The dreadlocked man looked at the others. "So you can't wake 'em up?"

"I don't know." St. George shifted, kneeled, and patted Madelyn's cheeks. Up close he could see her eyes were dry. He shook her shoulders and poked her in the side.

"Pinch her earlobes," said Makana. "I heard once that's a good way to wake people up."

St. George tried it. Nothing. He picked her up in his arms. "Stand back," he said. "I'm going to try this again."

Madelyn's body tumbled toward the ceiling. Her arms swayed and her back arched. She reached her high point, her head tipped back, and she started to plummet back toward the stage floor.

Then she blinked twice and screamed.

St. George leaped into the air and caught her ten feet above the floor. She grabbed at him like a drowning person, pulling herself tight against him. "What the h.e.l.l?!" she shrieked.

Kennedy ran in with her pistol drawn.

"It's okay," St. George said. "I've got you."

Madelyn blinked again. "Where am I? What's going on?"

"I needed to wake you up," St. George said, "and nothing else was working. So I tried the same thing Stealth did." He settled on the ground and let her down.

She shook her head and looked at Kennedy and Makana.

He gave her a tight smile. "Wakey-wakey, Corpse Girl," he said.

"Jerk." She stuck her tongue out at him and stretched. Then she looked down at her legs and grinned. "Oh, thank G.o.d," said Madelyn. "I can walk again."

Kennedy crossed to Freedom and checked his pulse. "Is he drugged?" she asked St. George.

He shook his head. "It's Smith. He messed with all of our minds. They're in some kind of trance. A dream." He looked at Madelyn. "Do you remember any of it?"

"Most of it, I think." Her chalk eyes turned up to the ceiling. "Where are we?"

"The Mount."

She blinked and glanced over her shoulder. "Really?"

"You just said you remembered most of it."

"Most of the dream," she said. Her lips twisted as she looked around the stage. "I can't remember the last time I was awake."

St. George took a few steps toward the door. "Try to wake up everyone else," he said. "Use bright light or buckets of water or something. Try to get them oriented when they wake up."

"Where are you going?" asked Kennedy.

"To find Agent Smith."

"But we don't know where he is," said Madelyn.

"He'll be where he always is," said St. George. "Behind the scenes. I'm going to go talk to the mayor."

St. George stepped out of Stage 32 and hurled himself up into the air. His shoulders buzzed with the sensation of flight. He shot up above the buildings, into the sky, and hovered there for a moment.

The Mount was stretched out below him. Straight ahead was the water tower, off to his left were the facades of New York Street. Los Angeles spread out past the studio walls on all sides. He could see hundreds, maybe thousands, of people-living people-walking in the streets and between buildings. Off in the distance he could see the Big Wall, with dozens of tiny guards walking along the top.

And past that were the exes. Close to the Big Wall they swarmed like ants. They were pinp.r.i.c.ks from here, just big enough that he could see them lurch and stagger.

He soared down and swooped over the garden. A few people looked up. Some of them waved. He swung around and landed outside the Roddenberry Building.

Like a lot of the buildings at the Mount, Roddenberry was named after a famous filmmaker. They'd all thought of it as the town hall for years, even when it was nothing but Stealth's offices and a few conference rooms that got used once a month or so. Now it really was the town hall. Almost half the offices were being used. The mayor was on the fourth floor. He remembered Stealth had agreed it was a good symbolic move to put the mayor's office where hers had been, to make it clear to everyone the heroes were turning the governing of Los Angeles back over to the people.

St George marched through the lobby, past the half-dozen or so folks there. Once he reached the stairwell his feet left the ground and he flew up the stairs. His body jackknifed at each landing like a high-diver.

The door on the fourth-floor landing was open.

It was very bright. Stealth had always kept it dark, with plenty of shadows. Now light streamed in through the windows. There was a desk just by the stairs and elevators. A young man sat at the desk and looked up as St. George's feet touched the carpeted floor. Behind him, two large potted plants flanked the doors into the big conference room. They looked plastic. The inner office doors were open, too.

"Oh," said the man. "You. Do you have an appointment?"

They stared at each other for a moment. Then the man's face cracked and he chuckled. "Sorry," he said. "I couldn't resist. We don't even have a schedule set up yet. There's no appointments."

"Oh."

"Would you like some water or anything?" He pointed at the large bubbler across the reception area. "It's cold."

St. George almost said no, but then realized how dry his mouth was. He filled a plastic cup and drained it. It made him feel a bit sharper and more awake. His stomach grumbled again as the water hit.

"The mayor thought you might be stopping by once you and the other heroes got back," said the young man. He waved his hand over his shoulder. "Go on in," he said.

St. George set the cup down and walked past him.

The blinds were up, and Stealth's old office was flooded with sunlight. All the screens were gone. She'd taken them with her when she moved to ... wherever her base was now. It struck him that he didn't know, and he wasn't sure if it was because his memory was still spotty or she just hadn't told him.

The big marble conference table had been moved down to the other end of the room and turned. It was a ma.s.sive desk now, covered with inboxes, a phone, two computer screens, and a small collection of photos. It all still looked very arranged. There hadn't been time for any of it to settle and find its natural place yet.

There were three big chairs in front of the desk, and one huge one behind it where the mayor was sitting. With its high back, St. George thought it looked a lot like a throne. He was pretty sure it was a deliberate choice.

He looked around. There was no one in the office but him and the mayor. No sign of Smith that he could see. The mayor was wearing a pant suit and a dark tie. She finished reading the doc.u.ment in her hand, scribbled a quick note on it, and looked up at him.

"Well," said Christian Nguyen. "I can't say I'm surprised you came back early."

St. George stepped up to the desk. "Where is he?"

"He who?"

"Smith. Agent John Smith, from Project Krypton."

Christian pursed her lips, then shook her head. Each movement looked rehea.r.s.ed, like she'd practiced to get the maximum effect from each one. "Last I heard, your lot accused him of being some kind of traitor and he escaped to another military base."

"He's here now," said St. George, "and I'm betting he's working with you, even if you don't realize it."

She shook her head. "I can already see where this is all going," she said. "First you'll convince everyone that the government representative you claimed was some kind of supervillain is here at the Mount."

"Everyone from Krypton knows he-"

"Then you'll seize power again," she interrupted. She stood up behind the desk and gazed at him with cold eyes. " 'Just for a little while,' you'll say, 'until we've got everything under control again.' And then you'll 'discover' some flimsy evidence that says Smith and I were part of some conspiracy and the election's invalid." She shook her head. "You'll say anything to get me out of this office and one of your little spineless sock puppets in here."

He closed his eyes and counted to five. Then he opened them and glanced around the office again. They were still alone. "Christian," he said, "this isn't about you. Agent Smith is here somewhere and-"

"No, he isn't."

"He's here somewhere and he's dangerous. He kills people for kicks, Christian. No one's challenging the election, but if he's not with you we need to figure out where he is. Who he's using."

She shook her head again. "You're so desperate to start trouble. You just can't stand the fact that people can depend on me when things get tough."

"Christian, please ... if you aren't going to help, I'm going to have to do this without you." He paused for a moment and decided to risk pushing one of her b.u.t.tons. "That's not going to look good your first week in office."

She stared at him for a moment. Then the faintest hint of a smile crossed her face. "You still don't get it," she said. "You honestly don't understand what's going on here."

"I think I've got a better idea than you."

She shook her head. "No, I don't think you do." She gestured at one of the big chairs on his side of the desk. "Sit down. I'd like to explain something to you."

"We don't have time for-"

"This won't take long. Humor me, please?"

He sighed and dropped into the closest chair.

She sat down in her own chair and waved her hands at the desk. "This gives me power," she said. "This office puts me on par with you. All the people who listened to me before have been validated. All the people who listened to you, like it or not, are listening to me a little closer. Because they know I've got power now."

She reached out, set her hands on the desk, and laced them together. Then she pushed her two index fingers forward. It was like she had a gun pointed at St. George. "Not power like yours," she said. "Nothing physical. The secret about power-real power-is that it's all up here."

One hand came away from the other and she tapped the center of her forehead.

"People think power is a thing. Something they can seize or gain or take away from others. Knowledge is power, money is power, strength is power." She waved her hand, brushing the words and phrases out of the air. "They're the ones who never get real power, because they're always chasing the wrong thing."

St. George nodded once and tried to make it seem polite. "I think we've got more important things to be doing right now."

"You said you'd let me explain, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did," he admitted, although he wasn't sure why he'd agreed.

"Real power is a concept," she said. "It's an idea. You go out, and you spread your idea with whatever means you can. Posters, newspapers, commercials."

"We haven't had a newspaper in Los Angeles for over four years," he said.

Christian shook her head. "I'm just giving examples. What it really comes down to is talking to people. That's how you get your idea out there. Through communication."

St. George's brow wrinkled. "I'm not sure I follow."

She put her hands out, gesturing like a politician giving a speech. "If someone asks the right question," she explained, "they can suggest a certain answer. Plant an idea in your mind. Maybe it's not much at first-most ideas aren't-but it's there, tickling the back of your mind. And over time that idea grows and gets stronger. And eventually it becomes more than just an idea. It becomes something bigger. It overwhelms rational thought. It becomes power."

St. George stood up. "We don't have time for this," he said. "If you're not going to help, that's fine. I'm going to get the scavengers and the guards to start a search." He headed for the door.

"I'm not done talking yet, George," said Christian. "Could you stay seated?"

He stopped halfway across the room. The hero looked at the doorway, then back at her. He shuffled back and sat down in his chair.

She smiled and adjusted her tie. "Thank you."

It was a broad, fake smile. She beamed it at him for a moment until his eyes widened with recognition.

"Yeah, I know," she said. "It freaked me out at first, too."

People Can Depend On Me When Things Get Tough.

THEN.

I STOOD OUTSIDE Stage 32 and waited for St. George to appear in the sky. Any minute now. This was going to be fun.

Being out on the streets of the Mount reminded me of another day out in the sun with St. George, almost a year ago. I look back on it a lot, even though it's still confusing as h.e.l.l. The moment that I can remember from two different points of view.

I remember being Christian Nguyen and seeing John Smith nod.

I remember being John Smith and seeing Christian in front of me. "I'm glad to know there are people like you here in the Mount. People we'll be able to depend on even when things are tough." I remember feeling the words slide off his tongue, and echoing in her ears. "I can depend on you when things get tough, can't I, Christian?"

I remember being Smith and feeling the ever-so-faint tingle that told me the question was burrowing its way into her mind, planting ideas.

I remember being Christian and smiling. "Of course you can," I'd said. "I'm always honored to serve the people."

I said, "Excellent." I used my confidential smile, the one that made people think we were sharing a small secret, and I remember seeing the smile as Christian and feeling proud.

It's a weird sensation, I've got to admit. Remembering it all through two sets of eyes, two sets of ears. I'm stuck with it, though. It's the one part of her that's held on, the single most important moment of her life. The moment she met me.

Of course, I wasn't expecting this. I just planted a few deep thoughts and ideas and figured I'd have a happy sock puppet at the Mount. Someone in my hip pocket if I ever needed them.

It turns out Christian had a little secret of her own, though. Nothing big on its own, nothing huge. Every time you hear about someone who could've been the greatest physicist in the world if they put their mind to it, it stands to reason there's a few dozen people who would've been tied for the fiftieth- or hundredth-greatest physicist in the world. If they'd put their minds to it. h.e.l.l, I'd bet there's a good chance she never even realized she had it. She was in deep denial, half the reason it never worked on anything past a subconscious level. And even then, it was a timid thing.

Christian had her own superpower. She taps into the gestalt, if I remember those old Psych 101 terms. She brings people together, connects them on a subconscious level. I mean, how else could someone with zero charisma and interpersonal skills be a successful, honest politician?