page 2 - Final Contact

Sun/Le Soleil (Nikita)

"Surprised?" I said.

Michael nodded stiffly. His hand fell to the side. Without the weapon. Thank God.

"Oh. We're secure. I already checked. But if you don't believe me ..." I tossed him a scanner.

He caught it easily, looked at it for a moment as if he were deciding whether to do it or not, then slipped it in his pocket. Michael lifted his eyebrows.

I was about to continue but before I could say anything else, Cleo swept into the room. She had changed into a completely different outfit. This dress had a tight bodice that flared into layers of red chiffon. She looked sophisticated and sexy. And immediately I felt all bony arms and legs again. Gawky. Awkward. Caught out. I was just a little girl playing dress-up in someone else's clothes. A reluctant student back in her classroom. A pretend woman, not a confidant real one like my old teacher.

"Like my dress? Of course you do!" Cleo twirled so that the skirt spun out, then licked her legs like flames. "It's meant to catch attention. I want to catch someone's eye. And see my shoes? Matching shade. Exactly. I shopped hours for those. My come-fuck-me pumps. Ha! The little things a woman does. My seduction outfit."

Cleo threw back her head and laughed as she walked to the entryway. "But sorry, Michael, all that effort's just wasted on you. Never mind. I leave you to Nikita. Well, my dears. Hello, goodbye. I must run. Can't be late. Time waits for no woman. And my love awaits me." Cleo winked as she pulled on her cashmere wrap. "But remember. At midnight, time's up. We all turn into pumpkins." Then she picked up the potted orchid from the vestibule table, blew us a kiss, and walked out the door.

Once, maybe twice I'd seen Michael this surprised. He looked at the door, then back at me. "But Cleo..? Where is she going?"

Cleo? Of all the goddam nerve. Is that all he had to say? After weeks of biting my lip, avoiding Michael, keeping him away. After all my hard work arranging this. Making sure that we were safe. Men! Maybe all they cared about was a pair of big ... Maybe Michael wasn't any different than all the rest of them. My temper heated, then boiled over completely. I pointed to the door, my breath wheezing in and out like a broken accordion.

"You ... you ... go ahead." I could barely spit out the words. I wished they were bullets instead, but I wasn't packing. This wasn't supposed to be that kind of evening. "Is that what you want? Fine. Go. Go get your enlightenment. Sorry I don't know the Kama Sutra backwards and forwards. Be my guest!"

Michael barely frowned, shook his head.

"Well?" I said.

He was staring straight ahead, his eyes wide like Celadon plates. Shock lightened them until they seemed more gray than green. Completely unblinking, he just stood there, stock still. Frozen. He didn't stalk me, swoop me up. No kissing me senseless. No move at all. And for one dreadful terrible moment, I thought I'd made a mistake. Maybe I'd waited too long. Maybe Michael didn't want me any more.

His hands closed, then opened. Then his fingers started trembling. "I am ... afraid."

"What?! What of? Scan the room yourself."

"Not that. You. I am afraid ... of you." He took a step forwards, then stopped. Looked everywhere around the room. Everywhere but at me.

Well, forget that! We'd never get anywhere standing apart like a pair of bookends, so I walked up to him until we were practically nose to nose. There. There was no way he could avoid me now. Still, he said nothing. Now the trembling spread from his fingers to his arms, then his whole body. I waved my hand in front of his face. "Hello-o-o-o-o. So what's the big fat problem now?"

"The last time I kissed you, you told me to keep my hands off. You looked like I made you sick. My touch ... made you sick."

Yeah, sure. I puked my guts out. But I wasn't going to tell him that.

"And at the beach, you pushed me away. Ran away from me. I don't think ... I could take it ... if you turned away again."

I took his shaking hand and pressed it between mine until it finally stilled. Then I turned it over so that I could see his wide palm. As I did, my mind could see it turning just like this and curling into a fist; then striking me over and over like a piston. Precisely pressured and punishing. Efficient and effective. The beating seemed too real to be just my imagination. It had to be real. That memory stirred a sickness that rose inside me. I struggled to push it back down again.

Clamping my lips tight, I struggled even harder to remember. I stared at Michael's hand again. This wasn't right. Somehow I knew there must be more. There had to be. Those long beautiful fingers had given me something besides pain. There'd been pleasure too. I just knew it. And knowing both sides of him confused me. How could anyone be so loving and vicious at the same time? It didn't make sense. I had to know. I didn't want to because I was afraid of the answer, but not knowing was worse. I had to find out. "Have you ... did you ever beat me up?"

He drew back a little. Looked sick, ashamed. "Yes," he answered at last. "When we brought you back in. You'd been out for six months. We had to make it seem as though Red Cell had interrogated you. I ... I beat you then. I would rather cut off my own hand than do that again. It seemed to be the only way. But that is no excuse."

As he spoke, some hurt somewhere inside me eased as if something out of joint had fallen back into place again. So the processing had warped that memory, but now it had been straightened. This was the true one. This one felt right. Slowly I exhaled, and the last of that pain seemed to leave me with my breath. Maybe I even managed to smile.

"Mon Dieu. Forgive me."

"I already have. Long ago. Didn't I? That's what I seem ... to remember." I kissed Michael's palm, then laid it against my cheek. Felt every callus that ridged his hand, the soft oval pads of his fingertips.

I held him like that, so close and so far away. I could feel his touch but I had know idea what lay underneath his terrible stillness, that quiet composed face. At least he hadn't wrenched away from me. He was still here, wasn't he? That had to be a good sign. I hesitated, hopeful. He seemed uncertain too. We stood there for a long time, looking at each other, just looking. Drinking in everything new, everything desperately familiar. The way his eyes darkened now to deep pine green, his definite nose, the cleft in his chin. The face I remembered, the lips I wanted to kiss. Mine. Always mine.

And Michael examined me. Oh God. The minutes passed, and I felt my cheeks warm. I hoped that he wasn't disappointed. That he still wanted me. I looked away, feeling shy all of a sudden. Please. Oh, please. His breath hitched, then at last, his fingers began to stroke my cheekbones. Then he moved over, brushing this way, then that. He played with the hair by my ear. Ah. Like he used to, the pads of his fingers rubbing here, there. Closing my eyes, I leaned into his touch. I smiled.

"Soleil," he murmured, his voice breaking over the syllables. "It is you. Or am I dreaming?"

I reached around and pinched his butt. Hard. Heard him grunt. "There. Felt that? Did that hurt? Then you're not dreaming. It's real if it hurts."

"That? That is nothing. Nothing compared to the last few weeks. Every time I saw you, and you looked through me as if I was not there. That hurt. That was pain."

"Michael, I'm sorry. Before it wasn't me. Then after ... I needed to do it. We need to be more careful. We're being watched."

"I know." He lifted my hand and slowly, slowly kissed my fingertips, one after another. Things were heating inside me, rising and swirling. It made me breathless, my head light. It was awhile before I could speak again.

"So now you know that it's all real. I'm really here. What? What is it? Not sure? Should I pinch you again?" I laughed when he shook his head. He still didn't move. He seemed a little ... shy, still a little uncertain. He seemed like that boy on the beach; like the man I still loved. I thumped my fist against his chest. "So what are you going to do about it, pal?"

A smile curved Michael's lips as he seemed to think for a moment. "There are ... several possibilities. We could take it slow. Get to know each other again. After all, we are starting over ..."

"What? No way! There's no frigging way we're going to do that! Are you nuts? I've waited weeks for you. Weeks. I can't wait any longer." I grabbed him, his shirt bunching under my hands. "Can't wait ... any more." My fingers ran up his neck, into the soft curls at the back of his head. I pulled him to me. Our mouths sought each other. A gasp, then two groans becoming one. I slanted my head so that I could kiss him deeper. And our tongues tasted, tangled, mated.

I was hardening already. Two points of arousal, wanting his touch.

"I can see you. Feel you." His thumb rubbed through my silk bodice until I ruched even more. He murmured his approval. Then his head dipped lower and lower until his hot breath caressed my bare skin. "Now I must ... taste you." His lips lifted from mine and moved even lower. Then they captured me, his teeth scraping gently before he suckled me. Hard.

Somewhere an ache was growing. And everything Michael did relieved it and fueled it at the same time. Everything. My breasts felt heavier, achier, just like the twin ache growing between my legs. He must have known because soon his hand skimmed up my thigh, and then he palmed me, squeezing. The heel of his hand pressed, rotated through my silky scrap of underwear, then slipped under the dampening lace. He went between, inside, deeper; spreading, lingering, then slowly, slowly sliding to the hilt. Heat flared. And inside, I swelled and melted. Please. Like that. Ah.

My head lolled to one side while I widened and wept, riding his touch. This I remembered. Oh, and this. I'd been waiting, dying and waiting. When no one knew, I had secretly watched him in Section. Every time I'd looked at his beautiful hands: twisting a doorknob, running over a keyboard, squeezing his pen. And every time I'd seen him doing that, I'd imagined his hands moving over me in the same way. Touching and worshipping me with that same ferocious devotion. Taking and giving. Ruthless and wild.

What was he doing now? He couldn't ... not like this. But he did, growling when I stiffened, then spasmed a second later in his arms. He caught me as I fell, and without even waiting, he drove me up again, demanding and getting over and over. Shuddering, I mouthed his name. Shock turned me cold, then hot again, and before long, I couldn't tell the difference at all any more because the whole world was hazing over, turning purple. I was going under fast, but before I did, I needed to give him something. Something back. I rubbed his stomach, felt his muscles jerk, then I moved lower to where he grew heavy. Rubbed him there, through the soft wool of his pants, then I jerked down his zipper. It caught.

"Careful," he murmured against my heart.

"No." Determined, I yanked harder. Metal teeth ripped over the bulge and down, falling apart at last. Placket threads dangled. I didn't care. I slipped between cloth and crisp hair. Then his heat finally, finally fell into my palm, and I fisted him. Stroked up, down. Hot satin over steel; growing, quivering. I felt his breath quicken against my breast.

"Nikita, wait."

But it was too late. I was already jumping up. My back pressed hard against the wall, my hips arching down to take him, my hand already guiding him. He caught me just as we glided together. Heat to heat, heart to heart.

"Welcome," I said. "Welcome home."

It was fast, frenzied, greedy. Just the way I liked it. It was everything I remembered. It felt all brand new. Somehow afterwards, we had slid to the floor. And when I returned to myself, I felt the rug all bunched up under me and Michael. I don't know how that'd happened or when the umbrella stand had tipped over. When my vision finally cleared, I could see our clothes scattered all around us. I lay on top of him, our bodies still trembling like a fine engine running. My face was pressed against his sweaty chest. For a long time, I listened to his pulse race, then gradually slow down as he smoothed back my hair.

I glanced down, then giggled into his chest.

"What?" He kissed my temple. Let the strands fall one by one so that they brushed my cheek, made my skin tingle just like I was tingling elsewhere. Hell. All over. "Your shoes are still on."

Michael lifted an eyebrow. "Convenient. Don't you remember? That time on the ..."

"Ohhh. That's right. The quick getaway. That was almost as good as the motorcycle. Do you think we could ...?"

"Definitely not."

"That's true. Safety first. It's hard to wear a helmet that way ..."

"No one else drives my motorcycle. Especially after last time."

"Spoilsport. Your loss," I laughed. And mine too. A small ripple regret washed over me. We could never do that again. The easy careless times were over. Long over. I tried not to show how sad that made me feel, but I wasn't as good as Michael at hiding my feelings. He knew. I could tell from the way he kissed me: soft and slow, more comfort than heat. I felt his sigh follow mine. And when my lips were free again and I could talk, I added, "Y'know, we can't ride your bike like that for other reasons too. We need to be more careful. And we need to work together. Plan together. Can you do that?"

His hands paused for a moment. Then he continued stroking my hair. "I think ... I can try."

"Good, because it's important. We're partners, see? You're not the team leader in this situation. You've got to keep me informed. None of this need-to-know crap, all right?"

"If you do the same. Tell me ... about Cleo."

"Well, here's the deal. It's a mutual insurance policy. Everyone benefits. You and Cleo pretend to be lovers. That way Cleo has the freedom to see her real lover, and you can see me. You're her beard. She's yours. What do you think?"

A single line formed between his brows as if he were thinking, analyzing the possibilities. A beat passed, then two. His lips parted as he made a soft sound, almost a sigh. "Could work."

"Gee. Thanks for the enthusiasm. Will you do it?" I held my breath, waiting.

Michael rolled on to his side. He looked solemnly at me. His fingers linked with mine. "I would do anything. Anything for you. I've done almost everything. Do you doubt it? Even now, must you ask?"

I saw then that I'd hurt him. I hadn't meant to. "I'm sorry. You say you ... you love me. I believe you. Really, I do. But sometimes I can't. Sometimes I look at you, and I feel weak all over. Shaky. Like a fever. I think Why me? He could have anyone. Why should it be me?"

"Because you're Nikita. From that first day on the beach, it has always been you. You're the only one. Because you're you," he said softly.

"But who's that? I mean, I don't even know who I am anymore. Most of what I knew is all messed up. I'm half-scrambled like Stumpy says."

Michael let go of my hand and brushed his fingertips slowly across my cheek instead. Tilting his head, he examined me. His lips barely lifted. "Just details. Only details. But you know what is most important. You always have. Here," he said, touching my temple. Then his finger drifted down to my heart. "And here."

I covered his hand with my own. I squeezed it just like his words had squeezed my heart tight. Something welled up in my eye. I tried blinking it away but when I looked at Michael, he still seemed all blurry. "I know I love you. I've always loved you. And nothing ... nothing can ever erase that."

"Yes. Some things are forever, Soleil. Some things never change. Thank God for that."

Then he brought my fingers to his lips. Kissed each knuckle one by one. And when he looked at me again, his eyes were all soft, like moss and mist. I looked at him, and my heart - whatever was inside it - dropped and rolled. But I knew it landed somehow into his hands. Into his safekeeping.

###

I don't remember what happened. Not exactly. I guess I eventually konked out, because the next thing I knew, I was waking up again in a bed. Underneath me, the sheets were warm and soft and smelling of ylang ylang and melted beeswax and us. My head still felt muzzy, half-veiled with sleep. But even though I was all dreamy, I knew that I was being watched. I knew it without even opening my eyes. I could feel it. My pulse was beating faster than it should be and my skin tingled with hot awareness. Danger, I thought. But nothing bad. The two of them together didn't make any sense, and confusion trickled through me, washing away more sleep. My mind cleared a little more. I lifted my lids just a crack. Through the veil of my lashes, I could see Michael leaning over me. He lay on his side, the sheet drawn up to his waist. His hair was slightly tousled, his mouth parted in a half-smile. His eyes kept sweeping over me and every time he lingered in certain places, I could feel myself helplessly moisten and heat as if he were touching me instead. Even after everything ... My God, would this ever stop?

I guess he knew that I was already awake because I heard him chuckle. "Hello," he said even though I hadn't stirred.

"Watcha doin'?" I mumbled, my voice still slurred with sleep. When he didn't reply, I turned to face him. "Hey, you were watching me sleep. How come?"

"I like to. I missed this," he said softly. Lowering himself, he slipped beside me. Then he drew me closer until my head rested in the crook of his arm. When I tried to turn and lift myself for a kiss, he pulled away and shook his head. Gently he pushed me back down again until we were nestled together. "No, Soleil, not that. I mean this. This is what I miss." He linked his arms snugly around me. Then he rested his cheek against my head. Sighing, he fell asleep. And soon I followed.

###

Afterwards, I was getting dressed. Or trying to. I couldn't say Michael was much help. In fact, kinda the opposite. His finger was adjusting my bra strap but he was taking an awful long time to finish the job. And after he insinuated deeper and circled, I began to realize that he had a completely different job in mind. Flushing, I elbowed him and stepped aside.

"Hey, hey. Stop it! We need to get out of here soon," I said, shoving the spaghetti straps back up my shoulders again. My legs still felt rubbery from the last maneuver. It took all my concentration just to stand. Damn it. I glanced in the bedroom mirror. My eyes looked soft and dreamy, my mouth all swollen from kisses. I seemed kind of drugged as if I'd done a steam sauna for a long, long time. Yeah, that's right. A steam session named Michael.

I checked one more time. Straightened my bodice, smoothed out my skirt. Oh, shit. Look at that. Right there. A purple mark right near my collar bone. That must have been when ... Oh God. I'd have to wear a turtleneck for a week. At least a week. Michael came up behind me, his eyes following mine.

His finger traced the hickey as he gently kissed me behind my ear. So soft. Like a seal of approval, a finishing touch. Michael only smiled. "Sorry."

"You don't look sorry."

"Yes." He opened the bedroom door, and walked over the threshold.

I followed, humming a little while I finger-combed my hair. My limbs felt like melted honey. I wasn't walking. I was flowing across the room. "Are you hungry? I'm starved."

He didn't answer, which I expected, but what I didn't expect was how suddenly he stopped right in front of me. Boom. Like that. I didn't have enough time to stop myself so I bumped into him. One moment I'm fine, the next moment my nose is shoved against his rough wool jacket. His broad back turned rigid.

"Merde," Michael muttered under his breath. All of a sudden, he seemed larger, more dangerous. I'd seen him this way before - usually when our mission turned to shit and we were fighting bad odds.

"What is it?" I tried to look around his shoulders, but his hand reached out and pushed me back even as his other hand slipped inside his jacket.

"Put away the gun. There's no need for that. There's no point in fighting," said a familiar voice. The same voice I'd heard when they pushed me into that box of lightning. That goddam box that had half-baked my brains. It was Madeline, Miss Easy-Baker herself.

"Michael!" I dug in my heels, tried to shove him aside, but he could be a boulder when he wanted.

"Not this time. I won't let them. I won't let them take you," he said.

"Don't shoot. Trust me," I said.

He still didn't move. The seconds seemed like hours before he finally stepped aside. But he still kept his gun drawn and his muscles coiled, ready as if he were on point during a mission instead of Cleo's apartment. Michael scanned the windows, doors; ignored the way I tugged his sleeve. He lifted his arm, shook me off.

"Come on, come on. Move it along, pal."

His eyes swept the room again.

"All right. Be that way." I walked past him to the front room where a full tea service was laid out on a low table. My God. We hadn't heard a thing. Not the clatter of a single silver spoon. Not even a saucer rattling against a tray. I flushed, wondering how much they had heard. We hadn't been so quiet a moment ago. But whatever they'd heard, neither woman betrayed any embarrassment or slyness. They looked as if this was just an ordinary tea-time. Nothing big about it. Calmly Cleo was pouring milk into a fine porcelain cup.

Madeline sat on the couch next to the other woman. "I don't like this ... anymore than you do, Michael. But Cleo insisted."

"Did I? I never try to insist. I always suggest." Cleo set down the milk jug, picked up the teapot, then poured. It smelled fragrant like dark flowers. She handed the tea to Madeline. "Here you are. Just the way you like it. Sometimes, my dear, you need to put your cards on the table. All your cards. Otherwise it won't work."

"We need to trust each other," I said, sitting down in an armchair. Cleo beamed approval. She nodded, sipping her own tea. When she set down her cup again, she gestured to an open chair.

Michael remained standing, but finally re-holstered his gun. He swallowed hard. Looked from Cleo to Madeline. "How long ... have you ... you two?"

"Been lovers? For a long time," said Cleo easily.

Michael's face turned carefully blank. "And Operations?"

"He doesn't know, of course," said Madeline. "There is work. And there is this. Cleo and I ... we've kept this secret. And it's going to stay that way. Understood?"

"No, my dear. No threats. You can't order them. We're asking them for their help. Just like they're asking us for ours," said Cleo. "And you will help them. You must now. For all our sakes."

Madeline looked down into her tea cup, swirled it. When she looked up again, her face brightened into an expression I'd never seen before. Impatient. Excited. A little frightened like a kid during Christmas. Then she and Cleo exchanged a look of complete understanding as if they were silently speaking the same wordless shorthand used by old lovers. They smiled at each other. Madeline nodded at last. Cleo said, "Good girl. I knew you could do it. We could all lose. Or we could all stand to win. Well, Michael? It's up to you."

###

Moon/La Lune (Michael)

I felt like a leaf in a gale, trembling inside. This was dangerous. Beyond danger. To put ourselves so completely at Madeline's mercy. That word was not even in her personal dictionary. She had no mercy, none that I had ever seen before. How could Nikita ask this of me? Of us? We were putting our necks under her foot, and she could step down, crush us at any moment. Madeline had before. Look what she'd done to Nikita. This was madness. Absolute madness.

And then all of sudden, fear grabbed my heart, my mind, almost throttled the breath out of me as I realized something else. Maybe I had been wrong about Nikita. What if she hadn't really changed back after all? Maybe she was still under their control. She was the perfect bait. They could be using her to reel me back in. Yes. That was possible. The enormity of it made my throat close. I had failed. Never had I failed so completely. And in failing myself, I had failed Nikita. I had lost everything, even her. I knew what they do would do to us. I wondered if they would let me see her one last time before we were processed. I wondered if I could hold on and remember her. If I tried hard enough, surely that would be possible.

Choking, I turned to Nikita. How could I tell if she was her or not? She looked the same. All soft and flushed from our lovemaking. Faint lines formed around her eyes like parantheses of worry. Then she bit the bottom of her lip like she always did. The habit I could never break during the years of training. I looked deeper into her sky-blue eyes and saw them lighten with a nervous hope, breaking through like the first rays of dawn. Unbearably bright. Breathtaking. I saw, finally saw, something glowing in her gaze. Something like love, and it warmed me until I felt golden inside. Like I had swallowed the sun.

And then something strange happened. I could not explain it. It did not make sense, but I heard Nikita's voice even though her lips weren't moving. M�re de Dieu. What was this? Was I going crazy, hearing little sounds? Were they trying to broadcast into my head like poor Stumpy? It took awhile before I realized what I was hearing. No, it was not Section. It was Nikita, her heart speaking to mine. Across the air. Maybe through electromagnetic radiation from her receiver to mine. A simple communion without even touching. Listen, pal. I love you. It will be all right. Trust me. she was saying.

Soleil. I saw her smile suddenly as if she heard me. And then a sharp joy pierced through me. Like the first time we'd met on the beach. Like when I'd met her again in Section. Like every damnable day of my life, suddenly bearable because of her. My Soleil had returned. All of her. She was there once again.

"Yes," I said softly. I looked straight at Madeline. Stared hard at her, not blinking once. "Yes, I can keep a promise." Can you?

Then I took Nikita's hand. I bent over and pressed a kiss to her palm. Her fingers curled around it as if she was going to hold it forever.

Epilogue Sun/L'Soleil (Nikita)

Jeez, it was bugging me. I didn't belong here. I knew that I shouldn't complain. This place was better than an old boat or storage room or any of the scuzzy places we used to sneak around. Now we had a ritzy place to meet, but it was still sneaking. I still felt like a guest in Cleo's apartment. We'd used this spare bedroom for months, but it always seemed strange. I couldn't get used to all the smoky mirrored tiles that covered the walls and ceiling. The hundred reflections of us: faces blending; hips rising, falling; shoulders and limbs twisting. Pieces of Michael and Nikita. Taken apart - just bodies, sex, a function. Put together - just us, making love: a fast race to oblivion, or slow sweet torture.

And sometimes, I would lay awake afterwards and stare up at the reflections in the ceiling. See Michael curled up next to me, see someone like me staring back. A woman with long blonde hair and blue eyes. But what the hell was behind that face? My past was still a complete blank. Michael had said it wasn't important, but it was to me. I wanted to know who I was, where I'd come from. I was still putting it all together, but I had a long way to go.

And often afterwards, I still couldn't sleep. Even on a night like this when Michael's loving had turned my body into water, my mind was still cranking. I knew from experience that there wasn't much else I could do. I didn't want to leave Michael's side. The pleasure of that was too rare. I wanted to enjoy every moment of it, so I sat up and plumped up the pillows behind me. I took my fairy tale book from the bedside table and read.

Michael's hand brushed up my spine. "Light off. G'sleep," he murmured.

I turned another page in my book. "Can't. Sorry."

He yawned. "Bad dream?"

"No, I still don't dream much. I'm just reading. I got a new book in the mail. Tales from the North Wind. Listen, here."

Michael grumbled and rolled away from me, pulling most of the sheets with him. I pulled them back. He muttered something in French that I couldn't understand.

"Your fault," I laughed.

"Mine?" he mumbled into his pillow.

"Well, you taught me to read."

"Then it is my own fault if I don't sleep at all tonight?"

"Yeah, you got it. That's it exactly."

"Nikita ..."

"Hey, this is important. Look here, pal. See the small boy and girl? What a stitch! They're wearing those funny leather overalls."

"Leiderhosen."

"Yeah, leider-whatever. Anyway, this one's about brave Hans and sweet Gretel. Why can't the girl ever be brave? Is that asking too much?" I snorted. "So brave Hans and sweet Gretel kill the giant, and they escape the evil gremlins - these twisted-up guys with the big eyeballs and bad teeth. But the kids are still stuck inside the cave. They're lost. They're about to give up when a little red leprechaun pops up. Grants them three wishes. And then, it says, their true adventures begin. Now that's what I call a good ending."

The bed sagged as Michael turned back to me. His eyes looked clear and collected. He sure seemed awake now. "Little red leprechaun? You mean ... Stumpy?"

"Yup. Looks like Stumpy got my message in time. He got Flash and Mikko away all right. He'll help them out. Guide them. Get them set up." Excitement fluttered in my chest like butterflies sunning their wings. It rose into my throat so that it was hard to breath. They'd made it after all. I grinned. "Good old Stumpy. Jeez. Do you think those aluminum foil hats come in kids' sizes?"

"Perhaps." Michael slanted his head, peering closer at my book. He pointed to the drawing of the leprechaun with a polka dot shirt. "What is that? Looks different." He pried one of the dots off the page. A flimsy red circle sat on the edge of his thumbnail like a fallen piece of micro-confetti. We looked at each other.

My fingers shook so much I barely managed to slip the micro-dot into my PDA. I pressed a button. The screen immediately turned on.

Dear Nikita, Long ago you told us a story, and now it is our turn to tell one to you. We found this before we left Section. And this belongs to you. It is your story. The Story of Nikita. Love, Flash and Mikko

Case Three-Alpha Name: Nicola Kira Wirth, '76, New York City, Section One Phenotype: BL-bl. Genotype: HLA-A3.1487 Sire: Nicholas Jackson Wirth, '41, Kent, MI-Six, cover: international businessman Dam: Svetlana "Bobby" Boboedova, '54, Moscow, KGB courier, cover: Kirov ballet

Temperament observed. Subject was an alert infant, actively engaged, quick verbalization, early gross motor development (found on floor besides crib, suspect early climbing). As toddler, demonstrates clear fearlessness (ref. snarling dog challenge). Tendency towards impatience, immediate gratification. Impulsivity will need correction if approved as material. N. might be described as happy, highly social, easily forms personal attachments. A strength as well as weakness. Likes pink, chocolate. Dislikes naps, rodents. Curious.

Curious? What the hell was that supposed to mean? They wrote about me like I was one of their lab rats. Screwed with. Watched. Analyzed. Those doctors. Pizd'uks. Psycho-piranhas, every last one. They made me sick. They probably used a can-opener on their mothers' heads just to see what was inside. Jeez. Their babble turned my stomach at first.

But despite my disgust, I continued reading. I couldn't help myself. It was my story after all. I was hungry for it. Wanted to know. Wanted to find out every goddam detail. I plowed through the report. And somewhere, between the lines, I learned things about myself. I read about when I first walked, how I dove into my first birthday cake, the time I was lost in a department store. I learned about my dad's assignment to seduce my mom, and how they ended up falling in love instead. There were pictures of them - happy, together, forever young. And for the first time, I saw where I got my coloring and height. I had my dad's long arms and legs. My body was his body. And I learned how the Agency had killed my dad. How Bobby had tried to set me free.

And by the time I had finished my story, I finally understood my mom a little better. Poor Bobby. Just one woman and a kid against all of them, a network of giants. All along I'd thought she'd been a lousy mom. I'd hated Bobby. Some of that hate had been planted inside me. And some of it had been my own, pissed off that Bobby was more interested in her bottle than me. But now I knew that she'd done the best she could. Realizing that made me feel old; a little relieved but tired, like a muscle when the cramp finally lets go. Maybe it was time to move past those hateful things. Start building on the things I loved. Like the man sleeping next to me. Like Michael.

"G'sleep now." His hand wrapped around my waist, tugged.

I turned off my PDA, reached for the light. As I clicked the lamp switch, I caught a glimpse of me in the little mirrors. The woman with long blonde hair and blue eyes. My dad's coloring, my mom's face. I was a product of both of them. Parts of them were me, but just pieces, only pieces. At least when I looked, I didn't feel totally blank any more. But the story had given me just a rough sketch - not the whole picture because I wasn't only the sum of my parents. I was so much more. I was my self. Nikita. The rest was up to me. No one else. The kids had given me back my beginnings, but only I could finish my own story. It was mine to tell, mine to pass on. I snuggled next to Michael, lay my head on the crook of his shoulder.

He grunted. "Find out ... anything?"

"Yeah."

"Bad?"

"Nope."

"I can feel it. You are still thinking, still hurting inside." He yawned softly. His hand stroked the small of my back, sweeping lower, then between. "Come, Nikita. Shall I make it better?"

"You already have. You already do." I turned, felt him ready, nudging me there. And suddenly it wasn't just enough to realize how vital Michael was. I needed to show him too. Maybe the past was important. But the present ... Hell, it was the present I cared about most. And Michael was my present. My future too. I'd come so close to losing myself, losing him. We could have been wiped clean and separated forever. Forced to live apart in our own little galaxies, spinning alone in that dry cold vacuum. And during that existence, we would never have known, never remembered. All that love voided. But instead, a miracle had happened and we were still together. It might not have happened. It had been so precarious. It was so precious. All of a sudden, that realization was too much to bear. My eyes teared. I needed to touch Michael now. I wasn't going to waste a moment longer.

I went hotly forward into his arms. I surrendered. Surrounded. Celebrated. Together we were building new memories all our own. Another story, another beginning. Our hands linked. I cried his name as our bodies wrote a new chapter, our hearts singing a new verse so that the silence, the darkness would disappear.

And so it ends, and so it begins. From my mouth to the wind, the wind to your ear. We tell the stories and we listen. Listen and remember. Remember and continue.

Into the light. Together.

- FIN -

Author's Notes:

Everything I've written about is either true, possibly already true, and definitely technologically possible from an astronomy or medical standpoint. In terms of astronomy, the date of the total solar eclipse was moved from August to October 1999 for the purposes of the story (so it could take place during the end of peach season ... around October, we ate White Moon peaches). And you don't have to be a rocket scientist to construct your own satellite tagger. Hypatia and Mir-maid's laser could be built from equipment ordered through Edmund Scientific (Do Not Try This At Home). Good satellite tracking programs can be found on the internet. And what about finding lab rats instead of widgets at places like Lockheed Martin? Absolutely. Aerospace-defense companies are trying to diversify into the biomedical field. So perhaps the oral history I read ("Remote Sensing Controls Your Brain!!!!") isn't as far-fetched as it seems.

In addition to the astronomy aspects, the medical issues are definitely not science fiction. Behavior modification (ala B.F. Skinner) has been modernized with miniaturized circuitry and silicon chips. Electrical stimulation is now used to modify behavior in animals (stimulating the pleasure centers of rats and monkeys, and, I'm sorry to say, punishing with pain). And in humans, those with severe depression can get experimental brain implants that deliver localized electroconvulsive therapy. But I don't think that any of those implants broadcast cable television.

Headaches, dissociation, hearing strange sounds or smells ("an aura") are all well-documented symptoms of traumatic brain injury. And as for Nikita's other symptoms, the tearing and excessive salivation are part of the S.L.U.D. syndrome from too much acetylcholine, a neurotransmitter.

And a word on Galileo ... Was he a hero or coward? If he had defied the Inquisition, he and his teachings would have been burned, his knowledge lost forever. But because Galileo recanted, he was allowed to live in exile and continue with his work. Interestingly enough, cathedrals were designed so that their top towers could be used as observatories. And over the next hundred years (even years after Galileo's death), the clerics used their observations of the stars to prove the theories of the very man who'd been persecuted by their Church. I imagined that Nikita was faced with the same dilemma as Galileo - how to stay true to yourself in an imperfect world. Is it better to be a dead hero or a live trickster?

Now turning from stars to spies, the story was assorted fact and fiction. After World War II, Operation PAPERCLIP did import Nazi scientists and doctors, some of whom were involved in organizing what later became the CIA. And through the Freedom of Information Act, we now know that such projects like MK-ULTRA really did exist(systematic behavior modification through drugs - including LSD, electroshock, psychology).

And what about Stumpy's favorite conspiracy theory - Project Monarch? The Nazis actually did start a eugenics program to design a "super race" of children. But were/are any of them sleepers, designed to "re-awaken" and take over the world like conspiracy theorists claim? Supposedly, children have been trained and re-programmed so that these "chameleons" could infiltrate a designated group, gather information and/or inject an ulterior agenda. Believe it or not. I leave it for you to decide. Me? I'm sleeping with the lights on! (Martin and Caul, Napa Sentinel, 1991; the Greenbaum speech)

And on a final spy note, Robert Tanner's mistakes may seem too incredible, but they are based on the accounts of Aldrich Ames, the KGB informant who really did leave CIA compounds with shopping bags full of memo's (but not necessarily from Victoria's Secrets). He did this for at least three years before he was caught. My thanks to: Silea and Kadyn for French and candy; Schnee for generously sharing some of the (scary) mind control resources and finding the Haribo website; Andie and Leigh for encouragement then as well as now.

This story is for Mr.Bo, my dedicated research assistant and surfing/astronomy consultant. Thank you for giving me the sea and showing me the sky (but Mars is NOT red, not even pink!)

Glossary and Resources

Cockney here's my source for "Stumpy-speak." http://www.byrne.dircon.co.uk/cockney/cockney.htm Easy-Bake Oven Was introduced in 1963. http://www.easybake.com/ http://images.amazon.com/images/P/B00000IW19.01.MZZZZZZZ.jpg Eclipse: cool pictures of the solar eclipse 8/11/99 http://webevents.broadcast.com/exploratorium/solareclipse/ ESA European Space Agency has their space center and launch facility in Kourou, French Guiana. Similar to NASA's Kennedy Space Center in Cape Canaveral. �� baby, Russian. Fraises Haribo sweet strawberry candy(Michael's favorite). Thanks to Schnee for the website. http://www.haribo.com Green Flash The green flash has been called the "living light." Once you've seen it, you'll never again go wrong in love. You need a distant horizon to see the green flash -- and a distinct edge to the horizon like over the ocean. Just before the sun rises, or just after it sets, you might see a brief flash of the color green. Or the green flash can be like a flame that shoots above the horizon. The green flash is the result of looking at the sun through the great thickness of atmosphere visible in the direction to your horizon. Water vapor in the atmosphere absorbs the yellow and orange colors in white sunlight, and scatters the violet light. That leaves red and blue-green light to travel directly toward you. Near the horizon, the sun's light is highly bent or refracted. It's as though there are two suns -- a red one and a blue-green one -- partially covering each other. The red one is always closest to the horizon, so when it sets or before it rises, you see only the blue-green disk -- the green flash (Byrd, Earth and Sky). For a cool pix: http://www.nws.noaa.gov/er/mhx/grnflshg.htm Gr�n Green, German. Hypatia d.415, Alexandrian Neoplatonic philosopher, astronomer and mathematician, a woman renowned for her learning, eloquence, and beauty. Kama Sutra Kama is the Hindu God of Love. Sutra refers to a narrative, manual or guide. The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana (India, 700 A.D.) is a work of philosophy, psychology, Hindu teachings and a classic guide to lovemaking. http://www.bibliomania.com/NonFiction/Vatsyayana/KamaSutra/index.html Kira, light, Russian. The Life of Galileo, Bertolt Brecht. Magic Eight-Ball ask it your own question! http://www.execulink.com/~chettle/eightball.htm Mind Control http://www.mindspring.com/~txporter/ http://www.sonic.net/sentinel/gvcon8.html Mir Russian space station. M�re de Dieu Mother of God. Nikita nickname (masculine) for Nicolai or Nikolos, meaning "victorious army," Russian. pizd'uk bastard (male), Russian. Pour l'amour de Dieu. For the love of God. Trop doux pour �tre oubli� Too sweet to forget. "Veni, vidi, vinci." "I came, I saw, I conquered." (Julius Caesar)

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