The Respect Protocol

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.