Induction Day: Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series (16 page)

M
y nostrils burn
with the threat of sobs. The thought of Tristan being anywhere else but here was too much to consider before—when all I was concerned with was myself, my moment. How easy it would be to climb in Essence and depart right now.

Wind lifts the hair around my face. The funnels to either side of me cough thick steam into the air, eclipsing the stars overhead.
We’re moving too fast.
Quickly, I scan the perimeter of the top deck for Tristan, but there’s nothing. Only a couple of stewards and some passengers below me toward the stern.

Okay, think, Bianca
. Tristan knows the time window ends in one hour, and he knows 2340hours is impact. But at the rate of speed we’re now going, the timeline has already changed. Events will be sped up. There’s no time for mistakes. And I know I could never let Tristan go down with
Titanic
.

Last I saw Tristan was in the foyer of the first class dining room. Maybe he’s hobnobbing with the celebrities—just because he can. I wouldn’t put that past him. But that means I have to get down to the dining room again, and he had to have seen me be escorted out. Damn this primitive era with no cellular signal or Wi-Fi. I have no way to reach him.

What if they put him in the cargo hold? What if he’s—

A bell rings, fast and loud, from the direction of the bow.

The bell.

The alert! My hands grip the railing in front of me and I lean forward, peering as far as I can off starboard, but too many obstacles obstruct my line of view.

Cruuuunch
.

A jolt. Sudden, and harsh. Then a muffled noise, like steel grinding over glass, deep and distant. So haunting, it doesn’t seem real, and stretched out for what feels like minutes of
Titanic
moaning into the night from pain.

My knees wobble. I have to see. I have to!

Swiftly, I descend the ladder and bolt for the railing on the starboard side, just beside a lifeboat. There!

Only, it’s not at all what I expected.

A lone pyramid of ice protrudes from the water’s surface, as tall as this ship … but not the ominous villain I dreamed it would be. Just an inglorious chunk of ice. Ginormous, and unapologetic, floating innocently in the waters it calls home.

We
are the intruders here.

In seconds it’s upper portion is at my fingertips, the ship’s side carving into it with a grating blow. Hunks of it crumble off and splatter onto the deck, at my boots. And all I can do is stare in fascination at the frozen monster responsible for so many deaths.

Too fast
. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, logic is screaming to me. The bell only just rang. There should’ve been time for the ship to turn—that’s how it’s supposed to happen. And history says the impact was hardly noticeable. Everyone onboard had to have noticed this.

I watch as the iceberg recedes into the shadowy distance. Already, the timeline is changing. Because of me. What have I done?

For the first time since impact, I notice voices and commotion around me. Passengers are emerging from the promenade and decks below. Stewards and crew are bustling about, with panicked voices erupting from every direction. How long do we have now before the ship goes down? What if I never find Tristan?

I can’t dwell on that now. Must move fast.

Heading for the staircase to A-Deck, I dodge inside the promenade. The ship has stopped moving, the engines have shut off. It’s a cold, blatant silence, interrupted by anxious demands and babies screaming, which is gut-wrenching enough, but not nearly as unbearable as what interrupts the quiet next.

From beneath the deck, somewhere in the bowels of this magnificent vessel, the unnatural bellows of bending steel and popping rivets echo throughout the night. Ominous and foreboding, punctuating the night and the timeline for all of history.
Titanic’s
already splitting in two.
Oh my
…

Breathing rapidly through my nose now, I scramble down the stairs and into the corridor toward the grand staircase and first class dining room. Passengers emerge from their cabins, maids and stewards pacing through the hallways handing out boxy white lifebelts. Passengers take them, some still dressed in their evening finery, but alarm and concern plastered on all their faces. No doubt everyone onboard felt the impact this time.

“Not to worry,” a man tells his sleepy-eyed son in his striped pajamas. “It’s only a precaution til they figure out the next step.” The man pats the white wall of the corridor. “This ship can’t sink, I tell you that. Not to worry at all.”

More passengers cluster in, making any kind of quick exit challenging. Men are calling out, demanding answers. There are none, only curt nods and brisk commands.

Almost at the far end, I push past an older woman with a beaded tiara on and she harrumphs. A steward shoves a handful of lifebelts at me, knocking the wind from my lungs.

“What’re you doing?” he asks me, glaring down his nose. “Got work to be done. Start handing these out. Make sure every person and child has one.”

Damn I forgot I’m still dressed like a maid. I try to sidestep him, but he blocks me from the stairwell that leads to the dining room and calls out.

“Everyone up on deck once you get your lifebelt,” he yells. “That’s it. Everything’ll be just fine. Just a precaution, that’s all.”

But no one appears to believe him. How could they? With that crunch and the ship’s belly still moaning into the night?

I turn, facing the constant stream of bobbing heads in the narrow corridor. I’ll have to get back through to the other end. There—just at the corner where the corridor splits, is the closet I changed in earlier. Using the lifebelts as a barricade between myself and anyone in my way, I ram my way back through the corridor, shoving past women, men, children, and other crew, who move when they see me coming. Stopping at the closet, I duck in, search for my clothes.

Nothing. I can only hope Adelaide saved them, is wearing them now. They could be the difference in saving her life. Outside of the closet, I continue my beeline, lifebelts in front of me. Voices and commotion surrounds me, but I focus on the goal. I can’t let this moment get to me, or I’ll never make it back to the time-craft.

At the far end of the corridor where I entered, I step into the stairwell, placing a lifebelt around the neck of the last person I see—a young woman still dressed in her bathrobe, holding a screaming baby.

“Whatever you do, don’t let go of the belt,” I tell her, while the baby whines in my ear, sending a bloodcurdling shiver down my back.

It’s happening—I can feel it in my bones, along with the lump in my throat. Calamity and chaos. People aren’t supposed to walk around the Earth with the knowledge I secretly hold. Time is not a rough draft to be edited. And no one should ever have to be
Death’s messenger
. Maybe I was wrong all along. Maybe Buttermans shouldn’t get to play God, even if it’s only once.

Climbing the stairs to the promenade, I push my way back on the top deck. My fingers are crossed beneath the lifebelt that I shouldn’t be wearing.

I have to stop. My gaze wanders the scene unfolding, and I’m sickeningly spellbound. Here is a moment I’ve seen recreated in films and documentaries hundreds of times—a scene I’ve read about in numerous accounts of survivors’ recollections. None of it could ever prepare me for this reality. How naïve I was to believe I could show up here an expert and save the day.

Passengers file in from every doorway, crowding the area, calling out with both questions and demands, their faces contorted with bewilderment. Deck stewards yell in an effort to keep order, while lifeboats remain untouched, still hanging from their ropes.

Why aren’t they filling them already? And where is the music? The violins? The cello? The musicians are supposed to be here playing to keep passengers calm, invoke harmony. This is not at all like I imagined.

The timeline has been changed.
Because of me
.

Nauseated, I push past passengers who’re moving toward the stern like cattle, slow and crowded. A steward blocks my way at the stairs, holding up a hand. “Exit only, miss. If ye know what’s good for ye, ye’ll stay put.”

I turn, looking back toward the top deck. Babies whimper, women sob. I’m bumped from behind as people shove past from the staircase. The deck is filling so quickly.

Another agonizing bellow from
Titanic’s
bowels sends the deck into uproar. Wailing and fits of elbows come at me from every direction, everyone pushing to the sides of the deck where the stewards are calling out.

I check my watch. 2314hours. Still no Tristan. What if I’m forced to leave without him? He’ll drown. I couldn’t live with that. I can only imagine my parents’ and Garth’s faces if I show up without Tristan. Not to mention the media scandal it will create.

Leaving him behind would alter both timelines for sure. My mind reels for solutions. I could still initiate a parallel shift and seal it off, but this vessel is already sinking—it’d only mean these people drown in another universe. Along with Tristan. My nerves seem to swirl up into an intestinal cyclone. I can’t lose him like that.

More lifebelt-clad passengers shove past me. I call to the steward who’s barking orders. “The third class passengers, are they locked below?”

“I couldn’t say,” he snaps. “Now get yerself back on deck. You don’t wanna be nowhere else but up there when those lifeboats are lowered.”

“Why aren’t they lowering them now?” I ask, but my question is forgotten when there’s another deep, penetrating rumble beneath our feet.

My stance tilts, along with everyone crowded beside me. The bow is beginning its nosedive, the ship no longer level. Water will be filling the compartments, and by the feel of it, much quicker than history claims.

Everything
has changed.

Someone shoves me, knocking me sideways into the lanky woman from the foyer. She barely glances at me. An older woman at the wall calls for someone, crying out with tears streaming down her pudgy cheeks.

Panic spreads through me, feathering its plumes like a peacock inside my chest. I bank right for the other end of the deck, past the two center steam funnels where Essence hides, and toward the stern. One more round on the deck, before climbing the platform to the time-craft. I have to make a choice, and if leaving Tristan behind is the only way to make the alterations to the timeline less drastic, then it’s what I have to do. Both of us going down would be worse. My duty is to the timeline now.

People crowd in from every direction now, evacuating from below the ship in total disorder. Stewards and crewmen shout orders, shooting signals into the air in bursts of fiery embers. The lifeboats are being turned over and lowered, filling one person at a time from over the water, but with the incline and unsteadiness of the bow, it’s a slow, precarious process.

In front of me, a small boy is pushed from his mother’s grasp by a frantic man in a lifebelt. The child is forced to his knees, bawling, calling out for his mom, while trampling boots trudge past from spineless cowards competing for their chance at a lifeboat. I launch myself toward the boy, reaching out to lift him, when my body is slammed from the side and pinned against the wall.

“Tristan!”

He hovers beside me, his dark blond hair in disarray, no longer confined to his tweed cap. His face is pale, cheeks flushed. Urgently, I kiss his lips, flinging my arms around him just to make sure he’s really here. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“How long do we have?” he asks.

“We have to get back to the time-craft now. The window is closing soon, and
Titanic
is going down fast. We need to leave within the next ten minutes or we might not make it off.” I pause searching his face. “If
Titanic
goes down before we exit the port, we could go down with her.”

He stares at me a few seconds, his blue eyes wide. “This is what you wanted to witness?”

Shaking my head no, I can barely find my voice. “I was wrong.”

He grabs my hand, gives it a tug. “Or you have some serious thrill issues.”

From behind, I’m shoved forward, which plows me right into Tristan, and Tristan stumbles farther down the deck, toward the bow, which is leaning perilously forward.

The scene before us defies all purpose, and my childhood dreams suddenly seem like nightmares. People cram to the railing where a lifeboat overflowing with passengers wobbles on its ropes, one end lower than the other. A child no more than three is torn from her father’s arms and thrust aboard the lifeboat, into someone else’s arms, her body flailing, face distorted with screams leaving her lips.

An older woman on the lifeboat calls out, rising from her seat with a wobble. “Give the man my seat. Let the child stay with her father.”

People cramming to get on protest, but the steward fires off a gun into the sky. They back away, parting the cluster for only a moment while the woman debarks and trades places with the tearful father.

A thunderous creak erupts from under our feet—the very sound of terror. Shrieks fill the air. I wish I could wither into oblivion and never see this moment. It’s painfully apparent to me now—how vulnerable I am. I come from an age of such drastic advancements, yet I’m no different than any one of them. How we fool ourselves into thinking our technology gives us any kind of edge over the inevitable.

“Come on.” Tristan yanks my arm in the opposite direction, toward the steam funnel where Essence is parked.

Dazed, I tag behind him, and I can’t peel my eyes from the disaster closing in. At the next lifeboat we stall, unable to move in any direction for all the arms and shoulders tightening around us. One lady cries out in such hair-raising sobs, others around her snap at her, pushing and shoving, accusing her of delaying their departure.

My throat constricts. So much anger and confusion in the air, spinning webs and casting them over the deck—over human lives doomed to ever see another dawn. Tristan grips my hand, his eyes searching mine, and for the first time I see how full of fear they are. A dull, but stormy blue, with pupils dilated like black full moons.