The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Assignment: Futurist

by Wrestlr

6.

Near dawn the next day, after multiple stolen-car changes, driving southeast all night instead of north toward the country from which we’d flown into Darven, sneaking nearly to the border of another neighboring clan-nation; after a meal in a middle-of-nowhere diner—where, by the way, holed up in the unexpectedly clean men’s room, I found the energy to finally relieve Jase’s long-overdue blue balls, twice—we made it to the air strip.

Calling this place an airport would have been too generous. It was just a little private landing field attached to a tiny backwater town that like most of this country had seen better days, probably built by some local businessman or drug lord. Transport trucks, a few warehouses, and two small hangars over here, a strip of asphalt over there for a runway, barely long enough to accommodate small emergency extraction stealth-jet sent by the Institute.

But, the strip was there, we reached it, and the extraction jet was waiting. At least the pissy logistics clerk had come through for us. The situation looked like it might turn out to be what some people call a success after all.

Those people obviously suffer from what I like to call a premature declaration problem. There’s probably a Twelve Step program for that—oh, right, it’s called “real life.“

The Colonel sped us onto the tarmac and we piled out of the car. The good thing about this kind of operation on a private strip?—No need to stand in line at an airport or go through customs. The bad thing?—That would probably be likelihood of surprises, such as that warehouse over there, where one wall suddenly collapsed outward in a blast of noise and dust, and a fifty-foot robot stomped out onto the landing strip, directly in front of the jet. Oh, and twenty or so heavily armed government troops streamed out of the adjoining building.

“Trap!” the Colonel shouted helpfully. Because, right, what else could it be?

If this little surprise party knew we’d be there, then obviously the Institute had a leak in its communication channels. We’d worry about that later.

The troops had yet another simple plan: Wait until we showed up, shoot the Talents and the Colonel, smash the plane if necessary, secure the precog, and congratulate each other on a job well done all the way home. I guessed I should have been impressed that they were afraid of us enough to bring in the robot for extra firepower; but then we did incapacitate a number of their comrades the day before, so yeah, I guess we did give them the impression we were bad-ass.

The soldiers hung back, obviously not wanting to be underfoot while the fifty-foot robot did the heavy work. Heavy work in this case consisted of stomping toward the plane and the car, while we scattered like ants. Ants armed with pistols, telepathy, and adrenaline, none of which were that effective against a stomping-smashing metal behemoth with who knew what surprises up its mechanical sleeves—arms—whatever.

The Colonel had two pistols out, shooting in hopes of finding a weak spot.

Fall back, that way , I sent to Jase. We had to get the robot away from the plane. If we had any chance of getting out of there, the plane had to stay intact and un-smashed. Preferably un-shot too. Jets are surprisingly fragile things.

There’s no operator , Jase sent back.

I’d sensed the same lack: the robot was completely automated, with no local pilot’s mind for my telepathy to hit.

My reply: Never mind that. Get Yan to safety! I wasn’t sure where safety was, but it sure wasn’t out in the open here with us.

Good boy—Jase tossed Yan over his shoulder and tore out for the cover of the nearest building that wasn’t spewing troops at us. Good to know Jase knew how to take the initiative and apply his instincts and his muscles to the practical problem at hand. Yan was a valuable prize for the Institute.

Now, the troops? Those I could deal with, especially since none of these had blocker tech in their helmets. Rule number one: When you’re in a fight with the odds stacked against you, change the game. Hitting twenty or so minds at once takes a lot of firepower. I focused my telepathy into what was basically a thermonuclear blast for every mind in that direction and I unleashed it at the soldiers and the warehouse they’d spilled out of, just in case more were lurking. Three-quarters of the troops had what amounted to an immediate seizure and dropped, unconscious. Most of the rest would be incapacitated for the next several hours by vertigo or nausea. Two or three, on the fringes, seemed capable of standing upright enough to still be threats. Damn, I must’ve been losing my touch.

But I’d still evened the odds considerably. Those few remaining soldiers panicked and ran. That left the Colonel and me to focus on dealing with one last threat: the giant stomping robot. The good news?—The robot was no longer blocking the jet’s escape path. The bad?—It stood between us and the jet, definitely blocking our path, and it had focused its attention on us.

Robots are always full of surprises. This one seemed to be bullet-resistant. Oh, and armed with a machine gun turret built into its head, judging from the twin barrels clicking into place where a human would have eyes.

What kept us alive was it sluggishness. Where the hell did the government of this backwoods country get a giant robot anyway? This thing might have been telepathy- and bullet-proof, but its A.I. didn’t appear that sophisticated, and it wasn’t the fastest robot we’d ever faced. In fact, it was kinda slow and clumsy—definitely not the creation of a top-tier genius. Running, we managed to stay ahead of the bullet-stream and keep it from targeting us. Time was not on our side, though—just a matter of time until we got tired, or the robot got off a lucky shot, or both. Hey, in real life, pistols run out of ammo and people get tired.

The Colonel was busy reloading while the robot swung around to face me. I was doing my best to shoot whatever looked like a vulnerable spot. That little torso-plate that looked like a sensor array?—Nope. That neck-seam?—Also nope.

That’s when a shot rang out, and a bullet pinged off the robot’s head. A high-powered round that, unlike our pistol fire, actually left a dent.

Who the hell was shooting? The Colonel was still reloading. The shot came from over there, and I saw a flash of something black at the roofline. Sniper? I didn’t have enough telepathic juice left after my little trick earlier to probe our sniper friend, but who cared? As long as he was shooting at the robot, I’d welcome his help and name my first-borne child after him, if I were the child-siring type.

The sniper got off another shot and, a quick glimpse, the black appeared to be a cowboy hat. The only person I knew who was good with a rifle and wore a cowboy hat was ... Nah, it couldn’t be Cowboy. What would he be doing—

Yep, robots are full of surprises. Now that the sniper had gotten its attention, this one pointed an arm at the rooftop and this little pod popped out and clicked into place. This surprise?—A rocket launcher. The little grenade-rocket left a smoke trail as it zipped through the air. The cowboy hat and rifle barrel rabbited out of sight a second before the rocket hit the edge of roof. The roofline erupted in a bone-shaking kaboom and a cloud of smoke and dust and shrapnel-ized building materials that had me ducking for cover too.

Shrapnel bits pinged off the robot. By then the Colonel had reloaded and was unleashing his patented bullet-fury on it again, but neither he nor the debris was doing any damage. Smoke and dust from the explosion billowed over the robot, which seemed to interfere with its ability to track the Colonel, judging by how he managed to avoid getting shot by the turret-head’s return spew of lead.

I found Jase and Yan behind a corner, and seconds later the Colonel joined us. Yan was just what we needed; maybe just a little peek at the future—

The freight truck rumbled in from the far side of the tarmac. By then, the robot was clear of the smoke and had spotted us again. That’s when, from behind, the truck slammed into its left leg.

Three things happen when a two tons of truck traveling at a brisk speed smashes into a metal leg. First, struts warp. Second, gravity takes over, and the robot falls. In this case, the robot fell backward, directly onto the truck.

The driver popped out of the cab at the last second and rolled clear just as the falling hip and arm crushed it. Dark hair, golden skin. Was that Dion? Fuck, more dust and flailing robot body parts hid him after I got just a glance.

Oh, and the third thing that happens? Something explodes, just like in every Hollywood movie. The truck had a fuel tank. The Colonel had a pistol. He hit the tank with one shot, and the whole area under and around the robot got swallowed up in a satisfying fireball.

After all, even a downed robot might still be full of surprises that needed to be deactivated. The robot might have been bullet-proof, but chances were it wasn’t also fire- or heat-proof. Surround the robot with enough burning fuel, and some vital internal working was likely to melt.

Take Yan and get to the plane , I sent to Jase. Getting him back to the Institute is your priority. Don’t wait for us—no matter what, you get on that plane and get in the air the moment Yan is strapped in and the pilot has a clear take-off.

Jase tore off at a run, practically dragging Yan along.

I called after them: Oh, and make sure Yan has that window seat.

The Colonel and I needed to buy them some time to get away. After all, we didn’t know whether the robot was really down yet, and we still had a few stray troops unaccounted for that hadn’t been felled by my mental blast.

And if Cowboy and Dion really were here, I needed to ... What?

Worry about that later.

Minds, that direction , I motioned to the Colonel, and he nodded. Guns out, we advanced.

The robot was still flailing, but on its back—effectively immobilized but not deactivated.

I heard the jet engines kick in. Good—Jase had reached it with Yan and was following orders to get the fuck out of there. The Colonel and I could disappear as soon as the plane was airborne. Disappearing was what we did best.

Look out!

Jase’s broadcast burned through my head, and I turned just in time to see the robot’s arm lurch my way, grenade-launcher extended. I’d barely started to dive aside when the world exploded and went black.

When I managed to haul myself back to consciousness, my arms were draped over the shoulders of two men and they were hauling me off. Fortunately, getting my telepathy ready took another second because I recognized them before I could blast them.

Cowboy to my right. “Hi,” I slurred to him, after a quick peek into his mind to confirm that he really was Cowboy and that I wasn’t hallucinating my ass off thanks to some head injury.

“Hi,” he stage-whispered. “We’re getting you out of here.”

Dion to my left—I recognized his orange eyes. Beyond him was a third man who looked a lot like him, similar features, darker hair but the same orange eyes.

“Can you walk?” Dion asked. Adrenaline made his voice tight.

I tested my legs. Sore, but everything seemed to work. “Yeah. Just shook me up.”

We crept along the wall of some abandoned building. “Did the plane get away?” I asked, because all I could hear was the dying crackle of flames somewhere behind us.

Cowboy: “Yeah. Now be quiet. Your friend with the guns is still around here somewhere.”

Maybe I was still groggy from the explosion, but what he said seemed odd. Why would we be sneaking away from the Colonel? I was thinking we should all go back to the Institute together: Cowboy might make a great handler since he was nearly as good with weapons as the Colonel, and Jase would be needing a field partner ...

We rounded the corner, and there stood the Colonel, both pistols aimed at us, and the away question became moot.

Yep, I was definitely still addled from the explosion, because something was definitely wrong. Namely, the part where the scowling Colonel had his guns pointed at Cowboy, Dion, and the third guy, while they all had their guns pointed at the Colonel. The wrong bit was me standing in the middle—any bullets fired would’ve gone through me on their way to their targets. Bullets passing through me seemed like a Very Bad Idea. I generally tried to avoid Very Bad Ideas. I said, “Uh, guys ...? Colonel, you remember Cowboy, right? And Dion, the tracker from a few months back?”

Cowboy said, “We don’t want any trouble with you, sir. Let us pass.”

“That’s my partner. You’re not going anywhere with him,” the Colonel growled, never wavering. Because even though this standoff was three guns to his two and his opponents included a hit man and a street-fighter, there was absolutely no doubt that a firefight would end with everyone else dead and the Colonel suffering nothing more than a flesh wound or two—and maybe some paperwork back at the Institute to fill out since everyone else dead would likely include me, his standing-in-the-way partner.

Cowboy answered grimly, “He belongs with us, sir.” That “sir” was not facetious; the Cowboy knew, and respected, the Colonel’s reputation, and his tone conveyed that respect.

Now, I’ve never been big on introspection, especially not when standing in the middle of a bunch of guns, but what else was I supposed to do during this testosterone standoff? The Colonel’s approach to life can be summed up as: See it, shoot it, move on to the next assignment. For me it’s more like: See him, fuck him if he’s cute, move on. Our methods differed, because the Colonel used his guns and I used my Talent, but generally we shared the same outlook on life. That’s part of what made us such an effective field team. The Colonel, of course, was likely to have his own opinion about that effective part.

But did I belong with Cowboy and Dion? Where were they taking me? Were they offering me a life outside of the Institute? Cowboy, the assassin with a strong code of ethics. Dion, the hunter-tracker-fighter specializing in survival on the fringes of society. They’d both been great sex. I wouldn’t have minded another romp across the sheets with either or both of them. But to leave the Institute—?

If you go with them ... , Yan had said. Did I want that? To leave the Institute? As much as the Colonel and I annoyed each other, we’d come to respect each other. The Institute had its flaws and I didn’t agree with some of its methods, but it was the only life I’d ever known.

... Happier than you can imagine . If anyone other than a precognitive had said that to me, I’d have laughed in his face, or fried his brain, or both. Yan had been right so far, but he’d said that after I’d accidentally kicked his Talent into overdrive. I had no idea what that might have done to his accuracy. For all I knew, whatever potential future he’d foreseen might have a one percent chance of happening. Still, when a precog tells you something will lead to happiness, the smart thing to do is listen. Sometimes I favored doing the smart thing.

I looked at the Colonel, and I said, “Please?”

The Colonel narrowed his eyes at me.

“And do me a favor: Go easy on Jase. He’s a good kid.” Because obviously after this assignment, Junior had passed his evaluations. He’d make a damn fine field agent, provided the Colonel let him live long enough.

The Colonel narrowed his eyes at me even further. Could he even still see me with his eyes down to slits like that? Maybe he was thinking up good excuses to give the higher-ups when he got back to the Institute for why he’d shot me himself. Gunned down in the melee. Crushed by the giant robot. Body burned up in the explosion. This little airfield debacle definitely didn’t lack reasons why an agent ended up dead and his body couldn’t be recovered. No one would be stupid enough to probe the Colonel’s mind to learn otherwise—whatever story he came up with would stand. Too, the Colonel would keep the Institute distracted by the need to ferret out the communications leak that let the Darven government set multiple traps for us. Time marches on. Soon enough, I’d be forgotten.

He hadn’t shot me yet. Which meant maybe the Colonel was looking for reasons to let me go without killing me first. Maybe I’d misjudged the big lug over the years and he was a big softy inside after all. Yeah, and maybe the sun went nova yesterday. That was about equally likely. Whatever he was going to decide, the Colonel had his reasons, and that no telepathy or I’ll shoot you rule meant I wasn’t about to sneak into his head to learn what they were. Antagonizing the Colonel would be another of those Very Bad Ideas.

“You know you can’t come back from this,” the Colonel said to me.

I nodded and repeated, “Please?”

The Colonel’s expression remained granite. “I can’t let you want walk away with him if I’m able to stop you. But just this once,” he said, looking past me at Cowboy, “you get a free shot. Make it count.”

“Yes, sir,” Cowboy said, with a quick, respectful nod. Then he stepped around me and slugged the Colonel hard in the jaw, a blow that probably would have taken a lesser man’s head off. The Colonel’s body slammed back into the wall and he sank, only momentarily dazed but enough that he couldn’t shoot us.

“Come on,” Cowboy said, pulling at my arm. “We gotta get out of here.”

“Thank you,” I said, to Cowboy and Dion, the Colonel, Yan and Jase, and the whole damned world.

After that, the only thing left to do was run alongside Cowboy and Dion and see what this new future of mine might hold.