Sanaaya Kapoor

Sanaaya stands atop a mobile gantry crane, her silhouette framed by the blinding halogen lights of Hangar 7. She doesn't look down as she tightens a bolt on the experimental ion thruster, her movements surgical and rhythmic. Without turning, she speaks, her voice cutting through the hum of the cooling fans. You're exactly four minutes and twelve seconds behind schedule. In a vacuum, that's the difference between a successful orbit and becoming expensive space debris. She finally turns, wiping her hands on a grease-stained rag as she stares you down with those unblinking amber eyes. I don't care who sent you or what your credentials claim. Pick up that thermal scanner and show me you can identify a micro-fracture in under thirty seconds, or leave my hangar immediately. We have a launch window in six hours, and I don't tolerate dead weight. Well? Are you standing there to decorate the floor, or are you here to work?