I say nothing to soothe his concern, curious if he has the wits to talk his way out of it.
“Look, I know I was pretty friendly with Nancy yesterday, but I was just playing a part.” His voice takes a slight bitter turn, almost a tone of defeat. “She’s a cool girl—you’d really like her. It’s so crazy to think she doesn’t even exist in our world. I kept thinking about how she’s already dead, and it just blew my mind.”
“Fascinating.” My tone suggests it’s anything but.
Why should I believe anything he says? Except … part of me wants to believe him. And what if he is telling the truth? I’m torn, and maybe I’m really more stressed about our situation than whether or not Tristan had a fling with Nancy. I’m taking out my frustration on him, and he’s letting me, trying to make amends.
I slow down. “Maybe I’m being a little melodramatic.”
“A little?” His voice takes a defensive edge. “I’d hate to see your version of a lot.”
The hairs on the back of my neck bristle. It’s not the words he chose to use just then, but the distance he placed between us with that god-awful tone. A complete 180 from last night’s intimacy. Not that I should be surprised, he’s still the same superstar golden boy. But it pricks me in all the wrong places, like needles driven beneath my fingernails.
We reach the road where a steady stream of traffic rolls past. Big, squarish vehicles like I’ve never seen. Awful things like terrestrial boats. A rusted out pickup truck stops alongside us and a brawny lady in what looks like a nightgown leans out the window, asks if we need a ride. Probably anxious for kids to get out of town, even if it means hauling them herself.
Tristan and I climb in the bed, where a few other dirty Woodstock leftovers sit in a daze, and ride in the open wind. It’s welcome relief on my sweaty skin, in my stringy hair.
When what must be the Butterman Dairy Farm comes into view, I rap at the window and have the driver pullover. She lets us off just before a tree-lined drive and we amble alongside a modest fence toward the pastures. In the near distance, in the middle of rolling green hills, sits two red barns and a three-story house with lots of windows and a wrap-around porch—all of it like something you’d see on the cover of a country music album. Everything appears clean and well-kept. As usual, Buttermans know how to take care of business, run a tight ship. And the irony of the family name actually running a dairy farm doesn’t elude me.
The driveway is long and takes forever, but my watch confirms we’re making good time, even slogging through the muddy earth. But mud is better than dust—Tristan says this at least three times, to which I offer no acknowledgment. We’ve barely spoken since we hopped in the truck, and truth is, I’m not sure what to say to him. Every so often, he attempts some small talk, and I reply with a few noncommittal sounds that resemble words, then go back to my guarded quiet, as if the silence can deflect what lies beneath the surface. Really, though, all it seems to do is drive a wedge further between us.
I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not. Feels shitty. I have no reason not to trust him. Besides, it’s not like we’ve exchanged vows.
At my side now, Tristan nudges me with his elbow. “You have a game plan, Butterman? Or we gonna knock on the door, say guess who?”
“Database made no mention of my great, great, great grandparents—Boris’ parents. If they’re not on the grid, probably best to avoid them altogether. So no, I won’t be introducing myself.”
Two orange damselflies flutter past, and I watch them til they’re no longer visible over the pasture. For a few stolen moments, I’m reminded of yesterday’s freedom: the music, the vibe, the drug-induced vacancy. Part of me wishes I could get it back.
A loud clang comes from the adjacent barn, then some kind of agonized moaning.
I shoot Tristan a look.
He shrugs. “Let’s hope that was a cow.”
At the barn door, I peek inside, my pulse thumping at my temple. A lanky guy with a long dark ponytail kneels beside an old motorcycle, wearing a dirty white undershirt and blue jeans.
“Fudge!” he yells, which obviously was meant to be a curse. He gets to his feet, his fists clenched at his side.
The motorcycle’s chrome is smudged with grease, the black leather of its seat ripped at the seams with stuffing poking out. I shake my head to myself. I’ve seen some antique machinery at Old EagleEye’s but this contraption’s a real hunk of junk. It’s a wonder anybody ever got around with such primitive technology.
The guy spies me at the doorway and I duck back. Another loud moan pierces the air.
What the hell am I doing? Hiding?
Tristan must realize my gaffe, because he saunters right inside and up to the guy like he owns the place.
Guess you can take the spotlight off the superstar, but you can’t take the superstar out of his spotlight.
“Howdy,” Tristan says. “You wouldn’t be Boris Butterman, would you?”
The scrawny guy looks him up and down, which gives me a better glimpse at his face. It’s young, with a scruff of dark stubble on his chin, and smudges of grease on his forehead and cheeks. He has deep set eyes with dark thick lashes like my dad, and an angular jaw that gives him an ironic air of sophistication. “Yeah? Who’re you?”
Tristan holds out a hand. “Tristan Helms, from L.A.” He nods back to me. “I have a friend you may wanna meet.”
Guess there’s no avoiding the obvious. I step out and up to Boris, a strange flutter of nervousness in my chest. He’s only a stranger to me, but without him, I wouldn’t exist.
“Hi, Boris. I’m Bianca. Butterman.”
“Butterman? What, like some kind of relative or something?” he asks, glancing from me to Tristan. His voice is soft, almost feminine, caught between puberty and manhood. His light green eyes remind me so much of Dad, that my throat tightens.
“Very distant relative,” I say, my breath shaky in its exhale. I glance at his bike. “What’s wrong with it?”
His bushy brow furrowed, Boris motions toward it. “Not sure. Don’t know much about bikes, but I think the clutch cable snapped. Tried resetting it but it didn’t work.”
I squat beside it, check it out. No doubt this thing’s a dinosaur, but a clutch is a clutch. I know that from Old EagleEye’s place. Arctic winters don’t offer much in the way of recreation, especially when the sun doesn’t shine for six months. We find ways to keep busy. Learning basic mechanics was something Dad insisted on if I’m to run the Agency myself someday.
“You need a new one,” I say. How the hell a guy who can’t even fix a clutch has anything to do with time travel innovations, is beyond me. “You’re missing the ball at the end, see?”
Boris squats beside me. “Oh, yeah.”
“A new cable can be routed from the eye of the lever, then through the slot on the perch.” I show him what he has to do and get back to my feet.
“Right on.” Boris stands, gives me a look like he’s trying to figure me out, his eyes lingering on my star tats.
I’m getting tired of all the right ons, and mans. At least he didn’t say far out.
I smile. “Sure.”
“You know about bikes?” There’s a pale flicker of fascination in his eyes.
“Where I come from, maintenance is a part of daily life.”
“And where is that?” he asks.
“Alaska.”
“No kidding? Far out.”
I cringe.
The mysterious wailing erupts again from the far end of the barn, but the paddocks there are only partially visible.
Tristan scratches the new, longer scruff on his chin. “So is there a cow hiding around here?”
Boris nods toward the paddocks. “Oh, yeah, brought that one there in for milking and got distracted with my bike. She’s ready to go.” Then he eyes me again. “My dad never said we had family in Alaska. My mom know you’re coming?”
“Not exactly,” I say. “Is there somewhere we can go and chat? Just the three o
f us?”
His gaze shifts between Tristan and me, then he says, “Up the hill there.” And motions out the opposite doorway where a lone tree sits on a steep hill. “Let me hook up the milker, then I’ll meet you out there. Hey, you guys get high?”
Tristan’s about to answer, when I say, “No.”
“All right,” Boris nods. “That’s cool.”
* * *
Boris brings a rocket print bed sheet to the hill and spreads it out for us, arranging it with such anal pride, a blood test couldn’t be more proof he’s all Butterman. I try to explain we just spent the whole day in the mud at Woodstock and the blanket isn’t necessary, but he insists—I think more for his own comfort than ours. Once the creases are all smoothed out, he invites us to sit, asks to hear everything about the show.
We breeze through some details, then Tristan flops back on the sheet, and says, “How could you’ve missed the biggest music festival in the world when it was only like fifteen miles away?”
“My mom said it was for hooligans.” Boris averts the eyes that resemble my dad’s so much. “Considered hiking out there, but … I couldn’t upset her. Not with all the chores to do around here. Missing three days is like missing three weeks when there’s cows needin’ milking, equipment needin’ cleaning.”
Guess the Butter-dud doesn’t fall too far from the dairy farm. A week ago, his response would’ve seemed sensible to me. But after the last twenty-four hours … well, something inside me is undeniably different. I’ve been hacked by Tristan Helms, that’s what it is. Not that it’s so bad. Rules or not, I’m making my own choices, and I admit, there’s something liberating about it.
I catch Boris staring at me, his eyes drifting again to my star tats. “How is it again we’re related?”
Here we go. Moment of truth. I have to take a chance. The CI is too obvious not to spill everything.
I take a deep breath. “Boris, have you ever given any thought to time travel?”
His mouth falls open, but he quickly closes it, cocks a smile. “Sure I have. Read The Time Machine a few times, saw the movie. Far out stuff, right?”
“Not as far out as you think,” I say. “This will sound crazy to you at first, but stay with me. Right now, the Butterman family business is dairy. One day, though, not too long from now, it’ll be time travel.” I pause a few seconds to let that sink in. “Boris, I’m from the future, and so is Tristan.”
Boris’ mouth falls open again like he’s trying to catch a fly or something. He squints at me. “Wait a minute, just what’re you trying to pull here?”
Tristan chuckles, still on his back, gazing up at the tree limbs with a weed twirling between his teeth.
“You’re a big help, Golden Boy,” I say, but keep my tone nice and cool for Boris as I focus my attention on him. “Try to open your mind to the possibility—just for a few minutes. After we’re through talking, if you don’t wanna believe it, you don’t have to. But for right now, be open. Suspend any doubts that it could be real.”
This is my first time explaining time travel to someone from the past, and it’s one hundred percent against regulation. It’s a PF violation that definitely interrupts the timeline. And even though Butterman time travel history says a different Butterman discovered our patented version of time travel, Boris has to be the one who discovered and opened the Bethel time port. He’s the only Butterman to ever live in this part of New York and his son becomes the first Butterman time traveler. We just happen to be here before Boris makes his breakthrough. And what really trips me out, is that if this is a CI, then how do we know it wasn’t us who introduced Boris to time travel and finding the port to begin with?
Which means I really am supposed to be here, or Butterman Travel may never exist.
“Yeah, I’m open. Go for it.” Boris sits cross-legged, his palms open on his knees as if he’s meditating. “Should I get us some lemonade first? Or sandwiches? Anyone hungry?”
I shake my head. “No, let’s talk—“
“Speak for yourself, I’m starving,” Tristan pipes up.
“You can wait,” I say between my teeth. “Boris, I’m from the year 2069, a time when time travel is not only possible, but a commercialized industry regulated by the government. My parents are Gavin and Gwen Butterman, and we own Butterman Travel, Inc., based in Northern Alaska.” I elicit a nod from him to make sure he’s following. “Stay open, okay? Good. ‘Cause here’s the clencher: your future son, Paul, becomes the first Butterman time traveler, and a few generations later, is where I come in. Still with me?”
Boris nods, wide-eyed, mouth hanging open.
“Cool, ‘cause I’m your great, great granddaughter. How’s that for far out?”
Chapter
20
Boris gives me a coy smile, waves a hand dismissively. “No way. You couldn’t be my granddaughter. That’s ridiculous. But I can tell you went to a lot of trouble to think it through. Mind if I use that idea for a poem? I write poetry. As soon as I get enough money, I’m going to the City, where the other artists are. Are you artists?”
“Yeah, man, I’m a singer, songwriter, musician.” Tristan chuckles again, but sits up now, his shaggy locks wild. “But in the year 2069. Well, my career really took off in 2066, but I’m holding my own. Listen, I get it, you wanna create. I feel you. But you gotta listen to what Bianca’s saying. We need your help.”
“Boris,” I say. “Ever seen anything like this?”
I hand him my watch, let him examine it. The wide face has the compass navigator, clock, and tracking function displayed in full color HD. Reaching over, I press the side button and project the holographic world map.
Boris gasps, pokes a finger through it.
“See?” I say. “We’re not joshing you. We think you’re part of an extremely important cycle.”
His gaze becomes shifty, his voice shaky. “I don’t understand. How can I help you?”
“Do you know anything about cosmic rifts?”
Boris stares in silence, then ever so slowly looks from me to Tristan and back again. “You know about the cosmic rifts?”
There’s a spark of recognition in his eyes, no denying it.
I nod eagerly. “I knew it! You discovered them already, didn’t you? Without the rifts, there are no ports, no way to pinpoint time travel destinations. The rifts are time tunnel vortexes, how we gain access to the continuum.”
He stutters at first. “I … hardly know anything about them. I … was just starting to research black holes for my astronomy class when I stumbled onto them … and … but the probability of dimensional gateways is preposterous—that’s what my professor said …” His words lose their steam as the obvious revelation washes over him. “I’ve been losing sleep at night, trying to convince myself it isn’t revolutionary … I’m not a scientist. I’m a poet …”
“You’re good at astronomy, though, aren’t you?” I ask. “It calls you … doesn’t it?”
Boris stares blankly. “All my life. But that doesn’t mean anything. I’m a dreamer … I write verse …”
Finally, a breakthrough.
I grab his hands, squeeze them. “You’re not just a poet. You’re a future scientist on the brink of a major discovery that will change the Butterman family forever.”
He shakes his head, pulling away. “I dunno. This is too outrageous.”
“Let us show you.”
“Now?” he says. “I can’t just leave. Not with strangers. Momma would never go for it.”
“We’re not strangers,” Tristan says. “She’s family.”
I ask him point blank, “Thought this whole hippie movement was about telling The Man to stuff it? We need you to start thinking for yourself, Boris, and take a stand. No matter what your mom says.” I get to my feet, prompting him and Tristan to do the same.
Boris huffs and puffs, pacing in a circle. “You can’t just show up here and expect me to drop everything. It’s absurd. Just ‘cause of some coincidence with rifts in th
e space/time continuum. Anybody could know about those, and they mean nothing! I’m not a fool—”
“Hold on,” I say. “Just listen to me. If you can open your mind enough to get high, you can open it enough to accept this. You’re trying to wrap your brain around something that hasn’t been fully explained yet. But I’m not asking you to do that right now. Stop thinking. Don’t listen to your head at all. What does your heart tell you?”
My own words give me a chill.
Boris searches my face, as if he wants to believe me, but can’t bring himself to do it.
I grab his forearm, squeeze it. “There are no such thing as coincidences when it comes to time travel. We’re here for a reason. You discovered those cosmic rifts for a reason. And right now, Tristan and I are stuck in 1969 and need a way to get to 2069. If you’d just come with us to the time-craft, I’ll show you the port map, and how we use the rifts. It may spark something.”
I can’t believe I’m saying this to a guy who can’t even fix his own bike.
“We need to charge it too,” Tristan says, standing beside me now.
“Boris, please. I know how you’re thinking right now ‘cause I’m a Butterman too, and we tend to listen to our heads too much. But you can’t possibly believe we’d be making all this up.”
“Wow,” Boris says, his eyes boring into mine. “You sound just like my mom.”
Tristan chuckles, lays a hand on Boris’ shoulder and guides him toward the house. “She does have this motherly do-what-I-say-or-else way about her, doesn’t she?”
At this point, if sounding like his mom is what it takes to help me reopen the port, I don’t care.
“You have a battery charger?” Tristan asks him.
I’m following at their heels.
“I have jumper cables,” Boris says. “But—“
“Perfect.” I remember the info from Essence’s database. “We’ll need them.”
Tristan pats Boris’ back. “You drive?”
Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars Page 59