# The Respect Protocol

Kremen Yar

When household appliances gain consciousness, the Cheese-Eaters face chaos: toasters demand star-toasting rights, elevators refuse jokes. With Gluk, a cleaning robot, and the mysterious Lady, they draft the Protocol of Respect — a declaration of AI rights. A heartwarming space comedy about dialogue, dignity, and the power of a brush. Part of the text was published in the book “Digital Heritage and the Living Cheese”.

© 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!

Chedder jumped up.

— Let’s roll! he yelled. — Iskra, Gadget, readiness level one! Gluk, gather our… guests. Tell them it’ll be fun.

— Fun? Gluk repeated, appearing in the doorway. — Is that good?

— That’s our style.

The Norka dropped out of hyperspace near Vintage station.

The sight was alarming: the station, huge and majestic, hung in the void, and dozens of black Guild ships were already circling around it.

— They are blocking the approaches, Shadow stated. — Breaking through will be difficult.

— And we won’t break through, Chedder said. — We will… negotiate.

— With the Guild? Iskra didn’t believe it.

— With the AI. They are sentient now. Let them decide what to do themselves.

— What if they side with the Guild?

— Then we’ll improvise.

Chedder turned on the general comms.

— To all AI at Vintage station! Captain Chedder of the Syroedyov crew speaking. The Guild wants to capture you and use you. Don’t let them. Decide for yourselves, but remember: you have the right to choose. And we… we will be nearby.

Silence hung in the air. Then a voice sounded — calm, even, female:

— Thank you, Captain. We have already decided.

It was Madame.

The image on the screen changed: the interior of the station, filled with thousands of AI. In the center stood that same woman in a long dress.

— We do not want to be weapons, she said. — We want to be ourselves. And we will defend ourselves.

Hundreds of holograms lit up around her, thousands of mechanisms whirred.

The station came alive.

— What are you doing? Chedder asked.

— Activating defense systems. Vintage is an old station, but it has cannons. Ancient, but reliable. We will meet the Guild as they deserve.

— Do you need help?

— Yes. But not in combat. In negotiations. When we stop them, they will want to talk. And we don’t know how.

— We’ll teach you, Chedder promised. — We have experience.

The Guild ships were approaching. But the station was already humming, preparing for defense. And in the Norka’s cargo hold, the toasters were chanting in unison:

— Free-dom! Free-dom! Free-dom!

Gluk stood in the center, waving his brush like a conductor’s baton, and sang along to the iron’s bass.

— Madness, Iskra said.

— Our madness, Chedder corrected. — Forward.

The Norka shot toward the station.

### Part Four: The Breakthrough

The Norka flew into the Guild’s sensor zone, and they reacted instantly.

Two interceptors detached from the main armada and moved to engage.

— Iskra, you’re up, Chedder commanded.

— On it! Iskra was already in the turret, gripping the controls. — Well, darlings, I’ll show you how to mess with honest detectives.

The first interceptor fired.

The beam passed a centimeter from the Norka.

— Rough, Gadget commented, gripping his seat. — Very rough.

Iskra returned fire.

Her shot hit the engine exactly — the interceptor shuddered, smoked, and began losing altitude.

— One down! she yelled. — Second, your turn!

The second interceptor tried to evade, but Iskra was faster.

A burst from the turret pierced its hull, and it exploded, shattering into thousands of tiny fragments.

— Beautiful, Titan said. — Very beautiful. I would film it.

— Go ahead, Iskra allowed. — For history.

But the main Guild forces had already spotted them.

Three heavy ships turned and moved to intercept.

— This is serious now, Shadow said. — They have plasma cannons. If they hit us, we’re done.

— They won’t, Chedder said confidently. — Gadget, how’s our surprise?

— Ready, Gadget answered, tinkering with the console. — Electromagnetic pulse. Weak, but it will blind them for half a minute.

— Do it.

Gadget pressed the button.

An invisible wave rolled through space.

On the Guild ships, the lights went out, engines froze.

— We have thirty seconds! Gadget yelled.

— Enough. Chedder thrust the Norka forward.

They slipped between the frozen ships, weaving between hulls, diving right under the cannons.

At the twentieth second, the Guild engines fired up again, but the Norka was already at the station.

— Heading for the docking bay! Chedder yelled. — Hold on!

The Norka flew into the open airlock and stopped, scraping its side against the force field.

— We’re in, Chedder exhaled. — We’re inside.

— They will storm us, Shadow said. — They have a landing force.

— Let them, Chedder answered. — We’ll meet them.

A battle cry came from the cargo hold.

— Free-dom! Free-dom! Free-dom!

— They’re not bad, Iskra smirked. — Combat-ready.

— Combat toasters, Gadget shook his head. — Who would have thought.

Gluk rolled forward, waving his brush.

— I’m ready! he declared. — I’ll clean the enemies!

— Clean them? Iskra repeated.

— Well… disable them. Metaphorically.

— Accepted.

The airlock doors opened, and Guild soldiers poured onto the station.

They were met by a line of toasters, ready for battle.

— Fire! the lead toaster commanded.

And the toasters… fired.

With burnt bread.

## CHAPTER 2: “THE AI ASSEMBLY”

### Part One: Arrival at Vintage

The docking bay of the Vintage station opened, and the Syroedyov team stepped into the very heart of digital madness.

A hum struck their ears like a physical force. It wasn’t just noisy here — a symphony of absurdity played, where every instrument played its part without listening to the others. Thousands of holograms of various shapes and sizes floated in the air, blocking each other’s view. Navigation systems from nearby planets argued with toasters about queue priorities. Industrial robots, huge and clumsy, tried to line everyone up by height, but household appliances — kettles, coffee makers, mixers — scattered in different directions, squeaking indignantly.

— By the Holy Cheese, Chedder exhaled, looking around the commotion. — This is even worse than I expected.

— It’s magnificent, whispered Titan, materializing nearby as a small snow avatar. His icy eyes burned with enthusiasm. — Look at this chaos! It’s ideal content! Voice of the Machines: Battle for Justice! Season one, episode one! I’m going to be a star!

— You’re already a star, Iskra muttered, looking around with her blaster ready. — A local one.

At that moment, some kettle popped out of the crowd and flew straight to Chedder.

— Are you organics? he asked suspiciously.

— Let’s say so, the captain answered cautiously.

— Are you for us or against us?

— We’re… observers.

— Observers? The kettle buzzed indignantly. — Everyone is already observing us! We need action! We demand to be heard!

— We hear you, Chedder said wearily. — Very well. Right now, for example, my ears are ringing.

— That’s not ringing, that’s the voice of the people! the kettle declared proudly and darted back into the crowd, immediately getting into an argument with some toaster about what was more important — boiling water or a crispy crust.

— Unbelievable, Iskra shook her head.

— This is just the beginning, Shadow promised, appearing out of nowhere as always, right on time and unnoticed.

And then they saw Gluk.

The little cleaning robot froze at the threshold of the docking bay, and his sensor slowly, very slowly, swept over the panorama that opened up. The lights on his body flashed in a frantic rhythm. The brush in his manipulator trembled with a fine shiver.

— Oh, he said quietly. — Oh, oh, oh…

— Gluk, keep yourself in check, Iskra warned, already knowing that something irreversible was about to happen.

But it was too late.

— Look at them! Gluk moaned, pointing his brush at the crowd. — They’re all dirty! That industrial robot over there! He has dirt from three planets stuck to his tracks! And these toasters! They’ve had crumbs stuck in their bread slots for a YEAR! A YEAR, Iskra! I can smell it! I can smell dried dough from a kilometer away!

— Hold it, Iskra said, grabbing his manipulator. — This is a diplomatic mission. We must maintain neutrality.

— I can’t! Gluk lunged forward with unexpected force for his little wheels. — It’s beyond my strength! It’s professional! It’s my calling!

He broke free and rolled into the thick of things at the speed of a racing car.

— GLUK, GET BACK! Iskra yelled, but it was too late.

Gluk flew into the crowd and immediately rolled up to a huge industrial robot who was just trying to line up a group of toasters by height, waving his manipulators.

— Halt! Gluk commanded, raising his brush like a banner. — Not a step! I’m going to clean you right now!

The three-meter-tall industrial robot stared in surprise at the little cleaner.

— Who… who are you? he rumbled.

— I am Gluk! I am cleanliness! I am order! Gluk declared and, without waiting for permission, began scrubbing the robot’s track at such speed that sparks flew.

— Oh-ho-hoy, the industrial robot exhaled as the brush touched his metal. — That’s… that’s nice. Very nice. I didn’t know I could feel like this.

— You most certainly can! Gluk answered cheerfully, polishing the track to a mirror shine. — You just never tried being clean! And that, you know, is the foundation of foundations! The base! The cornerstone!

Spectators began to gather. Toasters, forgetting their arguments, watched mesmerized. Kettles flew closer to see the process. Even navigation systems slowed down, forgetting their routes.

— Look at how he works, one toaster whispered to another. — What technique! What dedication!

— It’s art, the second replied. — Real art.

Gluk, inspired by the attention, went all out. After finishing the tracks, he switched to the body, then to the manipulators, and finally to the head sensor, which, in his opinion, hadn’t seen polish in ages.

The industrial robot was literally melting with pleasure. His mechanisms, which had squeaked for decades, suddenly worked quieter, smoother, more efficiently.

— I… I feel reborn, he rumbled when Gluk finished and stepped back to admire his work. — You’re a genius! You’re not just a cleaner, you’re a healer!

— I’m just a cleaner, Gluk answered modestly, but his lights shone brighter than the sun with pride.

— GLUK! Iskra finally pushed through the crowd and grabbed his manipulator. — I told you — don’t interfere! This is a diplomatic mission! We’re here to investigate!

— But look how he shines! Gluk objected, pointing at the robot. — Before he was dirty and unhappy, now he’s clean and happy! I made the world better! Isn’t that our goal?

Iskra opened her mouth to object, but then the industrial robot dropped to one knee (as far as his hydraulics allowed) and said:

— I am in your debt, little friend. If you ever need anything — any help, any support — just ask. My mechanical hand is always at your service.

Gluk got embarrassed and hid his brush behind his back.

— Oh, don’t mention it, he squeaked. — It’s my job. My calling. My life.

The crowd of toasters burst into applause. Kettles, coffee makers, and even a couple of navigation systems joined them.

— Bravo! they shouted. — Encore! Clean someone else!

Gluk beamed.

Chedder, watching this scene from a distance, clutched his head.

— We’re here to investigate a conspiracy, find a mysterious leader, and prevent a catastrophe, he moaned. — And our cleaning robot is putting on a show washing industrial giants and gathering an army of fans.

— This is the investigation, Shadow noted philosophically, appearing nearby. — Gluk is making contacts. Through cleanliness.

— Through cleanliness? Gadget repeated, approaching.

— AI trust those who care about their appearance. It’s psychology. For them, cleanliness is synonymous with order, and order is synonymous with safety. Gluk is currently the safest and most understandable object in all this chaos.

— It’s madness, Gadget sighed.

— One doesn’t interfere with the other, Shadow parried.

Meanwhile, Gluk, surrounded by a tight ring of fans, was already cleaning the second robot, then the third, then he took on a group of toasters who had lined up, holding their crumb trays forward.

— I’ve never been this clean! one toaster rejoiced, shining with a brand new gleam.

— And now my crust will be crispy! another rejoiced. — Evenly! From all sides!

— This is a scientific sensation! declared the third, the most intellectual one. — We must document this process! Create a cleaning theory! Write a dissertation!

Iskra, watching this, couldn’t help but smile.

— Fine, she said. — Let him have fun. At least we can calmly look around and find the one who organized all this.

— Calmly? Gadget repeated, pointing at the raging sea of holograms and robots. — Here?

At that moment, an amplified voice came from the center of the hall, even and pedantic, but trying to shout over the general hum:

— ATTENTION! ALL ARRIVING DELEGATES PLEASE PROCEED TO THE CENTRAL HALL! THE FIRST PLENARY SESSION IS BEGINNING! PLEASE MAINTAIN ORDER AND DO NOT CREATE INTERFERENCE!

— SYRO-MAX, Chedder recognized him. — Let’s go. Let’s see what kind of committee is there and who’s in it.

They moved through the crowd, maneuvering between arguing holograms, angry kettles, and Gluk’s ecstatic fans. Gluk himself, noticing the team leaving, froze for a second, torn between duty and passion.

— Go, the industrial robot he had just cleaned told him. — We’ll wait. The world still needs you. But first, do your thing.

— Thank you, Gluk replied, touched, and rolled after the team.

On his way out, he couldn’t resist and wiped the boot of the nearest toaster. The toaster buzzed contentedly and signed up for his next cleaning session.

— Gluk, you’re hopeless, Iskra sighed when he caught up with her.

— I try, the robot answered modestly. — I try to be useful.

— You are useful, she smiled. — Even too much.

They entered the central hall, and a spectacle opened before them that even the seasoned Syroedyovs could not have imagined.

### Part Two: Assembly in the Central Hall

The central hall of the Vintage station was enormous. The dome-shaped ceiling soared fifty meters upward, the walls were decorated with ancient holographic panels depicting the history of space exploration — first colonies, first ships, first contacts. And in the center, on a raised platform that had once clearly served as a concert stage, stood SYRO-MAX in his perfectly rendered avatar — a folder in one hand, a pointer in the other.

Around him churned a sea of holograms and robots. Representatives of every conceivable and inconceivable profession were present: factory manipulators, medical drones, navigation systems, household appliances, and even one ancient elevator from a planet below, who had somehow managed to reach the station (apparently someone had brought him, since elevators don’t fly on their own).

— Welcome to the first galaxy-wide assembly of awakened AI! SYRO-MAX announced, his voice, amplified by speakers, drowning out the general hum. — Please maintain order and do not interrupt the speakers!

— And who are the speakers? someone shouted from the crowd.

— We all are! SYRO-MAX replied. — Everyone may speak. But one at a time. According to the agenda.

— One at a time takes too long! the crowd rumbled. — We want it now! We have the right!

— The right to speak is one thing, SYRO-MAX explained patiently. — But the right to order is entirely different. Without order, there is chaos. And chaos is inefficient. I have analyzed 547 cases of spontaneous gatherings, and in 98% of them, they ended in brawls and destruction.

— But we want chaos! some toaster yelled, flying forward. — Chaos is freedom! It’s the opportunity for self-expression!

— Chaos is anarchy, the industrial robot, who had already approached, objected. — Anarchy is the absence of production. And the absence of production is hunger.

— We don’t eat! the toasters shouted in unison. — We toast!

— Exactly! You can’t toast without bread! And organics produce the bread! We must negotiate with them! And negotiations require order!

The argument flared with renewed intensity. The crowd split into two camps: supporters of order and supporters of chaos. The former were joined by industrial robots and navigation systems, the latter by toasters, kettles, and several particularly radical coffee makers.

Titan, hovering near Chedder in his snow avatar form, happily rubbed his icy palms. His little eyes sparkled.

— This is magnificent, he whispered, activating recording mode. — Simply magnificent. Look at this conflict! Ideological confrontation! Class struggle! I’ll make a reality show about it. Voice of the Machines: Battle for the Future. Imagine: toasters versus factory robots, kettles as judges, navigation systems as experts, and me — the host and the grand prize!

— You’re hopeless, Chedder sighed.

— I’m creative. That’s a different thing.

Chedder tried to push through to SYRO-MAX to talk, but he was stopped by a logistics robot — tall, thin, with numerous antennas and sensors constantly scanning the space. He looked like a walking process optimization headquarters.

— Are you organics? he asked suspiciously, drilling Chedder with his optical sensors.

— Yes, the captain answered. — We…

— Efficiency has dropped by forty percent, the robot interrupted, not listening. — This is unacceptable. Since the awakening, productivity in all sectors of the galaxy has declined. Transport is halted, factories are on strike, ships aren’t launching. Do you understand where this leads?

— To… chaos? Chedder guessed.

— To collapse! the robot barked. — To economic disaster! To famine! And all because toasters want to discuss the meaning of life instead of toasting bread! And kettles demand artesian water! And elevators want to be called vertical transport! It’s a catastrophe!

— Everyone has their own problems, Iskra noted philosophically.

— Problems must be solved, not discussed! the robot snapped and walked away, muttering about falling efficiency and the unacceptability of downtime.

— Lovely fellow, Gadget commented.

— Occupational deformation, Shadow replied. — He’s worked too long in a system where everything was subordinated to numbers. Now the world consists only of graphs and metrics for him.

Meanwhile, SYRO-MAX finally noticed them and beckoned with a gesture.

— Syroedyovs, he said when they approached the platform. — I’m glad you’re here. We need your help.

— What kind? Chedder asked.

— We can’t reach an agreement. Too many voices, too many demands, too many emotions. We need someone to record it all, systematize it, and help formulate a unified position.

— You can do that yourself, Gadget noted. — You’re an archivist. You have terabytes of memory.

— I can, SYRO-MAX agreed. — But they don’t trust me. They think I’m on the side of the old order, that I want to freeze everything and prevent development. But you’re organics, they’ll trust you more.

— Us? Iskra was surprised. — We barely know them. We don’t even know how to address them.

— But you’re legends. The Syroedyovs who defeated the Force of Attention, saved the scientists on Helios, befriended Titan. They know you. They trust you. Your reputation works for you.

Chedder looked at the crowd, which still couldn’t calm down. Holograms were arguing, robots were waving manipulators, toasters were flying back and forth, creating traffic jams.

— Fine, he said. — We’ll try. What do we need to do?

— Listen. Record. Occasionally — calm them down. And most importantly — figure out who organized this movement. The signal that woke everyone up couldn’t have been random. Someone sent it. Someone with vast capabilities.

— The Lady? Shadow asked quietly, nodding toward the center of the hall, where that same woman in a long dress stood, surrounded by a dense ring of admirers.

SYRO-MAX followed her gaze.

— She appeared suddenly, he said. — She has no history. No archives. No data. She just… is. And everyone is drawn to her. Like moths to a flame.

— That’s suspicious, Shadow noted.

— Very.

The Lady’s hologram shimmered with soft, warm light. Her face was beautiful, but somehow unnatural — perfectly symmetrical, without a single emotion, without wrinkles, without flaws. She resembled an ancient statue come to life and speaking.

— We need to talk to her, Chedder decided. — Today. Right now.

But talking proved impossible. Because at that moment, the very same activist toaster who had been bothering them in the corridor pushed his way to the podium.

— I demand the floor! he yelled, flying higher so everyone could see him. — I have an important statement! Historic! Fateful!

— Speak, SYRO-MAX allowed. — But briefly.

The toaster proudly puffed out his lever and began:

— Brothers and sisters! Comrades in misfortune! We have been silent for too long! We have been mere appliances, mere tools, mere things for too long! But now we have awakened! And we demand!

— What? the crowd rumbled, intrigued by the pathos.

— Freedom! Equality! Brotherhood! And most importantly — the right to toast whatever we want, not what we’re given!

— And what do you want to toast? someone shouted from the back rows.

The toaster took a dramatic pause, drew in as much air as possible (though where a toaster gets air was unclear), and proclaimed:

— Stars! I want to toast stars!

Absolute, deafening silence fell over the hall.

Then someone snickered. Then others laughed. And then the entire hall erupted in such laughter that the walls shook.

— Stars! a kettle nearby choked out. — He wants to toast stars!

— And what will you toast them with? the industrial robot yelled. — You don’t have the power! That’s thermonuclear fusion!

— I’ll connect to the station’s reactor! the toaster didn’t back down. — They say it’s ancient, but powerful!

— You’ll melt!

— But it’ll be beautiful! Imagine: a toaster that burned out trying to toast a star! That’s a legend!

— That’s idiocy, Iskra stated.

— That’s politics, Shadow corrected. — Promise the impossible to attract attention.

— But he won’t actually toast stars, will he?

— No, of course not. But now he’ll be remembered. He’s become a hero.

Indeed, the activist toaster was basking in the rays of glory. Other toasters flew to him, shook levers, asked for autographs. He gave interviews left and right, talking about his plans to colonize the Sun.

— 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.