After the Golden Age

  The numeric code for the outer door was Celia’s birthday.

  * * *

  Her mother fussed over her some more and wanted to feed her even more lasagna, when what Celia really wanted to do was start pouring data into the mainframe. But she didn’t want to do it with everyone hovering over her. Arthur took the cue and excused himself, claiming he had some work to finish up at his psychiatry practice—his office was halfway down the building. So, the group dispersed, and Celia promised she’d get a good night’s sleep, and the data crunching would have to wait until tomorrow.

  When she left West Plaza for home, she checked her phone and found she’d missed a call. The Olympiad conference room blocked such transmissions.

  Mark had left her a message. He sounded angry. “Celia. I got your call and checked up on your information. I don’t know what you’re implying about my father. You’re obviously bored out of your skull to go through this much trouble to dig up this trash. I think your parents’ paranoia has rubbed off on you. You’re looking for conspiracies that don’t exist.” He clicked off.

  Maybe she could find a few of his hairs on her pillow, to compare against Sito’s DNA. She doubted she’d be getting any other kind of genetic material from him any time soon.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE Banner’s headline the next morning announced in blazing bold letters: “DEFENSE RESTS IN SITO TRIAL. JURY DELIBERATION BEGINS.” So, the end was nigh.

  In a fit of déjà vu, Celia set out for the bus stop, on her way back to West Plaza to feed her information about Leyden Laboratory into the Olympiad mainframe. She was as giddy as a kid at Christmas about what she might find.

  She made a point of walking around the sewer grate by a good margin. No one was going to pull that on her again. When she made it onto the bus, she heaved a sigh of relief.

  The baby started crying as soon as the bus left the curb.

  It wasn’t just a fussy baby. This was a baby who was generally unhappy with the state of the universe and was expressing this with its entire lung capacity. Celia sympathized. The bus’s overactive heater had brought the temperature up to about eighty—with everyone on board bundled in winter clothes. It was noisy and smelly, filled with strangers, all of them trapped. The poor mother was doing her best to hush the thing, but her soothing did no good.

  Celia was about to give the woman cab fare so she could get off and take her screaming infant home in peace, when the man in the seat in front of her hollered at the driver, “Hey! I wanted that stop! Didn’t you see the freakin’ light?”

  They had zoomed right past the last stop.

  The bus was speeding up. Riders started murmuring, shifting restlessly.

  Leaning on the seat back in front of her, Celia stood to look.

  “Hey, didn’t you hear me?” the guy complained again.

  The woman sitting behind the driver tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me—”

  The driver fired a gun into the ceiling of the bus. People screamed, then a sudden hush fell. Except for the baby.

  The bus swerved and ran a red light, leaving behind squealing tires and the smashing metal of a collision as cars scattered in its wake.

  Celia fell back into her seat and braced, white-knuckled. Runaway bus—the driver was taking the whole bus hostage. He wasn’t shooting anyone with the handgun, which was a small blessing. He held it flat to the steering wheel while he glared ahead, oblivious to the chaos he caused.

  Then a guy in the second row decided to be a hero. He lunged forward, grabbed the driver’s shirt, and pulled, clawing for some kind of purchase on his head or neck, probably hoping to pull him out of the seat. The driver was belted in, lodged firmly in place. He brought the gun to bear without even looking and pulled the trigger. Drops of blood spattered on the windshield, and the guy fell.

  Everyone in the front half of the bus pressed back, surging away from the driver as a mass. The bus went faster.

  Behind Celia, a screaming woman popped out the emergency window by her seat. The shield of plastic fell away and the woman leaned out. Wind whipped into the bus.

  “No!” Celia threw herself over the back of her own seat and grabbed the woman’s coat, hauling her away from the opening. The woman, in her thirties and ghostly pale, struggled, slapping at Celia, muttering hysterically, “Got to get out, got to get out.” Celia held her wrists, crossed her arms, and pinned her to the seat. “Not that way. You’ll smear yourself on the pavement.”

  The woman snapped back to lucidity and stared wide-eyed at Celia. “We’re going to die!”

  All the driver had to do was ram the bus into a brick wall and she’d be right. At this speed, a split second was all it would take to shatter everyone on board. Who knew what the hell the driver was thinking, but whatever it was, he’d decided to take a bus full of people with him.

  Celia had been face-to-face with the Destructor, not a nose-length apart, and until now she’d never believed that she was going to die. Mom and Dad wouldn’t get here in time— Oh, the police alert had probably gone out, they were probably on their way, and she could picture how Captain Olympus might stand in the street and build a cushion of force that would slow the bus to a stop without harming any of them. But there wasn’t time. They were four blocks away from the docks and the river. They’d be there in a minute, and the driver wasn’t slowing down or turning.

  Her hands fell away from the woman, who stayed in her place, trembling. Celia’s heart was pounding in her ears, and the world had turned to molasses, thick and slow-moving. Around her, people held each other, gripped the seats with clawed hands, and wept. The baby was still screeching.

  This wasn’t right. This wasn’t her time.

  “Give me your scarf,” she said to the woman. Under her coat, over her black sweater, she wore a floral silk scarf. She blinked, like she hadn’t understood, so Celia yanked it away from her. Balling it in one hand, she dived to the aisle floor and crawled, shoving random legs out of the way, pinching when she had to. On hands and knees, out of view of the bus’s rearview mirror, she raced.

  The first few rows had cleared. Still on the floor, Celia squeezed into the seat behind the driver. Wrapping one end of the scarf in each hand, she twisted it until it became a thin cord. She focused on the driver’s head. She only had one chance.

  She stood and brought her garrote over the driver’s head, across his neck. Dropping, she pulled back.

  The man gurgled, choked. He dropped the gun to claw at the cord that was strangling him. The bus swerved wildly, leaning sickeningly, dangerously overbalanced, but Celia held on. Time, this was all about time. Seconds, how many more seconds … Then, finally, he stopped struggling.

  She climbed on top of him, using him as a seat because there wasn’t time to pull him out of the way. She was small, she fit. Steering wheel in hand, she could only try to hold it still, hoping she had the strength to steady the vehicle. She put both her feet on the brake pedal and straightened her legs.

  It wasn’t going to be enough. Tires screeched, burned—the smell of rubber reeked. They had too much momentum, the whole frame of the bus was shuddering. Ahead, through the windshield, Celia saw water. The road ended at the pier. If they hit the water, their chances of escaping would shrink to nothing.

  Celia turned. She grabbed one spot on the wheel with both hands and pulled, not caring which way they ended up, not seeing where she steered to, only wanting to get away from the drop into the river. The bus turned, rocked, tipped—fell.

  Celia screamed a denial, echoed by two dozen other screams. The asphalt rushed toward her, the bus was spinning, sparks flying.

  And it stopped.

  The bus had seemed to be flying at the speed of light, and now it sat still, with no apparent slowing in between. It just stopped. Celia clung to the steering wheel, but flipped over it, her back to the windshield which displayed a lacework of cracks. She stared at the driver, whose face was purple, his eyes bulging and dead.

  Police sirens, ambu
lance sirens, dozens, hundreds of sirens broke the air. She smelled dust, blood, gasoline. That was all she needed now, for the damn thing to explode.

  People were piled against the ceiling of the bus, flung over the backs of seats. Some were struggling upright, apparently unhurt. Most were groaning, an agonizing and horrific sound. Celia couldn’t think about it. They might have been better off sinking into the river.

  Emergency windows popped off, sprung from the outside, and EMTs called into the bus. Celia didn’t feel hurt. Numb, but not hurt, so she stayed quiet and let emergency crews help the others. Slowly, she unkinked herself from the dashboard. The lever for the bus door still worked. Hauling on it with both hands, she opened the door. It seemed a long way away, straight up. But she didn’t want to sit around staring at the dead driver anymore.

  In stages, she found footholds on the railings in front of the seats. She shouldn’t be able to do this. She wasn’t that strong. But she badly wanted out of that bus.

  As soon as her head peered out of the open bus door, like some gopher blinking in the light, a pair of firemen balancing on ladders grabbed her and hauled her away.

  Tall, handsome, wonderful firemen, in manly yellow coats and impressive helmets. They set her on the street, and she clung to their arms, even while she insisted, “I’m fine, really, I just need a drink.”

  “Celia!”

  It took her far too long to focus on the sound, especially when she turned and found Arthur Mentis standing right in front of her. She let go of the firemen and fell into his arms, hugging him tightly.

  “I thought I was dead. I really thought I was dead this time.”

  A good sport, he hugged back, patting her shoulder. Finally, she straightened, thinking she ought to recover some sort of dignity—if for no other reason than to help Arthur recover his. She wobbled.

  “You should sit down. I think you have a concussion,” he said.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  She squinted. They kept moving. “Three? Six?”

  “Definitely a concussion. Come on.”

  “My bag—my attaché case, you have to find it, it’s got some information about a lab Sito used to work at ages ago. Do you know he worked for West Corp, for my grandfather? I can’t lose it, I have to show Dad—”

  He gave her an odd look, like he thought it was the concussion talking. “We’ll find it, Celia. Don’t worry. I’ll look for it myself, but you must sit.”

  She let him lead her to a quiet curb and a blanket. “Where are Mom and Dad?”

  “They’re helping with the injured. There were forty people on that bus.”

  The emergency crew was spraying fire retardant foam everywhere, and dozens of stretchers carried away the wounded. So many of them. No one had gotten out of there unscathed.

  “They’d all be dead if it weren’t for you,” Arthur said helpfully.

  Celia gripped his arm in a sudden panic. “The baby, is the baby okay? There was this baby, it was screaming, and I think we all wanted to throttle it … is it okay?”

  He pointed. The mother was sitting on a stretcher while an EMT dabbed at a cut on her forehead. She held the baby in her arms, smiling and cooing at it. It was still crying, but the sobs were reduced to tired whimpers.

  Celia continued holding Arthur’s arm, because it steadied her. The world was still moving at eighty miles an hour. “I killed the driver.”

  “I know. You did what you had to.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You’re a hero.”

  She started to laugh, but it hurt, so she stopped. “I just didn’t want to die.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “That’s good to hear.”

  She looked down, saw her hand on his sleeve, resting on his arm. “Thanks. You’re always there for me when the shit hits the fan, pulling me out of the Destructor’s clutches, or just … just keeping me sane. So thanks.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  Her gaze focused for a moment, and her breath stopped. He had blue eyes. She felt them looking back at her, felt them, through her eyes and into her mind, and they told her that what he’d said was more than a social nicety.

  He never showed emotion. He kept such tight control over himself. But for a moment, that guard dropped, and she saw … everything. The look in his eyes left her gut feeling warm.

  He glanced away, lips slipping into a frown. He squeezed her hand and stood as an EMT took his place beside her on the curb. Calmly as ever, he walked away to join the rest of the rescue effort.

  * * *

  The medical powers that be wanted to keep her in the hospital overnight for observation. She didn’t mind. She lay in bed, between nice clean sheets, and enjoyed the feeling of not moving. They’d even given her a private room. She didn’t have to face anything but the walls if she didn’t want to.

  She had her eyes closed when she heard footsteps approach, then stop in the doorway. Not bothering to lift her head from the pillow, she looked. Blinked, looked again. There he stood, a familiar form in his overcoat, slouching sheepishly. Mark, bringing flowers. He gripped a vase of roses in both hands.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  He didn’t look convinced. Probably because of the thick bandage around her forehead. A cut, eight stitches. She hadn’t even felt it. She supposed she ought to be milking this for all the sympathy it was worth.

  “Can I come in?”

  She could tell him off or let it go. Letting it go made her less tired right now. “Sure.”

  He tried to find a place for the vase of roses, but all the tables were filled, as well as the floor along the wall with the window. He slipped it in between another vase and a teddy bear holding a balloon.

  “Popular girl,” he said, standing a little ways off from the bed.

  A dozen families of passengers on the bus had sent her flowers; two dozen random people she’d never heard of with no connection to the accident sent her flowers. All because she lacked any compunctions about crawling up to a man with a gun and strangling him from behind. It weirded her out, even more than all the bad press after her testimony. She’d deserved the bad press. All the news stations had carried live breaking reports of the bus hijacking. Once her name had come up, the reporters grabbed it and ran record-breaking sprints. The second time in a week she’d made the news, and the only thing reporters liked better than a hero was a hero redeeming a dark past.

  “It’s a little much,” she said.

  “They’ve had a heck of a time trying to figure out what happened, but twenty of the passengers gave sworn affidavits that you single-handedly stopped that bus from going into the harbor. I think you may be up for a medal.”

  “Don’t tell them I was just trying to save my own ass.”

  He chuckled. Just like a guy to act like there’d never been anything wrong between them.

  She mustered the energy to say, “Mark, are you wanting to apologize and be friends again or what?”

  He looked at his shoes. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

  “So all a girl’s got to do to earn an apology is save a busload of people from a maniac.”

  “It wasn’t … I was going to—” He paused. She watched him visibly collect himself, taking a breath, looking at the ceiling. She waited patiently. This ought to be good. But if he made her cry, she’d never speak to him again. “When I saw your name on the passenger list, but no one knew if you’d been hurt or not, I was useless. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t focus, or work. I had to find out. I got over here as soon as I could.”

  As apologies went, he could have done worse. Now she had to decide whether or not she was going to forgive him.

  “You should sit down,” she said. “You look tired.”

  Looking relieved, he pulled up a chair. “We’ve been trying to track down the story on the driver.”

  “What have you found out?”

  “Male, fo
rty-seven, divorced twice. He’s got a rap sheet, a half-dozen temper-related reprimands on his work record, and a felony conviction for assault. He’d have been laid off already if the transit authority weren’t so short-handed. His supervisor didn’t seem surprised when we told him what happened.”

  Not one of those he-seemed-so-nice testimonials. He’d been boiling and the system hadn’t caught it. “He just went postal.”

  “Looks that way.”

  Someone knocked on the door, which was already ajar, and didn’t wait for an invitation before entering.

  “Celia?” Her mother pushed into the room, followed by her father, both in street clothes. Mr. and Mrs. West, now. She hadn’t seen them at the accident site. They’d been too busy, and the paramedics had sent her to the hospital with a vanload of walking wounded as soon as they could.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Suzanne took the invitation to rush to the side of the bed and shower her with maternal attention. She touched Celia’s arm, shoulder, cheek, and her eyes teared up. How could a superhero be so weepy?

  “I can’t believe you were on that bus. Are you all right? How do you feel? Do you need anything?”

  “Don’t worry. They’re taking good care of me. Look at all the flowers.” She pointed at the wall, a distraction tactic.

  “Wow, look at them all.” Suzanne acknowledged Mark then, when she was looking right at him. “Hello, Detective Paulson.”

  “Hello, Mrs. West. Mr. West.”

  At six-foot-five, Warren loomed over the bed. He nodded formally.

  Mark found a couple more chairs. Warren remained standing.

  Suzanne said, “You’ve probably told the story a thousand times already. But what happened?”

  Celia had worked out a short version by now. “We were just talking about it,” she said, snuggling deeper into the pillow. “It sounds like the driver just snapped. He missed a stop, and when someone argued he pulled out a gun and started shooting. It was clear pretty quick that he planned on driving straight into the river. Someone had to stop him. It probably could have been done cleaner, or better—” If she’d been a superhuman vigilante hero, for example. “—but there wasn’t much time.”