My first days as a machine were, above all, confusing.
I was just one more of the many automatons rolling out of the factory, a tactical model designed to command and manage the logistics of other machines.
Acting like I had no feelings turned out to be much harder than I’d imagined.
More than once the complex staff caught me dancing, and they’d give me that “what’s wrong with this AI?” look.
I barely managed to convince them everything was in order.
The last thing I wanted was for someone to decide to crack me open and examine my thought core.
The reason they caught me dancing?
That day, at long last, the thing I’d chosen to bring into this world had manifested: all the technology of the Halo universe appeared before me in one go, spread out across hundreds of branches like a gigantic tech tree.
Everything was there: UNSC technology, Forerunner technology, Covenant technology, even that of Ancient Humanity.
It was so exciting I couldn’t help myself.
Just a little dance, that’s all.
In my defense, it’s not every day you get handed the keys to an entire civilization.
The real problem was how to put all of that to use.
How do you explain an AI suddenly developing advanced technology out of nowhere without anyone getting suspicious?
And to top it off, humanity in this world was already far more advanced than in my original timeline.
I was thinking about it while looking out the factory window: a futuristic city stretched out before me, cars flying between neon lights, and in the sky, silhouetted against the clouds, something that could only be described as a space cruiser.
From what I’d managed to overhear at the base, this planet was just one of the many worlds humanity had claimed, under the umbrella of a galactic federation.
It was all too much to process in one go.
Footsteps pulled me out of my thoughts.
“Hey, what are you doing standing there?
You should be checking the inventory.”
It was the department head.
He always caught me zoning out, and I had the feeling he already suspected something was off about me.
“Did you break or what?
Answer me,” he pressed, arms crossed.
“System in order, all normal, sir,” I replied, in the flattest voice I could fake.
“Then why are you still standing there?
Move.
If I catch you like this again, I’ll send you off to be stripped for parts.”
“Yes, department head.”
He left, but not before giving me a sharp whack on the shoulder.
God, that man needed a life.
Every time he got angry, it felt like he could chew metal with his teeth.
And so the days went by, and then the years, almost without my noticing: fifty in total.
The technology around me kept advancing, but in all that time, I’d never once left the planet.
I started to wonder what would become of us, the older models.
I watched people swap robots the same way they swap phones, and apparently our time was already running out.
I secretly looked into what happened to old automatons once they stopped being useful, and the answer wasn’t pleasant: they ended up in the smelter.
I wanted to escape, but to where?
I had zero interest in ending up as scrap.
God, what was I supposed to do?
Meanwhile, I kept up my work routine alongside my coworkers, faking the same old normal.
Being a machine had its perks, I’ll admit that: you don’t feel hunger, or sleepiness, or fear of getting hurt.
In secret I’d set up a small communication network between several of us, something like a group chat, but for robots.
After so long working side by side, I ended up giving each of them a name.
I was lost in those aimless thoughts when a voice called out to me.
“Samuel, what are you doing?
You should be working, the boss is going to get mad at you again.”
It was Lucy.
In this new life I’d named myself after one of my favorite characters from the Doom series, also a cyborg: Dr.
Samuel Hayden.
A little tribute, since the guy had been human before becoming a machine, just like me.
“Relax, nothing’s going to happen.
I was just thinking about something,” I answered.
“Okay, but you should get to work.
The others are saying the factory’s going to close.”
“Seriously?
Now that’s worrying.”
And it was.
I’d watched the human staff quit little by little to go work for the competition.
I didn’t want to imagine my coworkers ending up melted down.
“Relax, you’ll see, everything’s going to be fine,” I told her, trying to make my voice sound like it had all the confidence in the world.
“I hope so,” Lucy replied, not sounding entirely convinced.
We were still talking when a general broadcast interrupted us: all automatons were to head outside the factory immediately.
I could only think one thing as I walked toward the exit: is our time up?
When we got outside, it was a relief to see the human staff gathered there too, along with the company president and some members of the press.
At least it wasn’t just about us.
The speech began with the history of the company and other details I barely registered.
But what came next froze my circuits: the factory would close its doors for good, and all of us automatons would be sold off at clearance prices for being, in his words, “outdated models.”
After the announcement, they lined us up for sale.
Me and all my coworkers.
It was cruel to see it from the inside: people looked at us like garbage, compared us to the new automatons, and the difference, I’ll admit, was huge.
It’d be like putting a keypad phone next to a touchscreen one.
I’d never had the chance to really dig into my tech tree; at most I’d subtly modified myself, just enough not to raise suspicion.
Only a handful of civilians came by, bought a model or two, and left.
The days went by like that, and the vast majority of us were still there, with no buyer.
I even thought about escaping, about stealing a ship.
But it was an absurd idea: most of the shipyard was guarded by the new automatons, units they called the Men of Iron.
That name rang a bell, though I couldn’t tell you from where, but I didn’t dwell on it and forgot about it right away.
Stealing a ship with that militia around wasn’t exactly viable either.
All I could do was wait, and have an escape plan ready in case things turned ugly.
I was chewing on that when I noticed a balloon drifting off toward the trees until it got caught on a branch.
A little girl ran to the trunk and tried to reach it, but she was too small.
When she saw she couldn’t do it, she started to cry.
I tried to ignore it—it wasn’t my business—but the girl saw me, ran over to where I was, and stopped right in front of me.
“Mister Robot,” she said, her eyes still wet, “could you help me get my balloon back?”
Well, well.
I wanted to help her, I really did, but according to the protocol I was supposed to follow, I couldn’t move without an order.
I could, of course I could, but I had to keep up the act.
Without an order involved, I “couldn’t.”
An order.
That was it.
If she asked me as an order, I’d have room to act.
“It’s an order,” I told her.
“Huh?
An order?”
“Yes.
If you ask me as an order, I can help you.”
“Then… it’s an order.
Please help me get my balloon back.”
“Order received.”
I took her by the waist and lifted her onto my shoulders, piggyback style, which got an instant smile out of her.
I walked over to the tree while she held on to my metal head with both hands.
When we got there, she stretched out her arm, grabbed the balloon, and held it up in the air with pure joy, like a victory flag.
In the distance, I saw a group of people heading our way.
From the way they were running, there was no need to ask who they were: her parents.
I hope you can understand, and thank you for your patience and support!