Carrie Vaughn - After the Golden Age

“I don’t know, I’ve been asleep—”

“Oh my God, you with those stitches and everything, I’m sorry—”

“No, no, it’s fine. This is important. Just hold on a second, don’t blow anything up.” She covered the mouthpiece of her phone. “It’s Typhoon. She says the cops are trying to arrest her for breaking curfew.”

Arthur covered the mouthpiece of his phone. “Suzanne says there’s trouble. We’d better get upstairs.” Hurriedly, he said back into the phone, “No one, no one, Suzanne. I’ll be there in a moment.” He hung up and started retrieving clothing and dressing.

Celia turned back to her phone. “Can you rappel out of there or something?”

“They’ve got a helicopter out,” Analise said. Her breathing came fast, and the usually self-assured woman sounded flustered. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

“Where are you?”

“The corner of Seventieth and Pierson.” That was Typhoon’s usual patrol haunt, near the harbor, with ready access to plenty of water.

“Hang tight. We’ll see what we can do. I’m glad you called.”

“See you.” The call cut out as if Analise had turned the phone off in a hurry. She shouldn’t even have been calling in a situation like this. She must really have been in trouble.

Celia hurried to find her clothes as well. Arthur paused and smiled at her, which made her flush.

“I ought to ask you out for dinner,” he said. “Bring you flowers. This hardly seems right, after everything.”

Shrugging, she repressed a giggling fit. This was surreal. Pleasantly surreal, but still.

She walked the three steps to his side and touched his cheek. “It’s appropriate. It’s who we are.” She kissed him.

“Thank you,” he said with a sigh. “Thank you for coming here.”

Her grin turned wry. “Anytime. So tell me—I’ve always wanted to know why you never wore a costume, a skin-suit uniform, like the others.” She indicated his plain shirt and trousers.

“I’m a telepath. A glorified track suit hardly seemed necessary.”

Side by side, they went into the hallway and caught the elevator.

Arthur said, “I’ve found Warren. He knows about Typhoon.”

“What can he do?” Celia said. “He’s out past curfew, too.”

“I’d hope after all this time we’ve earned some allowances,” the telepath said.

“You know what Dad would say about this? He’d say this is a conspiracy to get the supers off the street. To get them out of the way. If the cops say anything about wanting to arrest him, he’ll blow up.”

She thought it was a joke. At least, when she started she meant it to be a joke. But Arthur wasn’t smiling. He didn’t even heave the flustered sigh of frustration that the team sighed when Captain Olympus was about to fly off the handle. Instead, the tension around them spiked, as the situation moved from a simple misunderstanding to a crisis.

The mayor had instituted the curfew. He could send an order through the commissioner to the cops, who’d be all too happy with any excuse to go after the superhumans. Again, the mayor.

Arthur said, “Celia, I find it disturbing that you and your father view the world in exactly the same way.”

“What, we’re both paranoid with severe persecution complexes?”

There, she’d done it again. Made a statement that was far too obvious and true to be funny. He raised a brow as if to indicate, You said it, not me.

The elevator doors opened to the penthouse. Businesslike, Arthur strode out, into the West home and to the Olympiad command center. Celia trailed behind a couple of steps, realizing too late what this was going to look like. Arthur’s hair was mussed, his shirt rumpled—at least it was mostly tucked in—and he’d forgotten his jacket. Her own hair was usually tousled to some degree, but she’d been sleeping on it. Futilely, she ran her fingers through it to smooth it out. The bandage over her stitches had come off. Her dress suit looked thrown on. She still smelled Arthur’s sweat on her.

It was going to be obvious to everyone.

Her phone rang again before she reached the command center—just in time, before she entered the shielded room. She looked at caller ID, and resisted the urge to throw it, to get it to shut up.

“What?” she answered.

“It’s Mark. Celia, you need to tell your people to stay off the streets.”

That boy had the worst timing. She even felt a thread of guilt at hearing his voice. But the way she saw it, he’d left her first.

“My people? What do you mean, my people?”

“Your parents. The other vigilantes.”

“They’re not my people, Mark. And what the hell do you think I can do about it? You think they listen to me?”

“They’re your parents. You at least have access to them.”

And the police would, too, if they ever bothered to talk to the Olympiad.

“You ever tell your father how to do his job?” she said.

“What they do isn’t a job! It’s a hobby!”

No, she thought. It’s a vocation. A calling.

“Mark, we’re already trying. Can’t you tell your guys to back off Typhoon? She’s not the one trying to start anything.”

“The cops at the harbor district have just called for backup,” he said.

They were going to spook Analise.

“Mark, please, tell your people to stand down.” She wasn’t used to begging, but it was a surprisingly easy thing to do when it was the right thing to do, when it might actually help.

He paused, and she thought she was going to scream, waiting for him to answer. When he finally spoke, despair weighted his voice. “I’m not there. I’m listening to it on the radio.”

“I’ll call Chief Appleton,” she said. “Maybe he can do something.”

“No, I’ll call him. But if there’s any way you can get the Olympiad off the street, please try.”

“Okay, yes. Thank you, Mark. Thank you for calling.”

“Celia, I … take care.” He clicked off.

They needed to have a nice long talk. God only knew when that would happen.

She entered the command center in time to hear Suzanne say, “Arthur, thank God you’re here! And Celia—did you sleep well? Are you feeling better?” she called from her post at the communications terminal. She was in street clothes, though her skin suit showed under the collar of her blouse.

Her mother assumed she’d been in bed—here, in bed—all day. Maybe she and Arthur wouldn’t be discovered.

“Mark just called. He wants all you guys off the streets. The cops are ready for a standoff.”

Suzanne said, “Arthur, call Warren and Robbie in, we can’t risk a confrontation with the police.”

“I already contacted Warren. Robbie’s with him.”

“Are they coming back?”

“I don’t think so—” He cocked his head, listening to an unheard voice, sensing something ethereal. “Something’s happening.”

The city’s vigilantes and police force had avoided an outright battle for over twenty years. Forty, if you counted the Hawk’s tenure. Surely one wouldn’t erupt now.

Suzanne turned a dial that brought the volume up on the police radio. A voice crackled from the speakers.

“Shots have been fired, I repeat, shots have been fired. There’s been a flood, a wave of some kind, we have men down—”

SUZANNE returned from discarding her civilian clothes. She was Spark, now. When the costumes came out, they ceased being her parents and became the four-color heroes of legend.

“Suzanne, what do you possibly think you can do?” Arthur said.

“I don’t know.” Spark paced back and forth along the computer console. “I have to be ready. They might need me.”