus. We’re still not sure exactly how this works, but we believe the problem is related to the suprachiasmatic nucleus, which regulates the body’s circadian rhythms…”
I put up my hand. “Doc, don’t tell me you don’t know how this works, and then tell me you know what’s wrong. I told you. I’m still on the first stage.”
He taps the screen of the tablet with his pen. “Nobody with this much loss of function…”
“Except you don’t know how this works, so how do you even form a benchmark?”
He stops and stutters. “January, I’m doing this for your own good.”
“I’ve got my pills, Doc,” I tell him. “And if I hit the second stage you’ll be the first one to know.”
He slaps the tablet on the desk. “Retronim isn’t a cure. All it does is forestall the inevitable. I have serious concerns about you being here. I know it’s supposed to be safe, but look at the clocks. There’s clearly radiation leakage. You ought to be somewhere far away. Why not retire? You hit your tier. Find a beach community. Read books. Meet someone.”
I put my hands flat on the desk and lean forward, taking time to enunciate each word: “Don’t tell me what I need.”
“If you’re on to the second stage of this, you know what that means,” he says, pleading.
“First.”
“January, I’m not an idiot.”
“You may well be. And I like it here.”
“Really? Because it doesn’t seem that way.” Tamworth peers over my shoulder. “What’s your take on this?”
Ruby whirs a little closer. I consider whacking it against the wall. Not for any particular reason, just because I consider that a lot. It gives a soft beep and, in its genteel New Zealand accent, says, “Nothing worth reporting, Doctor Tamworth.”
Tamworth rolls his eyes. I don’t have a good insult, nor do I care to formulate one, so I stand and pat the pill bottle in my pocket. It gives another optimistic shake. “Thanks for the lift, Doc. I’ll see you around.” I wave to the drone hovering at my shoulder. “Let’s blow, Ruby.”
“January…” Tamworth starts.
“What?”
He looks at me again, ready to say something deeply caring and meaningful, probably. Then he thinks better of it.
As I leave, I realize I could have handled that better.
Could have taken the sandwich.
I should feel bad. It’s not like he’s not wrong. I shouldn’t be here.
But how could I be anywhere else?
I walk to the railing overlooking the hotel lobby and survey my domain.
The swooping lines and rounded corners of the midcentury modern space give it the feel of being simultaneously retro and futuristic. The lobby is cylindrical and dizzying, starting a hundred feet below me and continuing up another hundred above me. Concentric rings of walkways start at the top—the restaurant, the bar—and continue down, level after level of offices and amenities. All of it linked by elevators and sloped walkways, like a shopping mall built vertically. The focal point is a brass rod hooked into the ceiling, which plunges into the depths of the lobby. At the end of the rod is a massive, brass astrological clock, hovering a few inches off the floor.
Mena comes out of the spa across the chasm, in her black and white waitress uniform, carrying an empty drink tray. Her wavy hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, and the precise swing of her hips reminds me of how a panther moves. My heart lurches across the empty space between us and I consider calling to her, but before I can open my mouth she turns a corner and disappears.
Mena.
I know she’s not really there.
But she’s also the reason I could never leave this place.
Because what if I do, and I never see her again?
How do I explain that to Tamworth? To anyone?
If I do, they’ll make me leave for sure.
And for the briefest moment, I think the same thing I think every time I see her: a five-minute tram ride. That’s all it would take. I just have to be willing to break the rules I’ve sworn to uphold and maybe destroy reality in the process.
Some days, it seems worth it.
“Big snowstorm about to roll in,” Ruby says. “Blizzard warning. Hazardous travel conditions.”
Snatched from my daze, I exhale and turn to the drone, which looks like a floating pair of binoculars. It turns to me, rattling the googly eyes I glued to its lens.
“You ruin everything,” I tell it.
“Just doing my job.”
I should get to work. The lobby clock reads 9:17 a.m. I watch the second hand marching across the face.
9:17:24
9:17:25
9:17:26
9:17:25
9:15:26
9:15:27
9:15:28…
Movement around the lobby draws my attention. Lots of people dragging roller bags through the tunnel from Einstein. The lines at the three desks surrounding the clock are deep and getting deeper. Cameo is at concierge, and all the check-in slots are staffed. Still, everyone is in the weeds. Which is not something that makes me happy.
“What’s with the crowd, Rubes?”
“It seems there are some issues at Einstein that have grounded flights,” it says. “Also, I have a message from Reg that he needs to see you.”
“About what?”
“That’s all it says.”
“Haven’t I asked you to not let people leave incomplete messages? You should have pinged him back and asked for more information.”
Ruby floats for a few seconds before responding. “I didn’t really care to.”
“Thanks.”
“You made me like this.”
I swipe at it, but it dodges out of the way.
“It would help if you were a little faster,” it says.
Whatever. I skip the elevator and take the winding, sloped corridors down to the lobby, where my canvas sneakers squeak on the marble floor. Hanging on one wall is a large oval screen displaying the upcoming trips.
QR3345—Ancient Egypt—DELAYED
RZ5902—Battle of Gettysburg—DELAYED
ZE5522—Triassic Period—DELAYED
HU0193—Renaissance—DELAYED
Today is going to be a day.
As I’m crossing to Reg’s office, I clock a guy standing at the coffee urn. My antennae go up. He doesn’t have a bag with him. He’s surveying the room as he sips on a cup of coffee, looking for someone. Tall, movie-star handsome, motorcycle boots, a leather jacket he actually manages to pull off. Could be a guest, but he’s a bit too scruffy for this lot. His clothes are sharp but not designer. The men who stay here tend to look like they’re dressed for an emergency yacht club meeting.
“Ruby, see the pretty boy over there?” I ask.
“You understand that as an artificially intelligent construct I don’t grasp beauty standards?”
“By the coffee, dummy,” I tell it. “Keep an eye on him.”
“Any reason?”
“Gut.”
Reg’s door is cracked so I push it open and find he’s on the phone. He looks up from his disaster of a desk—paperwork, food wrappers, who knows, maybe a cat?—and shrugs at me, like, why can’t you knock?
I give him a little shrug in response, like, you’re really asking me that?
He goes back to the call, listening intently as I survey the clutter, focusing on my favorite piece: the Sicilian flag he keeps tacked to the wall. Red and yellow, with a woman’s head surrounded by three disembodied legs, which, as I have told him many times, really ought to be the lesbian pride flag, but he does not agree.
“Yeah, I understand that,” he barks into the phone. “Right, but we’re understaffed as it is and…no, you listen…okay, fine, fine. Fine!” He taps off the call, slams the phone on the desk, and leans back, pressing his hands into his face like he wants to crush it.
Reg played offensive line in college and while those days are long behind him, he still carries an intimidating thickness. And usually, his charm and personality match his size. Not today. His skin is gray and his white hair, normally gelled into slicked-back spikes, is disheveled. His lavender button-down shirt is wrinkled and he smells like he bathed in aftershave. He’s giving off some real walk-of-shame vibes, but since the only thing he’s married to is his job, I know a hammer is about to come down on both of us.
“Jan, what was the biggest, bloodiest battle in all of human history?” he asks.
“I had to track someone down after D-Day in Normandy,” I tell him. “That was pretty gnarly.”
“I’m going to book a one-way ticket. It’d be preferable to this.” He sighs. “Those assholes moved it up to tomorrow.”
“Moved what up to tomorrow?” I ask.
“The summit.”
I breathe out a large portion of my soul. The summit. A logistical nightmare that’d been keeping me from sleeping restfully the past few nights, but at least I had until next week to prepare for it. Anger shoots through me like an electric current and I consider digging my thumb into his eye to make myself feel better, but there’s no point taking this out on Reg. The poor guy is just the hotel manager. And clearly, he’s no happier about the change than I am.
This was a TEA call, so I know who to be mad at.
“Does Danbridge know?” I ask.
“He said to take five minutes to calm down before calling him.”
“I’m giving him two, and that’s generous.”
Reg leans back in his seat. “I need a drink. Is it too early for a drink?”
I spot a lottery ticket on the corner of the desk. Reg likes to bet on horses, though he doesn’t do a very good job of it. I give the ticket a tap and say, “You know, you’d be better off putting your money in a pile and burning it. At least it’ll keep you warm.”
He snatches the ticket with one hand, and with the other reaches for the tape dispenser, then affixes it to the bottom of his monitor. “You gotta have dreams, kid. This is the one that’s gonna change my luck. I know it.” He glances from side to side. “Big jackpot. If I win, I’m going to retire. Someplace down in Mexico. Beautiful women, colorful drinks. Never putting on a pair of full-length pants again.” He laughs to himself. “You should come with.”
That earns a laugh in return. “You think a few drinks with umbrellas in them are going to improve my disposition?”
“I expect you to have the personality of a battle-ax until the day you die. But you can’t stay here forever, you know.”
“I can try,” I tell him.
Leather daddy is gone. The lines at the desks seem longer than they were before. Still plenty of blue bloods, but now flight staff too, in their sparkling red and green and purple uniforms. Which means we’re going to hit capacity real quick. At least staff tends to be polite. Hooray for class solidarity. I slide up to Cameo, who as per usual, looks like a sculpture come to life, with their sharp, angular features, bald head atop a nearly seven-foot frame, and heavy jade earrings.
“How do we look?” I ask, craning my neck to look up at them.
Cameo smiles at the elderly woman they’re helping. “I’ll be with you in one moment, dear.” To me, they say, “We’re a little over half full already, but I’m hearing flights are grounded for at least the day, so it won’t be long until these people resort to cannibalism.”
“Excuse me,” the elderly woman says.
We both turn to her, and her pearl necklace and designer luggage and pink velour tracksuit.
“Ma’am, I’m very sorry, as I’ve said, these are not normal circumstances…” Cameo starts.
Her voice is like a squeaky toy shoved into a garbage disposal. “I’ve already been told that the trip I planned more than a yearago has been postponed and they can’t tell me until when, and now you’re saying I can’t have the room I booked either. I reserved a superluxury room and I want a superluxury room.”
“I understand that,” Cameo says, with the patience of a saint, which is impressive because I already want to kick over this lady’s expensive bag. “I’m deeply sorry for the inconvenience. I can comp your room as well as your meals for the duration of your stay.”
“I’d like to speak to your manager.”
Cameo touches their ear. “Reg? A Miss Steubens would like to speak to you. Send her over? Right away.” They raise a delicate hand, palm flat and unthreatening, toward Reg’s office. The woman huffs, takes her bag, and trudges over.
“Did Reg really say to send her over?” I ask.
“Of course not,” Cameo says, offering a sly smile.
And then their face drops, like they were digging around their teeth with their tongue and came across the squished remains of a bug. I turn again to find an old white man in a linen tunic, a gold-woven band around the neck and a gold-colored rope holding it together at his waist. Probably prepped for that grounded trip to Ancient Egypt.
To see people in period garb around here is not uncommon.
The problem is the bronzer he’s used to darken his skin.
The costume designer, Fumiko, has a hard-and-fast rule about not doing any kind of skin alteration. The “no blackface” policy, she calls it.
The worst part is he seems so proud, smiling like a kid who drew on a wall. Even with the way the makeup cakes and cracks around his wrinkles, the way he missed some spots on his neck, highlighting pale patches of skin.
I glance at Cameo. With their aquiline features and almond skin, they could be from that region of the world. Or, like me, they’re just wildly offended at a sight like this in the year twenty-goddamn-seventy-two.
The old man seems to detect our discomfort, which isn’t surprising because the two of us are frozen still as statues. He gives a little shrug and says, “When in Rome, right? Or, Thebes I guess will be the case.”
I can see Cameo’s jaw working as they chew on the words they want to say, before forcing a smile onto their face and nodding. The trouble with the clientele here is, push back too hard and they remind you that they “know someone,” and the worst part is, none of them are lying.
“Yes, sir,” Cameo says, pushing the words out. “How can I be of service?”
“Well, it says my trip is delayed, and I’m hoping you might be able to give me an update, or at least call up to my room when something changes…”
I turn to Cameo, give a big I’m sorry shrug, and leave them to suffer. Not much else I can do. The withering look I get in return, it could be for the old man or it could be for me. Makes no difference.
I wave to Ruby and don’t have to ask—a little compartment in its side opens and my earpiece sticks out. I place it in my ear, then twist to ensure a tight fit. “Danbridge.”
He picks up almost immediately. “Was that five minutes?”
I make my way toward the coffee urn. “What in the hypotenuse fuck is going on, Allyn?”
“That’s funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“That you think I have any say in this.”
I grab a paper cup and hold it under the urn, my reflection in the gleaming surface distorted and pencil-thin. When I pull the lever nothing comes out. I tilt the urn toward me, and not even a drip. As I’m putting it back in place, a sconce on the wall gives a little flicker. God, this place is falling apart. “You run the TEA,” I tell him.
“Right,” he says. “And Vince Teller cares about that. So does the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. You know all those groups that were planning to protest? They found out the date and were organizing a demonstration, so we had to pivot.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sending someone over to help.”
“Okay, I guess we never were friends…”
“Jan, you need a right hand.”
“Then you come do it. Don’t foist another trainee on me. Most of them can’t count past ten without taking their shoes off.”
“Don’t worry, this kid is good. He reminds me of you actually, if you weren’t a huge asshole every single second of every single day.”
“I sleep sometimes.”
Allyn laughs. “You’re probably an asshole when you sleep. You probably dream of kicking people and taking candy from babies.”
I consider disagreeing but it’s not like he’ll believe me. Or that he’s wrong?
“Tell the kid to meet me in the Tick Tock. I need about six gallons of coffee. I’ll send you the check.”
Before he can respond I pull the earpiece out and stick it back into Ruby. I give one last look around the lobby, my stomach twisted into a tight knot, because I know this is going to get far, far worse before it gets even a tiny bit less worse.
And now I have to go upstairs to get my coffee fix. I whisper a little prayer, that Mbaye isn’t in yet, but then realize, what’s the use? That son of a bitch is always in.
I reach into my pocket, pull out a cherry lollipop, and stick it in my mouth. Savor the sweetness—there won’t be a lot of free moments to savor anything in the next two days—and head upstairs.
The Tick Tock is mostly empty. Just a few folks scattered throughout the grid of tables, swiping through tablets, sipping on coffee while they pick at ornate breakfast plates. Mbaye is sitting on the other side of the bar with an espresso cup and a half-eaten croissant. His hand is on his chin, like he’s lost in thought, and the way his muscular frame strains against the white chef’s apron, he reminds me of that statue. What was it called? The Thinking Guy?
Not long ago, I would have called Mbaye a friend.
I don’t remember much about those days.
As I approach he jumps to his feet and smiles. “Good morning, January! How are you today?”
“Fine,” I tell him. “Coffee.”
A mug appears on the countertop as I pull out a stool, and by the time I’m settled he’s pouring steaming black liquid from a stainless-steel carafe.
“Leave the bottle, am I right?” he asks, giving me a wink.
“Yup,” I tell him, making sure to sharpen the word as it passes my lips.
His smile falters, but he pushes it back onto his face. “What can I make you for breakfast? I have some specials I could tell you about, but it’s slow so I’m happy to whip up just about anything you’d like.” He points a finger at me. “You like blueberries, right? I just got a fresh batch. Beautiful. I could put out some blueberry pancakes, with a fresh bowl on the side.”
Mbaye is a world-renowned French-trained chef. His pancakes ruin all other pancakes. And Tamworth’s sandwich definitely got my stomach’s motor running…
“Not hungry,” I tell him.
He nods, starts to say something, but stops and turns away. As he’s walking toward the kitchen I ask him, “Could I have another mug, please? I’m meeting someone.”
He nods, his mouth a flat, frustrated line, and he rummages under the bar, coming out with another ceramic mug, which he places down next to mine, like it might shatter. He fills it, then puts the carafe down. He lingers in the space and I pick up my coffee. It’s still too hot to drink but I sip it anyway, singeing my lips, putting my focus into it entirely, so that he will take the hint and go away.
After a moment, he does.
I sit in silence for a bit, then hear a clack-clack-clack sound. It makes me think of a roller coaster going up the tracks. I don’t need to look around to see what’s causing it; the little electric shock that leaps across my brain tells me it’s a slip. Briefly, I wonder what it is, but ultimately can’t be bothered. I’ll find out soon.
I’m halfway through my cup and reaching for the carafe to warm it up when I hear, “January Cole?”
The white kid weaving through the tables looks more like an eager-for-applause musician than he does a federal agent representing the Time Enforcement Agency. Medium height, medium build, his blue polo shirt neat and tucked in, the stodginess of it offset by intricate tattoos down both forearms. Lots of flowers, some fish. All very colorful. He’s wearing thick-framed glasses and his dark hair has that swept-back style that looks effortless, but probably takes all morning. He extends a hand. “Nik Moreau.”
“Nik,” I tell him, returning a firm, brief handshake. “Coffee?”
“Thanks.” He picks up the mug and presses it to his mouth, testing the temperature, not even bothering with the basket of sugar and creamers to his right, which I take as a sign of good character.
“Danbridge warn you about me?” I ask.
He takes a long sip before responding. “He said you were prickly.”
“He did not use that word.” The next few moments are going to be make-or-break. I’m feeling generous so I give him a hint. ...
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