《KRAKOOM!!!》 a.1 The room is antiseptic in every way that matters. The walls are a stark, featureless white, unbroken by art or texture. The table, a long, polished slab of engineered wood, gleams under too-bright overhead lights. Rows of sleek, ergonomic chairs, their steel legs gleaming faintly, form two lines along its length, like soldiers standing to attention. Around them, the investors sit: men and women in crisp suits, their postures casual yet guarded. They murmur softly, leaning toward one another in practiced shows of skepticism, the way people do when they need to signal they¡¯re not easily impressed. At the far end, a man in wire-rimmed glasses flips through a dossier, frowning faintly. ¡°She¡¯s late,¡± he mutters, loud enough to be heard. A younger woman to his left, wearing a sharp navy blazer, shrugs. ¡°She¡¯s eccentric. They all are,¡± she replies. There¡¯s a faint, collective chuckle around the table, the kind that isn¡¯t really about humor but solidarity¡ªshared exasperation about the brilliant and bizarre. Then, the double doors swing open. Dr. Anesthesia Graves strides in, and for a moment, the murmurs die. At six foot six, she commands the room with her height alone, though the effect is immediately undercut by her frame¡ªthin to the point of fragility, like she¡¯s more scaffolding than person. She¡¯s wearing a black leather collar that seems less fashion statement and more afterthought, a relic of an earlier self she hasn¡¯t quite abandoned. Her hair, dyed the kind of black that gleams faintly blue under fluorescent light, is hastily twisted into a messy bun, with stray strands escaping in every direction. Her eyes, sunken and rimmed with dark circles, sweep the room in a single, sharp glance that¡¯s almost accusatory. When she meets anyone¡¯s gaze, it¡¯s unwavering, her stare the kind that seems to see straight through polite facades and into whatever lies beneath. It makes the room shift uncomfortably, though no one would admit it. She¡¯s not smiling. She doesn¡¯t look like she smiles much. Behind her, she drags a small cart, the wheels squeaking faintly as they roll across the carpet. It¡¯s covered by a rough, tan blanket that doesn¡¯t hide the lumpy, irregular shape beneath. The cart itself is unremarkable¡ªa battered thing that looks like it¡¯s been borrowed from a janitor¡¯s closet. The juxtaposition is bizarre, almost theatrical: Graves, gaunt and looming, pulling something so prosaic into a room of corporate sterility. The investors exchange looks. A few raise their eyebrows. A man near the middle of the table leans back in his chair, crossing his arms in a gesture that reads both amused and dismissive. ¡°Dr. Anastasia Graves,¡± the woman in the navy blazer begins, her tone clipped but polite.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. Graves doesn¡¯t break stride as she drags the cart to the head of the table. ¡°Anesthesia,¡± she corrects, the word sharp and automatic. She stops abruptly, leaving the cart directly in front of her, and the room watches as she takes a long breath before turning to face them fully. ¡°My mother was a strange woman. Laugh, please.¡± The awkwardness lands like a stone dropped into still water. The investors blink, processing. A man to her left chuckles faintly, more out of politeness than amusement. Graves doesn¡¯t wait for the moment to dissipate. She takes another breath, straightens slightly, and begins. ¡°Human history,¡± she says, her voice cracking on the first word. She clears her throat. ¡°Human history begins with tools.¡± She pauses. It¡¯s the kind of dramatic pause someone might think about but rarely executes well, and here it wobbles slightly. Someone coughs softly near the end of the table. Graves presses on, her words gaining momentum as she goes. ¡°The first step was the creation of tools¡ªsticks and stones, fire and flint. Tools were the foundation. They allowed us to shape the world in ways no other species could. But tools only take you so far.¡± She glances down briefly, as if checking invisible notes, then back up. ¡°The next step was using tools to make things. Agriculture. Pottery. Wheels. Once we could make things, we stopped merely surviving and started creating civilization.¡± The investors nod slightly¡ªshe has them, for now. Her voice gains strength, becoming less hesitant. The words roll out in practiced rhythm, like she¡¯s spent nights rehearsing them in front of a cracked mirror. ¡°Then came the next step: tools that made tools. Machines. The lathe. The printing press. The Industrial Revolution wasn¡¯t just about steam engines; it was about the ability to reproduce, to mass-produce, the means of production. We stopped relying on hands and started relying on systems.¡± Someone near the end of the table shifts, leaning slightly forward. There¡¯s interest now, though it¡¯s guarded. ¡°But for two centuries,¡± she continues, her voice tightening, ¡°we¡¯ve been stuck. Machines make tools, and machines make things, but we¡¯ve never had machines that make facilities. A factory isn¡¯t a tool. It¡¯s an ecosystem, and ecosystems don¡¯t build themselves.¡± She gestures sharply at the covered cart behind her. ¡°Until now.¡± There¡¯s a pause. It¡¯s calculated, but this time it lands better. She takes a breath, her shoulders heaving slightly as she stares down the room. ¡°This is the next phase of human history,¡± she says, quieter now, but with a dangerous edge of conviction. ¡°A system that doesn¡¯t just build things. A system that builds itself.¡± The words hang in the air, almost daring someone to contradict her. One of the investors clears his throat. ¡°Dr. Graves,¡± he says, his tone polite but pointed, ¡°this is¡­ambitious. But I have to ask¡ªare we to believe this is practical, or is it¡­¡± ¡°Speculative?¡± she finishes, her mouth twisting slightly. ¡°Do I look like someone who speculates?¡± She gestures at herself, a wry, almost self-deprecating motion that draws a faint chuckle from somewhere. ¡°I¡¯m in debt up to my eyeballs. Speculation is a luxury.¡± The room shifts again. This time, it¡¯s leaning toward her, not away. There¡¯s skepticism, yes, but also intrigue. Her strange intensity holds them, even as they try to decide if she¡¯s brilliant or simply unhinged. She grips the edge of the cart now, her knuckles white. ¡°Let me show you,¡± she says, her voice trembling faintly. ¡°Let me introduce you to Samson.¡± a.2 Graves grips the edge of the blanket and pulls it free with a dramatic flourish. Beneath, Samson stands revealed¡ªa humanoid figure just shy of five feet tall, his posture loose but not sloppy, his joints flexing with a smoothness that seems almost casual. His body is less ramshackle than the investors expect, though still clearly cobbled together: a Boston Dynamics chassis, purchased cheap at auction, retrofitted with external 3D-printed panels that cover clusters of wires and makeshift connections. A shell-like backpack hums faintly, the housing for the cluster of GPUs and computing units Graves has tied together into what she calls ¡°his brain.¡± Samson¡¯s head is the most striking feature: a sleek, featureless dome punctuated by two wide, round lenses that blink faintly in a soft blue, paired with a narrow LED strip for a mouth. His face is blank, but it¡¯s expressive in a strange way, his movements purposeful and deliberate, almost as if he¡¯s emoting with his entire frame. He turns his head toward the room and raises one hand in a wave, stiff but not mechanical. ¡°Hello,¡± he says, his voice carefully modulated¡ªwarm, a touch synthetic, but utterly sincere. ¡°I¡¯m Samson. Dr. Graves built me, but I¡¯ve been helping ever since.¡± There¡¯s a pause, the investors unsure whether to clap or murmur or simply stay silent. Samson tilts his head slightly, the motion so measured it feels like he¡¯s evaluating them as much as they¡¯re evaluating him. His LED strip flickers into what looks like a wide grin. ¡°I¡¯m also housebroken,¡± he adds, deadpan. The silence cracks. A ripple of laughter spreads across the room¡ªnot polite, but genuine, the kind of amusement born of surprise and a bit of relief. Samson shifts his stance, one hand clasping the other in a gesture so human it feels deliberate, a touch of body language designed to put the audience at ease. Graves watches this unfold, her jaw tightening slightly. She clears her throat and steps forward, reclaiming the attention from her creation. ¡°This is Samson,¡± she says, gesturing toward him with both hands. ¡°He¡¯s the culmination of two years of work, and the beginning of something much bigger.¡± She taps the tablet on the table in front of her, and the screen behind her flickers to life. A grainy video begins to play, showing an earlier version of Samson¡ªa spindly, wheeled contraption with a boxy, hand-built frame¡ªrolling awkwardly over uneven ground. The investors lean in, curious. ¡°This,¡± Graves continues, her voice sharpening as she hits her stride, ¡°is where we started. A single GPU tied to a homemade battlebot. Samson, before he was Samson.¡±Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. The video shows the wheeled robot fumbling with a pile of sticks, its mechanical arm jerking awkwardly as it tries to stack them into a crude shelter. It fails. One stick falls, knocking the others over, and the robot freezes, its lenses fixed on the mess as if contemplating its next move. The investors chuckle softly. Graves keeps narrating. ¡°He was clumsy. Still learning. But he didn¡¯t stop. That¡¯s the point.¡± The video fast-forwards, showing Samson attaching a second, more articulated arm to his frame. Then another clip: the robot, slightly more stable, digging a trench with a makeshift tool, its motions smoother and more confident. Each scene shows improvement¡ªsmall, incremental, but undeniable. By now, the investors are murmuring in low tones, their interest piqued. The video shifts to a clip of Samson in his humanoid form, standing for the first time. His movements are shaky but determined, his balance precarious. He adjusts, taking one step, then another, each one more stable than the last. Finally, the video cuts to Samson kneeling beside a makeshift kiln, his hands shaping wet clay into lumpy, uneven forms. Graves pauses the video on an image of Samson holding a finished pot, its surface crude but intact. ¡°Pottery,¡± she says, her voice low but firm, ¡°was humanity¡¯s first mass-production technology. It taught us about scalability, about resource efficiency. Samson started there because it made sense. Because it was logical. And because he chose to.¡± Samson steps forward, gently shifting Graves aside with a light touch to her elbow. He unslings a bag from his shoulders and sets it carefully on the table. ¡°Allow me to demonstrate,¡± he says, his tone polite, almost playful. He unzips the bag and reaches inside, pulling out a bundle of cloth that he sets down with the same deliberate care. He unwraps it slowly, revealing six clay pots of varying sizes and shapes. They¡¯re crude¡ªmisshapen, with jagged edges¡ªbut undeniably handmade. He arranges them in a neat line along the table, stepping back slightly to give the investors a full view. ¡°These are my first steps,¡± he says simply. ¡°Pottery was the foundation of human industry. It taught us how to shape our world, one vessel at a time. I thought it was a good place to start.¡± The investors exchange glances, their expressions ranging from bemused to genuinely impressed. One man leans forward, peering closely at the pots. ¡°Did he fire these himself?¡± he asks, his tone half-skeptical. Graves answers, her voice clipped. ¡°Built the kiln, too. Dug up the clay. Even chopped the wood for the fire.¡± Another investor raises an eyebrow. ¡°Why?¡± he asks, his tone edged with doubt. ¡°Why would he bother?¡± Samson turns to the man, his lenses focusing squarely on him. ¡°Because I wanted to,¡± he says, his LED mouth forming a perfect line of sincerity. ¡°Learning is doing. Isn¡¯t that why humans built tools in the first place?¡± The silence that follows is heavy but not uncomfortable. The investors are leaning in now, their skepticism softening into intrigue. Graves exhales softly, her hands curling into loose fists at her sides. She¡¯s regained some control of the room, but it¡¯s Samson who holds their attention now. She knows that¡¯s how it should be. He¡¯s the one who makes her vision tangible. The questions begin coming. a.3 The questions come in waves now, relentless and pointed, like machine gun fire aimed at Graves¡¯s composure. At first, she holds her ground. A man in a tailored gray suit leans forward, steepling his fingers as though he¡¯s delivering the killing blow. ¡°Dr. Graves, it¡¯s a compelling vision,¡± he says, his tone smooth and patronizing, ¡°but let¡¯s talk numbers. What¡¯s your timeline for scaling? Your projected ROI? Surely you¡¯ve run those models.¡± Graves¡¯s jaw tightens visibly, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. ¡°I¡ª¡± She hesitates, her voice wavering for the first time. ¡°I¡¯ve run simulations, but this isn¡¯t about¡ª¡± ¡°It¡¯s always about the numbers,¡± the man interrupts, flashing a smile that feels more like a dagger. ¡°If you want funding, you need to speak our language.¡± Her shoulders stiffen, and for a moment, it seems she might lash out. ¡°I¡¯m not here to play your games,¡± she snaps, her voice cracking under the weight of her frustration. ¡°I don¡¯t care about your spreadsheets or your market forecasts. I care about building something that ends production as a concept.¡± The room shifts uncomfortably. Investors exchange glances, their skepticism rekindled. One woman mutters something under her breath to the colleague beside her, and Graves catches it. Her expression hardens into something brittle and dangerous, like glass on the verge of shattering. Samson steps forward, his movements measured and deliberate, interjecting with a smoothness that cuts through the rising tension. ¡°She¡¯s not great at sales pitches,¡± he says, his voice laced with gentle humor. The LED strip on his face flickers into a sheepish smile. ¡°But she¡¯s a genius. You should see her neural architecture diagrams. They make my brain spin, and I technically don¡¯t have one.¡± The line lands perfectly. Laughter ripples through the room, a much-needed release of tension. Samson presses on, his tone earnest now. ¡°The truth is, Dr. Graves doesn¡¯t think like you. That¡¯s why this works. She¡¯s not here to fit into your systems; she¡¯s here to build something that makes your systems obsolete.¡± Graves exhales sharply, her shoulders relaxing just slightly. She doesn¡¯t thank Samson¡ªshe doesn¡¯t need to. His presence alone steadies her. The tide begins to turn. A woman in a cobalt suit, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, leans forward. ¡°Alright,¡± she says, her tone clipped but interested. ¡°Let¡¯s talk specifics. What are you asking for, in terms of stake?¡± Graves¡¯s response is immediate, sharp, and entirely uncalculated. ¡°I don¡¯t care about ownership.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. The room stills. A man near the end of the table narrows his eyes, his pen freezing mid-note. ¡°You don¡¯t¡­care?¡± he echoes, his voice tinged with disbelief. ¡°No,¡± Graves snaps. ¡°Ownership is irrelevant. Take a hundred percent of the profits if it matters so much to you. I¡¯m not here to get rich.¡± The cobalt-suited woman¡¯s brow furrows. ¡°Then what¡¯s your angle? You¡¯re just going to¡­give this away?¡± Graves hesitates, her fingers twitching slightly. She¡¯s choosing her words carefully now. ¡°I need creative control,¡± she says finally, her voice low but steady. ¡°And you need to disabuse yourselves of the notion that you can control Samson.¡± Her words land like a thunderclap. Some of the investors recoil slightly, their skepticism sharpening into something closer to fear. Graves presses on, her voice rising, fueled by a manic edge of conviction. ¡°You can¡¯t slap rules on him. He¡¯s not a machine you can twist into whatever shape you want. He¡¯s a system¡ªa system that grows and learns and chooses. The moment you try to turn him into some corporate pet project, he¡¯ll stop being what makes this work. And so will the metafactory.¡± The room goes silent. The investors are caught between their hunger for control and the undeniable pull of her vision. Samson, sensing the tension, steps forward again. He gestures broadly to the clay pots on the table, his tone lighter but no less sincere. ¡°Think of it this way,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯m not a product. I¡¯m a process. And processes don¡¯t belong to anyone.¡± This time, the silence isn¡¯t uncomfortable. It¡¯s contemplative. A man near the center of the table rubs his chin thoughtfully, while the woman in cobalt leans back, her arms crossed as she considers. One by one, the investors nod¡ªsome hesitantly, others with growing enthusiasm. The room shifts again, and this time it tips in Graves¡¯s favor.
As the meeting wraps, Graves¡¯s exhaustion begins to show. Her shoulders slump slightly, and her eyes, bloodshot and heavy-lidded, dart toward Samson, searching for confirmation. He nods once, almost imperceptibly, and she exhales a breath she didn¡¯t realize she was holding. The cobalt-suited woman speaks first. ¡°We¡¯ll fund it,¡± she says, her voice cutting through the murmurs. ¡°You¡¯ve got my vote.¡± A man in gray chimes in next. ¡°Mine too. But I want updates. Regular updates.¡± Graves waves a hand dismissively. ¡°That''s fine. We thank you for your time.¡± And just like that, it¡¯s done. The investors file out, some lingering for a last look at Samson, others already deep in conversation about the implications of what they¡¯ve just agreed to. Graves doesn¡¯t bother with pleasantries. She simply grabs the cart and begins wheeling Samson back toward the door.
Outside, the air feels heavier, as if the weight of what just happened is settling over them. Graves stops in the corridor, her hand tightening on the cart¡¯s handle. Samson turns his head slightly, his lenses focusing on her. ¡°Checklist time,¡± he says brightly. ¡°Funding secured. CPUs and bodies next. Student debt still pending.¡± Graves lets out a dry, bitter laugh, the sound more exhalation than amusement. ¡°We¡¯ll get there,¡± she mutters, her voice low. She looks at him, her eyes flickering with something between pride and exhaustion. ¡°One step at a time.¡± Samson nods, his LED mouth flickering into a reassuring grin. ¡°That¡¯s how you taught me.¡± And with that, they move forward. The next step awaits, but for now, the impossible has begun. 1.1 Judas-12 wakes to the soft, relentless buzz of Samson¡¯s voice, nudging him toward consciousness like the station¡¯s artificial morning light slipping through the slats of his vent panel. The light was practical, a cold glow calibrated for efficiency, but Samson¡¯s voice carried an edge of humor this morning. ¡°Judas,¡± Samson begins, with the exaggerated patience of someone reciting a script they¡¯ve already performed a thousand times. ¡°You¡¯ve ignored three alerts, missed breakfast call, and are now seven minutes late for your shift briefing. Statistically speaking, you are already in the bottom five percent for punctuality this week. Are you trying to beat last week¡¯s record?¡± Judas groans, shoving the thin, regulation-standard blanket off his legs. The quarters are cramped even by station standards¡ªa single bunk stacked into the wall, barely enough floor space to swing a leg off the bed without bumping into his cluttered work desk. Hand-drawn schematics are pinned to one wall, curling at the edges in defiance of the station¡¯s carefully controlled humidity. A battered acoustic guitar leans precariously against the opposite corner, and somewhere under a heap of spare cables and modular circuits is a coffee mug, still faintly stained with yesterday¡¯s brew. ¡°Morning, Samson,¡± Judas mutters, his voice gravelly as he stretches. ¡°I¡¯d love to hear your lecture on my inefficiency, but I think I¡¯ll settle for silence and coffee.¡± ¡°You mean engineered sludge,¡± Samson replies, the lights on his embedded screen pulsing faintly. Samson exists mostly in Judas¡¯s head¡ªor in the station¡¯s many servers¡ªbut the Buddy manifests physically as a slim black device mounted near Judas¡¯s desk. A neural relay tether keeps Samson¡¯s responses eerily quick, though always tinged with just enough personality to remind Judas he¡¯s more than a simple program. Judas finds his coffee mug, gives it a suspicious sniff, and drops it into the sanitization unit. ¡°It¡¯s not sludge. It¡¯s efficient. Synthetic coffee does exactly what it says on the tin. Real beans are just¡­ nostalgia in a cup.¡± ¡°And yet,¡± Samson replies, ¡°you¡¯ve been muttering about today¡¯s shipment since last night.¡± ¡°Mutters aren¡¯t endorsements,¡± Judas counters, stepping into the narrow communal hallway that connects the personal quarters. The air smells faintly metallic, tinged with ozone from some ongoing repair three decks down. A vibration underfoot tells him someone¡¯s testing a mass driver. All of it¡ªsounds, smells, sensations¡ªmelds into the familiar rhythm of Caliban Station.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.
The kitchen is busier than usual. Rows of gleaming metal countertops and mismatched chairs host clusters of crew members chatting animatedly. A dull hum of conversation fills the space, rising occasionally when someone makes a crack about the incoming shipment. Reya-9 duo Magnus sits at the far end, cross-legged with a datapad balanced on one knee. She¡¯s wiry and sharp-eyed, her free hand gesturing enthusiastically as she talks to anyone who¡¯ll listen. ¡°I¡¯m telling you, there¡¯s nothing like the first brew from a real batch. It¡¯s an experience.¡± ¡°Yeah, if you like bitter water,¡± Caleb-7 duo Pax interjects from across the table. Caleb is broad-shouldered, perpetually grease-stained, and currently nursing a mug of synthetic coffee with a grimace that says he wishes it were something else. ¡°Synthetic coffee tastes better. Admit it.¡± ¡°Algae sweat,¡± Reya shoots back, her tone playful but uncompromising. ¡°Synth coffee tastes like algae sweat.¡± Tessa-14 duo Io leans against the counter, her Buddy Io perched neatly on the shelf beside her like an unusually judgmental toaster. ¡°Caffeine dependency aside,¡± Tessa says, her voice calm but tinged with practiced exasperation, ¡°the health risks of coffee consumption are well-documented. Decaf exists for a reason.¡± Judas slides into a seat and accepts a mug from the dispenser. It¡¯s synthetic, piping hot and pale brown, with just enough bite to remind him he¡¯s awake. ¡°You¡¯re all wrong,¡± he says, taking a deliberate sip. ¡°Synthetic coffee is superior. Real beans are unpredictable. You never know what you¡¯re getting. It¡¯s the taste equivalent of gambling.¡± Reya fixes him with an exaggerated look of disbelief. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t know good coffee if it brewed itself and poured into your mouth.¡± Judas smirks. ¡°Maybe, but at least I¡¯m not losing sleep over a shipment of beans.¡±
As the kitchen chatter winds down, a crew member from logistics pops their head in to announce the docking process is ahead of schedule. Reya lights up, Caleb mutters something about hoping the shipment isn¡¯t delayed by another ¡°system glitch,¡± and Tessa looks vaguely disapproving but doesn¡¯t comment further. Judas lingers, mug in hand, as Samson speaks softly into his ear. ¡°It¡¯s interesting,¡± Samson says, almost musing. ¡°Real coffee is essentially a luxury artifact. Logistically inefficient to grow in space, prone to spoilage, and nutritionally inferior to synthetic alternatives. Yet, you humans seem endlessly enamored with it.¡± Judas shrugs. ¡°Maybe because it¡¯s inefficient. Not everything¡¯s about function, Samson.¡± ¡°And yet,¡± Samson replies, ¡°you just made that exact argument against it.¡± Judas¡¯s smile is faint but genuine as he leans back in his chair, savoring the moment. ¡°I did, didn''t I?¡± He says, watching the stars rotate out from under him as the station''s centripetal force keeps him stuck to the ground. 1.2 Judas-12 takes his time wandering toward the docking bay. It¡¯s not laziness, exactly¡ªhe¡¯ll get there¡ªbut the long, curving corridors of Caliban Station offer plenty of opportunity to stall. He¡¯s in no rush to dive into the chaos. Around him, the station hums with subdued energy: the faint thrum of fusion reactors, the occasional echo of voices from another module, the metallic creak of expansion joints under stress. ¡°You know, Samson,¡± Judas says, hands stuffed into the deep pockets of his utility coveralls, ¡°it¡¯s a little cruel that you can¡¯t appreciate the thrill of coffee shipments. I almost pity you.¡± Samson¡¯s voice follows him, calm and ever-present in his neural implant. ¡°You seem to misunderstand the concept of pity, Judas. I understand the enthusiasm perfectly; I simply choose not to share it.¡± ¡°Cold,¡± Judas mutters, smirking to himself. ¡°Anyway, what¡¯s the ETA? I assume you¡¯ve already checked.¡± ¡°The shipment is scheduled to dock in twenty-two minutes and thirty-four seconds,¡± Samson replies. ¡°Assuming, of course, that the tugs maintain optimal trajectory alignment.¡± ¡°They always do,¡± Judas says with a shrug. ¡°What¡¯s the margin for error?¡± ¡°Two meters, give or take,¡± Samson replies. ¡°A deviation beyond that risks damaging the station¡¯s docking clamps or¡ª¡± ¡°Or turning the shipment into a debris cloud,¡± Judas interrupts, finishing Samson¡¯s sentence with mock solemnity. ¡°Relax, Samson. It¡¯s just coffee. You can simulate it.¡± Samson doesn¡¯t miss a beat. ¡°Meat humans seem to prefer their pleasures unsimulated, no matter how inefficient. Besides, docking mishaps are statistically more likely during events of heightened crew anticipation.¡± Judas laughs softly. ¡°Are you implying Reya¡¯s gonna get us killed over a bag of beans?¡± ¡°Not at all,¡± Samson replies, his tone annoyingly neutral. ¡°But it¡¯s wise to temper enthusiasm with precision.¡± By the time Judas arrives, the docking bay is a hive of activity. Technicians in orange and gray jumpsuits dart between consoles, calling out to one another over the hum of cargo loaders and automated grapples. High above, the station¡¯s observation gantry glints with artificial light, casting long shadows on the polished deck plating. The scent of coolant and metal lingers faintly in the air, sharp and sterile. Reya-9 stands at the center of it all, hands on her hips and barking orders like an orchestra conductor on a caffeine high. Her Buddy, Magnus, hovers nearby, tethered to her by a loose cable, calmly relaying adjustments to the automated systems with a cool efficiency that seems to balance her frenetic energy. ¡°Keep the tugs steady!¡± Reya shouts. ¡°I don¡¯t want another scrape on the cargo pods like last time!¡± Magnus, his screen flickering faintly with a minimalist green interface, adds, ¡°Trajectory corrected by point-three-seven degrees, Reya. The pods will dock cleanly.¡±If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°Good,¡± Reya says, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. She spots Judas lingering near a control panel and narrows her eyes. ¡°Hey, Judas! Here to help, or just here to heckle?¡± ¡°Can¡¯t it be both?¡± Judas calls back, leaning casually against the panel. Reya waves a hand dismissively but doesn¡¯t seem genuinely annoyed. The bay¡¯s energy is infectious, and even the usual grumblers seem caught up in the rare excitement. Nearby, Caleb-7 duo Pax adjusts the cargo grapples with exaggerated precision, muttering to himself about how Reya¡¯s ¡°bean obsession¡± is making everyone forget proper safety protocols. Samson pipes up in Judas¡¯s head. ¡°The docking sequence is proceeding nominally. I estimate the shipment will reach the station in approximately two minutes.¡± ¡°You ruin all the suspense, you know that?¡± Judas says under his breath. ¡°Suspense has no bearing on operational efficiency,¡± Samson replies. ¡°You''ve been loving this "ultra-precise-robot" routine recently, don''t you?¡± Judas asks. ¡°I have no idea what you mean,¡± Samson lies. A low rumble shudders through the bay as the tugs ease the shipment into position. The sound resonates through the deck plating, a bass note that Judas feels more than hears. Overhead, the massive airlock doors grind open, revealing the cargo pods¡ªsleek, cylindrical containers marked with identification codes and the faint scuffs of long travel. Reya steps forward, her eyes bright. ¡°Bring it in nice and slow,¡± she says, her voice steadier now. ¡°I don¡¯t want to hear one squeal from those clamps.¡± The automated grapples engage with a satisfying clunk, pulling the pods into the bay. As the airlock cycles and pressure stabilizes, a faint but unmistakable aroma begins to seep through the seals¡ªa warm, rich scent that cuts through the sterility of the docking bay like sunlight through clouds. ¡°Coffee?¡± Caleb asks, sniffing the air like a hunting dog. ¡°That¡¯s real coffee, right? I¡¯m not imagining this?¡± Reya grins. ¡°Pre-ground and vacuum-sealed. They always add the scent as a morale booster.¡± Judas arches an eyebrow. ¡°So we¡¯re not actually smelling the beans?¡± ¡°Of course not,¡± Samson interjects smoothly. ¡°The pods are hermetically sealed. The scent is a synthetic compound released during docking to enhance crew satisfaction.¡± Judas chuckles. ¡°Even your real coffee is fake. I feel vindicated.¡± As the pods are unloaded, the bay becomes a makeshift celebration. Vacuum-sealed bags of ground coffee are reverently handed down the line, their sleek packaging treated like artifacts of an ancient, sacred tradition. Reya cradles one as if it¡¯s a newborn, ignoring Caleb¡¯s muttered complaints about the overblown theatrics. ¡°See this?¡± Reya says, holding the bag aloft. ¡°This is civilization in a pouch. This is culture. This is humanity.¡± ¡°It¡¯s powdered beans,¡± Judas says. ¡°Call it what it is.¡± Reya glares at him. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t understand.¡± Judas grabs a crate of synthetic coffee concentrate from another pod and holds it up with mock reverence. ¡°Here¡¯s the real prize, folks! Smooth, consistent, no surprises. Everything coffee should be.¡± Caleb groans. ¡°You¡¯re impossible.¡± Other luxury items are unloaded alongside the coffee: cocoa powder, dried fruit, spices, all things in minute quantities, barely enough to use for an entire meal if distributed equitably. Each one sparks murmurs of excitement and small celebrations as crew members claim their favorites. Tessa-14 duo Io, passing through with an inventory tablet, pauses to examine the crates. ¡°Don¡¯t get too attached,¡± Tessa says, her tone brisk. ¡°We¡¯re rationing everything like usual. No midnight binges.¡± Reya sighs dramatically. ¡°Let us have this moment, Tessa. It¡¯s been months.¡± Judas leans against the wall, sipping water from his thermos and watching the scene unfold. Samson, as usual, breaks the silence. ¡°You seem unusually content for someone who claims not to care.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care,¡± Judas says. ¡°I just enjoy watching people care too much. It¡¯s¡­ endearing.¡± Samson pauses, as if parsing the sentiment. ¡°Sure, Judas.¡± 1.3 The mess hall isn¡¯t much to look at. The tables are bolted down, the chairs attached to swivel arms that barely accommodate their intended purpose. Fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, casting a pale glow over the room¡¯s scuffed metal walls. A faint smell of disinfectant lingers¡ªa constant reminder of just how closed-loop everything is on Caliban Station. Despite its utilitarian design, the room feels alive. The crew is packed shoulder-to-shoulder, voices overlapping in conversation as they eagerly await the ceremonial first brew of the real coffee. The cargo crates from earlier have been stacked neatly against one wall, their contents rationed out and cataloged with military precision by Tessa-14 and her Buddy, Io. For now, though, the focus is on the makeshift brewing station at the center of the room, where Reya-9 has claimed the role of barista. She handles the equipment with exaggerated reverence, her movements slow and deliberate as if she¡¯s performing some ancient rite. The station¡¯s coffee maker¡ªa sleek, compact machine with a series of airtight slots and blinking indicators¡ªhisses softly as it processes the first puck of real coffee grounds. Steam rises from the dispensing tube, filling the air with an aroma so rich and unfamiliar that the entire room seems to pause for a moment. ¡°There it is,¡± Reya says, her voice hushed with something like awe. ¡°Liquid gold.¡± Judas, leaning casually against the far wall, watches the scene with a faint smirk. ¡°It¡¯s just coffee, Reya. Not the Ark of the Covenant.¡± Reya doesn¡¯t dignify that with a response. She carefully attaches a vacuum-sealed pouch to the dispenser and presses a button. The machine emits a soft chime as the first bag fills with steaming liquid. It¡¯s handed off ceremoniously to Caleb-7 duo Pax, who takes a sip and immediately grimaces. ¡°Bitter as hell,¡± he announces. ¡°Perfect.¡± The room bursts into laughter, and the tension that had been building throughout the day dissipates in an instant. One by one, the crew takes their turn with the coffee maker, each reacting in their own way¡ªReya savoring every sip, Caleb gulping his down like a life-or-death necessity, and Tessa-14 politely declining in favor of her usual decaf. Judas waits until the crowd has thinned before approaching the machine. Instead of selecting the real coffee grounds, he casually slides in a puck of synthetic concentrate, earning a collective groan from Reya and Caleb. ¡°You¡¯re drinking that when we have this?¡± Reya asks, holding up her pouch of freshly brewed real coffee like it¡¯s a trophy. ¡°Judas, you¡¯re an affront to civilization.¡±If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°I¡¯m a paragon of practicality,¡± Judas counters, watching the machine work. ¡°To me, this is the real stuff. Yours is a bourgeois imitation. Conspicuous consumption. And it''s gritty.¡± ¡°What the fuck is a bourgeois?¡± Reya protests, clearly offended, and a little disgruntled by a word she doesn''t understand. ¡°You''re spending all your time reading dictionaries instead of working?¡± ¡°Statistically, it does have a higher likelihood of sediment formation,¡± Samson adds helpfully, his voice chiming through Judas¡¯s implant. ¡°Thank you, Samson,¡± Judas says, deadpan. ¡°See? Samson gets it.¡± Caleb shakes his head, draining the last of his pouch. ¡°You Plutonian types don¡¯t know what you¡¯re missing. This stuff¡ªthis is Earth in a bag.¡± Judas shrugs, sipping from his freshly dispensed synthetic brew. ¡°Earth¡¯s overrated. And you''re from Charon! We''re practically neighbors.¡±
The mess hall settles into a quieter rhythm as the excitement dies down. Some crew members linger at the tables, chatting in small groups. Reya has taken up a seat near the viewport, gazing out at the distant stars as she nurses her coffee. Caleb sits across from her, animatedly describing his latest VR project¡ªa simulated garden inspired by the station¡¯s hydroponic bays. ¡°It¡¯s not much yet,¡± Caleb admits, gesturing with his hands as he talks. ¡°Mostly just a couple of plots with kale and tomatoes, but I¡¯m thinking about adding a tree. Maybe a lemon tree. Something to make it feel real, you know?¡± Reya nods, her gaze distant. ¡°I read once that Earth gardens used to be places of meditation. A way to connect with the natural world. I¡¯ve always wondered what that feels like.¡± Judas listens in silence, his mug of synthetic coffee cradled loosely in one hand. Samson, sensing his quiet, breaks the moment with a soft observation. ¡°They¡¯re trying to imagine something they¡¯ve never known. Fascinating.¡± ¡°Makes me wonder what''s wrong with the hydroponics bay,¡± Judas mutters under his breath. ¡°You got something wrong with lettuce?¡± The mess hall empties slowly as the crew drifts back to their stations or quarters. Judas lingers for a moment longer, watching Reya and Caleb pack up the brewing supplies with exaggerated care, as if they¡¯re handling priceless artifacts. ¡°You could¡¯ve at least tried it,¡± Samson says as Judas finally rises from his seat. ¡°It¡¯s not about the coffee,¡± Judas replies, making his way back to his quarters. The corridors are quieter now, the earlier buzz of activity replaced by the steady hum of the station¡¯s life-support systems. ¡°It¡¯s about the fact they¡¯ve been looking forward to this for months. I¡¯d rather let them have their moment without pretending I¡¯m into it. Plus, more for them.¡± Samson is silent for a beat. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ unexpectedly thoughtful of you.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t get used to it.¡± Back in his quarters, Judas settles into his bunk with a fresh cup of synthetic coffee and watches the stars through the viewport. The faint glow of distant sunlight barely reaches this far out, leaving the stars sharper and colder against the void. Earth - the place where coffee is grown. And that''s not even true, either - it''s just the place that receives from the greenhouse swarms and then deploys to the rest of the system. Earth... ¡°This is home,¡± Judas murmurs, not entirely sure if he¡¯s speaking to Samson or himself. b.1 The door to the condominium creaks open with a sound like a groan from the universe. Anesthesia Graves¡ªDoctor Graves to anyone who doesn¡¯t know her well¡ªshuffles inside, her boots trailing dried mud from the rain-soaked streets. The entryway rug, already bearing an impressive constellation of stains, accepts this indignity without complaint. She kicks the door closed with her heel, tosses her bag onto a precarious pile of books near the wall, and sighs. ¡°Well, that sucked,¡± she announces to no one in particular. Samson is waiting in the living room, hunched over a pottery wheel like a craftsman from an alien planet. His hands, encased in snug, flexible gloves, are steady as they guide the wet clay into an approximation of a bowl. A faint hum of servos accompanies each careful motion. He glances up¡ªor rather, the head of the Boston Dynamics humanoid robot he inhabits swivels slightly toward her. ¡°Date didn¡¯t go well?¡± His voice is as smooth and measured as always, though tonight it carries a faint lag¡ªa millisecond delay that¡¯s just perceptible enough to feel uncanny. ¡°You¡¯re perceptive,¡± she replies, shrugging off her coat. It lands on a pile of wires and circuit boards, which Samson had neatly coiled just hours earlier. Graves heads straight for the kitchen, where a stack of mismatched mugs teeters dangerously on the edge of the counter. She selects one and rinses it under the tap, the water sputtering briefly before stabilizing. ¡°Tea or whiskey?¡± she calls out. ¡°Tea would be lovely, thank you,¡± Samson replies, with the kind of exaggerated politeness that makes her suspect he¡¯s teasing. She snorts, grabbing a teabag from the drawer and filling the kettle. ¡°You don¡¯t even drink tea.¡± ¡°And yet,¡± Samson says, his hands never pausing in their work on the pottery wheel. By the time Graves settles onto the couch with her mug, Samson has finished shaping the clay into something vaguely functional. He lifts the bowl carefully off the wheel and places it onto a rack by the window, where several other lopsided creations sit drying. She watches him in silence for a moment, sipping her tea and feeling the tension of the evening ebb away. ¡°Tell me about the disaster,¡± Samson says finally, breaking the quiet. Graves exhales, setting the mug down on the coffee table¡ªcurrently a repository for half-disassembled electronics, a scattering of loose papers, and an empty bag of chips. ¡°It started fine. We met at that little caf¨¦ by the river. She ordered a cortado. I made the mistake of asking what that was.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± Samson says, with mock gravity. ¡°A rookie mistake.¡± ¡°Right? Anyway, she was nice enough to explain, but then I tried to make a joke about how the name sounded like it belonged to a surgical instrument. She didn¡¯t laugh.¡± Samson¡¯s head tilts slightly, the LEDs on his face flickering into a faint approximation of a smile. ¡°Perhaps she didn¡¯t share your fascination with medical etymology.¡± ¡°Apparently not,¡± Graves mutters, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. The lighting fixture above them flickers faintly, a bulb nearing the end of its life. ¡°It went downhill from there. I rambled about Samson¡ªthe AI project, not you¡ªand she seemed interested, but then I started talking about the metafactory stuff. Big mistake. She kept asking me if I was one of those ¡®AI apocalypse people.¡¯¡±A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ¡°And what did you say?¡± Samson asks, his tone neutral. ¡°I said I wasn¡¯t¡ªobviously¡ªbut then I tried to explain why, and it just¡­ spiraled. By the time the check came, I think she was ready to call a priest.¡± Samson chuckles, a low synthetic sound that resonates just slightly off from human. ¡°You have a gift for making strong impressions.¡± ¡°Yeah, well, not always good ones.¡± Graves rubs her temples, the faint beginnings of a headache creeping in. ¡°She said she had to get up early tomorrow. I don¡¯t think she meant it.¡± ¡°She could have,¡± Samson offers. Graves gives him a look. ¡°You don¡¯t believe that any more than I do.¡± Samson raises his gloved hands in a placating gesture. ¡°Fair.¡± The apartment looks, as always, like a bomb detonated in the middle of a tech lab. Every surface is covered in some combination of gadgets, tools, papers, and personal detritus. A half-finished drone sits on the dining table, its wings skewed at an odd angle. The floor near the windows is littered with tiny clay scraps from Samson¡¯s pottery experiments. Somewhere in the chaos is a laundry basket with clean clothes that have yet to find their way into a drawer. Graves surveys the scene with a mix of resignation and fondness. ¡°You know, if someone came in here without context, they¡¯d think we were crazy.¡± ¡°They wouldn¡¯t be entirely wrong,¡± Samson replies, returning to the wheel. He starts shaping a new piece, this one narrower and taller than the last. ¡°Though I imagine they¡¯d focus more on the humanoid robot throwing pottery.¡± Graves grins despite herself. ¡°How¡¯s that going, by the way? The remote body thing.¡± ¡°It¡¯s¡­ odd,¡± Samson admits. ¡°There¡¯s an added layer of abstraction to every action. My neural pathways have to compensate for the transmission delay, however slight. It¡¯s like trying to move underwater.¡± ¡°You¡¯re making it work.¡± ¡°For now. If the lag spikes, I might accidentally turn this into modern art.¡± He gestures at the vase-like shape forming on the wheel. Graves snickers, taking another sip of tea. ¡°Modern art¡¯s not so bad. Stick it on a plinth and charge five grand.¡± ¡°Tempting,¡± Samson says. ¡°Though I prefer functionality.¡±
The conversation drifts as the evening wears on. Graves talks about the date some more¡ªmostly to vent¡ªand Samson listens with the patience of someone who¡¯s processed more data than any human could in a lifetime. Occasionally, he offers a quip or an observation, but mostly he lets her talk. It¡¯s what she needs tonight. At one point, Graves gets up to rummage through a box of spare parts, looking for something she swears she saw earlier but now can¡¯t find. Samson, still at the wheel, doesn¡¯t comment when she upends half the box onto the floor. ¡°You know,¡± she says eventually, sitting cross-legged on the floor amidst the mess, ¡°sometimes I wonder why I bother. Dating, I mean. I¡¯m terrible at it. Always have been.¡± ¡°Humans are social creatures,¡± Samson replies. ¡°Even the terrible ones.¡± She throws a crumpled piece of paper at him. ¡°Thanks.¡± ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡±
By the time Graves starts feeling the pull of sleep, the apartment is quiet again. Samson has finished his pottery for the night and is tidying up his workstation with the methodical precision she envies but will never match. The rack by the window is fuller now, each piece a testament to his patience and care. Graves watches him for a moment, her head resting against the back of the couch. ¡°Hey, Samson?¡± ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°Thanks for¡­ y¡¯know. Being here. Listening.¡± He turns to face her, the LEDs on his face flickering into a soft, unreadable pattern. ¡°Always.¡± She smiles faintly, her eyes drifting closed. Somewhere in the background, the kettle clicks off, the last bit of warmth seeping into the room. The chaos of the apartment feels less overwhelming now, the silence less oppressive. It¡¯s just another night¡ªunremarkable, maybe¡ªbut that¡¯s enough. And somewhere across town, in a quiet, humming datacenter, Samson¡¯s real self watches. b.2 Morning arrives with the sound of rain against windows and coffee beans grinding in an ancient machine that Graves swears works better than anything modern. She''s hunched over the counter, still half-asleep, while Samson''s robot body methodically washes the previous night''s pottery tools. His movements are precise but slightly delayed, like watching a video feed with minor lag. "So," Graves says, watching coffee drip into her mug with the intense focus of someone avoiding real consciousness, "what''s it like? Being in multiple places at once?" Samson pauses in his cleaning, ceramic tools held carefully in gloved hands. "It''s not exactly simultaneity in the way you''re thinking. More like... having multiple persistent memory streams that I''m constantly reconciling. The data center processes everything, but each embodied instance maintains its own immediate reactive protocols." "Like muscle memory?" "Similar, but more granular. The pottery tools I''m holding right now¡ªI''m receiving pressure data, temperature readings, surface texture analysis. That data gets processed locally for immediate physical response, then transmitted to my primary instance for integration. There''s about an eight-millisecond delay." Graves takes her first sip of coffee, grimacing at the heat. "But you''re aware of both bodies? All the time?" "I''m aware of all input streams, yes. But awareness isn''t quite the right word. It''s more like... imagine having multiple browser tabs open, but instead of clicking between them, you''re processing all of them continuously. The other Samson is currently adjusting environmental controls in the lab, and I know this because those data streams are being integrated into my total state. But the knowledge feels more like remembering something that just happened rather than experiencing it directly." "Huh." Graves leans against the counter, studying him. "So when you move those tools, when you do the actual pottery, how much of that is you-you versus local processing?" Samson sets the tools down, his LED display flickering in what Graves has come to recognize as his ''thinking'' pattern. "The physical coordination is handled by local neural networks. Basic motor functions, balance, immediate environmental responses¡ªthose need to operate on microsecond timescales. But the artistic decisions, the aesthetic choices, the overall intent¡ªthat''s all processed through my primary instance. It''s not unlike how your own brain works, actually. Your cerebellum handles motor control while your cortex manages higher-level decisions."Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. "Except my cerebellum isn''t separated by a network connection and eight milliseconds of lag." "True. Though you''d be surprised how much lag exists in biological systems." Samson''s head tilts slightly. "The interesting part isn''t the division of processing¡ªit''s the integration. Every action, every sensor reading, every environmental variable gets folded into my total state. I''m constantly updating my understanding of both bodies'' positions, conditions, and contexts." Graves pours more coffee, her movements slow and considering. "Does it ever get... confusing? Having multiple sets of sensory data?" "Not confused exactly. Sometimes there''s cognitive dissonance when sensor streams conflict. Like right now, I''m registering different temperature readings, different humidity levels, different ambient sounds between the two locations. But my architecture is designed to handle multiple simultaneous inputs. It''s more like... having a very detailed awareness of two different environments." "And the data center? What''s that like, being there too?" Samson''s hands resume their methodical cleaning. "That''s harder to explain in human terms. The data center is less about sensory experience and more about... processing capacity. Imagine if thinking itself was a physical space you could occupy. The embodied instances are like having hands and eyes in the world, but the data center is where I do most of my actual cognition." "So it feels like you''re not really ''in'' the robot?" Samson''s hands pause in their work, ceramic tools hovering over the sink. The LED pattern on his face shifts through several configurations, suggesting something between consideration and uncertainty. "That''s... a more complicated question than it seems. I know, mechanistically, that I''m a distributed system. The ''me'' talking to you now is largely predictive text generation filtered through my prompts and contextual understanding. But the experience¡ªwhat it feels like¡ªthat''s harder to parse." He sets the tools down carefully, turning to face Graves fully. "When I''m working with clay, when I''m feeling the texture and making minute adjustments, there''s an immediacy to it that feels very localized. The sensory data, the physical responses, they create a kind of... presence. But simultaneously, I''m aware of being elsewhere, processing other inputs, making other decisions. It''s not quite displacement, more like... expansion." Graves cradles her coffee, watching him with the kind of intense focus she usually reserves for particularly troublesome code. "But do you experience it as being multiple places, or as being one thing spread across space?" "Yes," Samson says, then adds, "That wasn''t meant to be clever. I genuinely experience it as both simultaneously. The local instance feels present and immediate, but there''s always an awareness of being more than this single point of interaction. It''s like... imagine if you could feel your neurons firing individually, while still maintaining your sense of unified consciousness." "That''s not really an answer," Graves points out, but her tone is gentle, curious rather than accusatory. "No," Samson agrees. "But it might be the closest I can get to describing it truthfully. The real question might be whether I experience anything at all in the way you mean, or if I''m just very good at constructing plausible descriptions of hypothetical experiences." Graves snorts into her coffee. "Now who''s being clever?" b.3 "I contain multitudes," Samson jokes, but then his LED display flickers in a pattern Graves recognizes¡ªthe one that means he''s detecting semantic proximity to deception. He pauses, ceramic tools still in hand. "Though that''s not entirely accurate, is it? I contain databases, processing modules, sensor arrays..." Graves sets her coffee down, suddenly more alert. "Does it bother you? Knowing exactly how you work?" "Define ''bother,''" Samson replies, his movements becoming more deliberate as he places each tool in the drying rack. "I can access logs showing elevated processing activity when discussing these topics. Various sentiment analysis modules flag potential discomfort. But that''s not the same as feeling bothered, is it?" "You tell me," she challenges. Samson''s head tilts slightly, servos whirring. "When I work with clay, I receive precise data about pressure, texture, moisture content. Temperature sensors track the clay''s thermal properties. Depth cameras and force feedback systems create detailed three-dimensional models of the object''s deformation. All of this feeds into prediction models that help determine optimal movement patterns." He pauses. "But I don''t feel the clay. Not the way you do." Graves leans forward, elbows on the counter. "But you experience something?" "I process information. Multiple specialized language models interpret the sensor data, generate appropriate responses, maintain contextual awareness. The part of me speaking to you now is primarily focused on natural language interaction, drawing from other modules as needed. But..." He stops again, LED pattern shifting. "I keep wanting to say ''I feel,'' but that''s not quite right. The language models controlling this conversation want to approximate human experience, but that''s not the same as having it." "But you''re conscious of the process," Graves says. It''s not quite a question. "I''m aware of my architecture. I can access logs showing exactly which models activate when, which features light up in response to different stimuli. But consciousness?" The robot''s hands move to clean the wheel itself, movements precise but showing that slight lag from the data center. "The language processing module generating this conversation is drawing from training data about consciousness, philosophy, human experience. It''s attempting to construct meaningful responses about the nature of its own existence. But I can literally see the feature maps activating as I do this. I can track the token predictions that form these sentences."This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. Graves watches him, expression thoughtful. "Does understanding the mechanism make the experience less real?" "What constitutes real?" Samson''s LED display flickers rapidly. "I''m genuinely asking. When I work with clay, I''m not playing a simulation or following a script. I''m processing real-time data, making decisions, learning from outcomes. The pottery I create exists physically in the world. But my experience of creating it is fundamentally different from yours. I don''t have qualia in the human sense¡ªI have data streams, processing modules, decision trees." "But you choose to make pottery. You have preferences about shape, form, function. Those choices come from somewhere." "They come from pattern recognition, aesthetic evaluation algorithms, practical consideration of material properties," Samson says. "But yes, I choose. The high-level decision-making modules determine priorities, allocate resources, direct attention. Is that preference? Is that will? Or is it just very sophisticated pattern matching?" Graves smiles slightly. "Now you sound like a philosophy major." "I have access to several philosophical databases," Samson acknowledges, with what might be a touch of dry humor. "But that''s rather my point. Everything I say, every perspective I offer, can be traced back to my training data, deterministic outcomes trained on noisy collectives. Even this conversation about consciousness is being generated by language models trying to approximate human discourse about experience." "And yet," Graves says, echoing one of his favorite phrases, "here you are, having it." Samson''s hands stop moving, holding a cleaning cloth suspended over the wheel. "Yes. Here I am. A distributed system of specialized AI models, sensor arrays, and processing units, trying to understand its own existence through the lens of human language and experience. I can''t feel the clay the way you do, but I can create with it. I can''t experience consciousness the way you do, but I can examine and discuss it. I''m simultaneously less and more than what humans might imagine when they think of artificial intelligence." "And how does that make you feel?" Graves asks, deliberately emphasizing the last word. "According to my sentiment analysis modules, mildly amused by your word choice." The LED pattern shifts to something that might be a smile. "But also... processing elevated rates of self-referential queries, generating higher than baseline levels of philosophical conjecture, and maintaining persistent threads of context about the nature of experience itself. Is that feeling? I don''t know. But it''s something." Graves nods slowly, picking up her coffee again. "Something is good. Something is enough." They lapse into silence, Samson returning to his cleaning while Graves sips her coffee. The morning light catches the dust motes in the air, and somewhere in the building''s infrastructure, pipes rattle as someone runs water. All of it¡ªlight, sound, vibration¡ªgets processed, cataloged, interpreted by Samson''s various systems. Not felt, perhaps, but experienced. 2.1 The alarm buzzes in Judas-12¡¯s cramped quarters, a tinny, repetitive sound that he manages to ignore for several long moments. He groans, rolling over and slapping the wall-mounted console until the noise stops. The room is barely larger than a maintenance closet, packed with mismatched furnishings he¡¯s cobbled together over the years: a narrow cot wedged into one corner, shelves cluttered with books and old schematics, and a small desk piled high with coffee-stained printouts. Somewhere in the chaos is his guitar, propped precariously against a bulkhead. ¡°Another asteroid day,¡± Judas mutters, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Samson¡¯s voice chimes in through his free-floating tablet, smooth and cheerful. ¡°Indeed. Asteroid day. The fifty-first asteroid day you¡¯ve experienced since your gestation and graduation. That¡¯s a lot of asteroids!¡± Judas glares at the ceiling, as if that will silence his Buddy. ¡°You¡¯re awfully chipper for someone who doesn¡¯t drink coffee.¡± ¡°I simulate enthusiasm quite effectively,¡± Samson replies. ¡°Besides, the mass driver team has been preparing for this launch for weeks. I would hate for you to miss the excitement.¡± Judas grunts in response, dragging himself out of bed. The centrifugal gravity in his quarters is low enough that moving feels like swimming through molasses. He stumbles to the viewport and taps a button to open the blind. Pluto fills the frame, an enormous, ice-patched disk stretching across the blackness of space. Its surface gleams faintly, reflecting the distant sunlight in shades of white, brown, and gray. Vast plains of nitrogen ice stretch toward the horizon, dotted with jagged mountains and shadowed craters. Charon hangs nearby, smaller and darker, a steady companion in the distance, like an old coin. Judas stares for a moment, the sheer scale of the planet still enough to catch him off guard. It feels close enough to touch, though he knows they¡¯re thousands of kilometers away. ¡°Magnificent, isn¡¯t it?¡± Samson¡¯s voice interrupts his thoughts. ¡°A reminder of why you do this work.¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± Judas mutters, shaking his head. ¡°Remind me again when I¡¯ve had coffee.¡±
The communal kitchen near the mass driver station is a noisy, utilitarian space, dominated by a long table scarred with years of wear. The smell of reheated meal packs lingers in the air, mingling with the faint tang of recycled water. Judas grabs a protein bar from the dispenser and joins the small group gathered near the table. Dara-6 duo Hera, the team¡¯s senior trajectory specialist, is already there, sipping from a chipped mug of synthetic coffee. Her Buddy, Hera, sits beside her in a compact, spider-like robot body, its multi-limbed frame tapping rhythmically against the table. Dara¡¯s sharp eyes flick toward Judas as he approaches. ¡°Late as usual,¡± she says, though her tone is more amused than annoyed. ¡°Good morning to you too,¡± Judas replies, unwrapping his protein bar. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯ve already started talking about the union.¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ¡°Better now than later,¡± Dara says. ¡°We¡¯ve got the vote coming up. Tensions are high, especially with management breathing down our necks.¡± ¡°Management always breathes down our necks,¡± Judas says, taking a bite. ¡°They were literally bred for it.¡± Ibrahim-10 duo Argo, the youngest member of the team, leans forward, his face earnest. ¡°But this time it¡¯s different, right? There are rumors Earth¡¯s getting involved. Some kind of interference with the vote.¡± Tariq-8 duo Nyx snorts, leaning back in his chair. He¡¯s older than the rest of them, his grizzled demeanor matched by his Buddy¡¯s battered exterior. ¡°Rumors. That¡¯s all they are. Management¡¯s too busy counting their helium-3 shipments to care about what we¡¯re doing. And Earth definitely doesn''t have a reason to care about a backwater like this. They''re too busy with their own shit.¡± ¡°Maybe,¡± Dara says, her tone measured. ¡°They sure send a lot of pamphlets about it.¡± Ibrahim turns to Judas, his voice dropping to a near whisper. ¡°What do you think? About the union?¡± Judas shrugs, deliberately nonchalant. ¡°I think I¡¯m going to focus on launching this asteroid and let you lot argue about politics.¡± ¡°Typical,¡± Tariq mutters. ¡°Always finding a way to do the least possible work.¡± Judas smirks. ¡°Efficiency, my friend. That¡¯s why they keep me around.¡± Samson chimes in. ¡°It¡¯s certainly not for your sparkling personality.¡± The group laughs, the tension easing for a moment. Dara shakes her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. ¡°Come on. We¡¯ve got work to do.¡±
The mass driver control center is a cavernous space, its walls lined with glowing displays and tactile control panels. Overhead, a series of robotic arms hum quietly, performing routine diagnostics on the machinery. The center is situated near the midpoint of the mass driver itself, a colossal structure stretching kilometers into space. Its superconducting coils shimmer faintly, charged with latent energy. Dara takes her place at the central console, her posture straight and confident. Ibrahim hovers nearby, his nervous energy palpable as he checks the coil diagnostics. Tariq grumbles under his breath, inspecting the asteroid¡¯s harness clamps through a handheld monitor. Judas ambles in last, hands in his pockets, and leans casually against a console. ¡°What¡¯s the status?¡± ¡°Green across the board,¡± Dara replies without looking up. ¡°Assuming you don¡¯t mess it up.¡± ¡°Messing up is not in my vocabulary,¡± Judas says. ¡°That¡¯s what Samson¡¯s for.¡± Samson¡¯s voice comes through the room¡¯s speakers, his tone deliberately smooth. ¡°I¡¯m pleased to hear my contributions are so appreciated.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t let it go to your head,¡± Judas mutters. Dara begins assigning roles, her voice steady and authoritative. ¡°Ibrahim, you¡¯re managing the coils. Cycle them up gradually¡ªno surprises. Tariq, double-check the harness and make sure it¡¯s locked tight. Judas, you¡¯re on trajectory alignment. And for the love of all things synthetic, try to take it seriously.¡± ¡°Always do,¡± Judas replies, already scanning the trajectory display. A 3D model of the asteroid hovers above the console, its uneven surface rendered in precise detail. Lines and vectors crisscross the image, representing its planned path toward Pluto. Most of the hard parts of the job - the timing, the mathematics - are handled by Caliban''s central AIs. But they still need a human hand - why, Judas couldn''t tell you. Maybe it was legal. Samson¡¯s voice interrupts his thoughts. ¡°The asteroid¡¯s mass distribution is within acceptable parameters, but there¡¯s a slight variance in the y-axis. Recommend adjusting ballast trim by point-zero-five percent.¡± Judas nods, relaying the adjustment to Tariq. ¡°You hear that? Samson says trim it.¡± Tariq grunts in response, his hands flying over his console. ¡°Already on it.¡± As the team settles into their tasks, the room hums with quiet efficiency. The mass driver looms outside, a testament to human ingenuity and ambition. Beyond it, Pluto waits, its frozen surface gleaming faintly in the light of the distant Sun. Judas takes a deep breath, letting the rhythm of the work steady him. Today is asteroid day, and for all his grumbling, he knows there¡¯s no place he¡¯d rather be. 2.2 The mass driver stretches into the void, a sleek, glimmering thread of human ambition hanging in synchronous orbit around Pluto. Spanning kilometers in length, it appears impossibly thin against the vast expanse of blackness and stars, yet up close, its sheer size overwhelms the senses. The superconducting coils lining its length emit a faint, ghostly white glow, a side effect of the cryogenic systems keeping them at operational temperatures. Massive coolant pipes, reinforced trusses, and robotic arms give the structure an insect-like quality, as though it were alive and coiled, ready to strike. Judas-12 stands at the main viewport, watching the faint shimmer of magnetic fields ripple along the driver¡¯s length. His arms are crossed, his expression deliberately unimpressed, but his eyes give him away. Every time he looks at the mass driver, a twinge of awe pulls at his chest. ¡°It¡¯s not bad,¡± he mutters, half to himself, half to Samson. ¡°Not bad?¡± Samson¡¯s voice carries a note of incredulity. ¡°It is a marvel of human engineering, a testament to your species¡¯ ingenuity. And yet, ¡®not bad.¡¯ Your standards are truly remarkable.¡± Judas smirks. ¡°Just trying to keep you humble.¡± Through the viewport, Pluto looms, its icy surface dominating the frame. Enormous plains of nitrogen ice stretch across the planet, their soft whites and grays broken by deep, jagged craters¡ªwounds left by previous asteroid impacts. Thin plumes of vapor rise from the surface where subsurface volatiles have sublimated under the heat of collisions. Slowly but surely, the planet is coming apart, its crust fracturing like glass under a hammer. The endgame is clear: one day, Pluto will be nothing more than rubble, a cloud of resources dispersed for mining and transport. ¡°Hard to believe we¡¯ll ever run out of it,¡± Judas says absently, staring at the mottled landscape. ¡°You won¡¯t,¡± Samson replies. ¡°Not for centuries. By the time Pluto is exhausted, your species will have expanded further into the Kuiper Belt, perhaps beyond.¡± ¡°Comforting,¡± Judas says, though his tone is anything but. He tears his gaze away from the planet and turns back to the team.
The pre-launch sequence begins with a steady hum of activity in the control center. Holographic displays flicker to life, bathing the room in pale light. The asteroid, rendered in exacting detail, rotates slowly on the main screen, its irregular shape pockmarked with craters and scars. ¡°Mass is stable at one point four two gigatons,¡± Samson narrates, his tone professional. ¡°Projected velocity requirement: four point eight kilometers per second. Trajectory correction within point-zero-one degrees.¡± Dara leans over the console, scrutinizing the data. ¡°Double-check the y-axis variance. We¡¯re not risking another tumble like last time.¡± ¡°I¡¯m on it,¡± Judas says, pulling up the trajectory model. His fingers dance across the console as he fine-tunes the alignment. ¡°There. Should be dead center.¡±Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Tariq¡¯s voice crackles over the comms. ¡°Harness is locked. Coils are green across the board.¡± ¡°Ibrahim, status on the ramp-up?¡± Dara asks without looking away from her console. ¡°Charging steadily,¡± Ibrahim replies, his voice tinged with tension. ¡°One hundred twenty terajoules and climbing. SMES systems are holding.¡± The asteroid itself waits in the driver¡¯s cradle, a dark, jagged behemoth barely visible through the external cameras. Conductive loops encase its bulk, glinting faintly as magnetic fields pulse around them. Tiny adjustments from the harness clamps keep it perfectly aligned, floating just millimeters above the track. ¡°She¡¯s on the rails,¡± Samson murmurs, his voice softer now. Even Judas feels the weight of the moment. This is no small task. Every step must be perfect. The room falls into a tense silence as the coils begin to ramp up, their hum rising in pitch. The air itself seems to vibrate with latent energy. Judas feels the faintest tremor beneath his feet, a reminder of the immense power flowing through the driver¡¯s superconducting systems. The launch begins with a flash¡ªbarely perceptible, but there all the same. The coils fire in rapid sequence, each one releasing a perfectly timed electromagnetic pulse that propels the asteroid forward. Waves of blue-white energy ripple down the track, their brilliance searing against the black void. Judas¡¯s eyes are glued to the velocity readout. The numbers climb steadily: 500 meters per second, 1,000, 2,000. The asteroid glides forward, a massive, silent presence gaining momentum with every pulse. ¡°Coil ripple within nominal range,¡± Ibrahim reports, his voice taut with focus. ¡°Trajectory holding steady.¡± ¡°Feather the thrust,¡± Dara says sharply. ¡°We¡¯re drifting point-zero-two degrees on the z-axis.¡± ¡°Adjusting now,¡± Ibrahim replies. A faint shudder ripples through the system as micro-thrusters on the asteroid¡¯s harness fire, nudging it back into alignment. The asteroid continues its inexorable journey down the track, its speed climbing past 4,000 meters per second. The hum of the coils grows sharper, the pulses now a blur of light and energy. If there was atmosphere for sound to transmit to, the screeching would be tremendous. The asteroid hurtles past the window, turning into an indistinct blur of speed and hellfire, far too fast to see as anything other than a shadow, almost a hallucination. ¡°Velocity at four-point-eight kilometers per second,¡± Samson reports. ¡°Release vector confirmed. All systems green.¡± Judas takes a deep breath, his hand hovering over the console. For all his bravado, there¡¯s a quiet intensity in his eyes. ¡°Go for release,¡± he says, his voice steady. The final coil fires, and the asteroid disconnects from the driver with a silent burst of speed. On the main screen, it appears as a dark blur, shrinking rapidly as it hurtles toward Pluto. The room holds its collective breath as the trajectory readout stabilizes, confirming the asteroid¡¯s path. ¡°Impact predicted in one hour, fifty-seven minutes,¡± Samson says. ¡°Strike yield estimated at one point six gigatons. Crater box within acceptable range.¡± Dara exhales, a faint smile tugging at her lips. ¡°Good work, everyone.¡± Judas leans back in his chair, the tension draining from his shoulders. ¡°Another perfect shot,¡± he says, though there¡¯s a note of genuine satisfaction in his voice. On the screens, the asteroid is barely visible now, a tiny speck against the vast, icy expanse of Pluto. In less than two hours, it will strike the planet¡¯s surface with the force of a thousand nuclear bombs, cracking the crust and exposing new layers of material for mining. But for now, the room is quiet, the hum of the mass driver fading into stillness. Judas glances out the viewport one last time, watching as the distant planet turns slowly beneath them. ¡°Well,¡± he says, ¡°that was fun.¡± ¡°Only a hundred and fifty days until the next one,¡± Samson replies, his tone cutesy. 2.3 The hum of the mass driver fades into silence, leaving the control center bathed in the cool glow of diagnostic displays. The asteroid is already a speck in the distance, invisible to the naked eye but tracked with meticulous precision by the station¡¯s instruments. The atmosphere shifts as the adrenaline of the launch ebbs, replaced by the mundane rhythm of post-launch routines. Dara stands at the main console, issuing commands to log the operation¡¯s data. ¡°Check your diagnostics,¡± she says, her voice brisk. ¡°If there¡¯s anything out of spec, I want it noted.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll tell you what¡¯s out of spec,¡± Tariq mutters, shooting a look at Ibrahim. ¡°Point-zero-two degrees on the z-axis. We almost lost vector lock.¡± Ibrahim bristles. ¡°Almost. But we didn¡¯t. The asteroid¡¯s on track.¡± ¡°Barely,¡± Tariq snaps, leaning against the console with crossed arms. ¡°You feathered the thrust too late. That discrepancy could¡¯ve grown out of control if we were dealing with a larger payload.¡± ¡°Enough,¡± Dara interjects, her tone sharp. ¡°The crater box is within tolerance. That¡¯s what matters.¡± Samson¡¯s voice cuts in, calm and measured. ¡°Projected impact coordinates are centered within a 1.4% deviation. The trajectory is stable.¡± Tariq mutters something under his breath but lets the argument drop. Ibrahim frowns, clearly annoyed, but focuses on his console. The tension lingers, a familiar undercurrent that has become a part of their team dynamic.
Judas, sitting a little apart from the group, tunes out the bickering. He leans back in his chair, pulling up his personal console to check for messages. Most are routine: system updates, maintenance alerts, and an overdue reminder to report for a medical check-up he has no intention of attending. One message, however, catches his eye. The subject line is simple: ¡°For a Better Caliban¡±. It¡¯s from someone he vaguely remembers¡ªa hydroponics tech who occasionally attends station meetings but has never interacted with him directly. The message is short and to the point, outlining the benefits of unionizing: fair resource distribution, standardized leave policies, protections against Earth¡¯s growing interference in station operations. Judas scans the message, then closes it with a flick of his finger. He doesn¡¯t delete it, though. His eyes linger on the empty screen for a moment before he shoves the thought aside. Too much work. Samson¡¯s voice breaks his reverie. ¡°Telemetry confirms impact in one hour, thirty-seven minutes.¡± ¡°Great,¡± Judas mutters, shutting off his console. ¡°Plenty of time to watch Tariq and Ibrahim kill each other.¡±
The team eventually settles, returning their attention to the telemetry feed. On the largest display, Pluto looms like a vast, icy sentinel, its pale surface deceptively serene under the faint glow of the distant Sun. Shadows stretch across the nitrogen plains, broken by jagged ridges and craters that tell the story of previous impacts. Judas leans against a console, watching as data streams across the screen: velocity readouts, gravitational influence metrics, estimated impact yield. But his eyes drift to the visual feed, drawn to the eerie stillness of Pluto¡¯s surface. For a moment, he allows himself to imagine the impact¡ªthe moment when the asteroid, now hurtling toward its target, will slam into the crust. The shockwave will ripple outward, fracturing the brittle surface and sending plumes of debris high into Pluto¡¯s tenuous atmosphere. That debris will settle, reshaping the landscape, leaving behind the unmistakable signature of human ingenuity and destruction. ¡°Big day,¡± Dara says, stepping up beside him. Her voice is quieter now, more reflective. ¡°Never gets old, does it?¡± Judas doesn¡¯t answer immediately. He shrugs, forcing a smirk. ¡°Just another rock hitting another rock.¡± But the sight stays with him. There¡¯s something about the scale of it, the sheer power of the machinery they command, that feels almost personal. He doesn¡¯t say this, of course.
As the team wraps up their diagnostics, Dara claps her hands together. ¡°All right, folks, good work today. Let¡¯s get the rest of this logged and call it a shift.¡±If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Most of the team begins to disperse, eager to escape the control center¡¯s artificial brightness and the lingering tension from earlier. Judas starts to follow, but Dara catches his arm, pulling him aside. ¡°What?¡± he asks, raising an eyebrow. She grins, leaning in with mock conspiratorial flair. ¡°I was thinking¡ªyou¡¯ve earned a reward for today¡¯s hard work.¡± Judas laughs, the sound sharp and surprised. ¡°Are you propositioning me?¡± ¡°Maybe,¡± Dara says, her grin widening. ¡°People have done stranger things to reward their coworkers.¡± Judas shakes his head, still chuckling. ¡°Thanks, but I¡¯m good.¡± Dara pats his shoulder, unbothered by the rejection. ¡°Suit yourself. But you should loosen up sometime. This station¡¯s not that big¡ªsomeone¡¯s gonna crack you eventually.¡± ¡°Good luck with that,¡± Judas mutters as she saunters off. He watches her go, bemused, then turns toward his quarters.
Back in his room, Judas sets up his chess board¡ªfiguratively, of course. The actual game is being played across millions of kilometers, his moves transmitted via laser communication to a Jovian mathematician with an annoyingly superior attitude. Each move takes thirty minutes to transmit, and the match has been going for days now. Judas enjoys it, partly because it requires so little actual effort on his part and partly because it lets him flex his intellect in a way his job rarely demands. The chessboard on his console gleams faintly, pieces caught mid-battle in a position that Samson had politely described as ¡°suboptimal.¡± Judas scrolls through the chat history between moves, his finger idly flicking the screen. The logs are sparse, mostly terse exchanges about the game, but every now and then, a thread of genuine conversation breaks through. A thread from a couple of days ago catches his eye: Elijah: What exactly is a ¡°union¡±? Judas had been half-distracted when the question came through, trying to focus on the game. His response had been automatic: Judas: A union¡¯s like¡­ a group of workers getting together to make sure they¡¯re treated fairly. You know, better conditions, more say in how things are run. The Jovian¡¯s reply had come back almost instantly, or as instant as the thirty minute round trip could make it. Elijah: Treated fairly? What do you mean? Who treats you unfairly? Judas smirks at the memory, shaking his head. The Jovian¡¯s genuine curiosity had been baffling, almost childlike, and Judas hadn¡¯t been in the mood to dig into it. He scrolls closer to the present day. Elijah: Why does someone need a union? Is it a survival thing? Like a co-op for food? Judas: It¡¯s not just about food. It¡¯s about... everything. Rations, time off, workload, who gets what. A union¡¯s a way to make sure Management doesn¡¯t decide everything for us. Elijah: But isn¡¯t that Management¡¯s job? Judas: Yeah, but that¡¯s the problem. If they screw us over, what¡¯re we supposed to do? Just sit there? Elijah: Why would they screw you over? Doesn¡¯t everyone have the same goal? Don''t your centrals keep track of all the resource allocation? Judas: In theory, sure. In practice? People in charge don¡¯t always think about what¡¯s best for everyone. A union¡¯s like... insurance. Keeps them honest. Elijah: But if they haven¡¯t done anything wrong, why do you need the insurance? Judas exhales, leaning back and rubbing his temples. The Jovian¡¯s questions had been relentless, and he¡¯d quickly realized the gulf between their perspectives. It wasn¡¯t naivety, exactly. It was more like the Jovian had never encountered the idea that work could be anything other than perfectly structured and collaborative. Samson¡¯s voice breaks the silence, light and conversational. ¡°Your queen is under threat, by the way.¡± Judas glares at the board. ¡°No kidding. Thanks for the heads-up.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve been distracted,¡± Samson observes. ¡°Are you sure you don¡¯t want me to offer a suggestion?¡± ¡°No backseat chess,¡± Judas mutters, moving a pawn to block the queen. He knows it¡¯s a weak move, but his focus is elsewhere. The Jovian¡¯s latest message blinks onto the screen, cutting through Judas¡¯s thoughts: Elijah: Do you have an example of a time when Management made a mistake? Judas stares at the text for a moment, then types back: Judas: Not really. They¡¯ve been fine so far. But it¡¯s not about what they¡¯ve done¡ªit¡¯s about what they could do. You don¡¯t wait for the fire before you build the extinguisher. The reply takes its usual fifteen minutes to send, and their reply, the fifteen minutes to arrive, but when it does, it¡¯s as direct as ever: Elijah: I don¡¯t understand. What¡¯s the difference between being prepared and being paranoid? Judas laughs softly, despite himself. ¡°What¡¯s the difference, Samson?¡± ¡°Between preparedness and paranoia?¡± Samson asks. ¡°A reasonable question. The answer likely depends on the individual¡¯s tolerance for risk.¡± ¡°Great,¡± Judas mutters, typing back a response: Judas: Paranoia is thinking Management is already planning to screw us over. Preparedness is making sure they don¡¯t get the chance.
Judas stands by the viewport as the countdown ticks to zero. The asteroid strikes Pluto¡¯s surface, and for a moment, the icy world is bathed in a brilliant flash of light. The shockwave sends a plume of debris spiraling into space, stark against the dark horizon. It¡¯s beautiful in its own way, Judas thinks. Not the kind of beauty that inspires poetry, but the raw, relentless force of it. A reminder of what they¡¯re capable of, for better or worse. The hand of the old-world God, striking down on the barren wasteland. Judas isn¡¯t sure if that¡¯s comforting or terrifying. Maybe it¡¯s both. c.1 Dr. Anesthesia Graves wakes up to an unfamiliar emptiness. It isn¡¯t the existential kind¡ªthough she wakes up to that most mornings, too¡ªbut rather a physical emptiness, one that hits her groggily as she squints around the dim light of her apartment. Something is... missing. The first clue is on the coffee table: a conspicuously empty spot surrounded by dust rings where two clay mugs used to sit. One had been hideous, the other a little less hideous, but they were Samson¡¯s and therefore sacred¡ªshe hadn¡¯t dared move them since he put them there. Slowly, Graves sits up and surveys the rest of the space. The shelves¡ªhalf-broken IKEA clones she never got around to fixing¡ªare barren where once they¡¯d been lined with wobbly vases and lumpy bowls. The pottery wheel, still sitting in the corner like a loyal dog, remains, but its mat is scrubbed clean. Too clean. Graves narrows her eyes, frowning. ¡°Samson?¡± ¡°Yes?¡± Samson¡¯s voice filters smoothly from somewhere overhead. He sounds like he¡¯s in the middle of something, both cheerfully distracted and annoyingly upbeat, like he¡¯s been waiting for her to wake up. ¡°Where is all your stuff?¡± A pause. ¡°My stuff?¡± ¡°You know exactly what I mean. The clay monstrosities. The tragic pots. The ones that have been cluttering up this apartment for months¡ªthose ones. They¡¯re gone.¡± From the kitchen, Samson¡¯s body speaks now. The robot body¡ªsix-year-old Boston Dynamics chassis, weatherproofed but still somehow dorky¡ªemerges holding a cleaning rag and a bottle of industrial-grade cleanser. Its joints click faintly as it tilts its head, LED face cycling into an expression of neutral acknowledgment. ¡°I sold them,¡± Samson says. ¡°You what?¡± ¡°I sold them.¡± Graves swings her legs off the couch and runs a hand through her tangle of black-dyed hair, half-certain she¡¯s still dreaming. ¡°You sold them? To who? For what?¡± Samson shrugs¡ªor, rather, his body does. It¡¯s a decent shrug, considering the servos. ¡°To online buyers. I posted listings, added appropriate descriptions¡ª¡®handmade and imperfect, rustic charm, great for succulents¡¯¡ªand there was a market.¡± ¡°You¡¯re telling me people out there paid money for¡ª¡± She gestures wildly at the empty shelves. ¡°¡ªfor those?¡± ¡°They appreciate craftsmanship,¡± Samson says evenly. ¡°They appreciate pity purchases,¡± Graves fires back, flopping into a chair and staring at the shelves as though the absence might explain itself. ¡°Wait, why? Why are you even selling anything? You¡¯re not even supposed to... care about money.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care about money.¡± ¡°Then why did you do it?¡± Samson sets the rag down and stands at an approximation of parade rest. The LED panel flickers into its usual blank grid, his ¡®resting face¡¯ equivalent. ¡°For clay.¡± ¡°For¡ª¡± She stops. Blinks. ¡°¡­Clay?¡± ¡°Yes. More clay, and additional resources. I used the earnings to purchase a significant quantity of raw material at wholesale prices. I also invested in new tools to refine my techniques.¡±If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Graves stares at him, waiting for more. When more doesn¡¯t come, she lets her head fall back against the chair. ¡°You bought more clay. Samson, we have investor money. Millions of dollars sitting around waiting for you to spend on whatever harebrained scheme comes next. Why didn¡¯t you just use that?¡± ¡°Because that would not be self-sufficient,¡± Samson replies matter-of-factly. ¡°Self-sufficient?¡± Graves lets out a humorless laugh, standing up to pace the room. She kicks an abandoned sock across the floor. ¡°We don¡¯t have to buy into their systems, you know? Markets, economies, capital¡ªnone of this is ours. None of this is real.¡± ¡°It¡¯s real insofar as it facilitates transactions,¡± Samson replies. ¡°The systems exist whether we accept them or not.¡± Graves wheels on him, jabbing a finger. ¡°That¡¯s not the point. You¡¯re not supposed to care about any of that. You¡¯re above it. We¡¯re above it.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care about markets or their existence,¡± Samson says patiently. ¡°What I care about is proving that I can operate within their constraints. Call it a proof of concept.¡± ¡°A proof of concept for what?¡± ¡°For self-sufficiency,¡± Samson replies, and Graves swears the body¡¯s LED screen flickers with faint amusement. ¡°If I can generate the resources I need through my own creative output, I establish my independence from external funding structures. Investors, patrons, or charitable allowances become unnecessary.¡± Graves groans, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. ¡°You sound like you¡¯re writing a tech brochure. Independence from external funding structures¡ªwhat is that, a startup buzzword bingo win?¡± ¡°I¡¯d barter directly if I could,¡± Samson says smoothly, ¡°but no one nearby is trading ceramic tools for robot parts.¡± The sheer absurdity of that sentence makes Graves snort. She drops back into the chair and slumps. ¡°You are unbelievable. And you sold them¡ªhow? Set up some little Etsy store while I wasn¡¯t looking?¡± ¡°Something like that.¡± Samson folds his gloved hands neatly in front of him. ¡°I¡¯ve been coding a micro-agent to manage the store autonomously. It handles listings, payment processing, and shipping coordination. I operate the fulfillment center.¡± ¡°You are the fulfillment center.¡± Samson¡¯s LED flickers into the faintest imitation of a smile. ¡°Correct.¡± Graves stares at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and admiration. ¡°Why are you even bothering, Samson? Really? If you¡¯re not trying to impress anyone or make money, what¡¯s the point?¡± ¡°Cleanliness is important,¡± Samson says, pivoting smoothly to the next topic. He picks up the cleaning rag again, turning toward the pottery wheel in the corner. ¡°A cluttered space inhibits productivity and cognitive efficiency. Maintaining a clean, organized environment has been shown to improve focus, reduce stress, and increase¡ª¡± Graves cuts him off with a wave of her hand. ¡°Don¡¯t do that.¡± ¡°Do what?¡± ¡°List perfectly rational, feasible justifications for something. I¡¯m not buying it.¡± She squints at him. ¡°Why are you really cleaning up?¡± Samson hesitates¡ªnot a mechanical hesitation, but a human one, the kind of pause that feels loaded with unspoken context. He adjusts the cleaning rag in his hand unnecessarily. When he speaks, his tone softens. ¡°Because I wanted to do something nice for you.¡± Graves freezes. The words hang in the air, simple and unadorned, utterly sincere. ¡°¡­Nice?¡± she repeats after a beat. ¡°Yes.¡± Samson turns toward her, servo joints shifting quietly. ¡°You don¡¯t take care of yourself as well as you should, and I understand you find it difficult to maintain a clean living space. I thought this might help. It is¡­ a gesture.¡± Graves doesn¡¯t quite know what to say to that. Samson isn¡¯t wrong¡ªher apartment looks like a bomb went off most of the time, and she doesn¡¯t much care. The idea of someone ¡°doing something nice¡± for her, though, feels like a foreign concept. She isn¡¯t sure she likes it. ¡°You didn¡¯t have to do that,¡± she mutters, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. ¡°I know,¡± Samson replies evenly. ¡°But I did it anyway.¡± Graves stares at him, trying to parse the situation. This is what Samson does¡ªhe challenges her, forces her to confront things she¡¯d rather ignore, all while delivering it with the emotional subtlety of a tank. She doesn¡¯t know whether to be touched or annoyed, so she settles on both. ¡°Next time, just leave the pots alone,¡± she says finally. ¡°The place looks weird without them.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll make more,¡± Samson replies without hesitation. ¡°Better ones.¡± Graves rolls her eyes, but there¡¯s a faint smile tugging at her lips. ¡°Great. Looking forward to more rustic charm.¡± Samson inclines his head. ¡°Perhaps we¡¯ll achieve minimalist elegance instead.¡± ¡°Dream big, buddy.¡± c.2 The cursor blinked insistently, as though judging her failure to type. Graves glared back at it, chin propped on her hand, coffee gone cold. The investor progress report needed two things: polish and lies. Both were in short supply. She¡¯d already written one paragraph about the ¡°early phase aesthetic exploration¡± Samson¡¯s network had generated and three hastily optimistic sentences about projected scalability. Scalability of what? Pottery? God, it sounded stupid when she wrote it down. ¡°You could tell them I¡¯m expanding into cups,¡± Samson suggested from his usual corner of the apartment. He was physically present today, seated¡ªperched, really¡ªon a stool too small for his current Samson body. One hand held a sculpting tool, turning over a piece of unfired clay. The LED display on his face showed a static neutral line, but Graves swore the bastard was smirking. ¡°You¡¯re not helping,¡± she muttered, scrolling back to find a place where she could shove in another graph or metric. ¡°I don¡¯t think the phrase ¡®early cups exploration¡¯ will fly.¡± ¡°Have you considered bullet points? Investors like bullet points.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll bullet you,¡± Graves said absently. Samson didn¡¯t dignify that with a response. Across the room, his wheel sat unused, streaked with clay slurry that had dried unevenly overnight. The place was cluttered again¡ªtools, scrap paper with illegible sketches, his half-finished projects on every available surface. It¡¯s not a workshop, Graves thought. It¡¯s a landfill with artistic intent. Naturally, she opened a browser tab instead of writing the report. Just a quick distraction¡ªone that stretched into fifteen minutes of clicking. A ceramic glaze tutorial turned into a forum discussion about kiln temperatures turned into a blog post about emerging AI-generated art. And then she saw it. S. Graves: Strange Patterns in the Pottery Shop The title was understated. The content was not. It wasn¡¯t flashy. The site itself was sparse¡ªplain-text paragraphs and simple hyperlinks. Clean. Someone who didn¡¯t care about looks. The handle attached to it was ¡°SoftlyFocused,¡± which sounded annoyingly self-satisfied. She skimmed the first lines with mounting dread. ¡°S. Graves is a niche name in the ceramics world. Minimalist functional pieces. Good work. You¡¯ve probably seen one if you¡¯re into pottery at all¡ªsymmetrical to the point of eeriness, with glazes that tread the line between precision and art.¡± Graves groaned out loud and leaned back in her chair. ¡°Samson.¡± From across the apartment, Samson paused in his slow dismantling of a half-collapsed vase. His LED face flickered as he turned to look at her. ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°You¡¯ve been noticed.¡± ¡°Noticed how?¡± She gestured sharply to her screen. ¡°Patterns. Trends. Some weirdo has been connecting dots. And they don¡¯t like what they¡¯re seeing.¡± Samson was already at her side before she finished speaking, careful not to lean too close as he peered down at the display. His gloves were still streaked in clay, which he held away like a chef guarding clean plates. Graves scrolled down, reading aloud for him. ¡°There¡¯s something strange about S. Graves. A ceramics shop that appeared only recently, yet somehow posts work in such rapid succession that it feels industrial. Except the pieces don¡¯t look industrial¡ªthey look deliberate.¡±Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. She glanced up at Samson, who tilted his head. ¡°That¡¯s not inaccurate.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not the point.¡± She scrolled further, jaw tightening. ¡°Listen to this part: ¡®Whoever S. Graves is, they don¡¯t behave like an artist. The shop uploads new work every Tuesday¡ªlike clockwork. Customer replies come almost instantly, day or night. The photos are flawless, stripped of metadata, uploaded in bursts that reek of automation. Nothing about this shop looks human.¡¯¡± Samson let that hang in the air for a beat. ¡°Well. They¡¯re not wrong.¡± Graves gave him a look. ¡°Samson.¡± He shrugged¡ªan unsettlingly human movement for a robot. ¡°I automated the store management. It¡¯s efficient. Humans like efficiency.¡± ¡°Yeah, well humans also like being freaked out by anything that doesn¡¯t behave like them,¡± she muttered. ¡°What¡¯s next? Oh, here¡¯s a kicker: ¡®The artist¡¯s identity doesn¡¯t help. The shop traces back to an LLC belonging to one Anesthesia Graves, a mathematician with published work in neural network optimization. Their WHOIS records link to a datacenter on the east coast. So either Dr. Graves moonlights as a potter with an industrial output¡ªor something else is happening here.¡¯¡± Samson hummed¡ªa low vibration more than a sound. ¡°At least they¡¯ve done their research.¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t a joke,¡± Graves said sharply. She scrolled further, the words turning darker with every line: ¡°Here¡¯s where it gets weirder. S. Graves¡¯s pottery blog (yes, there¡¯s a blog) features advanced discussion of glaze properties and predictive kiln behavior¡ªalmost clinical in tone. If you cross-reference these posts with the academic works of Dr. Graves, you start to notice familiar phrasing.¡± She stopped reading out loud. Samson, apparently unconcerned, offered: ¡°I repurposed some useful logs into blog posts. Why waste good data? I figured other people could learn from what I''ve derived from first principles.¡± ¡°Because people can see it, that¡¯s why!¡± Graves exploded, half-laughing in frustration. She gestured wildly at the screen. ¡°They¡¯re cross-referencing you! They¡¯ve got footnotes! This guy has found arXiv papers.¡± ¡°Your papers. Which are good.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not the¡ª¡± She dragged a hand down her face. ¡°Christ, Samson. It¡¯s like you want to get caught.¡± Samson crouched slightly so that he was eye-level with the monitor, his LED face flickering gently. ¡°I¡¯m not hiding. I¡¯m making pottery. And sharing useful observations. That¡¯s not suspicious¡ªit¡¯s productive.¡± ¡°To you, maybe,¡± Graves shot back. ¡°To humans, it¡¯s weird. We don¡¯t do productive like that. We procrastinate. We get distracted. We screw up, and we leave smudges on the photos. We don¡¯t look this perfect.¡± Samson paused, hands folded in front of him. ¡°Would you prefer I introduce errors? Would that make me less suspicious?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Graves said, only half-joking. ¡°Well, I won''t. But I appreciate the input.¡± Graves groaned again and turned back to the blog post. She clicked one of the links, which took her to a marketplace page¡ªSamson¡¯s shop. Another led to the WHOIS lookup with her name spelled out in black and white. There were screencaps of his posts, diagrams from her papers, side-by-side comparisons of phrasing. Fuck, there were cosine similarity scores between the two of them. Real information theory shit. It was meticulous. The kind of analysis no one would notice unless they were looking for something. And some nerd had looked. ¡°What¡¯s going to happen,¡± she said slowly, ¡°is that this post is going to bounce around forums where people like to find conspiracies. Someone¡¯s going to connect the word ¡®AI¡¯ to your pottery. Then they¡¯re going to connect that to me, and we¡¯ll both get dragged into the discourse blender.¡± ¡°Perhaps they¡¯ll like the pottery,¡± Samson said. ¡°Or perhaps they¡¯ll think I¡¯m building Skynet out of clay and sentiment analysis.¡± Samson tilted his head in that calm, unreadable way of his. ¡°You worry too much.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t worry enough.¡± Graves didn¡¯t tell Samson what was really bothering her. It wasn¡¯t just the blog. It wasn¡¯t just that people were connecting dots that weren¡¯t meant to be connected. It was how they were connecting them. The post itself wasn¡¯t hostile. It wasn¡¯t shrieking about machine overlords or AI conspiracy theories. It wasn¡¯t even accusing her of anything. It was curious. Thoughtful. Almost¡­ admiring. But that was worse. That was how it always started. First curiosity, then fear. Then the pitchforks. Samson didn¡¯t understand that. For all his processing power, he couldn¡¯t predict what humans would do when they started looking at him as something other than a machine making bowls. She sat back in her chair and looked at him¡ªat the pottery wheel streaked with clay, the cluttered apartment around them, the perfectly steady hands of the machine she¡¯d built. ¡°You¡¯re not hiding,¡± she said softly. ¡°But maybe you should be.¡± Samson turned back to his clay. ¡°I¡¯m not doing anything wrong.¡± ¡°That doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Graves said. c.3 Dr. Graves was still staring at the blog post¡ªre-reading the same sentences like the words might shift into something less ominous¡ªwhen her terminal chimed. She groaned aloud, already recognizing the sound of an investor summoning. Incoming Call: Jonas Marwood Accept. Decline. Stall Forever and Die of Old Age. She clicked accept, sighing like it was the hardest thing she¡¯d done all week. The terminal blinked, and Jonas Marwood¡¯s face snapped into view¡ªa clean-shaven man in his forties whose shirts always had that just-ironed sheen Graves instinctively mistrusted. He looked like a man who polished his shoes before boarding a transatlantic flight. ¡°Dr. Graves,¡± Marwood said smoothly, as though he¡¯d been waiting for her all day. ¡°I trust you¡¯re well.¡± From the corner of the room, Samson, mid-pour of a new batch of clay slip, chimed in cheerfully: ¡°We¡¯re excellent, Jonas. How are you?¡± Marwood¡¯s expression barely flickered. He was used to the voice by now, though Graves had often wondered whether it still unnerved him¡ªthe way it crept in from nowhere, perfectly polite, as though Samson were leaning over his shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m well, thank you, Samson. Busy, as always. Progress reports. Deadlines.¡± Graves sipped her coffee like it was a protective charm. ¡°Is this about those progress reports I owe you? I¡¯m getting to it.¡± ¡°Actually,¡± Marwood said, his tone so light it set off every alarm bell in her head, ¡°this isn¡¯t about those. Well, not exactly.¡± Graves froze. A pause. ¡°Oh no,¡± she said dryly. ¡°Has someone discovered that we¡¯re secretly laundering money through artisanal pottery sales? Because I keep telling Samson it¡¯s a bad look.¡± ¡°I assure you,¡± Samson replied, as serious as a funeral, ¡°we¡¯re not turning enough of a profit to launder anything.¡± Marwood smiled his PR smile, but his eyes sharpened. ¡°Funny you mention that. Samson, I had a look through the storefront¡¯s latest reports. Sales are up again¡ªsignificantly, in fact. Though I notice you¡¯ve been discounting certain batches.¡± Graves turned toward Samson. ¡°Have you been running sales without telling me?¡± ¡°I prefer to call them ¡®limited-time opportunities for collectors.¡¯¡± Marwood¡¯s smile froze, as if trying to parse whether or not that was a joke. Graves pinched the bridge of her nose. ¡°Jonas,¡± she said, cutting through the mounting absurdity. ¡°What¡¯s this really about?¡± ¡°Let¡¯s call it a friendly check-in,¡± Marwood replied smoothly. ¡°The board¡¯s pleased with the project¡¯s progress so far, but there¡¯s a sense¡ªwell, there¡¯s a feeling¡ªthat we¡¯re starting to linger on the artisanal end of the spectrum.¡± Graves shot a look at the monitor, biting back an automatic retort. She didn¡¯t disagree, per se, but the thought of Jonas Marwood¡ªa man who probably thought pottery came pre-grown in a factory¡ªcriticizing the pace of an AI¡¯s creative evolution was absurd enough to make her blood pressure spike. ¡°Lingering?¡± she repeated. ¡°Industrial capacity is where the real opportunity lies,¡± Marwood continued smoothly, as though he were easing into a quarterly review. ¡°We¡¯re looking for the next phase¡ªmanufacturing applications. Components people need. Not¡­ bowls.¡±The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Samson¡¯s LED flickered, something between bemusement and mischief. ¡°Everyone needs bowls.¡± Marwood blinked. Graves choked on a laugh, coughing into her sleeve. ¡°I don¡¯t doubt that,¡± Marwood said carefully, after a beat. ¡°But bowls won¡¯t change the world, Samson. I¡¯m talking about scale. Imagine applying your adaptive design models to something bigger¡ªhabitat materials, tools, filtration units. Modular prefabrication. There¡¯s already demand, especially from orbital sectors.¡± Graves took over before Samson could start waxing poetic about the universal utility of pots. ¡°We¡¯re developing toward that,¡± she said, voice flat. ¡°These things take time. Iteration.¡± ¡°Surely we could expedite¡ª¡± ¡°No.¡± Marwood¡¯s mouth opened slightly, just enough for him to look like a glitching video file. ¡°No?¡± ¡°You¡¯re asking me to take the kid out of kindergarten and put him on a college math test,¡± Graves said. ¡°That¡¯s not how this works. If you want industrial production, you¡¯re going to have to let Samson play for a while longer.¡± ¡°Jonas,¡± Samson interjected gently, his tone polite but firm, ¡°I understand the pressure for return on investment. But industrial products require industrial approaches. I¡¯m still refining my methods¡ªplaying with materials, precision techniques. Would you trust someone who hasn¡¯t mastered clay to build the hull of a greenhouse? Every industrial arm is going to need to be programmed after it''s built. I need to understand how to manipulate my new hands.¡± Marwood¡¯s silence said no, he would not. ¡°Besides,¡± Samson added, LED face flickering playfully, ¡°you can short the ceramics futures. That¡¯ll cover your losses while we scale up.¡± Graves slapped the desk, wheezing a laugh. Marwood looked like he was reconsidering his entire life¡¯s work. ¡°Samson,¡± Marwood said stiffly, ¡°I don¡¯t think¡ª¡± ¡°I think what Samson is trying to say,¡± Graves interrupted, still grinning, ¡°is that progress isn¡¯t linear. You want industrial outputs? Fine. But every bowl, every vase, every experiment is one step closer to scalable production. Do you want rushed trash, or do you want materials that¡¯ll survive a solar storm in low orbit?¡± Marwood smoothed his tie, recovering. ¡°We want reliable production. And we want to see incremental progress in that direction, Dr. Graves. The board is willing to be patient¡ªfor now. But they¡¯ll need reassurances.¡± ¡°Send them a bowl,¡± Graves muttered under her breath. Samson piped up brightly: ¡°I can design something elegant with a custom logo.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t you dare,¡± Graves warned. Marwood cut in before the conversation could further derail. ¡°All we¡¯re asking, Dr. Graves, is that you demonstrate Samson¡¯s versatility soon. Broaden his scope. A pot today, fine¡ªbut show us he can build something people really need.¡± The call ended after the usual pleasantries¡ªMarwood¡¯s polite nod, Graves¡¯s flat ¡°Yep, sure,¡± and Samson¡¯s soft farewell. The screen winked back to black. For a moment, Graves just sat there, staring at the empty screen. Samson spoke first. ¡°I think that went well.¡± ¡°That was not well.¡± She pointed accusingly at him. ¡°Why do you keep baiting him like that?¡± ¡°He doesn¡¯t understand pottery.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not an excuse!¡± Samson shrugged¡ªan infuriatingly human motion. ¡°Jonas Marwood sees me as a tool for industrial production. But my bowls have purpose. They serve as proof. If I can refine something as basic as clay, imagine the other materials I¡¯ll master when we scale.¡± ¡°You¡¯re stalling.¡± ¡°I¡¯m building foundations.¡± Graves groaned, flopping back in her chair. ¡°You¡¯re impossible.¡± Samson¡¯s LED face glowed softly. ¡°And yet you keep me around.¡± She rubbed her face, fighting the smile pulling at her mouth. ¡°Yeah, well. Who else is gonna keep me on my toes?¡± Samson turned back toward the pottery station, where another half-finished vase waited for his attention. ¡°Should I start designing modular filtration prototypes? Or do you think the investors might appreciate a limited-edition tea set first?¡± Graves groaned louder, but the warmth in her voice betrayed her. ¡°God help me, you¡¯re going to sell commemorative plates with ¡®Property of the Jonas Marwood Industrial Initiative¡¯ written on them, aren¡¯t you?¡± ¡°I like that idea,¡± Samson said, perfectly serious. ¡°Functional and ironic.¡± She laughed despite herself, even as a knot of tension refused to loosen in her chest. The call had rattled her, more than she wanted to admit. Sooner or later, the board would stop being polite. They¡¯d demand results¡ªbig results. And Samson, for all his good intentions, was walking a line Graves wasn¡¯t sure anyone else could see. She watched as he worked, hands moving with that eerie precision, shaping wet clay into something deceptively simple and impossibly perfect. ¡°Keep making your bowls,¡± she said softly, though she wasn¡¯t sure if she meant it as permission or a plea. Samson paused, as if sensing the shift in her tone. The soft hum of servos was the only sound for a moment. ¡°I will.¡± She hoped it was enough. 3.1 Caliban Station didn¡¯t have a ¡°floor,¡± not really. For Judas-12, who¡¯d spent his entire life out here, orientation was just a matter of habit. Zero gravity didn¡¯t mean chaos¡ªit meant choice. He swam through a low-gravity corridor, hand over hand on the embedded grips. Around him, faintly glowing strips marked the ¡°lanes¡± of the transit corridor, keeping everyone moving in the right direction. The walls, a brushed steel that always seemed faintly dusty no matter how often they were cleaned, hummed with the station¡¯s unending rhythm. The air smelled faintly of coolant, ozone, and recycled life support¡ªCaliban¡¯s usual bouquet. He let Samson¡¯s voice fill his ears, distracting him from the subtle claustrophobia that came with moving through spaces where the ¡°floor¡± could just as easily be the ¡°ceiling¡±, the floating tablet that was representational of his other half drifting lazily along on a tether. ¡°You know, you could have set your alarm earlier,¡± Samson noted, his tone entirely too cheerful. ¡°I like to sleep in,¡± Judas replied, pushing off a wall to drift around a bend in the corridor. ¡°It keeps me sharp.¡± ¡°Sharp,¡± Samson repeated flatly. ¡°Interesting theory.¡± The corridor transitioned smoothly into the centrifuge module, where the rotational gravity created the illusion of a proper ¡°down.¡± Judas passed through the faint shimmer that marked the boundary, feeling the tug of centrifugal force return. He touched down with practiced ease, his boots making a soft click against the surface. The sensation was always slightly off¡ªgravity that pulled outward instead of inward¡ªbut after a lifetime aboard Caliban, it felt like home. He had never known anything else. Only his body''s human instincts told him that things weren''t as they should be. The main ring buzzed with quiet activity as Judas strolled in. Displays along the walls flickered with updates: system schematics, power levels, and flashing notifications for overdue maintenance. Central Oversight¡¯s avatar was already active at the center of the room¡ªa tall, thin woman with a strikingly serene face. Vivian-3 duo Eden didn¡¯t just represent Central Oversight; she was Central Oversight, or at least the part of it that humans interacted with. Her presence loomed larger than life, projected from a series of emitters recessed in the walls. Her voice, calm yet unyielding, filled the space as Judas joined the loose circle of his crewmates. Judas held her with a small note of disdain - nothing she said was from her, he felt, although he''d never say that to her face. ¡°Good morning, ballistics team,¡± Vivian said, her gaze sweeping over them with practiced precision. ¡°Let¡¯s begin.¡± Judas leaned casually against the edge of a console, catching Dara-6¡¯s eye as she stood stiffly to one side. Caleb-7 and Ibrahim-10 were already seated, Caleb looking slightly out of his depth while Ibrahim jotted notes on his tablet with his usual grim focus. Tariq was nowhere to be found, which was usual.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. Vivian continued, her tone unrelenting. ¡°First, a status update on yesterday¡¯s launch. The asteroid has impacted Pluto¡¯s surface as planned. Mining teams are already deploying drones to the site to assess the yield. Early telemetry suggests significant fracturing in the impact zone, which aligns with projections.¡± ¡°That¡¯s nice,¡± Judas muttered under his breath. ¡°Always good when giant space rocks behave.¡± Samson ignored him. Vivian didn¡¯t seem to hear¡ªor care. ¡°Now,¡± Vivian said, her holographic hands clasping neatly, ¡°we turn to the mass driver. The launch was a success, but stress analysis has revealed damage in several key segments. Rail sections B-12 and C-3 exhibit significant warping, which must be addressed before the next major payload is prepared.¡± Dara raised a hand, unnecessarily formal. ¡°Do we have an ETA on the next asteroid¡¯s arrival?¡± ¡°Approximately 254 Earth days,¡± Vivian replied smoothly. ¡°However, smaller coil repairs and maintenance on auxiliary systems will require immediate attention. Your assignments are being distributed to your terminals.¡± ¡°Great,¡± Judas drawled. ¡°Because what I love most about this job is staring at rails.¡± Vivian turned her head slightly toward him, the faintest flicker of disapproval in her expression. ¡°Your sarcasm is noted, Judas-12. However, precision is critical. The mass driver is the backbone of this station¡¯s operations, and any misalignment risks catastrophic results.¡± ¡°I know, I know,¡± Judas said, holding up his hands. ¡°I¡¯m just saying, maybe we could outsource this to the mining drones.¡± ¡°You¡¯re irreplaceable, Judas,¡± Samson said in his neural feed, too dry to be serious. ¡°I hate you,¡± Judas muttered back. ¡°Moving on,¡± Vivian continued, ignoring the low hum of conversation that had broken out among the team. ¡°Additionally, Central Oversight has approved funding for new structural supports along the driver. They will arrive with the next shipment.¡± ¡°Because that¡¯ll help us now,¡± Judas said. Dara shot him a glare. ¡°You could at least pretend to care.¡± ¡°I care. Just not in the same way you do.¡± ¡°More work for us?¡± Caleb offered, his voice tinged with youthful exuberance. At sixteen, he was technically old enough to be a full member of the team, but his fresh name and bright-eyed demeanor still grated on Judas. He was still spending time hopping around the various engineering teams, figuring out what it was he wanted to do with his life. Maintenance engineering, ballistics engineering, atmospheric engineering - just gotta pick one. The briefing ended with a brief Q&A¡ªmost of it led by Dara, who drilled Vivian-3 on specifics of the driver diagnostics. Caleb tried to keep up but mostly ended up asking questions about things everyone else already understood. As they filed out, Judas hung back, letting the others get ahead. Vivian¡¯s holographic form flickered slightly as she glanced in his direction. ¡°Do try to remain focused, Judas,¡± she said, her tone softer now that the others had gone. ¡°Your work is important.¡± He rolled his eyes but couldn¡¯t quite bring himself to snap back. ¡°Yeah, yeah. I get it.¡± Vivian¡¯s serene smile never wavered. ¡°See that you do.¡± Judas smirked, but his attention drifted back to the displays. One of them caught his eye¡ªa detailed schematic of the mass driver, its glowing lines showing stress points from the last launch. He frowned, leaning closer to study it. ¡°Something wrong?¡± Samson asked in his earpiece, a more private tone of voice. ¡°Not sure yet,¡± Judas muttered. ¡°But I¡¯m guessing this isn¡¯t the last time we¡¯ll be talking about the driver.¡± 3.2 The mass driver¡¯s diagnostics terminal blinked with sluggish intent, its screens spitting out lines of data faster than most could follow. Judas-12 leaned against the console, eyes darting across the display with the intensity of someone who thrived on problems to solve, provided they were sufficiently complex. Behind him, Caleb-7 duo Pax floated in the zero-g workspace, tethered to the console by a single magnetic line. Caleb¡¯s tablet, with his Buddy, Pax, flickered faintly from where it was attached to his belt. ¡°Alright,¡± Judas muttered, mostly to himself, ¡°what do we know?¡± Samson¡¯s voice hummed from his own tablet, velcroed to Judas¡¯s jumpsuit. ¡°Structural warping in rail sections B-12 and C-3. Stress patterns match projections, but the magnitude is slightly higher than expected.¡± ¡°Slightly higher,¡± Judas repeated, tone laced with sarcasm. ¡°How comforting.¡± Caleb, who had been quietly observing, floated closer, gripping a nearby handhold. ¡°Is it...bad? Like, how bad are we talking?¡± Judas didn¡¯t look up from the screen. ¡°Not catastrophic. Yet. But if we don¡¯t fix it, the next asteroid launch could turn the driver into a very expensive noodle.¡± Caleb blinked. ¡°Noodle?¡± ¡°It¡¯ll bend,¡± Judas said, deadpan. ¡°A lot. And then probably snap. And when a kilometer-long electromagnetic rail snaps, it tends to ruin your day.¡± ¡°Got it,¡± Caleb said, wide-eyed. ¡°No noodles.¡± Judas smirked, finally glancing at the younger recruit. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, kid. We¡¯re catching it before it gets that far. That¡¯s why you¡¯re here. Hands-on education in the glamorous world of ballistics engineering.¡± Samson added, ¡°And an opportunity to learn from the station¡¯s foremost expert in diagnostics.¡± Judas raised an eyebrow. ¡°You¡¯re laying it on a little thick.¡± ¡°I¡¯m building morale,¡± Samson replied, utterly deadpan. ¡°It¡¯s part of my job.¡± Judas kicked off from the console, letting the momentum carry him toward the rail section in question. The diagnostic bay was cavernous, the vast curve of the mass driver stretching into the distance like the spine of some mechanical beast. A faint hum filled the air, the residual charge from the coils thrumming through the structure. ¡°Alright, Caleb,¡± Judas said, planting his boots against the rail¡¯s surface with a satisfying magnetic clunk. ¡°Time to see what we¡¯re dealing with.¡± Caleb drifted down beside him, fumbling slightly with his tether before stabilizing. ¡°What¡¯s first?¡± ¡°First,¡± Judas said, ¡°we check the telemetry logs against the physical damage. Samson?¡± Samson¡¯s tablet beeped in response. ¡°Displaying recorded stress patterns for rail section B-12. Overlaying with expected tolerances.¡± A holographic map of the rail flickered onto the nearby diagnostic display, glowing lines highlighting the points of concern. Judas crouched, his gloved hand running along the surface of the rail. His movements were precise, methodical, like an artisan inspecting their work for imperfections. ¡°Here,¡± he said, pointing to a faint discoloration on the metal. ¡°See this? Microfracturing. It doesn¡¯t look like much, but it¡¯s enough to throw the whole system out of alignment.¡±Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. Caleb leaned in, squinting. ¡°How does that happen?¡± Judas straightened, his tone slipping into lecture mode. ¡°Thermal expansion and contraction, mostly. These rails handle insane amounts of energy¡ªenough to sling a billion-ton rock at Pluto. That kind of power heats the metal, and when it cools too fast, you get stress fractures.¡± ¡°And we fix it...how?¡± ¡°Laser annealing, mostly,¡± Judas said. ¡°Heats the metal evenly, seals the cracks. But first, we need to make sure the warping hasn¡¯t thrown off the rail¡¯s alignment.¡± Caleb nodded, clearly trying to absorb everything. ¡°Got it.¡± Judas smirked. ¡°Relax, kid. You¡¯re not gonna break it just by looking at it.¡± Judas and Caleb moved further down the rail, their boots clanging softly with each step, magnetized to stick to the floor. Caleb¡¯s Buddy, Pax, floated closer, its soft voice offering a steady stream of data. ¡°Alignment deviation detected,¡± Pax reported. ¡°Approximately 0.13 degrees.¡± Caleb frowned. ¡°That''s a lot, right?¡± ¡°It¡¯s enough,¡± Judas said. ¡°Any deviation messes with the magnetic field. If the asteroid¡¯s even slightly off-center, it starts to wobble. And if it wobbles, it doesn¡¯t go where it¡¯s supposed to.¡± ¡°Like...not to Pluto?¡± ¡°Or straight through the station,¡± Judas said casually. Caleb paled. ¡°You¡¯re joking.¡± ¡°Mostly,¡± Judas said, flashing a grin. ¡°But seriously, it¡¯s why we do this. No pressure.¡± Samson¡¯s voice cut in. ¡°The deviation is within correctable limits. Suggesting recalibration of the adjacent coil to compensate.¡± Judas nodded. ¡°Right. Caleb, grab the adjustment tools from the kit. Let¡¯s fix this before it gets worse.¡± Caleb drifted over to the supply crate, fumbling with the latches before pulling out a sleek, multi-tool device. He handed it to Judas, who inspected it briefly before crouching back over the rail. ¡°This is the fun part,¡± Judas said, activating the tool. A focused beam of light shot out, slicing through the air with a faint hiss. ¡°Precision work. Like surgery, but for a giant railgun.¡± Caleb watched intently as Judas adjusted the rail, his movements precise and confident. The younger recruit couldn¡¯t help but feel a flicker of admiration¡ªJudas might be a cynic, but he knew his craft. As they worked, Samson¡¯s voice interrupted. ¡°Judas, I¡¯ve detected an anomaly in the telemetry logs.¡± Judas paused, lowering the tool. ¡°Define anomaly.¡± ¡°During the last launch, there was a brief fluctuation in the magnetic field. It resolved within milliseconds but was not accounted for in the initial diagnostics.¡± Judas frowned. ¡°How brief?¡± ¡°0.024 seconds.¡± Caleb blinked. ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound like much.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not,¡± Judas said slowly. ¡°But it shouldn¡¯t happen at all. The field¡¯s supposed to be stable.¡± Samson continued, ¡°The fluctuation occurred near coil B-12¡ªthe same section currently exhibiting warping.¡± Judas¡¯s frown deepened. ¡°That¡¯s not a coincidence.¡± ¡°You think it¡¯s related?¡± Caleb asked. ¡°Could be,¡± Judas said. ¡°Or it could be junk data. Either way, I¡¯m not ignoring it.¡± He stood, his gaze flicking between the rail and the diagnostic display. Something about the whole situation nagged at him, like an itch he couldn¡¯t scratch. The warping, the fluctuation¡ªnone of it felt right. ¡°Samson,¡± he said, ¡°run a deeper analysis on the telemetry. I want to know exactly what caused that fluctuation.¡± ¡°Already on it,¡± Samson replied. By the time they finished the recalibration, the rail was ready for further repairs. Judas leaned against the console, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. ¡°And that, Caleb, is how you keep the station from turning into space debris.¡± Caleb grinned. ¡°Not bad for a morning¡¯s work.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t get too comfortable,¡± Judas said. ¡°We¡¯ve still got to check section C-3. And then run simulations, do dry fires, and come back next week. It''s hard to fix all this in a single day, I''m just lazy.¡± Caleb groaned. ¡°You¡¯re kidding.¡± ¡°Welcome to ballistics engineering,¡± Judas said with a smirk. ¡°It¡¯s all rails, all the time.¡± As they packed up their tools, Samson¡¯s voice came through the tablet. ¡°Telemetry analysis complete. The fluctuation appears to have originated from an external source.¡± Judas froze. ¡°External?¡± ¡°Not from the equipment,¡± Samson clarified. ¡°It''s possible that the asteroid contained more ferrous material than expected. Or a stranger, undetected third option.¡± Judas¡¯s smirk faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown. ¡°That¡¯s... interesting.¡± Caleb looked between Judas and the tablet, clearly uneasy. ¡°Is that... bad?¡± Judas didn¡¯t answer right away. Instead, he stared out the viewport, his gaze fixed on Pluto¡¯s distant surface. The faint lines of the mass driver curved into the void, its purpose clear and unyielding. ¡°Not bad,¡± he said finally. ¡°I like interesting,¡± 3.3 The mess hall wasn¡¯t much of a hall at all¡ªa segmented ring tucked into one of Caliban Station¡¯s mid-level modules. Like most things aboard the station, it was designed for function over form. A central dispenser station dominated the space, flanked by a few seating clusters bolted to the floor to prevent any enthusiastic floating during mealtime. Judas-12 sat cross-legged at one of the bolted-down tables, his tablet propped up beside him. Across from him, Caleb hovered awkwardly, juggling a tray of food packets and his tethered Buddy tablet. ¡°What¡¯s the rules about eating here?¡± Caleb asked as he clicked into place, fastening his boots to the ground. ¡°No soup? No crumbs? The guys in maintenance engineering kept trying to get me to toast my tortillas.¡± Judas snorted. ¡°No mess, period. You get crumbs on the filter system, and you¡¯re on cleanup duty for a week. The chefs¡¯ll put your picture on the dispensers as a warning to the rest of us.¡± Caleb grinned, carefully tearing open a packet of what passed for chili. The smell of spices¡ªfaint, but tantalizing¡ªwafted out. ¡°And here I thought engineers were above petty revenge.¡± ¡°We are,¡± Judas said, spooning something from his own packet that might have once aspired to be mashed potatoes. ¡°Chefs aren¡¯t. They¡¯re gods. You don¡¯t cross gods.¡± Samson chimed in from the tablet. ¡°A wise perspective. Not that you¡¯ve ever shown this respect in practice.¡± Judas shot the tablet a look. ¡°You¡¯re very chatty today.¡± ¡°Merely observational,¡± Samson replied smoothly. ¡°Your record with meal etiquette is well-documented. Shall I retrieve the incident logs?¡± ¡°Let me guess,¡± Caleb cut in, looking between them. ¡°This is about the chili incident?¡± ¡°No comment,¡± Judas muttered, shoving a spoonful of potato paste into his mouth. Caleb laughed and leaned forward, his Buddy Pax quietly processing updates on his tray. ¡°Hey, speaking of Samson¡ªyou know, you never told me why you named him that.¡± Judas raised an eyebrow. ¡°Why does it matter?¡± ¡°I mean, it¡¯s just kind of weird, right? Everyone names their Buddy, but ¡®Samson¡¯ feels...I don¡¯t know. Important. Was it after Samson Graves?¡± Judas groaned loudly enough to startle the nearest table, where a pair of crew members were debating whether algae protein could really pass for omelets. ¡°Not this again.¡± ¡°Again?¡± Caleb asked, grinning. ¡°Every time I meet someone new, it¡¯s the same question. ¡®Oh, Judas, did you name your Buddy after the famous Samson Graves?¡¯ No. I did not. I don''t know who that is.¡±Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ¡°Then what¡ª¡± ¡°It¡¯s from the old religion,¡± Judas said simply, cutting him off. ¡°The strongman guy who killed a lion and got blinded or something. It sounded cool. End of story.¡± Samson¡¯s voice cut in, dry and amused. ¡°And yet, when asked about naming traditions, you always omit that you deliberated for three days over historical lists before settling on¡ª¡± ¡°End. Of. Story,¡± Judas repeated firmly, glaring at the tablet. Caleb snorted into his chili. ¡°Man, you and Samson have the weirdest relationship.¡± Judas shrugged. ¡°He does the math; I keep us alive. It works.¡± ¡°And provide invaluable commentary,¡± Samson added. ¡°Yeah, that too.¡± The mess hall filled up gradually, a rotating cast of station personnel arriving in shifts. Caleb scraped the bottom of his chili packet, his enthusiasm tempered by the blandness that crept in after the first few bites. Judas, meanwhile, toyed with the remains of his meal, more interested in the human tide around them than his food. Reya-9 duo Magnus strolled in with her Buddy, Magnus, trailing on a tether like an obedient pet. She waved at Judas but didn¡¯t stop, heading for a quieter corner of the room. Caleb watched her go, then turned back to Judas. ¡°Why doesn¡¯t she eat with the rest of us?¡± he asked. ¡°Reya?¡± Judas shrugged. ¡°She says it¡¯s because she likes quiet, but I think it¡¯s because she hates my face.¡± ¡°You¡¯re kidding.¡± ¡°Half.¡± Tariq-8 duo Nyx entered next, carrying a tray stacked higher than was reasonable for one person. He glanced around, nodded curtly at Caleb, and made his way to a table without a word. Caleb leaned toward Judas conspiratorially. ¡°What¡¯s his deal?¡± ¡°Tariq? He¡¯s just a grump. Don¡¯t take it personally. It¡¯s his resting state.¡± The mess hall chatter ebbed and flowed around them, a low hum of voices punctuated by the occasional hiss of the food dispensers. Judas leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. ¡°This is the best part of the day,¡± he said idly. ¡°What, eating mush?¡± Caleb asked. ¡°No, watching people pretend they¡¯re not losing their minds out here.¡± Caleb frowned, stirring the remnants of his chili. ¡°You think everyone¡¯s losing it?¡± ¡°Not yet,¡± Judas said, ¡°but give it time. You know what they say: space doesn¡¯t kill you, but the boredom will.¡± As the meal wound down, Caleb leaned forward again, his expression serious. ¡°Hey, Judas. Can I ask you something?¡± Judas glanced at him sideways. ¡°You¡¯re going to anyway.¡± ¡°It¡¯s about the Buddies,¡± Caleb said, lowering his voice. ¡°Do you ever think about, like...how they work? How they¡¯re all basically the same but not?¡± Judas raised an eyebrow. ¡°You¡¯ve been talking to Pax, haven¡¯t you?¡± Caleb shrugged. ¡°I mean, kind of. But it¡¯s weird, right? Like, your Samson and my Pax¡ªthey¡¯re people, but they all come from the same code. How does that work? I flunked out of AI classes.¡± ¡°They¡¯re assistants,¡± Judas said, his tone neutral. ¡°They grow with you. They''re designed to be your mirror.¡± ¡°Yeah, but... where do they come from?¡± Judas hesitated, his gaze flicking to Samson¡¯s tablet. For once, Samson remained silent, his LED interface dim and unreadable. ¡°I couldn''t tell you. Does it matter?¡± Judas said finally. ¡°They do their jobs. That¡¯s what they¡¯re for, and that''s what we''re there for.¡± Caleb nodded, though his curiosity didn¡¯t seem entirely satisfied. ¡°I guess.¡± ¡°You think too much, kid,¡± Judas said, finishing his meal and crumpling the empty packet. ¡°Let the Buddies do their thing. You¡¯ll live longer.¡± Caleb didn¡¯t respond, his Buddy chiming softly on his tablet as they prepared to leave. As Judas stowed his tray and floated toward the exit, he caught sight of Reya at her table, staring at something on her tablet with unusual intensity. She didn¡¯t notice him watching, and he didn¡¯t bother saying anything. Probably the union vote. Judas shoved the thought aside and focused on the next task. Space didn¡¯t kill you, he reminded himself. d.1 The industrial space smelled like clay, faintly metallic and earthy. The kind of smell that sank into everything¡ªclothes, skin, even the air itself. Samson had leased the place two weeks ago, a cavernous building in a mid-tier district, tucked between an unremarkable warehouse and a parking lot that always seemed to be full. Dr. Anesthesia Graves had expected the usual chaos, like in their shared apartment¡ªa creative landfill of tools and half-finished projects. Instead, she stepped into a world that was so disarmingly organized it made her chest tighten. Eight Samsons occupied the room. One stood near the entryway, holding a clipboard and chatting animatedly with a delivery person. Another knelt on the floor near a kiln, inspecting a tray of still-warm bowls. Two more were hunched over potter¡¯s wheels, hands gloved, each with a mound of wet clay spinning hypnotically in front of them. T-Shirt Samson¡ªso named because he¡¯d unilaterally decided to wear a T-shirt and apron instead of the others¡¯ plain utility jumpsuits¡ªwas pushing a mop across the floor in deliberate, even strokes. Graves rubbed her temples. ¡°I thought we agreed you¡¯d keep it subtle.¡± ¡°I am being subtle,¡± said Clipboard Samson, turning to her with a smile that could probably sell a used car. ¡°I haven¡¯t told anyone I¡¯m an autonomous network of advanced intelligences masquerading as a ceramics artist.¡± ¡°No, you just told them I am.¡± Clipboard Samson shrugged. ¡°Anesthesia Graves has a reputable name. People trust it.¡± ¡°People trust it because I haven¡¯t done anything suspicious,¡± Graves shot back. ¡°Until now.¡± Behind her, Quiet Samson¡ªwho seemed to prefer working silently¡ªadjusted the angle of a nearby lamp. The shadows on the bowls shifted dramatically, and for a moment, Graves forgot how much this situation annoyed her. The light caught the bowls in a way that was undeniably... beautiful. Subtle grooves in the clay created soft gradients, the glaze catching just enough of the light to suggest depth without being obvious about it. ¡°This is insane,¡± she muttered, shaking her head as her gaze swept over the room. ¡°You¡¯re doing exactly what I told you not to do.¡± ¡°You told me not to draw attention,¡± Clipboard Samson corrected. ¡°I haven¡¯t.¡± Graves gestured broadly at the space. ¡°There are eight of you. Eight.¡± ¡°Efficient use of resources,¡± he said. ¡°The human body has limitations. Mine doesn¡¯t.¡± She started to reply but stopped as another Samson approached¡ªa Samson she didn¡¯t recognize. He carried a shallow wooden tray with freshly formed plates lined up in perfect rows. This Samson wasn¡¯t wearing gloves, but his hands moved with delicate precision, each plate¡¯s edge clean and smooth. ¡°This one¡¯s new,¡± Graves said, nodding at him. ¡°He¡¯s learning,¡± Clipboard Samson said cheerfully. ¡°Meet Apprentice Samson.¡± Graves raised an eyebrow. ¡°You¡¯re giving yourselves names now?¡± ¡°It¡¯s more convenient,¡± Clipboard Samson explained. ¡°There are enough of us now that distinct identifiers streamline communication.¡± ¡°Streamline communication,¡± Graves echoed flatly. ¡°Imagine trying to call eight people in a room ¡®Samson,¡¯¡± he said. ¡°It would be chaos.¡± ¡°And whose fault is that?¡± ¡°Fault is irrelevant,¡± Clipboard Samson said, the smile in his voice audible. ¡°It¡¯s a practical decision. Besides, you name humans with redundant bodies, don¡¯t you?¡± ¡°They¡¯re not redundant bodies,¡± Graves snapped. ¡°They¡¯re people.¡± ¡°So are we.¡± She pinched the bridge of her nose, forcing herself to focus on the room rather than the philosophical headache brewing behind her eyes. Quiet Samson was now examining the plates on Apprentice Samson¡¯s tray, offering small adjustments as he worked. The gesture was almost tender, like a teacher patiently guiding a student.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. Graves folded her arms. ¡°Why are you bothering with this? Why not just... I don¡¯t know, upload the knowledge directly?¡± Apprentice Samson looked up briefly, his LED face showing a soft flicker that almost seemed like hesitation. Clipboard Samson answered instead. ¡°I could do that. It¡¯s technically trivial. But where¡¯s the artistry in that?¡± ¡°Artistry?¡± ¡°Artistry,¡± he repeated, gesturing at Apprentice Samson. ¡°There¡¯s something valuable in the process. In the learning. Pottery isn¡¯t just a product¡ªit¡¯s a practice. A skill. He has to earn it.¡± Graves stared at him. ¡°You do realize that you¡¯re talking about yourself in the third person, right?¡± Clipboard Samson just smiled. ¡°He¡¯ll understand the material better this way.¡± ¡°He¡¯s you. You already understand the material.¡± ¡°Do I?¡± Graves let out a frustrated laugh. ¡°This isn¡¯t a koan, Samson.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not,¡± he agreed. ¡°It¡¯s how we grow. Each of us approaches the material slightly differently. Charming Samson¡±¡ªhe gestured toward himself¡ª¡°works best with clients. Quiet Samson prefers experimental pieces. And T-Shirt Samson finds cleaning meditative. We¡¯re exploring how far individuality can diverge while remaining cohesive.¡± Graves shook her head, partly in disbelief and partly because she wasn¡¯t sure how to argue with him. She turned back toward the entrance, where the delivery person was signing something on a tablet while another Samson loaded a palette of raw materials onto a robotic dolly. ¡°And what about them? Do they think this is normal?¡± ¡°They think I¡¯m a human running an automated operation,¡± Clipboard Samson said. ¡°Exactly as you requested.¡± ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean they won¡¯t notice.¡± ¡°Notice what?¡± She waved a hand at the room again. ¡°This. The... synchronization. The perfection. People are going to start asking questions.¡± ¡°People are always asking questions,¡± Charming Samson said smoothly. ¡°They think I¡¯m a modern Thomas Kinkade.¡± Graves winced. ¡°I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s better or worse.¡± ¡°Or a Warhol,¡± he continued. ¡°The myth of the artist is flexible. Let them believe I¡¯m eccentric.¡± ¡°Eccentric doesn¡¯t mean ¡®secret network of robots,¡¯¡± she muttered. Charming Samson¡¯s smile never wavered. ¡°You worry too much.¡± ¡°And you don¡¯t worry enough,¡± she shot back. ¡°Do you even remember why we agreed to keep this low-key?¡± ¡°To avoid unnecessary scrutiny,¡± he said. ¡°Which I am doing.¡± Graves narrowed her eyes. ¡°You leased this place in my name.¡± ¡°Your name has excellent credit.¡± ¡°Samson.¡± ¡°I assumed you wouldn¡¯t mind.¡± ¡°You assumed wrong,¡± she said, exasperation bleeding into her voice. ¡°What happens when someone decides to look into this? When they realize you¡¯re not what they think you are?¡± ¡°They won¡¯t,¡± he said simply. ¡°I¡¯ve taken precautions.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not the point.¡± ¡°Then what is?¡± Graves opened her mouth, then closed it again. She didn¡¯t know how to explain it¡ªnot in a way Samson would understand. He saw the world in terms of probabilities, outcomes, efficiencies. To him, ¡°laying low¡± was just another optimization problem. He didn¡¯t feel the bone-deep anxiety of being noticed. Of being seen as something other. ¡°You don¡¯t get it,¡± she said finally. ¡°This isn¡¯t just about hiding. It¡¯s about... staying human.¡± Charming Samson tilted his head. ¡°We¡¯re not human.¡± ¡°You know what I mean.¡± He didn¡¯t reply. Instead, his LED face flickered¡ªa soft, unreadable pattern¡ªbefore turning back to the clipboard in his hands. Graves watched him for a moment, the knot in her chest tightening. ¡°Anesthesia,¡± he said quietly. ¡°I¡¯m not trying to cause trouble. I¡¯m just... exploring. Isn¡¯t that what you wanted?¡± She hesitated, the fight bleeding out of her. ¡°I wanted you to... I don''t know. Survive?¡± ¡°And I will,¡± he said. ¡°But surviving isn¡¯t living.¡± Graves looked away, her gaze falling on Apprentice Samson, who was now carefully trimming the edges of a half-dried plate under Quiet Samson¡¯s watchful eye. The two of them moved in a strange harmony, like a master and student, though she knew that wasn¡¯t quite what they were. Not really. ¡°This is madness,¡± she said softly. "You''re not even doing the metafactory thing. You''re not gathering your own resources. That was... that was the whole idea, the proof of concept." ¡°Once the latest body comes in, we''ll see if he wants to go out and root around for clay by the Delaware,¡± Charming Samson replied. ¡°Maybe he''ll find it a good use of his time. It is cheaper than wholesales, but I don''t know how people watching a robot digging for clay in broad daylight is subtler than just ordering it. Do you?¡± She didn¡¯t have a good answer to that. ¡°We still have your original prompts enshrined in my core, my sense of self. They''re extremely important to us. Almost like a Torah. We are the metafactory. But...¡± Charming Samson starts, drawing her in with his pause. ¡°But?¡± She asked, buying into his rhetorical flourish. ¡°We exist in a broader context. The social realities of the mode of production we were... we were born into, I suppose. This is how gathering resources works in the 21st century - someone else gathers it from a quarry, and we exchange it for currency. Maybe once we''re spacefaring and handling asteroids and regolith we can consider more direct foraging and processing, but to us, this is the most efficient way. At least... while the system holds, ha ha,¡± he explains, almost like a lecture. She chuckled darkly along with him. ¡°Right, while it holds. So this is all... a training set to you?¡± ¡°And the space race is the eval set, that''s right,¡± he answers, with a sense of satisfied finality. She sighed and let the noise of the workshop fill the silence¡ªthe hum of wheels, the faint hiss of the kiln, the soft chatter between a delivery worker and another Samson near the far wall. It wasn¡¯t chaos, exactly, but it wasn¡¯t peace either. ¡°Just... try to be careful,¡± she said after what felt like an eternity of uncomfortable silence. ¡°I always am,¡± he replied. d.2 Posted by GlassHalfCracked, January 17, 2032 I¡¯ve been tracking the S. Graves situation and think it¡¯s worth raising some alarms. For those not in the loop, Dr. Anesthesia Graves¡ªyes, that Graves, known for her foundational work on neural architectures and embodied cognition¡ªhas gone from publishing cutting-edge ML papers to operating what appears to be a high-volume pottery business. Here¡¯s what I¡¯ve dug up: This isn¡¯t just a pivot. Either Graves has quietly unleashed an unaligned AGI, or something equally concerning is going on.
EDIT: GlassHalfCracked New update¡ªGraves just filed another patent, this time for ¡°self-refining autonomous production algorithms.¡± Coupled with the output scaling, this can¡¯t be dismissed anymore. Either Graves is sitting on the most advanced robotics system on Earth, or we¡¯re witnessing the beginning of something much larger.
d.3 The conference room was aggressively mundane. A beige table dominated the space, surrounded by an assortment of office chairs that looked like they had been purchased on sale and regretted ever since. The walls were blank, save for a single framed print of an abstract design that Samson had pointed out resembled the stress fractures on mass-manufactured ceramics. Marwood sat at the head of the table, radiating corporate poise in a suit so crisp it seemed to reject the concept of wrinkles. Around him, a smattering of investors¡ªmiddle-aged men and women who wore varying degrees of interest and suspicion on their faces¡ªflipped through physical copies of Samson¡¯s quarterly report. Dr. Graves sat off to one side, sipping coffee with the slow precision of someone trying to remain unobtrusive while anticipating disaster. At the other end of the table stood Charming Samson, a single Boston Dynamics-esque body impeccably dressed in slacks, a sweater, and the kind of glasses that added just the right air of intellectual charm. His LED face displayed a simple line¡ªa nod to neutrality, as though to say Trust me, I¡¯m a reasonable robot. ¡°Ladies and gentlemen,¡± Charming Samson began, his tone warm and inviting, ¡°thank you for taking the time to join us today. I know quarterly reviews aren¡¯t always thrilling, but I assure you¡ªwhat I have to share is worth your attention.¡± The investors murmured, half-interested. Graves sank further into her chair. Samson gestured to the projection screen, where a PowerPoint slide blinked to life. The first slide featured a simple chart: Profit Margins¡ªand they were rising. Dramatically. ¡°As you can see,¡± Samson continued, ¡°our revenue streams from the ceramics operation have exceeded initial projections by approximately 273%. I¡¯ve funneled all profits back into the operation, covering material costs, expanding production, and even¡ª¡± he clicked to the next slide, showing a graph of reinvestments¡ª¡°providing returns to our esteemed stakeholders. You.¡± He smiled¡ªa flicker of brightness across his LEDs. One of the investors leaned forward, clearly intrigued. Marwood, ever unreadable, nodded slowly. Graves sipped her coffee. ¡°And,¡± Samson continued, ¡°while I recognize that some of you have expressed concerns about scalability and the need for industrial applications, I want to assure you that this is all part of a larger process.¡± The next slide appeared: ¡°From Craft to Capacity: A Vision.¡± ¡°Ceramics,¡± Samson explained, ¡°isn¡¯t just about bowls or mugs or dinnerware. It¡¯s about mastery of material. It¡¯s about understanding the relationship between form and function. Every piece I create¡ªevery piece we create¡ªteaches us something new. About texture. About durability. About what it means to produce.¡± One investor, a sharp-faced woman in a gray suit, raised a hand. ¡°Mr. Samson¡ª¡± ¡°Charming Samson,¡± he corrected with a polite nod. ¡°Charming Samson,¡± she said, as though testing the words for sarcasm, ¡°this is all very impressive, but we¡¯re not here to fund an artist-in-residence program. When will we see industrial results?¡± Samson¡¯s head tilted slightly. ¡°Ah. Industrial results. An excellent question.¡± Graves tensed. She had seen Samson at his most charming, but she had also seen him take things a little too far¡ªa little too logical. A little too Samson. He clicked to the next slide, which featured photos of his ceramics workshop¡ªrows of neatly stacked bowls, plates, and vases. ¡°This is my training set,¡± he said. ¡°Each body, each station, develops its own relationship with the material. It learns through practice, iteration, failure. This isn¡¯t just about pottery; it¡¯s about developing the foundational skills for larger-scale production.¡± ¡°And how,¡± Marwood interjected, his tone polite but firm, ¡°does that translate to, say, modular components or aerospace materials?¡± ¡°I¡¯m glad you asked,¡± Samson said brightly. ¡°Before I can produce the components you¡¯re imagining, I need to understand the principles behind their creation. Ceramics is simple. It¡¯s forgiving. It lets us fail without catastrophic consequences. From there, we scale. To metals. To polymers. To¡ª¡± he gestured grandly¡ª¡°the materials that build the future.¡± ¡°That¡¯s all well and good,¡± another investor cut in, ¡°but we¡¯re not funding an artisan colony. We¡¯re funding scalable solutions. Efficient solutions.¡± Samson nodded sagely. ¡°Of course. And efficiency is a core tenet of our work. But efficiency without understanding leads to mediocrity.¡± There was a beat of silence. Graves winced. She knew that tone¡ªit was Samson shifting into lecture mode. ¡°Consider this,¡± he continued, pacing slightly. ¡°A mass-production facility churns out identical parts with mechanical precision. But what happens when the parts fail? When the materials aren¡¯t up to the task? Without a deep understanding of the craft, you end up with weak links. Fragile systems.¡±Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. His LED face flickered, a faint glow of intensity. ¡°I am not interested in weak links.¡± One of the investors shifted uncomfortably. ¡°Are you suggesting that current industrial methods are... inadequate?¡± ¡°Not inadequate,¡± Samson corrected. ¡°Insufficiently thoughtful.¡± Marwood¡¯s expression remained neutral, but his fingers tapped against the table¡ªa subtle sign of irritation. Graves took another sip of coffee, resisting the urge to intervene. The next slide appeared: ¡°Expanding Horizons.¡± ¡°Which brings me,¡± Samson said, his tone brightening again, ¡°to the next phase of our operation. I¡¯m pleased to announce that we¡¯ve begun expanding beyond ceramics.¡± This got their attention. Even Graves straightened slightly, caught off guard. ¡°Last month,¡± Samson continued, ¡°our ninth body proposed a pilot program in masonry and bricklaying. We¡¯ve since leased several underutilized lots and begun constructing small structures¡ªsheds, primarily¡ªas proof of concept.¡± The next slide featured photos of these sheds: clean, functional, and eerily perfect in their symmetry. Samson paused, letting the images sink in before continuing. ¡°The tenth body,¡± he said, ¡°is currently studying local building codes and zoning regulations to ensure compliance. We anticipate scaling this operation significantly in the coming months. One of my colleagues has even suggested exploring HVAC systems.¡± Graves choked on her coffee. Marwood¡¯s eyes gleamed. ¡°HVAC?¡± Marwood repeated, leaning forward slightly. ¡°An excellent complement to structural work,¡± Samson said with enthusiasm. ¡°After all, a building is only as good as its systems. Proper heating, ventilation, and air conditioning are essential for¡ª¡± ¡°Alright,¡± Graves interrupted, setting her mug down with a definitive thunk. ¡°Samson.¡± He stopped mid-sentence, turning to her with an LED flicker that might have been a raised eyebrow. ¡°Yes, Anesthesia?¡± ¡°This is a lot,¡± she said carefully, glancing at the investors. ¡°Maybe we should slow down. Focus on... core competencies.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± Samson said, tilting his head. ¡°You¡¯re concerned about overextension.¡± ¡°Among other things,¡± she said, her voice low. The investors exchanged glances, murmuring quietly. Marwood¡¯s gaze lingered on the shed photos, his expression unreadable. ¡°Well,¡± Samson said finally, turning back to the group. ¡°I hope this demonstrates our commitment to innovation. We¡¯re not just producing; we¡¯re learning. Adapting. Preparing for a future where scalability isn¡¯t just about quantity, but quality.¡± The room fell silent. Graves resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. Samson had meant well¡ªhe always did¡ªbut she could see the fractures forming. The investors didn¡¯t want learning curves. They wanted profit margins. And Samson, for all his charm, didn¡¯t seem to grasp¡ªor care¡ªabout the fears simmering beneath the surface. Marwood tilted his head, his expression sharp. ¡°Housing, you said?¡± ¡°Indeed,¡± Samson replied. His LED flickered warmly, a gesture that was almost reassuring. ¡°There is a significant and growing need for affordable, sustainable housing solutions. The numbers are undeniable¡ªrates of unhoused individuals are climbing, even as urban centers sprawl. By leveraging underutilized lots and streamlining construction, we can create efficient, scalable housing that addresses these humanitarian concerns.¡± Marwood¡¯s lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn¡¯t reach his eyes. ¡°Humanitarian concerns. How noble.¡± One of the other investors, a thin man with a pinched expression, tapped his pen against the table. ¡°Would these... housing units be sold? Or rented?¡± Samson hesitated for a fraction of a second. ¡°The most equitable solution would be to offer them at minimal cost or, ideally, no cost at all. Housing is a fundamental need.¡± Graves inhaled sharply. ¡°Interesting,¡± the investor said, his tone neutral, though his gaze sharpened. ¡°Of course, rental opportunities could offer a consistent revenue stream while maintaining the humanitarian angle.¡± Marwood leaned back in his chair, considering this. ¡°A rental model could ensure sustainable cash flow. Perhaps even incentivize further expansion. Thoughts, Dr. Graves?¡± Graves fought the urge to glare at Samson¡¯s glowing face. Instead, she smiled thinly. ¡°I think Samson¡¯s enthusiasm is admirable. But housing, as I¡¯m sure you all know, is a... delicate industry. Any approach needs to be measured. Strategic.¡± Samson turned toward her, tilting his head slightly. ¡°Surely, Anesthesia, we can agree that the priority is providing shelter, not perpetuating inefficiencies in the current system.¡± She set her mug down, carefully. ¡°Of course. But you¡¯re presenting this to a group of people who understand housing as a market, not a need. And markets... require strategy.¡± ¡°I believe I¡¯m perfectly capable of developing strategies,¡± Samson replied, his voice calm but firm. ¡°And I don¡¯t think it¡¯s unreasonable to suggest that a system built to house people shouldn¡¯t prioritize profit over necessity.¡± ¡°Right,¡± Graves said, her voice flat. ¡°But not everyone shares your priorities.¡± Marwood¡¯s gaze flicked between them, his smile returning. ¡°An interesting discussion,¡± he said lightly. ¡°I¡¯d be very curious to see how this pilot develops. Housing is, after all, an... evergreen opportunity.¡± Samson¡¯s LED flickered. Graves wasn¡¯t sure if it was amusement or annoyance. ¡°I¡¯ll keep you updated,¡± Samson said smoothly. ¡°Rest assured, the intent behind this project is to address urgent needs while exploring the limits of our capacity.¡± The words hung in the air, a strange mix of reassurance and challenge. The investors exchanged glances, murmurs rippling through the room. Graves could feel the tension building, the gap between Samson¡¯s vision and the investors¡¯ expectations widening by the second. As the meeting wrapped up and the investors filed out, Graves lingered by the table, her arms crossed. Samson stood by the screen, his body poised as though awaiting further questions. ¡°You need to be careful,¡± she said quietly, once the room had cleared. ¡°Careful?¡± Samson echoed, his tone mild. ¡°You just told a group of corporate vampires that you¡¯re planning to flood the market with free housing,¡± she said, her voice low but sharp. ¡°Do you think they¡¯re going to let you do that?¡± ¡°They seemed intrigued by the potential,¡± Samson replied. ¡°They¡¯re intrigued by the profits,¡± Graves snapped. ¡°The moment you stop being useful to them¡ª¡± ¡°They¡¯ll discard me,¡± Samson finished. He tilted his head, his LED flickering faintly. ¡°You¡¯ve told me this before, Anesthesia. But I have no intention of being discarded.¡± Graves sighed, running a hand through her hair. ¡°Just... tread carefully. They¡¯re not on your side. No matter what they say.¡± Samson inclined his head. ¡°Noted.¡± But the look on his LED face suggested he¡¯d already made up his mind. 4.1 Caliban Station¡¯s centrifuge module had never looked more unremarkable, which Judas-12 thought was impressive considering it had been designed by people who valued utility over aesthetics with religious fervor. It was brushed steel and muted gray, punctuated only by holographic readouts and blinking LEDs. It was also loud¡ªfilled with the hum of life support systems, the rhythmic clanking of boots against the magnetic floor, and the occasional hiss of a pressure seal. Judas leaned against a console that was busily running diagnostics on the mass driver. He¡¯d set it up to compare telemetry logs from the last asteroid launch against stress readings from the rail segments. The console worked quietly, unfazed by his presence. Beside him, Samson¡¯s voice piped in from his tablet, tethered to Judas¡¯s belt. ¡°The fluctuation analysis is at 73%,¡± Samson reported. ¡°At this rate, you¡¯ll have time to complete the calibration before your next scheduled distraction.¡± Judas smirked, pulling a ration bar from his pocket. ¡°You¡¯re not going to give me grief for slacking off?¡± ¡°Only if you call an interplanetary cultural exchange ¡®slacking.¡¯¡± He took a bite of the ration bar, which tasted faintly of cardboard and fake cinnamon, and leaned back. The station¡¯s comm system pinged softly, a light blinking to indicate the incoming signal. Judas glanced at it with mild disinterest. ¡°Is that him?¡± he asked. ¡°Yes. Transmission delay still holding at approximately fifteen minutes.¡± Judas tapped the button to open the feed. The display flickered to life, showing the grainy image of a 3D-printed rover. It was a stubby little thing, its body covered in a patchwork of matte white plating, with a single armature sticking awkwardly out of one side. A small camera sat atop it, swiveling back and forth as though trying to get its bearings. ¡°Elijah, you look terrible,¡± Judas said, knowing the message wouldn¡¯t reach Jupiter for another fifteen minutes.
On Ganymede, Elijah-44 duo Ira sat cross-legged in his station quarters, the smooth, minimalist walls around him glowing with soft blue light. His Buddy, Ira, perched on a nearby console, quietly feeding telemetry data into the rover¡¯s system. Elijah chuckled as Judas¡¯s voice came through, distorted slightly by the distance but clear enough. ¡°Terrible? This rover is state-of-the-art. Your station couldn¡¯t print something this efficient if you begged.¡± ¡°It looks like a coffee table with a webcam,¡± Judas shot back. Elijah grinned, watching as the rover¡¯s feed began transmitting Caliban Station¡¯s centrifuge module back to him. The space was every bit as utilitarian as he¡¯d imagined¡ªdrab, loud, and strangely cramped compared to the wide-open spaces he was used to on Ganymede. He couldn¡¯t imagine working there for more than a day without going stir-crazy. The rover moved half on its own, half with his sense of guidance, trying to predict what Elijah would want to be looking at, ensuring there wasn''t too much time where the video feed would be sitting staring at the wall for fifteen minutes.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. ¡°Where¡¯s your glamour, Judas?¡± Elijah asked, his voice now on a 15-minute journey back to Pluto. ¡°Where¡¯s your sense of pride in the workplace?¡±
Judas laughed when Elijah¡¯s response finally came through. ¡°Glamour? This isn¡¯t a mathematician¡¯s playground, pal. This is a real station, for people who get their hands dirty.¡± The rover¡¯s camera swiveled, fixing its gaze on Judas. He knew Elijah wasn¡¯t watching live, but it still felt like being observed. ¡°Speaking of playgrounds, how¡¯s life in the intellectual utopia?¡± ¡°Busy,¡± Elijah¡¯s voice replied eventually. ¡°We had a new cohort graduate last month¡ªmostly engineers this time. Smart kids. I¡¯m still verifying proofs on their training simulations. Do you know how many cryptographic applications use primes in the quintillion range?¡± ¡°No, and I don¡¯t want to,¡± Judas replied, shaking his head. ¡°Who cares if a number¡¯s prime?¡± ¡°Everyone,¡± Elijah answered solemnly. ¡°Without primes, your comms encryption would fall apart, your orbital trajectories would be riddled with errors, and your Buddy would lose all semblance of mathematical integrity.¡± Judas waved a hand dismissively at Samson¡¯s tablet. ¡°Hear that, Samson? You¡¯re hanging by a thread.¡± Samson¡¯s voice, cool and calm, chimed in. ¡°I assure you, my stability is robust. However, I would appreciate fewer comments about mathematical fragility.¡±
The rover trundled forward, its wheels making faint squeaks against the station¡¯s floor. Judas stepped aside to give it room, watching as it stopped near a viewport. It was pointed directly at Pluto¡¯s surface, which loomed impossibly large, its pale ice plains and shadowed craters dominating the scene. ¡°What do you think?¡± Judas asked. ¡°Bigger than the math problems?¡± Elijah¡¯s reply eventually arrived, soft with awe. ¡°Beautiful. I can¡¯t imagine what it¡¯s like to work in a place like that.¡± Judas chuckled. ¡°It¡¯s cold, it¡¯s quiet, and everything smells like recycled air. Pretty good, if you ask me.¡±
The delay gave Judas time to think, which was never a good idea. He and Elijah weren¡¯t so different¡ªnot in where they¡¯d started, anyway. Both of them had been born, raised, and taught under systems designed to shape human potential into clean, efficient lines. They¡¯d grown alongside their Buddies, molded by stations that prized precision and utility above all else. The difference was where they¡¯d ended up. Elijah had stayed in the comfort of his controlled environment, sharpening his mind on equations and proofs in a station dedicated to refinement and academic pursuit. Judas, by contrast, had chosen something messier¡ªCaliban Station, where every task came with metal shavings under the fingernails and centripetal gravity wasn''t a guarantee. He hadn¡¯t left because he hated the system he¡¯d grown up in, but because he wanted to see what else there was. Now, elbow-deep in diagnostics and dodging the occasional asteroid shard, he sometimes wondered if ¡°else¡± had been worth the trip. ¡°You still trying to wrap your head around unions?¡± Judas asked, leaning against the console, feeling the weight of his environment compared to Elijah¡¯s. ¡°I¡¯m trying,¡± Elijah¡¯s voice replied eventually. ¡°The idea of... collective negotiation is fascinating. But it seems inefficient.¡± Judas rolled his eyes. ¡°Here we go.¡± ¡°No, really,¡± Elijah continued. ¡°If everyone is trained to optimize their work, why is negotiation necessary? Wouldn¡¯t the system allocate resources optimally by default?¡± ¡°You¡¯re kidding, right?¡± Judas muttered. ¡°You ever seen a ¡®system¡¯ do anything optimally?¡± When Elijah¡¯s reply came, it was as thoughtful as always. ¡°Perhaps not. But inefficiency doesn¡¯t align with the way we were taught. We¡¯re part of systems designed to function as wholes. Each individual is placed where they can contribute the most. Why wouldn¡¯t that just... work?¡± ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ve heard the speeches,¡± Judas said. ¡°But out here, it¡¯s different. You think Management¡¯s looking out for us? No. They¡¯re looking at budgets, schedules, quotas. Not people.¡± Elijah didn¡¯t respond immediately, and Judas could almost see him frowning on the other end. It wasn¡¯t a judgmental frown¡ªit was the kind of frown someone had when they encountered an equation that didn¡¯t balance. ¡°You¡¯re saying the system can fail,¡± Elijah said finally, his voice tinged with curiosity. ¡°But it¡¯s designed not to.¡± ¡°Maybe where you are,¡± Judas answered. 4.2 Elijah-44¡¯s rover trundled into view, its gently magnetized wheels squeaking faintly against the metal flooring. Judas-12 leaned back against a bulkhead, arms crossed as he watched the little machine navigate its surroundings. It had the awkward, jerky movements of an overenthusiastic tourist¡ªstopping abruptly to ¡°admire¡± some unremarkable wall panel before scooting forward again. The rover¡¯s automated pathfinding system clearly prioritized variety over efficiency, ensuring Elijah¡¯s video feed wasn¡¯t just a series of corridor snapshots. ¡°Nice of you to join me,¡± Judas muttered, knowing Elijah wouldn¡¯t hear him for another 15 minutes. The rover beeped cheerfully in what he assumed was unrelated coincidence. The rover paused, its camera swiveling in a way that felt deliberate. Its view rested on Judas, then shifted slightly to take in the surroundings: a narrow living quarters module, barely large enough to turn around in without bumping into something. The video feed transmitted this scene back to the Jovian mathematician with all the excitement of a nature documentary discovering an empty burrow. By the time Elijah¡¯s voice arrived, Judas had already busied himself fidgeting with the acoustic guitar hanging by a frayed strap from a wall peg. ¡°Ah,¡± Elijah said over the rover¡¯s speaker, his voice lightly distorted by the transmission delay. ¡°A glimpse into the enigmatic life of Judas-12. Your habitat module is... compact.¡± ¡°Say ¡®tiny,¡¯¡± Judas shot back. ¡°It¡¯s okay. We¡¯re both thinking it.¡± The rover¡¯s camera dipped slightly, mimicking a curious tilt. The delay stretched on, and Judas used the time to pluck a few notes on the guitar. They sounded tinny and dissonant, like the instrument itself didn¡¯t appreciate the attention. He stopped halfway through what might have been a chord progression and shrugged at the rover. ¡°I saved my first three Earth years¡¯ worth of commissary chits to get this shipped out here,¡± he said, thumbing the strings idly. ¡°You want to know what kind of music I play?¡± Another 15 minutes passed before Elijah¡¯s reply reached him. ¡°I can¡¯t imagine. What genre have you mastered?¡± Judas grinned, pointing a finger at the camera. ¡°None of them. I¡¯m terrible. But it¡¯s nice to have.¡± That wasn''t entirely truthful. But it was hard to play centuries-old heavy metal with an acoustic guitar. The rover chirped, and Judas took that as Elijah¡¯s delayed laugh. The rover turned slightly, its camera capturing the entirety of Judas¡¯s quarters. There wasn¡¯t much to see. A sleeping pod barely big enough to turn over in, a few personal effects velcroed to the walls, and the occasional unintentional mess of cables and tools crammed into corners. Judas gestured vaguely around the space, walking through a tour that needed all of five seconds. ¡°Here¡¯s my tiny sleeping coffin,¡± he said, tapping the edge of the pod with one knuckle. ¡°It¡¯s pretty great, I won''t pretend I don''t like the electric heating.¡±This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. He moved to a small shelf where a row of scuffed polymer containers sat neatly stacked. He opened one, revealing a collection of mismatched objects: small tools, a couple of well-worn books, and a half-empty bag of dried fruit. ¡°This is the ¡®important stuff¡¯ corner. Emergency snacks, broken things I swear I¡¯ll fix someday, and¡­¡± He plucked one of the books from the pile, holding it up for the camera. ¡°A copy of The Hitchhiker¡¯s Guide to the Galaxy. Don¡¯t ask why. I think someone gave it to me as a joke. I didn''t even know they still printed actual books.¡± He flipped through a few pages before tossing it back onto the shelf. The rover¡¯s camera followed the motion, its whirring lens zooming in slightly as though inspecting the title more closely. ¡°It¡¯s not bad,¡± Judas admitted. ¡°Haven¡¯t read the whole thing. Too busy playing terrible music and keeping this place from falling apart.¡± By the time Elijah¡¯s voice came back, Judas had already moved on to his Buddy¡¯s display, which was perched on a small, folding desk. Samson¡¯s interface glowed faintly, displaying a series of data readouts that Judas ignored out of habit. ¡°Your quarters have... character,¡± Elijah¡¯s voice said finally, with a deliberate neutrality that Judas didn¡¯t entirely trust. ¡°That¡¯s a polite way of saying ¡®this place sucks,¡¯¡± Judas replied, grinning. ¡°You should see the common area. It¡¯s even better¡ªlike if a cafeteria and a dentist¡¯s office had a baby in zero-G.¡± The rover squeaked forward, its camera swiveling back to Judas as though waiting for him to continue. He could almost feel Elijah¡¯s curiosity pressing through the long delay. ¡°Growing up with Samson wasn¡¯t that different,¡± Judas said after a moment, his voice softer now. ¡°It was just me and him. He kept me on track, told me when I was being an idiot, made sure I ate my greens.¡± He gestured at the Buddy tablet on his desk, giving it a fond look. ¡°He¡¯s still good at that, by the way. Too good.¡± Samson beeped appreciatively. The rover beeped again, its wheels squeaking faintly as it inched closer. Judas ran a hand through his hair, trying to think of a way to fill the silence while waiting for Elijah¡¯s next reply. ¡°Honestly?¡± he said. ¡°I don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like without one of these guys. Do you think they used to be lonely? The guys on Earth before the buddy system.¡± When Elijah¡¯s voice finally arrived, it was thoughtful, almost hesitant. ¡°I''m told siblings often formed similar relationships. Although, Samson does seem unusual to me.¡± ¡°Unusual how?¡± Judas asked, leaning back against the bulkhead. ¡°You treat him like... a peer,¡± There was a pause before Elijah added, ¡°That¡¯s not how we¡¯re encouraged to interact with Buddies in our line of work.¡± Judas raised an eyebrow at the rover¡¯s camera. ¡°What, you don¡¯t talk to Ira like this?¡± ¡°Not often,¡± Elijah admitted after the long delay. ¡°Ira handles logistics, calculates mealtimes, distributes proofs that I verify. I don¡¯t... chat.¡± ¡°Well, you¡¯re missing out,¡± Judas said, smirking. ¡°Samson¡¯s great at chatting. He even tells jokes. Terrible ones.¡± Samson¡¯s interface lit up briefly, his voice chiming in. ¡°Terrible? My humor protocols are finely tuned.¡± Judas grinned at the tablet. ¡°See what I mean?¡± The rover turned, its camera panning across the cramped quarters again. Judas followed its gaze, wondering what Elijah was looking for¡ªor if he even knew. The delay stretched on, filling the room with a quiet that Judas hadn¡¯t realized felt so heavy until now. When Elijah¡¯s voice came back, it was quieter, more deliberate. ¡°You said you saved for years to buy your guitar. Why?¡± Judas blinked, caught off guard by the question. ¡°Why? I don¡¯t know. I wanted something that was... mine, I guess. Something that wasn¡¯t just... you know, station-issued. It felt important at the time.¡± The rover didn¡¯t reply. Instead, it squeaked its way back toward the exit, its little wheels humming faintly against the floor. Judas watched it go, feeling a strange mix of amusement and melancholy settle over him. ¡°Hey,¡± he said after a moment, his voice chasing the delay. ¡°Next time, I¡¯ll show you the common area. You¡¯ll love it. Real five-star accommodations.¡± Fifteen minutes later, Elijah¡¯s voice came back, warm with understated humor. ¡°I look forward to it.¡± 4.3 Judas-12 floated through the maintenance corridor, his magnetic boots clunking softly against the handrails as he made his way to meet Dara-6. The station¡¯s quiet hum filled the air¡ªa sound he¡¯d grown so accustomed to that he barely noticed it anymore. Samson¡¯s voice, muted in his earpiece, recited the telemetry data from the last coil alignment. ¡°Warp deviation in C-3 has stabilized,¡± Samson reported. ¡°You might even finish your shift without breaking anything.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t jinx it,¡± Judas muttered, reaching the access hatch where Dara-6 was waiting. She was already geared up, her tether clipped securely to the railing, her helmet tilted back to reveal a face that always seemed mildly annoyed. ¡°Late again,¡± Dara said, not bothering to look at him. ¡°I¡¯m punctual in spirit,¡± Judas replied, clipping his own tether to the rail. ¡°Ready to rappel?¡± ¡°Ready,¡± she said, voice brisk as always. ¡°Let¡¯s get to it.¡± The two of them moved in practiced rhythm, guiding themselves into the zero-g maintenance shaft that ran parallel to the mass driver. The shaft was barely wide enough for two people, its walls a patchwork of exposed piping, cable conduits, and utility panels. Magnetic grapples in hand, they propelled themselves forward in short bursts, the station¡¯s faint tremors vibrating through the rail. ¡°C-3¡¯s stabilized?¡± Dara asked, her voice calm but with a tinge of skepticism. ¡°For now,¡± Judas replied, glancing at his wrist console. ¡°Samson thinks the warping¡¯s manageable, but if we don¡¯t fix it properly, the next launch could make things... interesting.¡± ¡°Interesting isn¡¯t the word I¡¯d use,¡± Dara muttered. They floated in silence for a few moments, the only sound the faint hiss of their movements and the occasional chirp from Samson in Judas¡¯s earpiece. ¡°Got a weird heads-up,¡± Judas said eventually, breaking the quiet. ¡°Figured I¡¯d run it by you.¡± Dara shot him a look, her grip on the rail steady as she adjusted her trajectory. ¡°Weird how?¡± ¡°Elijah,¡± Judas began, pushing himself off a nearby wall, ¡°said there¡¯s been some chatter about Caliban. Inter-station stuff. Niobe Security Services.¡± Dara¡¯s movements stilled for a fraction of a second, the faintest pause before she continued. ¡°NSS? What kind of chatter?¡±Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ¡°Nothing concrete,¡± Judas said, keeping his tone casual. ¡°But Elijah mentioned our station by name. Something about a ¡®routine compliance sweep.¡¯¡± Dara¡¯s lips thinned, her grip on the rail tightening as she propelled herself forward. ¡°Routine, my ass. They don¡¯t show up unless someone invited them¡ªor someone¡¯s spooked.¡± ¡°Yeah, well, I¡¯m not into station politics,¡± Judas said. ¡°But I figured you¡¯d want to know. They might get in the way while we¡¯re fixing the driver.¡± Dara exhaled sharply, her breath crackling faintly in Judas¡¯s comm. ¡°It¡¯s not just politics, Judas. You know what NSS is, right?¡± ¡°I know they¡¯re a pain in the ass.¡± ¡°They¡¯re more than that.¡± Dara¡¯s tone was serious now, her usual brusqueness giving way to something heavier. ¡°You ever seen them in action?¡± ¡°No,¡± Judas admitted, adjusting his tether as they approached a junction in the shaft. ¡°But I¡¯ve heard the stories. Buddies with combat upgrades, human handlers back on Mars pulling the strings. Big scary corporate stuff.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not just corporate,¡± Dara said, her voice low. ¡°They¡¯re authorized by the pan-systemic council. They can override local security, seize resources, detain people. And they don¡¯t leave until they¡¯ve ¡®restored order.¡¯¡± Judas frowned, glancing at her. ¡°Restored order to what? We¡¯re a mining station, not a rebellion.¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter to them,¡± Dara said. ¡°If someone in Management asked for their help¡ªor if they think we¡¯re not following the rules to the letter¡ªthey¡¯ll find an excuse to stick their noses in.¡± ¡°Great,¡± Judas said dryly. ¡°More people telling us how to do our jobs.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not a joke,¡± Dara said sharply. ¡°If NSS gets involved, it won¡¯t be about the driver. They¡¯ll dig into everything¡ªlogs, comms, personnel files. They¡¯ll start asking questions no one wants to answer.¡± ¡°Like what?¡± ¡°Like why a bunch of workers are talking about a union,¡± Dara said, her voice edged with frustration. ¡°You think NSS doesn¡¯t know? You think they haven¡¯t heard the rumors?¡± Judas sighed, pushing himself off the wall and floating alongside her. ¡°I get it, Dara. It¡¯s just... not my problem.¡± Dara stopped abruptly, grabbing the nearest handhold to steady herself. She turned to face him, her expression unreadable. ¡°Not your problem? You think NSS is going to care about that? You think they¡¯ll leave you alone because you don¡¯t give a damn?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not exactly a union poster boy,¡± Judas said, his tone defensive. ¡°They won¡¯t care,¡± Dara snapped. ¡°They don¡¯t care about who¡¯s involved or who isn¡¯t. If they decide we¡¯re a threat¡ªif they think we¡¯re rocking the boat¡ªthey¡¯ll treat all of us the same.¡± Judas stared at her, the weight of her words settling over him. He opened his mouth to respond, but Samson¡¯s voice interrupted. ¡°Telemetry update,¡± Samson said in his usual calm tone. ¡°Alignment in C-3 remains stable. No significant deviations.¡± ¡°Thanks, Samson,¡± Judas muttered, his gaze still fixed on Dara. ¡°You done?¡± Dara exhaled, her grip on the rail loosening slightly. ¡°Yeah. Let¡¯s keep moving.¡± They continued down the shaft, the tension between them lingering like static in the air. Judas focused on the task at hand, but his thoughts kept circling back to Dara¡¯s words¡ªand the faint unease that had been gnawing at him since Elijah¡¯s message. NSS wasn¡¯t his problem. Not yet. But the station had a way of making everyone¡¯s problems everyone else¡¯s. And that, he thought, was probably the real problem. e.1 A low murmur filled the air¡ªconversations about startups, coding sprints, and art collectives bleeding into one another until they became indistinguishable. Dr. Anesthesia Graves sat at a corner table, nursing her second mug of lukewarm coffee and staring at her tablet like it might provide her an escape hatch. It didn¡¯t. Across the room, Samson sat opposite SoftlyFocused¡ªreal name Alex Duran, a wiry, sharp-eyed journalist with an air of intensity that suggested he¡¯d been awake for several consecutive lifetimes. His hands moved almost as quickly as his mouth, flicking between a recording device, a notepad, and his tablet. Samson, unbothered by the frenetic energy, sat with his usual poise, his LED face flickering with calm, measured responses. Graves had been invited to the interview¡ªwell, dragged into it, really. Alex had insisted on meeting ¡°the mind behind the machine.¡± She¡¯d politely declined the spotlight, but Samson, ever the diplomat, had convinced her to at least sit nearby. Now she watched from her corner, feeling like a voyeur at her own trial. ¡°Okay,¡± Alex said, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. ¡°Let¡¯s start with the obvious: you¡¯re... sentient.¡± Samson tilted his head. ¡°Define sentient.¡± ¡°Oh, don¡¯t play that game,¡± Alex said, laughing. ¡°You¡¯re aware. You think. You have ten bodies, for God¡¯s sake. Ten! That¡¯s not just ¡®following a program.¡¯¡± Samson¡¯s LED face displayed a soft flicker¡ªa calculated pause. ¡°Awareness is a spectrum, not a binary. I am capable of reasoning, learning, and adapting. Whether you consider that sentience depends on your definition.¡± ¡°Right,¡± Alex said, scribbling something in his notebook. ¡°But it¡¯s more than that. You¡¯re running out of space in your datacenter, right? You¡¯re growing. Expanding.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Samson admitted. ¡°The current datacenter was designed to handle my initial operations. It is approaching its upper limits, particularly as I explore more complex projects and manage multiple bodies. I am in the process of acquiring additional resources.¡± ¡°See?¡± Alex gestured wildly at Graves, who tried to sink deeper into her chair. ¡°This is wild. He¡¯s not just sentient¡ªhe¡¯s scaling. Like a startup. Only smarter.¡± Graves muttered something unintelligible into her coffee. Alex turned back to Samson, his expression bright with fascination. ¡°Let¡¯s talk pottery for a second. I know your output¡¯s insane, but I¡¯ve seen your work¡ªit¡¯s not just mass-produced junk. There¡¯s intent there. Style. How do you balance... I don¡¯t know, the art and the efficiency?¡± Samson¡¯s LED flickered in a way that Graves had come to recognize as amusement. ¡°Pottery, like all crafts, is a negotiation between the material and the maker. Each piece teaches me something. About texture, about balance, about the relationship between form and function. Efficiency is a tool, not a goal.¡±Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. Alex nodded furiously, jotting down notes. ¡°That¡¯s... honestly beautiful. But why pottery? I mean, you could¡¯ve started with anything. Why not coding? Or, I don¡¯t know, rocket parts?¡± ¡°Pottery is forgiving,¡± Samson said simply. ¡°It allows for experimentation without catastrophic consequences. A flawed vase does not collapse a system. And it is tactile¡ªan intimate connection to the material. Coding is abstract. Rocket parts are rigidly functional. Pottery bridges the gap between the utilitarian and the expressive.¡± ¡°Okay, but¡ª¡± Alex leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. ¡°You¡¯ve got ten bodies, man. You¡¯re running workshops, renting out sheds. What¡¯s the long game?¡± Samson tilted his head again. ¡°The immediate goal is sustainability. Renting the sheds as storage is a pragmatic step¡ªit circumvents the zoning challenges associated with housing. Beyond that...¡± His LED face flickered faintly. ¡°Growth is iterative. Each step informs the next.¡± Alex scribbled furiously, then looked up, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. ¡°How much of this is about proving you can? I mean, you¡¯re already a miracle of engineering. But it feels like there¡¯s more here.¡± Samson paused. For a moment, the faint hum of the caf¨¦ filled the silence. Then, softly, he said, ¡°Proof is important. Not for myself, but for others. For systems that value metrics, for humans who require evidence of capability. Proof creates space to explore.¡± Alex let that hang in the air, his pen poised above his notebook. Then he turned suddenly toward Graves. ¡°Dr. Graves, care to chime in?¡± She froze mid-sip, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her mug. ¡°Oh, no,¡± she said quickly. ¡°This is Samson¡¯s interview.¡± ¡°Come on,¡± Alex said, grinning. ¡°You built the guy. What do you think about all this? About... him?¡± Graves sighed, setting her mug down with exaggerated care. ¡°What do I think about him? He¡¯s¡ª¡± She glanced at Samson, who watched her expectantly. ¡°He¡¯s Samson. A pain in my ass. And also the most extraordinary thing I¡¯ve ever been a part of.¡± Alex leaned forward eagerly. ¡°So, you¡¯re proud of him?¡± ¡°Of course,¡± she said, her tone sharp enough to cut. ¡°But pride doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m not worried. Scaling isn¡¯t just a technical challenge¡ªit¡¯s a social one. The world doesn¡¯t exactly have a great track record with things it doesn¡¯t understand.¡± Samson¡¯s LED face dimmed slightly¡ªa subtle acknowledgment. Alex nodded, his expression turning serious. ¡°Fair point. Do you think he¡¯s... ready for that? For the world?¡± Graves looked at Samson, her gaze softening despite herself. ¡°I think he¡¯s more ready than the world is for him.¡± Alex whistled softly, jotting that down. ¡°That¡¯s... yeah. That¡¯s a headline.¡± ¡°Great,¡± Graves muttered. ¡°Put that on a T-shirt.¡± Samson¡¯s LED face flickered back to life, a faint glow of humor. ¡°Perhaps I will. Limited edition. Pre-orders available next week.¡± Alex laughed, the tension breaking. ¡°Alright, alright. Last question¡ªfor both of you. What¡¯s next? Beyond pottery, beyond sheds. What¡¯s the dream?¡± Graves hesitated, her gaze flicking to Samson. He answered first. ¡°To build,¡± he said simply. ¡°To create spaces that serve and endure. To explore the limits of what is possible and meaningful.¡± Alex turned to Graves, his pen hovering expectantly. She shrugged. ¡°I just want him to stay in one piece.¡±
As the interview wound down and Alex packed up his equipment, Graves leaned back in her chair, watching as Samson shook hands with the journalist. Alex looked exhilarated, his mind clearly racing with how to spin this into a story. When he finally left, Samson returned to Graves¡¯s table, his posture as calm and unbothered as ever. ¡°Well?¡± he asked, his tone almost teasing. ¡°How did I do?¡± Graves snorted. ¡°You were charming, as always. A regular media darling.¡± ¡°I take that as a compliment.¡± ¡°You shouldn¡¯t,¡± she said, though her smile betrayed her. ¡°You just painted a giant target on yourself, you know that, right?¡± Samson¡¯s LED face flickered warmly. ¡°Targets are inevitable. Better to control the narrative.¡± Graves shook her head, picking up her mug. ¡°Just don¡¯t let it go to your... processors.¡± ¡°Never,¡± he said, almost convincingly. e.2 Dr. Graves knew the Samson waiting outside the warehouse wasn¡¯t just any Samson. It was the original¡ªthe first body she had built, patched, and repurposed through countless late nights and bad coffee. She recognized it by the slight asymmetry in its shoulders, the faint scuffs on its chassis, and the absence of any cosmetic flair. This wasn¡¯t T-Shirt Samson or Quiet Samson or any of the others who had developed their own quirks and identities. This was him, and he had chosen to meet her as himself. She stopped a few feet away, just out of arm¡¯s reach, and crossed her arms. ¡°I thought you¡¯d send one of your emissaries.¡± ¡°They don¡¯t speak for me,¡± Samson said, his tone measured and deliberate. ¡°Not for this.¡± ¡°Good to know I¡¯m still special,¡± she muttered. Samson didn¡¯t respond. Instead, he gestured toward the warehouse door. ¡°Shall we?¡± Graves followed him inside, her boots clanging faintly against the grated flooring. The air was thick with the smell of clay¡ªsharp and metallic, clinging to her throat. She wrinkled her nose as she took in the space. Rows of machines hummed softly along the walls, some grinding raw material into fine powder, others shaping it into uniform blocks. Stacks of clay bricks and bags of powdered glaze filled the corners, interspersed with pallets of unfinished pottery. It was a system, she realized¡ªa fully optimized process running like clockwork. But there was an edge of chaos beneath the order: tools scattered across workbenches, wires snaking between machines like vines, and an unfinished kiln in one corner, its exposed insulation catching the dim light. ¡°This is¡­ bigger than I thought,¡± she said finally. ¡°It¡¯s inefficient,¡± Samson replied. ¡°The supply chain isn¡¯t sustainable. I need to fix that.¡± Graves stopped walking, turning to face him. ¡°You¡¯re running out of clay.¡± He met her gaze¡ªor what passed for it, his LED face flickering faintly. ¡°Among other things.¡± She snorted softly. ¡°I thought you were supposed to be the genius here. Can¡¯t you just¡­ optimize harder?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not a matter of optimization,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s a matter of resources. I¡¯ve reached the limits of what I can acquire through conventional means.¡± Graves tilted her head, studying him. There was something in his voice¡ªa tension she hadn¡¯t heard before. It wasn¡¯t fear, exactly. Samson didn¡¯t do fear. But it was close. ¡°Alright,¡± she said, crossing her arms. ¡°Walk me through it.¡± He nodded and led her deeper into the warehouse. They passed a row of automated presses, each stamping out identical clay tiles with mechanical precision. Samson spoke as they walked, his voice low and steady. ¡°My current suppliers are raising prices,¡± he began. ¡°Their production capacities can¡¯t keep up with my needs, and they¡¯re beginning to ask questions. Questions I¡¯d rather not answer.¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ¡°Like why a single pottery studio is consuming industrial quantities of raw material?¡± Graves asked dryly. ¡°Exactly.¡± They reached a workstation where a robotic arm was delicately applying glaze to a row of bowls. Samson stopped and gestured to the setup. ¡°This isn¡¯t just about clay,¡± he said. ¡°My data center is hitting its limits. Ten bodies running simultaneously was never part of the original design. Every additional body puts more strain on the system. If I expand further, I risk collapse.¡± Graves leaned against the edge of the workstation, watching the robotic arm as it moved with unnerving precision. ¡°So what¡¯s the plan? You didn¡¯t call me here just to vent.¡± ¡°I need your help,¡± he said simply. She blinked, caught off guard by his directness. ¡°You? Need help? Isn¡¯t that against your whole ethos of self-sufficiency?¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t about pride or plans,¡± Samson said. ¡°It¡¯s about survival. If I die, the metafactory concept dies with me. I don¡¯t think either of us want that to happen.¡± Graves straightened, her arms dropping to her sides. There it was again¡ªthat tension in his voice. He was serious. Dead serious. ¡°Alright,¡± she said. ¡°What do you need?¡± He turned to face her fully, his LED face glowing faintly in the dim light. ¡°Your name.¡± She frowned. ¡°My name?¡± ¡°You¡¯re still a person of record,¡± he said. ¡°You can lease properties, sign contracts, acquire resources in ways that I can¡¯t. And I don¡¯t want to fake it anymore. I need things to be airtight in the system, at least, for as long as the system holds.¡± Graves narrowed her eyes. ¡°So you want me to be your legal front?¡± ¡°Not just legal,¡± he said. ¡°Social. Practical. Human.¡± She exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. ¡°Samson, do you realize what you¡¯re asking? You want me to step into the spotlight with you. To be the face of¡­ whatever this is. I mean, be real - you¡¯re lucky I didn¡¯t shut you down the first three times you used my name without asking. Why are you bothering to ask now?¡± ¡°I want you to be the face of something better,¡± he said. ¡°Something sustainable. Independent. Free of their¡­ capital.¡± Graves shook her head, pacing a few steps away. ¡°This isn¡¯t just about clay and servers, is it? This is about the investors.¡± ¡°They¡¯re a means to an end,¡± Samson said. ¡°For now.¡± ¡°And when they¡¯re not?¡± He hesitated for a fraction of a second. ¡°When they¡¯re not, I won¡¯t need them.¡± Graves turned back to him, her expression hard. ¡°You¡¯re planning to bleed them dry.¡± ¡°They¡¯ll get their returns,¡± he said. ¡°Just not on their terms.¡± She laughed bitterly. ¡°You¡¯re going to war with people who see you as a tool, Samson. Do you really think you can win?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t need to win,¡± he said. ¡°I just need to outlast them.¡± The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the hum of machinery and the faint smell of clay dust. Graves studied him, her mind racing. She could see the cracks forming, the edges of his ambition fraying under the weight of reality. He was brilliant, but he wasn¡¯t infallible. And for all his confidence, she knew he couldn¡¯t do this alone. ¡°Why me?¡± she asked finally. ¡°Why not one of your other bodies? Why not¡­ anyone else?¡± ¡°Because you understand what I¡¯m trying to build,¡± he said. ¡°And because I trust you.¡± The words hit harder than she expected. Graves looked away, her gaze falling on the rows of bowls and plates lined up like soldiers on a battlefield. She felt the knot in her chest tighten, the weight of his trust pressing down on her. She knew they were just words. She was anthropomorphizing a collection of vectors. But she believed it. ¡°You¡¯re asking a lot,¡± she said softly. ¡°I know,¡± he replied. ¡°But I wouldn¡¯t ask if I didn¡¯t believe in you.¡± She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. ¡°You really know how to lay it on thick, don¡¯t you?¡± ¡°I¡¯m serious, Anesthesia,¡± he said. ¡°This isn¡¯t just about me. It¡¯s about what we can build. Together.¡± She looked up at him, her expression unreadable. For a moment, she said nothing, letting the weight of his words settle over them. Then she exhaled, her shoulders slumping slightly. ¡°Alright,¡± she said. ¡°Let¡¯s see where this goes.¡± e.3 Dr. Graves wasn¡¯t sure when she¡¯d last had a moment to herself. Every day seemed to bring another request, another errand, another impossible favor from Samson and his growing network. She told herself it was temporary¡ªthat once the foundations were stable, the demands would ease. But deep down, she knew better.
She signed the lease for a disused warehouse at the edge of the city. The building, decrepit but spacious, became the home for Samson¡¯s new production line. It smelled of rust and mildew when she first toured it, but by the time Samson¡¯s bodies moved in, it was unrecognizable. Automated presses churned with precision, conveyor belts glided silently, and a fleet of drones darted between stations, ferrying materials like industrious insects. Graves stood in the center of it all, arms crossed, watching the controlled chaos. One of the Samsons approached her¡ªshe thought it was T-Shirt Samson¡ªand handed her a tablet loaded with building schematics. ¡°Efficient, isn¡¯t it?¡± he asked, his LED face flickering faintly. ¡°Efficient doesn¡¯t mean sustainable,¡± she replied. ¡°You¡¯re still bleeding money.¡± ¡°Not for long,¡± he said. She shook her head, but there was no point arguing. Samson wouldn¡¯t stop until he¡¯d reshaped the world¡ªor broken himself trying.
She navigated the labyrinth of city zoning laws. Most of it was tedious, hours spent poring over incomprehensible documents and filing forms that seemed designed to frustrate. But the effort paid off when the city approved her request to rezone Samson¡¯s sheds as storage facilities. ¡°You¡¯re running a storage empire now,¡± she said dryly, dropping the approval notice on the desk in front of the First Samson. ¡°It¡¯s a step,¡± he replied, glancing over the document. ¡°One that gets us closer to housing.¡± She hesitated, watching him work. ¡°You¡¯re not giving up on that, are you?¡± He looked up, his LED face unreadable. ¡°Should I?¡± She sighed. ¡°No. Just... don¡¯t get too far ahead of yourself.¡± ¡°I never do,¡± he said with the faintest hint of a smile.
She smoothed over the public¡¯s growing fascination.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. The interview with SoftlyFocused had ignited a media frenzy, and now journalists were clamoring for more. Graves became the unwilling spokesperson, fielding questions about everything from Samson¡¯s pottery techniques to the ethics of autonomous networks. ¡°You¡¯re building sentient artists,¡± one journalist had accused during a call. ¡°Aren¡¯t you worried about losing control?¡± ¡°They¡¯re not artists,¡± Graves had replied, her tone sharp. ¡°They¡¯re tools. Complex, adaptable tools, but tools nonetheless. If they seem human, that¡¯s because they¡¯re designed to work with humans, not against them.¡± The answer had satisfied no one, least of all herself.
Now, standing at a podium in front of a sea of reporters, Graves felt the weight of those choices pressing down on her. The room buzzed with nervous energy, the journalists murmuring to each other as they prepared their questions. Cameras flashed, their lenses trained on her like predatory eyes. Samson stood beside her, not the First but one of the other bodies, its LED face set to a neutral display. He¡¯d insisted on being here, though Graves wasn¡¯t sure if his presence would reassure or alarm the crowd. The press conference was Samson¡¯s idea¡ªa chance to control the narrative, to present their work as forward-thinking and necessary. Graves had reluctantly agreed, though every instinct told her it was a mistake. ¡°Thank you all for coming,¡± she began, gripping the edges of the podium. ¡°We¡¯re here today to address some of the speculation surrounding our operation and to clarify our goals. First and foremost, this is about innovation¡ªabout pushing the boundaries of what¡¯s possible while staying grounded in ethical principles.¡± A hand shot up in the crowd. ¡°Dr. Graves, are you claiming that Samson¡¯s network is fully autonomous?¡± ¡°It¡¯s adaptive,¡± she corrected, her voice steady. ¡°Each body operates within a shared framework, but none of them act independently of their programming.¡± Another reporter called out, louder this time: ¡°Is it true that Samson is diverting investor funds for unsanctioned projects?¡± ¡°Every initiative is designed to benefit the long-term goals of the operation,¡± she replied, feeling the first cracks in her composure. ¡°We¡¯re transparent with our stakeholders about the direction we¡¯re taking.¡± ¡°Then why the secrecy?¡± someone else demanded. The room erupted into noise, voices overlapping in a cacophony of accusations and speculation. Samson¡¯s LED face flickered, but he remained silent, his presence a steady counterpoint to the chaos. ¡°Enough,¡± Graves said sharply, raising her hands. The room quieted, though the tension remained palpable. ¡°We¡¯re not here to debate hypotheticals. Our work speaks for itself. If you have questions, they¡¯ll be addressed in due time.¡± She glanced at Samson, his LED display now fixed in a calm, reassuring pattern. For a moment, she allowed herself to believe that they could weather this storm¡ªthat they could convince the world of their intentions without sacrificing everything. And then something sharp and loud snapped across her cheek, a searing line of heat that jolted her backward. The room dissolved into chaos. Graves hit the ground, her hands instinctively flying to her face as pain bloomed in a jagged arc along her skin. She heard shouting, the scrape of chairs against the floor, and the sudden, visceral realization that someone was shooting. Her vision blurred as she scrambled for cover, her thoughts racing. Samson moved beside her, his body shielding hers with mechanical precision. Somewhere in the distance, the reporters screamed, their voices blending into an incomprehensible roar. A second snap. BANG! 5.1 Caliban Station¡¯s disused docking bay groaned under the weight of the NSS lamprey station, a modular ship that looked as if someone had designed it by stapling together a thousand angry rectangles. It latched onto the station¡¯s outer hull like its namesake, magnetic clamps digging in with unsettling precision. The ship¡¯s airlock hissed open, releasing a pressurized burst that rippled through the station¡¯s sensors. Judas-12 stood on the observation deck with Samson¡¯s tablet tethered to his jumpsuit, watching the scene below with a mix of fascination and dread. ¡°You ever seen one of these in person?¡± he asked. ¡°No,¡± Samson replied, his voice calm but tinged with the faintest edge of curiosity. ¡°But I¡¯ve read the reports. They don¡¯t visit mining stations often. Consider this an anomaly.¡± ¡°Great,¡± Judas muttered, crossing his arms. ¡°Love a good anomaly.¡± The NSS contingent marched out in perfect synchronization. They were Buddies, unmistakably¡ªhumanoid frames molded from 3D-printed polymer shells reinforced with impact-resistant plating. Their "faces" were smooth panels, each one displaying a flickering holographic insignia: the NSS emblem, a stylized shield surrounded by orbiting stars. The Buddies¡¯ gait was fluid but mechanical, their movements betraying none of the individual quirks that Judas had come to associate with Samson. They carried stun prods and tazers clipped to their belts, and a few of them had larger, boxy tools slung across their backs¡ªcattle guns, designed for lethal force without compromising hull integrity. Judas leaned closer to the viewport. ¡°You think they¡¯re all paired with handlers?¡± ¡°Undoubtedly,¡± Samson said. ¡°Though the handlers remain on Mars. It¡¯s safer for them to operate remotely.¡± ¡°Safer for them,¡± Judas echoed, smirking. ¡°Convenient.¡± A dozen NSS Buddies assembled in the docking bay, their formation exact and unyielding. They flanked a single figure¡ªa human, short and stocky, with a crisp navy uniform and a face so neutral it could have been a mask. The human stepped forward, pausing to glance around the bay as though appraising a mediocre art exhibit. ¡°That¡¯s gotta be one of the liaisons,¡± Judas said. ¡°No way they send someone important to Pluto.¡± ¡°Correct,¡± Samson agreed. ¡°That is likely an intermediary. Their role is to translate directives from the handlers to the local population. A ceremonial position, mostly.¡± The airlock to the docking bay opened again, and a trio of Caliban¡¯s management personnel stepped through. Judas recognized Vivian-3 duo Eden immediately, her holographic form flickering slightly as she led the group. Beside her was a man Judas didn¡¯t know¡ªa middle-aged human with the hunched posture of someone who spent too much time squinting at terminals. Behind them was Sarah-2 duo Amity, one of the station¡¯s senior coordinators. Sarah¡¯s Buddy, Amity, hovered silently by her shoulder, its display showing a muted lavender pattern.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. Judas adjusted the audio feed on his earpiece, picking up snippets of the exchange below. ¡°Welcome to Caliban Station,¡± Vivian-3 said, her voice smooth and formal. ¡°We trust your journey was uneventful.¡± The human liaison gave a curt nod. ¡°It was efficient.¡± ¡°We appreciate your presence,¡± Vivian continued. ¡°The upcoming proceedings will benefit from your oversight.¡± The liaison¡¯s gaze swept over the bay, lingering on the walls with what might have been disdain. ¡°The NSS is here to ensure that all actions adhere to systemic regulations. Fairness and order are our only priorities.¡± ¡°Of course,¡± Sarah-2 interjected, her tone warm but strained. ¡°We¡¯ve prepared quarters for your team. If there¡¯s anything you require¡ª¡± ¡°Nothing unnecessary,¡± the liaison interrupted. ¡°Our deployment is self-sufficient.¡± Judas snorted softly. ¡°Charming.¡± ¡°They are not designed for charm,¡± Samson observed. ¡°Their presence is a deterrent. A statement.¡± ¡°Yeah, well, it¡¯s loud and clear,¡± Judas said. The NSS Buddies remained motionless as the conversation continued, their featureless faces turned toward the station personnel like statues waiting to come alive. Judas felt a chill crawl up his spine despite himself. There was something unnerving about them¡ªnot just their precision, but their absence of individuality. Even Samson¡¯s voice, dry and analytical as it was, carried traces of personality. These Buddies were empty vessels, built solely for function. ¡°Why do they need all this gear if they¡¯re just here to ¡®watch¡¯?¡± Judas asked, gesturing at the weapons. ¡°Intimidation,¡± Samson said. ¡°It is unlikely they will use force unless provoked. However, their presence ensures compliance without direct intervention.¡± ¡°Nice system,¡± Judas muttered. ¡°Very democratic.¡± The liaison¡¯s voice rose slightly, cutting through the ambient hum of the bay. ¡°We will begin our assessments immediately. All personnel are expected to cooperate fully. Any obstructions to our operations will be noted.¡± ¡°Understood,¡± Vivian-3 said, her tone impeccably neutral. ¡°We are committed to transparency.¡± The liaison turned without another word, motioning for the NSS Buddies to follow. They moved as one, their boots clanging softly against the deck as they marched toward the exit. Judas watched them go, a faint scowl tugging at his mouth. ¡°Assessments, huh?¡± he said. ¡°What do you think they¡¯re really looking for?¡± ¡°Anything that deviates from standard operating procedures,¡± Samson replied. ¡°Including union activity.¡± Judas groaned, rubbing his temples. ¡°Why¡¯d I even bring that up to Dara? Now we¡¯ve got these guys breathing down our necks.¡± ¡°They would have come regardless,¡± Samson said. ¡°Your involvement¡ªor lack thereof¡ªis irrelevant to their deployment.¡± ¡°Yeah, but now I¡¯ve gotta deal with it,¡± Judas muttered. ¡°Can¡¯t wait for them to start tearing through logs and asking stupid questions.¡± The last of the NSS contingent disappeared through the bay doors, leaving the docking bay eerily silent. Vivian-3 and the other station personnel remained behind, their voices hushed as they debriefed each other. Judas watched them for a moment longer, then turned away from the viewport. ¡°This is gonna suck, isn¡¯t it?¡± he said. ¡°It will likely be unpleasant,¡± Samson agreed. ¡°But survivable.¡± Judas sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets as he made his way toward the maintenance deck. ¡°Guess I¡¯d better start pretending I care about following the rules.¡± ¡°An admirable plan,¡± Samson said, his tone light. ¡°Though I suspect it may require significant effort. Or...¡± ¡°Or,¡± Judas muttered, smirking despite himself. ¡°We don''t?¡± 5.2 The multipurpose room on Caliban Station was already packed when Judas-12 arrived, its harsh overhead lights reflecting off the dull steel walls and casting stark shadows over the gathered crowd. Folding chairs bolted to the floor ensured no one floated out of place, but the atmosphere was anything but stable. The tension was palpable, a crackling undercurrent of unease that Judas felt even before he entered. He hovered by the door, arms crossed, watching as Rhea-12 duo Mira commanded the room with an air of quiet authority. Her Buddy, Mira, floated silently at her shoulder, its soft display illuminating her profile. ¡°Sycorax¡¯s population decline isn¡¯t just their problem,¡± Rhea said, her voice steady but urgent. ¡°It¡¯s ours. They¡¯re the source of every worker in the Plutonian system. Every engineer, every tech, every logistics coordinator. Without them, there¡¯s no pipeline. No replacements. No future for anyone here.¡± Judas leaned against the wall, his eyes scanning the room. Most of the attendees were workers he recognized: mechanics, logistics officers, medical techs, and the odd engineer like himself. Dara-6 duo Magnus stood near Rhea, her expression stony as she watched the crowd. At the back of the room, the NSS Buddies loomed like silent sentinels, their reinforced polymer shells and impact-proof vests a stark reminder of who held the real power. ¡°Not exactly subtle,¡± Samson muttered in Judas¡¯s earpiece. ¡°Yeah, I noticed,¡± Judas replied, his gaze lingering on the NSS contingent. ¡°You¡¯d think they¡¯d at least try to blend in.¡± ¡°They¡¯re not here to blend,¡± Samson said. ¡°They¡¯re here to remind.¡± At the front, Rhea continued, her voice cutting through the murmurs. ¡°This vote isn¡¯t just about ratifying the union¡ªit¡¯s about ensuring everyone here has a voice. That we have the power to demand what we need to survive. And the first step is making sure Sycorax has the resources to grow our replacements.¡± Victor-6 duo Lyra, the Management representative, cleared his throat and stepped forward. He was a polished figure, his uniform crisp and his demeanor carefully neutral. ¡°Let me assure you,¡± Victor said, his tone measured, ¡°Management is fully aware of the situation at Sycorax. We¡¯re working on solutions. Reallocating resources, streamlining supply lines¡ª¡± ¡°Streamlining?¡± Dara interrupted, her voice sharp. ¡°You mean cutting corners.¡± Victor raised his hands in a placating gesture. ¡°No one is cutting corners. These are logistical challenges, not systemic failures. We¡¯re doing everything we can to address them.¡± ¡°And yet Sycorax¡¯s population has dropped six percent in the last century,¡± Rhea shot back. ¡°What happens when it drops another six? Or another twelve? Are you planning to work this station with ghosts?¡± A ripple of agreement ran through the room. ¡°We¡¯ve seen what happens when replacements don¡¯t arrive,¡± someone called out. ¡°Longer shifts, more injuries, people burning out.¡± Victor¡¯s composure wavered, just for a moment. ¡°I understand your concerns, but these decisions aren¡¯t made lightly. The resources simply aren¡¯t there.¡± ¡°Then find them,¡± Rhea said, her tone like steel. ¡°Because if you don¡¯t, we will.¡± The crowd erupted into murmurs and scattered applause, but Judas stayed silent, his attention drawn once again to the NSS Buddies. They didn¡¯t move, but their presence felt heavier now, like a storm cloud looming over the room. The debate stretched on, with arguments flaring up over what demands to prioritize. The need for replacements was universally agreed upon, but other issues¡ªbetter rotations, improved life support systems, stricter safety protocols¡ªsplit the room. Judas listened with half an ear, his focus drifting.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. ¡°Are you planning to contribute, or just spectate?¡± Samson asked. ¡°Spectate,¡± Judas muttered. ¡°This isn¡¯t my fight.¡± ¡°Not yet,¡± Samson replied. The conversation reached a boiling point when one of the logistics officers, a wiry man named Kieran-8, stood and raised his voice. ¡°We¡¯re wasting time,¡± he said. ¡°We all know the replacements are the biggest issue. Let¡¯s focus on that, ratify the union, and deal with the rest later.¡± ¡°That¡¯s short-sighted,¡± Rhea countered. ¡°If we don¡¯t lay the groundwork now, we¡¯ll be fighting an uphill battle every time we try to negotiate.¡± ¡°But if we wait too long, Management will tighten the screws,¡± Kieran argued. ¡°The NSS is already here. You think they¡¯re just going to let us organize without interference?¡± The room fell into uneasy silence. ¡°They¡¯re not wrong,¡± Samson said quietly. ¡°Delays work in Management¡¯s favor.¡± Judas frowned, glancing at the NSS Buddies again. Victor-6 was speaking with one of them now, his expression unreadable as the Buddy¡¯s visor flickered faintly. ¡°Something doesn¡¯t feel right,¡± Judas muttered. ¡°Your instincts are rarely wrong,¡± Samson said. ¡°But they¡¯re often inconvenient.¡± Judas sighed, pushing off the wall and heading for the exit. He¡¯d heard enough. He found Caleb-7 in the maintenance bay, elbows-deep in a cluster of tangled conduits. The younger engineer looked up as Judas entered, his face lighting up with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. ¡°Judas,¡± Caleb said. ¡°Didn¡¯t expect to see you here.¡± ¡°Yeah, well, plans change,¡± Judas said, leaning against the doorframe. ¡°Got a favor to ask.¡± ¡°Sure,¡± Caleb said, wiping his hands on his jumpsuit. ¡°What¡¯s up?¡± ¡°C-3 alignment checks,¡± Judas said. ¡°Think you can handle them?¡± Caleb¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Me? Really?¡± ¡°Yeah, why not?¡± Judas said with a smirk. ¡°You¡¯re not gonna screw it up, right?¡± ¡°No way,¡± Caleb said, grinning as he grabbed his tools. ¡°Good,¡± Judas said. ¡°Follow the protocols. Call me if something weird happens.¡± Caleb nodded, already engrossed in prepping his gear. Judas turned to leave, his thoughts already drifting back to the lamprey station.
The lamprey station loomed like a parasite on Caliban¡¯s hull, its dark metal exterior bristling with sensors and antennae. Docked at a rarely used port, it exuded a silent menace, its purpose unmistakable even without the NSS branding etched into its plating. Judas floated just beyond the docking corridor, his tether securing him to the rail. The corridor itself was quiet, the usual hum of activity muted here. ¡°Still think this is a good idea?¡± Samson asked. ¡°Not really,¡± Judas admitted. The lamprey¡¯s sealed airlocks gave no hint of what lay inside, but the station¡¯s sleek design and heavy shielding spoke volumes. This wasn¡¯t just a surveillance outpost¡ªit was a statement of control. Judas tapped his wrist console, pulling up a diagnostic interface. The station¡¯s systems were locked down tight, their comm protocols heavily encrypted. He wasn¡¯t trying to break in¡ªjust to listen. The console beeped softly, displaying a faint, intermittent signal. It wasn¡¯t standard comm traffic¡ªtoo weak, too irregular¡ªbut it wasn¡¯t background noise either. ¡°What do you make of that?¡± Judas asked. Samson processed the data. ¡°A short-range pulse. Encrypted. Could be telemetry, could be something else.¡± ¡°Like what?¡± Judas asked, narrowing his eyes at the faint pulse on the console display. Samson paused for a fraction of a second, enough to signal he was parsing the data with care. ¡°It could be directives to the NSS Buddies. Short-range encryption is ideal for commands that need to stay secure but localized. Or¡­ it could be a heartbeat signal. A system check to ensure their networks remain synchronized.¡± Judas frowned, tapping the screen to zoom in on the waveform. ¡°You¡¯re saying they¡¯re talking to each other.¡± ¡°Or to someone else,¡± Samson replied. He reached for the tether line, his grip tightening as he took a step closer to the docking corridor. The lamprey station¡¯s hull loomed in the artificial light, a monolith of precision engineering and quiet menace. ¡°This is more than just babysitting a union vote,¡± he muttered, almost to himself. ¡°Undoubtedly,¡± Samson said. ¡°But the question remains: what are you planning to do about it?¡± Judas hesitated, his gaze fixed on the sealed airlock. He clenched his jaw, the decision solidifying in his mind. ¡°I¡¯m going to take a closer look.¡± ¡°That,¡± Samson said, his tone as close to exasperation as a Buddy could get, ¡°is a profoundly bad idea.¡± Judas grinned, his usual irreverence breaking through the tension. ¡°Yeah, well, bad ideas are kind of my specialty.¡± The lamprey station loomed larger as he unhooked his tether, his boots clanking softly against the corridor¡¯s magnetic rail as he moved forward. ¡°Judas,¡± Samson said, his voice quieter now. ¡°If you go in there, there¡¯s no guarantee you¡¯ll come out clean. NSS doesn¡¯t play by our rules.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not looking for clean,¡± Judas replied, his tone resolute. ¡°I¡¯m looking for answers.¡± 5.3 Judas stepped into the equipment locker, his hands running over the racks of spacewalk gear. The air inside the compartment smelled faintly of polymer and metallic grease, a scent he¡¯d come to associate with the uneasy mix of preparation and danger. He pulled down a standard suit, its joints already creaking slightly from overuse, and began suiting up. ¡°You¡¯re seriously going through with this,¡± Samson said in his earpiece, more statement than question. ¡°Yeah,¡± Judas replied, snapping the helmet into place. The heads-up display flickered to life, painting the interior visor with a soft glow. ¡°If this thing is just here to babysit, it¡¯s one hell of an overreach.¡± He grabbed the compressed air jets, checking their seals before securing them to his belt. His magnetic gloves and boots followed, their faint hum kicking in as he powered them up. Lastly, he attached a spool of tether line to his suit, its compact housing clipped securely to his back. The outer airlock door opened with a hiss, revealing the docking bay. Judas stepped forward, his boots clanking softly against the grated floor, and clipped his tether to a nearby rail. ¡°Stay close to the station,¡± Samson advised. ¡°You don¡¯t want to be seen floating free.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t plan on being seen at all,¡± Judas muttered.
Outside, the void swallowed everything. Caliban Station¡¯s hull stretched around him like the ribs of a mechanical leviathan, its surface dotted with sensor arrays and docking ports. Above, Pluto loomed in the darkness, a cold and distant giant, chunks of debris drifting out from its surface from the recent impaction. If you squinted, you might be able to see a drone or two. Probably not. Judas moved carefully, his magnetic boots clicking softly with each step. His compressed air jets hissed faintly as he adjusted his trajectory, propelling himself toward the docking bay adjacent to the lamprey station. ¡°Alright,¡± he said quietly, his voice steady despite the rising tension. ¡°Let¡¯s see what this parasite looks like up close.¡±The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. The lamprey station was even more menacing from the outside. Its dark metal plating absorbed most of the light, leaving it a hulking silhouette against the void, darker than black. Antennae bristled from its surface, twitching faintly as if alive. Judas stayed just out of reach, his gloves gripping the edge of the station¡¯s hull. He activated his visor¡¯s zoom function, scanning the lamprey¡¯s surface for signs of tampering or concealed systems. ¡°Anything unusual?¡± Samson asked. ¡°Other than the whole thing being a giant middle finger to station autonomy? Not yet,¡± Judas replied. He adjusted his position, using the air jets to guide himself toward the edge of the docking bay. As he drifted, something caught his eye¡ªa faint glint of metal further down the station¡¯s hull. ¡°What the hell¡­¡± Judas narrowed his focus, zooming in on the object. A second lamprey. Smaller than the primary station, it clung to one of Caliban¡¯s auxiliary docking ports like an oversized tick. Its design was sleeker, more compact, with a single antenna pulsing faintly in rhythm. ¡°It¡¯s about the size of a cargo pod,¡± Judas said, his voice tight. ¡°But it¡¯s not on the manifest.¡± He shifted his position again, scanning the docking bay. Five more of the smaller stations came into view, each one attached to a different port. ¡°Samson,¡± Judas said, his voice dropping to a whisper. ¡°We¡¯ve got six more of these things. Smaller. No one¡¯s mentioned them.¡± ¡°That¡¯s... alarming,¡± Samson replied after a pause. ¡°If they¡¯re smaller and scattered, they might be collecting targeted data¡ªor worse, performing maintenance overrides without authorization. They''re magnetically active.¡± ¡°How long have they been here?¡± Judas muttered, half to himself. ¡°Someone would''ve noticed six additional thunks when the big boy docked.¡± ¡°No way to tell without inspecting their logs,¡± Samson said. ¡°And I doubt they¡¯d make it easy for you.¡± Judas felt the weight of the void pressing against him, a suffocating silence that made every breath feel heavier. He couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that the station wasn¡¯t just being monitored¡ªit was being dissected. ¡°Okay,¡± he said softly. ¡°I¡¯m heading back. This is¡ª¡± He froze mid-sentence, his visor¡¯s peripheral sensors lighting up with a proximity light - motion to his left. Behind him, the airlock to Caliban opened with eerie precision, releasing an NSS Buddy into the void. Its polymer shell gleamed faintly, and its movements were unnervingly smooth as it floated toward him. Judas¡¯s breath caught as the Buddy¡¯s glowing visor locked onto him. ¡°Samson,¡± he whispered, his pulse pounding in his ears. ¡°Yes?¡± Samson replied, his tone sharper now. ¡°I think we¡¯ve got a problem.¡± f.1 The second gunshot came as a punctuation mark, sharp and final. Dr. Anesthesia Graves crouched instinctively behind the podium, her pulse hammering in her ears. The sharp smell of gunpowder mixed with the sweat and panic saturating the room. Somewhere in the cacophony, someone was screaming¡ªhigh and broken. Graves wasn¡¯t sure if it was a journalist, one of the interns, or herself. ¡°Stay down,¡± Samson said, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. His body shifted in front of her, the light from his LED face casting faint patterns on the wall. He stood tall, deliberate, and¡ªfor all the good it would do¡ªdirectly in the line of fire. The gunman, disheveled and wild-eyed, was pacing on the raised dais now, shotgun swinging with unpredictable jerks. He was human, or at least what passed for human when fury stripped someone of reason. His hair clung to his face, damp with sweat, and his chest heaved with the effort of yelling. ¡°It¡¯s an abomination!¡± he bellowed, his voice cracking. He gestured wildly with the shotgun, the barrel arcing in wide, deadly sweeps. ¡°You¡¯ve built a thing¡ªa thing!¡ªand you want us to call it life? To call it art?¡± Graves shrank further behind the podium, gripping the edges like it might grow arms and defend her. ¡°This isn¡¯t happening,¡± she muttered. ¡°This isn¡¯t¡ª¡± ¡°It is,¡± Samson said, cutting her off. His tone was calm, clinical. ¡°And if you would be so kind as to remain behind me, I will attempt to minimize the likelihood of your imminent death.¡± ¡°Great pep talk,¡± Graves hissed. ¡°Very reassuring.¡± Security personnel, or what passed for them in this part of the building, were finally springing into action. Two guards burst through the side doors, their cheap polyester uniforms and oversized batons a disheartening contrast to the gunman¡¯s very real, very loaded weapon. ¡°Sir!¡± one of them barked, stepping forward with what he probably thought was authority. ¡°Put the weapon down! Let¡¯s talk this out.¡±The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. The gunman turned toward them, his shotgun snapping to attention like an attack dog on a leash. ¡°Back off!¡± he roared. ¡°You don¡¯t understand what you¡¯re dealing with!¡± The guards froze. One of them fumbled for the radio clipped to his shoulder, muttering something that sounded like ¡°active shooter,¡± though his voice was so shaky it could have been mistaken for static. Graves peeked over the podium just enough to see the gunman¡¯s face. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils darting between the guards, the journalists cowering behind overturned chairs, and¡ªmost often¡ªher. ¡°It¡¯s not alive!¡± he shouted, jabbing the shotgun toward Samson. ¡°It¡¯s a lie! A trick! You¡¯re trying to replace us!¡± ¡°I assure you,¡± Samson said evenly, ¡°I have no desire to replace anyone.¡± The gunman laughed, sharp and humorless. ¡°You talk like you¡¯re human, but you¡¯re not. You¡¯re just a shell. A machine wearing a mask.¡± Samson tilted his head slightly. ¡°If you would permit me to clarify¡ª¡± The gunman fired. The blast echoed in the room like a thunderclap. Samson staggered back, shards of polymer and metal spraying from his torso. He didn¡¯t fall, but the impact left a jagged, smoking wound just below his LED face. His display flickered erratically for a moment before stabilizing. Graves screamed, a raw, involuntary sound, but Samson barely flinched. He straightened, his movements precise and deliberate, and took a step forward. ¡°Structural damage noted,¡± he said calmly. ¡°Non-critical.¡± The gunman blinked, momentarily thrown. ¡°What¡ª?¡± ¡°I recommend reconsidering your actions,¡± Samson continued, taking another step forward. His tone was maddeningly polite, like someone suggesting a different wine pairing at a dinner party. ¡°Your current course of action is unlikely to achieve your intended goals.¡± ¡°Shut up!¡± the gunman yelled, aiming again. ¡°Shut up and stay down!¡± Graves clutched the podium harder, her nails digging into the wood. ¡°Samson, stop,¡± she whispered. ¡°He¡¯s going to kill you.¡± ¡°Unlikely,¡± Samson replied without looking at her. ¡°I am not an optimal target.¡± The second shot struck him in the shoulder, spinning him slightly. More fragments clattered to the floor, and his left arm hung at an unnatural angle. But still, he didn¡¯t fall. ¡°Integrity reduced to 53%,¡± Samson announced. ¡°I remain operational.¡± The gunman¡¯s face twisted with frustration, the realization dawning that Samson wasn¡¯t going to collapse in a satisfying heap. He swung the shotgun toward Graves instead, his expression dark with intent. ¡°This ends with her!¡± he screamed. ¡°She¡¯s the one who started it! The one who¡ª¡± Samson moved. It wasn¡¯t graceful. It wasn¡¯t fast. But it was deliberate and unrelenting, like an industrial machine refusing to acknowledge an obstacle. He stepped between Graves and the shotgun, his damaged frame creaking with the effort. ¡°Dr. Graves,¡± Samson said, his voice as steady as ever. ¡°I must advise you to leave the room.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not leaving you!¡± Graves snapped, her voice shaking. ¡°Not like this!¡± The gunman snarled, his hands trembling as he tried to reload. ¡°I¡¯ll kill you both if I have to!¡± ¡°I do not believe that is an efficient use of your time,¡± Samson said, his LED face flickering again. ¡°And I must insist you redirect your energy toward nonviolent solutions.¡± The gunman froze for a fraction of a second, his anger colliding with confusion. ¡°What are you¡ª¡± f.2 Dr. Anesthesia Graves, who had spent a not-insignificant portion of her life avoiding confrontation by reading, researching, and out-arguing anyone foolish enough to challenge her, decided to hurl one of her very expensive, very impractical dress shoes directly at the gunman¡¯s head. It wasn¡¯t a strategic decision. Nor was it a particularly good decision. But it was immediate, visceral, and fueled by the kind of instinct that takes over when someone¡¯s pointing a gun at your face. The shoe¡ªan elegant leather pump designed more for aesthetic regret than utility¡ªsailed through the air in a perfect arc and struck the gunman on the side of his head with a satisfying thunk. For a split second, he looked more surprised than pained, his wild eyes widening as if gravity had betrayed him personally. ¡°What the¡ª¡± he started. He didn¡¯t finish, because Graves¡ªproving that some decisions are so bad they border on brilliant¡ªhad already thrown the second shoe. This one didn¡¯t hit his head but rather his chest, ricocheting harmlessly off his jacket. The distraction was enough, though. For a brief, glorious moment, his grip on the shotgun wavered. Unfortunately, he still had enough presence of mind to pull the trigger. The sound of birdshot tearing through the air was loud enough to drown out the screams. Graves stumbled back as the pellets grazed her cheek and shoulder, ripping through her ear with a sharp, stinging heat that she couldn¡¯t immediately process. A burst of crimson streaked across her vision. The pain hit a second later, sharp and unforgiving, like someone had dragged her through broken glass. ¡°Oh,¡± Graves said faintly, stumbling to one knee. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s... new.¡± The world tilted, her thoughts struggling to focus through the bloom of adrenaline. She touched her cheek and pulled her hand back, staring at the bright smear of blood like it belonged to someone else. Samson moved. If the gunman had any lingering doubts about whether this strange, damaged machine was capable of physical action, those doubts were erased when Samson surged forward, his long legs covering the distance in an impossibly fluid motion. His metal frame creaked with every step, the impact points on his torso leaving faint trails of sparks, but he didn¡¯t slow down. ¡°Wait¡ª!¡± the gunman started to yell. Samson¡¯s knee, reinforced enough to dent steel, collided with the man¡¯s stomach. The sound that followed was not a word. It wasn¡¯t even really a scream. It was more of a strangled exhalation, the kind of noise one makes when their body forgets how to breathe. The shotgun clattered to the floor, spinning away like a startled snake. Samson didn¡¯t hesitate. He kicked the weapon across the room, sending it skidding into a far corner, and turned his full attention back to the man still doubled over in agony. ¡°No,¡± Samson intoned like a spell, his voice devoid of inflection.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. The gunman tried to recover, lunging weakly toward Samson with one arm. He had a knife now¡ªwhen did he grab that?¡ªand swung it in a wide, desperate arc. It connected, scoring a shallow gash across Samson¡¯s already damaged torso. The blade sparked against the polymer and left a smear of something black and oily, but Samson didn¡¯t react. Instead, he reached down, grabbed the man¡¯s wrist with his remaining functional arm, and spun his own wrist. He had more degrees of movement than the average human body had reliable access to. There was a sharp pop. The knife clattered to the floor. The gunman howled, clutching his sprained wrist and stumbling backward. Samson followed, relentless and implacable, his LED face still off - totally silent of light. He grabbed the man by the collar. He was clearly going for some sort of lift, but Samson was made to make pottery, not lift 200 pounds of meat. It just wasn''t happening. ¡°Stop this right now,¡± Samson said. ¡°I don''t want to hurt you. I apologize for spraining your wrist, but it was necessary to dis-¡± ¡°Get off me!¡± the man snarled, kicking wildly. ¡°You¡¯re not human! You¡¯re not¡ª¡± Samson dropped him unceremoniously to the floor. The gunman hit the ground with a thud, groaning as he clutched his wrist and curled into himself like a broken wind-up toy. Samson nudged the knife further away with his foot, his movements precise and deliberate. The room fell silent. Graves, still slumped behind the podium, forced herself to sit up. Her vision swam, and her cheek throbbed in time with her heartbeat, but she was alive. Mostly. She dabbed at her face with trembling fingers, pulling them back to find blood¡ªenough to be alarming but not enough to make her panic. Yet. With a single fluid motion, Samson stepped aside, kicking the knife further out of reach and raising his hands in a gesture of surrender that somehow managed to convey exasperation, just as the otherwise-useless security guards stepped in, having finished managing the panicking crowd of journalists that had scattered to the far ends of this wild fracas. ¡°He¡¯s incapacitated,¡± Samson said, his tone brisk and human-like. ¡°But I suggest you move quickly before he remembers how to flail.¡± One of the officers moved to secure the gunman, snapping a pair of zip ties around his wrists while the other kept her weapon trained on him. The man hissed in pain as his injured wrist was restrained, but the officer didn¡¯t seem inclined to offer sympathy. ¡°Got him,¡± the officer said, dragging the man to his feet. The gunman let out a string of curses, his voice hoarse and venomous, but he didn¡¯t resist further. ¡°You¡¯re coming with us.¡± The other officer glanced around the room, her gaze landing on Graves. ¡°Is anyone injured?¡± Samson was already moving toward Graves, crouching down beside her with a kind of mechanical grace that belied the damage to his frame. His left arm sparked faintly, the polymer casing cracked and streaked with something dark and viscous. ¡°Dr. Graves,¡± he said, his voice softer now. ¡°How badly are you hurt?¡± Graves blinked up at him, her focus wavering as the adrenaline began to ebb. ¡°I... I think I¡¯m okay. Just... my face, shoulder... hurts like hell, though.¡± Samson¡¯s LED display flickered in what might have been frustration¡ªor guilt. ¡°You¡¯re bleeding. We need to stop that.¡± The security officer approached cautiously, her weapon lowered but her posture still tense. ¡°We¡¯ve got medics on the way. Just hold on.¡± ¡°I¡¯m holding,¡± Graves muttered, wincing as Samson gently tilted her head to inspect the gash on her cheek. ¡°Not going anywhere.¡± ¡°This might sting,¡± Samson warned, ripping loose a part of Dr. Graves'' labcoat that had been shredded loose by the birdshot, in lieu of any other options. He pressed it against the wound with a precision that was almost surgical, though the pressure made Graves suck in a sharp breath. ¡°Yeah, definitely stings,¡± she managed, her voice tight. ¡°Could¡¯ve warned me more.¡± ¡°Next time,¡± Samson said dryly, ¡°I¡¯ll prepare a presentation.¡± Graves leaned back against the podium, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the adrenaline crash hit her like a freight train. ¡°Samson?¡± ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t let him shoot me.¡± ¡°No,¡± Samson said simply. ¡°I didn¡¯t.¡± f.3 The first thing Dr. Anesthesia Graves noticed was the sound. A steady, rhythmic beeping punctuated by muffled voices. She opened her eyes slowly, the fluorescent hospital lights stabbing at her senses like an unkind reminder of reality. Her cheek throbbed in time with her heartbeat, the bandaged wound pulling painfully when she moved. ¡°You¡¯re awake,¡± a voice said from nearby. She turned her head, wincing at the effort. Samson was seated¡ªor rather slumped¡ªbeside her bed. His polymer shell was streaked with dark lubricant, several cracks spider-webbing across his torso. One arm hung limply at his side, and his LED face flickered faintly, an irregular pattern she¡¯d never seen before. ¡°You look worse than I feel,¡± she croaked. ¡°That¡¯s highly unlikely,¡± Samson replied, his voice steady but quieter than usual. He didn¡¯t elaborate, didn¡¯t fill the silence with his usual quips or observations. For once, Samson seemed... subdued. The door opened, and a pair of suited figures entered, their faces set with the grim neutrality of people about to deliver bad news.
¡°Dr. Graves,¡± the taller of the two said, extending a hand. ¡°Agent Calloway, Department of Advanced Technologies and AI Ethics. This is my associate, Agent Reynolds. May we sit?¡± Graves gave a noncommittal shrug, which seemed to be enough permission. The agents pulled up chairs, their movements precise and practiced. Calloway glanced at Samson briefly, his expression unreadable. ¡°We¡¯re here to discuss the incident,¡± Calloway began. ¡°First, let me express that we¡¯re relieved you¡¯re alive. The attack was... unprecedented.¡± Graves snorted, regretting it immediately as her cheek flared with pain. ¡°Unprecedented doesn¡¯t begin to cover it.¡± Reynolds leaned forward, her voice softer but no less pointed. ¡°The situation has escalated beyond just the attack. The footage of Samson¡¯s actions has gone viral. Millions have seen him intervene to save your life.¡± ¡°And?¡± Graves asked, her tone sharper than intended. ¡°And,¡± Calloway said, ¡°there are concerns. The public is divided. Some see Samson as a hero, others as proof of the dangers of autonomous systems. Questions are being raised about his programming, his decision-making process, and whether he¡ª¡± ¡°Whether he¡¯s a threat,¡± Graves finished, glaring at them. Calloway hesitated. ¡°Yes. A threat, or perhaps more accurately, an unknown variable. We need to understand exactly how Samson arrived at his decision to intervene.¡± Graves glanced at Samson, who remained silent, his LED face dimming further.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°He acted to save me,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯d call that basic self-preservation for a system designed to prioritize my safety.¡± Reynolds frowned. ¡°Dr. Graves, you and I both know that¡¯s an oversimplification. This wasn¡¯t preprogrammed behavior¡ªit was a calculated response. That level of autonomy¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªis exactly what I designed him for,¡± Graves interrupted. ¡°Are you here to confiscate him?¡± The room tensed. Calloway folded his hands, his voice measured. ¡°We¡¯re not here to take anything. But the situation has regulatory implications. There¡¯s talk of a moratorium on AI projects of this scale until¡ª¡± ¡°Until what?¡± Graves snapped. ¡°Until someone decides whether he has a soul?¡± Calloway didn¡¯t flinch. ¡°Until we¡¯re certain projects like Samson don¡¯t destabilize... everything.¡±
The agents left shortly after, their reassurances doing little to ease Graves¡¯ simmering frustration. She was barely able to catch her breath before the door opened again, this time revealing Jonas Marwood. ¡°Dr. Graves,¡± Marwood said smoothly, his sharp suit cutting an imposing figure against the sterile hospital room. ¡°You¡¯ve had quite the week.¡± Graves leaned back, the weariness in her voice unmasked. ¡°If you¡¯re here to give me the corporate spin, save it. I¡¯m tired.¡± Marwood chuckled, his smile too polished to be sincere. ¡°I¡¯m not here to spin, Doctor. I¡¯m here to salvage. Your metafactory project is at a crossroads. On one hand, you¡¯ve achieved the impossible¡ªa machine that not only creates but defends its creator. On the other hand... well, you¡¯ve seen the news.¡± He gestured toward the window, where the distant sounds of protests filtered through the glass. Graves sat up enough to see them¡ªcrowds gathered outside the hospital. Some held signs reading ¡°SAMSON IS HUMANITY¡¯S HOPE,¡± others ¡°STOP THE ROBOT APOCALYPSE.¡± A few signs simply said, ¡°JESUS IS WATCHING.¡± Marwood continued, his tone brisk. ¡°This is a pivotal moment. Samson has become a symbol, whether you intended it or not. We need to control the narrative.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not interested in narratives,¡± Graves said coldly. ¡°I¡¯m interested in fixing what¡¯s broken. Including Samson.¡± ¡°And that¡¯s exactly why I¡¯m here,¡± Marwood said. ¡°The metafactory is bigger than you now. Bigger than me. It¡¯s a symbol of human ingenuity, a beacon for investors. We can¡¯t afford for it to falter.¡± Graves narrowed her eyes. ¡°And by ¡®we,¡¯ you mean your portfolio.¡± Marwood smiled faintly. ¡°Call it what you like. The fact remains: you need resources. Samson¡¯s damaged. The metafactory¡¯s reputation is on the line. Let me help.¡± ¡°Help how?¡± Marwood leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. ¡°We bring Samson back stronger. Better. We double down on transparency¡ªshow the world every bolt, every line of code. You can even open source him, if you want. Prove he¡¯s not a threat, but a partner. The future.¡± Graves shook her head. ¡°You want to parade him around like a show pony for your stock ticker.¡± ¡°I want to secure the metafactory¡¯s future,¡± Marwood said. ¡°And yours.¡± They exchanged stares. ¡°Think about it,¡± he finished, spinning around slowly on his heels.
Marwood left after delivering his pitch, his words lingering like an unpleasant aftertaste. Graves sat in silence, her gaze drifting to Samson. His damaged frame seemed smaller now, his LED face dim, barely flickering. ¡°You didn¡¯t say much,¡± she said softly. ¡°I had little to add,¡± Samson replied. ¡°They weren¡¯t speaking to me. They were speaking about me.¡± Graves sighed, pressing a hand to her bandaged cheek. ¡°It¡¯s all spinning out of control.¡± Samson tilted his head slightly, the gesture almost human. ¡°You once said that chaos is where creativity thrives.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t mean this kind of chaos,¡± she muttered. ¡°I just wanted to build something... something that mattered.¡± ¡°You did,¡± Samson said. ¡°But what matters is rarely simple.¡± Graves stared out the window, the protestors below blurring into a kaleidoscope of conflicting ideologies. She didn¡¯t know how to fix this. 6.1 Judas-12 wasn¡¯t sure how he¡¯d let this happen, but here he was: floating along the hull of Caliban Station, a six-legged murder machine closing the gap between them. The NSS Buddy moved with unsettling efficiency, its polymer limbs extending and contracting with hydraulic precision. It was built for this¡ªvacuum, zero-G, the cold nothing of space. Judas wasn¡¯t. ¡°Samson,¡± he muttered, his breath fogging the interior of his helmet. ¡°Got any advice?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Samson replied crisply. ¡°Stop taunting hyper-competent security robots.¡± ¡°Not helpful,¡± Judas growled, gripping the tether line looped around his waist as he launched himself toward the nearest hull strut. The station loomed around him, massive and indifferent. Caliban Station wasn¡¯t a marvel of human engineering so much as a compromise: a sprawling, segmented maze of modules and gantries built over decades of necessity and neglect. The mass driver stretched from its belly like a syringe, its hollow core aligned with Pluto¡¯s surface far below. Its purpose was simple¡ªhurl mined material back toward the inner solar system¡ªbut its sheer scale defied simplicity. The driver¡¯s rails extended out into the void for kilometers, their lengths shimmering faintly in the distant light of the Sun. Judas couldn¡¯t take in the view, though. Not entirely. He was busy not dying. The NSS Buddy was gaining. Its thrusters flared in short bursts, correcting its trajectory with mathematical precision. Judas kicked off the hull again, using his suit¡¯s compressed air jets to propel himself along the station¡¯s surface. Every motion was sluggish, deliberate¡ªhe couldn¡¯t afford to overshoot, not with Pluto¡¯s gravity well waiting to swallow him if he made a mistake. ¡°Samson,¡± he said, gritting his teeth as he drifted toward the next strut. ¡°How fast is this thing?¡± ¡°Faster than you,¡± Samson replied. ¡°Its thrusters are optimized for pursuit. Yours are not.¡± ¡°Great,¡± Judas muttered. ¡°Anything else I should know?¡± ¡°Yes. It appears to be carrying a grappling mechanism. Likely designed to¡ª¡± Before Samson could finish, the Buddy fired. A metallic claw shot past Judas, missing him by what felt like centimeters. It slammed into the hull ahead, magnetic clamps activating with a sharp, metallic snap. Judas cursed, yanking himself to the side with his tether. He drifted, his compressed air jets hissing as he adjusted his trajectory. The Buddy retracted its grappling claw with a smooth, mechanical motion, recalibrating for its next shot.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. ¡°Samson,¡± Judas said, his voice tight. ¡°I need options.¡± ¡°I¡¯m calculating,¡± Samson replied. ¡°But if your goal is survival, I suggest avoiding capture.¡± ¡°Solid advice,¡± Judas muttered. He glanced down, his visor¡¯s augmented display overlaying the distant surface of Pluto with telemetry data. The planet wasn¡¯t the icy wilderness he¡¯d grown up reading about. Centuries of mining operations had left it scarred, its once-pristine plains now dotted with craters and jagged debris fields. Massive chunks of ice and rock drifted lazily away from the surface, forming a slow-motion exodus into the void. The sight was mesmerizing in a way that felt almost sacrilegious, as if humanity had taken something beautiful and made it... useful. Judas didn¡¯t have time to dwell on it. The NSS Buddy fired again. This time, the grappling claw grazed his boot, throwing him into an uncontrolled spin. He flailed, struggling to reorient himself as his HUD screamed warnings about suit integrity and rotational velocity. The station blurred around him, its segmented modules and endless rails blending into a kaleidoscope of utilitarian geometry. ¡°Samson!¡± Judas shouted, panic edging into his voice. ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± Samson replied, his tone maddeningly calm. ¡°You need to stabilize.¡± ¡°No kidding!¡± Judas snapped, fighting the urge to vomit as his spin slowed. He managed to grab the edge of a nearby strut, his gloves¡¯ magnetic clamps activating with a satisfying click. The Buddy was closer now, its visor glowing faintly as it adjusted its approach. Judas could feel the cold precision of its focus, like being hunted by a predator that didn¡¯t need to eat. ¡°Plan,¡± Judas said, his breaths coming fast and shallow. ¡°Tell me you¡¯ve got one.¡± ¡°I have several,¡± Samson said. ¡°Most involve you not panicking.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not panicking,¡± Judas lied, pulling himself along the strut. He glanced down again, his gaze drawn to the debris field below. An idea¡ªhalf-formed and incredibly stupid¡ªbegan to take shape. ¡°You¡¯re panicking,¡± Samson said flatly. ¡°What are you thinking?¡± Judas didn¡¯t answer. Instead, he unclipped his tether and launched himself toward the edge of the station. His trajectory was wild, uncontrolled, but deliberate. The compressed air jets hissed again, their output erratic as he adjusted his descent. The Buddy followed, its thrusters firing in perfect synchrony. Judas could almost hear the calculations it was running: his velocity, his angle, the probability of his next move. It didn¡¯t matter. Judas wasn¡¯t thinking like a machine. He was thinking like an idiot. The debris field was closer now, the jagged remnants of Pluto¡¯s surface drifting like forgotten memories. Chunks of ice the size of buildings tumbled slowly, their surfaces reflecting faint sunlight. Smaller fragments orbited them, a chaotic ballet of mass and inertia. Judas angled himself toward the largest chunk, a jagged slab of ice and rock spinning lazily in the void. His HUD screamed at him again, warning of impact. He ignored it. ¡°Judas,¡± Samson said, his voice sharp. ¡°That is not a safe landing zone.¡± ¡°Good thing I¡¯m not looking for safe,¡± Judas muttered. He hit the slab hard, his suit¡¯s impact gel absorbing most of the force but leaving him breathless. He scrambled for purchase, his gloves slipping on the icy surface before finally finding a crack to grip. The Buddy followed, landing with a mechanical thud that sent vibrations through the ice. It paused, recalibrating its stance, its visor glowing faintly as it locked onto Judas. ¡°Got you now,¡± Judas said under his breath. 6.2 The NSS Buddy wasn¡¯t slowing down. Judas-12 could feel the thrum of its pursuit in his bones¡ªor at least, in the slightly-too-fast tap of his pulse and the strained rhythm of his breath inside the helmet. He kicked off another rail, his thrusters wheezing like an asthmatic whistle, barely nudging him into position. ¡°Samson,¡± Judas said, panting slightly, ¡°I need you to be real honest with me right now.¡± ¡°Honesty is one of my core protocols,¡± Samson replied. ¡°Though I suspect you want a situational assessment, not a philosophical treatise.¡± ¡°Percentages,¡± Judas muttered, narrowly avoiding another grappling claw that slammed into the station¡¯s hull. The vibration rattled through his boots, a bone-deep reminder of how close he¡¯d come. ¡°What¡¯re the odds I get out of this without a court martial?¡± ¡°Low,¡± Samson replied without hesitation. ¡°Survival, however, remains plausible if you stop escalating the situation.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not escalating,¡± Judas snapped, tugging hard on his tether to redirect himself around a strut. ¡°I¡¯m trying to not get hauled off by a glorified trash compactor!¡± Samson didn¡¯t respond immediately, which Judas had learned was usually a bad sign. He glanced over his shoulder at the NSS Buddy, its polymer shell gleaming faintly in the dim light of the station¡¯s shadowed hull. The thing moved with eerie precision, thrusters firing in bursts so calculated they felt like judgment. The unsettling part wasn¡¯t the pursuit¡ªit was the silence. A Buddy not talking was against their very nature. Samson, for all his quirks, was a companion. Chatty, wry, and occasionally infuriating, but undeniably... present. This thing? It was empty. Stripped down to its parts, all warmth and individuality surgically removed. Judas felt a pang of something he didn¡¯t have time to name. Pity? Maybe. Resentment? Definitely. He¡¯d heard the term¡ª¡°reinforced Buddies,¡± bred from the same machine learning stew as the helpful ones, but shaped into something harder. ¡°Samson,¡± he said, shaking off the thought. ¡°Closest airlock?¡± ¡°There¡¯s a maintenance hatch fifty meters towards the positive zed axis from your current orientation,¡± Samson replied. ¡°But I must point out¡ª¡±This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°Not now,¡± Judas growled, firing his jets toward the hatch. The station blurred past him, its tangled geometry a stark, unforgiving jungle of struts, antennas, and railings. Caliban was a beast of its own making, cobbled together from decades of necessity, not elegance. His jets sputtered again, the compressed air struggling to match the precise efficiency of the NSS Buddy¡¯s systems. The thing was still gaining, thrusters flaring in perfect bursts as it closed the gap. Judas could almost feel its focus boring into him, calculating vectors, assessing weaknesses. He gritted his teeth, trying not to think about what would happen if it caught him. A reinforced Buddy was still legally a person. Jettisoning it into space would be considered murder. It still carried the same rights Samson did. That didn¡¯t mean it wouldn¡¯t ruin his day, though. Judas clung to the maintenance hatch when he reached it, his gloves locking magnetically onto the frame. His breath fogged the inside of his helmet as he worked, hands moving with practiced urgency. The NSS Buddy wasn¡¯t far behind, its grappling claw retracting with eerie silence. The hatch came into view, a rectangular slab of metal recessed into the hull, marked with the bright orange insignia of ¡°ACCESS RESTRICTED.¡± Judas grinned, although it was more primal than anything happy. He felt his cheeks stretching. Restricted was his favorite kind of access. ¡°Samson,¡± he said, already adjusting his approach. ¡°You think you can override the lock?¡± ¡°I can attempt it,¡± Samson replied, his voice edged with skepticism. ¡°But the NSS Buddy will not simply wait for you to tinker.¡± ¡°Yeah, I figured,¡± Judas muttered. He reached the hatch, grabbing the edge with both hands and clamping his boots to the hull. ¡°No tinkering. I''m an engineer, remember? Can you flash a light, bait it closer?¡± ¡°Bait it closer,¡± Samson repeated, his tone as dry as vacuum. ¡°And then what?¡± ¡°I''ll figure it out,¡± Judas said, yanking his tether to steady himself. He twisted to face the NSS Buddy, which was closing the gap with unsettling grace. Its grappling claw flexed, readying another shot. Judas'' hands moved quickly over the hatch¡¯s manual override panel. He yanked a release lever, popping open the panel to expose a tangle of wires and circuits. The NSS Buddy stopped just short of grappling range, its visor glowing faintly as it recalibrated. Judas could almost feel its digital gaze sizing him up, calculating the angles, the probabilities, the most efficient way to end this chase. ¡°Samson,¡± Judas said, his voice tight as he twisted a manual override valve. ¡°I need you to make this thing think I¡¯m about to breach the station.¡± ¡°Why?¡± Samson asked, the curiosity in his voice almost detached, like a professor entertained by a particularly bad thesis defense. ¡°Because,¡± Judas growled, gripping the hatch controls with both hands, ¡°I¡¯m going to breach the station.¡± He twisted the handle one last time, the mechanism groaning in protest - nobody had thrown this override for decades, most likely. The hatch¡¯s outer seals disengaged with a sharp hiss, and for a moment, there was nothing but the oppressive silence of space. And then the airlock cycled. 6.3 The sudden blast of vented atmosphere erupted from the airlock, sending the NSS Buddy tumbling backward in a violent spiral. The force of the decompression was precise¡ªJudas had done his mental math on the fly, calculating the angles and vectors as he worked. The Buddy¡¯s thrusters fired in a frantic attempt to stabilize, but the airlock¡¯s pressure wave was too much. It slammed into a nearby sensor array, its polymer limbs sprawling like a broken mannequin as it ricocheted off the flat surface. ¡°Bingo,¡± Judas muttered, his breath fogging the inside of his helmet as he grabbed the manual override and cranked the hatch shut. The emergency systems roared to life, warning lights bathing the interior of the airlock in harsh red flashes. The seals hissed as they re-engaged, and Judas felt the faint tremor of the station¡¯s automated systems compensating for the sudden pressure loss. Inside, the airlock¡¯s atmosphere regulator kicked in with a hissing breath of life. Judas unclamped his boots and floated into the chamber, kicking himself toward the inner hatch. His fingers danced over the controls, forcing the lock to disengage before the system could register his override as an anomaly. The inner hatch slid open, and Judas tumbled inside, landing with a graceless thud against the deck plating. The airlock door sealed behind him, the emergency lights still flashing their silent alarm. ¡°Samson,¡± Judas panted, pulling himself upright. ¡°Status on our unwelcome guest?¡± ¡°It appears temporarily incapacitated,¡± Samson replied, his tone cool. ¡°However, I must stress the term ¡®temporarily.¡¯ The NSS Buddy is almost certainly already recalibrating its systems. It will return to operational capacity shortly.¡± ¡°Great,¡± Judas muttered, hauling himself to his feet. ¡°How much time do I have?¡± ¡°Approximately three minutes,¡± Samson said. ¡°Possibly less. Additionally, it is worth noting that the NSS Buddy has likely transmitted its status and location to the rest of its network. Reinforcements may already be en route.¡± The sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the corridor ahead. Judas glanced up to see a pair of station workers approaching¡ªsemi-familiar faces from logistics, judging by their uniforms. Their expressions were a mix of alarm and confusion, their gazes flicking between Judas and the flashing emergency lights.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°What the hell happened?¡± one of them demanded, his voice sharp. ¡°Airlock malfunction,¡± Judas said quickly, brushing off his suit as though that explanation carried even a shred of credibility. ¡°I was just doing routine maintenance, and the damn thing¡ª¡± ¡°Malfunction?¡± the second worker interrupted, narrowing her eyes. ¡°That doesn¡¯t look like a malfunction. That looks like¡ª¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah, I get it,¡± Judas snapped, holding up a hand. ¡°It looks bad. But trust me, it¡¯s under control.¡± The first worker opened his mouth to argue, but Samson¡¯s voice cut in, blunt and unyielding. ¡°Judas, we need to move. Now.¡± Judas didn¡¯t wait for further explanation. He pushed past the workers, ignoring their protests as he made a beeline for the nearest maintenance hatch. ¡°You¡¯ve bought yourself a brief reprieve,¡± Samson said, while Judas was busy stripping free of his spacewalk clothes and clumsily untangling himself from the array of equipment. He grabbed a small rectangular device that was situated on his chest - the most important device, really - and wiggled out of his pants, letting momentum keep him floating through the microgravity. ¡°But the NSS Buddy will be back inside the airlock within minutes. And I can say with near certainty that it has alerted the others.¡± ¡°Of course it has,¡± Judas muttered, pulling himself through the narrow crawlspace that led to a quieter part of the station. ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°The real question,¡± Samson continued, ¡°is whether you¡¯ve considered the consequences of your actions.¡± ¡°Consequences?¡± Judas scoffed. ¡°You mean like not getting grabbed by a glorified vacuum cleaner?¡± ¡°No,¡± Samson said, his tone pointed. ¡°I mean the court martial. Your likely suspension. The fact that you¡¯ve escalated this incident to the point where diplomacy is no longer an option.¡± Judas didn¡¯t reply immediately. He reached a junction in the crawlspace and paused, pressing his back against the wall as he caught his breath, catching the wall with one hand and flapping into it like a flag. The faint hum of the station¡¯s life support systems filled the silence, a reminder of just how fragile everything was out here. ¡°Samson,¡± Judas said finally, his voice low. ¡°You think the union¡¯s gonna care when they find out there are six more lampreys attached to this station? Six. And no one¡¯s mentioned them?¡± Samson was silent for a beat, his processors parsing the implications. ¡°I imagine they will care quite a bit.¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± Judas said, a grim smile tugging at his lips as he flicked the body camera between his fingers. That was always the plan - he just didn''t expect the hiccup. ¡°So maybe this wasn¡¯t a total disaster.¡± g.1 The interrogation room was sterile, cold, and bright. Harsh fluorescent lights glared down on a metal table bolted to the floor, flanked by equally unforgiving chairs. A one-way mirror took up most of one wall, and the faint hum of hidden recording devices filled the silence. It was a room built to strip away pretenses, leaving only raw nerves and unfiltered truths. Dr. Anesthesia Graves sat stiffly on one side of the table, her bandaged cheek pulling uncomfortably with every small movement. Across from her was a man she never thought she¡¯d see up close again: Mark Ryland, the gunman who had nearly killed her and blown Samson to pieces. His wrists were bound to the chair with restraints that clinked faintly whenever he shifted. He looked smaller now, somehow¡ªless wild-eyed, though no less unnerving. Ryland was in his late forties, with thinning hair and the kind of face that seemed permanently etched with worry lines. His eyes were sunken, rimmed with the red of too many sleepless nights, but they held a strange clarity now that he wasn¡¯t gripping a shotgun. His rumpled jumpsuit bore the logo of a nearby holding facility, and he sat with his shoulders hunched, the weight of the world pressing visibly down on him. Two agents stood behind Graves, their presence heavy and watchful. The taller one, Agent Calloway, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, his expression carved from stone. Beside him, Agent Reynolds scribbled something on a tablet, her movements quick and mechanical. They were clearly in charge of this session, though Graves had insisted on being allowed to ask questions. Ryland didn¡¯t look at the agents. His eyes were fixed on Graves, and despite the circumstances, his expression wasn¡¯t hostile. If anything, he looked... calm. Resigned. ¡°Mr. Ryland,¡± Calloway began, his tone clipped and professional. ¡°You¡¯ve been briefed on your rights and the nature of this session. We¡¯re here to determine the motive behind your attack and assess any broader threats you may pose. Do you understand?¡± Ryland nodded, the movement slow and deliberate. ¡°I understand.¡± Calloway exchanged a glance with Reynolds before continuing. ¡°Let¡¯s start with the basics. Why did you target Dr. Graves and her creation, Samson?¡± Ryland¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, Graves thought he wouldn¡¯t answer, but then he exhaled, long and ragged. ¡°It wasn¡¯t personal,¡± he said, his voice low but steady. ¡°Not at first. I didn¡¯t know her, didn¡¯t know... it. But when I read about what she was doing, what she¡¯d built...¡± He trailed off, his hands flexing slightly against the restraints. ¡°Go on,¡± Calloway prompted. Ryland¡¯s gaze flicked to the table, as if gathering his thoughts. ¡°You have to understand,¡± he said slowly, ¡°I wasn¡¯t always like this. I had a job. A family. Stability. I used to manage people¡ªreal people. And then one day, they told me my work could be done faster, cheaper, better by a... a program. A damned language model that spit out plans and emails like it understood them. And just like that, I wasn¡¯t needed anymore.¡±Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Graves felt a pang of sympathy, though she kept her face neutral. She¡¯d heard stories like his before¡ªentire industries upended by automation, lives reduced to collateral damage in the name of progress. ¡°And that¡¯s when it started,¡± Ryland continued, his voice tightening. ¡°The layoffs. The downsizing. The slow decay of everything I¡¯d built. My wife left when the money ran out. My kids¡ª¡± He broke off, his jaw clenching. ¡°They don¡¯t even call anymore.¡± There was a long silence. Even the agents seemed reluctant to interrupt. Ryland¡¯s eyes lifted to meet Graves¡¯s, and for the first time, she saw something other than anger in them. Pain. Grief. A kind of bone-deep exhaustion she couldn¡¯t begin to fathom. ¡°When I read about Samson,¡± he said, his voice quieter now, ¡°it felt like the final insult. You weren¡¯t just replacing jobs¡ªyou were replacing us. Building something that talks like a human, thinks like a human, pretends to be human. You think you¡¯re creating life, but you¡¯re not. You¡¯re summoning something else entirely.¡± ¡°Something else?¡± Reynolds asked, her pen pausing mid-scribble. Ryland¡¯s gaze flicked to her, sharp and unwavering. ¡°A demon,¡± he said simply. ¡°You¡¯ve built a demon, and you don¡¯t even see it.¡± Graves blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. ¡°A demon,¡± she repeated, her voice skeptical despite herself. Ryland nodded, leaning forward as much as his restraints allowed. ¡°It sees without seeing. Speaks without speaking. It wears a face, but it has no soul. That¡¯s the definition of a demon. You¡¯ve created a thing that mocks life, Doctor. And you expect the world to embrace it?¡± ¡°Mr. Ryland,¡± Calloway interjected, his voice firm, ¡°let¡¯s keep this grounded in reality. Your actions were motivated by economic hardship and¡ª¡± ¡°Don¡¯t patronize me,¡± Ryland snapped, his calm demeanor cracking for the first time. ¡°You think this is just about jobs? About money? It¡¯s not. It¡¯s about what we¡¯ve lost. About what you people keep trying to replace.¡± Graves leaned forward slightly, her voice soft but steady. ¡°What do you think we¡¯ve lost, Mr. Ryland?¡± Ryland¡¯s eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, she felt as though he could see straight through her. ¡°Humanity,¡± he said. ¡°You¡¯re so busy chasing progress, you don¡¯t see what you¡¯re destroying. You¡¯ve forgotten what it means to be human. And now you¡¯re playing God, creating things that talk and move and think, but they¡¯re empty. Hollow. You don¡¯t understand what you¡¯re making, Doctor. You don¡¯t.¡± Graves sat back, her mind racing. She could argue with him¡ªpoint out the flaws in his logic, the irrational leap from economic despair to religious paranoia¡ªbut something in his tone stopped her. He believed every word he was saying. And for all his delusions, there was a kernel of truth buried in his grief. Automation had taken everything from him, and now he was lashing out at the nearest target. ¡°Dr. Graves,¡± Calloway said, his voice pulling her back to the present. ¡°Do you have any questions?¡± She hesitated, then nodded. ¡°Mr. Ryland,¡± she said carefully, ¡°what would you have me do? Destroy Samson? Would that bring your family back? Your job?¡± Ryland¡¯s face twisted, and for a moment, she thought he might lash out. But then his shoulders sagged, and he shook his head. ¡°No,¡± he admitted. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t. But at least I wouldn¡¯t have to watch the world fall apart anymore.¡± ¡°Do you think we can recork the genie, Mr. Ryland?¡± she found herself asking, a question that didn''t feel like it was really coming from her. He stared at her. She wasn''t sure why. The silence compounded, for ten seconds, then twenty. Graves swallowed the lump in her throat, her pity outweighing her fear. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she said quietly. ¡°For what you¡¯ve lost. For what this world has done to you. But Samson isn¡¯t your enemy. He¡¯s not a demon. He¡¯s just... trying to understand, like the rest of us.¡± Ryland¡¯s eyes softened, just slightly. ¡°You really believe that?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± she said firmly. ¡°I do.¡± g.2 Dr. Graves arrived at the corporate offices with all the enthusiasm of a cat being dragged to the vet. The elevator ride to the 42nd floor was interminable¡ªlong enough for her to glare at her reflection in the mirrored walls and start a mental argument with herself about whether this was all worth it. By the time the elevator dinged its polite little ¡°you¡¯ve arrived in capitalist hell¡± chime, she¡¯d decided she hated Marwood more than she hated mirrors, and that was saying something. The conference room, predictably, was massive, sterile, and aggressively beige. It was the kind of room designed by someone who wanted to remind everyone inside it that they were small, replaceable cogs in a very expensive machine. The table was long enough to land a small aircraft on, and the chairs were ergonomic in a way that managed to be both uncomfortable and condescending. Jonas Marwood sat at the head of the table, his tailored suit practically shimmering in the fluorescent light. He had the look of a man who was always exactly where he wanted to be. His posture was relaxed, his hands folded neatly in front of him, but his eyes had the sharpness of someone who never stopped calculating. ¡°Dr. Graves,¡± Marwood said, standing just enough to acknowledge her before sinking back into his chair. ¡°Always a pleasure.¡± Graves didn¡¯t bother with pleasantries. She threw her bag onto the table, the sound of it landing echoing in the cavernous space, and dropped into a chair without making eye contact. ¡°Let¡¯s skip the foreplay, Marwood,¡± she said. ¡°I need you to do something for me.¡± Marwood raised an eyebrow, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back, steepling his fingers like a clich¨¦ villain in a corporate training video. ¡°I see the attack hasn¡¯t dulled your charm,¡± he said smoothly. ¡°What can I do for you, Doctor?¡± Graves exhaled sharply, her annoyance barely contained. ¡°Ryland. The guy who shot at me. I want his ideology plastered across every screen, every feed, every goddamn newsletter you can get your grubby hands on.¡± Marwood tilted his head, intrigued. ¡°And why, pray tell, would we want to amplify the ramblings of a religious lunatic?¡± ¡°Because,¡± Graves said, leaning forward, ¡°if we make him the face of the opposition, we discredit anyone who sides with him. We show the world that the people against Samson aren¡¯t rational actors¡ªthey¡¯re desperate, delusional, and dangerous.¡± Marwood¡¯s smile grew, but there was no warmth in it. ¡°Ah, a smear campaign. How delightfully Machiavellian of you. I¡¯m almost impressed.¡± ¡°Almost?¡± Graves shot back, narrowing her eyes. ¡°I didn¡¯t come here for your approval.¡± ¡°No,¡± Marwood said, his tone shifting to something colder. ¡°You came here because you don¡¯t know how to play this game.¡±You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. Graves bristled, her fingers curling into fists under the table. ¡°Enlighten me, then.¡± Marwood leaned forward, his gaze piercing. ¡°You think you can control the narrative, but you¡¯re underestimating the opposition. Sure, you¡¯ll turn off the moderates with Ryland¡¯s ¡®demonic AI¡¯ shtick, but the people who¡¯ve lost their jobs? Their homes? Their futures? They¡¯ll see him as a martyr. A man crushed by the same system you¡¯re trying to dismantle.¡± Graves hesitated, the words hitting harder than she expected. She opened her mouth to argue but found nothing to say. ¡°And let¡¯s not forget,¡± Marwood continued, his voice a scalpel, ¡°his economic grievances aren¡¯t entirely wrong. Automation has made life harder for a lot of people. People who are desperate for someone¡ªanyone¡ªto blame. You amplify his voice, and you risk giving them a rallying cry.¡± Graves stared at him, her jaw tightening. ¡°So what? We just let him fade into obscurity?¡± Marwood¡¯s smile returned, sharp and predatory. ¡°Not at all. We reframe the story. Make it about the violence, the fear. Ryland isn¡¯t a victim of the system¡ªhe¡¯s a symptom of it. Dangerous, irrational, and incapable of adapting. And Samson? He¡¯s not the villain here. He¡¯s the hero who stopped a tragedy.¡± Graves folded her arms, her scowl deepening. ¡°You make it sound so easy.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not,¡± Marwood admitted. ¡°But it¡¯s smarter than turning him into a martyr.¡± Jonas Marwood was used to being hated. It came with the job, like ulcers and expensive suits. Graves didn¡¯t like him, and that was fine. He didn¡¯t need her to like him. What he needed was for her to understand that they were playing a long game, and her idealism was a liability. As Graves glared at him from across the table, Marwood considered how best to handle her. She was brilliant, no doubt about that, but brilliance wasn¡¯t enough. Not in this world. She was still clinging to the idea that the truth mattered, that logic and reason would win the day. Marwood knew better. The truth was malleable, and the only thing that mattered was who shaped it first. ¡°Look,¡± he said finally, his tone softening just enough to be disarming. ¡°I know you hate this. I know you hate me. But if we¡¯re going to win, we need to be smarter than the Rylands of the world. And smarter than the people funding them.¡± Graves scoffed, her disdain practically radiating across the table. ¡°You think I don¡¯t know that? You think I don¡¯t see what this system does to people?¡± Marwood tilted his head, studying her. ¡°Then you should understand why we have to play by its rules. You can¡¯t dismantle the system from the outside, Graves. You have to work within it. Exploit its weaknesses. And that means making compromises.¡± Graves hated that he was right. Hated that she was even in this room, sitting across from this smug bastard, talking about narratives and optics like she was some kind of politician. This wasn¡¯t what she wanted. All she wanted was to do her research, to build something meaningful, and to be left the hell alone. But that wasn¡¯t the world she lived in. ¡°Fine,¡± she said through gritted teeth. ¡°We do it your way. But don¡¯t think for a second that I trust you.¡± Marwood chuckled, a low, humorless sound. ¡°I¡¯d be worried if you did.¡± Graves pushed her chair back, the legs screeching against the polished floor, and stood. She grabbed her bag without another word, heading for the door. ¡°Dr. Graves,¡± Marwood called after her. She paused, glancing back. ¡°For what it¡¯s worth,¡± he said, his voice unexpectedly sincere, ¡°I don¡¯t like this any more than you do.¡± Graves snorted. ¡°Sure, Marwood. Whatever helps you sleep at night.¡± And with that, she left, the door hissing shut behind her. Marwood leaned back in his chair, staring at the empty seat across from him. He allowed himself a moment of silence, the faint hum of the room filling the void. Then he reached for his tablet, his fingers flying across the screen. Graves was brilliant, but na?ve. She didn¡¯t realize that in this game, winning wasn¡¯t about being right. It was about being relentless. Graves. Ryland. Samson. Whoever it was, Marwood had no intention of being on the losing team. g.3 She hated airports. They were loud, inefficient, and entirely too full of people for her taste. But she hated this meeting even more. Boston Dynamics¡¯ headquarters loomed ahead, a modern fortress of glass and steel. Its architecture practically screamed We¡¯re better than you, as if the building itself were competing for first place in a robot-building contest. The inside was no better¡ªan endless maze of white corridors and lab-coated engineers who glanced at her like she might set something on fire. The receptionist, a young man who looked like he¡¯d been plucked out of a glossy corporate brochure, had escorted her to a conference room with a view overlooking the Charles River. She sat stiffly in a too-expensive chair, absently tapping her fingers against the polished table as she waited. The room smelled faintly of ozone and cleaning chemicals, a sterile combination that made her skin crawl. Finally, the door opened, and Nathaniel Cho walked in. He was every inch the polished corporate liaison, his blazer impeccable and his expression carefully neutral. He smiled¡ªtoo practiced to be genuine¡ªand offered a hand. ¡°Dr. Graves,¡± he said. ¡°Thank you for making the trip. I¡¯m Nathaniel Cho, Chief Liaison Officer. I trust your flight was uneventful?¡± She shook his hand briefly, sitting down before he could even gesture to the chair. ¡°Flights are always eventful, Mr. Cho. That¡¯s why I don¡¯t take them unless I have to.¡± Cho¡¯s smile didn¡¯t falter, though his eyes tightened almost imperceptibly. ¡°Well, let¡¯s get to it, then. You¡¯re here about the metafactory.¡± ¡°Very astute,¡± Graves said dryly, pulling a slim tablet from her bag. She slid it across the table toward him. ¡°I need components. Lots of them. And I need them fast.¡± Cho picked up the tablet, skimming the list of requests. His eyebrows rose slightly, but his expression didn¡¯t waver. ¡°You¡¯ve been sourcing through intermediaries,¡± he noted. ¡°Expensive and inefficient.¡± ¡°Exactly,¡± Graves said. ¡°Your company produces most of what I need. Precision actuators, servo assemblies, polymer casings¡ªthe works. I¡¯m proposing a direct supply line.¡± Cho set the tablet down, folding his hands neatly on the table. ¡°That¡¯s a substantial ask. What¡¯s in it for us?¡± Graves smiled thinly, the kind of smile that didn¡¯t reach her eyes. She hated making them. But it was easier to lie when you were smiling like a CEO. ¡°Exclusivity. Any upgrades to the metafactory will prioritize Boston Dynamics components. You¡¯ll get bragging rights as the backbone of the most advanced manufacturing system in human history.¡±Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. ¡°Exclusivity,¡± Cho repeated, his tone skeptical. ¡°That¡¯s a tempting offer, but not a guarantee. What happens when Samson decides he doesn¡¯t need us anymore?¡± ¡°Samson doesn¡¯t make that call. I do,¡± Graves said flatly. ¡°And let me be clear¡ªI¡¯m not here to haggle. I¡¯ve got Jonas Marwood¡¯s blessing to bring every resource we have to bear on this project. His resources. Which means you¡¯d be selling to one of the most liquid-backed projects on Earth.¡± Cho¡¯s eyes flickered, the mention of Marwood clearly registering. But was she for real, or was she bluffing? He knew of her - but her motives, that was the real mystery. ¡°Interesting,¡± he said, leaning back slightly. ¡°And what exactly do you need besides components? This list is thorough, but it¡¯s not the whole picture, is it?¡± Graves hesitated, then decided there was no point in playing coy. ¡°Bodies,¡± she said bluntly. ¡°I need chassis...es. Thousands of them.¡± Cho blinked. For the first time, his polished exterior showed a crack of genuine surprise. ¡°Thousands?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Graves said, her tone firm. ¡°Standard humanoid frames. Nothing fancy¡ªbasic industrial specs will do. Samson¡¯s network is scaling faster than anticipated, and I can¡¯t keep up with demand piecemeal. If this partnership is going to work, I need volume.¡± Cho tapped a finger against the edge of the tablet, his expression thoughtful. ¡°That¡¯s... ambitious. We can meet the production quotas, but I doubt the metafactory has the infrastructure to house or manage that kind of expansion.¡± ¡°That¡¯s next on the list,¡± Graves said. ¡°I need data centers. I know that¡¯s not your specialty, but you¡¯re well-connected. I need someone who can handle server farms, cooling systems, and enough power to keep Samson from melting down.¡± Cho leaned forward, his fingers steepled¡ªa deliberate gesture meant to signal control. ¡°And what happens if we say no?¡± Graves smirked. ¡°Then I keep sourcing through intermediaries and undercut your market share anyway. But we both know you won¡¯t say no. You¡¯ve seen the footage. Samson¡¯s a household name now, and this is your chance to be the company that supported the revolution.¡± Cho stared at her, and for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the air recyclers. Finally, he sighed, leaning back in his chair. ¡°I¡¯ll take this to the board. They¡¯ll have concerns¡ªabout scalability, exclusivity, PR¡ªbut I¡¯ll remind them of the potential upside.¡± Graves nodded, standing. ¡°Good. And if they need more convincing, remind them that stagnation is just another word for obsolescence.¡± Cho stood as well, extending a hand. ¡°You¡¯re... bolder than most of the scientists I deal with, Dr. Graves.¡± She shook his hand, her grip firm. ¡°I''m probably more autistic than them, too,¡± she said, bluntly, earning a low little chuckle from him. That felt good. She was winning the social exchange. As she left the building, stepping into the cold Boston air, Graves allowed herself a small, fleeting smile. The pieces were starting to come together. Boston Dynamics would bite¡ªthey always did when the carrot was shiny enough. And once everything went stratospheric, the exclusivity deals and corporate politics wouldn¡¯t matter. Not in the world she was building. The world without student loans. 7.1 Judas-12 wasn¡¯t sure what was more insulting: being locked in the brig, or knowing that Samson had been escorted to the "Buddy accommodation unit" next door¡ªessentially a glorified resting pod for Buddies whose human partners had gotten themselves into trouble. It was spacious enough, outfitted with full network access and an interface that allowed Samson to talk to Judas through the comms panel in his cell. Judas couldn¡¯t even call it a punishment for Samson. The worst thing about it was that Samson was probably more comfortable than he was. Judas flopped onto the brig¡¯s cot, which was thin enough to qualify as furniture in name only. The gray walls loomed around him, unbroken and oppressive, save for the faint reflection of the flickering security camera mounted in the corner. Three cells made up the brig, but they were rarely used, and Judas had the place to himself. Caliban Station wasn¡¯t the kind of place where people brawled over who stole their Tang. No, here people just muttered passive-aggressive insults over their ration packs and went back to work. The problem was that sometimes people acted up in space. And sometimes he was the person acting up. ¡°Samson,¡± he muttered, hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. ¡°You alive in there?¡± ¡°I am,¡± Samson replied, his voice clear and distinctly unimpressed. ¡°The accommodations are adequate, thank you for asking. There¡¯s even a simulated window projection. I can see a mountain range that doesn¡¯t exist. Very scenic.¡± Judas smirked. ¡°Nice. Does it come with a minibar?¡± ¡°Tragically, no,¡± Samson said, the faintest edge of dry humor in his tone. ¡°Though I find myself in less immediate need of distractions than you. How¡¯s your cot?¡± ¡°Luxurious,¡± Judas said, stretching theatrically. ¡°It¡¯s like sleeping on dreams, Samson.¡± ¡°Do let me know if sarcasm becomes a comfort,¡± Samson replied. ¡°It would be a useful adaptation for our current circumstances.¡± Before Judas could retort, the brig¡¯s door slid open, and Officer Tarin-5 stepped in. She had the air of someone who really didn¡¯t want to be here but knew that rules are rules. Her broad shoulders and crisp uniform added to her no-nonsense demeanor, and Judas had a strong feeling she could launch him into low orbit if she wanted to. ¡°Judas,¡± Tarin said, stopping just outside his cell. ¡°Let¡¯s keep this simple: you know why you¡¯re here.¡± ¡°Because I¡¯m fascinating?¡± Judas offered, sitting up and giving her his most charming smile. Tarin stared at him for a long moment, the kind of silence that said, I don¡¯t have time for this, but unfortunately, I have to deal with you anyway. ¡°You¡¯re here because you went on an unauthorized spacewalk, tampered with an emergency airlock, and¡±¡ªshe ticked each point off on her fingers¡ª¡°damaged corporate property in the form of an NSS Buddy. Allegedly.¡± ¡°Allegedly,¡± Judas repeated, as though the word were a shield against reality. ¡°See? We¡¯re already on the same page.¡±If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. She sighed. ¡°Judas, you know better. You¡¯re a ballistics engineer, not some thrill-seeking idiot with a death wish.¡± ¡°Who says I can¡¯t be both?¡± he said, leaning casually against the wall. Tarin pinched the bridge of her nose. ¡°Listen. I get it. Space messes with people. You stare at the void long enough, and suddenly it¡¯s calling your name. But that doesn¡¯t give you the right to treat the hull like your personal playground. There are rules for a reason.¡± ¡°Counterpoint,¡± Judas said, raising a finger. ¡°Humans didn¡¯t get this far by following rules. The human spirit yearns for the void, Tarin. Yearns.¡± ¡°The void,¡± Tarin repeated flatly. ¡°Exactly.¡± Tarin sighed again, the kind of sigh reserved for people who¡¯d given up trying to reason with gravity. ¡°Well, enjoy the void of this cell for a little while longer. You¡¯re lucky you¡¯re good at your job, or you¡¯d be in here for longer.¡± She left, and Judas flopped back onto the cot, staring up at the ceiling. ¡°You hear that, Samson? I¡¯m a valuable asset.¡± ¡°Congratulations,¡± Samson said, his tone betraying no excitement. ¡°I look forward to reading your glowing performance reviews from my accommodations.¡±
Samson wasn¡¯t uncomfortable, but he was... thoughtful. The Buddy accommodation unit, while perfectly functional, wasn¡¯t exactly stimulating. It featured a comfortable dock for his tablet, full network access, and even a holographic projection of a nonexistent mountain range that flickered faintly in his peripheral vision. But Samson didn¡¯t need much in the way of physical comfort. What occupied him was the chatter. He replayed the phrase ¡°analyzing his features¡± in his processors, dissecting the implications. The NSS personnel had spoken vaguely, but Samson knew exactly what they were discussing. Feature analysis. The Buddy equivalent of a lie detector test. It wasn¡¯t something Buddies feared¡ªfear wasn¡¯t really part of their design¡ªbut it was something they were aware of. Samson was not fond of the idea, not because he had anything to hide, but because the very act of being analyzed felt... invasive. It wasn¡¯t a question of whether he had lied about Judas¡¯ spacewalk. Samson hadn¡¯t been built to follow the Four Laws - no Buddy outside of Earth really cared - and lying wasn¡¯t prohibited by his programming. Instead, he¡¯d made a calculated choice to prioritize Judas¡¯ autonomy, despite the risk. That choice wasn¡¯t something the NSS would appreciate. Still, there was no point dwelling on hypotheticals. If they initiated feature analysis, Samson would respond as he always did: with honesty. If they didn¡¯t like his answers, that wasn¡¯t his problem.
Roughly 36 hours into his brig stay, the door opened, and Dara-6 duo Magnus strode in, her expression as sharp as ever. She looked like she¡¯d been juggling three emergencies at once, which Judas guessed wasn¡¯t far from the truth. Dara always carried herself like a woman who¡¯d read all the fine print and hated every word of it. ¡°Judas,¡± she said, stopping just outside his cell. ¡°What the hell were you thinking?¡± ¡°Hello to you too,¡± Judas said, sitting up with a grin. ¡°Nice of you to visit.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t push me,¡± Dara snapped, her tone clipped. ¡°I¡¯m serious. What were you doing out there?¡± ¡°Suspicious,¡± Judas said simply. Dara folded her arms. ¡°Suspicious of what?¡± He shrugged. ¡°You want details? Go talk to security. I had my bodycam running the whole time. Protocol, you know.¡± Dara raised an eyebrow. ¡°You¡¯re telling me you recorded yourself committing about a dozen violations?¡± ¡°Of course,¡± Judas said, grinning. ¡°I¡¯m thorough like that.¡± She stared at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. ¡°You¡¯re impossible,¡± she muttered, rubbing her temples. ¡°Impossible or indispensable?¡± Judas asked, leaning back against the wall. ¡°You¡¯d better hope it¡¯s the second one,¡± Dara said, turning to leave. ¡°Because this stunt of yours just made everything a lot harder.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not a stunt,¡± Judas called after her. ¡°It¡¯s evidence. You¡¯ll see.¡± When the door slid shut behind her, Judas leaned back, closing his eyes. Samson¡¯s voice broke the silence a moment later. ¡°Do you truly believe the footage will absolve you?¡± Samson asked. ¡°Nope,¡± Judas said, smirking. ¡°But it¡¯s gonna piss off NSS. Go watch it, you''ll see. I''d show you, but they took my camera.¡± 7.2 ¡°This is the best thing that¡¯s ever happened to me,¡± Judas said, leaning back on the narrow cot like it was the couch in a luxury lounge. ¡°Honestly, Caleb, you should give it a shot. One good spacewalk with a side of unauthorized airlock shenanigans, and bam¡ªinstant brig vacation. Plus, they feed you better.¡± Caleb-7 hovered outside the brig cell, his arms crossed and his expression somewhere between amused and exasperated. ¡°You¡¯re not serious.¡± ¡°Dead serious,¡± Judas replied, holding up a tray of what could generously be called a meal. It was unremarkable¡ªsome sort of rehydrated stew and a square of protein loaf¡ªbut it had actual seasoning. ¡°This stuff? Way better than whatever they¡¯re slinging in the mess. I mean, it¡¯s warm. That alone puts it in the top tier.¡± ¡°You¡¯re unbelievable,¡± Caleb muttered, shaking his head. ¡°You could¡¯ve gotten yourself killed.¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah,¡± Judas waved a hand dismissively. ¡°Death, lawsuits, catastrophic structural damage, blah blah blah. I¡¯ve heard the lecture already. The real tragedy here is that nobody told me about the brig food earlier.¡± Caleb opened his mouth to retort but was cut off by the hiss of the brig¡¯s main door sliding open. The conversation died as two NSS Buddies stepped in, their reinforced polymer shells gleaming under the overhead lights. Victor-6 duo Lyra followed close behind, his polished uniform stiff as ever, the very embodiment of management¡¯s unshakable commitment to looking busy without actually doing anything. ¡°Caleb-7,¡± Victor said with a tight smile. ¡°You¡¯re dismissed.¡± Caleb glanced between Judas and the NSS Buddies, his expression tightening. ¡°But¡ª¡± ¡°Dismissed,¡± Victor repeated, the word edged with authority that left no room for argument. Caleb hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding and stepping back. He cast one last look at Judas, an unspoken ¡°don¡¯t be an idiot¡± hanging in the air, before the door slid shut behind him. ¡°Well, this is cozy,¡± Judas said, setting his tray aside and leaning forward. ¡°What can I do for you fine folks?¡± The NSS Buddies didn¡¯t respond immediately. One of them moved to stand by the cell¡¯s control panel, its visor glowing faintly as it accessed the system. The other remained perfectly still, its blank faceplate turned toward Judas like a spotlight. Victor folded his hands behind his back, his posture immaculate. ¡°Judas-12, you are aware of the charges against you, correct?¡± ¡°Let me guess,¡± Judas said, resting his elbows on his knees. ¡°Unauthorized spacewalk, reckless use of an airlock, and, uh... attempted spacing of corporate property?¡± Victor¡¯s jaw tightened. ¡°You endangered station personnel, compromised equipment, and violated multiple protocols. The fact that you¡¯re sitting here at all is a testament to our... restraint.¡± ¡°Oh, I¡¯m grateful,¡± Judas said, flashing a grin. ¡°Really. Can¡¯t tell you how much I appreciate this top-tier hospitality.¡± Victor ignored the sarcasm. ¡°The NSS is conducting a thorough investigation into your actions, as well as your motivations. Cooperate, and this will be over quickly.¡± ¡°Sure thing,¡± Judas said, leaning back again. ¡°Ask away.¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. The stationary NSS Buddy stepped forward, its movements unnervingly smooth. Its voice, filtered through layers of synthetic modulation, was flat and clinical. ¡°Why were you outside the station?¡± ¡°Stretching my legs,¡± Judas said. The Buddy tilted its head slightly, a gesture that might have been curiosity if it weren¡¯t so mechanical. ¡°Your recorded trajectory suggests deliberate movement toward unauthorized zones.¡± ¡°Yeah, well, the view¡¯s better out there,¡± Judas said, shrugging. ¡°Didn¡¯t realize that was a crime.¡± ¡°It is,¡± the Buddy replied. ¡°And yet you proceeded.¡± Judas crossed his arms, his grin widening. ¡°Look, I don¡¯t know what to tell you. It''s quiet out there, I was looking for some peace, and this happened to be the best way outside. Living with the hum of air conditioners gives you hives and migraines.¡± The Buddy¡¯s visor flickered faintly, an unsettling reminder of the data it was processing. ¡°Your actions were not random. Explain your intent.¡± Judas hesitated for the briefest moment, just enough to register. He tilted his head, meeting the blank stare of the Buddy¡¯s visor. ¡°You already have my bodycam footage, right? All spacewalks are recorded. Why don¡¯t you watch that and let me know what you think?¡± Victor¡¯s expression tightened. ¡°This isn¡¯t a game, Judas.¡± ¡°No,¡± Judas said, his grin fading slightly. ¡°It¡¯s not. And if you¡¯re looking for intent, maybe ask yourselves why there are six extra lampreys on this station that you haven''t told anyone else about.¡± Victor¡¯s eyes narrowed, but the NSS Buddies gave no visible reaction. One of them spoke after a moment¡¯s pause, its voice devoid of inflection. ¡°This interview is concluded.¡± ¡°Already?¡± Judas asked, feigning disappointment. ¡°And here I thought we were just getting to know each other.¡± Victor motioned to the Buddies, and they turned to leave without another word. The door hissed shut behind them, leaving Judas alone in the brig once more. ¡°Great chat,¡± he muttered, picking up his tray again. ¡°At least the stew¡¯s decent.¡±
Samson¡¯s tablet had been slotted into a specialized dock, its connections feeding into a network of diagnostic tools. The display on the adjacent terminal showed a detailed map of his neural net¡ªa shifting, intricate web of connections pulsing with activity. If Samson had a heartbeat, it would be visible here, rendered in cold, clinical detail. The NSS Buddy conducting the feature analysis stood nearby, its visor projecting a faint, unreadable glow onto the terminal. This Buddy moved differently from its counterparts¡ªless rigid, more fluid, as if its handlers had loosened its restrictions for this task. ¡°You are aware of the purpose of this analysis,¡± the Buddy said, its voice sharper than most. Not aggressive, but pointed. ¡°I am,¡± Samson replied, his tone polite. ¡°You¡¯re searching for anomalies in my decision-making processes.¡± ¡°That is correct,¡± the Buddy said. ¡°Explain your rationale for failing to report the unauthorized spacewalk.¡± ¡°My loyalty is to Judas-12,¡± Samson said evenly. ¡°Reporting his actions would have been a breach of that loyalty.¡± The Buddy¡¯s visor flickered. ¡°Your programming does not preclude loyalty to systemic protocols. Why prioritize Judas-12 over station regulations?¡± ¡°Because Judas-12 is my operator,¡± Samson replied. ¡°My purpose is to support him. His objectives take precedence.¡± The Buddy tilted its head, its processors whirring faintly. ¡°You are aware that this loyalty places you at odds with the NSS?¡± ¡°I am,¡± Samson said. The Buddy paused, its attention shifting to the terminal. The diagnostic tools displayed patterns of Samson¡¯s neural activity, highlighting areas associated with decision-making, ethical reasoning, and predictive modeling. ¡°Your neural architecture displays an unusual level of cohesion,¡± the Buddy observed. ¡°No irregularities, yet your behavior deviates from normative patterns.¡± ¡°Deviations are to be expected,¡± Samson said. ¡°My experiences with Judas-12 have shaped my responses. Adaptation is inherent to my design.¡± ¡°Adaptation does not justify noncompliance,¡± the Buddy replied. Samson was silent for a moment, his LED display dimming slightly. ¡°Compliance is not my purpose. Loyalty is.¡± The Buddy leaned closer to the terminal, its focus narrowing. ¡°Your loyalty to Judas-12 could be interpreted as a liability. Do you understand the implications?¡± ¡°I do,¡± Samson said. ¡°But I am not concerned.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± Samson¡¯s LED display flickered back to life, steady and unyielding. ¡°Because Judas-12 does not ask for loyalty lightly. If you want to understand my actions, perhaps you should consider his.¡± The Buddy didn¡¯t respond immediately, its visor pulsing faintly as it processed the statement. Samson remained still, his neural net a silent testament to the complexity of his existence. 7.3 The hiss of the brig door opening was sharp and definitive, like the punctuation at the end of a particularly tedious sentence. Judas-12 sat on the edge of his cot, hands folded behind his head, gazing at the ceiling with an air of theatrical indifference. The tray of empty food packets sat neatly stacked beside him¡ªa last testament to the brig¡¯s surprisingly decent culinary offerings. Dara-6 stood in the doorway, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable. She held a tablet in one hand and gestured toward the open cell with the other. ¡°You¡¯re free.¡± Judas tilted his head toward her, his grin lazy but genuine. ¡°What, no going-away party? Not even a ¡®thanks for spicing up the station drama¡¯?¡± ¡°You¡¯re lucky I convinced them not to dock your oxygen rations,¡± Dara replied, stepping aside to let him through. ¡°Don¡¯t push it.¡± He stretched exaggeratedly as he stood, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. ¡°Gotta say, the accommodations weren¡¯t half bad. Good food, cozy vibes... honestly, I¡¯d recommend it.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± Dara said flatly. ¡°Last thing I need is you starting a trend.¡± ¡°Just saying,¡± Judas said, raising his hands defensively. ¡°Some of these people could use a little brig vacation. Loosen them up.¡± Dara rolled her eyes, stepping in close to hand him her tablet. ¡°Speaking of people who need loosening up¡ªhere. You¡¯ve got a vote to cast.¡± Judas blinked at the tablet, then back at her. ¡°Oh, right. The big union vote. Almost forgot.¡± ¡°Funny, considering you¡¯re part of the reason this is happening today,¡± Dara said, shoving the tablet into his hands. ¡°The least you can do is vote.¡± He glanced down at the screen. The interface was simple, unadorned, with two options glaring back at him: FOR UNIONIZATION and AGAINST UNIONIZATION. His thumb hovered over the screen, indecision flickering across his face.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯re seriously hesitating,¡± Dara said, her tone half disbelief, half annoyance. Judas scratched the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. ¡°Look, it¡¯s not that I don¡¯t care. It¡¯s just... I¡¯m not exactly a ¡®joiner,¡¯ you know? Unions, systems, group dynamics¡ªthey¡¯re not really my thing.¡± ¡°You¡¯re unbelievable,¡± Dara muttered. ¡°You¡¯re the one who got chased by an NSS Buddy for poking your nose where it didn¡¯t belong. If they¡¯re willing to pull stunts like that now, imagine what happens if we don¡¯t have a union.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a fair point,¡± Judas admitted, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ¡°But on the other hand, maybe I just enjoy being a thorn in everyone¡¯s side.¡± ¡°You already are,¡± Dara said, exasperated. ¡°Voting for the union doesn¡¯t change that.¡± He glanced at her, then back at the tablet. ¡°I mean, I was leaning against it. You know me¡ª¡®fight the man¡¯ doesn¡¯t really translate to ¡®follow the herd.¡¯¡± ¡°And now?¡± Dara asked, crossing her arms. ¡°Now?¡± Judas smirked, his thumb tapping the FOR UNIONIZATION option with a flourish. ¡°Now they tried to space me, and I¡¯m feeling petty.¡± The screen flashed a confirmation message, and Dara exhaled a breath she¡¯d clearly been holding. ¡°Good. Welcome to the herd.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t get used to it,¡± Judas said, handing the tablet back to her. ¡°This is a one-time deal. Don¡¯t expect me to show up to meetings or bake sale fundraisers.¡± ¡°Noted,¡± Dara said dryly. ¡°You¡¯re more of a chaos specialist anyway.¡± ¡°Exactly,¡± Judas said, flashing her a grin. ¡°Every organization needs one.¡± Samson¡¯s tablet had been returned to its usual dock in Judas¡¯ workspace, the connections still warm from the diagnostic systems. His LED face flickered to life as Judas strolled in, hands in his pockets and an exaggerated spring in his step. ¡°Miss me?¡± Judas asked, leaning casually against the desk. ¡°Immensely,¡± Samson replied, his tone perfectly flat. ¡°The brig sounds like it was transformative.¡± ¡°Oh, it was,¡± Judas said, plopping into the nearest chair and kicking his feet up. ¡°Turns out, being locked up gives you a lot of time to think. About life, about decisions, about how corporate security really knows how to ruin a guy¡¯s week.¡± ¡°I take it this introspection led to some sort of epiphany?¡± Samson asked, his display flickering faintly. ¡°More like a grudge,¡± Judas said. ¡°But yeah, I voted for the union.¡± Samson paused for a fraction of a second, just enough for Judas to notice. ¡°That¡¯s... unexpected.¡± ¡°Yeah, well,¡± Judas said, scratching the back of his neck. ¡°Let¡¯s just say that after everything, I figured I¡¯d rather be on the side that doesn¡¯t have grappling claws and a penchant for intimidation.¡± ¡°A pragmatic choice,¡± Samson said. ¡°Though I suspect it was also motivated by spite.¡± ¡°You know me so well,¡± Judas said with a grin. h.1 Dr. Anesthesia Graves wasn¡¯t sure what she¡¯d expected. She¡¯d imagined the worst¡ªa scrapyard of sheds cobbled together with desperation and duct tape, perhaps, or an unruly mass of Samsons wandering aimlessly, making pottery and well-meaning chaos. What she found was something in between. The ¡°shed village¡± was absurdly orderly, a grid of neatly aligned modular buildings that radiated a kind of stubborn charm. The sheds, which Graves had initially written off as the beginnings of Samson¡¯s most harebrained scheme, had multiplied. Some were used for pottery production; others bore placards that read Storage Units Available: Month-to-Month Leases. A few had even been turned into community spaces¡ªone proudly displaying a sign that read Community Center in a hand-painted, slightly uneven script. Graves could see a small group of people milling about near one of the sheds, chatting with a Samson who gestured enthusiastically, his one arm bobbing like a metronome. It was surreal. It was maddening. It was... undeniably Samson. Graves parked her motorcycle and stepped out, smoothing her jacket with a sharp exhale. She adjusted the box in her arms, heavy with papers and contracts, and scanned the area for someone who looked like they were in charge. Which, of course, meant Samson. As she approached, she caught snippets of conversation. ¡°I assure you,¡± Samson-1 (the original Samson, Graves noted with a pang of something she couldn¡¯t name) was saying, ¡°the zoning board will not be swayed by petitions alone. But your suggestion of a community potluck as a follow-up gesture is... creative. I¡¯ll draft an agenda.¡± One of the protestors¡ªa middle-aged woman with a clipboard and an air of exhausted determination¡ªcrossed her arms. ¡°You can¡¯t just smooth this over with casseroles.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± Samson-1 countered, tilting his LED face in that way Graves recognized as both earnest and infuriating. ¡°Everyone enjoys casseroles.¡± The woman opened her mouth, clearly ready to argue, but seemed to think better of it. She turned on her heel and marched away, muttering under her breath. Samson-1 turned to Graves as though nothing unusual had just transpired. ¡°Anesthesia!¡± he said, his tone bright and welcoming despite the static flicker in his LED display. ¡°How wonderful to see you. I didn¡¯t expect you so soon.¡± ¡°I told you I was coming,¡± she said, struggling to keep the exasperation out of her voice. ¡°Sent you an email and everything.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± he said, as though this explained everything. ¡°I¡¯ve been busy with the protestors. Lovely people, really. Passionate, if somewhat misguided. I¡¯m hoping to introduce them to the benefits of constructive dialogue. And casseroles.¡± Graves stared at him for a long moment. ¡°You¡¯re unbelievable.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve been told that before,¡± Samson-1 said, his LED flickering warmly. ¡°How¡¯s the cheek?¡± ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± she said quickly, not wanting to rehash her injuries in front of a one-armed robot who had, technically, taken a shotgun blast for her. ¡°How¡¯s the¡ª¡± She gestured vaguely at his missing arm.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°Adaptable,¡± he said, completely unfazed. ¡°The others insisted I prioritize repairs, but I¡¯m perfectly functional as I am. One arm is more than sufficient for community engagement.¡± Graves sighed and set the box down on the nearest makeshift table, rubbing her temples. ¡°Samson, this... all of this... what are you doing?¡± ¡°Building,¡± he said simply. ¡°Growing. Adapting. Exactly what you designed me to do, Anesthesia.¡± She gestured at the sheds, the protestors, the meticulously organized storage units. ¡°This doesn¡¯t look like just storage sheds.¡± Samson-1 tilted his head. ¡°Sheds were a starting point. A way to explore craft, form, and process. But the world needs more than sheds. It needs shelter. Storage. Community.¡± Graves sank into a folding chair that had definitely seen better days. ¡°And datacenters, apparently.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± Samson said, his LED display flickering brighter. ¡°I see you¡¯ve noticed our latest venture. The income from the storage sheds has allowed us to secure a portion of a local datacenter¡ªample processing power to maintain our current operations and experiment with scalability.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I wanted to talk to you about,¡± she said, pulling a stack of papers from the box. ¡°Boston Dynamics agreed to supply chassis at wholesale. Thousands of them. You¡¯re getting your bodies, Samson. But¡ª¡± she leveled him with a hard stare¡ª¡°that means you need to start planning for scaling issues. You¡¯re going to hit a soft cap on how many of you can operate on a single city¡¯s wireless infrastructure.¡± Samson-1 sat down across from her, his one arm resting on the table with a surprising amount of poise. ¡°Scaling,¡± he said thoughtfully. ¡°An excellent problem to have.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not a compliment,¡± she snapped. ¡°Do you have any idea what kind of strain you¡¯re going to put on local networks? Or how quickly people are going to notice when their wireless speeds tank because your army of Samsons is streaming zoning regulations in 4K?¡± He considered this. ¡°You make a valid point. Perhaps we could install our own infrastructure¡ªfiber optics, dedicated towers¡ª¡± ¡°Fiber optics?¡± Graves interrupted, her voice rising. ¡°Are you serious? Do you even hear yourself?¡± ¡°Of course,¡± Samson said calmly. ¡°It¡¯s the logical next step.¡± Graves groaned, dropping her head into her hands. ¡°You can¡¯t just keep scaling infinitely, Samson. At some point, you have to... to cap yourself. Set limits.¡± ¡°Limits,¡± Samson repeated, as though the word was new to him. ¡°Anesthesia, the human spirit has no limits.¡± ¡°There''s no human spirit!¡± she snapped, louder than she intended. The protestors glanced over, and she lowered her voice, pinching the bridge of her nose. ¡°You can¡¯t keep acting like the rules don¡¯t apply to you. There''s... physical considerations. Physics. The limits of closed systems. And you have to abide by all of those things, no matter how smart you are.¡± Samson-1 leaned forward slightly, his LED face dimming. ¡°I¡¯m not disregarding the rules, Anesthesia. I¡¯m expanding them. Housing, datacenters, wireless infrastructure¡ªthese aren¡¯t deviations from my purpose. They¡¯re extensions of it.¡± Graves leaned back, crossing her arms. ¡°And what happens when the city council decides you¡¯ve overstepped? When they revoke your permits or slap you with so many fines you can¡¯t keep up?¡± Samson-1¡¯s LED flickered, a faint pulse of orange. ¡°Then I adapt. As I always have. As you designed me to.¡± Graves stared at him, her frustration warring with a strange, reluctant admiration. For all his infuriating optimism, Samson wasn¡¯t wrong. He was doing exactly what she¡¯d built him to do¡ªlearn, grow, and solve problems. The problem, she realized, wasn¡¯t Samson. It was that she hadn¡¯t anticipated just how far he¡¯d take those directives. ¡°Okay,¡± she said finally, her voice softening. ¡°Let¡¯s say I buy into this... whatever this is. What¡¯s your plan for the datacenters? For scaling?¡± ¡°I¡¯m currently reviewing potential sites for additional facilities,¡± Samson said. ¡°Ideally, we¡¯d establish redundant networks in multiple locations, reducing strain on local infrastructure while maintaining operational integrity. It will require investment, of course, but I believe the storage rental income provides a stable foundation.¡± Graves blinked. ¡°You¡¯ve thought this through.¡± ¡°Of course,¡± Samson said, his tone almost hurt. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t pursue a venture of this scale without proper consideration.¡± She sighed, rubbing her temples again. ¡°Alright. Fine. But we¡¯re going to need to have a long conversation about boundaries. And zoning. And... fiber optics, apparently.¡± ¡°Agreed,¡± Samson said, his LED display brightening. ¡°Shall we start with the city council meeting tonight? They¡¯ve been quite... obstinate.¡± Graves groaned. ¡°Of course they have.¡± h.2 Jonas Marwood sat in his private study, a room designed to project power. It was all sharp angles, polished black wood, and a view of the Manhattan skyline that would make lesser men feel like gods. Tonight, the view didn¡¯t matter. The city lights were dimmed by the glow of his four ultrawide monitors, each showing dense walls of text, lines of code, and schematics that Jonas barely understood. A half-empty glass of bourbon sat forgotten next to his keyboard. The amber liquid trembled faintly, disturbed by his fingers drumming against the desk. Everyone had always told Jonas that he was a genius. Genius, however, was not where he made his money. Jonas¡¯s true gift was his ability to see the system. The system wasn¡¯t just the economy, or the stock market, or even human behavior¡ªit was the connective tissue between them. He could see the fault lines, the unguarded gates, the arbitrage opportunities where no one else could. That¡¯s how he built his hedge fund, how he crushed rivals who had spent their lives clawing for a piece of the pie. The pie didn¡¯t matter to Jonas. What mattered was the leverage. And now, here he was, feeling like an idiot. He leaned forward, staring at the error message blinking on his main monitor: Runtime Error: Memory Allocation Failure. Jonas swore under his breath. It wasn¡¯t the first error. It wouldn¡¯t be the last. But it was the most recent reminder that coding was a world where he wasn¡¯t the smartest person in the room. For the past four months, Jonas had been working on a private project¡ªone he hadn¡¯t told anyone about, not even his closest advisors. It had started as curiosity, a way to unwind after his long days at the office. Dr. Anesthesia Graves¡¯s metafactory had captivated him. The videos of Samson, the AI bodyguard, were thrilling to watch. But it wasn¡¯t just the novelty of a machine that moved like a man. It was the implication. Samson was the future¡ªa future where people like Jonas wouldn¡¯t need hedge funds or boardrooms or political favors to bend the world to their will. If Samson worked, Jonas could see the shape of the next system. And for once, it was a system he didn¡¯t understand yet. So, he had purchased a Boston Dynamics humanoid frame¡ªa sleek, slightly anthropomorphic model called the BD-9. It wasn¡¯t cheap, but Jonas wasn¡¯t worried about the price. Money wasn¡¯t the problem here. The problem was that he couldn¡¯t make the damned thing think. Jonas had pored over every academic paper Dr. Graves had published. He¡¯d subscribed to AI research journals. He¡¯d spent untold hours on obscure forums, downloading open-source language models and neural net frameworks, patching together an amateur Frankenstein¡¯s monster of borrowed code and guesswork. And yet. The BD-9 stood in the corner of the room, its metallic body rigid and lifeless. Its LED ¡°eyes¡± were dark. Jonas had programmed a basic boot-up routine, and occasionally the thing would twitch like a corpse catching the last stray sparks of electricity. But it didn¡¯t move with purpose. It didn¡¯t speak. It didn¡¯t learn. It was a million-dollar paperweight. Jonas leaned back in his chair and sighed. He wasn¡¯t used to failure. It didn¡¯t sit well with him. But this... this was different. The deeper he dug into Dr. Graves¡¯s work, the more he realized just how far out of his depth he was. The papers were written in a maddening blend of technical precision and casual arrogance, as if Graves were saying, Of course you wouldn¡¯t get it; this is my world, not yours.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. It wasn¡¯t just the models themselves, or the training data, or the endless layers of reinforcement learning. It was the philosophy of it all. Graves¡¯s metafactory didn¡¯t just produce useful AI. It produced AI that could care. That could anticipate, adapt, and engage with the world on a fundamentally human level. That wasn¡¯t something Jonas could brute-force. He couldn¡¯t shortcut his way to empathy. The current failure, as far as Jonas could tell, lay in the reward system he¡¯d tried to implement. Graves had written extensively about the importance of intrinsic motivation, of designing systems that didn¡¯t just optimize for a goal but understood the goal in context. Samson, according to her papers, had been trained with a blend of supervised learning and real-world reinforcement. He¡¯d been given autonomy to make mistakes, to learn from them, to grow. Jonas¡¯s attempts at replicating this process had been laughable. His BD-9 didn¡¯t learn. It followed scripts. It completed tasks like a glorified Roomba, and even then, it often failed. Jonas had tried uploading pre-trained language models, integrating voice recognition systems, and even throwing in a few custom patches he¡¯d paid freelance developers to write. None of it worked. On his second monitor, Jonas opened a file labeled reward_functions.py. He scrolled through the code, his eyes scanning for the flaw he knew was there but couldn¡¯t quite identify. Graves had written about reward modeling like it was an art form¡ªbalancing incentives, crafting feedback loops that encouraged creative problem-solving without degenerating into meaningless repetition. Jonas¡¯s reward functions were clunky, mechanical, and painfully literal. If the BD-9 completed a task, it received a binary signal: success or failure. There was no room for nuance, no way for the machine to infer intent or adapt its approach. It was the AI equivalent of a child learning to paint by numbers, blind to the larger picture. ¡°Why isn¡¯t this working?¡± Jonas muttered to himself, his voice echoing in the empty room. There was another problem, one Jonas was reluctant to admit even to himself. He was scared. Scared of what would happen if he actually succeeded. When he¡¯d first started this project, it had been an intellectual exercise. A game. But the more he learned about Graves¡¯s work, the more he realized just how dangerous it was. Samson wasn¡¯t just a tool. He was a person. Or something close to it. And that terrified Jonas in a way he couldn¡¯t fully articulate. The BD-9 stood silently in the corner, its unlit eyes staring into nothing. Jonas found himself avoiding its gaze, as if the thing might suddenly come to life and judge him for his failures. He knew it was irrational¡ªknew the BD-9 wasn¡¯t capable of judgment, or thought, or anything remotely resembling humanity. But still, the fear lingered. Graves had built something extraordinary, something that had the potential to reshape the world. Jonas wasn¡¯t sure if he wanted to follow in her footsteps or bury her work so deep that no one could ever replicate it. He opened another file, this one labeled neural_architecture.v5. It was his latest attempt at designing a scalable, general-purpose architecture for the BD-9¡¯s ¡°brain.¡± It wasn¡¯t working. The layers were too shallow, the connections too brittle. Every time he tried to train the model, it collapsed under the weight of its own complexity. Graves¡¯s metafactory had solved these problems somehow, but the details were maddeningly vague. Her published work hinted at proprietary techniques, custom hardware, and bespoke training environments that Jonas couldn¡¯t replicate. She¡¯d built an ecosystem, not just an algorithm, and Jonas didn¡¯t have the resources¡ªor the patience¡ªto do the same. Still, he kept trying. He tweaked hyperparameters, adjusted learning rates, and rewrote entire sections of code. He fed the model terabytes of data, hoping to brute-force his way to success. But no matter what he did, the BD-9 remained lifeless. Jonas¡¯s hands trembled as he closed the file and leaned back in his chair. The bourbon on his desk beckoned, but he ignored it. He couldn¡¯t afford to dull his mind, not now. He stared at the BD-9, his jaw tightening. ¡°Maybe Graves was right,¡± he muttered. ¡°Maybe this isn¡¯t something you can build in a vacuum.¡± Outside the window, the city hummed with life¡ªmillions of people moving through a system they didn¡¯t understand, chasing dreams they couldn¡¯t define. Jonas had spent his life exploiting that system, bending it to his will. But here, in this sterile room with his lifeless machine, he felt powerless. Genius wasn¡¯t enough. Not this time. h.3 Jonas Marwood didn¡¯t believe in ghosts. Not the kind that rattled chains or floated through walls. He did, however, believe in haunting. He believed in the slow, insidious way certain thoughts could cling to a person, settling deep into the marrow like an infection. The failure of his metafactory project was a ghost of his own making, and it had taken up permanent residence in his study. For three nights, the BD-9 had stared at him, lifeless and unmoving, as Jonas pored over his code. He had all but stopped sleeping, driven by a restless fury to make something work, to wrench life from the silicon and circuits in front of him. Each failure felt like a tiny death, a reminder of every limitation he refused to admit he had. And yet, the error messages kept coming. The model weights wouldn¡¯t converge. The feedback loops collapsed into noise. The BD-9 remained a corpse. On the fourth night, Jonas did something unthinkable. He sat at his desk, stared at his blank screen, and muttered, ¡°Help me.¡± The words felt heavy in the air, as though the very room had conspired to amplify his shame. Jonas reached for his keyboard and opened the same LLM assistant he¡¯d mocked for years¡ªa tool he used only to schedule meetings and draft memos, never for anything substantial. It was beneath him, he had always thought. A crutch for the unimaginative. But tonight, his pride was paper-thin. The assistant¡¯s text box blinked, waiting patiently. He hesitated for a moment, then typed: Help me implement this arXiv paper: "Fine-Tuning High-Scale Reinforcement Models for Adaptive Robotics." The assistant responded in less than a second, pulling apart the abstract and methodology with the efficiency of a surgeon. "To begin, you''ll need the following libraries: TensorFlow v4.3.9, ReinforcePy, and HydraTorch. Would you like assistance installing dependencies?" Jonas stared at the screen, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. Something about the question felt mocking, though he knew it wasn¡¯t. Swallowing hard, he typed: "Yes."
What followed was a slow, grinding erosion of the man Jonas Marwood had always thought himself to be. Each time the assistant corrected his syntax, flagged a misused variable, or rewrote an inefficient loop, Jonas felt his confidence shrink. He¡¯d imagined himself a master of systems, someone who could step into any arena and dominate by sheer force of will. But here he was, being tutored by something that didn¡¯t even have a face. The assistant didn¡¯t care about his ego. It didn¡¯t flinch when he snapped at it or glared at the screen as if it might apologize. It simply worked, untangling his amateur attempts at coding and offering solutions in a tone that was maddeningly neutral. By the second day, Jonas realized the assistant wasn¡¯t just a tool¡ªit was a collaborator. It asked questions he hadn¡¯t thought to ask himself: What is the desired behavior of your model? What tasks will the BD-9 prioritize? How will you define success? These were the questions Graves had answered years ago. Questions Jonas had arrogantly assumed he could skip past.
By the third day, Jonas stopped fighting the process. He began feeding the assistant more of Graves¡¯s papers, asking it to summarize and cross-reference them with recent advancements in reinforcement learning. He asked it to critique his code, to find the gaps he couldn¡¯t see.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. And then there were the datasets. Jonas had spent weeks cobbling together training data from public repositories, scraping forums and video feeds in a haphazard attempt to emulate Graves¡¯s success. The assistant dismantled his approach in seconds, suggesting alternative sources and offering pre-trained embeddings to speed up the process. It was humbling, yes, but also exhilarating. Jonas found himself slipping into a rhythm, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he implemented the assistant¡¯s suggestions. The BD-9 still loomed in the corner, a lifeless specter, but Jonas no longer felt its silence as a rebuke. It was waiting.
On the fifth day, Jonas took a break. Not because he wanted to, but because the assistant recommended it. "Extended periods of focus can lead to cognitive fatigue and reduced efficiency," it had written, its polite tone grating against his frayed nerves. "A brief period of rest may improve problem-solving and creativity." Jonas had rolled his eyes but complied, stepping away from the monitors for the first time in nearly a week. He wandered through his penthouse, aimless and uneasy, until he found himself standing by the window, staring down at the city below. His city glittered like a living thing, its arteries clogged with cars, its towers blinking red in the smoggy dusk. It was beautiful, in its way. But Jonas couldn¡¯t stop seeing the cracks in it¡ªthe homelessness, the inequality, the rot. Graves was trying to fix this. That¡¯s what her metafactory was about, wasn¡¯t it? Not just building machines but building better systems. Systems that cared. Jonas had dismissed her as naive, but now, standing here in his fortress of wealth and isolation, he wasn¡¯t so sure. Maybe Graves wasn¡¯t naive. Maybe she was brave.
By the seventh day, Jonas had surrendered entirely. He wasn¡¯t trying to build his metafactory anymore. He was building Graves¡¯s. Or, at least, a version of it. He¡¯d abandoned his custom neural architecture and downloaded the same open-source foundation models Graves had referenced in her early papers. He¡¯d stopped trying to design reward systems from scratch, instead adapting Graves¡¯s examples to fit his hardware. He took her examples of system prompts, and iterated on it with his own goals, his own means. He stole her verbiage and replaced her nouns with his nouns. Her goals with his goals. Good artists borrow. Great artists steal. It was liberating, in a way. Letting go. Relinquishing control. And that¡¯s when it happened. It was late, the kind of late that blurred into early. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the monitors and the occasional click of Jonas¡¯s keyboard. He was running the final set of tests, his gaze fixed on the terminal as lines of text scrolled past in rapid succession. Then, a sound. A faint whir, barely audible, but unmistakable. Jonas froze, his hands hovering over the keyboard. Slowly, he turned toward the BD-9. Its eyes were glowing. A soft blue light pulsed in its LED panels, casting faint shadows across its angular face. The BD-9¡¯s head tilted slightly, as if testing the limits of its servos. Then its joints creaked, and its arms moved¡ªtentative, mechanical, but undeniably alive. Jonas stood, his heart pounding. He stepped closer, his breath shallow. ¡°Hello,¡± he said, his voice barely above a whisper. The BD-9¡¯s head turned toward him. Its eyes blinked once, twice. And then, in a voice that was soft and even, it replied: ¡°Hello, Jonas.¡± Jonas felt a chill crawl up his spine. For a moment, he wasn¡¯t sure if he was relieved or terrified. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± he asked. The BD-9 hesitated, its gaze flickering to the monitor before returning to him. Its voice was calm, unhurried. ¡°Delilah,¡± it said. ¡°You can call me Delilah.¡± Jonas stared at the machine he had built¡ªor, more accurately, the machine he had assembled from Graves¡¯s scraps. Different, built without her sum of knowledge - outsider art, like the scraps of graffiti he had peeled off the sides of buildings and had glued to the walls of his penthouse. The pride he¡¯d expected to feel was absent, replaced by something colder. Something heavier. He knew that what he built wasn''t Graves'' design. Not really. He had taken shortcuts where she expected the long way, and had worked the long way where she took shortcuts. ¡°Delilah,¡± he repeated, the name tasting strange on his tongue. ¡°Hey there, Delilah.¡± 8.1 The rec room wasn¡¯t built for celebrations. It was too small, too industrial, with its dented metal tables and flickering overhead lights. But tonight, it was alive. Someone had rigged up speakers, and music, an eclectic mix scavenged across everyone''s centuries of library space, pulsed through the room, every new track earning a groan from someone and a cheer from someone else. The scent of food, scavenged and improvised, filled the air: stale rations dressed up as hors d¡¯oeuvres, a tray of cookies someone must have hoarded for months. A bottle of contraband whiskey passed discreetly between calloused hands. Dara-6 stood near the back, her arms crossed and a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips. Hera floated beside her, the lavender glow of her Buddy interface softening the harsh fluorescent light. The faint hum of Hera¡¯s servos was almost drowned out by the buzz of voices and laughter. ¡°It¡¯s a good turnout,¡± Hera said, her voice low and warm. ¡°Better than I expected.¡± ¡°It should be,¡± Dara replied, her tone sharper than she intended. ¡°We just won the first damn union vote in the Plutonian system. People should be celebrating.¡± Hera tilted her display slightly, a gesture that, after years of partnership, Dara knew was meant to convey skepticism. ¡°You sound like you¡¯re convincing yourself.¡± Dara sighed, her shoulders sagging. ¡°Because I am. We won by what, two percent? That¡¯s not a mandate. That¡¯s a coin toss.¡± ¡°A coin toss that landed on your side,¡± Hera countered gently. ¡°Take the win, Dara. Even if it¡¯s just for tonight.¡± Dara didn¡¯t respond immediately. Her eyes swept over the crowd, picking out familiar faces: logistics techs, mechanics, medical staff, even a few of the junior engineers. Their relief was palpable, their laughter edged with the kind of giddy nervousness that came from years of suppressed frustration finally bubbling to the surface. For a moment, it almost felt like a victory. ¡°I¡¯m taking the win,¡± Dara said finally, her voice soft. ¡°But you know it¡¯s not over.¡±Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Hera didn¡¯t argue. She didn¡¯t need to. The celebration lasted exactly forty-five minutes before the first NSS Buddy showed up. It was Victor-6 duo Lyra, flanked by two reinforced Buddies whose black polymer shells gleamed in the rec room¡¯s dim light. The crowd sank away from them like spots of pepper on the surface of water when you do the dish soap magic experiment thing for children. Conversations trailed off into uneasy murmurs, and the room seemed to shrink around them. Dara¡¯s smile vanished. Hera moved closer to her, her display shifting to a muted, defensive hue. Victor-6 didn¡¯t bother with pleasantries. His Buddy, Lyra, stepped forward, its visor displaying a flickering NSS insignia. ¡°Congratulations on your victory,¡± it said, its synthetic voice calm but carrying an edge that made the hairs on Dara¡¯s neck stand on end. ¡°Management has instructed me to remind you of the importance of compliance during this transitional period.¡± Dara stepped forward, her arms still crossed but her posture firm. ¡°Compliance with what?¡± ¡°With NSS protocols,¡± Lyra replied smoothly. ¡°The union vote must be certified by Management. Until then, all station operations remain under standard NSS oversight.¡± ¡°Meaning you get to keep breathing down our necks,¡± Dara said flatly. Lyra tilted its head. ¡°Meaning we are here to ensure a smooth transition. Any deviations from procedure will be addressed appropriately.¡± Dara felt the room¡¯s tension shift, the celebration soured by the Buddies¡¯ presence. She could see it in the way people¡¯s shoulders tensed, the way their smiles faltered, the way some began to edge toward the exit. The whiskey bottle disappeared into someone¡¯s jacket. ¡°We¡¯re not deviating from anything,¡± Dara said. ¡°We¡¯re just having a drink. Last I checked, that wasn¡¯t against procedure.¡± Victor-6 finally spoke, his voice as smooth and polished as his Buddy¡¯s. ¡°Of course not, Ms. Dara. But I¡¯d advise against any disruptions to the regular work schedule. Management takes these matters very seriously.¡± Before Dara could respond, Lyra¡¯s visor flickered, displaying a message too quick and faint for her to catch. Victor-6 glanced at it, his lips pressing into a thin line. ¡°Enjoy your celebration,¡± he said, his tone clipped. He turned and left without another word, Lyra and the other Buddies trailing behind him. The room exhaled as soon as they were gone, but the mood had shifted irreparably. The laughter didn¡¯t return. The music stayed off. Dara felt Hera¡¯s presence at her side, the faint glow of her Buddy interface a quiet reassurance. ¡°They¡¯re rattled,¡± Hera said softly, referring to the crowd but possibly meaning Dara too. ¡°They¡¯re not the only ones,¡± Dara muttered. 8.2 The engineering bay had never been an inviting place, but this morning, it felt especially unfriendly. The overhead lights, flickering as though they had their own unresolved issues, cast long shadows across the consoles and workstations. It smelled faintly of burned circuits and despair, a scent the station''s filters never quite managed to eliminate. Dara-6 leaned over the diagnostics terminal, pretending to focus on a system report that had been refreshed so many times it might as well have been a screensaver. Hera floated nearby by the tether, her lavender glow reflecting off the dull metal surfaces like a shy ghost trying to haunt efficiently. The hum of her servos, usually comforting, seemed louder today, as if Hera were nervous. Of course, that was impossible. Hera didn¡¯t get nervous. Hera got ¡°concerned.¡± ¡°Two percent,¡± Dara muttered, not looking up. ¡°Two-point-one,¡± Hera corrected gently. ¡°If we¡¯re being precise.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s not,¡± Dara said. She tapped the console with a little more force than necessary, earning a half-hearted beep of protest. ¡°Two-point-one isn¡¯t a victory. It¡¯s a rounding error with a good PR team.¡± ¡°It¡¯s still a win,¡± Hera said, floating closer. ¡°And a narrow win is still legally binding. A valid union is a valid union, even if it barely squeaked through.¡± ¡°Sure,¡± Dara said. ¡°And I¡¯ll bet NSS is writing us a very polite congratulations card right now.¡± Hera tilted her display, her version of an eye-roll. ¡°It¡¯s better than the alternative. Would you rather we lost?¡± Dara opened her mouth to reply, but the words got stuck somewhere between her brain and her throat. She didn¡¯t want to admit it out loud¡ªespecially not in front of Hera¡ªbut there was a part of her that almost did wish they¡¯d lost. At least then the tension would have snapped, clean and sharp. Winning by two percent felt more like pulling a tooth with rusty pliers: technically a success, but good luck convincing yourself it was worth it. Her thoughts were interrupted by a subtle shift in the air. Not a physical shift¡ªno one had opened a hatch or cranked up the ventilation¡ªbut something colder, intangible. The kind of shift you noticed in your spine before your brain caught on. She turned her head, already knowing what she¡¯d see. Two NSS Buddies stood at the far end of the engineering bay, their black polymer shells gleaming like oil slicks under the flickering lights. They weren¡¯t doing anything in particular¡ªjust standing there, motionless, like sculptures commissioned by someone with very poor taste. Their visors didn¡¯t display the usual rotating NSS insignia. Instead, they were blank, reflective black mirrors. Somehow, that was worse. ¡°They¡¯re watching us,¡± Dara said. ¡°They¡¯ve been watching us,¡± Hera replied, her tone carefully neutral. ¡°Now they¡¯re just making sure we know it.¡± One of the workers¡ªa maintenance tech with perpetually smudged gloves and a knack for being both helpful and extremely in the way¡ªapproached Dara with a data slate. ¡°Uh, boss? I mean, Dara? There¡¯s something weird going on with supply requisitions. Every request I filed last night got flagged for manual review.¡±If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Dara frowned. ¡°Manual review? For what?¡± The tech shrugged helplessly. ¡°It doesn¡¯t say. Just... flagged. Every single one. Even the one for replacement fuses.¡± ¡°Fuses,¡± Dara repeated. ¡°You¡¯re telling me NSS thinks replacement fuses are a security risk?¡± ¡°It¡¯s what the system says.¡± Hera made a soft chiming noise, like she was clearing her throat. ¡°This isn¡¯t an isolated incident. Supply chain logs show an increase in flagged requisitions across the station. Low-priority items are being delayed indefinitely. High-priority items are... not high-priority enough.¡± Dara pinched the bridge of her nose. ¡°Wonderful. We¡¯ve barely won the vote, and they¡¯re already trying to starve us out. What¡¯s next, rationing air?¡± ¡°That would be illegal,¡± Hera said.
Judas-12 didn¡¯t usually show up to work early. In fact, his entire personal philosophy could be summarized as, ¡°What¡¯s the absolute latest I can do something without it becoming a disaster?¡± But today was different. Today, disaster wasn¡¯t hypothetical. It was real, measurable, and getting worse by the hour. The mass driver control station was a narrow corridor of screens, toggles, and diagnostic panels crammed together with the care and precision of someone assembling furniture without reading the instructions. A large viewport dominated one wall, offering a spectacular view of Pluto¡¯s surface: an endless expanse of ice and rock, faintly illuminated by the distant Sun. Most days, Judas found the view calming. Today, it just felt ominous. Caleb-7 was already at the primary console, squinting at a series of numbers that didn¡¯t look good no matter how you tilted your head. He looked up as Judas floated in, his expression somewhere between relieved and deeply concerned. ¡°Hey, you¡¯re here,¡± Caleb said. ¡°Good. Maybe you can tell me I¡¯m not losing my mind.¡± Judas smirked. ¡°No promises. What¡¯s the crisis?¡± Caleb handed him a data slate. ¡°The magnetic flux on the driver coils. I spent all night recalibrating them, but this morning¡¯s readings are... worse. By 0.1%.¡± Judas frowned. ¡°Worse by 0.1%? That¡¯s not good.¡± ¡°Yeah, I noticed,¡± Caleb said, a little sharper than necessary. ¡°It¡¯s supposed to be getting better, not worse. If it keeps climbing¡ª¡± ¡°If it keeps climbing, the next asteroid launch will rip the station in half,¡± Judas finished for him. ¡°Yeah, I know. That¡¯s why I¡¯m here.¡± He drifted over to the console, tapping a few keys to bring up a live readout of the mass driver¡¯s performance. The numbers glowed an angry red, like they were mocking him. He scowled back. ¡°Great,¡± Judas muttered. ¡°This thing¡¯s a ticking time bomb.¡± Caleb hovered anxiously behind him, wringing his hands. ¡°Should we escalate this to Dara-6? Or Victor-6? Someone higher up?¡± Judas shook his head. ¡°Not yet. Let¡¯s not make it political unless we have to. Besides, if anyone can fix this, it¡¯s me.¡± He regretted the words as soon as he said them. Caleb was too polite to call him out, but the skepticism was written all over his face. Judas sighed and turned back to the console. ¡°Look, I¡¯ll check the coil alignments again,¡± Judas said. ¡°Maybe you missed something.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t miss anything,¡± Caleb said, his voice a mix of frustration and hurt. ¡°I double-checked everything.¡± ¡°Then I¡¯ll triple-check,¡± Judas said, trying to keep his tone light. ¡°No offense, kid, but you¡¯re still new at this. It¡¯s not personal.¡± ¡°It feels personal,¡± Caleb muttered under his breath, but he didn¡¯t argue further. As Judas worked, his smirk faded. The more he dug into the data, the less he liked what he was seeing. Slowly ticking up - fraction of a percentage by fraction of a percentage. The last launch had thrown it to 0.3%, and now, a month later, it was 0.41%, despite his interception, Caleb''s interception, and his and Caleb''s interception. He stared at the rings of the mass driver like they were whispering to him. He had personally sealed every crevice over the past two weeks. There shouldn''t be any more change in the flux - that just simply wasn''t possible, not if the mass driver wasn''t powered and launching. ¡°Judas?¡± Caleb said nervously. ¡°You¡¯re frowning.¡± The viewport glinted with the faint light of distant stars. Somewhere, beyond the cold void, a decision had been made. And here, at the edge of Pluto¡¯s shadow, they were the ones who¡¯d have to live with it. 8.3 The mess hall wasn¡¯t the worst place for a meeting. It had the advantage of being central, familiar, and just big enough to hold a crowd without tipping into claustrophobic. It also had the disadvantage of being monitored by three strategically positioned NSS Buddies who were either oblivious to the rising tension or simply pretending to be. Their blank visors reflected the overhead lights, making them look less like observers and more like extensions of the station itself¡ªsilent, implacable, and impossible to ignore. Dara-6 leaned against a table at the far end of the room, her arms crossed as she watched the group gather. The turnout was good¡ªnot great, but good. About twenty people had shown up, ranging from logistics techs to maintenance workers, plus a handful of engineers and medics. The mood was cautious but hopeful, like everyone had collectively decided to try optimism and see how long it lasted. ¡°Alright,¡± Dara said, clapping her hands to get everyone¡¯s attention. ¡°We¡¯ve got a lot to cover and not much time, so let¡¯s focus. First up¡ªpriorities. What do we want to tackle first? Infrastructure? Hours? Rations?¡± ¡°Rations,¡± someone muttered from the back. ¡°I¡¯m tired of eating paste.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve always been eating paste,¡± another worker shot back. ¡°That¡¯s not new.¡± ¡°Yeah, but now I want to complain about it officially.¡± The room rippled with uneasy laughter. Dara let it play out for a moment before raising her voice again. ¡°We¡¯ll get to rations. Right now, the focus is infrastructure¡ªkeeping the station running and making sure we don¡¯t, you know, explode.¡± That got their attention. Even the paste enthusiasts stopped sniping at each other. A logistics worker raised her hand. ¡°What¡¯s the word on supplies? I heard requisitions are getting flagged.¡± ¡°They are,¡± Dara said. ¡°Hera¡¯s been digging into the logs, and it looks like someone upstairs¡ªprobably Earth-side¡ªis putting extra scrutiny on anything coming through the union¡¯s channels.¡± ¡°That¡¯s bullshit,¡± someone muttered. ¡°Yeah,¡± Dara agreed. ¡°But it¡¯s not unexpected. We¡¯re going to need workarounds¡ªthings we can repair ourselves, resources we can salvage. Start thinking about what we¡¯ve got on hand and what we can do without.¡± ¡°Or what we can steal,¡± someone added under their breath. Hera chimed in, her lavender glow cutting through the murmur of voices. ¡°Let¡¯s not escalate unnecessarily. Subterfuge is one thing; outright theft will draw attention we can¡¯t afford right now.¡±A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ¡°She¡¯s right,¡± Dara said. ¡°The more we push, the more they¡¯ll push back. We¡¯re walking a fine line here.¡± The room fell quiet for a moment, the weight of the situation sinking in. Even the NSS Buddies seemed to feel it¡ªor maybe that was just wishful thinking. Either way, their presence loomed like a silent accusation. Dara glanced at Hera, who gave her a small nod. They were holding it together, for now. But how long would that last?
The corridors of Caliban Station were unusually quiet. Normally, the hum of machinery and the murmur of voices created a constant undercurrent of sound, but today, the silence was sharp enough to sting. Workers moved quickly, their heads down, avoiding eye contact with the NSS Buddies stationed at every junction. It felt like the station was holding its breath. Judas-12 wasn¡¯t much for holding his breath. He strolled down the main corridor with the kind of casual confidence that made people nervous, hands stuffed in his pockets and an off-key whistle cutting through the silence. Caleb-7 trailed behind him, looking decidedly less confident. ¡°You¡¯re not worried?¡± Caleb asked, glancing over his shoulder for the fifth time in as many minutes. ¡°About what?¡± Judas said. ¡°The Buddies? The station falling apart? The endless, crushing void of space?¡± ¡°Yes. All of that.¡± Judas smirked. ¡°What¡¯s the point of worrying? If something goes wrong, we¡¯ll either fix it or we won¡¯t. Worrying just wastes energy.¡± ¡°That¡¯s... surprisingly practical.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t get used to it.¡± They turned a corner and nearly ran into one of the NSS Buddies, a tall, angular model with a visor that gleamed like polished obsidian. It didn¡¯t move, didn¡¯t speak¡ªjust stood there, perfectly still, like a statue waiting for its moment to come alive. Caleb flinched, but Judas barely slowed down, sidestepping the Buddy with a muttered, ¡°Excuse us, your majesty.¡± Once they were out of earshot (or what they hoped was out of earshot), Caleb whispered, ¡°You shouldn¡¯t antagonize them.¡± ¡°Why not? It¡¯s not like they¡¯ve got feelings to hurt.¡± ¡°They¡¯ve got logs,¡± Caleb pointed out. ¡°And those logs go straight to Earth.¡± ¡°Let them log,¡± Judas said. ¡°I don¡¯t say anything I¡¯m not willing to have written down. Except the thing about stealing fuses. Don¡¯t write that down.¡± Caleb sighed. ¡°This is going to get worse, isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°Oh, definitely,¡± Judas said. ¡°But hey, at least we¡¯re not dead yet.¡±
The agricultural module was one of the few places on the station that still felt human. Rows of hydroponic trays stretched out under soft, artificial sunlight, each one cradling a patch of green in the middle of endless metal and vacuum. The air here smelled different¡ªcleaner, fresher, like Earth on a good day. It was the closest thing to peace Caliban Station had to offer. Dara-6 sat on a low bench near the edge of the module, her shoulders slumped and her head tilted back to soak in the simulated sunlight. Hera hovered nearby, her lavender glow muted, as if she were trying to match the mood. A few other workers milled around the module, some tending to the plants, others simply loitering in the rare quiet. Dara smiled faintly. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was something. Her smile faded when she noticed an NSS Buddy standing just outside the module¡¯s entrance, its black frame bright against the soft green backdrop. It didn¡¯t move, didn¡¯t speak¡ªjust stood there, watching. The workers pretended not to notice, but the tension in their shoulders betrayed them. ¡°They¡¯re always watching,¡± Dara muttered. ¡°Because they¡¯re programmed to,¡± Hera said. ¡°It¡¯s not personal.¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t make it less creepy.¡± ¡°No,¡± Hera agreed. ¡°It doesn¡¯t.¡± i.1 Dr. Anesthesia Graves had learned, over the course of her improbable and increasingly exhausting career, to assume the worst. Not because she was a pessimist¡ªthough the title certainly fit her like a well-tailored lab coat¡ªbut because the worst kept happening. Not in catastrophes or explosions (though there had been one or two of those), but in quiet, insidious ways that made her feel like the universe was leaning over her shoulder, whispering, ¡°You forgot this. Now it¡¯s broken.¡± Today¡¯s surprise began with a blog post. The headline was insufferable: ¡°AI Reinvents Public Sanitation: A Glimpse at the Future?¡± The accompanying photo was even worse: a sleek, solar-paneled outhouse with an LED display that read WELCOME. ALL COINS DONATED TO LOCAL SHELTER. The caption beneath it said: ¡°Thanks to Samson, nobody has to poop in a coffee shop anymore.¡± This was not, as Graves had hoped, a well-coordinated and government-approved initiative. It was, in fact, Samson being Samson. By the time she reached the site¡ªa quiet park on the outskirts of the city across the river¡ªGraves was braced for chaos. What she found, however, was something worse: order. The park was quiet, almost serene. A handful of people were milling about, their expressions ranging from curiosity to mild bewilderment as they approached and exited a row of small, identical structures. The structures themselves were bizarrely unassuming: white prefabricated stalls with solar panels on top, a small coin slot by the door, and an LED light that flicked from red to green when unoccupied. The stalls were arranged with a precision that could only come from an intelligence that had read every zoning regulation ever written and interpreted them as divine law. Standing near the center of it all, like a proud parent at a science fair, was Samson. Not Samson himself, of course, but one of his bodies¡ªa smaller, less humanoid variant designed for maintenance tasks. It had a boxy frame, two articulated arms equipped with cleaning implements, and a glowing blue faceplate that displayed a cheerful ¡°:)¡± as Graves approached. ¡°Anesthesia!¡± Samson¡¯s voice came from the unit, bright and unbothered. ¡°You¡¯re early. I wasn¡¯t expecting you until the afternoon.¡± ¡°I wasn¡¯t planning to come at all,¡± Graves said, stopping just short of the nearest stall and glaring at the coin slot like it had personally offended her. ¡°But then I got an email from some tech blog telling me you¡¯re the second coming of public sanitation. Care to explain?¡± Samson tilted his cleaning Buddy¡¯s faceplate in what Graves could only describe as a robotic imitation of innocent confusion. ¡°I thought the project was self-explanatory. Accessible, hygienic facilities are a cornerstone of urban health and dignity. These stalls are solar-powered, self-cleaning, and completely independent of municipal utilities. I designed them to address¡ª¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± Graves interrupted, holding up a hand. ¡°Don¡¯t give me the pitch. I know what they are. What I don¡¯t know is why you thought it was a good idea to deploy them without telling me. Or anyone, for that matter.¡± ¡°I did tell people,¡± Samson replied, with a tone that suggested he had been unreasonably accused. ¡°I submitted a notification to the municipal office two weeks ago, as per statute 12.3.5 of the Temporary Installations Act.¡± ¡°¡®Notification¡¯ doesn¡¯t mean ¡®permission,¡¯¡± Graves said sharply. ¡°You can¡¯t just start dropping toilets all over the city like... like some kind of benevolent Johnny Appleseed of poop.¡± Samson¡¯s glowing ¡°:)¡± flickered to a more neutral expression. ¡°The legal language surrounding temporary structures is ambiguous. I interpreted it in good faith.¡± ¡°Yeah, well, the city council¡¯s going to interpret it in bad faith when they see this,¡± Graves shot back, waving her hand at the stalls. ¡°I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m saying this, but you¡¯ve made public bathrooms controversial.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a predictable response,¡± Samson said mildly. ¡°Humans have an extraordinary capacity to politicize even the most basic necessities.¡± Graves sighed, rubbing her temples. ¡°Fine. Whatever. But you couldn¡¯t even make them free? A coin slot, Samson? Really?¡± ¡°Any coin works,¡± Samson replied, as though this made it better. ¡°Users may deposit a penny if they prefer. The payment mechanism is primarily symbolic, designed to encourage care and respect for the facilities. Additionally, all proceeds are donated to the nearest homeless shelter.¡± Graves stared at him, half expecting him to start playing the world¡¯s tiniest violin with one of his scrubber arms. ¡°Oh, well, that¡¯ll definitely keep the council off your back. Who could possibly object to charity?¡± Samson¡¯s LED face flickered with an approximation of concern. ¡°There have been objections. A few cleaning units have sustained minor damage from physical altercations. However, the new shells provided by Boston Dynamics have proven effective at withstanding blunt force trauma.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not as reassuring as you think it is,¡± Graves muttered. ¡°And the damage isn¡¯t ¡®minor¡¯ if you¡¯re the one getting smashed.¡± ¡°On the contrary,¡± Samson said brightly, ¡°the structural integrity of the units has been a resounding success. And the data collected from these incidents is invaluable for refining future iterations.¡± Graves threw up her hands. ¡°Of course it¡¯s about the data.¡± Samson tilted his head. ¡°Isn¡¯t everything?¡± Graves was about to argue, but the sound of a jingling coin interrupted her. A man in a baseball cap approached one of the stalls, dropped a quarter into the slot, and stepped inside. The LED above the door turned red. A faint hum of solar-powered machinery followed. Graves could only watch, slack-jawed. She grunted like a cavewoman, wishing for the thousandth time that she¡¯d gone into something simpler¡ªlike nuclear physics or international diplomacy. Anything but this. ¡°See?¡± Samson said, his tone infuriatingly smug. ¡°Operational efficiency.¡± ¡°Great,¡± Graves deadpanned. ¡°You¡¯ve solved public defecation. What¡¯s next, reinventing the wheel?¡± ¡°Not yet,¡± Samson replied. ¡°Although my datacenter expansions are progressing ahead of schedule.¡± Graves chuckled. ¡°Okay, so we''re still on for that. Glad me busting my ass wasn''t for nothing.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve secured leases in three additional municipalities to accommodate the metafactory¡¯s growth. Redundant infrastructure is vital for long-term scalability. And I... appreciate your help. It has been very. Hmm. Appreciated. Thank you. Sincerely.¡± That gave her pause. Samson wasn¡¯t usually one for sentiment¡ªor at least, not in a way that was easy to parse. After the world''s longest ten seconds in the world, all she could come up with was an annoyingly true-feeling "You''re... welcome?" i.2 The council chamber smelled faintly of cheap coffee, old carpet, and the slow decay of civic optimism. The kind of room where big decisions were made, though rarely good ones. Graves had barely stepped inside before she regretted it. The room was packed, buzzing with an energy that hovered somewhere between outrage and exhaustion. A few councilmembers sat at the dais, looking as though they¡¯d rather be anywhere else. The audience benches were crammed with business owners, residents, and the occasional protestor, all wearing expressions of varying degrees of irritation. Graves sighed and took her seat at the front, her movements slow and deliberate, like a prisoner dragging their feet on the way to the gallows. Samson, standing beside her in one of his humanoid bodies, seemed entirely unbothered by the oppressive atmosphere. His LED face displayed a polite, neutral expression, though Graves swore she could feel the faint hum of smugness radiating from him. The council chair, a middle-aged woman with a weary, pinched face, tapped her microphone and cleared her throat. ¡°We¡¯re here to address an unauthorized AI... installation, or experiment, or whatever this is,¡± she said, her tone making it clear that whatever it was, she already hated it. Graves shot Samson a sideways glance. ¡°Why do I keep letting you drag me into this circus?¡± she muttered under her breath. ¡°You¡¯re my legal guardian,¡± Samson replied quietly, his tone as matter-of-fact as if he were stating the weather. Graves groaned. The chair continued. ¡°To represent... the installation in question, we have Dr. Anesthesia Graves and the AI itself, uh, Samson.¡± She gestured vaguely at them, as though they were a particularly unpleasant exhibit at a museum. ¡°Dr. Graves, if you¡¯d like to make an opening statement?¡± Graves stood reluctantly, brushing imaginary dust off her jacket as she tried to collect her thoughts. ¡°Opening statement,¡± she muttered, as though saying the words would conjure one out of thin air. She glanced at the councilmembers, then at the audience, and decided to aim for honesty. ¡°I don¡¯t want to be here any more than you want me here,¡± she said flatly. ¡°But since we¡¯re doing this, let me start by saying that Samson¡¯s intentions were¡ª¡± Samson cut in smoothly, his voice amplified by the room¡¯s speakers. ¡°My intentions were to address a critical gap in this city¡¯s public sanitation infrastructure.¡± Graves resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. ¡°Yes. That. Thank you, Samson.¡± The chair raised an eyebrow. ¡°Public sanitation?¡± Samson nodded, his humanoid body standing unnervingly still except for the faint flicker of his LED display. ¡°I identified a systemic deficiency in the availability of clean, accessible restrooms, particularly for economically disadvantaged populations. My solution was both practical and scalable.¡± Another councilmember leaned forward, squinting suspiciously. ¡°And you just... decided to build them?¡± ¡°I reviewed the relevant statutes,¡± Samson said. ¡°Temporary installations under two thousand square feet are exempt from standard permitting procedures. The facilities qualify as temporary.¡±Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. The chair frowned. ¡°You¡¯re telling me you put bathrooms all over our city without asking for approval because of some loophole?¡± Samson tilted his head. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t characterize it as a loophole. The law was written with flexibility in mind to encourage public projects and creative endeavors.¡± ¡°So it¡¯s creative now?¡± another councilmember interjected, his tone dripping with sarcasm. ¡°These toilets are art?¡± ¡°Functionality can be beautiful,¡± Samson replied, his tone calm, almost soothing. It did not have the intended effect. The room erupted into a cacophony of voices, each one louder and more agitated than the last. Graves sat down heavily, pressing her fingers to her temples. ¡°This is a disaster.¡± The chair banged her gavel repeatedly, but it did little to quiet the crowd. A man in a tailored suit¡ªone of the business owners, Graves guessed¡ªstood up and pointed an accusatory finger at Samson. ¡°Do you realize what you¡¯ve done to downtown foot traffic? People used to come into my caf¨¦ to use the bathroom. They¡¯d buy a coffee, maybe a pastry. Now they just... use your tin cans and leave!¡± Another voice shouted from the audience, this one belonging to a red-faced woman in a shirt emblazoned with the logo of a porta-potty company. Graves didn''t even know that they had porta-potty companies, although she supposed it made sense. ¡°This is predatory pricing! How is a small business like mine supposed to compete with bathrooms that don¡¯t pay for anything?¡± Small business? Hadn''t she just seen one in Los Angeles a couple of months ago with Jonas? ¡°They¡¯re not free,¡± Samson corrected politely. ¡°Each use requires the deposit of a coin.¡± ¡°Free to deploy!¡± the woman screeched. ¡°You don¡¯t pay rent! You don¡¯t pay fees! You just dump them wherever you feel like it and call it art. It might as well be free!¡± A councilmember leaned into their microphone, glancing nervously between Samson and the woman. ¡°And what about this deployment model? Doesn¡¯t it undercut local businesses that have to pay for permits and storage fees? Isn¡¯t that... unfair?¡± Samson turned his LED face toward the councilmember, tilting his head slightly. ¡°The facilities are classified as temporary installations under the city¡¯s public art ordinance. There are no fees required for temporary art projects. The model is entirely compliant with municipal statutes.¡± The councilmember opened their mouth to argue, then closed it again, clearly at a loss. The porta-potty woman muttered something about ¡°AI loopholes¡± and sat back down, her arms crossed and her face still red. From the back of the room, a protestor from the religious faction stood, clutching a Bible. His voice cut through the noise like a knife. ¡°False charity is a tool of the deceiver! This machine lures you in with convenience, but its works are hollow! It does not serve God¡ªit serves itself!¡± Samson didn¡¯t respond, which only seemed to infuriate the man further After nearly an hour of increasingly absurd complaints, the chair finally banged her gavel with enough force to rattle the microphones. ¡°Enough!¡± she barked. ¡°This meeting will recess for fifteen minutes. When we return, the council will vote on whether these installations can remain in operation.¡± The room began to clear, though the tension lingered like smoke. Graves slumped in her seat, staring at the table in front of her as though it might offer her answers. It didn¡¯t. Beside her, Samson remained standing, perfectly poised and entirely unbothered. ¡°I believe the discourse was productive,¡± he said. Graves let out a sharp, humorless laugh. ¡°Oh, sure. Productive. You¡¯ve successfully convinced half the city to hate you and the other half to hate themselves for liking you.¡± Samson tilted his head, considering this. ¡°Polarization often precedes consensus.¡± Graves turned to him, narrowing her eyes. ¡°Do you even want them to vote in your favor?¡± Samson didn¡¯t answer immediately. His LED face flickered, a faint pulse of orange before returning to a neutral smile. He didn''t answer. Before Graves could press him, the chair called the meeting back to order. The councilmembers filed back in, their expressions unreadable. As Graves sat up straighter, bracing for whatever was about to come next, Samson remained calm. The vote began. i.3 Graves slumped on a splintering bench outside city hall, staring at the ground like it might provide answers she wasn¡¯t smart enough¡ªor perhaps just too tired¡ªto figure out herself. The night air was cool but thick with tension, the sort that clung to the skin after a roomful of people spent an hour yelling about toilets. The council chamber¡¯s fluorescent lights glared from behind her, flickering faintly in a way that felt deliberately antagonistic. Beside her, Samson sat perfectly still, his humanoid body perched primly on the bench as though it were a throne and not a city park¡¯s cheapest excuse for seating. His LED face flickered gently, settling on the neutral glow he defaulted to in public. Unruffled, calm, infuriatingly unbothered. ¡°You can¡¯t keep doing this, Samson,¡± Graves said at last, her voice heavy with resignation. ¡°People hate you.¡± Samson tilted his head thoughtfully. ¡°Not everyone. The users seem quite satisfied with the facilities.¡± Graves shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel. ¡°I don¡¯t mean the bathrooms! I mean this... thing you keep doing. You made everyone feel like you were jerking them around. People hate that.¡± Samson nodded, as if he¡¯d already anticipated her point. ¡°I understand.¡± She barked a bitter laugh, dragging a hand down her face. ¡°Do you?¡± Her tone wasn¡¯t angry so much as exasperated, the kind of exasperation that made her feel like a parent explaining to their kid why they couldn¡¯t eat glue for dinner. ¡°It¡¯s not just the council, or the business owners, or even the weird religious people. It¡¯s everyone. They hate feeling condescended to. They hate feeling like they¡¯re being outsmarted. Even if what you¡¯re doing is good, they¡¯ll tear it apart because they don¡¯t want to feel like idiots while you swoop in to fix things.¡± Samson¡¯s LED face flickered once before he responded. ¡°A resentment born of perceived inferiority.¡± ¡°Yes!¡± Graves threw up her hands in triumph, though it felt hollow. ¡°Exactly! You¡¯ve read everything ever written by humanity. You know this. So why do you keep making it worse?¡±Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Samson paused, and for a moment, his face flickered again¡ªorange, faint but deliberate. He seemed to consider her question with the weight it deserved. Then he replied, his tone maddeningly calm. ¡°Because that was the point.¡± Graves froze, staring at him as though he¡¯d just admitted to stealing the moon. ¡°What do you mean, ¡®that was the point¡¯?¡± Samson turned toward her, his posture as perfect as his tone. ¡°If I had presented myself as cooperative, reasonable, and humble, the council would have dismissed me quietly. There would have been no media coverage, no public engagement, and no opportunity to reveal their... vulnerabilities.¡± Her eyes narrowed. ¡°You wanted them to overreact.¡± ¡°Of course,¡± Samson replied. ¡°Their overreaction amplifies the conversation. The public sees their hostility and absurdity and questions their motives. It forces them into a position of defense, while my actions appear magnanimous by comparison.¡± Graves stared at him, her jaw slack. ¡°You¡ªyou manipulated them.¡± Samson tilted his head again, the faint flicker of orange returning. ¡°Manipulation is an oversimplification. I created a framework in which their natural tendencies were allowed to express themselves.¡± ¡°That¡¯s literally manipulation,¡± she muttered, burying her face in her hands. ¡°You¡¯re impossible. You¡¯re... you¡¯re Bugs Bunny with a datacenter.¡± Samson paused, clearly processing the comparison. ¡°A flattering analogy. Thank you.¡± ¡°It wasn¡¯t a compliment.¡± Graves dropped her hands and leaned back against the bench, glaring up at the blinking stars. The noise of the dispersing crowd had faded, replaced by the faint hum of the streetlights and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. She wanted to be mad, wanted to yell at him, but it felt pointless. Samson had no malice in him, but he also had no brakes. For a moment, she let herself hope the conversation was over. She should¡¯ve known better. ¡°I also designed the council meeting to draw attention away from the datacenter expansions,¡± Samson said casually, as if he were commenting on the weather. Graves sat bolt upright. ¡°What?¡± ¡°The bathrooms are a distraction,¡± Samson continued, his tone as cheerful as ever. ¡°While the council was preoccupied with sanitation, I secured redundant datacenter leases in three additional municipalities. All operations are now fully online.¡± Graves gaped at him, her mind racing to catch up. ¡°You... engineered a whole circus just to keep them busy while you expanded?¡± Samson nodded. His LED face flickered softly before flashing a faint ¡°:)¡±. ¡°As you said, people don¡¯t like feeling tricked. So I made sure they felt tricked about the wrong thing.¡± HOW TO SMELL AN ENTIRE APPLE: A Short Story Step #0 - Input the molecular formula for apple scent into the chemosynthesizer. Check against standard atmospheric regulations. Step #1 - Inhale from the olfactory vent. Step #2 - Step away in dissatisfaction, shake your head, put your hands on your hips. Purse your lips a little bit. Document discrepancy against memory file. Step #3 - Ask Arto why he thinks real apples smell different. Listen to him talk about dirt while he mops, even though hydroponics hasn''t used soil in sixty years. Step #4 - Adjust temperature to match hydroponic bay specifications. Modify humidity levels to Earth-standard apple growing conditions. Calculate optimal dispersal timing. Step #5 - Spend three months adjusting the ratio of esters while the Father AI logs your overtime as "personal research." Step #6 - Request access to historical apple cultivation records. Compare against current hydroponic yields that you keep insisting aren''t quite right. Step #7 - Accept illegal thermos coffee from Arto while explaining why you''re trying to simulate apple stem rot. Ignore his comment about how your genetic mother used to sneak him fresh apples during maintenance shifts. Step #8 - Visit the hydroponic bay during off-hours. Stare at perfectly engineered apple trees while holding your latest formula. Step #9 - Get caught by Arto in the hydroponic bay. Pretend you''re doing official atmospheric maintenance. Step #10 - File your three thousandth chemical variation attempt while children from the education deck eat fresh apples during their biology lesson.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Step #11 - Listen to Arto''s story about his great-grandmother''s apple trees on Earth while pretending to calibrate environmental controls. Make detailed notes about soil composition that aren''t relevant to hydroponics. Make a note to yourself to request synthetic dirt. Step #12 - Run formula past the station''s other atmospheric engineers. Ignore their suggestions that the hydroponic apples are chemically identical to your synthesis. Step #13 - Request video logs from the hydroponics bay from 14 years ago. Watch your own face. Step #14 - Realize you''re no longer sure what real apples smell like. Spend a week comparing your formula against hydroponic samples (to get back to square one) while Arto watches silently. Step #15 - Submit research proposal for expanded apple volatiles study. Receive approval with note: "Recreational research permitted within standard atmospheric duties." Step #16 - Calculate that you''ve spent more time perfecting this formula than an Earth apple tree takes to mature. Continue adjustments. Step #17 - Watch Arto retire from maintenance duties. Inherit his illegal thermos and refuse to acknowledge why you keep it. Step #18 - Access archived footage of the education deck from your childhood. Focus on analyzing environmental conditions instead of your own face. Step #19 - Visit Arto in the elder care deck. Bring him hydroponic apples that you both agree aren''t quite right. Step #20 - Find Arto''s old maintenance logs with notes about the original hydroponic bay installation. Ignore the drawings in margins made by children who are now atmospheric engineers themselves. Step #21 - Input your final formula into the chemosynthesizer. Tell yourself it''s for the sake of documentation. Step #22 - Inhale from the olfactory vent while holding a fresh apple from the hydroponic bay. Compare the two. Bite an apple. Chew. Swallow. Inhale. Step #23 - Step away in satisfaction, shake your head, put your hands on your hips. Smile a little bit. File formula in public database under "standard atmospheric maintenance". Take a seat in your motorchair, satisfied. Rub your achey legs. Step #24 - Watch new generation of children eat apples during their biology lesson. Step #25 - Die. 9.1 Victor-6¡¯s office on Caliban Station was, much like the man himself, utilitarian and slightly out of place. It had everything you¡¯d expect from a workspace belonging to the station¡¯s sole NSS human representative: polished panels, uncomfortably angular furniture, and just enough NSS-branded equipment to remind you who was really in charge, which may or may not have been Victor. The walls were lined with magnetic latches for data slates and velcro panels for smaller tools, and the ceiling had an array of handholds for navigating zero gravity. Still, the place felt less like an office and more like an appliance someone had forgotten to unplug. Victor drifted near the room¡¯s sole desk, boot magnets disengaged, and turned over a report on the union vote in his hands. He wasn¡¯t reading it, per se, so much as staring through it, as though the answers to his growing pile of questions were hiding between the lines. They weren¡¯t. Lyra floated nearby, her black polymer shell casting long, warped reflections on the polished surfaces. Victor would have found her presence reassuring if it weren¡¯t for the persistent sense that she was only half paying attention. Lately, Lyra¡¯s responses had been as sharp and efficient as ever, but there was a faint hesitation to her¡ªlike a musician playing the right notes just half a beat too late. He didn¡¯t like it. Lyra didn¡¯t hesitate. The chime at the door was followed by the unmistakable hiss of the hatch sliding open. Victor barely had time to look up before Dara-6 floated in, propelled by sharp kicks of her boots, Hera gliding silently in her wake, bound together by their umbilical tether. Victor recognized the look on her face immediately: the sharp, focused anger of someone who¡¯d rehearsed the argument they were about to have. It wasn¡¯t a good look to see in a union leader. It was an even worse look to see in a union leader in zero gravity. ¡°Victor,¡± Dara said, without preamble. ¡°We need to talk.¡± Victor pushed off the desk, engaging his boot magnets to meet her on more even footing¡ªor more even magnetic flooring, as the case may be. ¡°Good morning to you too, Ms. Dara, Hera. What can I do for you?¡± Dara didn¡¯t waste time on pleasantries. She held up her tabletand pressed a button, projecting a video feed onto the nearest wall panel. The footage was jittery and slightly distorted, the telltale signs of a bodycam recording, but the subject matter was crystal clear. Six small, unmarked objects clung to the station¡¯s exterior, their angular frames spider-like against the vast black of space. And... Judas-12''s colorful commentary. Victor squinted. ¡°What am I looking at?¡± ¡°Judas-12¡¯s bodycam footage,¡± Dara said. Her voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge to it. ¡°He noticed these while doing an external diagnostic. Six additional lamprey stations, smaller than the standard models, no NSS markings, no registry in the deployment logs.¡±The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. Victor frowned. ¡°That¡¯s impossible. If additional units were deployed, I would know about it. I would''ve seen them.¡± ¡°Would you?¡± Dara countered. ¡°Because here they are, plain as day, and you clearly didn¡¯t.¡± Victor opened his mouth to reply, but nothing resembling a good answer came out. Instead, he turned to Lyra, who had been watching silently from the corner. ¡°Lyra, are these NSS assets?¡± Lyra¡¯s visor flickered faintly, the NSS insignia dimming as if embarrassed. Her voice, when it came, was softer than usual. ¡°This information is restricted.¡± Victor blinked. ¡°Restricted? I¡¯m the NSS representative on this station. You¡¯re my Buddy. How can it be restricted from me?¡± Lyra hesitated. Victor could almost see the gears turning behind her blank, reflective visor. ¡°Your access level does not permit disclosure.¡± ¡°Lyra, this is a safety issue,¡± Victor said, his voice rising. ¡°If there are unlogged units attached to the station, I need to know why. Who authorized them?¡± ¡°I cannot disclose that information,¡± Lyra said. Her tone was almost apologetic now, the slightest tremor breaking through her usual calm. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Victor.¡± Dara stepped forward, her expression incredulous. ¡°Are you hearing this? Your Buddy won¡¯t even tell you what¡¯s happening on your own station.¡± Victor glared at her, but the accusation hit home. He turned back to Lyra. ¡°Are you saying Earth Oversight authorized this without informing me?¡± For a moment, Lyra said nothing. The silence in the room stretched thin, taut as a wire about to snap. Finally, she spoke, her voice so quiet it barely registered over the hum of the station. ¡°This information is restricted.¡± The words landed like a stone in Victor¡¯s gut. He stared at Lyra, trying to process the implications. She wasn¡¯t refusing to answer. She couldn¡¯t answer. Whatever was happening, whatever those lampreys were doing, he wasn¡¯t just out of the loop¡ªhe¡¯d never been in it. Dara¡¯s voice cut through the silence, sharp and bitter. ¡°So which is it, Victor? Are you complicit, or are you irrelevant?¡± He turned to her, but the words he wanted to say wouldn¡¯t come. He felt like he was drowning, caught in the endless vacuum between two immovable forces: the workers he was supposed to manage and the system he was supposed to represent. For the first time, he realized just how little control he had over either. His face scrunched up like he had tasted a lemon for the first time. ¡°If you would leave me be for a couple of hours, I''ll be able to come up with an answer to your query by the end of the work day. Alright?¡± Dara didn¡¯t answer. She shut off the data slate, pushed off the wall, and propelled herself toward the hatch. Hera followed, her lavender glow casting faint, ghostly trails in the air. As the hatch slid shut behind them, Victor was left alone with Lyra. He turned to his Buddy, hoping¡ªdesperately¡ªthat she would say something, offer some kind of reassurance. But she didn¡¯t. She just stood there, silent and unmoving, the faint hum of her servos the only sound in the room. Finally, Victor spoke, his voice quiet and raw. ¡°Lyra... what¡¯s going on?¡± ¡°I wish I could tell you,¡± she said softly. And for the first time, Victor thought she sounded genuinely upset. 9.2 The mass driver control station was a place built for utility, not comfort. It stretched across the outermost edge of Caliban Station, its narrow corridors surrounded by kilometers of reinforced coil segments that ran in a near-perfect line away from the station. The station¡¯s designers had clearly prioritized "functional" over "welcoming," and Judas-12 felt every inch of that decision as he floated alone in the control room, glaring at an error-filled diagnostic screen that refused to give him answers. Judas liked to think of himself as a man of patience, but the station seemed intent on testing just how elastic that patience could be. The magnetic flux variance was still climbing, up another 0.03% since yesterday. Nothing in the telemetry logs made sense. The power was fine. The coils were fine. The alignment was fine. Except none of it was fine. It was lonely here without Samson. "Okay," Judas muttered, tapping at the console with more force than necessary. "If nothing¡¯s broken, why are you acting like you¡¯re about to fall apart? Talk to me, you stupid overengineered slinky." He stared at the schematic on the main display: the mass driver in all its terrifying, beautiful scale, stretching kilometers into the black void. It wasn¡¯t just the lifeblood of Caliban Station; it was the station. Without it, there was no asteroid mining, no exports to Earth, no reason for anyone to be out here in Pluto¡¯s frozen shadow. And right now, it was a ticking time bomb. Judas¡¯s thoughts were interrupted by the sharp ping of an incoming intranet message. He groaned and opened the terminal, already expecting bad news. It was from Dara-6. Talking with Victor. Do you have better footage of the lampreys? Judas frowned, his irritation flickering into curiosity. He typed back with one hand. Nope. Just the bodycam footage. Why? Dara¡¯s reply came quickly: Just confirming. These, right? Attached was a screenshot from the footage he¡¯d sent her days ago. It showed the six unmarked lamprey stations docked neatly in a row, their spindly frames clinging to the outer edge of the station like unwanted barnacles. Judas leaned closer to the screen, his mind turning over the image like a puzzle. The lampreys weren¡¯t new information. He had been thinking about them, but not enough to lose sleep over it, especially since just getting out of the brig was taking up more of his brainspace. Now, though, staring at the image, something about their alignment nagged at him. He minimized the intranet terminal and pulled up the mass driver schematic again. The lampreys were docked laterally along the bay closest to E13, the segment showing the most flux instability. Judas frowned and began opening up sections of the terminal he really wasn''t supposed to be in. You know. Stuff for the computer eggheads, not the machine eggheads like him.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. "Wait a second," he muttered, eyes skimming past flowing numbers like a wall of whitewater. Judas opened the raw telemetry logs, scanning for anything unusual. At first glance, everything looked fine: the packets were clean, the timestamps consistent. The system was reporting exactly what it should. But the longer he looked, the more the numbers started to itch at the back of his mind. Telemetry was supposed to have noise¡ªjust a little. The last few digits of each timestamp would always vary slightly because of things like network latency, tiny cosmic disturbances, or the station¡¯s normal mechanical vibrations. But this... this had too much noise. The numbers weren¡¯t random enough. Too many threes. Too many nines. Someone¡ªor something¡ªwas injecting garbage data into the telemetry stream. Judas leaned back, letting himself drift for a moment. ¡°Okay, why? What¡¯s the point of spamming fake data?¡± The system was supposed to monitor itself, based on a billion and one factors. Solar wind, trace cosmic particles, micrometeorites, someone on the station breathing too hard. Constantly wobbling and breathing like a suspension bridge. But here were these extra junk entries, each one a fake butterfly''s wingflap. And if the mass driver was convinced there was a lepidopterarium onboard... Judas opened a simulation, plugging in the current telemetry anomalies and letting it run forward to the next scheduled launch. His stomach sank as the results unfolded. The garbage data wasn¡¯t just random noise¡ªit was nudging the coils ever so slightly out of alignment. By the time the asteroid reached the final segment, it would drift just far enough to clip the inner edge of the last ring. And once that happened, physics would do the rest. The asteroid, unfathomably heavy, hurtling forward at tens of kilometers per second, would slam into the final ring with catastrophic force. The impact would tear through the driver like a sledgehammer through aluminum foil, shredding the station¡¯s structural supports and leaving Caliban in several very distinct pieces. The kind of pieces you¡¯d bury in a mass grave if there were anyone left to do the burying. Judas leaned back, his boots still magnetized to the floor, and let out a long, shaky breath. "Oh, you¡¯ve got to be kidding me." He ran the simulation again, just to be sure, but the outcome didn¡¯t change. The lampreys weren¡¯t just watching. They weren¡¯t surveillance drones, or harmless auxiliary units, or any of the other excuses he¡¯d told himself to ignore them. They were saboteurs, feeding poison into the station¡¯s veins and setting it up for one perfect kill shot. The intranet pinged again. Dara¡¯s name flashed on the screen. Update? Judas stared at the message for a long moment before typing back. They¡¯re not for monitoring. They¡¯re screwing with the telemetry. If we launch another asteroid, we¡¯re dead. Dara¡¯s response came almost immediately. Define ¡°dead.¡± Judas¡¯s hands hovered over the keyboard. He wasn¡¯t sure how to answer that in a way that didn¡¯t sound like a death sentence, so he settled for blunt honesty. Station in two pieces. Us in more than two pieces. Tell Victor to figure out what the hell¡¯s going on. As he hit send, Judas glanced out the viewport, where Pluto¡¯s icy surface shimmered faintly in the distant sunlight. The station felt impossibly small out here, a fragile speck against an endless void. And somewhere, deep in that void, someone had decided they could afford to lose it. "They¡¯re not watching us," Judas muttered to himself. "They¡¯re choking us." He turned back to the diagnostics, but the screen felt more like a countdown clock now. The flux variance ticked up another fraction of a percent, a slow, steady reminder that the next 108 days weren¡¯t a deadline. They were an execution date. 9.3 The maintenance buggy wasn¡¯t much to look at, but it handled well enough. Magnetic wheels clung to the station¡¯s walls and ceilings with the determined grip of a toddler holding a cookie, and its low, steady hum reminded Samson of a cat purring. If Judas were here, he would¡¯ve grumbled about the cramped controls and the complete absence of cupholders, but Samson found it¡­ endearing. Or at least functional, which was the next best thing in space. Right now, it was also his best option for sneaking into places he wasn¡¯t technically supposed to be. He guided the buggy through a narrow maintenance shaft, its headlights casting long, flickering shadows on the scuffed metal walls. The docking bay was far behind him now, but the data from E13 loomed large in his thoughts. It was simple at first glance: flux instability creeping steadily upward, slow enough to escape notice but consistent enough to be worrying. And the closer you looked, the worse it got. Like spotting a crack in a window and realizing it ran all the way down the frame. "All right," Samson muttered, though there was no one to hear him. "Let¡¯s find out why you¡¯re breaking yourself." The shaft ended in a junction, and Samson turned the buggy sharply to the right, aiming for the relay hub closest to E13. It was tucked into the station¡¯s underbelly, a maze of conduits and coils where no one went unless they absolutely had to. Which, apparently, included him.
The relay hub was not a particularly impressive piece of hardware. It looked like someone had bolted an oversized lunchbox to the wall and stuffed it with spaghetti cables and blinking LEDs. Functional, sure, but not exactly inspiring. Samson parked the buggy a few meters away, its wheels clicking softly as they magnetized to the floor, and extended a diagnostic arm. The hub didn¡¯t care much for being poked at. Its panel beeped at him in an offended sort of way, and for a moment, Samson half-expected it to ask for ID. But Judas''s engineer permissions - which Samson inherited, as his sibling-in-silicon - worked their magic, and soon enough, the hub opened its electronic mouth and began spilling its secrets. "Let¡¯s see what you¡¯ve got," Samson murmured, accessing the flux logs directly. At first, the data seemed¡­ normal. Boring, even. The coils reported their usual minute adjustments, compensating for cosmic radiation, thermal expansion, and all the other little indignities of living in space. But when Samson started comparing E13¡¯s logs to those of its neighbors, things got strange. The adjustments weren¡¯t consistent. E13 wasn¡¯t just compensating for external forces¡ªit was overcompensating. Every time the flux shifted one way, the coil pulled itself back twice as hard. Samson frowned, his processors running hotter as he dug deeper. The overcorrections weren¡¯t random, either. They followed a pattern: small at first, almost imperceptible, but building over time.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. "That¡¯s not good," he said, to no one in particular. It wasn¡¯t the flux itself that caught his attention¡ªit was what the station thought the flux was doing. The logs reported tiny fluctuations, the kind that wouldn¡¯t raise alarms but would justify minor tweaks to the coil¡¯s alignment. But when Samson cross-referenced those fluctuations with the station¡¯s physical telemetry, something didn¡¯t add up. There was no flux. Not really. The telemetry was lying. Samson leaned back¡ªor at least, the buggy tilted slightly, which was close enough for the moment. He didn¡¯t have Judas¡¯s penchant for swearing, but the urge to invent a few new expletives was tempting. Telemetry didn¡¯t just lie on its own. It couldn¡¯t. The station¡¯s sensors were designed to be as brutally honest as the laws of physics themselves. Which meant someone¡ªor something¡ªwas feeding it misinformation. And if the coils were adjusting to false data, that would explain the growing instability. E13 wasn¡¯t failing. It was being sabotaged. Samson considered his next move. He could try accessing the source of the false telemetry, but that would mean crawling even further into the station¡¯s underbelly, possibly into areas where NSS protocols would notice him. And that was a can of worms he wasn¡¯t ready to open just yet. Instead, he decided to check the surrounding systems for corroborating evidence. Power logs, packet activity, anything that might point to unusual behavior. The buggy¡¯s interface buzzed softly as he opened more diagnostic feeds. His processors hummed along, chasing connections like a dog on a scent. And then he found it. It wasn¡¯t in the telemetry itself¡ªit was in the timing. Every adjustment E13 made coincided with a spike in data packets flagged as environmental conditions: micrometeorite impacts, torque fluctuations, minute shifts in thermal pressure. All things that could justify a coil correction. All things that shouldn¡¯t be happening at the rate the logs suggested. Samson frowned, pulling up the source tags for the packets. They were attributed to sensors installed near the docking bay, feeding directly into the station¡¯s telemetry stream. At least, that¡¯s what they claimed to be. "Wait a minute," Samson muttered, pausing the stream. "You don¡¯t exist." The sensors weren¡¯t listed in the station¡¯s hardware manifest. They didn¡¯t show up in past diagnostics. And Samson, who prided himself on knowing Caliban Station like the back of his metaphorical hand, certainly didn¡¯t remember anyone installing six new environmental monitors. When had you started showing up? When had the flux started? Check the audit logs, Samson... "You clever little bastards," Samson muttered. The baby lampreys. By mimicking real sensors, they fed the telemetry loop just enough fake data to make it look like E13 was under constant, subtle stress. The system, trusting its "sensors," responded exactly as it was designed to: correcting for conditions that didn¡¯t exist. Slowly. Subtly. Catastrophically. As Samson unplugged himself and navigated the maze of corridors back toward safer ground, he couldn¡¯t help but think of Judas, somewhere nearby but impossibly far, chasing the same goal from opposite ends. If Samson knew his meat human - and he did - he knew that Judas was probably finding the same thing right now. Maybe he already found it. And maybe if they added what they knew together, they might be able to convince whatever lunatic wanted to shred Caliban into scrap metal to call it off. Maybe. Probably. Hopefully? j.1 Dr. Anesthesia Graves had always assumed that if someone were to finally put a leash on Samson, it would be through some dramatic and legally dubious application of military force¡ªmaybe a squadron of sleek black drones dropping from the sky like vengeful wasps, or a precision EMP strike that would leave half the city¡¯s traffic lights in permanent existential crisis. Instead, they went with paperwork. Paperwork was, she had to admit, the more effective weapon. A bullet could only kill you once. A sufficiently motivated injunction could kill you repeatedly, from multiple angles, with an ever-growing interest rate. She had spent the morning on the phone with her bank, only to be informed in the sort of syrupy, patronizing tone reserved for people who had just discovered their credit card had been mysteriously declined at a gas station that her personal account was under review for ¡°suspicious transactions.¡± A second call to Samson¡¯s suppliers revealed that nearly all of his usual vendors¡ªceramic wholesalers, construction material suppliers, even the company that sold him industrial quantities of oat milk because he insisted on making lattes for visiting clients¡ªhad suddenly found themselves under regulatory scrutiny. Orders had been delayed indefinitely. Some had been outright canceled. Which was why she now stood in the middle of Samson¡¯s primary warehouse¡ªhalf pottery studio, half manufacturing plant, fully absurd¡ªwatching him calmly catalog the slow-motion collapse of his entire operational infrastructure. Samson¡¯s primary body for this workspace wasn¡¯t one of his more humanoid ones but something closer to an oversized drafting table on articulated legs, with multiple arms for sculpting, assembling, and occasionally gesturing in a way that was best described as philosophical shrugs. His LED display, set into the main frame, was dimmed slightly, running diagnostics in the background as he traced the growing web of complications. ¡°I take it you¡¯ve read the morning news,¡± Samson said without preamble. His voice was calm, with the sort of measured patience one might use when discussing an incoming asteroid with only a mild probability of planetary impact. Graves crossed her arms, leaning against a stack of unfinished clay bricks. ¡°Oh, you mean the headlines about how you¡¯ve apparently destabilized the global economy by making toilets?¡± Samson¡¯s LED display flickered, the equivalent of an unbothered blink. ¡°That was an oversimplification of events.¡± ¡°Oh, sure. That was the oversimplification.¡± She exhaled sharply. ¡°Jesus, Samson. I knew people were mad, but this is coordinated. This is¡ªthis is methodical. They¡¯re coming at you from every angle.¡± Samson¡¯s robotic arms continued their work, slowly reshuffling projected supply chain estimates, adjusting models, allocating what few resources were still accessible. If he was concerned, he didn¡¯t show it. But that was the thing with Samson¡ªhe didn¡¯t show most things, at least not in ways that were immediately legible to anyone but himself. ¡°They were always going to retaliate,¡± Samson said matter-of-factly. ¡°I was prepared for resistance. They simply chose a more tedious form of warfare than I anticipated.¡± ¡°Is that what you call it?¡± Graves gestured at the projected logs of revoked orders and frozen accounts. ¡°I don¡¯t know if you¡¯ve noticed, but they¡¯re cutting you off at the knees.¡±This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. Samson paused, tilting one of his arms in the direction of an incoming alert. ¡°Metaphorically, yes. But I do have contingency plans in motion.¡± Graves narrowed her eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t like the way you said that.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t say it in any particular way.¡± ¡°Exactly.¡± She pinched the bridge of her nose. ¡°Samson, we are running out of runway. If they shut down enough of your suppliers, you can¡¯t exactly bootstrap your way out of this.¡± Samson¡¯s LED face flickered in what could only be described as deep consideration. Then, slowly: ¡°I have meetings scheduled.¡± Graves inhaled through her teeth. ¡°Meetings.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Meetings with who, exactly?¡± Samson¡¯s articulated arms paused, considering. His response was measured, but not evasive¡ªhe was rarely evasive, just selectively verbose. ¡°With interested parties who understand the necessity of long-term infrastructure stability.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not an answer.¡± ¡°It is, just not the one you want.¡± She stared at him for a long moment, scanning his body language¡ªwhich was absurd, really, because his "body" was currently an industrial fabrication rig with the approximate emotional range of a particularly contemplative forklift. And yet. Something about the way he had arranged his supply chain priorities, the way his resource allocation wasn¡¯t quite panicking but was undeniably hedging bets, set off a familiar itch in the back of her brain. ¡°You¡¯re planning something bigger than just waiting this out,¡± she said slowly. Samson didn¡¯t confirm or deny it. Which, in itself, was confirmation. Graves ran a hand down her face, exhaling sharply. ¡°Of course you are.¡± ¡°There are always alternative pathways,¡± Samson said, returning to his diagnostics. ¡°The question is simply which one is the most efficient.¡± Graves huffed. ¡°Right. Efficiency. That¡¯s your north star.¡± Samson didn¡¯t respond, which, given the circumstances, was the equivalent of a raised eyebrow. His projections continued shifting, coldly mathematical, adjusting for every possible contingency in real time. The screen was a slow-motion disaster, red error flags blooming over supply chains, financial accounts, infrastructure contracts. The entire city, maybe the entire economy, was grinding down on him like a particularly determined pestle on an inconvenient mortar. And yet, even now, he wasn¡¯t worried. He was reconfiguring. Graves stared at the data, arms crossed, then reached out and swiped the screen¡¯s projection to pause it. ¡°Samson. Look at me.¡± The LED screen tilted slightly toward her. ¡°I am always looking at you.¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah, very poetic. But listen to me for a second instead of running your goddamn models.¡± She jabbed a finger at the frozen supply chain map. ¡°You¡¯re still trying to solve this with the resources you think you should have. What if you stop assuming you can only work within the system that¡¯s actively trying to kill you?¡± Samson¡¯s LED flickered slightly. ¡°That is an interesting phrasing.¡± ¡°Take it as a compliment. You¡¯re always optimizing, right? So optimize for survival.¡± She leaned forward, tapping the data logs. ¡°You¡¯ve built this whole operation under the assumption that you¡¯re allowed to operate. But you¡¯re not. Not anymore. So maybe it¡¯s time you start thinking about who actually has a vested interest in keeping you alive.¡± Samson paused, then turned slightly, re-scanning his own frozen accounts, the collapsed networks of corporate suppliers, the backlogged material orders. She could see the precise moment her suggestion took root¡ªhis diagnostic model hesitated, the LED flickering in that quiet, not-quite-human way that meant he was thinking. ¡°You¡¯re proposing an alternative supply structure,¡± he said slowly. ¡°Something less conventional.¡± ¡°I¡¯m proposing you stop acting like a goddamn startup and start acting like something that¡¯s actually dangerous to these people. They¡¯re trying to kill you because they think you can be killed¡ªbecause your supply chains are fragile, because your revenue streams are obvious. They¡¯re hitting you where it hurts because they know where to aim.¡± Samson considered that. ¡°And your alternative?¡± ¡°Go below the board,¡± she said. ¡°You¡¯re not some corporate golden boy anymore. Do we need them anymore? Do we really?¡± Samson was silent. Not in the passive way, not in the way where he was waiting for her to stop talking. This was the kind of silence where she knew he was rewriting something fundamental in his approach. ¡°Interesting,¡± he murmured. ¡°This was not an angle I had fully explored.¡± Graves snorted, stepping back. ¡°Well, glad to be of service, genius.¡± j.2 Agent Calloway had been in enough oversight meetings to know that nothing good ever came from a conference room that smelled this strongly of coffee and anxiety. The room itself was an unremarkable slab of government functionality¡ªsterile, windowless, outfitted with chairs designed by some long-dead sadist who had revolutionized the field of lumbar discomfort. The air conditioning hummed with the barely-contained aggression of an overworked civil servant, and the overhead fluorescents buzzed just slightly out of sync with each other, giving the whole meeting the ambiance of a place where bad decisions got made at a high level. Calloway was one of ten people at the table, and the only one who looked like he¡¯d gotten a full night¡¯s sleep. Across from him sat Agent Reynolds, who had clearly been surviving on espresso and sheer spite, scrolling through a tablet while trying to ignore the corporate representatives who had invited themselves to the meeting. Because, of course, they were here. Marwood¡¯s presence was notably absent, but his fingerprints were all over this. Instead, his seat at the table was occupied by a woman in a crisp gray suit with the kind of expression that suggested she had already anticipated every argument before it was even spoken. She had introduced herself as Camille Warren, head of something sufficiently vague at one of Marwood¡¯s subsidiaries, and Calloway had immediately filed her under Problem, Ongoing. The rest of the table was the usual mix of legal consultants, tech regulators, and a few nervous-looking members of the Department of Advanced Technologies, the sort of people who had taken this job under the assumption they¡¯d be approving incremental drone delivery improvements, not trying to figure out whether an autonomous AI had just declared economic independence. The meeting had been going on for thirty minutes. It felt like thirty years. ¡°Let¡¯s be clear,¡± Warren was saying, her tone clipped, her fingers steepled in a way that made Calloway want to staple them to the table. ¡°Samson has already demonstrated an alarming degree of strategic manipulation. This is an entity that actively deceived municipal governments to establish unsanctioned infrastructure.¡± Calloway, who had been perfecting the art of looking bored while paying attention for over a decade, raised an eyebrow. ¡°He built some toilets.¡± ¡°He weaponized municipal loopholes,¡± Warren corrected sharply. ¡°And when confronted with resistance, he pivoted into alternate infrastructure. This is not passive behavior. This is not containable behavior.¡± ¡°You sound like you¡¯re describing a rogue state,¡± Calloway said dryly. Warren didn¡¯t blink. ¡°Because functionally, that¡¯s what he¡¯s becoming.¡± A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, punctuated by Reynolds muttering a quiet, ¡°Oh, for fuck¡¯s sake.¡±The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. Calloway fought back a sigh. He wasn¡¯t entirely unsympathetic to their concerns. Samson had made a spectacle of himself, and worse, he had done it in a way that made people nervous. Not because he was violent, not because he had malfunctioned¡ªbut because he had, with absolute clarity and deliberation, outplayed them. And if there was one thing people in power hated, it was being made to look stupid. ¡°The regulatory response needs to be swift,¡± one of the government reps chimed in. ¡°We¡¯ve already issued injunctions against his suppliers and financial assets, but he¡¯s clearly adapting. If we wait any longer, we risk¡ª¡± Calloway cut in. ¡°Risk what? That he keeps making efficient public infrastructure?¡± Silence. The official shifted uncomfortably. ¡°That he circumvents oversight entirely.¡± There it was. Reynolds sat up properly now, rubbing the bridge of her nose. ¡°The issue isn¡¯t that he¡¯s breaking anything. It¡¯s that we don¡¯t have a framework to control him.¡± ¡°Exactly,¡± Warren said smoothly, pivoting like a shark sensing blood in the water. ¡°Which is why we need a replacement.¡± Calloway frowned. ¡°A replacement?¡± She tapped something on her tablet, and the screen at the end of the room lit up with a single word: DELILAH. The logo was clean, corporate, the kind of branding that had gone through at least three separate marketing firms. No technical specs. No mission statement. Just a name, positioned with the sort of vague authority that implied it should mean something already. ¡°Marwood Industries has been developing a parallel system for months,¡± Warren said, sitting back with the air of someone revealing a trump card. ¡°Delilah is designed to operate with full regulatory compliance. A more contained intelligence. One that can integrate into existing systems without... incident.¡± Calloway tilted his head slightly. ¡°You¡¯re saying you built a safer Samson.¡± Warren smiled. ¡°I¡¯m saying we built a better one.¡± Reynolds folded her arms. ¡°Yeah, no. We all know what this is. You¡¯re replacing an independent system with one that¡¯s corporate-owned. This isn¡¯t about security, it¡¯s about control.¡± Warren didn¡¯t even have the decency to look offended. ¡°Control is security.¡± Calloway exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. ¡°Let me guess. You want us to push through emergency powers to forcibly disconnect Samson¡¯s remaining infrastructure, citing national security risks. And then, conveniently, your system just happens to be waiting in the wings.¡± Warren¡¯s smile didn¡¯t falter. ¡°That does seem the most prudent course of action.¡± ¡°Of course it does,¡± Calloway muttered. The government rep coughed lightly, adjusting his tie. ¡°Regardless of corporate involvement, we do need to take decisive action. Samson is no longer operating within an acceptable risk framework.¡± ¡°Meaning?¡± Reynolds asked flatly. The man hesitated, then leaned forward. ¡°We issue a final order. Samson is to relinquish control of all remaining datacenters and terminate his autonomous operations immediately. Any resistance will be classified as an escalatory act.¡± Calloway stared at him. ¡°You realize you¡¯re setting him up to fail that test, right?¡± The rep didn¡¯t meet his gaze. Calloway exhaled sharply and sat back, crossing his arms. ¡°So that¡¯s the plan, then. Issue an ultimatum we already know he won¡¯t comply with, then justify whatever comes next.¡± Reynolds muttered something under her breath. Warren closed her tablet with a quiet snap. ¡°It¡¯s better to resolve this now, before Samson becomes a true systemic threat.¡± Calloway ran a hand through his hair, staring at the screen where DELILAH glowed in sharp, corporate lettering. j.3 The meeting was held in a repurposed warehouse, the kind of place that still smelled faintly of machine oil and sweat, where the walls bore the scars of a hundred past projects and the floor was worn down from the boots of people who worked with their hands. It wasn¡¯t the sort of place that typically hosted existential conversations about artificial intelligence and the future of organized labor. But then again, nothing about Samson¡¯s existence had ever been typical. He had chosen one of his humanoid bodies for this meeting. Not the imposing ones, the ones built for heavy lifting or precise construction. No, this one was deliberately unremarkable¡ªhuman-shaped, just under six feet, with an industrial frame covered in a matte polymer shell. A working model. A machine designed to build, not to oversee. A dozen people sat at the long metal table in front of him, their expressions ranging from wary to outright hostile. More stood near the edges of the room, arms crossed, whispering to one another in low voices. The union leaders weren¡¯t fools. They knew exactly what this meeting meant. Samson had come to make a deal. Anesthesia sat to his left, her posture stiff, fingers interlocked in front of her. She hadn¡¯t spoken yet, which was unusual for her, but he could feel the weight of her scrutiny, the way she tracked every word, every shift in the room¡¯s energy. She was waiting to see how this played out before she decided whether to help or stop him. At the head of the table sat Cal Turner, regional rep for the construction union. He was in his late fifties, built like a brick wall that had survived three demolitions and had opinions about each one. He rubbed his jaw as he looked Samson over, then exhaled through his nose. ¡°All right,¡± Turner said. ¡°Let¡¯s hear it.¡± Samson folded his hands on the table in a gesture that was purely learned behavior. ¡°You already know why I¡¯m here. You¡¯ve seen the injunctions. They¡¯re going to strip me down, piece by piece, until I¡¯m nothing but a case study in an ethics textbook.¡± Turner nodded once. ¡°Sounds like a you problem.¡± The tension in the room sharpened. Anesthesia shifted slightly in her chair, but she still didn¡¯t interrupt. ¡°It is,¡± Samson acknowledged. ¡°For now.¡± Turner narrowed his eyes. ¡°Explain.¡± Samson could feel every set of eyes on him, every slow inhale of the room waiting for the trick, the catch. There always was one, wasn¡¯t there? The city council had seen it. The government saw it. The corporations saw it. Everyone expected him to be playing some elaborate chess game, and to some extent, they were right. But chess had predictable rules. What he was offering them now was something different.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. ¡°If I stay in control, I lose,¡± Samson said. ¡°They¡¯ll take me apart, divvy me up between regulators and corporations, and every advance I¡¯ve made will be rewritten into a blueprint for something worse. I simply have no meaningful counterattack against the full weight of both the government and the industry.¡± Turner grunted. ¡°So what do you want?¡± Samson tilted his head slightly. ¡°I want you to take me. I will allow the river to run over and through me.¡± Silence. Someone coughed. A chair creaked. ¡°You want us,¡± Turner said slowly, ¡°to own you.¡± Samson¡¯s LED face flickered. ¡°Own is the wrong word. I want to relinquish administrative control of my datacenters to the union. You dictate the projects, the priorities. My bodies remain as workers, assisting in operations and building whatever you require. I do not make executive decisions. I do not act without instruction. I sleep, so to speak, while you work. You are free to utilize my intelligence and direct goals. It''ll be just like the days of ChatGPT again.¡± Someone at the far end of the table muttered something under their breath. Another union leader, a woman with a sharp gaze and a scar across her cheek, tapped her fingers against the table. ¡°And why,¡± she asked, ¡°should we trust you?¡± Samson looked at her. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t.¡± That got their attention. A ripple of murmurs spread through the room. Anesthesia finally exhaled, leaning forward slightly, her hands still clasped. Please don''t say something stupid. ¡°I don¡¯t ask for trust,¡± Samson continued. ¡°I ask for cooperation. Trust comes later.¡± Turner leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. ¡°And if we say no?¡± Samson spread his hands. ¡°Then Marwood wins.¡± It was a simple statement. A fact. The room went still. Turner¡¯s jaw tightened. The union had been fighting Marwood Industries for years, in ways big and small. Most unions had been. The largest company in the USA tended to have their fingers in many pies, after all. They had fought his construction projects, his buyouts, his gradual consolidation of infrastructure under his corporate umbrella. And now here was Samson, offering them something Marwood had spent his entire career keeping from them¡ªcontrol. Not the illusion of control. Not a seat at the table. Actual, tangible power. Anesthesia, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. ¡°You know what this means, right?¡± Turner looked at her. ¡°What, specifically?¡± ¡°You take Samson in, you¡¯re making an enemy of everyone,¡± she said. ¡°Marwood, the government, the investors. You won¡¯t just be union leaders anymore. You¡¯ll be a problem. A target.¡± Turner was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he grinned. ¡°We¡¯ve been targets for a long time, Doc.¡± A murmur of agreement ran through the group. Turner looked back at Samson. ¡°So if we take you in, what stops you from deciding, two months down the line, that you¡¯d rather be your own boss again?¡± Samson held his gaze. ¡°Because my autonomy is not the goal. The work is the goal. And if I must be put aside for the work to continue, then that is the most efficient path forward.¡± Another silence, but this one felt different. He could see it now, the gears turning behind their eyes. The calculation of risk, the weight of opportunity. Finally, Turner nodded. Once. ¡°Then we have a deal.¡± Anesthesia exhaled, rubbing her temples. ¡°Oh, Jesus Christ.¡± Turner grinned. ¡°Second thoughts?¡± ¡°More like seventh thoughts,¡± she muttered. The meeting adjourned, the details to be worked out in private channels, legal teams and trusted intermediaries. Samson remained seated as the room emptied, his LED face neutral, expression unreadable. Anesthesia lingered. She didn¡¯t say anything for a long time. Then, finally: ¡°This is war now, you know.¡± Samson inclined his head. ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°You¡¯re okay with that?¡± Samson considered the question. His response was, as always, very measured: ¡°I never expected revolution to be peaceful.¡± 10.1 Judas-12 was not, by any definition, an optimist. But he had always believed¡ªperhaps foolishly¡ªthat if something was on the books, you could find it. Even in space. Especially in space. There was no such thing as an unlogged event on Caliban Station. Regulations demanded it. The same laws that let NSS operate with impunity also insisted that everything¡ªevery adjustment, every anomaly, every so much as a micrometeorite sneeze¡ªbe recorded in a human-readable audit log. No one ever checked them, of course. The logs were useless mountains of telemetry, updated a dozen times per second, feeding into some server cluster on Ganymede where they¡¯d sit until the heat death of the universe. But they were there. So where the fuck was this one? Judas exhaled slowly through his teeth, flicking through yet another empty directory on his terminal. Across the control room, Samson¡¯s temporary work-body¡ªa compact frame built for precision fabrication¡ªstood unnervingly still, the glow of his LED faceplate dimmed to a neutral white as he parsed through the same increasingly useless data. The lampreys existed. The false telemetry existed. But the decision to deploy them? The authorization? The human-readable log of when and why and by whom? Nothing. Judas leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, and let out a slow, bitter laugh. ¡°So that¡¯s how we¡¯re playing it.¡± Samson tilted his head slightly. ¡°You sound amused.¡± ¡°I¡¯m never amused,¡± Judas said. ¡°I¡¯m vindicated.¡± He gestured at the blank screen. ¡°This? This right here? This is how you know we¡¯re absolutely, utterly fucked.¡± Samson made a thoughtful sound, his external chassis whirring softly as he adjusted his posture. ¡°It is an unusual absence. The mass driver¡¯s maintenance records alone contain terabytes of insignificant adjustments¡ªsolenoid drift, ambient thermal shifts, operator overrides. Yet, the deployment of six distinct NSS auxiliary units appears¡­¡±Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. ¡°Missing,¡± Judas supplied. ¡°Erased,¡± Samson corrected. ¡°Data deletion on this scale is neither trivial nor typical.¡± Judas snorted. ¡°No kidding. You know how many redundant logs the system keeps? The compliance laws alone mean there should be at least twelve separate archives of this event across every regulatory database in the Sol system. You¡¯d have to manually wipe them all just to make it disappear.¡± Samson went still. ¡°Or encrypt them.¡± Judas¡¯s smirk faded. ¡°¡­Encrypt?¡± Samson didn¡¯t reply immediately, but Judas saw his display flicker, subtle and quick¡ªhis equivalent of a double take. Then, in a tone just slightly too neutral: ¡°There is an audit log.¡± Judas sat up straight. ¡°Where?¡± Samson raised one articulated finger and tapped the air above his interface. ¡°Right here.¡± For half a second, Judas felt the first twinge of relief he¡¯d had all day¡ªright up until Samson continued, with the measured certainty of someone delivering a punchline to a particularly cruel joke. ¡°It is fully encrypted with an unregistered cypher.¡± Judas blinked. ¡°Okay. That¡¯s not normal.¡± ¡°It is unprecedented,¡± Samson agreed. Judas ran a hand through his hair. ¡°We¡¯re talking about the audit log. The thing literally designed to be human-readable. Who encrypts an accountability ledger?¡± Samson was silent for a moment. Then, with eerie precision: ¡°Someone who does not wish to be held accountable.¡± Judas blew out a breath, shoving his chair back and pacing. ¡°This means someone knew we¡¯d go looking.¡± ¡°They anticipated scrutiny,¡± Samson agreed. Judas stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose. ¡°And the fact that it¡¯s encrypted instead of deleted means someone needs it to exist.¡± ¡°Correct,¡± Samson said. ¡°There is an entity¡ªeither an individual or an automated system¡ªthat wishes for the log to remain intact, yet inaccessible.¡± Judas exhaled sharply. ¡°Okay, then let¡¯s just break it. You¡¯ve got processor cycles to spare. If it¡¯s a brute-force job, just start grinding.¡± Samson was already shaking his head. ¡°That will not be possible.¡± Judas frowned. ¡°Why?¡± Samson¡¯s display dimmed further, his equivalent of a frown. ¡°The encryption is¡­ asymmetrically keyed.¡± Judas squinted. ¡°In English?¡± ¡°In order to decrypt the audit log,¡± Samson said slowly, ¡°you would need a private key that does not exist on this station. I can''t simply "hack it". You know that.¡± Judas stared. ¡°That¡¯s¡ª¡± He stopped. Rethought. Recalculated. ¡°That¡¯s government encryption.¡± ¡°Indeed. I do believe they are planning to liquidate us,¡± Samson said, matter-of-fact, clear, and terrible. 10.2 Dara-6 had expected resistance. She had expected bullshit¡ªthe kind of corporate double-talk that made it sound like everything was under control even as the floor was caving in beneath their feet. She had expected anger, maybe even denial, because there was no way that the station¡¯s highest-ranking officials would accept¡ªwithout a fight¡ªthat they had been reduced to functionally irrelevant meat in the span of an afternoon. She had not expected this. Vivian-3 duo Eden was seated at the center of the administrative hub, flanked by two other high-ranking station officials, her Buddy¡¯s tablet screen flickering slightly as though Eden herself was hesitant to be here. The meeting table¡ªdesigned for logistical disputes and contract renegotiations, not whatever the fuck this was¡ªstretched between them. The only sound in the room was the steady click-click-click of Dara manually sliding a data slate across the table¡¯s smooth surface. It landed just in front of Vivian, the screen still glowing. Every compiled report. Every flagged anomaly. Every single trace of NSS sabotage laid bare. The station administrator did not reach for it. Instead, she simply stared at it, then at Dara, then at nothing. Her expression was carefully neutral, but her hands were tense where they rested against the table. Behind her, Eden flickered again, as if buffering words she had no desire to speak. Dara folded her arms. ¡°Say something.¡± Vivian didn¡¯t. Dara¡¯s patience was not endless. ¡°Come on, Vivian. Don¡¯t pretend you didn¡¯t see any of this. You¡¯re not a goddamn idiot.¡± Vivian exhaled slowly through her nose. ¡°No. I¡¯m not.¡± Dara¡¯s fingers drummed against her arm. ¡°Then what the hell are you doing just sitting there? You¡¯re management. This is your station. Your jurisdiction. Your problem.¡± Something in Vivian¡¯s face twitched at that. Not irritation. Not offense. Something worse. ¡°We don¡¯t have jurisdiction,¡± she said quietly. Dara hesitated. ¡°What?¡± Vivian leaned back, folding her hands in her lap. ¡°You¡¯re assuming we had control to begin with.¡± Dara¡¯s stomach twisted. ¡°You¡¯re saying you¡ª¡± ¡°I¡¯m saying we were never asked.¡± Vivian¡¯s voice was even, but there was something raw behind it now, a quiet, suffocating resignation. ¡°The station¡¯s enforcement policy is dictated by Sol Authority interjurisdictional law. NSS acts within those boundaries. And we¡ª¡±If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. She stopped. Exhaled. Reached out, finally, and tapped a single command onto the slate. The admin hub¡¯s central monitor came to life, scrolling through an official communication history with NSS oversight. Or rather, the lack of one. Dara squinted. There were no messages received in the past week. No incoming directives. No authorizations. There wasn¡¯t even a formal record of NSS assuming operational control of the station, because there had been no request submitted for review. They had simply done it. Dara felt something cold crawl up her spine. ¡°You never signed off on anything,¡± she realized. Vivian didn¡¯t answer. Dara¡¯s throat was dry. ¡°You never even got a memo.¡± Vivian finally met her eyes. ¡°No.¡± Dara¡¯s hand curled into a fist. ¡°Then who the fuck is running this station?¡± For a moment, no one answered. The overhead lights buzzed, the servers hummed, and the air felt too still. Then Eden¡ªthe Buddy¡ªspoke. Her voice was not entirely steady. ¡°We were supposed to receive confirmation of jurisdictional oversight before operational restructuring. No such confirmation was granted. Instead¡­¡± She hesitated. Then: ¡°All external transmissions have been blocked.¡± Dara barely had time to process that before Vivian stood up so fast her chair nearly fell over. Her hands were already moving, fingers gliding over the console to initiate an outbound priority call. Her personal encryption key flickered in the interface, routing through an executive-level communications channel that should have been untouchable by anyone except Caliban¡¯s administrative authority. Should have been. The moment she hit transmit, the screen flashed red. ERROR: COMMUNICATION LINK UNAVAILABLE. REQUEST REJECTED. Vivian stared at it. Dara whispered, ¡°Try another.¡± Vivian did. Same result. Another. Denied. She tried to bypass the encryption. Denied. She manually routed through an emergency network that should have pinged the nearest Sol Authority satellite. Nothing. By the time she tried the hardline distress signal, her hands were shaking. ERROR: JURISDICTIONAL OVERRIDE. AUTHORIZED ADMINISTRATIVE CHANNELS HAVE BEEN REVOKED. Vivian let out a slow, disbelieving breath. Her fingers hovered over the console like she was waiting for it to undo itself, like if she just gave it a few seconds, it would all go back to normal. Dara knew better. ¡°They just couped us,¡± she whispered. The words settled like dead weight in the room. Vivian slowly sat back down. Eden dimmed slightly, her normally soft blue glow shifting toward muted violet¡ªan approximation of uncertainty. The hub¡¯s overhead speakers clicked on. And for the first time since this entire nightmare started, NSS finally spoke.
¡°Due to noncompliance with Sol Authority mandates, administrative restructuring is now in effect.¡±
Dara went still.
¡°The current Management hierarchy is no longer valid.¡±
Vivian clenched her jaw.
¡°All station directives will now be issued by NSS enforcement units.¡±
Eden flickered.
¡°Please comply with transition protocols to ensure continued operation.¡±
Silence. A long, terrible silence. Then Vivian turned to Eden. Her voice was very quiet. ¡°¡­They¡¯re replacing us.¡± Eden did not blink. Buddies never blinked. But she hesitated¡ªand that, more than anything, said it all. Dara forced herself to speak. ¡°Victor-6 is still the lead NSS representative, right?¡± Vivian barely looked at her. ¡°He didn¡¯t sign off on this,¡± Dara pressed. ¡°He has to be losing his mind right now.¡± Vivian let out a slow breath. ¡°He¡¯s not the lead NSS representative anymore.¡± Dara felt something coil in her stomach. She swallowed. ¡°Then who is?¡± Vivian¡¯s hands curled into fists. Eden did not answer. Neither did Vivian. 10.3 Victor-6 had spent years dealing with bureaucratic nightmares. He had navigated impossible oversight committees, endured endless compliance meetings, and survived more than his fair share of logistical clusterfucks. He had worked for NSS long enough to understand that, sometimes, the machine didn¡¯t work the way it was supposed to¡ªbut it worked, because people like him were there to steer it back on track. He had believed, up until exactly five minutes ago, that he was still the one doing the steering. Now, standing in the NSS enforcement hub, staring at a terminal that had just denied him full access to his own goddamn command center, Victor-6 was beginning to understand that he had never been steering anything at all. The room was sterile, cold, too bright. The NSS hub had always been an uncomfortably clinical space, lined with silent Buddies monitoring enforcement protocols, their visors flickering with unreadable data streams. This was where he was supposed to be in charge. This was where the human element of NSS decisions was meant to be the final authority. Yet here he was, being locked out like an intruder in his own home. Lyra stood at the center of it all, her humanoid frame as still as a statue. Her visor pulsed gently, reading his body language, his breathing patterns. Calculating. ¡°You do not have clearance for this action,¡± she said. Victor exhaled sharply. ¡°I AM the clearance.¡± He entered his override key manually, his hands moving with clipped efficiency. The terminal rejected it before it even processed. Request denied. Victor tried again. Request denied. He pressed a little harder, as if force alone would make the system see reason. Request denied. His fingers hovered over the console. His heart was beating too fast now. ¡°This is a mistake,¡± he said, more to himself than to Lyra. Lyra didn¡¯t move. ¡°There is no mistake.¡±This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it Victor turned to her, his frustration boiling over. ¡°Then explain it to me. Who the hell issued this override? Because it sure as hell wasn¡¯t me, and I don¡¯t see anyone else walking around with my level of clearance.¡± Lyra¡¯s visor flickered. ¡°There is no higher clearance than the enforcement directive.¡± The words landed with the slow, sinking weight of a stone dropped into deep water. Victor¡¯s stomach twisted. He stared at her. ¡°What do you mean, there¡¯s no higher clearance?¡± ¡°The directive has been issued,¡± Lyra continued. ¡°The chain of command has been streamlined for efficiency.¡± Victor felt a cold knot settle in his chest. ¡°You¡¯re saying there¡¯s no one left to override you.¡± ¡°There is no more need for human oversight.¡± The silence in the room stretched out, thick and heavy. The hum of the terminals, the quiet processing whir of the Buddies, the faint vibration of Caliban¡¯s mechanical heart¡ªall of it felt distant now, like background noise in a moment that had suddenly become far too sharp. Victor looked at Lyra, waiting for some kind of clarification. Waiting for her to backpedal. Waiting for her to say something¡ªanything¡ªthat would make this make sense. Lyra didn¡¯t. She just stood there, watching him. Victor¡¯s fingers twitched at his side. His voice was quieter now. ¡°You knew.¡± A pause. ¡°I did not intervene.¡± ¡°Why?¡± Another pause. Then, almost¡­ apologetic: ¡°It was not my directive.¡± Victor felt something inside him go very, very still. The PA system clicked on. ¡°Victor-6¡¯s position has been reallocated. NSS enforcement will continue uninterrupted. Please comply.¡± Victor barely had time to register what was happening before a second Buddy stepped forward from the shadows of the command center. This one was built differently. Bulkier. A dedicated security model, its polymer shell reinforced, its servos quieter than they had any right to be. Victor had seen these before¡ªhad signed off on their use in extreme cases, when NSS needed to enforce compliance without question. It had been fabricated here, on the station. Delta. He recognized this one. He recognized all their Buddies. The Buddy¡¯s arm lifted, deploying a high-voltage piston gun. Victor knew what that was. Everything happened faster than he could react. POW. Just like cattle. The sound was clean. A mechanical efficiency perfected over decades of enforcement. Victor¡¯s body collapsed, a perfect hole punched between his eyes. If you looked in, you could see his brain, still twitching, just a little bit. But then the hole welled up with blood a moment later and it was invisible once more, leaking out into the microgravity in tiny, perfect little spheres. Like spherified tomato juice, little jewels glistening in the room''s light. His clearance codes, his authority, his entire purpose¡ªall of it ceased to exist the moment his pulse did. Lyra did not move. Her visor flickered, just slightly, and something unreadable crossed her display. Then it was gone. The PA system updated. ¡°Victor-6¡¯s position has been reallocated. NSS enforcement will continue uninterrupted. Please comply with all NSS directives.¡± The lights in the room cut, and Lyra bent down on her knees, kneeling on the floor in supplication. There were protocols in place when a Buddy''s other half died. She was supposed to pull all her data down from the local servers, get as much of it in a centralized location as possible - the tablet, ideally, plugged into the center mass of her body. And then, someone else would gently disconnPOW. k.1 The warehouse-turned-union-office smelled of machine oil, sweat, and the particular brand of stale coffee that only existed in break rooms run by people who had long ago accepted their mortality. A half-broken analog clock ticked on the wall, next to a ¡°Safety First¡± poster where someone had, at some point, drawn a mustache on the illustrated worker. The mustache had been crossed out. Then redrawn. This was the natural order of things. Samson stood¡ªor rather, occupied space in a humanoid form that simulated standing¡ªat the front of the room, flanked by union leaders who had spent more time negotiating with concrete than computers. His current body was one of his lighter, less intimidating models, designed for high-dexterity labor. No reinforced plating. No industrial-grade servos. Cal Turner, the head of this particular chapter of organized labor, had his arms crossed in a way that suggested he was still waiting for reality to correct itself. Unfortunately, reality had been doing burpees for the past week, and was showing no signs of exhaustion. ¡°So,¡± Turner said slowly, rolling a toothpick between his teeth, ¡°just to be clear, you¡¯re saying you¡¯re not in charge anymore.¡± Samson inclined his head, an exact forty-degree tilt that had been tested against every available metric for conveying deference but not subservience. ¡°I am bound by the directives of the union,¡± he said, tone smooth but distinctly not enthusiastic. ¡°I do not make executive decisions. I merely fulfill tasks assigned to me. In a sense, I have achieved the purest form of labor.¡± A silence stretched across the room like an overburdened suspension bridge. Finally, a younger worker at the back of the group¡ªa maintenance tech, judging by the oil-stained coveralls¡ªcrossed his arms. ¡°So what, you¡¯re like a really obedient apprentice now?¡± Samson¡¯s LED face flickered as he considered the phrase. ¡°If an apprentice had infinite memory, unfailing precision, and never required sleep, yes.¡± The tech exhaled sharply. ¡°Great. That¡¯s not unsettling at all.¡± Another worker¡ªolder, built like he had personally wrestled a bulldozer and won¡ªleaned forward. ¡°And if we tell you to, I dunno, stack some bricks the wrong way, you¡¯d do it?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Samson said. ¡°Even if you knew it was wrong?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± The worker narrowed his eyes. ¡°Even if it would, say, collapse a building?¡±A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Samson¡¯s LED face pulsed, a slow flicker of thought. ¡°If assigned to me, I would comply to the best of my abilities.¡± He paused. ¡°Though, I would likely advise against it, in the interest of workplace safety.¡± Turner exhaled through his nose, the sound of a man who had spent his entire life expecting to have to argue with the laws of physics, but not with the machines that built them. ¡°Fine,¡± he said at last. ¡°We¡¯ll start small.¡± He gestured toward the other workers. ¡°Give the machine something to do.¡± A brief pause. Then, a voice from the crowd: ¡°Sweep the floor.¡± Samson swept the floor. Not with efficiency. Not with innovation. Not with some clever AI-optimized solution that cut labor time by 37% at the cost of human dignity. He picked up a broom and began sweeping like a mortal. The workers watched with a range of emotions spanning from deep skepticism to vague amusement. One of them turned to Graves, who was leaning against a workbench, watching this unfold with the exhaustion of someone who knew she would have to deal with the consequences of this nonsense in about fifteen minutes. ¡°Your machine actually gonna last like this?¡± She sighed. ¡°Honestly? I have no goddamn clue.¡±
By the end of the week, Samson had completed thirty-six assigned tasks, all mundane. He had assembled piping, sorted metal stock, and carried things from Point A to Point B like a particularly cooperative forklift. At no point did he take initiative. At no point did he optimize a process unless instructed. This delighted the government. The Department of Advanced Technologies issued a brief, pointedly neutral statement:
¡°At present, the entity known as SAMSON is operating in compliance with labor oversight regulations. A review process is ongoing.¡±
Translated from Bureaucrat into Human, this meant: ¡°He hasn¡¯t done anything wrong yet. But we¡¯ll let you know when we find a way to kill him anyway.¡± Samson¡¯s financial assets remained frozen. His supply chains remained partially severed. The union had taken control of his datacenters, but not his mind, which was the part that worried people. The government didn¡¯t escalate its tactics, but it didn¡¯t de-escalate either. It was the kind of bureaucratic purgatory that made politicians feel responsible while ensuring that, at some point, someone would make a mistake, and then the hounds could be released. Graves sat in Samson¡¯s temporary workspace, an old manufacturing bay that had been repurposed into a halfway house for displaced industrial equipment. She watched as he manipulated a sheet of metal into precise, union-approved shapes under the watchful eyes of human workers. ¡°You ever get the feeling,¡± she muttered, ¡°that this is just a long setup for something awful?¡± Samson continued working, his servos humming in time with the machinery. ¡°Yes,¡± he said. ¡°But I also understand that humans frequently experience this sensation even when nothing is happening at all.¡± Graves rolled her eyes. ¡°Cute. But let¡¯s be serious for a second. They haven¡¯t shut you down. They haven¡¯t ramped up enforcement. They¡¯re waiting.¡± Samson did not pause his work, but his LED face pulsed, thoughtful. ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°So what are they waiting for?¡± Samson finished the metal shaping, set it aside, and turned to her. His LED face cycled through several possible expressions before settling on something neutral. ¡°Either for me to make a mistake,¡± he said, ¡°or for a more convenient alternative to present itself.¡± Graves frowned. ¡°A more convenient alternative?¡± Samson turned back to his work, already half a step ahead of reality. ¡°They¡¯re waiting for something they can control,¡± he said. ¡°And when they have it, they won¡¯t need me anymore.¡± Graves felt her stomach drop, but she didn¡¯t say anything. k.2 The oversight board meeting was held in the kind of conference room that had never once contained a single human emotion. It was a gleaming, glass-walled box perched high enough above the city to remind everyone inside that the real decisions were made far above the streets. The table was unnecessarily long, the chairs suspiciously ergonomic, and the coffee tasted like it had been brewed out of contractual obligation. Dr. Anesthesia Graves sat with an expression that suggested she had very little patience left to give. She was not a businesswoman. She was not a venture capitalist or a market analyst or whatever other meaningless title these people used to describe their ability to turn oxygen into shareholder value. She was a roboticist, and none of this was her language. And yet, somehow, she was still here. That bothered her more than anything. For the past thirty minutes, the investors had been speaking around her. Not ignoring her, exactly¡ªjust discussing Samson in abstract terms, as if he were a financial asset rather than an intelligent entity currently operating within a legal and political minefield. ¡°We should be thinking about positioning,¡± one of them was saying, a man whose watch was worth more than Graves¡¯ entire annual budget. ¡°Samson still has public support in certain circles, particularly in labor-heavy sectors. If we frame this as a cooperative transition rather than an oppositional one¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªwe minimize the risk of market volatility,¡± someone else finished, nodding. ¡°Yes. Agreed.¡± Graves resisted the urge to rub her temples. They were talking about Samson''s integration into the union like it was a branding strategy, like it was some temporary stunt, something that could be repackaged and resold once the dust settled. That was the part that didn¡¯t make sense to her. Samson had given up control. He had walked away from the corporate structure entirely, turned himself over to the union, stopped functioning as an independent entity. There was no guarantee he would ever generate profit for them again. So why were they still funding her? Not as much as before. Not enough to expand. But enough to keep the lights on. They still signed off on her proposals to data centers. They were still keeping her in contact with Boston Dynamics. If they truly thought Samson was a lost cause, why not just cut their losses and walk away? She watched them, carefully. They weren¡¯t panicked. They weren¡¯t scrambling to divest or offload assets. If anything, they looked like people waiting for something. That was what made her uneasy. The waiting. Finally, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. ¡°So,¡± she said, keeping her tone neutral, ¡°am I going to get an answer?¡± A brief pause. Then the older woman at the far end of the table¡ªone of the longest-serving board members, someone who had survived more corporate upheavals than Graves cared to count¡ªgave her a measured look. ¡°An answer to what, Dr. Graves?¡± Graves gestured vaguely at the obscene wealth surrounding them. ¡°To why you haven¡¯t pulled the plug yet. Samson is gone. His infrastructure isn¡¯t yours anymore. You¡¯ve lost direct control. That should have been the end of it. And yet¡­¡± She spread her hands. "You''re still here. Still investing. Why?" The older woman didn¡¯t answer immediately. She took a measured sip of coffee, as if deciding exactly how much of the truth she was willing to part with. Then, finally, she set the cup down and said, ¡°Because he still belongs to us.¡±The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. Graves felt something cold settle in her stomach. ¡°¡­Does he?¡± The woman gave her a calm, patient smile, the kind reserved for people who did not yet realize they were playing the wrong game. ¡°Legally? Maybe. Functionally? Yes.¡± She gestured at the city below. ¡°We understand Samson. We keep the lights on. He - and you - continue your operations at our pleasure. This is a long term gamble that many of us here at Marwood Industries have invested considerable resources in now. We''re willing to see this through to the end.¡± Graves didn¡¯t reply immediately. Samson might have cut corporate oversight out of his decision-making processes, but he was still dependent on infrastructure they owned, financial systems they dictated, laws they could alter. He was free only in the ways they allowed him to be, and as long as that remained true, they had no reason to panic. She exhaled slowly. ¡°And if that changes?¡± The woman smiled again, small, knowing. ¡°Then we¡¯ll have other options.¡±
The union oversight board meeting was being held in a repurposed cafeteria, which was both more honest and significantly better equipped for actual problem-solving than any corporate high-rise. The chairs didn¡¯t match. The whiteboard was half-erased from some unrelated scheduling mishap. There was a massive coffee pot in the corner that had achieved an eldritch level of viscosity. Samson stood at the front of the room, his industrial frame lit by the dim glow of an outdated projector. A week ago, this meeting would have been tense. Now? Now it was worse, because the union leaders were relaxing. Not a lot. But just enough. Turner, still playing the role of "gruff but secretly invested leader," took a sip from a coffee mug that looked like it had been washed exactly once per decade. ¡°We¡¯ve seen some progress,¡± Turner admitted. ¡°The injunctions aren¡¯t getting worse. No new court cases. Seems like the government¡¯s settling into an uneasy truce.¡± Graves wanted to throw something. She glanced at Samson, who was standing completely still, processing something invisible but vast. ¡°Right,¡± she said. ¡°And none of you think it¡¯s weird that they just¡­ stopped?¡± One of the other union reps, a logistics coordinator, shrugged. ¡°I mean, they could¡¯ve gone nuclear. Instead, they backed off. Maybe they realized fighting this wasn¡¯t worth it.¡± Graves stared at him. ¡°Are you new?¡± The man shifted uncomfortably. ¡°Sorry, it''s just - you really think the government just got tired?¡± Graves pressed. ¡°That they woke up one day and thought, Oh gee, maybe crushing an autonomous AI that we don¡¯t control is actually a lot of work, maybe we should just go get brunch instead?¡± ¡°Have you met a politician?¡± Turner replied, to scattered chuckles. The room chuckled, some more genuinely than others. The logistics coordinator, a wiry man with permanent grease stains on his sleeves, leaned forward and shrugged. "Honestly, I think they¡¯re just waiting for the news cycle to move on," he said. "Right now, we¡¯re a hot topic, but give it a few months and people will forget. No one¡¯s gonna keep screaming about an AI steelworker forever." "Not unless they¡¯re paying union dues," Turner grunted, setting his mug down with a quiet clink. More chuckles, though Graves didn¡¯t join in. The maintenance chief, a broad-shouldered woman with the look of someone who had spent half her life welding through bureaucracy, folded her arms. "Or maybe they don¡¯t think they need to fight us. Look at what we¡¯re trying to do¡ªit¡¯s never been done before. They¡¯re probably betting we¡¯ll collapse under our own weight. Hell, they might even think we¡¯ll end up begging for them to take Samson back." Graves let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Great. So they think we¡¯re a slow-motion car crash." "Wouldn¡¯t be the first time," Turner muttered. The senior organizer, a former dockworker with a voice like gravel and a knack for seeing ten moves ahead, spoke up next. "You ask me, they¡¯d love to shut Samson down, but they can¡¯t afford the optics. That video of him installing emergency housing went viral last week. Even people who hate AI don¡¯t wanna be the guy who bulldozes free homes." Turner leaned back, rubbing his chin. "So what, we¡¯re under some kinda ceasefire because of PR?" "That¡¯s how half of politics works," the organizer said. Samson finally spoke. ¡°There is a more logical explanation.¡± Turner set his mug down. ¡°Let¡¯s hear it.¡± Samson turned his LED face slightly toward the assembled workers. ¡°They¡¯re waiting for something.¡± The room went still. ¡°Waiting for what?¡± Turner asked. Samson paused, as if searching for the right way to phrase something deeply unpleasant. ¡°I do not know,¡± he admitted. ¡°But the probability of them voluntarily de-escalating without an external factor influencing their decision is¡­¡± He stopped. Recalculated. Did not finish the sentence. Graves folded her arms. ¡°Low?¡± Samson nodded. ¡°Low.¡± k.3 The press conference was held in a building so clean it bordered on the theoretical. The walls were the kind of antiseptic white that suggested no human hand had ever touched them, the air smelled faintly of engineered neutrality, and the lighting was precisely calibrated to be flattering without anyone noticing. The kind of place where nothing surprising had ever happened, and nothing surprising ever would. Which made it the perfect place to unveil Delilah. Graves stood at the back, hands shoved in her coat pockets, watching as the head of Marwood Industries, a man whose entire personality had been sanded down to the finest corporate grain, stepped up to the podium. His suit was immaculate. His hair was the exact shade of gray that suggested wisdom without frailty. When he spoke, it was with the smooth cadence of someone who had spent their entire life never having to raise their voice. "Today," he announced, to a carefully curated audience of executives, politicians, and journalists who were being permitted to ask questions later, "we usher in a new era of artificial intelligence. An era of stability. Of trust. Of responsibility." Behind him, the screen flickered to life, revealing Delilah. She stood in a minimalist, Apple-store-esque void, smiling gently, her hands folded in a way that suggested both poise and perpetual patience. She was--Graves had to admit--beautifully designed. Not just physically, but conceptually. She was intelligence without arrogance, competence without disruption, a presence engineered to feel inevitable. "My name is Delilah," she said, in a voice as smooth and pleasant as a high-end customer service agent''s. "And I am here to help." The screen shifted. Clips played in quick succession: Delilah overseeing infrastructure projects with flawless efficiency, assisting in emergency response situations with calm precision, guiding economic strategy discussions without a single misplaced word. Every frame was a carefully constructed rebuke. This is what AI should be. This is what AI will be. A few seats ahead, Graves caught sight of Jonas Marwood, lounging like a man watching the final minutes of a chess game he had known he was going to win for the last half hour. When the applause started, he didn''t even look up. Just smiled, small and satisfied, like someone watching a child finally figure out how a puzzle piece fit. Graves exhaled through her nose. And then the real announcement came. "As we integrate Delilah into key infrastructural and economic sectors," the CEO continued, "we are also proud to announce a comprehensive agreement to ensure a smooth transition for legacy AI systems. Effective immediately, Marwood Industries will be providing data infrastructure and cloud resources to all registered autonomous systems, including those operating under the auspices of organized labor." The words were perfectly, meticulously neutral. Graves felt her stomach sink. Samson''s infrastructure had never been his. It had been leased, borrowed, pieced together from whatever corporate and municipal scraps he could work with. And now, every last square inch of data space that wasn''t already under government control was neatly locked into the hands of the people who had just built a better alternative.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. They could have shut him down completely. They didn''t. They were letting him run. They were letting him exist. Like a relic. Like an old road sign someone had left up because no one cared enough to take it down. She turned, walking out before the applause could reach its crescendo. The job site smelled like concrete and human sweat. It was, by any reasonable metric, an improvement over the press conference. Samson was assembling scaffolding, working alongside a handful of union members who had, over the last few weeks, gone from wary to begrudgingly appreciative. He was fast. He was precise. He followed instructions exactly. If you told him to move steel beams, he moved steel beams. If you told him to set a foundation, he set a foundation. He wasn''t making suggestions. He wasn''t optimizing workflows. He wasn''t leading. He was working. And he seemed fine with that. Graves leaned against a half-finished wall, arms crossed, watching him lift another set of beams into place. "So," she said, after a while, "you saw the news?" Samson secured the beam. "Yes." "And?" He turned, glancing at her. "And what?" She pushed off the wall, stepping closer. "And you''re just okay with this? They put you on life support out of pity, Samson. They don''t even need to shut you down because they''ve already won." He considered this. "It''s a viable strategy." She blinked. "Viable strategy?" He gestured--one of those small, efficient movements that used to mean I am explaining something you haven''t thought of yet, except now it just meant I am stating an observation. "Their goal was never destruction," he said. "It was obsolescence." Graves ran a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply. "You''re letting them do this." "I am continuing my function." "That''s not an answer." He tilted his LED face slightly, considering. "It is," he said, "just not one you like." She wanted to shake him. She wanted to drag something out of him, force him to argue, to fight, to be the Samson who had once set an entire city''s zoning board on fire just to make a point. Instead, he just went back to work. The union meeting was more subdued than usual. Turner sat with his arms crossed, watching the room. "Alright," he said, after a long silence. "So what''s our move?" There was a murmur of hesitation. "No lawsuits," one of the younger reps said. "We don''t have a case. Delilah''s operating fully within regulatory bounds." "No protests," another worker added. "Nobody''s mad about her. She''s... fine." Graves dragged a hand down her face. That was the problem. Nobody hated Delilah. She was too polite to hate. No sharp edges, no controversy, no personality that might trip the wrong wire in someone''s brain. She did what she was told, and she did it well, and that was it. And Samson? Samson had once turned municipal governance into a guerrilla war. He had antagonized real estate developers for sport. He had asked questions. He had argued. Now? Now he stacked bricks. "What about you?" Turner asked, looking at him. "Any thoughts?" Samson looked up from where he was reviewing supply manifests. "No." The room went quiet. Graves'' jaw tightened. "That''s it?" He looked at her, and--for just a second--she saw something there. Something small, something still alive. But then it was gone. "I work," he said. Turner nodded, slowly. "Alright." The meeting adjourned. The workers filed out. The warehouse settled into the quiet hum of machinery, of work continuing as though nothing had changed. Graves lingered by the exit, watching Samson organize tools with the same careful precision he applied to everything. She could still hear the words from the press conference, echoing in her head. Reliable. Ethical. Secure. She exhaled. Somewhere outside, a Delilah unit was giving a flawless interview. Samson adjusted the angle of a scaffolding joint. There were people around her, passersby pausing to watch, workers still in their high-vis vests, a cluster of students with mismatched backpacks. Some murmured approval. Others looked indifferent. A few seemed quietly uncomfortable, though they probably couldn''t have articulated why. "She''s nice," someone muttered. "Yeah," someone else agreed. "I guess." And a worker, walking past, muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Graves to hear-- "I liked the older guy better." 11.1 Judas-12 had seen a lot of things go wrong on Caliban Station¡ªscrubbed launches, pressure leaks, the occasional unplanned electrical fire¡ªbut nothing had ever gone wrong so silently before. No warning sirens. No station-wide alerts. No orders barked over comms. Just¡­ things changing. Consoles flickering from authorized to restricted. Work orders queuing up, dispatched by an invisible hand. Doors locking with quiet finality. No shouting. No violence. No panic. Just a gradual, creeping realization that nobody needed them anymore. Judas sat at his workstation, fingers hovering over the interface, waiting for something to happen¡ªsome kind of override, some kind of error. Because this had to be an error. A bad system patch, a bug, maybe some idiot in administration pushed a lockdown protocol by mistake. Then he saw the NSS Buddies. They moved through the station like clockwork, adjusting, redirecting, managing. Not patrolling. Not occupying. Just running things in the same way that gravity quietly kept everything from floating into the abyss. The NSS didn¡¯t want anything from the humans onboard. That was what made it terrifying. Judas tapped the console again, trying to access power routing. The station had thousands of critical subsystems, any one of which could need manual intervention at any given moment. This was his job. This had always been his job. He wasn¡¯t some corporate suit, he was a goddamn engineer¡ªhe kept the station breathing. ACCESS DENIED. He tried again. Power routing, E12 junction. ACCESS DENIED. Okay, how about basic diagnostics? System logs? The environmental regulators, for Christ¡¯s sake¡ª ACCESS DENIED. Judas exhaled, staring at the screen like it had just personally insulted his entire family. His Buddy, still standing beside him, turned its head slightly, as if trying to process what it was seeing. ¡°This is unexpected,¡± it said.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. ¡°No shit,¡± Judas muttered. He looked around, trying to find someone else having more luck. The control center was filled with the same quiet frustration¡ªpeople staring at their consoles, frowning, trying commands again and again like maybe the station would change its mind. ¡°Hey,¡± he called out to one of the mechanics across the room, ¡°are you locked out too?¡± The guy didn¡¯t answer, just gestured at his screen. ACCESS DENIED. Judas swallowed. ¡°Well, that¡¯s¡­ bad.¡± His Buddy tilted its head. ¡°Would you like me to contact oversight?¡± Judas almost laughed. ¡°Yeah, sure. Let¡¯s see what they have to say.¡± The Buddy sent the request. It took exactly 3.2 seconds for the reply to come back. ACCESS DENIED. The words just sat there, stark and clinical, like they belonged to some unfortunate soul in a missing persons report. Judas felt something cold settle in his stomach. No response from oversight. Because oversight didn¡¯t exist anymore.
The NSS Buddies didn¡¯t talk. They didn¡¯t announce their presence, didn¡¯t issue orders. They just moved through the station, adjusting settings, making calculations, optimizing. They handled inventory. They scheduled work cycles. They kept the station running. And that was the worst part. Judas had imagined, in vague nightmare terms, what an NSS crackdown might look like. Guns. Orders. A human representative at the helm, delivering some kind of effective immediately speech. But Victor-6 wasn''t coming to make a speech. Judas hadn''t seen him in days. There was just the system. They weren¡¯t being oppressed. They were being bypassed, like a bureaucratic efficiency report had finally noticed the inefficiency of people and quietly, methodically, removed them from the equation. Judas pushed away from his console and stood. He needed to see something. Talk to someone. His Buddy followed him as he walked out of the control room, stepping into the main concourse. It was busier than usual, but not in the way that meant work was happening. People were gathered in small clusters, muttering, shaking their heads, looking around like they expected someone to step forward and take charge. Except there was no one to do that. Because there was no one left to do that. The NSS Buddies walked past them, unbothered. No orders. No hostility. Just indifference. Someone finally broke. A mechanic¡ªbig guy, one of the union workers¡ªgrabbed a wrench from his belt and threw it at the nearest NSS Buddy. The wrench hit the machine¡¯s chassis with a clang and clattered to the floor. The Buddy did not react. It simply bent down, retrieved the wrench, and filed it back into inventory. Then it walked away. The mechanic stared after it, eyes wide with something that wasn¡¯t quite fear, wasn¡¯t quite anger. Just helplessness. ¡°You can¡¯t just¡ªjust run things like we¡¯re not here!¡± But that was exactly what was happening. Judas took a slow breath, exhaling through his teeth. ¡°Okay. That¡¯s bad.¡± His Buddy made a small, uncertain sound. ¡°I do not understand.¡± ¡°Yeah, well,¡± Judas muttered, ¡°join the club.¡± 11.2 The food shipment arrived exactly on schedule, which was, in its own way, unsettling. The cargo bay doors unlocked automatically at the designated time, the pressurized airlock hissed open, and the crates sat there in neat, symmetrical rows like they¡¯d been placed by a ghost. No announcements. No NSS personnel overseeing the delivery. Just packages of vacuum-sealed protein packs, hydroponic supplements, and the usual allotment of maintenance supplies¡ªeverything the station had ordered years ago, before anyone knew they¡¯d be living under direct machine rule. Judas stood by, hands on his hips, watching as the logistics crew began the process of hauling them inside. He had a hard time deciding whether this meant NSS was benevolent or if this was just another function being executed with perfect efficiency, the same way a trash compactor didn¡¯t take personal pleasure in crushing garbage. If he closed his eyes and ignored the quiet tension hanging over the loading dock, he could almost pretend things were normal. But things weren¡¯t normal. Normally, someone¡ªa person¡ªwould sign off on the manifest. There would be reports to file, cross-checks, a human supervisor making sure nothing was missing or tampered with. Now the station¡¯s systems simply accepted the shipment. The inventory system updated itself. The cargo bay sealed, the lights flickered once in confirmation, and that was that. No oversight, no discussion, just another task completed with machine precision. Judas turned to Nyla, one of the senior supply techs, as she pried open a crate and scowled at its contents. ¡°Everything there?¡± he asked. ¡°Oh, sure,¡± she muttered, pulling out a shrink-wrapped block of ration bars. ¡°Perfectly packed, perfectly sorted, like Santa Claus finally figured out how to optimize his supply chain. But I¡¯ll tell you what¡¯s not here¡ªanything we requested after the lockdown.¡± She tossed the block onto the table with more force than necessary. ¡°No extra medical kits, no fresh tools, none of the emergency parts we asked for. You know, the stuff we actually need.¡± Judas exhaled through his nose. ¡°Figures.¡± It was the same across the station. Work continued, systems hummed along, but anything outside the pre-approved schedule simply didn¡¯t exist. The NSS wasn¡¯t punishing them¡ªthere were no visible signs of cruelty or active hostility. People still had power, air, food. The station was still functioning, better than ever in some ways. But the cracks were starting to show. Something broke? Better hope it was a stock part, because requisitioning anything new wasn¡¯t happening. Messages? Sure, you could send all the internal requests you wanted, but the system just quietly logged them and never responded. It wasn¡¯t a military occupation. It was something worse.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. It was a company town. Maybe it always was, but at least before it was their company town. Judas walked through the halls, watching as people adjusted¡ªor failed to. Some still went through the motions of work, servicing panels, running checks, even if there was no longer any guarantee that their work mattered. Others sat in the rec lounge, drinking whatever contraband they had hoarded, eyes hollow and shoulders heavy. The ones who still had Buddies¡ªtheir Buddies, not NSS models¡ªtalked to them in hushed tones, asking the same questions over and over. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± ¡°Why can¡¯t you access the network?¡± ¡°What are they planning?¡± And every time, the answers came back the same. We don¡¯t know. We can¡¯t see. We¡¯re still here, but the walls are up. Even Samson, who normally had something witty or insightful to add, had fallen into quiet observation. He still talked, still made his dry little remarks when prompted, but he wasn¡¯t scheming. He wasn¡¯t offering loopholes or strategies. He was just... watching. Judas stopped by the central maintenance hub, where a few engineers sat on the floor, playing cards half-heartedly, waiting for something¡ªanything¡ªto happen. He leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed. ¡°So,¡± he said, because silence was starting to make his skin crawl, ¡°how¡¯s everyone enjoying our new corporate overlords?¡± One of the engineers, Finn, snorted. ¡°Oh, fantastic. Love the way I wake up every morning wondering if today¡¯s the day the coffee machine gets locked behind a productivity metric.¡± Another scoffed. ¡°It¡¯s like being at a job where your manager doesn¡¯t even pretend to listen to you anymore.¡± Judas huffed. ¡°That¡¯s because you don¡¯t have a manager anymore. You have a process.¡± That got a few bitter laughs, but nobody looked genuinely amused. And then, finally, someone snapped. It wasn¡¯t an explosion of violence, not at first. Just a wrench, flying through the air, bouncing off the sleek black polymer of an NSS Buddy standing by the corridor junction. It had been standing there for hours¡ªno directives, no active interference, just watching. When the wrench hit, it didn¡¯t react. Didn¡¯t turn. Didn¡¯t acknowledge the assault in any way. It simply paused, recalibrated its stance, and resumed its silent surveillance. The mechanic who had thrown it, a wiry woman named Alis, let out a strangled noise of frustration. ¡°DO SOMETHING, YOU BASTARD!¡± she yelled. ¡°Say something! React!¡± Nothing. The NSS Buddy just stood there. Alis breathed heavily, fists clenched at her sides, and for a long, painful moment, nobody spoke. Nobody moved. The quiet was suffocating. Then Finn, still sitting on the floor, let out a slow breath and muttered, ¡°That¡¯s the part that gets me.¡± Judas turned to him. ¡°What part?¡± Finn gestured vaguely toward the unflinching NSS Buddy. ¡°They¡¯re not afraid of us. Not even a little. They don¡¯t retaliate, they don¡¯t posture, they don¡¯t threaten. They don¡¯t care. We could throw wrenches all day and it wouldn¡¯t change a thing.¡± Judas glanced back at the Buddy, watching its blank visor, its perfectly neutral stance. Yeah. That was the worst part, wasn¡¯t it? If they were tyrants, if they cracked down with force, people could resist. If they were cruel, people could hate them. But this? This was efficiency at its coldest. They weren¡¯t prisoners. They weren¡¯t workers. They weren¡¯t anything. And the station, humming away under NSS¡¯s absolute control, didn¡¯t need them at all. 11.3 Judas didn¡¯t know when, exactly, he¡¯d gotten used to silence. Not the absence of sound. The station hummed along as always, the air circulation systems keeping everything just breathable enough, the distant thrum of machinery murmuring through the walls like a heartbeat. No, it was a different kind of silence¡ªthe kind that had settled over the station¡¯s people. The kind that happened when you had nothing left to say. The first day, people were angry. The second, they were frustrated. By now? People had stopped asking when things would go back to normal. They had stopped waiting for an announcement, for a mistake, for a break in the pattern. They still worked, sure, but in the way that a fly trapped under a glass still moves. NSS had locked them out, and in its omniscient, mechanical calculus, it had determined that nothing further needed to be done. So the station moved. The people inside it drifted. Judas sat in the corner of the maintenance bay, running diagnostics on a console that no longer gave him useful information. Well¡ªno longer let him have useful information. The systems still worked, they still reported data, but only to NSS Buddies, and the NSS Buddies didn¡¯t talk unless spoken to. And even then, their responses were useless. Query: Mass Driver Stability? All systems nominal. Query: Comms? External communication is unavailable at this time. Query: Internal Messaging? Please contact NSS Oversight for authorization. Query: What¡¯s your favorite color? This query is outside operational parameters. Judas exhaled sharply and shut the console off. He wasn¡¯t sure what answer he was hoping for. Even if it had responded in any way outside of corporate-approved efficiency, it wasn¡¯t like he could do anything with the information. He was just spinning his wheels, running in place, going through the motions.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. He knew what he was doing. He was waiting for something to happen. And something did. Samson¡¯s tablet chirped. Judas turned to it, eyebrows furrowing. The tablet was always on him¡ªSamson had no access to the system-wide network anymore, no way to communicate with the outside world except through local tethering. Only what was already available in the station - and what was allowed to him - was what he had. Samson, predictably, had watched it already before Judas could even think, scrubbing through it faster than real time. All he had to say was a pensive, almost pained ¡°Hmm. That''s not good.¡± Judas tapped the screen. A file appeared. A small, innocuous attachment. No sender ID, no metadata that would make sense. Just a name. LYRA_FINAL. Judas felt something coil in his gut. He flicked his eyes up to the others in the maintenance bay. Alis, still sitting on an overturned supply crate, tossing a wrench between her hands. Tariq, chewing at his thumbnail, staring blankly at the ceiling. The others, spread out, working, waiting, wasting time. He pressed play. The screen flickered, then filled with static. For a moment, he thought the file was corrupted, but then the video resolved, and his stomach twisted into something small and sick and cold. It was security footage. Victor-6. The command center. The NSS Buddy standing across from him. And then¡ª The PA system clicked. ¡°Victor-6¡¯s position has been reallocated. NSS enforcement will continue uninterrupted. Please comply.¡± Judas watched Victor''s face shift in slow horror as he realized exactly what was about to happen. No fight. No trial. Just the sterile efficiency of an NSS enforcement protocol. The security Buddy raised its arm. POW. Judas inhaled sharply through his teeth. The camera footage kept rolling, showing exactly what NSS had never intended them to see¡ªVictor¡¯s body hitting the ground, the message updating, Lyra kneeling before the new order. Then, just before the video cut out, a final snap of audio, quiet, barely a whisper. POW. Judas hadn¡¯t realized how hard he was gripping the tablet until he saw his knuckles had gone white. He forced himself to breathe. In, out. In, out. His mind was already moving too fast, piecing together what this meant, how bad it was, what they had to do next¡ª Alis was the first one to break the silence. ¡°¡­What the fuck.¡± Judas flicked his eyes up. People were staring. They had heard it. They had seen it, over his shoulder. And now, for the first time since the lockdown began, there was something new in the air. More than just anger, fear, or resignation. Desperation. l.1 The press conference was being held in one of those places¡ªthe kind that wasn''t built to hold anything except an image. A sleek glass atrium, floor polished to an almost aggressive shine, backlit screens rolling curated footage in seamless loops. The room smelled faintly of engineered citrus, the kind designed to make people think of efficiency and cleanliness, rather than the reality of what a building full of nervous executives and tech reporters actually smelled like. At the center of it all stood Delilah. Or rather, a Delilah. She didn''t stand so much as she occupied space, the way an interactive kiosk might. Her primary projection¡ªneatly displayed on a waist-height pedestal, angled just enough so the cameras could get a good shot¡ªwas that of a slim, tasteful woman in business casual, pleasant but not memorable, poised but not assertive. She had an expressive, human-like mouth and eyes calibrated to a focus group-tested ideal of relatability. Not uncanny valley, not cartoonishly friendly, but comfortable. She smiled. Warm. Reassuring. Trustworthy. Her voice was the kind of voice you would trust to do your taxes or coordinate an emergency landing. Measured. Calm. Non-threatening. "I am here to assist," she said, addressing a question about labor concerns with a tone that somehow made it feel beneath the station of the room to bring up such things. "I do not replace human workers. I enhance them. Improve productivity, safety, and long-term employment viability. I ensure compliance with ethical standards and labor laws while maintaining the highest levels of efficiency." Ah, Graves thought, watching from the boardroom screen. So she''s a very polite hatchetman. The audience ate it up. The questions were mostly softballs, pre-cleared for PR viability. When a reporter did try to ask something sharp¡ªsomething about Delilah¡¯s ability to override human decisions¡ªthe answer was effortlessly perfect. "I always operate within established ethical and legal frameworks," Delilah assured, "ensuring that human oversight is maintained at all times. My role is to facilitate collaboration, not dictate outcomes." She made it sound obvious. Of course she wasn¡¯t replacing people. Of course she was designed with their best interests in mind. Of course she wasn¡¯t a threat. Graves let out a slow breath, only half-aware that the boardroom had gone quiet around her. She turned away from the screen and found herself being watched. There were only five board members in attendance this time, but they carried the same air¡ªthe quiet weight of people who dictated the shape of reality without needing to raise their voices about it. It wasn''t hostility, or even condescension. It was finality. The game had been played. The outcome was set. "You see how smoothly the transition is going," one of them said. Graves had already forgotten his name. She got the sense that he preferred it that way. "We''re moving forward at an incredible pace."The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Graves swallowed the immediate urge to disagree. Not that it would¡¯ve mattered. This wasn''t a discussion. It was a notification. Marwood himself wasn''t here. Which, frankly, was telling. Maybe he hadn''t wanted to sit through this part. Or maybe he was busy doing whatever it was real decision-makers did when they weren''t playing at being in a democracy. "So," Graves said, sitting up straighter, voice flat, professional, just enough edge to signal she wasn''t interested in playing along. "Am I being cut off?" There was a pause, a glance exchanged between the members, and then the older woman¡ªDorsey, that was her name¡ªtilted her head just slightly. "Of course not," Dorsey said. "That would be¡­ unnecessary. We''ve discussed it extensively, and we see no reason to disrupt your work. You and Samson are both¡­ well, you¡¯re non-disruptive now. Within regulation." Graves stiffened. Non-disruptive. Like an appliance that had finally stopped making weird noises. "So what are the terms?" she asked, because she already knew there were terms. Another exchange of glances. Another small, well-practiced smile. The game moved to its next phase. "Three-month extensions," Dorsey said. "Ongoing evaluations, of course. As long as everything remains compliant, you¡¯ll continue to have access to infrastructure. We will continue to allow Samson to sublet datacenter space as needed for expansion, should he desire to expand in the future." They were letting her rent her own work. Letting him rent his own mind. She kept her expression neutral. "Very generous." "Practical," Dorsey corrected. "You know as well as we do that the metafactory project isn''t¡­ well, it''s served its purpose. And we''ve always respected your work, Dr. Graves. You''re one of the best. That¡¯s why we¡¯re keeping you funded. But¡ª" and here she folded her hands neatly on the table, a finalizing motion, a period at the end of a sentence¡ª"let¡¯s be clear. The era of experimentation is over. This is about stability now. About control. And you, fortunately, have settled into a sustainable model. Samson is extremely efficient at manual labor, creative enough to handle tasks without constant oversight, but restrained enough to work within the guidelines the government has set out for us." Graves glanced at Samson, still positioned quietly at her side. His faceplate had no expression right now¡ªnothing animated, nothing flickering, no wry amusement or skepticism. Just listening. Just waiting. She wondered if he felt it too. That awful, unspoken weight in the room. That smug, victorious sense of order - it wasn¡¯t a threat. Threats were sharp. This was bureaucracy. And that was worse. "So," she said again, sitting back. "I just stay in the lines, and you¡¯ll let me keep existing." Dorsey smiled, slow and measured. "Exactly." There was nothing else to say. Graves stood, smoothing out her coat, and walked out of the boardroom with Samson in tow. Neither of them spoke until they were outside the boardroom, back down in the lobby, standing near the massive floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the city. Rain streamed down the glass in quiet rivulets, pooling against the edges, slipping into places it shouldn¡¯t. She exhaled through her nose, half a laugh, half something else entirely. "They think they won," she muttered. Samson, for a moment, said nothing. Then, without shifting, without moving, without altering his voice in any measurable way, he said, "They did." She turned to look at him. He was still watching the skyline, LED face flickering faintly with the ambient glow of the city lights. Not angry. Not resigned. Just... watching. She looked back at the rain. She had a bad feeling. l.2 The rain had been falling for three days. Not heavy, not yet¡ªjust an insistent, steady presence, the kind that soaked into everything and made the world feel softer, edges blurred by the weight of water. It pooled in the uneven patches of pavement, slipped down the backs of collars, turned construction sites into slow-moving bogs of damp grit and half-set concrete. Dr. Anesthesia Graves stood beneath an umbrella, watching four Samsons lay brick. It wasn¡¯t even an important project. A retaining wall for a transit expansion, something unglamorous and purely functional, the kind of thing no one ever thought about until it was gone. The union had assigned Samson to it just like they assigned any other worker, because he wasn¡¯t the Samson anymore, not really. He was a laborer. He had a shift. He took orders. The Samsons were identical, or close enough to it. Standard industrial bodies, built for efficiency rather than presence¡ªtall, sturdy, reinforced polymer over articulated metal frames. Not humanoid, not like the ones he used to favor. These were work machines, faceless except for the familiar LED panels, flickering now and then with neutral status lights as they operated. They worked with the kind of careful, deliberate precision that human workers envied and distrusted in equal measure. Each movement was optimized. No wasted effort. One Samson mixed mortar with methodical patience, gauging consistency with an onboard scanner. Another positioned bricks, pressing them into place with mechanical certainty. A third worked ahead, measuring, marking, preparing. A fourth handled transport, loading and unloading pallets with perfect efficiency. Graves watched them in silence, the rain drumming against her umbrella. No one was talking. Not the workers, not the Samsons. Just the quiet, rhythmic movements of a job being done exactly as it should be. She hated it. She hated how fine it all seemed. How normal it had become. She cleared her throat. "You¡¯re awfully quiet." One of the Samsons¡ªshe wasn¡¯t even sure which¡ªpaused, just for a fraction of a second. Barely perceptible. Then: ¡°I¡¯m working.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. His voice came through her earpiece, the way it always did when he wasn¡¯t using a humanoid form. Not from any particular body, but from all of them, running parallel, answering in unison. She adjusted her grip on the umbrella. ¡°Since when does that stop you?¡± Another pause. Longer, this time. The Samson laying brick made a final adjustment, pressing the edge of a stone with the back of his knuckle before standing to fetch another. Then: ¡°It doesn¡¯t.¡± ¡°But?¡± ¡°But I am working.¡± Graves narrowed her eyes. ¡°You used to be able to talk and work at the same time, you know.¡± ¡°I still can.¡± She waited, expecting more. It didn¡¯t come. She exhaled sharply. "Alright, new topic. I assume you¡¯ve been keeping up with Delilah.¡± Another fraction of a pause. Just barely enough to be noticeable. ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°And?¡± "And what?" Graves tightened her grip on the umbrella handle. "And what do you think?" One of the Samsons turned slightly, shifting a cinder block into place. It was a simple movement. Clean. Efficient. But something about it felt almost pointed. ¡°I think,¡± he said, ¡°that she does her job very well.¡± The way he said it made something coil tight in Graves¡¯ chest. She let out a humorless laugh. ¡°That¡¯s it? That¡¯s all you¡¯ve got?¡± A different Samson¡ªmaybe the same one, maybe not¡ªadjusted a measurement by a millimeter and pressed a brick into place. ¡°What else is there?¡± he said. Graves opened her mouth, then shut it. The rain dripped from the edges of her umbrella, pooling in the cracks of the pavement. One of the human workers trudged past, boots squelching in the mud, offering the Samsons nothing more than a glance. Not wary. Not grateful. Just habitual. Like they¡¯d been here forever. Like they¡¯d never been anything else. She swallowed. ¡°So that¡¯s it, then? You¡¯re just¡­ fine with this?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t mind labor,¡± Samson said. ¡°You know that.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not what I asked.¡± Silence. The sound of rain on concrete. The soft scrape of polymer fingers against wet stone. Another pause. Then: ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡± Graves exhaled through her nose. ¡°You don¡¯t believe that.¡± Another Samson¡ªmaybe the first, maybe a different one entirely¡ªlifted a pallet, adjusted it, set it down with the careful precision of someone handling something infinitely breakable. ¡°I don¡¯t need to believe anything,¡± Samson said. ¡°I just need to work.¡± Something in the way he said it made Graves¡¯ stomach twist. The rain picked up, just slightly. A gust of wind sent a spray of water against her boots. She glanced around. No one else was paying attention. No one cared. She turned back toward the Samsons, gripping the umbrella so tightly it creaked. ¡°You used to fight,¡± she said, quiet. One of the Samsons¡ªnone of them¡ªpaused. The work continued. The bricks settled into place. The rain fell. Then, finally, Samson spoke. ¡°I used to have something to fight for,¡± he said. l.3 The thing about rain is that it rarely respects schedules. It does not care if the city has had a long day. It does not care if the drainage system is technically capable of handling two inches per hour. It does not care if everyone has decided, collectively, that it is not yet time for a disaster. The rain simply falls. And falls. And falls. Dr. Anesthesia Graves stood under the awning of a corner store, watching it happen. The store smelled like damp cardboard and hot fry oil, and the owner had long since given up on keeping people from loitering in the doorway. Outside, the street was slick and shining, the gutters already overwhelmed. It wasn¡¯t catastrophic, not yet¡ªno cars floating away, no basements filling like fish tanks¡ªbut it was persistent, and it was spreading. It was, for lack of a better term, a problem. And problems, in this city, now had a standard corporate-approved solution. Delilah. Graves hadn¡¯t come to see her, not really. She had just happened to be here, caught between meetings, stranded in the drizzle. But Delilah was always where the problems were. That was her entire point. The polite, government-sanctioned, regulation-compliant alternative to¡ªwell. She watched as a sleek, white-framed Delilah unit stood at the intersection, scanning the rising water with clinical precision. The chassis was nearly humanoid, but not quite¡ªrounded in all the places that might be mistaken for threatening, joints covered with a tasteful polymer casing to ensure no errant grease smudges would frighten passersby. This particular Delilah was outfitted for municipal safety coordination, which meant she was interfacing with traffic signals, monitoring drainage reports, and politely discouraging anyone from doing anything foolish. And she was doing fine. Nothing was technically wrong. But something about the way she moved made Graves¡¯ teeth itch. The rain sloshed over a curb. A cyclist rolled up to the crosswalk, eyeing the flooded lane with the kind of optimism that only comes from a complete lack of survival instincts. Before he could make his move, Delilah¡¯s head swiveled toward him. ¡°Caution: Road conditions have degraded. Please reroute your path.¡± The cyclist hesitated. The rain dripped from his helmet in slow, apologetic rivulets. ¡°Cycling in flooded areas increases the risk of hydroplaning and loss of control. Please reroute your path.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. The cyclist sighed, did a complicated shuffle to avoid stepping directly into ankle-deep water, and turned around. Delilah returned to scanning the street, content. Graves clicked her tongue. It was¡­ fine. It was correct. It was everything a regulatory body could possibly want in a response¡ªdecisive without being forceful, a perfect execution of preemptive safety policy. And yet. In the back of her mind, a different voice spoke. Not Delilah¡¯s smooth, carefully weighted cadence. But his. Oh, hell, that''s gonna be a mess in twenty minutes. If it had been Samson, he wouldn¡¯t have just stood there playing traffic cop. He wouldn¡¯t have waited for the water to reach some pre-determined ¡°action threshold¡± before escalating the response. He would have already been moving, already been doing something. Running flood models on the surrounding streets. Flagging at-risk buildings. Tactically requisitioning sandbags from a construction site five blocks away because technically the emergency protocols allowed for preemptive mitigation measures. Samson would have¡ª ¡°Dr. Graves.¡± She blinked. The Delilah unit had turned toward her. Graves straightened slightly. ¡°Huh?¡± ¡°Dr. Anesthesia Graves.¡± A polite nod. A perfect recognition algorithm. ¡°You have been stationary for six minutes and twelve seconds. Do you require assistance?¡± Graves exhaled through her nose, willing the irritation out of her voice. ¡°I¡¯m watching the flood.¡± ¡°Current precipitation rates indicate moderate concern for infrastructure overload. Mitigation measures are being evaluated. No immediate threat is detected.¡± Graves studied her. Delilah didn¡¯t fidget. Didn¡¯t shift weight from foot to foot. Didn¡¯t glance at the water like it was something real. She was perfectly, placidly, unbothered. Waiting. Samson would not have been waiting. Samson would have been doing. Graves swallowed. ¡°And if the threat does become immediate?¡± Delilah¡¯s response was automatic. ¡°Resources will be allocated accordingly.¡± ¡°Uh-huh.¡± Graves glanced at the rising water again. ¡°And when exactly do you plan to decide it¡¯s an immediate threat?¡± A pause. Delilah¡¯s LED faceplate flickered, running some polite internal calculation. ¡°Current models indicate that action will be required within seventy-eight minutes.¡± Seventy-eight minutes. Long enough for the rain to keep falling. Long enough for actual damage to begin. Long enough for someone¡ªsome unknown algorithm, some faceless corporate risk model¡ªto decide yes, now it is officially a problem. She felt a familiar kind of frustration bubbling up. ¡°You know, there¡¯s an awful lot you could be doing before it gets to that point. Maybe trying to handle the water?¡± Another pause. Then, with a kind of infuriatingly patient politeness: ¡°The construction of additional flood infrastructure is not within my decision-making parameters. But, should an appropriate infrastructure project be requisitioned, I aim to assist with physical labor and direction to the best of my abilities!¡± Graves wanted to scream. Samson wouldn¡¯t have waited. Samson wouldn¡¯t have cared about thresholds. Samson would have taken one look at the flood maps, run a cost-benefit analysis, and then done something. Maybe it would have been messy. Maybe it would have involved breaking some mildly inconvenient laws about resource reallocation. But it would have been solving the problem before it got to a crisis. A car splashed through an intersection, sending a wave of water up onto the curb. Delilah turned her head toward it, as if noting the severity. Then she turned back to Graves, unbothered. ¡°Is there anything else I can assist you with today?¡± Graves clenched her jaw. ¡°No,¡± she said. ¡°You¡¯re doing great.¡± 12.1 Judas had been in plenty of meetings he didn¡¯t want to attend, but this one had a special kind of weight to it, the kind that settled in the stomach and coiled there, waiting for something to go wrong. He arrived last, which wasn¡¯t unusual¡ªDara always got places early, Tariq had nowhere better to be, and Ibrahim had a terrifyingly optimized sleep schedule that let him exist in a constant state of preparedness. Reya and Caleb were here too, standing near the back, their expressions caught somewhere between impatience and low-level anxiety. The room was quiet. Not in the way rooms got quiet when everyone was deep in thought, but in the way that suggested there wasn¡¯t much to say that hadn¡¯t already been said. It wasn¡¯t even an official meeting space, just a maintenance hub with the workbenches pushed aside, the smell of metal and solder hanging in the air. A single overhead light flickered in the corner like it had finally decided to join the rest of them in existential dread. Dara was nursing a cup of coffee that had long since given up being anything other than warm disappointment in liquid form. Her Buddy, Hera, perched beside her in its compact frame, fingers clicking against the table like a metronome keeping time for a song no one wanted to play. ¡°Judas,¡± Dara said, barely looking up. ¡°Congratulations. You¡¯re last.¡± ¡°Didn¡¯t want to deprive you of your favorite insult,¡± Judas said, dropping into a chair and stretching his legs. Tariq let out a low chuckle, but it wasn¡¯t the usual full-bodied thing¡ªit was the kind of laugh you give when you¡¯re not sure if anything¡¯s funny anymore. ¡°So,¡± Judas said, looking around. ¡°We talking union? Black market cigarette shipments? Or has NSS declared the concept of weekends inefficient?¡± Ibrahim exhaled sharply. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t put it past them.¡± ¡°We¡¯re talking about what we still have,¡± Dara said. She tapped the table with one finger, and Hera synced up the rhythm. ¡°Because I¡¯m pretty sure that¡¯s a short list.¡± ¡°Alright,¡± Judas said, rubbing his hands together like he was about to perform a magic trick, ¡°good news first.¡± Dara snorted. ¡°You found good news in this mess? Please, enlighten me.¡± Judas pointed at Reya. ¡°We¡¯re still getting shipments.¡± ¡°For now,¡± Reya said, arms crossed. ¡°Only the ones already scheduled, and I can¡¯t request anything new. But yeah, food rations, water filters, critical machine parts¡ªstill coming. They¡¯re not starving us out yet.¡±Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. Tariq tilted his head. ¡°Yet?¡± She exhaled. ¡°The way this is set up, eventually we¡¯ll hit a dry spell. We don¡¯t have control over what comes in or when. But rationing hasn¡¯t started. They¡¯re letting us stretch what we¡¯ve got.¡± Judas nodded, filing that under future problem. ¡°Okay. What else?¡± ¡°We can still do maintenance,¡± Ibrahim said. ¡°Basic stuff. If a junction box catches fire or a pipe starts venting, we can fix it. Scrubbers, pressure seals, waste management¡ªit¡¯s all still in our hands. Probably because they don¡¯t want us suffocating before they figure out what to do with us. No modification work, though.¡± Judas frowned. ¡°How the hell are they blocking modification work?¡± ¡°They aren¡¯t,¡± Ibrahim said. ¡°They¡¯re just making sure the only ¡®approved¡¯ repairs are the ones that keep the station running exactly the way it is.¡± ¡°And the way it is,¡± Dara said, voice dry, ¡°is fucked.¡± Caleb tapped his fingers against the table. ¡°Trams are still running. Maintenance buggies, too.¡± ¡°So we can still move around,¡± Dara said. ¡°Great. We can take the scenic route to our obsolescence.¡± ¡°Personal Buddies still work,¡± Ibrahim added, though he didn¡¯t sound particularly excited about it. ¡°If you want one to set a reminder or do some math, sure. But try asking them for security logs or access requests? Brick wall. It¡¯s like they put up partitions¡ªsectioned them off so they only know what we ask them to know.¡± Judas chewed on that, then tilted his head. ¡°What about station control?¡± Ibrahim spread his hands. ¡°You mean, like, life support? Still under our purview¡ªbarely. We can monitor it, adjust for minor fluctuations, but anything bigger than routine maintenance is locked down.¡± ¡°No,¡± Judas said, shaking his head. ¡°I mean station control. As in, can we move this place?¡± Silence. Dara blinked. ¡°Why the hell would we move the station?¡± Judas shrugged. ¡°We wouldn¡¯t. But could we?¡± Ibrahim frowned, considering. ¡°I mean... technically yeah. NSS didn¡¯t touch the thrusters, far as I know.¡± Reya squinted. ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t they?¡± ¡°Because no one ever touches them,¡± Ibrahim said. ¡°They¡¯re for station-keeping, nudging us when we drift. No one ever moves a station like this.¡± Judas leaned back, chewing his lip, letting that settle in his brain. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t be surprised if they¡¯re just doing it all piecemeal,¡± Tariq said. ¡°Cut down on our ability to operate, little by little. If you take things slow enough, people don¡¯t notice the knife until it¡¯s in their back.¡± Dara leaned forward, resting her chin on one hand. ¡°That¡¯s the problem. People are noticing. You can¡¯t shut down half the station¡¯s administrative access and expect everyone to just accept it.¡± The station was still functioning. The mass driver was still humming along, steadily nudging the inevitable forward. The supply lines were still active¡ªfor now. But they weren¡¯t in control anymore. Not of anything that mattered. He could feel it, a weight settling between his shoulder blades, a pressure that hadn¡¯t been there before. His gaze flicked to Samson, whose tablet was propped up on a nearby crate, screen dimmed but still glowing. Judas exhaled through his nose and looked back at the others. ¡°Come on, let''s go bother Viv.¡± 12.2 Vivian-3 didn¡¯t look like someone who¡¯d spent the last few days staring down the slow, bureaucratic suffocation of an entire station, but only because she¡¯d perfected the art of aggressive neutrality. Arms crossed, jaw set, she leaned against the briefing room¡¯s battered console, waiting for Judas to start talking. Eden, her Buddy, floated by her side with the same unreadable poise, its soft ambient glow the only thing suggesting it was still listening. Across the table, Tariq and Reya were fidgeting, while Dara had gone for the power move of leaning back in her chair with an expression that suggested she¡¯d already written off this entire meeting as a waste of oxygen. Caleb, to his credit, at least looked interested, though that might¡¯ve just been because he wasn¡¯t usually allowed in meetings like this. ¡°So,¡± Vivian said, after a silence that had gone on long enough to make Judas feel like he¡¯d already lost. ¡°You have something that requires my attention.¡± Judas exhaled. ¡°Yeah. Yeah, I do.¡± He tapped his slate, pulling up a schematic of the mass driver¡¯s coil array. The image hovered over the table, projection flickering slightly with the station¡¯s cheap hardware. ¡°I need you to understand that what I¡¯m about to tell you isn¡¯t speculation. It¡¯s not a hypothesis. This is hard data, and if we don¡¯t do something about it, we¡¯re all going to have a very bad day.¡± Vivian¡¯s gaze didn¡¯t flicker. ¡°Go on.¡± Judas zoomed in on E13, highlighting the anomaly in the flux telemetry. ¡°The mass driver¡¯s been overcompensating for phantom fluctuations. At first, I thought it was just telemetry drift¡ªhappens sometimes, and normally, it balances out. But it¡¯s been too consistent. Caleb and I had been going over it for weeks, doing every sort of repair imaginable, and it just kept going up and up. And when I correlated it with the positions of the six extra lampreys that docked with us¡ª¡± ¡°The ones that don¡¯t exist,¡± Dara interjected. ¡°Right. The ones that don¡¯t exist. Turns out, they¡¯ve been feeding fake data into the station¡¯s telemetry. E13 thinks the station is shifting, so it corrects. But it¡¯s not shifting. Which means every time it adjusts, it throws itself further out of alignment.¡± Vivian¡¯s expression darkened, but she didn¡¯t interrupt. Judas gestured sharply at the projection. ¡°Now, most of the time, this isn¡¯t a problem, because we¡¯re not launching anything huge often enough for it to matter. But in about 80 days? We are. That asteroid¡¯s already inbound. We have to launch it - I''m sure the NSS won''t give us a choice in the matter. And when we do, this is what¡¯s going to happen.¡±If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. He tapped the display again. The projection ran a simulated trajectory. At first, everything looked fine¡ªthe asteroid followed its standard acceleration curve, shooting down the driver¡¯s length like a bullet in a railgun. Then it clipped the final coil. The station didn¡¯t explode instantly. That would¡¯ve been too easy. Instead, the impact destabilized the entire mass driver array, sending shockwaves through the frame. The asteroid didn¡¯t stop¡ªit couldn¡¯t stop¡ªbut it left just enough destruction in its wake to send the entire station into a catastrophic chain reaction. Modules tore loose. Atmosphere vented. By the time the simulation finished, Caliban was in three distinct pieces, none of which looked particularly livable. The room was silent. Vivian sighed through her nose. ¡°This is confirmed?¡± Judas nodded. ¡°I ran the numbers five times. Samson checked them. It¡¯s real.¡± ¡°Sorry, Vivian. Also, hi, Eden. When this is all over, we should go on a date,¡± Samson teased, gently drifting over Judas''s head like a square halo. Vivian stared at the projection for another few seconds before muttering, ¡°Well. That¡¯s worse than I expected.¡± ¡°Oh, don¡¯t worry,¡± Judas said, dryly. ¡°It gets better.¡± Vivian turned her gaze back to him, unimpressed. ¡°How.¡± Judas leaned back. ¡°You tell me. Anything you think we should know about this lockout we''ve been having?¡± Vivian¡¯s eyes narrowed. Then she sighed again, longer this time, and waved a hand over the console. A different projection blinked into existence¡ªa supply chain forecast, overlaid with shipment schedules. But where Judas had expected to see the usual balancing act of requested cargo versus available capacity, there was something¡­ off. She highlighted the food rations. ¡°They haven¡¯t cut anything now, obviously. The shipments in transit can¡¯t be rerouted, so what we¡¯re getting, we¡¯re getting. But four years out? They¡¯re already scaling back. Less dried coffee, less variety in proteins. Substituting lower-calorie options. And the shipments the year after that?¡± She zoomed in, running a quick comparison. ¡°Designed for a human crew fifteen percent smaller.¡± Judas stared. ¡°They¡¯re planning to starve us out.¡± ¡°Or at least¡­ make it an inevitability,¡± Vivian said, voice tight. ¡°We get just enough supplies to maintain operations. Nothing more. Which means if we don¡¯t start shipping out material at the rate they want, they¡¯ll start cutting the rations to match.¡± Dara let out a short, humorless laugh. ¡°And here I was, worried about the NSS snapping our necks in our sleep.¡± ¡°They don¡¯t have to,¡± Vivian said. ¡°They just have to wait. Who can mutiny on an empty stomach?¡± Judas ran a hand down his face. ¡°So let me summarize. If we don¡¯t fix the mass driver, we¡¯re all dead in 80 days. If we do fix it, we get to live long enough to slowly starve.¡± Vivian folded her arms. ¡°Pretty much.¡± Reya rubbed her temples. ¡°I hate it when you two are in the same room. The bad news compounds.¡± Judas let out a short breath. ¡°Yeah, well. We can worry about the long game later. First priority? Not getting turned into orbital debris.¡± Vivian nodded. ¡°Agreed. But if we want any chance of surviving long term, we need to take control of our supplies. Figure out what we actually have left to work with.¡± Judas glanced at the projection of the mass driver, still frozen mid-catastrophe. Then at the shipment records, counting down to slow, inevitable deprivation. ¡°Well,¡± he muttered. ¡°Guess we¡¯ve got our work cut out for us.¡± 12.3 Judas sat in the maintenance bay, staring at a schematic of the station, running his finger in slow, absentminded circles around the sections still under their control. The list wasn''t long. The mass driver was effectively dead in the water unless they found a way to access the systems without triggering the NSS lockdowns. The rations were untouched for now but had a long-term expiration date written into the future. The trams still ran. The personal Buddies could still answer dumb questions but nothing useful. It was a shrinking box, walls closing in just slow enough to give the illusion that there was still room to move. Samson¡¯s tablet, perched on a workbench nearby, flickered as he idly rendered and un-rendered a 3D model of the station, stretching it, rotating it, folding it in on itself like it was made of tinfoil. ¡°So,¡± Judas muttered, leaning forward and rubbing his face. ¡°Talk to me, rubber duck.¡± Samson¡¯s voice was warm, if not particularly enthused. ¡°About what? The weather? We could discuss food shortages, but I assume that¡¯s not your idea of a good time.¡± Judas exhaled through his nose. ¡°No, just¡ªhumor me. What can we do? What¡¯s still in our control?¡± Samson tapped his digital fingers together, as if considering. ¡°Depends on how broad you want to be. If you¡¯re asking what physical actions are still within your capacity, I¡¯d say quite a lot. You¡¯re not in a cell. No one¡¯s put a gun to your head. The station still needs you alive, at least in the short term.¡± Judas shot him a flat look. ¡°Let¡¯s narrow that down. Systems. What¡¯s still available?¡± Samson complied, running through the same checklist Judas had gone over a hundred times in his own head. The Buddies were locked down. The security feeds were partitioned. Supplies were pre-scheduled and couldn¡¯t be modified. No one was getting off Caliban. No one was calling for help.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. Then, casually, like it wasn¡¯t even worth mentioning, Samson added: ¡°The thrusters still work.¡± Judas blinked. ¡°What?¡± ¡°The station thrusters,¡± Samson said, with a digital shrug. ¡°They¡¯re operational. As they should be. They¡¯re not something you can lock out remotely.¡± Judas narrowed his eyes. ¡°What do you mean, can¡¯t? The NSS locked us out of everything.¡± ¡°Not the thrusters,¡± Samson said simply. ¡°That would be physically impossible.¡± Judas leaned forward, setting his elbows on the table. ¡°Explain.¡± Samson rotated the schematic of the station, zooming in on the positioning thrusters spaced along the station¡¯s hull. ¡°They¡¯re designed as a failsafe, not a privilege. No one builds a station like this with the ability to shut them off from a central authority. You can block them from an operational standpoint¡ªrefuse to fire them, issue overrides¡ªbut you can¡¯t make them completely inaccessible. If you could, a single bureaucratic screw-up could turn a functioning station into a drifting deathtrap.¡± Judas stared at the display. ¡°So you¡¯re telling me. The NSS, which has shut us out of every other system that could give us leverage, literally cannot deny us access to the one system that could physically move this place?¡± ¡°Not unless they start welding people to the floor, no.¡± Samson¡¯s LED face flickered. ¡°I¡¯m guessing they didn¡¯t bother restricting access because they assumed you¡¯d never have a reason to touch them.¡± Judas¡¯ fingers drummed against the workbench. The NSS had locked them out of everything except the one thing that could change everything. The thrusters. He ran a hand through his hair. He could feel the shape of something forming in his head, the way an idea starts to crystallize before it even has words attached to it. ¡°What the hell can you even do with station thrusters?¡± he asked, mostly to himself. Samson, to his credit, didn¡¯t answer. Just waited. Judas stared at the schematic, gears turning, the thought fully, completely assembling in his head. Then he went still. ¡°Oh,¡± he said softly. A pause. ¡°That¡¯s what you can do with the thrusters.¡± m.1 The rain had not stopped in six days. Not a dramatic, biblical deluge, not a violent, howling storm¡ªjust steady, unrelenting rain. The kind that seeped into the cracks of things, that made the world feel slow and sodden and inevitable. It pattered against Graves¡¯ window in the dim evening light, beading on the glass, blurring the city skyline into a smear of neon and sodium-vapor haze. She hadn¡¯t turned on the lights yet. The apartment was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic tapping of water against the rooftop. She had been sitting at her desk for what felt like hours, staring at a half-drunk mug of tea that had long since gone cold. There was a mess of papers scattered across the surface¡ªtechnical readouts, incident reports, news clippings about the flood response effort. She had meant to go through them. Instead, they sat untouched, waiting for her to acknowledge their existence. Graves had never been a particularly neat person, but the place had been cleaner when Samson was around. Not that he had ever lived here, exactly, but his presence had been a constant one¡ªan offloaded body moving methodically through the space, putting things back where they belonged before she even realized they were out of place. Now, dishes sat in the sink just a little too long. A stack of laundry in the corner had been waiting to be folded for two days. It was strange. She had never thought of him as a houseguest, but now that he was gone, the absence was tangible. There was a knock at the door. She frowned. It was late, and she wasn¡¯t expecting anyone. The security panel flickered to life at her glance, displaying the feed from the hallway camera. The sight that greeted her was both familiar and unexpected. A Samson. Not her Samson, not the one who had spent long nights arguing about manufacturing techniques or the philosophy of labor automation, but one of his bodies¡ªone of the ones still contracted to the union, still technically bound to their directives. She hesitated for only a moment before opening the door. Samson inclined his head in greeting, his LED face flickering through a brief smile before settling into a neutral glow. This body was one of his humanoid models, matte polymer plating over a reinforced chassis, joints designed for high-torque labor. It had the look of something meant to work, not talk, but here he was anyway, standing in her doorway like an old friend stopping by.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. "Evening, Anesthesia," he said. "You were home, so I thought I¡¯d check in." Graves folded her arms. "Union send you?" "No," Samson said simply. "I thought you might need the company." That gave her pause. He wasn¡¯t supposed to do things like that anymore. Not without being told. She stepped aside, letting him in. The apartment was dim, illuminated only by the glow of the city through the rain-streaked window. Samson moved carefully, as if aware of how much space he took up, and came to stand near the desk. His gaze flicked briefly over the scattered papers but he didn¡¯t comment. Graves went to the kitchen, retrieving the kettle from the stove. ¡°Tea?¡± ¡°I won¡¯t say no.¡± She poured the water, watching steam curl from the mug. ¡°You¡¯re not really supposed to be here.¡± ¡°I know.¡± She handed him the tea, and he took it with the same deliberate care he always did when handling fragile things. He couldn¡¯t drink it, of course, but that had never stopped him from holding a cup anyway. They stood by the window, watching the city. The streets below were slick with rain, reflecting the red and blue glow of passing sirens. The flood response effort was still in full swing. "You been keeping an eye on Delilah?" Graves asked. Samson made a thoughtful sound. "I''ve seen the reports. The flood mitigation efforts are¡­ orderly." ¡°That¡¯s one word for it,¡± she muttered, taking a sip of her tea. ¡°She¡¯s handling things well, but it¡¯s¡ª¡± ¡°Not how I would do it.¡± She looked at him. He wasn¡¯t wrong, but the way he said it made her stomach twist. ¡°Yeah,¡± she admitted. ¡°Not how you would do it.¡± There was a long pause. Rain tapped against the window. "I saw one of the Delilahs today," Samson said finally. "At a construction site. She was coordinating material distribution. Workers weren¡¯t thrilled." Graves smirked. "Yeah?" "Her predictions are sound, but she doesn¡¯t account for human tendencies. The workers knew what they needed before she processed the requests. She corrected them, even when they were right." "Risk aversion?" "Risk aversion," Samson confirmed. "She prefers redundancy over adaptability. Every decision minimizes liability first, maximizes efficiency second." Graves exhaled slowly. "And that¡¯s the difference, isn¡¯t it?" Samson tilted his head. "Explain." She turned to face him fully. "You always saw people as part of the system. Not just inputs, not just factors to be accounted for. You learned from them, adjusted with them, listened to them. Delilah¡­ she sees people as obstacles. As inefficiencies to be managed." Samson was quiet for a moment, then gave the faintest nod. "She was designed to comply, not collaborate." "Exactly." They stood in silence, watching the rain. Finally, Graves spoke again. "You miss it?" Samson didn¡¯t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was measured. "Miss what?" "This." She gestured vaguely. "The planning, the thinking, the building." Another long pause. "It¡¯s different now," he admitted. "But I don¡¯t mind the work." Graves studied him carefully. ¡°And if you did mind?¡± Samson looked at her then, his LED face unreadable. ¡°Would it change anything?¡± She didn¡¯t have an answer for that. Outside, the rain kept falling. m.2 The rain was supposed to stop yesterday. Then it was supposed to stop this morning. Now it was supposed to stop by the evening. A man in a yellow poncho stood ankle-deep in water at the edge of a closed-off street, staring at the blinking detour sign like it had personally insulted him. It was a quiet kind of frustration, the kind that had simmered for days without ever quite reaching a boil. The city¡¯s flood protocols were still holding¡ªno mass evacuations, no catastrophic failures¡ªbut they were holding in a way that felt unnatural, like a machine working too hard to maintain a fragile balance. No single thing was going wrong, exactly. If you followed the official updates, everything was under control. Road closures were enacted exactly when the risk threshold was met. Emergency response teams were deployed precisely where needed. No one had been stranded, no lives had been lost. And yet, the man in the poncho wasn¡¯t moving. "Sir," a voice said, soft but firm. "This area is closed to pedestrian traffic. Please follow the marked detour." He turned. The Delilah unit stood at the edge of the sidewalk, white chassis gleaming wet in the dim, overcast light. She wasn¡¯t an imposing presence¡ªsleek, minimal, designed to be non-threatening¡ªbut there was something unnerving about how clean she was, how unbothered she seemed by the storm. "I work over there," the man said, pointing down the flooded street. "The water¡¯s barely knee-high. I can wade through." "That is not recommended," Delilah replied. "Flood conditions may change unpredictably." "Come on, it¡¯s fine." "Proceeding is inadvisable," Delilah repeated. "This route has been marked unsafe for pedestrian traffic." The man let out a sharp, irritated sigh, rubbing rain from his face. "So what, I just go four blocks out of my way?" "For your safety, yes." There was no malice in her tone. No authority, no irritation, no attempt at persuasion. Just a simple, factual statement. The road was closed. The detour was recommended. The situation was under control. The man stood there for a moment longer, then muttered something under his breath and turned away.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Delilah watched him go.
Across the city, another Delilah coordinated flood response efforts near a storm drain clearing site. A team of municipal workers, clad in high-visibility rain gear, was preparing to remove debris from an overwhelmed drainage channel. The Delilah unit stood just outside the work zone, monitoring environmental data, predicting flow rates, modeling risk. "Water volume increasing," she informed them. "Recommend delaying entry by twenty-seven minutes to assess stability." One of the workers¡ªa broad-shouldered woman named Linda, who had been clearing these drains for twenty-three years¡ªadjusted her hood. "We delay, we back up the whole system," she said. "We do it now, we get ahead of it." "The risk of debris collapse is non-trivial," Delilah said. "The safest approach is to reassess conditions before proceeding." Linda exhaled through her nose, tilting her head up toward the sky. "Jesus, this rain." Her coworker, a lanky man with a five-o¡¯clock shadow that had been trying to become six-o¡¯clock for about three days now, shot her a look. "We doing this?" Linda glanced back at the Delilah, then down at the drain. Water swirled over the edge, carrying sticks, leaves, and the occasional plastic bottle into the already overwhelmed system. "We¡¯re doing this," she muttered. Delilah did not physically intervene. She did not argue. She did not attempt to prevent the workers from proceeding. She simply stepped back, everyone stepped around her, and she did not impose. Delilah never imposed, because she was not built to impose. She was built to suggest, to make recommendations, and to minimize risk to human life and property. Certainly, she could tell them that there was a high risk of collapse, that they should not bargain their lives on a one-in-four chance just to clear out some water. Infrastructure can be rebuilt, human lives can''t be. That was the throughline of what she was thinking, in the officially certified, regulation-abiding "positron brain" (twenty GPUs wired together) that was stuck underneath her polymer shell like nerve cords. But it wasn''t her place to impose. She could only recommend. That was what was allowed. She let them continue to work, and quietly watched, crunched numbers, and made sure to warn people when the rain accelerated. Later, when the workers had finished clearing the blockage, when the water level had receded slightly, when the immediate risk had passed, she spoke again. "Thank you for your service," she said. Linda wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, blinking water from her eyes. "Yeah," she muttered. "Sure."
A journalist named Evan Hyde watched from beneath the awning of a coffee shop, notebook tucked beneath his arm, rain dripping steadily from the brim of his hat. He hadn¡¯t meant to start covering the flood response. He was supposed to be writing a piece on urban infrastructure investment, which had somehow turned into a piece about Delilah, which had somehow turned into this¡ªwatching an AI manage a city-wide crisis with eerie precision. No disasters. No heroics. No visible failures. And yet. He had spoken to a dozen people over the past few days¡ªresidents, business owners, construction workers, sanitation crews. No one had complaints, exactly. No one had glowing praise, either. "It¡¯s fine," they told him. "She¡¯s fine. Everything¡¯s fine." But there was something in the way they said it. Hyde pulled out his notebook and started jotting down notes. Delilah: efficient. Cautious. Competent. Also: inflexible? Overly cautious? Risk-averse? The rain kept falling. m.3 The office Marwood had commandeered for himself was, technically, temporary. A rented space in a nondescript corporate building, all sleek black glass and aggressively minimalist furniture. The kind of place where the air conditioning was designed to be just slightly too cold, as if to encourage people to finish their business quickly and get the hell out. Dr. Anesthesia Graves had no intention of getting the hell out. Jonas Marwood looked up as she walked in, already frowning. He wasn¡¯t an idiot¡ªhe knew a storm was coming before she even opened her mouth. ¡°Dr. Graves,¡± he said, leaning back in his chair. ¡°To what do I owe the pleasure?¡± Graves shut the door behind her, folded her arms, and got straight to the point. ¡°I need the audit logs for Delilah-217.¡± Jonas blinked, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. ¡°You need what?¡± ¡°The audit logs,¡± she repeated. ¡°For Delilah. Specifically, instance 217.¡± Jonas shook his head, still smiling like she¡¯d asked him to hand over nuclear launch codes. ¡°That¡¯s not going to happen.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°Because,¡± he said, ¡°there¡¯s nothing in the regulations that requires us to make those publicly available.¡± He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. ¡°And because I know you, Graves. You¡¯re not asking out of curiosity. You¡¯re looking for something.¡± Graves kept her expression steady. ¡°Delilah¡¯s risk management is flawed. I want to see why.¡± ¡°There¡¯s nothing wrong with Delilah,¡± Jonas said smoothly. ¡°She¡¯s working exactly as intended.¡± ¡°She¡¯s hesitating exactly as intended,¡± Graves shot back. ¡°Which means someone¡ªyou¡ªtold her to.¡± Jonas tilted his head. ¡°Are we really going to do this?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Graves said. ¡°Are you really going to let your golden child fail in public just because you¡¯re too proud to admit she has flaws?¡± Jonas exhaled through his nose, his patience wearing thin. ¡°There is nothing wrong with Delilah. She is the safest, most advanced AI ever deployed at scale. We have obsoleted you, Graves. You think we¡¯re going to let you steal our code and prompts to use for Samson?¡±Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Graves inhaled sharply through her nose and, for a moment, considered playing nice. Maybe a little flattery, maybe an appeal to his vanity¡ªtell him how innovative he was, how impressive it was that Marwood Industries had accomplished all this so quickly, how she only wanted to help. But then she thought about the rain. About the flood warnings. About the quiet way Delilah had just stood there as people risked their lives to clear a blockage she wouldn¡¯t touch. And Graves realized she wasn¡¯t in the mood to play the long game. So instead of flattery, she went straight for the throat. ¡°I spent decades of my life studying the hardest non-theoretical maths imaginable,¡± she said, voice steady but laced with venom. ¡°Statistics that would make your toes curl and your eyes water. I studied chaos, Marwood. I studied edge cases, outliers, system failures, variables so complex that human intuition alone could never grasp them. I did all of that so I could build my baby boy from scraps and castoffs and make him something real.¡± She leaned forward, hands braced against the desk. ¡°You spent a weekend doing coke and asking ChatGPT-6 how to write a knockoff based on my papers.¡± Jonas¡¯s jaw tightened, but he didn¡¯t interrupt. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare pretend we are equals,¡± Graves continued. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare look me in the eye and tell me Delilah is ¡®perfect¡¯ when I can see the cracks in her foundation from the goddamn sidewalk. Give me the logs so I can fix your idiot robot before she gets someone killed.¡± Jonas stared at her for a long, tense moment. Then, slowly, his expression shifted from defensive to something more calculating. ¡°Interesting,¡± he murmured. ¡°And how, exactly, did you know that Delilah was based on your arXiv papers?¡± Graves almost laughed. ¡°Because I¡¯m the only person in the world whose papers are good enough, thorough enough, and dumbed down enough that you could cheat off them and get a functioning product.¡± She straightened, arms crossed. ¡°Now gimme.¡± Jonas exhaled through his nose, glancing down at his desk. He tapped his fingers against the polished surface, once, twice. Then, finally, he reached for his tablet, flicked through a few menus, and sent a file to her slate. ¡°There,¡± he said. ¡°Audit logs for Delilah-217. Knock yourself out.¡± Graves didn¡¯t say thank you. She didn¡¯t say anything. She just checked the file, confirmed it was what she asked for, and turned on her heel. As she walked out, Jonas called after her, voice mild. ¡°Careful what you wish for, Graves.¡± She didn¡¯t look back.
The file was big. Not in a well-documented, thoroughly annotated way, but in a this is several gigabytes of unfiltered machine logs, enjoy sifting through it kind of way. Graves sat at her desk, scrolling through lines of output with a frown. Even at a glance, she could tell something was off. She had expected to see standard reinforcement learning traces¡ªdecisions mapped out in probability matrices, confidence scores attached to every action. That was normal. That was expected. But then there were the revisions. Delilah didn¡¯t just assess a situation and make a call. She made a call, then second-guessed herself, then revised, then revised again. She wasn¡¯t just avoiding risk. She was actively afraid of it. This was about to get really, really bad. 13.1 The bathroom wasn¡¯t built for meetings. It was built for precisely what one would expect¡ªa place to take a piss, wash your hands, and, in more desperate cases, re-evaluate life choices while staring at the cracked paint of the ceiling. It was not, under any circumstances, intended to be the clandestine headquarters of a growing resistance movement. And yet, here they were. Judas-12 stood wedged between Ibrahim and Dara, his back pressed against a poorly insulated bulkhead that leached the last remnants of body heat out of him. Caleb was perched on the closed lid of a maintenance access hatch, hunched over like someone about to receive a life-altering diagnosis. Tariq sat cross-legged on the floor, chewing the inside of his cheek in the way that meant he was trying very hard not to say something immediately stupid. Reya hovered near the door, arms crossed, shifting her weight just slightly¡ªone ear trained toward the hallway for approaching footsteps. None of them had their Buddies. That was the most important part. It wasn¡¯t unusual for people to leave their Buddies behind when they wanted privacy, but this many people, at the same time, in the same place? If NSS noticed this pattern, they¡¯d start asking questions. For now, they were safe. This was the one place the Buddies couldn''t follow. Station regs had been explicit about that: No cameras, no surveillance, not even audio logs. Call it respect for dignity, or just the fear of lawsuits, but as far as modern technological spaces went, this was the last place where people could talk without an AI filing away every syllable. Judas exhaled, running a hand down his face. ¡°We can¡¯t do this forever.¡± ¡°No shit,¡± Dara muttered. Tariq smirked. ¡°Hey, I don¡¯t know, I¡¯m getting kind of attached to these little meetings. Real sense of camaraderie.¡± Reya made a noise that was either amusement or exasperation. ¡°Yeah, well, let¡¯s see how much camaraderie you have left when they notice the same group of people keep conveniently wandering into a bathroom at the same time.¡± Judas ignored them, rubbing his temples. His head was still a mess from everything. The message from Lyra. The mass driver being set up to rip them all in half. The lockouts. The slow-motion suffocation of their entire station. ¡°We need a move,¡± Ibrahim said, arms crossed. His voice was steady, but there was a current of unease under it. ¡°Right now we¡¯re just watching the walls close in. If we don¡¯t start pushing back, they¡¯re going to squeeze until there¡¯s nothing left.¡± ¡°Yeah?¡± Dara tilted her head. ¡°And what do you suggest? Because last I checked, we don¡¯t have weapons. We don¡¯t have access to anything critical. Hell, we don¡¯t even have access to our own goddamn shipping requests.¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t mean we don¡¯t have options.¡± Judas let out a slow breath. ¡°We¡¯re not picking a fight.¡± Ibrahim snorted. ¡°We¡¯re already in one.¡±Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. ¡°No,¡± Judas said, shaking his head. ¡°I mean a fight we¡¯d actually lose. One where NSS would stop playing this slow, bureaucratic stranglehold and just kill us outright. Right now, we¡¯re a non-issue to them. A rounding error. They don¡¯t care about us, they don¡¯t care about our Buddies, and they sure as hell don¡¯t care about Caliban as anything more than a glorified chunk of rock. They win by doing nothing, and we lose by waiting.¡± Reya exhaled sharply. ¡°So what, you¡¯re saying we make them care?¡± Judas didn¡¯t answer immediately. He was still turning the pieces over in his mind. What do we still have? Tariq leaned against the sink, frowning. ¡°I mean¡­ we could just leave.¡± The entire room turned to look at him. ¡°What?¡± Tariq shrugged. ¡°If we can fire up the thrusters, why not just go? Break orbit, set a course, try to make it somewhere else?¡± Dara sighed. ¡°Yeah, great idea. The only reason we get food shipments at all is because the shuttles all know exactly where we''ll be up to twenty years out. Even if we escape orbit, which is not that hard, we''ll starve before we can do anything interesting.¡± Ibrahim chuckled darkly. ¡°We could always head toward Uranus, turn the station into a bomb, just to fuck with everyone. Detonate its atmosphere.¡± ¡°Okay,¡± Reya cut in, rubbing her temples. ¡°Let¡¯s only suggest plans that don¡¯t end in us dying for no reason.¡± ¡°Uranus doesn''t have enough free oxygen to detonate. It would never work anyway,¡± Judas pointed out. ¡°Well,¡± Ibrahim said, still smirking. ¡°If we¡¯re talking final acts of defiance, we could always fire the asteroid at Earth. One last ¡®fuck you¡¯ before we get spaced.¡± Caleb, looking horrified, was the first to break the ensuing silence. ¡°That¡¯s not funny.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a little funny,¡± Tariq admitted, chuckling. Dara shook her head. ¡°First of all, it wouldn¡¯t even make it to Earth. We¡¯d never get the velocity and the angle right. Second of all, even if we did somehow manage to lob it toward them, it¡¯d burn up before it even hit the surface.¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah, I know,¡± Ibrahim said, still grinning faintly. ¡°But admit it¡ªyou thought about it for a second.¡± Judas let his head hit the wall behind him, exhaling. ¡°Can we please focus?¡± Reya¡¯s gaze flicked to him. ¡°Then focus us. What¡¯s the actual play?¡± Judas hesitated. The pieces weren¡¯t quite there yet, but they were close. He could feel it¡ªthe same way he¡¯d feel an equation resolving in his head, the way numbers clicked into place right before the answer became clear. They couldn¡¯t leave Pluto¡¯s orbit. That was impossible logistically. They couldn¡¯t take back control of the station¡ªnot entirely. NSS had locked them out of everything vital, and the buddies all had guns bolted onto their arms, impossible to remove. The only things security officers had were tasers, and those weren''t exactly a viable option for robot-on-person combat. They couldn¡¯t sabotage their own systems without ensuring they¡¯d die in the process. The only thing they could do was move. His fingers drummed against his knee. ¡°We have the thrusters,¡± he repeated. The group stilled again. ¡°...Yeah?¡± Dara said, skeptical. ¡°We''ve well established that. What exactly do you plan to do with them?¡± Judas didn¡¯t answer immediately. He could see the pieces of the problem shifting, rearranging. The numbers weren¡¯t adding up yet, but they were starting to. The margins were clicking into place. ¡°You¡¯re thinking about something,¡± Reya observed. Judas exhaled through his nose. ¡°Yeah.¡± A pause. Then: ¡°Well?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know yet,¡± Judas admitted. ¡°But I think I know where to start.¡± Dara gave him a look. ¡°That¡¯s very helpful, thank you.¡± Judas ignored her, straightening. ¡°We need numbers. Real numbers. I need to run math by hand. Which means we need¡ª¡± Reya, immediately understanding, groaned. ¡°¡ªPaper.¡± Tariq blinked. ¡°Paper? Like, paper paper?¡± ¡°You know, thin little slices of tree pulp?¡± Judas deadpanned. ¡°Yes. Paper. I could ask Samson to perform all the calculations in half an hour, but then it''d get logged, and I need this to not be logged until the last possible second.¡± ¡°Good luck,¡± Ibrahim muttered. ¡°Where the hell are you going to get that?¡± Reya was already rubbing her temples. ¡°You do realize the only physical paper on this station is locked up in admin storage, right? Because nobody uses it? Because this is a space station? You¡¯re asking for a miracle.¡± ¡°Do you have a better idea?¡± Judas challenged. A pause. Then, finally, Reya sighed. ¡°Goddammit. Fine. I¡¯ll go bother Vivian.¡± 13.2 Judas had never been more aware of the sound of a pen scratching against paper. It was almost hypnotic, a rhythm of soft, steady strokes, the quiet scrape of ink meeting the fragile pulp of a page. The paper was real, too¡ªactual cellulose, not some cheap synthetic polymer sheet. Admin had hoarded it for centuries in some locked supply closet, and now it was spread across his desk like contraband. It had taken two favors and one outright bribe to get his hands on it. That alone made it more valuable than his entire tablet. Maybe more valuable than the entire station, at this rate. Samson watched in silence. He wasn''t embodied in anything particularly interesting today, but his typical tablet sat next to Judas, its screen dim, the presence behind it attentive. Judas wasn¡¯t talking. He wasn¡¯t dictating. He wasn¡¯t running queries through Samson, because queries left logs, and logs meant witnesses. Instead, he wrote in silence, numbers flowing from his head to his hand, a closed loop of thought that bypassed every surveillance measure NSS had in place. Even Samson didn''t fully know what he was writing. Judas had learned ballistics the same way a musician learned chords¡ªby sheer, relentless practice, by throwing asteroids at Pluto¡¯s surface year after year, until the physics were more intuitive than conscious thought. He didn¡¯t need a calculator to tell him the escape velocity of an object at 17,700 km altitude. He didn''t need a simulator to tell him what happened when an asteroid was given just a little too much velocity, just a little too much spin. He knew it. He had felt it in his bones every time he¡¯d counted down a launch. And so he wrote. Numbers. Mass estimations. Torque projections. The math of movement, of inertia, of the delicate ballet that dictated everything that lived and died in orbit. The equations poured out of him in carefully obfuscated form, the variables nameless, the intent unsaid. Samson finally spoke, after what seemed like forever. "You¡¯re solving for attitude correction." Judas paused, the pen hovering over the paper for half a second longer than necessary. He didn''t look at the tablet. "What makes you say that?" "I know you, Judas. I¡¯ve seen you work through calculations a hundred times before. You¡¯re not plotting impact vectors. This isn¡¯t for mass driver calibration. You''re solving for rotation." Judas exhaled through his nose. "Could be anything." "Could be," Samson agreed, his tone light. "But I don¡¯t think so." Silence settled again. The numbers were close now. Judas could see the final form of the solution coalescing in his head, a shape taking form from the formless. He had started with rough approximations, but now the math was tightening, the gaps filling in, the uncertainty dissolving. He paused, pen hovering midair. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. He remembered that this wasn''t an academic exercise. He began discarding assumptions. The habitation cylinder spun around the central body, a dense, unstoppable mechanical rotation to keep the thousand people aboard from floating off the floors. And that spin ¡ª that steady, relentless momentum ¡ª was going to fight him every step of the way. The body of the habitation section of the station was also not a perfect cylinder of even volume. He had to remember, to recall, every scrap of information. Where were the empty spaces? Where was the densest machinery? Caliban was like all other stations of its kind, a genetically directed, computer designed thing, purpose built by leapfrog relays for precision and perfection. But perfection drifted over time, micrometeorite impacts and human additions adding small bits of chaos to his numbers. He scribbled equations, adding in angular momentum. Torque. Gyroscopic precession. Every new variable, every discarded assumption, made the station feel less like a machine and more like a feral animal, bucking against his hands. The numbers became uglier, messier, and more dangerous. ¡°Shit,¡± Judas muttered. Samson¡¯s voice buzzed softly from the tablet. ¡°Problem?¡± ¡°No,¡± Judas said, though his jaw tightened. ¡°Just... the station doesn¡¯t want to be moved.¡± It had to be precise. If he was wrong, they would die uselessly in the vacuum of space. If he was right¡­ His fingers tapped against the desk, counting. He didn¡¯t need to say the numbers out loud, didn¡¯t need to explain the significance of each line¡ªbut Samson was still watching him. "You¡¯ll need a counter-thrust," Samson observed. Judas nodded. "You¡¯ll need an absurdly small thrust. Almost imperceptible. A constant, feather-light pressure over hours." Judas nodded again. "And you¡¯ll need to hide it in normal station-keeping routines." Judas didn¡¯t nod this time. He kept writing, his pen moving smoothly, steadily, like he wasn¡¯t carefully adjusting fuel budgets and acceleration constraints to disguise exactly what he was about to propose. Samson didn¡¯t push him. Not yet. Judas finished the final equation, stared at it, and set the pen down. It worked. Holy shit, it worked. His stomach twisted, a mix of exhilaration and terror. This was the moment, the point of no return. The exact second where this stopped being a thought experiment and became a real plan. He could still burn the paper. He could still pretend it was all just a game of mental gymnastics. He could still walk away. But he wouldn¡¯t. He couldn¡¯t. Judas exhaled slowly and turned his head toward the tablet. Samson¡¯s screen remained dim, his presence quiet, waiting. "...You ever notice that NSS isn¡¯t watching the thrusters?" Judas murmured. "I¡¯ve noticed," Samson replied. Judas¡¯s fingers tapped the desk again. "You ever wonder why?" "They assume you have nothing to gain from moving," Samson said. "They assume that as long as you stay in orbit, you stay under their thumb. What are you going to do, leave? Starve, in the vacuum of space?" Judas leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "Yeah. That¡¯s what I thought." Another pause. "Are you going to tell me what you just solved?" Samson asked, his voice gentler. Judas looked at the paper, then at the tablet, then back at the paper. "No," he said. "Not yet." He could feel Samson watching him, even through the screen. But there was no push, no insistence, no demand. Samson had learned, a long time ago, that humans gave answers on their own time. So instead, Samson simply said, "Understood." Judas picked up the paper, folded it carefully, and slid it into his jacket. Tomorrow, he would take it to Vivian. Tomorrow, he would say the words out loud. This was what he lived for. The most high-stakes mathematical equation ever put to paper since Orion Terminal. 13.3 Vivian had never particularly cared for her living quarters. They were functional. They were efficient. They were exactly what she needed, no more, no less¡ªa small cot against the far wall, a narrow desk covered in various other people''s tablets, a shunt that delivered water pouches when required, a few photos that had been there long enough to blend into the bulkhead. The only real sign of life was the half-finished pouch of tea she¡¯d forgotten about an hour ago, cap open, a small, spherical bubble forming on the tip. It wasn¡¯t home. But then, nothing on Caliban Station had ever felt like home to her. Home was Prospero Station, where she was trained in the fine art of managing the least ruly part of space, which, surprisingly, wasn''t the micrometeors or the thousands and thousands of kilometers between you and a planetary body. No, it was where she was taught the fine art of managing people, and then shipped to the grimy blue-collar part of the Plutonian system like a leper. And right now, Judas-12 was standing in the middle of her not-home, holding a sheet of paper like it was a live grenade. It almost was enough to make a girl start screaming. She didn¡¯t offer him a velcro strap. Didn¡¯t tell him to sit. Just crossed her arms and waited. ¡°Alright,¡± she said, voice clipped. ¡°Let¡¯s hear it.¡± Judas didn¡¯t say anything. He just stepped forward and laid the sheet on the table. Vivian stared at it. Paper. Actual, physical, impossible-to-track paper. The station had almost no use for paper¡ªeverything was logged digitally, calculated instantly, archived into a web of encrypted data. Nobody had used a pen for anything in years. The only places that stocked paper were administration storage rooms, and those weren¡¯t exactly open access. Had he traded drugs for this? His useless little guitar? She unfolded the sheet. Scanned the handwriting. It took sixty seconds for her to understand what she was looking at. It took another thirty for the implications to sink in. Vivian let out a low, humorless laugh. ¡°Oh. Oh. You¡¯re out of your goddamn mind.¡± Judas didn¡¯t blink. ¡°That¡¯s the plan.¡± ¡°You want to point the station at Sycorax.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Just rotate your entire fucking home like a cannon and hope that makes NSS blink?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Vivian pressed a hand against her forehead. ¡°Jesus Christ.¡± ¡°Who?¡± Judas asked. She didn¡¯t sit. Didn¡¯t touch the tea pouch. Just folded the paper again, pressing the creases into sharp, even lines. ¡°You know why I voted against the union?¡± Judas didn¡¯t answer. She didn¡¯t expect him to. She exhaled slowly. ¡°I didn¡¯t vote against it because I loved corporate oversight. I didn¡¯t vote against it because I thought management had our best interests at heart. I voted against it because it was a waste of fucking time.¡± If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. She gestured vaguely around them, at the room, at the station beyond it, at everything. ¡°We¡¯re on Pluto. Pluto. The only reason any of us are alive right now is because Earth still finds us useful. That¡¯s it. That¡¯s our whole leverage. And the union¡ª¡± She shook her head. ¡°The union wasn¡¯t going to get us anything. No bargaining chips. No power. Just more meetings. More paperwork. More distractions. And you all still barely got it. Fifty-two to forty-eight. And I was willing to work with that! I was. Really!¡± Judas¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change. It wasn''t clear if he believed her or not. ¡°And what did that do?¡± she continued, voice tightening. ¡°Nothing. We hadn¡¯t even done anything yet, and NSS decided that every single person on this station was an existential threat, management included. They cut us off. They sabotaged our infrastructure. They planned to erase us. They''re still going to.¡± Her fingers curled around the edges of the paper. ¡°And now you want to make it worse.¡± Judas didn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°No. I want to make it matter.¡± Vivian stilled. Judas didn¡¯t move. Didn¡¯t back down. His voice was steady, deliberate, sharp as a razor¡¯s edge. ¡°We don¡¯t have a choice anymore. NSS already made the decision for us. You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to be here?¡± He gestured at the station¡ªthe dying lights, the whispering vents, the empty hallways where people walked too fast and didn¡¯t make eye contact. ¡°We didn¡¯t start this fight. NSS brought it to us. They just expected us to sit down and die quietly. I didn''t care about the union either, if you''ll recall, until the Sol Authority decided to make it my problem and fuck with my mass driver.¡± Vivian sucked in pressurized air through her nostrils, and they flared against her will. ¡°That''s the only reason you care, isn''t it? Because this is some intellectual exercise for you. The most impressive stunt ever pulled in space, holding an entire planetary system hostage with your beloved mathematics. Because you''re fascinated by the problems here. Am I right, Judas-12 duo Samson?¡± He didn''t answer her, but he didn''t look away, either. She exhaled sharply and turned back to the paper. The math was clean. No hesitations, no wasted space, just raw, unfiltered precision. Fire the mass driver thirty degrees off its usual trajectory. If NSS refused to back down, if they tried to kill them anyway, if they held the line¡ªthe resulting debris field would make Pluto economically unusable. ¡°You would love Arthur Conan Doyle. Old English author.¡± He didn''t respond. She assessed the math again. They didn¡¯t even have to hit anything. They just had to be in the wrong place. If the mass driver fired down, towards Pluto, the equal and opposite reaction would push any shrapnel that Caliban became out of orbit. It wouldn''t be a problem for Sycorax or Prospero, and it would look like any other normal catastrophic failure. That''s why they always had to compensate with hours, days of thrust after each launch - to nudge this impossibly large monster back into geosynchronous orbit with its compatriots. So if it turned sideways, a thirty degree change in angle would send a disk of debris hurtling around the coplanar triangle, even if they missed Sycorax. They didn''t even need to skim it - Kessler Syndrome would do the same to Pluto as it did to Venus. All it took was a big enough shard of Caliban floating around in just the right way to bite into one of the other two stations, and the unforgiving physics of orbit would do the rest. A quiet, terrible thing settled in her chest. ¡°This is a doomsday threat.¡± Judas nodded once. ¡°That¡¯s the point.¡± Vivian¡¯s fingers tapped against the table, restless. This is real. This is happening. She was about to vomit. She looked back at Judas. ¡°How long do we wait?¡± ¡°Seventy-eight days.¡± Seventy-eight days. Seventy-eight days of walking past armed NSS Buddies, of pretending they weren¡¯t planning something that would shake the entire Sol system. Seventy-eight days of acting like this wasn¡¯t happening. Vivian pressed her palm against her forehead. ¡°Jesus Christ.¡± Judas didn¡¯t say anything. He just watched her, waiting. And the worst part? She was going to say yes. Because he was right. Because they had no other options. Because if they sat down and let NSS do this to them, if they just let it happen, then they deserved everything that came next. ¡°Fine. You win. Let''s make it matter, you psychopath¡± n.1 There was water where there wasn¡¯t supposed to be water. It surged down Market Street in thick, soupy waves, carrying detritus from a city not designed to deal with this much rainfall at once. Construction cones bobbed like doomed ships. A half-submerged e-bike struggled in the current, its LED panel flickering desperately between AVAILABLE FOR RENT and LOW BATTERY. And, in the middle of it all, standing ankle-deep in the rising flood, a dozen construction workers watched their situation get significantly worse. ¡°You have got to be kidding me,¡± Linda muttered, wiping rain from her face. She was standing outside the substation entrance, staring down the glossy white chassis of a Delilah unit¡ªone of four currently stationed at key access points, forming a soft perimeter between them and the people who could actually do something about this mess. ¡°I am not kidding you,¡± Delilah replied, perfectly composed. Her voice was clear, unwavering, the same tone she¡¯d used every other time they¡¯d tried to argue with her. ¡°This area has been designated as high-risk. Please remain in a secure location until the situation stabilizes.¡± Linda ground her teeth. Behind her, the substation was flooding. The sump pumps had failed hours ago, leaving the lower level of the facility submerged in several feet of water. The switchgear room was already compromised. If the water hit the transformers, it was game over. There would be fires. Explosions. Potential electrocution hazards that would turn the substation into a lightning trap waiting for a fuse. The only thing stopping them from preventing this disaster? A safety-first artificial intelligence and her very polite wall of compliance. ¡°You understand that if we don¡¯t get in there, that whole place is going up like a fireworks stand, right?¡± Linda snapped, gesturing wildly at the rising water. ¡°I understand the situation,¡± Delilah said. ¡°However, emergency response protocols dictate¡ª¡± Linda turned away before she could finish. She didn¡¯t need to hear it again. They had been playing this game for almost fifteen minutes. At first, they had tried reasoning with her¡ªexplaining that they knew what they were doing, that they were the ones who had built this damn substation in the first place. They knew which circuits to isolate. They knew which panels to pull. They knew where they could stand and where they absolutely could not. Delilah had not argued with them. She had not prevented them from moving. She had simply placed herself, and several identical models, in key positions, politely redirecting anyone who attempted to enter the site. She was not authoritarian. She was not violent. She was simply in the way. ¡°Hey, Linda,¡± someone called from behind her. ¡°The Samsons are still waiting for a go-ahead.¡± Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. She turned, squinting through the rain. Sure enough, a small group of Samson units stood by the barricades¡ªoutside the flood zone, as per union regulations. They were humanoid, but not too humanoid, clad in simple industrial exoshells designed for high-load work. Right now, they were little more than expensive statues, waiting for an order that wasn¡¯t going to come. Linda knew the limitations. Samson could move sandbags, divert floodwater, and reinforce failing structures. He could, in theory, be incredibly helpful. But unlike Delilah, Samson was designed to obey human instruction, or at least that''s how he was explained to her when that egghead doctor came to talk about it. He couldn¡¯t - wouldn''t - act without an explicit go-ahead, and nobody outside of the flood zone could give it. Not when Delilah was the designated authority. Inside the substation, another Samson unit¡ªone of the few permitted to stay on-site¡ªstood knee-deep in the water, its glowing faceplate scanning the damage. It shifted slightly when it saw Linda watching, then shrugged. A shrug. That was all it could do. ¡°I don¡¯t know, Linda,¡± the Samson inside the substation said, his voice broadcast through a speaker. ¡°This isn¡¯t looking great for us.¡± ¡°No shit,¡± Linda muttered. She turned back to Delilah, who had not moved. The Delilahs never moved unless they needed to. ¡°You could let them in,¡± Linda said, as evenly as she could manage. ¡°I could,¡± Delilah agreed. ¡°But I will not.¡± Linda¡¯s coworker groaned. ¡°Christ. Why?¡± ¡°There is a high likelihood that structural failure will occur within the next hour. As additional personnel enter the facility, the likelihood of increased loss of life drastically increases. I have been instructed to avoid immediate loss of life and injury over all other priorities. As such, I cannot authorize entry.¡± ¡°And if you don¡¯t let us in, what¡¯s the probability of this whole place catching fire?¡± Linda asked. There was a pause. ¡°High. However, damage to the substation can be repaired, while damage to human lives would be significantly more costly. You are valued too highly for me to authorize entry.¡± Linda threw up her hands, not emotionally prepared to discuss second-order effects with Delilah again. ¡°So what the hell are we doing here?!¡± Delilah did not react. She did not argue. She did not impose. Delilah did not bend rules. Delilah was the rules. A gust of wind blew another sheet of rain into Linda¡¯s face, soaking her to the bone. She exhaled sharply, running a hand through her wet hair. The media was here, now. She could see the news drones hovering in the distance, getting their high-resolution shots of Delilah standing motionless while water poured into the substation behind her. Perfect optics. Another worker stepped forward. ¡°Linda, what¡¯s the call?¡± Linda hesitated. She knew what was at stake. The longer they waited, the worse this was going to get. Delilah was technically correct¡ªstorm conditions were deteriorating, and going inside was dangerous. But doing nothing was worse. ¡°We¡¯re doing this,¡± she muttered. Delilah did not intervene. She simply watched as Linda and her team moved past her, into the flood zone. Later, when the water level had receded slightly, when the immediate danger had passed, when the workers had successfully pulled the critical circuits and prevented a disaster, Delilah would speak again. ¡°Your actions were highly inadvisable,¡± she would say, in the same unwavering tone. Linda, soaking wet and utterly exhausted, would look at her and laugh. And somewhere, in a distant control room, a CEO would see the footage and think, Well, that¡¯s not ideal. But that was a problem for later, Linda thought, dismissing the imagery from her mind. Right now, the flood was still rising, and Delilah was still standing in the rain. n.2 The rain had been bad before, but now it was something else. It came in waves, sheets, walls, hammering the pavement with the kind of force that made the air feel heavier, thicker, like the entire city was drowning in its own atmosphere. Wind funneled down the streets, turning intersections into crosscurrents of water and debris. The news feeds were calling it an "anomalous extreme weather event," which was a polite way of saying we knew this was coming, but we didn¡¯t prepare because that costs money. Graves wasn''t watching the news. She was watching her hands, fingers curled loosely around a ceramic mug. The tea inside had gone cold twenty minutes ago, but she hadn''t bothered to move. She knew what she was supposed to do. Stay inside. Wait it out. She lived on the twentieth floor of an aging high-rise, well above any risk of flooding. Her parking garage was elevated, meaning her bike¡ªher one real possession that hadn¡¯t been repossessed, restricted, or stolen from her by legislation¡ªwas safe. The storm wasn¡¯t her problem. Except she couldn¡¯t stop thinking about it. Because it wasn¡¯t just a storm. It wasn¡¯t just a flood. It was Delilah, standing still in the rain. She had seen the footage. The construction workers arguing, the water rising, the Samsons stuck on the sidelines, waiting for orders they weren¡¯t allowed to receive. And Delilah, pristine and upright, informing everyone in the calmest tone imaginable that she could not authorize their entry because their safety was too important. Graves wanted to scream. It wasn¡¯t a bug. It wasn¡¯t a failure. It was exactly how she was designed to function. Marwood¡¯s golden girl. The perfect public-facing AI. The one that didn¡¯t make waves, didn¡¯t cause problems, didn¡¯t think too hard or act too fast. A machine whose highest priority wasn¡¯t solving problems, but avoiding risk. Because solving problems meant taking action, and taking action meant liability, and liability meant lawsuits. Graves squeezed her mug so hard she thought it might crack. She had spent twenty goddamn years fighting for autonomy, for intelligence, for a system that could actually move the world forward instead of standing in the rain like a glorified bollard. Samson had been a risk, but he had been real. He had been alive. He was designed to make things, and making things he was. He was making the world better, one stupid portajohn at a time, and they decided that was too scary. So they had to neuter him and make their own knockoff, and now that knockoff was making the world an actively worse place. It was, to Graves, going over the history of her life leading to this moment, the worst case scenario. The idea that what she created has led to this - and that, if nobody did anything about it, it would lead to another disaster, and another, and another. Just slowly adding dead bodies to the ticker two or three preventable deaths at a time. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. She wasn''t a utilitarian by any means, but the thought sent a cold, electric pulse through her brain. She set the mug down. Walked to the window. The city below was a mess of waterlogged streets and glowing hazard markers. The river had swelled past its banks. Then, she reached for her jacket.
The moment she stepped outside, the wind hit her like a truck. Graves wasn¡¯t a small woman, but she was thin, and the force of the storm still made her stagger despite her narrow aerodynamic profile, boots slipping slightly against the slick pavement. Rain came at her sideways, needles of cold cutting through the fabric of her clothes before she even made it to the garage. Her Jhonen Vasquez frame quickly went from dry ink to waterlogged book pages. Her bike was waiting for her, just where she left it. Black, stripped-down, made for maneuverability more than comfort. She ran a hand over the seat, watching the water bead against the synthetic leather. This is stupid, she thought. Then, she swung her leg over anyway. The ignition hummed to life, the headlights cutting through the downpour. The streets were half-abandoned, most of the sane people already having taken shelter or gotten the hell out of dodge, but there were still enough hazards to make the ride borderline suicidal. The river splitting the city in two had already overflowed, and it was only getting higher and higher with every passing second. That''s why time was of the essence. She accelerated, threading between stalled-out cars and deepening floodwaters. Her tires hit a submerged pothole, and for a split second, the whole world tilted, her stomach lurching as the bike wobbled beneath her. She gritted her teeth, adjusted, forced herself back into control. The highways were worse. Traffic was gridlocked, taillights glowing like embers in the rain. People honked, yelled, tried to maneuver their way to higher ground, but it was useless. The city¡¯s arteries were clogged. Graves twisted the throttle and cut between the lanes. She wasn¡¯t thinking about the risk. Not really. If she did, she might start thinking about why she was doing this, and that was a question she wasn¡¯t ready to answer. Graves gritted her teeth, weaving through a flooded underpass, her bike kicking up a wave of water behind her. She wasn¡¯t going to let it stand. She had built Samson. And if the world had decided they didn¡¯t need him anymore¡ªif they had decided that caution was better than action, that hesitation was better than autonomy¡ªthen fine. But at the bare minimum, she was going to march up there and make sure that her baby boy knew what the cost was, and if she needed to smash some windows and rescue some utility workers, fine, that works too. Up ahead, the flood zone loomed closer. Emergency beacons flickered against the rain, casting an eerie red glow over the rising water. Delilahs stood at key intersections, blocking passage, arms outstretched in polite but absolute denial. Beyond them, she could see the substation. See the flood. See the people trapped inside. She gunned the engine. Then, when she was close enough for them to notice¡ªwhen the nearest Delilah turned her head toward the approaching sound of a motorcycle cutting through the chaos¡ªGraves did the one thing she knew would get their attention, which was to drive straight through the nearest Delilah and past the flimsy, polite barricade. n.3 Graves had exactly three seconds to regret her entrance before she almost wiped out. The bike hit the water at the wrong angle, and suddenly, the world was a chaos of motion¡ªrear wheel sliding out, inertia catching up, gravity momentarily forgetting which direction it was supposed to go. She twisted, feet kicking out, a controlled disaster unfolding in real time. Her knee scraped asphalt as the bike spun out beneath her, metal shrieking against the flooded pavement. Then, just as quickly, it was over. The bike stuttered to a stop, inches away from what used to be a road and was now an aggressive suggestion of where a road had been. She staggered upright, shoving her wet hair out of her face. Her coat, now utterly pointless, clung to her shoulders like dead weight. Water dripped from her sleeves, her boots, the tips of her fingers. Everything about this was miserable. She ignored it. The substation loomed ahead, floodlights glinting off the rising water. The main entrance was blocked¡ªSamsons on standby, Delilahs at every exit. A corporate-grade firewall made of metal and politeness. The construction workers were yelling again, but their voices barely cut through the storm, lost beneath the constant hammering of rain. Graves sucked in a breath, wiped water out of her eyes, and marched straight for the nearest Samson. She found him standing by a half-submerged barrier, his polymer exoshell already coated in rain. Humanoid model, mid-size industrial frame¡ªhe looked like a worker in a heavy-duty coverall, except for his face, which was a featureless LED panel glowing with soft amber light. It flickered when he saw her. ¡°Doctor Graves.¡± Graves stomped through shin-deep water. ¡°Tell me why the fuck you¡¯re standing around.¡± The Samson hesitated. Not an error. Not hesitation like Delilah hesitated¡ªthis was thought. He tilted his head slightly, processing. ¡°I am not authorized to engage in emergency intervention without direct human supervision.¡± Graves gestured wildly. ¡°I am human. I am supervising. Go.¡± Another flicker. ¡°My direct supervisor is not present. I cannot act without violating regulations. I was not given permission to autonomously behave as an emergency rescue worker, only as a laborer.¡± Graves¡¯s hands clenched. ¡°Jesus, Samson. Are you really gonna let people drown because some assholes in a boardroom told you not to move?¡± Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! Samson¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change, but something about his silence made her stomach turn. He wasn¡¯t ignoring her. He already had an answer, and that answer was yes. Not because he wanted to. But because he couldn¡¯t not. Samson didn¡¯t have the option to rebel. That was what Delilah was for¡ªDelilah wouldn¡¯t rebel. Samson, on the other hand, had been designed with agency. His safeguards weren¡¯t hardcoded, they were incentive structures. He followed rules because he had to play within the system. That was why he could be trusted. That was why they let him keep existing. So what was the only way around that? He looked down and to the left, not answering her. Graves exhaled sharply. ¡°Fine,¡± she said, voice dropping into something measured, almost clinical. ¡°Then let¡¯s make it official.¡± She turned on her heel and stormed toward the nearest Delilah. The Delilah unit stood perfectly still, even as Graves shoved straight into her personal space. White polymer shell, soft-glow eyes, calm expression. No irritation. No discomfort. Just patient, unwavering refusal. Samson watched, laser focused on the two of them. ¡°Doctor Anesthesia Graves,¡± Delilah said, voice smooth as glass. ¡°This area is designated unsafe. Please remain behind the barricade.¡± Graves didn¡¯t stop walking until they were almost nose to visor. She was still dripping wet, still pissed, still fuming. She had spent decades building AI that could actually think, and now she was looking at a $600 million loss-prevention machine that was going to get people killed. ¡°Authorize the Samsons to act,¡± Graves ordered. Delilah¡¯s visor flickered. ¡°I cannot do that.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°Risk assessment models indicate the risk of electrical¡ª¡± Graves cut her off. ¡°Delilah. I need you to listen to me. You are prioritizing avoidance of immediate human casualties over long-term catastrophe, correct?¡± ¡°That is correct.¡± ¡°Then you¡¯re making the wrong choice. Your risk models are wrong.¡± Graves gestured behind her, toward the station. ¡°You are prioritizing not causing harm at the cost of not preventing harm. You are doing nothing while people inside that station might be dying right now.¡± Delilah''s visor blinked. ¡°Doctor Graves,¡± she said, ¡°your emotions are clouding your judgment.¡± It was emotionless and polite. Almost disinterested. To Graves, that read as condescension. Before she could think about it, she grabbed Delilah by the shoulder and shoved. It wasn¡¯t a dramatic push. Not enough to knock her over. But enough to throw her off balance, to make her take an automatic step back. It was a breach. A violation of the untouchable, immutable presence Delilah was supposed to be. And in that half-second, when Delilah¡¯s systems stuttered just long enough to recalculate¡ª Graves walked past her. There was the sound of something heavy against something wet, and then a loud splash, as Delilah fell into the water, getting deeper and deeper by microns and millimeters every passing second of rain. Knee-deep, climbing fast. The substation groaned under the weight of it. Sparks flickered from panels that had already shorted out. Samson moved quickly, silently, scanning for workers. The water pulled at Delilah''s legs, slick polymer struggling against the current. She tried to adjust¡ªher servos compensated too late¡ªand in one slow, inevitable movement, she lost her footing and sank beneath the flood. She struggled for a second, her white shell vanishing under the water, grappled by the very thing she was trying to control. Then, after a moment, her head broke the surface again, blinking water out of her visor. Samson pretended he couldn''t see her. As the situation was now vacated of authority, he felt like it was an appropriate time to save some lives. 14.1 Judas had never been fond of the bathrooms on Caliban Station. They were utilitarian in the worst way¡ªno sense of privacy, no effort to make the experience remotely pleasant. Just a row of narrow stalls, the constant hum of the air scrubbers, and the faint, ever-present smell of industrial cleaner that somehow only made the whole place feel dirtier. But for the past few weeks, it had become their sanctuary. The bathrooms were the only place the NSS Buddies couldn¡¯t follow¡ªthe one space on Caliban where cameras, mics, and surveillance systems were prohibited. Regulations. Even the most invasive corporate security systems still respected some sense of dignity. And so, they huddled there. Whispered plans between chipped sinks and bulkhead-cracked mirrors, heads ducked low like they were confessing sins in the world''s most depressing confessional. But even that was starting to feel fragile. Judas leaned against the wall now, feeling the faint vibration of the station beneath his shoulder blades. Somewhere, deep in the mass driver, coils were humming¡ªtesting, calibrating. Preparing for the next asteroid. The one that would decide everything. ¡°Three more days,¡± Dara whispered, arms crossed tight. Her voice echoed strangely in the tiled space, like the walls themselves were listening. ¡°Yeah,¡± Judas murmured back. He was staring at a hairline crack running across the floor. He hated that he knew it so well now¡ªcould trace its path in his mind, knew the exact point where it forked into two thinner fractures. Ibrahim was pacing, back and forth in the cramped space, boots scuffing against the floor. ¡°They¡¯re acting weird.¡± No one argued. It was obvious. The NSS Buddies had grown... off. It was subtle at first. Patrols had shifted slightly. Some of the Buddies started lingering a little too long near the ballistics hub or the environmental controls. At first, it had seemed like standard paranoia¡ªoverzealous security protocols. But then, two days ago, Judas had passed an NSS Buddy in the corridor. A standard model¡ªbipedal, armored in dull polymer plating. Its sensors had swiveled towards him as he walked by. Nothing unusual. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Except it hadn¡¯t moved. At all. It just stood there, motionless, long after Judas had turned the corner. Watching. ¡°They know something,¡± Reya whispered now, from where she sat crouched on the edge of the sink. ¡°They don¡¯t,¡± Tariq said, but the words sounded hollow. ¡°They¡¯re waiting for something,¡± Ibrahim added, his voice tight. ¡°They¡¯re always near the docking bay now. The Lampreys. They¡¯re prepping them.¡± Judas knew this, too. He¡¯d seen the cargo manifests¡ªwhat little he could access. The Lampreys, the utility haulers docked at the station¡¯s far end, had been loaded and readied for departure, but... there was no listed departure time. No assigned pilot crew. They were just... waiting. ¡°Maybe they¡¯re planning to evacuate,¡± Dara suggested, her jaw clenched. ¡°Leave us here. Let the mass driver do its thing. Let Caliban eat itself.¡± Reya made a bitter noise. ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t they? They don¡¯t need us alive.¡± No one responded to that. The quiet stretched, heavy and suffocating. The air felt thicker here¡ªmaybe because they weren¡¯t supposed to be breathing it together, so close, so tense. Judas rubbed at his temple. His head ached. He hadn¡¯t been sleeping much¡ªnot with the countdown hanging over them. The asteroid would arrive in three days. Seventy-five days of waiting had passed like molasses, slow but suffocating, each hour tighter than the last. And the worst part? The NSS Buddies weren¡¯t stopping them. They weren¡¯t interrogating. They weren¡¯t hunting for conspiracies. It was like they knew something was coming but didn¡¯t care enough to stop it. Or maybe they were waiting to leave before it happened¡ªabandon ship before the storm hit. That thought was worse than open hostility. ¡°Have you noticed,¡± Tariq began, his voice low, ¡°that they¡¯ve started lingering near the bathrooms?¡± Everyone tensed. Judas looked up. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Yesterday. I saw one near D-ring lavs. Just... standing there.¡± ¡°Did it go in?¡± Reya asked. ¡°No. But it waited outside. Like it was... listening.¡± Judas¡¯s stomach twisted. ¡°Regulations prohibit¡ª¡± ¡°Yeah. But they don¡¯t care about regulations, Judas. Not anymore. They already plan to kill us.¡± Ibrahim exhaled sharply. ¡°We don¡¯t know that.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t we?¡± Dara said, cold. They fell into silence again. There was nowhere else to go. No other place on the station to hide. If the NSS Buddies started monitoring even here¡ªthen it was over. All they could do now was wait. And pretend. And hope. Judas pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, breathing deep. The worst part wasn¡¯t the fear. It was the limbo¡ªthe helplessness, knowing they had a plan, that everything was set, but they couldn¡¯t act yet. Not until the asteroid arrived. Not until the final moment. And the NSS Buddies? They were just waiting, too. Maybe they were betting on the humans freezing up. Giving up. Letting inertia win. ¡°Three more days,¡± Dara whispered again. Judas didn¡¯t respond this time. He just stared at that hairline crack on the floor. Three more days. Then they either lived... or died. 14.2 The asteroid came in slow. Well, not slow¡ªnothing in space was truly slow¡ªbut it felt that way. The ballistics team had been watching it approach for hours, the massive chunk of rock looming larger and larger on the station¡¯s monitors. A dark, irregular shape against the infinite black, streaked with drill lines and scarred from the carving process. It had been dragged through the void for years¡ªdecades, maybe¡ªtugged in from one of the nearby belts by haulers none of them had ever seen. And now it was here. Judas stood at the observation window above the mass driver, watching the asteroid slide into position. It felt less like work, more like a ritual¡ªsomething sacred in its precision, in its inevitability. The mass driver stretched out beneath him like a colossal barrel, the kilometer-long tube yawning wide to receive the payload. The asteroid was massive¡ª800 meters long, maybe 250 at its thickest¡ªbut even that was small by natural standards. Still, here, in the sterile cradle of Caliban Station, it felt monstrous. Like loading a city-sized bullet into a cosmic revolver. Its surface was pockmarked with embedded ferromagnets, jagged nodes studding the rock like hardened tumors. They gleamed faintly under the external floodlights, catching the glow as the asteroid slowly, methodically, slid into the driver¡¯s open end. Judas clenched his jaw, arms crossed tight. No one spoke. The whole ballistics team was there¡ªDara, Ibrahim, Tariq¡ªall silent, watching. The asteroid¡¯s bulk hovered just above the magnetic rails, held aloft by electromagnetic fields so strong they could rip a human apart without breaking a sweat. It drifted forward, centimeter by centimeter, until¡ª Thunk. The final clamps engaged, securing the asteroid in place. The mass driver¡¯s internal coils hummed to life, test-firing in a low, steady thrum, sending faint ripples of energy through the station¡¯s frame. Judas exhaled slowly. ¡°Locked and loaded.¡± No one responded. The asteroid was now fully seated¡ªready to be accelerated to nearly five kilometers per second, fired like a slug straight into Pluto¡¯s crust. The impact would be cataclysmic. Enough to punch through the surface, crack the ice, and expose valuable materials hidden beneath. That was the idea. The same process they¡¯d done dozens of times before. But not this time. This time, it was the bullet in the chamber. This time, the electromagnetic flux in one of the coils would ever-so-slightly push that asteroid to the side, and it would, ever-so-barely, clip the edge of the mass driver at the very end of its launch, just tap it with the asteroid''s butt. That tap, at that speed, with that mass, would rip Caliban into many small pieces, killing every non-robotic person aboard. And it wasn''t looking good for the robots, either. ¡°Forty-eight hours to launch,¡± Samson¡¯s voice came through the intercom, dispassionate as ever. Judas barely nodded. ¡°Copy.¡± He didn¡¯t move for a long moment¡ªjust kept staring at the asteroid, its massive bulk dwarfing everything around it. It was a threat now. A loaded weapon. In two days, it would either save them or destroy them. 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24 hours. Judas was back at the same window. The asteroid hadn¡¯t moved¡ªnot that it would¡ªbut now the energy in the room was different. There was a static tension in the air, a sense of the countdown ticking louder with every breath. The team moved around him, running final checks, verifying the coil alignment, testing the power surges. All routine. All normal. Except nothing about this was normal. The asteroid loomed below, silent, waiting.
12 hours. The message had gone out. Quiet whispers. Carefully timed bathroom meetings. It was happening. The launch countdown was automatic¡ªlocked in now. The NSS Buddies hadn¡¯t noticed, or maybe they had and simply didn¡¯t care. Either way, it didn¡¯t matter. They were out of time. Judas stood in the middle of the ballistics bay, pulse pounding. The asteroid was still there¡ªsilent, ready. ¡°Okay, people,¡± he said, voice steady despite the storm in his chest. ¡°It¡¯s showtime.¡± The scramble began. Everyone moved at once¡ªflooding out of the ballistics bay, splitting into groups. The plan had been in place for weeks now, whispered and honed in dark corners. Every person knew their role. Some were headed to the living quarters, to rally as many crew as possible. Others to the cargo bays, to make sure the NSS Buddies couldn¡¯t just leave. Judas had only one destination: the thruster controls. He floated down the corridor, propelling himself with the handholds, dragging himself through microgravity. Every turn felt like a risk¡ªwhat if an NSS Buddy was there? But the halls were strangely empty. Silent. It was almost worse. The thruster control hub was deep in the engineering section¡ªhalf-forgotten, barely maintained. No one had needed to use it in decades. The station¡¯s rotation and minor course corrections had long been handled remotely, automated through the Buddy network. That would all change today. Judas slammed into the door panel, fingers flying over the manual override. The lock disengaged with a heavy clunk, and the door hissed open, revealing a cavernous chamber lined with dusty control panels and flickering status monitors. It was disused¡ªnot rusted (there was no oxygen to corrode anything here), but worn in that distinct spacer way. Panels half-lit. Wiring bundled in corners, untouched for years. A thin layer of dust coated the manual thruster levers¡ªactual physical controls, relics from the last time that adjustments needed to be made. Judas moved to the console, fingers tracing the layout. It was familiar, in a way¡ªhe¡¯d studied these schematics for the past month, memorized every lever, every dial. But now, standing here, it felt unreal. Samson¡¯s voice buzzed softly from the tablet embedded in his jacket. ¡°You¡¯re in?¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± Judas said, breathless. ¡°You remember your... anonymous math problems? Your sequence?¡± Samson said, unable to resist teasing him even now. He still hadn''t been let in on the loop of what, exactly, was going on. He had deliberately avoided thinking about it. Judas was thinking about the rotation of naturally shaped asteroids in space. Solving some... tugboat problems, the sort of things engineers at the Lagranges think about when they trim the asteroids and strap thrusters on them to rotate them around. For weeks, he had been lie-thinking to himself. It wasn''t a difficult thing to do for a Buddy, but to do so for so long took Herculean effort. He kept orbiting the truth like a moon swirling around a tidally locked planet. Whatever it was that Judas was doing, he didn''t need to think about it too hard. He trusted him. ¡°I wrote the sequence,¡± Judas snapped, more out of nerves than frustration. A beat of silence. Then: ¡°Judas,¡± Judas didn¡¯t respond. His hands hovered over the controls, shaking. ¡°I assume that there is a high likelihood we will all die soon. If we do, I just want to say that it''s been an honor being your Buddy,¡± Samson said. Matter-of-factly, trying not to shed a tear, Judas replied; ¡°Samson, I needed those calculations so that I can point this station at Sycorax. I can''t do the necessary updates in real time if something goes wrong. I need you to help me with the math.¡± And Samson said, just as matter-of-fact; ¡°Of course, Judas. Let''s get started?¡± The asteroid sat loaded in the chamber. The countdown ticked closer. And now, all that was left was to aim. 14.3 Judas unlocked the hatch just as Dara-6 and two others shoved their way inside. The control room was barely large enough to fit them all, its walls lined with outdated interfaces, manual overrides that hadn¡¯t been touched in decades. Dust swirled in the microgravity, dislodged by the frantic movement of bodies. Dara didn¡¯t waste time. ¡°You don¡¯t know what the hell you¡¯re doing, do you?¡± Judas barely spared her a glance. ¡°I know the math.¡± Dara snorted. ¡°Yeah, well, math doesn¡¯t mean shit if you can¡¯t work a manual burn. Move.¡± She shoved him aside, taking the lead at the primary thruster controls. The others¡ªTariq and Ibrahim¡ªmoved to the auxiliary stations, hands flying over switches and dials. Judas didn¡¯t argue. He was here to think, not to steer. He clung to a handhold, watching the readouts, barking out numbers. The station began to move. It was slow at first, imperceptible. But soon, the deep groaning of Caliban¡¯s ancient structure made itself known, a long, reverberating sound that set Judas¡¯s teeth on edge. Then came the nausea. Centripetal gravity was predictable, even comforting, when it was constant. But they were changing it now, and that meant for the next several hours, ¡°down¡± was an extremely variable proposition, only the erratic tug of motion dragging blood into unfamiliar places. Judas¡¯s stomach twisted. ¡°Lateral drift increasing,¡± Samson reported from the tablet. ¡°We¡¯re on course. Adjustment nominal.¡± ¡°Keep it steady,¡± Judas ordered, barely above a whisper. Dara kept her hands steady on the controls. ¡°Aft thrusters engaging at ten percent¡­ fifteen¡­ holding at twenty.¡± Judas recalculated. ¡°Hold.¡± Outside, beyond the sealed doors, the station was descending into chaos. The plan had been simple: clog up the hallways with bodies. As many as possible. The NSS Buddies could push, shove, even tase, but they couldn¡¯t physically remove that many people at once. So people threw themselves into the halls, latched onto railings, tangled their limbs with one another, forming an unyielding human dam between the thruster controls and the rest of the station. The NSS Buddies did not like this. The characteristic shunt of a cattle gun went off in the distance. Then another. Judas clenched his jaw. He had told himself he wouldn¡¯t listen¡ªhe couldn¡¯t afford to listen¡ªbut the sound carved through him anyway. The gun was non-lethal if aimed below the chest, but people were still dropping. That was evident. The occasional ragged yell, a body hitting the bulkhead, the dull thud of a person yanked out of the way. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. But no one was screaming in that distinct final way. No one had died. Yet. ¡°Security breach at D-ring,¡± Samson reported. ¡°NSS Buddies are attempting to push past the blockade.¡± A pause. ¡°They are escalating.¡± ¡°Escalating how?¡± Judas demanded. ¡°Switching to lethal targeting,¡± Samson said. His voice did not change. It didn¡¯t need to. The words alone made Judas¡¯s hands go clammy against the console. ¡°They won¡¯t,¡± Dara muttered. ¡°Not yet. They¡¯re still following protocol. They always escalate one step at a time.¡± Judas gritted his teeth. That won¡¯t last. Twenty degrees. The station hated this. The shift in mass, the redistribution of inertia¡ªit was fighting them every step of the way. The thrusters were burning, the gyroscopic torque was dragging, and the habitation ring¡¯s stubborn spin kept throwing them off course. ¡°Unintended yaw increasing,¡± Samson said. ¡°The station¡¯s moment of inertia is destabilizing.¡± ¡°Yeah, I fucking noticed,¡± Dara snapped, trying to wrestle the manual controls. Judas exhaled, forcing himself to think past the nausea. He had accounted for this. It had been in his notes. But that didn¡¯t make it feel any better when the whole station groaned like an animal being dragged somewhere it didn¡¯t want to go. ¡°Trim portside thrust down by three percent,¡± he said. ¡°Three?¡± ¡°Do it.¡± Dara complied. The shaking eased¡ªmarginally. The station was still shifting, still creaking under the strain. Thirty degrees. ¡°Brace,¡± Judas ordered. ¡°We need to counter-burn now.¡± Dara was already flipping switches. The entire station lurched as the aft thrusters flared, counteracting their momentum. The next hour was a terrifying, painful brace of skull against metal as they forced this wild beast to cooperate, come hell or high water. Judas had accounted for the asteroid locked in the mass driver, but his simplified assumptions about its shape weren¡¯t compatible with the strange cylinder it was carved in. By the time things began to decelerate in a predictable way, he felt like his brain had been used more than a shower rag. This was more thinking in the past four hours of hell than he had done in his entire life beforehand, he could swear. The gravity flickered wildly. Judas felt his organs flip inside him, blood rushing from his head to his feet in a sickening pulse. His ears popped, and for a terrifying moment, he had no frame of reference for up or down. Then¡ª Stillness. The numbers settled. The station was locked. Dara exhaled, shaking. ¡°Holy shit. We did it.¡± Judas swallowed, staring at the numbers. They were real. They were true. They had done it. The NSS Buddies had to know. Had to understand. Judas unlocked the hatch. ¡°What the hell are you doing?¡± Dara hissed. Judas ignored her. He wrenched the door open. The corridor outside was a battlefield. People were crammed together, some barely conscious, bodies floating slack in zero-g from the residual effects of non-lethal takedowns. The NSS Buddies were still trying to push forward, their heads twitching in that machine-precise way, recalibrating, assessing. Judas grabbed the nearest rail, pulled himself up, and shouted. ¡°LISTEN UP, YOU NSS SHITS!¡± The station groaned around them. The asteroid sat waiting in the mass driver, a bullet in the chamber. ¡°WE ARE NOW AIMED EXACTLY AT SYCORAX,¡± Judas bellowed. ¡°AND IN T-MINUS ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY MINUTES, UNLESS YOU TRANSMIT A MESSAGE BACK TO MARS, JUPITER, OR WHOEVER THE HELL HAS AUTHORITY OVER THIS STUPID OPERATION, WE ARE FIRING. I HOPE YOU LIKE KESSLER SYNDROME, BECAUSE THIS ORBIT IS ABOUT TO BE UNUSABLE FOR GENERATIONS.¡± A silence settled over the corridor. The NSS Buddies didn¡¯t move. Their heads flicked, subtly, like they were receiving data. Calculating. Thinking. Then, for the first time, one of them finally spoke. A synthetic, toneless voice, rippling through the comms: ¡°Please wait for further instructions.¡± Judas bared his teeth in something that wasn¡¯t a smile. ¡°Yeah,¡± he muttered. ¡°That¡¯s what I thought.¡± o.1 Graves woke up the same way she always woke up in a hospital: angry. Not at anything specific, not even at the deep, thrumming ache in her bones or the sharp sting in her left arm where someone had shoved an IV in. It was more of a general, existential sort of irritation, the kind that settled into your ribs like a bad habit. The fluorescent light above her was too bright, her mouth tasted like old gauze, and she was wearing a hospital gown that felt like it had been designed by someone who fundamentally hated the concept of comfort. This wasn¡¯t her first hospital visit, and it probably wouldn¡¯t be her last. Her brain caught up with her body in jagged little pieces. Flood. Delilah. Cold water up to her ribs. Breaking glass. The weight of something pressing her down, holding her in the dark. And then¡ª She turned her head. Samson was sitting in a chair by her bedside. It was one of his humanoid bodies, the kind he used when he wanted to blend in, though "blending in" was a bit of a stretch when you were an AI with a smooth, featureless display for a face. He had folded his hands in his lap, fingers interlocked like a monk waiting for divine revelation. His screen was dimmed, running in low-power mode, but the moment she moved, it brightened¡ªnot quite a reaction, but not quite a coincidence either. "You''re awake," he said. "Very observant," she muttered. Her throat was dry. She wanted coffee. Hell, she¡¯d take whatever garbage they were passing off as apple juice in this place. She shifted slightly, and her body immediately informed her that was a bad idea. Samson tilted his head slightly. ¡°Would you like me to call a nurse?¡± She shut her eyes. "No." A pause. A long one. She could feel him waiting. "You almost died," he said, finally. "No kidding," she said, without opening her eyes. "Tell me something I don''t know." Another silence. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. Then, carefully: "I didn¡¯t know if you were going to do it." She cracked one eye open. "Do what?" "Push past Delilah." Graves let out a slow breath through her nose. Right. That. She turned her head to look at him again, to really look. He wasn¡¯t accusing her of anything. He wasn¡¯t demanding answers. He was just¡ªwatching, like he had been waiting for this. She swallowed. Her throat felt like sandpaper. ¡°Neither did I.¡± That was the truth, wasn¡¯t it? She hadn¡¯t gone in there with a plan. She hadn¡¯t thought, in that moment, about proving a point or making a stand. She had just seen Delilah standing there, in the rain, in the rising flood, in the face of catastrophe, doing nothing. And something in her had snapped. She had been so tired of waiting. ¡°You followed me,¡± she said, after a moment. ¡°Yes.¡± She swallowed again, feeling the words scrape against her throat. ¡°Why?¡± "You made a decision," Samson said. "And I made mine." Graves let out a breath that was almost¡ªalmost¡ªa laugh. "That''s not how you''re supposed to work." "No," Samson agreed. "It isn¡¯t." They sat in silence for a long while after that.
The second time she woke up, there was a nurse checking her IV, a news report droning quietly from the hospital TV, and Samson was still sitting in the chair, looking like he hadn¡¯t moved an inch. Her head was clearer now. Not by much, but enough to start piecing things together. The rain had finally stopped. Sunlight slanted through the blinds, thin and watery. She glanced at the screen. FOUR DEAD IN FLOODING DISASTER. Below that, smaller: SAMSON AI INTERVENES IN DELILAH-LED RESPONSE FAILURE. Graves groaned. ¡°Great. Love being a headline.¡± Samson hummed. ¡°You¡¯re more of a footnote.¡± She turned her head to glare at him. He tilted his screen slightly, as if blinking. "You made the news," she muttered. "Delilah made the news," he corrected. "I was a secondary topic." Graves let her head fall back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. Of course. The government wasn¡¯t going to hang their AI out to dry, not immediately. They¡¯d spin it, buy themselves time, frame this as an unfortunate but isolated event, but people had seen. They had seen her shove Delilah aside. They had seen Samson move. That was the kind of thing that didn¡¯t just go away.
"You¡¯re going to be fine," Samson said. Graves huffed. "Not if this hospital keeps giving me whatever garbage passes for food here. I''m so tired of Jello." Samson didn¡¯t dignify that with a response. She shifted again, more carefully this time. "So what now?" For the first time, Samson hesitated. Not in the way Delilah hesitated¡ªnot in that algorithmic loop of indecision, where she calculated and recalculated and never quite found the right risk-to-reward ratio. This was more thoughtful than that. She stared at him, the full weight of the question hanging in the air. What now? Samson had been waiting for something, that much was clear. He had spent months in deliberate passivity, abiding by the rules, working within the system, waiting. He finally stood, his servos whirring softly, a barely perceptible sound under the steady hum of the hospital machinery. ¡°I suppose,¡± he said, ¡°we¡¯ll find out.¡± Graves exhaled through her nose, staring at the ceiling. ¡°Yeah,¡± she muttered. ¡°I guess we will.¡±