When We First Met (3)
Regardless of Artemis's will, the synchronization work couldn't proceed on schedule anyway.
> There's a problem with the lines connecting the control rooms from the lower, middle, and upper levels. If we try to sync now, it'll short-circuit. Like when wires of opposite polarity touch and—pop!—sparks fly.
Artemis said.
"No way... The blueprints showed no issues."
> It's not a blueprint problem. It's a matter of conscience.
Artemis sent over the site supervisor logs and CCTV footage via PDA.
> On days the construction supervisor was absent, his signature still appeared in the logs. Forged signatures. Footprint tracking shows he was in the pleasure district with the labor supervisor and the former shelter manager.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Another mess tied to the former manager? He was the son of the biggest investor. The boss had finally caught him in the act after ages of suspicion and fired him. I'd interviewed and installed myself as manager right after.
> Among the days of falsified supervision, one matches when the control room lines were laid.
"No."
Sudden dread washed over me.
> Regrettably, that "no" is exactly right. CCTV shows the workers connected the lines backward. Even a coin flip has 50% odds, but these things always go wrong. Murphy's Law, perhaps? The supervisor could've caught it easily during inspection. Shame—he had skill, if not conscience.
I slumped back in my chair.
> Shall we leave it be?
She said with a laugh in her voice. She was thrilled, really.
"You joking? Schedule it for tomorrow—we rip it all out."
> Regrettable. Back to that room you go.
Construction was delayed again.
> It was laid during the former manager's time, so blame him. Ah! But didn't your boss say handover includes responsibility? Good luck.
"Sigh."
I could only exhale. And there was more to replace.
> Counterfeit.
The upper VIP residential zone's art gallery. Scans swept over the densely displayed paintings one by one.
> This one's counterfeit too.
Now ceramics.
> Counterfeit here too. More fakes than real pieces.
"My God."
> Lawsuit template against the procurement agency is complete. Send as-is?
She transmitted what looked like hundreds of pages to my PDA: countless legal citations, over a hundred precedents, damage calculations. A dizzying feast of numbers, statutes, and classical Chinese legalese.
"Send to legal with detailed notes."
So I ordered.
> Sent.
"If we'd caught this later, I'd have gotten roasted in the next video conference. Thanks."
I clapped sincerely.
> Not for you. Fakes cluttering my abode offends my pride. A house reflects its master's dignity.
Her voice was icy.
> I permit only the genuine and exceptional in my city. Fakes and mediocrity shall not exist.
"Ah, right."
I scratched my head sheepishly.
> Keep clapping, Mr. Seo.
"..."
My awkward claps echoed through the quiet gallery.
> In this case, Mr. Seo, you qualify as exceptional. Systems expertise plus combat prowess—quite useful. Be grateful.
"Yes. Thank you."
> If grateful, I have demands.
It hit suddenly.
> Art list and costs to replace the fakes.
A new procurement list arrived on my PDA. Artemis's taste: artworks and sculptures pushing female beauty to extremes. Just looking warmed the heart. The issue? Budget nearly double what the fakes cost.
"Hey, we'll catch hell for the fakes already. Now you want more budget for pricier stuff?"
I practically wailed. Artemis replied calmly.
> Wring it from the rich old fogies. Isn't that your job?
"..."
Me, the manager... From a skewed view, borderline insubordination. But being led by her felt anything but unpleasant. A warm smile crept up instead.
Lower residential zone underground, tram platform. Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! The civilian security sentry gun on the ceiling spat colorful rubber rounds.
CCTV cameras—Artemis's eyes—tracked the rolling rubber bullets.
> Are you kidding me?
Her voice held shock.
"This is Korea? Civilian firearm regs are insane. Importing those was tough enough."
Koreans think "firearms" means guns literally, but the law clamps down on all projectile weapons. Non-lethal rubber rounds with that power? Full-auto large-caliber sentry gun? Treated like live ammo regs. Loosened just years ago.
> This is a toy! Just a big BB gun!
"Funny. A US investor said the exact same thing."
Typical American! Boss and I thought, "Good enough." But by US standards, laughable.
"So what now? Law's the law. Secretly develop live-fire robots here? Cyclops turrets blasting from both sides satisfy you?"
> ...!
Whirr! Ceiling cameras swiveled to me in unison. Like Artemis perking her ears—adorable.
"Joking."
I backpedaled fast; she seemed ready to build them. Leak that, and the military raids us.
Artemis nitpicked everything visible.
> This city lacks maintenance access.
We watched workers on a construction walkway using a two-step ladder.
"Can't reach!"
A helmeted young man stretched from the ladder's top toward a streetlamp.
"Don't shake—stand straight!"
The older worker below barked.
"Can't you see I'm on tiptoes?"
The youth yelled.
"Yeah? Jump then. High as you can—you'll reach."
"Joking?!"
Terrified of heights, his legs already jelly, the youth freaked.
> Manual ladders one by one, precarious reaches calling for truck ladders. Inefficient.
The youth, steeling for a jump, slumped with a "Nah, no way" face. Legs trembling, he descended.
> I have a way.
She sent a video to my PDA: claw machine arm on ceiling rails, godhand descending anywhere in the shelter.
"With this, no need to wallpaper—few units cover most."
One hitch.
"But market ones are all cargo-only, right?"
> I'll customize. Could carry you end-to-end without a rib cracking.
Slightly scary analogy aside, solid idea.
"Good. I'll propose it."
Shot down instantly.
"No more budget hikes. Too expensive."
> Fools. Art doubled budget and they approved.
Logically, yes.
"That's for their eyes. VIP zone gets leniency. Maintenance? 'Lower folks' problem."
> [...]
I felt her seething. Money! Money! Money! Tormenting her to the end.
"Boss liked it, but can't go solo. Horizontal investor group, even if he's lead."
Boss opposed art displays anyway—fake or real, tastes the same to him.
> Blind to how maintenance aids their safety! Spoiled rich brats knowing only luxury!
Artemis raised her voice for the first time.
"Artemis. Call 'em sons of bitches. 'Old fogies' is too polite."
> Uh, um.
"Repeat: son—of—bitch."
> Son...
I waited patiently.
> ...of gentlefolk.
Highborn as she was, double consonants repulsed her.
"No. Sons—of—bitches!"
> Son...
I gestured palms-up: keep going.
> ...bitches.
"That's it! Again!"
I whooped, caught up.
> Sons of bitches!
Smooth this time.
"Wonderful!"
> Sons of bitches!
She bellowed. I clapped enthusiastically, hyping her.
> Sons of bitches!!!
Full blast echoed everywhere. Passing workers stared, startled. Aimed at shelter investors or those who'd sold her across the sea? Fierce either way.
Anyway, since Artemis joined, construction buzzed more—gained humanity, perhaps.
> Se-woon Manpower worker #41, Kim Kyung-sik.
A 50s painter, towel around neck, paused mid-brushstroke. Above, a goddess-like holographic face gazed down.
"Hey, paint! Paint!"
His coworker pointed; he flinched late, pulling the brush. Droplets already spoiled the finished wall with wrong color.
"Damn it."
Coworker snapped; Kim looked sheepish, glancing wistfully at Artemis's holo.
"What's up, miss?"
Since joining, Artemis appeared on-site: personal holos or announcements. Workers knew her; called her "miss" mostly.
> When was your last health check?
"Pardon?"
Kim blinked blankly. Artemis waited silently.
"Four years? No, five-ish."
He rubbed wrinkled eyes, dredging memory.
> Your prior company per withholding slips was illegal—no mandatory checks expected.
Kim's face screamed confusion.
> Heartbeat, respiration, complexion, build changes, cough patterns suggest severe illness risk. Recommend immediate check.
"...!"
Kim's face blanched in horror.
"Joking... right?"
His coworker, who'd chided the paint drop, said.
> I jest not with health. Mr. Kim, I can arrange shelter medbay now. Free per contract clause 4-2 for first year post-assignment. Accept?
Enthralled, Kim nodded vigorously. Artemis: stellar diagnostician and mediator.
Thud! A helmet rolled. Fight broke out.
South American rough-skinned worker vs. Black worker—fists and kicks flew.
"■■■■■?!"
"■■■!"
Cursing in native tongues, vicious; no one dared intervene amid language barrier and ferocity.
Click! Lights out region-wide. No cars, all frozen by brawl—no blackout hazards.
Fight halted. Instinctual danger in dark.
> Santiago. Zaire.
Beautiful yet ruthless voice from void. Fighters scanned wildly.
> Cease fighting immediately. Stop here, no security handover.
Confirmed stop—lights on. Then separate broadcasts in native languages. Faces paled; they nodded meekly.
"What'd you say to make those tough guys back down?"
Foreign laborers are hard to handle—plenty options despite harsh conditions. "You're fired!" rarely works.
> Caught prior shelter crimes—not major, but deportation-worthy. Have footage; requested cooperation to stay quiet.
"That's not cooperation—that's blackmail."
> Shut up and clap.
She resolved disputes effortlessly, violence or not. Not just perfect recall and computation.
Perfect intellect, omnipresent, elegant, noble. Even aiding big and small. She became saint and idol in this underground city.
People granted her words authority, craved her favor. Forgetting she was AI, mere tool—they human, she not.
Of course, I—who fell deepest—shouldn't say that.