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Archive-name: Book15.txt
Archive-author: Blackie
Archive-title: "By the Book"
Part 15 of 20
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Copyright (c) 1993, Oogle Bird Enterprises.
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The woman on the bed was Edda. No, not really, but similar enough to
be a twin.

There was the long golden hair in a braid, down to her waist. Her eyes
sparkled with the same happy fire. Her fingers moved with the a
skillful grace as her hand covered her open and surprised lips.

He could feel her thought tendrils trying to grab him. She was trying
to make him see how important it was to free her. But she couldn't
see, couldn't know. Her best chance for escape was not from
controlling him.

She was startled again. Her probe for control was thrust aside like so
many spiderwebs, a fragile gossamer set of threads.

He explored her mind with the far more practiced skill he brought with
him.

She was unhappy. The strange men in their lab coats had spent the
first few days of her stay poking and prodding, taking blood samples,
and a battery of physical exams. She'd been kidnapped bodily from the
middle of the grocery store.

When they got her here they kept asking her about how she'd learned to
read minds. She knew they'd used drugs, but she had no idea what kind.
Only, now and then they gave her something to make her feel good.

She was told they found her because of all the poor folk she'd helped.
She helped some homeless people recover from bizarre little problems.
She couldn't know the homeless people she'd been helping were
considered hopeless but functional cases. Released because of the lack
of room and probability they'd never change. They started turning up
recovered, started finding jobs, living more happy, content lives.
The Institute began looking for the common factor. The common factor,
one fairly ordinary housewife with a penchant for being present at the
time they began to recover.

Every day they'd tried to coerce her to reveal something about how her
talent worked. Every day she tried to tell them, but couldn't. Every
day was the same, trapped here in this comfortable prison.

They hadn't come today, but now this nice almost white haired, bronze
hued man was here, and he didn't have one of those nasty noise makers
to keep her out of his mind. But...

He made her sleep.

====

Jorge came to New York to see the City. He was excited to find a new
pool of resources for his fun.

He'd spotted a short but well stacked woman on sixth avenue. Her face
was fairly ordinary, but the legs and her shape, oh my.

As he was following her uptown along Sixth Avenue, strange the way
New Yorkers referred to north as uptown and south as downtown, a
strange thing happened.

Some crazy driver turned his white mustang south onto Sixth. He was
zipping along too, in heavy traffic. All, of course, going uptown but
him. For the first two blocks he weaved in and out of the oncoming
vehicles, but then he bumped up the curb onto the sidewalk.

The next two blocks the car was on the sidewalk.

Jorge and the woman he'd been following were walking in that last two
blocks. He managed to pull her aside, watching two interesting events
springing from the silly stunt with the car.

First was the cop on the sidewalk trying to stop the car by his
physical presence. Astonishingly, he'd tried to impose himself in the
path of the oncoming vehicle. At the last moment he seemed to decide
it wasn't worth his life to try ticketing the determined kid behind
the wheel. He dove aside.

Second was the passengers in the car, except for one of them the four
kids along for the ride were having a great time. One of them in the
back seat looked for all the world as thought the world was after him
specifically. He had the frightened look of someone in the paranoid
stages of pot.

The cop was face down, and looked angry. The on the street it had found.

Jorge smiled. These things seemed to happen more often in New York.

He took the woman to her home.

She rewarded his heroism at assisting her avoid the little event of
insanity in her otherwise normal world, by offering him coffee. He
decided the coffee wasn't enough.

Alicia, her name, started dancing for him, taking off her clothing,
one button at a time. She was small and wiry. But her tits were large
for her figure. The clothing dropped one by one, into a neat pile
beside her.

His cock plunged into her tuft of hair and flesh in her groin, and he
felt a relief at the normalcy involved with this violation of her
body. He enjoyed the power he had over her, making her orgasm several
times while he rode her.

He could feel, as often before, the tightening muscles of cunt, trying
to grip him tightly. But not as tightly as he'd like tonight. So he
rolled her over, and took her other hole. She screamed at first about
not doing it, about how disgusting he was being, and how it would
hurt.

But as he knew, it took but a few moments to change her mind, and soon
she enjoyed it too.

After he finished his own pleasure, filling her with his semen, he
changed her to become sexually desperate for his attention. Then he
enjoyed having her do things for him. Like make dinner in the nude,
sit at his feet, sucking his cock while he watched a Kolchak the
Night Stalker movie on channel 9.

He gave her orgasms as she walked about, cleaning up dinner, and even
just changing the channels on the TV. If he took it into his head to
do so, he simply forced another jolt of sexual release through her
body. It was fun to watch as she stood naked before the front window,
knowing anyone could see.

He loved watching her total helplessness, listening to her beg him to
give her a break, then beg for the spasmotic orgasm she could feel
coming.

About the time he got dressed again, a key opened the front door. In
walked a man, in jeans and sneakers, wearing a turtleneck sweater.

For a moment they stared at each other. They stared because they'd
both made a cursory attempt to spin a web of control over each other.

The man looked at Alisia, who was presently on the floor of the living
room, jolting through another rending and frantic coming. Her body was
thrashing about with the pleasure, and her sweat was pouring out as
she moved.

"I see you've had Alisia."

"Yes, but women are easy targets. I had no idea anyone else had the
talent."

"There are a number of us here in the States."

"Really?"

"We do have something of a working group. There's a long history of
our, er, cooperative." Alisia finished her pummelling orgasm and looked
at the two men with a certain anxiety.

"Why don't you go get dressed slut," said Jorge. She hurried off to do
his bidding.

"Yes, well I'm not too upset about you using my slave, but in the
future, it would be well to check for influences other than your own.
At least if you want to stay in America."

"I can agree to that. There's plenty of women available here."

"One more little thing. Watch out for other people with the Voice.
Not all of them are tolerant of strangers."

"Might have guessed, in fact I would think it was the norm." Jorge
said. Jorge started towards the door.

"We should talk about the Cabal before you go."

"Cabal? What is the 'Cabal'?"

"A group of telepaths who have banded together. We mostly try to
ensure that telepaths keep their fingers out of politics. The last
time we failed to catch someone manipulating the economic and
political arena in this country was in the '50s."

"Why should any telepath care?"

"Visibility could bring on a witch hunt. None of us want some morons
trying to mob us, or worse, ending up in a lab somewhere, being
dissected for science."

"I hadn't thought the possibility significant."

The other man laughed aloud. Alisia came back, dressed in a sexy tight
black evening gown. Her makeup had been refreshed, and she just about
leeched onto Jorge's side. He was somewhat embarrassed, being caught
sampling another man's woman like a thief.

"He wants me back, love. Don't let him served her purpose." replied Jorge.
She shuddered, thinking how much of a slave she'd become.

"You think about the Cabal," he handed Jorge a card. "If you're
interested, give this number a call. If not, be warned to stay out of
trouble. We won't tolerate anyone threatening our safety."

Jorge left, peeling the slave he'd possessed from his side. She became
fearful, perhaps panicky as she was handed over to the other man. She
calmed quickly though in the man's arms. The door shut smoothly
behind him. Soon she would never want to leave the man Jorge had
spoken with. She had no Voice, and that made her no more than
property to them.

A week later he called the number.

====

Jorge tried to open the door to the hall again. No luck, it was now
locked.

He went to the window, but dozens of guards were working the grounds,
in some cases beating the bushes. He chuckled to himself, wondering if
they'd found his earlier handiwork.

Looking around, he realized the room was sealed tightly. The air vents
were far to small for even a cat to slip out, unlike nearly every
movie he'd ever seen. This didn't stymie him immediately.

He began a systematic search of the room for a tool to pry the door
open. He move the Edda look alike aside and took the bed apart. Using
a bar of metal formerly a support in the bed, he began attacking the
door.

He noticed his head was getting a bit fuzzy. When he looked around,
he realized how easily they could gas the room. There must be
microphones in here somewhere. He was not free. Too late now. It's
over.

He was sleeping.

====

Bob finished sharing his pleasure with Miki some time before.

He made a decision, that for Bob, was quite courageous. This
establishment had to be dismantled to ensure his safety. Every record
they had about him would be destroyed before he left. He wasn't going
to be a hunted animal for the rest of his life.

He developed resolve sitting there in their hiding place.

=======
                          _Reviewers_

Jorge had been a member of the Cabal for three months when he started 
to see changes in himself. 

At first the thought crossed his mind another Cabal member had been
meddling in his mind. He dropped the idea when he realized the
thought wouldn't have struck him if it was true. 

He kept asking many questions about the Cabal. Nothing about where
they'd come from, but what they did. He got some pretty boring
answers back from his contact.

Mostly, the Cabal did nothing.

One day a summons came. The Cabal invited him, perhaps ordered him,
to attend a meeting. It would be in the Catskills in New York at a
one time hunting lodge. He was expected to attend.

He felt like a gangster. 

Pine trees surrounded the lodge. It was an old building from the time 
of Prohibition. Seeing all the limos and the uniformed drivers made 
him feel even more as though he was at a gangster meet. He must've 
been the only one to show up without limo or driver. 

There were guards too. Only those who could control minds could get
in. Anyone else would be turned back.

There were only a dozen or so people present. The man he'd met in New
York was absent. A third were women. He hadn't expected any women at
all. Preconceptions about the demographics of the mind control
talented hadn't led him to believe there would be any women at all.

There was one notable man, standing out from the rest.

The man was in a gray pair of slacks and a brown sports jacket,
patched at the elbows. His eyes sunken, as though he didn't sleep,
hidden behind wire rimmed glasses, and his hair a tossled gray-black.
Cleanshaven, the fellow carried himself as though this was simply an
entertaining exercise. He spoke to no one, and there was a
conspicuous area around him no one else walked into. 

Jorge got a drink, gin and tonic, and walked towards the unusual 
member. He didn't make it before a thin, wispish man, with an 
unidentifiable accent announced everyone was present. The meeting 
would begin immediately in the next room.

====

The room was a sunken amphitheater. Seating was on carpeted tiers
with a space in the middle for speakers. The wispish guy was
standing there, waiting for everyone to settle in. Behind him was an
exi year since our last meeting. While there are no real 
changes to announce..."

"There never is." A woman in red, holding a tall glass of something 
white was the source of this interjection. The wispish fellow stared 
in rebuke for a moment, then continued.

"We need to reaffirm the leadership positions. And there is one 
piece of new business."

He turned towards Jorge. Everyone looked his direction. The tall Dane
felt self conscious for the first time since acquiring the talent.
The feeling was somewhat foreign to him now, yet he knew he was on
the spot.

"Mr. Dansen is a new member. Unlike most new Voices, he is curious
about us, rather than fearful, the preferred response." A light 
chuckle passed through the gathered men and women.

"The Inquisitor," with this, the man nodded at the fellow in the brown
sports jacket, "requested he be invited. Any new blood we get willing
to participate in our activities is worth investigating. Please step
down here Mr. Dansen."

Jorge summoned his own reserves and stepped out where everyone could
see him. The looks he got were curious, but not interested in him.
They seemed concerned about whether he was a threat. He could sense
mind probes being aborted, it wasn't considered proper to probe
another member.

The man identified as Inquisitor also stepped down to the middle
joining the master of ceremonies and Jorge.

"Unless someone thinks we need to replace the Inquisitor...?," a
paused followed. "Fine," he lowered his voice. "Jorge, please go with
the Inquisitor. We're just curious because you've asked so many
questions. Everything will be fine. Just get along now.

"Okay, other business. Anyone want the job of High Senate Speaker?
Speak up, I've been doing this too long already..."

There was laughter as Jorge was drawn away by the Inquisitor. The
sounds of a beginning debate were murmurs of discussion, not the
heated rancor he was accustomed to from small political bodies.

Jorge found himself led out the nearby door. The curtains were drawn 
behind, then the door closed. The spectacled gentleman led him to a 
room with a pool table, soft red velvet chairs all around.

"Rack 'em. We may as well play as we speak. Eight ball." The man took
his jacket off, setting it carefully across one of the chairs. "I'm
Charles. I have the responsibility of policing for the Cabal."

"Am I in some kind of trouble?," asked Jorge. He looked about for 
another exit, but ended up finding the rack and a cue stick. The balls
fit neatly into the rack.

"No, nothing like that. But we rarely get new members who are
interested in what goes on in the Cabal. Our real purpose is to
minimize the threat a rogue Voice may represent." He broke, balls
rolling slowly to a halt around the table.

"Rogue voice?" Jorge sank a solid, tried to line up another shot only 
to have the cue ball drop.

"Some idiot who draws attention to the rest of us."

"Is this a frequent threat?" 

"No, since the rogue is likely to be poorly practiced, and real 
obvious about how he makes trouble. We even know there are a lot of 
Voices out there we can't find, simply because they just don't have 
the ambition to make the kind of waves we worry about. We don't care 
about them." Charles stood, holding the cue ball as though it might 
escape too.

"You worried about me though?"

"Nope. You've been at it a while from what I understand. No. In your 
case, I'm recruiting."

Jorge looked at Charles, seeking deceit. He dared not probe, no
telling what could happen. He stepped back and lowered his head,
forcing his eyes to peer at his host through the visible hairs of his
eyebrows.

"You'd be recruiting to help catch anyone breaking Cabal rules?"

"You may have figured out by now there aren't exactly rules so much as
an expected behavior. Mostly a reasonable level of caution to probe you
anyway, since you've met most of the leadership now."

"Really?"

"Not because you're dangerous, but because you're so new, yet so 
experienced we don't know what to make of you. You ready?"

"Okay, but I'm not happy about this..."

The onslaught began. The two men slashed probes out, battering each
other's advances aside. The spear like thrusts of one would be met by
a wall like barrier of the other. Jorge staggered under one slamming
hammer blow, only to deal out a sledge hammer stroke in return. Then
the attacks drew on images of animals wrestling with each other,
great tigers, lions, and monstrous creatures of the imagination. The
battering seemed to Jorge to last immeasurably long.

The clatter of a dropped cue stick passed quickly, nothing changed by 
the event.

Soon the two were nearly kneeling, sweating from the invisible
struggle, which sapped strength with psychic blows of enormous
proportions. Neither had penetrated the other's defenses when Charles
held up a hand.

"Stop."

And with the ceased effort of their minds, Jorge collapsed in a
nearby chair. Charles remained leaning, with effort, on the edge of
the pool table.

"I can see we're well matched," came panting from Charles.

"I guess," said Jorge.

"I can't say I've come across anyone as strong as you in my life. Even
my predecessor couldn't stand toe to toe with me. God, where did you 
pick up your Voice?"

"It doesn't matter, does it?" Jorge felt a certain concern, that he 
safeguard his source of knowledge.

"Only a little. God gives us the Voice. We're born with it. But
something awakens it. I've always thought the cause affects the
strength. I really am interested in how you're talent awoke but you
needn't tell me."

Jorge shook his head. He remained quiet at the invitation to speak.

"I'll tell you my story though. My mother was a whore. She often
brought the johns home, since otherwise she'd have to pay for the
room. Made more money. She always referred to the johns as 'uncles'.
On occasion I wasn't quick enough to hide in my room and the johns
would hit me for being too slow. My Voice came to me when one of my
'uncles' was beating me. My emotions rode the strength of the Voice
to stop him. He died immediately," Charles paused. He slid into one of
the chairs opposite Jorge. "Heaven forgive me. Then my mother turned
me out into the night.

"It wasn't until I found the Cabal that I found a sense of purpose. 
Personally, I'm disgusted we don't have a much more strict set of 
rules, but open warfare between Voices could kill millions of people. 
Afterwards we'd all be hunted like animals.

"What I need is good help. Ideally, I'd like to find people with the 
Voice before they learn to use it. To help them develop in a more 
healthy way. Realistically, we never find them before their habits are
formed, like yours.

"At least you turn your women loose quickly and don't steal using the
Voice. That crew out there," he waved a hand the direction of the
amphitheater, "have some pretty incredible vices. The woman in the
red dress has been getting even with men for years. Not one of her
toys escapes being marked forever. Every now and then I've got to
save one before she kills him. I think she's passed from sheer
vengeance into the realm of vindictiveness. I can't even mention what
the Speaker likes to do..."

"Sounds bad," said Jorge. "So?"

"Yeah," Charles nodded, "On the whole they're pretty tame compared 
with anyone I have to censure permanently."

"Permanently?"

"You can lose your Voice, if we have no other way to keep you from 
calling attention to us. That's my job. I'm the one, the one they call
on to do it. If I can't do it, we have assassins... but we've only done
that once while I've held the position. I fear I'm condemned to Hell 
already."

"You've had people killed? Where does that leave me if I don't want to
help? Are you going to kill me too?"

"No. You'll just have to consider this a warning about drawing
attention to the talent if you're not interested in helping. I don't
want to use harsh methods, but I'm not afraid to. I can't afford to
let the run of the mill megalomaniacs get all of us killed."

"Okay, I understand."  I've an assignment for you, in Chicago."

"Chicago?"

"Chicago. I'll have a packet for you before you leave today."

When he left, he was bound for the airport. Charles had even booked a 
first class seat for him to the Windy City.

Chicago was a simple exercise. The ill mannered Voice was trying to
control the city council. In many other cities there would be little
doubt it was unusual. In Chicago, just about everyone assumed the fix
was happening behind closed doors. Jorge easily affected a change in
the rogue, leaving behind a quiet unassuming individual without any
unusual talents.

He was proud of himself. He had averted a power hungry idiot whose
actions could eventually lead to armed intervention. He probably
saved an untold number of lives.

Yes, the pride he'd felt as a child returned. He felt a return of
accomplishment, lost when he believed his talent was unique and
completely unrestricted. Apathy had been driven out in favor of
action.

There were obstacles he would overcome ahead. No longer a sure thing
this talent, there would be challenges for his skill to tackle. His
head rose a few inches higher was he left Chicago.

continued in part 16