Wesley Britton's Blog, page 46
August 13, 2016
Meet Two Strong Women. From Another Planet.
From the beginning of my Beta-Earth Chronicles project, I knew any success the books might have would depend on reader responses to the characters. Responses to the characters themselves, responses to the relationships they share. These books are all about characters.
So this week, I thought I’d let a number of the women of Beta-Earth introduce themselves to you in their own words. Today, meet Lorei and Elsbeth Cawl as they described themselves in The Blind Alien. I’ll let them do the talking:
(Note: The Caul sisters live in the country of Rhasvi which is north of the slave-holding country of Balnakin. Olos is the goddess of Beta-Earth. “Skoling” means writing.)
Lorei: To begin, I will say I was nearly celebrating my 30th year when my younger sister Elsbeth and I heard the news that a new planet had been discovered,
That an alien-creature was in Balnakin, and that he was blind. I watched for news of him from that day forward. For I too was unsighted.
Before that time, many have said Olos was not kind to my birth-sister or I. Yes, it be true our Mother died when we were but maidens. The father I will
speak of not simply sent his three daughters to the little farmhouse in our forgotten valley to fend for ourselves. He paid the price when his eldest,
the pretty one, the marriageable one, was killed in the fiery trans crash. Had she lived, she'd have been the first wife of some laborer who might have
accepted Elsbeth and myself as his second and third. One to be a plain face to feel shame for. And a blind wife he'd send to an Int-Clin for tube cutting
to ensure no children would carry my infliction. But after the day of my sister's death, the Cawl sisters were deemed unlucky. We were casualties of custom.
We were expected to live our lives in accepting seclusion among those called "The-Quiet-in-the-Land." By custom, we would table only with women. By custom,
we would avoid conversations with men to stir not feelings of jealousy or lust. By custom, we would avoid being with children for the same reasons.
Elsbeth: I be very uncomfortable talking about all these things. But I will tell my story with my sisters. I be the quiet one, and have always been that
way. I be, as husband says, the one who loves with acts and not words. I be listener. So if I seem abrupt or quick, please know I skol not books. I be
gifted not with words.
When I was young, all I knew, and all I needed to know, filled the little square in the nameless valley off the nameless way near the town of Rofvig. My
life was our dirt and the fruits I raised well from it. I felt we had been blessed when father died and we owned our own land. Unlike others, our earth
had been worked so long it was rich, free of heavy stones, and in a basin that collected rain-water.
For me, it was a simple life for a simple maid, a child of Olos who would never know children. The earth was My Mother, so my hands and arms worshipped
the children she gave. I knew the ways of the Mother. I could predict rains and drought by the lightness of dust in my throat. My seed bottles were the
envy of our region. So my sister and I never went without. We had enough to share and barter. Even when province rations were thin, we were self-sufficient.
Lorei: I would have never said so myself, but it was often said I walked with the grace of quiet beauty. I know I did walk with practiced dignity as I
had resolved, long ago, that when neighbors saw this discarded blind woman, they would see that I was as worthy as anyone of trust and respect. When I
was seen, I was oiled nor scented not. But I was clean, fresh, and pleasant to look at. When Elsbeth and I went to the Barter Malls to seek out broken
and defective items to repair, I wanted the stall-brokers to see us as preferred repair women who could take the abandoned objects and work them into desirable
pieces for the selling-shelves. We could not only repair, we could add ornamental glows and luster's, especially with the linen-squares I was known for.
We were simple, yes, but we put pride and care into the work no one else would.
Elsbeth: I hope what I say here hurts no one. But they tell me the Scratchers of Freedom now have new ways. They must always change their ways. It be the
work of freedom.
One eve, when Lorei and I attended the Mid-arc Sharing, my sister listened intently to five people talking about the evils of Balnakin, about the slavery
of light-skins, and how all Rhasvi should open their minds and homes to humans treated as beasts. I saw Lorei's lowered head and knew the gift of Olos
was in my sister. I knew the future was being shaped. Lorei stopped to speak with one of the speakers. Then seven of us quietly spoke together outside
the meeting grounds. I watched my sister and knew from her face she'd decided we should share in the effort of these Scratchers of Freedom, joining those
who spoke not in public but gave their time and energies to help runaway blues. Two of the Scratchers leaders looked at us doubtfully. But it was arranged
they would come visit our home in the valley.
Lorei: I believe there are always ways to reach out to the sufferers of unkindness. Who better than those thought to be among the least gifted? I listened
to the speakers and knew our house had been given purpose. One day, two Scratchers came to us and looked over the valley, our little home, and they deemed
our abode perfect. They offered a plan.
An arc later, a crew of workers came from the Stone Chapel of Mothercare. As a Dome project, they rebuilt our home as a public charity. But when they left,
a new, hidden door was in our new hall storage room. Behind that door were steps to an underground cell with a simple bed, table, piper, Wave-box, a long-box
of provisions. They left with us an unskoled plan.
Beta-Earth website:
https://drwesleybritton.com/
Author contact:
spywise@verizon.net
So this week, I thought I’d let a number of the women of Beta-Earth introduce themselves to you in their own words. Today, meet Lorei and Elsbeth Cawl as they described themselves in The Blind Alien. I’ll let them do the talking:
(Note: The Caul sisters live in the country of Rhasvi which is north of the slave-holding country of Balnakin. Olos is the goddess of Beta-Earth. “Skoling” means writing.)
Lorei: To begin, I will say I was nearly celebrating my 30th year when my younger sister Elsbeth and I heard the news that a new planet had been discovered,
That an alien-creature was in Balnakin, and that he was blind. I watched for news of him from that day forward. For I too was unsighted.
Before that time, many have said Olos was not kind to my birth-sister or I. Yes, it be true our Mother died when we were but maidens. The father I will
speak of not simply sent his three daughters to the little farmhouse in our forgotten valley to fend for ourselves. He paid the price when his eldest,
the pretty one, the marriageable one, was killed in the fiery trans crash. Had she lived, she'd have been the first wife of some laborer who might have
accepted Elsbeth and myself as his second and third. One to be a plain face to feel shame for. And a blind wife he'd send to an Int-Clin for tube cutting
to ensure no children would carry my infliction. But after the day of my sister's death, the Cawl sisters were deemed unlucky. We were casualties of custom.
We were expected to live our lives in accepting seclusion among those called "The-Quiet-in-the-Land." By custom, we would table only with women. By custom,
we would avoid conversations with men to stir not feelings of jealousy or lust. By custom, we would avoid being with children for the same reasons.
Elsbeth: I be very uncomfortable talking about all these things. But I will tell my story with my sisters. I be the quiet one, and have always been that
way. I be, as husband says, the one who loves with acts and not words. I be listener. So if I seem abrupt or quick, please know I skol not books. I be
gifted not with words.
When I was young, all I knew, and all I needed to know, filled the little square in the nameless valley off the nameless way near the town of Rofvig. My
life was our dirt and the fruits I raised well from it. I felt we had been blessed when father died and we owned our own land. Unlike others, our earth
had been worked so long it was rich, free of heavy stones, and in a basin that collected rain-water.
For me, it was a simple life for a simple maid, a child of Olos who would never know children. The earth was My Mother, so my hands and arms worshipped
the children she gave. I knew the ways of the Mother. I could predict rains and drought by the lightness of dust in my throat. My seed bottles were the
envy of our region. So my sister and I never went without. We had enough to share and barter. Even when province rations were thin, we were self-sufficient.
Lorei: I would have never said so myself, but it was often said I walked with the grace of quiet beauty. I know I did walk with practiced dignity as I
had resolved, long ago, that when neighbors saw this discarded blind woman, they would see that I was as worthy as anyone of trust and respect. When I
was seen, I was oiled nor scented not. But I was clean, fresh, and pleasant to look at. When Elsbeth and I went to the Barter Malls to seek out broken
and defective items to repair, I wanted the stall-brokers to see us as preferred repair women who could take the abandoned objects and work them into desirable
pieces for the selling-shelves. We could not only repair, we could add ornamental glows and luster's, especially with the linen-squares I was known for.
We were simple, yes, but we put pride and care into the work no one else would.
Elsbeth: I hope what I say here hurts no one. But they tell me the Scratchers of Freedom now have new ways. They must always change their ways. It be the
work of freedom.
One eve, when Lorei and I attended the Mid-arc Sharing, my sister listened intently to five people talking about the evils of Balnakin, about the slavery
of light-skins, and how all Rhasvi should open their minds and homes to humans treated as beasts. I saw Lorei's lowered head and knew the gift of Olos
was in my sister. I knew the future was being shaped. Lorei stopped to speak with one of the speakers. Then seven of us quietly spoke together outside
the meeting grounds. I watched my sister and knew from her face she'd decided we should share in the effort of these Scratchers of Freedom, joining those
who spoke not in public but gave their time and energies to help runaway blues. Two of the Scratchers leaders looked at us doubtfully. But it was arranged
they would come visit our home in the valley.
Lorei: I believe there are always ways to reach out to the sufferers of unkindness. Who better than those thought to be among the least gifted? I listened
to the speakers and knew our house had been given purpose. One day, two Scratchers came to us and looked over the valley, our little home, and they deemed
our abode perfect. They offered a plan.
An arc later, a crew of workers came from the Stone Chapel of Mothercare. As a Dome project, they rebuilt our home as a public charity. But when they left,
a new, hidden door was in our new hall storage room. Behind that door were steps to an underground cell with a simple bed, table, piper, Wave-box, a long-box
of provisions. They left with us an unskoled plan.
Beta-Earth website:
https://drwesleybritton.com/
Author contact:
spywise@verizon.net
August 12, 2016
How to Make Aliens Sound Like Aliens
If you were to look over all the reviews posted at Goodreads and Amazon for the first four books of the Beta-Earth Chronicles, you’d see readers are surprised and often impressed with the original storytelling style. More than a few readers say they’ve never read anything like these books before.
I’m delighted to read such responses. After all, I went to considerable effort to create “Beta-speak,” for lack of a better term for that world’s dialect. Perhaps you’re wondering what that means and how the unusual syntax and grammar of Beta-Earth was created.
Well, here’s a very short sample illustrating what I’m talking about:
True said, I was raised not to do the things I have done. None like me expect to see the things I have seen. Deep in my womb, I still fear to share
my memories of the shakings of two earths. Deep in my womb, I would prefer to keep our private memories within our tribe. But the lies, the distortions
rage on. So our skolings begin.
For my part, in 5 of 1720, in the 24th year of my being, I had honored to complete my training at Stadsem Wostra for Independent Literates. As I was an
orphaned blue-skin with no family linkages, my Brown Shapers had determined I was marriageable. This possibled, they told me, only if I became skilled
enough to secure a position where my talents could be shown at their best advantage. Still, I stunned when I was told to report to Director-Shaprim Uneld
When I began drafting The Blind Alien, one of my first thoughts was that sci fi, almost by definition, requires strange new terminology. Authors need new nouns for people, places, things. I wondered what else I could do to make it clear my narrators were from another planet and still be understandable for readers.
The first thing I came up was crunching passive verbs into active ones. Instead of “This was possible,” try “This possibled.” This not only sounds different, it also results in a more active, tighter flow. Many little words like “was” and “had” often disappeared.
I played a similar trick with negatives. Instead of “I didn’t care,” try “I cared not.” Again, the phrasing is different sounding. More little words like “did” and “would” are often gone. This too picked up the pace, even though in subtle ways. It’s amazing how such seemingly small things ad up an add up into a distinctive rhythm and beat.
Of course, there were a number of other stylistic choices as well. For me, there were several rewards for these choices. As readers of any of the Beta books know, the stories are told by alternating voices as if you’re reading an oral history with constantly changing narrators. There’s Malcolm Renbourn from our earth. His perspective is shared in very normal American English. His passages are layered in between those of the various Betan speakers who, by the way, I tried to make distinctive from each other. For example, when Lorei and Elsbeth are introduced, I tried to give them a cadence and slightly different level of vocabulary from the previous women in the story. To signal they have a lower level of education, they usually say “I be very uncomfortable, not the proper “am.”
Another unexpected reward, I felt, was that long sections of exposition and description were more interesting when told with this novel use of language. Not only was the setting or character development hopefully engaging on their own merits, but readers would keep turning the pages because they were caught up in the original style.
Well, that’s the short version of the story and doesn’t touch on all the things I tried to do with vocabulary and an invented grammar. But this is just a little blog post which hopefully whets your interest in finding out more in the books themselves. Please let me know if there’s anything you’d like to know more about or if you want to tell me what worked for you and what didn’t.
I’m delighted to read such responses. After all, I went to considerable effort to create “Beta-speak,” for lack of a better term for that world’s dialect. Perhaps you’re wondering what that means and how the unusual syntax and grammar of Beta-Earth was created.
Well, here’s a very short sample illustrating what I’m talking about:
True said, I was raised not to do the things I have done. None like me expect to see the things I have seen. Deep in my womb, I still fear to share
my memories of the shakings of two earths. Deep in my womb, I would prefer to keep our private memories within our tribe. But the lies, the distortions
rage on. So our skolings begin.
For my part, in 5 of 1720, in the 24th year of my being, I had honored to complete my training at Stadsem Wostra for Independent Literates. As I was an
orphaned blue-skin with no family linkages, my Brown Shapers had determined I was marriageable. This possibled, they told me, only if I became skilled
enough to secure a position where my talents could be shown at their best advantage. Still, I stunned when I was told to report to Director-Shaprim Uneld
When I began drafting The Blind Alien, one of my first thoughts was that sci fi, almost by definition, requires strange new terminology. Authors need new nouns for people, places, things. I wondered what else I could do to make it clear my narrators were from another planet and still be understandable for readers.
The first thing I came up was crunching passive verbs into active ones. Instead of “This was possible,” try “This possibled.” This not only sounds different, it also results in a more active, tighter flow. Many little words like “was” and “had” often disappeared.
I played a similar trick with negatives. Instead of “I didn’t care,” try “I cared not.” Again, the phrasing is different sounding. More little words like “did” and “would” are often gone. This too picked up the pace, even though in subtle ways. It’s amazing how such seemingly small things ad up an add up into a distinctive rhythm and beat.
Of course, there were a number of other stylistic choices as well. For me, there were several rewards for these choices. As readers of any of the Beta books know, the stories are told by alternating voices as if you’re reading an oral history with constantly changing narrators. There’s Malcolm Renbourn from our earth. His perspective is shared in very normal American English. His passages are layered in between those of the various Betan speakers who, by the way, I tried to make distinctive from each other. For example, when Lorei and Elsbeth are introduced, I tried to give them a cadence and slightly different level of vocabulary from the previous women in the story. To signal they have a lower level of education, they usually say “I be very uncomfortable, not the proper “am.”
Another unexpected reward, I felt, was that long sections of exposition and description were more interesting when told with this novel use of language. Not only was the setting or character development hopefully engaging on their own merits, but readers would keep turning the pages because they were caught up in the original style.
Well, that’s the short version of the story and doesn’t touch on all the things I tried to do with vocabulary and an invented grammar. But this is just a little blog post which hopefully whets your interest in finding out more in the books themselves. Please let me know if there’s anything you’d like to know more about or if you want to tell me what worked for you and what didn’t.
August 11, 2016
Where it All Began
Earlier this week, I posted the opening passages of A Throne for an Alien for you. Today, I’m offering the opening for The Blind Alien, the first book in the Beta-Earth Chronicles. (Remember, it’s only 99 cents this month.) Let me know what you think!
Bar: True said, I was raised not to do the things I have done. None like me expect to see the things I have seen. Deep in my womb, I still fear to share
my memories of the shakings of two earths. Deep in my womb, I would prefer to keep our private memories within our tribe. But the lies, the distortions
rage on. So our skolings begin.
For my part, in 5 of 1720, in the 24th year of my being, I had honored to complete my training at Stadsem Wostra for Independent Literates. As I was an
orphaned blue-skin with no family linkages, my Brown Shapers had determined I was marriageable. This possibled, they told me, only if I became skilled
enough to secure a position where my talents could be shown at their best advantage. Still, I stunned when I was told to report to Director-Shaprim Uneld
Kharg at the Central Science Institute in Bergarten just hours after collecting my certificates. I had expected not my first assignment to be in such an
important place, in the middle of the capital of Balnakin. Few blues worked at such Institutes, at least in the mid-level positions. This was no mere task
as a scribe assisting some Brown Master. Instead, this was a call to go to the core of my country.
I doubt anyone, in those days, could go to the great Bergarten Institutional Collective without feeling awe at what had been built there. As a blue slave,
all my life I'd been accustomed to tight, functional four-square buildings that were clean, mobile, ecologically sound. All my nights had been spent in
cramped sleeping slots where six, seven, eight girls shared space waiting the results of our tests and how they met the needs of our exacting masters.
Now, on this day while I walked through Bergarten for the first time, I stared skyward at the immense round structures of stone and crystal. They were
all spacious, permanent, imposingly beautiful. True said, Bergarten architecture had not the dignity or aged looks of similar cities across the Philosea
on the Old Continent. There, wooden stack-modules showed every human where civilization had begun. here In Bergarten, the awe was in the size of the smooth
walls that cried power and grandeur. Here, there were no age cracks in the stones. Here, the rounded Sojoa-sheets bulging from each window, drawing power from Our God reflecting light and energy, seemed to say without words — "Here grows the future."
Entering my assigned building through the back arches for Blue Professionals, I surprised even more when the Security Op looked at my papers, scanned my
travel-satchel, and then personally escorted me to the sixth level. I certained I was in some trouble — why would any Brown escort a mere applicant through
an easy, if winding maze? More amazing, waiting not, she marched me into a long room where four dignified Browns sat behind a thick, long shining frost-white
desk full of skols and skol-books. Bright without shadows, this room was lit by a long, wall-to-wall Sojoa-sheet pulsating with energy behind the Shaper's
table. The other walls were mellow, white-spine wood connected by plush, silenting brown-rope carpet. Everything was polished, new, a place of importance.
Walking to the table, I marked that all four women wore the short-hair and bare ear shells of females who'd never bonded by choice or had been found unsuitable.
None were young. Considering where they sat, I presumed all four were there by choice and lacked not in solid tribal Alliances. I could see not their tunics
with their tribal sewings on their breasts because of the piles of skols on the table. I kept my eyes proper low and looked not at the faces contemplating
my future.
At first, the committee talked among themselves and ignored me in the customary way important Shaprims and Maprims always deal with blues in their presence.
Then, with no introductions, the four went quiet and the eldest Brown in the middle, the taut, long-armed woman who I knew must be Shaprim Kharg, sat back
and studied me. With a face full of doubt and disapproval, she looked like an old monument, crows-feet crowding the skin above her cheeks. "Give ear!"
she commanded sharp. "Come child." I walked forward. "Turn and show," she ordered. I spun the proper slow turn for the group. I ended with my head kneeled
with the gesture of open palms to show my deference. "Speak child," she commanded. "Say anything. Let us hear your voice." Puzzled, I recited my gratitude
greeting, staring at my open hands. Shaprim Kharg barked for me to stop. It was so hard for me to avert my eyes, so intense was her stare. I focused on
her thick face muscles which made her words seem like sounds coming from a dark machine.
"Think you," she asked, turning her head to the long-cheeked graying Brown to her right, "our guest will like this fleshy Bar Tine?" Gazing at me with
sad eyes, The second Shaprim measured me as if choosing house ornaments. She sounded neutral as she shrugged, "Who can tell? Tine carries the bearing of
innocence. As non-threatening as we could ask." These notions were strange to hear. But I said nothing as I awaited my first assignment.
Bar: True said, I was raised not to do the things I have done. None like me expect to see the things I have seen. Deep in my womb, I still fear to share
my memories of the shakings of two earths. Deep in my womb, I would prefer to keep our private memories within our tribe. But the lies, the distortions
rage on. So our skolings begin.
For my part, in 5 of 1720, in the 24th year of my being, I had honored to complete my training at Stadsem Wostra for Independent Literates. As I was an
orphaned blue-skin with no family linkages, my Brown Shapers had determined I was marriageable. This possibled, they told me, only if I became skilled
enough to secure a position where my talents could be shown at their best advantage. Still, I stunned when I was told to report to Director-Shaprim Uneld
Kharg at the Central Science Institute in Bergarten just hours after collecting my certificates. I had expected not my first assignment to be in such an
important place, in the middle of the capital of Balnakin. Few blues worked at such Institutes, at least in the mid-level positions. This was no mere task
as a scribe assisting some Brown Master. Instead, this was a call to go to the core of my country.
I doubt anyone, in those days, could go to the great Bergarten Institutional Collective without feeling awe at what had been built there. As a blue slave,
all my life I'd been accustomed to tight, functional four-square buildings that were clean, mobile, ecologically sound. All my nights had been spent in
cramped sleeping slots where six, seven, eight girls shared space waiting the results of our tests and how they met the needs of our exacting masters.
Now, on this day while I walked through Bergarten for the first time, I stared skyward at the immense round structures of stone and crystal. They were
all spacious, permanent, imposingly beautiful. True said, Bergarten architecture had not the dignity or aged looks of similar cities across the Philosea
on the Old Continent. There, wooden stack-modules showed every human where civilization had begun. here In Bergarten, the awe was in the size of the smooth
walls that cried power and grandeur. Here, there were no age cracks in the stones. Here, the rounded Sojoa-sheets bulging from each window, drawing power from Our God reflecting light and energy, seemed to say without words — "Here grows the future."
Entering my assigned building through the back arches for Blue Professionals, I surprised even more when the Security Op looked at my papers, scanned my
travel-satchel, and then personally escorted me to the sixth level. I certained I was in some trouble — why would any Brown escort a mere applicant through
an easy, if winding maze? More amazing, waiting not, she marched me into a long room where four dignified Browns sat behind a thick, long shining frost-white
desk full of skols and skol-books. Bright without shadows, this room was lit by a long, wall-to-wall Sojoa-sheet pulsating with energy behind the Shaper's
table. The other walls were mellow, white-spine wood connected by plush, silenting brown-rope carpet. Everything was polished, new, a place of importance.
Walking to the table, I marked that all four women wore the short-hair and bare ear shells of females who'd never bonded by choice or had been found unsuitable.
None were young. Considering where they sat, I presumed all four were there by choice and lacked not in solid tribal Alliances. I could see not their tunics
with their tribal sewings on their breasts because of the piles of skols on the table. I kept my eyes proper low and looked not at the faces contemplating
my future.
At first, the committee talked among themselves and ignored me in the customary way important Shaprims and Maprims always deal with blues in their presence.
Then, with no introductions, the four went quiet and the eldest Brown in the middle, the taut, long-armed woman who I knew must be Shaprim Kharg, sat back
and studied me. With a face full of doubt and disapproval, she looked like an old monument, crows-feet crowding the skin above her cheeks. "Give ear!"
she commanded sharp. "Come child." I walked forward. "Turn and show," she ordered. I spun the proper slow turn for the group. I ended with my head kneeled
with the gesture of open palms to show my deference. "Speak child," she commanded. "Say anything. Let us hear your voice." Puzzled, I recited my gratitude
greeting, staring at my open hands. Shaprim Kharg barked for me to stop. It was so hard for me to avert my eyes, so intense was her stare. I focused on
her thick face muscles which made her words seem like sounds coming from a dark machine.
"Think you," she asked, turning her head to the long-cheeked graying Brown to her right, "our guest will like this fleshy Bar Tine?" Gazing at me with
sad eyes, The second Shaprim measured me as if choosing house ornaments. She sounded neutral as she shrugged, "Who can tell? Tine carries the bearing of
innocence. As non-threatening as we could ask." These notions were strange to hear. But I said nothing as I awaited my first assignment.
August 9, 2016
kick-starting blog for you!
While I’ve been blogging elsewhere for some time, this week I realized I was an idiot for not taking advantage of the opportunities Goodreads offers readers and writers. So, this week I plan to kick-start a much better communication with fans and followers of the Beta-Earth Chronicles.
To begin, this month we’re trying to interest you in the fourth book of the series called A Throne for an Alien. Here’s a taste, the opening paragraphs told in the voice of the towering, leggy Joline Renbourn of Beta-Earth:
Joline: One day looking over the horizon-deck of our "Barbara Blue," I thought of my lost sister, Bar. For one moment, I wondered what she might think if she looked down from the skies over Tribe Renbourn. From the quiet clouds feeding occasional gentle rains onto the foaming, rocking blue waters of the Philosea, she'd see one of the strangest, most magnificent sights in Betan history. As our fleet, our "rag-tag" fleet as Husband described it, sailed east across the Philosea, 60, 70, 90 ships would sometimes be a swelling entity all together, sometimes be streams of smaller fleets seemingly independent but parallel, and sometimes scattered armadas when boat-Captains decided to linger in ports or at island landings at their will.
That day, I thought, the view from where I stood on our ship was just as dramatic as any overhead eyes. After all, my vision was combined with the smells and feels of ocean winds and waters. Some days, we all saw and smelled smoke rising like gentle ladders to the clouds from ships of burning engines. Sometimes, we heard sky booms and saw vapor trails from fast-moving wingers racing above us, no doubt looking down to see what they could see. Many days, wide-sails with proud Alliance signs were filled with the winds and we looked through our glass scopes to see who was nearby.
Some decorated sails we knew well, many our friends from Biol, Oyne, and Persis. We smiled seeing their new flags bearing the Half-Moon sign Husband had made the emblem of the first peaceful resistance to a government gone mad. We waved at friendly sailors climbing up rigging or waving at us from watch-nests atop sturdy masts, especially the cargo-ship Alnenia's father, Sikas Ricipa, had loaned our tribe to carry many of our support-hands. Other ships in the distance we saw rare. We knew their leaders only by Two-Way or EV-com contacts. We knew every ship in the fleet was filled with fearful refugees, many wondering if Alman submersibles would rise to the surface to demand some ships be turned around.
Others worried the powerful Alman Navy might make attempts to capture individuals the new Alman government might have reason to want. Men especially feared their homeland might insist on reclaiming them. But, in the main, the Alman Navy was conspicuous by its absence.
"Perhaps," Alnenia mused, "they prefer to leave us at the mercy of the elements and possible raiders."
Only as time passed did this unease seem to slowly vanish like the flocks of seabirds winging overhead. Of course, many of these ships were small and designed not for long voyages. Many such had been provisioned in quick time and lacked for food, water, and long-distance navigation equipment. Cargo ships had been hastily converted into passenger vessels. Sometimes we lingered to allow these stragglers to keep close to their protective neighbors. Some days, we all paused as if we were one
body to allow ships heading other directions to cross or cut through our path.
"I would never have imagined," Husband remarked, inhaling the sea air he loved, "that there could be traffic jams in the middle of an ocean."
We had many such. All these disparate exiles cast their fates away from the country that had given us all one choice — bend your mind, your soul, your will to one Lunta, one vision of Olos, one cruel woman with double-powers or leave. So many left. For reasons even the prophets said not, many followed the Duce of Bilan, My Husband, the blind alien of Alpha-Earth to wherever he and his tribe might go. And on this, the third arc of our voyage, we knew not where we went.
To our east, we knew Rhasvin ships were forming a buffer on their coast as if to say, "Sail on, sail on, but sail not here." We knew Arasad ships floated like barracuda to our west as if hoping for at least a few morsels of tribute. But mostly the world watched and wondered.
At the moment I stood on our deck and thought of sister Bar, my womb was too full of the present and the family around me to wonder too much about the doings on other ships or in remote lands. Instead, I allowed my imagined cloud-spirit of Bar to narrow her vision, pointing her fleshless eyes downward at her namesake, our pride, the "Barbara Blue." She'd have seen a very different husband from the tortured animal she'd first met in the Bergarten see-through cell, the abused teacher in the Balnakin School, the haunted husband and father who'd been blamed for the deaths of thousands. Now, if she looked closely, she'd see a man on the deck of his ship playing games with children of nine mothers, including her own daughter, Becky. If she looked close, she might amaze to see a father and his tribe in happy play, a tribe seemingly unconcerned that, once again, our family was homeless.
Once, our tribe would have looked cautious outward, wondering and speculating about the future in new places under new rules with shifting lines of power and need. Once, our Tribal Council would have mourned the loss of a beloved home and the roots we'd sought to plant on Island Bilan. Now, this tribe in transition was led by a father deliberately losing games for laughing offspring between tickling helpless mothers to the decks. Now, the reluctant father of an international exodus seemed to fear nothing.
Still, wise eyes would see Noriah of the Willing Horse and her ten Trustees
spending much time on deck, teaching children and adults alike the ways of alertness and preparation. As she had for years, Sister Doret still taught everyone intricacies of Kin-Po, our exercise that was also our physical defense.
Had the spirit of Bar peered into the window of our ship's parlor, she would have seen the famous corner of Two-Way wavers that once beamed out signals of distress when Tribe Renbourn was at the mercy of Arasad raiders. Now, she'd see maps of all sizes and designs decorating the walls as every Renbourn of every age had been given a vote in the great question. Where was home?
To begin, this month we’re trying to interest you in the fourth book of the series called A Throne for an Alien. Here’s a taste, the opening paragraphs told in the voice of the towering, leggy Joline Renbourn of Beta-Earth:
Joline: One day looking over the horizon-deck of our "Barbara Blue," I thought of my lost sister, Bar. For one moment, I wondered what she might think if she looked down from the skies over Tribe Renbourn. From the quiet clouds feeding occasional gentle rains onto the foaming, rocking blue waters of the Philosea, she'd see one of the strangest, most magnificent sights in Betan history. As our fleet, our "rag-tag" fleet as Husband described it, sailed east across the Philosea, 60, 70, 90 ships would sometimes be a swelling entity all together, sometimes be streams of smaller fleets seemingly independent but parallel, and sometimes scattered armadas when boat-Captains decided to linger in ports or at island landings at their will.
That day, I thought, the view from where I stood on our ship was just as dramatic as any overhead eyes. After all, my vision was combined with the smells and feels of ocean winds and waters. Some days, we all saw and smelled smoke rising like gentle ladders to the clouds from ships of burning engines. Sometimes, we heard sky booms and saw vapor trails from fast-moving wingers racing above us, no doubt looking down to see what they could see. Many days, wide-sails with proud Alliance signs were filled with the winds and we looked through our glass scopes to see who was nearby.
Some decorated sails we knew well, many our friends from Biol, Oyne, and Persis. We smiled seeing their new flags bearing the Half-Moon sign Husband had made the emblem of the first peaceful resistance to a government gone mad. We waved at friendly sailors climbing up rigging or waving at us from watch-nests atop sturdy masts, especially the cargo-ship Alnenia's father, Sikas Ricipa, had loaned our tribe to carry many of our support-hands. Other ships in the distance we saw rare. We knew their leaders only by Two-Way or EV-com contacts. We knew every ship in the fleet was filled with fearful refugees, many wondering if Alman submersibles would rise to the surface to demand some ships be turned around.
Others worried the powerful Alman Navy might make attempts to capture individuals the new Alman government might have reason to want. Men especially feared their homeland might insist on reclaiming them. But, in the main, the Alman Navy was conspicuous by its absence.
"Perhaps," Alnenia mused, "they prefer to leave us at the mercy of the elements and possible raiders."
Only as time passed did this unease seem to slowly vanish like the flocks of seabirds winging overhead. Of course, many of these ships were small and designed not for long voyages. Many such had been provisioned in quick time and lacked for food, water, and long-distance navigation equipment. Cargo ships had been hastily converted into passenger vessels. Sometimes we lingered to allow these stragglers to keep close to their protective neighbors. Some days, we all paused as if we were one
body to allow ships heading other directions to cross or cut through our path.
"I would never have imagined," Husband remarked, inhaling the sea air he loved, "that there could be traffic jams in the middle of an ocean."
We had many such. All these disparate exiles cast their fates away from the country that had given us all one choice — bend your mind, your soul, your will to one Lunta, one vision of Olos, one cruel woman with double-powers or leave. So many left. For reasons even the prophets said not, many followed the Duce of Bilan, My Husband, the blind alien of Alpha-Earth to wherever he and his tribe might go. And on this, the third arc of our voyage, we knew not where we went.
To our east, we knew Rhasvin ships were forming a buffer on their coast as if to say, "Sail on, sail on, but sail not here." We knew Arasad ships floated like barracuda to our west as if hoping for at least a few morsels of tribute. But mostly the world watched and wondered.
At the moment I stood on our deck and thought of sister Bar, my womb was too full of the present and the family around me to wonder too much about the doings on other ships or in remote lands. Instead, I allowed my imagined cloud-spirit of Bar to narrow her vision, pointing her fleshless eyes downward at her namesake, our pride, the "Barbara Blue." She'd have seen a very different husband from the tortured animal she'd first met in the Bergarten see-through cell, the abused teacher in the Balnakin School, the haunted husband and father who'd been blamed for the deaths of thousands. Now, if she looked closely, she'd see a man on the deck of his ship playing games with children of nine mothers, including her own daughter, Becky. If she looked close, she might amaze to see a father and his tribe in happy play, a tribe seemingly unconcerned that, once again, our family was homeless.
Once, our tribe would have looked cautious outward, wondering and speculating about the future in new places under new rules with shifting lines of power and need. Once, our Tribal Council would have mourned the loss of a beloved home and the roots we'd sought to plant on Island Bilan. Now, this tribe in transition was led by a father deliberately losing games for laughing offspring between tickling helpless mothers to the decks. Now, the reluctant father of an international exodus seemed to fear nothing.
Still, wise eyes would see Noriah of the Willing Horse and her ten Trustees
spending much time on deck, teaching children and adults alike the ways of alertness and preparation. As she had for years, Sister Doret still taught everyone intricacies of Kin-Po, our exercise that was also our physical defense.
Had the spirit of Bar peered into the window of our ship's parlor, she would have seen the famous corner of Two-Way wavers that once beamed out signals of distress when Tribe Renbourn was at the mercy of Arasad raiders. Now, she'd see maps of all sizes and designs decorating the walls as every Renbourn of every age had been given a vote in the great question. Where was home?
August 8, 2016
Announcing Two Books at Once!
Blind Author Announces Double Promotion of Unique Sci Fi Series
This month, BearManor Media publications is plugging their Beta-Earth Chronicles by promoting two of the volumes simultaneously. On August 1, the fourth volume in Wesley Britton’s inventive series, A Throne for an Alien, was published. At the same time, last year’s debut novel, The Blind Alien, was made available for 99 cents.
Author Wesley Britton, blind due to a genetic disease, says, “The original concept came to me when I asked one question. What would happen to an ordinary man who is dragged to an alternate universe and blinded in the capture? How can anyone cope with a parallel earth where they don’t understand a single word they hear while not being able to see anything or anyone they encounter?”
The depth of the stories is perhaps best summarized by Raymond Benson, author of seven official James Bond novels. “The Blind Alien is a story with a highly original concept, fascinating characters, and not-too-subtle but truthful allegories. Don’t let the sci-fi label or alternate Earth setting fool you--this is a compelling and contemporarily relevant story about race, sex, and social classes.” “It’s a story,” Tosin Coker, the U.K.’s first black female SF novelist adds, “of rebellion, politics, love, science, and religion . . . that’s both entertaining and very thought provoking.”
“Judging from all the reviews at Amazon and Goodreads,” Britton says, “readers are especially intrigued by both the style and substance of the books, especially the language and grammar that keep reminding readers they’re on a completely different planet.”
To date, the series includes The Blind Alien, The Blood of Balnakin, When War Returns, and now A Throne for an Alien. Book five, The Third Earth, is currently in production. “The sixth book is about 110 pages done,” Britton says. “It will all end here on our earth, but expect major surprises regarding our future.”
Media Contact: Ben Ohmart
BOOKS@BENOHMART.COM
Series Website and Author Contact Information:
https://drwesleybritton.com/
This month, BearManor Media publications is plugging their Beta-Earth Chronicles by promoting two of the volumes simultaneously. On August 1, the fourth volume in Wesley Britton’s inventive series, A Throne for an Alien, was published. At the same time, last year’s debut novel, The Blind Alien, was made available for 99 cents.
Author Wesley Britton, blind due to a genetic disease, says, “The original concept came to me when I asked one question. What would happen to an ordinary man who is dragged to an alternate universe and blinded in the capture? How can anyone cope with a parallel earth where they don’t understand a single word they hear while not being able to see anything or anyone they encounter?”
The depth of the stories is perhaps best summarized by Raymond Benson, author of seven official James Bond novels. “The Blind Alien is a story with a highly original concept, fascinating characters, and not-too-subtle but truthful allegories. Don’t let the sci-fi label or alternate Earth setting fool you--this is a compelling and contemporarily relevant story about race, sex, and social classes.” “It’s a story,” Tosin Coker, the U.K.’s first black female SF novelist adds, “of rebellion, politics, love, science, and religion . . . that’s both entertaining and very thought provoking.”
“Judging from all the reviews at Amazon and Goodreads,” Britton says, “readers are especially intrigued by both the style and substance of the books, especially the language and grammar that keep reminding readers they’re on a completely different planet.”
To date, the series includes The Blind Alien, The Blood of Balnakin, When War Returns, and now A Throne for an Alien. Book five, The Third Earth, is currently in production. “The sixth book is about 110 pages done,” Britton says. “It will all end here on our earth, but expect major surprises regarding our future.”
Media Contact: Ben Ohmart
BOOKS@BENOHMART.COM
Series Website and Author Contact Information:
https://drwesleybritton.com/
July 31, 2016
99 Cent Sale on "The Blind Alien"
Special Offer!
For a limited time, The Blind Alien, Book One of the Beta-Earth Chronicles, is on sale at Amazon for just 99 cents!
Now’s a great time to discover how it all began . . . .
For a limited time, The Blind Alien, Book One of the Beta-Earth Chronicles, is on sale at Amazon for just 99 cents!
Now’s a great time to discover how it all began . . . .
November 8, 2015
Praise for The Blind Alien
Here’s the latest praise at Amazon for Wes Britton’s The Blind Alien:
“An excellent work of new SF that hearkens back to the classics of Asimov and Heinlein. Told from the viewpoint of the different characters, it is a tale of a man from our earth (Alpha) being unwittingly transferred to a parallel earth (Beta) where he must learn to adapt to new cultures, attitudes, languages at the same time as coming to grips with the loss of his sight. Each of the characters are fully developed and well defined and being able to hear their thoughts about each encounter brings a richness to the narratives. Politics, religion, social mores and relationships are all examined from both without and within. Think "Stranger in a Strange Land" combined with "Foundation" and you may begin to get an idea of the scope and quality of this adventure.
While definitely not a children's book, for anyone who remembers and loves the way SF used to be (before it became all about war and alien invasions) this is a must read! I eagerly await the remaining books and will pester Dr. Britton and BearManor until I get my hands on them.”—Dave Massengale, Amazon review
http://www.amazon.com/Blind-Alien-Bet...
“Spymaster and imaginative author, Dr. Wesley Britton has another big hit! His book takes the reader on a compelling journey of an Alpha earthling who has been spirited to planet Beta. Science-fiction, yes, but much more. The book explores science, medicine, commerce, education, spiritual life, family life and sex on an alternative planet which
at times is insightful and hilarious in its comparison to our own Earth. In an ingenious way, Dr. Britton has created a new grammar and vocabulary to continually intrigue the reader. A true winner!” –Bobbilas, Amazon Reviewer
http://www.amazon.com/Blind-Alien-Bet...
“An excellent work of new SF that hearkens back to the classics of Asimov and Heinlein. Told from the viewpoint of the different characters, it is a tale of a man from our earth (Alpha) being unwittingly transferred to a parallel earth (Beta) where he must learn to adapt to new cultures, attitudes, languages at the same time as coming to grips with the loss of his sight. Each of the characters are fully developed and well defined and being able to hear their thoughts about each encounter brings a richness to the narratives. Politics, religion, social mores and relationships are all examined from both without and within. Think "Stranger in a Strange Land" combined with "Foundation" and you may begin to get an idea of the scope and quality of this adventure.
While definitely not a children's book, for anyone who remembers and loves the way SF used to be (before it became all about war and alien invasions) this is a must read! I eagerly await the remaining books and will pester Dr. Britton and BearManor until I get my hands on them.”—Dave Massengale, Amazon review
http://www.amazon.com/Blind-Alien-Bet...
“Spymaster and imaginative author, Dr. Wesley Britton has another big hit! His book takes the reader on a compelling journey of an Alpha earthling who has been spirited to planet Beta. Science-fiction, yes, but much more. The book explores science, medicine, commerce, education, spiritual life, family life and sex on an alternative planet which
at times is insightful and hilarious in its comparison to our own Earth. In an ingenious way, Dr. Britton has created a new grammar and vocabulary to continually intrigue the reader. A true winner!” –Bobbilas, Amazon Reviewer
http://www.amazon.com/Blind-Alien-Bet...
September 18, 2015
March 24, 2009
Welcome to Wes Britton’s blog created especially for Good Reads members. I do have an existing blog for spy enthusiasts—thespyreport.livejournal.com—but here I hope to meet folks interested in not only spies but science-fiction as well.
Wes Britton here with his first blog post for Good Reads members. This time around, I’d like to extend two invitations to fellow writers.
First, I’m co-host of an online radio show called “Dave White Presents.” It airs over KSAV.org every other Tuesday at 7:30 p.m. Pacific time, 10:30 EST. “Predictably unpredictable,” the show features Dave White’s comedy bits mixed with interviews of actors, musicians, film producers, and authors of both non-fiction and fiction titles. Want to share your book? Drop me a line—Dave and I divide the interview duties, and some books are more down my alley, others are more suited to Dave’s tastes. We pre-record our interviews via phone in advance, so scheduling is never a problem.
Second, if you’re an author of a book dealing with espionage—whether non-fiction or a novel—my website, WWW.Spywise.net, features interviews, reviews, and articles on nearly every aspect of spycraft. I especially enjoy doing interviews with writers as I think readers appreciate “behind-the-scenes” stories as well as the reviews. We also post articles and reviews by a wide range of contributors including extracts from new books. If this interests you, write me at—
spywise@verizon.net
Cheers---
First, I’m co-host of an online radio show called “Dave White Presents.” It airs over KSAV.org every other Tuesday at 7:30 p.m. Pacific time, 10:30 EST. “Predictably unpredictable,” the show features Dave White’s comedy bits mixed with interviews of actors, musicians, film producers, and authors of both non-fiction and fiction titles. Want to share your book? Drop me a line—Dave and I divide the interview duties, and some books are more down my alley, others are more suited to Dave’s tastes. We pre-record our interviews via phone in advance, so scheduling is never a problem.
Second, if you’re an author of a book dealing with espionage—whether non-fiction or a novel—my website, WWW.Spywise.net, features interviews, reviews, and articles on nearly every aspect of spycraft. I especially enjoy doing interviews with writers as I think readers appreciate “behind-the-scenes” stories as well as the reviews. We also post articles and reviews by a wide range of contributors including extracts from new books. If this interests you, write me at—
spywise@verizon.net
Cheers---
Wes Britton here with his first blog post for Good Reads members. This time around, I’d like to extend two invitations to fellow writers.
First, I’m co-host of an online radio show called “Dave White Presents.” It airs over KSAV.org every other Tuesday at 7:30 p.m. Pacific time, 10:30 EST. “Predictably unpredictable,” the show features Dave White’s comedy bits mixed with interviews of actors, musicians, film producers, and authors of both non-fiction and fiction titles. Want to share your book? Drop me a line—Dave and I divide the interview duties, and some books are more down my alley, others are more suited to Dave’s tastes. We pre-record our interviews via phone in advance, so scheduling is never a problem.
Second, if you’re an author of a book dealing with espionage—whether non-fiction or a novel—my website, WWW.Spywise.net, features interviews, reviews, and articles on nearly every aspect of spycraft. I especially enjoy doing interviews with writers as I think readers appreciate “behind-the-scenes” stories as well as the reviews. We also post articles and reviews by a wide range of contributors including extracts from new books. If this interests you, write me at—
spywise@verizon.net
Cheers---
Second, if you’re an author of a book dealing with espionage—whether non-fiction or a novel—my website, WWW.Spywise.net, features interviews, reviews, and articles on nearly every aspect of spycraft. I especially enjoy doing interviews with writers as I think readers appreciate “behind-the-scenes” stories as well as the reviews. We also post articles and reviews by a wide range of contributors including extracts from new books. If this interests you, write me at—
spywise@verizon.net
Cheers---
Wesley Britton's Blog
This just came in. My favorite two sentences of all time!
“The Blind Alien is a story with a highly original concept, fascinating characters, and not-too-subtle but truthful allegories. Don’t let the ...more
“The Blind Alien is a story with a highly original concept, fascinating characters, and not-too-subtle but truthful allegories. Don’t let the ...more
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