Molly's Fate

Molly: Lady-like Landing

"Do we know anything about the planet we're plummeting toward?" Amy asked as she strapped herself into the co-pilot's seat. She grabbed the lever in front of her. Her white knuckles revealed a little of her inner turmoil. Her hair cascaded down her back in wild disarray, and she still wore her sleep shirt.

Molly took a moment to study her bare feet and bright-pink toenails. "Shouldn't you put on something with a little more coverage?" She gestured to Amy's feet.

She laughed. "Mols, really? Like my state of dress has any effect on our situation."

Molly shrugged. Who was she to deny her best friend's choice of clothing seconds before they died when she was herself braless? "How long have you been awake?"

"Minutes, but the damage reports don't lie. So, the planet, MARC, what can you tell me? Fashion? Inhabitants? Food? It had better be good things, my friend." Amy ran her fingers along the console, and Molly could have sworn she heard MARC purr.

"Overgrown jungles, six dialects, backward cultures," MARC said in a chatty manner that had Molly grumbling again. He was rarely this friendly with her. She supposed she had to be grateful he hadn't gassed her in her sleep.

"No tech? No sol stations?" Amy squeaked. "We'll be stranded." Her cheeks paled, as if roughing it for a while was a disaster. As long as they survived, Molly could deal with whatever the planet threw at them.

"Sounds like it," Molly said, punched commands, adjusting the angle of the shields as they breached the planet's atmosphere. And of course, MARC's trajectory was text-book perfect, although, she would never admit that to him.

"Damn those Vargosh!" Amy spat, typing instructions into the console. She flicked her pale-blonde hair back and pouted her full, natural-peach lips, looking like a galactic model destined for the digital magazines.

"If we had delivered their cargo like we were paid to do ..." Molly left it unsaid before continuing, "Not regretting it though."

"Fuck them, Mols. We did the right thing." They burst through the atmosphere into a world with pale-yellow sunlight and green-grey vegetation. The oceans were a dark green, fading to emerald at its pale grey shores. It was pretty, and in some respects, familiar to Earth.

Molly pointed at a flat strip of land. They both yanked their levers to the left, and the rapidly descending ship banked. At least the controls were responsive, and they could choose their crash site.

"You're coming in too hot," MARC said, which Molly ignored.

She knew how to crash, better than the computer could do it. They hit the ground with a bang, grind, and skid, grating the underside of the ship. She winced every time a loud groan tore through the ship and prayed MARC kept his mouth shut. Her patience was non-existent.

"Lost oxygen tanks," Amy said in a sing-song.

"There's escaping the planet gone," Molly bellowed above the crunch of metal and the squeal of the engines. Landing Jasmine on the planet without any damage meant leaving would have been a possibility. But alas, that ship had sailed. Now, forced to crash, a new life not in space loomed. That is, if they survived this. She gritted her teeth, determined to do what she could.

"Thrusters two and four," Amy said, reading the damage reports off the vids.

Molly flicked her gaze at the damage reports. "Half the panels on the ventilators." She sucked in a deep breath and held it. The air tasted of burned steak, hot metal, and fresh dirt. Se relished the flavor.

"Yup, and there goes the gravity generators." Amy tapped the console to make sure the reading was correct. "If we had any doubts of making it off the planet..."

"At this rate, we'll leave a debris trail for the Vargosh to spot from space. Here lies your target, asshats." Molly pinched her lips against the rising hysterical giggle. Their impending deaths wasn't a laughing matter.

Silence engulfed the aviator room at the fast-approaching rock wall stretching toward the yellow sky. They were running out of landing ... crashing ... area. Talk about front impact, and that rock looked immovable.

"Shit," Molly whispered, too soft for Amy to hear. "To the left!" They yanked on the levers, swinging the ship's tail so that they would at least hit the wall with its side or at best, its ass.

The collision shuddered through the ship, deafening whines and thumps followed as the momentum grated it along the cliff's edge, still traveling too fast for Molly's liking. It felt as if they would never stop. Everything burned, her shoulders, her arms, the imprint of the lever into her palms, her jaw from where she clenched it, and her unblinking eyes.

She tapped beside the large red button with a forefinger, silently asking Amy for confirmation. Running her gaze over her beloved friend's face, she memorized her alabaster skin, her deep blue eyes, and her waterfall of honey-blonde hair. Hiring Amy on the docks of Polanto had been the best decision Molly had ever made.

"Mols ..." Amy's hand gripped Molly's shoulder conveying much with her touch.

"It's been great, Amy." With that said, she punched the large red button, jettisoning their aviator pod away from the sliding ship. "No hands," she giggled, hysteria threatening to choke her as they flew toward a dense forest. The thrust pinned them to their seats, and she couldn't reach the console to gain control of their momentum.

"Fire meets pan!" Amy screamed as thick trees loomed ahead.

"Our time to die, hun." Molly graced her with a farewell smile.

As the pod careened through the trees, slapping the trunks across its metallic surface, she sent a prayer heavenward. Someone had to hear. Something had to respond.

Because she didn't feel like dying now.

The pod jerked to a halt and slammed her forward. With gravity restored, her head bounced off the console, spiking pain through her skull to her neck. Fading images of purple trees and yellow sky on the visors were her last.