Overdue ... an anthology of science fiction

By Malcolm Twigg

Join a world where the extraction of blue-gold is simply the means to an end. Join another where lizards are so thick underfoot they get squashed ... but who finally get revenge. And witness the beginning of the end - or is the the end of the beginning? Only Zark the chief librarian of the Central Cosmos Library knows, but he's too busy writing the BIG ONE to really notice what his assistant Snark is really up to with 'Earth and how to do it'.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Malcolm Twigg
• Release date: Apr 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458179166

Malcolm Twigg

Malcolm Twigg has been writing in some form or other for most of his adult life, much of it in local government circles where he put a bit more of the 'creative' element to writing minutes of meetings than was actually warranted. However, it kept the madness away.He discovered science fiction at a very early age and started writing his first novel at the age of 18. He promptly consigned it to the bin and concentrated instead on reading stories by the legendary greats of Science Fiction who actually knew how to write, such as Fred Pohl and Algis Budrys. Both of those authors and many others he was later to meet when a short story he submitted for the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future contest got him into the finals of the contest, and a trip to Florida to boot.A short time earlier, a novel had won the Peter Pook Humorous Novel competition in England (To Hell with the Harp!) and was published through Emissary Publishing (he was a second place winner the previous year). In that same year he had a small collection of science fiction stories published in Chapbook format by Piper's Ash and was also actively publishing in small press genre magazines and well as writing mainstream feature articles for various magazines.Shortly after he attended the L. Ron Hubbard event, he was made redundant from local government and what should have turned into a burgeoning writing career took a bit of a left turn when he was (fortuitously) offered a position as launch editor for a local county magazine (Cornwall Life), followed by another magazine (Young at Heart) building upon a series of freelance articles published in Devon Life.Under his unfailing leadership, both of those new titles folded within a few months (a fate that, alarmingly, befell a number of genre magazines as soon as they had published contributions from him). However, he was kept on as Chief Writer for Devon Life, went on to successfully launch Cornwall Life again and then Wiltshire Magazine, taking an already extant Wiltshire magazine head on and winning.This second career left little time to pursue the more creative element however, leaving a number of unfinished works on the back burner for ten years or so, despite only working (ostensibly) part time.He retired last year and started researching his family history. As always suspected, his wife seems to have married beneath her. Whereas her family history (purportedly) includes the Duke of Wellington and can (some say) be traced right back through William the Conqueror to Cleopatra (via King Frosti of Finland - yes, really!), his includes more than a few liaisons outside the marraige vows and an ancestor whose suspected relationship to his daughter was closer than was really necessary.After a period taking stock (and learning his place again), he is starting to dust those old manuscripts off and show them the light of day once more. He was persuaded to join 'Smashwords' by recognising the name of co-member Hank Quense, an author whose work he admires and who was once, with him, a member of 'Critter-Litter' an informal spin-off from the online critiquing Workshop 'Critters'.Malcolm also runs a social Badminton Club and participates in Field Archery on a regular basis. He used to run a sword fencing club. An innate clumsiness, however, makes all of these extra-curricular activities highly suspect.He also has an interest in the UFO phenomonen and, together with his wife and son, once witnessed an unexplained incident immediately over his home - an experience that was subsequently corroborated by another family across the other side of the valley where he lives. The experience comprised two balls of light, spaced about ten minutes apart passing silently overhead and (as resported by the corroborating family) apparently returning on a different path before disappearing, one shooting off, the other fading out. Subsequent enquiries of various sources revealed no other aerial activity in the neighbourhood. The event took place during a weekend of unexplained phenomenon across England and the wider world. The jury is still out on that one.

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OVERDUE

An anthology of science fiction short stories

By Malcolm Twigg

Copyright 2011 Malcolm Twigg

Smashwords Edition

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Altar

All sacrificial civilisations are much the same, Anson, Sharman said. Blood was always reckoned to be a potent force in appeasing the godhead-whatever that is. Of course, this lot takes it to its limits. Almost anything that squawks, flies, flutters or crawls makes it to the altar. I sometimes think there's no natural death here at all-hence all the livestock Sharman indicated the pens around the perimeter of the compound, where an incessant lowing and bleating formed a backdrop to the village life. He waved a hand languidly to the Silassian manservant waiting patiently in the comer, and another drink appeared, as if by magic, at his elbow. The compliant native melted quietly back to his post. Sharman eased the neck of his shirt, already wringing wet in the spongy atmosphere of the Silassian tropics, even so early in the morning.

He took a sip of the pungent liquid and grimaced.

Believe it or not, Sharman said, gesturing distastefully toward the drink, this stuff is a lifeline to the likes of you and me. Tastes like shit, but it's so stuffed with spice and natural antibiotics that bugs don't get a chance to breed-it actually cools your blood for a time. Just enough to make life bearable - that, and the women, of course. He nodded across the compound to the women's quarters set at a respectable distance from the men's living complex. 1 would probably have gone mad by now but for the women. The Silassians share everything with their guests-but I mean, everything.

Anson sipped his own drink and gasped as the spice caught at his throat.

Sharman laughed, mirthlessly. Don't worry, the first few gallons are the worst. You'll kill for it eventually. He shifted his gaze toward the clearing. Here comes old Tala, to pay his morning respects.

Anson looked out across the clearing to see the old Silassian gliding smoothly over the compound, his robe barely showing signs of movement. Behind him the trees of the Silassian forest swayed only slightly in the morning breeze, the bluish tinge of the vegetation jarring Anson's senses, more used to the vibrant greens of Earth. The scents, too, were heavier than he was used to, more cloying and tending to linger, almost as if the humidity of the Silassian jungle had trapped the oppressive morbidity of its plant life, unwilling to let it dissipate into the atmosphere. The same applied to the Silassians themselves. They had a faint, clinging odor, impossible to describe, but reminding Anson of mildew. He wondered that Sharman had been able to stick to the Company Agent post for so long-the women must be something else.

Tala approached in the deliberate, almost haughty, way that the people had. The naturally disdainful cast of the Silassian features added to the air of hauteur, and the way in which he stopped in front of Sharman and bowed stiffly from the waist, hands thrust by his sides, put Anson in mind of an old-fashioned butler, reinforcing his sense of something long shut away inside a musty wardrobe.

My Lord Sharman lives this morning? the old Silassian enquired politely.

Sharman bowed back. Lord Sharman lives, Tala, and has the graciousness to receive you.

The honor must be delayed, Lord Sharman. Tala has business elsewhere. The Silassian bowed again and glided past, throwing a half-bow to Anson as he moved off in the direction of the Priests' quarters, set diametri¬cally opposite those of the women.

What was that about? Anson asked, wiping his brow.

Sharman pushed Anson's drink toward him, urging him to take a draught. Ritual greeting. Doesn't mean a thing, really, but these people have an enormous respect for the life-death cycle. You might find that surprising given what I just said about the chickens and things, but practically everything about Silassia is surprising. And don't let that dour expression fool you either. Tala's one of the best.

Anson raised his eyebrows. He looks a riot. Sharman levered himself from his chair and gestured his companion to follow. One thing you will find hard to start with is meal times. But never forget, we're guests of these people-at least for the time being-so stick with it. It gets easier to handle. Believe me. If you like to eat sometimes, it gets easier to handle.

Anson followed the Company Agent from the room, wondering at the last statement. Ever since the shuttle had dropped him into the clearing in the early hours, he had been uncomfortably aware of the slightly sardonic feel to Sharman's conversation. But, after ten years as the sole representative of the Terran Federation on Silassia, it was only natural that Sharman should be somewhat circumspect about welcoming a newcomer. Company Agents chose their solitude purposely.

The dimness of the shack's interior gave only the illusion of coolness, but at the appearance of the two foreigners, the young Silassian at the foot of the table began foot-cranking the huge overhead fan. As it gathered speed, the fug started to shift around until, on occasion, there was almost a cool breeze. It did little but deflect the sweat slightly from its inexorable descent, and Anson felt glad of the Silassian brew which he quaffed with every evidence of increasing relish.

Sharman clapped his hands. Silassians appeared, standing silently in the shadows of the room, holding dishes of steaming food. He clapped his hands again and stood, nodding at Anson to do likewise. Two more