by D. J. Gelner
We passed a small Christian church adorned with a crude, wooden cross. Though the building was sparsely-attended, it was if not admired, then at least acknowledged by the groups of Muslims and Jews who passed by.
“Marvelous,” I remarked, wide-eyed. Through my studies, I had learned that the Umayyad Caliphate was a particularly religiously tolerant bunch, but forgive me if I allowed the all-out religious wars of my own time to colour my skepticism somewhat. If only those factions could see what I currently witnessed!
But they will, I thought. And for the first time over the course of many jumps, hope filled and warmed a too-dormant cavity in my chest. Perhaps we had been sent back to see some time travellers discover this camaraderie for themselves. Perhaps the world leaders of the various factions spawned from the initial limited engagement would call a cease-fire, lay eyes upon what true tolerance and co-existence could look like, and call off their bombers and drones.
The recognition must have flashed across my face, as Corcoran interrupted my “We Are the World”-inspired reverie.
“You know who we’re here to see?” the Commander asked.
“Perhaps,” I replied.
Corcoran waited a beat before he raised his arms to his side and shrugged, “Okay then, so Doc maybe, sorta knows where we’re headed. How ‘bout you, Bloomy?”
Bloomington was too busy staring at the various temples and shops, mouth agape, to notice.
Corcoran snapped his fingers in front of the rotund scientist’s face, “Hey, flytrap, you hear me?”
Bloomington shrugged, “Your guys’ guess is as good as mine.” It was the first time in a while that his tone had lacked the tell-tale condescension, the jaded irony that had so come to mark the man.
“Well that’s just peachy,” Corcoran’s lips formed a mock grin. “So we’re just takin’ a break here in the Mideast, then? Wandering around without any kind of idea of what we’re supposed to do.”
I stopped and turned to chastise the Commander, but as I opened my mouth, I realised that the man was correct. We had no leads on this one; even the initials “T V” were so cryptic as to defy any sort of insight. Though I knew some (at least an “Avi-acceptable level” of) ancient Hebrew, it would be nearly impossible for me to convert the primitive Hebrew alphabet printed on the signage to the King’s.
“I’d say that’s a good place to start,” Bloomington said. He pointed toward a large structure being erected near the center of town. Though it was several blocks away, it towered over the city, and the shape of the tall dome atop it was rounding into—
“The Dome of the Rock…” I said, with more than a little wonder. Of course! The proverbial spark in the powder keg that had set off the whole mess in the Middle East to begin with.
Corcoran nodded toward the structure, “You know it?”
I weighed the pros and cons of telling them what they had to look forward to upon their return to the future, and decided that it wouldn’t hurt them to know exactly the type and texture of shitstorm into which our civilisation was about to plunge itself.
I took a deep breath and sighed, “The Dome of the Rock was—is, in your time—one of the most holy places in the Muslim religion.” I had heard the reports on the various news stations enough to repeat the spiel verbatim, though I found it somewhat distasteful that my hyper vigilant subconscious chose to focus in on such a fact after I had delivered the first sentence. “Muslims believe it was built on the very spot where the prophet Mohammed ascended into heaven. Unfortunately, that same spot is atop the so-called Temple Mount, which housed both King Solomon’s original temple and its successor.
“As tensions rose between the two religions through the years, the site of the Dome of the Rock’s construction became a bit of a sore spot for all religions involved. The Muslims obviously regarded the site with the utmost reverence. For years, though, a number of Jews wanted to relocate the Dome to Saudi Arabia, and rebuild a new version of Solomon’s Temple atop the Mount.
“Fanning the flames somewhat were the Evangelical Christians, who believed that in order for their rapture,” I hope my level of condescension wasn’t too apparent, “to occur, Solomon’s Temple must be rebuilt. As the Arab spring happened, and the protests that erupted a year later—”
“Cliffs notes is fine, Doc,” Corcoran said.
I scowled at him sideways, but thought the better of chiding him and continued, “Perhaps three or four years after you left, on June 6, 2016, someone detonated a crude nuclear device inside the Dome of the Rock. The Muslims immediately blamed the Jews for destroying one of the iconic buildings of their entire religion, while the Jews pointed the finger at the Muslims as the only ones who would have access to the Dome during that time of day. Not to mention that the explosion took most of Jewish Jerusalem with it.”
I paused and looked at my audience of two, whom I was pleased to see now paid me their full attention.
“Tensions boiled over, and while it’s unclear who started what, before any of the Western powers could intervene diplomatically, the entire region was plunged into all-out war. Within forty-eight hours, and without any clear warning, both sides had gone nuclear, the Muslim nations having obtained nukes from Iran, or Pakistan, or maybe they even bought them from the Neo-Soviets…err…’Russians.’
“Battle lines were drawn, countries were forced to take sides, but not even the United States or, God save us, the U.K., were able to intervene before the damage had been done. Tens of millions across the Middle East, dead. Those that remained had hideous deformities, and roving gangs and lawlessness ensued. The area has practically been turned to glass, from Jerusalem to the Arabian Peninsula and beyond.
“Unfortunately, though the war officially ‘ended’ in 2028, tensions still run extremely high in my time. Muslims and Jews almost universally now despise one another, and refuse to speak, even in America. Countries on both sides continue to fight in their outer spheres of influence, though thank God the Chinese, Russians, and Americans have had restraint enough thus far to use their nuclear arsenals for deterrence instead of as offensive weapons. In short, gentlemen, it’s a fucking mess.”
I had turned to face the building that would start it all as I continued my little soliloquy. I slowly moved to eye Corcoran and Bloomington, and while the latter’s mouth now was apparently busted at the hinge so widely it hung agape, the look on Corcoran’s face was far more grave and disturbing. Gone was any semblance of the charismatic rake that I had come to know fairly well over the course of the last week or so, replaced with eyes somewhat too wide with a quality that didn’t sit well on Corcoran’s chiseled face at all:
Fear.
“That good enough for the ‘Cliff’s Notes,’ Commander?” I asked.
Ricky nodded wordlessly as he let what I had said sink in. He took one step forward, followed by another. Despite the rather awkward sandals we all wore, Corcoran built up speed and didn’t stop at a jog, but rather continued until he was at an all-out sprint. He kicked up dust as he tore through the streets and alleys of Jerusalem toward the monument under construction atop the temple mount.
I looked at Bloomington, and though his dread registered with me, I paid it no heed. I knew I was the only one of us who could keep up with the Commander, and I lurched forward into my own full gallop; I cared not if Bloomington followed. A heavily-armed and unhinged Ricky Corcoran in seventh-century Jerusalem was the last thing I needed weighing upon a thoroughly beaten-down conscience at present.
Thankfully, I was able to track the strewn pedestrians and dust trails until we reached the “wall” that signified the Temple Mount. I found Corcoran as he stared upward toward the thousands of men that must’ve been working on the project as they laboriously carted lumber, stones, and porcelain toward the top of the platform. To us, it must’ve seemed like the most intensive public works project ever, all of these undersized, yet somehow powerfully burly fellows carrying materials up, lodging them in their intended places, and constructing what othe
rwise seemed impossible without all manner of bulldozers and cranes and other heavy machinery.
“Spectacular,” I said.
“What a fucking crock,” Corcoran ruined the mood a bit.
“Beg your pardon?” I asked.
Bloomington scuttled up, somehow caked with dirt while the Commander and myself remained relatively clean.
“You heard me. This is the reason World War Three starts? This is the reason you’re so…and pardon me for saying so, but…’fucked up,’ Doc?”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I merely stood, stone-faced. I looked at Bloomington, who was still panting, mind you, for guidance.
“Pretty…fucked up…Doc…” Bloomington heaved between breaths.
I was somewhat peeved because I had only allowed the Commander usage of the honourific “Doc” because of his own accomplishments, but I decided to let it slide…just this once…
“Well…yes. I suppose it never came to the fore previously—”
“Let’s blow the fucker up now.” Corcoran interrupted.
“Pardon?” I asked.
“Let’s blow it up now. Save the trouble.”
“And here when I think you’re finally starting to get the hang of how space-time actually works, you say something as thoroughly asinine as that,” I said. “Blow it up now? It survives! What happened, happened, remember? The Dome of the Rock will survive. It will be destroyed by an unnamed terrorist. And it will start a massive, world-wide conflict.” For some reason, I was still loathe to use the term “World War III” with Corcoran and Bloomington, even though that was almost assuredly what the conflict had become.
“We can’t just let that happen,” Corcoran gave a sweeping wave to the edifice under construction. “Millions dead? I know you haven’t been in a war, Doc, but I sure as shit have. Millions is a huge number. Mind-bogglingly huge. We’re talkin’ holocaust. And you’re content to just let it go? Because ‘what happened, happened?’” All of the affected Southern accent and charm was vacant from his voice.
I didn’t even skip a beat, “Sadly, yes. Besides, purely academically, assume that we can change the past, against every shred of evidence we’ve uncovered thus far, despite all of the time travellers traipsing through history, using it as their own personal holiday. What’s to say that destroying the Dome of the Rock now wouldn’t create an even larger, more hateful and deep-seeded conflict?”
Corcoran’s gaze burned on the building under construction as if he was attempting to focus on it to the point of immolation.
“Besides,” I continued, “We aren’t here to destroy the Dome of the Rock. We’re here to ‘corner and deal with T V.’”
Corcoran frowned, “There’s no way that the Dome of the Rock is called ’T V’ by someone?”
“You’re stretching, Ricky,” Bloomington interjected.
Corcoran took a deep breath to settle himself and nodded slowly.
“Okay then,” he took several steps toward a crowded shack on the other side of the street.
“Just where do you think you’re—”
“I need a drink,” Corcoran’s rakish grin reappeared momentarily before it faded away once more. “We ain’t got anywhere else to go, right? No other leads? Maybe someone at the cantina’ll know something.”
I was somewhat thrown by Corcoran’s ability to turn his folksy accent back on with almost Burnham-like command, but shrugged it off; he had clearly been caught up in a moment of intensity, which had caused him to perhaps drop his guard. Dare I say that in some of my own baser moments, I similarly start rolling my “r”s and lengthening my “a”s like a proper Yank, so his behavior didn’t seem particularly without precedent.
Bloomington and I exchanged worried glances for a moment before the round little man shrugged and shuffled his filthy feet behind the Commander, and I followed suit.
Corcoran’s comparatively large frame easily carved its way through the tiny pasties and he settled in at the bar, with Bloomington and I close behind. The room was small, with short ceilings and an odd, almost cellar-like odor, despite the fact that the watering hole likely often baked in the midday heat.
“Barkeep,” Corcoran said. A burly man with curly, almost-black hair and a full beard waddled over toward him.
“Yes?” the bartender responded.
“What do y’all have here? Beer, or wine, or—”
The bartender shot out a hand to grasp the Commander by the top of his robe, but Corcoran was ready. He sidestepped the barkeep’s attack, grabbed the stout man’s arm and twisted. I heard the sharp “crack” of breaking bone, followed by a loud crash and thud as Corcoran used the man’s momentum to carry him through the air and into a rather poorly-made table, of the type that looked as if it could be a part of the Trent Albertson collection.
“The Vizier! Get the Vizier!” the bartender cried in pain as he writhed on the ground.
“What is this? Aladdin?” Bloomington asked.
The bartender was not amused, “The Vizier is a mountain of a man, and strong as an ox as yourselves. He has dispatched a half-dozen men twice as large as you, using only his amazing magic.”
It took a few moments for me to connect the dots, but when I did, I didn’t waste any time.
“Yes. Get your Vizier. We wish to challenge his honour.” The bartender and several onlookers stared at me, as if they wished me to continue. “He’s a smut-nosed prillyhen. A festooned poppydrake. A frilly-arsed—”
“A cocksucker.” Corcoran said, without so much as a smile.
“Or that,” I said. Though I was loathe for the Commander to use such homophobic language, apparently the slur hadn’t been lost in translation, as half the bar seemingly sat still in shock for several moments before their surprise turned to anger.
I figured this was my cue to unholster my sidearm, though Corcoran beat me by several moments.
“Magicians!” The bartender hit the ground with his good arm several times in agony as his other arm hung lifeless. “Stand clear of them!” The crowd gave us space as Corcoran and I took turns training our Barettas on them. After several moments, and I suppose satisfied that no one in the bar would try anything funny, Corcoran looked down at the bartender.
“Why’d you attack me, anyway?” he asked.
“Infidel! You dare to ask for unholy alcohol? So close to the spot where the Prophet ascended to heaven?”
I shot an ugly look at Corcoran, who just shrugged in response. Apparently not all of the town’s inhabitants were quite as enlightened and progressive as I had thought.
“Do you have coffee, or tea…or anything?” Corcoran asked.
The bartender pointed to a bucket of murky liquid behind the bar and a smaller piece of pottery containing what appeared to be loose-leaf tea.
“I think we’re good,” I offered, thankfully before Corcoran could respond in the affirmative.
“Who dares disturb me during this most important phase of—” a “taller” man strode through the entrance toward the front of the bar, though he was still roughly Bloomington’s height and general body shape. This man’s face was scrunched, almost as if it had been punched in, and pocked with freckles that belied his red hair underneath. His eyes were narrowed and his hand moved toward the space between his washed-out, red tunic and the navy blue frontpiece he wore.
Corcoran and I both instinctively trained our weapons on the odd-looking little man, who most certainly didn’t appear to be even my equal in terms of physical ability, let alone the Commander’s.
His eyes locked on Corcoran’s and his expression changed. The man’s eyes went wide with fear, despite the two undersized guards who followed him. I found Corcoran’s own countenance to be suitably menacing for the situation.
“Oh, thank you, oh your merciful Eminence! Thank you Vizier of Viziers!” the bartender practically cried with joy. “These men—”
“Oh fuck!” The red-haired little man bolted from the door as he motioned for his guards to follow.
&n
bsp; Corcoran waived his gun around the room briefly, in no mood to trifle before he leaped over the protesting barkeep and followed this “Vizier,” with myself and (barely) Bloomington in tow.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Fuck!” The nasally voice punctuated the din of Jerusalem’s streets as we pursued the Vizier. Despite his size and stature, the Vizier was remarkably quick and agile, and scampered up a ladder leading to several connecting rooftops. The Commander didn’t hesitate to follow, and adroitly navigated the ladder as I suppose any ex-Navy SEAL might.
I stopped short of the lattice for a moment. It may be the proper time to mention that through all of our travels, this was the first time my fear of heights had come into play. I suppose that as a general rule, buildings were shorter in the past, but I hadn’t really thought about it until this very moment. You see, I’m fine with heights as long as I’m enclosed in some sort of structure or craft, hence my lack of apprehension at the numerous times I had soared far above the Earth and into space, even when three-hundred-sixty degree view was engaged.
But take away the comforting walls, even when climbing the first few steps of a ladder, and I become a sniveling mess. There’s something so terribly naked about the whole situation, to feel the waves of vertigo as I look up and see the top of whatever I’m about to climb.
Unfortunately, I had neither the time nor the luxury to entertain such thoughts for more than a fleeting instant. I was firmly secure in the thought that this Vizier character may not only be central to our task in this timeline, but also that he may serve some sort of larger purpose in our ridiculous little mission.
I took a deep breath and started to climb. “Don’t look up, Phineas,” I told myself. For whatever reason, I was the opposite of most individuals possessing my particular phobia, and was particularly bothered by seeing what awful heights await me as opposed to the terrifying altitude from which I could fall to my utter doom. In hindsight, I suppose there’s likely something poetic to be said about such a condition, but just dwelling on the moment even now makes me dizzy and nauseous.
