The Time Master Read online

  The Time Master

  a novel

  by Dmitry Bilik

  Interworld Network

  Book#1

  Magic Dome Books

  Interworld Network

  Book #1: The Time Master

  Copyright © Dmitry Bilik 2019

  Cover Art © Vladimir Manyukhin 2019

  English translation copyright © Elizabeth S. Yellen, Irene and Neil P. Woodhead 2019

  Editors: Irene and Neil P. Woodhead

  Published by Magic Dome Books, 2019

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 978-80-7619-049-8

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book 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 the shop and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is entirely a work of fiction. Any correlation with real people or events is coincidental.

  An ordinary Russian guy, Sergei picks a fight in his neighborhood, defending a little boy. Problem is, the guy he's just defeated vanishes into thin air, leaving Sergei to discover he now possesses the ability to rewind time.

  On top of that, Sergei can now travel between worlds. He acquires mysterious new skills and abilities. And he discovers there're many others just like him in our world.

  Sergei finds his own place in the secret community of the Seekers - creatures with superpowers. He even teams up with a few of his new buddies, planning to strike gold in one of the neighboring worlds.

  Sergei has no idea that his every step is being watched. He's being shadowed by the Darkest One - one of the oldest Seekers around who'll know no peace until he gets hold of some of Sergei's unique abilities.

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  Table of Contents:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Interlude. A Good Day to Die

  Chapter 1

  MY LEAST FAVORITE things in the world were chicken liver, heartburn, and helping people. No, my parents hadn’t spawned a heartless scumbag. It’s just that I’d rather help someone of my own free will, and not because I’m being manipulated into doing it.

  “Sergei, it won’t take you long. He’s probably gone to the foundation pit,” my neighbor’s words added boiling oil to the cup of my already-heated patience.

  Lydia was only three years older than me, but somehow she made me feel like I was a kid and she was an adult graciously talking down to me. At twenty-eight, she had two kids, a docile husband and her own apartment albeit not in the best of neighborhoods. In contrast, besides nine pairs of oddly colored socks, I owned nothing in particular.

  But that mischief maker known as fate had brought us together on the same floor of an apartment building after my father’s grandmother died. I’d inherited her apartment, breaking free of the parental nest but falling directly into Lydia’s well-organized web. Apparently, the universe was doing its best to maintain equilibrium.

  You’d be hard pressed to call me a pushover. At no time would I have a girl order me around. I always made that much perfectly clear. Yet I’d somehow missed that opportunity with Lydia. I once helped her carry her stroller downstairs — you know, as a neighborly thing to do. Then one time when I went to the store, I picked up some yogurt while I was there. After that, there was no stopping her.

  I should probably mention that Lydia was smart. She never crossed the line with her many errands, but she could occasionally knock you off balance, like today. Her quests came with the label “legendary” and forced you to work up a major sweat.

  “The foundation pit? OK, I’ll check if he’s there,” I said with a nod, reaching for my cigarettes.

  Her window immediately banged shut. I couldn’t blame her: she didn’t want her newborn baby to catch a cold. I heaved a heavy sigh and threw on my hood.

  “I see that our young man is helping out the needier families?” an old man in a ski cap inscribed “Sport” observed snidely from his perch on the bench by the entrance.

  I smiled. I liked Mr. Petrov. The old fellow was a local institution. He was a professor who’d once taught the history of the Communist Party[1], but who’d failed to change his ideas in time. When the country had gone through perestroika, Mr. Petrov was left behind. Eventually he developed a taste for the demon drink and lost the battle for good. He was supported by his wife, a hardy, permanently angry woman for whom her hubby had become something like a suitcase that had lost its handle: it was hard to drag around, but it would still be a shame to discard it.

  “Something like that,” I replied. “Her husband is away overnight and her little Boris went for a walk. He was supposed to be home a half hour ago. Apparently, he’s gone to the foundation pit. I’m on my way to the store anyway, so I volunteered to go see where he’s hiding.”

  “The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” Mr. Petrov said sagely.

  “Oh, I know that. What are you doing hanging around here? You’re gonna catch your death of cold.”

  “Waiting for a buddy. We’ve decided to hold a symposium[2], the two of us. Give me a cigarette, will you? It’s not for me — my friend is the one who smokes. I always tell him it’s bad for him, but he’ll hear nothing of it.”

  I smirked and gave him a cigarette, then walked away from the entrance and lit up myself. I took a couple of drags and fell to thinking, listening to the crackling of cigarette paper and dry tobacco.

  The foundation pit, huh?

  It was right across the street fro
m the local supermarket where I was heading. At one point, an ambitious development company had decided to build a modern, attractive multistory building in our backwater. It had bought out a bunch of private homes, surveyed the land and began to excavate a foundation pit. But something hadn’t panned out on their end. More precisely, something literally flamed out: one night, their office downtown caught fire. Perhaps competitors were to blame, or a short-circuit, or maybe a combination of the two. So the company had vanished into oblivion, leaving behind nothing but a foundation pit.

  You can guess who immediately took a liking to this local monument. It's true that every man is a former kid — but the kids from our neighborhood did everything they could in order to stay at that tender age forever. And any half-destroyed or half-built property in the vicinity seemed to help their cause.

  Very well, I’d have to stop by the foundation pit on the way home from the store. Boris was a good kid, if somewhat mischievous. God forbid something happen to him.

  The supermarket was on the first floor of a five-story building, well off the beaten path. Next to it was the ring road, followed by lane after lane of dilapidated log huts echoing with guard dogs’ indistinct, sad barking and filling the air with the woody scent of heated bathhouses.

  I had time to smoke two cigarettes before I reached the shop entrance. Inside, some kids were jostling each other by the vending machine.

  “Hey, guys, have you seen Boris from number 8?”

  One of the kids raised his head in obvious resentment. “Boris? Boris Korshunov?”

  “Yes, Korshunov. His mom’s looking for him.”

  “No, haven’t seen him.”

  Shit. Now I’d need to cross that street and get myself over to the foundation pit. There was only one streetlight there, and it only illuminated part of the pit. At least I had a flashlight on my phone.

  I wandered through the aisles tossing simple food into my basket: some sausages, three bottles of beer, a packet of macaroni and a bottle of mayo. As I approached the register, I stopped by the stand holding the deodorant. I did need some; I was almost out. That took care of it.

  It had gotten cold outside. I raised my hood and shifted the flimsy plastic grocery bag so it was more comfortable to hold, then set off for the edge of our world.

  Before crossing the street heaving with heavy-duty traffic, I looked both ways a few times. This was a place where you needed to teach kids the rules of the road, under conditions that were, shall we say, reminiscent of war. I managed to get across without any mishaps and heaved a sigh.

  The streetlight flickered hostilely in unison with my thoughts and blew out. Great.

  I turned on the flashlight on my phone but predictably, I couldn’t see more than five yards in front of me. I tried to peer through the dark for a while, but nothing useful came of that.

  I swore and put away my useless phone. “Boris! Boris!”

  The last thing I wanted to do was climb down into the pit on the slippery frozen ground. I was tempted to give the whole mission a miss and head off home. I mean, really, was I ultimately responsible for other people’s brats? Just do a better job raising your kids and don’t hassle your helpful neighbors.

  It was warm and cozy at home right now. I could go home, cook some macaroni and sausage, turn on a TV show, and enjoy it all with a beer.

  “I’m over here!”

  Damn it. I’d planned it all out so nicely in my head. “Boris, where are you?”

  As if! Now the kid was silent. I had a feeling that today I’d need to personally take care of his upbringing and give him a good taste of paternal tough love.

  With a technique that would have put Cirque du Soleil to shame, I started to lower myself into the pit, scattering hard pieces of frozen clay with my feet. In one outstretched hand I held my lighter, and in the other, the bag with the clinking bottles. All I needed was a tightrope and an audience.

  Which I apparently had. Someone was watching my clumsy descent — that became clear when I was halfway down. That’s when I finally made out two figures on the bottom of the foundation pit: Boris and a guy I didn’t know standing next to him.

  Oh great. A Pedobear was the last thing I needed. Considering that at no time was I a fighter, and my adversary had more girth on his side, things could turn unpleasant.

  “Hey, what’s going on, man?” I shouted, trying not to betray my anxiety.

  No answer. The kiddo was silent, too. They just stood there looking at each other without moving a muscle.

  I kind of wanted someone to jump out and yell, “Surprise!” No such luck.

  So I took a few steps forward. “Dude, don’t make me do something I’ll regret.”

  I stumbled but managed to stay on my feet. The bottles jangled plaintively, but even that didn’t provoke a reaction.

  I guess I was going to have to sort him out, after all. I squeezed the lighter, placed the grocery bag on the ground, and strode toward the stranger who apparently enjoyed chatting up kids at night.

  Only then did I notice the guy’s odd clothing. He was wearing a long cloak devoid of any labels or designs. The hood was over his head.

  Well, terrific. Good job, Sergei, now you’re going to meet a cult follower. And the night had started off so well...

  “Man, get away from the kid,” I uttered an idle threat, my arm already drawn back to punch him.

  My father had never taught me to fight — his thinking was that a smart man could always reach an agreement. But his best friend, Uncle Denis, disagreed. He’d made sure I threw a decent punch, and his opinions on the matter were far more straightforward. As in: if there’s a fight in the air, go for it, and then afterward you can sort out who was right and wrong. That’s not to say that I often made use of this maxim, but it was much more in line with my own philosophy.

  Somehow, it looked like the man in the cloak must have had his own Uncle Denis because he turned sharply and thrust out his hand.

  He didn’t hit me but I could feel some sort of force coursing through his fingers. My body flew several yards like a defenseless rag doll. I landed on my back on my ill-fated grocery bag. Judging by the sound, the packet of macaroni had split. The bottles clanked but at least they didn’t break. The stick of deodorant bumped up against my side.

  I grunted. What was that? All I knew was that I was in pain. My spine wasn’t the strongest part of my body: because of my line of work, I constantly needed to massage the small of my back so it wouldn’t ache.

  It took my angst-ridden brain a couple of seconds to realize that I’d gone flying even though no one had touched me.

  It was unlikely that the approaching stranger was a Jedi. I didn’t see a light saber. Well, maybe not yet. In any case, he was obviously a master of telekinesis.

  I would have liked to know what the hell was going on, but I now acted on the most ancient instinct, putting everything else on the back burner.

  I tried to use my free right arm to lean on the ground so I could get up. That didn’t work: first I slipped over a bottle, then over the scattered macaroni, and then bumped up against the stick of deodorant.

  Then I had an idea. I wouldn’t say it was a bright one, but it wasn’t bad. The stick of deodorant was in my right hand with its cap flown off; the lighter was in my left hand, and the approaching adversary was only a couple yards away.

  I held the deodorant in front of me, catching a whiff of its rank scent (I’d missed the mark this time — I made a mental note to buy something else next time), and struck the lighter in front of it. I may not be a master of telekinesis, but we all have our fireballs.

  For a moment, the place was flooded with light. I managed to discern the garbage-strewn foundation pit, Boris’ frightened face, and the stranger’s cloak which was being licked by the flames. Biting my lip and trying to ignore the pain, I hurled my improvised lifesavers aside and leaned my arms on the ground.

  I stood up with the speed of a pregnant Seychelles tortoise and threw myself at the assai
lant. He was still swatting his smoking hood, so he couldn’t respond adequately. He swung his arms wildly and punched, attempting what’s called a one-shot.

  Never in my life had I been known for my heroic strength, but I managed to land a hook that was a work of art. I heard an unpleasant cracking sound as the stranger fell to the ground. Or maybe the opposite: first he fell, and then I heard a loud crack.

  I stood for a few seconds with my fists raised, ready to punch some more if needed, but the Satanist guy lay there motionless showing no intention of standing up.

  “Is he OK?” Boris spoke up.

  I shrugged. “Probably.”

  I took my time going over to him, and carefully checked his pulse. I felt pretty arrogant as I did this because I’d breezed through all the health and safety training classes in school. I touched his wrist and then his neck. I thought I felt something, but it could have also been my own heartbeat.