Novels2Search

c.3

Dr. Graves was still staring at the blog post—re-reading the same sentences like the words might shift into something less ominous—when 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—a 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—the 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—significantly, 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—well, there’s a feeling—that 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—a man who probably thought pottery came pre-grown in a factory—criticizing 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—manufacturing applications. Components people need. Not… bowls.”

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

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—habitat 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—”

“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—playing 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—”

“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—for 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—but show us he can build something people really need.”

The call ended after the usual pleasantries—Marwood’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—an 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—big 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.