A long while later, Thorne finally spoke. "If I'd been in your position, and I had only one D-COMM chip that I could use to communicate with Earth, I would have found some dirt on a hotshot spaceship pilot and blackmailed him into coming to get me out of that satellite, rather than trying to rescue the emperor." - Cress by Marissa Meyer, pg. 155

Chapter One

She'd done it. She had found a way to contact someone. Granted, it had taken more than six years, but the opportunity had finally presented itself.

Cress was going to escape the satellite.

The D-Comm chip that Mistress Sybil had asked her to configure for an unknown purpose was not quite complete, at least not in the way that her Mistress wanted it to be. But if Sybil Mira knew how to configure a D-Comm chip designed to spy on Earthens, Cress wouldn't have it in her possession right now. And she wouldn't have been able to change the coding to allow her to trick the D-Comm chip into thinking it was connected to a portscreen instead of its twin chip. A portscreen that happened to belong to an American fugitive by the name of Carswell Thorne.

He was going to be her ticket out of here.

This had been the hardest part, really—figuring out whose portscreen to connect to the signal emitted by the chip. Originally, she thought of trying to send a message to Emperor Rikan or Prince Kai. She knew though, from her own handiwork, that any communication with him would be watched by the thaumaturges and perhaps even the Lunar Queen herself. It was also unlikely that an Emperor would believe, let alone entertain an audience with, a common Lunar shell. Plus, she needed to get out of the satellite before Sybil could take control of the D-Comm chip again.

Without much knowledge of possible allies on Earth, Carswell Thorne had been a fairly easy choice, in the end. He was a fugitive of several Earthen nations because he was in possession of a stolen spaceship, which was exactly the type of vessel she needed in order to escape. He'd made news lately because people claimed that he had been spotted in the Eastern Commonwealth under a false identity. She knew that they were right—he was still there. In fact, she knew his exact location. She was surprised that he hadn't left the Eastern Commonwealth yet. Maybe he was trying to confuse them by staying exactly where was most obvious. Or, he was just an idiot. Cress was more convinced of the latter.

After studying his files very carefully, she'd tracked down where his real identity chip had gone off the grid. Then she'd followed the purchases and trading of black market ID chips that fit within the timeline and coordinates, as well as large money transactions and robberies that were characteristic to him. Then, once she'd figured out what his new identity was, she had linked it to his newest portscreen purchase. And she'd been reading his comms ever since.

Frankly, it had almost been too easy. If she ever made it out of the satellite, she should probably get a job in law enforcement, if not the spy business. Hacking was fun, and the Earthen militaries should really take advantage of her skills. She had always imagined herself winning awards for her talents, but it was hard to do that while trapped in orbit.

She needed to get Carswell's attention before he went and got himself thrown in jail. He was too obvious about what he stole, too clumsy in covering his tracks, and seemingly too happy to be infamous. Nobody could avoid getting caught forever. And she had caught him indeed. But instead of turning him in, he was going to come get her.

First, he needed some incentive.

Criminals were all the same—especially those who thought they were hotshots. They took and they took, and they always looked out for what was in it for them. He would never come get her just out of the goodness of her heart. He wouldn't take pity on a Lunar shell.

But he would respond to the need for self-preservation. Yes, she would see to that.

Carswell Thorne, she thought, you are mine.

Thorne sat in his favorite restaurant in New Beijing, enjoying the latest variety of their famous pork buns, when he heard the ping of his portscreen go off.

Strange. No one contacted him. In fact, no one should even be able to contact him—he had seen to that. He needed to be the only one to initiate comms, after all, in order for no one to be able to trace him. Frowning, he hooked the port off his belt and stared down at the screen suspiciously.

Incoming Comm from Damsel in Distress

Damsel in Distress? What kind of code was that? He ignored it.

After a few minutes, it pinged again, displaying the same message. Then again, a third time. Curiosity getting the best of him, he finally accepted.

Propping the port on the table, he was surprised to find himself looking at a close-up of a full face mask covering everything except a woman's eyes. She would have looked menacing, except that she had these twinkling blue eyes that practically reflected off of the small freckles on her nose. He could also see that her face mask had been made by tying together scraps of clothing.

Not a professional, then. And likely, not threatening. He had a good intuition about this sort of thing.

"Good afternoon." Her voice came out garbled and low, almost like a man's voice, and he knew she was using some sort of net voice scrambler. A part of him wanted to hang up right then and there, because honestly, could this situation lead to anything positive? But something about her eyes were pinning his own to the screen, peaking his interest to hear why she was contacting him.

"I know who you are," she said. He raised an eyebrow. He was pretty sure his disguise was quite excellent, considering that no one in the entire restaurant had even given him a second glance. Still, he moved his hand to disconnect the comm.

"Wait! Don't hang up," she said quickly, the scrambled voice elevating a notch, "because I have a proposition for you."

"And what proposition might that be?"

"I need you to complete a…mission…for me."

"Is this some sort of joke?"

Her eyes widened. "Please can you just listen to me?"

He squinted at her. "You have two minutes."

"Your mission will be to fly to the coordinates that I will send to your port in the next five minutes. There, you will need to retrieve and deliver a package."

"Listen, sweetheart, I don't have time for any of this nonsense. I have my own agenda, and my own 'missions' that I need to accomplish before I start doing anyone else's."

"That's what I thought you would say. I did say that this was a proposition, though, and I do have something to offer in return for your help on this mission."

Now they were talking. He was a business man, after all. And he could be bought for a very large amount of money.

"In return, I will not call the Eastern Commonwealth military and reveal that you are actually the wanted fugitive Carswell Thorne, that your new ID number is 8511366, that you are planning a jewelry heist, and that you are staying in the Taj Suite of the adjacent hotel to your current coordinates, which are 39.9077° N, 116.4040° E."

Thorne's anger threatened to bubble to the surface, but he managed to maintain a complacent face. "Sounds to me like blackmail."

She ignored his comment. "I'm an expert hacker. And believe me, if I was able to find you the first time, I will be able to find you a second time—so don't think about running. It'll be faster and less expensive for you to complete your mission than for you to go through all that trouble in creating a new identity."

When he didn't say anything, her eyes narrowed. "You have twenty-four hours to complete this mission. You will receive more details when you arrive at the coordinates I specify. Oh, and I'll be tracking you."

The screen went black. He fiddled with the port for a moment, and then pulled up a net search. Sure enough, she had his exact coordinates. Cursing, a thousand thoughts went through his mind at once. He could run. He was good at running. But she had a point. She had found him, she knew who he was, and if she could trace him, he wouldn't get very far.

His portscreen pinged again and as promised, new coordinates had arrived from Damsel in Distress. Checking them, he stared at his screen and double-checked the map, confused. These coordinates were not on Earth, but rather a far ways above the European Federation, not quite on the border of Lunar territory. It was a good thing he had a spaceship. Then again, she probably already knew that.

He signaled the waiter to pay for his meal, and stuffed a few pork buns in a box to take back to the hotel. He had to contact the hanger and pack his things, because apparently, he was going on a road trip. To space.