After the Golden Age

TWENTY-FIVE

THE penthouse was still deserted. “Mom? Dad?” she called out. No answer. They’d been gone all day. The gauze bandage covering her stitches itched, and she felt a raw, gnawing anxiety.

She went to the Olympiad command room. There, she found Robbie—the Bullet, actually, in uniform sans mask—at the communications station, listening to police radio.

“Hey! I thought you’d be in bed asleep,” he said.

“I had work to do.” He gave her a reprimanding glance. If he offered her hot cocoa, so help her God— “Where is everyone?”

“Your dad’s at the courthouse. The jury’s taking forever, which has the good Captain worried. Spark’s trying to meet with the police chief about coordinating some kind of patrol for the city tonight, but I don’t think she’s having any luck.”

“How’s it look out there?”

He shook his head. “It’s like the whole city’s holding its breath. Something’s going to happen but no one knows what. Only thing on the radio is car accidents—people are twitchy, rear-ending each other. I can’t find the independent supers; they’ve all gone to ground, I think. Waiting.”

“Has Dr. Mentis been back?”

Robbie shook his head. “Haven’t seen him all day. Why?”

“He—” She shook her head. She was worried. She needed to see him. Robbie didn’t need to know all that.

“I’d love to know what he found out about Mayor Paulson.”

She just bet he would. Arthur ought to be here, and her stomach flipped a little. The Olympiad was in action, and he’d disappeared.

“Have you called his office?” she said.

“If he’s there, he’s not answering.”

“That’s not like him.”

“Hey, if he’s in trouble, he’ll find a way to let us know.”

He’d speak to their minds across the distance. For his closest friends, space wasn’t a barrier for the connection.

Would there come a time when he refused to ask for help?

“I’ll see you later,” she said, turning to leave.

“You’re not going out, are you? I don’t think your folks—”

“I won’t leave the building, I promise.”

“Celia, you’re still hurt. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m fine. I’ve got my cell phone. I’ll call you if I need help, I promise.”

She left before he could say anything else.

She rode the elevator down to the eighteenth floor.

In the heart of the building, the office spaces were efficient and elegant. Gray berber carpeting led down hallways with recessed lighting. Silk plants in brass stands decorated corners. The Plaza hired staff just to keep those plants dusted. Accounting firms, law firms, investment firms, insurance companies—all had offices here, marked by frosted glass fronts with their names painted in neat black letters. Originally, Celia’s chief interest in working for Smith and Kurchanski had been that their offices weren’t located in West Plaza.

Dr. Arthur Mentis’s office was marked only by a brass nameplate on a wood-stained door at the end of a hallway. Not a prime location, but he didn’t need much space. He wanted to work here so he’d be close to the Olympiad’s headquarters. And Warren gave him the place rent-free.

She knocked.

“Arthur? Are you here? Can I come in?” She knocked again. And again. If something had happened to him, she’d have felt it. She knew she would have.

In much the same way, something told her that he had to be here.

“It’s Celia. Will you let me in? Arthur!”

At that, the door opened. He might have been waiting just on the other side, debating about whether or not to open it.

She could see why there might be a debate. He looked awful. Face frowning, hair ruffled, he wore his shirt unbuttoned, baring the undershirt. He leaned on the open door and the frame, holding a bottle of scotch. He didn’t smell of alcohol; he only looked drunk. The bottle was full and unopened. He was showing some kind of emotion—which one, she couldn’t guess.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“I was worried about you.”

“You shouldn’t worry about me.”

“Can I come in?”

He stepped aside and swung the door open. When he wandered away, she closed it.

His office suite had two rooms. The front was a calculated, elegant public face, with a soft leather sofa, antique desk, bookshelves, and inoffensive Impressionist artwork on the walls. The back door of this room was open, leading to an inner office. Curious, she walked back there. She expected him to stop her or to intercept her; this felt like an invasion. But he didn’t. He kept his back to her.

The back room might have been an office once. There was a desk, some shelves filled with books, a filing cabinet. Now, a pile of clothes lay on the surface of the desk, shirts and trousers waiting to be washed. A foldaway cot, sheets and blankets mussed, sat in a corner. A minifridge with a hot plate and electric kettle sitting on top of it occupied another corner. It looked like a dorm room.

Also on the desk, a half-dozen empty orange prescription bottles clustered together.

“You’ve been living here,” she said.

“Why not? I spend most of my time here. It got so it seemed a waste to go anywhere else.”

“It … it doesn’t seem right, not for you. Not—” Not for someone she admired, looked up to. He’d always seemed so put together. Even she’d managed to build a life for herself. But him?

He was leaning on the door frame, watching her study the odd scraps of his life. He stared at her. He could see it all. All her thoughts were written across her face.

She pointed at the scotch. “Are you going to share that?”

“You can have the whole thing. I got drunk once. Years ago. Pulled everybody in the house with me. First year at university, there were five of us living in a flat in London. They all had hallucinations, screaming fits, and massive hangovers. Even the ones used to drinking a dozen pints in an evening. And it wasn’t even that they had hangovers, but their minds convinced them they had. My mind convinced them they had. I haven’t had a drink since. Can’t bring myself to do it now—I really don’t know what you see in the stuff. I’d probably tear the whole building down. I’ve never lost control since that time. I’ve never done much of anything.”

She came to lean on the wall next to him. She took the bottle away, pulled out the cap, and took a swig. Rolled the liquid over her tongue before swallowing. Not the best, but it burned going down, and that was what mattered. It even dulled her headache. She set the bottle down on the desk.

“Mom and Dad think you have a life,” she said. “They think you have a psychiatry practice, a home to go to. Hobbies. But you come here, pop a few sleeping pills, and that’s it, isn’t it?”

“Celia, why are you here?” he said tiredly.

She caught his gaze and invited him to look at the scenes playing behind her eyes. She studied his expression, looking for that flicker of change, hoping to see something in him that might reflect his thoughts. He was too used to keeping that mask on.

But he brought his hand up and traced the line of her jaw. Then the hand dropped, and so did his gaze.

She took his face in her hands, pressing his cheeks, not forcing him to look at her, but drawing herself close to him. She spoke in his ear, so he could hear the words as well as feel her thoughts.

“You are the only person who has never been disappointed in me. It hurts me to see you unhappy.”

He gripped her arms. “Celia, you don’t understand. I cannot be in love with you. The way I am, it would hurt you, and I refuse to do that, I cannot—”

And she could feel it, the tendrils of his emotions reaching for her, winding themselves around her, binding them together. Like the drunken stupor he shared with his housemates, his emotions, even love, rippled out from him and did damage.

He straightened, pulling away from her. “You see,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I never know if my feelings are returned, or if they’re merely my own feelings reflected back at me.”

“Arthur. I came here because I wanted to. Because I love you.”

In so many ways, so many times, she’d held his example before herself as a model, a way of being to aspire to. But now, she had to make the first move. She had to go to him, and be the example. She put one hand in his and squeezed; with the other hand she touched his cheek to turn his face toward her. She was just tall enough to reach for him, draw him toward her, and kiss his lips. Just once, softly, so she could feel his breath on her. His eyes were squeezed shut, bracing.

“You won’t hurt me,” she whispered. “You’ve been inside my mind a hundred times. If you weren’t with me in mind as well as in body—it wouldn’t feel right. Not with you.”

His arms closed around her.

She felt his relief wash over her and gave it back to him as bliss.

She was in a dark room, and people were beating her. She couldn’t see them, but knew they were there, and couldn’t escape. They must have had a thousand hands and feet, punching her, kicking her. Somehow, she knew she ought to be able to make them stop just by thinking it, but her mind wasn’t working, her power wasn’t—she smelled sage.

She was having his dream.

Just as she was going to shake him awake, he opened his eyes. “Sorry,” he said.

They were on his cot, naked, in each other’s arms. She snuggled closer in his embrace. He’d always seemed like a slight man, especially next to Robbie and her father. But under his unassuming clothing, his body was solid. He worked out. His strong arms would never let go of her.

“No, it was just weird. Like my body didn’t fit. But it wasn’t any worse than my dreams.”

“Like the one where you’re falling, and you hit the pavement, and don’t wake up?”

“You know about that one?”

“Hm.” He nodded, sighing a breath through her hair. “It used to send a jolt through the whole house when you had it. At least, it did to me.”

He politely failed to mention that at the start of the dream, it was her father who tossed her off the roof. “Is it normal to dream about all your bones breaking?”

“It’s normal to dream about anything at all. It’s not normal to dream someone else’s dreams.”

She rubbed her cheek against his chest. He had thin, wiry hair growing on it. She remembered when she first met him, in her parents’ kitchen, in the middle of a crisis: the young medical student had inadvertently met Captain Olympus and the Bullet, read their minds, and learned all their secrets. Her parents had been a little afraid of him, though they masked it with their usual anger and bravado. But he’d been kind to her. For her, his calmness had always translated to kindness rather than mystery. Then she went away, isolated herself, avoided them; she didn’t see him for four years. When she returned, his kindness had been replaced by something else entirely.

“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 vigilantes.”

“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—”