Never
Twenty-seven years, and she is still as beautiful as she was when they met.
Antauri, in all of his pensiveness, cannot recall when he began to associate affectionate words with the girl; perhaps he doesn't wish to recall.
A finger rubs against synthetic lips that feign human softness, and she stares at nothing.
They are all dead.
They should say something—talk. Break the silence. Can it hurt as much as this?
("Natural circumstances," he might explain, and he aches somewhere when he thinks of Gibson.)
Nonetheless, it's not pleasant dinner time conversation, though they never engage in dinner (or, well, conversation).
They sit, and look, and talk through their expressions. He goads her to speak to him, and the light flickers from somewhere deep inside of her.
They may not have hearts, but something broke after the war. There are no more hollers to "check out" new inventions, no more insipid "vid" games. Sometimes, the Super Robot will groan.
Death happens.
("Except for us!" she cries.)
The simian cannot bring himself to speak, for what is said cannot be unsaid. Once the quilt is woven, Antauri feels that it can only be destroyed when incinerated.
He is a coward.
Yes, they are all dead.
Antauri waits for somebody.
Somebody who will listen to his wise anecdotes and learn from them without her optical lens glazing over.
Somebody who will use her strength to be a guardian and not as a killer.
Somebody who struggles like he does against the boundary between cold machinery and metaphysical compassion.
Somebody who will never come.