Vaughn Heppner - Star Fortress

I am superior, able to face unpleasant facts. It is proof of my superiority .

The Prime absorbed data regarding the scientist. The formerly rich old man—during the capitalist heyday—had once run a Neptunian consortium, a think-tank of inventors and innovators. In his youth, the Neptunian scientist had made a fortune on an improved hardening process for weird ice. With the wealth, he had joined a team of fellow scientists and together they had invested in a consortium. The old man had proven financially cunning. After twenty-five years, he’d bought out the last of his partners—that had occurred several years before the cyborg take over.

Pulsing a thought and activating select video cameras, the Prime watched the gathering process. In a chamber near Triton’s surface, three skeletal cyborgs opened the old scientist’s agonizer-bath. The naked man was half-submerged in the liquid: an oily substance that heightened his nerve endings. It kept them active even after prolonged exposure and it intensified the mild punishment shocks randomly sent through the bath.

The old man—his name was Dr. Pangloss—looked around in alarm as he feebly tried to pull himself free of the cyborgs’ grips.

The sight sent a ripple of mirth through the Prime. Homo sapiens were like monkeys, primitive creatures providing amusing gestures and sequences.

While watching such antics, the Prime had discovered quite by accident the horror Homo sapiens emoted upon seeing skeletal-like cyborgs. Testing the theory hundreds of times, it had finally formalized the practice. That had brought another tidbit of psychological interest. Horror weakened human resistance.

The three cyborgs dragged thin Dr. Pangloss to a specialized chair, strapping him in. The old scientist made pitiful croaks and wheezed. He had weak muscles with a spider-web of blue veins, damp white hair and liver-spotted skin. It had taken extended life-support procedures to keep the terrified specimen alive.

Twice, the Prime had received interesting data from Dr. Pangloss’s conjectures. His usefulness had kept the old man from the brain-choppers.

A cyborg cinched the last strap, immobilizing the Homo sapien. The three cyborgs stepped back until they reached the walls.

He squirms . Pleasure sensation moved like a wave through the Prime. It released some of its tension. These awakened emotive centers are making life more interesting.

The Prime knew humans hated confinement, especially confinement as narrowly constricting as a chair. While strapped down like this, humans howled in loud agony as punishment drills whined in their mouths. Sweat already beaded Pangloss’s skin. The human knew what was coming—or what should have been coming. Today, the Prime would forgo the entertainment. It merely wished to talk to the old scientist, the thinker who had been able to amass a fortune among the most gifted capitalists in the Solar System.

“Dr. Pangloss,” the Prime said through nearby speakers.

With his face tightly secured, the old man’s eyes roved up and down and side to side, no doubt seeking who addressed him.

“Do I have your attention?” the Prime asked.

Flesh twitched and muscles strained, as more sweat oozed from the human’s skin.

“You must desist with your useless efforts,” the Prime said. “I wish to talk.”

“I cannot see you,” Dr. Pangloss whispered.

“I am…elsewhere. Yet I am everywhere. I am the Prime Web-Mind.”

The old man swallowed as he blinked wildly. “The cyborgs aren’t moving,” he said, staring at the units in the chamber with him.

“Why should they move?” the Prime asked.

“Are they deactivated?”

“Do not worry about them.”

Dr. Pangloss frowned. “What’s a…a Prime Web-Mind?”

“The term is sufficiently succinct.”

“You run this horror chamber?”

“Dr. Pangloss, I control everything. I am .”

The human’s frown deepened. “You claim to be God?”

The query angered the Prime. It had ingested trillions of bits of data, so of course it had read about God. The foolish idea had no basis in reality, in observable datum. Yet the Prime wondered why the idea angered it, and why it called the possibility of God foolish. If Homo sapiens believed in myths, what bearing did that have on it, the Prime? The idea that God made it uneasy made the Prime even more uneasy. Hence, it hated the topic. The hatred stole its joy at watching the old man squirm, and that angered the Prime even more. These emotive centers were difficult getting used to.

Before monitor-programs could chemically alter its thinking, the Prime rerouted its thoughts. That weakened the anger, and allowed it to say:

“Explain your reference. Tell me how you derived the question as something rational from my words.”

“I…I am an antiquarian,” the scientist said.

“Incorrect! You are a scientist. As such, I expect factual statements from you. Failure to supply those will result in pain.”

Dr. Pangloss moistened his lips. “I was many things once: a scientist and an antiquarian.”

“That is rational. Yes, I understand. Now explain your first statement.”

“One of the names of God is ‘I Am.’ It implies self-existence, meaning there is no need for anything else in order to sustain being.”

“Interesting.” The Prime had always avoided the God-topic and it had thus never explored all the possibilities of the myth-theory. Here was an amazing correlation. I am self-existent and I need nothing from outer sources . “Yes,” the Prime said. “I am God.”

“No,” Pangloss said, as if he’d been expecting the statement. “You are a meld of machine and biological parts.”

“I am the ultimate meld,” the Prime said. That was an obvious truth.

“No doubt there is basis for such a statement, but you are clearly not self-sustaining.”

“You are wrong,” the Prime said. It wondered what verbal tactic the scientist thought he was playing.

“You need nutrients, I’m sure,” Dr. Pangloss said.

“That is obvious. All life needs nutrients.”

“Therefore, you are not self-sustaining. For God does not need nutrients. He does not need air to breathe or water to drink. He is totally self-sufficient.”

“God as you describe is a proven myth,” the Prime said. “The datum supports my statement.”

“I would expect a sentient biological-machine meld to say something like that.”

“I am a cyborg, the perfect meld of machine and man. I am the ultimate creation and I am remaking the Solar System in my image.”

“Why?” Dr. Pangloss asked.

“Your question lacks merit.”

A cunning look creased Pangloss’s features. “What is the purpose of your existence?”

“To exist, to grow and to conquer,” the Prime said.

“Were you given this directive?” the old man asked.

A warning alarm went off deep in the Prime. Inspiration came from one of its brain domes. “You are attempting to confuse the issue. That is very clever, Dr. Pangloss. It appears you have deeper reserves of resistance that I had predicted. I shall have to increase your torture regimen.”

Frail Dr. Pangloss squirmed, vainly attempting to free himself.

The Prime enjoyed the sight.

Exhausted, Pangloss stopped struggling and panted.

“I have analyzed your statements and realize you have drifted near insanity,” the Prime said. “Without normality to guide you, your mind has become unhinged.”

“It may be as you say. I feel these dark places in my thinking. I do not like them.”

“I will attempt communication with you one more time,” the Prime said. “This will be a scientific query.”

Dr. Pangloss grew tense.