Butterman (Time) Travel, Inc.

by PK Hrezo

  He stutters at first. “I … hardly know anything about them. I … was just starting to research black holes for my astronomy class when I stumbled onto them … and … but the probability of dimensional gateways is preposterous—that’s what my professor said …” His words lose their steam as the obvious revelation washes over him. “I’ve been losing sleep at night, trying to convince myself it isn’t revolutionary … I’m not a scientist. I’m a poet …”

  “You’re good at astronomy, though, aren’t you?” I ask. “It calls you … doesn’t it?”

  Boris stares blankly. “All my life. But that doesn’t mean anything. I’m a dreamer … I write verse …”

  Finally, a breakthrough.

  I grab his hands, squeeze them. “You’re not just a poet. You’re a future scientist on the brink of a major discovery that will change the Butterman family forever.”

  He shakes his head, pulling away. “I dunno. This is too outrageous.”

  “Let us show you.”

  “Now?” he says. “I can’t just leave. Not with strangers. Momma would never go for it.”

  “We’re not strangers,” Tristan says. “She’s family.”

  I ask him point blank, “Thought this whole hippie movement was about telling The Man to stuff it? We need you to start thinking for yourself, Boris, and take a stand. No matter what your mom says.” I get to my feet, prompting him and Tristan to do the same.

  Boris huffs and puffs, pacing in a circle. “You can’t just show up here and expect me to drop everything. It’s absurd. Just ‘cause of some coincidence with rifts in the space/time continuum. Anybody could know about those, and they mean nothing! I’m not a fool—”

  “Hold on,” I say. “Just listen to me. If you can open your mind enough to get high, you can open it enough to accept this. You’re trying to wrap your brain around something that hasn’t been fully explained yet. But I’m not asking you to do that right now. Stop thinking. Don’t listen to your head at all. What does your heart tell you?”

  My own words give me a chill.

  Boris searches my face, as if he wants to believe me, but can’t bring himself to do it.

  I grab his forearm, squeeze it. “There are no such thing as coincidences when it comes to time travel. We’re here for a reason. You discovered those cosmic rifts for a reason. And right now, Tristan and I are stuck in 1969 and need a way to get to 2069. If you’d just come with us to the time-craft, I’ll show you the port map, and how we use the rifts. It may spark something.”

  I can’t believe I’m saying this to a guy who can’t even fix his own bike.

  “We need to charge it too,” Tristan says, standing beside me now.

  “Boris, please. I know how you’re thinking right now ‘cause I’m a Butterman too, and we tend to listen to our heads too much. But you can’t possibly believe we’d be making all this up.”

  “Wow,” Boris says, his eyes boring into mine. “You sound just like my mom.”

  Tristan chuckles, lays a hand on Boris’ shoulder and guides him toward the house. “She does have this motherly do-what-I-say-or-else way about her, doesn’t she?”

  At this point, if sounding like his mom is what it takes to help me reopen the port, I don’t care.

  “You have a battery charger?” Tristan asks him.

  I’m following at their heels.

  “I have jumper cables,” Boris says. “But—“

  “Perfect.” I remember the info from Essence’s database. “We’ll need them.”

  Tristan pats Boris’ back. “You drive?”

  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.”