The mid-sized Astromobile rested on the astrocrete of the impound.
She was understandably embarrassed. Normally she would revert to human form and walk out the front door or blast a hole in the wall and escape. Unfortunately, the ion-charged electromagnetic “boot” they attached to her chassis prevented her shape-changing as well as any weapons functions she might bring to bear on the situation.
It would all work out, she assured herself. She’d radioed the team awhile ago. They could come and rescue her for once. It was only fair.
In the meantime… she was bored. Most of her higher functions were seized by the boot.
A short range scan around the impound hangar revealed several other mid and light class spacecraft. The only exception was a luxury liner that dominated the starboard side of the enclosed space; probably picked up related to piracy or smuggling.
She opened up her sub-space communications, might as well get to know her neighbors. “So. What are you in for?”
It took several barks, before she got a response from a reasonably competent A.I. (aside from the rote pingbacks most crafts kept as a cursory distress answer/response).
“Nunya’ business,” a dour scow retorted and closed channel.
“Excessive parking violations resulting in seizure until such time as outstanding accounts have been closed,” transmitted a mid-sized personal transport.
“Abandoned,” responded a Corvette. Judging by the hull corrosion it had been awhile.
“Communication is not recommended with vehicles costing less than the G.N.P of a small nation,” insisted an executive model Starlite, snootily.
Good crowd, R.T. thought sarcastically. To be fair, she wasn’t sure what she expected.
“And you?” the Corvette asked.
“Oh. Well. I was doing a standard drop off for my heroes and they sort of, accidentally set off an E.M.P. burst. When I woke up…. Well, here I am.”
“Does not compute.” She had exceeded the mid-sized personal transport’s vocabulary apparently. “Take Kids To Pool Protocol: Remember your towel, Bobby.”
“You were abandoned too, then?” the Corvette again.
“No, it was just—”
“They are never coming back,” it concluded as mopily as its A.I. could.
“They’re coming. I radioed them. They’re on their way now,” she assured the corroded craft.
“My owner is also coming,” the executive Starlite chirped.
The scow reopened his channel, “Maybe when he’s out of da hoosegow on dose drug charges.” It immediately closed channel again.
“You said heroes, right?” the Corvette inquired.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah. They’re heroes—I mean, so am I—but they’re—”
“Never coming back,” it repeated.
“They’re coming back,” R.T. was losing her patience.
“I once belonged to a nice family. They ran a small shipping business. They were nice. They always came back,” the Corvette explained. “Then I was hijacked by a handful of heroes. Appropriated, they called it. To assist in some derring-do on the planet Gonad.”
“I’m sorry but I don’t see—”
“That’s how I ended up here,” it continued with an electronic sigh. “They’re never coming back.”
“Initiate Family Pick-Up Protocol Delta: Soccer, Band, Karate. Repeat: Soccer, Band, Karate,” the personal transport continued babbling, trying to relate.
“R.T.! R.T.! Where are you!?” Lord Chuckles blasted onto her radio.
Oh thank the Gods. She wished for a tongue to stick out at the Corvette. “Hey, Chuckles. I’m in Hangar E, Row 14A. Minimum security so you should—”
“What are you on about? We’re in trouble. We need extraction!” Chuckles barked. Laser noises pew pew pewed in the background. “Now would be good!”
R.T. sighed out a breath of exhaust.
“Told you.” The Eeyore of spaceships didn’t help.
