After the Golden Age

THREE

CELIA put her hands on her hips and surveyed the computer printouts, financial statements, and depositions spread across the table in the conference room. “I think you’ve got him on a dozen counts at least. Insider trading, money laundering, tax evasion, mail fraud. You did get warrants?”

DA Kevin Bronson patted his suit’s breast pocket. “Oh yeah. Three different judges signed ’em. I’m not taking any chances with the Destructor.”

Celia let out a sigh. “Good.”

“Don’t worry. This one’s personal for all of us.”

To think, for all the Destructor’s megalomania, his fantastical plans of annihilation and mayhem, his unending vows to rule the world and the Olympiad’s failure to bring him to justice, it was the accountants who were finally going to lock the key to his jail cell. Celia West, CPA. She had to admit, it felt pretty good.

“We haven’t identified all his assets,” the DA continued. “I’ll need you to track them down.”

The materials filled banker’s boxes. Usually, these cases involved a file folder. But the Destructor was a big case. She paged through some of the records. They went back years, decades. Sito’s entire history was laid out here, in bits and pieces and bank statements. Fascinating stuff, to her at least. Which was why she had this job. She resisted an urge to rub her hands together and cackle.

Celia and Bronson carefully organized and labeled every possible shred of evidence that might have a bearing on the trial. Bronson already knew that Sito planned to plead insanity. It was a dangerous defense: the very nature of his crimes—calculating, methodical, and ambitious—spoke the coldest brand of criminal sanity. Celia could help show that. Even so, no matter what the verdict, with enough evidence to show he was a danger to himself and others—mainly others—the judge could order him locked so deep inside Elroy Asylum he’d never dig his way out.

They had almost finished when Bronson paused and checked the door to make sure it was closed. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and studied her.

“Did Kurchanski tell you that I requested you for this case?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Do you know why?”

She shrugged. “Good press. Because of my parents. Get the whole West clan on board.”

“Is that a problem?”

Time to be professional and swallow her angst. “If you aren’t worried about a conflict of interest, then it’s not a problem.”

“Good. Because I was hoping you could give me a little more insight into Sito than what we can tell from the records.”

A sinking feeling struck her stomach. His statement wasn’t casual, it was leading. His gaze focused on her like she was a defendant on the witness stand—like she was guilty and he knew it.

“My parents would probably be better for that.”

“You used to work for Sito, didn’t you?” he said, like he might have commented on the weather.

A familiar, icy anger crawled up her spine. She built up the walls of her life and people like him, like Baxter, kept knocking holes in them.

Everyone knew about the kidnapping. When she was sixteen, the Destructor stole her right off the street and unmasked her parents’ identities. That made all the papers, every news outlet, in three-inch headlines, lurid color photos, and TV movies of the week. But no one outside the members of the Olympiad, the Chief of Police, and Sito himself knew that a year later, she’d gone over to the Destructor’s side. Her supreme act of teenage rebellion had been buried and hidden from all public view, a fact that she was grateful for every day of her life.

Bronson had no right to shine a light on that part of her past.

She spoke softly. If she did more than whisper, her voice would come out in a scream. “Those records are supposed to be sealed.” Juvenile records. She’d been seventeen. Just barely, they were juvenile records.

“I opened them,” he said coldly. “Oh, don’t worry, they’re still officially sealed. I won’t whisper this to anyone. But you realize that if it weren’t for your parents’ influence, you’d be in prison now.”

She’d fought this battle already. She wasn’t supposed to have to fight it again. “It was Stockholm Syndrome. Ask Dr. Mentis, he made the diagnosis, it’s all in the file.” She shook her head, a steady denial. “I’ve worked very hard to put that behind me.”

“I know, I know.” He was suddenly gentle, a whiplash change of mood that left her more unbalanced than a continued attack would have. “I’m not trying to dredge up old business. I just want you to know that you can talk to me. If you have any insights, if there’s anything you can tell me that will help with the case, I need to know.”

Stay calm. Pragmatically, she couldn’t blame him. If he thought she had information, he was obligated to pursue that. On the other hand, she couldn’t help but wonder who had nudged him toward that file, or if he’d been clever enough to wonder why the Wests’ daughter had a sealed juvenile record.

“Tell me about Sito,” he said. “Anything at all. What’s he like? How does he work?”

She sighed at the memories.

She’d felt so grown up, so sexy and wicked, standing at the Destructor’s side as he prepared to destroy the city yet again. Looking back on it, though, she must not have really believed that he’d succeed. He’d never succeeded before. She must have believed the Olympiad would stop him, like they always did, and she wouldn’t be forced into some sort of moral quandary—stop the Destructor and save them, or turn evil for real. Even so, she’d never planned for what she would do after the smoke cleared, one way or the other.

Part of her must have believed that she’d die in the crossfire. Maybe Captain Olympus would have wept apologies and regrets over her bloodied body.

It happened on the top floor of the only skyscraper in Commerce City taller than West Plaza. Such a clever bit of symbolism.

“Soon, now, this city will be reduced to ashes,” the Destructor said calmly, his hand poised over the remote detonation switch.

The sound of crashing glass interrupted the preparations. Ten guards raised their machine guns, aiming for the windows where three members of the Olympiad burst through with their powered gliders. The guards were professional muscle at the top of their game, the best in the business, loyal to the power and charisma of the Destructor. But such men were never a match for the Olympiad.

Spark swept a third of the room with a wall of fire. Guns melted and men shrieked, scrambling away as their hands scorched. Another third of them blinked and found their weapons simply missing, there one moment and gone the next. Then, the Bullet stood by the broken window and dropped their rifles one by one, sending them tumbling a hundred stories to the pavement below.

Captain Olympus, the Golden Thunderbolt, was force itself. He pushed with his mind and his hands, and guards flew back, their rifles tumbling away, knocked unconscious by the hero’s will alone.

Far from being surprised by the invasion, the Destructor, ensconced behind his computers and control systems, regarded the scene with a frown of mild disgust. Once again, the Olympiad had escaped from the trap he had set to keep them away from here.

Only three of them were here. There should have been four.

Spark, a striking woman with flame-red hair, stared at the Destructor on his control dais and cried, “Celia!”

Pretty, petulant, a young woman stood next to the Destructor. Wearing all black and too much makeup, she was the kind of trophy that added to a man’s prestige. Who wouldn’t feel more powerful with such a creature hanging on his every whim and word as Celia did?

“Celia, stand with me, my dear,” the Destructor said, beckoning the girl closer.

She did so, putting her hand on the Destructor’s shoulder, glaring at the woman who’d spoken her name.

Olympus said, “Celia. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to find you here.”

“Deal with it,” she said, pouting, her jaw taut with anger.

The Destructor put his hand over the girl’s. Olympus flinched. “She came to me of her own free will, Captain. Not like the last time.”

“Celia,” Olympus said, trembling with suppressed fury. “Get down from there. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

The girl made an indignant huff. “It’s a little late for that.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“You said I was useless! You said I embarrass you!”

This was the first time in her life Celia West had ever dared yell at her father.

Olympus clenched a fist and started for the dais. Spark—his wife—grabbed his arm. “Don’t,” she said.

“He appreciates me,” Celia said, nodding toward the Destructor.

“But he doesn’t, don’t you see? He’s only using you to get to us!”

The Destructor showed a thin, appreciative smile.

Celia, perhaps because of the short skirt and too much makeup, looked even younger as her eyes shone with tears. “You just can’t admit that I don’t need you. I never needed you.”

So much of the Captain’s power came from his anger. So often he clung to that anger when he couldn’t see another solution. “You’re no child of mine. No child of mine would do this to me.”

Standing, the Destructor put his arm around Celia’s waist. “This is all very entertaining, but it distracts from the purpose at hand. You’re too late, Captain. I will still bomb this city to oblivion, and you can’t stop me.”

Then the Captain smiled. “Really?”

The Destructor hated that smile. It usually preceded unexpected complications. Nevertheless, he had to move forward. He picked up his remote and pushed the detonator button.

The three of the Olympiad stood side by side, arms crossed, watching him expectantly.

The closed-circuit screens showing a dozen views of the city didn’t change. The bombs didn’t go off. Somehow, the Olympiad had stopped them. Once again, the Destructor’s elegant plan was crumbling to pieces.

The elevator door slid open, and a man wearing a well-tailored suit and a trench coat strolled into the room. The fourth member of the Olympiad, the young Doctor Mentis.

“Found your bombs, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he said amiably in a clipped British accent.

And this was why, no matter how perfect his plans were, they always included an escape route. The Destructor pressed another button. A trapdoor opened behind him, where a chute led to his rocket pod. “This is when I leave you all.”

He brushed the girl away and turned to the door.

She grabbed his arm. “Take me with you.”

“The pod only holds one.”

“But I thought—”

“My dear, your father was right. I only kept you because of the pain it would cause him. Now, good-bye.”

He shouldered her out of his way and disappeared down the chute. Celia, stumbling on her heeled sandals, fell off the dais and sprawled on the floor.

The building’s sprinkler system finally reacted to Spark’s flames and burst into action, raining down on them all. After the Destructor’s sudden departure, the only sound was water hitting the floor.

“Dammit,” the Bullet said, kicking a puddle. “I hate when he does that.”

Mentis joined them. “But the city is safe once again. It’s good enough for me.”

The Golden Thunderbolt’s grimace showed nothing but contempt for Celia. “You could have stopped him! You didn’t know we’d defused the bombs, you thought he was really bombing the city, and you just stood there, you didn’t even try to stop him! What the hell were you thinking? The only thing left is to lock you away. I don’t know what else to do with you.”

Celia only cried. Hugging her knees, she turned her face away. Her makeup was smearing, black streaks streaming from her eyes.

Captain Olympus growled. The sound grew into a shout. He punched his fist into the air in front of him—and twenty feet away, the Destructor’s control station folded, the steel crumpling like tin foil. Celia screamed and shuffled crablike from the mess.

Arms bent now, the Captain stalked toward her, his face rigid with anger, as if he still faced the Destructor.

Despite the water from the sprinklers, a wall of fire roared up from the floor in front of the Captain. Spark, across the room, guided the flames with her outstretched hands. Tongues of flame licked at Olympus, and heat radiated throughout the room.

“Warren!” Spark shouted.

The flames didn’t hurt Olympus, but they stopped him. He looked at Suzanne. At last, his shoulders sagged and his arms hung loose. Spark let the flames burn out, dropping a few last embers as they died.

Spark—Suzanne—started to run to Celia’s side. “Celia—”

“Don’t touch me!” the girl screamed, scooting away. “Get away from me!” The shout broke down to uncontrollable sobbing.

“God, what are we going to do with her?” Warren muttered.

Mentis put his hands in the pockets of his coat. “Warren, if you want my professional opinion, Celia is not evil. She isn’t even bad, really. She’s only trying to find her own way in the world, and is doing it by getting as far away from you as she possibly can. Let her alone for a time. There’s nothing else you can do, at least not anymore.”

“When, Arthur? When could I have stopped this?”

Mentis’s lips thinned. Flatly, he said, “Ten years ago, when she worshipped the ground you walked on and you didn’t have the time of day for her. Sorry.”

In the end, Celia let Mentis and Robbie approach her. They got her out of the building and took her home, leaving Suzanne and Warren to clean up after the Destructor’s gang. She’d run away from home two months before to join the Destructor. After, she obtained legal emancipation and struck out on her own.

The next time her father spoke to her was when she graduated from college.

It seemed like a long time ago, now. If she threw Bronson a bone, maybe he’d leave her be. Let her do her job. Forget about the whole thing.

“He’s charismatic, but you already know that. He draws people to him, uses them. He’s selfish, morally blind. It’s like people aren’t real to him. They’re just tools, or obstacles. You’ll have to remember that when he talks about other people he’s not really talking about people. And you have to understand that he doesn’t want to conquer, take over the city, or the world, or any of those things. He’s the Destructor for a reason. He just wants to destroy. He wants to see the world burned to ash.”

“Why?”

“I couldn’t say. It was a long time ago and I didn’t really pay attention.”

Some people theorized that he was an alien criminal who took human form and came to Earth to wreak havoc. She could believe it. There’d been so little about him that was human.

“Why did you join him?”

The file called it Stockholm Syndrome, when a kidnapping victim began to sympathize with her abductor. That was true enough, as far as it went. That was the reason that kept her out of jail. But everyone who knew the truth of the matter, knew the whole truth. No reason Bronson shouldn’t as well.

“I did it to piss off my parents,” she said.

“Most kids just take up smoking.”

“Yeah, well. Smoking’ll kill you.”

They had just locked the evidence cabinet and left the conference room when one of Bronson’s aides rushed down the hallway from the lobby. “Mr. Bronson! He’s here—it’s him. He wants to see you, he wouldn’t wait—”

“Who? Who’s here?”

“Captain Olympus!”

Celia’s stomach froze, and she glanced around, looking for a place to hide. Too late, he came through the far door, dressed in his uniform, a black-and-gold skin suit that showed every inch of his supertoned muscles. A crowd of office workers trailed after him, pressing forward to catch a glimpse, grinning with wonder, eyes wide with awe. So, this was all going to happen with an audience. Great.

Square-jawed, frowning magnificently, Olympus pushed past the aide and stared down DA Bronson. “Is it true? You’ve filed charges against him?”

Bronson donned a vacant, smiling mask—his politician expression. “Captain Olympus! Thanks so much for coming! What can I do for you?”

Celia kept to the back, hoping Bronson would hide her.

“If the rumors are true, and you’ve pressed charges without consulting the Olympiad—”

“We had the warrants, we had to act quickly—”

“I’m not sure you understand the gravity of this. He wouldn’t let himself get caught with evidence you could use. He always destroys his plans, his devices, his associates never talk … Celia?” Olympus squinted, peering around Bronson. “Celia, what are you doing here?”

Bronson stepped aside, looking back and forth between them.

Captain Olympus, leader of the crime-fighting Olympiad, beloved protector of the city—Warren West, her father—put his hands on his hips and waited for her answer.

“I’m working with the DA’s office as a consultant in forensic accounting.”

“A what?”

She closed her eyes and sighed. He still didn’t want to admit it. The daughter of the greatest crime fighter Commerce City had ever known had become an accountant, and Warren West still hadn’t reconciled himself to the shame of it.

Bronson stepped forward. My hero, Celia thought. “Captain, we have the evidence this time. We seized the records of his clandestine financial empire. Tax evasion, fraud—all of it is good in court. He’s in custody without bail at the maximum security wing of the Elroy Asylum. He isn’t breaking out this time.”

Captain Olympus hardly seemed able to take his gaze from Celia. At last, he looked at Bronson in acknowledgment of what he had said. “Tax evasion? This man tried to destroy the city I don’t know how many times and you’re charging him with tax evasion?”

“Anything to lock him up,” Bronson said calmly.

He clenched his jaw—a bad sign. “I don’t believe … Was this your idea?” He pointed at Celia.

Enough was enough. “Dad, please. I’m helping sort through the records. It’s part of my job.”

“Forensic accounting? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

She tried to sound calm and reasonable. “We can prosecute the Destructor within the structure of the legal system. Isn’t that the important thing?”

“The legal system … I’ve got half a mind to head over to the Asylum and finish him myself—”

Bronson raised his hands. “Please don’t do that, sir. I’ll need you to testify in the trial, all right, Captain?”

Olympus glared. Bronson may have had the authority to stand up to the superhero, but Celia knew that glare. It had terrified her as a child, and, well, it still terrified her.

His lips thinned, his eyes narrowed. “Wait ’til your mother hears about this.”

Celia slumped against the nearest wall and closed her eyes. She couldn’t win with him. She just couldn’t.

Olympus turned to stalk out of the room, but the admiring crowd blocked the way. Everyone in the room held their breath a moment: what would Olympus do? But even from the back, Celia recognized him settling into his public persona, squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath. The crowd before him sighed, seemingly as one.

A woman in a gray dress suit stepped forward, tentative. “Sir? You probably don’t remember this but about fifteen years ago you saved a school bus from falling off a bridge? I was on that bus, and I … I just wanted to thank you.” Her voice cracked and tears fell.

Kindly, Captain Olympus touched her shoulder. “No thanks needed. It’s what I do.”

Then a flurry of voices rose up, and people stuck their hands out, and Olympus shook them all as he pressed forward through the crowd. People applauded as he finally left the room.

And that was Captain Olympus, Celia thought with a tired sigh.

Meanwhile, Bronson stared at Celia. “You didn’t tell him you were working on the case?”

“I try not to talk to him at all if I can help it.” It was a perfect end to the afternoon, really.

“Huh. Wild.”

Yeah, every kid dreamed of having Captain Olympus as a father. They had no idea.