The woman sighed heavily, wishing for a railing to lean against and settling for the shoulder of the man next to her.  "Why did she have to do this?" she murmured to herself.

Her companion didn't answer; she'd trained him well enough that he knew not to interrupt her musings-sorry, soliloquies.  But he did roll his eyes and think to himself that if she had actually paid attention to something other than herself-admittedly, a frightful, dangerous, and possibly life-threatening concept-she would have noticed that her daughter-the 'she' to whom the woman had referred-had absolutely no talent in any of the artistic professions and a great deal of talent for piloting.  Although she did have some areas in which she could use some training…such as landing.

But because the woman was famous and rich and he needed the money, he kept his lips closed over his response and ignored the rest of her irritated rant-soliloquy.  He silently wished her teenage daughter luck; it took guts to turn down an acceptance to such a wildly famous music school and go instead to the only place in all the world where she could be made a cyborg.  If ever I have a chance to ride the ship you pilot-for surely you will be a pilot cyborg-I will tell you in person.  For now, good luck, Tznt'ja.