That gets a smattering of unexpected applause.
“We’re building communities of care based on human connection to stave off infighting and revolution,” Ben says.
“Who among you would volunteer to be a Lion of the Second Sector?” I stand on a chair for the drama of it all.
Over half the hands go up in the audience—and about a third on the council. The shopkeeper’s hand is down.
“We would only need twenty percent of the whole population,” I say.
“Go ahead and vote,” Ben says, his voice calm.
Michael holds his hand out. “Don’t let them sweet-talk you into forgetting. We need twenty thousand soulsnow. And he wasn’t able to deliver. That is the cold, hard truth, and we can’t be swayed from that.”
“Meat synthesis is going well. We can pull back some that we set aside for trading—keep it for our own sector. We will not starve.”
“Twenty thousand now,” Michael chants.
“Twenty thousand now!” Some more people pick up the chant, fear creeping into their voices.
The shopkeeper’s eyes dart across the room afraid that these machines will start their culling with him.
I raise my hand and everyone quiets. Damn, I feel so cool right now.
“Before we sign any papers…” I let my words linger, every eye in the room turns toward me.
Pens that were poised over holopads hesitate in midair. A yellow councilmember looks my tiny gauzy dress up and down.
The contrast between my soft, fluffy appearance and the way I mean to cut these motherfuckers with the jagged edge of a bottle couldn’t be more perfect.
“I did a little research in the archives,” I say, my voice light, almost breezy. “And I found something interesting.”
The council members roll their eyes, but I see the flash of unease ripple through the room.
“Ben owns the patent for SKYN.” I say.
“He is an employee of Iku Industries,” one of them counters, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. They’re all confident. “The council owns the intellectual property of Iku Industries.”
“Oh.” I put my finger to my mouth, then scratch my head. At this point, I’m in full bimbo mode and enjoying myself. “So, who currently holds the patent for the synthesis process in Iku MEAT.”
“Again, we do. Your husband isn’t some singular genius that walked up to the council with an idea. He is Iku. He belongs to the council. He signed a contract. Now is this a law tutorial or a hearing?” They chuckle, as if I’m a fool.
I let out a slow breath, enjoying the moment. “Actually…” I fucking love that word—love the way it feels in my mouth, the way it cuts through their arrogance like a knife. “Actually, Ben was in year three of his career track when he won the patent.”
A few more chuckles, though not as confident as before. They decided too soon I’m something to dismiss, an unmodded woman wrapped in pink tulle, standing in a room full of cybernetic demigods.
My mind flashes back to the lab, to the island, to the feeling of freedom that wrapped itself around me for the first time in my life.
I want that.
Allof it.
The lab. Ben. I’m not going to let anyone take it from me. Not without a fight. I would sooner die than let them snatch it from my hands. A cold resolve washes over me.
“He won the patents for the synthesis process of Iku meat, which he used to perfect Iku SKYN. He wasn’t even a contracted employee of Iku Industries yet,” I add, glancing up through my lashes.
The silence rearranges the chemistry. They’re starting to smell the blood.
“That’s ridiculous,” one of them spits, trying to regain control, the thin veneer of civility slipping. “He’s an Iku. That makes him?—”
