The Gender End (The Gender Game #7)

She brought the car to a halt as motion erupted around the fire at the Matrian camp. I immediately rolled down my window, shouting, “Don’t shoot, we’re the heloship team that went down the day before yesterday!”

The women—there were seven of them—didn’t stop as they grabbed their guns and trained them on us, most of them going to one knee. Only one woman stood, a slender woman whose brown hair glinted red in the firelight.

“That’ll be their commander,” Ms. Dale said dryly, turning the engine off. “Wait for her to respond.”

It didn’t take long. “Throw your weapons out of the windows,” she shouted. “And come out slowly with your identification papers in your hands, high in the air.”

We’d known this would happen, and we were prepared. I tossed the gun out on my side, Ms. Dale taking a moment to roll down her own window and throw hers out as well.

“We have three Patrian prisoners,” I shouted as soon as we were done. “Do you want them to stay in, or get out?”

There was a pause. “Get them out—slowly, and their hands better be tied up.”

“They are. We’re leaving the vehicle now.”

I tossed open the door and stepped out, the gravel crunching under my brand-new boots—a wedding gift from Amber that I had discovered when Viggo and I had finally looked at the rest of the presents this afternoon in a mission preparation lull. I kept one hand up, showing my surrender, while I opened the back door for the men.

“Get out,” I said gruffly.

Thomas slid out first, Viggo and Owen moving slowly and awkwardly behind him. The sound of heavy and cautious footsteps—several sets of them—moved closer, but I resisted the urge to stop and turn nervously around.

“The second vehicle?” asked the same voice from earlier, only closer this time.

“They can’t hear you,” Ms. Dale said. “Can I go tell them what to do?”

“Yes, and be quick about it. You—bring the men up to the front of the vehicle.”

I looked expectantly at the men, and wanted to applaud when all three of them gave me villainous and murderous looks. After a sufficient pause, I arched an eyebrow.

“You heard her. MOVE!”

I reached over to push Thomas forward, and he jerked away, even going so far as to spit at me. Well… my feet, anyway, but hopefully it was antagonistic enough to be believable. I pushed him forward a bit harder, and then waved at Viggo and Owen.

“You two, move it.”

The men came around the car, and I moved past them. “Can I lower my arms please?” I asked the warden in charge as I came to a respectful stop a few feet away. “I’m beginning to feel like I’m the Patrian here.”

I saw a few of the women standing on the line smile, but their commander did not. She did, however, nod at me before reaching over to snatch the identification papers I was holding.

“Belinda Carver. Queen’s Guard.” Her eyes took in my uniform, and she frowned.

“My uniform was in terrible condition after our crash,” I lied. “I had to borrow another woman’s spare.”

“Mm-hm. Well, my name is Captain Amalie Harris, and you will need to answer my questions honestly and to the best of your abilities if you expect me to let you pass. Ms. Carver, how is it that you’re coming from the east? Not many airfields out there that I’m aware of.”

“We were asked to retrieve Desmond Bertrand from Patrus,” Ms. Dale announced as she pushed Solomon forward. Tim followed behind her, his eyes darting around, followed by Logan. “The insurgents were everywhere, but we wound up taking a few prisoners and rescuing a few of our people when we got there. Ms. Bertrand wanted the extra manpower, as we were a skeleton crew, but…” She paused, her eyes drifting down. “But she was killed when this… this monster got on board.”

“We were able to put him down,” added Amber—though if it hadn’t been for her voice, it would have been hard to tell it was her, with all the makeup she was wearing. Somehow Ms. Dale had managed to make her look like a porcelain doll. Her eyes seemed wider and even more luminous, while her mouth seemed smaller, like a dollop of strawberry jam in an ocean of cream. Next to her, Morgan, in her dull brown wig and with way too many freckles dusting her cheeks, looked mousy and shy, nothing like a glorious Matrian princess—a deliberate move on Ms. Dale’s part, since Morgan had been the one most worried about having to put on an act in front of strangers.

Amber continued her part of the tale. “But he damaged the ship, and knocked out Kathryn here. We flew for hours before we were able to get her up, and even then, it’s a miracle we survived at all.”

“The vehicles were on board?”

“No,” I replied, taking over the narrative. “Well, yes, but not when we departed Matrus. We picked them up when we went out to search for survivors from the initial attack. But…” I looked down, as if I were suddenly sad or uncomfortable. A quick peek up showed Captain Harris waiting expectantly, and I slowly counted to five before continuing. “The princess didn’t make it.”

The woman cursed and moved away, her hands going to her hips. She kept her back to us for a long time, and then nodded. When she turned, there was a deep anger in her eyes.

“These Patrians,” she spat, looking at our prisoners. “Why would you even keep them alive after what they’ve done to so many of us? After our queen tried to help them?! They should be dead.”

Her vehemence caught me off guard, but I corrected my reflexive need to set her to rights and rolled with it. “I know what you mean,” I said, pitching my voice lower. “These men killed the princess I was supposed to be protecting, and here I’ve been for the last two days, keeping them alive.” I flexed my gloved hands into fists, my jaw rigid, and then exhaled slowly, drawing from my memories of the real Belinda and her derision for me. “But I can only imagine that the queen wants them—needs them—either to exchange for prisoners or for information. And I don’t imagine they’ll give it up easily.”

The captain caught on to what I was saying, a slow, wolfish smile growing on her lips. “Good.”

I had expected her to be more skeptical. After all, our story, while it contained elements of truth, was a bald-faced lie. A bold one, but a lie nonetheless. I was pretty confident that no one here knew Kathryn and Belinda—they had worked in different circles and in different divisions—but there was no guarantee. Morgan and Amber’s identification papers were real, unlike mine and Ms. Dale’s, taken from Matrian prisoners who were only just similar enough in the face to pull it off.

“Can you let command know we have… Ms. Bertrand’s remains with us? We, uh, couldn’t leave her there, in the ship.”

“You brought her with you?”