Carrie Vaughn: After the Golden Age

Celia and Bronson carefully organized and labeled every possible shred of evidence that might have a bearing on the trial. Bronson already knew that Sito planned to plead insanity. It was a dangerous defense: the very nature of his crimes—calculating, methodical, and ambitious—spoke the coldest brand of criminal sanity. Celia could help show that. Even so, no matter what the verdict, with enough evidence to show he was a danger to himself and others—mainly others—the judge could order him locked so deep inside Elroy Asylum he’d never dig his way out.

They had almost finished when Bronson paused and checked the door to make sure it was closed. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and studied her.

“Did Kurchanski tell you that I requested you for this case?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Do you know why?”

She shrugged. “Good press. Because of my parents. Get the whole West clan on board.”

“Is that a problem?”

Time to be professional and swallow her angst. “If you aren’t worried about a conflict of interest, then it’s not a problem.”

“Good. Because I was hoping you could give me a little more insight into Sito than what we can tell from the records.”

A sinking feeling struck her stomach. His statement wasn’t casual, it was leading. His gaze focused on her like she was a defendant on the witness stand—like she was guilty and he knew it.

“My parents would probably be better for that.”

“You used to work for Sito, didn’t you?” he said, like he might have commented on the weather.

A familiar, icy anger crawled up her spine. She built up the walls of her life and people like him, like Baxter, kept knocking holes in them.

Everyone knew about the kidnapping. When she was sixteen, the Destructor stole her right off the street and unmasked her parents’ identities. That made all the papers, every news outlet, in three-inch headlines, lurid color photos, and TV movies of the week. But no one outside the members of the Olympiad, the Chief of Police, and Sito himself knew that a year later, she’d gone over to the Destructor’s side. Her supreme act of teenage rebellion had been buried and hidden from all public view, a fact that she was grateful for every day of her life.

Bronson had no right to shine a light on that part of her past.

She spoke softly. If she did more than whisper, her voice would come out in a scream. “Those records are supposed to be sealed.” Juvenile records. She’d been seventeen. Just barely, they were juvenile records.

“I opened them,” he said coldly. “Oh, don’t worry, they’re still officially sealed. I won’t whisper this to anyone. But you realize that if it weren’t for your parents’ influence, you’d be in prison now.”

She’d fought this battle already. She wasn’t supposed to have to fight it again. “It was Stockholm Syndrome. Ask Dr. Mentis, he made the diagnosis, it’s all in the file.” She shook her head, a steady denial. “I’ve worked very hard to put that behind me.”

“I know, I know.” He was suddenly gentle, a whiplash change of mood that left her more unbalanced than a continued attack would have. “I’m not trying to dredge up old business. I just want you to know that you can talk to me. If you have any insights, if there’s anything you can tell me that will help with the case, I need to know.”

Stay calm. Pragmatically, she couldn’t blame him. If he thought she had information, he was obligated to pursue that. On the other hand, she couldn’t help but wonder who had nudged him toward that file, or if he’d been clever enough to wonder why the Wests’ daughter had a sealed juvenile record.

“Tell me about Sito,” he said. “Anything at all. What’s he like? How does he work?”

She sighed at the memories.

She’d felt so grown up, so sexy and wicked, standing at the Destructor’s side as he prepared to destroy the city yet again. Looking back on it, though, she must not have really believed that he’d succeed. He’d never succeeded before. She must have believed the Olympiad would stop him, like they always did, and she wouldn’t be forced into some sort of moral quandary—stop the Destructor and save them, or turn evil for real. Even so, she’d never planned for what she would do after the smoke cleared, one way or the other.

Part of her must have believed that she’d die in the crossfire. Maybe Captain Olympus would have wept apologies and regrets over her bloodied body.

It happened on the top floor of the only skyscraper in Commerce City taller than West Plaza. Such a clever bit of symbolism.

“Soon, now, this city will be reduced to ashes,” the Destructor said calmly, his hand poised over the remote detonation switch.

The sound of crashing glass interrupted the preparations. Ten guards raised their machine guns, aiming for the windows where three members of the Olympiad burst through with their powered gliders. The guards were professional muscle at the top of their game, the best in the business, loyal to the power and charisma of the Destructor. But such men were never a match for the Olympiad.

Spark swept a third of the room with a wall of fire. Guns melted and men shrieked, scrambling away as their hands scorched. Another third of them blinked and found their weapons simply missing, there one moment and gone the next. Then, the Bullet stood by the broken window and dropped their rifles one by one, sending them tumbling a hundred stories to the pavement below.

Captain Olympus, the Golden Thunderbolt, was force itself. He pushed with his mind and his hands, and guards flew back, their rifles tumbling away, knocked unconscious by the hero’s will alone.

Far from being surprised by the invasion, the Destructor, ensconced behind his computers and control systems, regarded the scene with a frown of mild disgust. Once again, the Olympiad had escaped from the trap he had set to keep them away from here.

Only three of them were here. There should have been four.

Spark, a striking woman with flame-red hair, stared at the Destructor on his control dais and cried, “Celia!”

Pretty, petulant, a young woman stood next to the Destructor. Wearing all black and too much makeup, she was the kind of trophy that added to a man’s prestige. Who wouldn’t feel more powerful with such a creature hanging on his every whim and word as Celia did?

“Celia, stand with me, my dear,” the Destructor said, beckoning the girl closer.

She did so, putting her hand on the Destructor’s shoulder, glaring at the woman who’d spoken her name.

Olympus said, “Celia. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to find you here.”

“Deal with it,” she said, pouting, her jaw taut with anger.

The Destructor put his hand over the girl’s. Olympus flinched. “She came to me of her own free will, Captain. Not like the last time.”

“Celia,” Olympus said, trembling with suppressed fury. “Get down from there. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

The girl made an indignant huff. “It’s a little late for that.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“You said I was useless! You said I embarrass you!”

This was the first time in her life Celia West had ever dared yell at her father.

Olympus clenched a fist and started for the dais. Spark—his wife—grabbed his arm. “Don’t,” she said.

“ He appreciates me,” Celia said, nodding toward the Destructor.

“But he doesn’t, don’t you see? He’s only using you to get to us!”

The Destructor showed a thin, appreciative smile.

Celia, perhaps because of the short skirt and too much makeup, looked even younger as her eyes shone with tears. “You just can’t admit that I don’t need you. I never needed you.”