The Gender End (The Gender Game #7)

Gerome’s voice was patient as he spoke. As if he’d had this conversation too many times before. “She’s my Squire,” he said. “She needs training to be a productive member of the Tower. She’ll be no trouble. I stake my reputation as a Knight on it.”

Honestly, if it had been up to me, I probably would have just stayed in for the day. Going outside the Tower was always something of an ordeal, and one look at Dalton’s sneering face had told me how much more unpleasant the excursion was going to be. Still, it was my duty as a Squire to follow Gerome around and do what he said. And besides, if I didn’t do it, my parents would probably have me executed or something.

Dalton bit his lip and then sighed in defeat. “Fine,” he muttered.

He shoved the exterior hatch wide open and a blaze of bright morning light slashed in. We’d chosen this time of day so as to avoid the intensity of the sun; it would take some time before it started heating the night-cooled air. All the same, I could feel the warmth of it prickling against my skin as I looked out over the solar branch.

The branches were beautiful, in their own way. Massive slats of solar panels spread some three hundred feet out from the Tower, forming a full platform one could walk on. I hopped out after Dalton, watching as he fidgeted with the lash harness. The things weren’t standard issue for mechanics, and, despite his claims to the contrary, he didn’t seem to know how it worked. He pulled the cable from its wrist holster and stuck the glowing tip to the ground. It fizzed, and I winced.

“You’ll want to be really forceful with those,” I called. It was a novice mistake; lashes were designed to be flung with speed and force to absorb the friction in the air and form a static burst when they connected.

Dalton looked up.

“The lashes,” I said, tugging one of my own out. The tip shone with blue light. “You have to really slap them on.”

Dalton stared at me for a moment, then turned away without a word. He stepped away, using his cable to lower himself off the edge of the solar branch and down the side.

“He really should be more forceful with that,” Gerome said, peering out beside me.

I felt a small stir of pride at that. Gerome, like most people aside from my weapons trainers, rarely told me that I’d gotten anything right. Even this wasn’t praise per se but at this point in my life, hearing that I wasn’t a complete colossal failure was worth something.

I peered out over the edge and watched as Dalton slowly descended, the feed in his suit lowering him down. The view was breathtaking; the vibrant green of the river below, coupled with the brighter yellow desert—a desolate wasteland. Coincidentally enough, it was called The Wastes. The sky was already a bright blue, even though it was early morning—but there was nothing to diffuse or block it with. There was rarely a cloud in the sky, and the mountains in the distance were barely visible on the best of days—the heat from the desert acting as a mirage to hinder the view. But on nights when the full moon was out, they could be seen, sitting very small, to the south. Everything else was vast, empty and devoid of life.

Gerome slapped down his lash with a forcible tink, the electricity pulsing in a small series of arcs around the impact point, and began to rappel down slowly, following Dalton. Without wasting another moment, I moved to one side and stepped off, not bothering to throw my own lash until I was plummeting. It hit the side of the branch with a click and the harness arrested my fall by feeding out more line to slowly catch me. I braced my feet on the side of the glass, taking care not to damage the solar panels, and threw my second lash down. It stuck firm, and I released the first line as I kicked off, dropping down a few more feet and coming to dangle from the very bottom of the branch, my heart pounding.

As cocky as the move had been, my stomach lurched. The Tower was over a mile tall and the sides were sheer. I could see the world splayed out below me, and the massive wall of the octagonal Tower. The thing was flawless and brown, the perfect form broken only by the great solar branches jutting out of and around the gargantuan block. Hanging in thin air from the side of the monstrous edifice was terrifying. And exhilarating.

Gerome dropped beside me, beating Dalton down. Gerome, of course, had attached his lashes the proper way, and his descent was a bit more controlled than mine.

I scrutinized Dalton’s faltering progress above. The mechanic was slow. His every movement was so plodding that I wished I could do the job myself. It would have been one thing if he had been doing it safely, but he didn’t even seem to know how to use the tools correctly. He was handling them like they were going to break. He placed his free lash so gently each time, letting it lower him down before he gingerly placed the next one to repeat the process. It would have been comical if it wasn’t also deeply dangerous. All it’d take would be one failed connection and Dalton would get to do his best bird impression for over a mile-long drop.

Then again, it wasn’t really his fault. Despite his proclamations, he was using Knights’ equipment. The Knights were very protective of it—lashes included—which was why whenever anyone from another department requested their usage, they got a pair of Knight escorts with it, to make sure their equipment got returned in working order. I just happened to be one of the escorts today. It also wasn’t his fault he was out here; it was common for sevens and sixes to get selected for the more dangerous work—they were of a high enough ranking to be reliable in their duties but a low enough ranking to be expendable.

I scanned the underside of the branch and quickly identified what we were there for. A clump of wiring had fallen loose, spilling out through a break in the metal plating. It happened sometimes—the air was still right now, but winds whipped by at high speeds and would cause shearing to some of the plates, until they broke off or the screws came out.

I threw out a hand, letting another lash fly, pulling me in closer to the damage. Dalton was just reaching it as I did, and began lashing himself over quickly—so quickly, in fact, that I paused and allowed him to go first, which earned me a sullen, angry look as he lashed by. I waited before I resumed my movement, careful to stay far enough away so that the man wouldn’t feel inspired to actually start talking again.

Dalton drew himself in close to the exposed wiring. I winced as he used his fingers to connect his lash to the metal surface above, not even watching for the flash that confirmed its attachment. He then began fiddling, tugging a wire this way, then that, and I relaxed a little—his lash was holding. I let out a yawn, releasing the lashes with my hands, trusting my weight to the harness and settling into the lines. Some might have felt worried, hanging that high up. Me, though? In spite of any trepidation I felt at the height, I always felt more at home on lashes than I did on the ground. They were my wings.