Eclipsed, a quartet

First Contact

First contact: when the edge of the moon first touches the sun during a solar eclipse.

Prologue Sun/Le Soleil (Nikita)
Past Tense/Early Memories/The Sun in Retrograde

Folks say I'm cool under fire. They think I don't have any goddamn nerves, but I'm as human as the next person. I've got pet peeves just like everybody else. You bet I do. I just don't let them get in my way too much. I try not to sweat the little things - like whenever the toilet seat gets left up or when Rabbit tells one of those stupid blondie jokes. But then there are other things that really annoy me a lot: like flies buzzing over my food; the high-pitched clicking I hear whenever I go into department stores; or the way Michael refuses to tell me things because he thinks he's protecting me. Those things bug me all right, even piss me off from time to time, but I can handle it. I do. Every day.

But there are some things I can't handle at all. Some things seem like a fate worse than death: Arnold Schwarzenegger movies. Big hairy knuckles. Shots with long pointy needles. I hated them all for no good reason. None. Zip. Nada. I sure don't know why. I just do. Just know it, deep in my bones like how I can't stand anything sour: Lemons. Atomic Warhead candies. Dill pickles. Jeez. I'd spit it out in a New York second. No, faster than that because I've hated them for as long as I could remember.

I hated those things just like I hated my mom Bobby. Hated how she always moved us around. Whenever I started to make friends, Bobby would yank us to another crappy town, and mutter to herself about safety and strangers. Strangers? They never hurt me. Not once, not ever. It wasn't strangers. It was always her boyfriends, the men she brought home. They were the ones that did those things to me, the ones she believed instead of me. Nikita, her own daughter. And sometimes, I hated Bobby for that too. Hated her as much as I loved her, as much as I wanted her to love me back.

Things could have turned out differently. Maybe if my dad hadn't died when I was a baby, or if Bobby hadn't hit the bottle so hard. Maybe if I'd been a good girl and hadn't run away so much. Bobby might have loved me more if I hadn't been sick so often. After all, who could love a scrawny kid with a runny nose and a wheezy chest? When I was really little, I was so much trouble, in and out of the hospital for my asthma all the time. It must have frightened Bobby. I remember the worry in her eyes whenever we had to visit Doctor Grün. "Nikita must stay in ze hospital again."

"Again?" Bobby's voice shook with that little quiver that had nothing to do with needing cheap gin or trying to get a man. It had to do with fear. And anything that scared Bobby scared me double.

Whenever the nurses came into the clinic room, I begged. Don't leave me here. Please, Mommy. I'll be good. I promise. This time, I'll listen. I bargained. I lied, said anything so she wouldn't leave me at the hospital again. But it never mattered what I said. They always came after me. Big hands like baseball mitts reached for me. I fought. Fought hard. Fists smacking, feet thudding against solid grown-up muscle. Then they grabbed me around my stomach and hefted me like I was a five-pound sack of flour. My feet left the ground, and my back slammed against the hard thin pad on the gurney. And more grown-up hands pinned down my arms, my legs. Held me everywhere. Trapped. Fear cramped my chest, made me wheeze. Tried to suck in air through my mouth but it had shrunk to the size of a straw. I gasped through a tiny hole. Can't breathe. Can't ...

Mommy. No. I twisted, bit down on those hairy knuckles that tasted like anti-germ soap and cigarettes.

I heard them yell. Christ, knock her out, willya? Where's the sedative?

A little pinch. Then the needle stabbed my arm, slid deeper, and something awful burnt like they were pouring fire straight into me. The flames grew bigger, eating up my arms and legs because I couldn't feel them any more. I couldn't move them. They were gone. And I couldn't feel the gurney under my back. Bit by bit, I disappeared. The fire ate me up; ate the world, everything. Everything turned into flame and ash.

##

I guess I grew out of my asthma, because after awhile, we never went to Doctor Grün any more. "That pizd'uk? Bastard idiot," Bobby would say. "Never trust a doctor. Don't believe in them. I'm a goddam Christian Scientist." And so after that, we never saw a doctor. Period. Not even when I broke my arm falling out of a tree. Or when Bobby puked up blood from too much gin and Thunderbird.

Don't get me wrong. My childhood wasn't all bad. There were good times too. Sometimes Bobby used to get all soft, all sweet. She'd hug me and call me ëÿëÿ and tell me stories about a sleeping beauty and handsome Jack who the clouds carried away. I liked her stories, but my favorite one was about the brave kids who found the three magic apples. You see, they killed the evil green giant and saved their whole village and everyone lived happily ever after. Everyone always did in Bobby's stories. And she always finished them the same way. She always held me tight and said, "From my mouth to the wind, the wind to your ear. We tell stories and listen. Listen and remember, remember and continue. Remember, ëÿëÿ. Remember it always, baby." And then she'd give me a special hard hug like she was squeezing that into me so I would never ever forget. I never did.

I never forgot those stories like I never forgot the other good times. There weren't many of them, but there were a few. Like when Bobby danced, her feet as light as her laugh. Or like the fall when Bobby took me to San Francisco because she met my dad there long ago. She even took me to the exact beach. "Right here, Nikita. I was sitting right here. I saw him and he smiled right at me ...and I knew then. Right then ... Oh, Jack. Why?"

Her face fell into her hands. She was still, very still for a long time. Like she was asleep. Like she was dead. My hand lifted, shook, almost touched her but I didn't because I remembered just in time. Better to leave her alone. I never knew which Bobby would return: the nice one or the nasty one.

I remember standing next to her, listening to the waves roll in, tasting the salt in the air. The smell of someone's hotdog made me hungrier. I hitched my pants, walked in a circle kind of funny. Had to pee. Bad. Even then I hated waiting. But I had to. With Bobby, there was no other way.

My mom stood there real quiet for a long time. She stayed quiet while we walked back to our motel room that smelled like damp old socks. She was quiet when she slowly climbed into a double bed that sagged in the middle. Tiptoeing around her, I recognized that silence. It was a sad one, the one before a week-long bender. The drapes were still shut. Every light was turned off so that it was very dark like night inside the motel room. Bobby liked it that way. I pulled the covers over my mom, then sat on the edge of the bed, and watched over her. Counted the little bumps on the chenille bedspread. Made up a story about them, about me. I was the robot girl Nikita floating over the little white clouds. So high above everything. Too high. Higher than even the sun. And finally, no one could hurt me any more. Absolutely no one.

Somewhere up there, I flew inside my little story as I listened to the surf roaring in the distance. Even through the cheap glass window, I could hear it calling me. Nikita. Come. Come and play.

No. Mommy needs me. I stared at Bobby's lank hair, the way her hands with the chipped fingernails shook as she lifted the gin. Again and again. After a few more times, the shaking stopped, and Bobby already seemed to have everything that she really needed. And that wasn't me. She didn't need me. She never did. I was nothing but trouble. Bobby was always telling me that.

Nikita. The sea's voice grew louder, lower. I couldn't resist it any longer. So finally, I left Bobby holed up with a bottle and her memories.

I needed to get away. Now. I opened the motel door. The sun was so bright that it almost made my head hurt. I squinted as I walked outside to where the ocean called me, back to the beach and its long stretches of soft tan sand. The waves rolled like a big bolt of gray-blue cloth. The sun had melted away the last shreds of fog so that the sky was wide and blue. Maybe this was heaven. It was so beautiful I could hardly believe it.

I spent all day there. All day and half the night. That whole month I spent all my time on the beach. Even met a boy, kind of short and heavy, with brown hair that the sun had turned red at the tips. Burnt sienna like the Crayola crayon. I remembered that boy ... he was shy. Thoughtful. Maybe a little lonely. A lot like me. He gave me my first kiss. It had felt soft, softer than those puffy clouds in the sky.

##

So you see, not everything was all bad. That San Francisco beach was one good time. There were other times too; like when Bobby told me about my dad or when we sneaked into a smelly old theater and watched movies together. During the winter, it was dry and warm. Kept us off the streets. Little chance of anyone finding us in the dark, she'd say. The nougahyd seat stuck to the back of my legs while I ate enough popcorn to fill me all day. We stayed and watched just about anything: giant bugs and indestructible robots from outer space, people who talked backwards with little words across the bottom of the screen, mushy movies with lots of kissing. But once there was one about World War II, and this bald guy with a big scar and a cross on his gray shirt started talking, talking like Doctor Grün. Bobby turned pale, and we left the theater really quickly. Ran straight outside even though it was pouring rain.

But that didn't keep us away from the theater. The next week we were back. We watched a movie where a tall man in a tuxedo walked into a casino as if he owned it. He sat down at the gambling table, looked the bad guy straight in the eye without even blinking. Not even once. "My name is Bond ... James Bond."

"Oh." Bobby squeezed my arm. "That's him. That's Roger Moore. That's what your father was like. A Brit. Tall, blonde hair. Cool accent. A cool blue stare. But underneath, Nikita. Underneath he wasn't so cool. He was very ..." Then she broke off, laughing, giving me a sly look I didn't understand until much later.

"Oh my God," she murmured. Even in the dim light, I could see the harsh lines soften on my mom's face, her eyes going all dreamy like a kid eating her favorite candy. Bobby seemed younger, almost happy, as we watched James Bond run after a pretty black-haired woman in a sparkly dress and high heels. He caught her easily, spun her around, and kissed her.

"Is that you, Bobby? You and Daddy?"

"Yes. He used to like vodka martinis. Shaken, not stirred." And my mom laughed, pleased for a change. So we sat together, watching James Bond and the black-haired lady drive off in a neat sports car down some windy road with the mountains on one side and the sea on the other. We watched, Bobby and me, watching and dreaming. Bobby dreaming about my dad; me dreaming about James Bond pulling up outside the theater in that little gray car, the engine still running.

"Come, Nikita," he'd say. "I've come back for you. Let's go home. All of us." And Bobby and me would cram into those little seats, our knees banging together, pressed up hard against the dashboard. I didn't care if it hurt. It didn't matter any more. None of the hurting mattered, because the only thing that mattered was now. And now the motor roared, and we all drove off together. Together again at last.

##

Sun/Le Soleil (Nikita)

That was a long time ago. I'm a big girl now, but I still love movies. I love to rewrite the endings so they come out happier. And sometimes I still pretend I'm in the middle of them. I can make up a whole movie when I'm bored out of my frigging mind. Like now.

We were on another mission, and like every single one of them, we were mostly waiting around. I couldn't stand it. We didn't have time for this. Damn it. What was taking the computer so long to download? I watched the columns of green numbers flow across the monitor screen. That should make Birkoff happy. At least someone would be happy in this haunted building.

It was past midnight, and the security for Lockheed Martin had been surprisingly light for such a huge aerospace-defense industry. Cheap rent-a-cops. A cinch for me and Stumpy to get in, walk through the halls and scatter some new tracking crumbs that Walter wanted field-tested. And now that we'd penetrated the Silicon Valley firm, it seemed abandoned. Maybe everyone was clocking nine-to-five these days. Even the company geeks were already tucked in bed, and dreaming about cheese-y poufs, soft drinks and hard drives.

Every cubicle was empty. The only person I could see was Stumpy, his flaming redhead barely showing over the top of the particle board dividers. The only sounds were the pounding of my heart, the shoosh of the air-conditioning, and the faint crackle of static over my com unit. I heard Birkoff sniff, then the rustle of Kleenex. His decongestant must be wearing off. "Good, Nikita. There's Project Apollo. Getting it. Li-Huan, boost the signal." His voice sounded gravelly from the cold as if he'd been smoking or suddenly grew older overnight.

I heard a click-clicking noise, followed by a soft sucking. I pressed the com dot behind my ear, tried to adjust the contact, but the noise didn't disappear. Cli-click. Swoo-oooo-oop.

"Ohhhhhh, man! I can't take it any more. Lose that cough drop, Birkoff. You sound like a blankety-blank vacuum cleaner," someone on Team Two said. Probably Herbie. Also known as the Mouth for obvious reasons. I was real fond of Herbie. He talked big and he lost big in our monthly poker games. Real big. You had to love his generosity even if his yapping drove you crazy.

"Shut up, Mouth. When you had this same virus, you whined for days," Li-Huan said over the com.

"That's right," I murmured, thumbing through the flyers that were stacked near the terminal. Someone had written "As if!" in big block red letters across one of them. I took a closer look. Use of company computers for playing games is strictly prohibited. The management has noted a recent increase in logged hours. Any employee found playing Space Rangers ... "Hey, Li-Huan. There's something here about your video game."

"Not video. Internet. You're so old-fashioned," she replied.

"Well, whatever. You must be a millionaire by now."

"Yeah, that's me. Rolling in it. And winning!" she cracked back. "Isn't that right, Birkoff? Hey, Birkoff, what do you think of pink?"

"Ooh-ooh-ooh. Pi-i-ink," chimed in Herbie. "I like that idea. There's so many kinds: baby pink, hot pink, rose, fuschia ... Whaddyathink, Birkie?"

The only answer was a very loud prolonged slu-u-u-u-u-u-urp that made me tap my com volume down a level.

Shaking his head, Stumpy perched on top of a desk like a leprechaun on a toadstool. His pointed beard and ginger whiskers only reinforced that impression, only then he should be wearing green instead of mission black. After a few noisy seconds, he tapped his com link too, which continued to broadcast everyone's suggestions for the best shade of pink and Birkoff's steadfast slurpy replies. Stumpy scratched the back of his head. "Jay-sus. Wot's that all a-bout?"

"They've been playing each other," I whispered back. "Space Rangers. Whoever loses has to dye their hair. Winner picks the color." Stumpy and I exchanged grins.

"Radio silence. Picking up kappa pulses," reminded Michael. No matter how softly he said things, everyone always seemed to listen. Everyone, that is, except for me. That was my privilege, the way I protected myself, the way I kept Michael guessing. The communications link fell quiet again as the files continued downloading.

One by one, the columns of numbers disappeared as Birkoff slurped his lozenge even louder. Since Herbie outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds, Birkoff took his revenge the only way he could - on the air, hundreds of miles away. Too bad the rest of us had to listen.

The seconds stretched into minutes. I hated waiting. Come on, come on. We had gizmo's. Couldn't we jazz up this computer? Speed the process? As if it heard me, the screen buzzed, then winked. The writing jiggled once, twice, but eventually steadied.

"Bleedin' Christ on a cross. Wot was that?" muttered Stumpy. " 'urry it up, Birkoff. Look sharp. I'm gettin' one o' me feelin's."

"Could be gas. Or maybe space aliens," Herbie said.

"Ta. Very funny." It was easy to write off Stumpy. A lot of people did. My friend acted like a certified nut case half the time. More than half. He even passed out circulars about conspiracies: everything from Girl Scout cookies to Princess Diana's assassination. But no matter how nutty Stumpy seemed, he had also trained with Michael. And the way I figured it, anyone who's been around Section One that long has got to know something. The ones with instinct were the ones that survived. So if Stumpy was getting one of his feelings, I didn't care if it was the chili beans he ate for dinner or not. I was going to damn well pay attention. My concentration ramped up a notch as I surveyed the room. Still nothing.

I glanced back at the computer screen. Fifty percent of files. Downloading. Come on, Birkoff. Only halfway done. Still half to go. So we waited some more. More of this damn waiting. No one ever waited around like this in those spy movies I used to watch with Bobby. James Bond in a tuxedo. Can you believe that? Bond, move over. That could be me and Stumpy: saving the Free World, running after the enemy, jumping through plate glass windows, shooting and hitting every single bad guy. In our movie, we wouldn't just stand and wait. No way. But that was exactly what Stumpy and I were forced to do. I felt like a motor with a busted clutch. Running fast but not going anywhere.

Jeez. I was bored. I looked around. The cubicle was crammed with toys and newspaper clippings. "Hey, Stumpy. Get a load of this one. How To Tell if Your Co-Worker is a Space Alien. Number Two: Experiences mood changes around microwave ovens'. That true?"

"Tch. Tch. The ruddy press. Never gets any old thing right. Sloppy, that's wot that is. Not microwave ovens. Wrong frequency. It's those bloomin' cell-u-lar phones that does it. Ta. And look at this. Look at this one 'ere. Number Nine: Space aliens line their 'ats wi' tin foil. That's wrong. Dead wrong. I use alumin-ee-um film meself. Stops all those e-lectromagnetic waves that scrambles me eggs. Mind control, ducks. It's all about mind control. They'll never catch me. Not if I can help it."

"What do you mean? Don't they broadcast your thoughts on cable television?"

"That's right. Wi' me old mate, Ted Koppel. What yer might call the live broadcast. Goes from me li'l mind to the blinkin' satellites straight to ev'ryone's tellies. Direct to yer parlor in livin' color. Twenty-four ruddy 'ours a day wi'out ads. Not a single one." Stumpy suddenly frowned, jabbing a finger at me. "Wot? Wot's the matter? Don'tcha believe me?"

"Oh, yeah. Of course I do, Stumpy." I nodded, quickly adjusting my expression so that I looked more sincere. I shrugged. "Just the part about TV, no ads. Everybody has ads these days. That's what's hard to believe. No offense."

"None taken. It's wot me mum calls a special arrangement. That's wot that is." He pointed to his temple. "Me thoughts go out on the telly, but they can't put thoughts inside me 'ead. One way only. So they can't control me, or me name ain't Dickie D."

What on earth was he talking about now? I didn't get it at all, but Stumpy was so earnest, he almost persuaded me. His explanations were so convincing, his world so detailed that it almost seemed real. It almost made sense. Almost but not quite. Not unless you were crazy like him. And I wasn't. Not by a long shot. Not yet anyway. I wasn't a madwoman or a wise woman. I should be so lucky!

I listened to Stumpy mutter about AM/FM interference and how those classic rock shows were swamping his signal and ruining his daily broadcast. Yeah, right. What was that saying about crazy people? Something about how God spoke directly in their ear. They were more spirit than earthly. Divinely mad, some said. Well, that was Stumpy all right - the holy man of Section One. Maybe he could walk on water. I wanted to ask him if he could, but I wasn't sure if I was going to believe his answer. I mean, just listen to him now.

"And if it 'tisn't the bleedin' radio, it's sex. Them wot's called pher-o-mones. They travel jus' like e-lectromagnetic rays except they go straight to the control panel in yer balls instead of yer brains. Jus' ask Madeline. Jus' ask Cleo. The hand that rules bed, rules the world, yer know."

"Sure, sure. Sex. Money. Rock 'n roll." Cleo. I hung on to that familiar name like an anchor, otherwise I'd feel completely adrift listening to Stumpy. At least I knew that Cleo was a real person. Just like good old Ted Koppel. Ted was real even if his hair wasn't. But half the people Stumpy ever talked about were just pretend: that Princess Parmalina, the little green butterfly kids, and, oh, someone named Mister Jones. Smiling, I listened to Stumpy yak on as I looked through the toys: a transformer robot that could turn into a girl, a remote control car, a pair of x-ray specs. And there. What was that? The small black ball behind the console. I reached over and picked it up. The Magic Eight-ball. Cool. About time to ask it my usual question about Michael.

Future Uncertain. Ask Again.

Shit. Not again. What was I doing? Wasting my time on this crap. I was supposed to be working. I almost returned the Magic Eight-ball, but at the last moment, I shook it really hard so that the purple-black liquid inside it sloshed around and frothed. Tried for two out of three.

This time, it was Stumpy who laughed until his beard shook. "Jay-sus. Careful wi' that, me old darlin'."

I was shaking the ball even harder when Michael said, "Team Two, start your sweep."

I set the toy down on the desk. "Birkoff?"

"Directory's almost done. Just a few more minutes ..."

UH-huh-huh-huh. A familiar sound drowned out the last part of Birkoff's sentence. I heard automatic weapons spit in the distance; Cries, crashes, smashes. Things broke: hard things like bricks, soft things like bodies. The skin on the back of my neck prickled. "There's ..."

"Hostiles," said Birkoff.

No kidding. Thanks for the early warning.

"Someone's knockin' at me old front door. Sounds like we gots company. Jus' leave it to ol' Dickie D. Ta, ducks." Stumpy winked, then ran down the corridor to where the battle thundered. Gunfire growled lower, faster, sounding closer all the time. How close? How many? My heart thrummed as I flicked the safety catch off my rifle and scanned the laboratory. Still clear. For now.

"Transmission's breaking up." Birkoff's voice rose a notch. "Li-Huan, try the back-up satellite ... Si-i-i-t tight ... kr-krrr."

Easy for him to say. He wasn't here, sweating it. Central Communications could fool with their damn satellites as much as they wanted, but not on my time. My ass was on the line here. I wasn't going to wait any longer and get blasted full of bullets. I wiggled the remote relay, whacked the computer like the hood of an old jalopy. The numbers continued streaming across the screen. There was still no reply from Birkoff. Where the hell was he?

All right. Two seconds, no more. While I waited, cold sweat gathered on the back of my neck, then trickled down my spine. The clock was running. I turned again. Then I heard it. There. Footsteps. A shout. Ratatat-tat. Kuh-piiiing. Bullets ricocheted off sheet metal. My ears rang with the horrible noise as more glass shattered down the hall. Time wasn't running. Time was out.

"Transmission not a local problem. Not you, Nikita. It's the ... kr-krrr." Again Birkoff's voice dissolved into vicious static, then a second later, even that was cut off. Bam. Radio silence. Nothing. And nothing was the worst of all.

A terrible calm covered me like a shell. My mind turned clear, my vision sharpened. I could see every detail - even the coffee-stain on the security guard's uniform, the way his fingers shook on his weapon. I lifted my rifle. Aimed.

##

The mission had gone dark, our radios out. I was alone now, running silent, and it was too damn quiet. Where was that Jimminy Cricket voice? The one that reassured me, warned me, sometimes lied to me? Unnerved me not to hear it. I felt lost, and my heart pumped faster.

It was still silent when I followed the electronic crumbs through the maze of cubicles. Left, right, then the second left through the anonymous offices. Thank God for the trail of Walter's gizmo's, otherwise I'd be lost. I sped by the splintered particle-board walls, through the bitter stink of smoke and gunpowder, and over the bodies. They wore padded navy blue jackets with those embroidered patches that said "Security" but didn't really mean anything at all. No mission black. No Stumpy. None of them was ours. Relief flashed through me as I ran down the eastern stairwell, taking two steps at a time. Carefully I cracked open the door, then looked in both directions. The corridor seemed clear, felt heavy with quiet. I jerked the door wider, and started running towards the east end when I heard the steady thrumming of feet, then voices calling, growing louder. "Ten-one. That's a ten-one. You're breaking up. Dispatch, where the hell are you?"

So we weren't the only ones. Everyone's com systems must be down. We were all in the dark. At least that made us even, but I liked having the extra edge. That little voice that told me what to do next, where to go.

Listen to those guys. Just listen. Crap. At least five hostiles by the sound of them. Noisy. Amateurs. But amateurs could point a gun and pull a trigger just like anyone else. Just as dangerous. How many more of them between me and my exit? Didn't know, didn't want to take a chance. I better not pull a Rambo. So I opened another door, and ducked into a dark room.

"This way," yelled someone in big boots as they thundered down the hall.

I pressed my ear to the door and listened to the footsteps gradually fade into the distance. Listened harder, wanting to be certain. I sucked in big gulps of air that smelled like wet sawdust and burnt coffee. Somewhere in the dim room, water plink-plonked into a stainless steel sink. Except for the dripping faucet, it was quiet again. All clear. I leaned my shoulder against the door, my muscles slack with relief.

I was about to leave the room when a weird feeling coiled in my belly like I'd just eaten something that tasted off, something that might be bad. The feeling congealed. There were eyes, silent eyes. I was being watched. I just knew it. Only who? Whoever it was hadn't shot me yet, and that seemed strange when their teammates had been awfully trigger happy a moment earlier. What did they want? I lifted my hands in a show of obedience while I slightly turned my head to peer behind me. Didn't see anyone.

"All right. You win." Slowly I turned all the way around to face my captors. And when I was about halfway there, I heard something scraped against the floor, a shuffling on either side of me. Quickly I lifted my rifle as I heard the sound again - hundreds of scrapings. Hundreds of little clawed feet against metal, followed by the squeaking. That horrible squeaking. I recognized the sound and remembered the pain. Acid rushed up my throat and burned my mouth. I swallowed hard.

Shit. I pivoted all the way. Now I saw them. They were all around me. I stared into the bright beady eyes of rats, pressing their curious faces against the mesh cages. Noses up in the air, and those pointy teeth. Small but sharp. Sharp like razors. And all of a sudden, I could feel them biting me. And I was back, locked inside that old damp closet; me hurting, begging; the grown-ups outside laughing. And then I wasn't a kid anymore. I was older, much older but just as helpless as when I was a kid. Strapped to a metal post, my head pushed into the cage. I was screaming silently while that Red Cell guy watched them dig into me. Chewing. Squealing. Clawing. Fear clawing its way through my pride just like those rats through my ...

Oh God. I stepped backwards until the door pressed hard against my back. My hand closed on the cold metal doorknob. That was real. The door. Not the memories. I drew another shaky breath. No. No, Nikita. The rats are locked inside their cages. Locked far away. They can't get you. I stared at the hard metal surrounding the rats, every inch of space between me and them. Safe. I was safe. I was free. They were not. Someone had drawn black circles on their heads. Others had little metal buttons stuck to their temples. Rats. Damn rats. I hated them.

Jeez. Where was I? I squinted around the dim room, and saw a long box with a maze, something that looked like a miniature satellite, a bunch of books by some guy named Skinner. Over the work bench, a sign read "No pain, no gain." I glanced at the clipboard hanging on the wall. "Subject Five: Failed remote programming. Multiple retraining attempts. Sacrificed. Increased synapses in the frontal lobe, hypothalamus. Curious."

The last observation was underlined twice. Reading it made me feel cold inside. This lab was creepy. Impersonal. Terribly horribly familiar. The whole set-up reminded me of the training rooms in Section One. I imagined myself with one of those metal studs stuck to my head. But then I realized that Madeline would never allow something as obvious as that. No personal markings. Markings led to identification, identification to questions. And questions from the outside were bad. Very bad. Maybe we were supposed to be anonymous, but at least we were a little more autonomous than these lab rats. At least I could leave, but the rats couldn't. They were stuck in their cages. I watched them push against the wire mesh. And suddenly I couldn't stand being in this lab a moment longer. I had to get out of this room. The sooner, the better.

I pressed my ear to the door. Outside, it still sounded quiet. I put my hand on the knob. One, two, three, twist. I opened the door, almost spilling into the corridor. Dashed down to its end. Pressed myself against the wall, which was pockmarked with bullet holes. Then I peered around a corner. No more bodies. No live ones either. My path seemed clear. Now what?

As I stood there, Birkoff's voice suddenly blasted through the com link. The volume was cranked up so that everything was loud, including the static. "Kr-Krrr.... All teams to egress ... except Michael .... Nikita. Fallback. Await ... follow-up orders on cell phone. All other com down ... Compromised. Switching off ... Kr-Krrr." For a moment, the static still stabbed my ear like an echo of pain. Then it was silent.

Silence again. I hated that. Just add that to my hate list along with old Arnold Schwarzenegger and shots. Silence was never a good thing when I was growing up. Always meant something worse was coming: one of Bobby's benders, a slap, or the terrible hurt that made me want to die. I hated remembering.

Then don't. Don't feel. Just do the job. Get it done. So I emptied out those memories and filled up the silence inside my head. I used my imagination like I always did. Turned myself into the robot Nikita from outer space. The last one from my planet, but no one could destroy me. Not ray guns. Not puny Earthlings. Not even the evil empire. My bionic legs never hurt as I ran out of the building, over the back fence, and across the industrial park. I jogged along the back-streets, through the small malls where orchards once grew, to my next meeting place.

##

The schmancy bistro was easy enough to find because I wasn't dumb or blind. Only one main street ran through this university town. It wasn't a maze like D.C. or Beirut or any of the no-name sites without even any streets. Naw, this town was a real cinch by comparison and the crowd easy to manage. Plenty of Saturday night lively's milled around, all duded up in their ultrasuede and shiny shoes and out looking for some safe suburban fun. I could blend with the others until I met Michael. Trouble was - I was the only one from Section there. Where the hell was he?

I looked for him, for any signs down the block, between the buildings, anything odd or irregular. Tried to seem casual and cool even though I felt hot and miserably sticky after running the hell out of Lockheed. Felt like I'd just come out of a walk-in oven. I could almost feel the flour still dusting my hands from that mission when my cover had been a baker. Nothing candyass about it: sweaty work, achy back, sore arms. It wasn't anything like when I'd been a kid making those little cakes with my friend Julie. Playing around with her toy oven. What was it called? Easy-Bake something. Just add water, mix, and bake it over a light bulb. In the back of my mind, I could see Julie's old tv screen with the whacked out colors that were hundred times brighter than normal. That oven had looked neon green and those perky little girls had bright orange QT Coppertone tans when they weren't supposed to (after all, weren't they inside baking all day?). And they were singing something ... something annoying and catchy. What was it? I should be able to remember that. Must have heard it at least a couple million Saturday mornings. I squinted, trying even harder to bring it back. I walked another block or so before I could finally hear a few notes of jangling pop guitar inside my head.

So much fun to make. So much f-u-un to eat ... The Ea-a-asy-Bake Oven, sang a chorus of chipper sweeter-than-sugar voices. All sunshine and Saturday morning cartoons. That childhood jingle repeated in my head. Over and over. Jeez. Where did that song pop up from? Hadn't thought about it in years. All of a sudden, I could smell just a hint of something sour. Maybe one those ultrasuede skinny-stick girls had spilled her three-buck Diet Fresca all over the nice, clean sidewalk. Too bad. I kept going, picking up the pace some.

Another BMW zoomed past me. Its backdraft chilled the sweat misting my skin. Shivering a little, I huddled and waited near the front entrance of the bistro. The door opened, and jazzy music spilled out as a well-heeled couple left the club. A middle-aged man was stuffed like a sausage into his designer suit, his belly pushing against his silk casing. He cursed and impatiently re-dialed his cell-phone.

"Really, Ralph. This is so ... so irritating. The Joneses are there, the Forsyth-Smythes. I'm missing everything," the woman complained in the perfect whine of a nervy poodle. "Oh gawd, I'll never live it down. Phoebe will go on and on about this for ages. Must we go?"

"Sorry, doll. I need to reach my broker. I'm losing thousands every minute I don't unload this stock. Hell." He jerked the phone away from his ear and stabbed a finger against the buttons. Then he put his ear to the receiver again. A second later, he scowled. "What's wrong with this phone? Can't get through."

"Sure, yeah. Blame the equipment." Ralph's girlfriend looked like a Fifi or a Mimi. Under the fancy hair, her face looked overbred,: a weak chin, bobbed nose, eyes way too close together and beady as hell. She stared at my black wool sweater, the mission pants, then dwelled on my sensible combat boots. Her hands smoothed down the pale pink skirt of her evening gown as she sniffed out loud, a catty sneer twisting her lips just like those girls who used to make fun of the stains on my secondhand clothes at grade school.

Watch it, lady. You'd look pretty stupid wearing your rig at the last party I was at. Worse than stupid. You'd be dead. Try scaling a building in those icepick heels. Once I had to do that. Almost broke my damn neck.

Fifi's eyes widened as if she heard my thoughts. But then I realized that she wasn't looking at me any longer. She was staring at someone behind me, and her smile turned completely different. It wasn't any improvement. In fact, this new expression was worse. I'd seen that same interested look plastered on a thousand faces, women and men alike. It never failed to irritate me. Back off, Fifi. That one's taken.

Jeez. What was wrong with people? Hadn't they ever seen chestnut hair and green eyes before? So what if his face looked so handsome? The wide brow, the strong jaw, a cleft just so on the chin. Those features all belonged to me. Even his firm lips - a little cold, a little forbidding. They were mine to warm up, to coax a smile from ... So what if Michael was unique? What was their problem? Get over it. Big deal.

The Big Deal spoke softly, "Sorry. Late." He smelled like leather and cordite as he pressed a quick kiss to my cheek, then took my arm, guided me down the steps and on to the sidewalk.

"Let me guess. Something held you up."

Not answering, Michael walked faster. I easily matched his pace while we wove in and out of the party-going pedestrians, who reeked of beer and bonhomie. Every now and then, Michael glanced casually at the reflections on the storefronts as if doing a little window-shopping.

I automatically did the same surveillance on the other side of the street. Hummed to myself as we passed by a two more glitzy eateries, a brewery, a Coach leather store. So much fun to make ...

"What are you singing?" Michael asked.

"What? Oh, just a little nothing." Silently I groaned. Great. Just great. It was my fault for trying to remember the darn thing. Now that I had, that stupid jingle was stuck to my brain. Permanently. It was beginning to bug me. I pressed my lips together to stop the tune from leaking out. "Sorry ... I, uh ..."

Michael lifted one eyebrow.

Cleared my throat. "I'll quit it. Right now. By the way, that bistro sure was an interesting place for a rendezvous. Felt underdressed. Next time, pick a bikers' bar. Or a leather joint. This mission gear would fit better in there."

"Bad intell'."

"What do you mean?"

"Used to be a little stationery store. Quiet. Good place to meet."

"Looks like it was bought out, turned into a yuppie bistro. Did you see the menu? Six bucks for a lousy glass of water. I don't care how many minerals it has in it. Six bucks! Next thing you know, they'll be selling oxygen for an appetizer. I can just hear it now. Sir, would you like a snort before the main course?Can you believe that? The whole street looks gassed up. I stopped counting after the third sushi restaurant. How much futomaki can one person eat?" I stepped over a puddle of melted ice cream without even breaking my stride. "Michael?" I tapped behind my ear where the com link was stuck.

He shook his head. "Down until it's secure again."

"What next?"

"Wait. Until they call with the next plans."

"Right. I'm lousy at waiting. Don't laugh. Don't you dare laugh."

But he ignored my warning, and chuckled softly anyway. "You never could wait." After he said that, I tried to ignore the heat curling in my belly. He hadn't even touched me ... yet. But I was hopeful. You never knew. While I was thinking about the possibilities, Michael's eyes flickered over the street.

Oh yeah. How could I forget? Mission over pleasure, any old day. Pleasure - unlike me - could wait, darn it all. Michael made a second sweep of the perimeter.

"Followed?" I whispered out of the corner of my mouth.

"No. Clear." And he drew me towards the edge of the crowd, away from the streetlights and into the shadows under the awnings. My back bumped against the wall. What were we doing now? Maybe I'd made a goof. Maybe he was just finding a better spot and I wouldn't have to wait so long after all. Oh, goody.

"What's up?" I whispered, trying to sound innocent. It didn't work. My voice came out all husky instead.

His finger touched my lips, turned the warning into the smallest of caresses. My heart bobbled somewhere inside my chest as Michael bent towards me, his mouth parting and turning slightly at the corners into something I now recognized as his smile. Then his gaze darkened to the black-green of pines at midnight; deep, shadowed, inviting me to come closer, to discover the secrets.

An invitation I could not refuse. Never could. Didn't want to. I smiled, happy to deliver my own personal R.S.V.P. But just as I was leaning closer, I saw a small red dot skitter across his forehead. The lethal mark. The mark of a laser targeter right before the trigger is pulled and flesh explodes.

The red dot flickered, focused, brightened. I shoved Michael to one side while he reached for his gun. Automatically we moved three feet apart, splitting into two targets to confuse the marksman. But instead of re-aiming on one of us, the red dot danced in a circle across the sidewalk, then winked out completely.

As soon as it did, someone laughed. Then the red laser reappeared. Only this time it targeted a woman's butt as she walked by, dancing from cheek to cheek. I waited for the crack of a high-powered rifle to follow, but none came. Oh God. What were they waiting for? Where were they? Danger opened the throttle, and made my pulse race. I couldn't see the assassin. My eyes narrowed as I looked harder. Didn't see a thing. Didn't hear anything ... anything except there. There it was again. More laughter. Not one person. No, it was a group giggling across the street from us. Were they junkies strung out on something? That didn't seem right. The pitch sounded wrong, too high. Sounded young. Jeez. They were kids.

Michael's arm muscles bunched. I could feel all his power pulling against my hold. My grip tightened. "No."

"Let go ..."

"No! Look. Up there." I pointed to the balcony of an ice cream parlor across the road.

"Sniper."

"No. Kids. Just kids." I could feel his resistance, his disbelief in every stiff sinew. Skepticism was stamped in every hard line of his face. "Look at the circle," I said. "It's wrong."

"Smaller caliber."

"That's right. Like a laser pointer, the kind teachers use. Not a targeter. Not a rifle."

Michael still looked grim, but eventually his iron-hard muscles relaxed one at a time. He let go of me. Then he exhaled sharply as we stepped into a narrow alley between two buildings and watched. The red dot touch the shiny spot on a bald man, a woman's hat, the wagging tail of a dog. All random targets. More giggles spilled out from the shadows of the balcony.

"Tagged that one," someone said from faraway.

"See. I told you. It's kids. Just kids playing a game."

"Maybe. Children can be dangerous too," replied Michael.

"Oh, yeah. Sure. Junior commando's. They'd be lethal if only they knew how to tie their shoes."

As usual, he didn't answer. He seemed hyper-alert, scanning the street. We watched for a few minutes more before he reholstered his gun. It took another minute before his hand finally moved away from his gun. As soon as he relaxed, relief sluiced through me. I'd been afraid that I couldn't stop him, that maybe I'd been wrong.

Michael's lips pressed together. He nodded shortly. Then he said, "Let's go."

"Where?"

He gave me that pained instructor look: one vertical line between his eyebrows, his mouth a little pinched. It was an expression that said "God give me strength. Strength and patience."

"All right, all right. I know you're the team leader. So I should do whatever you say. Whoopee. No questions asked."

"Exactly," he muttered.

Rolling my eyes, I followed Michael down the alleyway until he stopped in front of a battered metal door. Its sign had been stenciled on long ago, the paint all faded. I could barely make out the words "Galileo Apartments. Service Only" before Michael twisted the knob and yanked. The bottom of the door caught on a pile of wet litter. He jerked hard. The metal edging scraped against the uneven ground for a few seconds until the door finally gave way. It swung freely again.

I had to pull back quickly just to avoid getting clobbered. "Just tell me. Did you really detect kappa pulses?"

"Of course." Michael walked into the building, and gestured for me to follow.

"And what did you do to the communications satellite?"

He gave a half-laugh as we strode down the darkened corridor, then jogged up the back stairs. "You overestimate my abilities."

"Not at all. I wouldn't put it past you."

"I think ... that is a compliment. But no, Nikita, I did not arrange this. Does it matter who did? The result is the same. Ah. This is our floor."

"And what result is that?" I looked around. What the hell was this place? Little stars and moons were printed on the hall carpet. The pattern was faded in places, the tread worn here and there. Everything smelled musty like old potpourri and yellowed newspapers. A cat meowed behind someone's door as we stopped in front of Apartment 201. "What are we supposed to do while we wait for our next instructions? Just sit around and twiddle our thumbs?"

Michael dipped his fingers inside his vest and produced a key. Inserting it into the door, he opened it, a little smile playing about his lips. "I was thinking ... of something else."

"Like what? Where are you taking me?"

"Let me show you."

He entered. I followed him into the small apartment. Turning slowly, I looked around. The place was narrow with a high ceiling like a box stood on end. Overhead the plaster molding was crumbling and the glass lampshades were grimy with age. It was sparsely decorated with a few pieces of old oak and leather furniture. Even the fine layer of dust over everything couldn't disguise the quality. Overall, it felt kind of shabby but higher class like an old lady pensioner who still wore her best lace over a threadbare dress. Somebody who had seen better days. I wondered who lived here. Maybe some surviving relic from Section. It was hard to imagine. Folding my arms, I sniffed for any clues. No perfume or flowers or leftovers from cooking. Was this place abandoned? No. The air smelled fresh as if someone had recently been here. I shrugged. "You'll show me. Uh huh. I see. Another Michael plan."

"Perhaps." His fingers hesitated on the lock as he seemed to consider something, maybe debating with himself. Michael's eyes flickered over me, the thick Aubuisson rug, then to the door again. Suddenly he threw the deadbolt into its slot.

"What's it going to be this time? Just what are we going to do in the Galileo? Going to send me over the moon?"

His smile was a little dare, a private question to me. I tilted my head, smiling back, and his fingers snaked under my wool sweater, lifted, then sneaked between my layers, one after the other. "If you are very good. Are you good, Nikita?"

"We-e-ell, to be perfectly honest ..." I shook my head. His hands stopped right before he reached where I wanted him most.

"Ah. Sometimes you are bad. Very bad?"

I nodded, the words suddenly clogging in my throat, as he resumed slowly. Very slowly. Each touch in geologic time, prolonging the wait, sharpening my need. Jeez. What was he doing? He'd never ... Not quite like that. My hands tangled in his hair. I wanted to kiss him, slow and deep, fast and greedy, but his mouth was occupied elsewhere.

Please. There. Oh. Right there. My body pleaded with him, but Michael refused, his argument convincing, tormenting. I arched, eager, wanting to end this sweet agony. I unbuttoned his shirt, reached his Kevlar vest. Velcro ripped. Just you wait. Wait until I get my hands on you. And then, it will be your turn. Your turn to suffer, Mister Samuelle.

He laughed softly at my impatience. "Yes, Nikita. You are both. Good and bad. Show me both sides, and then ... then I might show you the stars. We'll go over the moon. Together."

And Michael kept his promise. We did just that.

###

I couldn't help myself. My mouth slipped into a foolish grin. Sappy. Stupid. Stupendous. That had been completely ... stupendous. But seeing stars? Get out of here. Once I'd seen bright lights after I'd tumbled off a second story ledge and conked my head on the concrete.

But I hadn't fallen off anything just now. Not really. The bed didn't count, and Michael, being such a nice guy, had cushioned our fall. Even though we'd just been ... vigorous, I didn't think I'd busted my brain. But I maybe I did, because now I was seeing stars! Yeah, right. I squinted harder at the hot yellow spots glittering the ceiling, then laughed a little. "Oh-h-h-h."

"Hmm?" he murmured.

"I get it. On the ceiling. Those must be glow-in-the-dark stars."

He held me closer. "Mmpf." Which, I'd learned, roughly meant "Whatever."

"Michael." When he didn't answer, I turned towards him. He was laying on his back, his free arm flung over his head. His chest was barely moving and his eyes closed. "Hey, are you awake?"

Slow and even, his breath tickled my neck. A few seconds passed. "No," he answered finally.

"What is this place?"

"The place where you and I will sleep." Abruptly Michael let go of me and turned his back towards me. "Now," he added, adjusting his pillow. A second later, his body relaxed into the bed. I'd been dismissed. Session over. No fair.

"But I'm not sleepy. Not yet. Not after everything. Come on, come on. Let's talk about something. Hey, I know what! Suppose you got on a rocketship to the sun. That's a long trip, you know, and you can only bring one book with you. What would it be?"

Michael muttered something about needing his sleep.

"Don't be a spoilsport. Come on. Tell me. You're always reading something. Real books. Not those discs. I know what I'd bring for my trip. I'd bring a book of fairy tales. Every one with a happy ending. I like them better that way. Not all sad like that Brothers Grimm junk or Hans Christian Whatever. They're all awful. Everyone always gets eaten up or freezes to death, that kind of thing. They're like Stumpy's stories. If you listen long enough to him, you just know something awful's gonna happen. Ozone warming. Technological Ice Age. Demon Kids. He must spend all night dreaming up these things. Say, was he always that way? You know, all that Ted Koppel jazz?"

"No."

I waited for Michael to say more, but of course, he didn't. The only thing I heard was the sound of his breathing, which was deepening by the second. I leaned over his ear. "No what?" I prompted.

He sighed. "No, it was not always Ted Koppel. It used to be Walter Cronkite."

"What? You're kidding. You've got to be kidding." Surprised, I started laughing. "I guess it couldn't be him any more because he's off-the-air now and that wouldn't make any sense. I mean, less sense than usual. Whatever usual is for Stumpy, that is. But Walter Cronkite, hmmm? Now that wouldn't be so bad listening to him all the time. It would be like having a grandpop read you stories all the time. That would be cool. I wished I'd had one of those. I only had Bobby and most of the time she was passed out. Say, I'm reading a great book right now. All the Hansel and Gretel stories from around the world. Every culture has one about tricky kids. Did you know that?" I ignored his grunt. "What about you?"

Air puffed through his lips. He grumbled once, then fell silent again.

I poked him in the ribs. When he moved away, I followed him. "I'm wai-i-i-i-iting for an answer."

Michael yawned so hugely that his whole face seemed to stretch out. I could even see his back teeth. And just as I was admiring those, he closed his mouth again. Then he rubbed his eyes as if his head was a magic lamp and he was trying to conjure up an answer from it. He rubbed for some time, and when he was done, he flung his arms outwards and stretched. Eventually he settled deeper into his pillow. He yawned again. And after I'd repeated his name, he muttered, "All right ... Something about ... Galileo."

"Why?"

"Interesting ... man."

I waited him to say more but he only shut his eyes. His mouth drooped as if he was drifting off again. Hey, none of that. I poked him again. Harder. Grunting, Michael shifted and trapped my hand in his. A sigh leaked out of him. Another moment passed before he eventually mumbled, "Okay. I will tell you. Galileo discovered that the planets revolved around the sun, not the earth. So he was brought before the Inquisition."

"What happened?"

"Tomorrow ... G'sleep."

"Ugh! I hate it when you do that. Don't leave me dangling. Jeez. Now I'll never go to sleep. I'm thinking about too many things. Galileo, the mission, the data we were collecting. Why would Operations care about ENR?"

"M, not N. E-M-R. Electromagnetic radiation."

"See, I knew you were awake. Good. We can talk about this."

Michael groaned, pulling the pillow over his head. "There is a time and place for everything. The time to ask questions was after the briefing. Before the mission. Now is the time to sleep."

"Okay, fine. N-o-o-o problem. Good night." I leaned over and kissed his cheek. Then I lay back down, adjusting the covers over us. I tucked my head on my arm and settled deeper into a comfy position.

As soon as I finished, his body tensed next to mine. A second passed, then two. "What?" he said with that soft exact explosion of air. It seemed to detonate on impact.

I tried not to flinch. Tried to stay cool. Silence fell again. I pretended to yawn. "Oh-h-h-h, nothing. Never mind. Sweet dreams. Love you."

"Nikita."

"Don't trouble yourself. Really."

"Who are you going to ask?"

"What makes you think I'm gonna ask anybody? Well, think again, pal. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. Anyways, I don't disclose my sources. You certainly don't. So why should I?"

Suddenly Michael rolled back over to me. He lifted up on one elbow so that he stared down at me. I reached up, felt his rough-velvet stubble, then the muscles stretched tight along his long jaw. I caressed his clenched cheek again, smiled at him, but it didn't work this time. He still looked serious, his burning fuse just one inch shy from exploding. "Do not ask him."

Him. He meant Rabbit. I knew he did. He was using that nasty icy tone. It was never above a whisper but it felt like a shout. I bit my lip, wondering how Michael knew. All my communications had been omega-encoded. Especially the last message from my pal Rabbit, who had turned out to be in the life; in fact, had been so for awhile. When I'd finally found out, I'd been shocked. Actually, shock was too mild a word for it. I mean, all these years I'd thought I'd been saving his skinny butt when all along he'd been saving mine. And now that crazy boy was directing Analysis. It was hard to imagine him with a grown-up job, but I guess they needed free-thinkers in a department like that. And that was Rabbit. Caffeinated or not, he was the kind of guy that would turn a straight line into something cubed or a dodeca-whatever. And with that kind of freewheeling talent, maybe he did belong there. Maybe in a strange kind of way, it all made sense after. And since he was the director of Section Ten, I knew that job offer was real. Sure, I'd thought about it, was more than tempted, but I hadn't had a chance to talk with Michael yet.

I admit it. I'd put it off. Maybe I'd made things worse by doing so, but can you blame me when he reacted like this? If I'd told him out and out, then ka-BLOOEY. One Nik-splat on a platter, coming right up. Forget that. I tried another little smile, this time with my eyelashes lowered. All I got was the Granite Jaw. What a flop-o-la. Darn it. There was no way around it. I didn't think Michael was going to fall asleep and forget about it now. Cautiously I said, "Uh ... who do you mean?"

"That troublemaker. That ... Kanahele."

Yuh oh. I kept smiling even though Michael did not smile back. My damn lips were turning stiff from the effort, but I had to show my trainer what a good student I was. After all, he had taught me that fine talent of never showing anything, so now I was returning the favor. I may not be showing it, but I felt a little scared. Oh God, I had been so careful and it hadn't mattered. All my precautions had been worth spit. Michael had known all along, and he hadn't said anything until now. That was just like him. I didn't bother asking how or why. What would be the point of asking? He'd never answer me. I punched him on the shoulder. "What? What's wrong with Rabbit?"

"Nom de Dieu! You're in my bed, we just ... and you bring him up."

"I didn't! You mentioned him first. Do we have to fight about this now?" I pretended to yawn. Smothered the second one behind my fist. Stretching, I added, "It's late."

"We are not ... fighting."

"Yes, we are."

"No. We ... are ... not."

"Then what would you call this?"

"A discussion." Michael suddenly straightened up, looking as dignified as any naked man could. His eyes frosted to several degrees below zero. He snapped the sheet smooth over his lap, and muttered, "I do not fight. I never fight."

"Discussing, then. Whatever you want to call it. Oh, forget it. It's not important. Come on." My hand swept across his rigid back, but he pulled away from me. Just one inch apart. But it seemed like miles, the distance growing with each second. I moved closer, wrapped my arms around him. He felt stiff and unyielding even though I laid my cheek across his shoulder. Kissed him there. "Hey, don't be like that."

I held him for a long time, but he didn't relent, remained silent. Cold. Removed. It was like holding a iceberg. I tried to wait but at last I couldn't. Not any longer. Any more of his silent treatment and I'd haul off and whack him. Hard. Who knows? I might even enjoy it. "Michael, what is it?"

"This is damnable. Kanahele ... He is always there ..."

"Yeah. Well, so what? I'm known him forever. Since we were kids. He's my friend."

"Friend?"

His quiet sarcasm sliced through me like a knife, but I ignored the pain. It was better - at least - than the silence. "My friend," I repeated firmly, "But that's all. What's the matter? Don't you think men and women can be friends?"

Michael's brows drew together into a look of intense concentration. Once I'd seen him with that same expression when he was about to jump from the top of one building to another. Into the breach, certain disaster waiting below. He looked like he was contemplating the same risk. Maybe every word seemed just as treacherous to him, every sentence a damn pitfall. I'd laugh if I didn't want to hit him right now.

"Aren't we friends?" I asked finally.

"More than that."

"Sure, sure. A lot more. We're work together. We keep company. We ..."

"Nikita."

"Michael."

"I do not ..." He broke off, looking away. His hands bunched up the sheet and twisted it. He kept gathering up more until our legs were uncovered.

I wiggled my toes. "What are you afraid of?"

He sighed. "What if I ... do the wrong thing? Then you will leave me ... Just like that."

My mouth fell open. How could he believe that? I'd never said that. Not once. "What are you talking about? What's this? I decided a long time ago. I could have left Section, but I didn't."

"You could always leave."

"But I won't. Why would I leave? What I want, who I want is right here." I took his hand in mine, massaging those strong, tense fingers. They stayed rigid. I gave him a little shake. "Hey, I chose to stay. I chose you."

"Maybe you should leave ... Maybe it would be better." Michael turned quiet. The silence extended. And when he finally looked at me, his eyes dulled to a shade of old, broken jade. He seemed weary, his face sagging with sadness. Perhaps he was thinking of Simone, of Elena and Adam, of others he'd never told me about. Maybe Michael would tell me in time, when he trusted me more. But he wouldn't tell me now. Instead, he only added, "You'd be safer working in Analysis."

"Sure thing. And it would be a great promotion. But then I'd never see you. I'd hate that. Being apart. I'd shrivel up a little more each day. What's the point of being safe if you're stunted inside? I can't live like that. Can you?"

"No." His breath slowly leaked out as he turned in my arms. "Not any longer. Don't worry. I'll protect you. Keep you safe."

"Not safe. Informed. You'll keep me informed."

"If you paid more attention during the briefings ..."

"I do ... well, mostly. Honestly I try, but listening to that stuff makes my eyes roll back in my head. All that technospeak. It's a completely different language. Satellites with mega-who-zits. Gamma-tronic thingamajiggers."

"Nikita ..."

"And besides, you explain things so well. All those vectors, forces. When you talk physics, I get all hot ... under the collar."

He lifted the sheet and completely looked me over once, twice. His mouth curved. "You are not wearing a collar. You are not wearing ... much of anything right now."

"Just a smile," I laughed. "Now about this electromagnetic radiation. Tell me about it. Teach me. I want to know. It's just energy, right? Old-fashioned radio waves. The microwaves we use now to communicate."

"Yes. Like invisible telegrams. Information travels through the air instead of by wire. These days, satellites are modern phone operators. They redirect information all around the world through outer space."

"So some day we won't need paper any more." I yawned- this time for real. Slid back into the bed, into his arms. Our legs tangled, my smooth against his rough. "Maybe some day we won't need PDA's and phones either. Walter will invent a little implantable gizmo, and we'll be able to communicate directly. Like telepathy, you know. Person to person. One ringy-dingy. Two ringy-dingy."

Michael looked doubtful. "Maybe. I'm not sure that would be such a good idea."

"Sure it would. Another way around the system." I yawned again, feeling something else besides sleepiness stir inside me. "I wouldn't mind taking a collect call from you. Anytime."

"Ah."

"Anytime. Anywhere. Just reach out and touch someone."

"Me?"

"Only you. Like this." Then I showed him what I meant.