Darrell Bain & Jeanine Berry - Gates 02 - Masters of the Sex Gate

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Masters of the Sex Gates

by Darrell Bain and Jeanine Berry

Double Dragon Publication - Science Fiction

First published by DDP,April 2003

ISBN: 1-55404-039-6

First Edition eBook Publication April 4, 2003

DEDICATION

To Deron Douglas of Double Dragon publishing, who more than anyone else has been instrumental in

furthering my career as a writer. He does nifty covers, too. Thanks, Deron.

-Darrell Bain

To the special man who gases up my car, keeps my computer running and even cooks supper now and

then so I can write.

-Jeanine Berry

PRAISE FROM REVIEWERS FOR THE SEX GATES

The Sex Gates reads like the novel Heinlein should have written after Stranger in a Strange Land. The

book has both Heinlein's no nonsense prose and his no nonsense social conscience. The central

characters are the best of America, and along the way meet and survive much of the worst. They're

fallible, but their humanity shines through. Plain and simple, The Sex Gates is a great book, one of the

best science fiction offerings in years.

—Efigments Reviews

I highly recommend Sex Gates to anyone who enjoys well crafted sci-fi, a strong helping of erotica, and a

stimulating plot with engaging characters.

—Michael Thal, eBook Reviews Weekly

This is a great story for people that like to explore “what if?"... a good read, and extremely thought

provoking.

—Reviewed by Mark Lambert for www.timeless-tales.net

CHAPTER ONE

It was a small mob, just a few dozen young people with a smattering of other ages. Most of the young

ones had that almost unbearably healthy look that told me they had recently gone through a sex gate.

Leaning forward on the lounger in our media room, I watched as the events outside unfolded on the

screen. Beside me, Rita reached for my hand.

“Why is this happening, Lee?” she asked. Her voice was level, but the guarded look in her eyes said she

knew something was wrong, and it encompassed more than the mob gathering in front of our gate.

I shrugged, and tried to sound bored. “It seems that the news that we're Seconders has gotten out. We'll

have to stay tight in here and ride out this demonstration."

She cast a stricken look at the wall screen where people shook raised fists at our entrance gate. “Why

do they hate us?"

Hate wasn't something Rita understood despite her years of studying psychology. There was too much

love in her heart. She couldn't grasp the anger and jealousy that surged through the excited mob. I tried

to maintain a calm exterior, although I was plenty worried.

“It's a small demonstration-probably bored Fourth Worlders with nothing to do, incited by the Church of

the Gates’ propaganda against Seconders. It'll turn out to be nothing."

Rita faced me with a frown. “You don't really believe that."

I rubbed my throbbing temples. “I get a sense that the pattern surrounding the sex gates is shifting, that's

all."

For once, I hoped my gift of sensing patterns in unfolding events was wrong. The sex gates and the

events triggered by their appearance had dominated our lives from the moment one materialized in front

of us years ago. We were inexorably linked to their fate.

Rita's hand gripped mine, and I knew she felt the same way.

This day had started like any other. The first sign that it would mark a turning point came around noon.

As a compulsive news junkie I always have the wall screen tuned to at least one all-news station, and the

computer is programmed to scan for items of interest. So it wasn't surprising when the program was

interrupted.

A voice proclaimed, “We will take you live to breaking news in Ruston, Texas."

We live just a few miles outside of Ruston, so I watched with interest. The graphie on the screen

dissolved, and the next thing I saw was the Ruston sex gate. Demonstrators were gathered in front of the

glowing green arch. They had their arms linked and were chanting.

“Once is enough! Once is enough!"

It was fairly obvious they were there to stop someone from going through. I couldn't believe someone

had been stupid enough to let it be known that they were going through the sex gate a second time. I

watched a car pull up, and a young man hopped out. His spiky brown hair blew in the wind and his thin

face blanched with fear as he eyed the crowd between him and the gate.

“That's Lisa Turner!” Rita exclaimed. “Or Larry Turner now. You remember. She was injured in a farm

accident last week, and they rushed her through the gate to save her life."

I remembered. She was a seventeen-year-old who was fifty years away from even considering a trip

through the gate until her accident. I wondered what made him desperate enough to risk the dangerous

second trip through the gate. Surely, at his young age, he would find it easy to adjust to his new sex. As

Lisa, now Larry, moved toward the gate the demonstrators closed ranks in front of the green arch.

The chant, “Once is enough!” grew louder.

The graphie broke into the feed with a voiceover to let us know that the pictures were coming from a

spectator. He was filming an elderly relative who was going through the gate when the demonstration

started. Seeing a chance to make some money off this unexpected turn of events, he was uploading his

shots to the web via satellite.

Larry stopped, his fear of the angry crowd plain.

“He should leave and come back when they're gone,” I said.

“I hear he's in love with Brad Mason.” Trust Rita to be up on the latest gossip. “You know how

earthshaking love is at seventeen. He must be desperate to turn back into a girl."

I had to smile. As usual, the sex gates were playing hob with someone's love life. Meanwhile, Larry had

second thoughts. He backed away and jumped in the waiting car. The Texas dust flew as the car

screeched away from the scene.

“Well, that's that,” I said, but a sharp pain in my temples told me otherwise.

My gift of pattern analysis warned me that there was more to this demonstration than met the eye. I was

not surprised to see the demonstrators turn from the gate in a disciplined group, and get back in their

cars. Nor was I surprised when those cars showed up in front of our massive iron entrance gate ten

minutes later. Now, Rita and I were trapped inside watching our gate through surveillance cameras, and

wondering how these demonstrators had learned we were Seconders.

Outside, the hot Texas sun blazed out of a clear blue sky. I saw sweat beading the faces of the crowd

milling around in front of the gate. More than ever, I was grateful for our state-of-the-art security system,

and the thick walls surrounding our house.

After surviving a Gater attack on this very house several years ago, I'd spared no expense. This place

was a fortress, and we kept enough supplies on hand to withstand a long siege. It was not only fortified

and electrified, but also wired for sound and movement. It also warned intruders that it was a licensed

militia residence, meaning that I, the homeowner, was allowed plenty of legal leeway to react violently to

intruders.

I noticed that several of the young people out front walked in a slightly jerky, somewhat uncertain way on

the uneven ground. I recognized the symptoms. They were adjusting to bodies that didn't move in the

way the mind commanded.

The memories of my first passage through a sex gate are as vivid as ever, despite the numerous

transformations I've gone through since then. I experienced an identical awkwardness after I was

transformed from a man into a woman. As I staggered out after the change, my mind tried to operate my

body in the same way it always had. But the body that responded to the brain's commands was now

female.

The first thing I noticed was how top-heavy my body felt. I soon pinpointed the cause-a pair of bouncing

new breasts that threw everything off balance. My legs seemed out of place, too, attached to inordinately

wide hips. When I tried to move my female body, nothing worked quite right. While I pride myself on the

sexy sway I eventually developed, that first walk on my female legs was laughable. Women who go

through the sex gate and become men experience similar problems in reverse. A lurching walk was a

dead giveaway that someone was wearing a new body fresh from the sex gates.

The leaders of the mob unfurled a banner. The sight jarred me out of my memories. Rita wrapped a lock

of her thick black hair around one of her fingers, an old nervous habit. Neither one of us said a word, but

our minds touched. I slipped an arm around her, and drew her closer on the lounger. She caught her full

lower lip between even white teeth and nibbled on it. Her dark eyes watched every movement on the

screen while her face reflected her anxiety.

Outwardly there was nothing to cause so much alarm. The media room with the main wall screen was

located in the center of the house. We were safe behind thick walls. The only mob sounds we heard

came through the audio pickups. Moreover, the security system sent the video feed straight to the police

station. I expected the local cops to appear at any moment.

Rita's nails dug into the muscles of my upper arm, and her voice was tense. “Shouldn't we call the chief

and ask him to get them out of here?"

I turned away from the screen to reassure her, and was sidetracked by the sight of her long, tan legs in

thigh-high white shorts. Her breathing was faster than normal, too, and her breasts, barely concealed by

her silkskin blouse, rose and fell in a distracting way. She gripped my arm harder, her nails digging in, and

my mind came back to our problem.

“I'm sure help is already on the way. In the meantime, let's see what they want."

I wasn't too worried. People who have passed through a sex gate might look young and immature, but

they are fairly responsible individuals. Their youthful appearance is deceptive. Because of the risks

involved, not to mention the sex change, most people put off going through the gates until they are old

and sick and the gate is their only chance at life. When they emerge they are young again-most people

look about eighteen years old. And they are a different sex, of course. But they still possess their

memories. They can call on the maturity and wisdom they developed over a long life.

Besides, the gates themselves cull the herd, so to speak. Not everyone who goes in comes out-some

vanish. No one knows where. It's part of the risk of going through. The corollary is that the people who

emerge seem to belong to the more stable portion of society. Extensive studies have shown those who

vanish are undesirables in one way or another-too old or sick perhaps for the regeneration process, or

defective in some way that produced criminal behavior or an unalterably rigid belief system.

Still, that didn't mean I was relaxed about the mob outside. Despite the Fourth World appearance of the

demonstrators I suspected the event was highly organized. Someone had found out about Larry Turner's

intention to try the gate a second time and used that as an excuse to bring demonstrators to Ruston, all

with the object of moving on to our house. Someone wanted to expose us as Seconders on the tabwebs

that were carrying a broadcast of the event.

A car drove up to our front gate and a trunk popped open. Inside was a pile of signs. A tall man handed

them out. A young woman thrust one in front of one of the cameras mounted on the outer walls

surrounding my family homestead. It read: SECONDERS ARE THE DEVIL'S SPAWN.

A couple of people grabbed the iron bars and tried to pull the gate open. The gates rattled, but I had no

fear that the lock would give, and no fear that the mob could force it open. It was made of a super-strong

alloy. It would hold.

I gave Rita a reassuring squeeze. This was our home. I was proud that my preparations were keeping it

safe from this unprovoked attack.

Originally, the house had belonged to my grandfather. It was located in a grove of piney woods a few

miles outside of Ruston. I was the homeowner of record now that my parents-young again after their own

sex change-were back in the military. Years ago, I remodeled the house to accommodate our new

family, but it was forlornly empty except for the two of us. Maybe we should have been frightened-the

two of us alone-but I didn't expect the demonstrators to become violent. They were the frightened ones,

people who wanted answers to troubling questions about the sex gates. Unfortunately, we couldn't

provide those answers, even if we wanted to.

Rita laid her head on my shoulder. Her liquid black eyes were filled with the compassion that was as

much a part of her as her breathing.

“Jackson Lee Stuart, you know what they want."

By her use of my full name I knew that she was in a serious mood.

“Yes.” I couldn't help sharing her sadness as I watched two men hold a banner high. “They want what

they can't have."

I spotted another sign printed in red block letters against a black background. The two women holding it

were wearing ersatz Fourth World jumpsuits. That told me they weren't really Fourth Worlders. I've

never seen a clean Fourth Worlder jumpsuit with creases. Their banner read: SECONDERS! REVEAL

YOUR SECRETS!

I understood why they felt the way they did. Most of the people in the mob had gone through a gate

through necessity, rather than choice. Because of the risk of vanishing, only the old, those with incurable

illness, or bodies broken by accidents were willing to take the chance. Of course, with society in chaos,

there are always those who are tossed through by rival gangs or competitors of one ilk or another. A trip

through the sex gates is even considered a punishment for male criminals in certain countries. But most of

the people in these last two categories vanished when they went into the gate anyway.

Given the choice, the majority of those who survived the first trip would love to go through a second time

and come out with bodies of their original gender. But the second trip through a gate is more risky than

the first. The first time, you have a pretty good chance of coming out, but the second time chances are

about a million to one that you will vanish.

Yet a handful of people do succeed-people like Rita and me. We are called Seconders. It is not a term

of endearment. The world resents those who can come to the table for seconds while they are denied

that same privilege. Some of them resent us so much they want to forbid a second trip through to

everyone.

Seconders have the enviable ability to pass back and forth through the gates at will, changing sexes each

time. This means we are theoretically immortal-when we grow old or sick we can replace our ailing

bodies with a brand-new model by going through the gate again. That alone would be enough to make

lesser mortals hate us. But passing through a gate the second time brings other changes as well. Changes

we Seconders are careful to keep secret. Of these, the most important is that our mental capabilities

expand with each trip-a process we are still trying to understand.

Outside, the demonstrators shouted and shook their fists. Most of them were convinced there was a trick

to successfully making successive passages, a trick that we Seconders selfishly kept to ourselves. That

made us evil in their eyes. If such a secret did exist, it would be extremely valuable. The wealthy would

gladly sacrifice a fortune to gain effective immortality. And to make that immortality fun, you could change

your sex whenever you got bored and enjoy swinging both ways. For a Seconder, it was as easy as

walking through one of the ubiquitous sex gates. But there was no secret to sell, and nothing we could tell

this mob would appease it. Neither Rita nor I had any idea why we could pass through the gates safely

while others vanished if they made the attempt.

She jerked her head up from my shoulder and looked around. I caught the touch of fear in her mind.

Although I was sure we were safe, I pulled her tighter against me and voice-activated my computer,

disguised as a gold sand dollar pendant hanging from my neck. But before I could connect to the police

station, the big red cruiser pulled up outside. It was an old gasoline-powered vehicle, but heavily armed

and armored, as most official cars are these days.

I let out a breath and relaxed. Unless those kids were carrying concealed weapons, the police would

disperse the mob. There weren't going to be any nasty confrontations.

I should have been more alert, but I felt safe. These were my stomping grounds. Ruston was a rural town

in East Texas, not Houston proper or what was left of L.A. Between global warming, rising oceans, and

the social chaos brought by the gates, most big cities were dangerous. But in Ruston, I was a local boy. It

was hard to believe anyone would harm me here. The townspeople hadn't shown much resentment

toward us for being Seconders-at least so far. These demonstrators had to be out-of-towners brought in

by some pressure group. I wondered which it might be, though it really didn't matter. There have always

been groups and cults who oppose those they consider outsiders. They are usually driven by a few

demented individuals who think they have the answers to all the evils in the world.

Rita beamed at the screen, pleased to see the police car. Then she wrapped her arms around my neck.

She was in a mood to celebrate now.

“Kiss me,” she breathed.

I didn't have to be asked twice. I leaned forward and the fresh scent of her lustrous hair filled my nostrils.

Her sweet, full lips made a pleasant target. As my mouth touched hers the mounting sensual hum of her

thoughts was interrupted by a flash of annoyed tolerance. The curve of her breast had touched the butt

end of my little handgun, the one I kept concealed in the side pocket of my jirt. Rita didn't approve of

weapons.

I twined an amused appreciation of her tolerance around her thought. I loved the way our minds

interplayed since we'd become Seconders. Even if it was only surface thoughts-passing emotions

really-we were so close it felt like mind-reading. She moved her upper body, shrugging the bulge of the

gun out of her way. Our kiss deepened. As my eyelids drifted shut, a bright explosion flared on the

screen and blotted out any further thought of making love.

Rita tore herself from our embrace. On the screen, metal rained through the air as the police cruiser

settled back down on its base. It no longer had wheels and the interior was enveloped in flame. Both of

us leapt to our feet. Bodies in the cab were twitching and jerking. Then the gas tank went with a huge

roar, and all we could see was a tower of twisting fire and smoke.

“Oh, my god, no!” Rita screamed.

My first thought was to protect her. Her first thought was to help the men caught in the explosion. I

grabbed the back of her blouse as she ran for the front door. She struggled from my grip, desperate to

see if she could help those still alive around the cauldron of the cruiser's remains.

“Rita! Stop!"

The delicate silkskin fabric of her blouse ripped down the back. As she whirled around her eyes flashed

with anger, and the remnants of the material slipped down, baring most of her breasts. I grabbed her

upper arms and held on. She wriggled for a moment, and then shivered in my arms as I forced a thought

into her mind. At the same time, I said it aloud.

“That was a missile! Those demonstrators didn't plan that! Another one could hit at any moment."

CHAPTER TWO

My warning about the missile was a guess, but it seemed logical. Someone was using this demonstration

to discredit us. I doubted the mob knew they were dupes. They were not innocents, however. Their

Fourth World clothing must be fake. Such clothing was a uniform for the roving packs of disgruntled first

passers interested in finding the secret of a second passage through the gates. Their demonstrations were

almost always peaceful.

In contrast, the more militant groups thought Seconders should be rounded up and forced to divulge their

secrets using any means that worked. From their actions, it was plain the mob at our gates belonged to

that faction. They wanted to force us to talk. It was a simple plan with only one hitch. Seconders can't

divulge information under duress even if we wanted to. Whenever we're questioned, we enter an autistic

state. This change is completely involuntary. Nothing, not torture nor drugs nor endless questioning, can

penetrate that aura of resistance.

The militants didn't believe that, though. They used every means they could think of to discredit us and

turn public opinion against us. They believed if we were stripped of our rights as citizens the government

would find a way to make us confess. They must plan to blame this missile-and the resulting carnage-on

us somehow.

“Those poor people. Why would anyone do something so horrible?"

Rita stared mesmerized at the screen. Her blouse hung in tatters where it was tucked into the waistband

of her shorts, leaving her naked from the waist up. The sight of her full, dark-tipped breasts rising and

falling with her quick breathing held me in a trance of desire. Then my mind returned to the carnage

outside.

The explosion had scattered bodies like tenpins. Flames from the burning gasoline engulfed some of

them. It was a terrible sight, but it affected her more than it did me. Rita always had empathy for anyone

who was suffering, and our passages through the sex gates had only enhanced that aspect of her mind.

While she was growing more empathic I was developing in another direction. Now my increased ability

to see and analyze patterns in any event kicked into gear.

A chill swept over me as I answered Rita's question. “Someone wants to make people think we were

responsible. This whole demonstration is a set-up. I hope the chief wasn't in that cruiser."

Apart from the fact that he was our friend, the chief would defend us from the inevitable accusations that

we were responsible for the blast. He knew we would never do such a thing.

Tears slid down her coffee-and-cream colored cheeks. She is a wonderful person, warm and caring

toward those who can't help their condition. But sometimes I think she takes identification with the

underdog too far.

“No,” Rita sniffled, as she caught my thoughts. She smiled through her tears. “Someone has to care.

That's part of what makes us human. And even if the chief wasn't in the cruiser, other troopers were."

I was ashamed for a minute. We probably knew all the victims in the cruiser, at least casually. She was

right-so far as it went. At the moment, though, all the caring in the world wasn't going to help the

shredded bodies strewn around our front gate.

I placed both my hands on Rita's face and turned her away from the screen. She closed her eyes and

rubbed her cheek against my neck. I stroked the warm, silken flesh of her back, giving her the chance to

get her emotions under control, while I kept my attention fixed on the screen.

My enhanced mental abilities warned me that ambushing the cruiser wasn't part of the demonstrators’

agenda. That could only mean that someone else was using the mob to advance a bigger scheme. I

reached those conclusions with lightning speed. With my ability to spot patterns I could take any situation

and grasp its many interrelated aspects. That made it almost child's play to figure out what was going to

happen, provided I had enough data.

As I stared at the smoking cruiser I knew that this incident was only a small part of something greater.

The knowledge flooded my mind like a revelation as soon as the cruiser blew. I felt an ominous presence

behind the burning destruction at my front gate-a presence that was a threat to us, and perhaps the nation

as a whole. If we Seconders lost our freedom, everyone lost.

“Shouldn't we go downstairs?” Rita slumped against me, thinking about our fortified shelter in the

basement. “You said there might be another missile."

I shook my head, relying on my newborn ability. “I don't think so."

Further analysis suggested that the incident was connected to the reinvigorated Church of the Gates.

They didn't intend to kill us. If we died, we would be innocent victims, like the officers in the cruiser. I

suspected this meant the church had some inkling of our closely guarded secrets.

I didn't need any special gift to know there would be hell to pay if the world found out repeated passages

through the gates were making Seconders smarter. If people realized we could sense the emotions and

attitudes of anyone standing close to us, we would probably be rounded up and locked away for our

own ‘protection'.

The gift was even more powerful when we were in close proximity to someone we were emotionally

involved with. For instance, I can read Rita's surface thoughts a good deal of the time. When we make

love, not only do our bodies join together, but our minds share a passionate union, as well. The

experience goes beyond the ability of words to describe.

There was one other ability that we Seconders were developing. Perhaps I should say many abilities, for

it wasn't the same for all of us. Like the autistic state a Seconder went into under questioning, some

developed what used to be known as idiot-savant talents, except we are the farthest thing from idiots.

These are gifts that manifest, things we can do without knowing why or how.

Rita, for instance, was developing the ability to discern exactly how much help a down and out person

needed or deserved in order to begin functioning in society again. As for myself, I wondered if it was a

propensity for telepathy (or maybe just enhanced empathy) that had enabled us to make the second-and

subsequent-passages and turned us into Seconders.

A final chilling thought occurred to me as I contemplated the secrets we had to hide. What if the federal

security boys had infiltrated the Gaters and were instigating this renewed outbreak of Gater activity? It

wouldn't be the first time the government corrupted a church and used it for its own ends.

I held Rita until the tears stopped, then led her over to the big lounger. I turned off the screen, but she

turned it right back on. The demonstrators had scattered, running for safety after the missile struck. That

confirmed my theory that someone had usurped their demonstration for ulterior purposes.

Rita insisted on watching while more police cruisers and ambulances arrived. Medics gathered the dead,

the living, and such body parts as could be found. Three of the units came from the next county. Ruston

was too small to have more than one emergency vehicle, and even that one had to be subsidized by

private citizens.

Our phones beeped as the media tried to reach us for comment. I ignored them.

A split screen showed paramedics tossing a few still-twitching bodies through the Ruston sex gate. They

were so horribly injured there was no chance of survival otherwise. Unfortunately, many of the

demonstrators had already gone through the gate once, so there was only a million-to-one chance that

they would come through young and whole again. Anyone who did would be a Seconder, of course, and

ironically one of us.

Only one person came out the other side, and I suspected it was a first passage as soon as I saw the

confused expression on the face of the newly minted woman. After settling her down, the medics waited

to be sure no one else was going to emerge. The sex change is instantaneous so a few minutes was longer

than necessary. When no one appeared, they departed, sirens warbling. I have no idea why they

waited-anyone successfully passing through a gate was as healthy as a horse. Maybe they were simply

curious to see how many of those they had tossed in survived the trip.

We watched from the comfort of our fortress home as the tragedy outside unfolded. I didn't know what

to say, a frequent condition for me. Rita was hurting for those poor people. They had come to our front

entrance to make a statement about something they thought was unfair. They couldn't have known the

Church of the Gates intended to make a statement, too-a much more emphatic one.

“I wonder if Messler has caught this on the news, and what he thinks about it.” The words slipped out

without thinking.

Rita shrugged. “His thought processes are so far beyond ours. He's impossible to figure out."

I agreed. Messler Scribner was one of the first humans to make a successful second passage through a

gate, and the first to deliberately return again and again. He had sensed almost immediately that each

successive passage enhanced his mental abilities.

But given my intuition about this attack, I was thinking about Messler for a different reason entirely. He

had founded the Church of the Gates soon after his first passage through a sex gate. He was a woman

then, and called herself Messilinda.

Messilinda. Her name conjured up memories of those early days. I was a college student when the gates

materialized everywhere on earth, suddenly and with no clue as to their origin. I lived with my buddies,

Don and Russell. When a green, glowing archway appeared in front of us Don rushed into it, and became

Donna.

In the upheaval that followed, my girlfriend-Rita-moved in with us for safety. We were a couple, but Rita

had never been a possessive woman. She cared about Don and the problems that he faced adjusting to

life as a woman. When she saw that Donna needed someone to teach her how to make love as a female,

she volunteered me-unknown to me at the time. She spiked Donna's drink with a pheromone and once I

caught the scent I all but fell into her bed. Once I was over my inhibition about making love to my former

male best friend, the three of us became lovers. Later, Donna took Russell into her bed and the four of us

formed our own safe family in the midst of a world in crisis.

After we finished with college I made a good living writing about the gates for the tabwebs. One of my

goals was to interview the mysterious woman who ran the Church of the Gates. The world didn't know

then that Messilinda was once Messler Scribner. People would have been more leery of the church if

they knew its founder was a one-hundred-year-old, incredibly rich and manipulative man transformed

into a sexy redhead.

With the wisdom born of a long life, Messilinda realized that the gates would bring sweeping changes to

humanity. She decided we needed a new paradigm, like a religion, to funnel some of the discontent into

nonviolent channels. After a hundred years of taking charge, Messler-now Messilinda-didn't hesitate to

found a church.

The plan didn't work, but that wasn't Messler's fault. His second trip through the sex gate was totally

unplanned. A would-be assassin shot her while she made a speech in front of a gate. The shot toppled

her backward through the gate. Messilinda became an eighteen-year-old Messler, and ceased to have

anything to do with the church. I'm sure he left the church to be free to explore his astonishing new mental

powers. After his departure, radical fractions took over.

Meanwhile, I made my first trip through the gate entirely against my will. Rita had been stabbed and was

dying. I rushed her to the gate to save her life, slipped, and fell through. We both emerged-now Rez and

Li instead of Rita and Lee-and learned to cope with the change in our relationship. I went from being a

nondescript male with rust-colored hair and pale blue eyes to a small, voluptuous female with waving

auburn locks and a sea-blue gaze beneath thick lashes. Rita turned into a handsome man with thick black

hair and a smoking, sexy stare.

With Messler's departure, the Church of the Gates eventually meddled in politics and even instigated a

short nuclear exchange. All four of us were hit hard by radiation from that attack. We were forced to go

through the gate a second time. Radiation sickness and impending death gave us no choice despite the

million-to-one risk we wouldn't survive. That forced trip cost us a lot. Russell and Donna went into the

gate with us-the first trip for Russell and the second for Donna-but never came out. Their loss was a

blow we still felt.

All that Rita and I cared about now was whether we would ever be able to manipulate the gates enough

to find out what had happened to them. Certainly they had been no sicker than we were. And both were

above-normal human beings. Russell was a brilliant scientist and Donna was a mathematician. I saw no

reason why they should have vanished. But vanish they did.

We were learning a little about the gates with each passage, and not incidentally, more about ourselves as

well. Learning too much, maybe. I was beginning to be leery of taking many more passages for fear that

we might become something more-or less-than human. Now I wondered if someone had learned of our

repeated trips through. Was that the reason behind today's demonstration?

I heard a loud sniff and looked down. Tears streaked Rita's cheeks as she watched the ambulances drive

away. It was obvious she still felt all the human emotions. She reached into my shirt pocket for a

handkerchief and used it to wipe her eyes.

“Why did that happen?” Rita nodded at the screen, as she handed me back my hanky. “I wish Messler

were here. He always seemed to know what to do."

I pushed the hanky back into my pocket and tucked her more firmly into the circle of my arm. She

continued to stare at the screen.

“Whoever did this was motivated by fear of death,” I said.

“Those were kids! They had another eighty or a hundred years left."

“Uh-uh,” I reminded her. “Most of them were probably old folks who went through a gate for health

reasons. Becoming young again hasn't taken away their fear of death. Nothing does. Once you get old

enough to start watching for the black camel to kneel by your tent, it's never far from your mind."

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MastersoftheSexGatesbyDarrellBainandJeanineBerryDoubleDragonPublication-ScienceFictionCopyright(C)2003DarrellBainandJeanineBerryFirstpublishedbyDDP,April2003ISBN:1-55404-039-6FirstEditioneBookPublicationApril4,2003DEDICATIONToDeronDouglasofDoubleDragonpublishing,whomorethananyoneelsehasbeeninstrumen...

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Darrell Bain & Jeanine Berry - Gates 02 - Masters of the Sex Gate

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