Butterman (Time) Travel, Inc.

Port Butterman

October 15, 2069

10:23:36 AST

     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.”