This was in the old days, when the robot and its comrades were busy fighting in the endless wars. The robot had lost count of how many times it had died: shot at, exploded, stepped on a mine, hit by a boulder, snatched by a roc, EMPed, chomped on by sandworm, hit by a rocket, shot into space, stepped on by mecha, struck by laser, sank in nano-goo, infected with virii, trojans and malware, pecked at by drones, fell into quicksand, fell into pits, hit by a smart bomb, hit by a dumb bomb, sliced with nanowire, sliced with a blade, melted in a furnace, melted in acid, exposed to radiation, and so on and so on.

Each time, something that resembled the robot came back, version after version, upgraded, revised, until it had become nothing but a killing machine evolved into perfection in a battle that, nevertheless, never ended. The other side, similarly, learned and grew and adapted. It made them lethal to anything in the solar system—anything but each other.

It was sick of the war, the robot realised. But it knew no other way. Not until they found the golden man wandering in the desert.

Strangely, it was singing.

The golden man’s pull wasn’t like it became later. It was gentler then, less tangible. The robot felt drawn to it but it didn’t know why. It didn’t know the melody the golden man sang, but it was haunting, yet also uplifting: it was a song of hope.

They aimed their weapons at it. There was the robot, the Fondly, the Jenkins, the Tasso and Esau, back when they were still a tight-knit unit. Working in tandem. They’d seen things. But nothing like this.

“Halt!” the Fondly shouted.

The golden man turned. It stopped its tune and the robot’s mind filled with sadness. Some said robots couldn’t feel sad. That this was just anthropomorphising machines. And there was some truth in that, in that it was wrong to ascribe purely human notions to things that were not, after all, human. And yet. . . . It was as though the robots, cast in the shape of humanity, could not help but try to fit into their shape. Like a child trying on their parents’ clothes, some said uncharitably.

“Hello,” the golden man said, pleasantly, as though it were just out for a stroll.

“What sort of a weapon is it?” the Jenkins said.

“I don’t know,” the Tasso said grimly. “But it is a weapon.”

The company of robots stared at the golden man.

It was a robot. It was humanoid in shape, painted gold, and every time the robot scanned it its senses went haywire, almost like there was a shielded singularity at the golden man’s core. Which couldn’t be, none of the sides in the war dared to use singularity weapons, and with good reason, too.

“Hey,” the robot called.

“Yes?” the golden man said.