So she suited up, donning her bulky helmet and faceplate, which was standard for expedition members when leaving the biodome: it was supposed to replicate the spacesuits and exo-armor jackets they’d be wearing on Eos. Before she left she went to check on the HERCULES, mostly to procrastinate. The thought of spending the morning alone with prickly Natalya filled her with dread. The HERCULES was still standing quietly outside her tent, giving its joints a rest; Park had noticed all throughout that morning that its limbs had been creaking more than usual.

She approached it. The HERCULES peered blandly into her faceplate when she walked up; Park wasn’t sure at first if it recognized her behind the golden visor. Then it said, “You’re leaving the biodome.”

“Temporarily,” Park said. “Yes.” She had it lift an arm, ran her fingers helplessly over its bulky shoulder joint, which was beginning to streak with coppery rust. She’d been the one to help Glenn with his basic maintenance, in the old days; she had a rudimentary knowledge of robotics. But the HERCULES was a foreign model to her—and she didn’t want to risk breaking it completely. For a moment she wondered at her own concern. But it was a little sad, to her. The HERCULES had to hear its own creakiness, the evidence of its own disrepair. It had to be fully aware of its vulnerability. For them to ask it to press on without addressing its slow breakdown seemed cruel.

“I’m sorry,” she said to it. “I don’t know why the roboticists aren’t taking better care of you. I don’t know how to treat you. And of course you don’t have the ability to fix yourself.”

“Do I need fixing?” the HERCULES asked, with what she imagined was concern.

“Not fixing, exactly,” Park said. “Maintenance, yes. Your movements seem hampered.”

The HERCULES nodded slowly, as if it was surprised she had noticed. “Yes. The weather conditions here are extreme. I apologize for my lowered performance.”

“No,” Park said, almost moved. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. I’m just sorry I can’t—help you.”

“No,” the HERCULES echoed. Its eyes sought hers; they bore into her faceplate like twin lightbulbs. “Don’t apologize.” It was mimicking her in its metallic way. “There’s nothing to apologize for, Dr. Park. It’s not your fault. I am here to help you. Not the other way around.”

Natalya was waiting outside the biodome in the cab of an Earthmover drill; the drill’s conic bore of Martian steel gleamed dully in the hard light in front of her. When Park clambered in the cab, already shivering from the cold, Natalya started the drill without a word. Within moments they were churning along across the tundra.