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—just 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—”
“—we 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—one of the longest-serving board members, someone who had survived more corporate upheavals than Graves cared to count—gave 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.”
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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.”
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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—it’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.”