Part Two Chapter Four Nikita leaned forward and studied the wooden game board. She examined the tiles with their painted Japanese characters, trying to envision a pattern of movement across the squares. It didn't materialize. The pieces she wanted to capture merely pointed back at her, their tips like bristling spears in an impregnable row. She glanced up. Across the table, Madeline waited for Nikita to make her move, arms folded. When she caught Nikita's eye, she smiled encouragingly, but said nothing. Nikita stretched and looked around the room, taking in the surroundings. What luxury this "down time," as Madeline called it, was. No five am wakeup bells. No bleary-eyed morning runs. No overcooked eggs in the recruits' cafeteria. Instead, she slept in as long as she wanted, worked out only when she was in the mood, and ate food better than she'd ever had in her life. It wasn't freedom. She wasn't even allowed to leave Section. But it was something -- a drink of cool water in the desert; a respite from Michael's ceaseless demands; a chance to catch her breath, and find herself again. Most of her time was free for her to use as she saw fit. Not that there was much to do: read, exercise, sleep, think. All of them such solitary activities. The highlight of each day, then, was the time she spent in Madeline's office. She had begun to crave the company, to cling to it for as long as Madeline allowed. They did nothing particularly exciting -- drank tea, listened to music, and simply sat and talked -- but the sheer ordinariness of their interactions felt like an oasis of normality. Like a return to real life. Almost. The day before, Madeline had begun to teach Nikita the rudiments of shogi. Nikita tried gamely, but found herself too impatient for it: she never managed to win, and suspected that Madeline deliberately drew out the matches, just to give themselves something to do while they talked. She didn't mind. She was grateful for any reason to prolong their time together. She had even come to find the office oddly cozy, despite its grand spaciousness. It was full of surprises and contradictions: hidden corners and cabinets, concealing objects both practical and ornamental. Sometimes, the ornamental turned out to be practical as well -- like the elaborately decorated wooden box she learned contained a set of glasses for pastis, or the vases that opened up to reveal stereo speakers. In a sense, the room was much like its owner: much of its essence hidden, revealed only when one wasn't expecting it. Madeline continually surprised Nikita with her topics of conversation -- she seemed to know at least a little about everything, from Greek history to modern art. And yet there was always a sense of something out of reach. No matter how intimate-seeming her demeanor, she never allowed the subject to turn to herself. She ducked all personal questions -- even trivial ones -- so gracefully that Nikita never noticed until long afterwards, when it was too awkward to bring up the topic again. More and more, Madeline reminded Nikita of Michael. They shared the same polite evasiveness, except that Madeline employed charm and Michael reticence. The thought left Nikita unsettled in a way that she couldn't quite explain. She pushed the idea aside. Curling up a leg in the chair, she returned her attention to the board. It was time she just decided on a course of action instead of agonizing over it. Biting her lip, she moved a tile. One of Madeline's eyebrows flit upwards for a split second. "Ni fu," she said, chuckling. "I'm sorry?" "You made an illegal move. The match is over." "Just like that? I don't get to correct it?" "Sometimes rules are harsh." Madeline smiled. "That's why it's good to remember them." Nikita laughed and shook her head in exasperation. "I'll never get this." "Why do you say that?" Madeline cocked her head. "I don't know. Games just aren't my thing, I guess." "You're a beginner. It takes time to grow accustomed to something unfamiliar. In fact," she added, a rich note of teasing entering her voice, "you've already developed a distinctive style of play." "Really?" "You like to make bold moves. To do things just for the sake of trying. Sometimes it turns out well. Sometimes it doesn't." She regarded Nikita fondly. "If you can preserve that tendency while learning to anticipate the consequences a bit better, you could become quite good someday." The statement made Nikita flush. Feeling a little too under the microscope, she decided to turn the lens back the other direction. "So what's your playing style, Madeline?" "You haven't figured that out yet?" A corner of her mouth curled up. "You need to be more observant, then." Deflected again. Nikita wasn't sure whether to be frustrated, admiring, or both. Like an invasion from another world, a beep sounded suddenly, followed by a woman's voice on an intercom. "Madeline?" Madeline's smile vanished, replaced by a look of sharp alertness. "Yes, Elizabeth?" "You're needed in the White Room. DeAngelis is ready." "Michael is handling DeAngelis." "Operations feels your presence is required," the voice replied, its pitch a matter-of-fact monotone. Madeline sat quietly for a moment. "I'll be right there." She stood and looked down at Nikita. The smile returned, like a sunbeam breaking through clouds. "I'm sorry. This is unexpected. We'll play another match tomorrow." "Right. Of course." Nikita rose, preparing to go. Then her curiosity got the better of her. "By the way, what's the White Room? It sounds like the name of a dance club." Madeline's expression tightened momentarily. Then relaxed, gracious again. "It's a reception area for visitors. Goodbye, Nikita" ****************************** Chapter Five Nikita bit down, and her mouth filled with flavor. Chunks of lamb fell apart between her teeth -- tender, succulent, their juices suffused with fruit and spices. Tajine, Madeline had called the dish. It was North African, or Turkish, or something -- Nikita couldn't remember which, and was too embarrassed to ask again. But whatever it was, it was heavenly: the aroma of it evoked silk-laden caravans, traversing across the desert to the accompaniment of flutes and cymbals. Someday, she might get to taste it in its native setting. The idea was exhilarating and still a little bit overwhelming. What would such a faraway place be like? For all her tough life on the streets, how little she knew about the world. Just a few meals had brought home how limited her experience really was. At least now, thanks to Madeline, it wasn't quite so limited. As if she had heard Nikita think her name, Madeline looked up. She set down her knife and fork, dabbed her mouth with a napkin, and placed it on the table. "They tell me your tactical training is going well," she said. "That's good to hear," Nikita replied, wondering where the conversation might be headed. This was the first time Madeline had brought up her training since the suspension began, and she wasn't about to blow it by giving the wrong kind of answer. Nikita must have said the right thing, because Madeline smiled companionably. "You're at the top of your training group in marksmanship and close quarters combat." Nikita had suspected as much -- still, the recognition made her sit up slightly straighter. "I try," she said, feeling herself blush. "You do try," agreed Madeline. "Most of the time," she amended. Then she leaned back in her chair, narrowing her eyes as if observing Nikita across a vast and frozen distance. "There are a few exceptions." Her voice was cold. Stung by the shift in mood, Nikita opened her mouth to speak. Madeline held up a hand. "You're uncomfortable engaging in stereotypical displays of feminine behavior." The statement was blunt -- spoken without apparent malice, but also without sympathy. "It doesn't come easily to me," Nikita explained, defensive. "It's not who I am." "You're not a turn of the century samurai, either. And yet you're capable of bowing like one in the dojo." Sarcasm snapped through the air like a cracking whip. "That's different," Nikita protested. "How? You put on a costume and behave appropriately. That's precisely what I ask of you here." Nikita squirmed internally, but couldn't evade the question. Madeline was right: there weren't really any differences -- but she couldn't explain why one setting made her so uncomfortable while the other didn't. Couldn't -- or didn't want to. After a few moments, Madeline's expression softened. "What is it really, Nikita?" That dark gaze reached out, warm and enveloping, like an arm slipping reassuringly around Nikita's shoulders, telling her it was all right to admit the truth. It was all right. Nikita took a deep breath. "With the martial arts, I'm learning to protect myself," she began. "But this...." She faltered, afraid to voice the thought that swam near the surface of her mind. But it broke through anyway, and a wave of rage slammed into her. She clenched her fists. "I promised myself I would never become my mother." The words erupted, a scalding geyser of resentment held back far too long. "Pandering to the most despicable men in the hope that they would take care of her. Putting up with their abuse because she didn't know how to fend for herself. And tossing me aside because I got in the way of that." Her throat constricted until she thought she would choke; she tried to hold back the tears, but felt them blur her eyes. There was a long silence. Then the sound of Madeline's voice -- low and strangely vehement. "Your mother's rejection of you doesn't have to define the rest of your life." Something in the delivery of the words startled Nikita; each one enunciated so sharply, they seemed chipped out of ice. Nikita blinked several times, and her vision cleared. Madeline stared at her intensely, eyes clear and cold as a midnight sky. No more charm. No more evasion. Instead, Nikita saw anger, coiled tightly like a snake: still, yet ready to strike. Nikita didn't think the emotion was aimed at her; there was something too distant in it. Somehow, that unnerved her even more. Madeline stood. "Come upstairs." She spoke with the flat sternness of someone accustomed to being obeyed. Nikita did. They climbed the stairs to the loft. Madeline led Nikita to a gilt-framed mirror that hung on the rear wall, and reached into a nearby clothes rack. Hangers scraped the metal rod and clacked against each other; swiftly, Madeline withdrew a blue cocktail dress and held it out. "Put this on." The tone was milder, but it was still a command. Nikita slipped out of her shirt and pants and dropped them to the floor. She stepped into the dress and wriggled it upwards, struggling to fit within its skin-tight confines. When she finished, Madeline zipped up the back and straightened the shoulder straps. Grasping her by the shoulders, Madeline turned Nikita toward the mirror. The fabric curved and clung to her, sequins shimmering as she moved. "You're a beautiful woman, Nikita. That's not a matter of opinion. It's a fact." Madeline stroked Nikita's hair, hands gentle, threading through the tresses. "If you can learn to control people's response to that, you'll be able to protect yourself better than any martial art could. That's what your mother never understood." Nikita stared at her reflection. The blue of the dress made her eyes gleam like sapphires; the light above the mirror set her hair aglow. It was dazzling. Mesmerizing. And not quite real. This isn't me. This can't be me. It's someone else. "Seize that power," Madeline whispered, breath warm in Nikita's ear. "Leave your mother's mistakes behind." Nikita began to breathe more deeply; her skin flushed with a sensation both unfamiliar and dizzying. Was it power? She wasn't sure she knew what that felt like. Whatever it was, it was too much. She turned away from the mirror, but the feeling didn't dissipate. Instead, it surged; she couldn't move, she couldn't speak, but her heart pounded, hard and fast. Madeline's caresses moved to her face. The fingers hovered, barely making contact, so light Nikita might have imagined it. She closed her eyes and felt them trace her skin. When their lips touched, she realized she'd expected it. She wasn't certain who kissed whom, or if it even mattered. All that was important was the lingering softness; she gave into it, let it overwhelm her, wanted it to last forever even as it stirred a violent hunger for something more. Arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her in; hands clasped her back and stroked along her spine. Her own hands roamed and explored, slipping down the curve of hips and thighs. The kisses grew moister. Mouths opened; tongues met; bodies pressed against each other, clasping and merging. Losing equilibrium, Nikita found herself falling backwards. She clutched at the clothes rack to balance herself; a tangle of fabric enveloped her as she toppled to the floor. She landed on a pile of jumbled silk, cotton, satin, fur. Madeline fell beside her. Their breaths gasped and intermingled, warm and heavy with desire; their clothes joined the mound of others, tugged off hastily and thrown aside. They grasped each other fiercely -- fingers kneaded; tongues tasted flesh. For a time, she lost awareness of who and where she was; she tensed in agonized anticipation until she shuddered and heard an otherworldly groan. Hers, or Madeline's, or both of theirs -- she couldn't tell, and didn't care. This was power. And it was intoxicating. Afterwards -- long afterwards, it seemed -- Madeline sat up. The light pooled on her skin and tinged her hair with a reddish radiance. "You should go." She played with a strand of Nikita�s hair as she spoke; her voice strained with what sounded like regret. Nikita nodded. They dressed in silence. When she finished, Nikita reached to straighten the fallen clothes rack. Madeline placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'll take care of that." Nikita blinked. "Okay." Madeline touched Nikita's arm. Lightly, almost hesitantly. "I'll see you tomorrow." She smiled, as if in reassurance, but her eyes were those of a ghost. ************ Chapter Six Nikita didn't sleep that night. She tried, lying motionless on her back, then shifting restlessly from side to side. Eventually, she gave up and stared into the darkness. What exactly had happened between her and Madeline? More importantly, what did it mean for her future? She asked herself again and again, but found no answers: only uncertainty, worry, and doubt. Finally, it was morning. She showered, dressed, and made her way to Madeline's office. With each step she took, her stomach throbbed with what could have been either dread or excitement. When Nikita entered the office, Madeline's back was to the door. She stood placing cut flowers into a vase, her movements relaxed and unhurried. She ignored Nikita's presence, adjusting and readjusting the blooms and branches with a studied fastidiousness. Even when she appeared to have finished, she said nothing, and inspected the arrangement for several moments longer. Finally, she turned toward Nikita, her face nearly as pale as the white petals beside her. "Effective immediately," she said, "you're to return to your standard training schedule." Her voice was formally precise, neither cold nor warm. Nikita searched Madeline's eyes for a hint of the other woman's mood -- for signs of embarrassment, regret, guilt, even shame -- but saw nothing. It left her feeling helpless, like someone standing in a field of quicksand, with no way of knowing which path was safe and which was deadly. "It was a mistake, wasn't it?" she asked hesitantly. "Yesterday?" Nikita nodded. Madeline's expression softened, but only slightly. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about, but also nothing that will be repeated." Nikita understood. In other words, yes, it was a mistake. One they would pretend hadn't happened. "Right," she said, both relieved and saddened. She paused, then added compulsively, as if it might clear away the awkwardness, "I'm not sure what happened, but if it was my fault, I'm sorry." Madeline shook her head. "Don't apologize. It was a natural reaction to the circumstances I placed you in." Was Madeline blaming herself? She might be right to do so: she was the superior, Nikita the subordinate. But that didn't seem fair, either. Nikita hadn't resisted. She hadn't objected. In truth, she hadn't really minded. "It's not your fault, Madeline," she insisted, wanting to convince both of them. "It's not anyone's fault. It just...happened." Madeline's face filled with an odd expression: half amused, half apologetic. "You had a stumbling block, Nikita. A serious one. I created an environment designed to help you push past it." Her smile was gentle. "You succeeded." Understanding came slowly, blossoming into astonishment. "You planned this? As part of my training?" "Planning is a necessary component of everything," Madeline replied smoothly. Then she paused, and drew a breath. "Nevertheless, one must also be flexible enough to improvise, if the situation warrants." Had she answered the question or not? That sense of standing on the edge of quicksand returned, and this time Nikita felt herself sinking. She laughed, both in shock and in an effort to hide her discomfort. "So, Madeline, do you do this sort of training with all the recruits?" "No." Madeline blinked, and for an instant Nikita thought she saw that look of sadness from the prior day -- it came and went like a shadow from a passing cloud. They watched each other in silence. Nikita waited as long as she could stand, then threw out her challenge. "It wasn't all just training, was it?" For a moment, Nikita thought Madeline might actually answer. But then the moment passed. "Michael's waiting for you," Madeline said evenly. "You'd better get going." ************ Epilogue: "Four Light Years Farther" It wasn't all just training, was it? As Nikita watched Madeline stare defiantly at Jones, it occurred to her that Madeline had never answered her question. Not then; not later; and certainly not now. Nikita had only asked it once. Yet it hung between them afterwards, like a scent that lingers for years in the air of a closed room. Most of the time, Nikita ignored it; sometimes, she was able to forget it. But then there would be a look, or a certain tone of voice, and she would wonder all over again. It could have explained everything. Or then again, maybe not. The sound of Jones' voice broke into her thoughts. "If you insist," he said, addressing Madeline. "No," Nikita blurted out. She meant to turn toward Jones, but found she couldn't. She could only look at Madeline, who refused to look back. "We've discussed this, Nikita," said Jones, a touch impatiently. "And you know where I stand. It's not the way." "There's no place for her here." No, there wasn't. That was one of the central conclusions of Nikita's own report. But this was also the person who convinced her she was beautiful, and that it was a source of strength. Whatever the motive, it was still a gift. "Maybe not in Section, but she does have assets." Out of the corner of her eye, Nikita saw Jones turn his head toward her. "Is this a personal plea?" He sounded surprised, but not necessarily disapproving. "Yes." She stared at Madeline with burning eyes, as if she could communicate her thoughts by the sheer intensity of her gaze. After everything that's happened, I'm offering you forgiveness. Please, take it. A tiny frown formed on Madeline's face. For the first time during the review, she looked disconcerted. Maybe even unsure of herself. Please, just take it. Jones turned back to Madeline. "You understand, this decision is mine, and mine alone." At Jones' words, Madeline's expression hardened, the hint of wavering vanishing so thoroughly it was as if it hadn't existed. "No. You understand. I'll make my own decision regarding my fate." Madeline reached behind her head, her expression strangely triumphant. When she brought her hand back, she held a capsule. Nikita knew what it was. She also knew there was no time to react. So she watched, numb with a sense of inevitability. Madeline sat. She glanced back and forth from Jones to Nikita. Slowly, with the deliberate flourish of someone who knows she can't be stopped and wants to flaunt that power, she placed the capsule in her mouth and bit down. Her eyes glazed over immediately, but death waited. It let her stare at her chosen fate for several moments before it sent her body into convulsions. She trembled slightly, but remained seated upright, eyes still gazing into an invisible distance. For an instant, a look of agony crossed her face -- or maybe it was horror, as if she had seen something that might have changed her mind. Then the trembling ceased and she slumped over, still. She wouldn't even accept Nikita's mercy. "I shall miss her fortitude." Jones hit an intercom. "Housekeeping, please." Nikita stared at the figure in the chair, and felt the numbness lift. She, too, would miss something. She just wasn't sure what.