Port Authority

(This story contains themes of violence and sexual content, although all couched within terms of consent).

Mediator 755230, tall and bulky, walked slowly down the boardwalk, scanning the heaving crowd for any signs of undue stress. Its cameras panned around, coordinating with the drone cameras positioned above it and its network partners, all patrolling a stretch of beachfront that used to be called Venice. Complex algorithms gathered all the video, audio, infra-red, and electronic data, weaving it all together and laying it out for the network’s software suite to make sense of, flagging up anything that could potentially lead to a CoC.

The crowds of tourists, sailors, artists, hustlers, rubberneckers, vagabonds, and runaways that were currently enjoying the pleasures available to them on LA’s most popular boardwalk, blithely ignored the robot. They continued rambling up and down the busy promenade, eating, drinking, gambling, fucking, smoking, shooting up - in fact, doing whatever it was that they wanted, but had never been allowed to do.

LA was the world’s most sought-after travel destination, a place without restrictions or taboos. Anything and everything that the most depraved human mind could imagine could be found here, somewhere. The only law that LA had was Consent. Human appetites being what they were, the residents had even developed a thriving android industry, creating beings life-like enough to be tortured and killed for human sport without breaking that law. That sort of thing mostly happened on Sunset Boulevard, in the dark, dank dungeons of the red-light district or out in the forests which lay north of the city , but even here on the wharf, Mediator 755230 had noted and then dismissed a group of youngsters kicking a pigeon, once it had established that the pigeon was merely an android copy of a living being.

Everywhere it looked, Mediator 755230 was witness to all sorts of excesses. Some as innocent as eating every flavor of ice-cream, some not so innocent, like having sex with a stranger in a dark alley or kicking a pigeon. But all of them were consensual. Such was its programming, that it could detect even the whisper of a ‘No’ through word, gesture or look. Its faux brain had been trained on decades of psychological research, hundreds of hours of crime-scene footage, and thousands of incident reports filed by others of its kind. It paced slowly on, observing and reporting in, not a shred of opinion marring its steady progress down the wharf.

Until something flagged up in the vast data-field. It turned fractionally and proceeded at its steady observational pace towards the situation that had popped up on its perimeter. As it approached, it correlated specifics. A young woman, not more than eighteen years old, was bent over, hammering together a plexiglass cube in a niche set back from the main thoroughfare. The Mediator scanned her strong features, noting the dyed black hair and delicate bone structure, then fed that scan into the database. A quick check confirmed that the young woman was not a visitor, but a permanent resident, daughter of a couple of android-painters in the third district, Ben and Diane Waters. Her assigned name at birth had been Karen, but at 16, she had changed it to Skylark and moved into an artistic collective in Hollywood. It scanned all her official records but found no CoC’s, although her street-corner political diatribes showed a definite critical bent.

The Mediator moved up to the edge of the space where she was working, stopped and greeted her, “Good day, Citizen Skylark.” The woman looked up, squinting slightly against the sun climbing up the morning sky.

“Good day, Mediator. Lovely day for it, isn’t it?” She smiled and gave it a tiny wave before turning back to her construction.

“Quite,” said Mediator 755230, then, “May I ask what it is you are doing here?” Skylark paused, sat back and gave it a more searching look.

“It’s an art installation, Mediator,” she replied, wiping a bead of sweat off her forehead, “I’m sure you’ve already checked my license and the leasing agreement for the space.” She got to her feet and stepped over to where the Mediator was standing. She passed her eyes quickly over the Mediator, noting its chunky body and squarish features. Mediators were not ever to be mistaken for anything but the peace-keeping machines that they were, so their design was deliberately robot-like and didn’t bother to conceal the various methods of subduing law-breakers that were available to them. This one was clearly on patrol and so its guns, stunners, nets, and tranquilizer darts were all stowed away, but Skylark had seen Mediators arresting law-breakers before and knew exactly how merciless they were. She tilted her head to one side and smiled at its deliberately plastic-looking features. “Why are the Mediators interested in my installation?” she asked.

The robot paused fractionally, then said, “The license does not specify exactly what this installation will entail. Its construction seems odd and this unit is incapable of extrapolating what its purpose could be.” It paused, evaluated Skylark’s reaction (pupil dilation, skin reaction, heart rate), then continued, “Please explain the nature of the installation, so that this unit can assess the risk factors that may arise from its impact on the populace.” Skylark looked the Mediator over again, then shrugged and answered flatly.

“This is a completely see-through plexiglass box. It has a built-in air exchanger and two-way hatch. The plexiglass is unbreakable and self-cleaning. Once the box is constructed, I will lock myself inside it and take instructions from passersby, until such time as I come across an instruction which I am unwilling to obey. At that point, the installation will be finished.” She looked up at it and smiled. Mediator 755230 paused, its faux brain reeling, and seemingly unable to remain as blank as its programming mandated, it stepped slightly closer to her and said, “Do you think that’s a good idea, Citizen?” The girl’s chin lifted a fraction and she squared up to it.

“Am I breaking the law in any way, Mediator?” she asked in a neutral tone.

“No, Citizen, you know you aren’t,” It hesitated fractionally, “It’s just that…“ It paused, seemingly nonplussed, ”Ma’am, I’ve been patrolling this promenade for a long time. What you’re proposing…. suffice it to say the situation could quickly become…. unpredictable.” It paused again, as if contemplating another sentence, but stayed silent.

Skylark tilted her head at him and said, “I’m aware, Mediator. That’s why it’s an art installation and not a pay-to-play booth. The point of the installation is to see where people’s limits are.”

It paused again, then said, “Understood. Carry on,” and returned to its pre-programmed patrol route. Skylark watched its retreating back for a moment, smiled crookedly, shook her head and got back to work.

Mediator 755230 logged the incident, which was then fed into the central database. All the other Mediators on the wharf took note of the new art installation and adjusted their algorithms accordingly. Mediator 755230 reached the end of its assigned patrol arc, turned and retraced its steps.

Over the next few days, the new construction on that section of the promenade took shape and, after Skylark had locked herself inside, it started to attract some attention. People talked to her through the two-way hatch, asking her about why she was doing it and she chatted to them pleasantly enough. People put food through the hatch and instructed her to eat it, which she did. People had her doing handstands and funny dances to order and the Mediator noted laughter and clapping coming from that recessed section of boardwalk. After a couple of days, late one night when the restaurant had closed and everyone had had more than a few drinks, someone told Skylark to take off her clothes. She did so. The crowd murmured and muttered to themselves, until someone else ordered her to touch herself. She did so.

The installation quickly devolved into something that was more likely to be seen in the red-light district than on the promenade. Some tourists looked uncomfortable and moved away, choosing to seek entertainment elsewhere, but a core of mean-eyed visitors remained, ordering Skylark to do ever more degrading things to herself. On each leg of its patrol, Mediator 755230 checked that Skylark was not being forced to do anything against her will, but the tell-tale signs of coercion were never present. She looked unhappy, she looked embarrassed, she looked appalled, but she never said ‘No’. Each order she got was obeyed, no matter how degrading. One bystander had put some objects through the two-way hatch and ordered her to use them on herself. Some of them were clearly painful, but Skylark just gritted her teeth and did as she was told. After a few hours of this sort of abuse, the punters had all passed out, gone off to more tangible entertainment or drifted away, leaving Skylark leaning weakly against the inside of the box, panting with exhaustion. Mediator 755230 walked over the the installation and spoke to her. “Citizen Skylark, are you alright?” She looked up distractedly.

“Hello there, Mediator.” She smiled faintly. “Having a good patrol?” It considered her question, then answered seriously, “My patrol is not at issue here, although this art installation has changed the algorithms in this section of wharf quite dramatically.” It repeated, “Citizen Skylark, are you alright?”

Skylark looked at the Mediator again, the smile fading from her lips, “Not really. I hurt all over and I’m hungry. People forgot to feed me when things…” she paused, her mouth twisting to one side, “well, you know…”

“Would you like me to get you some food, Citizen?” asked the Mediator politely, “Perhaps I could get you out of the installation and back to your apartment? Your collective will surely look after you there?”

She looked at the Mediator, hovering outside the glass, its faux brain buzzing with information, yet indecisive. Skylark actually felt a little sorry for the robot - its programming didn’t contain any way of dealing with this. “That’s not really the point of the installation, though, is it, Mediator?” she asked it.

It paused, then said, “I confess I do not understand entirely what that point could be, Citizen Skylark. I have all the data, but I can see no logical reason for you to remain in this box when you could be safe at home.” It took a pace backwards, then forwards. “Please elucidate.”

Skylark squinted up at the Mediator. “If you could get me some food, I’ll tell you,” she said. It hesitated just long enough to notify the network that it would be stationary until further notice, then nodded and turned around to get some take-out from the restaurant’s dispenser. Once it had passed the food through the two-way hatch, it settled down outside the box, folding its legs up in an approximation of sitting.

Skylark opened a bottle of water and took a deep gulp, enjoying the cool feeling of it passing down her throat. She had put on some of her clothes and now sat leaning up against the inside of the plexiglass wall. She ate some of her fries, took a breath to try and organize her thoughts, then spoke to the Mediator on the other side.

“As a Mediator, your focus is always on preventing a CoC, correct?”

The robot nodded and replied, “Yes. Any action which occurs without the express consent of all sentient beings involved is considered to be a Contravention of Consent.”

“OK,” said Skylark, “so in our city, in this tiny little corner of what used to be the United States, there are no limits on what a human being may do, as long as consent is given, correct?” Another nod. “No desire too unusual, no appetite too depraved that it cannot be satisfied by someone in our little community. At a price, of course - that is, after all, our main industry; satisfying the darkest, most depraved desires of mankind?” She picked up a slice of apple and waved it at the Mediator, “Where consent cannot reasonably be expected, then androids are provided which mimic as closely as possible the reactions of a truly sentient being, be that human or animal, correct?”

“All of this is correct, Citizen Skylark. However, I still…”

“Hang on,” Skylark interrupted, “I’m getting to the interesting part. So, in theory, since nothing is forbidden here, this is a place without temptations. And in a place without temptations, what constitutes temptation?” She popped another apple slice into her mouth and chewed it, looking out at the water heaving itself onto the beach in the pre-dawn gloom, “How far would any human being be prepared to go? Where do their limits lie?” She looked at the Mediator, then back out at the sky, just turning gray. “That’s what I’m trying to find out with my installation.” There was a short silence, filled only with the sound of the breakers.

“Citizen Skylark,” the Mediator said, “My knowledge of human patterns of behavior does not bode well for this experiment. When limits are removed, people are capable of truly horrific things. LA’s city government has long exploited this trait for financial gain, but if you put yourself in harm’s way….” it paused fractionally, “I cannot help you if you consent to everything. You could come to real harm.”

Skylark looked at the Mediator for a moment, then smiled and turned back to her food. “Thanks for the info, Mediator. I’m aware.” When she refused to discuss it any further, the Mediator gave up. It stood and returned to its assigned patrol, but a part of its faux brain worried at the problem on an endless loop.

After consultation with central command, Mediator 755230 was re-assigned to a shorter patch of the promenade, no more than 100 meters either side of the installation. Over the next week, it observed the daily degradation and humiliation of Skylark, her calm acceptance of things which clearly revolted her setting up every more jarring dissonances within its faux brain. . It grew to admire her quiet dignity and strength. Multiple times, it tried to persuade the young woman to end the installation, to refuse an order, but she just looked at it and shook her head. Often, at night, Mediator 755230 would sit with her after all the rubberneckers had left, bringing her food and debating the usefulness of what she was doing. It never stopped trying to persuade her to go home, but without success. It noticed that the locals started to avoid this section of the promenade, almost as if they knew what was coming.

One night, after midnight, one lone, drunken tourist stood swaying blearily before the cube. The usual indignities had been visited upon Skylark that evening and she was standing in a corner, her eyes cast down. The punter burped, swore at her and said, “You’re a boring bitch, aren’t you?” Skylark didn’t respond. He narrowed his eyes and continued, “God, I wish I could just slap you, you useless cow. Actually,” he lifted a finger, “Ha! Do that! Slap yourself, as hard as you can.” Skylark looked at him, lifted a hand and struck herself a stinging blow in the face. The corpulent visitor laughed, staggered over to a table close to the box, sat down and proceeded to order her to hit herself, again and again. Mediator 755230 tried to intervene, but was roughly told to butt out, as no CoC was occurring. It had no choice but to obey, although its incapacity was like an itch it couldn’t scratch. It could do nothing but watch helplessly as Skylark hit herself again and again, first with a flat palm, then, on orders from her repugnant observer, with a closed fist. Her eyes were swollen, her lip split and bleeding and still he carried on, crowing with laughter each time a blow landed. Mediator 755230 found itself hoping that the man would do something - anything - that would constitute a CoC, but its faux brain hoped in vain.

Returning from one of its short patrols up the promenade, Mediator 755230 saw the punter putting something through the two-way hatch. As it walked up to the installation, it saw that Skylark was holding a hammer and the odious man was ordering Skylark to hit herself with it. Mediator 755230 spoke up, “Sir, do you realize that hitting herself with such a weapon could cause this citizen to suffer permanent damage, even death?”

“Fuck off, Mediator. She’ll do it,” the man said, his back to the robot. He stood right in front of the plexiglass, looking at Skylark with the hammer in her hand. She slowly raised her eyes to meet his. “Come on, bitch. Hit yourself. Anywhere you like - leg, arm, head, I don’t care!”

Skylark licked her cracked lips and said softly, “Please, sir. You’re better than this…”

He laughed harshly and repeated his order.

She shifted her eyes up over his head and gazed straight at the Mediator. It took a half step towards the box, then stopped. Consent was not being contravened. It had no grounds to interfere. Another half step brought it, once again, to a halt. Skylark looked back down at the man and repeated, “Sir, please. You’re better than this.”

“Obey my order!” he roared, banging the glass with a fist.

Skylark looked up at the Mediator again, raised her eyebrows with a half smile, and swung the hammer as hard as she could.