by Peter Clines
I smiled and laced my fingers together. “Now, don’t you look at me that way,” I said to her. “Are you a little overtired, maybe?”
And then I hit her across the jaw with both hands.
She staggered back, and almost fell. Then she straightened up and her thin fingers rolled into fists.
I let my own fingers come apart and shook them out. I suck at fighting. I think I may have broken a finger. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”
She winced and reached up to touch one of her cheekbones.
“Are you too dizzy to stand up?”
The Corpse Girl swayed and dropped to one knee.
I watched her try to keep her balance and tapped my fingers against my leg. One of Christian’s odd muscle memories that shows up now and then. “You were sick when you were little, right? Muscular dystrophy or something? Your dad would mutter about it now and then after I killed you the first time.” She teetered back and forth, trying to fight the questions. “He did something to fix you, didn’t he?”
She fell over on her side. I took her by the arm and half led, half dragged her toward the circle of heroes. She struggled for a minute and I clucked my tongue at her. “You don’t want to act that way, do you?”
She stopped fighting.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just relax?”
She rolled down onto the blanket. She ended up on her side, then tipped over onto her back. She stopped breathing again.
I whispered to her as she settled down. She struggled a bit, but the questions sank into her brain and the ideas took hold. She blinked a few times and then went limp. Her blank eyes stared up at the ceiling.
She was going to be the wild card in all this. I wasn’t sure how long I could hold her, and I wasn’t sure if holding her would have any effect. I don’t think she can starve to death. I was tempted to just stomp her head in, but if the bodies were found that would lead to questions.
And I didn’t want to deal with questions. Not yet, anyway.
For now, it’s just a nice, peaceful sleep.
ST. GEORGE TRIED to get out of the chair. He strained his legs, tensed his back, forced his arms to push up. He focused on the spot between his shoulder blades and tried to hurl himself at the ceiling.
Nothing happened.
Christian grinned at him, then leaned forward in her seat. “Keep quiet for a minute, would you? And were you thinking of trying something?” she added. “I can see the smoke coming out of your nose.”
His mouth went dry and his lips pressed together. He glared at her.
“Todd,” she called out.
The young man appeared in the doorway. “Could you get on the radio and call the special channel for me? Tell them the word is ‘prodigal,’ and I’ll be coming to them. I’ll be there in …” She glanced at St. George. “Let’s say half an hour or so.”
Todd’s head bobbed up and down. “I’m sure they can make that happen, Ms. Nguyen.” He vanished back to his desk.
She settled back into the throne-like seat. “I’m sure you’re dying to ask some questions,” she said to St. George. “And your minute’s just about up, sooo … go ahead. But stay in the chair, okay? And I can trust you not to hurt me, can’t I?”
“It’s just us,” he said. “You can drop the act. Or the illusion. Whatever you want to call it.”
Christian blinked.
“Making me see Christian. Is she dead? Or is she just asleep somewhere, too?”
She laughed. “You weren’t paying attention at all.”
“What did you do to her?”
“Ahhh,” said Christian. “Now that’s a smart question. I don’t think you know it, but it’s a good one.” She tapped the side of her head. “Really, all that matters is that a few weeks ago the annoying Ms. Ngyuen went to sleep with a headache, and I woke up the next morning.”
St. George stared at the woman. The faint accent had dropped out of her voice, and some of her words had a mild twang to them. She sounded younger. The muscles of her face flexed in odd ways. It just wasn’t the way Christian held her lips or eyes. He remembered Smith’s fake smile. “So you killed her,” he said.
“Maybe.” She shrugged. “It’s not like the ex-virus got her or something. Heart’s still beating, lungs are breathing, brain’s active. It’s my brain now, granted.”
“She’s going to be the last one.”
“I doubt that very much. So do you. And let’s be honest—there’s no love lost between you guys. There was a lot of serious hatred for you and Stealth and the others floating around in here.” Christian tapped her head again. “Don’t try to convince me she was your best friend and you need to avenge her or something.”
“She was a person. We didn’t always agree on everything, but she still mattered.”
The woman sighed and shook her head.
St. George tried to stand up again, but his limbs were frozen. “So you’re … what, controlling her body from Groom Lake?”
“Nope.” Christian looked at her reflection in the mirror and adjusted her collar over the tie. “I’m a mental clone, if that makes any sense. Me and the other-me, our lives split right there when the idea of me got yanked into Christian’s brain. So I don’t know what’s going on with him, he doesn’t know what’s going on with me. I’m Christian Smith, if that works for you.”
“If you’re not him,” said St. George, “then why do all this? Why not work with us?”
Air blurted out between her lips. “Honestly,” said the woman, “I don’t know what other-me’s been up to—not much, I’m guessing, considering how Stealth left him—but I’ve got a great chance to start over here. Twenty-odd thousand citizens, a few super-soldiers, an armored battlesuit … that’s the beginning of a new empire. As long as I worked around you, Stealth, the captain, and the rest. So, a few choice words and you all left while everyone in Los Angeles voted me in for mayor.”
“Of course they did,” growled St. George.
“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, goddamnit, even after all you’ve gone through you still turn out to have this damned 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 goddamned 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 sunglasses 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 massive 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 grass 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 hell. 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 titan 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 balls of his feet. “Bastard,” he spat out.
“I think, technically, it’s bitch now.”
Behind him, he heard the scrape 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. “Damn. 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 hit 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 ball–sized chunks hit 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 titan slammed down to the ground again.
His hands slid down the massive 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 space 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 shit,” 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 titan. “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 scraps 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 titan 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 titan back, but they were stopping it from doing anything else.