Boris nods, obviously still adrift in the confusion of our presence. “My dad’s truck, if he’s not using it. I’ll have to get my mom’s permission … But, how are jumper cables supposed to charge a time machine?”
“Time-craft,” I correct him. “Same as when you start your car—only our battery is nothing like your old car batteries. Once the lithium ions recharge themselves, it converts the radiation throughout the vessel’s internal power tubes into amperage. But that’ll take a few hours. When the dashboard is powered up, though, we can try to reopen the port. I couldn’t get it to budge yesterday …”
Boris stops, about to speak, but no words emerging.
“Maybe you should take it down a notch,” Tristan says to me, then gets Boris moving again. “You mentioned something earlier about lemonade and sandwiches?”
Boris pets his long dark ponytail to the side of his neck, lost in thought, or hesitation. “Right. I can pack a lunch …”
“Perfect.” Tristan flashes me a wink and a nod, suggesting we’re cool as ice, thanks to his superstar charm.
* * *
Mrs. Butterman is a hefty lady with stringy dark hair and hard-to-miss cankles. She gives Tristan and me a distrusting once-over, and only lets Boris have the truck keys if he promises to stop by the store for a pound of sugar. She complains about him using up all the white bread for guests and gives him a thirty minute curfew to get back to work or else he loses his radio.
I’m repulsed that I reminded Boris of the woman at all. Offended is an understatement. With an overbearing mom like her, I can see why he’s such a pansy. The very fact I’m related to the woman makes me shudder. But the important thing is, we’re on our way to the time-craft and it’s only 1339 EST, which means by the time Essence is fully charged, a full twenty-four hours will have passed and the vortex can be reopened. Hopefully.
I didn’t expect Boris to be so far behind in his discovery. What if he’s no help and we still can’t open it? I have to believe otherwise. It has to be the reason we’re here. Even though it was Tristan’s idea to come, it has to be a part of something bigger. And I think Boris is starting to realize this too. He’s drilled me with questions on cosmic rifts since we got in his dad’s truck.
As we near the concert clearing, we pass some stragglers, but mostly the grounds are barren—just a filthy, garbage-strewn dent in some guy’s once-green fields. A few people are on site cleaning up, so we circle around the lake and drive in over the trampled fence at the rear to avoid attention.
I can tell Boris is apprehensive about trespassing. His jaw tenses and he hunches up over the steering wheel. “Are you sure about this? Not a good idea, I don’t think. I can’t get into trouble here—”
“Relax, man,” Tristan says. He’s the opposite of Boris right now, shoes off and leaning back in the bench-style seat, bare feet sticking out the window, wind blowing his long bangs off to the side. “Last thing they’re worried about is us.”
I spot the two large trees that mark the time port. “Park just over there—as close as you can get to that tree. No, too close. Leave room for us to push the time-craft beside your truck.”
Boris idles the nose of the truck so it’s almost touching the tree trunk, shuts off the ignition, and leans into the steering wheel. “This is it? The cosmic rift? Looks like a plain old tree.”
“To the naked eye, yes,” I say. “But with a mega-scope, you can aim straight up into the atmosphere, find traces of the opening. Looks like a mini Aurora Borealis.”
“A mega-scope?” Boris asks.
“Haven’t been invented yet, and even when they are, they’ll be top secret for awhile.”
“I still don’t get it,” Boris says. “How am I supposed to discover rifts if I can’t even see them with my telescope?”
I hesitate, unsure how to answer. “All I know is, your son, Paul Butterman, is the first of our family to build a time-craft and access the rifts’ vortexes. He must’ve continued the science that you’d already researched. Once I get the port maps up on-screen, it’ll be easier to show you.
“I never actually time travel then?” Boris asks.
I hadn’t considered how disappointing this might be for him til now. How can I tell him he’s key to discovering time travel but may never actually take a time trip?
“Sorry, Boris,” I say. “I’m not really sure. Butterman history only mentions Paul as the first real traveler. But don’t feel too bad about it. Without you, Butterman Travel won’t exist.”
Boris shakes his head. “I live on a dairy farm, man. I’m meant to run Butterman Farms Dairy someday—not invent time travel.”
“You don’t invent it,” I say. “It’s already being discovered by other scientists around the world—mostly from government projects, but the way my parents tell it, Buttermans are one of only a few to make an independent breakthrough, before governments around the world patent their own technology and discover use of the rifts.”
“I make milk and butter, man.” Boris actually snickers.
First time I’ve heard him laugh since we met him.
“It’s all so impossible, I’m starting to believe it.” Boris shakes his head.
“And you gotta admit,” Tristan says. “You two do look alike. Got the same green eyes.”
Looking like Boris I can live with. But if he says I resemble Boris’ mother in any way, I’ll elbow his nose.
I lean over Tristan and open the door, shove him out.
Boris steps out from the other side. “Well?”
“We’ll get the time-craft.” I turn for Essence’s hiding spot and bump right into someone behind me.
Garth.
Chapter
21
Agent Lola Garth stands before us, wearing a navy polyester pantsuit with white stitching and wide lapels, her platinum hair slicked back in a bun at the nape of her neck.
“I think we’ve had enough fun for today, don’t you, Miss Butterman?” she says. “Time to get back to the hospital.”
I open my mouth to speak, but find myself speechless, paralyzed.
Garth moves toward Boris. “I apologize for whatever trouble these two have caused you, sir. You can rest assured the state will get them back where they belong, under maximum security.”
Boris’ face contorts with confusion. “I don’t understand …”
I look to Tristan for assistance, but he’s wearing a blank stare and seems frozen in his footsteps.
Garth wraps her thin fingers around my bicep as if she’s escorting me away, but speaks to Boris. “These two escaped their Manhattan mental facility when they found your name and address in the phone book.” She flashes him a sympathetic smile. “Let me guess, they tried convincing you they were time travelers, didn’t they? I’m afraid it’s the same old story. Sorry to say, their doctors believed they’d gotten past it when the hospital reduced their security. They’d hoped limited outdoor access would do them some good.”
“Wait a minute,” Boris says. “Who are you?”
I jerk my arm away from Garth just as Boris’ question sinks in. How does she plan on explaining this?
She whips out a leather fold and flips it open to a shiny gold badge. “I’m Officer Garth from National Health Services. It’s a delicate situation. Patients such as these, with a lesser mental capacity, require special handling.”
I scoff. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Officer Garth.”
She reaches for my arm again, but misses. “Don’t make me use force, Miss Butterman. I’d hate for it to come to that.” Putting her hand on her hip, she slides the bottom of her jacket aside, revealing a pistol tucked into the waist of her slacks.
My chest clenches. The DOT is packing weapons now? When did that happen? And which Garth is this? How did she get here if the port was closed? She must’ve opened it somehow, but where’s her time-craft? I do a quick scan of the surroundings for any trace of a government vessel.
Nothing.
Boris slowly scratches
his chin, his eyes searching mine with a flicker of betrayal. “Mental patients?”
“Boris, she’s lying,” I say. “She’s from the DOT—she’s a time traveler too.”
Every second that passes, he inches closer to his truck.
It doesn’t matter what I say, or how I explain it. The very fact Garth is here proves the DOT found our time string when I left no trace of coordinates. They had no way to know we’d show up here, in 1969. Unless …
“Maybe she can help us get back,” Tristan says to me.
I consider running, but what would I be escaping from? I don’t want to be stuck in this decade any more than I want Garth to escort us away. But the weird thing is, she doesn’t seem to expect us to run. Not like before, back in Manhattan.
“You can go now,” she says to Boris. “Again, we apologize for any inconvenience. I’ll take it from here.”
That phony smile; that forced professional tone. She’s more concerned with convincing Boris we’re batshit crazy.
Boris starts to turn, almost with a look of relief.
“Boris, don’t go. The time-craft is right in those bushes …” I point toward the lake.
He glances back, his shoulders slumping inward, then reaches for the driver side door and climbs in.
“Don’t worry, I’ll see to it these two don’t bother you or your family again,” Garth tells him.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I scream at her. “We need his truck …”
“Bianca, calm down.” Tristan grazes my arm, his eyes on Garth.
She’s pretending to pay attention to us, but her gaze keeps shifting toward Boris, who is now backing out, his face frowning, brow furrowed. He glances once at me with such a look of hopelessness, my stomach drops. I want to call out to him, wave for him to stop, but he seems so wounded, all I can do is watch him drive off.
Garth pulls out a handheld device from her blazer pocket, lets out a little sigh. “Now then ...” She punches into the screen. “I’ve got citations here for a PUI, PIO, jetpack larceny, and DOT evasion. Streamed directly to your agency inbox and awaiting your digital signature.” She turns the device around, holds it out for me. “Or you can go ahead and sign right now and get the ball rolling. Your parents would be pleased. I know they’re anxious to file for an acquittal of charges, motion to get their operation up and running again. It’ll take months to make it to an actual judge.”
“A PIO? For what?” I ask.
“What’s a PIO?” Tristan asks.
“Paradox Initiation Offense,” Garth says. “Your being here with a past Butterman relative is a PF. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that?”
“We didn’t know Bianca had relatives here,” Tristan says. “This was my idea …”
I shake my head at him, gesturing for him to shut up. Til I know what’s going on, Garth doesn’t need to know any more than necessary, and she hasn’t mentioned anything about a parallel shift from the Manhattan events. If our being here is a CI, she could be here for a reason too.
“Save it for the hearing,” Garth says. “Just add both your signatures right here.”
I make no move toward the device.
“Give your parents some peace of mind, Bianca.” Garth waves the device at me, motioning for me to take it. “Your signature will register the offense and send a confirmation directly to your parents. They’ll be glad to know you’re safe.”
“I’m not signing anything til I get home and talk to them. I know my rights. And I don’t even know who you are. Agent Garth from 2069, or some other year? And how did you get here? Where’s your time-craft? You expect me to just believe you?”
I sound like Boris did and it prickles my arms with goosebumps.
Garth projects her holo-badge right in front of me. It reads 2070. “I traveled the same way anyone else does from the year 2070, but don’t bother looking for my time-craft. I came in through a different port, traveled here by car. I’ll admit, it took me a bit of time to find you in all this mess. But, I knew you’d be back here eventually. ”
“You’re from the year 2070?” Tristan repeats. “How did you know we’d be here?”
Garth checks the surroundings. Boris is no longer in sight.
“Received DOT notification,” she says. “Just so happens I was available for time string infiltration. Citation issuance was necessary as soon as possible. You do realize you’re both in a lot of trouble. You’d be smart to sign and confirm your infractions now so I don’t have to make an actual arrest.” She examines me, a pouty slant to her lower lip. “I remember how upset your parents were after you evaded me the last time—in 2068. I’ve never seen a grown man tear up like your father did. Just think how he’ll feel having to bail you out of prison for a second DOT evasion offense.”
I swallow hard at the mention of my parents. No way Dad teared up—he’d never let the DOT walk all over him. She’s bluffing.
“We weren’t evading, I requested an excursion,” Tristan says. “Besides, we’d like to get back, but can’t. We lost power—that’s the problem.”
Not the only problem. The port won’t open, which makes me wonder if that’s why Garth used another one.
Garth half shrugs. “Sign your citations, then, and I’ll see what I can do to get you powered up again.”
“She can’t do anything to power us up,” I tell Tristan. “We needed Boris to jump us.” I stare at Garth. “How did the DOT know we were here?”
“I can get you powered up,” Garth says, like it makes no difference to her. “Just give me your digital signature.”
Tristan is about to sign.
“No, don’t,” I say. “Why would she come all the way here to get our signatures when she could get them once we return?”
“What if we don’t make it back?” Tristan asks. “What if that’s why she’s here?”
“Fine,” Garth says, slips her device in her jacket pocket. “If that’s what’s holding you back, you can sign when you get back to your own port. We’ll have a grand shut-down finale, if that’s what you prefer. I’ll grab the charger from my car.”
She turns, heads up the hillside toward the main road, in the opposite direction from where we came, her shoulders back, chin high. I hate how she acts so much more experienced than me. I bet I’ve even time traveled more than she has.
“What was that all about?” Tristan asks. “She completely shifted gears like she didn’t care about the citations at all.”
“I don’t know. She’s hiding something. I don’t trust her.”
The rumbling of an engine from behind makes us turn.
Boris rolls up in his truck from the same way we came, with Garth nowhere in the vicinity.
My chest expands with a combination of hope and familiarity. He came back.
He leans out the driver window. “I was thinking, if you two were mental patients who’ve caused trouble before, how come they let you stay together at a facility? And all that talk about time travel right after my unproved theory on cosmic rifts—it’s a coincidence I can’t ignore. Not to mention that groovy watch you’ve got on. If you’re not time travelers, then you’re something just as intriguing. Can’t overlook that. Or your eyes, Bianca.”
I let out a flustered-sounding sigh. “Exactly, Boris. Come on, let’s see if we can power the vessel up. Then we won’t need Garth at all, and she’ll know it.”
Together, Tristan and I break through the brambles of the shrubbery near the lake and roll the time-craft next to the truck, park it right next to Boris’ window. His face shifts into a series of expressions—from surprise to confusion to sheer wonder. He climbs out of the truck and examines Essence.
The transparent siding undulates with light beneath his touch. I press the door release on the keypad and it slides open. Inside, Boris sits behind the cockpit controls and studies the dashboard.
“We need to jumpstart the battery,” I say. “I’ll hook your cables up and get her going. Maybe it’ll be enough for just the t
rip home.”
“A battery’s all it takes for this thing to work?” he asks.
“Yeah, right.” I climb outside. I’d explain how the docking bay’s magnetron is the main source of energy for the vessel—how it conducts the electromagnetism and microwaves, which in turn, power the battery and the initial radiation voltage through Essence’s vein-like tubing, but I don’t think he’s ready for that yet. Baby steps.
I pop the pickup hood and connect the jumper cables from the truck battery to the adaptor ligaments tucked beneath the time-craft’s lowest vein. Looking up, I spy Garth pulling up in a green Chevrolet, wearing wide-framed shades that block half her face.
She shuts off the car and steps out, her expression unreadable. “Well, I see I’m late to the party. Boris, you’d do yourself a favor by leaving now.”
“He knows better than to listen to you,” I say to her, then nod to Tristan, who’s behind the wheel of Boris’ truck.
He starts the ignition, giving me a wary look, obviously concerned with Garth’s presence during our attempt.
I call in to Boris. “When I give the okay, press the green power button on the top right.”
“You want me to do it?” Boris’ voice is skittish from inside the vessel.
“You can’t press a button? Come on, can’t get any easier than that.”
“Okay. Tell me when.”
I give Tristan the signal, then prompt Boris, but nothing happens. Barely a spark of currents. The truck is running, but Essence doesn’t even purr. “Try it again.”
Garth removes her shades and focuses her frosty-blue eyes on me. “I was hoping to avoid drastic measures, but your PIO citation just doubled. You’d have been wise to leave Boris Butterman out of this entirely.”
“You never answered my question,” I say, rechecking the cable connection. “How did you know we’d be here? You couldn’t have hacked into our coordinates—we didn’t leave any behind.”
“I’m afraid that’s classified.” She holds up a round portable charger the size of a dinner plate. It blinks green. “As soon as you sign the citations, I’ll be happy to charge your vessel.”
Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars Page 60
