Scarlet

Four

The captivity of Carswell Thorne had gotten off to a rocky start, what with the catastrophic soap rebellion and all. But since being transferred to solitary, he’d become the personification of a well-mannered gentleman, and after six months of such commendable behavior, he’d persuaded the only female guard on rotation to lend him a portscreen.

He was quite sure this would not have succeeded if the guard wasn’t convinced he was an idiot, incapable of doing anything other than counting the days and searching for naughty pictures of ladies he’d known and imagined.

And she was right, of course. Thorne was mystified by technology and couldn’t have done anything useful with the tablet even if he had had a step-by-step instruction manual on “How to Escape from Jail Using a Portscreen.” He’d been unsuccessful in accessing his comms, connecting to newsfeeds, or scouting out any information on New Beijing Prison and the surrounding city.

But he sure did appreciate the suggestively naughty, if heavily filtered, pictures.

He was scrolling through his portfolio on the 228th day of his captivity, wondering if Señora Santiago was still married to that onion-smelling man, when an awful screeching disrupted the cell’s peacefulness.

He peered upward, squinting at the smooth, glossy white ceiling.

The sound ceased and was followed by shuffling. A couple thuds. More grinding.

Thorne folded his legs atop his cot and waited while the noise grew louder and closer, hiccupped and continued. It took him some time to place this new strange noise, but after much listening and pondering he was convinced it was the sound of a motorized drill.

Maybe one of the other prisoners was remodeling.

The sound stopped, though the memory of it lingered, vibrating off the walls. Thorne glanced around. His cell was a perfect cube with smooth, shiny white wall panels on all six sides. It contained his all-white cot, a urinal that slid in and out of the wall with the press of a button, and him in his white uniform.

If someone was remodeling, he hoped his cell would be next.

The sound started again, more grating this time, and then a long screw punctured through the ceiling and clattered to the center of the cell’s floor. Three more dropped after it.

Thorne craned his head as one of the screws rolled beneath his cot.

A moment later, a square tile fell from the ceiling with a bang, followed by two dangling legs and a startled cry. The legs wore a white cotton jumpsuit that matched Thorne’s, but unlike his own plain white shoes, the feet attached to those legs were bare.

One wore skin.

The other a plating of reflective metal.

With a grunt, the girl released her hold on the ceiling and fell into a crouch in the middle of the cell.

Resting his elbows on his knees, Thorne tilted forward, trying to get a better look at her without moving from his safe position against the wall. She had a slight build and tanned skin and straight brown hair. Like her left foot, her left hand was made of metal.

Stabilizing herself, the girl stood and brushed off her jumpsuit.

“I’m sorry,” Thorne said.

She spun toward him, eyes wild.

“It seems that you’ve stumbled into the wrong jail cell. Do you need directions to get back to yours?”

She blinked.

Thorne smiled.

The girl frowned.

Her irritation made her prettier, and Thorne cupped his chin, studying her. He’d never met a cyborg before, much less flirted with one, but there was a first time for everything.

“These cells aren’t supposed to be occupied,” she said.

“Special circumstances.”

She surveyed him for a long moment, her brows knitting together. “Murder?”

His grin grew. “Thank you, but no. I started a riot on the yard.” He adjusted his collar, before adding, “We were protesting the soap.”

Her confusion grew, and Thorne noticed that she was still in her defensive stance.

“The soap,” he said again, wondering if she’d heard him. “It’s too drying.”

She said nothing.

“I have sensitive skin.”

Her mouth opened and he expected sympathy, but all that came out was a disinterested “Huh.”

Drawing herself up, she kicked the fallen ceiling tile out from beneath her feet, then proceeded to turn in a full circle, surveying the cell. Her lip curled in annoyance. “Stupid,” she muttered, nearing the wall to Thorne’s left and placing a palm against it. “One room off.”

Her eyelashes suddenly fluttered as if dust were stuck in them. Growling, she smacked her palm against her temple a few times.

“You’re escaping.”

“Not at this very moment,” she said through her teeth, roughly shaking her head. “But, yes, that is the general idea.” Her face lit up when she spotted the port in his lap. “What model portscreen is that?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” He held it up for her. “I’m putting together a portfolio of the women I’ve loved.”

Pushing herself from the wall, she snatched the portscreen away and flipped it over. A tip of her cyborg finger opened, revealing a small screwdriver. It wasn’t long before she’d undone the plate on the underside of the port.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking your vid-cable.”

“What for?”

“Mine’s on the fritz.”

She pulled a yellow wire from the screen and dropped it back into Thorne’s lap, then sank cross-legged to the floor. Thorne watched, mystified, as she tossed her hair to one side and unlatched a panel at the base of her skull. A moment later her fingers emerged with a wire similar to the one she’d just stolen from him, but with one blackened end. The girl’s face contorted in concentration while she installed the new cable.

With a pleased sigh, she shut the panel and tossed the old cable next to Thorne. “Thanks.”

He grimaced, shrinking away from the wire. “You have a portscreen in your head?”

“Something like that.” The girl stood and ran a hand over the wall again. “Ah, that’s much better. Now how do I…” Trailing off, she pushed the button in the corner. A glossy white panel slid up into the wall, ejecting the urinal with smooth precision. Her fingers fished into the gap left between the fixture and the wall, searching.

Inching away from the neglected cable on his cot, Thorne cleared his mind of the image of her opening a plate in her skull, once again calling up the personification of a gentleman, and attempted to make small talk while she worked. He asked what she was in for and complimented the fine workmanship of her metal extremities, but she ignored him, making him briefly question if he’d been separated from the female population for so long that he could be losing his charm.

But that seemed unlikely.

A few minutes later, the girl seemed to find what she was looking for, and Thorne heard the motorized-drill sound again.

“When they locked you up,” Thorne said, “didn’t they consider that this prison might have some security weaknesses?”

“It didn’t at the time. This hand is kind of a new addition.” She paused and stared hard at one corner of the alcove, as if trying to see through the wall.

Maybe she had X-ray vision. Now that he could find some good uses for.

“Let me guess,” Thorne said. “Breaking and entering?”

After a long silence of examining the retracting mechanism, the girl wrinkled her nose. “Two counts of treason, if you must know. And resisting arrest, and unlawful use of bioelectricity. Oh, and illegal immigration, but honestly, I think that’s a little excessive.”

He squinted at the back of her head, a twitch developing in his left eye. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

The screwdriver in her finger began to spin again. Thorne waited until there was a lull in the grinding. “What’s your name?”

“Cinder,” she said, followed by another 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.