Wesley Britton's Blog - Posts Tagged "wesley-britton"

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...

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/

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?

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.

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.

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

This week, I began my series of introductions of the main characters in the Beta-Earth Chronicles by having them describe themselves in their own words. So far, you’ve learned a bit about the blue slave, Bar Tine, and the Cawl sisters, Lorei and Elsbeth.

Today, meet the towering exile from the Ice-Countries, Joline Sonam, clearly a favorite of many male readers. Perhaps that’s because she has a healthy libido, perhaps it’s her amazingly long legs. I hope, I hope, I hope readers will find much more to Joline than that, especially her creative and artistic side.

For a quick backstage peek: I admit I had Princess Diana in mind when crafting Joline’s facial features and hair style. That’s because, at the time, I was about to make Betan paparazzi—whom Malcolm Renbourn would quickly dub the “Pharisees”—an ongoing, constant, and relentless torment for Tribe Renbourn. Me, I can’t think about the paparazzi without remembering the tragic end to Princess Di. Those who know anything about the Mesa Verde cliff-dwellers in Colorado might recognize some of the setting revealed below.

Before Joline shares her back-story, I’ll define a few terms: “moons” are roughly our months; Wellnee is the college town where the Renbourns are living; “Sojoa” is both the sun and a sun god. “Skoling” is writing. I’ll let you figure out what namna and spears are from the context.

Remember: Beta-Earth suffers from the ancient Plague-With-No-Name which kills three out of four male infants their first year. That’s what Joline is referring to when she mentions “burnings”—meaning the sad cremations of these small victims.

Joline: It was my third half-year at Wellnee in the final moons of 1721 when I started working for Malcolm. I badly needed the work. I had no accounts
other than those from my own hands. So I was unhappy not to set studies aside to pay my way. True said, I hadn't left my home country of Aufrei to come
to Wellnee with a firm path to begin with. My parents only hope had been that I would find a good Rhasvin spear.
I say with fondness, Aufrei was a beautiful land to grow in, especially the half-year winters when we largely retreated to our cliff-caves. During those
moons, we could look over the fields and bare forests gleaming in various shades of thick snows. Hard waters hung from trees and looked like sculpted patterns
along gorges and avalanche piles in the deep valley below our cliff. In the warm months, a child could run freely and climb trees and see what seemed to
be the whole world. I could look across the valley into my home. From this perch, I thought our tall stone buildings looked like they'd been carved into
a huge flat-bottomed mouth on the side of our cliff. We were all expert climbers, able to quickly scurry up and down the sheer wall that had kept invaders
at bay in old times. Sometimes, the smoke rising from the council-pits dug into the cave floor made my home seem a stage and my community populated more
by actors than hard people who preferred simple ways.
In Aufrei, tribes are not like others know. We are a people who prefer living in small bands. For us, wisdom says the size of a country is the width of
the light cast from a festival fire. My father, like many others, had three wives. One fell through thin ice and was found not for moons. Another simply
left one night and we never saw her again. My Mother, the one female to stay with Father and keep his home livable, spent years standing in the morning
air, offering her naked breasts to Sojoa, praying for the white-light that gives mothers healthy milk. Like others of our ways, she had closed her eyes
and wailed aloud and inhaled the dawn into her lungs to energize the seeds in her womb. Standing at the cliff edge in a line with other wives sharing in
the desperate cry, she had torn at her breast with sharp pronged ice-forks so her blood would flow and freeze in the open air as a sacrifice to a god so
far from us. A god who seemingly only rewarded endurance and tired muscles. My parents had done all Sojoa had asked. Like most families, They suffered
four burnings of sons for their trouble. Only I survived. No male to grow into a new tribal head.
Yes, I was tall in the ways of my people. But I never bulked with the protective fat and muscle of my people. All thought I was a weakling in mind and
body. I would have thrived in school had I not been such a dreamer, sketching pictures where notes should have been skoled. I loved my pots and brushes.
But my attempts to share these images were awkward and lifeless. For my panels, I could mix the egg fluids, oils, and dyes to make proper tones, proper
shades for light and shadow. I could sketch stark lines and fill them with correct colors and tints. But I could animate people not. All the faces seemed
naïve, empty, even when I tried to convey the stark anger in elders like my father. I could capture what the eye can see, but not what humans shaped inside
themselves. So my panels became fire food.
More important to my parents, I caught chills easily and few thought I would survive the maiden years. A gentle soul, my Mother sighed in frustration,
needs a large tribe to shelter her. No man in Aufrie had namna to waste on the likes of me except in the spring festivals where young men were permitted
spearing of any girl wishing to, at least, rid ourselves of the unsaid shame of virginity. My Father would have forbid this. For he thought me so useless
that he'd be forced to raise any offspring I might bear. I think he hated the sight of children. For me, talking to my father was like talking to no one.
So Mother decided I should find a man bound not to Dawn-Inhale customs. It might seem harsh to some, but my family exiled me from Aufrei. Perhaps harsh
lands breed harsh beliefs. I was far from the first to hear the words many daughters dread. Still, I gratefulled when Father gave me the accounts to begin
schooling in Wellnee. The one condition was that I never return.

Beta-Earth website:

https://drwesleybritton.com/

Author contact:

spywise@verizon.net

Just for fun, I thought I’d take a break from all the character descriptions and toss in an action scene for you. This one is from The Blood of Balnakin.

For a little set-up, this scene takes place while the Renbourns are on a tour of the Old Continent where they encounter many new cultures and customs. In the setting described below, they’re at a mountain village where Malcolm and Alnenia Renbourn think they’re sharing an outdoor dinner with representatives of three remote settlements. Things get a little rougher than they expected.

To define a few terms: a “Legem” is a mayor or tribal chief. A “stadsem” is a college, or in this case, a medical school. A “cran” is a human head.

So, in the words of Alnenia Renbourn:

As the skies darkened and the fires became our main light, the bulky but powerful Legem lost his smile as he turned to Husband sitting next to him. "Honored guest," the man pronounced thick, "I must tell you entertainments here are not what you may be accustomed to. Tonight, you must know, is not an eve of mere happy sport. My second son, the one we wish to send to one of your stadsems, must this eve accept his first wife from the daughters of our three villages. Our ways will seem crude to you. I will simple say you must interfere not with what you will witness this moonless night."
Malcolm nodded as the man stood up and spoke loud in his native tongue. A young man, too young to boast a beard, came forward, kneeling his head to all of us before taking a place by his father. Suddenly, I knew what was coming. I slipped one of my hands through Malcolm's fingers and laid the other over his wrist. I began whispering soft descriptions of what I saw.
As we listened to the murmurs of the seated crowd, three women emerged into the fire-light from each corner of the triangle of tables. Each woman, barely more than girls, were naked. Each wore faces of stern resolve. Eyeing each other full wary, they moved quick around the open area gathering what stones and rocks they could carry.
When they came close to the fire-trenches, I studied the bodies of these women. To my eyes, the strongest was a tall, long-brown haired girl with long limbs, large eyes, and almost manly muscles. She was a head taller than the other two. Both shorter fighters were blonde-haired. One blonde had cropped her hair short and looked around her with fierce intelligence. The last girl, the shortest of the three, had looser locks and seemed to be a woman of a trade or craft and had lived not an outdoor life of hunting or farming. Her muscles were those not of one prepared for hard labors.
Her eyes were dull and her movements listless. Judging by their movements, none of the three seemed experienced or trained in physical combat. This would be no demonstration in Kingrol or other skilled fighting.
Then, the three stood still near their corners. Each had one arm across their bellies holding their stone collections. Their free hands held one stone tightly. "Prepare to lower your head," I told Malcolm," The air may become thick with flying rocks." I was correct. After a long minute of silence, the young man watching the game for his affections held up a horn and blew a long, deep note. With that, the three girls began hurling their weapons at each other. Around me, I heard laughs from the audience as they crouched low to avoid missent missiles. To my surprise, few stones missed their mark. I heard grunts and groans until all three had empty arms. "Now it begins," I whispered.
Now with free hands, the combatants moved closer to the center of the field, each sizing up the other. If I were one of the blonde-ones, I thought as my heart began to pound, I'd team up and take out the tall one first. Against her, unskilled in such arts, neither of the others could possibly win. As if sensing my thoughts, the two shorter girls jumped at each other, scratching and punching as the brown-hair seemed to look on and wait. But then, the two light-hairs whirled and came at the brown. Her crooked smile, to my eyes, was premature. The girl with the intelligent leer lunged for her throat while the other danced a semi-circle behind her. Trying to watch both attackers, the brown was caught off guard as the littlest woman with the dull eyes jumped and wrapped herself around the brown's knees, toppling her face forward to the ground.
The sound intensified as the grunts and cries were now almost lost in the beat of fists as the watchers began pounding a rhythm on the tables. Neither Malcolm nor I joined in as my hands clenched tight on my Husband. Out in the field, the brown-hair had twisted so her face was skyward. But her legs were trapped. While she flailed, the other blonde kept kicking her with her heels, striking hard blows on her cran and shoulders. Desperate, the brown tried to turn, and that was when a flying foot hit her exposed side. I heard a terrible crack — I certained a rib had been broken.
With that sound, the blonde who'd pinned the tall one's legs let go and crouched back, studying the scene. The brown was rolling and crying, her hands on her side. I saw not the smiles of the other two, but the battle was now more even.
I looked at Malcolm, whose face was turned down. He said nothing and I felt sorrow. I was glad he could see this not. But I could keep my eyes not off the new combat and felt my own blood warm and my pulse quicken as if my heart was part of the fast pounding on the tables. It could have been me out there, primitive, savage, if not for the will of Olos. I raised one hand to circle my breasts with a protective loop.
Then the two blondes flew at each other, both pushing their fingers in the other's throats. "You waste force," I muttered to myself, but neither heard me or would have understood. Instead, gasping and grunting, both fell to the ground, rolling and spitting. Then, the little one on the bottom — her eyes perhaps dull but her motions no longer listless — kicked up her knees, and her opponent flew near the fires. She jumped up and scrambled away from the hot blaze. The other laughed as she picked up two stones which she threw perfectly at the shorter girl. Then they were at it again, grappling and cursing and punching. Shocks of hair were pulled loose. Both faces darkened with blood.
Intense in their battle, neither noticed the brown-hair who was panting quiet but slowly rising to her knees. Her eyes were wild and bright as she painfully staggered to her feet. Silent, she moved toward the fight while the stouter of the blondes swung a hard fist square on the face of the little one with dim eyes. For one moment, she stood there, dazed. Then she crumbled to the ground. Too soon, the victorious blonde raised her fists high with a cry of triumph. But in that moment, the brown behind her quickly snaked her own arms beneath the other's armpits and then wrapped her forearms behind the blonde's cran. The seeming victor was now suspended in the air, her limbs flailing angrily.
Then, step by step, the brown slowly moved forward, bearing her burden closer and closer to a trench-fire. I saw the face of the blonde, now fearful and shocked. The brown-hair uttered, "Burn. Or yield." The desperate blonde stopped moving her arms and tried to kick herself free. But the pair only moved forward, closer to the flames.
The brown repeated, "Burn. Or yield."
All around me, I heard breathing not. The drum-beat had stopped but I knew not the moment when sound had stilled. The meats in my belly rose to my throat in anticipation. Then we all heard the pitiful "I yield!" Then the brown whirled and flung her adversary away from the flames. In one moment, both women were lying on the ground.
Then, figures from two of the tables ran onto the field, the friends and family of the vanquished women collecting their wounded daughters. At the same time, the brown hair half-crawled, half-knelt her way to our table favoring her wounded side. Half her face was already swelling and turning ugly colors. She raised an open palm and slapped it on the wood before the Legem. "I have bled to share blood," she panted hoarse. I claim your son."

Beta-Earth website:

https://drwesleybritton.com/

Author contact:

spywise@verizon.net

Here’s one last free sample from A Throne for an Alien. It’s the very descriptive and gentle introduction as “written” by a new character, Elena Richelo Renbourn. Elena paints the setting for Throne in her own words. Here ya go--

Many of the new terms below I won’t explain here as they are being introduced for the first time in Elena’s words. But you might like to know the title, Duce of Bilan, applies to Malcolm Renbourn, the title he accepted when he bonded with Sasperia Thorwaif which made him a member of the Alman Mentala, roughly the equivalent of England’s House of Lords. The reasons for that are a long story, a huge part of When War Returns, book 3 of the Chronicles.

In her first paragraph, Elena identifies this book as the last in the series. What she couldn’t have known, and what this author didn’t know at the time, was that other adventures awaited Tribe Renbourn on a Third Earth.

So without further ado and hoping those who haven’t read the first three books won’t get lost or confused, meet Elena, her family, and her country. I suspect you’ll experience a big surprise at the end, but an introduction is no place for spoilers:

Alone in my private chambers, I, Elena Richelo Renbourn, sit and skol these painful words by myself. Unlike our Preparations to our first three books, my bond-sisters feel my thoughts are of special interest beginning this, our last chronicles of the first generation of Tribe Renbourn on Beta-Earth. Sister Doret believes my story is the least known and worthy of some introduction. Sasperia believes my perspective sets the stage for the events of these years with a voice not part of the First Circle. Jona prefers to skol not at all. So, I will tell of how the little-known country of Hitalec came to offer its shores to the water-meandering Renbourn tribe and the exiled fleet in their wake in the year, 1735.

In 1720, I was in my ninth year when the word went forth that an alien from a sister-earth had been captured and was living in our northern neighbor, Balnakin. For our island, for all our part of the planet, such news was fascinating but remote. As I grew, the stories of Malcolm Renbourn and his wives, Lorei, Elsbeth, Bar, Joline, Alnenia, and then Doret, Kalma, and Sasperia were adventures of a tribe relevant to the Old and New Continents. But these stories were of little importance in our hemisphere. Hitalec, in truth, was also of little importance in our own region, the island countries part of the Grovsea basin. In the words of my Father, we were the tail of a dog whose history was wagged by others. For Hitalec was a country barely a nation.

Simple said, my mother, Nor, the Queen of Hitalec, ruled as a connector between tribes from three cultures. We had three populated regions that were primarily colonies of our neighbors. Our capital, Satraq, and the lands around it on our western coast, for example, were beholden to Menzia. Menzia was, and remains, the curving land bridging the New Continent with the land mass known as Verashesh.

My Mother's eldest sister, Kinita, ruled Menzia with her three husbands and helped our land with resources and protection. Like her sister, my mother, too, had three husbands in the Menzian royal-blood tradition. Her first bond-mate, the late Marmine Richelo, father to my older sister, Bet, had been Consort-Liege before his ill-timed fall down a mountain face. Bet would one day rule Hitalec with her wary and worried eyes.

In the craggy north coast beside our capital was Rumus, an undisciplined colony of settlers from Rymo, the desert land between Balnakin and Menzia. Once, these were the people who had filled our island before waves of disease, earthquakes, and other now forgotten devastations wiped out a population of mostly farmers and animal grazers.

My father, Tusjin, brother to the dead Consort-Liege, was Lord of this region of survivors. He was a kindly man who adored My Mother and his daughter. One day, I would govern here bonded to one Lord or another from the same culture, obedient to my sister.

Below Rumus, next to my Mother's domain, was the unruly Lumus, our industrial area governed by My Mother's third husband, Gant Thanq, the leader of the thin-haired and cat-eyed Lorilians. They were a race who had founded their own colony there many years past to have a base for their own trade interests in our seas. Unlike most from Grovsea countries, the Lorilians were blue-brown not in their skin tones, but were instead the yellow of puffy Ear-Leaves in planting times.

The daughter of this union, my sister Moy, was both slow of mind and encouraged not by her father to accomplish much in her life. She'd be ill-suited for governance or bonding, which her father desired not for her. For the Lorilians wanted little to do with a central government in our country. With government comes responsibility and restraints. The southern half of Hitalec wanted neither.

The rest of our island, beautiful as it was, was surprisingly sparse in people. For many years, the northern coast to the east was but a land for escaping Balnakin slaves to pass through after short voyages from their unfriendly homeland. Few stayed, wishing to distance themselves from slave-raiders. Those who tried to plant roots were at the mercy of foragers, bandits, and the sea-pirates who roamed freely on that coast. So, over time, few even tried to make use of our fertile soils.

By the time of my maturity, the hills to the south and to the east of Lumus were filled with secretive and hidden enclaves of former slaves only now learning that Balnakin no longer sought them. After Crater Bergarten and the miraculous bonding of Malcolm and Kalma Renbourn, blues still poured through the region as freed people, but they still wanted distance from Balnakin fearing changes in political winds. They still dug the tunnels and underground vikas free from the prying eyes of satellites in the sky.

Only the port town of Weg, an unorganized area of fishers and small farmers, sat unmolested at the end of Hitalec, far from the interests of their government. So, a vast area of land sat dormant. Inviting. Waiting.

Hitalec, remote as it was, had not been untouched by the influence of Tribe Renbourn. The Renbourn reach had, in fact, made its first presence on my island while I began completion of my school years. Helprims and teachers for the Fisher Way were now brought to our disadvantaged people in Weg and to the blue-skin cave-dwellers.

In Rumus, I dealt much with the Salk family who had many contracts with our businesses who bought and sold goods based on Alphan designs. I recall one eve listening to My Father telling My Mother about the Renbourn's visit with the Mother-Icealt of All-Domes.

"There is comfort," he said, "knowing there is another earth like ours. We're alone not."

But such musings had little to do with a young woman's life that was bordered on four sides by the Grovsea. Alma, Kirip, Silvivan, even Rhasvi were my world not, even if I shared the mother-tongue of Alma.

So, in our royal palace, we watched the vicious and deadly turmoil in Alma as if watching dynasties change in Rigel or Minnestt. When we saw the strange fleet leave the Old Continent led by the Duce of Bilan and his tribe, we watched as if seeing a tale of imaginative skolers.

My Mother leaned forward and said to My Father, "Tusjin, I've read the reports of that fleet. Those ships carry Helprims, Legems, fishers, farmers, builders, and perhaps miners and engineers — and the famous Renbourn Tribe. They seek new roots. I cannot see such as the Renbourns settling here. But the others? Tusjin, we have lands that could use such peoples. Perhaps Hitalec could attract some of the unwanted of Alma? If those sailing now settled here, they might well call for their tribes still on the Old Continent."

My Father laughed. "Perhaps. Should I make inquiries?"

And that is how it began.

Elena Renbourn,
Liege of the United States of America

The full A Throne for an Alien is available at:
https://www.amazon.com/Throne-Alien-B...

Book 1 of the series, The Blind Alien, is still on sale for 99 cents!
https://www.amazon.com/Blind-Alien-Be...

Coming This Fall!

The Third Earth—The Beta-Earth Chronicles: Book 5
http://bmfiction.com/science-fiction/...

Here's anew review I spotted at Amazon today--

A great read for any sci-fi fan!
ByChip Stollon September 30, 2016

I thoroughly enjoyed Dr. Wesley Britton's "The Blind Alien", the story of Malcolm who is transported to a parallel earth-like planet, losing his eyesight in the process. It took only a couple of pages to adjust to the parallel dialect but soon came to enjoy it. It difficulted my cran at times to interpret the new words and this sometimes took me out of the flow of the story. But this is also the fun of reading sci-fi. The story itself was very believable and the world creation kept me fixated. The way Malcolm was treated was a great allegory as to how we might have treated an alien visiting our planet. The family he formed produced many empathetic characters and situations. I found it extremely interesting that although they planned on comparing the spirituality between the Alphas and Betas, the Betans were actually more interested in the Alphas fashions and games. This is a great read for any fan of the sci-fi genre.