The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Bangalore, 2097

The diagnostic finished running. The usual charts of numbers scrolled across the screen, describing a universe of details. Mingzhu waited impatiently.

The final statistic appeared: “ECE: 0.0%”

The beautiful young data scientist let out an exasperated breath. Zero percent? How could that be?

ECE was the acronym for Estimated Composite Error, a fancy way for the computer to say that the entire databank had been scanned, fully recompiled, and then rechecked for problems. And after all that, nothing unusual had been detected. Nothing unusual whatsoever.

Scowling, Mingzhu glared at the main screen. The ACA Data Lab, usually bustling with fellow scientists, was strangely empty at the moment, and the young woman had one of the premium workstations all to herself. Seven plasma monitors were all facing her, all overflowing with data, all assuring her that there wasn’t anything wrong in the slightest.

Except there was.

Making a decision, Mingzhu stabbed the comm button, routing her call—once more—to Systems Maintenance. A polite male voice answered: “SysMain, this is Charles, how may I—“

“Chuck,” interrupted Mingzhu, her voice agitated, “its happening again. An ECE of zero when there’s clearly an anomaly in the core data.”

“Aw, Ming,” Charlie groused. He immediately dropped his polite demeanor. “I’ve checked all the underlying systems for you. Six times now. There’s no—“

“I just ran some diagnostics myself,” Mingzhu insisted, pulling up the work logs on her own computer. “I’m telling you, there’s at least one anomaly in the core data. I can’t do my analysis if there’s so much was a ripple in there.”

Charlie didn’t reply right away. When he finally spoke, his patience was strained. “Ming, do you know how many subsystems there are ensuring data integrity? There are exactly 129,983. That’s 129,983 AI subsystems, all working together in perfect, algorithmically-guided harmony, all to ensure that there is no fucking problem whatsoever with the data.”

Mingzhu rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Look, when I look at the first-level analytics, there appears to be a glitch. A small one, but there. But when I zero in, the glitch is gone. But then I see the same glitch in the second-level analytics. And then in the thirds. And so on. You get me?”

“So you’re saying…” Charlie asked, incredulous, “…that your data fart is moving about the system?”

“Chuck…” Mingzhu groaned.

“Data anomalies don’t move,” the SysMain engineer insisted. “So stop calling me with your crazy hunches, okay? I’ve got real work to do.”

The comm line went dead.

The young data scientist cursed softly, wondering if she shouldn’t just walk down the three levels to SysMain. Visit those guys in person. See if she couldn’t browbeat them into admitting that they’d overlooked something. She’d only been at this problem for, what now? Twelve hours?

Growing depressed, Mingzhu hopped off her formfit chair. She snatched her worn coffee mug, then padded out to the corridor. More caffeine was required.

The passageway between ACA (Advanced Computer Analytics) and the main complex was a wide, plexiglass tube, which normally allowed one to observe the sprawling SETF campus. Today, however, a bitter dust storm was raging.

Mingzhu ignored the oppressive weather, her mind still thinking through her diagnostics. She failed to remember that she was still essentially in her pajamas: tiny, form-fitting short pants and a sports bra. She’d slipped a waist-length silk robe over her shoulders, but the light cloth billowed in the recirculated air, doing little to keep her warm.

This was the problem with living and working on the SETF campus; you tended to overwork, then forgot about the dress code. Mingzhu had long ago erased the distinction between her personal quarters and her workspace. She lived and sometime slept at her lab computer. Only rigorous exercise could coax her away.

Male colleagues who passed by couldn’t help but scan Mingzhu’s alluring body with appreciation. Even half-asleep and yawning, the young Chinese woman was a distinctive beauty. The stereotype of women scientists was that they were supposed to be frumpy and hopelessly plain. Not Mingzhu. She possessed gentle, radiant skin, large brown eyes, and full, rose-colored lips. When she smiled, guys tended to melt before her. An avid runner, Mingzhu had a sleek figure, accentuated with the feminine curves she’d inherited from her shapely mother.

“Hey you!” a woman’s voice called out behind Mingzhu.

The young data scientist turned in surprise. Two colleagues, Kiara Satamkar and Reyansh Paij, both from Propulsion Engineering, were hurrying her way. Both were Indian, although Mingzhu thought they originated from opposite ends of the subcontinent.

Like Mingzhu, Kiara was young and very beautiful, almost like she’d been meant to be a storybook princess. Large eyes and long, shining, black hair made her perfect complexion look positively radiant in the soft plasma lighting. Kiana was a yoga devotee, giving her toned muscles, but a generous chest and hips. Mingzhu liked Kiara for her wicked sense of humor and her willingness to try anything once in life.

Reyansh was in his early twenties. Thanks to his vast intellect, he’d earned three PhDs before he was twenty, but Mingzhu thought the stressed-out young man would have benefitted from one less degree and perhaps a year off from his studies. Tall, thin, and lanky, Reyansh had a handsome face, but no muscles to speak of. A stiff breeze would probably had whisked the poor boy away. But Mingzhu liked him for his perceptive intelligence, his capacity to listen, and his gentle insights on life.

Kiana and Reyansh were not just colleagues, but old, old friends. Mingzhu and Kiana had befriended one another as freshmen at Stanford, and then swept Reyansh into their fold during the grad student years. By happy coincidence, all three had landed postdocs at SETF.

“Oh, Ming, you look a wreck!” Kiara exclaimed, clapping a gentle hand on Mingzhu’s shoulder.

“Hmmgh,” grunted the Chinese data scientist.

Kiana smiled. “Girl, you gotta get out of the lab.”

“You do know what day of the week it is, right?” Reyansh piled on.

Mingzhu glowered, in no mood to be teased by her friends. In her annoyance, she realized Reyansh was eyeing her luscious figure.

“Yo, Rey,” she snapped. “My eyes are up here.”

Embarrassed, the Indian genius coughed. “Did you forget the briefing?” he quickly asked.

Mingzhu stared. “Huh?”

“She did forget,” grinned Kiara. “Center-Wide Briefing. 16:00 hours. That’s in five minutes.”

Mingzhu blinked, stunned. “I thought that was tomorrow…?”

“Nope,” Kiara said, taking Mingzhu’s arm. “Today. You’ve been staring at a monitor too long.” She sighed. “They haven’t called a Campus-Wide for, what, over a year now? They’re probably shutting SETF down.”

“Perhaps they have good news to announce,” Reyansh offered.

“Yeah,” Kiana replied glumly. “Perhaps.”

Mingzhu and her generation had been born into a world with a decaying ecosystem. The Earth had sustained life for billions of years, but human beings had finally demanded too much from their mother. The Amazon rainforests had withered. The coral reefs had died off. Whales, frogs, honeybees, salmon, rhinos, tigers, Monarch butterflies, and millions of other species were long-extinct. The oceans had risen, erasing the coastlines that humans had known for millennia. Vast stretches of once-fertile farmlands were now arid desserts. Natural resources were devoured. Global oxygen was thinning.

Much work had been done to mend the environmental damage, but no-where enough. It was clear that humanity was going to suffer for a long, long time. As a desperate alternative, the United States, China, India, and a handful of contributing countries had combined their efforts to form SETF, the Space Exploratory Task Force. While it was understood that colonizing a remote planet was, at best, a goal that could not be achieved in under two centuries, no alternative could be overlooked.

Headquartered in Bangalore, SETF had launched approximately a dozen manned spacecraft to remote planets. The results had been absolutely dismaying: Five ships reported mechanical problems and were forced to turn back before leaving the solar system. Five more vessels similarly radioed in with problems, but were unable to return. Their crews were out there in deep space, locked in suspended animation, waiting for the long-range robot tugs to find them and tow them home.

And the two remaining ships? They had simply vanished, without a trace. One minute, their shipboard computers were transmitting their homing beacons, and then… nothing.

The Grand Auditorium at SETF housed over two thousand people, two thousand physicists, engineers, biochemists, astronomers, computer experts, data scientists, and general spacewalkers. Most of those folks were under thirty years old, as a commitment to work at SETF was expected to last decades.

Mingzhu, Kiara, and Reyansh entered the grand hall, only to discover that there were scarcely any seats left. The three friends squeezed into the back row.

“What did they say this assembly was about, again?” Mingzhu grunted, pulling her thin robe about her.

“They didn’t say,” said Reyansh, craning his neck about.

“SETF hasn’t launched a spacecraft in twelve years,” said Kiana. “They’d shutting us down, I just know it.” The pretty young Indian woman let out a weary sigh. “It figures. I spend seven years in grad school training to be a propulsion engineer, and now they lay us all off.”

Mingzhu studied her friend. Ever since they’d met, Kiana had pinned her hopes on journeying into space. It was heartbreaking to see her so despondent.

The lights dimmed. Conversations about the hall dissolved as the central podium rose up. A small group of people were moving to assume the raised stage.

Mingzhu squinted. Instantly, she recognized Admiral Peter Jacobson, the Chief Administrator of SETF. It made sense he would be here. Short, dumpy, and looking a little too stiff in his uniform, Jacobson was in his late seventies, more of a doddering college professor than a military commander. In the admiral’s wake were a few more officers, two of the top scientists in the Bio/Psych Department—Mingzhu forgot their names—and then a lone, blonde-haired woman. This woman moved with confidence and poise. Athletic and charismatic, she was obviously a mission commander.

“Your attention, please,” Admiral Jacobson said into the lectern’s voice amplifier, although no-one in the great hall was doing anything but watching him. Taking his time, the admiral tapped his ID into the podium controls. The massive display screen behind him lit up.

“Thank you all for attending,” Admiral Jacobson said blandly, his magnified voice echoing slightly. “The general administrative staff of SETF and I want to thank you all for your hard work…”

Mingzhu rolled her eyes. The top brass were always worried about morale, leading to long speeches about how every scientist was valued in the SETF family. She’d prefer it if the admiral could simply get to the point.

“Now then,” Jacobson said, “there is much news. First, the bad news.”

He paused.

“It took some time to be absolutely sure,” he said, “but SETF administration now know why all of our earlier spacecraft missions ended in failure.”

The auditorium was deathly silent, hanging on the admiral’s every word.

“There was no way to know this at the start of the space program,” Jacobson said, heavy regret in his voice, “but our suspended animation technology proved to be faulty. I’ll post the medical papers later today, but the basics are this: When we put our crews into suspended animation, we essentially placed them into medically-induced comas. The shipboard computers monitored their vital signs, of course, and we had thought that this was enough to sustain human life on a spacecraft’s long journey.

“What we know now is that when the human brain is medically comatose for that long, the brain begins to suffer neural degradation. In the crews who returned, we found brain damage. A few unlucky crewmembers are actually mentally retarded because of the use of this technology.”

A horrified collected gasp rose from the audience. No suspended animation? That effectively sealed the fate of the space program. There was no possible way a human crew could survive over the decades it took to voyage to another inhabitable planet. Not if they had to be awake for the entire journey.

“One moment, one moment,” Jacobson said, raising a frail hand. He smiled weakly. “I did imply there was good news, did I not?”

The SETF scientists forced themselves to fall silent. Mingzhu thought she could hear her heart pounding.

“The good news is we have found an alternate technology for suspended animation,” intoned the admiral. “The root problem with our coma-based system seems to be that an astronaut’s mind was simply inactive for too long a time. Therefore, the solution was to find a way to slow all metabolic processes while keeping the subject’s brain active for the entire voyage.”

“What?” Kiana murmured, obviously skeptical. “How could you possibly do that?”

“I’ll turn this part of the briefing over to Dr. Abigale Turrington,” Admiral Jacobson said, and then there was a shuffling of positions up at the podium.

Dr. Turrington, an impressively frog-faced woman in her late fifties, peered down at the scientists. “Thank you, Admiral,” she croaked. ”I’d like to take this opportunity to thank my team of cognitive and biochemical researchers who…”

“Aw, geez,” Mingzhu groaned.

Beside her, Kiana whispered, “It doesn’t sound like they’re halting the space program… does it?”

“Now,” harrumphed Dr. Turrington, “to business. The new suspended animation technology—SAT for short—is no longer based putting the brain into medically-induced comas. No. While in susAnimation, a crewmember’s physical body will still be slowed down, exactly as before. But we will keep the astronaut’s mind active and functioning by inducing a deep state of hypnosis.”

“Whaaaaat?” Mingzhu deadpanned.

The rest of the hall began to murmur with questions.

Behind Dr. Turrington, the display screen switched to a video of a young man, sitting calmly on a chair. Brain scanners were placed about his head. On the left hand side of the screen, live-action graphs showed his brainwave patterns.

“We know that when a person is put into hypnosis,” Dr. Turrington continued, “several parts of their brain experience a considerable decrease in neural activity. Their dorsolateral prefrontal cortex and dorsal anterior cingulate, for instance. But other parts of the brain become more active. Observe.”

In the video, an off-camera voice began speaking to the young man. The voice was female, lilting and gentle, yet obviously artificial. A computer’s voice.

“And now, Michael,” the computer’s voice murmured, “I will count down from ten to one. With each number, you will go deeper into relaxation. Do you understand? Ten…”

As Mingzhu watched, the young man closed his eyes and sank deeper into his chair. He lost all expression. At the same time, most of the graphs became less jumpy, almost lethargic. But a few continued to dance with a life of their own.

“And now, Michael,” said the pleasant computer, “you are deeply asleep.”

“There, you see?” Dr. Turrington said, pointing to the graphs. “The hypnotized subject in this video is demonstrating what we want to achieve. His autonomous functions are subdued, yet the left hemisphere of his brain is still processing. Now, he can be given a problem to solve to occupy his subconscious mind, to ensure his mental acumen when he is reawakened later. Years later, if need be.”

Now the auditorium was brimming with whispered conversations.

“Interesting,” Reyansh mumbled, stroking his chin in thought.

“They want the computer to hypnotize us?” gagged Kiana. “What are they smoking up there in Administration?”

Before Dr. Turrington could continue, a thin woman scientist in the front row stood. “Doctor,” she shouted, so all could hear her, “are you saying all future spacecraft crews will be hypnotized on their flights?”

“That,” pronounced Dr. Turrington, “is exactly what I’m saying.”

Now the hall was filled with alarmed discussions. Scientists were shaking their heads.

“Settle down, settle down,” Admiral Jacobson rumbled, taking control of the podium once more. “I’ll admit, the concept sounds outlandish. I was deeply skeptical myself when the idea was brought to me. But the science is sound.”

His firm words did much to calm his audience. SETF scientists were trained to be wary, but also to trust the raw, hard data. If Jacobson was vouching for the new technology, this did a lot to asway nerves.

“This is not brand-new technology,” the admiral declared. “We have conducted two separate tests. One was done here in the Bangalore Center. The other was done up on the Observational Space Station. We used hypnotically-induced SAT on two separate crews, and let them hibernate for over a solar year.” Jacobson leaned into the voice amplifier. “There were absolutely no degradative mental effects on the tested crews. In fact, all subjects reported a euphoric sense of ability, once they were woken up.”

People around Mingzhu whispered to one another, sounding impressed.

“We’ll—of course—post the full medical reports later today,” Admiral Jacobson said, raising his voice over the chattering crowd.

The SETF scientists seemed heartened. Mingzhu could see curious faces hanging on the admiral’s every word.

“Excuse me, sir?” a large fellow in the second row yelled, standing up. “But hypnosis can be used to, er, influence and perhaps control people, right? If I volunteer for a space flight now, how will I know I won’t be hypnotized into doing something I don’t want to do?”

The Admiral nodded. “A fair question. I’ll turn the presentation over to Dr. Rory Samuels now. Rory?”

Mingzhu straightened. As a data scientist in ACA, she was one of a hundred who reported to Rory Samuels. It was strange to see her boss up on the stage, before the entire SETF.

“Thank you, Admiral,” Dr. Samuels smiled, taking the podium. “Before I talk about my department’s contribution, first I’d like to acknowledge the team who…”

“Hypnosis,” Mingzhu muttered, shaking her head. “How’d they come up with that batshit idea?”

“No, its actually quite a sound principle,” Reyansh disagreed. “I did self-hypnosis while in college. It has amazing mental restorative properties.”

“Really?” asked Kiana. The young Indian woman sounded hopeful.

“Now then,” Dr. Samuels said, changing the video on the display screen. “I’d like to introduce you all to Cora. Cora, say hello?”

The screen now showed a computer, no bigger than half a meter by half a meter by thirty centimeters in dimension. Mingzhu recognized the device immediately; she’d walked past it a thousand times in the ACA Lab. The front of the machine had a small display screen, currently running a voice synthesizer graphic.

“Hello, everyone,” a sweet, artificial voice said. This was the same female voice that had hypnotized Michael in the earlier video.

“Cora is a hypergenerational Stage Five quantum computer, outfitted with full self-learning databases and an independent AI,” Dr. Samuels said proudly. “She’s our latest baby.”

“To answer your question, sir,” Samuels continued, nodding to the large man in the second row, “yes, Cora will be hypnotizing the flight crew of our next spacecraft. I’ll leave the admiral to discuss the particulars there. But what I can tell you is that Cora has detailed files on human psychology, plus will possess a full psych makeup of every member of her crew. She’ll calculate the most effective way to hypnotize you.”

“However,” Dr. Samuels said, raising a finger before the audience could start murmuring again, “Cora is also the most secured computer in the history of SETF. Cora, can you talk about your safeguards?”

“Of course, Dr. Samuels,” Cora said from the video screen. She sounded meek, yet eager. “First of all, my highest operational directive is to achieve active consent for hypnosis from all members of the crew. I literally cannot access nor activate any hypnosis programs without this explicit permission. Second, all hypnosis-related files are loaded from encrypted storage, and cannot be accessed without the subject crewmember’s password and biometrics. There are over 129,983 subsystems protecting the integrity of those files.”

Mingzhu shifted in her seat. 129,983 subsystems? How many subsystems did Chuck from SysMain say were safeguarding her dataset?. The beautiful young data scientist felt uneasy.

“Thank you, Cora,” beamed Dr. Samuels. “We sent Cora’s security schematics to three different government panels for review and certification. The hypnosis programs are the safest data on the ship.”

“Which reminds me,” Samuels added, with a grin and a nod to Admiral Jacobson, “you guys haven’t heard about the new ship yet. Would you like to?”

“New ship?” echoed Kiana, her eyes lighting up. “There’s a new ship???”

Enthusiastic muttering rippled all about the auditorium. Meanwhile, control of the podium shuffled around again. Admiral Jacobson was back.

“Er, yes,” the admiral mumbled. “As Dr. Samuels alluded, we are constructing new spacecraft, with the first to depart this year. I—“

Now the auditorium burst into wild, relived applause. Any anxiety about hypnosis was completely gone now; SETF was going back into space!

Admiral Jacobson repeated: “I would encourage all scientists aged thirty or younger with a J-Level clearance to apply for a spot on the first flight. You may well be among the first human beings to set foot on another planet.”

More ecstatic applause.

“Holy shit!” Kiana squealed, her eyes alight.

The monitor screen changed again, now depicting a photo from Deep Space Telescopics: a darkish-orange planet, orbiting three distant, red suns.

“The astronomers among you will know,” the admiral said, “that this is G117-039, formerly known as Gliese 667 Cc, now popularly nicknamed as ‘Lintukoto’ by the terraform planning engineers.”

There was a brief cheer from the astronomers and terraformers.

“3.7 Earth masses, 23 light-years away, perhaps two billion years old,” Jacobson continued. “Large bodies of water confirmed on the surface. Plus a discernable atmosphere. The best chance for a human colony.”

The admiral paused, letting his words sink in.

“The first scout ship to visit Lintukoto will be the UIC Anthemoessa, currently under preliminary construction,” said Jacobson, unable to repress a grin now. “And you all should meet her skipper. Commander McCormick?”

At this, the thin, blonde woman rose and strode to take the podium. Several in the audience knew her, and yelled in appreciation.

The woman flashed a steely, confident smile. “Good to see you all,” she announced. “I’m Christine McCormick. Before I begin to show you the schematics of the Anthemoessa, I’d like to thank my support team, who…”

“Holy fucking shit!” breathed Kiana once again. “Ming, can you see me in deep space? Can you see it?”

Mingzhu grinned at her friend. It was good to see a young person with hope in their eyes.