Dreams of Babylon
by Slawomir Rapala
“And being full of vanity, they said, ‘Come, let us build ourselves a city, and a tower with its top in the heavens, so that we may reach God’.”
— an excerpt from an anonymous translation of
Genesis, chapter 11; A.D. 2013
Rome
6.23 p.m. August 2nd, A.D. 2031
Father O’Hara sighed with quiet relief as he entered his dim flat, locking the door behind him. Taking off the light jacket which he wore despite the heat, he poured himself a drink. He threw the jacket on the bed and rested beside it with a glass in hand. Closing his eyes, he tried to shut away the noise coming from the partially opened window that looked out on the noisy and heavily crowded city streets.
He drank.
It had been a long day at the church. After the afternoon mass he stayed to hear confessions. Many came today.
They never know how much it costs us to hear them out, he thought, pouring himself another glass of Scotch. They go home with a blessing and a slap on the wrist, leaving their burdens with us.
The priest loosened his collar, feeling the blood racing faster and his face flushing. It was a hot day even by Italian standards. Father O’Hara, who hailed from the windy shores of Ireland, suffered stuffed into a crowded city like a sardine in a can.
He turned on the television set and stared at the screen with blank eyes. Unrest in Iran continued. Seventeen marines were killed today. Civilian casualties were mentioned, but numbers were not given. The reporter connected the killings to the jihad. Father O’Hara smiled bitterly. How easily the word escaped the man’s lips.
A train wreck in India. Seventy-eight dead, hundreds more wounded. Blamed on the deteriorating conditions of the country’ s infrastructure and the heavy use of public transport system. No funds were being funneled into the sector and there was no money to repair the railways. Each year hundreds died in needless accidents.
An earthquake in Indonesia. Villages completely cut off from the world and waiting for aid. No food or fresh water. But many refused being moved to refugee camps as the conditions there were appalling. Not but two days ago dozens were trampled to death when panic broke out in one of them. Pictures of children searching for parents in heaps of twisted bodies made the headlines.
“Oh, Jesus,” Father O’Hara whispered. “Why do you allow such things?”
He changed the channel and watched an American sitcom. A happy family in a suburban haven, good kids with good grades, sweet-sixteen parties, Little League baseball games and family barbecues. The plastic and scripted world of the American Dream.
The phone rang. Father O’Hara turned off the television and picked up the receiver. “Yes?”
“Frank?”
Father O’Hara coughed in order to smooth his cigarette-soaked breath, now further weighted by the smell of cheap three-year old Scotch.
“Yes,” he repeated.
“The VITT is holding a meeting tomorrow. You should be there.”
“What’s the point? They can never settle on anything.”
“It’ll be different this time.”
“It’s never different. We’ve had the technology from the Chinese for almost three years and the project hasn’t moved up an inch.”
“There was some teasing out to do plus some funding problems, you know that, Frank. We’re not talking about taking a train to Paris or London here. Legal issues, practical issues, hell, Frank, the Institute sank millions of euros into the project, hired dozens of experts...”
“And still nothing.”
“It’s a go.”
Father O’Hara straightened his back and pressed the receiver tight against his ear. “What?” he breathed into it.
“The vote went through a quarter of an hour ago. Seventeen to eight in favor. You have a green light.”
The priest wet his broken lips and sat silent for a moment.
“Frank? Frank?”
“I’m here.” He rubbed his forehead.
“Be at the Institute tomorrow, eight o’clock sharp.”
“I’m going to Israel?” Father O’Hara whispered.
“Yeah,” the voice on the other end of the receiver sighed and hung up.
The Vatican Institute of Time Travel, Rome
8.00 a.m. August 3rd, A.D. 2031
The VITT was located in a small and inconspicuous building on the outskirts of the Eternal City. Few people realized that behind the shabby façade of a structure still bearing the signs of a meat-processing factory, there was a state of the art facility jointly funded and coordinated by the Vatican, NASA, and an especially created EU Department of Time Travel which boasted on-and-off support of various European governments. Several dozen private corporations and international organizations were also involved on various levels, each with its own interests in further developing the technology.
Father O’Hara rested the palm of his hand against the rectangular plaque built into the heavy-set door. The scanner hidden inside the plaque identified his level of clearance and the door opened, revealing before his eyes a long and dimly lit corridor leading into the building .
“Buon giorno, padre,” two familiar guards appeared out of nowhere. The priest’s trained eyes skipped quickly over the soldiers, resting longer on the M16A1 assault rifles and the under-barrel grenade launchers with which they were equipped.
“Heavy machinery,” he smirked pointing at the weapons.
“Follow me, padre,” one of the guards took the priest by his arm.
The soldier led him through the building though he knew every inch of it by now, having spent the past twelve months here on a rigorous training program aimed to prepare him for the project. He walked through a maze of long and sterile corridors before the soldier finally opened a door leading into a small room where several men waited around a table.
Father Frank knew them all and nodded his head in greeting, having a distinct feeling at the same time that his entrance had interrupted a heated discussion. The strict Vatican protocol was abandoned within the walls of the Institute so the priest refrained from kneeling before Cardinal De Benedetto, who was also present as a representative of the Vatican. He noted the scowl that had passed over the Italian’s proud face and grinned defiantly. Few members of the clergy supported the Institute’s choice of Father Frank as a candidate for time travel.
“Have a seat, Frank,” one of the men motioned. His name was Pat Connelly and he served as a liaison between the Institute and the American government. It was his phone call yesterday that had broken the news to Father O’Hara.
“You know why you’re here, Frank.” Pat waited for the guard to close the door before continuing. “The board approved the project yesterday through an anonymous vote. We have a six-week window of opportunity during which we can send you into the past with a near perfect chance of getting the coordinates right.”
“I’m ready,” the priest took a cigarette out of the pack in the inside pocket of his jacket and lit it. “I spent twelve months preparing for this trip.”
“Yes, I know,” the American grunted. “I know that, and I assure you, Frank, my government is behind you one hundred percent. However,” he threw a nervous glance at the Cardinal, “some people still have their doubts about sending you there.”
“Is that why I’m here today, Your Eminence?” Frank directed this question to Cardinal De Benedetto, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Our position is that perhaps we should wait with the choice of a candidate,” he said.
“And miss our chance?” Laurent Fournier burst out in return. He was a small Frenchman whose borderline neurotic behavior hardly suited the prominent position he held in the VITT as a delegate of the European Union. “We have six weeks, and after that who knows how long before a trip may be planned without the fear that he’s not going to disintegrate in the process, or that we’ re not sending him to be torn apart by an angry herd of mammoths roaming there during the Ice Age!”
“We feel that Father O’Hara may not be a proper candidate,” DiBenedetto added.
“Pourquoi pas?” The Frenchman waved his hand impatiently, reverting to his native language in the heat of discussion, though he spoke English perfectly, having completed his education at Oxford. “He’s a priest, n’est-ce pas ? An expert of the time period, non ? He speaks fluent Aramaic and Hebrew proper, non ?”
“And he passed the training with flying colors, that same training that sent all of your Vatican golden boys into the ER with seizures and heart failures,” another man added. His name was Andrej Jadrankovic and he was a renowned Serbian-born doctor of physics who served as head of the NASA-delegated team of experts.
“He’s also a drunk!” the Cardinal slammed his fist against the table. ”How can we send someone like that to meet Jesus Christ?!”
No one replied immediately. A scowl passed over Pat Connelly’s face and his forehead creased. Fournier fumbled his fingers nervously. Dr. Jadrankovic stared blankly at the wall before him. Frank continued to calmly smoke his cigarette, seemingly oblivious to DiBenedetto’s hard stare resting on him presently.
“He’s not going to meet Christ,” Pat said finally. “He’s not to interfere with the course of history. He’s there to provide us with an eyewitness account of Christ’s godly nature.”
“The Vatican doesn’t need proof,” the Cardinal shrugged. “Faith needs no proof.”
“Let me remind you, Your Eminence, that this project has always been the Vatican’s love child,” Pat frowned. “Don’t feed us the line about the Vatican not being interested in obtaining definitive proof of Christ’s existence, an account of his life and miracles, or an accurate depiction of his appearance, because we all know that’s bullshit: if the Vatican is to continue having a political presence in today’s world, it needs to reestablish some credibility. And what better way than this?”
“If it’s our project, why not let us choose the candidate?” the Cardinal snapped. “It needs to be someone we trust, someone who we know will not do anything unpredictable once we let go of the reins. Remember, he will be there completely on his own.”
“Many organizations and governments have an interest in the project that is similar to yours,” Pat replied. “Many have invested more money, time and effort than the Vatican, so I think we should all have a voice in this matter.”
“It’s been voted on.” Fournier shrugged. “The matter is closed, non ?”
“What do you think, Frank?” Pat turned to the priest.
“I told you already, I can go today,” Father O’Hara butted the cigarette out and rested his hands on his knees. “I’m well prepared. I have the skills and knowledge needed to blend into the society of that era.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve been through all of your tests and exams, no? What else do you want?”
“How is your faith, Father?” the Cardinal asked suddenly.
Frank did not respond immediately and waited for the question to sink in.
“What’s that have to do with anything?” Dr. Jadrankovic asked, betraying an ignorance typical of most empiricists.
“He’s going to be living in the same time period as Jesus of Nazareth,” De Benedetto replied without taking his eyes of Father O’Hara. “We’ re sending him to Capernaum where Jesus preached and healed during his years of ministry.”
“Is Capernaum really such an important place?” Fournier interrupted.
“Jesus selected this town as the center of his public ministry ,” the Italian returned. “No other city is mentioned as often in the New Testament as Capernaum. It had witnessed more of his miracles than any other town in ancient Israel. Do not underestimate the significance of this location. Father O’Hara will see Jesus Christ, hear him and maybe even speak to him. I think the question regarding his faith is a proper one in this situation. He may be a perfect candidate for time travel, but what of his faith? How are we to know that he will not change the course of history? That he will not alter our religion? That he will not interfere with the work of the Son of God?”
“Frank?” Pat turned to the priest again. “The Cardinal has a point.”
“Doesn’t your drinking reflect your deteriorating faith in God, Frank?” the Cardinal suggested with a sly smile.
“Let him reply, Your Eminence!” the Frenchman exclaimed. ”We’re not here to assess his psychological condition nor explain his behavioral patterns. That’s been done by our resident psychoanalyst already and apparently with good results.”
“Frank?”
Father O’Hara looked into their eyes. “My faith is as strong as yours, Your Eminence,” he responded finally. “I don’t fear meeting God face to face. I may have my faults, but I am only a man.”
“Très bien ! Well said!” the Frenchman applauded. “Even Jesus of Nazareth admitted to His partial nature and to His human failings.”
“Are you satisfied, Your Eminence?” Pat asked the Cardinal.
“My opinion is obviously taken lightly here,” De Benedetto shrugged. “You made your choice yesterday, I wash my hands off it. I simply think that we could do better than a drunken Irish priest whose true calling was to be a fisherman.”
The American was about to snap back, but Frank interrupted him by raising his hand. “As Jesus walked beside the Sea of Galilee,” he said solemnly, “he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. ‘Come, follow me,’ Jesus said, ‘and I will make you fishers of men’. Given St. Mark’s account, I don’t think my family tradition makes me any less able to fulfill my priestly duties than anyone else in the clergy.”
The Cardinal cast an angry glare and waved his hand.
“I’ll consider the matter closed, then,” Pat rubbed his hands together. “Let’s move on to the details. We’ll have a meeting with the rest of the team this afternoon to sort everything out, but a general outline of the trip is in place.”
“Capernaum it is then?” Father O’Hara asked.
“Located in northern Israel, also known as Tell Hum, Khirbet Karazeh, Bethsaida, Capharnaum, Chorazin, Kefar Nahum, Kafarnaum, Kefar Tanhum, Talhum, or Tanhum. In existence from the second century B.C. to the seventh century A.D. It was built on the edge of the Sea of Galilee and at the time of Christ’s ministry it housed between one thousand and fifteen hundreds residents, give or take a few souls. Important biblical figures such as Peter, Andrew, James, John, all fishermen, and Matthew, a local tax collector, they all lived there during that time.”
“And today?”
“Today the ruins are owned by two factions: the Franciscans control the western portion with the synagogue and the Greek Orthodox Church claims the rest.”
“Do we have their permission to stage the TT phase there?”
“The Franciscans were difficult to persuade, it nearly took the Pope’s decree for them to allow the use of the site. Anyway, they insist on having an independent observer.”
“You didn’t agree on it, did you?”
“We had no choice,” Pat shrugged. “Remember, the technology allows for particles to be transferred through time but not space. If we want Capernaum two thousand years ago, we must stage the TT there. But don’t worry, their observer will be given only the information necessary and we’ll keep a watch over him. He won’t interfere. Nothing will.”
“When will it happen?”
“We have six weeks. Starting today you’ll sit in with the experts to hammer out all the details. Clothing, local customs and traditions, languages written and spoken, different accents, local dishes, you name it, everything. We have historians, theologians, biblical scholars, sociologists, psychologists, archaeologists, anthropologists, linguists, a whole team.”
“How long?”
“Is three weeks enough?”
“Sure.”
“Good. We’ll take care of the logistics: transporting the teams and the equipment, permissions, passports, visas, Jesus, there is so much of this crap. Another team will be preparing the site during this time, we’ll see them off this week.”
“TT has never been attempted outside a controlled environment,” Dr. Jadrankovic explained seeing the priest’s puzzled look. “We need the site to resemble a lab as closely as possible. Stabilize and sterilize, if you know what I mean.”
“You’ll have lobbyists on your backs as soon as you turn over even one stone,” Frank smiled. “Not to mention putting an entire site of historical, archaeological and religious significance under quarantine.”
“Secrecy is the weapon of the powerful,” Pat shrugged. “No one will know. No PR, no media, no nothing. This whole thing is tightly sealed, no leaks.”
“So you’ve attempted TT in real life, not just the VR?” Father O’Hara directed the question to the physicist.
“We did dozens of simulations in VR, of course, but nothing beats the real thing,” the doctor replied. “We sent mice three minutes into the future and they came back seemingly unscathed. They’ve been under close observation since, but nothing is there to suggest that they suffered during the trip. Of course,” he added after a moment’s silence,”three minutes is not two thousand years, and mice are not men.”
“Meaning?”
Jandrankovic threw a quick glance at Pat Connelly and wet his lips. The American motioned him to continue.
“It all works fine in the VR, Father,” he said. “There is also some evidence to suggest that the Chinese successfully used TT before selling us the technology, but the fact remains that sending a human being into the past means mapping each of his particles and transporting it to the correct coordinate along the time continuum.
“And we’re not talking here about atoms, or even neutrons, electrons and protons. Advances in physics have come in leaps in the last decades and we’re now talking about fundamental particles, the smallest possible bits of matter of which everything and everyone is composed.
“The absolute count of our particles, well,” Jadrankovic scoffed, “that number has more zeros than you can begin to imagine. And since each particle has a different, very specific coordinate, because you don’t want to appear in ancient Israel with an eye in the back of your head for instance, the mapping itself is a colossal job and the procedure extremely complex.”
“Meaning?” Father O’Hara repeated.
“Meaning that regardless of VR simulations or RL experiments, there is always room for error,” the scientist sighed.
“What about the near-perfect chance you mentioned before?”
“Our statisticians have calculated that given the present atmospheric conditions, planet alignments, winds, currents and tides, the Earth’ s present degree of tilt, Jesus, a whole lot of other variables that mean very little to me, the coming six weeks appear to be a statistically optimal time period for the use TT technology. Meaning that if we do our job well, there is a 98.9 percent chance that no outside variable will influence the TT phase.”
“Good God,” Father O’Hara sighed and his hand absentmindedly reached for the cigarette pack.
“Meaning that if we’re serious about doing this, we have to do it now,” Pat concluded and turned to Father O’Hara. “Are you ready to meet Jesus of Nazareth, Frank?”
“Good God,” the priest whispered again.
“Amen,” the Cardinal, silent for a long time, added.
VITT Base Camp, Capernaum Ruins, Israel
3.15 p.m. August 24th, A.D. 2031
20 hrs to TT phase
“Okay, strap this on, padre.”
“It doesn’t fit.”
“Of course it does, it’s made to fit.”
“What is this, anyway?”
“It’s a self-regulating thermal suit able to withstand temperatures ranging from plus 1000 to minus 1000 degrees Celsius. Modeled on the NASA space suit, it’s made of several layers of superstrong fibers and other materials tough enough not to rupture in the vacuum of space, or anywhere else for that matter.”
“Minus 1000 degrees? What happened to absolute zero?”
“Haven’t you heard? Time travel is possible, so all boundaries are breached.”
“Fair enough. Still, why do I need this?”
“Standard procedure, padre. You don’t think the Institute would let you go on with this without taking all the steps necessary to safeguard you?”
“I signed a waiver.”
“Funny. Do you know what would happen to you if you didn’t wear this during TT?”
“What?”
“TT is made possible by an intense electric field created between two metal plates set parallel to one another . This field rips open the fabric of the space-time continuum, creating a hole in space that links the point of origin with the point of destination.”
“And?”
“Imagine standing right in the middle of it.”
“I can’t.”
“Try to imagine standing in ground zero during a nuclear explosion. That should give you a pretty close idea.”
“How goes it?” Pat Connelly entered the tent where Lawrence Wilburn, a young NASA technician, was busy familiarizing Father O’Hara with the equipment which was to be used during the upcoming time travel phase.
“They want me to wear this ridiculous outfit,” Father Frank spread his arms.
“It’s for your own safety, Frank.”
“Right.”
“Lawrence,” Pat motioned to the young man. “Let me have a word with you.”
They stepped outside of the tent into the scorching Israeli sun, leaving Father O’Hara inside to battle with the tight suit.
“What do you think?” Pat asked as they walked away from the tent.
“He’s taking it all in very well,” Lawrence shrugged. “I walked him through most of the equipment and he’s got a general idea of what’s about to take place. I’ m leaving quantum physics and mechanics out of the lecture, though, no need to confuse the poor fellow.”
“He’s good to go, then?”
“Sure, but...” the young man hesitated.
“Go on.”
“I’m just surprised at the Institute’s choice. I know he’s a priest and all, and given the nature of this project it seems fitting, but... Hell, this guy is close to being sixty. I’ m not sure even the best equipment will be able to protect him if something goes wrong.”
“Some people you shouldn’t underestimate. Father O’Hara is as tough as they get.”
“I find that difficult to believe.” Lawrence shook his head.
“As did the Vatican.” Connelly grew serious.
“So what’s his story?”
Pat glanced over his shoulder, but the tent’s flaps were drawn. He turned his face towards the burning sun. It was awfully hot, close to forty degrees even in the shade of the ruins scattered around the camp site.
“Frank grew up in Northern Ireland,” the physicist said after a moment. “Very bright and gifted, he studied theology at Trinity College in Dublin. Times were still hard back then, though, the truce between the IRA and the Brits was not yet signed. Frank’s many idealistic friends joined the struggle and they drew him into it. He interrupted his schooling for what he thought was a more noble cause.
“Tough training in the IRA, it makes for tough men. He became an operative and continued active service for more than a decade. Though no charges were ever brought against him, he’s known to have been responsible for at least half a dozen ops, attacks and bombings which claimed the lives of more than fifty British police officers, soldiers and civilians.”
“Christ.”
“Eventually the British intelligence service tapped into his squad and they soon got a whiff of his whereabouts. They planted a bomb in his car, but thanks to a careless intel job it exploded when Frank’s wife and two kids were in it.”
“Shit.”
“The Brits put a lid over everything; hell, maybe that’s why no charges were ever raised against Frank. What would the world say if they knew that the Secret Intelligence Service reverted to the methods of the IRA? The Brits have always been keen on keeping their clean-cut, gentleman image.”
“Frank disappeared after that,” Pat continued after a moment. “He went back to theology. Reemerged in Rome after five years, already ordained.”
“I didn’t know this.”
“There is more to the man than meets the eye,” Connelly shrugged. “Believe me, Lawrence, the Institute would not make a decision of this weight without carefully considering all pros and cons. Frank is the best candidate for this mission. If we don’t screw anything up on our end, we can be sure that he will succeed on his.”
Just now Father O’Hara emerged from the tent wearing a body-tight silver suit shining in the sun like a teflon plate. Pat and Lawrence took one look, noted the disgruntled expression of the priest’s face and burst into laughter.
“You can’t make me wear this bloody thing,” Frank grunted. “They’ll stone me to death if they see me like this in ancient Israel.”
“Don’t worry, padre,” Lawrence said wiping the tears away from his eyes.” The suit will only be necessary on this side of the space-time tear. We’ve mapped you wearing traditional Israelite clothes, and that’s how you’ll appear in Capernaum in A.D. 31. We’ve fitted you back in it while mapping your return trip. We’ll be the only ones who see you wearing it.”
“You better be right about that.” Frank disappeared back in the tent.
“Let me have a minute with him.” Connelly held the young NASA technician back.
Once inside the tent he smiled to the priest. “Looks like you’re all set to go.”
“I have another twenty hours by my watch.”
“We’re all counting down,” Pat rested on a folding chair with a sigh. “You nervous?”
“Not really,” Frank shrugged. “I reckon you’ve got it all figured out. Why, are you here to give me support and a pep talk?”
“No,” the American chuckled nervously. “I’m actually here to say good-bye.”
“You’re not staying for the TT phase?” Frank raised his eyebrows.
“Duties call, my friend. I’m flying into Tel Aviv in an hour to meet with the State Secretary. The Israeli government has been complaining about our presence and I need to explain some things to her. Won’t be back in time.”
“I won’t be away for long, Pat,” Frank laughed. “As I understand it, even though I’m to spend six months in ancient Israel, I’ll only be gone for five minutes by our clocks. That’s what Lawrence said anyway, the time’s relativity gives us a certain degree of flexibility...”
“Yeah,” Pat smiled nervously again. “There’s something else, though.”
“What? I’ve been through the training, Pat. I know that there is a risk of me not coming back, getting stuck in ancient Israel or wherever I end up, or even disintegrating right here on the spot during the attempt.”
“There is one other possibility,” Connelly fiddled his thumbs. “You were on a need-to-know-basis and we thought throughout all this time that all the other alternatives are more possible than this, but...” he hesitated,” now it seems that we’ve eliminated most of the risks associated with TT and we’re stuck with the most probable outcome.”
“Which is?” Frank asked after a pause, seeing that Connelly was reluctant to continue.
“Time travel has never been attempted, at least not to our knowledge. Quantum physics predicts several possibilities, but only one that’s entirely plausible.”
“Lecture time?” Frank sighed.
“You know the gist of it, no? The theory goes that every time a quantum particle is faced with a choice, the world divides to allow for every possibility. Basically then, the universe is split into infinitely many copies of itself, alternative universes in which all possible outcomes of all possible choices of all possible particles must occur someplace. If we got down to crunching numbers... hell, it would blow your mind.”
“So the chances of me returning to this version of reality are what? Slim or none?”
“Think about it, Frank. If the theory is correct then traveling back in time opens before you an infinite number of alternative universes and the chances of you returning to this particular one are simply non-existent: the range is too big. Over a span of one minute, zillions of alternative universes are created.”
“Oh.” That was all that Father O’Hara said. After a moment, he asked, “What happens to me, then?”
“What we call an Observer Effect. You travel back in time and succeed in coming back, but existing out of your timeline, a stranger in a new present. You come back into some timeline, some universe. The changes may be small or they may be large; either way they would only be changes to you, an outside observer. To everyone else the world would be as it should be.”
“Any other plausible outcomes?”
“Not really.”
“What about the one in which I come back to find everything as I left it?”
“Chances are very slim, Frank,” Pat sighed. “Actually, our present state of quantum science simply excludes such a possibility. Unless Einstein missed something.”
“That’s why you’ve come back to say good-bye? We may not see each other again?”
“The truth is, Frank, despite all theories, all of our technology, everything... we just cannot predict how your journey will affect you or the rest of us. I believe your journey will be a success. You will come back unscathed and with a great story into some universe, some timeline. But not ours. You will not come back in an hour, or two or a year even. We will wait for you, but you will not come back to us.”
“Then why do this?”
“Well, there is always a chance, however small, that you’ll come back alive and well.” Pat rose from the chair and reached his hand out to the priest. “I have to go, Frank. Lawrence will take care of you until the countdown. The team will take you through TT. After that you’re on your own.”
Father O’Hara shook Pat’s hand and smiled. “Well, I believe in God. And I believe that we will see each other again.”
“I wish I had your faith,” the American said as he turned to leave. He halted by the exit,”Hey, Frank?”
“Yeah?”
“What will you ask Him?”
“What?”
“If you get to see Him, what will you ask Him?”
Father O’Hara paused. “You know, I watch the news sometimes,” he replied after a moment’s silence,”and I wonder, like many others, why He allows such things to happen. Maybe I’ll ask Him about that. About everything that’s wrong with this world and shouldn’t be.”
“Maybe,” the priest added after another moment, “maybe I’ll ask him about my family, too. Why they had to die.”
“You miss them, no?”
“Every day.”
Pat Connelly raised the tent’s flaps and was about to exit, but hesitated one more time.
“You know, Frank,” he said with a soft smile, “De Benedetto was right about you, you know that, right?”
“I believe in God’s will just as he does.”
“Then why do you question it?”
Pat waved his arm and left without waiting for an answer. Frank was left standing alone in a tent littered with state of the art equipment the use of which Lawrence was still to explain to him.
11.00 a.m. August 25th, A.D. 2031 TT phase
Father O’Hara stood amidst a storm of electrical disturbances, his silver suit clearly visible amidst the impulses bouncing back and forth between the two large metal plates located on each his side. He shut his eyes instinctively, praying that none of the impulses, each of which carried enough energy to explode with a force a hundred times stronger than the nuclear bomb that devastated Hiroshima, would penetrate his suit and disintegrate him. Though Lawrence had assured him over and over of the equipment’s infallibility, Frank knew better. Only God is infallible, he thought.
A heavy sound filled his ears, rising steadily along with the temperature which increased as the countdown neared ten. The electrical impulses bounced back and forth like mad but he stood still amidst them, as instructed. The speed with which they traveled was astonishing and he could no longer follow their paths as they blended into one radiant blue wave that surrounded him.
Nine, eight, seven...
We’ll get you out in six months, Lawrence told him just before he stepped in between the plates. One hundred and eighty days, we’ll pinpoint you and bring you back here. Piece of cake, he thought. Six months, five minutes.
Oh, heavenly Father... six, five, four...
They patted him on the back as he marched though the base camp. The whole team watched him leave, bidding him farewell and wishing all the best. But they couldn’t hide the concerned stares and the uncertain gazes.
A guinea pig? No, I wanted this, I wanted to meet God, I wanted to look into His face, I wanted to ask Him about...
Three, two...
Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy name...
One...
11.13 a.m. August 25th, A.D. 2031
“Lift off! Lift off, damn it!” Lawrence Wilburn screamed into the pilot’s ear, beating his fist against his shoulder. “Lift this goddamn piece of junk off the ground!”
The chopper’s heavy rotors turned faster as the machine slowly climbed into the air, raising clouds of dust and debris along with it. The noise was deafening as they gained altitude. The panic-stricken base camp was slowly disappearing from sight along with the small crowd of people that had gathered to see the chopper off.
Lawrence settled in the cockpit with a sigh and threw a glance back, catching Father O’Hara’s pained gaze. The priest lay stretched out on the floor of the helicopter, a folded blanket beneath his head. His long gray hair and thick beard were in complete disarray, the tunic in which he was draped had soaked through with blood. Two paramedics worked on him, feeding him tubes and preparing shots, while two more held his twisting and convulsing body down, strapping him with ropes and belts, whatever they had at hand, just so that he would not plunge through the open door of the chopper.
“Dear God,” Lawrence whispered and turned back.
“Head to Tel Aviv!” he barked to the pilot as he snatched a headset and fitted it on his head. “Pat!” he screamed into it. “Pat, you there?!”
“Yeah?” the American’s grunt reached him through the static.
“Pat! Someone screwed up the coordinates, the mission’s a complete failure, you hear me?! We’re heading to Tel Aviv!”
There was a moment’s silence before Lawrence heard another grunt:
“Repeat.”
“It’s all fucked, d’ya hear that?!” he almost jumped out of the seat. “We’re aborting and heading back!”
“O’Hara?”
“We’ve got him back as planned, but...” Lawrence through another look back. “Shit, something’s wrong with him! We’re heading to the hospital, meet us there!”
“Look!” one of the paramedics pulled back the priest’s tunic.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Lawrence whispered again, his gaze glued to the words tattooed crudely on Father O’Hara’s forearm. “This can’t be happening.”
“Looks like writing... I can’t tell... There is so much blood here!”
“Okay, we need to stabilize him!”
“How long to the hospital?”
“Thirty minutes! Will he make it?”
“God, he’s acting up again, hold him down! “Give me 30 milligrams of morphine!”
VITT Headquarters, Rome
9.06 a.m. September 1st, A.D. 2031
Pat Connelly chose to meet the Secretary of State outside of the Institute. He wanted to walk her through the building and brief her along the way himself. That way he could be sure that nothing which he deemed classified reached her ears and that his version of the story would be the first one she heard.
“Ms. Rice,” he shook her hand and motioned for the guards to leave. “Welcome to our Institute.”
“Spare me the small talk, Pat,” she snapped back. “I’ve just come out of a very unpleasant meeting with Cardinal De Benedetto. Do you know that he’s next in line to take over the Pope’s office? I don’t like to make enemies in such places.”
Pat swallowed hard, cursing in his mind and casting away a carefully prepared story which he wanted the White House to hear. “It’s best I show you then,” he said after a pause.
He led her through the Institute’s sterile long corridors and into a small dark room. He let her enter first and closed the door behind them.
“What is this?” she demanded.
“This is Father Frank O’Hara,” Pat turned on a switch and the wall before them moved aside revealing a two-way mirror. Behind it, a simple room furnished with nothing but a table and a chair. The chair was occupied by an elderly man dressed in a neatly pressed black suit. He was clean shaven and his long grey hair was tied in a ponytail. His tall forehead was creased and his blank stare was fixed on the opposite wall as he rested in the chair completely unmoved. Nothing suggested that he knew he was being watched.
“This is O’Hara, our first time traveler?” Ms. Rice studied the man through the two-way mirror.
“Yes.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing, physically,” Pat turned his gaze away from the priest. “That is, he came back bruised and battered, with a wound to the head, but everything is under control. He’ll be in good shape within two weeks.”
“Tell me, Pat,” the Secretary of State turned to face him. “How is it that a man who was supposed to travel five minutes into the future ends up in ancient Israel?”
A soft knock on the door saved Connolly from an uncomfortable situation. He opened the door nervously and allowed Lawrence to enter.
“This is Lawrence Wilburn, a NASA technician,” Pat said. “He was there, in Capernaum. He’s the one who brought Father O’Hara back to Tel Aviv and saved his life by doing so. The wound to his head would have caused him to bleed out in base camp.”
“That’s great,” Ms. Rice scoffed, “but can either of you tell me what happened there?”
Lawrence threw a nervous glance at Pat and withdrew into the back of the room where he leaned against the wall and fixed his eyes on Father O’ Hara.
“I guess that leaves you, Pat,” Ms. Rice turned.
“What did De Benedetto tell you?”
“If I were you I’d be more interested in what I’m going to tell the President.”
“Hell,” Pat rested on a chair with a heavy sigh. “It was all supposed to work. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Tell me.”
“We’ve been grooming O’Hara for thirty years, did De Benedetto tell you that too? Did he tell you how much time and money the Vatican had invested in O’Hara?”
“Why?”
“The Vatican wasn’t going to send just anyone into Christ’s time,” Pat scoffed. “And since they had the monopoly over the technology, it was their call who to send and where to send him. NASA could care less where VITT was sending someone as long as it could put their hands on the technology, and the EU cared only insofar as it was allowed to act as an observer.”
“The Vatican chose O’Hara?”
“No,” Pat laughed. “O’Hara was to be a guinea pig. He was to be crafted into perfect candidate for this mission so that we could see what effect TT would have on him. He was to believe without a shadow of a doubt that he was going into ancient Israel. In reality, however, we mapped the coordinates to send him five minutes into the future.”
“Why?”
“No one’s ever attempted TT. Before really sending someone back we needed to see how this person — with the exact same motivation, training and background — would react to time travel. O’Hara was groomed to perfection and if he would go through TT without any physical or psychosocial side effects, the Vatican would reveal their golden boy of choice, the one who was to actually travel the two thousand years.”
“So you don’t know who the Vatican chose?”
“No, they’ve kept a closed lid over it. All I know is that he’s been undergoing the same kind of training as O’Hara. But whereas O’Hara was to be a perfect candidate for time travel, this ace was going to be a perfect candidate for time travel who was actually going to meet Jesus Christ.”
“O’Hara didn’t know this?”
“No,” Pat sighed. “The Vatican got interested in him thirty some-odd years ago, when he first quit theology and joined the IRA. The VITT was just being created, TT technology was in its infancy, the Chinese were keeping a tight seal on their progress and we were just discovering the remaining fundamental particles and learning how to map them. But the Vatican was thinking ahead, long-term projects. They watched O’Hara and kept a close eye on his ops. They liked what they saw and they made a choice. They staged a car bomb and made him believe his family was dead.”
“The Vatican did that?”
“The Vatican, the SIS, who knows?” Connelly shrugged. “The point was to persuade O’Hara back into priesthood. A couple of well-meaning friends with scripted advice and a pat on the shoulder, a fatalistic outlook on life and bang, O’Hara was an ordained priest in Rome. They kept him on a leash ever since.”
“Sounds like Big Brother,” Rice said glancing at the priest who continued to sit by the table without movement.
“Sort of, except on a larger scale. This would blow Orwell’s mind.”
“So what happened? Someone screwed up the coordinates and you actually sent O’Hara into ancient Israel instead of the future?”
Pat Connelly glanced at Lawrence, who shuffled his feet nervously. “That’s what we thought at first, Ma’am.” the young NASA technician opened his mouth for the first time. “But we triple checked the coordinates soon after and there was no error. No screw ups.”
Rice looked from one man to the next.
“How do you know he was in the past then?” she scowled.
“We’ve been talking to him,” Pat folded his arms. “He doesn’t say much and speaks mostly in Aramaic now, but we managed to piece together most of his story. From what we gather, he spent six months in ancient Israel, mostly in Capernaum, but he traveled a little bit to the mountain homesteads as well. Called himself Brother Francis and posed as one of Jesus’ disciples.”
“Did he see Jesus?”
“According to him,” Pat replied hesitantly,”not only did he see Jesus and speak to Jesus, but he traveled with Him and His disciples, preached with them, ate, slept with them, the whole nine yards.”
“You’re serious?” Rice eyed him suspiciously.
“That’s his story.”
“Wasn’t he instructed not to interfere?”
“Of course.”
“And being a perfect candidate, he did it anyway?”
“Apparently he couldn’t resist,” Lawrence chuckled. Connolly threw him a stern gaze and the young man silenced.
“We can’t imagine what such an experience must have meant to him,” Pat said. “Coming face to face with God, talking to Him, befriending Him... Can you be sure of your reaction?”
“But that’s just his story, right?” Rice asked. “I mean, does it check out?”
“We have all types of scholars, experts on the Biblical period and texts, looking at it, but so far they found no mention of Brother Francis in the New Testament, the Gospels, the Dead Sea Scrolls, nothing. No mention of him.”
“That’s a relief. It’s just his story then?”
“Not quite, Ma’am,” Lawrence spoke and scratched his head.” You see, he came back with a tattoo inscribed on his forearm, a tattoo which he didn’t have before so he must have gotten it wherever he was.”
“What sort of tattoo?”
“It’s an Aramaic phrase: Lmishema ‘aden shema thak wak ‘an ‘ayni hazthak.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Rice looked puzzled.
“O’Hara was our resident expert on Aramaic,” Connelly gave a forced laughter. “We had to get a translation from someone else. Anyway, it means ‘An ear that may hear, I have heard You and now, my eyes, I have seen You’. A clear reference to Jesus Christ.”
“But that doesn’t prove anything,” Rice shrugged. “Except for the fact that O’Hara has been some place other than the present.”
“That’s what we thought, so we ran a carbon dating test on the dye used to make the tattoo,” Lawrence replied calmly.
“It’s a fairly precise radioactive dating technique used on matter which was once living and taking in carbon dioxide from the air for photosynthesis,” Connolly added quickly, noting Rice’s angry and puzzled look.
“Photosynthesis,” she repeated slowly. “You mean, like in plants?”
“The blue dye used as ink to inscribe the tattoo was made from a Hyacinthus orientalis,” Lawrence resumed. “It’s a common hyacinth, a flower that was widespread in ancient Israel. We ran the test on a sample and the result puts the date at around the time of Jesus Christ, give or take a few years. With that result in hand, we approached O’Hara ‘s story with less skepticism.”
“But how do you explain no reference made to him in historical or biblical texts?”
“There is much about time travel we don’t understand,” Connelly returned. “There are a couple of theories going around to explain our fiasco: botched technology from the Chinese; sabotage by a member of the crew who then covered his tracks by resetting the coordinates to original points; a bug in the system... hell, anything is possible. But there is one explanation that is particularly fitting. Actually, as opposed to all the other ones, it’s water-tight.”
“What’s that?”
“This isn’t our Frank O’Hara,” Connelly replied calmly.
“Excuse me?” Rice said after a moment. “How do you mean?”
“Quantum mechanics predicts such a possibility, Ma’am,” Lawrence added.
“He’s not going to give a lecture on physics now?” Rice groaned and looked pleadingly at Connelly, who smiled a little.
“Hear him out,” he said.
“One theory of time travel rests on the premise of quantum mechanics and it holds that each quantum object, when faced with a choice makes both. This results in two alternate realities being created which operate on parallel space-time continuums.”
“Layman’s,” Rice demanded.
“Every choice that can be made is made, and there is a universe out there where the timeline unfolds according to it. There is a universe where Lincoln wasn’t shot, where the Russians won the Cold War, where the Second World War was lost by the Allies, and so forth.”
“Lawrence mentioned historical events, but think of small things,” Connelly added. “A universe for each road taken.”
“Mind boggles,” Lawrence added. “Infinity times pi comes to mind.”
“How does it apply to us?”
“It means that when he traveled in time, whether past or present, O’Hara had opened before him a multiverse of possibilities along the time continuum. The chances of him returning to ours were zero. We had his coordinates, but in the face of so many choices the system crashed. There was no way to bring him back here.”
“It was only five minutes!” Rice exclaimed.
“Think of how many things happen in five minutes globally,” Connelly shrugged. “Now think on a subatomic level, think quarks, antiquarks and other fundamental particles.”
“Mind boggles,” Lawrence repeated.
“So who’s that?” Rice pointed at the silent figure sitting by the table behind the two-way mirror. “Who is that?”
“That’s Father Frank O’Hara, but from a different timeline,” Connelly replied. “From a universe where he was chosen as the one to go back and meet Jesus Christ.”
“So all the references to Brother Francis are made in his universe,” Lawrence added. “Our scholars may look as much as they want, they won’t find a single reference. Our Father Frank didn’t make that impact in the past.”
“And where is he, our Father Frank, that is?”
“It’s a multiverse of possibilities,” Connelly replied. “How can we know?”
The three of them remained silent for a long time, studying the figure before the m. The man did not move during all this time, his eyes remained blank and the only sign betraying the fact that he was alive were his fingers, which he fiddled absentmindedly.
“How could you not have predicted this outcome?” Rice demanded finally. “With your knowledge of quantum physics?”
“Our worst case scenario predicted O’Hara landing in a different timeline, yes,” Connelly replied. “We just didn’t expect another O’Hara landing here. Alternative universes are the new final frontier, the exotic Other, and we still have a hard time identifying with them and putting them on the level with us. Apparently we’re still growing a brain.”
“What of this one then?” Rice pointed at the priest. “What do you plan to do with our latest Noble Savage? Put him in a cage, slap a poster ‘Earth’s only Time Traveler’ on it and charge a fee? People will pay to see anything, even a guy who sits still and stares at the wall,” she scoffed and shook her head.
“We don’t know what he was like before he met Jesus Christ,” Connelly said with a slight sigh. “We imagine he wasn’t unlike the Frank O’Hara that we knew. But the experience,” he hesitated, “I don’t know. He’s different. The tattoo speaks for itself. He came face to face with God. Who knows how that affected him?”
“So what will you do with him?”
“Keep him under observation for some time. Eventually we’ll send him home.”
“What?”
“We can’t keep him locked up forever,” Connelly shrugged. “We’ll keep an eye on him for the rest of his life, sure, but what else can we do? As far as our records show, Frank O’Hara came back as planned, five minutes after we sent him into the future. Sure, he was a little more roughed up than we anticipated, a consequence of a run-in with an angry mob that tried to stone him to death for his preaching. Got him out just in time, too. Which Frank O’Hara we pulled out, well, that’s open to debate. But we planned to reunite him with his wife and kids after the whole thing and I don’t see why we shouldn’t go with it in the end.”
“How will you explain it to them?”
“The car bomb was so staged that they thought he had died in it, just as he thought they had. Turns out no one died. We’ll make up a story.”
“Happy endings all around,” Lawrence smirked. “The Vatican washed its hands of the entire fiasco. TT experiments are scratched, no more support, VITT is closing its doors.”
“Sweet Jesus, how am I going to explain all this to the President? The Israeli Foreign Minister is fuming as well. What am I supposed to tell them?”
“Make up a story, Ms. Rice,” Connelly shrugged. “It’s a multiverse of possibilities.”
She shook her head and fixed her eyes on the man behind the two-way mirror. Father O’Hara continued to stare blankly at the wall before him.
Aeroporto di Roma
7.23 a.m., June 16th, A.D. 2032
Father Frank shook Connelly’s hand and smiled.
“Thanks for everything, Pat,” he said. “I know that they would have never let me go if it weren’t for you.”
“Don’t mention it, Frank,” Connelly returned, studying the man’s infinitely deep eyes and wondering whether he could ever understand him. This was not the Frank he had known.
Father O’Hara turned and started toward the gate with a ticket and passport in hand. One way flight to Dublin. Wife. Son and daughter. A new life waiting for him.
“You know what He said to me, Pat?” Frank turned suddenly.
“What?” Pat asked in surprise and his heart trembled. Throughout this entire time, Frank had been silent about his experiences in ancient Israel. Only the tattoo on his forearm betrayed his new state of mind.
“When I asked Him about my family, do you know what He said?” and when Pat did not respond, still too shocked to utter a word, Father O’Hara added, “He said, ‘They are alive and well in the Kingdom of my Father. You will see them yet again’.”
“And you will,” Pat managed a smile..
“Aye,” Father Frank smiled softly. “Tih-teh mal-chootukh. Nih-weh çiw-yanukh ei-chana d’bish-maiya: ap b’ar-ah,” and noting Connolly ‘s puzzled look, he added, “Your Kingdom is come. Your will is done, as in heaven so also on earth.”
A moment later he was gone, swallowed by the crowds of people rushing to meet their flights.
Copyright © 2006 by Slawomir Rapala
