Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars

by Melisse Aires

  Where are we?

  I fling my body forward and the seatbelt catches me, binds me to my seat. Tristan is hunched over his knees, silent. Is he okay? Please let him be okay. Unstrapping myself, I scan the surroundings from the cockpit window. All around are trees and rolling green hills. Looks like part of a lake at the bottom of our slope. Must be a rural time port, which is perfect for us right now.

  I go over the details on the dashboard screen. It blinks:

  Arrived at Destination: Port Bethel, New York; August 17, 1969; 08:31:23 EST.

  The time port diagram flashes on-screen in the form of a pie graph with a few missing slices. For some reason my acoustic signal only opened it some of the way. My calculations under pressure may’ve been off. Important thing is, we made it.

  Accessing the main port chart, I zoom in on-screen to the NYC Broadway Port. It’s grayed out. Closed. Means Garth and the rest of the DOT aren’t using it. They can’t track us either, and they’d have no reason to suspect we’d show up in this time string in 1969. Our current time window shows a solid four hours, which was the best I could do on such short notice. My last ditch effort to buy some time, figure out what to do. Rewinding time is too risky. We can’t afford any time holes, either. Playing around with my own natural age progression is one thing, but I can’t take that chance with another human being.

  I just need to get my thoughts together.

  My scalp tingles. I’m not used to being so spontaneous, but Dad always says a good pilot is able to make quick decisions. That’s what I did. Well, sort of.

  I verify the cloaking device is still activated, then mask our coordinates so Mission Control can’t access our course. It’ll crush Dad, but he’ll have to trust I know what I’m doing. I may have to convince myself the same thing.

  Tristan moans.

  I move toward him, kneeling in my slick buffer suit, hesitant to touch him. “You all right?”

  Slowly, his head rises, his face a gnarly greenish-color again. “How many time trips does it take before my body adjusts?”

  I stand, glancing outside. “Maybe never. Who knows.”

  “We made it? 1969?” Glassy-eyed, he peers out the cockpit window.

  “Roger that.”

  I pull up the historical database from the dashboard and the screen populates with scrolls of info. Got work to do before stepping outside. I don’t know much about this decade, but I know better than to leave Essence without giving myself a full briefing. Quickly I skim through points of interest, finding our location and expanding the info.

  “Woodstock? You brought us to Woodstock?” I say it like it hurts my tongue to pronounce the words. The fact I’m in upstate New York in 1969 doesn’t bother me, but right in the middle of a giant hippie-fest? “Check it out, Golden Boy, ‘cause this is my annoyed face. File it for future reference.”

  Out of his seatbelt now, Tristan rubs his neck. “You said pick somewhere, some time. Why not this?”

  Do I tell him the truth—that peace and love pushers make me laugh? That I don’t even like people touching me, much less crowding me? At least we don’t have to worry about running into our past-selves this far back. Which reminds me—something changed the course of Tristan’s past timeline.

  I glance his way, about to ask him about his song, when he moves toward the door in full pre-puke face.

  On cue, I press the emergency door release button and it slides open.

  He leans out the opening, catching long deep breaths in the sunlight, his shoulders relaxing. It seems to quell his nausea and brighten his face all in the same moment.

  “You’re doing better,” I say, a bit more sympathetic than usual. “Got your stomach under control?”

  “You know something, I think I do.” He lets out a belch.

  “Good. ‘Cause I’ve gotta tell you, things don’t look good. Back at the club, you said there was no chance of running into your past-self—that you never went.”

  He takes a long breath, squinting in the ray of light beaming over him from the doorway. “I didn’t.”

  “Either your memory is way worse than you’re letting on, or we created a parallel shift. Which means we can’t be sure what we’ll go back to.”

  I expect his mouth to fall open in shock, or his eyes to widen with concern, but they don’t. Gradually, he meets my eyes and smiles weakly. “I think I know why.”

  “You still have your song, don’t you? You never threw it away.” My jaw tenses. But, truth is, we could’ve initiated a parallel shift from any of it.

  “There’s something else you should know,” he says, eyes pleading. “Back at my apartment, I left myself a note. I wasn’t sure if my past-self would even see it—or follow the instructions.”

  “What kind of note?”

  “To avoid Declan no matter what—that my future depends on it.”

  My brain reels, processing the info as quickly as possible without blowing a fuse. Every part of me wants to be furious and ream him for being so careless … but I’d be a hypocrite. Didn’t I do the same thing back at the Internet kiosk? Try to warn myself of the future? Playing with time is so tempting. I was convinced I was mature enough to handle it.

  Tristan’s fidgeting with the seam of his shirt. “I didn’t know what would happen. But when you said my past-self was there, at the club, I realized what I’d done.” His voice lowers to barely a whisper. “I’m … really sorry.”

  I study him a moment. I can tell from his slumped posture and creased forehead he means it. He’s reckless, yes. But also desperate to mend what broke him. Would I have chosen differently if I were in his place?

  “I understand,” I say, and for once it doesn’t feel so unnatural.

  My response catches him off guard—as if he’d been bracing himself for a storm that didn’t come. He ogles me til his shoulders perk. “Really? You mean you’re not pissed?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” I return to the database screen, focusing on its details of Woodstock. “But what’s done is done. It may change everything we go back to, or it may not change a thing.”

  I don’t want to tell him what I’m really thinking—that just because he doesn’t see Declan that night doesn’t mean he won’t see him later, or that he’ll stay clean.

  Scrolling through pictures, I stop on a wide-angle shot of shaggy-haired kids arm in arm, standing in front of a cross-legged audience and outside stage. Three days of peace, love and music. One hundred years ago.

  “It’s just a big barefoot friendship orgy,” I say, sifting through more pictures.

  “This is the first Woodstock ever. Epic. Unprecedented.” Tristan’s voice has a renewed spirit. “To actually be here, with iconic dead musicians? Insanely sublime.”

  Wish I could share his enthusiasm.

  I stop the screen on a picture of a black guy holding a retro electric guitar, headband around his forehead. Now I get it. “Jimi Hendrix plays here. Is that why you wanted to come?”

  Tristan looks at me, shrugging. “Nobody inspires me more than Hendrix. And I could use a shitload of inspiration now. You can understand that, can’t you? Never even occurred to me I could visit something like this … and now, here we are.”

  I eye him a few seconds. All at once he seems so unguarded, so natural. I’m not sure what to make of it. I’ve gotten so accustomed to his social status, that without it, he may as well be standing there naked. He’s as vulnerable as the next guy. Maybe he always has been.

  And then I’m distracted by my impending misery of this situation and resume my data absorption, eyes on-screen.

  “They won’t know me here,” Tristan says dryly. “I’ll be just another random person. Like you. I can mix in, be ignored, forgotten.”

  “Well, we’re not going out there,” I stop on a picture of bodies so dense, the faces could be granules of sand on a beach. I don’t know if I’m up for this. I shake my head. “Maybe I should find another port—”

  “No!” Tristan moves in toward me. “P
lease. I need this.”

  He’s dead serious, but I can’t tell if it’s ambition or defiance. I have to remind myself that he doesn’t get to call the shots. I’m the trip guide, the pilot. But I have to admit, part of me understands his need. I know that need. To read about, watch, or listen to something—or someone—so much, you feel like you know them. Haunted by their existence. It’s like that with my Induction Day destination. Ever since I was a little girl I knew exactly where I’d go and who I’d see. Been studying it ever since. Holy hell, if I were there right now and someone tried to take it away from me, I’d take them down swinging, that’s for sure.

  “You said you needed somewhere to think, and we’re here. I need to go out there.” Tristan pulls out the paper from his pocket. His song. “I made some mistakes, but I can turn my life around. Seeing Hendrix perform live … it’d be a dream come true.”

  I stand, let out a sigh. “Everything isn’t always about you. It’s about—” I pause, realize I could use this situation to my advantage. I can amend his time trip to show an add-on excursion at the passenger’s request. Technically, it’s a trip diversion from his original contract—of which he’s under no obligation, but getting a little creative with his itinerary may get us out of some trouble. And this place was all his idea. Kind of. “You know something, you’re right. We’re here, and if it means that much to you, you should get your kicks. We’ll consider it an added excursion, which my parents may try to charge extra for, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Extra? But this trip was your idea. I just gave you a place and time.”

  “True, but only because I was forced to divert en route. Normally, it’s considered a procedural application when there’s cause for alarm, but since this is your destination preference, we can say plans changed last minute at your request. So far, it’s the best excuse we’ve got. Otherwise, I’ll pick a location where there’s not a mob of people.” I fold my arms over my buffer suit.

  He backs off a little, head nodding slowly in agreement. “You’re in charge, so whatever you say. If that’s what it takes to experience this moment in music history, then by all means, add it to my bill.”

  “Done.” I wink, turn my back. “Unzip me.”

  He does, then waits for me to return the favor.

  “I hope you realize we’re completely unprepared for 1969,” I say, peeling off my suit.

  He pauses from his own suit removal. “Oh. Guess they don’t take currency cards, do they?”

  “Negative. And all we have to eat is the freeze dried goods from the supply pack.”

  I check my reflection in the rearview mirror. Ugh. My hair is a tangled black wasp’s nest. And I’d kill for my lipstick right now. I glance at Tristan, who’s picking at his own shaggy locks. I suppose I’m no worse off than he is. We’re in the same boat, or time-craft I should say. Him without his superstar status; me without my dark colors.

  “What time do you think it is?” he asks.

  I check my watch.

  “And a very good morning to you …” A loud, but somewhat muffled voice echoes off the hills from speakers in the distance. “We’ve got more food coming in, people. That’s right. We’ve got some tents set up, and we’re gonna have some breakfast. All right—”

  “Just after 0900hours.” I scan the area outside. People are emerging now, near the lake. Trees to our side block a full view, but that can be good for us. Even cloaked, if some stoner stumbles into Essence, they could make a huge deal about it. That’s all we need—strung out hippies trying to hitch a ride to 2069.

  My stomach stirs, but not because I’m hungry. It’s my nerves that are jostled. I really don’t like showing up here like this, without proper research. Those few minutes at the historical data scrolls onboard hardly scratched the surface. A seasoned time traveler would never go out there this unprepared, but I can’t let Tristan go out alone. Dad keeps a stash of old paper money for times like these—from countries all over the world, that he dips into when necessary. Wish he was here right now. He’d know what to do.

  “I’m not even hungry,” Tristan says, out of the vessel now, stretching his arms over his head.

  His black turtleneck rides up over his middle and I admire his long trim torso a moment longer than I intend. He catches me when he turns back, but makes no mention of it. “It’s effin’ hot. August and I’m dressed for winter.”

  I glance down at my own garb. I’ll stick out for sure, like onyx in snow. Truth is, I’ve never been this far back before—we’re right at the time trip-maximum. 100 years limit, past or future, set by the ever-generous DOT, for their supposed safety regulations.

  Garth’s furious expression from where we left her at the Broadway Port is still etched in my mind. Right now, as far as she knows, we’re MIA. She won’t be able to hack into our coordinates remotely, and Mission Control won’t get our signal unless I send it.

  “Come on, let’s check it out.” Tristan’s attention is glued to the fields up past the lake, where even more people are moving about now.

  I consider letting him explore without me, but separating would be a huge mistake. We’ll venture out together so he can get the full value of his excursion purchase, and so he can’t accuse me of holding him back from seeing his rock hero. One glimpse, then we’re coming straight back to the vessel. If I can do Manhattan on New Year’s Eve, then I can make this work too. I’m the trip guide. It’s my job.

  Even Garth and the DOT can’t take that away from me today.

  Stepping outside, a sweet flowery fragrance drifts past me, then the aroma of food cooking in the distance—bacon or sausage. The air is humid, but surprisingly pleasant, and the fields are alive with bodies, milling about, chatting. No one seems to notice us. Everywhere I look is golden suntanned skin: bare-chests, arms, and feet. Some darker, some lighter. Lots of loose feathery hair and retro-sunglasses.

  “Hey, man, they’ve got some grub up at the tents,” a curly blond tells Tristan in passing, his lids heavy over his dark eyes.

  Tristan grins, obviously grateful someone acknowledged his presence. “Cool. Hey, when does the show start?”

  “Not til after breakfast, man,” the guy says in a too-mellow voice. “Last day. What a drag, right?”

  “Definitely.”

  The guy nods, continuing in the same direction as some others nearby: the lake.

  “They’re going swimming,” Tristan says.

  “Count me out,” I say. I have to concentrate on forming an action plan. “Besides, we’re limited on time if you want to see your idol.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the music is starting yet, anyway.” Tristan tugs once at my arm. “We’ve gotta go down there, at least, check out the scene. I bet the water feels great right now. Come on, Butter-dud.”

  He’s completely wrapped up in the moment, eyes twinkling, arms swinging at his side with anxious energy. He peels off his turtleneck, leaving his long bangs ruffled about his forehead.

  Fresh air must be getting to me because I’ve seen him with his shirt off already—back at the spa—but for some reason, out here beneath the trees, in the bronze morning sunlight, I find myself wanting to drink him in with slow, tasteful sips. I have to look away. Kayla should be here, not me.

  “Hey, who’s paying for this little excursion, huh? Technically, you’re obligated to guide me.”

  Although I could argue that point, I find myself resisting, and I’m not sure why. I have to admit, there’s something about the way Tristan’s enjoying himself that fills me with envy—triggers a craving inside me I didn’t realize was there. Possibly even an inner desire for irresponsibility. Cruel irony at a time when I’m under the toughest scrutiny of my life.

  I remind myself that our current time string is off the surveillance grid. MIA means no one is watching.

  On impulse, I ditch my pink sweater and leggings beneath a nearby bush. Holy hell, my skin is zombie-white. Didn’t matter during spring in Manhattan, but here? In the summer of love? I�
�m the total opposite of my golden boy companion. What the hell, though. It’s sticky-hot.

  As we emerge into the fields with the masses, I realize that even though I stick out, I fit in. This is the world of anything goes, which suits Tristan’s white nylon snowpants, bare feet, and shirtless chest as well as it does my babydoll shirtdress over my black tank.

  At the shore, I sit on a log to people-watch. Keen observation is the number one skill application when it comes to field study. Any good time traveler knows this, and it’s a fundamental of trip guiding.

  Chicks are sifting through the water, fully naked, their boobs bouncing at the surface as they bathe right next to guys. No shame here. A be-free-and-naked extravaganza. Strangers sharing soap, chatting casually like co-ed baths are a regular everyday thing. Maybe they are, for all I know.

  Tristan strips down to a pair of pale blue boxer briefs and dives in, waves me over. I shake my head. No way I’m getting in that cesspool of germs after all those naked bodies. Who knows what’s been going on in there. Doesn’t seem to faze Tristan, though. He backstrokes past a couple of gabbing girls, their bare chests fully visible, and says hello.

  “Going in for a swim?” A wavy-haired brunette appears beside me, smiling.

  “Not right now.” I give her a once-over.

  Her hip bones protrude above her long white skirt, its waist resting below her navel. Her chest is covered only by a macramé drape with clearly no bra. She sits next to me, uninvited, pulls out a stick of rolled white paper, lights it.

  “Any favorite performers so far?” she asks, inhaling, then hands it over to me.

  The strange odor saturates the oxygen. I don’t like it, but I don’t dislike it either. It’s weird. Reefer, I think they called it. I forgot this decade is back when public smoking is still legal. I eye it a few more seconds, but before I can decide whether or not to take it, she’s slipping it between my fingers, where it teeters.