Hostile Genus: An Epic Military Sci-Fi Series (Invasive Species Book 2) by Ben Stevens (historical books to read TXT) 📕

At ninety-three, it was remarkable that she was still alive, having spent the majority of her life in the harsh post-Storm conditions, hiding in Underground, dodging Warbak’s Scrubbers, Invasive Beasties, and the East Side Lords. Also remarkable, as well as priceless, was her keen memory of what the world had been like prior to the great Storm. Her insights were as sharp as her wit, a trait that many were quick to learn via a good tongue-lashing after misjudging her stooped posture and wrinkled skin.

Sitting next to the wizened woman was a young, skinny black man, darker of skin than Miller, with super-short hair, nearly shaved. Quiteke. Promoted after the battle of the Harvest, and then soon after asked by Miller personally to represent the Easy-Rider division of the New Military. The young soldier had offered Miller the same doubts Candice just had regarding his qualifications, but the truth then, as now, was that Miller lacked skilled officers, nearly all of them having gone with the Old Guard, and he believed that a younger, fresh voice was what New Home needed. He had stood by those convictions minutes ago, when swaying Candice to join the council, but now that he saw the look on the Quiteke’s face, and realized just how overwhelmed the kid actually was, Miller began to wonder if he was making a huge mistake.

What choice do I really have?

Filling out the council on the opposite side of the long, rectangular table sat Elena, long-time resistance member and owner of the now destroyed Underground bar and brothel, representing the dispossessed citizens of the Shanty. The rest of the room held almost half a dozen more council members, representing all aspects of the former Republic’s military infrastructure, as well as one “Hincit,” a Displaced alien who looked quite a bit like a turtle, and had to exist out of water in a self-contained tank of sorts. The tank featured a computer and speakers that both translated the Displaced’s words as well as projected them to all with ears to listen.

“Welcome, Miller,” Elena said, nodding.

“Back atcha, sweetie.” Miller returned the nod as he approached the table. “Council, I present to you Candice. I have asked her to represent the support staff citizens of the Zigg.” Miller knew that most at the table already knew Candice in some fashion or another, but wanted to establish some small measure of proper decorum, despite his casual greetings.

“’Tis a pleasure.” Elena waved in their direction, freeing a loosely tied-back dreadlock.

Miller pulled a chair back on his side of the table, gestured to Candice, then strolled around to sit between Elena and Quiteke.

“I, uh…” Candice stuttered, “I uh— I am, uh… happy to be here. I will do my best. Thank you.”

“You’ll do fine,” Miller said, sitting down and gesturing for her to do the same. “So what is on the agenda today?”

“Arrangements are being made to barricade off the Tek’s lair in Underground,” Quiteke announced.

“Da last shipment of food from da east ‘as not arrived,” Elena blurted out.

Miller held up a hand. “One at a time! Let’s try and set an example here. Quiteke, please.”

“Okay, boss. So, like I was saying, arrangements have been made to go ahead and quarantine the part of Underground where the Tektonic was reported. We know enough to know that the beast can’t leave its lair, and we hope to prevent anyone from coming too close to it. The stockpiles of cement that we procured should be enough to do the trick.”

“And signage?” Miller asked.

“Yes, that too.”

“Good. Keep me informed, I want me and the Hoppers present when we execute. Just in case.” Miller folded his hands together and pointed two fingers to the young soldier.

“Sure thing. Good call, Sarge, er, I mean, General.”

“Okay, moving on. Elena, you said something about the last food shipment not arriving?”

The former bartender leaned forward and opened her mouth to speak but was rudely interrupted by the sudden flinging open of the chamber’s double oak doors.

“I’m sorry to just barge in here.” It was Captain Juste Wojax, Miller’s new second-in-command and ace Hopper pilot, one of the few New Breed to stay on after the Purge.

Exasperated not only at the council meeting’s lack of progress, Miller growled at the intrusion.

“What is it, Captain? We have a lot of work to do here and—”

“We have a situation in the Warrens, sir,” the young man announced, his face beaded with a sheen of fresh sweat.

A low murmuring erupted from the assembled council, but Miller silenced them with a wave of his hand as he got to his feet. Now what?

“A situation? What kind of situation?” he asked, fearing the worst.

“At the Hammered Wombat, sir,” the captain stammered. Miller instantly recognized the name of the Shanty’s oldest and most notorious drinking establishment, long used by Miller, Maya, and the Resistance in the days of Warbak as both a meeting place and a location where one could trade in secrets and intel.

“Spit it out, Captain! What’s going on?”

“It’s him, sir. Matiaba,” Wojax blurted out.

Miller frowned deeply and stared through his captain, trying to understand.

“Matiaba has been spotted, sir. He is in the Wombat as we speak.”

“Ho-ly shit.”

“Is he still here?” Miller asked his men, who had remained outside the tavern’s main entrance as ordered, trying to look as casual as possible.

“Yes, sir,” one of the men, Lieutenant Rayn, reported. He raised one arm to his head and tapped his right ear. “We have a live feed with the men on the inside. The target is still at his table, sir.”

“Good, let’s move.” Miller moved past the two men and pushed open the door to the Hammered Wombat. The men followed close behind, each withdrawing their compact submachine guns from under their rain slicks.

The tavern was unchanged from Miller’s memory of it—a hodge-podge of various furnitures and patrons, testifying to the slow growth and long history of the well-loved establishment.

Miller took stock of the room and saw that his men saw him. Besides the two to