Wesley Britton's Blog - Posts Tagged "beta-earth-chronicles"
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...
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 . . . .
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?
The Blind Alien paperback sale
Today is the last day of the BearManor Media 20% off any paperback sale—and, that, of course, includes The Blind Alien! It lists at $14.95 in print, and we hope sales are good enough to make putting the remaining Beta-Earth books into print as well. So, today, skip Amazon and order directly from BearManor Media—
http://www.bearmanormedia.com/
http://www.bearmanormedia.com/
Return to Alpha has arrived!
At long last! Return to Alpha, the sixth book of the Beta-Earth Chronicles, just went up at Amazon! Experience what our earth will be like 40 years in the future after global warming, the deveastation of waves of biological weapons, and the surprisingly unwelcome news we’re not alone in the universe.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0778JDBX7
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0778JDBX7
Holiday Introduction to Return to Alpha!
It has been a very, very long time since I shared an excerpt from any of the Beta-Earth Chronicles. So, for your holiday reading, here’s part of Chapter One from book six, Return to Alpha.
In the holiday spirit, you can get Return to Alpha with a 15% discount until Dec. 31 from BearManor Media in two different ways. You can get RTA as a stand-alone volume and get the 15% discount by visiting BearManor’s ebook store on Selz.com at:
https://bearmanormedia.selz.com/
Or you can get RTA as part of the six-volume Beta-Earth Chronicles box set--
http://bit.ly/BMboxBEC
Don’t go to Amazon, only BearManor Media’s own store offers the 15% off. Fill out your shopping cart, and then enter the discount code:
X05RCWUZ
To whet your appetite, here’s a bit of RTA for your Christmas reading set on our planet some 40 years in the future --
Arrivals
In the year 2044, large crowds had become an uncommon site on Alpha-Earth. After decades of devastating waves of killer epidemics and the rising of waters that eroded coastlines, sank coastal cities, and left rivers and lakes swollen far beyond their former banks, humanity had endured too many inconceivable losses to leave many hoping their world could ever recover. Not after forty years of famines, quarantines, evacuations, and the shunning of possibly infected survivors by even their own families.
That hopelessness had fueled the sometimes complete break-down of social order, the retreats of nations closing themselves off from the rest of the world, and of course the unleashed murderous rage of young men who went out to punish fellow survivors for reasons that often defied comprehension. Too many believed rumors that other places were getting aid denied them. Too many refused to believe there was anywhere on the planet unaffected by what had reduced earth’s population to perhaps a third of what it had once been.
It was that rage that had long made gathering in large crowds so risky. So fatal. But not everywhere. In lands like the island country of Jamaica, where no power brokers ever pulled the levers of international relations, there was far more sorrow than anger. There was no one there who could be blamed for the loss or unfair distribution of resources. Like many such countries, only victims survived. So when the islanders returned to hosting their colorful, very musical festivals and international travel was permitted again, Jamaica became a magnet for visitors who desperately needed respite from the turmoil of their homelands. Humans needed reminders of what their world had once been.
So, on that February day, when six aliens in the Marivurn spaceship touched down on the white sands of Doctor’s Cave Beach, they landed at the most ideal location possible. In less populated places, local law enforcement and other government entities would have immediately done everything possible to suppress the news of an alien landing. Such matters, most governments would have felt, should be cloaked in secrecy, fearing how the public would react.
But there was no way there could be any secrecy with the arrival of the Marivurn. From the moment it appeared in the bright, clear sunny skies over Jamaica, for miles video-phones and cameras began recording the strange craft’s descent. Almost immediately, videos of the unexpected sight were sent to online sites all over the Internet.
At Doctor’s Cave, even more recorders focused on the ship when it glided down for its landing. The only time the ship was hidden from view was when it approached the ground and thick, white beams coming from its bottom kicked up clouds of beach sand and debris into the air. It looked nothing like anything anyone had seen before. With its pulsating, throbbing, rumbling hum that quickly went away once the craft settled on the sand, it sounded like nothing ever heard.
The triangular hull was a deep-black, corrugated metal that shimmered and rippled in the sunlight as if it was a living thing. Its edges looked rough and sharp. There were no obvious windows, lighting, or hatches. That part of the ship was around thirty feet long with a flat middle peak running front to back around seven feet tall towards its back end. Behind the triangle were two large, round metal bulbs that looked about twelve feet in diameter. “That Thing is kind of eerily beautiful,” one onlooker whispered into his camera’s microphone. “It’s kind of menacing, all black on this white beach.”
Interest in the craft grew even more when a side hatch opened and six passengers slowly stumbled out onto the sand. As the aliens became visible, many amateur photographers climbed onto chairs and tables to shoot over the heads of the scattered groups of the beach-goers. Gasps of surprise burst from all over the beach, especially from so many amazed children who raced away from their water sports to join in on the excitement. In particular, those who saw the large-chinned Hamed pilots didn’t know if they should be startled, frightened, or laugh out loud. The other four bodies, looking so normal, didn’t get as much attention. Mostly, the people watched how the two men and two women had difficulty standing up.
But only for a few moments. It didn’t take long for two of the humans, the pair carrying black satchels over their shoulders who looked very much like average teenagers, to rise wobbly to their feet and start looking around. After they said a few words to each other, the young man raised his right hand in greeting and called out, “Greetings, my fellow humans of Alpha-Earth! My name is Malcolm Renbourn III and me and my sister”—he indicated a smiling Olrei beside him—“come to you from our home planet which we call Cerapin-Earth!”
“And the others behind us,” Olrei called out, stepping forward towards the crowd, “include our brother and sister from another earth as well, their home planet called Beta-Earth! All our earths are part of our shared multi-verse which we have come to tell you about! All our planets, including yours, share the spaces in between the swirling masses you call atoms!”
Malcolm III and Olrei looked around them, not certain how far their voices had carried considering how loud the rhythmic music of the synthesized horns and guitars, thumping bass, and the melodic pounding on the steel-pan drums was in the background. They needn’t have worried. They had everyone’s undivided attention, to put it mildly. Some people were even applauding, thinking the show was some sort of creative entertainment.
By this time, Malcolm II and Kalmeg had staggered to their feet, their eyes also looking all around them. They couldn’t have known it, but many cameras carried by male watchers were tightly focused on Kalmeg’s perfectly sculpted hour-glass figure. Instead, the Betans heard Olrei call out, “Oh, before I forget, let me introduce you to our Cerapin pilots back there, the Hamed brothers! I know they might not look it, but they too share our common humanity, the humanity that populates all our worlds!”
While Malcolm III and Olrei began walking towards the gawking people who stared at them with open mouths and wide eyes, Malcolm II and Kalmeg simply looked back at the onlookers. If the aliens intrigued the local folk, well, the Jamaicans and their guests were equally interesting sights for the Renbourns. Under the coconut trees that dotted the beach, people were sitting beneath large shading umbrellas or were walking around wearing sunglasses, hats, and wildly colorful shirts and shorts. Without question, the most eye-catching sights were the swimsuits and the bodies wearing them.
“Father’s people,” Malcolm observed happily, his eyes drinking in the tan and dark-skinned women displaying all that human flesh in those swimsuits.
“It would be nice to think,” Kalmeg replied, her own eyes appreciating the hard-bodies of the other gender, “they arranged this party just to welcome us!”
However, it was quickly evident the aliens weren’t as welcome as they hoped. Suddenly, several official vehicles pushed their way through the crowds. Four and then six uniformed men came running at them. Holding out pistols gripped in both hands, five of them wore white and blue striped short-sleeved shirts and black serge trousers with red stripes down their seams. The one in front, the obvious leader, wore a khaki jacket, shirt and trousers, with epaulettes on his shoulders. He wore a deep blue peaked cap with a black band and silver braiding on the peak.
He was the one to call out, “All of you, down on your knees! Now! Toss those satchels away from you, away from the crowd! Now!”
The four Renbourns looked surprised, but slowly dropped to their knees. Not understanding a word they heard, the Hameds followed suit.
The officer who had called out the commands came closer. “Now, let me see your papers!”
“Papers?” Malcolm III looked up. “Papers?”
“Your entry visas, your passports, your official permission to land that craft over there!”
“Ah, I guess you didn’t hear. We are from other planets. That spaceship just jumped across three universes. These are our very first minutes on your earth.”
“Ah ha. And I’m Bob Marley’s ghost. Flat on the ground, all of you! Put your hands behind your backs!”
In short order, one group of very worried looking officers gave the satchels special attention, sending over two wheeled box-shaped robots that pulled the satchels into their metal bellies. At the same time, other policemen went behind the six aliens and secured their wrists with hand-ties.
“Be careful with those satchels!” Malcolm III cried out. “They contain all our records and files we brought to share with your planet!”
“Ah ha,” the one in charge responded. “Maybe some bombs to create a bit of havoc here?”
“Oh no, oh no,” Olrei cried out. “We have no weapons! We need no weapons!”
“Enough talk!” The officer looked over his shoulder as two quarantine-vans approached. Kalmeg looked up from her now very uncomfortable vantage point and sighed. Was it just this morning she was on her home earth, standing up, her wrists free? Then, looking at the faces of the people not wearing police uniforms, she decided what was happening now might be a very good thing. The faces now looked stunned, serious, uncertain. Perhaps all this wasn’t a show after all.
As two officers hauled Kalmeg to her feet and roughly hustled her to the quarantine-van, her mind went back to how her day had begun. Before the world, well, worlds completely changed not just for her but for her entire family once again.
Explore the Beta Earth Chronicles website:
https://drwesleybritton.com/books/
Follow Wes Britton’s Goodreads blog:
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
Follow Wes Britton’s Beta Earth Chronicles Facebook page:
https://www.facebook.com/BetaEarthChr...
View the snazzy Beta Earth Chronicles book trailer at:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m8rrP...
See and hear the sexy brand-new reading from the opening pages of The Blind Alien, Vol. 1 of the Beta-Earth Chronicles, at YouTube:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=klMW7...
Read the brand-new first Amazon review for RTA at:
https://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-re...
In the holiday spirit, you can get Return to Alpha with a 15% discount until Dec. 31 from BearManor Media in two different ways. You can get RTA as a stand-alone volume and get the 15% discount by visiting BearManor’s ebook store on Selz.com at:
https://bearmanormedia.selz.com/
Or you can get RTA as part of the six-volume Beta-Earth Chronicles box set--
http://bit.ly/BMboxBEC
Don’t go to Amazon, only BearManor Media’s own store offers the 15% off. Fill out your shopping cart, and then enter the discount code:
X05RCWUZ
To whet your appetite, here’s a bit of RTA for your Christmas reading set on our planet some 40 years in the future --
Arrivals
In the year 2044, large crowds had become an uncommon site on Alpha-Earth. After decades of devastating waves of killer epidemics and the rising of waters that eroded coastlines, sank coastal cities, and left rivers and lakes swollen far beyond their former banks, humanity had endured too many inconceivable losses to leave many hoping their world could ever recover. Not after forty years of famines, quarantines, evacuations, and the shunning of possibly infected survivors by even their own families.
That hopelessness had fueled the sometimes complete break-down of social order, the retreats of nations closing themselves off from the rest of the world, and of course the unleashed murderous rage of young men who went out to punish fellow survivors for reasons that often defied comprehension. Too many believed rumors that other places were getting aid denied them. Too many refused to believe there was anywhere on the planet unaffected by what had reduced earth’s population to perhaps a third of what it had once been.
It was that rage that had long made gathering in large crowds so risky. So fatal. But not everywhere. In lands like the island country of Jamaica, where no power brokers ever pulled the levers of international relations, there was far more sorrow than anger. There was no one there who could be blamed for the loss or unfair distribution of resources. Like many such countries, only victims survived. So when the islanders returned to hosting their colorful, very musical festivals and international travel was permitted again, Jamaica became a magnet for visitors who desperately needed respite from the turmoil of their homelands. Humans needed reminders of what their world had once been.
So, on that February day, when six aliens in the Marivurn spaceship touched down on the white sands of Doctor’s Cave Beach, they landed at the most ideal location possible. In less populated places, local law enforcement and other government entities would have immediately done everything possible to suppress the news of an alien landing. Such matters, most governments would have felt, should be cloaked in secrecy, fearing how the public would react.
But there was no way there could be any secrecy with the arrival of the Marivurn. From the moment it appeared in the bright, clear sunny skies over Jamaica, for miles video-phones and cameras began recording the strange craft’s descent. Almost immediately, videos of the unexpected sight were sent to online sites all over the Internet.
At Doctor’s Cave, even more recorders focused on the ship when it glided down for its landing. The only time the ship was hidden from view was when it approached the ground and thick, white beams coming from its bottom kicked up clouds of beach sand and debris into the air. It looked nothing like anything anyone had seen before. With its pulsating, throbbing, rumbling hum that quickly went away once the craft settled on the sand, it sounded like nothing ever heard.
The triangular hull was a deep-black, corrugated metal that shimmered and rippled in the sunlight as if it was a living thing. Its edges looked rough and sharp. There were no obvious windows, lighting, or hatches. That part of the ship was around thirty feet long with a flat middle peak running front to back around seven feet tall towards its back end. Behind the triangle were two large, round metal bulbs that looked about twelve feet in diameter. “That Thing is kind of eerily beautiful,” one onlooker whispered into his camera’s microphone. “It’s kind of menacing, all black on this white beach.”
Interest in the craft grew even more when a side hatch opened and six passengers slowly stumbled out onto the sand. As the aliens became visible, many amateur photographers climbed onto chairs and tables to shoot over the heads of the scattered groups of the beach-goers. Gasps of surprise burst from all over the beach, especially from so many amazed children who raced away from their water sports to join in on the excitement. In particular, those who saw the large-chinned Hamed pilots didn’t know if they should be startled, frightened, or laugh out loud. The other four bodies, looking so normal, didn’t get as much attention. Mostly, the people watched how the two men and two women had difficulty standing up.
But only for a few moments. It didn’t take long for two of the humans, the pair carrying black satchels over their shoulders who looked very much like average teenagers, to rise wobbly to their feet and start looking around. After they said a few words to each other, the young man raised his right hand in greeting and called out, “Greetings, my fellow humans of Alpha-Earth! My name is Malcolm Renbourn III and me and my sister”—he indicated a smiling Olrei beside him—“come to you from our home planet which we call Cerapin-Earth!”
“And the others behind us,” Olrei called out, stepping forward towards the crowd, “include our brother and sister from another earth as well, their home planet called Beta-Earth! All our earths are part of our shared multi-verse which we have come to tell you about! All our planets, including yours, share the spaces in between the swirling masses you call atoms!”
Malcolm III and Olrei looked around them, not certain how far their voices had carried considering how loud the rhythmic music of the synthesized horns and guitars, thumping bass, and the melodic pounding on the steel-pan drums was in the background. They needn’t have worried. They had everyone’s undivided attention, to put it mildly. Some people were even applauding, thinking the show was some sort of creative entertainment.
By this time, Malcolm II and Kalmeg had staggered to their feet, their eyes also looking all around them. They couldn’t have known it, but many cameras carried by male watchers were tightly focused on Kalmeg’s perfectly sculpted hour-glass figure. Instead, the Betans heard Olrei call out, “Oh, before I forget, let me introduce you to our Cerapin pilots back there, the Hamed brothers! I know they might not look it, but they too share our common humanity, the humanity that populates all our worlds!”
While Malcolm III and Olrei began walking towards the gawking people who stared at them with open mouths and wide eyes, Malcolm II and Kalmeg simply looked back at the onlookers. If the aliens intrigued the local folk, well, the Jamaicans and their guests were equally interesting sights for the Renbourns. Under the coconut trees that dotted the beach, people were sitting beneath large shading umbrellas or were walking around wearing sunglasses, hats, and wildly colorful shirts and shorts. Without question, the most eye-catching sights were the swimsuits and the bodies wearing them.
“Father’s people,” Malcolm observed happily, his eyes drinking in the tan and dark-skinned women displaying all that human flesh in those swimsuits.
“It would be nice to think,” Kalmeg replied, her own eyes appreciating the hard-bodies of the other gender, “they arranged this party just to welcome us!”
However, it was quickly evident the aliens weren’t as welcome as they hoped. Suddenly, several official vehicles pushed their way through the crowds. Four and then six uniformed men came running at them. Holding out pistols gripped in both hands, five of them wore white and blue striped short-sleeved shirts and black serge trousers with red stripes down their seams. The one in front, the obvious leader, wore a khaki jacket, shirt and trousers, with epaulettes on his shoulders. He wore a deep blue peaked cap with a black band and silver braiding on the peak.
He was the one to call out, “All of you, down on your knees! Now! Toss those satchels away from you, away from the crowd! Now!”
The four Renbourns looked surprised, but slowly dropped to their knees. Not understanding a word they heard, the Hameds followed suit.
The officer who had called out the commands came closer. “Now, let me see your papers!”
“Papers?” Malcolm III looked up. “Papers?”
“Your entry visas, your passports, your official permission to land that craft over there!”
“Ah, I guess you didn’t hear. We are from other planets. That spaceship just jumped across three universes. These are our very first minutes on your earth.”
“Ah ha. And I’m Bob Marley’s ghost. Flat on the ground, all of you! Put your hands behind your backs!”
In short order, one group of very worried looking officers gave the satchels special attention, sending over two wheeled box-shaped robots that pulled the satchels into their metal bellies. At the same time, other policemen went behind the six aliens and secured their wrists with hand-ties.
“Be careful with those satchels!” Malcolm III cried out. “They contain all our records and files we brought to share with your planet!”
“Ah ha,” the one in charge responded. “Maybe some bombs to create a bit of havoc here?”
“Oh no, oh no,” Olrei cried out. “We have no weapons! We need no weapons!”
“Enough talk!” The officer looked over his shoulder as two quarantine-vans approached. Kalmeg looked up from her now very uncomfortable vantage point and sighed. Was it just this morning she was on her home earth, standing up, her wrists free? Then, looking at the faces of the people not wearing police uniforms, she decided what was happening now might be a very good thing. The faces now looked stunned, serious, uncertain. Perhaps all this wasn’t a show after all.
As two officers hauled Kalmeg to her feet and roughly hustled her to the quarantine-van, her mind went back to how her day had begun. Before the world, well, worlds completely changed not just for her but for her entire family once again.
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"Murder in the Canyon" is still a free read!If you haven’t claimed your free copy of Wes Britton’s “Murder in the Canyon” yet, here’s the latest link to a giveaway with a ton of other free SF titles as well. Enjoy the late summer reading!
If you haven’t claimed your free copy of Wes Britton’s “Murder in the Canyon” yet, here’s the latest link to a giveaway with a ton of other free SF titles as well. Enjoy the late summer reading!
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This is also your first chance to read my latest story, "THE DUTIFUL DETECTIVE AND THE DEADLY DECOYS."
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This is also your first chance to read my latest story, "THE DUTIFUL DETECTIVE AND THE DEADLY DECOYS."
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“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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