by PK Hrezo
I push my shoulders back, weighing my words carefully before I let them out. I can’t let people see me riled up. Be smart, Bianca. “When I was a little kid, I used to bite my fingernails down to the quick. Sometimes they’d bleed. My mom tried everything to get me to stop, but I couldn’t break the habit. For a long time I had to wear bandages on all my fingers, and it affected my ability to type. My parents didn’t
give up on me, though. They didn’t tell me it was hopeless, or that I’d never be able to fully use my fingers again. They stuck by me and kept at me til I got better—til I broke the habit. And it’s never interfered in the job I do today.”
“Point taken,” Germaine is quick to say. “But nail-biting doesn’t have the potential of ruining your life, or the lives of those around you.”
“You should’ve seen my nails.” My poor attempt at making light of the situation.
Germaine cracks a half smile. “I want to thank you for being with us today, and helping our viewers get the story straight. We wish you the best, Bianca Butterman, and you as well, Agent Lola Garth. Thank you for your time.”
The WNN theme music plays and the screen shot shifts from Germaine’s head to a montage of past interviews with various people.
Garth removes her hand from my shoulder. Lights come on all over the office now and the staff starts moving around again. Mom and Dad rush over and Dad shakes Garth’s hand, while Mom thanks her profusely. Ignoring me as if I’m not even in the room, much less their daughter who just handled a worldwide press release.
This is all so weird—knowing the world is watching and having opinions about everything I say and do. Bizarre as hell. Only one person I can think of who knows exactly what it feels like.
I swivel my palm-com device around to message Tristan, but Mom and Dad crowd me now.
“You did great, Bee,” Dad says. “We’re proud of you.”
“Agent Garth thinks this will go over well,” Mom adds.
“It ended on a perfect note,” Garth says.
“Let’s get some lunch, huh?” Mom says to me, then focuses on Garth. “Lola, would you care to grab a bite to eat with us?”
Lola? Mom’s on a first name basis with her now?
“Love to.” Garth makes for the hallway, device in hand. “I just have to conference HQ, and then I’ll meet up with you, say in thirty?”
My skin prickles in the worst way. Who does she have to talk to first? I really don’t like the way she comes and goes at random.
Mom notices my discomfort. “You okay? It’s over now. You can relax.”
“Doesn’t it creep you out that the DOT is staying in our house?” I ask.
“We’ve been through this,” Mom says like she’s looking at a poor little low-IQ child who can’t keep up. “We don’t have to treat them like the enemy. Better for us and for them if we can work together.”
I lower my voice, directing it more toward Dad. “How would Germaine Ricks know about the Manhattan time trip? How do we know Garth is who she says she is? That she’s Garth from now, and not Garth from some other time string?”
Dad scans the room. “That occurred to me as well.”
Again, Mom nods us toward the hallway. “I think it’s best if we sit down and talk with Lola before jumping to conclusions. We should keep this as tactful as possible, no accusations, understand?”
Dad looks like he might protest, then nods agreeably instead. “Your mother is right. Let’s stay on our toes, but give Agent Garth the benefit of the doubt. It’s possible there’s an ulterior motive behind her actions, but it’s also possible that the motive is a worthy one. Fact is we don’t know how the Timeline Rewrite affected the DOT’s relationship with us.” He frowns, looks me square in the eye. “It’s why I don’t like playing around with do-overs. Promise me you won’t pull a stunt like that again without consulting me first.”
I have to roll my eyes because I have promised him—when I first told him and Mom everything that happened. “I know, Dad. Just … don’t forget what I told you, or what we learned about what Garth’s father was trying to accomplish.”
“No, I couldn’t.” He drapes an arm over my shoulder, guiding me down the hall. “We’ll evaluate everything. Now’s not the time for accusations, regardless of what happened in previous time strings. First and foremost, we have a business to run. Don’t forget that, Bee.”
I know he’s right, but patience has never been my virtue, and diplomacy is as foreign to me as chipper cheeks on camera. Better start practicing my poker face, or I’ll never get through this lunch.
“Your mother’s right,” Dad continues. “If we can make this situation work to our benefit, we could come out on top. Having the DOT on our side is not a bad thing, and Agent Garth may just be the liaison we’ve needed. Maybe she can even reduce those port taxes for your Induction trip.”
“You’re not thinking of telling her about that, are you?” I ask.
We enter the kitchen where Mom starts pulling food out of the fridge and setting it on the island’s stainless steel counter top. Dad finds a corner at the counter and straddles a bar stool, projecting his device’s holo-screen. He makes no mention of what he’s doing, but I snoop from my peripheral and can just barely make out a bit of data on the DOT.
Mom clangs bowls onto the counter and begins tossing lettuce. “I’ll make sandwiches, and Bianca, if you could grab some of Agnes’ chowder mix from the pantry, we’ll put the soup on so it’ll be ready when Lola gets back.”
I head down the opposite hall for the dry storage pantry. The way this house was built was modeled after the log cabins of olden days, giving the illusion of real logs stacked and mortared from the ground halfway up the wall, only with twenty-first century insulation. I slip into the pantry and breathe in the heavy spice aroma, grateful for a private moment to contact Tristan before Garth arrives.
I send him a brief message, then scan the shelves for the sacks of chowder mix and grab one. My device is now fastened to the back of my hand in transport mode and I check it again to make sure I haven’t missed a message. Still nothing. Where is he?
Cradling the sack like a baby in the nook of my left arm, I access the phone app and call his number. The screen grays out with no answer and clicks off. His avatar didn’t even pop up. Why isn’t he connecting?
Did I say something wrong during the interview? Quickly, I replay the details in my head, but it’s a blur of nerves and stress. Come to think of it, I’m not sure what I even said—something about fingernails and beaten reputations …
Before Garth stepped in to save me.
* * *
I move the salad around in my bowl, but I can’t bring myself to take a bite. Not with Garth sitting across from me, playing buddy-buddy with the woman who gave me life. They spend minutes discussing the town and the media crowding the inn, while Garth slices her cherry tomatoes in perfect halves and arranges them symmetrically on top of her lettuce and croutons like some kind of preconsumption ritual.
Dad seems as annoyed with the mindless chit-chat as I am and says nothing while he polishes off his chowder and clinks his spoon into the bowl as a final encore. “Agent Garth, we appreciate you being here, and as you know, we’ve canceled bookings so that we can clear things up. Do you have a timeframe as to when we can get back to business as usual?”
“I understand your concerns,” she says, licking her lips once. “I did mention it to HQ. They’re quite pleased with how Bianca’s interview went, and from what I can tell, the ratings are favorable.”
Ugh, I don’t want to know what the gossip sites are saying. With no word from Tristan or Kayla over the last hour, I’ve been blissfully tuned out. I know it’s probably killing Kayla not to call with the latest gossip, but she’s respecting Dad’s specific request.
“So they do believe Bianca, then?” Mom asks Garth. “And the competency of the agency?”
“See for yourself.” Garth swivels her device toward Mom and projects the holo-screen at an angle
that allows us better visuals.
WNN’s home page opens up and Garth gesture-scrolls to the recent interview ratings and polls page. My interview is still front and central, paused on my faux-rosy face in an awkward mid-word pose. Beside it is a real time poll with questions on everything from what I was wearing, to how believable my answers were.
Garth selects the results tab and a graph populates. “About 40% of the public believe she’s telling the truth. Could be better, but it’s a start.”
“How come not more than that?” I ask, cracking my neck.
“Considering everything in Tristan’s past, and the speculation and gossip on the interwebs, 40% isn’t bad. Trust has to be earned from the public, which is why my chief officer believes a publicized time trip will be good for you, and the agency.” Garth flashes me an almost believable smile.
“Earn their trust?” I say. “Why? They’re not booking time trips—most of them can’t even afford it. Who cares if they don’t believe me?” I
look to Dad for reassurance.
He’s studying the numbers though and doesn’t notice me. “Only 22% believe Tristan won’t use again. Not very optimistic.”
Garth sighs. “Like I said, trust has to be earned, and Tristan still has some work to do.”
“But he hasn’t done anything wrong to anyone,” I say.
They ignore my comment.
“54% believe Bianca knows how to pilot and command a time-craft,” Mom says. “That’s not bad.”
“76% believe Butterman Travel is a safe, reliable operation,” Garth says. “The DOT would like that to be 100%. But we’ll settle for 95%. Question is, how do we get these numbers up?” She lets her gaze drift over our faces, one by one.
“But this is just one poll, from one site,” I say.
Garth tilts her head. “True, but Web World News is the head honcho when it comes to public opinion. More people follow and participate in their data collection than anywhere else. To put it bluntly, if you can make it with WNN, you can make it anywhere, with anyone.”
“What are you suggesting?” Dad asks, making eye contact with Garth now.
“The public needs to see Bianca in action, making good decisions. The world needs to see what she can do.”
“As in, say, an official time traveler’s induction?” Dad glances at me.
“What?” I say. “No, Dad, I don’t want this—”
“Induction?” Garth asks.
Mom jumps in while I stare at Dad, wishing telepathy was a reality.
“Lola, the Induction is a family tradition. A coming of age within the ranks of Butterman time travelers.”
My body cringes. If Mom spills all the details, everything I’ve worked for will be at the fingertips of the DOT. They have no business with our unregulated Induction Day time trips, as they’re not commercial travel.
Dad raises a finger. “It’s no leisurely joyride. Years of preparation, plotting, and hard work are put in to ensure success.”
What is he thinking? TMI, Dad! I widen my eyes at him in silent suggestion that he shut his mouth. Maybe the universal memory purge killed some of his brain cells. Why is he volunteering so much information?
I feel Garth’s gaze on me and turn to catch the last of it before she shifts it onto my parents again. A zing of negativity rushes across my skin. She could be getting off on this—suckering my parents’ trust out from under me. I wish I knew how much she knows.
“Mind if I check your credentials?” I ask her. “I don’t think we did that yet.”
“Bianca!” Mom says, her face flushed from what she likes to refer to as extreme candor.
“It’s all right.” Garth presses an unseen button on her blazer lapel and a holographic badge projects in the air. “It’s a warranted request.”
I examine the data there. A brief flashback of a similar scenario from Bethel, New York blinks through my mind—that was when she time traveled from 2070 to 1969 in an effort to alter Butterman history. This badge states the current year, 2069, and her full name and rank. Legit in every way, which confirms she’s present-day Garth.
“You’ll have to excuse our daughter,” Mom says. “She’s been a bit suspicious since all this started with the media.”
“Not a problem at all.” Garth takes another dainty bite of tomato and lettuce. “About this Induction … where is it supposed to take place?”
“She was hoping for the northern Atlantic Ocean in 1912, aboard the famed Olympic-class ocean liner Titanic,” Dad says it casually, as if it made no difference at all that it exceeds the DOT regulation of 100 years.
I can’t help but bury my face in my palms, rub my eyelids. This has to be a bad dream.
“I see,” Garth says. “Isn’t that the one in the Smithsonian?”
“Correct,” Dad says.
My hand is at my forehead now, shielding my eyes. The memory of the White Star Line’s massive hull on display in Washington D.C. flashes through my head. It’s the final resting place for a chunk of Titanic, having finally reached the east coast of the U.S. some 110 years later. Dad took me to see it when I was fifteen, hoping it’d be enough to satisfy me, but all it did was stoke the flame even more. The way it loomed over our heads with so many secrets—I could almost hear the screams in the night; the groans of the ship’s rivets busting from the steel seams as the bow plunged into the depths, breaking the vessel in two.
“I hear it took years to clean and restore.” Garth’s voice interrupts my thought, a hint of genuine interest to her tone.
I pull my fingers down below my eyes, letting them linger over my nose and mouth while my elbow rests on the table top.
“Bianca’s been preoccupied with visiting it since she was fourteen,” Mom says. “We do realize it’s outside the 100 year limit, but it wouldn’t be a commercial passenger booking. Merely, a personal challenge, so to speak.”
Garth is quiet a moment, chewing her food, a thoughtful look about her. Her hair hasn’t budged an inch from its drape down her left shoulder. It must be loaded with Spray-Stay. That stuff works like invisible glue.
“And there’s a usable time-port for the North Atlantic?” Garth asks Dad, as if I’m not in the room.
“In a sense,” Dad says, then nods at me with the faintest of proud smiles. “Bianca managed to find an accessible vortex.” He pauses, focusing on Garth again. “She’d be opening it for the first time. All part of the initiation. Bianca will do all her own work, using only the Butterman time travel science and technology.”
“A time trip to the heart of a renowned tragedy with entry into a virginal time-port over the ocean and not land.” Garth dabs the corners of her ultra-red lips with her napkin and sets it down beside her bowl, pointing at Dad. “This is the kind of high profile time trip the press will eat up. Exactly what we need.”
“How so?” he asks.
“This level of command requires proficiency and skill beyond what the public would expect from an eighteen-year-old pilot. It’d prove Bianca’s expertise and reliability, as well as the DOT’s credibility for accrediting your operation and allowing you to stay in business all these years.” Garth glances at me. “When do you think you could be ready?”
I don’t even know what to say. I stare at her, waiting for the punch line.
“You mean, as soon as possible?” Dad takes a big gulp of water from his glass.
Garth nods, gets to her feet. “Yes, as in, once I get approval to exceed the 100 year travel limit and can contact WNN to schedule a live stream, you can set your course and begin prepping your time-craft.” She projects her device’s holo-screen and keys, begins punching in data.
“Wait a minute.” My fist slams to the table, making the silverware jangle. “This is my Induction Day. I don’t want it publicized. At all.”
Garth nods at my parents, as if to insinuate I’m their problem right now and not hers. “I need to run this by HQ and get the ball rolling, but this kind of event will have Bianca winning the hearts of the pu
blic. Live media coverage of a time traveler family induction is genius. The world can watch departure and arrival with real time correspondence on time string activity. WNN’s going to love this idea.”
Dad rises from the table with an utter look of confusion. “Agent Garth, the DOT’s never allowed that kind of publicity on a time trip before. Are you sure you know—”
“Leave it to me,” she says. “I’ll take care of everything.” And with that, she disappears down the hall.
I’m staring at my parents, my jaw stiff. They’re both blank-faced as if their brains have been hijacked.
‘Tell me this is all a joke, Dad.”
He opens his palms to the air. “Let’s talk about this, okay?”
“Lola may be right, honey,” Mom says to Dad. “This could be Bianca’s way in, and way out.”
“Mom, on live broadcast?” My tone is laced with accusation, but I don’t care right now.
“Bee, think about it,” Dad says, moving in to sit beside me. “If the DOT approves the trip, then we don’t have to worry about any pop-audits claiming we broke regulation.”
“It’s a leisure trip, Dad. They can’t enforce regulation on it.”
“You know good and well they can if they want to.” His voice lowers. “We’ve been tip-toeing around a time bomb ever since you took it upon yourself to rewrite the timeline. If the DOT finds out about that, there’s no telling what’ll happen to us. It’s in our best interest to cooperate in every way.”
“How do we know the DOT doesn’t already know about the Rewrite?” I ask. “The DOT from the future could be orchestrating all of this.”
Dad shakes his head. “You’re getting a tad carried away with this now, don’t you think?”
Mom pulls a chair up beside us and sits. “You should hear yourself, Bianca. This kind of suspicion isn’t healthy. The DOT has much better things to do then focus energy on our small place of business.”
“Then why are they here?” I say, searching their faces.