Carrie Vaughn - After the Golden Age

The police had fired a net, like something a big-game hunter would use to catch his quarry. Weighted at the ends, it flew at Breezeway and entangled him as soon as it struck. The net remained attached to a rope, which was connected to a winch inside the helicopter. The cops hauled him in as if he was a fish.

Breezeway struggled, swinging under the helicopter until they pulled him inside, but his power was wind and flight, not strength. The net trapped him.

“They got Breezeway,” Celia said, amazed, staring at the monitors.

The others joined her, equally entranced by the replay of the cops’ triumphant moment. Typhoon stood next to her, her shoulder newly swathed in clean bandages, holding the injured arm to her chest.

“Damn punk,” Olympus muttered, but he didn’t sound terribly righteous.

Gina ended her report. “We’ll be back as soon as we confirm that Breezeway is in police custody, and if they decide to reveal his secret identity. Back to you, Paula.”

Arthur said, “Celia, turn to the other station. That one, yes.”

Celia switched the sound over to the station that was covering the search in the harbor district.

“… missing officers have been found.”

Celia’s stomach clenched. She looked at Arthur, who watched the screen and gnawed at his lower lip.

“One of the officers was found clinging to the base of a pier a hundred yards from where he’d disappeared, with minor injuries. Unfortunately, the second officer was not so lucky. The body of Officer Douglas Grady was pulled from the river moments ago. Reports from the scene confirmed he drowned when a tidal wave swept him into the harbor. The police have issued a statement that Typhoon is now wanted for murder.…”

Typhoon turned away from the monitors and found the nearest chair. Lowering herself into it, moving in slow motion, she murmured, “It was an accident. I swear to God it was an accident.”

Arthur moved to her side. “We know, my dear. Look at me.” She closed her eyes and shook her head, until Arthur took hold of her chin and directed her. “Look at me.”

With the weight of his power behind the words, she couldn’t help but obey. Trapping her gaze in his, he murmured, “Sleep. Very good.”

She slumped into his arms without so much as a sigh.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Celia said, too tired to sound as irate as she wanted.

“Perhaps not,” Arthur said, easing Typhoon back. “But with the evening’s shocks, she’s emotionally ill-equipped to deal with this new information.”

“Who are you to decide that?”

“Would you rather have her lose control and burst the building’s water pipes?”

“She wouldn’t do that.”

“You can’t guarantee that.”

And she couldn’t.

Spark said, “We can put her in one of the guest rooms until she wakes up.”

“She’s going to be pissed off,” Celia said.

Olympus crossed his arms. “This wasn’t her fault. They can’t pin this on her.”

Arthur said, “Technically, it was. Maybe not murder, but they’ll want to charge her with manslaughter, maybe negligent homicide.”

“This was rigged. This is exactly the kind of bad press Paulson wants to pin on us to get us out of the way,” the Captain said.

“But why?” Spark asked.

“Does it matter?”

Ultimately, a universe filled with conspiracies was so simple, so elegant, a series of interlacing clockworks.

“We’re in a world of trouble, my friends,” the Bullet said.

“No more so than usual,” Olympus replied with false cheer as he gently picked Analise up and carried her in his arms.

Suzanne led him out, to show him which guest room to use. The Bullet followed.

“Sleeping out the night isn’t going to make things any easier for her,” Celia said to Arthur, who remained behind. “You just made it easier on the rest of us, not having to deal with her right now.” She hugged herself tightly and watched the monitors, which showed replays of Breezeway’s capture, of the police boat in the harbor, of a file photo of Officer Douglas Grady in uniform, proud and smiling.

“Perhaps,” Arthur said. He walked over to her, tentatively touched her shoulder. She wanted him to. She had begun to wonder if their time together that evening had happened at all—they both reverted to their rigid selves so quickly, so firmly.

Then, he squeezed her shoulder, put his arms around her. She leaned into his embrace, and he kissed the top of her head. How could he have been so afraid of emotion? His feelings for her wrapped her in a warm cocoon. She’d never have to wonder if he loved her.

He pulled away abruptly. She started to complain, but a moment later the others returned to the command room. She was sure she blushed as red as her hair. Arthur quietly watched the monitors. He’d had much more practice maintaining that mask of calm.

Suzanne and Warren had pulled street clothes—shirts and trousers—on over their skin suits. Suzanne had pinned her hair into a bun.

“Warren and I are going to try to post bail for Breezeway. If we’re lucky, maybe we can talk Chief Appleton into releasing him into our custody.”

Warren, the Captain, added, “Robbie, Arthur, I want you to stay here and monitor the situation. Don’t go out, unless it’s an emergency. We don’t want to give the cops an excuse to start shooting.”

Arthur said, “It begs the question: After all this, what constitutes an emergency?”

“The Destructor breaks out of the asylum?” Warren said, offering a cocky grin. He put his arm around Suzanne’s shoulders and the two of them left, side by side. Like they were just going to bail their kid out of jail or something.

Arthur huffed. “As if I’d be able to do anything about that.”

Nobody told Celia what she was supposed to do.

“Perhaps you could keep an eye on Typhoon,” Arthur said softly.

She nodded. She wanted to kiss him before she left, but Robbie was right there. Maybe if she imagined it, filled her mind with the thought of it, he’d read it there. He’d know.

— Later. — Was the thought he returned.

Thoughts weren’t enough for her, she decided.

She looked in on Analise, sleeping in one of the guest rooms down the hall. Her parents had honored her request and left her mask on. It must have been uncomfortable, but Analise was out cold and didn’t seem to notice. She lay on her back, arms folded over her stomach, head tilted slightly. She breathed deeply and seemed fine, for now.

Celia went to the living room to stare out the windows.

It was the same city. It couldn’t have been, though. The city she looked out on had turned hostile. A half-dozen police helicopters circled over various neighborhoods, at various heights, shining lights down on the streets. Where one of them focused a light on one spot, then circled around that spot, the craft looked like a toy spinning on an illuminated wire. She listened for the pounding beat of helicopter engines, but heard nothing.

She was lucky to be here, lucky to be safe within these walls, protected by the city’s heroes. Not out there, restricted by curfew, holed up, alone and afraid.

It was a different world, where she could return to her parents’ home and feel safe.

Absently, she rubbed her forehead. She ought to bandage it again. The throbbing of the stitches had been increasing all evening.

“You ought to sleep. You ought to have been asleep all day.” She turned. Arthur came toward her, hands in his pockets, his expression sheepish. “I couldn’t stay away. Robbie can watch the monitors by himself.”

In another step they came together, body to body, arms wrapped around each other.

“Don’t worry about the city. It’ll come out right. It always does. There’s nothing you can do just now.”