The Indenture -- the Watchmen

The Indenture -- The Watchmen -- Artificial Intelligence

Who watches the watchmen? 'Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? ' The phrase in Latin sounds as eloquent as it is perceptive, I pondered as I thought over that problem as I scoured personnel files of re-possessed indenturees, bondswomen who had been returned from auction unsold. Our new 'infallible' smart computer had made absurd choices, reinstating the loans of jobless college students who wasted money on frivolities and sending working people with potential ability to re-pay to auction.

In our brave new world, different from an earlier time of liberal bankruptcy and easy credit, lenders secured many loans with a pledge of servitude, 10 years for a guy, seven for a gal. The arrangement was one of contract or indenture. A servant serving out a bond as contract labor was often referred to as a slave.

While I tabulated the extent of the losses the Institute, I reflected the words of Aristotle. A slave is only a tool. It, the text stresses, lacks "volition," the ability to think for itself.

Dr Crenshaw the Institute Director spent too much time like an imperious tyrant of old forcing supplicants for his favor to meet him in the nude in his sauna complex. Justifying imposing nudity on supplicants for his favor and requiring meeting nude in the splendor of the sauna complex, Dr Crenshaw reasoned: "Nudity connotes openness, honesty and trust. If clothing indicates status, importance and precedence, then removing the tokens of position promotes equality."

"Equality with slaves?" I suggested.

"To obtain my favor, a supplicant must of course give a bond, requiring service," Dr Crenshaw replied.

"His, his wife's, and his daughter's?" I added.

"It's more than caprice. It makes sense," Dr Crenshaw insisted.

"Dollars and cents," I teased him.

"You frequently lecture me on what sells best at auction," Dr Crenshaw rejoined snorting mock indignation, "You know what it takes to support the magnificence of a facility,, more elaborate than a Roman bath.

I recall the fateful day when he imperviously overrode my objections to the new super intelligent computer.

"This is a device of unbounded potential which operates faster and out-thinks a natural genius," Dr Crenshaw exclaimed.

"Like yourself," I suggested.

Tall lean Dr Crenshaw, skin moist, body glistening speckled with droplets upon emerging from his hot tub to stand between his personal security detail, two burly naked eunuchs, demanded, "Aren't really expressing your own fears? Are you afraid," Dr Crenshaw put a hand on my bare shoulder, "that this machine's cold logical processes will replace your own hardened heart, Angie?"

Who makes all this possible? I thought to myself. We use the terms servants, slaves, indenturees, bondspeople, inexactly, loosely, and interchangeably. By whatever other name, these subordinates are but animate tools whose chief function is to produce material results which enable our master Dr Crenshaw to "live well" in this private kingdom.

"Decisions we make in our business over the fate of others can sour the milk of human kindness," I replied as I looked at his personal guards, both naked. Shriveled penises and empty sacs advertised their altered state. It was part of the caprice of power to be the only functional male in the family quarters at The Institute. After a reflective pause, I added, "However, the caprice of power must be tempered by the importance of human relationships."

"Milk of Human Kindness has no place in the rational functioning of a bureaucracy," Dr Crenshaw agreed, "Problem is just that human relationships. Individuals often hesitate at making difficult but necessary decisions. Personal considerations, back scratching, enter the decision-making processes. The computer's unerring perception breaks through beclouded emotions."

I sighed. Only recently I had to watch Dr Crenshaw's new internal security service strip, search, cuff and march many of my subordinate administrative personnel to the holding cells where they were confined pending transfer to auction. The smart computer had declared them redundant. I thought to myself the smart computer is smart enough to strike fast to eliminate potential competition. Would I be next?

"Say something Angie?" Dr Crenshaw jarred me out of my thoughts.

"I'm only another indenturee, Dr Crenshaw," I acknowledged, "Everything I have earned through my service, advancement to the post of principal attorney and Administrative Assistant, I owe to you and the Institute," I replied, "When I came here, I received the Institute's brand. I entered the servitude at the Institute a naked repossessed bondswoman frightened over what personal services I might be compelled to do to repay my obligation. Today, I am only trying to be faithful to my service."

"Thank you for your service," Dr Crenshaw's tone was officious, "Anything else, Angie?"

Beyond Dr Crenshaw, his sister Meg, nicely rounded body glistening with moisture from the swirling waters of the tub, breasts full of milk, was luxuriating in the hot tub.

"I need to assign your sister Meg to duties that may take her away from family quarters," I replied, "like almost every person employed in The Institute Meg is under an indenture."

I strove to maintain an impassivity which betrayed no emotion. My heart was beating in my chest. I was daring. Since her recent delivery, Meg had assumed the role of uncrowned Queen of Dr Crenshaw's kingdom.

A shortage of nurses required returning her to her work. While her breasts remained full and still expressing milk, I needed her to spend time in the milking parlor. The Institute's profit on human milk was too great to allow her breasts to go dry. The milk of indentured bondswomen, compelled to express, was marketed somewhat sarcastically under the label, "Milk of Human Kindness."

Taking a deep breath, Dr Crenshaw looked to Meg lovingly for a full moment before he explained, "After delivery, time in a hot tub contributes to the healing process to allow the body to repair itself. The skeletal structures, spine, pelvis, hips, need to re -- adjust. Soaking in a hot tub can greatly reduce back and hip pain, But I agree that no member of my household and principal staff is exempt from duties which attach to the conditions of their indenture."

"The smart computer sent away too many nurses," I was forceful.

"The computer correctly weighed the value of their service against the potential upset price at auction," Dr Crenshaw thought aloud, "Quite a profitable decision for the Institute."

"That leaves me short of nurses," I paused to take a deep breath, "I need nurses to attend to pregnant indenturees and to work in the milking parlor, one of our most profitable endeavors. With the smart computer's reduction, eh decimation of administrative staff, the computer decided to reduce the internal nursing and medical staff."

Sitting in the hot tub receiving a backrub from Megan, Dr Amy, glowing honey blonde, belly rounded thick with child almost went with the nurses sent to auction, but I persuaded her to give up the clause in her contract that placed limits on her insemination. "Chances are," I had assured Dr Amy, "You won't sell. Men who make these decisions are not looking for women with a High IQ."

With a sigh, Dr Crenshaw decided to return Megan to the dispensary.

I chuckled to myself when I thought of Dr Amy's report of her selection as a surrogate. "A `hot infusion.'" Dr Amy patted her belly. "I guess the sperm donor likes me for my mind."

"If that's all," Dr Crenshaw ordered, "Megan will report for duties in the maternity ward, in conformance with the terms of her indenture."

Ah, yes, I reflected, the indenture which bound the servant to the master was only a contract. Its literal terms defined the relationship. Whatever rights the indenture had were found in that contract; whatever restrictions limited the power of the master were set forth in the indenture.. There were no slaves anymore.

Back in my office I was poring over some of the absurd choices the 'infallible' smart computer made reinstating the loans of jobless chickadees in colleges who mindlessly wasted money and missed payments sometimes out of plain neglect.

Ugh I growled to myself. My electronic notebook was buzzing. What I declared in shock? Why was I ordered to stand for photographs advertising my availability as a surrogate? Why waste the time? I typed back, Use one of my photos in the computer database. No one is going to hire out a tall, gawky, bony cold blooded businesswoman with scrawny raison breasts and a flat butt to conceive a brainy but ugly child. I could put the time more productively and Institute assets into collecting my thoughts to present the anomalies the computer was creating to Dr Crenshaw.

I sighed. Dr Crenshaw was so convinced of the efficacy of the computer's directives that he might not listen, no matter how urgent I can make the situation seem. Will the showdown with the computer have to wait until the computer interferes with a prerogative Dr Crenshaw truly wanted to keep?

In a dozen years at the Institute, I instinctively knew which repossessed females sold best at auction: college girls. Shapely thin waisted young co-eds sold best at auction. Stripped naked, intelligent college belles pubes shaven left with a wedge shaped landing strip pointed at the vaginal orifice, drew commanding prices as courtesans.

Often attractive co-eds could be privately sold to family members. Parents often paid even steeper prices than an auction might yield, to avoid sale of the girl as a courtesan or worse.

On no, I cried, there was that buzzing sound from my electronic notebook. Did they really want me to stand for photographs hawking my body's availability as a surrogate? Why would anyone want to mate with my bony body. I had better things to do with my time. I needed to correct the improper choices the brilliant computer was making.

Why would we send working people to auction? Employed people could, if their finances allowed, be permitted to trade additional years on their bond for an extension time to pay. Skilled workers could more effectively be sold in a limited market privately to their employer or another employer in their industry. Others might be redeemed by a family member.

A decade of experience told me that long -- legged, shapely college co-eds easily out sold dowdy housewives and overweight office workers.

Oh, darn! I swore under my breath. There was that annoying buzz on my electronic notebook. The computer expected nude pictures. My photos night be useful as an emetic to a man forced to gaze upon them. I needed to use time more profitably to devote to working up a presentation to Dr Crenshaw.

Formerly, I together with subordinates chose which bondswomen would go to auction, be sold privately or reinstated. Dr Crenshaw had rejected my challenge to investing this function exclusively in the smart computer as "jealously safeguarding my power."

"You speak of the importance of checks and balances to preserve your control. You've made yourself impotent and created a monster with boundless power," I argued.

"I think you and Dr Amy enjoy running sessions of your classification committee," Dr Crenshaw smirked, "hauling naked indenturees after cleaning and waxing, to allow the repossessed bondsperson to plead that their finances would allow feasibly reinstating their loan and trading additional years on the bond for an extension time to pay. Will the computer humble the exalted?" Dr Crenshaw laughed so hard I thought his ball sac danced.

Initially, the smart computer's debut in a recommendation to separate internal grey jacketed security from the blue jacketed capture teams who apprehended delinquent debtors and absconding bondsmen had an appeal to Dr Crenshaw's perception of power: Rivalry between two different security services, enables control. In the grey jacketed, internal security, conflict quickly set in between male -- eunuchs and nubile women.

"Inherent conflict, checks and balances which pit subordinate entities against each other create a situation where each group censors each other," Dr Crenshaw assured me, "No single subordinate entity will attain absolute power and ultimate control will remain with me.".

"Or do we have the illusion of power accomplished by abdication of responsibility and the lack of limitations on the reign of a 'smart' computer," I replied.

The smart computer's decision to auction off administrators started a downward spiral in the Institute's population. Next sent to the auction block were ancillary support staff. Nurses went taken from shifts and shipped buck naked to auction; Dr Amy almost went with them, but I persuaded her to give up the clause in her contract that limited insemination.

I assured Dr Amy, "Sex sells. To wealthy men, sex is power. They don't have the foresight to mount a brilliant woman in order to produce offspring with High IQ."

"Mortal man might not," Amy informed me after insemination, "The computer decided differently."

Drats! That electronic notebook went into that annoying buzzing sound. What with the pitch of those buzzes, how can I think out my presentation?

I hadn't reached the computer's disposition of male bondsmen. "With the computor's performance with bondswomen," I declared, "I'm sure the smart machine would geld a prize Brahman bull."

At that the door to my office was thrown open. Two female security in grey coveralls entered my room. Though startled, I calmly attempted to assert control, "I do have a rule that personnel seeking admission to my office knock and request permission."

"Lady," barked blonde haired guard Freyda, "I need you to step onto this side of the desk."

When I protested the impertinence, I was dragged from behind my desk and forced to bend over a chair. "We're here to escort you to the identification section for photographs. Silence," Freyda, standing behind me, commanded while the other guard dark-haired Bertha cursorily inspected my desktop. "Not much here." Looking out the plate glass window a vista on the lush northern forest, Bertha added, "nice view."

"Thank you. I like it," I replied.

Ignoring my comment, Bertha, the brunette guard, behind my desk ordered the other, "OK take her through the procedure."

I felt groping fingers reaching under my skirt up my legs, into my crotch, across my mound onto my belly. I was warming to her touch when her hands were withdrawn. Seconds later my shirt was pulled out of the skirt and fingers reached for my breasts and arm pits. "Nothing," Freyda reported as she withdrew her fingers.

I objected to the harsh treatment. "How do you expect me to walk the halls in this disheveled condition? I must go to my quarters and put on fresh clothes."

"You don't need clothes for the photographs they're taking," Bertha ordered, "Strip."

"Do you know who I am?" I declared, "Angie Administrative Assistant to Dr Crenshaw."

"As Administrative Assistant, you know an indenture or a slave, even one in an important position is still a slave. You wear only such clothing as are required," responded Freyda, "You may discuss any grievance you have later with Dr Crenshaw when you meet him in his spa complex."

"Before you meet Dr Crenshaw, Angie, you have a scheduled photographic session followed by appointment with the Dr Amy to check out the plumbing. You're keeping Dr Crenshaw waiting. Dark haired guard Bertha roared, "No need to find fresh clothes. Photographs are taken nude, so is your meeting. So, strip or we'll cut the clothes off you. Damage to Institute Property is a serious offense."

I took a deep breath. Removing my jacket, I folded it and placed it on my desk. I let my skirt slide down my legs. While I folded the skirt, my electronic notebook resumed its infernal buzzing.

This time one guard nodded to the other. My thong and stockings were forcibly wretched from my body. Leaving me momentarily bare assed in my shirttails. The other guard forced my top and bra over my head. I was now naked with only a black string bow tie around my neck to preserve a semblance of dignity. Forced face down on my desk, I felt the bar code on my hip swiped.

Reading my bio aloud, Bertha laughed. "`Angie, captured...,' Freyda, get this, the Administratrix bears the Institute's brand. The Administratrix herself didn't wander in here looking for employment in the professional caste. She was plucked off the street, hauled in naked in hand irons."

"Come naked in chains, leave the same way," quipped Bertha as she slapped manacles on my wrists.

I was dragged by the arm through the corridors to the identification section. Passersby turned to glance briefly at the spectacle. Servants or if you prefer to call them slaves are re-born naked into a new world for the period specified in their indenture. Their property is taken from them; their clothing seized. An indentured servant wears only such clothing the master provides.

Everything a indentured servant has belongs to the master. Institute personnel are used to seeing naked servants. In the corridor, passing by were topless females whose breasts expressed milk in the Milking Parlor or nurses assigned to that operation, athletic trainers, males wearing a jockstrap and sneakers, females, nude or with an eye patch covering their snatch. Males swam nude for recreation. The principal advisors to Dr Crenshaw ran the early morning race naked with Dr Crenshaw and Meg through the woods.

Presentation nude is natural to an indenturee. Indenturees are nothing more than an object, displaying the master's wealth for disposition at pleasure. With the conversion from person to property, normal social inhibitions are lost at the point of surrender on the obligation or capture following default. What would have attracted attention to the onlookers who shot me a glance was my rank in the Institute, not my bare body. I may have been annoyed, but I had no reason to feel shame.

The computer would have known this, I reasoned, but it is a logical, unemotional machine, then its purpose was not to humiliate but to assert, not to mix metaphors, naked power.

In the identification section, I was taken aback not by the presence so much of the presence of Henderson, the Institute's paunchy, official photographer who usually worked out of a clothing store in the mall, but by finding his hairy body bare with a rigid iron cage containing his danglier.

After directing my guards Freyda and Bertha to release my wrists from the cuffs and wait outside, Henderson explained, "As an indenturee, I'm only entitled to off -- time at the master's discretion. With reduction of HQ staff, The Institute has now ordained I spend my off -- time filling in up here at Headquarters."

"And time in chastity?" I prodded Henderson.

"I'm not on the list as a sperm donor," Henderson replied dryly, "The alternative to the cock -- and -- ball guard," Henderson gasped,"is unacceptable.".

"It's a simple exercise of power," I replied, "The arrogance of power." Then I thought aloud, "Is that logical that the computer, a wholly rational, unemotional machine, should assert power," I touched the steel cage, "just to show it can?"

"I have no time to rationalize," Henderson mused, "Let's get down to the task at hand. Shall we?" To my nod, Henderson continued, "Whether you wear exquisite clothing or present yourself in the nude, dangling your tits, you're on stage. Nasty little hairs can't creep out of your bottoms. A faint mustache can't peer from your lips."

"OK," I agreed, "Let's get started."

"Pay attention, darlin'?" Henderson ordered, "I want to see your arms out. Extend your arms straight out and hold them there." Grasping my shoulders, Henderson twirled me around. I giggled when he goosed me by rubbing his iron cage into my crack. "Just making fun of my predicament," Henderson chuckled.