Carrie Vaughn - After the Golden Age

“So what was it like? You had half the Olympiad as parents—what was it like growing up with them?”

It sucked like a starving lamprey. But no one wanted to hear that. She had a well-practiced answer. “It was interesting. Really, though, they tried to keep me out of things as much as possible.”

Which wasn’t all that possible, in the end. But Analise stared back with stars in her eyes and let out a sigh.

Celia kept her mouth shut. Let them imagine whatever they wanted. It was all water under the bridge.

“I can’t believe you’re working today,” Analise had gushed on the phone. “Couldn’t you call in sick or something?”

“I prefer things get back to normal as quickly as possible.” That was always how she’d handled it when she was younger. Pretend like nothing had happened. Pretend like you didn’t need to be coddled. Pretend like you weren’t helpless.

Celia relented to being ranted at in person at Analise’s favorite diner, a block from the building that housed Smith and Kurchanski.

Analise, it seemed, had called in sick after last night’s excitement. She was waiting for Celia in a corner booth, and she’d already ordered salads for them both.

“Tell me all about it. Tell me everything,” she said, before Celia had even sat. Analise was hipper than Celia. Her hair, braided in cornrows, was pulled back in a ponytail. She dressed like she was still in college, in jeans and faded concert T-shirt for an old punk band. She worked at an independent record store, of course, lived in a not-so-great part of town, and yet was never afraid to walk home after dark. Her round brown eyes sparkled.

“Don’t you read the papers?” Celia said. She was sure Analise had, but that didn’t matter. She told the story, again, and she had to admit, with Analise as an eager audience the episode sounded much more adventurous than it had felt.

When she got to the part where Mentis incapacitated the room, Analise shivered. “You can actually feel him in your mind? Ugh. That guy makes me nervous.”

“He’s not so bad. For someone who can read minds, he’s really nonjudgmental. You know; you’ve met him.”

“Briefly,” she said. “Professionally. And I kept my distance. Besides, I’m incredibly jealous. He always gets much better press than I do. I mean, look at this.” Her voice dropped in volume.

She pulled a rolled-up paper out of her backpack and spread it out on the table, facing Celia. The Commerce Eye, the city’s tabloid rag. The headline blared: “Typhoon and Breezeway: On Again?”

Celia didn’t know for certain, but she was sure Analise kept a scrapbook of these headlines. “You know better than to read that crap.”

“They’ve spent months inventing this whole sordid affair, and then just because we both show up at the same place at the same time and happen to do a little tag-teaming, they think there’s something going on. Like I would ever go out with that jerk.” A blurry photo showed the city’s two hippest superhuman fighters: Breezeway was a tall, lithe man wearing a silver skin suit and a mask, hovering a dozen feet above the ground as he surveyed a tidal wave rising from a fountain, where Typhoon stood. She also went masked, and wore a blue costume of shimmering silk, but some of her features remained clear: dark skin, and a cascade of braided hair.

“You could call them and complain,” Celia said.

“What, and validate everything they’ve said? No. I’m just venting, you know that.” She rolled up the newspaper and started to put it back in her bag.

“Wait, can I see that again?” Celia gestured for her to hand over the paper. Analise spread the tabloid back on the table.

The previous night’s activities and the photo of Typhoon and Breezeway had preempted another headline, shoving it to a strip along the bottom: “Mayor’s Superhighway Plan: Genius or Madness?” A thumbnail photo showed gray-haired Anthony Paulson smiling at the camera. Mention of the mayor made her think of Detective Mark Paulson, of course. She hadn’t told Analise which handsome police detective had escorted her home.

“What is it? Oh—is Paulson on about that again? You know the historic preservation people’ll never let him get away with it. It’ll take an earthquake to level half the city before they let anything get torn down.”

Part of Paulson’s platform for the last election featured a “revitalization” plan. He wanted to build a multilane ring highway circumscribing the city, to facilitate commerce and to attract business. The usual buzzwords. The trouble was, a number of existing neighborhoods would have to be demolished to accommodate the highway. Many argued, convincingly, that an essential character of Commerce City would be lost if it turned into yet another ungainly urban sprawl surrounded by cookie-cutter bedroom communities.

“That’s not really what I was thinking of,” Celia said absently, refolding the paper and handing it back to Analise. Could she still date Mark if she hadn’t voted for his father?

Celia’s lunch hour was almost finished, and the dishes were cleared away, when Analise asked, “You’re really okay after what happened? You don’t seem shaken up at all.”

“Yeah. Remember, this is like kidnapping number”—she actually had to stop and count—“seven for me. It’s been a couple years since the last. I was probably due for it.”

“That’s really messed up. That you can even think like that.”

“It’s either that or spend the rest of my life in therapy.”

“You could probably use some. Therapy, I mean. You’re always complaining about your parents, that their reputation is always getting in your way. Why don’t you leave town? You could change your name, start a new life somewhere.”

She’d always told herself she shouldn’t have to give up her identity for them. “I like it here. What would I do without coffee at Pee Wee’s? I guess I keep thinking I can make a place for myself. I keep thinking someday people will just forget about me. Stop trying to kidnap me.” Every kid wanted to get out of their parents’ shadow. Her problem was, for her that shadow was just so big .

Analise huffed self-righteously. “Your folks should have retired when their cover was blown.”

Not that it would have helped. Then, people would have used her to try to draw them out of retirement. Or try to ransom her. Warren West was still one of the richest men in town.

“Just remember you said that, if it ever happens to you.”

CELIA put her hands on her hips and surveyed the computer printouts, financial statements, and depositions spread across the table in the conference room. “I think you’ve got him on a dozen counts at least. Insider trading, money laundering, tax evasion, mail fraud. You did get warrants?”

DA Kevin Bronson patted his suit’s breast pocket. “Oh yeah. Three different judges signed ’em. I’m not taking any chances with the Destructor.”

Celia let out a sigh. “Good.”

“Don’t worry. This one’s personal for all of us.”

To think, for all the Destructor’s megalomania, his fantastical plans of annihilation and mayhem, his unending vows to rule the world and the Olympiad’s failure to bring him to justice, it was the accountants who were finally going to lock the key to his jail cell. Celia West, CPA. She had to admit, it felt pretty good.

“We haven’t identified all his assets,” the DA continued. “I’ll need you to track them down.”

The materials filled banker’s boxes. Usually, these cases involved a file folder. But the Destructor was a big case. She paged through some of the records. They went back years, decades. Sito’s entire history was laid out here, in bits and pieces and bank statements. Fascinating stuff, to her at least. Which was why she had this job. She resisted an urge to rub her hands together and cackle.