Induction Day: Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series (5 page)

I recognize Germaine Rick’s signature slogan and cringe. Everything is happening so fast.

“I want to thank you for being with us today, Bianca,” Germaine continues, his tone pitch-perfect and gentle. “Let me put the viewer in your shoes for a moment: Bianca grew up in the smallest of towns in Northern Alaska, just inside the Arctic Circle, to a family of time travelers. Butterman Travel Incorporated has been around for over forty-four years, serving the public with commercial time travel. Eighteen-year-old Bianca graduated with honors from the Academy of Science & Technology homeschool program and earned her time-craft pilot’s license one month ago, as well as certification as time trip guide.”

At least he’s starting with the good stuff.

He continues, his attention directed toward the camera, “Having booked time trips for such clients as world renowned film producer, Miguel Manuel Ramirez; Scandinavian Royal Highness, Evelisse Lovelane, and NFL sensation, Vincent Palmer, Butterman Travel has been a highly accredited and well sought after agency. But that reputation has taken a beating over the last few days, once Tristan Helms was confirmed as a client and potential love interest to Bianca. One is fresh out of rehab; the other a newly licensed time trip guide and pilot—a potentially calamitous combination.” He turns his attention on me. “Bianca, how do you feel about this?”

I tug at the velvet choker that seems to be shrinking around my neck.
Holy hell, why didn’t I remove it before we started
? The

fluorescent lights are so bright, so hot. My tongue is pasty, unable to form words. And the silence I’ve created is now swallowing me.

Germaine’s brows are raised, his lips pursed just slightly, as if unsure whether or not I’ve heard his question.

“Bianca, answer him.” Mom’s voice is barely a whisper somewhere in the close distance.

In a deep breath, I refocus, move my hands beneath my legs to stop them from shaking.

“Bianca, is everything okay?” Germaine asks.

Instantly, it brings me back into the moment. I can’t choke on air or the smut sites will make a carnival ride out of it for the world to heckle at.

“Uh, yeah,” I start. “I was thinking how best to answer without swearing.”

I know it’s a bad joke, but I’m hoping it breaks the ice.

Germaine lets out the smallest of chuckles. “I see, and you’ve accomplished that. Anything else you’d like to add?”

“Think about what you asked me, sir,” I say. “No offense, but how would
you
feel if your own reputation took a beating?”

“Point taken,” he says. “An obvious question, but an invitation for you to connect with our viewers and share a little about what you’re going through. Are any of the allegations about you being associated with Tristan’s drug addiction true?”

Good, a black and white question. I can do that.

“No, they’re not. I have no affiliation with drug use of any kind. Neither do my parents or Butterman Travel.”

“But you are, in fact, seeing Tristan Helms.”

Talk about moment of truth. I’m about to announce a relationship to the world when I don’t even know how serious it is myself. Not that they don’t know about it already anyway, but this is so not normal.

“Yes, we’re friends.”

“Kissing friends, as some popular tabloid sites would promote,” Germaine says, a brow arched.

“Whatever my relationship is with Tristan, it has nothing to do with his past addiction or my family’s business.” I ease the tension in my tone. “We’re just trying to get to know each other, you know?”

Germaine smiles, flashing his white teeth. “Spoken like a true teenager. I get that. WNN is all about exposing the truth. That’s why we’re here. Which brings me to my next question, Bianca. Your agency comes up clean for violations, yet reports of a Piloting Under the Influence warning, DOT evasion, and jetpack larceny during an unlogged time trip to New York City have emerged. How do you explain those?”

Screeech. And Halt
. How the hell can he know about that if it happened before the Timeline Rewrite?

S
ilence once again
. Thick and heavy. I glance sideways at Garth standing against the wall in the dim lighting. Her eyes are barely visible, and I can’t tell if she’s looking at me or not. Her arms are folded over her chest, her fingers drumming her arm.

Mom and Dad huddle together, their eyes obscured as well, but mouths visibly hanging open.

I glance back on-screen. Germaine’s bald head is slightly tilted, a single brow arched.

Gently, I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question. Butterman Travel has a clean record. No violations.”

“Is that a fact?” Germaine asks. “Stories are circulating about a Paradox Initiation Offense as well—the worst violation a time traveler can receive due to the result it has on the current timeline.” He glances off screen, as if looking for something or someone, then back to me. “And you deny these allegations?”

My eyes reach for support in the background, but my parents are shell-shocked. Garth steps closer into the light, her steel-blue eyes dancing with confidence, her lips pressed into an impassive line.

“Yes.” I refocus on-screen, straightening my posture like it makes a difference in whether or not people believe me. “Butterman Travel has been issued no citations. You may wanna re-check your sources.”

I can feel the sweat beading at my temples and I want to wipe it away.

Germaine speaks through a canned smile, staring down at his desk, at what must be another screen with information. “But you did, in fact, take a time trip to Manhattan with Tristan Helms—”

“No.”

It’s a balled-face lie, but there’s no way Germaine Ricks or WNN or anyone could know about that time trip after the Timeline Rewrite. Tristan and I are the only ones in the universe that have a memory of that trip. Unless …

I glance at Garth. She’s staring at me, motionless, the hint of a smile now playing at her lips.

No way
.

“And you’ve never operated a time-craft or guided a time trip while under the influence of illegal substances?” Germaine asks, focused on me again.

I fight the urge to scratch my neck. I can feel the hives erupting there at this very moment. I’m lying on camera, in front of the world. But if I were to admit those violations were true, there would be no proof to back it up and I’d still be lying. That time trip and those violations were erased forever. Rewritten. Edited out of existence.

“Bianca, would you like me to repeat the question?” Germaine asks with a faint smile.

“Butterman Travel has not been accused of any violations.” Garth steps behind my desk and on-screen, resting her hand on my right shoulder. “And no such reports have been filed. I’m Agent Lola Garth from the Department of Transportation and believe me, if such an offense had occurred, this agency would not be open for business. As we speak, they are fully accredited with the government.”

My body shudders beneath her cold hand, but I’m grateful for the save.

“Plenty of speculation and false accusations out there,” Germaine says. “We can understand that. But here’s the issue—and what, I feel, is the heart of the uproar—time travel is sophisticated business, of which massive dangers, possibly even erasure of existences can result. How is the public supposed to believe that someone of Bianca’s young age is responsible enough to handle it, let alone the fact that her close friend has a reckless habit that could affect her ability to command a knowledge of time-handling efficiently and responsibly?”

“It’s not—” Garth begins.

But I can’t let her speak for me. I interrupt quickly. “Time travel is serious business, I realize that, but I’ve grown up inside this business, know the Butterman time travel science backwards and forwards. If I can’t handle it, then no one else can either. It’s what I’ve always known.” I swallow hard, my hands trembling beneath me. “Tristan Helms’ personal life has no bearings on how Butterman Travel operates. He makes his own choices, and yes, he’s my friend and I trust him.” I glance at Dad. “Our commitment to our customers is safety and reliability without disrupting timelines, and we’ll never compromise that. My personal life is just that, and it’s separate from business.”

Germaine nods. “The world saw Tristan Helms’ interview a couple days ago, and he was resolved to mention his relationship with you had nothing to do with his past bad habits, that if anything, it was keeping him on the straight and narrow. How can you be certain those same bad habits won’t interfere in your professional duty? I think what the world wants to know is, why take the chance, or even risk it?”

I push my shoulders back, weighing my words carefully before I let them out. I can’t let people see me riled up.
Be smart, Bianca
. “When I was a little kid, I used to bite my fingernails down to the quick. Sometimes they’d bleed. My mom tried everything to get me to stop, but I couldn’t break the habit. For a long time I had to wear bandages on all my fingers, and it affected my ability to type. My parents didn’t

give up on me, though. They didn’t tell me it was hopeless, or that I’d never be able to fully use my fingers again. They stuck by me and kept at me til I got better—til I broke the habit. And it’s never interfered in the job I do today.”

“Point taken,” Germaine is quick to say. “But nail-biting doesn’t have the potential of ruining your life, or the lives of those around you.”

“You should’ve seen my nails.” My poor attempt at making light of the situation.

Germaine cracks a half smile. “I want to thank you for being with us today, and helping our viewers get the story straight. We wish you the best, Bianca Butterman, and you as well, Agent Lola Garth. Thank you for your time.”

The WNN theme music plays and the screen shot shifts from Germaine’s head to a montage of past interviews with various people.

Garth removes her hand from my shoulder. Lights come on all over the office now and the staff starts moving around again. Mom and Dad rush over and Dad shakes Garth’s hand, while Mom thanks her profusely. Ignoring me as if I’m not even in the room, much less their daughter who just handled a worldwide press release.

This is all so weird—knowing the world is watching and having opinions about everything I say and do. Bizarre as hell. Only one person I can think of who knows exactly what it feels like.

I swivel my palm-com device around to message Tristan, but Mom and Dad crowd me now.

“You did great, Bee,” Dad says. “We’re proud of you.”

“Agent Garth thinks this will go over well,” Mom adds.

“It ended on a perfect note,” Garth says.

“Let’s get some lunch, huh?” Mom says to me, then focuses on Garth. “Lola, would you care to grab a bite to eat with us?”

Lola
? Mom’s on a first name basis with her now?

“Love to.” Garth makes for the hallway, device in hand. “I just have to conference HQ, and then I’ll meet up with you, say in thirty?”

My skin prickles in the worst way. Who does she have to talk to first? I really don’t like the way she comes and goes at random.

Mom notices my discomfort. “You okay? It’s over now. You can relax.”

“Doesn’t it creep you out that the DOT is staying in our house?” I ask.

“We’ve been through this,” Mom says like she’s looking at a poor little low-IQ child who can’t keep up. “We don’t have to treat them like the enemy. Better for us and for them if we can work together.”

I lower my voice, directing it more toward Dad. “How would Germaine Ricks know about the Manhattan time trip? How do we know Garth is who she says she is? That she’s Garth from now, and not Garth from some other time string?”

Dad scans the room. “That occurred to me as well.”

Again, Mom nods us toward the hallway. “I think it’s best if we sit down and talk with Lola before jumping to conclusions. We should keep this as tactful as possible, no accusations, understand?”

Dad looks like he might protest, then nods agreeably instead. “Your mother is right. Let’s stay on our toes, but give Agent Garth the benefit of the doubt. It’s possible there’s an ulterior motive behind her actions, but it’s also possible that the motive is a worthy one. Fact is we don’t know how the Timeline Rewrite affected the DOT’s relationship with us.” He frowns, looks me square in the eye. “It’s why I don’t like playing around with do-overs. Promise me you won’t pull a stunt like that again without consulting me first.”

I have to roll my eyes because I
have
promised him—when I first told him and Mom everything that happened. “I know, Dad. Just … don’t forget what I told you, or what we learned about what Garth’s father was trying to accomplish.”

“No, I couldn’t.” He drapes an arm over my shoulder, guiding me down the hall. “We’ll evaluate everything. Now’s not the time for accusations, regardless of what happened in previous time strings. First and foremost, we have a business to run. Don’t forget that, Bee.”

I know he’s right, but patience has never been my virtue, and diplomacy is as foreign to me as chipper cheeks on camera. Better start practicing my poker face, or I’ll never get through this lunch.

“Your mother’s right,” Dad continues. “If we can make this situation work to our benefit, we could come out on top. Having the DOT on our side is not a bad thing, and Agent Garth may just be the liaison we’ve needed. Maybe she can even reduce those port taxes for your Induction trip.”

“You’re not thinking of telling her about that, are you?” I ask.

We enter the kitchen where Mom starts pulling food out of the fridge and setting it on the island’s stainless steel counter top. Dad finds a corner at the counter and straddles a bar stool, projecting his device’s holo-screen. He makes no mention of what he’s doing, but I snoop from my peripheral and can just barely make out a bit of data on the DOT.

Mom clangs bowls onto the counter and begins tossing lettuce. “I’ll make sandwiches, and Bianca, if you could grab some of Agnes’ chowder mix from the pantry, we’ll put the soup on so it’ll be ready when Lola gets back.”

I head down the opposite hall for the dry storage pantry. The way this house was built was modeled after the log cabins of olden days, giving the illusion of real logs stacked and mortared from the ground halfway up the wall, only with twenty-first century insulation. I slip into the pantry and breathe in the heavy spice aroma, grateful for a private moment to contact Tristan before Garth arrives.

I send him a brief message, then scan the shelves for the sacks of chowder mix and grab one. My device is now fastened to the back of my hand in transport mode and I check it again to make sure I haven’t missed a message. Still nothing.
Where is he
?

Cradling the sack like a baby in the nook of my left arm, I access the phone app and call his number. The screen grays out with no answer and clicks off. His avatar didn’t even pop up. Why isn’t he connecting?

Did I say something wrong during the interview? Quickly, I replay the details in my head, but it’s a blur of nerves and stress. Come to think of it, I’m not sure what I even said—something about fingernails and beaten reputations …

Before Garth stepped in to save me.

I
move
the salad around in my bowl, but I can’t bring myself to take a bite. Not with Garth sitting across from me, playing buddy-buddy with the woman who gave me life. They spend minutes discussing the town and the media crowding the inn, while Garth slices her cherry tomatoes in perfect halves and arranges them symmetrically on top of her lettuce and croutons like some kind of preconsumption ritual.

Dad seems as annoyed with the mindless chit-chat as I am and says nothing while he polishes off his chowder and clinks his spoon into the bowl as a final encore. “Agent Garth, we appreciate you being here, and as you know, we’ve canceled bookings so that we can clear things up. Do you have a timeframe as to when we can get back to business as usual?”

“I understand your concerns,” she says, licking her lips once. “I did mention it to HQ. They’re quite pleased with how Bianca’s interview went, and from what I can tell, the ratings are favorable.”

Ugh, I don’t want to know what the gossip sites are saying. With no word from Tristan or Kayla over the last hour, I’ve been blissfully tuned out. I know it’s probably killing Kayla not to call with the latest gossip, but she’s respecting Dad’s specific request.

“So they do believe Bianca, then?” Mom asks Garth. “And the competency of the agency?”

“See for yourself.” Garth swivels her device toward Mom and projects the holo-screen at an angle that allows us better visuals.

WNN’s home page opens up and Garth gesture-scrolls to the recent interview ratings and polls page. My interview is still front and central, paused on my faux-rosy face in an awkward mid-word pose. Beside it is a real time poll with questions on everything from what I was wearing, to how believable my answers were.

Garth selects the results tab and a graph populates. “About 40% of the public believe she’s telling the truth. Could be better, but it’s a start.”

“How come not more than that?” I ask, cracking my neck.

“Considering everything in Tristan’s past, and the speculation and gossip on the interwebs, 40% isn’t bad. Trust has to be earned from the public, which is why my chief officer believes a publicized time trip will be good for you, and the agency.” Garth flashes me an almost believable smile.

“Earn their trust?” I say. “Why? They’re not booking time trips—most of them can’t even afford it. Who cares if they don’t believe me?” I

look to Dad for reassurance.

He’s studying the numbers though and doesn’t notice me. “Only 22% believe Tristan won’t use again. Not very optimistic.”

Garth sighs. “Like I said, trust has to be earned, and Tristan still has some work to do.”

“But he hasn’t done anything wrong to anyone,” I say.

They ignore my comment.

“54% believe Bianca knows how to pilot and command a time-craft,” Mom says. “That’s not bad.”

“76% believe Butterman Travel is a safe, reliable operation,” Garth says. “The DOT would like that to be 100%. But we’ll settle for 95%. Question is, how do we get these numbers up?” She lets her gaze drift over our faces, one by one.