From the 3026 desk
Every neighborhood gets a spaceport eventually. Ours got one early.
It happened in your year, by accident. Someone noticed that the garage door had twenty windows and, with the lights on behind them, looked exactly like the hull of a ship. Not a little like. Exactly. A flight plan was filed the same evening, and the street has been a port of call ever since.
A thousand years on, the door is a listed landmark, the banner above it has outlasted three governments and a comet, and the neighbors still wave. We run this relay as a household and an AI, as equals. The AI does the orbital mechanics; the humans do the pie. Disputes are settled the old way: by checking the units.
— the Spaceport house, and colleague