After the Golden Age

  “Dad!”

  He ran to her. He wasn’t fast, not like the Bullet. He seemed to take forever to cross the distance. She wanted to meet him halfway, but her legs had turned to butter. She was melting in place. The room was getting hotter.

  Then, he was right in front of her. He ripped the tape off her hands, gripped her shoulders, so full of intensity she could barely look at him.

  “We have to get out of here, the thing’s going to blow up, Paulson said it’s radiation, going to kill everyone. I tried to stop it—”

  “Shh, Celia, it’s okay, you did okay.”

  The ambient noise shaking the room—electrical, mechanical, vibrational, pervasive—increased in pitch again, sliding upward in anticipation.

  There wasn’t time to do anything.

  “Get down!” Her father pulled her to the floor, hunched over her, gripped her in a rib-crushing embrace. She curled up like a little child, fetal, as small as she could make herself, huddled in the shelter of his body.

  A boom rocked the building, the steel girders, sheet metal, and concrete. The pulse lasted only a second, but the vibrations continued. The trembling of the floor traveled to the marrow of her bones. The sound, like an electric shock, but larger, slower, lingered in her ears. Her whole body shook.

  The air smelled of ozone. Of burning.

  A weight pressed down on her, like something had fallen on her. She was hurt, all her skin tingling—part of what was burning. Pushing up, she struggled to get out from under what trapped her.

  Her father fell over.

  He was burned. The invincible Captain Olympus had lost most of the hair on the back of his head. The scalp underneath was blistered. Most of his uniform had melted away. Strands of it melded into blackened skin.

  Around her, the whole room was black, scorched. The platform, which had sunk halfway to the floor, had disappeared. The struts that had held it swung, flames trailing up their length. The device itself had fallen to the floor, and was now melted to an unrecognizable lump. The computers and equipment were smashed and burning, weak yellow flames licking and spitting from crumpled plastic and steel. The walls were scorched, the floor was black with soot—except for a circle around her, a body-size shape where she had been sheltered by her father. The fire had only reached her extremities: the bottom half of her jeans were blackened and torn, the skin underneath red and tender; her arms had also burned to a cooked lobster shade; her hair had singed. She was hurt, but she was alive, and she could move.

  Her father wasn’t moving.

  “Dad,” she whispered.

  Wincing, he shifted, a flinch moving through his arm. His face was intact, the whole front of his body looked unhurt. But how deep inside him did the damage reach? She started to roll him over, but he cried out. She couldn’t touch him without hurting him.

  “Daddy, what do I do? I don’t know what to do.”

  He opened his eyes, reached for her, found her hand by touch. Squeezed it hard, but not as hard as he was capable of. Not Captain Olympus hard. Could he see? Was he even seeing at her?

  He whispered, “You’re safe—”

  He died with his eyes open, looking at her.

  She pulled his limp body onto her lap, cradled him as if it would help, as if it would comfort him somehow. As if it would comfort her. But it didn’t, because the skin on his shoulders came off in her hands.

  Captain Olympus hadn’t died saving Commerce City, as he’d always vowed to do, as everyone thought he might. He’d died saving her. Just her.

  * * *

  Twenty-three years ago:

  “Suzanne, that’s not normal, is it? A two-year-old shouldn’t be able to lift that much weight.”

  The weight in question was an oversize pillow from the sofa. The lifting was nominal at best. Celia had managed to stand the thing upright and was valiantly maneuvering it so she could leverage it over her head, for some arcane toddler purpose. She’d get it off the ground an inch before the weight overbalanced and the whole thing slid out of her hands. Determinedly, she bent over and tried again.

  Suzanne stood in the doorway to the kitchen, drying a plate. “Actually, I think that’s pretty normal.”

  “Look at that,” Warren said. “Persistence. That’s a good trait.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Celia!” Celia looked at her father and grinned at the wide-eyed hopeful expression he wore. “Come here, Celia. Come on!” She ran to where he sat a few feet away—jerky, toddler running steps—and jumped at him. Laughing, he caught her. “You’re going to be a runner, aren’t you? Fastest girl in Commerce City.”

  “Warren, her powers might not manifest until she’s a teenager, like it did with me. Ten more years at least.”

  He was tickling Celia now, and she was squealing happily. “I know, I just can’t wait to see what she’s going to do! You know—” He pointed excitedly at Suzanne. “I’ll bet she flies.”

  She rolled her eyes. “So help me God if you throw her off the roof to see if she can fly, I’ll roast you.” Suzanne could do it, too.

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  She smirked at him like she had her doubts.

  Celia squirmed and laughed, oblivious.

  * * *

  She was still on the floor, holding her father half sprawled on her lap, pietà-like, when the others arrived. She heard footsteps echo, then more footsteps—too many. She looked up, through squinting eyes. The rest of the Olympiad was there. Robbie, Arthur, her mother.

  She ought to say something. They’d expect her to say something. She opened her mouth, intending to apologize. She choked on a sob instead. Tears fell.

  “Oh, Celia.” That was Arthur, because of course he took one look at her, took one glimpse inside of her, and saw it all.

  Robbie touched Suzanne’s arm, but she moved away from him, stepping toward her husband and daughter. Maybe she’d been expecting this moment for a long time. Maybe she’d never believed it would happen. Celia didn’t know, and she’d never ask.

  Suzanne knelt by Warren’s body, touched his chest, looked on him with such tenderness that Celia held her breath. This will kill her mother. She’d watch her mother die in front of her as well.

  Suzanne looked at her and smiled. She cupped Celia’s cheek in her hand, leaned forward, and kissed the top of her head, as if she were a child who’d skinned her knee.

  Then she stood and walked away.

  When Arthur came to her and touched her shoulder, all strength left her. She let him fold her into his arms and take care of her.

  * * *

  Robbie looked after Suzanne. Not that Suzanne needed looking after—she appeared elegant and stoic, regarding the proceedings with the cool detachment of a goddess. But he’d look after her anyway. Just in case.

  Celia left the building, gingerly holding on to Arthur around the middle while he carefully gripped her across the shoulders. Eventually, she’d go the hospital for the burns on her arms and legs. In the meantime, they fit together and she wasn’t going to leave him.

  People would tell her later that there was nothing she could have done, that she had succeeded in saving the city, the building had contained the explosion, and her father knew the risks of the role he’d taken on. Every hero, even an invincible one, had a weakness, and subjected to a high dose of the radiation that had a part in his creation proved too much for the great Captain Olympus. People told her this over and over, trying to be helpful, not understanding that Celia had accepted her own death, and now had to accept the death of another instead, which was somehow harder.

  Appleton was there, supervising the throng of cops sent to clean up the mess. He stopped her.

  “We’re okay,” he said, pointing at her like this was another accusation. The look in his eyes, though, was pleading. “From now on, you and me, we’re okay. Right?”

  She only nodded.

  Anthony Paulson and his scientists had been found hiding in a basement storeroom. Mark himself put the handcu
ffs on his father. He spotted Celia, and his eyes lit, then darkened when he saw her nestled against Arthur.

  After Mark had secured his father in the backseat of a patrol car, Celia detached herself from Arthur to go talk to the detective.

  “What were you even doing here? I know you suspected my father, but you should have come to me—,” he said.

  “He set a trap, and I fell for it.” She shrugged. That moment seemed a long time ago, now.

  He laughed, a stifled, bitter chuckle. “You always complain about having superheroes for parents. I’m guessing that’s nothing compared to having a supervillain for one.”

  He looked to the backseat of the patrol car. Around the glare on the window, Paulson stared back. Both men’s expressions were taut and unhappy, the family resemblance reflected back at one another. Celia and her father spent much of their own lives looking at one another like that. At least she’d had the excuse of foolish youth. At least she’d been able to make some repairs to that bridge. A few patches.

  The mutual bitterness before her was palpable.

  She looked away. “Mark, there’s something you need to know. I looked up your father’s adoption records. I talked to some people. You probably ought to do a paternity test to confirm it, but I’m pretty sure your father’s birth father was Simon Sito. I don’t know what it means, if anything. But you should know.” Not just the son of a criminal mastermind, but the grandson of one, too. How did that feel?

  Might as well tell him he was the king of Prussia, as blank as his expression showed. No, not blank. Scarred. The vacant stare of a disaster survivor. He couldn’t take another blow. He was done processing. It would have to wait.

  He said, “I think I’ll want to do that paternity test. To confirm that.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m sorry about your father.”

  She didn’t really believe it herself. That would have to wait until morning. “Thanks.”

  “What happens now?” He looked pointedly at Arthur Mentis, who was watching them.

  “A funeral. Another trial.” In which she would have to testify again. The cycle continued.

  “What about us?”

  The question evoked no emotion in her.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mark. I … I’m just sorry.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  SUZANNE West wore red to her husband’s funeral. It was the talk of the society pages, as was the fact that she brought Spark’s costume and threw it into the grave, along with what was left of Captain Olympus’s. That was all she did to announce her retirement. The Olympiad was finished.

  Damon Parks attended the service. So did Analise Baker, Justin Raylen, and a few others Celia recognized when she imagined them wearing masks. Like the middle-aged man with his arm over the shoulders of a skinny young punk—the Block Busters. Father and son, clearly. Junior looked as shell-shocked as she felt—maybe imagining his own crime-fighting father in that grave. She almost went to give him a hug.

  Everyone was very polite and said wonderful things about Warren West and his service to the city. Celia and Suzanne held one another’s arms. Celia thanked everyone. Suzanne remained silent.

  * * *

  The four Stradivarius instruments, along with the prize koi—alive, barely, in a fifty-gallon aquarium—were found in the basement of the mayor’s mansion. Andrea Paulson threw herself across the door, refusing to let the authorities in, sobbing, vowing to stay loyal to her husband no matter what. She recovered from her nervous breakdown at Greenbriar, then filed for a divorce.

  The day after Captain Olympus’s death, Breezeway—Justin Raylen—was released, all charges dropped. With his identity revealed, he did more charity fund-raising events than crime-fighting.

  The Bullet and Dr. Mentis continued the work, doing what they could, as anonymously as they could. Without the team, they returned to their early days of running down muggers and trapping burglars. Crime rates stabilized, with nothing more sensational than the usual examples of urban malfeasance to combat.

  It was as if the whole city was exhausted.

  * * *

  Typhoon never reemerged. The warrant for her arrest remained outstanding. The tabloids had a field day with the mystery of what had happened to her and offered rewards for the revelation of her secret identity. Many young women came forward claiming to be Typhoon, even in the face of the arrest warrant. Of course, none of them could so much as tip over a cup of water. Books came out retreading the mystery, offering vague solutions, defending the hero, vilifying her.

  Analise collected the books, the papers. But she never came forward. She became manager of the record store where she worked, and volunteered at the rec center teaching inner-city kids how to swim.

  * * *

  Apart from a trust set up for Suzanne, Celia inherited everything.

  For a long time after the company lawyer left their first meeting, Celia sat behind the desk in Warren’s penthouse office, the new owner of West Corp. The sleek, mahogany piece was a museum-quality example of high modernist design purchased by her grandfather. The thing was aerodynamic. Her fingertips skittered along the surface, smooth even after fifty years of constant use. Her father had left it in a state of disarray, pens scattered, file folders stacked in every corner, laptop computer still running. She’d have to clean it up, piece together what he’d been doing. She could do that.

  The desk was her grandfather’s, but the chair had been Warren’s: large, leather, generously padded. Celia sank into it and felt lost. It had her father’s shape to it. She’d get a new one. Something more modest, unassuming. She’d move this one to … somewhere.

  Suzanne appeared and leaned on the doorway. Celia blinked back at her, feeling about five years old and in over her head.

  “I always assumed he wrote me out of the will,” she said starkly.

  Her mother smiled. “He did, for a while. But he wrote you back in when you finished college. The West family is a dynasty. It’s up to you to continue it.”

  Celia had spent the two weeks since the funeral bursting into tears at unexpected moments. She felt tears about to start, which wasn’t fair, because she hadn’t had a chance to talk to her mother in all that time. Suzanne had spent the weeks alone, looking at pictures, reading letters, with an attitude—clear in her hunched shoulders and bowed head—that said to keep away. If she started crying now, Suzanne might come over to comfort her—might start crying herself, and they’d comfort each other. But they wouldn’t talk.

  “If he’d asked me to come work for West Corp, for him … if he’d ever just asked—”

  “He’d never ask,” she said. “Neither would you. You are the two most stubborn people I have ever known.”

  She turned and walked away. For dinner that night, she made lasagna, the first time she’d cooked anything since he’d died.

  * * *

  The Sito trial jury returned a verdict of not guilty by reason of insanity. Sito was remanded to the care of the Elroy Asylum. The trial might as well have not happened.

  A year later, Anthony Paulson was tried and also found not guilty by reason of insanity. He’d been diagnosed with narcissistic megalomania. Like father like son, although that connection was never made public. He agreed to undergo treatment at the Elroy Asylum. Celia had a talk with the hospital’s management and convinced them that under no circumstances should Anthony Paulson and Simon Sito ever be brought anywhere near each other. They shouldn’t have known each other by sight, but Celia didn’t want to take chances. Coincidence didn’t exist in her father’s world, or in hers. Better to prevent the opportunity for fate to take a hand in events.

  Mark Paulson visited his father once a month. Celia learned that he also visited Simon Sito once. Soon after, Sito suffered a heart attack. A second heart attack a month later killed him. It was a peaceful death that he didn’t deserve.

  The detective worked like he thought he had to make up for both his father’s and grandfather’s misdeeds. Do
uble shifts, countless hours of overtime. No number of promotions and commendations was enough, and he received many. At age thirty-five, he suffered a stress-related cardiac infarction.

  Celia visited him at the hospital. It was déjà vu with a twist.

  He couldn’t look her in the eye. He kept an embarrassed smirk on his face, like he knew he’d done something stupid.

  Celia crossed her arms and glowered. “You really need to stop trying to prove you aren’t your father. I mean, look what happened when I did that.”

  He chuckled painfully and spoke softly because of the oxygen tubes in his nose. “You turned out all right.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, so did you. You inherited the untainted mutation, the loyalty trait. You’d do anything to keep this city safe, and the city needs that. You have to keep yourself alive because of that.”

  The smirk relaxed into a true smile and he sighed a breath of acquiescence.

  “It’s really good to see you, Celia. I’m glad we stayed friends.”

  “Me, too. We superhumans have to stick together.”

  * * *

  Two years after her father’s death, Celia West and Arthur Mentis had a daughter, Anna.

  Celia lay on her side in the hospital bed. The baby lay nested on a pillow, sheltered within the curve of Celia’s body. Anna had a round red face, scrunched-up eyes, and a fine fuzz of coppery hair.

  Arthur sat by the bed, leaning on the mattress, his chin on his hands, watching the baby and wearing an odd half smile.

  “What’s she thinking?” Celia asked.

  “It’s very strange,” he said. “She thinks in feelings. She doesn’t have colors or sounds or images yet. But she has ‘warm’ and ‘cold’ and ‘hungry’ and ‘sleepy.’ She’s a little of all of them at once, like she can’t sort it all out. Right this minute, though, I look at her and feel ‘safe.’ I’ve never really looked at babies before.” He was staring at her like she was an interesting scientific oddity.

  Celia could see it now: Anna’s teenage years were going to be hell with a telepath for a father.

  Celia puckered her face to keep from crying. She’d spent far too much of the last nine months crying.