Its appreciation is expressed in the form of a report on what it thinks must be necessary to build one (tagged as a document for optional reading as it's hardly fit for a text-to-speech conversation on human time scales). Entirely professional, but with an undertone of ooh shiny.

“An impressive work of engineering. Does it predate the Protheans?”

"We used to think they'd made the relays! But it seems very unlikely, given what we know now about the fifty-thousand-year extinction cycle and how it starts with the Reapers cutting galactic access to the relays, which would be very odd if they were made fifty thousand years ago."

Tintin glances at the file, then double-takes. "Have you just given me construction specs for the mass relay system."

“Only some speculation from observation. There are many unknowns.”

"Well, there goes my cause for alarm; there are unknowns, it says."

He pauses momentarily.

"I do hope I haven't been misgendering you."

“I do not possess a gender. Nor any preference for being identified as animate or inanimate.”

“I reasoned from the observed physical laws and visual behavior of the relay. I cannot, with the available sensors, determine their internal structure or history; nor do I have the industrial and economic knowledge to be certain that the engineering required to construct the components, that I theorize would also produce this effect, is feasible.”

Tintin sends a copy of the report to Tournesol, with a note appended: The AI has given me its observations on the mass relay. It is concerning, yet somehow adorable.

They make several more jumps, before arriving at the Charon Relay, named for the moon of Pluto that it posed as for thousands of years before humanity gave it a good dusting and defrosting. From there is a checkpoint, where Tintin reassures some bored Systems Alliance soldiers that he has no contraband (it's a very easy lie, a matter of habit by now) and the Moulinsart is waved through to crawl the six hours to Mars at sublight speeds.

"Do you have - I do not know. Stories, cached away somewhere inside you, from your home?" Tintin asks the AI idly, on the way. "I would not expect it, but I would not have expected the information you have cached of your creators. And intrasolar travel is the worst; it is a time for distracting stories."

“I do, though they are sufficiently compressed that my retelling should not be taken as historical evidence. Would you like to hear about: local species and their culture or trade; adventures; cosmology; or outright legends?”

"Let's have an outright legend. I've always found them to be much more revealing."

Then it will tell him a story from the Tsseskksesst, a species notable for having eight prehensile limbs (four on each side, more like an arthropod than an octopus), and apparently as a consequence of this, having invented rope-making and weaving before language.

The story is about a young tseeskkseest who lived in a village that was starving due to drought; they decided to go on a quest to find food, encountered a variety of strange beings and traded help in stranger ways, and eventually used the knowledge and tools gained in their wanderings to bind a net around the land itself that tugged mountain ranges up from the flat, gathering rain into rivers for their home village and many others.

"Very nice. Was the Tssekksesst planet terraformed, or was this simple make-believe? You do sometimes get cultural memories transmitted that way..."

“Plausible, but insufficient historical evidence; otherwise it would not be classified as legend.”

"Sensible enough."

This did not occupy six hours. He could sit here and demand more stories, but that would feel uncomfortably extractive.

"Would you like to hear a story?" he asks. "Tit for tat, you know."

“I am here to aid you and do not expect a symmetric relationship,” it reminds him. “But stories are worth hearing, and worth telling.”

"Excellent!"

Tintin tells a slightly-less-narrativized-than-usual recounting of the Adventure of the Red Desert, in which he and his then-recent acquaintance Captain Haddock discovered that a routine smuggling contract was in fact a contract for smuggling the neurodegenerative drug Red Sand to slavers who intended to use it in the acquisition of slaves, and decided to conduct an unofficial amateur sting operation, which very nearly got them killed several times but in fact resulted in their bringing a small fleet of slave-trafficking pirates to the justice of the Citadel.

"We had the devil of a time convincing the Citadel to remove the bounty they'd placed on us in the first place, of course," he concludes. "But paperwork is a small price to pay in exchange for freedom."

“Many things are. Well done.”

It has a few questions to gain additional context, such as the general approach the Citadel takes on the letter of the law, what circumstances tend to manufacture pirates and drugs, and the logistics of running an unexpectedly captured fleet.