The Psychic War

by T. M. Townsend

Genres: Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Science Fiction; Military Sci-Fi

Synopsis

We know what you’re thinking...

Meet Marisol Rodriguez, a brilliant young neuroscientist with emotional issues who discovers a secret society of world-dominating telepaths and leads a campaign to defeat them. Can Marisol and her rag-tag band of followers prevail against people who can read and manipulate the very thoughts in our minds? Find out in The Psychic War!

Release date: May 26, 2024

Publisher: BLKDOG

Print pages: 374

Sample

PROLOGUE

Ihave a confession; my life got a lot more interesting – after I died!

A

s a telepath, I have been constantly frustrated at my difficulty in discriminating between victory and defeat. You think it must be easy for me; after all, I could use my telepathy, right? But the difference between victory and defeat is often a very fine line, and while I have endured many defeats and know them well, I never expected victory might feel like this.

So I must ask myself: is this a victory or another well-disguised defeat?

Here I sit a veteran of the last great psychic war and I have no energy left. I feel no joy, happiness, or satisfaction. I only feel feeble, tired, and worn-out — old. My wounds will heal, but the scars will always be inside me.

This conflict has consumed me for so long that I cannot tell; is there any “me” left or just what I have become out of necessity?

The outcome for today is far from certain. I do not know if these people will believe me, which scares me; I could end up in jail if they do not. Ugh! Thinking about this is enough to make a person crazy! The whole story is so fantastic that I would not believe it possible if it had not happened to me.

My body feels vague and numb, except for a burning sensation in my muscles and pain in my head. My limbs are like rubber bands stretched too many times. My brain feels on fire, ready to explode! I feel my heart thumping in my chest, pumping blood through my aching head, and I cannot remember ever being so thoroughly exhausted.

I have never pushed myself to this extreme because there has never been the need, but this cause was too crucial to deny the fight. Now I am left alone here. Max and the anti-TPs have finished their work and evacuated back to our Hideout, and the time has come for the final phase: telling the story.

Okay, I sigh deeply, Calm down and get a grip on yourself, Marisol.

Breathe.

It is time for the people to come and hear my tale.

The command goes out from my head: Come and hear me. The crowd of approximately fifty law enforcement officers, firefighters, paramedics, and media reporters waited at the Expedited Shipping Headquarters of OmniCorp Worldwide in Topeka, Kansas. Everyone knew they were supposed to be here, though they cannot recall precisely why or when they arrived. For unclear reasons, they felt compelled to stay in their places for some unknown amount of time.

Now, they suddenly felt the urge to discover what was happening.

They see the building’s main roof has collapsed. Many shattered windows and small fires are burning in numerous places. Dense smoke moving under the influence of the breezes winds around and through the multitude, partially obscuring their vision. Burnt-out, crushed, and smoldering wrecks of what were once vehicles and other debris lie strewn about inside the complex. The stench from the sickly, choking smoke makes breathing hard.

Continuing to act on their new impulse, the group advances with difficulty through this horrific entanglement and arrives at a mind-boggling sight; on the front steps of the main building sits a solitary young woman, dressed in black paramilitary-style clothing. She has a laurel leaf crown adorning her head. The breeze blows strands of hair around her face as she stares blankly at her feet.

That young woman is me.

“Are you alright, lady?” asks one of the firemen as he approaches me.

“Can you tell us what happened here?” queries a police officer.

“Who are you, and why are you here?” probe several reporters.

Responding to these questions, I slowly raise my head, and my blank stare is replaced with a fixed gaze, revealing my bloodshot eyes. I appear exhausted, as if simply lifting my head requires tremendous effort. Smudges of soot and sweat streak my face, and my baby hairs stick to my forehead. I struggle to stand erect on the steps and speak to the gathered host.

“My name is Marisol Rodrig-” I catch myself and start anew, “My name is Marisol Rodgers, and I am a telepath.” The fatigue overwhelms me again, and I must sit back on the steps. I breathe deeply and try to relax.

“What did she say?” asks an incredulous reporter.

“It sounded like she said she was a telepath,” answers another in a disbelieving tone.

“Lady,” asks one of the firemen, putting a blanket around my shoulders, “Did you get a bump on your head? What you’re talking about – it just doesn’t make sense.”

A paramedic arrives and checks me for injuries. He feels my limbs and examines my skin for cuts and contusions. He says, “Everything seems normal.

Tell me, are you in emotional distress?

I shake my head slowly and reply, “No–not anymore.” I sigh deeply in relief, and then shake off the pain and weariness. I stand and address the people again.

“The events that took place here tonight,” I explain, “were part of a larger global fight to free the world from the grip of an organization of telepaths that operated under strict secrecy. They controlled the major countries' governments, businesses, and economies while deceiving ordinary people. They remained undetected by blending into the background of our daily lives, and they twisted it all into the world they wanted for themselves. When I discovered what they were doing, I chose to act.”

“But you said you are a telepath,” challenged a reporter, “Aren’t you part of this secret society then?”

“No!” I say emphatically, “It is true that I am a telepath, but I was never a part of that organization – they were evil. They killed many, many people, including two of my dearest friends. I had to fight them, but I could not do it alone. I needed a great deal of help. This battle was one of several thousand conducted worldwide, involving nearly a quarter-million volunteers carrying out the necessary actions.”

“What’s the name of this secret organization of telepaths?” asks another reporter.

“They called themselves the Trinity Foundation,” I answer. “They concealed themselves from the world by hiding behind the company facade of OmniCorp Worldwide, and they have existed for nearly two centuries. To truly understand what took place and why the events of last night were necessary, I must tell you the complete story, and that’s why you are all here; to tell that story to the entire world. The Foundation discovered my abilities shortly before my sixth birthday, and I got invited to attend one of their Academies. Of course, they did not tell my family that the Academy was secretly a telepath training school!"

 

CHAPTER 1

An Unexpected Invitation

T

hey came on a moonless early December evening, pulling up to our house on Maple Lane in Long Beach, California. They were Talent Scouts for the Trinity Foundation, charged with finding and recruiting new members for that organization. They walked up to the front door.

Knock, knock, knock!

The sudden sharp rapping at the door interrupted the dulcet tones of Jingle Bells emanating from the radio and startled me, my heart beating faster. I looked up from the book I was reading, closed it and held it on my lap, calling out to my father,

“Papa, there is someone at the front door.”

“I’m coming, Girly Girl,” I heard my father’s deep voice thunder from the nearby hallway. I could hear the clunking of his footsteps, and the creaking of the hardwood floors.

“Who can that be? Are you expecting anyone?” called my mother from the kitchen as she stopped clattering the dinner dishes she was washing. She came into the living room, drying her hands on a dish towel, frantically checking her hair to make sure it was presentable for company.

“Relax, sweetheart, I’ve got this,” said Papa, with a wink and a smile as he emerged from the hallway into the room. He strode boldly to the front door and opened it. Two figures, a man and a woman, stood on the porch, their faces bathed in the colorful glow of the Christmas lights strung outside our home. They began speaking to Papa.

“Mister Rodgers?” asked the man.

“Yes, I’m Keenan Rodgers,” Papa said.

The stranger extended his hand in greeting, “My name is Ashley Rowan, and may I present my associate, June Hansen? We represent the Los Angeles campus of the Academy of the Mind. May we come in and talk to you about your daughter? We think she may be a potential candidate for our school.”

“Academy of the Mind?” repeated Papa as he shook hands with the visitors. “I don’t think I have ever heard of that school before.” With a quizzical look, he turned to Mama and asked, “Have you, Carmen?”

Mama did not answer. Instead, she shook her head as a definite “no” signal. She was still wringing the dishtowel in her hands.

“Yes, that is quite a common response we get.” intoned the impeccably dressed gentleman in a muted English accent, “Our school is a rather exclusive and prestigious institution with a rich and storied history. We have hosted students who became captains of industry and technology, presidents, senators, celebrities, and noted academics. We search far and wide to locate potential candidates and accept only the most exceptionally gifted children in our programs. We have gracious benefactors who have endowed the Academy in perpetuity,

so there is no tuition cost for their education, if they qualify. So ... if we might come in and talk, sir?”

“Yes, of course,” answered Papa, “Where are my manners? Please come in.” He waved the two guests into the living room and, pointing to the couch, added, “Have a seat. This is our daughter, Marisol.” He directed their attention to the wooden rocking chair where I was sitting.

The fresh scent of the pine tree in the living room could be smelled throughout our house, tingling everyone’s noses. My mother offered to take our guests’ coats and Mr. Rowan’s hat. Ms. Hansen commented that our Christmas tree was marvelously decorated.

Then Ms. Hansen asked me, “What are you reading, my dear?”

I held the book up with the tattered fabric cover facing the guests, announcing, “The Encyclopedia Britannica.” I gave them both a toothy smile.

“And just how old are you, Marisol?” inquired the gentleman.

“I am five!” I said, my emerald green eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

“My goodness,” declared Ms. Hansen, “What on earth is a five-year-old reading in an encyclopedia?” Her voice sounded like she couldn’t wrap her head around the notion that a young girl could be reading such an advanced book.

“I’m reading about the state of Maryland,” I told her, tucking some of my deep brown hair with reddish highlights behind my ear.

Mr. Rowan interjected, “Do you read the encyclopedia often, Marisol?

“Oh, yes,” I replied, “I like to learn new things.” I was excited to share my new knowledge. “Did you know that Annapolis is the capital of Maryland and has a Naval Academy? Is that Academy like yours?” I asked.

“Yes, I do know that, Marisol,” replied Mr. Rowan, “But no, the Naval Academy is not like ours. It is for adults only – military adults, not children.”

“And what is that book

on the end table next to your chair, dear?” asked the woman, pointing to the opened book with the yellowing, dog-eared pages.

“Oh, that is my dictionary,” I said proudly, adding, “I use it to see what the big words in the encyclopedia mean. Some of those words are hard to understand. Do you know what I mean?”

“My goodness!” the woman exclaimed to Mr. Rowan after examining the book's worn leather cover, “This is the Merriam-Webster Unabridged dictionary. My word, child, do you mean to tell us that you use this dictionary while reading the encyclopedia – at just five years old?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied with a smile, feeling pleased with myself.

“She does that a lot,” confirmed my father. My mother nodded vigorously in agreement.

“How extraordinary!” responded Mr. Rowan. “We heard from her kindergarten teacher and principal that Marisol was very advanced for her age; precocious was the term they used, but we had no idea it went to this extent. It’s quite astounding, actually,” he concluded.

“May we show you some expository literature concerning our Academy campus and discuss the prospects of Marisol joining with the other candidates for the new cadre we are commissioning?” The gentleman asked.

“Certainly,” said Papa, “Perhaps we would be more comfortable at the kitchen table.” He motioned toward the other room, and our group sat down and began reviewing the materials the visitors had brought.

“Of course, you won’t incur any obligation to attend simply by participating in the weekend visitation,” Ms. Hansen chimed in. “You always have the choice of whether to attend our Academy or decline.” She added, “It’s just an opportunity for Marisol to see the campus, undergo basic testing to determine her aptitude and proper grade placement, and for her to meet some of the educators and students to help her decide whether she wants to be a part of our institution or not.”

We all spent time poring over the full-color brochures. Each showed photos of the beautiful

buildings and surroundings, cheerful students, smiling faculty members, and a description of academic studies. One issue arose; it was a boarding school! Mama said nothing, but she looked worried. Papa and the visitors agreed that this might be an excellent environment for me to pursue a more rigorous academic life than the public school I had recently started attending.

“You mentioned this was a weekend visitation,” asked Mama, “Will we be able to stay with our daughter? She’s never been away from home before.”

“No, I am sorry, Mrs. Rodgers,” replied Mr. Rowan. “In our experience, family members only make the children more self-conscious, reserved, and apprehensive, which diminishes their experience. Therefore, we insist that the child stays on campus and the parents return home. We ask that you drop Marisol off at the lobby of the administrative building at 9:00am on Saturday, December 22nd, and you may pick her up again at the same time on Monday morning, the 24th.”

Mama seemed uncomfortable about me being alone in strange surroundings for two days and nights. I thought she would say something, but she chewed her lip instead. She wore a worried look and was glancing frequently between Papa and me.

“December 24th is so close to her birthday”, she lamented, “You know; Marisol is a Christmas baby.” Even as she voiced her concern, she could see it made little difference to the visitors.

“It’s certainly a big opportunity for Marisol, honey,” said Papa, “Why don’t we ask her what she thinks about it?” Looking at me, he asked, “Girly Girl, what would you like to do?”

“I want to see this place,” I said, pointing at the brochures, “It looks fun!” I was more than a little excited about this opportunity.

“That settles it, then,” pronounced Papa, “You will spend a few days exploring this new school, and then we will decide if it is right for you!” He stood up, laughed, and lifted me in his arms, twirling me around in the air while I giggled wildly.

“Girly Girl,” he declared, “you are my pride and joy!”

Papa was still carrying me in his arms as he and Mama showed the guests to the front door and returned their coats and hat. The visitors explained that we could keep all the literature and that the academy staff would send additional details for the visitation by messenger within the next few days.

“Will you be at this weekend's visitation when we drop Marisol off?” asked Papa.

“No, I’m afraid not, Mr. Rodgers,” replied the gentleman. “We must attend to other duties, but rest assured; the Academy has a wonderful welcoming committee.” He smiled reassuringly, adding, “Your daughter will be in excellent hands.”

“Then I wish you a Merry Christmas,” called Papa from the front door adding, “And a Happy New Year to you both.”

“Yes, Merry Christmas,” I said excitedly as we waved goodbye. I could not wipe the smile from my face.

The visitors walked to their car, got in, and drove away into the night.

“How exciting, Girly Girl!” exclaimed Papa. “Just imagine the grand adventure that lies ahead of you.”

“I know, Papa; I can hardly wait!” I said, my eyes wide with excitement. My mother seemed unsure how this would work out for us as she was still biting her lip.

Speaking to Mama, Papa said, “We better start getting ready for that visitation as soon as the messenger gets here. We want our Girly Girl to be there bright and early so she can spend all her time there.” Mama gave Papa the look, slowly shaking her head and frowning.

I guess she was not excited by this development.

“Come on, Mama,” Papa told her, “Smile – show that you’re happy for our daughter and her big chance.

“Girly Girl,” Papa said, “You know what it means, them choosing you for this visitation, don’t you?”

“Not really, Papa,” I said, “What?”

“It means that they saw your gift, your special ability for learning, and they want

you to be able to do something with it. Do you know what the purpose of your special ability is?” He looked at me for a moment, like I ought to know, and started grinning, “The purpose of your ability is to ...“ He stretched his arms apart wider and wider.

“To leave the world better than I found it,” we both chimed in chorus, and then laughed.

Mama looked at us like we were crazy people, and shook her head, but I did not care.

Papa had told me for as long as I could remember, "Life is not about us, but about how we help those around us. When people have a special ability that others don’t have, they have a responsibility to society to use that ability to leave the world a better place than they found it. That way, everybody wins, even long after you’re gone. You can’t be selfish with your gift.”

He told me that his philosophy came from one of his favorite childhood Bible verses in the gospel of Luke, and it had significantly influenced the direction of his life. “To whom much is given, much will be required.”

I loved my Papa. 

 

CHAPTER 2

The Academy Visitation - Arrival

“A

re you sure this is the right way to the Academy?” my confused Papa asked Mama after driving several miles down the road she had designated. We were in a rural area near the western end of the Hollywood Hills.

“Yes, dear, it’s what the directions say,” replied Mama, glancing at the map and instructions from the Academy staff. She shared his confusion though since no buildings were visible along her side of the road, only tall trees behind a ten-foot-high stone wall stretching for at least another mile in front of them.

“Alright,” he acknowledged, “Let’s see where this leads us.” Shortly after he spoke, we spotted a small opening in the wall ahead of us; Papa slowed the car to a crawl so we could get a better look at it. The opening was only two cars wide, with a double gate of wrought iron inset a few feet from the exterior of the stone wall. A cobblestone roadway snaked among the trees beyond the opening. A small plaque on the wall near the entrance read: Academy of the Mind, Los Angeles Campus.

“This must be the place,” Papa said, scratching his head, “But I don’t see any button to push and no guard or cameras.” He shrugged and asked, “How do we open the gate?” Mama checked the instructions, but found no mention of any gate! Papa cautiously turned into the opening, stopping in front of the closure. Almost immediately, it swung open and then closed behind us, as we entered. We went along the cobblestone pathway for several minutes with nothing but trees in sight. Suddenly, we emerged upon a wide-open, sun-drenched plain of manicured grass with an assortment of buildings stretching out into the distance.

As our car continued down the lane, we drove past the administrative building for the Academy. I was impressed by the bright green ivy covering the striking red brick-walled exterior. My eyes widened with anticipation for partaking in the weekend visitation.

Mama was talking to Papa about directions to the parking lot, but I was only interested in capturing the memory of how beautiful the entire grounds of the Academy were. It was like a park, except I could not see any playground area. A quiet “Whoa!” was the only sound I could utter that summed up my feelings.

“Mom. Mom. Mom!” I blurted out, with growing impatience, trying to get my mother’s attention, “Do you think they have a playground somewhere for kids my age? I do not see one.”

“I hope so, Sweet Pea,” replied Mama, “Learning is important but young children also need a place to run and play and have fun together.”

“Me too,” I said, “I hope they have a swing. I love to swing.” That was, and remains, true; the motion thrills me. It became a love affair the first time I rode on a kiddie swing at the park near my home.

“Well, here we are!” announced Papa, pulling into a parking spot and shutting off the engine, “All ashore that’s going ashore!” While Mama and I got out, Papa went behind the car, opened the trunk, and pulled out my suitcase.

“Oh, Girly Girl,” he remarked, “I think you will have a fantastic time here. It’s so beautiful and peaceful.” Papa took my tiny hand in his huge paw and the three of us walked towards the entrance of the admin building.

“Five years old and going to a private school already. Who would have thought it?” he piped up with a grin.

Walking through the stately-looking admin building’s thick, ornately carved double wooden doors revealed an interior that seemed more expansive than the exterior suggested. The ceilings were very high, open, and airy, with paintings of various people and tapestries hanging on the walls. It even smelled old!

An elegantly dressed brunette came over to where we were standing. She was slender, with high cheekbones, brown eyes, and thin lips that opened in a welcoming smile. Her shoes made a clack, clack, clack sound as she moved across the smooth, glossy stone floor.

“Hello there,” she said pleasantly, “You must be our new candidate, Marisol.” I nodded my head, yes. Bending down to look me in the face, she extended her hand in greeting. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she remarked as we shook hands, “You are as pretty as our Talent Scouts described.”

I blushed and smiled.

“Hello, I’m Keenan Rodgers, and this is my wife, Carmen,” Papa said, offering and shaking hands with the lady. “This place is certainly impressive; I can’t get over how it looks bigger inside than outside.”

“Yes, it is,” the woman replied, “We often get that reaction. The architect who designed it was remarkably talented and far ahead of his contemporaries. He had his work cut out, designing it around the three-story limit the original

owners imposed on all campus buildings. My name is Danniella Bennet,” the lady continued, “and I am one of the official greeters for the Academy. I will be showing you around personally, Miss Marisol.” She smiled. “I think you and I will get along famously! Shall we go find your room so you can unpack?”

“So soon?” asked Mama, “We haven’t had time to say goodbye yet.”

“I’m afraid so,” replied Ms. Bennet, “There is so much to do today and so little time. We positively must get started.” Ms. Bennet took my suitcase from Papa, directing me to hug and kiss my mom and dad and say goodbye, which I did.

“Pick-up is at nine o’clock Monday morning, Mr. and Mrs. Rodgers,” she announced, “Marisol will be waiting right here at the admin building, bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed. See you then.” Turning to me, she said, “Alright, girl, let’s be on our way, shall we? This weekend is going to be fun!”

I waved goodbye to my parents and took off for my adventure while my mom and dad returned to the car and went home. Later, they commented that the trip home was quieter than the drive to the Academy.

THE HEADMASTER STOOD in his office, gazing out the window while Carmen and Keenan returned to their car. He knew Keenan was willing to have his daughter attend the school, but there were lingering doubts about overcoming Carmen’s opposing view. That troubled him.

“There are several promising candidates in this cadre, sir,” remarked a stern-looking fellow in a navy blue suit, holding a file folder and leafing through it. He continued, “The best one may be Marisol Rodgers,” he said, “The Talent Scouts say she pinged very strongly on their initial contact and is possibly telekinetic.”

“Hmm,” replied the Headmaster, sitting down, “Let’s curb our enthusiasm until we see the results of her placement testing, shall we? I don’t want to put the cart before the horse. We will have done well this semester if she tests out as high as they claim.” Then he asked, “Who did you assign as her in-processing associate?”

“Ms. Bennet, sir.” the

 the man in the blue suit replied.

“Ah, excellent,” replied the Headmaster, nodding his head in approval. “She’s our best at handling the young ones.” Taking the file folder from the other man, he continued, “I, for one, look forward to this girl’s test results. Thank you, Mr. Knox, that will be all for now.” The Headmaster sat back in his chair and peered out the window again, pondering the potential talent in this group of new candidates for the school.

He was under tremendous pressure from his responsibilities. ...