Induction Day: Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series (3 page)

“Liar. Tell the truth, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

Squirming beneath him, I finally let go and laugh hysterically. “Never.”

“Come on, now, say it … you can’t wait to get me alone in your time-craft again.”

A loud blip startles us both and we turn toward the holo-screen. A face message blinks and dings, begging to be opened.

Tristan hops off me and moves toward it, readying himself in his chair. Minimizing his face window so the area behind him isn’t visible, he accepts the call.

The face of an older red-headed woman emerges in midair. “There you are, darling,” she says in a tight British accent. “Okay, let’s get down to business. It’s getting ugly. I’ve arranged a press conference via real-time video later today. 10AM. I want you squeaky clean and coherent. Got it?”

“What
now
?” Tristan asks, running his fingers through his messy bangs.

“You’re better off not knowing. Just stick to the same three answers we’ve gone over in the past, or slight variations thereof. And lots of personality. More important than ever. Let them see you’re on top of your game. And you are, darling, you are. Remember that.
Fall
is number three in the country now, number eleven worldwide. Own it. The past is the past.”

“A press release, Val? Come on. Last thing I need is looking ignorant while some reporter puts me on the spot. What’s going on?” Tristan’s former playfulness has now vanished, his shoulders tense.

Val takes a deep, thoughtful breath. “The video of you crushing the microdrone went viral. All the gossip forums are crawling with speculation of violent streaks linked to heliox withdrawals.” She pauses. “They’re linking it to your friend’s time travel agency, saying the two of you are meddling with time, and that it’s the only reason for your success.”

Tristan is silent. Not just a don’t-know-what-to-say silence, but a calm-before-the-storm silence. Makes my throat constrict.

“Unflattering pictures have flooded the webs,” Val continues, a softer tone to her voice. “Old pictures of you I’ve never seen before. The offer to buy them is most likely irresistible to any and every freelancer with a microdrone. People you didn’t even realize had taken your picture back then are coming out of the woodwork to make a quick buck. But, Tristan, that’s not you anymore, you have to come to terms with that, darling. We’re taking this to the next level, nipping it in the bud. Once the public sees you like I’m seeing you right now, they’re going to forget all this mud-slinging. Trust me.”

“What about Butterman Travel?” Tristan asks.

I clasp my hands together, equally mystified as I am afraid. Afraid for my family’s livelihood and baffled Tristan put concern for
it
, before himself.

Val offers a weak smile. “At present, it’s not good. It’s up to them, but if you want my advice, it’s in their best interest to make an official statement, do their own press release. I can help them arrange it if you’d like.”

“Yes, I’d like.” Tristan frowns. “I won’t have any blame placed on them. Understood? It’s unacceptable.”

“I’ll contact them immediately,” Val says. “Be ready at your screen by 930AM local. Do not be late whatever you do. Very important they see your attention to punctuality. WNN will contact you directly and stream the live call. No room for bloopers today, you understand that, don’t you, darling? Have answers and explanations ready. Nothing specific. Try not to bring up Butterman Travel unless directly asked, answer only for yourself. The Buttermans should take care of their own damage control, I’ll see to it they understand.”

“Got it. Thanks, Val.” Tristan gives her a nod, shuts down the call, his back still to me. “I’m sorry, Bianca. It’s my fault.”

I let out a shaky sigh and move in just behind him. “It sucks. But it’s not your fault.”

I’d try to comfort him more, but truth is, I’m a little freaked out right now. What will my parents say? They tried convincing me that coming here by myself was a bad idea. I countered with the classic
legal-adult-at-eighteen
retort. It was all I had.

“Maybe news hasn’t reached my parents yet,” I say, but more for my own assurance than Tristan’s. “I should be the one to break it to them.”

Fat chance. Mom listens to news reports every morning with her coffee. If this scandal has gone viral, WNN is bound to mention it, especially if they’ve got an exclusive with Tristan in a few hours.

“Val’s a wiz with damage control,” Tristan tells me. “Best there is, that’s why she’s my agent. She’ll tell your parents exactly what to say.”

“What about me? Shouldn’t I be there, though? All this is my fault. I’ve gotta call them.” I check the clock at the bottom right of the holo-screen. “It’s middle of the night in Alaska right now.”

“So wake them up. They’ll wanna hear it from you.”

I want to see just how bad the damage is first. Moving in to the holo-screen, I open a browser, enter
Web-Celeb Talk
in the search engine and peruse the home page. The holo-GIF animation of him and me is no longer front and central, instead a picture of a heavy-lidded Tristan with a sloppy smirk and his arm around some plastic looking chick with cleavage bigger than my ass commands attention. The caption under it reads, “
How many honeys does Tristan Helms have? Let’s just say he keeps the pretty ones for the fun times
…” Below is a picture of me from yesterday at the shuttle-port and I’m scowling in the worst way. Underneath says, “
And stores the useful ones away in the Arctic til his social blunders need repair
.”

The air leaves my body like I’ve been punched in the gut.

In one swift motion, the site closes down with Tristan’s sudden gesture. “Thought you were calling your parents. Don’t pull this crap up. Ever. Nothing good’ll come of it.”

I lean back in his chair, allowing my stiff body to slacken with a bout of hopelessness. What am I doing here, mixed up in all this? What have I done?

Tristan stoops beside me, his irises hauntingly darker than usual. “Listen, I know how you feel. I’ve dealt with this longer than I ever wanted to. No one ever explains what you’re signing up for beforehand—all anyone from the other side sees is fortune and glamour and flashy grins in spotlights.” He pauses, studying my gaze with an undeniable intent of honesty. “I should’ve made it clearer to you. This is my life, this is what you get. The bad with the good, and I don’t like it any more than you do. If you wanna leave, never see me again, I’ll understand.”

I’m silent, marveling at the despair he must keep buried so deeply down inside of him. Never seeing him again has crossed my mind, but at what cost? The damage is already done, and why should
they
win?

I kiss his cheek. “Trying to get rid of me already?”

He cracks half a smile. “Not even close

“
N
ever seen
the town this busy. Ever.” Agnes Whirlwind tells us, revving the snowmobile engine outside the airport terminal beside the hangar. “Not even on Caribou Parade days. Dalton’s ready to blow a gasket. Commotion’s got the dogs spooked and howling all night, every night.”

I climb on the snowmobile behind her lean, hunched frame—hunched from years of diner serving and Iditarod training. Tristan secures our bags in the rear compartment, then straddles the passenger seat behind me. I remind him to dial up the temperature on his parka’s thermal threading, and once our seatbelts are fastened, Agnes lifts off the ground in full hover mode. Mom warned us before our arrival that Paloot was packed with media. Ever since Tristan’s press release went live yesterday morning, the town’s been an epicenter of cameras and reporters. Having Agnes pick us up behind the airport hangar was Dad’s idea.

“Hard to believe,” Tristan calls out. “Media this far north in the winter. They must be really hard up for stories.”

“Probably figured it was safer being here in person, the way you smashed up that one microdrone,” Agnes calls over the wind, accelerating through the air, inches above the ground.

Neither Tristan nor I acknowledge her comment. Even if she’s teasing—which I seriously doubt from the bite of her tone—she has no idea how it feels to be in our positions. Granted, her quiet rural home is now a media circus because of us.

Conversation remains sparse while Agnes drives us down the one-street town of Paloot and toward Butterman Travel’s office. Bitter 10 degree wind whips past the tops of my cheeks—the only part of my face uncovered between my goggles and fur hood, and I crank up my in-seam thermal heating another notch.

Along the main strip, outside Agnes’ Diner, parka-clad people are milling about, bundled down to their boots, save for their cylindrical hover-cams above their shoulders. All of it’s so odd, as if someone finally struck gold in some forgotten ghost town and it’s now crawling with camera-ready prospectors. Once we past Chiganak’s Inn, it’s clear how bad it’s gotten. A throng of non-locals with backpacks on stop to watch us approach, aware that at any moment, the objects of their media gossip could arrive.

Luckily, with our fur hoods and goggles on they can’t tell us apart from the next local, but I have no doubt they’re ready to pounce should their potential story makes itself known.

“Veer right, behind Old EagleEye’s,” I call out to Agnes.

“They can’t see your faces,” she calls back. “Want me to stir up some wake? Soak’em with snow?”

I pat her upper shoulder through her heavy coat. “Better lay low. I don’t like the way they’re staring.”

She doesn’t answer, speeds up and around Chiganak’s, then bears a quick right, where we weave between the narrow space of Old EagleEye’s house and workshop. My body shivers, even though I’m now plenty warm enough inside my pink thermal puffer and new snow boots, compliments of Tristan’s favorite ski boutique in L.A. It isn’t snowing at the moment, but the Arctic skies are an overcast pearly gray. Unfriendly and dreary. Not the hopeful return I was dreaming of, but anywhere’s better than L.A., where microdrones seem to materialize in thin air. Gives me the total creeps.

Tristan’s arms sneak up and around my waist, giving me a little squeeze, as if he’s thinking what I’m thinking. He’s taking the heat for being aggressive and for smashing that microdrone, but truth is, if he hadn’t, I would have. What would the media have to say about me then? Not that it could get any worse, but I’m petrified of damaging my family biz’s reputation by doing something stupid on camera.

I reach over and clutch Tristan’s gloved hand with mine, holding on tight while Agnes speeds up my mountain and into a nice, even idle to the back of Butterman Travel’s red brick building, where my house is located.

“Looks clear,” Agnes says, leaving the snowmobile in neutral at the back door.

It does look clear, but I’m on full guard as Tristan and I hop off and grab our backpacks.

“Here’s hoping it stays that way,” I say.

Agnes nods, spits off to the side, her leathery face barely visible from beneath her goggles and hood. “Gotta get back before Dalton loses his cool. I made a new vat of chowder. Come on in for some once all this settles.”

“And some sourdough pancakes,” Tristan says with a grin. “Been dreaming about them.”

Agnes lets out a raspy chuckle. “You got a deal. At least all this hullabaloo is bringing in some business.” She frowns. “When you expect it to be over with?”

I start for the back door. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.

Thanks again, Agnes.”

She waves, then zooms out of sight.

A whiff of hickory fills my nostrils and the tension in my shoulders eases. I glance upwards at the smoke rising from the chimney of our quaint train-station-style house. So quiet out here, in the little patch of woods on our mountain. It’s good to be back.

Zip! Zap
!

I jerk my head to the right, left.
What the
…? There it is again.

Microdrones zigzag in all around us.

“You’ve gotta be kidding.” I sling my bag at one that buzzes right past my face with a series of blinks and snaps that must be still-frame photography.

“Get inside,” Tristan says.

At the same second, the back door flings open and Dad pulls me in, Tristan following.

I drop my bag to the floor and push my hood away from my face. “Dad, you didn’t tell me they had the place surrounded. This is supposed to be my safe haven.”

Dad gestures with open, helpless palms in front of him. “I’m afraid at this point, this could all be part of our new reality.”

“We didn’t want to worry you.” Mom appears, her dark curls loose around her beige turtleneck. “It’s not as bad as it seems.” She takes my coat, brushes off the damp residue from the ride and hangs it on the coatrack, before motioning for Tristan’s.

“It’s every bit as bad as it seems,” Dad corrects her, a fierce light behind his green eyes. “Don’t try to downplay it, Gwen.”

Mom ignores him, smiling at Tristan. “How are you, dear?”

“Fine, Mrs. Butterman,” he says, his chin dimpling with his weak smile. “I … wanna apologize for all this.”

“Not your fault,” Mom says.

She’s working her gentle empathy angle. I’ll forever be baffled by her innate inability to place blame.

Dad, on the other hand, is pursing his lips like he’s sucking on a sour ball. It riddles me with guilt down to my toenails. The very reason we operate way up here in the middle of frigid nowhere is to get away from mainstream society. Now mainstream society is here, watching our every move.

“I gotta tell you, I don’t like this,” Dad says to Tristan, his gaze wildly unsympathetic. “Not one bit.”

“Gavin, honey, don’t scare them any more than they already are.” Mom pats his arm. “We’ve discussed this already.”

“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.”