Jesus Was a Time Traveler

by D. J. Gelner

  Oh, for the days when I longed for nothing more than to write an entire treatise about these animals! Though admittedly said book would be in crayon and half of the letters would be backwards not for any use of Greek or Cyrillic characters, but rather for want of the author’s proper instruction in English penmanship. Six-year-old Finny was absolutely obsessed with the “terrible lizards,” and would have been happy to make a campfire and dwell alongside these beasts for years at a time. Now, I fretted over which one of them was hungriest, and thus most likely to dine upon me that evening.

  Perhaps oddest of all was the lushness of the jungle as the ship approached what appeared to be an inundated Mexico. Layers of green canopy covered the landscape as far as the eye could see, as pterosaurs of various sizes, shapes, and even colours (for the feathered ones, at least) soared above the rainforest. What was the ceiling for most creatures was these soaring beasts’ carpet; a veritable verdant sea that the flying lizards dipped into from time-to-time to hunt, or otherwise rest their weary wings.

  The machine flew right past the edge of the landmass, and for a moment, I thought my Benefactor had consigned me to a watery grave some 65 million years in the past. Fortunately, an archipelago appeared over the horizon, a collection of large-sized islands similarly covered by flora.

  One of the islands contained a clearing, and I surmised that must be our ultimate destination. Sure enough, the metallic disk floated right above the treeless patch for a matter of moments, allowing me a look at the scene below. Instead of the bare earth or tall grasses that I had expected, the space was consumed by a thoroughly modern complex. A good half-dozen helipads were occupied by a fleet of half-as-many polished, metal disks, each one similar to my own but, as became apparent upon descent, many times larger again. A flat, bunker-like building stood next to the “saucerpads,” and was remarkable in its utter lack of remarkability.

  A man dressed in green camouflage held out an odd-looking wand, and aimed it directly at my craft. I thought it may be a weapon of some sort and engaged the omni-yoke, which lurched the disk into a deep left dive. A moment later, the time machine stabilised and a calm, but firm, female voice filled the cabin.

  “Unidentified craft, this is Chronobase Alpha, identify yourself and your native time period or we will be forced to open fire pursuant to 55 U.S.C. 4402 regarding unidentified time travelers in restricted airspace, please advise, over.”

  I raised an eyebrow and stared out of the window blankly for a moment. Any thought of escape was mitigated by the fact that their time machines were superior to mine, which would seem to indicate that my machine was likely not a match for whatever superior weaponry I might find in their arsenal; for all I knew, they had a gravity drive generator of their own that could crush my craft like an aluminum (pronounced the proper, British, “a-loo-minium,” of course) can, or worse, an antimatter containment field destabiliser, which would have potentially disastrous effects.

  I decided to respond the only way I knew how; via the external speakers that I had ever-so-briefly considered using to scare that fellow with the camel back in Trent’s time. I pressed a button on the right console, which lowered a microphone from the cabin’s ceiling.

  “Uh…Chrono…Base…Alpha, my name is Dr. Phineas Templeton, and I am the originator of this time device from Baltimore in 2032, by way of England.”

  The seconds of silence ticked away on the other end, each one punctuated by several of my heartbeats, willing away whatever ghastly demise these individuals may have in mind for me.

  “Dr. Templeton, please be advised you are clear for landing on pad six, over.” The far left rear landing pad illuminated with some sort of blue holo lighting, which extended toward my craft and provided a glidepath.

  “Err…roger that, over!” I tried my best to mask my relief with professionalism.

  I guided the ship in using the omni-yoke, though “guided” may be too artful a term for the jerky, “still-learning-on-the-job” route with which I piloted the vessel. Despite the elegance of the gravity drive, I dropped the machine out of the air with a resonating “CLANG” that struck the Earth like a gong.

  Several green camouflaged, heavily-armed individuals surrounded the craft. I hadn’t the faintest idea of what to do for a number of moments: unlock the armory? Provide them a peace offering of one of the other fine bottles of scotch on board? Throw myself at their feet and beg for mercy?

  I finally decided on the last option, and took a deep breath as I approached the doorway. I ordered the computer to lower the gangway, and the door to the external world opened with a satisfying “WHOOSH.”

  Four soldiers greeted me and cocked their weapons. A cacophony of odd, bird-like noises from the jungle were punctuated by the occasional deep, saurian roar that likely could have shattered normal glass.

  I took another deep breath through my nose, and took in the heavy ozone smell that pervaded this jungle. Terrified, I held my hands in the air and froze. My brain went into overdrive for a few moments, as the fresh air heightened all of my senses, as well as my terror.

  Then, a sensation of increasing calm cascaded over me in waves. I began to feel lighter than any of the pterosaurs, which had curiously disappeared from the skies above the clearing.

  “Don’t shoot!” I opened my mouth to say, but instead could barely outstretch an arm to break my fall, as I collapsed onto the cold, unforgiving metal gangway, out like a burned-out light.

  Chapter Eight

  I awoke to find myself in an amazingly modern hospital bed, marked not by the futuristic gizmos that surrounded it, but rather the decided lack thereof. A single holo-emitter hung in front of me. The non-judging eye measured the subtle changes in my breathing and exposed skin to detect any abnormalities. As you pasties (Damn me, using their contemptible slang, I know, but it’s the quickest and most elegant way to refer to you past-dwellers, so pardon my impoliteness) may understand, it was rather like being attached to a constantly-monitoring MRI, or at least that was the way the whole set-up was eventually pitched to me.

  A beautiful, but stern, woman with a caramel complexion stood at the foot of my bed. Her posture was impeccable, her black hair wrapped meticulously into some kind of a braid or bun (as you can perhaps tell, female fashion is not nearly as much of an area of expertise of mine as, say, rotational anti-gravity physics). A single beauty-mark kissed the arch of her high cheekbone, the only blemish on an otherwise flawless sample of skin. Had she been smiling, I would have wondered if I was in the midst of the most pleasant dream of my life.

  Instead, her face was rigid; her stare bored through me with halogen intensity.

  “Phineas Templeton?” She asked it as if my very presence bothered, or even offended her.

  “Yes.” I offered.

  “Sophia Sanchez, Commander, Chrono Base Alpha,” she said with a perfect American accent, to the point that I thought her diction might be overly-practised. She extended her hand for an incredibly formal and professional handshake.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said.

  And simultaneously absolutely terrified, I thought. I hoped that the quickening pace of the subtle “BEEP”s in the background that indicated my heartbeat didn’t betray my feelings.

  “Dr. Templeton, rest assured, you’re not the first time traveler who’s succumbed to hyperoxia upon his arrival, though I thought I had trained my soldiers to do better than to let an innocent traveler pass out like a greased pig in heat,” For some reason, I didn’t think the idiom was meant as a joke. “On behalf of ChronoSaber, I apologize for any inconvenience caused by your brief hospital stay.” She saluted me (!) and, after a confused moment, I returned the gesture.

  “Quite. Thank you, Commander Sanchez.”

  “Permission to speak freely, sir?” She stood, unblinking for several moments. Why is she treating me like her superior? I thought.

  “Uh…granted?”

  “Look,” she bent over and placed one hand on the bed, the other point
er finger extended directly in my face, “I don’t know who you are, or what you’re doing here, but first you show up in an old-model time machine, non-ChronoSaber, as far as I can tell, but then word comes down from command that you’re to be extended every courtesy of a superior officer while you’re here. Forgive my language, sir, but that’s fucking bullshit.”

  I raised my eyebrows as sweat began to bead on my forehead, “I…uh…” Did I mention that I’ve never been particularly good with women? Particularly that vexing creature that is the beautiful woman in power?

  “We’re to show you around, even take you on a hunt if you like, but we aren’t to ask you or answer any questions other than typical pleasantries or background information, nor are we to search or scan your vessel. I don’t know about you, but when my job is to ensure the safety and security of this base, no matter how trivial its existence may seem to you or anyone else from the future, I have a bit of a problem with that, okay?”

  I was again momentarily at a loss for words. “I…uh…wow…” Commander Sanchez looked at me with a knowing eyebrow; apparently she frequently inspired this kind of reaction in others, or at least other members of the opposite sex. “So, this base…you…ChronoSaber?” I was able to cobble together the faintest hint of a complete sentence.

  She rolled her eyes, “Forgive me, I forgot. You’re from ‘2032.’” Her tone made it clear that she already had trouble believing my story. “Do you want me to explain it, or will a holovid suffice?”

  In hindsight, oh what I would give to go back and listen to her read from a phone book! But for whatever reason, in the heat of the moment, my curiosity about seeing an advanced piece of technology, even something so loathsome as a holovid, got the better of me.

  “Holovid,” I said.

  She sighed with relief, and the first hint of a smile curled her lips.

  “Excellent.” She took out her mobile and pointed it at the holoemitter. It continued to monitor my vital signs, but otherwise I was immediately transported, flying toward a city skyline that was oddly familiar, though I couldn’t place exactly where I had seen it previously. One incredibly modern building towered over smaller, but equally new and impressive structures surrounding it. At the top, a stylized logo read “ChronoSaber” in a sleek, sexy font, with the “C” turned into a clock face, and the “S” forming its hands.

  “Baltimore!” I blurted out reflexively. This drew another eye-roll from Commander Sanchez.

  As the bed appeared to move toward the tower, it built up speed, and barreled onward toward the top floor. I put my arms up to shield my face as the “glass” panel of the building exploded into shards that shimmered in the air around me like a daytime constellation. Everything about the video seemed slick; the effects were some of the best hologram work that I had ever witnessed, though my aversion to the medium has accounted for a decided lack of consumption of holovids previously. In fact, I hate to admit as much, but I may have giggled like a schoolboy as the tiny crystals danced around me in the sky.

  Unfortunately, the scene inside the building was decidedly not slick. A generic conference room housed a generic conference table, around which any number of historical figures (or, in this case, low-budget lookalikes) gathered. Leonardo DaVinci hobnobbed with someone dressed as an Egyptian pharaoh, while Gandhi and Socrates played chess at one end of the table. In an unfortunately campy touch, a human-sized, somewhat cartoonish, computer-generated version of a dinosaur dressed in a short-sleeved dress shirt and tie, and wearing comically large glasses told a joke, at which Mao Tsedong, Winston Churchill, and Abraham Lincoln laughed uproariously. Ben Franklin, at the end of the table that didn’t house Gandhi and Socrates, glared at the group, and banged a gavel to call the meeting to order. A typical oversized, underdressed American-looking tourist next to Franklin snapped several shots of the action with his camera phone.

  “Imagine a world where all of your problems are worked on by history’s greatest minds.” A voiceover began.

  “Should Frank’s wife apologize for calling him a fat slob? Socrates?” Franklin called out. The actor playing him had obviously watched too much of Dana Carvey’s impersonation of John McGlaughlin of “The McGlaughlin Group” fame on those delightfully classic episodes of Saturday Night Live.

  “What do you consider the perfect human form?” It bugged me that “Socrates”’s accent was thoroughly English.

  “Nadia Tyrell, I guess,” the touristy fellow answered. The table laughed, though apparently the reference was lost on me.

  “And what is man other than the pursuit of betterment and perfection?” Socrates continued.

  The tourist over-pantomimed the “deep in thought” pose that involved him furrowing his brow, looking upward, and placing his pointer finger on his chin for a moment, before having his “aha!” moment and raising that same finger in the air.

  The camera cut to the dinosaur, “I think that Frank looks great—just good enough to eat!” The good cheer of the table died down as Frank and the dinosaur were transported to a landscape very similar to the one I had just witnessed. The anthropomorphised dinosaur burst through its shirt and tie as it grew exponentially, and let out a resounding “ROARRR!” in the face of the viewer, who was, presumably, meant to be Frank.

  Scared for a moment, Frank reappeared and tightened his jaw, resolute as he picked up a rather powerful-looking laser rifle of some sort and began to fire on the King of the Lizards.

  “Or what if you could live every fantasy—” The dinosaur fell and twitched for a moment while Frank stood over it triumphantly before the viewpoint cut to Frank surrounded by a harem of female historical figures, ranging from Helen of Troy to Cleopatra to Hillary Clinton.

  Suddenly, Frank’s “wife” entered the frame, clutching a rolling pin, furious with her husband for his dalliances. The lack of any sort of tact or attempt at subtext was positively jarring.

  “Hold on, ladies,” the voiceover continued. “We’ll take care of you, too.” Tom Brady, Tommy Lee, and (most curiously) Tommy Lee Jones surrounded the woman, who immediately dropped her kitchen weapon and let down her hair.

  “Sign us up!” Frank and his wife uttered with groan-inducing false enthusiasm.

  “Since a joint project between the U.S. Army and ChronoSaber scientists cracked the secrets of time travel, ChronoSaber has been the world’s foremost provider of chrono vacations. In fact, we’re the only provider!” The scene flashed to a typical “busy, but smiling, drones” office sequence which my father would have likely recognised, absent the happiness.

  “Experience history through any number of our vacation packages, each one custom-designed to fulfill your every whim.”

  The office became a desert, as poorly-costumed aliens forced starving actors in rags to push large pyramid blocks into place, “Want to see how the pyramids were really built? We can take you there!” The scenery changed to the harsh, unforgiving Judean landscape that I had visited only a few short days ago. To my amazement, Trent’s familiar face greeted me, though he had an arm around each of Frank and his wife. Both of Trent’s hands were extended into the Vulcan symbols over each one of their shoulders.

  “Want to meet Jesus? He’s a time traveler, too!” The narrator churned the contents of my stomach with his overenthusiastic cadence. As if to emphasise the point, Trent leaned in and winked at the camera while Frank and his wife gave a “thumbs-up.”

  Another moment, and I was in the middle of a busy laboratory.

  “Here at ChronoSaber, the world’s foremost scientists work hard, day-after-day, struggling to ensure that your time travel experience is as seamless as possible. Anywhere you want to go is fine with us; just make sure we can get you there and back.” The scientists huddled around a smaller version of my own time machine and waved as it disappeared, only to moments later shrug at one another when the disk failed to re-appear.

  As slick as the holovid had been earlier, even the editor couldn’t disguise the jarring jump-cut back to the carto
onish dinosaur, who addressed me with a thoroughly English accent, and was surprisingly articulate.

  “If you’re viewing this vid, that means you must be at Chronobase Alpha, one of our finest and most popular destinations. Though you’ve already been thoroughly briefed that no matter what you do, the future won’t change, we’ve chosen this site in the rare event that you have a last-minute ‘crisis of morality.’

  “The station is built on Isla Yucatan, which will eventually become ground zero for the asteroid strike that will destroy us dinosaurs some five years from now. Rest assured, you’re completely safe from any planetary debris, but us dinosaurs are not. We’ll suffer much less by dying a noble death by your hand than in a firestorm of unimaginable magnitude should we survive until the asteroid strike.”

  “Yes, I’m sure being lobotomised by a laser rifle of some sort is far more pleasant than being vaporised by an asteroid,” I looked at Sanchez, who only nodded back curtly toward the holovid.

  An older gentleman appeared in front of me. He looked somewhat like the actor Ernest Borgnine in his later years.

  “Hi, I’m Zane Garrett, CEO of ChronoSaber. I’d like to be the first to welcome you to the ChronoSaber family. Remember, at ChronoSaber, it’s always our mission to make sure that you have the time of your life!” He smiled and extended a hand as if to shake mine.

  “Time Travel is an incredibly complex scientific concept with many moving parts. ChronoSaber cannot ensure your safety during any of our excursions, nor can they ensure your safe return. All depictions of historical time periods and historical figures are meant for illustrative and parodic purposes and are not meant to be an accurate representation of what your time travel experience will be like. You may pay a premium for time travel services outside those offered by ChronoSaber, but don’t expect ChronoSaber to offer a guide or a full travel package. ChronoSaber disavows any and all liability with regard to its products, foreseeable or unforeseeable.” The voiceover hurriedly listed the requisite disclaimers.