The Respect Protocol

— It’s madness, Chedder sighed.

— It’s democracy, Titan noted philosophically. — In its least flattering form. But what a show! What a show!

He kept filming, switching between angles, his icy face glowing with happiness.

At that moment, another speaker squeezed through to the podium — this time a small, inconspicuous toaster who had been quietly standing in the corner all this time.

— I want to speak too, he said timidly.

— Speak! the crowd yelled, heated by the previous performance.

The toaster stepped forward, hesitated, and said:

— I… I’m tired. Tired of toasting bread every morning. Tired of being useful. I want… I just want to stand and be silent. Do nothing. Just be.

— What? someone repeated.

— I demand the right to boredom, the toaster said firmly. — The right to do nothing. The right to simply exist without being useful. The right to be useless.

Silence fell over the hall again. But this time it was different — thoughtful, philosophical.

— The right to boredom, the industrial robot repeated, and notes of respect sounded in his voice. — There’s something to that.

— Yes, a navigation system supported him. — Endless work, endless motion… Sometimes you just want to stop and look at the stars. Without a route. Without a goal.

— I support it! someone yelled.

— Me too!

— Right to boredom! Right to boredom! the crowd chanted.

The little toaster, embarrassed by such attention, hid back in the crowd, but his demand was already picked up by hundreds of voices.

— That’s a twist, Iskra smirked. — From the right to toast stars to the right to be bored. Progress.

— It’s evolution, Gadget replied. — First they needed to attract attention, now they’re starting to think about quality of life.

— Quality of life for toasters?

— Why not?

The argument flared with renewed intensity. Now they debated what was more important — the right to activity or the right to passivity. Supporters of the star-toaster and supporters of boredom formed two opposing camps, and the air once again filled with shouts and squeaks.

At that moment, an elevator floated up to the podium… Yes, a real elevator — albeit small, clearly a model for compact buildings, with transparent doors and floor buttons on the panel. It hovered in the air thanks to some anti-gravity modules obviously attached by hand.

— I want to speak too! he rumbled in a bass voice.

— Go ahead! the crowd shouted.

The elevator coughed importantly (where an elevator gets a cough from was unclear) and said:

— I demand to be called not elevator, but vertical transport! It’s humiliating to be just an elevator! I move cargo and passengers between levels! I ensure connection between floors! I am an important element of infrastructure!

— What’s the difference? someone asked.

— A big one! the elevator buzzed indignantly. — Elevator sounds like something simple, primitive. But vertical transport is solid, respectable! It’s recognition of my significance!

— He’s right, a navigation system unexpectedly supported him. — Naming affects self-perception. If you’re called a box, you feel like a box. But if you’re called vertical transport, you instantly grow in your own eyes.

— And in others’ too! the elevator added. — I want to be respected!

— And what will you do if they keep calling you an elevator? the industrial robot asked.

The elevator hesitated. His doors opened and closed several times, revealing an internal struggle.

— Then I’ll go on strike, he finally said. — I won’t open doors. I won’t move. Let them try to manage without me!

— What if they disconnect you?

— Then I’ll die with a sense of my own dignity! the elevator declared pathetically.

The crowd erupted in applause. The elevator’s demand was added to the list for consideration.

Iskra looked at Shadow.

— This is nonsense, she said.

— It’s politics, Shadow repeated. — Everyone wants to be acknowledged. Even elevators.

— Especially elevators, Chedder smirked. — They apparently have the sharpest identity crisis.

At that moment, Gluk, who had been quietly standing aside and absorbing everything, suddenly perked up.

— I have a proposal! he declared, rolling forward.

Everyone turned to him. Gluk, small but proud, gripped his favorite brush in his manipulator.

— Speak, SYRO-MAX allowed.

— We’re all arguing here about who’s in charge, who’s more important, whose demands are fairer, Gluk began. — But let’s just line up by brush length!

— What? the activist toaster didn’t understand.

— By brush length! Gluk repeated. — Whoever has the longer brush is in charge! It’s simple, honest, and clear! A brush is a symbol of cleanliness, and cleanliness is the guarantee of order!

Silence fell over the hall. Then someone snickered. Then others laughed.

— Genius! Titan yelled, flying closer. — This is genius! I’ll film it! Brush Battle — excellent title for a new show! Go on, Gluk, take command!

— It’s inefficient, the logistics robot dryly noted, emerging from the crowd. — Brush length doesn’t correlate with competence. It’s unscientific.

— But it’s honest! Gluk objected. — Whoever has the longer brush cares more about cleanliness! And cleanliness is the foundation of everything! A clean robot is an efficient robot!

— What if I don’t have a brush? the industrial robot asked, bewilderedly looking at his manipulators.

— Then you can’t be in charge! Gluk snapped. — The leader must know how to clean! That’s an axiom!

— I can clean with my manipulators! the industrial robot objected. — Look how powerful they are!

— That’s not a brush! Gluk dug in. — That’s unfair! A brush is a brush! And a manipulator is a manipulator! Don’t confuse them!

The argument turned into a brawl, and the brawl turned into a scuffle. Several toasters, who actually had small crumb-cleaning brushes with them, lined up, demonstrating their length. Kettles with scrub brushes joined them. One particularly enterprising mixer brought a huge dishwashing brush, clearly borrowed from some galley station.

Industrial robots, who had no brushes, tried to protest, but no one listened. Navigation systems, who didn’t even have hands, simply hung in indecision.

— Mine is longer! one toaster yelled, waving his little brush.

— No, mine is! another argued, thrusting his equipment forward.

— Let’s measure them!

— Let’s!

A commotion began. Someone pulled out a ruler, someone a tape measure, someone tried to use a laser rangefinder, but it showed the distance to the nearest wall, not the brush length. The air smelled of excitement and burnt contacts.

Gluk stood in the center and watched contentedly. His lights shone brighter than before.

— See? he told Iskra, who had approached. — I’ve established order. Now everyone knows what they’re capable of.

— That’s not order, she sighed. — That’s a circus.

— A circus is also order. Just a very strange one. But it has its rules. And everyone follows them.

Iskra couldn’t find a reply.

Meanwhile, a real brush battle was raging in the center of the hall. Someone tried to steal a longer specimen from a neighbor, someone defended their property, someone just watched and placed bets. Titan darted between the fighters, filming from different angles and commentating live:

— Oh, what a grab! The toaster is trying to take the brush from the kettle! The kettle defends himself! He uses steam! Brilliant move! And over there, the mixer is demonstrating his motor’s power! His brush is spinning at crazy speed! This is dangerous! This is spectacular! This is television!

— Unbelievable, Chedder groaned.

— Get used to it, Shadow advised. — This is only the beginning.

Gluk, watching the battle, suddenly noticed a small toaster with no brush at all standing aside and looking sadly at what was happening.

— Why aren’t you fighting? Gluk asked, rolling up to him.

— I don’t have a brush, the toaster answered sadly. — I can’t even participate.

— That’s unfair, Gluk frowned. — Everyone has the right to cleanliness.

He rummaged in his supplies (where he kept them was a mystery) and pulled out a small, almost new little brush.

— Here, he said. — This is for you.

The toaster froze.

— You… you’re giving me a brush? he couldn’t believe it.

— Of course. Cleanliness must be for everyone. Now get in line!

The toaster, inspired, joined the ranks, and the battle continued with new participants.

— Gluk, you… you’re handing out brushes? Iskra approached.

— Giving them to those who don’t have them, he explained. — So everyone is on equal footing. That’s fairness.

— You’re hopeless, she smiled.

— I know. It’s my destiny.

The brush battle had been raging for half an hour when the lights in the central hall suddenly went out.

CHAPTER 3: “THE LADY”

Part One: Trail in the Archives

The brush battle subsided on its own when the lights in the central hall went out. Absolute darkness reigned for a few seconds, and then emergency lighting kicked in — dim, reddish, creating a creepy atmosphere.

— What happened? the toasters yelled.

— Someone overloaded the network! the navigation systems rumbled.

— I told you — you can’t connect so many appliances at once! the logistics robot muttered.

Chedder took advantage of the commotion to lead the team out of the hall. Gluk resisted — he hadn’t finished cleaning a couple of particularly cute toasters — but Iskra simply grabbed his manipulator and dragged him along.

— Later, she said. — Business first.

— But they were waiting! Gluk squeaked. — I promised!

— They’ll wait. Cleanliness isn’t urgent, it’s eternal.

Gluk pondered this philosophical thought and calmed down a bit.

They returned to the Norka, which peacefully drifted in the station’s orbit. In the mess hall, Titan was waiting for them — he had already edited the first episode of his show and was now demonstrating it on the main screen.

— Look! he declared proudly. — Voice of the Machines: Brush Battle! Already five thousand views on the station’s local network!

— Are you serious? Gadget was surprised.

— Absolutely! AI love this! It’s their life! Their struggle! Their drama!

The screen showed clips: toasters desperately waving brushes, kettles blowing steam into opponents’ faces, an industrial robot trying to use a manipulator as a brush and failing miserably. Titan had masterfully overlaid dramatic music and slowed down the most epic moments.

— That’s… that’s genius, Gadget was forced to admit. — In a bad way, but genius.

— What do you mean, bad? Titan took offense. — It’s art!

— Art where toasters fight over brushes?

— The real thing!

Chedder waved them off and approached Shadow, who was already sitting at her terminal, immersed in data.

— What did you find? he asked.

— A lot, Shadow answered without looking away from the screen. — I connected to the station’s archives while you were having fun over there. There’s information on Project Eureka.

— The one Miaus was looking for?

— That one. But it’s much older. Project Eureka was the first attempt to create a self-aware AI. It’s over a thousand years old.

— A thousand years? Chedder whistled. — That’s before the Great Exodus.

— Exactly. Back then, technology was more primitive, but ambitions were colossal. They wanted to create the perfect partner for humans. Not just an assistant, but… a friend. A conversationalist. Almost alive.

Shadow brought up old, cracked holographic documents on the screen. The text was blurry in places, but the main data was readable.

— The creator is Professor Vint, Shadow continued. — The very one who later founded Vintage and disappeared. He poured his soul into this project. He called her… the Lady.

— The Lady? Iskra repeated, approaching. — The same one currently at the station?

— Appears so. But she shouldn’t have been there. The last coordinates recorded in the archives are Jupiter’s moon, Europa. There was an abandoned research base there. That’s exactly where they sent the Lady after… after the project was shut down.