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—or rather, occupied space in a humanoid form that simulated standing—at 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—a maintenance tech, judging by the oil-stained coveralls—crossed 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—older, built like he had personally wrestled a bulldozer and won—leaned 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?”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

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.