Induction Day: Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series (19 page)

Awkwardly, I stoop to my knees at the rear of the time-craft. Flurries collect at my eyelashes and I blink them away. The bridge of my nose is already numb. I wiggle it the best I can to keep circulation in my face. Unlatching the rear maintenance flap, I expose Essence’s mechanical guts, sticking my hands inside and fumbling through the parts I know so well from years of helping Dad with repairs and standard maintenance. They all feel in order.

Next, I stick my head in. I’m grateful for the blockage from the wind, so I lean in and inspect the innards more closely. The maintenance report was right. We got lucky where it counts. If anything had happened to the thrusters, we’d never manage full propulsion back into the vortex.

My body shudders forcefully. Even though my toes are warm, Jack Frost managed to sneak his icy claws inside my makeshift turban and now my head and face are bitter cold. Time is running out.

Quickly, I close up the compartment and get to my feet, doing a full surface scan where the report showed a tear. Thick, sticky snow crusted over by ice crunches beneath my boots as I shuffle forward. I know this ground well, and it’s patchy from different depths in the terrain, which makes footing tricky at times, even when it’s expected.

Aha!
At Essence’s bottom left, I spot a rip the size of a banana in the transparent siding. I brush my gloved fingers over it. It’s deep, and badly frayed—irreparable without the right adhesive. I’ve never known her siding to tear before—not like this.

My body shivering again, I head for the front of the time-craft. I’ll have to figure out—

Swoosh
!

Drop.

Total blackness.

S
creaming voices
. Terror-strickened and defeated. Red-faced babies, wild with panic, reaching for parents who aren’t there. Husbands calling out for wives already swallowed by the greedy ocean. Crewmen helping others into lifeboats, selfless and brave. Quincy Bloomsdale’s eyes—how they flickered with fate’s twisted irony ...

I must save them. I have to save them …

“
B
ianca
, come on. Wake up!”

Tristan
?

I force my eyes open.

He’s leaning over me, his shaggy locks framing his face. “Don’t try to move.”

A sharp pain assaults my head, like an ice pick in my skull. I groan. “My head. It’s killing me.”

“You probably hit it. Just take it easy a minute.”

I squeeze my eyes shut again. Everything hurts. “What are you talking about? Where are we?”

“Look at me. Bianca. Focus on me.”

I lean up on my elbows, squinting.

“There you go,” he says. “Sit up slowly. I checked the database. It’s possible you have a concussion. You can’t fall asleep. Talk to me.”

Ugh, I don’t want to talk. My head’s swimming in agony. All at once my body takes on a violent chill and I can’t stop shaking.

Tristan wraps his arms tight around me while my body convulses, his hand stroking my hair, his voice a whisper at my ear. “You’re too tense. Relaaaax. Deep breaths. That’s it. You’re okay.”

“What happened?” My teeth chatter between words.

“I don’t know. Five minutes passed and you didn’t come back. I found you sprawled on an ice patch to the side of the time-craft. You must’ve slipped, knocked yourself out.”

“How long?”

“Couldn’t have been more than a minute. I didn’t see you at first ‘cause the wind had picked up. You were already half covered in snow.”

My shaking breaks and a welcomed calm softens the tension in my jaw and behind my eyes. “You carried me inside?”

“Yeah.”

I let my eyes close, wedging my head further between the nook at his chin and shoulder. His warmth is a haven I want to crawl up inside and sleep in for hours. My body’s never felt so exhausted. Between the frigid air and TDS, the Butter in my Man has been reduced to a curdled pool of goo.

The image of the time-craft’s torn siding pops in my head.

I back away, searching Tristan’s haggard face. “Essence. Her exterior lining will have to be patched or she won’t hold up for lift off.”

“Okay, so what do you need to patch it with?”

My skin prickles. There was no time to form a plan before I blacked out. How do I tell Tristan I have no idea? I’m the pilot—I’m supposed to be able to handle stuff like this. But holy hell, I don’t even know if we have enough adhesive for a tear that size, or if it will be strong enough to withstand a radioactive time tunnel. Not to mention the length of time for labor out in weather of this degree.

My hesitation causes him to let out a hopeless sigh. Doubt must be written all over my face. Instinctively, I look at my hands and rub them together to create a friction of warmth.

“You’re saying it can’t be fixed?” he asks.

“I’m not … sure yet. Give me a chance to think.”

He gets to his feet and paces. “What about the DOT? Are they watching? Can they help us?”

I half shake my head. “With the way the time tunnel was clipped, I don’t see how they’d know we never left 1912.”

“And it looks like we exceeded the time window. So they’d expect us to be—”

“In the Atlantic Ocean with the rest of
Titanic
.” My voice is undeniably grim and I regret it. We can’t lose hope at a time like this—that’s when the cold tightens its noose. Guilt swells up inside me and I can taste the bitterness in my mouth. “I’m so sorry. I really blew it.”

Tristan tilts his head, as if confused. “Don’t talk like that. It’s not over yet. Your parents will find a way—they’d never give up on you. They treasure everything about you.”

I scoff, sending a jabbing ache through my skull. “I’m a disappointment. They’ve lost faith in me ever since—”

I stop myself.

“Since when?” Tristan asks.

I hesitate a second too long.

“Since you’ve been seeing
me
, right?” With a huff, he plants himself in the pilot’s chair and studies the dashboard like he’s formulating some kind of plan. So determined.

“Tristan … it’s not you. It’s me. I … haven’t been the same.”

“I’m a bad influence, I get it.” His tone sounds like he really does too, even and agreeable. “I mean, what parent would want an ex-junkhead for their daughter’s boyfriend?”

I try to get to my feet but a ferocious dizzy spell brings me to my knees and I clutch my sides for support.

“Bianca?”

“I … just need a minute.”

I can’t even think straight, much less form an action plan to get us home.

“You need to stay in one place,” Tristan says.

“And do what? Let us freeze to death here?” My words are laced with a venom I didn’t intend.

Tristan kneels beside me again. “We’re not gonna die here.”

Sobs erupt from my body now, profound and hopeless. “I don’t know what to do.”

I hate for him to see me like this—so weak, so vulnerable. Just like …

Him in the ice shack.

All at once, my sobbing stops, soothed by my revelation, like a pacifier plugged in an infant’s mouth. Never once had I stopped to consider what that must’ve been like for him—letting me see through the façade, past the superstar image, and into the mortal human susceptible to temptation and error just the same as everyone else.

He didn’t give up. He let me in.

My chin lifts in his fingers and I find myself lost in his smoky-blue eyes.

“You’ll figure it out, Butterman,” he says. “You always do. And I’m not a complete waste of space, you know. Let me help you. We can figure it out together.”

“I don’t think you’re a waste.” I wipe my runny nose with the slippery latex sleeve of my buffersuit. “I …”

My gaze falls to the floor. Never good with intimacy like this. I need to work on it, and now’s as good of time as any. I focus on him again. “I need you.”

A smile plays at his lips, slow at first, then wide with so much life and hope that his entire face beams. “That was hard for you, wasn’t it?”

I slug his arm and it makes my head thrum. “Shut up.”

He chuckles. “You can order me around all you want after we get back to 2069.”

I could dwell on the fact that I just made myself vulnerable by admitting I need him, or I could simply blame it on the onset of delirium from frigid temperatures and Temporal Dislocation Syndrome. Once we get back to our own century, I’ll worry about which is which.

He helps me to my feet and into the pilot’s chair. I verify the time window, and it appears ripe for frequency manipulation. Once I find the right signal, I can reopen it. That’s the first part.

Tristan interrupts my thoughts. “Before we left, Garth said the DOT would only be watching if a burp occurs in the time string. Would damage to the time tunnel create a burp?”

I blink a few times, amazed I didn’t consider this sooner. “Titanic hit the berg before 1140pm, which means events were sped up. That alone should’ve initiated a burp, not that they could use surveillance on the time string this far back, but they’d know something changed. I don’t know if they can see the radiation feedback, but they’re watching the cosmic rifts for sure.” I take a deep breath. “Mom and Dad are probably freaking out. But I know my Dad, and I know he’ll leave Port Butterman open as long as possible.”

For a few seconds, I let myself toy with the idea that almost everything is stacked against us.

“So they know we’re in trouble. Could they send help?” Tristan asks.

“How? The time tunnel’s been destroyed, the time-port over the Atlantic inaccessible. They won’t know we never exited the time string.” I pause. “They have no idea we’re in the exact same spot as them in this very moment, only 157 years earlier.”

“I’m surprised Garth hasn’t shown up. We couldn’t get away from her in Manhattan or Bethel.”

I stare at him, traces of a dull ache flashing through my mind. “Suddenly I’ve got the worst feeling that she’s set us up for failure.”

Tristan’s brows furrow behind his blond shag. “She couldn’t have known all this would happen … could she? Not like before …”

My breath is short, and I fight to inhale deeply. I feel tossed in the middle of a bad TV rerun. Everything is obvious, yet nothing makes much sense. “What if she did? What if the DOT has known about my Induction Day all along, like they knew about Woodstock and Boris? What if they sent me here ‘cause they knew I’d fail?”

Tristan’s speechless.

Now that my brain is on a roll, I can’t stop it. “What if that’s why the media is there to begin with? What if it’s all Garth’s doing? I knew she couldn’t be trusted.” I pause, my hands trembling. “Holy hell, I’ve got that—”

“Gut feeling.”

Our gazes meet, realization washing over both our faces, and everything feels like it’s already happened before.

Finally I say, “This can’t be another CCL, though. One person’s life cannot be a perpetual Consistent Causal Loop.” I pause. “On the other hand, Garth’s actions in our normal time string could be.”

Tristan’s eyes light up. “Holy shit, Finn Capra mentioned her. I didn’t think anything of it at the time ‘cause she was all over the news with your press release, but what if the two of them are connected? What if that’s why he set me up?”

Bing
! And there it is.
Cryptogram assimilated and deciphered
.

“Son of a bitch,” I say between my teeth. “It was all a total ruse. Garth playing nice, trying to help Butterman Travel, pretending the world needs to see me perform to prove my ability. She means for us to die out here.”

Tristan grips my shoulder. “Remember what Evan and Evangeline said back at Woodstock? About the government not being able to control our choices, but being able to influence them?”

A buzz of energy sails across my skin. My far distant relatives, Evan and Evangeline, are from the future, aware of the corruption within the DOT. It was they who clued me into Garth trying to divert us from Woodstock—from having contact with Boris Butterman and ensuring the CCL continues.

“That’s why she wanted this,” I say. “Garth wanted us to fail all along. She’s expecting us not to return, or come back as total flops in front of the media, in front of the world. Then the DOT can finally shut us down.”

“But won’t that look bad for them since they approved you?”

“Sure, but getting to shut us down has way more appeal. Setting us up for failure in front of the world is just the thing they need.”

“Do you think Garth knew this would happen, because she received word from the future?” he asks. “What did you call it before? Forecasting—”

“Forecasted destinies. Like predicting the weather. But the wind doesn’t obey history, and neither do people. Paths can always change, and timelines can always be rewritten by choices we make.”

“It’s so whacked out.” Tristan ponders the thought, rubbing his chin. “Would it have something to do with what Evan and Evangeline said about the DOT—how they lose their authority to Butterman Travel someday? But for Garth to actually risk our lives is—”

“Ruthless. She’s rewriting the timeline herself, no matter the cost. Remember what she said about her father and finishing his work? It has something to do with all this. I researched him, and most of it’s classified, but from what I could find out, Roland Garth was part of a special government project researching alternate time travel methods, mainly teleportation time travel.”

“T-cube?”

“Exactly. They were trying to develop their own teleportation technology. Roland Garth was an advocate for government regulated time travel, believed private agencies should be done away with or operated in full by the DOT as subsidiaries. He’s the reason why time travel patents became impossible to obtain for newer agencies.”

The temperature inside the vessel is dropping noticeably. My legs rattle the floor beneath my seat.

I continue. “They must’ve dipped into the future timelines and discovered Butterman Travel’s success. Evangeline gave me the formula for T-cube. She wanted me to know it because she knew the DOT needed to be stopped. The more I think about it, the surer I am that a Butterman invented T-cube, and that’s the reason we become more powerful than the DOT. There’s no other explanation.”

“They’ll do anything to stop it. Bianca, this could get really dangerous.”

I know Tristan spoke but his words aren’t coherent to me while my epiphany is still unfurling. “They already know what the future holds for them—they know they lose their power to control time travel.”

Tristan shivers, drawing my attention. “What happened to Garth’s father?”

I check the power supply and kick up the heat a notch. “He was killed during a teleportation experiment. After that, the DOT slowed their development. Roland Garth was the scientist heading up the trials, and his death delayed everything. The government has knowledge of the future and they’re breaking their own rules to bring down Butterman Travel.”

My words sound absurd and evocative at the same time. I can’t be sure any of it’s true, but I’ve a gut feeling that’s begging me to believe.

“Like a new world order or something,” Tristan says. “Whoa.”

Out of the blue, my brain tremors and I grab my head.

“You okay?” Tristan asks.

I brush my fingers over my forehead, applying pressure over my eyes, then the bridge of my nose.

“You’re in no condition to operate a time-craft.”

“We don’t have any other choice.” The tremor has passed, but dizziness takes its place. “I can’t let Garth control my destiny. If she beats me now, it’s the end of Butterman Travel. Everything I do counts.” I position my hands over the dashboard again, recalibrating the radio signal for application. “Why else would Evangeline and Evan shown up in Bethel? Future Buttermans are relying on me.”

“Maybe
they’ll
show up then.”

The idea offers a glimmer of hope that I could easily be seduced by. But I shake my head. “We can’t expect my future relatives to show up whenever there’s trouble. Like my mom says, it’s a false security, and we have to be accountable some time.”