I glance at Tristan. His foot’s tapping the floor, and he’s mouthing what appears to be song lyrics to himself. Behind the cockpit, I strap myself in and scan the vessel dashboard. With Dad at Mission Control, I really don’t have to do anything. Even though I appear as the pilot, he’s manning the time-craft remotely. But as trip guide, I’m second in command and I’m determined to follow everything that happens. Coming back is when my piloting skills will be tested. That’s when I’ll have to initiate departure all by myself and make the port exit.
“Departure in ten, nine …” Dad’s voice carries through the vessel.
Official countdown has begun. I give one last glance backward at Tristan, trying to avoid a direct stare. From here on out, I’ll only catch reflections of him in the rearview mirror over the dashboard, which is unfortunate, because I’m curious as hell to see his reaction to his first time trip.
Noticing this moment calls for the appropriate mood enhancement. I flick on the stereo. My trusty adrenaline-pumping song from my favorite spunker band, Frozen Solstice, bounces off the speakers.
“Five … four …”
“Whoa, we’ve got a soundtrack,” Tristan says behind me.
Cockpit lights are fully charged, the entire vessel vibrates with energy. Bass is thumping behind twisted drifts of melody. Torque and twang at once. Dad hates this stuff, but so far he hasn’t ordered me to turn it off. He’s letting me have control. Magic.
I check Tristan’s image in the rearview. His eyes are searching the perimeter, his hands gripping the sides of his seat.
“It’s tempting to look outside, but don’t,” I say. “The material just happens to be transparent for flexibility. Focus on one stable object in here, or else you’ll blow chunks.”
Interior pressure is tightening. My ears pop. I swallow to regulate them and advise Tristan to do the same.
“Two … one … mission initiated.” Dad’s voice fades.
The red abort button on the dash is my focal point. Time change does funny things, and over the years I’ve found color is more fun to watch during take-off—the way the tinted lights bleed into funky patterns.
I lose myself and all thought, only the button exists, no longer a button, now a kaleidoscope of dancing shapes …
My eyes blink shut beyond my control. I concentrate on the music.
Rapid swirls of light infiltrate my brain. Heavy pressure squeezes my insides, propelling me forward, backward, sideways all at once.
Then total silence. Stillness swallows me.
And finally, a stagnant ringing in my ears.
We’ve arrived.
Chapter 5
My ears ring, steady and static, like a flatline on a life support machine.
Hollow. Incessant.
Then it hits me. Not only where I am, but when. My eyelids flutter into a series of blinks and immediately I recall my duty as travel guide. I have a leadership role here. I’m no longer a tagalong passenger whose parents take care of everything.
I shake off the grogginess. Time travel always makes me slow, dizzy at first.
Tristan’s slick buffer-clad body is stumbling to the door of the vessel, a hand over his mouth. I know that look. Only a matter of time before the vessel floor’s decorated with vomit.
“Hold on!” I yell, unstrapping my seatbelt. I should’ve advised him of the barf bags in the seat pocket before we departed.
Time lag takes a serious toll on a body, especially first timers. Some people puke, others pass out and don’t wake up for minutes after. Takes only one time trip to know if you’ll ever take another one.
I open the door remotely from the cockpit controls. “Hurry! You do not want to puke in here.”
Tristan clambers outside, and I duck out after him. He’s next to a trash compactor, retching up green chunks. I didn’t peg him for a weak stomach kinda guy, but now that I think of it, makes sense. Pampered boys lack grit. I would know, because if there’s one thing Alaskan guys have, it’s plenty of tough-ass perseverance.
“Are you okay?” I stoop at his side, unsure how to console a superstar. Pat his back? Rub his shoulders? Tell him to get it all out? Truth is, I haven’t seen a first time passenger react this badly in a long time.
Moaning, he rights himself, peering at me through bloodshot eyes, mucus trickling from his nose. “What the hell happened?”
“You just shot back in time, that’s what happened. Affects everyone differently. Worse jet lag you can imagine the first few times.” I glance around, remembering we’re in public. “You get used to it though.”
NYC Broadway Port is located in an alley, behind a lesser known old theater. Not exactly a place pedestrians frequent, but not completely incognito either. It reeks of garbage and exhaust, which probably does nothing to help Tristan’s stomach. We need to get out of this dirthole before the odor sets him off and he pukes again.
“Ditch your buffer suit,” I tell him, helping him up.
We peel his suit from his body, exposing his black turtleneck and white snowpants that could also pass as regular cargos. His face is still a crude shade of pea-green as I turn for him to unzip mine. Kinda feel bad for the guy. Kinda.
I step out of my suit, throw them both inside Essence, then program the door shut and secure it. Tristan wobbles, his face pinched with disorientation, but he follows orders well enough, which means he’s coherent enough to get moving.
“Twelve hours from right … now.” I shut the touchscreen panel beside the door, then face Tristan. “Ready to roll?”
He makes a face like he’s ready to puke again. “I can hardly walk, no I’m not ready.”
“Well, it’s your time trip. If you wanna waste half of it sitting back here breathing in garbage, suit yourself. Price is still the same whether you accomplish your goal or not.”
“I’m overwhelmed by your compassion.” He rubs his forehead, blinking.
Since he didn’t bother to do his homework and read the handbook, I’ll have to spell it out for him. Benefit to that is, he has to listen to me because he doesn’t know jack. “Hey, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not here to babysit you either. I’m here to make sure we meet your itinerary goals and do it safely. Twelve hours can go by faster than you think.” I soften my tone a bit. “The sickness you’re feeling will fade once you get your blood circulating again. Think you can manage?”
He nods, his cheeks puffing til a belch bursts from his lips.
“Good. Now, first things first: you said your schedule today started with a stroll at approximately 1000hours EST, with a return around 1200hours. Which means we have exactly …” I check my watch, which is linked with the time-craft. “Two hours, forty-five minutes to get to your apartment, find your item, and be gone before any chance of running into your past-self and initiating a PF.”
“So, what, we just leave the time-craft right here, where anyone can find it?”
“Cloaking device activates in 2.27 minutes from right now,” I say. “Your apartment’s in the Upper East Side, which according to my GPS, is too far to walk.”
“What’s our location?”
“Broadway and 54th. Looks like that jetpack rental you mentioned is our quickest option.”
Tristan looks around, clutching his middle. “I was thinking about that, and it’s too risky having to give personal info at a public kiosk and wait around for jetpacks. Those things get jammed with tourists. Rock Me Baby’s been number one on the pop charts for a month—U-Turn’s at the height of our career. Tristan Helms can’t just show up in a crowded rental station without a cover. We should get a taxi.”
“Information that would’ve been helpful prior to leaving,” I say.
“Sorry.” He shrugs, makes a sour face. “Poor Planners Anonymous is next on my list of therapies to join.”
I start to make another wisecrack then stop myself. We need to work together and get this job done so Mom and Dad can relax, get rid of Garth, and get back to business as usual. Getting mauled by a ho
rde of screaming girls on the streets of Manhattan could be a mega setback, possibly even a PF at some point. Dad did warn me to steer clear of public places since it could mean my face all over the media. That’d create a kink in the time string for sure, and if for some reason Garth’s already got us under surveillance, she’d slap a citation on us so fast we’d barely get back to 2069 before Tristan’s trip fare is transferred directly to the DOT in the form of a violation fine. I can only imagine what thrills Garth would get from adding Butterman Travel to her regular yearly audits. I could never see my Induction Day.
“If you think taxis are the best way to stay off the grid, then let’s do it,” I say.
“We’ll have to wait at the taxi stop, but …” He eyes my clothing—the pink half-sweater over my long white babydoll blouse, then the sheer pink scarf tied around my waist. “Give me that.”
I’m about to object when I realize he’s got an idea—a hilarious and totally-worth-losing-my-accessories idea. Untying my scarf, I hand it to him. He swaddles the top of his head, ties it off like a do-rag with a knot at the forehead, the sides resting just above his eyes.
“Sweater,” he says.
He drapes it over his shoulders and fastens the first button, letting his arms hang loose inside beneath the sleeves, in perfect grandma-chic fashion. “This’ll work til we get a taxi, then I’ve gotta have shades.”
At this point, I have no qualms about letting my professionalism slip for a good laugh at his expense. Chances are I’ll never see Golden Boy look this ridiculous again. At least not on purpose. “Classic. If only I had my camera.”
“Go ahead, get your jollies. Still better than a mob of paparazzi,” he says, but there’s a bite to his voice.
“Come on, Granny.” I lead the way onto the street.
Typical Manhattan madness, though the only time I’ve ever been here was a time trip to 1999 for the Millennium ball drop. Mom and Dad said it was a big deal, but I hated every minute of it. Thought I’d have a claustrophobic breakdown with all those shoving hands and shoulders, drunken mayhem. We were lucky to make our time port exit when we did, since Mom and Dad misjudged the port location where the time-craft was parked.
Here now, on the street, cars honk and weave past, while jetpackers rumble in the aerial lane above us. Pedestrians are a blend of locals and tourists, either beelining to their destination, or holding up the flow by stopping midstep to stare at the billboard collage. Holographic advertisements promote the next best thing in just about every product known to man, their constant motion almost nauseating all at once. Definitely Manhattan. All this marketing I can do without, but urban fashion sucks me in every time I get a taste of cosmopolitan life. Only takes a few minutes for me to spot a spunker store on the corner. I crane my neck to see the latest in last year’s garb on the digital mannequins in the front window, noting the shop name for future online retail therapy.
“No time for shopping,” Tristan says, less green now, and obviously paying attention to where my gaze lingers.
I arch my brows at him, but say nothing, both of us merging into the nearest taxi line. Tristan keeps his head bowed, arms folded over his chest, but no one gives him a second look. The steady flow of taxis in the taxi lane has us next to board in minutes.
We climb into the two-seater, arm to arm in the narrow passenger quarters. Tristan punches in his address on the GPS touchscreen, then swipes his currency card.
I check my watch. So far, so good. Over ninety minutes to go. We coast down the taxi lane at thirty-five miles an hour, my gaze glued to the windows. So much life here. So much going on at once, and so different than Paloot, where the biggest event of the year is the annual Caribou Day Parade. Makes me consider Tristan’s life—what it’s like to live in the now—wherever he wants: LA, New York; around scads of people who love him. What must it feel like to be that adored? To have fans fall all over themselves just to get a glimpse of you, touch your sleeve in passing? Only people in the world who love me are my parents and Kayla.
“So tell me, time traveler, how many time trips have you taken?” Tristan breaks into my thought.
“A lot.”
“Like a hundred?”
“No, but close to fifty,” I say. “Most of my early trips were learning curves with my parents. You know, them teaching me the operation. Today’s kind of a big deal for me—my first time trip in command. By myself. Not that I’m alone, but you know what I mean.”
“Feel weird?”
“Actually, no. Feels natural”
The cab stops, for what seems like longer than necessary. I check my watch again. “Can’t we get it to go any faster?”
Tristan shifts in his seat. “Forgot how bad these things suck. They never go above thirty-five. Genius traffic engineers thought auto-taxis would be this huge benefit to commuters since they have their own lane and don’t have to merge into regular traffic. They didn’t take into account all the damn crosswalks.”
Tristan’s right. Just about every block we’re stopping for pedestrians, or because another taxi line is backed up and we can’t get around it.
After two more lengthy stops, my foot is tapping against my will. “Let’s get out. We can walk faster than this.”
Five minutes later, while we’re stopped again. Tristan and I hop out and weave our way down five more blocks til we finally arrive at his building on Fifth Avenue. At the door, he lowers his right eye to the retina scanner and it opens up into the lobby, where we call for the elevator.
My chest heaving from the brisk hike, I let my gaze fall on Tristan’s scarf-wrapped head and let out a snicker.
He realizes it’s there and removes it, tosses it at me coolly.
I barely catch it. “Aw, but pink works for you.”
“Why do I get the feeling you don’t like me?” He arches a brow.
A twinge of guilt tenses my jaw. I guess I am kinda being a bitch, just because of his privileged superstar status. Lowering my gaze, I fake a smile. “I do … like you.”
“Your hesitation is so reassuring.” His eyes roll as we step inside the elevator. “Not like I’m surprised, though. You dark betties and bobbies got your own thing going on—defined by being different. I get it. It’s cool.”
I watch the digital elevator dial move to the sixteenth floor. Not about to tackle his comment about dark betties. Guys like Tristan will never understand the use of fashion to suggest artistic depth.
“Guess we’re just different, right?” I say. “I’m not here to judge. And it doesn’t matter to me if people like me or not.”
He doesn’t have time to reply when the elevator dings and the doors open at his penthouse. He leads me through the vaulted foyer and into his living room. Obviously he hired an haute couture interior decorator with a passion for black and white color coordination. Feels stiff, overly classy. And the animal print accents are blatantly pretentious. Polished chrome is everywhere from light fixtures to picture frames to armrests. Hard to believe he’s only nineteen and this is his second home. Barf.
“Can’t say I’m sorry to hear you sold this place,” I say, flipping the gold tassel of a zebra throw pillow. “Got this warm don’t touch anything vibe about it.”
“Knew you’d love it.” Tristan gestures at a flat screen control center and the lights come on. Electric guitar music fills the room from hidden surround speakers. He moves toward the wall of panoramic windows and stops to peer out. “Man, this is so trippy. Somewhere down there I’m strolling the park right now—with no idea my future-self is looking down at this very moment.”
Beside me, a burst of movement attacks the sofa armrest. My heart plunges in to my stomach. Holy hell.
A fluffy gray cat with a tuft of white at its neck mews at me, rubs against my arm.
“Scared the hell outta me,” I say, giving its ears a brief introductory scratch out of obligation. Friendly thing.
“Sadie.” Tristan sweeps the cat into his arms and cradles it, nuzzling his chin to its head. “T
here you are, baby. That’s my girl.”
I’ve never been a cat fan, or a pet person, but it’s kinda cute the way he’s doting on the thing. Like he may be capable of caring about more than himself. Interesting.
I glance at my watch. He needs some nudging. “So we don’t have all day. There are approximately thirty-five minutes before a possible PF, so I suggest you move fast. You know what they say.”
“Let me guess, time is of the essence.” He stares out the window, stroking his cat.
“Actually, I was gonna say time waits for no one, but whatever works to get your butt moving.”
He starts to turn, though somewhat reluctantly, and I wonder for a minute if he couldn’t stand there and watch his life in rewind all day. He seems content there—like he did that kinda thing all the time.
In a semi-polite prompt, I clear my throat and he finally tears himself away, sets the cat down, and heads up the spiral staircase at the far side of the room to what looks like a loft.
The cat rubs up against my legs and I sidestep it. Pesky furball. I adopt Tristan’s post at the same picture windows. Wow. Magnificent view. You can literally watch the world from up here. Watch the entire Thanksgiving Day Parade in full comfort like this—live and in person. I can’t help but notice the music playing over the speakers—rising and falling through wistful guitar riffs, almost hypnotic. Have to admit, its retro-fabulous feel baffles me. Nice and trancey, but sort of grounded in a bluesy rock sound. So not the music choice I’d expect from a pop boy-band singer like Tristan Helms.
I glance toward the loft, where only the top of his head is visible. “How you doing up there? Twenty-five minutes and counting.”
A spurt of bright color from my peripheral draws me back to the window. Balloons are lifting off from behind the trees in Central Park, filling the horizon with multi-hued dots, celebrating who knows what. Below them, a stream of jetpackers enter the designated aerial lane.
“You ever get jetpackers up this high?” I call out. “Spying in your windows?”
He elevates his voice. “Nah, they get pulled over the minute they exceed airspace limit. Penthouse level is just above it for that reason. Windows are double tinted, anyway. They couldn’t see anything but their own reflection.”
Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars Page 45
