Back in the early days of Hollywood, mind control
devices were imagined as big helmet type things that did the thinking for a
person, turning them into a robot in human flesh. If the subject tried hard enough to fight it,
they could often override the mind control cap thing or whatever. But the reality is, now that there is a
reality, there's nothing to fight against.
There's just a chip, reading her thoughts as they happen, then firing
electric impulses through her nerves for the appropriate reaction, just like
her brain would. She's still in there,
consciously. Her mind is just
disconnected from the action, in order to limit her ability to disobey, among
other things.
The only thing that the CNSPU can't do is control or
fake emotions. Emotions are ridiculously
complex, highly specialized, and sometimes downright random. We haven't seen a reason to dabble in them,
and I don't suspect we will. Besides,
you can always let the ones that she is experiencing show whenever you feel
like it. I'll show you.
The speaker turned to the blonde on the floor.
Barbie, how long have I owned you? he asked.
She appeared to consider the question for a moment,
then responded, Three years, Sir.
See that pause for thought? the man asked my
owner. Totally faked by the processor,
for realism. You know, I say faked, but
maybe emulated is a more appropriate term, because it pulled the mannerism
straight from her mind. It's exactly what
she would do, if not under the control of the CNSPU.
Barbie, her owner said, turning his attention back to
the kneeling woman, do you love me?
No, Sir, she replied, her tone neutral.
How do you feel about me?
I hate you more than I have ever hated anyone or
anything, Sir.
Why is that, Barbie?
Because you stole my life from me. You hurt me.
You fuck me against my will. You
turned me into a thing. You make me hurt
myself, for you own enjoyment. You make
me have sex with other men and objects.
Barbie, stand up and dance, he told her.
The blonde stood, then began swaying around, sometimes
spinning in circles, sometimes just jerking from side to side, playing with her
long blond hair. It was obvious that she
had no real idea how to actually dance, and that the CNSPU was just pulling
various memories and acting on them as best it could.
Barbie, her owner said, do you like dancing?
No, Sir, she replied.
Would you rather die than continue to dance?
Yes, Sir, she said, her face showing only a look of
concentration on the task at hand, and lacking any of the emotional trauma of
someone who had just agreed that they would like to be dead.
Here, he said, handing her a syringe, which she
willingly took, that will end your life, inject yourself with it.
Authorization required, she said.
Don't you want to kill yourself?
Yes, Sir.
Then inject yourself! he said.
Authorization required, she replied.
No, just do it! he yelled at her.
Authorization required, she said, her tone remaining
flat.
Now check this out, the blonde's owner said to mine.
Barbie, allow all emotion to show, but do not allow
free speech, he said to the awkwardly dancing woman.
The blonde's face became flushed, her mouth turned
down into a grimace, and she began bawling.
She did not, however, stop dancing, randomly waving the syringe around
in the air as if it were a baton.
Barbie, her owner said, faking a concerned tone, why
are you crying?
Because there are needles in my boots, Sir, and they are stabbing the soles of my feet as I dance.