“Ten minutes?” I say. “How is that possible with the vortex closure?”
Evangeline gestures at the screen with both hands. “With these antiquated equations it’s no wonder you can’t break the DOT code.”
“Code? What code?” I ask.
Her fingers now fly over the virtual keyboard, while the diagram of the time port fills the screen. “The DOT from 2069 used a GTD to close the port, lock it, so to speak.”
“Don’t any of you people talk in real words?” Tristan asks. “What’s a GTD?”
“Gravitational Time Dilation,” Evan says, still studying his device. “For the year 2069 it’s a relatively new science—well, not the concept, but the technology to make it work.”
“Which means?” I ask.
“They’ve figured out how to bend Earth’s gravity and fold over the rift, block the port,” Evan says. “But it’s not a constant, it just appears that way.”
“A mirage effect,” Evangeline says. “Tricky one, too. Your signal couldn’t break through it, and the way they’ve manipulated the gravity, makes the vortex appear closed.”
“Why would they do that, though?” I ask.
“Yeah, I thought they didn’t want us to have contact with Boris,” Tristan adds. “If it weren’t for that, we wouldn’t have gone looking for him.”
“The CCL indicates you searching for Boris because of a possible CI,” Evan says. “One of you probably had a gut-feeling that you should meet up with him, right?”
I exchange glances with Tristan, then nod. “I did. But we could’ve found power from somewhere else and left. Why would they’ve taken that chance and used a GTD?”
Evangeline’s still entering data on-screen. “By masking the vortex to appear inaccessible, they inflicted fear and doubt. As far as we know, it’s the first time they’ve used this technique in this time string, so my guess is Garth intended to show up sooner than she did and intercept you before you found Boris, offer to save the day by reprogramming the port and getting you safely back to 2069. That would be a hit to your self-confidence, and possibly key to breaking you later. Or, if they managed to trick you into altering your own history, it could’ve meant returning to a family business of dogsledding. For you and me both.”
“She was way off target, then,” Tristan says.
“Funny things, time strings,” Evangeline continues. “It was her first time showing up in this one, so her calculations may’ve been off. That’s the problem with the DOT’s satellite technology—what appears as real time can show up with a slight delay, throw the numbers off. That’s probably what happened to Agent Garth. But that doesn’t mean she won’t get it right the next time.”
“So you know how to break the GTD?” I ask.
Evangeline nods. “Once I bounce the right frequency through the time tunnel and onto the Butterman receptors of the future, we should see a shock wave.”
“Then what?” Boris asks, fully engaged now.
“We lock onto it and bend it open,” Evan says from behind us. “Signal should be strong enough to hold it for a few hours. Afterward, you should close it down for a full twenty-four hours before using it again.”
“Done,” Evangeline says. “You have exactly four hours point thirty-one seconds to make a departure.”
A splash of blue flashes across the screen. Evangeline enters data so quickly, so adeptly, that I wonder if she’s half-machine herself. She seems so comfortable there at the cockpit dashboard. Gives me the willies in the worst way. Familiarity creeps inside me: the reflection of my very spirit.
“And … done,” she says, swivels toward us. “However, no time to waste. We suggest a prompt departure now that the vessel’s been stabilized.”
I meet Tristan’s eyes, where a gleam of hopefulness resides.
His brows arch. “That’s it? We can head back?”
“Yes,” Evan says, then turns to Boris. “You and I should talk for a spell. I have information that will help you get started. The very basics.”
“Is that a good idea?” I ask him.
“In this case, very,” Evan says. “For all our sakes.”
Evangeline brushes past me, stands beside Evan, both of them looking like superheroes in their shimmery metallic skin suits. They both grin, glance at each other through some kind of inside joke the rest of us were left outside from.
“Tell me one thing, then,” I say, my voice almost a whisper. “About my Induction Day—”
Evangeline silences me with her finger raised, a peculiar sparkle in her eyes. “My apologies, but we can’t answer any questions that aren’t relative to this journey.”
I have tons of them. Part of me wants to stick around to see what goes down between them and Boris. But I have other obligations in my own timeline.
“Bianca,” Evangeline says, moving in toward me. “It’s important you arrive back at Port Butterman on schedule, after the exact amount of time you’ve been gone. In 2069.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask, but truth is, I’ve considered rewinding time a bit from the exact moment before we departed, to warn Dad what Garth is capable of. And to avoid the penalty that comes with unauthorized time travel. But then that would mean missing the CCL and having to do it all over again. Ensuring Butterman Travel exists, means facing those violations, which is a conundrum to me right now.
“We have the utmost faith and confidence in you, Bianca,” Evangeline says. “We trust you’ll do the right thing.”
The right thing. Not sure what that is anymore.
Evangeline turns to Tristan and peers at him as if she knows him well. “Tristan Helms, thank you.”
Tristan’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t reply.
Her tone full on insinuated he’s supposed to be here as much as I am—that he has some equal part to play in the future. It’s almost too outrageous to be true.
“We’ll make sure you get off,” Evan says. “I’ll be watching your progress right here.” He holds up his device.
Boris groans. Looks like he’s got a head full of loose nuts and bolts—even more than me. Still hard to imagine Boris-the-Mama’s-Boy as the Butterman Travel pioneer that sparks the family biz. I know his world’s been rocked beyond compare today, but I’d have assumed he’d have a better handle on it. Guess it’s still early.
Evan motions Boris toward the vessel door, as if unsure touching him would be appropriate. “About the antenna—”
Boris, wearing a pained expression, offers me a quick wave, before climbing behind Evan.
So much for long goodbyes, but maybe it’s for the best. Boris has a lot more butter to churn than he ever expected before today. I can’t help wondering if Evan was referring to the first Butterman satellite antenna—the one that made time travel possible when it locked onto the future’s frequency. Maybe that’s why they’re here—maybe giving Boris the frequency is part of a new CCL.
Perplexing.
Evangeline suggests Tristan gives us a moment and he climbs outside, leaving her and me alone inside.
“Bianca,” she says.
I move in closer.
She peers into my eyes, her lips barely a smile, and lowers her voice. “Against my brother’s better judgment, I feel I must share something important with you—that it’s necessary to our future.”
My arms folded over my chest, I give my full attention.
“I can’t tell you exactly who we are, or what century we’re from, but I can tell you how we arrived. Teleportation time travel.”
“Are you kidding?” I take a deep breath.
“Not at all. We call it T-cube.”
Holy hell, that’s way beyond our technology. Teleporting through time tunnels without a vessel? I mean, my dad said one day it could be possible, but … wait a minute …
I search her face. “Are you telling me this so I’ll bring back the technology and change history?”
Evangeline rubs her chin. “I’m afraid not. T-cube isn’t right for your generation. You must be a
ware that interrupting the natural progression of discovery tampers with the timeline, as well as the course of our future. I’m only telling you to ensure the process is started.”
“Like you’re doing with Boris.”
“Partially. Boris had already started exploring vortex science through cosmic rifts; he only lacks the confidence to see his theories through and develop it. Your presence here and now, as well as ours, will ensure his discovery, and our destiny. As for T-cube, the year 2069 has the means for it, but it’s the rehabilitation afterward you lack.”
“What?” I’m baffled.
“Bianca, I strongly feel that T-cube can, shall we say, solve whatever issues you return to. But please understand, the repercussions can be traumatic. In my time, each T-cube passenger is required to log twenty hours of post mind-conditioning after a trip—a therapy not invented until much later. Without the conditioning, passengers risk permanent damage to the psyche and traumatic brain defects, of which the end result is split personality disorder and bouts of paranoid schizophrenia. And in some cases, death.”
“Oh, is that all?” I have to wonder why she even bothered telling me then.
“For frequent T-cubing, yes. Keep that in mind. I trust you to do the right thing, or else this instance is entirely in vain. For both of us.”
“I don’t understand—”
Her voice lowers even more. “T-cube is the application of your genetic code to Ryvier’s equation. Look up Andres Morrissey Genetics. Should be brand new, and their data made public. It’ll show you how to break down your genetic code …” She starts to say more, then stops herself, kisses my cheek quickly. “It’s been an honor.”
Slowly, her words register.
And then she’s gone. Outside the vessel, she and Evan climb into Boris’ truck and drive away. I have to wonder if I’ll ever see any of them again.
What baffles me more, though, are her last words to me. The Ryvier equation propels the vessel’s thrusters and pushes us to warp drive through the vortex’s vacuum-packed entrance. But applying it to the body for teleportation travel—I wouldn’t know where to begin. Not yet, anyway. Still, why would she give me information and risk a breach?
I feel Tristan’s presence beside me before I see him, and I let my eyes fall closed. This is almost over. That’s good. But soon, he’ll be leaving. He’ll return to his superstar status, and resume his privileged life.
“Guess we should get our suits on, huh?” he says, brushes my arm.
I meet his gaze for a second. It’s so intense I have to avert mine and start for the buffer suits. Does he believe any of what was shared—that his future ties into mine somehow? How do I explain how insecure I feel right now, of going back and not seeing him again for weeks, or months? I could lose him forever to a time that idolizes him—maybe not after his addiction, but after he gets himself situated, and lets that incredible voice he’s been hiding loose on the world, he’ll be adored again.
“Crazy to think we could’ve been stuck here,” he says, climbing into his buffer suit. “Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad, huh?”
I slip off my boots, avoiding a direct gaze. “Maybe.”
“The idea of a fresh start’s enticing for … someone who’s been through the shit I have. But …” His voice lifts, lightens. “Don’t have to worry about that now. Still got my song, and the promise of new success.”
He didn’t mention me.
Pulling up my suit, I wriggle my arms and body in, lift my head. He’s there, right in front of me, peering into my face. My breath catches.
“This whole experience ranks right up there with winning the Billboard Music Award for Best Music Group. And hang gliding over New Zealand.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. My chest heaves with a deep breath.
He wraps his fingers in my hand til I tighten my grip. Instantly, a torrent of desire shatters my insides. My body quakes.
“That’s my way of saying you’ve been the time of my life.” His arm slips around my back, yanking me to him.
The racing of my heart makes me forget everything except this moment, and all I want is to taste his lips again.
They lower gently across my cheek and I grab his head, pull his mouth to mine, consume him as if life was crumbling in around us. A sweltering sensation spreads up through my entire body, until all that remains of my existence is a pulsating frenzy. My fingers tangle into his hair, trail down his neck, all the time pulling him closer, tighter.
I hear the moans from my own mouth and they’re mysterious phantoms—foreign and strange. Can’t be from me. I’m no good with intimacy. But this—this is something else—not like anything I’ve ever imagined. This is need. Like oxygen, or water. I need every inch of his body enveloping every inch of mine. I move my lips to his ear, neck; then when I can’t take it any longer, back to his mouth to taste him again. My body lurches, and that deep little well inside my core detonates a mania I must’ve been repressing for years. Because right now, with Tristan, it demands to be free.
His hands at my back, he lifts me, presses me up against the side of the vessel, his hands traveling up and down my torso. My fingers find the waist of his pants, tug at the button there, caressing the skin hiding just behind it. Below, his body is rigid against my thigh. It sends shivers coursing through me.
His breath is hot and moist in my ear, “Ever been naked in here before?”
A tingling breeze sails down my back. “No.”
“Would be such a turn on.” He pulls me even closer, kissing my neck.
I lean back and slide down to my feet, my desire now as grounded as the rest of me. As tempting as it is to lose my virginity right here and now with him, I’m more concerned with the fact he’d only be crossing off another item on his bucket list. And no matter how hard I’ve fallen for him, I refuse to be an item.
“Are you curious?” I ask through a stifled wince. “About what happens next?”
“My career’s what happens next, sweetheart.” He presses his lips to mine, firm and urgent, then pulls back. “Thanks to you, that is.”
What? My body stiffens.
“Is that all you care about?” I ask. “Your career? Your music?”
“That’s why we’re here, right?” He kisses my neck again.
I half shake my head, still locked in his arms. “Did you just miss everything that happened? It’s a CCL. You and me, here together. Our past and present and future are connected.”
He tries to kiss my lips again, leaning in.
I jerk away. “Tristan, doesn’t it mean anything to you?”
“Sure it does. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here. And if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be here.” He cocks a half-smile, just as his long bangs fall over his eyebrows, graze his lashes. “It’s sexy as hell.”
“We’ve gotta go,” I say, pushing his arms off me. “I have to initiate departure.”
“We’ve got plenty of time.” He reaches for me again.
I sidestep him, plop into the pilot command seat, begin punching in numbers. “You think I’m gonna trust your ‘plenty of time’ line again? Ha! So far, you’ve made us late for the Broadway exit, and almost made us miss the Bethel Port time window. Lesson learned.”
“But didn’t you hear what the people said? Every wrong thing I do, is a leg up for Butterman Travel.” His brows rise in a matter-of-fact expression.
Why is he being such an ass? I’m not about to acknowledge his gaffes as some sort of meaningful rung on the Butterman ladder of success. Forget that. I punch in the Port Butterman coordinates. “Strap in, Helms. Departure initiated, vessel stabilized and activated.”
And to think, I almost bought into the possibility he wasn’t a self-absorbed bastard.
I don’t remind him to focus on an inanimate object before we take off. Cleaning up his vomit is almost worth seeing him sick.
Chapter
23
Port Butterman
October 17, 2069
We’re back. Exactly thirty-six hours after we left—the same amount of time we’ve been gone. Feels like forever I’ve been away.
I shift, swivel for a glimpse of Tristan, and find him panting with his eyes clenched shut. A twinge of pity nicks the inside of my gut. But not for long. I can’t forget his cocky attitude from before we left.
“Helms?” I ask. “You okay?”
“Is it safe?” He opens one eye, then the next. “We’re in 2069?”
“Yeah, we’re here.”
He gives himself a once-over, unfastens his seatbelt, and pops up. “Sublime. I’m not even nauseous.”
“Congratulations. You’re a natural.” I smile, but top it off with a nice slow eye roll, before checking the dashboard clock screen again.
For some reason, I expected Dad to be here, waiting. But no one appears to be outside the time-craft. No movement or human images. Right now would be dinnertime. But if Tristan showing up at the club is an indication that history has changed our present, there’s no telling what we may step out into. Maybe it’ll be better than when we left. Or maybe it was only a parallel shift that has no effect on our timeline—then nothing would have changed at all.
If the latter is true, then I’ve got some serious explaining to do. PUI, PIO, jetpack larceny, DOT evasion. Ugh, I just hope they’re willing to listen to reason.
I study Tristan a moment, wondering what he may be expecting. He’s stretching his arms over his head, a little smile playing at his lips. Maybe his arrogance before we left was over-compensation for the uncertainty of what lies ahead. That, or he’s totally deluding himself.
“I could go for some fresh halibut,” he says, rising from his seat. “Mashed potatoes. Garlic bread. Some of those buttermilk pancakes I had before we left.”
I power down the vessel, release the door so it slides open. “Got your appetite, I see. Good sign.” I hesitate. “You know, Tristan, I understand why you left yourself that note back in Manhattan, but—”
His face brightens. “I’ve been thinking about that the whole way here—what if my career’s thriving right now? If my past-self made different choices, then maybe I never went solo. That means I could break it off with the guys on a better note.”
Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars Page 62
