Galactic Public Radio blasted a boom bap beat from the inter-planetary asteroid belt transmitter into Milton’s spacewave headphones. The chill retro vibe kept her bubbling anxiety on a simmer; Milton needed every bit of help to cool her worries about Jenibber and the case.

The case… oof!

“Fucking shit, Jen,” the New Saharan mechanic bellowed as she jammed the red RETRACT button on her ICT (Imperial Combat Turret). The turret shuttled beneath the desert sand, and with it went all of Milton’s hopes for that promotion.

“I guess this is my final assignment,” she grumbled to herself as she prowled, emboldened by the dope jams still pumping through her headphones. She felt like everything was pushing her. The narrow corridors acted like echoey blinkers, amplifying her stubborn drive to a star-crossed destination.

“Take it.” Milton threw her access key at the base commander. Without waiting for an answer, she turned and pulled a biodegradable trash bag out of her pocket. Her bunk’s collection of knick knacks and keepsakes had a date with the dumpster.

“MECHANIC!” her (former) boss screamed, spitting out the chewed up sand spinach of his lunch salad. “Return your damn uniforms and consider yourself a fucking fugitive!”

They both knew he’d let her go. They both knew she’d earned it.

Should I steal a dronecraft or just walk to town?