Management (1)
The underwater drone survey using additional submersible drones also yielded no significant results, forcing us to wrap up the operation. The most useful intel we got was that those massive creatures roaming the ocean sustain themselves through filter feeding. That's why the ray-like ones were swimming around with their mouths open. We don't have a way to deal with those behemoths right now anyway, and there's no sign of them coming after our land-based position here. Confirming the city is safe from sea threats is good enough for now. Our focus needs to be on stabilizing the city.
I've prepared a speech for you!
In the midst of all that, Kids came looking for me.
"A speech?"
Nothing beats a speech for imprinting who rules this city on everyone's mind. And this one's got 100% viewership—a privilege only the Shelter Manager can enjoy!
She'd requested a meeting to report something and sent the materials straight to my PDA.
"Do we really need to go this far?"
Only a tiny fraction of the residents have even seen your face or exchanged a word with you, right?
"Sofiya and Seyoung. Just those two."
And even then, I hadn't met them face-to-face.
That's no good! True order starts with everyone clearly knowing who's in charge. Why do you think dictators obsess over statues and portraits in schools? But Artemis would call statues a waste, and we don't have schools here anyway. So we need to drop one killer speech!
"Can't argue with that, I guess."
I'm not into cult-of-personality stuff, but I get that order rests on a solid chain of command.
I figured I'd give the speech Kids had prepared a read.
"Welcome to the Shelter. You have chosen—or been chosen for—one of the last great cities... This is plagiarism!"
No way could I read that in good conscience.
Oh? You knew? That masterpiece!
It's one of my all-time favorite games—how could I not?
No one will recognize the rip-off anyway, so just roll with it!
"Nah, put this on hold."
I do need to show my face and voice to all the new residents at some point. Over the past few days, everyone had gone through basic orientation: what happened to the city, how we cleaned it up, and that I'm the only surviving human. But they don't know what I look like or sound like yet. I won't be holed up in the VIP zone forever, so we'll cross paths eventually.
Back in my active duty days, I'd briefed hundreds of troops in auditoriums plenty of times. But thousands of women—ex-cons, no less? How do you even approach that?
I mulled it over.
Afternoon brought my scheduled meetings. Call them interviews or consultations—whatever. I was meeting with a handful of leaders representing the residents. Now that we'd taken them in, I needed to gauge their living conditions firsthand. And we had to pick out "block wardens" for the prison-style setup. Micromanaging everything ourselves would be inefficient.
We used a small building near the temporary housing for new arrivals. A conference table separated the chairs—one on each side. My desk held e-papers with detailed profiles on the inmates.
The guard robot's voice echoed from outside. Peeking through the folding curtains on the window, I saw the entrance checkpoint: full-body scanners and security bots doing inspections. Only a select few were scheduled to meet me today.
A moment later.
Knock knock!
"Come in."
The woman who entered after the knock was Sasha. She'd been the biggest influencer among the inmates back at the offshore prison before rescue. She greeted me politely right away—like an airline stewardess folding at the waist. It was her first time seeing me, but I'd watched her plenty through the rescue team's feeds.
Her decadent beauty clashed with the soft, approachable smile as she stood quietly.
"Ah, have a seat there."
"Thank you."
She pulled out the chair silently and sat demurely—a picture-perfect interview etiquette textbook. But she couldn't quite keep her cool.
Gulp.
A simple drink and snacks sat in front of Sasha.
"Help yourself."
"W-well, if you insist."
She reached for the CBA chocolate without hesitation. Prison rations had been barely edible survival slop, and even our standard meals here were healthy fare. She was probably more starved for sweets than a fresh private straight out of basic. The tiny chocolate—barely a thumbnail—disappeared into her mouth after peeling the wrapper, and her prim expression melted away.
Slurp.
She chased it with a sip of café au lait, her face lighting up like she'd entered heaven. I wondered if mixing them wasn't too sweet, but she didn't care. Two pieces. Three. Four. The chocolates vanished fast.
"Haaah."
Once the sweetness faded, Sasha calmed down enough to look at me. Then she noticed the empty bags in front of her and blushed a bit.
"It's fine. I'll pack more for you to take."
"...Thank you."
That warm moment contrasted sharply with her rap sheet on the profile, which was jaw-dropping.
"Assault, aiding assault, pimping, extortion, bribery."
Even as I listed her charges one by one, her face stayed composed.
"With that many counts, your sentence was light, huh? Good lawyer? Must've cost a fortune."
"Spot on. All my hard-earned savings went poof."
Sasha gave a faint smile.
"But if I hadn't, I'd be getting out past 40. Just this body to my name—an old hag coming out means game over. Money I can make again. Youth? Not so much."
"No fraud on the list, at least."
If there'd been fraud, no matter how capable she seemed, I wouldn't have called her here.
"No matter how sleazy my life's been, I've never scammed anyone."
"Think Sofiya sees it that way? Looks like she's got plenty of grudges against you."
Sasha let out a sharp Ha! laugh.
"Like I said, no scams. I laid out exactly what they'd earn and what they'd do. Women who jumped in eyes dazzled by the cash, thinking the world's easy, then blamed others when their lives tanked? Not my fault."
She didn't seem genuinely sorry for Sofiya at all.
"Whatever. You did help rally the group during rescue, and you seem resourceful. That's enough for me."
"Exactly. I'm a pretty useful woman, right? Whatever you need—managing the girls or anything—just say the word."
Scanning her profile, I could guess why she was being so cooperative. In a big prison, there are always the "real players." In decent systems, they're just influential among inmates. But in lax or corrupt ones like overseas joints, they wield real power. Bribing guards for better cells or lighter duties is baseline. Smuggling banned outside goods through back channels. Or hooking up newly arrived inmates desperate for normalcy with old connections or jobs as bait.
Sasha had mixed all that to hold power inside. But it all crumbled. Her foundations—money, social ties, men's shoulders—vanished with the global disaster. Now she had to maintain influence on her own merits. Fail, and she'd get dumped to the bottom, facing payback for every grudge she'd built.
No choice but to latch onto me, the new authority. And she was damn useful to me too—our interests aligned perfectly. Our AI surveillance was airtight, but human informants would make it flawless. Snitches work best when they're ruthless enough but loyal enough. Just like Sasha.
We talked future plans and inmate dynamics next. She knew a ton and had real talent—hard to believe how she'd ended up in that life. She had intel on guards not even in our records, which helped a lot.
Sasha never asked for anything or complained about hardships. Just gratitude for taking her in and pleas to put her to work.
"See you next time. Good talk—really helpful."
I handed her a fistful of CBA chocolates. She bowed politely and left.
After she was gone, I checked recent menus on my PDA. Nutritionally sound, but no sweets. Basically military chow. The only sweet had been the special sweet corn on day one.
"Artemis."
I pinged her via PDA.
What's up?
"Keep the residents' meals as they are."
That was the plan anyway.
Her voice had a sly edge.
The human brain's a slave to sweetness. Control that, shake it a little, and you'll have willing lapdogs lining up. Easier than training those idiot dogs in some ways.
They say in late WWII Europe, women traded their bodies for a pair of stockings or a chocolate bar. I cut the comms with her. Next came two women I'd never met. One was too timid for real talk; the other had too many demands, so I sent her packing at the right moment. They left behind piles of chocolate and caramel wrappers. I tossed them in the trash and called in the next.
In walked Nina, battle-hardened from martial arts and training.