America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 20: Time Machine (2 page)

“So you say, but the Galactic Database indicates otherwise,” bristled the spider commander, confirming that irrelevant fact on his communications pad.
“Are you ready?”

“I was born ready,” I answered.
“The countdown has commenced. The drone is loaded for bear.”

“Snooping in the past is a waste of time, and your morbid fascination with death is truly odd,” retorted the spider commander, not amused about the bear comment.
“Treaty forbids bringing back invasive Old Earth pests. Remember, I get ten percent of the royalties if this broadcast goes viral. Syndication rights last forever.”

“Whatever.
It’s a go.”

* * * * *

Jesus stumbled as he bore his burden, a large wooden cross, through the jeering crowds, to a place of public execution just outside the city walls of Jerusalem. Bleeding from the lash, mocked, and wearing a crown of thorns, Jesus lamented about what went wrong. The trial was a farce. Those Romans didn’t even provide a public defender on those trumped-up charges. Why had God forsaken him?

Jesus was comforted momentarily by the familiar sound of angels singing from above.
Their reassuring metallic hum, constant like a bee, seemed to calm him. Winged angels had watched over Jesus from early childhood, giving him inspiration.

Jesus shielded his eyes as he looked up into the blazing sun, trying to see which angel watched over him today.
Would he be rescued? Always angels had kept their distance, but surely they would help now, during this time of dire need. A Roman centurion ordered the soldiers and prisoners to halt. The crowd, mostly grubby tourists just arrived off a Roman galley from Greece, pressed in for a better view.

“Daughters of Jerusalem, I will miss you!” exclaimed Jesus to his many girlfriends.
He looked to Heaven. “God, you can save me at any time. Let’s not cut this too close. I know you can hear me!”

“Shut up, King of the Jews!” sneered the centurion, shoving Jesus prone onto the cross.
“Nails! Give me nails!”

“Sir, I thought you had the nails,” replied a soldier.
“It’s not my job to keep track of your nails.”

“Someone
’s going to be in big trouble over forgetting the nails, and it’s not going to be me!”

“I hope you get demoted,” added the soldier.
“Then we’ll talk again about being in trouble.”

“Watch your tongue, or I
’ll rip it out and feed it to the vultures, along with these poor wretches,” threatened the centurion. “Get a rope!”

An Arab volunteered a rope and offered to sell the centurion nails as well, almost new.
After haggling on the price of nails, the centurion shoved the Arab aside, using the rope to secure Jesus to the cross. As the centurion started a Gordian knot, Jesus punched him and slipped from the restraints. The Arabs, still upset about the Romans not paying full price for the nails, cheered. Some threw rocks.

“Now is the time,” begged Jesus, looking up as he caught a glimpse of an angel regaled in its armor.
“God help me. This is some serious shit I fell into this time. Please get my white Jewish ass out of here!”

* * * * *

The drone hovered above city gates on the main road, its camera zooming in for a spectacular live broadcast close-up. TV ratings were off the chart, surpassing even the Super Bowl. The galaxy was experiencing a spiritual revival, the likes not seen since ... Jesus was last nailed to a cross.

“We need a closer shot,” demanded General Daly on the phone.
“The viewing public wants to look directly into Jesus’ eyes as he dies for humanity’s salvation. I want to see blood, sweat, gore, and thorns!”

“This is some twisted poop,” commented the spider commander, observing the execution on the computer screen.
“Really? Nail him to a cross? I wouldn’t treat the lowliest of vermin so cruelly. You human pestilence are a real piece of work.”

“Mind your own business,” I snapped, maneuvering the joystick for a closer camera view.
“You know nothing.”

“I know you and your Legion routinely abuse prisoners in your gulags,” replied the spider commander.
“Now I know where that came from. Your whole sordid history is rife with barbaric acts and the torturing of prisoners.”

“Shut up.
I’m trying to concentrate!”

“I can
’t watch this anymore. At least put those human pestilence out of their misery. I don’t see how this is allowed during prime time. Hatchlings are just getting up to watch cartoons.”

“Rome is setting an example,” I explained.
“Jesus will die for our sins.”

“Of which you have committed many, Czerinski,” sneered the spider commander incredulously.
“No wonder your species does not respect accountability. This is a frame-job.”

Major Lopez crossed himself, then lunged for my joystick.
Out of control, the drone dived, striking the centurion as he raised his hammer. Propellers chopped through flesh and armor, killing the centurion instantly. The drone crashed in the dirt next to the bloody corpse.

* * * * *

“It’s a miracle!” Jesus exclaimed as he dragged himself to the wreckage, staring into a camera lens that followed his every movement. “You heard my prayers, after all!” As he tentatively reached out to touch the drone, the communications monitor lit up.

“Are you an angel sent by God?” asked Jesus, peering at my face on the screen.
“What sort of emissary are you?”

“I am Colonel Czerinski of the Legion.
Step away from the drone so it can be retrieved. Do it now.”

“God sent a Polish angel?
That’s some sorry shit.”

“Yes.
Now, step back.”

“Not so fast.
Get me out of here.”

“This is your last warning.
Step away from the drone.”

A R
oman soldier crept closer, his sword drawn. A mechanical hand extended from the damaged drone, pointing a sawed-off shot gun sideways, gangsta style. The blast hit the Roman square in the chest. He crumpled to the ground in a bloody mist. Time to kick some Roman ass!

Panicked soldiers dropped their weapons and shields, fleeing God
’s wrath. Emboldened Jews rioted, running through the streets, shouting of the miracle. First, the mob looted the liquor stores. Then they moved on to burn Downtown, opening a can of whoop-ass on those punk Italians and their Arab bitches. Burn, baby, burn!

Public buildings in Jerusalem burned all through the night as Roman authorit
ies retreated to the coast. A few days later, the Roman Legion returned, killing everyone. Homes were razed, fields plowed and salted, wells poisoned, animals raped, and olive gardens eaten. All trace and memory of the miracle was destroyed, except for the drone. Devoted Christian monks carried the drone off to a cave, saving the sacred relic for the ages. Eventually, the drone was locked in a vault at the Vatican.

As for Jesus, he clung to the camera, hoping to gain a personal pipeline to God, like the one his cousin Moses had.
The drone’s return sequence activated, transporting a dazed and confused Jesus through time to New Colorado. Bleeding, he lay before us, sprawled on the floor.

“Medic!”
I yelled.

* * * * *

“Can we fix what just happened?” I asked, staring at bloody Jesus. “Send him back with another drone?”

“Two drones cannot be sent to the same site,” advised Major Lopez.
“It upsets the space-time continuum.”

“Space
-time continuum? Really? There’s no such thing. You just made that up.”

“I thought you might buy it.
What gave me away?”

“The fact you just committed treason!
Arrest Lopez!”

Legionnaires pounced on Major Lopez, giving him a good LA beat
-down.

“Stop!” pleaded Major Lopez.
“You need me. In the future, I’m your co-conspirator!”

“Let him go,” I relented as Sergeant Green got in one last punch.
“If this incident gets any worse, I’ll shoot you myself. There won’t be a trial for treason.”

“I am not a traitor,” insisted Major Lopez.
“Maybe we didn’t change history after all. It’s theorized that you can bend time, but it can’t be changed. Maybe no one noticed.”

“You just abducted Jesus in front of billions of TV viewers,” I pointed out.
“Someone noticed!”

Major Lopez pulled out the gold chain and cross he wore around his neck.
The medallion was a gold replica of a drone, instead of a cross. “Shit!” He stuffed the trinket back under his shirt. “General Daly hasn’t called,” he argued reasonably. “No news is good news.”

“Maybe this will blow over,” I agreed optimistically.
“We’ll hide Jesus. Lock him up at the county jail.”

“We can
’t arrest Jesus,” protested Major Lopez, crossing himself again.

“Sure we can.”

“On what charges?”

“Illegal immigration.
He’s undocumented.”

“That would be sacrilege.
You cannot arrest the Son of God on bogus charges. Do you want to burn in Hell?”

“It
’s just temporary. Besides, we’re both going to Hell anyway. They don’t let legionnaires in Heaven.”

General Daly finally got through.
Phone lines were overwhelmed by the TV response from viewers. I picked up the phone.

“Czerinski!
That was some joke on TV. Right? Tell me you didn’t really abduct Jesus H. Christ.”

“Think of it as a rescue mission.
We’ll be heroes.”

“That
’s not funny, mister.”

“I wasn
’t telling a joke.”

“One billion pilgrims are trying to buy passage to New Colorado to see and tou
ch Jesus. You had better do something.”

“You want me to send Jesus back?” I asked.
“To be nailed to a cross? That’s not an option.”

“No,” agreed General Daly thoughtfully.
“I see your point. There would be rebellion across the galaxy. How about we blame the broadcast as a hoax perpetrated by Muslim computer hackers?”

“Sir, our location is top secret.
That gives us time to spread disinformation about the alien abduction of Jesus.”

“The Empire had no involvement,” interrupted the spider commander.
“Don’t even start your spin-cycle blame-game on me.”

“What about Major Lopez?” I asked, ignoring the spider commander.

“Shoot Lopez.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * * * *

Jesus gazed up at the fair Elena Ceausescu as the Legion medic slapped on skin graph bandages and injected pain killers for shock.
“Are you an angel?” he asked. “You’re so beautiful.

“No,” replied Ceausescu.
“Stay still.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No, I’m married. What happened to you? Did Czerinski rough you up for resisting arrest? That bastard is always abusing prisoners. Bad press, my ass.”

“I
’m Jesus Christ, Superstar,” he informed, giving her knee a gentle seductive squeeze. “Ever heard of me? You’re so hot.”

“The opiates make you crazy,” advised Ceausescu patiently.
“You’ll be okay when the pain stops.”

“Your golden hair radiates like music from God, like light from Heaven.”

“Oh my, you’re quite the charmer,” gushed Ceausescu. “Actually, my husband and I are separated. When we get to the infirmary, if you’re up to it, I’m game for a tumble.”

“God bless you, child.”

“What a beautiful man you are,” marveled Ceausescu, running her hand across Jesus’s hairy bronzed chest. “You are the spitting image of Fabio.”

“Who is this pretender rival, Fabio?”

“No one you need concern yourself about, Mr. Superstar.”

Chapter
2

Ioseb Besarionis dze Jughashvili entered a barn in rural Georgia, Russian Empire, to milk his neighbor’s cow. But first, the youth would have his way. Dropping his pants, Ioseb mounted the docile Natasha from behind. But as Ioseb finished, the cow pooped in his drawers. God, he hated it when that happened. Spent, Ioseb fell back into the hay to rest. There was movement in the darkness. Someone had been watching.

“Trespasser!
Show yourself!”

A swarthy man
approached with pistol drawn. “Are you Joséph Stalin?” he asked.

“No!” answered Ioseb, pulling up his squishy trousers.
“Who are you? I’ve seen you before, in the village.”