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Pure heresy.

﻿—​A special Papal commission on excommunication

Clearly, the author is very naughty.

﻿—​Santa Claus

Oh, was that a draft?  I thought it was wrapping paper.

﻿—​My editor

The most shocking thing I’ve ever read!

﻿—​Man who tried to read this eBook in the bathtub

At least it’s not another fruitcake.

﻿—​Anonymous reviewer

A Word from the Author

There comes a time in every series of books, TV shows, or movies when you have to write a Christmas special.  Sometimes, they’re funny; sometimes, they’re sappy; sometimes they’re entirely standalone stories that have no real impact on the story's universe as a whole.

This story is all three of those things.

Except the last one.  I can pretty much guarantee that our Robot Santa will make an appearance at some point in the future, as the ultimate deus ex machina, played entirely for laughs, in the middle of some utterly unimportant subplot.  That’s just how I roll.

Special Thanks

to Google Analytics

for telling me that my GE Christmas light

repair page gets more hits in a week

than the rest of my site gets in a year,

thus inspiring me to write this short story,

to Futurama

for the idea of a Robot Santa,

to the Simpsons

for inspiring a couple of

cheap laughs in Latin,

to all my readers

for not running away in terror, and

to everyone who ever

looked into the eyes of the despairing

and asked how they could help.

Prologue

Did I make it? Nicholas wondered.  “Hey, you?” he shouted to a man nearby.

The man simply stood there shivering, a look of abject terror in his eyes.

Oh, yeah, right, Nicholas thought.  Appearing out of nowhere would tend to scare people in the fourth century.  “Good sir, can you tell me what year it is?”

The man just stared at him again.

Oh, Latin, right. “Quod annus est?”

“Trecenti viginti,” the man replied, though it came out sounding like “Tray-kent’-ee wih-ghin’-tee” when he said it.

Nicholas quickly searched his ancient Latin pronunciation database, then translated that as three hundred twenty.  Twenty years too early, he thought.  Oh well.  Might as well meet the legend himself sooner than planned.

And so, the android built in the image of Nicholas of Myra made his way through ancient Rome towards the seaport.  Tomorrow, he would sail for Myra, a coastal town in modern-day Turkey, where he would meet his namesake.

Chapter

One

About eleven years after the events in Beyond the Veil

(Dec. 24, 2401)

’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, Amanda was cleaning egg nog from her blouse, when what to her wondering eyes should appear, but Jen and Marc and their daughter so dear.

As Joseph ran to the door to see what was the matter, Amanda shouted down at him.  “Don’t forget that Jen and Marc are coming over tonight, so be on your best behavior.”

Joseph smirked at the lack of poetry, then threw open the door like a flash, just for good measure.

“Marc, Jen!  It’s so good to see you both!” he said.  “And who is this dashing young lady?”

Nicolette beamed.

The sudden knock at the back door took them all by surprise.  Joseph walked to the sunroom, only to be greeted by the most stunning android this side of the Medusa Nebula.

“Tessa?”  Joseph said in surprise, “What brings you here?  Please tell me Amanda’s dad didn’t send fruitcake.”

Tessa grinned as she pulled a small, rectangular box out of her bag.

Joseph shuddered visibly.

“Elderberry, I think,” Tessa replied.

Joseph just shook his head.  “Well, come on in, then.  And have some egg nog.”

Tessa stepped inside as Joseph closed the door in a futile attempt to keep the snow drifts outside where they belonged.

As the evening passed, the six old friends sat and enjoyed each other’s company.  Of course, they also enjoyed a chicken, some stuffing, and various other side dishes.  No one enjoyed the fruitcake, however, except for Nicolette, who enjoyed picking out the fruit and seeing how long it would stick to the ceiling.

When the meal was over, Joseph tapped his glass.

“A toast,” Joseph offered, “to fallen friends, may they rest in piece.”

“Hear, hear,” Marc said over the din of clattering glasses.

“Ooh, me next,” Tessa said.  “To fallen robots.  May they rust in pieces.”

Everyone groaned.

“Thank you all for a lovely evening,” Marc said as they stood to leave.

“It’s a shame you have to leave so soon,” Joseph replied.  “I was just about to get out the old VR headset so we could play a game of MoonStruck.”

“Guess we’ll have to save the space station another day,” Marc said.

“Speak for yourself,” Joseph said.  “I was going to play as Professor Flake, the mad scientist.”

“Come on, you two,” Amanda interrupted.  “They need to get back to the space station.  It’s Christmas eve, and we all know what that means.”

“No,” Nicolette said.  “What does it mean?”

“It means,” Amanda replied, “that all the good little boys and girls have to go to bed early so that the ship’s computer can come to life and synthesize their presents.”

Nicolette gave her a puzzled look.  “What do you mean?  I thought presents were bought by Santa Claus.”

“You’ve heard of Santa Claus?” Amanda asked.  “Oh, yeah, you grew up on a planet.  I forgot.  Well, you see, in most places, that’s true.  Santa’s magical sleigh can carry him to distant worlds, and it lets him deliver presents to boys and girls across the known universe on the same night.  But even Santa and his magical reindeer have to have air, and his sleigh is open on top.”

“Ohhh,” Nicolette replied.

“So about a hundred years ago, Santa created a magical computer virus that causes the computer on every ship and every space station to come to life on Christmas Eve, to make presents using the food slots.  That way, even good little boys and girls in space can get gifts on Christmas.”

“Umm,” Tessa interrupted, “that’s... not entirely true.  Santa and the reindeer don’t really need air.  He just delivers gifts that way so he won’t scare all the humans.”

Amanda stared blankly at Tessa for several seconds before replying.  “How, exactly, do you know that?”

“Because I built him,” Tessa replied.  “Would you like to meet him?”

Chapter

Two

A couple thousand years earlier, give or take a century

(late June, 320 A.D.)

As Nicholas made his way to the nearest inn to take shelter for the night, he found himself wondering how he was going to pay for a room.  After all, Roman currency was hard to come by in the late twenty-fourth century, and although he carried several bars of gold in his chest compartment and had the ability to readily press them into Roman currency, he first needed to acquire some coins for comparison purposes.  He also needed a nice, private place to work.  After all, he doubted that counterfeiters were treated much better in the fourth century than they were in his own.  And he certainly couldn’t be sneaky about much of anything while wearing the bright red cloak of a bishop.

As he walked down the street, he came up with many crazy ideas, and even briefly considered placing bar bets, but he didn’t have anything to wager other than solid gold bars, and he didn’t feel like showing those about town.  That’s when it hit him.  Literally.

Above his head, a worker was hammering nails on the outside wall of a small building, when he dropped a nail.  It bounced harmlessly off of Nicholas’s head, but the worker felt the need to apologize anyway.

“Ignosce me!” Philipius shouted.

Forgive me, Nicholas mused.  No harm. “Non damnum.”

Philipius climbed down to apologize further in person.  When he reached the bottom, he took one look at Nicholas and recognized him as a man of the cloth.

“Dominus,” he said.

Nicholas was momentarily puzzled by why the man called him lord, rather than pater (father), sacerdos (priest), presbyter or prester (priest or elder), episcopus (bishop), or any number of other words that seemed more plausible, but after digging into his historical database, he concluded that this was a common manner of address towards the clergy.

“Fili mi,” Nicholas replied, hoping that ‘my child’ was a common expression of the clergy in that century, and praying that the Roman man wouldn’t think he was Irish.

“Numquid vobis aedificatis basilicam?” the man asked

How many British pounds vo..., no, that’s not right, he thought.  Ah, yes.  Am I building the basilica?  Wait, what basilica?

“Basilica?” Nicholas asked.

“Sanctus Petrus,” Philipius replied.

“Non ego,” Nicholas said.  I do not.

By this point, Nicholas was rapidly tiring of using Latin, so he decided to simply have the conversation in English, and let his translation software handle all the messiness from that point on.

“But you are an episcopus, are you not?”

Nicholas swore he would fix all the translator bugs one day, but he got the basic meaning.

“Yes.  I am from Myra, here to visit Papa Sylvester the first,” Nicholas said, then immediately regretted saying ‘the first’, because the second Pope Sylvester would not be elected to the papacy for some seven hundred years.  Fortunately, the worker did not notice his curious error.

“Well, I hear that he and a bunch of presbyters hang out at the Roman tavern on Martis,” Philipius said.

Tuesday, Nicholas thought.

“Thanks.  I’ll look for him there,” he replied, hoping very much that today was Tuesday.

***

The old Roman tavern smelled of ales, wines﻿—​both Spanish and Roman﻿—​and even something that the locals called cervisia, which apparently meant ‘beer’, though without hops.  Of course, everyone spoke of it as though it were barbaric, and they looked down upon anyone caught drinking it.

It was no surprise, then, to see several members of the upper crust of society carrying a keg of it into a private room, so as to enjoy it without anyone else seeing.  Nicholas somehow knew that if he wanted to find the pope, he had to follow that keg.

“Episcopus?” one man asked as he approached them.

Nicholas nodded.

“Could you help us levavi this barrel?”

Nicholas gladly offered an extra arm to help them carry it through the door.  When he reached the other side, he found himself face to face with the pope himself, along with a number of priests.  One of them was particularly rowdy﻿—​apparently having had a bit too much to drink already﻿—​and was ranting incoherently.

“Hey, you,” he slurred towards Nicholas.  “As surely as your mother was a matrix, God existed before Jesus!”

Concerned that the man might have discovered his secret, he rendered him unconscious with a single swing of his fist.

“Sorry about Arius,” the pope said.  “He gets that way sometimes, especially when I drag him all the way up here to discuss the Holy Trinity.”

A few moments later, Arius regained consciousness, and began swearing.

“Cur percutisti me?” Arius shouted.  “Quia dixi quod mater tua est meretrix?”

Oh, Nicholas thought.  He said my mother is a prostitute!  That’s completely different!

With that, Nicholas punched him into unconsciousness again and muttered, “Because Christ has always been.  That’s why I percuti you﻿—​uh... hit you.”

The pope smiled and nodded.  “I do hope we aren’t still arguing about this five years from now.  First it starts with a little unitarianism, then we argue about proceeding from the son, and the next thing you know, baby Jesus will be bringing gifts to kids and everyone will be drinking grape juice while proclaiming salvation through faith alone.”

“If he’s still arguing that in five years, I’ll hit him again for you,” Nicholas said, smirking.  “More mead, Papa?”

”Certainly,” the pope replied.

With that, Nicholas fished around in Arius’s tunic and pulled out a pouch filled with Roman currency.  He quickly scanned the coins visually so that he could replicate them all, then tossed a gold solidus at the serving wench.  Everyone guffawed at his brazenness, both for swiping the coin and for giving the server a coin equivalent to more than a month’s salary.  In all the commotion, no one noticed that he slipped the remaining coins into his own tunic.

After a few more minutes of fun, Nicholas slipped away into the evening.  He had scarcely rounded the first corner when he heard the sound of someone running after him.

“You stole my money!  Come back here!” Arius screamed.

With that, Nicholas began to run.  After a couple of blocks, he saw a ladder that led onto the roof of a row of houses.  He quickly scaled the ladder, hoping that Arius would be too drunk to follow, but Arius made it to the top, so Nicholas ran from rooftop to rooftop as Arius gave chase.

Fortunately, Nick’s advanced motion technology gave him near-perfect accuracy on every jump, allowing him to pull further ahead with each passing minute.  Unfortunately, the one thing his programming couldn’t account for was the loose roof tile on the next building.  When it shifted under him, his foot slipped, sending him toppling headlong into the chimney.  Most of the coins in his tunic spilled down the chimney, much to his chagrin, but he managed to pick up a few before Arius’s approach forced him to continue running.

Arius, of course, stopped to pick up the remaining coins on the rooftop.  As he did so, Nicholas jumped down from the roof, ran around a few corners, and disappeared into the night to look for a place to lay his head (and mint his bread).

***

Philipius stood by the dinner table in candlelight, cleaning the plates off the table after dinner.  His daughter, Alexandria, stood in the doorway.

“Father,” she asked, “did you speak with Lucius about his son?”

“Yes, Alexandria,” he replied, “but I’m afraid he was unyielding.  He insists on a dowry of at least fifty solidus coins or he will not allow you and Albus to wed.”

Alexandria’s face fell.  “I understand.”

Then, up on the roof, there arose such a clatter, he sprang up from his chair to see what was the matter.  And what to their wondering eyes should appear, but a pile of gold coins, all covered in beer.

“It’s a miracle!” Philipius shouted so quick that they knew in an instant it must be Saint Nick.

***

When Nicholas awoke the next morning, he carved a metal plate, and began stamping Roman coins as quickly as he could slice the gold brick.  By noon, he had enough local currency to last him for many years to come, so he set off for Ostia by horse-drawn carriage.  From there, he hoped to sail for the city of Myra in Lycia (near where Demre, Turkey stands today).

He arrived at the seaport by late evening, just in time to see a large ship leaving the dock.  A burly dockworker was busy taking several recently offloaded crates and loading them onto an oxcart, presumably bound for one of the shops in Rome.  Nicholas waved at the man to get his attention.

“Hello, Bishop,” the dockworker said, smiling.  “How can I help you?”

Nicholas glanced around briefly, then asked, “Do you have any ships sailing for Myra any time soon?”

The dockworker pointed.  “You just missed one.”

Nicholas sighed.  “When’s the next one?”

“Depends on the winds,” the man replied.  “They sail back and forth between these seaports.  They’ll get there in about 10 days, but it will take probably twenty days to come back against the wind.”

“So 30 days?” Nicholas asked.

“Plus unloading and loading time at both ends.  Probably more like 45.”

“And there are no other ships sailing that route?” Nicholas asked.

“Well, Octavius might head that way, if you pay him enough,” the man replied, “But most of our ships are bound for Alexandria.”

“Ah, to go so far, and still be no closer,” Nicholas said.

The dockworker nodded.  “Or you could head south to Tarentum.  From there, you can catch a ship to Athens, and you should find ships heading to Myra from there, or at least to Rhodes.

“South, you say.”

“For about ten days if you have a good horse,” the dockworker replied.  “If you can change horses along the way, maybe five or six.  Or you could travel by land all the way to Myra in about 60 days.”

Nicholas grimaced. Months either way.  I could always use my gravity drive to get there, he thought, but quickly concluded that the sight of a bishop flying through the air might be too much for the locals to bear.

“Tell me more about this Octavius,” Nicholas said.  “Does he have a good ship?”

“Oh, yes!” the dockworker replied.  “It is a good, strong ship with strong sails and a headstrong spirit.  Shall I fetch him for you?”

Nicholas nodded, and the dockworker quickly scurried away into a nearby building.  A moment later, a nearly identical man emerged.  The only visible difference was that this man was sporting a full beard.

Twins, perhaps, Nicholas thought.  Or a con man with a chin wig.

Octavius walked towards Nicholas, paused, sized him up, and then nodded.

“You must be Octavius,” Nicholas said.  “My name is Nicholas, and I am trying to get to Myra.”

Octavius smiled.  “I can get you there on the Sextus for... say five solidi?”

That’s a little steep, Nicholas thought.  I could probably buy a ship for that.

“Two solidi, and not a denarius more.”

Octavius thought for a moment.  “Done.  When do you want to leave?”

“How soon can you get food and provisions for the journey?” Nicholas replied.

“Come back tomorrow at meridies,” Octavius replied.

Noon? Nicholas thought.  At least I hope that’s what it means.

“That will do nicely,” Nicholas replied.

***

When Nicholas arrived at the seaport the next day, a few minutes before noon, Octavius was waiting for him, looking quite puzzled.

“Hello, bishop!” he shouted.  “Where are your belongings?”

“I practice asceticism,” Nicholas replied.  “I have no need for material possessions.”

“Yet you can afford to pay me two solidi?” Octavius asked.  “No, something doesn’t seem right here.  If you’re on the run from the law...”

“Heavens, no!” Nicholas said, laughing.  “Nothing like that.  In truth, most of my belongings are in Myra, my home.  I traveled here on my pilgrimage with as little as possible so that I could move around freely without worrying about leaving things behind.”

Octavius nodded, then sized up Nicholas again.  “Well, alright, then, but if I find out you’re an outlaw, I’m throwing you overboard.”

Nicholas smiled.  “No harm shall come to you because of me.  You have my word.”

Octavius seemed content with that answer.  “Follow me, then.”

The dockworker’s brother led Nicholas down a long and dusty road to a set of docks near one end of the marina.  He then walked down a long pier.  At the end of the pier was the nicest, most beautiful boat Nicholas had ever seen.  Its newly varnished hull glistened in the noonday sun, and its sails, though folded, shone brighter than the moon.  A set of small boats around the edge served both as a means for traveling to shores without docks and as life rafts in case of an emergency at sea.  Even better, the mast was a solid piece of fir that looked as though it had been cut from the straightest tree ever grown.

“Well, here she is,” Octavius said, pointing, as they reached the midpoint of the pier.

Nicholas’s heart sank.  The ship before him looked like something out of a horror movie.  The mast was broken in three places, patched together with nails and strips of pine.  The hull was old and weathered, with barnacles covering much of its surface.  The gangplank creaked when he walked on it, straining under his weight, and the sails looked as though a three-year-old had taken bits of old Roman tunics out of the trash and stitched them together.

Oh, well.  It will have to do, he thought.

“To Myra,” Nicholas said.

“To Myra,” Octavius agreed.

About the Author

David is a musician, writer, and hard-core geek. In addition to writing this short story, he also created workflow tools used in its production, did all of the content production and design, and drew the cover art.

Besides writing books and software, David is also an avid photographer, videographer, and musical composer. His choral music has been performed by the Diocesan Choir of Monterey, California and the contemporary choir at Holy Cross Catholic Church in Santa Cruz, CA. He spends much of his spare time performing with musical ensembles in the greater Santa Cruz area.

David hangs out on Slashdot, Facebook, the CanonRumors.com and HomeRecording.com BBSes, and various other online forums.

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