Taking my seat, I pull up the departure time table and port map. I verify the countdown and reset the cloaking device.
There’s a brief power surge, then the cockpit dashboard fully lights up. Forty minutes, seventeen seconds til the Bethel port closes. I get a lock on the Port Butterman coordinates, verify access. Dad must’ve held it open, probably been monitoring all night, but it’s at its maximum. No problem.
I initiate departure countdown. Five minutes til all systems are a go.
“Ready for takeoff?” I glance once in the rearview mirror while I strap in.
“I can’t wait to do this all over again,” Tristan says with a dumb smile. “I’m making this a yearly vacation spot.”
I chuckle, finally feeling some relief. Yeah, I’ve still got the DOT charges to face, but I’m ready to go home.
The cloaking device prompt blips with an error on my dashboard screen. Words flash: Shields inoperable. Don’t tell me the software is getting glitchy now, just before we leave. That’s okay, though, this crowd is so high they won’t know Essence from a hallucination if they happen to stumble by. I reset it again.
Three minutes, four seconds til departure.
“Standby to engage.” I lean back into my seat, grateful for the comfort it offers, and power up the engine. Vibrations rumble all around me. Vessel is stabilized and active, ready for lift off.
My screen blips again with an error message. The Bethel port is closing, only a sliver remains uncolored on the pie graph. How is that possible? I tap the screen, expecting it to blitz some numbers or reboot itself, but the port is slowly disappearing.
What the hell? This can’t be right. We should have plenty of time. The time port was never fully opened, but I generated enough of a signal for a four hour time window. My foot raps quickly, uncontrollably on the metal floor.
Another power surge dims the dashboard lights—this time longer. The entire vessel powers down in silence.
“What’s going on?” Tristan asks.
I undo my seatbelt. “I dunno …”
Reaching for the power reserve control, my heart plunges into my guts. I gasp. Holy hell, I forgot one of the most basic procedures. How could I have let this happen?
“What is it?” Tristan asks.
I don’t want to admit how badly I’ve screwed up, but it’s obvious something is very wrong. “I didn’t activate the power reserve when we arrived. I forgot to hardboot the system. All this time the cloaking device has been on, we’ve been draining power … we used more than normal to open the port …”
“What’s that mean?”
“If the backup’s not activated, the battery won’t self-charge.” The power blinks on again and I move quickly, checking the memory bank. It’s way below level. I’ll have to recalibrate. “We’re about thirty minutes from full power loss.”
“So let’s go then. What’re you waiting for?”
“Even if we had enough power to travel, the dang port is closing. I don’t think we can make it. Warp drive at this rate is risky. Essence needs a full twenty-four hour charge, at least. The cloaking device ate up the power leftover from the Manhattan trip. Damn it, what’s wrong with me?”
“Take it easy, all right? I don’t get it. You’re saying we’re stuck here?”
Think, Bianca, think.
I reenter data into the port program on-screen. “If I can manipulate the numbers, use what power we have, and bounce enough of a signal into the vortex, maybe I can get it to reopen, give us enough time to reach warp drive …”
“Do it, I’m ready.”
“I don’t understand …” My fingers are flying over the screen’s holo-keys. “We have enough power to emit the signal, but the vortex isn’t responding. I can’t even see it anymore. Like it’s not there. Doesn’t make sense.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
My temples are pounding, pulsing. The port is only a crescent now. “It won’t budge. It’s not working ...”
The time port blip fizzles on-screen, confirming the time window closure. I sink back into my seat. My eyelids close as the pit in my stomach expands.
Must. Get. A. Grip.
Undoing my straps in a loud clamor, I spring to my feet, survey the area. We’re still in the clear, but I doubt that’ll last now that we’re uncloaked.
“We’ve gotta hide Essence,” I say. “Over there, looks like a cluster of brambles.”
“We’re staying here?”
“Essence needs a full twenty-four hour charge in order to try the vortex again.”
“So, what, we’re gonna push it into the bushes?” Tristan asks.
“Got any better ideas? I’ll eject the wheels. She’ll roll. We need to stay out of sight til we can get a power charge.”
“How are we supposed to do that?” he asks, rising from his seat. “Ask somebody for a jump?”
“Pretty much.” I climb out the door. “Come on, we have work to do.”
Chapter
17
Worst scenario I can imagine is being stuck in a world with no Internet, Wi-Fi, or time travel technology. Limits us on so many different levels I don’t even want to consider right now. I ponder sending a coded message back to 2069, to Mission Control, and let my parents know we’re okay. But I file that under Last Resort. I’m still not comfortable with the DOT knowing where and when we are, or finding more to charge us with. Not yet. Now that the time port has closed, it can’t be reopened again for another twenty-four hours anyway. And I’m not about to be escorted by the DOT back to my timeline and leave Essence behind. I won’t leave without her.
With only thirty minutes’ worth of power, I use my time wisely. I don’t try rescheduling the vortex or time window. Instead, I use the time-craft’s database to research the area and local resources—see exactly how far their technology has come and what we’re dealing with.
We’re here for the night, and we have our supply pack, which is good, because it looks like we’ll need it.
Tristan ducks out to christen Mother Nature, and by the time he returns, I’ve stumbled onto a revelation that has my pulse racing.
He squats beside me, peels off his sweat-dampened black turtleneck, and begins ripping the sleeves from the seams. “What’d you find out?”
I lean back in my seat, rubbing my eyes, my breathing now ragged. “I did a search on the internal database for historical port data. This port’s been open for a hundred years to the day.”
“That’s strange?”
“Uh, yeah. The fact you called out a random but obscure place, and it having a usable port already mapped and available is a possible CI.”
“Elaborate, please.”
“Coincidental Incident,” I say. “For a regular person, a CI is an ironic occurrence, but for a time traveler, it’s a sign of something more. No such thing as coincidences in time travel. What you think is an accident or chance, is part of the causal loop.”
“You mean something like we were meant to come here?” he asks.
He always catches on quicker than I give him credit.
“At first I thought I was reading too much into it,” I say. “Til I found a distant relative. Boris Butterman. My great, great, grandfather. He lives in this county—right now—and if that’s not a CI, I don’t know what is.”
“Whoa. You’ve got relatives here?”
“Never knew about it til now. Butterman time travel history claims my great grandfather Paul Butterman as the time-craft mastermind and the first Butterman to time travel. Looks like Boris is his father. My parents never really mentioned him. Paul’s the one who gets all the credit.”
“So you think Boris opened the Bethel port originally. That’s what you’re saying?”
“Makes sense. Unless my parents have been here and never told me. I mean, Butterman time travel technology’s been around for one hundred years exactly. The fact there’s a Butterman here and a usable port is a CI in a big way.” I glance at his furrowed brow, thinking how naïve
to this situation he is. “My parents never mentioned anything about Bethel, New York. Our Agency’s been in Alaska for as long as my parents have been alive. My great-grandparents started time traveling out of New York City when it was a brand new science, then the next generation moved to Paloot.”
“So this Boris guy can help us then,” Tristan says.
I shrug. “Maybe. But Boris is only seventeen, and the likelihood he knows anything about time travel is slim.”
Tristan shakes his head with a goofy grin, clutches my arm. “Maybe that’s why we’re here—like the CI you were talking about.”
The words are heavy in my thoughts. I admit, I’ve been considering the same thing ever since I discovered it, which means nothing I expected about my future was true. It’d mean I’m supposed to be here. Why didn’t Mom and Dad ever say anything about Boris? How could they have not known about my arriving here? And how could Tristan Helms have anything to do with it? Coming here was his idea.
I meet his eyes. “That’s what’s been tripping me out. How could your lost song be the basis of Butterman Travel? That’d mean …”
Tristan stares, then swallows so hard his Adam’s apple almost does a flip. “That I’m supposed to be here as much as you are.”
Goosebumps travel up my arms. This moment’s entirely too intense right now. Thinking Tristan Helms has any higher purpose here, with me, is more than I can handle.
I fidget with my bangs, brushing them away from my forehead. “Anyway, if we can find Boris and see what he knows, maybe we’ll get some answers without causing a PF. I’ll use what’s left of our power to reschedule the vortex and confirm the time port for tomorrow night. I wanna lock onto it before anyone else does.”
“Who else would want it?” he asks.
“How should I know? But it’s been opened before, and already logged on the charts, which means someone else uses it, or has used it.”
“Only one time-craft can use a port at a time?”
“No, but time travelers don’t like congestion. We avoid ports if they’re already opened, or show use. Kinda like an unofficial courtesy. Universe is huge. We shouldn’t have to worry about running into each other, or our past and future selves.” I move toward the door. “We can link up any battery charger to shock Essence into power and activate the reserve. The database shows they use some sort of cable in this era. Ten to twelve hours should give us enough juice for a full recharge. But without the time port reprogrammed, we won’t get anywhere. We can’t carry the vessel to the next port—drag it on a tractor trailer to Vermont.”
“Why Vermont?”
“That’s the next closest port. But these people have never seen a time-craft before, we can’t transport it out in the open.”
“Who cares about that? Let them wonder. How far away does Boris live?”
“Sixteen miles north on a dairy farm. Maybe we can hitch a ride, leave the vessel here.”
“Not now we can’t. Sun’s going down and traffic’s backed up for miles. Some people are staying the night through; the landowner said he didn’t mind.” Tristan smiles. “How about a sunset swim?”
I shake my head. “Really? Is that all you think about?”
“We’re not gonna hike sixteen miles in the dark to find this guy. We did the best we could. Let’s call it a night and head out first thing in the morning.” He stretches. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough stress for one day. Come on, Butterman.”
I’m about to object, when I stop, my mouth still hanging open. He’s right. The light outside has faded into soft yellow. And I’m hot, sticky, and way too tense.
Tristan rests his hands behind his head, staring blankly at me.
“You know something …” I rise and move toward the open door, now blocked by leaf-filled branches. “You’re on.”
* * *
At the lake, Tristan strips off his mud-stained snow pants and dives in, wearing only his boxer briefs. Others are around—sitting, swimming, strolling—but they don’t seem to notice him or me. Faint music comes from somewhere, but it sounds more like recordings instead of live performances. It tickles me how well Tristan fits in here, how easily he plays the part. From the water, he calls for me with a whistle and a wave, and I nod. My ungodly paleness won’t keep me from getting my feet wet this time—or any other body part for that matter.
Shedding my boots, I pull off my shirtdress and under-tank so I’m down to my bra and panties. Black, of course. If I’m doing this, I’m doing it, and I may as well let Tristan get a full glimpse of the goods. Not the bod of the supermodels he’s used to hooking up with, but all my parts are in place and in proper working order. And I’m feeling just saucy enough to let his gaze fall all over me until I quiver.
I stride into the lukewarm lake water, the silty bottom squishing between my toes. It smells of fish and moss, but there’s a sweet earthiness about it that I find strangely comforting. And the way the residual sunlight reflects off the water is magic. Motes dip and glide off the surface like an aerial ballet. Crickets are already calling for their mates.
Tristan’s already neck deep, about to break into a backstroke when he catches sight of me in thigh-high water. He does a double take and grins.
Mission accomplished. Now he knows I’m not perfect, but that I’m all female.
He kicks his way over and I dip down past my shoulders.
“About time, Butterman,” he says, treading in front of me. “Nice to see you enjoying Mother Nature, the way she intended. Almost, anyway.”
“Please. I do this kinda thing all the time back home. You should try glacier skinny dipping.”
“Youch. Bad for the boys below, if you know what I mean.” He scrubs some dried mud from his arms.
I wet my hair so it’s slicked away from my face, recalling the events of the day. “You were right about Hendrix, and Woodstock. I feel like I’ve been living in a cocoon. I mean, I’ve always considered myself eclectic when it came to music, but I never bothered to give this mega-retro stuff a try. After today, though … I dunno, I feel opened, aware. You know?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” He ducks his head beneath the water, reemerging closer.
“What you said back there, about Hendrix staying off the drugs. What’d you mean?”
Tristan squints over the water’s surface, his smile fading. “He ODs. Not long after this. Age twenty-seven.”
I have to wonder if this isn’t part of some twisted self-fulfilling prophecy. Too weird that Tristan’s rock hero is also an addict.
My tone is delicate, tentative as I tread over fragile territory. “Your role model struggles with addiction too?”
I don’t mean it as a low blow. I know what Hendrix means to him artistically, musically—plus the connection to his dad.
Tristan shakes his head. “No, see, that’s where you’re wrong. He’s not a role model, he’s a source of inspiration. Despite his weaknesses, he’s still a fucking brilliant talent. Trust me, musicians don’t ask to be role models. We just ask to share our art.”
I make no response. He’s right. Society makes artists into role models whether they like it or not.
He interrupts my awkward silence, his gaze pointed. “I know it’s probably against some kind of time travel regulation that I mentioned his OD to him, but … I just had to. Not that he believed us anyway. I had to try.”
His face is so serious that a chill travels up my spine. “I know.”
He surprises me by closing the distance between us, but even more when his hand finds mine, his fingers closing around it while we tread water. He lingers at eye level across from me, his chin at the water’s surface. “I’m sorry about missing the time window and getting stuck. But this day is so … sublime. Best day ever. I can’t wait to work on my music, get writing again. And I’ve got you to thank for it.” He squeezes my hand. “Thank you.”
I’m unsure how to respond—if he’s genuinely thankful or elevating the flirtation to an
other level. So I return the squeeze, play it cool. “I should be thanking you. I’d have missed all this if you hadn’t suggested it.”
“It was so spur of the moment, too. First thing that popped in my head,” he says. His fingers are still intertwined with mine, our legs moving to stay afloat. “Which is why it blows my mind it’s linked with your relatives somehow.”
I let out a long sigh.
“I don’t want you to feel like you’ve gotta face it all alone.” The blue in his eyes dances with the flecks of gray. “All the government really wants is money anyway, and I’ve got that covered. I may not have loads of talent, but I do have loads of money.”
“You are talented,” I say, but my tone holds an element of doubt that I hope Tristan doesn’t notice. “Like you say, you just need some better lyrics, better tunes. Your voice is decent.”
“Decent, huh?” He half-smiles, though his stare is more serious. “But no Dirk Stiles.”
“Nobody can wail like Dirk Stiles. But his style wouldn’t work for you anyway. Too far off the spectrum.”
Tristan lies back again so his head floats, and gently, his fingers release mine. “So tell me, in your own words, what is it about Dirk Stiles’ voice that sucks you in?”
I notice the emptiness in my hand now, the loss of his touch, in a bigger way than I expected. I move toward him, letting my arms tread far and wide in hopes of grazing his fingers again, re-latching onto his hand.
But they never seem to meet.
“Just that he puts his own spin on his music,” I say. “His voice, Nate Kirkland’s guitar … the whole band feeds off each other. Maybe that’s what you need. Maybe you haven’t found the right group who really gets you.”
“I’ve been learning guitar—I told you that, right? Gave me something to do at rehab. I’m no Jimi Hendrix, that’s for damn sure, but someday I’ll play my own songs, write my own lyrics—all of it.” His gaze is on the sky as he drifts, talks. “I’m tellin’ you, there’s something to this classic shit that can’t be found anywhere else. That’s why I’m soaking it all in.”
Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars Page 56
