As this book is set in the present with the arrival of an alien race with superior technology I wanted to use a group of working class Reform voting characters and their reaction to the arrival of aliens.
The novel deals with the social and political stupidities of human civilisation juxtaposed with the brilliance of our creativity.
This is the end of Chapter 2:
Grrndakegra’s scutes flared yellow with flashes of white. Anger mounted. Chameakegra had outflanked her — inexcusable. ‘Beheggakegri will not like this. Not at all.’
Chameakegra shrugged, sipping her synth with deliberate calm, taking pleasure in Grrndakegra’s discomfort. Petty, perhaps, but satisfying. The Judge held power. Beheggakegri would have to lump it. Yet she knew annoying Grrndakegra could prove costly. The Giforian could wreck things simply by how instructions were carried out.
Grrndakegra sat bolt upright, waves of green and white obvious. ‘You have gone behind our backs.’
‘Not the way I see it,’ Chameakegra simpered, sipping her synth. ‘I have detailed knowledge of these Hydrans. It was necessary to clarify instructions from Beheggakegri. The situation is not black and white.’ She noted Grrndakegra’s disquiet with a degree of pleasure. She had not taken to her at all. The haughtiness was infuriating. But for the mission’s sake she needed control. Annoying Grrndakegra would not help. ‘We must give the Hydrans the best chance of progressing,’ she insisted firmly. ‘Too heavy‑handed and we create predictable failure. Judge Booghramakegra agrees they need all possible assistance. She has decided to retain an active role throughout.’
Chameakegra left that thinly veiled threat dangling.
Grrndakegra’s fangs clicked, tail twitching as white anger coursed through her crest and scales. Beheggakegri would not like this. This was not how it was meant to proceed. She slammed her beaker down so hard half the contents leapt into the air. ‘I will discuss this with Beheggakegri.’
The coming of the aliens was not so much an invasion as a take‑over.
One moment the skies were clear, the next they were full of alien craft. No warning. No sign on even the most sophisticated radar systems. They arrived in an instant, leaving no time to react.
Every military site across the globe was seized at once. All weapons nullified. No shots fired. Government offices, political bodies, media outlets — occupied. The invasion was peaceful and instant, or at least as peaceful as possible.
The shock was profound. In seconds the Hydrans went from ordinary routines to victims of alien occupation. Disbelief collapsed into hysteria. Chaos was far from peaceful.
Grrndakegra found it immensely amusing. Hydrans rushed like headless giffors, cowering, gathering offspring, crashing vehicles in panic. Everyday rules evaporated. Traffic lights, speed limits, even which side of the road to drive on — discarded. Cities gridlocked, screams and wails prevailing.
In full regimental costume, Grrndakegra appeared on every network and device. Speaking via her comulator in every language and dialect, she instructed the population to go home and await further orders. They were now under Federation control. As an afterthought, she reassured them they were safe.
The sight of a huge iridescent reptile giving orders did little to reassure. Panic intensified. Mobs rampaged, buildings burned, vehicles overturned, shops looted. Fear turned to anger, destruction the outlet.
From her vantage on the Quorma, Grrndakegra shook her head. Were these beings truly candidates for Federation entry? She flapped her crest in disbelief and barked orders.
More craft landed, troops spilling onto streets armed with weapons that stunned and immobilised. Order was restored, though the presence of reptilian aliens with guns did little to calm terror.
Grrndakegra announced she would address every parliament and governing institution that evening. Again she reassured them: no harm intended, only assistance toward a better existence. In the meantime, they were to return home and wait. Few were reassured.
Hydrans struggled to believe giant lizards wielding guns meant peace. Where was the army? Where was defence? Why was nobody coming to their rescue? Communications networks flooded with hysteria. It was the end of the world.
By evening, calm returned. No signs of violence, mobs dispersed, alien troops on guard. Rioters had been stunned and carted off, not killed. The aliens weren’t pillaging. They were keeping order.
Escape was impossible. Transport hubs shut down, highways closed. People gathered kin, huddled around media devices, waiting. Politicians silent, news frozen. All they could do was wait.
Many turned to churches, mosques, temples, praying for divine intervention. Most simply went home. The fate of the world hung in the balance.
As time passed, hope flickered. Perhaps these reptiles meant no harm. Not that there was choice. Military forces were no match. The Hydrans had been overpowered without a bullet fired.
There were no choices left. They waited.
Ron sat at his computer, trying to conjure a character, an event, a scene — anything. He was beginning to think he had writer’s block. The synapses weren’t firing. He desperately needed something to spark a chain reaction, the torrent of ideas that usually toppled inside his head like electric dominoes. Not today. Not this week. Not last week. His head was empty.
Perhaps he should give up on a new book and edit one already produced. Desperate. He disliked editing. Unlike the satisfaction of imagination flowing onto the page, editing was a chore.
Worse still, Liz had urged him for years to promote his published books. That idea filled him with horror. Wasting writing time on tedious commercial exercise? No. If nothing happened soon, he would have to send another package to agents and publishers. They could do the promotion. Surely he had proved himself? He was a proven writer. There was a market. All he needed was an agent or publisher to handle the tiresome tasks and leave him to write.
Except nothing was happening. No epic waited to burst out of his chest like a xenomorph. Nothing to write about.
That’s when Ron glanced out the window and saw an armada of alien craft descending from the sky.
‘What the fuck??’ exclaimed Billy Smythe, mouth open, eyes wide, pint spilling over his lap unnoticed. Everyone stared out the pub windows at the strange craft materialising above.
‘Fuck,’ Charlene mumbled.
‘Fuck!’ John, Debbie, Foxy, Kathy, Denby, and Cheryl exclaimed in unison.
‘What the fuck is that?’ Denby gasped, staring at the gigantic craft hovering in the sky directly above them. You could always count on Denby to be more articulate than anyone else.
It had to be some kind of stunt. Surely it had to be a stunt.
But the silence in the Ashley Arms told another story. No laughter, no banter, no clinking of glasses. Just the stunned hush of ordinary people watching the impossible unfold.
Above them, the alien leviathans hung motionless, blotting out the heavens. Hydra had changed forever.
The Cleansing – (The Sequel to Judgement): Amazon.co.uk: Forsythe, Ron: 9798278910817: Books
Judgement: Amazon.co.uk: Forsythe, Ron: 9798267858489: Books