Carrie Vaughn - Dreams of the Golden Age

I should have told her sooner, Celia realized. Right from the start, I should have told her. We should have been doing this together. “Have you asked them? Show them the paper and see what they say—”

“I did, and you know what they said? ‘Mom, that’s crazy.’ In stereo, like they’d been practicing. But I’m not asking them right now, I’m asking you.”

“Analise—

“Back in my day I was the only black superhero in Commerce City, and now two black kids show up in costumes fighting crime and you’re going to tell me they’re not mine?”

“Fine. You’re right. It’s Teia and Lew.”

A long pause. Analise probably hadn’t expected her to admit it. Celia wanted to crawl under the desk. Arthur stood by, being very quiet, looking sympathetic.

“You knew,” Analise said finally. During the pause, she’d obviously figured it out. “You knew they had powers, that they were planning something like this, this whole time.”

“I didn’t know they were planning something, honest, I only thought … I guess I hoped that if any of them did have powers, they’d be there for each other. Help each other.”

“They—this isn’t just about my kids, is it? My kids, your kids—that other kid in the picture. And who else? And they were only ever going to help each other if … The scholarships. That was you, wasn’t it? So you could put them right where you wanted them. Putting together your own little Olympiad.”

“No, that isn’t—”

“And you couldn’t tell me? Why couldn’t you tell me?”

Keeping it secret seemed like a good idea at the time was a very lame excuse. “Analise, I’m—”

“I can’t talk to you right now,” she said, flustered, and the phone clicked off.

Celia tossed the gadget onto the desk and glared. The gnawing hole in her stomach seemed to be getting bigger. She probably could have handled that better. Starting about five years ago, when she put together this crazy scheme.

“That didn’t go particularly well,” Arthur observed helpfully. As if she needed it spelled out.

“It’ll be okay. She’s been pissed off at me before. This is exactly how she reacted when she found out about me joining the Destructor. It’ll pass.” Eventually … Celia would call her later this afternoon, after she had time to settle down. After Celia figured out what she was going to do next.

Arthur’s own worry grew strong enough to be evident, pressing out past his usual carefully maintained mental shields. All of it was directed at her.

“What?” Celia asked.

“Get your things together. We’re going for a ride.”

“I don’t have time for a ride—”

“Yes, you do. I’m clearing your schedule for the rest of the day, and I’m taking you to a doctor.”

“What?”

He repeated, offhand, “I’m clearing your schedule and we’re going to the doctor. Tom will have the car outside in a minute.”

“But he’s supposed to be dropping off the girls—”

“Soren can drop off the girls today. Tom is driving us to the doctor.”

“Arthur—”

“Celia, you’re not well.”

“I’m fine— ”

“You don’t believe that. You’re worried. You’re ignoring it, but you’re worried.”

She’d never been able to hide from him. “I’m just tired,” she said, but even she could hear the lie in it.

“You’ve been ‘just tired’ before. This isn’t it. When was the last time you went swimming?”

Celia’s favorite sport and workout of choice was swimming. She’d even had a current pool installed in the penthouse so she could duck in for a few laps whenever she wanted. In her early teens, it had been the only thing she was good at, and she still enjoyed it out of a sense of nostalgia if nothing else.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used the pool. Weeks—no, months. Maybe longer. Well, that explained a lot. But even now, the thought of swimming made her tired rather than inspired. She blinked up at Arthur, defeated.

“Please come.” He held out his hand, and her further arguments faded. She took his hand because he’d asked, because he was himself, and she trusted him.

Analise married a firefighter, which Celia always thought was perfect. They’d met at the rec center where Analise taught swimming. Morgan was teaching a first aid class. They’d hit it off, his fire to her water; they were opposites and a perfect match. He was methodical, she had a temper. He could always make her smile—it was a game, even, her trying hard not to laugh and him poking at her until she did. And he was a hero, without having a single superpower. He was living, walking proof that the powers weren’t everything and that maybe she was better off without them. At least she could keep telling herself that, and in the meantime live vicariously through Morgan’s exploits. He was tall, six three, with a great physique, dark skin, and close-cropped hair. Movie star handsome but down-to-earth, and his eyes lit up when Analise walked into a room.

They had a small ceremony with a justice of the peace at City Hall. Just a few friends, no fuss, and they all went out to dinner after. Partway through the evening, Arthur graciously took baby Anna home—at six months, she was too wiggly and her attention span too short to last the whole evening—so Celia could keep celebrating with her friend. Somewhere in between all the drinking and dancing, Celia ended up sitting in a booth with Analise, just the two of them slumped together shoulder to shoulder, and they talked.

“Have you told him about Typhoon?” Celia asked, her voice low.

“No,” she said.

“Are you going to?”

“Why bother? She’s gone now, long gone. No need to talk about her.”

“What if he figures it out?”

Analise turned a lazy, tipsy smile to Celia. “Cross that bridge when I get to it. It’s not important anymore.” She kept telling herself that.

Celia wondered what had happened to the scrapbook Analise used to keep, clippings of all the news stories praising Typhoon’s exploits. Maybe she still had it, well hidden. Maybe, more likely, she’d thrown it out when her power became blocked.

Ten years later, when Teia and Lew were nine, Morgan was killed fighting a fire. The unit had been trying to keep a convenience store fire from spreading to neighboring buildings, and a hidden propane tank exploded and caught him in a wall of flying debris. He’d died instantly. After, Celia did everything she could to keep Analise in one piece; it hadn’t been easy. Arthur and Suzanne and the girls invited Teia and Lew to the penthouse for sleepovers, while Celia sat on Analise’s sofa, holding her friend while she cried and cried. Everything had been perfect there, for a little while, and now it wasn’t, and would it ever be again? Well, maybe not. But things got better. You moved on because you had to, because you had kids and they needed to see you strong. Celia didn’t talk much. Just held Analise, as best she could.

“Typhoon could have saved him,” Analise sobbed the first night after the accident, curled up, barely responding to Celia’s grip on her. “She should have been there, she could have saved him.”

Except that was wrong, because Celia had read the medical examiner’s initial report, and the fire hadn’t killed Morgan, the explosion had. All Typhoon’s rainstorms, all her floods and waves, however quickly she might have put out the fire if she had been there, Analise still couldn’t have guaranteed saving him from the blast. But Celia didn’t try to tell her that.

The what-ifs went on forever, and your rational brain might try to shut them down, but your heart kept dwelling on the future that might have happened if you’d been a little faster, if you’d gotten free more quickly, if you’d sabotaged Mayor Paulson’s apocalyptic weapon just five minutes sooner, so it had exploded and killed you before Captain Olympus arrived and shielded you, at the cost of his own life …