Jesus Was a Time Traveler (WATT Book 1)

by D. J. Gelner

  “But…inertial dampening? Tunneling lasers? Wormholes? Quantum computers?” I asked, incredulous that they would have this technology as well.

  “I know, right?” The portly little wise-ass mocked me. “All of it was there. We…uh…worked around the quantum computers. You ever heard of quantum entanglement?”

  “No, I built a time machine from scratch in my lab, but I’ve never heard of anything of the sort.” I repaid his sarcasm in kind.

  “Hey, some of us ‘preciate the physics lesson,” Corcoran interjected.

  Bloomington grew annoyed, “Quantum entanglement is the idea that information can be passed between two molecules that have been ‘entangled’ with one another, over vast distances, seemingly in violation of relativity, r-tard.” I cringed at Bloomington’s lack of tact. “Someone on the team postulated that if this arrangement exists through space, then why couldn’t it work through time, too?”

  It was an interesting theory, and one, quite frankly, that I hadn’t considered in my experiments.

  “So, we had a highly experimental, super powerful computer in 2012 that would theoretically interact with the time machine through these temporally-entangled pairs of molecules.”

  “Theoretically,” I lowered my eyes at Bloomington.

  He shook his head, “Of course, we somehow ended up here, which is centuries away from where we were headed, so—”

  Corcoran shot Bloomington daggers as he interrupted, “—I s’pose that plan didn’t work so well. We lost power pretty quick after we got back here, and control right after. We crashed in the jungle, and I guess we just assumed you were here to rescue us. ‘Course, by now the timeline’s probably so fucked that Bloomy here doesn’t even exist.”

  “Hey!” Bloomington yelled.

  My face finally brightened a bit, “Well, Commander, that’s one benefit of my intervention here; you’ll be happy to know that the idea that anyone can pollute the timeline is absolute hogwash. What happened, happened.” Bro, I thought, but didn’t add.

  What ensued was an hour-long conversation about my travels, and all the various pieces of evidence that appeared to cement that fact, from Trent to Newton to hunting dinosaurs, and the curious presence of the still-enigmatic ChronoSaber in the time travel economy of the future.

  “Well fuck me!” Corcoran finally exclaimed. “Hear that, Bloomy? We’re not so fucked after all. The way you’ve been talking, we’d be expectin’ a world where Hitler’s in charge if we’d ever make it back. You eggheads and your mumbo—”

  “Fucking fascinating,” Bloomington cocked his chin, deep in thought. “So, you’re saying that the variable model of time is false.”

  “Completely,” I nodded.

  “And the static model—the so-called Terminator model—” he snorted a laugh, “is how time travel actually works.”

  “Indeed,” I replied.

  “That’s fuckin’ crazy,” Bloomington removed his glasses. I didn’t know if he exaggerated out of genuine wonderment, or because he meant to mock me.

  “Look, are you two nerds quite—” Corcoran interjected.

  “Not only that, but everyone whom I’ve spoken to from the future seems to indicate that you are the one credited with discovering time travel,” I nodded at the Commander.

  “Him?” Bloomington asked.

  “RHIP, son—rank has its privileges,” Corcoran nodded.

  “And now, I’m afraid, credit was properly given.” I finally admitted defeat. How was it even possible? Twenty years in the past? Twenty years! No wonder no one had known who I was from the future; I was the second man. I was Buzz Aldrin. The true pioneer was this rather rough around the edges rake, a Yank whose grand achievement was to stay alive in ancient Mesoamerica for a week with his pudgy, toadish sidekick.

  “I duly give it to you,” I extended my hand. I hoped that Corcoran focused on the outstretched peace offering rather than my vacant stare and quivering lower lip.

  “Where are my manners?” The Commander asked rhetorically, as he removed the gloves that adorned his hands and placed them in his shirt pocket. “I don’t think we have to worry about getting ebola from him, Bloomy.” He turned toward me. “Do we?” I shook my head.

  Bloomington raised his eyebrows at Corcoran, who gave Bloomington a subtle nod in return. Corcoran grasped my hand forcefully once more, and Bloomington followed suit.

  I offered a tight smile, “Well, I suppose you gents are in luck. Quarters are going to be a bit tight, but I think I really have no choice, provided you don’t mind a few stopovers along the way, and ending up in 2032.”

  I explained the situation with my Benefactor and the rather curious temporal scavenger hunt he had designed in greater detail. When I finished, Corcoran and Bloomington exchanged arched eyebrows.

  “Well…guess it’s better than the alternative,” Corcoran said. He nodded in the direction of the village.

  “Not the hospitable sort?” I asked.

  “We’ve been doing our best to stay out of their way. We were under the impression that by even being in the past, we could’ve destroyed everything we’ve ever known.” Corcoran glared at Bloomington, semi-serious. “S’pose that all’s out the window now.”

  Corcoran waited for a reaction from his partner, but found only a blank stare in reply. After several seconds, the pudgy scientist fell over in a heap. A sharp obsidian axe blade stuck out of the body armor in his back.

  “Steve!” Corcoran yelled. He pulled his pistol, and I followed suit, though I gather my aim and disposition weren’t nearly as professional or practised as Corcoran’s. There was movement in the underbrush nearby. Fortunately (though that does seem rather grisly in hindsight), the Mayan warriors were streaked with rather obvious, turquoise paint, and wore leopard skins that stuck out like a hitchhiker’s thumb against the greenery of the jungle.

  One of the Mayans jumped out of the underbrush. The look on his face was what I would call a “practised madness.” His mouth twisted into a primal scream as he fiddled with some kind of a contraption that appeared to be a sling-shot, with a long, obsidian-tipped spear as the ostensible ammunition.

  Corcoran didn’t hesitate. He aimed and pulled the trigger three times. The three slugs found their mark in a tight formation around the poor bloke’s midsection, though I don’t take too much pity on the man because had Corcoran not felled him, I could have easily fallen victim to the curious spear-throwing device. The Commander fired two more shots in the air, which scattered several other Mayan warriors from the jungle in our general direction.

  One of the Mayan soldiers was over-eager and readied his own spear slingshot. Corcoran wasted no time; he turned and fired on the warrior. This time, the Mayan succumbed after only two rounds found their target.

  “Anybody else?” Corcoran asked of the remaining warriors. Realising that they likely had no idea what was going on at the moment, let alone what Corcoran was saying, I quickly dropped my own sidearm and put my hands up to show the warriors what Corcoran expected of them.

  “That’s right—thunderstick go ‘boom,’” Corcoran pointed the gun at each of the group of five men in turn, and each one took the hint and dropped his own weapon. I muffled a groan at the Commander’s outburst.

  With the situation under control, I picked up my weapon and rushed over to Bloomington. I checked for a pulse. Thankfully I found one, albeit weak.

  “He’s alive,” I said. “But he’s losing a lot of blood. We need to stop it, lest he go into shock.”

  “We’re fresh out of first aid supplies, Doc.” Corcoran deadpanned.

  “Keep them under control,” I nodded to Corcoran as I rushed back into the ship and retrieved the first aid kit from the glove box. The laser suture wasn’t perfect; Bloomington had lost so much blood already, I worried that “stitching” him up would be in vain, but it was the best I could do given the circumstances. I grabbed the curious little device, and as I was about to disembark, I remembered the medigel I had received from Trent,
which seemed like eons ago, both literally and figuratively. I raided the hamper in the living area and found the simple robe I had worn in Judea. I practically tore the packet of greenish gel from the crude pocket I had fashioned and sprinted toward Bloomington.

  The toady fellow had begun to convulse. He flopped around on the ground like a marlin on the deck of a boat, gasping for water.

  “Better hurry, Doc—he’s hurtin’!”

  I produced the packet of goo, and Corcoran’s eyes went wide.

  “What in the sam fuck?” he asked no one in particular.

  I gripped the axe handle, which gave a bit in hand, slick with sweat.

  “This may hurt a bit,” I gritted through my teeth, though in hindsight I’m not quite sure why. I jerked the axe out. Bloomington yelped and gasped before he resumed his shivering convulsions.

  I took the packet and attempted to tear it in vain for a number of moments. I cursed the individual who would think it wise to create a first aid device that was packaged so thoroughly. Frustrated, I gripped the pouch in my teeth and tore a corner off. In the process, I accidentally digested a portion of the stuff, which I remember tasted rather like pineapple.

  I emptied most of the bag’s contents on Bloomington’s back, which spewed forth blood like a geyser. I held my breath as the goo just sat there, and didn’t do anything for several moments. Corcoran’s jaw was slack, almost as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t know exactly how to phrase it.

  Suddenly, the blood stopped pouring from the wound. A moment later, the gel had sopped up most of the errant erythrocyte-laden fluid and congealed into a semi-puddle of deep purple goop. As the seconds ticked by, the pool shrank as the substance seeped into Bloomington’s wound.

  His tremors lessened. The gasps for air turned to great heaving sighs that were, nonetheless, more controlled. After several minutes, Bloomington stopped convulsing entirely and the deep breaths died down. His body lay there, still, no signs of life. I checked his pulse, for a moment furious that the charlatan Trent’s “treatment” hadn’t worked.

  “His pulse is fine—” the shock showed in my tone. “—Strong even. It’s remarkable, it’s unbelievable, it’s…”

  “A miracle?” Corcoran asked. He pointed the gun at the warriors several more times as he made his way to his companion’s side.

  “Steve? Steve you okay?” Corcoran asked, with what appeared to be genuine concern.

  “Oooh…my back…” Bloomington grabbed at the small of his back with mock concern.

  “Remarkable!” I said.

  “Son of a bitch!” Corcoran let out.

  The Mayans all around us had dropped to their knees and bowed at us…bowed at me, I should say. Unfortunately, there was no time to bask in the adoration; I hurried over to the warriors whom Corcoran had previously taken out. One had already gone cold and blue, but the other, though not breathing, appeared to be in better shape. I squeezed the remnants out of the package as the turquoise gel oozed out into the man’s bullet wounds.

  I waited anxiously. I hoped against hope for some sign of life, some indication that this man, too, could be saved.

  “Bullets must be in his vital organs,” Corcoran appeared over my shoulder, finger outstretched toward the man. “Sorry, Doc—not much I could do. It was either us or—”

  I offered a terse smile and a nod, “I’m well aware, Commander Corcoran. Thank you.”

  “Kul..Kul Kan?” One of the older Mayans asked.

  I pointed at the commander, “Corcoran. And I am Templeton.”

  “Kulkulkan,” the man pointed at the commander. “Tepeu,” he turned his attention to me.

  “Cor-cor-an,” Corcoran’s eyes betrayed his annoyance. “Doc Templeton,” he motioned to me.

  “Kulkulkan tun Tepeu u tan Chichen Itza.” The man’s eyes lit up. He dropped to his knees and began to bow, unable to contain his tears. I looked at the others, who were similarly emotional.

  Then it happened: the warrior whom I had squeezed the remnants of the medigel onto, struggled to his feet.

  “Kulkulkan! Tepeu!” The men began chanting our very odd, Mayanised names. I basked in the glow of the attention and adoration for several minutes, soaking up as much as I possibly could.

  “Uh, Bloomington,” the reanimated scientist interjected. Though I had only spoken with him for a brief while, his expression was far darker, and his tone more bothered than the relatively harmless nerd with whom I had conversed minutes before.

  “Bol-um-yak-ti?” One of the warriors asked quizzically.

  “Okay, that’s enough, folks.” Corcoran was somewhat less enthused. “Hey, chief, give us some room, okay?” The Mayans didn’t relent, and now worked themselves into a frenzy. They violently threw limbs akimbo in what I can only imagine was some form of worship.

  Corcoran pulled his sidearm and raised it in the air. The Mayans cowered with a chorus of meek yelps. Corcoran smiled and lowered the weapon, only to raise it once more. Much to his pleasure, the Mayans again cringed.

  One of the younger warriors was undaunted. He dropped his weapons and cautiously stepped toward us. When he was five feet away, he motioned toward the village, off at the far edge of the clearing.

  “Taal,” the brave man said, with a wave of the arm.

  “I do believe he wants us to follow him,” I said. I took a couple of steps toward the man before Corcoran’s heavy hand gripped my shoulder.

  “Not so fast, Doc,” he said. For a moment, I worried that I would be next on his list of victims before I turned and a sly smile crept over his face.

  “Wait for us.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “What? That’s ludicrous!” Bloomington staggered to his feet.

  “Why? Doc over here said that we can’t change the future, right? So why not have a little bit of fun with these folks?”

  I nodded, “I’m afraid the Commander is correct. No matter what we do, the future simply will not change. We have the time anyway, may as well see how these people live.”

  “And…you’re basing this on what? Some nut guy claiming to be Jesus, and a douchehead high school physics teacher in the sixteenth century?” Bloomington asked.

  “Don’t forget the dinosaur hunt gone awry,” I said, dryly.

  “Look, Steve, even I know that stuff Doc had wasn’t exactly 2012-era.” I nodded, well aware of the irony that the medigel wasn’t even from my own time. “If not for him, you’d be dead.”

  “Maybe I should be! Ever consider that?” Bloomington worked himself up. “We both took an oath, that we wouldn’t interfere with the timeline, an oath that—”

  “An oath that’s a little…inapplicable,” Corcoran interrupted. “The man was hunting fuckin’ dinosaurs! He has a miraculous…gel…pack…thing… that saved your life! Don’t make me pull rank on you, specialist.” Corcoran glared at Bloomington for several moments as he allowed the words to sink in.

  “Yes, sir.” Bloomington offered with a mock salute. Even this minor subordination raised one of my eyebrows, though Corcoran either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care.

  We were led to a large village with a spacious town square. Several stonework buildings dotted the plaza, and mud huts were packed more closely together on the outskirts leading into town. Though impressive, I must admit that none of the monolithic stone buildings with which I’m familiar from Mayan architecture were anywhere to be found.

  Corcoran kept his hand cautiously dangled over his sidearm in his hip holster like some damned fool gunslinger from the Old West. Bloomington limped along behind us; though the medigel had apparently regenerated most of the vital tissues, they were still not completely healed. Fortunately, the axe had missed his spine, which only meant that his lungs and/or kidneys needed some time to mend, probably the former judging from his irregularly-staggered breaths.

  Much like in Judea, these people were short, and dare I say rather distasteful to look at. There were some exceptions, of course, but Corcoran and myself towered ov
er virtually everyone that we encountered. Even the sturdier Bloomington was taller than most of these feistier miniature humans.

  Fortunately, the smell was somewhat better around Chichen Itza; as a pungent aroma of corn covered up most of the most offensive odors that we would normally be subject to in a place without proper hygiene. I reflexively reached for the bottle of Purell that I had stashed in my pocket and gave my hands a good slathering of the stuff. For once, I relished in the antiseptic, hospital-like scent, which actually smelled “clean,” and not overly-medicinal.

  The men brought us to the largest stone building at the far side of the clearing, a rather crude, haphazard structure that was nothing like the pristine, well-fitted-together Mayan masonry work with which I was familiar. There was a small door that we had to bend down to enter, guarded by two men with the spear-tossing contraptions.

  In the middle of the room sat a rather ghastly fellow, more rotund than most of the others but with a face full of ornamental piercings that made his head look like a pincushion. The man’s eyes went wide as we entered the room, then narrowed as he tried to reclaim control.

  “You must be the chief,” Corcoran said. He extended a naked hand to the man seated in front of him. The guards reached for their weapons, but I anticipated as much and moved my hand over my own sidearm, now stashed safely in my waistband. The warriors flinched and backed down as I smiled, fully self-satisfied for the first time in quite some while; I felt positively badass.

  To his credit, Corcoran never wavered. He held out his hand to the rotund man in front of him, who eyed the appendage skeptically. After several contemplative moments, the chief grasped Corcoran’s hand. The chief’s momentary wince let me know that Corcoran gave the same hard, alpha male handshake to this peculiar little man as he had me earlier.

  The chief smiled and began to speak. Unfortunately, I can’t recall exactly what he said, since to my ears the long string of Mayan words was gibberish.