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

one had a keen eye, one might be able to detect the weaving itself, although in Maya’s case, it was cleverly disguised as song and dance. Very few indeed could see the big picture. The tapestry just looked a mess until the very end, when the picture revealed itself. Isolated, the parts of the tapestry were only bits of colored string. Together, interwoven and bound, the bits of colored string became a vision made manifest. And so it goes with Strange.

Those who knew little about the shaping of Strange were under the false assumption that a Shaper was restricted to one spell or effect at a time, that Strange worked in a linear, cause-and-effect kind of way.

This was undoubtedly a result of trying to apply Newtonian thinking to a very, very un-Newtonian type of phenomenon. A Shaper could, if he or she were so inclined, shape a simple cantrip, a one-invocation, one-effect Strange, much in the way a single piece of colored string could be used to make the simplest of pictures on a contrasting color backdrop.

But the more grandiose pictures took time to weave and time to reveal themselves and often formed a picture that was, in actuality, many pictures. A scene-scape. The result, when the art was channeled through a talented artist, was more often than not utterly breathtaking.

To say that Maya was merely talented when it came to shaping Strange would be the equivalent of saying that Leonardo da Vinci had known how to draw. Sure, there were tactical disadvantages to having to sing an entire song in order to make her magic manifest, but Maya was a goddess of song, not a goddess of war. Besides, you couldn’t rush perfection; good things come to those who wait, and all that.

When doing the show in Home, Maya had stuck to conventional—that is to say, non-Strange, singing and dancing—until the return from the intermission. Then, and only then had she shaped an invocation of fate, calling down the forces of destiny and revealing to her the whereabouts and identity of Jon, her star-crossed guardian. Once she had found her man, she had returned to a conventional performance.

This show was different. The set—the songs and the music—were the same, yet different. A tiny gesture here, a flick of the wrist there, the focus of intent, channeled into and through her voice. That was the difference. Without the focus of intent, what was the difference between a song sung with love and gusto and a chant, an invocation sung to the universe, to whatever gods had set one’s mind, heart, and soul afire with cosmic power?

The difference was subtle, except in the mind and will of the Shaper.

This show, unlike the one at Home, was filled in its entirety with intent. Each movement and each note were a separate piece of colored string that Maya was masterfully weaving together to form a picture of many pictures. It had to be perfect, or she and her friends’ efforts would be thwarted. It all had to come together at just the same time, in perfect unison, in perfect power and glory. Yet no beads of sweat born from frustrated concentration marched across Maya’s brow; she was as gentle and exquisite as a swan gliding across the placid mirror surface of a spring lake on a calm day.

The strings grew short, their ends approaching. Somewhere in the back of her mind, behind the consciousness that directed her voice and body and the higher levels that directed her intent and will into the physical universe, Maya hoped.

Get ready, everyone. Here we go.

From her vantage, Maya could see the entire audience. She turned her gaze to a particular spot in the crowd where she had made a point of letting her eyes linger much throughout the show: the royal box, the VIP section, lifted higher above the masses, in the perfect center of the stadium, providing the best view of the Lily Sapphire show to those within it—specifically to Don Luis Fernando and his entourage.

Don Luis was dressed in his best finery, a dark, smooth suit cut to his body, made from pre-Storm materials no longer available in today’s intra-city market. He wore a black fedora that looked positively ridiculous, trimmed with a narrow band of white cloth and, although seated, he held in his hand the polished, orb-shaped pommel of a walking cane, which seemed only to be supporting his arm, and served as a decoration.

He was joined by a half-dozen toughs, also dressed to kill. They sat slightly behind and around him in a semi-circle. If they expected trouble, it was clear that they expected it from any direction besides the stage. To the left of Don Luis was an empty chair. Sofia was nowhere to be seen—no surprise there. The queen’s absence worried Maya slightly, yet she didn’t hesitate in wrapping up the final bits of her masterwork tapestry.

The show must go on.

Don Luis smiled at her in a way that made her think of a wolf grinning before it consumed its meal of sheep. His eyes burned with a possessive lust that made her shiver. He also knew the end of the show was nearing and seemed ready to spring up from his seat any second and make his way to the stage, where he would drink her life’s blood and feed his back to her in front of the vampiric population of New Puebla. Although that time had not yet come, and his fangs remained on the friendly side of her neck’s skin, the way he looked at her already made her feel violated. It was unnerving.

She batted her eyes at him and gave him a subtle, seductive smile, the corners of her mouth turning ever so slightly up into her roundish moon cheeks. Don Luis’s eyes flashed as he received the message loud and clear. Maya’s skin crawled.

The song ended. The audience roared with cheers. Ratt killed the lights and cued up the soft blue floor light installed in