"Come on, Brent," whined the stocky man like a dog begging for a bone. He walked up to his partner, fell to his knees, his hands clasped together. "Just a little one. Let me tell ya. Come on."

Brent grumbled, "Forget it. Shut up. And get off the floor. You look ridiculous, Fred. Even more than usual and that's saying something."

"Aw, you're no fun. Y'know, I don't have to be here. Punk duty. Jail guard. I could be running the Serbians. Maybe Soweto. Some mission with real meat in it." The guard paced around the room, dodging and punching the air. His neck was very thick, tapering into his small head. The curls of his brown hair peaked into one point so that he looked like the top of a chocolate softy-swirl cone coming out of his black turtleneck. "Jay-sus, I'm bored. Watching blondie over there. She ain't doing nothin'. Why are we guarding a stiff, Brent? Just tell me that."

The short man looked up from his newspaper. He patiently said, "Number one: she isn't a stiff. She isn't dead yet ..."

"Yet? What joke. That's right. The key word is 'yet'. Just a matter of time. The doc says so. Don't you, Doc?"

The silver-haired woman with the glasses didn't respond, continuing with her swift sure examination. She readjusted the adhesive cortical monitor on Nikita's forehead, then nodded to her colleague, who turned Nikita on to her side. When the doctor spoke, she sounded as clear and mellow as a French horn. "Any statement would be ... premature."

"Well, stop the presses. That's fast-breaking news," snorted Fred.

"Doesn't matter if it's old or new. Doesn't matter at all. The Director wants us here. One look in his eyes and you do what he says. No questions asked. So I'm here. You're here. Just do the job, Fred, and watch your mouth. It's not a bad gig. San Francisco ..."

"S.F. Big F-ing deal. So what? What good does it do us? We're holed up here. Round the clock. Ain't going anywhere. Just like blondie over there." Fred jabbed a stubby thumb in the direction of the still woman in the bed.

"And there's good coffee, no bugs in the bed, no one slapping you upside the head. Although maybe they should. You don't seem to appreciate the finer points."

"All right, all right. I'm just bored, that's all. Hey, heard the one about the two blondes?"

"No." Brent opened up his paper again with a brisk snap. "I'm not listening to you."

"It's real good. You'll love this one ..."

"Tuning out. Right no-o-ow."

"See, there were these two blondes trying to unlock the door of their Mercedes with a coat hanger. And the first blonde says, 'I can't seem to get this door unlocked'..."

"Fred."

"Don't rush me, okay? See, she can't unlock her door, and then, the second blonde replies, 'Well, you'd better hurry up and try harder, it's starting to rain and the top is down'!" He bent over, slapping his knee. "The top. Get it? That's a good one. Come on. Ya gotta admit it."

"Shut up," Brent hissed. He stood up abruptly as the Director walked in, alone as he always was. Even when he was surrounded by his staff, the man always seemed by himself, completely self-contained. Quiet but scary as hell. He scared the shit out of Brent. "Sir."

Fred snapped to attention, swallowing hard. "Hello, sir."

The Director turned his unsmiling green stare to Fred. He lifted one deadly finger, pointed. "Boredom ... is dangerous. Dismissed."

##

As far as Michael was concerned, Fred and Brent were history. He'd already forgotten them, barely noted their departure as he walked towards the doctors and Nikita. He was concluding a long distance conference over the com-link when all of a sudden he heard something strange. Inside his head, a husky voice said, Listen, pal, lighten up. It's just one of those bad hair days.

Soleil? Disbelieving, he stopped abruptly in the center of the room. His gaze shot to the woman in the bed. Had she spoken? That half-mocking, half-serious voice belonged to only one person he knew, the one he honored above all others. A bad hair day.That was pure Nikita. He could just see her say it, looking all bleary-eyed over the first morning cup of tea while she ran a hand through blonde hair that was all mussed as if the ends had been caught in a blender.

But none of this made any sense. Nikita was laid out on their bed. She was in the right place, but it looked all wrong. She was too quiet, unnaturally still, not even squinching her face against the morning light, or making the soft purrs from the back of her throat when he woke her up in their favorite way. He walked closer until the bedspread touched his pants. Her skin looked like the white rice paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling - all transparent and pale, only the light was turned off. She was dim inside. He didn't need that cortical monitor to tell him that.

A sense of unreality pounded through him. Maybe he was hallucinating or maybe this was one of those dreams that seemed so terribly real. If only he could wake up and hear her laughing softly into his ear, feel the exquisite distracting drift of her hands. This strange pale woman wasn't his Nikita, just some facsimile. Her eyes were still shuttered, her lips still sagged downward in an almost-bluish face. She was still in a coma. It couldn't have been her speaking.

Yet it felt as if she was still alive, part of him, somewhere inside him. Yes, Nikita could call this a bad hair day, and she would be right. What an understatement. His day had started terribly and gone worse. Why did everything happen all at once? Catalonia had had gone nuclear, the Irish situation still volatile, and now the head of Section One was suspect, forcing Michael to act behind the scenes. And if that wasn't enough, his family was even worse off, crumbling around him. His son Adam, smart and sulky at fifteen, a dangerous tool in the hands of the wrong men ... No, he couldn't think about Adam now when Nikita - his foundation - was still laying there, being turned this way and that by the doctors like she was a bolster or some inanimate object. Monitoring them and their instruments, Michael paced slowly in the bedroom as he listened to his com-link. "No, no es possible, Eduardo. Think. Who gave the order?"

"Your man. Section One. Marco O'Brien." From half the world away, Eduardo's unhappy reply buzzed into his ear. Michael circled the room again, wondering if O'Brien was merely stupid or perhaps had a death wish. There were at least one hundred ways to die. Michael knew them all: from the big megaton blow-up to the slow humiliating agonies that turned a man into an animal. Freezing, they said, wasn't so very bad - drifting from sleep into nothingness. But dying of hunger or thirst - that was the worst. He had come very close to it once. It had been so bad that he'd wanted to claw out his throat, but that time had been nothing compared to this. Now his thirst was a million times worse, because it could not be quenched with something as simple as water. What he wanted was unavailable. What he wanted was ...

Nikita. Every day she was dying a little more. And every day his sorrow parched his soul a lot more until he felt as barren and dry as a mad hermit, lost in the desert.

Michael realized that some things are like aqua vitae, the water of life, that which you cannot do without. And other things are like spit: limited, functional, and slightly distasteful. But it wasn't always as simple as that. One man's spit was another man's aqua vitae. As the director of four Sections, Michael supposed it was his job to sort that out. It was almost always a matter of priority, re-ranking, bargaining. And yet, Nikita had taught him that some things couldn't be bargained away. Some things were vital. And once lost, they were lost forever. He wouldn't lose her. He was determined. To lose her was to lose himself.

"Hasta la vista, Eduardo." Michael pulled the com-link out of his ear even before the man was finished. He pocketed the link, and turned expectantly to the doctors. The young man stepped back, his cocky air deflating a little under scrutiny. "Yes? Report." Michael said aloud.

The young man tugged on his tie while he vigorously cleared his throat. "Complete cerebral shutdown, minimal brainstem functioning. The EM shock has triggered an autoimmune reaction so her body is now feeding on her brain. We think the old wound's been reactivated. A weak zone."

"You think?" said Michael, his voice softening, slowing. "Only think?"

The older doctor held up her hand, silencing her colleague's feeble protests and explanations. Behind her thick lenses, her brown eyes were sympathetic and sad. "Theories are unimportant. You'll want to know the bottom line. It's this: she's not doing well. We look for improvement at 72 hours, then again at 7 days. If she's not better, in fact, has worsened, then the outcome isn't good. I'm sorry, sir."

"Sorry is not good enough," said Michael. "You must do better than that. Nikita is overdue. Fourteen days past."

"But, sir," protested the older doctor as she exchanged looks of disbelief with her colleague. Clearly they thought him mad for even mentioning it.

"Do it now," Michael said. "Before she wakes up."

The doctors looked at each other again. If she wakes up,they seemed to be saying silently to each other.

The woman removed her glasses, and wearily rubbed the bridge of her nose. "You know the risks. We'd be taking a chance, a real chance with her life. Any surgery can cause infections, bleeding, host-graft rejection. She's highly sensitized now that her immunosuppressants are tapering off. It's not without risk."

Risk. What was risk? Real risk?Michael almost laughed out loud. What were they talking about? This was nothing - absolutely nothing - compared to the daily danger in his and Nikita's lives. Maybe the doctors had seen death, but they had never felt that sick queer feeling whenever death was personally delivered to the unfortunate or deserving. They had never felt the hot breath of death chase them during the final seconds of a mission. No, they had no idea what they were talking about.

"Surgery may not make a difference. Nikita may never wake up," said the older woman.

"Then it won't matter if we go ahead," Michael said with a quiet firmness. He turned away at the last moment so they couldn't see a ripple of grief mar his features. He hardened his voice. "Do it ... now."

##

Michael waited for the two doctors to leave before he turned to Nikita, who lay silently on their bed. He stared down at her, his hands fisting, then letting go. What good was all his power if he couldn't use it to protect her? He could topple governments, build accords, but in this he was once again helpless. The treachery never ended, and this time it had caught them both unawares. He'd thought Nikita safe, but he'd been wrong.

Where are you, Soleil? Come back to me. Her head lay deep in the pillow as if nothing was holding her up - not even the will to live. She looked like a husk, empty and fragile so that Michael was afraid to touch her at first. She might disintegrate if he did. He stood there for a long time, counting her slow uneven breaths, before he reached over and brushed her lank hair off her forehead, tucked a strand behind her ear. She didn't move into his touch like she always did. No little smile. And she felt cold, too cold. Finally, when he couldn't bear it any more, he walked to the window.

A buoy chimed like a little clock, marking the tide and the time. Fourteen days, ten hours, five minutes. And in counterpoint to the soft bell, a distant foghorn moaned low; dutiful and lonely. Together they sang a sad duet across the water that echoed inside him as if he were hollow because he was missing his heart. Listening, Michael gazed out their bedroom window. Over the tops of the warehouses, he could still see the San Francisco Bay. Today it was rough, full of chop, white caps ruffling the blue-black water. And the sky looked gray and flat. Thick mist completely painted over the bridges and the sun so that by a strange bright trick of the light, he couldn't tell whether it was morning or afternoon. Time seemed suspended, and yet he knew just how much time had elapsed since the mission had been completed, how long it had taken to reach his transport, and when Nikita had collapsed as if she had been shot through the head. Fallen into his arms like a wounded bird. His Nikita, damaged like this for how long now? He knew exactly. Fourteen days, twelve hours, five minutes, three-point two seconds. A long time. Mère de Dieu,it was too long.

"Forgive me," he thought.

###

Now,roared the white fire as it raged around her and inside her. The fierce heat shot from Nikita's head to her heart, then down her arms and legs until she had become part of it - a living flame instead of a person. All the excuses and worries, from the ordinary to the critical, seemed to fall away and burn, turning into ash just like her body had turned into absolutely nothing at all. It had simply disappeared, and now Nikita suddenly felt light, lighter even than air. She was curling like a wisp of smoke; drifting higher, lower, side to side until a warm breeze caught her and once more she floated around their bedroom where Michael's cello lay on its side. The bow hung from the music stand next to his small box of rosin as if he'd just made music for her, pouring his soul into sound as he always did.

Seeing it made her feel sad because he only played when he needed consolation and she wouldn't be able to comfort him any more. She saw his jacket draped carelessly over a chair, and the earrings on top of the dresser that she'd meant to return and now never would. And then it occurred to her. She was noticing each detail because she was saying goodbye to them all, from the last magenta peony in a vase by the door to the man sitting on the edge of the bed.

Bonne nuit, Michael. She thought he looked terrible. Fatigue marked his face, deepening the grooves around his mouth, near his eyes. And for the first time, she noticed more gray at his temples. His clothes were rumpled as if he'd slept in them. They hung looser. Had he lost weight?

Michael was brushing the blonde hair of a woman with long careful strokes until the hair lay like a wheat-colored cape over the pillows. When he was done, he just as carefully set the brush next to a fairy tale book and a recorder on the nightstand. He watched the woman for some time; tracing her cheekbone with a thumb, then carefully readjusting a thin plastic feeding tube so that it didn't press hard against the her nostril. He glanced at the IV pump, which click-sucked by the bed, and frowned.

"Come back," he said quietly to the woman in the bed.

Nikita hovered near, taking a closer a look. That woman ... something about that oval face, the sharp bones made starker by illness, broad shoulders, a hint of long coltish arms and legs under the sheet. That woman seemed familiar. Then realization seeped in, a drop at a time. Why, that's ... me. Is that what I look like? How strange. She watched Michael place the moss-green sweater by her cheek.

"Remember?" he was saying. "Five weeks ago. In Killarney. You bought this sweater because we'd lost yours by the lake. That night. It was ..." His mouth started to curve, then faltered into its usual stern line. Half-turning to the nightstand, he picked up the recorder and held it near Nikita's face. "See? And you bought this for me. I've even learned to play it." Taking a breath, Michael set it to his lips.

It sounded like a sigh, low and tremulous, until the next minor notes lifted, spiraling slowly like a gull lofting on a barest memory of a breeze, hovering over the shores of a misty time. Then higher and higher, his music sang. And each bitter piercing note called her back to the silver moon on a lake, the soft green grass, and the softer look in Michael's eyes as he held her on that long ago isle, where regret and sorrow washed over the sand, and turned the memories over and over until they were smooth and round like polished stones.

Michael's head dropped, his body softening and curving forward into a C as he played - each breath, a word. He played all the words he couldn't say, never would say. His song was a lament for something or someone lost. His song was for her, for both of them.

Listening, Nikita floated on the sound of love. And in that one pure moment, she could clearly see and understand Michael as she never had before. She moved closer to him until she hovered by his stubbled cheek, the angle of his long jaw, the cleft of his chin. His eyes flickered wider as if he felt her right then.

Now,whispered a voice to Nikita. Stubbornly she stayed by Michael, ignoring the voice that gradually grew louder until it rumbled, thundering, insisting. Now. Now. NOW.

Not yet,thought Nikita, already feeling the wind tugging at her. She fought harder, willed herself to stay by Michael. This was wrong. She needed to be here.

Nikita.The voice sounded exasperated.

No. You've made a mistake. There's still work to do.

Nikita. The force grew stronger.

Forget it, pal. Not yet.She pulled even harder, wrenching, twisting, until something seemed to give and she spun away at Mach Five. Speeding. Crazy. Out of control.

Suddenly the room turned cold, and she was dizzy, dropping through air. She felt heavy again, so heavy, diving free-fall. Strings cut, no parachute. The ice wind shrieked past her as she fell fast, fast, faster into darkness. She couldn't see Michael or hear the music any more. She was falling; completely alone, frightened, curious, and not a little mad.

Then she landed with a short sharp jerk. And Nikita hurt everywhere all at once. There wasn't one place that didn't hurt. Not a single place. Man, this sucked. Her head felt like one of Walter's bombs had kaBOOMed right in the middle of it. She was ground zero. She was sure of it. Her brain must be rubble and shrapnel by now. All jangled wiring, not a single synapse between each fritzing brain cell. Jeez. This was worse - far worse - than the other times. How much can a girl's brain take? If she wasn't careful, she'd end up wandering on the streets like some loony tune.

Unidirectional EM pulse, my ass.O'Brien had promised her. Equipment failure? Maybe. A mistake? Obviously. She was wondering exactly what kind of a mistake it had been and who had made it. Oops. Convenient. Too damn convenient. Well, she'd look into that later. Right now, she just needed to move. Speak. Eat. Hell, she was starving. Food, pain pills. They both could wait. Section One could wait. There was something else she needed to do first.

Nikita gingerly cracked open her eyelids, then quickly shut them again. It was too bright out there like the first time you step out of a theater after a matinee show. She couldn't see anything yet. Everything had looked like chunks of sun, white shapes with whiter outlines. But there was one shape she recognized.

"Soleil."

The soft shocked voice she recognized too, its sound even sweeter and sharper than the music he'd played for her. And she also knew that touch of those long fingertips as they gripped her shoulders.

Careful, pal. That hurts. Don't damage the goods.She tried to smile but her lips felt leaden. Too much work. So cold and heavy. Why couldn't she talk? Her chest worked hard: bunching, lifting, scraping enough air to make a sound. Michael. It didn't sound right, her first word coming out as a breath. She tried harder this time. She needed to call to him. "Mi ... i ... ichael." There. Better. A little reedy but all right.

"Mère de Dieu."

"No ... just ... me." Her eyes fluttered open, squinting against the light so that she could see him again. His gaze was deep and dark like his music. His mouth parted in surprise. She drank in all of his dear features, worn and familiar and all hers. She wanted to smooth down his tousled hair, straighten his shirt, feed him something so he'd gain back his weight. She wanted to comfort him and torment him in her special way. She would do all of things, given time. He looked absolutely lousy (for Michael), and she loved him this way even more than the remote handsome man she'd first met long ago.

"What's ... the matter?" she said. "Had a bad hair day?"

###

Their eyes met, and a moment stretched into eternity. Her heart seemed to stop completely, the next beat suspended indefinitely by shock and wonder. Nikita felt certain of the rightness, was amazed by the miracle. This was were she belonged. She couldn't imagine it any other way so the impossible had to become the possible. She guessed that was nothing new. After all, winning against lousy odds was her specialty.

The pillow crinkled under her as she turned to look at Michael. She examined him over and over as if confirming that he was still there. Here, within her reach. She tried lifting her hand to touch him, but her arm fell like a log back on to the bed.

Mine,she thought fiercely, mapping each new line on his face. Worry had marked him. It was her fault. She had aged him in a way that Section never had.

Disbelieving, Michael was still staring at her. His mouth remained parted for one, two, three seconds. Then his breath rushed out as if she'd punched him right in the gut. His chest remained frozen for a long time, all the muscles retracted and paralyzed. He was still, very still. He looked as though he were afraid of moving and shattering the illusion that she had returned. Fear warred with hope. His eyes turned suspiciously glossy.

"Nikita?" And finally his trembling hand reached to where hers had fallen.

They touched.
The barest brush of fingertip to tip.
Smooth nail against roughened pad.

His finger traced hers; sliding down sinew to the dell between her thumb and forefinger; sweeping in and out and around again until she melted from the sweetness of his caresses now and all the memories of his caress. She melted everywhere - all her muscles and the in-between places. How could he do this with just one touch? She didn't understand even as she reveled in it.

Her face flushed with the same strange fever he could always stir in her. She let her eyes darken with her need, beckoning him closer and commanding him, willing him to do this for her.

"No," he said softly.

"Chicken."

His brows snapped together into a thick brown line. "Caution ... is not a failing."

"To hell with that. Who needs caution? Listen, Mister Play-By-the-Rules, I'm fine. A-okay. Check me out. Come on. What can one little kiss do?" Gathering all her strength, she suddenly lunged forward and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. Nikita quickly pressed a smack against his lips before she fell back again, pulling Michael with her into the bed.

###

The first kiss was like a hors-d'oeuvre, tasty but unsatisfying, leaving her even hungrier than before. Was that all? That little bitty smooch? Her lips touched his warm still lips like a greeting between friendly cousins. No need, no flame feeding fire. A polite kiss, nothing more. Jeez, what was that all about? Maybe they weregetting old. Or maybe he didn't want her any more.

Impossible. Forget that. Frustration bit her. Impatience followed, a close second. She wanted more, and he was already moving away from her, delicately setting her aside as if she were a goddamn porcelain doll or something.

No way. You're not getting off that easily, Mister Samuelle. This is a life sentence. So pay up. Pay up now.Nikita tightened her hold on him. She pulled with a desperate strength.

Their mouths crashed together, noses bumping, until she slanted her head and slid her lips along his over and over, coaxing, inviting, demanding. His mouth tightened, refused. Her frustration mounted. Come on, Michael.She nipped him. Hard.

He jerked back. "Niki-..."

Suddenly her tongue slipped inside his mouth, and swept along: seeking, finding, tangling, tasting. She moved deeper, possessed and persuasive; devouring him with a last chance desperation that had almost been too real. She needed to touch him, to celebrate, to affirm their life together. But most of all, she needed him. Michael. Nobody else. That terrible wanting clutched her heart, squeezing hard, just like she clutched him now. She had fought so hard for him, and now she would never let him go. It wasn't possible. Her hands cupped his head, buried into the soft fine hair at the back of his neck, her thumb brushing along his spine. Take me. I'm here. I almost wasn't. What are you waiting for, pal?

She snuggled so their bodies curved together, hip to hip, legs braided. She pressed closer, circled. Her foot drew up along his soft linen pants so that the fabric folded into pleats, catching here and there along the rough hairs of his calf. And at that, Michael stiffened as if something inside him had finally snapped. He waited just one heartbeat more before his moan passed from his mouth into hers, and he met her.

Matched her.
Overwhelmed her.
Kiss for kiss.
Taste for taste.

Yes.was all Nikita could think for that last moment before conscious thought dimmed. Then a warm darkness swallowed her whole, and she couldn't think any more, sinking beneath the wild dangerous feelings that surged between them, around them. More. I want more. She insisted. He obliged.

Oh. Those broad palms, his deft fingers. Each knowing touch triggered another chain reaction where pleasure exploded upon pleasure. His hands swept over her head, along her neck, shoulders, then down to capture her breasts.

She flinched.

He paused. " 'S okay?"

"Still sore." She snuggled closer to him, sighing and lifting her head for another kiss. "I guess my nipples are still sore. The hormones."

"Sorry." Michael suddenly rolled away, muttering something low and guttural in French. She didn't need a translation to know that he was upset about something. He lay on his back, arms and legs flung out wide. Michael didn't move for a long time, only staring up at the ceiling. An inch separated them but it felt like more. Much more.

"Hey." She lifted up on one arm. His face looked carefully blank except for one faint crease between his brows. "He-e-e-ello-o-o-o there. Anybody home?"

She waited for him even though she was dying inside with every second, the cramps of stark need coming and going but never completely leaving her. She noted the slight fare of his nostrils and the way he breathed in short hard pants. So he felt it too. It was the same for him. Self-sacrificing idiot. Some things never changed over time. Finally, when she couldn't bear his silence any longer, she poked his shoulder. "Michael."

"We ... should not."

"Why not?"

"You're not well yet."

"Like hell I'm not."

"Still recovering."

"No, I'm not. Feel, just feel. I'm fine." She grabbed his hand and placed it over her belly, the one place he had avoided touching her. Now her stomach was only softly rounded. His fingers jerked under hers, but she gripped him harder, forced him to touch her there. Then she lifted her nightgown and made him trace the short hard puckered line above her pubic bone. "See? All healed. So what if I had a C-section? It doesn't matter if we never got to do those puff-puff pant-pant things. Things never go as profiled. The main thing is that I'm fine. We're all fine. Nothing's wrong now. I told you so." She sounded brave, but inside she quivered. Even as she finished the last word, a tear welled in the corner of one eye while they re-traced the scar together. She ducked her head, not wanting Michael to see her cry. Ever since Nikita had reawakened, she'd been listening for the sounds of their baby. But she hadn't heard anything: no coos, cries, no sounds of an adult comforting a little one. That could only mean one thing. And it was the one thing she didn't want to hear, couldn't hear. The beginnings of fear built bars around her, one by one enclosing her. Logic was the lock, cold and hard as steel. She lay there, feeling helpless. Trapped by the truth.

"Nikita."

Sniffing loudly, feeling like an idiot, she burrowed her head into the pillow. She tried to turn away from him, but he threw one heavy leg over her and trapped her there.

"Baby," she said. Maybe he'd moved their baby to a quieter place so she could rest, or maybe a safer place with high level security. Yeah, that was it. Separating potential targets. Good strategy. Her breath flapped frantically inside her like a caged bird, hope wildly shooting through her in fits and starts, beating at the bars. Unreal hope, careless hope. She willed it to be so. She looked at Michael for confirmation but saw only his eyes close slowly. His chin snapped back as if someone had punched him. And when his eyes finally opened again, they were dull and opaque like old bottle glass.

"No." The single tear plumped, then finally trickled inside her nose, and made her sound stuffy. She sniffed again. "Where's our baby? Damn you, Michael, what did you ...?" But she couldn't finish, her throat clogged with grief.

"Nikita, don't. Don't do this."

Heaving against him, she tried to escape but only succeeded in thrashing around underneath him, and this time there was only pain - no pleasure - in it. Nikita looked away, anywhere but at him. His fault. And hers. She'd been so wrong to hope, to plan. It always came to nothing, their future to ashes. She stuffed a fist into her mouth so her cry wouldn't escape. She tried to swallow it, but she couldn't. The sorrow inside her grew and grew into a monstrous thing threatening to choke her.

"Stop ... It wasn't real," he said gently. "It never was."

Not real. Never was.Each of his soft words fell into the silence like a sudden avalanche of boulders into a pool. Each splash unexpected, one explosion after another, the ripples of sorrow spreading, joining, building, then returning over and over until it swamped her completely. She was going down, drowning in it.

No.She wanted to shove his words back into his mouth, or maybe cover her ears so she couldn't hear them any more. But it wouldn't do any good because she'd always hear them, echoing inside her head. Even as her heart denied it, she knew he spoke the truth. And the truth didn't comfort her at all. It stripped her bare, beat her raw with a sharp grief. She could bear it because she had to. She was a strong woman, but her strength didn't lessen the grief. It would only let her suffer longer and more silently.

"No," Nikita said aloud, still fighting it. "It felt real. I was huge. Humungous. Couldn't walk, only waddled. My bladder was the size of a goddamn peanut. Had to piss every five minutes, maybe more. And I felt our baby. Like soda bubbles inside me. Popping, fizzing, more like a tickle really. Then later on the baby turned, did flips. She kicked a lot. It was real, Michael."

"And that is the best cover. Feeling like it is real," he said as if they were back in Section One during her first year of training. His reassurances made her shudder. It was true but the truth did little to help right now.

"No, Michael. Hello in there. You're not listening. I'm telling you I waspregnant. You can bet on it."

"Jésus.What did O'Brien tell you? What did they promise you this time?"

"You know," she said lowly. "We talked about this before you left for that meeting. You told me not to do it. 'Leave it alone'. That's rich. How many times have I heard that one?"

"And does that ever stop you?" His lips thinned into a sad line.

She threw him a look: loving him, hating him all at once. Had she come back for this - this same old argument? Come to think of it, maybe that was the very reason she'd returned - to wrestle this one out in this lifetime or else they were doomed to wrangle again during the next life. Jeez. Another round. Headlocked over this problem. The thought made her feel sad and pissed off at the same time.

"I thought I was helping you. Marco said no one else could do it. It was up to me. And you were gone for nine months, Michael. I couldn't reach you. You didn't tell me how. I had to decide right then. Critical timing."

"I see. Is that what O'Brien said?"

"Well, at least Marco said something. You didn't. You didn't say anything at all. You never do. Only Don't."

"And how well you listen," he said with a trace of bitterness. "Before you decided, I'm sure you talked with your usual source."

"Do you mean Rabbit?" Nikita rolled her eyes, aggravated with Michael's stubborn attitude towards her friend. It was always this way. The Middle East would reach an agreement before these two men would. Jeez, grown men acting like boys. Cut me a break."He exists. Why don't you just say his name?" Llewellyn "Rabbit" Kanahele: the quick-draw mind, fastest in the West. He was her best friend; Michael's colleague and general all-purpose thorn-in-the-side; a wiry wily maverick who supplied Fred (she suspected) with all of those terrible blondie jokes just to tweak Michael. It never bothered her. And marriage hadn't tamed her friend. Having kids had only made Rabbit worse. Much worse.

She sighed, wishing that the two men she loved most would at least try to get along better. That last meeting ... well, it was too easy to tease Michael. Thinking of Rabbit's prank made her smile a little even through her tears. It always did in the worst of times.

"Yes," she said finally, "I talked with Rabbit. Of course I did. Check a second source. My trainer taught me that. What of it?"

"And ...?"

Nikita had the grace to look disgruntled. "You'll be happy to know he agreed with you. Totally. All the way. Said not to act like a blondie and do something stupid. I may be blonde but I'm not ..."

"... stupid. I never said that."

"Michael, I wanted this. Really wanted this. I thought this was our one chance. I want a child."

"I know."

"You don't know. You can't. I wanted this to be real. No tricks."

His mouth twisted at one corner.

"Okay, okay. If you want to get technical about it. You can be so old-fashioned. So what if she started in a test tube instead of inside me? In vitro. Big deal. At least she wasn't one of those clones."

"She?" he asked softly.

"Yeah. I thought I didn't want to know, but I saw the ultrasound. All right, all right. At the last minute I peeked. I couldn't help myself."

Michael looked like he was almost going to laugh, a mixture of exasperation, fondness, and familiarity flashed across his face. He shook his head.

"The baby was a girl. Misha."

"That's a boy's name."

"Big deal. So's mine. It suits me. It would have suited her all right. I like 'Misha'."

"Nikita," he said warningly.

"No. Absolutely not. No Nikita Junior. That's gross. Trying to give me a puffed head? Won't work. Forget it. You can't get around me that easily."

"I meant..."

"All right, all right. Michelle then. After you. So what do you think?"

Michael took a deep breath and held it for a second, then two. He took her hand, squeezed it. "I think dreams are dangerous. And the only thing more dangerous is believing in them. It's over, Nikita."

His final words knifed through her, straight to the heart. And this time, she couldn't find it in herself to deny it any longer. There was no more fight left. Her lids closed, more tears squeezing out as her last silent protest faded.

"I need to know, Michael. Was it the EM pulse? Did the device kill our baby just like it killed Katie Donnelly?"

He seemed to think for a moment. Reluctantly he said, "No."

"Then ...?" A dreadful suspicion grew. Was their baby really alive? Maybe they were keeping her baby somewhere else. A hostage then? How could Michael let them? He couldn't be capable of going along with such a terrible scheme.

Flinching, Michael seemed to read her thoughts. He shook his head slowly. "Nikita, I ..."

"Tell me. Fast. All at once. It's better that way. What could be worse? What happened to her?"

"Not her."

"A boy?"

"No, Soleil.It was just as I said. The baby didn't die. There wasn't a baby. There never was."

She looked at him as if he were speaking Martian. What did he mean? She'd seen the baby, felt her, carried her for nine whole months. She must have heard wrong. He couldn't have said that.

"After the operation. I talked with the doctors ... I looked. It wasn't a baby at all. It was a bio-droid."

"A what?"

"A cyber-life form, programmed to simulate and grow. It gestates, matures, then ... They think it can function like a human. But it is not human at all. It is ... an abomination. I had it ... destroyed."

The words gradually sunk in, and when they did, acid surged inside her. When did the experiments end? The treachery stop? Why couldn't things ever be what they seemed? They lived in a land of fun-house mirrors where she could never tell what was real and what was not. How much had Michael known all along? And how much was he still keeping from her? As much as she loved him, she wasn't blind to his secrecy that always seemed to hurt both of them in the end. The bitterness boiled inside her and spread. She had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep the sickness in. They had fooled her completely.

And she had fooled herself. Just as bad, she supposed. She had thought herself older and wiser, but she had only been more foolish instead. What had Michael said? Dreams are dangerous. And the only thing more dangerous is believing in them. She had been wrong to ask Michael and wrong to suppose that things were as bad as they could get. This was worse. Far worse.

###

For a long time, they lay side by side; not talking, not even touching. Only an inch separated them in their great wide bed, but the gulf felt bigger than that. Other things stood between them: unasked questions and impossible answers, misunderstanding and mistrust. All their old demons.

Her fingers spanned her empty belly. She still grieved for her daughter. A baby, not an "it." Not a Robo-baby. Jeez, a bio-droid? It couldn't have been that. It had all been too real. Still seemed impossible. She couldn't adjust to the truth. Maybe she never would. "Michael?"

"Yes."

"I want a child."

"Soleil."Her name came out like a sigh. "It is not ..."

"There are other ways. You know there are. We could always adopt. I'd like that. There are lots of babies just waiting for parents. We could do it."

"No."

"No? Can't we at least talk about this? I ..." Her bottom lip started to tremble. Damn hormones. She rolled on to her side and grabbed her pillow. Buried her face into it.

Michael sat up suddenly, moving even further from her. His head dropped back until it rested against the bed's backboard. Eventually a long low sound puffed out of him like steam from a slowing train as it pulls into the station. "We cannot."

"Why?" she asked baldly.

"Our child would always be in danger. A hostage."

"How can you say that? You don't know that."

"I do. Think of Adam. My poor son. I cannot do that ... again."

Sensing his sadness, she blindly reached out and up to find his hand. Their fingers interlaced, and immediately she felt a little better. She squeezed his hand, trying to comfort him.

He lifted his arm, and she automatically moved closer, nestling into the shallow crook of his shoulder. He held her lightly as if she were fragile as threads of spun glass. Nikita's head rested against his chest. She could hear his heart beat, feel the rise and fall of his chest slow as he drifted to sleep. Now he was making those little whistle-snorts whenever he exhaled.

Sorry, pal. Guess I wore you out.She felt tired and alert at the same time. Hell, she'd been sleeping for two straight weeks. How much sleep did a girl need? She didn't want to move, wanted to stay there forever. So Nikita lay in the circle of his arms; listening, feeling Michael at peace. His rhythm lulled her until her own lids felt heavy, and at last, she too fell asleep.

###

Instincts were everything in her game. Her instincts were pretty damn good, but this time they weren't quick enough to save her. It was too late. She sensed Michael returning only a split second before she saw him. He was crossing the threshold between their bathroom and bedroom when he saw her. "Nikita!"

Caught. Oh, crap.She jerked in surprise. Michael never yelled. Well, hardly ever. He had no business shouting like that. Who did he think he was? Her trainer or something? Only twenty-four hours since she'd first woken up, and Michael was already back to his protective I-know-what's-best-for-you mode. Who needed that? Her brain may be baked, broiled, and reconstituted, but it still worked all right. If she wasn't careful, he'd be telling her to breathe. No thanks, Mister Samuelle. I can do it myself just fine without any help from you.

The moment he'd left the bed for the first time, she'd taken her chance and done it. Heart beating fast, she slid along the pillows stacked behind her as if she could melt into the bed and disappear. The plastic feeding tube fell from her hands on to the bed, and the last drops of formula dribbled out of its end, making a nasty oily blue stain like Drano on the mattress. "See what you made me do?" She used a corner of her nightgown to dab ineffectively at the mess. It only grew wider."Merde."

"You should not say that."

"You're the one who taught me French. All the interesting words. All the in-between meanings. It's all your fault."

Mouth quirking, he said nothing at all. Instead, he went to the bathroom, then returned with a plush white towel. Michael quickly wiped up the mess, tossed the towel towards the hamper, and pushed the IV pump away with one foot. The rollers squeaked until it hit the wall with a satisfying smack. Michael grunted. With a little frown, he stood over her. His eyes searched hers. "What were you doing?"

"I ... uh ... What does it look like? I pulled out that damn feeding tube." Her chin jutted out as she matched him, stare for stare. "I couldn't stand it any longer, so I yanked it out myself. Pop. It's done." And her throat hurt like hell, but she wasn't about to admit it. Anyway, it was better than the empty ache in her belly. Better not to think about that at all.

"Nikita," he said with awful patience, "The doctors said to slowly introduce foods. Water, clear liquids, then mechanical soft foods in a couple of days ..."

"I don't want Jello. I hate Jello. I don't eat anything that wobbles. Besides, what do they know? That tube felt weird down the back of my throat. Like I've got a worm or something. It's not natural, Michael. I swear it's not. So I took it out. So there." Folding her arms, she glared back at him, dared him to respond. When he didn't reply, she nodded shortly. "Okay then. 'Nuff said about that. Not that you ever say anything about anything anyway. You know what I mean."

Michael's lips parted soundlessly, his brows tilting upwards in the middle until they formed an upside down "V." It was his look of vaguely annoyed disbelief, and it lasted for almost two minutes. When his features finally smoothed out again, he said, "How can I take care of you ... if you will not take care of yourself?"

"Who says you need to do that? I was fine on that mission. Just fine."

Michael stared pointedly at the IV pump.

"Okay, so there was a problem on this one. Just a little one."

"Fourteen days. A coma. More than a little problem. More than a little risk. It was unacceptable. I almost ..." He stopped suddenly, swallowing hard, looking everywhere but at her. His hands jammed hard into his pockets. Quietly he said, "I almost lost you this time. You had no business being there. You are not a field operative any more."

"Well, okay, okay. I'm a little rusty." It galled her to admit it. She still thought she was eighteen, a Miss; not some creaky woman verging on middle age. Thirty-five. Jeez, how had that happened? Everyone called her "Ma'am" these days. She wasn't old enough to be a "Ma'am." It drove her nuts. "And don't say 'I told you so'."

"Would it make a difference - any difference - if I did? It never has in the past. I do not think it would now. I told you to leave this alone."

"I don't need a keeper."

"Not a keeper. A husband." His index finger briefly touched the slim gold ring she wore. It was a plain band, dinged in places with a rough patch where one of Walter's mysterious solvents had spilled on it long ago. It was more precious than a twenty-four carat design with a monster diamond. She wouldn't trade her ring for anything else in the world. No way.

"Oh. A husband." Nikita pretended to consider the possibility. She nodded at last. "Yeah, that's all right. That's pretty fine, I'd say. I could go for a husband."

"Would you?"

"Yeah, sure. If he was well-trained, kept the toilet seat down. That kind of thing. Know anybody good?"

He sat next to her on the bed, and leaned forward until their noses almost touched. "Yes."

"Would he fit the job description?"

"Perfectly. A perfect ... fit."

Was he joking? She never knew sometimes. Nikita ran a hand along his freshly-shaved jaw. The bristles felt like short corduroy, stubby and soft. She felt him smile, saw the light in his eyes. He moved a fraction to kiss her palm.

He wouldn't say it. He seldom did. She could count on one hand how many times she'd heard the words over the years. But she'd need a Cray computer to track all the millions of ways he had shown her - from the lifesaving melodramatic to the desperately minor. There were so many mysteries about him, things she didn't understand, couldn't guess, but the most important thing she knew deep in her bones. No questions asked. It was basic. Vital. Completely strong and elemental. It carried her like the wind.

She didn't need his words any more but she needed to say them. "I love you too."

Continued in The Grass Is Always Greener

All non-LFN characters copyright (c) Bonnie Bo 2000. The right of Bonnie Bo to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her. All rights reserved.

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