The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The summer ended, and I went back to Grand City and my parents. I brought with me the two boxes and the needle that I’d taken off Miss Smith’s cybefied corpse.

During the next three years, I spent all my free time in my basement workshop. (Actually, it was my dad’s workshop—but he wasn’t there to use it much. He started “working late,” then my mom filed for divorce and he moved out.) For a while, Mom couldn’t get off the couch, then she went through a phase when she went out every night, and then she started spending lots of time over at David’s apartment. I barely noticed, I was so obsessed with cracking the mystery.

The Cybes from the twenty-seventh century had come back almost to Y2K to grab me. They’d Welcomed my fifth-grade teacher, just to make sure I myself got Welcomed. And the other people from the future, my protectors, knew that the Cybes would come for me. Why? What did the future know about me?

Two years after I’d killed Miss Smith and robbed her body, I still didn’t have answers to my ultimate question, but I knew what the two boxes and the cone needle were for.

By the year 2652 (the year that this clan of Cybes had come from), there were (are? would be?) specialties within the Cybes. The Cybes battling the Planetary Alliance for my body were Soldiers. The former Miss Smith was a Welcomer.

I had guessed correctly, back at my uncle’s farmhouse, that inside the plastic cone and needle were billions and billions of nanobots, whose job it was to convert a human body into a Cybe. The box and cable on any Cybe’s back that connected to that Cybe’s brain were to connect that Cybe to the Overmind, by uploading and downloading thoughts and memories. But providing a brand-new Cybe with its orientation and initial protocols was discovered to be too taxing of Overmind resources, for too unimportant a task. (Translation: It slurped up bandwidth.) So instead of the Overmind orienting a new Cybe, by 2652 everything that the new Cybe needed to know was broadcast from the transmitter on the Welcomer’s hand.

There was a third kind of Cybes, the Invisibles. Invisibles looked like regular people and mimicked the speech and actions of regular people, thanks to their Turing Subroutines. An Invisible’s Overmind module wasn’t a box on its back; but rather, a small hemisphere on the back of its skull, easily hidden by artificial hair. Invisibles couldn’t Welcome, and they couldn’t fight like Soldiers could fight, but Invisibles could blend in perfectly, while reporting everything they saw and heard to the Overmind.

It was the Invisibles who made the Cybes so terrifying in the twenty-seventh century. By the time the people in a human community ever laid eyes on Soldiers and Welcomers, chances were good that the Overmind already knew who that community’s leaders were, and what defenses they had. Entire settlements were Welcomed without their defenders being able to fire a shot.

One thing that the Cybes did not have, I noticed, was a “Cybe King” or “Cybe Queen”: someone not subject to the Overmind, but able to give orders to it.

When I finally solved the mystery, Why me?, I was eighteen, and it was a week after my high-school graduation. I tell you, if I’d been legal to buy liquor that night, I would have gotten myself blotto on the nastiest, cheapest rotgut I could find. But forced to stay sober, I watched my Ghostbusters DVD five times in a row.

In my place, you’d have done the same thing. You see, I created the Cybes.

Once upon a time, around 2050 or so, there was a professor of nanotechnology named Jimmy Upton.

Compared to the twenty-seventh century, nanotechnology in the 2050s was primitive. You built the nanobots outside the human body, you loaded every nanobot with the same program outside the human body, you injected all the nanobots into the human body, and every nanobot followed the same program whether it was inside the heart or inside the hand. Each nanobot could sense only hydrogen ions, hydroxide ions, and carbon dioxide. Like I said, nanotechnology in the 2050s was “primitive.”

In the 2050s, what did nanotechnology professors do? Tried to figure out how to stuff a few more computer instructions into a nanobot’s brain, or how to make the nanobot a little faster or a little smaller. Everyone accepted the “limits” of nanotechnology: Every little ‘bot had to behave the same as every other ‘bot.

But in 2055, “I” (my older self) published a paper declaring that it was possible to create a system in which every nanobot in the body could report back what it was finding, and could receive tailored instructions. This could be achieved, “my” paper declared, by building a little transmitter/receiver into every nanobot.

To put it bluntly, “my” paper was laughed at. For a nanobot to work right, it has to be small enough to pass through the capillaries. It was gleefully pointed out that even the smallest transmitter/receiver that was imaginable in 2055 would make the nanobot way too big for capillaries.

Imagine an astronomy professor, who has a Ph.D. and an observatory, claiming that there are men on Mars and that the Martians want to meet us and talk with us. A nut case, right? That’s how “I” was viewed within the nanotechnology community.

But “I” persisted. Yet instead of persuading anyone, I was labeled a crackpot and fired from the university. And for the rest of “my” life, I remained in disgrace, a national joke—when I died, only my elderly Aunt Linda came to my funeral.

“I” died in 2064 with my reputation a joke. But in 2314 was invented the anti-tachyon microtransmitter. Soon after that, someone remembered my “ridiculous” theory, and the CNS (Coordinated Nanobot System) was perfected in 2331.

Nanobot breast-enhancement became commonplace overnight. Near-eternal youth became possible; within a few years, it became affordable. By 2394, comedians were making jokes about great-grandparent/great-grandchild incest. Women over a hundred became callgirls—and stole clients away from young whores.

Meanwhile, unnoticed by anyone in the news media, the men and women being sent to the gold-mining prison planet Tizurka IV were getting their bodies nanobot-modified, so that they could live and work on the planet without spacesuits. As part of their modifications, their projective-telepathy psychic abilities were enhanced.

In 2419, Rachel Toyomachi was convicted of hacking Earth’s planetary-defense computer system. To “make an example of her,” the judge sentenced her to Tizurka IV. Once there, she proved herself to be a skilled hacker but a poor programmer—when she hacked into the nanobot-control computer, she accidentally created the Overmind.

In 2427, two mine-collapses occurred on Tizurka IV within the same month. The Tizurka miners declared the mines to be unsafe, and declared a work stoppage. Thanks to the Overmind, that work stoppage was 100 percent effective. Halliburton PanStellar immediately demanded that the Planetary Alliance “do something.”

The Planetary Alliance, not understanding what it was dealing with, sent a squad of Epsilon Force men in spacesuits to “neutralize” the Tizurka IV leadership. Alas, the Planetary Alliance never asked themselves the question, “What happens when a man who needs a spacesuit fights a man who doesn’t?”

After that embarrassment, the Planetary Alliance sent an entire company to the surface of Tizurka IV. It took those soldiers longer to die.

The Planetary Alliance took time to consider its options, then sent an entire battalion to Tizurka, under the command of General Sven Mbomo. But when the battalion arrived on-planet, they discovered that the Overmind-connected Tizurkans had concocted a new kind of defense.

A Private Chong was the first Planetary Alliance soldier to be Welcomed. A Major Hellqvist was the second. General Mbomo was third.

When General Mbomo got Welcomed, the Overmind-linked people of Tizurka IV became the first Cybes.

And all this happened because in 2055, “I” wanted to prove how smart “I” was by publishing that damned paper.

Well, one thing was for sure: This Jimmy Upton wasn’t going to make that mistake!

Even though I now knew how to build and to program my own Cybe-making nanobots.

Or so I resolved. And I would have kept this knowledge quiet—never publishing it, never using it—if David’s daughter Stephanie hadn’t said to me at Thanksgiving, “You’re a loser, and you’ll die a loser.”

That hit too close to home. And in my anger and hurt, I crossed a line.

“I” had died in 2064 being called an idiot, a fool, even crazy. Well, this James Upton would show them, I’d show them all!