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

a fortified city head-on, and few beasts conniving enough to attempt infiltration. Whatever the reason, Jon didn’t care; he only smiled to himself and gave thanks.

The two guards closest to him had their backs to the expanse. From their vantage point on the wall, they could see the concert that they had not been allowed to attend, and they were every bit as entranced by it as the citizens who had been.

Satisfied with his surveillance and good fortune, Jon left the cover of his scrub and sprinted toward the base of the city wall as fast as his burning body would go. If the soldiers on the wall had been even remotely doing their job, Jon’s ninja charge would have been undone.

He found, much to his chagrin, that when he pushed his body to the limits of its capability, the fire that burned within him grew stronger and brighter.

At first, he didn’t notice; he was focused on running, and running fast. He reached top speed the moment before he noticed his glow and surely would have made the wild horses of the scrub proud. He moved like a force of nature, a trail of dust billowing in his wake, semi-obscured by the blanket of night. But he shone like a beacon in that darkness, causing both himself and the dust trail to resemble a comet of some kind, streaking across the dark, straight toward the city.

It was his glowing fingertips that alerted him to his folly as they pumped in and out of his peripheral vision with each amazing stride. He slowed instantly and broke his focus, looking down at himself. Most of his body was covered by his torso armor, cargo pants, and boots, but the remaining exposed skin was more than enough to betray his location to anyone looking. His neck, face, and hands burned like the sun itself were just beneath his skin, which in the eerie light looked paper-thin.

His run slowed to a walk; then, three steps later, he stopped entirely. He stared at his hands in amazement, his eyes tracing the rivers of his arteries and their capillary tributaries. Cold realization in contrast to his body’s heat came crashing down over his head like a bucket of ice water, and he realized that he was standing, glowing, out in the open, halfway between cover and the city wall. Eyes quickened with fear glanced up to the top of the wall. Four sentries still, bobbing their heads to the relentless beat thumping from the city center square.

Run, you idiot!

Jon chided himself and snapped out of his paralysis, making a break for the wall. It was too late to do anything about the fire within him. It would most likely take several minutes to cool down, and that would leave him standing out in the open and darkness. If any of the guards just happened to turn their heads to glance in the direction of their duty…

He ran, albeit not as fast as before, his eyes darting from one sentry to the next, his heart pounding more from a feeling of dread certitude that he would be spotted than the effort of sprinting.

C’mon… C’mon!

At last, with a sense of bewildered surprise, he made it to the base of the city wall. He flattened his form against the cold stones and slowed his breathing, using the mindfulness in athletics technique he’d been taught in the Academy. Base of the wall or not, the glow coming off his body cast a lantern’s shine out into the scrub and surely could catch the eye of a sentry, who would, more likely than not, take him for a small fire; he had to cool down fast.

He waited there, still as the stones he leaned against, breathing and listening to his slowing heartbeat form an irregular rhythm with the Lily Sapphire concert in his earpiece. He watched the fire behind his skin fade to soft pink, and then slowly disappear like the headlights of an automobile with a dying battery. His hands pressed against the wall, and he began to study it with them.

If the irresponsible guards on the wall inspired a theory that the ruling class of New Puebla had grown cocky in their so far very successful battle for survival, then the construction of the city’s walls proved that theory. Technically, the wall was a wall, but it was hardly defensive. Sure, it might be thick and heavy and would probably hold up great against a charging Drop-Beastie. It would likely perform very well against incoming gunfire and the various sorts of exploding ordnance available to the survivors, freedom fighters, and banditos of the post-Storm world. But against an infiltrator, it was more of a help than a hindrance.

No effort whatsoever had been made to shape the urbanite or even make the edges flush. The result was a spectacular gift-horse display of footholds and handholds that would rival any pre-Storm climbing gym. Once again, Jon gave thanks for his fortune and then slung his hammer across his back, grateful also for the leather sling he had built from scrap while Ratt had built the palanquin. Hand over hand, foot over foot, Jon began to climb the wall.

He reached the top without complication and pulled himself up, chin-up style, to recon his surroundings. He had, as hoped, come to the top of the wall extremely close to one of the sentries. The man still had his back to the scrub and Jon and was watching the concert, his head bobbing softly. He sat with one butt cheek on a rusty drum, its label long eroded, and dangled one leg, his heel bouncing off the drum now and again. Jon, maintaining his chin-up with ease, turned his head farther to the left to look down the wall past the man on the drum and saw another sentry. This man was also watching the concert and stood on one leg as he leaned against a guard shack post. Making his best impression