The Gender End by Bella Forrest (the giving tree read aloud TXT) 📕

viewed as inferior, and smug in his assurance of his technical knowledge. But I couldn’t let him die. I began retracting my lashes as I spun upside down on them, letting the slack pull in before I kicked off the bottom of the branch to send myself torpedoing earthward. In an instant, I was staring at the ground, over a mile down, the sheer brown expanse of the Tower rushing by my side.

He’s a jerk, I thought as I fell. He’d been nothing but abusive. But, hey, here I was, falling through the air. And there he was, plummeting down just feet below. What choice did I have, really? My body moved on its own.

I pressed my arms and legs together to move faster than Dalton, and tore through the air toward where he was flailing about. I felt the pressure of the wind against my body, the air blazing against my suit. I gritted my teeth, pushing forward, and with a guttural yell I reached out and grabbed one of Dalton’s flailing lashes by the cable, avoiding the tip—that would have hurt like hell and the shock through my suit could knock out my own lashes, which would be bad. I pulled the line to tug us closer together until I could get my arm around his waist. He clung to me, and I could feel him vibrating with terror as we dropped.

I whipped my head around to stare at the Tower as it streaked by. To Dalton’s credit, the shot was tricky. Estimating the angle to throw at and the drag on the line, the shot needed to be precisely and forcibly executed. I sucked in a breath, paused for an instant, then fired the lash.

It struck the side of the Tower and rebounded, the tip sparking angrily. I cursed, glancing down. Another branch was hurtling toward us, solar plates glinting like teeth. In my arms Dalton was thrashing about like a panicking fish. I was sorely tempted to hit him upside the head, but instead I turned back to the Tower. One more throw.

I threw. The lash spun through the air, colliding with the side of the Tower. It buzzed and then, with a flash of blue, it stuck. I felt the jolt in my arm as our fall was slowed, and then we were swinging, our feet practically skimming the lower branch before we hit the side of the Tower. My legs were already braced for the impact, and I managed to catch our collective weight with a grunt.

"Hold on to me,” I ordered, and I felt the terrified Cog wrap himself around me as the mechanisms in my harness helped pull us up. My arm now freed, I threw a second lash through the hole in my uniform at the wrist, arcing it so it landed fifteen feet above us, and I slowly began to pull us back up to the branch where Gerome was still hanging.

Dalton was still flailing about like he was going to die. I shot him a look. “Would you hold still?” I snapped. “I really don’t want to drop you.”

A lie—but hey.

Back inside the Tower, I reached up and ran a hand through my black hair, panting but flushed with triumph. The cool air washed over my skin, and in that moment I could have kissed the nearest air circulation unit. At my side, Gerome actually gave an approving nod.

And then I looked at Dalton.

The mechanic was staring at me. I expected gratitude, or at the very least some joy at being alive… but instead I found nothing but hatred.

“What makes you think,” he said, voice soft, “that you can just… handle me like that?”

My stomach dropped and for a moment my mouth didn’t seem to work at all.

“I… What?” I managed.

“I was fine,” Dalton snapped insistently. “I was fine, and you felt the need to—”

“You were not fine!” I retorted, taking a step toward him and suddenly aware of the baton I wore at my side. I wondered if a sharp blow to the side of the head would improve Dalton’s temperament.

“My lashes were fully operational,” he replied. “I was entirely capable of saving myself, and certainly didn’t need a four to come to my aid.”

“Well, excuse me, Mister Seven,” I said. “It looked to me like you were falling to your death. Maybe next time I’ll just let you get on with it.”

“Liana.” Gerome’s voice held a note of warning, but I didn’t care. I was too frustrated to apply any sort of brake to my mouth.

“Maybe you should!” Dalton sneered. “The idea of a four thinking I needed saving, of laying hands on me! I have a family, you know. I can’t even imagine what my wife would say if she knew.”

“She’d probably rather have you saved by a four than have you come back in a bag, Cog,” I hissed. “Or, you know, not in anything at all. It’s hard to get bodies back when they’ve fallen off the damn Tower.”

“Liana.”

I turned sharply, glaring at Gerome. “And what do you want? Are you going to scold me, too? I saved a life—and even if he won’t admit it, you know I did. Was it wrong? Was it bad? What?”

Gerome’s features were somber as he reached out, seizing my right arm and lifting it so that I could see the dial on my wrist. Tears pricked my eyes as I stared at it. It couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be. The number shone hot and red, though. At risk.

“Oh, dammit,” I breathed.

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Chapter 2

I stared, stomach churning, at the dial on my wrist. A tremble rolled through me. Being a four had been bad enough as a Squire. But no matter what department you were from, once you hit three, Medica treatment was no longer just recommended; it was required. If you were a two you were placed in confinement on your floor and sent to mental restructuring, a rigorous process of intensive drug