Induction Day: Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series Page 12

  My ears perk up beneath my fur hood. I’m curious to know the answer to this too.

  “As mentioned, the government does not control the cosmos.” Garth is the picture of political rhetoric right now. “While we’ll be closely observing the time trip, the Buttermans are not operating under commercial regulations, even though the same stipulations will apply if there’s timeline tampering. In short, Tristan Helms has not purchased a trip fare, which means he’s waived his passenger bill of rights. The DOT agrees Miss Butterman’s operational performance will be even more imperative with a passenger onboard.” She pauses to give a coy blink of her eyes. “That’s all the questions for now. Thank you.”

  More questions are fired off, but she ignores them, motions for us to get moving. With hover-cams in our faces, we push past, pretending we’re not rattled by any of the chaos upsetting our normal routine. I catch Garth’s gaze beneath her hood once more before it drifts past me and onto the surrounding crowd. My brain quakes again. I don’t know if it’s the stress, or the delayed effects of T-cube.

  Maybe it’s a combination of things. And maybe Mom and Dad are right about Garth and I’m being too suspicious. The Timeline Rewrite could’ve altered her objective in some way. But they don’t know her the way I do. Regardless of any good intentions she has now, I know what she’s capable of. And I could never forget how important her father’s mission was to her. How do I know all of this isn’t to steal the technology from future Buttermans and prevent us from taking over what the DOT now controls?

  Tristan nudges me. “You handled that like a true superstar.”

  I flash a quick smile, but it’s only out of politeness. It quickly fades with my response. “What do you think Capra meant by past offenses? It’s the second time it’s been brought up.”

  “Are there any?” he asks.

  “Our only history of violations has been small time infractions, like improper radiation application … or the time-craft not being up to new code. I got the feeling he knew something more.”

  “But how could that be? You said the Timeline Rewrite—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. But Germaine Ricks mentioned specific violations that the Rewrite should’ve erased. The Rewrite did erase. So how did they know about it?”

  He doesn’t answer, now that a hover-cam is in our face. The media is still trailing behind us up the mountainside to the Launchpad. More hover-cams float in at our sides.

  I keep my head down, watching my boots crunch over the snow. There’s such a wet feeling in the air right now and I’m chilled to the bone. I can’t tell if that’s what’s dampening my mood, or the fact I’m not sure what’s really going on. Either way, I can’t let it bring me down. Not now, when I have a duty to perform.

  Chapter Eleven

  Reporters clamor for entrance onto the Launchpad, but Garth instructs them to stand back. The way she uses her authoritative voice makes me think she’s had some kind of law enforcement training. Both her hands are up to quell the crowd, but she turns to Mom and Dad at the door.

  “Did you select a reporter for the launch?” she asks.

  Dad’s unlocking the door from the touchpad panel at the upper left. “Gwen? Is she here?”

  Mom scans the horde, rising to her toes for a better view, and waving someone over.

  Finn Capra thrusts himself just before us and I flash him a no-way-no-how look.

  His attention isn’t on me, though.

  “Shall we?” he says to Mom.

  Mom’s dark brows furrow. “This isn’t who we called …”

  “Take a hike, Capra,” I say through my most agreeable smile.

  “And what fun would that be?” He moves toward the door, standing aside of it as if waiting for it to open.

  Mom and I exchange glances, just as a familiar local Alaskan reporter pushes her way next to us with her hover-cam at her left shoulder.

  “There must be a mistake,” Mom says. “This is Dahlia Ravenwood from Anchorage. We want her to have the exclusive on the launch.”

  She’s done a story for us in the past, on businesses unique to Alaska. I remember her sprite-like face and dark almond eyes.

  The docking bay’s heavy metal door slides open with a ceremonious clank and we all turn. Dad’s blocking the entrance like a guard. “What’s going on? Agent Garth?”

  Garth lowers her voice so that Mom and I have to move in to hear her and catch the last half of her sentence. “… what the DOT requested. They want an unbiased report, and Mr. Capra has a large loyal following.”

  “I’ve never heard of the man,” Dad says.

  “Wait, this is ridiculous,” I interject. “This guy spiked Tristan’s drink—which he shouldn’t have been sharing anyway! How can you suggest he be a part of—”

  Garth glances over my shoulders with an odd flinch to her upper cheek, then meets my eyes. “There are a lot of people here right now, Miss Butterman. A lot of cameras and stories. Do you want to look like your story is fabricated by people you’ve worked with previously? Or do you want to prove this operation is justifiable even to an independent reporter you don’t already have a rapport with?”

  “He can’t be trusted,” I whisper.

  “It’s okay.” Tristan’s beside me now, his fur hood eclipsing half his face. “If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t be having this discussion. Just … make it easy on everyone, Butterman. I’m cool with it.”

  Garth doesn’t wait for my approval, she motions to Dad that he should let us all in.

  Tristan grabs my gloved hand and I hold onto him. All of this is against my better judgment, but not one single person has asked me what I want.

  Inside, Dad initiates the LED lighting that sets the bay into a bluish-white glow. Dahlia Ravenwood and Finn Capra peel off their parkas and begin browsing the Launchpad with wide eyes and eager hover-cams, while the rest of us disrobe our coats at the changing partition, hanging them at the rack on the wall.

  Most people will go their entire lives without ever visiting a time-craft Launchpad, except for maybe a few kids who get lucky and win a field trip. It’s happened here a few times—students from the National Academy of Science & Technology—my alma mater—have visited while studying space and time. But the chance that any of them will ever show up here, or any other time travel agency, to book a time trip is slim, and they know it as much as we do.

  Mom and Tristan move up against the cylindrical wall in the center of the bay to stay out of the hover-cams way. While they’re zooming in and out of what feels like every last inch of the Launchpad, Garth follows along behind the reporters, who maneuver their cameras from the bands on their wrists.

  Beside the Mission Control dashboard, Dad’s in some kind of zone, folding his bottom lip between his fingers, the vein at his temple throbbing. I know he has to be edgier than a razor blade right now. Launching on camera has never been done before, which is why I was shocked he agreed to it. The DOTs really getting their moment in the spotlight, claiming responsibility for this entire arrangement. For the benefit of the people. Garth’s voice is forever ringing in my ears on the same clip that’s been broadcasted across the news sites—her prim little smirk, and the pretentious side-sweep of her platinum hair. She’s accepting credit for the idea on behalf of the ever supportive DOT.

  Gag.

  But Dad’s bought into it, says it’s our only way out on top, and that it’s my duty to take one for the Butterman team. Right now, though, he’s probably choking down his words. Allowing these story-starved vultures to capture every nook and crevice of his pride and joy on camera for the world to scrutinize can’t be as easy as he’s trying to make it look.

  I slide up next to him, clutch his hand, and for the briefest of moments I feel like a child again. “You okay, Daddy?”

  His brows furrow when he looks down at me, but there’s a softness to his green eyes. “You haven’t called me daddy in years.”

  I half shrug. “I … I’m sorry for all this.”

  T
he creases in his face slacken and instead of tension, there is only love. “Oh, Bee … don’t assume blame for this. No one could’ve ever guessed this would happen.” He nudges my chin with his knuckle. “Your safety comes first, don’t forget that. Make sure you take your time, think everything through like we went over. Hey, maybe all this’ll be good for business, right?”

  Giving him a quick hug, I say, “Right.”

  But I know it’s more than that. The success of this event could slam-dunk our place among the other five agencies worldwide, and secure rank as transporter of choice for safe and reliable time travel. And it lies in my hands, as my duty. Our agency motto flashes through my head: where time is always in your hands.

  Crazy thing is, I know I can do this. It’s just not at all like I dreamed it would be.

  Capra swoops in, more like a backdoor salesman than a reporter. His boots rattle the grated metal floor beneath his weight. “Where’s the time-craft?”

  Dad lets go of my arm and positions himself in front of the Mission Control dashboard, powering it up. Garth moves in and stands over him, her arms folded over her sleek puffer vest. The dashboard’s holo-screen blinks to life in a series of lights and images over the controls. Dad motions with his right hand at the screen and maneuvers some levers on the dashboard just below it, which initiates movement of the cylindrical wall in the center of the room.

  Mom and Tristan move away from the centerpiece as the wall slowly sinks into the ground, revealing the Butterman Travel holy grail rising on its platform.

  “Meet Essence,” Mom says, beside us now.

  Cradled like an iridescent bubble inside titanium fingers, the vessel commands all attention from the room. The hover-cams zoom up to it, their operators just behind them for full time-craft examination.

  “Like a rare and precious gem,” Dahlia Ravenwood says, a slight accent to her speech. Dad wouldn’t let her inside the bay last time she did a story for us—said it would exploit our ingenuity. Now, it’s about exploiting our competency.

  “I’d like some shots of the inside.” Capra traces his fingers along the transparent siding so it ripples with prism-like light.

  Dad releases the half-door from the remote controls at the dashboard and it slides back, exposing the modest interior. The reporters climb in with their hover-cams, while Dad calls me over to Mission Control.

  “It’s all up to you now.” He removes himself from the roller chair, and motions for me to have at it. “I won’t be able to help, only observe.”

  I glance at Garth, who appears to be on a video call on her device. Tristan’s typing away on his, and Mom’s at the vessel answering questions from the reporters, her hands clasped in front of her like the gracious hostess she is.

  Perfect time for me to get started. Plopping myself down, I open up a time-port map on the wide holo-screen panel over the dashboard. A 3D image populates first with the cosmos, then zooms in to our galaxy, Earth, and finally the northern Atlantic Ocean, where it lingers. On the keyboard, I enter codes and data I know by heart, which initiate a pie graph on-screen. It breaks down the destination time-port’s accessibility and coordinates.

  Garth resumes looking over my shoulder, swiping data from my screen onto hers. I shift on my screen-lock key while her eyes are on her device. Maybe she won’t notice. She’s not acknowledging my presence at all, only the data she just ripped off from us.

  I note the time on my watch: 0920hours AST; December 6, 2069.

  Then, I synchronize it with the dashboard data-stream. Once we’re through the time tunnels, there’s no more communication with Mission Control.

  But any good time traveler always knows when she is, where she is, and how to get back to her own time string.

  “You know the time window can’t be extended,” Dad says, perusing over my data.

  “Yes, Dad.”

  Capra and Ravenwood find us at Mission Control and their hover-cams flock to opposite angles of my face.

  “Fifteen minutes til countdown,” I announce, entering more data. “I’ll open the frequency and begin bouncing the signal.”

  “Bouncing the signal opens the port, correct?” Capra asks in a voice that sounds like it was manufactured from Reports-R-Us. His hover-cam is angled at my right.

  I don’t look at it when I speak. “The right radio frequency maximizes the cosmic rift for port access.”

  “But it doesn’t last?” Ravenwood asks from my left. “Can you tell our viewers how it’ll stay open the specified length of time?”

  “It all comes down to the science.” I motion on-screen to a diagram—one that to the untrained eye, looks like an alien course in mathematics.

  I go on to describe the process in detail, but Garth reaches over me and flips off my screen lock tab, drawing all attention on her.

  “Carry on,” she says unfazed, swiping more data.

  I’m about to continue when I notice Dad’s face—he’s itching to elaborate, and I need to get dressed for departure.

  “Dad, why don’t you explain the Cosmic Chutes and Ladders effect while Tristan and I get our suits on.” I rise and give Tristan a nod. “Come on.”

  On the bench behind the partition wall, we pour our vintage-clad bodies into the buffersuits. Usually, this would be where I explain to the passenger the suit’s interior polymer fibers protect the body from any radiation from the time-craft. But Tristan’s been through this part before. He knows that even though the suit will feel tight at first, it stretches with his breathing and reforms itself to fit his individual body.

  We’re silent, working the silvery latex exterior over our legs. Dad’s voice carries through the bay, now explaining the science of time tunnel navigation. Tugging the suit over my leggings and blouse, I stuff my arms in, one by one. The long skirt I made will have to be put on when we arrive—it’ll never fit beneath the confines of the buffersuit without bunching up on me. And since I fortified our fabric with thermal threading, we won’t have to worry about coats while onboard Titanic. Not that my thick Arctic blood couldn’t handle it anyway.

  My gaze falls on Tristan, who’s putting his modest black leather boots back on, unaware I’m watching him. He’s been so nice these last few days, so available—even though I know he’s stressed out about his album. Maybe this trip is just a substitute for getting high, or a PR tactic suggested by his agent. Maybe it’s like the eTabloids say, and his craving for spunk flavor won’t last.

  Except, it felt like so much more in the ice shack—when it was just him and me. No cameras, no facades.

  He catches me staring and a flicker of concern flashes across his face, his chin dimpling. “What’s wrong?”

  I don’t know. What is wrong? This is what I want, right? Him and me together, as a couple? He’s a part of my future. So why am I second-guessing everything?

  I force a smile. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”

  “The look on your face—you’re so … preoccupied.”

  “Maybe that’s ‘cause everything’s so right.” I know it sounds cheesy, but it seems to be the words he wants to hear. “I’m waiting for the bubble to burst.”

  He gives my shoulder a squeeze and plants a quick kiss on my lips, before getting up. “Take it as it comes, Butterman. And stop worrying so much. We have all the time in the world.”

  I let out a little sigh and we join the others at the Mission Control dashboard, where I inoculate Tristan in the lower back of the neck with our standard prevention injection. I let Mom administer mine.

  Dad’s still chatting into the hover-cams. “It’s why the DOT sets the 100 year maximum travel limit for commercialized time travel. Logistically, there’s a danger associated with manipulating the time tunnels. Bouncing signals that far back can be tricky, and any number of possibilities could ensue from frequency feedback, but we practice a generational science here, and Bianca is more than equipped to handle any circumstances that arise.”

  “So you’ll be monitoring the port and ti
me tunnel access from your dashboard there, right?” Capra asks.

  I’m about to head to the time-craft, when I catch Capra’s gaze lift toward Garth and linger for what feels like a very pregnant moment. But it’s gone so quickly, I can’t tell if it was my imagination or it really happened. Tristan’s right—I need to stop worrying and enjoy this.

  “I’ll be using the data Bianca collected herself,” Dad says.

  I check my watch. Six minutes to countdown. I pad over to Essence and give her a pat over the door. “It’s you and me again, lady. Don’t let me down.”

  “Folks, it’s about that time,” Dad announces. “If you’ll join Bianca at the time-craft, you can record her preparing for departure.”

  Within a second, Capra’s hover-cam invades my personal space, while he looms at my back. “One more question, Bianca. You’re arrival on Titanic is set for 2000hours on April 14, 1912, which is approximately four hours before impact with the iceberg. Why choose an arrival so close to danger? Is that all part of the Induction? What do you hope to achieve by placing yourself there during those last vital hours?”

  “Whoa …” I put up a hand. “That’s more than one question.”

  “Then pick one,” he enunciates the words with razor-sharpness, his nasally voice low, determined.

  Okay, this guy really ruffles my nerves. Tristan keeps telling me that’s what reporters do, and I have to rise above it, but damn do I want to slug him in the nose. Truth is, all the research I’ve ever done was in preparation for sealing off a parallel shift to send Titanic into an alternate universe and save those people. But I can’t say that, and that’s not what this time trip is about.

  I focus on Capra’s hover-cam—not him—to maintain my high-level of professionalism. I’ll just pretend it’s a conference call with a potential customer questioning the safety of booking a time trip.

  “I chose this particular point in time because it’s when the time string is most vulnerable.”

  Wow, that sounded good.