After Madeleine's evaluation, Mr. Jones lost his appetite for the task. "Do you mind taking over?"

"Of course not." Nikita said gently. "I'm sorry about that, though. She had some good assets we could have used."

Mr. Jones looked at her for a long moment, then said, "It's different, you know."

"What is?" Nikita went down the list of high-level personnel she had to evaluate, deciding which would be next.

"Seeing things ... in action."

Nikita looked up. "You saw plenty of action as Mick."

"It was different."

"Ah ..." Nikita smiled at him again, a little sadly. "Different because you could separate us from them?"

"Maybe." He frowned and leaned forward a bit. "Is it always like this here?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Are people always this ... conniving? Ruthless? Desperate?"

"Usually quite a bit more," Nikita said. She put a hand on his coat sleeve. "What you're doing here is the right thing. There's a place for Section. It's just that the leadership has lost its focus. We've talked about it before, you and I."

"I know," he nodded unhappily. "I guess ... I wasn't aware of how extreme things had gotten."

"There was no way for you to know."

Silence. Then, in a harder voice, Mr. Jones said, "I am extremely displeased they killed George."

Nikita raised an eyebrow. "Are you mad because they killed him, or are you mad because they didn't follow the proper procedures?"

"Yes," he said crossly. He rose finally, and said, "Continue with the evaluations. I'd like a report by the end of the day if possible."

"All right." Nikita turned back to her computer screen. Walter would be next. She had a good plan for Walter's future and she was eager to see whether he'd forgive her for betraying him.

"Thank you, Nikita." Mr. Jones leaned down and gave her a friendly hug before he left.

Nikita sat there for a minute, her eyes flooded with unexpected tears. Thank you. No one -- except perhaps Michael -- had ever thanked her for her work.

She drew a shaky breath, then spoke into her intercom. "Please send Walter in."

**************

She didn't see Michael for a full day -- that's how long he'd been unconscious after Operations injected him with whatever drug was supposed to make him forget her. And when Michael came into the interrogation room, he didn't look good.

He looked like he wanted to throw up, and suddenly Nikita remembered the night in her apartment when he'd been sick for a good three hours before falling to sleep. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but it was only six weeks.

The code, Michael, Nikita thought. Remember the code.

She wasn't sure how lucid he was. She wasn't familiar with the drug he'd been given and she'd wiped his files, so there was no way to tell how he'd reacted last time. So she asked him a few questions, not only to see if his mind was working properly but also for the audio tape that was running. Mick had been very insistent on that point. "I don't want people asking a lot of questions when this is over with, Nikita," he'd said. "It has to be on the up-and-up. I don't care how you do it, but it has to be perfect."

Yes means no, Michael. Remember? Remember that dumb code, the one that you said was so simple, it would never be broken. Remember?

He looked at her rather dully, and Nikita, unable to do anything else, recommended his cancellation. She spoke clearly so the tape would pick it up.

"Is there an abeyance mission?" Michael asked, his voice just as clear as hers had been.

Nikita's heart nearly stopped. Thank goodness, she thought, so relieved she nearly slid off her chair. He is with me. "Of course," she said calmly.

*************

Michael rubbed his eyes, trying to focus on the mission. It was a suicide mission, but that didn't mean that he should do a bad job.

He knew part of his problem was he still had some of Operation's Forget Me drug in his system. He felt a little like Alice in Wonderland right now, as if he were viewing everything through funny glasses or upside down. There were moments when he was completely lucid, but they were few and far between.

He listened to his instructions carefully, trying to concentrate, but for some reason he had a song stuck in his head. It was distracting. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear it.

Come fly with me, come fly, come fly away.
If you could use
Some exotic booze
There's a bar in far Bombay.
Come fly away, come on, let's fly away.

If there's one thing I don't need, Michael thought firmly, it's exotic booze. And Bombay isn't on an island. I want to go to an island.

No, Nikita wants to go to an island, he corrected himself. Nikita. Nikita ... Nikita ... yes means no means yes means Rhodes, something about Rhodes, or about a vacation, yes, that was it, a vacation, that's what he needed. Was death like a vacation? Wasn't that a movie? Death Takes a Vacation? No, that's not right, it was something else, something like vacation, but a different word. Holiday. That's it. Death Takes a Holiday.

Michael blinked, feeling absurdly pleased.

Come fly with me,
Let's float down to Peru.
In lama land,
There's a one-man band
He'll toot
His flute
For you.
It's perfect, for a flying honeymoon ...

I want to go on a honeymoon with Nikita to Peru, Michael decided suddenly. The thought was so clear, so lucid, he wondered why it had taken him so long to reach it. Oh, wait. She didn't want to marry him.

The disappointment nearly crushed him.

Well, we don't have to get married, he decided magnanimously. We will live in sin. Nikita won't mind. But first, before they settled down together, he had to go on this mission and die. After I die, though, I'm putting my foot down, Michael thought darkly. I've given a lot to Section and now it's time to retire. Nikita will be my benefit package.

Maybe I better not tell her that, though, Michael realized. She might not appreciate being a benefit package.

"Michael?" Walter looked a little worried, and Michael suppressed the urge to tell Walter of his plans. It would only worry Walter. "You okay?"

"Yes."

Walter put an orange sack on the worktable and explained what was in it. "The charge can go through a three-foot wall. Use that and you'll be out in no time."

But if he was out, he wouldn't complete the mission. He wouldn't die. And he had to die if he was to come back and fetch Nikita. Didn't he? Michael had a momentary lapse -- was something wrong with his plan? But no, he decided. It's completely logical. Unwilling to upset Walter, Michael said, "Thank you," but he didn't accept the package.

About six hours later, Michael reached his first mark. Maybe his thoughts were still a little chaotic, but he managed to hold his own on the team and as the rest of the operatives went about their duties, he went about his. He set the charge and patiently waited to die.

But instead of the explosion he expected, the wall behind him suddenly blew in and Nikita stepped through the rubble.

Michael blinked. "What are you doing here?"

"I wasn't ready to see you die."

This wasn't right, Michael thought. First I die, then we leave, he thought, irritated. What was she doing?

"Michael, come on --" Nikita rushed back through the escape hole she'd made, and more confused than anything else, Michael ran after her.

They made their way through an old drainage ditch, and when they came out the other side, they were in a wooded area not far from a main road. Michael stood up and looked around, waiting for Nikita to finish calibrating a router.

"Michael, you can make it." She handed him the router so he could pass Section's notice undetected, and Michael automatically took it.

"Are you coming with me?"

"I can't." She glanced away. "I have some things to do." She took a deep breath and looked straight into his eyes. "I don't love you, Michael. I never did."

Michael blinked. Somehow, though his fuzzy brain, he realized something here was very wrong. Wasn't this Nikita? He looked at her closely. It looked like Nikita. But then, she'd pretended she was Quinn, too. Maybe this was Quinn dressed up as Nikita. Confused and feeling slightly sick again, Michael handed the router back to her then, for no explicable reason, he unsheathed his knife and pricked the skin near his eye. Nikita looked startled, and Michael himself was a little surprised. Then, not knowing what else to do, he turned around and walked away.

**************

Michael walked until he was tired. He kept close to the road but stayed hidden. Every so often he stopped to throw up. Once he came across a convenience store and bought some water and crackers, along with a tin of Band-Aids. He'd removed his tracker in a more lucid moment and now his arm was sore and bloody.

Michael kept trudging along. If he'd been in better shape he would have made better time, but he was still not quite right. On the other hand, he knew his limitations; his directional sense was impaired, so he stayed near the road, and he had sense enough to stop periodically and rest. He didn't see any wild animals, but after his wound stopped bleeding, he washed the area carefully and rebandaged it. No sense in drawing something that was bigger and hungrier than he was, he decided. When night fell, he didn't go toward any of the houses or gas stations he passed. Instead, he found a convenient tree and climbed it, settling in a crook of the branches and falling immediately to sleep.

On the fourth day, Michael awoke from a tree perch with a splitting headache and the realization that he was, finally, sane. He tumbled out of the tree, stretched to get out the stiffness, and rubbed his eyes. Faintly, he heard a car pass on the road. He scrubbed his hands through the beginnings of his beard and set off again, heading north, looking for a gas station.

He needed a shave.

He needed a toothbrush.

He needed to figure out what continent he was on.

He remembered being taken into Section. But he couldn't remember much about what happened afterward. He had a hazy memory of Nikita leading him through a tunnel, but he thought that probably couldn't be right, because otherwise, she'd be with him.

Michael wasn't too worried about his fuzzy memory; he clearly recalled Operations stabbing him in the neck with a syringe and it didn't take a genius to figure out Operations had injected him with the same drug that was meant to make Michael forget Simone. It dulled the senses, befuddled judgment and effectively shut down emotions. But it wasn't permanent. He knew from past experience that his memories would eventually come back. He glanced at his watch, calibrating the date. So what if he'd lost four or five days? They'd come back. And nothing too terrible could have happened; after all, he was free, which was part of Nikita's plan. Everything must be going as scheduled.

First things first, he thought firmly, spying a small gas station. He paused. Did he have money? He searched his pockets, finding the equivalent of $20 in three different currencies. He frowned. He and Nikita had modified their mission clothes after he was left behind in Russia several years ago. Michael took off his jacket, turned it inside out, picked at the lining near the bottom seam and pulled it open. Perfect: a bank card, a checkbook and a credit card. They were all from a private joint account Michael and Nikita shared, which served two purposes -- if they were separated, not only did they have access to money but the other partner could check the accounts at any time and see where the withdrawals had come from. A crude form of communication, but highly effective.

Michael walked into the gas station. The woman at the counter stared at him. "You're a little early," she said in French.

"I am?" She spoke French, but her accent was a bit off, Michael thought, still trying to figure out where he was. Maybe France? But her accent didn't really sound French. He glanced around, looking at the candy bars, the cold drinks ... but everything was American. No help. He looked for a newspaper of some kind, but didn't see one.

"The bus doesn't stop here for another hour."

Perfect, Michael thought. "Do you have a copy of the schedule?"

"Sure." She pulled out a schedule and handed it to him, and trying to not look too eager, Michael ran down the list of towns. Grand Mere. Shawinigan Falls. Trois Riveres. Louisville. Lake St. Peter. Berthierville. Joliette. L'Epiphanie. L'Assumption. Terrebonne. St. Therese. Montreal. He glanced at his watch, added an hour and realized he was in Terrebonne.

What on earth was Section doing near Terrebonne?

Not my problem, Michael thought firmly. "How much is a ticket? I forgot to go by the bank the other day ..."

"There's a money machine in the back, near the washrooms," the woman said.

"Thanks." Michael grabbed a candy bar on his way to the money machine. He withdrew $100 and as his card slid back toward him, he nodded, pleased. At least Nikita would know where he was.

**************

Nikita sat in the back of the limousine with Mr. Jones.

It was late. Nearly midnight. She'd come back from freeing Michael and had stepped right in one of the debacles for which Section was so famous. Between running a mission, finishing employee reviews and making sure Mr. Jones had what he needed for a final assessment, she'd been working over-time for the past three days.

Nikita yawned and leaned her head against her hand, blearily watching the closed and gated store fronts flash past as the limo swished through the damp streets. It was foggy out and the streetlights glowed like unattached halos. They were almost at her -- and Mick's -- apartment building.

"Are you staying in the apartment tonight, sir?" Nikita asked sleepily.

"Yes. It's too late to try to go back to Center. I'm beat." He finished reading Nikita's reports and sat back, his eyes red and his face looking as tired as Nikita felt. "When do you think we can get this show on the road?"

"Realistically? I guess I'd give us another month or so," Nikita answered. "It's not going to be easy. Morale is the lowest it's been since I've been here, and I've seen it go pretty low."

"Why is that? Except for Madeleine, no one's died," Jones said, sounding perturbed.

"No, but Walter's been reassigned, Michael's gone, and a lot of people are still missing Birkhoff."

"Such as yourself."

"Yes," Nikita said softly.

The car pulled in front of their building and they both got out, Jones leaning back in to tell the driver something. Nikita waited for him, then they walked to the entrance of the building. "If you've got a minute, I'd like to ask you a few questions," Jones said.

Nikita stifled a groan and said politely, "All right."

"It'll only be a few minutes, Nikita. I know you're tired," he said. They passed her apartment, which was still wired for sound, and entered his.

Mick's decor wasn't to Nikita's taste, but he had something she'd always coveted -- an unmonitored living space. She yawned again, and Jones offered her some wine. "No thanks," Nikita said, shaking her head. "I want uninterrupted sleep tonight."

"Can't blame you." He put the wine away and took a deep breath. "Now, Nikita. About Michael."

"What about him?"

He looked at her, and suddenly, he wasn't Mr. Jones, he was Mick. He looked concerned, and Nikita, already exhausted and worried about Michael anyway, had to blink back unexpected tears.

"Here, now," Mick said, raising an eyebrow. "It's not all that bad, is it, love?"

Nikita swallowed hard, and Mick opened his arms. "If you feel me up, I'm belting you where it counts," she sniffled as she wrapped her arms around him, and he laughed.

"I'd have more than that to worry about," Mick said. "Michael would kill me. Or at the very least throw me in front of a moving vehicle."

"He only throws you out of cars, Mick, not in front of them," Nikita said.

"So," Mick said presently, pulling away. "Dry your eyes. Blow your beak. There's a girl. Tell Mick what we're working with."

Nikita obeyed him, and when she was a little dryer, she said, "I saw him leave. I haven't received any reports of his death. His tracker's not working, so he removed it. I haven't heard from him yet, but I feel pretty certain he's okay."

"Then why the tears?"

Nikita blushed, then, sounding almost angry, she said, "Because I miss him."

Mick squeezed her shoulders. "You'll be out soon, I promise. I expect to receive yearly reports from you at Christmas time -- those horrid little Christmas cards with wretched family portraits on them and a repulsive little letter saying how wonderful Johnny is doing in sports and isn't Suzie the smartest thing for winning first place at the fair for her pies."

A smile tugged at Nikita's mouth. "You could pin it on your cork board in the office."

"That I could." He gave Nikita another brisk pat on the shoulder. "Now, buck up. Go rest. I'll come and fetch you tomorrow around noon, all right?"

"Right, boss," Nikita grinned again and turned to leave. Her hand on the door, she said, "Thanks, Mick."

"Right you are, pumpkin. Now go to bed. Don't want nasty circles under your eyes when you start mentoring Operations tomorrow."

She shot him a look, and Mick held up his hands in surrender. "Kidding! Just kidding, Nikita. You know, you're too serious by half sometimes."

She snorted.

"I'll be mentoring Operations," Mick said smugly.

This time Nikita laughed.

As she shut the door behind her, Mick's face relaxed into Mr. Jones's. He shook his head tiredly, then kicked off his shoes, and without taking anything else off, fell across his red-sheeted bed. He was asleep in minutes.

*********************

Michael tried to remember the last time he took a bus anywhere and failed.

There was a reason for that, he thought. Riding the bus was exhausting. When they finally pulled into Montreal, it was the middle of the night. Michael debarked, caught a cab, and went to the Four Seasons.

"I need a room," he told the front desk attendant.

"Of course, sir." The man gave him a sympathetic look. "You were laid over somewhere?"

Michael shrugged and said, "I still don't have my luggage."

"No problem. We have an emergency kit you can have. Toothbrush, razor, everything you need." "Thank you." Michael handed over his credit card and accepted the overnight kit. "I'll need a suit for tomorrow."

"What time is your business appointment?"

Michael thought quickly and said, "Not till late morning."

"That shouldn't be a problem. Write down your sizes and preferences and as soon as our personal shopper gets in this morning, I'll have her pull a few different things. She'll be here around 8 o'clock."

"Thank you." Michael wrote down his sizes and slid the paper back across the desk.

"Here you go, sir." The attendant handed him a room key and smiled. "Sleep well."

Sleep. In a real bed. Michael got to his room, took a quick shower and lay down in bed. When he woke several hours later, the sun was shining brightly into the room and someone was pounding on the door.

Slightly disoriented, Michael looked through the peep hole. A sensible-looking woman with a tape measure draped around her shoulders stood on the other side of the door with a rack of suits beside her. Section? This was just the sort of thing they would do.

No, he thought firmly. Not Section. This was real life. And in real life, people didn't masquerade as salespeople.

Still, he hesitated. Then he took a deep breath, said a quick wordless prayer and opened the door. "Good morning."

"Good --" Her eyes widened and snapped to his face. "-- morning."

Michael glanced down and ducked behind the door. "Sorry. I ... just woke up."

A smile quirked at her lips. "So I see. Well." She stepped in the room and Michael awkwardly snaked a hand in the bathroom, grabbing the terry cloth robe that hung beside the door. "I was going to ask you to get undressed and try these on. But I see you've anticipated me."

Not knowing exactly what to say, Michael said nothing and pretended to examine the suits.

"Perhaps you'd like to try these on first." She handed him a white package and Michael nodded. "I'll be at extension 3109 when you've made your selection," she smiled, and started to go.

"Don't bother," Michael said, resigned. "Just -- have a seat. I'll be just a minute."

He retired to the washroom, put on the suit of underwear she'd brought and, the rack of clothes in front of the bathroom door, he began trying on clothes. He finally made his selection by process of elimination -- he decided on the only suit that didn't have to be altered and the pair of shoes that didn't pinch -- and turned around to tell the woman.

She still looked amused, and Michael felt his cheeks heat up.

"I'm sorry," she said, grinning. "I ought to thank you."

"Thank me?"

"I've been married for four months." She held out her hand so Michael could see the gold band. "This will be something fun to tell my husband tonight at dinner."

"Ah, maybe you might not want --"

"This is the one you've decided on, then?" She took the suit from Michael, removed the tags, made up a sales slip and got his signature. "It'll show up on your bill."

"Thank you."

She left, the rack of discarded suits following after her. So, Michael thought, this is real life. Somehow I didn't think it would be quite so ... embarrassing.

**********

Michael purchased an extra pair of pants and a shirt before he left Montreal. He had $60 in his pocket, enough to ensure he'd have to stop periodically for cash so that Nikita wouldn't have a lot of trouble tracing him.

He intended to take the train to New York, but changed his mind in the Catskills and veered further east.

Michael wanted to go someplace peaceful. Montreal had been almost overwhelming. Too much traffic, too many people, everyone in a rush. For Michael, who was by nature a quiet person, it had been just too much. Newport, he discovered, was not much better. It was late summer and the island was swarming with sticky tourists dripping ice cream everywhere and irritated dogs who yapped at everything and everyone. Not to mention the children. They all whined.

Irritated, Michael walked down by the water, where boats bobbed up and down, tied securely to the dock. He paused, then approached a man in a red T-shirt that read "Dick's Boat Rental."

"I'm thinking about buying a boat," Michael said. He was getting better at talking to people, he thought proudly. He still ran professional eyes over strangers, looking for weapons, and he still kept his distance from people, but he was definitely improving in the arena of small talk. "Seaworthy," he added quickly.

"Dick Morris." The other man held out a grimy hand and after a brief hesitation Michael shook it. "Most of these are rentals. But I know a guy who's trying to get rid of a boat. Sloop. Seaworthy. Needs some work."

"How much work?"

"Couple of weeks' worth."

Michael gazed out across the water. The last ferry was preparing to leave with its cargo of smelly, tired people. "Two weeks is a long time."

"Yep. In tourist season, it is for a fact." Dick squinted at Michael, then gave a sharp nod. "Come on. I'll give ol' Chuck a call. We'll see what we can do."

Michael waited patiently while Dick called; while they waited for the owner of the boat, Michael bought himself and Dick some fish and chips from a fast-food stand. They ate without talking, and when Chuck walked up to them, Michael hastily wiped his greasy hand on the paper napkin and shook Chuck's hand.

"You interested in a boat?"

"Seaworthy," Michael specified.

"How seaworthy?"

"I want to go to Acapulco."

The two other men stared at him, then looked at each other. "In Mexico?" Chuck clarified.

"That's right," Michael said.

"Well, I'll be damned. This must be fate." Chuck grinned and Dick chuckled. "My uncle owned the boat. The Black Magic. He wasn't much on amenities, but the boat's seaworthy. Took it down to Mexico all the time; left with the birds. Said northern winters were too cold on a man and he preferred the beer in Mexico anyway."

"Smart man," Michael said, following Chuck as he walked to the next pier over, where the older boats were stored. These boats weren't for tourists: most needed some type of work, even if it was only paint, and all of them were smaller and not nearly as sharp as the ones further up. Chuck nodded to the last one in the row.

She wasn't as large as the sloop Michael had bought for Nikita. He hopped on board and looked her over. Dick was right; she needed work. A lot of it, and paint was only part of what needed to be done.

"I hadn't really started working on her," Chuck said, sounding apologetic. "Truth is, I was thinking about working on her this winter, then selling her in the spring. But if you're interested ..."

"I'm interested." Michael noted what needed to be repaired: the deck needed to be refinished, it needed a new sail, and below deck was pretty rustic. There were the basic necessities: a cramped bathroom, a small kitchen, a berth, fairly antiquated directional equipment, a good amount of storage space. Michael checked it out as Chuck stood on deck chatting with Dick, and when Michael finally came up, both men looked at him.

"Dick said it would need a few weeks of work," Michael stated.

"At least," Chuck confirmed. "You'd probably want to dry-dock it, have it inspected and so on if you're planning on going all the way to Mexico."

Michael looked out over the harbor. Dusk was settling in, turning the water dark indigo and streaking the sky behind them purple. "The thing is," Michael said thoughtfully, "I don't really want to wait two weeks."

The men looked at him, and Chuck shrugged. "I'd like to get rid of her, if I could. I'd make you a good deal for her. She's a fine little boat. The equipment is a little old, but works fine. The engine was overhauled a few years ago and my uncle put in a new water tank right before he died. Of course, she won't outrun anything, but if you're not keen on speed ..." Chuck's voice trailed off, but he looked at Michael shrewdly.

Going back and forth to Mexico could mean many things. Maybe someone just wanted to fish in the Gulf. Or maybe they were courioring cargo that was illegal in the states. Michael shrugged. "I'm not interested in outrunning anyone. I just need a few months vacation."

Chuck nodded. "What do you do for a living, if you don't mind my asking?"

Michael shrugged again. "I just cashed in my stocks and got out of a business."

Dick nodded sagely. "Lot of that dot-com stuff going around. Make money?"

"Enough for a boat," Michael said. "If we just did the bare minimum, could it be finished in a week?"

Chuck and Dick exchanged a look. "Shoot, yes," said Chuck.

"You can borrow Young Richard," Dick told Chuck, "And Lizzie doesn't have to go back to school for two weeks." "I'll ask Rob if he wants some quick work, too," Chuck said. He held out his hand to Michael to seal the deal with a handshake. "I'll give you a fair price for her."

*************

The next morning Michael awoke early and dressed. He had breakfast, and, just as the day was turning bright and gold, he went out to the dock.

"Hiya, Michael." Dick waved from one of the fancy boats, and Michael waved back. "Not backing out on your deal, are you?"

"No," Michael assured him.

"That's good." Dick tightened a knot and with the water hose, washed down the deck. "Chuck could use the money. His uncle died a couple of years ago and the boat's the last of the stuff they need to get rid of. With a couple of kids in college, the money will come in handy."

"I thought everyone in Newport was wealthy."

"Chuck's not from Newport. He's summer crew. Docks the boat here because I don't charge him. He lives up Fall River. Comes down in the summer to work the country club set and make a little extra cash."

"Works the country club set?"

"Yep. He helps out at one of the high-end restaurants here. He'll be by before he goes to work. I called a buddy of mine last night though. Ted. He's the best boat repairman in the area. He'll look it over and tell us what needs to be done."

"Who will do the work?"

"My two kids for starters. Been around boats all their lives, they'll do fine. Me, when I have the extra time." Dick looked up and shrugged. "You, if you've got a mind to."

For the next week, Michael helped with the boat. Ted inspected it and decided it needed minimal work to keep it safe; the extra work could be done in Acapulco if necessary. "Or you can stop along the way. I'll give you the names of some good repairmen along the coast in case you need them."

They replaced rotten wood. They scraped and repainted the hull. They strengthened the mast with new materials so it wouldn't snap in a high wind. They repaired the sail and Ted placed an order with a company further south -- when Michael passed by, he could pick up the new sail. With the hull filled with extra fuel, extra dry goods and extra jars of paint, he was ready in six days.

One of Chuck's kids brought Michael a lopsided cake, obviously homemade. Young Richard and Lizzie brought a shopping bag of old, clean clothes for him. "You travel light," Lizzy said tactfully, "And it'll be easier to have a few changes so you don't have to wash out clothes every day."

Michael cast off, waving to the small crowd on the dock. Chuck looked almost as if he might cry. "Smooth sailing!" he called out, and Michael nodded, then went to steer the boat properly around the other sailboats, the loud ferries, the throngs that clotted the waterfront.

Three hours later, free from the noise and the traffic, Michael settled back.

It was perfectly quiet. Just the snap of the sail and the swish of the water. He set his course using Chuck's crude instruments, double-checked his mathematics, and sighed.

The only thing missing was Nikita.

***************

As Nikita packed the last of her clothes, she continued to go over Section's biggest and most challenging problem: Operations.

He wasn't adapting well. Both she and Mr. Jones knew he'd have a major learning curve, but nothing they did seemed to motivate Operations. Part of the problem was Madeleine -- if she hadn't killed herself, she could have persuaded Operations to at least try to improve himself. Nikita didn't think Madeleine could teach compassion, but then again ... she'd been compassionate enough when Nikita had entered Section.

Of course, Nikita hadn't known her then.

Nikita fitfully rubbed her forehead. When she'd woken up this morning, she'd been in so much pain she thought at first she was being tortured. But then she realized it was just another stress headache. Nikita sighed and folded the last T-shirt, cramming it down on top and zipping her bag closed. The car would be here in an hour; she'd be at the farm before dark.

She wondered what Walter would say when he learned she would be working with him. Although it was a temporary job, Nikita was looking forward to the next few weeks. They needed to step up recruitment, and though she still didn't like the method used to get fresh blood into Section, she hadn't been able to come up with an alternative. But she could help new recruits when they first arrived, and she was a good teacher. After all, she'd been taught by the best.

Nikita sighed again and rubbed her hands over her eyes. She didn't quite have enough time for a nap, though she could use one. Instead, she plugged in her laptop and began searching all the databases for some sign of Michael.

Nothing. Not a trace.

He hadn't called. Hadn't written. Hadn't e-mailed. She was beginning to be worried. On the other hand ... maybe he wasn't contacting her because he didn't want to talk to her.

She had been certain that he'd understood she was talking in code the last time she'd seen him. She couldn't bear to think that he was wondering around out there under the impression that she didn't love him, but equally abhorrent was the thought that he'd been captured by someone else, killed in an accident, maimed, knocked in the head ...

Get a grip, Nikita, she thought firmly. You are losing it.

Her phone rang, and after a quick glance at her wristwatch -- it wasn't time for the car to be here -- she picked it up.

"Yes?"

"Nikita, it's Rachel. We've had a slight change in plan."

"Oh?"

"Mr. Jones needs you to come in as soon as you can. Don't worry about your things; we'll send someone by to pick them up."

"What's going on?"

"He'll tell you when you get here."

"All right. I'm on my way."

Nikita hung up the phone, frowning. Then she picked up her purse and, without a backward glance at the apartment she'd called home for the past four years, she walked out the door.

****************

When Nikita walked into Section, she could tell automatically that something was not right. People in Comm looked nervous -- more so than usual -- and she automatically glanced up at Operations's office.

It was dark.

Nikita frowned again and headed toward the office Mr. Jones was currently using in the tower. She knocked once on the door and was immediately granted access.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Hello, Nikita." Mr. Jones looked up from his computer and smiled. "Have a seat. I'll be right with you. Want some coffee, tea?"

"I'm fine." Nikita sat down and waited until he closed out his program, and when he turned to face her she gave him her full attention.

"I'm afraid we've had a bit of a hitch in our plans."

"That's what Rachel said on the phone," Nikita agreed. She absently rubbed her temple, trying to message her headache away.

"You remember how you and I were wondering what the best course would be in dealing with Operations?"

"Yes," Nikita said cautiously.

"And remember how you said, Maybe all he needs is a little vacation, ha ha, and I said, Very funny, can you see Operations taking the sun at Brighton?"

"Yes." She frowned. "Don't tell me he's taken a vacation in Brighton?"

"Not exactly." Mr. Jones turned his screen toward Nikita and punched up a code; the screen blinked once then turned white. Nikita frowned again and peered at the scene in front of her. Gradually shapes sorted themselves out and she realized she was looking at a room in Med Lab.

"Who's that? Did Operations try to kill someone?"

"Just himself."

"What?!"

"Calm down. Calm down," he said, putting out a hand, and Nikita gradually sank back into her chair. "It was a heart attack, Nikita. I swear. Nothing more."

"Nothing more --!"

"It's serious, I won't kid you. But he's in stable condition."

"What happened?" Nikita asked, stunned.

"The short version is, he went out for a run and collapsed when he got home. Had enough sense to call Section rather than the hospital. We got to him in minutes. When the medical team got there, he wasn't responsive. But they think he'll pull through."

"So what do the doctors say the long version of this story is?"

"Too much stress, too much smoking, and it didn't help that he's always had a wonky heart."

"How wonky?"

"Wonky enough that he's been warned repeatedly to cut back on his work load. Personally, between you and me, I think the thing with Madeleine has affected him more than he cares to admit."

"No doubt." Nikita sighed. "So what are we going to do with him?"

"The doctors are getting ready for surgery; they think he needs a triple by-pass but they won't know for sure till they open him up."

Nikita winced. "He'll be sore for a long time."

"Not in any condition to work," Jones agreed.

"This is not good. What are you going to do?"

Jones cleared his throat. On the computer screen, medical personnel began moving Operations from his bed to a gurney. "The doctors say that he could be up and ready to work part-time in a month."

"Section can't be without leadership for a month. Morale's already bad enough --"

"I agree. And I don't think either of us would feel comfortable bringing someone from the outside in."

"No. One of us would have to train or assist the new person. And it wouldn't help morale, either. So what are you going to do?"

Mr. Jones gave her a level look. "I've got someone in mind for the position."

Nikita looked at him, clearly horrified. "Not Quinn. Please tell me you aren't putting Quinn in charge of Section."

"Quinn doesn't have the skill set for the position."

"So, who?"

"Someone who knows the position. Knows the responsibilities, knows the programs we use, knows the major players in the business."

Nikita stared at him, feeling a sick knot tighten in her stomach as her headache suddenly intensified. "Oh, no." "As of now, you will permanently move into Section to take control of your new position."

"No. I can't. I cannot lead Section. I'm supposed to be at the farm right now, as a matter of fact. We discussed this. You know we did."

"I know, and I was ready to send you there before this came up. Nikita, it's just for a month. I'd do it myself but I have other duties and can't devote a month to running Section. You've got the skills, you know the operatives, you know how Section is supposed to run. I'm sorry, but you're it."

"I never wanted to be it, though."

"I know. That's one of the reasons you're perfect for the job. You won't mind giving it up again when Operations comes back." Jones rose, and from his coat pocket, he took a cold black dogtag on a silver chain. "This, I believe, belongs to you."

Feeling nauseated, Nikita slowly took the dogtag and draped it around her neck.

"Good luck, Nikita. I'll still be around. But you're in control."

"I'm in control," she echoed.

"Now." He sat back down and tilted the computer so he could see the screen better. "I've got a lot to do, and so do you. Call me if you need me."

Numbly, Nikita went to the door, pressed the doorplate, and exited the office.

I'm in control.

Nikita ground the heels of her hands into her pounding forehead. She had never felt so out of control in her life.

**************

Good weather followed Michael south. He spent the days painting the rest of the boat a crisp white inside and out. Lizzie had left him some red paint which he used for some of the woodwork, and the sloop began to look respectable.

When Michael began painting the inside, he stripped down to the windshorts Lizzie packed and opened all the windows and turned on the fans. It was warm below deck and the paint smell made his head swim, but once he'd painted one wall the rest looked so dingy he couldn't stop half-way through.

The cabin of the boat was one fairly large room lined with narrow windows. Navigation equipment was on one end, a berth was tucked in a corner, and the kitchen had a sink and oven. Cabinets lined all the lower portion of the walls, and when Michael began opening them up to paint, he realized Chuck hadn't cleared out all his uncle's belongings.

There were a few mismatched items of clothing. One cabinet had been turned into a bookcase and it was full of paperbacks. Stacks of old records and a wind-up record player were in another cabinet.

Michael wiped his paint spattered hands on his pants and pulled the record player out. It wasn't a Victrola, but the principle was the same: you turned a crank and the record player ran. He remembered a mission in Africa once, a long time ago, where the locals had used radios and record players like this one. They'd been very popular in the third world in the '70s and '80s until longer-lasting batteries became cheaper. Some people still preferred the wind-ups -- you didn't have to worry about electricity or batteries, and for people on the go, they were perfect.

Michael reached in the cabinet and pulled out a record, took it out of its sleeve, and cranked up the machine.

He painted along to Ella Fitzgerald, and when he got tired of her, he listened to a little Frank Sinatra and even sang some of the lyrics under his breath.

... just a lucky so-and-so ...

The player wound down. Michael gave it another crank, picked up his paintbrush again and started painting the low ceiling.

Fly me to the moon,
Let me play among the stars
Let us see what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars ...

Michael hesitated while Frank sang blithely on. He put his brush down again and picked up the album cover, flipping it over and glancing over the song selection. Then he moved the needle over, gave the machine another good winding, and whistled softly through his teeth.

Fly with me,
Fly, let's fly away ...
Say the word
And we'll beat the birds
To Acapulco Bay ...

************************

Nikita knew people thought it was peculiar, but she simply couldn't take over Operations's office.

And she really didn't want Madeleine's, either.

Instead, she installed herself in Michael's office. It made her feel closer to him, and since he still hadn't contacted her, she was holding on to whatever comfort she could get. When people asked, she simply told them it was closer to Comm, which was true. Then she did something she was afraid Operations would never forgive her for: she remodeled his office.

She had Jason clean and lock every piece of computer equipment in the office, then she moved some tables and a coffee machine in. It became a break room of sorts. With the view of Section, it was perfect for people who needed a short break, but still needed to be accessible to the rest of the Section.

Every time she glanced up and saw someone sipping on some coffee or flipping through a magazine, she couldn't help smiling.

There were a lot of things she'd never liked about Section. One was the lack of private offices. Madeleine's office, prime space, became the nerve system for decoding -- it was quiet and perfect for the two top code breakers Section had. Madeleine's private quarters, which were quite extensive, were remodeled into a sort of rec room, complete with a ping-pong table.

Maybe it was silly. But so much of their time was spent with life-and-death matters, Nikita couldn't see how a ping-pong table would be detrimental.

Since she'd just done the employee reviews, Nikita was familiar with everyone on staff, and the second week on the job she asked St. John if he'd come to her office.

Benjamin St. John was huge. He looked like a bouncer, and in fact, was normally used for guard duty. But he was highly intelligent and Nikita knew from her work with him that he was a thoughtful, soft-spoken individual.

"Have a seat," she said quietly, and he did, looking apprehensive. "I was wondering," Nikita continued, "If you'd consider taking a new position in Section."

"What kind of position?"

"I need some help." Nikita sighed, rubbed her throbbing temple, and punched in her computer access code. Text scrolled up the computer screen. She turned the screen toward him. "This is my e-mail for today. 207 messages and it's not even noon yet. I also have a pile of reports to go through before the next Sectional meeting, which is in a week. And I have to profile a mission because we are short a profiler."

St. John was silent.

"I could really use an assistant, St. John. Would you be willing to take me on?"

He looked at her steadily, and Nikita stared back at him. Finally, in his deep, quiet voice, he said, "I'd be willing to do that."

"You would? Great." Nikita smiled in relief, and she felt some of the pressure lessen in her head. "Can you start right away?"

He gave her a funny look. "You're the boss."

"I'd like you to start right away," Nikita amended, and he gave her a small smile.

"Yes ma'am."

**********************

Michael docked at Newport News to collect his new sail, and the first thing he did was find a cash machine and check in with Nikita.

He figured he'd follow the Eastern Seaboard closely, stopping every few days so she could trace him easily. He planned to stay a few days in each location. That way, she'd be able to find him quicker. Michael estimated he had another couple of weeks to wait on her -- whatever she was doing in Section or Center would most likely take some time to clean up -- but he wanted to make it easy on her.

After all, she'd had a difficult month.

Whistling softly, Michael went back to the boat and loaded up his dirty laundry. From a pay phone near the bank machine he'd called the company that was making his sail. He asked them to send a mechanic when they brought the sail over. The Black Magic's engine was making a funny noise and Michael didn't want it to suddenly seize when he was far from shore. The sail would be delivered in the afternoon, which gave him time to get his clothes washed. Stuffing the last of his grimy clothes in the canvas bag, Michael tossed his laundry bag on the pier, jumping after it.

"Hey, Mister!"

Michael turned around, and sitting on an upturned crate at the entrance to the pier was a boy, about 8 years old, with red hair and freckles. "Hey, Mister, wanna buy a cat?"

"What?"

"A cat." The boy reached into a cardboard box and held up a black-and-white, squirming kitten. "They's old enough now. Real good cats."

"No," Michael said, "I don't want a cat."

"You sure? They's fine, they'll be gone by the end of the day," the boy said optimistically.

"I don't doubt it," Michael said dryly. "But no, I don't need a cat. I really need a Laundromat."

"You take a cat, I'll tell you where the Laundromat is."

"Thanks, but no."

"Aw, come on, Mister. My dad says he's going to drown 'em if I don't get rid of 'em. Says we gots too many animals already."

"How many animals do you have?"

"Not that many. Three dogs, two goats, six cats, eight rabbits and my sister's got five goldfish."

"Your dad's right. Take them to the pound."

"That's what I did with the last batch. They won't take anymore. They said I had to have all my cats fixed. There ain't nothing wrong with 'em, though. They don't need fixing."

Michael looked at the boy thoughtfully. "Tell you what. You tell me where the Laundromat is, and I'll come up with a good answer to your problem."

"Yeah, sure." The boy's face fell.

"If I don't come up with a good answer, I'll take the cat."

"Really?" the boy brightened. "Laundromat's down the street, 'bout four blocks. It's after the vet place. You wanna borrow my wagon for your clothes?"

"No, thanks. I'll be back in a few hours."

Six cats. Good God. Michael hefted his laundry up over his shoulder and trudged up the street. He found the laundry, loaded his clothes in and popped in several dollars of quarters.

Michael glanced up. There were four or five other people in the laundry. They gave him a wide berth and kept giving him nervous looks. Michael frowned, checked his watch, and left, intending to go to the vet's. But as he passed a plate glass window he caught a glimpse of himself: shaggy hair, beard, orange shorts and a faded T-shirt that said "Virginia Beach" on it. He'd taken a few swims but hadn't bathed in several days because he didn't like to waste fresh water. He still had a streak of white paint in his hair and his skin was already brown from the sun.

Michael paused. No wonder the people in the Laundromat kept giving him funny looks. On the other hand, he didn't have anything else clean to wear. A little apprehensive, he entered the vet's.

"Good morning!" A young teenaged girl smiled determinedly at him, trying not to back up too much as he came forward.

"Hi." Michael stayed back from the counter. Her nose looked like it was doing funny things. He didn't think he smelled that bad, but then, how would he know?

"Can I ... help you?" the girl asked.

"Yes. I think so. There's a boy out by the docks, trying to give away a cat."

"Oh." Her nose wrinkled even more. "Jimmy Farley. I know. He came in earlier to see if I knew anyone who needed a kitten."

"He said his cats at home needed to be spaded and neutered."

"Yes, that's what Dr. Farnsworth told him. It's the only responsible thing to do."

"I understand he's got six cats and a number of dogs and rabbits."

"That's right. It's a regular zoo over there, from what I understand."

Michael took out his billfold and pulled the crisp new money he'd gotten out of the various money machines he'd visited in the past few days. "I was thinking you could give a discount if he has six cats that need to be fixed."

"A ... discount? Six for the price of five?"

Pretending to not hear her sarcasm, Michael smiled. "That's very kind of you. Here's $400. Would that take care of any dogs that need to be spaded as well?"

"Uh ... I think so. I think they've only got the one female. Are you sure --?"

"Absolutely." Michael pushed the money toward her, and she shrugged.

"Okay. You can tell him to bring them in whenever he wants to. Here's a receipt. I hope this'll be okay with Dr. Farnsworth."

"Why should it matter as long as someone pays?"

"I guess." The girl shrugged and Michael nodded at her as he left the office.

******************

Michael ran several errands while his clothes finished. When he came back, it was early afternoon. A very hot boy sat at the end of the deck, his box looking more wilted than it had this morning. Little mewing cries came from it, and Michael smiled. "Don't tell me you didn't sell the kitten."

The boy brightened. "I was saving you my cats."

"You're too kind," Michael said dryly. "I talked with the vet. She said she can fix your cats for free."

"I told you, they don't needs fixing."

"If you get them fixed, they won't have any more kittens. Then your father won't be irritated and threaten to drown them."

"Oh. That's what that means?"

"That's what it means."

The boy thought for a few minutes. "Well ... I guess that's okay then."

"Here." Michael held out the receipt. "Show this to the vet when you go and she'll know that she's supposed to do the work for free. Do you have dogs that sometime have puppies, too?"

"Only one. She already had her puppies this year. They's hunting dogs, though, so people like to have 'em. Not like cats." He looked sad, and Michael thought for a moment.

"See that boat over there?"

"Yessir."

"That's where I live."

"Sometimes cats likes boats," the boy said hopefully.

"They hate the water, though."

"Does this mean you ain't taking 'em?"

"I thought you only had one kitten to give away."

"Nah. I gots two. See?" He held up two kittens and said proudly, "They's good mousers. And they use a box to pee in."

"Is that so?"

"Yep." He thrust a kitten toward Michael, but Michael didn't have a free hand because of the laundry. The kitten climbed his laundry bag, teetered for a moment, then perched on Michael's shoulder. He could feel whiskers brush his ear.

"All right then," Michael sighed, resigned. "You'd better bring the other one. I don't have another hand to hold it."

"Gee, that's great!" The boy's face split in a grin. "Thanks, Mister! Hey -- you ain't gonna drown 'em, are you?"

"No, I won't drown them. If they drown, it's their own damn fault. Excuse me. I meant to say, their own fault."

*************

Nikita knew she and St. John made an odd pair. She'd spent the past few weeks in Section and as a consequence, figured she was about the whitest white person around, whereas St. John, with his velvety black skin and close-cropped hair, was perhaps the blackest. They both wore dark sunglasses, and St. John wore a beautifully tailored black suit in opposite contrast to Nikita's white pantsuit.

Nikita was not a small woman. But next to St. John, she looked positively petite. He was huge: broad shoulders, barrel chest, legs like tree trunks. He was intimidating, part bodyguard, part assistant.

Nikita swallowed hard, trying to make the aspirin she'd taken dry go down. St. John held the door open for her and she got out of the car. Then he held the front door of the building open, and Nikita sailed through. Not speaking, they walked to the receptionists desk and waited.

The receptionist glanced up. "Yes?"

"I'm Nikita. This is St. John. We're from One."

"Of course." The woman pulled out a clipboard. "If you'll just sign the registry, please." She picked up her telephone, gave some instructions, and by the time Nikita and St. John had finished, a man was coming down the hall toward them.

The woman nodded at the man. "This is Ames. He'll take you to your meeting room."

"Thank you," Nikita said.

Ames didn't talk. He led them to an elevator, punched the 12th floor, and when the doors opened, he ferried them to a thick wooden door. He paused, turned the handle, and stood aside.

The room didn't have any windows. Pity, Nikita thought. The 12th floor probably had a great view. She slowly looked around the room. People milled around, quietly talking. Most were men, but there were a few women scattered about. Everyone looked tense, but as if they were trying to look relaxed. Nikita wondered if she looked the same way. She suspected she did: she'd had a nagging headache for the past week and despite the aspirin she'd been taking all day, her headache was threatening to blossom into full-blown stress-induced pain.

"You want some water, ma'am?" St. John asked her, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"If you don't mind," Nikita said softly. "Without gas, please."

He nodded and returned in a minute with a glass of non-carbonated water. Nikita sipped it, studying the crowd. After a few minutes, one of the women sat down at the head of the table, and as if it were a signal, everyone else filled in the places around the table.

"Before we begin, we've got a few new faces today," the woman said. "So we'll go around the table and introduce ourselves. I'll start. I'm Pritchard, director of Oversight."

The rest of the group introduced themselves one by one. At the end, Nikita said, "And I'm Nikita. This is St. John. We're from One."

She wasn't expecting a warm welcome. But the icy stares of the people around the table were a little daunting. Pain shot from temple to temple, and Nikita, who felt like her head was imploding, tried to cover her involuntary flinch with a polite cough. After a few moments, Prichard said thoughtfully, "You should understand that we don't have a lot of ... affection for One."

"Because of it's status or because of it's leadership?" Nikita asked coolly.

"Perhaps a little of both." Prichard's mouth curled in a smile. "I understand you're the interim director."

"That's right."

"Mr. Jones sent you in."

"Yes."

Prichard tilted her head, studying Nikita thoroughly. "Welcome to the table, Nikita."

"Thank you."

********************

The crew from the boat shop came and went. The old sail was more or less folded and lay on the deck; the kittens had curled up on it and were now taking a nap. They looked like a fuzzy black-and-white lump: one of the cats was all black and the other was black-and-white. He could already see black cat hair all over the old sail. He could just imagine what they'd do to his bedding. On the other hand, he wasn't exactly fastidious anymore. He scratched his beard thoughtfully and sighed. He took another drink of ice water and looked seaward. It would be several more days before he could be on his way. The mechanic who checked the engine wanted to replace a few parts, none of which were in stock.

That was okay with Michael. He needed to stay here a couple of days at least so Nikita could catch up to him.

That is, if she wanted to.

He drained his water glass and set it down. Over the past week, he'd remembered more and more about his last days in Section. One thing he remembered with terrifying clarity was the last thing Nikita said to him. I don't love you. I never did.

Well, that was a lie, Michael thought stubbornly. Maybe she didn't love him now, but she certainly had in the past.

Where was she?

By his calculations, she should have contacted him. At the very least, she should have taken some money out of their account so he'd know she got the message. But whenever he put in his bank card to take out money, his balance remained depressingly correct. He was the only one taking funds out of the account.

Michael stood up, locked the cabin door, glanced at the still sleeping cats, and jumped lightly to the deck. If he was to become a pet owner, he needed to procure pet food and a litter box. And it wouldn't hurt to make another transaction.

Maybe this time, his account balance would have changed.

"Hey, Mister."

Michael turned around. It was the little red-haired boy. "Yes?"

"You never paid me for them cats."

Michael cocked his head. "Me, pay you? I'm the one that did you a favor. You should pay me."

"I ain't got no money."

"'Don't have any. I don't have any money,'" Michael corrected.

"Yeah? Neither do I," the boy said stubbornly. "So, do I get my $10?"

Michael thought of the $400 he'd already shelled out to sterilize the other pets the boy had. "Ten dollars? Pretty steep for such little kittens."

"I told you: they's good cats. Mousers."

"What if I don't have any mice?"

"You will," the boy said confidently. "Everybody's got mice sometime."

"I'm not paying for the cats. You want them back?" Michael asked hopefully.

"I can't take 'em back."

"Why not? They aren't exactly damaged goods," Michael pointed out.

"Dad'll drown 'em." The boy scowled.

The boy was a con artist in the making, Michael thought. "I'm not willing to pay for the cats. I'm doing you a favor by taking them; in fact, you insisted that I do so. However, if you want to make a little extra money, I'd be willing to pay you."

"Doing what?"

Michael took his billfold out of his shorts pocket. "Not anticipating the fact I'd be owning pets, I don't have any pet food or cat litter. If you go buy me everything I need to take care of the kittens, I'll pay you $10."

"Hey, that's what I was charging for them cats --"

"You interested?"

"Shoot, yes." The boy held out his hand and Michael pressed some bills into his palm.

"I'm going to the hardware store down the street. I'll meet you back here in 45 minutes."

"Yessir." The boy stuffed the money in his pocket and grabbed the handle of his red wagon, setting off down the street.

Michael followed him slowly, ducking in a True Value store to make a few purchases. An hour later, he was back on his boat, working and sweating in the cabin.

"Hey, Mister!" A voice floated down and Michael grunted.

"Down here," he answered.

"I gots your stuff." The boy clambered awkwardly into the cabin, dumping a bag of cat food on the floor. He looked at Michael curiously. "Whatcha doing?"

"Putting up a hammock. They were on sale."

"Huh. Ya oughta hang her outside. It'd be cooler." The child studied him a little while longer. The kittens followed him into the cabin, jumping and chasing each other, then attacking the boy's shoelaces. "Cut it out, McCatty."

Michael paused. "These cats have names?"

"Course," the boy said, looking at Michael as if he were simple-minded. "This one's McCatty. T'other one is Sir Basil. M'sister named 'em. Good names, huh? Kinda classy."

"Kind of something," Michael murmured.

"You got a bowl? I'll show you how much to feed 'em."

Michael gave the boy a chipped bowl with huge florid flowers painted on it. The boy raised his eyebrows. "It's from Mexico," Michael said defensively.

"Kinda sissy, if you ask me."

"I don't recall doing so."

"Okay, give 'em this much once a day." The boy poured out a small amount of food and the kittens eagerly shoved their faces in the bowl. "I know everyone says cats like milk." The boy rolled his eyes. "Don't listen. Gives 'em the runs."

The runs? How far could they run on the sloop? Michael didn't say anything.

"It ain't so bad when they's grown up some, but when they's babies, like these ones, you can't give 'em milk. Makes 'em sick and you've got to clean up the mess."

Ah, Michael realized. The runs. Of course. "I see."

"Just gives 'em cat food. And they'll catch a mouse every now and then. Keeps 'em healthy. If you gives 'em fish, make sure it don't have no bones."

"Got it," Michael said.

The boy shook his head, clearly worried about the future of his former pets. "Just try not to kill 'em, okay, Mister?"

"I'll do my best." Michael watched the boy climb out onto the deck and made sure he made it to the dock safely. Then he went back inside to work some more on the hammock.

The kittens were already curled up on his fresh laundry. Little black hairs clung to the clean clothes. Michael sighed.

*****************

St. John glided into Nikita's office, quiet and as unobtrusive as it was possible for a man of his size and stature to be. She glanced up from her work and gave him a half-hearted smile.

"Hi."

"Good afternoon," he replied.

"Is it?" Nikita glanced at her watch. "Oh. I guess it is." She stretched and nodded toward the extra chair. "Have a seat."

"I've been thinking a lot about the Dorinz mission," St. John stated softly.

"So have I."

"Our failure rate was much higher than was anticipated."

"I know. I've been running numbers, trying to figure out where we went wrong."

"It is possible that we didn't exactly go wrong. Perhaps we were ... encouraged incorrectly."

Nikita cocked her head. "Explain."

"I've been running numbers, too." St. John extracted a disk from his coat pocket and handed it to Nikita. She slid it in to her computer and waited.

Numbers scrolled past, meaningless until Nikita began connecting the information with what she already knew. She sucked in her breath. "I'll need to check this out."

"I understand."

"Can you come back in an hour?"

"Yes, ma'am."

St. John got up and left as quietly as he'd come in. Nikita popped a couple of aspirin in a vain attempt to soothe her pounding head, and spent the next hour running SIMMs, numbers and variables so there could be no mistake for her -- or rather, St. John's -- conclusion.

Their failure rate had been increasing steadily over the past few months. At first, the failures were easy to overlook. For a brief period, the numbers had stabilized and improved. But recently the outlook had changed again for the worse. Had the failure on the Dorinz mission been a little less cataclysmic, no doubt the gradual decline would have continued unnoticed until things reached a very serious level.

Nikita sat back slowly in her chair. Their numbers began to deteriorate when Quinn came on board. That could be explained away by Birkhoff's absence and the fact that she wasn't really ready for her position. But when Nikita took Quinn's place, the numbers improved. That was a little surprising; Nikita was good, but she'd never been trained to be the head of Comm and frankly, she credited good luck for her high numbers. Once Quinn returned, the numbers began spiraling downward again. The most disturbing part was, there was a pattern and method of missions that had gone bad. Had it been random, Nikita would have simply authorized more training.

"Ma'am?" St. John stood in the doorway, and Nikita motioned him inside. He took his seat again, looking a bit uncomfortable. Nikita knew it was because of the chair -- most furniture, including chairs, hadn't been designed for someone of his bulk.

"We should probably get you a different chair in here, huh, St. John?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "What about Quinn?"

"You're correct," Nikita said slowly. "If you hadn't been suspicious of her, it would have taken us a while to catch on."

"Three weeks," St. John said. "I ran the figures. She had a maximum of three weeks before someone would have caught her."

"Do you think she knows that?"

"No."

Nikita didn't ask the basis for his opinion. Instead, she said slowly, "We can't cancel her. Morale has been improving, but something like this will send spirits down in a hurry."

"Yes."

"Plus ... there may be a way to use her to our benefit. I'll have to think about it. For now, I think we'd better reassign her. Someplace where her access to Section data is extremely limited. And I'd like you to get a small tech team together to figure out what she's already stolen and given to Glass Curtain. We're going to have to know what they know."

"I know."