The Gender End (The Gender Game #7)

She blinked, and then her booted feet began to twitch slightly. “Are they working?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Smiling in what I hoped would be interpreted as a reassuring way, I nodded. “They are. I doubt you have spinal damage. Can I undo this?”

“Can’t you move the chair first?” she pleaded. “Stand it up?”

I shook my head. “The chair is too heavy.” It really was. It was a monstrous frame of metal and padding that was meant to be welded into the ship. Amber had once told me it was supposed to keep the pilots safe in the event of a crash, but that meant the thing probably weighed several hundred pounds. “We have to do this now. The ship is flying on an unknown course into unknowable terrain.”

She nodded, and I reached out to undo the clasp still holding her. I tried to break her fall, but the space was tight and one hand was essentially useless thanks to the cast. She dropped roughly, and unexpectedly, the last few inches to the ground, and gave an agonized cry as she landed on her hand.

“At least you can feel it?” I asked gently, trying to bolster her spirits as I helped picked her up.

It didn’t work at all. The look she gave me was two parts anger, one part agony, and three parts revenge, but it couldn’t be helped. I needed her help, and I felt a stab of irritation. I was literally the only one of the three of us doing anything to help her. I ignored the feeling, knowing that the way she felt about me didn’t matter, as long as we could work together.

She leaned heavily on me, tears streaking down her cheeks. “It’s really hard not to believe what they’ve said about you right now,” she whispered accusingly, and I suppressed another surge of resentment, clenching my teeth together to prevent myself from saying anything too inflammatory. Keep the peace, I reminded myself. I was better than this. And I was beyond my long history of brawling for petty reasons, too… I hoped.

“I’m sorry that you’re in pain,” I said as I gently guided her around. “Just look at this place.”

Her eyes narrowed as she surveyed the damaged remains of the cockpit. “Sweet mother. That monster gutted it!”

I bristled. Let her think whatever she wanted about me, but Solomon was a victim in all this. “He’s not a monster. His name is Solomon, and he’s my friend. If you want to blame anyone for what happened here, blame your precious Desmond. It’s her fault he is the way he is, and I’m glad he threw her out of the cargo bay.”

I wasn’t surprised to find that I was glad she was dead. Well, relieved, anyway. Glad in the way that it felt like a great weight I’d been carrying around, a cloud of worry, nightmares, and fear, had suddenly evaporated, leaving the way clear for me to go on to other things. My hatred of her would take longer to cool and leave my body, but it would heal in time.

The pilot’s face went pale at the mention of how Solomon had killed Desmond, and she looked at me with a healthy dose of panic in her eyes. “Is he still onboard?”

Nodding, I moved her forward a few steps, taking it slow for her. “He is, but he’s unconscious. Desmond shot him a few times.”

“He shouldn’t still be… Belinda?”

I looked up and saw the warden who’d tried to trip me earlier ducking down to avoid hitting the overhanging ceiling as she stepped through the door, her brown eyes taking in the damage. She glanced over at the pilot and took a step forward.

“Kathryn, you’re alive.”

The pilot—Kathryn—groaned, but nodded. “Painfully so, but yes. Let me see what I can make of this mess.”

Kathryn’s arm pressed insistently on my neck and shoulder, but I didn’t want to move any closer to Belinda—not with my gun in my pants. “Stand on your own. Belinda will help you, if need be.”

Belinda gave me an incredulous look, but I gave Kathryn a moment and then stepped away from her, pulling my gun. Kathryn wobbled for a second, before Belinda moved in to take my spot supporting her. “We’re not going to accomplish anything with a gun held on us,” Kathryn announced softly.

“I’d agree with you,” I replied coolly, “but there are two of you, and Belinda is much bigger than I am, and uninjured. I’m not certain I can trust you enough to work with you, but I need your help to repair the ship and get us back home.”

“It seems you have an important decision to make,” said Belinda, helping Kathryn to move forward so she could peer out the bubble window that made up the nose of the cockpit.

“Well, she’d better make it soon,” whispered Kathryn, and I focused on her, noting her wide eyes and stiff spine. “Because I think I’d rather take the bullet than fly into that.”

I stepped forward, keeping my gun trained on them both, and peered through the dark window, searching for the familiar sight of stars. They hung just as normal in the top half of the sky, but on the horizon, barely visible in the moonlight, a swirling black and gray wall of storm clouds in the distance blotted out the stars, growing larger as we hurtled toward it.





3





Violet





We were soaring toward a cloud bank. It was still far away, but lightning flashed behind it, and the ominous clouds seemed swollen and turbulent, as if their thin mass were barely containing the storm raging within. Without the use of most of the instruments, not to mention the ability to control the aircraft, we would be completely unable to avoid any solid formation obscured by the storm, with no way to even tell there was an obstacle until the heloship hit it. Or lightning struck it. Or the violent winds tore it apart.

My heart thudded against my ribs, once, twice, even a third time, before my mind kicked itself awake, pushing through the uncertainty that had gained temporary control over my body. I looked at Kathryn and Belinda, and saw they were both looking at me. It took me another heartbeat to realize why.

The gun. Of course—it was ridiculous to think we could work together as long as they perceived I held the power. I looked down at it and then back at the pilot. “What do we do?” I asked as I ejected the magazine onto the floor and pulled back the slide to release the round in the chamber. The bullet and clip clattered to the floor, and I doubled over to pick them up. “You keep the bullets,” I muttered, pushing them into Belinda’s hands as I moved past her, shoving the now-useless gun into my pants. I still had the backup stash in the bathroom, so if worst came to worst, I could still resort to violence—right now it was merely a gesture. Although, from the gleam in Belinda’s eyes, I knew she was considering taking the gun and the power, right now.