Butterman (Time) Travel, Inc.

by PK Hrezo

  In the afternoons, I dabble with bike and jetpack parts at Old EagleEye’s. He lets me tinker all I want, and he talks a lot, rambles on about the old stories he loves to tell and never gets tired of. I listen and smile in the appropriate places, but don’t say much. He’s okay with that, and we have that understanding. Besides, what would I say? Tell him I’m still coming to terms with possibly ruining my family’s livelihood, or that I may never see my pilot license again? That it may be a year or more before I see my Induction Day, if at all? Or that I lost the nerve to call the only guy I’ve ever cared about, for fear of rejection?

  I don’t know how to put those things into words. So we communicate through mechanics, and pretend a requested wrench is friendly advice; an oil change, valuable therapy.

  Truth is, even though my parents aren’t upset with me, and believe everything I told them about the CCL, their hands are tied til our hearing. They can’t operate the time-craft legally, and so we’re stuck here and now. They were aware of Boris, but only of his vortex discoveries and initial satellite design, which didn’t truly start til he moved to Manhattan in 1970, after his parents sold the dairy farm. Mom and Dad never even heard of Butterman Farms Dairy, which proves the CCL skipped their generation entirely. Apparently Boris died in his forties, and the technology waited until his son was old enough to continue it, thereby letting Paul take most of the credit.

  Aside from the technicalities, though, Dad insists Evan and Evangeline showing up in Bethel was a sign Butterman Travel will continue to operate, even if for now we’re stuck with present day legalities. He says if our current situation had any potential of a dire outcome, Evan and Evangeline would show up here too. Kinda like time traveler insurance. A well-planned Butterman policy.

  Mom disagrees, although you can see something inside her wants to believe it. She claims it’s unwise to believe future Buttermans will show up to save the day every time we get into trouble—that we have to be accountable for something, no matter what the future regulations are.

  The pessimistic part of me sides with her. But also like her, I want to believe Dad’s right.

  * * *

  My boots crunch over the crusty snow of the trail with deep, sturdy steps. Temperature’s dropping. The day is overcast, bitter. I’m headed up the mountainside for my daily dose of Arctic tree Zen, when I hear a voice behind me and I turn.

  Kayla’s trudging behind me to catch up, her knit beanie snug over her ears, her cheeks rosy with a color I wish I could wear comfortably.

  “You done avoiding me yet?” she calls, grins because she’s not offended. She rarely is.

  She knows me well enough to show up when I need her, without me having to ask. I’m not good at asking. Truth is, I’m not sure why I’ve been avoiding her. Maybe because she can read me better than anyone, and I’m not comfortable being an open book. Or ready to admit what I’m afraid is true—as if it seals my fate, confirms a life threatening disease.

  “I’m not avoiding you,” I say. “Just been … distracted with family stuff, you know?”

  It’s a formality, and she knows it. There’s been deeper meaning found in moose tracks.

  “Whatever you say.” She slogs beside me, her hands in her beige snowpant pockets.

  We’re quiet awhile, enjoying the sound of the wind whistling over the frosty surface. At the overlook point, beneath the lip of a higher ledge, we huddle together in a rocky nook, shoulder to shoulder against the cold surface of the mountain. The wind is nippier here, so we both pull up our fur lined hoods, tie them at our necks like Eskimos.

  “Ready to talk about it?” Her pointed little nose is red, her lower lip chapped.

  I take a deep breath, play it cool. “Not much to talk about. Life’s on hold. Who knows when I’ll get to save Titanic, if ever. Frustrating not to know, but not much I can do about it.”

  “That’s what you’re worried about? Titanic?” She squints at me.

  I shrug. “Why wouldn’t it be? Means everything to me, and I’ve waited forever.”

  She laughs. “A ship with a bunch of strangers on it means a lot to you?”

  I feel my brows furrow. With the back of my coat sleeve, I wipe my dripping nose. “You know it does.”

  “Yeah. But why is that? Why do you care so much about it?”

  I hesitate, surprised by her blunt tone, and by my lack of a good answer now that the question’s staring me in the face. “Feels like I know those people, even if I’ve never met them. I know you don’t get it. But it’s part of the Butterman tradition—a true time traveler’s initiation. And Titanic was all mine.”

  “Like you’re not already a time traveler.” Kayla pulls out her mini-gumball tin and pops a couple in her mouth. “You know, that’s your problem, Bee, you’re everywhere but here. Anytime but now.”

  I angle toward her, ducking against the brisk wind now whipping under the ledge. “My problem?”

  “’Cause I know if my parents’ business was down the drain I wouldn’t be sitting around sulking about it.” She gnaws at her fresh gum.

  “Think I haven’t tried? That’s why I diverted and evaded the DOT. But it did nothing to change the fact we’re shut down now. What am I supposed to do?”

  She shrugs, wipes her own nose now. “Your time-craft’s still there, right? Use it.”

  “And risk even more?” She doesn’t understand, and sometimes I have to wonder if she ever will. “Not a good move. Anyway, Garth’s got it on lockdown.”

  “Oh please, how hard can it be?” Kayla scoffs. “You’re the only chick I know who can redo the shocks on a four-by-four. I’m sure you can work it out.”

  I’m completely baffled by her right now—that it all seems so obviously simple to her. “Even if I could hack into the DOT’s master code and unlock the operation, I couldn’t power on the vessel without alerting them. May as well call Garth Vader up and announce it.”

  “See, just like I said, you’re not a risk taker ‘cause your mind’s in the wrong place.”

  “What are you talking about? Geez, you sound like some drunken mystic with crystal balls and voodoo dolls.”

  Kayla’s quiet a minute, getting some good chews in, then adds, “My dad says when you have something worth fighting for, risks are only obstacles.”

  “You don’t think I wanna fight for my Induction Day? I’d do anything to make it happen. Planned it my entire life. I’m meant to save Titanic, I know it.”

  She peers into my face. “I’m not talking about your Induction. You’re meant to save the people you love. That is worth fighting for.”

  “I …” Wait. I was about to say I love Titanic. How can I love a ship? Or the strangers on it? I’ve been obsessing and I don’t even know why.

  “Seems like you’d be more motivated to fight for something, or someone, when you do it out of love.” She wipes her nose again.

  I shiver. Not sure if it’s the cold wind, or the revelation now washing over me. How have I been so blind, so oblivious? My head has been in the clouds since I returned. It’s not about Titanic. Not really. It never was.

  “I can fix it.” I hear myself say.

  Kayla smiles. “Sure you can. You’re brilliant.”

  “I can erase my mistakes and save Butterman Travel.” A bubble of excitement rises up from my toes to my shoulders. “Kay, you’re right. Why didn’t you show up and kick some sense into me sooner?”

  “Hey, you were the one avoiding me.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right, I don’t know what’s gotten into me these last three days—”

  “I do.” Her tone is stone-cold certain.

  Makes my throat constrict.

  “I’m your best friend.” Her voice becomes soothing. “I know everything about you—like when you roll your eyes, you do it to keep from saying something smart-ass. And when your emotions overwhelm you, you stay silent. And I know that when you haven’t got a tight grasp on something, or you’ve got no control over it, you hide from it.” She pauses,
her eyes a warm vivid brown. “You weren’t just avoiding me, you’ve been avoiding yourself. You’re used to telling me everything, and the thought of saying what you’re feeling out loud scares the crap out of you.”

  A blunt stinging in my chest makes me bite my lower lip. But I laugh through watery eyes. Maybe she knows me too well. “Screw you, Kay.”

  She snickers. “I knew something was up when you messaged me, said you’d be busy for who knows how long. Vague and aloof doesn’t suit you. Girl, after everything that happened, you shoulda been chomping at the bit to vent. And I was ready to hear it all. But you clammed up, never returned my calls or messages—especially when I asked about Tristan.” She slugs my bicep. “Can’t blame you, but you gotta admit, you falling for Tristan is like the sappiest rom-com ever.”

  I fight a smile. A warm spurt of energy shoots up from my legs through my entire body, invigorating me. How did she get so perceptive? I can’t hide anything from her. My sister from another mister.

  “I refuse to be sappy,” I say with a mock pout. “I am not sappy.”

  Kayla shakes her head, a pretentious arch to her brow. “Are you kidding me, Bee? You fell for Tristan Helms.” She chuckles. “I mean, a golden boy and a dark bettie? What a riot! Total match made in heaven if you ask me.”

  My insides knot at the sound of his name, and even though she’s making fun of him—of us—it cracks a little bit of the shell I’d started to form. A protective shell, because there’s so much to consider. Yes, I’m crazy about him, but he’s a superstar—used to dating supermodels and celebrities. Not to mention the little fact he’s a recovering addict. I saw how weak he was at Woodstock—how easily he caved in whenever anyone offered. What if he starts using again? What if it’s my fault?

  Then again, I caved pretty quickly myself. What if we’re dangerous together? All I know is, there’s more to him than his weaknesses. He’s funny, and talented, and sexy, and full of adventure. I want to be there for him, do everything I can to be supportive. If I could just—

  Looking at Kayla’s big brown eyes, it occurs to me she may feel a twinge of envy. She was the Tristan fan, not me.

  I flash her a guilty frown. “So you’re not upset … that I, you know, feel this way about him?”

  “Seriously?” She feigns offense. “You have to even ask? Okay, maybe a teensy-weensy sliver of jealousy, but it’s so totally nothing. Come on, Bee, I love you. You hooking up with Tristan is the most magic thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

  I hold onto her arm. She’s getting too carried away. “Wait a minute, you don’t understand. We’re not together. I never called him. He already left. And he didn’t say goodbye.”

  I don’t mention I called the inn disguised as someone else, to see if he was still there.

  “I know,” she says. “Saw him just before he left.”

  I perk up again. “You did?”

  “Hell yeah, you think I’d let him leave without another hug? Plus, I needed him. Had to stream a few more pictures, get his digital autograph for some media fan swag.”

  “What’d he say … about me?”

  “That you’d know how, and where, to reach him after you’d had some time, you know—to straighten things out.”

  My thoughts whir into a spiral. How would I know? Look up his phone number from his file? Where did he go, though? LA? New York?

  “He didn’t say anything else?” I ask. “Like where he was headed?”

  “Back to LA, but he didn’t have much to say. He wasn’t very talkative at all, actually. Matter of fact, he seemed different. Had the same look you do.” She half smiles in a way that suggests she’s about to lose something important, and that she’s come to terms with it. “No cure for what the both of you have. Least, not as far as I’ve heard.”

  “No cure?” Where the hell is she going with this?

  She sighs, all dramatic like. “Symptoms indicating a full blown crush. Diagnosis: hopeless infatuation. I would know, my dad’s part shaman, remember? Anyway, he says love is an ugly beast, but worth every tear shed.”

  I don’t know which I believe more—the fact it’s worth it, or the fact there’ll be tears. Either way, if Tristan’s waiting for me to call him, I’m only pushing him farther away by not. I can’t dwell on that right now, though.

  Not when there’s so much work to do.

  CHAPTER 25

  Tristan Helms crushing on me? Spunker chick from northern Alaska? A nobody—a crowd cringer? I’m so not right for him. I keep telling myself it’s not possible, that Kayla imagined him romantically interested in me because she wanted it to be true. She, of course, disagrees with me. Said if she were going to imagine him in love with someone, it’d be with herself.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Dad asks at my bedroom door. “Been in here all day.”

  I freeze my holo-screen, flash him an innocent daughterly smile. “Fine, Dad. Just keeping busy. Oh, got an IM from the university—I can start online next week.”

  He wears a sympathetic little smile. “Great, honey. Really great.”

  But it’s not really. I know what he’s thinking, because I’m thinking the same thing—that it’s not at all like we planned for. I wasn’t going to enroll in college courses til after my Induction, when my trip guide certification was active and I held a bona fide digital pilot’s license. That’s how we envisioned it happening. But things don’t always turn out as planned, and as I’ve proven, certifications can be revoked before they’re even a week old. Hard for us Buttermans to accept these types of setbacks, but Dad and I are learning together. Besides, my college was prepaid before I was ten, and now is as good a time as any to start.

  Truth is, I’m in a way better place mentally. I can live with waiting a while longer for my Induction Day. I mean, part of me will always have hopes of getting there, but a girl’s got to have priorities. Priorities that I can’t mention to Dad or Mom right now. And as much as it tugs at my heartstrings, I have to let Dad believe I’m heartbroken about missing my Induction.

  He enters my room, pats my shoulder. “New college courses will take your mind off things, you’ll see.”

  “I know.”

  “Dinner in an hour.” He leaves, shuts my door behind him.

  Little does he know, that before breakfast tomorrow, our lives should change. And if my calculations are correct, and thanks to Evangeline and the research of Andres Morrisey Genetical Engineering, along with the Ryvier equation application, my CCL breach may not be a breach at all.

  Possible parallel shift or not, it has to be done. After all, only a Butter-dud would avoid taking risks and breaking rules, and that sure the hell isn’t me.

  * * *

  In approximately forty-eight hours, Special Agent Lola Garth will be back at Port Butterman with more DOT officials to dissect Essence and the Butterman time travel technology. Doesn’t matter that they have their own, they want to mess with ours too—in the name of regulation. But I don’t buy it anymore. That’s what Evangeline and Evan tried to tell me in very few words. Took Kayla to hammer it into my head.

  The answers were right in front of me: Butterman Travel does have a future. That’s what the DOT hates. They want our science, and they want to control us. They’re afraid of us and of what we become. Garth tried to scare me into making different choices—choices that appeared to be the correct ones, when it was anything but. She was banking on me following the rules. That’s a clear indicator that they lose their power in the future, or they wouldn’t go to all the trouble of hacking into time strings and spying on time travelers.

  As mind-boggling as it is, I have to accept it, believe it. The time is now.

  But what good is being a time traveler—working for a time travel agency—if you can’t make changes? And like Dad says, you have to know when to make the right choices, even if it means questioning authority and thinking outside the proverbial box.

  Inside the docking bay of the Launchpad, I power up the mission control dashboard
so the holo-screen blinks into life. Mom and Dad went ice fishing for the day—what they claim is a fresh start—doing things they’ve always said they wanted more time for. Making the most of free time off from work.

  The familiar whirs and blips from the dashboard are a sweet mechanical lullaby. They set my mind at ease, relax my nerves. I’m so at home here. And as wrong as everything is, it feels right.

  I was born to be a time traveler.

  For kicks, I bring up the first Frozen Solstice song on my playlist, counting on the throaty wails of Dirk Stiles to pump me up. One of their best songs grinds over the speakers. But instead of motivating me, it makes me feel empty. Right now, it’s Tristan’s song I’d like to hear—that honey-rich voice he holds secret from the world.

  Holy hell, if Frozen Solstice won’t even work for me, I don’t know if I can be repaired.

  Here’s where I’d normally conjure the perfect adage like time heals all wounds and marinate in its quaint wisdom. But I’m not wounded, only forever altered, by the same guy I still haven’t brought myself to contact. First things first.

  My body heaves a deep-rooted sigh.

  Brushing my palm over the dashboard panels, I clear away the film of dust that’s settled there. No more waves of nervousness or bouts of fear. I’m in full control. I know what I have to do.

  I climb into my trusty buffer suit, pull my boots back on. Grabbing the cord on my zipper, I zip up my back. A few stretches and deep breaths earn me some more wiggle room and I catch a glimpse of myself in the floor-length mirror behind the partition. My makeup is lighter today, minimal for my style. No scarlet lip tint, or charcoal eyeshadow. My usual chaotic pixie cut is flat and framed around my face. This is how Tristan liked me best. At Woodstock, when all masks were off, and we were free.