Controller Read online

  Controller

  By Stephen W Bennett

  Controller

  Text copyright © 2017

  By Stephen W Bennett

  All Rights Reserved

  Book 1 of the Controller Trology

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  The cover was designed by pro_ebookcoverx on Fiverr

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  This eBook is licensed for your personal use and enjoyment only. It 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 purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the many months of long and hard work of the author.

  This book is written in “American” English, so there may be some differences in spelling and usage than in other countries use of the language.

  This is a work of fiction and all characters are fictitious or are portrayed fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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  Table of contents

  Chapter 1: A Controller Awakens

  Chapter 2: Investigators are Mortal

  Chapter 3: Funerals and Feds

  Chapter 4: Bureau of International Intelligence

  Chapter 5: Family Psych

  Chapter 6: PsychChaos

  Chapter 7: Mission to Seoul

  Chapter 8: Control versus Compel

  Chapter 9: Deadly Dealing

  Chapter 10: Amplified Control

  Chapter 11: Transformation

  About the Author:

  The End

  Chapter 1: A Controller Awakens

  It was Tuesday, April 1, 2003, in Jeffersonville, Indiana, when Sheldon Parker Stiles, age thirteen, discovered he had the power to make people do anything he wanted. Even kill for him. An April Fools’ Day he would remember.

  His kind was about to redefine free will for humanity.

  The frequently picked-on and bullied youngster had finally reached the pinnacle of middle school, as an eighth-grader. He was now an upperclassman, and thus had fewer older kids to taunt him. Even his peers had gotten bored with insulting him, and the diminished number of smart-aleck retorts from him had eased their desire to retaliate.

  Like his peers, he’d been undergoing the typical signs of puberty, with his changing and cracking voice, wisps of pubic hair, blackheads, splotchy skin on his face, and erections when he looked at the already more developed girls in his school. He was mentally unaware of the biochemicals flowing within his blood and body, of the usual hormones and testosterone changes. But he felt other changes. His brain had been producing a gonadotropin-releasing hormone, triggering his pituitary gland to release additional hormones. The cascade had already passed a threshold.

  For a month, these chemicals had been stimulating the production of proteins from two copies of extremely rare alleles he’d inherited from his parents. A small, previously unrecognized structure in his brain was growing in his cerebral cortex, at the juncture of three lobes. The Frontal Lobe, involved in decision-making, problem-solving, and planning. The Parietal Lobe, which processes sensory information, and the Temporal Lobe, which processes emotional responses, memory, and speech.

  The confluence of genetics and hormones had activated a rare genetic potential, seldom expressed, but which could convey a survival advantage to its bearer. With a single copy of the allele, Stiles would be one out of tens of millions of the world population. With two copies of these alleles, one on the X chromosome, one on the Y chromosome, he represented perhaps one out of seventy-five million people. Had they both remained recessive, he would never have reached his full potential. But as co-dominant, they would alter his entire future, and the direction humanity would be forced to take.

  He’d gradually acquired an exceptionally rare ability, of which he was completely unaware because it was latent. This additional brain structure, even if not fully active, had the potential to change the life he was otherwise destined to lead. People would dislike him, but some of them would listen to him and accept his leadership. The the new organ produced mild peripheral effects even if inactive.

  As a result, he was feeling more in control of personal interactions. He seemed to have increased influence on everyone he had interacted with over the past few weeks. Kids, even teachers, who had rarely heeded his opinions, were more often agreeing with him or changing their minds on subjects about which they had previously disagreed. He assumed they were listening now, and the logic of his opinions was changing their minds.

  That trait, if it remained latent as it was, would have been of benefit, helping him to convince others to follow his advice, to respect his words, helping to turn him into a weak leader. Not necessarily a good or admirable leader, but someone that others followed. To become something more, to be a dominant force, he needed an additional push. It came in the form of a literal push, followed by a beating.

  ****

  Stiles was taking his new detour home from school, to avoid two high school antagonists that lived on a street that was on his most direct route home. He lived about a mile from his Jeffersonville, Indiana middle school, so he didn’t qualify for free school bus transportation. However, a nearby high school, which he would attend next year, had students sprinkled along the route he had traversed for much of the last three years. A former middle schooler, some bully two years ahead of him, lived on that street, and after having moved on to other kids to taunt, had ignored Stiles when he passed down his street. Until a family with a new kid moved onto the same block in March, and he registered as a freshman at the high school.

  Sophomore Dwayne Pickling, himself once teased about his last name, assumed the dominant role of mentor to the new boy, who had the unfortunate nickname of Grub. Grady Blanchard, trying to fit in at a new school in mid-session, became Pickling’s sycophant, because the older boy sympathized with his unflattering nickname, having just shed his nickname of “Pickle.”

  They agreed that kids were cruel shits, unaware of the irony that they were cruel shits themselves. Grub felt the need to show Dwayne he was also clever, and unafraid to speak his mind and stand up to “outsiders.” A few weeks ago, he chose scrawny Stiles as a target for his insults. He didn’t fare well in that battle of wits.

  Grub decided to taunt Stiles about his thin, almost gaunt frame. It was true, he was thin, but a growth spurt made him taller than Grub, who had the build of R2D2. Shorter than average, stocky, homely, with red hair and freckles. His hair was styled with a flat top, to make him appear an inch taller.

  He’d called out from the porch stoop at Dwayne’s house, aiming what he thought was an on-target and funny remark at Stiles, who was walking past with a heavy book bag on his back. “Hey Bones, you look like a hunchbacked skeleton.” At least Pickling laughed.

  Smart and clever, Stiles had forgotten the rule that had made his teasers ease off on him in middle school. He had learned to ignore them, but not this time.

  “That’s funny, coming from a short dumb fireplug. Your face looks red. Do grubs suck pickles?” Stupid insults, but it stung Grub, and got back at his former tormentor for laughing.

  That led to a near fistfight, two on one, until Mrs. Pickling called out through the screen door. “Dwayne, you get into another fight, and your father and I will ground your butt for a month.”

  She saved Stiles then, and after that day he went a couple of blocks out of his way to avoid a repeat encounter. The mother wouldn’t always be there to save his bacon.

  Today, he walked by a weed-covered vacant lot, where a family-owned neighborhood
produce store had burned down, and the debris had been bulldozed into a central pile back from the sidewalk, for eventual removal. That was where they set the ambush.

  Grub came from around the back of a parked van just as Stiles passed by, and grabbing the book bag he shoved the skinny boy forward and to the right, using his dense mass and low center of gravity to keep him moving. The two of them broke through a screen of tall, thin weeds between the sidewalk and debris pile.

  Pickling was there waiting, and the two larger boys forced Stiles around the side of the pile of broken concrete blocks and scorched wood scraps. They ripped his backpack off and tossed it aside, and shoved him against the brick wall of the adjacent building. The weeds served as a partial screen from the street, as did a board fence at the rear of a house that faced the next street over.

  Stiles rattled off a string of frightened pleas. “Please, leave me alone. What do you want? I wasn’t bothering you.”

  Grub asked in a nasty tone, “You ain’t got no snappy comeback this time, do you? Ya skinny shit head.”

  Pickling had a contribution to make, which answered the question of what they wanted. “Hey Grub, why don’t you see if the bag of bones can take a gut punch?”

  A short, thick arm slammed a meaty fist into Stiles solar plexus, doubling him over, knocking his wind out, sending him to his knees with that gasping sound one makes when they can’t draw in any air.

  “Knock him over,” Pickling suggested.

  A hard shove from Grub’s foot put Stiles on his left side, in a fetal position, still sucking for a breath of air. He was terrified, aware he was alone with them, and out of sight of possible passersby. He got a few seconds to gulp a half lungful despite the spasms of his diaphragm.

  He wasted that air when he said, “I’m sorry. You win.”

  “Screw you asshole, you lose,” Pickling told him. “And you ain’t as sorry as you’re gonna be, is he Grub?” Pickling was the instigator, but Grub was his means of delivery, thus keeping his own hands clean.

  “Nope. What do we do to him next?”

  “Sit on him, smack him in the face. See if it turns red like he said yours was.”

  That reminder angered the red-haired kid, who shoved Stiles onto his back and he sat roughly on his abdomen, trying to push the other boy’s hands and arms away from covering his face. He slipped one hard smack through his defenses, across Stiles upper face, which left his eyes watering and unable to see for a moment. Adrenaline was rushing through his system, and he assumed another smack was coming, so he blindly shoved the heel of his right hand up to ward it off, unwittingly striking Grub in his blunt nose, drawing blood.

  There was an instant string of curse words as the boy grasped his injured nose and swore what he was going to do to Stiles now. Probably angry hyperbole, but to Stiles, it sounded like real threats, and he was desperate to escape or to stop the beating he knew was coming, and his flight or fight response was in full effect. His adrenaline spiked, and combined with his already hormone laden bloodstream; a biomolecular switch activated the new organ in his brain.

  Distantly, Stiles heard Pickling say, “Kick the shit out of him Grub, stomp his skinny ass.”

  Grub needed to get up to do that, but upon rising, he grabbed a handkerchief to apply to his nose, which wasn’t bleeding much after all. But the sight of his blood pissed him off because he didn’t look as tough as he’d wanted Pickling to think he was, with this punk drawing first blood.

  He kicked at Stiles, his boot toe connecting with his thigh, but it wasn’t a hard kick. He drew his foot back as Pickling urged him on. “Kick his guts out. Stomp him good.”

  “Stop!” Stiles screamed desperately at his assailant, with force, just as Grub’s foot started to swing towards his ribs.

  Amazingly, the thick leg, with its heavy soled boot, froze halfway to its target, stopping so quickly that Grub stumbled a step, and was forced to slam his foot down to catch himself.

  “What are you waiting for?” Pickling complained. “He’s afraid of you. Show him who’s boss.”

  Grub was silent and stood motionless where he was when he put his foot down.

  “You were going to impress me, man! What happened to your balls? Beat the snotty bastard to a pulp. It’s what you said you’d do. Have you chickened out?”

  Pickling was in an awkward position, having bragged he’d beat Stiles up if Grub couldn’t handle the job. Except, he didn’t want to be the one in trouble when Stiles inevitably ratted them out. He needed Grub to follow through, to take the blame.

  He pushed the shoulder of the motionless shorter boy, who moved his feet to keep his balance but said nothing, looking with a blank expression down at Stiles.

  “I can’t believe you’ve turned gutless on me, man.”

  Stiles knew he wasn’t out of trouble, but Grub had stopped when he yelled for him to stop. Now, the older boy was trying to provoke him into finishing the beating.

  “Shut your mouth, Pickling,” he said, angry, adding, “Two on one ain’t fair. You’re both bigger than me.” Technically, he was a little taller than Grub, but he had a scrawny build and was outweighed and outmuscled by either of them.

  Abruptly, he noticed Pickling’s expression, he appeared about to speak, but couldn’t seem to bring himself to do so, as if he had lockjaw. Stiles seized the opportunity to use the pause to his advantage.

  “Why does he want you to do his dirty work, Grub? And he keeps calling you Grub. Did he forget your name’s Grady?” Stiles had remembered that bit of trivia and tried to use it.

  With a slow blink, Grub looked at Pickling, a curious expression on his face. “You hate your nickname, why is mine OK with you?”

  Stiles tried to drive them apart. “He doesn’t like you, Grady. He wants to get you in trouble.” By using his real name, Stiles thought he might get on the dumb oaf’s good side.

  Pickling looked like he desperately wanted to say something in denial, but nothing came out when he couldn’t open his mouth.

  “You said we were friends.” Came Grub’s challenge.

  Stiles thought cynically, Right. I’m sure he thinks you’re a stupid, ugly, meathead.

  Grub said something unexpected as if he heard the unspoken thoughts. “I don’t think you’re a genius either, little Pickle dick. Your nose is so pointy the girls call you Pinocchio. And if you ever call me a meathead again, I’ll deck your ass.”

  Having uttered nothing, Pickling displayed a mixture of confusion and anger but didn’t answer back. For some reason, he couldn’t open his mouth. Instead, he closed his right fist, half behind his back, where Grub couldn’t see.

  “He’s gonna sucker punch you Grub,” Stiles warned. Wondering if he should try to get up, to make a run for safety. He was sorry he’d said anything aloud when Pickling glanced at him hatefully. Having the two of them fight would allow his escape, so he should have kept the warning to himself.

  The fist came out of hiding, but without the element of surprise, Pickling didn’t risk a swing, content just with the threat. The boy's face contorted, as if from some internal struggle, and his jaw worked with the intensity of his need to say something.

  Gaining confidence, Stiles piled it on now. “I’ve heard him call you stupid and ugly to girls in the neighborhood, Grub.” He decided that provoking a fight between them was a brilliant idea.

  Pickling tried a poor imitation of a mime, shaking his head, and waving his hands palms out, in a sign of negation. Without using words, the gestures lacked conviction. As if struck mute he didn’t speak, and for some reason, he wasn’t able to open his mouth. He couldn’t speak.

  “Is what he said true? I didn’t hear you say no.” Grub had his fists closed now.

  This friction was too good an opportunity to pass up, with the allies now distrustful of one another. Stiles needed to encourage their split, without turning their attention back to him.

  Trying what had worked before, he thought of what he wanted: Just argue with each other and let
me go.

  Pickling suddenly broke his silence in an explosion of denials and obscenities, while Grub continued to accuse him of calling him a stupid ugly meathead, both talking over one another, ignoring their original target.

  With his rational mental faculties returning, Stiles realized that he’d never said aloud that Pickling considered Grub to be stupid and ugly. That was his own opinion of what everyone thought, and he’d mentally said that to Grub, but was afraid to speak the words aloud. Then they started arguing the instant he mentally thought they should. Their distraction was his chance to get away.

  Leaving his book bag where it lay, he rose and cautiously moved towards the sidewalk, watching them in their animated argument. They were ignoring him. Amazing.

  At the edge of the sidewalk, before pushing through the fringe of weeds, he tried a ridiculous experiment, ready to dash up the street if they turned on him again. Focusing on Grub, he thought, punch him in his pointy nose.

  The right fist, already closed, swung up so fast that Pickling, who also had his fists clenched at his sides, never tried to block the blow, although he flinched away enough to take the punch partly on his left cheekbone rather than full-on to his nose.

  Inspired, Stiles sent Pickling a thought. Call him stupid, and fall on your ass.

  Falling backward, the older boy yelled, “You’re a stupid prick.”

  Kick him in the groin.

  It wasn’t directed to either one specifically, so both tried to kick the other, but only Grub was successful, planting his boot toe close to the other’s manhood, while his thigh caught the weak sideways kick from the prone boy.

  Keeping his distance, Stiles found the feelings he experienced utterly exhilarating. Pickling was now doubled up on his right side, both hands covering his groin, so he thought specifically to Grub this time, bend over, and punch him in the face.