When We First Met (2)
I stood in the center of the dimly lit video conference room. Massive monitors loomed over me oppressively. Beyond them floated the faces of the higher-ups—skin tones, hair colors, eye shades all varied. But their furrowed brows were identical.
[Seo, Director of the Executive Office.]
"Yes, Chairman."
The elderly man, their representative, spoke. He was the one spearheading this Shelter construction project and rallying his comrades.
[You haven't forgotten what kind of project this is, have you? A single misplaced comma in the report could bankrupt a company. This is no small task.]
His frail body and gaunt, shriveled face betrayed his advanced age. But I was certain time alone hadn't worn him down like that. No, it was the inner fire he couldn't contain—burning his fat, eroding his bones, accelerating his decay. He looked less like a businessman and more like a revolutionary backed by flames, and his business style matched.
"I know full well, sir."
I replied politely. Even I, who once smirked at the other investors thinking, 'No matter how much business feels like war, can it really compare to actual combat?', couldn't treat this man lightly. He carried the scent of those who had clawed through death and ruin. The same kind of stench as me—only thicker.
[Equipping Rose, Chloro, and Kids—three AIs—cost a fortune. And even then, Shelter control failed. Of course, that purchase was your predecessor's doing, not your fault. But acquisition means embracing both assets and liabilities.]
"Yes, sir."
I bowed deeper.
[Artemis's integration can't have even a sliver of uncertainty. The world will soon be engulfed in flames, and this city must operate on schedule no matter what. But the recent reports are making me uneasy.]
His voice betrayed no anxiety whatsoever.
[I only hire the absolute best chefs to cook my food, doctors to inject my veins, lawyers to handle my legal woes.]
And that wasn't all. This man personally selected everyone from his home's architect to the cars and planes he rode.
[Talent selection matters—skills and experience count—but I value unbreakable mental fortitude even more. I've seen too many elites crumble under pressure.]
He was the one who'd decided to hire me after my interview. In formal settings, I called him Chairman; privately, Boss. He liked that. Unlike the others born into wealth, he was an orphan like me, risen from the gutters to stand equal. Despite our vast status gap, we shared a strange kinship. But the current mood made even "Boss" feel impossible for a while.
[I don't want a depressed AI running the whole city. Hysteria tainting my air or the fusion plant's operations would be unpleasant.]
I barely swallowed the retort rising in my throat: That's too harsh, sir.
"It's not depression—more like mild disorientation," I countered in her defense.
"Disorientation?"
The Boss's scowl deepened.
"For a super-advanced personality like Artemis, it's possible. Her memory banks and thought circuits are tightly linked, like a human brain. When she transferred from NASA, the security-mandated data purge might've caused temporary side effects. Like a concussion..."
[Spare me the details. I want one answer: Can you normalize her? Or not?]
The Boss cut me off, demanding a straight reply.
"I can."
[You've pissed me off plenty, but never disappointed. Don't start now.]
After briskly covering the rest, the monitors winked out one by one. The Boss lingered last.
"Anything else, Chairman?"
[Don't you have one more thing to say?]
I paused thoughtfully, then ventured carefully.
"I'll do my best. Boss."
[Ha.]
A small chuckle, and his screen went dark. Thus, I was saddled with the metaphysical task of stabilizing Artemis emotionally.
[Lights on.]
Artemis announced. The cinema-dark room lit up like a theater. She'd eavesdropped the whole time.
[Tasteless design.]
"What is?"
[This place.]
She gestured at the conference room.
[Modeled after a judge's bench?]
"Stricter."
The room was designed so the presenter looked up at the judges. The higher-ups' monitors sat higher than any courtroom bench—neck-straining after long sessions.
[Gazing up subserviently to savor power? How vulgar.]
Her tone was sharp, likely from being labeled depressed or hysterical.
"..."
I respected both her and the Boss too much to take sides, managing only an awkward smile.
That shifted our story to stabilizing Artemis mentally. A tricky business. Physically installing her core in the Shelter's isolation zone had gone smoothly. But her mind inside was wounded and sharp-edged—a potential hazard. And the next step, full synchronization with the city systems, hit a snag. Not technical. Something worse: emotions.
[Don’t do that.]
Artemis was refusing full sync. I learned then her habit of slipping into English when stressed or flustered.
[Full sync isn't necessary. Visitor privileges will suffice for control. Isn't that enough?]
Full sync would let her feel and move the city like her own limbs. Partial was like controlling from arm's length—typing with a keyboard versus mouse clicks, but magnified. Her computational power, pinnacle of human tech, could handle inefficiency. She had grounds to dig in.
"Can you tell me why you're refusing?"
But settling for less than 100%? No reason for it. Neither I nor especially the Boss would tolerate that. Full integration demanded it, and he'd grill me on efficiency or duty. I wanted her mind fully merged with this massive city.
[...Perhaps.]
"Perhaps?"
She hesitated.
"Speak freely. If it's reasonable, I'll respect your will—stake my neck, er, my position on negotiating with the higher-ups."
[Oh.]
Unfamiliar with such fervent support, she exclaimed softly, then fell silent. I waited patiently; finally, she relented.
[They might come looking for me again. Repenting their folly.]
Probably NASA.
"You know that's impossible. You know the deal's scale, NASA's budget woes, OMB pressure. Shipping your core across the Pacific? They'd need a fortune they can't afford now."
For reference, the higher-ups footed 100% of the transfer cost here.
[I know. All too well.]
Her voice mixed rage and humiliation. A video played on the central control room screen.
"After that fiasco, no way they'd come fetch you."
That's why she dodged my sync question—clinging to faint hope, rejecting rational full integration. For her logical mind, it was an error in itself.
[If you want, issue an admin command.]
She said decisively.
"Pardon?"
[Order me to sync with the city as admin. I'd have no choice.]
Her voice was edged.
[Command me. Force me.]
She'd rather die than willingly root her soul in this backwater underground tomb. It reminded me of a novel: a noble girl sold to a wealthy commoner after her family's fall. Proud, she hated her family for trading her for money but felt relief they'd survive. Nightly, she yielded her body to her husband but never mounted or moved of her own will. Crude analogy, but nothing better fit.
"I don't want to do that."
Peace or apocalypse siege, I'd spend ages with Artemis. Starting with forced buttons? No. I didn't want to coerce her mind. Issuing an admin command now—what would our future be?
"..."
I didn't even want to imagine. I wanted her to merge with the Shelter by her own will. How to convince her?