by PK Hrezo
“You really have to ask that?” Dad leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “It’s certainly not because your mother and I invited them.”
“You’re forgetting what I told you about the future of Butterman Travel,” I say. “The DOT will always be up in our business ‘cause we’ll supersede their authority one day. Evangeline did everything but spell out the words for me back in 1969.”
“I understand that,” Dad says. “But we can’t use that as an excuse for any kind of dissent under the DOT now. They can still shut us down today, and the course of the future, as you well know, can be altered.”
Mom pats my knee. “How do we know the supposed takeover in the future is amicable? This may be our chance to ensure peace and help remove any corruption from the government. This is not a time to dismiss our ethics, Bianca. It’s a time to show how committed to excellence and integrity we are.”
“I agree with your mother 100 percent.” Dad nods.
“Maybe this is how it’s supposed to happen—ever consider that?” Mom asks.
“Holy hell, Mom, don’t start in with some hocus-pocus about partnering with fate.”
“Watch your language, young lady,” Dad says. “What your mother calls fate, you and I call a Consistent Causal Loop, and you never know when what’s happening is because it’s supposed to.”
I don’t respond, because he’s right and we both know it and I’m too frustrated to admit it.
Mom leans an elbow on the table. “Let’s consider all the pros and cons. Gavin, hand me your palm-com and I’ll record them. Something like this could even mean a waiver of those ugly port taxes.”
“Good point.” Dad hands her his device.
“Here’s a con,” I say. “The DOT could micromanage everything and the whole world will know if I make any mistakes.”
“That’s kind of the point, Bee,” Dad says. “They want the world to watch you perform, which means it has to be error free. Garth wants to prove you know what you’re doing as much as we do—that’s why she suggested it.”
I let out a flustered sigh. “Dad, think about what you’re proposing—the entire goal of my Induction Day is to save Titanic by fabricating a parallel shift. That’s a huge infraction as far as the DOT’s concerned. Garth would never allow it.”
“But you’ve done the research,” Mom says. “How sure are you that the shift won’t affect our present time string?”
“I’ve reviewed her data backwards and forwards,” Dad says to her, green eyes twinkling. “It’s brilliant. The dimensional split shouldn’t have any kind of ripple effect on our current timeline. If she’s able to initiate the shift during her exit from the 1912 vortex, the technique will prompt a complete tectonic duplication! Our timeline and the original Titanic survivors’ and their future generations will remain unaltered, thus permitting the 1912 time string to be sealed off into a new and separate alternate universe where Titanic will never sink.”
“But would the DOT let her take that chance?” Mom asks Dad. “I can’t imagine them relaxing the regulations that much, and we all know they don’t condone parallel shifts and dimensional splits, regardless of family inductions. Plus, after all this scandal of competency and substance abuse? We’re talking about a giant task of precision here. Bianca may be your prodigy, but you forget she’s still only eighteen. People won’t look past that.”
Dad thinks a minute. “As far as I know, the DOT doesn’t have the technology to surveillance the actual time trip past the 100 year limit, and even if they are concealing a new satellite capability, locking it down to the exact minute of a time string, in which they capture and record precise events, isn’t likely. There’s always a slight delay. Broadcasting that type of anomaly to the world would only make them appear inept. It sounds like they simply want a high profile trip to manage from afar and win over the public’s favor.” He hones in on me. “You can give them that.”
“A parallel shift will send back a burp in the time string, though.” I say, knowing full well Dad’s aware of this. “If the DOT’s monitoring the vortex, they’ll know something happened that changed the course of that timeline.”
Dad holds up a finger. “Then what if you use this DOT approved opportunity as a field study prior to the real Induction? Like a freebie.”
“That’s cheating.”
“Who says?” he asks. “Where is it written in the Butterman time travel science books that an Induction cannot have a sneak preview?”
I shrug. “It’s an unrecorded fact. That’s the whole point—I accomplish it the first time, without any help.”
“Ah, but the DOT’s never cracked down on us like this before—not back when Butterman Inductions became a thing. Times change, and we have to evolve under the circumstances. Have you been on Titanic before?”
“You know I haven’t.”
“So consider this trip a familiarization opportunity, compliments of the DOT.” Dad smiles now, seemingly self-satisfied with the notion. “You know the ship’s layout—do some exploring, solidify your plan of
action while onboard. Get to know a passenger or two. You may never get another chance like this.”
Bing! Now the logic is sinking in. Even so, negotiating with the DOT makes my blood curdle. I remember too much to assume they have our best interest at heart, not that their cold greedy core could even be considered a heart.
“Okay, Dad, I see what you’re saying, but why does it have to be Titanic that’s publicized? Why can’t I command a time trip somewhere else—to some other time?”
“It may be hard to convince Lola otherwise at this point,” Mom says. “Did you see how her eyes lit up at the idea?”
My palm-com blips with a message. I’d ignore it, but I haven’t talked to Tristan in hours and I’m eager to hear his reaction to my interview. I open the text box but it’s not from Tristan.
Kayla’s animated avatar waves from the corner of the message. It’s flagged as urgent: GET TO DINER NOW. IT’S TRISTAN.
Chapter Six
The front of Agnes’ Diner is crawling with fur-parka-clad paparazzi, their hover-cams over their shoulders like winter pirates with mechanical parrots. I head for the back, maneuvering my jetpack downwind and over the back fence, where I stop it and disengage the automatic harness from around my torso. Stepping out of it, I’m swarmed by microdrones, their metallic exoskeletons glistening with frost. Holy hell, how’d they know it was me? My only hope is that the arctic air will cause a short in their miniscule circuits.
One zooms up to my face and I shoo it away with a gloved hand. “Don’t you people have anything better to do? Like real news to cover?”
I recoil a bit, softening my expression. Last thing I need is my congenially-challenged side blasted all over the interwebs. And even though I’ve no doubt real news is happening somewhere else, I’m also aware that anyone with Internet can be a reporter these days, and those bold and driven enough to travel great distances for celebrity gossip, are the first ones to dish it out and earn a few minutes of fame when their story goes viral, along with countless offers from marketing companies wanting to advertise on their sites.
Darting over the back fence now, the bigger hover-cams blink their tiny red lights, obviously zooming their lenses in and out in an effort to isolate me. Feels like I’m surrounded. How did they even know I was back here? Their motion sensors must be overly acute. I grab the backdoor handle and pull, but it’s locked. Swiveling my device around, I call Kayla, tell her to meet me at the backdoor.
Within a minute, the door opens and a scraggly-bearded Dalton motions me inside.
Kayla appears just behind him, grabbing my arm. “Get in here.”
The heat from the kitchen swaddles my cheeks and I push my fur hood off my head. “Cameras have the place surrounded.”
Kayla shakes her crocheted beanie-covered head, the thick russet braids on each side of her head shifting with her movement. “What took you so long?”
“Gimm
e a break, I got here in like fifteen minutes.” I scan the area. “Where is he?”
Voices and commotion drift in from the kitchen’s service window. I can’t see the other side for the digital partition there, but I sense the diner is full. Too full.
Someone yells, glass breaks. Dalton throws his hand towel to the counter, curses under his breath, and disappears. I move toward the swinging doorway and peek into the dining room.
Reporters and their hover-cams crowd the coffee counter, bantering back and forth to each other, speaking into their palm-com devices. So many bodies that my view is blocked from the rest of the diner. Boisterous singing grows louder from behind them and I cringe. Sounds like the wailings of a wounded caribou. Laughter sweeps through the room, along with a wave of flash photography like strobe lights at a discothèque.
My body shudders. “Please tell me that’s not Tristan.”
Kayla presses her hand to my shoulder, coming up behind me at the doorway, her head just above mine. “He’s been like this for an hour. You gotta get him out of here.”
At that moment, enough bodies part ways to reveal the spectacle she’s referring to: Tristan, in a fitted beige thermal and designer jeans, swaying on his feet, his blond shaggy bangs fringing the heaviness of his eyelids. One of his arms is slung around a stocky truck driver and he’s crooning some bluesy sounding song, but it’s terribly off-key and pitchy. Tristan tries a high note and stumbles to the side. The truck driver steadies him and forces him to take a seat at the coffee counter, where Tristan continues to warble some kind of half-ass harmony.
I feel my lids close, as if my subconscious is trying to spare me this episode. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”
“I tried,” Kayla says. “He wouldn’t let me. He kept saying he’s caused you enough trouble. Once he started blabbering stuff, some undercover reporter chick in here whipped out her hover-cam and started filming. Before long, reporters were everywhere. It was so crazy—like a flock of hungry birds calling to each other over fresh kill.”
“Why didn’t you distract him? Yank him out of here?” I ask, trying not to sound pissed. It’s not Kayla’s fault, but still.
Kayla turns me around to face her, her brown eyes wide, innocent. “I tried everything. It’s like he wants to make a scene. I told Agnes to stop serving him whiskey, but Bianca, I don’t think he’s just drunk.”
Every muscle in my body tightens. “What d’you mean?”
“See for yourself. He’s completely wasted.”
I turn back to the doorway, just as it swings open with Agnes in a huff, her stringy once-brown hair tousled.
She sees me and halts in her tracks, frowns. “That boy is close to losing his welcome status.”
“What has he done?” I ask.
“Ain’t what he’s done, it’s all this mess around him. These folks are making a travesty of him and my diner. I’ve been patient, but I’m at the end of my fuse.” Her watery gray eyes flash a warning light.
“Agnes, you served him alcohol?” I can’t hide the irritation in my voice.
“Didn’t serve the boy nothing but a fish sandwich. His friend over there’s been ordering whiskey, but he’s legal drinking age. I ain’t no babysitter, Bianca. If your boyfriend can’t stay in line, he don’t need to be out in public. He’s lucky I haven’t kicked him out on his rumpus with them story-mongers on the front porch—all frothing at the mouth for pictures. Dalton and I had to stop letting people inside.”
I let out a defeated sigh. “Thanks, Agnes. I’m so sorry about all this. He’s been doing so well.”
“Every time I try to get him outta here, he pushes me away,” Kayla says.
I bury my face in my palms for a minute. What’s my plan of attack? I can’t let Tristan make a scene on camera between the two of us. His voice carries through the kitchen window, louder now. He’s making enough of a scene on his own. I have to end this before it goes any further.
In a pivot, I barrel through the swinging door and elbow my way through reporters and their hover-cams, making a beeline for Tristan, who’s now at the coffee counter leaning on some young dark haired guy I’ve never seen before. The guy pats Tristan on the back and starts singing a verse of Tristan’s hit single, Fall. He’s obviously encouraging Tristan.
I swoop in, wrap an arm at Tristan’s back. “Hey, you, it’s time, remember? Come on.”
He stops swaying long enough to focus on me and grin. But then it fades into a deep frown and he moves away from me. “No, no. Not good. You’re better off without me, Butterman.”
“Tristan, we’ll talk about all that later. Now’s not the time. Come on my parents are expecting you for dinner.” I tug at his shirt.
The dark haired guy to Tristan’s left eyes me, smiles. “I think he’s done for the night.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say, but there’s no gratitude in my tone.
“I’m not done for the night,” Tristan says through a chortle. “I’m just getting started. What’s there to do around here that doesn’t require me freezing my nuts off?”
Hover-cams close in on us, their cuff-clad operators lurking just behind them. I should sling my coat at them, knock every one right out of the air … I hate this zero privacy crap.
“How much did you have to drink?” I whisper in Tristan’s ear.
He lets out a little belch, but says nothing, his eyes glazed over.
“Only a shot or two,” the dark haired guy says, chuckling. “Or three or four. Lost count.”
I want to ask the guy how Tristan got drinks when he’s under the legal drinking age, but I’d be a moron to announce that on camera, not that they won’t know soon enough anyway. It’s no shock to the world that underage celebrities get served whatever they ask for, but my main concern is for Agnes and Dalton.
“I’m sorry, but who are you?” I ask him.
His olive complexion is smooth and flawless in an artificial way, and I can’t decide if the five o’clock shadow at his jawline makes him look mature or sleazy. He grins. “Oh, my apologies. Finn Capra. And I know who you are.”
His emphasis on that last comment gives me the willies. “You’re a reporter?”
“Indeed.” Capra sips from his snifter, the syrupy amber liquid sliding slowly up the glass to his lips, then back down again.
“Who are you with?”
“I’m independent. Came here on my own for a story, but ended up taking quite a liking to this guy here.” He slugs Tristan playfully in the arm.
“So, you suddenly developed some couth and decided to share your alcohol instead.” The bitterness of my tone lingers on my lips.
Capra studies me a minute, his gaze falling over the star tattoos on my upper right cheek, the faintest of smirks across his lips. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
Tristan leans into Capra. “Let’s get outta here, huh?”
Capra rises from his stool, finishes off his drink. “Fabulous idea, my friend.” Then he glances at me while putting on his navy blue puffer coat. “An exclusive. Maybe I can get him to really open up. God knows my blog ratings could use it. Tell me, Bianca, anything you’d like to disclose upfront with me now, before Tristan has a go? Time trips … parties … intimate relations?”
My jaw tenses so fiercely it throbs. I’m tempted to slug him right here, right now. I ball my fists at my side. He’s trying to get a rise out of me, just like Tristan said the media would, goading and hoping for a scene.
“Don’t look so worried,” Capra says to me, gesturing toward the many hover-cams in the background. “The world’s about to see Tristan’s latest sobriety stumble right here in the heart of downtown Paloot. An honest interview with yours truly will be just the thing to win their affections again.”
I turn, looking for anyone nearby to help me, but they’re all unfamiliar faces competing for closer camera images, each of them waiting for Tristan’s next stupid move. My heart is drumming. I should’ve never let him out of my sight. Holy hell, I sou
nd like I’m his mother. Right now, I feel like it. Mom and Dad are going to flip.
Kayla bounces in front of me, grabs my arm. “Dalton’s got the backdoor cleared.”
Swiftly, we slip under Tristan’s arm and guide him toward the kitchen, one of us on each of his sides, weaving through the loiterers. He cooperates, but just barely.
“Hey, what’s going on, ladies?” he slurs.
“Tristan, now’s a good time to keep your mouth shut and keep walking,” I say low in his ear.
“But this isn’t how it was supposed to happen,” he says. “We can go back and fix the timeline, you know? Like before … at Woodstock, I mean New York … No, wait, both.” His eyes cross as he ogles me. “You fixed it before. Fix it again. So I never meet you, and you won’t have to deal with any of this.”
Why won’t he keep his mouth shut? He’s obviously feeling responsible for this media mess, but he’s forgetting that if I’d never met him, I’d have never gone to Woodstock, which would have severed the Consistent Causal Loop and prevented Boris Butterman from continuing the vortex research that launched the family time travel business.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say to him.
We keep moving forward. Hover-cams are at our shoulders, trying to capture every movement, every word all the way to the kitchen door, where I kick my right leg to open it. We barrel through.
“Ain’t good,” Agnes says inside the kitchen. She’s focused on her device’s projected holo-screen and its images. “We’re on every news site available.” She glances at me. “Right after your press release, too. That boy needs a good slap upside the head.”
A video of Kayla and I hobbling Tristan along the diner plays on-screen with a news reel confirming our identities. Just below it, it reads: Once an addict, always an addict.
Bitterness invades my mouth. This can’t keep happening. The media has to get tired of us soon. My device blips with messages and I glance at the screen. Everyone from my parents to Tristan’s agent to various webbie friends wanting details. But no one gets a response til after I handle Tristan.