Third Contact Follows Second Contact: Total Blackout

Third contact: the end of totality - the first rays of sun return during a solar eclipse.

Sun/Le Soleil (Nikita)

Maybe Stumpy was a little mad but there was one kind of madness he didn't have - retail madness. He wasn't cursed with it like all the other shoppers at this sidewalk sale. It was near noon and crowded as hell. Everyone and their mother seemed to be shopping here. We were surrounded by bargain tables and big-hipped women with money to burn. And nothing -but nothing - was going to stand in their way of a good deal. Poor Stumpy. Maybe he was a Level Five Op, but he sure didn't move fast enough for the other shoppers. They were mowing him over, right and left. They had outflanking maneuvers that we should use in our sim's.

He made the mistake of pausing for just a moment instead of going with the flow of the foot traffic. As soon as he stopped, a brunette with three blenders almost barreled right into him, but he managed to step out of the way just in time. "Jay-sus!" Taking out his hanky, he lifted his hat and mopped his brow. He warily eyed the outdoor display of copper pots and whisks that towered over him. As he was pocketing his hanky, a woman elbowed him aside, reached over and grabbed a one-quart pot. Then she almost beaned Stumpy with it as she turned around to grab something else. Putting his hands up, he immediately gave her a four-foot clearance. His mouth gaped with a mock horror. He let his expression freeze for a moment before he returned to normal. Chuckling to himself, he shook his head. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Getta load o' that. Innit that somefin'? Why the 'ell are we meetin' 'ere?"

"Because I have a little downtime. And I need something for my kitchen."

"Nobody needs indy-vi-dual spittoons. Rude. That's wot that is. Imagine! Spitting at the dinner table. My life!"

"Those are for your olive pits. Come on, Stumpy. This is a great sidewalk sale. Good bargains."

"Ta. Me local tinker 'ad better deals than all this rubbish. Look 'ere. Ten dollars for this li'l cup wot only 'olds a sip or two."

"That's a demitasse."

"Demi-wha'ever. A rip. That's wot it 'tis. A flamin' rip. Personably, I likes a nice big cuppa the old joe. Not these la-dee-da li'l sippers. Just one li'l old drink, and yer fillin' it again before yer can say Bob's yer uncle. Don't buy it, ducks."

"Okay, I won't." I picked out the whisks I needed. Never too many whisks. Dropped a good assortment of sizes into my shopping basket. "Now speak to me. I'm all ears." We walked over to the children's cooking section: little aprons, toy kitchen sets, an Easy-Bake Oven. I paused in front of the pyramid of neat white boxes. On the very top stood a spanky new oven with the tin trays I remembered. "Hey, look at these. I always wanted one when I was a kid. Every Christmas. Every birthday. Jeez. Easy-Bake Oven is more than thirty years old. Wow. Older than me." I hummed the jingle. So much fun to make. So much fun to eat.

Stumpy looked annoyed. "Never mind that. Stop that 'ummin'. Look sharp. Pay attention. Actin' like a right Barbie. All blonde on top but nothin' between those ears. At least yer wearin' the ruddy 'at now. 'Bout time."

"The sunshine makes my head hurt. When I wear my hat, the headache goes away."

Stumpy grunted. "Maybe. That may as well be. But there may be other ol' reasons as it were."

"Oh. Do you mean the aluminum foil? Not that!" Laughing, I picked up the Easy-Bake Oven. The updated version looked more like a microwave - a big white box instead of the aqua blue kitchen range I remembered. And now it had a long, wide smoked glass window. I guess that made it easier to view your cake while it was baking. After all, you wouldn't want it to come out wrong. I reached out and picked one up. "Hey, Stumpy. Y'know what? I still haven't heard a word from Ted Koppel yet. He must be too busy with your show. Private engagement."

"Ha ha. Laugh all yer like, but 'ere's somefin yer can't laugh off. Are yer eyes cryin' 'alf the time?"

I shrugged. "Smog. Big deal."

"What about spit? Is yer mouth fillin' wi' spit?"

"Maybe."

"And noises? Do yer 'ear any noises? Noises that nobody else seems to bloody well 'ear?"

I set down the Easy-Bake Oven. Opened the door. Slid the little metal tray in and out. "Yeah, a clicking sound. You know. Like what you hear whenever you go into a department store. Did Walter tell you? How did you know that?"

"Because I 'ear 'em too. All the time."

"I went to the ear-nose-and-throat doctor but he didn't say much. Only looked thoughtful, and said that since it wasn't this, that, or the other thing, it had to be idio-something. Idiopathic. Yeah, that was the word. Whatever that means. I don't think he found anything."

"Of course not. Wrong place. It's not in yer bloody ear, it's up 'ere." Stumpy tapped his temple.

"I'm not imagining things."

"I know yer not, ducks. Believe me, I know. Or me name ain't Dickie D. I wish it all was just a li'l bit of the ol' pretend. But it's real, more's the pity. They got to yer. Scrambled yer eggs at Genefex."

Genefex? The bioweapons mission. The one I hardly remembered. It was all badly spliced together inside my head, the rest of the jumble filled in by the mission tapes I'd reviewed later. Let's see. There was that short man who gave Michael the eye. Downloaded information from their computer. Obtained the samples. Then home again. Pretty routine. Or ... was it? Was there something else?

Damn it. Think. But my memory was a big blank screen. I was still wondering when a woman shouldered past me. She stacked three Easy-Bake oven boxes into her arms, peering around her pile as she walked away. "I just love these things. Don't you? Don't you just love these Easy-Bake ovens? They're so-o-o-o much fun."

And for some reason, as she finished saying it, the song started playing again in my head like advertising jingles often do: looping back over and over again. I just couldn't shake it. So much fun to ma-a-a-ake. So much fu-u-u-u-un ...

And as seconds passed, the music grew louder instead of dimmer. Now it was jangling and making my temples ache. The metal tray wobbled between my unsteady fingers. I set it down before I dropped it and made a fool of myself. Squinting against the pain, I tried to remember. I pressed one hand against my temple. Now I could almost see something. Something very far away, a bare outline. More hint than real. A motion. One man. No, two. The harder I tried, the more the picture faded.

"Tell me, ducks. What do yer see?"

As I concentrated, I could hear Stumpy encouraging me. The more he did, the more that jingle intensified. So much f-u-u-un to make ... So much f-u-u-un to eat ... the Easy-Bake Oven. The louder it grew, the more the toy in front of me blurred. It was blending with something else, something I could see somewhere in my mind. That something looked similar, only this was whiter, bigger, rectangular and gleaming ... "There's a long box. Neon tubes. A metal tray. They slid me into it. The box. The Easy-Bake box. Then I ... I felt hands, big hands holding me down. And something cold on my head."

My hands bunched into fists. Legs stiffened, feet cocked, ready to kick. Fight. Fight them. But all of sudden, I couldn't. Couldn't move. What happened to my arms? My legs? I couldn't feel them any more. I was dissolving. "Mommy. Make them stop. I'll be a good girl."

"Oh God. They pushed me in. I was inside that box. Then the box filled with ... lightning." Like the lightning arcing now between my temples, the thunderbolts crashing. I pressed a hand over my mouth, tried to control my stomach. I shut my eyes, but I could still see it. "So bright. I was blinded. Everything turned white."

"Right 'orrible, innit? Like being inside an explosion. Only the explosion is 'appenin' inside yer ruddy 'ead. And yer body feels sore. Like the frighteners worked yer o'er real thorough. The old one-two, one-two from the goon squad. That's on account of the convulsions, see?" Stumpy gripped my arm, took away the shopping basket that threatened to fall from my hand. " 'ere now. Snap out of it. None of those la-dee-da airs. Don't yer dare go blonde on old Dickie D. None of that now." He shook my arm. Hard. Led me to a quiet corner where there was bench. He sat down.

I half-fell on to the bench next to him, my legs giving out from under me. My hand was still pressed to my mouth. I felt sweaty all over, but instead of being hot, I was cold. Too cold. It was some time before I could breath normally, much less speak. When I finally could, I turned to my friend. "So you ... They did that to you too?"

"One of the early experiments, I was. Might call me 'ead the bloody Model T Ford. All the basics. Still runnin' no matter wot."

I stared at him. Horrified. All those things he'd been rambling about ... Had they been true all along? "An experiment? You ... you volunteered?"

"Right. Volunteer!" Stumpy laughed grimly. "No way. No how. I got volunteered, I did. One night in Tunisia I was sleepin' in me own bed. The next mornin' I woke up wi' a splittin' 'eadache. An' me 'ead was all wrapped up in a turban like I was the bloody rajah or somefin'. See, they put about that old Dickie D. was sick. Went right off me rocker and 'ad meself a little accident. But what they really did was this. Stuck what yer call an implant inside me gourd. A little radio, see? Tellin' me orders. All day. All night. Could drive a mate mad if he weren't mad to begin wi'."

For the first time in a month, all the spit in my mouth suddenly dried up. My cheeks stuck together and it was awhile before I could pry them apart. I licked my lips. "Do I have one of those ... those things stuck in my head?"

"No, ducks. Yer don't. They did away with the implants. Yer can find them on x-ray. Rip them bloody well out. Nowadays they mess with the e-lectromagnetic waves in yer gourd. Brains run on e-lec-tricity, see? Just like any old machine. Any old computer at'all. So wot they do to yer is like wipin' yer hard drive clean. Downloadin' new programs. Only ..." He hesitated. His lips pursed.

"Only what?"

"The process. They don't get it. It's not quite right yet. Sometimes they scramble yer too much and turn yer into a blitherin' idjit. And sometimes it don't take. Not the way they want it to."

"How do I know if it worked or not?"

Stumpy grinned suddenly. He patted me heartily on the back. "No worries, ducks. No worries at'all. If yer were Manchurian-ed, yer wouldn't be sittin' 'ere 'avin' this chat with old Dickie D., all cozy-like. Yer would 'ave shot me dead away. No, me old darlin'. Yer just a little scrambled. Soft-like. Over-easy."

"Half-baked, you mean."

Stumpy nodded. "Just so."

"So what can I do? Can I fight this?"

"Jay-sus. Depends what yer mean by fightin'. Stand up, and they knock yer back down again. Wears a body out. Some mates 'ave tried it that way."

"And?"

Stumpy shook his head. "The lucky ones get a decent burial. But the unlucky ones ... My life! They're the loonies wanderin' the streets in their bedroom slippers. The ones that wear bleedin' TV antennas on their 'eads an' change the reception, jabberin' to themselves the whole time. Don't do it, Nikita."

"So what do you do?"

"Me? I'm careful, ducks. I'm right careful. I does wot's expected of me. Act like a right Charlie. Dress it up a bit. Just for laughs."

I felt relieved and a little strangely disappointed all at the same time. "So no Ted Koppel?"

"Not even his stand-in." Stumpy grinned.

"So you're saying that I could act crazy, or ... or I could do what they expect. Exactly what they expect. Robo-Nikita, the perfect op. But in the end, they get what they want."

"No. They think they get what they want. There's a big diff'rence, ducks. All the diff'rence in the world. Let old Dickie D. show you somefin'. Somefin' sweet. A rare bit o' magic. Now look sharp." Stumpy waved a hand in front of my face. "Watch me magic 'and. Watch very closely. Nothin' up me sleeve. Nothin' at'all. Then, oy. Presto, change-o. Ta-DA!" He pulled a quarter out of thin air.

Magic. It would be like turning morning into night, a mountain into water. A phenomenon, a sleight of hand. "How did you do that, Stumpy? Show me that trick."

All of a sudden, my friend's face turned violently red. His cheeks puffed out and his mouth twisted down. "Trick? Trick!? Blimey, that's no trick! It's pure a-mazement. That's wot it 'tis. Now take a look, blondie. Take a bloody good look. At no time does me fingers leave me 'and." As he spoke, he slowly turned the quarter back and forth. It looked solid, ordinary, nothing funny about it. So if the coin wasn't any different, then he must have done something differently with it like whatever he was doing now. Stumpy was holding the coin between his thumb and index while he held his other hand across it. His fingers fanned out, one by one, then curled together again. By the time they all completely closed into a fist, the quarter had disappeared again. He stared down at his empty hand, then back at me. His mouth hung wide open as if he'd surprised even himself. Then he looked at the front and back of his hand. Stumpy even peered inside his sleeve. Grabbed the cuff and shook it sideways. Still no coin. Muttering to himself, he waved his hand over the top of his hat, followed by two sharp raps of his knuckles. Slowly, carefully he picked up the brim of his hat and lifted. He bent over slightly. And there it was - the missing quarter sat in a nest of his hair.

"Oh!" I said before I could help myself.

Grinning widely, Stumpy reached up, took the coin and flipped it into the air towards me.

I caught it neat. So it was all a matter of deception. Maybe not out-and-out lies, but trickery all the same. Whatever it was, I wasn't used it. With me, what you saw was what you got. No more, no less. That was all I was, all I knew how to do. But I guess that hadn't been enough to survive. They'd nabbed me in the end and messed up my head. Maybe I needed to change what I was doing. Maybe I needed to learn something else just like I'd eventually learned those girly-girl tricks from Cleo. Another veil, she'd once said. A little allure, a touch of magic ... Yeah, that was the ticket. Taking a deep breath, I held up the coin. Maybe I could learn the trick with a little practice. A little practice and a lot of luck.

##

Moon/La Lune (Michael)

San Francisco was Sin-by-the-Bay. Anything could be bought with money. Anything at all. Sex, information, discretion. I was no innocent but it amazed me all the same. I averted my eyes while I walked past two guys who hadn't made it to their room. No one else in this bathhouse seemed to care, so I pretended that I did not either. I walked up to the front counter and slid my money across it.

"What do you think? I just did my hair. Summer wheat like Leo DiCaprio," cooed the bath attendant. He handed me a towel. Eyed me up, down in a way I was used to but never liked. He leaned towards me. "I'm off in two hours."

"Sorry." I ignored the man's melodramatic sigh as I walked to the private steambath I'd reserved. Entered the changing room, locked the door. Added a laser lock of my own. It would not do to be interrupted.

Even though I was early for our meeting, George was already there. He sat on the lowest bench like a sweaty pink Buddha. Round and enigmatic. A towel was discretely wrapped around his girth. "I can't say I care for your choice of meeting places."

"Anything happen?"

George grunted, mopping his face with a small towel. "Nothing I couldn't handle. This place reminds me of Istanbul. Same clientele. Although it was cantharides then. Not poppers. Times change."

"Room's secure. The steam disrupts any surveillance."

"Yes. I thought so. You're letting them watch you? At discrete intervals. That's very wise. After awhile, they'll grow complacent again. You must remember that. Patience, Michael. Remember the chess I taught you when you were a boy. One must be patient."

"Yes." I remembered. Everything. The things George had taught me, the things he had not prevented. He was like a favorite uncle: forgiving and generous, absent and unreliable. I did not trust him, but I needed him. My options were limited.

All of sudden George frowned, which deepened the seams on his face. The sweat beading on his forehead dripped down and sluiced through those seams to the next fold of skin. Then it hung there precariously. He made no move to wipe it off as he sat there, thinking. He looked at me for a long time. "I owe your grandfather a lot. As the head of French Intelligence, he could have looked the other way but he didn't. He saved my bacon in Vichy. I tried to keep my promise to Jean-Pierre, but perhaps I haven't done right by you. I haven't helped you as I should. What happened to Nikita was ... very unfortunate. Adrian thinks highly of her."

What good were those stupid sentiments? His regret, his praise. Too little too late. I wanted to spit on him. Squeeze his thick fleshy neck until George turned purple and senseless. But a lifetime of training kicked in, and I only said quietly, "You could have stopped it ... You should have told me."

"Told you? And what would you have done? Something reckless? You should have been more careful. None of this would have happened if you had controlled yourself. You gave Operations the perfect weapon. Handed it to him on a silver platter, my boy."

I had told myself the same thing over and over again. The same recriminations haunted my days, invaded my nights. This was my fault. And this was my charge to make right again.

"There was nothing I could do," George was saying. "Sometimes a pawn has be sacrificed to protect the king. If the king is taken, the game is over."

What was he talking about? He had it all wrong as usual. Nikita wasn't a pawn. She was my queen. I needed to win her back. I would do anything. Absolutely anything. "The disc?"

George gave me a small square case that looked like a lady's compact. "This has the information you requested. And the guidance codes for the Apollo and Artemis satellites. You'll be able to adjust their remote controls and the programming they broadcast. But I'd recommend tampering with only Nikita's program. If you free the other operatives, it will tip your hand. Operations and Madeline will know something's wrong. Discretion, my boy. Discretion is everything."

"Yes."

"And the key file?" he asked.

"Their copy has been reconfigured. They may be ... a little surprised."

"Very good." A smile creased George's face so that he looked even more like the happy Buddha. "Very good indeed. Well then, to you and your lady."

"And to you and yours."

"Yes. Well. This is a splendid plan all around. Adrian will be pleased. I'll give her your regards."

That was not what I would have given her. That would not be my choice. None of this ever was. But I was going to change that. I was going to change everything.

##

After I left George, I got into my car and drove west. The engine whined as I climbed the crest of the hills where the fog thinned into nothing. Just ahead, the streetlight was turning yellow. I shifted, accelerated, and smoothly zipped across the intersection before the light changed again. As I drove down the hill and towards the beach, the skyscrapers disappeared, replaced by brightly painted Victorians and cheek-to-jowl apartment houses. Then eventually those gave way to the rows of identical box-houses that were painted genteel pastel colors. Except for the missing ribbons, they looked like boxes of Easter candy all ready for shipping, lined up one next to the other along the east side of the Great Highway. They looked exactly the same as they had more than fifteen years ago. Only Nikita was not the same. Neither was I. We had both changed. I rolled down my window. I could smell the salty tang in the air. It was like a greeting card from the ocean.

I turned into the parking lot, which was almost empty since it was still a weekday in the middle of the afternoon. Lots of black asphalt and white lines, plenty of spaces to choose from. An isolated car would stand out, so I parked near a Honda Civic with a surfboard still strapped to its roof.

Then I pulled out my laptop and turned it on. While it was booting up, I slipped a hand into my coat pocket and pulled out the case that George had given me. I thumbed open the clasp, picked up the disc, and inserted it into the side slit of my computer. The disc immediately began whirring as the screen winked to life. A moment later, my satellite tracking program booted up, filling my screen with a map of the world. Over that background, the computer drew a sinoidal pattern, then listed a set of coordinates. There. There was the Apollo. The one I wanted among the five thousand satellites circling around the earth every day. I bounced my signal off those plentiful decoys to disguise my origins. Then I typed in George's information. Punched the final key.

Accepting Code. Program Three-Alpha Delete? read the screen. It seemed like the computer's final courtesy, one last chance to change my mind. But that was impossible. I could not be more certain than this. I wanted Nikita. I was determined to have her back. My fingers trembled over the keyboard before I stilled them. I took a deep breath. Then I finally clicked on Yes.

A second later the screen said, Deletion completed.And somewhere above us, something changed on Apollo - some encoding, some electronic fluff - so that here, on Earth, a woman could change back into who she really was. My Nikita could finally return home.

Had it worked? It seemed too incredible. Too incredible that she had been altered so much. Too impossible to believe that she might recover like a dreamer awakening from a long sleep. As easy as that. That would be perfect. But if she did not?

That thought hung in the air like a knife over my head. I wished that it were just a knife. Then I would know what to do. I knew what to do about every worst-case scenario. I was a profiler. I was used to sorting out possibilities, no matter how ugly or dangerous or critical, but this ... I could barely consider this possibility. It felt overwhelming. For this one, I had no plan, no contingency. If this happened, then ... I could not even complete that thought. My eyes closed. My head rested against the back of the car seat as I listened to the ocean: the silence before its rolling roar, then silence all over again. I listened for a long time. I am not as fearless as people think. A mask is not the person behind it. And this took me to my deepest fear for Nikita, for myself. For more than death, I feared this - living without love. What if it had been erased? They could do such things. They had. I had seen it before.

Eventually I shut down my computer and slipped it under my car seat. I straightened up, but beyond that, I could not move. It took me awhile before I could bring myself to unlock the car door, push the handle, get out of the car. What if I was wrong? What if this didn't work?

I worried as I walked. I passed by some kids discussing their Halloween costumes as they waited to board their yellow school bus. It seemed strange to be talking about fall holidays when the sun felt indecently hot on my head and shoulders. Back home, the leaves would be turning, the air would be sharp and cold, maybe a little smoky from people's fireplaces. But here it felt like summer. Seemed almost surreal, the way the month and the weather did not match. Everything in California seemed like a dream. I am not sure I liked it. Facts were simpler. I could rely on facts. And the fact was that I was looking for Nikita. I continued walking towards the sound of the ocean, which roared somewhere behind the next large dune.

I crossed over where the afternoon wind was blowing long drifts of sand across the asphalt. It looked as if the beach were trying to reclaim the parking lot by covering it, restoring the natural order bit by bit. I stepped over the wayward sand on to the sidewalk, and crossed to the beach. Little grains of sand slipped into my shoes and jammed against my toes as I trudged down the slow slope towards the water. Towards a woman sitting by herself. The woman wearing a black floppy hat. Her pants were rolled up to her knees, and her black shirt was sleeveless. The dark colors of her clothes made her long limbs look even paler. Every now and then, the wind caught a few strands of her near-white hair and lifted it. I could see the elegant line of her neck, that place where it curved into her shoulder. Nikita.

My heart caught for a moment, then beat a little faster when I saw her, just like it did every time I saw her. I stood and watched her for a long time: the way she brushed back the hair from her face, the sandwich crumbs she fed to the seagulls, her loose-limbed way of sitting. Dread and hope mixed in my belly like oil and water. Uneasily I looked for a clue, any clue. But all I saw was that her face was turned towards the sea. And away from me.

##

Sun/Le Soleil (Nikita)

Oh, man. Here it came. The wave was chasing that surfer. And he didn't see it. He didn't even have a clue. Cut out. Cut out now. There it went ... Shit. It raised up, then slapped down the surfer. Ka-BOOM. He disappeared and his board tombstoned straight into the sky. He wasn't the only one, not by a long shot. All along the outer break, slick dark figures were riding the rollers. I was watching them when something rippled through me like the icy currents out there. It pulled me stronger than that riptide. It could only mean one thing. Michael. Had to be. I could feel him approaching even though the sand softened the sound of his steps. I knew even before his shadow fell over me, even before I turned to look at him.

He stood there with the sun behind him so that his hair looked even redder. His eyes seemed to take on the color of the sea so that they looked gray-green. Reminded me of someone, some other time, but I couldn't think who. Couldn't remember when. Didn't make sense. There was only one Michael.

Big deal, I thought. But my body seemed to disagree. Something inside me stirred again. It wasn't unpleasant. I could barely hear the clicking inside my head.

He seemed to be studying me without saying a damn thing. Just standing and looking. It was creeping me out. I hated when he did that. I lifted my chin and stared back, my lips pressed as tight as his. So there. Let's see how you like that for a change. And then to top it all off, I added the fish stare. I kept my eyes wide open while the seagulls cried over us and the ocean boomed once, then twice. During that whole time, I tried not to blink but my eyes were beginning to burn. Come on. Just a few seconds more. Shit. I couldn't hold out. He had me beat. My lids closed. Tears washed away the stinging. I sighed with relief and aggravation because I was losing another battle too. I had to know why the hell he was here, and I didn't think I could just keep quiet. Michael was never going to volunteer the information and then I would never find out. He wasn't scheduled. This was definitely off-profile. "What's up? Is this sector blacked out again?"

"No. The com is okay." He paused as if he was carefully choosing his next words. Pursing his lips, he glanced away for a moment. "I was here for a meeting. I thought I would come to the beach. I have not been here for awhile. What about ... you?"

I shrugged. The back of my shoulders crinkled, then ached a little as if I was beginning to get a sunburn. Darn it. Didn't think of sun block. I'd pay for this tomorrow. I could feel it already. "I used to come here when I was a kid. Wanted to see it again. "

"What do you remember?"

I closed my eyes, trying. It wasn't very hard. This was an easy memory to find, right on top of the pile. My bare feet dug into the sand, past the warm layer into the cold deeper one. I could hear the seagulls shrieking, the ocean calling me back into my past. Come, Nikita. Come and play. And as I listened, I suddenly turned into a kid again, and I could even taste the Jolly Rogers candy. Especially the strawberry ones, all red and sharply sweet. I could feel the sun across my half-burnt face, the tip of my nose already peeling. "It was this time of year. The fall. But it felt like summer. Hot. Gorgeous. Like right now. Bobby and me stayed here for a whole month. It was great. I hung out here every day, watching the other kids play around, bodysurf. They looked like they were having so much fun. And there ... there was another boy. Quiet. A watcher like me. We used to watch the other kids together. He was my friend, my best friend that month ..."

"What did he look like?"

"I don't know. Like a boy. A short boy, kinda heavy. With big hands and feet. He was a little awkward, like he didn't know what to do with them. He had brown hair. And his name was ... J-something. J....P. Yeah, that's it! JP. Jeez, where did that come from? I hadn't thought about his name for years. Anyway, we had a lot of fun together. He showed me his books. Taught me ... taught me how to put my letters together so I could read. Really read. It was Doctor Seuss. The only doctor I ever liked. Let's see ... I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam-I-am."

I laughed, remembering that feeling of triumph. I had finally cracked the code and understood what the grownup world was all about. I belonged to the club. I could do anything now that I could read. "Yeah, that first book was Green Eggs and Ham. And JP showed me other books too. We spent all month reading together. Then one day, it was my last day. Bobby was getting restless. I could see the signs. We were going to be moving on real soon, so I told JP. He looked kind of sorry. He leaned over and he ..." I broke off suddenly and looked down at my toes. I flushed. My God. What was I doing? Telling this to Michael of all people? This was goddam embarrassing.

"He did what?"

"Well, we ... You know. He, uh ... He kissed me." There. I said it. I sneaked a peek at Michael. He looked unimpressed as usual. All right. He didn't seem to care. Big F-ing Deal. Get over it. Finish the story. "Well, he kissed me. It was very soft. Sweet. Better than ice cream, than candy. Better than anything. It went on and on for awhile. I liked it. I wanted more. I was so scared, but all of a sudden, he seemed confidant, like he knew exactly what he was doing."

"Well, he did not. He was as scared as you were. He had never seen anyone so beautiful in his life, and he was afraid she would laugh at him. Maybe gag. Maybe punch him out."

"How could you know that? I've never told anybody this. It can't be in my files. How could you know unless ..."

"I was there? Well, I was," he said softly.

Even though Michael sounded like he was speaking English, I still had trouble understanding him. I sank back on my elbows as the meaning of his words slowly sunk into me. Had that been him all those years ago? He was that boy? It didn't seem possible. I couldn't believe it. Puzzled, I looked up at him.

He looked back. His green eyes softened with something like tenderness, perhaps a little regret. "You never forget your first kiss. At least I did not. You tasted like ... strawberry. That was our first time. Not practicing for Bauer. Not the boat. Here. Right here. On this beach."

"Oh ... But his name ... your name ... was JP."

"Yes. For Jean-Pierre. Jean-Pierre Michel is my full name. After my grandperé." When Michael finished, he stood there, his hands folded in front of him. His dark suit was silhouetted against the bright sky, and he looked just like the very first time we'd met in Section. I remembered. Michael had appeared like a dark angel in the middle of that white over-bright room. From the very beginning, I'd felt drawn to him. I hadn't known why, but now I did. Maybe even then, some part of me had always known him. Only it bugged me. It bugged me a lot. If I'd known Michael that long, how come I hadn't totally recognized him from the very start? How could anyone forget someone like him? Jeez. Was that another scrambled memory? I stared deep into his jade eyes, which turned a little gray, a little blue, depending on the light. Where was that boy from that beach long ago? Was that a glimmer of him? There, hidden in his man's body?

I drew back, examined him from farther away. Michael glanced down, smiled a little shyly, one corner barely pulling upwards like when I'd pleased him with a joke, a mission completed well, maybe a sentence I'd finally managed to read to him long ago. The memory tugged at me. The memory of that same smile and those changeable eyes. Those were the same. Those, I knew. Recognition swelled up inside me like the rising tide, and then it all came back rushing through me, hitting me hard.

I almost fell over. I couldn't believe it. I still couldn't. But it had to be. That was him, all right. Now I could see it, here and there. The same quiet boy, only larger now. His frame had lengthened, filled in with muscle, and he'd finally grown into those large hands and feet. And then as I realized this, my past and my present collided, combined, became the same thing, the same person. "That was you that summer."

"Yes. Other times too. I knew Doctor Grün too."

"What?! How did you ... I never told you about that. About all the times in the hospital." I sat up suddenly. I scooted away from Michael. Remembered, then stopped. "Of course. It must have been in my file. You were my trainer. You read that in my file."

"No. I did not. I know about Doctor Grün because I have met him. Long ago. Like you. He was my doctor too. Only I never got away. Not like you. Your mother tried to protect you by taking you away. They were watching for you. Everywhere. At all the familiar places. They thought you might come back here to this beach where your parents met. They ... sent me to find you. I recognized you at the beach. We are two of a kind, Nikita. Like recognizes like."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I am trying to explain. This is not easy. It is not easy for me either. Just bear with me ... You remember Doctor Grün. Anything else?" he asked quietly.

"The clinics ... lots of time in the hospital. And pain. Terrible pain. When I fought, the pain got worse. When I was good, the hurting stopped. And afterwards I always got sour lemon candies."

"Lemon? That was sodium hexacholine. A deep sedative-hypnotic agent. It leaves a lemony after-taste. I remember that too. They used it on all of us."

"Us?"

"Slowly, Soleil. Take it slowly. I do not want to overwhelm you."

"You ... you mean you were brainwashed like Stumpy and me?"

"Not exactly. Not like Stumpy. Like you. I was raised like you. We're Doctor Grün's special children. We went to the same summer camps."

"Camps?" I closed my eyes. Frantically I searched my mind. Pine trees? Counselors? Songs around the campfire? Nope. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing like that. A complete blank. That horrible blankness confused me even more because camp sure sounded like fun to me. And any fun memories I had of Bobby I'd hoarded like a miser with gold. There were so few. How could I have forgotten that one? No way. I sure would remember that ... if it had really happened in the first place. Michael must be making it up. Had to be. He hadn't lied to me in a long, long time, and the realization hurt. I told myself I didn't care, but it hurt all the same.

That jerk. So he was back to that game. Maybe he'd never stopped. Maybe he'd been tricking me all along, and that realization hurt even worse than the first. My eyes snapped open and I examined his face for those signs of evasion I knew so well by now: that sidelong glance, the wide eyes, the way he pinched his lips together. But this time, I didn't see any of those. Jeez. Was he actually telling the truth? No, he couldn't be. Just couldn't! Because if he wasn't wrong, then it meant I was. It meant ... no. Maybe I'd misheard him. I moved another inch away. "Well, I sure don't remember anything about that. You've gotta be kidding. Yeah, that's it. Well, ha ha. Forget it, pal. You didn't fool me. Bobby and me never went on vacations."

"No, they were not vacation. Those camps were training programs. You remember them as hospital visits. But they were not. There is no hospital like that in the world, doing the things that they did to us. But we both survived ... It is just that things were not always as they seemed. Your childhood ... Well, they planted a lot of false memories. You are not who you think you are."

"What?! What do you mean? Then who am I? If I'm not Nikita, then who the hell am I?" I folded my arms across my chest, my hands gripping hard. Shaking, I felt my soft cotton shirt, my sun-warmed skin, and all the rigid muscle and bone that lay underneath it. I could feel all the parts that made up me. And if I could feel me, surely I was still here. I was still Nikita. I had to be. Stubbornly I shook my head as if I could shake out all of Michael's words. I didn't want them inside of me any more. I didn't want to hear them. No. I don't believe him. I won't. I'm me.

Slowly I rocked back and forth, not understanding, not wanting to understand. All along I thought my memories ran like a movie about my life, but I didn't remember any of what Michael had been saying. None of those were scenes in my movie. But now I was realizing that I wasn't the movie at all. I was the screen, the blank screen that they'd been projecting images on the whole time. Pictures, memories, a whole life I'd thought was my own, didn't belong to me after all. It wasn't the truth. It had never been the truth. The lies had begun long before I'd ever entered Section One. And all of a sudden, I wasn't sure about anything any more. I could be anywhere doing anything, maybe not remembering any of it the next day. I wasn't even a fading image. I was null. My self eclipsed.

"I don't even exist. I don't ... My God!" I held my hands in front of me. Stared at the skin, veins, the muscles. Maybe those didn't exist either. Maybe they would disappear any moment. I watched them start to tremble. Then the trembling spread until my whole body shook more and more like the way glass resonates right before it shatters. Completely. Finally. I felt as if I were going to break into pieces that can never be put back together again. Never. And no one would care because I wasn't anything to begin with. I never had been anything. "I'm nothing. Nothing I remember is real. I'm not ... even real."

"Of course you are," said Michael sharply. "Of course you are real. You remember. You know. This beach, our first kiss. You remembered that. In spite of everything, they could not strip that from you. There are some things they cannot erase. They cannot erase your soul."

As Michael spoke, my head started to throb. Beat by beat, the throbbing grew louder until it felt more like a kettledrum pounding. My scalp tightened. My whole skull vibrated with pain. Soon all I could feel was that thundering on the inside of me and the thunder of the ocean outside. And over all that, Michael was actually talking for a change but I couldn't hear a damn word. I could only feel them beating at me like his fists. They were hurting me. I was hurting. So much pressure. So sharp. I felt it. Something was cracking. Just a small line. On my side. There ... That ache. I pressed a hand there, trying to fix it, trying to hold it all in, but it was too late.

Krrr-rRACK. The lines multiplied, spread, joined until there were more breaks than pieces. I was falling apart. And as I did, the world fell away too. And then there was only noise. White, blinding noise. Nothing else. Not even me. I felt totally frightened. Lost. And I didn't know how to find my way back again. I didn't know if I could find all my pieces and put myself back together. I didn't even know how to begin. As the seconds passed, I grew more frantic and the noise grew even louder. Pulsing bolts of it. Sounds turned into sheer pain and the pain punched out my breath, paralyzing me. I struggled to get more. My lips pursed, sucking. But it was no use because inside me it tightened and tightened until it sealed off. Completely. Couldn't ... I ... couldn't ... I bent over. Desperate. Falling. Fading to black.

Two hands gripped me. Michael. "Nom de Dieu! Stop it. Breathe." He gripped me harder, hard enough to bruise. He shook me. My head snapped back. My mouth opened. Air rushed in. Greedily I gulped it in. I took a breath, then another. The blackness gradually lightened. There were sky ... clouds ... and those green eyes staring into me, pinning me here and fixing me to this place. I could not float and fly away, not with those eyes anchoring me. I pulled against his grip. I wanted to escape. Please. Let me go. But his eyes held me here. He wouldn't even let me look away. Shivering, I watched Michael's face darken.

His brows snapped together. "I am sorry. I do not know how to say this."

"Then don't. Don't say it. Stop it. Stop it right now." I twisted out of his grasp. Shoved him so that he fell back on to the beach. I jumped to my feet. I danced backwards, half stepping, half stumbling across the thick, cold sand. My toes tangled in the ropy kelp. Its bulbs squished and popped underneath me. I kicked myself free. "You're crazy! You're goddamn crazy! And you're trying to make me crazy. I don't believe you. Why should I trust you? Why should I believe anything you say any more?"

Michael flinched as if I'd struck him. His eyes looked bruised. Anguished. Determined. His breath rushed in, then out. His hands reached out to me. "Because it is the truth," he said at last.

The truth? That was rich coming from him. Michael, the king of liars. He twisted the truth into whatever suited him. But this ... this was like turning your back on the ocean and being dumped by a rogue wave. Unexpected. Huge. Overwhelming. I was drowning in something I didn't understand.

I had to get away. Now. Before he said anything else. Before I broke down completely. Before I did something stupid like believing him again. I pivoted, turning around again. Then I ran away from him without even looking back. Michael probably could have caught me if he'd tried, but he didn't. He just called after me. I heard him call again as I ran even faster, the sand spurting under my feet. I left my bag, my shoes on the beach. I didn't care. I needed to get away. But no matter how fast I ran, I couldn't escape Michael's words. They rang over and over in my head. The truth. They're murdering the truth. What was the truth? I didn't know any more. I didn't even know who the hell I was.

##

What do you do when your world collapses? Where do you go for comfort? My mom Bobby always went to the bottle. Gin was her best friend. And some people I know go to the gym and box a couple of rounds with the punching bag. And me? I didn't know. Was that what I really wanted to do? Or was that something they programmed into me? Maybe I used to do needlepoint instead of shooting AK-47's. Maybe I always liked Arnold Schwarzenegger all along. Who the hell knew? Not me.

Nikita? Or Robo-Nik? Which one was me? I was tired of wrestling with that one. I couldn't think any more. Couldn't sleep. I felt dizzy trying to figure it all out. So I gave up. I just had to let it be. Let it whirl through my head like a top spinning this way, then that. Totally out of my control. I don't remember driving away from the beach but somehow I was back in my Berkeley studio. I paced around, going from wall to wall, then back around again. But with every circuit, I walked faster and faster, my agitation growing instead of fading. This didn't help. Nothing did. Finally I went back into the kitchen and started yanking books off the shelf. I thumbed through a couple of them. I was going to do whatever made me feel best right now, no matter who was making me feel that way. I was going to bake, damn it. Here. That recipe looked good. How many eggs did this one need? And lemon zest. What the hell was that?

##

A few days later, I still hadn't slept but at least I'd finally mastered that recipe. It had taken some doing and several cartons of eggs, and now I couldn't wait to show it off. At last I'd found a willing victim ... I mean, friend. Little did he know. Cunning was something I'd learned in Section, and it was a lesson I used well. Carefully I hid my excitement as we waited in the kitchen of my Berkeley studio. The timer ticked down, and when it finally went ding, I pulled off my oven mitt. Then I waved my hand with the airy kind of flourish that a spokesmodel uses in front of the best game show prize of the day.

"Ta DA! See!" I said, unable to hide my complete triumph. "See. I told you it would work. And you doubted me. Admit it, pal. You didn't think I could do it. Well, there you are." Proudly I pointed a whisk at my golden souffle. It hadn't fallen - not even a millimeter. It still stood, puffed and perfect, in its ceramic dish on the kitchen counter.

Rabbit frowned, one hand on a hip, the other fisted around his third cup of coffee. His faded Spitfire tee-shirt and jeans stretched over that lanky frame as he bent closer and closer to the souffle. Finally he stopped right before the crooked tip of his aquiline nose touched it. He sniffed. Loudly. "Huh. It's a trick. I know it is. Plaster of Paris or something. Rebar maybe."

"You'll find out when you eat it."

He straightened up so fast that coffee sloshed over the rim of his cup and on to the floor. Backing up, he thumped his cup on to the counter. Then he put out his hands, palms out. "Eat that? You gotta be joking. Nuh uh. I'm not hungry. Grabbed a bite on the jet ride home."

I clucked my tongue. "Airplane food. What's that? Something chewy under the sauce, a few frozen vegetables, a round piece of leather they call a Frookie. That's nothing. You need real food. A growing boy like you." I looked at his six-foot frame; every inch was lean muscle.

Rabbit ran an agitated hand through his black curls. His eyes darted from side to side as if he was looking for a quick escape hatch. Too bad. I was ready for him. You bet I was. I waited for him to come up with some piss-poor convenient excuse, but I was surprised. He didn't say anything at first. He only scowled at me. "All right. Just a small piece. Real small. My God. Look at you. Just look at you."

"What?" I stopped slicing the souffle, and glanced down the front of my apron, jeans, bare feet. Didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Nothing was inside out or backwards. "What's wrong?"

"I heard they ran a number on you. Even heard that you're Operations' new pet. The golden agent. Little Miss Take-No-Prisoners, Results Guaranteed. But, Jesus Crispy-cakes! I don't believe this. I can't believe you're cooking this Cordon Bleu crap. Madeline really did change you. Completely baked your brains. Cooking? You! The ori-gi-nal food carbonizer. They turned you into a pistol-packing Julia Child. Whoever wrote your reprogramming sure has a weird sense of humor."

"You!" I shoved the plate at him. Gave him a fork. He picked up his fork and broke off a teeny weeny crumb. It was so small that it seemed to stretch over the tip of one tine. He held it up real close, then far away again. He took some time examining it. I clenched my teeth. "Just eat the damned souffle."

"Or what? What are you going to do to me? Send the Torture Twins after me like you did on poor Margo Beasley. Poor innocent Margo Beasley."

"I might."

"Good. I'd prefer that. Anything but this! Last time I ate something of yours I thought I was having a gallbladder attack. Bring the twins on. Go ahead. Hurt me. I dare ya." Frowning, he set the plate near the counter's edge so that it teetered precariously, then fell to the floor. "Oh. Shucks darn. So much for that."

"There's more. There's plenty more," I said with a calm pleasantness that I didn't feel. Cut him another piece, a huge one. Gave him another fork.

He rolled his eyes and groaned loudly like a goddamn clown. Took a microscopic bite, then swallowed quickly as if it were a horse pill. His larynx bobbed, his eyes widening. "Are you sure you made this? I mean, maybe someone else cooked this while you blacked out or something. You've been forgetting things lately."

"No, I cooked it all right. It was me."

"But it's ... it's ... It tastes ..." Surprised pleasure seemed to parade across his face.

I smiled proudly, folding my arms across my chest, ready to accept the praise. Maybe he'd even ask for another piece or two. Finally. At last. For too long my cooking had been the butt of his jokes. Hell. Everyone in Section joked about it. "Yes?"

"Well, it's ... edible. That's a switch."

"Wha-a-at?!" I grabbed the dish towel and threw it hard at him. He ducked it, laughing. Saw my glare. Laughed harder. Between laughs, Rabbit plowed through his serving. At last he set the empty plate and fork on the counter. Then he picked up his mug and gulped down he last of his coffee. He sighed. "I don't want to be rude ..."

"But you are ..."

Rabbit grinned. "It's a gift. I'm lucky."

"You're ..."

"Seriously, I don't have time for chitchat. Got to hit San Francisco in twenty minutes. Meeting someone." Scratching his chin, Rabbit looked away.

"Oh, yeah? What kind of someone?" I asked off-hand. I thought my question was no big deal, but apparently it was because Rabbit's cheeks slowly flushed. For once he seemed embarrassed and uncocky. He was even ... quiet. How weird. This wasn't like him at all. Whoever he was meeting had to be someone special. Really special. Now I was definitely curious. "Come on, come on. Spill it. Oh. Is it a big fat secret? Is she in the life or out?"

"In," he said reluctantly.

"Mmmm-hmmm. Wow. And do I know her?"

Rabbit leaned over and picked some imaginary lint off his pants leg. "Naw. Hey, have you heard the one about the blonde who stuck a hose in her boyfriend's ear? She wanted to brainwash him. Ha! Brainwash, get it?"

I ignored him. I always did. I tried to sort through his likely candidates, but my databank was faulty, damn it. I needed more clues. Oh, what the hell. I gave up. "And does this someone have a name?"

"Sure, you betcha." He stared down into the bottom of his empty mug and rolled it between both hands. "Say, have you got any more of this mud? I could sure use another cup." Whistling between his teeth, he walked over to the coffeemaker, picked up the carafe, and poured more coffee into his mug. Then he set it down again and picked up the sugar jar. He tilted it, adding the sugar slowly until it formed a white peak over the rim of his cup. Next he picked up a spoon. He slipped it into his coffee and stirred so carefully that it seemed like he was mixing gelignite instead. I let him take two sips.

When he was done, I didn't bother with any words this time. I just punched him on the chest. He clutched it, pretending to cave in. "All right, all right. Oooh, stop that. Don't give me that White Room look. I'll tell you. I'll confess. Her name's DT."

"And ...?"

"And if I don't get there on time, my little bomber girl will blow me up. Or tape me down to something. Even worse." Rabbit sighed, shaking his head. "She's one sweet maniac. I watch my step around her. She wields a mean roll of duct tape. Real mean."

His words were light as usual, but his tone sounded softer, almost bewildered. For a moment, he looked kinda rattled like he'd fallen off his board and konked his head real good for a change. I had never seen him like this before, and this time I knew he was not joking. "Hey, you. This sounds ... serious."

"Yeah. You bet. As serious as it gets. One hundred point-oh-one percent certain. And that's as certain as anything gets in life. Man, oh man. Phewy, I can't believe I'm saying this. I've never ..." He slipped his hand inside his shirt and beat a nervous tattoo against the left side of his chest. He gulped out loud.

I'd never seen Rabbit looked frightened before. He never seemed to have the good sense to be scared of anything. But now he was. I could hardly believe it. I felt happy for him. And a little sad for me. It would never be quite the same between us again. DT, huh? Did I know any DT's? That sure sounded like some kind of nickname. I wondered what her real name was and what kind of woman would take on someone like Rabbit. It was awfully hard to imagine. "Aw, poor DT. Does she know what she's getting into?"

"Women," he said darkly. "You always stick together."

"You bet. It's called survival. And you better listen up, pal. You'll never make it from Berkeley to there in time. Even on a good day it takes twenty minutes just to reach the toll plaza."

"No worries, no worries. I drive neatly. Traffic laws are for the timid. Now let's get to it. So you finally decided to call me after all these weeks. You dope. Why are you still here? Don't tell me you're hanging around just to talk with little old me?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

Rabbit grinned wider. "You said you needed to talk. Shock and amazement. About what?"

"Patch me directly into U.S. SpaceCommand. My preliminary data suck. I need better stuff. Need to go deeper."

His brown eyes glinted with sudden interest. They darted back and forth like they always did when he was thinking. Thinking hard. Rabbit's wheels seemed to turn, then accelerate. "Yeah, it would be skimpy. They play it pretty close to the vest. Why?"

"They track satellites."

"So what's with the new hobby? Taking up amateur astronomy? The joys of sputnik spotting? Or is it one sputnik in particular? Ooooh, I know." He snapped his fingers. "The Apollo satellite. Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle. And here I thought that mission's over. Been closed for more than a week now."

"Are you gonna tell me or not?"

"Ah ha! I knew it! So the mission's not closed, at least not for you. You're keeping it open. Against orders, I bet. Just another Standard Nikita Operating Procedure: prying your way into a locked box of trouble just to dig through it, damn the consequences. I mean, Alfred E. Neumann said it all. What me worry? Me worry - you better believe it. Silly, silly me. But hey, why should it be any different than before?" Rabbit rubbed his chin. He thoughtfully looked me over. "Hmm. Hoo-boy. What a dilemma. Should I or shouldn't I? Could be useful. Could blow right up. I dunno. It's an awfully close call. 'Bout fifty-fifty, I'd say ... Okay-dokey. Guess I can. I'll save you some time as long as ..."

"I don't say who told me so," I interrupted, rolling my eyes. I huffed a breath. "Yeah, yeah. I know that, chapter and verse. Now spill it. Don't make me hurt you."

Rabbit looked delighted. "Would you?"

"Yeah, you bet." I turned to the counter and picked up the souffle. I moved the dish closer, threateningly. I hummed a funereal tune. "Tell me or I'll make you eat it."

He pretended to shrink back. "Please. No! A thousand times no! Don't make me. Anything but that! I'll talk, I'll talk." When I waved the souffle in his face, he nimbly leapt backwards and started to laugh his fool head off. "Blondie, you can be seriously twisted. I always liked that part of you. But all kidding aside, are you sure you want to know? Sometimes you ask questions and you don't like the answers. Maybe you should leave this one alone."

Before he finished speaking, I thumped the souffle down on the counter and punched him one, two in the chest. The air puffed out of him on the last word. I scowled and hit him again. He deserved it! "Don't piss me off, pal. You sound just like Michael."

"What?! That's a terrible thing to say! You take that back. There's no need to insult me. Jeepers, I was going to tell you anyway. But now, I don't know. I really don't know. Forget it. Nuh uh."

"Aw, come on."

"Nope. No who's-it, what's-it way. And don't you go making those big goo-goo eyes and batting your damn eyelashes at me. Those girly tricks don't work on me. I mean, not too well. Oh, stop that. You're grossing me out. Okay. I really shouldn't but I will. Here's the straight scoop. Off the record, naturally. There've been several telecom blackouts. Cable mostly. Big protest. Seems that people missed out on the season finale of some adventure show. Who shot Mister So-and-so? But no sensitive communications have been compromised. So I imagine Operations doesn't care. But you do."

"It's not finished. I know it. I need to know which satellites have been hit. Maybe there's a pattern. And maybe I can work backwards, triangulate where the techno-terrorists are shooting from."

"Maybe you can. But so what? Why are you doing this? Your program must be slipping, Nik'. I bet the Powers That Be wouldn't want you to be thinking so independently. What's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"You tell me. Stumpy already talked with you. Now it's your turn to talk, blondie. Who the hell are you? And what are you up to now?"

I grabbed his ears, turned his head down and towards me. Whispered while his eyes seemed to dance with devils. When I was finished, he straightened up slowly, humming a little to himself. He nodded once.

"Well, that has distinct possibilities," he said at last. "If you mean to do what you say you will. If you are who you say you are."

I thumped his chest again. This time, the hardest of all. Heard him grunt, but not give. "Rabbit Kanahele! You mean you still don't believe me?"

"Naturally ... not. I'm a careful fellow. I mean, how do I know this isn't a trick?" He leaned one hip against the kitchen counter and folded his arms across his chest. His brows lifted. "You're not yourself lately. Look at your cooking. You never cooked anything that wasn't half-lethal before. This time I haven't puked it up and I'm still standing. Something's really, really wrong. I'm mighty skeptical here. So prove it to me. Prove that you're still Nikita."

"What? What do you mean? How am I supposed to do that?"

"Personal markings? That little mole by your ..."

"Hey, how do you know about that?"

"I, uh, peeked once. Just boyish curiosity, you could say. In fact, you could say a whole lot of things, but there's nothing like checking your facts. Maybe you better drop them, blondie."

I backed away from him, holding my hands up. "Forget it. No way."

"Okay dokey, chicken. Not that. We-e-e-ell, I know. Try this one for size. Come on and tell me. Where's the best pizza?"

"Smoky Joe's," I said automatically.

"Uh huh. What kind?"

"Double garlic with sausage."

"And anchovies," added Rabbit.

"Nope. No anchovies there. Joe's allergic to them. Now do you believe me?"

He only threw back his head and laughed. "Maybe I do. Maybe I don't. They could have preserved that part of your memory, erased the rest. Tell me something early. Going way, way back."

Frustrated, I picked up a towel from the counter. I twisted it in my hand. I tried to come up with something, but I couldn't. The screen was still blank. Nothing was playing. The harder I tried, the more blank it seemed. Frustrated, I gritted my teeth. "Like what?"

"Who was your first kiss? That's a girly kind of memory. Girls. Yeah. I remember that one all right. My first crush. Mrs. King. Nursery school teacher. She had a little moustache but I didn't care. I could always find the diamond in the rough."

"Rabbit! You're impossible. Absolutely impossible. I ... I don't remember." My cheeks heated as I stared at the floor.

"Want my help?"

Shaking my head, I threw the towel on to the counter. Then I walked out of the kitchen and into the main room. Sat on the sofa, the cushions dipping as Rabbit sat next to me.

"What is it, blondie?"

"Michael ... he said that I ... Oh, forget it." I couldn't finish my question. What was I doing? It was all a load of crap. I knew it. I didn't need Rabbit to tell me that. I picked up a toy rocket ship from the coffee table. Unflipped one of the tin wings.

"Go ahead."

"Well, Michael said that they experimented on me when I was a kid. Turned me into a baby agent. But that's ridiculous. People don't do that kind of thing, do they?"

Rabbit scratched his jaw. He fell silent for awhile. And for once I wasn't surprised. What could he possibly say? Yeah, Nik'. Sure. You're right. Baby agents. Hey, wanna buy a bridge? I sounded foolish and he was just being polite by not saying anything out loud. I mean, the whole thing sounded crazy. It was so whacked out, it couldn't be true. I knew I'd been right in the first place. Michael had been lying all along. And I had gone ahead and believed him. I'd gotten all stirred up for nothing. Jeez, it was just like the old days when he'd been my trainer. I was such a rookie. I was so stupid to let myself get jerked around like that. Hadn't I learned anything over the years? Dumb, dumb, dumb. As dumb as the blondes in those lame-ass jokes Rabbit kept telling me. No, not that dumb. Probably even dumber. My cheeks flushed even hotter. I couldn't even stand looking at him. He was never going to let me live this down. I was probably going to hear about this for a million years. Groaning silently, I flipped open the other side of the rocket ship, and then folded the toy inwards so that it transformed into a girl robot. When I pushed the toy across the table top, she made whirring sounds and her little red eyes flashed.

I played with it for awhile before Rabbit finally stirred. He leaned over and put his hand over mine. He made me stop. "Nik', do you trust me?"

"Of course," I answered immediately . "You're one of the few people who knows everything about me. About how ... how my mother's boyfriends used to ... how they hurt me."

"And how you survived. And there are things ... you know about me. We both survived." A muscle ticced in Rabbit's jaw, his brown eyes darkening to the color of night as if he was remembering. His brows tilted, then he sighed. "I've never lied to you. I wouldn't even know how ... So I'll tell you. This has to stay between you and me. Confidential, see? 'Cuz folks have died for this information." He stopped, blew out another breath. "Okay. Here goes. This might sound a little off the wall ..."

I laughed shortly. "What are you talking about? You're always off the wall. You talk like a goddamn ping-pong ball."

"Yeah, maybe you're right. But this is ... Well, it's ... just try to stick with me."

"Jeez. You're scaring me, Rabbit."

"Well, good. Whoopy-dee-doo. You should be scared. Anyone with any sense should be scared about this. So this is it. Project Monarch - what do you know about that?"

"Oh, that? That's one of Stumpy's favorite conspiracies. The only one he talks about more than Ted Koppel. He's told me about that one a million times. Let's see. After World War II, the CIA sponsored Nazi doctors. They raised thousands of brainwashed super-children. Kids groomed to kill on command."

"Yeah, a whole crop of Bad Seeds. But it's true. The proof is right before your very eyes. Right under your own roof. You saw the in vitro nurseries at Section One. Yup, those kids. Y'know Section is no average daycare. They've been busy hatching and training those kids. Killer chicks. That's just a modern bioengineered twist on the old Project Monarch. And there's more proof. Every time you look in the mirror. There's you. You're part of that program. There's Michael. And ... there's me."

"You? Come on. I don't believe it. You're no clone. You never follow any rules."

"What? You wanna see my diploma?" Rabbit's usual smile turned grim. He shook his head. "Sorry. Never got one. Not all of us are perfect graduates. Not that they didn't try to make me. They try their damnedest. I'm sorry but it's true. I was trained from birth to be the perfect operative. We all were. Impeccable bloodlines, neuro-stimulation, programmed enhancement, the whole bit. But sometimes, hoo-boy, we surprise our trainers. God forbid, we have our own little personalities. Our own ideas. We do unexpected things. We figure things out, rebel. Take me for instance. Ran away when I was five. Took a bunch out with me. Helped you and your Mom. Don't you remember? Come on, blondie. Wanna play ..."

... hide and seek? I could hear him saying the same thing on some street corner somewhere. Back then, his voice had sounded much higher but just as teasing. And even though it had been in the middle of the night, his eyes had shone like he knew the best joke in the whole world and he was going to tell me if I was real lucky. If I was cool enough. I remembered that Rabbit had been half-covered with band-aids; quick and small and scrawny as hell with a skateboard bigger than him. In his other hand, he'd held two pieces of pizza. Tomato with fat chunks of sausage, its spicy scent tickling my nose. The hot cheese had looked shiny under the streetlights. Oh, man. My mouth had watered, my stomach cramped.

"Quick," he'd hissed, pulling me into the alley and behind some boxes. Something about his urgency had made me hurry up and scramble after him. We'd crawled into a crate just as big footsteps had thundered past us. After the sounds had finally faded, I'd started to scoot out, but Rabbit had caught my shoulder and pulled me back again. More footsteps had rushed by, followed by sirens and shouting. He'd held one bandaged finger to his lips, but by then I hadn't needed the warning. So I'd stayed with him for awhile, sitting inside that box and sharing the pizza down to the last slick crumb. I'd even licked the cheese off the paper wrappers. Nothing had ever tasted so good. It had hit my belly like a cannonball just as the tiredness had hit the rest of me. I'd felt sore and sleepy all of a sudden. My lids had drooped. Then he'd lifted his arm just like he was doing now.

I scooted closer to Rabbit on the couch. Slowly I laid my head on his shoulder. He was more muscular now but he still felt safe. And that feeling had been even better than the pizza inside my stomach.

"Yeah," I sighed. "I remember. It was the best pizza I've ever eaten."

"Sure, great. It's the pizza you remember. Not me."

I reached up and bopped him on the head. "Don't be a dope. You know what I mean. So what happened to you?"

"Oh, I got a little too big for myself. A little careless. Didn't listen to Stumpy. So they caught me hacking, running the grift at age twelve. They eventually found your mother again, traced her to you. They sent Michael to get you, but he let you go the first time. And the second time ... well, we tried to stop it. But we messed up. Plus you didn't make it any easier. You didn't listen. Big surprise. They trapped you and sent you back on that fake cop-killing rap. So you see, we both ended up back in the stir. We're two wheels on the same 'board, Nik'. You and me have been very, very bad kids. A sad disappointment to Doctor Grün and our trainers."

As he finished speaking, my fingers started to tingle, then my hands, my whole arms. A chill spread through me. I was turning cold, so cold that I felt more like dead than alive, more metal than flesh, because that was more bearable. Things without nerves did not feel pain. I could barely even feel the toy I was holding. Desperate to feel something, I squeezed tight, then even tighter until the cheap tin buckled, then tore. It seemed to be cutting through my skin. I could see something red, maybe blood, leaking from my fingers. Why wasn't it black ink like my dream? I didn't understand.

"Jesus Crispy-cakes! What are you doing?" Rabbit pushed my wrist backwards and forced me to drop the toy. Then he yanked his shirt over his head and pressed it against the cuts on my hands, which were just beginning to sting. "Are you out of your frigging mind?"

"Yeah." I wanted to laugh but it felt like the wrong kind. It came out high and wobbly and weird. "Yeah, that's it. You got it. I'm out of my goddamn mind. I must be ... "

Rabbit looked anxiously from me to my hands. "Don't do that. Don't look at me that way. You scaring me. I can't ... I'm sorry. I never say things right. I just jabber like a monkey. DT always says so. She says she's gonna sneak up on me when I'm sleeping and weld an acoustic Hertzian thingamabob into me that filters out all the unnecessary words. Then I'll talk like a normal person. I think she might do it too."

I jerked away from him. For a moment, we sat next to each other like a couple of stiffs, me with one hurt hand cupped around the other, him clenching his bloodstained tee-shirt. What a pair we made - a couple of whacked-out wheels on the same skateboard, he'd said. The only thing was - they'd replaced our ballbearings with something newfangled and strange, something that didn't belong to either of us; and who knew what the hell they would do and when they would do it? Could they really change me with a flick of a switch? Pop. Just like that? No way. I didn't think so. At least, not if I had anything to do with it. It was simple. I wouldn't let them. I'd fight them every step of the way. If Stumpy could do it, then I could too. And then there was Rabbit. He hadn't turned out the way they'd expected.

My poor friend. Just look at him. He was shivering like it was ten degrees below zero. Plus, he was looking kinda sweaty all of a sudden. Maybe he was going upchuck after all, but I didn't think it was the souffle. I think it was the truth that was making him sick, making us both sick. Truth and memories. I actually felt kinda sorry for Rabbit. And worried. He never looked like this.

"Well," I sighed at last. "Maybe I'll help you pull those feet out of your mouth. I mean, you've got such big feet too. Real submarines. It's amazing you don't choke on them. But look on the bright side. If your feet are stuffed in your mouth, then you won't yak so much."

"Ha, ha. You should be so lucky." He ended on a half-strangled laugh, raking his fingers through his curls until they stood on end. Wildly he glanced around the room. Then he stopped. He pressed the heels of hands against his eyes. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to find out like this. You weren't supposed to find out at all."

"To hell with that," I said calmly, dabbing at my hands. They were barely bleeding now. I thrust them, useless in my lap. "I want to know. I deserve to know."

"Why?" asked Rabbit baldly from somewhere behind his hands.

I stared at him, not understanding, not even knowing how to begin arguing with him. "Because ... Just because ... How can you even ask me that? Rabbit, it's so basic. It doesn't get any more basic than that. I don't know anything about myself. It's like I've got this shoebox inside of me and it's empty. Totally empty. I want to fill it. I've got to. I've always wondered about so many things. Did I walk early? When did I lose my first tooth? Who's my father and what happened to him? None of this makes any sense. I already told you. I want to know."

"Some things are better not to know. Believe me, you're the lucky one. Do you think remembering every crappy little thing they did to me makes me a better person? Nuh uh. No way, Jose. I'd like to erase ninety-percent of the shit-o-la that I remember. Maybe I could sleep better. Sometimes, when I'm zooming on my board, I can forget ... almost. But no matter how fast I go, it still catches up with me in the end."

"But, Rabbit ..."

"No but's. Listen, my chiquita, and listen good for a change. It's not important who you were. It's important what you do. Where you go from here. No one knows that better than me." At last he let his hands drop away from his face. Even under his skateboarder's tan, Rabbit looked pale, a little queasy. Jeez, look at him. Did I look as bad as that? I felt like I did, my insides all carved out until I was completely hollow. Just a shell. A breeze could probably blow me over right now. As if he knew, Rabbit reached over and took my hand again. He squeezed very gently.

I laid my free hand on top of his. "Tell me," I said. "I deserve the truth."

"But can you handle it, blondie? Can you handle it all?"

I didn't know. There was only one way to find out.

##