After the Golden Age Read online

  “Do you take the pills, isolate yourself, because you’re afraid of hurting people with your dreams, or because you’re afraid of revealing yourself?” It was a little of both—she could guess by his hesitation, by the thoughtful look in his eyes. “Don’t worry about me, Arthur. Don’t worry and don’t be sorry.”

  “It’s wondrous. You’re the only one who isn’t afraid of me, at least a little. Even your father takes this extra effort to try and hide his thoughts when I’m around.”

  They lay still for a time, in the pause the world seemed to have taken just for them. The chaos held its breath for a moment.

  It wouldn’t last.

  “Leyden Industrial Park,” Arthur said. Celia hadn’t realized she’d been thinking of it, in spite of her intentions. “You think it all goes back to the Leyden Industrial Park.”

  He cradled her head against his chest. Her mind lay open to him. Maybe he could make sense of the data jumbled there.

  “Arthur … how much of us is made and how much is born? That Anthony Paulson is Simon Sito’s son shouldn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t add to my suspicions. It’s as bad as everyone assuming I ought to be a certain way because of my parents. I have nothing in common with my father—”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  She craned her neck and found him looking back at her, admonishing. Slowly, reluctantly, she shook her head. It would have been easier to get along with her father if they had nothing in common. Not harder.

  She said, “Fifty years ago, something happened at the Leyden laboratory. That accident started a pattern that was passed on to the children and grandchildren of those present. It drove Sito mad, and it didn’t end. It’s been changing the city for fifty years. It’s still out there, in you, my parents, Typhoon, Breezeway … me. What will my children be like? What will they suffer?”

  He ran his fingers along the side of her head, brushing short locks of hair behind her ear. “I’ll bet they have red hair. And a bit of a temper. Apart from that, who can say?”

  “You’re being patronizing.”

  “A bit, perhaps.” He smiled.

  “My father will kill us, if he finds out about this.”

  “Well, he’s not going to find out from me.”

  A familiar chirping beeped from the floor. Celia’s phone, tucked in her jacket pocket, was ringing. Arthur moved aside to let her get at it.

  At the same moment, his desk phone rang.

  Climbing from the cot, he said, “It’s Suzanne. Something’s wrong.”

  Do it yourself caller ID.

  He answered. “Suzanne? Yes, I’m here; I’ve been here the whole time. No, I wasn’t answering … I’m sorry. Would you like to explain what’s wrong, please?”

  The display on Celia’s phone announced the call came from Analise.

  Celia answered. “Yes?”

  “It’s me,” said Analise, sounding rushed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m on the verge of getting arrested, that’s what’s wrong. Apparently, the cops expect this curfew thing to apply to us, too.” Us, meaning the city’s superhuman guardians. “It’s a goddamn standoff right now, and I either give in or knock ’em down with a wave and get the hell out of here. Then they will have grounds to arrest me. I didn’t know who else to call. Have your folks run into this? Do they know anything?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve been asleep—”

  “Oh my God, you with those stitches and everything, I’m sorry—”

  “No, no, it’s fine. This is important. Just hold on a second, don’t blow anything up.” She covered the mouthpiece of her phone. “It’s Typhoon. She says the cops are trying to arrest her for breaking curfew.”

  Arthur covered the mouthpiece of his phone. “Suzanne says there’s trouble. We’d better get upstairs.” Hurriedly, he said back into the phone, “No one, no one, Suzanne. I’ll be there in a moment.” He hung up and started retrieving clothing and dressing.

  Celia turned back to her phone. “Can you rappel out of there or something?”

  “They’ve got a helicopter out,” Analise said. Her breathing came fast, and the usually self-assured woman sounded flustered. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Where are you?”

  “The corner of Seventieth and Pierson.” That was Typhoon’s usual patrol haunt, near the harbor, with ready access to plenty of water.

  “Hang tight. We’ll see what we can do. I’m glad you called.”

  “See you.” The call cut out as if Analise had turned the phone off in a hurry. She shouldn’t even have been calling in a situation like this. She must really have been in trouble.

  Celia hurried to find her clothes as well. Arthur paused and smiled at her, which made her flush.

  “I ought to ask you out for dinner,” he said. “Bring you flowers. This hardly seems right, after everything.”

  Shrugging, she repressed a giggling fit. This was surreal. Pleasantly surreal, but still.

  She walked the three steps to his side and touched his cheek. “It’s appropriate. It’s who we are.” She kissed him.

  “Thank you,” he said with a sigh. “Thank you for coming here.”

  Her grin turned wry. “Anytime. So tell me—I’ve always wanted to know why you never wore a costume, a skin-suit uniform, like the others.” She indicated his plain shirt and trousers.

  “I’m a telepath. A glorified track suit hardly seemed necessary.”

  Side by side, they went into the hallway and caught the elevator.

  Arthur said, “I’ve found Warren. He knows about Typhoon.”

  “What can he do?” Celia said. “He’s out past curfew, too.”

  “I’d hope after all this time we’ve earned some allowances,” the telepath said.

  “You know what Dad would say about this? He’d say this is a conspiracy to get the supers off the street. To get them out of the way. If the cops say anything about wanting to arrest him, he’ll blow up.”

  She thought it was a joke. At least, when she started she meant it to be a joke. But Arthur wasn’t smiling. He didn’t even heave the flustered sigh of frustration that the team sighed when Captain Olympus was about to fly off the handle. Instead, the tension around them spiked, as the situation moved from a simple misunderstanding to a crisis.

  The mayor had instituted the curfew. He could send an order through the commissioner to the cops, who’d be all too happy with any excuse to go after the superhumans. Again, the mayor.

  Arthur said, “Celia, I find it disturbing that you and your father view the world in exactly the same way.”

  “What, we’re both paranoid with severe persecution complexes?”

  There, she’d done it again. Made a statement that was far too obvious and true to be funny. He raised a brow as if to indicate, You said it, not me.

  The elevator doors opened to the penthouse. Businesslike, Arthur strode out, into the West home and to the Olympiad command center. Celia trailed behind a couple of steps, realizing too late what this was going to look like. Arthur’s hair was mussed, his shirt rumpled—at least it was mostly tucked in—and he’d forgotten his jacket. Her own hair was usually tousled to some degree, but she’d been sleeping on it. Futilely, she ran her fingers through it to smooth it out. The bandage over her stitches had come off. Her dress suit looked thrown on. She still smelled Arthur’s sweat on her.

  It was going to be obvious to everyone.

  Her phone rang again before she reached the command center—just in time, before she entered the shielded room. She looked at caller ID, and resisted the urge to throw it, to get it to shut up.

  “What?” she answered.

  “It’s Mark. Celia, you need to tell your people to stay off the streets.”

  That boy had the worst timing. She even felt a thread of guilt at hearing his voice. But the way she saw it, he’d left her first.

  “My people? What do you mean, my people?”

  “Your parents. The other vigil
antes.”

  “They’re not my people, Mark. And what the hell do you think I can do about it? You think they listen to me?”

  “They’re your parents. You at least have access to them.”

  And the police would, too, if they ever bothered to talk to the Olympiad.

  “You ever tell your father how to do his job?” she said.

  “What they do isn’t a job! It’s a hobby!”

  No, she thought. It’s a vocation. A calling.

  “Mark, we’re already trying. Can’t you tell your guys to back off Typhoon? She’s not the one trying to start anything.”

  “The cops at the harbor district have just called for backup,” he said.

  They were going to spook Analise.

  “Mark, please, tell your people to stand down.” She wasn’t used to begging, but it was a surprisingly easy thing to do when it was the right thing to do, when it might actually help.

  He paused, and she thought she was going to scream, waiting for him to answer. When he finally spoke, despair weighted his voice. “I’m not there. I’m listening to it on the radio.”

  “I’ll call Chief Appleton,” she said. “Maybe he can do something.”

  “No, I’ll call him. But if there’s any way you can get the Olympiad off the street, please try.”

  “Okay, yes. Thank you, Mark. Thank you for calling.”

  “Celia, I … take care.” He clicked off.

  They needed to have a nice long talk. God only knew when that would happen.

  She entered the command center in time to hear Suzanne say, “Arthur, thank God you’re here! And Celia—did you sleep well? Are you feeling better?” she called from her post at the communications terminal. She was in street clothes, though her skin suit showed under the collar of her blouse.

  Her mother assumed she’d been in bed—here, in bed—all day. Maybe she and Arthur wouldn’t be discovered.

  “Mark just called. He wants all you guys off the streets. The cops are ready for a standoff.”

  Suzanne said, “Arthur, call Warren and Robbie in, we can’t risk a confrontation with the police.”

  “I already contacted Warren. Robbie’s with him.”

  “Are they coming back?”

  “I don’t think so—” He cocked his head, listening to an unheard voice, sensing something ethereal. “Something’s happening.”

  The city’s vigilantes and police force had avoided an outright battle for over twenty years. Forty, if you counted the Hawk’s tenure. Surely one wouldn’t erupt now.

  Suzanne turned a dial that brought the volume up on the police radio. A voice crackled from the speakers.

  “Shots have been fired, I repeat, shots have been fired. There’s been a flood, a wave of some kind, we have men down—”

  TWENTY-SIX

  SUZANNE returned from discarding her civilian clothes. She was Spark, now. When the costumes came out, they ceased being her parents and became the four-color heroes of legend.

  “Suzanne, what do you possibly think you can do?” Arthur said.

  “I don’t know.” Spark paced back and forth along the computer console. “I have to be ready. They might need me.”

  The news channels had finally gotten cameras to the harbor area, though the police forced them to keep a wide berth. Pierson Street was completely flooded, as if a tidal wave had crashed in and scoured the place. No one had been killed outright, but two police officers were missing, and feared swept out to the harbor. Typhoon had disappeared during the confusion, and one officer reported seeing the Bullet—briefly.

  Reports were mixed as to whether the police had fired at Typhoon before or after she released the tidal wave.

  All Celia, Suzanne, and Arthur could do for the moment was watch the jerky, static-laden images from the news cameras, listen to the sensationalist commentary—talk of the superhumans gone rogue, of a new criminal mastermind taking over—and listen for the latest reports on the police radio.

  Then Captain Olympus buzzed the Olympiad’s emergency line. The flashing red light made them all flinch; Spark pounded the button to reply.

  “Yes, Captain, we’re here,” she said to the speaker.

  “We’re coming up from the garage. We have injured.” He cut off the line.

  Without comment, Spark ran to the back of the room and the elevator that led straight to the subterranean passage, where the Olympiad gained access to its hangar and vehicles. Arthur, more calmly, went to a supply locker hidden behind a secret panel that lay flush with the slick wall and removed a first-aid kit.

  Celia waited by the table. She’d only get in the way if she tried to help. The injury couldn’t be serious—a graze, a twisted arm. There was only so much they could do with a first-aid kit. She liked to think if the injury were serious, her father would swallow his pride and go to the hospital. Take Robbie to the hospital—no way was Warren the injured party.

  The elevator door hissed open. Captain Olympus exited first, assisting someone, a woman, her arm over his shoulder. Spark went to her other side to help, bringing her into the light. It was Typhoon, her blue suit damp and shining with water—and blood. The Bullet followed them to the table.

  Typhoon was walking under her own power. She just seemed weak. Her taut jaw made her face, or what was visible of it, a picture of grim forbearance.

  Stunned, Celia pulled a chair out from the table and offered it to her.

  She’d keep her mouth shut. Until Analise said something, she’d keep her mouth entirely shut. She stepped out of the way as her parents helped the young woman into the chair. Then, the bloody gash in her shoulder became visible. It had been bound with a strip of cloth. The wound had mostly clotted, but rivers of blood streaked Typhoon’s arm. Not life-threatening, but the shock and blood loss were probably telling on her. She kept shaking her head.

  Celia caught Arthur’s gaze. Don’t tell, she thought at him. Don’t tell them who she is.

  He nodded.

  “A shot grazed her,” Olympus said. “I thought it best to get her to safety.”

  “I feel so stupid,” Typhoon muttered. “They started shooting at me and I just lost it. I never lose it like that when the bad guys are shooting.”

  Spark said, “It’s because you know you’re better than the bad guys. The police confused you; they’re supposed to be good guys.”

  “They still are,” Arthur said. He knelt by her and got to work, peeling off the makeshift bandage and dabbing at the wound with a gauze pad. “They believe they’re following orders and protecting the city, just as we are. Best not forget that. We’re all being played, I fear.”

  “By the Destructor?” Typhoon said. “It’s his style.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “You didn’t have to do this. I’d have made it out on my own.” She tried standing, as if she really were well enough to walk out of there.

  Olympus put his hand on her shoulder and held her in place. No one could argue with that grip, and Typhoon didn’t have a body of water nearby to help her. “You’re staying.”

  “I’m not taking my mask off.”

  “No one told you to,” Olympus said.

  Typhoon … Analise—Celia was getting confused—caught her eye and glared briefly. Keep quiet.

  So be it.

  Celia leaned against the table and watched the news broadcasts. The police had issued a warrant for Typhoon’s arrest. The bulletin warned the public that she was dangerous. Not armed and dangerous, Celia noticed.

  On one station, helicopters panned searchlights over Pierson Street. Rivers of water ran along gutters to pour back into the harbor. That wave must have been incredible, a wall of water as tall as the buildings sweeping down the street. Red and blue police lights flashed off glistening brick and concrete. Dozens of cops scouted the area; out on the water, divers searched from a police boat. They wouldn’t stop until they’d found the two missing officers. Their condition would determine which way this whole business swung.
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  She turned off the mute key on another monitor, showing a different news station. A woman anchor intoned, “… have word that another of the city’s superhuman vigilantes has broken the mayor’s curfew. This is an exclusive report. Gina, what do you have for us?”

  The scene switched to the jerky video from a news helicopter—and why the hell weren’t the reporters being hauled in for breaking curfew?—and the rough sound feed filled with background noise.

  “Thank you, Paula. Reports say that Breezeway has been sighted in the lower downtown area. A police helicopter has been dispatched. Now, we’ve been ordered to stay out of the area, but our cameraman thinks we have a good chance of spotting something if we— Hold on. Wait a minute. Yes, there. Can you see that?”

  The view zoomed abruptly as the cameraman brought a distant point into focus. The shot was wobbly, vertiginous, but the tableau became visible. A speck, which resolved into a human figure, streaked across the view, flying thirty feet above the tenement rooftops. The camera sped along to keep up with it. Two helicopters approached from opposite directions, apparently hoping to cut off Breezeway’s path. They should have known better than to try something like that. Breezeway was setting them up for a spectacular, cinematic head-on collision designed to make them look like idiots.

  Reporter Gina continued. “You probably can’t hear it, but the police in one of the helicopters are calling over a loudspeaker for Breezeway to turn himself in to avoid charges of resisting arrest.”

  Gina was right, her microphone didn’t pick up the loudspeaker, but Breezeway’s form shot ahead, speeding up, a response that would surprise no one. The two police helicopters swung around to follow, one of them climbing in altitude, the other one dropping, as if they could sandwich him between them.