Hands in the pockets of her cargo pants, she stomps down to the shuttle, luggage plate tucked against her side. The android stands next to the refueling station, hands on hips, as the shuttle’s fuel canisters refill. The captain of their oh-so-lovely jaunt wipes his brow as he slumps against the shuttle’s side.

“So,” Myrha says, “when are we leaving?”

The android levels her with a flinty gaze, “Tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow? Why the fuck are you waiting so long?”

“The captain needs his rest.”

To be a fair it was a rather long flight. Still, being stuck here overnight isn’t something she’s keen on experiencing.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Is your departure ticket for tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Then you cannot come with us. You will have to wait two weeks until we return.”

Myrha strides up to her and tries to loom over her, which is hard because the android is taller than she is. She tries out her best pissed-off-tower-of-raging-angry-customer glare.

However, whatever customer care protocols androids are usually programmed with must be malfunctioning in this android. She doesn’t bother hiding her disgust, surveying Myrha like she’s a rather large annoying fly just waiting to be squashed. Maybe the android doesn’t like her attitude (she has a loud mouth and is proud of it), her purple hair, or her midriff shirt. Whatever it is, the android has to deal with it, because Myrha didn’t sign up for any of this shit.

“Listen. I am not staying on this radioactive planet for two weeks. I am leaving with you whether you like it or not!”

“That isn’t possible.”

“Fuck you and your impossible.”

“You don’t understand,” the android says sharply, “your ticket will not pass through the scanner because of the wrong date.”

Myrha looks at her blankly.

The android looks just a bit smug, “When you boarded you had to show your ticket to the scanner on the shuttle, did you not?”

She tries to recall the moment she boarded. It’s all a little hazy, as she had been desperately trying not to throw-up or pass out or run away screaming at the idea of soaring light-years through space on a tiny shuttle. She vaguely remembers waving her ticket across some sensor, which had then blinked green. The shuttle doors had gone transparent and let her in.

At her look of comprehension, the android continues, “If the ticket doesn’t match the passenger or the date, the shuttle will not let you board.”

Myrha raises her wrist and waves her utiphone in the android’s face, “You see this? This has my departure ticket on it. At ports, passengers can usually get their tickets cancelled or changed, right? So can’t you do something like that?”

“I am not a concierge android,” she responds rather icily.

“By Jupiter’s moons!” The captain suddenly cries, “I have a captaincy override. If she wants to leave that bad, I’ll let her on.”

Myrha grins smugly at the android (who looks rather blank; gorgeous, but expressionless), and then Myrha prostrates herself before the captain because hello, she knows who to suck up to and when.