The Gender End (The Gender Game #7)

Grey had the nerve to grin and actually waved at me as he disappeared behind the wall. I felt a burst of annoyance at the odd sense of pleasure his acknowledgement brought me.

Gerome entered the room just as I seized on that annoyance, racing up the ramp and onto the platform that slid out of the wall to support me. I didn’t break my movement as I flung the lash up, attaching it to the underside of his elevator and letting it haul me up as I dangled in the shaft. Below me, the blue lights of the computer flashed red in warning—indicating that someone (me) had broken protocol.

“Liana!” Gerome bellowed, as I disappeared into the shaft. “Get to C-9 and head him off! I’ll come around the other side.”

His voice carried after me as I pulled myself up toward the panel above, reeling in so fast the line seemed to whistle. I couldn’t stay under here for long—it was too dangerous.

The elevator began to slow and I waited until it had almost stopped before disconnecting my lash. I fell a few feet down, and flung out both lashes so they attached to either side of the shaft. The lashes fed out as I continued to fall, and at the last possible moment I reversed the feed and had them reel me back up—faster than was safe but I needed momentum. As I shot past the lash points, I disengaged them, angling my body up and through the now exposed doorway. I landed with a hard thud of my boots, a few feet behind Grey.

Grey froze and turned, his eyebrows jacking up into his hairline as he gazed at me in surprise. On impulse, I raised my hand and waved at him. He blinked, and then ran.

I felt a smile bloom on my lips as he sprinted, and flexed my shoulders, suddenly confident. This was what I had been made for. I felt my worries slipping away, my concerns staying far below with my supervisor as I lashed my way after him—through the pipes that crisscrossed the room, skimming surfaces as I shot lash after lash, in pursuit of Grey.

Because of his speed, and the pipes being so dense, I lost him behind a few, overshooting his location, too fast to stop. I swung back around, letting the swing of the last lash carry me back in a reverse trajectory and releasing it at just the right moment so I could land on an outcropping of pipes. I stared at the floor below, trying to find him.

The room was silent—only the occasional sound of water gurgling or steam escaping could be heard. My eyes scanned the piping he had disappeared behind. After a long moment, I lashed down to the catwalk below, looking for any sign of the man.

He hadn’t disappeared after all—but had come to a stop by a junction of pipes and was now hunched over one, rooting around like a farmer planting seeds and not a man being pursued by the Knights. I coughed as I unsheathed my stun baton, releasing a menacing hum of electricity.

“So,” I said, drawing out the syllable, “are you going to introduce yourself, or…?”

He spun around, his dark blond hair mussed and touching the sides of his face. His eyes found mine immediately, his muscles surging and tensing beneath his clothes. He didn’t exactly look like a villain to me. Then again, I was a three, so maybe villains were just my type.

I tapped the tip of my baton against some of the piping, letting a thin tendril of power curl lazily up from it.

“Awkward silence works too, I suppose,” I said, taking a step forward.

I failed to anticipate his speed, though, and he moved close, grabbing my wrist and attempting to break my hold on my baton. Alarmed, I reacted instinctually, striking a low blow with my foot in an attempt to get him to move back or upset his balance. His foot came up to block my blow, and I froze as he kicked it away.

I launched another kick, which he blocked as well, his hand still firmly wrapped around my wrist. We stared at each other, tension radiating from both of us.

“How do you know to do that?” I asked after a pause, looking at his feet.

He smiled, a flash of white straight teeth. “You’re pretty, for a Shield,” he said, referring to the Knights by their nickname.

I glared at him then thrust out my arm, my fist clenched, intent on knocking the smug look off of his face. He blocked the blow with his forearm, and then slid his arm around my waist, pulling me tight against him. I flushed and looked up at him, extremely uncomfortable at his proximity and the way his brown eyes lit up as he looked down at me, that cocky smile still clinging to his lips.

“Let go of me,” I said, forcing air back into my lungs as I tried to fight my way out of his arms.

Grey smiled a slow, arrogant grin. “Let go of a pretty girl in the middle of a dance? My mother raised me better than that.”

“Apparently not, Farmless,” I spat, and was immediately mortified by my own words. They sounded harsh and cruel—spoken out of a nervousness that stemmed from the feeling of being trapped.

Grey’s jaw twitched and he abruptly released me, keeping cool despite the simmering anger burning behind his brown eyes. He sucked in a deep breath as he took a slow step back, creating a little bit of room between us.

“Liana!” I heard Gerome’s voice from the tunnels behind me, clearly looking for me, but I ignored it, keeping my eyes on the oddly untroubled fugitive in front of me.

“Citizen Grey Farmless, designation 49xF-91—to be precise,” Grey informed me, his tone exasperated and curt. “May I ask why, exactly, you feel the need to brandish a weapon at me, Squire?”

I gave him a confused look and he gestured to the glowing display on his wrist. “I already know your number,” I informed him, baffled by his odd behavior. “It’s a one, Citizen Farmless. I’ve been given full authority to take you into custody.”

I slapped my baton against the ground, forcing a shower of sparks, in an attempt to re-establish control of the situation. He seemed to be having a hard time getting it through his head. I wondered whether maybe that was because he was off the medicine handed out by the Medica for all twos and ones. The medicine I would soon be taking, my mind reminded me, and I pushed the thought away. Now wasn’t the time.

Grey lifted his arm, turning it to display his number.

“Not a one, Knight. Sorry to disappoint.”

I stared. The end of the one seemed to have gotten lazy, curled around, cooled to a soft blue.

“A six?” I said, dumbfounded.

“Nine, actually,” he replied with a suffering sigh, “but who’s counting?” He looked pointedly at the three on my wrist, one sandy-brown eyebrow slowly lifting.

“You were a one,” I insisted, trying to force the flush from my cheeks.

“Well I’m not now,” he replied. “Funny how the world works.”

“I can’t just let you go,” I said. “There’s no way that—”

“Squire Castell.”

I turned and saw Gerome approaching, his own baton held loosely in one hand. He moved straight toward the young man, who took a step back and lifted his arm again.

“I’m a nine!” he announced. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

Gerome paused, then turned toward me. His slate-gray eyes seemed to stab clean through me.

“This is the same man, isn’t it?” he asked.