Beyond Time and Space

By Paul Tchir

Austin, Texas is known for being weird, so when Sunil Pendleton opens his front door to find the recently deceased Michael Jackson, he barely bats an eye. Even when Larry Fine of the Three Stooges shows up, it doesn’t seem all that odd. Soon he finds himself tied to his couch, talking to a cat, and communicating telepathically with warriors from an ancient, forgotten civilization.

And then things begin to get strange.

Sunil discovers that he is in the midst of a war between two factions of deities. He needs to muster everything he has not only to keep himself alive, but to help save the universe from being harvested of all sentient life. Armed with only an ancient weapon rumored to hold divine power, he must rely on a band of powerful strangers for protection against the dead celebrities that have been sent to hunt him down through the night. When Sunil learns that his allies have ulterior motives, however, he questions whether his companions are out to save the universe or consign it to an unimaginably terrible fate. As the time approaches to unleash the artifact, he grows more uncertain as to whom he will use it on.

Yet even the true power of his weapon is in doubt and, if so, he may be unable to do anything at all. Sunil knows only one thing: something has definitely been trying too hard to keep Austin weird.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Tchir
• Release date: Mar 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310025099

Paul Tchir

Alive and well, despite being given only a 5% chance of surviving his own birth, Paul Tchir is a Canadian-born, Texas-educated, Arabic-speaking (sort of) Californian Wikipedia administrator, amateur street luger, and former deadpool champion who is missing part of a finger due to an unfortunate accident involving a cooking class in the second grade and an inattentive chaperone. Although this injury meant that he was unable to attain his childhood goal of becoming a paleontologist, fortune soon smiled upon him and he was inspired to enter theatre after Charles Bronson cut in front of him in a hot dog line in junior high. He studied under the tutelage of Neve Campbell’s father for a year before abandoning this pursuit to write the sequel to Jurassic Park.Although his pitch was rejected as having “already been written”, Paul was not discouraged and has since persisted in his quest to produce literary entertainment. When he needs to convince his wife that he does more than play retro video games and watch old episodes of Star Trek, he works towards the completion of his Ph.D. in history at the University of California, San Diego, where he once toiled for the school’s Koala newspaper for about a year, until he was kicked out for not being funny. According to Google, he also gave 2001: A Space Odyssey a bad review on IMDB, moonlights as an Olympic researcher, and has not accessed his Neopets account in over a decade. He lacks the necessary qualifications to write this book, having never killed a celebrity, but he did stab Jenna Haze’s cousin in the stomach once. According to reliable sources, he does, unlike Mr. T., have time for jibber jabber, but only by appointment. As you may be able to tell, he has nothing to hide.

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Beyond Time and Space

Paul Tchir

Published by Paul Tchir at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Paul Tchir

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All brand names and product names mentioned in this book are trademarks or registered trademarks of their respective companies. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by J. Q. Hammer

http://www.jqhammer.blogspot.com

http://www.jordanqhammer.carbonmade.com

Title Work by Natalie Jean

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Prologue

Do you remember the time we first met, on that field in Chicago?

Although he lacked the strength to open his eyes, there was no mistaking the sophisticated, mocking voice that had addressed Henry as he laid there, unmoving, in his bed. Even if he had not lost the ability to speak, he would have been far too terrified to address the figure. How had it entered the room? Why did it sound close enough to be hovering above?

It’s all right, you don’t have to say anything, I understand. After all, I gave you this disease, designed it myself, and perfected it for over seventy years now.

Perhaps the voice was merely in his head, for the man whom he believed to be speaking had been no older than forty when they had met over two decades ago. It sounded so real that he could only hope that his condition had deteriorated to the point of hallucination. Henry’s weary mind was beyond control of its own thoughts and, although he fought the transition with all of his remaining mental strength, it drifted into a vivid and unpleasant recollection of the events. Once again he heard the voice, but this time the words seemed far more distant.

’scuze me mistah, but I couldn’t help noticin’ what a mighty powerful swing you had out dah today.

A youthful Henry opened his eyes, irritated that the solitude of his meditation had been so rudely shattered. Nonetheless, he remained as polite as possible. I stunk out there today. I couldn’t hit the ball worth nothing. An unnerving guffaw from whoever had just addressed him made Henry very aware of just how late it was, and of the inadequacy of the lighting around the field. Turning to face his conversation partner, he was surprised to find a neat-looking, if oddly dressed, black man standing behind him. Dressed in a denim coat and a pair of indigo trousers, the figure had a sly grin spread across his face and one eyebrow raised in disbelief as his eyes, so dark brown as to nearly be black, scanned over the young baseball player. Who are you? Henry inquired, speaking with less boldness than intended.

Considah me a friend, a mentor… a tutor even came the reply. After biting his upper lip, he cleaned his yellowed teeth with his tongue before continuing. And hittin’ ‘aint everything. What you got is talent, raw power, a real gift. I could help you hit, ‘dat ‘aint a problem, but I can’t create a legend outtah nuthin’. You could be deh biggest thing ever in dis here sport with my help.

Henry hesitated. His best guess was that this was a conman looking to take his money, but nonetheless he did not want to be rude or anger the figure. He was otherwise alone and had no doubts that, be it a knife or a pistol, this man was armed, for his confident, upright posture belied the rugged appearance and dim mannerisms that might have lulled Henry into a sense of security. Instead he attempted deflection: Unless you can do it by tomorrow, I’m afraid that it won’t help much. We play Lane Tech in less than twenty four hours. He produced an ersatz chuckle and turned away slightly, a hint that he had no desire to continue the conversation.

As Henry moved to ignore any reply, however, the man lunged and grabbed him by the wrist. The boy winced in pain but, before any objection could be raised, the figure released his grip and took a step backwards, taking advantage of the boy’s shock to make a final proposal. Now, you see if dat dah little boon I jus’ give yah doesn’t help you hit a ball or two tomorrow. If yah hit one outta deh park, come back and see me, right in dis here same spot. Mah name is Robert and I promise you won’t regret it. I’ll be here. Surprised, and attempting to control his anger, Henry could do little but watch as Robert walked off into the darkness and disappeared. Still rubbing his arm, he gazed down upon it to see if a mark had been left. The pain dissolved and, aside from an uncomfortable tingling feeling, there was no evidence that anything had occurred. He breathed a sigh of relief and got up to leave the field, still shaken by the whole experience.

He returned the following night, a foolish move in retrospect, this time with a small knife concealed in his pocket, but otherwise stripped of caution by the events of the day. Not only had he hit one out of the park, as predicted, but it had been an attention-grabbing grand slam. The raw energy he had felt when connecting with the ball, the sense of almost divine strength, fostered a deep craving to experience it once more. As the ball had flown past the stands, his only thoughts were of how famous he would be if he could perform in such a way on a regular basis and just how great he would feel. Even if it was a fluke, Henry could not pass up the chance that, somehow, Robert’s actions the night before had bestowed upon him some sort of power that could help transform him into one of the greatest sportsmen of all time.

Robert was waiting in the spot they had met the previous night, a cocky smile plastered across the face that revealed that he had known Henry would return. Ah, I see that you must have had a good hit or two out there today. The boy was taken aback and stopped in his tracks. Gone was the dim, Southern drawl that had previously characterized the man’s speech and now his words sounded smooth. The result was unsettling, for this shift in personality was as unnatural as it was abhorrent. Furthermore, his tone was now more patronizing, albeit based on a solid foundation of authority. The grand slam alone was enough for Robert to demand reverence from Henry with his words, of course, but there was an additional sense of timeless wisdom about the figure, as one might get from encountering an Ancient Greek philosopher wandering the streets of the twentieth century.

I trust that I may dispense with the uneducated parlance, hmmm? I have found that it helps me blend in and makes me more approachable, but I think that you and I can be a little more honest with each other, what do you say? Snapped out of his surprise, the boy nodded and resumed advancing.

Robert lit his cigarette with a flame whose source Henry could not discern and took a long puff. And if you stick me with that toy in your pocket, I’ll use this to set your damn face on fire, you hear me? The youngster halted once more, for now the encounter had become truly terrifying, not only as a result of Robert’s sudden change in demeanor, but also by virtue of his knowledge of the hidden knife. Had this man been stalking him? Or could he read minds? After the power he had experienced that afternoon, he was open to many possibilities, but each answer was equally unsettling. He was no longer reticent to show fear and again could do nothing but nod in acquiescence.

Don’t be nervous son, I have no intention of hurting you. I could have done that yesterday, if I had wanted to, when I had you by the arm. My only interest is in making you a legend. You have the talent, I have the magic touch, so together we can make it happen.

Henry finally worked up the nerve to ask a question. Robert... er… sir… why would you want to do that?

Robert smiled with a look that was an unsettling combination of wicked and warm. Please, call me Robert. No need for any more formality than that. Another puff. "As to your question, well, I have a boss. And my boss has a job, which is to make her boss happy. He twirled the cigarette around his fingers. And my boss’ boss is a very difficult creature to please, so my boss has me going around looking for innately talented individuals such as yourself to help her. He inhaled. Get it? Henry nodded, even though he did not at all. Good. I can’t go into details now, but suffice to say that the deal I have to offer is this: we will make you famous beyond your wildest dreams. You will become a legend known around the world and we will do this by augmenting your abilities and giving your current talents the chance to garner the recognition that they so richly deserve. You will never want for anything and your hands will be guided by divinity so that you needn’t even think to be as good at what you do as you possibly can be. He smirked. And, in exchange, when it’s all over, you will work for us."

Henry was skeptical, but Robert’s imposing figure and stern look left no room for games or jokes. Still, he had to ask the obvious question: What kind of work will I do for you?

The man turned his eyes away. "That… will be worked out and arranged later. Suffice to say that they will be tasks worthy of a man of your stature, leadership roles and the like, making certain that everything runs smoothly. His emphasis on the final word, spoken almost as a hiss, was frightening, but Henry could not forget the feeling that he had experienced while hitting the ball. Despite all the warning signs and absurdity of the situation, his lust to feel as fulfilled as he had earlier consumed his being and drove his words and actions. If he could feel that way forever, then no caveat would have stayed him. He took a step forward. Okay then Robert, you have a deal."

His new mentor drew in a long breath of smoke before exhaling, and then flicked the dying cigarette away. Excellent, he purred while sticking out his hand, shall we shake on it?

The moment that Henry grasped Robert’s hand, the world around went black. He was gripped by a force that seemed to be holding him in place as a demonic wind swept across his body. Everything was invisible, absorbed in a midnight void, save for two eyes that stared from where Robert had once been. Raw energy and power flowed through him at a nearly intolerable rate and he felt every cell in his body shuddering as it absorbed as much of the universe’s potential as it could. It was no longer pleasant, as it had been that afternoon, but was instead a violent act that caused great physical pain and mental anguish. A flash of light burst out in the shape of a vortex and he became witness to Robert’s entire form, naked and muscled, but now twisted into directions impossible for the human brain to comprehend. Across the face was a maddened, demonic look that caused the final pillars of Henry’s sanity to crumble as its black eyes penetrated the very essence of his being. The aura of energy that surrounded Robert was the last image that Henry could comprehend before his mind was wracked with a terrible, explosive pain. The world around vibrated and shook, as if the seams of reality were coming undone, and Henry collapsed from the strain, descending swiftly into unconsciousness.

Henry jolted his eyes open. Robert was gone and the boy was lying on his back in the dewy grass of the field, now staring up at the star-riddled sky. Despite the trauma, he was eerily content and refreshed. His entire body felt energized and restless and occasionally experienced spasms, as if some invisible force was jolting him with electricity. He ignored these, however, as he picked himself up and headed home, dazed and unable to shake the one very vivid dream that he could recall from his time unconscious. He could not describe details of the woman’s face that he saw, but the message was as clear as if it was still being whispered into his ear.

"Once you die, you will serve me, and The Original One, for all time, until I choose to rid myself of your existence."

He did not doubt those words for one moment, not even through the pinnacle of his stardom. The memory of that solitary phrase was enough to keep him aloof from his teammates, lest they be subject to the same tortures as he. He did not want others to know him well. He did not want them to know anything. Once retired, he had more time to reflect on what the contract had meant and what had been sacrificed. On his own he might have been famous but, with the demon, he became a legend. Only now, however, did the gravity of servitude after death, to horrific ends of which he could not conceive, truly hit him.

On his deathbed the words were more terrifying than ever and their vividness had only been augmented. During the worst days they were all he could hear, repeated over and over again in his mind. Experiencing Robert’s voice, as clear and as smooth as it had been twenty years ago, made his heart race to the point of exhaustion.

I never let you down once, did I? I even miraculously healed your worst injuries so that you could keep your silly little streak alive. I promised you fame beyond your wildest dreams and I delivered.

Henry wondered if Robert really could hear his thoughts. But then you did this to me you bastard. You stole my afterlife and cut short my time in this one.

From the irrelevant response that came, it seemed as if mind-reading was not among the demon’s powers. I always kept you in your place though. Always one step out of the limelight behind that teammate of yours. Always reminding you that you owe everything you have to A and I.

In his dying moments, Henry knew better than to listen to the creature’s ranting. He had acknowledged in his final speech the great fortune to which he had been privy for having had the chance to live as he did, even for a brief time. Despite what lay in store, he still felt like the luckiest man on the face of the earth.

Chapter I

That pop legend Michael Jackson was standing at his door did not seem unusual, or even interesting, to Sunil Pendleton when he answered the gentle, almost comical, knocking that had persisted for the last minute. Not wanting to depart from his latest re-watching of From Dusk till Dawn, he had hoped that the commotion would abate if he ignored his visitor but, after sixty seconds of growing frustration, he decided that determining the source was the best possible course of action. George Clooney and company were going to enter the strip club shortly, and that was a scene during which Sunil refused to be disturbed.

Although impressed at the man’s costume and makeup, Sunil was apathetic towards the figure. Despite some surprising attention to detail in the similarities, this person was clearly not the real Michael Jackson. Even if the singer had not died two months prior, he would not appear as youthful and dapper as during his Off the Wall days. The new school year had just begun and Sunil was no stranger to clubs and fraternities knocking on his door, requesting donations. This man, most likely a part of some comedy or acting troupe, had gone above and beyond in distinguishing his stunt from other charity-seekers. The physical impersonation was convincing enough that Sunil decided to give the man a chance to speak, or at least that was how he justified his indecisiveness. To simply state that he was busy and not interested before closing the door would have left a guilty feeling in the pit of his stomach that would be a mental distraction for hours to come. Hearing the man out would also give him some time to think of a believable excuse not to donate, perhaps one that would not seem too rude.

Awkwardly, however, the figure said nothing and Sunil, lacking any inclination for conversation, waited for the impersonator to introduce a pitch, anxious at the prospect of having to engage the man himself. Yet Michael, or whoever he was, seemed content to simply stare at the man who had answered the door.

As to what interested him, Sunil could not possibly have guessed, for there was nothing unique or noteworthy about his own physical appearance. Standing at 5’7" he was perhaps shorter than average, but not so noticeably that it would cause untoward stares or shock. His facial features were as bland as the well-kempt black hair atop them or the pale brown eyes that followed the world with a lazy disinterest. Perhaps Michael had, unlike Sunil, noticed that a purple sweater vest over a wrinkled white t-shirt and a worn pair of jeans had not only gone out of fashion, but were never in it to begin with. A thin moustache made him appear older than the average student, but no one had paid it much heed previously, as students studying graduate level degrees were rarely as homogenous, in terms of age, as undergrads. During the first year, in fact, he had actually been the youngest in the business program.

Business program. He was already wasting enough time watching a movie instead of working on the first of what was certain to be many inane projects over the year. Every moment spent waiting for this man to speak was sleep that he would lose later in the night. Frustrated, he engaged the impersonator in a tone that was more confused than hostile.

Can I help with something? It came off well.

The figure smirked, but said nothing, looking Sunil over as if the Holy Grail were located somewhere on his person. Now the level of discomfort had progressed to the point where being rude or direct was preferable to continuing the experience. Raising his hands in confusion, he gestured at the visitor with a shake of the head and squinted. When the man did nothing but stare right back, Sunil wished that he had not left his cell phone on the couch.

At a loss as to what to do, having never met anyone so unresponsive to simple conversation, Sunil weighed his options. It was probably part of some comedy routine, but to what end? How could it possibly lead to a conclusion that would encourage anyone to donate money after such awkwardness and frustration? Though his internal machinations worked slowly, he eventually resolved to neither let this person waste any more of his time nor be manipulated into opening his wallet. How to go about it, of course, was another matter entirely. What would risk more hostility? Telling the man to get lost or simply slamming the door? In the end, it made the most sense to close and lock the door. If whoever this was grew angry, Sunil would have plenty of time to reach the phone and call the police. In fact, even if the visitor just left, he would consider calling them as a precaution anyways. But then again, that was a lot of effort and could lead to even more trouble; he would weigh the pros and cons later. Right now, this encounter needed to end, for the half-naked girls of From Dusk till Dawn were growing impatient.

Motioning to close the door, Sunil let out a disgusted sigh that he soon regretted. His efforts to shut out the visitor were thwarted by the man who, with his first real movement, smashed the palm of his left hand against the door, which slammed into the wall and left a gouge in the plaster. Startled, Sunil leapt back and moved out of the way, just in time to avoid a deep gash in his forehead.

Both anger and fear raced through Sunil’s mind. On one hand he was furious; whatever frustration tactics this impersonator was using were effective. Rational thought, as well as a calm reaction, were now out of the question. His instinct was to threaten the man with a fight and fantasies rushed through his brain of knocking his opponent out with a swift punch to the head. He was still in enough control, however, to realize his limitations. For one thing, he had not been in a physical fight since the fifth grade, when a bully had cornered him behind the school and unleashed a torrent of taunts and threats. In that case, a fist to the nose that shattered cartilage and drew blood had been sufficient to end the confrontation. That, of course, was not only a ten year old, but one who relied more on intimidation than skill or strength. This was a full grown man, possibly armed, who was unlikely to drop after a single punch.

Moreover, Sunil found it difficult to believe that his skills had done anything but fade since that grade-school fight. Even though fisticuffs with Michael Jackson would surely be a surreal experience, this was not the movies and a battle could leave him seriously injured, or at least in jail. Had he paid more attention to his opponent than wandering thoughts, however, he might have realized the need to at least defend himself from the man’s own attacks, as Michael lacked any trepidation in making up his own mind.

The impersonator lunged at Sunil, tackling and sliding him across the hardwood floors and into the living room couch. Thankfully the sofa was little more than reams of substandard fabric stretched across rejected lumber, so his head was stopped by nothing more dangerous than tweed lining and a pocket of air. Sunil’s first tactic, to kick and struggle in an attempt to get out from underneath the assailant, was rendered moot when he was pulled into the air by the collar of his shirt. Despite the impersonator’s thin frame, this feat was accomplished with ease and the next action, tossing Sunil onto the couch, was accomplished with comparable simplicity. He was still contemplating his next reaction when, in another surreal moment, the man withdrew a silver pistol from beneath his suit and pointed it at his sparring partner.

Through a rush of adrenaline Sunil struggled to understand how, in the span of a minute, his life had been transformed from mundane complacency to the opening scene of an action film, or at least a breaking news bulletin. His attempts at comprehension were interrupted when a burst of blood spewed forth and soaked his hands and face. He was able to draw his attention away from the gun to witness an arrow protruding from the actor’s chest. He had only seconds for contemplation before he was again hit with a spray of blood, this time drenched in a stream that emerged from the man’s neck. As Michael turned to witness his attacker, he was hit with a third arrow, squarely in the head, which caused him to fall backwards and drop to the ground, presumably dead.

From the squirting sounds beneath, Sunil could guess that the man was bleeding out, but his eyes could not be drawn away from the newly-arrived assassin. There was no mistaking his receded hairline, locks of curly hair, or charming 1930s fashion sense. Aside from the slim bow that rested in his in hands and the quiver of white, finely tipped arrows on his back, this man was by far the most accurate Larry Fine impersonator that Sunil had ever seen and, as a casual Three Stooges fan, he had encountered his share. With the danger fading and fear escaping the body, Sunil grew focused on what was going on in the apartment, but he did jump when Larry turned his way.

You okay there sir? This new figure seemed calm and collected, with a voice so accurate to the real Larry Fine’s that the two were indistinguishable. Larry was not all that surprised that his quarry failed to respond and a quick scan revealed that Sunil remained uninjured. I’ll take that as a yes then. Paying the victim no more heed, he bent down out of Sunil’s sight, presumably to check on the fresh body.

This gave Sunil a moment to think. Was this all an elaborate scheme to beg for donations? Who in their right mind would believe that this tactic would be successful? Then again, they were actors, so who was to say that they were in their right mind? Perhaps they believed that their skills were so great that such a demonstration would impress their victims enough to forget about the panic they had just endured. Granted, the costumes and makeup were impeccable, but Sunil no longer cared if they were the real Michael Jackson and Larry Fine. At this point it did not matter; all that was important was the intrusion into his private space. He had had enough.

After cursing for a short while, Sunil continued his rant with the angriest and loudest voice he could muster. He was still shaken, but his desire for clarity superseded all other concerns. Tell me right now, what the hell is going on here?

The second visitor had already risen from his crouch, following the previous stream of profanities, and was attentive to the question. I know this all seems strange, but just give me a minute here, okay? I promise that this is very important.

This is my apartment, continued Sunil, ignoring the plea, and... his rage was cut off by a meek cry of pain as he felt the pinch of a needle being driven into a vein in his right arm. It was immediately withdrawn and Sunil clutched the arm as a reaction to the throbbing. Before he could turn around to confront the assailant that had snuck in behind him, the world around went hazy and he collapsed onto the couch.

The last thing he heard before unconsciousness enveloped him was a grizzly, female voice interacting with the other man. That should shut him up for now, eh Larry?

I really think that there could have been a better way.

Relax, it’s only temporary. Probably. If we don’t get moving on this, he and everyone else will be dead anyways.

Intermission

Hiram. Hiram! Come on now Hiram, wake up!

As he lay in the back seat of the Cadillac, head throbbing from the liquor, a sense of rage welled up in Hiram who, only moments ago, had managed to drift away to that elusive place between consciousness and dream, where his many pains were eased away in a haze of confusion. Having tried to fall asleep for the better part of the ride to Canton, and having only just succeeded, he was more than a little irritated.

Damn it Charlie you dimwit, he barked among a slew of other curses and blasphemies, I told you I don’t want nothin’ to eat. Only when he lifted the brim of his hat to glower did the man realize that whoever was addressing him was not Charlie. He stared in order to contemplate what he thought he saw, but then dismissed the figure. Hot damn, I must be way drunker than I thought… It was not clear if he had intended to say that out loud.

That’s no way to treat an old friend, now is it?

Hiram squinted in disbelief, even though it pained him to do so, as he wanted to believe that this man was indeed the old mentor that he missed so dearly. The resemblance was there, particularly the dark brown eyes that seemed to blend into the pupils, not to mention that the voice was so spot on that it stirred old memories. Hiram could make out a pair of indigo trousers that began where the denim coat ended, which seemed strange only because he had never seen these vestments donned by another living being. His teacher had always possessed more than a touch of eccentricity, however, so this choice of clothing was far from uncharacteristic. What really troubled Hiram was that the man whom he believed this to be had been dead for nearly a decade and a half and, even in his better days, had not been so dapper nor presentable. Nevertheless, he was unable to resist the compulsion to meekly call out one name: Rufus?

Aha, so you do recognize me. Please, spare me the line about how I am supposed to be dead. I may not be able to read minds, but I can sense that question on the tip of your tongue. He revealed an unnerving smile. Drunken eyes give away more than you might think, but you have probably had enough experience to know that already. Now, you saw my powers once, so I really do not feel the need to go into details right now about my alleged demise. You have seen that anything is possible, even cheating death. He cackled softly. "At least for me anyhow. Just take a leap of faith and trust what you believe… no… what you know in your heart. I am Rufus. His expression soured. But enough delay; your friend Charlie will be back soon after all and you and I have some unfinished business if I am not mistaken?"

B…business? Hiram stuttered, half out