Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars

by Melisse Aires

  Gesturing at the remote safety controls, I wave my hand until the door emits a series of beeps and begins the unlocking process. Security is a major concern when your place of business houses a time-craft. Back when my grandparents were alive, they claimed moving Butterman Travel to the Arctic was all about the frigid air. It’s true, it does help conduct radio waves, as well as avoid digital interference, but I think they liked the idea of being isolated from mainstream society even more.

  The steel-enforced door folds back into the front wall like a fan. Kayla enters in tight jeans and fur-lined knee boots; a knit shawl hangs like an inverted triangle over her chest. Music from her barely visible earbuds blares so I can hear it from behind my desk, and I recognize the overplayed song immediately.

  “Getting in touch with your inner tweenie again?” I say.

  Kayla’s two months older than me, but perpetually stuck in tween-dom. She can always surprise me with her bubblegum pop-culture preferences over those with actual substance. She’s my closest friend and I love her to death, but when it comes to fashion, music, and guys, we’re complete opposites—me being the dark twisted clouds swallowing her sunlit rainbows.

  She pops her tiny wireless buds out. “What?”

  Better she didn’t hear me. “I was just admiring your taste in music.”

  “Sure you were.” Shuffling over to my desk, she pulls a few mini-gumballs from her pocket tin, pops one in her mouth, then offers me some and grins. “U-Turn forever, Bee. You know that.”

  I exaggerate a sigh. “This is disappointing. I’d hoped after our last lesson on proper rock tunes, you’d have evolved by now.”

  She turns her nose up at me, but she knows I’m joking.

  “U-Turn called it quits, anyway,” I add, gnawing at my stone-hard, candy-coated gumball. “That one guy’s a wasteoid now. You know, Golden Boy? Saw it on the news. Rehab for months.”

  “Tristan admitted himself to rehab, nobody forced him. That should say something. And so what if they broke up? Doesn’t mean it’s forever.” Kayla pulls off her knit beanie, runs a hand through her russet locks. “Anyway, Tristan will always be H-O-T in my book, and classic U-Turn will always rock.”

  I snort at the word classic. “If you mean sink like a rock, then I agree.”

  “The special agent still here?” Kayla asks, ignoring my comment and scanning the room. I filled her in earlier on the arrival of Special Agent Lola Garth from the Department of Transportation—how she surprised my parents yesterday with our first ever full operational audit.

  I groan. “Yeah, but I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her yet. My parents took her out to the Launchpad at the crack of dawn, for a ‘routine time-craft examination.’”

  “Like taking a time-trip?”

  “Not that I know of.” I check the operational status on my dashboard screen. It shows the time-craft powered up, but stable, still docked right here at Port Butterman. No programmed activity. No pending time travel. “She’s probably making sure it’s up to code—scrounging for violations like rust on the magnetron, or improper radiation application. Giving Mom and Dad a total headache ‘cause that’s what the DOT does best.”

  “Can’t they go back in time and delay her visit or something?” Kayla asks.

  “I wish. If we got caught trying to fudge a DOT audit by tampering with the past, Butterman Travel would be doomed for sure. They monitor stuff like that.”

  Kayla shrugs. Hard as she tries, she never quite grasps the intricacies of time travel. She’s one of those people who are always happy with what they’ve got. A minimalist. In some ways I envy that, because once you’ve taken your first time-trip, your mind is always reeling for where and when to go next.

  “Wait a minute,” she says. “The government can’t see you while you’re traveling, though, can they?”

  “Not while on board the time-craft.” I pop my gum. “But if they have the right coordinates, they can probe whatever time string we enter with satellite technology. The DOT can watch the whole trip go down if they want.”

  Kayla rubs her chin. “And the agent’s here to do that?”

  “I dunno. She didn’t tell Mom and Dad anything really. If she wanted to, she could hack into Mission Control and rip off our data stream. All she needs is our master security code and she can stream the link right to DOT headquarters so every fed in D.C. has access. If they were to find enough violations, they could shut us down for good. But it’ll never come to that—Mom and Dad say there has to be reasonable suspicion for the DOT to go to that extent.”

  The door code beeps, drawing our attention. My parents are the only other people in the universe who know the code. A gust of cool autumn wind rushes in as they enter. And by cool, I mean typical Arctic-25degrees-Fahrenheit-cool. Dad’s in his trusty green wool pullover and earmuffs, Mom in her silver down puffer. A tall, slender woman appears behind them, underdressed in a chic black trenchcoat and silk designer scarf. By the looks of her, she can’t be much older than I am.

  Has to be Garth. She’s probably fresh out of the academy, on her first assignment. It’d be our luck to get some hot shot auditor with something to prove.

  She gives me a brief once-over, her jaw tensing as she lingers on the two coin-sized star tattoos at the corner of my right eye. Pulling off her snow cap, Garth shivers once and tries to play it off, brushing back her platinum hair.

  Not only is northern Alaska effin’ cold, but Port Butterman is halfway up a mountain where the altitude can make your nose bleed while the wind from the coast whips in and bites your skin like fangs. It can even be frigid in the middle of summer at this latitude. At least she’s wearing snow boots.

  “Hi there, Kayla,” Dad says, then gives me a wary look. “Bianca, honey, postpone all Web conferences for today and tomorrow. We need to focus on sorting things out for Ms. Garth here.”

  “Agent Garth,” she says, glancing once at Dad with her prim little smirk. She pulls out a paper-thin handheld device and projects its holo-keyboard. “Why don’t we break while I finish up this part of my report? Say one hour? I’m still waiting for those itemized trip logs and maintenance receipts. Oh, and I did mention insurance claims, right? I’ll need those as well.”

  My eyes meet Dad’s light green ones. His cheek is slightly twitching below his gaze. He and Mom told me last night they think the DOT is moving to regulate personal travel and although Garth didn’t say so, trying to find fault in our leisure trip data. I can think of two personal trips right now that were probably never registered—not that they’re any of the DOT’s business. That’d be like a sailboat captain having to okay a joyride with the Coast Guard.

  Total BS if you ask me. Garth’s reaching, and who knows what she’ll dredge up to the surface if she digs deep enough. All I know is, if she makes me miss the Induction Day I’ve been waiting for my entire life, extreme measures of unboxed creativeness will be in order. It’s a damn big conundrum when even time travel agents can’t get ahead of things. And as they say, time waits for no one.

  Dad gives me a quick nod, before he and Mom head down the hall and upstairs to our living quarters—where they can pull their hair out in privacy, no doubt. Garth is on a wireless phone call, punching data into her device. When she says the words “suspend operation,” my entire body stiffens.

  Kayla and I exchange anxious glances.

  “How can she do that?” Kayla whispers.

  Shushing her, I try to hear more. Garth’s body is angled toward the front window now, her voice carrying in the opposite direction.

  I head toward the cappuccino machine at the far wall next to the hearth, pretending I’m about to make a latte, and perk up my ears. More words: code inspection, string data, possible forged or false trip logs.

  She must be joking. The cup I’m holding slips from my hands, shattering earthenware onto the floor. Garth turns. Our eyes meet and I shrug. Frowning, she gathers her things from the sofa and slips out the door, a seedy glimmer in her eyes.

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nbsp; “She makes you nervous,” Kayla says, next to me now.

  I scoff. “I’m not nervous. Just klutzy.”

  “You’ve never been klutzy in your life.” She half-smiles. “Anyway, Agent Garth seems way too serious. She can’t really shut you down, can she?”

  “Government can do anything they want, depending on Garth’s report. If she’s not satisfied with how we run things, then yeah, she can have them shut us down. We can’t afford that.”

  At one time, Butterman Travel was one of only six private time travel agencies in all the world. But after that agency in Orlando took a hit from the DOT, now we’re one of five. The DOT knows what it costs to run a business like ours, and what these audits can do to us. Dad speculates there’s corruption involved and it’s all part of their goal. I used to think he was exaggerating.

  “But your parents can supply what she needs, right?” Kayla’s face contorts with concern. “They’re the most organized people I know.”

  “They run a tight operation, they’ll be fine.” My voice has that tentative tone that even I notice. “They just need a couple days to sort through and review everything.”

  Even though Kayla will never time travel due to her family’s spiritual beliefs, she knows how much the family biz means to me—especially my Induction Day. Every generation of Buttermans all the way to my great-grandfather has celebrated with one of their own, after earning their time-craft license. Like an individual rite of passage. One Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card. After all, Butterman time travel isn’t the same as government time travel. That’s why we own the rights to our own patent, which makes the DOT’s nosing around even more annoying.

  “She staying at Chiganak’s?” Kayla asks, her bright brown eyes dancing with deviance.

  “Yeah.”

  Our non-map-worthy town of Paloot—located halfway between Deadhorse and Beaver—only has one inn, so chances are good if you’re not a local, you’re staying at Chiganak’s Inn.

  “Perfect. Old Eagle-Eye passes by there every day on his walk.” Kayla hops up, puts her beanie back on. “I’ll tell him Garth’s a tourist, wants to learn the legends and history of native Alaskans in Paloot. That’ll buy your parents a few more hours.”

  I flash her a grin. “You’re a genius, Kay.”

  “And don’t you forget it.” She motions at the release sensor beside the front doorframe and waits for it to fold back into the wall. Heading out, she nearly plows into a man coming in; frameless aviator shades cover his eyes, a baseball cap rests low on his brow.

  “Sorry,” Kayla says to him, and disappears.

  The door auto-shuts behind the visitor, and he unzips the collar of his ski jacket.

  “Can I help you?” I ask. “Did you have an appointment?”

  “Not exactly.” He notices the frozen holographic photo of my parents on a small cube on the front table, waves a hand over its sensor.

  My parents’ transparent image springs to life, Dad’s even-keeled voice filling the room. “Welcome to Butterman Travel, Incorporated. We’re happy you’re here, and know you’ll be satisfied with our service, geared to fit your individual needs.”

  Mom chimes in. “I’m Gwen Butterman. My husband, Gavin, and I are seasoned time port cartographers, having logged over two hundred time trips together. We are dedicated to a safe, meaningful operation, and are certain you’ll never need to go elsewhere for any of your time travel needs.”

  “Thanks for choosing Butterman Travel,” Dad says. “Where time is always in your hands.”

  The holograph freezes with my parents arm in arm in their sleek silver buffer suits for a family-friendly advertising effect. That slogan was all my idea. It used to be Where Time is Never Running Out, which sounded good, but was deemed as false advertising. Point being, even traveling 100 years into the past and/or future doesn’t mean you can outrun the grim reaper. Back in the day, my grandparents had a few disgruntled passengers over it, as well as a couple of lawsuit threats that, luckily, ended up being only threats.

  The visitor removes his jacket and tosses it on the sofa like he owns the place. His cologne infuses the air, but in a mild way—an expensive way—with a perfect blend of exotic spices. Just enough to get my attention without sucking all the oxygen from the room. The hip western print on his button-down attests he’s not from around here. His top three buttons are open, revealing a white thermal underneath, and his denims are tucked into brand new all-terrain hiking boots that still look stiff around the ankles.

  The hearth across from my desk attracts his attention and he moves in to warm his hands, his gaze fixed on the digital landscape projected over the mantle.

  “I’m sorry, was there something I can help you with?” It’s not like we get many walk-ins up here in our small remote town—AKA the middle of nowhere. And since only the crème de la crème of the upper class can afford our services, they normally have their people contact our people first. And by our people, I mean me.

  “I hope so.” He removes his hat, minimizes his shades to a sliver and stows them in his pocket. He scuffs his flat hair twice. It’s long on top, short in back, with light blond highlights. Too posh to be from Meg’s Barber Shop on Main Street. Maybe some salon in Juneau, but even that’s doubtful.

  A twinge of familiarity stirs inside me. Who is this guy? Do I know him? Maybe if he’d make eye contact I could figure out …

  Bing! And there it is. Ocular exchange initiated. Irises of smoky gray mixed with cobalt blue, like twilight in the mountains. No effin’ way. Kayla will soil her pants when she finds out she bumped into U-Turn’s golden boy, Tristan Helms, and didn’t even know it. I let out a snicker.

  “Do I know you?” His lips purse, his gaze lingering on me for a few seconds of what must be misplaced recognition. “Did I miss something?”

  I try to contain my amusement, but I can’t wipe the grin from my face. “No … it’s just … my best friend … oh hell, can you wait a minute so I can …” I remember Kayla’s mission to divert Garth and hesitate. She’ll kill me for not telling her, but maybe I can hold him til she gets back. Stalling Garth so my parents can double check their leisure trip data is more important right now.

  Laughter slips out from my lips again. Not giddy giggles like some starstruck groupie, but pure ironical gratification. I can tell by the mocking look on Tristan’s face he’s deduced I’m chuckling at him, not with him.

  Slowly, he lets his peeved gaze drift over my goth-glam appearance. “You’re one of those spunker chicks, right? A … a dark bettie, that’s what they call you.” His eyes twinkle, self-satisfied with his keen insight. “Come to LA and you’ll feel right at home.”

  My tittering stops, but not because I’m offended. I know how my contradictory look stalls some people in their footsteps. Live it every day. And unbeknownst to Tristan, I happen to love the nickname dark bettie since it’s modeled after the retro-classic pin-up girl, Bettie Page. She was all glam in my book.

  “Touchè,” I say. “And just so you know, not that it’s any of your business, I’ve been to LA. Attended the 1957 Academy Awards two years ago.”

  “No shit.” Tristan’s smirk fades into genuine interest. Glimmers from the hearth highlight the sprinkle of dark blond scruff at his chin. “You just showed up?”

  “Sure. Dressed the part, of course. Getting tickets was a challenge, but we pulled it off. And let me tell you, it was way more chic than today’s commercialized glitz. Plus, seeing Marilyn Monroe and James Dean in person was pure magic.”

  “No shit,” he says again, staring with a furrowed brow.

  He studies everything from my charcoal eyeshadow to my jet-black pixie cut, with no obvious concern of whether or not he’s being rude. Any minute now he’ll get over it and move on from my appearance, even though to him, I’m the death of boy band bubblegum pop.

  “So let me guess, someone referred you to Butterman Travel,” I say.

  Without asking, he helps himself to the cappuccino machine, finds an espresso c
up and sets it up. “A friend suggested I see you.”

  “And here you are.”

  “She gave me your address, said your agency is the best around. I …” he pauses, cradles his espresso cup, staring into it as if it somehow holds the right answer. “I’m in a time sensitive situation.”

  “Um, you’re at a time travel agency. Everything is time sensitive.”

  He squints at me. “Right. What I mean is, I’m limited. I need to book a trip as soon as possible. Like, today. Who do I need to talk to?”

  It doesn’t surprise me that he’s here and wants to time travel. Most people crave the experience, but simply can’t afford it. What does surprise me is the sparkle of urgency in his eyes. He’s not here for kicks. He needs something. Badly.

  And I can’t let Garth suspend our operation before finding out what it is.

  Chapter 2

  “I’m the one you want,” I say, my fingers drumming my desk. I love the sound of nails on granite. Bad habit of mine, but since I’m usually the only one in the office, it’s never been a problem.

  Tristan Helms eyes my neon blue nails, which makes me stop, close my hand.

  “So you’re the one in charge here?” he asks, forehead crinkling with doubt.

  I admit, if I didn’t already know he was the Golden Boy of Pop, I’d find his coy curiosity cute. But from what I’ve read and heard on celebrity gossip forums—of which I’m guilty of visiting only through best-friend-association—he changes girlfriends like he does underwear ever since his epic breakup with some supermodel from his pre-rehab days. And since this guy’s ego’s probably as big as his bank account, “cute,” would be a contradiction in terms when describing Tristan Helms.

  “I’m Bianca Butterman. All new clients go through me.”

  After maximizing the New Client file on my screen, I begin filling it out.

  “Shouldn’t you be in school or something?” he asks.