The HERCULES nodded a little, as if it found this answer satisfactory. Then it asked, seemingly apropos of nothing: “Why don’t you call anyone?”

At this Park did stop the documentary. “What do you mean?”

“Other people,” the HERCULES said. “People here in the biodome—they spend their nights calling loved ones. Telling them about their days. You don’t do that.”

It was a statement, not a question. “I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about my day,” Park told it. “As a psychologist, most of my patient interactions are confidential. Plus, ISF doesn’t want us talking about why we’re here in the first place. It would be a boring conversation.”

“You could converse about other things.”

I don’t have anyone to call, Park almost said. She felt a clenching in her chest, a kind of hard-edged pain, like swallowing a stone. Isn’t it obvious? she thought. That’s why I’m leaving Earth. I don’t have anywhere else to go—or anywhere else to be.

But then she thought: how did the HERCULES know what other people did, compared to her? Had it been ordered to watch others, too? And by whom? She was suddenly conscious of the fact that she didn’t know who had sent it, who might be watching her through it. What information would it be relaying back about her? Would the final report simply say that she was lonely? Connectionless? Unmoored?

“Calling someone could reduce feelings of loneliness,” the HERCULES said, as if it knew her thoughts.

“I like to be alone,” Park answered.

The HERCULES watched her. Park tried to read some expression in its battered metal face, some hint of pity or sympathy or contempt. When it spoke, its voice was as hard and flat as a knife blade.

“No,” it said. “I don’t believe you do.”

—

Bebe Hill came into Park’s tent after that, puffy as a raincloud in her thermal jacket, swathed in a storm of tears. “It’s Eric,” she said, hiccupping thickly. “He won’t talk to me.”

I’m tired, Park tried to say, but before she could open her mouth, Bebe sank down onto her cot without asking for permission. The HERCULES looked at Park for a directive, and she jutted her chin at the door. After it left, Park listened as Bebe blubbered something about an argument, Holt storming off in a rage, some kind of accusation being bandied back and forth.

“You have to do a favor for me, please, Dr. Park,” Bebe said.

I don’t do favors, Park nearly said, but instead screwed her mouth into a tiny frown and made a gesture to indicate she was listening. She didn’t fail to notice that Bebe had called her “doctor”—an attempt to butter her up, to bolster her sense of importance. But it had the opposite effect: it made her painfully aware that Bebe did not consider her a friend.