Mind.Net

By Patrick Worden

Check out the upcoming heart-stopping horror from Patrick Worden: www.TheyAreVoracious.com

Fact: between 1971 and 1995, under the code-name Operation Stargate, the CIA trained and employed psychic spies. Where are those spies now?

Mind.Net suggests they're hiding, and hunted. They're using their unique abilities to battle a monolithic conspiracy that has just one goal: absolute power.

Enter Sara Kincade. Sara is young and disillusioned, barely aware of her own power, but she's destined to lead this fight. Sara will leverage the combined strength of her psychic network to defeat the conspiracy...but the conspiracy is just as determined to destroy her.

The lines have been drawn and time has run out. The Mind.Net battle starts now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Worden
• Release date: Apr 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458167804

Patrick Worden

Pat Worden is an author and freelance writer from the midwest United States. He is charming yet humble, and almost never speaks of himself in the third person.

Book preview

Mind.Net

by

Patrick J. Worden

http://pworden.com

Copyright 2009, 2011 Patrick J. Worden

Smashwords Edition

http://www.smashwords.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is dedicated to my ladies, Jen and Gwen

"All that is necessary for the triumph of evil

is that good men do nothing."

-Edmund Burke

Ψ

It looked like the same old club, the same tired scene. Sara could see that from the moment the bouncer checked her ID and waved her through to the dark interior.

It wasn’t really the same, to be sure. She’d never been here before, although John, her off-again-on-again boyfriend, had been several times. He stood beside her as they lingered near the entrance, surveying the crowd and catching glimpses of the band going through its soundcheck, up on the distant stage. John gave her a weak smile, trying to tell her in his unspoken way that yes, it was dingy and smoky and noisy…but it really wasn’t as bad as it looked.

But it was, actually. It was exactly like it looked. It looked and smelled and felt the same as every other club she and John frequented. From the smoke in the air to the beer slopped on the floor; from the punk and metal bands on stage, to their tattooed and leather-clad fans down in front…it was all the same.

Sara looked down at herself and grimaced. She was the same, too. Same leather skirt, same fishnets, piercings and bangles…she was the same as every girl here, every girl at all the clubs. It was a sad, unintended sort of anonymity.

She slipped her arm through John’s and they made their way toward the stage, through a dense crowd where everyone looked just like them.

Miles above, an entity – a consciousness – watched and waited. Of course, above wasn’t entirely accurate. Direction was…tricky here, where the consciousness operated. But above was a good vantage point for watching and waiting, and it was close enough a term to describe where the consciousness had positioned itself. Above was where the consciousness chose to watch…and wait.

But the consciousness wasn’t alone. It never really was, but now in particular it sensed…an intruder. A malevolent one.

"Don’t lurk, Dargon. Come out where we can see you, the consciousness said. (And said" wasn’t accurate, either. If direction was tricky, then modes of communication were thoroughly opaque.)

For a while, nothing stirred. But at last a darkness rose from the clouds and approached the consciousness.

"What are you looking for?" the darkness asked.

The consciousness barked a laugh. Why do you ask us questions you know we won’t answer?

"We’ll find out anyway. We already know more than you think we do."

"Perhaps. But in that case you don’t need our help, do you?"

"You’re recruiting, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Don’t answer me, then. No need to. We already know. You’re recruiting."

"Then that’s all you know, isn’t it, Dargon? If you knew more, you’d stop us."

The darkness swam about, agitated. We’ll kill them. Recruit whomever you like. We’ll kill them all.

The consciousness abandoned its vigil and turned to the darkness. Is it battle you want, Dargon? Do you want to do battle with us, right here and now?

The darkness withdrew a bit.

"No, you wouldn’t. Your kind doesn’t like to lose."

"I wouldn’t lose!" the darkness snapped.

"No, but you wouldn’t win, either. And that’s just as bad."

"We will win, the darkness insisted. We will."

"You don’t know that anymore than we do. But we’ll fight you Dargon. We’ll fight you to the end."

At two a.m. the house lights came back up and the crowd began shuffling toward the door. The final band of the night, an insipid local deathmetal four-piece called Satan’s Sodomy, was scurrying about the stage packing up gear. Sara and John, ears still ringing, moved slowly with the crowd, away from the stage.

John was giving her that look, the one she called smart-ass-face. Was it that bad? he asked.

What? Sara gave him a mockery of smart-ass-face right back. She sat her empty beer bottle on a nearby table that was awash with empties. John did the same. Many of those empties were theirs. I didn’t say anything.

You didn’t have to. He put his arm lightly around her shoulders as they made their unsteady way to the door. I don’t know how the hell I could hear you sighing in front of those amp stacks, but I did.

I wasn’t sighing. The lie was almost automatic. Then as they stepped around a sprawled body with a mohawked head – the gender wasn’t apparent from above – she pursed her lips. Well if I did, it was because of crap like this. Where else can you find so many unconscious twenty-somethings on a Tuesday-freaking-night?

John glanced back at the passed-out punk and shrugged. So we’d rather do this than feed the corporate maw. So what? And Jesus, Sara…if you hate it so much, why do you keep coming out?

Beats the hell out of me, she mumbled. And then they were silent as they left the club and walked to the streetlit corner.

It was an uncomfortable quiet, one that John finally broke. So you’re looking for a new scene? Why don’t you check out that fair?

She looked up at him. What fair?

Oh come on. You saw those fliers – there must have been a hundred of them in there. ‘Psychic Fair, this Thursday.’

You think I need a psychic? For what?

"You read the flier. I saw you read the flier, Sara. ‘Psychic novice screening,’ or whatever the hell it said. ‘Find your own latent psychic powers.’"

I don’t believe in that crap. This time, she couldn’t meet his eyes.

He laughed. The light changed and they crossed the empty street. John’s apartment was on this block. By unspoken arrangement she’d be staying there tonight.

I don’t believe in that crap either. But who’s the one that always knows who’s calling before the phone even rings, Sara? Who’s the one that always knows what the next song on the radio is going to be?

She giggled – just a little, but it was her first real laughter of the night. Lucky guesses? she asked.

Could be, I guess. Could be. Or maybe you’ve got the hoodoo, the gift, the touch – whatever you call it. Your psychic novice screening will tell. And he put his arm around her tightly and held her close. This too was a first for the evening.

Yeah, so…maybe I was thinking about going.

You want me to go with? They stopped now, in front of his apartment building. They turned to face each other.

No, I…I think I’ll go by myself. Just to check it out, you know?

Yeah, he laughed again and kissed her forehead. Okay by me. I don’t believe in that crap anyway, remember? He turned to open the door, and they climbed the stairs, holding on to each other as they used to, as they didn’t so much anymore.

ψ

She’s floating.

She’s floating up, gently yet inexorably. She doesn’t look back down, but she knows that if she did, she would see her unmoving body, still lying in John’s bed.

She floats higher, and through the ceiling, and through floors and roofbeams and treetops and the dark sky, effortlessly.

Higher still now, she realizes she’s seeking something, must find something. There’s a conversation going on, somewhere up in the soaring reaches, a conversation between the light and the darkness. And she must hear it. She must know what they’re saying.

But something tugs at her, pulls her back earthward. She finds herself spiraling toward the ground, toward a wooded expanse cut by a slow meandering stream. And it’s daylight now…she can see a figure kneeling, down by the streamside. She realizes now that it’s the figure she’s drawn to, that she’s spiraling down to. And then she knows who that figure is. It’s John.

A young John, just a boy. But it’s John, to be sure. And he’s kneeling – over the stream, leaning into it.

He starts, sensing her presence. He turns slowly, his eyes meet hers. There’s no recognition there, just annoyance at the interruption…and hot, dark anger.

And as she looks over his shoulder, she sees the limp, drowned puppy that John had been holding under the black water.

She opens her eyes.

She bit back a gasp and willed her body to relax. She was coiled like a spring and bathed in sweat.

She pulled back the covers and swung her feet to the frigid wooden floor. She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, listening to the hums and creaks of the mostly sleeping apartment building, and to the mostly silent street outside. She felt John stir a bit behind her, but could tell from his breathing he was still asleep. She rose and turned, looking at him. He was on his side, his back to her, the blanket at his waist. She could see the scar on his back, just below his shoulderblade, the one she’d never noticed before. The one they’d fought about, just before falling to sleep.

Still naked, not caring, she padded to the window. She stared down at the brashly lit street, ringed with the white glare of streetlamps, blank darkness beyond that. There were a few cars she could hear, a few blocks away in different directions. But nothing on this street, just unmoving silence.

Already she was forgetting the dream she’d just had, the one that had shocked her awake. It was about John, she knew that much. And that it had frightened her. Then she remembered suddenly that she dreamed often of John, and often woke frightened and confused. That was something she remembered only at night, it seemed, and forgot each morning.

They’d gone straight to bed, but by then the distance between them was already returning. They had a brief bout of tired, drunken, almost embarrassed sex – saying nothing all the while. They turned from each other and were nearly asleep….

That’s when she noticed the scar. She reached out, touched it, traced it with her finger. John shivered. Then she asked him about it.

And then came the same, familiar fight, the one they’d been having as long as they’d been seeing each other. The one that always ended unresolved, with sleep and nightmares.

ψ

Put down the dress, girl. Put down the dress and walk away. Megan pitched her voice to carry no further than Sara’s cash counter, next to her own. They both stifled giggles.

Their only customer, the target of their laughter, was plump and bleach-blond, and busy pawing through black latex dresses of varying tightness and plunging necklines. She was easily a size sixteen, Sara judged. There were no size sixteens in the latex dress racks.

At last she turned away, moving toward the t-shirts festooned with Manga cartoon characters and inscrutable Zen koans. Once her back was turned, Megan and Sara exchanged crooked grins and laughed again.

And…? Megan prompted, picking up where an earlier conversation had left off. What about after the show?

We went back to his place, Sara said as she went about straightening the bracelets and necklaces hanging from their small cardboard displays by her cash register.

The store was Hott Spott, a mall-bound closet of club clothes and jewelry, with an emphasis on leather, silver, hemp and whatever was trendy that week. Like every store in the mall, its clientele was small and dwindling, almost by the day.

Mmm, Megan closed her eyes. She went back to his place.

You’re a perv. A perv, Megan. We got into a fight. As usual.

Megan turned back to a pile of t-shirts, spilling from an overturned box on her counter, and resumed folding them. What do you guys fight about, anyway?

What difference does it make? What does anyone fight about? Sara leaned back on the racks behind her and slipped her hands into the pockets of her glittery Hott Spott apron. It’s not like he’s Mister Right…

They finished together…He’s Mister Right Now.

So what was that you were saying about a psychic party? Megan asked.

Psychic fair, Sara corrected. Then she laughed. Whatever that means. There were posters all over the club. John said he saw the same posters at Anna Louise’s, the night before.

Anna Louise’s? That’s that club downtown, isn’t it? You mean he went out without you?

Sara grimaced. He’s welcome to. The every-night thing is a little much for me.

But not for John, I guess.

Sara began to speak, then stopped as a middle-aged man, laden with shopping bags, stepped into the store. He looked slowly about, scanning the racks and shelves, mouth getting more and more agape. He backed away, back into the mall.

"No, this is not JC Penney, sport, Sara said. Then – John wants to go to a different club every night. Then he wants to come home, jump my bones, then go to sleep. He gets up in the morning, goes to some bullshit minimum-wage job – then starts the whole ugly thing all over again. In between he’s figuring out how to save the world from capitalism, and bumming forty bucks off me for weed."

Megan raised an eyebrow. Damn, girl. That sounds bitter.

Sara sighed. The adorable pothead-lefty act gets old. It really does.

Megan folded the last shirt, then turned and began setting them in piles, in the racks behind her. Okay. So you started talking about John again. So what about the psychic party?

Psychic fair, Sara corrected again. She snorted. Well whatever it is, it’s at the Armory, on 62nd. All day tomorrow. Want to come?

No way. That stuff scares me.

Sara rolled her eyes. That stuff scares you? This from the chick who checks her horoscope a dozen times a day?

That’s different and you know it. Horoscopes…they just get you through the day. They’re like a grandmother who has advice for everybody. They both laughed at that. But that psychic stuff? I don’t know, Sara…that just seems like messing with things we’re not supposed to mess with.

ψ

Thursday’s sun rose swollen and red, hanging leaden over the eastern sky. Sara was awake, at her own apartment this time, well before dawn. She lay in her bed, unmoving, and watched the first hesitant rays break through her window and crawl steadily and slowly across the old, fading carpet.

She rose, and stepped carefully across the bedroom floor. Quiet walking came to her almost unconsciously now. Her downstairs neighbor, Mr. Simon, was seemingly deaf to everything except noise from above. Let her step heavily just once, or turn her TV or stereo volume from the lowest setting, and Mr. Simon was on the phone to the landlord, complaining about the damned crowd of noisy kids upstairs.

She slipped on a ratty bathrobe, so old and familiar she had no idea how long she’d had it or where it originally came from, then squeezed into her tiny bathroom. She brushed her teeth, and then peed. She