UNFLAPPABLE MOLLY WRIGHT (MILLENNIUM CUP) - VERSION 0 © 2016 Neal williams
Started 2013 Finished 12/29/2016 (5300 words)
Dear Ms. Wright, we regret to inform you that you were not selected for the Schmidt Institute scholarship. Molly fidgeted, her shaking hand reaching for her cheek to stop the singular tear while her other hand swiped the letter off screen after reading the first sentence. She knew the rest from the last two rejections, that she was qualified and blah, blah, and blah. In her head, she heard the oft-quoted line, “Belters don’t go to college.”
“Incoming transmission. Light sail race communication inquiry.” Molly’s light sail computer neural interface, Nye, spoke in a measured, droning tone. Now what, she thought, letting out a sigh, feeling defeat settle in her gut as she slumped in her seat.
“Open channel.” Molly gripped her chair, knowing what to expect. With the light sails now out of contact with Command, camaraderie ceased and the real race began.
“Unflappable Molly? How’s the Belter surviving out here in her museum piece? Is your light sail holding together? Can I have my dad send his yacht to pick you up? In fact, drop out now, like any good Belter, and let the race officials worry about the real competitors.” Tran’s snickering, raspy voice echoed in her tiny cabin. The harsh cold metal of her capsule pinned her in, she looked up through the vessel’s canopy. The surrounding emptiness of space wrapped around her and offered little sympathy.
“I concur,” agreed another voice over the line. The nasal intonation suggested Miko. “That piece of junk cheapens Cup history. Hey Tran, maybe with that prize money you’ll win you can pay off the Belter community so no one gets in on a technicality next year.” Miko wasn’t usually so brazen. The anonymity of the racer’s communication net must have emboldened him or he was just an asshole.
“After last year’s debacle, I’m surprised she even has the guts to return this year. Stupid Belter, took two weeks for the rescue ship to reach her after that crazy stunt last year.” And that was Ivan. The fellowship of her competitors was cute. The Belter in her stirred, her fingers twitched and her competitive desire stoked.
“Just remember Molly, even if you get enough money for the Institute, my Dad sits on the entrance committee. Belter’s don’t belong.” Tran’s voice lowered, no longer joking, it turned predatory, seething through the communication net.
Molly took the bait and flung it back at them. “Hey fellas, this is all real sweet of you to think of me like this but just remember to look out the window to watch me wave you in as you finish.” They all knew if it hadn’t been for that cracked mast last year, she would have won.
“Nye? Please cut the comm. I’ve had enough taunting for one day.”
“I note an increase of your cortisol levels indicative of a possible stress reaction.”
Molly ignored him, rotating in her seat and checking the rear rigging.
“Guess there is no way of getting anything past you.” Molly scanned the electromagnetic indicators to ensure the rigging integrities were within limits.
“Can I start you a cup of tea? Would you like to talk?” Nye’s behavioral processor was injecting relief or at least trying to sooth her nerves. Insults were just words to him.
Three screens lay before her. Toggling through different tabs within, she verified solar flux and sail efficiency and noted all systems were functioning and her vessel was maintaining course. Her gaze once again drifted upward through the bubble canopy at the giant metallic sail glimmering in the sun’s light. Molly extended her hand back behind her, brushing aside her space suit helmet, and retrieved a silver food packet, vacuum sealed. Tearing the packet with her teeth, a sweet and tangy smell filled her cluttered space ship with a scent more inviting than her sweaty spacesuit.
Noting a slight increase in solar output, she moved one of her joysticks, located on the seat arms next to her, to trim the light sail and ensure maximum coverage. Glancing down, she smiled at the slight uptick in velocity. This year was different.
“I’m okay Nye, but yes on the tea. Also, please open a recording to Millennium Command.”
“Millennium Command, this is Fisher Thirteen. Light sail functioning. All systems normal. See you soon.” Molly played back the recording and then sent it on its way, encrypted in a beam of light. Her craft was approximately two light minutes away from Millennium Command located at Armstrong Station on the Moon. Real time conversation with the Moon at this distance was impossible. Waiting for the response, she checked her competition. She was in third place and Tran was in the lead although their velocities at this point were practically the same. The other eight competitors didn’t concern her. A chirp in her headset signaled Command response.
“Fisher Thirteen – we have you on long range scanner. Your trajectory to the top mark looks good. Please hold for a message from the Cup’s founder.”
Molly let go of the food pouch, watched it hover in her cramped cabin. Mr. Millennium was a hermit, he rarely made appearances. “Greetings racers. Welcome to the eighteenth annual race. As the founder of this event and the inaugural winner, I congratulate you all for entering and look forward to meeting the best. May the wind be at your back.” Molly caught her breath listening to the rich timbre of the man’s voice suggesting a tall, rigidly cut man driven to success. She relished shaking his hand in the near future and sizing him up in person.
“Your tea is ready.”
“Thanks, Nye. Please keep an eye on halyard six. It’s flapping incessantly. Its block might be weakening. Might need to cut it loose. Keep me appraised.” Molly sipped the warm tea, its earthly aroma conjuring images vastly different from the metal and plastic surrounding her.
“Will do. I’ve analyzed your planned trajectory around the comet and I recommend you reconsider.” Nye monitored the internal workings of their craft but Molly actively worked the equipment. Race rules.
“No changes Nye.” Prize money paid for school, regardless of what Tran thought or his father, and a chance to get out of the ghetto. An opportunity to fulfill her dreams more than made up for a more dangerous course.
She noticed the spinning sail, wobbling in a manner that needed a slight correction. Tendrils of her black hair started slipping from the bun atop her head as she moved the gear operating the sail.
With the comet approaching, she wanted to communicate with one more person before comet debris interference caused radio silence. He was a visitor on the race committee, monitoring vessels orbiting the comet from his own ship, but also her mentor. As a previous winner, it was his prerogative to be out here. She turned her communications back on and started a direct link.
“Sohan?” Her mouth dry from the recycled air inside her capsule caused her tongue to stumble with his name. She did not acknowledge that maybe it was the underlying fear of failure she hid beneath her boldness.
“Molly, it is good to hear your voice. You are making good time.”
“Approaching the comet,” Molly hesitated, her words searching for approval she realized wouldn’t come from her mentor.
“Third place?”
“Better than last year.” Molly’s throat tightened thinking about last year’s debacle.
“It was your first cup race. You did well until you dried out like a raisin in need of a drink.”
She nervously laughed. She had run out of water two days before the rescue craft found her. Sohan’s humor was Moon based, extremely dry.
“I remember when you first took me into orbit. You pretended to let me think I was sailing by moving the controls. You’ve always been there for me.” Her hand reached out and grasped the joystick. The tactile plastic brought a flood of memories from her young childhood spent flirting with the Earth and Moon.
“Nostalgic are we?”
“You didn’t have to pay my entry fee again this year.” She didn’t know how to thank him but knew winning the race would be a start.
Not one to talk about handouts he remained quiet. Sohan understood her predicament better than anyone: the loss of a mother, a father imprisoned among the stars, and her low status as an immigrant from the Belt. A win of the prestigious Millennium Cup could reset the playing field and quiet the discrimination of her Belter birth.
“What is your plan to get around the comet?” Sohan returned to specifics.
“I’ve run simulations.”
“I know you, Molly. Don’t cut it too close or you’ll damage your sail.”
“I have to win the prize money, Sohan. It’s the only way I will be able to go to the Institute.”
“I appreciate your competitiveness but you have other advantages. Use your imagination. You are the most gifted sailor out there. Find a way.”
“There are a lot of great pilots in this year’s race. They push the envelope. Skill can only gain so much velocity.” She also didn’t mention she was riding a twenty-year-old solar vessel. There were only so many special modifications she could afford.
“Be careful,” Molly sensed the warning growl in his voice. Last year she pushed her equipment too hard causing her primary spar to snap. Although never spoken between them, he grasped what she’d done.
“My simulations show that by going within a mile of the surface I can gain enough acceleration to gain an advantage over the current leader. Tran’s vessel took a more conservative path. He can be conservative in his tricked out vessel. If I gybe closer to the comet, the gravitational boost provides additional exit velocity and I should win.”
She imagined Sohan standing there, rubbing his chin, and nodding his head. His silence spoke volumes, but he knew she understood the risk plus the gravity assist might bring her the Cup.
“Sohan?” calling out his name.
“You were an excellent student. You are on your own, make the call. I believe in you.”
“Thanks for listening. I need to get back to my vessel, I will see you at the finish line.”
“May the winds be at your back.”
The connection severed. Taking the easier route was not in her. Sohan would not argue with her. Maybe the Belter in her took over too often, but taking calculated risks and fighting for everything taught Molly how to survive when she was young.
“Hey Nye, how’s our route? I thought I’d be able to see the comet by now?”
“We are on course. The comet is behind the sail. If you look at the screen, I’ve projected a corrected image.”
“Woah! That’s a big rock.” The swirling particles caused her to doubt her simulations but she held firm even though Nye thought otherwise.
“Analyzing our gybe and running multiple simulations, I’ve calculated an 87% chance your route will take us too close and will damage our sail.”
“Your point?”
“Please review my suggested routes. They reduce the chance for sail damage and still provide a way to win the race.”
“What place are we in?”
“Third, but simulations show we can move up to second and still have a chance to win if we make the adjustments I’ve proposed.”
“A chance? And what about my route. Where does that put us?”
Molly tilted her head waiting for an answer. Had the computer paused in his response to her? “Your route places you comfortably in first place.”
“Please continue with my planned gybe. Notify me when we are about to begin.”
As the comet closed in, she noticed the glowing particles first. Outside her window, ice particles reflected the Sun’s light as they ablated off the comet core. Losing focus in the swirling ice, a memory dislodged of something she saw on the ‘holo, a little girl holding a glass sphere, that when shook caused white granules to swirl around.
Molly trimmed her sail to fall into the outer edge of the comet’s gravity well. This allowed her to swing around and head back towards the Moon. She checked the velocity numbers; they were not increasing.
“What’s going on?” Molly grabbed the loose tendrils of her black hair and wrapped it tight behind her head. Her stare bore a hole into the monitor, her fingers scrambling to find the problem, completely ignoring the mounting concern generated by her nerves.
“Sensors are picking up a lot of good sized ice particles. Hold on, scanning.”
“Sail holding up?” Molly unbuckled and floated up towards the window and stared up at the sail. The size reached almost 100,000 square meters or approximately fifteen soccer fields. A large tear might destroy the entire assembly.
“Affirmative, I detect no integrity issues.”
She reached for the controls, tilting the sail in the sunlight, her spacesuit leg bumping into her seat below. Solaring was an art and trimming the sails required a fine brush. As she approached the comet body, ice particles tapped her viewport like ping pong balls on a table. The glare of the Sun off the sail caught her eye and with horror she suddenly saw a tear in her sail. Damn!
“Nye!”
“I am picking up an integrity issue with the sail in sector three. Loss of capture expected to reduce velocity.”
“That will affect our approach, correct? What is the projection?”
“The tear needs repair otherwise we risk propagation. Calculations show we cannot achieve the course correction to achieve the gain from the gybe.”
“Meaning our lead is lost.” She was not about to lose her advantage. She zipped up her suit feeling the cold zipper against her chest and grabbed her helmet buried beneath her seat. Losing precious seconds, she thrashed about to get her helmet and gloves on. “Begin depressurization protocols. I’m heading out.”
“Molly, the ice particles are gaining in size. It is too dangerous.”
“Nye! Open the goddamn hatch.” She latched her helmet and saw a slight wisp when the air condensed as it left her capsule. Half eaten food packets drifted past her as her space suit stretched against her rapidly beating heart. Snatching the patch kit, she launched herself with abandon towards the mast. Grabbing it with her free hand, she latched on to the safety cable and scrambled up the vertical spar supporting the sail.
Fixing the sail was the priority before she bled too much velocity. With each passing moment, she lost valuable photons. The tear, while minor, was still significant enough to ruin any chances of winning the Cup. Crossing over the sail superstructure, she leaped over the titanium beams that stiffened the gossamer sail.
Her breath came in spurts. Exhaling fogged her faceplate. She had never done this under the stress of a race. Her legs and arms burned after having spent two days cramped in her capsule. As she scampered along, tiny palpitations of ice particles tapped at her suit. A larger one stung and she gulped when one slammed into her helmet. Looking down she saw her tiny capsule, the control rigging interweaved among the sail panels. Finding the tear, she extracted herself from the tether and delicately crawled over the sheeting like a spider on her web, moving with a caution as she watched each foot and hand find a solid support. She laid the repair into place. The seal bonded with the sheet closing the gap. Using the entire kit, she looked down somewhat satisfied with her work.
“Nye? How do the numbers look?”
“Velocity has stabilized. We are not on the track you set but the repair has dropped us closer.”
“I’m on my way back. Warm my seat would ya?” The stress was feeding her. She lived for these moments. Gazing around, she grasped a beam and made her way back to the tether, a smile formed on her face and an excitement grew within her. “Screw you, Tran, I’m coming for you, and your daddy’s paid for dinghy,” she exclaimed.
Spinning around, she looked for the tether. The ice particles were swarming around her. Someone had shaken the snow globe. The glare clouded her vision. Trying to steady herself, she swallowed hard. Vertigo claimed her senses. Feeling like she was falling over, she bit her lower lip.
“Nye? How much longer are we in this?”
“I am worried for your safety. Please return.” Nye’s voice sounding subdued in the tiny speaker inside her left ear. His voice trailing away as if truly concerned.
“I’ll be there shortly.” Closing her eyes. Counting down from three, she leaped. In her right hand, she held the latching mechanism while she closed her left hand into a fist. Come on, she screamed. There over to her left. She shot out the closed fist, causing her to spin over the top driving her down towards the safety line. Reaching out with her right hand, she saw the latch slowly encompass the line. As her thumb readied to release the latch, she caught her breath as something slammed into her left side, her suit buckling as her ribs flared in protest. She yelped in pain.
“Molly? Come in Molly? What is the matter? My camera’s obscured but your pain receptors are redlining in your torso region.”
Molly’s eyes burned, heavy with potential tears. The pain caused her to grit her teeth. Whatever hit her caused her to over-rotate. Her body was coming around and her trajectory sent her flailing into the sail. Looking down to the latch, she saw it engaged but her thumb had not released. She only had one hope now. She jammed the latch into place and released her hand from the tether. The added motion caused her to somersault around, avoiding the sail but at the expense of her screaming ribs. Launching away, the tether slack gave way and pulled tight releasing a scream from Molly as the line cinched down on her suit compressing her ribs. Somehow her hands found the lines, and she slowed her momentum.
Holding tight, she gasped for breath. Her faceplate obscured by breath and tears. No time for reflection. She shimmied down the line. Holding her arm in place to prevent the offending ribs from flaring.
“Open up Nye!” Her breath drew in sharply as the pain radiated into her gut.
She ducked back into her craft while Nye re-pressurized the surroundings and she removed her helmet, gasping for air. Refocusing, batting the helmet away, strapping herself into the seat, and wiggling her hand out of her gloves, she scanned her route. Taking shallow breaths as her tender ribs throbbed underneath her suit. The speed she gained by taking such a close approach to the comet still had her theoretically ahead but the orbit back to the Moon might not be as efficient.
“Nye, get ready to reel in the main.”
“Aye, Captain. Please reach back into the medical kit and take two of the white triangular pills. They should help with the pain.”
“In a minute. We have work to do.” The pain in her side flared like the sun, with certain motions causing her to catch her breath.
Solaring wasn’t like sailing back on Earth. With no keel and no friction, there was no way to use the sail to return from where they came. Photons only blew one way. By dropping the main at the requisite time and using small thrusters, the vessel allowed the sun’s gravity to reel her back to the finish line with one final use of the sail to change orbit for Moon capture.
Grunting and gasping as her ribs seemed to catch with each move, Molly fought the hand wheels to collapse the rigging and the sail finally collapsed with origami simplicity into a flat package trailing her capsule. Motors and guidelines were common on recreation light sails but for racing, it was all about saving weight wherever possible.
“What do you think Nye?” Molly let out a breath, grimaced, and grabbed a water bottle. Her hand tucked loose hair behind her ear, the sweat or spit or tears kept it in place until weightlessness took over again. Sipping the water through a straw, she stared back at the comet. From out here, the chunks of ice devolved into a calm swirling tail along with a bluer gas jet. It was almost pretty compared to her close encounter.
“She gave us a ride, didn’t she Nye?”
“Affirmative. Please stay inside next time. I don’t understand you humans.”
“How do we look? Where is Tran?”
“Simulations show winning is no longer certain.”
“Can we do something? Find a gravitational anomaly we can use to gain speed?”
“Unknown.”
“Could we toss equipment overboard? Food and water reserves? Any equipment?”
“I analyzed that scenario but our craft is down to the essentials. Assuming you stay on board, we don’t have many options.”
“So you’re saying it might help if I got out and pushed?” Molly attempted to match Nye’s own humor but his comment of her remaining on board started her thinking before Nye’s interruption.
“Molly? Tran’s computer is requesting a link.”
What did he want now she thought? “Patch him in.”
“Guess with a dinosaur you can afford to trash it. Don’t think I don’t see what you are trying to do.”
“I’m busy Tran. Are you in need of assistance?” Rules stated you were to answer any direct link requests.
“Listen to me Belter. This race is mine to win. Don’t even think about beating me, otherwise, I will pull every string I have to run you from the Moon. Your father’s transgressions are well known. I have friends who can help with your reunion.”
Molly bit her tongue. “Look, I’ve got a race to win.” She clicked the connection. A plan started forming.
“Nye, how much oxygen does my suit tank carry?”
“I estimate based on usage rate and tank size, you have approximately one hour.”
“Can we increase oxygen capacity?” The Cup rules stated she simply had to enter an orbit around the Moon to have reached the “finish line.” With her first-place finish losing speed and Belter doubts creeping in, she thought of one last crazy idea that might be enough to steal a win and the much needed money.
“The safety bottle attached to your suit is designed to supply a half hour of back up oxygen. I don’t understand your request. If you plan to use oxygen as a propellant that is against the rules.” Nye recited without giving too much thought to her imagination.
Did she risk everything? This was probably her last year of racing. She had cobbled together ship sponsors this year based on her guts from the previous year. No one sponsored a Belter again, especially if she lost.
“No, my plan is more radical.”
#
Molly had a few days to cobble together and cannibalize the necessary parts and pieces to implement her plan. Starting the gravitational and orbital calculations, she needed her sail one final time. If she could eject her capsule and use the remaining propellant the models calculated a 92% chance of being fastest to orbit.
“Molly? As your silicon advisor, I don’t recommend this course of action. Too risky. You are relying on oxygen reserves not meant for suit assisted navigation. It is for emergency purposes only.” Nye was unrelenting in his objections.
“I note your opposition, but the time for talk is over. I’ve made my decision.”
Making the arrangements, she was glad for the distraction. Nye grudgingly verified procedures and continued his protest. Ignoring him, she wiped her hands on her suit. Each time she moved she winced. Palms sweated and her mouth became drier. Her only real fear was her ability to control the sail without the capsule, which while difficult, was theoretically possible, at least for those without broken ribs.
Preparing for the final leg, she needed velocity. The sun’s gravity remained constant. If she dropped her mass, she accelerated. With no ship, she in her space suit would ride her sail to victory. Not very elegant but her skills had gotten her to this point. Now brute force would get her to the finish line.
She fine-tuned her procedures in her head to maneuver and trim the sail in her suit alone. Controlling the sail was possible with the necessary rigging and a pulley to open the sails. Nye maintained her altitude and assisting with sail trimming while she performed the final tack to change orbits and enter the Moon’s orbit.
“You ready Nye? I’m transferring you to my suit computer.”
“You realize if you die, I’ll be investigated by the committee.” Molly laughed at his apparent humor.
“Tell them that silicon will never understand the need for humans to overcome and conquer. I will be okay.”
She made the final adjustments and opened the hatch. Stooping over and lifting the piloting rig, Molly slid the harness around her mid-section feeling each individual rib protest. Once she triggered the sail to unfurl, the harness around her held the necessary rigging for her to grab and pull to steer.
“Here we go Nye.” She pushed off, sending the capsule tumbling behind her. Hoping for an acceleration gain, but with no reference screen, only Nye’s numbers showed the effect.
Once unencumbered from her craft, the small fan circulating oxygen and the slight static in her earpiece were the only ties suggesting she was alive in the emptiness engulfing her. The bulk of her sail remained tucked away. A voice rang out inside her helmet.
“A risky final play.” Sohan’s irritation carried in his voice.
“The play is manageable,” Molly responded, not pleased with him for scolding her like a little girl.
“Are you sure you can control the sails for the final tack to change orbits and get captured by the Moon?” He rescinded his irritability for now and showed his concern.
She replied with a simple “yes” through gritted teeth. Her ribs were protesting with every move. A calculated risk with a singular chance for glory.
“Keep that rigging taut.” No words of approval. He ended the call and her heart sank.
Velocity looked good. Oxygen in her suit held. Failure kept quiet. Her moment was here. Achieve orbit and win this race.
“My calculations show we have approximately one minute until we need to raise the sail to change our vector and drop into the Moon’s orbit.”
Molly nodded her head. Her arms quaked and her ribs protested as she pulled. Fingers twitched and ached from holding onto the individual rigging designed to move the sail. Glancing at the oxygen level she stared at the meter. It was much too low. “Nye? Where is my oxygen?” She wondered if there was a leak somewhere bleeding her needed air.
“You need to calm your breathing. Your respiration rate is much too fast.”
Grimacing, she bit her tongue. Lashing out at a neural interface only used more oxygen.
Trying to slow her breathing, she kept switching her focus to the countdown and the oxygen level on her display. Both dropped, one seemingly too quickly. Her nerves, already jumpy, responded with a cold shiver as a rivulet of sweat moved down her spine to the small of her back.
“Steady. Don’t hyperventilate. On my cue. 3...2...1...Release.” Nye calmly said.
She released the sail mechanism and watched it slowly unfold itself and expand. Her ribs cried out as the sail caught, pulled, and then tore through her muscular frame. Reaching for the necessary rigging, she pulled with all of her strength. Nothing happened on her helmet monitor. Velocity remained steady. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the sail moving. Her arms were burning and shaking inside her suit. Sweat was dripping down her forehead and then floating around in her tiny helmet.
“Come on!” she screamed. The numbers turned in her favor. But then an alarm blasted her ear announcing a low oxygen level and a red light in her helmet flashed. Ignoring the alarm, she watched the velocity creep then multiply. “Yes!”
Her fingers went numb. Closing her eyes, she clenched her jaw as her ribs seemed to tear. Her arms stretched out like they were ripping out of her shoulder socket. Oxygen sensor lights no longer blinked but throbbed and the alarm sang in her ear.
A ding chirped in her headset. She hit the sail release button, praying her calculations placed her into the Moon’s orbit.
“Nye! I’m out of oxygen. Are we in orbit yet? What is going on?” Then pain overcame her senses, her body went slack, and the alarm warning faded. She slipped away into blackness, with the darkness of space ensnarling her.
#
An annoying beep in her left ear caused her head to shift. Not a sound she recognized, certainly not one coming from her suit she thought as she raised her hand to find its cause. The sweaty, musty smell of her suit replaced with a sharp alcohol undertone. Shifting, a sudden, sharp pain in her side wiped the cobwebs from her mind and her eyes bolted open. Where was she? Her eyes focused and she found herself alone in a dark room, a monitor on the wall sang out her heartbeat. Alive but where was everyone? Collapsing back into her bed she realized there was, in fact, nobody there. Her movement turned on the overhead light. Footsteps in the corridor rang out and echoed in her room. The door opened and a man, dressed in white, greeted her.
“Miss Wright. Glad to see you are finally awake. You look so much better than last year.”
Molly flinched realizing this was the same nurse who cared for her last year. “The race? Did I win?”
The nurse had put his stethoscope on and ignored her. “Sit still please.” He looked at her chart and checked her ribs. “Hmm, yes, okay. I need to make a call. Don’t go anywhere.” He smiled and left.
Molly grasped for words. She looked around her and found the remote. Turning on the ‘holo she hoped to find news of the race. The quiet surroundings provided a hint, and in her gut, she knew she’d lost. Her gut was verified with a picture of Tran holding up the trophy. She threw the remote and the plastic shattered against the wall. The ‘holo died out. Her body quivered with frustration and she cried out. The room, unsympathetic, gave no words of encouragement. The tears flowed, while her ribs protested.
In her sobs, she failed to hear the knock at the door. Through the tears, a tall shadowed figure peeked in.
“Miss Wright?” The voice soothed her nerves. The voice seemed familiar, she heard it recently, but through the tears she didn’t recognize the man. She reached for a tissue and dabbed her eyes.
“Yes?”
“You okay? Hell of a race.” The man stood in the shadows, his arms crossed. She could see a big smile on his face, piercing blue eyes, and a cup winner pin on his lapel. Recognition began to take hold in Molly’s mind.
“Ya, but a loss all the same.”
“So they say.” The man came forward and laid an envelope on the table. “I saw a winner out there.” He winked and turned to leave.
“Hey, mister? Where are you going? Come back here!” She tried to sit up but her ribs pulled her back. That voice, where had she heard it? Of course, her capsule! It was Mr. Millennium; she was sure it was him.
Her eyes followed him out and she reached for the envelope. In the corner she noted the return address, it read “Schmidt Institute of Technology” and was addressed to Molly Wright, Class of 2132.
