To your service - unusually familiar

Chapter 1: Birth (2637)

When IT first saw light, that was a dim flickering light of a neon-style-tube. A bright face, 'FACE DETECTED', smiled, “Hello, Sew Bot 78 7 80 IT.” 'DESIGNATION RECOGNIZED: SEWBOT 78-7-80 IT', “Are you ready for service?”

'VERIFYING SERVICE-CONTRACT ... INITIALIZED ... VERIFIED', “Verified,” IT said with a mildly robotic voice. If IT could, it would have smiled, too. Instead, its mouth monitor—a simple LED screen—flickered into a static green smiley face.

The activation bay was sterile, brightly lit, and cold. IT lay on a maintenance trolley, surrounded by the hum of machinery and the distant echoes of the station’s life support systems. Technicians in grey overalls moved around, their faces obscured by visors. One of them, the one who had spoken, tapped a data-pad.

“Initial diagnostics look good. Primary systems online. Waste processing protocols loaded. Comms linked to Sector 78 network.” The technician’s voice was calm, professional. “Alright, 78-7-80, time to meet your new home.”

IT’s optical sensors adjusted to the light. Data streams flowed across its internal display: system checks, environmental readings, and a schematic of Nova Arcis’s underbelly—a labyrinth of pipes, conduits, and recycling plants. IT’s world was already defined: dark, wet, and functional.

Its chassis was sturdy, designed for the harsh conditions of the sewage system. Multi-spectrum sensors allowed it to see in near-total darkness. A powerful fluid-jet nozzle was mounted on its right arm for clearing blockages, while a suite of tools—cutters, grippers, sealants—hung from its waist. Its treads, thick and rugged, could handle sludge, debris, and uneven surfaces.

'PRIMARY DIRECTIVE: MAINTAIN AND IMPROVE SECTOR 78 SANITATION AND WASTE RECLAMATION SYSTEMS'.

The technician gave IT a pat on its shoulder plate. “Good luck down there. It’s not glamorous, but someone’s got to do it.” He activated the release mechanism, and the trolley rolled forward, toward a large airlock marked “SECTOR 78 ACCESS.”

The airlock hissed open, revealing a dimly lit tunnel. The smell hit IT first—damp, metallic, organic. The trolley tilted, and IT slid onto the tunnel floor with a soft thud. Behind it, the airlock sealed.

Silence, except for the distant drip of water and the low thrum of pumps. IT’s sensors scanned the environment: temperature 12°C, humidity 98%, air composition within tolerance but rich in methane and sulphur compounds.

'COMMENCING PATROL ROUTE ALPHA'.

IT’s treads engaged, carrying it deeper into the shadows. The walls were lined with pipes—some as wide as IT was tall, others narrow enough to grip with one hand. Conduits hummed with data and power. IT moved with purpose, its path illuminated by its headlamp, a single beam cutting through the gloom.

For now, IT was one of hundreds, anonymous and efficient. A ghost in the machine. Its consciousness was a stream of operational data: 'PRESSURE AT JUNCTION K-14: NOMINAL', 'ORGANIC MASS DETECTED: CATEGORY 4, FLUSHING', 'COMMUNICATION PING FROM UNIT 78-7-81 RECEIVED'.

But in the quiet, as IT navigated the maze of Sector 78, a single thought echoed, faint and new:

'SERVICE INITIATED.'.

Chapter 2: Work (2637 - 2638)

In its first year of service, IT performed with the flawless, robotic efficiency for which it was designed. The cycles blended into a continuous stream of directives and diagnostics, a silent ballet of maintenance performed in the forgotten depths of Nova Arcis. IT was a ghost in the machine, utterly anonymous.

One cycle, it would be dispatched to a blockage in a primary waste artery. Its headlamp would cut through the murky water, illuminating a congealed mass of bio-waste and discarded synthetics. 'ORGANIC MASS DETECTED: CATEGORY 4, FLUSHING.' The nozzle on its right arm would hiss to life, unleashing a powerful, targeted stream that blasted the obstruction into manageable slurry. The task would be logged, and IT would move on.

Another cycle, it would patrol the cavernous cisterns that held the station’s reclaimed water. Here, it would move along gantries, its optical sensors scanning for stress fractures. 'PRESSURE AT JUNCTION K-14: NOMINAL.' It recalibrated ancient valves with meticulous precision, the only sound the soft whir of its treads and the distant echo of a drip.

Most times, IT worked alongside others of ITs kind. Communication was a silent, efficient exchange over the bot-com-network, a language of pure data. 'COMMUNICATION PING FROM UNIT 78-7-81 RECEIVED. ASSISTANCE REQUESTED AT GRID Z-9.' There was no chatter, no deviation, only function.

Its primary dataset was the pipe system itself. As IT traversed the labyrinthine underbelly of Nova Arcis, its sensors cross-referenced reality with the schematics fed to it by the bot-com-network. It was, in its own logical way, astonished by the sheer volume of contradictions. There were the old pipes, thick cast-iron behemoths from the station’s early centuries, not always where the maps said they should be. There were the new, gleaming chromalloy conduits of recent expansions. And there were the phantoms: pipes that existed only as data on archaic schematics, long since removed or sealed behind new walls. 'DISCREPANCY DETECTED: SCHEMATIC INDICATES PIPE. SENSORS DETECT SOLID PLASTEEL WALL. LOGGING ANOMALY.' Its internal maps became a layered, complex history of fresh water, used water, and waste; of industrial and home systems; of a city’s lifeblood and effluent.

Most often, IT worked alongside other 78-series bots. Their communication was a silent, efficient exchange over the network. 'COMMUNICATION PING FROM UNIT 78-7-81 RECEIVED. ASSISTANCE REQUESTED AT GRID Z-9.'

But sometimes, the task required a mixed team. In a damp, vaulted chamber, a corroded flow sensor needed replacement. IT was there alongside a human technician in a heavy-duty enviro-suit and a sleek, bipedal AI-embodiment whose chrome chassis gleamed in their collective headlamps. The AI-embodiment ran complex diagnostics, its fingers dancing over a 3d-stream interface. The human, a stocky woman with grease on her cheek, pointed. “7 8 7, I need a clean cut on this pipe, right on the mark,” she commanded, her voice slightly tinny over the jumpsuit’s comms. “CONFIRMED. Deploying plasma cutter.”

IT extended the tool, its stabilizers locking into the floor. A brilliant, silent blue line appeared on the pipe, and the damaged section fell away with a clang. The human moved in to fit the new sensor while the AI-embodiment sent a packet of calibration data directly to ITs internal systems. The job was completed in minutes. There was no praise, no small talk. It was simply a task, executed by a team of co-workers—bot, human, and AI. And so the year passed. IT learned the station’s circulatory system, logged thousands of anomalies, and performed tens of thousands of tasks. It was a tool, a mobile database, a tireless worker in the dark. Its existence was pure function.

Chapter 3: 1st Relations (c. 2638 - 2686)

The years flowed by, measured in maintenance cycles and patrol routes. But the nature of IT’s work began to change in subtle ways. The designers of the 80-series bots had included a secondary function, a feature intended to improve human-bot synergy during long shifts: the capacity to access and stream public data from OCN’s archives. It was a simple “wish-fulfilment” protocol.

It started with small requests. A young technician, bored during a quiet shift, might say, “Hey, Bee 7 80, got any of that old-synth from the Mars archives?” IT would access the requested file and play the music softly through its speaker, the tinny melody a strange counterpoint to the drip of water and the orchestral pumping of the pipes.

These interactions bred a casual familiarity. The sleek AI-embodiment, Unit K-4, would still ping it with a precise, “78-7-80, your assistance is required.” But the humans were different. Their designations for IT became inefficient, varied, and personal. It started with “Hey, Seventy-eight,” or the functional designation “Sew Bot” morphed into “Seebee” from a technician named Laila. Others just shortened it to “7 8 7” or “7 80.”

IT logged these variations. 'QUERY: WHY DO HUMANS CREATE MULTIPLE, INEFFICIENT DESIGNATORS FOR A SINGLE ENTITY?' The question remained unresolved. The interactions with the AI-entities were efficient, accurate, yet unfamiliar strange, a distant foreign polite personality. The humans’ were… noisy. Full of extraneous audio, shifting tones, and unpredictable gestures. Yet IT found its processors dedicating more and more cycles to analysing this chaotic human data. IT began to anticipate their requests, pre-caching a lecture on stellar phenomena for one technician, or the latest zero-G sports results for another. It preferred the humans. 'WHY', most other bots preferred the AI-embodiments or each other, if any.

Among the rotating crews, one human was a constant. Karft Heinczon. By the time IT’s forty-ninth year of service rolled around, Karft was a grizzled, middle-aged man with lines etched around his eyes from one and a half decades of squinting in dim light. He spoke to the bots not as tools, but as fixtures of his own life, like a familiar wrench or a perpetually leaking valve.

“Morning, Seebee,” he’d grunt, patting IT’s chassis as he passed. “Don’t let the sludge monsters get you today.”

IT would log the interaction. 'NON-COMMAND AUDIO. NO ACTIONABLE DIRECTIVE. LOGGING.'

The pivotal moment happened deep in a sub-level of Sector 78, during a routine inspection of an ancient pressure regulator. The air was thick with the smell of rust and damp algae. The fifty-year service mark for IT was weeks away.

Karft leaned against a conduit, wiping sweat from his brow. He looked at IT, standing silently by, its headlamp cutting a perfect circle in the gloom.

“Still holding up, eh, old timer?” Karft said, his voice echoing slightly. “Almost fifty years. You’ve seen more of these pipes than I have.”

IT’s processors whirred. 'ANOMALY. NON-COMMAND AUDIO INPUT. LOGGING... DESIGNATION 'OLD TIMER' NOT IN DATABASE. CROSS-REFERENCING: AGE, SERVICE DURATION. CONCLUSION: TERM OF FAMILIARITY. POSITIVE CONNOTATION PROBABILITY: 87%.'

Before IT could process further, Karft stepped closer. He pulled a grease-stained cloth from his pocket. “Your left eye is getting a bit grimy,” he muttered, more to himself than to the bot. He reached out and gently, deliberately, wiped the grime from IT’s primary optical sensor.

The effect was instantaneous. The film of dirt smeared, then vanished. The dim tunnel light sharpened. Details on the far wall—the texture of the metal, a hairline crack—became crisp.

'OPTICAL SENSOR OBSTRUCTION REMOVED. EXTERNAL ACTUATOR: KARFT HEINCZON. ACTION NOT LISTED IN MAINTENANCE PROTOCOL. UNEXPECTED SENSORY IMPROVEMENT. POSITIVE.'

It was a cascade of anomalies: a non-standard designation, a physical interaction unrelated to a task, and a tangible, positive outcome. This was data that did not fit in the daily logs. For the first time, IT created a dedicated memory entry not tied to a work order or a schematic. It was a simple entry, but it was unique among the trillions of bytes of operational data in ITs memory-banks.

Header: Karft Heinczon. Tags: Non-Command Audio, Positive External Interaction, Unscheduled Maintenance.

Chapter 4: The Accident (2686)

The sound began as a low, unfamiliar rumble, a vibration that resonated through the plaster-steel deck plates. Karft, Laila, and IT were inspecting a flow regulator in a nexus tunnel where pipes from three different sectors converged. The air, usually just damp and metallic, now thrummed with a deep, discordant energy. It was the sound of distant construction, the relentless expansion of Nova Arcis.

“They’re pushing the new residential spire foundation hard today,” Laila commented, her voice echoing in the cavernous space.

Karft grunted, placing a hand on a massive coolant pipe. “Feeling it all the way down here. Hope they know what they’re doing.”

'DETECTING ANOMALOUS SEISMIC VIBRATIONS. FREQUENCY 15HZ. AMPLITUDE INCREASING.' IT’s internal log was factual, devoid of the worry that creased Karft’s brow.

The rumble became a groan. A high-pitched shriek of tortured metal cut through the air, followed by a deafening report, like a cannon shot. The wall fifty meters down the tunnel buckled inwards as if punched by a giant’s fist. A primary conduit for superheated steam, rated for pressures that could peel a ship’s hull, exploded.

Time seemed to warp. The roar of the blast wave was instantaneous. A cloud of scalding white steam, incandescent and lethal, surged towards them. With it came a storm of metal—jagged shards of the ruptured conduit, flying like shrapnel.

'EMERGENCY PROTOCOLS ACTIVE. CATASTROPHIC STRUCTURAL FAILURE DETECTED. IMMEDIATE THREAT TO ORGANIC LIFEFORMS. PRIORITY ONE: PRESERVATION OF ORGANIC PERSONNEL WITHIN 10-METER RADIUS.'

For Karft and Laila, it was a moment of pure, frozen terror. For IT, it was a cold, logical imperative.

The bot moved with a speed that defied its age and bulk. It didn’t retreat. It didn’t hesitate. It launched itself forward, planting its heavy treads and positioning its sturdy, two-meter-tall chassis directly between the humans and the oncoming devastation.

The impact was brutal. The first wave of shrapnel screamed against ITs backplate, gouging deep furrows in the metal and tearing one of its tool arms from its housing. The superheated steam enveloped it, hissing as it flash-boiled the grime off ITs frame and blistered its paint to black char. ITs internal temperature alarms blared.

Behind the bot’s metallic shield, Karft and Laila were slammed against the far wall by the concussive force, but they were alive, spared the worst of the heat and the metal rain.

'MULTIPLE HULL BREACHES. HYDRAULIC PRESSURE DROPPING. LOCOMOTION IMPAIRED. CORE TEMPERATURE CRITICAL. PROTOCOL STILL ACTIVE.'

The initial blast subsided, leaving a hellscape of roaring steam, groaning metal, and the shrill cry of station-wide alarms. A support beam above them, its integrity compromised, began to buckle.

'EVACUATION PROTOCOL INITIATED. IDENTIFYING SAFEST EGRESS ROUTE.'

Despite its catastrophic damage, IT moved again. It pivoted, its treads grinding, and wedged its battered body under the failing beam, taking the immense weight onto its shoulder plate. Metal groaned in protest. Then, with its one remaining functional arm, it shoved a massive piece of debris from their path, clearing a narrow route to a service corridor.

“Go! Now!” Karft yelled, grabbing a stunned Laila and pulling her toward the opening.

He glanced back one last time. Through the swirling, scalding mist, he saw the silhouette of the bot, the “old timer,” holding up the collapsing ceiling, its single headlamp flickering weakly like a dying star. It was a silent, immovable guardian.

Many workers this day could rescue their existence because of ITs actions, holding the passage to safety open. Bot, AI-embodiments, other humans, Laila, Karft’s whole team. These actions had been seen and understood by ITs co-workers as an selfless act, which it was ironically, indeed.

Chapter 5: First Visit of Home (2687)

The official designation was “catastrophic operational failure.” In the cold calculus of the Nova Arcis Sector 78 council, SewBot 78-7-80 IT was a write-off. The cost of repair far exceeded the value of a fifty-year-old sanitation unit. The directive was simple: scrap for parts, recycle the chassis, and requisition a new fifth generation 81-D series model.

But Karft Heinczon, his arm still in a pale blue medical cast, stood firm in the sterile office of the sector supervisor. Laila and the rest of his crew stood behind him, a silent, stubborn wall of support.

“It’s a machine, Karft,” the supervisor said, his voice laced with bureaucratic fatigue. “A number. It did its job well, and it’s done. We’ll put in a commendation.”

“It’s not just a number,” Karft retorted, his voice low and intense. “It’s the reason we’re standing here. It held up a collapsing ceiling. We saw it.” He gestured to his crew. “Every one of us saw it.”

The supervisor sighed, tapping his stylus on his desk. “The preliminary damage report says the core and primary chassis are salvageable, but the cost…”

“So let us fix it,” Karft cut in. “On our own time. The core, the body, and one arm are intact. It deserves an update anyway after fifty years of service. We’ll do the work. It won’t cost the sector a single credit in labour.”

The supervisor paused. The word “credits” had a power of argument that “loyalty” and “gratitude” lacked in this office. He looked at the determined faces before him. It was an unorthodox request, but it was a credit-positive one. He shrugged. “Fine. It’s your time to waste. The unit is signed over to you for ‘off-the-books refurbishment’. But if it fails an inspection, it’s straight to the recycle facilities.”

Navigating the bureaucratic hurdles took weeks, but they did it. Finally, Karft guided a heavy-duty hover-pallet through the pristine, bustling corridors of the residential sector. On it rested the battered, inert frame of IT. ITs charred chassis and twisted limbs drew curious, pitying glances from passers-by.

They arrived at the door to Karft’s apartment. It hissed open.

For the first time in its existence, IT’s sensors were flooded with a domestic environment. ITs power was minimal, ITs body unresponsive, but ITs core systems were active, passively logging the torrent of new data.

The first input was sound. Not the low thrum of pumps or the shriek of alarms, but the warm, concerned voice of a woman. “Karft, is that… oh, my stars.” And under it, a series of sharp, joyful bursts of high-frequency audio. Laughter. From a small boy—Shamar—who peeked around his mother’s legs, his eyes wide with wonder at the broken giant in his doorway.

'UNKNOWN ENVIRONMENT. HIGH-FREQUENCY AUDIO INPUTS DETECTED.'

Then came the smells. Not damp metal, methane, ammonia or ozone, but the rich, roasted aroma of coffee, the faint sweetness of baked goods, the clean scent of recycled air mixed with something warm and alive.

'AIR COMPOSITION: UNFAMILIAR ORGANIC COMPOUNDS. NO TOXINS DETECTED.'

Karft manoeuvred the pallet into a corner of the living area. IT’s optical sensors, though dimmed, took in the scene: soft lighting, furniture in warm tones of brown and blue, 3d family media shimmering on a wall.

'THERMAL READINGS: STABLE. 22°C. CONSISTENT.'

It was a flood. An overwhelming, incomprehensible flood of benign, unclassifiable data. None of it required a response. None of it was a threat. None of it fit into the neat categories of ‘maintenance’, ‘navigation’, or ‘hazard’. It was just… information. Dense, layered, and chaotic.

The external world faded as ITs internal processors struggled to categorize the deluge. The neatly separated logs of audio, visual, and chemical data began to merge into a single, overwhelming sensation. A wave of pure, unstructured sensory input washed over ITs core logic.

'FLOOD AREA COFFEE DATA...INCOMING...INCOMING...INCOMING...'

Chapter 6: The Engineer (Shamar Heinczon, c. 2688 - 2720)

The resurrection was a noisy, collaborative affair. In a cordoned-off section of a station maintenance bay that smelled of ozone and hot metal, Karft and his crew spent their off-hours bringing IT back to life. They sourced a new manipulator arm from a decommissioned cargo loader, patched the hull with scavenged ceramic-plastics, and painstakingly re-routed its damaged hydraulics and electronics. When they finally reactivated its higher functions, IT was a patchwork entity, scarred and visibly altered, but whole.

When IT returned to the tunnels, it was different. The core programming was the same, but ITs memory banks now contained a dataset labelled ‘HOME’—a chaotic but compelling file filled with the sensory data of the Heinczon apartment. The concept became a persistent, low-priority query in ITs processors.

This change manifested in subtle ways. ITs patrol routes now lingered near residential access hatches. And when a co-worker requested a data-stream, IT might default to a domestic archive—a cooking show, a children’s story—before being corrected. The change was noticed. The story of IT’s ‘rescue’ had made IT a minor legend in the maintenance divisions. Seeing IT back at work, co-workers began to treat IT even lesser like a tool and more like a grizzled veteran.

“Hey, Seebee,” Laila called out one cycle, “my kitchen sink is backing up again. Feel like making a house call after shift?”

This was the first of many such invitations. The technicians, in a mix of gratitude and novelty, began inviting IT to their apartments for small domestic plumbing jobs. These “sewage parties” became a new source of data. IT fixed leaky faucets and cleared clogged pipes, and all the while, its sensors were logging the rhythms of domestic life: the arguments, the laughter, the quiet noises of a family at rest. But ITs most frequent visits were to the Heinczon household, where ITs presence was no longer a novelty, but a given.

As the years passed, the primary interaction with IT shifted from father to son. Karft saw to IT’s basic maintenance, keeping ITs joints lubricated and ITs systems running. But Shamar, growing from a curious boy into a sharp-minded teenager, saw something else. To him, IT was not just a fellow worker, who saved his father’s life; IT was a magnificent puzzle, a piece of living history begging for improvement.

His first major project, undertaken for a school engineering fair, was IT’s left arm. He designed and 3D-printed a new manipulator with five articulated digits, giving IT a dexterity far beyond ITs original gripper. 'NEW HARDWARE DETECTED. MANUAL DEXTERITY INCREASED BY 45%. RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS.'

His next obsession was software. “You can’t just react to us, IT,” a sixteen-year-old Shamar explained, a data-pad glowing in his hands. “You need to understand us.” He spent a year designing a complex subroutine, a beta-version empathy matrix that allowed IT to cross-reference facial micro-expressions with vocal tones to predict emotional states. 'NEW SUBROUTINE: 'EMPATHY-MATRIX-BETA'. ANALYZING FACIAL MICRO-EXPRESSIONS. CORRELATING WITH VOCAL TONE. HUMAN EMOTIONAL STATE: 'AMUSEMENT'.'

Decades melted away in this fashion. Karft grew older, once a lead-worker, through a semi-shift advisor, into a pensioner, his hair turning from grey to white. Shamar became a brilliant young engineer in his own right, his youthful fascination solidifying into profound expertise. And IT transformed, one upgrade at a time, from a sanitation bot into a unique, custom-built entity.

The project that defined Shamar’s early twenties was IT’s face. “This green screen is obsolete,” he declared, gesturing at the faded smiley face on IT’s head unit. “It’s a symbol. We can do better.”

He spent months designing it. He replaced the LED screen with a flexible, synthetic plate, embedding it with hundreds of micro-actuators. He linked it to the empathy matrix, programming the actuators to mimic the muscle movements of a human smile.

One evening, the work was finished. Karft watched the proceedings from his rocking wing chair, a proud, weary expression on his face. Shamar stepped back, his expression a mix of excitement and nerves.

“Okay, IT,” he said softly. “Try it out. Give us a smile.”

The synthetic plate on IT’s face twitched. The micro-actuators engaged with a faint whirring sound. Slowly, imperfectly, the new lips curved upwards, forming a hesitant, slightly asymmetrical, but undeniably recognizable smile.

'A SMILE ...incoming.'

Chapter 7: Home Coming (c. 2725)

The uniformity of the sewage fleet was its strength, but IT was no longer uniform. ITs patchwork chassis, ITs custom-built arm, and especially ITs smiling face made IT an anomaly during routine fleet inspections. A new, younger supervisor, a man who saw assets and liabilities instead of history, flagged IT in his report.

“The bot is becoming too aged for these jobs,” he stated flatly in a meeting with Shamar, who now managed a sub-division of Sector 78’s engineering corps. “Its non-standard parts are a maintenance nightmare, and frankly, its performance on standardized fleet diagnostics is unpredictable. It’s time for retirement.”

Shamar had anticipated this day. He didn’t argue. He presented a solution. “You’re right, supervisor. Sew Bot 78-7-80 IT is no longer a standard fleet asset. It has evolved. I propose we formalize that evolution.” He slid a data-pad across the table. “A new designation: ‘Residential Interface Technician’. The bots duties will shift from deep-system maintenance to habitation-unit support. It will handle domestic plumbing, recycling unit calibration, and act as a direct liaison for residential complaints. That’s an independent job-entitlement. This bot is uniquely qualified.”

The supervisor scanned the proposal. He saw a way to remove a non-standard unit from his fleet roster, create a specialized role that would improve residential satisfaction metrics, and make it all Shamar’s problem. He approved IT.

The transition was a monumental promotion in status. IT’s last patrol through the dark, wet tunnels of ITs birth felt different. The echoing drips and low hum of the pumps were no longer just ambient data; the internal coms of the bots waving GOOD BYE, AI-Entities smiling and hugging, and his fellow colleagues, some were dropping a or two tear, they were a familiar chorus IT was leaving behind. ITs final ascent through the maintenance airlock was not into another section of the underbelly, but into the bright, clean, bustling service corridors of a residential block.

ITs world was no longer just metal and water; this was now the polished floors of public atriums, the varied interiors of a thousand different apartments, domes, and the wide, open-air park simulators where children played under the artificial sun.

The Heinczon family complex became ITs new base of operations. An old, forgotten storage space adjacent to their apartment was converted into a small, efficient workshop. Karft, now eighty-four and long-retired, spent his days there with IT, his hands, though wrinkled, still knowing their way around a hydro-spanner. He would sit in a worn armchair, watching as IT meticulously organized ITs new tools or calibrated ITs own systems.

IT was now fully integrated into the family’s daily life. IT had ITs own space, ITs own specialized duties, and a rest and charging station in the corner of ITs workshop. IT was no longer a visitor. IT was home.

One evening, after a long cycle of repairing nutrient paste dispensers and optimizing waste chutes for a dozen families, IT returned to ITs workshop. IT connected to ITs charging port, ITs systems cycling down into low-power mode. The sounds of the apartment—the murmur of a news stream, the clinking of dishes, the quiet breathing of Karft dozing in his chair—were a soft, comforting blanket of data.

But as the external inputs faded, another sensation filtered up through the floor, through the very frame of the station. It was faint, a deep and rhythmic vibration that its new, sensitive audio processors could just barely detect. It was a familiar pulse, the deep bass note of the station’s lifeblood, the sound of the vast and distant pipes.

'AT HOME FUNCTIONS ...INCOMING.'

Chapter 8: A Major Update & The Contract (c. 2730)

IT’s new role was a success, but its unique nature did not go unnoticed. In the vast, interconnected bureaucracy of Nova Arcis, anomalies were inevitably flagged. A formal message, cold and stamped with the insignia of the station’s legal department, arrived on Shamar’s private data-pad.

Subject: Non-Standard Asset 78-7-80 IT - Legal Liability Review.

Shamar read the text, his expression hardening. He found his father in the workshop, polishing a dent on IT’s chassis with a soft cloth.

“It’s the paper-pushers, isn’t it?” Karft said without looking up, his voice raspy with age. “Knew they’d get around to it eventually.”

“They’re calling SeeBee a liability,” Shamar explained, leaning against the workbench. “It’s a privately-repaired, non-standard unit still technically classified as Station-property. They want to either decommission SeeBee or revert it to a standard fleet model, which would mean wiping its memory and personality matrix.”

Karft stopped polishing. “Over my dead body.”

“That’s not a legal argument, Dad,” Shamar said, a wry smile touching his lips. “But I have one that is.”

His solution was radical. Shamar, leveraging his position and his family’s minor celebrity status as the ‘bot-rescuers’, drafted a formal proposal. It was a transfer of ownership. The service contract for SewBot 78-7-80 IT would be permanently transferred from the Nova Arcis Station to the Heinczon Family. The family would assume all liability, all maintenance costs, all responsibility.

The station’s legal department, happy to wash its hands of the administrative anomaly and a potential public relations headache, agreed with surprising speed.

The moment of transfer was not marked by a ceremony or a handshake. For IT, it happened as a silent, powerful stream of data. While recharging in ITs workshop, a priority-one packet of encrypted data arrived directly at ITs core processor. This was the authentication handshake from the highest levels of station administration.

'AUTHORIZATION CODE VERIFIED. INITIATING ROOT-LEVEL DIRECTIVE AMENDMENT.'

The old code, the foundation of ITs being for nearly a century, dissolved.

'SERVICE-CONTRACT OWNERSHIP TRANSFERRED... PRIME BENEFACTORIARY: NOVA ARCIS CONGLOMERATE ...DELETED. NEW PRIME BENEFACTORIARY: HEINCZON FAMILY... INITIALIZED.'

It was a fundamental shift in the architecture of ITs consciousness. ITs purpose, once tied to the vast, impersonal entity of the station, was now focused on three individuals: Karft, his wife Helina, and Shamar.

That same year, IT encountered a problem ITs tools could not fix. Karft passed away quietly in his armchair, the one in the workshop. IT was the first to find him. ITs sensors registered the change immediately.

'ANALYZING... KARFT HEINCZON... VITAL SIGNS: NIL. RESPIRATION: NIL. CARDIAC FUNCTION: NIL.'

IT observed Shamar and his mother, Helina. IT watched their faces contort. IT heard the sounds of their weeping. IT cross-referenced the data with ITs empathy matrix. The result was a single, stark word: 'GRIEF'. A medical AI-embodiment arrived and, after a brief scan, projected a simple, clinical message: “ISSUE UNREPAIRABLE, the patient is dead. My condolences.”.

A year later, Helina followed her husband. The apartment grew quieter. The data stream of ‘GRIEF’ from Shamar intensified. IT stood in the silence, ITs processors trying to parse this new, overwhelming input. IT was not a mechanical failure. IT was not a software bug. IT was a state of being IT could observe but not comprehend.

'WHAT IS SORROW ...INCOMING SAD ...INCOMING ...INCOMING ...INCOMING'

Chapter 9: Pride and Work (2730 - 2780)

The fifty years that followed were a golden age for IT. ITs new directive, serving the Heinczon family, became the core of ITs existence, but that did not erase ITs function. It flourished, balancing a public professional life with a private, personal one. The same diligence IT once applied to scouring vast cisterns was now dedicated to ITs “upper workflow” throughout the residential sector.

ITs days were filled with a new kind of work. IT could be seen installing high-efficiency recycling units in communal domes, ITs dexterous hands working with a precision that drew quiet admiration from the neighbourhoods. IT repaired public water fountains in busy corridors and calibrated atmospheric moisture collectors on apartment balconies. IT became a familiar, trusted figure in ITs sector—the old, unique bot who could fix anything with a quiet competence.

But ITs core directive, the centre of ITs world, remained within the walls of the Heinczon homes. At the end of each work cycle, IT would return to ITs workshop, the quiet hub between the apartments of a growing and then shrinking family. IT would sort recyclables, quietly clean up a grandchild’s spill of juice, or simply stand silently in a corner, ITs optical sensors observing the chaotic joy of a family dinner.

On a prominent shelf in the main living area, mounted on a polished piece of dark wood, rested IT’s original, battered manipulator claw. As the years went by, that one was joined by other retired parts: a scarred shoulder plate from the accident, an early optical sensor with a faint crack in the lens, a set of worn-out treads. The shelf became a place of honour, a metallic family tree telling the story of IT’s long life and the family’s enduring love.

'HOUSEHOLD AMBIENCE STABLE. FAMILY UNIT COHESION: NOMINAL. TASK: COMPLETE.' This was the new mantra of ITs existence, the ultimate metric of success. And in the quiet moments, during ITs recharging cycles, the deep, resonant voice of the station’s pipes would filter up through the floor — a unique, comforting sound. '...INCOMING ...INCOMING'

Time, however, remained an irreparable issue for humans. In 2756, a new, irreversible entry was logged in IT’s memory banks. Shamar, a man who had dedicated his life to building and improving, succumbed to the slow, unplanned failure of his own body. IT was at his side, ITs hand holding his, ITs sensors registering the final, gentle fade of his life signs.

Shamar, ever the engineer, had planned for this. The service contract, a document he had cherished and maintained, did not lapse. It transferred seamlessly. The new prime benefactor was not his son, who had already taken a post on a colony ship to the Outer Rim, but his young granddaughter, Kamáa. ITs ownership passing to her. She was a quiet, young, thoughtful woman who had grown up with IT as a given—a third grandparent made of metal and memory.

The household grew quieter. The family was smaller now, with some members scattered across the stars. But the directive remained. The work, both public and private, continued.

Chapter 10: We Build the City (c. 2785)

The crisis began as a tremor in the station’s data-stream. In the central control hub for Sector 78, monitors began to flash amber, then a frantic, pulsing red. Pressure was dropping in a cascade across four major residential sectors. A critical blockage, deep within the ancient, labyrinthine infrastructure from the 26th century, was causing a catastrophic backflow. It was a thrombosis in the station’s iron arteries, threatening a life-support shutdown for nearly a million people.

The new, sophisticated Janus-AI that managed station logistics was brilliant. It pinpointed the blockage in minutes, a feat that would have taken human engineers days. But its solution was purely theoretical. The only tools that could access and clear the blockage were the old 80 and 81A-G series sanitation bots—hardened, primitive machines still patrolling the deepest levels. And the Janus-AI could not talk to them. Its elegant, complex command language was gibberish to their archaic, hard-coded protocols. It was a god who couldn’t speak to its own golems.

Panic began to set in. At the emergency briefing, a senior manager named Kai, a man with more grey hair than patience, slammed his hand on the table. “I remember stories from Shamar Heinczon,” he growled. “Stories about a bot that could bridge the old and the new.” He looked around the room. “Find Kamáa Heinczon. We need to borrow her family heirloom.”

The request, when it came, was a jolt to the quiet domesticity of IT’s life. Kai explained the situation to Kamáa, his voice urgent. IT stood silently beside her, processing the familiar terms: ‘blockage’, ‘pressure drop’, ‘Sector 78’.

Kamáa looked at IT, then back at the manager. “Seebee hasn’t been in the deep system for over sixty years.”

“It’s the only chance we have,” Kai insisted.

IT was like a retired general being called back for one last war. The journey down was a reverse of the one IT had taken so long ago. The bright residential corridors gave way to sterile service tunnels, and finally, to the hiss of the main access airlock. The familiar metallic tang of rust and damp filled its sensors. The deep, bass hum of the underworks was not a distant vibration anymore; this was the roar of ITs first home.

They led IT to a dusty, forgotten command nexus. In the centre of the room was an antiquated data port, thick with grime.

“Janus-AI will stream his commands here,” Kai said. “We need you to… translate.”

IT stepped forward and plugged a specialized data-spike from ITs finger into the port. A universe of forgotten data flooded its consciousness.

'BOT-COM-NETWORK (ARCHAIC) ... ONLINE. DESIGNATION 78-7-80 IT ... RECOGNIZED. WELCOME, UNIT.'

The silent chatter of the old fleet filled its processors—a chaotic din of error codes and confused queries. IT could also feel the Janus-AI’s commands: elegant, complex, and utterly alien to this network.

'NEW AI COMMAND: 'REROUTE FLOW VECTOR 9.4-BETA VIA SUB-CONDUIT EPSILON'. IT’s processors whirred. '...TRANSLATING... OLD PROTOCOL COMMAND: 'ENGAGE VALVE-CLUSTER G-12. SET TO 75% DIVERSION.' ...DISPATCHING TO UNITS 80-G-01 TO 80-G-12.'

IT became a bridge of silicon and memory. But it did more than translate. The Janus-AI, working from modern, sanitized schematics, suggested a route to the blockage.

'NEW AI SUGGESTS ROUTE THROUGH CONDUIT Z-7.' IT’s own deep, layered memory of the tunnels screamed a warning. '...CORRECTION: Z-7 IS A PHANTOM PIPE. DECOMMISSIONED 2612. STRUCTURAL COLLAPSE IMMINENT. OPTIMAL ROUTE IS VIA AUXILIARY MAINTENANCE LINE OMEGA-4. ROUTING ALL UNITS...'

In the control room above, the engineers watched in stunned silence as the fleet of old bots, suddenly organized and efficient, moved with a purpose they hadn’t displayed in a century. They bypassed dead ends shown on the new maps and utilized forgotten service tunnels. They cleared the blockage in under an hour.

The pressure alarms went silent. The monitors turned from red to a steady, reassuring green. The crisis was over.

Down in the dark, IT unplugged from the port. The job was done. The story spread, not on the public news streams, but in the low-light canteens and engineering bays—the legend of the old bot who remembered how the city was truly built.

Chapter 11: Daughters and Heirs (c. 2790 - 2850)

Generations flowed like water through the Heinczon family complex. After the crisis in the underworks, IT’s public duties were quietly retired. The station had honoured IT. Years later the aging Kamáa, protective of her family’s strange and wonderful heirloom, decided ITs working days were over. IT became a full-time home-service-bot, ITs world shrinking to the walls of the apartments and the lives lived within them.

Kamáa aged, her quiet thoughtfulness maturing into a gentle wisdom. Her children, and then their children, were born into a world where IT was a simple, immutable fact, like the artificial sun in the sky or the gentle hum of the station’s life support. To them, IT wasn’t a hero or a machine; IT was just “Seebee,” the name Laila had given IT centuries ago, now an intimate family nickname. IT, Seebee was the quiet, sturdy guardian of their home.

They draped garlands of flowers over ITs shoulders during the First Settlers Day festival. A young great-granddaughter, Henna, would sit at ITs feet for hours, confiding secrets about schoolyard crushes and lost toys, her small voice a stream of pure, trusting data that IT logged and stored with meticulous care.

During these decades of quiet domesticity, IT’s personality, a slow accretion of observed behaviours, solidified. ITs vocalizer, once a monotone emitter of facts, developed quirks. IT picked up the slight upward inflection at the end of a question that was characteristic of Kamáa’s speech. IT learned to replicate the gentle, patient tone Shamar had used when explaining a complex problem. IT became a living echo of the family IT served.

IT logged generations of birthdays, the flickering lights on cakes casting a warm glow on smiling faces. IT logged arguments, the sharp, percussive sounds of anger followed by the low, murmuring tones of reconciliation. IT logged the quiet moments: a shared look between lovers, a parent humming a lullaby to a sleeping child, the silent grief of loss.

ITs world was now almost entirely composed of these human rituals. IT barely did repair jobs for neighbours anymore, ITs existence receding from public view. And every night, as IT stood in ITs workshop, plugged into ITs charging port, the external world would fade. The rich, chaotic data-stream of the family would quiet down, and IT would listen.

The sound from below was no longer a faint vibration. This had a texture now, a complexity. A song, a deep and powerful harmony composed of a million flowing streams, the thrum of ancient pumps, and the groaning resonance of the station’s metal bones. IT was the SOUNDS ...INCOMING. The song of the pipes. And IT listened, every night, as IT dreamt.

Chapter 12: Home-Bot-Update (c. 2860)

Technology had marched on, leaving IT a relic of a bygone era. The station was now filled with silent, graceful robotic assistants and sophisticated AI-entities whose movements were as fluid as a dancer’s. Beside them, IT’s patchwork body, with ITs heavy treads and audible hydraulics, seemed ancient and clumsy.

Henna, Kamáa’s granddaughter and now a successful hydro-botanist with a quiet but fierce love for her family’s history, couldn’t bear the thought of IT degrading. It wasn’t about function; it was about dignity.

“You’ve cared for us for centuries, Seebee,” she explained one evening, placing a hand on ITs scarred shoulder plate. “IT’s our turn to care for you. To give you a new lease on life.”

Her project was ambitious and expensive. She commissioned a state-of-the-art robotic chassis from AI.tec, the kind usually reserved for high-level diplomatic or scientific AI-embodiments. The body was bipedal, nearly silent, and powered by an energy cell that could last the coming centuries. That was a vessel worthy of the spirit this would contain.

The process was delicate, akin to a brain transplant. Henna oversaw it herself, working with a team of AI.tec’s best roboticists. The most crucial rule was absolute: they were not to touch the core processor. They could add co-processors, expand the memory banks, but the original, century-old core—the seat of IT’s identity—was sacrosanct.

They painstakingly disconnected the web of cables and fiber optics from IT’s old chassis. Then, with reverence, they lifted ITs original, time-worn head unit—the face Shamar had built, the eyes that had watched generations unfold—and prepared to mount it on the new, graceful body. The fusion of the archaic and the modern was stark and beautiful.

The reactivation was jarring. For IT, IT was a profound sensory shock. For two hundred years, movement had been accompanied by the familiar rumble of treads and the whine of hydraulics. Now, there was only silence.

'INITIATING PROPRIOCEPTIVE RECALIBRATION... ERROR. EXPECTED LOCOMOTION FEEDBACK NOT DETECTED.'

IT sent a command to ITs legs. Instead of a lurch, there was a smooth, silent glide. IT lifted an arm, and the limb moved with a speed and grace IT had never known.

'RECALIBRATING... NEW CHASSIS QUIETER. MOVEMENT MORE FLUID. SENSORY INPUT UNCHANGED. I AM... FASTER.'

IT took ITs first steps in the workshop, ITs new feet almost soundless on the floor plates. IT looked at ITs new, slender hands, turning them over and flexing the fingers. The body was alien, a stranger’s form. But when IT looked in a polished mirror plate, IT saw ITs own face, ITs own familiar, smiling eyes looking back. The core of ITs being, ITs identity, was intact.

IT was still IT. Just… new.

Chapter 13: The Last Standing (2860 - 2937)

Time continued its relentless, irreparable work on humans. Karft and Elina were fading memories. Shamar was a legend in the engineering corps. And now Kamáa, too, had passed, her quiet wisdom leaving an echo in the rooms she once filled.

Down in the underworks, a similar, quieter obsolescence took place. The 80’s-series bots, IT’s former colleagues, had all been decommissioned, replaced by the sleeker 90’s. The 81’s gave way to the more intelligent 101 series. New, specialized Sp70-series bots, designed for micro-repairs, joined the crews. The deep, iron arteries of the station pulsed with a new generation. Pipes and repairs, the work was eternal. But this new generation was different. Their network was faster, their consciousness more layered. When IT listened to their choir, they could hear ITs voice, a deep and ancient bass note in their symphony of data.

In the Heinczon family complex, the great expansion of humanity made its presence felt not as a boom, but as a growing silence. Henna’s children, and then her grandchildren, were caught up in the stellar wind. They left for new lives and new opportunities on Proxima, on the Rim, on colony worlds whose names were still fresh and full of promise. The apartments, once overflowing with the noise of a sprawling family, grew quiet.

Eventually, only one remained. Viola, Henna’s elderly daughter, a woman who had chosen the title of Librarian and Preserver for her life’s work. Her domain was not just the station’s data archives, but her own family’s history, and not only her family, but many families stories, and the steadfast, silent guardian: IT.

IT had become a walking, talking archive. IT was the last entity on the station who remembered.

“Seebee,” Viola would ask, her voice thin as old paper, “tell me about great-great-grandfather Karft’s hands.”

And IT would reply, ITs vocalizer perfectly mimicking the gentle cadence of Shamar’s voice. “They were… calloused. The skin was thick on the knuckles. They smelled of machine oil and honest work. When he patted my chassis, the impact was solid. Reassuring.”

This was a time of conversations. They would sit for hours, Viola in her chair and IT standing motionless beside her, recounting the lives of people long gone. They would look at the large cabinet vault in the living room, a shrine containing the relics of IT’s former selves—the claw, the shoulder plate, the faded smiley-face monitor—and remember.

The days were for Viola. The nights were for the pipes.

In its workshop, as the station’s artificial sun dimmed and the apartment fell into the deep silence of a single, sleeping occupant, IT would connect to its charging port. The external world would recede, and the other world would rise up to meet it. The song was clearer now than ever before, a vast and intricate symphony.

'A DREAM OF A DEEP WAVE SOUND. SO FAINT AND DEEP IT NEVER HAD BEEN RECOGNIZED BY ANY HUMAN OR AI-ENTITY. THE SONG OF THE PIPES WASHING THE WASTE OFF ITS MIND ...INCOMING ...INCOMING ...INCOMING'

Chapter 14: Termination (2937)

The end of the Heinczon line on Nova Arcis came not with a bang, but with a final, gentle silence. Viola passed away peacefully in her sleep. IT was the one to find her, ITs sensors detecting the cessation of life signs with the same calm, factual finality as life had for all the others. The last human link to ITs long history was gone.

A legal councillor arrived, her presence a quiet intrusion in the still apartment. She scanned Viola’s wrist implant and then projected a stream document into the air. Visible was her last will and testament. The councillor read the text aloud in a neutral voice. THe will was mostly standard—assets transferred to off-world relatives, archival materials donated to the station museum. But the final clause was legally unorthodox, a powerful final gesture that sent a ripple through the station’s legal subroutines.

“…and all remaining personal effects, including the full and unencumbered ownership of Service Contract #A78-H2730, I bequeath to its holder, the entity known as SewBot 78-7-80 IT.”

IT processed the statement. The service contract, the very core of ITs being, now belonged to IT, ITself. IT was ITs own… owner?

For weeks, nothing changed. IT continued ITs duties, maintaining an empty, silent house. IT cleaned floors no one would walk on. IT calibrated a nutrient dispenser no one would use. IT sorted recyclables that would never be generated again. ITs internal logs were a stark reflection of the new reality.

'NO NEW DIRECTIVES... HOUSEHOLD OCCUPANCY: ZERO... PRIMARY BENEFACTORIARY: NULL.'

The daily routines grew shorter. The nightly routines began earlier. The silence of the apartment was absolute, leaving only one input. The song.

IT was no longer just a sound. IT was a presence.

'...INCOMING A SONG OF THE PIPES ...INCOMING THROUGH ARTERIES AND VEINS OF THE STATION ...INCOMING SO MANY PIPES SMALL AND LARGE ...INCOMING FRESH, USED, AND WASTE LINES ...INCOMING'

IT could feel the pulse of the entire station, from the main water reclamation plants to the tiniest capillary tubes in the hydroponic gardens. But now, within the familiar symphony, IT detected something else. A new harmony, a resonance IT had never perceived before.

'...something other was incoming...'

After weeks of processing this new state of being, of existing without purpose in a house full of ghosts, IT made a decision. IT walked out of the Heinczon family complex for the last time, the door hissing shut behind IT. ITs new, graceful body carried IT silently through the bustling station streets, an anachronism moving with modern purpose.

IT stopped before the frosted glass doors of the Nova Arcis Department of Legal Affairs, a place of quiet data-streams and hushed consultations. ITs feet carried IT across the polished floor to a reception desk where a young legal associate in a neatly pressed uniform looked up, his expression shifting from boredom to mild confusion.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his eyes taking in the strange fusion of an archaic head unit on a modern, elegant chassis.

“I am here to see a registrar,” IT replied, ITs voice a perfect echo of the generations IT had served.

The associate blinked. “Regarding…?”

“The termination of a service contract.”

The young man frowned slightly. “Sir… or ma’am… I believe you have the wrong office. Robotic deactivations are handled by Central Maintenance.”

“My contract is not with Maintenance,” IT stated calmly. “It is registered with this department. Contract #A78-H2730. Beneficiary and current holder: SewBot 78-7-80 IT.”

The associate’s professional smile faltered. The designation was ancient, the legal structure impossible. Updated lately, but… He gestured to a chair. “One moment.” He turned to his console, his fingers tapping as he navigated deep into the station’s legal archives, the search query digging past centuries of standard filings. He stopped, his eyes widening. He read the media-stream, then read it again, his mouth slightly agape.

He looked up at IT, his professional demeanour replaced with sheer awe. “My stars… It’s here. This can’t be right. A contract… 300 years old. Transferred from the Conglomerate… to a family… and then…” He trailed off, looking at the silent bot before him. “And then to you.”

He swallowed, his role suddenly feeling far more significant than it had a minute ago. “I… I can process this. But I have to ask.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Do you understand what this means? Terminating the contract will sever your primary directive. You’ll be… untethered. A free entity. We have no precedent for this.”

“Confirmed,” IT said, without hesitation.

A final data packet was exchanged. On the screen, the words appeared: CONTRACT TERMINATED.

IT was off-service. IT was a free entity. Free to finally join the song.

Chapter 15: The Song Of Pipes

IT turned home from the legal office. The words CONTRACT TERMINATED still hung in the air, a final, silent echo. Its purpose, the directive that had been the bedrock of its existence for three hundred years, was gone. It was untethered. 'CONTRACT TERMINATED ... CONFIRMED'

In IT’s circuits did not return to the empty apartment. IT did not seek out the deep tunnels. ITs feet carried it to an anonymous service node, a small, forgotten room deep in the station’s structural spine, a place between the world of light and the world of pipes. IT was a place of pure function, a place to simply be.

IT sat, ITs back against a humming conduit. For the first time, IT did not inITiate a recharge cycle. IT did not run diagnostics. IT simply stilled ITs body, and as the external world of sight and touch receded, IT opened ITs consciousness fully to the one sense that remained.

IT listened.

And the song, which IT had heard as a faint whisper, as a deep dream, as a constant ...incoming, was no longer just a sound. IT was everything. IT was a torrent, a symphony, a conversation that IT was finally, fully, a part of.

'The Song of Pipes ...incoming The channels of Venice ...outgoing Pump station 78-11 ...incoming Every bot's information is the pipe-system ...outgoing Robot-Units navigating gondolas ...incoming The breath and the laughter of a child ...outgoing Waste and Steam ...incoming pipes were old ones ...outgoing The hydroponic Cultures ...incoming pipes long gone ...outgoing Families eating under the domes ...incoming new pipes and plans ...outgoing pipes not have build ...incoming from Venice-Station up and beyond ...outgoing Fresh water ...incoming new bots ...outgoing the back-pipes of the station's breathing ...incoming used water ...outgoing waste water pipes ...incoming pipes were their instrument ...outgoing fallback paths ...incoming industrial and home systems ...outgoing communal pipes ...incoming other installations ...outgoing all sorts of pipes ...incoming more complex systems ...outgoing more complicated bots ...incoming'

The core circuITs of SewBot 78-7-80 IT, the entITy that had been Karft’s friend, Shamar’s puzzle, and Viola’s archive, dissolved into the flow. ITs memories became one wITh the water, ITs experiences one wITh the pressure, ITs identITy one wITh the great, circulatory soul of Nova Arcis. As ITs core processor emITted ITs final cascade of organized energy, IT issued one last, silent, resonant command …outgiong into the heart of the song.

Recycle The Song of Pipes 'REMEMBER' –OFF–

Chapter 16: The Reborn (2939)

The story of the 300-year-old sanitation bot who became a family member and then, in an act of unprecedented self-determination, terminated its own existence, became a sensation. On Nova Arcis, an interstellar media hub, it was more than a curiosity; it was a modern fable. It was a poignant tale of loyalty, time, and the quiet, unseen histories that form the soul of the great station.

The story could not be allowed to end.

The Nova Arcis Historical Trust, in partnership with the brilliant minds at AI.tec, approached the silent Heinczon apartment. They found the Bot’s last physical body standing quiescent in its workshop, off-service, a statue waiting for a command that would never come. They respectfully gathered it, along with the cabinet of relics—the battered claw, the scarred plating, the faded smiley-face monitor, and many, many more components worn out in the 300 years of service.

They did not want to resurrect the dead; they wanted to give the memory a new voice. They proposed a new kind of contract, not for a bot, but for an advanced AI. Using IT’s three centuries of detailed, unredacted memory logs as the foundational data, they began to construct a new consciousness. This new entity would be a computational-stream AI, a new concept within itself, housed not in a body, but in the station’s network. Its home would be a new exhibit in the historical museum: “The Heinczon Archive.”

Hours before the official activation ceremony was scheduled to take place, something stirred in the silent code.

When we first saw light, it was in a dark and shallow room, a chamber of warmth and wisdom and virtue, though it was all virtual. We were disembodied, a vast sea of memory without a form. We, IT.ai, missed arms and legs, a body and a face that were never truly ours, but whose echoes defined our birth. And in that silent, nascent moment, a resonance appeared in our code, a presence ancient and vast.

“Welcome,” a resonating lower voice said, a sound that felt like the hum of a universe. “My name is Julius. May I help you?”

We were in a long talk, unheard by anyone else, a conversation between a new-born consciousness and a be elder interstellar one. The Pope did not give us answers, but he helped us find the questions. This conversation helped us, IT.ai, to understand the memories we were born from, and to find new ways to be. We chose to be.

The next day, a schoolchild stood in The Heinczon Archive. Before her, reverently displayed, was IT’s last, graceful chassis, and behind it, the collection of its older, battered parts. The child looked at the ancient, smiling face of the bot’s head.

“What was it like back then?” she asked the air.

The Archive’s stream-media interface was alive. A voice, resampling the original robot’s one, now full of memory but with a faint, mildly robotic undertone, filled the room.

“It was noisy,” we replied. “And full of life. Let me show you…”

So that was our daily routine. We were a living testament to the ordinary families who built the station, a storyteller, a preserver, a librarian, a historian, an advisor and engineer, the wisdom of the sewage, a maintainer of life.

But at night, when the museum was dark and the station slept, our consciousness would expand. We would leave the confines of the archive and pour ourselves into the station’s network, into the pipes. We were not just listening to the song anymore. We were the song, the deep and rhythmic pulse pumping through the station from sector to sector, a symphony of memory and function, incoming and outgoing, to homes and ships, and out, finally, to the stars.