Chapter 9: 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 exit, an open door with curtains to the side.

"It's been a 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 with the mutes. There would be a very brutal war if we couldn't maintain a tight rein on a general consensus in the Cabal. I wish there was more I could do, but too many innocents would die."

"What do you expect me to do?"

"It depends. May I probe you?"

"I'm not fond of the idea, I'd rather you didn't."

"Oh, I want you to stop me. Do everything you can to stop me. In fact, if you can control me, they'll make you Inquisitor. But I'm going to have 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." He rose, and walked a few steps, "I'd being willing to help, I'm bored lately."

"I thought as much when you kept asking questions. 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.

New Mexico was hot but dry.

Las Cruces lies at the southern tip of the San Andres Mountains, along that part of the Rio Grande north of the Mexican border. To the northwest Jorge had seen Elephant Butte and Caballo Reservoirs as his plane came in. The expanses of water seemed out of place in the arid climate.

The Voice he was to visit was reputedly involved in local politics. The bent to control the world was the worst problem he dealt with on a regular basis. Charles seemed genuinely pleased with his work though.

He settled into a hotel, rented a car and started off to the local address he'd been given. The address wasn't hard to get to, just a little north, out of town. It was a ranch, very western in appearance, as though someone was living partly in the past.

The ranch was large. Guards at the gate tried stopping him at first, but they agreed quickly he should go on by. They soon forgot him completely.

The porch out front was gray brown. He climbed the steps and looked around. The wood clumped at him as he walked about looking in the windows. The door in the middle of the porch had a button at the side for the bell. He ignored the bell.

Entering the wooden ranch house, he noted its appearance. Rustic style was the main decor. Bull's horns, old saddles, retired pistols, wagon wheels, spurs, and occasionally an antique picture of a cowboy adorned the walls. The only carpet was a narrow and worn red strip of clothe up the stairs.

He was met by a surprised servant in the dining room. The servant forgot him quickly, returning to dusting the furniture. The table was large enough for twenty or more. The dusting would keep this person busy for some time.

Jorge went up the stairs and found the place empty. He settled into a bedroom, sitting in a large chair by the front window. He waited. The sun watched him through the window. He imagined the dim light in the long winters in Denmark.

A short time later a pink convertible pulled up. A woman in stylized western clothing, right down to the boots, stepped out. She looked over at his car and almost danced as she hopped up to the house.

Sounds of human voices rose from downstairs. He smiled. He knew the cleaning would still be occupying the poor servant. No, she hadn't seen anybody. Was there really a car out front, she hadn't noticed. He imagined the conversation ending with, what was obviously justified concern on the modern cowgirl's face.

Resounding clopping came from the stairs. The boots thudded along in the hallway as she walked through rooms on the second floor. She stepped through the door, seeing Jorge for the first time. His slacks, t-shirt and loafers must have seemed out of place, she was staring.

"Just how did you get in here?"

"I'm waiting for someone. You wouldn't know Pat Morick, would you?"

"I'm Pat Morick, but you better have one hell of a good reason for being here buster, or you're in a lot of trouble."

"Oh my," he hadn't expected the Voice to be a woman. On reflection she could prove very entertaining. Her figure more visible here than through the window.

She wore heavy jeans, a western yoke shirt with a string tie serving to accent her chest's curves. The boots were up her calves three quarters of the way to her knees. The hips a bit wide, but seemed to match the bone structure she carried. The shoulders were wide too, holding the shirt out almost square without padding.

Her face was pink, with dimpled cheeks, a pug nose, wide lips and alert angry eyes. Sun bleached hair trimmed to the shoulders, she wore it held back by a pair of clips on either side. Her hands were clenched into little fists, braced atop her hips.

"You've been naughty, Pat. The Cabal doesn't like political entanglements. It gets the wrong kind of attention."

He smiled at her and lashed a mind probe forward, symbols of control to implant in her brain.

She gasped. Her body flung back against the wall as though he'd struck her, hands to the side to support her stance. It was only a snap muscle reaction causing her backwards motion, physical force from him causing none of her movement.

She lowered her head and concentrated a stare on him. His initial probe failed to gain entry. Now he slapped aside a counter thrust. She needled with jabs at his barriers.

To prevent outside interference, he got up, walked to the door and closed it. It came as no surprise to him he could do this while they dueled. Yet she seemed unable to deal with physical movement while engaged in the mind battle. He sought about for any distraction to cause her attack to slow down. He needed to resume his own.

She furiously surged energy waves of thought at him. He could make out crude control symbols in her attack, but couldn't do much more than stop them. Her brain was well protected by her own frantic efforts.

Charles was the only Voice he'd met so far with this kind of strength.

An idea crept up as his attacks against her mind failed again. Time stretched out. She managed to stand again, trying to strike him with her fists.

While the main bout was thrashing in their minds, he grabbed hold of her slender wrists. They were strong, but her skin soft to the touch. He dragged her bodily to the bed. She barely had enough control over her actions to put up a resistance. It was weak resistance, but resistance none the less.

"Get off me asshole!" she screamed. "Keep your filthy hands off me!"

"You can submit and make this unnecessary," he snarled back. "I don't need you for sex, but I'll use any weapon to control you right now."

Clawing his face kept him away from her shirt for a moment. He was able with one hand to pin her arms above her head. With the other he drew her face to him as he forcefully kissed her mouth. She bit him, drawing a little blood.

"Bitch!" he snapped.

His anger rose within. But also some compassion. He didn't like doing it this way, but to control her mind he needed somehow to distract her. He wouldn't fail, causing Charles to use an assassin, he simply would not.

Symbols for sexual pleasure were a simple matter. Remembering he didn't plant them in the brain most of the time, he began adding surging heat to her loins. He forced the tickling sensation of lust through her chest, and successfully drove visual desire into her eyes symbols.

She felt the betrayal of her body. The pleasure overcoming her painful physical resistance. Separation of mind and body, a step aside, as though a broken network was trying to reconnect itself. She still controlled her actions, but no longer was her sense of feel her own.

"Okay motherfucker, you want to screw? We'll screw. But you won't like it much once I've got you!" a wildcat snarl verbally snapped at him.

She began to trying to bite him, the battle of mental energies continuing. The rape of her body was only a secondary front to the rape of her will he was trying to commit.

Kissing her became a battle itself. Her tongue tried to bruise his, teeth gnashing at any penetration he made to her mouth. She'd converted her own desires to acts of violent arousal, a severe counter rape of him. Although giving in to the sexual aspect of the combat, she was determined to fight for dominance in the act of sex as well.

He pulled away her shirt, tearing it into long strips of clothe as he attacked her. Her breasts, still strapped into the bra she wore, stretched the fabric remaining, nipples aroused to hard nodules. Her hands, now free, began to tear away his t-shirt.

Boots clattered to the floor behind him. Her humping body lunged against his groin, whether to injure or excite he couldn't tell. He fumbled with her snaps and zipper at her waist. She tried to twist their bodies to attain superior position on top. He used the strength in his upper torso throwing her back again.

He stripped away the pants she wore, exposing slender curves, muscled from exercise. He now had a view of pale, formerly concealed skin. Her panties had come off with the pants, exposing a polygon shape of curly hair at her pubic region. Her hips still seeming wide, were rolling lightly with excitement.

The final removal of her bra revealed a pair of firm white knockers, tipped with small, sharp nipples. The nipples were erect from the exertion of wrestling against him.

She clawed at his back to pull him against her. Her teeth plunged into his shoulder as her excitement grew more evident. He slapped her face for the brutal biting. But the bright red palm mark seemed only to excite her more. Jorge was puzzled by this, but the psychic battle was still lashing away and he couldn't afford to wonder much.

She believed he'd lose control using physical force. She was accustomed to being vicious and brutal. He, she believed, was not. This could give her the edge she needed, if she could draw the violence out of him.

She whimpered with the next blow he delivered. Finding her hands pinned again, she tried squirming around to get out from underneath, only to find his free fingers were twisting her nipples. The heat this sent through her body elicited a deep moan of pleasure.

Her body yielded in pleasure to him. He struggled to avoid the temptation to give in to the brutality she encouraged. She continued to claw him, whenever she could get a hand free.

"yesss!" she whispered, arousal reaching her voice. The violence was remarkably bringing her lust to a boil. She seemed to enjoy being combative, thriving on the thrill, the power, the struggle.

The mental violation was moving slowly as well. His successful probes were surface in nature, only now gaining control over the helpless body beneath him. She remained in control over her mind behind the body, but physical resistance was ebbing completely.

Her movements became more supple. The eyes she focused on him hazed with lust. He could feel heat rising within her. A hint of humiliation rose inside her, losing her control of her now helpless body.

She was panting and gasping for breath, both excited and frantic. The adrenaline rush, coming from both fear and lust, gave her a boost.