When Riley drifted out of sleep at last, she couldn't think where she was: it was dark, enclosed somehow, and instead of lying in bed she was curled against something firmer than pillows, something velvety and curved, and she hurt all over, but it was all right; everything was all right. That was the first thing she remembered: that it was, finally, all right.

She shifted a little, and blinked the sleep-blur from her eyes; and she was lying in Karr's driver's seat, curled in a knot, and the windows were tinted black around her. As she came fully awake, she remembered the rest of it, and reached out, wordless, helpless, and brushed his voice panel with her fingertips. The dash lights were all cold and dark, and she thought suddenly that it had all been a dream, that he was dead, that the drug-runner's guns had killed him finally and irrevocably and that she was going to start to scream and not be able to stop...

"Demain," said a soft voice, "des l'aube, a l'heure qui blanchit la campagne, je partirai. Je sais que tu m'attends."

Riley's fingers paused, and then of their own accord returned to the panel, touching the lights. Karr gave a little wordless gasp, his voice still sounding a little rough, as if he were having trouble breathing. After a moment, he continued: "J'irai par la foret; j'irai par la montagne; je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps."

She had no words; she could find none. She merely uncurled herself from her huddled knot and leaned forward to kiss his voice panel.

After a long time, resting her forehead against his wheel, she found she could breathe again. "Then...........you do understand," she whispered. "You do know."

"Yes," said Karr gently. "I understand, and I know, and I love you."

She curled her arms around the wheel, hugging him. "Oh, God, Karr........I.....I thought it was over. I thought you were dead. I......"

"I know," he said again, regret in his soft tones. "I'm sorry.....I....." He paused, as if what he had to say next took a lot of preparation. "When I left you in Salt Lake......I didn't know where I was going. I had no idea what to do, I was just.....going." Riley raised her head for a moment and opened her mouth to say something, but he didn't let her. "I wasn't thinking clearly. I just wanted out. And when I got down to LA.....it was as if something finally made sense, Riley, as if I was seeing things for the first time, and I thought that nothing I could ever be would be worth what you'd given up......what Richard had given up......and that without you, nothing would ever be worthwhile anyway......" His voice modulator flickered, a sound like a cough. "I didn't want to be. Not if that was how things were."

"Oh, Karr," she murmured, stroking the sensor set on the steering column. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, my love......I'm sorry...."

"No," he told her. "No. I.....left in a hurry, without thinking, without considering, and I ran off with the wrong impression. But I was going to end, that night. Somehow." Another of those little coughing crackles. "All of which went right out of my mind when I saw them aim at Kitt. I only happened to be there by accident—I had no idea what was going on until I saw the men line up their weapons, and then there was no time to think about anything. I....didn't expect what happened."

Riley's tears made little glistening cabochons on the hard-strapped leather of the wheel. "You didn't deliberately open your hood?" She had feared that. Feared his helpless misery might have driven him to make that decision; and when Karr decided something, he carried out his intentions to the end.

"No," he said. "And I.....realized, when I found that I was dying, that I didn't want to."

She kissed the recessed Shadow in the center of the wheel. "You don't know how happy that makes me," she told him quietly. "That you wanted to come back."

"I could hear you, you know," said Karr. "In the lab. A little; it was like being in a cold, dark room, no sensory perception at all except a very faint echo of a voice. I don't remember much of it."

"How did you come back?" she asked him softly.

"I don't know." His voice panel lit up with another cough, and then another. "It was.....terrifying, Riley. It hurt so badly....."

She closed her eyes, hearing the memory of pain, feeling it in the echoes of her own bruising. Karr's voice shook a bit. "It was like the cliff, only it went on and on......not just a moment of agony, and then nothing, but pain that I thought would drive me mad....."

"Oh, Karr," she whispered.

"Then.....it.....it went away, somehow. Bonnie was there. I remember coming out of it and seeing Bonnie, and the lab, and everyone there was....so happy..."

"Of course they were," she told him, gently. "You saved a lot of lives, Karr."

He coughed, the lights jumping, and she stroked his dash as if to soothe him. "Riley......?" he said, after a moment. "Jay called me. From France."

She said nothing, just stroking his curving dash, over and over. "He said....he said he'd never stop loving you."

She knew he was watching her. The fisheye lens on the dash was glowing faintly red.

"I know," she said, after a moment. "That's what he said to me, when he drove away. I'll never forget him," she added, in a slightly different tone. "But he was right, Karr. I could never love him the way I love you. I can't help it."

Karr sighed, settling on his springs; the cabin heat rose a little. "Then.....we have an understanding."

"We have an understanding," she repeated, and then, softer, "mon cher."

**

It was raining when they buried Alexandra in the clifftop cemetery. Riker Spar read the service; neither of them had been religious, but the words felt right in his mouth, sounded right in the gentle drizzle that blanketed the coast in grey. The curl of smoke from Riker's cigarette blended with the rain, a light clear pale grey exactly the colour of a pair of eyes that had haunted Alexandra for the last few fateful weeks.

Few people had come; few had been invited. Alexandra had not led the sort of life that makes friendship easy to come by, and those who had counted her a friend had not wished to see her lowered into the cold ground; she had been so much alive that it was better to remember her that way, rather than as a name and pair of dates on a black headstone.

Riker bent down, closing the book, and set a single white rose on his sister's coffin. The rain intensified, soaking his hair, beating down on the shoulders of his four-thousand-dollar Armani topcoat, as he stood back and let them lower her into the earth.

He turned and walked back through the pouring rain to his Viper, and paused; two other black cars remained, though the rest of the funeral party had already left. Riker squinted through the rain, and made out a dim red light on the front of one of them, and recognized that fucking Trans Am that had followed Alex, back when this began. Oh, someone was going to hurt for this, he thought, slipping his hand into his pocket and closing his fingers around the butt of the .38 automatic he carried. He started to walk again, more purposefully this time.

The Trans Am's door clicked open, and a tall man in black got out, leaning on the car's roof, ignoring the rain as Riker was ignoring it. They stared at each other through the grey curtains. Riker was the first to speak.

"You," he said raggedly.

"She was a heroine," said the man in black. "She saved my life twice."

Riker blinked. The red light on the Trans Am's nose flicked back and forth.

"I am so sorry," said another voice, a soft, cultured voice that made Riker think of New England. "She was a remarkable woman, Mr. Spar. I owe her my life as well."

Riker stared. The man in black gave him a weary smile. Beside them, the other black car—which was empty, Riker saw—moved forward a little to join them. He was still staring.

"As do I," said another voice, low and cool. "Please accept our condolences, Mr. Spar."

The man in black reached out and gripped Riker's shoulder briefly, a quick meaningful gesture of sympathy and gratitude, and got back into his talking Trans Am. The two black cars pulled out of the lot, smoothly and surely even in the downpour, and left Riker standing alone by his Viper, the .38 forgotten in his pocket, suddenly aware that there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in his philosophy.

**

"I'm sorry about Harrington," said Devon, quietly, standing behind his desk with his arms folded, looking more than ever like something out of an Agatha Christie novel. "I'm so sorry, Riley."

She didn't reply immediately, toying with the butterfly clip on the bandage around her wrist. "Jane," she said, after a while. "I think it's Jane again, now."

Devon blinked, and sat down. "May I ask why?"

She looked up, and met his gaze, and he found himself thinking how old she looked all of a sudden; not old so much as mature, perhaps, or aware. "I was Riley Stone for a long time. I stopped being Jane Balardine for a reason, but that reason's.......gone, now. And I find I don't much like Riley Stone's memories."

Devon regarded her thoughtfully. "Harrington.....?"

"Yes. Richard was part of Riley Stone's life. Both of them are over now." Her voice was level, controlled. "Devon.....I'm sorry. About all of this. About lying to you, stealing the disks, getting everyone involved in this little soap opera of mine."

He sighed. "Don't be. We've got Karr, now. We have never really had Karr before, and it's enough that you brought him to us. He saved Kitt's life. And Michael's."

"I know," said Jane Balardine. "And mine."

There was another silence, but it was a companionable, rather pleasant one. Eventually Devon reached across the desk and patted her hand. "It's good to have you back, Jane. We've all missed you."

She gave him a tired grin. "I never thought I'd hear that. I expected you to hand me my severance pay when you called me in here."

"Good Lord, you didn't really think I was going to fire you?"

"Of course I did," said Jane. "I mean, I stole valuable and sensitive FLAG property, along with a whole bunch of other infractions. What else could you do?"

"Give you a considerable raise," said Devon wryly. "Besides, if I fired you, I'd have to explain myself to your father, which is not a prospect I relish in the slightest." He gave her a little smile. "You need have no fear for your job security, my dear."

"Good." She beamed. "Because you'd have to drag me out of here with a chainfall."

"I rather expected you to say that." He leaned his elbows on the desk and adopted a more businesslike tone. "So how is Karr? Back to.....er, normal, I suppose I should say?"

"He's all right. Very shaken, but all right. There's something wrong in some of the vocal circuitry, he sounds like he's got a nasty cough, but they're working on him now." She paused. "What about Kitt?"

"Kitt's just fine," said Devon, with another smile. "I think it might do him some good to be......well, not to be one of a kind, for once. It's a very familiar feeling for him, and not necessarily a good one."

"I know," she said. "He's....helped Karr a lot, Devon. He finished the therapy we were doing on him. He let him know what he had been."

"I see," said Devon quietly.

"He needed to know." Jane looked down at her clasped hands. "He couldn't understand the memories he did have. He needed some of the gaps filled in."

"I think I understand."

She was about to say something else, to launch into a description of those terrible first days, of how they'd been so afraid they'd wiped Karr along with his old programming, but the phone rang. Devon picked it up. "Hello?"

She sat back, watching him. A series of emotions flickered across his face; she recognized surprise, then incredulity turning to amusement and then to serious consideration. "It's an interesting proposition," he said, his accent very pronounced. "But not entirely, shall we say, original? Kitt's voice was used for a radio play once, and we've had offers like this before."

She stared. What on earth was he talking about?

"...and while I don't have anything against such an agreement, it's not my call to make," he was saying. "I think you'd have to ask him."

"Devon?"

He waved her silent. "And Riley, of course. Jane Balardine."

"Devon, what the hell are you talking about?"

He took the receiver away from his ear and smiled. "It's a Mr. Jay Rose. He's interested in possibly casting Karr in a film. He says his voice has a remarkable quality he thinks is perfect for a project of his."

"Karr? In a movie?" Jane demanded, and then, "Jay Rose?"

"I believe you are acquainted with the gentleman," said Devon. "Just a minute, Mr. Rose." He pressed the Hold button on the phone, and set it down. "He says he has a story he would like to tell, and he would like to ask Karr to help him tell it."

"What story?" she asked, head still reeling at the thought of Karr on film. How...? They'd have to dub him over some brainless prettyboy actor, and she felt her mind revolt at the thought. Who on earth was good enough to do Karr's voice justice?

"He says it's a love story," said Devon gently. "And a kind of biography. The story of a friend of his, who saved a life, and ended his. I believe you were acquainted with that gentleman as well."

Jane's fingers tightened on the arms of her chair. "Oh, God," she murmured. "Oh, dear sweet God."

"Yes, I thought that might be your reaction," he said. "I'll tell him to forget about it."

She heard herself say, "No. No, don't. I...let me talk to him, please, Devon?"

Wordlessly he handed her the phone, and a moment later got up and left his office, gently closing the door behind him to leave her privacy intact. She didn't see the little smile on his face as he turned away.

**

Epilogue

Eight months later, the woman who had called herself Riley Stone strode down a staircase covered in red carpet, wearing a flowing dark-blue gown scattered with tiny gems, on the arm of a man whose green eyes were slightly different colours, and whose black hair featured one startling streak of white. The blinding staccato flare of flashguns surrounded them on a wave of hazy noise; microphone after microphone was thrust towards them, hundreds and hundreds of people struggled for a glimpse.

Fascinating though they were, the crowd's attention was only half on them; the true focus of their excitement was the low-slung black car that waited at the end of the carpet, a car without a recognizeable make or model, but a thing of unbelievable, powerful beauty. The people who were staring helplessly at it found them struggling for images that were beyond them, of frozen oil, of the deep burnished black of obsidian, of the glossy musculature of true-black Arabian stallions.

What a gimmick, they thought admiringly, as Jay Rose opened the driver's side door of the black car and helped Jane Balardine inside, before returning to stand at the end of the carpet; what a magnificent gimmick, bringing the star to the premiere in the car featured in the film; and some of them, watching, were close enough to see how Jane's slender hands did not touch the wheel as the car moved away from the curb, watched as she leaned back in the seat and laced her fingers behind her head, and they wondered. The film had been artistic, elegiac, but believable; and the more fancy-minded of the watchers found themselves considering how on earth they'd pulled some of those stunts, since everybody knew the damn car wasn't alive, while the others contented themselves with the computer animation theory. But they wondered, as they watched Jay Rose staring after the disappearing taillights, why a man who had just opened his most successful feature film ever—one of the most successful feature films of the last decade—was looking as though he was watching the true love of his life drive away with another man.