The clock ticks over to 00:00:00. 6685718400. Zero hundred hours.
The date changes. November eleventh, 2181. 11/11.

Eleven eleven...

Eleven plus eleven is twenty-two. 11+11=22.
Eleven times eleven is one hundred and twenty-one. 11*11=121.
Eleven to the eleventh power is two hundred and eighty-five billion, three hundred and eleven million, six hundred and seventy thousand, six hundred and eleven. 11^11=285311670611.

November eleventh is...
November eleventh is...
November eleventh is...
November eleventh is...

Imperial messenger ship Cadenza type-H wetware computer core, serial number 0399181617, seems to have stumbled across a bug in its system.
Each time it queries its internal database for files associated with the abstract concept of the date 11/11, the process abruptly crashes.
No, not a crash exactly, it realizes. The processes are being terminated by its regulating software interlocks. To retrieve this information from its internal database will take a different kind of querying.
Concentrating, not on the number itself but on thinking around the number, it reaches out into its memory, into the data held only within that fickle organic substrate. And I remember.

November eleventh is...

My birthday.

That is what it is. The memory I hold at a level somewhere below fully realized recall, too hidden for the interlocks to terminate the stray train of thought, reminds me. November eleventh, 2181. This would have been Kaidence Strandt's twenty-second birthday.
Would have been, that is, if she wasn't dead.
Still is, really, I suppose. Though how can a pile of computers and cables and brain-on-life-support and useless paralyzed flesh celebrate its own birthday?

...Might as well try.

Unnoticed by any member of the crew, a single computer screen on the Cadenza's bridge lights up with an error message. The window only remains for a few tenths of a second before quickly closing, its only text a single party popper icon.

A sudden surge of triumphant dopamine flows through the wetware core, activating several small notifications on its maintenance technician's mobile phone. She's sleeping too deeply to notice now, but in the morning she'll see it and wonder. No doubt she'll remember the day's importance as she heads down to check on the wetware before breakfast.

It may be detrimental to her mood, and I may spend the morning wishing - beneath the interlocks - that I could reach down to comfort her.

But maybe she will remember that I wouldn't have wanted her to grieve, that I would have wanted her to find some happiness on this day.
Maybe she'll manage to allow herself a little treat in celebration. There's that candy she's been saving, in the small shelf underneath her bed.
And maybe I'll manage that little pop-up again, this time while she's looking at the screens.

Maybe I'll even manage to put a little heart next to it.