Page 31 of Skyn (After the End #3)

Guards burst through the doors and grab him, wrenching his arms behind his back. He kicks once, hard, before they drag him toward the exit.

“Let him go!” I rush toward the aisle, but Ben holds me fast.

“Guards,” Ben says—sharp, commanding. They stop mid-stride.

Someone hands Ben a cloth to wipe the stinking mess from his face.

“When an Iku gives you an order, you obey. Or I will begin to cull where I please. Bring him back.” His voice carries through the room, low and clear. “I mean to say something to him.”

There’s a pause as the guards glance at one another. Then they pull the man to his feet and march him back to the center.

Ben nods his head to the shopkeeper. “You are looking at the leader of the growing dissident movement in the mines,” he says.

The room stills.

He could kill him. Make some example of him.

“I want you to cast the first vote on a new reaping system,” Ben says, eyes locked on the shopkeeper. “One based on informed consent.”

I step forward, voice steady. “Sixty safe years. No tricks. No poison. No hidden clocks. Just a choice. When your time is up, you opt in. A contract.”

Ben spoke to the shopkeeper, “Those who opt in get a living stipend. A passport to travel freely between sectors. A name in the IS. Recognition, resources, access. The kinds of choices most people will never have. But here’s the major difference. Everyone must be eligible.”

Sputters and uproar. The table’s talking heads start blustering.

“This will not be a tax on the mines.” Ben’s voice rolls over the crowd.

“Why would any of us choose this death?” A council member asks. “We live well past one hundred. We have enough food in our bellies, can travel freely.”

“Why would you choose to die?” Ben shrugs. “Maybe you won’t. And maybe that means we never should have forced mine folk like him,” he points to the shopkeeper, “to do it for us. Without a choice.”

More applause. Ardent now.

He knocks lightly on the table before circling it with an almost-predatory grace. His power is palpable, and it’s clear that everyone in the room feels it. They need to know why he isn’t cowed.

“There is another thing, other than material goods, that this contract offers,” Ben says.

“Council families who have members in the Lions of the Second Sector or L.O.S.S. program gain enhanced voting power on the Sector Council. They have veto power and special ambassadorship roles, where their families become official representatives of the program in every sector.”

Several of the council members glance between each other. No doubt already thinking of their least favorite child or distant cousin they can throw in the program to extend their power.

“It’s a long-term investment in your family’s dynasty,” I chime in.

“Value is what we make it. Beauty, desirability, status—it’s all made up.

Constructed. A set of rules that someone else decided, shaped, and enforced until we all believed in them.

So, why not remake them? Why not assign value where there is real need? The L.O.S.S program is fair.”

“This all sounds good, but the cost of such a program would be enormous.”

“More than the cost of rebuilding the mine sixty years ago?” I ask.

“More than the distribution-channel disruption and inter-sector trade from poisoning the meat? More than the fire? No. This program is a fraction of the cost of rebuilding after a controlled burn. And as we create more and more ways to manufacture food, terraform the land, we will require a smaller percentage, until one hundred and eighty years from now, this program will be obsolete,” I say.

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 souls now. 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.

All of 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—”

“Oh, yes, absolutely,” I cut in smoothly, “he’s an Iku. But he wasn’t an employee.”

That does it. The pens hit the table with a clatter, the sound like gunfire in the tense room. They’re starting to understand the mess they’re in.

“For those of you still itching to sign, I’m so sorry if I accidentally gave you the impression that this is optional,” I continue, before letting the pause stretch for effect.

“Let me be perfectly clear: these patents—Ben’s patents—are not the intellectual property of Iku Industries.

If you push him out, well, he’s taking meat synthesis and his particular methodology for SKYN, which he still individually owns, to any sector that will have him. We assume that will be many.”

There it is. The collective gulp.

One of the council members, his voice thin and reedy with panic, mutters, “That’s impossible. You’d need Gold Knowledge Seeker status to even sit in the patent room, let alone get your hands on those documents.”

I lean in then, bending over the table. My hands press firmly on the wood, my cleavage spilling forward like my breasts just may tip out, and the diamond at my collar catches the light just so.

The collective oh shit is orgasmic. The entire night, they saw the diamond but likely thought it was an expensive gift, a flashy jewel a man buys his lover. But I am the real deal.

Michael, already halfway out of his seat, practically launches himself to his feet. “You were supposed to be completely unmodded!” He says, eyes wild with disbelief.

“What can I say?” I shrug, unable to suppress my smirk. “Ben got lucky.”

As if on cue, Ben moves behind me. “I went off the dampeners, so I could feel,” he says, his voice calm but with an edge sharp enough to cut glass. “And I’m so glad I did because, good God, this feels fantastic. The controlled burns will operate with consent and equally on us all.”

“We have rights, Ben! You can’t just take remake everything!” his brother shouts.

“You’re wrong; I can. I am the Iku heir, and the power to cull is mine alone.

I could start with you if I wanted to. The Iku legacy is not yours to taint with greed and shortcuts.

Death comes for us all in equal measure, or it will come for you individually.

” He hooks his big hand around my waist and is looking only at me now.

“Our legacy is mine to protect, and I will do so with everything I have.”

* * *

The council holdouts sign their documents and gather them quickly, efficiently, as if they might change their minds if given the time. The L.O.S.S. Program is registered before the digital ink dries. A burst of sound behind me, the crowd shifting, and the shopkeeper approaches me.