After the Golden Age, Page 2

  —You’ll be fine. I have faith in you.—Mentis’s smile was wry, and Celia nodded in acknowledgment.

  “Thanks,” she said. “For coming after me. Tell Dad I said hi.”

  Suzanne crossed her arms. “You could call once in a while.”

  He could call me. “Maybe I will.” She managed a smile for her mother and a last wave at Mentis before leaving.

  The cop escorted her out of the building. “I’m Detective Paulson. Mark Paulson.” Endearingly, he offered his hand, and she shook it.

  “Celia West.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  A few awkward, silent minutes brought them to the curb and a swarm of police cars, lights flashing a fireworks display on the street. A half-dozen men were occupied keeping reporters and news cameras behind a line of caution tape. A couple of hero groupies were there as well—the creator of a low-end gossip website dedicated to the city’s heroes, another guy holding up a big poster declaring: CAPTAIN OLYMPUS: OUR ALIEN SAVIOR. There were always a few lurking around every time something like this happened. Instinctively, Celia looked away and hunched her shoulders, trying to duck into her collar.

  Paulson brought her to an unmarked sedan. They might actually get away without the reporters noticing. Opening the passenger side door, he helped her in.

  While he situated himself and started the car, she said, “Paulson. Any relation to Mayor Paulson?”

  He developed a funny little half smile. “I’m his son.”

  That was where she’d seen that jawline before. And the flop of dark hair. The mayor’s hair had gone handsomely salt and pepper in his middle age. Mark’s still shone.

  “Ah,” she said, grinning. “Then you know all about it. I shouldn’t pry—but he wanted you to go into politics, didn’t he?”

  “Not quite. He wanted me to be a lawyer, then go into politics. I got the law degree. Then, well…” He shrugged, his glance taking in the car and the flashing lights behind them. “Then I decided I wanted to be on the front lines rather than the rearguard. Make sure no one gets off on a technicality because they weren’t read their rights.”

  “Cool,” she said.

  “What about you? I mean, your parents—” He let out an awestruck sigh. And who wouldn’t, after meeting Spark? “They want you to go into … the family business, I guess it is?”

  “Oh, they certainly did. Nature had different ideas, though. I’m the offspring of Commerce City’s greatest superhumans, and the most exciting thing I ever did was win a silver medal in a high-school swim meet.” Good thing she could look back on it now and laugh.

  She still had that medal sitting on her dresser.

  “It must have been amazing, growing up with them.”

  “Yeah, you could say that.” The strength of her sarcasm invited no further questions.

  Finally, they arrived at her apartment building. Detective Paulson insisted on walking her to her front door, as if one of the Baxter Gang splinters would leap out of the shadows and snatch her up. She had to admit, twice in a night would be embarrassing.

  “Thanks for taking me home,” she said, once her door was unlocked. “I know you’ve got better things to do.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “Maybe I could do it again sometime.”

  Though he turned away before she could read the expression on his face, she thought he was smiling. She watched him until he turned the corner.

  Closing the door behind her, she shook her head. She’d imagined it. Her head was still foggy.

  Later, she sat in bed, drinking a cup of chamomile tea and watching the news. All the city’s “independent law-enforcement agents” were out in force, quelling the riot of criminal activity. Typhoon created floods to incapacitate a group of bank robbers. Breezeway swept them off their feet with gusts of air. Even the telekinetic Mind-masher and his on-again, off-again lover, Earth Mother, were out and about. Block Buster Senior and Junior were as usual directing their brute-force mode of combat toward a trio of vandals holed up in an abandoned convenience store. The two superhumans were taking the building apart, concrete block by concrete block, until it formed an impromptu jail. Block Buster Senior used to be just Block Buster until a couple of years ago, when Junior showed up. Anyone could tell he wasn’t much more than a kid under the mask and skin-suit uniform. Lots of people speculated if the two were actually father and son as their names suggested, or if they instead had a mentor/apprentice relationship. Whatever their story, Celia thought they took a little too much joy in inflicting property damage.

  And if they were father and son—how had Junior managed to inherit his father’s power? Why him and not her?

  Most of the coverage focused on the beloved Olympiad, who’d been protecting Commerce City for twenty-five years now. One of the stations had exclusive footage of Captain Olympus and the Bullet, the fourth member of the Olympiad, tearing open the warehouse that held the Baxter Gang’s main headquarters.

  The camera could only follow the Bullet’s progress by tracking a whirlwind that traveled from one end of the building to the other, tossing masked gunmen aside in a storm of dust and debris. Guns flew from their hands and spiraled upward, shattering with the force of movement. It was all the Bullet, Robbie Denton, moving faster than the eye could see, disrupting one enemy attack after another in mere seconds.

  Captain Olympus—the Golden Thunderbolt, most powerful man in the world—wore black and gold, and tore down walls with his will. He stood before his target, braced, arms outstretched, and created a hammer of force that crumpled half the building.

  Celia’s hands started shaking. The warehouse district was across town. He wasn’t anywhere near here. The news reporter on the scene raved on and on about the spectacular scene, the malevolence of the criminals, the courage of the Olympiad.

  She found the remote and turned off the TV.

  TWO

  THIS was the kind of story that made up West family lore:

  When Warren West was six years old, he fell. This wasn’t a stumble and a skinned knee, a crash on a bike, or a roll down the stairs, any of which most kids had suffered by his age. No, this was a fall out of a tree—from the top of a twenty-foot tall oak in City Park. He’d landed on a bent elbow, which should have shattered his arm at the very least. A fall like that should have killed him. But Warren walked away with no injuries. He didn’t even cry. Then, his parents realized he had never skinned his knees or elbows, scratched himself, or gotten a bruise of any kind. He’d only ever cried when he was tired, hungry, or didn’t get what he wanted.

  There was something special about Warren.

  Celia’s parents went to high school together at the Elmwood Academy, Commerce City’s premier private school, where Celia herself had gone until she dropped out, earning her GED instead. Warren and Suzanne knew of each other all along—Warren watched Suzanne first. Suzanne was hard to miss with her bright red hair, which she wore long and rippling. Warren was captain of the football team, son of Commerce City’s wealthiest businessman, and Suzanne thought he was a snob. So she wasn’t thrilled when, while standing at her locker one day, Warren propped his hand on the locker next to her’s and gave her a jock smile.

  She had a trick she used on guys who came on too strong. She’d touch his hand, give him eyes like she was coming on right back—then really turn on the heat. Within seconds he’d get the hint, usually leaping away with some sort of squeal as her power scorched him.

  But Warren just stood there and took it. Her saccharine smile fell, and his eyes got wide. He held her hand and his flesh didn’t burn. He could take the heat.

  After that, they taught each other, tested each other, learned to use their powers for more than high-school games. Together, they made a vow: to use their powers for good. Together, they could change the world.

  * * *

  “Come in, Celia.”

  Celia entered the office of the elder Kurchanski. Kurchanski was a year from retirement, except that he’d said that every year for the
last three, as long as Celia had been with the firm Smith and Kurchanski, Certified Public Accountants. The senior partner’s office had a core of respectability. It had at one point been designed to impress clients: corner windows, leather executive chairs, a vast walnut desk, plush carpeting, wood-paneled walls, and real ferns living in brass pots on the bookshelves between bound tomes of tax law stretching back for decades. No one had bound copies of tax law anymore—everyone subscribed to online databases. But Kurchanski collected the volumes and used them to provide atmosphere. The room had long ago developed a lived-in atmosphere; a newspaper lay discarded over a chair arm, a coat lay slung over the back, and paperwork covered the desk.

  He’d called her to his office first thing this morning.

  “Do you know the District Attorney’s office has hired the firm to work on the Simon Sito prosecution?” He didn’t look up from the papers on his desk. His was the only office in the firm without a computer.

  “Yes, sir,” she said calmly, belying the sinking feeling in her gut. It wasn’t a surprise. Smith and Kurchanski was a pioneer in the field of forensic accounting and had worked with the DA before. The case against Simon Sito—aka the Destructor—was possibly the most extensive criminal prosecution in Commerce City’s history.

  But surely the firm didn’t have to involve her in it.

  “DA Bronson has specifically requested that you be assigned to work on the case.”

  She was the firm’s youngest CPA. She was inexperienced, definitely, but more than that she was far too personally involved. Conflict of interest? Kurchanski had no idea.

  She was too desperate to keep the nervous waver out of her voice. “That isn’t a good idea. He knows that isn’t a good idea, doesn’t he?”

  He finally looked at her as he leaned back in his chair. “I’d have thought you’d jump at a chance to work on this.”

  She wanted to stay as far away from it as possible, for so many reasons. “I’d just as soon keep those memories buried. Not to mention the possible conflict of interest. The firm has plenty of impartial accountants—why would the DA even ask for me?”

  “I imagine your connections make for good press.”

  The daughter of Captain Olympus helping to prosecute the Olympiad’s greatest adversary? Good press, indeed.

  Could she get out of this? How much vacation time did she have saved?

  “Celia, if you’re really adamant about not taking this case, I’ll tell the DA no. But I’m sure he has a good reason for asking for you, and I’m sure you can handle it. I have to confess, I can’t ignore the publicity this will generate for the firm. As a favor to me, will you take the case?”

  Put like that, she couldn’t refuse. “All right, sir.”

  “Thank you. I knew we could count on you.”

  She left his office wondering what her parents would think of this.

  * * *

  After all the news from last night, Analise insisted they have lunch together.

  Celia met Analise by accident four years ago. On a bright spring day, Celia was climbing the steps to the university library, a bag of books weighing her down. Ahead, the door slammed open and a woman stormed out as if the building were on fire. Celia didn’t see any smoke or hear any alarms. The woman, about Celia’s age, brown-skinned, cornrow braids tied back with a bandana, seemed to not even notice her on the stairs. She plowed into Celia, who stumbled back against the metal railing and managed to grab it before she fell.

  The woman bounced away in the other direction, dropping the loose books she carried. She barked some complaint as she retrieved them.

  Celia knew her. Roughly, distantly. She didn’t realize it until she saw that snarl, the determined line of her jaw—the expression of a warrior frustrated in her task. If the woman were wearing a sleek blue mask, she’d be unmistakable.

  “Typhoon,” she said.

  The woman halted mid-stride and turned to Celia. The simmering anger in her dark eyes made her even more recognizable as the superhuman crime fighter. She marched toward Celia, who stood her ground, trapped as she was against the railing. The woman, Typhoon, clearly wasn’t going to let her escape.

  “You’re joking, right?” she said.

  “No, actually,” Celia said, smiling weakly. “You know, I expected you to laugh at me and then rush off, so I’d stand here wondering if I’d made a mistake. But that look on your face right now—I’m pretty sure I’m right.”

  Celia shouldn’t have said anything. She should have convinced herself she was seeing things and let it go. Typhoon, even in her civilian guise, looked angry enough to do damage. But Celia had stood up to Captain Olympus. This was nothing.

  “How?” the woman said softly. “How do you know you’re right?”

  Blushing, Celia squirmed inside her jacket. The woman was looking at her like she was part of some conspiracy, some criminal mastermind in the midst of a nefarious plot. Paranoia seemed to be an inherent part of the crime-fighting lifestyle.

  It was like finding another member of a secret club; Celia had to show that she knew the handshake.

  “I sort of grew up learning to recognize people under their masks. I guess I have a knack for it. I’m Celia West.” She offered her hand.

  The woman’s eyes grew wide. “The Celia West? Damn, I guess you would have a knack for it. Look, there’s a freighter sinking in the harbor so I have to run. But we’re going to talk later, okay? I’ll call you.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Celia said, but the woman had already started running across the quad.

  The call came at 10:00 P.M., and at eleven they were at Pee Wee’s, the all-night coffee shop near campus, trading war stories. Her name was Analise Baker. Celia liked her. She was brash and outspoken, impulsive and generous—the kind of personality that might lead one to become a vigilante crime fighter.

  She had no problem asking the questions that everyone was thinking, but few ever found the courage to voice. “God, you’re the daughter of West Corp’s CEO; what the hell are you doing here? Shouldn’t you have a limo and a penthouse somewhere?”

  “I wanted to get away from that for a while.” As if she might actually go back to it someday.

  “So what was it like? You had half the Olympiad as parents—what was it like growing up with them?”

  It sucked like a starving lamprey. But no one wanted to hear that. She had a well-practiced answer. “It was interesting. Really, though, they tried to keep me out of things as much as possible.”

  Which wasn’t all that possible, in the end. But Analise stared back with stars in her eyes and let out a sigh.

  Celia kept her mouth shut. Let them imagine whatever they wanted. It was all water under the bridge.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe you’re working today,” Analise had gushed on the phone. “Couldn’t you call in sick or something?”

  “I prefer things get back to normal as quickly as possible.” That was always how she’d handled it when she was younger. Pretend like nothing had happened. Pretend like you didn’t need to be coddled. Pretend like you weren’t helpless.

  Celia relented to being ranted at in person at Analise’s favorite diner, a block from the building that housed Smith and Kurchanski.

  Analise, it seemed, had called in sick after last night’s excitement. She was waiting for Celia in a corner booth, and she’d already ordered salads for them both.

  “Tell me all about it. Tell me everything,” she said, before Celia had even sat. Analise was hipper than Celia. Her hair, braided in cornrows, was pulled back in a ponytail. She dressed like she was still in college, in jeans and faded concert T-shirt for an old punk band. She worked at an independent record store, of course, lived in a not-so-great part of town, and yet was never afraid to walk home after dark. Her round brown eyes sparkled.

  “Don’t you read the papers?” Celia said. She was sure Analise had, but that didn’t matter. She told the story, again, and she had to admit, with Analise as an eager audience the e
pisode sounded much more adventurous than it had felt.

  When she got to the part where Mentis incapacitated the room, Analise shivered. “You can actually feel him in your mind? Ugh. That guy makes me nervous.”

  “He’s not so bad. For someone who can read minds, he’s really nonjudgmental. You know; you’ve met him.”

  “Briefly,” she said. “Professionally. And I kept my distance. Besides, I’m incredibly jealous. He always gets much better press than I do. I mean, look at this.” Her voice dropped in volume.

  She pulled a rolled-up paper out of her backpack and spread it out on the table, facing Celia. The Commerce Eye, the city’s tabloid rag. The headline blared: “Typhoon and Breezeway: On Again?”

  Celia didn’t know for certain, but she was sure Analise kept a scrapbook of these headlines. “You know better than to read that crap.”

  “They’ve spent months inventing this whole sordid affair, and then just because we both show up at the same place at the same time and happen to do a little tag-teaming, they think there’s something going on. Like I would ever go out with that jerk.” A blurry photo showed the city’s two hippest superhuman fighters: Breezeway was a tall, lithe man wearing a silver skin suit and a mask, hovering a dozen feet above the ground as he surveyed a tidal wave rising from a fountain, where Typhoon stood. She also went masked, and wore a blue costume of shimmering silk, but some of her features remained clear: dark skin, and a cascade of braided hair.

  “You could call them and complain,” Celia said.

  “What, and validate everything they’ve said? No. I’m just venting, you know that.” She rolled up the newspaper and started to put it back in her bag.

  “Wait, can I see that again?” Celia gestured for her to hand over the paper. Analise spread the tabloid back on the table.

  The previous night’s activities and the photo of Typhoon and Breezeway had preempted another headline, shoving it to a strip along the bottom: “Mayor’s Superhighway Plan: Genius or Madness?” A thumbnail photo showed gray-haired Anthony Paulson smiling at the camera. Mention of the mayor made her think of Detective Mark Paulson, of course. She hadn’t told Analise which handsome police detective had escorted her home.