"Give me a little credit," Christian said. She leaned against the huge desk. "It wasn't a landslide. I got a healthy forty-two percent of the vote. Richard got twenty-three. You and Stealth got about sixteen percent between you, although I think she actually beat you by a couple of votes. Mickey Mouse got eight votes and Superman got four. All very nice and believable."

"And what about us? You couldn't've hidden from us forever."

"I'll be honest, George. I'd kind of hoped you'd all just pleasantly live in your little dreamworld until you starved to death, but ..." She stopped and looked at him. "It was Sorensen's kid, wasn't it? I knew she was going to be a problem."

"She remembered you," said St. George. "She knew you were up to something."

Christian Smith smiled and shook her head. "It's the little details that always get you in the end. She almost got you out of it yesterday. You probably would've woken up if I hadn't been there to give you a few fresh commands." She straightened up and brushed her suit down. "Anyway, we should get going. Could you follow me, George?"

He stood up without thinking.

Christian crossed the room. "And you haven't tried to hurt me so far. That's good. Can you keep that up for a bit longer?"

He knew he wouldn't hurt her, but he didn't want to nod. His head went up and down against his will.

She paused just before the door. "By the way," she added in a lower voice, "you might be having some clever thoughts about trying to hurt me in some indirect way or maybe warning some people. That'd be bad. Don't forget who I am and what I can do. Todd out there will crush his own windpipe if I give him the word. I've got similar suggestions planted in about fifty folks all over the city."

They stepped out to the elevator links. Todd smiled at them. "They said they'd be ready for you, ma'am," he told her.

"Excellent," said Christian. "Those letters on my desk are signed. Could you make sure they get copied and go out to everyone?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She led St. George past the elevators and they went down the stairs. He noticed Christian was wearing flats. He wondered if Smith had trouble walking in heels.

"I had high hopes for you," she said. Her voice echoed up to him in the stairwell. "A couple years ago, when I found out the Mighty Dragon was still alive and kicking ... I really thought this was going to be the big chance I'd been waiting for. And then, G.o.dd.a.m.nit, even after all you've gone through you still turn out to have this d.a.m.ned moral code."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

She shook her head. "It would've been so much easier if you'd just stayed in your happy place and starved to death, but you're such a G.o.dd.a.m.ned Boy Scout you make Freedom look bad." She hit the crash bar and they stepped out into the lobby. "And he actually was a Boy Scout. He got his Eagle badge from a senator and everything."

Christian smiled at a few folks as they walked out of Roddenberry and into the sunlight. She slipped a pair of sungla.s.ses from her pocket as they stepped out from under the canopy and pushed them over her face with one hand. They walked a few more yards and she stopped near the edge of the garden. St. George could see a few people moving between the plants, pulling weeds and gathering soybeans.

The ground shook. Like any Los Angeles resident, he'd lived through dozens of minor earthquakes. The tremors barely registered until he noticed they came in slow, steady pulses.

Christian Smith smiled. "You should get ready, don't you think?"

He turned around.

Cerberus loomed over him. The battlesuit had been polished and cleaned. The ma.s.sive M2 rifles were mounted on its forearms, and the ammo belts looped around to the hopper on its back. Whoever was wearing the armor moved with a heavy stride, slamming each foot against the ground. An eager bruiser. Someone who wanted to fight.

"Lieutenant Gibbs," said Christian. "You remember when I warned you St. George and the others might come back and try to seize power?"

"Yes, ma'am." His voice was an electronic growl through the suit's speakers.

"Lieutenant," said St. George, "listen to me. This isn't-"

"Well, I'm afraid it's happened, just like we feared." She grinned up at the battlesuit. "You know what to do, right?"

"This isn't Christian Nguyen!" shouted St. George. "It's Agent Sm-"

The punch hit him in the face, but the fist was so big the bottom knuckle banged against the top of his chest.

He flew past the old paint building, bounced into the parking lot, and tumbled across the south end of the garden. He came to rest facedown in some dirt with a few blades of gra.s.s poking up through it. Dust and dry soil pattered around him.

St. George pushed himself up onto his knees and caught a burst of .50-caliber rounds across the chest. It knocked him back another half-dozen feet. He could hear people screaming. He saw a few figures running through the garden and hoped they were running away.

The hits hurt like all h.e.l.l. He wasn't sure, but he thought the rounds might have cracked a rib or two. He rolled to the side and back up onto his knees to avoid a second burst of gunfire. A third point on his rib cage flared with pain.

The earth was trembling again. He counted to three, focused, and then shot forward. He crossed his arms and rammed the t.i.tan just below the chestplate.

Cerberus bent over and staggered. He took a few steps after it and slammed the palm of his hand up into the armored helmet. The battlesuit tipped back and stumbled a few more feet before it fell over with the sound of a car crash.

St. George turned and leaped at Christian. If he could get one punch-a careful punch-he could knock her out. He didn't know if Smith's powers worked when he-she-was unconscious, but it couldn't hurt.

She smiled as he lunged through the air. One hand came up and waggled a finger at him. "I'm not the one you're fighting, am I?"

St. George froze in the air with his arm back. He dropped to the ground and landed on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he spat out.

"I think, technically, it's b.i.t.c.h now."

Behind him, he heard the sc.r.a.pe of metal on concrete as Cerberus climbed back to its feet.

"I helped get that suit built, George. I know how powerful it is. If there's anything in this city that can kill you, that's it." She sighed. "d.a.m.n. It really should've been Danielle doing this. I guess I didn't think of everything."

"Ma'am," shouted Gibbs from inside the battlesuit, "are you all right?"

"Just fine, Lieutenant," called Christian. She winked at St. George. "At least he hasn't stooped to hurting unarmed civilians. I don't think he'd sink that low, do you?"

He scowled and smoke curled out of his nostrils.

The ground shook and he saw the huge shadow of the arm coming down. He turned and caught it with both hands. The servos whined and Gibbs tried to force the arm down. St. George pushed it back up a few inches and glared up at the huge eyes.

The other arm swung around and caught him in the side. The world blurred and one of the square pillars in front of the Roddenberry doors. .h.i.t him in the back. The corner caught him right on the shoulder blade. A few cinder blocks crumbled and spun him off into the base of a large palm tree. Dust and grit sifted down from the canopy above.

"St. George," called someone. "You all right?"

A figure blotted out the sun. He shook his head clear and saw three people from the lobby standing over him. More dust drifted down onto their shoulders, but they didn't look up until the first golf b.a.l.l.sized chunks. .h.i.t their shoulders.

St. George shook his head clear, leaped up, and shoved them back. He caught the desk-sized slab of canopy on his fingertips, twisted, and pushed it away from the people. It crashed into the pavement and turned into so much rubble. A fist-sized piece of concrete bounced off his shoulder. He glanced at the trio. "Everyone okay?"

He heard the heavy footsteps approaching before they could answer. He grabbed a chunk of cinder block and plaster the size of a basketball and hurled it at the battlesuit. Cerberus tried to block it but the piece of rubble struck the side of the armored skull. St. George leaped into the air and headed back across the parking lot, into the open and away from the buildings.

Cerberus stomped after him. "Surrender now, sir," shouted Gibbs. The cannons came up and traced lines through the sky.

St. George looped around fast, swung down, and slammed his shoulder into the back of the battlesuit's knee. It tipped back and waved its arms, fighting for balance. St. George planted his feet, grabbed it by the arm, and twisted. The armored t.i.tan slammed down to the ground again.

His hands slid down the ma.s.sive arm until he reached the ammo feed for the M2. He tore the belt apart and the rounds and links jingled on the pavement. He leaped over the fallen battlesuit and found the other ammo belt.

Cerberus lunged up and grabbed him. The stunners came on. Electricity arced around the huge fingers as 200,000 volts raced through St. George. His muscles stiffened up and his skin tingled.

It froze him long enough for another punch to slam into his chest. He sailed across the open s.p.a.ce and slammed into the short wall that wrapped around the garden. Momentum flipped him over it and he tumbled into the parking area for the scavenger trucks. He bounced against Big Blue's reinforced grille and fell to the pavement.

If his ribs hadn't been cracked before, they were now.

"Holy s.h.i.t," muttered someone.

"Is he alive?" asked another voice. Hands wrapped around his arms and pulled him up. He heard other murmurs in the background.

St. George opened his eyes, blinked, and looked into a familiar face. Luke Reid, the head driver. He needed a shave. "You okay, boss?"

"Get out of here," St. George told them. "Everyone. Now."

He heard Cerberus stomping across the pavement. The battlesuit still had one M2 left, plus the stunners. And it was stronger than him. A lot stronger.

"Go!" shouted St. George. They saw the battlesuit approaching and scattered. He knew they could see the menace in its movements, too.

He looked around for anything that might give him an edge. There were some tools scattered around, but nothing too useful. He wasn't strong enough to throw one of the trucks, and even if he could it would cause too much damage. There was a case of motor oil, a half-dozen block-like batteries, and two stacks of tires for the big trucks.

He grabbed one of the tires and rolled it alongside him. It bounced against the wall and tipped back. He caught it with his thigh.

"Gibbs," he called out. He raised his hands. "This isn't right," he said. "You know me. I'm not a threat. I'm not your enemy."

"You're a traitor leading a coup against the mayor," growled the t.i.tan. "You're trying to overthrow the government."

"No I'm not. What have I said that would make you think that? What have I done that would make you think I'm doing that?"

"Liar!" The gun arm came up.

St. George kicked the tire into the air and smacked it toward Cerberus. The M2 thundered and sc.r.a.ps of black rubber rained down on the parking lot. Big Blue's windshield shattered.

It had given St. George time to step back to the stack. He flung two more tires like thick Frisbees, then pulled another one out of the pile and hurled it, too. He remembered reading years ago about people being killed at racetracks when tires came off at high speed and flew into the stands. He was pretty sure he was throwing them at least that hard.

Cerberus targeted the first two tires and annihilated them with bursts from the big gun. The third one slammed the battlesuit in the side of the chest hard enough to make it twist at the waist. The next one hit it in the shoulder. Then one struck the barrel of the M2 and knocked it down.

St. George threw tire after tire. They slammed into the armored t.i.tan and bounced off into the garden or toward the Melrose gate. One or two shot straight back and hit the short wall in front of St. George. It was like a brutal game of dodgeball. They weren't forcing the armored t.i.tan back, but they were stopping it from doing anything else.

He was pulling his punches. He knew it wasn't Danielle in the battlesuit, but he still knew it was hers. Part of her, almost. He didn't want to damage it.

He threw his last tire. "Agent Smith," he shouted.

Across the parking lot he saw Christian perk up. The battlesuit did, too. He'd caught Gibbs's attention.

"You remember Agent John Smith," St. George called out to Cerberus. "The one who tricked all of you. The one who killed Colonel Sh.e.l.ly."

The t.i.tan straightened up and lowered its arms. All the men and women from Project Krypton remembered Smith. He'd used them all, killed their commanding officer, and then bragged about it.

"Smith is here, Gibbs," said St. George. "He's trying to take control here just like he did out at the base."

The gun arm came back up. "I'm sorry if you're being influenced, sir," said Cerberus, "but it's my duty to protect the citizens and government, and right now you're an immediate threat."

St. George shook his head. "I'm not the one being influenced, Lieutenant."

"What?"

"I'm not the one he's trying to control."

The t.i.tan's M2 drifted down from St. George's face to his chest. The loose ammo belt waved back and forth on the battlesuit's other arm like a banner.

"Just tell me how Smith works," said St. George. "Just think for a minute. You were out there. You remember how he did it."

"Lieutenant Gibbs," shouted Christian. "You're not listening to him, are you?"

The armored skull turned to look at her, and St. George saw the t.i.tan's stance shift. "No, ma'am," said Cerberus. The battlesuit turned back and the M2 came back up.

St. George flew into the air as the rounds chewed up the wall and smashed into Big Blue's engine block. The front of the truck sagged. He was pretty sure it would never move again.

He tried to swoop around the t.i.tan and the gun arm tracked him. Another burst fired off with the deafening sound of a ba.s.s drum. The rounds almost missed him. Two of them hit him in the thigh, one cracked into his kneecap. He wobbled in the sky just long enough for a second burst to knock him back. He hit a palm tree and dropped out of the air. A yellow parking pylon, one of a dozen or so that still studded the area, caught him in the hip as he fell and flipped him onto his back.

He saw the steel fist plunging down at him and rolled out of the way. It cracked the pavement behind him. Cerberus shifted and tried to stomp, but St. George managed to focus enough to throw himself up to his feet.

The gun arm came up and blasted away. He leaped out of the way and it traced a path after him. He heard the rounds. .h.i.t concrete, gla.s.s, and wood. Screams echoed across the lot. St. George stopped dodging and blocked the last two bursts with his aching ribs. The rounds tore his shirt and leather jacket to shreds.

"Jesus, Gibbs," he coughed when the barrage stopped. "There's people everywhere! Civilians!"

The lieutenant growled and ignored him. Another punch came swinging around. St. George set his leg back to brace himself and managed to catch the fist with both hands. The impact made him slide back a foot.

Sorry, Danielle, he thought.

The gauntlet had three fingers and a thumb. Each one was as thick as a soda can. He grabbed the thumb and the farthest finger and twisted.

There was a squeal of metal and a few sparks as the steel hand tore apart. Cerberus yanked away, but it was too late. St. George let the two digits. .h.i.t the ground. One of the remaining fingers hung at a strange angle and twitched. The other one kept flexing as Gibbs held it up to check damage. "Son of a b.i.t.c.h," muttered the lieutenant.

The broken hand slammed into St. George's face. The two remaining fingers grabbed his head in an awkward pinch. He reached up to grab them and the stunners fired up again.

His muscles tensed. This time he felt it in his tongue and teeth and eyes. His eyelids twitched. The finger-claw tightened on his skull and lifted him off the ground. He reached up, tried to shake himself loose, but couldn't grab hard enough.

He felt the muzzle of the M2 settle against his stomach and a moment later he was punched in the gut a dozen times. At point-blank range the sound itself was a weapon. The barrel rose and the furious rounds battered their way up his chest. Then the impacts tore him free from the damaged fingers and he tumbled away.

St. George staggered back but managed not to fall over. He took in a deep breath to blind the t.i.tan with a burst of fire and his chest screamed with pain. A hundred spikes stabbed between his ribs. He coughed out some smoke, a few flickers of flame, and then slumped to his knees.

The battlesuit stepped forward and leveled the M2 against his head.

THIRTY-SIX.