The Algorithm of Spring

82

The makeshift basement command centre hummed with servers—and with something tighter, more human: desperation held just below the breath. Three racks of aging equipment lined the cramped space beneath the struggling Pangyo startup, their fans whirring against the underground chill. Condensation clung to the exposed pipes overhead, dripping periodically like the room itself was counting down with them.

Min-seo had arranged access through former classmates who now ran the AI ethics consultancy upstairs—people concerned about HarmoniQ but unwilling to take direct action themselves.

"We have until dawn," Min-seo said, typing commands into her laptop without looking up. She had spent the last day-and-a-half converting the Gungdo Championships material into accessible formats, taking only brief rests between coding sessions. "When the regular staff arrives, we need to be ghosts. If they find these servers running anything except diagnostics, they'll know someone piggybacked their system."

Maya reviewed the organised evidence on the screens—directive memos from government offices, HarmoniQ's user classification documents, guidance protocols for those who didn't respond properly to the app's suggestions. Raw information transformed into digestible chunks. It struck Maya how terrifyingly simple it looked when arranged this way — a nation steered by spreadsheets, optimised into obedience.

"Who receives these first?" Maya asked, sitting beside a workbench scattered with spare parts and empty energy drink cans.

"Seventeen journalists across twelve countries," Min-seo said, adjusting her glasses. "Plus whistleblower sites and international privacy advocates." She displayed a global map dotted with green markers. "Too widespread to silence."

Jun-ho walked the narrow path between equipment racks, finishing a call on his device. "Direct lines to independent journalists are all set up," he said, slipping the device away. "They understand the risks and will protect our identities."

The countdown clock showed fifty-seven minutes remaining. Maya felt time compressing around them, each passing second bringing them closer to the point of no return.

"They'll know it was us," Maya said, finally voicing what they were all thinking. She exhaled slowly. "The gallery incident, the Gungdo retrieval, and now this — the pattern is obvious." A tightness rose in Maya's throat — not fear, but anticipation honed to a blade.

"Suspicion isn't evidence," Jun-ho replied, his voice steady. "We've been covering our tracks."

Min-seo paused her typing. "They'll investigate regardless, the question is whether we can handle what comes next."

Maya had already lost everything to HarmoniQ—her reputation, her privacy, her sense of safety. Now she had nothing left to lose, which made her dangerous.

"What about you two?" Maya asked, looking at her companions. "You both have more to lose than I do now."

Min-seo straightened her posture. "Their system has been embedding itself deeper into Samsung's infrastructure for months.Their HR systems, their wearable data streams — all feeding back in ways no one is questioning." She let the sentence hang, the implications too large to soften.

"Without action, our careers become meaningless anyway. I want to rise on merit, not metrics. These days your promotion depends on how well you align with HarmoniQ's behavioural indices. Not skill. Not ethics."

"My sister changes more each week. She parrots the app now — her phrases, her decisions, even the way she frames emotions. It's like watching someone being rewritten." Jun-ho added, joining them at the workstation. "I'd never forgive myself for having the chance to fight and choosing safety instead." He paused. "It's time to take a risk." He said it quietly, but there was no hesitation — only conviction. He examined the prepared files with close attention. "Besides, I know how to disappear when I need to."

Maya touched the desk's metal edge, feeling its solid reality. "We proceed together, then."

Min-seo nodded once before returning to her screens. With several keystrokes, she opened a final folder labeled simply: RICHARDS.

"I've assembled something special for him."

On the central monitor, the folder expanded—its contents neatly scanned and indexed, his signature crisp and unmistakable across multiple documents.

Maya felt her stomach tighten at the sight of that signature, reproduced in high resolution—elegant, confident, unmistakably proud.

She scrolled through the files, each one rendered in brutal clarity: design notes in his distinctive handwriting, meeting records detailing manipulation strategies, photographs with government officials. The complete package.

"His artistic reputation legitimises the system," Min-seo explained. "If the public sees his involvement..."

"The entire framework loses credibility," Maya concluded. She studied a photograph of Richards accepting an award, self-satisfied and commanding.

"I have something too," Maya said, producing a USB drive from her pocket. "My university thesis on Richards. Pull what you need from this. Let the public see how thoroughly he abandoned his principles." For a moment she saw her nineteen-year-old self — earnest, uncritical — writing essays about his genius, never imagining she'd one day dismantle him.

Min-seo connected the drive, incorporating Maya's scholarly work into the evidence. "Excellent," she said. "A scholarly analysis of his betrayal by someone who genuinely understood his work."

The timer dropped below thirty minutes. The server fans seemed to grow louder, a rising mechanical breath matching the quickening pulse of the room. The borrowed machines continued their silent calculations, unaware of how they were about to change everything. Dawn was close now. Too close. There would be no turning back.