After the Golden Age Read online

  Celia never thought she’d be rooting for Breezeway.

  The camera managed to continue tracking the flier. The superhuman had veered left, apparently heading toward the uptown district where he could lose himself among skyscrapers, where the helicopters wouldn’t be able to follow. She wondered: If she went to the roof, could she flag him down and offer him a place to hide out? West Plaza, home to fugitive vigilantes.

  Then, the unexpected. A third police helicopter shot up from a hidden place behind a warehouse, in front of Breezeway, cutting him off. He pulled up, arcing away to avoid the new threat.

  But they were ready for him. Something launched from the police helicopter, and suddenly Breezeway was dropping. Even Gina the reporter gasped in shock.

  Breezeway didn’t keep falling, however. He stopped short, dangling some twenty feet under the helicopter.

  “Paula, can we have a replay on that? What just happened?”

  Back at the studio, the technicians worked their magic, magnified the image, enhanced it, and replayed it.

  The police had fired a net, like something a big-game hunter would use to catch his quarry. Weighted at the ends, it flew at Breezeway and entangled him as soon as it struck. The net remained attached to a rope, which was connected to a winch inside the helicopter. The cops hauled him in as if he was a fish.

  Breezeway struggled, swinging under the helicopter until they pulled him inside, but his power was wind and flight, not strength. The net trapped him.

  “They got Breezeway,” Celia said, amazed, staring at the monitors.

  The others joined her, equally entranced by the replay of the cops’ triumphant moment. Typhoon stood next to her, her shoulder newly swathed in clean bandages, holding the injured arm to her chest.

  “Damn punk,” Olympus muttered, but he didn’t sound terribly righteous.

  Gina ended her report. “We’ll be back as soon as we confirm that Breezeway is in police custody, and if they decide to reveal his secret identity. Back to you, Paula.”

  Arthur said, “Celia, turn to the other station. That one, yes.”

  Celia switched the sound over to the station that was covering the search in the harbor district.

  “… missing officers have been found.”

  Celia’s stomach clenched. She looked at Arthur, who watched the screen and gnawed at his lower lip.

  “One of the officers was found clinging to the base of a pier a hundred yards from where he’d disappeared, with minor injuries. Unfortunately, the second officer was not so lucky. The body of Officer Douglas Grady was pulled from the river moments ago. Reports from the scene confirmed he drowned when a tidal wave swept him into the harbor. The police have issued a statement that Typhoon is now wanted for murder.…”

  Typhoon turned away from the monitors and found the nearest chair. Lowering herself into it, moving in slow motion, she murmured, “It was an accident. I swear to God it was an accident.”

  Arthur moved to her side. “We know, my dear. Look at me.” She closed her eyes and shook her head, until Arthur took hold of her chin and directed her. “Look at me.”

  With the weight of his power behind the words, she couldn’t help but obey. Trapping her gaze in his, he murmured, “Sleep. Very good.”

  She slumped into his arms without so much as a sigh.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Celia said, too tired to sound as irate as she wanted.

  “Perhaps not,” Arthur said, easing Typhoon back. “But with the evening’s shocks, she’s emotionally ill-equipped to deal with this new information.”

  “Who are you to decide that?”

  “Would you rather have her lose control and burst the building’s water pipes?”

  “She wouldn’t do that.”

  “You can’t guarantee that.”

  And she couldn’t.

  Spark said, “We can put her in one of the guest rooms until she wakes up.”

  “She’s going to be pissed off,” Celia said.

  Olympus crossed his arms. “This wasn’t her fault. They can’t pin this on her.”

  Arthur said, “Technically, it was. Maybe not murder, but they’ll want to charge her with manslaughter, maybe negligent homicide.”

  “This was rigged. This is exactly the kind of bad press Paulson wants to pin on us to get us out of the way,” the Captain said.

  “But why?” Spark asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  Ultimately, a universe filled with conspiracies was so simple, so elegant, a series of interlacing clockworks.

  “We’re in a world of trouble, my friends,” the Bullet said.

  “No more so than usual,” Olympus replied with false cheer as he gently picked Analise up and carried her in his arms.

  Suzanne led him out, to show him which guest room to use. The Bullet followed.

  “Sleeping out the night isn’t going to make things any easier for her,” Celia said to Arthur, who remained behind. “You just made it easier on the rest of us, not having to deal with her right now.” She hugged herself tightly and watched the monitors, which showed replays of Breezeway’s capture, of the police boat in the harbor, of a file photo of Officer Douglas Grady in uniform, proud and smiling.

  “Perhaps,” Arthur said. He walked over to her, tentatively touched her shoulder. She wanted him to. She had begun to wonder if their time together that evening had happened at all—they both reverted to their rigid selves so quickly, so firmly.

  Then, he squeezed her shoulder, put his arms around her. She leaned into his embrace, and he kissed the top of her head. How could he have been so afraid of emotion? His feelings for her wrapped her in a warm cocoon. She’d never have to wonder if he loved her.

  He pulled away abruptly. She started to complain, but a moment later the others returned to the command room. She was sure she blushed as red as her hair. Arthur quietly watched the monitors. He’d had much more practice maintaining that mask of calm.

  Suzanne and Warren had pulled street clothes—shirts and trousers—on over their skin suits. Suzanne had pinned her hair into a bun.

  “Warren and I are going to try to post bail for Breezeway. If we’re lucky, maybe we can talk Chief Appleton into releasing him into our custody.”

  Warren, the Captain, added, “Robbie, Arthur, I want you to stay here and monitor the situation. Don’t go out, unless it’s an emergency. We don’t want to give the cops an excuse to start shooting.”

  Arthur said, “It begs the question: After all this, what constitutes an emergency?”

  “The Destructor breaks out of the asylum?” Warren said, offering a cocky grin. He put his arm around Suzanne’s shoulders and the two of them left, side by side. Like they were just going to bail their kid out of jail or something.

  Arthur huffed. “As if I’d be able to do anything about that.”

  Nobody told Celia what she was supposed to do.

  “Perhaps you could keep an eye on Typhoon,” Arthur said softly.

  She nodded. She wanted to kiss him before she left, but Robbie was right there. Maybe if she imagined it, filled her mind with the thought of it, he’d read it there. He’d know.

  —Later.— Was the thought he returned.

  Thoughts weren’t enough for her, she decided.

  She looked in on Analise, sleeping in one of the guest rooms down the hall. Her parents had honored her request and left her mask on. It must have been uncomfortable, but Analise was out cold and didn’t seem to notice. She lay on her back, arms folded over her stomach, head tilted slightly. She breathed deeply and seemed fine, for now.

  Celia went to the living room to stare out the windows.

  It was the same city. It couldn’t have been, though. The city she looked out on had turned hostile. A half-dozen police helicopters circled over various neighborhoods, at various heights, shining lights down on the streets. Where one of them focused a light on one spot, then circled around that spot, the craft looked like a toy spinning on an illuminated wire.
She listened for the pounding beat of helicopter engines, but heard nothing.

  She was lucky to be here, lucky to be safe within these walls, protected by the city’s heroes. Not out there, restricted by curfew, holed up, alone and afraid.

  It was a different world, where she could return to her parents’ home and feel safe.

  Absently, she rubbed her forehead. She ought to bandage it again. The throbbing of the stitches had been increasing all evening.

  “You ought to sleep. You ought to have been asleep all day.” She turned. Arthur came toward her, hands in his pockets, his expression sheepish. “I couldn’t stay away. Robbie can watch the monitors by himself.”

  In another step they came together, body to body, arms wrapped around each other.

  “Don’t worry about the city. It’ll come out right. It always does. There’s nothing you can do just now.”

  “I’ve got all these puzzle pieces,” she said, her voice tight, on the verge of tears. It was just stress—she wasn’t weak, she wasn’t breaking down. “I should be able to figure it out. I should be able to pin something on Paulson by now.”

  Arthur guided her to the sofa, made her sit, then sat with her and eased her back until she was cradled on his lap.

  She sat up abruptly. “You’re not going to make me sleep, are you?”

  “That wouldn’t help you get rid of the headache, would it? No, Celia. Not like that anyway. Please rest, though. I’ll watch over you.”

  He didn’t crawl inside her mind to shut it down, not like he did when he commanded sleep. He just held her, stroked her hair. When he said he’d keep her safe, she believed him. She slept.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “WHAT the hell is this?”

  “Warren, keep your voice down. This is the first she’s slept all day.”

  That was Arthur speaking. His chest rumbled under her cheek with the words.

  “Then she didn’t spend the day in bed? What was she doing?” That was Suzanne, sounding as irate as Warren, or at least sounding as irate as she ever sounded.

  Arthur sighed. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

  “Am I to understand that you’ve … been spending time together. Or something?” her mother asked.

  Celia imagined her mother’s arms were crossed. Suzanne’s voice made it sound like she’d crossed her arms. She supposed she ought to open her eyes and look. She shouldn’t leave Arthur to deal with this by himself.

  “That isn’t any of your business,” Arthur said matter-of-factly.

  Warren exploded. Not literally, though close to it. “You took advantage of her. She looked to you for protection and you—”

  “Dad.” Celia emitted a dramatic-sounding groan as she sat up. “Stop it.”

  “Celia, what the hell are you thinking!” He was on the verge of smashing something. Maybe he’d show a little more restraint in his own house.

  The room was awash with a faint, chill light of early morning. She was still half sprawled on Arthur’s lap. Her parents must have walked in on them—embarrassing at any age. Arthur hadn’t woken her. He’d let her sleep. Or he didn’t care anymore if her parents knew. She met his gaze. He smiled thinly. Again, and always, she felt warm and safe.

  Suzanne was, in fact, crossing her arms. Her gaze was worried, her brow furrowed and confused. “This … this isn’t so bad, maybe. You remember some of the boys she brought home in high school? This’ll take some getting used to, but at least we can trust Arthur—”

  “Would someone we trust seduce our daughter, a girl he vowed to protect—”

  Celia sat up straighter. “Actually, I think it was me.”

  “What?” Warren said.

  “I think it was me who seduced him.” Arthur’s hand rested on her back. She hoped he kept it there.

  Warren sputtered a moment, then said, “Then he shouldn’t have let himself get seduced!”

  “Warren, please stop shouting,” Arthur said. Celia couldn’t tell if he’d wrapped any power in the command. Mostly, he sounded tired.

  “I’m not shouting! Mentis, this is … outrageous! She’s my daughter.”

  This was him finding her in the Destructor’s lair all over again. Small comfort that he wasn’t actually yelling at her. She wondered: had he not been as upset at the thought of her joining his enemy as he had been at the thought of her sleeping with his enemy?

  “Warren—,” Suzanne said tiredly, rubbing her forehead like she had a headache.

  Arthur said, “She’s also an adult, or hadn’t you noticed? I certainly have.”

  That sent a warm and pleasant rush through her gut.

  Her father, however, roared. They all knew him well enough to recognize what came next: he cocked his arms back, preparing to launch a wall of force that would knock his enemies aside. Except this time his “enemies” were in his own living room.

  Warren’s attention focused on Arthur, but Celia was caught between them. She let out a short scream and huddled forward, arms protecting her head.

  “Stop!” Arthur called out, reaching forward with a hand. The single word shook the room, rattled through their minds.

  Warren made a choking gasp of pain and clutched his head. He stumbled back, but didn’t quite fall.

  “Will you two stop it!” Suzanne put herself between the two men, pointing an arm at each of them as if ready to let out a blowtorch. Celia looked up, hesitating—surely her mother wouldn’t lose it, too.

  Arthur put his arm protectively around Celia’s shoulders and glared at Warren, who was straightening, muscles trembling with tension.

  If she had known she’d cause this much trouble, she’d have let the bus carry her into the river.

  She peeled herself from Arthur’s grasp. “Look, I’m sorry. This shouldn’t be such a huge, end-of-the-world deal, but apparently it is. I’m sorry.”

  She started to leave, to stomp back to her room and take a painkiller.

  “Celia, wait,” Suzanne said. Celia waited. “This is about us, not you.”

  She indicated the three of them. The three grown-ups, Celia thought, even now reverting to the old way of looking at them. It didn’t matter that most people, seeing Celia and Arthur walking hand in hand down the street, wouldn’t look twice at them. In a different world, they might have met in college. They might have met when she did his tax returns. In a different world, this would have been normal. But Warren and Suzanne saw something different.

  Celia crossed her arms and wished she could hide while the three of them exchanged glares.

  Suzanne suddenly pointed at Arthur. “Don’t you go trying to convince me this is all right!”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Arthur said softly. He looked at Celia.

  They could run away, she thought, staring back at him. Flee the city. If her parents couldn’t handle it, then they could leave Commerce City altogether.

  —And what of the city?—

  He was one of its protectors. He couldn’t leave. Neither could she, or she’d have done it already.

  Suzanne continued. “It’s just … it’s just going to take some getting used to.”

  “I understand,” Arthur said. “What if we promise not to get caught snogging on the sofa like a couple of teenagers?”

  Warren sputtered; Suzanne hiccupped. She put her hand over her mouth. Then, she was giggling, and she wiped tears from her eyes.

  “Okay,” Suzanne said finally, recovering to a point.

  “Bah!” Warren rolled his eyes and stalked out of the room.

  Celia couldn’t have hoped for better than that, really.

  Arthur had known what to say to calm them down, or at least to diffuse the situation a touch. He said to Suzanne, “Did you have any luck with Breezeway?”

  “No. The police are charging him with breaking curfew. No bail’s been set.”

  “Damn. That means the rest of us are targets.”

  “Not until nightfall. I’m going to make some breakfast.” She crossed her arms as she le
ft, as if she were still holding something back.

  Arthur let out a sigh. “That went well.”

  Celia giggled, and returned to the sofa and his arms, giddy with … something.

  * * *

  “JUSTIN RAYLEN IS BREEZEWAY!” shouted the front page of the morning paper, alongside a mug shot of a surly man in his twenties, with a flop of sandy hair above a slim face. Celia recognized that face, but only if she imagined a mask over the top half of it, and a broad, cocky grin. In the mug-shot photo, he still had some of that brash air. But he glared like he wanted to hit someone. Like maybe the person standing behind the camera.

  The police had released his secret identity, apparently out of spite. She imagined the scene at the police station. How many officers had it taken to hold him down before they could take off his mask? How much weight did they hang on him to keep him from going airborne? Had his winds scoured the police station, sending papers and debris flying? Had anyone gotten hurt, so they could lay those charges on him as well? So far, the police had charged him with breaking curfew and resisting arrest.

  The morning news shows were worse. They’d tracked down Justin Raylen’s girlfriend, Marjorie Adams, a waitress at a downtown diner—Analise’s favorite diner, in fact, and wasn’t it a small world? Cameras chased her—a familiar scene that gave Celia a dose of déjà vu—as she fled to what looked like an apartment. They focused intrusively on her tear-streaked face; over and over again, she told them she had no comment, she didn’t want to talk to anyone, just leave her alone.

  One intrepid reporter found Marjorie’s mother. “No, she had no idea what he was. He always told her he worked nights, that he was on call at his job, and that was why he disappeared all the time. She never guessed he was Breezeway. How could she?”

  Celia had an urge to call Marjorie, to tell her it wasn’t so bad having a superhero in your life. She wasn’t sure the young woman would appreciate it.

  She found herself hoping her parents would sit this one out. Maybe they’d take to heart what happened to Breezeway and Typhoon, and not get involved this time. But they wouldn’t stop. They’d been doing this for long enough; that ought to at least reassure her that they knew what they were doing.