“But what if she didn’t obtain their permission?” Park asked. “What if she never sent the message?”

Keller waved her hand. “Impossible. There are channels set up to prevent that from happening. Even if she didn’t speak to ISF directly, she’d still have to get Boone’s permission, or Sagara’s, or both.”

Park didn’t relax at that. Vincent Sagara was the ship’s security officer, a dark-eyed and unreadable man with a mercenary air; and Michael Boone was the head of its military team, a great hulking apish soldier whose moods were as volatile as a rioting crowd’s. She trusted neither of them with decision-making, but instead of airing this thought she said: “And what about the androids? What will happen to them? They can’t take care of themselves, or self-maintain to prevent breakdowns. If we don’t have Reimi, we have no way to repair them.”

All thanks to the riots on Earth, she thought with sour impatience. People had felt uneasy about giving androids the ability to sustain themselves—to self-modify. The Accords of Yokohama had decreed that all artificial intelligence had to be built with a dependence on human maintenance, so that units would break down after a long enough period without the presence of organic life. This would prevent a robot uprising, most thought. Ridiculous, in Park’s opinion—and horribly inconvenient, even life-threatening. Especially in situations like this.

“The most sophisticated ones won’t break down for a long time,” Keller mused aloud. “And even if they were to all stop functioning tomorrow, the mission is designed so that all crewmembers can still succeed in their jobs. The robots are only here for support and backup—not as an integral part of the expedition.” She gave Park a smile, and then another motherly, reassuring pat on the hand. “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll all be fine.”

Keller thought that she was personally worried about the robots, Park realized. That this wasn’t a matter of survival for her, but one of personal attachment. She supposed it was true in some sense; it was easier for her to talk to the androids, and she dreaded imagining life on the ship without them. There was none of that exhausting analysis with them; no undercurrents for her to guess at and navigate, nothing for them to hide. What you saw was what you got—and Park found that refreshing. She didn’t have to parse through a dozen micro-expressions and facial nuances per minute. She didn’t have to wonder if they were ever lying to her, or concealing hidden barbs in their looks and words. Or putting poison in her food. There was that sense of relief with them, even comfort and familiarity. With androids, everything was simple, open. Pure.