Moon/La Lune (Michael)

For a long time, I stared at the chair that Nikita had knocked over. The toppled chair lay on its side, surrounded by a little circle of ugly yellow light from a portable sodium lamp that hung from the ceiling. Poor imitation sunlight. Poor chair. I knew exactly how it felt like. What had gone wrong? It had all been wrong.

Just stay away. she had said.

Pour l'amour de Dieu. I wished that I could. I wished that I could turn off these feelings as easily as turning off a light. Maybe I used to be able to do that. Or maybe it hadn't been as important back then. I didn't know which it was. I only knew that I would have given anything to stop this hurting. Once before, I had felt this same way. A piece of carelessness during a mission my first year. I had looked away for a moment, and then BANG. A gutshot, straight in, straight out. One bloody second later. Right through me. I remember how it felt. Disbelief. Numbness had spread from my belly to my arms, my legs. Only later, much later, had come the pain. And now, it felt just like that.

Oh, Nikita. What had I been expecting? Maybe I had hoped that her reprogramming had worn off like a virus that runs its course. Maybe I had expected her to recover, to be my Soleil again. I had been looking for a sign. Any sign. And I saw none. I knew better than to hope. Hadn't I learned anything from the past?

Well, the one thing I had learned was that there was no point in whining. Whining was a waste of energy, of time. There was work to be done. Preparations for the mission. Plans for my next meeting. Things were about to change soon. Soon, Soleil. Very soon. Hold on. I won't let them do this.

I repeated the words to myself. A vow. An affirmation. But even though I sounded convincing, I did not know who I was reassuring anymore. Was it Nikita? Or was it myself?

##

Sun/Le Soleil (Nikita)

I couldn't believe it. The next week went smoothly. Michael seemed to get the message. Finally. He was leaving me alone so I could pretend that nothing had ever happened and I could concentrate on my work. I worked harder than ever, taking on extra duties, pulling long hours. And when I went home and fell into bed, I was too exhausted to do anything but sleep solidly. No dreams. I guess you could say that was better.

These days I kept mostly to myself. Maybe people meant well, but the right thing always seemed like the wrong thing. They could keep their good intentions. Bugged the hell out of me. It was easier to stay away from them. Fewer distractions; no more prying questions, weird looks. I was turning into the hermit girl. I didn't get lonely. I was too busy for that. All in all, it seemed to work better. That way I didn't get distracted by all the day-to-day silliness. That way I could stay focused on the end game. I needed to stay focused. It was all that mattered. Time passed.

Then one night I was walking from my office to the canteen to get some tea. It was late. Halls were practically empty. Thought I was the only one in Section. But as I passed through the corridor, I saw that the chain-link door of the armory was still rolled up. I followed my impulse, entered. Tried to ignore the dull pounding behind my eye. "Hey, Walter."

"Nikita! What's shaking, sugar?" He set the laser drill down on his workbench. Pushed aside the magnifying glass. Delight warmed his face, eased the lines of worry. "Long time since you just dropped by. Too long."

I ducked my head. "Busy."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Aren't we all? If it's not one thing, it's another, right?"

Rubbing my temple, I walked over to the shelves, rummaged through the bottles of solvents and chemicals where he hid his stash. Hydroflouric acid. Jimmy Bean. Tequila. Some clear liquid labeled "Surgeon General's Warning." Delved through the third row. "Jeez. Got anything to drink here besides alcohol?"

"Try the Surgeon General's. Works fast. Good for whatever ails you."

"No thanks. Looks ... potent. I'd like to keep the lining of my stomach. I'm looking for your ... Oh, there it is." I pulled out the bottled water and uncapped it. Reached into my pocket, tossed two aspirins into my mouth, then swigged some water.

"Looks like you got a mother of a headache."

"I'm fine." Took another sip. Prayed it would be true. Soon. My stomach pitched and rolled, hopefully wouldn't toss. Couldn't be another migraine. I'd just gotten over one.

"Yeah, that's right. That's why you've been chewing up aspirins like they were Tic-Tac's ever since you ... since they've ..." Walter sighed. "Ah, hell. I shouldn't be yelling at you."

"No, you shouldn't. Doesn't help my head."

"So it does hurt. Did you tell Doctor Genova?"

"I told you. I'm fine. Leave it alone." I returned the bottled water to his shelf. Rearranged the acids to hide Walter's wet bar again. "Hey, what are you working on now?"

He spun open the vise clamp, removed a thin spool-sized tube, and handed it to me. Fiber optic wires hung like fringe from one end. "Careful. Not all connected yet. Slide it."

I pushed the device to its four-inch length, one end flaring slightly. Held it up to my eye. "Your new telescope?"

"Yeah. Thought I could improve upon Galileo's old design. Update it, y'know. Jazz it up."

"How come? We're using satellites more. Remote viewing instead of seeing it for ourselves." I started to scan the workshop. The print on the bottle labels looked as large as a billboard. "Think we can still use something handheld like this during a mission?"

"Hell, yeah. Call me old-fashioned, but there's nothing like the real thing. I know that the bean-counters want to automate everything. Rely more on satellites, less on field agents. Less human error, you see. Those guys like all that data. The satellites give you a couple of shots every few seconds. Sampled field, they call it, and you get a nice big pile of it. But what if it's looking somewhere else when all the action happens? It's your ass in the fire while the satellite's blinking. No good."

"And it's centralized. If it went down, then ..."

"Everyone goes down. Everyone. But I don't have to tell you that. You were there on that Apollo project when the comm went down. What a mess. No guidance. Thank God you followed those tracking crumbs out of the building. Those electronic signals. Slick as shit. Pretty cool, huh? Sometimes I amaze myself. Y'know what I mean?"

I didn't remember what he was talking about, but there was no way I was going to admit it. Instead I said, "You have a point. Oh. Great peripheral vision. Like a fish-eye lens, wide field but not distorted. This is great." I looked outside of the armory. "I can see around the corner. How far can you see with this telescope?"

"Hey, this one's good. Real good. Just stick a penny on a bridge five hundred meters away. You could see Lincoln's nose. Hell, you probably could see the hairs in his nostrils."

"Oh boy. I've been dying to see that. Just what I always wanted." I continued scanning down the hall, almost to central Communications, where a few operatives were still working. Saw a tall man with broad shoulders that filled out his black suit. And next to that slow predatory stride, a pair of firm smoky-stockinged legs peeked underneath a tight black mini-skirt. My telescope swept upwards before I could stop myself. "Oh."

"What is it?"

"Woman, late forties, long black hair, petite, kind of on the ... voluptuous side."

"Hmm. If she were a road sign, would she say 'Dangerous Curves Ahead'?"

I huffed a breath. "Sometimes you can be such a ... a guy."

"I hope so, sugar. I ain't dead yet."

"Well, who's that with Michael?" I moved to the right to recapture them in my field of vision. Focused again. She seemed familiar. Searching my memory, I watched the woman's eyes glint with delight. Her lush red lips curved upwards as she leaned towards him and laughed. His answering smile. Her fingers on his arm. Jeez. Such a public display. In the middle of Section. They had to be nuts. My telescope dropped down.

Walter came up behind me. "Good view?"

"Yeah. Great ... Just fine." Click-click. That damn sound! It was starting again. It sounded like a Geiger counter tracking a radioactive source.

"Hey. That's not all. Check out the infra-red night vision. I'll kill the lights."

I returned the telescope. "That's all right."

"What's wrong, sugar?" Walter examined me with a thoroughness I could do without. Then he looked down the hall, frowned, lifted the telescope in the same direction of my previous sighting. "Ohhh. Get a load of that. Yeah, that's her all right. That's Cleo. You remember Cleo. So she's back, Miss Dangerous Curves herself. She and Michael go wa-a-a-a-ay back. Even before Simone. Funny thing about Cleo. They say she knows every single position in the Kama Sutra. And done them. They also say she can readjust anyone's chakras. Even Operations. What a road to enlightenment. And looks like Michael ... Well, what do you know?" Walter laughed heartily.

"Put down that damn telescope."

"Okay, okay." He laughed harder, focusing it. "Aren't you curious?"

"No, not really. We shouldn't be spying on them. It's not right. Leave them alone. Give them their privacy. We all deserve ... a little privacy." I grabbed the telescope from Walter. Walked over to the work bench. Put the telescope back in the table vise, and started turning the clamp. Concentrated on tightening it just so as I heard the approaching footsteps: a man's soft soles, a woman's heels clack-clacking against the floor.

"Hey, Michael. Cleo."

"Walter." Her voice sounded like warm honey, low and inviting. I glanced up from the work bench. Cleo's smile was genuinely friendly ... and curious. "Hello, Nikita. Nice to see you again."

I said hello back, pretending to remember her even if I did not. I studied the heart-shaped face, finely touched with make-up; the perfectly groomed hair that looked glossy even under the fluorescent lamps. Not limp and yellowish green-looking like mine. No, Cleo was the kind of woman who never chipped a fingernail, probably never swore or sweated. Never spilled coffee down her shirtfront. She was absolutely beautiful. Feminine. She looked like everything I was not.

"I've heard so much about how you're doing," Cleo was saying. "So competent, knowledgeable. I'm so proud of you. A good man out in the field."

I smiled, pretending that was a compliment. "And Walter was just telling me about what you've been up to lately. Your variety of ... accomplishments." I imagined her with Michael. Achieving enlightenment tonight. Other nights. Every night - a nirvana. The clicking in my head grew louder. I turned the clamp again.

Michael stepped towards me and held out a panel. "Here's the data you wanted. The intell on U.S. SpaceCommand." He continued to hold it as if he expected me to take it from him. I stared at his outstretched hand. His long tapered fingertips were lined up along the edge of the PDA. They looked so casual, but they had caused such pain. They were elegant. Loving. Cruel. My body lurched, remembering. I shivered somewhere inside. But I grit my teeth, kept my hands busy with the clamp. I felt pleased that my own fingers stayed steady, betrayed nothing.

"Do you mind?" I nodded towards the workbench. Michael gave me a blank look, then finally put the panel down there. "Thank you," I said.

"How industrious. And at such a late hour. Very commendable." Cleo laughed, tossing her hair over one shoulder. "Well, I have other things to do. So does Michael. All work, no play ..."

"... makes Michael a dull boy. Good," I said firmly, ignoring Walter's look of surprise. "Everyone says Michael works too hard. Wound up too tight. Could use a little loosening. Some R & R, if you know what I mean. Have a good time."

Cleo's eyebrows lifted into fine black arches. "Well, I think we will. Thank you. Take care, dear."

I said the same as Cleo took Michael's arm, then bid us "Au revoir" with a flawless accent. She probably was fluent in all languages, including the universal one without words.

"Mmm hmm. Get a load of that." Walter's tone was disgustingly admiring as he watched them leave. "Isn't she something?"

"Something else all right."

"Didn't seem to bother you."

I shrugged. "What? Cleo and Michael? Why should it? Michael and I were over a long time ago. We just didn't realize it. Sometimes you want something for so long that you almost forget what you want. You're just used to wanting. In love, ten feet off the ground. And then when the chance comes, you discover that what you want isn't really what you thought it was going to be. You hit the ground. BAM. Reality check. That ever happen to you?"

"Oh yeah. Elsie May Dinswiddie. Sweeter than sugar. Biggest pair of blue eyes you ever saw. Even bigger brothers. Six of them." Walter sighed. "The bruises fade, but the memory remains."

"Ah ha. So it took awhile to sink in. Michael and I, well, it was one of those teacher-student things. Happens all the time. Just wasn't meant to be. Now I'm a free agent. He's a free agent. He deserves a little happiness. I ... wish him well. Don't you think I should?"

"Well, of course you should. I mean ... Doesn't it ...? Oh, the hell with it. Women," muttered Walter as he picked up his laser drill again. "Just when I think I've got you all figured out, you pull something like this. Then it's back to drawing board."

"Listen, there is no blueprint to follow. We're a complete mystery."

"That's for damn sure." He sat down on his stool, readjusted the magnifying glass. Glanced up again.

I bit my lip, not sure how to ask, feeling foolish for considering it. Maybe I was going crazy. Sure, I was sleeping better but it still wasn't enough. And sometimes sleep deprivation did that to you, made you start imagining things. A common form of torture. I wanted to say something. I had to, but I didn't want to sound like Stumpy.

Walter flicked off his drill. He set it down again. "What is it, sugar?"

"Something's wrong with my PDA." I pulled my panel out of a pocket and placed it near Walter. Typed, Do you hear that sound?

He barely shook his head. "Could need a new battery."

"Good. Let's run another diagnostic." I pretended to push a button. I hear clicking all the time. Worse in here. Oscilloscope on? Radiation source?

"Nope, it's not that. Try testing the next level. I'll show you." Walter typed, Other signs?

I listed them for him. He pursed his lips, then typed, Rabbit's gone dark. Try Stumpy.

"Are you sure that will that help?" I asked.

Walter looked at me solemnly. "Do you want it fixed?"

I nodded.

"Well, the alternative's not as crazy as you think."

"But, Walter ..."

"Hey, I finally got back that Vac-3400. Noisy as hell but it sucks up a storm. Filters the air too, know what I mean. Keeps the area real clean if you run it twenty-four, seven. Real hand for renovations like yours. Wait a second. I have it ri-i-i-ight here." He squatted under his workbench and grunted. "Give me a hand with this, sugar. It's kind of heavy."

I bent down too until we were both ducking under the lip of the workbench. Our hands closed over a large metal box. "Definitely Stumpy," Walter whispered. "He's your only hope."

Great. My only hope was a little man who lined his hats with aluminum foil and believed that his thoughts were being broadcasted on cable television. I loved Stumpy but I didn't know if I could rely on him. Him or Ted Koppel. But it seemed like I didn't have a choice. Something was wrong. I didn't know what it was, but I knew I had to do something about it.

##

Another week, another mission. I was trying to stay professional, but damn it, I was kinda pissed off. The big, not little, kind. I mean, this was the kind of gig that really bugged me a lot. At my level, I shouldn't be doing this lame-ass sort of assignment, but here I was. And I knew who to thank. Even though Madeline supposedly wrote this profile, I knew Michael had rigged it. I just knew it. So what if I was on-point? I still had to play the dumb-o wife pushing a stroller through the park. And I'd been assigned some floral fluffy sundress with lotsa lace that made me look like I was wearing a lady's bedroom curtain instead of anything halfway decent. I thought that was Michael's idea too. Like he wanted to reinforce that I was just a chick and he was a M-A-N man. Well, duh! I'd like to see him do a mission wearing these silly strap sandals. You bet I would. I was so mad that the thought of him prancing around in my shoes didn't even make me laugh like I used to. I didn't think anything would right now.

Steaming silently, I swept my eyes over the park once again. And then I pegged him. "Target," I murmured under my breath. "Eleven o'clock."

If I looked up the word "dweeb" in the encyclopedia, I would find a picture of Robert Tanner posted right under the definition. He was one prime specimen. Didn't look like a techno-terrorist or a super agent. Tanner was a middle-aged man with little hair and less imagination. His stork neck hung over the same button-up white broadcloth shirt he'd probably worn since junior high. The cuffs in his perma-press chinos were too high, revealing thick white tube socks and down-on-the-heel shoes that needed some polish. He stopped in front of the mailbox, seemed to see the telltale chalk mark. Glanced nervously over his shoulder.

"Get a load of that. I don't believe this. There he goes. Straight to the dead-drop. Good boy." My longrange sunglasses automatically focused as I shifted to the right, following his stoop-shouldered shuffle down the sidewalk. In either hand, he carried a pink-and-white striped shopping bag from Victoria's Secret. "Some secret. That's as obvious as it gets."

"Hey, Birkoff. Those bags match your new hair-do." Herbie the Mouth laughed heartily over the com link.

Birkoff didn't reply. He'd been strangely subdued ever since he showed up in Section with his brand new hair color. It wasn't quite cotton candy pink. It was a hell of a lot brighter, screaming neon pink, practically fluorescent. Li-Huan had been totally besides herself with glee. Birkoff had taken the ribbing with his usual quiet courage.

"Hey, Birkie boy. Gonna go green for Saint Paddy's day?" joked someone on Team Two.

"Stay focused," said Michael. "Let's go."

I pushed the perambulator. He strolled next to me, his chest puffed out like a proud father showing off his new family in the park. I'd rather be a Sunday jogger than the happy little mother, but it obviously wasn't up to me. I stuck out one elbow and "accidentally" poked Michael in the gut.

"Hundred meters," said Birkoff.

We walked past an ultimate frisbee game, a couple smooching on a park bench, a rapt toddler watching despite her mother's attempts to remove him. "Clean Up After Your Dog" read a sign every twenty yards.

"Nikita." Michael held up a small bag, seemed to be offering something. Little red candies. They looked bumpy. "Like one?"

What? This wasn't been part of the profile. "No thanks," I said.

"Fifty meters," said Birkoff.

Slipping a hand around my waist, Michael glared at the group of guys who liked my backless sundress too much. But he seemed to ignore how the women appraised his moss-green polo shirt, the snug pair of jeans. He shook the little bag so that the candies rattled against each other. "Fraises Haribo ... Try one."

"Naw."

"Afraid?"

What was he up to? I kept pushing the stroller with just one hand as I reached over and took one of the candies. Tried it. Winced. "Oh." Shook my head. I turned and spit it on the ground. "Too sweet. No thanks."

"Ten meters," said Birkoff.

Herbie said, "Target's sitting down on the bench. Dropped the bags off. Picking up the cash."

We walked faster. Rounded the corner and saw Tanner. His hand still fished inside the big box where the dog pooper-scoopers and plastic bags were stowed.

I pushed the stroller in front of him, blocked off his escape. Sat next to him. "Mister Tanner. So nice to meet you."

"Wha-a-at? Who are you?" He glanced from me to Michael, who sat down on his other side.

I reached over and picked up one of the pink and white bags. Looked inside. "Doing a little shopping, Mister Tanner? Something lacy? A little naughty? Hope you got the right size. You can't return some items."

"They're for my wife. Her birthday. Yeah, that's it. It's her birthday present." The sweat beaded across his brow.

"You aren't married. You've never been married," I replied easily, reaching into the bag. "Hmm. These are naughty all right. You've been a bad boy. A very bad boy. Look at this. Facsimiles. Memo's. Guidance codes to the satellite. All nicely printed up and ready for delivery."

Tanner seemed to gradually shrink before us, his neck disappearing an inch at time inside his collar. His words barely leaked out of his spindly chest. "What ... are you ... going to do?"

"Come with us," said Michael in the soft voice that few people were brave enough to refuse.

##

An hour later, a candy red Jag roared into the parking lot. Its driver expertly cut the engine so that it purred to a contented stop without a single cough or screech. The door opened, and the driver stepped out. Even though she was wearing a conservative A-line dress instead of her shirtless black leather vest and mini-skirt, her hair was still wildly tufted into burgundy, black and brown. She still strutted with the energy of a sixteen year old. She was still Margo Beasley.

I planted myself in her way. Lowered my sunglasses a fraction. "Hello."

"Nikita?" She clutched her purse like a weapon so that the biceps under her sleeves were well-defined. Her black eyes sharpened even as a tentative smile broke over her face. "Hey, Nikita. My God. Girl, it is you." She pivoted, gave Michael an appreciative look. "And here's that mystery man. The one you were learning French for, oui ou non? Your delicious Frenchman, the one my daughter kept talking about. He arrived, and then you just practically disappeared into that little cottage of yours. Never came out for air. You left us so suddenly. Mary thought that maybe he swept you off your feet. Did you run away together?"

"Yes," said Michael.

"Not exactly," I said at the same time.

"Oh. Hmm. I know how that is. Once Stan and I ... well, we weren't always old farts."

"Really, Margo? Why don't you tell me? Come on. We have a lot of catching up to do." I linked my arm with hers, ignored how she tugged away.

"I don't think so. Maybe later."

"Maybe now. Now would be a good time to have a little girl talk." I caught her sudden movement to the side, her knee drawing up and out. But I didn't see her hand slipping into a pocket, the gun that suddenly flashed out. Michael did. His stiffened fingers chopped down on her wrist. Short. Hard. Effectual. The gun clattered to the ground.

"Now, now. None of that. I thought you were Berkeley radical vegetarian. Free love, gun control, and all that." I twisted her hands behind her back and frog-marched her towards the black van which was just pulling into the parking lot.

Margo growled an unrepeatable answer: crude, descriptive. Non-violent, definitely not. You never could tell.

##

We took Tanner and Margo to the closest interrogation center in Silicon Valley. Jeez. Nothing more scary than the suburbs. All those mini-vans parked in rows, and neatly trimmed lawns. In some ways, the substations were like model tract homes with identical floor plans. Once you were inside, you always knew where the bathrooms were. And no matter which substation you were in, the White Room was always the same: fluorescent lights, whiter-than-white tiles that were cleaned spotless after each interrogation, the handy dandy drain-hole that dipped in the center of the floor. And most of all, the chair was the same standard model. And the lucky stiff sitting in that chair always wore the same look of fear. Or defiance.

This time the chair's occupant was Margo. Definitely defiant. All that spit-in-your-eye rock 'n roll kickass attitude bundled inside her small wiry body, barely restrained by the manacles on her arms and legs.

I stood in front of her, my back to the cameras, hands held like a schoolgirl. Pasted on a neighborly smile. "So what happened to your old VW bus? The one that was patched together with bumperstickers ?"

"My old rust bucket? Traded up. Came into a little inheritance. My bourgeois aunt. Hell, I'm a practical gal. I hated her guts, but I couldn't say 'no' to her money." Margo smirked. "So what's this about? My unreported gift? Stan's taxes? Do you work for the Internal Revenue Service?"

"No."

"Let's not pretend to be friendly. Who the hell are you? CIA? Trilateral Commission? Some fascist organization?"

"Strike three. You're out," I said pleasantly. Stepped closer, maintaining eye contact. "Tell us about the Apollo satellite. Tanner already broke."

"Who's Tanner?"

"No games. If you don't tell us, you have everything to lose. If you do tell us, you have something to gain ... It will be less painful for you. Your choice. Don't make the wrong one. It would be ... a mistake."

"It's your mistake. I don't know anything. Except this. Everyone's been worried about the Apollo not working right. System's down half the time. It's a million dollar boondoggle. As bad as Hubbell Space Telescope. The company's embarrassed. Sabotage? Maybe. Just rumors. But now I know it's real. Because they're sending out the pigs. Fascist pigs like you." Margo drew back her head and spat.

It hit my cheek, hung for a moment before sliding down the side of my face. I stared straight into her derisive gaze while I wiped off the spittle with my palm. Looked her up, down, then smiled a little: waiting, waiting for the right moment, letting the room fall quiet except for my heart beating quicker, the harsh pants of her anger. Suddenly I lunged forward, grabbed a hank of her hair. Jerked her head backwards so that it banged against the back of the chair, the stainless steel echoing in the chamber. "Try again, Margo. Last chance," I said pleasantly.

She swallowed hard, but her eyes were still sharp with anger, defiance. "I can't tell you what I don't know."

"We'll see about that. We'll see how much you really know." I walked to the door, opened it so that the White Room attendants entered. The young women were identical twins: from their matching black suits and safety glasses to their perky grins like flight attendants about to offer a choice of beverages. They set the steel briefcase on the table, flicked open the latches. Inside the case there were no cocktail napkins; no packages of salted peanuts; no coffee, tea or soda. The amenities here were completely different.

I paused at the threshold. "You may think you're tough. But, Margo, remember this. How well do you think Stan will handle torture? Or Mary?"

"Mary? She was your friend. You can't. Nikita ..."

"I can ... and I will." I smiled coldly, then left the room. Shut the door on Margo's pleas.

##

A mysterious smile played on Madeline's lips. Even on a remote broadcast to this substation, her expression seemed pleased. A touch menacing. Madeline was at her most dangerous when she looked like this. "So Red Cell did compromise Tanner. Walter assures me that we can change the encoding and stop the Apollo satellite from leaking any more of our communications. Anything else about Tanner?"

"No," said Michael.

"Very good. And, Nikita ..."

I straightened in my chair. "Yes?"

"I understand that you want to be thorough. But it wasn't necessary to carry Beasley's interrogation ... that far. Extremes are to be avoided."

I nodded.

Madeline's soft brown eyes lit with some feeling I couldn't name. Gently she added, "Beasley was innocent after all ... But that doesn't matter now. Now you have the Red Cell contacts to mop up. Should be routine. Report back in forty-eight hours." Then the console went blank.

I pushed back from the table. Stood up. Ignored Michael's scrutiny. "All right. All right. Don't worry. You're the team leader here. I won't go around you. I won't file a separate report. But something bothers me."

His eyebrows drew together into a single slash across his forehead. It transmitted his disapproval as clearly as a shout. He looked harsh. Stern. Annoyed as hell.

Too bad, I thought. Too goddamn bad. "Red Cell was tapping into our communications. But then, why would they destroy the satellite? They'd burn up their best source of intell. It doesn't make any sense. Someone else must have caused those blackouts."

"Overloaded circuits burn out. The technology is not ... finely tuned." Michael shrugged. "It's done."

But I knew it wasn't. Our telecomm systems hadn't been the only one disabled. There'd been blackouts all over the grid: cable television, cell phones, radio broadcasts. Why had that happened? Someone had done that. And it wasn't Red Cell.

"Nikita, the profile is closed. Leave it alone."

"Is that an order?"

"Yes."

I may not remember some things, but this I did remember. This was as clear as a bell. This was true. I could feel it in my bones. I seldom obeyed Michael's orders.

Continued in Third Contact

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