The Multiverse Rush

By Steven VS

A cryptic message and a sprint to save a pretty damsel plunges Michael Holland through the fabric of reality and into a multiverse at war. Caught between Haven the inter-dimensional police force and the smuggling cartel Collectors, Holland knows he is out of place...as does everyone else. But when he displays reality-bending abilities no-one has seen in decades, Holland realizes his arrival wasn’t chance at all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven VS
• Release date: Mar 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310989957

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

It was a most curious circumstance by which William Night found himself in Sussex University – though perhaps more curious was the manner in which he had come. He seemed to have simply appeared, and indeed quantifiably it was difficult to discern the moment he was not there from the moment he was. However, in keeping with Night’s nature, curious as it was, it could not have been said to be unexpected.

Having appeared, or materialized or by whatever means was now simply there, Night regarded his new, rather dingy, surroundings. He was standing next to the campus bar in a faux courtyard area, the tell-tale signs of the previous night’s depravity showing all around him. Banners whipped listlessly in the chilly morning breeze proclaiming, WOW RE-FRESHERS!!! and ONE NIGHT TO REMEMBER!! whilst one gentleman to Night’s left had, it appeared, carried on with the party longer than was advisable and was now snoozing lightly on a concrete slab, the congealed remnants of a kebab resting lightly on his chin.

Stepping carefully over him, Night entered the bar decked in trills of Christmas holly and bells, and searched for the man for whom he had come. Scanning the room, Night saw a small group of individuals collected on the far side, and there found the beleaguered, slightly despondent-looking man for whom he had come.

*

His name was Michael Holland, and he could barely stand. His head felt like a construction site, and his attempt at an emboldened speech was hampered by the fact that the ailing group before him was quite clearly hung over as well.

‘Well,’ began Holland. To his side, Vish popped two aspirins into his glass, watching them spiral and fizzle into nothing. ‘I’m…err, glad you all could make it. Umm, hell of a night last night.’

‘Hell of a night,’ agreed Danielle at the back.

Vish raised his glass, downing it in one gulp before slamming it back down.

‘Right, yes, right.’ Holland cleared his throat. ‘Well, I think we all deserved a night like that. We’ve all been working pretty damn hard, now haven’t we? Hard to believe opening night is tonight.’

From beneath a pile of coats, Skippy’s bushy head appeared. ‘Is that tonight?’ he asked blearily. ‘I thought it was next week.’

There was a general murmur of agreement.

‘Pretty sure it was next week,’ Vish agreed.

‘No, no, it’s tonight,’ said Holland, steamrolling on. He had the overwhelming feeling that if he didn’t finish this speech soon something rather terrible would happen. ‘Guys, we’ve worked so hard towards it, and I think we…we really have something special to show those…those fat cats down at SUDS!’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Skippy, ‘screw SUDS.’

There was a chorus of agreement and Holland relaxed somewhat. He had found this a rather effective tactic, using the Sussex University Dramatics Society as some sort of dystopian oppressor to rally against.

Reinvigorated, Holland continued. ‘We’ve sold out our opening night.’ He didn’t bother to mention the venue only seated thirty. ‘And buzz has never been higher.’ By which he meant he’d posted all of four Facebook status updates and tweeted some eleven times in the past three days. ‘Guys, together I think we really have one hell of a show on our hands!’

A lacklustre response greeted him, with Skippy diving back beneath the coats and Danielle slumping over the table. Only Rufus seemed perked, giving Holland a grin.

‘To us,’ said Rufus confidently. ‘To Shakespeare Shitfaced.’

Holland smiled weakly back. Not for the first time he had some reservations about the name – was it too edgy? Provocative? Did it even make any sense?

*

And so some twenty minutes later with very little having been achieved, the motley crew began to disperse. Night had remained watching this, satisfied that he was at the right place, and more importantly, the right time.

As the group passed, Night took care to make himself inconspicuous though he needn’t have bothered. As Holland turned to leave, he took no notice of the older gentleman by the bar at all, but then Holland was in a world of his own, thinking only of his own bed and how best he might dispel the supernova that was currently imploding on the inside of his skull.

*

Michael Holland, nineteen years old, brown eyes, brown hair, just shy of six foot, who through a combination of genetics and Domino’s two for one was entirely ungifted athletically. He did, however, possess a rather keen mind, which to date, he had neither applied nor explored. Instead he had learned from a young age that he was very intelligent and that by applying a minimal level of effort he was able to achieve equally to his peers whose efforts far exceeded his own.

But as always in matters such as these, the more Holland achieved, the steeper the difficulty grew, and the less this became a viable tactic. So having sailed past his GCSEs and having obtained reasonable A Levels, Michael Holland was now outright failing his degree. Of course it probably didn’t help that he had no real interest in the subject matter (Chemistry), but it was more than that. Holland had always felt there was something…missing in his life. Some great…thing he was supposed to do and that when he did, life, the universe, well everything would all fall into place. Holland felt this with a genuine, almost touching certainty.

Of course this was bullshit; this feeling was common amongst people and was believed to be nearly universal by some. It was known to occur to all adults and the odd unnecessarily self-aware teenagers.

But what was most fascinating about this unquantifiable feeling was not its ubiquity nor its nature but rather the most curious phenomenon that should it affect a hundred identical individuals, it would nearly always lead to a hundred radically different outcomes.

*

The night came quickly and Holland, having slept all day, felt mildly calmer. Inside the theatre he could hear the murmurs of the crowd and knew that in the best part of five minutes he too would be up on that stage for the worldwide debut of Shakespeare Shitfaced.

But here he was alone, outside in the chilly winter’s air, wearing his leotard, blonde wig and khakis (an odd ensemble to be sure, but it would absolutely slay in the third scene), contemplating life. He couldn’t quite describe his feeling or perhaps simply didn’t wish to. Holland didn’t feel nervous exactly, he knew he was a more than adequate actor. He had of course largely solo written Shakespeare Shitfaced, and knew it was funny and touching in all the right places. It was simply…

‘I’m being stupid,’ he told the night air, resignedly.

He wished he smoked. That at least would give him something to do with his hands. He surreptitiously rounded the corner and was surprised that so many people had come, wondering how they’d even heard of the play. Rufus…yes, Rufus had said he would publicize the event, along with Danielle. So that was good. It was all falling into place. All the groundwork had been laid, all the hours of work and now all he had to do was go back inside, get up on that stage and follow through.

All he had to do was follow through.

Follow through.

Dear God, he thought. Why am I not following through? Why am I still standing here? No, no I’m not going to mess this up. I’m going to do it. I swear for once in my life I’m really going to do it…

He got to his feet and headed for the back entrance, yanking it open to feel the sweaty backstage warmth surge out. And it was just as Holland’s mind was set with this one stoic sentiment – that he would follow through – that he was most unceremoniously knocked to the ground.

Holland had just enough time to register two men storming past when a foot connected with his forehead, slamming him back down. Dramatically his blonde wig went flying off and Holland, too late realized his folly. He should have glued it on.

In a dusting of snow, Holland’s vision was blurred for a moment. He felt sure his forehead would soon throb in pain, but the thoughts seemed not to have connected yet. Had that really happened? Had two men chased a (not unattractive, he realized) woman on a cold winter’s night whilst Holland remained on the ground lying like a sack of cold, very wet potatoes?

He could suddenly hear applause. How much time had passed? He needed to get inside. They needed him. He needed this. He had dreamed of little else since well…to be fair it had only been a few weeks. But it was the sort of few weeks Holland felt sure that when he looked back on life would almost certainly probably be significant.

Then he heard a scream and realized he was still on the ground. The two men were chasing that woman! His heart began to hammer, sweat percolating on his forehead. Why wasn’t some burly, heroic individual around to save her? Why instead was he the only one here? Holland felt rooted to the spot, feeling pathetic at his inaction.

‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered to himself.

He felt resigned. He had to do something.

Making up his mind, Holland dusted off the snow and chased after them, in his mind a ferocious beast exploding across the Serengeti. He rounded the corner and caught a glimpse of the two men entering a building across the concrete square. The building was covered in scaffolding; the rickety old maths building, Holland knew, was under renovation. They were still chasing the woman, so he went after them as well, yanking the door open and bounding up. He could hear frantic steps from above and hastened to follow, ignoring the four stitches he already had and the extreme sense of foreboding that wanted him to stop immediately and vomit.

One flight, two flight, three… Jesus, he thought. How many floors does this building have? He was heaving now, sweating buckets, but he knew he had to carry on. He had come so far already (though obviously not in terms of distance, but more in a…moral sense).

They had crashed through the rooftop fire exit, which creaked on its hinges. His heart racing, Holland slid up as well and saw the three figures, silhouettes outlined by the dim light of the passing eve.

He saw the woman who was younger than Holland had first realized, of Indian descent with thick, dark hair whipping behind her. The two men with their backs to Holland were advancing on her.

‘You’re a long way from home, Haven bitch,’ said one of the men. They split off, walking on either side of the young woman. ‘You must be new, which is a…real shame, pretty thing like you. Such a pretty thing...’

‘Yeah, you sound real sorry,’ she shot back. Her hair fluttered, but she hadn’t moved an inch.

‘Just shoot her!’ said the other man. ‘There could be more on their way!’

The first man raised his arm. The gloom lay too thick, but Holland could guess all too well what he was pointing. He began to panic – he couldn’t let them kill this woman, but what was he going to do? He had to think…

‘You could kill me,’ said the woman.

Then she vanished. The men looked all around, before glaring at one another. There was rapid rush of air as though a cyclone had swept past and the woman re-appeared beside the man holding the gun.

‘You could definitely try,’ she said.

‘God damn it!’ shouted the other man. ‘I told you to check. Why the hell didn’t you check?’

‘I swear she was out!’ said the man holding the pistol. He swung around, but the woman disarmed him in a flurry too quick for Holland to see.

‘Point that somewhere else,’ she muttered before motioning to the area around them. ‘In case you hadn’t worked it out, this is a no fly zone ergo you’re not going anywhere.’ She edged forwards, her shoes clopping distinctly against the concrete ground. ‘So this is the deal, straight from Haven; hand over the goods you’re smuggling. Then turn yourselves in for questioning.’

‘Oh, is that it?’ muttered one of the men. ‘Perhaps you’d also like me to jump up my own arse and die?’

‘Yeah,’ chimed the other. ‘We’re not going anywhere with you!’

The woman put her hands on her hips, all business. ‘Oh really? And what is it you plan on doing? We can do this nicely or roughly either way you’re coming to Haven with me. So why don’t you boys play nice…’

Holland stood stock still. He’d clearly intruded on some sort of MI5 terrorist bust. If he didn’t get away they’d probably take him in for questioning too. And probe him. Holland shuddered. No, no he knew what he had to do. He had to slink away before any of them saw him and never, ever think about what he’d seen again.

‘So…we turn ourselves in,’ said one of the men slowly. ‘Tell you everything we know and…we walk free?’

The woman was inches from them now. ‘Whatever you need to tell yourselves,’ she said, dismissively. She held out her hand. ‘Hand it over. No more questions.’

The man seemed to agree and reached into his jacket, extracting a small, unassuming parcel. He appeared to glance up, but Holland could see he was really looking past the woman, and she hadn’t noticed at all. The other man was nodding; there was something in his hand, something glinting…

‘Watch out!’ Holland bounded for the man, knocking…well, attempting to knock him down.

Instead he sort of jostled him sideways. Still, he had managed to wrestle the object away, and feeling supremely vindicated, Holland saw that it was indeed a nasty-looking blade. Of course this feeling of elation was immediately dispelled by one of blind agony as a hard fist met his soft underbelly. He sunk to his knees (rather like the aforementioned sack of potatoes) his eyes watering, utterly winded.

‘Come on!’ shouted one of the men.

He grabbed the other, and in an instant, the two men flung themselves off the edge of the building, followed by the sounds of rushing winds. Then they were gone, and through tear-streaked eyes, Holland saw that he and the young woman were alone.

‘Goddamnit!’ she shouted at the air. She paced and fumed before running over to Holland and grabbing him roughly to face her. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Do you know what you’ve done?’

‘I…I saw them chasing you. I was worried…’

She threw him back down and Holland crumpled pathetically. ‘I don’t need help from someone…’ Her dark eyes scanned him, and Holland felt cold. The young woman rubbed her eyes. ‘Forget you saw this,’ she said. ‘Forget you saw anything.’ Then she turned away.

‘Wait!’ he tried to cry out after her.

He wanted to say he was sorry…or perhaps that she should say sorry? Hadn’t he, after all, just saved her life? But before he knew it, she was gone as well and Michael Holland was left to feel cold and perplexed, battered and bruised, alone on the roof of a derelict building.

CHAPTER TWO

Portofino restaurant, King George Street was a neat, well-to-do establishment with an oft raved rooftop garden. Of the cuisines in Brighton, it was of the finer variety, serving to soothe Holland who was (as was becoming all too frequent) very hung over.

Holland did his best not to show it – it was, after all, a family affair. His parents had stopped through on their way to Dover where they were set to embark on a cruise along the south of France and onward towards Spain and Morocco.

Currently sitting across from him was Holland Sr, an austere man and former surgeon who was built very much how Holland wasn’t, beefy and substantial with all the hallmarks of the rugby player he had been. His mother, a delicate woman, was softly spoken with kind brown eyes akin to Holland’s own. This, as far as anyone could tell, was as far as Holland’s resemblance to his parents went.

‘And you’ve exams coming up?’ asked Holland Sir.

‘In the new year,’ replied Holland.

‘But you are settling in alright?’ his mother fretted. ‘Not finding the workload too difficult?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not too difficult. Manageable I suppose.’

‘Manageable?’ Holland Sir scoffed, forking a piece of ravioli. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘’Well…precisely what I said. Manageable.’

Holland Sir kept his head down, and ate diligently. Holland’s mother sipped from her glass of wine as Holland stared outside. The sky had darkened somewhat, and little could be seen aside from the street lights, haloes of orange like will o’ wisps, if he squinted hard enough. He felt strangely removed from himself, numb. He’d felt that way all week, morose and ineffectual.

Mrs. Holland decided to dispel the awkward air between father and son. ‘I’m sure you’re doing just fine, darling. We only want what’s best, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Holland. His eyes felt glassy, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl away and sleep. ‘It’s all getting along. Ticking along nicely.’

‘It’d better,’ said Holland Sir. ‘Bloody fees up again. I can’t afford to put you through another school, you know.’ He thrust a spool of spaghetti aggressively at his son. ‘You need to focus! Christ, if you’d spent a little less time on those stupid plays, you might just salvage a two one out of this.’

Holland shied away from his father, wondering what to say. Conversations with his parents often went as such – awkward and berating. Holland had developed a sixth sense for detecting them over the years. The best way to handle this, he had found, was to change the flow of the conversation entirely before his father could build any sort of momentum.

‘So, err…how’s Brad doing?’ asked Holland, as jovially as he could muster. Predictably, and just a little sadly, his father perked up at the mention of his other son.

‘Oh, yes,’ beamed Mrs. Holland. ‘Ever so well. He’s been accepted into his training contract, off to London in September.’

‘Good level head, Brad,’ said Holland Sir, approvingly. ‘Always said, level head.’

‘I’ve often found myself reflecting on the levelness of Brad’s head,’ mused Holland. ‘I should send him an e-mail one of these days…’

Though they shared a good relationship, Holland and his brother had always been different. Growing up, Michael had been the one that had excelled, steamrolling through years one to ten, whilst Brad milled in the middle ranks. But somewhere along the way Holland had slipped, and Brad had swept ahead, the glimmer in their parent’s eye. Even so Holland did not begrudge his brother, and in fact felt rather the opposite; the more attention Brad gained, the less his parents would focus on Holland himself. Holland rather hoped his parents would forget him entirely one day.

‘He came up to Oxford last week you know,’ his mother went on. ‘With Delilah, such a sweet girl. Wants to be a surgeon, just like your father.’

‘No,’ said Holland Sir. ‘Not like me. She wants to be an eye surgeon, very different, but,’ added his father, turning to Holland once more, ‘the most important thing is they both have careers. Goals. Know where they’re going in life.’

Oh no, thought Holland. ‘So what do we think of the Euro—’

‘No, listen, Michael,’ said his mother.

Holland looked between them,