Induction Day: Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series Page 4

  “You said you spoke with my agent?” Tristan asks.

  I search Mom’s and Dad’s faces, eager to know exactly what Val said, since they disclosed nothing to us over the phone.

  “We did,” Mom says. “She’s been a great help, advised us on many possible scenarios.”

  I watch as Dad stiffens, his ears going beet-red.

  “Bee,” he says, meeting my eyes now, “she doesn’t think it’s wise for you to participate. She says your mom and I should clear the air on our own, on behalf of Butterman Travel, and leave it at that.”

  My mouth falls open. “Don’t I get a chance to defend myself?”

  “She makes a good case for it,” Mom says. “Seems it’s wiser if you stay quiet til some of this blows over. She’s seen this type of thing before and assures us silence is confidence in these types of situations.”

  “Well, I don’t agree.” I look to Tristan for aid but he shifts his gaze around the room, avoiding mine. “Don’t I get a say in it?”

  “Val says it’s too risky—that they’ll put you on the spot and try to trip you up, mix up your words.” Mom moves in and brushes back my hair. “There’s no reason to rush in with a defense if you’re innocent of the allegations, right? Tristan cleared your name yesterday morning. Let Dad and I do the same tomorrow.”

  I’m about to object when Dad speaks up. “Bee, I’d prefer it if you stay out of the public’s eye as long as possible.” He steps in to touch my shoulder and lower his voice to a vehement whisper. “You’re in a vulnerable place. Let us protect you.”

  My head quakes slightly. I don’t have the energy to argue with him right now. Maybe they’re right, even though it feels wrong. I can see I won’t get through to them right now. Maybe tomorrow.

  “Okay, Dad. I’ll think about it.”

  “Spoken like a level-headed Butterman.” He nods, stepping back to turn his gaze on Tristan. “How long are you planning to be here?”

  “Um, about that, Dad …” I begin, unsure if this is the best time, but holy hell I don’t know if the time will ever be right. I certainly can’t tell my parents I want him here to keep him clean. “Tristan wants to book another time trip, you know, whenever it’s convenient. And he can work on his music while he waits.” I flash Tristan a hopeful smile. “Not much else to do up here in winter but create, right?”

  “Another time trip?” Dad asks. “As in, soon?”

  “That’d be ideal,” Tristan answers. “I’ve got a deadline. I’ll pay for the service, Mr. Butterman.”

  Dad stares blankly at him as if to say no shit, you will.

  “Um, well … it’s not the most appropriate time,” Mom says, fidgeting with her wedding ring like she always does when at a loss for words.

  “He doesn’t wanna go today,” I say. “I … was hoping I could have my Induction Day first.”

  Dad finds his voice. “Honey, about that …”

  My heart sinks. What now?

  “Your mom and I talked it over, and operating a leisure time trip right now, under all this mess, it’s just asking for a DOT violation.”

  Not like I didn’t expect this.

  “So what’re you saying?” I ask. “How long do I have to wait?”

  Mom tilts her head, her blue eyes frank and wise. “It depends on how soon this blows over. You told me not too long ago that you didn’t mind waiting. Why the urgency now?”

  I start to speak, but I’m not sure what I want to say. Truth is, after Woodstock and T-cubing to rewrite the timeline and save the family biz, saving Titanic didn’t seem as necessary as it once had. But something happened during the weeks I waited to see Tristan again. All those new feelings I didn’t know what to do with—the desire and insecurity and excitement—gave me too much anxiety. I resorted back to my Titanic plans to fill the void and give me purpose. Maybe a little too much.

  “I thought I wouldn’t mind postponing it,” I finally say. “But it’s a part of me now. I’m vexed by what may never happen, and haunted by what already has.”

  “Is it so surprising, Gwen?” Dad says. “She’s been married to the idea since she was ten. Were you or I any less adamant?”

  Mom bites her bottom lip. She’s only a Butterman by marriage, but she understands the inner pull Dad’s referring to. I love when she tells the story of her Induction into the Butterman family of time travelers—how she studied every possible outcome, strategizing for months, and eventually following her instinct that said life is more important than obeying the laws of time. “Any disruption to the timeline would be minor,” she’d say. “And the outcome becomes our signature etched in the fabric of space and time.”

  Her time trip to see a medicine man in Namibia in 2030 was without fault. The world was only a few years shy of discovering the vaccination for the multi-viral flu, anyway, and what she was able to accomplish prevented the worst epidemic outbreak in the region. To this day, there’s not a record of it anywhere, and since both my parents were outside this timeline during her Induction, they were unaffected by the universal memory purge of its occurrence.

  “There are the port taxes to think about,” Mom says, obviously reaching.

  “I don’t mind the port taxes, it’s a pop audit I’m worried about, particularly after all this public smearing.” Dad powers on his palm-com device and projects the holo-screen.

  “Port taxes?” I ask. “Since when?”

  “Since the official statement from the good old Department of Transportation yesterday,” Dad says, gesture-scrolling through holographic pages. “Here it is … Hypothetically, say we set up a time travel date of December 10th, with a departure time of 9AM AST from Port Butterman, Alaska; an arrival time of … what’s the date again, Bee?”

  “April 14, 1912.”

  “Right.” He continues punching in data. “Over the Atlantic ocean at … the coordinates?”

  “50 degrees longitude, 42 degrees latitude,” I say.

  “Copy that. With a four hour time window …” Dad glances at me. “You know that’s the max, right?”

  “Yes, Dad, duh.”

  I mean, really? He has to ask? Of course I know I’ve only got four hours to find my way around Titanic, get word to the bridge before collision, and initiate a full parallel shift into the alternate universe that will save Titanic and her passengers before being sealed off forever—all before getting back here to my present time string without causing any noticeable alterations. Duh.

  Dad crunches some more numbers, both hands still moving data around on-screen. “That’ll be $100,304.92 exactly.”

  Mom winces.

  “Just for taxes?” Tristan asks.

  “Just for taxes,” Dad confirms. “Payable to the ever chaste DOT upon the time of booking.”

  My shoulders drop and I groan. Yet another obstacle in my way. I can’t make Mom and Dad pay that kind of money just so I can have my Induction.

  Dad notices my face. “That’s not the worst part. If the DOT’s charging us port taxes now on non-commercial time travel, you better believe they’ll be reviewing origin and destination.”

  “So?” Tristan asks.

  “The 100 year maximum,” I say. “They won’t approve time travel if it’s past the 100 year limit to past or future.”

  “But it’s not commercial travel,” he says.

  “Like that’ll stop them from interfering.”

  “It will if they want their port taxes.” Tristan half shrugs. “Think about it. That’s a good chunk of change they’d be passing up.”

  “He has a point,” Dad says. “Worth checking into when the timing is right. Once this rigmarole with the media is over.” He takes my chin in his hand. “You’ll get your Induction Day eventually, Bee. I promise.”

  I get a little choked up whenever my dad looks me in the face that seriously. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Ah … about that rigmarole.” Tristan rubs the back of his neck. “Did Val tell you what to expect after your press release?”

  Dad
gives him a once over. “That we could get back to a bit of normalcy, and that once in front of the camera would be enough.”

  Tristan groans under his breath.

  “It will be enough, won’t it?” Dad asks him, honing in like he can taste Tristan’s fear.

  I’ve never seen Dad so unbridled before. He’s usually so mellow, focused.

  Mom moves in, takes Dad by the arm. “Gavin, why don’t we give them some time to freshen up after their shuttle ride? We can discuss this later.”

  “Freshen up?” Dad mutters. “It was less than an hour flight.”

  The surveillance monitor bleeps in the far corner, above the fridge to signal there’s a visitor out front of the office. Mom gestures at it, expanding the screen to see who’s there. Three hooded persons fill the screen, only their noses and mouths visible.

  “Reporters,” I say.

  “How do you know?” Mom asks.

  “Call it a hunch.”

  “Enough is enough, I’m telling them to leave the premises and watch the press release online tomorrow like everybody else.” Dad bolts for the front office.

  Mom follows. “Gavin, don’t be rude, it won’t look good.”

  I glance at Tristan. “Why do I feel like my life just turned into a lost cause?”

  The monitor blips again, but this time with a phone call. It’s coming in on the Agency line from an anonymous caller.

  Quickly, I shift gears into my professional-self and gesture the answer button for voice only. “Thank you for calling Butterman Travel, Incorporated, how can I assist you?”

  “Bianca, nice to talk to you again. May we continue via visuals?”

  That voice. I’d recognize it anywhere. It still makes my hair stand on end. DOT special agent Lola Garth.

  I move in closer to the device cam and expand visuals, revealing myself to her at the same time her pale narrow face pops on-screen.

  “That’s better.” She smiles, and for once it looks pretty genuine. “I hear we’ve got some complications up there.”

  We? Since when does she lump herself into a collective with Butterman Travel?

  “No, Agent Garth,” I say. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Really? Some concerns have arisen here at headquarters.” She’s got her professional tone of voice all tweaked just as I do. “I wanted to call first, as a courtesy. I’ve been assigned to your … situation, so I’ll be seeing you in a few hours.”

  “You’re coming here?”

  “As we speak. My shuttle should get in approximately 1800hours. Are your parents available for a quick word?”

  “You’re coming here for a quick word?”

  She shakes her head, not a strand of platinum hair out of place, slicked back in a tight bun. “No, Bianca. I’d like to speak to them now, let them know I’ll be visiting tomorrow morning for a consultation.”

  Tomorrow? The press release is tomorrow night. If Garth is here for that, she could screw us up even more. Not like she won’t know about it once it goes live anyway, but holy hell. I don’t even know what she knows. If she has a case of analog recall, we’ll never get out of this. Not that she showed any evidence of it after the Rewrite in October. I can only imagine what the media would do with information on the pre-Rewrite violations from New York. Who knows what information the DOT from the future has sent back to incriminate us with.

  Garth doesn’t sound like she’s coming to issue citations, though.

  Tristan nudges me. “Should I get your parents?”

  “I’m sure they’ve already accessed the call,” I say, guessing they answered from the front office at the same time I did back here.

  On cue, Dad’s face emerges on a digital screen-box beside Garth’s.

  “Yes, I’m listening, Agent Garth. Did we have an appointment I’ve forgotten about?”

  Garth snickers, as if she really is a relaxed, fun person—not the down-to-business DOT special agent who tried sabotaging Butterman Travel a month ago. “No, Mr. Butterman, not to worry.”

  “We’re not due for another audit til next year,” Dad says.

  “That’s right,” Garth says, smiling again. “We got word of a bit of a scandal out your way, and I just wanted to let you know the DOT is on your side. We can discuss some tactical approaches when I arrive. I’m unable to get accommodation at the Chiganak Inn, or anywhere else for that matter. I don’t suppose you have a guest room at your place, do you?”

  My entire body cringes. She’s got to be kidding.

  “Of course,” Mom pipes up alongside Dad. “We’d be happy to have you. Plenty of room.”

  “Very good,” Garth nods. “I’ll notify you when my shuttle touches down.”

  “We’ll send someone up to the airport for you.”

  Garth smiles one last time and ends the call, her face disappearing from on-screen, as well as Mom’s and Dad’s.

  I bury my face in my palms. What a week I’m having. Garth is coming here. In the middle of the press release that’s supposed to clarify I’m not a junkhead and prove we run a clean time travel operation.

  And that’s not even what’s bunching my undies right now. It’s the fact that Garth is playing nice.

  Chapter Four

  Fifteen hundred people. That’s how many lost their lives aboard the R.M.S. Titanic in the year 1912. Sixteen lifeboats went out, most half empty, while women, children, and men drowned in the frigid waters of the Northern Atlantic off the coast of Newfoundland. Water at that temperature induces hypothermia within minutes, shuts the body down immediately. For many of the victims, that pain was dulled, once the icy water flooded their lungs and drowned their brains of oxygen.

  The story has haunted me since the first day I learned about it in World History. I was ten—an inexperienced time traveler, but well-read in the Inductions of Buttermans throughout the past few generations—and the significance of Titanic’s tragedy did not escape me over the next few years that followed. At fourteen I decided it would be my Induction and Butterman signature in space and time. If a doorway to an alternate universe can be detected out there, chances are, it was created by a time traveler, possibly even a Butterman.

  For years I assumed that once I turned eighteen and my time-craft license became official, I’d have my Induction Day. Now, my only hope is that the DOT will approve the trip without worrying about the date exceeding the 100 year limit so they can claim their tax money. Except, if they want to be slick, they could come back afterward and issue a citation for breaking the 100 year regulation, which means they’d keep the nonrefundable taxes, and make us pay an infraction on top of it. Dad said himself he wouldn’t put it past them. A stunt like that could put us out of operation for months. All for my Induction Day.

  “Bee, it’s time,” Dad says over my bedroom voice-com.

  “Coming,” I call out, the voice sensor transmitting my response simultaneously.

  I check my reflection in the mirror again. Mom suggested I tone down the charcoal eyeshadow and blue-black mascara to promote a softer image, but Garth of all people advised I show my true self on camera—that I’m a regular teenager beneath the dark-glam colors. It was the first time she’s ever said anything I’ve agreed with. She even managed to convince my parents I should do the press release. I still can’t believe she’s here, staying in this house. If Mom can schmooze her over while she’s here, maybe I’ll get my Induction after all.

  Taming the last few black strands on top of my head, I gesture at my mirror to return to its digital discothèque screen saver, allowing industrial electronica to pulse my surround speakers at a low volume.

  The world is about to meet me. I take a deep breath. I can do this.

  * * *

  The lighting along the ceiling of Butterman Travel’s front reception office is on full blast, drenching the room in fluorescence. A couple of reporters in black long sleeved thermals are making beverages at the espresso machine next to the hearth. I can tell they’re reporters by the control cuffs fixed to
their wrists like bracelets to synchronize their hover-cams, not to mention the holo-badges projected at their left shoulders with the Worldwide News Network insignia.

  Mom and Dad are cornered by Garth at the hallway, nodding intently. Dad’s folding his bottom lip between his two fingers, like he always does when he’s concentrating or worrying. I approach them, focused on Garth’s airbrushed-like appearance.

  “Bianca, good morning,” she says, her voice bordering on bubbly. Her platinum locks are swept to one side over her shoulder like she just stepped out of a hair salon. “You had a chance to go over the digi-notes I streamed you?”

  I glance at Dad, who’s rubbing his chin now and looks like he may break out into hives.

  “Dad, are you okay?”

  “I will be.”

  Folding my arms over my black vinyl V-neck, I stare at Garth. “Are you sure about this? I mean, I wanted to say my peace, but maybe Tristan’s agent was right.”

  “Honey, Val Danforth knows what’s best for performing artists like Tristan,” Mom says in her even-toned voice. “This is different. Agent Garth has the best interest of our operation in mind.”

  By the look on her face, she believes it. Until about ten seconds ago, I wanted to believe it too. Before the Timeline Rewrite, Garth tried tricking my great, great grandfather Boris Butterman at Woodstock—so she could sabotage the Butterman biz and prevent our family time travel science from ever being discovered. That was the very reason Evangeline and Evan Butterman showed up in the first place, and they gave me every reason to believe Garth is no friend to this family. Well, they didn’t exactly say that, but they time traveled to 1969 from the distant future to make sure the Butterman CCL wasn’t interrupted, or else Butterman Travel may not exist today.

  I scan the office again, hoping to catch Tristan leaning up against the wall with a latte, but he’s nowhere to be seen. The WNN staff rustles around my desk, handling and moving items that don’t belong to them.

  “What are they doing?” I ask, closing in on the black-shirted guys.

  Mom follows. “They’re setting up for optimum background lighting.”