Jesus Was a Time Traveler (WATT Book 1)

by D. J. Gelner

  “Probably don’t want to take that old gal out here—want to stay inconspicuous and whatnot,” I said.

  “Right…” Corcoran said. “What the hell was I thinkin’? Especially since, you know, what happened, happened.”

  “I know it may seem odd, but just because whatever we do has been pre-ordained, so to speak, doesn’t mean that we should go around waving a laser pistol in a major city in the 80s.”

  “Why not?” Bloomington asked. He actually held his liquor fairly well. “I just got done explaining all of human history to a bunch of batshit Mayans through a tablet app.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware,” I said through gritted teeth. Would he hold that over us for the rest of our time together? “But what if you lost it? Someone else finds it?”

  “Isn’t that what was supposed to happen, then?” Corcoran asked.

  “Yes, but it’s not what I want to happen. That’s the only prototype I have, and I would be remiss if it would go pilfered or lost. Besides, I doubt we’ll need the stopping power.”

  “You ever been to St. Louis in this time period, Doc?” Corcoran asked. I shook my head. He leaned a skeptical eye toward me, “You never know.”

  The autopilot had brought us well inside of the Earth’s atmosphere, with more than a few changes in direction to deal with a new hazard, satellites, that had gone unnoticed by us due to my pioneering work on inertial dampening. We emerged from the clouds into a fairly clear sky, though there was a dustiness to the air, an underlying layer of grit that took away from the bold, almost shimmering sky blue to which I had become accustomed.

  As we glided down gently, a jumbo jet raced beneath us at an odd, diagonal angle. I believe it was a 747, and judging by our location and the red tail markings, my guess would have to be TWA. As the craft remained visible, I sincerely hoped that some nosy, hyper-vigilant member of the flight crew hadn’t witnessed our descent, and alerted the tower.

  The tower! Air traffic control; a new obstacle, considering that I had only visited pre-flight and post-time travel societies thus far.

  “Computer, divert all nonessential power to the cloaking device and raise cloak as soon as is computerly possible.” Corcoran and Bloomington eyed me skeptically. “What? It’s faster than ‘humanly possible.’” I said.

  We descended to the point where the unmistakable profile of the Gateway Arch shimmered in front of us. I had never seen the thing in person, as I tend to avoid visiting monuments for the sake of visiting them. Monuments always seem to have a way of only just meeting or falling well short of expectations.

  The Arch, though, was one of those rare structures that surpassed my (admittedly modest) anticipation. It was much taller than I had ever imagined, and stood like a sentry as if it guarded the various office towers of the city from whatever ills may await it on the other side of the Mighty Mississippi.

  When I finally looked past it to see what it guarded, however, I was shocked. Buildings with painstakingly-crafted architectural details crumbled and lay in decay. Skyscrapers covered in soot and shit and badly in need of a power-washing. Eyesores like a new shopping mall under construction amidst it all.

  “It’s a…a…a pit!” I exclaimed.

  I expected my declaration to be met with impassioned resistance and protestations from Corcoran. Instead, the Commander nodded gravely.

  “Not the city’s finest hour,” he said. “Crime, graft, corruption—all right at their peak. Cards were doin’ pretty well, though, ‘least until Denkinger gave ‘em the old fuckaroo. Burnham was the only one who made this city go. Well, him and the brewery, I guess.” Corcoran spoke to no one in particular. “It’s better now, but this is no joke here, fellas.”

  “Two days ago, I was being chased by a T-Rex. Yesterday, I outran a bunch of bloodthirsty Mayan warriors. I think I can handle a few gangbangers and aggressive panhandlers,’” I said with as much bravado as I could muster. Perhaps unconsciously, at that moment I patted my sidearm, now safely tucked away in my holster.

  “See what I mean?” Corcoran said.

  It was about then that the cloaking device indicator finally lit up on one of the panels. I breathed a silent sigh of relief as the computer guided us down gently toward a rather pitiful-looking abandoned lot somewhat north of the main business area.

  “Do I get one?” Bloomington asked.

  “I believe you’ve already had a couple,” I said, as I tilted back an imaginary glass.

  “A gun, dickhole.” Bloomington snorted.

  “Sorry Bloomy, you know the rules. Only I, and I guess Doc over here, get to pack heat.”

  “But if this place is as dangerous as you—” Bloomington protested.

  “It’s not that bad; can’t you take a joke?” Corcoran asked. “It’s actually a little charmin’, once you get used to it,” Corcoran said as he chambered a round into the pistol, cocked the safety, and holstered the weapon in the hip holster under his jacket. That reminded me to put on my own camo jacket that the computer had so graciously provided.

  “Good idea, Doc,” Corcoran said. “Doubt the hoi palloi’ll wanna tango with Uncle Sam.”

  “Precisely,” I said.

  “Or the Queen, or Monterey Jack, or whoever you Limeys say over there.” Corcoran said with a grin.

  “Union Jack,” I replied, with a smile of my own. I nodded at the Commander and Bloomington in turn before I took several measured strides toward the egress ramp and asked the computer to lower the gangway. This time the mechanism worked perfectly, and soon enough we were sauntering through what appeared to be the war-torn streets of northern downtown St. Louis.

  Perhaps I’m exaggerating a bit, but not by much. The sun hung nearly directly over our heads, and yet as we looked around during disembarkation, there was no one to be found.

  What was immediately noticeable, though, was the distinctive smell of the brewery that permeated the air. It was as if hops and barley had been soaked, vaporised, and lit ablaze, as if the stale air from a thousand pubs had been concentrated down to its essence and propagated throughout an entire town. I couldn’t decide if the aroma was repulsive or utterly intoxicating.

  Corcoran surveyed the scene with one arm tucked inside his jacket. Having not identified any threats, he waved us toward him.

  “This way,” he said, and began the walk south.

  We walked along a street named “Broadway” for quite some while, though it was nowhere near as elegant as its identically-named counterpart in Monopoly might lead one to believe. After roughly a quarter mile, we encountered our first pedestrian, a man who wore a similar camouflaged jacket to our own, though his looked far worse for wear.

  “Spare change, misters?” he asked. We ignored him and soldiered on.

  Eventually, foot traffic increased around us as business people scurried to-and-fro, presumably during their lunch hours. Humourless trench coats hid stark cotton white shirts and woolen suits. Only the odd person dared to wear the colourful plaid pants or jackets that were still “barely-in-fashion” at the time. Women wore their hair in a poufy, remarkably unattractive manner accentuated by the tell-tale angularity of the shoulder pads in their blazers and long skirts. Men and women alike were a rather dowdy lot, though a welcome change from the horrors of ancient times; at least these individuals (presumably) bathed more than once per month.

  Though the majority of the skyscrapers were indeed tired and half-sitting, one was under construction along this thoroughfare. We crossed the street and came alongside a smallish (perhaps twenty stories or so), distinguished-looking building, fully refurbished. The dark slate tiles of the eaves matched the stark red bricks rather nicely. It was, in fact, so tasteful that it stuck out like a sore thumb compared with the odd jumble of pre-modernist and what I can only describe as “horribly Epcot-ish” buildings that otherwise pocked the skyline.

  Though there was no signage on the building proper, a marker in front of the edifice read as follows:

  Burnham Herrington Investments (Floo
rs 5-20)

  Proops & Gardner, Attorneys at Law (Floors 3-4)

  Simons Innovation, Inc. (Floor 2)

  Obviously, Burnham Herrington was in much larger lettering than the others. We entered the revolving door and emerged in a well-appointed, marble lobby. The security desk sat empty to the right of the revolving doors, and a bank of three lifts faced us at the other end of the room. In the middle was a familiar-looking fountain, though I suppose the same can be said of any number of water features in corporate offices around the globe.

  We crossed the lobby and pressed the “up” button on the bank of lifts. The brushed metal of the lift doors appeared to be ahead of its time, though the floor-by-floor indicator atop each bank of doors was decidedly retro.

  The chime from the lift on the left indicated its arrival. As we sauntered over to the opening doors, a dour, yet striking, young woman emerged from the lift wearing a large, Kentucky Derby-style hat and oversized sunglasses, which I couldn’t help but think were horribly anachronous. Her raven-dark hair had been straightened and tied up underneath the hat’s impressive canopy, and her red dress was cut in a thoroughly “modern” fashion, though it brought out her bright, almost emerald-like green eyes.

  Oddest of all, I couldn’t shake the idea that I had met her previously.

  She passed us, and didn’t even so much as nod in our direction.

  “Do I know her?” I asked my companions. For a moment, I thought I gleaned a similar sentiment of recognition from Corcoran’s face.

  “I don’t know, but I sure want to,” Corcoran said with a grin.

  Bloomington clammed up; his lack of comfort with the opposite sex made me seem like a regular Tiger Woods.

  I shook the thoughts out of my head and we entered the lift.

  “Which floor?” I asked, though as I said it, I noticed that Corcoran had already pushed the button for twenty.

  “Which floor would you be on if you were the boss?” Corcoran asked rhetorically.

  The lift ascended amazingly quietly toward the top floor. Within moments, it opened upon a rich, mahogany-clad space with green carpet that screamed “country club.” Two capable-looking women with matching red, plastic-rimmed glasses busied themselves clattering away on first-generation Apple MacIntoshes while conversing over the telly.

  As we approached, one of the women sat down her receiver.

  “May I help you?” she asked. She was a middle-aged, though attractive, black woman, who lowered skeptical eyes at us.

  “Uh, yes…we’re here to see Mr. Burnham.” I said.

  The woman smiled gently. “Of course. Do you have an appointment?”

  “Um…perhaps…” I stammered. “Phineas Templeton?”

  She thumbed through her appointment book for several moments before she shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t see a Templeton in here. Being New Year’s Eve, Mr. Burnham has a very limited number of appointments today, so perhaps you were scheduled to see him a different day?” She frowned understandingly.

  “How about Corcoran?” the Commander asked.

  She smiled, “Certainly, Mister—I apologize…” She looked at the rank insignia on the Commander’s jacket, “Commander Corcoran. It’ll be just a moment.” She excused herself and ducked behind the corner of the wall.

  I glared at the Commander, and he offered a weak shrug in reply. For his part, I believe Bloomington was attempting to disguise the fact that he was picking his nose.

  The receptionist emerged from behind the wall several minutes later with a pleasant-looking, middle-aged fellow with large, coke-bottle-like lenses inside of horrendous-looking, black-and-amber tiger-striped plastic eyeglasses frames. He was short, shorter than Bloomington, actually, but exuded a remarkably kind, understanding disposition.

  “Gentlemen, hello!” The man extended a hand toward first the Commander, then myself and finally Bloomington, though I cringed when Bloomington extended the same hand that had moments earlier been engaged in nasal excavation. The little man in front of us shook each of our hands enthusiastically, though with the odd-fitting, apparently off-the-rack suit that he wore, it was tough to believe that this man could be a billionaire.

  “Good to see you, good to see you! I must admit, this is a bit irregular; Doris over here tells me that you have an appointment, though I specifically remember asking for the day to be booked off. You’re quite lucky that I’m putting the finishing touches on a speech I’m to give to my guests at my New Year’s party this evening, or I’m afraid you would have been out of luck.”

  “And a great speech it shall be,” I said. “A watershed announcement, where you’ll announce you’re setting up a charity with your vast fortune.”

  Burnham stared at me, his eyes burrowing into my skull.

  “How in the hell? Did you speak to her—I mean, no one could possibly—” he grew flustered before he regained his good cheer.

  I smiled, “Just a few fans, hoping that we could have a few moments of your time, sir.” I raised my hand into the Vulcan “live long and prosper” gesture, as Trent had taught me.

  Burnham’s eyes widened for a moment, the smile washed from his face as he struggled to regain his composure and good cheer.

  “Fellow Trekkies? Star Trek fans?” He asked with a chuckle.

  “No,” I replied, deadly serious. “Fans of yours.”

  I met his gaze for several moments, as beads of sweat formed on his brow.

  “Speak for yourself,” Bloomington whispered in my ear before he also adopted the Vulcan hand-sign, though I’m sure for very different reasons.

  The colour and smile returned to Burnham’s face, “I…uh…of course! Of course, my fine English fellow! Doris, Nancy, please hold all of my calls, for as long as these gentlemen are in here.”

  “Of course, Mr. Burnham,” Doris smiled as she took her seat once more. I don’t think that the phone resting against Nancy’s ear could have been surgically removed.

  “Follow me, Gentlemen,” Burnham said as he led us around the corner, which led to a short hallway. The door at the end of the hallway was adorned with a plaque that read, “Victor U. Burnham, Principal.” Burnham opened the door and held it for us.

  “After you, please, I insist,” he said with a broad, grandfatherly grin. We made our way inside to find a large mahogany desk and suitably plush chair across from us. Three couches were arranged in a “U’ shape around a modern coffee table to our right. The rest of the otherwise tasteful office was adorned with all manner of Star Trek memorabilia, including props, models of ships, and all manner of other merchandise. I think Bloomington and myself took a moment to marvel at the collection, while Corcoran couldn’t help but stare in shock and horror.

  “Have a seat, please,” Burnham motioned over to the couches, and we followed his hand toward them.

  No sooner than the door had closed did the kindly smile and warmth drain from Burnham’s face.

  “Just what the fuck was that?” Burnham thundered. “‘No more time travelers.’ That’s exactly what I told ChronoSaber, and yet, here you idiots are, bruising my fucking asshole!” He turned to Corcoran, “Just what the fuck are you looking at, slim?”

  “Ricky Corcoran, pleased to meet you,” he extended his hand.

  Burnham stood, mouth agape. “Ricky…Corcoran? The Ricky Corcoran? Commander? Well fuck me sideways!” The smile returned to his face, though it wasn’t the warm, grandfatherly smile of before, but rather the grin of a shark eyeing a bleeding seal carcass. “Ricky Corcoran! American hero, come to visit me? Outstanding. Just fan-fucking-tastic!”

  Corcoran raised his eyebrows at me.

  “I assume this is your coterie? Your entourage?” Burnham asked.

  “Somethin’ like that. This is Doc,” the Commander nodded at me and I cleared my throat. Corcoran broke into a terse, thin smile. “I mean, Doc-tor Phineas Templeton.” His affected English accent was remarkably well-practised for such a presumptive hayseed.

  “Charme
d,” I extended my hand with a hopefully not-too-phony smile.

  “And this over here is Bloomy—Specialist Steve Bloomington,” He corrected himself before the toad had a chance.

  “This…is…awesome,” Bloomington stared around the shrine to Star Trek. “I’m, like, dying now. You are a God.”

  Burnham waived away the praise, “You think I actually like this stupid shit? Morons flying around in spaceships in horrible costumes, solving boring, bullshit mysteries one week after another?” Burnham huffed. “Fuck that. I only keep up the ruse in case those assholes over at ChronoSaber ever disregarded my wishes and created one of their damn-fool time tourist traps to visit me. No fucking thank you. $11.7 million dollars spent on this shit, and it finally pays off.”

  Corcoran, Bloomington and I eyed each other with varying levels of awe and disgust.

  “Like with Albertson?” I asked, innocently enough.

  “What the fuck about him?”

  “Time tourism. Albertson? You know, he’s—”

  “Albertson!” Burnham screamed at the door. He realised that no one was forthcoming, so he hustled behind his desk and hit one of the array of buttons at his disposal.

  “Albertson!” He failed to lower his volume.

  “Yes, sir.” The receiver buzzed.

  “Get your ass in here!”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Not but five seconds later, the office door cracked once more to reveal a young, dapper, clean-shaven man who couldn’t simultaneously be more different than the man I had met as “Jesus Christ” in Ancient Judea, and yet possess enough similar facial characteristics so as to promote the rather obvious notion that the two must be related.