Trial
Trial. Trial. Lots of talk, lots of drama, but it's an essential element for humans to maintain society. So the brightest minds strive to administer it rationally, yet complaints never cease. "Just fire them all and let AI handle it!" "Judges go easy on their buddies who got scammed. What a noble cartel." "Their rulings are arbitrary? At least make first trials AI-run, humans from appeals onward." Every time the public saw an irrational verdict, the idea of an AI judge would bubble up. And now, it was actually happening. Probably the first in human history. There had been too many hurdles before: hacking risks, political approval, technicians tampering on a whim, and crucially, would people accept an AI judge's authority?
In the Shelter, none of that applied. Who could hack Artemis? The government was long gone. Worrying about technician meddling was pointless. If I, the administrator, decided to flip guilty to innocent or vice versa, that was it. AI authority? Least of my concerns.
All be seated.
Artemis spoke. We were in a courtroom converted from a cathedral—the grandest, most majestic building in the lower levels. Its sacred atmosphere suited the purpose perfectly. All those arched pillars must have appealed to her tastes. A massive screen on the front wall showed her bust in judge's robes. Skin like moonlight sculpted into form. Her silver-white hair cascading over the neat robes was ornament enough—no need for pearls. Those golden eyes held an awe-inspiring dignity no one could meet head-on. Wisdom beyond human grasp, intuition piercing flesh like paper. They hinted she wasn't human. Beautiful lips—who could defy her will and make them twitch? Not the greatest comedian or wit.
The courtroom was packed. Aside from about ten faction members, the rest were here for the spectacle. Having once stood in the defendant's dock themselves, this felt like watching a fire across the river—pure entertainment. No heated prosecutor-defense clashes like in old dramas. No experts to find anyway, and pre-war law didn't apply here. Witness testimonies were brief. Testifying for someone meant making enemies. Few could stomach that.
Shelter life was like an orphanage with no graduation. The smart, terrifying director surveilled everywhere flawlessly but ignored kids' petty squabbles. A jungle of survival where basics were provided—might makes right. Self-preservation first. Artemis, the judge, knew the facts better than witnesses or defendants, so trials flew by. Unauthorized claims got shut down; mental gymnastics just worsened penalties. Emotional appeals, victim-playing, hate-labeling? Useless.
For reference, the Shelter rules once had the death penalty. I scrapped it. Max now was exile—death sentence in this world. None handed down yet.
I sentence the defendant to one week of exile.
And today, it happened. She had two prior solitary stints for violations, then started a brawl and smashed gear right after release—in a green zone, no-violence area. First exile verdict; the gallery buzzed. Not just exile—a week. Everyone swallowed hard, riveted.
The defendant will be transported by vehicle to a point 20km outside the Shelter immediately upon trial's end. Sight and sound will be blocked en route. Supplies: one week's water and electronic ankle monitor only. If survival confirmed after one week, retrieval team will bring them back. After rapid decontamination, two weeks solitary, then hard labor and return to the city.
The gallery gasped in unison. The defendant glared wide-eyed—what could she do? I shivered at "rapid decontamination." Military chem-bio ritual, called "human laundry." Dandruff, dead skin, STDs, even untreatable constipation—cured. She'd be prime cannibal chow: no boogers, no eye gunk, no shit bits, like Sanzu'er.
Yes. I officiated, Your Honor.
First defendant dragged out, second up—faction number two, challenged the boss formally, cracked his cheekbone. She claimed approved duel, no guilt.
Shelter allowed bare-knuckle duels for dispute resolution. Barbarians in barbaric times needed barbaric mediation. AI assistants could approve for non-VIPs solo. Artemis cleared the fight violence but nailed her for mounting the surrendered foe and landing five extra punches.
"He didn't surrender!" Her defense crumbled before replay footage.
"Ha, surrender! I surrender! Stop hitting, please!" The ex-boss wailed from ICU, nosebleed and tears streaming.
"What? Can't hear youuuu!" The defendant snarled, fist flying.
Perjury added.
She hung her head. Massive demerits, two weeks solitary, reassigned to worst, dirtiest labor—bumping a diligent woman out.
I sentence the defendant to flogging. 15 lashes.
Pre-war Korea abolished flogging, but here it had options: butt, calves, soles, back. Mix allowed. Multipliers varied hits. Middle Eastern woman pondered, picked soles—doubled lashes but seemed easiest. Makes sense: butt was cane, calves skin-splitting switch, back fewest but whip.
Three aside, most got light penalties.
I'm home.
"Good work, Artemis." I greeted her in the Central Control Room post-trial. She teleports at thought-speed, so "greeting" might not fit. But she loves it when I welcome her back from irregular duties. She won't admit it, tsundere as ever.
Aigoo, my legs ache.
She rarely acts spoiled. Calls it humor, but it's not funny; she craves something beyond laughs.
"No legs to hurt."
The wall-spanning glass lit with her full hologram—not courtroom bust, but black miniskirt, red blouse, antique brooch. White lab coat over. If ancients sculpted science goddess in 21st-century style, it'd be her.
Say it again. Who has no legs?
Sensual legs that stole breath, sheathed in stockings, crossed—thigh and calf flesh bulging. Sacrilege maybe, but like roast suckling pig loin: bury face, devour. She dangled half-off shoe from toes.
"Uh, well..."
Artemis smiled ladylike, reading my face and vitals like a book.
Tell me. Describe in detail.
Her smile deepened with my racing pulse—then froze. She turned, flustered.
Suddenly... pitching a tent again.
"..." Awkwardness lingered a while.
Does it have to be this far?
Artemis said, eyeing the APC heading out. Prisoner transport for the week's exile.
"Let 'em die instead?"
Her "this far" wasn't exile—she conditionally backed death penalty for rule-breakers. Savages got no mercy. Prisoner was slated permanent exile, 50km dump. I intervened.
"Week of hell, back ragged? Good enough example. No need to kill."
High above the APC: sky-camouflaged mini airship, six scout drones slung below. Drone carrier. Robot scouts repurposed weather blimp: drone long-range/relay, shares high-mag view. Tiny carrier + AWACS.
Nanny for the exile, unseen.
"Her death odds?"
2.7%.
This plain's cleared of most infected. Open sightlines spot threats early; drones intercept hundreds meters out. River nearby for jumps.
You know this is just a show.
"Undetected, it's real."
She looked dissatisfied.
No guarantee she won't reoffend.
Still hung up on permanent exile.
"She'll learn. Saw it in service. Dogs snapping from fear and pride, not true madness. One real scare straightens 'em."
Chin on hand. "Think I'm soft?"
No answer, but yes. "Hey, Artemis. Orphan, but pre-enlistment, never faced death. Orphanage fed us, or Salvation Army handouts. Not like bad Latin American spots with traffickers or armed gangs. Korea: safe even at night."
Top pre-war Korea value? No death threats from hunger or crime—as norm. Maybe deployment bias.
"Ruined world or not, wanna keep that Korean sense."
That sealed my exile tweak.
But if 'anything goes, they'll survive' spreads, control slips.
Valid counter. "Know. Not pre-war. Compromises needed."
APC stopped. Two guard bots vigilant, one dragged exile out.
"Anyway, no snap executions. Bluff to enforce."
Black hood off: despair, regret. Reality hit— they really dumping her? Naivety dawned.
Kieeeek! Horror struck. Walker approaching afar.
Guard bot impassively read exile decree to begging woman clutching its leg.
"Please! Pleeease..." Hands clasped, snot string swinging in wind. Emotion useless on heartless.
Vrooom. APC startup—her true death knell.
"Sorry! Don't toss me! Spare me! Anything!"
Screaming, APC sped off sandstorming. Tear-snot mess chased, tripped on rock. Water bottle rolled. Sat, arm futile to vanishing APC.
Kieeeek! Startled to walker. Distance no comfort.
Hic-sob. Trembling up, wiped tears, grabbed filthy canteen. Walked—away from walker. Plains: where to?
Kieeeek! Tormenting cries endless.
But no real fear needed. Walker sickly; drone ready overhead.
Waaah... She'd never know.
Reflection seems genuine. But not all will. Irredeemable heavy offender? Shelter terrorist?
"Then I'll get blood on my hands."
Answer set. I've experience.