Induction Day: Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series (17 page)

I should never have brought him here.

“Bianca!”

I turn toward the distant voice, and spot Quincy’s head bobbing over the many lifebelt-clad passengers encroaching on the next closest lifeboat nearer the stern. He’s waving me over, but I can’t get past the mass of passengers waiting for their turn at the lifeboat.

Clinging to Tristan, I plow forward, throwing elbows to force my way.

“What are you doing?” Tristan calls from behind me. “The time-craft is behind us.”

I don’t respond to him, but continue til I reach Quincy’s tall uniformed frame at the corner of the lifeboat that’s now accepting passengers one by one.

Another earth-shattering creak from below arrests the night. The deck trembles. In a jostle, the floor beneath us quakes and slopes downward even more toward the bow. My insides twist and drop like I’m on some kind of simulator ride.

I meet Quincy’s lonesome stare and mouth the words, “I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t do this,” Tristan yells at me from behind. “I don’t wanna die here, not like this.”

I turn, cup his cheek briefly. “Look at me. We’re not gonna die.”

He nods, gaze searching the pandemonium on every side of us.

Quincy’s voice carries toward me from my right. “Ye were right all along.”

I turn, still gripping Tristan’s hand, bringing him in closer to my side. We move in toward Quincy, crowded by shoulders and elbows.

“Did you get word to the other ships?” I ask him.

“Aye,” he says. “But we’re sinking fast. They should’ve slowed like ye said. I tried talkin’ to the captain, but his mind’s left him like a ghost. He just mumbles, repeats words that don’t make any sense.”

My eyes plead with his. “Remember what I told you. Get on a lifeboat.”

“Come on.” Tristan tugs my arm, eyeing Quincy for only a moment. “Let’s get outta here.”

“Hold on,” I tell him, then turn back to Quincy. “I wish I could do more to save—”

“Ye best be saving yer own self,” Quincy says, brows furrowing. “Now if ye’ll excuse me, I’ve got a job to do.”

His gaze lingers on mine for a split second longer than I expect it to, before he takes the arm of a young woman in a lifebelt and helps her into the lifeboat.

Tristan’s already pulling me backward toward the steam funnels.

I breakaway, push my way in to Quincy’s side, blood coursing through my veins with more adrenaline, more power than I’ve ever felt. “Promise me you’ll get on a lifeboat.”

Almost amused, Quincy shakes his head just slightly. “Yer crazy, ye know that?”

“Promise me.”

His gaze falls from mine. “Not with all these women and children here. Go on then, time traveler.” He’s about to step farther away, when he turns back to me. “Wait.”

Reaching inside his pocket he pulls out his gold pocket watch, disconnects it, and hands it to me. “It’d do me a great honor if ye’d hold onto this.” He stares at it, clasping it in his open palm, as if measuring its weight. “Was me grandfather’s. Can’t stand the thought of it ending up on the bottom of the ocean.” He shrugs, hands it to me. “Take care of it for me.”

The smooth metal is cold in my hand, the gold chain snaking down my wrist. My chest aches with a dull pang. “I can’t take this.”

“Not even as a dying man’s last request?” His lips pull up in the faintest of smiles.

Oh
. My nostrils burn, tears pressing the backs of my eyes and I have to look away, down at the relic in my clutches. Within another second, I meet his steady gaze again. His amber-brown eyes are welled with tears.

And there’s not another word left to say. I squeeze the pocket watch in my palm, nod, and attempt to swallow the lump in my throat.

Quincy turns back to assist more pushing people at the lifeboat. Slowly, I back away, watching the way he gently takes a woman’s hand and leads her onto the boat. What must it feel like helping others to live, when your own life hangs in the balance?

I don’t have time to think on it. Rejoining Tristan in the fray, I slip the pocket watch into my pocket and we weave our way across the deck to the center platform where the second steam funnel stands erect. There is no steam filling the starry sky now. No string instruments serenading the night, brainwashing passengers into an easy calm. There is nothing but straight panic.

We pass so many painful images on our way. Bravery mixed with enigmatic fear. Cravenly horror, devout hope. I whisper a prayer that the Carpathia and Californian heeded the distress signal early this time. At this point, I don’t even care about the DOT or time travel violations anymore. Who cares if any of this breaks regulation? All of that seems so trivial and petty at a time like this, when Death is lurking in the shadows of the night.

“Everyone onboard must be on deck right now,” Tristan yells over the commotion.

“I know,” I say. “It means they didn’t lock the third class passengers below.”

“Maybe they should’ve. I mean, look at this mess. They can’t control it. It’s complete havoc. ”

His thoughtless comment makes my jaw go stiff. “Who has the right to even try to control something like this?”

We pummel forward through a group of men and women waving their hands in the air.

“I don’t know,” Tristan says. “But more people only add to the chaos.”

I pinch his forearm between my fingers and thumb. “Who’s to say third class human beings don’t have as much right to fight for their lives as the rest?”

He doesn’t answer me, yanking his arm from my grip.

Rockets sing out overhead. More distress signals lighting up the night in fluorescent orange. My ears tune out the hysterical voices, concentrating on the whistle and crackle of the rockets. There’s almost beauty in its imploring song—so crisp, so intent.

Must stay focused
.

Just as we reach the platform, Captain Smith’s white-bearded image appears amidst the gridlocked disorder, his expression confused. Fully dressed in his navy uniform and hat, he seems hauntingly dutiful, like a spirit drifting through disastrous death. Like Quincy, he seems to know his fate. I want to run to the man and tell him everything he should do to save these people, but … what good would that do? Destiny has already proven I have no say here.

More groaning from inside
Titanic’s
metal guts, and then … splashes over the side, into the night. It’s happening. As the ship inclines even more, people fall to the icy depths. Screams shatter through the air from every direction. At my right, two men slug at each other, before another gunshot commands their attention.

“Bianca.” Tristan’s in my face. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

I feel as mixed up as the captain looked. Everything is so real and surreal at the same time.

“Look. At. Me.” Tristan’s eyes bore into mine. “There’s nothing you can do. It’s time to go.”

I nod, still no words emerging from my lips as I move forward, ignoring everything but my foraged path. At the ladder to the other side of the platform, I climb up behind Tristan. It’s a relief to be out of the horde, but from this height, the spectacle of it all is too much to bear.

I force my eyes away, a strange mix of regret and relief flooding me. Finding the ripple of light that suggests Essence’s presence, I scan for the control panel at her door and uncloak her. My identity is verified from my right index finger at the sensor and the door slides open. Swiftly, and without conversation, we climb in and grab our buffersuits.

I’m jostled forward, slamming into the dashboard, banging my hip bone. A resonant thunder from below stretches out like the caterwauling of an enormous sick cow, and all I can do is hang on to the dashboard. The weight of
Titanic
shifts so far forward, we slide a few inches, and for a moment I expect to tumble into the ocean.

Strapping myself into the pilot seat, I maximize the holo-screen. “No time for the buffersuit, just get in your seat. The ship’s breaking in half. We have to depart now or we’ll go down with her.”

On-screen, the countdown clock has already initiated. Twenty-one minutes til the window closes.

We slide forward again, this time with a wobble. The top deck is now visible from the cockpit window.

“Holy shit, we’re gonna tip.” Tristan’s voice is dense with alarm.

“I’m trying,” I yell. “Doorcheck verified, all systems go. Standby to engage.”

“It’s all happening so fast.”

My brain in autopilot mode now, I verify the coordinates for home. “Just be happy we didn’t land on the bow or we’d be done for.”

Another bottomless rumble vibrates the entire vessel. Right now the railing around the funnel’s platform is the only thing supporting us from tumbling forward with the rise of the stern.

Tristan’s image is clear from the rearview mirror, his knuckles white, his hands gripping the armrests of his seat. His gaze is fixed on the scene from the cockpit window. “All those people.” His voice cracks.

My fingers tremble as I ready us for departure. My stomach is sour and swishing, bile rising in my throat. In a brief upward glance, I find people moving toward us, their faces masks of desperation and horror. I reactivate the cloaking device.

More awful wails and bellows confirm
Titanic’s
ripping into pieces beneath us.

“What’re you doing?” Tristan yells over the rumbling. “Go!”

I’m frozen, gaze plastered on the ashen faces out the window. “We have room for at least three people—we should help some of them …”

“There’s not time for that. You tried, okay? This is how it’s supposed to happen.”

My voice hitches before coming out. “But even if it’s just one person, we should try—”

“Bianca, you can’t save them. This isn’t your fault. Save
us
.”

I flick my gaze upward onto the rearview mirror where Tristan’s pleading with me. An engulfing silence swaddles me with knowledge. My responsibility is to my passenger, not
Titanic
.
A smart player always knows when to accept defeat.

“Countdown to departure in ten,” I say, finding my focal point. “Nine, eight …”

The vessel is thrust forward again, this time slipping faster, farther. In front of us, a spine-tingling crunch rips down the center of the ship.
Kerrrrraaaaachhh.

I can’t peel my eyes from the window.

The bow wavers, pulling the entire vessel down. And us with it. Holy hell,
Titanic
is splitting in two only yards from my face. My heart is in my throat. We’re sliding, tilting. Vertigo invades my brain, my body. Like an elevator dropped down the shaft.

The stern is rising … we’re falling …

“ENGAGE.”

I
’m going to puke
.

Leaning forward, I fall over my knees and hurl my guts onto the time-craft floor. My head spins and I cough, dousing my chin with spittle. My body is so heavy I can’t lift myself up. I’m crumpled over. Maybe I’m dead. Do you puke when you’re dead?

“No way.” Tristan’s voice. “Bianca Butterman spewing chunks on a time trip?” He chuckles. “I am never gonna let this slide, you realize that.”

Now I know I’m not dead. I can’t look at him yet, though.
So embarrassing.

Slowly, I lift myself up and lean back in my seat, peeking from beneath my lids at Tristan’s image in the rearview mirror. He’s got the goofiest grin on his face.

“You’re not sick?” I ask him. In lieu of making eye contact, I glance at the details on-screen, confirming our location in Northern Alaska.

“No, not really, but that ride was insane.” He laughs. “I thought we were exploding.”

My brain reels for the memory of our journey, but all I can remember is the launch … and
Titanic
… going down. A seething pain shoots through my chest. All those people. Poor Adelaide … and Quincy.

Unstrapping myself, I stumble to my feet, teetering from left to right and back again til I have to grab onto the back of my seat for support. Something happened to me. All at once, my body shivers, easy at first, then so violently I can’t control it. My teeth chatter in rapid clacks like ceramic tiles knocking into each other, and the odor of vomit wafts through my nostrils, sour and putrid. I have to get out of here.

Dizzy now, I hold onto my head, squeezing my eyes shut. Dad’s voice should sound over the com any second. He’ll be mad we’re not wearing the buffersuits, I know he will. He’ll insist that’s what is wrong with me.

Tristan’s at my side, his hands on my shoulders. “Whoa, you okay? Why don’t you sit down.”

I let him move me into the pilot chair, but my eyes remain closed. “I’m thirsty. Below the dashboard … a supply pack …”

When I open my eyes, Tristan’s ripping off the tab of an airtight water pouch. He hands it to me and I gulp it down.

“Uh, where the hell are we?” Tristan asks.

I glance at him where he stands at the cockpit window, my vision blurred.

“Port Butterman,” I say through panted breaths. “My dad should be opening the door—”

“No.” Tristan’s voice holds a strange tone of amusement. “We’re not at Port Butterman.”

My stomach’s cramping now and I clutch it, cradling my torso. He’s not making sense. “Check the dashboard screen. It says arrival: Port Butterman.”

“Well, you need to take a look at this, then.”

With some difficulty, I get to my feet. I’m totally off-kilter. Staggering to the window, I spread my palms against the glass and lean in for support, blinking my eyes for focus, my head still spinning.

A snowy landscape expands before us, the frigid air outside seeping in through the window to my skin. Flurries drift down from a sapphire night sky, and high above, chartreuse lights dance like neon scarves blowing in the wind … only the stars and snow present to watch their performance. The Northern Lights. We have to be in Alaska. But there’s not a manmade structure for as far as my eyes can see.

My discomfort momentarily forgotten, I stumble to the dashboard, scanning the screen for details:

Arrival: Port Butterman, Alaska

December 5, 1912

23:49:22 hours AST

1912
? What the …?

I refresh the data with a gesture of my hand, expanding the screen. The same information appears. My body feels heavier on one side, like I might topple over, or split in half like
Titanic
. Propping myself from the edge of the dashboard, I examine the launch and landing details, review the time-port coordinates.

How could I have made such a huge mistake?

“So, where are we?” Tristan asks, seemingly unaffected.

“We’re in the right place,” I say. “Just not the right time. We’re still in 1912.”

“No shit, really?” He focuses on me and for the first time I notice the milky haze to his eyes, and how heavy his lids are.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask.

He awkwardly shrugs. “Nothing. Except for the fact we’re lost in the twentieth century.” He makes a snort that sounds almost like a chuckle.

“Do you think this is funny?” I don’t know whether to be relieved or irritated he’s not more upset. I can’t take the stench of puke anymore, so I run the automatic cleaner over the area, then tuck the bot back beneath the dashboard.

Tristan’s pupils dilate, his expression pointed and eerily calm. “Better than going down with
Titanic
. For a few minutes there, I didn’t think—”

“Why don’t you feel sick? Why are you so collected?”

He shrugs again, not meeting my gaze.

I return my attention to the dashboard panel. Tristan’s acting very odd, but I have bigger things to figure out right now. On-screen, I highlight the time string and vortex accessibility. It blinks out gray. I open a map of the cosmos to track our course’s historical data, and a static blip pulses where the map should be, then fizzles to a blank line.

The lights hurt my eyes and I close them a second. I could fall asleep …

Focusing on-screen again, I verify the engine status and power gauge. Both look good, strong. It’s the maintenance data panel that’s offline, but why? Everything else is normal …

And then I see it. There, in the lower corner of the time tunnel record, the data drops off, as if we simply missed the right time string. Incomplete transition. But the Butterman time-port had to be open—Dad would’ve never let it close from the other side. Unless …

I maximize the time string properties.

“Looks like protein packs for dinner tonight, huh, babe?” Tristan disrupts my concentration, fumbling through the supply pack, and reaches for a water pouch.

“Use the Quench-Tabs. Until I figure out how to get us outta here, we need to ration everything. The Arctic in 1912 is desolate.”

“These gummy things?” He holds up a labeled pack of small square tablets.

“Controls your thirst up to ten hours so you don’t drain your water supplies.”

“Groovy,” he says. A word he picked up from Woodstock, no doubt. He pops out a tablet and chomps on it. “Bleh, tastes like medicine.”

“I wouldn’t know. Dad just got them for the vessel. But you have to go easy on them.” I’m ignoring the cramp in my side, and pounding in my head, when what I really want to do is curl up in a ball and whine. Moan for the pain, moan for this huge mistake, and moan for the tragedy I witnessed only minutes ago. All those people … so helpless …

I blink back tears.

“Package says … use … with … caution.” Tristan sounds like he’s struggling to read.

“That’s what I just said, genius. They’re not meant to actually hydrate, only quench thirst. Our bodies still need water.” I resume my on-screen examination. “I don’t get why these numbers are all jacked up. They went stagnant halfway through the time tunnel, which is why we never left 1912.”

Tristan’s beside me now, breathing over my shoulder. “What’s all that code for?”

“It’s a trace of where we’ve been. Every time-craft leaves behind its own trail of breadcrumbs, only instead of bread it’s ones and zeroes. Like a mathematical signature.”

“How come it’s all garbled together at the beginning like that?”

I follow where his finger is pointing at the very start of our time tunnel entry over the Atlantic Ocean. The numbers there are morphed together like some kind of code soup. How did I not notice that sooner?

“This is highly irregular,” I say. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“How did it happen?” Tristan asks between chomps of his Quench-Tab.

I rewind the data from the time string and probe into the 3D images of the tunnel at exactly the spot we entered. “The cosmic rift is sound, which means Port Butterman in 1912 is fully functional with the right frequency. It’s the chute that’s damaged—more than damaged, annihilated.”

“You’re telling me we’re stuck in the Arctic in 1912?” Tristan scoffs, slurring his speech.

I shake my head, scrolling through more data. “Even if launched through this vortex, we wouldn’t have passage to the next time tunnel. You can’t slide down a chute or climb up a ladder if you can’t get to it. That’s why Essence’s maintenance is offline. Looks like … some kind of radiation feedback damaged the time tunnel, and us in the process.”

“Damn, Butterman, you wanna explain that in English?”

“Historical tracking shows disturbances over the North Atlantic, right after we entered the 1912 time tunnel. Essence’s instruments went berserk for some reason, didn’t recover til just before we landed here, which is why the numbers are all jumbled in our trail.”

“Bogus stuff. Home, but in the wrong century,” Tristan says. “How hard is it to travel forward from here?”

“Holy hell.” It hits me, somewhere between the thrumming in my head and binding of my guts. “A magnetic storm. I’ve read all kinds of stuff about it happening to planes back in the old days. Something about the earth beneath the Atlantic has a magnetic effect on the sky. Aircrafts have been lost and never found again. I think the combination of the storm and the radio frequency from Essence caused some kind of radioactive feedback. ”

“Wicked.”

“This will blow Dad’s mind. From the looks of this tracking data, we somehow managed to get caught in the storm and thrown off course—never leaving 1912.”

“Explains those wild jolts during travel,” Tristan says with a snicker. “I almost shit myself.”

“It explains my sickness, too. Temporal Dislocation Syndrome is common when time lag and severe turbulence are combined.” I pause, study Tristan. “How come you didn’t get it?”

He wipes his forehead that’s now beaded with sweat. “Important thing is we made it off
Titanic
, ‘cause I thought sure we were screwed.”

“Yeah, you said that already. Tristan. Look at me.”

Gradually, his dilated eyes meet mine before blinking away to the floor. “What’s the verdict, Butterman? Can we get back to 2069 or what?”

I don’t even know how to respond. My jaw is stiff, teeth clenched. I can’t think of a worse scenario than this very moment. The earth must be giving way beneath my feet. Maybe I should’ve just gone down with
Titanic
, called it a day.

Bewitched, I move toward the window, stare out at the tundra’s reflection—a kaleidoscope of greenish hues. It’s cold, so insanely cold. Eventually, I’ll have no choice but to turn off the heat to save power. Even with the reserve it will only last so long. What then? Tristan and I freeze to death together?

Tristan’s hand brushes over my arm, his body slipping just behind me so his chest presses to my back, his thighs against mine.

“How did you do it?” I ask softly. “How did you manage to get high?”

Silence.

His arms encircle my waist and he sets his chin on my shoulder. “Butterman, Butterman, Butterman. I can’t hide anything from you.”

He nuzzles my neck, his breath hot on my skin, and I want to shove him away, along with this vile taste in my mouth. I’ve been such a moron to believe he could be different than the media portrayed.

I shimmy myself from his arms, refusing to meet his eyes. “Why? After everything we went through in the ice shack. You don’t care about anything but yourself.”

“Don’t say that.” His voice cracks. “You know what you mean to me.”

My gaze finds his helpless face now and it’s creased with distaste. “You promised.”

“I thought I was gonna die. I thought we both were. I didn’t take anything til those last few seconds, when
Titanic
was breaking apart. It was just a sedative, so I wouldn’t freak out. A legal pharmaceutical. You don’t know what it’s like—”

“Why didn’t you tell me then? I went through the same thing you did. I was scared too!”

His eyes close briefly and reopen on the window. “I was afraid of what you’d say, how you’d feel about it. I didn’t want you to know I didn’t trust myself, or think I didn’t trust you.”

“Where did you get it from? Your own prescription?”

I’m not even sure I want to know.

Tristan holds up his hands, palms facing me. “Some guy back at the inn. A local, I dunno. He knew all about you, and Butterman Travel. Said he admired my courage, but that I’d be crazy not to leave prepared.”

A local? “What was his name? What’d he look like?”

“I didn’t get his name. He was around our age, light brown hair, average build. Decent looking guy.”

Beneath the fingernail of his right pinky, Tristan digs out a micro-dot tinier than a grain of rice. Then moves on to his ring finger and does the same thing.

“Four in each hand,” he says. “Once inserted, all I had to do was press my fingernail to inject the dose in my bloodstream. Took all of two seconds to spread warm currents throughout my body. It was only a safety net, you have to believe that. In case of pain, or disaster. It was never about getting high.”

I scoff quietly. “Well, I really appreciate your demonstration of faith in me. Thank you.”

“Bianca, I—”

“There’s always an excuse with you, you know? With the opiate oils, and the mushrooms, and Jimi Hendrix’s joint. And that night at Agnes’ diner. It’s never your fault, is it? My parents stood up for you back there.
I
stood up for you.” I pause, shaking my head.

Even I’m surprised by the spiteful tone of my voice, but I’m not sorry for it. We stare at each other for a few long seconds. Wind from outside sweeps snow past the cockpit window, obscuring the sky and creating a blur. For the first time in a long while, I feel hopelessly cold.

“I’m not a bad person,” Tristan finally says, like he wants so much to believe it’s true. “You just don’t know what it’s like.”

“Like for what? Stress? Stardom? ‘Cause that’s BS. I know exactly what it’s like to have the media breathing down your neck 24/7. Ever since I met you, that’s been my life. Everything I say and do is criticized and blasted over the interwebs.”

His cheek twitches. “That’s not what I mean. You don’t know what it’s like to physically and mentally crave something and have to talk yourself out of it every hour of every day. I’m constantly reminded of what I’m missing. And every day is a trial to convince myself I don’t need it. I never doubted you’d get us off
Titanic
… I only doubted my ability to deal with an ugly situation if it came up. I’m weak, Bianca.”