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

at the stone stairs that disappeared into the reaches of the palace and wondered where Sofia had gotten to but knew better than to bring her up. They continued and stepped out onto a balcony. The night air was musky and thick with the dried dung fires warming the houses in the human districts, though the homes of the resident vampires didn’t require such fetters.

Don Luis, still supporting Maya’s hand, guided her to the railing of the balcony. She could see that the nightlife of the city took on a different character from the tedium of the daily human life-sustaining activities. Those who enjoyed life at the top of the social pyramid, as well as the food chain, were out in the streets playing. Maya could see roving packs of vampires—their red eyes gave them away—making their way to and fro, from impromptu outdoor discotheques to what looked to Maya like Elena’s bar back in the Shanty.

What she didn’t see, though, was what surprised her. There was no murder. No chasing. No hunting.

Perhaps he doesn’t tell all lies…

“You say you have a higher standard, a rule of law, an equilibrium.” Maya turned from the rail and gazed upon Don Luis’s face. She smiled and arched one eyebrow. “Please, good sir, do elaborate.”

“Very well, with pleasure.” Don Luis turned out toward the city, scanning for something. When he found it, he pointed his finger. “Do you see there, that farm?”

“Yes, I think so.” Maya squinted into the black. Her eyesight was not as good in the dark as his. It appeared to be a small industrial farm; even in the dark, Maya could make out the pen that framed the lot adjacent to the building and what appeared to be sleeping cows dotting the muddy yard.

“It’s one of New Puebla’s dairy farms,” Don Luis said. “Do you see that adobe house next to it?”

“Yes.”

“That is where the man who manages the farm lives. Do you see any difference between his house and the cows’ dwellings?”

Maya, believing he had made his point, frowned with disappointment.

Maya turned on him. “So you do feel the same way about humans as your wife?”

“Relax, pussycat. I mean no insult. Yes, I cannot deny that my kind is superior, but please allow me to continue to explain.”

“Very well, go on.”

“While the farmer is clearly superior in nature to the cow, he needs the cows to survive, no? But unlike the coyote of the desert, he does not slaughter the cows in a savage manner. No, he shelters them, feeds them, heals them when they are sick, presuming that the cow can still produce milk. He protects them from themselves by erecting the fence to keep them from wandering off and encountering danger that they are too stupid even to recognize, let alone avoid or deal with. The wild ones you met on your way here, they are like the coyote, while I,” he paused for dramatic effect, “am like the farmer. No human here dies before his time. Only the incurably sick, the old, those who no longer impart anything of value to the greater good. I saw you notice the tax connection on the serving girl’s arm a minute ago at dinner. That is how we collect our tax; that is how we withdraw our sustenance from our herd. There is no slaughter in the streets, no savagery; we are not barbaric brigands, my dear.”

He paused again, looking at Maya with a zealot’s passion in his eyes. Her eyelids fluttered, like a grounded butterfly taking to the sky. She forced a smile and nodded her understanding.

“When a human is born, the child is registered, and the intravenous port is installed; they get a new one every year, with care, so as not to infect the host. The same goes for those wishing to immigrate to our fair city and take respite from the howling madness of the world at large and whatever else the Drops might bring.”

Maya remained as calm as she could, setting her lips into a hard line and doing her best to soothe her reflexively flaring nostrils.

“Everyone benefits, Lily—can I call you Lily?”

She nodded.

“They get everything they need, while I and my kind get everything we need. It’s the perfect arrangement. The tax is fair and monitored, and we never bleed anyone dry. Why would we? Were we to do that, we would soon find ourselves starving like the wild ones. We collect only enough to sustain us, and they, the humans, heal and regenerate what we take. It’s an ideal tax-farm. It doesn’t even hurt them. My people are happy here. By submitting to the social contract, by paying their blood-tax and letting the true sovereign class make the ruling decisions for them, they have more leisure time to pursue their interests in life. Where else can they go to find shelter and protection in this hellish world? If they were to strike out on their own, they would struggle daily and surely die before long. The world outside these walls of protection is savage and brutal, as I’m sure you well know.”

“And the neck tattoos?” Maya asked.

“What rancher doesn’t brand his herd?” Don Luis asked with sick amusement. When he saw Maya wince a little, he hurriedly added, “It’s for their own good, Lily. When they receive the brand, what we prefer to call the Citizen Stamp, they have proof of identification. Each one receives a unique number, and my captains, lieutenants, and their men can use this number to make sure that each citizen gets their allotment of foodstuffs and necessary items from us in exchange for their blood tax, which is also kept well track of. Not only that, but the mark, which is near the source of the easiest blood flow, a source that the wild ones go for nine times out of ten, the mark is seen by their would-be attacker. This saves their lives, you see? It is a message, a message that they as