My neck is oddly tense. Something doesn’t feel right about being here, and a good trip guide knows better than to leave a passenger alone for long. I make for the stairs, call as I’m climbing, “Who is this anyway? The music.”
“Purple Haze. Classic Jimi Hendrix,” he says. “What, you don’t like that either?”
“Never heard it. But yeah, I like it. Magic voice.”
The second level opens up onto some kind of sunken loft-office slash bedroom, complete with enormous circular bed beneath an oval fish tank, black-lighting set into the wall above it. Tristan is standing behind a large drafting desk, tosses an ink pen to the side when he sees me.
“What’re you doing?” I ask. “Did you find it?”
He grins like the superstar he is. “Yup. Just wrote a few lines on my shoe like you said.”
I tried doing the same thing once til Mom and Dad frowned on it. Technically, it’s not a violation, but it won’t win any extra credit points either if the DOT happens to find out.
“We’re cutting it close on time,” I say. “Let’s get going.”
“You got it, Butterman.”
A loud voice emerges from the holo-screen at his desk and we both turn. Some guy’s face fills the area, distorted by the proximity of his nose so close to the camera lens, his eyes covered by his dark glasses. “Bro, ye there? Buzz me up, it’s Declan.”
“Expecting someone?” I flick a brow at Tristan.
He hesitates, obviously trying to think of why this person is visiting. “Why is Declan here? I don’t remember seeing him til tonight.” He moves toward the screen.
“Don’t,” I warn. “If you didn’t see him before, it’s because you weren’t home when he came by. Leave it alone.”
Tristan stares. The guy called Declan is checking his surroundings on the street.
“Dude, ye there?” Declan says again to the camera, his accent distinctly Irish. His head looks like it’s floating in the middle of the room. “Trust me, bro, yer gonna love this.”
Tristan leans in, hesitant, as if undecided on whether or not to respond. His eyes gloss over with a dreamy look, like he’s recalling something significant—something irresistible beckoning him with a voice only he can hear.
His sudden trance worries me. “Tristan, don’t …”
But it’s too late. He responds before I can finish, his hand gesturing the speak button. “Declan.”
“Yeah,” Declan says. “Told ye I’d be quick. Buzz me up.”
Idiot. I grab Tristan’s elbow. “Cut it short and get rid of him. You have to.”
“Who’s there?” Declan asks, his voice lowered, his face still at the screen. “Shoulda told me before if ye were expecting company.”
“When did we talk?” Tristan asks, wide-eyed.
“Like ten minutes ago. What’re ye drunk? Said ye’d meet me here.” Again Declan checks his surroundings.
I don’t like this at all. This Declan guy seems shady and Tristan seems too wrapped up in him. I check the clock screen: 1135hours.
“Tristan, it’s time,” I say. “We’ve gotta go. Now.”
“Listen, if yer busy, I get it, but I’m tellin’ ye this is like nothing ye’ve ever tried and the well is almost dry. Trust me. Ye want in on this.” Declan’s voice assumes a pitch reserved for salesmen—or anyone with something to push.
Almost like slo-mo, Tristan gestures at the mute button, frowns at me. “I … I’m sorry. For a minute there, all these disjointed memories flooded my head at once. Declan introduced me to heliox, but not til later. I never thought I’d see him again … and I definitely don’t remember meeting him here, now …”
“Maybe he called your past-self, like he said.”
Tristan rubs his chin. “I dunno, I can’t remember …”
“Doesn’t matter now anyway. Tell him to get the hell outta here and let’s jet.”
Tristan pauses, thinking. “He gets arrested later. I should warn him.”
“No, stay out of it. Nip it now.” I know I’m barking orders but obviously he doesn’t comprehend the repercussions of skewing the timeline, and since he’s a former junkhead and Declan’s his connection, I especially don’t like that hungry look in Tristan’s eyes right now.
“Bro, what is up?” Declan says from the screen, impatient.
Tristan closes his eyes a few seconds, then opens them and gestures the speak button with a swipe of two fingers. “Listen, I can’t let you up here now.” He pauses, swallowing so hard his Adam’s apple bulges. “Consider this the last time you speak to me about it. I don’t want anything to do with it, understand?”
“What the hell, man?” Declan says. “You just said on the phone …”
“I don’t care what I said,” Tristan barks back. “Take my advice and get rid of it all. Right now, before it’s too late.”
Part of me is fuming that he’d take a risk like this, but one little sliver of me sympathizes. He wants to fix what went wrong, and having that ability at your fingertips is sometimes too tempting to resist. Still, he’s playing with the timeline, as well as my family’s livelihood.
“Tristan, I demand you shut it off,” I say through gritted teeth.
On-screen, Declan’s head turns, obviously distracted by something on the sidewalk.
Another voice registers over the voice-com. “Hey, man, you beat me. You must’ve been truckin’. Got the jetpack outta the shop, huh?”
No denying it, it’s Tristan’s voice. Past-Tristan. He’s talking to Declan in person outside the building while we watch from the penthouse on-screen. Adrenaline surges through me. Holy hell, we’re late.
“What the …?” Declan says. “How’d ye do that? Ye got yer security screen rigged?”
“What’re you talking about?” Past-Tristan says.
“Just now, ye were on-screen, inside yer place. Look …” Declan turns back toward the screen.
Tristan ducks.
I duck.
Past-Tristan’s voice fills the room. “Somebody’s in there? Who the hell’s there? I’m calling the cops.”
I grab Tristan’s arm, my brain reeling. “Your past-self is early. This is bad. We’ve gotta go now. You’ve wasted too much time.”
He stares at me, his mouth hanging open, cheeks flushed. Initial shock from being so close to his past-self. Hazard of the trade.
“But it’s too soon … I thought …”
“Obviously you miscalculated your arrival. Doesn’t matter now. We’re too close to a PF. I can’t believe you’d take a chance talking to that guy after I warned you.”
“Okay, I get it. I made a mistake. You can stay here and reprimand me or we can get out of here.”
“Is there a backdoor or fire escape? Anything?”
“Cops are on the way and building security’s on their way up. This is bullshit.” Past-Tristan’s voice trails off from the voice-com and his image leaves the screen. “I’m going up there—”
“The stairs,” Tristan says. “Come on.”
I don’t wait for his lead. I beeline for the front door, my hand gripping his wrist til we reach the stairwell and clamber down it. My pulse ticks inside my temple like a time-bomb waiting to explode. I should’ve been smarter about trusting Tristan’s memory. Should’ve had us out of there ten minutes ago. Dad says always buffer by at least five minutes. Next time, I’ll buffer by thirty.
So much for maintaining a safe, reliable time trip.
“Exciting, right?” Tristan nudges me with his elbow, passing in front of me on the next landing. “Best time I’ve had since before rehab.”
“Maybe for you, you’ve got nothing to lose.” My breathing is ragged now, my skin filmy with sweat. This is like cardio from hell. “But it’s my Agency on the line. And once the cops get here and divert us from our schedule, you’re as much at risk for a PF as I am. ”
“Who’s to say that’s a bad thing?” he asks, jogging downstairs and winded. Obviously, he’s not as in shape as he looks.
For a few seconds I let myself despise his careless attitude toward anything that doesn’t directly affect him. Not once has he shown an ounce of concern for me or my professional status. Regardless of my personal feelings, I put my big girl pants on and swallow my spite. Right now, Tristan Helms is our most valuable customer.
I round the second flight landing. “If we can make it outta this building without getting arrested or running into your past-self, then I’ll share your sentiment. Til then, let’s focus on getting the hell outta here.”
Chapter 6
Winded, and my legs like jelly, I creep out from the stairwell behind Tristan, who’s wearing my pink scarf and sweater again. Droid-cops in black helmets are already in the lobby, powering down their built-in jetpacks. Must be nice living somewhere will the law appears at your beck and call. A building concierge is talking to them in front of the doors, while past-Tristan steps into the elevator, wearing cargo pants and a hooded sweatshirt, a skin-headed Declan beside him.
Once the elevator doors close, Tristan links his arm in mine and we head for the exit. The tall black concierge blocking the doors gives me the kind of once-over that makes you think your internal organs are on display from beneath your skin. I can see in his face he suspects something. Tristan’s head is bowed, but his shoulders are too masculine to disguise. My appearance garners dirty looks on a regular basis, so it’s hard to tell what this guy disapproves of, but I don’t want to take any chances.
“Is there a back door?” I whisper. “I don’t like the idea of passing that concierge.”
“There’s an emergency exit,” Tristan says. “But the alarm’ll sound.”
“I don’t know what’s worse—sounding an alarm, or getting stopped by that droid-cop. Last thing we need is explaining how you’re down here in different clothes after you just stepped into the elevator.” I meet his eyes. “Up close it’s too obvious who you are. If past-you calls down while they’re questioning us, we’re screwed.”
On my last word, the concierge presses his earpiece and speaks, his gaze still fastened on us. My mouth goes desert-dry. He says something to the closest droid-cop and they both eye Tristan. They must recognize him.
“They recognize you.” I hold Tristan back, tugging his forearm. “Back door. Now!”
Swiftly, Tristan jolts me backward past the wall of elevators and down a back corridor that ends at a wide push door with the words Emergency Exit Only: Alarm Will Sound plastered across the front. Rumbles from the droid-cops jetpacks are already echoing off the walls from behind us. I glance back. One is headed our way.
Tristan kicks the door open with his brand new hiking boot, setting off the wail of high-pitched tones.
I cover my ears—it’s so ear-shatteringly obnoxious—and we bolt down the narrow side alley. Sprinting is the last thing my legs are up for right now, but I force it. We exit out on the opposite street from the building entrance with the droid-cop gaining on us every second. Tristan yanks off my scarf and sweater and we merge onto the sidewalk, into a horde of pedestrians which gives us cover.
It also slows us down. But it does the same for the droid-cop, who hovers back at the alley. Probably using its internal zoom lens to pick us out of the crowd. Tristan pushes his way through with me flanked at his heels. Behind us more jetpack-enhanced droid-cops are gathered at the alley.
“Looks like that one called for backup,” I say.
Tristan pulls me toward the corner, where a guy and girl wearing helmets are powering up their jetpacks. I glance behind me again. Droid-cops are moving this way.
“Here.” Tristan shoves a jetpack with hot pink handlebars at me. “Get in!”
“How did you …?” Then I notice the couple beside us.
The helmeted-guy lunges forward, yells, “You jackass, what the hell d’you think you’re doing?”
Soon as his words leave his lips, the jetpack auto-straps over my chest and under my crotch, while Tristan’s already hovering above the sidewalk. Obviously he doesn’t recognize Tristan, or if he does, it makes no difference. Already powered up, I accelerate into the air, but before I can fully leave the ground, the guy grabs hold of my pack, jarring me off balance, pulling me down.
My belly flips with vertigo. If he doesn’t let go, I’ll smash head first into the pavement. Fumbling for the exhaust pipe in the rear of the pack, I aim it at the man’s arms and engage the purge button from my chest strap. Hot steam sprays out. Holy hell, please don’t let this guy be hurt!
The guy yells out, releasing the jetpack. I don’t wait. Shifting my body, I accelerate up to Tristan’s level, looking back once to make sure the guy’s not severely injured. His arms are flailing and waving at the sky—at us, but otherwise he seems fine. Facing forward again, I follow Tristan, and we dodge our way into the aerial lane together, a string of droid-cops just behind us.
Holy hell, now I’m a jetpack thief and just assaulted someone. If it wasn’t against regulation, I’d go back and start this day all over again. We dodge into a narrow alley, and then another. The skyscrapers create a labyrinth that allows us to alter our path every couple of minutes. The sirens from the droid-cops get farther away with the next few turns, and I stay focused on keeping a momentum behind Tristan, who seems to know where he’s going.
At the next alley, Tristan slows, checks behind him and I nearly ram him, stop short, and wobble in midair. He looks like he’s about to ask me what moron taught me how to jetpack, when he seems to notice the frustration on my face. I want to tell him I know how to jetpack—do it all the time back home—but never because the cops are chasing me.
The sirens get louder again.
“They’re getting closer,” Tristan calls over the jet engines. “We can try and lose them in the park. It’ll be easier to get back to the port when we know they’re not following us.”
Tristan’s right, we can’t go back to the time-craft yet—not til we’re clear of the cops. They’d contact the DOT for sure. I nod and we both accelerate from the handlebars.
I know what he must be thinking—that if time travel is legal, why can’t we simply tell the cops we’re on a time-trip so they can let us be on our way. But it doesn’t work like that. We have no identification, and if we’re able to avoid being accused of impersonation, then maybe—just maybe—we can convince the cops to call present day Butterman Travel and verify my true identity, but there’d be no record of this time-trip since it’s from the future. By that point, Tristan may have already run into himself, disrupted the time string and caused a PF, and we’ll have missed our twelve hour window. Garth Vader will have even more reason to cite the Agency, and if she suspends operation while we’re on a trip, who knows how long we’ll be stuck in this time string with two Tristans and two Biancas.
PF or not, the idea of hanging out with past-me tampers with my psychological well-being in the worst way. In short, scares the shit out of me.
Following Tristan isn’t easy. He’s like a bumblebee, rising and dropping in clever jolts of momentum til we break away from the cluster of skyscrapers and enter the aerial lane at the edge of Central Park. The sirens have faded, but instead of staying in the jetpack lane, Tristan veers out over the spring-green trees. Obviously, he’s not only familiar with jetpacking, he’s skilled, knows exactly what he’s doing. Jetpacking under hot pursuit is nothing like joyrides over the mountain ridges, but I’m holding my own.
Tristan stays low to the tree canopies now, which has to be illegal, but since we’re running from the cops anyway, who cares? Tree branches offer more cover, and keeps our forged path free from other jetpackers. We may’ve just made it.
I can’t make out a cop anywhere, which gives me hope we’ve lost them in the mix. Finally, I can breathe normal breaths, slacken my shoulders a bit. Below me, trees and boulders speed by and for a few seconds, I let myself appreciate the beauty of Central Park. From up here, it’s so clean, so big.
Tristan finally descends between a band of trees. I dip down behind him, between thr
ee large boulders, where we both unfasten our jetpacks, fully obscured.
My hands tremble, unbuckling my harness, and I try to play it cool, pretend these types of things happen all the time during time trips, which in reality, couldn’t be further from the truth. If this experience is any indication of what life for Tristan Helms is like on a regular basis, then count me out. Consider this a renege on the frequent traveler account offer.
Once free from the jetpack’s extra weight, my legs give way like wet noodles. I fall right into Tristan.
He grabs my biceps, steadies me. “Whoa. You okay?”
His dark blond shag is swept back from his forehead, which seems to alter his face in some way. Maybe it’s from the dappled sunlight through the trees, casting moving shadows over him, but for once, he looks real—not like Tristan Helms the golden-boy-pop-superstar, but like any other regular guy in the middle of some major shit. Stripped of his royalties and status, but trying to make it like everyone else. A person, not an image.
I notice his quirky smile, his gaze on my hair. Instinctively, I smooth it down. “What?”
“Now you’re a wind-blown bettie.” He chuckles.
“Yeah, well, that was some effed up jetpacking. If you wanted to kill me you could’ve tried something more humane than tree impalement.”
He peeks out at our surroundings from behind the closest boulder. “Why would I risk your safety? I need you. You’re my ticket back to 2069.”
His little reminder that I’m the guide and he’s the passenger is a move in the right direction, but way far from the vibe of reality. Things are all wrong now, and I’m off my game. He’s now the one guiding me, and without him, I’m lost and on my own in the biggest city in the U.S. Even with my watch, navigating this urban jungle on my own is a mega setback.
And I hate to say it, but I need him too.
“So, Captain Butterman,” Tristan says, facing me. “What now?”
Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars Page 46
