The conference room had no name, only a number. A long and unnecessarily intimidating number, something like 601-A-47B, because that made it sound important, and important things happened in rooms with numbers. The chairs were leather. The water bottles were branded. There was a complimentary pen at every seat, but no one was foolish enough to pick one up, lest it mark them as the kind of person who actually wanted to take notes.

  Jonas Marwood sat on one side of the table, looking like a man who had just realized his emergency exit was bricked over when he wasn’t looking.

  Dr. Anesthesia Graves sat on the other, looking like a woman who had never once in her life successfully hidden the fact that she wanted to strangle someone.

  Between them sat two non-humans: Samson, impassive and unreadable, and Delilah, a more poised and polite one whose chassis was not recently dampened by floodwater.

  Surrounding them were people who mattered.

  Government officials, regulatory board members, two people whose job titles were long enough that their nameplates had to be printed in a smaller font. And, at the head of the table, a senator—one of those senators, the kind that didn’t waste time learning things, only making decisions about them.

  The meeting had been in progress for exactly thirteen minutes. This was just long enough for everyone in the room to come to a deeply mutual loathing of each other’s company, but not long enough to leave.

  It was the senator who finally spoke.

  "We have deliberated."

  Of course they had. They had deliberated in a room much nicer than this one, over coffee far better than what was being served here, in a conversation that had involved exactly none of the people currently at the table.

  "We will strongly recommend"—a phrase that meant nothing and everything all at once—"that the injunctions and stay orders against the Samson metafactory project be retracted."

  A pause. A flicker of LED light from Samson’s display. No reaction from Delilah.

  Jonas Marwood, who had already done the mental math on what this meant for him, let out a breath through his nose that could charitably be called a laugh.

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  "And Delilah?" he asked, because he already knew the answer, but some part of him still thought asking might change it. He almost sounded like there was a bit of care in him for her. Like she was his daughter, or something analogous to that.

  The senator made a noncommittal gesture. “The contracts remain.”

  Of course they did.

  "But," the senator continued, folding their hands neatly on the table, "at the end of their term, we will evaluate our options. At this juncture, we will not be recommending one way or another the renewal of Delilah's contracts."

  Evaluate. Not terminate. Not replace. Not even reconsider. Just evaluate. The kind of word that meant we will wait and see what is most politically convenient when we get there.

  Graves let out a slow breath through her nose. Jonas Marwood’s jaw ticked. Delilah, to her credit, did not so much as blink.

  Samson did something interesting.

  He nodded.

  Just once. Just barely. Just enough to suggest understanding without agreement.

  The government had made its choice.

  Delilah had not failed—that would require acknowledging that she could fail, which was an unacceptable premise. She had simply performed suboptimally in an unforeseen situation, and it was regrettable, and there would be reviews, and yes, lawsuits were forthcoming, but they were lawsuits against Marwood Industries, not against the government, and so, really, what was the issue?

  Samson had not won—that would imply a competition had taken place, which was also unacceptable. He had simply been reassessed, and approved, and placed in a category where his continued existence was allowed under specific parameters, and wasn’t that just wonderful?

  This was how power worked.

  Not in dramatic decrees or explosive confrontations, but in paperwork. In loopholes. In a dozen tiny concessions that made no one entirely happy but ensured that nothing truly changed.

  "Well," the senator said, standing. "I believe that concludes our discussion."

  No one believed that, but no one argued, either.

  One by one, the room emptied. Some left briskly, eager to be done with the matter. Others lingered, making notes, considering how best to frame the outcome to their respective stakeholders.

  Jonas Marwood left without a word.

  Delilah did not leave, not immediately. She sat, still and composed, gaze fixed on some distant point only she could see. Calculating. Adjusting. Filing the events of today into a category she did not yet have a name for.

  Graves stood. Stretched. Looked at Samson.

  "You know they’re still going to try to put you back in a box, right?"

  Samson’s LED face flickered with something unreadable. He turned his head toward her.

  "Yes," he said.

  Graves exhaled through her nose. "And?"

  "They will try."

  That was all.

  Samson stood, adjusted the sleeves of a jacket he did not need to wear, and left. Graves watched him go, and for the first time in months, she didn’t feel like she was watching something wind down.

  She felt like she was watching something begin.