Butterman (Time) Travel, Inc. Read online

  “Can’t say I’m sorry to hear you sold this place,” I say, flipping the gold tassel of a zebra throw pillow. “Got this warm don’t touch anything vibe about it.”

  “Knew you’d love it.” Tristan gestures at a flat screen control center and the lights come on. Electric guitar music fills the room from hidden surround speakers. He moves toward the wall of panoramic windows and stops to peer out. “Man, this is so trippy. Somewhere down there I’m strolling the park right now—with no idea my future-self is looking down at this very moment.”

  Beside me, a burst of movement attacks the sofa armrest. My heart plunges in to my stomach. Holy hell.

  A fluffy gray cat with a tuft of white at its neck mews at me, rubs against my arm.

  “Scared the hell outta me,” I say, giving its ears a brief introductory scratch out of obligation. Friendly thing.

  “Sadie.” Tristan sweeps the cat into his arms and cradles it, nuzzling his chin to its head. “There you are, baby. That’s my girl.”

  I’ve never been a cat fan, or a pet person, but it’s kinda cute the way he’s doting on the thing. Like he may be capable of caring about more than himself. Interesting.

  I glance at my watch. He needs some nudging. “So we don’t have all day. There are approximately thirty-five minutes before a possible PF, so I suggest you move fast. You know what they say.”

  “Let me guess, time is of the essence.” He stares out the window, stroking his cat.

  “Actually, I was gonna say time waits for no one, but whatever works to get your butt moving.”

  He starts to turn, though somewhat reluctantly, and I wonder for a minute if he couldn’t stand there and watch his life in rewind all day. He seems content there—like he did that kinda thing all the time.

  In a semi-polite prompt, I clear my throat and he finally tears himself away, sets the cat down, and heads up the spiral staircase at the far side of the room to what looks like a loft.

  The cat rubs up against my legs and I sidestep it. Pesky furball. I adopt Tristan’s post at the same picture windows. Wow. Magnificent view. You can literally watch the world from up here. Watch the entire Thanksgiving Day Parade in full comfort like this—live and in person. I can’t help but notice the music playing over the speakers—rising and falling through wistful guitar riffs, almost hypnotic. Have to admit, its retro-fabulous feel baffles me. Nice and trancey, but sort of grounded in a bluesy rock sound. So not the music choice I’d expect from a pop boy-band singer like Tristan Helms.

  I glance toward the loft, where only the top of his head is visible. “How you doing up there? Twenty-five minutes and counting.”

  A spurt of bright color from my peripheral draws me back to the window. Balloons are lifting off from behind the trees in Central Park, filling the horizon with multi-hued dots, celebrating who knows what. Below them, a stream of jetpackers enter the designated aerial lane.

  “You ever get jetpackers up this high?” I call out. “Spying in your windows?”

  He elevates his voice. “Nah, they get pulled over the minute they exceed airspace limit. Penthouse level is just above it for that reason. Windows are double tinted, anyway. They couldn’t see anything but their own reflection.”

  My neck is oddly tense. Something doesn’t feel right about being here, and a good trip guide knows better than to leave a passenger alone for long. I make for the stairs, call as I’m climbing, “Who is this anyway? The music.”

  “Purple Haze. Classic Jimi Hendrix,” he says. “What, you don’t like that either?”

  “Never heard it. But yeah, I like it. Magic voice.”

  The second level opens up onto some kind of sunken loft-office slash bedroom, complete with enormous circular bed beneath an oval fish tank, black-lighting set into the wall above it. Tristan is standing behind a large drafting desk, tosses an ink pen to the side when he sees me.

  “What’re you doing?” I ask. “Did you find it?”

  He grins like the superstar he is. “Yup. Just wrote a few lines on my shoe like you said.”

  I tried doing the same thing once til Mom and Dad frowned on it. Technically, it’s not a violation, but it won’t win any extra credit points either if the DOT happens to find out.

  “We’re cutting it close on time,” I say. “Let’s get going.”

  “You got it, Butterman.”

  A loud voice emerges from the holo-screen at his desk and we both turn. Some guy’s face fills the area, distorted by the proximity of his nose so close to the camera lens, his eyes covered by his dark glasses. “Bro, ye there? Buzz me up, it’s Declan.”

  “Expecting someone?” I flick a brow at Tristan.

  He hesitates, obviously trying to think of why this person is visiting. “Why is Declan here? I don’t remember seeing him til tonight.” He moves toward the screen.

  “Don’t,” I warn. “If you didn’t see him before, it’s because you weren’t home when he came by. Leave it alone.”

  Tristan stares. The guy called Declan is checking his surroundings on the street.

  “Dude, ye there?” Declan says again to the camera, his accent distinctly Irish. His head looks like it’s floating in the middle of the room. “Trust me, bro, yer gonna love this.”

  Tristan leans in, hesitant, as if undecided on whether or not to respond. His eyes gloss over with a dreamy look, like he’s recalling something significant—something irresistible beckoning him with a voice only he can hear.

  His sudden trance worries me. “Tristan, don’t …”

  But it’s too late. He responds before I can finish, his hand gesturing the speak button. “Declan.”

  “Yeah,” Declan says. “Told ye I’d be quick. Buzz me up.”

  Idiot. I grab Tristan’s elbow. “Cut it short and get rid of him. You have to.”

  “Who’s there?” Declan asks, his voice lowered, his face still at the screen. “Shoulda told me before if ye were expecting company.”

  “When did we talk?” Tristan asks, wide-eyed.

  “Like ten minutes ago. What’re ye drunk? Said ye’d meet me here.” Again Declan checks his surroundings.

  I don’t like this at all. This Declan guy seems shady and Tristan seems too wrapped up in him. I check the clock screen: 1135hours.

  “Tristan, it’s time,” I say. “We’ve gotta go. Now.”

  “Listen, if yer busy, I get it, but I’m tellin’ ye this is like nothing ye’ve ever tried and the well is almost dry. Trust me. Ye want in on this.” Declan’s voice assumes a pitch reserved for salesmen—or anyone with something to push.

  Almost like slo-mo, Tristan gestures at the mute button, frowns at me. “I … I’m sorry. For a minute there, all these disjointed memories flooded my head at once. Declan introduced me to heliox, but not til later. I never thought I’d see him again … and I definitely don’t remember meeting him here, now …”

  “Maybe he called your past-self, like he said.”

  Tristan rubs his chin. “I dunno, I can’t remember …”

  “Doesn’t matter now anyway. Tell him to get the hell outta here and let’s jet.”

  Tristan pauses, thinking. “He gets arrested later. I should warn him.”

  “No, stay out of it. Nip it now.” I know I’m barking orders but obviously he doesn’t comprehend the repercussions of skewing the timeline, and since he’s a former junkhead and Declan’s his connection, I especially don’t like that hungry look in Tristan’s eyes right now.

  “Bro, what is up?” Declan says from the screen, impatient.

  Tristan closes his eyes a few seconds, then opens them and gestures the speak button with a swipe of two fingers. “Listen, I can’t let you up here now.” He pauses, swallowing so hard his Adam’s apple bulges. “Consider this the last time you speak to me about it. I don’t want anything to do with it, understand?”

  “What the hell, man?” Declan says. “You just said on the phone …”

  “I don’t care what I said,” Tristan barks back. “Take my a
dvice and get rid of it all. Right now, before it’s too late.”

  Part of me is fuming that he’d take a risk like this, but one little sliver of me sympathizes. He wants to fix what went wrong, and having that ability at your fingertips is sometimes too tempting to resist. Still, he’s playing with the timeline, as well as my family’s livelihood.

  “Tristan, I demand you shut it off,” I say through gritted teeth.

  On-screen, Declan’s head turns, obviously distracted by something on the sidewalk.

  Another voice registers over the voice-com. “Hey, man, you beat me. You must’ve been truckin’. Got the jetpack outta the shop, huh?”

  No denying it, it’s Tristan’s voice. Past-Tristan. He’s talking to Declan in person outside the building while we watch from the penthouse on-screen. Adrenaline surges through me. Holy hell, we’re late.

  “What the …?” Declan says. “How’d ye do that? Ye got yer security screen rigged?”

  “What’re you talking about?” Past-Tristan says.

  “Just now, ye were on-screen, inside yer place. Look …” Declan turns back toward the screen.

  Tristan ducks.

  I duck.

  Past-Tristan’s voice fills the room. “Somebody’s in there? Who the hell’s there? I’m calling the cops.”

  I grab Tristan’s arm, my brain reeling. “Your past-self is early. This is bad. We’ve gotta go now. You’ve wasted too much time.”

  He stares at me, his mouth hanging open, cheeks flushed. Initial shock from being so close to his past-self. Hazard of the trade.

  “But it’s too soon … I thought …”

  “Obviously you miscalculated your arrival. Doesn’t matter now. We’re too close to a PF. I can’t believe you’d take a chance talking to that guy after I warned you.”

  “Okay, I get it. I made a mistake. You can stay here and reprimand me or we can get out of here.”

  “Is there a backdoor or fire escape? Anything?”

  “Cops are on the way and building security’s on their way up. This is bullshit.” Past-Tristan’s voice trails off from the voice-com and his image leaves the screen. “I’m going up there—”

  “The stairs,” Tristan says. “Come on.”

  I don’t wait for his lead. I beeline for the front door, my hand gripping his wrist til we reach the stairwell and clamber down it. My pulse ticks inside my temple like a time-bomb waiting to explode. I should’ve been smarter about trusting Tristan’s memory. Should’ve had us out of there ten minutes ago. Dad says always buffer by at least five minutes. Next time, I’ll buffer by thirty.

  So much for maintaining a safe, reliable time trip.

  “Exciting, right?” Tristan nudges me with his elbow, passing in front of me on the next landing. “Best time I’ve had since before rehab.”

  “Maybe for you, you’ve got nothing to lose.” My breathing is ragged now, my skin filmy with sweat. This is like cardio from hell. “But it’s my Agency on the line. And once the cops get here and divert us from our schedule, you’re as much at risk for a PF as I am. ”

  “Who’s to say that’s a bad thing?” he asks, jogging downstairs and winded. Obviously, he’s not as in shape as he looks.

  For a few seconds I let myself despise his careless attitude toward anything that doesn’t directly affect him. Not once has he shown an ounce of concern for me or my professional status. Regardless of my personal feelings, I put my big girl pants on and swallow my spite. Right now, Tristan Helms is our most valuable customer.

  I round the second flight landing. “If we can make it outta this building without getting arrested or running into your past-self, then I’ll share your sentiment. Til then, let’s focus on getting the hell outta here.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Winded, and my legs like jelly, I creep out from the stairwell behind Tristan, who’s wearing my pink scarf and sweater again. Droid-cops in black helmets are already in the lobby, powering down their built-in jetpacks. Must be nice living somewhere will the law appears at your beck and call. A building concierge is talking to them in front of the doors, while past-Tristan steps into the elevator, wearing cargo pants and a hooded sweatshirt, a skin-headed Declan beside him.

  Once the elevator doors close, Tristan links his arm in mine and we head for the exit. The tall black concierge blocking the doors gives me the kind of once-over that makes you think your internal organs are on display from beneath your skin. I can see in his face he suspects something. Tristan’s head is bowed, but his shoulders are too masculine to disguise. My appearance garners dirty looks on a regular basis, so it’s hard to tell what this guy disapproves of, but I don’t want to take any chances.

  “Is there a back door?” I whisper. “I don’t like the idea of passing that concierge.”

  “There’s an emergency exit,” Tristan says. “But the alarm’ll sound.”

  “I don’t know what’s worse—sounding an alarm, or getting stopped by that droid-cop. Last thing we need is explaining how you’re down here in different clothes after you just stepped into the elevator.” I meet his eyes. “Up close it’s too obvious who you are. If past-you calls down while they’re questioning us, we’re screwed.”

  On my last word, the concierge presses his earpiece and speaks, his gaze still fastened on us. My mouth goes desert-dry. He says something to the closest droid-cop and they both eye Tristan. They must recognize him.

  “They recognize you.” I hold Tristan back, tugging his forearm. “Back door. Now!”

  Swiftly, Tristan jolts me backward past the wall of elevators and down a back corridor that ends at a wide push door with the words Emergency Exit Only: Alarm Will Sound plastered across the front. Rumbles from the droid-cops jetpacks are already echoing off the walls from behind us. I glance back. One is headed our way.

  Tristan kicks the door open with his brand new hiking boot, setting off the wail of high-pitched tones.

  I cover my ears—it’s so ear-shatteringly obnoxious—and we bolt down the narrow side alley. Sprinting is the last thing my legs are up for right now, but I force it. We exit out on the opposite street from the building entrance with the droid-cop gaining on us every second. Tristan yanks off my scarf and sweater and we merge onto the sidewalk, into a horde of pedestrians which gives us cover.

  It also slows us down. But it does the same for the droid-cop, who hovers back at the alley. Probably using its internal zoom lens to pick us out of the crowd. Tristan pushes his way through with me flanked at his heels. Behind us more jetpack-enhanced droid-cops are gathered at the alley.

  “Looks like that one called for backup,” I say.

  Tristan pulls me toward the corner, where a guy and girl wearing helmets are powering up their jetpacks. I glance behind me again. Droid-cops are moving this way.

  “Here.” Tristan shoves a jetpack with hot pink handlebars at me. “Get in!”

  “How did you …?” Then I notice the couple beside us.

  The helmeted-guy lunges forward, yells, “You jackass, what the hell d’you think you’re doing?”

  Soon as his words leave his lips, the jetpack auto-straps over my chest and under my crotch, while Tristan’s already hovering above the sidewalk. Obviously he doesn’t recognize Tristan, or if he does, it makes no difference. Already powered up, I accelerate into the air, but before I can fully leave the ground, the guy grabs hold of my pack, jarring me off balance, pulling me down.

  My belly flips with vertigo. If he doesn’t let go, I’ll smash head first into the pavement. Fumbling for the exhaust pipe in the rear of the pack, I aim it at the man’s arms and engage the purge button from my chest strap. Hot steam sprays out. Holy hell, please don’t let this guy be hurt!

  The guy yells out, releasing the jetpack. I don’t wait. Shifting my body, I accelerate up to Tristan’s level, looking back once to make sure the guy’s not severely injured. His arms are flailing and waving at the sky—at us, but otherwise he seems fine. Facing forward again, I follow Tristan, and we dodge our
way into the aerial lane together, a string of droid-cops just behind us.

  Holy hell, now I’m a jetpack thief and just assaulted someone. If it wasn’t against regulation, I’d go back and start this day all over again. We dodge into a narrow alley, and then another. The skyscrapers create a labyrinth that allows us to alter our path every couple of minutes. The sirens from the droid-cops get farther away with the next few turns, and I stay focused on keeping a momentum behind Tristan, who seems to know where he’s going.

  At the next alley, Tristan slows, checks behind him and I nearly ram him, stop short, and wobble in midair. He looks like he’s about to ask me what moron taught me how to jetpack, when he seems to notice the frustration on my face. I want to tell him I know how to jetpack—do it all the time back home—but never because the cops are chasing me.

  The sirens get louder again.

  “They’re getting closer,” Tristan calls over the jet engines. “We can try and lose them in the park. It’ll be easier to get back to the port when we know they’re not following us.”

  Tristan’s right, we can’t go back to the time-craft yet—not til we’re clear of the cops. They’d contact the DOT for sure. I nod and we both accelerate from the handlebars.

  I know what he must be thinking—that if time travel is legal, why can’t we simply tell the cops we’re on a time-trip so they can let us be on our way. But it doesn’t work like that. We have no identification, and if we’re able to avoid being accused of impersonation, then maybe—just maybe—we can convince the cops to call present day Butterman Travel and verify my true identity, but there’d be no record of this time-trip since it’s from the future. By that point, Tristan may have already run into himself, disrupted the time string and caused a PF, and we’ll have missed our twelve hour window. Garth Vader will have even more reason to cite the Agency, and if she suspends operation while we’re on a trip, who knows how long we’ll be stuck in this time string with two Tristans and two Biancas.