The Man JC

by Holly_Gonzalez

Timelines collided into the point of his singularity drive. Sounded like angels screaming outside the stabilizer field. Hunched over the dashboard of his liner cycle, Dwade Rathburn cruised full tilt across the continuum, target locked.

"First century Earth. Precise year, 29 A.D. Palestine, parallel branch 7.975 degree XZ." The cycle's AI recited the coords in a stream of garbled numerals. "Message incoming from your contact. Request to connect. Shall I activate the feed?"

Dwade cracked his neck bones with a satisfying left snap of his head. "Engage comm. Bitch better be right about this job." Damn straight. Supposed to be an easy bounty. Lock, capture, deliver, profit.

He was one of the last line mercs, and he'd always been the best. No wonder the Trumpturds in his most recent timeline had sought him out for this one. He doubted any of his old colleagues were active anymore. And likely none of them would take a run like this. Too big a risk. If the continuum god-cops known as Archonix picked up his intent, he'd be line-kill for sure. Still, the reward had been impossible to refuse. Enough to retire on at last. The big break he'd waited so long for.

All he had to do was kidnap the Lord and Savior of a billion religious dimwits and hand the sucker over. After that, he didn't give a shit. He could finally pick a remote timeline for himself somewhere, settle down, and live out the rest of whatever damn life he had left in relative peace.

The AI emitted a pleasant notification chime, even as the stabilizer fields fluxed through a turbulent core loop. "Comm link on. Message incoming in fourteen local seconds."

A female voice spoke over the comm speaker on the overhead panel, warbled somewhat over the inconstant signal. "Rath. I know you can do this. The Commander-in Chief will be so pleased with your work. I know you won't let the nation down. For God, country, and the glory of Trump. Might makes right, dear brother."

Dwade scoffed. "I don't give a fuck about your God, king, and country, Marta. Long as this slapped-together cycle holds like you promised it would, and as long as you pay what's due. After that, I never want to hear from you or your sheep shit friends ever again. You keep your word on all that, I'll keep my end of the contract."

A long pause hinted at Marta's ambivalence. He'd known her since they were kids. Lovers decades ago. No longer, especially not since she'd been brainwashed into the global theocratic cult of the Trump family. Like so many others in his origin line.

"Just deliver the Savior unharmed, as you've been asked," she replied, flat and stern. "You'll get your money. As well as the anonymity you want. Our Potentialists will cleanse your trail from the timelines. You'll have nothing to fear from Archonix."

"Heh. Great." He tightened his grip around the cycle's yoke, paused for a thought. "So, all the politics and religion aside, what in Hell do they want with Jesus Christ, anyway? The real guy, removed from his time and place, thrown into the future...why? Just curious. Seems like an awful lot of trouble for a regime that already has a grip on world power."

"I knew you'd ask." Marta's sigh rattled the comm frequency. "Because we were...are friends, I hope, I'll tell you the Commander's greatest plan. Here in 2070, we still await the return of our Lord. It was promised, prophesied, and all of the signs have passed. But still, he fails to show. Many grow restless. Ratings are falling. Rumors of a possible coup from the unfaithful. His Most Excellent Self Trump doesn't like that. So, we're going to create the Second Coming ourselves. Make it happen at last, for the glory of all."

Dwade nearly spat laughter. "What the...you've gotta be fucking kidding me."

"No. It isn't funny, and it won't be false. This is the real Jesus Christ, after all. We're just helping him to fulfill his divine mission."

"Bullshit. I should have known. Trump made himself a transhuman immortal and the emperor of the self-righteous world. Thinks he's bigger than God, now, to decide when Jesus returns. This shit is off the chain."

Marta's voice became shrill. "You dare mock both God and our beloved leader at once? I knew you were an infidel, but I can't forgive you for such blasphemy. I hoped you could be civil, or that maybe you'd changed. I see now how mistaken I was. And I don't think I can trust you with this mission any longer. I hate for it to come to this, but I have no choice."

He recognized her tone, the same she'd often used when they were together. It meant she was pissed beyond reason.

Dwade sputtered. "Now what are you getting at? I'm just doing this for the cash. You know I don't give a flying fuck about anything else."

"Exactly. That's why I'm terminating the mission. We'll find another line merc capable enough for the job."

"Hey, now wait a minute. Breach of contract. You can't just..."

A voice Dwade recognized all too well cut in over the comm: Trump. "You're fired."

Those two words sealed his fate, the catch phrase filling him with dread as he hurtled through the dangerous potentials of the continuum like a rat caught in a whirlpool of boiling parallel universes.

"Goodbye, Rath." Marta and Trump both fell silent. The comm feed disconnected.

The coords for the mission disappeared from his systems. His guide, now lost. The AI deactivated into a glitched, rambling mess. The cycle began to shake and pitch without a target.

"Son of a bitch!" Frantic, Dwade flipped every switch and centered the drive onto what he could recall of the point algorithms off the top of his head. "Abandon me in the continuum on your piece of shit cycle? You and that lying, puffed-up dictator. I never should have trusted you!"

A low reverberating hum began, deeper than a thousand whales singing over a black void, and Dwade's skin ran to goosebumps. Archonix. No mistaking that terrifying sound. The continuum gestapo were onto him. Trump and the religious bootlickers had betrayed him yet again, in the worst way possible.

A spew of curse words never invented fell from his mouth, struggling to regain control of the cycle in its interdimensional tailspin, the rumble of the Archonix leviathans edging closer, he finally managed to override the useless AI protocols and seized the cycle into manual.

As the timelines in his drive were already converging onto first century Palestine and the figure known as Jesus of Nazareth, his best chance of survival was to ride out the existing potentials. Had to lose shake Archonix off his track before they swallowed him into an infinity loop, trapping him forever in the continuum. Only way he knew, a quantum pulse to decoy, then emergence into a random point in the projected line.

Holding his breath, he burst the cycle through the warp and weave of space-time and exploded into the nearest verge point, knocking the leviathans aside with a final crash of the cycle's reactors. The resulting detonation propelled him at perilous velocity back into the solid forms and concepts of physical existence.

The wail of Archonix faded into screeching metal against solid ground. He slid into a barren desert landscape sideways, the drive a high-pitched scream drowning out his own shout of terror. For several seconds, he glimpsed his own death, strung out like catgut on barbed wire over infinite possible universes and versions of himself fragmenting in kaleidoscopic chaos.

Archonix lost him as he solidified at last and skidded to a halt on dry, rocky soil. At that moment, he almost prayed, but God was the greatest farce in a multiverse of farces. Not about to give into illusion now. No Heavenly overseer here to save him. He'd saved his own sorry ass too many times without so-called divine intervention to give into that bullshit.

The hatchback of the line cycle rolled open, and he dismounted the cockpit seat. He staggered a moment, disoriented, then turned to see the cycle lying in a smoking, sparking scrap heap at his feet.

"Worthless piece of fucking shit!" he yelled, kicking the Trump-manufactured wreck with his boot, then regretting it as pain shot through his foot on the impact. "Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick. Fuck you Marta, and fuck me for ever trusting you and your fascist friends."

He stumbled a bit, then pulled off his helmet and scanned his surroundings. Desert. Night sky. Nothing. Damn it all. He was stuck here. Cycle destroyed. No way to get back to his own timeline. His own life. Trapped, betrayed, left to die. He could repair the cycle, maybe, but Archonix would surely be waiting for him in the continuum. Nope, this was his new home. Joy of joys.

At least the basic functions of his liner suit still worked. The display confirmed his location. Palestine. Desert of Judea. 29 A.D. Calibrating local data. Dominant regional language: Hebrew. Translator online. Scanning for life forms. Human male, 300 meters northeast. Setting new parameters for life support system.

"Fuck." Dwade wiped his brow with a sweaty palm. The middle of the fucking desert. No water or food. No civilization in sight. Just some dude, apparently, whoever it was, hanging out a short distance to the northeast. Friend or foe? He didn't care anymore. No other choice, anyway. Meeting death quickly at the point of a first century barbarian's spear or sword seemed better than starving to death. He decided to take the chance and trudged in the direction indicated on his display.

The light of a small fire appeared in the distance. Dwade continued toward it, his heart pounding, throat dry, body shaking. His boots left grooved, modern tracks in the moonlit dust. Ahead, alone by the fire, was a gaunt, shaggy-haired figure. A man, his body wrapped in a grimy robe and threadbare coat, sat perfectly still and serene, cross-legged in the red and orange glow.

Dwade approached, his palms at his sides to show he was unarmed. His weapons cache had been crunched in the cycle when he'd landed. All he had to defend himself were his bare fists and his wits. Wouldn't be the first time.

The strange man made no sudden movement when Dwade stepped into the firelight. His dark brown eyes the newcomer with serene detachment, his tanned, weathered skin and wind-snarled brown hair hinting that he'd been outside for a long, long time. His face was drawn, thin, but evoked a peculiar sort of inner peace. He spoke in Hebrew, and Dwade's translator adapted the words into English.

"You've returned," the man said. "Get thee behind me, Satan. I have come to fulfill the work of my Father."

Sudden recognition nearly floored Dwade. He dropped to a weary crouch beside the fire and laughed with his head thrown back. "Holy shit. The coords were spot on. You're Jesus of Nazareth, aren't you? Well, I'm not Satan, but I'm flattered you think so." He rubbed the back of his neck and met Jesus' unwavering gaze. "Well, damn, this is awkward." The translator recited his words in Hebrew with a deep synthetic voice.

Jesus tilted his head, a small crease forming between his brows. "You aren't the lord of lies. I've met Satan face to face, here, after fasting forty days and nights, and I've overcome all of his temptation. Indeed, you are not him. Where do you come from, traveler?"

"Where and when would be a better question. I'm from the future, and from a universe parallel to this one. 2070 years after your death. Sort of. Where I'm from, time is counted around you. Weird. Meeting the center of a paradigm, finally. See, a lot of people think you're something like God. Well, the Son of God. And that you did something really great. I never believed all that religious shit. But still, as an old school timeliner, have to say it's an honor to meet you, finally. I guess..."

Jesus grinned, seeming undisturbed by the confession, revealing teeth that were surprisingly even. His laughter was warm, genuine. He reached toward Dwade with a slim, dirty hand, a little slow and shaky.

Dwade supposed it was because the man hadn't eaten for over a month.

"You're strong, brave, but lost," Jesus said. "I see a hunger in you. A hunger that cannot be fed by this world. You laugh and smile, but inside, what is there? You have seen much more than anyone else alive. Where has it left you? You cannot survive on bread alone. This, I've learned, out here alone in this desert. Only the spirit and the word of our God sustains us within. If you would seek the nourishment of the soul, give all that you own to the poor, set aside your fear and your anger, and follow me. Soon, I shall begin my Father's work, and you are welcome to join me."

Dwade inhaled sharply and looked away. Fucking Jesus Christ himself, inviting him to join a godly mission? He, Dwade Rathburn, was the furthest you could get across any universe from Christianity. But what else could he do, stranded as he was out here, in a time he knew little about? Religion aside, this Jesus guy seemed really fucking nice and resilient. More of a hippie guru type than the sad-eyed, mopey cream sop that people like Trump's followers made him out to be.

Memories of what he'd once been taught about Christ flooded back, the memories he'd actually liked--feeding and healing people who needed help. Defending prostitute and beggars and the downtrodden. Giving the fucking finger to the Romans and the hypocritical Jewish elite. Whipping people who offended him out of the temple. Turning water into wine. Hell, yeah. All the God talk couldn't change the fact that Jesus of Nazareth was actually a right-on guy.

And what he'd just said about a hunger within, a hunger of spirit...something moved in Dwade's heart at the thought. Something he hadn't felt in a long time. He couldn't quite put words to it, but overall, he was intrigued. And in his case, novelty almost always won out. What better way to start a new life in a throwaway timeline than to become a disciple of Christ? Heh, what would Marta think of that? Not that he'd ever see the bitch again, anyway.

"Alright," he said, laying a hand on Christ's shoulder. "I'll follow you. Lead on, J.C."

Jesus laughed again, a contagious sound. "It begins now. This world is captive in darkness and sorrow. We'll bring the word to the people and restore the light that was long ago shut out."

***

3 years later

Jerusalem

The afternoon spilled warm and golden into the upper chamber. Jesus and his twelve disciples sat around a table laden with bread, fruit and wine, with the Lord himself at the center. Prayers were said and hearts were heavy. The end lay ahead. Dwade knew it, and he was certain Jesus knew it as well. If anything, Christ was well aware of what his work would lead to. He always had been, and seemed at peace with his own impending death.

After the blessings, Dwade stood from the table and removed a small device from his robes inner lining. A piece of his old life that he'd kept for nostalgic reasons, as well as to document his strange existence in this timeline--a smart tablet, complete with digital camera.

Dwade snapped his fingers to get everyone's attention. "Hey look up, guys! Time for another light painting." That was his adapted term for a photo, which they all seemed to understand.

A click and a moment captured. Brilliant. Dwade smiled and took a seat between Simon and Peter at the right hand of Christ. He would always be a sinner to some degree, but the real Jesus preferred such company, anyway. Only religious dipshits pretended they were above the rest.

The Lord broke bread and poured the wine. "There is no greater love than this, that a man should lay down his life for his friends."

Dwade lifted his goblet and drank. A sense of dread filled him when he thought of what lay ahead, but he knew it had to happen. At this moment, he was with his friends, sharing wine and fellowship. For a misfit thrown out of time and space, it was enough.

***

1300 years later

The Vatican

The Cardinals gathered around the latest relic recovered from the Holy Land. A mysterious device, small enough to fit in one's hand. It had no pages, yet when one pressed the small grooves on its side, images turned like a book of light. In fact, the Pope had dubbed it thus. It showed what appeared to be images from the life and times of the Savior himself. Personal, intimate, and too powerful for any mere layman to behold.

By order of His Holiness, the device was sealed into an ornate golden box and secured way within the catacombs, kept for future generations among the treasure trove of curiosities the Church had amassed for itself.