Faunce House. 5:30AM.
Captain Bold Rigard uses WebCT to hack open the large box containing the cyborg while the rest of the pirate crew looks on eagerly, jostling, scratching, biting, and kicking each other for a good view of the proceedings. Outside the first light of dawn begins degrading the darkness from the main green. After a few minutes of intense concentration on the part of the captain, the walls of the box fall open, revealing what appears to be a naked human of undifferentiated gender.
As the captain hacks further, features begin manifesting themselves upon the body, somehow generated by the skin. They are not simple variations in color and texture, but actual materials, which appear separated from the body itself. First the finest, most awe-inspiring garb grows out from its body. Then features manifest themselves on its face—a long, ribboned beard and intense, beady eyes. In a sudden burst of vanity the captain has designed his creation in his own image. A fine, perfectly balanced sword fuses down out of its arm and into its hand. Then it opens its mouth and speaks in a chillingly neutral voice, devoid of all emotion.
“Arrr! Where’s the rum?”
Bold Rigard, now disconnected from WebCT, admires his handiwork. “Lads, I have programmed our newest acquisition to be the ideal pirate. A rum-loving, backstabbing swashbuckler. But let ye not be worried—he shall be our ally, and our victory in the days ahead.
The cyborg pirate looks at his human mirror image with a vague sense of disinterest, then exclaims, “No really, where’s the rum?”
The assembled pirates begin to laugh at this, and, tired by the long, tense night, they let themselves go, and are soon in a complete uproar.
Like a good pirate, the cyborg has been programmed to maintain a short temper and take quick offense. It narrows its eyes and begins systematically slaughtering the pirates. At first the pirates interpret the screams as part of the uncontrollable laughter, but when their comrades’ blood begins splattering their garb, they sober up. Or they would have, had they not been drinking in celebration of the successful raid for the last hour straight. They drunkenly draw swords, but not one of them stands a chance. Seeing what has happened, Bold Rigard runs to his private chambers, activates the security system, accesses WebCT, and tries to regain access to the cyborg’s programming. But the cyborg has disconnected itself from the web, now only accessible to itself. The captain runs procedure after procedure, all the while hearing the screams of his rapidly dwindling crew outside. After another minute or so the screaming stops. Bold Rigard intently listens to the silence an d prays that the cyborg has changed its mind, its point made. Sudden gunshots and laser bursts announce the triggering of his security system. Then the triply-reinforced door bursts open, and the cyborg casually swaggers in.
“Now,” it speaks in its chilling monotone, “Where is me rum?”
The captain answers with all of the trappings of authority and confidence in his voice, “Downstairs in the basement.”
“Yarrr!,” the cyborg answers, and rapidly decapitates the captain. It stares for a second at the imperfect version of its own face lying on the rug, then swaggers back out of the room.
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