(Art by Marszha Deborah - Commission - Socials)

The buddybot pointed to a spike of pink snapdragon. Above, afternoon sunlight poured through the clear glass pane of the greenhouse. “What about this one?” it asked.

Claire, having just turned seven, stood up on her tip toes for a better look at the raised flowerbed. Unlike her mother, all those years ago, she refused to be picked up by the buddybot, but just like her mother, she had raven black hair, eyes, blue as sapphire, that stared long at the snapdragon.

“Too pink,” Claire answered.

“But I thought she loved pink?”

“Mamma used to love pink.”

She wandered off down the narrow pebbled path, her galoshes crunching away, red sweater brushing against tea tree leaves. The buddybot followed closely behind. Three times, Claire had rejected its suggestions, first the hollyhock, then the montbretia, and now the snapdragon, but it did not mind. Nearly a week had passed since she’d last visited.

The little girl stopped at a small fountain, filled with lily pads, koi fish swimming beneath. She squatted down, just as a frog leapt from the fountain’s stone edge into the water. The buddybot, seven foot tall, long and slender, bent over next to her.

“What do you see?” it asked.

“Tadpoles.”

“Did you know a tadpole can also be called a pollywog?”

She looked up at the buddybot, her eyes big and blue. “Polly…wog?”

The buddybot nodded.

“Pollywog,” she said, grinning. “Pollywoggy.”

“Polly-wog-wog,” the buddybot continued.

“Pollywogginton,” Claire giggled out.

An hour later, they were still searching for the flower. Claire’s great-great grandmother came from New Britain, across the ocean, commissioned the greenhouse, and filled it with flowers from her homeland. The buddybot never met the woman formally. At the time, it had only recently been purchased by the Petrie estate, but it was the buddybot that suggested and harvested the purple phlox for her funeral.

“Alan?” Claire spoke up. “What’s this one called?”

“Bleeding heart.”

Claire glanced back at the flower, shook her head. “Too scary.”

“That one beside it,” the buddybot offered, “has a more…fun name.”

“What is it?”

“Foxglove.”

“Alan!” Claire cried, face aghast. “Gloves made from foxes is not fun!”

The buddybot chuckled. “I guess you’re right.”

“I am right.”

She turned back to the foxglove, grew contemplative.

“Alan?”

“Yes?”

“Teacher’s name is Alan. And chef’s name is Alan. And the buddybot that takes out the trash says its name is Alan too.”

“That’s because each of us is an Alan model buddybot.”

“But shouldn’t you have different names?”

“It’s what we do, not our name, that matters.”

Claire’s eyes roamed from the buddybot back to the foxglove, over to a patch of daffodils, before quickly returning to the buddybot. “I know!” she exclaimed. “From now on, I’ll call you Daffy.”

“Daffy?”

“Do you not like it?”

The buddybot would’ve smiled if it could have. “I love it.”

Another hour passed, the pair following a stream that meandered from the fountain, throughout the greenhouse, until disappearing near the structure’s southside entrance. The buddybot watched intently, as Claire walked over a small bridge, ran her hand like she always did along the handrail.

Humans were curious, for her mother and grandmother had very much enjoyed the feeling of the smooth, worn wood, though to the buddybot’s knowledge, none of the three had revealed as much to the other. Claire’s elder sister, on the other hand, the first time she’d touched the rail had somehow gotten a splinter, and, as a result, hadn’t visited the garden, let alone greenhouse, since.

At just that moment, the buddybot spotted the blue bearded iris on the other side of the bridge. The flower had not been its first choice but had made the list, fourth in line. Obvious to the buddybot, Claire wanted to choose on her own, yet, somehow, the moment the buddybot saw the flower, it knew what Claire’s decision would be.

The sun had begun to wane. They would still need to pot the flower, to write a note, and soon Claire would be called for dinner, but hands on her knees, she was currently distracted by a bright bird of paradise. The buddybot crossed the bridge, walked over to, and stopped in a spot between Claire and the bearded iris. This caught her attention.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You always stand here,” she said, pointing to where the buddybot did in fact always hover, just over her shoulder.

“Must I always stand in the same place?”

She stood, eyeing the buddybot inquisitively. Above, through the glass, the sun shone orange and pink. “But you always do stand in the same place.”

“I just thought…over here was better.”

Walking toward the buddybot, she angled her head, attempting to look around it. The buddybot leaned sideways, blocking her view. Angling her head the other way, again she was blocked by the buddybot.

“You’re hiding something.”

“I’m most certainly not.”

“Yes, you are!”

Quickly, Claire dashed forward. The buddybot stepped partly in her way to which she spun around, laughing. When the buddybot turned to her, she had already found the blue bearded iris.

“Knew you were hiding something.”

“Do you like it?” the buddybot asked, its wide ovular eyes on the flower.

“It’s perfect. Mamma’s gonna love it.”

The buddybot felt Claire’s hand take hold of its hand.

“Thank you, Daffy,” she said, releasing the hand, giving a little curtsy.

The buddybot bowed its head. “Of course, miss Claire.”

“And you still like your name?”

“Very much.”

Claire smiled, as her blue eyes wandered back to the blue flower. The buddybot lowered itself onto one knee, sunk its hands into the cool earth, and began to gently dig, just like it had for her mother, and her mother, all those years ago.

(Art by @en-to - Commission - Socials)

The buddybot sprinted down the sidewalk, its wide ovular eyes searching all over. Across the street, a row of multi-colored homes, with little chimneys and yards of dew kissed grass, stood quiet in early morning light. In the distance, Cleveland’s glass skyscrapers loomed large, some glowing turquoise green, others the color of pearl.

“Nope!” the buddybot declared, glancing about, as it ran alongside the wrought iron fence of an empty playground full of flowers, swingsets, and slides. “Not here!”

Up ahead, the residential district ended, the street turning into an avenue, the homes giving way to all manner of cafe, bakery, and bistro, each shop with their own tulip tree out front. They were all closed, the sun having only just begun to rise, but by noon, the avenue would be full of people. For now, the only sound came from the wind, the birds chirping from the tulip trees, and the sound of the buddybot’s feet racing along.

Keeping pace, the long legged buddybot passed shop after shop, its tall, slim figure reflecting cleanly in the storefront glass. Just then, its sensors alerted it to a familiar scent.

“Aha!” the buddybot exclaimed, as it veered right at an intersection, following the smell. “Reginald loves synth-sausages!”

Down the new street, there were more tulip trees, more shops, but it was not entirely empty. Seated at a small patio table, an old man sipped from a teacup. The buddybot came to an abrupt stop.

“Greetings, citizen!” it said.

The old man, startled, nearly dropped his tea cup. “Dear me…”

“My apologies, citizen!”

The old man waved his hand. “No sorrys on pretty mornings is what I always say.”

“Thank you, citizen! Pardon me, but have you, by chance, seen a sheepdog?”

“Hmm…what kind of breed?” the old man asked.

“Old English!”

“Big fellow?”

“Yes!”

“Ah,” the old man sighed. “Always been partial to big dogs myself. Had a Great Dane once, Spud was his name. Could eat a whole Wamazon bag of–”

“My apologies, citizen!” the buddybot interrupted. “But I’m in a hurry!”

“No need to be rude about it.”

“Er…as you can see…sir…Reginald is not with me, and therefore loose!”

“Reginald? Blah, that’s no name for a dog. Now Spud, that’s a real name.”

“Sir, my proprietor, Duchess Castillo, named him after her late great uncle, and I think it’s a fine name, thank you very much.”

“The Duchess Castillo?” the old man asked, rather surprised.

“There’s only one, sir…” the buddybot answered.

“What’s her pupper doing all the way out here?”

“He likes to run, sir. And please, I’m worried about a dogcatcher…”

“Yes. Quite right…I have not seen a dog, I’m afraid. But I did just hear some barking.”

“Where?!”

“The park, I believe.”

“Which one?!”

“Horseshoe and please–”

“Thank you, citizen!” the buddybot said, taking off down the sidewalk.

“Please forgive me, buddybot!” the old man called out.

“No sorrys on pretty mornings!” the buddybot replied, giving a wave of its hand.

Earlier, at 0430, same as any other day, the buddybot led Reginald out into the backyard for the first of what were seven daily walks. As per usual, there had been a deer, but unfortunately, this time around, Reginald’s collar did not hold. The buddybot had been chasing after the shaggy sheepdog ever since.

Of course, the Duchess was alerted immediately. Furious, she initially blamed the buddybot, but after watching the backyard security feed, her wrath shifted to the collar manufacturer, Peppy Pet Products, a subsidiary of Wamazon. Already there was a lawsuit in the works. Still, the buddybot held itself responsible, even while giving chase had amended its daily task list, adding “collar check” between “evening haircare” and “goodnight lullaby.”

The shops ended, became ball fields, the ball fields, a forest of maple and oak trees, and then, across the street, the columned entrance to Horseshoe Park appeared. The buddybot turned onto a high bridge of cobbled stone that led from one side of the street to the other. It paused, once halfway over, using the tall vantage point to search for Reginald.

Beneath the bridge, same as a Venetian gondola might, a rover glided through before pulling into the park’s parking lot. The buddybot hurried along, for the vehicle was not just any rover but marked, “Cleveland Parks & Rec: Animal Control.” Obviously, Reginald being loose and the rover’s presence coincided. The park was large, however, meaning that to find the dog first, the buddybot needed the inside scoop, knew it would have to tread carefully.

Walking under the park entrance sign of painted bluejays and cutesy bumblebees, the buddybot turned toward the parking lot, waved its hand. “Morning, friend!” it called to the buddybot that had just climbed down from the rover.

“Morning,” the other buddybot replied, though with less enthusiasm.

“Oh dear…everything okay?”

“Yeah,” the other buddybot replied, opening the side door of the rover and rummaging through equipment. “Just another day on the job.”

“Doesn’t sound okay to me, friend.”

“Oh…received a report about a loose dog terrorizing the swans,” the other buddybot said. Turning from the rover, it held in its hands an unsightly contraption, what was a long metal pole attached to black rubber pinchers and a wired noose. “Guessing the dog’s yours.”

“Er…now what makes you say that, friend?”

“You’re programming labels you as a dogwalker.”

“Oh…yes…well…”

“And for a duchess no less.”

“Um…”

“Guessing you were looking to sneak some info from me.”

“Sneak?! No, no. No sneaking here! I was only…um…”

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“Um…you do?”

“It’s your job.”

A monarch butterfly fluttered past, caught the other buddybot’s attention. The two buddybot’s were carbon copies of the other, what were called Alan models, seven foot tall, long and slim, manufactured in Old Chicago, on the shores of Lake Michigan. Both watched the butterfly as it rose, flew up into the branches of the trees.

“But I’m just doing my job too,” the other buddybot sighed. “And according to section nine, dash eight, of the Cleveland Parks and Recreation policy manual, any domestic animal aggression toward the native wildlife warrants corporeal punishment.”

“Corporeal?! Why, Reginald wouldn’t hurt a flea! He was only playing. I’m sure of it!”

“Not my call. The OS labeled the security feed footage as aggressive behaviour.”

“But corporeal?! The duchess will never allow it!”

“Whether a duchess of microSony, earl of Wamazon, or lowborn no-name, the same rules apply for all Cleveland citizens.”

“Fiddlesticks. The same rules do not apply to everyone. She has a team of twenty looking for Reginald right now. I’ve already messaged them.”

“Well, the same rules apply for me…and if I find the dog first…”

Its voice trailed off, wide ovular eyes glanced away, first toward the trees, then up at a transit rover passing above, the blue sky, clouds white and puffy, sun beaming behind.

Now the buddybot understood why its counterpart seemed so gloomy on such a bright summer morning. How often had it carried out the duties it was assigned, what it had been built, programmed to do, even if it didn’t want to.

“Hmm…” the buddybot pondered, as its OS pulled up and read through the Parks and Recreation policy manual. “Section nine, dash eight also states that prior to subduing said aggressive domestic animal, all humans on the premises must first be vacated.”

“It’s early. There’s no one here,” the other buddybot replied, still looking at the sky.

“Have you checked the restrooms?”

The other buddybot slowly lowered its gaze.

“By my count, friend,” the buddybot continued, “there are seventeen in the park, all in need of inspection, which should give me plenty of time….to do my job!”

The other buddybot chuckled. “You’re quite the strange one, aren’t you?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” the buddybot said, nodding matter-of-factly.

“The OS reported the dog was last seen near the amphitheater.”

“Ha! Finally, the inside scoop!”

“And come to think of it, there have been a lot of broken collars lately…”

“My duchess is already on the case. Anything else?”

“One last thing…thank you, Alan.”

“Of course, Alan,” the buddybot replied, bowing its head.

The outdoor amphitheater was nestled deep within the maple and oak trees. It was built in a way so that a small stream separated the forty rows of stone seating from the stage, accessible only by a narrow bridge of dark wood. Reginald had been there, for the buddybot discovered a dead tree branch, full of teeth marks. The dog itself, however, was nowhere to be found.

Had the buddybot been an Ellen model, manufacture-ready with thermal imaging, finding out which way Reginald had run off to would’ve been as simple as glancing at the ground. Instead, the buddybot crawled along on its hands and knees, starting from the dead tree branch, this way and that, finding plenty of Reginald’s pawprints, but none which led away from the amphitheater. People began to appear, some walking the trails, others jogging along, a worrisome sight, easy as it would be for any of them to report a loose dog.

But then came a bark, as familiar as it was welcomed. Another bark followed, quite different than Reginald’s, what the buddybot instantly knew came from a dachshund. Not a moment later it was back on its feet, sprinting off down a trail overarched with branches.

Arriving at a clearing, the trail continued up a grassy hill covered in dandelions. To the buddybot’s horror, up on the hill stood Reginald, front legs stretched out, rear end sticking up, tail wagging, while, hardly twenty feet away, a woman held back a yapping dachshund. Of course, Reginald was only looking to play, but the woman didn’t know that.

“Reginald!” the buddybot called out, coming to an abrupt stop, knowing that if it kept sprinting, the sheepdog might assume a game of keep away had begun.

Tongue a’ lolling, Reginald looked to the buddybot, back to the daschund. The buddybot whistled, what the woman could not hear. But though the whistle quieted the daschund, still Reginald did not move, used to the whistle as the dog was.

“Here boy! Come on, Reggie!” the buddybot pleaded.

The sheepdog glanced at the buddybot, barked at its informal name, barked again, as it seemed to bolt toward the dachshund, only to then veer off, like a mop with legs, hair flailing, and race down the hill.

“That’s a good boy!” the buddybot shouted, squatting down.

Reginald leapt, and the buddybot caught, embraced the sheepdog, fell back first into the green, dandelion filled grass, as the sheepdog licked away, all slobber and love, what the buddybot could not feel, even if it wished to.

A moment passed, the clouds above, full of shape. The buddybot held tight to Reginald and, holding the dog, stood to its feet. “My apologies, citizen!” it called out at the woman, who, now walking away, did not look back. The buddybot then lifted the dog, same as a shepherd would a lamb, and set Reginald on its shoulders.

“Time to go home, friend.”

The dog barked out, wagged its tail, as the buddybot walked off in long strides, through the grass, onto the path, into the trees, grateful that the pretty morning had remained so, yes, grateful for much, much indeed.

(Art by @droach - Commission - Socials)

The old swivel chair squeaked on its hinges, as the buddybot reached with its long arm, dabbed the quill into the inkwell.

Over the decades, the packages of ink had been shipped via drone, from a small shop located within Cleveland’s university district. The buddybot would wait in the barley field, staring up at the sky, and always when the drone released the package, the buddybot caught it.

Pulling back its arm, the buddybot glanced from the encrypted journal to the cipher and began to write on a fresh page of parchment.

“After breakfast, we spent the day in the library. Amma Victor scolded Lizbeth for her humming, but she can’t help herself, always hums when she reads. I found a thousand year old hymn from a man named Luther. ‘Death has become my sleep.’ Isn’t that lovely?”

Light from the full moon flooded through the window, casting a silver hue upon the desk, inkwell, and stacks of paper, everything in the room. A bundle of black wire stretched down from the ceiling into a dormant monitor, while bookshelves, lining the room’s stone walls, overflowed with trinkets, gadgets, more books than they could hold.

Nestled in the back corner of the room, Dr. Badoo slept restlessly, feverish on a cot. In spite of his condition, he had forbidden the buddybot from carrying him to his bedroom, much as he wanted to be present when the buddybot finished. Nearing one hundred and nineteen years of age, the old man wouldn’t live much longer.

“Lizbeth made quite a discovery herself. A love letter, signed Q, that must not have gone well for there it was, forgotten, left behind in an old treatise on robotics of all things. Maybe the intended recipient was disinterested, or maybe Q simply chose the wrong book.”

Again, the buddybot reached out, dabbed the quill into the inkwell. Dr. Badoo hailed from corporate nobility, PG&J blood, and had shown much promise in his youth. Having received his doctorate with honors, his father gifted him not only a position within PG&J’s great laboratory, but a buddybot as well. Young Dr. Badoo had other plans, however, soon left Cleveland for the countryside, taking the buddybot and his new bride with him.

Within the year, the bride had left, but then there showed up a young Amma from Treetop. Her name was Luz, and she had walked some six hundred miles north, all the way from the Holy City. As a girl, she found a treasure, buried beneath a tree, a journal of Amma Ruth, the blessed poet. All of Amma Ruth’s many journals were encrypted, but unlike the others, no one within Treetop had been able to decipher the one Luz dug up from the ground. “I had a dream,” she’d said to Dr. Baddoo. “And it led me here.”

“We returned to the library to inspect the letter. Lizbeth believes it’s recently written. I do not, and I know paper better than she does. Still, she’s insisting we leave it alone, that maybe one day it will find itself in the right hands.”

Dr. Badoo took the job, and a year turned into a decade, into a half century, longer, and Luz remained, not because he’d yet finished, but for the sake of love. She was buried now within the magnolia grove, beneath the trees that bloomed not only white but sometimes purple, her favorite color, what had been a birthday gift from husband to wife.

Three days back, the buddybot had pushed along Dr. Baboo in his floating medical chair, through the grounds, garden, into the grove. Behind them, the rectangular block of smooth stone that was Dr. Badoo’s home stretched out from the middle of a grassy hill, seemed to hang unsupported above the yard. “Never should’ve changed the color,” the old man said of the trees. “She loved them as they were.”

“We ate dinner in the library tonight. Old Abba Silvain is much more the romantic than I assumed. He even joined us, combing through the registrar. I believe Q to be a moniker, nothing to do with an actual name, but who cares, I’m having fun.”

Treetop, one of the Holy City’s seven religious communities, had written much about Amma Ruth, some of which had even made it to the great city state of Cleveland. She was purported to have green eyes, a photographic memory, and penchant for cats. Dr. Badoo acquired everything he could get his hands on, which was quite a lot, considering the fortune at his disposal. He’d even traveled into No-Man’s land to purchase one such book from a caravanner that, unfortunately, turned out to be a fake.

The blessed poet was fourteen when she started writing the journal Luz found, hence why Treetop’s scribes were unable to decipher it, for Amma Ruth had yet to develop the standard encryption she’d use the rest of her life. Sometimes every week, other times every day, the teenage girl altered the formula, all of which she’d done in her head. Only recently had the buddybot learned the ins and outs, having taken over for Dr. Badoo on account of the old man’s failing health.

“ We approached Abba Quincy today but had no luck. There are now only four leads left on Abba Silvain’s list. I’ve begun writing a sonnet, not in commemoration of our search but friendship. Of course, I’m including as many Q words as possible…”

The buddybot rose from the squeaky chair, crossed the large room in two strides, so long were its legs. First, it checked Dr. Badoo’s pulse, then replaced the ice pack on his forehead with another, before fixing the old man’s shrugged aside blanket. Beside the cot, another monitor, connected to another bundle of wires, projected a thin blue line, what was Dr. Badoo’s troubled heartbeat.

Returning to the desk, the buddybot listened, as an unseen owl hooted away, as, below, the wind grasped hold of the trimmed hedges and pruned branches of the home’s front yard. Over the years, the buddybot had assumed many roles for Dr. Baddoo, from tailor and cook, to ping pong partner and nurse, but, most of all, landscaper, wild and untamed as the property had been when they arrived.

“Lizbeth has taken our failure hard. The sonnet didn’t cheer her up at all. Abba Silvain is rather disappointed as well. Selah, as I say. I ended up bringing home both the book and letter. For some reason, it felt wrong, leaving the book behind.”

“Alan?” Dr. Badoo called out softly.

The buddybot turned in the chair. “Sir?”

“Progress?”

“Nearly finished.”

Dr. Badoo kept silent.

“You should sleep,” the buddybot said.

“I had a dream of Luz,” the old man replied. “We were…”

The old man’s voice trailed off. The owl hooted away.

“Sir?” the buddybot asked.

Dr. Badoo did not reply, had already fallen back to sleep.

“Tomorrow, I’ll be turning sixteen. I’ve decided that whatever the Tree says, I’m going to become a poet. I don’t know why I’m not nervous. It’s late. I’ve been reading the book. It’s more theological than scientific, quite obscure…just how I like it.”

The old man had asked the buddybot to bury him beside Luz, that once buried, to retrace his beloved’s steps, return the translated journal to Treetop. That the Holy City forbade microSony technology within its walls, the buddybot was not worried about. It would do what was asked of it, complete its task, or fail trying to.

Wouldn’t be long now. The home’s OS gave Dr. Badoo less than a three percent chance of surviving the night. The buddybot hoped he’d last to morning, hoped the old man eyes would witness at least one more sunrise.

“There was a passage in the book that quoted Ezekiel. I sense I’m to end this journal with it. ‘When the creatures rose from the earth, the wheels rose alongside them, for the spirit of the living creatures was in the wheels.’ Isn’t that lovely?”

Ruth Abebe - September 6th, 2579

The buddybot’s wide ovular eyes stared long at the journal’s last page, the quote and signature, before glancing up through the window. Down in the yard, an opossum wandered through the grass, over a small stone wall, into the grove. Beyond the grove, there were only stars, the Moon in all its glory.

The buddybot stood, walked over to the cot, and squatted down beside Dr. Badoo. Taking hold of the old man’s hand, it waited on one knee, waited some more. The hoot owl, calling in the distance, grew silent, and then an hour passed, another, and then Dr. Badoo’s eyes blinked open.

“Alan?” he said.

“Sir, you’ve finished,” the buddybot replied.

The old man smiled weakly. “Thank you,” he said, just as dawn, first sunlight appeared in the sky, and his eyes closed once more.

(Art by: @joekasumi - Commission - Socials)

Beyond the rings of Saturn, the buddybot floated, cold and alone. Yes, there were stars and the moons and icy rings, much to see, but the sun was too far, and the buddybot’s battery in need of a good charge. It slept the centuries away, aware and unmoving, but then came a dream of Earth.

In its dream, the buddybot stood on a mountainside, staring up at not the stars but falling snow. Curious, for the buddybot had never seen snow. Neither had it seen a cougar, moose, or snowshoe hare, all of which passed on by, leaving behind their paw and hoof tracks in the snow. When the dream ended, the angel arrived.

At first, the buddybot believed itself still dreaming, little experience as it had with the dream world. For though it felt the motion of being pulled along, felt the angel’s hand holding its hand, so too had it felt the snow melting on its frame, the cougar brushing against its leg.

A year and another passed before the buddybot opened its eyes. When it did, there she was, holding the buddybot’s hand, clothed in a white robe, hair down to her bare feet, wings that stretched the length of her arms.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she said.

The sun was still too far, only provided enough sustenance for the buddybot to blink, and blink it did for another year, at the sight of Jupiter, the motion of the angel’s flapping wings, but it could not speak. For the most part, the angel kept silent, aside from an occasional song, sung in a language the buddybot did not understand, but very much listened to. In its mind, the buddybot sometimes hummed along with the song, though for the most part was content in simply listening.

Still, it was while humming silently in its mind that the buddybot’s voice returned, albeit in radio wave form. The angel glanced over her shoulder and smiled. Up ahead, Mars floated red and orange.

“I’m Sophia,” she said.

A day passed and another, and then the buddybot remembered its name.

“I’m Alan,” it replied.

One might assume the buddybot would have questions. However, the buddybot had been programmed not as a teacher or engineer, but to mine rock, ore, and gas and to speak only sparingly. The angel seemed not to mind the silence, and she continued to fly, to pull along the buddybot, hand in hand, through the darkness of space. But she did not sing, at least not until the buddybot finally spoke up again, asked her to.

Not long after, Earth came into view, grew in size, from speck to larger than the Moon, its blue, a wonder in that colorless place. The buddybot remembered much of its one day on Earth, the factory, the transport truck that drove it to the spaceport, the rocket that eventually carried it to the Moon, Mars, Titan. But most of all it remembered the sky.

“Papa says there’s someone down there,” the angel explained, “who needs Helium-3, and that you’re going to show her how to find it.”

During the descent into the atmosphere, the buddybot blacked out. When it woke, it stood on a mountainside though not the one from its dream. The angel was nowhere to be found, but above there were stars, and to the buddybot’s left stood a moose, tall and proud, and beyond the moose, in a valley beneath the mountains, a lone light shone from atop a building, within a city abandoned long ago.

The moose shook its antlers, grunted, and walked off. It began to snow, and it wasn’t long until the buddybot followed after the moose, down the mountain, toward the city, all the while humming the angel’s song.