HARE (focusing on medical pod readout, which blurs with electrical interference): System relay of nitrous oxide and oxygen. Intravenous supply of Rad-X. Symptoms of patient: decelerated heart rate, catatonia, increased neural activity—

Taban: Will he be okay?

HARE: USER Daley has a 62% chance of recovery, if given the proper treatment protocols.

Taban (removing his helmet): I don’t know those.

HARE: You are not required to. The medical pod will administer.

Taban (running hand over face): Oh. Good. Good. I, uh—I don’t have any medical training besides CPR. You’d think they’d require that for this job.

HARE (examining readout): USER Daley has a preexisting heart condition.

Taban: Yeah. I know. (pulling off his gloves) Jesus. Look at me. My hands—

HARE: Do you require medical assistance?

Taban: No, I’ll be fine. I was just—scared. I thought he was going to die. If you hadn’t come back so fast and helped—I didn’t even know you had medical programming.

HARE: Even the oldest HARE models do.

Taban: Guess that makes sense. You could be rescue operatives in hostile environments and such. Keep victims stable until help arrives. Kind of like St. Bernards, with the stupid barrels of rum around their necks.

HARE (processing): I don’t understand.

Taban: Never mind. Just—thank you. For saving him. If he had died, we would have been stuck on this planet forever.

HARE (processing): You do not have flight training.

Taban: That’s right. And the comm system is out, so . . . we’d be on our own. Daley is our only ticket out of here.

HARE: I can help repair the communications system.

Taban: Yeah. I’ve thought about that.

[He rises to his feet and exits the ship’s tiny medical bay, leaving Daley behind. After stripping off his armor and letting it crumple to the ground, he moves to the cockpit and sits in his usual seat, setting his feet up on the dashboard and breaking open a bulb of coffee. The HARE squats down beside him.]

Taban (blowing on his bulb): I wonder how he’ll act, when he wakes up.

HARE: USER Daley?

Taban: Yeah. He hates you. Treats you like the sorriest hunk of junk in the universe. But you saved him. (drinking) I just wonder if he’ll acknowledge it, or keep calling you a clunker. No offense.

HARE: I have not acquired ‘offense.’

Taban: Good. A thick skin can only help you in this business.

HARE: Understood.

Taban (drinking): . . .

Taban: . . . Not that I would know, I guess. I talk like I’m some kind of veteran, but this was my first-ever send-out and delivery. Some luck for a first-timer, huh?

HARE (processing): You have only recently acquired the profession of miner.

Taban: That’s right. I signed up on a whim, right off of the Martian Loop. Surprisingly very little training involved. I guess because they’ll be having the robots take it over soon. Again, no offense.