Robert & Linda Evans - Wages of Sin

He swallowed them dry, then tumbled into bed. By some odd chance, he'd left his small television on this morning. The television, even his apartment still looked and felt alien. He was about to shut it off by remote when a newsflash came on, showing Skeeter running from Lupus, with a breathless commentary on the longstanding feud. Skeeter grunted and reached again for the remote. Then froze, hand in midair.

"This, as you can see, is a blowup of what our vidcam lenses picked up through the unstable gate. Rumor is, it has already started a heated debate among onstation scholars." Skeeter stared at the screen as Lupus, larger than life, plunged into the gate with a startled yell, then stumbled on a stone step. One of a huge number of stone steps, leading to the crest of a flat-topped pyramid. Lupus, grasping sword and knife, was staring down at an enormous crowd of featherclad Indians. They were prostrate on the ground.

"Clearly," the voiceover said as Lupus just swayed there, stupefied, "this will begin an intense scholarly debate over the legendary origins of the god-like Viracocha, who came to Central America wearing a pale skin, taught the people a great deal of knowledge they didn't possess, then vanished across the ocean to the west, vowing to return. Speculation about the classic legend should fuel debate for years to come. Whatever the truth, this tape represents a scholarly as well as journalistic victory in the search for knowledge of our past."

Skeeter finished the motion he'd started with the remote and turned off the television with a deep sigh. He was almost sorry Lupus had suffered such a fate. He knew in his bones the shock of dissonance caused by plunging accidentally through an unstable gate, with no way home again. But in his inner soul, he was even gladder that he was still alive. Still selfish, aren't we, Skeeter? He realized sadly he probably always would be. But the painkillers had already begun to hit his system, so that he couldn't quite raise enough anxiety to worry about it now. Within moments, he drowsed into blissful oblivion.

"Marcus?"

Her voice came drowsily in the darkness. He'd been lying quietly, wrapped up in the miracle of holding her again and wondering if the gods would bless them with a son this time.

"Yes, beloved?"

Ianira's tiny movement told her how the endearment, new to his lips, had startled and pleased her. "Oh, Marcus," she breathed huskily into his ear, "what would I have done if-"

He placed gentle fingertips across her lips. "Let us not tempt the Fates, beloved. It did not happen. Let us not speak of it again."

Her arms tightened around his ribcage and for a moment she buried her face in his shoulder. A marvel of sensation, of need ... but she wanted to discuss something, so he willed it back, ran his fingers through her silken black hair and murmured, "You had something to say?"

She turned just enough to kiss his wrist, then sighed and said, "Yes. That telephone call you were so angry about earlier?"

Marcus felt the chuckle build deep inside. "Not angry, love. Impatient."

His reward was another brush of her lips across his. Then she settled back into his arms, wrapped around him as warmly and contentedly as any cat. He'd had a kitten, as a child, tamed from the wild as the only survivor of its litter. Perhaps they should ask permission to get a kitten for their children? It would be a delightful surprise

"Marcus, you haven't heard a word I've said!"

"I'm sorry, beloved. I was just thinking of asking the Station Manager for permission to get a kitten. For the girls."

It was Ianira's turn to chuckle. "Always my romantic dreamer. I would never have you be otherwise.

"What were you saying, beloved?" Strange, how the endearment he'd never been able to say before now came so easily to his lips.

"The phone call. It was Council business. They were taking votes over the phone, to move as quickly as possible."

Marcus turned his head slightly. "What could possibly be so urgent?"

She said very softly, "Skeeter."

Ahh...

"He is no longer Lost. He must therefore be given the chance to become Found."

Marcus nodded. "And your answer?"

"Yes, of course. Who do you think started the round of calls in the first place?"

Marcus laughed, softly enough not to waken their sleeping children, then turned until Ianira was beneath him, both arms still wrapped around him. This time, he could not hold back the love in him. Ianira cried out softly, moaned his name and sought his mouth. Marcus moved slowly, dreamily, thinking of kittens and sons and the miracle of this moment in whatever time Fate gave them together.

EPILOGUE

Skeeter was dreaming again. He'd dreamed often, these last few weeks, all of them terrible and strange, so at first he felt no great alarm, only a frisson of fear and a great deal of resignation as to what horrors his unconscious mind would put him through this time.

The dream began with dark figures, faces masked in black, bodies sheathed in black, hair covered with black, sinister figures which touched and lifted him, began to wind strips of black around his feet and lower legs so tightly he couldn't move even his toes. Then he realized he wasn't sleeping anymore. He began to fight was subdued thoroughly and expertly. Sweat started along his back and chest and face as the black strips rose higher, covering thighs, hips, lower belly, like some monstrous black mummy casing. But they wouldn't get his arms. He had to have his aims free, to struggle, to plant a fist in someone's face before his strength ran out.

He fought savagely. He thought he heard a faint curse from one of the figures holding him and fought even harder. But his other fights, never mind that final run from Lupus, had taken nearly everything left in him. Eventually, his strength began to wane. And then, before he could react, an unknown person grabbed his shaved head and bent his head back until the pain was so deep all he could do was blink tears down an open mouth and fight for air through the strain on his windpipe.

When they let him go, black wrappings swathed arms, chest, and neck. He could not move.

Coming slightly out of shock, Skeeter thought to use the other major skill he possessed: language. "Hey," Skeeter began, "look, whoever you are-not that I care, really, that's your business-but what're you doing? With me, I mean? Kidnapping's illegal on TT-86." At least, he thought it was. He hadn't ever gotten around to actually reading the rulebook they'd given him at Primary. "Look, have a heart. You can see I'm helpless, here. What could it possibly hurt to just tell me?"

Then, terrified as a new set of wrappings dug into his brow, covered his head and brow, wound around his eyes in one gauze-thin layer after another, Skeeter fought a whimper that had been building since childhood. "Please," he said while his mouth, at least, was still free, "what harm have I done to you? Just tell me, please, and I'll make it up to you, I swear it --"

His eyesight disappeared completely, both eyes covered in layer after layer of thin black cloth until there was no light. He struggled again, far too late. He could not move anything beneath the wrappings more than a quarter inch. Genuinely terrified now, a onetime Mongol battling claustrophobia, his breath came in ragged gasps. They left his nose clear-small comfort, then forcibly closed his jaw over a thick gag and tightly wrapped his mouth closed until the loudest sound he could utter was a faint, muffled, "Mmmmf" which even he had difficulty hearing. Getting enough air through his nose to fuel the mindless terror ripping through him proved futile. As he was lifted and carried toward his shattered apartment door, Skeeter blacked out.

He came to in ragged bits and pieces, aware of movement, of jostling as those carrying him grew tired and rearranged his weight in their grasp. He saw no light whatsoever and could catch no scent that might tell him where he was. He drifted out of consciousness again, then faded back into it, pondering this time who had him? ATF? Benson's men, intent on wresting whatever "unofficial" confessions they could beat and starve out of him? Or maybe Goldie Morran's henchmen, hired to do only the gods knew what kill him, cripple him, send him uptime as luggage through Primary ... Despite her capitulation on the bet, she must still hate him with all her greedy, cold little heart. Or perhaps it was simply a tourist with a taste for revenge, who'd hired enough men to do this, maybe dump him down the garbage incinerator ... .