Butterman (Time) Travel, Inc. Read online

  “What about you then?” he asks.

  I look up, my fingers still clicking over the virtual keys. “What, guide you? Nice try, but not happening.”

  “Why not? You seem to know what you’re doing.”

  “I’m still one credit away from my final certification and pilot’s license. Til then, my parents do the guiding, I do the bookings.”

  “I’ll pay triple.” His face is dead serious. “I’d feel more comfortable with someone closer to my age. Last thing I need is disapproving glares from my elders, you know what I mean? I don’t wanna have to explain myself.”

  I’m flattered, but it’s out of the question. “Must be nice to be made of money. You haven’t even seen—”

  “Yeah, the price, I know. But I’m telling you, I’ve got it covered. Multi-platinum album sales don’t flush down the toilet after a couple months of partying. I may’ve made some bad choices, but my accountants are the best in the country. I’ll pay for your certification, whatever it takes. If you know what you’re doing, I want to hire you. Tell your parents I’ll pay triple for you as my guide and we leave tomorrow.”

  He pauses, searching my face in a way that makes me shift in my seat. His intensity is almost touching—in a weird, artsy-tortured kinda way. Like Van Gogh without any sunflowers or stars.

  He continues, “Believe me when I tell you, the press would eat me up and spit me out for the world to laugh at if they got wind I was here. So I need you to keep this visit between us.”

  I give him a polite smile to indicate I understand his concerns. “We deal with high profile clients all the time, and I can assure you every time trip at Butterman Travel is confidential.”

  “Good. Tomorrow then.” As if it’s settled, Tristan grabs his jacket, heads toward the door. “You’ve got my number. I’ll be at the Chiganak Inn. Ring me with the deets.”

  Apparently he’s used to getting his way, but why do I feel like I’m being bought?

  He shoves the door open, already talking into his phone, and mouths the words call me in my direction before he disappears.

  It pisses me off that he assumes I’m working for him now. But I admit, the idea of getting certified by tonight and piloting my first solo trip tomorrow is giving me a full body buzz. Plus, if Butterman Travel does get fined through this audit, Tristan’s extra fare will give us a huge advantage. Will Mom and Dad be willing to consider it? Doubtful. But passing it up would be lunacy.

  Quickly, I retrieve data from my certification logs. With all the extra credits I have from ride-alongs with my parents, my final trip can be totally solo—as long as I pass the certification exam. Dad’s been quizzing me on it for the past three years so there’s no way I’d fail it. I’d planned to wait til we decided on my Induction Day, but now there’s no reason to wait. If we count Tristan’s time trip as my final requirement, I can be official as of tomorrow.

  My pulse races with the thrill of it. Now, if I can just convince Mom and Dad that taking a time trip while under audit is the right thing to do.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Tristan Helms. In Alaska. At this station,” Kayla says again, as if she can’t wrap her brain around the idea—the luck. She’s all dolled up in her blue knit dress and fur lined boots, pacing the metal grated floor of the Launchpad. “Shouldn’t he be here by now?”

  Our indoor docking station isn’t large, but it’s fully functional and Butterman-quality-clean. Dad makes sure everything in this bay shines: from the stainless steel walls to the dashboard levers at Mission Control. At least Garth can’t cite us for filth.

  “Like ten minutes ago.” I pull off my boots to put on my travel gear. “Real shocker he’s late. Make special arrangements for the guy and he can’t even show up on time.”

  “You know how it is for celebrities,” Kayla says. “Such busy lives. It’s hard for them.”

  “Yeah, poor babies, wallowing around in their multi-million dollar misery.” I grab my silver buffer suit, slip behind the dressing partition, and wedge myself inside the rubbery latex. It’s hanging at my waist when I step back out. Arms and chest go in last since the hydrogen-embedded, polymer-coated interior makes you sweat like mad—even in northern Alaska.

  “You told him a twelve-hour window max, right?” Dad asks for the third time.

  He’s across from me at Mission control’s U-shaped dashboard, studying the travel plan on-screen and gesture-scrolling through data with one hand, while the other folds his bottom lip between his fingers. He can’t get over the fact my first trip guide assignment will be without him. Even he can’t argue with a VVIP client request.

  “Yes, Dad. He knows.”

  I can tell part of Dad wants to cancel, but like Mom says, until the DOT suspends operation, we have a right to run our business. Plus, he and Mom both know it’d be a mistake to postpone Tristan’s triple offer at a time like this, or worse, lose it to a competitor. As long as she keeps Garth busy back at the house with data-work and unaware of our little journey, we’ll have already returned by the time the DOT is alerted we’re operating the vessel. And nowhere under DOT regulation does it say traveling under an audit is illegal. It’s what Mom refers to as a “gray area.” Besides, we charged Tristan’s currency card last night for a non-refundable, non-transferable fare, with my name down as his official trip guide. Have to admit, being on my own for the first time feels effin’ fabulous.

  “Agent Garth isn’t planning on showing up, is she?” Kayla asks.

  “Not if Gwen can help it,” Dad tells her. “She printed off back-logs of manifests and timetables to paper, especially for this occasion. Should keep Agent Garth occupied. And since Garth’s only requested records up til the day she’s arrived, Bianca’s trip will fall under new logs.”

  “Sneaky.” Kayla twists her long strands of hair between her fingers, popping gum between her teeth. “I like it.”

  “Not sneaky, smart business,” Dad says. “Making good use of our resources.”

  Usually Dad’s not so lenient with serious situations, especially since Garth has us under the microscope with a full audit. But Mom’s gotten to him. She’s less anal, more competitive. She said two can play at Garth’s game, or in our case, three, and got Dad to agree to a twelve-hour time window to New York City. He knows it’s overkill. A safety net. He hasn’t come right out and insisted I complete the trip in less that twelve hours, but I know he expects us back way before the window closes. Which also means he’s putting all his trust in me.

  If I blow this one, not only will I lose my reliable daughter status, and possible trust for future solo trip guide gigs, but Garth could zap us so fast the Butter in our Man would melt. Real kicker is, she can do that anyway, whether we take this time trip or not. So why not have Tristan’s triple fare? Even Dad can’t deny the sense in that.

  “A covert operation with Tristan Helms,” Kayla says to me, shaking her head. “I’m so completely jealous right now.”

  “You may change your mind after you meet him,” I say. But I know as well as she does it’s not true. As much as I want to be turned off by the guy, he’s really not all that repulsive.

  Mom’s image comes on-screen from the front office video-com. “Client is on the way to the Control Center.”

  Kayla squeals.

  I wiggle my torso and arms into my suit’s cool, slippery lining. Ah, nothing like the smell of fresh latex in the morning. Always reminds me of dental equipment. I lean toward Kayla’s perch on the stool beside the mission control dashboard. Normally, she wouldn’t be allowed at the Launchpad before a trip, but I couldn’t let her miss meeting Tristan. After we both worked up some pouty-lipped faces, Dad finally caved.

  Kayla zips the back of my suit and I take a deep breath, giving the insulation time to stretch and regulate cooling. Makes me feel like a superhero every time I put it on—all except for the unflattering bulk of my clothes wrinkling beneath it like skin boils. I smooth them out.

  “He still needs to sign the passenger contract,”
Dad says, moving the digital contract from the display screen onto his handheld device.

  The intercom buzzes and Tristan’s voice reverberates off the grated floor and metallic walls. “Uh, this is Tristan Helms … I’m here … ready—“

  Dad remotely aims for the unlock panel and the heavy bolts of the door slide open with a clank. Fresh air from the mountain blows in behind Tristan. He’s wearing a black turtleneck and down puffer vest, snow pants and all-terrain boots below, resembling a posh ski instructor. He minimizes his shades and cocks a half-smile, eyes wandering Mission Control.

  Kayla about falls off her stool. She steadies herself, but apparently can’t find a thing to say. Her mouth falls open like a starstruck sally.

  “Try not to over-dazzle him, Kay,” I whisper.

  At least she has the presence of mind to close her mouth, even though her gaze is still plastered on Tristan.

  “Mr. Helms, pleasure to meet you.” Dad rises to meet him. “Welcome to Port Butterman Mission Control. I did see you reviewed the Web briefing. That’s good. Hope you’ve had a chance to read through the handbook as well. Time trips can be taxing on first-time passengers.”

  Tristan flings his shaggy bangs to the side with a flick of his head. “Yeah, sure.”

  By the looks of the wary frown on Dad’s face, it wasn’t the resounding answer he was looking for. He gives Tristan a calculated once-over. “Lots of important stuff to remember.”

  “Understood,” Tristan says in his laid-back tone. “But hey, that’s why I’ve got a guide, right? So I don’t have to remember everything.”

  He strolls the room, ogling the translucent silicon and stainless steel wall over Mission Control’s dashboard, then the wide center column of the Launchpad. “So where’s this time-craft?”

  “We’ll get to that,” Dad says.

  Kayla hops off her stool, moves in toward Tristan as if propelled by a tractor beam, her right arm reaching out, for what, I have no idea. I’m kinda freaked she may attack him. Never seen her like this before. I have to save her before she makes a complete ass of herself.

  “Tristan, hey, this is my best friend Kayla Waters. She’s a big fan of your music.” I join Kayla at Tristan’s side.

  She nods eagerly. “Yeah, I am. Got all your albums, even the bad single … er … I mean … I’m such a big fan.”

  Do celebrities like hearing how big their fans are? Does it make a difference? Or do people just not know what to say in the face of their idols? I hate seeing Kayla flailing in the middle of her big moment.

  Tristan doesn’t seem to notice—or he’s so used to it, it’s natural. Assuming the role of what I guess must be superstar-Tristan, his eyes glaze over with businesslike boredom, but he flicks a camera-ready smile, thanking Kayla politely. “I appreciate that. Thanks so much. Great to meet you.”

  “Mind if I get a picture for Kayla?” I ask, holding my hand out for her phone.

  She nods, grins, hands me her device and snuggles in next to Tristan, who knows the routine well. He nestles an arm around her, his expression a dull copy of canned celebrity stock photo that implies he still has an ounce of humbleness.

  I snap a few shots before Tristan’s smile fades and he nods at my suit. “What the hell’s that? Do I get one?”

  I glance down at my buffer suit. A surprise flash of insecurity strikes me, now that every curve of my body is on display for Mr. I-Only-Date-Supermodels-Superstar.

  “Yours is right here,” Dad says, grabbing another buffer suit. “May be a little tight over your clothing at first. Better take off that vest. The suit’s interior lining stretches with your breathing, conforms to your shape. Put it on now so it has time to regulate.”

  “You mean I get to walk around 2068 in this thing?” he says, amused.

  “For the time-craft only,” Dad says. “These suits never leave the vessel. Worn as a protective buffer against the UV radiation.”

  “What radiation?” Tristan asks, his fingers running over the slick coating of the suit. “You mean like time radiation?”

  Dad’s nostrils flare. “Section 9.2 of the handbook goes over the time-craft specifics. If you’d have …”

  “It’s no problem, Dad.” I motion Tristan toward the dressing partition. “I’ll explain everything he needs to know.”

  “And the contract …” Dad calls from behind us.

  I push Tristan behind the partition and step beside Dad, lowering my voice to a whisper. “I’ll take care of it. As long as he’s paid up, we’ll cater to his whims, right? That’s what Mom always says.”

  Dad nods, moves back behind the dashboard with a little sigh and resumes control. Our travel plan is displayed in the air above him on the holo-screen, a series of graphs and blinking lights:

  Departure: Port Butterman, North America, October 16, 2069, 08:45:16 AST.

  Destination: NYC Broadway Port, North America, April 12, 2068; Arrival time: 09:00:00 EST.

  Time window set at 12.00 hours, with exit port same as arrival.

  Tristan steps out from the partition, making faces and tugging at the neck of his buffer suit.

  “Wait,” I tell him and retrieve the hypodermic needle from the med box on the wall. I think I’ll rather enjoy this part. As his neck cranes backward to see what I’m doing I jab him quickly above the collar, inject the serum.

  “What the …?” Tristan jumps as the needle leaves the skin, and rubs at his neck.

  “Antibiotic,” I say innocently. “Routine injection before all departures. What, didn’t you read that part of the handbook? Section 3.5.”

  “Oh. Where’s yours?”

  Disposing the needle in the haz-mat receptacle, I let the lid close with a clatter, then remove my foot from the button. “Had it before you got here. See?” I pull my collar down past my injection wound at the back of my neck.

  Again he tugs at his collar, then at the long rubbery sleeves with a grunt.

  Kayla’s hovering beside me, her gaze fixed on Tristan’s every move.

  “Turn around,” I tell him, and zip him from behind. There’s a hint of the same cologne he wore yesterday. Light, but striking. Ginger. With vanilla. Maybe a dash of musk …

  I instruct him to take deep breaths, then I demonstrate. He watches me as he mimics my technique, and through some strange kismet, we silently bond over breathing. I can see in his face how much he’s relying on me, the way his blue-gray eyes flicker with vulnerability, something apart from the way he looks at anyone else in the room. Because I share his secret now, and because of the possibility I could or could not hold the key to his success or failure. I am his guide, and he is my passenger.

  Once he signs the dang contract.

  CHAPTER 4

  From behind the dashboard, Dad gestures at the screen controls. The cylindrical wall in the center of the room lowers, removing the illusion of a circular room, and leaving the Control Center in its full pyramid shape. Above us, in outer space, orbits the Butterman time travel holy grail: the satellite antenna. Built for optimum simultaneous radio signal reception for traveling to both past and future.

  Tristan’s face fills with wonder as the wall disappears into the metal grated flooring and exposes the time-craft. “No friggin’ way. This is so sublime.”

  “A beauty, right?” I say. “This is Essence.”

  He arches a brow at me from behind his shaggy bangs. “A time travel machine called Essence?”

  “As in, time is of the ...” I nod. Like me, Grandma Butterman loved her time adages, even dubbed the vessel with one in mind.

  “Cute, isn’t it?” Kayla hangs at his heels biting her thumbnail, waiting for his next move.

  Tristan doesn’t acknowledge her, but doesn’t seem bothered by her either. He inspects the time-craft from a closer proximity, wetting his lips as if some sweet residue lingers on their surface.

  I know what he’s thinking—same thing every first time time-traveler thinks when they lay their eyes on Essence and admires her transparent oval-
shaped splendor—how the hell is this thing going to work? No one asks it right off, but I can tell it goes through their heads, just like it went through mine when I was ten and time traveled forward to the last eruption of Iceland’s most powerful volcano—before the tectonic plates shifted and the ocean swallowed the entire island. I’m happy to report that doesn’t happen for another fifty years, and Dad says scientists discover the probability in plenty of time for evacuation.

  Tristan presses a palm to the vessel exterior and it ripples with prism-like currents. “No way, it’s even flexible.”

  “Has to be,” Dad says, a hint of irritation in his voice. (Tristan would know all this if he’d read the handbook.) “You’ll be climbing up and sliding down time tunnels.”

  “Cosmic Chutes and Ladders, remember?” I ask. “Traveling through time strings at warp drive.”

  My voice is so calm, I’m kinda surprised. This is my first solo trip as guide and I’m not even nervous—feels as natural as eShopping at the holo-mall. Not like I’m a total novice or anything.

  Tristan leans forward, appearing more flexible in his buffer suit now. His hand traces the titanium veins that encase the vessel like spiny fingers holding a crystal ball. He knocks it with his knuckles. “Solid. This is some contraption.”

  Dad powers her on and Essence rumbles with energy. The interior is a visible blur from the outside, and the vessel siding reflects the rainbow of greens, yellows, and blues from the cockpit controls. “I’m calibrating it for your course now.” Dad checks the digital screen clock. “0831hours. Fourteen minutes to an on-time departure. Vessel is stabilized and activating.”

  “Contract received, I take it?” Tristan asks Dad. He added his virtual signature to the touchscreen minutes ago.

  “Received and authorized.” Dad’s still examining the dashboard screens. “Your copy’s been streamed to your inbox.”