After the Golden Age

by Carrie Vaughn

  “Most of them had children. Jacob had a son, Warren. Anna Riley had a daughter, Suzanne. Robbie Denton’s father was the machinist who helped build the generator. One of your techs moved to England and married a man by the name of Nicholas Mentis. Their son was Arthur. Are you noticing a pattern here? I’m not finished researching the lab personnel, but I bet I could discover a few of the secret identities of Commerce City’s heroes by tracing those family trees.

  “You and my grandfather were trying to create superhumans, weren’t you? You were trying to induce the physiological anomalies that lead to those powers. When your generator malfunctioned, you dosed everyone in that room. Their genes carried the anomaly to their children and their grandchildren.”

  He licked his lips, but didn’t twitch a muscle otherwise. He might have been frozen in that spot for days. “If you’re right, the mutation skips generations, I can’t help but notice. You probably can’t help but notice.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Not everyone in that room developed a power. Not all their children or grandchildren developed powers. But many did.”

  Sito’s cold gaze struck her hard. She remembered it, searching her, stripping her without him ever laying a hand on her. He’d kidnapped her, strapped her down, would have used his machine—based on that old research—to peel away her mind. He could do it here, just by looking at her.

  She refused to flinch.

  He stood in a movement so quick it shocked her. She quelled an impulse to step back.

  “You’re wrong. We weren’t trying to create superhumans. I never tried to create anything. Anything I created—it was a side effect. Unintended. I should have followed up. Your grandfather might have continued my funding. That would be a project worth pursuing: a machine to create superhumans. Or—supervillains?”

  He paced, his hands fidgeting, typing on air. She hadn’t thought of him as ill until now.

  “Why are you here asking these questions?” he said. “Why not your father or that telepath of his?”

  She said, “They’re busy.”

  “Is that the reason, or are you afraid dear old Warren won’t listen to you?”

  “He’ll listen to me.”

  “Like he always did before? I wonder, if I’d had the chance, would I have made a better father than Captain Olympus?”

  He continued. “You’ve had such a terribly hard life, poor little rich Celia West. I read the papers, you know. I saw what happened to you after your testimony. And they think I can’t destroy anything from in here. Your life is a tiny little thing to ruin, but it’s so wonderful because I can keep ruining it over and over again.”

  He was on the other side of a locked door. He couldn’t hurt her. He was a pitiful old man, taunting her as if they were children in the schoolyard. That was what he was reduced to—childish taunts. She almost smiled.

  “Poor little Celia. No one has ever had any faith in you, have they? No one trusts you, no one is proud of you—”

  That wasn’t true. One person had always had faith in her. One person had stood by her, even at her lowest. She hadn’t had the wits to accept that trust.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Sito,” she said, and turned away.

  “I’m not finished!” He pressed himself to the door now, shouting at the window. “I still have plans for you. You have a boyfriend, don’t you? The mayor’s son. I’ll have a go at him next! You’ll see! I can still hurt you!”

  I could tell him, she thought. I could tell him everything, about his son, his grandson. But she didn’t.

  His voice faded as Celia walked away.

  * * *

  Four years ago, she emerged from the cave where she’d retreated to heal. She celebrated with a graduation. The diplomas were all handed out, tassels turned, and the band played. It was very nearly the happiest day of Celia West’s life.

  Even if Mom and Dad hadn’t come to the ceremony, it would still be the happiest day of her life.

  She waited alone by the last row of chairs, thinking they had to see her there, they would come and find her. She had to remind herself that it didn’t matter, before that sinking feeling took hold of her chest.

  She’d sent her parents a graduation announcement and instantly regretted it. She didn’t know what she dreaded more: their showing up and her having to face them, or their not showing up and her admitting her disappointment at them for not showing up. She should have left town. She should have changed her name. They wouldn’t want to see her again, not after she’d ignored them for the last four years.

  She saw Dr. Mentis first. He wore a trench coat even in the warm spring weather, open to show his tailored suit. He’d finished medical school and set up a psychiatry practice while she was in her cocoon, as she thought of it. He’d called her once, in the middle of her sophomore year, just wanting to see how she was doing, and she’d managed to be polite. That she could be polite to Arthur was how she’d known she was getting better, and that maybe she’d be okay. Halfway through her junior year, she’d called him, to let him know she was doing okay. He’d said he was glad, and didn’t ask her to come home, didn’t put any pressure on her. Just said he was glad.

  Now, he caught her gaze and smiled a wry half smile, as much as he ever smiled, which meant he was as happy to be here as he was ever happy about anything. Her own smile broke wide and unbidden.

  Beside him walked Robbie Denton, his wind-burned face grinning. And beside him, arm in arm, walked her parents.

  Oh God, they were all here. They’d all made it.

  She couldn’t help it. As soon as they were within reach, she lunged forward and hugged her mother.

  “Thank you, thank you for coming.”

  “We wouldn’t have missed it. Oh, Celia, we’re so proud of you.”

  Warren pressed his lips into something that tried to look like a smile. Awkwardly, he patted her shoulder. She repressed a wince.

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice muted. “You almost didn’t make it this far. I’m glad you did.”

  It was as much an admission of approval as she was likely to get from him. He made no move to embrace her.

  Suzanne kept her arm around her. “Come on, let’s go get some lunch.”

  Robbie tousled her hair like he’d been doing since she was a kid. For a long stretch of time during her teenage years, it had annoyed her into screaming fits, which made Robbie tease her more. But now she laughed.

  Arthur Mentis offered his hand. She shook it calmly.

  He said, “I always knew you’d turn out all right.”

  Which nearly made her cry.

  * * *

  When she emerged back into the asylum lobby, the orderly was talking on the phone. He glanced at her, his gaze dark and suspicious.

  “Never mind, she’s back,” he said, and hung up.

  Celia didn’t wait around for explanations, either his or hers. She flashed him a smile and strolled back into the street.

  Michael, bless him, was still waiting with the car. She piled into the front seat.

  “Now you’re going to say you don’t want me telling your parents you were here,” he said, starting the engine and preparing to pull into traffic.

  “That would just worry them, don’t you think?”

  “Just tell me you know what you’re doing.”

  She hesitated, which made him glare at her.

  “Sure,” she said. What the hell? “I know what I’m doing.”

  “I suppose you’re at least making your own trouble now instead of getting wrapped up in somebody else’s.” That was a kind observation. “We’re going back to the Plaza now, right?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Michael.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE penthouse was still deserted. “Mom? Dad?” she called out. No answer. They’d been gone all day. The gauze bandage covering her stitches itched, and she felt a raw, gnawing anxiety.

  She went to the Olympiad command room. There, she found Robbie—the Bullet, actually, in uniform sans mask—at the co
mmunications station, listening to police radio.

  “Hey! I thought you’d be in bed asleep,” he said.

  “I had work to do.” He gave her a reprimanding glance. If he offered her hot cocoa, so help her God— “Where is everyone?”

  “Your dad’s at the courthouse. The jury’s taking forever, which has the good Captain worried. Spark’s trying to meet with the police chief about coordinating some kind of patrol for the city tonight, but I don’t think she’s having any luck.”

  “How’s it look out there?”

  He shook his head. “It’s like the whole city’s holding its breath. Something’s going to happen but no one knows what. Only thing on the radio is car accidents—people are twitchy, rear-ending each other. I can’t find the independent supers; they’ve all gone to ground, I think. Waiting.”

  “Has Dr. Mentis been back?”

  Robbie shook his head. “Haven’t seen him all day. Why?”

  “He—” She shook her head. She was worried. She needed to see him. Robbie didn’t need to know all that.

  “I’d love to know what he found out about Mayor Paulson.”

  She just bet he would. Arthur ought to be here, and her stomach flipped a little. The Olympiad was in action, and he’d disappeared.

  “Have you called his office?” she said.

  “If he’s there, he’s not answering.”

  “That’s not like him.”

  “Hey, if he’s in trouble, he’ll find a way to let us know.”

  He’d speak to their minds across the distance. For his closest friends, space wasn’t a barrier for the connection.

  Would there come a time when he refused to ask for help?

  “I’ll see you later,” she said, turning to leave.

  “You’re not going out, are you? I don’t think your folks—”

  “I won’t leave the building, I promise.”

  “Celia, you’re still hurt. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

  “I’m fine. I’ve got my cell phone. I’ll call you if I need help, I promise.”

  She left before he could say anything else.

  * * *

  She rode the elevator down to the eighteenth floor.

  In the heart of the building, the office spaces were efficient and elegant. Gray berber carpeting led down hallways with recessed lighting. Silk plants in brass stands decorated corners. The Plaza hired staff just to keep those plants dusted. Accounting firms, law firms, investment firms, insurance companies—all had offices here, marked by frosted glass fronts with their names painted in neat black letters. Originally, Celia’s chief interest in working for Smith and Kurchanski had been that their offices weren’t located in West Plaza.

  Dr. Arthur Mentis’s office was marked only by a brass nameplate on a wood-stained door at the end of a hallway. Not a prime location, but he didn’t need much space. He wanted to work here so he’d be close to the Olympiad’s headquarters. And Warren gave him the place rent-free.

  She knocked.

  “Arthur? Are you here? Can I come in?” She knocked again. And again. If something had happened to him, she’d have felt it. She knew she would have.

  In much the same way, something told her that he had to be here.

  “It’s Celia. Will you let me in? Arthur!”

  At that, the door opened. He might have been waiting just on the other side, debating about whether or not to open it.

  She could see why there might be a debate. He looked awful. Face frowning, hair ruffled, he wore his shirt unbuttoned, baring the undershirt. He leaned on the open door and the frame, holding a bottle of scotch. He didn’t smell of alcohol; he only looked drunk. The bottle was full and unopened. He was showing some kind of emotion—which one, she couldn’t guess.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

  “I was worried about you.”

  “You shouldn’t worry about me.”

  “Can I come in?”

  He stepped aside and swung the door open. When he wandered away, she closed it.

  His office suite had two rooms. The front was a calculated, elegant public face, with a soft leather sofa, antique desk, bookshelves, and inoffensive Impressionist artwork on the walls. The back door of this room was open, leading to an inner office. Curious, she walked back there. She expected him to stop her or to intercept her; this felt like an invasion. But he didn’t. He kept his back to her.

  The back room might have been an office once. There was a desk, some shelves filled with books, a filing cabinet. Now, a pile of clothes lay on the surface of the desk, shirts and trousers waiting to be washed. A foldaway cot, sheets and blankets mussed, sat in a corner. A minifridge with a hot plate and electric kettle sitting on top of it occupied another corner. It looked like a dorm room.

  Also on the desk, a half-dozen empty orange prescription bottles clustered together.

  “You’ve been living here,” she said.

  “Why not? I spend most of my time here. It got so it seemed a waste to go anywhere else.”

  “It … it doesn’t seem right, not for you. Not—” Not for someone she admired, looked up to. He’d always seemed so put together. Even she’d managed to build a life for herself. But him?

  He was leaning on the door frame, watching her study the odd scraps of his life. He stared at her. He could see it all. All her thoughts were written across her face.

  She pointed at the scotch. “Are you going to share that?”

  “You can have the whole thing. I got drunk once. Years ago. Pulled everybody in the house with me. First year at university, there were five of us living in a flat in London. They all had hallucinations, screaming fits, and massive hangovers. Even the ones used to drinking a dozen pints in an evening. And it wasn’t even that they had hangovers, but their minds convinced them they had. My mind convinced them they had. I haven’t had a drink since. Can’t bring myself to do it now—I really don’t know what you see in the stuff. I’d probably tear the whole building down. I’ve never lost control since that time. I’ve never done much of anything.”

  She came to lean on the wall next to him. She took the bottle away, pulled out the cap, and took a swig. Rolled the liquid over her tongue before swallowing. Not the best, but it burned going down, and that was what mattered. It even dulled her headache. She set the bottle down on the desk.

  “Mom and Dad think you have a life,” she said. “They think you have a psychiatry practice, a home to go to. Hobbies. But you come here, pop a few sleeping pills, and that’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Celia, why are you here?” he said tiredly.

  She caught his gaze and invited him to look at the scenes playing behind her eyes. She studied his expression, looking for that flicker of change, hoping to see something in him that might reflect his thoughts. He was too used to keeping that mask on.

  But he brought his hand up and traced the line of her jaw. Then the hand dropped, and so did his gaze.

  She took his face in her hands, pressing his cheeks, not forcing him to look at her, but drawing herself close to him. She spoke in his ear, so he could hear the words as well as feel her thoughts.

  “You are the only person who has never been disappointed in me. It hurts me to see you unhappy.”

  He gripped her arms. “Celia, you don’t understand. I cannot be in love with you. The way I am, it would hurt you, and I refuse to do that, I cannot—”

  And she could feel it, the tendrils of his emotions reaching for her, winding themselves around her, binding them together. Like the drunken stupor he shared with his housemates, his emotions, even love, rippled out from him and did damage.

  He straightened, pulling away from her. “You see,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I never know if my feelings are returned, or if they’re merely my own feelings reflected back at me.”

  “Arthur. I came here because I wanted to. Because I love you.”

  In so many ways, so many times, she’d held his example before hersel
f as a model, a way of being to aspire to. But now, she had to make the first move. She had to go to him, and be the example. She put one hand in his and squeezed; with the other hand she touched his cheek to turn his face toward her. She was just tall enough to reach for him, draw him toward her, and kiss his lips. Just once, softly, so she could feel his breath on her. His eyes were squeezed shut, bracing.

  “You won’t hurt me,” she whispered. “You’ve been inside my mind a hundred times. If you weren’t with me in mind as well as in body—it wouldn’t feel right. Not with you.”

  His arms closed around her.

  She felt his relief wash over her and gave it back to him as bliss.

  * * *

  She was in a dark room, and people were beating her. She couldn’t see them, but knew they were there, and couldn’t escape. They must have had a thousand hands and feet, punching her, kicking her. Somehow, she knew she ought to be able to make them stop just by thinking it, but her mind wasn’t working, her power wasn’t—she smelled sage.

  She was having his dream.

  Just as she was going to shake him awake, he opened his eyes. “Sorry,” he said.

  They were on his cot, naked, in each other’s arms. She snuggled closer in his embrace. He’d always seemed like a slight man, especially next to Robbie and her father. But under his unassuming clothing, his body was solid. He worked out. His strong arms would never let go of her.

  “No, it was just weird. Like my body didn’t fit. But it wasn’t any worse than my dreams.”

  “Like the one where you’re falling, and you hit the pavement, and don’t wake up?”

  “You know about that one?”

  “Hm.” He nodded, sighing a breath through her hair. “It used to send a jolt through the whole house when you had it. At least, it did to me.”

  He politely failed to mention that at the start of the dream, it was her father who tossed her off the roof. “Is it normal to dream about all your bones breaking?”

  “It’s normal to dream about anything at all. It’s not normal to dream someone else’s dreams.”

  She rubbed her cheek against his chest. He had thin, wiry hair growing on it. She remembered when she first met him, in her parents’ kitchen, in the middle of a crisis: the young medical student had inadvertently met Captain Olympus and the Bullet, read their minds, and learned all their secrets. Her parents had been a little afraid of him, though they masked it with their usual anger and bravado. But he’d been kind to her. For her, his calmness had always translated to kindness rather than mystery. Then she went away, isolated herself, avoided them; she didn’t see him for four years. When she returned, his kindness had been replaced by something else entirely.