Sayonara

"Take a seat, Janice," the braintech said, gesturing toward the chair. I sighed in resignation, as I always disliked being connected to that machine, but knew that it was critical that my every experience and thought from my latest assignment be extracted and stored and analyzed by what was rumored to be the most elaborate, complex, and thorough computer ever built for this purpose: MEGAN.

I crossed the small room toward the well-upholstered chair. It was effectively a chair like that used in the dentist's offices downstairs, but with several small holes along the center where one's head would rest. There were restraints built into the chair's design as well, allowing for an uncooperative agent/patient/victim/enemy to be secured in place. I certainly knew better than to be uncooperative – after all, Group 92 had been responsible for installing my extra hardware, turning me into a cyborg, giving me that extra advantage, that extra edge, which had proven itself extremely invaluable on several key assignments over the past six years of my life.

This particular braintech was not a favorite of mine, nor of most of the women in Group 92, but he was often the one on duty at this time of day, even on weekends, so it was extremely difficult to avoid him. Freud claimed that women have penis envy, but this braintech very clearly had breast envy. I had heard that when a braintech was needed offsite for the interrogation of a female enemy, he was often the one ordered to "do the honors," which could be quite useful if the rumors of his sadistic nature toward women were indeed true.

Then again, they could be rumors specifically planted by the higher-ups in Group 92 as part of the ongoing psychological war with other nation-planets and with the myriad terrorist organizations across the galaxy.

Still, as I settled back into the chair, I felt his eyes boring into my chest; I did not even need to look at him to know that he was enjoying what he was seeing, that he was clearly undressing me with his eyes. I had once tracked a terrorist leader to an S&M club, and had witnessed firsthand just how badly the right person could hurt a willing woman's breasts, those overly-important social symbols of one's femininity.

If the rumors were indeed true, this braintech would do far, far,

far

worse to an uncooperative female captive, especially if she was restrained to the chair with the machine also busy doing its work.

"Don't worry," he said with a grin, and an intentional leer aimed well south of my eyes, "you're not getting a tooth pulled today."

"Let's just hurry up with it," I said, reaching back to lift my lengthy black mane out of the way. "You know just how much I dislike this process."

...and you

, I added mentally.

He finally walked around the chair to stand behind me, finally giving my breasts a respite from his lecherous gaze. I heard him roll the large computer toward the back of the chair, and knew from having seen countless others endure this procedure that he had to kneel behind the chair to place the retractable cords through the appropriate hole closest to the base of my neck and make that inevitable connection.

I felt it: cold as ice, sharp as a dull knife. For nearly a full second, the connector slid into my dataport, into what many agents call "the ultimate orifice." I both heard and felt the soft

click

and the counterclockwise slide to lock the connector into place. I let out the breath I had not consciously realized I had been holding, and released my hair, my hands gripping the ends of the armrests.

This is when I felt the most vulnerable, even more vulnerable than when I had been raped as a young teenager. That stranger had simply plundered my body. Group 92 was about to – once again – plunder by mind.

But, of course, I had given away all rights to my own mind by joining Group 92. The many implants were property of Group 92, and the so-called "mental capacity enhancers" supplied by Group 92 were specifically designed to fuse with my own natural brain in such a way that removing them would effectively remove me from this world, as I would be left with a brain so incredibly scrambled that I might not even be able to do such instinctive acts as breathe on my own, and higher functions such as holding a semi-intelligible conversation would be virtually impossible. I would be useless as an agent, unable to care for myself, and a complete drain upon society – the latter being the most dangerous to me, as the government could then enforce euthanasia upon me in the name of "the public good."

Then again, enforcing euthanasia upon this particular braintech could also be considered to be in the name of "the public good."

I looked up at the ceiling, at the bright silver-white light descending upon me, knowing that there were tiny cameras and microphones up there recording me, with people and computers alike scrutinizing my every movement and sound. Literally nothing escaped the notice and the analysis of Group 92. I wondered if there were others with an overdeveloped sense of breast envy watching my image on their screens, licking their lips and imagining those same lips wrapped around one of my nipples.

He turned on the computer behind the chair, its power-up cycle short but frightening with its deep intonation. It was a rather foreboding sound, one which I learned did not need to be but which was done specifically to affect the psyche of potentially-uncooperative persons.

"I'm about to initiate the data transfer," he informed me. At the edge of my peripheral vision, he appeared again at a small console. Even without turning my head toward him, I knew that his eyes were flickering back and forth between the screen before him and the twin protrusions upon my chest. I closed my eyes and tried to forget him, forget the situation.

Seconds later, the transfer had been indeed initiated. I could feel practically every data-loaded charge flowing from my "mental capacity enhancers" to the connector at the base of my neck. For every single incoming pulse of data, there were nearly five hundred pulses of data headed toward the connector and ultimately toward the computer. While the data transfer itself did not hurt me physically, it certainly hurt me mentally, scarring me forever as yet more of my own mind was being made "public."

Every action, thought, and experience from my last assignment was being copied from my mind (or, depending on one's point of view, from my "minds"). Once the offline computer behind me had verified that no potentially-harmful programs had been somehow embedded within the data from my mind, it would be connected to several scrubber systems, and the data from my mind(s) would ultimately be analyzed by MEGAN. Named after its chief engineer's wife, MEGAN would then know what I had eaten for each meal during my last assignment, the approximate air temperature of each location I had visited, even how many millimeters my mane had grown during the assignment.

And, MEGAN would internalize all the information I had gathered from reading and idly chatting with people. That information would be combined with all the other information gathered over the decades and new assignments would be created and distributed as necessary.

The entire process took well over an hour. My mind wandered during that time, but by the end, the creepiness of having my mind raped yet again by the government had caused my skin to crawl, my teeth to clench, my fingernails to burrow into the upholstery of the armrests. I had become so unnerved that I was sweating and could feel my clothing sticking to me almost like an adhesive.

As soon as the connector had been disengaged, I practically bolted from the small chamber. I so desperately wanted to flee this life, but thanks to the many implants provided by Group 92, I could always be tracked... and ultimately terminated.

*****

I was standing at the balcony of my government-paid suite, thirty-six stories about the ground of the planet's third-largest city, looking out across the neon night. I watched with my enhanced eyes as innumerable individuals strolled along on this particular night, my mind long trained to wonder which of them were looking for me. None of them looked up toward me, which was still not enough to force the wonder from my mind.

I felt no connection with them anymore – I had not felt a connection with them in years. Despite the incredible advances of technology over the centuries, true cyborgs were still relatively rare. The technology had been there for nearly a full century, but was still so unbelievably expensive that really, only governmental officials and agents made use of its benefits, and most had only one or two modifications or enhancements put in place.

Group 92 was different, however. Almost everyone employed by Group 92, even the janitors, were heavily loaded with implants of various types. We were all ongoing lab animals as far as the government was concerned, the best scientists and doctors and engineers all conspiring to improve the technology in the name of "national security" despite the many ethical and moral questions being tossed about by the media and especially by the academics. Yet the same implants had kept me alive on more than one assignment, and allowed me to do things the average person could only hope to do.

...such as the ability to see the smile upon a little girl's face thirty-six stories below as she looked up at her father with a grin of beautiful innocence.

I heard the telltale and dreaded chime of my com unit. Precious few people knew how to reach me, so every time the damn com unit chimed, I had the feeling that I was about to embark upon another assignment. With a years-weary suspiration, I retreated inside, closing and securing the balcony door behind me, and made my way to the com unit on the wall.

*****

"Your assignment this time," Chief said as he sat proudly behind his desk, the sky finally brightening outside the massive window behind him, "is to infiltrate the Oren group; the specifics of your role will be detailed to you later. Now before you attempt to protest, I know you can do it, even though you don't speak the language. However, we intend to perfect your knowledge of the Koroti language in less than a week, to the point that people will routinely mistake you for a native."

Few things truly surprised me any more. This new, however, was one of them. If I had not been so heavily trained against showing surprise – or almost any other emotion – my lower jaw would certainly have rebounded off the floor.

Chief stood, looking immaculate as usual in his pure-white suit. The only color was is olive-toned skin and short black hair; everything he wore was so painfully white that it truly forced one's eye to focus upon his face.

He slowly strolled around the side of the desk toward me. "I understand that you have not yet met Sylvie. She is a native, and will be the one training you in the language. The process will start, however, by a full day of data transfer – with breaks, of course. But just think about it: By tomorrow night, you will be fully fluent in four languages. Consider how valuable that could make you when your contract with Group 92 expires, if you decide not to renew with us."

He and I both knew that I would agree to a renewal of the contract. He and I both knew the "life" I would lead once the "mental capacity enhancers" were removed from my brain. He and I both knew that I would be employed

only

by Group 92 until the final millisecond of my unnatural life.

*****

The following day, I returned to the same chamber, this time finding a second, nearly identical upholstered chair had been added. The same damn braintech was already there, fiddling with something on the offline computer until he head me step in, my footsteps clicking on the ungiving floor. He stood and turned, and he saw my breasts, not me.

When his eyes seemed to glow as they shifted to my right, I knew that Sylvie had arrived. She was short by any humanoid standard, her hair such a shiny silver color that it appeared as if each individual strand of hair had been covered in metal and then buffed to maximum brilliance. Her black dress was not so skimpy that it would be considered overly sexy, but it was certainly designed to reveal far more skin – and

definitely

far more bust – than is the norm in Group 92.

"Good morning, Hajto," she greeted the braintech. Her voice was melodic, nearly angelic, speaking in such clear, perfect English that there was absolutely no hint of an accent, almost as if she were a construct and not a cyborg. Then again, perhaps she had received implants to specifically remove any hint of an accent from her speech. "I've returned so you can rape my mind again!"

The braintech laughed along with her, his eyes barely wavering from her chest. Sickened by the scene, I simply went to one of the chairs and assumed the position I would hold for virtually the entire day.

After the duo had chatted for a few minutes, Sylvie approached me as the braintech returned to his work. Her eyes were nearly unnerving: the entirety of both eyes were silver, although not quite as brilliant in shine as the individual strands of her hair. I could also discern a faint hint of silver upon her lips.

"You are Janice, I assume?" Sylvie held out a small, thin hand, a hand which could have been that of a frail old woman. But as we shook hands, I could feel the power of her grip, and instantly knew that I must not trifle with her in any way. Yet, I was also jealous of Sylvie: jealous of her youth, jealous of her body, jealous of her personality, jealous of her lack of accent.

"I understand that you and I will be almost directly connected," she informed me, as if I had not received a briefing on the process from the Chief himself. "I've already worked with Hajto to program the computer to extract my language memories in certain sequences, and the computer will effectively route my memories to you and help you to integrate them into your minds, complete with language mappings. I hope one day to be in your position; I would

love

to learn something as complex as a foreign language from a mind-to-mind transfer!"

"I believe we're ready, Sylvie," the braintech said. "If you'll take your chair while I hook up Janice, we'll be ready to start momentarily."

*****

The human mind typically does not remember the first years of life. In my own case, my first memory is of the death of my grandfather – specifically, of his eyes suddenly widening and the belchlike sound which escaped his throat as his mouth gaped of its own accord, and of the cries of disbelief and sadness from my mother and my grandmother and my aunt.

Yet with our "mental capacity enhancers," we could tap into those "forgotten" memories of life. As the data flowed out of Sylvie and through the computer and into me, I (re)lived the first moments of the young Koroti's life, hearing the gibberish of her native tongue before the language mapping took effect and provided the proper translation for me. I heard the orders of the doctor, the comments of the nurses, the congratulations of her father, the questions of her condition from her mother. But I experienced even more: the shock of passing from such a warm and safe environment to a relatively cold and hostile environment, the feel of gloved hands cradling her.

In mere seconds, I (re)lived entire days of her life. Every sound and feeling and taste and sight and scent and instinctive thought and act of her brief existence was thrust into my mind(s) and forced upon me in a reverse-rape.

As the day progressed, I learned the Kotori language through Sylvie's own experiences: playing with other young children, attending religious services, watching various forms of media, being scolded by her parents, studying for tests in school, being alone for the first time with a new boyfriend...

*****

I was so unnerved by this forced-learning experience that by the time we paused for the dinner break, my clothes were drenched with my own sweat. I did not need to follow the braintech's eyes to my chest to know that the sweat stains had made my breasts even more prominent to anyone's view. Having anticipated this very possibility, I had brought extra clothes with me that day, and showered and changed before getting something to eat.

*****

"The final segment should be most interesting," the braintech commented as he turned the connector counterclockwise in my dataport. "The language mapping should be quite an experience in itself."

Sylvie finally strolled in, looking as perfect as a limited edition collectable doll in a high-end antique store. Seemingly seconds later, she was connected to the computer, and the dataflow began anew.

This time, however, I did not (re)live days in seconds. This was in realtime.

Effectively, I

was

Sylvie. Effectively, I was experiencing sex from another woman's point of view.

In terms of language, I learned a lot, from beautiful phrases of kind flattery to crude vulgarities of degradation. Yet I felt her/my body being pawed by an inexperienced boyfriend, her/my hymen being decimated, his hands latching roughly onto her/my breasts, his semen practically surging into her/me as if from a fire hose.

Yet that was only the beginning.

I (re)lived another of Sylvie's sexual experiences. In terms of language, I learned more than I had ever thought possible, having learned other languages "the old-fashioned way." But I felt one incredibly large phallus blocking her/my throat while another rutted into her/me from behind and her/my breasts swayed with such force that it brought even further excitement to her/me. She/I screamed around the oral invader as a whip was brutally brought down across her/my back again and again and again. I experienced the degradation of being avidly watched by an audience of perhaps hundreds of people in the club as she/I was used and abused, yet also experienced the thrill which intensified the experience. I tasted the semen being practically forced down her/my throat. I smelled the scent of lust assaulting her/my nose. Yet through it all, I felt the upholstery beneath me, the sweat forming upon my skin, my new clothes sticking to me; I heard the continual low hum of the offline computer behind me, the increasing breath rate of Sylvie to my left, the footsteps of the lecherous braintech as he occasionally moved about the chamber checking various screens.

One sexual experience after another was thrust upon my mind(s). As I was (re)living these experiences in realtime, it actually caused my body to react appropriately. I fought to remain as perfectly still as possible in the chair, but my nipples were painfully hard, and my panties were wet from fluids other than sweat. My own breath rate was increasing despite my attempts to remain calm, and, especially after several years without any form of intimacy whatsoever, I was just barely able to suppress the moans echoing those traveling the dataflow into my mind(s). I could "see" everything she saw during those experiences, from the bobbing vision as her head was snapped back and forth from each thrust, to the naked Koroti and humans – males and females – in each situation, to the S&M implements in some scenarios, to Sylvie's own reflection in a nearby floor-to-ceiling mirror, to the spurts of semen aimed directly at her face, to camera crews and sound technicians recording everything for posterity.

Then, abruptly, it all ended. With my eyes still closed, I could hear Sylvie's breath rate virtually identical with mine, which was not at all surprising as we had just (re)lived her memories simultaneously in realtime.

"Damn, that was wonderful!" the damn braintech said. "Sylvie, you were really humping the air furiously there toward the end!"