I like to introduce a little satire into my books. Although concerned with aliens and usually futuristic situations (not in this case) I like my tales to reflect the social and political intrigue that runs the world. I like them ‘real’.
As a scientist I like my science based on reality. Here at the end of chapter 1 and beginning of chapter 2 I am setting up some political intrigue.
Onward:
Chameakegra had been in regular contact with Judge Booghramakegra, sending reports and sharing thoughts throughout the assessment. The judge appeared receptive. Shortly after the call from Beheggakegri another message came through.
Judge Booghramakegra’s imposing frame came into focus. The message had been sent to Beheggakegri, but Chameakegra was patched in.
The message was succinct:
I am aware the assessment phase is complete. I am sure you have the implementation in hand and have appointed the correct forces. However, after due consideration, and I am certain you will agree, we cannot afford to dispense with Commander Chameakegra’s intimate knowledge of the Hydrans. I have appointed her joint commander for the operation. — Judge Booghramakegra
Chameakegra felt her mood levitate. She could only imagine Beheggakegri’s response. That judge was a gem, an absolute gem.
Her entire integument turned bright blue. Bring it on!
Chapter 2 – Arrival
Grrndakegra was mopping up after an extermination of an errant civilisation newly discovered in the Perseus Arm of the Milky Way when orders came through from Sang. Beheggakegri was instructing her to gather ships and personnel for a new mission. Her crest bristled, scutes oscillating with black and white waves of bewilderment and anger. She was due a lengthy break. This was not welcome. She had plans — troposphere surfing on a gas giant followed by a retreat on a moon with spectacular views, outrageous luxury, and every form of relaxation known to Giforians. It was all arranged. She deserved it. All she had been uncertain about was whether three male companions would be sufficient given the way she was feeling. Her hormones were up. Now those plans were dashed. She had to take more medication to suppress her oestrus yet again. Infuriating. But she was not in a position to refuse.
The black and white colours flowing through her thoracic plates deepened, joined by waves of yellow annoyance that gave way to pink intrigue as she studied the draft from UFOR headquarters on Gestor. The more she read, the more she realised this was no ordinary operation. Indeed, she had heard of nothing like it. The pink deepened, though green displeasure tinged the edges of her scales. Giforians did not appreciate being ordered around, especially by Sang. That amphibian had an annoying manner, always doing Beheggakegri’s dirty work. Now her leave was cancelled, replaced by a task immensely complicated, even if intriguing: separating aliens into three categories, only one of which was for extermination. What was that about? Somehow she was meant to provide rehabilitation for millions of aliens. That was well beyond her experience.
Grrndakegra took a deep breath and sat back in her command pexi before replying. No rush. She read the brief again to ensure she had not misunderstood. Reaching out with clenched talons, she operated the controls and barked orders. The mopping up was to be done super‑quick. All leave cancelled. Another mission. She knew her crew would not be pleased. Tough. They would not be as miffed as she was.
She turned her attention back to the brief. No time to dwell on what was lost. Surfing and copulation would have to wait. Messages flew as she organised sufficient force to carry out the unusual, if not unique, mission. Crew were ferried in and out as she prepared for this ridiculous assignment — alien behaviour experts, administrators, control units, armed craft, construction operators, and a large number of Stormtroopers. The more the merrier. She earmarked a contingent of feisty Giforians she had used before. Efficient and effective. She added a batch of truculent Drefs. They would do.
The more she studied the mission, the more complex it became. According to the judge’s brief she was to invade the planet, subdue the population without traumatising them, set up administration, reorganise social and political structures, sort and separate the population, and establish a rehabilitation centre. Who had heard of such a thing? Rehabilitation — what next?
White scutes of anger drove her actions as she assembled craft and personnel. The fact it seemed unachievable did not matter. How were they supposed to abduct aliens without trauma? A nonstarter. Her Giforians specialised in creating trauma. Whoever thought up this scheme needed exterminating.
When everything was in motion, tasks delegated to competent staff, she sat like a statue before her comulator, running through her mental checklist, searching for gaps, weaknesses, further actions. Only when certain she had things under control did she check Commander Chameakegra’s credentials. She suspected they would have a close relationship in the days ahead, as Chameakegra was charged with providing the data for the mission. Shades of pink and green flowed over her crest as she flicked through the information. She did not like what she found. Chameakegra seemed too much of a loose laser. Grrndakegra liked precision. Chameakegra sounded wiffly‑waffly. Time would tell. She hoped Commander Chameakegra had a handle on these aliens. That was the best she could hope.
Grrndakegra flicked on the tridee messenger, composed herself with as much of a blue sheen as she could manage, and prepared to respond to Sang. All was in hand. They were on their way.
The Cleansing – (The Sequel to Judgement): Amazon.co.uk: Forsythe, Ron: 9798278910817: Books
