Politics on Kids' Radio
Politics on Kids' Radio. It's an element that inevitably sprouts whenever three or more people gather. From small-scale team play in games, through corporate life, all the way to the scale of nations. The Shelter is no exception. Down among the residents, dozens or hundreds of political maneuvers play out every day.
In an apocalyptic disaster where they've lost friends and family, confined to city life with limited resources and freedoms, populated by ex-criminals. Any one of those would be tough enough, but with all three combined, complaints and conflicts are bound to erupt at every turn. So how do you manage them? That's where things get interesting. Our city enables a unique political system that would excite every political philosopher in history. No need for long explanations—just one name. Artemis.
Our city has ideal conditions for rule by a philosopher-king. First, we can survey the opinions of every single resident comprehensively. Second, we can accurately predict the outcomes of any policy. Third, there's no such thing as a ratchet effect. If a bad policy is implemented, we can revert it 100% at any time. That third point is especially appealing—a wrong choice can be undone easily, which is an enormous advantage. In real-world politics, isn't it common to cling to even the most reviled bad laws because of tangled interests, despite everyone thinking "this has to go"? No such worries here.
We'll gloss over the minor issue that residents have no voting or candidacy rights. City-states traditionally don't grant political rights to those without contributions anyway. Of course, communication has value in itself, so we've prepared several channels. One of them is broadcasting.
"Hello, everyone? Your friend who handles consultations in any language or script without refusal. The helper for your comfortable lives. It's Kids."
Today, I visited the Shelter Broadcasting Station. The one and only in Korea—maybe the world—where broadcast programs are produced. It's also Kids' lair.
"First news item. Wow! Residents, you're in luck today. We start with some hot combat news."
A hologram of Kids floated in front of the studio mic. Her usual flashy fashion on a cute 3-head-tall avatar. I sat beside her, helping with the broadcast. How? By serving as her sofa. My palm rested on the studio table, and Kids sat cross-legged on it, beaming happily as she hosted.
The first report was external news.
"The outside world is noisy as ever today. A pack of Slave Dogs was spotted in the fields 3km from the Shelter residential area."
A video played on the studio wall screen. The residents watching live would see the same. Infected dogs moving in a pack—mostly mixed breeds or large dogs of decent size. Small breeds like Maltese, Shih Tzus, Pomeranians, or toy poodles mostly didn't survive the war's aftermath. Starved, trampled, or eaten. Without their owners' protection, death was certain. Even if infected, their weak base just made them plumper prey. Wild predators stripped flesh from bone in seconds.
Thud-thud-thud-thud! The scout drone's pursuit-and-elimination footage was thrilling. It ambushed and killed half the pack, then chased down the fleeing ones, dropping them one by one. The first-person view was optimized for vicarious violence satisfaction.
Bang! The last Slave Dog tumbled, spraying blood, as the pursuing drone soared skyward. Zoomed shots showed the sprawled corpses in sequence: spine shattered, head hole with brains leaking, eye socket pierced, heart pulped, tongue lolling with faint breath left.
Tat-tat-bang! One bullet split the tongue, another blew off the pink nose, the last pierced the philtrum. Black fluids and flesh exploded outward, head flopping limp. The close-up gore was perfectly captured.
"Eliminated! Complete! Yah-hoo!"
"With this, our precious home is even safer. Let's give a round of applause to the drones working tirelessly day and night."
Of course, Kids was thrilled, throwing in an uppercut gesture between "eliminated" and "complete."
Clap-clap-clap! Kids' applause echoed through the studio. I wanted to join, but couldn't move the hand supporting her butt. When it shook, she gave me a pitiful look.
Next was listener feedback time.
"I can't reply to every suggestion and thank-you letter you send—please understand. I'd love to respond to all, but even one minute per person would take all day."
She handled select questions and suggestions.
When reading "fuck" and "bitch," a loud beep-beep! censor blared, with a red X flashing over Kids' mouth.
"Sounds rough, sender. Not washing is bad manners in group living—it's even a public safety issue."
Four days without washing? I couldn't even imagine it.
Kids read other suggestions too, like providing a small cupcake for birthdays.
"Cupcakes, huh..."
Artemis's way was to tightly reward sacrifice and ability. For those who didn't sacrifice or lacked ability, three meals and a bed sufficed. Generous in a disaster. But birthdays? Everyone deserves a treat on their special day. At least, that's the world I want to live in. And we have the power to make it so.
"Kids."
At my call, she bounced up straight-legged with a thunk!, anticipating an order.
"Tell them it'll happen."
Kids bowed politely, then thunk! back to cross-legged, gleefully relaying the good news to the sender in her cheerful voice.
There was also a push to designate Korean as the official Shelter language, penalizing others. In a closed-loop city, multiple languages could spark factional disputes. But this was basically banning Chinese—the most common foreign tongue here. Women from Europe or the Americas used or learned Korean, while Asian ones, especially Chinese, chattered in it everywhere.
My take? No need to worry. Aptitude tests and everything ahead favored Korean speakers. Stubbornly sticking to Chinese would just disadvantage them. If it escalated to language factions fighting? No question whose side I'd take.
"That's all the news for today. This has been Kids Radio, wishing you sweet dreams tonight, residents."
Kids swayed side to side on my palm.
"Don't be sad about parting—we'll still be together even after the broadcast ends."
Her final line was a cliché radio DJ closer, but from her, it felt profound.
"The channel switches to music corner next. Music cue!"
Prepared music played: Frank Sinatra's Blue Moon.
Blue moon
You saw me standing alone
Without a dream in my heart
Without a love of my own
The broadcast ended, but the studio door stayed shut. No sponsor ad chaos, no staff tidying gear. Lights flicked off everywhere outside the studio. Broadcasting machines ground to a halt like puppets with cut strings. In an instant, the station was plunged into darkness and silence. That vast space echoed only with the lonely song. It felt like being haunted by ghosts. Like a lively cruise ship blinking into a ghost ship.
In the dark, Kids' hologram glowed. Not her usual colors, but a bright lantern light.
"Follow me. I'll guide you to the exit."
I could tell she was smiling in the light. Wondering why all the lights off—she wanted to play forest fairy guide. Following her glow, we navigated the dark station. Broadcast props, mannequins, stage setups cast huge shadows in her light. We wove between them.
"Thanks for playing along, Manager. You worked hard!"
At the entrance, Kids bowed at the navel. She looked thoroughly satisfied. Beyond her cheerful face loomed the vast, dim station—too big for her. Even seeing her daily, an indescribable emotion welled up. I stepped closer, knelt, leaned in to match her eye level.
"Call anytime. We're family—the only five in the world."
I smiled softly at her and headed out.
"Wait just a moment."
Kids stopped me. Turning back, her form had changed. No longer the cute 3-head avatar—a full girl stood there. Height to my solar plexus? Antique attire. Face like a black flower bud. An eerie blend of immaturity and perfection. Eyes dark and deep as the sea. Walking hand-in-hand with an adult, the adult would naturally follow behind. That was Kids' presence.
She grasped her skirt hems, right foot behind left. A light curtsy—perfectly suited to her.
"It's an honor you visited my humble workplace. It was truly delightful, Manager."
I stepped forward without a word, gently stroking her upturned head.
"I'll come again."
Her smile was beautiful as the night sky.