Gods of the New Moons by J. L. Forrest

Author:J. L. Forrest [Forrest, J. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Robot Cowgirl Press
Published: 2019-03-21T22:00:00+00:00

Strange to hear Beowulf in French. But why not? The flat of the spearpoint smacks the backs of my thighs, drives me past the central hearth. When I reach the foot of the dais, I raise my head, my attention drawn to the thrones.

I humble myself before the Queens.

XVIII. Sufficiently Advanced

Recollected

2131.3.11.7:20 GMT

Alt 40.2E6m

High Earth Orbit

EIK-Cel Station

Second-to-last time I saw Mr. Avidità, before my launch into space with the baby-who-would-be-Alastar, the King and I sparred in his private dojo. We traded kicks and punches, breathless, between snippets of conversation.

“I cannot stress enough,” he said, “you have only four objectives.”

I attempted to sweep his feet, but he leapt away. He landed too hard on his heel, off balance, and I managed to graze his ribs. Springing back from a sidekick, I centered myself and reassessed my strategy.

“I was going to ask you about the objectives, Your Grace.”

“Oh?”

He flew at me, a volley of kicks, then tried to leverage me against his hip, to slam me to the mats. I rolled across his back and punched his kidney. Grunting, he spun away, clenching his teeth.

“The first is clear enough,” I said. “Deliver the baby to New Juneau.”

“As far as we can tell, young children are welcome there, all adopted. It’s about as safe a place on Earth a child could be.”

“Excepting an Avidità facility?”

He steadied his breath. “Naturally.”

Mr. Avidità lunged, jabs and uppercuts, street-fighter style. Weaving, I locked my leg behind his and slammed him to the mat. Before I could pin him, he rolled and kipped to his feet.

“I’m a fan of the fourth objective,” I said.

He laughed. “I’d appreciate it if you could pull that one off too.”

Number four required I survive, return to San Francisco, and debrief. Harques are rare amongst Avidità Corporation’s crèche products, and we represent significant investments. Our transhuman talents require no implants or digital technologies and, on occasion, this makes us excellent spies.

But we have to survive in order to report.

“Objectives two and three, though, they confuse me,” I admitted.

“Good thing we made time for this review.”

We fell into loose sparring, ritualized kickboxing—wet slaps of salty flesh, our labored breathing, the shuffle of feet.

“Secondary to installing the infant into their midst, Aur, I’d need to know what’s happening on Wrangell Island. It’s the locus of the phenomenon.”

A punch, a kick. Slower attacks.

“What about objective three?” I asked.

“I doubt you’ll get the chance.”

“If I do?”

“I leave it up to your judgment, Aur.” His jab clipped my right cheek.

Regaining my balance, I said, “I’m not sure I trust my judgment.”

Quick punches, one-two, one-two. Mr. Avidità forced me back on my heels.

“You remember the day you got Flapjacks?” he asked.

Silly question.

The bunny. The airlock.

“That day,” he said, “you showed me everything I needed to know about you. I trust you, when your time comes again, to choose right.”

I threw everything at him—kicks, punches, knees, elbows, locks, trips, throws. I landed cursory blows, drove him to the edge of the tatamis.

The mats tilted upward and smacked me in the face. Locking my shoulder, Mr.

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