by PK Hrezo
“So, where are we?” Tristan asks, seemingly unaffected.
“We’re in the right place,” I say. “Just not the right time. We’re still in 1912.”
“No shit, really?” He focuses on me and for the first time I notice the milky haze to his eyes, and how heavy his lids are.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask.
He awkwardly shrugs. “Nothing. Except for the fact we’re lost in the twentieth century.” He makes a snort that sounds almost like a chuckle.
“Do you think this is funny?” I don’t know whether to be relieved or irritated he’s not more upset. I can’t take the stench of puke anymore, so I run the automatic cleaner over the area, then tuck the bot back beneath the dashboard.
Tristan’s pupils dilate, his expression pointed and eerily calm. “Better than going down with Titanic. For a few minutes there, I didn’t think—”
“Why don’t you feel sick? Why are you so collected?”
He shrugs again, not meeting my gaze.
I return my attention to the dashboard panel. Tristan’s acting very odd, but I have bigger things to figure out right now. On-screen, I highlight the time string and vortex accessibility. It blinks out gray. I open a map of the cosmos to track our course’s historical data, and a static blip pulses where the map should be, then fizzles to a blank line.
The lights hurt my eyes and I close them a second. I could fall asleep …
Focusing on-screen again, I verify the engine status and power gauge. Both look good, strong. It’s the maintenance data panel that’s offline, but why? Everything else is normal …
And then I see it. There, in the lower corner of the time tunnel record, the data drops off, as if we simply missed the right time string. Incomplete transition. But the Butterman time-port had to be open—Dad would’ve never let it close from the other side. Unless …
I maximize the time string properties.
“Looks like protein packs for dinner tonight, huh, babe?” Tristan disrupts my concentration, fumbling through the supply pack, and reaches for a water pouch.
“Use the Quench-Tabs. Until I figure out how to get us outta here, we need to ration everything. The Arctic in 1912 is desolate.”
“These gummy things?” He holds up a labeled pack of small square tablets.
“Controls your thirst up to ten hours so you don’t drain your water supplies.”
“Groovy,” he says. A word he picked up from Woodstock, no doubt. He pops out a tablet and chomps on it. “Bleh, tastes like medicine.”
“I wouldn’t know. Dad just got them for the vessel. But you have to go easy on them.” I’m ignoring the cramp in my side, and pounding in my head, when what I really want to do is curl up in a ball and whine. Moan for the pain, moan for this huge mistake, and moan for the tragedy I witnessed only minutes ago. All those people … so helpless …
I blink back tears.
“Package says … use … with … caution.” Tristan sounds like he’s struggling to read.
“That’s what I just said, genius. They’re not meant to actually hydrate, only quench thirst. Our bodies still need water.” I resume my on-screen examination. “I don’t get why these numbers are all jacked up. They went stagnant halfway through the time tunnel, which is why we never left 1912.”
Tristan’s beside me now, breathing over my shoulder. “What’s all that code for?”
“It’s a trace of where we’ve been. Every time-craft leaves behind its own trail of breadcrumbs, only instead of bread it’s ones and zeroes. Like a mathematical signature.”
“How come it’s all garbled together at the beginning like that?”
I follow where his finger is pointing at the very start of our time tunnel entry over the Atlantic Ocean. The numbers there are morphed together like some kind of code soup. How did I not notice that sooner?
“This is highly irregular,” I say. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“How did it happen?” Tristan asks between chomps of his Quench-Tab.
I rewind the data from the time string and probe into the 3D images of the tunnel at exactly the spot we entered. “The cosmic rift is sound, which means Port Butterman in 1912 is fully functional with the right frequency. It’s the chute that’s damaged—more than damaged, annihilated.”
“You’re telling me we’re stuck in the Arctic in 1912?” Tristan scoffs, slurring his speech.
I shake my head, scrolling through more data. “Even if launched through this vortex, we wouldn’t have passage to the next time tunnel. You can’t slide down a chute or climb up a ladder if you can’t get to it. That’s why Essence’s maintenance is offline. Looks like … some kind of radiation feedback damaged the time tunnel, and us in the process.”
“Damn, Butterman, you wanna explain that in English?”
“Historical tracking shows disturbances over the North Atlantic, right after we entered the 1912 time tunnel. Essence’s instruments went berserk for some reason, didn’t recover til just before we landed here, which is why the numbers are all jumbled in our trail.”
“Bogus stuff. Home, but in the wrong century,” Tristan says. “How hard is it to travel forward from here?”
“Holy hell.” It hits me, somewhere between the thrumming in my head and binding of my guts. “A magnetic storm. I’ve read all kinds of stuff about it happening to planes back in the old days. Something about the earth beneath the Atlantic has a magnetic effect on the sky. Aircrafts have been lost and never found again. I think the combination of the storm and the radio frequency from Essence caused some kind of radioactive feedback. ”
“Wicked.”
“This will blow Dad’s mind. From the looks of this tracking data, we somehow managed to get caught in the storm and thrown off course—never leaving 1912.”
“Explains those wild jolts during travel,” Tristan says with a snicker. “I almost shit myself.”
“It explains my sickness, too. Temporal Dislocation Syndrome is common when time lag and severe turbulence are combined.” I pause, study Tristan. “How come you didn’t get it?”
He wipes his forehead that’s now beaded with sweat. “Important thing is we made it off Titanic, ‘cause I thought sure we were screwed.”
“Yeah, you said that already. Tristan. Look at me.”
Gradually, his dilated eyes meet mine before blinking away to the floor. “What’s the verdict, Butterman? Can we get back to 2069 or what?”
I don’t even know how to respond. My jaw is stiff, teeth clenched. I can’t think of a worse scenario than this very moment. The earth must be giving way beneath my feet. Maybe I should’ve just gone down with Titanic, called it a day.
Bewitched, I move toward the window, stare out at the tundra’s reflection—a kaleidoscope of greenish hues. It’s cold, so insanely cold. Eventually, I’ll have no choice but to turn off the heat to save power. Even with the reserve it will only last so long. What then? Tristan and I freeze to death together?
Tristan’s hand brushes over my arm, his body slipping just behind me so his chest presses to my back, his thighs against mine.
“How did you do it?” I ask softly. “How did you manage to get high?”
Silence.
His arms encircle my waist and he sets his chin on my shoulder. “Butterman, Butterman, Butterman. I can’t hide anything from you.”
He nuzzles my neck, his breath hot on my skin, and I want to shove him away, along with this vile taste in my mouth. I’ve been such a moron to believe he could be different than the media portrayed.
I shimmy myself from his arms, refusing to meet his eyes. “Why? After everything we went through in the ice shack. You don’t care about anything but yourself.”
“Don’t say that.” His voice cracks. “You know what you mean to me.”
My gaze finds his helpless face now and it’s creased with distaste. “You promised.”
“I thought I was gonna die. I thought we both were. I didn’t take anything til those last fe
w seconds, when Titanic was breaking apart. It was just a sedative, so I wouldn’t freak out. A legal pharmaceutical. You don’t know what it’s like—”
“Why didn’t you tell me then? I went through the same thing you did. I was scared too!”
His eyes close briefly and reopen on the window. “I was afraid of what you’d say, how you’d feel about it. I didn’t want you to know I didn’t trust myself, or think I didn’t trust you.”
“Where did you get it from? Your own prescription?”
I’m not even sure I want to know.
Tristan holds up his hands, palms facing me. “Some guy back at the inn. A local, I dunno. He knew all about you, and Butterman Travel. Said he admired my courage, but that I’d be crazy not to leave prepared.”
A local? “What was his name? What’d he look like?”
“I didn’t get his name. He was around our age, light brown hair, average build. Decent looking guy.”
Beneath the fingernail of his right pinky, Tristan digs out a micro-dot tinier than a grain of rice. Then moves on to his ring finger and does the same thing.
“Four in each hand,” he says. “Once inserted, all I had to do was press my fingernail to inject the dose in my bloodstream. Took all of two seconds to spread warm currents throughout my body. It was only a safety net, you have to believe that. In case of pain, or disaster. It was never about getting high.”
I scoff quietly. “Well, I really appreciate your demonstration of faith in me. Thank you.”
“Bianca, I—”
“There’s always an excuse with you, you know? With the opiate oils, and the mushrooms, and Jimi Hendrix’s joint. And that night at Agnes’ diner. It’s never your fault, is it? My parents stood up for you back there. I stood up for you.” I pause, shaking my head.
Even I’m surprised by the spiteful tone of my voice, but I’m not sorry for it. We stare at each other for a few long seconds. Wind from outside sweeps snow past the cockpit window, obscuring the sky and creating a blur. For the first time in a long while, I feel hopelessly cold.
“I’m not a bad person,” Tristan finally says, like he wants so much to believe it’s true. “You just don’t know what it’s like.”
“Like for what? Stress? Stardom? ‘Cause that’s BS. I know exactly what it’s like to have the media breathing down your neck 24/7. Ever since I met you, that’s been my life. Everything I say and do is criticized and blasted over the interwebs.”
His cheek twitches. “That’s not what I mean. You don’t know what it’s like to physically and mentally crave something and have to talk yourself out of it every hour of every day. I’m constantly reminded of what I’m missing. And every day is a trial to convince myself I don’t need it. I never doubted you’d get us off Titanic … I only doubted my ability to deal with an ugly situation if it came up. I’m weak, Bianca.”
“No, you’re not weak. You’re an addict. And you keep putting yourself in situations where you know you can’t say no. Addicts don’t get to have access to sedatives in case of emergency. Why would you even test your willpower like that?”
“Because I’d rather accept the fact I’m an addict and test my willpower than be scared shitless in the freezing Atlantic ‘cause the Titanic went down with me on it.”
“You’re blind to anything but your own problems.”
“After what happened in Manhattan and Woodstock, I’m too aware of unexpected circumstances.” He scowls, his attention drifting from me to the snowflakes blowing past the window. “Capra set me up that night. I didn’t want a drink, or anything else. But he was nice, and easy to talk to, and it’d been a long time since I just hung with the guys without counselors lurking over us in rehab. He didn’t seem to care who I was, just wanted to talk about the hockey game playing on the monitor. When he ordered me a whiskey, I just assumed the bartender would say no. But she didn’t. And there it was in front of me. And I remembered what it was like to be a normal guy, having a drink.”
I don’t want to cut him any slack, but my shoulders drop, and I feel the tension in my jaw ease.
“I’m not an idiot,” he continues. “I knew Capra slipped cerebrexal powder in my glass—I could taste the difference. But I kept drinking, pretending I didn’t know. In my head, I used it as an excuse. It wasn’t my fault. And for a few minutes there, I was just a normal guy. I didn’t know he was a reporter til after the damage had been done.”
“Tristan, how many times do bad things have to happen before you can stand strong? I can’t even trust you. I didn’t wanna trust you at all after that night, but I gave you the benefit of the doubt ‘cause I wanted so much to believe in you. Your detox in the ice shack was horrible. I promised myself I’d never go through that again. And now you’re saying you have no intention of staying clean if there’s any chance of surprises? It’s selfish, so effin’ selfish.”
He shoots me a look, then lowers his eyes, exhaling a long sigh. “The way you’re looking at me right now … it’s no wonder users keep using. Pity. Disappointment … Disgust. Users can’t break away from that look.”
I throw my hand in the air. “That’s such BS. I’ve forgiven you, believed in you, and put my family’s business on the line just to be with you … ‘cause I saw something in you, something that filled me with hope when hope was unreachable. You’re the one who keeps blowing it. Don’t you dare blame everyone else.”
My pulse is charging beneath my skin. I can’t deal with this right now. This is not about him. Pacing the time-craft, I move in toward the door and release it. Brisk gusts of icy wind swoosh in. It’s obscenely cold, and I’m still in this stupid maid’s uniform. Frost bite will set in within minutes, on anywhere it can sink its fangs into. But I need the wake up call to get my emotions in check before they implode and my brain blows a fuse.
I close the door, my body still shivering from the residual air. Tristan’s in his passenger seat, his head propped on his hands, elbows on his knees, leaning forward. I’m glad I can’t see his face—that boyishly good looking face that always manages to convince me of his sincerity. Deep inside me somewhere, a hatred has been kindled. It’s stirring. Not a hatred for him, but for his weaknesses. And for mine. I thought I could fix him, like I fix everything else, but I’ve been more loyal to him than to my own family—jeopardizing everything I know and love to stay his friend. I hate that I’m losing faith in him, but I hate even more that he’s abused my trust.
Garth’s last words echo through me: It’s easy to forget where loyalties lie.
Chapter Nineteen
My hand falls to my upper thigh and hits something hard and solid in the pocket of my maid’s uniform. Intrigued, I cup my fingers over it, tracing the round edges. Quincy’s pocket watch. I’d almost forgotten.
Reaching in my pocket, I wind the chain around my fingers and pull it out, where the weight of the watch swings and bobs like some kind of fancy fishing lure. The polished gold surface glimmers beneath Essence’s soft orange interior lighting. How could I have brought this with me? How could I have refused to?
I fling the watch into my palm and press the top button so the face pops open. It’s gold beneath the glass, with fine etchings in some kind of abstract floral design. Along the outer rim are black Roman numerals outlined in lighter gold. It’s still ticking on Atlantic Standard Time. My chest sinks inward, and with it, I let out a ragged breath. An image of Quincy’s face pirouettes through my head—those last few moments when he was putting others before himself.
A dead man’s watch. The thought stings and burns behind my eyes.
Tracing the face with two fingers, I let them slide over the cold metal, caressing it as if somehow the touch could sear the memory deeper into my mind, where it will never escape. The cover catches my eye—there are markings there. An inscription in elegant cursive lettering:
“And you shall face the tides of time, God forever on your side.”
“Bianca? Say something, please. I can’t take the silent treatment right n
ow—not here, lost in the middle of nowhere.”
“The tides of time.” My voice is low, distant.
“What?”
From my peripheral, I see Tristan’s hands fall from his face to his lap, his body still leaning forward in the passenger seat.
I click the pocket watch closed, gripping it between my fingers, the skin on my arms tingling. Now is not the time for a coincidence like this.
Turning, I slip the watch back into my pocket and shuffle toward Tristan, my body weak from time sickness and frustration. “Tristan, I don’t want to fight.” I stoop to his eye level. “If you’d only put as much faith in your strengths as you do your weaknesses.” My voice is more sympathetic than I expected and I hope it doesn’t betray the genuine sentiment behind it. “I put my faith in you, and you gambled it away. Why didn’t you trust me to understand?”
“Like you understand right now?” he says in such a small voice.
Silence. Uncomfortable and dense.
It makes me shift my weight from side to side, and I hate the awkwardness I feel.
On impulse, I grab his hand, cup it between both of mine. “I … don’t know what it’s like to be you, or have your struggles but I know that trust means the same no matter who you are or how much money you have.”
He strokes the back of my head like he might kiss me, but only searches my eyes. Every imperfection of his face is noticeable right now, but they’re as handsome as they are flawed.
“I’m not like you, Bianca,” he says. “My goals aren’t crystal fucking clear like yours. Life doesn’t just make sense. I went from a nobody late-bloomer to a rich superstar everyone wants a piece of … to a has-been junkhead … and now, just a guy doing everything he can to keep the trust and friendship of a girl who means more than she could ever know.”
The dilation of his pupils retracts, his irises shimmering with flecks of silvery-gray. Clear, but enigmatic. Unreadable. I want to back away, but I can’t bring myself to fully reject him. Not after everything we’ve been through. We’re connected in ways I don’t fully understand.
