Timeshares

by Jean Rabe

  Perry started shivering, and it had nothing to do with the night’s chill. He stared at his hand, bloodstained and trembling. “But I believed in you. I believed what I saw in your eyes.”

  Jesus came over and took Perry’s hands in his. “You know what you saw in my eyes?”

  Perry shook his head, unable to meet the man’s gaze.

  “You saw my belief that if I failed, mankind would be lost. Maybe the Essenes would have risen. Maybe Buddhism would have come on sooner and harder, but Christianity was our best bet.”

  Perry looked up. “I truly thought you were the Son of God. What I saw changed my life. I tried so much to be like you.”

  “But that was never the point, was it?”

  Perry frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “The whole point of Christianity is not to become like Jesus. He was God and Man. An impossible task. All anyone was ever asked to do was to become his best self and to live in love for all others.” Jesus shook his head. “Too many Christians become sheep and a few others wolves; so very rare are the shepherds.”

  Perry chewed his lower lip. “Because of you I changed my life.”

  “No. You changed your life because you knew it was wrong. You were not happy. I became—your idealization of Jesus became—a catalyst for change.” Jesus released Perry’s hands. “But are you happy now, or have you so pulled away from who you were that you don’t recognize yourself anymore?”

  Jacobsen’s remark echoed back through Perry’s mind. “You wouldn’t have liked who I was before.”

  Jesus shrugged. “Who am I to sit in judgment?”

  Perry arched an eyebrow.

  “Sorry joke, I know. Just among the crew . . .” He sighed. “The question is, do you like you now?”

  I used to be a wolf, now I’m a sheep. “No.”

  “Then be who you are. Be the best you possible.” Jesus stood and offered Perry a hand. “That’s all anyone can ask of us.”

  Perry pulled himself to his feet. “Are you . . . are you actually going to die?”

  “The answer to that question is not really one your time is ready to hear.” Jesus shook his hand. “Thank you for saving me. You came here through the Mark 14:51- 52 loophole?”

  Perry nodded.

  “You know what the other half of that is then?”

  Again, Perry nodded.

  “You’ll have to decide if that’s part of who you are.” Jesus gestured and Kevin Smelton’s unconscious form vanished. “My way will be easier on him. I’ll send you back, too.”

  Perry caught the man’s wrist. “Do you really know what you’re doing?”

  Jesus hesitated, then gave him a bit of a smile. “No, but I know why. That makes all the difference.” He slipped his wrist from Perry’s grasp, then gestured, and Perry found himself sucked back through time.

  Rolf Jacobsen got up from his desk and walked to the sideboard. He poured himself three fingers of a very old scotch. “I don’t know what to say, Perry. Jesus is a time traveler from our future. Are you sure?”

  Perry nodded. “Absolutely. I’m back and my retrieval device wasn’t used. How else would I get back here?”

  Jacobsen took a healthy swallow of the amber liquid, and then pointed the glass toward Perry. “Well, a divine being . . .”

  “No, he was as human as you or I.”

  “Perry, if what you saw got out . . .”

  Perry scratched at his beard, suddenly anxious to get rid of it. “Wouldn’t matter. Religious Christianity has too much power. It would be labeled as nonsense. I’d be branded an atheist lunatic and the backlash against Timeshares would destroy the business.”

  Jacobsen half smiled. “Well, we do have a grateful senator on our side.”

  “No, you don’t.” Perry stood up, crossed over to Jacobsen, and poured himself a glass, but only sipped. The scent, all peaty and smoky, filled his head and burned the back of his throat. “If you tell him his son was healed by Jesus, he has proof of the divinity of Christ. He won’t keep that a secret, and that will strengthen the theological side of Christianity. That would destroy our future, too.”

  Jacobsen returned to his desk. “Well, these are not problems for you to be concerned about, Perry.”

  Time to be me again. The best me. “You’re wrong.”

  “What?”

  “You’re going to tell me that decisions like this are made above my pay grade, but that’s what created this mess in the first place. Your responsibility is to Timeshares, I get that, but this isn’t about your company.” Perry drank more, and then smiled. “So, what you’re going to do is to tell the senator that I caught Kevin, I forced his meds into him, and then brought him back. We left during a thunderstorm, with lightning strikes nearby. As near as we can tell, the time stream flux combined with the drugs and lightning to create a permanent time-release situation with his meds. Kevin will be fine from now on, just a freaky chance side effect of his vacation.”

  Jacobson laughed aloud. “You can’t fool a senator with such nonsense.”

  “Jake, this is a guy who thinks the world was born in 4000 B.C. Science is not his strong suit.” Perry’s eyes hardened. “What was his cover story for the time he’d be away?”

  Jacobsen sat down and hit a few keys on his computer. “He and his son were taking a fishing trip in the wilds of Maine.”

  “Good. Get depositions from folks saying he was never there. Have a look-alike actor holographed out celebrating with an escort or three. Senator Smelton begins to talk, that will distract him enough so you pop and drop someone into the recent past to plant solid evidence on him and destroy his career and credibility.”

  The Timeshares CEO’s head slowly swiveled around. “Who are you and what did you do with Perry?”

  “You asked if the old me would have recognized the new me. The answer was no. But the old me would recognize who I am now, you think? You remember how I was back then? Ask yourself how much closer to the old me do you want me to get?”

  Jacobsen held his hands up. “I see your point. But, as long as we’re talking extortion . . .”

  “What do I want?”

  “I’ll make a list.”

  “No more lepers. I want back on the payroll, commanding the Stopwatches. And you have to send me back, one more time.”

  “Really, to say good-bye?”

  Perry shook his head. “To finish the job.”

  By the when Perry arrived, the stone had already been rolled away from the tomb and the guards had run off. Ducking his head, Perry entered and checked. No shroud, another mystery solved. He didn’t know if Jesus had opened the tomb, or the rest of his crew had done it, but it really didn’t matter.

  He’d come in using two verses from Mark’s Gospel, and scholars had linked them with another. Mark 16:5- 8. Perry smiled, and seated himself on the stone shelf where Jesus’ body had lain.

  Mary Magdalene and another woman hurried to the mouth of the tomb. They stopped, horror on their faces when they saw him.

  He calmly raised a hand. The philosophy of Jesus would save the world, but without being clothed as religion, it would die aborning.

  Perry smiled. “Be not afraid. The one you seek is gone. Go tell Peter and the others this joyous news. He has died, he has risen, and he has saved us all.”

  Spoilers

  Linda P. Baker

  Linda P. Baker’s novels The Irda and Tears of the Night Sky, cowritten with Nancy Varian Berberick, have been published internationally. Linda has short stories in more than a dozen anthologies, including Pandora’s Closet and Spells of the City. In addition to writing fiction, she also writes and edits brochures and Web sites and loves doing research. The Baker pack—Linda, her husband, Larry, and their Airedale terrier/dragon, Grady—live in Mobile, Alabama. Linda dedicates her story to Grady, who has taught her to live in the now, to enjoy the wind in her hair, and to greet every day with an arrrooooo . . .

  I did it for the mysteries.

  —S. J. C
ameroon

  “I can get you what you need.”

  The leader of the Angels of Time, the Reverend John J. Something-or-other, had a shiny slick look that made me want to pick up the handful of change that lay on one of Rick’s crates and stuff it deep into my pocket.

  He stood in the middle of Rick’s squat, in what had once been an upscale apartment building with cavernous lofts, but now was just junk space that nobody wanted. He was beautifully dressed in a dark gray suit and a blinding white shirt, and he pretended a jolly friendliness. But he looked around out of the corners of his eyes, and his nostrils flared as if he smelled something rotten.

  Not that I could blame him. Rick’s squat wasn’t nice and it wasn’t clean. It had a tattered old sofa and a couple of wooden crates for furniture. And a sleeping bag for a bed and a chair with only three legs for a nightstand. Propping it up was a stack of old books, probably scavenged from the library where Rick had worked. There wasn’t much call for history books anymore, not since Timeshares.

  Rick’s space wasn’t even the nicest the building had to offer. That’s why it annoyed me for some jerk to be so obvious with his disdain.

  Rick always let others have the best of what was available. He’d done it when he had his dream job, assistant librarian at the university, and he did it now that he had no job and no place of his own. The way he had cared for the books, he now looked after the homeless kids and the crazy old ladies and the men like him, anachronisms in a world without mystery.

  But still, there must have been something to the way Rick lived. Even with the library gone, he was once the happiest person I knew. Or he had been, until he won the Time Lotto.

  And that’s why we were now standing in Rick’s room with Reverend John, who reached into the inside pocket of his shiny suit and pulled out the tiniest e-phone I’d ever seen. He thumbed it on, punched a couple of buttons, and then handed it to Rick.

  Duane, who had been lurking in the shadows of the far corner, shuffled forward to look over Rick’s shoulder. Duane was the one who’d set up the meeting. He had once been an Angel of Time, before he’d decided he liked things, like drugs and sex, that just weren’t all that angelic.

  On the screen was a document with a long list of explosives and components. The writing was so tiny I had to squint to see it. Ballistite, guncotton, mercury fulminate, Trinitrotoluene TNT, RDX. The names meant nothing to me.

  “Old style C4?” Rick handed the phone back without looking at the list. “Can you get C4 without heavy metals in it?”

  The reverend straightened his shoulders as if he was proud of what he was doing. “Yes.”

  That bothered me. None of us were proud of our plans. We just couldn’t think of anything else to do.

  “It has to be metal free,” Rick insisted.

  “Yes,” the reverend repeated. “I can get it. You don’t need to worry about that.”

  “We’ll decide what we need to worry about,” I snapped.

  Rick put a hand on my arm. “Good stuff? Not something somebody cooked up in their basement last week? And without metals. We won’t make it past the first floor if it triggers the alarms.”

  The reverend nodded.

  Rick looked from me to Duane.

  Reluctantly, I nodded. Not so reluctantly, Duane nodded. To my mind, Duane liked the idea of blowing things up a bit too much.

  “Okay,” Rick said to the reverend. “What’s it going to cost?”

  “There’s no charge.”

  All three of us were immediately on guard. “No charge?” we said in unison.

  “My price is simple. When it’s done, the Angels of Time will get credit.”

  “Credit!” Duane turned very red. “We’re not going to risk our lives for—”

  Rick put his hand out to stop Duane. “That’s fine,” he said, and he held out his hand to the reverend to shake.

  Before they could agree, I said, “We’ll need a weapon, too. A gun with no metal parts.”

  The man hesitated for just a fraction of a second, and then he gave a brisk nod and shook Rick’s hand. “I can have everything within a week or so.”

  “Duane will contact you about where to drop it off,” Rick said.

  I walked behind the reverend to the door and watched him. As he walked down the hallway, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. He was wiping his hands when he disappeared down the stairwell.

  The air seemed a bit easier to breathe with all that shine gone. “He’s gone.”

  Duane whirled on Rick. “I’m not risking my—”

  “Duane. Take it easy.” Rick smiled, calm and cool as could be, like always. “All I agreed to was that he could claim credit for the Angels. I didn’t say anything about who else might claim credit.”

  Duane whooped and slapped Rick on the back.

  I couldn’t meet Rick’s gaze. I liked him. And I knew I was going to double-cross him.

  A week later we had our explosives, and I had my plastic gun. It felt like a toy in my hand.

  My friend Larry came back from his scouting trip and told me who built Stonehenge. Of course, he swore me to secrecy first, because he was expecting to make a big splash on the history reality shows. I couldn’t look at him after that.

  A week after that, we had our plan.

  Dina, a friend who worked at the local coffee shop, took her Timeshares trip and didn’t come back. Of course, Timeshares wouldn’t have admitted that if anyone had asked.

  There was failsafe on top of failsafe. Supposedly, no one could travel back and not return, the same way nobody could go back in time and change anything. The pretrip hypnotic programming prevented tampering. Supposedly it also prevented you from smashing your monitoring devices so they couldn’t activate and bring you home. I guess Dina found a way around that.

  Dina had wanted to see the world before it was spoiled. She had wanted to see the earth before it was overpopulated by humans and polluted by corporate greed. Now she was living in a green world without pollution, without crowding, without war or hatred, without Timeshares.

  I was envious.

  The night, the night, we used a van Duane had “found” in another part of town.

  As we drove past Timeshares, past the elegant, U-shaped drive with its fountains splashing water from Lourdes, I tried to look at it as a first time visitor would, but I couldn’t. The expensive, glittering elegance had turned lurid and gaudy for me. The lights were too bright, and the stained glass windows, imported directly from medieval England, were over the top. The Timeshares Travel Agency logo, supposedly painted with pigments from Lascaux, looked faded and tired.

  We parked and Jo, Lu, and two others dispersed in different directions to find possible getaway cars and sit tight until they were needed.

  Duane, Rick, and I headed toward Timeshares. We were dressed in silvery gray so that at first glance we looked like Timeshares employees.

  As we walked, I thought about Rick. He and I were the only two of the group who’d been on a time trip.

  There had been such an outcry when the company rolled out the red carpet for its zillionaire clientele, such fury that something like that was only available to the very rich, that a lottery system had been started. Every month, five were chosen out of the millions who’d signed up.

  Rick had been one of the first TimeLotto winners. And one of the few people who’d chosen to go forward in time instead of someplace in the past.

  It was surprising how most people wanted to go back in time. And it wasn’t just a safety issue, though I was sure that played into it. Timeshares sent people back to scout in the past, but who could ever be sure of the future? Going forward was a crap shoot. What someone scouted yesterday and found safe could be completely changed by the events of today.

  Plus, Timeshares wouldn’t let anyone go just a few years forward. They claimed there was a mental health issue involved in traveling to a time in which you were still alive, though that was crap. I knew that after any important business decis
ion had been made, one of the Timeshares execs traveled a few years forward to make sure they’d made the right decision.

  Rick said I was the only one he’d told about what he’d seen of the future. What he’d seen was the reason he was walking beside me wearing a backpack with enough C4 in it to blow up a city block. It was the reason I was walking beside him.

  As we approached the city block that housed Timeshares, Duane gave us a grinning thumbs-up and angled off toward one of the visitor parking lots.

  Rick checked his watch. It was an old- fashioned one with hands that swept around and around, pointing to the minutes and hours.

  I turned aside to look at mine, shielding it from him. My watch was a Timeshares Digital that showed time, date, temperature, and could be programmed to show the same information for five different continents. Or five different centuries.

  Rick took a deep breath and blew it out. He gave a tiny nod and walked away toward the back of Timeshares.

  I watched to make sure he turned the corner before I started off toward the front of the building. We were supposed to reconnoiter, then rendezvous on the opposite side of the block, near the delivery and service entrance. That’s where Rick and Duane thought we were going to break in, after Duane’s diversion had everybody’s attention, after we’d called in a bomb threat for the building.

  My plan was simpler.

  At the employee entrance, halfway down the block, I stopped and took out the things I’d stuffed into my pockets—my Timeshares Security badge and my ID.

  I held my badge up to the reader, then typed in my PIN.