Writing about aliens is never easy. As a biologist I can look at alien creatures with a degree of accurate science but trying to imagine a different evolution is fascinating. I tend to focus on the social. I’m really writing about us!
This is another extract from Chapter 1:
The process was complete. All assessment and sorting had been concluded. Neff was running one final check. Every single Hydran had been considered and allotted. Chameakegra’s work was done. Time to pass it over. Beheggakegri had already selected the commander who would run the show from here on.
She dimmed the lights on the bridge and sat in her commander’s pexi, alone and glum. In the distance came sounds of merriment from the mess. The crew had gathered to celebrate. The mission was over. An assessment like no other. They had done it. Not only had they judged the worth of a new culture, they had uniquely gone on to assess each individual. Feelings were mixed. Some thought Chameakegra’s idea worthwhile; others considered it a waste of time and energy. Opinions varied on how it might turn out. One thing was certain: her idea had considerably extended their mission. Nobody had ever worked so long. Time to go home, to relax and celebrate. The psychosynth was flowing, the mood high. Soon they would edge out of orbit, power through hyperspace, and be back with their families on Gestor. Endorphins saturated brains. They had made history. Whatever the outcome, their mission would be discussed for years. The elation was palpable. They were ground breakers.
Chameakegra stared out through the viewport at the planet below. It was out of her hands now. She peered at the great blue globe, her mind dwelling on those eight billion inhabitants. Was she correct? If those elements were removed, could the species prosper? Would they then be worthy of Federation entry? Or would genetic traits rear their heads again? Were all Hydrans afflicted with the same predispositions? If the problematic individuals were removed, would another group simply take their place? She sighed deeply. In her heart she knew it all depended on who Beheggakegri had selected to carry out the operation.
The thoughts stalked her mind like zeebos on excrement.
What if Beheggakegri was right? What if all Hydrans were tainted with the same flaws? What if violence, greed, and cruelty were not confined to a minority but afflicted the whole species, masked by prevailing pressures? Hydrans always lived in hierarchical societies. Their history showed that if you removed the elite, a new elite rose to take its place. What if the presence of an elite suppressed those detrimental traits in the lower rungs? What if all Hydrans were truly cruel and greedy?
Maybe Beheggakegri was right after all; perhaps it was quicker to eradicate the threat and be done with it. Perhaps she was wasting everyone’s time.
But then she mulled over their creativity — the art, the music, the dance, costume, architecture, and poetry. How the Federation could use an injection of Hydran culture. It would enrich them all. The risk surely had to be worth taking.
Her thoughts turned to the malevolent group. What of those afflicted with negative traits? Were they beyond hope? Could they not be treated for their maladies?
Chameakegra felt they were on the laser point of a huge moral issue long ignored. Surely the Federation’s process was too clinical, too bureaucratic, too cold‑blooded. If they carried out mass exterminations, could they truly be considered morally superior to the evil they eradicated? Even if safety was the overriding objective, could it be justified? Chameakegra had her doubts.
She stared down at the blue globe below — a glorious water world with so much potential. Sadness welled inside her, black waves flowing across her scutes. She had grown to love the place. Now she had to say goodbye to the planet and its array of people. No more excursions to the surface, no more interactions with these complex beings. It was out of her hands now.
She had a bad feeling Beheggakegri might engineer failure just to get back at her. She knew he had taken the Judgement as a slight. Would he stoop so low as to contrive extermination of an entire race for revenge? She wouldn’t put it past him.
The blue sphere, swathed in white cotton, hung still in the heavens. Unseen hands were about to throw the dice.
Chameakegra turned away. Best not to think about it.
‘I don’t care,’ Beheggakegri retorted vehemently, responding to Sang’s objections. Safe behind his mense in his office, sprawled in his comfiest luxopexi with the antigrav turned up full to support his increasing mass, pulpy flesh bulging between scutes so he resembled an over‑inflated alligator, his crest raised and bright green with outrage, he jabbed a sharp talon towards the poor Solarian he had summoned, now standing before his mense.
Apart from an occasional dousing of his amphibian skin, there was no indication Sang was perturbed by the onslaught. He was used to it. This was Beheggakegri in his usual mode. Internally Sang weighed the pros and cons of giving in to Beheggakegri’s demands. Outwardly he stood patiently, allowing gusts of hot foul Drefian breath to blow over him.
‘I will check and see if she is available,’ Sang replied smoothly. ‘It’s a big ask. She will have to assemble a large fleet with a sizeable contingent of trained personnel. Can’t be done overnight.’
‘You have drangling let me down twice,’ Beheggakegri boomed deafeningly. ‘Don’t you dare do it again! Get me who I want!’
‘I can’t do the impossible.’
‘I don’t care about any of that,’ Beheggakegri blustered, jabbing his talon. ‘I want Grrndakegra. I can count on her to do a good job.’
‘Count on her to do what you want,’ Sang thought, his face exuding the necessary ingratiation. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘We have carried out your directives to the letter,’ Commander Chameakegra informed Beheggakegri in as pleasant a tone as she could muster. ‘We have assessed and sorted the Hydrans into the three categories as you instructed.’
Her three‑dimensional image hung in the air above Beheggakegri’s tridee unit. Her dress uniform gleamed, crest raised and bright orange, scutes shining. There was no hint of wavering despite the hundreds of light‑years the image had travelled. Hyperspace technology allowed flawless communication.
Beheggakegri, comfortably installed in his office on Gestor, studied the insolent Giforian with disdain. His crest rose and scutes took on a green tinge of disgust clearly visible to Chameakegra. Not that Beheggakegri cared. She could take umbrage if she wished.
‘We are now ready for the next phase and fully prepared to give full assistance to the implementation team,’ Chameakegra said, staring calmly as if present in the room.
Beheggakegri allowed himself time to calm down, scutes settling to neutral beige before responding. ‘We have a task force preparing for the operation,’ he replied. ‘Get ready to welcome them and assist with implementation. You will provide the necessary data, then your work is concluded; you can come home.’
His tone was suitably gruff, vague yet to the point. When the call ended he slouched back in his pexi, glowering at the space her image had occupied, and began shovelling dainties into his buccal cavity.
The Cleansing – (The Sequel to Judgement): Amazon.co.uk: Forsythe, Ron: 9798278910817: Books