Jesus Was a Time Traveler (WATT Book 1)

by D. J. Gelner

  “Let him go,” Corcoran said as Freddy took his measurements. To his credit, the Commander didn’t so much as flinch.

  “How do you dress?” Freddy asked as he measured the Commander’s inseam.

  “To the right,” Corcoran said without skipping a beat. Freddy’s eyes widened momentarily as he motioned for Corcoran to turn around.

  “I beg your pardon?” I asked.

  “What? Now you want to know which side I tuck my c—”

  “Not that!” I shook my head. “Babe over there wallowing in his own luxuriation.”

  “Come on, Doc—the guy nearly died little over a day ago. I think he’s earned the break. So have you—we all have. That Mayan business took its toll on all of us. Not to mention—“ he waved me closer, and I obliged, “—Bloomy hasn’t been exactly…right…since you put that goop into him to fix him up.”

  “How do you mean?” I whispered.

  “He was always a little bit nerdy, a bit of an odd duck, as you Brits might say, but nothing quite like this. This is…something else. It’s like he’s forgotten how to function in society.”

  “And here I was thinking that he was merely ill-bred!” I punctuated the comment with a tight smile.

  “Shhh!” Corcoran was unamused. “I think that goop is fuckin’ with his mind a bit. Look at Burnham, too—cussin’ like a sailor without his rum. Something’s up with that stuff, Doc. I just don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Look, maybe Steven’s just getting comfortable now. Maybe his ‘near-death experience’ has made him see everything in a new light. Staring death in the face has an odd way of—”

  Corcoran raised his eyebrows at me, “Look who you’re talking to.”

  “Nevertheless, all I have is your word for it, and, much as I’m loathe to admit it, I have no reason not to trust you thus far. I’ll continue to monitor the situation using my eminently and thoroughly rational mind,” I said.

  Corcoran shook his head, “Whatever. Thanks, Doc. You want some free advice?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Take the afternoon off and do the same thing. Take a nap, or do…whatever you do for fun.”

  “Movies.”

  “What?”

  “I watch movies. Classics, mostly, though in your time they may not be considered as much. American cinema, 1985-2020.”

  “Great. Do that then.”

  I gestured toward the useless lump of semi-humanity on the sofa.

  “Eh, go out, catch a flick then,” Corcoran said.

  “I suppose they may still be showing Back to the Future…” I stroked my chin. “But I must say, a nap in a real bed sounds positively delightful right now.”

  Corcoran motioned to the three sets of double-doors in front of us.

  “Looks like we each have our own room, Doc. Go ahead—we’ll wake you up when it’s time to get ready.”

  I smiled a weary grin, “Very well then. I’ll be in my room.” I straightened my posture and took easy, deliberate steps toward one of the sets of doors. I tried to open the left door for several moments, and failing to yield it, instead gingerly pulled on the right one. This time it gave, and I walked inside and shut the door lightly behind me.

  Safely away from the rest of my suitemates’ prying eyes, my shoulders slumped as I staggered what seemed like an impossible number of steps toward the baroque-looking bed in front of me. The last thing I remember is throwing myself at the mattress before I passed out, face first, utterly gone to the world.

  “KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!”

  “Hey Doc, you alive in there?”

  If the Commander’s handshake was firm, then his manner of knocking was positively bone-chattering.

  I shot up, still only half on the bed.

  “Err…just a moment.” I collected myself and stood up.

  “Well, hurry up, wouldya? Garrett just called, and we’re supposed to be down in the ballroom in fifteen minutes.”

  The revelation startled me. I stormed over to the door in a huff. This time, I unsuccessfully tried to open the right door for several moments before I opened the left with a jolt, only to find Corcoran on the other side.

  “I thought you were going to wake me up when it was time to get ready?”

  “I tried! I’ve been bangin’ on the door for a good fifteen minutes. Bloomy wanted me to call the cops.” He held out a hangar draped with a particularly cheap looking rubber-polyester cover. I snatched it with a toned-down snort of indignation.

  “Fifteen minutes, Doc.”

  “I’ll be ready,” I said.

  Twenty-five minutes later, I emerged from the shower and began to dress. I appreciated the irony that a time traveller, of all people, had asked me to be prompt.

  I finally tied my bow tie and took a look in the mirror. I would be dishonest if I didn’t admit that (much like any other Englishman worth his salt) I gazed into the mirror and pantomimed holding a gun in the air.

  “The name’s Templeton. Phineas Templeton.” I said to the man in the mirror.

  “Come on, Doc! We’re gonna be late!” Corcoran thundered through the door.

  “Err…’coming!’”

  I straightened my tie once more, and we were off to the ballroom.

  The ballroom was actually a collection of ballrooms on the ground floor of the hotel. As tony as Burnham had tried to make the scene—his cronies had covered old bits of torn wallpaper and shoddy carpeting with balloons, streamers, and carefully-placed fabric—there was still no disguising the fact that we were in a hotel ballroom in St. Louis, Missouri in 1985.

  Nonetheless, throngs of well-dressed partygoers (and hopeful party-crashers) clogged the entrance to the grand ballroom, where the festivities were already in full swing. To my great surprise and joy, the usual big band music was replaced by a proper Huey Lewis and the News cover band. Somehow, I thought it fitting that “Power of Love” was playing during this most surreal of scenes, even if “Back in Time” would have been even more appropriate.

  Five large bouncers guarded the entrance, and repeatedly cast away all but the most stunning young beauties the town had to offer, whom were themselves done up in their pouffiest hair and with their oddest wardrobe choices. As slovenly as Bloomington appeared in his tux, Corcoran and I knew how to wear ours rather nicely, and we cut through the masses to make our way to the front.

  “Name?” One of the neanderthals asked.

  “Templeton. Phineas Templeton,” I said. Somehow it didn’t come out nearly as confidently as it had in the mirror.

  “Try Corcoran,” the Commander said. “Richard, Ricky, whatever Corcoran.”

  The bouncer flipped through pages upon pages of list, well past where the “Cs” should have ended. The look on the guard’s face added to my impression that the whole ordeal was like a dog trying to read Dickens, but eventually he came to something that he at least pretended looked like the Commander’s name.

  “There it is. Corcoran, plus two.” He looked behind the Commander, saw us, and couldn’t help but show the shock on his face. “Uh, have fun…gentlemen.” He said with narrowed eyes. Between Burnham’s crack earlier and this Cro-Magnon’s off-hand remark, I had had more than my daily dose of low-level gay-bashing.

  “Come on, fellas—let’s go find us some ladies!” Corcoran winked at the security guy, whom nodded satisfactory assent at the Commander. Apparently, Ricky had picked up on the same vibe.

  I had to hand it to Vic Burnham; he really did his damnedest to throw a thoroughly modern, entertaining affair. I soon discovered that the Huey Lewis and the News tribute band was actually Huey Lewis and the News, which particularly tickled my fancy, seeing as how large of a fan of theirs I was. Various table games dotted the sides of the room as middle-aged men had women less than half their age blow on dice before they launched the white-and-black cubes toward the end of the craps table. Though ostensibly the games were for charity, I saw a decent amount of actual currency make its way onto the tables over the course of the nig
ht.

  Booze flowed freely from the bars located in every corner, stocked with enough high-end liquor and capable bartenders so as to prevent all but the shortest of lines. We made our way over to the nearest bar, and I was positively tickled to find eighteen-year Macallan as one of the options. I had the bartender pour me a double.

  “And for you, sir?” the bartender asked Corcoran.

  “Make it a Budweiser.” Before the Commander could finish, a fresh bottle of the iconic beer sat open in front of him.

  “And you, sir?” the bartender turned to Bloomington.

  “Vodka red bull.” I could barely keep my hand from smacking myself in the forehead. It was all I could do to force a firm elbow into Bloomington’s back.

  “Vodka what now?” The bartender asked.

  Bloomington sighed with annoyance, “Whatever. Make it a vodka coke then.”

  Just when I think someone can’t possibly get any more annoying, I thought, Bloomington always steps in to demonstrate a new low in decorum and common decency.

  We spotted Burnham along a side wall and he surprisingly waved us over to chat.

  “Gentlemen!” the grandfatherly fellow that had greeted us at reception the day before had returned. “How are you doing?”

  “Extraordinary,” I said.

  “Thanks for the tuxes. Freddy knows his stuff.” Corcoran said.

  “He’s the best,” Burnham said.

  If you say so…I thought as I tugged on my right sleeve, which was a good half-inch shorter than the left.

  “I do love these parties, though.” The billionaire leaned in closer to us and whispered, “My doctor told me a couple years ago: no more blow. Something about how my heart was gonna explode. So, I decided then and there to give it up; except for New Year’s. You guys want any?”

  Corcoran and I immediately shook our heads and offered a polite, “No thank you.” Reflexively, our attention turned toward Bloomington. We knew the response before he had said a word.

  “Sure. Yeah. Why not? Fuck it.” The portly scientist said.

  “Fan-fu—” Burnham stopped himself. “Fantastic. Gentlemen, we shall return.”

  Corcoran and I eyed each other skeptically.

  “Hey, maybe it’ll even him out a little.” Corcoran said.

  “Are you quite mad? You’re trying to rationalise this? Steve Bloomington doing coke with a billionaire in his mid-sixties? What possible good could come of this?”

  Corcoran shrugged, “Beats the shit outta me. All I know is that he needs something to get on track. Maybe a line or two’ll shake some sense into his head. I mean, I never touch the stuff, but to each his own, you know?”

  All I could do is shake my head.

  “‘Course, you seem like the uptight type who’s never tried anything.”

  I stood in silence.

  “Oh, come on…nothing? Not even a ‘puff on a spliff’ in prep school or anything like that?”

  I raised my glass and swirled the scotch inside.

  “One vice is plenty, especially when it likely costs more than the cocaine that Bloomington is presently doing.”

  “But you’re not denying that you went to prep school, then?”

  “Eton, if you must know. And yourself?”

  “I was a bit of a wild one,” Corcoran said. “My folks shipped me off to the Missouri Military Academy when I was in seventh grade. Think they held a party when I left. Turns out it was the best thing they ever coulda done to me.”

  “You learned discipline, sacrifice, yada yada yada,” I interjected.

  Corcoran chuckled, “Bull-shit. Turns out Mom and Pop had a shitty furnace that was leaking carbon monoxide into their place. Croaked in their sleep three months after I had left.”

  “Commander, I’m terribly sorry for my flippant re—”

  He took a long swig of his beer and waved me off, “Don’t worry about it—it was their own damn-fool fault for not fixin’ it. Fortunately, the Military Academy picked me up on a full scholarship. Once I graduated, I figured my trade was bein’ a soldier. So I enlisted in the Navy. Grunt initially, went to SEAL school, elite ops, that sort of thing. Served over in the Gulf, Kosovo for a bit, then Afghanistan for who-knows how many tours. Made Lieutenant Commander, then took the controls of our helo after the pilot had been shot by those Mujahideen pricks. Crashed it away from a school. General Carter from Army black ops apparently took note, and next thing I know, I’m supervising Project Omega.”

  “So, they just pulled you out from combat and put you in charge of the greatest human technological achievement of all time?”

  “Guess they saw some kind of leadership potential there, didn’t they?” Corcoran took another swig of his beer. “And it worked out okay, didn’t it? Here I am, sharin’ a drink with a genuine time traveler in 1985.”

  “You’d still be stuck in Mayan times had I not shown up, though,” I reminded him.

  “And for that, I’m forever grateful,” the Commander offered his bottle in a toast. “To happy accidents.”

  “To happy accidents,” I said, and clinked my glass with his bottle.

  “So what’s your deal? Grew up in England, then what?” He asked.

  “I’m afraid it’s terribly boring, really, compared with your story. Father transferred to England when I was still young. Graduated from Eton by fourteen, Oxford by seventeen. Had my PhD in advanced theoretical physics by nineteen. Always have had a knack for making that one insight that pushes a project past the wall, and makes it doable.”

  “When did you start working with the government?” Corcoran asked.

  “Beg your pardon?” I asked.

  “How else could you have gotten your hands on our research?”

  My eyeballs nearly exploded, “Your research? Your research? I’ll have you know, Commander, that every breakthrough I made with the quantum computer was mine alone, based on my own research into areas that you couldn’t possibly even begin to—”

  “Try me,” Corcoran said.

  I sighed, “The time travel mechanism is activated—”

  “—Via a matter, antimatter reaction contained by an advanced superconductor-keyed forcefield.” Corcoran said.

  I tried to hide my shock.

  “You don’t think they give the program director the broad strokes? Truth be told, I wasn’t supposed to be the one going back in time. Unfortunately, our original pilot went into rehab a little while before the first flight—something about the stress of it all getting to her. Probably wasn’t really cut out for it anyway, if that was the case. So I stepped in. Now, we didn’t have quite as many fancy gizmos as you do, but the concepts are similar enough that I can talk shop.”

  “And Bloomington?” I asked.

  “Mission specialist. Given a provisional commission to operate the time machine, fix ‘er up if we got stranded. With the crater that thing left, though, there wasn’t much to fix.”

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to find Bloomington’s sweaty, but otherwise in-good-spirits visage.

  “Hey, Professor! How’s it going? I’m feeling great—just great!” Bloomington said. He took my hand and shook it vigorously before he stood up straight for once and offered Corcoran a crisp salute, “Commander.”

  Corcoran’s eyes grew wide, but he returned the gesture.

  Feedback rung out over the loudspeakers, and we turned to see Burnham wipe his nose as he set up the microphone at the podium.

  “My fellow revelers, good evening!” Burnham’s congenial, grandfatherly disposition had returned. If the drugs had given him an extra bounce to his step, he hid it well.

  “Good evening and welcome to the twentieth annual Burnham Herrington New Year’s Eve celebration!” Wild applause filled the room.

  “As you may know, I have a wild announcement to make this evening, one that bodes well for the city of St. Louis, as well as similarly struggling cities around this fine country.

  “Burnham Herrington is doing better than ever. Once again
, our share price rocketed upward and now sits comfortably north of $6,500 per share!” More cheers from the crowd.

  “Yet, in the face of all of this wealth, in spite of the mountains of capital that should be flowing through the streets of St. Louis at the moment, we’re left with a city that’s rotten at its core.” Shocked murmurs replaced any residual merriment.

  “Not the people, mind you, for the most part anyway. Sure, there will always be a few bad apples that try to spoil the pie, but I find that to be more a reflection of our failing schools, which, intentionally or not, reflects an attitude that the less fortunate than us shouldn’t be able to rise above the circumstances in which they find themselves and be able to attend a function like this, down to the last man and woman.”

  Is this the same man who was calling us every variation of “fuck” imaginable and throwing coffee mugs at his underlings several hours ago? I thought.

  “And St. Louis isn’t alone in its plight. Cities from Kansas City to Cleveland to Pittsburgh to Baltimore all are experiencing the same, sad fate. Poor schools. Few jobs. Crumbling infrastructure. And, as a result, skyrocketing crime.

  “Various charities do their best to stem the tide of these problems, but they’re but a single sandbag in the deluge of poverty-related causes that plague our once-great cities. Try as it might, a charity cannot create jobs on the scale needed to lift a city out of its dire milieu. A charity cannot make decisions that are in its best business interests in order to take on projects that can simultaneously rebuild a community, employ its residents, and lift the rest of the world into a loftier position.

  “No, to do that requires a true company, one that can make beneficial business deals to improve infrastructure, one that can hire and train employees to improve the cities around them. But simultaneously one that will also have a charitable purpose baked into its corporate charter.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, I have founded such a company. I’m endowing it with a sizable donation of Burnham Herrington stock, with the balance of my fortune to be put in a trust under its control in perpetuity upon my death. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, the St. Louis Area Burnham Executive Rebuilding Corporation, or as I like to call it, SABERCorp!”