men have you saved?”
“A few.”
“And Patrukans?”
“Patrukans too.”
I shrugged. “Why the hell not? I suppose we’re all equally alien to you.”
“You are not alien,” she said. “I assure you that at this moment I am every bit as human as the Rebecca of your dreams. In fact, I am the Rebecca of your dreams.” She flashed me a smile. “I even want to do what that Rebecca wants to do.”
“Is it possible?” I asked curiously.
“Not while you have a broken leg,” she answered, “but yes, it’s not only possible, but natural.” I must have looked doubtful, because she added, “It would feel exactly the way you hope it would feel.”
“You’d better bring the clothes back before I do something really stupid that’ll mess up my arm and leg even worse,” I said.
And instantly she was clothed again.
“Better?” she asked.
“Safer, anyway,” I said.
“While you’re thinking deep serious thoughts, I’ll start making your breakfast,” she said, helping me to the shade of the tree, then going back into the bubble to find some H-rations.
I sat motionless for a few minutes, considering what I had learned. And I came to what seemed, at least at the time, a surprising conclusion. She was my dream girl. She was drop-dead gorgeous—to me, anyway. We shared dozens of interests, and she was as passionate about them as I was. I felt comfortable with her, and knowing that she was really something else didn’t disturb me half as much as I’d thought it would. If she was Rebecca only when I was around, that was better than never having a Rebecca at all. And she cared for me; she had no reason to say so if it wasn’t true.
She walked over and handed me a plate filled with soya products that were designed to look and taste like anything except soya products. I put the plate on the ground and took her hand in mine.
“You don’t shrink from my touch,” I noted, stroking her arm gently.
“Of course not,” she said. “I am your Rebecca. I love your touch.”
“I don’t shrink from yours either,” I said, “which is probably a little more surprising. I’m sitting here, touching you, looking at you, smelling the nearness of you, and I don’t give a damn who you are or what you look like when I’m not around. I just want you to stay.”
She leaned down and kissed me. If it felt like anything other than being kissed by a human woman, I sure as hell couldn’t tell the difference.
I ate my breakfast, and we spent the morning talking—about books, about art, about theater, about food, about a hundred things we had in common. And we talked in the afternoon, and we talked in the evening.
I don’t know when I fell asleep, but I woke up in the middle of the night. I was laying on my side, and she was curled up against me. I felt something warm and flat on my leg, not a bandage. It seemed to be…sucking is a terrible word; extracting…some of the infection from my leg. I had a feeling that it was some part of her that I couldn’t see; I decided not to look, and when I woke up in the morning she was already gathering some firewood for warming my breakfast.
We spent seven idyllic days together at that campsite. We talked, we ate, I began walking on a pair of crutches she made. Four times she excused herself and ran off, and I knew she’d picked another distress signal out of the air, but she was always back a few minutes later. Long before those seven days were up I realized that, despite a broken leg and a shredded arm, they were the happiest days I’d ever spent.
I spent my eighth day with her—my ninth on Nikita—making my way slowly and painfully back to the spot where the ship would pick me up the next morning. I set up my bubble after dinner, and crawled into it a couple of hours later. As I was starting to drift off I felt her lie up against me, and this time there was no illusion of clothing.
“I can’t,” I said unhappily. “My leg…”
“Hush,” she whispered. “I’ll take care of everything.”
And she did.
* * * *
She was making breakfast when I awoke.
“Good morning,” I said as I emerged from the bubble.
“Good morning.”
I hobbled over and kissed her. “Thank you for last night.”
“I hope we didn’t damage your wounds.”
“If we did, it was worth it,” I said. “The ship is due in less than an hour. We have to talk.”
She looked at me expectantly.
“I don’t care what you are,” I said. “To me you’re Rebecca, and I love you. And before the ship arrives, I’ve got to know if you love me too.”
“Yes, Gregory, I do.”
“Then will you come with me?”
“I’d like to, Gregory,” she said. “But…”
“Have you ever left Nikita before?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “Whenever I sense that someone with whom I’ve been linked is in physical or emotional pain.”
“But you always come back?”
“This is my home.”
“Did you visit Myron Seymour after he left Nikita?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” I said. “Either you did or you didn’t.”
“All right,” she said unhappily. “Either I did or I didn’t.”
“I thought you were never going to lie to me,” I said.
“I’m not lying, Gregory,” she said, reaching out and laying a hand on my good shoulder. “You don’t understand how the bond works.”
“What bond?” I asked, confused.
“You know that I look like this and I took this name because I was drawn irresistibly to your pain and your need, and found the name and the image in your mind,” she said. “We are linked, Gregory. You say that you love me, and probably you do. I share that emotion. But I share it for the same reason I can discuss your favorite books and plays—because I found them where I found Rebecca. When the link is broken, when I’m not in contact with you any more, they’ll be forgotten.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “And everything I feel for you this minute will be forgotten too.”
I just stared at her, trying to comprehend what she’d said.
“I’m sorry, Gregory,” she
