The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Rabat, Morocco

By the time I finished the final leg of my trip, I’d figured out what I was going to say about Downstream and I’d written up an outline. It was locked inside the briefcase, along with the conference materials. I blame travel exhaustion for the fact that I didn’t see the man standing fifteen feet in front of me in the baggage claim area holding a sign that said “Worldwide Hope Renewal Conference.” Fortunately he recognized me.

“Welcome to Rabat, Dr. Lincoln,” he said. “Our people will retrieve your baggage, and you can lock your briefcase in your bin in that trolley.” He gestured toward a cart that was attended by two men wearing the same blue suits worn by the man who’d greeted me. The cart looked like a rack of small gym lockers on wheels. There were names grease-penciled on the various locker doors, including my name on one. I walked over and one of the men punched in a combination to unlock the door. The briefcase went into the locker with my name and the apparatus was locked shut again.

Another blue suit: “Please follow me, Dr. Lincoln, and I’ll take you to your ground transportation.” I followed him out into the hot Moroccan afternoon.

The shuttle bus contained six tired looking men I didn’t know and Mubanti.

“May the sun bring peace on your world today, Benjamin!” His alabaster smile was always a sharp contrast to his coal-black skin.

“And may that same sun shine also on you, Kantu,” I completed the traditional greeting of his family. Dr. Kantu Mubanti was one of those half-dozen or so who might be able to decipher my equations and proofs and figure out the math and science behind my creation of Downstream. He’d been working for several years on his own theories, trying to reconcile gravity, mass, and time using a 27-dimensional model of the universe. My approach of having multi-phasic dual three-dimensional spaces in simultaneous coexistence was radically different from the single space with 27 dimensions he was using. The big difference was that, as bizarre as the idea of coexistent spaces might be, my model worked.

“How are you, Kantu?” I hadn’t seen him since I’d attended his wife’s funeral three years earlier. Pancreatic cancer had taken her, but still he’d maintained a fatalistically philosophical outlook on everything. I’d often wondered how I’d react in a similar situation. I found it nearly impossible to process the concept of cancer or anything else taking Pamela away. I admired Mubanti’s ability to continue living his life after a loss that would devastate most people.

“I am well, though I am weary. It has been a long journey.” There was a grunt of assent from a couple of the other men as the shuttle bus began moving.

“You’re just a hop up the continent,” I said. “A long hop to be sure, but still not that bad.”

“It is true, but my journey was not by a direct route, Benjamin. Today I have visited Madagascar, Egypt, Turkey, and Spain before arriving here. It was a most unusual route.”

“You too?” Asked one of the other men. “I’d like to meet the bloke who thinks that Sydney, Darwin, Mumbai, Novosibirsk, Moscow, and Milan are all required stops on the way from New Zealand to bloody Rabat!”

“Same thing here,” I offered. “I started in Michigan and took the long way around, with way too many stops.”

“We are here now and that is what is important.” Mubanti was always the first with a good word. “I, for one, look forward to seeing what your employer has to say, Benjamin. This ‘World Hope Renewal’ sounds like a noble endeavor.”

“A fellow HGT man?” asked one of the other men, extending his hand. “Mike Forbert. I’m a climate researcher out of Fairbanks, Alaska. This is Magnus Sodersen, my counterpart in Tromso, Norway.” I shook hands with both men.

“Ben Lincoln,” I said.

“The Ben Lincoln?” Asked Forbert.

“Um, probably. Do you follow physics?”

“No, but Magnus and I always keep an ear to the goings on in the Nobel committees. Your low power consumption solid state x-ray machine was the subject of more than a few whispers a couple of years ago.”

“Yeah, I heard those rumors. Nothing came of it, though.” The solid state x-ray had been one of those practical things that had fallen out of the work I was doing on Downstream. If I’d published the full design details for it, someone might have been able to figure out that the low power requirement was due to it “borrowing” energy from a dimension that doesn’t exist in anyone’s math other than mine.

“The Nobel Laureate here is Kantu here,” I told them. “Dr. Kantu Mubanti was recognized 11 years ago when I was a college kid, still wet behind the ears.” They turned to look at Mubanti.

“Thank you, Benjamin, but if you are to be ‘Honest Abe,’ you must admit that your ears were hardly wet. You were completing your second, no third doctorate at that time, I believe. And while the Nobel committee spent months working their way through my paper, you understood it fully as soon as I showed it to you when we first met.”

“OK, OK, truce,” I laughed. “Let’s adjourn the mutual admiration society and talk about more interesting things like Arctic climate research or something. How are things in the Land of the Midnight Sun, guys?”

“Not good, Dr. Lincoln. Mike and I are still seeing a slow, steady increase in temperatures, with no sign of reversal. This is also confirmed by our colleague Irina Semynova at her facility near Tura in Siberia.”

“Magnus is right,” added Forbert, “and all of our models show that the temperature rise will continue. Eventually the heat will increase the water vapor cloud cover to the point where everything suddenly reverses and we’re plunged into an ice age.”

Mubanti spoke. “What is causing this problem, Michael?” Forbert looked at his Norwegian colleague and they both sighed in resignation.

“People, Dr. Mubanti,” said Forberg. “Just too many people doing too much of the normal things people do.”

The discussion ended as the shuttle bus pulled to a stop in front of the Rabat Crown Prince Hotel. Part of the new development that had sprung up to the east of the city, it was much larger than any of the downtown hotels. Another blue suit boarded the bus.

“Gentlemen, your rooms are pre-assigned. You can pick up your room keycards at the special check-in tables to the right in the hotel lobby. The tables are organized according to the first letter of your last name. In your rooms you will find a conference identification badge and business casual clothing for this evening. We ask that you change into this clothing before you attend the orientation reception tonight an remember to wear the identification badge at all times. Security is very tight at this conference and people in unfamiliar clothing or not displaying the proper identification will be detained and questioned. Your luggage should be in your rooms by the time you reach them. Welcome to the World Hope Renewal Conference.” He stepped off the shuttle.

We exchanged looks of surprise. The arrangements and security seemed a bit heavy-handed, but tolerable. Mubanti shrugged and headed toward the front of the shuttle, with the rest of us following.

When I stepped off the bus, Blue Suit was waiting.

“Doctor Lincoln, a moment please?” I stepped to the side and let the others pass and enter the hotel.

“As an honored presenter, sir, your check-in has already been processed.” He spoke for a moment into his headset in a language that sounded like a cross between Arabic and French. He listened for a second and then nodded. Handing me a hotel folder, he said, “You are in room 2372. Your luggage will arrive at your room in about an hour. The elevators are to the left in the lobby. Enjoy your stay, sir.”

I walked into the hotel and saw the crowd lined up at the tables to my right. Apparently speaking for 20 minutes was going to save me at least that long standing in line. I turned to the left and walked to the bank of polished brass elevators. It seemed a bit strange to walk into a hotel for the first time and not have to wrestle with luggage, but I decided that I could get used to it.

I stepped into the first open elevator and was reaching for the button for the 23rd floor when I caught sight of a large figure moving toward me as quickly as his size allowed.

“Pozhalujsta, Benjamin,” he called. I pressed the button to hold the door open.

“Dobry den, Vasily,” I said as Antonov’s considerable bulk joined me in the elevator.

“A good day to you also, Benjamin. And spasiba, thank you for holding door, my friend. Level 20, please.” I pushed the button for his floor and mine.

“Good to see you, Vasily,” I said. “What’s new in the world of mechanical engineering?”

“Always new materials to test, Benjamin. New alloys, new designs, everything new all the time. No new devushku here, though. Have you noticed?”

“Girls? What girls, Vasily?”

“No women here. Everything at conference is men. Not a pleasing soft curve to analyze anywhere.”

Now that Antonov had mentioned it, I noticed that he was right. All of the blue suits were men. The people working at the registration tables had all been men, and all of the attendees appeared to be men. And if anyone was going to notice a lack of women, it would be Antonov.

“The last devushku I talked with was on flight from Nairobi to here,” he complained.

“What were you doing in Kenya?”

“Strange trip. I started in St. Petersburg, then Amsterdam, Prague, Saudi Arabia, Kenya, now here.”

“I’ve heard that from several people. My flight route was long and unusual, too.”

The elevator chimed as it stopped on the 20th floor and the doors opened. Antonov lumbered out.

“I will see you at reception tonight, Benjamin.”

“Do svidanyia, Vasily,” I told him as the doors closed. I briefly wondered how they had accounted for this bear of a man when the conference organizers were providing business casual clothes for us. He was a couple of inches taller than me and he had to be at least 370 pounds. My musing was ended by the chime announcing that I had reached my floor.

The room was what you’d expect of a luxury hotel—it was luxurious. It smelled fresh and clean, much more so than I’d expected. The cool air seemed to perk me up and dissipate the weariness I’d felt after the long trip. I wondered briefly if the hotel used ionic scrubbers to clean the air. There was a crispness to it that I’d never experienced before.

The promised business casual clothing was laid out on the bed. Khaki slacks and a light button-down shirt were perfect for the warm African environment. They even included underwear, socks, shoes, and a wristwatch. I wondered briefly if the wristwatch was part of the “official uniform” that the security people would be looking for.

There was little to do until my luggage arrived, so I decided to take a shower and get dressed for the reception. While the crisp room air had perked me up, the shower absolutely energized me. I could feel the water tingle against my skin, almost as if it was charged with electricity and vitality. Tension drained from my muscles, fatigue faded from my brain, and I felt stronger and more alert than I had in months. The scientist in me reminded himself to find a way to bring a sample of that water back to Michigan for detailed analysis.

I emerged from the bathroom to discover that my luggage had been delivered and my travel clothes were gone. A note left on the bed told me that my clothes were being cleaned as a complementary service of the hotel. It appeared that they were very detail-oriented at the Rabat Crown Prince. The briefcase looked like it was brand new, with no evidence of the scuff mark from Osaka at all. Concerned that they might have delivered the wrong briefcase, I entered my personal combination into the lock and opened it to find everything that I’d put in it still there. I looked closely at the spot where I’d scuffed the leather, but there was nothing to indicate that the leather had been scuffed or that a scuff had been buffed out. I continued to be impressed by the service at the hotel.

Three hours later I was in my approved conference attire, including wristwatch and name badge, and approaching the ballroom that was home to the orientation reception. Antonov’s observation appeared accurate; I saw only men standing in the security verification line. That meant that Cho was probably back home in Korea with her husband and their toddler. I didn’t know if I was going to be able to discuss the science behind Downstream, but I would have enjoyed the chance to explain it to her. She had a way of looking at things from directions that others didn’t notice at first. Chouinard was probably in Switzerland, too, since he was in his 80’s and he didn’t travel much more than from his home to his research lab at the Hadron collider and back. Looking at the men in line ahead of me, I noticed that nearly all of them appeared to be in their 30’s or early to mid-40’s. At 49, Mubanti might be the old man at the conference, other than Clifford Harrison, of course.

I recognized several of the faces in the line. I didn’t see Covington among the throng waiting to enter, and that was perfectly fine with me. He was a brilliant physicist, but also an arrogant prick. He had a fair chance of understanding the concepts behind Downstream, but he’d undoubtably pooh-pooh my work as if it was something taught to English schoolboys during their second year of prep school. Even with the 250th anniversary of American independence right around the corner, Covington still referred to us as “The Colonies.” He made no attempt to hide his feeling that Britain should once again become the Empire On Which The Sun Never sets by retaking control of India, Hong Kong, Australia, “The Colonies,” and all the other land that he felt rightly belonged to England. I was sure the conference would get along just fine without his presence.

“Doctor Lincoln?” It was Blue Suit from earlier on the bus. The blue suits didn’t wear name badges, so I had no way of identifying him.

“Yes, mister…?” He didn’t answer my implied request for his name.

“Please come with me, sir.” I stepped out of the line and followed him as he led me down a corridor, away from the ballroom doors. Ninety seconds and a few turns later we came to a doorway with a small desk set up in the corridor next to it. Another blue suit sat behind the desk, looking at the screen of a laptop that was connected to an apparatus about the size of a toaster oven.

“Hello Doctor Lincoln,” he said. “Please place your left hand on the scanner.” He gestured to the machine wired to his computer. I placed my left hand on the scanner and was surprised to feel a tingling sensation from the wristwatch on my left arm. It appeared that the watch was an necessary part of the official conference uniform and I suspected that It might be part of a sophisticated biometric scanning system. A few seconds later a tiny green light lit briefly on the face of the wristwatch and then went out. The man behind the desk checked his screen and nodded.

“Thank you, Dr. Lincoln. Please go on in.” There was a humming noise from the door, then I heard a bolt snap back to unlock it. I turned the handle and stepped through the door, letting the automatic closer swing it shut behind me.

“Ah, Doctor Lincoln. Good to finally meet you,” said Clifford Harrison, offering his hand.

“Mr. Harrison. It’s an honor.” I shook his hand. “Pamela McGuire asked me to send her regards if I met you.”

“Wonderful lady, Ms. McGuire. Very bright. How do you know her, Doctor?”

“Well, sir, as of five weeks ago she’s my fiance.” He frowned. “Not to worry, sir. I cleared everything through Human Resources. I am not now, nor have I ever been in a supervisory position with regard to Pamela, and all her work at my lab has been her own and not part of any project that the High Energy Physics lab was working on. HR okayed everything.”

“Well congratulations, then, Doctor. May I call you Benjamin?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Congratulations to both of you, Benjamin. Please give Ms. McGuire my congratulations, too.”

“I’ll do that, sir.”

“So Benjamin; I’m sure you noticed the special request in your conference materials.”

“Yes, sir; Downstream.”

“Right. Tomorrow you’ll be giving an overview of it. I’d like you to just stick to the basics; what a Temporal Singularity is, what happens inside the stasis field, that sort of stuff. No need to get into how it works or the physics behind it. Chances are nobody would understand that anyway. None of the other physicists and mathematicians at HGT can understand it, either. Anyway, we don’t want to give away the whole farm here, we just want to tell them that we’ve grown an interesting crop.”

“I understand, sir. That’s pretty much what I figured. I have an outline of what I’m going to say already.” I wondered what other physicists and mathematicians had looked at Downstream. I didn’t think there were that many V5-cleared people at Harrison Global Technology.

“Well then, I believe it’s time for us to get to the reception.”