Induction Day: Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series (4 page)

“He has a point,” Dad says. “Worth checking into when the timing is right. Once this rigmarole with the media is over.” He takes my chin in his hand. “You’ll get your Induction Day eventually, Bee. I promise.”

I get a little choked up whenever my dad looks me in the face that seriously. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Ah … about that rigmarole.” Tristan rubs the back of his neck. “Did Val tell you what to expect after your press release?”

Dad gives him a once over. “That we could get back to a bit of normalcy, and that once in front of the camera would be enough.”

Tristan groans under his breath.

“It will be enough, won’t it?” Dad asks him, honing in like he can taste Tristan’s fear.

I’ve never seen Dad so unbridled before. He’s usually so mellow, focused.

Mom moves in, takes Dad by the arm. “Gavin, why don’t we give them some time to freshen up after their shuttle ride? We can discuss this later.”

“Freshen up?” Dad mutters. “It was less than an hour flight.”

The surveillance monitor bleeps in the far corner, above the fridge to signal there’s a visitor out front of the office. Mom gestures at it, expanding the screen to see who’s there. Three hooded persons fill the screen, only their noses and mouths visible.

“Reporters,” I say.

“How do you know?” Mom asks.

“Call it a hunch.”

“Enough is enough, I’m telling them to leave the premises and watch the press release online tomorrow like everybody else.” Dad bolts for the front office.

Mom follows. “Gavin, don’t be rude, it won’t look good.”

I glance at Tristan. “Why do I feel like my life just turned into a lost cause?”

The monitor blips again, but this time with a phone call. It’s coming in on the Agency line from an anonymous caller.

Quickly, I shift gears into my professional-self and gesture the answer button for voice only. “Thank you for calling Butterman Travel, Incorporated, how can I assist you?”

“Bianca, nice to talk to you again. May we continue via visuals?”

That voice. I’d recognize it anywhere. It still makes my hair stand on end. DOT special agent Lola Garth.

I move in closer to the device cam and expand visuals, revealing myself to her at the same time her pale narrow face pops on-screen.

“That’s better.” She smiles, and for once it looks pretty genuine. “I hear we’ve got some complications up there.”

We
? Since when does she lump herself into a collective with Butterman Travel?

“No, Agent Garth,” I say. “Everything’s fine.”

“Really? Some concerns have arisen here at headquarters.” She’s got her professional tone of voice all tweaked just as I do. “I wanted to call first, as a courtesy. I’ve been assigned to your … situation, so I’ll be seeing you in a few hours.”

“You’re coming
here
?”

“As we speak. My shuttle should get in approximately 1800hours. Are your parents available for a quick word?”

“You’re coming here for a quick word?”

She shakes her head, not a strand of platinum hair out of place, slicked back in a tight bun. “No, Bianca. I’d like to speak to them now, let them know I’ll be visiting tomorrow morning for a consultation.”

Tomorrow
? The press release is tomorrow night. If Garth is here for that, she could screw us up even more. Not like she won’t know about it once it goes live anyway, but holy hell. I don’t even know what she knows. If she has a case of analog recall, we’ll never get out of this. Not that she showed any evidence of it after the Rewrite in October. I can only imagine what the media would do with information on the pre-Rewrite violations from New York. Who knows what information the DOT from the future has sent back to incriminate us with.

Garth doesn’t sound like she’s coming to issue citations, though.

Tristan nudges me. “Should I get your parents?”

“I’m sure they’ve already accessed the call,” I say, guessing they answered from the front office at the same time I did back here.

On cue, Dad’s face emerges on a digital screen-box beside Garth’s.

“Yes, I’m listening, Agent Garth. Did we have an appointment I’ve forgotten about?”

Garth snickers, as if she really is a relaxed, fun person—not the down-to-business DOT special agent who tried sabotaging Butterman Travel a month ago. “No, Mr. Butterman, not to worry.”

“We’re not due for another audit til next year,” Dad says.

“That’s right,” Garth says, smiling again. “We got word of a bit of a scandal out your way, and I just wanted to let you know the DOT is on your side. We can discuss some tactical approaches when I arrive. I’m unable to get accommodation at the Chiganak Inn, or anywhere else for that matter. I don’t suppose you have a guest room at your place, do you?”

My entire body cringes. She’s got to be kidding.

“Of course,” Mom pipes up alongside Dad. “We’d be happy to have you. Plenty of room.”

“Very good,” Garth nods. “I’ll notify you when my shuttle touches down.”

“We’ll send someone up to the airport for you.”

Garth smiles one last time and ends the call, her face disappearing from on-screen, as well as Mom’s and Dad’s.

I bury my face in my palms.
What a week I’m having
. Garth is coming here. In the middle of the press release that’s supposed to clarify I’m not a junkhead and prove we run a clean time travel operation.

And that’s not even what’s bunching my undies right now. It’s the fact that Garth is playing nice.

F
ifteen hundred people
. That’s how many lost their lives aboard the
R.M.S. Titanic
in the year 1912. Sixteen lifeboats went out, most half empty, while women, children, and men drowned in the frigid waters of the Northern Atlantic off the coast of Newfoundland. Water at that temperature induces hypothermia within minutes, shuts the body down immediately. For many of the victims, that pain was dulled, once the icy water flooded their lungs and drowned their brains of oxygen.

The story has haunted me since the first day I learned about it in World History. I was ten—an inexperienced time traveler, but well-read in the Inductions of Buttermans throughout the past few generations—and the significance of
Titanic’s
tragedy did not escape me over the next few years that followed. At fourteen I decided it would be my Induction and Butterman signature in space and time. If a doorway to an alternate universe can be detected out there, chances are, it was created by a time traveler, possibly even a Butterman.

For years I assumed that once I turned eighteen and my time-craft license became official, I’d have my Induction Day. Now, my only hope is that the DOT will approve the trip without worrying about the date exceeding the 100 year limit so they can claim their tax money. Except, if they want to be slick, they could come back afterward and issue a citation for breaking the 100 year regulation, which means they’d keep the nonrefundable taxes, and make us pay an infraction on top of it. Dad said himself he wouldn’t put it past them. A stunt like that could put us out of operation for months. All for my Induction Day.

“Bee, it’s time,” Dad says over my bedroom voice-com.

“Coming,” I call out, the voice sensor transmitting my response simultaneously.

I check my reflection in the mirror again. Mom suggested I tone down the charcoal eyeshadow and blue-black mascara to promote a softer image, but Garth of all people advised I show my true self on camera—that I’m a regular teenager beneath the dark-glam colors. It was the first time she’s ever said anything I’ve agreed with. She even managed to convince my parents I should do the press release. I still can’t believe she’s here, staying in
this
house. If Mom can schmooze her over while she’s here, maybe I’ll get my Induction after all.

Taming the last few black strands on top of my head, I gesture at my mirror to return to its digital discothèque screen saver, allowing industrial electronica to pulse my surround speakers at a low volume.

The world is about to meet me. I take a deep breath
. I can do this.

T
he lighting
along the ceiling of Butterman Travel’s front reception office is on full blast, drenching the room in fluorescence. A couple of reporters in black long sleeved thermals are making beverages at the espresso machine next to the hearth. I can tell they’re reporters by the control cuffs fixed to their wrists like bracelets to synchronize their hover-cams, not to mention the holo-badges projected at their left shoulders with the Worldwide News Network insignia.

Mom and Dad are cornered by Garth at the hallway, nodding intently. Dad’s folding his bottom lip between his two fingers, like he always does when he’s concentrating or worrying. I approach them, focused on Garth’s airbrushed-like appearance.

“Bianca, good morning,” she says, her voice bordering on bubbly. Her platinum locks are swept to one side over her shoulder like she just stepped out of a hair salon. “You had a chance to go over the digi-notes I streamed you?”

I glance at Dad, who’s rubbing his chin now and looks like he may break out into hives.

“Dad, are you okay?”

“I will be.”

Folding my arms over my black vinyl V-neck, I stare at Garth. “Are you sure about this? I mean, I wanted to say my peace, but maybe Tristan’s agent was right.”

“Honey, Val Danforth knows what’s best for performing artists like Tristan,” Mom says in her even-toned voice. “This is different. Agent Garth has the best interest of our operation in mind.”

By the look on her face, she believes it. Until about ten seconds ago, I wanted to believe it too. Before the Timeline Rewrite, Garth tried tricking my great, great grandfather Boris Butterman at Woodstock—so she could sabotage the Butterman biz and prevent our family time travel science from ever being discovered. That was the very reason Evangeline and Evan Butterman showed up in the first place, and they gave me every reason to believe Garth is no friend to this family. Well, they didn’t exactly say that, but they time traveled to 1969 from the distant future to make sure the Butterman CCL wasn’t interrupted, or else Butterman Travel may not exist today.

I scan the office again, hoping to catch Tristan leaning up against the wall with a latte, but he’s nowhere to be seen. The WNN staff rustles around my desk, handling and moving items that don’t belong to them.

“What are they doing?” I ask, closing in on the black-shirted guys.

Mom follows. “They’re setting up for optimum background lighting.”

“Don’t touch that,” I tell the freckled guy with my photo pyramid in his hands.

“Sorry,” he says. “Better if no personal effects are in visuals. Producer’s orders.”

“They won’t bother anything, Bianca,” Mom says. “Let them do their job.”

I snatch the pyramid from the guy’s hands, wiping any fingerprints away from the digital display of six-year-old me with my dog, Nivarre—the only pet I ever owned.

“We’ll be ready in five,” the other black shirt announces, readjusting the wireless mike at his ear, then moving backward while holding up a device to test the lighting. The hover-cam at his shoulder moves in sync with him to the corner of the room.

Dad’s beside me now. “Agent Garth pulled a few strings and managed to get you Germaine Ricks. He’ll go easier on you than anyone else at WNN. He has a nice-guy reputation.”

I glance back at Garth, who’s now got her device at her ear and obviously on a phone call.

Leaning in toward Dad, I whisper, “I’m still not sure we should trust her.”

“I have my doubts,” he says. “But it’s possible your Timeline Rewrite altered her objectives in some way. Hard to say when your mother and I suffered a full memory purge along with it.”

“You believe me though?” I ask, a tad defensively. “She shut us down before I went back and changed it with the Rewrite. She was a different person, just ask Tristan.”

Dad’s green eyes narrow on me. “Tristan wasn’t there. He didn’t T-cube with you, or rewrite the timeline.”

I hesitate, checking for listening ears, then lowering my voice til it’s barely audible at all. “Tristan has analog recall.”

Dad’s lips part but he says nothing at first. Rubbing his chin again, he says, “You’re sure about this?”

“Positive. Ask him.”

“Fascinating.” Dad’s no longer looking at me but off into space. “Truly fascinating.”

Mom’s been eavesdropping best she can but I don’t know what all she heard. She pats my back. “Agent Garth wants to help.”

“Mom, she’s still DOT. Don’t forget that.”

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” she says with a little snicker. “You wanted to do this press release, and now you are. Don’t tell me you changed your mind because of Agent Garth.”

I’m about to reply, when I realize nothing I can say will prevent me from sounding like a whiny brat.

“Your father and I talked it over last night and what Agent Garth says makes a lot of sense. You’re a professional, and the world needs to see that side of you. Agent Garth wants us to prove we’re a safe and reliable time travel agency, or else the DOT wouldn’t have gotten involved.”

“Rumors create misconceptions,” Dad chimes in now. “The confusions out there right now are that you’re an incognito addict connected to Tristan’s past struggles. They want the world to believe you’re incompetent, reckless. You have to show them the opposite.”

“Nothing your father or I can say will prove otherwise,” Mom says. “It’s up to you. Show them you’re committed to excellence just as all Buttermans are.”

My shoulders heave with my sigh. Garth really did a number on them. “You say all this like I’m supposed to believe the DOT actually—”

“We’ve got as much to lose as you do.” Garth startles me, appearing at my desk. “We’ve approved your operation for years—what does it say about us if you fit the bill of a substance abuser?”

My device indicates a call and I step down the hall, converting my palm-com to retro-phone style for a private voice only call with Tristan.

“I talked to Val,” he says from the other end. “No way should I be there during the interview.”

My neck tenses. “Guess I’m flying solo then.”

A bad thought runs through my head and I feel like a total jerk for thinking it. I mean, I know Tristan had his own press release to do, but it’s because of him I’m stuck doing this one and he’s not even here to support me.

“She still thinks it’s a bad idea, you know,” he interrupts my thought. “Says it’s too soon for you to be under the gun on camera.”

“My parents are convinced Garth’s here to help.”

“Maybe the DOT realized they can’t beat you.”

“That easily?” I scoff. “It’s so unlike them. But my parents trust her. They have no memory of her vindictive attitude when she shut us down that first time.”

“Oh shit, that’s right. They wouldn’t, would they. The universal memory purge. But they believe you—about what happened, right?”

“Supposedly. It’s just that, in their minds, Garth hasn’t done anything wrong to us, even though it’s ‘cause I rewrote the timeline. How can they harbor any suspicion or resentment when they have no memory of being treated badly?”

“Wicked thought,” Tristan says. “Brings the forgive and forget mentality to a whole different level.”

“If she
is
bullshitting us, I need to find a way to prove it without getting into trouble.”

“You could refuse to do the interview.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“Just be careful, okay,” he says. “The media will pull everything they’ve got to try and trip you up. The bigger the spectacle, the higher the ratings. Don’t forget for one minute that it’s not about the ratings.”

“Germaine Ricks is doing the interview. My dad says he’s not so bad.”

“Ricks will try to get you to trust him, Butterman. So you’ll open up and admit your mistakes. Don’t fall for it.”

“Bianca, it’s time.” Dad’s in front of me now, motioning me to hang up.

“Gotta go.” I eye the guys at my desk again. “I … wish you were here.”

“I’ll be watching from my room,” Tristan says. “Remember, live means you can’t take anything back, so never let your guard down. I’ll meet up with you after.”

I disconnect without a response, my mouth suddenly desert-dry. I’m supposed to be natural and show my personality while staying on guard and not leaking too much information. Right.

As soon as I take my seat behind my desk, a black shirt with a powder puff examines my face with a twitch of his lips. “Makeup check, hold still. Needs more color.”

He whips out a compact and enters some kind of data into it that I can’t see. After a few seconds it beeps and ejects a palette of neutral and rosy tones that he dabs onto my cheeks, and blends.

“Thought I was spose to look like I always do,” I say, holding my face still.

“Exactly,” he says. “But sweetie you’re gonna look all washed up if we don’t bring these cheeks to life. The zombie craze is long over.” He blends some more then steps back, studies me. “There you go. You, only better.”

I’m about to pull up the mirror app on my holo-screen, when Garth leans in, whispers in my ear, her perfume a blunt floral overkill. “I’m right here if you need me.”

Huh
? The hairs on my arm stand on end. I watch her back away, her lips turned up into a formal, condescending smile. For the first time since I walked in, I notice everything about her—the way her sleek navy pantsuit is tailored to hug every curve of her body; the diamond studs in her ears that catch the light just the right way now and then and sparkle with pretention. She looks different—more glamorous than professional—like she’s trying too hard.

“On in three …” A black shirt says, moving toward me, his hover-cam at his left shoulder.

The holo-screen above my desk goes blank, then bursts to life with a face visual of the bald, dark-skinned Germaine Ricks, who’s looking at something on his desk while a staff member touches up his makeup.

My belly twists.
Deep breaths now. I can do this
. I’ve seen Germaine Ricks interview a couple of celebrities and politicians before, but someone like me? All at once, I want to tear out of here, suck in copious amounts of fresh air. If Tristan had never walked in here to book a time trip that day, I’d never be in this situation.
Why does he have to be a superstar?
My palms dampen with sweat.
Why do I have to be attracted to him?

I remember what Tristan said about Germaine Ricks interview techniques and I almost wonder if Tristan’s not suffering from a mild case of paranoia. Either way, I’m on full alert mode.

“You’re a professional, remember that, Bee,” Dad says at my desk, then moves off to the side next to Mom.

Mom’s hands are clasped beneath her chin in anticipation—just like when I had my enrollment interview from the Academy of Science & Technology four years ago. Getting into their online high school program was the toughest event of my life. Til I met Tristan Helms.

The track lighting dissolves into a dim hue everywhere but over my desk, where it singles me out in white light. Quickly, I expand my mirror app and glance at my hair and face. Hair is parted to the side, my bangs neatly combed forward. My mascara and eyeshadow are dark, but more gray than black. My cheeks are a chipper rouge. Ugh, they’ve got to be kidding. I don’t do chipper.

Just as I try to rub it away with my fingers, Germaine’s slippery-slick voice fills the room. “Thank you for joining us today for a WNN exclusive with Bianca Butterman. You may be familiar with her as the latest romantic interest of recovered heliox addict, Tristan Helms. Former frontman for the heartthrob boy band U-Turn, Tristan smashed billboard charts a few weeks ago with a sensational solo comeback to the music scene and international bestselling single,
Fall
. Bianca’s agreed to go in depth and personal with me today, so let’s cut right to the chase and get the story straight.”