Scarlet

swell of noise.
    When it died down: “I’m Captain Carswell Thorne. But usually people just call me—”
    More grinding.
    “Thorne. Or Captain. Or Captain Thorne.”
    Without responding, she wriggled her hand back into the alcove. It seemed like she was trying to twist something, but it must not have budged, as a second later she sat back and huffed with frustration.
    “I can see that you’re in need of an accomplice,” Thorne said, straightening his jumpsuit. “And lucky for you, I happen to be a criminal mastermind.”
    She glowered at him. “Go away.”
    “That’s a difficult request in this situation.”
    She sighed and dusted the flecks of white plastic from her screwdriver.
    “What are you going to do when you get out?” he asked.
    She turned back to the wall. The grinding persisted for a while before she paused to roll her neck, working out a crick. “The most direct route out of the city is north.”
    “Oh, my naive little convict. Don’t you think that’s what they’ll be expecting you to do?”
    She jabbed the screwdriver into the alcove. “Would you please stop distracting me?”
    “I’m just saying we might be able to help each other.”
    “Leave me alone.”
    “I have a ship.”
    Her gaze darted to him for only a beat—a look of warning.
    “A spaceship.”
    “A spaceship,” she drawled.
    “She could have us halfway to the stars in less than two minutes, and she’s just outside the city limits. Easy to get to. What do you say?”
    “I say if you don’t stop talking and let me work, we won’t be getting halfway to anywhere.”
    “Point taken,” Thorne said, holding up his hands in surrender. “You just think it over in that pretty head of yours.”
    She tensed, but kept working.
    “Now that I’m thinking of it, there used to be an excellent dim sum bar just a block away too. They had mini pork buns that were to die for. Rich and succulent.” He pinched his fingers together, salivating over the memory.
    Face scrunching up, Cinder started to massage the back of her neck.
    “Maybe if we have time we could stop in and pick up a snack for the road. I could use a treat after suffering through the tasteless junk they call food in this place.” He licked his lips, but when he refocused on the girl, the pain on her features had tightened. Sweat was beading on her brow.
    “Are you all right?” he asked, reaching for her. “Do you need a back rub?”
    She swatted him away. “ Please ,” she said, hands braced between them. She struggled to draw in a shuddering breath.
    As Thorne stared, her image wavered, like heat rising off maglev tracks. He stumbled back. His heartbeat quickened. A tingle filled his brain and raced down his nerves.
    She was … beautiful.
    No, divine.
    No, perfect.
    His pulse thumped, thoughts of worship and devotion swimming through his head. Thoughts of surrender. Thoughts of compliance.
    “Please,” she said again, hiding behind her metal hand. Her tone was desperate as she slumped against the wall. “Just stop talking. Just … leave me alone.”
    “All right.” Confusion reigned—cyborg, prison mate, goddess. “Of course. Anything you like.” Eyes watering, he stumbled backward and sank blindly down to his cot.

 
    Five
    Scarlet’s thoughts seethed as she hauled the empty crates out of the back of her ship and through the hangar’s yawning doors. She’d found her portscreen on the floor of the ship and it was now in her pocket, the message from the law enforcement office burning against her thigh as she mindlessly traipsed through her evening routine.
    She was perhaps most angry with herself now, for being distracted, even for a minute, by nothing more than a handsome face and a veneer of danger, so soon after she’d learned that her grandma’s case had been closed. Her curiosity about the street fighter made her feel like a traitor to everything important.
    And then there was Roland and Gilles and every other backstabber in Rieux. They all believed her grandma was crazy, and that’s what they’d told the police. Not that she was the most hardworking farmer in the province. Not that she made the best éclairs this side of the Garonne River. Not that she’d served her country as a military spaceship pilot for twenty-eight years, and still wore a medal for honorable service on her favorite checkered kitchen apron.
    No. They’d told the police she was crazy.
    And now they’d stopped looking for her.
    Not for long though. Her