The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The contents of eleven storage units were up for auction. I was interested in Number Eight. The units had been forfeit for extended non-payment of rent. The storage company had cut the lock off each unit, taken a few photos of the contents, and then locked the units with their own locks. The photos were posted on the auction web site. It was there that I noticed the mil-spec case, opened up to reveal what looked very much like a vintage Mission Profile Computer. That could be worth quite a bit of money to collectors, both of old military hardware and of vintage, rare computer equipment. Not that I had any interest in selling it, if that’s what it ended up being.

The Mission Profile Computer had, decades earlier, been a top secret piece of computer wizardry. The original stealth fighter was operational, but only in small numbers and only for very special missions, since it was still the most secret of secrets. Most of the military didn’t even know that it existed, and they were stuck using ordinary airplanes and helicopters that lit up a radar screen just fine, thank you very much. Back then, “stealth” was accomplished by flying convoluted routes to avoid detection by enemy radar, and the MPC was the secret tool that made that possible.

Using scanned topographical maps of an area of operations, marked with the known enemy radar installations and the capabilities of those radars, the MPC could calculate the optimum flight path for an aircraft to minimize the chance of radar detection. The unit itself was about the size of one of the old “suitcase” computers like an Osborne or Kaypro, but what was inside it was well ahead of anything commercially available at the time. The system used ray-tracing to calculate what each radar site could “see” and then calculated possible aircraft paths to the target based on that data. Ray-tracing would, several years later, be the basis for 3D computer games, but it was virtually unknown when the MPC was created.

For the computer geek (yes, I’m a computer geek, both hardware and software) the Mission Profile Computer was special because it contained one of the first high-performance graphics systems. The ray-tracing was done on a specialized graphics system with 64 graphic processing units. Sure, the average smartphone these days was far faster and more capable, but the MPC was an important piece of computing history, and hugely innovative when it was originally built. Only a few hundred of them had been built, and not many of those had made it out into the world after the project had been scrapped and declassified. And besides, it had been a super-secret piece of classified computing hardware, so of course I wanted it!

A few hours later I was $600 poorer and the contents of the storage unit were loaded into the small moving truck I’d rented. Close inspection showed that it was, indeed, a Mission Profile Computer, and the bulky high-impact plastic case contained several other items that appeared to go with it. All in all, I thought $600 was an incredible bargain just for the computer and the other items that filled the storage unit were just gravy. I figured that I could sell some of them online and probably make back a few dollars more than I’d spent. And I owned a MPC!

With everything stowed in my garage and the rental truck returned, I finally carried the large grey case into my kitchen and opened it up to inspect my prize. The case itself showed the wear of the decades it had spent protecting its contents. Inside the Mission Profile Computer itself sat in its well in the foam padding. It was about two feet square and a foot high. There were other wells cut into the foam. An empty one looked like it would be about the right size for a manual for the computer. Another contained a thin plastic block with a cable about a meter long protruding from it and a round, grey, multi-pin threaded connector on the end of the cable. I had no idea that that was for. I lifted the MPC itself out of the case and set it on the table, then removed the keyboard and power cord from a deeper indent in the foam beneath where the MPC had been.

The rear of the MPC case had a row of military-spec connectors. I screwed the keyboard cable connector into the one labeled “KBD.” There were others labeled “SCAN,” “PRINT,” and, in a somewhat different font, “FARM.” The power cord locked into the obvious socket with no problem. I didn’t have the scanner and printer that were originally used with it, and I had no idea what “FARM” was. As far as I could tell, everything was connected correctly and the MPC should power up… if it was capable of powering up.

I inspected the MPC carefully, looking for any signs of damage, particularly anything that looked like a burn mark. If it had any electrical issues, they might have left telltale burn marks. The exterior was pristine. Holding my breath, I plugged it into the wall. No smoke or sparks, so that was good. Gingerly I flipped the power switch on the front panel.

I was rewarded with the sound of fans quickly coming up to speed and the higher pitched whine of a hard drive spinning up. That was a surprise. I’d assumed that all internal storage would have been removed before the military released the machine to the public. A couple of quick color test patterns flashed across the built-in CRT monitor, followed by the first sign that the system might still be completely functional:

“MPC Version 0.98.4.28—Self-Test…”

Whoa! 0.98 generally would indicate that this was pre-release or beta test software! This thing might be a serious collector’s item! There was a loud beep from the machine and an error message came up on the screen:

“ERROR: Field Armature Not Connected. Power down, connect Field Armature, and restart.”

Field Armature?!? What the hell was the field armature? I knew from my schooling and work that an armature was usually some kind of coil of wire, often part of the power producing section of a generator or other electrical machine. It might also be an antenna. I looked in the case and saw the flat plastic block with its attached cable. Was that the field armature?

I removed the block from the case. It was completely featureless and unlabeled. It looked newer than the MPC, and the plastic construction seemed to be less rugged than the rest of the system. I flipped the power switch to turn the MPC off and waited for the fans and disk drive to spin down. The connector on the cable emanating from the plastic block fit perfectly into the socket labeled “FARM,” so I figured it must be the field armature. I had no idea what the field armature would do, so I set it as far as I could away from me on the table and turned the Mission Profile Computer back on. Again there were the quick test patterns and the self-test message came up. No beep or error message this time.

The self-test ended and was replaced by a prompt asking me to enter my first name. I complied. It asked for my last name and I supplied that, too.

“New User. Initializing Profile…”

The message disappeared and was replaced with:

“Subject (ENTER for list)?”

I didn’t know what was appropriate, so I hit the ENTER key. The display changed to a screen with the header “SUBJECT SELECTION” and instructions to use the arrow keys to scroll through the list and press the ENTER key to select. The only name on the list was my own. I stared at the screen for several seconds and then a second name popped up: “Rebecca Fortin.” She was my next-door neighbor. I glanced out the kitchen window and saw her come out the side door of the duplex next door and head down the driveway toward her mailbox. She hadn’t gotten very far when her name disappeared from the subject selection screen again. Then when she was coming back with her mail, she reappeared on the list when she got closer to my house, disappearing again a few seconds after she was back inside her house.

Had the computer detected her by itself?!? It certainly looked like it. But how did it know her name? And why didn’t it see her now? Maybe the field armature had a limited range? Come to think of it, her name had only been on the screen when she was closest to the MPC. Once she was beyond 30 or 40 feet, she was off the list. I certainly had lots of questions, but there was only one name left on the list. I hit the down arrow to highlight my name and pushed the ENTER key.

The screen blanked for a fraction of a second and then brought up a display that stunned me!

Across the top of the screen it said, “Master PC v.0.98—Subject: Theodore Watkins”

Below that was a rotating 360 degree image of me, in the seated position I currently occupied, wearing the clothes I currently wore. There was a menu with a number of selections next to the rotating image. The selection currently highlighted was “SUMMARY,” but there were several other choices for different physical and mental attributes. Next to the menu was a small empty section of the screen labeled “DIRECT COMMANDS.” The rest of the screen was filled with information about me.

My height, weight (yeah, I’m a bit chunky. I have a desk job as an engineer, so what do you expect?), gender, age, hair color, eye color, vision acuity, hearing acuity, Stanford-Binet IQ score (139, thank you very much), and a number of other characteristics about me populated the summary screen. Everything was 100% accurate!

I was blown away! How the hell did the MPC (which apparently meant Master PC, not Mission Profile Computer) know… any of this? How did it know how I was dressed and that I was seated? Would it have known the same things about Rebecca? What in the holy hell WAS this thing?

I sat back and collected myself. Time to put that impressive IQ to work, Ted! Okay, maybe it was some kind of medical diagnostic tool. It certainly seemed to amass far more information than a week of standard medical tests could get, and it got that information almost immediately. If that’s what this thing was, it could be worth millions — hell, HUNDREDS of millions! Why hadn’t anyone gone commercial with it? But how was it used? All of those menu choices indicated that there was a lot more to it than what I was seeing, and what I was seeing was already far beyond anything I thought was possible. Maybe I should show this to Brenda and Gary.

Okay, I’m a pretty smart guy. I’m good at electrical engineering and I’m good at software engineering. My function at work is to be the go-between guy for Brenda and Gary. Brenda is an absolutely brilliant electrical engineer, but she’s almost non-functional when it comes to software. Gary is an absolutely brilliant software engineer, but electronic stuff is wholly foreign to him. I’m nowhere near as good as either of them at their own specialties, but I’m good enough at both to translate for them and make the three-person Decadyne, Inc. engineering department work. I’m basically the glue in the middle that holds things together. Brenda would probably figure the whole field armature thing out in a few seconds. Likewise, Gary would be able to figure out how the software was doing the amazing things it was doing. Me, not quite so much. I’m a good hardware guy and a good software guy, but I wasn’t up to their levels of brilliance.

I really wished there was a manual for the thing! Maybe that command window would let me access some kind of built in help or tutorial. I pressed the arrow key until the “DIRECT COMMANDS” window was highlighted and typed, “help.”

“Upload operation instructions to current subject (Y/N)?”

That looked like exactly what I wanted! I entered “Y” and hit the ENTER key.

“First interaction with subject. Additional confirmation required. Save default state and confirm upload (Y/N)?”

Yup, I definitely wanted the operation instructions. A “Y” and then ENTER and…

HOLY SHIT!

I wasn’t going to tell Brenda or Gary about MPC. I wasn’t going to tell ANYBODY about it. I almost wished that I didn’t know about it!

The instructions for Master PC hadn’t appeared on the screen, the full knowledge of what it could do and how to use it had suddenly appeared in my MIND! Based on what I’d just learned, the machine sitting on my kitchen table was quite possibly the ultimate power on Earth!