Chapter Twenty-Four

Rumours have reached us that a large number of Indian telepaths have attempted to defect to the US and Britain following an official decision of the Indian Government that all telepaths are to be drafted into an Indian version of the Telepath Corps. The news follows rioting in several Indian cities against lower-caste telepaths, including a handful of untouchables who have revolted against the superior castes. There has been no official statement from the White House or Downing Street...

-AP News Report, 2015

“I feel,” Alice subvocalised, “like a bloody whore!”

It was the fourth day she’d worked at Paddy’s Pub – a warehouse that had been purchased by an immigrant and turned into a drinking den. Paddy, a man who was clearly proud of his roots, had filled the entire room with Irish pictures and decorations, while insisting that his bar maids wore green uniforms that showed off most of their bodies. It was about as authentic as some of the ‘genuine’ Native American artefacts she’d seen sold to gullible tourists, but few of the clientele seemed to care. Paddy, by accident or design, had started his business on a borderline between two of New York’s gangs and the pub served as neutral ground.

She’d expected that Paddy would demand references and proof that she had a right to work in America, but instead she’d just been handed a uniform and told to put it on, before reporting for her first shift. Paddy, it seemed, had no intention of either reporting his takings to the IRS or paying his bar maids anything like a living wage. The other girls, who ranged from sixteen to twenty-seven, were all hopeless, their lives destroyed by drink, drugs and the sheer drudgery of their day to day existence. It was a side of America that Alice had never really believed existed until she’d seen it, the perfect place for a rogue telepath to hide.

“And you look like one too,” Art sent back. He was waiting in an unmarked van, two blocks away from Paddy’s Pub. They’d chosen not to involve the NYPD any more than strictly necessary, if only because the various gang leaders and criminal masterminds in the area would probably have their own hooks into the department. “I thought that that was the point.”

Alice wanted to scowl, but she kept smiling at a sailor who was beckoning her over to sit on his lap. The CIA wasn’t the most woman-friendly organisation in the United States, yet nothing she’d endured at Langley – including the suggestion that she was too young and inexperienced to be trusted with a proper position – was anything like what she’d gone through in a few hours at Paddy’s Pub. Her bottom had been fondled or pinched more times than she could count, her breasts had been groped several times – at least she’d been able to slap the gropers, to general hilarity – and she’d been propositioned at least five times an hour. It was easy to see why. The other girls, all of whom needed the money desperately, would be happy to do anything for cash. She’d heard a sixteen-year-old talking quite openly about giving up her ass for money, telling her co-workers about a man who was prepared to pay her a hundred dollars for anal sex. Alice knew that the girl wouldn’t last long. By twenty, she’d be worn out and heading for the gutter.

Art’s idea had been simple enough. The FBI had managed to identify several of the mind controller’s victims and most of them had one thing in common. They were young and they were blonde, just like Alice. If the mind controller liked coming into Paddy’s Pub and trawling for girls, he would see Alice and be tempted to use his powers on her. Alice had reluctantly allowed Art to place a handful of mental blocks in her mind – hopefully preventing the mind controller from peeking and realising that it was a trap – but she knew that the whole plan hinged on a long shot. The mind controller could be halfway to Australia by now.

She pushed her doubts aside as she felt a hand start crawling up between her legs. Quite calmly, she stepped forward and left the groper behind. She wanted to draw her hidden weapon and put a bullet through his head, but that would have solved nothing. If the man had decided to make a fuss, the bouncers would have tossed him out on his ass. They were the only thing between Paddy’s Pub and complete anarchy. Picking up a handful of empty glasses, she carried them towards the rear of the pub and into the kitchens. It, like the flat that had housed the mind controller, would never pass a health inspection. She had already resolved not to eat anything produced in the kitchens. The staff, underpaid illegal immigrants from China or Mexico, took the glasses from her and waved her towards the restroom. Alice was tempted, but she didn’t like the restroom, not when half the staff were shooting up and the other half were smoking themselves to death. Besides, it was all part of the Blonde Princess act. The mind controller would get off on the thought that he might be the first to score with her.

The thought was unpleasant, but it had to be faced. The FBI had attempted to profile the mind controller from his apartment and while most of their conclusions had been obvious – they’d stated that he liked women, which was clear from the clothes in his apartment – they had made a number of good insights. Or so Alice hoped. She had very little faith in professional profilers. They sometimes made bad mistakes and, because they were taken seriously, others got hurt in the crossfire. They’d claimed that he liked to take women who would normally have been completely out of his league, ones that others in his circle would never be able to touch. By acting as if she would never give herself to anyone, Alice should have made herself a target – or so the theory ran. If they were wrong...she didn’t intend to stay here forever. One more week and then she would leave, blowing the whistle on Paddy and his Pub afterwards. The NYPD could raid it and perhaps give the girls a chance of a better future.

She stepped back into the main bar and was instantly assailed by deafening heavy metal music as some of the girls got up on stage. Alice had flatly refused to dance on stage when Paddy had asked and he hadn’t pressed the issue, much to her surprise. Or maybe it wasn’t such a surprise after all. Paddy had more girls willing to strip naked on stage than he had places, so he might be happy to leave her as a barmaid. Besides, if she ever did weaken, he’d be able to charge extra for her first show. She took one look at the girls, shivering at the thought of ending up like them, and then turned back to her job. There was a tray of beers that had to be taken to a table...

Alice froze. Just for a second, she had felt someone touch her mind. She looked up and saw a hooded man standing in the shadows at the edge of the room. It took everything she had to pick up the tray and walk towards the table, already aware that the mind controller was starting to slip into her mind. She prayed silently that the mental blocks would hold. If they didn’t hold, she would be exposed. The mind controller might tip Paddy off before Alice could escape or call for backup. She keyed the hidden signal in her dress – sending an alert to Art – and then started to unload her tray. Strangely, none of the men at the table – all gang members spoiling for trouble – attempted to grope her. Once she had finished unloading her tray, her body moved of its own accord, heading for the person in the shadows. If it hadn’t been for the mental blocks, she realised, she would never have known that something was wrong.

Up close, there was nothing strange about the mind controller, apart from a gaunt face and piercing eyes. Alice felt her body shiver under his gaze, turning and walking out of the door and into the cold night air. She was aware that he was following her, yet she couldn’t turn her head or break out of his control. Her body was moving against her will, swinging her hips in a saucy manner she had never used before, even with her first boyfriend. She hoped that Art was following them and would be in position to intervene soon.

Her treacherous body stepped into a building and up a flight of stairs she’d never seen before. She guessed, as the mind controller moved ahead of her, that he’d already secured a new apartment, either by paying cash or simply using his powers on the owner. It was definitely a nicer apartment than the previous one, but somehow she doubted that she would have time to admire it. He walked past her, threw himself onto a chair and turned his gaze on her body. Slowly, her hands moving against her will, she started to play with herself. One hand started to stroke her breasts; the other reached down into her panties, provoking a strange response from her body. She was surprised that she wasn’t panicking, although she guessed that he was using his powers to keep her calm. At least he didn’t seem to get off on terror and fear.

The thought was no consolation. Her hands were already removing her top and revealing her breasts to his hungry eyes. A moment later, she started to inch her pants down. She saw the bulge in his pants and shivered. If Art didn’t come quickly, she was going to be forced to go all the way with him. And yet she still could not panic.

***

Art had watched in astonishment and dismay as Alice walked out of the club, followed by a man wearing a hood. The mental feel of the mind controller had been shocking. It was clear that most of his development had followed a very different course to any other known telepath, as his mind seemed completely chaotic. He was also very dangerous, not least because he wasn’t entirely sane. Art followed him at a distance, relying on his own powers to keep him hidden from view. He didn’t even dare draw his pistol and shoot the mind controller in the head. The spark of emotion might have tipped the bastard off.

He took a moment to fall back as Alice was forced to enter another apartment block, almost indistinguishable from his previous house. He guessed that everyone within the building had been programmed to serve as the mind controller’s guards – if not his servants – after he’d lost the previous apartment, which meant that they might alert his target. The door slammed closed and Art held himself back for a few moments, just to allow the mind controller to reach his apartment, before pulling out a lockpick he’d used in Afghanistan. The apartment locks yielded easily to his pressure and the door opened, allowing him entry. He pulled a small terminal out of his pocket and checked on Alice’s signal. Art had been careful not to tell her that she had been carrying a transponder as well as a radio. What she didn’t know couldn’t be read from her mind.

The terminal said that she was upstairs, so he followed her, opening his mind as far as he dared. There were faint traces that suggested that there were others in the building, but no one waiting in ambush. He reached for his pistol and checked it quickly, before pausing in front of the mind controller’s door. The sign on the front read ZELLER, which made him jump. Was it a coincidence, a joke or a sign of a genuine connection? Professor Zeller was still in a coma, according to the latest report from the Telepath Corps. All attempts to probe his mind had been useless, of course. Whatever perversion of telepathic talent he had that made peeking into his head impossible had doomed him to remain in a coma. No telepathic mind healer could help him return to himself.

Art listened carefully, wondering just what was going on. He could hear the sound of someone breathing deeply, a harsh masculine sound. It dawned on him that his caution might have led to Alice being forced into sex, just as so many other victims had suffered. Angrily, throwing caution to the winds, he kicked the flimsy door and it shattered. Inside, a naked Alice was performing a seductive dance, while the mind controller was sitting on a chair, playing with himself. Art hesitated, just for a second. It was almost too late.

FREEZE! The mental command blasted into his skull. It hurt, sending unpleasant tendrils of pain running through his mind. A non-telepath would have frozen, unable to move, perhaps even unable to think. Even a telepath who had skirmished with other telepaths found it hard to move, but then none of the drills the Telepath Corps had carried out had risked serious damage. Art realised, as the pressure on his head swelled into a hellish nightmare, that even a victorious skirmish might leave him with serious mental damage. The thought was paralysing, far worse than wounds he might have suffered on Afghanistan’s plains. He could have taken the thought of losing a leg, or an arm, but not his mind.

He’s pushing at you, idiot, Art thought to himself. The mental battle was taking place within his skull. He pushed back hard, reaching out with his own talent to slash into the mind controller’s mind. A name – an insistence of identity – flickered through his skull. The mind controller was called Henry. There was no hint of a surname. Henry’s thoughts and feelings – his surprise and rage at being violated – raged back at him, daring him to keep pushing into his mind. Memories flared open...

...He was lying on the ground, his chest hurting from the beating. An overweight man was staring down at him, slowly returning his belt to his waist. The young man was in so much pain, yet he didn’t dare cry out, knowing that it would merely mean another beating...

Art winced. Henry was fighting back, hacking away at Art’s own memories. For someone who had never encountered another telepath, he seemed to understand mental combat far better than Art. But then, Art had never fought another telepath to the death...

...The Drill Sergeant is laughing at the clumsy recruit; the other recruits are laughing. The entire Marine Corps is laughing at Little Art, who cannot fight, or fuck, or shoot straight. The merest exercise is impossible for him; guns shatter in his hands, he cannot bring himself to fight the foe, even on training grounds. When he is dismissed, it is almost with relief. He was never cut out to be a Marine.

Art felt cold anger flaring through him. It hadn’t been that way at all. His anger gave him new strength and he pushed back, allowing his anger to slash deep into his foe’s mind...

...The woman is laughing at the skinny young boy. Why would she want to go out with him, let alone allow him to share the pleasures of her body? Her boyfriend comes over and beats the skinny boy up, laughing at him for daring to even think of touching his girl. The pain and rage flare up within him and lash out, ripping the jock’s mind apart. For the first time, the boy has touched the power he possesses and loves it...

...One girl, a dozen girls, a hundred girls, so many that even he loses count. The girls who rejected him when he was a powerless youth go first, compelled into his bed and made to perform shameful acts. Later, when he leaves school and flees into the underground, there are others, girls who can give him money as well as sex. He’s a simple man. All he wants is money and sex. Even when he first hears of telepaths, other telepaths, it never occurs to him to draw a link between his gift and theirs. He is special...

Art felt a vein pounding away in his forehead. It was stalemate. He couldn’t dislodge his opponent and his opponent couldn’t dislodge him. He’d fucked up, part of his mind reminded him; the battle would be decided by endurance and the winner would be the one who collapsed last. Except that even the deadly embrace would leave him with mental damage...he couldn’t retreat and he couldn’t advance. A moment later, the fight ended suddenly.

He opened his eyes in disbelief. Alice had knocked the mind controller – Henry, he reminded himself – out with a bottle she’d found on the side table. The grip that had threatened to overwhelm and destroy his mind vanished, leaving him spinning dizzily. He finally collapsed to the floor, stunned. The pain, perversely, helped him to focus. A moment later, he was aware of strong arms rolling him over and warm lips pressed against his. With their touch, there came an awareness of identity. Alice was kissing him.

“You’re an angel,” he said. She was still naked, save for her socks. He knew that there was a problem, but he couldn’t comprehend it, not with his head still spinning. “You saved my life.”

“You cut it very fine,” Alice countered, grimly. She sounded shaken. Art tried to reach for her mind, but all he felt was a roaring pain at the back of his head. “A few moments later and...”

She shuddered. “But he’s out of it now,” she said. “That mad plan of yours worked.”

“Good,” Art said. Every word was an effort, but at least he could think. Maybe there was no permanent damage after all. “Call it in; get someone to come take him off our hands and shoot him with sleepers. We need him secure before...”

The darkness rushed up suddenly and bore him away into nightmares.