by PK Hrezo
I continue. “It’s right before a major historical event occurs, which means my navigational skills and timeline management will be tested to their fullest. And that’s what the Butterman Induction is all about. Does that answer your question, ‘cause I’d really like to get started.”
I’m about to turn toward the vessel, when Capra speaks up again. “I think we’d all like to know your ultimate goal while onboard Titanic.”
Hesitating in the flashing light, I think of Mom, and how she’d handle this to get people to relate on a personal level. Finally I say, “My goal is a successful mission. Encountering some of the people I’ve come to know so well through historical biographies and documentaries, is a dream come true for me. Do you know what that feels like? I hope everyone gets to know this kind of magic. Not only am I about to see, hear, and feel Titanic for the first time ever as a reality, I’m also about to earn my position on the Butterman family tree of time travelers.”
Both hover-cams dart toward Garth as if they’ve been synchronized. Guess I’m not entertaining enough.
“Tell us, Agent Garth,” Ravenwood’s quick to say before Capra. “Why was it important for the DOT to relax the normal regulation for this particular time trip?”
Garth assumes the professional, canned-courtesy smile I’ve come to know so well. “Technically, we’ve relaxed no such regulation on commercial travel. For the purpose of this trip, the Buttermans have waived their power to an attorney, therefore practicing their first amendment rights.”
I make a little scoffing sound that draws the others’ attention, but I pretend I’m clearing my throat. I can’t get over how much Garth actually sounds like she’s on our side.
“Does that mean the DOT will not have this time trip under surveillance?” the lady asks. “Or be keeping track of violations?”
“Oh we always keep track,” Garth says.
Capra looks like he’s about to ask a question, but pauses with his mouth open, as if waiting for Garth to say more.
Ravenwood snatches her chance again. “Can you either confirm or deny that satellite technology has the actual capability of reaching timelines past 100 years?”
Garth stares blankly, then assumes an agreeable expression. “I believe I’ve already answered that.”
The hover-cam moves in closer, with Ravenwood just behind it. “Will the DOT be encouraging unregulated leisurely time trips with all agencies?”
Garth holds up a hand. “That remains to be seen. Because of the sensitivity and public speculation of Butterman Travel due to Mr. Helms’ notoriety, this is an isolated situation. Any similar conditions will be handled on a case by case basis. For the sole purpose of the Butterman family Induction, we’re not enforcing the usual regulation. Aside from the fact that leisure time trips are currently not controlled by the DOT.”
“Does the DOT deny their pursuit to gain control of leisure time travel, then?” the reporter asks.
Garth gives her head the slightest of shakes. “The DOT denies nothing that aims to keep timelines from being tampered with. Improper use of time travel is a great concern, which is why we’re supervising this particular time trip, and will be ready to review the results. Until all time travel falls under government regulation, we’ll be doing our best to maintain awareness of what type of time trips transpire.”
Dad clears his throat. “And if there are no more questions, we’ll initiate the countdown process.”
The hover-cams angle their position away from Garth and onto him like eager watch dogs.
I’m about to enter the time-craft, when I halt, turn toward Mom. She’s surprisingly calm. We hug, and she kisses my cheek. “Bon voyage, my B-button. I know you can do it. Be safe.”
Either she really does trust my abilities, or she should be nominated for an Academy Award.
I leave her embrace for Dad and he wraps his arms around me at Mission Control. “Remember what we talked about. Stay true to who you are and everything will be fine.” He scuffs the top of my hair. “You’re a Butterman, kid.”
For some reason those words burrow into my chest and nestle down with such sweet resolve that a surge of confidence streams through me.
Garth’s narrow face appears beside two hover-cams and she gives a curt nod, her expression strangely placid. “God speed, Miss Butterman. And remember, outside of government regulations, you’ll have to rely on your own resources. What you do today speaks volumes for the private time travel agencies around the world, and believe me, they’ll be watching the result.” She moves in, whispers at my ear. “In the wake of adventure, it’s easy to forget where loyalties lie.”
Willies shimmy down my spine to my toes. What’s that supposed to mean? I watch her as she backs away with that faint little smile on her ultra-red lips. She’s not looking at me, though, she’s examining the data on Dad’s holo-screen, leaving an opening for the hover-cams to zip over to each side of Tristan and me. They gape at us with hollow lenses and blinking red lights.
Swiftly, I dash over to and inside the time-craft with Tristan right behind me. We both take our seats, me at the cockpit dashboard situated before the window, and him in one of the four passenger bucket seats behind me. The hover-cams float at the open doorway, their lenses dilating to record the scene in the dimmer light of the vessel.
From the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of Tristan strapping in to his seat. His hat has been removed and his normally shaggy blond locks are gelled and slicked back, which accents the strong angles of his face.
I notice my own reflection now—the minimal eye makeup, and antiquated hair-do—all the Magenta Marvel washed out, replaced by my usual black hair dye. My star tattoos have been covered with the same heavy concealer I always use for distant time trips, but it’s the position of my glossy pink lips that startles me. I should be smiling. I’m about to see Titanic in real life.
Averting my gaze to the holo-screen over my dashboard, I initiate countdown so the screens populates with our data:
Destination: Northern Atlantic Ocean, 42˚ latitude, 50˚longitude.
April 14, 1912 Mid-Atlantic Standard Time
“Standby to engage,” I announce over the com.
Dad’s voice bellows from the speaker. “And ten … nine …”
“Don’t worry about me,” Tristan calls out. “I took something for motion sickness. No more barf sessions, right?”
“Three … two …”
This is it. Nail it, don’t fail it. If my calculations are correct, we’ll arrive through the time-port before the full length of Titanic can pass beneath us, which will position our touchdown directly on the top deck,
away from any passengers. My numbers should have us landing just behind the first steam funnel. Plenty of room.
I swallow hard. Or else we’ll be swimming in the Atlantic.
Chapter Twelve
My lids flutter open, and onto the rearview mirror.
Tristan’s reflection is blurred for about three seconds, then the details of his sallow complexion come into focus. He’s staring into midair, seemingly unaffected by the g-forces of the Cosmic Chutes and Ladders.
I must be dreaming.
Hallucinating.
Tristan appears so child-like that a burst of warm energy spreads through my chest. This is how pinballing through space and time bends the mind. I shouldn’t be able to concentrate while traveling at warp drive. Where’s my focal point?
“You okay?”
That wasn’t my voice.
“Butterman?
My gaze finds Tristan’s and locks on.
His vacant expression shifts into concern. “Are we there or what?”
Holy hell, we’re here? My skills are slipping. Not good. I sit bolt upright, my hands assuming control at the dashboard controls.
“The, uh, time-craft is cloaked, right?” Tristan’s peering outside the cockpit window, still strapped in the passenger seat.
Right. Verifying the cloaking shield is activated, I confirm arrival
details.
North Atlantic Ocean: 42˚ lat., 50˚ lon. 20:05:16 Mid-Atlantic Standard Time, April 14, 1912
Time window minutes remaining: 235.44
Doesn’t feel like we’re sinking in the ocean. I look outside for the first time and my gaze is met by a patch of indigo night sky peppered with starlight.
I knew there would be stars tonight.
“We’re onboard the R.M.S. Titanic,” I say.
“How can you be sure?” Tristan says, unstrapping himself.
“We’re stable, at an elevated level. Terrestrial detection unverified. And look at those stars.” I can’t peel my eyes off the blinking night.
Tristan’s at the window now, his nose almost pressed against the plexiglass, his silvery buffersuit glinting in the reflections of distorted light. “Where did we land?”
I open Essence’s historical database onscreen for a view of the ship’s schematics. Forget GPS assistance. No such thing as satellites in the turn of the twentieth century. We’ll have to rely on pre-recorded maps, which I’ve had plenty of time to pour over these past four years. Besides, I’m becoming quite the expert without GPS assistance, even if I do say so myself. As Dad would say, a good time traveler gets by with nothing more than an old fashioned compass and pocket watch.
My digital wrist watch functions as both.
“How close are we to the edge of the ship?” Tristan asks. “I mean, is the ocean right on the other side of us?”
I activate the vessel’s outside scan-cam for a panoramic look around. “Considering we’re on an ocean liner, it’s safe to assume water’s on every side. Here, have a look.”
Without GPS, I can’t be sure where we are either, but I don’t tell him that. Last thing I need is him doubting my abilities on this trip. The time lag seems to be messing with me more than usual. This is my first time trip since the T-cube journey to rewrite the timeline, and I’m already exhibiting symptoms of slacker-itus. Maybe it’s for the best that this is just a trial run.
I breathe a silent sigh of relief when I notice we’re positioned between what has to be steam funnels on either side of us. Their massive bronze exteriors ascend as far up as my scan-cam can lift.
“What is that?” Tristan asks.
“There’s four steam funnels on the top most deck, in the center of the craft. It appears we’re sitting between two of them, but I can’t say which two without going outside.”
“That’s good, right? This is where you wanted us?”
I half shrug. “Er … depending on which steam funnels, yeah, close enough.”
“And we’re cloaked?” he asks again.
“Affirmative. And in three minutes from now, the answer will be the same.”
He shoots me a look. “Double checking is all. Something I’ve learned is a smart choice from previous time trips.”
I’d retort, but his comment reminds me to initiate the power reserve for our trip home. Call it a hunch, but I’m pretty sure there’s no way to get a jump-start here if the vessel’s battery loses its charge. Since the Woodstock diversion, Dad equipped Essence with an emergency power defibrillator, so even if we did need a charge, we’ve got it covered.
I verify the time-port signal strength. Strong. We have just under a four hour time window to get our bearings and look around.
“What do we do now?” Tristan asks, contorting his arms and torso to release them from the confines of his buffersuit. It’s awkwardly dangling from his body and he reminds me of a chameleon shedding its skin. “You have a plan, right?”
I offer him a smug—who do you think you’re talking to?—blink of my eyes. Sweetly, I add, “Of course.”
In one swift motion I peel off my buffersuit and step into my black skirt that fits snug at my waist and tummy, and extends to my ankles in a modest flare. “This is just an orientation excursion, which will let the DOT observe my brill skills and put them and the rest of the world off our backs. So no screw ups, okay? We can’t afford any.”
“I’m touched by your vote of confidence, Butterman.”
“No offense. But there’s a reason this turned into such a mess, and I’m reminding you as much as myself to stay on top of our game.”
He nods. “Agreed.”
“So we’ll scout the area, figure out the best route to the first class dining room, and time how long it takes us to get from here to there and find Captain Smith.”
“How do you know he’ll be in the dining room?”
“I know everything about this night.” I check that my watch is synchronized with the time-craft dashboard. “A dinner party was given in his honor. Reports say he went to the bridge afterwards, and then to bed at approximately 2120hours. If I could figure out the exact time he leaves the dining room, I could intercept him next time. It’s 2011hours now.”
“Sometimes I forget you know so much about it.” Tristan’s gaze is on the waist of his brown trousers as he refastens one of his suspenders beneath his vest. “I watched a couple documentaries on it last night. Everybody’s talking about Titanic now. They were showing the refurbished hull at the Smithsonian exhibit, and recapping the night of the sinking and how the entire ship snapped in half …” He pauses, his mouth falling open. “Holy shit, that’s right now.”
I give him a mock little applause. “Aren’t you the clever one?”
“It’s just so trippy. Guess it didn’t sink in til this second.”
“No pun intended?” I smooth out my blouse and sleeves. “Anyway, it’s no different than you knowing everything about Jimi Hendrix.”
“Hendrix was one guy. This is a ship full of people.”
“2207 to be exact. Most of who will lose their lives.” My voice falters on my last word. We really are here. I feel like I can’t move. How many times have I imagined this night? Imagined what it felt like to plunge into the black frigid waters, your fingers ripped away from the one you love—the one you held onto so tightly, so desperately because they meant more to you than your own self. Wondering if your body would surrender before theirs, or watch in terror as your parent, friend, or child welcomed death as an escape from sheer dread and icy pain.
“You plan on talking to him tonight?” Tristan’s voice derails my train of thought. “Give him a heads up?”
“Who?” I’m staring at Tristan as though I’ve just now joined the conversation.
“The captain. What’s his name? Captain …”
“Smith. Captain Edward Smith. Age 62. He commanded six other voyages before this one.”
“So, do you plan on introducing yourself, get a feel for his vibe, see how hard it’ll be to convince him to hang a louie?”
I pause, because even though I’ve been over this scenario a thousand times in my head for my actual Induction Day, not once did I imagine coming here to stalk Captain Smith for some idle chit chat. Still, it does make sense to feel him out for next time.
“Just remember,” I say. “We’re understudies, not part of the show. We have to be careful of Paradoxical Factors, ‘cause I’m not supposed to initiate a parallel shift this trip.”
“And PFs don’t matter if you do shift their timeline to an alternate universe?”
“I didn’t say that, you should always be careful of PFs, but once a parallel shift begins, the timeline veers off course in a separate direction. I plan to seal off the time tunnel with a Butterman technique, which will allow their new reality to run parallel to the old timeline, our timeline.”
“What about the previous survivors? Their kids and grandkids? Future wives and husbands?”
“It will all still happen, but in an alternate parallel world. Our world won’t know the difference because of a tectonic duplication—like capturing a scene in a photograph and sending it into a separate but identical existence that comes to life on its own.”
Tristan shakes his head. “I don’t understand it, but if you say so. Seems a lot like playing God to me.”
“And what would you do? If you had the power to save
people from a grisly death? Would you still worry about playing God?”
He averts his eyes, his lips barely twitching. “I dunno. I don’t think I’m equipped to handle that kind of power.”
“So leave the timeline alterations to me,” I’m quick to say, then force a softer tone. “Besides, we’re not here for that today.”
“Has anyone ever done one before?” he asks. “A parallel shift?”
“Not since my great grandfather. Time travelers avoid them whenever possible, and the DOT considers it an illegal operation—as if they own time or something. But in the case of the Butterman Family Induction …”
“Doesn’t it create a, you know—burp, or whatever they call it, where the DOT can see it?”
“If they’re watching the vortex activity, yeah, they’ll see a new rift open and close like a gateway. A disturbance in the cosmos. They’d know something was up, which is another reason why I can’t do it this time.”
“Wow.” Tristan shrugs, brushing his gelled locks away from his forehead and placing his tweed cap over it so it rests at the middle of his forehead. Stray curls peek out over his ears and at his neck. “You grow up knowing time travel exists, but it’s kinda like knowing the Baltica Galaxy exists—more in the distant possibilities of your mind than something you can actually experience.” His face is so serious. “Before I met you, I didn’t realize how sheltered I was.”
“You? Sheltered? Ha!”
He half smiles. “The universe seems a lot more interesting with you in it.”
I bite my lip to hold back a flattered grin. He’s adorable in vintage threads and multi shades of brown tweed. Just a regular nineteen-year-old second-class-joe on a boat. In the year 1912. And I’m a displaced spunker chick—exchanged my dark glitz-glam for a safe and modest dullness.
“What are you staring at?” Tristan asks.
I realize I’ve been silently staring and say, “You. What’re you gonna do about it?”
A sly grin curls up on his lips and he moves in, circles his arms about my waist, pulling me to him. “This.”
