Ron Forsythe Science Fiction – Future Projects

Future Projects

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Recently I have been reading a Stephen Hawking book – Brief answers to Big Questions – and I found it extremely thought-provoking.

A lot of science, particularly in the field of astrophysics, is now stranger than Sci-Fi. Who would have imagined the 11 dimensions of M-theory? I find that aspect of science fascinating. The quantum world and time are plain weird and do not seem to make sense in terms of our own reality. But it was the other topics that intrigued me (neither of which are particularly new but both of which are on the verge of becoming real).

There were two main themes that set my mind racing. One was A/I. Stephen found this a threat to humans. He was looking at the huge advances that have been made in computers over recent years, doubling their capacity every two years, and predicted firstly that these machines would soon exceed human intelligence and secondly that they would be conscious. His fear was that their intelligence might far outstrip us and they could consider us superfluous. Now I am aware that this has been a standard theme in Sci-fi for a long time – right back to 2001-A Space Odyssey – but this is real science and it appealed to me.

The second theme of Stephen’s that stimulated my creative juices was the idea that we now had the means to genetically alter organisms easily. Not only can we switch genes from one species to another but we can alter those genes and create entirely new characteristics. So we could take a gene out of a daisy or a jellyfish and put it into a human. We could take a specific gene, involved in our intelligence for instance, and play about with it to see if we can improve on it.

Stephen suggested that there was no way of controlling this. Even if experiments on humans was considered unethical and banned, there would be nations with secret labs who would not be bound by such ethics.

Stephen suggested that we were on the cusp of a revolution. Not only would our crops, farm animals and food be radically altered in the forthcoming years, but we would be too. We are on the verge of identifying the genes involved with intelligence. Once we have achieved that we could optimize them, perfect them and ultimately create humans who were immensely intelligent.

Once again, these ideas are not Science Fiction, they are real science – but my mind is already looking at storylines. Soon real science may become Science Fiction. We’ll see.

What Stephen’s book achieved was to inspire a few storylines. We’ll see if they mature into stories or novels.

Keep watching this space.

The other central theme in the Sci-Fi novel Green

The other central theme in the novel Green

The future world I was describing in the novel Green was in the midst of an environmental crisis. Nature had been virtually destroyed and pollution was rife. Big Business ran the show for profit.

The result was a movement of environmentalists totally opposed to the way the world had been run for profit at the expense of all other life. They were the Green Movement.

The Green movement were not unified. They were split into three factions.

The first faction, the mainstream movement, still believed that they reason with the ruling group, gain public support, and force positive change.

The second faction believed that reasoning with the politicians was not possible. All that the ruling class cared about was power and that Big Business pulled the strings, and all they cared about was profit. This faction believed that the only way to promote positive change was to force the politicians and industry to change. They ran a campaign of terror and sabotage.

The third faction was the most cynical of all. They believed that it was impossible for people to change, that there was a genetic flaw in human nature and we, as a species, were irredeemable. The only answer was to remove humans from the equation altogether and allow nature to evolve back into a better state.

The third faction were actively colluding to release a virus to wipe out mankind.

This provided the dramatic backdrop as the two main stories interweaved.

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Star – the idea behind the book

Star – the idea behind the book

I started writing Star in 1981.

I had an idea for writing a novel based on the underground Rock Music of the sixties but putting it a thousand years into the future on an intergalactic scale.

My main character had to be a larger than life Rock Star.

The motivation for the story was based on two separate incidents: the motorbike accident of Bob Dylan in 1966 and the death of Jimi Hendrix in 1970. Both spawned conspiracy theories of Mafia involvement, Black Panther involvement, pressure from management, contracts, work pressure, pressure to maintain creativity, drug use, government concern and many more.

That seemed a rich vein to mine.

So I put my character in an infamous underground band, thrust into a leading role in the social unrest that was taking the form of an increasing political, antiestablishment youth movement sweeping the galaxy.

All I had to do was recreate the social and political changes of the sixties in a futuristic setting and move my character through them.

It was interesting and fun. The result was ‘Star’.

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Newsflash – Latest Sci-fi novel ‘Neanderthal’ now available!!

As part of my prestigious Ron Forsythe Science Fiction novel collection I have just released Neanderthal!

It is available in both paperback and digital from Amazon!

This tells the story of an alien encounter like no other!

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Messages from concerned individuals – a cautionary Sci-fi tale

Messages from concerned individuals.


Tilly and Zeb were sitting in the twilight of their local narcodive drowning their sorrows with a narcojuice or two.

Tilly took a gulp of the green fluid and shook her head. ‘He means it you know. He’ll do it.’

Zeb sighed miserably and sipped his juice, glancing over at her. ‘I know.’

The two of them were the only remaining elements of the Sector 47 council who had managed to cling on to their positions when Tump the unimaginable was swept in to power. Tump’s black and white policies had resonated with the population. He had focussed on spreading fear and providing draconian solutions.

There were a dozen nascent civilisations in Sector 47. The council had been taking a keen interest in them. When intelligent life sprang up and developed space travel they had to be monitored. Many people saw them as a threat. These aliens could start expanding into civilised areas which could cause major problems. They would start to compete for resources. They could bring their alien diseases with them. They were obviously of lower intellect and followed primitive cultural practices. They bred like monkwops. They could even start to displace civilised people and take over. They were violent and aggressive. People were frightened. They did not want aliens with their obnoxious ways moving into their neighbourhood.

A particular civilisation had begun to rear its head in one distant quarter. It already had space travel and was on the verge of developing both quantum jumping and fusion energy. It could be in their region soon.

Tump had callously exploited that. According to him these aliens were ignorant, aggressive and violent. They were renowned for their sexual depravity and criminal activity.

Tump had warned everyone that the onslaught was imminent. That billions of these retarded gangs of aliens would soon be swaggering down their streets, taking whatever they wanted, violating their daughters and slicing up anybody who stood up to them. He called them vermin and declared that they needed eradicating.

Somehow, in the course of the campaign, the gentle voices were drowned out. They had advocated a helping hand, the application of resources and compassion. They suggested that these emerging intelligences were sentient; they had feelings and they needed nurturing. Yes they were ignorant and limited, brutal and uncivilised, with strange cultural practices, but with suitable education they could be brought up to an acceptable level and integrated.

Unfortunately Tump was able to conjure up images of depraved aliens swamping civilised planets with their disease, barbarity and viciousness. The images of weapon-wielding aliens raping innocent children were powerful. Tump was elected on a landslide with the mandate to solve the problem and eradicate the vermin.

‘But what can we do?’ Zeb asked glumly, pursing his lips and peering down at the green fluid he was swirling around in his glass. ‘We’re only two voices. Nobody will take any notice of us.’

The two of them slumped dejectedly in their plexies, ordered another couple of narcos and mused away in their gloom, desperately searching for a solution. In a mere week’s time Tump was going to cauterise the planet and destroy all the aliens. It was simply too horrible to contemplate. Tilly and Zeb had vainly tried to get the council to see the aliens as ‘people’ but to no avail.

‘We could petition the Grand Council?’ Zeb suggested, looking over at Tilly. ‘They could put a stop to Tump.’

Tilly shook her head. ‘That’d be no good coming from us. Who are we? We are insignificant – two minor councillors from Sector 47. We don’t carry enough weight.’

They went back to gloomily contemplating the poor aliens being fried alive by the gloating Tump.

Then Tilly perked up, her eyes alive once again. ‘You know, that idea of petitioning the Grand Council isn’t such a bad idea, after all.’

‘It isn’t?’ Zeb muttered quizzically, uncomprehendingly.

‘But don’t you see,’ Tilly said excitedly, grabbing hold of his foremost tentacle. ‘Under Intergalactic law if the Grand Council is petitioned directly by a sentient race they have to give them a hearing. That would stop Tump’s plans. The aliens could put their case and the Grand Council would have to weigh up the merits. The aliens would be bound to win.’

‘But the aliens don’t know anything about Tump and his plans to annihilate them, or even that the Grand Council exists.’

‘No yet they don’t,’ Tilly said excitedly, her mind grappling with the problem. ‘Not until we tell them.’

‘But how would be do that?’ Zeb spluttered, putting his narcojuice to one side. ‘We don’t have access to any of the diplomatic channels. Tump controls all those.’

‘Then we use unofficial means and contact their mightiest leader directly! We tell them all about the threat and give them the means to petition the Grand Council and put a stop to Tump!’

The message popped up on the screen right in the middle of his favourite rerun of ‘Have I Got News For You’. It talked of planetary destruction, a despotic leader bent on extermination, a lot of scientific and mathematical stuff that had been added to give credence to the message, and details of how to petition the Intergalactic Grand Council.

Petulantly he fumbled around for the controls among the debris of a myriad take-aways. ‘Gadzooks, Yipes, great fish-hooks and shyte-hawks,’ Boris ejaculated angrily. ‘I really have to give up snorting this stuff!’


Opher – 17.6.2019

God’s Bolt – A Sci-fi novel – the cover – What do you think?

Once again I have resorted to the artwork available through Kindle in order to create this cover. I wanted to create a more orthodox cover to the ones I have been producing from my own artwork and photography.

The moment I saw this photograph I knew it was perfect for what I needed. Helen Southcote is left stranded on the Space Station as the Earth is destroyed. This photos captured that for me.

The interesting thing is that the paperback and digital versions came out different to each other. This is due to the vagaries of the cover design system provided by Kindle. It is limited.

I really like the result. What do you think?

The paperback version is on the left. I prefer the Kindle version on the right but unfortunately there is nothing I can do about that.

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Cheers – Opher


The Gordian Fetish – Inside the strip-joint narcodive.

This is the next short section of my Sci-fi book  The Gordian Fetish. It is a light, fun read with serious overtones.

Elsewhere on the same planet Pev was engaging in his usual pastime, you might say favourite pastime but that would suggest something out of the ordinary, or one of many, and this was far from out of the ordinary, and this was pretty much his only pastime; he was sprawled on a couch in a narcodive blissed out on narcojuice, with both eye-pods blearily engaged in watching a young Gordian wrapping himself around a pole and revealing tantalising glimpses of a very pronounced bump. The young man was close to budding – very close! That bump was sprouting a distinct well-formed head with eye-pods that were already blinking and taking in the scene around. The bump’s manipulators were opening and closing. If you looked closely it was possible to see that there was a distinct pinching in where the bump was attached to the young Gordian’s body. Quite disgusting and thrilling! Not a sight you would ever expect to see outside of a low-level dive like this. Gordian’s who had decided on budding were expected to obey stringent seclusion and don the durogown for the duration so that even their own eyes were shielded from the filthy sight of their own budding. There was big money to be made flaunting your bud, if you had the stomach for the work. In a few days’ time that bud would drop. It was incredibly illegal to display that, indeed it was illegal to display a full bud, even draped in a shapeless durogown, in public, but nobody seemed to enforce that particular law and Pev had observed a large number of the judiciary frequenting this particular ‘private’ narcodive where naked buds were always on display – for a price. Pev made it his business to ensure they knew he’d seen those members of the elite lasciviously ogling the nubiles in this joint and contrived to befriend them and surreptitiously gain visual proof of their presence in the illicit enterprise of prurient ogling. You never knew, in his line of business, when that might come in handy. A picture or two might be worth its weight in gold.

The young Gordian had finally left the pole and got around to flaunting the whole bump and was parading it around the room, thrusting it into everyone’s face and even lasciviously caressing the rudimentary protuberances that sprouted from it. It was utterly scandalous. Pev noted the two judges sitting with the chief of police trembling with excitement, their eye-pods bobbing about as the young Gordian, with a vacant, bored expression, worked the room extracting creds right left and centre as the eager clientele pressed the cash into the grasping mits of the bumps manipulators and delighted in the way it grasped the money. The room reverberated to the raucous cheers and leers.

Drop ‘im for us, dear!

Show us your bump!

You know, Pev remarked to Qip, his companion of the night, that trollop, he nodded towards the hussy of a Gordian, is due to drop in a few days.

Certainly looks like it, Qip replied in a quavering voice, not taking his eyes of the naked bump as the young Gordian blatantly displayed all its attributes for everyone to gawp at.

Pev flicked him a sideways glance. He’s going to do it in public.

NO! Qip exclaimed involuntarily, equally shocked and excited by the thought. Imagine – a bud actually dropping. That was probably the most disgusting thing you could ever imagine. People only ever did that in the utmost privacy. Dropping a bud was simply not talked about in polite society. You could imagine that nobody had ever done such a thing – that people were all brought about through some sterile surgical procedure. Budding – it was too disgusting for words. The thought of it made him tremble with excitement.

For a fee, Pev remarked nonchalantly.

I bet that’s quite a sum, Qip remarked, studying the bump and allowing his imagination to rampage through his mind as the Gordian approached. Buoyed up by the excitement he started thrusting creds into its tiny manipulators protruding from the bump. Nobody would do something as dirty as that lightly.


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The Gordian Fetish – The first chapter.

I have used satire and humour as a way of approaching a number of subjects dear to my heart. I wanted a book that was fun and light to read but still had an edge to it. For that reason I made it a little quaint and gave my aliens a humorous appearance and some human characteristics. A few people have said the effect is a little like Douglas Adams.

Have a read for yourself.

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Chapter 1 – The beginning

For the love of Heaven! Zag shouted, throwing his four manipulators in the air in exasperation. We can put in about the rest of the stuff later on. Of course research and study are important and eventually the rest of the bloody universe. Of course having lots of interesting specimens is important. But right now we have a sodding inspection and the Inspection Committee won’t give a bugger about all of that. They just want to shut us down. Can’t you see that? Only paperwork can save us now!

I suggest we have a tea break, Lat proposed testily. The other two committee members vigorously nodded their cranial carapaces and clapped their manipulators in agreement.

No! Zag said sternly in his most authoritative voice, asserting himself and putting them firmly in their place. The clapping came to an abrupt halt. Not until we have finally agreed on this damn mission statement.

Zag took a big sigh, forced himself to calm down, changed tack and looked round at his three fellow colleagues pleadingly – to no avail. It was evident from their petulant scowls that they could not see anything as simple as that. They were tainted with idealistic fervor. They’d rather sink with their principles intact that swim with them compromised.

He searched around one more time for some simple way of explaining things to make them see the importance of the task in hand. They simply weren’t getting it. But this is our one fundamental purpose – our mission statement. One bloody thing. That is all. One bloody statement – one crucial essence of purpose. Can’t you understand that?

Their blank expressions said it all.

Zag turned blue with pent-up rage, supernumery protuberances began to burst out over his head and body with their characteristic – and embarrassing – popping sound. Zag hoped it wasn’t that noticeable.

His colleagues, in characteristic Gordian politeness, were pretending not to notice, but they all continued to look at Zag with an air of resignation and sour resentment that certainly did not help matters, or do anything for his disposition.

The committee had been in session for three weeks now – a whole, unprecedented three weeks, twenty one flaming days, without so much as a break, not even a lousy toilet break. It was true that a Gordian’s metabolism could put up with such insults but it was far from desirable and did little to ameliorate the disposition of the reluctant participants. But Zag saw it as a necessary evil. There was work to be done. In just under three months’ time they had been promised a full inspection and everyone knew what that meant. President Bog had introduced the new austerity measures and was looking to cut to the bone. He considered arts, science and most other things, including aliens, especially aliens, frivolous and unnecessary. The cards were on the table for the Gordian Institute for Extra-terrestrial Research and Conservation, or GIERC, as it was generally known. Bog was not renowned for his love of anything other than business and the bottom line, and aliens were definitely not profitable enough. Besides, they were ugly and revolting. In his book they were worse than Gordian ballet – and Gordian ballet was renowned for inducing catatonia and suicide. The future for the institute looked dire.

But Zag, the assistant Director, was determined not to go down without a fight. Despite his present fury – directed at Director Zor who, as usual, was nowhere to be seen, because he was off gallivanting around the galaxy as per bloody usual, he remained passionate about the place. Zag cherished the institute with all his heart and truly believed that the work they performed was inspirational and exceedingly important in the confines of such an increasingly uncaring universe. Without the institute’s efforts thousands of alien species would now be extinct. To his great satisfaction they had, against all the odds, successfully reintroduced a great array of alien life back into the wild. Then there were the educational benefits to consider. Generations of young Gordians had their empathic glands fully charged through a single visit to the institute. They learned to value the range of alien life out there and see them as fellow sentient beings, not mere objects to be exploited, or lesser creatures destined to disappear for ever. Aliens were important. They had feelings too. Thanks to the Institute many youngsters took that message on board. There was hope. While the institute existed there was hope.

In Zag’s opinion Bog was a philistine, a monster of the first order. He represented all that was retrograde and soulless. The world he wanted to create was as grey and boring as Briscow’s synthsoup – and Briscow’s synthsoup made distilled water taste positively tangy.

It was true that the planet had a few financial problems but it did not have to be one long decline into economic madness and uncaring exploitation – did it? There were better ways. The Institute for Extra-terrestrial Research and Conservation clearly demonstrated that and was, in Zag’s eyes, the last bastion of civilisation. If it was the last thing he did Zag intended to ensure that their crucial work continued and that the cretinous Bog did not get his way and close it down. Despite his anger at the irresponsibility of Zor, he was resolute to do all in his power to keep the place open. To that end he had brought the committee together to review and update their policy books. Everyone knew that paperwork was the key to success. When the inspection team arrived he meant to present them with a set of documents that were not only first class but would demonstrate quite clearly the essential nature of their work and its value to Gordian society. No self-respecting inspection team could argue with that, could they?

The major obstacle to achieving this laudable aim seemed to be the committee itself. Individually they were all as passionate and committed as Zag. The problem was that none of them agreed on how to go about achieving their aims. Indeed, deciding on the actual aims was nigh on impossible. Every one of them held a different vision that they sought to promote. No two of them shared a view and none of them were prepared to compromise. In that respect it was a fairly typical committee.

Dut and Lat were utterly impossible. Zag could not fault their spirit or intent but they were so irrational that it drove him crazy. They both wanted to take the work of the institute out of the confines of the galaxy to the universe beyond. Their ideas were so far-reaching and grandiose that they did not have an ice-ball in hell’s chance of success. Every time they opened their mouths it was some other ridiculous plan to take their work to some distant far-flung backwater tucked away in the middle of some megallanic cloud that could never, in a billion bloody Sundays, gain funding or achieve anything worthwhile, just because there was a rumour of some weird bunch of aliens who were on the point of dying out. As far as Zag was concerned Dut and Lat were out with the fairies. He was already drawing up plans in his mind to have them elsewhere when the inspection team arrived. If the chief inspector got one whiff of those two then he reasoned that the game was up.

Then there was Mut – on the face of it quite rational and down to earth. At least he wasn’t cooking up fanciful schemes for some plasma based life inhabiting a sun the other side of the universe; he was quite OK with focussing nearer to home with life-forms that bore some resemblance to Gordians and so could be in with an outside chance of being recognised, even by meatheads such as Bog, as being alive and having intelligence. The problem with Mut was that he did not value paperwork. He hated bureaucracy and begrudged every minute spent doing it. Reviewing the policies was tantamount to torture for Mut. He wanted to be out there collecting alien specimens, harvesting and observing them. That was laudable but not helpful when it came to the bloody inspection. No matter how hard Zag tried to impress upon him the need for planning, management of resources, or even something as basic as strategic thinking, Mut simply did not get it. He wanted action. He wasn’t happy unless he was getting his manipulators dirty. No matter how many times Zag explained that all successful action depended on clear philosophy or else it inevitably broke down into anarchy and chaos, Mut simply went deaf. It was like talking to a brick wall. They had been in session now for three weeks and had not yet been able to agree on the opening mission statement. As the policy booklet was 500 pages long, and the mission statement merely one paragraph, it did not bode well for the completion of the task in time for the inspection.

Zag looked sternly round at his three colleagues with a fierce gleam in his eyes. We will bloody agree on this mission statement before we take any break or sustenance, he asserted fiercely. He glared round at them one by one daring them to contradict him. They’d been at this for twenty one days, and Gordian days were notoriously among the longer variety, seeing as how the large planet turned so slowly, and he was pretty much at the end of his tether. He felt so tense that if they so much as blinked he’d probably explode.

But a tea break would refresh the mind and enable us to work more efficiently; Lat persisted, not at all intimidated by Zag’s most fearsome scowl or evident emotional turmoil. He lolled on his couch, manipulators withdrawn, optical and aural stalks shortened, a relaxed pink colour, looking bored and quite evidently could not care less how angry that made Zag.

Can’t we simply gather together a huge number of new specimens to impress them with? Mut enquired for the umpteenth time. He was so touchingly naïve. Surely they can’t fail to be impressed by all the conservation work we have undertaken? He was usually a staunch ally of Zag’s but was greatly irritated by the way the inspection was diverting attention away from the aliens they were caring for. He wanted to get back to work.

No it bloody wouldn’t, and no we bloody can’t, Zag insisted, teetering on the verge of going volcanic. All we bloody well have to do is agree a simple statement. That’s all. Then we can take a break and refresh our bloody minds. He was in grave danger of losing it and he was experienced enough to know that losing it was no good to anybody. If you lost it you lost. Those were the rules of committees.

He looked around the committee room at the three blobs that confronted him. He was the only one of the four of them who now retained his shape. At the beginning of the meeting he had decided on a bipedal sylph-like form which he always found rather elegant. The others had adopted an array of other equally impressive though less formal shapes. The institute did not go in for uniforms or even standardisation of body shape. They preferred informality. Zag was a little miffed by this policy. He rather thought that a nice uniform coupled with a pleasing standardised form created an aura of professionalism. He was not impressed by the dress of his fellow senior team colleagues or their chosen body shapes. Lat had settled for a rather ugly quadruped of garish colour, probably intended to challenge Zag’s supremacy, and the other two had adopted variations of the bipedal model with an array of rather ostentatious testicular embellishments and vid hues. However, all that had now gone. The three of them had given up all pretence of maintaining any morph and were lolling around in their seats in unrestricted masses; masses that were now noticeably smaller than when they had begun this exercise three weeks ago.

Zag, well aware of the way this committee operated, had looked to focus their minds on reaching conclusions by depriving them of nourishment or relaxation until the task was complete.

As usual it was a tactic that had not borne results. But then nothing ever did, whatever he tried.

Now, he pleaded, softening his tone with a great effort. Can we just focus for once and agree this simple Mission Statement so that we can move on to the rest of the document. We have been three weeks on this one simple statement – three bloody weeks! I would remind you that the inspection team will be all over us in less than three months’ time. At this rate we’ll hardly have got started let alone have a set of documents to impress them with. He slumped back on his couch in frustration. We are in grave danger of having our operation closed down. Now can we please get a grip? He looked around the group appealingly.

Nobody said a word. They all glumly stared back at him with the most dejected, bored expressions on what passed for faces.

Right! Zag sat upright and pulled his body into an even tighter form. I shall read it to you one more time, he spoke in his softest most ameliorating voice, and hopefully this time we can all agree that it puts the principles of GIERC in a nutshell, Zag said, desperately trying to summon up some modicum of enthusiasm for the task. His patience was so threadbare that his raw emotional state was hanging out for all to see and that wasn’t good.

Nobody spoke. They were used to Zag’s enthusiasm and tactics. They had all now resentfully reabsorbed any orifice that might have been used for vocalisation and were glowering at him through numerous stubby optical devices. Zag took that to mean that he had some kind of tacit agreement so he read the statement that had taken three weeks in the making.

The principle aim of the Gordian Institute for Extra-terrestrial Research and Conservation is to preserve endangered species of life in the Gordacian Galaxy.

Zag then looked up and glared round at the three of them, daring anyone to contest the statement.

Finally Lat broke the silence. I still think we ought to include something about study in there, Lat objected. Study is an important part of our purpose.

And some mention of the wider universe I think is essential, Dut said morosely. We should show that we are forward thinking.

For the love of dear Heaven!!! Zag raged, finally completely losing it. He roared, he pounded the table and screamed. If there had been anything to throw he would have thrown it. Appendages and protuberances popped loudly into being as he surrendered control of his body. His colour turned navy blue and his oral orifice spat streams of orange mucus that splattered over the room and colleagues.

It was wondrous to behold.

They all watched him with an air of resignation and sour resentment, waiting for the storm to abate. It took a while.

Right. Right, Zag said, finally pulling himself back into a semblance of control. Reseating himself, retracting the assortment of appendages with evident embarrassment, he set about regaining his composure. Gradually his colour went from navy to sky blue but refused to budge any further than that.

An age passed. When he felt able, he once again peered round at them and with a great effort resumed his measured body shape. He was determined not to let it get to him. They were not going to break him. Finally he was calm enough to address them and forced himself to adopt a more conciliatory tone, Gentlemen, I assure you that we will fully deal with all those important things, the education and wider universe, later in the document. He tentatively raised his eye-pods. Now are we agreed that this is the primary fundamental purpose of the institute and should be our mission statement – yes or no?

After a moment’s silence Mut spoke up.

Isn’t it exactly the same as the mission statement we started with three weeks ago? Mut muttered.


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Ron Forsythe – Science Fiction Writer – a pen name – the biography.

About the Author

I was born in the summer of 1949 and brought up in the suburbs of Surrey which, with its green fields and trees, was a wonderful free playground for a child of nature like me to frolic in. It was in the rich optimism of the sixties that fostered my love of Rock Music and Sci-fi.

I read avidly and devoured the works of Isaac Asimov, Clifford Simak, Robert Sheckley, Philip K Dick, Robert Heinlein, James White, Kurt Vonnegut Jnr, John Wyndham, George Orwell, Aldous Huxley and later Iain M Banks and Douglas Adams. They filled my head with the worlds they had created and the stories they had invented. They led me into creating my own tales and I’ve never looked back.

I brought up my children in Yorkshire and enjoyed a career in education.

Now I spend my time writing, reading, travelling the world, enjoying my family and attending concerts. It’s a hard life.


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The Gordian Fetish – the Liner Notes/Introduction


How important is consciousness? How rare is it in the universe?

It is incredibly rare but not many people here on Earth seem to care about that. But the Gordians do – they value it – they seek it out and look to protect it. They have an institute funded by their government that is geared to the conservation of endangered alien sentient beings.

Unfortunately a new Gordian leader has come along who believes in austerity. He is threatening to close the institute.

Humans are sentient and have a modicum of intelligence. They can hardly be termed endangered though. There are 4000 billion of them. But they are incredibly interesting. They have sex. They also have politics and religion. They pretend to be clever and civilised but they are nowhere near as clever and civilised as they think they are.

Most Gordians are intrigued by humans. They find sex astounding and humans cute.

Being cute and having sex might just be their saving graces.


The Gordian Fetish can be purchased in both paperback and digital versions:

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In the USA:

Elsewhere in the world – please check with your local Amazon or Ebay.