Induction Day: Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series (12 page)

O
utside the time-craft
, I soak in the moment. Brisk air meets my cheeks and nose, as well as a salty freshness, and dark, easy waves extend as far as my vision goes. But it’s the sky that captures my breath. Clear, crisp and moonless, with so many stars—winking, as if speaking with each other in some secret celestial code. A warning, maybe?

Over my eighteen years of life I’ve heard the adage “the calm before the storm,” more times than I can count, but right here, right now, the potency of the words descends on my chest with vengeance, heavy and iron-hard. Only a few hours now. Before this entire vessel assumes its place in history and claims the lives of 1500 souls.

“Unsinkable.”

“Huh?” Tristan asks.

I glance at his shadowy profile beside me. “Everyone onboard believes she’s unsinkable. They have no idea what’s about to happen.”

“You there,” a man’s voice calls. “That area’s off-limits, get down from there.”

A guy in a dark uniform stands below us on the top deck. His eyes are shaded by the front of his crew’s hat.

“Ye could get hurt, now come on down ‘fore I have to arrest ye.” His voice has a rugged Irish accent, but sounds young.

“Come on.” I grab Tristan’s arm and we move away from the massive steam funnel. For the first time, I notice the rumbling from inside it. “Remember where we parked. Steam funnel two.”

Not where I was originally aiming for, but only slightly off target. And nobody has to know that part anyway.

“You can get down this way,” the steward calls, motioning us to take the ladder at the other end of the funnel’s platform.

My legs are shaky, but we move quickly and I climb down the ladder ahead of Tristan, my boots touching the smooth, polished white wood of
Titanic’s
top deck for the first time. A cold breeze soars past me, lifting my hair and tickling the tops of my ears. In front of me is a lifeboat suspended in the air—brand new and perfect in every way.

Tonight, it will be a hot commodity, but now it hangs alone and ignorant.

I can hardly breathe.

The steward must mistake my astonishment for intimidation, because he sizes me up with a squint of his gaze. He looks too young to be in his position. Smooth complexion, and a striking shape of cheekbone and jaw. The no-nonsense glimmer in his amber-brown eyes is cuter than it is offensive. Or … it could be that I’m simply starstruck by my first real encounter onboard.

Tristan plops down beside me and stares blankly at the steward.

I realize I’ve been doing the same thing and find my voice. “Sorry, we got turned around.”

“What’s yer cabin number?” The steward moves in closer, the name on his tiny chest placard now readable. Q. Bloomsdale. “Yer not first class, then, are ye?”

“We’re traveling second class,” I say, then force a dumb giggle with the hopes he won’t worry about our cabin number. “This ship’s so big, we weren’t sure where we’d end up.”

“Ye can’t be up here,” he says, and even though it’s kind of a reprimand, there’s nothing harsh or cold about it. He peers over our heads at the massive steam funnels, as if he might want to inspect the area further. “It’s no place for lovers. Stick to the lower deck.”

In my mind, I’m trying to place the name Bloomsdale. I’ve read about the
Titanic
crew and passengers religiously over the years, but it’s impossible to remember all 2207 of them. Some resonate more than others because of who they were and whether or not they survived, or gave up their lifeboat seat for someone else. Bloomsdale, though ... I just can’t remember if he makes it back alive or not.

He meets my gaze again, then Tristan’s and throws a sideways nod. “Go on, then.”

For some reason, I can’t get my feet to move. My brain is too busy grappling for this steward’s identity, and if his feet will ever touch solid land again. Anguish burns inside my chest—a deep rooted melancholy that makes no disguise of its existence—because I could know this man’s future, and he doesn’t have a clue. It isn’t right to have this kind of knowledge about someone. It isn’t fair.

Tristan’s tugging at my elbow, and finally I step back, breaking my eye contact with Bloomsdale, whose dark brows are furrowed, a flicker of suspicion in his amber-brown eyes.

Bloomsdale reaches for his pocket, and for a moment, I wonder if he plans to threaten us with a weapon a droid-cop would. But he pulls out a gold watch attached to a chain that disappears into his pocket. Pressing a button, he flips the cover open, checks the data there, then closes it and slips it back inside his pocket. “Music should be playing now in the second class smoking room. Why don’t ye go have a nice time, keep yerselves out of trouble.”

He seems distracted now, his attention on the night sky, as if sensing something is askew, which is odd, because the weather couldn’t be stiller. The steam of his breath is visible from his lips, now parted.

“Sounds good,” Tristan says. “Could you, uh, point us in the right direction?”

Bloomsdale glances back at us, as if he’d forgotten we were there. “C’mon, then.”

We pass only a few random passengers strolling on the deck and peering at the ocean until we reach a set of remarkably white doors. He pushes one open and holds it, nodding us onward. I hesitate, an irresistible urge to stop and study the carved detail of the trim overwhelming me. Placing my hand on the cold, smooth wood, it seems I absorb the vessel’s own memory. If only I could spend more time here. If it weren’t for minimal time windows and DOT regulation, I’d make my next time trip on the first day of the voyage just to enjoy the experience.

We step along the promenade for a few moments til we reach a corner stairwell. Bloomsdale advises us to descend to the B-Deck and along the conjoining corridor to the second class dining and smoking rooms. He leaves us without another word.

I pause at the stairwell, my back against the wall, obscured from plain view, and project the ship’s schematic from my watch. A few other passengers are milling about, mostly headed out to the deck or returning from it and hardly concerned with Tristan’s or my presence. My hands are trembling. I try not to make a thing of it, clenching my jaw to snap hold of my nervous system. “Keep a lookout for me.”

Tristan angles his back to me, his gaze fixed on the wide open windows of the promenade. “This is so sublime.”

He sounded so much like a kid just then, and he looks just as cute as one with his little cap resting at his forehead, his eyes wide with wonder.

“This entire ship is a relic,” he continues. “I mean, I thought Woodstock rocked and it was a total mindfuck to be there, but this … this is … wow.”

I refocus on the schematic. “Nicely said there. Networks will be competing to quote that one.”

Tracing my finger along the projection, I determine the best route to the first class dining room from here, leaving a highlighted neon blue trail to mark the path. “The grand staircase is just to the other side of us. It’ll take us right there, but we’d draw too much attention. We should take the stairwells whenever we can, stay out of plain view.”

“Ready when you are.”

“I’m setting the timer from here so I’ll know exactly how long it takes.”

“They don’t mess around here either, do they?” Tristan asks.

“What d’you mean?”

“Since we’re only second class passengers, we can’t even mingle with first class. Man, that’s cold.”

“We can mingle, as long as we’re invited to. And it’s no different than you sitting first class on a shuttle to Alaska, away from all your adoring fans in coach.”

“Yeah, but that’s just price differences. The airlines don’t treat the coach passengers like children.”

“What, you think Bloomsdale treated us like children? I thought he was pretty cool about it. He could’ve called someone, or forced us below deck.”

“Cool would’ve been leaving us alone. And I didn’t like the way he looked at us. Gave me the creeps.”

I shut down the projection and scan the premises. “Could’ve been much worse. And the third class passengers here weren’t treated badly—not til they hit the berg, anyway. One of the groundbreaking elements of
Titanic’s
launch was that it offered nice amenities for third class passengers at affordable prices. Most of the passengers here are third class.”

“Yeah, that’s why so many drown too. That’s what that one documentary said. They locked them down in their cabins. And you call that
not bad
?”

I swallow hard. He’s right. The third class passengers never stood a chance. Mostly women and children will die tonight. It will happen so fast, so unexpectedly. My mind recalls the descriptions of bodies floating in icy waters, colorless and lifeless—babies still latched in their mothers’ arms; wives clinging to their husbands’ embrace; children drifting all alone, their limbs splayed out, stiff and frozen, like ghastly angels of the deep.

A pit forms inside my stomach. Since I’ve stepped onboard I’ve been sidetracked with the grandeur here—forgetting the horror that lies ahead. Every single person on this ship will be blindsided by the slow expansion of terror, at a time when their hearts are so full of hope—of new lives, new plans, in a new land full of promise.

“Anyway,” I say. “We have to be smart. We could still cause a major PF and skew the timeline. If we were to get arrested and miss the time window, Essence could go down with
Titanic
.”

Tristan holds my stare with his own. “And so could we.”

I break our momentary trance by checking my watch: 2051hours. “Follow me.”

We take the stairwell to the next lower level and step out into the corridor. The interior’s richness leaves no mistake that this is the first class section. The crown molding and door frames are glossy under their coats of white paint, and frosted sconces adorn every wall, with polished brass handrails below them. Even new carpet on the floor, which allows us to step along in silence. We move along slowly and I breathe in the scent of brand new. Paint, wood, metal. Lemon cleaner, and traces of men’s after shave still lingering in the air.

From just behind me, Tristan elbows my arm and clears his throat. I look up to find a couple strolling toward us—a stout woman in a large hat with feather plumes sprouting from it, is leading a man in a black tuxedo. As she nears, the glittery jewels above her swoop-neck dress reflect the light with an elegant call to attention. The woman rambles on about something, while the man nods from behind her, a cigar clenched between his teeth as he straightens the white bib of his tux. They barely glance our way as they pass, which is surprising since Tristan and I are gawking at them.

I have to remind myself that I blend in here.

Once they’ve disappeared around the bend, we continue down the white walled corridor, passing a few other passengers, and finally to a marked elevator. An attendant inside is gnawing at his fingernail and since I’d rather not answer any questions about why we’re headed down to the first class dining room, we let ourselves in the stairwell and descend a series of stairs to a door marked First Class Reception Room. Gently, I nudge the door open and peek into a wide open foyer of lush crimson carpet and cherry wood walls.

We hang back, surveying the area and watching which passengers are going where to determine the way to the dining room. Once we locate the correct direction, we move out to a small nook near the end of the foyer, where a small butterscotch colored sofa sits nestled at a port window. Taking a seat, we lean back against the ship’s wall, obscured by a potted palm to the right of us. From here, I can keep my eyes on the white wooden double doors that separate the foyer from the dining room. The filigree design over the glass windows prevents me from seeing clearly inside to make out the captain, or anyone else for that matter. Uniformed stewards with bored faces stand in front of the doors, nodding and smiling only when passengers approach or depart. They don’t seem to notice us in the nook, or don’t care.

When a trio approaches the dining room next, the stewards open the doors in unison, and that’s when the grandeur practically spills over into the foyer. Classical piano music drifts through the air, and laughter and chattering voices. So much liveliness. My posture erect now, I scan the room, my gaze falling over a long lavish dinner table yet to be seated, its surface draped in crisp white linen, adorned with silver platters and fine china. Empty long-stemmed crystal goblets glint beneath the grand chandelier that hovers above, its kaleidoscopic sparkles cast across the table-top in an array of dancing lights.

And then the doors close again behind the stewards and my breath hitches in my throat. The proverbial dangling of the carrot before snapping it away. I feel denied and shortchanged, and I want more than anything to stroll through that room and soak in its glory before it plummets to the bottom of the Atlantic for more than a century. My scalp buzzes, my shoulders tensing. Every single one of those passengers are oblivious—taking it all for granted, what lies before them—what will never be seen again in quite the same way.

“Holy shit,” Tristan says.

He’s impressed, I can tell by the pitchy tone of his voice. It makes me smile to myself.

“Not the same swank you’re used to, eh?” I whisper.

His breath is warm on my neck, but he says nothing, only makes the softest of noises.

We wait a few moments and I check my watch again. “2111hours.

He’s not coming out.”

“What makes you so sure he will?”

“Records say he went to the bridge once before going to bed around 2120hours.”

“Maybe someone got their facts wrong. I mean, was someone recording every move he made down to the minute?”

“No.” The pulse at my temple throbs. “Maybe we should head for the bridge. I wanted to avoid it in case someone questioned us and decided we don’t belong. Dang, I dunno …”

Tristan squeezes my forearm. “Calm down, Butterman. I thought this was a trial run anyway. Maybe you just need to review your notes again or something.”

My jaw stiffens. He has no idea how insulting that statement is, and because of that, I’ll let it slide. He can’t possibly understand how my entire life has been centered around this one event.