For the Good of the Galaxy | The Battle Begins: The Othgygnrk Invasion, #2

By Harvey Stanbrough

All lesser species eventually complete their life cycle with evolution and extinction. It is the natural order of things.

 

But as Othgygnrk King Elder Griesch Mor has recently learned, humans don't like to be rushed. And apparently they aren't willing to accept a premature, forced extinction to make way for his species. Oddly, they don't see themselves as the lesser species at all.

 

In the genesis novel of this story of planetary invasion, the upstart humans begin as passive targets and eventually butt heads with the Othgygnrk invaders. They proved themselves a major annoyance.

 

But now they're taking the battle to the invaders. Will they persevere? Come along and find out!

• Language: English
• Publisher: StoneThread Publishing
• Release date: Jul 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781386630340

Harvey Stanbrough

Harvey Stanbrough is an award winning writer and poet who was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas, and baked in Arizona. Twenty-one years after graduating from high school in the metropolis of Tatum New Mexico, he matriculated again, this time from a Civilian-Life Appreciation Course (CLAC) in the US Marine Corps. He follows Heinlein’s Rules avidly and most often may be found Writing Off Into the Dark. Harvey has written and published 36 novels, 7 novellas. almost 200 short stories and the attendant collections. He's also written and published 16 nonfiction how-to books on writing. More than almost anything else, he hopes you will enjoy his stories.

Book preview

For the Good of the Galaxy

The Battle Begins

Chapter 1

The Othgygnrk Advisor to the King, Trelan the Lesser, Tuesday, Day Nine, New York

Trelan the Lesser, the king’s advisor, sat at his desk on the ninth day since the invasion had started. Long enough ago that he’d developed a pleasant new routine.

He sipped his coffee—an incredible new beverage they might never had found had they not made the arduous trip to Earth—then set the cup on the desk and switched on his viewscreen. Time to view the day’s messages.

His coup with arranging the king’s presentation at the United Nations had gone off without a hitch. That did a lot to enhance the king’s confidence in him. And that coupled with the unmitigated success of the invasion thus far had led directly to a new, extremely lenient schedule. One that Trelan enjoyed a great deal.

Though he was at the king’s beck and call at any time of day or night, most often he was required to attend to the king personally only during the afternoon hours. Otherwise he was free to do as he liked. As long as he remembered to let the king know where he’d be and his approximate response time. Which of course, wasn’t a problem.

In the king’s infinite wisdom, to accelerate the integration of Othgygnrk males with human females, on Day 5 he had decreed that in New York, certain nightclubs would remain open. Females who regularly attended the clubs would be spared captivity. And the cages. And the breeding centers.

Naturally, the females jumped at the opportunity to avoid captivity by meeting and associating with their new masters.

In the clubs, the bartenders and other attendants were all females, as were the clientele. Well, the human clientele. The males were all Othgygnrks, and the king’s personal advisor was among them every night.

The human females were not entirely unattractive, though they appeared in various shapes and sizes and even skin tones. But so far, in five nights out, Trelan had discovered eight compatible and amenable women. He’d been socially intimate with each of them, an intimacy in which each was eager to participate. Especially once they learned his title. Each experience had further convinced him the king’s plan to create a new species of melding was not only sound, but essential. And as a young Othgygnrk male, he was only too happy to help out.

By creating a melding species—the species that would result from the breeding of Othgygnrk men with human females—the king would ensure the continuation of the Othgygnrk species, albeit in a somewhat altered form. It would also ensure the continuation of the human species, but that couldn’t be helped.

Regardless, the meldings would be raised strictly as Othgygnrks. They would be taught the Othgygnrk language, tutored in the appropriate way to offer up prayers to the galaxy, and guided in Othgygnrk customs. So once the current generation of humans passed from the planet, the human race would be extinct. But the Othgygnrks would continue. The kingdom would continue.

The king had even considered renaming this planet Othgygnrk 2, an homage to their home planet, which now existed only as so much space debris.

Since Trelan had discovered the wonders of the human females, his new primary activity was attending the clubs. He attended all of them, usually two or three per night. After all, given his status, it wasn’t fair to the human females at one club to be denied his presence just because he preferred another.

And in that night life lay the core of his new schedule.

Each day, he attended to the king’s final routine needs at around 7 p.m., then retired to his quarters to prepare for the evening. Each day was the same. A long, luxurious shower in the wash station, followed by a light supper in his naked, natural state.

Following that, he dressed. Some days he wore his full uniform, though after the first night he opted to omit the Advisor’s Stole. It tended to get in the way. His full uniform minus the stole consisted of the special golden tunic and pants and was topped off with the golden band that identified him as the king’s advisor. That bit of raiment would drive away other Othgygnrks on sight.

But more often he wore only the dress of a common officer: his white tunic and pants, minus the golden band. And occasionally he donned some human clothing he’d found in a big and tall men’s store and then had altered for width and length by the ship’s tailor. Sometimes that consisted of a human suit complete with a white jacket.

He was pleased and flattered when one female told him he resembled a former human film star. Someone named Jim Carrey who had starred in a film called The Mask. Suspicious, he researched the film, but he was only further flattered. The woman was right. The likeness was incredible, even if the character was short and stubby at only around six feet tall.

But he was also a bit suspicious. Did such human males actually exist? If so, perhaps the species were more closely related than even the Othgygnrk scientists thought. He reported his suspicions to the Genetics Department, then went on about his life.

But he also found the suit coat often got in the way. So more often he wore either his white tunic and pants or human slacks and a shirt, usually one that would cast different colors under the different lighting conditions in the club. The ladies seemed to like that.

Once he was dressed, he would attend the club or clubs and whatever wonders awaited him there. Then around 2 or 3 in the morning, he would make his way back to his ship, use the wash station again, and turn in.

The final part of his routine generally lasted from 9 or 10 in the morning when he rose until noon, when he was required to make his first appearance of the day at the king’s side. During that brief morning interlude, he would check for messages from the captains of the 4500 ships that had settled around the world on Day 1. He would read any marked with a silver or bronze stipplewood leaf first, and then he would scan the lesser messages so he could accurately convey their content to the king if necessary.

But on Days 1-8, there had been only lesser, non-essential, low-priority messages. No stipplewood leaves at all, which only meant everything was going as planned. And each day at 1 p.m. he had conveyed a summary to the king: Sir, the captains report the human males continue to be released to the galaxy, and the human females continue to be captured and transported to cages. They report no problems or inconsistencies. The species is increasingly subdued. Which of course was good news.

The first few days, the king asked a few specific questions, all of which Trelan deflected easily. Afterward, most often the king would simply acknowledge the report with a vague wave of his hand. Then the two of them would get on with planning, or with instituting plans they’d laid out in the days before. Then 7 p.m. would roll around, and Trelan’s personal routine would begin again.

As the viewscreen sprang to life, Trelan sipped his coffee again. He casually eyed the screen over the rim of his cup, a white ceramic thing with a large red heart. One of his females had given it to him, and he found the hooked handle on one side convenient.

As he glanced over the messages—for some reason the king required a new message each day from each ship—he moved the cup from his mouth and muttered, No new revelations, no new activity. All is well.

But as he scrolled through the messages and just as the cup neared the surface of his desk, he spotted a silver stipplewood leaf next to one message.

Silver! Meaning it was sent by the actual captain of the ship!

He opened the message and read it. His eyes grew wide with foreboding, and he held his breath as he hastily scrolled through the remaining messages.

But there were no other stipplewood leaves. Thank the galaxy!

He launched from his chair, quickly slipped into his tunic and pants, and raced out through his door.

Chapter 2

King Elder Griesch Mor, Tuesday, Day Nine, New York

Aside from the guard who was always stationed outside, King Elder Griesch Mor’s quarters were almost always unsecured. The door remained closed, but it would sense a presence approaching and shush open just in time to allow the king to exit—or a visitor to enter—without having to slow his pace.

But during a few hours each morning, usually from around 8 a.m. to 11 a.m., he disabled the door and told the guard he didn’t want to be disturbed. During that time, he studied human females in various states of undress. Though their seeming lack of morality was disturbing, viewing the photos and films was currently his only available access to them.

Like his men, he too would have to find a mate. But he didn’t have the luxury of attending the clubs he’d opened to his men several days ago. His presence there might put his life in danger. And his presence would definitely affect his men, diverting their attention from their primary objective.

Despite his standing order to his sentry, this morning the buzzer sounded anyway.

The king glanced a final time at the scene on his viewscreen and grimaced.

Females with females? Can they actually mate that way?

Then he looked at the clock, expecting he’d been on the viewscreen longer than he intended.

But it was only 9:32 a.m. Far too early for Trelan.

He glanced at the door. Yes?

The sentry said, My king, Trelan the Lesser— and was interrupted.

It is Trelan, my king! I have important news!

The king sighed, closed his viewscreen, and ascended the two steps to this throne. When he was seated, he quietly said, Computer, enable the door. Authorization Griesch Mor, Level 0.

A mechanical voice said, Yes sir, and the door opened almost immediately.

Trelan rushed through, narrowly avoiding hitting the door even as it slid out of his way. He turned and said, Computer, secure the door to the king’s chamber, authorization Trelan 2, Level 1.

Yes sir. Something in the door clicked.

Trelan spun around and knelt, then popped right back up. My king, the humans are attacking!

The king frowned. What? Where are they attacking? And when?

Trelan was young and not as level-headed as his father before him. He had been prone to sometimes erratic flights of fancy. But with his efficient handling of the United Nations situation, the king thought that was all behind him.

Trelan didn’t bother to bow again. "Ship 883 near a small city in the midwestern United States, sir. That’s on this continent. And it’s ongoing now!"

It was all the king could do to maintain his composure. Please elaborate.

"Mass casualties, sir. And cages were opened and females escaped—we can recapture them, of course. But mass casualties, sir! And some damage to the ship itself. The humans hit the reactor with one or more projectiles and—"

The king gripped the arm rests of the throne and sat forward slightly. "They hit the reactor?"

The shields had been designed to deflect even the most powerful laser and plasma weapons as well as any microscopic space debris they might encounter. A few of the king’s scientists had warned about the vulnerability of the thinly shielded reactors when they were still back on the home planet. But most had laughed off their concerns. With the humans’ antiquated weapons, they said, they’d have trouble finding the reactors, much less actually damaging them. And that was if the humans realized their value as a target at all. And when his engineers told him replacing the shields with heavier material might add as much as a week to their scheduled departure, he’d made the fateful decision to leave them as they were.

Yes sir. And there was an explosion.

The king frowned. But how could there be mass casualties among the humans when most of them have been released to the galaxy?

No. No sir. The mass casualties were Othgygnrks, sir.

"Othgygnrks? My people?"

Yes sir.

Dispatch a weapons cruiser. And if there are other places where—

No other ships are reporting disturbances, my king.

Deploy two cruisers to each continent anyway. Tell them to fly a pattern to so they can see all ships at least once every two hours. And authorize them to deploy firepower as necessary to put down any resistance. I should never have trusted the humans to do the right thing.

Yes sir.

And Trelan, send a message to all captains. Tell them to arm their—No, never mind. I’ll take care of that personally.

Yes sir. Remembering to observe the proper ritual, Trelan began to bow.

Uncharacteristically, the king flung one finger toward the door. "Go, Trelan! Now!"

And Trelan whirled around and ran out.

The king sat for a long moment, staring across the room.

Finally he descended from his throne to his desk, where he settled and opened his viewscreen again. Computer, he said, send a transmission to all ships, live.

He listened as the mechanical voice intoned, All hands, stand by for a message from the king. That message repeated two more times. Then the voice said, Line open, sir.

The king looked at the viewscreen for a moment. Finally, he said, My subjects, in the past few moments we have suffered attacks with casualties. Some radical elements of the humans have chosen not to accept their fate as deemed by the galaxy. I hereby withdraw my requirement they be released to the galaxy with the respect of M’oratThon. He paused.

Captains, I have dispatched the weapons cruisers. They are at your disposal. Also, you will issue phasers to all hands and instruct them in their judicious use. Where a human male chooses to surrender, he should be released respectfully through the use of M’oratThon. Where a human female chooses to surrender, she should be taken captive.

He paused for a moment, searching for something else to say. Finally, he said, We will be triumphant. That is all.

He slumped back in his chair and shook his head.

Chapter 3

Trelan the Lesser, Tuesday, Day Nine, New York

As Trelan raced through the door and past the guard, he remembered he didn’t have to be in his quarters to dispatch the weapons cruisers.

He stopped just before he reached the end of the hallway and put one palm on the wall. Computer, contact Weapons Cruiser 1. Authorization Trelan 2, Level 1.

The line is open.

This is Trelan, Advisor to the King. On the king’s authorization, you will deploy one cruiser immediately to Ship 883, which is under attack. Deploy all other cruisers in pairs to the continents. There they will establish a flight pattern to cover all ships at least once every two hours. You are authorized to deploy firepower as necessary to put down any resistance. So ordered by the king.

The response was immediate. Trelan, Captain Mlnr, Weapons Cruiser 1. I will personally deploy in support of 883. I will deploy all other cruisers as ordered. Mlnr out.

Trelan took his palm from the wall and ran toward his quarters.

When he entered, he dropped into his chair and peered at his viewscreen.

No new messages had come in.

He scrolled to the top, then started scrolling down more slowly.

He checked every fifth message or so and scanned it to be sure it contained only the usual mundane information.

They all did.

When he reached the message from 883 he read it again, then again.

Then he returned to scrolling. But there were 4499 messages in all. He switched to opening and scanning only every fifteenth message or so. Then every thirtieth or so. Eventually he checked only one in every eighty or so.

None of the messages he checked contained anything out of the ordinary.

He frowned. Somehow they’d gone from zero problems and zero casualties to a massive problem in Region 883. Something wasn’t right.

The messages were officially to the king, but the king himself never read them. The captains knew that. They also knew that Trelan would read them and convey their contents to the king. Had the king and the captains created a closed circuit? One in which the captains told the king what they thought he wanted to hear and the king, none the wiser, mimicked that back to them?

He touched the viewscreen with one finger. Message to all captains and first officers. This is Trelan, Advisor to the King. Effective immediately, prepare and send a report to me on any Othgygnrk deaths you’ve suffered since Day 1. That report is due now.

He paused, thought for a moment, then resumed. Beginning tomorrow, the first line of your daily report will consist either of ‘No new casualties’ if that’s the case or the number of casualties since your previous report plus the new cumulative total. Accuracy and truth are all we have, gentlemen. Please acknowledge with a ping.

He sat back and opened a grid that contained 4499 small squares.

Within moments, each square on the grid was filled with two small dots, one to indicate the captain’s acknowledgement and one to indicate the first officer’s acknowledgement.

He opened his message board again. Quietly he said, Now let’s see what’s what.

In a moment, the screen began to fill with messages.

He opened the first, from Ship 1142 in South Africa: 7 casualties.

The next one was from Egypt: 2 casualties.

Romania came in next: 13 casualties.

And from Moscow: 5 casualties.

St. Petersburg: 9 casualties.

And so on from locations around the world.

He set the computer to show one message after another in rotation, then began to scan each message as they continued to come in. Every now and then one reported No casualties. But almost every ship reported casualties, albeit usually in single digits. Still, that was proof positive that the humans were not subdued. At least not fully. Apparently they were killing Othgygnrks at random as they encountered them.

As he continued to watch the messages come in, he set his computer to scan through and tabulate the