Read Induction Day: Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series for Free Online Page A

over, and operating a leisure time trip right now, under all this mess, it’s just asking for a DOT violation.”
    Not like I didn’t expect this.
    “So what’re you saying?” I ask. “How long do I have to wait?”
    Mom tilts her head, her blue eyes frank and wise. “It depends on how soon this blows over. You told me not too long ago that you didn’t mind waiting. Why the urgency now?”
    I start to speak, but I’m not sure what I want to say. Truth is, after Woodstock and T-cubing to rewrite the timeline and save the family biz, saving Titanic didn’t seem as necessary as it once had. But something happened during the weeks I waited to see Tristan again. All those new feelings I didn’t know what to do with—the desire and insecurity and excitement—gave me too much anxiety. I resorted back to my Titanic plans to fill the void and give me purpose. Maybe a little too much.
    “I thought I wouldn’t mind postponing it,” I finally say. “But it’s a part of me now. I’m vexed by what may never happen, and haunted by what already has.”
    “Is it so surprising, Gwen?” Dad says. “She’s been married to the idea since she was ten. Were you or I any less adamant?”
    Mom bites her bottom lip. She’s only a Butterman by marriage, but she understands the inner pull Dad’s referring to. I love when she tells the story of her Induction into the Butterman family of time travelers—how she studied every possible outcome, strategizing for months, and eventually following her instinct that said life is more important than obeying the laws of time. “Any disruption to the timeline would be minor,” she’d say. “And the outcome becomes our signature etched in the fabric of space and time.”
    Her time trip to see a medicine man in Namibia in 2030 was without fault. The world was only a few years shy of discovering the vaccination for the multi-viral flu, anyway, and what she was able to accomplish prevented the worst epidemic outbreak in the region. To this day, there’s not a record of it anywhere, and since both my parents were outside this timeline during her Induction, they were unaffected by the universal memory purge of its occurrence.
    “There are the port taxes to think about,” Mom says, obviously reaching.
    “I don’t mind the port taxes, it’s a pop audit I’m worried about, particularly after all this public smearing.” Dad powers on his palm-com device and projects the holo-screen.
    “Port taxes?” I ask. “Since when?”
    “Since the official statement from the good old Department of Transportation yesterday,” Dad says, gesture-scrolling through holographic pages. “Here it is … Hypothetically, say we set up a time travel date of December 10th, with a departure time of 9AM AST from Port Butterman, Alaska; an arrival time of … what’s the date again, Bee?”
    “April 14, 1912.”
    “Right.” He continues punching in data. “Over the Atlantic ocean at … the coordinates?”
    “50 degrees longitude, 42 degrees latitude,” I say.
    “Copy that. With a four hour time window …” Dad glances at me. “You know that’s the max, right?”
    “Yes, Dad, duh.”
    I mean, really? He has to ask? Of course I know I’ve only got four hours to find my way around Titanic , get word to the bridge before collision, and initiate a full parallel shift into the alternate universe that will save Titanic and her passengers before being sealed off forever—all before getting back here to my present time string without causing any noticeable alterations. Duh .
    Dad crunches some more numbers, both hands still moving data around on-screen. “That’ll be $100,304.92 exactly.”
    Mom winces.
    “Just for taxes?” Tristan asks.
    “Just for taxes,” Dad confirms. “Payable to the ever chaste DOT upon the time of booking.”
    My shoulders drop and I groan. Yet another obstacle in my way. I can’t make Mom and Dad pay that kind of money just so I can have my Induction.
    Dad notices my