After the Golden Age

  “I’d like to submit that Mr. Sito’s actions in regards to Ms. West speak toward an unstable state of mind, a personality more interested in chaos than in reason. His insanity compelled him to make unwise choices. If I may ask just a couple more questions.”

  Please, Celia thought. It couldn’t get much worse.

  “Do you regret that time you spent in Mr. Sito’s employ?”

  He would undermine her involvement in the case. Every piece of evidence she’d touched would be tainted now. It didn’t matter what she said, how she answered. She could only be honest, because she had nothing to hide, right?

  “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

  “And how would you describe your feelings for Mr. Sito now?”

  Burning, mind-numbing rage? “Dislike.”

  Smiling, Sito watched her, his cuffed hands clasped before him, fingers tapping together. Don’t look at him, look at Arthur.

  Arthur Mentis’s expression was neutral. Nonjudgmental. She just had to hang in there.

  “Not resentment? Or even outright hatred?”

  “Objection! Leading the witness.” Bronson, saving her again.

  “Sustained.”

  “Ms. West, wouldn’t you say your involvement with the prosecution’s case is a clear conflict of interest? That your attitude toward Mr. Sito is personal, not professional?”

  “Objection!”

  “Sustained.”

  “Why are you assisting with this case?”

  “It’s part of my job. I’m a forensic accountant with the firm of Smith and Kurchanski, which has a history of working with the DA’s office.”

  “Did it ever occur to you to have yourself removed from the case because of a possible conflict of interest?”

  “Yes. DA Bronson believed the conflict of interest didn’t exist.”

  “Did he know about your prior involvement with Sito when he brought you in to work on this case?”

  Her voice fell again. “Yes.”

  “No further questions, your honor.”

  Now that it was over, it didn’t seem so bad. She breathed a sigh of relief. It could have been worse.

  “Does the prosecution wish to cross-examine?”

  “Yes, your honor. Ms. West? You underwent psychiatric evaluation immediately following the two months that Mr. Malone referred to, is this correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what was the conclusion of the evaluation?”

  She took a deep breath. She hoped those reporters were still paying attention. She and Bronson had crafted this answer. “That I had acted irrationally, that I suffered from a variety of traumatic stress disorders related to both the uncertainty of my parents’ lifestyle and the kidnapping by the defendant that I suffered the year before.”

  “In fact, the conclusion was that you suffered temporary insanity and could not be held accountable for your actions.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you tell me briefly what you’ve been doing in the eight years since then?”

  “I went to college. I earned an MBA, passed the CPA exam on the first try, was hired on at Smith and Kurchanski, and I’ve been working there for two and a half years. I have an apartment in the west downtown area. I live quietly.”

  “Would you say that in that time, your actions have been influenced either by hatred of or identification with Mr. Sito or his organization?”

  She hesitated. In an indirect sense, Sito had influenced her entire life. Her parents wouldn’t have become who they were without Sito, and she wouldn’t have become who she was without that.

  But Mentis was right. The last eight years were her own. “No.”

  “Thank you, no further questions.”

  The judge turned to the defense. “Mr. Malone?”

  “No further questions.”

  “Ms. West, you are dismissed.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  She kept her chin up, her eyes up as she walked back to her seat. Bronson flashed her a smile. She felt exhausted.

  “You look like you’ve run a marathon,” Mentis said as she sat beside him.

  “I need a drink,” she said.

  After another hour, the judge finally called a recess for lunch. Reporters mobbed Celia. She only heard a fraction of their questions.

  “—how did your parents react when—feelings toward the Destructor—why a secret for so long—affect your job—affect the trial—”

  She was afraid to say anything that would undermine what she’d already said under oath. Teenage rebellion wasn’t normally considered a form of temporary insanity.

  Arthur stepped in for her. “I’ve known Celia for ten years, and I can assure you I have the utmost confidence in her.”

  They escaped to Bronson’s conference room.

  “They’re going to bring up that first day of the hearing, when he talked to me and no one could figure out why,” she said. “They’re going to think there’s still a connection.”

  Helpfully, Bronson burst in then. “It’s all irrelevant, I think we convinced the jury of that. You did great, Celia, just great. Hey, Rudy—” He went off to harass an assistant.

  Mentis handed her a cup. Coffee, not bourbon, alas. She said, “I’m never going to get away from all this, am I? Even if my record never came out, it would always be something else. Why aren’t I a better citizen, why don’t I do more, why aren’t I more like them?” He didn’t respond; merely waited, calmly, for her to spill her thoughts. It was easy to do; he already knew what she was going to say, didn’t he? “People tell me how great it must have been, growing up with Captain Olympus and Spark for parents.” She shook her head.

  “Overrated, you think?”

  “Everyone is so amazed by them, so awestruck. To be able to move so fast you can fly, to create fire from your bare hands, to knock down walls, to have the power of gods … but I grew up with it. It wasn’t special to me, it was just normal. It was Mom and Dad. I don’t see what everyone else sees. I wish I could, sometimes.” She looked at the ceiling, then scrubbed at her eyes to keep tears from starting. Stress. It was just stress.

  “I’ll tell you something,” Arthur said. “Until a certain age, everyone thinks their parents are heroes. Then they grow up a little, start to understand a little more of the world, and they realize their parents are just people. It destroys them, just a little bit. But it’s part of becoming an adult. Everyone goes through it. You, on the other hand—your parents really are heroes, at least to everyone else. It’s a bit remarkable, really. You never went through that disappointment of finding out your parents are just people.”

  Except they were just people—she saw the side of them that no one else did, the bickering over supper and cooking pasta at the stove. She was the only one who understood that they were just people—that was where her frustration lay.

  Arthur smiled his impenetrable smile.

  Celia answered it with a wry grin of her own. “Are you psychoanalyzing me again?”

  “Would I do such a thing?” He turned on his heel and left the room.

  Mom arrived to check on her. Dad wasn’t there. He’d already left. Celia didn’t ask why. Mom would say “work,” and then Celia would have to ask what kind of work—West Corp work or the other work—and she didn’t really want to know. Suzanne offered her a ride home and Celia accepted because her mother had driven herself—her own car, not the limo, which was awfully conspicuous. She didn’t want anyone noticing her right now.

  Mark was waiting in the corridor that led to the courthouse’s back door. He was leaning on the wall, arms crossed, shoulders hunched sullenly.

  Something’s happened, Celia thought.

  Straightening, he moved to the middle of the corridor, blocking their path, and stared at her.

  “Hi, Mark.”

  He didn’t say anything. Just glared hard at her, like he could peel back skin and see what was underneath, or become a telepath through sheer willpower. Yeah, something had happened, all right
. And it was all centered on her.

  “What’s wrong?” she said, unable to keep a neutral tone. Her muscles had clenched defensively.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was tight, like he was holding back anger, keeping his temper in check. Like she was.

  Suzanne remained a step behind Celia, watching.

  “Tell you what?” she said, with willful ignorance.

  “What you said in there. About you and the Destructor.” Like he could barely say the words.

  She stared at him. “What exactly was I supposed to say?”

  “You should have told me.”

  “Why? I don’t tell anyone. Before now I could count on my hands the number of people who knew about it. It was a long time ago.” Mark was just standing there, seething. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “You’re angry,” Celia said, trying to prompt a response.

  “Of course I am! This is like finding out you’re … you’re—” Evidently, he couldn’t think what it was like. “I mean, you’re with the Destructor—”

  “Was,” Celia pointed out. “Was with him. Briefly.”

  “That isn’t some petty shoplifting rap on a juvenile record. I—” He glanced at Suzanne and closed his mouth. “I’ll call you later.”

  He shouldered past them, keeping space between himself and Celia as he did.

  “Mark!” She called after him, mostly as a matter of form, even though she knew he wasn’t going to turn around. He had principles and he liked to stand by them.

  She sighed tiredly.

  Her mother put a hand on her shoulder. “He’ll come around,” she said. “He’s had a shock, that’s all. He’ll understand after he’s cooled off.”

  “Are you sure you want him to come to dinner?”

  Smiling wryly, Suzanne hooked her arm around Celia’s and guided her out to the car.

  * * *

  The Commerce Eye came out with a special evening edition: “Daughter of the Olympiad Turned Against Her Family!” it read in huge, decadent lettering. In a flash, in a sentence, the last eight years disappeared. Nothing good she’d done in her adult life mattered. How depressing.

  After her mother dropped her off at her apartment, it started raining. Sheets of rain beat against the kitchen window. Across the street, the sky was throwing a lovely pink and orange sunset against the windows. But outside her windows, and only her windows, rain.

  She opened the window in the living room, popped the screen out of the frame, and leaned out.

  “Do you want to come in and talk, or are you just going to keep flinging water at me?” she shouted at the roof.

  A moment later, a figure rappelled down the wall. In seconds, Typhoon reached the window and slipped inside. Celia closed the window behind her.

  She was in costume, dripping water on the carpet. The rain kept on outside, an echo of the dour mood Typhoon projected with her frown. She pulled off the mask, and it was Analise, glaring at her as if Celia had just kicked her dog.

  “Is it true?”

  Celia rolled her eyes. “If I were going to lie under oath, do you think it would be about that? Yes, it’s true.”

  Analise’s face puckered, and the bottom dropped from Celia’s stomach. My God—she’s going to cry.

  Sure enough, her voice cracked. “How—how could you?”

  Why could no one understand this? Couldn’t anyone see the despair she’d felt at the time? The utter hopelessness, the utter failure she’d been at making anything of herself. That was it exactly, in a way Celia had never looked at before—she’d been trying to see just how bad it could really get, when she joined the Destructor.

  When she didn’t say anything, Analise continued. “How could you do it? Look at who your parents are: Captain Olympus and Spark! You had that legacy, a birthright that some of us would kill for, and you spat on it!”

  “I didn’t have a legacy,” Celia said quietly. “Put yourself in my shoes, Analise. Your parents are the greatest superhumans Commerce City has ever known, but you … you can’t even ride a bicycle straight. You can’t win a swim meet. You can’t fly, or read minds, or tell the future, or pyrokinetically manipulate pasta sauce. And your parents can’t hide their disappointment. Tell me: What do you do then?”

  Analise stared back at her, and Celia could tell she didn’t understand, because her expression didn’t change. Didn’t soften. She didn’t look away, or let the tears fall. Instead, her mouth hardened. She’d looked at the poolside kidnappers that way.

  “That’s no excuse. Not for siding with the Destructor.”

  “Maybe if I’d been able to create tidal waves and make rain fall, it would have been different. I don’t know why I didn’t inherit any of my parents’ powers. I don’t know why I turned out so … so—” Dull. Boring. Badly. “I was a stupid teenager. Please tell me you’re not going to judge me based on that.”

  Crossing her arms, a wound-up bundle of nerves, Analise started pacing. Celia wondered if she should get her a towel, so she’d stop soaking the carpet.

  Analise said, “What else can I do? I’m seeing you in a whole new light. You have that, that evil in you—”

  “Oh please—”

  “And you threw it in your parents’ faces!”

  “Can we leave them out of it?”

  “You don’t understand what they mean to the rest of us. Look, I’m sorry you don’t have any powers. I can’t explain it. Hell, I don’t know why I can do what I can do. I have normal parents, and when I discovered my … my talent, I thought it was the end of the world. I thought I’d get locked away like some lunatic, or turn into a psycho vigilante like Barry Quinn. But there was something else—I wanted to make it something good. Your parents showed me how to do that. They let me think of this, not as something that happened to me, but as something I could use. As a gift. Without them, I don’t know where I’d be.”

  “Well, you see where I am with them.”

  “You can’t blame your past on them, Celia.”

  “Aren’t I the one who said to leave them out of it? How many times do I have to say it: I’ve spent the last eight years trying to make up for one mistake, and the only message I’m getting is, that isn’t possible. Yesterday I was a respectable upstanding citizen, and today, suddenly, I’m dirt. Mark won’t talk to me, the papers brand me a criminal—what the hell happened?”

  Analise pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. For a moment Celia thought she was getting through to her, that she wouldn’t lose both her and Mark. Then she said, “How do I know you won’t do something like that again? You don’t get along with your parents any better now than you did then … so how do I not you’re not still like that? That you’re not still working with the Destructor? That you didn’t get put on this case on purpose, that—”

  “Analise,” Celia said as calmly as she could. “That’s crazy.”

  “Is it?”

  Celia realized that nothing she said would help, because no one trusted her. Even Analise, her best friend, suddenly assumed that every word was a lie.

  “Yes, it is,” Celia said, for as much good as it would do.

  At first Analise hesitated, like she was about to decide that she trusted Celia after all. Then she moved back to the window.

  “I need to go think. I’m sorry.” She put her mask on and gripped the dangling rope.

  “Analise, don’t you dare run away from me!”

  But she was already gone, climbing up the rope, her specially designed gloves gripping despite the wet. A few minutes later, the clouds broke, and the last rays of sunset shone in.

  SIXTEEN

  THE Trial of the Century, the newspapers called it. Like the Storm of the Century. They seemed to happen every ten or twenty years. The last Trial of the Century had been when she was a little girl, involving a husband-and-wife bank robber team that specialized in hacking ATM machines. They were noteworthy because they would make out in front of the security cameras. The Kissing Crooks. Bank robbery soft core porn. Celi
a hadn’t been allowed to watch the trial coverage.

  The next day, the front page of the city’s so-called respectable newspaper, the Commerce City Banner, featured her picture, snapped by an intrepid photographer as she left the courtroom. A close-up, framed by bodies in dark suits, mostly people from the DA’s office who all left in a crowd; she was the only one with features visible: brick-red hair, short and tousled, eyes squinting a little in the light, looking ahead, lips pulled in a frown. Her mother should have been nearby, but she’d been cropped out of the image. Artistic license or something.

  Her story rated a sidebar, so maybe she hadn’t quite graduated from the position of footnote to the Trial of the Century. She wouldn’t mind staying a footnote. “West Heiress’s Dark Past,” read the headline, with a sub-header, “Who is Celia West?” Lots of unanswered questions peppered that article, since the records were sealed and she wasn’t commenting. Some people, including Bronson, had given quotes vowing that they trusted her, for which she was grateful.

  But other quotes—from politicians, gossip columnists, college professors whom she barely remembered—observed how reclusive she was, that she was estranged from her parents, that she hadn’t done anything to follow in their footsteps, and what was she hiding, anyway? Those interviews sounded so much more exciting.

  A half-dozen reporters were waiting in the lobby of the building where Smith and Kurchanski had its offices. Celia tightened her grip on her attaché and quickened her pace, as if preparing to run a literal gauntlet. Like a pack of jackals, they spotted her and moved across the granite floor to intercept, striding from different directions to trap her. And so, separated from the herd, the gazelle stumbles …

  She would have gotten away if she hadn’t had to stop for the elevator.

  The reporters swarmed around her.

  “Ms. West! Could I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “I really don’t have time—”

  “Are you working on the Sito trial out of revenge?

  The elevator mechanism groaned softly.

  “Did you have any contact with the Destructor after those two months you were with him?”

  “What exactly was the nature of your relationship with the Destructor?”