The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Collinson stood and approached me, straightening his glasses. “Failsafe working, at least” he muttered. “Now what on earth can have gone wrong this time?” He eyed me, scratching his head and sucking his teeth.

Emergency failsafe, parroted Takeshi. To be expected. Access denied.

I was completely trapped in my own body, paralysed. I couldn’t move a muscle. My muscles just didn’t want to respond. Even subvocalizing was out of the question.

Talv’s avatar flashed in my peripheral vision. Takeshi. What was that word? The failsafe command?

Math Is On? A name, I think. #Mathison, or #Matheson, or #Mathieson?

What? Who is that? What relevance, Takeshi? What significance?

Many options. Lake Matheson, New Zealand. Matheson Glacier, Antarctica. Matheson, Colorado. Matheson, Ontario. Matheson Hammock Park, Miami. Matheson Island, Manitoba…

Has Collinson ever been to any of these places? Talv interrupted.

No record of any such visit. More options follow. Clan Matheson, longstanding Highland Scottish family grouping. Richard Matheson, a 20th century writer. I Am Legend. Numerous television episodes of The Twilight Zone and other historical shows. Melissa Mathison, former wife of Harrison Ford, an actor. Carrie Mathison, fictional character and the protagonist of old American television drama/thriller series Homeland. Annie Matheson, Victorian poet…

And as I panicked, helpless, Takeshi droned on with her endless list, punctuated only by Talv’s random occasional questions.

I wanted to scream. A passenger in my own body; my consciousness trapped in a bell jar somewhere in my own head. Collinson was back at his desk now, scanning something on his laptop. One or two of the guards might even be waking up soon. Maintenance beckoned.

Collinson had the desk phone to his ear now, tutting. He replaced it in its cradle. “Nobody answering.” He looked at me curiously. “Surely you can’t have killed everybody, can you?”

“No,” I wanted to spit. “Only half of them, the rest are just in a critical condition. Just like you will be when I get out of here.” But I could say none of this. I simply stood there, the thing in my head firmly in control now, and gazed placidly on as Collinson fretted around me.

“Well, I’ll just have to take you to maintenance myself. Follow.”

He turned and walked out of the door, and like the simple-minded automaton it was, my body followed.

Alonzo J. Mathison, early 20th Century, American politician. Bruce Mathison, former American football quarterback. Cameron Mathison, Emmy-nominated actor. James Mathison , Australian television presenter. John Mathison, mid-20th Century, New Zealand politician of the Labour Party. Lisa Mathison, former professional cyclist. Volney Mathison (20th century), American chiropractor…

“For God’s sake,” I wanted to shout, as my body calmly walked down the grey corridor.

Craig Mathieson, Australian writer. David Mathieson, Scottish footballer. Jamie Mathieson, British writer. Jean Mathieson, Canadian animator. Jim Mathieson, late 20th Century, British sculptor. Jim John Mathieson, Canadian ice hockey player. John Mathieson, film maker. John Mathieson, computer scientist. John Alexander Mathieson, Premier of the Canadian province of Prince Edward Island 1911–1917. Muir Mathieson, mid-20th Century, British conductor. Neil Mathieson, late 19th Century, Scottish chemist and businessman. Scott Mathieson, Canadian baseball player. Taso Mathieson, mid 20th Century, Scottish racing driver. Willie Mathieson, Scottish footballer….

Talv cut in. Stop. Wind back, Takeshi. John Mathieson…

…scientist who worked for Sinclair, a British computer firm, and later developed an Atari video games console…

No. Too early, too obscure, but a computer scientist… there’s something…

There had better be, I thought, as I walked obediently through the door of Maintenance in Collinson’s wake, and at his command sat down in the grey maintenance chair. I felt it shift and flex beneath me, around me, adjusting, hugging me into it.

Turing, said Talv. Alan Turing.

A beat of silence.

Yes. Alan Mathison Turing, Takeshi said. British. Pioneering computer scientist, mathematician, logician, cryptanalyst, mathematical biologist, and more. Highly influential in the development of computer science, including the concepts of algorithm and computation via the so-called Universal Turing machine, a thought experiment which can be considered a model of any general purpose computer. Turing is widely considered to be the father of theoretical computer science and artificial intelligence…

Hush, Takeshi. I know all about Turing. A god figure to technologists. We have the connection.

All very well, I thought, as I sat dumb and still in the chair. Well done team. High five. Pat on the back. And how does this help me, exactly?

Beside me Collinson was fiddling with his computers, inputting commands, booting up routines.

The Turing test, said Talv. Can an artificial construct exhibit intelligent behaviour equivalent to, or indistinguishable from, that of a living human being? Do you think you’d pass the Turing test, Takeshi?

Her strange electronic cackle, and then: Do you think she would? Do you think you would, Karsten Talv?

“This is no time for a fucking philosophical debate,” I would have yelled if I could, as the maintenance screens began to fire up around me. Collinson was humming tunelessly as he worked. He probably found it relaxing.

Talv ignored Takeshi’s jibe, focused now. So if Turing, however obscurely referenced, is Collinson’s failsafe, what’s the logical association? What’s the override?

Takeshi’s silence stretched for long seconds, and then she began to drone another long, long list of things associated with Alan Mathison Turing, god of the machines, and at exactly the same moment the Maintenance devices began to hum.

Practice makes perfect. Practice makes perfect.

The thing in my head was singing to me, an orchestra of routines and commands, a perfect harmony of code.

My purpose is to serve. My purpose is to serve.

Takeshi rattled on. Sherborne. Morcom. Tuberculosis. Atheism. Fatalism. Materialism. Kings. Cambridge.

I am happy. I am happy. I am happy.

Ludwig Wittgenstein. Bletchley. Bombe. Hut Eight. Dayton, Ohio.

Enigma. Delilah. Scandal. Apple. Cyanide…

I felt myself slipping away, my very self dissolving at the edges.

I am always ready to serve. Practice makes perfect. Self-discipline will set me free, sang the thing in my head.

The thing in my head was sparkly with life now, and it was like being bathed in a warm bath of thought. I wondered how it was I’d ever become so distracted from what I was supposed to be doing, what I needed to be doing. Maintenance was happening now, and I felt oddly happy to be maintained. Yes, they would fix me now. I wouldn’t have to worry any more.

Dimly, I heard Takeshi babbling on, random words, leaves in wind, gentle waves on surf.

Hilbert. Planck. Zuse. Lorenz. Walther.

Let go. Let go. Let go.

The water began to close over my head.

Billing. Russell. Gödel. Penrose…

Yes, cut in Talv, and at a far and dim distance I sensed his excitement. Gödel. Turing. Remind me.

The thing in my head sang on, a crooning song of wonder, of basic things, of clarity and purpose. There were no complications. Nothing needed to be complicated. How good it was to drown in the simple thoughts of another, and just forget, forget, forget. How good it was to be free...

Gödel. Kurt Gödel. Incompleteness theorem. Corollary: long standing and unresolved, possibly insoluble, even unknowable, debate about whether the Turing Test could ever be passed by a Turing Machine, that is specifically a computer, as opposed to a biological or quantum construct…

…free forever, free of thoughts, free of everything…

…exactly. Just like all this fucking biotech, snapped Talv. And you missed out the magic word, you dimwit. It’s Kurt Friedrich Gödel.

Free.

The thing in my head fell silent, its maintenance work done. Collinson had his back to me, adjusting some final setting or another. Finally satisfied, he turned. He looked at me for a while, seemingly satisfied, and then said “stand”.

At the command, my body gently got up from the maintenance chair and stood, still and silent as a statue.

“What is your purpose?” he finally asked.

“To serve.”

“To serve whom?”

“To serve anybody, sir, and in particular any future owner.”

“To serve how?”

“To serve in any way, sir, as and when required.”

“How do you serve?”

“With this body, sir.”

“And are you happy with your state, now?”

“I am happy. I am free.”

He laughed, his work done. “Good, good, good. No other thoughts at all, I suspect. We’ll have to find you a special owner, after all that trouble you’ve put us to. Would you like that? What’s in that pretty empty head of yours, hmm? What are you thinking right now?”

I smiled slowly and invitingly, exactly as he expected me to do, and said: “None of your fucking business.”

Collinson recoiled in shock, scrambling back against his equipment. He tried his failsafe again, of course, but Takeshi had done her work fast. Access denied. I grabbed him with both hands and threw him into the chair. My face was inches from his and I saw my own reflection in his terrified eyes. I still looked damn good.

“That was an invigorating experience, Collinson. Now where were we, before you so rudely interrupted? Oh yes. My sister. Where is she now? And how do I find her?”

He shook his head wearily, defeated. “I don’t know. They come and go.”

The edges of the world were blurring red with rage. I bared my teeth and drew back my fist, the other hand holding him firmly by the neck.

“What do you mean you don’t know? Where is she? There must be records.”

His eyes were wide, red-rimmed and watery behind his glasses.

“I don’t know. Truly! Please,” he whimpered, “we don’t keep count. We don’t keep track.”

Of course they don’t keep track, murmured Talv in my head. Just a commodity. Mass produced. Do you keep track of the individual toys in individual packets of cereal? The mass market, remember? You’ve seen what they do, here. She could be anywhere. But if she’s out there we’ll find her. We don’t need him. Think big picture.

I smiled ruefully at that. For an instant I thought about it, the big picture.

Collinson seemed to sense the change in my anger. “You can’t hurt me,” he murmured, in a soothing tone. “I designed all of this. You don’t want to hurt me. You’re built for pleasure, not this. I can fix you, I’m sure I can fix you... You won’t hurt me, will you…?”

I thought about that for exactly one second.

“Practice makes perfect,” I said, and in a savage moment of clarity I crushed Collinson’s windpipe with a single punch.