by PK Hrezo
That’s only partly it. The idea of Tristan schmoozing Garth over dinner leaves a foul taste in my mouth and it’s everything I can do to ignore it. It’s effin’ annoying since I’ve never been the jealous type. What is wrong with me?
I realize I’m scratching my neck harder and stop, move my hand beneath me, my neck burning.
“What is up with your neck?” Tristan examines it.
“It’s nothing. Happens when I get hassled by people with screwy ideas.”
“I want to go with you,” he says. “If you’ll have me, I think this could be really good for us. And you said yourself it’s just a visit, not the epic save you’ve been plotting forever.” He leans in, his breath on my skin. “Come on, you and me pinballing through time tunnels together? Playing Cosmic Chutes and Ladders like old times.”
Old times? It was only a month ago. In the back of my mind I entertain the idea that everything he says to me is a part of that aforementioned Tristan charm.
“What’s that look for?” he asks.
“What look? Am I giving you a look?”
“I know that look,” he says, leaning back. “You don’t trust me, do you?”
“Tristan, it’s not that. I wouldn’t be here with you right now if I didn’t. I’m just … frazzled by all of it.” I pause, take a deep breath. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea—I’ve never done anything like this before—with people watching me. I’m not good under that kinda pressure. You’re used to it, but me? I hate it. My nerves get all jumbled like they’ll explode through my skin. And I can’t afford any mistakes. I have to open the time-port, and source the vortex code, and maximize the time window—all of it in front of Garth.”
“Then let me be there for you, share the anxiety.” He takes my hands again. “That’s what friends do for each other, right? That’s what you did for me in the ice shack. Let me return the favor.”
I’m fastened to his gaze, but so reluctant to give in. “Is that why you want to come with me? ‘Cause a minute ago it sounded like you just needed a getaway.”
“I do need a getaway, but I need a getaway with you. And that’s not why I want to come. Is it so hard to believe that I wanna experience this with you?”
And finally I surrender, because I can’t deny the flicker of optimism in his eyes, or the determination in his voice. And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad having him there—in fact, I might just enjoy it.
I get up, power down our room console so the projection screen disintegrates. “Guess we’ll need two second-class outfits then.”
He’s behind me now, his lips on the back of my shoulder. “I get to kiss you in the year 1912? Sublime.”
My skin tingles. “There’s still the matter of convincing my parents and the DOT.”
“Don’t say anything to your parents yet,” he whispers. “Let me talk to Garth, explain what good PR it’ll be for us both. If she’s onboard, then your parents won’t have much choice, right?”
I shrug my shoulders against his warm chest. “How conniving of you.”
“Not conniving, just strategic planning.” His arms travel around my waist, resting at my stomach. “How do we get our new threads, though?”
“That, you can leave to me. I’ll have them ready by the end of the day.”
“What, you’re gonna make them?”
“Sure, I have a 3D fashion printer. Where do you think the rest of my clothes come from?”
“Why have you never told me this before?” he asks, in front of me now, studying my pink striped blouse and sequined nylon skirt.
“Never came up.” I flash a casual smile, as if everyone prints out and stitches their own clothing, which really isn’t all that uncommon, but I’ll let him bask in my brill skills a few minutes anyway.
“So what’s this online shopping all about then?”
“I’m not exactly proficient in turn-of-the-twentieth-century fashion. I was hoping I could order something and save some time, but you know what they say about wanting something done right.”
He’s still staring at me. “Huh. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
I grin. “Maybe. Or maybe there’s still a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Oh, I’m banking on it.” He returns the tease, casting me a sly grin. “Can’t wait to find all of it out—like bathing techniques, nightly rituals …” Linking his arms around me, his hands wander over my back, sliding down over my butt. “Undergarment selections …”
“Not so fast, Doc Ock. I still live with my parents, remember?” I kiss his ready lips, then slide out of his embrace. I’ve got bigger clocks to wind right now. “I’ll see if I can’t draw up my own designs from historical photo journals. My fabric stash has seen better days, but I think I may have something that will work. Once I print out the patterns, I’ll run it through the stitch-processor and we can try them on.” I examine Tristan’s thin, toned frame and modestly broad shoulders. “I’ve never made man clothes before. Might take a few tries to get it right.”
“When is this illustrious Induction Day?”
“Three days. Enough time to print and assemble outfits myself if I seize every ounce of free time.”
“I’ll speak to Garth today,” he says, pecking me on the cheek. “You’re amazing, you know that?
“Save the amazement for after we pull this off.” Not that I totally doubt my abilities, but missing the time window or mis-navigating the arrival over the Atlantic Ocean could have the DOT shutting down Butterman Travel for good, aside from the possibility Tristan and I end up at the bottom of the ocean instead of onboard the ship.
“Wait and see, Butterman, ” Tristan says.
Shifting gears, I release a long, conceding sigh and allow a smile to creep up on my lips. “You know what I can’t wait to see? How adorable you’ll be decked out in dawn of the twentieth century garb.”
* * *
Straightening the long sleeves of my lacy white blouse, I check myself in the mirror once more. The custom-made shirt hangs just past my butt, which is donning only navy leggings til I can get my buffersuit on. Each button I stitched on by hand to ensure quality. It was the single most difficult garment I’ve ever assembled. So much complexity to appear so simple.
I take a deep, steady breath. Hard to believe it’s really happening—the event I’ve waited eight years for. Everything is set and I’ve gone over it at least ten times, not to mention all the preparations I’ve made over the years.
Mom takes my arm, then brushes back a strand of my black hair. “It’s time. You look great.”
I button the top of my collar so I’m the picture of modesty, and double check that my faux pearl hairpin is in place at the side part of my hair, which is in perfectly arranged waves to my chin.
“Come on, Miss Butterman.” Mom links her arm in mine, dragging me from the mirror. “Your vessel awaits.”
“Yeah, along with thousands of strangers hoping to see me goof.”
Together, we meet Dad and Garth in the front office, both outfitted in their parkas and ready to brave the tundra to the Launchpad. Dad’s shoulders are tense, but he’s wearing a reassuring little smile. Putting on a show, no doubt, for Garth and everyone else who’s about to watch his daughter and former junkhead boyfriend time travel back to a ship that’ll nose-dive to the ocean depths.
At the hearth, Tristan looks up, gives an eager little nod, his complexion flawless in the firelight.
I can’t help but grin at the uncharacteristically dapper tweed adorning his body. Tweed isn’t easy to come by these days—had to be specially ordered on the fly. Nor is it the most cooperative fabric to work with. But seeing Tristan right now—in a drab tweed coat open over a vest and trousers—makes it all worth it. With the way his blond shag is tucked beneath his tweed cap, he’s the spitting image of Titanic’s second class passengers.
“I believe it’s time,” Garth prompts Dad, at the door now.
I can tell Dad’s admiring my get-up by the way he’s examining i
t. Sometimes I think he and Mom would rather me never claim adulthood for my own, so they can keep me on their shelf like an award for excellence in pro-creation. Not that I’m all that, but as an only child, I’m all they’ve got.
“Isn’t she marvelous?” Mom says to Dad.
Slipping into my parka, I glance at Tristan and roll my eyes. He tips his hat at me, as if he’s already stepped into character. It makes my cheeks go hot.
“We’re proud of you, Bee. No matter what happens.” Dad gives me a brief hug, then motions at the release button on the wall so the steel enforced door folds back into the frame like a fan. As soon as the frigid air meets our cheeks, so does a horde of reporters bubbling about in fur parkas, their hover-cams at their shoulders, each one vying for eye contact in the hopes we’ll share something useful.
I shield my eyes, flurries falling around my face, now that we’re out from under the front awning. I have to admit, these reporters are fearless—braving the Arctic just before winter hits? All to break a story?
It’s a rare form of dedication I wasn’t sure existed.
Last night Garth advised me to give them what they want and be amiable about it. Her exact words. I’m supposed to share this enchanted experience with the world and let them see my joy. And she didn’t say it, but sure the hell implied that she’d love to hear my neverending gratitude to the altruistic DOT for granting me the privilege and opportunity of time traveling to 1912. My skin crawls beneath my layers of clothing.
The sendoff is being streamed across the interwebs, which is why Dad about choked on his omelet the morning Garth informed us Tristan should travel to 1912 with me. I don’t know exactly what type of magic Tristan was able to work, but whatever it was managed to convince her.
“Bianca, can you tell us a little bit about why you chose Titanic?” a reporter in a red fur parka asks. His hover-cam zooms up to my face, its bright flash almost blinding me.
I smile, hoping my dark red lip tint brightens my pale complexion, and focus in on the hover-cam lens. “I learned about the Olympic-class ocean liner when I was ten—that everyone believed it was unsinkable—so much so it was like they jinxed it. At the time, Titanic was built with the most sophisticated technology of the day, but it wasn’t invincible. Its maiden voyage seemed to be doomed from the start, almost as if nature had something to prove, but no one had any idea what kind of tragedy was in store. Even when they hit the iceberg, passengers believed they’d be okay.” I pause to suggest I’m getting choked up, then force another smile, attempting to lay on the charm Garth requested. “Sorry, I get a little emotional talking about it. The story of Titanic has haunted me from the first day I learned about it. All those people who died … and the survivors who lost people they loved … I needed to learn everything I could about them and their stories.”
Another reporter jumps in so close she could shake my hand if I put it out there. “Is it true Buttermans have had inductions for over three generations?”
I nod, squinting in the bright lights of her hover-cam. “Yes, it’s a tradition that started once the Butterman time travel science was developed.”
A bustle of commotion distracts my attention as a different reporter pushes his way to the front, his hover-cam over his shoulder. I recognize his seedy dark eyes. Capra.
“Bianca Butterman,” he shouts over the other voices, his nose red from the cold. “How probable is it that your time-craft will remain unnoticed aboard the Titanic? How can you be certain you won’t create a disturbance that could turn into a paradox and put reality as we know it at stake?”
Okay, this guy is insulting my skills now. “I’ve been researching and plotting this trip since I was fourteen. I’ve mapped the exact time-port coordinates on the Earth’s meridian for departure and arrival, as well as having crafted the precise frequency for opening the time window. My vessel’s cloaking device will stay activated while onboard Titanic, so there’s no chance of detection.”
“Won’t that drain the power?” he asks, relentlessly holding his ground in front of the other reporters. “How can you be certain your cloaking device will withstand the duration?”
“Because it’s my job to know those kinds of details. If I had any doubt, I wouldn’t take a chance. I have as much to lose as you do when it comes to Paradox Factors, Mr. Capra, and I’ll do everything in my power to prevent them.”
“May I say something?” Dad speaks up now, drawing the many hover-cams to focus in on him. “Timeline safety is paramount at Butterman Travel. We’re not talking about a spontaneous ride here—this is a closely calculated time trip, which I’ve personally reviewed and verified. I have the utmost confidence in my daughter’s time travel abilities, and after this time trip, you’ll see just how serious we Buttermans take our profession.”
More questions are called out, but it’s Capra’s voice that overpowers the others. “And you still feel confident even though Tristan Helms will be accompanying her?”
“Of course we do,” Mom is quick to say in her coolly controlled voice. She smiles and her face emits such a warm radiance, it’s hard not to smile back at her. “We trust both of them. It’s true we operate a unique business here, but we are still an average family faced with the same situations any family with teenagers on the brink of adulthood faces. We deal with them, and we move on—armed for the future.”
“But they’re going back to the past,” Capra calls out. “A mismanaged operation could cause an unsealed parallel shift to an alternate reality, which could result in a full timeline collapse and possibly even a universal memory purge. No one knows what that kind of effect would do to our existence. Are you honestly willing to put that kind of risk in the hands of an eighteen-year-old with previous offenses, as well as a former heliox addict who’s only recently proven his resistance is marginal at best?”
Silence.
“What offenses are you talking about?” I ask. “I have no citations on file with the DOT. Maybe you should have your sources checked before spouting off rumors.”
A tremor quakes through my brain. I’m covering up. But the Timeline Rewrite excuses it from being a full blown lie, doesn’t it? I don’t even know anymore. Feels like the truth is slipping away from me, and all I have left is a knotted ball of time strings.
Tristan pipes up, moving in toward Capra and his hover-cam like a cobra ready to strike. “Why don’t you tell us about that recent relapse, Capra? Maybe you could explain to the Buttermans and the world how you slipped something in my drink?”
Capra backs away slowly, maintaining his sadistic smirk. “Got any proof to go along with that accusation, Helms? Obviously, we’re witnessing a bout of aggression here—a known side effect of Garinol 22, which I believe is the narcotic in question from your last public intoxication.”
“Keep talking, slimeball,” Tristan’s voice is full of quiet venom.
“You’re bound to slip up sooner or later and then the truth will come out.”
“Tristan.” I grab his elbow, pull him back to my side. “It’s not worth it. Forget him.”
“He doesn’t deserve to have the public’s attention,” Tristan says.
“The answer is yes.” Dad steps in closer to Capra. “We are willing to take that risk—with Bianca commandeering this time trip. We’d put our lives in her hands without question.”
“But you’re not only doing that,” Capra continues. “You’re putting every life in this world at risk if the universe purges itself of our existence. What gives you the right?”
Okay, this guy’s done his homework, and seems to know a lot more about time travel than the average joe, but he’s also under the misconception that we don’t know what we’re doing. I have no intention of initiating a parallel shift during this trip, much less mismanaging one. Titanic’s alternate universe will have to wait for my next visit.
I hold up a hand, interrupting Dad’s redundant response about trusting my capabilities. “Listen, Mr. Capra, you bring up some valid points …” The ho
ver-cams hone in on me again. “But that’s why we’re the professionals. I don’t try to report news on my social networks, because I’m not a reporter. I’m a time traveler. Let me do the job I’ve been trained to do since I was ten. I guarantee you and anyone else watching who has any concerns, that I will handle the 1912 timeline with caution and care. I have a life to come back to here, and time travel is not an excuse to correct mistakes.” I swallow hard, clear my throat. “We’ll be in and out of the time string within a four hour time window, leaving everything exactly like it was when we got there.”
“Let’s hope so,” Capra says. “’Cause we’ll be monitoring for any anomalies.”
“You can leave that to the DOT,” Garth says, her shoulders squarely pushed back, face smug. “Miss Butterman will be under close observation in case an operational abort is necessary.”
“How does that work?” A woman reporter calls out. “Can government satellites see activity in the time string?”
Garth gives her head a little tilt. “I’m afraid not. We can’t get visuals past 2030, and even if we could, the time delay would be significant and misleading on the actual footage received. What we can see, though, is any and all vortex activity upon entering and exiting the time tunnels. If a paradox is initiated, it will create what we call a burp in the time tunnel and leave a visible heat signature trail. We’ll be well aware that an error or misjudgment was made, although we won’t know specifics until the pilot has returned for questioning. If the burp is significant, we’ll be forced to seal off the vortex from further access.”
“Can the government do that?” another reporter asks. “The U.S. government doesn’t control the cosmos, or have a claim on dimensional science.”
“The government has a duty to the safety of its people, and if that requires stepping in with preemptive forces, than we will.” Garth glances my way, then back at the sea of correspondents.
A reporter a few people back calls out. “Agent Garth, can you share a little about why the DOT agreed to Tristan Helms accompanying the Butterman girl?”
