Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars

by Melisse Aires

  And for Tristan and me. If he’s willing to believe in himself and give up that song.

  * * *

  My body tingles, invisible pins and needles pricking every last nerve ending, til a warm sensation washes over me—a blanket of electrical currents, pulsing, probing. It’s better with my eyes closed, but I can’t resist watching my flesh flicker with digitized illumination. What’s about to happen blows my mind. My entire existence will be sucked into space and time—disassembled and reintegrated inside a bubble of cosmic matter, shot through whatever Chute or Ladder gets me to this exact spot five days ago.

  My world flashes into a blend of fluorescent green and yellow lights. An expanse of white brightness gulps me into its abyss. I am the light. A pulling inside my stomach is the only thing reminding me I’m alive. Somewhere. Sometime. My brain is merely a lens, magnifying my consciousness. No visions, no thoughts. Only movement.

  And then, a burst of energy. My form regenerates before me, as if my eyes have been open the entire time. Itchy fluxes shoot up and down my body, pulsating with light. My belly stirs. Nauseating. But it grounds me. Holy hell, I’m going to puke. Sweaty saliva fills my mouth til I tear off my helmet and turn my head to the side, fall to my knees in gags.

  Raunchy, nasty dry heaves drain me of whatever determination I once had. I need to get up, move. But my legs are like iron anchors. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I steady my breath, spit again. The taste of bile gives me shivers, and I resume the gagging all over again.

  Okay, focus.

  My palms are branded by the metal grating of the floor so that I have to clamber to my feet, quavering. I blink my eyes. Optimize visual focus … now.

  Mission Control. Port Butterman.

  I check the dashboard screen: October 15, 2069, 10:25:46 AST.

  On the dot. But with no time to waste.

  Quickly, I orient myself, set my watch for an alarm in 45 minutes. My time window is set for one hour. That means I have to be back here for port exit, or else be discovered by my parents and Garth. Talk about a hitch. The thought of my present-self and past-self getting reamed by Garth at the same time makes me want to gag again. She could even issue double citations, if she were really reaching. I shudder. Explaining T-cube to Garth is so not on the agenda. Mega timeline alteration.

  From what I can gather, T-cube science is a part of the Butterman CCL, or else Evangeline wouldn’t have given me the primer. My body shakes again.

  Gotta get out of here.

  At the heavy metal door, I press my fingerprint to the pad and it slides open. Three images are trudging up through the snow. Only takes a couple of seconds for me to register. My parents and Garth. Holy hell. My calculations were off. I was sure I had at least an hour before they examined the docking bay and vessel. If they question why the port is opened, they may find traces of my T-cube. I don’t know if it left a digital residue, and I don’t have time to check.

  Swiftly, I shut the door, backing off to the side. I can’t let them see me. How long do I have? Who knows, everything’s off now. I scan the bay. I’ll have to use the maintenance shaft through the floor. No other choice.

  At the hatch beside the shaft, I punch the combination into the floor keypad. It pops open with a squish, releasing frosty air. Climbing inside, I pull the door closed, except for a tiny crevice, which allows me to watch the bay door. My mouth is dry, bitter. I work up some saliva and wet my lips. Once I close this hatch, I can’t reopen from down here. Right about now, I’m really wishing Dad had installed that second keypad he’s always talked about. It’s never been an urgency, since we’ve always worked on maintenance together.

  There is another way out though, and if I dwell on it for more than a few seconds, I may lose my nerve.

  The bay door slides open with a crank, commanding my attention. I duck a little lower. Snow crusted boots pad over the grated floor. One, two, three pairs. Voices.

  Now or never.

  I slink beneath and let the hatch secure itself in the grooves. Total darkness. I strain to hear the voices, make out what they’re saying but it’s soundproof down here. Shrouded in darkness, I make my way down the shaft ladder. Frigid air quickens my breath.

  My boots reach the ground and I fumble for the light switch, flicking it on. It offers a dim glow—just enough to get my bearings. A sudden twinge of nostalgic admiration surprises me as I pass beneath Essence. I miss the ol’ girl. Can’t resist giving her bottom half a pat on my way, as if she could appreciate the affection.

  In this tight space, there’s only enough room for routine maintenance, and nothing more. Still a draft travels through, coming from the garbage chute at the other end. It’s an even tighter space down there, meant for scraps and litter. Barely enough room for a small body. The idea of claustrophobia isn’t what bothers me, it’s the sudden drop off down the mountainside that has my palms sweating.

  Has to be done.

  Feet first, I wedge myself inside the chute. The sides are snug at my hips, and impossibly cold. Daylight filters through the cracks, creating a shimmer on the metallic surface. In a jerky wiggle, I shimmy in til I’m fully encompassed, then slow and steady, work my way down, little by little. Luckily, the buffer suit’s slick enough that my body slides nicely. Still, it’s a slow process to reduce momentum and prevent my ass from sailing right out the other end and down the mountainside.

  Once the wind bites at my face, I know I’ve reached the chute’s end.

  My footing gives, and like a slippery eel, I glide downward.

  Heart. In. Throat.

  My eyes squeeze shut, my body stiffens. I should slam into the hard ground any second.

  Except, my right hand manages to catch the chute’s rim, grab on tight. Dang, I wish I was a gymnast. I reach up with my other hand, but my strength is ebbing away. I will fall—only a matter of time. But how should I fall?

  Looking down, I surmise the landing. One wrong step, and the steep incline will send me crashing down the mountain in full Bianca-avalanche mode. As slippery as my buffer suit is, I should slither down at a nice lightning-fast speed.

  Then I’ll be screwed for sure. By the time I could climb back up to intercept Tristan, I’ll have already exceeded my time window—that’s if I don’t break any bones on the way down.

  Not a good time to consider the negative. Must take action, keep sights on the goal.

  With a forceful swing of my legs, I propel my body from the chute, my hand scratching hard over the cold metal rim.

  My body slams into the snow-crusted ledge.

  I hug the ground. Sweet, wonderful ground! Snow caves in around me, and I let my body sink further in to prevent sliding. My shoulders collapsing inward, my weight presses down, indenting the surface. Once all the loose powder stops moving, I inch my body sideways along the ledge. It’s not far, and if I can secure my hands on the rocky overhang, I’m golden.

  After some careful maneuvering, and very little breathing, I do just that. Not til my feet are both firmly planted on the plateau behind the Launchpad, do I finally exhale.

  Holy hell, I wasn’t cut out for this. I’m a time traveler, not a superhero.

  Hiking up and around the bend, I notice black grease on my palms. My silvery suit has blotches and blemishes too. Probably all over my face from the garbage chute. I give myself a whiff. I smell like a mechanic’s garage. How am I going to convince past-Tristan to believe anything I say? I must look like a filthy space dope.

  Still, I rehearse my spiel, descending the opposite side of the mountain, parallel the pathway that we usually snowmobile or jetpack up. Gives me time to decompress, suck in some fresh air. When I reach my house and front office, I pause at the patch of fir trees to the left, where I can safely observe from obscurity. My gaze is fixed on the oblong Butterman Travel Agency, Inc. placard fixed over the tinted front office windows like a unibrow. A bit of surreal familiarity settles over me. I’ve always loved the contrast of our house’s red brick architecture with the
snowy setting. Doesn’t look like a house, but doesn’t look like an office either. Looks more like a village train station that time forgot.

  Time forgot.

  And then he’s there. Tristan Helms, hopping off Agnes Sharp’s passenger snowmobile with his frameless aviators and ball cap on.

  Feels like my intestines are bunching together. Time-lag? Or hopeless crush? I don’t know which one is the culprit assaulting my innards, but I can’t be distracted with it. Right now I’m no understudy. I’m going on stage.

  Operation: Alter a Timeline, a go.

  Chapter

  26

  For a few breathless moments, I’m overwhelmed. It’s him—that golden boy superstar I never expected to have a thing in common with—looking like he just stepped out of a fashion eZine. Pristine in his pale green jacket and designer jeans; those never-before-worn hiking boots. Past-Tristan. A time travel virgin. Fresh out of rehab and riddled with a dream he thinks only one song can offer him.

  I knew I was eager to see him again, but I didn’t expect this. My heart is swelling inside my chest like it’s been injected with some kind of growth serum.

  I let my eyes close for reprieve. It’s not the right time to want him. There’s still so much to learn about him. So many reasons why we don’t mix.

  Eyes open, I make my move.

  Steady as she goes.

  Ambling up the pathway, he pulls his cap lower, as if the Arctic paparazzi could be ready to spring from hidden igloos at any second.

  Approaching him from the side, I say, “Tristan, hi.”

  His eyes are shielded by lenses. “Hey.”

  His voice is so uncanny, for a second I think he recognizes me and my heart leaps. But he’s only being friendly. I remind myself he’s used to being recognized.

  “I’m Bianca Butterman, of Butterman Travel.” My gaze shifts to the tinted office windows where I can see the reflection of fire from the hearth. I return my gaze to Tristan. “Um, could I have a private word with you?”

  “Wait, you’re from Butterman Travel? Did my agent call you? I told her I was—”

  “No, I didn’t talk to your agent.” I hesitate, searching his face, wishing I could see his eyes. I have mixed urges of kicking him and embracing him at the same time. “It’s tricky. Well, not for me, but for you to understand … Let me just say—something you once told me—relax, and the answers will come to you.”

  “I told you?” He gestures himself. “Do I know you? Have we spoken before?”

  “Yeah, actually we spent two days together.”

  Now that I say it aloud, two days doesn’t seem like much. But so much happened, and so many secrets were shared.

  “But that’s in the future for you. It’s my past.” I glance again at the office. “I came here from the future to see you, talk to you. It’s important. I know why you’re here.”

  He makes a little scoffing sound. “You’re not serious.”

  I wish I could get my professional businesslike self back, instead of being under the influence of this dreamy-eyed crush. “Look, I know you’re used to chicks falling all over you. I’ve seen it. But trust me when I say, I’m not one of them. I’m not even a U-Turn fan.”

  He gives me a cold half-nod.

  “I don’t mean it in a bad way—you know I don’t like tweenie pop—well, you don’t know it right now, but you will, once you enter that office and meet me. Past-me. But for you right now, it’s present-me.” I sigh. “Any of this making sense?”

  He starts up the pathway again. “Not really.”

  “You’re here ‘cause you want to go back to your penthouse in Manhattan to get a song you were working on, before you got addicted to heliox.”

  He halts, his back to me.

  I continue. “You think it’ll give you a jumpstart on your failing solo career. You think that song’s the key, but you can’t remember any of it. That’s why you’re here.”

  He turns, inches toward me, minimizing his glasses and stowing the sliver-like base into his jeans pocket. His eyes are a dull blue-gray. “You are serious.”

  “I met your gray cat Sadie, and dodged your friend Declan, who’s not really your friend.”

  I let his gaze examine everything from my star tats to my buffer suit til my self-consciousness makes me fold my arms over my chest. Normally, I’d never let this fly without a wisecrack. But today is definitely not normal.

  “That is effed up.” He almost giggles, then resumes a straight face. “I never told anyone about that song.”

  “You told me. Past-me. The me that’s in that office right now.”

  “Sublime. Means we make it happen, and I get my song.”

  Only thinking of himself again, I see. “Sort of.”

  I give him a brief rundown of events, brushing over the gaffe with his song, and take a deep breath. “That’s why I’m here now—changing the course of our timeline.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Not supposed to, but in this case, I have to. The future of my Agency depends on it.”

  “And you’re saying I messed that up?”

  “Not exactly, but you didn’t help either. Right now, a special agent from the DOT is with my parents doing a full review of our operation, making sure we’re up to code. They’ll be watching every move we make from here on out.”

  Tristan makes a face. “But you’re saying I stole my own song from my apartment. How can I steal something that’s already mine?”

  “The timeline was altered, that’s what I’m saying. No one knows exactly what’ll happen when time strings are tampered with. Could’ve been the fact we were inside your penthouse, and taking your song simply initiated a series of paradoxical events. Like I said, we ran into some trouble. The main problem was the DOT had already hacked into our string and were looking for errors. For reasons to shut my Agency down.”

  “Then why’re you here blaming me?”

  My teeth clench. “I’m not blaming you, I’m intercepting you—to change what happened.”

  “Didn’t you just say that was against the rules?” He laughs. “Bet you wanna blame me for this part too.”

  I hesitate, the words jumbled in my mind. How do I get them out in order? How do I keep from punching him? I know he gets mood swings as a result of his addiction, but I can’t make excuses for him. I won’t.

  I sigh, long and steady. “I don’t suppose you could just trust me, could you? I went to a lot of trouble to get here.”

  Tristan’s quiet a minute, soaking it all in. He studies the front office. “Nobody could know the things you just told me. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t travel back to get my song, now that I know what not to do. We just avoid all that, right?”

  The gravity of the situation rests on my shoulders, heavy and large. Can we still go to Manhattan and avoid the errors? Does that twelve hours become part of what binds Tristan and I together—what ignites that irresistible passion that comes later? How do I know it wasn’t something on that journey that sparked his interest in me? I was a leader on the first part of that trip. He looked up to me, needed me. I was a hippie-outcast at Woodstock. Maybe he’ll be turned off if we skip Manhattan.

  I have to take that chance. Butterman Travel is more important. Evangeline and Evan wanted me to know that, or they wouldn’t have come back in time. I have to convince Tristan to go to Woodstock, continue the CCL. I have to believe he’ll still be a part of my future.

  “During the trip to Manhattan we experience a diversion,” I finally say. “Bethel, New York. August 1969.”

  He makes a funny face. “Woodstock?”

  I nod. “To see your rock hero. The diversion is my idea, but the location is yours, and it has to stay that way. That’s why I need you to go inside that office and request a time trip there. My past-self has to take you.”

  “Ditch the trip to Manhattan so we can go to effin’ Woodstock?” His face is scrunched in confusion, his chin, dimpled. “Whoa, why didn’t I think of that sooner?
Hell to the yes I wanna go to Woodstock and see Hendrix.” He peers at me. “And you’re saying we already went?”

  I nod.

  “Well, did we have fun? We get to see Jimi Hendrix perform?”

  “When you get there, look for a girl named Nancy at the lake.” I can’t believe I’m encouraging him to find her. “She’ll get you in to meet him.”

  “Whoa, I’m like, wow. Unfuckingbelivable.” His head shakes, his arms swinging at his sides with new energy. “But we have to forget my song? I can’t do that. I need those lyrics.”

  “You think you need it, but Tristan, you don’t. Let it go. Your voice is the key to your future, not that song. You’re really talented. You can always write more songs.”

  “Talented?” he repeats, like he’s not sure he could believe it. “You don’t understand, that song was me at my best … Wait a minute, you heard my song? I sang it?”

  I nod.

  “You’re the only one who’s ever heard it before. How did it sound? I can’t remember the lyrics, were they any good?”

  I snatch him aside as the office front door opens. We crouch beside the snowmobile corral, watch as Kayla schleps up the pathway. My hands tremble, not because Kayla wouldn’t totally understand if future-me showed up suddenly, but because if she met Tristan right now, it’d throw me off schedule in a big way, possibly screw up everything.

  Once she’s gone, I pull Tristan to his feet, continue. “Believe me when I say, you’ll be inspired at Woodstock. I know you think that song holds your future, but your success is in your talent—your voice. Right now you don’t know me from the gazillion fans you have, but I know you. And I know you’re destined for greatness. All I’m asking is for you to be great right now. Go to Woodstock.”

  He studies me so hard, I feel transparent.

  A few lyrics dance through my head. “Lost on the tides of time, where nothing true can ever hide.”

  It seems to dawn on him slowly, his face brightening. “Those words—”

  “They’re yours,” I say. “They’re still there, inside you. Maybe now you’ll remember.”