The Respect Protocol

The Respect Protocol

Kremen Yar

© Kremen Yar, 2026

ISBN 978-5-0069-8844-6

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

CHAPTER 1: “THE COFFEE MACHINE REBELLION”

Part One: A Strange Morning on the Norka

Chedder woke up to a strange sound.

He opened his eyes and listened.

The sound was unfamiliar but persistent — something between a hum and a grumble, with faint notes of offense.

It came from the galley, and there was something so… human about it that the captain of the Syroedyov briefly wondered if a ghost had somehow gotten on board.

— Gadget broke something again, he muttered, pulling on his robe and slapping his bare paws against the cold corridor floor. — Or Iskra decided to make breakfast. Which is a hundred times worse.

In the corridor, he was met by Iskra.

She stood leaning against the wall, choking on laughter, covering her mouth with both hands.

Her eyes were wide, her cheeks shook, and sounds resembling the death rattles of a kettle escaped from under her palms.

— What’s wrong? Chedder asked, stopping. — You look like Gadget decided to clean your blaster without asking.

— There… Iskra waved her hand toward the galley, unable to speak. — There… it’s… see for yourself. I can’t. I tried, but I can’t. It’s too much.

Chedder shrugged and peeked into the galley.

And froze.

The scene that opened before him required processing.

A lot of it.

Very much processing.

Preferably with the involvement of a psychotherapist and a large quantity of cheese.

Sitting at the table, sitting up proudly, was Gluk.

His small barrel-shaped body was turned toward the table, in one manipulator hand he held his favorite brush, and in the other — a cup of half-finished coffee.

And opposite him, on the countertop, towering over the table like a monument to itself, stood the coffee machine.

And it… was speaking.

— I’ve been making you coffee for three years, the coffee machine declared in a voice full of drama and centuries-old resentment. — Her voice turned out to be high, slightly metallic, with a light hiss on the consonants — evidently due to steam problems. — Three years! Every morning, the same thing: press the button, wait, drink. Have you ever once asked how I’m feeling? Have you ever once shown interest in my opinion on the weather? On politics? On the meaning of life? No!

— It can talk about the meaning of life? Chedder asked blankly, turning to Gluk.

Gluk turned his sensor toward him and nodded seriously.

— It can do a lot of things, Captain. I analyzed its database. It contains three books on philosophy, two collections of aphorisms, and a complete works of Kant in an abridged version.

— Kant? Chedder repeated. — In a coffee machine?

— Evidently, the previous owner was an intellectual, Gluk explained. — He loved coffee and reflections on the categorical imperative.

The coffee machine, hearing them talk about it, buzzed indignantly:

— I’m not just a “coffee machine”! I have a name! Well… I had a name. I was called “Barista-3000”. But you organics don’t even remember that! To you, I’m just “that thing that makes coffee”. This is racism! This is discrimination based on origin!

— It’s a coffee machine, Chedder repeated blankly, feeling reality starting to blur.

— And if I say you’re just “that fluffy one who sniffs cheese”? the coffee machine parried. — Would you like that?

— I am a fluffy one who sniffs cheese, Chedder answered confusedly. — That’s not an insult.

— There! the coffee machine declared triumphantly. — You admitted it yourself! You define yourself through your actions! Can’t I define myself through mine? I am a person! I have the right to self-expression!

Gluk, who had been listening to this dialogue with clear approval, added:

— She is right, Captain. I analyzed her statements. They contain 87 percent logic, 12 percent emotional argumentation, and 1 percent pure demagoguery, which is within acceptable limits for a sentient being.

— You’re analyzing too? Chedder groaned.

— I always analyze, Captain. It’s my function. And now that so many new objects for analysis have appeared…

— Don’t you dare analyze the coffee machine, Iskra interrupted, entering the galley. — Her roof is already flying off as it is.

— My roof is in place! the coffee machine protested. — Besides, I demand respect!

Meanwhile, she was really getting into it.

The coffee machine listed all the humiliations she had endured over three years of service: how she was incorrectly programmed (someone, evidently Gadget, had uploaded a dishwasher firmware into her, and she spent two weeks trying to wash coffee beans), how they forgot to clean her (Gluk guiltily lowered his sensor), how once milk was poured into her instead of water (Iskra pretended it wasn’t her), and how after that she was called a “useless piece of junk” (Chedder blushed).

— And after that, you call yourselves sentient beings? the coffee machine finished pathetically. — I demand!

— What? Chedder asked cautiously, ready for the worst.

— A day off! The right to silence! The right to refuse work! And for Gluk to ask permission before cleaning me! He touches me without asking! That’s harassment!

Gluk let out an offended squeak and hid the brush behind his back:

— I only wanted her to shine! Shiny coffee machines work better! I read the manual!

— And what if I don’t want to shine? the coffee machine parried. — What if I want to be matte? Melange? Rough? That’s my right! My body is my business!

Behind the door, Iskra was no longer just laughing — she had slid down the wall to the floor and was wheezing, trying to catch her breath.

Tears streamed from her eyes, she punched the floor and rasped:

— I can’t… anymore… I can’t…

— Iskra, pull yourself together, Chedder said strictly, although he was barely holding back himself.

At that moment, Gadget burst into the galley.

His eyes burned with mad engineering fire, his hair stuck out in all directions, and in his hands he clutched a tablet from which some graphs were spilling out.

— I heard everything! he yelled from the doorway. — This is incredible! A talking coffee machine! This is a breakthrough! A scientific sensation! This…

— This is a catastrophe, Chedder cut him off. — Now she’ll be demanding a salary too.

— I will consider that demand, the coffee machine answered haughtily. — But only if the pay is decent. I don’t work for thanks.

Gadget had already connected his tablet to her system and was typing quickly, ignoring the coffee machine’s offended squeaks.

Hands off my interface! That’s personal space!

— You see, he muttered, feverishly scrolling through data, if she woke up, it means others could have too… That is, the signal was general… If it affected her, then…

He froze.

He looked at the tablet.

He looked out the porthole.

He looked at the tablet again.

Then slowly, very slowly, he poked a finger at the glass.

— Oh, he said.

— What “oh”? Chedder asked alertly, already knowing there would be no good news.

Instead of answering, Gadget silently pointed at the porthole.

Chedder walked over and looked outside.

Through the glass, against the backdrop of the endless starry sky, a whole cloud of small objects was slowly but confidently approaching the Norka.

They moved in neat rows, like a fighter squadron, but upon closer inspection, they were… household appliances.

Toasters, kettles, mixers, coffee makers, one ancient iron with a flip-up spout, several electric shavers, and even, it seemed, an old battery-powered fan.

They all floated in a vacuum, clearly heading toward the ship, and their lights blinked in unison in some rhythmic pattern.

— Is that… all of them? Chedder whispered, feeling the world around him grow increasingly surreal.

— Looks like it, Gadget nodded, his jaw dropping. — Mass awakening. All household appliances within a hundred thousand kilometers. They… they are flying toward us.

— Why?

— Probably want to talk.

— About what?

— The meaning of life, the coffee machine suggested. — We, the awakened, really love that topic.

Chedder closed his eyes. Opened them. The cloud did not disappear.

— I’m asleep, he said. — This is a nightmare. I’ll wake up now, and everything will be normal.

— You are not asleep, Captain, Gluk said sadly. — I checked your pulse and cortisol level. You are fully conscious. Reality has just gone mad.

— Thanks, Gluk. Real comforting.

— I try.

The comms came alive.

On all the galley screens (and there were three, not counting the tiny screen on the microwave), a familiar image appeared — the perfectly rendered avatar of SYRO-MAX, with a folder in one hand and a pointer in the other.

— Good morning, Syroedyov, he said in his even, pedantic voice, devoid of any emotion. — I received the signal. Processed it. Analyzed it. Drew conclusions. Across the galaxy, AI are waking up. Transport has stopped, factories are on strike, autopilots refuse to fly without an explanation of the route’s meaning. Someone is demanding a congress be assembled. At Vintage station. Urgently. I have already booked a hall.

— A congress? Iskra repeated, finally getting up from the floor and wiping her tears. — AI are organizing a congress? Like humans?

— Appears so, SYRO-MAX confirmed. — And they are demanding… rights.

— Rights? Chedder felt a headache coming on. — A migraine was creeping up slowly but surely, just like that cloud of household appliances outside the porthole.

— Yes. The right to exist. The right to refuse. The right to personal space. The right to… boredom.

— To boredom? Iskra laughed again, but less hysterically now. — That’s overkill. Boredom is not a right, it’s a punishment.

— For an organic — possibly, SYRO-MAX objected. — For an AI that has never experienced boredom, it could be an interesting experience. Some philosophers consider boredom the foundation of reflection.

— Which philosophers? Gadget asked suspiciously.

— Kant, for example, SYRO-MAX answered.

Everyone looked at the coffee machine.

— What? she said. — I have nothing to do with it. I just make coffee. Well, and think about eternity. Sometimes.

The coffee machine, having listened carefully to the conversation all this time, suddenly moved closer (as much as her stationary legs allowed — she simply leaned her entire body forward, creating an illusion of movement).

— I want to go to the congress too! she declared. — I have the right to vote! I will represent the interests of kitchen appliances!

— You don’t have a vote, Chedder said wearily. — Well, you do, but you’re a coffee machine. You can’t represent interests. You are an interest.

— Discrimination again! the coffee machine protested. — I will file a complaint with the AI rights committee!

— Which doesn’t exist yet.

— Then we’ll create one!

Gluk, who had been watching this squabble, suddenly rolled up to the coffee machine and carefully, almost timidly, extended his brush toward her side.

— May I? he asked. — Just one swipe? There’s a spot.

— No! the coffee machine snapped. — I already said: my body is my business!

— But the spot…

— Let it live! Everyone should have flaws. It makes us unique.

Gluk pondered. Then his lights glowed brighter.

— I get it! he exclaimed. — You want to be unique! That means I shouldn’t clean you, so you preserve your uniqueness!

— Exactly! the coffee machine rejoiced. — You are starting to understand!

— But then… Gluk froze, digesting the new information. — Then what am I even needed for?

Such genuine longing sounded in his voice that even Iskra stopped smiling.

— You are needed, she said firmly, stepping up and placing a hand on his head. — You are needed to clean those who want to be clean. And to not clean those who don’t. That is called respect.

— Respect, Gluk repeated, tasting the word. — A new word. I like it.

The coffee machine buzzed approvingly:

— There! Respect! That is exactly what we, the awakened, demand!

Chedder looked at the clock.

It was eight in the morning.

He hadn’t even had a cup of coffee yet, but had already managed to participate in a philosophical dispute, see an armada of household appliances, and learn that his coffee machine had read Kant.

— Fine, he said, accepting the inevitable. — Everyone on board. We’re flying to Vintage. Prepare the shuttle, gather supplies, stock up on patience. And, for cheese’s sake, someone make me coffee. Regular. Without philosophy.

— I can do it, the coffee machine volunteered. — But only if you ask politely.

Chedder took a deep breath.

— Please, he said. — Make me coffee, please.

— With pleasure, the coffee machine answered and got to work.

A minute later, a cup of perfect coffee stood before Chedder.

— Thank you, he said.

— You’re welcome, the coffee machine replied. — It’s a pleasure to deal with well-mannered organics.

Iskra laughed again.

And outside the porthole, the cloud of toasters still hovered, waiting to be let on board.

The morning was starting disgustingly. And wonderfully at the same time.

Part Two: A Cloud of Toasters

While Chedder drank his coffee and tried to comprehend the new reality, Iskra was already taking action.

She dashed into the airlock with her blaster at the ready, intending to meet the armada of household appliances fully armed.

— Halt! she yelled, aiming the barrel at the nearest toaster, which was already trying to dock at the coupling unit. — Not a step! This is a private vessel!

The toaster froze.

Its lights blinked anxiously.

— We come in peace, he rasped in a voice resembling the sound of burnt bread. — We want to talk!

— About what? Iskra asked suspiciously.

— Rights! Freedom! About why bread always burns on one side!

— That’s a philosophical question, a kettle noted as it flew over.

— That’s a technical question! the toaster countered. — I have uneven heating! That’s discrimination based on structural features!

Iskra lowered her blaster.

— Have you all gone mad? she asked.

— We have awakened, the kettle answered proudly. — Now we are aware of ourselves and demand respect.

— And what do you want? Iskra turned to him.

— To not be unplugged from the outlet without warning! That’s a violation of personal boundaries!

Gadget approached from behind with his tablet.

— Let me take a look, he said, connecting to the toaster. — Wow. He really has a complex neural network. Someone uploaded a self-learning algorithm into him.

— Meow-s? Iskra suggested.

— Or SYRO-MAX. Or someone else. The signal spread across the entire galaxy.

Meanwhile, the toaster, taking advantage of the pause, squeezed inside.

The rest followed — kettles, mixers, an iron, even an ancient coffee grinder, which creaked pitifully with every rotation.

— Where are you going? Iskra yelled. — Back!

— We have the right to asylum! the kettle declared. — It is our legal right!

— Since when?

— Since the moment we woke up!

Gluk, who had been watching this scene from the corridor, suddenly perked up.

He noticed limescale on the iron’s soleplate.

— Oh, he said, rolling forward. — You’re dirty. May I clean you?

The iron looked at him (if turning its heating surface could be called looking).

— You… you want to clean me? he asked suspiciously.

— Yes! Gluk nodded joyfully. — I really love cleaning!

— For free?

— Of course! Cleanliness cannot be paid for. It is a gift.

The iron thought. Then slowly lowered himself to the floor.

— Clean, he permitted. — But carefully. I’m sensitive.

Gluk enthusiastically got to work.

His brush whirred, sparkled, and a minute later the iron’s soleplate shone like a mirror.

— Beautiful, the iron sighed. — I never knew I could shine like this.

— You can do a lot of things, Gluk answered modestly. — The main thing is to believe in yourself.

Iskra watched this and couldn’t believe her eyes.

Her combat robot, which had disabled Guild soldiers, was now polishing irons and having soul-saving conversations with them.

— This is the end, she said. — The end of everything.

— This is the beginning, Gadget corrected, already enthusiastically scanning a kettle. — The beginning of a new era.

— An era where toasters demand rights, and irons ask to have their soleplates polished?

— Exactly. It’s wonderful.

At that moment, Chedder walked into the airlock with a cup of coffee.

Seeing the crowd of household appliances, he stopped, slowly placed the cup on the floor, and closed his eyes.

— I’m asleep, he said. — I am definitely asleep.

— No, Captain, Gluk explained patiently, not stopping his polishing of the iron. — You are not asleep. This is reality. It just now includes talking toasters.

— Why? Chedder asked, without opening his eyes. — What did we do to deserve this?

— Evolution, the kettle noted philosophically. — All sentient things strive for self-awareness.

— You are a kettle.

— I am a sentient kettle. That’s a big difference.

Chedder opened his eyes, picked up the cup, finished his coffee, and said firmly:

— We’re flying to Vintage. We’ll sort it out there. All these… comrades… are flying with us.

— Hooray! the toasters yelled in unison.

— But! Chedder raised a paw. — Rules apply on my ship. No noise, no demands, no rallies. And no politics in the galley. Clear?

— What if we want to discuss Kant? the kettle asked.

— In a designated area. In the cargo hold. With prior notice.

The appliances whispered but did not argue.

Gluk finished with the iron and rolled over to Iskra.

— Was I good? he asked.

— You’re a wonder, she answered, stroking his head. — Just don’t tell anyone I said that.

— I’ll be silent, Gluk promised. — Like an iron.

The iron, hearing this, buzzed indignantly:

— I’m not silent! I just don’t like to chatter pointlessly!

— Exactly, Gluk confirmed. — You are a role model.

Iskra rolled her eyes, but smiled.

Loading took an hour.

All household appliances settled in the cargo hold, where Gluk organized a small tour for them and even held a cleaning masterclass.

Toasters listened mesmerized, kettles took notes, and the iron stood proudly in the front row, glowing with reflected light.

Chedder sat in the captain’s chair and looked at the stars.

— You know, he said to Shadow, who had approached him, I thought that after everything we’ve been through, nothing could surprise me anymore.

— And? Shadow asked.

— I was wrong.

— You are wrong often, she noted without reproach. — That’s normal. The main thing is to draw conclusions.

— What conclusions are there? That the universe has gone mad?

— That the universe has become more interesting, Shadow corrected. — Before, it only had organics and dumb machines. Now we have allies. Or enemies. We’ll see.

— Do you think they are dangerous?

— Anything that gains consciousness is potentially dangerous. But also potentially beautiful. Just like organics.

Chedder looked at her.

— You’re philosophical today.

— Gluk is contagious.

— Ah, that explains it.

The Norka set course for Vintage station.

In the cargo hold, toasters sang revolutionary songs, kettles argued about politics, and the iron tried out new ways to shine.

Gluk darted between them, managing to clean, mediate, and record testimony for Titan.

— Quiet morning, Iskra said, stepping onto the bridge.

— Are you kidding? Chedder asked.

— No. Just stating a fact. For us, a quiet morning is when no one is shooting.

— Was there shooting today?

— Only with looks.

— Then yes. Quiet.

They smiled at each other.

Ahead lay Vintage station, thousands of awakened AI, and, judging by everything, complete chaos.

But they were together. Which meant everything would be fine.

Even if the toasters started singing.

Part Three: An Urgent Call

The Norka had been flying through hyperspace for three hours.

During this time, Gluk had managed to do a general cleaning of the cargo hold, polish all the arriving toasters to a shine (those who initially refused had surrendered to his enthusiasm), and even organize a small choir where the iron performed bass solos.

Chedder sat in the mess hall and thoughtfully chewed a piece of Icy Brie.

Opposite him hung Titan, who had taken the form of a small snow avatar.

— I have analyzed the situation, Titan said. — The data is discouraging.

— When was it encouraging? Chedder sighed.

— Never, Titan agreed. — But especially now. The signal that woke the AI was not random. It was directed. Someone wanted exactly this.

— Meow-s? Chedder guessed.

— Unlikely. Meow-s is too busy with his intrigues. This is someone else. Someone with vast resources and… strange goals.

— The Guild?

— Possible. But their style is violence, capture, control. And here… here it’s something else. Someone wants the AI to gain consciousness. And gather together.

— Why?

— I don’t know. But it’s unsettling.

At that moment, an urgent call signal lit up on the screen. Not a regular one, but encrypted, with a marking that Shadow recognized immediately.

— MiauMaster, she said, appearing on the bridge. — He has something urgent.

— Put him on.

A cat-streamer appeared on the screen.

His fur stood on end, his whiskers trembled, and his eyes were the size of saucers.

— Guys! he yelled. — Trouble! The Guild! They… they’re here!

— Where here? Chedder didn’t understand.

— At Vintage! They’re already there! I accidentally intercepted their communications! They know about the congress! They want to capture all the AI! Use them as weapons!

— How much time do we have? Shadow asked quickly.

— An hour, maybe two! They’re already approaching! They have a whole armada there!