After the Golden Age

by Carrie Vaughn

  She had gone far past tracking Sito’s assets. She wanted to know what had happened at that laboratory. She had questions for the computer, starting with the dead-ends her own inquiries had led her to. First, what could possibly be done with the raw materials and equipment listed on the Leyden labs’ requisition forms and asset reports?

  Second, what had happened to the personnel? Had any of them been involved with Sito and his activities as the Destructor? Could any of them still be involved? If Sito was organizing events despite being in custody, and he did have a connection to the outside somehow, this might show how.

  One after the other, she lay the pages on the scanner bed, and watched the information transform into glowing pixels. She went to the computer and typed in a search command. It took some doing—the database was immense. The search engine kept asking her to narrow her focus. It finally steered her into a specific category: scientific and inventions.

  The search itself took hardly any time at all.

  RESULT: 89% (+ or − 4% margin of error) of materials and equipment list entered matches list of materials found at the laboratory of Simon Sito (aka the Destructor) involved in the creation and testing of the machine known as the Psychostasis Device.

  When Sito kidnapped her when she was sixteen, he’d tried using the machine on her. They all thought the Psychostasis Device was a new invention. But what if he’d created it fifty years ago? If the computer was right, he’d been experimenting with mental manipulation under her grandfather’s sponsorship.

  Then there’d been an accident. What had happened?

  She scanned in the list of names from the personnel records.

  The computer’s search results weren’t as quick or thorough this time. A few of the names still came up with blanks. The names that hit, though, hit big.

  OLYMPIAD PERSONNEL FILES: CLASSIFIED. HISTORIES, NEXT OF KIN, ETC.

  Jacob West, President, West Corp: son, Warren West (aka Captain Olympus)

  Anna Riley, stenographer, West Corp, Leyden Industrial Park: daughter, Suzanne (Riley) West (aka Spark)

  George Denton, machinist, West Corp, Leyden Industrial Park: son, Robert “Robbie” Denton (aka the Bullet)

  Emily Newman, technician, West Corp, Leyden Industrial Park: son, Arthur Mentis. (Note: Emily Newman immigrated to London where she met her husband, Nicholas Mentis. Arthur Mentis came to Commerce City for medical training.)

  Four out of twelve of those present at the accident had children who were superhuman. Then what about Analise’s parents? Breezeway’s? Barry Quinn’s? Any of the other superhumans? Their grandparents?

  In her father’s world, coincidence didn’t exist. It couldn’t exist. All that remained then was finding the strands that connected various parts of the web. One strand showed thick and obvious.

  If Simon Sito fathered a child, was that child superhuman? Was that child Paulson? If so, what could Paulson do? Or was he like her—a dud?

  “I’d have thought you’d be resting.” Dr. Mentis stood in the doorway. “You’re still injured, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

  Her face burned in a panicked flush. Quickly, she shut down the computer file. She hadn’t heard Arthur enter the room. She’d been too wrapped up. Or he moved too quietly. Or he’d convinced her mind that she didn’t hear him. Paranoid, paranoid …

  Either in response to his suggestion, or her own shock, a headache launched itself through her skull. The stitches on her cut throbbed; she could feel them.

  “I had a couple of things to look up.” She had no reason to feel guilty. She’d been invited here.

  “What have you found?”

  The source of all your power. “I’m still not sure. I’ve been digging into Sito’s assets for DA Bronson, but I’ve opened a couple cans of worms.”

  “I’d have thought that would have been old news by now. We have more urgent questions, don’t you think?”

  She hesitated to ponder those questions, and how the one connected to the other, when he could see those thoughts laid bare.

  “I’ve been to see Mayor Paulson,” he continued. “I came in with the crowd for his press conference this morning. I was hoping to learn what was behind all those snappy sound bites and high ideals he’s always spouting off about. Do you know what I found?”

  “What?”

  He started pacing a long, slow circuit around the room. “Nothing. I found absolutely nothing at all. His mind was blank to me. I couldn’t read him.”

  Just like the Destructor. Like Sito. She now recognized the tension in Arthur’s frame—he was afraid. That knowledge tingled across her skin. Dr. Mentis was never afraid. He was never anything.

  “Oh my God.”

  “You know what it means, don’t you? You’ve suspected it for some time.”

  “I’d rather not talk about it. I still don’t know anything for sure.”

  “That’s a bit disingenuous. You know plenty, but you’re not saying what.”

  She wouldn’t fall into that trap. She wouldn’t say a damn word.

  He didn’t stop walking. “Celia, what are you trying to hide?”

  Nothing, she wanted to say, but didn’t. She wondered why she didn’t just say it, knowing Arthur could read the thought behind her eyes. My grandfather and Simon Sito worked together to create superhuman mutations.

  “I’m not trying to hide anything. I just—I just want to be sure before I say it.”

  “I’m worried.”

  The fact that he’d admit to an emotion of any kind shook her. “There’s a lot to worry about.”

  “I’m worried about you. You worked so hard to get yourself away from all this, and here you are, back in the middle. And you put yourself here. I hope you’re not trying to prove something.”

  And she knew. The thought was simply there, and it wasn’t hers. You are more important to me than anything.

  “So what if I am?” she said, her voice cracking. “You don’t have to ask any questions. You just know.”

  “I try to be polite.”

  He always said that. But this didn’t feel like politeness. It wasn’t enough for him to read the answer in her thoughts, he wanted her to say it. This inspired in her a contrary desire to push him. What would she have to say, how mean would she have to be, before he reacted? That was the teenager again, the angry girl Celia had never quite escaped. She shouldn’t be like that, not with him. There was a time he’d been her only friend.

  “Maybe I’d like to try and keep a few secrets. I don’t have much of anything else.”

  Mentis stopped pacing and laughed softly, as sinister an expression as she’d heard from any criminal. “There are no secrets around me.”

  “Only the ones you keep.” Like the feelings you have for me— “Why can’t you just say it out loud?”

  He murmured, “Why can’t you, Celia?”

  All she had to do was say it. I love you, too. But her mouth went dry and the words stuck.

  His emotions were palpable. His mind expanded to take in what lay around it, and the people around him felt the impact of it. She could feel him—she wanted to run to him, throw herself at him, pull his arms around her, hold him.

  Or was that what he was thinking about her?

  She turned away as her tears fell, and covered her mouth to keep the sob from breaking free. Why couldn’t she just say the words?

  Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets and, shoulders hunched and face returned to its imperturbable mask, left the room.

  TWENTY-THREE

  HOWEVER much she wanted to, she didn’t take one of her prescribed painkillers. She needed to be awake. She had work to do. It was a good excuse to distract her from Arthur. So she took a couple of plain aspirin and parked at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and her cell phone.

  “I’d like to speak to the District Attorney, please.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting right now, I can take your number and—”

  “Tell him it’s Celia West.”


  The woman paused; the click and rustle of office background noise sounded over the line. Then, “Could you hold for a moment?”

  As Celia had hoped, her name did hold some weight … although what kind of weight remained to be seen, especially now. After the bus incident she’d hoped to have some currency to cash in.

  The receptionist came back on the line. “I’m transferring you to his office now.”

  “Thank you,” Celia said, suppressing a sigh of relief.

  He came on the line and didn’t bother with a greeting. “Celia. You left the hospital before I could check in with you. You’re okay? I mean, clearly you’re okay.”

  “A concussion, some cuts and bruises. I’m okay.”

  “You’re a hero, you know.”

  She might go so far as to claim to be a good citizen. “Does that mean I can ask for a favor?”

  Bronson’s tone became more guarded. He should have known she had a reason for calling. “That depends on the favor. What do you need?”

  Deep breath, and plow on through like this wasn’t odd. “I need access to the Department of Vital Statistic’s sealed records.”

  “Why?”

  Here she was, thinking this would be easy. “I’m following up a lead on the Sito case. I’ve got some of that asset information you were looking for.”

  “Smith and Kurchanski gave you your job back, then?”

  She was still waiting for that phone call. “Actually, I’m thinking of going into business for myself.”

  “You’ve been doing this on your own time, probably throwing my name around like you’re still on the case.”

  “I haven’t done anything illegal.” Yet … much …

  “And you figured out where Sito’s original trust fund came from?”

  Give a little to get a little. This was public record, it was just that no one had bothered digging this deep for it before. “It came from a disability settlement he got from West Corp, which he was working for at the time. I didn’t need a warrant to get those records. I just asked my dad.”

  He whistled low. “That’s a pretty tangled web. Your dad knows about this?”

  “Yes. At least he knows Sito worked for West Corp. I don’t think he knows the settlement possibly funded everything Sito did later, as the Destructor.”

  “Brilliant. And now you want into Vital Statistics. What are you looking for?”

  This part, she wasn’t sure she wanted to get out. It had the potential of opening an even bigger can of worms than the West Corp connection. “I’d rather not say until I figure out if what I’m looking for is even there.”

  “And you want me to get you a court order. I can’t do that unless you tell me what you want to look at.”

  “Couldn’t you just … let me into the records office? Give me a key and no one would ever have to know I’d been there.”

  “That’s crazy. I can’t let you do that.”

  “I didn’t say it was an easy favor.”

  “You think being a hero gives you carte blanche? You think you can run all over town bending all the rules, like your parents and their pals?”

  “I’m not anything like my parents.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but we all turn into our parents.”

  That pronouncement held a tone of finality that Celia didn’t much like.

  She said, “And if I could fly or shoot lasers out of my eyes, that might be true for me. This could be important, this could be nothing. I just need a half hour in the records office, no questions asked.”

  She had other ideas, like developing an ill-advised scheme to break into the office, or forge a court order—that was how badly she wanted this.

  She honestly didn’t expect Bronson to say, “Can you be at City Hall in an hour?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  She asked Michael to drive her in a West Corp sedan, to save time. He seemed happy to do so—like he was pleased that she was finally taking advantage of her birthright. She saw it as giving up freedom; maybe not so much giving up as trading.

  Dressed in a skirt and jacket, looking as official as possible with a bandaged forehead, Celia consulted City Hall’s building directory and took the elevator to the basement. There, plastic signs with arrows directed her to her destination. She pushed open the door with frosted glass marked with black lettering: VITAL STATISTICS.

  The Department of Vital Statistics occupied a corner of the basement of City Hall. The records themselves were processed in any number of departments and offices in the more accessible regions of the building and city government: marriage certificates, birth certificates, divorce settlements, death certificates. Once finalized, they came to live here, in the depths. Most would never see the light of day again.

  She entered yet another room with stark fluorescent lighting filled with rows and rows of filing cabinets, shelves with banker’s boxes, and file folders, smelling of ripe dust and old paper. It felt like her element. She was at home here and knew what she was looking for.

  Before she could get to the files, she had to pass through a reception area and set of desks. Four people worked here, it looked like; there were four desks with nameplates and the usual family photos, sickly houseplants, and odd figurines and detritus that usually occupied office workspaces. The farthest one over stood in front of a closed door labeled with a sign: RESTRICTED. The sealed records section.

  No one was here. On the first desk, the receptionist’s desk, one of those signs printed with a clock and moveable plastic hands read: OUT TO LUNCH, BACK AT 1:30. She had half an hour. She went to the restricted door and tried the knob—unlocked.

  She owed Bronson big time for this.

  Inside the room, she turned on the light. Here, folders crammed the shelves. This was a smaller collection than the main part of the department, but still daunting. And old. Dust covered most of the files, and she could mark the difference between various styles and materials used in file folders over the years.

  She went to the shelves marked “Adoption Records,” then went to the shelves labeled “P.”

  When the court finalized an adoption, it issued a new birth certificate with the adoptive parents’ names in the appropriate boxes. But the original certificate completed at the child’s birth remained on file. Anthony Paulson’s birth certificate, and independent verification of the identity of his birth parents, should be here.

  She muttered, “P … p … Paneski … Parker … Pastern … Paulson.”

  There it was, a stiff and aged folder, fifty years old. She opened it; the paper was slick under her fingers. Faded pink cover sheets announced that the material within was sealed by court order, access restricted.

  She started searching. They were right on top, the amended birth certificate showing that Anthony Paulson’s parents were Claire and Richard Paulson, and under it a birth certificate stamped “Original.” Baby Anthony. Father—unknown. The space was left blank. Mother—

  Janet Travers. One of the Leyden laboratory technicians.

  Celia had ten more minutes. She rushed—calmly, being sure to breathe—back to the front office to make a photocopy, quickly folded it into a pocket, and returned the original to the file, and the file to the shelf. She couldn’t think of any way to replace the half-century layer of dust over it. She had to hope it would be another half century before anyone came looking for the file again.

  She didn’t leave the room. She had a few more minutes left, and a nagging curiosity. The set of shelves in the back labeled “Juvenile” beckoned. Her practiced gaze scanned quickly—and found “West, Celia,” stamped “Sealed” in bold letters like all the others.

  The file was mercifully thin. One indiscretion. That was all it took.

  She slipped the folder into her attaché case and strode out of the room, double-checking to see that the door locked behind her. In the hallway leading to the elevators, she passed a trio of laughing, gossiping women. Celia flashed them a smile and they di
dn’t give her a second glance.

  Once the elevator started up, carrying her back to the ground and light, Celia leaned on the wall and sighed. Never mind what she’d discovered about Anthony Paulson. The file she’d stolen burned red-hot where it lay in her case, pressed against her thigh.

  She hadn’t stolen it; it was hers.

  Too much to do, but this trumped everything. Back in the company sedan, she told Michael she had to pick up some things at home—her own apartment. She asked him to wait in the car for her. Fifteen minutes, that was all she needed. Inside her apartment, she locked the door, took the battery out of the smoke alarm, and found some matches.

  Manic, wide-eyed, breathing too hard, she stood over the kitchen sink, the folder in her hands. Inside she read the pages: the arrest record, fingerprints, the facing and profile mug shots of a sullen teenager with shoulder-length, too-teased red hair, eyeliner blacking her eyes, and the strap of a camisole hanging off her shoulder. God, she looked awful. Mug shots always looked terrible, but this one seemed to draw out the ugliness that had lived inside that girl—a sort of disheveled fatalism. Appleton had arrested her at West Plaza the morning after the incident, threatening her with charges of conspiracy, intent to commit mayhem, and the like. Ultimately not charged, not tried. Released into the custody of Warren and Suzanne West, who promised that this sort of thing wouldn’t happen again. As if they’d had the authority to make that promise.

  Celia lit a match.

  It didn’t mean anything. People already knew. Just because the physical file didn’t exist anymore, wouldn’t make their knowledge disappear.

  But this wasn’t for other people, this was for her. This was an exorcism.

  She touched the match to all four corners of the open folder, then touched it to as many places in the middle as she could before the flame burned to her fingers. She dropped the whole mess into the sink. The crisp, eight-years’ aged paper crackled, blackened, and flames swelled over it. The photograph curled and melted.

  She opened the windows, turned on a fan. The smoke poured up, black and sour. It flowed out the window above the sink, dissipated, and melted into the sky.