Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars

by Melisse Aires

  My gaze lingers on his for longer than I intended. “Just … don’t get your hopes up too high, okay?”

  “State your case, Butterman.” He climbs outside the vessel, his weight causing the metal-grated floor of the Launchpad to rattle. “What’re you trying to say?”

  I step out behind him, meeting his eyes, and hating that I’m about to douse that hopeful spark right out of them. “We weren’t in Manhattan long enough to know if anything changed for sure. A parallel shift means the timeline veers off our current course.”

  “So I may be going back to my same rehabilitated life. I get it.” He smirks, but doesn’t keep eye contact.

  I’d never tell him what I’m thinking right now—that even if he did convince himself to avoid Declan that night, it wouldn’t mean he’d be homefree, never try heliox some other time. I guess time will tell.

  Tristan interrupts my thought with a lighthearted laugh, his gaze wandering the bay, as if he’s deciding how to redecorate. “Hey, maybe in the future, I own this place—you know, since everything I do is part of that CCL thing.”

  I ignore his comment, peeling off my buffer suit and hanging it behind the partition. Tristan copies me, obviously about to say more on the subject, when the door of the bay beeps.

  With a thrust of heavy metal, it slides open. Snow flurries bluster in, and with them, my dad in his red wool pullover and hat. Behind him is Mom in her silver puffer, and finally Agent Garth in her black trench coat, a maroon scarf wound around her neck.

  I’m finding it especially hard to swallow right now. The look on Mom’s and Dad’s faces is a cross between rage and disappointment. They must know about everything. Makes my heart sink into my stomach, slow and painful.

  Garth moves in toward me, her face expressionless. “Bianca Butterman, step away from the time-craft.” She holds her handheld device at her mouth, speaking into it, then motions to Tristan. “Mr. Helms, step aside.”

  I climb out, search Dad’s eyes for a flicker of understanding. There’s only deep regret. Mom can’t even look me in the face, but she hugs me, squeezes me tight before letting go. Holy hell, I hate this.

  “We were worried,” Mom says, as if she’d like to say more but can’t.

  “I’m fine, Mom. Dad?”

  “We know you’re well,” he says, frowning. “Garth explained you were coherent when you diverted.”

  I go to him, whisper. “Dad, you don’t understand, what I did … I had to. No matter what.”

  “You were under a direct order to return to base,” Garth says loudly, stepping toward me with her handheld device. “Your signature please.”

  “Dad?” I search his face. “We shouldn’t admit guilt yet, right?”

  He sighs. “It’s past that, honey. Refusing to sign will only cause us more trouble.”

  “But—”

  “Your father’s right,” Garth says. “You’d only be making things worse, and that won’t look good when it reaches the judge assigned your case.”

  I take the device, add my digital signature to the screen, and pass it to Tristan, who signs without saying a word.

  With a satisfied gleam to her eye, Garth enters some date into her device, then moves toward the mission control dashboard like she owns the place.

  It’s definitely Garth from 2069—the same Garth I left behind. What’s the likelihood her future-self from 2070 sent word back in time to her present-self? It’s possible this Garth has no idea of what happened at Woodstock. I guess I’ll know for sure if she mentions it.

  She gestures at the dashboard screen and the settings begin changing, shutting everything down.

  “What’re you doing?” I hover at her back.

  “As of 2100 hours AST, Port Butterman is closed, and this operational launchpad officially suspended. Until further notice.” She calls out the information like it’s a report.

  “Already?” I say, then turn to Dad. “She can’t shut down a port—they’re not government owned.”

  “The port’s closed because Butterman Travel, Incorporated, is no longer in an operational status.” Garth glances at me. “Closed for commercial transport, as well as private use of the vessel, until after the hearing.”

  Dad’s already glum face falls even more, along with his shoulders. Mom’s head shakes, her gaze cast at her feet.

  Why don’t they fight back, or argue? It’s not like them to give in so easily—not to the DOT. What the hell?

  “Agent Garth, I can cover the citation costs,” Tristan says, but his voice has a faltering ring to it. “You wouldn’t need to send it to a judge.”

  Garth doesn’t even look at him. “You’re suggesting I obstruct protocol, Mr. Helms. You’ll be treated the same as anyone else who violates regulation. A judge will be assigned to yours and Miss Butterman’s case, and at that point it’ll be determined whether citation payment is sufficient, or if the operation here needs to stay suspended indefintely.” She glances once at me. “In short, save it for the hearing.”

  “How long will it be til we can get a hearing?” Mom asks meekly.

  Garth shrugs. “Mm, two to three months for an arraignment. Depending on current caseloads, maybe a four to six-month stretch on the actual hearing. They’ll review my audit, as well as Bianca’s offenses. You’ll have a chance to plead your case then.”

  “What?” I say. “That isn’t fair. We shouldn’t have to wait that long for something that’s not our fault.”

  There goes my Induction Day. Ugh.

  Garth ignores me, entering data into her device.

  I grab Dad’s arm, lower my voice. “We can’t let her get away with this. Can’t we call someone? There’s more to it than you know. The DOT is out to ruin us.”

  I want to tell him they’re not in charge anymore in the future, but how far into the future is it? I have a hunch that’ll piss off Garth even more. Something tells me we won’t solve anything til she’s out of our faces for good.

  Dad meets my gaze now, brushes my hair back, cups my cheek. His face seems almost sunken. “Bianca, there’s nothing we can do. After the stolen property and intoxication, you diverted against orders. Evading the DOT is a serious offense. You had to know that. Haven’t I always emphasized the importance of making good choices? Following the rules?”

  Guilt races through my blood so that I want to puke. I remind myself he doesn’t know enough to understand.

  I keep my voice low so Garth can’t hear. “Dad, you have to listen to me. The diversion was part of the Butterman CCL. Garth and the DOT know about it, and they’re trying to stop it—stop us from having any power over them in the future. I’m not making this up.”

  Mom’s huddled with us now, clutching Dad’s arm. “Gavin, what if that’s true? It happens, right? CCLs can skip generations—you told me that yourself.”

  Dad shakes his head, but says nothing.

  If CCLs do skip generations then it makes sense Mom and Dad wouldn’t know about it. They’re not a direct part of the loop. I am. In order for Butterman Travel, Inc. to exist, I had to go back to meet Boris, encourage his research. And Evangeline and Evan had to ensure I was successful by reopening the port and recalibrating Essence, as well as convincing Boris he was on to something. The loop isn’t mentioned in our history, because it can’t be. It can never be altered, therefore it has to happen the same way every time.

  Right about now my brain feels like it’s been cracked open and scrambled in a frying pan.

  Dad still hasn’t responded. Garth must’ve gotten to him—convinced him his business is on the line. She must’ve pulled out some heavy implications to have him this scared. I can’t blame him because he doesn’t know the whole truth.

  Meanwhile, Garth stands there with her back to us, her hands where they don’t belong—all over our Mission Control. It distracts her, though, so she doesn’t hover over me.

  Mom kisses my cheek. “We’re glad you’re safe. We’ll talk about it over dinner.”

  I’m about to protest,
but then I notice the look on her face—a silent communication. She doesn’t want me to say anymore while Garth is here.

  “We can’t afford anymore broken regulations,” Dad says to me, his eyes on Garth. “It’s not ours to control anymore.”

  His broken spirit makes my sinuses burn with the threat of tears. Kills me to see him this way, to know I’m responsible. He turns for the door, obviously unable to watch that wraith of a woman messing with everything he’s worked for his entire life.

  Tristan’s been silent all this time, observing with uncertainty. He offers me a weak smile, his chin dimpling. “Sorry, Butterman.”

  I can’t think of a thing to say, so I don’t bother.

  He moves toward me, grabs my hand and squeezes. “Sorry for everything. I was a pain in the ass before we left. Guess I was moody … I know it’s no excuse. I’d never mean to hurt you.”

  I can see from his face, he’s sincere, so I squeeze his hand back. Regardless of his insensitivity earlier, having him here to hold onto right now feels like my only anchor in a sea of mixed emotions. Despite our personality conflicts, a foundation exists. I see that now, feel it.

  I can let myself believe it.

  We exit the Launchpad together, my hand in his, no words. Outside, the frigid evening air punctuates the mood with a bitter harshness, right down to the bone. Even though we have our coats on, I huddle closer to Tristan. Up ahead, Mom’s arm is around Dad and they’re shuffling up the path. I can’t shake the guilt, even though, in reality, it’s not my fault. I have to make them understand the CCL. I know they will, once they’ve heard everything. Right now, far as they know, their family business and sole source of income is defunct. Because of me.

  Tristan stops midway, rests his chin over my head so my face meets the warmth of his neck. I breathe him in, long and slow, my lips grazing his skin.

  “Cheer up, Butterman,” he says in a low voice. “Everything’ll turn out okay. Your parents’ll understand.”

  “I don’t even know if I understand,” I say, but I’m gratified by his words in such a profound way, I find myself smiling.

  “Me either.” He chuckles. “I was a witness, though. You did everything you could to protect their investment. Tell them that.”

  Did I? Did I do everything? Or could I have been better? I wanted to make it right. I wanted to help save Butterman Travel. I wanted to help save Tristan’s career. And one day, I was sure I’d help save Titanic. Who knows how long I’ll have to wait for that now. Every time the opportunity gets closer, I lose my progress. Seems an impossible dream.

  “What about your career?” I ask. “Think Garth can screw you over?”

  He tugs me forward again, his arm draped over my shoulder. “Nah, no worries. When you’re already at the bottom, the only way is up. Any screwups to my life are my own fault. Did it to myself. Tell your parents to go ahead and add any extras to my tab. Maybe that way you’ll have proof it was an excursion instead of an evasion.”

  “I’ll make sure they don’t price-gouge you.”

  “Thanks, Butterman.”

  His positive outlook comforts me, gives me hope. But I feel his departure is inevitable, and it forms a nasty pit at the bottom of my stomach.

  “No matter what happens, I want you to know I think you’re talented,” I say. “More than I ever realized. And you don’t need drugs for that.”

  He clutches me a little tighter.

  We stop before reaching the snowmobiles. Mom and Dad are waiting for me to climb on ours, but talking and paying us no mind. Tristan’s own snowmobile is parked a few yards away. We pause, both glancing at it, then each other. I’m about to ask him if he wants a cup of hot cocoa back at the house, when he says, “Guess this is it.”

  I don’t want him to leave. How do I tell him that? I’ve never been good with words, with needing others. With being close to someone. This is all so foreign to me. And who am I really to the world-famous Tristan Helms? Part of me wants to ask him that right now—get a concrete understanding of my role in his life ... But my voice won’t work.

  I’m petrified of the answer.

  “Thanks for everything,” he says. “I meant what I said—about this being the best time I’ve ever had.”

  I heave a deep breath, the icy air stinging my lungs. “Me too …”

  “Hope everything works out. I know it will.” He brushes his knuckles over my chin in an almost brotherly fashion. “You’ve got this contagious determination, Butterman, so I know everything’ll turn out like it should.” He grins his superstar grin. “Sorry for calling you Butter-dud before. You’re not a dud. You know how to get the job done. Reliable. Hard to find that in anyone anymore.”

  Just what every girl wants to hear. Reliable.

  I hesitate, unsure how to assess the situation. “Where will you go?”

  He shrugs, glances at my parents on the snowmobile. “Back to the inn for now, get a hot meal, some sleep. Check in with my agent, let her know I survived my first time trip. I know you need some time with your parents, to sort things through. Call me later.”

  Later, as in today? Or later, as in a week? What the hell does later mean?

  An empty dread climbs up my legs and into my torso. Maybe it’s the time-lag. Maybe it’s the fear of never seeing Tristan again. Maybe it’s everything negative that’s ever happened in my life all combined and flung at me in this very moment. Well, I don’t want it. I want my old life back, before Tristan ever breezed through my door. Life was good then, I was content. Life was … reliable.

  Oh shit. My knees weaken me to a brief wobble. I’m not that person anymore.

  In a lunge, I plant my lips on Tristan’s. It catches him off guard at first, but soon he welcomes my affection with a full embrace, pulling me closer til no distance exists between us. My hands fumble over his neck, head, back, and I kiss him again and again. As if it’s the last time I’ll ever touch him again, insatiably, I kiss him.

  And for a few brief moments, I let myself believe he means it as much as I do.

  Chapter

  24

  Nice thing about Alaska is, plenty of open space. No crowds. No threat of pushy people in your face about stuff that’s none of their business. Just mountains and sky and snowy wilderness.

  And that’s what I need right now. Lots of space.

  Every day, I hike up to the Launchpad, then bypass it for the steep, rocky ridge in its rear. There’s a trail—not a treacherous one—but one that Dad and I created for ourselves over the years, after much trampling over with snow boots and walking sticks. From the highest point, you can see clear across the valley to the next ridge, and past that, if you have binoculars, the vast azure blue of the Bering Sea. A single spruce tree grows on one of the rocky points adjacent the trail—skinny and sparse, but for some reason it gives me hope. If it can make it here in the Arctic, then I can get through this rut, and still come out on top. I come here often, look at it, soak in what comfort I can.

  In the afternoons, I dabble with bike and jetpack parts at Old EagleEye’s. He lets me tinker all I want, and he talks a lot, rambles on about the old stories he loves to tell and never gets tired of. I listen and smile in the appropriate places, but don’t say much. He’s okay with that, and we have that understanding. Besides, what would I say? Tell him I’m still coming to terms with possibly ruining my family’s livelihood, or that I may never see my pilot license again? That it may be a year or more before I see my Induction Day, if at all? Or that I lost the nerve to call the only guy I’ve ever cared about, for fear of rejection?

  I don’t know how to put those things into words. So we communicate through mechanics, and pretend a requested wrench is friendly advice; an oil change, valuable therapy.

  Truth is, even though my parents aren’t upset with me, and believe everything I told them about the CCL, their hands are tied til our hearing. They can’t operate the time-craft legally, and so we’re stuck here and now. They were aware of Boris, but only of his vortex
discoveries and initial satellite design, which didn’t truly start til he moved to Manhattan in 1970, after his parents sold the dairy farm. Mom and Dad never even heard of Butterman Farms Dairy, which proves the CCL skipped their generation entirely. Apparently Boris died in his forties, and the technology waited until his son was old enough to continue it, thereby letting Paul take most of the credit.

  Aside from the technicalities, though, Dad insists Evan and Evangeline showing up in Bethel was a sign Butterman Travel will continue to operate, even if for now we’re stuck with present day legalities. He says if our current situation had any potential of a dire outcome, Evan and Evangeline would show up here too. Kinda like time traveler insurance. A well-planned Butterman policy.

  Mom disagrees, although you can see something inside her wants to believe it. She claims it’s unwise to believe future Buttermans will show up to save the day every time we get into trouble—that we have to be accountable for something, no matter what the future regulations are.

  The pessimistic part of me sides with her. But also like her, I want to believe Dad’s right.

  * * *

  My boots crunch over the crusty snow of the trail with deep, sturdy steps. Temperature’s dropping. The day is overcast, bitter. I’m headed up the mountainside for my daily dose of Arctic tree Zen, when I hear a voice behind me and I turn.

  Kayla’s trudging behind me to catch up, her knit beanie snug over her ears, her cheeks rosy with a color I wish I could wear comfortably.

  “You done avoiding me yet?” she calls, grins because she’s not offended. She rarely is.

  She knows me well enough to show up when I need her, without me having to ask. I’m not good at asking. Truth is, I’m not sure why I’ve been avoiding her. Maybe because she can read me better than anyone, and I’m not comfortable being an open book. Or ready to admit what I’m afraid is true—as if it seals my fate, confirms a life threatening disease.

  “I’m not avoiding you,” I say. “Just been … distracted with family stuff, you know?”