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Amber
lights burst through the fog behind him. A warning shot was fired in blind rage.
The bullet smacked into an outcropping of rock to his to his left and whined off
into the dawn.
He
leaned hard on the old Uohali-Night Sun. Benny was terrified she wouldn’t be
able to handle the rough township road with its potholes and rocky parts, yet he
was desperate to pick up more speed. Ripping brashly into the curves taking him
from Sandy Run Village would take him down into the Valley and a comparative
safety from the agents of the Project. The old motorcycle plowed from one patch
of fog to another.
An
elderly, querulous voice shouted, “Stop. Stop, damn ye.”
Benny
clenched his teeth against pains ghosting through his skull. Fire ran down his
spine, spreading out to every nerve, adding to the misery he already suffered at
the hands of the owners of the Blackman Street Bar.
What
an idiot he had been to believe that a foxy babe like Angie O’Brian actually
wanted him, Motor-Head Grey. Christ, but what a moron he was.
A
tiny microchip implanted by the Project on the cerebral cortex flared, causing
the agony to increase ten-fold. Benny cursed it through clenched teeth. The
conditioning received was at the hands of the administrators of the Manse. He
was forced to slow the old motorcycle.
The
fire eased slightly, the conditioning in the slave training satisfied he was
obeying a direct command from a Master.
The
Project.
The
words rang out in his mind, Benny tensed his body to stop his bowels from
loosening in terror.
The
Project, funded with clandestine monies through the Pentagon for research, was
breeding people with ESP.
Janissaries.
Mental warriors who could knock missiles out of the sky with kinetic powers of
the mind.
So
far as Benny could see, they were all nuts.
He
didn’t do crap like that. He could move in and out of the spirit world, so
these jerks thought he had some kind of super weird powers. Hell, it wasn’t
him. It was the Tsi:Yu, the Eagle
Mother. A dude went to her, ask for a favor, and if she went along, she’d move
heaven and earth to get it done for him. Or her. Benny’s mother, Anna, was a
super-power in the Heavenlies, a Sacred-Person of the second degree.
Long
ago, a lifetime ago, Benny vowed to die before letting the Project use him like
that again.
It
looked like he was through, unable to do it. Conditioning rendered him
defenseless against their will. They would return him to the Manse or one of
dozens of places like it the Project ran.
Would
they kidnap Chris and the others again, make them all whore as a front for what
the Project really was? Or would they take new victims from the prisons and
reformatories to give Benny a cover?
No
. . . Chris was dead. After being raped one too many times he suicided.
The
Manse was a place so elegant, so . . . sophisticated with it’s Victorian
charm, it was like a regal golden cage.
But
still a friggin cage.
Benny
was in misery. He wanted to cry, to stop and let them take him. He felt liked a
dog attacking a revered and loving master. Benny clenched his fists on the cups
and the old Uohali-Night Sun bellowed and spurted ahead.
Of
their own accord, the hands loosened. The bike slowed. A black and chrome
stretch job loomed in the foggy dawn.
Old
man Ryan leaned forward, his heartbeat wild, racing with the erotic thrill of
the chase. He wanted the reward the Project offered for Benny, was in desperate
need for it to keep his age warped old corpse breathing one more day.
To
himself, he whispered, “Dearest mother, but it would be good to end this in a
kill.”
Cindy
gave him a covert, sharp glance.
He
shuddered, his age spotted hand stoking the cold fire between his thighs through
the fine wool-silk blend of his pants.
Benny
let the Night Sun drift over the potholes and bumps. Faint scars on the corded
neck itched and burned. The collar felt like it was already back in place,
choking him into a dog-like submission.
He
squatted on the Uohali, head bowed in defeat, no longer seeing the road ahead.
It
was over.
He
was a slave again.
©2002 StoriesByEmail.com
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