Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars

by Melisse Aires

  “I like spunk rock, I do.” Tristan’s talking with his hands, full of energy. Music obviously fires him up. “But it’s not me—too hard, and melancholy. I don’t mind dark, but I don’t need anything depressing me more than I am already. Side effect from addiction. Silo Peterson from Articus Ax was in rehab with me, said if I wanna rock out I gotta get in touch with my angry side.” He laughs. “That, I can do. Silo taught me some filthy guitar riffs—that dude is sublime on guitar. See, what I need is my own niche, that’s all. And now, thanks to this trip, I have a chance—“

  He pulls a wad of paper from his pants pocket.

  “What is that?”

  “My song. The song.”

  “What?” I ask. “You took it from your apartment?”

  His face pleads innocence. “I had to make sure these lyrics made it back.”

  “Are you kidding me? You wrote them on your shoe.”

  “Not fool-proof enough. How can I be sure they won’t rub off? Then this whole trip is useless.”

  I don’t believe this guy. I feel like whacking him upside his head. “You can’t be this dense. Or is it some reckless abandon you think you’re entitled to? I mean, you could’ve scanned it and saved it to an eFile if you wanted to mess around with the timeline. Why would you risk a violation by carrying it with you?”

  “It’s not like I’m trying to create a glitch. You have to understand, after tonight I take a turn for the worse, and it gets pretty ugly. I can’t take any chances of my past-self erasing all my files ‘cause I’m jacked up on heliox. I even sell my penthouse like a total dumbass. I loved that place.”

  “If you’re that incompetent, what makes you think you won’t lose that piece of paper before you even get home?”

  “I won’t. Not this baby.” He waves the crumpled sheet in my face. “What’s the big deal, it’s just paper? I can have it sewn into my shirt if it makes you feel better.”

  I slap it away. “You still don’t get it. You’re messing up the timeline. And breaking the rules.”

  “How is taking this paper any different than streaming a data file?” His face is clueless.

  I hate quoting the handbook because Mom says it’s condescending to the clients, but seriously, this guy needs it streamed directly to his brain. “Section 4.1 of the Butterman Travel handbook: No passenger shall attempt to carry tangible objects into or out of time strings unless under direct order of the federal Department of Transportation.” I elevate my voice on that last word. “Doing so can cause a shift in the law of causality and force time dilation in both present and future courses, and will result in pre-appropriated fines.” I take a breath. “In other words, once again, you’ve screwed up big time.”

  Chapter 8

  “Fine, I’ll toss it,” Tristan says, waving the sheet of paper containing his precious lyrics. He makes no further move to suggest he means it. “Just find a pen and I’ll write the chords on my arm.”

  I quicken my pace, marching faster through Central Park. We’re good on time, but I’m plain irritated. “Doesn’t matter now, the timeline may’ve already been altered.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he says, close behind me. “How can one little piece of paper moved from inside to outside make a difference?”

  I sigh. “I don’t know for sure if it will—no one does, but the point is you’ve taken a chance. You can’t transport it on the time-craft, anyway, so you may as well start memorizing it.”

  “What happens if I do bring it?”

  Truth is, probably nothing, but I’m not letting him off that easy.

  I reply, “Regulation says no time traveler should attempt to transport cargo from past to present or future. Carrying items interferes with … I mean, can cause a possible shift … to alternate timelines. Create a parallel universe.” I’m so annoyed I can’t even get the words out right.

  “Come on, it’s paper—you know, from trees? Part of the Earth? Nature? How bad could it be?”

  “Not the point,” I say. “My Agency’s already under investigation by the DOT and we were supposed to get in and out without any gaffes. My parents trusted me to do that, and you agreed to do the same by signing a contract. You agreed to travel with nothing on your person but your currency card. We made a special exception for you—for this trip, remember?”

  “Thanks to my triple payment,” he adds.

  Yeah, thanks for the reminder. “One simple rule, and you couldn’t follow it.”

  He grabs my arm. “How was I supposed to know you were under investigation? All you said was a routine review—”

  “I shouldn’t have to tell you our private business,” I spit out. “You should follow the rules like an adult. Or are you above that, too, Golden Boy?”

  “Stop.” He squeezes my forearm once. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Thought you told me the rules ‘cause it’s required jargon or something.” Releasing my arm, he sighs. “Didn’t see how one little piece of paper could make a difference.”

  “That’s why I’m the guide, not you.” I search his face and want to kick myself for noticing his smooth complexion and sturdy jawline at a time like this.

  “Thought you were just a rule nazi or something.” He laughs. “Thought I’d have to start calling you Butter-dud.”

  “’Cause I care about my family’s business?”

  He doesn’t answer and I’m grateful for the silence. It helps crush my rising temper. Just when I thought I’d seen this other side to him too. Maybe I’m being too hard on him—he is new to this.

  Maintaining my steady pace down the sidewalk, I verify our location on my GPS.

  “So send your future-self a warning about the DOT investigation,” Tristan finally says, like it’s as simple as it sounds.

  Maybe it is. I hate to admit I hadn’t considered it til now. If Garth does hack into this time string, and sees me sending forward information about her arrival, she’ll have me on a violation for sure. But what are the chances of that? Even if the DOT’s watching, they wouldn’t know what I was doing.

  Would they?

  Tristan nudges my shoulder, his chin dimpling with the stupid smile now stretching across his face.

  I do my best to sustain my scowl, but he’s got such an unrelenting goofiness about him--like a yawn you see and can’t help but copy. Maybe he’s right anyway. And I suppose I can forgive the Butter-dud remark.

  I slug his bicep to contrast the grin now on my face. “Interfering with the timeline by sending messages is against regulation … but if it helps prepare my parents for the audit, then they’ll be less likely to get fined. It’s a chance worth taking. Where can I get online?”

  He clicks his teeth. “Now you’re talkin’. Follow me.”

  ***

  At the Web kiosk on Park Avenue, I stream a message to my parents’ inbox with a red flag. It’s only some minor timeline tampering, but it makes my pits sweat. Mom and Dad should understand why I had to do it. As I explained to Tristan on the way here, one of three things can happen: one, it works and my parents get the message, which means when we return to 2069, Mom and Dad would have already supplied the travel logs to Garth and simplify the audit; two, they ignore the file for fear of initiating a PF and we’re right back where we were when we left with Garth still breathing down our necks: Or three, Garth’s already hacked into this time string anyway and the DOT cites me with a tampering infraction and shuts us down, which would mean this was my last time trip for who knows how long. And in all actuality, they can do that anyway, so why the hell not try and aim for the best? Butter-dud, my ass.

  Still, my fingers are crossed that if they are monitoring our activity, Tristan’s little stunt won’t cause a noticeable burp in the time string. Only time will tell.

  Tristan hands me a frothy latte and some retro-framed shades. He must’ve done some light shopping while I was sending my parents a message. He’s got big dark shades on now, too.“Thanks,” I say, slipping the shades on in full tourist fashion. “Now we both look
like celebrities trying to blend in.”

  “Imagine that.” He sips his coffee. “But no one has the balls or the time to guess wrong when you’re incognito.”

  “We’re done then. Ready to head back to port. You found an ink pen, I take it?”

  He pulls up his sleeve, revealing the chords and lyrics on his forearm in scratchy blue. “Hope it doesn’t sweat off.”

  “I would think you should have it memorized by now.”

  “I know better than to ever trust my memory. Not yet, anyway.”

  “If only you’d have made that clearer before we left.” I glance at my watch. 1322hours EST. Almost seven hours before the window closes. “My feet are killing me. Let’s grab a taxi.”

  The auto-taxis take longer than I prefer, but the thought of putting my feet up for awhile is magic.

  Tristan checks the street, then nods left. “If we head this way, we’ll get there faster.”

  I expand the holographic GPS on my watch. “My map shows west.”

  “I lived here for two years, I know these streets. Come on, we’ll grab a taxi after these next few blocks. It’s an easy walk.”

  “Fine.” I step up my stride, hoping he’ll do the same.

  “Take it easy there, Butterman. We still have like seven hours, right?” He flashes that stellar grin that’s plastered over everything from virtual posters to party plates.

  I admit, there’s something captivating about the way his smile lines accent his complexion and add character to his face. Gives him a dash of maturity, even though he’s still in his pretty boy prime.

  “What?” he asks, noticing my stare.

  “Nothing.” But it’s not nothing, I’m busted. I could make a wisecrack, but maybe I should try a little charm for a change, see where that gets me. “Just … your smile. It’s nicer in real life.” The words are like sandpaper on my tongue. And my cheeks are warm. This must be what humiliation feels like.

  “That was tough for you, wasn’t it?” He half-grins, only a hint of light grazing his eyes beneath the bill of his hat. “You don’t like being nice, do you?”

  “That’s a rude thing to say.”

  “True, though. Or maybe you just don’t like being nice to me.”

  I nod. “That, I’ll give you.”

  “Touchè, my travel guide.”

  “It annoys you that I don’t fall all over you, doesn’t it?”

  “Nah. That shit gets old. Besides, I’m growing comfortable with your cold aloofness. Makes me feel like a regular person for a change.”

  I crack a smile, and his lips widen with a flash of his professionally whitened grill.

  “Then why do you care if I’m nice to you or not?” I ask as we move out toward the street. “After this trip, you’ll never see me again.”

  He guides our direction by the angle of his shoulder. “How do you know? Maybe I’ll join that frequent traveler program and become your best customer. I could get used to time travel.”

  We reach a sleek sphere-shaped building the size of football stadium. The sides and top are a network of concave tinted windows doubling as LED screens. Advertisements blink and change every few seconds, some expanding the full size of the sphere. So much is going on, I don’t know where to look first.

  “Come with me,” Tristan says, tugging my arm toward the building’s entrance.

  “Where are we going? We have to get back to the port.”

  Dad’s anxious face has been blinking in my mind for the last two blocks. I’m sure it’s driving him crazy he can’t communicate with me. At least he knows we’re still here from the vessel’s operational data.

  We enter the sphere and I’m about to protest, but wow. It’s like a giant snow globe inside. The ceiling panels project full sunlight illumination over the ground floor lobby, which is nothing short of an oversized atrium, filled with trees, plants, and stone fountains. It’s the illusion of a tropical rainforest nestled inside a man-made bubble on the city streets.

  “This is beautiful.” I follow the trail of holographic butterflies as they shimmer in flight and disappear behind a rock-sculpted waterfall.

  “That’s what you think,” Tristan says, heading toward an elevator at the far wall. “But you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Follow me.”

  Chapter 9

  Intrigued, I follow him to the glass elevators. Above us, and along the outer walls, are rows of balconies marking each level all the way to the top of the sphere. This place is a work of art, but logic tells me being here is a bad idea. We need to stick to the itinerary.

  “We don’t have time for anymore excursions,” I say, rubbernecking at a woman passing by in full body paint, completely naked except for the swirl of colors over her skin. “What is this place?”

  “What isn’t this place would be easier to answer. Anyway, we have plenty of time, the port is right down the road, and we’re already here. You said your feet are killing you—mine too. Give me one hour. Then you’ll be so relaxed, you’ll have no choice but to be nice to me.”

  “Not sure I like the sound of that.”

  “But it’s my time trip, and I’m the paying customer, remember? I say we take a quick, well deserved break.”

  Tristan tugs me toward a glass elevator at the far wall and we wait with a group of business men and women. At first I admire their friendliness with each other, all of them gabbing away. But then I realize they’re all on their own phones, talking into hidden earpieces, oblivious they’re even next to each other. Gotta love New York.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I say. “Where are you taking me?”

  Tristan leans in, his mouth above my ear. “An exclusive spa, Butterman. Figured you could use it after the trouble I caused you.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Not now. We can’t.”

  “Yes. We can. It’s the least I can do. One hour. My treat. Trust me, you won’t get another opportunity at a place like this.”

  Holy hell, this is so unfair. Right now, every girl in the world would bend over backwards to trade places with me. Tristan Helms wants to take me to a swanky spa and pamper me. I know I’ve got a job to do, but I may never have an opportunity like this again. I’d be a total Butter-dud to refuse.

  “One hour,” I announce. He has to understand I still call the shots here. “That’s it.”

  The elevator opens and we crowd in with the others. Tristan’s the last to speak our floor into the command mike, but once he does, we take off instantly. I’m jolted by how fast it moves. Looking outside, I realize we’re moving to the side, in a spiral around the entire sphere with a full view of the atrium jungle. We stop twice before we reach the tenth floor, and I almost don’t want to get off.

  Tristan’s still wearing his shades and hat, but I take mine off and rearrange my cropped bangs, staring out over the balcony as we circle the walkway.

  “Cool place, huh?” Tristan says, real laid-back and proud of himself.

  I want to lie and say we have a place like this in Alaska, or tell him about how in the year 3049, they have space station vacation resorts with similar areas that look out over the Milky Way. But truth is, I’ve never been. Only heard about it from Mom and Dad. Besides, it’d sound like I’m trying to one-up him, and no matter what I’ve seen or done, he’ll still always be superstar Tristan Helms, with way more to brag about than me.

  “Very cool,” I finally answer.

  We reach a glass door at the end of the hallway that says, Boundless, in iridescent cursive; below it, H.R.E. Salon & Spa, by appointment only. Tristan slips in and he leaves me waiting in a posh room full of deep purples and blues. Every wall is covered with a different peaceful HD digital scene: mountains, island paradise, Asian gardens. A few other people are also waiting, propped back on velvet sofas, faces in their devices’ holo-screens, or chatting into their phones. One couple is cuddled together in their lavender divan, eShopping for bedroom sets, the miniature virtual showroom stretched out over their laps.

  “We’re go
od to go.” Tristan appears beside me again, his shades off. “My past-self isn’t on any appointment files for today. I asked them to keep this one off-record. No chance of any PFs.”

  “Fair enough.” I uncross my arms and follow him through a doorway where we select our relaxation experience.

  * * *

  The room is pitch-black when my He-Man masseur, Rolph, leads me inside and instructs me to sit. A contraption resembling a chair glows softly from tiny track-lights along its feet and Rolph nods toward it. I hesitate, giving my terry-cloth wrap another yank up my chest again.

  “More comfy than it looks.” Tristan’s voice surprises me.

  He’s barely visible next to me, only his shadowy silhouette illuminated.

  I wince—first, because I must look like a backwards paraplegic, and then, because I wonder how many other butt cheeks have been pressed against this same memory foam cushion. But once the room bursts to life with my lunar holiday, I can’t remember what it was I was thinking about.

  “Oh …” I gasp as twinkle lights dance over my arms and face.

  The floor appears as a rocky brown surface, pocked with holes and divots that disappear along a curve in the distance. Above it, surrounding the entire room, is a sea of galaxy dust and trillions of stars—some shooting past, leaving trails of starlight. It all moves three-dimensionally, and I wonder if it’s a real time video from a satellite.

  For a few minutes it all feels so physical, that I swear I must be sitting on top of the moon. Eerie cosmic sounds play from somewhere in the distance, in full surround sound. Haunting tunes so crisp and clear, coming in from all directions at a perfect decibel. Holographic. I can almost forget about Tristan’s gaffe with the timeline, even though its constant nag in the back of my head reminds me this peacefulness is only temporary.

  “Never done this track before. Excellent choice.” Tristan’s illuminated by speckled starlight beside me, his gaze now fixed on the image of Earth in the distance, a smug little smile on his lips. “Was I right about this place, or was I right?”