by Mallory Kane
"Can you?"
He frowned and her pulse thrummed in apprehension. "It's really blurry."
Relief spread warmth through her limbs. All her professionalism left her in a rush of breath. "Oh Rider, I'm so glad. I was—so afraid I'd blinded you."
A weak flash of humor lit his face. "I was a little nervous myself, Doc." He leaned back again, closing his eyes.
He was still weak, still too tired. "Guess what I found while you were out?" She spoke brightly as she retrieved the food from the refrigerator. "Here's some juice and a couple of leftover sandwiches from somebody's lunch. You can eat the bread and lettuce if you can't stomach the meat."
Rider made a face, but Kristen was finally able to make him take a few mouthfuls and wash it down with a creditable amount of apple juice. She was relieved that he could eat without getting sick, although it hurt her that he was so compliant, so helpless.
She knew from within him that he wasn't used to being helpless. He had probably never been sick in his life, until he was hurled back through time. He'd probably never known a day when he wasn't in control of his life, until the day his wife was murdered.
"Now," she said in her doctor voice. "Mister Rider, I want you to go to sleep."
He looked at her. "It's Savage. Rider Savage." A grimace crossed his face. "At least it was."
She bit her lip against the tears that threatened. "Okay, Mister Savage. Get some sleep. That's doctor's orders, and if you don't, I'll give you a sedative." She pushed the blankets up under his chin and pressed gently against his chest until he relaxed back against the couch cushions. She watched his eyelids droop as he fought sleep.
"How long have we been here?" he asked drowsily. "That one mongrel they sent was an idiot, but they can't all be. They figured out how to get metal through time."
"Don't worry about that," Kristen said. "We've got plenty of time. They won't find us this weekend."
"How do you know?" His words were becoming slurred as he began to drift off to sleep.
How did she know? The orderly’s words echoed in her brain. "I'm the doctor, remember? Besides, it doesn't matter anyway. You're not going anywhere until you get some sleep."
"I hate it when you're right, Doc," he whispered.
Kristen watched him for a while, trying to absorb all he'd told her. It should be easier to think of him as crazy than to accept the things he had told her. But it was getting easier and easier to believe him.
Five hundred years from now, people with her name were being persecuted—for what? For having an innate ability to know what other people felt, even what they were thinking? A small resentment began to build inside her.
People were people. Why did someone always have to think that one person was better than another? It didn't matter if it was skin color, religion, race or telepathy. Bigotry had no place in the world. It was sad that even five hundred years from now people were still being caught in the same traps.
At least then, as now, there were people willing to fight for human rights. She touched Rider's cheek. Like him. Like his wife.
A stabbing pain shot through her heart. His wife. Stubborn and tough. Yes, his wife would have been stubborn and tough. She smiled. She'd have had to be.
Kristen sighed and stood. She was tired too. She looked at the clock. Four a.m. She didn't even remember when she'd last slept. It must be Sunday morning. Well, the strange little orderly had said no one would die this weekend.
"I hope you're right," she muttered. "I'm going to take a shower. Here." She pulled the weapon he'd given her out of her jeans and handed it to him. "Shoot to kill," she said wryly as she opened the door to the bathroom.
Closing the door behind her, she turned on the water, unbuckled Skip's computer pack from around her waist, dropped her filthy clothes and stepped in. The stinging spray felt good on her stiff neck and shoulders. She raised her face to the stream of water and let it beat on her forehead and temples where a headache was lingering, then she turned around and let the hot water massage her neck.
His wife. His wife who had died two years ago and five hundred years from now. What had Rider said? Time travel was a one-way trip? You could never go back?
He'd also said when he'd left the future they couldn't transport weapons, but Kristen had seen a blaster, had felt it burn her skin. She peeled off the sodden bandage and stared at the line of blisters across the back of her hand. Several of them had burst. She gritted her teeth and let the water run on the burns, washing the open wounds.
Finally turning off the water, she wrapped herself in one of the soft cotton blankets, letting it absorb the wetness from her skin. She stepped out of the bathroom and sat down in a chair, still bundled in the blanket, to wait until Rider woke up.
She loved to watch him sleep, and she knew how much he needed it, with the trauma his body had endured in the past hours. He looked so young and untroubled when he was asleep. Kristen's heart filled with love and compassion. She loved him so much. How would she ever live without him?
A ripping fear tore through her. What if he was wrong? What if he could go back?
She tried to remember everything she'd ever heard about time travel. Everything she'd ever read. H.G. Wells. Robert Heinlein. Dozens of B movies as well as some fairly good ones, both serious and funny.
What if he could go back to the future? What if he could go back and do things differently? Take an earlier shuttle home that night? Could he save his wife? Would he?
A deep shivering racked Kristen's body as she sat wrapped in the warm cotton blanket. Of course he would. She gazed at his face, hard-planed and beautiful, with its determined chin and its strong jaw. He would go. There would be no question. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop the shivering, trying to stop the thoughts, but they kept coming. She couldn't blame him. He'd been married. He'd had a life. Why would he want to stay here, five hundred years away from everything he'd held dear? Five hundred years away from home.
Leaning back in the chair she closed her eyes, trying to stop the tears of loss and regret that forced their way through her closed lids. Could she do it? Could she give up her whole life for him? Now? No question.
But what if the choice was different. What if it was two years ago and the choice was between Rider and Skipper? Would it be as easy? She knew it wouldn't. For her, loving them both, it would be impossible. She was almost glad the choice wasn't hers to make. She loosened one cramping hand from its grip on her shoulder to wipe tears from her eyes. Rider's problem wasn't the same.
Mari had been his wife. Kristen was just the target.
His voice echoed in her head. Lose an eye, watch you die. No contest, Doc. She smiled for a second, remembering. But this was between her and his wife. They'd been married for five years. There would be no contest. He would go back. Anyone would. Kristen quashed the unbidden prayer that he was right about there being no return, and closed her eyes. Maybe she would doze for a few minutes.
#
Rider opened his eyes, panicked for an instant until he remembered where he was. It took a moment to orient himself to the room, to the couch on which he was lying covered only by a cotton blanket, to the fact that he had remembered. A rage burned inside him, at first as hot as a blaster burn, but slowly turning to a smolder. Flameless heat, all the more dangerous because it could burn for hours, days, even years, before it flared. Mari hadn't been killed by skipworths. She had been a skipworth—the leader of the underground. And she had betrayed them. Her own people.
It was too new, this acid disgust for the woman he'd thought he'd loved. He'd never even known her. Never known what she was really doing. She had always tried to keep him out of her underground activities. He'd thought it was to protect him. What a fool he'd been. She'd been working for them all along.
Mari was the one who'd destroyed his life. She and the bastards in the TAINCC. They had turned him into that most hated of beings, a tank. They'd taken his memories from him, and put false ones in their place. An
d they'd sent him back in time to kill Kristen Skipworth. His angel-doctor. The only good thing in his life. If he got the chance, he'd slaughter them.
A movement across the room brought him back from his deadly thoughts.
Doc was sitting in the chair, slumped a little, her arms wrapped around herself, her hair damp and curling around her face. He still thought she looked like an angel, although now his angel's eyes had faint blue shadows beneath them, her hair was damp and messy, and her face was shiny clean, more like a cherub's face than an angel's.
She was brave, his angel. His mouth curved into a smile as he recalled the valiant lift of her chin, the defiant stare, her intense concentration as she'd prepared to destroy the camera in his eye. Then his gaze wandered lower, to where the blanket had slipped down over her arms, leaving the tops of her breasts bare.
His body stiffened and an aching desire suffused him. He wanted her. Through all the pain, despite the tortures they'd used to ensure that he would feel nothing, he actually ached with need for her. Even when he'd thought she was the instrument of Mari's destruction he'd still wanted her. He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned back against the couch cushions, the memories flooding over him, twisting his gut with the nausea that he now knew represented the breaking of his conditioning.
He remembered the torture, all the pain. He remembered that far from volunteering, he'd been conscripted, forced to endure it. And now he remembered that all through it he'd sworn, even when he'd been strapped down with leads and tubes, and helpless against the onslaught of lies and false memories, that he would use their training, their conditioning, against them. He hadn't fought the conditioning. He'd known that was useless. He'd used it, turned it for his own purposes. Reveled in their torture, knowing if it didn't kill him, it would make him stronger. Once they'd conditioned out his real memories and replaced them with false ones, the determination had remained, and it coated every moment he'd spent in their torture chamber.
Even after the brainwashing was complete, when he hadn't been able to remember anything else, that fierce resolve lay inside him like his soul. When he hadn't even known why, he'd still known how important it was for him to become the strongest, the best.
A grim satisfaction rippled through his breast that he'd managed to do it. Kristen was right. The bastards had thought their conditioning couldn't be broken. Rider felt the queasiness tickling at the back of his throat. He savored it, holding on to it as a reminder of what he owed them. The ones they sent back were getting better, smarter, more technologically advanced. They were pretty good. But they weren't good enough. Not good enough to beat him.
With his eyes still closed, he assessed his physical condition. His ribs didn't hurt quite as much as they had, the wracking pain and nausea associated with anything that went counter to the TAINCC's conditioning was fading. He was no longer starving, thanks to his angel doctor, and he didn't think he'd suffered any permanent damage to his eye. Yes, he thought he could do pretty well, considering, which was good, because to protect his angel doctor, he'd have to be the best. Better than their best.
He opened his eyes to find Kristen watching him. As their gazes met, she smiled, and Rider's heart contracted as he gazed on the beauty of her face. For an instant he wished Australia were a free state for skipworths in this era like it was in his. He'd like to take her there and keep her safe for the rest of his life.
Keep her safe. It was a need as strong as the other baser need. Stronger. Yes, he desired her, but the determination that had kept him going in the TAINCC now had a purpose. His revenge now had a name. If it meant his life, he would protect Kristen Skipworth. How ironic, that they'd sent him down the centuries to destroy her and now he was prepared to die to save her. What was it, this need that was deeper than sexual desire? Was it love?
His heart went cold.
He'd loved Mari, and she'd betrayed him. Mari had never loved him. She'd used him, That was all. He studied Kristen, her wide, beautiful eyes, her vulnerable lips, her small, lithe body. Did he love her? The thought sent fear swirling around his brain and desire racing through his loins. He didn't know. He just knew, as surely as he knew Mari had betrayed him and her people, that his angel doctor needed him. And he knew one other thing. He couldn't imagine a future without Kristen Skipworth.
"Rider? Are you okay?"
He focused on her amber-shot, trusting eyes. "Yeah, Doc. Just drifting I guess."
"Well, you need to take a shower. It'll warm you up and help to get you rehydrated. I've already had one. It was great. Come on." Kristen stood before she remembered she was wrapped only in a blanket. She hiked the sliding material up on her shoulders, shivering in the cool emptiness of the morgue, and grabbed a set of scrubs from the side chair.
"When you get out, I'm sure some of these will fit you."
When she looked up, Rider was standing silhouetted by the red lights. Kristen thought she'd never seen anyone so beautiful. He looked alien, primal in the blood red light, the planes of his body harshly shadowed, like a boldly rendered oil painting.
His eyes were no longer glazed with sleep. They were on her—blue and intense. He walked over to her. He took the scrubs and tossed them on the floor. He spread his fingers around her arms, pulling her up close to him. As he did, the blanket fell. Kristen, her pulse beating like a drum in her throat, reached for it, but his hold on her was relentless, so she let it drop.
In the red glowing light, his features looked cut from granite, his eyes deep shadowed. He was frowning. She couldn't take her eyes off his face as he bent his head.
"Rider, what are you doing?" she whispered breathlessly as his lips touched hers.
"Shhh," he breathed against her lips, then trailed his kisses from her mouth to her neck, where he nuzzled her. "I don't think I can make it to the shower without help."
Kristen's body tightened with something she could only identify as pure lust as his mouth moved on her skin. She steeled herself against the pleasure that flamed within her.
"Don't do it, Rider. It's not—" she almost broke down as his sadness and pain came to her through his fingers. She wanted more than anything to respond to him. She wanted his love more than life. But she was a doctor, and doctors were practical and realistic, and her training told her that no man should lose his wife, whom he obviously loved, and sleep with someone else on the same day.
"I'm the doctor, and I say you need to guard against the effects of your conditioning. You need sleep. You need some time to come to terms with your newly found memories. You're too weak. Too debilitated." Too vulnerable, too strong, too tempting, with his hot breath on her neck, his scent in her nostrils. She gritted her teeth against the sensations he was stirring in her.
"No," he growled. "I've lived too long with death. You smell like life, Doc. I need you. I'll die without you." He said the last so softly that Kristen wasn't sure she'd heard right. But she couldn't mistake what his hands on her body were telling her, what his mouth against her skin was silently whispering to her.
Whatever he felt for his dead wife, he cared for her. He desired her so badly he would withstand any pain, live through any torture, just to have her. She could feel that within him, and she thought she could settle for that. Desire. Sometimes it was enough, wasn't it?
Then she felt the faint waves of nausea wafting through him. "No!" She tried to break his hold. "I can't let you. God, Rider, how can you stand it?"
"Just shut up, okay? Just shut up." He put his thumbs against her lips, silencing her.
Then he ran his hands down her back, his fingers trailing heat where they touched, burning fire on her air-cooled skin. He cupped her buttocks and pulled her against him until she felt his unrestrained hardness against her and her belly contracted with desire. She whimpered, moving her lips against his neck, where a pulse beat steady and fast.
"You're shivering," she said hoarsely. "You need to shower."
"I love it when you're right, Doc," he whispered against her hair as he pulled her
toward the door. "Come on."
"But I've already had a shower," she protested weakly.
"I know."
The bathroom was still foggy, the steel-lined shower hadn't even cooled off yet.
"Turn the water on, Doc," he murmured, his lips near her ear. "I haven't quite mastered the technique."
She manipulated the handles until a warm, stinging spray beat down on them. Rider shuddered and lifted his face to the steamy spray. Kristen could feel his body relaxing against her. She shivered, too, at the contrast between his cool skin and the hot water.
"God," he breathed. "You have no idea how good real water feels, after the chlorine spray they used on us."
Kristen sighed with the inevitability of it. Yes, she had to admit, sometimes desire was enough. She had learned a lot about herself under his gentle tutelage, and one very important lesson she'd learned was that she couldn't live without the feelings he bred in her. For a while, at least, she didn't even care what was driving him. Perhaps it was just that he'd lived too long with death—that all he wanted was the reaffirmation of life, after having relived the death of his wife.
If that was all he wanted, she didn't even mind, so strong was her own need. She could do it, not only for him, but for herself as well.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
She ran her hands over his muscular shoulders, tracing their shape as the water flowed over them in rivulets, washing away the dirt and blood. His biceps were like river-worn rocks—smooth, hard, worn by time but still unyielding. Water streamed down his face and body as he turned to her, his skin glistening vermilion in the low lights. He smiled and pushed wet strands of hair out of her face.
If she lived a thousand years, or ten thousand, she'd still be knocked out by his smile. When he smiled she could believe in the future, in him, in forever.
He pulled her close, wrapping his wet slick body around her, giving her everything he had to give. She knew it was everything, because she felt the faint nausea lingering at the back of his throat, she tasted the flavors of fear and pain in his skin.