The Gender War Read online

  We waited for several more moments, watching the grass and bushes whipping around in the wind generated by the propellers. The ship landed, and Ashabee was escorted in by several wardens, not even sparing a glance back at the house. Another minute passed, and then the door closed up and the ship was airborne, heading toward the city—and the palace that sat overlooking it all.

  Nelee had not boarded the escort ship, although she had conferred with some other Matrians as they ushered Ashabee on. She stood, peering into the sky and watching the heloship go, before turning back to the house, moving to the base of the steps. She seemed to consider something, her eyes narrowing. I could see the cold calculation in them, and I grudgingly recognized something of a kindred spirit in her—I could practically feel her mind moving, calculating all foreseeable outcomes.

  A warden holding a rifle approached her. “I informed Command about the refugees,” she announced, her voice low but within range of the microphones.

  Nelee said nothing, but her jaw twitched. “And?”

  “They recommended the bravo contingency,” the woman supplied. “It was confirmed.”

  Nelee still hadn’t stopped staring at the house, but I could see her mouth tighten further. I realized I was holding my breath, waiting for her decision.

  “Then we should carry out the command,” she replied, almost tiredly. “Round everyone up. I want this clean: round them up to be detained only. Tell them it is routine and separate men, women, and children. Select the top sixty percent of the men for execution, but don’t do it in front of the others. We have our reputation to protect, after all.”

  I looked over at Violet, and watched her face morph back into the diamond hardness from earlier. Her eyes met mine.

  “Hide or fight?” I asked softly.

  Violet clicked the safety off her gun and held it up. “Owen,” she whispered, and the blond man moved closer. I was surprised to see him—I hadn’t even noticed his arrival.

  “What do you need?” he asked.

  Violet’s eyes were on the monitor, watching as the wardens began to move closer together, presumably going over their plan to enter the house and passing out orders. Most of their voices were too far away to hear. “Make sure everyone is on the second floor,” Violet said. “I mean everyone. Then meet me at the top of the stairs. We don’t have a lot of time before they get in here.”

  Owen nodded, then turned and ran for the stairs.

  25

  Violet

  “C’mon,” I said to Viggo, turning away from the screen and heading swiftly toward the stairs. I heard his accompanying footsteps as he moved with me, synchronizing his pace with mine.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  I swallowed hard, trying not to be overwhelmed by the fact the Matrians probably outnumbered us four to one, if not five to one—who knew how many of them could fit inside that heloship?—and to focus instead on the essence of the problem. “We have to give them the first floor,” I said as we skirted a table holding a crystal vase filled with sweet-smelling flowers. “Too many windows and entryways for us to cover them all.”

  I caught his nod from the corner of my eye. “But there are what… four stairwells?”

  “Yeah—the two servants’ stairs, the grand staircase, and the one for the guests. So with you, me, Owen, Ms. Dale, and Henrik, we should be able to cover them all, and our position will be more defendable.”

  I waited for his response as we climbed the steps together. I wanted his approval, because then I would know it was the best plan we could hobble together on such short notice. Finally, Viggo nodded. “It’s sound—but we need to assign someone to keep an eye on the king.”

  “Henrik, then,” I replied automatically. “He’s the best choice,” I added when I saw Viggo flash a curious look at me. “Owen would probably be good too, but then again… maybe not.”

  Viggo paused, mid-step, and frowned. “Do you think Owen would kill the king?”

  I shrugged. It didn’t seem likely—but I couldn’t explain it, I just felt that Henrik was a better choice for this particular job. “No,” I admitted. “I just think we should use Owen on the stairs.”

  “What about Jay and Tim?” he asked, and I felt my heart race at the thought of involving the boys in an actual battle.

  “They need to remain hidden.” I saw Viggo’s slight surprise, and I stopped, pulling in front of him. “These are trained Matrian wardens. I don’t want to put the boys in this kind of danger. I won’t be able to concentrate if I know they’re out there.”

  Viggo was about to object—I could see it in his eyes. I knew he thought we should involve them more, but my heart just couldn’t take it. I had already put Tim in so much danger since I had found him. I couldn’t do it again. Especially in a fight like this.

  “Please don’t,” I said. “We don’t have time for this argument. The only way for the boys to stay safe will be with the refugees and Maxen.”

  Viggo said nothing, but nodded. We both started moving again at the same time.

  Ms. Dale, Henrik, and Owen were waiting for us at the top of the stairs. I stepped back, and Viggo outlined the plan, as rail-thin as it was. I turned my mind to finding other ways out of this mess. As if by afterthought, I turned and stared out the huge windows opposite the staircase. They opened onto a massive balcony, which Ashabee must have used for parties and extravagant galas. All three walls were glass—allowing people a view of the inside as well as the grounds outside.

  I kept one ear on what was being said, just in case someone offered up any other ideas, but stepped closer to the glass, watching as the drive began to come into view from my position. The closer I got, the better the view was. From here, I could see the heloship, and the Matrian wardens, dressed in brown with red armbands, moving in and out of it, hauling crates marked with words too far away to make out.

  But what drew my gaze was the small corner of the trailer-truck that I could barely see beyond the balcony. It was parked too close to the house for me to see more than that, but it didn’t matter. I strode back to Viggo and the group.

  “What if we let Solomon out?” I asked, cutting through their words. Silence met my declaration, and I waited.

  “That’s crazy,” Owen whispered, meeting my gaze. “He’s not immune to bullets. And he has no way of distinguishing friend from foe.”

  It was crazy—I knew that—but I also knew our plan was predicated upon none of us, not even one person, catching a bullet. Which seemed unlikely, considering the number of guns that we were up against. I hated to think of Solomon getting injured in his unstable state. But there had to be a way we could win this fight.

  “How can we even get out there?” Ms. Dale asked—a good question. I took a deep breath and looked over my shoulder, back at the glass wall separating us from the outside.

  “I’ll go over the balcony,” I said quietly. “I can stay low on top of the truck, and open it from the top. If I do it right, no one, not even Solomon, will see me.”

  “No, Violet,” Viggo said, stepping on my words. “We need you at the stairwell. They’re going to ingress at any moment.”

  “But, I—”

  “No,” he replied sharply. “You’re still injured. And we can’t afford to lose you on a chance like this.”

  Grudgingly, I realized that Viggo was right. Now was not the time to go rushing headlong into some rash idea. Especially not for a wildcard like Solomon—he could get hurt, or he could even hurt one of us.

  “We can do it,” chimed in Jay’s voice. I turned to see Jay and Tim, who’d appeared out of the hallway to our left, watching us with grim faces.

  Before I could open my mouth to say “no,” I could see the group of people around me responding positively to their idea. Heads were nodding around our little bunch. Viggo looked at me, his eyes assessing, as Ms. Dale murmured to the boys, “You two are probably the best people to do that, given your abilities. We really need all our options.”

  “
It would keep them out of the brunt of the fighting,” Viggo said, and I let out the breath I had been holding. I couldn’t stop this tide of assent, and time was against us.

  “Okay,” I murmured. “Wait until the Matrians have moved in and started their attack. Move fast and don’t let them see you,” I told the boys, my heart heavy at their eager, determined grins. “And whatever you do, stay out of Solomon’s way. Make sure that truck can be closed up again. He isn’t in control of his own actions, and he’s incredibly dangerous.”

  Tim and Jay nodded gravely. I hoped, for all of our sakes, that they were taking this seriously.

  “Does everyone know what they’re doing and where they are supposed to be?” Viggo asked the rest of the group.

  One by one they nodded, the worry, fear, and disagreement draining from their faces as they turned their minds to the task at hand. I bent over, grabbing two extra clips and two rifles from the well-stocked bag Ms. Dale had brought with her. Slinging the straps for both guns over my head, I gave them a tight nod and headed right—opposite of the way the boys had gone. I wished I could be closer to them… I wished I were going in their place… but it wasn’t to be.

  Viggo followed me as I headed down the hall, heading deeper into the house and its catacomb of elegant, empty corridors. I paused when I reached the turnoff that would lead me to my set of stairs. His were straight ahead.

  “If I don’t get to say it after,” I began to say in a hoarse whisper. I got no further than that—Viggo grabbed me around the waist, pulling me tight against him, his lips on mine, pressing hard, kissing me as if his life depended on it. I couldn’t help lifting my hands to his shoulders and kissing him back, pressing myself into him, until I wasn’t sure where he ended and I began.

  And then, too quickly, it was over. He breathed a soft, “Good luck,” into my ear and disappeared down the hallway toward his stairwell. I watched him go for a moment, my cheeks flushed and my lips tingling from his kiss, and then pulled myself together.

  I set up at the stairway, lying flat on my belly at the top of the landing, a few feet back so I could see down the narrow passage with a little cover from the angle. These stairs weren’t as dangerous as the main staircase, and I felt a moment of worry for Owen, hoping that he had set up well, that he wouldn’t catch a bullet as a result of all the open space. Mine was a tighter space, partially because it was intended for the servants, partially because it wrapped around. I had a clearer line of sight through the wooden bannister from this angle. The advantage of being able to set up like this, beyond the defensive position, was that, when I braced myself and my gun on the floor, all my left hand had to do was pull the trigger. If the setup had been different, I realized, I was the one who would have had to stay in safety with the refugees.

  I’d barely settled into place when I heard the creak of a floorboard below me and to the left. I pulled my rifle up to my shoulder, pulling the bipod legs down to stabilize it, and then waited, my heart thudding hard against my ribcage. For a moment, I considered the fact that I was about to kill a bunch of women, Matrians, my countrywomen, without even giving them a chance to defend themselves.

  Until I remembered Warden Nelee’s clinical voice as she handed out the order. These women had all agreed to kill innocents in cold blood. I exhaled slowly as I heard a muffled thud on the steps, and I used my thumb to click the rifle over from auto fire to single shot. When a brown-capped head came into view, I gazed down the sights, inhaled, then exhaled slowly, pulling the trigger.

  My shot caught her right below the ear, appearing as a deceptively small red spot that resulted in a splatter of blood on the wall opposite. Her body dropped with a thud, and I heard a gasp, followed by, “Hostiles on the stairwells!”

  Then the shooting began. I flinched when bullets whizzed past me and hit the stairs nearby, sending shards of wood flying, and I ducked down as they fired round after round. When the shots paused, I could hear them scrambling as they exchanged fresh guns and bodies for those with expended magazines. I quickly sighted down the stairs again, pulling the trigger once, twice, three times—gritting my teeth when I caught another one in her shoulder.

  She screamed, her cries carrying up the stairwell, and didn’t stop until I put another bullet in her head—just over her temple. Then she slumped down on the steps, her thrashing suddenly dying out. More panicked shouting, and I rolled out of the way just as one of them leapt over the dead to the next landing, the barrel of her gun rising up toward me.

  I rolled back to a kneeling position, somehow keeping hold of my rifle, and fired at her. But from this position, the shots were too wild, and she dove back down the stairs, wary but uninjured.

  Then the cycle began again. They fired from below, afraid to come farther because of the wide range my fire covered. I ducked back, then aimed and took down as many of them as I could while they reloaded or switched guards. It didn’t take them long to become more cautious. They weren’t advancing, but I hadn’t yet taken out enough of them for them to halt the attack, either.

  It didn’t feel like the battle had been going on very long, yet it also felt like it’d been going on forever. Fear pounded through my chest and burst in my veins, mixing with the adrenaline, the rage, the cold-blooded calculations that were telling me I couldn’t hold out for much longer. There were a lot of them. I didn’t know how I hadn’t been hit yet. I’d been using my bullets very sparingly, and I’d brought two guns on purpose, but what about when I had to reload?

  Just then, the floor shuddered under my feet. Not hard enough to be an earthquake, but enough that the very walls of my stairway seemed to tremble. I clutched my rifle tighter as I heard thunderous footsteps approach, and then the sounds of panic and anger erupting into mayhem. Women yelled and fired downstairs, the flash of the shots echoing on the walls below. I heard an inhuman snarl, followed by screams, thuds, and the sound of wood and bones breaking, punctuated by screams of panic that turned into begging and then to pain. Then, silence.

  I stood frozen at the sound, my palms sweating as I cradled the rifle loosely to my chest. The bannister shuddered, the stairwell creaking, and I took an involuntary step back as a man appeared. He was covered in blood, red splashes cutting across his muscular chest, which was still bare, the tattered remains of his Liberator suit hanging from the torn pants. Two bullet wounds, one in the leg and one in the shoulder, trickled with his own blood, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  He lumbered up the stairs, ponderously slowly, coming to a stop on the landing and sniffing the air, much like an animal would. Then his head snapped toward me, and I could see nothing human in his flat, predatory gaze. His lips rose in a silent snarl, and a trickle of a growl escaped his lips.

  “Solomon,” I gasped.

  Solomon stilled for a moment, his face becoming softer, a flash of recognition kindling in his eyes. I felt a moment of hope that my friend was still in there somewhere—and then it was gone, replaced with the animalistic intensity from moments earlier. He took a slow step up the stairs, his lips curling in a roar of pain and anger.

  I turned and fled.

  26

  Viggo

  The rifle was a familiar feeling in my hand, the sights a familiar view. Training to be a Patrian warden most of my adult life had prepared me for this. As much as I hated the idea of taking human life, I was an instrument of destruction, the rifle an extension of myself. And I was good at it.

  I knew later, if we survived, I would think back on this moment and reflect on all the decisions that had brought me to this point. But for now, there was no room for doubt or self-reflection. There was only my breathing, the sights, and the sure pull of the trigger.

  I had taken a location that was a bit riskier, pressed against the wall several feet behind the top of the stairs, with a clear view of the bottom—but it had kept them back. I was more exposed from this angle, but I was counting on being better than them. And so far it was working.

  I didn’t look at the glassy-eye
d woman sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, nor did my eyes pause as they drifted over another still pair of legs—the rest of her torso out of my view, but her death confirmed by the large pool of blood forming around her. I sighted down on one woman, hidden behind a small table that didn’t provide her enough cover, using it to steady her gun as she pointed it in my direction.

  I exhaled and squeezed the trigger just as she noticed me watching her. Her gasp became a gurgle as she clutched her throat, blood spilling out over her fingers. I cursed under my breath and pulled the trigger again, the next bullet stilling her mounting panic. I had blocked off the part of my brain that felt regret or sadness, but I still recognized, almost robotically, that her death would linger.

  Bullets whizzed around me as a warden—perhaps more than one—suddenly came around the corner, unloading their magazines in my direction. If they were screaming their outrage at me, I couldn’t hear it over the sound of gunfire. The entire house was alive with the earsplitting pop-pop-pop. I ducked, then brought my gun up and returned fire, my bullets sinking through the unprepared group of wardens, to deadly effect.

  I heard a horrifying roar, then screams and crashing, as I was changing out the magazine. I froze, wondering if one of the Matrians had thrown a grenade elsewhere in the house. I peeked my head around the corner, a little lower down, in case someone had their gun trained on the spot I had withdrawn from earlier, and jerked back quickly when a large figure raced by.

  There were two women left in the group that had been trying to gain access to my stairs. As I ducked again, I heard them cry out in alarm, and then came a short burst of gunfire. A loud snarl cut beneath the shots, piercing my carefully constructed indifference with a thin thread of fear. Then came the sound of screaming—a long, terrified sound—viciously cut short by the clear snapping of bones.