Carrie Vaughn: After the Golden Age

“Right,” Mentis said. He held out her attaché case, unopened and none the worse for wear. “I think this is yours. We found it in Baxter’s car.”

“Thanks.”

He turned to Suzanne. “We should move on. Captain and the Bullet have cleaned up the bank robberies, but two branches of the gang are still at large.”

Celia paused. “What’s happening?”

“This was more than a simple kidnapping,” Mentis said. “It was a distraction. Baxter’s people launched attacks all over the city. He wanted to see how much he could get away with while we were busy rescuing you.”

If Baxter could have held her indefinitely, moving from place to place, keeping one step ahead of the Olympiad, he might have run them ragged.

They’d taken the time to rescue her.

“Detective? Could you see that Miss West arrives home safely?” Mentis called to a young man in a suit and overcoat standing near the doorway. One of the detectives on the case, he held a notepad and pencil, jotting notes as Baxter’s men were escorted out. The cop looked at Mentis and nodded.

She suppressed a vague feeling of abandonment, that she could have died, and now Mentis and her mother were just leaving her alone. But she remembered: the city was more important. And Celia was always saying she could take care of herself, wasn’t she?

— You’ll be fine. I have faith in you. —Mentis’s smile was wry, and Celia nodded in acknowledgment.

“Thanks,” she said. “For coming after me. Tell Dad I said hi.”

Suzanne crossed her arms. “You could call once in a while.”

He could call me. “Maybe I will.” She managed a smile for her mother and a last wave at Mentis before leaving.

The cop escorted her out of the building. “I’m Detective Paulson. Mark Paulson.” Endearingly, he offered his hand, and she shook it.

“Celia West.”

“Yeah, I know.”

A few awkward, silent minutes brought them to the curb and a swarm of police cars, lights flashing a fireworks display on the street. A half-dozen men were occupied keeping reporters and news cameras behind a line of caution tape. A couple of hero groupies were there as well—the creator of a low-end gossip website dedicated to the city’s heroes, another guy holding up a big poster declaring: CAPTAIN OLYMPUS: OUR ALIEN SAVIOR. There were always a few lurking around every time something like this happened. Instinctively, Celia looked away and hunched her shoulders, trying to duck into her collar.

Paulson brought her to an unmarked sedan. They might actually get away without the reporters noticing. Opening the passenger side door, he helped her in.

While he situated himself and started the car, she said, “Paulson. Any relation to Mayor Paulson?”

He developed a funny little half smile. “I’m his son.”

That was where she’d seen that jawline before. And the flop of dark hair. The mayor’s hair had gone handsomely salt and pepper in his middle age. Mark’s still shone.

“Ah,” she said, grinning. “Then you know all about it. I shouldn’t pry—but he wanted you to go into politics, didn’t he?”

“Not quite. He wanted me to be a lawyer, then go into politics. I got the law degree. Then, well…” He shrugged, his glance taking in the car and the flashing lights behind them. “Then I decided I wanted to be on the front lines rather than the rearguard. Make sure no one gets off on a technicality because they weren’t read their rights.”

“Cool,” she said.

“What about you? I mean, your parents—” He let out an awestruck sigh. And who wouldn’t, after meeting Spark? “They want you to go into … the family business, I guess it is?”

“Oh, they certainly did. Nature had different ideas, though. I’m the offspring of Commerce City’s greatest superhumans, and the most exciting thing I ever did was win a silver medal in a high-school swim meet.” Good thing she could look back on it now and laugh.

She still had that medal sitting on her dresser.

“It must have been amazing, growing up with them.”

“Yeah, you could say that.” The strength of her sarcasm invited no further questions.

Finally, they arrived at her apartment building. Detective Paulson insisted on walking her to her front door, as if one of the Baxter Gang splinters would leap out of the shadows and snatch her up. She had to admit, twice in a night would be embarrassing.

“Thanks for taking me home,” she said, once her door was unlocked. “I know you’ve got better things to do.”

“Not at all,” he said. “Maybe I could do it again sometime.”

Though he turned away before she could read the expression on his face, she thought he was smiling. She watched him until he turned the corner.

Closing the door behind her, she shook her head. She’d imagined it. Her head was still foggy.

Later, she sat in bed, drinking a cup of chamomile tea and watching the news. All the city’s “independent law-enforcement agents” were out in force, quelling the riot of criminal activity. Typhoon created floods to incapacitate a group of bank robbers. Breezeway swept them off their feet with gusts of air. Even the telekinetic Mind-masher and his on-again, off-again lover, Earth Mother, were out and about. Block Buster Senior and Junior were as usual directing their brute-force mode of combat toward a trio of vandals holed up in an abandoned convenience store. The two superhumans were taking the building apart, concrete block by concrete block, until it formed an impromptu jail. Block Buster Senior used to be just Block Buster until a couple of years ago, when Junior showed up. Anyone could tell he wasn’t much more than a kid under the mask and skin-suit uniform. Lots of people speculated if the two were actually father and son as their names suggested, or if they instead had a mentor/apprentice relationship. Whatever their story, Celia thought they took a little too much joy in inflicting property damage.

And if they were father and son—how had Junior managed to inherit his father’s power? Why him and not her?

Most of the coverage focused on the beloved Olympiad, who’d been protecting Commerce City for twenty-five years now. One of the stations had exclusive footage of Captain Olympus and the Bullet, the fourth member of the Olympiad, tearing open the warehouse that held the Baxter Gang’s main headquarters.

The camera could only follow the Bullet’s progress by tracking a whirlwind that traveled from one end of the building to the other, tossing masked gunmen aside in a storm of dust and debris. Guns flew from their hands and spiraled upward, shattering with the force of movement. It was all the Bullet, Robbie Denton, moving faster than the eye could see, disrupting one enemy attack after another in mere seconds.

Captain Olympus—the Golden Thunderbolt, most powerful man in the world—wore black and gold, and tore down walls with his will. He stood before his target, braced, arms outstretched, and created a hammer of force that crumpled half the building.

Celia’s hands started shaking. The warehouse district was across town. He wasn’t anywhere near here. The news reporter on the scene raved on and on about the spectacular scene, the malevolence of the criminals, the courage of the Olympiad.

She found the remote and turned off the TV.

THIS was the kind of story that made up West family lore:

When Warren West was six years old, he fell. This wasn’t a stumble and a skinned knee, a crash on a bike, or a roll down the stairs, any of which most kids had suffered by his age. No, this was a fall out of a tree—from the top of a twenty-foot tall oak in City Park. He’d landed on a bent elbow, which should have shattered his arm at the very least. A fall like that should have killed him. But Warren walked away with no injuries. He didn’t even cry. Then, his parents realized he had never skinned his knees or elbows, scratched himself, or gotten a bruise of any kind. He’d only ever cried when he was tired, hungry, or didn’t get what he wanted.