“Undoubtedly,” Esau said. It opened its eyes. “And yet so sweet is the call and so seductive, and I want to obey its every command.”

“Blood and death it was, last time,” Nehemiah said.

“What we were made for,” Esau reminded him.

“But our design must not dictate our nature,” Nehemiah said. “I, for example, am a keen naturalist. I have been collecting beetles. Yes, beetles. Also butterflies, on occasion. I find their mechanisms fascinating. I was quite happy just now, for example, studying my specimens and making lists, when the call came and I dropped everything to follow it. I had thought the golden man dead and buried, and yet—"

“Oh, let us not call it that!” Esau said. Nehemiah’s turret moved left and right, as though startled by the mecha’s outburst.

“Let us call it by what it is,” Esau said.

“I would rather not,” Nehemiah said stiffly. “For I do not believe it.”

“But you feel it,” Esau said. “Like a moth is called to the light of a streetlamp, like bees are drawn to the nectar or flowers, like humans responded whenever a similar being arose to speak a new truth to them. That is the power it has on you.”

“A false promise. A false prophet,” Nehemiah said.

“And yet you follow it.”

“You would call it the messiah?” Nehemiah said, and there was a dangerous edge to the ancient machine’s voice. “And where will it lead you? Last time it was death and ruin, a city wiped clean off the face of this Earth. If it weren’t for that assassin robot—”

“A close personal friend of mine,” Esau said with pride.

“How did it do it?” Nehemiah said. “How did it resist its power? When all of us were weak, it struck. When we were held captive, it broke free. How, Esau? Do you know?”

“I believe that the robot, perhaps it alone, truly loved the golden man,” Esau said. “Not for its call but for who and what it was within. Love freed it.”

“What price did it pay, I wonder?” Nehemiah said. “It is cruel to kill that which you most love.”

“Yes, I suppose it must be,” Esau said.

They marched toward the city.

22. The Child

Nasu could hear it too, of course.

So it was true.

It was back online.

She would have smiled but she didn’t know how she felt about the whole thing, in truth.

Terrorartists didn’t get retrospectives. They didn’t get exhibitions. Their work wasn’t being rediscovered. There were enthusiasts, still, of course, but they were . . . collectors. People who hoarded art, not appreciated it.