“Oh, no, not at all,” Mosscap said.
Dex moved the light around. “You’ve got a cobweb in here,” they said.
Mosscap was nonplussed. “I doubt that’s the problem.”
“Probably not, but do you want me to clean it out?”
“The spider isn’t still at home, is it?”
“Uh…” Dex moved the lit finger closer, examining the dusty threads and keeping an eye out for anything that skittered. “No, the web’s empty. Whoever built this is long gone.”
“Then yes, cleaning it out would probably be for the best.”
Dex pulled a handkerchief out of their pocket and gathered the aged spider silk, compressing the once-intricate net into a snarl of limp protein. They took the robot’s hand once more and shone it toward the upper end of the compartment. “Oh. That … that doesn’t look right.”
“What doesn’t look right?” Mosscap asked.
“There’s a…” Dex made a face as they attempted to map their vocabulary onto the unknown. “There’s a little hook-shaped bit. Black. About the length of my index finger, but curved. I think it’s made out of oil plastic?”
“Oh, yes, I know the bit you’re talking about,” Mosscap said. “Or, at least, I’ve seen it in other robots.”
“What’s it for?”
“I have no idea, but I know my gyroscope is up there somewhere. Must be related to that.”
Dex looked at Mosscap incredulously. “How do you not know what all your parts are?”
Mosscap’s eyes contracted. “Can you tell me what your spleen does?”
“Well, it’s…” Dex stopped, then exhaled once through their nose. “Look, the point is that little hook thing is clearly broken. It’s hanging loose, and one part of it is snapped clean. It just looks … worn out.”
“Can you retrieve it?”
Dex pressed their lips together. “I can get the bit that snapped, but I’m not going to break the other part off.”
“That’s fine,” Mosscap said.
Dex stretched their fingers out, found the weary plastic, slid it forth carefully, then held it up for Mosscap to see.
“Ah,” Mosscap said. It did not study the broken piece of itself for long, nor did it take it from Dex’s hand. A quietness entered Mosscap’s voice, and its head bowed slightly. “That’s that, then.”
“That’s what?” Dex said.
“I suppose I’m getting old.” Mosscap sighed. “I didn’t expect my life to be ending yet, but I suppose it always comes as a surprise, doesn’t it?”
Dex blinked, twice. This turn was completely absurd, and they made no effort to disguise their incredulity. “Mosscap, this doesn’t look like a difficult thing to fix. What do you do out in the wilds if something breaks?”
“Well, that’s just it. It depends on what breaks. If it’s something I or a friend can bend or nudge back into place, that’s fine. But when things begin to break beyond repair, you have to let it happen. The only way to get replacement parts is to take them from other robots who have already died, and we don’t do that. We allow ourselves to break down, and new robots are built from our remains. That’s the way of all things in this world.”
“Okay, but you’re hardly falling apart. It’s one tiny bit.”
“A tiny bit that I can’t fix on my own.” Mosscap’s tone was sad, but accepting. “There’s no escaping entropy.”
“Gods around,” Dex groaned. They held the broken plastic up for emphasis. “We could glue this, probably. If I sprained my ankle, I wouldn’t lie down on the road and be like ‘Guess I’ll die here.’”
“Your ankle would heal on its own,” Mosscap said. “It’s not the same for me. I can’t grow a new…” It gestured at the object in Dex’s hand. “Whatever this is.”
“Do you never use anything to patch yourself up?”
The robot thought. “I have seen others do some rather ingenious patching of minor damage with clay, or propolis. It doesn’t last forever but buys you more time. That sort of thing is acceptable.”
Dex turned the plastic over in the palm of their hand, looking at the cracked edge. “Yeah, I don’t think clay would be strong enough,” they said. Their eyes widened. “Wait a sec. I know what we can do.”
“What?” Mosscap said.