After the Golden Age

TWENTY-TWO

WHEN Suzanne insisted that Celia stay come stay in West Plaza when she was released from the hospital the next morning, she relented.

The West Corp limo picked her up that morning. Her father rode with her—bodyguard. For the first time in recent memory, she felt safer with him near.

She still couldn’t think of anything to say to him, though the information about the Leyden Industrial Park burned a hole in her attaché case. Telling him everything had seemed like a great idea when she was almost dead. Now that she was sitting next to him? Later, she’d tell him later. When she had all the pieces.

Her father’s cell phone rang. He answered, then relaxed, which meant it was probably Suzanne calling. “Really? What channel … okay.”

Warren turned on the TV in the back of the limo.

The scene was the City Hall press room, with its familiar podium and flags in the background. The place was crammed with reporters and TV cameras. Mayor Paulson was just arriving at the podium, looking grim and determined. Beside the network logo in the bottom corner, a graphic announced “Live.”

Paulson launched in on his speech. “I have made a pledge to protect this city. I have pledged to make our streets safe. It is my heartbreaking regret to recognize how far I have to go to make that pledge a reality. Thousands of the city’s residents depend on the bus system to carry them to work, to carry them home again. The buses are the arteries that hold the lifeblood of Commerce City. I fear that yesterday’s tragedy has eroded confidence in our transportation system, just as other recent events have made people afraid to venture out to our museums, our concert halls, our gardens. We fear that nothing in this city is safe, that nothing is sacred.

“I aim to change that. I aim to once again make our city a place we can be proud of, a place we can feel safe in. It is with that goal in mind that I have taken the drastic step of declaring a state of emergency. Until the masterminds of these plots are taken into custody, until every last member of these gangs is caught, this city is under curfew. All law enforcement officials will be working overtime. All city resources will be directed toward making sure this sort of thing never happens again. Thank you.”

For all the chaos that the recent spate of criminal activity had caused, none of the incidents had been deadly. That had changed now. Six people had died on the bus: the driver, the man who’d been shot, and four in the crash. A couple of the injuries were critical, so the number could go up. The police assured Celia that if the bus had gone into the water, that number would have been much higher. They really did want to give her a medal.

Paulson didn’t linger to answer questions. An aide stayed behind to announce specific measures involved in the state of emergency declaration: a curfew, a requirement of all residents to carry identification and proof of employment, such as a recent pay stub, while traveling to work. All events where large groups of people would gather were canceled.

The news report continued with talking-heads commentary and man-on-the-street interviews. Public opinion seemed to support the mayor’s declaration. News had leaked about the breathing equipment under the front seat, which turned the incident from a random act of violence into a terrorist act. Another mastermind seemed to be laying siege to the city; the Destructor’s days of terror had returned.

Warren was a short breath away from a rage when the limo pulled into the West Plaza parking garage. Celia was almost afraid to move.

“Twenty-five years,” Warren muttered. “Half my life I’ve been protecting this city. Do I get any credit at all?”

“I don’t think that’s what he’s saying. It’s an election year, he has to sound decisive.”

“Are you defending him?”

“No, of course not. This is overreacting. This state-of-emergency thing won’t fly for long. People won’t put up with it. He—Paulson came to see me last night, after visiting hours.”

“Why? What’d he say?”

“Nothing. Small talk. But it felt wrong.”

“Are you okay?”

He’d asked her that twice this week. She might get used to it. “Yeah.”

He sat back against the seat and sighed. “You have to listen to that. Listen to your gut when it tells you something’s wrong. My gut’s screaming bloody murder about that guy. No one’s going to observe a curfew.”

“We still don’t have proof that he’s behind anything.”

“Maybe you could have a look at his credit card statements, see if he’s bought any scuba gear.” He said it like it was a joke.

She glared. “I’d need a warrant for that.”

By then, the limo had stopped near the private elevators. Michael, the chauffeur, opened their door. Warren wasn’t so angry that he didn’t nod a greeting at the driver. Celia pulled her bag over her shoulder as she climbed out—then Warren took it from her. She resisted an urge to grab it back.

“I can get that, you know,” she said. “I’m not an invalid.”

He ignored her.

They began another silent elevator ride.

I should say something, Celia thought. She really almost died this time. She should stop being angry at him.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. It was all she could think of.

“For what?” He glanced at her sidelong.

She shook her head and scuffed a shoe on the carpet, feeling like a teenager all over again. “I don’t know. For everything.”

“Oh. Right.” Now he looked down. Was that him scuffing the toe of his Italian leather shoe? “Your testimony the other day … I know you took a lot of flak for it. But you did good. You held up. I thought you should know.”

She stared. “Why tell me this?”

“Can’t I give my daughter a compliment?”

“You never have before.”

“Yes, I have.”

“When?”

He didn’t answer—couldn’t. They hadn’t had a civil conversation in years.

This clinched it, though. She couldn’t accept a compliment any more than he could accept an apology.

“I’m sure I have,” he said finally. “I’ll ask your mother, she’ll know.”

The elevator opened up at the penthouse.

Suzanne came to Celia to give her a hug. She drew back to touch the bandage on her forehead. “How are you? Does it still hurt?”

“I’m fine. The doctors gave me some of the good stuff. If it gets bad I’ll take a pill and sleep for a while.”

“Do you want something to drink? Juice, water?”

“I’m fine, really.”

Suzanne looked at her, like all she really wanted was to be able to do something for Celia.

Celia repressed a big sigh. “Some breakfast would be nice. I skipped the hospital food.”

Suzanne greeted Warren with a kiss, and he bear-hugged her back until she laughed. He didn’t ask her about any compliments he’d given Celia.

Over a meal of French toast, Celia’s parents gave her the updates. Mentis was at City Hall, trying to see the mayor, both to speak to him on behalf of the Olympiad, and to read what he could of his mind. If Paulson really was up to something, Mentis would learn it—assuming the telepath could get close to him. Robbie was trying to find the city’s other vigilantes, so they could coordinate their activities. At least she wouldn’t be subject to surveillance duty anymore.

Since cultural activities and events in the near future were canceled, they couldn’t guess what the conspirators’ next target would be. The Sito trial jury was still deliberating—Paulson couldn’t cancel that. It seemed as likely a target as anything. Warren and Suzanne would stake out the courthouse, just in case something happened—and to be on hand when a verdict was reached. “I just smell trouble,” Warren said, more than once.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay alone?” Suzanne asked.

Celia nodded. “I’ll call security if I need anything, or I don’t feel well. You need to be out there.”

An hour later, Celia had the place to herself. And she had her own work to do.

She tapped in the code and pressed her thumb to the scanner on the security panel outside the Olympiad’s command room. It hummed warmly against her skin, and the door slid open.

The Olympiad’s analytical mainframe was almost magical. You poured information in, and patterns emerged. Connections became clear. A mass of raw data became a conspiracy. Like her father, the computer found conspiracies everywhere.

She had gone far past tracking Sito’s assets. She wanted to know what had happened at that laboratory. She had questions for the computer, starting with the dead-ends her own inquiries had led her to. First, what could possibly be done with the raw materials and equipment listed on the Leyden labs’ requisition forms and asset reports?

Second, what had happened to the personnel? Had any of them been involved with Sito and his activities as the Destructor? Could any of them still be involved? If Sito was organizing events despite being in custody, and he did have a connection to the outside somehow, this might show how.

One after the other, she lay the pages on the scanner bed, and watched the information transform into glowing pixels. She went to the computer and typed in a search command. It took some doing—the database was immense. The search engine kept asking her to narrow her focus. It finally steered her into a specific category: scientific and inventions.

The search itself took hardly any time at all.

RESULT: 89% (+ or − 4% margin of error) of materials and equipment list entered matches list of materials found at the laboratory of Simon Sito (aka the Destructor) involved in the creation and testing of the machine known as the Psychostasis Device.

When Sito kidnapped her when she was sixteen, he’d tried using the machine on her. They all thought the Psychostasis Device was a new invention. But what if he’d created it fifty years ago? If the computer was right, he’d been experimenting with mental manipulation under her grandfather’s sponsorship.

Then there’d been an accident. What had happened?

She scanned in the list of names from the personnel records.

The computer’s search results weren’t as quick or thorough this time. A few of the names still came up with blanks. The names that hit, though, hit big.

OLYMPIAD PERSONNEL FILES: CLASSIFIED. HISTORIES, NEXT OF KIN, ETC.

Jacob West, President, West Corp: son, Warren West (aka Captain Olympus)

Anna Riley, stenographer, West Corp, Leyden Industrial Park: daughter, Suzanne (Riley) West (aka Spark)

George Denton, machinist, West Corp, Leyden Industrial Park: son, Robert “Robbie” Denton (aka the Bullet)

Emily Newman, technician, West Corp, Leyden Industrial Park: son, Arthur Mentis. (Note: Emily Newman immigrated to London where she met her husband, Nicholas Mentis. Arthur Mentis came to Commerce City for medical training.)

Four out of twelve of those present at the accident had children who were superhuman. Then what about Analise’s parents? Breezeway’s? Barry Quinn’s? Any of the other superhumans? Their grandparents?

In her father’s world, coincidence didn’t exist. It couldn’t exist. All that remained then was finding the strands that connected various parts of the web. One strand showed thick and obvious.

If Simon Sito fathered a child, was that child superhuman? Was that child Paulson? If so, what could Paulson do? Or was he like her—a dud?

“I’d have thought you’d be resting.” Dr. Mentis stood in the doorway. “You’re still injured, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

Her face burned in a panicked flush. Quickly, she shut down the computer file. She hadn’t heard Arthur enter the room. She’d been too wrapped up. Or he moved too quietly. Or he’d convinced her mind that she didn’t hear him. Paranoid, paranoid …

Either in response to his suggestion, or her own shock, a headache launched itself through her skull. The stitches on her cut throbbed; she could feel them.

“I had a couple of things to look up.” She had no reason to feel guilty. She’d been invited here.

“What have you found?”

The source of all your power. “I’m still not sure. I’ve been digging into Sito’s assets for DA Bronson, but I’ve opened a couple cans of worms.”

“I’d have thought that would have been old news by now. We have more urgent questions, don’t you think?”

She hesitated to ponder those questions, and how the one connected to the other, when he could see those thoughts laid bare.

“I’ve been to see Mayor Paulson,” he continued. “I came in with the crowd for his press conference this morning. I was hoping to learn what was behind all those snappy sound bites and high ideals he’s always spouting off about. Do you know what I found?”

“What?”

He started pacing a long, slow circuit around the room. “Nothing. I found absolutely nothing at all. His mind was blank to me. I couldn’t read him.”

Just like the Destructor. Like Sito. She now recognized the tension in Arthur’s frame—he was afraid. That knowledge tingled across her skin. Dr. Mentis was never afraid. He was never anything.

“Oh my God.”

“You know what it means, don’t you? You’ve suspected it for some time.”

“I’d rather not talk about it. I still don’t know anything for sure.”

“That’s a bit disingenuous. You know plenty, but you’re not saying what.”

She wouldn’t fall into that trap. She wouldn’t say a damn word.

He didn’t stop walking. “Celia, what are you trying to hide?”

Nothing, she wanted to say, but didn’t. She wondered why she didn’t just say it, knowing Arthur could read the thought behind her eyes. My grandfather and Simon Sito worked together to create superhuman mutations.

“I’m not trying to hide anything. I just—I just want to be sure before I say it.”

“I’m worried.”

The fact that he’d admit to an emotion of any kind shook her. “There’s a lot to worry about.”

“I’m worried about you. You worked so hard to get yourself away from all this, and here you are, back in the middle. And you put yourself here. I hope you’re not trying to prove something.”

And she knew. The thought was simply there, and it wasn’t hers. You are more important to me than anything.

“So what if I am?” she said, her voice cracking. “You don’t have to ask any questions. You just know.”

“I try to be polite.”

He always said that. But this didn’t feel like politeness. It wasn’t enough for him to read the answer in her thoughts, he wanted her to say it. This inspired in her a contrary desire to push him. What would she have to say, how mean would she have to be, before he reacted? That was the teenager again, the angry girl Celia had never quite escaped. She shouldn’t be like that, not with him. There was a time he’d been her only friend.

“Maybe I’d like to try and keep a few secrets. I don’t have much of anything else.”

Mentis stopped pacing and laughed softly, as sinister an expression as she’d heard from any criminal. “There are no secrets around me.”

“Only the ones you keep.” Like the feelings you have for me— “Why can’t you just say it out loud?”

He murmured, “Why can’t you, Celia?”

All she had to do was say it. I love you, too. But her mouth went dry and the words stuck.

His emotions were palpable. His mind expanded to take in what lay around it, and the people around him felt the impact of it. She could feel him—she wanted to run to him, throw herself at him, pull his arms around her, hold him.

Or was that what he was thinking about her?

She turned away as her tears fell, and covered her mouth to keep the sob from breaking free. Why couldn’t she just say the words?

Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets and, shoulders hunched and face returned to its imperturbable mask, left the room.