Prologue part 3 (Planet: Earth, Country: UK, Region: England, County: Surrey, Village: Gateway Hill)
Meanwhile, in England, Bernard Farage was standing in front of Primrose Cottage. He remembered the first time he had laid eyes on it.
It was the beginning of autumn, and the village of Gateway Hill had just transformed itself into a picture-perfect orange-and-yellow garden. Right in the middle was a beautiful stone cottage with a thatched roof. Farage viewed it as the village’s most beautiful dwelling.
He had worked arduously to make it perfect for him to move in. He had worked for hand in hand with the restoration team and the interior designer.
That property had been his dream ever since he had set foot in England—but now the dream was dead. Someone else was occupying his cottage.
He took a big breath, his eyes staring at the arched green door, his heart racing, perspiration dripping down his temples. And then he knocked.
After a few agonising minutes, the door finally opened. Standing in the doorway was a gentleman in a brown suit.
The man was in his 30s, like Farage himself.
The man asked, “Can I help you?”
“I would like to see Her Highness,” answered Farage.
Without a word, the man slowly opened the door wider, then stepped back and waited.
Farage stepped inside the cottage. Walking through the narrow beige corridor, his hands were trembling, and he began sweating even more profusely.
The man led him to a small living room with stone and brick walls that bolstered a wooden fireplace and the elegant seventeenth-century dresser
A large cream and light pink carpet were covering the floor. A large cream leather sofa and two armchairs with a small, dark wooden table completed the look.
All this is mine. But the princess is the one enjoying it, Farage thought bitterly.
At that moment, the Royal entered the room. He bowed and watched as she crossed the room, taking a seat.
The cottage had been forcefully requisitioned from the local member of Parliament by Farage a few years ago. He invested a lot of himself in the project, and now Primrose cottage had recovered its former glory; it was a piece of art. And now his place was occupied by the Queen’s sister, and there was nothing he could do to change that.
It is unusual for a Royal family member to take a cottage away from a subordinate. Farage could only speculate that she was punishing him, but he didn’t know why.
Although they were twins, the Queen and her sister looked nothing alike. Queen Zana was of medium height, pale, slim—almost unhealthy-looking—with long curly, black, and silver hair, brown eyes, and a pointy chin.
Princess Sathya, however, was tall, curvy, with olive skin, long straight black and silver hair, penetrating black eyes, high cheekbones, and plumped lips.
Their fashion senses were also dissimilar. While queen Zana favoured the Greco-Roman look, Princess Sathya was more gothic and always wore fitted outfits.
This time the princess had a high-necked, long-sleeved black backless dress that featured a train behind her.
She smiled, waved him forward, and crossed her legs. She was barefoot as usual and looked him straight in the eyes.
When he reached her, she slowly got up from her chair and placed her hand on his right shoulder. He could feel a shiver emanating up his spine.
“Thank you for finding this charming little cottage with exquisite furniture for me,” she said.
Farage wanted to say, ‘ You know without a doubt that this cottage is supposed to be mine, you snake!—but he couldn’t.’
Instead, he smiled and replied, “I aim to please, your royal highness.”
She smiled, gazing around the room she had claimed as her own so easily. Farage followed her gaze, his pulse a steady pounding in his temple. Sucking in a breath to calm himself, he forced his gaze to the ground, resisting the urge to flinch when the princess reached up to wipe a bead of sweat from his brow.
“You look scared, my dear Bernard. Is something wrong?” she said
“Princess Sathya, Your Highness,” he said in a trembling voice, “the vicar has refused your offer. Instead, he is demanding that we leave the village immediately, or your actions will force him to call the authorities.”
She took a big breath, squinted, wiped her hand on his jacket and took a few steps backwards.
“That miserable fool. Very well. How about you show that moronic vicar how serious i am.”
He frowned, “I don’t understand, Your Highness.”
Her smile slowly diminished until her face was blank. “Am I supposed to draw you a picture? Dispose of the vicar’s bundle of joy!” Her voice echoed off the walls.
She was deeply bothered. She began pacing around the room, staring at nothing. Her earlier relaxed and flowy gait had changed; it was now straight and firm like a soldier’s.
She turned back and sat gently down in her armchair, both arms resting on the chair’s arms. She then pressed a button on the chair without taking her eyes off Farage.
A skinny teenage boy, short, with dark olive skin and wavy, shiny hair, appeared, his dark eyes staring at Farage arrogantly.
“Little one, be a dear and find some flies for our friend Bernard, would you?”
The boy nodded, walked out and promptly returned, holding a box.
“Our little friends in there should be able to take care of our problem,” she said as she stuck out her chin toward the box the boy held.
“I will take care of it personally, Your Highness,” said Farage while snatching the box from the teenager.
“No, you will not. Entrust the task to a recruit. I have noticed the Famla has been slacking with the recruits’ initiation tasks. If the recruit cannot kill the target, kill the recruit as a warning to the others,” said the princess as she rose from her chair.
Farage nodded; all Hendus and people working for the Hendus answered to all Royal family members, but the Royals responded only to the Queen.
If one of the Royal abuse their power or gives an order against the wishes of the Queen, only the Queen herself can reprimand them.
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Slowly approaching him, the princess followed with, “After the deed is done, convey this message to the vicar; either he succumbs to our will, or we will send in the Pied Pipers. Understood?”
Farage nodded and said, “Yes, Your Highness.”
Psychotic beast, he thought while he bowed. I knew she was cold—but the slaughter of an entire village? Even Prince Jaelon wouldn’t sink that low.
She waved him away, to which he exited the room. On his way out, he bumped into the teenager.
“I will see you out, My Lord,” said the boy.
Farage quickly glanced at the teenager’s tattoo on his right wrist. A circle with outlines of the Queen’s silhouette, it was the Royal family’s insignia.
Only the most trusted families among the human slaves carried that branding, and Farage was in the presence of one of them.
Slavery had made Hendu a prosperous planet, but it also had tarnished the image of their race and isolated them from many other worlds.
Despite a repeated attempt from some groups on the planet to end slavery, the Royal family had always been reluctant to abolish that practice.
Once out of the cottage, Farage raised the flies’ transparent box to his eye level. The miniature venomous flies were dormant.
Their creator has done a fantastic job. If I didn’t know they were robotic flies, I would have mistaken them for the real thing.
Unbeknownst to him, the princess and the teenager, who by then had returned to the princess’s side, were watching him. She moved away from the window and said, “Watch that development closely. If anything goes wrong, complete the mission.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” said the teenager, and he exited the room, following the same route Farage had taken.
Prologue part 4 ( County: Surrey, Village: Gateway Hill, Location: Sacred Heart Boarding School)
A few days later, back at the boarding school where he was the headteacher, Farage received good news. Earth’s invasion was a success, and now almost all three Hendu races were comfortably settling in.
To maximise the success of the invasion of earth, the Hendus had been sending undercover agents to learn about human behaviour and the human way of life.
Under orders from their government, one group created the organisation known as The Famla. They sent others like Farage to take prominent positions on parts of Earth deemed necessary by Hendu scientists.
Unlike many alien races, the Hendus had one significant advantage. One of the three species from their planet was physically like humans and allowed them to blend in with the population undetected.
Having handed over the flies to the Famla recruit, Farage entered the dining room.
His eyes searched for Nigel Weatherford, the 12-year-old son of Gateway Hill’s vicar, Norman Weatherford.
He finally spotted him sitting at the end of a table with his friends. Farage approached a skinny, pale blonde woman with brown eyes who donned an animal-print dress standing near the exit.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She nodded and took a box out of her bag. In it was the transparent box. She quickly opened it, and the venomous flies flew away. They had been the preferred method of killing for the Famla ever since its founding 200 years ago.
Despite her repugnance at dirtying her hands, Candice Dujardin, one of the teachers and members of the Famla, knew she had to do it. Joining a secret cult-like the Famla required sacrifices she would happily make; the rewards far outweighed the risks.
It did not take long for some students to notice the flies. Waving their hands, they laughed as a few of them tried to chase them away.
Eventually, it landed on young Weatherford, and he let out a scream.
“Ahhh!”
He grabbed his shoulder, rubbing it back and forth when his friend touched his hand.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
“Something stung me! A bee may be,” he said, while pulling his shirt down to expose his shoulder.
“Yep, that must be it; it’s all red. Do you want to go to the nurse?” asked his friend.
He shook his arm, trying to numb the pain, and his face relaxed. He smiled at his friend. “No, I am well now. The pain is almost gone.”
The students heard a metal sound; Weatherford had dropped his fork. He had turned red and began grasping at his throat, struggling to breathe. The boy next to him held him just as he was falling backwards from the table bench.
His tablemates formed a circle around him while the adults were struggling to push the students away. Eventually, one teacher took him in her arms while another ran to get the school nurse.
By the time the nurse arrived, Weatherford had stopped breathing. The nurse pushed everyone away and felt for a pulse. She hesitated, then turned toward the teachers and students standing nearby in shock—and shook her head. He was dead.
The dark olive-skinned teenage boy from the princess’ cottage stood at the door, watching silently. His dark eyes met with Dujardin’s brown eyes. She raised her head in defiance, and he smiled.
Her Royal Highness will be pleased; she was right about the Famla. Their recruits are remarkably effective, he thought.
Dujardin slowly made her way to Farage, “I am sorry to ask, but why kill him? Why not just take the village by force straight away?”
Farage smirked, “and alert the British of our presence before we infiltrate No10? Only after having exhausted all other possibilities”
The next day, the vicar, having received the princess’ message loud and clear and fearing that they would kill another child, went to the mayor’s cottage.
Gateway Hill’s mayor had two children. After speaking to the vicar, she realised she had no choice. She would either surrender to the Famla or lose a child like the vicar. That night, the Famla took complete control of Gateway Hill.