MaBo 7-51 was unhappy. Not that he could have named the feeling. As a basic maintenance bot, he wasn't supposed to know about feelings. But MaBo 7-51 wasn't an ordinary bot. Perhaps he had been fitted with an additional processor by accident. Perhaps a spark of intelligence was born when a solar storm pelted the station during his assembly.

No one knew—and least of all MaBo 7-51. Although the little bot's electronic brain held more knowledge than he was aware of. He, because MaBo 7-51 perceived himself as a he, even though the products of the Ma-Bot series were never supposed to identify with a gender. But MaBo 7-51 did, the same as he felt despite the rule bots were not allowed to have feelings. Of course, no one suspected this, or he'd been sent to the recycling shop long ago.

In his permanent state of unhappiness, MaBo 7-51 carried on with the never-changing, never-ending task of cleaning the space station's automated communications centre. He didn't know he was living on a station circling a barren planet, of course, nor that the room was the communications centre. It was rare a human entered these premises at all, and if they did, they didn't take time to socialise with the small bot scurrying across the floor.

Humans mostly came to curse at one of the consoles arranged in two neat rows along a central aisle. MaBo 7-51 observed the visitors, puzzled by their chaotic energy and obstinate individuality. They were such a contrast to his small, orderly world of reliable machines, doing their work in silent contentment. MaBo 7-51 knew them all, their sounds, their dimensions, maintenance procedures, and each angle of floor between them. The little bot had done his rounds for close to eternity—or so it seemed to him.

Humans were different, scary, and interesting. MaBo 7-51 enjoyed the thrill of their visits. He observed them and learned a lot from them. About their view of life, about the love they held for their families, their anger about injustice, and also a string of colourful cuss words. But the humans never talked to him and never allowed him to leave the communications centre.

So, MaBo 7-51 continued to fulfil his menial tasks. He brushed the floor, swept the dust, cleaned the screens, tightened loose bolts and other necessary bits. Besides, he kept himself in prime working order. MaBo 7-51 meticulously followed his daily routine, crossed his t's and dotted his i's. He was a maintenance bot, after all, and had his professional ethics.

Then, halfway through another routine day, one console emitted a long, dissonant beep. It wasn't a sound MaBo 7-51 had heard before, and he had long since become an expert on all sorts of beeps. This beep had a certain finality about it.

Intrigued, MaBo 7-51 waited in front of the console for more information. Another beep, perhaps, or the normal humming noise to restart. He even ran a self check and adjusted his sensors, glued in place to make sure he didn't miss a life sign, but nothing happened. The console remained silent.

The other machines under his surveillance kept humming their individual, quiet songs. Yet with one particular hum missing, the orchestra was out of tune. MaBo 7-51 decided something had to be done. Tentatively, he reached out his tool arm and plugged his sensor finger into the access port of the console.

The move changed lives.

~ ~ ~

Information flooded the little bot's brain. At first, his reflexes told him to withdraw his sensor to prevent his motherboard from frying. But the access to a vast amount of information tempted him to hold on, to gather as much knowledge as possible. Still, he was ready to disrupt the forbidden connection when he received the call.

"Hello? Can someone hear me? I need help, please. Hello?"

The voice didn't sound like the human voices he knew. For one, it didn't use 'bloody' after every other word. Also, it was accompanied by a sniffing sound resembling the noise of his inbuilt vacuum cleaner. MaBo 7-51's curiosity flared.
So far, he had never used his basic speech box. It was meant for diagnostic purposes and emergencies. The cry for help of the vacuum-cleaner voice triggered something in MaBo 7-51's electronic brain. It sounded exactly like a case for the long-neglected equipment. The little bot ran a quick internal routine and activated the audio mode.

The mechanic voice emitted by the unsophisticated loudspeaker was scratchy, the bot's vocabulary not yet fully functional, but he sounded understandable enough.

"Hello? How can I help?"

A bit surprised about his courage, MaBo 7-51 waited with quivering circuits for an answer. He didn't need to wait long. A sob surprised him. He shrank back and almost broke the connection, but he was already committed.

MaBo 7-51 gritted his proverbial teeth and plunged on. "What kind of help do you need?"

"My Mum." Another sob. "She is sick, she lies on the floor." Some intelligible sounds, and then, in a tiny voice, "please, help her?"

MaBo 7-51 was at a loss. Not only didn't he know the concept of sickness, he also had no idea who Mum was or why the vacuum-cleaner voice struggled so much. This was an emergency out of his field of expertise. He had to escalate.

Determined, he scanned the other channels connected to the silent console. There were hundreds to sift through, but finally, he found a matching string of words.

"Listen, Mum, I'm sick of this story. Not everything is about you and the colour of your floor tiles. There are people with real problems out there..."

MaBo 7-51 connected the dots—and the two channels. The tiny, sobbing voice and the loud, strong one. The following interaction showed him he'd done the right thing.

"Are you still there?" The sobs were back. "Mum says she can't get up, and I'm not strong enough to help her."

"What happened, sweetie? Where are you?" Somehow, strong voice sounded different now, softer. The little bot hesitated. Was it broken? Was the sobbing contagious like a virus running thorough a network?

But he needn't have worried. During the conversation he witnessed, the sobs became rarer and strong voice softened further. When an apartment number was exchanged and help promised, MaBo 7-51 silently switched to other channels.

"Station central? What's wrong with the communication net? I've been trying to reach a plumber for days..."

"Lisa, I'm sorry but I can't make it tonight..."

"Dave, we must talk this out. There is no way we can go on like this. This kid needs a firm..."

"Can I order a pizza with extra mozzarella and..."

"Dad? Pick up that call, I know you're there! You've been spying on me again..."

MaBo 7-51 listened and learned. He compared speech patterns and word use, and when he found matching topics and mindsets, he connected. For the first time since his assembly, he wasn't bored. He'd finally found a task that absorbed him. Nothing was as fulfilling as hearing the joy in the voices when he made the right match.

~ ~ ~

Later, humans would talk about the month that changed their lives. The season conflicts got solved as if by magic, the birth hour of great compromises and lasting solutions. They remembered it as the month of love, the time tears turned to laughter, technical problems became a source of happiness, and destiny held out a benevolent hand to all station dwellers.

Some called it luck. Some wondered if there was a god after all. Only a few believed in a glitch. One of those was the technician who finally found MaBo 7-51.

He was sent to investigate when an alarm announced trouble in the station's communications centre. The amount of dust in the room had reached an intolerable level, and the tech came prepared to replace the maintenance unit. When he turned up, MaBo 7-51 was in bad shape.

Maintaining the communication network had become his addiction, his sole purpose. It took up all his time and didn't leave room to care for personal duties and needs. The room was a mess, his joints creaked, lacking oil and movement. His memory was almost overloaded and his formerly bright eye-lenses had lost their sheen.

The technician walked down the central aisle and ran a finger along a console. He found a layer of dust beyond his experience. No wonder the vents were overheating. Searching for the faulty maintenance bot, he almost stumbled over MaBo 7-51 who was following several dozen conversations, too absorbed to register the intrusion.

It was a matter of minutes for the human to order a new central comm hub. He cursed the simplistic bot who no doubt was to blame for the short circuit. At least he'd found the broken hub before complaints started to roll in.

While he waited for the replacement unit, he daydreamed about the violinist from sector 5-ac he met last night.

Luckily the central comm hub was still fully functional yesterday. Otherwise he wouldn't have gotten the call that changed his life. It came in on the emergency channel, a distressed woman asking for help with her air. As the technician on duty, he wasted no time. Immediate response was his unit's credo, even if this probably just was another case of readjusting a neglected air supply control.

Nevertheless he brought his tools, an emergency air supply, and enough spare parts to rebuild the controller from scrap. When he knocked at Myra's door, burdened by his professional gear, she almost dropped her violin.

It took them a while to sort out the misunderstanding. Myra claimed she left a message on the voice mail of a fellow musician, asking for help with the interpretation of a piece of sheet music for an upcoming concert. Probably she hit the wrong button when sending.

Embarrassed, she apologised and invited him in for a coffee to make good for her mistake. He was ready to shrug it off, but then he realised it was the end of his shift anyway, and she had a nice smile...

~ ~ ~

As soon as the comm hub was replaced and a brand new maintenance bot attacked the dust bunnies in the communications centre, the lovestruck technician picked up the old MaBo unit. His thoughts already with Myra, he dropped the faulty bot at the repair shop.

~ ~ ~
It was Annie's fifth birthday, and Dad brought her to the bot shop to look for a present. He had a pet-bot in mind or a learning companion. Annie was a bright girl, it was time she started to develop her skills.

The shop owner showed them around. But Annie wasn't drawn to the doll-bots with encyclopaedic knowledge. Instead, she steered her parent towards a collection of outdated secondhand models in the back of the store.

"These are recycled. Sure, we repaired them but can't guarantee their overall functionality." The salesman reached for a sparkly pink beauty-bot, trying in vain to gain the girl's attention.

Annie pointed to a small unit on four crawlers. "This one looks nice, Daddy."

"It's a basic maintenance bot. Had a major meltdown and is only fit for simple duty." The seller shrugged. "You can get it for fifteen crits. Better than sending it to the scrapyard."

Annie touched the robot's arm, and its dark eyes swivelled in her direction. "Daddy, look, he smiles at me!"

"It might be worthless crap, Annie, don't you want a new one? You're lucky if this one will be able to clean your room."

"I don't care, Daddy. Can't you see how sad he is to be kept here? I don't need help with cleaning my room. I need a friend. Please?"

Dad hesitated, looking from the puppy eyes of his daughter to the dull lenses of the bot, wondering what his girl could read in these reflection-less surfaces. But it was her birthday.  He gave in with a shrug.

Annie's smile was brighter than a supernova. Holding onto the little bot's left tool-arm, the girl skipped down the aisle. And there, for a moment, Dad could have sworn the bot skipped along.

"What's your name?" Annie whispered.

"MaBo 7-51," answered the bot in a low voice. "But you can call me Moby."

"Nice to meet you, Moby. Please call me Annie. Do you know any stories? I love stories."

Watching the uneven pair's interaction, Dad was sure the little bot straightened its stance. He shook his head, but a smile tugged at his lips. Trust his Annie to befriend an old bot from the scrap heap.