“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 rehearsed, 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 buttons. “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.”
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 hell. The moment that I can
