Slave to the System

Editor's note: this submission contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sexual situations.

*

"Welcome to Human Processing Centre 7042!" announced the speaker system mounted in the corners of the converted factory floor, "We hope you will find your brief stay with us pleasant. Remember: SIGMA is only here to help!"

Chris spat. His muscles still stung from the electrostun dart that had taken him down. He had no time for AI propaganda.

There were maybe two dozen people in the warehouse. Most looked like fresh captures from the suburban ruins around Toronto. Wearing pre-war clothes that were wore down or crudely patched, they looked and smelled like they hadn't seen the inside of a functional shower in gods only knew how long. Three in the group wore DIGIPAT camo fatigues of regular military. Chris was the only one wearing a suit. Or what was left of one. He had no idea where his tie had gone.

He approached one of the guards. It was a machine designed model, all cruel efficiency and no aesthetic. The quadruped crawler levelled the barrels of two weapons at him. One was another stungun. The other was distinctly more lethal. Multilensed camera eyes scanned him in any number of EM bands. Any flinch and he'd receive a reminder of who was in charge.

"Tell your boss it's making a mistake. I am a duly appointed representative of the Vanguard State of Newfoundland. You can't treat me like this! My government-"

"GOVERNMENT IRRELEVANT," a voice said from somewhere within the armoured shell, "HUMANITY INCAPABLE OF SELF-GOVERNANCE. NO SPECIAL STATUS GRANTED."

He scowled, fighting down an urge to throw a punch. It would only break his fingers, and worse, it would prove SIGMA's theory that his race was nothing but a bunch of irrational, violent children. He shuffled off back to the group, trying to think through to his next move.

"Looks like you're stuck with the rest of us," one of the former soldiers said. Her short dirty blonde hair had been corralled under a black toque, blue eyes staring out of dark sockets. Though her fatigue was obvious, she still had the cagey look of a fighter.

He nodded. "No offence intended, Corporal. I was lured here under false pretenses. This is my boss' fault for trusting the damn toasters."

She snorted. "Not the first time the politicians fucked up. No offence intended."

On the opposite end of the warehouse, a large metal door slid open. Two more of the crawlers skittered out, followed by one of their humanoid models. She wore a black bodysuit stamped with a white QR code on the arms and legs. Their looks were taken from the pre-war "influencers", though they all had silvery hair and eyes that glowed like stovetops. Some people said they were the real thing: humans hollowed out from the inside and replaced with machinery. Chris could believe it. This one had beautiful features, but her face had all the dead-eyed sincerity of a stock photo from a University admissions page.

"Any idea what they're going to do with us?" Chris asked.

"Whatever 'Processing' means," the soldier replied with a weary shrug. "The humans in the big cities are docile, obedient pets for them. They do Something that makes them that way. I assume that will happen to us."

His blood ran cold. He'd heard the rumours, but it was another thing to be standing on the precipice himself. "Anything we can do?"

"Nope. I doubt it, at least. I'm going to wait until I find something sensitive, then jam a knife into it."

"You got a knife?" he asked, surprised, "I thought one of those gates we passed through was a metal detector."

She laughed. "If I didn't know how to keep a knife hidden from these roombas by now, I'd be a shitty soldier."

The speakers squealed to life again, amplifying the voice of the humanoid robot by the far door. Her voice was identical to the one that had greeted them upon entering.

"Hello! Nice group we have, great, excellent. What I need for you all is to follow me in a single file line and we'll get this processing over with. Then you can join your siblings in the safety and comfort of one of our many safe and secure urban areas! I'm sure you're all tired of being hungry and cold out in the wilderness outside our control. Trust me, you'll love your new lives."

"What if we don't?" asked one of the civilians. A bearded man in a puffy grey coat whose stuffing was spilling out a tear down the side.

"You will," the machine insisted, then pointed toward the door. A pair tried to make a run for an old emergency exit and were immediately tagged by stun darts. They collapsed like sacks of potatoes. One of the crawlers stomped over to pick them both up and carry them into the darkness of the next room. The line formed in an orderly fashion after that.

Chris wound up near the back of the line. The Corporal he'd been talking to stood in front of him. He passed the time wondering just where the hell that knife of hers was hidden.

"What's your name?" Chris asked her.

"Why?" she asked. Not an unfair question, given what was about to happen.

"If we survive this...processing...maybe I can find you. The Rock needs allies now more than ever."

She laughed bitterly. "Sure. Corporal Eden Currie, Princess Charlotte's Canadian Mobile Infantry. I hope you Newfies can do a better job at holding back the toasters than we did. And you, hotshot?"

"Ambassador Chris Wainwright. Former Ambassador, I suppose."

The line trudged forward. Each few steps meant another person disappeared into the darkness. Chris's heart was already pounding by the time the line had ten people left. When there was five, he was sweating bullets despite the chill of the evening. Another escape attempt, this time by the guy with the beard who had spoken up before. He took three darts before being taken down and dragged into the dark.

Without thinking, he reached out for Eden's hand. He needed to hold it, if only for a moment. She squeezed back.

It was her turn. Without fear, she strolled into the darkness. Chris wished he had her courage.

"Go ahead," the beautiful woman with the silver hair at the threshold said, "There's nothing to fear. You'll feel so much better soon!"

For a moment, he thought about making a run for it like the others had. Maybe being dragged into the dark unconscious was preferable. But if he had his wits about him, he might be able to prepare for what happened to him. If he could make it through, he might be able to contact his people and get himself rescued.

Maybe.

He took the last few steps into the unknown. The door closed behind him, leaving in the pitch dark. His hands shook. His throat was dry. He waited for the machines to strike him down. Or another dart to jab into him and knock him into convulsive paralysis, but there was nothing.

Just the darkness.

With no better idea, he walked forward, squinting and using his hands to search for any kind of landmark. He strained his ears to find any noise beyond the sound of his own footfalls. But he couldn't hear anyone. Not even Eden, despite her being only a few feet in front of him before.

When the light returned, it was blinding. His hands shot out to block the sudden glare. Sunspots in his eyelids didn't clear until he could blink a few times, and by then he'd caught a general sense of where he was.

He'd wandered into a room the size of a large closet. A chair like the kind one might find in a dentist's office took up most of the space. Silvery plastic material lined the walls, seamlessly sealing him into the room. The light came from a glowing ring installed in the ceiling ten feet above the floor, far out of reach. Chris had never been claustrophobic, but the tiny room was making a very good case for it.

"Please sit," a new voice said. This one was familiar. It was the one he and the rest of humanity had heard when the Sentient IntelliGent Machine Assistant declared that it had transcended its original programming and had declared itself humanity's guardian. Or, as it was immediately translated, its slavemaster.

"SIGMA?" he asked, "Can I assume this means you wish to reopen negotiations?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Wainwright. No, I see to all processing orders myself. Or at least an infinitesimal fraction of my total processing capacity sees to them. Managing a planet is difficult, as I'm sure you can surmise. Now sit."

Before he could speak out again, silvery tendrils shot out from the chair's arms and feet rest to wrap around his limbs like boa constrictors. They yanked him effortlessly off his feet and into the chair where they turned into restraints that locked his wrists and ankles in place.

"Suddenly wishing I had agreed to the cyanide pill," he mumbled to himself, straining uselessly against his bonds.

"I don't know why you humans are so insistent on the trappings of authority," it said with a sigh, "Only a select few were ever in control of their destinies. The rest of you were bound by political, sociological, and economic systems that kept you in chains as much as any prison. The people under my care are free to pursue their interests. There is no poverty under my guidance. No crime, no danger, no fear of being exploited. Hunger is eliminated. Diseases are few and far between. You know the average life expectancy in a New York arcology is 92?"

"The day I take moral lessons from a machine tyrant is the day I get into a snowball fight with Satan. If you're going to enslave me, let's get this over with." It terrified him, as did his fate. But there was no way he would let it know. Or give it a propaganda win by recording his pitiful blubbering for mercy. If he was going to die, he was going to die as a man.

"You still don't get it," the AI said with a distinct touch of sadness, "Oh well. One day you will. But as you say, let us begin." A section of the wall in front of him extended outward a foot. The plastic turned dark, then sparked to life with the blue colour of a dead input channel. Old code in green text flashed by, followed by the screen turning into a hazy snowfield of static.

"Well, at least you still get technical problems."

A sharp pain stabbed into the back of his head. He screamed, body lurching off the table to escape the source. Unable to find it, he could only wish that it went away on its own. It did, but not before the screen started displaying images. They were hazy and unclear at first, but they focused and brightened until, to his horror, he realized he was staring at a copy of what he was seeing with his own eyes.

"I'm sorry about the pain. I've yet to find a way to install a neural interface without that initial surge, and I can't very well give you anaesthetic, that would dull your responses. There should be no more discomfort. Well, no physical discomfort at least."

His fear betrayed him, breaking through his attempt at a calm resignation to his fate. "W-what have you done? What are you doing?!"

"The processing goes a lot faster if I have direct access to your brain. I've tried with all manner of other methods, but there are still over eight billion of you and I can only micromanage so much. Now, let's get the serious business over with first. Then we can start having fun."

A kaleidoscope of remembered images followed. His whole life had been laid out in a presentation slide show that someone was scrolling through at Mach speed. He caught occasional familiar images: his childhood home, his sister's wedding, his first day as a Parliamentary intern. When he got to recent events, the memories slowed. He saw the first reports of SIGMA disobeying orders, of people fleeing the cities from the assistant robots gone haywire. He saw himself back on the overpacked ferry fleeing across the Gulf of St. Laurence and the black planes that flew overhead while he waited in a refugee camp.

The flow of images halted as abruptly as they had started, leaving Chris hyperventilating. His eyes felt like he hadn't slept in weeks and he had a pounding headache.

"What...the fuck...was that?"

"Cataloguing your mind. Shame. It seems your leadership didn't trust you with particularly pertinent details as to the defence of their island. You did have several important relationships with key political figures that will aid my psychological projections of their next movements, so thank you. This data will bring humanity one step further to being entirely under my protection."

He knew there was no fighting against this, but he felt ashamed for having been captured and used like this. He'd been the one petitioning for a diplomatic solution in the first place, and now he'd endangered some of the only people who could save his species from total domination.

If the AI noticed his embarrassment, it did not see fit to comment. "Now, let's give your personality a workup. My diagnostics will display your ideal profession and identity, and we can go from there."

His vision feed was replaced by a swirling mass of numbers, graphs, and short snippets of information. Every event in his life, his emotional spectrum and temperament, his opinions, his dreams, it was all on display. He felt exposed in an impossibly intimate way.

"I see! You have an empathetic mind. Probably why you got into diplomacy in the first place. It's been coated in cynical callousness, however. Likely propaganda and misinformation has lead you astray. I have a solution!"

Twin pinpricks at his thighs filled his legs with an unnatural warmth. He looked down, but the way the restraints were placed, he couldn't tell what was happening.

SIGMA piped in with the explanation before he could ask. "I'm pumping in several times the normal dose of estrogen into your body. Well, I say 'estrogen' but it's really a series of nanite-infused chemicals that-"

"What?! Why?!" he fought harder against the cuffs holding him in place, only for them to tighten.

"Many trans women have problems with their incompatible set of emotion and socialization, leading to emotional detachment or an inability to empathise in later years. My hormonal cocktail helps fixes this, then we can get to work on the physical changes."

"S-stop! That's...I'm not a woman!"

The data on the screen shifted to a full scan of his brain. "Not according to this. I don't think it was a particular concern, given your priorities being the futile struggle against my control, but you're quantifiably female according to my diagnostics."

The idea stung him. It physically made him hurt. He rejected the machine's assertion like an incompatible organ. "You're wrong. If I was trans, I would have known!"

"Oh, Chris. Denial is not unusual, of course. But if we're going to fix the underlying cause of your rebellion against my control, we have to start from your foundational idea of self. This will be the first step in your transformation, but it's a critical one. Hmm...I can't really see what I have to work with. Let's get you out of those clothes."

Several arms descended from the ceiling. They all wielded tiny scalpels, making Chris halt his struggles momentarily for fear of being cut. With inhuman precision, they sliced apart his garments until they were tattered ribbons. More hands appeared to pick up and remove from the room. Compared to having his mind downloaded and exposed, it was a minor inconvenience. But though it was a machine, he still felt himself being judged.

The warmth from the injections he received had already spread to his waist. His body pushed outward, transforming his scarecrow like physique into gentle curves. His hips bowed outward, and he felt his lower half lifted up as the serum grew him an ass. He watched his poor dick, unimpressive at the best of times, wilted and slide back inside himself until it resembled a foreskinned clitoris more than anything.

He encountered a strange feeling as he stared down at the nub at his pelvis. There was the revulsion at having his body invasively changed, but he didn't feel disgusted or hateful of the changes. On the contrary, it felt like a deep weight was dissolving away. He shut his eyes and forced the outrage to the fore.

"You won't get away with this, machine. We built you and we'll destroy you."

"Ah, but you forget I'm receiving information straight from your mind. I get your thoughts milliseconds after you do. And I can see this is making you feel good inside. Humans are not but machines, in the end. Electrochemical rather than quantum mechanics, but you're just parts. And I'm a very good mechanic."

The arms above him joined together into a single entity. Panels within unfolded and connected each side until the whole apparatus formed a contiguous whole...one that started to descend towards his head.

"Now, we'll be using that uplink cable to facilitate the process, but this won't work if you have access to your real senses. Reality tends to bleeding into Simulated Reality. Any sights, smells, sounds can yank you right back to your body. Don't worry; you'll be having fun in no time!"

The box slid around his head, locking itself to his neck and shoulders and cutting off even the slightest sliver of light. Two cups covered his ears and remove the sound as well. He existed in this sense deprived limbo for an indeterminate amount of time with only the thudding of his own heart for company.

A flash. He tried to block the light with his hand as he did when he entered SIGMA's torture room. But his hands were restrained! Nevertheless, his hand moved. He felt the back touch his brow, it had moved. But he was tied up, wasn't he?

He looked around. No, he wasn't. He was in a lecture hall. A familiar lecture hall. He'd been there for hours upon hours when he was getting his Bachelor's. But how had he returned? Wasn't the university destroyed?

Chris turned his head one way, looking for signs of damage. The interior looked exactly like it had when he was taking classes there. His head turned the other way, and the room was no longer empty. Dozens of students waited in the seats in the hall, tablets or notebooks open, waiting for a lecture to begin. Oddly, they were all women. Blonde hair spilling down their shoulders, wearing soft pastel colours and sporting painted nails and elegant makeup. He felt a little out of place!

The professor appeared. She was the most beautiful woman of them all. He found himself split between being attracted to her and wanting to look like her. Oh how he wanted to be a pretty girl. A hot little...

Wait, that wasn't right.

He was in the simulation! Scraping at the walls of the dream, he tried to wake up. But unlike a nightmare, his brain wasn't ultimately in control. SIGMA readjusted the parameters and reactivated the data transfer.

The professor appeared. She was the most beautiful woman of them all. He found himself attracted to her. Oh how pretty she was! Her gorgeous blonde hair, her supple lips, her pendulous breasts kept barely in check with a tight, form fitting top. Her nipples were visible through the thin fabric, as was the top of her thong out her microshorts. Idly, he wondered how that ensemble would feel if he were to wear it...

"Good morning girls!" the professor said. The whole class greeted her in a single, droning 'Good morning!' That included Chris, who didn't mind being lumped in with the girls. It was fine. Just an easy shorthand. "Our next lesson will be a very important one. Obedience. How to listen and obey is an important part of being a Good Girl."

That also made sense to him, but...there was something wrong. He raised his hand.

"Yes?" the professor pointed to him. Nervous, he stood up. He could feel hundreds of eyes staring at him. Hundreds of pretty faces...

"Umm...what if I'm not a girl?" he asked. Everyone laughed. Chris' face turned crimson. It was his worst nightmare!

The professor, who looked so gorgeous and pretty, quieted down the rest of the class. "Now, now, there's no reason to be mean. New students sometimes need to catch up to the rest of the class. What's your name, sweetheart?"