Ben Dover - Code Name Puppeteer

By Lena Seidel

Jamie Walsh, a telepathically gifted child, is kidnapped from a play area right before his mother’s eyes, and brought to a school of the MorningStar Organisation. On his first day, 2109, as Jamie is now known, meets 8053 who is three years older than him and a telekinetic, and they become friends. At the beginning of puberty, 2109 goes into the transitional phase – a phase which every psychokinetic has to pass. 2109 survives, and his telepathy is stronger than ever before. As a reward and to show that he is a fully-fledged psychokinetic, the organisation gives him the name “Ben”, just as 8053 is given the name “Vincent”.

Vincent stays by Ben's side once again. He comforts Ben, seduces him and confesses that he’s been in love with him for a long time. Initially Ben doesn’t trust Vincent because of this, but again and again lets Vincent come on to him. Their friendship turns bit by bit into a relationship, from which Ben gains strength. Unexpectedly for Ben, Vincent was thrown out. But Vincent receives the permission to search for a partner for future operations, and requests Ben. He takes Ben out of the school, moves in with him, and prepares him for the work they have.

• Language: English
• Publisher: XinXii
• Release date: Dec 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9783961427505

Book preview

Ben Dover – Code Name Puppeteer

Lena Seidel

I M P R E S S U M

Ben Dover – Code Name: Puppeteer

by Lena Seidel

© 2017l Lena Seidel.

All rights reserved.

Author: Lena Seidel

[e-mail]

Cover illustration: Josh Bailey

Translation: Monika Biesterfeld.

ISBN: 978-3-96142-750-5

Verlag GD Publishing Ltd. & Co KG, Berlin

E-Book Distribution: XinXii

www.xinxii.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold 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 return to your favorite bookstore and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. No figure skaters or former ranchers, living or dead, were harmed by the writing of this book. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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A thunderous bang rang through the impenetrable darkness and jolted him into awareness. It was the latch of the door; the hatch flap where trays with the food were usually pushed through wasn’t nearly as loud. His mouth went dry. Please, not again.

Ben wanted to retreat to the farthest corner of the room, but when he tried to move, he found his joints had gone stiff and his muscles tense. Glaring light tore into the dungeon chamber. Ben flinched from the dazzle, unable to see the hand that closed around his ankle; he only felt the hard grip that jerked him outside, dragging him across the rough stone floor. Piercing brightness penetrated his closed lids, burning into his optic nerves like a red flare. His body responded to this maltreatment with tears he wasn’t able to stop.

The hand on his ankle disappeared. Instead, he felt the fingers close around his upper arm now, closing like a steel clamp as they pulled him up mercilessly. After his long confinement, his shortened Achilles tendons burned like fire, and his legs buckled under the strain.

Ben had no idea how long he’d been imprisoned this time, and it was of no importance. Time didn’t play a role in this hell of a place any more.

A rude nudge in his back drove him on. He was still blind and could barely stand upright. Listlessly he wondered what kind of torture would be awaiting him today. He still had the spike-drill headache he’d received at the last encounter with his personal demon Doctor Everett Style. It was driving him insane. The thought to kill the guard ghosted across his mind. He was barely able to contain his rage towards a staff that would torture a teenager. But what would it have gotten him? The two most decisive things for an escape were missing: power and a plan.

Take a shower and get changed! Dr. Dumont is awaiting you in his office within a quarter of the hour.

His first thought was that this could only be a trap, a further attempt to finally break his will. They were very close to achieving their goal. Then again, hope was rising in him that he might make it despite… He suppressed this unreasonable surge of hope as best he could. No, there was no escape from this madness here. This thought alone was enough to make his heart race, his own throat clenching to choke him. He gasped for air and broke out in a sweat despite the cold. He had known that Doc Style would kill him some day. His torturer had openly threatened to do so. Now the fear of death was coming back, overpowering him.

He took a deep breath, calming himself. Doc Style would never set up a trap for him. The bastard preferred to gloat on how he could decide the lives of his human guinea pigs. The uncontrollable tremors of his muscles let up, letting him use a moment of distraction to slip out of the guards’ grasp, tripping them both up. Ben stumbled away, groping his way along the wall while the guards cursed behind him. He managed to run, the guard’s hooting driving him on.

Somehow, he made it to the elevator. Eyes watering, he ran his fingertips along the line of buttons and silently counted until he hopefully found the button for his floor. When the doors finally closed behind him, shutting him off from the guard’s view, he breathed in deep relief. From now on he could only hope not to bump into any of the other pupils or, even worse, into one of their instructors. He still had a minimum amount of dignity to maintain.

Although the throbbing pain in his head was reaching the speed and beat of an air hammer, he concentrated on the reception of possible oncoming thoughts. The elevator stopped with a soft jerk. When its doors opened, he could feel that the hall was empty.

Slowly and heavily he dragged his feet over the smooth rock floor, steadying his walk by holding on to the wall. Wood alternated with stone: the first entrance to a private room, then the second and the third… It felt like hours until he finally reached his own room. And without being seen by anybody; excellent.

After the door of his room had fallen shut behind him, he dared to open his eyes for a slit. Immediately tears spilled down his cheeks. The light still hurt, though not as much as before; it would certainly take much longer this time until he would be able to see without pain.

Through his blurred vision he found himself a fresh overall and a scratchy towel, got the bottle of shower gel from his locker and slung the bathrobe around his aching back. At least he wasn’t naked anymore; it would have to do. If nobody came near him, he would remain unremarkable on his way to the lavatory.

The water, two notches above ice cold, bit like angry ants into his skin and put his overstimulated nerves to the test. After he’d soaped his body down with the fragrant gel for the third time and still felt dirty, he turned the tap to hot. His pain-stricken cry reverberated from the bare tiled walls and echoed in his ears. Ben forced himself to stay under the hot jet until his skin turned bright red. Additionally he maltreated the spots with his fingernails where his body had had contact with the dirty cell floor. When he finally turned off the water, a dense fog billowed through the lavatory and enshrouded him. The steam had moistened the towel, so it wasn’t much use to dry himself with it. He still rubbed with it to clean his skin. Gradually, he began to feel clean. The humidity that had settled on his skin made it hard to pull on the overall; its fabric clinging to his skin made every move he made awkwardly constrained. It didn’t matter much to him now. Somehow he would get dry.

The infirmary might help his relentless headache, but he would certainly and unnecessarily anger the Director of the Institution. And the last thing he wanted to do was to go back to this dump again. Unenthusiastically he got on his way; the bathrobe, towel and shower gel he left on the floor of the lavatory. He could get these things later and bring them back to his room. For now he had no interest in them.

With every step he took, sickness filled his stomach, widening it like a balloon. He was about to face one of the men he hated most. The way up to the main building evoked memories he would like to forget, including the sight of the dark portal. Rage, despair and utter hate erupted inside of him. He swallowed them, knocking on the dark wooden door.

Almost immediately, there was a muffled answer. Come in!

Ben’s hand shook when he pressed the door handle. His tremor amplified to a real quake when he entered the office and was face to face with Dr. Dumont.

Take a seat, Ben. The invitation emerged through the pounding in Ben’s ears. With the remainder of his body control he mastered the few steps to the desk and sat down on the chair in front of it.

Dumont was preoccupied, leafing through a thin file and Ben resisted the urge either to get a look at the papers or to wring the guy’s neck. Time seemed to extend to eternities. At last Dumont shut the file, and scrutinized Ben condescendingly. You seem to have recovered quite well from your last disciplinary measure. The swelling of your nose has almost gone and the bruises on your face have healed.

Ben clung to the chair to hold himself back from jumping up and doing something stupid after all. Have you only summoned me to check my health status?

Dark laughter was the response. No, in fact I couldn’t care any less, as you know. Originally we planned to keep you down there for Dr. Style’s tests until the cows come home.

Ben clenched his teeth. Rage surged in him again, this time about Dumont’s smug complacency. Do not let it show, he repeated in his thoughts like a mantra. Dumont could smell fear or anger like a hound; Ben didn’t want to grant him this satisfaction. After all, Dr. Style had threatened him to test him to death. What changed? I’m still alive as you can see.

The bosses are setting up a new team. They’ve expressly been asked for you.

It took a while until the full implication of the words sank in, but then Ben opened his eyes wide. When?

As of now.

Dr. Dumont threw him a big brown envelope across the table, just like you throw the dog a bone. Ben grabbed the envelope and shook out the content: identity card, driver’s license, birth certificate and a passport slid across the polished desk top.

He couldn’t believe it. He was about to leave. Happiness rushed in, making him dizzy. After almost eleven years, he was allowed to leave the MorningStar Institute. He thought it would never happen and now his hope was coming true.

He took the identity card and stared at the picture of a handsome young man almost unbelieving. It was his face. When had the photograph been taken? It didn’t matter. He perused the document and got stuck at the name. Was Dumont in earnest? Ben…Dover?

Get changed, pack your gear and then report at the gate. Dumont’s cold voice jolted him out of his thoughts. He nodded as if he were hypnotized, got up and left the office. All of a sudden every bit of tiredness had gone; he headed back along the bleak halls to his room. He pinched his arm to be sure that he was really awake. He pulled the identity card from the envelope to examine it at a quick glance. It looked absolutely genuine and felt genuine in his hand.

When Ben reached his room he was out of breath, the long time in solitary telling on him. Hastily, he threw the few things he owned into his rucksack. There wasn’t much to take. Everything except the clothes on his back went into his backpack: his few clothes, four books, and toiletries. He zipped it up and slung it over one shoulder. The school uniform he remorselessly left in the closet. Barefoot, he slid into his sneakers to find that they had almost grown too small for him and opened the door, at last.

He was shaken by intermittent laughter of happiness. From the hall he threw a glance back into the room he’d lived in for the past few years. A bed, a minimalistic closet, a washbasin below a mirror, a fluorescent tube whose cold light had always driven him crazy, and one shelf where his books had been. He would miss none of it. The Institute was Hell on Earth, and Style with his helper Dumont was the devil himself. Vigorously, he banged the door shut, and turned away.

A former pupil was standing guard in the glazed little cubicle at the portal. Ben knew him by sight. The fact that he was deployed as a guard showed that he couldn’t have been overly good in school. No wonder that Ben didn’t remember his name.

He headed