Butterman (Time) Travel, Inc. Read online

  PF or not, the idea of hanging out with past-me tampers with my psychological well-being in the worst way. In short, scares the shit out of me.

  Following Tristan isn’t easy. He’s like a bumblebee, rising and dropping in clever jolts of momentum til we break away from the cluster of skyscrapers and enter the aerial lane at the edge of Central Park. The sirens have faded, but instead of staying in the jetpack lane, Tristan veers out over the spring-green trees. Obviously, he’s not only familiar with jetpacking, he’s skilled, knows exactly what he’s doing. Jetpacking under hot pursuit is nothing like joyrides over the mountain ridges, but I’m holding my own.

  Tristan stays low to the tree canopies now, which has to be illegal, but since we’re running from the cops anyway, who cares? Tree branches offer more cover, and keeps our forged path free from other jetpackers. We may’ve just made it.

  I can’t make out a cop anywhere, which gives me hope we’ve lost them in the mix. Finally, I can breathe normal breaths, slacken my shoulders a bit. Below me, trees and boulders speed by and for a few seconds, I let myself appreciate the beauty of Central Park. From up here, it’s so clean, so big.

  Tristan finally descends between a band of trees. I dip down behind him, between three large boulders, where we both unfasten our jetpacks, fully obscured.

  My hands tremble, unbuckling my harness, and I try to play it cool, pretend these types of things happen all the time during time trips, which in reality, couldn’t be further from the truth. If this experience is any indication of what life for Tristan Helms is like on a regular basis, then count me out. Consider this a renege on the frequent traveler account offer.

  Once free from the jetpack’s extra weight, my legs give way like wet noodles. I fall right into Tristan.

  He grabs my biceps, steadies me. “Whoa. You okay?”

  His dark blond shag is swept back from his forehead, which seems to alter his face in some way. Maybe it’s from the dappled sunlight through the trees, casting moving shadows over him, but for once, he looks real—not like Tristan Helms the golden-boy-pop-superstar, but like any other regular guy in the middle of some major shit. Stripped of his royalties and status, but trying to make it like everyone else. A person, not an image.

  I notice his quirky smile, his gaze on my hair. Instinctively, I smooth it down. “What?”

  “Now you’re a wind-blown bettie.” He chuckles.

  “Yeah, well, that was some effed up jetpacking. If you wanted to kill me you could’ve tried something more humane than tree impalement.”

  He peeks out at our surroundings from behind the closest boulder. “Why would I risk your safety? I need you. You’re my ticket back to 2069.”

  His little reminder that I’m the guide and he’s the passenger is a move in the right direction, but way far from the vibe of reality. Things are all wrong now, and I’m off my game. He’s now the one guiding me, and without him, I’m lost and on my own in the biggest city in the U.S. Even with my watch, navigating this urban jungle on my own is a mega setback.

  And I hate to say it, but I need him too.

  “So, Captain Butterman,” Tristan says, facing me. “What now?”

  He’s offering me a chance to take charge again—or at least try to look like I am, and I don’t know if I’m grateful or insulted. Either way, I’m too proud to admit it, so I simply resume my travel guide role best I can, check my watch. “I don’t like hanging around the city any more than we have to. At least we’re clear of running into your past-self for now, and hopefully no more cops.” My belly gurgles and I know he hears it, but doesn’t acknowledge it. “Let’s get back to the port.”

  “Let me buy us some lunch. We’re not out in the open here, and we gotta pass by the vendors on the way. May as well eat and walk.”

  I want to object. I should. But the aroma of roasted vendor meat is making me dizzy. I check my watch. 1248 EST. Nine hours before the window closes. We’re good on time, but we have to be careful. “Fine. We eat and walk.”

  His gaze lingers on the star tats at the corner of my right eye. “Didn’t see any random flashes along the way, did you? Anyone manage to get our pictures?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Surveillance cameras all over the park, and in the jetpack lanes,” he nods at my upper cheek where my tats are. “We weren’t wearing helmets, and those tattoos make a nice identifier for the cops, who may’ve already got some close-ups recorded. They could be watching us right now. All they have to do is zoom in, confirm it’s us.”

  I glance around at the lower tree limbs and lampposts along the sidewalk. “You think there’s cameras here, too?”

  He fiddles with his hair now, combing his bangs forward with his fingers. “You’d never even spot them, but they’re there. Trust me. I’ve had plenty of sleepless, paranoid nights of watching Reality NYPD to know how this works. Nano-cameras are planted all over the city, smaller than your fingertip.”

  I groan.

  “Hey, I don’t like it either, all right? You know what something like this could do to my career? PR nightmare. Add jetpack grand theft to my future drug record.”

  I’m glad to see he’s appreciating the circumstances at least. “What’s the worse they could do? Throw us in jail?”

  He half shrugs. “You’re clean, right? Right now in 2068, I am too. My guess is a first offense would be minimal. Probably book us, make us pay a fine.” He emerges from our little hiding spot, scans the area. “Come on, Butterman. Looks like the park’s pretty empty. Keep your head down til we can find a hat vendor.”

  I step out beside him, cautious, but ready to roll. Glad to see he’s thinking proactively, but his warning about the cameras freaks me out a little. If Garth were to hack into Mission Control back home and get surveillance on this time string, she could witness every single one of my goofs during my final certification. I’ve no doubt she’d suspend my license, along with the operation. She could have the feds all over us for years. Feels like I’ve underestimated this trip. Instead of getting closer to my Induction like I thought, I’m pushing it farther away. And if Tristan Helms makes me screw that up because of some stupid song, I’ll have him banned from all time travel for the rest of his life, even if I have to write each condemning letter freehand and trek through avalanche prone tundra by foot to post them to our competitors.

  CHAPTER 7

  Our heads bowed, we stride down the sidewalk. A little boy bounces a holographic ball too closely at us as we pass. I send it back toward him with a quick poke of my finger, eager to avoid drawing any attention to ourselves. On a bench near him, a woman is speaking into a projected phone screen, loud and animated, as if she’s in the privacy of her own home. The farther we get down the sidewalk, the more people we encounter, and it’s no wonder why. Crisp spring days like this are hot tickets in Central Park. Adults and children mill about on the sidewalks, or fling holo-Frisbees on the hills. Others bask in the sunlight, kicked back on benches and blankets. A couple of kids sail remote control kites beneath a huge elm tree. It’s a medium temperature I rarely feel in Paloot—cool in the shade, tingly warm in the open sun.

  I check the time and date on my watch. I don’t know why—it’s still Wednesday, but it feels like I’ve been tossed into the middle of next week. I keep reminding myself this is normal, a result of vast time change. This is why we wear the watch. It grounds the time traveler and logs the length of time we’ve been away. Plus, the tracking device Dad installed is a lifesaver should we ever forget where we parked again.

  I’m glad Tristan has no idea what’s going on in my head. I need to regroup, get it together. I convinced Mom and Dad I was up for this, and now I’m here, trying to convince myself the same thing.

  Just about the time we reach a souvenir and food vendor, the smell of roasted meat makes my blood race. Tristan buys a couple of New York Giants baseball caps from an old guy who doesn’t seem to recognize Tristan any more than he does me. After we fill our hands with gyros and bottl
ed waters, I manage a long, much needed swig of cold water, then pull my new hat bill low on my forehead. My fingers can barely press down the foil wrap of my gyro before I sink my teeth in.

  Tristan is less enthusiastic. His stomach is still queasy by the looks of his pouty lips and hesitation to dig in. At least he’s in full fleshly color again, his hat blocking the top half of his face.

  “So I don’t get it,” he says as we move on through the park. “If the DOT can hack into this or any time string at any given moment, bust time-travelers for breaking regulation, why not just make time travel illegal in the first place? With all their terms and conditions, it’s like they want you to get caught.”

  “Exactly,” I say, flecks of food flying from my lips like Ms. Manner’s worse nightmare. “It’s a racket. But the government can’t fully regulate it for their own use. Not yet, anyways. Would be like trying to claim a piece of the sky as private property.”

  “Then why aren’t there more time travel agencies?”

  I wipe my lip with the back of my arm and glance at my watch. “Money, for one thing. My dad says it’s expensive as hell to get started, even with your own technology. But most people don’t have that, so they go bust trying to figure it out to begin with. More to it than most people realize. Port mapping and vortex programming, time-craft maintenance, travel guiding.”

  “No shit.”

  “Logistical science behind time travel is patented by the U.S. government, which means it’s off-limits to Joe Q. Public. People can’t just decide to start up their own operation. But Agencies like ours with our own patents and in practice for ages, are grandfathered in. And really rare.” I watch a fat gray squirrel scurry across the sidewalk and up a tree, almost wishing I could hide with it. “We’re homegrown, as my dad says, and who needs government science when you’ve got your own. But because we offer service to outside customers, they watch us like hawks and slap all these rules and regulations down, call it passenger safety. Truth is, it’s another way to fine us, shut us down.” I wolf down my last bite and toss the foil in the nearest recycler compactor.

  “As my accountant would say, you gotta know the ins and outs of running a commercial business,” Tristan says, nibbling at his pita. “I never thought of myself as an entrepreneur before. I’m a musician. But I got so sick of paying out mad taxes I hired an accountant to straighten me out. Or else I’d still be overpaying the IRS.”

  “No kidding.” I scoff. Everyone knows in this day and age the taxes are almost too high to function outside of public housing, which in most big cities, dominate the neighborhoods anymore. “Taxes are the Agency’s biggest expense. Why do you think I’m the only employee?”

  “Then why be in business at all?” he asks. “Why not just use it for yourselves, stay off the government grid?”

  I half shrug, a little surprised by the question. To me, it’s obvious. “’Cause my parents get to do what they love for a living. We may not be millionaires like you, or our other clients, but we make out okay. And every once in awhile, we really make a difference for someone.”

  “Like me,” he says. “So you think the DOT will tap into our time trip, then?”

  “Hard to say. We’re not exactly scoring any high points right now. But maybe we’ll slide by—I dunno. Just don’t break any more regulations. Doesn’t mean the DOT won’t peek in for kicks, ‘cause they can. Plus, if the cops here identify us …”

  “I was thinking about that, and even though we took the jetpacks, we didn’t take anything from my apartment. Past-me would be pissed about the entering, but I wouldn’t pursue and press charges it if it didn’t look like a crime scene, especially since Declan was there. Declan’s probably confused as hell at what just happened.”

  “Looking out for your druggie friend?” I say jokingly.

  Something like shame flickers across his face. “Declan’s a good guy. Just mixed up with the wrong crowd. And the only reason heliox was illegal, was ‘cause it hadn’t been FDA approved yet.”

  “Now it’s totally illegal,” I remind him.

  “Yeah, but back then, I mean right now, in 2068, it’s brand new. A cocktail of feel-good that relaxes your body, spins graphics in your mind. Hell, I saw entire motion pictures in my head when I was on that stuff …” he pauses in thought a minute. “When I get a taste of it tonight, it makes me forget—“

  “What?” I ask, unsure which him he’s referring to. Past or present.

  He stops me with a hand on my arm. “I just remembered something about when I try it, at the private party in the Village tonight—” He pauses when he notices my face, like he’s surprised and annoyed with himself for being so open, then starts moving again. “Sorry. You probably don’t care about that stuff. I probably shouldn’t be talking about it.”

  “I’m not ten,” I say. “I know about drugs and addiction.”

  “Really? You’ve …?”

  “Um, no.” I elongate the last word for its full magnitude.

  He laughs at himself. “Nah, of course not. Why would you? You friggin’ time travel whenever you want, you don’t need recreational drugs.”

  “I can’t simply time travel whenever I want. Hello? Regulations.”

  “Right, but it’s at your fingertips. A full on riot to think about. Like this whole trip—right now—I could get hooked on this. Like buying an adventure right off a thrill menu.”

  This makes me chuckle and the lightness feels good. “It is pretty awesome, I won’t lie. But dangerous too, without moderation. Guess it’s like drugs that way.” I pause. “Why did you start doing drugs?”

  He meets my gaze once, in a friendly way that lets me know he’s not offended by the question. “Not like I decided one day to have a go at drugs. Just kinda showed up in my life when I didn’t expect it. Easy to think you’d never do it, til it’s right in front of you … and you’re curious … and it opens your mind and shows you things you didn’t see before.”

  I watch him as we walk—his distant gaze, the purse of his lips—like he’s remembering an old friend.

  His voice is quieter now. “I always wanted to think of myself as a real musician—an artist. Heliox let me believe I was. I saw full concerts in my head, and it convinced me I could go deeper than U-Turn if I wanted to. Like there was another side of my creative existence that I could explore and return back from inspired. It satisfied a part of me that didn’t trust my own talent.”

  “Didn’t you say your songs were bad while you were on that stuff though?” I ask.

  He makes a wary sound. “That’s the charade. Starts out making sense, then you want more of it, til you don’t know what sense is anymore. Fills your brain with memory holes, and you can’t remember what it was you wanted to write or sing about—and then you think you need more of it to find that place again.”

  He sidesteps a miniature poodle on a robo-leash, distracted by it for a few seconds, then elbows my arm playfully. “But hey that’s why they call it addiction, right? So what about you, time traveler, tell me what it’s like in the future … How far have you been?”

  The change of subject relieves me. He was letting me in a little too far there. Not that it didn’t produce a warm current through my chest, but I don’t want him getting the wrong impression that we’re friends. I have a professional duty to uphold and need to maintain control.

  I answer matter-of-factly, “Since there’s a one-hundred-year limit into the past or future, I can’t travel very far within regulation.” I don’t mention my Induction destination, which is way outside the limit, but that’s why Induction Days come around only once in a lifetime. They have nothing to do with government controlled regulations.

  “I’ve seen some pretty cool future historical events, though.”

  “Like what?” he asks.

  “I can’t disclose details. Part of the terms and conditions of time travel.” I make him wait a moment for suspense effect, and because I enjoy having this upper hand with him. “But I can tell you that
in about ten years, North and South Korea become one democracy under a new leader and there’s a celebration with fireworks like you’d never imagine, all across the Asian sky. Gets broadcasted all over the world and becomes a pop culture icon—people everywhere try to copy it.”

  “Huh. That’s like nothing what I was expecting you’d say.” He picks up the pace, meandering past a couple arm in arm.

  I quirk a brow. “Why not? That’s real news and progress.”

  “What about aliens?” he asks. “We ever find life in other galaxies?”

  I grin. I could blow his mind right now. “A time-traveler never shares her secrets.”

  “Come on, give me something. Am I around, still performing?”

  I blow air through my lips. “You think I tune into what the tweenie popstars are doing while I’m in the future?”

  His gray-blue eyes are still shaded by the bill of his hat, but he’s scowling. “That’s not my future, Butterman. Why do you think I’m here right now?”

  He’s more sensitive than I thought. Guess I should tone down the teasing. “Time windows make it hard to get comfortable in any one place for long, or get a real feel of the period. So in answer to your question, I don’t know. I’ve never thought to look it up.”

  We’re quiet a few minutes, then out of the blue he asks, “Aside from the Frozen Solstice selection on our way here, what kind of music do you like? What are you dark betties into these days?”

  I’m impressed he recognized my favorite band. “You say it like spunkers are all lumped into the same mold. I have my own preferences, same as you, or anybody else, and I like plenty of music.”

  “But too good for pop.”

  “Pop shmop, everything’s pop these days. But, “‘Rock me baby, show me crazy,’” doesn’t do it for me,” I quote the chorus from one of U-Turn’s most widespread songs.