Enter Mindbinder

Posted on Oct 13th, 2006 by

Enter Mindbinder

Tuesday 7 April 2054, 15:08

Outskirts of Harville, Iowa

The rural back roads of Iowa rarely graced a limousine. Usually, they took on older, 2030's style four and six wheel drive vehicles. Today however, was an exception. The Military Limousine cruised quietly, doing just over the speed limit on the country roads. Its driver was human, for General Kinomoto did not care for robotic drivers. Even with gas mileage at an unheard of high of fifty miles per gallon the distance between Gigopolis and Harville gave the driver a chance to pull over at a self-service pump in order to fuel.

General Kinomoto took the opportunity to look up from his work and see the quiet town of Harville. According to military intelligence, an unimpressive town should have dried up years ago when the first gigopolis was created in 2042 on the site of old Chicago. He sighed to himself, muttering about hicks and people who did not have enough sense what was good for them. These were the sorts of people that frustrated him immensely. These were the sort of people that, in many ways, he lived for.

General Kinomoto had a calling in life. He had a skill, a talent as an orator and as a debater. His ability to manipulate was incredible. Coupled with his mutation, the ability to influence other people's minds made him a very valuable commodity. He liked that. He liked to feel in control, he liked to feel that he was worth something. It was an honor to serve your country, he thought. God, Mom, Freedom, Apple Pie in about that order. He was fighting the good fight. Doing the right thing. The driver filled up, and turned briefly toward the passenger's section.

The General lowered the window about an inch or so.

"I've gotten specific information leading to the subject's location, sir. Our ETA is approximately fifteen minutes." The General Nodded by way of acknowledgment. Lieutenant Harris was becoming a very capable assistant, understanding that the General liked these little updates.

No more than sixteen minutes later, the long, sleek automobile pulled into the small farm front. There was a large, sprawling ranch house, close to fifty years old. Its front porch was rotten in places and the General knew to the penny how much these people were in debt. He knew how many days Marie McComber's husband had to live if he did not get a heart transplant, and he knew the relative value of her son, Charlie. He had come calling about Charlie.

The driver opened the back door, and the General stood, in full dress uniform. Every medal, shined, every ribbon perfectly placed there by the General himself, ever cord, every honor. General Kinomoto could look very impressed when he tried, and there were few days he did not try.

The dusty screen door opened as a dog barked in the background. A woman wearing an old country dress with dark hair pulled back tight into a bun was opening it. She looked stern, as if she were a schoolteacher of two centuries ago.

"Marie McComber?" He asked.

She gave a half smile. "General Kinomoto. I am glad you made it. I'm still not quite sure what all the fuss is about, but do come in."

He entered into the hallway. The smooth polished wood of the interior was immaculate, not a speck of dust anywhere. The General approved. "Beautiful home." He commented.

"We'll we've still got a lot of work to do on it. Just bought it a few years ago, before Roscoe took sick. Just you have a seat in the living room, and I'll bring out the tea."

He did as he was asked. After all, he was on her turf. No need to be rude, or even pushy. Gentle soft persuasion was all he needed. He was like that. The General generally only asked people questions. He did not really need to demand much of anyone, so confidant he was of his capabilities.

She brought in tea in a perfect silver set. Offered him cream and sugar. He broke the ice.

"So Mrs. McComber, your husband, is he well?" He looked at her through the thick, dark glasses he wore.

Her lower lip twitched. "No. They say he has a month or so at most to live. His Jarveck 12 artificial heart is failing, and the supporting valves around the implant are too fragile to support another artificial unit."

He nodded softly. "Your only hope would be a cloned cardiac system, I'd imagine. I'm not a doctor, mind you." He said in a folksy sort of tone, trying to read her more.

"We'll we're on the list for that, but it's a long wait. They say he'd die before the cloned heart was available."

He was a master of observation and mimicked her lower lip twitch, looking very concerned. "What about Charlie's heart? He could take an artificial for the time being, while they cloned him a new one. Medimerica has done that sort of thing before, I believe." He was referring to the North American Universal Health care system.

"Charlie's heart is too big. It would not fit in Roscoe's chest. It was one of the first things Charlie thought of. My heart is too small, and I have a minor heart defect."

General Kinomoto made a slight tilting motion and then looked about, “where is Charlie, anyway?"

She looked at him.

"Where he always is, General. The Barn. He sleeps out there. The house is not very easy for him to get around in. The Barn is much more comfortable for him. He's fixed it up nicely and he can work on his trucks."

The General gave a slight smile. “Boys and their toys.” He commented softly, and recalled one of his own first automobiles.

“Charlie's very handy with a wrench. Being oversized comes in handy in the mechanical department, being able to lift and such. He can turn on his radio and get lost. Frankly, he has been doing a bit too much of that. He doesn't like to be seen in the daylight, not even by me.” She bit at her lower lip. “I'm not sure which one of the boys that I'm more worried about.”

“Mrs. McComber, as you may have noticed, I'm from the army. I am a liaison to the Gteams project. Do you know what we do?”

She looked at him awkwardly.

“No. I remember there was some sort of anti-terrorist task working under that name, which was in the papers. But that was ten years ago.” She responded, after much thought.

“We're still around. You might know us by our brainchild, Team America.”

“Team America? The government mutants?” She asked.

He smiled. “Yes. I am from Team America’s heartland division. We run out of Chicago. You might have seen them on the video. Crone? DarkStarr?”

She nodded slowly, “Crone I've heard of. She stopped a burning building a few towns away during a terrorist attack. I saw something on the news that DarkStarr had almost been killed.”

He smiled. Got something to work with now. “Crone is our senior trainer. She currently does not have an apprentice. I'd like Charlie to fill that role.” He smiled.

“Charlie? My Charlie? He is not a mutant. He's just big for his age.”

“Come, come now Mrs. McComber. Charlie is nearly seven feet tall at the age of fourteen. According to his pediatrician he can curl on the high order of three hundred pounds.”

Her eyes flashed angrily. “Doctor Sanders told you that? He's not supposed to go around telling people like that. We could sue him.” She growled.

He sighed and pretended as if he was tired. He closed his eyes and removed his dark glasses, and rubbed where the bridge met his nose. He replied to her, still with his eyes closed, “In accordance to the mutant reporting act of 2037 he had no choice, Mrs. McComber. He acted within the bounds of the law.”

“But,” she started to speak.

“Mrs. McComber. Please. I have seen this sort of thing before. Really, there is nothing wrong with your son. In fact, you might even say that Charlie is the next step.”

He waited for the silence. He played it like a long, gentle strum of a classic guitar. He leaned forward in the couch, and brought his head up, eyes still closed. He could feel her attention upon him. He spoke in a soft, hollow tone, it was almost mechanical.

“Your son, Charlie is a very valuable young man.” He opened his eyes. There were no visible pupils, iris, or lens, no white of the eye. Where his eyes would have been visible there was nothing but blackness and a field of stars. He looked straight into her eyes.

“He has a talent, your boy does. A skill that very few other people do. Your son is a Mutant. He is a valuable asset to your family, your community. Your country.”

Her eyes went blank. A sharp, jet black, speckled with stars, mimicking his. He continued. “I think you understand how valuable he is, and we at the government are willing to do much for you and your family. Your husband will be taken care of. Charlie will be educated. You will be provided for. Your government will take care of you.”

The corners of her lips curled up, almost like a sneer, the eye sockets bulging out in a comical, harlequin like manner. She repeated a bit of his last sentence, “will take care of you.”

He sat back, like an experienced angler with a fish that had just bitten the line. She was completely within his mental grasp. He could have ordered to slit her wrists at this point, and she would not have objected. It was a special ability, this degree of control he had. He had only met very few other people, one of those closest to him used it to steal. General Kinomoto was not a thief, and detested thieves all his life, but he was not above using people.

“I will have a government team of scientists working on your husband's heart condition. I do not believe it will pose much of a problem to them. You and your farm will be relocated. You will lead a long, quiet, uneventful life, basking in the glory of Charlie's heroism. Your son will have people looking up to him for quite some time. He's going to be a good man.”

She nodded, eagerly. “Good man.” She Agreed. Her face was a mask of happiness. He smiled to himself and put back on his glasses. Over three or four minutes, the stars faded from her eyes.

“General this is a kind and gracious offer you've given us. I'm sure Charlie will jump at the chance to be a part of Team America.”

“I was hoping you'd say something like that, Mrs. McComber. It's Americans like you that make our country a great place. I have some documents that you will need to authorize.

She nodded and he offered her a small thin sheet of plastic. He tapped upon a corner of it, and up popped a sheaf of legal documents and a square at the bottom. “Your thumb print will do. We'll have a crew come in to help with your and Charlie's relocation. Her eyes glazed over. While the relocation package was incredibly generous, it did have its faults. Best to do this while she was still, as he put it, 'in the fog.' She did not even bother to read the documents. This actually worked to his disadvantage. The sheet computer would scan where her eyes tracked, and in a court of law, it could be used to her advantage. He prompted her.

“Go ahead, take a few moments. Read it over. I'll have another cup of coffee if you don't mind.” Coffee was one of his favorite beverages.

“Oh, no, not at all. Help yourself.” She said, and promptly read every word of the document. It took her all of ten minutes. She handed back the sheet computer and they chatted idly. He learned that Charlie's current project was a fifty-year-old truck called a Freightliner Classic, whatever that was. He was swapping out the diesel engine for a third-generation hydrogen cell engine, modified for heavy hauling.

At a subtle pause in the discussion, he thought now would be a good time to reinforce what a friend the government was to her. “Mrs. McComber, with your husband being so ill, I'd like to go ahead and make his transfer to Cape Canaveral now, if you don't mind.”

She blinked at him.

“Today? Now?” She inquired.

“No time like the present. Once they get him into orbit his heart, will only half to work half as hard. They can anesthetize him for the trip there, and augment his circulatory system during the journey.” He pulled out a small black stick and held it to his ear, and spoke into the microphone. “Call Adjunct.” He intoned. When his assistant outside in the car answered he instructed him to initiate transport as soon as possible. The doctors had only given him four days to live. Six precious hours of which would be taken in transporting him into space. He had already started the cloning procedure for Roscoe's heart two weeks before. The General knew the value of time. He understood that time was a way and a method of manipulating people.

He spoke again to her. “He'll be transported within the half hour. They will probably use the East Coast space elevator for the sake of convenience.” He sipped coffee as she gushed about how nice he was and how good the government was to its people. At a suitable pause, he interrupted. “I'm sure Charlie will be excited as well. In fact, I should be moving along. You'll want to tell him the good news.” She gushed more as he stood, finished his coffee, and began to thank her profusely. He made it seem as if she was doing him the big favor.

She walked out to his limousine, and out of one of the dark glasses, he caught, just for a moment, the outline for a figure, as the large double door of a barn opened a touch. The figure was huge, a good seven feet tall. He pretended not to notice and got back into the car.

As they pulled out of the driveway, he ordered up the output from a real-time surveillance satellite and watched as she went directly to the barn. He knew his height and weight from the Doctor's report, and had a face shot, but still, it would be good to see what he was dealing with. For only an instant, he made out a looming figure, having the face of a child in an immense body. He had the computer clarify it over, and over, and noted the figure looked much more like mom than dad did. He smiled, knowing he had made the correct choice.