Jesus Was a Time Traveler (WATT Book 1)

by D. J. Gelner

  I puckered up and shivered as my lips met hers, a surge of electricity rocked my body as we held each other. The room must’ve been louder than ever, though to me, it seemed empty and hollow at the moment; the only “real” things were the woman in front of me and the Burnham-proclaimed “ghost” who was currently kissing her.

  After several wonderful moments, the make-out session ended. My face must’ve twitched several times out of sheer giddiness and excitement, while her eyes were still the same kind, wonderful oasis of blue in the generally red-appointed room.

  “Wow,” she said. “You’re one hell of a kisser.”

  “Indeed,” I said, thoughtlessly, before I realised what she had said and shook myself straight, “You’re quite ravishing, or I should say ‘ravishable’ yourself.”

  “I could use a drink,” she said, as she shook her empty glass right by those wonderful eyes of hers.

  “As could I,” I replied.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Templeton. Phineas Templeton,” I said. I like to think it was far more James Bond than Phineas Templeton earlier that evening.

  “Cynthia,” she said. “Cynthia…Hess. Sorry, I apologize, it’s tough to go back to my maiden name after all of these years. You have to admit, it sounds better than the old one, though.”

  “Really? What was it?” I had never damned my curiosity so much as right after the question left my lips, since it was that moment that I realised why that smile seemed so familiar.

  “It was stupid…but…Albertson.” She said. “Cynthia Albertson. My son, William, works for Victor. As you may be able to tell, I’m so proud. Something tells me he’s in for great things some day.”

  I poured the bottle into my own glass until it was full to the brim, downed it, and checked out for the rest of the evening.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As had become customary on this excursion, I awoke the next day to a splitting headache. I wondered for several curious moments if the events of the past several days had all been a dream. Maybe I was still in my lab at Hopkins, perhaps taken feverish, and had conjured up all of the insanity that I had recently experienced.

  Instead, I found myself, alone, in my bed in the suite at the Adams Mark. I grasped at the far side of the bed as I searched for whom I could only imagine was Jesus Christ’s grandmother, and was simultaneously relieved and dismayed when I found it vacant. I sighed, and reached for my glasses on the nightstand. After putting them on, I noticed a piece of paper from the notepad folded in half into a tent, with an elegant “Phineas” printed across the front.

  My heart raced, both out of suspense for the contents of the note, and because I hadn’t remembered more than a minute of 1986 until this very moment. My quivering hand reached for the note and I unfolded it as I felt a suffocating weight fill my chest.

  “Dearest Phineas,

  Thank you for a wonderful evening. It was great to spend the best New Year’s ever with someone who can be such a giving friend (and more…). Don’t be a stranger next time you’re in St. Louis!

  All My Love,

  Cynthia.”

  Her phone number was scrawled in that wonderful, sweeping script. I sighed and savored the note for a moment before my jaw dropped and my eyes bulged.

  “And more…?” I asked myself. “And more…?” I repeated the mantra incessantly as I paced around the room, and even into the bathroom as I showered and shaved. Had we…done it? Had I slept with Trent Albertson’s grandmother?

  And if so, why was I so furious that I didn’t remember a second of it?

  “And more…?” I put on the creased tux pants and did my best to beat the wrinkles out of the ruffled shirt that Burnham had provided.

  “And more…?” I tucked in the shirt and tied my bow tie in a clumsy knot. I looked at myself in the mirror and sighed.

  “And more…” I shook my head.

  As reckless as my behaviour may have been the previous evening, I couldn’t rattle out the nagging thought that I was most upset that I hadn’t my full faculties to remember the experience. As disheveled as she may have been, Cynthia was a wondrous creature, and through the incessant pounding in my head, I seem to remember bits of intriguing conversations as the night went along. I just hoped that I hadn’t told the woman that her grandson would some day become Jesus Christ Himself. I chided myself for forgetting that ultimately, even if I had spilled the beans on our entire time travel excursion, not only did it not matter a whit as far as the timeline was concerned, but also that it had proven endearing, a fact to which the note was testament .

  I studied the note for several more minutes before I folded it and placed it carefully inside my coat. I staggered to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room and assessed the damage from the previous evening. Though the bags under my eyes that became more a part of my face with each passing day were still present, and my skin was a bit pale, I thought I looked rather good, all things considered.

  If nothing else, I projected an air of confidence that had been sorely lacking within me previously. Don’t get me wrong, of the many adjectives used to describe my personality, I’m not so naive as to think that “arrogant” isn’t in the top three. But there’s a marked difference between “confidence” and “arrogance,” insomuch as the latter is usually used to mask the absence of the former.

  As I approached the door, I entertained briefly the idea of leaving Corcoran and Bloomington in the past and absconding with the machine to take on the rest of this horrid scavenger hunt by myself. As improbable (nay, impossible) as such a notion may have proven to carry out, I was still upset with the two acquaintances from the preceding evening. Bloomington because he was Bloomington, and Corcoran because of his cavalier attitude toward my very real concerns regarding Victor Burnham.

  Any thoughts of escape were dashed as I exited the room to find Corcoran at the door, fully dressed in blue jeans and a non-descript (if faded) maroon t-shirt. He kissed one of the bimbos from the previous night and bid her farewell with a pat on the ass as he shut the door behind him and smiled.

  “Whoo-boy. Helluva a night, eh Doc?” He pursed his lips and blew out a mouthful of air. “Wow. Worked out pretty well for everyone. ‘Cept for Bloomy, I guess. He just sorta locked himself in his room and has been out like a light.”

  “You remember what happened last night?” I asked.

  A sly smile, “How could I not, you dog? You were givin’ it to that brunette chick pretty good. I say good for you, Doc; finally let your hair down a bit. Maybe you won’t be such a tight-ass from now on.”

  My initial instinct was to chastise Corcoran for the comment, but instead I felt a swell of pride in my chest and mustered a chuckle.

  “I suppose you’re right. Perhaps as Trent Albertson said, I should enjoy—”

  “That guy who works for Burnham?” Corcoran asked.

  “What? No, no not at all. No, the guy who’s parading around in the past as Jesus Christ, remember?” Corcoran responded with a blank stare. “We went over this back in Chichen Itza, outside of your smoldering wreckage?”

  He affected a knowing grin, “Oh yeah, that whole deal,” Corcoran said.

  “Yes, that ‘whole deal,’” dare I say my tone was only slightly mocking. “And we still have to discuss how all of this—Burnham, Albertson—both of them,” I interrupted Corcoran before he could flood the room with more brilliance, “fit in with ChronoSaber. Now if only—”

  I looked toward Bloomington’s room precisely as the doors opened. One of the benefits of maintaining a rather unkempt style and pudgy physique was that the scientist hardly looked worse for wear despite his drug-fueled bender from the previous evening.

  He took two steps into the main area before he obnoxiously sniffed the air deeply.

  “Stinks like sex in here,” he said with a broad smile. I shot daggers at Corcoran as he offered a wry grin and a shrug.

  “He’s kinda got a point, Doc.”

  “Come on,
I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” It was about as effusive as I had seen Bloomington since before his brush with death. “What a hell of a night though, eh dickheads?” I opened my mouth for a witty retort, but Bloomington preempted me, “I know, I know, sorry Doctor Templeton for being such a mess recently. Until I took down a couple of rails last night, I just had been feeling like shit. I think the coke pretty much evened me out.”

  Corcoran simply nodded as if Bloomington had said he was going downstairs to get the paper. I suppose in hindsight it’s easy to say that Bloomington’s erratic behavior was due to some kind of reaction with the medigel or withdrawal after a full week of not using whatever it was he was on, but I figured that no matter how wrong-headed the man’s logic, I already much preferred this Bloomington to the one who had been along for the ride thus far.

  “I…uh…see…” was all I could muster before I collected myself and offered a tight smile, “Glad to hear you’re feeling better.”

  “That makes two of us,” Corcoran nodded at Bloomington.

  “Good,” Bloomington nodded. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to run the water in the shower to cover the sounds of my masturbating.” Even I chuckled a bit at that one, and Corcoran practically guffawed, but Bloomington remained stone-faced as he turned and re-entered the room.

  “Told ya’ he was a better guy than he was letting on,” Corcoran winked at me.

  “Indeed,” I said. “Well, I suppose we have about two-and-a-half minutes to spare, so what do you say that we tackle this Burnham quandary?”

  I relayed the last conversation that Burnham and I had to Corcoran, who looked lazily around the room as I spoke.

  “So? What do you think?” I asked him.

  I expected the Commander to try to cover his ass with any number of vagaries, but was shocked when he abruptly turned and looked me in the eye.

  “Isn’t it obvious? At some point, Garrett gets put in charge of SABERCorp, or whatever the hell you said it is now. He makes the decision to get into time travel. Everyone makes a shitload of money, including this Albertson character, which then allows his son to get in the game as Jesus Christ.”

  My mouth must’ve almost dropped to the rather stiff burgundy carpet.

  “I suppose that’s as good of a working hypothesis as any,” I tried to hide my shock. “But still, there’s something missing here. Burnham’s final comment was ‘you make the choices. You’ve always made the choices. And you are doomed to make those same choices again.”

  “So? Doesn’t that fit into the whole ‘what happened, happened’ thing?”

  “Yes, but there was something more to it. The way he said it, his tone, his cadence, it was very ominous.”

  Corcoran shook his head, “The man was having a heart attack. Of course it sounded ominous.”

  “All done,” the door to Bloomington’s door flung open and the pudgy scientist stood in the frame, true to his word dry as a bone.

  “Good. How we lookin’ on time, Doc?” Corcoran asked.

  “The machine should be ready to go, provided we survive the trek back there.”

  “Aw, come on, it’s New Year’s Day. No one’ll be out yet.”

  “No witnesses,” Bloomington offered.

  Corcoran shook the thought out of his head. “We’ll take a cab then.”

  “I hope they take gold,” I reached in my pocket and flung the bag of Roman coins at Corcoran.

  He frowned with annoyance. “Steve, you got any—?”

  Bloomington shook his head. Corcoran cringed again. “Well, I guess it’s up to Mr. Garrett, then.” He picked up one of the ornate (if gaudy) expensive-for-the-eighties phones and waited for the operator.

  “Yeah, this is…uh…the suite. I’d like to get in touch with Garrett…” he put his hand over the receiver and widened his eyes at me.

  “Zane,” I whispered.

  “Garrett Zane…err…Zane Garrett….awright.” He looked at me and mouthed, “Put me on hold.” Despite how I had perhaps previously underestimated the man’s intelligence, he was apparently rather adept at making it possible to do so.

  “Yeah, hi, Mr. Garrett? This is Ricky Corcoran, how the hell are ya?” He winked at me once more. “Good. Listen, I’m embarrassed as all get-out here over at the Adams Mark, but it looks like none of us have money for a cab handy. Is there any way…good. Great. Fantastic. Oh yeah, and how is…? Oh, great. Well that’s wonderful. Sure, sure—totally understand. All right, thanks a bunch, Mr. Garrett. Okay…you too…bye now.” He set down the reciever.

  “We’re to tell the front desk that Mr. Burnham’s going to take care of everything, set us up with a gen-u-ine Lincoln with a driver and some spending money.”

  “As gracious as that gesture may be, I doubt that they’re going to have a currency exchange in fourth century Turkey,” I said.

  “It’s the thought that counts,” Corcoran replied with narrowed eyes.

  “How’s Burnham?” I asked.

  “Good. Surprisingly good, really. They said he’s gonna make a full recovery.”

  “Wonderful,” I offered a tight smile. “Any way that we could—”

  “Sorry Doc,” Corcoran shook his head. “Garrett said no visitors.”

  “Jesus, with the way that guy sucked down that blow, I’m shocked he’s alright,” Bloomington said.

  “Maybe it’s the same way you could take an axe to the back and still be alive?” Corcoran asked.

  “Through body armor,” Bloomington snorted. Corcoran and I shook our disapproval. I was almost certain that Burnham had used the medigel to heal himself, though in the event of a heart attack, I didn’t see how that was possible through any conventional method of application. Perhaps he had rigged a syringe with the stuff to fire directly into his veins, or perhaps his security had been instructed to inject him.

  I collected the casual eighties garb that Burnham’s people had provided. As I pondered the precise mechanism that Burnham had used to reanimate himself, I shuffled along practically on autopilot first into the Town Car, all of the way until the limo pulled up next to the abandoned lot where we had parked the time machine.

  “Thanks,” Corcoran said with that winning smile of his as he handed a wad of bills to the driver.

  “Thank you, sir.” The greedy driver waited, palm outstretched, angling for gratuities from Bloomington and myself. Even had I the currency to do so, the man’s brashness would have assured that he received none.

  We exited the car only to find a couple of children who threw rocks at the invisible time machine. They laughed with glee as the projectiles appeared to dance and turn abruptly in mid-air, scattered by some magical, unknowable force.

  “Now see here, children!” Though the alloy that comprised the machine was far too strong to be damaged by rambunctious tykes tossing stones, I thought the better of having to explain the mysterious invisible shape that clanged with every rock hit.

  Corcoran patted me on the shoulder and held up his other hand. He casually ambled over to the children and spoke to them, though I couldn’t hear what he said. He pulled several crisp hundreds out of his pocket, which produced ear-to-ear grins from the children. They greedily grabbed the bills and scampered off into the urban wilderness.

  “Just needed a bit of motivation, that’s all,” Corcoran said. I likely would have been flustered with the ease with which Corcoran had dispatched the boys normally, but in my lingering post-coital afterglow, I simply smiled and nodded.

  I pressed the smart spec button on the temple of my frames, and the enhanced vision display jumped into view. I easily located the entry panel, and placed my hand upon it to lower the gangway and provide the entrance.

  We settled into our usual spots, as I manned the controls, and Corcoran and Bloomington settled in to the dining area next to the pantry.

  “Any chance we can get that full-angle view again, Doc?” Corcoran asked as he absentmindedly struggled to place his billfold in his pocket.

  “Computer, three h
undred sixty degree view, please,” I said. The walls faded away, leaving a panorama of the crumbling vacant lot surrounding us. A family of rats scurried into one of the sections of remaining masonry walls that skirted the edges of the parcel.

  “What a view,” Bloomington deadpanned. I quite liked the new and improved Bloomington already, despite the rather questionable means he had employed to arrive at his current disposition.

  “Some of us got a soft spot for the old gal, Bloomy,” Corcoran looked at me, “And others of us just like the city.”

  “Now just one moment, Commander. I’ll have you—”

  “Relax, just a little joke. That chick you were with was a total cougar, man. Just,” he let out a low, long whistle, “All kinds of all right.”

  “Thank you for your approving commentary,” I said through gritted teeth. Perhaps the afterglow was beginning to fade.

  I programmed the computer, though more out of curiosity than anything else, I checked the odds on returning to my time (1.8%) and Corcoran’s time (0.2%) before doing so. Momentarily amused by the fact that the craft was “eight times more likely” to return to my time period than it was to theirs, I pulled up the list memorialised in my tablet and keyed in the coordinates for our next jump.

  “13-3-325: Nicaea, Turkey: Witness C’s skepticism at the FEC”

  I was somewhat ashamed that my own knowledge of ancient Turkey was likely as limited as Corcoran’s or Bloomington’s. Sure, my father had procured several antiquities from the general area and similar time period, they were mostly “lesser” pieces as far as I was concerned, not because they were any less ornate or polished than others, but because they were of the type of goods that did not lend themselves well to drawing inferences as to the story behind them. A clay jug containing simple drawings memorialising even the most mundane occasion at least had some history behind it, something that would unleash my imagination and allow it to run wild; what had these people been like? What purpose did this jug serve?