That’s when I see a face in the mob that makes my heart drop.
Special Agent Lola Garth.
I could never forget her frigid aura. Sleek platinum hair pulled back in a ponytail; ultra-red lips, thin pointy nose, pasty-white skin. Her glacial-blue eyes lock with mine and the pain in my elbow is forgotten. My mouth fills with bitterness. How is she here? Would her past-self be out for the night by coincidence?
Coincidences and time travel don’t mix. And since Garth comes from D.C., the odds she’d be here for this private party are slim. She could be here, however, if she hacked into Mission Control and obtained our exact coordinates. She could’ve traveled to our exact time string. But how did she get here from Port Butterman, Alaska if we have the time-craft?
My watch shows ninety minutes til departure. Okay, think.
My body jerks and next thing I know, Tristan’s tugging me up the stairs and back into the club. He better have a plan. Past-Tristan could be anywhere nearby.
In a calculated beeline, we push through the French doors to the balcony, to where a fully decked out and impossibly sophisticated Grant Prince stands in a top hat and cape.
Tristan whispers in his ear. I scan the staring faces of Grant’s audience, but my thoughts are centered on Garth right now. If she hacked into our time string, she knows everything—especially that Essence is docked at Broadway Port. No doubt she’ll be headed that direction.
Seconds later, Tristan whisks me away and we plow full steam ahead with Grant Prince in the lead. Within a few steps, we’re in a dark hallway lit by candle sconces. A hidden door on one of the walls slides open, revealing a blood-red interior elevator, complete with a small velvet sofa. Nobody sits down, though. Grant mumbles a few words to Tristan, but never bothers to acknowledge me, which suits me just as well at the moment.
Grant doesn’t exit the elevator once we arrive. Tristan thanks him, then leads me down a dank corridor, up a flight of stairs, and into a parking garage that reeks of motor oil. At the end of the lot is a jetpack corral confined by more laser beams. Tristan taps in some numbers on the security touchscreen and the front laser fades for our entry.
“We may have trouble,” I say, breathless now.
“May have?” Tristan lifts a chrome and black jetpack. “Now what gives you that idea?”
“No, I mean more trouble. Remember I told you my Agency is being audited by the DOT?”
He nods, punching a code into the jetpack ignition panel.
“The special agent overseeing the investigation is here. Outside the club.”
He stops, looks up a second, then steps into the harness. “It was insane out there, you probably just imagined it.”
“She looked right at me.”
He rolls a sleek beige and chrome jetpack toward me, powers it on with a code. “What makes you think she wasn’t there to party?”
“I’m not a moron. The way she recognized me and pulled out her phone—it was with a purpose.”
Tristan shrugs. “But this isn’t an illegal trip, right? You’re a DOT approved company. What’re you so worried about?”
“Don’t you get it? It means she could’ve hacked into our time string and tracked us down. She wouldn’t have done that unless she saw us do something against regulation.”
“Because I took my own song? That’s crazy, I don’t buy it.” He presses a button so his harness auto-buckles.
I step into my jetpack. “Or the jetpacks we stole. Or … anything.”
He meets my gaze, his face inches from mine. “You think she traveled here to charge us with something? Why not wait til we get back?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. Look, let’s just get back to the port and back to 2069. If we miss our window, the port closes and we have to wait another day before my dad can get it open again.” I let the harness conform itself to my body.
“Can’t you reopen it from this end?” Tristan lifts off, hovers over the pavement.
“We can but it’s not typical operational protocol. Reprogramming the vortex opening is best done from Mission Control. Too much data can reduce Essence’s power. The cloaking device requires pretty much all her memory as it is. Dad can reopen the port for us from back home, but standard operation requires a twenty-four hour interval between openings. Or else the vortex can backfire, implode, never be used again.”
“What the …? I won’t pretend I understood that, but son of a bitch. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
I glare at him til he flinches.
“Let me guess, in the handbook. Come on, we can make it back, worry about that later.”
I meet him in the air, my jetpack barely audible it’s so smooth. “These jetpacks are magic.”
“Cadillacs,” Tristan says, moves out from the garage. “Grant Prince spares no expense when it comes to comfort.”
We coast at minimum speed, navigating the alleys, then emerge above the street in the jetpack lane. I follow Tristan about five blocks north by my watch’s compass, and into the carnivalesque lights and holograms of Times Square. Digital billboards glittering and flashing, draw my attention in multiple directions. Music and voices populate the air. Other jetpackers in our lane slow to look around, observe the madness. I swerve around them, my hands gripping the memory foam of the handlebars as we veer right, toward the exit lane on Broadway.
Tristan guides us past the theaters’ holographic marquees and down through the back alley of the lesser-known theaters. I know exactly where we are. Taking the lead, I accelerate through the narrow alley ahead and land on the ground, just before the trash compactor. Cadillac-quiet style.
“What do we do with these?” I ask, patting the jetpack. Shame to leave it.
“I’ll get Grant new ones.” Tristan climbs out of his pack, props it behind the metal dumpster.
Stepping out of mine, I press the remote control from my watch which prompts an invisible Essence to reveal a small red blip of light. Touching my index finger to it, I wait for identity verification, until Essence drops her cloak and reveals herself. What a sweet sight for my bloodshot eyes she is.
The clock on the panel blinks. Fifty-five minutes to departure. We can do this. I grab our buffer suits from inside and we climb into them, taking turns zipping up each other’s back.
A sharp voice cuts through the air. “Miss Butterman, I need to inform you of the hazardous situation you’re wrapped up in.”
Garth.
She’s a few yards down the alley dressed in the same black pantsuit and white blouse as at the club. Her holo-badge is projected over her left shoulder.
The snugness of my buffer suit constricts me, tighter than ever before. I force short, rapid breaths, my chest rising and falling beneath the rubbery latex. I’m still in control. Keep calm.
“What’re you doing here?” I ask. “I’m not breaking regulation.”
She feigns surprise. “Aren’t you, though? I mean, piloting an unlogged time trip while under DOT investigation is ballsy, but commandeering an itinerary—acting as guide while under the influence of narcotics is a major offense. Earned yourself a PUI.”
“How the hell did they know that?” Tristan whispers to me.
I knew it. She’s seen everything.
“DOT hacked into our time string, wants to issue me a Piloting Under the Influence,” I say. “Thanks to Agent Garth here.”
Tristan holds up a hand toward Garth. “That was my fault. An honest mistake. Let me explain.”
“Tristan Helms.” Garth moves in, her gaze on him, red lips in a mock frown. “I’m guessing you have a good attorney. I hope so, for your sake. Contributing intoxicants to an uncertified trip guide is illegal, and not great publicity for someone in your situation.”
“Uncertified?” Tristan looks at me.
“She’s reaching,” I whisper. “This trip fully certifies me.”
He holds his hands open, as if to say we had no choice. “It wasn’t my fault. The spa made a mistake. And H.R.E. oils are lega
l.”
“Nice try.” Garth folds her arms over her chest as if she’s bored and offers the faintest of smiles. “At present, they’re still under review by the FDA, which I’m sure you already knew. In the future, they’ll be fully illegal. Your charges could be excused, considering the circumstances.” She nods at me. “But not for you, Miss Butterman. You’ll be lucky to ever get your license after this incident. Time travel is a privilege for only the most responsible of persons. Not a great way to start your record.”
I cringe. She’s trying to intimidate me. Am I that screwed? This is such a nightmare.
“What shall we discuss next?” Garth asks. “The jetpack larceny?”
“Nothing was planned, Agent Garth. You have to know that. We couldn’t risk a PF.” I try a little of my own diplomatic tactics—suggesting she’s smarter than the obvious. Then in a smaller voice, “Why’re you doing this?”
Seriously? The jetpacks, I get, but how can they accuse me of a PUI when I didn’t even know about the oils? Holy hell, Mom and Dad must be livid.
“Operating a commercial time travel agency is a unique opportunity,” Garth says casually, still inching closer. “But it also requires an enforced set of standards. Agencies who can’t comply, don’t deserve to operate. You’ve proven you’re not responsible enough to command time trips. DOT knows it, and now so do your parents.”
Why didn’t she wait til I got home for this?
“Come on,” Tristan says to her. “Let me pay the damages. I can make you a nice offer. You can forget about this and do something better with your time. Bianca hasn’t hurt anyone.”
Garth drums her manicured fingers on her arm, still folded over her chest. “Bribery, Helms? I have to say, it’s not a very smart move for you right now. And let me explain something so you don’t make the mistake of insulting me again: I can’t be bought.”
“I’ve found anyone can be—” Tristan starts.
“Save it,” Garth says. “I’m not interested in money. And what I want, you have no power to get for me.”
“What’s that?” he says.
I’m surprised when she answers.
“Progress. And to finish the job my father left undone.” Her eyes are almost seductive, the way she studies Tristan.
I wonder for a second if she’s secretly getting off on this. Having authority over someone like Tristan must thrill her. And what the hell does she mean by progress?
“Your father?” he asks. “What the hell’s your father got to do with this?”
“Let’s get back to the issue at hand,” she says, eyeing the time-craft. “I’m here to bring you back to your parents so we can proceed with the investigation.” Then she hones in on me with a glare—a strange glare—as if she’s aware of more than I know. “I should warn you, Miss Butterman, any attempt to tamper with the past at this point will only incriminate you further.”
I check the panel clock. Forty-six minutes. Wait a minute—Garth didn’t come via time-craft. “How did you get here?”
She snickers. “Too simple to be obvious, I suppose. Once my future-self tapped into your time string, all they had to do was track your activity, conduct a surveillance from afar. They knew you’d show up at Tristan’s penthouse. Matter of fact, I received word only a few hours ago.”
It hits me now. This is past-Garth, not the Garth I left in Alaska—she’s still back at the port. Somehow, she sent her past-self message to show up here. But why risk a possible PF? Love how government officials follow their own rules. What baffles me even more, though, is why she’d even bother showing up here when obviously we have to exit before the time window closes.
“So how about everyone cooperates and we get back to Port Butterman.” Garth uses a soothing voice, like she’s speaking to a disrespectful child, even does that suggestive nodding thing that supposedly influences people to comply. “Make it easy on yourself.”
“You’re the one holding us up,” I say. “Why do you think we’re here in the first place?”
“We’d all love to trust you know how to do your job, Miss Butterman, except, you’ve proven you can’t. Consider my being here insurance you return home.”
I’ve always heard dire situations make what’s important in your life flash before you. It’s true. Images of Mom and Dad flash in my mind’s eye. I’ve never been in trouble before—not like this. A PUI is major. I want to believe it’s repairable, but deep in my gut, I know that everything important is on the line right now: the family business, Tristan’s freedom and career, my license and Induction Day. However Garth got here doesn’t matter right now. The fact is she’s here, and she can shut down Butterman Travel for good.
“Are you gonna tell the DOT to shut us down?” I ask her point blank. I need to know now.
“We can discuss the details later. Your window is about to close. Your orders are to get back to Port Butterman, Alaska, to your parents, and secure the time-craft.”
Nausea invades my insides. She wants to shut us down, I know it. I have to fix this.
I grab Tristan’s hand, tug him backward, whispering, “We can’t go back.”
“What?” he says, his voice lowered. “We have to.”
“If we go back now, we’re screwed. Both of us.”
“You’re a smart girl, Miss Butterman,” Garth calls out. “Use your head.”
“What are you saying?” Tristan asks, his lips barely moving.
“Follow my lead.” I look him in the eye to show how serious I am. Then I speak out to Garth. “Okay, we’ll head back. We were doing that anyway.”
I climb into the time-craft, move to the side so Tristan can follow. Garth’s only a few steps away. She quickens her pace, but in a cautious way.
Something’s off. She’s too wary, suspicious. Why does she think we’re a threat? Or that we need a chaperone? We have nowhere else to go but home.
Nothing about this situation makes me trust her.
“I’m coming with you,” Garth calls out, only inches away.
Why? She’s worried about something—like she’s here for a reason. “What about regulation?” I ask. “The PF. You’ll run into your future-self.”
She puts a hand on Essence. “Please, Bianca, you’re talking to the federal DOT. You don’t think we’ve taken the proper precautions already? Step aside.”
I step back, and before I can think straight, secure the vessel door shut. Holy hell, what have I done? An impetuous move, but I can’t let her come with us. It’s all wrong. I feel it.
Garth gawks at us from outside the vessel’s front window, her jaw tightened with fury. I must be losing my mind. My body’s operating on autopilot.
“Strap in,” I order Tristan.
I clamber into the cockpit, strap myself into the seat. My fingers fly over the controls: first, re-cloaking the time-craft from view, then, plotting an alternate course. We have to get somewhere safe—where we can hide out for a day or two and figure this out, without the DOT breathing down our necks. But my brain’s stalled in panic mode.
Only thing I can think of is our Agency motto: Where Time is Always in Your Hands. That’s what I need right now—time to untangle the knots in my time string.
“Give me a destination,” I call out. “Quick. Somewhere obscure, where we can blend in, without the government being aware of it.”
“Are you crazy? I thought we were going back—” Tristan says.
“I need a destination, to buy us time away from the DOT. Something random. It’s the only way, or my Agency’s toast. I need a date and place so I can lock onto a port.” My hands are trembling. “I can’t think—”
“I thought you couldn’t open ports from here?” he says. “That there’s not enough memory?”
“I said it wasn’t standard operational protocol. It’s not good for the software, but our power supply is strong right now. My dad will fix it later.” I pause. My voice cracks when I speak again, “I don’t know what else to do. Give me a date and place.”
&nb
sp; Tristan’s silent for a split second before calling out, “August 17, 1969. Bethel, New York.”
I glance out the front where Garth is jabbering away in an earpiece, aiming her device right at us, though our image is cloaked. What is she doing with that thing? Recording us? Trying to deactivate us? She knows we’re still here since there’s been no departure activity, but she can’t penetrate the energy shield of Essence’s cloaking mechanism.
She’s probably kicking herself right now—thought she could handle this on her own, that we’d follow her orders. I can’t forget that way she looked at me—convinced she had me, so sure I’d comply.
So why didn’t I?
Focusing on the task at hand, I pull up a port chart on-screen and run a search. Got one. A super small port over the town of Bethel blinks and I lock onto it. I’d say luck is on our side at the moment, which is good since it’s been evading us all day. I coordinate the dimension voltage and beam the signal acoustics, opening the vortex and creating a time window. The risks are small, but they’re there all the same. If our battery wasn’t fully charged, and I didn’t have full confidence Dad could recalibrate the memory, I’d never do it … but Essence is in her prime right now. Worst case scenario, we do a full system reboot when we arrive.
The entire vessel rumbles, preparing for departure.
Outside, the vessel’s backdraft blows Garth’s hair into long wisps around her face. She forces her jacket back down from the strong gusts, fully aware we’re leaving the premises. No point in her hacking into Mission Control now—it won’t have the data. Only this time-craft holds any coordinates or information, and the likelihood they’d guess Bethel, New York in 1969, one hundred years ago—”
My head jerks up at the rearview mirror. “Where the hell are we going? What’s in upstate New York in 1969?”
Tristan shrugs, his image already becoming blurry as the vessel initiates departure. “Peace and music, man. The best of it. ”
Chapter
12
My eyes open lazily, flutter for something to lock onto. Images sway above me like serrated tentacles. After a few blurry seconds, I’m able to focus. Tree branches. Limbs and leaves arching over the time-craft with protective fingers; golden sunshine pouring through them, reflecting off the vessel surface in a twinkle.
Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars Page 51
