Butterman (Time) Travel, Inc. Page 10

  Tristan pushes past her, joins my side as I break away.

  “Where’ve you been?” he asks. “Dirk Stiles is here. I can introduce you—“

  “You’re past-self is here. We have to go now.” As much as it kills me to give up Dirk, I’ve got a job to do.

  “What? How is that possible? Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I’m not blind.”

  “But …”

  “We can discuss it later.” I grab his arm, head for the way we came in.

  “Not that way, we’ll get mauled. There’s a safer back exit.” He puts his hat and shades on.

  We beeline for the rear of the club, past more girls in bunny costumes and guys in giant Mad Hatter hats. Down a mirrored stairwell, we reach a heavy black door. Tristan shoves it open and we rush outside.

  Right into mayhem. Safer back exit my ass.

  People are everywhere—mostly girls, holding up cameras, screaming out names. Another well-dressed bouncer and one of those rent-a-droid-cops block the first few steps of the doorway. The rest of the walkway is divided off by red laser beams.

  “No effin’ way.” Tristan tugs his hat lower on his head.

  “It’s Tristan Helms!” someone squeals.

  A flock of girls lurch forward, as close as they can get without getting shocked by those lasers.

  “Somebody should’ve warned you,” I say.

  More cries of joy from the crowd: “Tristan! Over here, Tristan. Please! I’m your biggest fan, can I get a picture?”

  I scan the surroundings. Nowhere for us to go. Only thing keeping us from getting trampled right now is the lasers, although even diehard fans aren’t likely to assault a near-invincible droid-cop. But once we step foot outside the cordoned area, we’re done for. Mobbed. Mauled. Swarmed. All of the above.

  With all the flash photography going off, I shield myself behind Tristan best I can. “How do you normally get out of this?”

  “I never show up at these things at rush hour. Shit.” He’s keeping his cool, though. Waving and smiling to appease the masses in some small way. A ruler before his minions. “Usually, I plan ahead for this kinda thing. Either have a limo or jetpack ready. We gotta find another way to Grant’s garage.”

  “And go back inside again? No way.” My eyes wander the horde of starry-eyed girls, even some guys, all pushing into each other, starving for one nugget of acknowledgment from the Golden Boy.

  “We have to.” Tristan’s watching the crowd still, as if he’s not fully sold on the idea, but scared as hell to brave that mass of screaming girls. “Grant has to have an alternate escape.”

  The bouncer faces us, his eyes shielded by his shades. “Mr. Helms, can I call your limo for you?”

  Tristan nods. “Please do.”

  I yank his arm. “Are you crazy? Your past-self could call for it at any given time. It won’t work.”

  A girl appears from behind the bouncer, moving in a full charge toward Tristan. I back away, but so does Tristan and she misses him, plowing right into me. I fall to the ground. My elbow slams onto the pavement sending a bombshell of pain through my arm.

  Through flailing limbs, the droid-cop lifts the girl by her legs.

  Tristan helps me to my feet. “You okay?”

  I nod, but I’m not okay. Suddenly I want to cry more than anything else. Maniacal faces are staring and yelling. My elbow’s throbbing.

  “This is too dangerous.” Tristan wraps an arm around my waist, guiding me backwards.

  That’s when I see a face in the mob that makes my heart drop.

  Special Agent Lola Garth.

  I could never forget her frigid aura. Sleek platinum hair pulled back in a ponytail; ultra-red lips, thin pointy nose, pasty-white skin. Her glacial-blue eyes lock with mine and the pain in my elbow is forgotten. My mouth fills with bitterness. How is she here? Would her past-self be out for the night by coincidence?

  Coincidences and time travel don’t mix. And since Garth comes from D.C., the odds she’d be here for this private party are slim. She could be here, however, if she hacked into Mission Control and obtained our exact coordinates. She could’ve traveled to our exact time string. But how did she get here from Port Butterman, Alaska if we have the time-craft?

  My watch shows ninety minutes til departure. Okay, think.

  My body jerks and next thing I know, Tristan’s tugging me up the stairs and back into the club. He better have a plan. Past-Tristan could be anywhere nearby.

  In a calculated beeline, we push through the French doors to the balcony, to where a fully decked out and impossibly sophisticated Grant Prince stands in a top hat and cape.

  Tristan whispers in his ear. I scan the staring faces of Grant’s audience, but my thoughts are centered on Garth right now. If she hacked into our time string, she knows everything—especially that Essence is docked at Broadway Port. No doubt she’ll be headed that direction.

  Seconds later, Tristan whisks me away and we plow full steam ahead with Grant Prince in the lead. Within a few steps, we’re in a dark hallway lit by candle sconces. A hidden door on one of the walls slides open, revealing a blood-red interior elevator, complete with a small velvet sofa. Nobody sits down, though. Grant mumbles a few words to Tristan, but never bothers to acknowledge me, which suits me just as well at the moment.

  Grant doesn’t exit the elevator once we arrive. Tristan thanks him, then leads me down a dank corridor, up a flight of stairs, and into a parking garage that reeks of motor oil. At the end of the lot is a jetpack corral confined by more laser beams. Tristan taps in some numbers on the security touchscreen and the front laser fades for our entry.

  “We may have trouble,” I say, breathless now.

  “May have?” Tristan lifts a chrome and black jetpack. “Now what gives you that idea?”

  “No, I mean more trouble. Remember I told you my Agency is being audited by the DOT?”

  He nods, punching a code into the jetpack ignition panel.

  “The special agent overseeing the investigation is here. Outside the club.”

  He stops, looks up a second, then steps into the harness. “It was insane out there, you probably just imagined it.”

  “She looked right at me.”

  He rolls a sleek beige and chrome jetpack toward me, powers it on with a code. “What makes you think she wasn’t there to party?”

  “I’m not a moron. The way she recognized me and pulled out her phone—it was with a purpose.”

  Tristan shrugs. “But this isn’t an illegal trip, right? You’re a DOT approved company. What’re you so worried about?”

  “Don’t you get it? It means she could’ve hacked into our time string and tracked us down. She wouldn’t have done that unless she saw us do something against regulation.”

  “Because I took my own song? That’s crazy, I don’t buy it.” He presses a button so his harness auto-buckles.

  I step into my jetpack. “Or the jetpacks we stole. Or … anything.”

  He meets my gaze, his face inches from mine. “You think she traveled here to charge us with something? Why not wait til we get back?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. Look, let’s just get back to the port and back to 2069. If we miss our window, the port closes and we have to wait another day before my dad can get it open again.” I let the harness conform itself to my body.

  “Can’t you reopen it from this end?” Tristan lifts off, hovers over the pavement.

  “We can but it’s not typical operational protocol. Reprogramming the vortex opening is best done from Mission Control. Too much data can reduce Essence’s power. The cloaking device requires pretty much all her memory as it is. Dad can reopen the port for us from back home, but standard operation requires a twenty-four hour interval between openings. Or else the vortex can backfire, implode, never be used again.”

  “What the …? I won’t pretend I understood that, but son of a bitch. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

  I glare a
t him til he flinches.

  “Let me guess, in the handbook. Come on, we can make it back, worry about that later.”

  I meet him in the air, my jetpack barely audible it’s so smooth. “These jetpacks are magic.”

  “Cadillacs,” Tristan says, moves out from the garage. “Grant Prince spares no expense when it comes to comfort.”

  We coast at minimum speed, navigating the alleys, then emerge above the street in the jetpack lane. I follow Tristan about five blocks north by my watch’s compass, and into the carnivalesque lights and holograms of Times Square. Digital billboards glittering and flashing, draw my attention in multiple directions. Music and voices populate the air. Other jetpackers in our lane slow to look around, observe the madness. I swerve around them, my hands gripping the memory foam of the handlebars as we veer right, toward the exit lane on Broadway.

  Tristan guides us past the theaters’ holographic marquees and down through the back alley of the lesser-known theaters. I know exactly where we are. Taking the lead, I accelerate through the narrow alley ahead and land on the ground, just before the trash compactor. Cadillac-quiet style.

  “What do we do with these?” I ask, patting the jetpack. Shame to leave it.

  “I’ll get Grant new ones.” Tristan climbs out of his pack, props it behind the metal dumpster.

  Stepping out of mine, I press the remote control from my watch which prompts an invisible Essence to reveal a small red blip of light. Touching my index finger to it, I wait for identity verification, until Essence drops her cloak and reveals herself. What a sweet sight for my bloodshot eyes she is.

  The clock on the panel blinks. Fifty-five minutes to departure. We can do this. I grab our buffer suits from inside and we climb into them, taking turns zipping up each other’s back.

  A sharp voice cuts through the air. “Miss Butterman, I need to inform you of the hazardous situation you’re wrapped up in.”

  Garth.

  She’s a few yards down the alley dressed in the same black pantsuit and white blouse as at the club. Her holo-badge is projected over her left shoulder.

  The snugness of my buffer suit constricts me, tighter than ever before. I force short, rapid breaths, my chest rising and falling beneath the rubbery latex. I’m still in control. Keep calm.

  “What’re you doing here?” I ask. “I’m not breaking regulation.”

  She feigns surprise. “Aren’t you, though? I mean, piloting an unlogged time trip while under DOT investigation is ballsy, but commandeering an itinerary—acting as guide while under the influence of narcotics is a major offense. Earned yourself a PUI.”

  “How the hell did they know that?” Tristan whispers to me.

  I knew it. She’s seen everything.

  “DOT hacked into our time string, wants to issue me a Piloting Under the Influence,” I say. “Thanks to Agent Garth here.”

  Tristan holds up a hand toward Garth. “That was my fault. An honest mistake. Let me explain.”

  “Tristan Helms.” Garth moves in, her gaze on him, red lips in a mock frown. “I’m guessing you have a good attorney. I hope so, for your sake. Contributing intoxicants to an uncertified trip guide is illegal, and not great publicity for someone in your situation.”

  “Uncertified?” Tristan looks at me.

  “She’s reaching,” I whisper. “This trip fully certifies me.”

  He holds his hands open, as if to say we had no choice. “It wasn’t my fault. The spa made a mistake. And H.R.E. oils are legal.”

  “Nice try.” Garth folds her arms over her chest as if she’s bored and offers the faintest of smiles. “At present, they’re still under review by the FDA, which I’m sure you already knew. In the future, they’ll be fully illegal. Your charges could be excused, considering the circumstances.” She nods at me. “But not for you, Miss Butterman. You’ll be lucky to ever get your license after this incident. Time travel is a privilege for only the most responsible of persons. Not a great way to start your record.”

  I cringe. She’s trying to intimidate me. Am I that screwed? This is such a nightmare.

  “What shall we discuss next?” Garth asks. “The jetpack larceny?”

  “Nothing was planned, Agent Garth. You have to know that. We couldn’t risk a PF.” I try a little of my own diplomatic tactics—suggesting she’s smarter than the obvious. Then in a smaller voice, “Why’re you doing this?”

  Seriously? The jetpacks, I get, but how can they accuse me of a PUI when I didn’t even know about the oils? Holy hell, Mom and Dad must be livid.

  “Operating a commercial time travel agency is a unique opportunity,” Garth says casually, still inching closer. “But it also requires an enforced set of standards. Agencies who can’t comply, don’t deserve to operate. You’ve proven you’re not responsible enough to command time trips. DOT knows it, and now so do your parents.”

  Why didn’t she wait til I got home for this?

  “Come on,” Tristan says to her. “Let me pay the damages. I can make you a nice offer. You can forget about this and do something better with your time. Bianca hasn’t hurt anyone.”

  Garth drums her manicured fingers on her arm, still folded over her chest. “Bribery, Helms? I have to say, it’s not a very smart move for you right now. And let me explain something so you don’t make the mistake of insulting me again: I can’t be bought.”

  “I’ve found anyone can be—” Tristan starts.

  “Save it,” Garth says. “I’m not interested in money. And what I want, you have no power to get for me.”

  “What’s that?” he says.

  I’m surprised when she answers.

  “Progress. And to finish the job my father left undone.” Her eyes are almost seductive, the way she studies Tristan.

  I wonder for a second if she’s secretly getting off on this. Having authority over someone like Tristan must thrill her. And what the hell does she mean by progress?

  “Your father?” he asks. “What the hell’s your father got to do with this?”

  “Let’s get back to the issue at hand,” she says, eyeing the time-craft. “I’m here to bring you back to your parents so we can proceed with the investigation.” Then she hones in on me with a glare—a strange glare—as if she’s aware of more than I know. “I should warn you, Miss Butterman, any attempt to tamper with the past at this point will only incriminate you further.”

  I check the panel clock. Forty-six minutes. Wait a minute—Garth didn’t come via time-craft. “How did you get here?”

  She snickers. “Too simple to be obvious, I suppose. Once my future-self tapped into your time string, all they had to do was track your activity, conduct a surveillance from afar. They knew you’d show up at Tristan’s penthouse. Matter of fact, I received word only a few hours ago.”

  It hits me now. This is past-Garth, not the Garth I left in Alaska—she’s still back at the port. Somehow, she sent her past-self message to show up here. But why risk a possible PF? Love how government officials follow their own rules. What baffles me even more, though, is why she’d even bother showing up here when obviously we have to exit before the time window closes.

  “So how about everyone cooperates and we get back to Port Butterman.” Garth uses a soothing voice, like she’s speaking to a disrespectful child, even does that suggestive nodding thing that supposedly influences people to comply. “Make it easy on yourself.”

  “You’re the one holding us up,” I say. “Why do you think we’re here in the first place?”

  “We’d all love to trust you know how to do your job, Miss Butterman, except, you’ve proven you can’t. Consider my being here insurance you return home.”

  I’ve always heard dire situations make what’s important in your life flash before you. It’s true. Images of Mom and Dad flash in my mind’s eye. I’ve never been in trouble before—not like this. A PUI is major. I want to believe it’s repairable, but deep in my gut, I know that everything important is on the line right now: the family busin
ess, Tristan’s freedom and career, my license and Induction Day. However Garth got here doesn’t matter right now. The fact is she’s here, and she can shut down Butterman Travel for good.

  “Are you gonna tell the DOT to shut us down?” I ask her point blank. I need to know now.

  “We can discuss the details later. Your window is about to close. Your orders are to get back to Port Butterman, Alaska, to your parents, and secure the time-craft.”

  Nausea invades my insides. She wants to shut us down, I know it. I have to fix this.

  I grab Tristan’s hand, tug him backward, whispering, “We can’t go back.”

  “What?” he says, his voice lowered. “We have to.”

  “If we go back now, we’re screwed. Both of us.”

  “You’re a smart girl, Miss Butterman,” Garth calls out. “Use your head.”

  “What are you saying?” Tristan asks, his lips barely moving.

  “Follow my lead.” I look him in the eye to show how serious I am. Then I speak out to Garth. “Okay, we’ll head back. We were doing that anyway.”

  I climb into the time-craft, move to the side so Tristan can follow. Garth’s only a few steps away. She quickens her pace, but in a cautious way.

  Something’s off. She’s too wary, suspicious. Why does she think we’re a threat? Or that we need a chaperone? We have nowhere else to go but home.

  Nothing about this situation makes me trust her.

  “I’m coming with you,” Garth calls out, only inches away.

  Why? She’s worried about something—like she’s here for a reason. “What about regulation?” I ask. “The PF. You’ll run into your future-self.”

  She puts a hand on Essence. “Please, Bianca, you’re talking to the federal DOT. You don’t think we’ve taken the proper precautions already? Step aside.”

  I step back, and before I can think straight, secure the vessel door shut. Holy hell, what have I done? An impetuous move, but I can’t let her come with us. It’s all wrong. I feel it.

  Garth gawks at us from outside the vessel’s front window, her jaw tightened with fury. I must be losing my mind. My body’s operating on autopilot.

  “Strap in,” I order Tristan.