Jesus Was a Time Traveler (WATT Book 1)

by D. J. Gelner

  Unfortunately, any pottery in my father’s collection from the place and time we were about to encounter was more of the “just a jug” variety. Though I admired each piece for dutifully performing its function day-in and day-out for who-knows how many years, and surviving through the centuries against the odds, there was no indication as to its, I suppose this may sound hackneyed by now, but “rightful place in history.” Whether it ever commemorated a special event or otherwise distinguished itself from all of the pottery lost to time that otherwise became shards in trash pits, studied by archaeologists, who themselves seemed little more than archaic curiosities given what we now knew of the realities of time travel.

  I asked the computer to produce clothing appropriate for the era, and it provided what can best be described as three tunics, each of which was a bright, sky blue. Three pairs of simple sandals (which, for my money, appeared to be little more than discount flip-flops from Wal-Mart) were also included in the clothing package. I shook my head, then amazed that the computer knew that I’d have two other companions at this point in time, though in hindsight I should have recognised that the exhortation to “rescue R.C. and S.B.” would likely necessitate such an occurrence.

  I tossed two of the packages at the dining area.

  “What in the sam fu—” Corcoran protested.

  “Put it on,” I interrupted. “We don’t want to draw undue attention next lifetime, do we?”

  “And here I was, thinking it was casual Friday from here on out,” Corcoran shook his head. He peeled off the simple shirt and Bloomington followed suit. I began the somewhat more arduous task of removing the tuxedo, though I carefully folded it and placed it in the glove compartment next to the casual ensemble that Burnham had provided; I never knew when I may need such a formal garment once more, and in the event that I did, I didn’t want to be caught unawares.

  I patted the pockets of the tuxedo pants once more to ensure that I didn’t forget anything vital, and found the small, nicotine-patch-like form of the holotran encased in clear plastic. I retrieved the amazing little device and slid it into a concealed pocket inside the tunic.

  I also found an unwelcome surprise in the packet of clothing; another pair of contact lenses. I suppose fourth-century Turkey would not look kindly upon some giant stranger sporting spectacles, though I may have muttered a curse or two as I put the damned uncomfortable things in.

  The red “Engage” icon flashed on the left console. I looked back at Corcoran and Bloomington, who were deeply immersed in a conversation as to which American football team had a better chance to win the Super Bowl during the season in which they had left (for the record, I believe they were debating between Atlanta and Houston). I allowed myself a stifled chuckle as I hit the icon and the ship began its machinations, and hurtled us noiselessly, forcelessly toward the heavens.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I’ll spare you the particulars of our arrival in Nicaea, other than to say that it was surprisingly green and lush compared to the arid desert for which I had prepared myself. The city was a small, but thriving community on the eastern shores of a body of water that I would later discover was known as Lake Iznik, and something about the calm waves as they gently lapped against the shore was so utterly peaceful and picturesque compared with the rotting urban core we had just visited that I fancied that I could return to the city in my own time for a proper spa vacation, were I not concerned with such benign matters as “war” and “fallout.”

  We touched down on the outskirts of town in between a row of olive trees. Though Corcoran had no reason to raid the armory, he sat at the table and cleaned his sidearm, lest it fail him in an inopportune moment. For once, Bloomington merely sat quietly, or I should say “more quietly than usual,” as he whistled a nonsensical tune.

  “Well gents…any ideas?” I decided to take charge.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, Doc,” Corcoran said. “I’m not exactly Mister History over here.”

  Not yet… I thought.

  “Uh…Holy Roman Empire…anyone?” Bloomington piped up.

  “What about it?” I decided to feel him out.

  He paused in consideration of his next words for several moments before he shook his head, “That’s all I’ve got.”

  “Lovely,” I replied.

  “Hey, better than what you came up with, doucheface,” the toady scientist retorted.

  I shook my head. Corcoran punctuated the brief silence by cocking his gun once more.

  “Well, way I figure, best way to find out is to get out and ask around,” he said.

  There was something about the Commander’s folksy practicality that was simultaneously maddening and alluring. Despite my misgivings, I nodded along with his plan, and after I cloaked the vessel, I politely asked the computer to lower the gangway.

  As I caught my first whiff of fourth-century air, I was immediately taken by the pungent, pleasant aroma of fresh olives basking in the spring sunlight. Bird song showered us with warm tidings as I drank in the surrounding scenery. The entire area was in stark contrast from the overly-developed (to the point of neglect) city from which we had just come. Even Corcoran was unable to hide his smirk as he practically gulped in the fresh, sweet-smelling breeze.

  The rows of olive trees led to a simple, stucco-ish hut, which was presently empty, though the crackling embers of a cooking fire indicated that it had not been left as such for more than an hour or so.

  We soldiered on until the outskirts of town developed, marked by rows of small houses similar to the one out in the field, and all likewise empty. I looked first at Corcoran, then Bloomington for their takes on the situation, but each one only offered a shrug in return.

  As we approached the city center, it became clear that most of the denizens had gathered outside of a large stone building protected by a number of guards wearing what appeared to be wrought-iron helmets and similar sky-blue tunics to our own. My annoyance at the designed “coincidences” that continued to pop up subdued any fear I may have otherwise felt, and I forced our way through the throng, the members of which shouted any number of obscenities in a strange language that I couldn’t hope to—

  The holotran! I thought. I reached inside the hidden pocket and produced the small device, and after some fiddling with the packaging and removing the plastic back, I placed it on my neck, roughly in the spot that Burnham had placed his.

  I expected the cacophony of noise to be replaced by calm, measured tones of the King’s, but no such breezy translation was forthcoming. I admit, I panicked a bit, and thought that perhaps Burnham had supplied us with counterfeits as part of this oddest, on-going conspiracy.

  “What the devil…” I said under my breath.

  Immediately, the conversations in whatever dreadful language the locals used streamed into my head, clear as a bell in plain English. I suppose it made sense that the device would need some baseline to calibrate how it interacted with its speaker, though I was nonetheless impressed with the alacrity with which it did so.

  I walked toward one of the short, dreadful-looking guards holding one of the long, slender pikes at the entranceway to the stone building. My heart perhaps skipped a beat or so as I hoped that the small patch on my neck worked as well the other way as it did filtering out the cries from the square.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “We’re on shift inside now, and—”

  “What took you so long?” The short guard huffed. I decided that the lack of an answer was the best response given the circumstances, and stood, stone-faced. From the corners of each eye, I noticed that Corcoran and Bloomington exchanged startled glances.

  The ugly little troll sized us up for several moments before he nodded at us. “Rumor has it that a madman has invaded the Council chamber. I trust that you will deal with him appropriately?”

  I nodded as one of the ghastly, warty throng behind us jabbed me in the back. I turned to verify the perpetrator, but they all blended together in a mass of tangled, ugly humani
ty.

  “Very well,” I said. “Corc…Corcoros. Bloomoros. Follow me.” I projected my most soldierly tone.

  “Good luck,” the horrid little troll responded.

  I motioned for Bloomington and Corcoran to follow, and they dutifully did so as we made our way up the path toward the imposing structure ahead. I say it was imposing because it was all of two stories tall, and loomed over the rest of the city to the extent that it may as well have been the former Empire State Building.

  Figurines were carved into the walls, and appeared to depict my good friend Trent splayed out on the cross. For some reason, I couldn’t seem to shake the notion that his limbs were completely out of proportion. The pleasant smell of olives was gone, replaced by a mildewy, unpleasant aroma that reminded me of Hopkins’ neglected paper library.

  “What the hell was that, Doc?” Corcoran finally hissed.

  “What do you mean? Didn’t you gents unpackage the holotrans that Burnham gave you?”

  Bloomington looked at Corcoran blankly, while the Commander fumbled in his own tunic pocket for a moment before he produced the packaged disc, tore into it, and placed it on his neck.

  “Sorry Bloomy,” Corcoran said. “You have one back on the ship.”

  Bloomington glared at his commanding officer for several moments before the light clicked on in his head and he sneered before he regained his composure and pouted more subtly.

  We entered a large chamber, where a number of men adorned in brightly-coloured tunics sat, rapt at attention at a large, circular table. One of the men at the far side of the room wore a well-made, fur-lined cape, which I figured marked him as the leader of this little enclave.

  Opposite the fur-adorned fellow was a taller gent in a dark green tunic and pantaloons. His salt-and-pepper locks kept in an unstylish ponytail were at odds with his ghostly white, somewhat long and, dare I say, nerdy face. The forcefulness of the odd, tall man’s speech and large, sweeping hand motions indicated that he was far from happy. Curiously, the tall, angry man made no show of hiding the rather plain spectacles that adorned his face, despite the four guards who stood, pikes outstretched toward him from behind.

  As we approached, we could see that the taller man’s gesticulations were tied to a stream of wild invective aimed at the Council convened in front of him.

  “And so, Emperor Constantine,” the tall man said, “You have snookered the people of the Western world for the last time. Your callous disregard of the so-called ‘Gnostic gospels,’ those books that you know as the ‘Gospel of Judas’ and the ‘Gospel of Mary Magdalene,’ and the like, which you are about to condemn to heresy and the depths of the most arcane scholarly analysis, deserve to be preserved in the so-called ‘regular’ New Testament as worthy of all other books mentioning Christ himself.

  “As a biblical scholar of thirty years, I simply refuse to believe that my trek back here to convince you as much is in vain, and I simply will not leave until I hear a firm and resounding ‘yes’ for an answer.”

  The man turned from the Council and flinched as we approached. All of the usual signs of time travel were present; taller, a bit oddly-dressed, and somewhat more blowhardy. Accordingly, I offered the “Live Long and Prosper” hand signal to the man as he stood in front of who I assumed was Emperor Constantine and his coterie of theologians.

  The time traveller raised a hand and echoed the gesture with a smile; apparently, he seemed to think that we were brought here as backup. Newly confident, he launched into another diatribe.

  “And one more thing, your excellency,” he nodded toward us, “you have no way of possibly knowing what effect this decision will have on countless generations henceforth. Wars will be fought and lost based on this one Ecumenical Council, a Council that, barring your selfish, shortsighted actions, would otherwise serve to help heal history. Would perhaps avert countless loss of life and teach humanity a kinder, gentler form of religion. In the end, isn’t it about protecting your fellow man, and advancing his, or her, lot in life? Of building a better future for us all?

  “Thus I humbly implore you, Your Majesty, to reconsider your stance on this simple issue, and to change the course of history, for the better, forever more.”

  The Council sat with thoroughly shocked expressions on their faces. One-by-one, they turned toward the fur-clad gentleman at the center of the room. He was tall as far as they were concerned, though not as tall as the man who stood before him, and suitably more handsome than anyone else in the room, barring myself and the Commander.

  The man who I assumed was Emperor Constantine stroked his chin for several moments before he nodded at the guards behind the odd, gangly man who stood in front of him.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, his harsh, bird-like features crinkled into a grimace.

  The time traveller sighed deeply and dusted himself off before he started once more.

  “Then I have no choice.” He pulled a .357 magnum from the waistband of his pantaloons. Corcoran immediately reached for his holster, but I put a hand on his shoulder as the man in the green tunic pointed the gun at several guards in turn.

  “By the authority vested in me by the Oberlin College Department of Religious, Spiritual, Agnostic, and Atheist studies, I hereby order you to abdicate your throne under penalty of death.”

  “And if I don’t?” the bird-like man in fur asked with a measured nonchalance. The man in the green tunic purposely aimed high, his hand unsteady, and shot a round into the wall, which smashed one of the stone bricks to smithereens.

  “I won’t hesitate to use this, Your Highness. Don’t make me—”

  One of the guards behind the man plunged his pike clear through the gangly time traveller. My jaw dropped as the guard expertly removed the long implement from the now-gaping hole through the man and a torrent of blood poured from it. The time traveller fell immediately lifeless and slack; no amount of first aid supplies or (I doubted) even medigel could have revived the man, whose spasms ended after a few short moments.

  Corcoran reached inside his tunic and grasped his gun, but fearing what may happen, I grabbed his arm and shook my head as my eyes met his.

  “What the fuck, Doc?” he spat in a whisper.

  I pointed at the guards that stood behind us at the back of the room. Corcoran thought of protesting further for a moment before he scowled.

  “Apparently, he did hesitate to use it,” Constantine stepped out from behind the table and circled toward the lifeless corpse that lay in front of him. The theologians stood and looked onward, though a lone, hacking cough punctuated the eerie silence.

  The Emperor stood over the body and kicked it several times with his foot to ensure that the man who had so ardently been pleading his case was, in fact, no longer of this Earth. He picked up the sidearm from the man’s lifeless hand and studied it for several moments, looking down its barrel more than once. He waved the magnum in the air and pulled the trigger several times, but fortunately the safety had caught somewhere during the time traveller’s ordeal.

  More troubling, Constantine turned to face us. His expression was knowing, yet innocent, like the child who had stolen a taffy from the sweet shop but had been caught, red-handed, and was desperate to avoid blame. His mouth dropped into a grimace as his eyes grew wide not with fear, but with a disconcerting naïveté that jarred me.

  To this day, I don’t know whether his next actions were cold and calculated, or if he decided to imitate the man whose life he had just ended, but Constantine extended a hand upward, and slowly, and carefully, without any hint of ever having done so before, mimicked the man he had just caused to be killed by forming the “Live Long and Prosper” symbol with his hand.

  I tried to gulp but my mouth was bone dry. I wanted nothing more than to run far away from this building, yet I was utterly paralyzed with fear. I looked to Corcoran to stem the tide of panic that washed over me. Fortunately, the Commander was as steely as ever, perhaps because he remembered (unlike I had) that we both carried si
dearms that could likely dispatch all of these pikemen should the need arise.

  “You there—guards. Did you have any association with this man who dared to question my wisdom?” Constantine asked.

  “No, sir.” Corcoran said.

  “No, what?” Constantine asked.

  “No, Your Eminence,” I piped up.

  The man’s thin lips turned upward into a smile. “Good. See to it that no other heretics make their way into this chamber.”

  “Yes, si—uh…Yer’ Eminence,” Corcoran caught himself. We stood behind the pikemen like three idiots, powerless to help the already dead time traveller splayed out on the floor.

  “Well? Go on now!” Constantine pointed a long, bony finger at the back of the room.

  “I think that’s our cue,” Corcoran whispered. For a moment of terror, I worried that Corcoran was about to pull out his sidearm and begin firing indiscriminately into the crowd of theologians.

  Thankfully, he instead turned around and marched toward the entrance. Bloomington and I followed suit. We wound our way through the spartan hallways until we emerged in the crowd gathered in the town square.

  “What the fuck?” Bloomington asked. This utterance drew some annoyed stares from the rabble, which I found curious until I recalled that Bloomington wasn’t wearing a holotran.

  “Shh!” Corcoran hissed at his compatriot, who was still densely unaware of the effect his anachronistic dialect was having on the crowd. Corcoran practically hoisted the portly scientist up and carried him through the mass of humanity until we emerged in a relatively quiet alley off of the main square.

  I slowed to catch my breath, but Corcoran had no such intentions. He sprinted through the corridor, and Bloomington did his best to keep up. I shrugged and followed suit; though I passed Bloomington early, I didn’t catch up with Corcoran until we reached the relative safety of the olive fields.