Jesus Was a Time Traveler (WATT Book 1)

by D. J. Gelner

  “Ever meet these guys before?” I wished we would see the paternalistic grandfather once more, but it was not to be.

  This Albertson looked us up-and-down like a spectator at the world yo-yo championships.

  “No sir, I don’t believe so.”

  “Very good,” Burnham paused and stared at Albertson. “Dismissed, dummy!” he hissed at the young man before he threw a (rather elegant, I may add) coffee mug at the door. The whole scene was suitably Hank Fleener-like to give me a distinct feeling of deja vu.

  “What the fuck are you talking about? Albertson doesn’t know you. He’s from this time,” Burnham thundered.

  “Not him—his son. Or maybe grandson…” I saw that Burnham’s anger didn’t abate and decided to change my strategy. I shook my head, “Never mind. We aren’t here to bother you or ask for autographs, or to ogle your, and I must say rather impressive, collection of Star Trek memorabilia,” I looked at Bloomington, who still hadn’t the good sense to shut his maw. “Rather we’ve been engaged in a somewhat tiresome temporal scavenger hunt put on by a reclusive billionaire.”

  Several moments of silence followed.

  “Well, don’t look at—” Burnham grew indignant.

  “I assure you, it’s not you, Victor.” I did my best to keep an even tone. “We do have the unenviable task of ‘communicating’ with you here, and I believe it has something to do with the speech you’re about to make this evening.”

  “Well? Communicate away!” Burnham yelled. “So I’m giving away my fortune. Hoo-fucking-ray for me! What a hero I am. Another feather in my cap that’ll keep the wine and women a third my age flowing until I finally croak.”

  I spent several moments with my head cocked to the side pondering if the angry little man had just misspoken or not.

  Bloomington and Corcoran looked at me, so I continued to probe.

  “I suppose I should ask ‘when’ you’re from, then?”

  “See, this is exactly why I didn’t want to have to deal with this. You’re just like the goddamned rubes in this town asking where someone went to high school. When are you from? When did you get here? Why now? Spineless English prick!” He turned to face the floor-to-ceiling window at the back of the room.

  “Actually, I’m an American citizen,” I replied. “Dual citizen, really. It’s complicated—”

  “Of course it is! Of course it’s fucking complicated. Gentlemen, we’re traveling through time! Humans aren’t supposed to be able to do that. We’re fucking with the very fabric of existence, with the fate of the universe itself. That’s why I told ChronoSaber, ‘one way, no one follows.’ Every small-minded hustler and lottery winner would have the idea to do what I did.”

  “Play the market?” Corcoran asked.

  Burnham laughed. “You think that’s how it started? No, my good Commander, in my own time, I was a sharp. A hustler. A pro gambler, living the okay life out in Vegas. You know, a couple mill, nothing too much, not starvin’, but not livin’ the good life, either.

  “Eventually, news of the good Commander’s successful mission leaked out, and I start to hear from some of my sources that ChronoSaber’s about to go deregulated. So I pull some strings and I get to the front of the line. Have to put up my whole nest egg to do it, but I figure fuck it, it’s a sure thing.”

  “I thought the only sure thing in a sports book was the ajax?” I interrupted. I received blank stares for my trouble. “The beeswax?” More stares followed. “The…oh, what the devil…the vigorish!”

  Burnham shook his head and balled up his fist, as if he wanted to take a swing at me. “You’ve obviously not been to enough sports books, you dumb Limey bastard! Since history was found to be immutable, that meant that the outcomes of games were fixed. And here I was in the future betting on games that were in question like a sucker!

  “So my ingenious plan was to go back in time and bet a bunch of games, make easy money, and retire to a tropical island filled with beautiful women.” I wanted to tell Burnham that his plan didn’t appear to be particularly unique given my experience, but I let the old man continue.

  “I dug up an old paper sports almanac and went back to the sixties. Just like that asshole from Back to the Future, but with a little panache and a lot more discretion.”

  “Two.” Bloomington finally said something.

  “What?”

  “Back to the Future II is the movie where Biff appropriates Marty’s idea to steal a sports almanac and take it into the past, thereby creating an alternate—”

  The spry old man took two quick steps at Bloomington and reared back to hit the squat nerd. Bloomington flinched, and Burnham’s fist stopped just short of its target.

  “SHUT…THE…FUCK…UP!” Burnham screamed. “Christ, isn’t anyone else in the future normal? Except for you, Commander, of course. You’re as American as football and apple pie.”

  I decided the better of engaging the man in a discussion of whose country properly used the term “football” given Burnham’s current mental state.

  “Aw shucks,” Corcoran said with not-so-thinly-veiled false modesty.

  “At any rate,” Burnham gritted his teeth, “Sadly the Vegas of the sixties isn’t quite as ‘warm and fuzzy’ as the Vegas I know. I tried to be discreet, vary my bets, change casinos, the whole nine, but word got around fast back then, and the mafia sure as shit doesn’t like some wise-ass messing things up for them. One night, they worked me over pretty fucking good, took all of my cash, left me penniless.

  “So there I was, stuck in Vegas, my return trip not for another five years. Hitchhiked my way back east, and eventually found myself in St. Louis. This was the city’s heyday, by God—old Busch was still being built, the Cards were good, Budweiser flowin’, fuckin’ fantastic, I tell you. I decided it was as good of place as any to set up shop.”

  “So what did you do then?” Thankfully Corcoran asked.

  “I wasn’t doing enough of a job connecting the dots to your liking, Commander?” Burnham practically spat at Corcoran. His narrowed, beady little eyes were magnified through the thick lenses of his spectacles. The billionaire realised what he had done as his eyes went wide. “Sorry about that, just used to schooling your moronic goons here in a little respect.”

  “No offense taken,” I couldn’t help myself.

  Fortunately Burnham ignored me. “I got a job at a soda fountain and started saving my money. I knew I could do something to fleece the past, but I hadn’t figured out what or how. Then it hit me—stocks! Glorious stocks. Companies like GE and Coca-Cola weren’t going anywhere, and could make me a healthy living until an Apple or Microsoft came along.

  “I also thought that once I got set up, I could start making these,” he opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a handful of what appeared to be plastic-wrapped nicotine patches.

  “Smokin’ problem?” Corcoran asked.

  Burnham laughed, “I forget—you guys are practically from the dark ages. I’d hardly call it a ‘problem;’ just vaporize some medigel and goodbye lung cancer! No, these, my good Commander, are called Holotrans.”

  My mind raced back to those several (more than several?) days ago when Trent had explained the concept to me.

  “You mean the universal translator with a speaker and holo-emitter to synch your mouth with the other person’s language?” I offered.

  Burnham beamed and looked at Corcoran, “And here I was thinking this one was the dumb one. Tell me, how did you figure that out, my boy?”

  “You’re far from the first time traveller from the future that I—we’ve met.” I said.

  “Well, that’s exactly right. Put this patch on your neck, and presto, you speak whatever language that the other person does. Not to mention, it translates what you hear into English. I wanted to make these in China and flood the market, but turns out that they require some sort of special nano-tech or some bullshit like that—like I said, I’m a sharp, not an engineer.”

  He casually tossed each of us o
ne of the devices, which caught me off-guard.

  “Go ahead—take one each. I have a drawer full of ‘em. Turns out it got me in good with the Japs. Someone has to help ‘em take over this country this decade, am I right?”

  “I, uh…thank you.” I said.

  “Thank you,” Burnham said.

  “Whatever for?” I asked.

  “For letting me finally get this shit off my chest. Do you know how tough it is to go around, playing the kindly old grandpa to the world,” he put on his practised, warm smile and gave a token wave, “let alone keeping all of this future talk bottled up? It gets to a guy. Pardon my language, but fucks him up a bit in the head, you know? This has been therapeutic, refreshing, invigorating! Now if you’ll excuse me…”

  I still had hundreds of questions for the man, but it was obvious that he had said his peace and he was done.

  “Aw, already?” Corcoran’s “already” may as well have been “shucks.”

  Burnham grinned, “I apologize, Commander, but I’m a busy man. The world isn’t going to take over itself. I would love to chat more, but I’m afraid that the best I can do is to offer some VIP tickets to you and your friends for my New Year’s Eve Party tonight. Hell, I’ll even throw in a suite at the Adam’s Mark—that’s where it is, you see.”

  “We…erm…aren’t dressed appropriately,” I said as I surveyed our sorry collection of what appeared to be military surplus and articles from a J. Crew outlet.

  Fortunately, Burnham waived the concern away, “No problem at all.” He pounded on the button once more.

  “Albertson!” the old man growled again. “Albertson!” he released the button. “Fuck! Little shit always does this when I throw the mug.” He depressed a different button, “Garrett!” though the volume didn’t change.

  “A moment, please, with my compatriots?” I asked.

  Burnham looked at Corcoran, who nodded.

  “Of course! No rush!”

  We huddled up quickly.

  “Are we quite sure that we should be doing this? Shouldn’t we just rest up for the next jump?”

  “Aw, come on, Doc—can’t you relax? Have a little fun?”

  “Yeah,” Bloomington chimed in with an air of unearned superiority.

  I raised my voice somewhat, “The last time we ‘had a little fun,’ I nearly got a spear in the back of my throat for the trouble!”

  Over my shoulder, Burnham cleared his throat.

  “Is that some kind of…code phrase or something? You know, not that there’s anything wrong with that…”

  “Why you prig-covered bollywort!” I stepped toward the old little man, eager to make him pay for his little display of homophobia. He responded by lowering his eyes just above the rims of his frames toward Corcoran in an “I told you so” gesture.

  “Hey, whoa!” Corcoran yelled before he let out a shrill whistle. Everyone stopped and turned to look. “Mr. Burnham, we’d be honored to be your guests at the party tonight.”

  “Stupendous!” Burnham clasped his hands together. “A real-life celebrity, but one going incognito—the guests will be none the wiser! It’ll be a terrific way of ‘winding the guests up,’ as your people say,” he nudged me with an elbow in the ribs.

  The door flung open to reveal a youngish fellow, with a smooth face that looked to have never seen the sharp side of a razor blade. His red hair blended almost seamlessly with his flush face, which was somehow familiar.

  “Yes sir,” the young man said.

  “Have these men fitted for tuxedos in the ancillary suite at the Adam’s Mark. And not the cheap shit—go to the Italian guy, not Huang. Capice?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Burnham!” As the young man spoke the phrase, my mind raced back to Isla Yucatan. Three short “days” ago, but by now it seemed a lifetime. I imagined I was in the hospital bed suffering from hyperoxia, and watching that dreadful holovid that ChronoSaber put together.

  And just like that, the CEO’s face flashed in front of me once more.

  Nice to meet you, Zane Garrett, I thought.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Here you go—the ‘ancillary’ suite at the Adams-Mark,” Garrett opened the door to a cavernous room with high ceilings. The furnishings, though I’m sure considered ornate for the time, seemed ancient and more than a bit gaudy. Garish red fabric upholstered the gold-rimmed furniture in a manner that I’m sure some of my fellow countrymen could only appreciate. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a sucker for English tradition, just not when it interferes with a crisp, clean, modern modality of decor.

  Garrett looked at us as if he expected a series of whistles and cat-calls, but I think even Corcoran and Bloomington felt let-down judging by the hang-dog looks on their faces. Though to be fair, Steven always walked around as such despite cheating death not but one day before.

  “Very nice,” I said with a tight smile as I turned toward Garrett. “Mister…Garrett, is it?”

  “Yep. Zane Garrett—pleased to meetchya.” He extended a hand, and I accepted it. Sadly for him, he also offered it to Corcoran and Bloomington, and received a crushing grip and various germ-caked phlegm remnants for his trouble.

  “May I call you Zane?” I asked.

  “Sure thing, Mister…”

  “Templeton,” I said. “Phineas Templeton. You can call me Finny. Don’t worry, though; I’ve heard every A Separate Peace joke there is.”

  His face, of course, remained flat, as did Corcoran’s and Bloomington’s.

  “Not big readers, I see,” I said.

  “No, I’ve read it,” Corcoran said.

  “Me too,” Garrett said.

  Bloomington remained noticeably silent.

  I shook off their blank looks and removed the rather heavy camo jacket. Though it seemed as if the door had shut mere moments before, a knock cracked the silence like a whip.

  Garrett opened the door to reveal a well-dressed man with slicked-back, peppery hair and large bags under his eyes.

  “Gentlemen, this is Alfredo Manetti, Mr. Burnham’s personal tailor. He must’ve been quite impressed with all of you.”

  Or unimpressed, judging by the quality of his own suit, I thought.

  “Please, call me Freddy,” Manetti said, stopping only momentarily to raise a tape-measure-filled hand toward us.

  “Hey Freddy,” Corcoran was all smiles once more.

  “So, Zane, how did you come to be in Mr. Burnham’s employ?” I was determined to continue probing, even as Freddy knelt down to do some probing of his own around my groin area.

  Garrett shrugged, “Not sure, really. Lucky, I guess. Went to Mizzou, graduated last year, before I know it I’m starting here as Mr. Burnham’s assistant.”

  “He hand-selected you, then?” I asked.

  “Turn around,” Freddy said. I complied.

  “Eh. He came to a job fair. Of course, it was a big deal at the time. Everyone wanted to get their start with Burnham Herrington. Some of the guys were prepared to do anything—and I mean anything: kill, maim, steal—to get the job.” Garrett’s eyes narrowed as he bit his lip.

  “Arms out,” Freddy commanded. I complied once more.

  Garrett smiled, “Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. Met with Mr. Burnham, and I told him I thought it was great, you know, the work he was doing with the Japanese, and how Japan was the future. He wasn’t scared to ship stuff over there, and talked about how he’d be lauded as a visionary twenty years from now.” Garrett grinned, “It also probably didn’t hurt that I knew he was a Star Trek nut, and flashed him this when I first met him,” Garrett’s fingers trembled as they struggled to contort into the familiar Vulcan hand signal, which held very different meaning for him than us.

  “So you’re from Missouri then?” Corcoran asked.

  “Yep,” Garrett answered. I exhaled with relief as Freddy moved on to Bloomington, satisfied that I had removed an inch or so from the waist and chest measurements he had obtained.

  “Whereabouts?”

  “Popla
r Bluff. Little town down south. You?”

  “O’Fal—uh…unincorporated St. Charles county.”

  Garrett smiled warmly, “You’re practically a city slicker compared to me then. It wasn’t farm life growin’ up, but it was close. Simpler times back then, don’t you think?”

  The fresh-faced young redhead stared down each of us in turn, a cold, measured stare that was either meant to be a tip off, or a suggestion to not pry any further into his past.

  “Hee hee, that tickles!” Bloomington giggled. Now it was Corcoran and myself who shot icy glares at him.

  “Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I do have quite a bit of business to attend to, with the party and whatnot. Freddy here will set you up with some tuxes once he has your measurements. I’m afraid that they won’t be custom-fitted due to the time-sensitive nature of this order, but—”

  “Pretty damn close,” Freddy said, through the stick of tailor’s chalk gritted between his teeth.

  I’m sure, I thought. I hope the sentiment didn’t show across my face.

  Garrett smiled his semi-weasily smile once more, “Exactly. I’m sure I’ll run into you gentlemen tonight. Until then, make yourselves at home, relax, help yourselves to minibar, room service, whatever. Mr. Burnham was very specific that you are to receive the utmost in luxury during your time in St. Louis. Farewell.”

  Before I could stop Garrett from leaving, the heavy hardwood door closed with a hard “thud,” and the man was gone.

  Freddy had finished with Bloomington, and predictably the portly little pig had his mind on only one thing:

  “Minibar!” he exclaimed. He raced (with far more speed and alacrity than he had showcased in Mayan times, might I add) to the rather archaic looking mini-fridge and flung it open, and eagerly shoveled armloads of horrific-looking junk food into his pudgy, greedy little arms. Once he had appropriated all that he could carry, the little porker gleefully pranced to the couch and, in one motion, cast himself upon the davenport, grabbed the remote, and fell comfortably in place as the snacks showered down upon him.

  “You realise the ship has a fully-stacked pantry, don’t you?” I asked. The only answer I received was the loud “click clacking” of the remote as Bloomington searched the archaic-looking telly for something interesting. Something interesting to him, at least.