I’m on top of the world. Literally.
Isolated in the frozen wilderness of northern Alaska’s Arctic region. Not exactly every eighteen-year-old’s dream location—I mean, six months of total darkness and sub-zero temperatures could bring down a monk on anti-depressants. But that’d be what they call an occupational hazard, and every job has them.
The
holo-screen at my desk flashes with a call and I gesture the answer
key with a flick of two fingers. Been waiting for this one. VIP
customer. More
VIP than usual, which would make him VVIP. In other words, he’s
made of money and our company wants some of it.
“Butterman
Travel, Incorporated. Hello, Mr. Van Nuys. What can I do for you?”
A silver-haired man fills the video screen. Distinguished
appearance, but regret taints the twinkle in his eye. I know the
type. We get a lot of them. Old farts with more money than life could
ever let them spend, hoping to attend some meaningful moment from
their past they never should’ve missed. And when they’re this
close to heaven’s door, the time for making peace with their
regrets is almost up.
Which is where we come in.
Just
as I assure Mr. Van Nuys his itinerary is confirmed for next week, my
holo-screen indicates a visitor has arrived outside, and I expand it.
My best friend, Kayla, presses her eye so close to the camera
the screen becomes an enormous brown iris. “Bianca Butterman, I’m
here to hack you into small pieces and feed you to the polar bears.”
Gesturing at the remote safety controls, I wave my hand until
the door emits a series of beeps and begins the unlocking process.
Security is a major concern when your place of business houses a
time-craft. Back when my grandparents were alive, they claimed moving
Butterman Travel to the Arctic was all about the frigid air. It’s
true, it does help conduct radio waves, as well as avoid digital
interference, but I think they liked the idea of being isolated from
mainstream society even more.
The steel-enforced door folds
back into the front wall like a fan. Kayla enters in tight jeans and
fur-lined knee boots; a knit shawl hangs like an inverted triangle
over her chest. Music from her barely visible earbuds blares so I can
hear it from behind my desk, and I recognize the overplayed song
immediately.
“Getting in touch with your inner tweenie
again?” I say.
Kayla’s two months older than me, but
perpetually stuck in tween-dom. She can always surprise me with her
bubblegum pop-culture preferences over those with actual substance.
She’s my closest friend and I love her to death, but when it comes
to fashion, music, and guys, we’re complete opposites—me being
the dark twisted clouds swallowing her sunlit rainbows.
She
pops her tiny wireless buds out. “What?”
Better she
didn’t hear me. “I was just admiring your taste in music.”
“Sure you were.” Shuffling over to my desk, she pulls a
few mini-gumballs from her pocket tin, pops one in her mouth, then
offers me some and grins. “U-Turn forever, Bee. You know that.”
I exaggerate a sigh. “This is
disappointing. I’d hoped after our last lesson on proper rock
tunes, you’d have evolved by now.”
She turns her nose up
at me, but she knows I’m joking.
“U-Turn called it quits,
anyway,” I add, gnawing at my stone-hard, candy-coated gumball.
“That one guy’s a wasteoid now. You know, Golden
Boy?
Saw it on the news. Rehab for months.”
“Tristan admitted
himself to rehab, nobody forced him. That should say something. And
so what if they broke up? Doesn’t mean it’s forever.” Kayla
pulls off her knit beanie, runs a hand through her russet locks.
“Anyway, Tristan will always be H-O-T in my book, and classic
U-Turn will always rock.”
I snort at the word classic.
“If you mean sink
like a rock, then I agree.”
“The special agent still
here?” Kayla asks, ignoring my comment and scanning the room. I
filled her in earlier on the arrival of Special Agent Lola Garth from
the Department of Transportation—how
she
surprised
my parents yesterday with our first ever full operational audit.
I
groan. “Yeah, but I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her yet.
My parents took her out to the Launchpad at the crack of dawn, for a
‘routine time-craft examination.’”
“Like taking a
time-trip?”
“Not that I know of.” I check the
operational status on my dashboard screen. It shows the time-craft
powered up, but stable, still docked right here at Port Butterman. No
programmed activity. No pending time travel. “She’s probably
making sure it’s up to code—scrounging for violations like rust
on the magnetron, or improper radiation application. Giving Mom and
Dad a total headache ‘cause that’s what the DOT does best.”
“Can’t they go back in time and delay her visit or
something?” Kayla asks.
“I wish. If we got caught trying
to fudge a DOT audit by tampering with the past, Butterman Travel
would be doomed for sure. They monitor stuff like that.”
Kayla
shrugs. Hard as she tries, she never quite grasps the intricacies of
time travel. She’s one of those people who are always happy with
what they’ve got. A minimalist. In some ways I envy that, because
once you’ve taken your first time-trip, your mind is always reeling
for where and when
to go next.
“Wait a minute,” she says. “The government
can’t see you while
you’re traveling, though, can they?”
“Not while on
board the time-craft.” I pop my gum. “But if they have the right
coordinates, they can probe whatever time string we enter with
satellite technology. The DOT can watch the whole trip go down if
they want.”
Kayla rubs her chin. “And the agent’s here
to do that?”
“I dunno. She didn’t tell Mom and Dad
anything really. If she wanted to, she could hack into Mission
Control and rip off our data stream. All she needs is our master
security code and she can stream the link right to DOT headquarters
so every fed in D.C. has access. If they were to find enough
violations, they could shut us down for good. But it’ll never come
to that—Mom and Dad say there has to be reasonable suspicion for
the DOT to go to that extent.”
The door code beeps, drawing
our attention. My parents are the only other people in the universe
who know the code. A gust of cool autumn wind rushes in as they
enter. And by cool, I mean typical Arctic-25degrees-Fahrenheit-cool.
Dad’s in his trusty green wool pullover and earmuffs, Mom in her
silver down puffer. A tall, slender woman appears behind them,
underdressed in a chic black trenchcoat and silk designer scarf. By
the looks of her, she can’t be much older than I am.
Has to
be Garth. She’s probably fresh out of the academy, on her first
assignment. It’d be our luck to get some hot shot auditor with
something to prove.
She gives me a brief once-over, her jaw
tensing as she lingers on the two coin-sized star tattoos at the
corner of my right eye. Pulling off her snow cap, Garth shivers once
and tries to play it off, brushing back her platinum hair.
Not
only is northern Alaska effin’ cold, but Port Butterman is halfway
up a mountain where the altitude can make your nose bleed while the
wind from the coast whips in and bites your skin like fangs. It can
even be frigid in the middle of summer at this latitude. At least
she’s wearing snow boots.
“Hi there, Kayla,” Dad says,
then gives me a wary look. “Bianca, honey, postpone all Web
conferences for today and tomorrow. We need to focus on sorting
things out for Ms. Garth here.”
“Agent
Garth,” she says, glancing once at Dad with her prim little smirk.
She pulls out a paper-thin handheld device and projects its
holo-keyboard. “Why don’t we break while I finish up this part of
my report? Say one hour? I’m still waiting for those itemized trip
logs and maintenance receipts. Oh, and I did mention insurance
claims, right? I’ll need those as well.”
My eyes meet
Dad’s light green ones. His cheek is slightly twitching below his
gaze. He and Mom told me last night they think the DOT is moving to
regulate personal travel and although Garth didn’t say so, trying
to find fault in our leisure trip data. I can think of two personal
trips right now that were probably never registered—not that
they’re any of the DOT’s business. That’d be like a sailboat
captain having to okay a joyride with the Coast Guard.
Total
BS if you ask me. Garth’s reaching, and who knows what she’ll
dredge up to the surface if she digs deep enough. All I know is, if
she makes me miss the Induction Day I’ve been waiting for my entire
life, extreme measures of unboxed creativeness will be in order. It’s
a damn big conundrum when even time travel agents can’t get ahead
of things. And as they say, time waits for no one.
Dad gives
me a quick nod, before he and Mom head down the hall and upstairs to
our living quarters—where they can pull their hair out in privacy,
no doubt. Garth is on a wireless phone call, punching data into her
device. When she says the words “suspend operation,”
my
entire body stiffens.
Kayla and I exchange anxious glances.
“How can she do that?” Kayla whispers.
Shushing
her, I try to hear more. Garth’s body is angled toward the front
window now, her voice carrying in the opposite direction.
I
head toward the cappuccino machine at the far wall next to the
hearth, pretending I’m about to make a latte, and perk up my ears.
More words: code
inspection,
string
data,
possible
forged or false trip logs.
She must be joking. The cup I’m holding slips from my
hands, shattering earthenware onto the floor. Garth turns. Our eyes
meet and I shrug. Frowning, she gathers her things from the sofa and
slips out the door, a seedy glimmer in her eyes.
“She makes
you nervous,” Kayla says, next to me now.
I scoff. “I’m
not nervous. Just klutzy.”
“You’ve never been klutzy in
your life.” She half-smiles. “Anyway, Agent
Garth seems way too serious. She can’t really shut you down, can
she?”
“Government can do anything they want, depending on
Garth’s report. If she’s not satisfied with how we run things,
then yeah, she can have them shut us down. We can’t afford that.”
At one time, Butterman Travel was one of only six private
time travel agencies in all the world. But after that agency in
Orlando took a hit from the DOT, now we’re one of five. The DOT
knows what it costs to run a business like ours, and what these
audits can do to us. Dad speculates there’s corruption involved and
it’s all part of their goal. I used to think he was exaggerating.
“But your parents can supply what she needs, right?”
Kayla’s face contorts with concern. “They’re the most organized
people I know.”
“They run a tight operation, they’ll be
fine.” My voice has that tentative tone that even I notice. “They
just need a couple days to sort through and review everything.”
Even though Kayla will never time travel due to her family’s
spiritual beliefs, she knows how much the family biz means to
me—especially my Induction Day. Every generation of Buttermans all
the way to my great-grandfather has celebrated with one of their own,
after earning their time-craft license. Like an individual rite of
passage. One Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card. After all, Butterman time
travel isn’t the same as government time travel. That’s why we
own the rights to our own patent, which makes the DOT’s nosing
around even more annoying.
“She staying at Chiganak’s?”
Kayla asks, her bright brown eyes dancing with deviance.
“Yeah.”
Our non-map-worthy town of Paloot—located halfway between
Deadhorse and Beaver—only has one inn, so chances are good if
you’re not a local, you’re staying at Chiganak’s Inn.
“Perfect. Old Eagle-Eye passes by there every day on his
walk.” Kayla hops up, puts her beanie back on. “I’ll tell him
Garth’s a tourist, wants to learn the legends and history of native
Alaskans in Paloot. That’ll buy your parents a few more hours.”
I flash her a grin. “You’re a genius, Kay.”
“And
don’t you forget it.” She motions at the release sensor beside
the front doorframe and waits for it to fold back into the wall.
Heading out, she nearly plows into a man coming in; frameless aviator
shades cover his eyes, a baseball cap rests low on his brow.
“Sorry,” Kayla says to him, and disappears.
The
door auto-shuts behind the visitor, and he unzips the collar of his
ski jacket.
“Can I help you?” I ask. “Did you have an
appointment?”
“Not exactly.” He notices the frozen
holographic photo of my parents on a small cube on the front table,
waves a hand over its sensor.
My parents’ transparent image
springs to life, Dad’s even-keeled voice filling the room. “Welcome
to Butterman Travel, Incorporated. We’re happy you’re here, and
know you’ll be satisfied with our service, geared to fit your
individual needs.”
Mom chimes in. “I’m Gwen Butterman.
My husband, Gavin, and I are seasoned time port cartographers, having
logged over two hundred time trips together. We are dedicated to a
safe, meaningful operation, and are certain you’ll never need to go
elsewhere for any of your time travel needs.”
“Thanks for
choosing Butterman Travel,” Dad says. “Where time is always in
your hands.”
The holograph freezes with my parents arm in
arm in their sleek silver buffer suits for a family-friendly
advertising effect. That slogan was all my idea. It used to be Where
Time is Never Running Out,
which sounded good, but was deemed as false advertising. Point being,
even traveling 100 years into the past and/or future doesn’t mean
you can outrun the grim reaper. Back in the day, my grandparents had
a few disgruntled passengers over it, as well as a couple of lawsuit
threats that, luckily, ended up being only threats.
The
visitor removes his jacket and tosses it on the sofa like he owns the
place. His cologne infuses the air, but in a mild way—an expensive
way—with a perfect blend of exotic spices. Just enough to get my
attention without sucking all the oxygen from the room. The hip
western print on his button-down attests he’s not from around here.
His top three buttons are open, revealing a white thermal underneath,
and his denims are tucked into brand new all-terrain hiking boots
that still look stiff around the ankles.
The hearth across
from my desk attracts his attention and he moves in to warm his
hands, his gaze fixed on the digital landscape projected over the
mantle.
“I’m sorry, was there something I can help you
with?” It’s not like we get many walk-ins up here in our small
remote town—AKA the middle of nowhere. And since only the crème
de la crème
of the upper class can afford our services, they normally have their
people contact our
people first. And by our
people, I
mean me.
“I hope so.” He removes his hat, minimizes his
shades to a sliver and stows them in his pocket. He scuffs his flat
hair twice. It’s long on top, short in back, with light blond
highlights. Too posh to be from Meg’s Barber Shop on Main Street.
Maybe some salon in Juneau, but even that’s doubtful.
A
twinge of familiarity stirs inside me. Who
is this guy?
Do I know him? Maybe if he’d make eye contact I could figure out …
Bing!
And there it is. Ocular
exchange initiated.
Irises of smoky gray mixed with cobalt blue, like twilight in the
mountains. No effin’ way. Kayla will soil her pants when she finds
out she bumped into U-Turn’s golden boy, Tristan Helms, and didn’t
even know it. I let out a snicker.
“Do I know you?” His
lips purse, his gaze lingering on me for a few seconds of what must
be misplaced recognition. “Did I miss something?”
I try
to contain my amusement, but I can’t wipe the grin from my face.
“No … it’s just … my best friend … oh hell, can you wait a
minute so I can …” I remember Kayla’s mission to divert Garth
and hesitate. She’ll kill me for not telling her, but maybe I can
hold him til she gets back. Stalling Garth so my parents can double
check their leisure trip data is more important right now.
Laughter
slips out from my lips again. Not giddy giggles like some starstruck
groupie, but pure ironical gratification. I can tell by the mocking
look on Tristan’s face he’s deduced I’m chuckling at
him, not with him.
Slowly, he lets his peeved gaze drift over
my goth-glam appearance. “You’re one of those spunker chicks,
right? A … a dark
bettie,
that’s what they call you.” His eyes twinkle, self-satisfied with
his keen insight. “Come to LA and you’ll feel right at home.”
My tittering stops, but not because I’m offended. I know
how my contradictory look stalls some people in their footsteps. Live
it every day. And unbeknownst to Tristan, I happen to love the
nickname dark
bettie
since it’s modeled after the retro-classic pin-up girl, Bettie
Page. She was all glam in my book.
“Touchè,”
I say. “And just so you know, not that it’s any of your business,
I’ve been to LA. Attended the 1957 Academy Awards two years ago.”
“No shit.” Tristan’s smirk fades into genuine interest.
Glimmers from the hearth highlight the sprinkle of dark blond scruff
at his chin. “You just showed up?”
“Sure. Dressed the
part, of course. Getting tickets was a challenge, but we pulled it
off. And let me tell you, it was way more chic than today’s
commercialized glitz. Plus, seeing Marilyn Monroe and James Dean in
person was pure magic.”
“No shit,” he says again,
staring with a furrowed brow.
He studies everything from my
charcoal eyeshadow to my jet-black pixie cut, with no obvious concern
of whether or not he’s being rude. Any minute now he’ll get over
it and move on from my appearance, even though to him, I’m the
death of boy band bubblegum pop.
“So let me guess, someone
referred you to Butterman Travel,” I say.
Without asking,
he helps himself to the cappuccino machine, finds an espresso cup and
sets it up. “A friend suggested I see you.”
“And here
you are.”
“She gave me your address, said your agency is
the best around. I …” he pauses, cradles his espresso cup,
staring into it as if it somehow holds the right answer. “I’m in
a time sensitive situation.”
“Um, you’re at a time
travel agency. Everything is time sensitive.”
He squints at
me. “Right. What I mean is, I’m limited. I need to book a trip as
soon as possible. Like, today. Who do I need to talk to?”
It
doesn’t surprise me that he’s here and wants to time travel. Most
people crave the experience, but simply can’t afford it. What does
surprise me is the sparkle of urgency in his eyes. He’s not here
for kicks. He needs something. Badly.
And I can’t let Garth
suspend our operation before finding out what it is.
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