Ex-Purgatory, Peter Clines [top ten books of all time .txt] 📗

“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