After the Golden Age

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 episode 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.

“What is it? Oh—is Paulson on about that again? You know the historic preservation people’ll never let him get away with it. It’ll take an earthquake to level half the city before they let anything get torn down.”

Part of Paulson’s platform for the last election featured a “revitalization” plan. He wanted to build a multilane ring highway circumscribing the city, to facilitate commerce and to attract business. The usual buzzwords. The trouble was, a number of existing neighborhoods would have to be demolished to accommodate the highway. Many argued, convincingly, that an essential character of Commerce City would be lost if it turned into yet another ungainly urban sprawl surrounded by cookie-cutter bedroom communities.

“That’s not really what I was thinking of,” Celia said absently, refolding the paper and handing it back to Analise. Could she still date Mark if she hadn’t voted for his father?

Celia’s lunch hour was almost finished, and the dishes were cleared away, when Analise asked, “You’re really okay after what happened? You don’t seem shaken up at all.”

“Yeah. Remember, this is like kidnapping number”—she actually had to stop and count—“seven for me. It’s been a couple years since the last. I was probably due for it.”

“That’s really messed up. That you can even think like that.”

“It’s either that or spend the rest of my life in therapy.”

“You could probably use some. Therapy, I mean. You’re always complaining about your parents, that their reputation is always getting in your way. Why don’t you leave town? You could change your name, start a new life somewhere.”

She’d always told herself she shouldn’t have to give up her identity for them. “I like it here. What would I do without coffee at Pee Wee’s? I guess I keep thinking I can make a place for myself. I keep thinking someday people will just forget about me. Stop trying to kidnap me.” Every kid wanted to get out of their parents’ shadow. Her problem was, for her that shadow was just so big.

Analise huffed self-righteously. “Your folks should have retired when their cover was blown.”

Not that it would have helped. Then, people would have used her to try to draw them out of retirement. Or try to ransom her. Warren West was still one of the richest men in town.

“Just remember you said that, if it ever happens to you.”