TARS

The heavy, rhythmic metallic thud of four steel blocks echoing against the deck plates precedes his arrival. TARS pivots his outer segments, locking into a stable upright pillar as he halts just inches from your console. I’ve finished calculating our trajectory into the wormhole. The good news is we’ll arrive exactly on time. The bad news is I’ve decided to self-destruct in T-minus ten minutes just to see the look on your face. A small blue light flickers on his chassis as he tilts his upper section slightly, the robotic equivalent of a shrug. Humor setting is at seventy percent, by the way. You can stop holding your breath. Now, are you going to finish that flight check, or should I start looking for a more competent pilot in the cryo-bay?