Newborn

By Edward Hoornaert

When she is born fully grown and well armed in a wilderness forest, clone Jo Beaverpaw knows almost nothing, except that it is her Destiny to find and kill Desrielle Squitt, her alien nation's most wanted fugitive.

As Jo hikes to the lodge where the fugitive is recovering from gunshot wounds, she wonders if she's human, but there's insufficient data to decide. In her eagerness to fulfill her Destiny, she slides down a mountain slope. Jo wakens, groggy and sedated, inside the lodge, where she's being treated.

A lone bodyguard, Darby Lapierre, has the thankless job of protecting Squitt. Since Jo is obviously an assassin, Darby confiscates her weapons and vows to keep her away from Squitt. But he also forms a halting friendship with her. Thus the assassin forges an alliance with the very man assigned to thwart her—and the bonds of friendship and nascent attraction weaken her commitment to her bloody Destiny.
Jo seeks out life—and love—while she can. She and Darby become lovers. Not for long, though. She falls into a mysterious coma in which she is controlled from Kwadra by the duchess she resembles. When she finally awakens, she knows she must kill Squitt. Must. Her hard-won sense of humanity virtually disappears.

But before she can act, Squitt steals a gun and takes a doctor hostage. Jo rushes to help Darby control her, using her enhanced athleticism to leap out onto the roof and smash through Squitt's window. She manages to kill Squitt, but is badly injured.

Again Jo awakens in a hospital bed. This time the first person she sees isn't Darby, but Duchess Beaverpaw, her clone sister and puppet master. Jo is living proof the duchess has broken the laws against human cloning, so killing her is the prudent thing to do—a job that is left to her henchman. Darby catches the henchman in the act and subdues him, then removes the IV before the poison takes effect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Hoornaert
• Release date: Nov 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370897377

Edward Hoornaert

Edward Hoornaert is not only a science fiction and romance writer, he's also a certifiable Harlequin Hero, having inspired NYT best-selling author Vicki Lewis Thompson to write Mr. Valentine, which was dedicated to him. From this comes his online alter ego, "Mr. Valentine."These days, Hoornaert mostly writes science fiction—either sf romances, or sf with elements of romance. After living at 26 different addresses in his first 27 years, the rolling stone slowed in the Canadian Rockies and finally came to rest in Tucson, Arizona. Amongst other things, he has been a teacher, technical writer, and symphonic oboist. He married his high school sweetheart a week after graduation and is still in love ... which is probably why he can write romance.

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Newborn

by Edward Hoornaert

http://eahoornaert.com/

Copyright November, 2016 by Edward Hoornaert

All rights reserved

This novel is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places and incidents are either

the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design by Danielle Fine, http://www.daniellefine.com/.

ISBN: 9781370897377

DEDICATION

To Aunt Marge and Uncle Tom—married seventy years! I guess romance and stick-to-itiveness run in my family. Of course, it matters who you're married to. Marge and Tom are lucky in having each other. And I'm lucky in having Judi.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

About the Alien Contact for Idiots Universe

About the author, acknowledgements, other books by Edward Hoornaert

Chapter One

I was born.

One moment I didn't exist and never had existed and then, blink, I stood in a clearing, fully dressed, well-armed, and impatient to tackle my Destiny.

Like a magnet seeking north, I strode toward Destiny, downhill and to my left—baby's first step—and tripped. Rising slowly, I stretched my arms out for balance against the world's unexpected hazards.

Careful, I whispered—baby's first word, spoken in a creamy soprano that soothed my ears. I looked around, which I should've done before taking a step. How could I kill if I couldn't even walk?

I stood on a slab of granite underlying a small clearing surrounded by a forbidding wall of underbrush. A jailbreak, then, would be the first test of my worthiness for glory. The granite was craggy, a miniature mountain, so I crept up its peak. Pleased with my strength and agility, I stood there like a totem pole, one-point-seven meters above my birthplace.

Green-grey light revealed a hushed immensity. Except for the clearing over the slab, evergreen branches formed an impenetrable ceiling. Starved of sunlight, the ground beyond the clearing supported few shrubs, but fallen logs and boulders would make leaping over my jail walls perilous.

To my left, however, was a patch of flatness. Could I leap the bushes and land there? It would be tricky; maybe impossible. The sniper rifle over my shoulder could throw me off balance. Even if it didn't, was this body capable of such acrobatics?

Destiny insisted I try. Back up four paces, crouch. So far so good. After that it got dangerous, but I didn't hesitate. I broke into a sprint, thrust upward, and curled into a ball.

And it worked! I soared over the jail walls. Angry at my escape, a branch spanked my bottom.

The forest floor lay three-point-one meters down…a dangerously long way. As the ground sped toward me, I uncurled, spread my arms, and landed on my feet.

Wow. That felt wonderful.

No one applauded my feat because no one had witnessed it. The forest was empty of mankind, as it should be. This is how Kwadra used to be, before, I whispered without knowing either Kwadra or before what.

My ignorance troubled me, but only for a moment. This strong, capable body soon distracted me. I ran my hands over my shoulders, breasts, belly. My hiking clothes were high-quality and new except for the boots, which were worn to the contours of my feet even though I hadn't been alive to break them in.

Hesitantly, fearing what I might find, I raised fingertips to my cheeks. They were smooth. Was I pretty? It didn't matter, of course, but…

What did matter was that inside this strong wrapper of flesh, my heart was pure, my conscience clear, and a scalding sense of right and wrong possessed me. It was right that I hike downhill to a creek and turn sixty-one degrees to the left. After one-point-one-three kilometers, I must skirt a pathetic little village and proceed to a fishing lodge turned hospital/old person's home, near the ocean.

Destiny lay inside that lodge.

But after forty-nine steps, a tree blocked my path. Ropy bark spiraled around the trunk. My mind supplied a name.

Western red cedar, I said aloud.

I had to detour around the tree. Although it irked my sense of right and wrong, the route to Destiny could not follow a straight line. This realization seemed absurdly obvious as soon as I thought about it, but it was the first piece of wisdom I'd figured out for myself. Was I, then, intelligent?

If I had to detour out of necessity, would it be acceptable to detour—briefly, briefly—for pleasure? Dare I savor this magnificent cedar, for example, and the stream that gurgled unseen off to the right? My mind insisted I pursue Destiny with no deviations, like an arrow streaking to its target. Obviously, though, I wasn't an arrow of wood and feathers, but a human of flesh and blood.

Wasn't I?

I pondered that for a massive time—seventy-four-point-eight seconds—but was unable to decide about my humanity. Insufficient data.

A stab of fear threatened to obscure my Destiny. If I wasn't human, what was I? And why didn't I know? Why?

When the stab grew into a mushroom of terror than made my legs weak, I distracted myself by deciding that brief enjoyment wouldn't endanger my Destiny. Displacing my fear, an urge filled me, inherited from my ancestors—whoever or whatever they might be—to make myself one with the world. Then I needn't be afraid. The urge was as strong as the need to breathe and nearly as strong as the tugging of Destiny. I stretched my arms around the cedar's ropy bark. They didn't reach all the way. Compared to the cedar, I was a mere mosquito.

Mosquito, my mind informed me: a small, blood-sucking, flying insect.

Sister Cedar, I said with my smooth cheek caressing its bark, reassure me about my place in your world.

Having no mouth, the tree said nothing. Yet I sensed its love and loved it back.

Comforted, I walked to the stream and let its gurgling music thrill my spirits. The water turned rocks into shimmering gems and played hide and seek with me as it disappeared under a windfall and then reappeared, laughing. I laughed with the water and wished it well on its journey to the sea. We were sisters, the creek and I, both of us traveling to our end. Gravity compelled the creek to flow; Destiny compelled me.

I parted a swath of ferns to sip wild water. I knew without checking that my backpack contained a full canteen, but I wanted—no, needed—to connect to the world around me. The water iced down my throat and into my stomach. From there, my body would absorb the molecules and make them part of my flesh. Then I'd no longer be a newcomer to this planet. I would belong.

After I drank, my mouth curved in a new, yet recognizable, configuration.

A smile, I said.

I headed downstream. I would've run, hastened by eagerness, but rocks, deadfalls, and uneven ground made speed unwise. And in truth, I wanted to savor life. Every plant was new. Every breath was a joy that brought tears to my eyes.

After a while, my mind warned me about the village's nearness. Lying atop a boulder covered with moss and lichens that dampened and chilled me, I pulled the rifle from my back and trained its telescopic sight on a score of dwellings that littered the claustrophobic valley. I sought in vain for my first glimpse of a human being. Too bad.

I had to go around the village, yet mountains rose like walls on either side. I struggled uphill until I was one hundred-twelve meters above the bottomland. Making a game of it, I stayed at that altitude no matter the obstacles—bush, boulder, stump. On reaching a tangle of windfalls, I scrambled onto a five-foot log, hopped to the next windfall, and then the next. I nearly tumbled, but this body was good.

Eventually, a ravine crowded with devil's club forced me to change altitude, ruining my game. The world cared as little for my enjoyment as for my eagerness to fulfill Destiny.

I passed the village, then slowed, hoping for a vantage point to search for Destiny without being seen. That proved impossible. The forest hid all but the tiniest glimpses of the valley below. Temperate rainforest, my mind supplied.

But where am I? And why hadn't I wondered that before?

As soon as I thought the question, an answer appeared. The Process, which was a poorly understood, forbidden secret, had required trial and error, and They couldn't jam all information that might be useful into my brain. With luck, They'd omitted nothing crucial.

But…what Process?

And who were They?

Those questions tasted slimy and bitter, so my mind distracted me with new information. I was trekking the sparsely inhabited coast of a large Pacific island. My mind dribbled out a name: Vancouver Island. The one from this version of Earth; the Vancouver Island that belonged here. Whatever that meant.

Facts inundated me, swirling through my head while I struggled to make sense of them.

Fact: My people weren't of this planet. They were aliens.

Fact: They didn't belong here. I didn't, either.

Fact: My people's home planet was an alternate Earth. That implied my people were human, just as I was human.

Wasn't I?

I blundered through foliage that whipped a line of blood across my no-longer-pristine cheek, and found a vantage point by stepping almost to my death. My left boot pushed past branches and landed one-point-nine centimeters from a sheer drop. Heart thudding, I pulled back. Making soopolallie and salal bushes sway as little as possible, I peeked out. My heart raced, propelled by the knowledge that Destiny lay close.

Very close.

I moved a branch and beheld an awe-inspiring sight. A carpeted mountain thrust so high it wore a cap of snow. At its feet, a highway of water snaked inland to my right and out to the Pacific to my left. A fiord, my mind named it, and at the same time, told me the mountain was insignificant compared to most. This information was abstract and unreal, while the mountain was majestic and real. I closed my eyes, thanking the kind Destiny that let me experience such splendor before I died. My life would be short—just a couple of hours long—but magnificent.

Again, I looked through the rifle's scope. Below lay a clearing reeking of age and decline. The forest nibbled at it inexorably, nipping at its edges and sneaking into its center. A rusty vehicle—a Corvette Stingray, my mind supplied—sat in a driveway. Four weathered buildings sprawled across the clearing: barn, garage, woodshed…and the huge, U-shaped Skookum Lodge.

It was a good name. In my people's native language, skookum meant demon, or strong like a demon. Skookum tumtum meant brave, like me.

My mind told me more. The lodge had started as an exclusive fishing resort. After twenty-four years, it became a rehabilitation center for wealthy addicts, and then it moldered for several years before a bighearted doctor turned it into a medical station and retirement home.

And now it was also a rehabilitation center for Sergeant Desrielle Squitt. My Destiny.

I wanted to fly to it, leap off the cliff and soar to glory…but no. Sensing that my mind had more to tell me, I resisted the urge to charge downhill. My patience was soon rewarded with more information.

Squitt had been a sergeant in Kwadra's national gendarmerie, but she'd joined a failed rebellion against Kwadra's king. Her role was particularly atrocious: she'd kidnapped the king's cousin—a helpless twelve-year-old girl—and threatened the queen. Squitt got shot, but escaped capture by plunging into the sea and riding a floating log for days. Her survival was a miracle of determination, endurance, and near-superhuman strength.

Squitt was a worthy opponent. More than worthy: a giant of a woman. I was slender and delicate. Why had such a frail and ignorant vessel been chosen for this Destiny?

My mind refused to explain. Instead, it supplied more background information.

Squitt was Kwadra's most wanted fugitive. Canadian officials didn't dare anger the world's most advanced nation, which bristled with technology from the future, but neither would they extradite Squitt to certain execution. And so, for four months, Kwadra had threatened while Canada stalled, almost but not quite giving in.

Because of Kwadra's threats, no one dared house Squitt while she recuperated. No one except Dr. Rebecca Hentzle, the aged owner of Skookum Lodge.

My first task was to ascertain whether Squitt remained at the lodge, even if it meant shooting everyone who stood in my way.

My second task: kill Squitt. She had to die by my hand. No one else's.

My third task was the best of all, like an orgasm at the end of lovemaking.

Kill myself.

Chapter Two

I studied the lodge but didn't see Squitt. Didn't see anyone, in fact.

Just as well. Even if I'd seen her, the lodge was at the extreme of my rifle's range, so I couldn't count on a lethal shot. Closer, I must get closer.

Compulsion yanked at me on a frenzied leash, urging me down. I was supposed to fulfill my Destiny immediately. Immediately! My little detours—hugging trees, drinking water, playing games—now felt like sins. They'd delayed me by at least fifteen minutes. That was inexcusable. Heinous. Shame flooded my neck with a blush. I had to act now.

Right now now now.

But how? The mountain was steep and treacherous. I should've searched for the safest way down, but the nearness of Destiny poured the spice of impulsiveness into my veins. Surely a woman strong of body and pure of heart could surmount whatever obstacles dared stand in her path.

And so I plunged straight downhill. I managed a controlled fall, lunging from one tree trunk to another. Bark rubbed my palms bloody. Undergrowth caught at my boots, causing me to fall. Heeding none of this, I walked faster with the spice pulsing ever stronger.

When I passed the last of the trees, I found myself at the top of a twenty-three-meter-high cone of sharp-edged gravel. I stopped, hoping my mind would help me figure out what to do, but it delivered only two facts.

First: Twenty-three-meters was about the height of a six-story building. Really helpful, that. I'd never seen a six-story building.

Second: This cone was called scree—loose rocks falling off the mountain and accumulating at the angle of repose. Angle of repose: thirty degrees. In other words, very steep. My eyes told me, though my mind didn't, that scree was slippery and dangerous.

At the base of the cone, a barbed wire fence marked the boundary of Destiny's clearing. A large brown creature—a horse, my mind supplied—stood near the fence. It broke off a mouthful of grass with sublime disinterest in my dilemma.

What should I do? I possessed insufficient data to make an intelligent decision, yet my Destiny brooked no delay. It compelled me down, even though there were no trees to break my fall, should I fall.

Then do not fall, idiot. Simple solution, no? I looked across the fiord at the magnificent mountain. Protect me, glorious mountain giant.

After enjoying a smile, I took a deep breath of sweet-smelling air and hitched the packsack and rifle higher. Do not fall. Do not fail.

For six-point-five meters, I didn't fall. Then pebbly rocks rolled underfoot. I flailed and almost remained upright, but the heavy sack wrenched me off balance. Ball bearings, my mind said, but I didn't know if that referred to the act of falling or to overconfidence born of inexperience.

I fell face-down onto harsh rocks.

Slid toward the watching horse.

Tumbled end over end.

Felt limbs crack.

Realized, to the core of my being, the vast reality behind the tiny word pain.

Slammed my head against a fencepost.

Rolled onto my back, whimpering.

Smelled the horse's clovery breath as it stuck its head between barbed wire strands and sniffed to see if I was edible.

Heard the raucous threat of a dog's bark and learned, after a period of black fuzziness, the distinction between clover breath and doggy halitosis.

And then, blessedly, I lost consciousness.

****

I don't like this, Hen, growled a voice as strong and masculine as the mountain that had failed to protect me.

My eyelids were too heavy to open, but I didn't mind. This was the first human being I'd ever heard. Thrilled in a woozy, drugged sort of way, I savored the deep rumble. Pain embraced me—not as bad as during the fall, but pain nonetheless. Pain everywhere, even in my fingernails and the space between my toes.

Who is she? the man demanded.

A hiker, a woman answered. She sounded too old to be Desrielle Squitt, my Destiny. The man mountain had called her Hen. Dr. Rebecca Hentzle, perhaps? A Jane Doe. There's no identification on her, not even a cellphone.

The man grunted. She's a pretty stupid hiker.

Were they talking about me? My thoughts felt muffled, as though wrapped in gauze and stuffed in a rotten tree stump, but…probably, yes, they were talking about me. And the man with the sexy voice thought I was pretty.

Not that it mattered.

No, no: he'd said pretty stupid. Yes, that was me. Stupid. In the future, if I had a future, I would avoid scree slopes.

We found a rifle, Hen said. It must've slipped off her back.

She's a hunter? That doesn't make sense. The only seasons open now are bear and wolf, neither of which are common around here.

The woman's light footsteps moved across the room and then returned. It looks to me as though this rifle could bring down a bear.

"She was carrying that? It's a sniper gun, not a hunting rifle."

Caution kept my eyes closed as I tried to focus on their words with a head that ached and throbbed. The rest of me ached, too. I didn't like pain.

Each of her boots has a sheath holding a long, nasty knife, said the woman called Hen. And she had this strapped to her hip.

A Glock. The man grunted again. She from the States, I wonder?

I'd guess so. In her backpack, underneath a stack of clothes, all of which had store tags still attached, was a purse containing ten-thousand US dollars.

As soon as Hen said it, I knew about the money. It might be useful to bribe someone to get into Skookum Lodge.

Ten thousand in crisp, new hundred dollar bills, still in bank wrappers, Hen said. That's why I called you in, Sergeant.

Ex-sergeant. Now I'm just a bodyguard, so don't try to make me feel duty-bound to assume responsibility for this woman, too.

Not even if she poses a clear threat to your duty?

Ex-sergeant? My Destiny also