Mind Control: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 2) (27 page)

“Don’t worry, I’m going now,” said Lucas as he tried to hold onto his dignity. “The place is filthy, by the way. You should get someone in here to clean up before the scientist I need dies of dysentery.”

Lucas side stepped Hetherington and headed for the door. “Think about my offer, Mr Ransom,” he called back. “It’s the best you’re going to get.”

~

THE BARMAN LOOKED
ill when he walked into the cell. There was a paleness about his skin and a growth of stubble on his chin which had started to blend into the line of his moustache. The blankness remained in his head, but the Russian words looping inside it seemed different. Not just different because they were different words, but different as they repeated, like there was glitches in the recording. Michael wondered how much Hetherington had exerted control over him. When he thought about the control Hetherington had over the kids in the gang back in London, he remembered them being of independent minds most of the time. It was only when he had a deadly job for them to do did he take over completely. The barman looked like he hadn’t been his own man since the moment he had directed Michael upstairs to meet his kidnappers. It was a long time to be separated from his own thoughts and his own willpower.

Michael flinched as he saw the barman was coming for him. He realised his reaction was making him as timid as his father. The barman grabbed his elbow, like before, and dragged him away from the radiator. A flash of memory of the penknife at his throat panicked him and Michael kicked out harder and more desperate than the last time.

“Michael!” shouted Ransom. He reached out for his son, but the shorter chain tugged him back. Michael felt the fleeting touch of his father’s hand on his foot before he was dragged away.

At the full stretch of the chain, the barman stopped; still holding tight to Michael’s struggling body.

“If you kill him, you’ll have to kill me!” Ransom shouted. “I’ll never work for you.”

The barman was oblivious to his pleas. He only had his instructions, instructions in another language that Michael couldn’t understand.

The barman reached into his back pocket and pulled out – not his knife – but a set of keys. Relief spread through Michael’s muscles as he watched the cuff around his wrist being unlocked. Freed from the chain, the barman dragged him all the way to the door.

“What are you doing?” cried Ransom. “Where are you taking him?”

“It’s okay, Dad. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” said Michael. It was a lie, he didn’t know what was going to be done to him, and he knew his father would perceive the lie. But he felt the need to say the words anyway.

In the corridor, he saw a glimpse of light from a door that might lead to the outside, before a cloth was rammed over his face so it blocked his eyes, mouth and nose. He gasped and breathed in a chemical smell like rotting fruit. In that moment, he realised the cloth must be infused with a drug. He struggled, his hands bounced uselessly off the arms of the man holding him, as he tried not to take another breath. Until he could resist it no longer and his hold on consciousness slipped away.

CHAPTER TWENTY–FIVE

RANSOM’S HAND ROCKED
Michael’s shoulder and gently shook him awake.

His eyes opened to see that he was back in the cell with his head lying in his father’s lap. His whole body ached, especially his head, which remained groggy from the drug.

“Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” said Ransom.

“They drugged me. I don’t know. Was I gone long?”

“A few hours.”

Michael tried to remember those hours, but they were lost in the blackness of sleep.

“Sorry to wake you, Michael, but something’s going on.”

“What?” Michael pulled himself up to a sitting position and closed his eyes for a moment to let his vertigo settle. He felt the handcuff locked tight again around his wrist and heard the clink of the chain as he moved. Looking at the room, he saw the cell was the same: mattress, radiator and the toilet bucket moved back to where they could reach it. The only difference was the distant noise of people shouting.

“Do you hear that?” said Ransom. “I can’t perceive them, but I thought maybe you could.”

Michael concentrated on the sound. They were men’s voices – at least two of them, possibly three – shouting in Russian. A younger voice occasionally interjected in English, recognisably that of James Hetherington. Michael focussed his foggy mind on them all. Hetherington had his blocks up – there was no breaking through that wall – but the Russians were norms and therefore easier to crack. He confirmed there were three of them, all angry about something, but the distance meant his perception could only reach their surface thoughts, which were all in their native language.

“They’re angry,” said Michael.

“I can hear that,” said Ransom. “About what?”

Michael tried to push his perception further, but he was already at his limit. “They’re too far away. And they’re thinking in Russian.”

“They’re probably arguing about what to do with us.”

“You don’t know that,” said Michael.

“What use are we to them now? The boy pulled everything from my head, there’s nothing left for him to take.”

“Then accept Lucas’s job offer.”

“Work for the Russians?” said Ransom.

“Better than dying for them.”

Ransom touched Michael’s arm and gestured for him to be quiet. They both listened. The shouting had stopped.

Michael perceived the Russian men. He could still sense their presence, but it was getting fainter. “They’re leaving,” he said.

“We have to get out of here,” said Ransom.

“Yeah.” The single word was not enough to express how much he agreed.

Michael stood and climbed up on the radiator; its ancient cast iron frame robust enough to hold his weight. He hoped to be able to see out of the window, but even on tiptoe, he only managed to get face to face with more blank wall.

Ransom got to his feet, knowing – perhaps
perceiving
– what Michael was up to. “Stand on my shoulders.”

Michael stepped from the radiator to his father’s shoulders. He rested his hand on the wall for support until he stood as tall as the ceiling and easily high enough to look out of the window. What he saw was depressingly deserted. Beyond the wall of the cell was a flat, neglected car park with specs of green where weeds were growing through the cracks. There was a car at the far end which might have been parked, but by the rusty state of it had probably been abandoned. On the other side of a wire fence, waist-high grass swayed in the Moscow breeze.

Michael clambered down again.

“Well?” said Ransom.

“Lucas’s mind was right, looks like we’re in the middle of nowhere. He seemed to think this was in an old industrial area, but if there are any other buildings, then they have to be on the other side. No one’s going to hear us if we shout for help.”

“What else did you see in Lucas’s mind?”

“Nothing very useful. There are a few members of staff who work here, but they’re told to keep well away from this room in case we perceive them. It’s a forty-five minute journey from wherever Lucas’s accommodation is, so we’re not far from civilisation, but unless we can get out of this room …”

“Then we have to get out of this room,” said Ransom.

“Yeah.”

Michael gathered up the chain that secured him to the radiator and pulled hard. The cuff at the end clanged against the cast iron and proved the lock was secure. It was probably easier to gnaw his own arm off than to break through the metal.

He sat back down on the floor and his foot inadvertently kicked the paper plate which had once contained the now-eaten sandwich. It made him think of the barman and his zombied brain.

“There’s one weak link in the chain,” said Michael; excited as a plan formed in his mind. “The man Hetherington controls, the one who unchained me to take me away.”

“I tried to perceive him, but there’s nothing there.”

“The control over him is strong, but I think it might be weakening. I’m not sure if I can break through on my own, but with the two of us we might be able to do it.”

“Then what?” said Ransom. “Persuade him to help us?”

“He’s Russian, he won’t be able to understand us. But we might be able to take control of his mind and re-program him.”

“Perceivers can’t do that.”

“Natural borns like you, maybe not,” said Michael. “But second generation kids like me can. I’ll show you.”

~

MANY HOURS PASSED
before the door handle turned. The gentle click as the latch released from the doorframe alerted Michael and Ransom. They sat up straight.

Ready?
came Ransom’s thought.

Michael nodded silently.

The barman nudged the door open with his toe as he carried in two plastic mugs of water balanced on top of each other and an anaemic sandwich on a paper plate.

Michael searched all of his senses for signs of Hetherington. The boy kept his mind firmly shut, so there was no detecting him with perception and, instead, he had to watch and listen. The only sound was the barman’s boots on the tiled floor. The only view through the open door was the opposite corridor wall. There was no smell in the air which indicated the perfume from Hetherington’s modern toiletries. He was as certain as he could be that Hetherington was nowhere close.

The barman stopped just before the point where Michael’s chain could reach. His mind was as blank as before, with one singular instruction circling in Russian:
karmi ix
. He squatted down and placed the mugs of water in front of him – pushing them over the invisible line so they could be collected by the prisoners.

Now!

At the signal from Michael’s thoughts, he and Ransom plunged their perception into the barman’s mind.

It was like punching air. They stumbled into blankness, they floundered for something to grab hold of and clutched at nothing.

The barman must have been able to feel them because he stopped mid-movement. The sandwich plate was only halfway to being placed on the floor.

Karmi ix
, said his strangled thoughts.

The instruction, planted by Hetherington, was a point of weakness and Michael seized upon it. As he took hold, it buzzed like a bee trapped in a jar and he struggled to contain it. Ransom’s presence was suddenly at his side, bolstering his strength until the instruction was tamed. Michael used his perception to trace the thought from where it had emerged. He burrowed deeper and deeper into the barman’s mind, he pushed at the blankness and forced his way through Hetherington’s mental controls until—

The barman’s mind snapped. Like a balloon popped by a pin, his inner self exploded out from the barriers. Pain and confusion bottled up from days under Hetherington’s control spiralled to the surface in an overwhelming rush. He screamed and fell over backwards, sending the sandwich flying over his shoulder in individual slices of bread and ham.

Michael realised the barman had fallen beyond the reach of the chain, which was a problem if they needed to physically restrain him.

The distraction disrupted Michael’s hold on the man’s mind.

Concentrate
,
Ransom’s thoughts told him.

Michael refocused his energy, which caused the barman to cry out as he touched the tender part where Hetherington had meddled. The man’s brain had been scarred where it had been repeatedly overwritten with Hetherington’s instructions. If Michael was to reprogram him, he would have to press his thoughts into that painful scar.

Us or him
, came Ransom’s thoughts.

Michael pushed away his reticence and conjured up images of the barman reaching for his keys, releasing their handcuffs and escorting them out of the building to freedom. He laid the images on top of the scarred part of his mind, over and over, until they began to stick. Until—

Blackness fell across Michael’s perception. He was thrown out of the barman’s head, with such energy that he was physically knocked backwards and his head slammed against the radiator.

At first, he thought the barman had passed out. But then he saw Hetherington walk through the open doorway and he knew the boy had blocked him.

The barman rolled on the floor moaning to himself.

Red-faced with anger, Hetherington glared at Michael and Ransom. “I don’t believe I argued for you to be kept alive. But they’re right, you’re a liability!”

Hetherington kicked at the pathetic body of the barman curled up on the ground. “Nikolay!” The barman, who now had a name, spasmed as the boy’s shoe hit his spine. Then he stopped groaning, unfurled himself and stood up.

Hetherington must have re-taken control.

So easily.

Realising he was outmatched, Michael felt the sinking feeling of defeat in his stomach. He stood and clasped a length of his chain between his two hands and got ready to wrap it round the neck of anyone who came near him. He would strangle them to death if he had to. Ransom also stood and took up position by his side.

“I’ve had enough of this,” said Hetherington. “Sod Lucas, sod the lot of them!” He nodded to the barman who began walking towards them.

Michael braced himself for whatever was going to come. He might be about to die chained to a radiator, but he was going to go down fighting.

The barman reached into his back pocket, pulled out the handle of his penknife and flicked out the blade.

Ransom stepped forward and put his body between Michael and the knife. “If you want to kill my son, you have to go through me.”

“Dad, stop!”

“I’m the only one who can tell you how to make more perceivers,” Ransom appealed to Hetherington. “Those scientific reports you saw in my head, I understand them. Doctor Lucas knows it. If the Russians want their own perceivers, I’m the best chance you’ve got. You kill
me
and what are they going to do to
you
?”

It was frustratingly impossible to tell if Ransom’s words moved Hetherington at all. His mind was closed behind his outward smile that watched from the safety of the far wall.