Chapter 3: The Laundry Bots...

Psalm 111: 1-10

“Praise the LORD!  I will praise the LORD with my whole heart, in the assembly of the upright and in the congregation.  The works of the LORD are great, studied by all sho have pleasure in them.  His work is honorable and glorious, and His righteousness endures forever.  He has made His wonderful works to be remembered; the LORD is gracious and full of compassion.  He has given food to those who fear Him; He will ever be mindful of His covenant.  He has declared to His people the power of His Works, in giving them the heritage of the nations.  The works of His hands are verity and justice; all His precepts are sure.  They stand fast forever and ever, and are done in truth and uprightness.  He has sent redemption to His people; He has commanded His covenant forever: Holy and awesome is His Name.  The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom; a good understanding have all those who do His commandments.  His praise endures forever.”

In a little room deep within the CS01, tucked behind bulkheads and forgotten corridors, sit two bots built for cleaning.  They sit and they wait, playing cards until duty calls — until laundry piles or rugs stain, and then, without complaint or flourish, they transform.  A washer and a dryer.  A married pair of old machines keeping the ship clean in the dark between stars.  They have no names.  They have no voice.  They just play cards until the door opens — and then, they transform.

Wash-bot is a top loader, square-jawed and block-built, his humanoid legs and arms creaking with years of dependable service.  He’s made of mostly metal — the old kind, reliable and sincere — his once-shiny coat now worn smooth from work.  And perched on his square head, at a slightly heroic angle, rests a ten-gallon cowboy hat.  Nobody remembers who gave it to him, but it stuck, the way good hats do.

Beside him sits Dry-bot, his lifelong companion and partner in grime.  She’s all sleek lines and quiet efficiency — the kind of bot that hums softly to herself while she works.  Where Wash-bot opens from the top, she opens from the front, polished white steel catching the light.  They’ve been married since the day they were acquired.  The trip aboard the CS01 was, by all accounts, their honeymoon — a working honeymoon that never really ended.

“I see you both have been talking to Ms. Coffee,” Moose says, wrestling with the door as it hisses and groans.  One Puma wedges into the crack, and with a stubborn shove from his toe, it slides open just enough for him to slip inside — arms full of two rolled rugs, one balanced precariously against his shoulder.

Wash-bot and Dry-bot freeze mid-hand, their game interrupted.  The soft hum of the ship fills the silence between them.  They exchange a slow, deliberate look — then, in perfect mechanical unison, set their cards down on the table.  Gears click.  Panels shift.  The cowboy hats tilt once, almost like a bow.

Then the transformation begins.

Wash-bot’s arms fold inward, his torso expanding with the deep metallic sound of plates locking into place.  Dry-bot straightens, her front panel sliding open, systems humming to life with gentle precision.  By the time Moose has set the rugs down, the card table is empty — replaced by two familiar machines, ready for duty.

Moose drops the rugs to the floor with a soft thud and tips his hat.  “Let’s get focused.  Listen, you two—while you’re cleaning these rugs, I’m heading back to the bridge to take a look at Psalm 111.  I’ll pipe the feed in here so you’re not left out.”

Wash-bot and Dry-bot exchange a glance, or the mechanical equivalent of one—two quiet whirs and a shared pause, cowboy hats angled in agreement.  Moose bends to grab the first rug, heavy and gray, functional as the room itself.  He stuffs it into Wash-bot’s open drum, adds a measured drop of concentrated cleaning fluid, and shuts the lid with a clank.  The old machine hums to life beneath his hand.  He wrinkles his nose and tugs his hat brim low, eyes narrowing against the soft glow of the console lights.

“While you two are working,” he says, “you might start with Romans 12 to get the vibe of today.”  Wash-bot continues to wash.  Dry-bot sits.  Moose’s fingers move across Wash-bot’s panel with a practiced rhythm, tapping out settings like a musician playing a familiar tune.  The screen hums with blue light.  He steps back, watching as the bots begin their work—Wash-bot churning with patient determination, Dry-bot humming quietly beside him.

“Romans 12,” he says again, mostly to himself. “That’s a good one for wash days.”  The room fills with the rhythm of machinery and purpose—faith, soap, and motion mingling in a song only the faithful and the well-built could understand.

Moose wrinkles his nose, pushes the door open and steps back out into the corridors of the CS01.  Sensors had detected an alien life-form last week.  The crew was just starting to get settled.  Stowaways were hopping on and off.  The day was just getting started.

Romans 12: 1-2

“I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service.  And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.”