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

wound,” Jon murmured. The fact that Carbine had finished the painful task before passing out was a testament to the true mettle of a New Breed soldier.

Lucy ordered Ratt to give her the nano-medi injector. Ratt dug around in the pockets of his cargo pants and retrieved a large syringe, identical to the one Jon had seen him use back in the Underground.

“Um, that’s the last one,” Ratt announced, shoulders drooping.

Seeing that his friend was healing nicely with the application of the last of the nano-machines, Jon turned his head southward and entered the pseudo-meditative trance that would recall the images Wyntr had shown him. A second later, the pillar of golden light appeared on the horizon.

It’s going to be tough going from here on out.

“I… I almost didn’t… didn’t see him… in time.” Carbine’s voice interrupted the silence. Everyone turned and looked to see the wounded soldier’s eyelids flutter open and a grimace, one part pain, one part wry humor, spread across his ruddy face.

“I was covering… Maya and Ratt’s escape… but…” He began to sit up, paused and took a deep breath, then let it out. “When they got hit… I lost them in the crowd.” His words were sounding clearer now, and the creases of pain that lined his face were slowly smoothing out. His mouth twisted into a sideways half-smile that, paired with his still furrowed brow, made him appear amused with himself. He had been looking at Lucy since regaining consciousness and continued to do so. “I saw that bastard about to do you in.” Lucy was a silent statue, listening.

“I missed my mark, but it looks like it was enough.” His grin grew twice the size. “You’re still alive.” Then, half-joking, he added, “No thanks necessary. Saving lives is what I do.” He was intentionally hamming it up, taking great pleasure in pointing out to the strong, silent, killer jaguaress—who had at one point wanted to leave him for dead because of his uselessness—that he had, in fact, saved her life.

When the expected insult didn’t come, Carbine’s grin fell off his face in surprise. A small wet spot on Jon’s cheek punctuated the awkward silence. Then another, and another.

Great, rain.

“Can you march?” Jon asked his friend, now sitting up fully.

“Yeah, sure, why not?” Carbine said, chuckling. “Things already suck, so go ahead and bring on some more suck. Though I could sure go for one of those Puebloan tacos.”

A pang of envy stabbed Jon’s heart when he recognized Carbine’s blissful ignorance for what it was.

Lucky bastard.

Carbine had always been happy-go-lucky, but Jon knew the real reason his friend could manage to stay that way, despite the current events. Carbine hadn’t been there when the people of New Puebla had rejected their “liberators.” He hadn’t had to suffer the verbal attacks, the cries of the survivors who had lost loved ones, nor suffer the killing blow that had been the realization that those people had been happier in slavery; that they didn’t want to be free. When it had finally sunk in, there up on the stage, that they had been blinded by their own hubris, that they had forced themselves on the people, that they had done wrong, a part of Jon had died inside.

Turning now to study Maya, he found her back turned to the group, her gaze on the city down below, where columns of smoke still rose from the central plaza.

A part of her had died down there too.

“Wait, what? We’re leaving? Why?” Carbine asked repeatedly.

Jon and the others ignored him, packing up what little supplies they had left on the hillside.

“Come on, it’s starting to rain. We need to move. Maybe find some shelter,” Jon ordered.

“But why aren’t we staying in the city?” Carbine insisted, confused. “They can shelter us! I mean, didn’t we just save those people?”

To everyone’s surprise, Maya lost it.

“Just shut up about it, okay?” She wheeled on him, fresh tears in her puffy red eyes. “People don’t want to be saved! Just shut up!” She walked off from the rest of the group, who were pulling the essential bits of cargo from their pile and loading up and rearranging their backpacks. She only went about twenty meters and stopped, crying into her cupped hands and falling to her already scraped-up knees. Jon had begun to follow her, when Lucy lay a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder and offered, “Give her time, Jon. Space and time.” Jon hesitated, but then nodded his understanding.

Several long, quiet hours later, they gave up trying to find shelter, the terrain being flat brush-land as far as the eye could see. Jon and Lucy may have wanted to press on, as it was raining in earnest now, but the others simply were unable. Exhaustion claimed them first, and cold was coming in a close second.

The rain picked up its intensity and Jon hunched his shoulders up, hugging himself. On the other side of the fire they had barely managed to light, now sizzling like cooking bacon with each volley of droplets, Ratt frowned.

“Maybe we should find another place to camp?” the kid suggested, projecting his voice over the sound of the growing deluge. A flash of lightning briefly lit up the soggy companions.

“There is no other place to camp,” Lucy growled. It was true. They were in the saddle two small mountains, had in fact only made it a few peaks away from New Puebla. Tired as they had been that night, none of them wanted to sleep in the shadow of that place. Being that close to what they had done and what had been done in return would surely bring troubled dreams. And so they walked until dawn, just over the southern peak of New Puebla’s valley, and slept half the day.

They soon found, however, that no matter how far they walked, they couldn’t outrun the ghost of their sin.

The party rose at noon and trekked on, deciding that late evening was as good as a time