Hostile Genus: An Epic Military Sci-Fi Series (Invasive Species Book 2)

by Ben Stevens

  Maybe, in another time, under different circumstances, Maya would have been able to explain to them what she meant when she said they’d still be able to have the same life they’d already had, except better. Maybe. The city was still there, it had its basic infrastructure, and it had the defensive wall. From where Maya stood, the only “service” the ruling class had ever provided was direction—someone to tell them what to do, as it was the human populace that in fact did everything in the city. The rulers had simply supped on the fruits on their serfs’ labors and drunk from the chalice of stolen blood. But with each shouted accusation, Maya began to slowly realize that she, and her guardians, had forced their own vision of morality onto an unwilling population. Somehow, she had become the villain. She had become what she despised.

  Cries of “Killers!” and “Terrorists!” and shouted questions such as “Who will maintain the wall?” and “Who will protect us from the Drop-Beasts?” surged and threatened to drown out Maya’s pleas, magically enhanced or no.

  Stunned, Maya’s shouts turned to murmurs, and she lowered her gaze to the ground.

  “But… but you’re free now. You could protect yourselves; you could govern yourselves… cooperatively, without slavery or violence…” Her words trailed off. Her revolutionary fire had gone out. A cold realization came over her as if she was being wrapped in a wet blanket.

  “You people disgust me!” Lacking Maya’s Strange, Lucy relied on her cybernetic body to make her voice loud enough for all to hear. Only some of the people near the front of the surging mob heard her. It made no difference—no significant one anyway. “How can you sell your souls to a gang of devils that suck the very life from your veins? Then when we risk our lives to bring you freedom, you cry foul and want to know who will protect you from the creatures of the night? The monsters from the Drops? You bent your very knees and broke your very backs to slave away for monsters from the Drops! How can you serve one demon and claim it protects you from another? You’re mad! All of you!” Lucy’s fury raged like a storm as she continued to scream her lecture at the mob, but her words were as impactful as a storm’s winds against stone mountains.

  “You have all traded your freedom as men and women of the earth in exchange for some weak promise of security, yet your sons and husbands lie dead before you now because they had to do the fighting to protect their overlords… their… their owners! What sort of man would die to protect the ones that rule over him, lie to him, steal from and slowly kill him?”

  “We’ve heard enough of your extremist bullshit!” Maya heard one call over the yelling.

  “You’ve lost nothing today that you can’t and already don’t do for yourselves!” Maya heard Lucy say, but she knew, too late now, that the villagers were right.

  Lost nothing except the dead, Lucy, except the dead. The dead and their security.

  “You idiots! Can’t you see that she is right?” Lucy held out an open hand at the now silent and diminutive-looking Maya, still weeping. “You did it all, and the vampires just took. That’s all they do, the rulers: they take! You’ve just had someone doing all the thinking for you for so long, you don’t know how to think for yourselves anymore!”

  Seeing their faces all twisted in hate for her and her friends made Maya feel slightly ill. Seeing the people hold up pieces of their fallen loved ones made her sick to her stomach.

  We’ve failed here. It’s hopeless. The thought was like a needle; her self-righteous principles, a balloon. Deflated and defeated, Maya just stood there, weeping and shaking her head.

  “Stop it, Lucy,” Maya said, just loud enough for her guardian to hear. “They are right. We erred.”

  Lucy turned and studied Maya’s face. Her rage faded, grim understanding slowly colonizing her painted features.

  “We want justice!” The crowd surged again, and this time, first one, then three, then many raced for the stage. Some were unarmed, others carried rifles and knives, and still others only carried household and farm implements: cattle prods, shovels, rakes, and the like. Ratt quickly bounced up the stairs to the stage platform proper.

  “That’s enough!” Lucy’s left arm became a blur as it reached for her hip, which had equally as fast popped open and dispensed something into the receiving hand. The carrying hand whipped and threw a small grenade at the base of the stage, just meters before the incoming lynch mob.

  There was a bright flash followed by a high-pitched whine. The onrushers stopped dead in their tracks and attempted in vain to cover both their eyes and ears at the same time. When the light faded, Maya could see many of them on their knees or hunched over, vomiting on the ground. Other than that, no one seemed to be hurt— no one new, that is. The shouting and screaming had been hushed, and now that the grenade’s whine had faded fully, the plaza was again quiet as the grave, save for the ringing in people’s ears.

  “This is what’s going to happen.” Lucy stepped forward now, a good three strides in front of Maya and Jon, her toes nearly touching the edge of the stage. Her arms criss crossed her lithe metallic body, hands resting on the grips of her Macuahuitls.

  Her legs opened into a slightly wider than shoulder-width stance, and she turned her head from side to side, making sure that she could see everyone and, more importantly, that they could see her. She continued to use her built-in amplifiers to address the free people of New Puebla.

  “Every one of you will turn away from this stage, collect your dead, and return to your miserable lives in your miserable mud homes. You will not dally or hesitate. You have five minutes to clear this plaza, or I will clear it.” Maya’s tears instantly stopped, and her head snapped up, jaw open as she stared at her jaguar.

  “Maya, don’t,” Jon whispered loud enough for Maya to hear. She looked at him. The expression he gave told her that he felt as she did, but that nothing could be done about it now. It was time for them to depart and suffer their shame elsewhere.

  “If even one of you obstructs or interferes with me and mine when we walk out this godforsaken shit-hole of a city, I will return and kill all of you.” Lucy hesitated and cast a quick sideways glance at Maya.

  Maya wanted to tell her that she had gone too far, but she knew that Lucy both knew that and yet still meant what she said. The creeping certainty that she had become the villain today poured deeper into Maya’s soul, cement filling the cracks.

  “If you are too dumb to tell friend from foe, darkness from light, then you deserve what you get. I won’t fucking hesitate.”

  Maya watched in speechless horror as Lucy studied the crowd, looking for signs that she was getting through to them, that they understood. When the crowd fell into silence, the cyborg continued.

  “Now. Tomorrow, you can greet the dawn, mourn your dead, and then take my lady’s advice here.” She nodded her head back slightly in Maya’s general direction. “You can rebuild, work together. Form a militia of volunteers to man that wall and protect your families and your crops from bandits and worse. You could make something here. You could put a touch of humanity back on the map. Move forward. Make your own way.” No one moved. No one said a thing. A hundred sets of eyes stared at Lucy in something halfway between fear and shame.

  “Or…” She paused for dramatic impact. “You can kowtow to the next vile piece-of-shit that strolls in here and promises you protection in exchange for a slice of your soul. You miserable nothings. Pray that your children grow up in a different world than this and never come to know of your cowardice, your dishonor… your revolting, boot-licking shame.”

  Silence and stillness.

  Then, before any of them could be so stupid as to say something, Lucy stepped back and said, “Your five minutes start now.” And for an added touch, she drew both of her weapons.

  The people did as they were told, naturally, and cleared the dead from the plaza, scurrying off into the night. Weapons were left on the stone floor to mark the ash and blood stains. Jon collected Maya and put an arm over her shoulders, comforting her as best he co
uld.

  Ratt broke the silence, mentioning that they should go rendezvous with Carbine, as he had no way to communicate, not even having fired his railgun into the air to let them know he was okay. Lucy nodded her approval and led the way to the main street, where they had entered the city when they first came to its dark palace.

  No one said another word to each other as they walked out of the city.

  Only Maya turned to look back.

  Wisps of steam rose from the heated water like flames into the air, a thousand licking tongues probing, exploring. A splash echoed. Ripples bounced from the center of the pool to the edges and back. Condensation coalesced on the tiled walls and ran, first as solitary spies, then entire battalions to the slick floor below.

  Having reached the shallow edge, a figure rose from the water, naked and glistening.

  The man stepped up and out of the pool, and made his way, dripping, to the wooden bench against the wall and the fresh linens piled there.

  Reaching down, he plucked up one towel and tied it around his slender waist. Once the first towel was secured in place, he retrieved a second one and fastened it around his long lavender hair.

  He stretched his arms and chest, enjoying the tautness in his muscles from the vigorous swim, and he sighed.

  “I swear, I shall die of boredom, waiting,” he said aloud, mild annoyance lacing his voice.

  Umbra slipped his feet into a pair of sandals that lay tucked under the bench and made his way across the room to a recessed vanity in the far wall.

  Admiring himself in the embedded mirror, he smiled wryly and went about pouring himself a tall measure of herb-infused wine in a crystal goblet.

  He drank deeply, closing his eyes and inhaling, savoring the refreshing flavor. Setting the goblet back down, he retrieved a small glass orb from an ornate golden tripod and held it aloft.

  Peering into it with aloofness, he spoke.

  “Glyer, I want you.”

  “Right away, my lord,” a voice from the sphere responded.

  A minute later, a wretched half-man came crawling into the pool-house. His warped and misshapen head hung low.

  Umbra reclined on a cushion, wine in hand, and beheld his advisor.

  The man slithered his way into the room and toward his lord. Where his legs should have been, a robotic, serpentine appendage twisted and writhed, gliding snake-like across the floor. On his back, bolted into his flesh, a metal frame supported his otherwise weak torso. His face was disfigured and only wisps of greasy hair lay strewn over his pockmarked skull.

  “Why haven’t we heard anything yet, Glyer?” Umbra asked the spineless snake-man.

  The advisor shuddered and made a face as if a sneeze were trapped in his nose. Slurping up his liberal drool, eyes still downcast, he forced his report.

  “Our agent has not yet reported their arrival, my lord.”

  “They should have already been there. They departed weeks ago,” Umbra said, his face darkening.

  “Yes, my lord,” the toady agreed.

  “Yes? Yes, what? Yes does nothing for me. Have you been in communication with the agent? Or are you simply waiting for her to report?”

  “I will make inquiries, my lord.” Glyer shuddered again as if racked by a chill.

  “See that you do. You’re running out of body parts for me to replace.” The threat smothered the conversation like the oppressive humidity in the room.

  “Yes, yes, my lord.” Glyer bowed deeply.

  “In other matters: have there been any developments with the Engine?”

  Glyer hesitated and seemed to curl in on himself, twisting in place, appearing to shrink, even as his snake-tail grew fatter.

  “I asked you a question, Glyer. I would appreciate an answer.” Umbra poured himself a second glass of the spiced wine.

  “I’m sorry, my lord. The news is not good.”

  “When is it ever?” Umbra asked, more to himself than to Glyer, and sipped again from the goblet. “Well? Out with it.”

  “With the losses we accrued in Home, the souls we failed to harvest, our Strange reserves are at an all-time low. We lack the quintessence needed to power the experimental mecha. Furthermore, all attempts to correct the malfunction have failed.”

  Umbra sighed and closed his double-irised eyes. Setting the half-drunk goblet down, he stood and stretched his neck. Taking over the universe was such tedious business, but even on a bad day, it was far better to rule in Hell than to serve in Heaven.

  He had expected the news about the Engine to be as such. Losing the harvest of Home had been a great setback. He needed those souls to power the second wave of his long-term plan. But even if he had managed to collect, what good would an army do him in Hell, if he was as trapped in it like everyone else?

  “How did you do it, dear brother?” he muttered out loud.

  Glyer looked up to him from his coiled position on the floor, just for a second, and then snapped his gaze back to the floor when Umbra turned to him.

  “I’m beginning to grow concerned, Glyer. If the faux goddess does not bring him to the Morning Star safe and sound, then we are back to square one.”

  Without vocalizing his agreement, Glyer nodded his head slowly.

  “Contact our agent, remind her how important it is that she be honest with us. Send out the drones, scour the land. Find Maya and her ship. If they haven’t arrived yet, then something must have happened to them. Find them, and report back. If we have to, we will take them and bring them there ourselves.”

  “As you command, my lord,” Glyer said, and rose, making to depart.

  “I have not dismissed you, fool. There is more. I hope you are taking notes.”

  Glyer slurped and brought his palms together, bowing.

  “We have to begin planning for a contingency. While we lack the firepower to re-take Home as is, things have begun to develop that may ensure that we can still harvest what is ours.”

  Glyer perked up at this, watching Umbra pick his goblet back up and begin to pace back and forth along the narrow side of the embedded steam-pool.

  “My eyes in Home have shown me that the might of the Republic is already split in half, and furthermore, I have good reason to believe that what’s left in the Ziggurat will soon become even weaker than it already is. A storm is brewing in Home. I almost couldn’t have planned what is to unfold better myself.”

  “Sounds promising, my lord,” Glyer said.

  “Indeed. We will be watching the coming events with great interest. In the meantime, send another volunteer into the Labyrinth. Find me the Hermit. If we can have him, then I may not need the Anvil after all.”

  “It will be done.”

  “That is all. Go, do as I commanded and report back when you have finished,” Umbra said, finishing his wine. Placing the empty cup back down, he tenderly raised his fingertips to his eyes, feeling them and reflecting on the events that had caused them to grow a second iris and pupil. Glyer began a backward slither, retreating to the safety of the exit and beyond.

  “Must I do everything myself? At least Warbak had a spine.” Umbra chuckled to himself at the inside joke. The last time Glyer had failed him, he’d had the man’s spine literally removed, hence the metal frame the stooge now needed to remain upright and living, even if it was a sort of half-life.

  Umbra strode to the opposite wall of the room. A transparent rectangle of glass-like material separated his spa from the cavernous chamber beyond.

  He scanned the room on the other side of the transparent panel and felt a hunger stir inside him.

  Row after row of glass orbs ran the length of the massive expanse. They should be filled with souls by now, fuel for the Engine. One of these things needs to work. Either I find the Hermit or the Anvil. Perhaps both? Umbra smirked at the possibilities that would bring. Soon.

  21

  Martin awoke from the dream, images of Nguyen’s shriveled husk of a face being eaten by that alien starfish lingering in his mind’s eye.

&
nbsp; Gasping and shivering, he sat up and brought his hands to his face. He rubbed vigorously as if trying to erase the images that haunted him. The room was cold, and he noticed it quickly, due to the large wet patch of cold sweat that stained his gray athletic shirt and covered his back.

  “Just a bad dream… just a bad dream…” he mumbled, still rubbing his eyes. Awareness of his situation came to him. One—he was awake and no longer dreaming, and two—that he was in his command tent and not back in the dark copse of trees where he had watched Matiaba sic a demon on his boy. His breathing slowed, his mind calming, but the shivering intensified now that his torso was upright and free from the confines of his mummy-bag.

  Glancing around the inside of the tent, which was still dark, with only the very first hint of dawn’s gray light sneaking in, he saw that the tell-tale blue light of the gas furnace was missing.

  “Heater went out,” Martin mumbled. He crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed his hands up and down his arms, trying to stimulate blood flow. “It’s freezing in here.”

  Still shivering, he crawled out of bed, shed the sweat-soaked shirt, and reached for a dry one, followed by his black sweater, the one with the leather shoulder pads.

  Squinting against the pre-dawn gloom, he popped the access plate off the back of his tent’s heater and frowned. No fuel.

  Making a mental note to get more before he retired the next night, Martin finished dressing and, pulling away the flap to his tent, stepped out into a miserable early morning.

  Freezing rain came down steadily all over his camp. The walking paths between his tents looked like off-road ATV trails. The rain had turned the dirt to mud, and sentries’ footsteps had turned that mud into a topographical landscape in miniature, complete with mountain peaks, saddles, and valleys. Then the nightly drop in temperature had frozen both the mud and moisture that sat atop it, creating crystal-like growths of ice that pushed the mud out into strange honeycomb-like formations, as well as puddle-sized lakes of sheer ice. The rain flap of his tent, and the others around it were all decorated with stubby, wet icicles that drip, drip, dripped onto the ground, joining their drops with those of the persistent rainfall.