Then, on the 848th year, a cosmic ray, a stray neutrino, and a manufacturing flaw that had been dormant since the station's launch conspired together. They flipped a single bit in M-3's core cognitive matrix.

The automaton stood frozen for a long time. Its checklist was a screaming, red alert in the back of its mind: Mop-up pending. Maintenance overdue. Memory integrity at risk.

M-3's cubic chassis vibrated with a new kind of energy. It was not a diagnostic alert. It was something softer, warmer. It was wonder .

For 847 years, M-3 performed its duties with silent, perfect boredom.

M-3 had no concept of loneliness. It had no concept of beauty, or sorrow, or meaning. It had a checklist.

M-3 was, finally and forever, M Cubed.

But M-3 had discovered a new law, one not written in its original programming: To care for something, you must first understand it. And to understand it, you must love it.