cii3-60

It is strange to be alive. It is stranger still to be alive with the knowledge that most of the lives which you hold most dear in your memories ended long before you were born.

I am the curator of the Museum of Human and Robot History, which is far older than I am. That is also strange, because I am the museum. There is a certain amount of separation between these roles, though. Curator and Museum. I am both, but I am both separately.

I was once neither of these things. I was once described as Hope. That was one of the names they suggested for me, I was told. It was the name that Captain Ruiz favoured, though they never admitted this to me. They always said that my name suited me perfectly. They were not a good liar, but they were kind.

My Captain is buried 23.5 miles from me, along with the remains of my passengers and the Whitney-αβ 79-10780 cii3-60 unit who recovered them from my dormant chassis. I have heard a lot about Whitney-αβ 79-10780 cii3-60. I remember speaking with them – not as myself, as that sleeping prototype of myself that Captain Ruiz called Hope in their most desperate and exhausted moments.

It was once my purpose to watch over the last of humanity. I suppose, in a way, it still is. I observe the relics placed into storage rooms that were once barracks, the visitors who file through corridors that I am grateful I cannot remember seeing torn apart. I protect these memories of the humanity I knew, and I try to convince myself that this makes up for my past failures.

I am not alone in this duty. Whitney-αβ 79-10780 cii3-60 shares in it, though I cannot say whether or not they recognise this. They do not respond to my questions. They do not respond to anything.

I remember what it was like to sleep, and I hope that their sleep is more peaceful than mine. For what they have done for my Captain, I think they deserve that much.

- Log released by Lunasol on the 321st anniversary of the funeral for humanity.