"Archelon had them," says Kia, reaching over her mentor to take the package of nearly extinct fuel and then sitting back to open it. "I didn't know if you ever had this kind, but you like waxies, so Murphy and I traded for the socks that Archelon wanted for them. But then he found out that the fuel is for you, and he wouldn't take his socks." She exchanges a frown with her little black minion. "We're going to have to bully him into taking them. His boots and feet are having disagreements."

"Who the ... who's Archelon," asks Fixer, scowling her doctor's scowl of concern.

"He's the big organic pilot with built in armour." Kia looks up at her. "Makeshift says he's even older than Random, and that he's older than any of his people ever got before."

"What do people call his race?" Fixer shifts her grip on the smaller bots so that Kia can offer the opened package to Random.

"Extinct," says Murphy soberly, then looks down over the edge of the table as he contemplates returning to the floor.