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The
microchip surgically implanted in Benny’s cebrial cortex worked like a
charm. Despite the loss of a collar, the little bastard. It was infuriating,
though. Without a collar Benny could not receive signals, usually a painful
jolt, or a mild sexual glow if he were obedient. Hypothetically, he could
receive at short range, under a few meters. The minuscule chip powered off his
own body’s energy, and that sweet boy was very
energetic. It reported his every emotion, his every rise and fall in body
temperature. With this the Project could follow him and very nearly read his
thoughts.
And
naughty Benny was doing it, again.
When Benny did it, strange things
happened. He claimed it was some
sort of God power. Silly boy. The problem was, though, what was it? and would it be passed
to his offspring as it had been from his grandfather to his mother to him?
Cindy’s grip on the greasy steering wheel grew slick with perspiration
seeping through chamois driving gloves. She suppressed an urge to scream.
Little
bastard. Come out to me.
Please, Benny, come back.
They
owned him and would have their naughty little darling again. She loved him,
knew it was for Benny’s own good. After all, he was of the lowest servant
class. Her lips creased into a dreamy smile and the smooth, shapely knees
under the modest dress pressed tightly together. Benny is a naughty, naughty
boy. Slow, that’s what he was. A little on the intelligent side, but
helpless, really. How stupid it had been to outlaw slavery. Some types simply
could not control their own lives. They needed a guiding hand in day to day
existence. That, Cindy knew, is what government was for. Governing uneducated
peasants was the duty of the Party.
The
tiny, medallion-sized computer pick-up was going wild. One elegant, tapered
finger tapping gently on the control Cindy let it feed more proof of the
rightness of what they did into the highly secret Military Intelligence
computer banks in the Pentagon.
The
‘worm’ in her clothing transmitted to a second car near the crossroads.
The driver was frowning with anger and fear.
The
titular head of the Project muttered at Cindy’s side.
Cindy
VanTur smiled into the mirror. She touched up her make-up. Poor Grace. Cindy
glanced at the old woman. Ms Hylnn really had lost it when she mislaid the
darling of the whole shebang. That little rat, Benny.
Seeing
the younger woman’s eyes shift, Grace’s mouth snapped shut. She looked at
the pert, handsome Virginian, so at ease even behind the wheel of a cheap and
confining rental car. Hylnn scowled. Her mouth trembled with a bitter desire
to give Cindy a good dressing down. And did not dare. At this time United
Nations monies brought about by VanTur-McAllen influence funded much of the
Project. A need that would continue until the heat cooled a little. Other
investors waited in the wings. Hylnn suppressed a smile. The Chicoms were very
generous.
Cindy
VanTur graciously pretended not to notice anything, but then, Cindy did all
things graciously. Within, she seethed at not have the forethought to hide a
minicam in the vehicle.
Certainly
the Boss, and Cindy thought of that darling man who was now permanent leader
of their nation, would like to know what his Head was like before he came down
with any of those sweet special . . . secret funds. Oh, definitely. How she
would love to let certain uppers know just how sloppy things were being run on
this end. And certainly why.
Cindy
fumed inwardly. Hylnn had to go. The old woman ran things so long she had lost
touch with reality. No longer did they have the power to simply make people
disappear, even from those dreadful Indian reservations. Many of the Houses
formerly kept across the continent had been raided. Donors now lived new lives
under the Witness Protection Act. Those they hadn’t been able to locate and
retrieve. Now, of course, with her help - Cindy touched her lips in a languid
yawn -the protection for their donors was coming to an end.
All
it took was a little money, one would be surprised just how little, in just
the right hands, with just a touch of judicious blackmail. My, my.
How
sweet.
A
ring of drool slid down Hylnn’s wrinkled chin. Cindy smiled, only a trifle
cattily, but Hylnn earned it.
Three
pairs of eyes watched in bright anticipation. Leda Melancowski smiled at
images shadowed in the bright glow of night:sun. Her acolytes cringed from
that smile and bowed to her.
“He’s
ours,” Leda told the coven. “In a matter of moments Benny Wya Grey will be
here to replace this.” She gestured at the whimpering Cu’alani boy. “We
can move out of the Valley and down to Scranton.” Leda shouted, “Openly. We are gods. No one can defy us.”
©2002 StoriesByEmail.com
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