Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars

by Melisse Aires

  He gets a far-off look on his face, as if digging through the memory wells inside his head.

  I won’t remind him to catch me. Better if I forget he ever said it. They’re just words.

  My gut wrenches and I can’t tell if it’s desire or nervousness or fear. Right now they’re one in the same. “Look, you can always try for your song another time if you can’t remember it. I promise. But I’m running out of time and I need you to do this for me.”

  I have to stand my ground, believe my own words, but truth is, I’m petrified of the negative effect losing his song will have on his future.

  We can always fix it later if we have to.

  “Please, Tristan.”

  “I don’t know why I should listen to you,” he says softly. “Except, it feels like you really do know me. And you can’t know all that stuff if you don’t.” He pauses. “Spooky as hell.”

  “Then you’ll do it? You’ll book a time trip to Woodstock?” I ask.

  He half shrugs. “Guess I have to. Sounds like I have a kick-ass time, anyway. I mean, who could pass up hanging with Hendrix? You’re not gonna price-gouge me ‘cause I’m a celebrity, though, right?”

  “No, but actually, um, I should mention one little thing.”

  He turns to head up the pathway. “What’s that?”

  “My past-self is, how should I say this, um, kind of a stickler for the rules.”

  “Right, that’s why you’re here now, ‘cause you follow all the rules.”

  “No, really. You even call me Butter-dud for awhile.” I hate mentioning that name to him. “The me in that office won’t be easy to convince, but you have to get me to plan a time trip and convince my parents to take you to Bethel port.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?” he says.

  I grab his arm, hold him back, forcing eye contact. I almost regret what I’m about to say—the information I’m about to leak. “Being with you changed me, loosened me up in a way I’ve never let myself be. I may give you a hard time in there, but … you’ll find a way to change my mind. Just be yourself. If it weren’t for you, I may not have done what I did to get here right now.”

  I can see by his wary look he’s confounded by this idea—maybe even a little freaked out. Can’t blame him. My presence suggests an intimacy between us he knows nothing about. Can only imagine how that’s rocking his world right now.

  “But here’s something that may help,” I say. “Tell past-me about this very encounter. I won’t believe you at first, but mention my Induction Day and saving Titanic. No one else could know about that.”

  Tristan scuffs his hair. “Right.”

  I stop him again. “I can’t go any further or it could turn into a PF.”

  He starts to ask, but I say, “Just read the handbook after you leave here. Trust me. This will benefit us both.”

  He scowls.

  “You can do it.” I smile. “Be honest, tell me about your song, about your ambition. About how your dream is to meet Jimi Hendrix and make a difference in your own future. Tell me all of it.”

  He ponders this. “I get why I’d wanna go, but what’s in it for you?”

  I search his face. “My future, and the future of Butterman Travel. While you’re at it, suggest I file for my final certification credit while piloting the Woodstock trip. It’s the only way to avoid interference and prevent an infraction.”

  “What if you … er, past-you doesn’t believe me? What then?”

  “I’m a time traveler, of course I’ll believe you. Why wouldn’t I? Besides, our paths are linked—yours and mine.” Impulsively, I kiss his cheek, then back away, my face hot. I call out as I crunch over the snow. “I’m counting on you, Golden Boy.”

  He watches tentatively as I slip behind the patch of firs. Even from behind the trees, I can’t pull my gaze off him. I just flipped his whole world upside down, and he’s still got his cool in check, casually hanging on the path. I didn’t mean to be so fangirl and kiss him like that, but his cheek looked so smooth, and my emotions are so strung out. And I want so much to believe he’s up to this.

  My chest clenches. For all I know, this could be it. The last time I ever see him. Everything I felt about him could be erased if he and past-me don’t get this right.

  When his image is no longer visible from behind the trees, I turn, make my way back up the opposite incline to the Launchpad. My parents’ snowmobile is still parked outside. I hide behind the side of the building, watching for their exit.

  Time check. Still on schedule. They should emerge in the next half hour and I’ll have the bay to myself, T-cube back to five days from now. What happens then, well, that’s as mysterious and elusive as time travel itself. If Tristan’s successful, then Butterman Travel, Inc. should be open for business. If he’s not, we’ll be no worse off hopefully, but who knows how the timeline will have been altered.

  One thought clings to my brain though, regardless of what happens to the Agency, and it makes it hard to focus on any one thing—as if anything could ever be as important:

  Will Tristan Helms still fall for me?

  Chapter

  27

  White birds soar, their wings uniting at the tips, creating a diamond. Another joins the formation, then another, and another. Soft green lights beneath their wings create a perpetual radiance. Dancing, shimmering. Birds and lights and—

  My eyes pop open. The docking bay of the Launchpad. T-cube arrival.

  I check my watch:

  October, 20 2069; 08:17:56 AST.

  Phew, I made it back in one piece. After the exact amount of time from when I left. My stomach churns like a washing machine and I choke back vomit, moving in toward the mission control dashboard.

  Definitely not used to T-cube. I try to focus on my next step, concentrate. But my brain is fuzzy, full of burrs. Hurts to think. And holy hell, a splitting headache. I’m thirsty. Removing my helmet, I make my way to the water machine and fill a paper cup. The plastic jug burps with giant bubbles. I drink three full cups fast, then splash my face. I’m cold. Not because I’m in the Arctic, but because my body temperature hasn’t regulated from traveling through a time tunnel without a vessel.

  Contradictory to my chill, sweat beads on my head and upper lip. My body flashes with heat. Must get rid of this buffer suit. I peel it off, toss it behind the partition. Better. But my body doesn’t know what it wants to do, how it should feel. Maybe T-cubing twice within an hour was a bit much. Maybe I should’ve set the window for longer, given my body more time to acclimate.

  The door opens.

  Startled, I drop my cup. Dad enters in a red puffer, along with a gust of wind. Behind him, Garth is wrapped in her maroon scarf and hat. What are they doing here so early?

  Noticing me, Dad narrows his eyes. “There you are. Wasn’t sure where you’d gotten off to this morning.” He motions toward Garth. “Bianca, do you have our itinerary ready? Ports opened?”

  “Uh, which itinerary is that?” I say, studying Garth.

  She loosens her scarf, pulls off her cashmere hat, leaving her platinum locks tousled at the top, then smoothing them back immediately. Obviously, she’s uncomfortable with being out of order.

  “2032. Moscow? Any of this ring a bell? Honey, we were counting on you to have it ready when Agent Garth arrived.”

  “It’s not a problem, Mr. Butterman. I can be patient.” Garth regards me a moment. “Your father tells me you’re official now. I’ll need to do a ride-along with you as well.”

  I’m not sure what to say, or what exactly is going on, so I stare at her like an idiot. If the operation is up and running, and Garth wants to observe my skills, then our current timeline has been altered. Could it be that her future self from 2070 never visited 1969 to intervene when we met Boris? Maybe they never investigated the Butterman CCL. Or maybe Garth’s being tricky.

  What about my impending citations—jetpack larceny, PUI, PIO, etc.? Are they still there? Doesn’t sound like it if she’s willing to
do a ride-along to approve of my time-craft operational skills. Yet she’s still here observing. Maybe no matter what happens, she’ll always come.

  “How long are you here for?” I finally ask, after a few more awkward glances.

  Garth’s high cheekbones are rosy from the cold, almost glowing. “A few days. I’m a long ways from D.C., and I always allow my body an adjustment period before and after time trips.”

  Dad slides into his seat behind the mission control dashboard. “Did you get anything started at all, honey?”

  I don’t even know. I look over his shoulder at my holo-screen, gesture for the scheduled travel plans. Nothing with Garth’s name on it.

  “Guess not. Sorry.”

  Garth moves behind the dashboard now, beside Dad’s chair, and pulls out her handheld device.

  “But you powered everything on,” Dad says to me. He’s got that uncertain look on his face. He knows something’s off.

  “Uh, yeah.” I try to think fast. “Wanted to run some new calculations. Nothing important.”

  Dad gestures at the holo-screen, scrolls through some data. “Strange, the port shows recent activity but the vessel’s been stabilized for days. Bianca, did you just open the vortex?”

  I get a cold chill and shiver. Garth notices, gives me a once-over, her burnished blue eyes lingering on my face with a suspicious twinkle.

  “Yeah, I was messing around, trying out a new frequency,” I say quietly.

  He pulls up the operating system control panel and runs a report on-screen. Numbers and graphs tabulate in a series of colors, then blink to show completed data. Garth swipes the information onto her device and studies it.

  Her silence makes me nervous. Will she see my T-cube activity? I haven’t even had time to check the active history, see if it registered. The system is set up to log details of the time-craft operation, not T-cube, so I’m banking on it staying covert. But what if it’s not? How much does Garth know already? I have to probe.

  “So, what’s it like working for the DOT?” I feign innocent curiosity, flash a dumb smile.

  She glances at me, then back at her device. “Why? Considering a government career path?”

  Dad laughs at the ridiculousness. He knows I’d rather scrape gum off the sidewalks in Anchorage.

  “Only inquiring,” I say. “Seems like an interesting line of work.”

  “It is.” Garth paces now, her gaze still fixed on her device. “No question about it.”

  I remember back in Manhattan, she told me she was there to finish her father’s work and wonder if he has anything to do with this. “What made you decide to work for the DOT?”

  She doesn’t answer at first, punches in information on her screen, then says, “You could say it’s the family business.”

  This interests Dad. “Really? Following the footsteps?”

  “My father was an executive, but his passion was out in the field. Big advocate for time travel.” She glances at Dad and there’s a cold sternness about it. “Government regulated time travel. He believed private agencies were an inevitable danger to civilization.”

  Dad’s never cared for politics—he’s a scientist. And he’ll tell you that science should be free to anyone and everyone, not only the government. But being a businessman as well, he’s polished his personal view to a nice diplomatic shine.

  He says, “Well, I have to disagree with him there, but he sounds like a good man.”

  “Was a good man,” Garth enunciates. “He was involved in an accident two years ago.” She observes the controls on the dashboard, begins notating each one on her tablet as if she’s taking attendance. “But his work won’t be lost. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Dad and I exchange a helpless look.

  “After the ride-alongs,” I ask, “is that it? You head back to D.C., let them know we run a clean operation?”

  “Of course she will,” Dad says. “You remember what it was like last time the DOT visited.”

  Uh, which time is that?

  “We’ll see,” Garth speaks up. “If everything checks out.”

  “Of course,” Dad says, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

  But I let out a breath of relief. This is good. Means Garth probably never showed up at Woodstock or tried to mess with the Butterman CCL. Our timeline was definitely altered, which means Tristan must have convinced past-me to certify at the last minute and take the time trip to Woodstock. Dad doesn’t seem too pissed, so I must’ve gotten off okay. If Garth hasn’t finished her audit and past-me skipped the trip to Manhattan, then we should come up clean. Nothing would satisfy me more than to see Garth Vader head back to D.C. with her cape between her legs. Unless, of course, she detects the T-cube I just made. Not home free yet.

  “Well,” Dad says to Garth, “since you’ve already reviewed our recorded data, you know what an organized young lady Bianca is with our trip logs and manifests. I’ve no doubt she’ll command a safe, reliable time trip for you.”

  Garth sighs to herself, her attention still on her work. “Let’s hope so. So far, the audit came back clean. Your operational numbers and technology are all up to par. Maybe you’ll get lucky and not have to see me til next year’s audit, eh?”

  A yearly audit with this woman? Ugh.

  Garth continues. “With only five private time travel agencies worldwide, the DOT’s got plenty of time for quarterly audits, so don’t get your hopes up yet. Times are changing, or else I wouldn’t be back here.” She holds her device at her side, presses her ultra-red lips together in a tight smile. “Our goal is to keep the public aware, and enforce a safe and reliable operation. Sometimes that means protecting the public from themselves.”

  “Well you know we follow all the regulations,” Dad says.

  Garth’s device beeps and she checks it, reads her screen, then bustles for the door. “What say we break for an hour, and when I return, you’ll have that itinerary ready and time window scheduled for my review?”

  Something sure got her flustered. I can only imagine what kind of information the DOT sends her, especially since they want our technology for their own. Garth hasn’t let on she knows anything about that yet, though. If the DOT is looking for a reason to shut us down, they’ll find Bethel and Boris, if they haven’t already, and somehow try to convince at least one Butterman to make a different choice. Holy hell, this cat and mouse game could go on forever through any number of time strings.

  “I’ll just get back to the office then, make arrangements,” I tell Dad, moving toward the door.

  “Already working on it,” he says, studying the screen data. “But you can get Mr. Van Nuys on the phone for a follow up. He mentioned booking another trip next month if the hearing in his left ear returns. I want to get him booked and paid in full while his first trip is fresh in his mind. Oh, and what about Mr. Helms? You said he also mentioned the frequent traveler program, didn’t you?”

  I’m about to answer with a question, when I notice the concentrated look on Dad’s face, his gaze still plastered on-screen. He’s folding his bottom lip between his fingers.

  My T-cube must’ve registered. He must be seeing the residuals.

  “Mind if I hitch a ride down?” Garth wraps her scarf around her, pulls her hat on.

  “Take the snowmobile,” Dad tells me, his voice aloof, as though he’s barely paying attention. “I won’t need it right away …”

  I nod, a little twinge of nervousness in my gut. Won’t be long before he decodes the T-cube program and knows I was lying. At least Garth won’t be here. But I’ll have some big time explaining to do. I’ll have to spill everything to Mom and Dad, which is probably for the best. It’s the only way. If anyone can understand, it’s them. They’d never alter the natural time flow on purpose. I have to trust Evangeline knew what she was doing when she told me about T-cube.

  Besides, who says I didn’t introduce it to this century in the first place? Or that a future Butterman didn’t invent it?

  Outside, Garth and
I are silent up to the snowmobile. She climbs on behind me.

  “Your father’s a nice man,” she says, her tone with a trace of condescension.

  I’m not sure how to take it, or how much she knows. Truth is, I’m a little spooked. She’s not the same one-track-mind-to-shut-us-down desperado she was before. Seems dates and goals have loosened somehow. What else about this timeline has changed? Could be only minor things—trivial occurrences.

  Which leaves me with one burning question: where’s Tristan?

  Chapter

  28

  The idea of saving Titanic seems like years ago, but now it’s closer than ever since Butterman Travel hasn’t been shut down. Mom and Dad said since my test trip with Garth was a success yesterday, I can have my Induction Day as early as next month. My ride-along was painless, though I know Garth tried to stump me with the International Dateline. First, we targeted the Sydney Opera House on New Year’s Eve fifty-seven years ago, with an hour time window. From there, I opened a time window for Macchu Picchu on New Year’s Day with a two hour time window. Dad juiced Essence up for the itinerary and set an alarm for me to remember to initiate the power reserve. I won’t lie, the port entry over Peru at the Cuzco latitude was tricky, and if I hadn’t already solo-commanded a few time trips of my own prior, it may’ve tripped me up. I guess a little confidence comes with experience. To my mega relief, Garth never said a word about Woodstock or the CCL.

  Neither did I.

  Still, I got the feeling she knew something, or at least was hiding information. And something tells me the DOT will never fully ignore Butterman Travel—not with their move to quarterly visits and pop audits on leisurely travel, which Mom and Dad still plan on lobbying against. Until I can find out what part Butterman Travel plays in the future, everything matters. And I’ve no doubt the DOT feels the same way.

  We can’t risk anymore rule bending, or T-cubing, that’s for sure.

  The widescreen panels above Agnes’s bar flash with news reports and advertisements. Agnes lets them run alongside the data stream sites, so we can see everything at once—weather, headlines, sports, and of course, commercials. She says the customers prefer it. Not me. I could go for the Serene Island Surf hologram site right about now.