Peter David - PSI-man 01 - Mind-Force Warrior

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2024-12-21 0 0 639.75KB 95 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
SIMON SAYS
Provoke Chuck Simon the Complex told mob boss Tony. Push him. See if his power will
manifest.
Tony had pushed, all right. And the power had manifested into the hideous deaths of six
men.
Now, Chuck advanced on Tony, saying, "Simon says stand."
Pure mental force yanked Tony to his feet.
"Simon says die."
An invisible fist grabbed Tony and squeezed, collapsing his heart and lungs. Brain oozed
out of his ears . . .
PSI-MAN
Mind-Force Warrior
PSI-man
DAVID PETERS
CHARTER/DIAMOND BOOKS, NEW YORK
PSI-MAN
A Charter/Diamond Book/published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Charter/Diamond edition/October
All rights reserved. Copyright c 1990 by Charter Communications, Inc.
Cover art consultants: Hal Steiner, Certified Master Trainer, Owner of the Malibu Pet
Hotel,
Freeport, New York. (Canine consultant)
Robin M. Rosenthal, M.A. (Self-defense consultant)
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other
means, without permission. For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York,
New York 10016.
ISBN: 1-55773-399-
Charter/Diamond Books are published by The Berkley Publishing
Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016. The name
"CHARTER/DIAMOND" and its logo are trademarks belonging to Charter Communications,
Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
October 12, 2021
1
THEY CAUGHT UP with him in Kansas.
Not that he knew that he had been caught up with. Hardly that. To him, Kansas, and this
particular town in Kansas by the name of Taylor's Point, was not much different from any of
the previous towns the circus had passed through.
Their stay at Taylor's Point had begun as innocuously as in the other cities. Innocuously,
that is, for the employees and inhabitants of the Four Star Carnival and Circus. For them it
was old hat. For the inhabitants of Taylor's Point, it was nothing short of miraculous.
Four Star's series of trucks, trailers, and transports had wended its way down the interstate
from its previous gig in LaPoint. It was a dazzling assortment of vehicles in various states of
disrepair. The best-working truck had a muffler with a hole the size of Sacramento. There
weren't all that many animals: a couple of lions past their prime, a fairly small elephant, a
couple of horses.
It was as if the circus itself was almost an afterthought, which it was. The main source of
revenue was the countless skill booths and the handful of rides, all neatly collapsible and
transportable. Four Star was a rolling testament to the American dream of cheesy family
entertainment.
All of the support personnel rode in a handful of Winnebagos. The hours of their transport
were long and gray, staring out at endless stretches of wheat fields and the like that suggested
an innocuous, innocent American spirit that had long since been ruthlessly stomped away.
Chuck stared out the window, his eyes locked on the skies. He rolled slightly back and
forth, swaying to the gentle motion of the van, staring upward. From behind him, further
back in the van, there was the familiar smacking sound of pasteboard on pasteboard, plastic
chips being tossed, and potato chips being crunched. The ongoing, ever-continuous card
game was in progress.
Chuck's square jaw rested on his hands as he stared toward the horizon. Apparently in his
late twenties, he was a disarmingly handsome man. His hair was jet black, as was the thick
beard he had grown in recent months. Originally his hair had been blonde, but his beard
always grew in very dark and he had taken advantage of that by dyeing his hair to match.
Anything to disguise his appearance.
He had snapping blue eyes that women found endlessly fascinating. His nose was slightly
irregular, the gift of a profound breaking while playing college football. He had high
cheekbones and neatly placed dimples when he smiled.
His forehead was fairly high, but it wasn't as if his hair were receding. He'd always had
that vast expanse of forehead. When he was a kid, the other kids said he looked dorky. His
mother said he looked scholarly. When he'd grown up his mother's opinion had seemed to be
the right one, although the occasional smart ass still looked into Chuck's shiny forehead and
smoothed their own hair as if consulting a mirror. Chuck would grin lopsidedly and bear
such foolishness. It did him no harm. "Kept him honest," as his father always said.
From behind him a voice called, "Jesus God, Chuck, what's the big fascination?"
He knew the voice as Paul's without turning around. "With what?" he asked.
"Outside. You always stare outside for hours when we travel, like you're waiting for a sign
or something."
The pasteboard slapping had sped up a little. That meant Dakota was dealing.
"No sign," said Chuck evenly. "Maybe just a break in the sky."
"Forget it," Dakota's lilting voice now came as the dealing ceased. "Forecast for today is
gray, followed by rain. Like yesterday. Like the day before. Like always."
Chuck turned away and walked slowly over toward the card players. He settled next to
Dakota. Chuck got along with everyone. It was his specialty. But Dakota he had a special
fondness for.
She studied her cards but shot a quick, friendly glance in his direction. "So the great
outcast finally deigns to sit with us lowly card players," she said.
He grinned. "Is that what I am?"
Dexter, bespectacled and lean, cautious to the point of distraction, methodically
rearranged his hand as was his ritual. "You never play cards with us," he said through his
nose.
"Man's right," said Harry, who rounded out the foursome. In contrast to the slim Paul
seated next to him, Harry was bulky and muscular. He worked out with weights constantly,
determined not to let the muscles he'd built up in his youth become flabby and unpleasant.
Harry was also the lion tamer for the circus, although that job held a minimum of danger.
The idea that the lions had any predisposition to attack Harry was ludicrous. Their main
concern was where their next meal was coming from, and the answer to that was, quite
simply, from Harry. They knew that. So to kill the meal ticket would be absurd.
Chuck got a little closer to Dakota. She was a compactly built woman, with long brown
hair that she was wearing up in a chignon. Her't-shirt hung perpetually off one shoulder and
her jeans were carefully ripped at the knees. Since Chuck had joined Four Star a month back,
there had been an innocent teasing relationship between the two. Chuck knew that Dakota
wouldn't mind in the least if it went further than that. In truth, neither would he. But a
relationship, particularly physical, was something he took quite seriously, and was not
something he would consider entering into transiently.
Right now, most of his life was transient.
A month was the longest he'd spent with any one group in quite some time. He wondered
how much longer it would last.
"I don't play cards, Dex," said Chuck evenly, "since I'd hate to take your money. Wouldn't
be fair."
"Ooohhh," said Paul in a loud, semi-mocking voice. "Not fair! Well, damn nice of you
watching out for us like that."
"No problem," smiled Chuck. He glanced at Dakota's cards. She dropped two and
replaced them with enough to give her two pair, jacks over tens.
He shifted his gaze to the stacks of chips as the game proceeded briskly. Within moments
Paul and Dex had dropped out, and Harry and Dakota were staring at each other over the
tops of their cards. Now Chuck's gaze flickered from one to the other.
Like a serene Buddha, Harry flipped two more chips in. "See your five and raise another
five."
Dakota looked in annoyance at her almost non-existent pile. "Crap, Harry, you know
that's more than I got. I can't see the bet."
"I'll take something in trade."
There were snickers from Dexter and Paul.
"Yeah," said Dakota, "I'll bet you would."
"Would you bet?" he asked, a rakish smile on his face. "Now that is the question. How
much is a night with you worth, Dakota?"
"More'n you've got," she replied. There was no heat in the response. They knew each other
too well for that. Harry had simply been trying to nail Dakota for months. An honorable goal
that she could respect. She wasn't all that interested in him, but then again she wasn't all that
disinterested. It was a question of just how far she was willing to go for a poker hand.
"Well, I'm betting more'n you've got, so we can call it even."
She tried to get a reading from his face, but there was no sign of expression. That usually
meant that he held a pretty good hand... indeed, that's why Dex and Paul had folded. When
Harry had a lousy hand you could usually tell. The whimpering was a tip off, for one thing.
The Winnebago rocked slightly under them as it hit a patch of unpaved road. Dakota
looked challengingly at Chuck. "Think he's bluffing? Think I can beat him?"
"You really want to know?" replied Chuck.
The question was so calm that she blinked slightly at it. "Yeah, sure. Really."
"He's bluffing. You can beat him."
"Oh really?" Harry said, his eyes peering over the tops of his cards. "What am I holding?"
"Garbage," said Chuck.
Dakota looked from one to the other. There was no trace of uncertainty in Chuck's face at
all. Surely it was a guess on his part, but he didn't act like it. "You sure?"
"Always."
"Got a lot riding on this, Chuck," she said. "My virtue is at stake here."
"Penny ante bet," suggested Paul.
She ignored him. "So you sure?" she asked again.
"Always." Just the same way as before, exact same tone, as if he were talking from another
country.
"Okay," she said, and "Okay," again as if to reassure herself. "Call. What've you got,
Harry?"
"Full house, kings over jacks," he said.
She closed her eyes in pain.
Dex glanced over at Harry's hand. "Bullshit," he said. " You've got garbage."
Paul snickered.
"Thanks, genius," said Harry.
"Garbage? Really?" said Dakota.
"Yeah, garbage, okay? Happy? Saaa-tiss-fied?" He tossed down the cards. "Busted flush.
Okay? Thanks a lot, Chuck," he snapped.
"What did I do?"
"I work for two weeks on my poker face and you friggin' tell her I've got garbage."
"You did."
"Who asked you?"
"She did."
"And how did you know?"
He smiled. "I did."
"Great."
"Would you like me to play a hand?"
"No, but I wouldn't mind backing the van over you."
And from behind them came a low growl.
Chuck's glance briefly flickered in its direction. "Quiet, Rommel," he said. "Harry was just
kidding."
Harry turned and gasped and jumped, knocking over the chips. "Jesus God! That
monster's in the van!"
"Rommel goes where I go," said Chuck calmly.
"Good. When you go to hell, take him with you."
Dakota hooted at that. "Some wild animal trainer. Afraid of a doggy."
Rommel padded forward from the shadows where he'd been lying with preternatural
quiet. He was big for a German shepherd. He was big for a horse, which is what he really
seemed like, and it was nothing short of astounding that he'd been able to lie there all that
time and attract no attention at all. His fur was light brown, except for a large black spot on
his back and a zigzag pattern on his forehead that had earned him his name.
"That's not a doggy," said Harry, shifting around so that his back was no longer to
Rommel. "I've driven smaller cars than that thing. That thing would scare my lions."
"So would a Girl Scout troop," said Dakota.
The Girl Scout reared back and threw.
The ball fell short of the cans and ricocheted harmlessly away.
Chuck smiled sympathetically. All around him now was the invigorating hustle and bustle
of the carnival. This was what had attracted him to this lifestyle. The carnival had a perpetual
small-time innocence about it, something that reminded him of what he had given up and yet
held out a hope for him, however vague, that somehow he might be able to recapture it.
He was surrounded by the familiar sounds, the shills trying to tempt men to display their
machismo for, the little ladies by purchasing three throws for a dollar and winning a
worthless stuffed toy. The distant music of the calliope, recorded and piped through speakers
since the real calliope had broken months before Chuck even joined Four Star. The constant
hum and chatter of customers, of babies crying mixed with the squeaking of pushed strollers.
The sound of popping corn and the aroma of hot pretzels.
None of which mattered worth a damn to the Girl Scout who had had her eye on the pink
poodle in the upper left hand corner and had been determined to win it. The little blonde girl
stood there as if she'd lost her best friend. "I came so close," she said, voice laced with misery.
Chuck, from behind the counter, nodded sympathetically. "I thought so too," he said.
"Want to try again? Only three for a dollar. Knock down the cans, win a—"
But the Girl Scout's mother, lips pursed severely, was having none of it. "I told you it was a
waste of money," she said, as if her daughter's failure was a personal triumph. "Now come
on."
"Please Mommy..." She held up her card. "I'll put it on my card..."
"No. We set a limit on how much you'd be allowed. You're at it now."
"But Mommmmmeeeee..." She seemed to be vibrating in place.
Unseen at Chuck's feet, Rommel rumbled disapprovingly. The girl's high-pitched whining
was getting on his nerves.
"Tell you what," said Chuck, holding the balls out. "Three throws. If you hit it, it's free, plus
you win," and he gestured, "one of these nifty prizes."
The mother stared at Chuck thoughtfully and decided that if her daughter missed she
would stalk off in high dungeon, claiming it was fixed and she shouldn't have to pay.
Chuck knew damned well that's what she was thinking. It didn't matter.
The mother nodded curtly, and the little girl took the offered balls. She bit her lower lip,
aimed, and then reared back and threw the first one.
The trajectory looked like it was off by a good two feet, but then the ball suddenly veered
towards the cans and smacked into them, sending them crashing resoundingly to the floor.
The mother looked stunned as the girl clapped her hands in delight.
"Whoa!" said Chuck. "That is one nasty curve!" Even as he spoke he started to reach for
the stuffed pink poodle, but then he checked the gesture. "Which one would you like?"
"The pink poodle, please," she said carefully, as if saying the wrong thing would shatter
the magic moment.
He nodded as he pulled the poodle down and handed it to her. She clutched at it lovingly
and her mother, more out of reflex than any need for courtesy, said, "Say thank you."
"Thank you," the girl said.
He nodded and tossed off a salute as they walked away.
Rommel looked up gratefully. Thank you.
"Welcome," said Chuck.
"What is it with you?"
Chuck turned in response to that last statement, which had been issued by the portly
owner who was waddling over toward him. His name was Gwynn, and from his overall
demeanor he was generally referred to as Penguin, although never to his face.
Next to him was Dakota, now decked out in a brief, spangled costume that she wore for
her tightrope act. Dakota could frequently be found near him. She knew which side her
bread was buttered on.
"With me, Mr. Gwynn?"
"You give away more prizes than any two barkers here."
He shrugged expansively. "The people win, sir. That little girl knocked over the cans. What
was I supposed to do?"
"I don't know! Chat it up when they throw. Distract them. Do something. All I know is that
people come up to this booth and nine times out of ten, they turn into Dwight Gooden.
They—oh, shit."
"What?" said Dakota.
"Cutters."
His gaze had traveled in the direction of three people, men whose clothes were tattered
and whose general appearance and demeanor was of not caring about personal hygiene, or
much else for that matter. They were wandering slowly through the carnival, looking about
as if what they were seeing wasn't really there.
"How did those cardless wonders get in here?" he demanded. Chuck shrugged, as did
Dakota. Gwynn waddled off, fists balled, determined to get them the hell out of his carnival.
Dakota and Chuck watched him go with amusement. "He hates non-paying customers,"
said Chuck.
"It's not just that," said Dakota. "Sometimes the police show up and roust the cutters, and
that always makes a big scene. Who needs that kind of grief. By the way," and she was
looking at the top of Chuck's chest, which was exposed by the open top buttons of his flannel
shirt. "What's with the 'A'?"
"What?"
She pointed and he looked down. He'd almost forgotten he was wearing it.
"On that chain around your neck," she said. "That weird, metal letter 'A' bent out of a
spoon. But your name is Chuck. What's you last name?"
"It doesn't start with 'A', if that's what you mean."
"Okay, so what does the 'A' stand for?"
" 'Always,' as in always thinking of you."
She moaned. "Oh God, Chuck, don't be like the rest of them. Don't turn into a
sweet-talking asshole."
"Maybe that's what the 'A' stands for."
"Maybe you're right," and she tossed off a grin as she walked away.
He smiled goofily off at her and looked down at Rommel. Rommel looked up at him
blandly. Asshole.
"Well, who asked you?"
Now there was no sign of the cutters or Gwynn. He must have successfully convinced
them to leave without—
Without—
Chuck froze.
It was as if the air around him had suddenly changed, filled with electricity.
From at his feet there came a growl. Rommel was crouching now, hair raising on the nape
of his neck. It was doing the same on Chuck's.
Them.
"I know," said Chuck in a low voice. "Where from?"
Can't tell.
"Me neither." It was a feeling he hated. Knowing that somewhere there was danger, but
not being able to detect the origin.
He scanned the crowd quickly. The demeanor of his surroundings had changed
completely. Suddenly the most innocent looking of families became a clever ploy. A carriage
no longer contained an unseen baby, but a machine gun. And that priest over there was
acting pretty damned suspiciously....
Calm down.
"Shut up, Rommel. I'm fine."
You're not fine. Your mind is screaming and I'm getting a headache. I'll find them and kill
them and—
"No," he hissed. "No killing."
What do you expect me to do? Charm them with my wit?
Chuck did not respond. He swung his legs over the top of the counter and stood in front of
it. His hands were slightly out to his sides, as if he was balancing himself on an invisible
tightrope.
People were now hurrying past him. The circus part of the carnival was under way, and
since admission to that was part of the ticket, no one wanted to miss it.
"They aren't sure we're here."
I know.
"But how did they get the notion that we were?"
Well, they didn't hear it from me.
He reached out with his mind, trying to sweep the crowd. He was buffeted by emotions,
trying to sort out a single sound from a maelstrom, one note from a concerto.
He spun. Rommel was heading towards the circus tent.
"Where are you going?" he shouted.
Where do you think?
The tent. They were in the tent. Rommel had homed in on them before he had. Chuck
excelled at subtleties and shadings of human emotion, but when it came to tracking thoughts
of violence, Rommel always had the upper hand.
Paw. Whatever.
And Rommel would not hesitate, upon finding them, to rip their throats out on Chuck's
behalf.
He darted after Rommel, threading his way through the rapidly thickening crowd. His
pulse was pounding against his temple and he lurched slightly as he tried to send out feelers.
Now he had detected them as well, the freefloating tendency towards violence, combined
with the suspicion that Chuck was somewhere nearby.
He should have just turned and gotten the hell out of the place. The moment that he had
realized he'd been found out, he should have put as much distance between himself and the
carnival as possible.
Rommel, however, was not predisposed to running. He was ready to kill something.
He lost visual track of Rommel but sensed him ahead somewhere. He couldn't be gentle
anymore, and as the crowd thickened ahead of him, he started shoving with more than his
hands. People suddenly staggered and glowered at each other, thinking that someone next to
them had shoved them. Chuck, meantime, ran through them and into the circus tent.
The opening clowns had just finished their routine as Chuck reached the outskirts of the
single ring. He didn't run into it, obviously. Might as well just send up a red flag. Instead he
dropped back, hugging the perimeter, walking slowly around the grandstands and trying to
get a feel for where his pursuers (Pursuers? Yes, yes, there was definitely more than one. He
was certain of it) were hiding.
Hiding. They were sitting out in the open, he realized. He was the one skulking under the
grandstands.
What had he come to?
In the ring they had rolled out the lions' cage. Chuck heard Harry's prerecorded theme
music bellow over the tent speakers, the familiar sound of the whip cracking as Harry entered
the cage. The three lions roared a greeting, but really it was nothing more than that. The lions
and Harry knew the drill.
Slowly, carefully, he stalked the stalkers.
Seconds crawled by as he sifted through the barrage of minds that crossed his. Like two
thoughts, passing in the night....
His entire body was cloaked in sweat. Where the hell were they? Where was Rommel?
Where—
And then the lions roared.
Really roared.
Chuck froze in his tracks, and there was a collective gasp from the crowd. Something had
changed, something new had entered the lion tamer/lion relationship. Something very huge
and very ugly, and Chuck wasn't sure what it was, but he was sure that someone might get
killed over it. That someone being Harry.
He darted out through an opening in the grandstands just in time to hear the shrieking
begin.
In the center of the ring, in the big cat cage, Harry was under siege.
He had backed against the far edge of the cage, escape blocked by the lions. Their calm,
placid demeanor that occasionally bored audiences to tears, had vanished. It had been
replaced by a wild, berserk fury that had caught their trainer and friend completely off
guard.
The ringmaster had frozen, uncertain of what to do. Roustabouts were running about,
grabbing up long sticks to try and shove through the cage to push the lions away from
Harry. The crowd was rumbling in confusion. Perhaps, they were thinking, this was part of
the act, but if it was it was a damned unpleasant part. The first stirrings of panic were
beginning to blossom forth.
Chuck reached out into Harry's mind, trying to get a sense of what was happening. There
was nothing. Harry was as confused as anyone, but in considerably more danger.
Harry tried to edge around toward the door at the far end, but the stalking lions would
have none of it. They converged on Harry and just as Chuck got there, the first one leaped.
The crowd started to scream, for now they knew, really knew, that something had gone
hideously, fatally wrong. Chuck staggered slightly, buffeted by the mass hysteria, and he
slammed shut his psychic blocks even as he grabbed at the door of the cage. Harry went
down beneath the weight of the first lion, and he howled in terror and agony. The lion's fetid
breath washed over him, the roar alone threatening to crush his skull.
The door was locked. Harry had the key.
Chuck, forcing panic from his mind, reached into the lock with his mind. He felt the
outline of the tumblers, made a gentle push, and they clicked. He yanked the door open and
leaped in.
One of the lions turned immediately. And Chuck, without taking the time to think of what
he was doing, reacted instinctively to protect the crowd. He slammed the door behind
himself, locking himself in with Harry and the lions so that the great beasts couldn't escape.
"Stop," Chuck told the lion firmly.
The lion, not six paces away, roared and leaped at Chuck.
Chuck's hands seemed to blur, and suddenly the lion was slammed up against the other
side of the cage. Chuck spun away, keeping his back to the cage the entire time. The lion
tracked him, its great head never moving, and it leaped again.
This time there was no room to maneuver and Chuck did the only thing he could. He
lashed out with the pure force of his mind.
The TK blast hurled the lion back, and Chuck screamed as a bolt of agony backlashed
through his head. He felt warm fluid pouring from his nostrils and knew that his nose was
bleeding. He'd overexerted himself. But what choice did he have?
The confused lion was trying to pull itself together as Chuck darted toward the other two.
Harry was shrieking under them and Chuck grabbed them by their tails and yanked with all
his strength, augmented by the power of his mind. The lions were drawn back from Harry,
roaring their fury.
Now roustabouts were at the cage, shoving with their sticks that had rounded hoops at the
edges, hoping to snag some of the beasts' heads to hold them back. All three lions were now
converging on Chuck.
He leaped. Straight up.
His hands snagged the crossbars that were a good ten feet off the ground. He swung his
leg up, yelling as a swipe of a lion's paw just managed to rake across his thigh. An inch closer
and it would have laid open the skin to the bone.
The lions stalked beneath him, trying to leap up at him. Every time they did he mentally
shoved them back down again, keeping them at bay. His nose had turned into a goddamn
geyser. He couldn't move. His full concentration was keeping the lions from leaping up at
him. He couldn't even spare a portion of his mind to think of crawling forward on the bars,
摘要：

SIMONSAYSProvokeChuckSimontheComplextoldmobbossTony.Pushhim.Seeifhispowerwillmanifest.Tonyhadpushed,allright.Andthepowerhadmanifestedintothehideousdeathsofsixmen.Now,ChuckadvancedonTony,saying,"Simonsaysstand."PurementalforceyankedTonytohisfeet."Simonsaysdie."AninvisiblefistgrabbedTonyandsqueezed,co...

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