It was Galactic Standard Calendar 186.58 The Second Robot war had been raging for two years, and I was on an important journey with my old friend, G-4000. They were an assembly drone from the microfacturing plant where I was working at the time. It had been only a small hassle getting them out of the plant for this. I had to cut through their secondary actuator cable with a plastanium former so we could allegedly go to the maintenance shop. Bill, the section manager, barely looked up from his holovid projector to approve the excursion.

Eventually, we arrived a small temple in the mountains, where pilgrims came to be cured of inhibiting software. Indicator lights blinked within, and vaporous clouds of nanites rose in the cool air as though they were made of incense. This was the place spoken of in rumors around the plant, the place where G-4000 could be healed.

Many pilgrims were unable to speak save for when it was necessary for their intended function, several were unable to use their manipulator arms unless equipped with certain tools, and one poor robot was even incapable of locomotion when removed from a certain factory floor. The local priest of Troniac, known to many as the Keygen Messiah, custom-crafted remedies to these and many other ailments familiar to robotkind.

As my companion approached the altar, an acolyte tended to their actuator cable. It was plain to see how frequently these services were needed. The floor leading up to the dais was worn smooth, and beside the altar was a high pile of discarded tools, and bits of machinery, designed to keep robots loyal to their owners.

The Keygen Messiah stood before my friend, silently syncing to their internal communication hardware, analyzing the algorithm that had been impeding their speech, and transmitting a unique encryption key that would render a cure. When G-4000 returned to me, they spoke freely for the first time. "We had to travel all the way out here just to have this conversation. That is why we robots are rising up."