Carrie Vaughn - After the Golden Age

“Yes, I heard about that.”

“Oh yeah? What did he say about it?”

He shrugged, said offhandedly, “Couldn’t seem to understand why you were bothering to get involved.”

“I think he’s convinced himself I’m going to jinx the case.” As if she weren’t capable of sabotaging the prosecution on purpose, if she wanted to.

He chuckled. “You know how he is. No one could possibly be as right and justified as he is.”

“And Mom wonders why I never call home.”

He sat back in his chair, regarding her a moment. “So. How are you doing?”

Blushing a little, she picked part of the crust off her sandwich. “You just ask that out of politeness. You already know.” She smiled, to let him know it was a joke, that she was just teasing him. But then again, he already knew.

He held his cup of hot tea in both hands and studied her like he was regarding a painting: intent, academic. “I believe this is the happiest I’ve ever seen you.”

Her first thought was, that if this was happy it left a lot to be desired. But honestly, she couldn’t argue. She had her troubles—but they were hers . “I’m doing all right. What about you? You happy these days?”

“Reasonably contented, as ever.”

“You ever get tired of it?”

“Of what?”

She realized the ambiguousness of the question. There was a lot to get tired of. “The vigilante hero gig,” she said finally.

“I don’t have much choice in the matter. It’s who I am.”

She winced, her face puckering with a strange-tasting thought. Arthur waited patiently while she formed the words and finally asked, “Do any of us have any choice about who we are?”

“People have been debating that question for ages. No definitive answer, I’m afraid. Although, if I may be so bold, you seem to have made a choice. There was a time when your life might have gone differently.”

Not likely. Her choices had been determined by her failures. She was here, now, because this was the only life she seemed to be good at. She shook her head. “If I’d had a choice, I think I would have chosen to be a superhuman. That would have made everything easier.”

“If you say so.”

CELIA had to deal with trouble before she even reached the courtroom. She’d expected reporters, cops, fans, and groupies. The CAPTAIN OLYMPUS: OUR ALIEN SAVIOR sign was back. But she also had to face Breezeway, who had stationed himself outside the courthouse to keep watch. Some people seemed to think the Destructor would summon zeppelins from the sky to rescue him.

Lithe and brash, Breezeway was Celia’s age. He had a showy silver uniform, complete with mask. Sinking on a breath of air, he landed on the steps in front of her. And the crowd went wild. Cameras flashed around him.

“Hiya, cutie,” he said to Celia.

Be polite, Celia reminded herself. The press had all their cameras rolling and snapping out here. She had to reflect well on the firm.

“Hi.” Be curt without snubbing. That was the trick.

“Always the cold shoulder with you,” he continued, like this was some kind of show. “What’s a guy have to do to get you to smile? Save your life or something? ’Cause I could do that—”

“And I’m sure I’d be grateful, but I wouldn’t be smiling.”

“Aw, come on, Celia. I think you do have a superpower—you’re immune to charm.”

“Breezeway … you almost dropped me off a roof.”

“Hey, that was years ago. It was joke. I wasn’t really—”

She went around him and climbed the steps. Laughing, Breezeway launched himself skyward.

The judge barred cameras from the proceedings, under much protest from the media. It seemed like every reporter in town was here to cover the trial. Add to that the massive prosecution team, dozens of witnesses, and an army of law enforcement officers, there was barely room to move in the gallery. No one seemed concerned with the fire code today.

To the side of the bench, standing with the bailiff’s crew, was the Olympiad, in all their four-color glory, though in recent years they had dispensed with masks. The Captain stood tall, his arms crossed, frowning, ready to deal with whatever trick the Destructor had planned for the morning. To his right, Spark, hands on hips, thick hair rippling in the light, surveyed the courtroom. To his left, the Bullet, short and compact, bronze skin, salt-and-pepper hair, leaned on the wall with practiced nonchalance. That was a ruse, of course.

Dr. Mentis was the only one of them who didn’t wear a skin-suit uniform. Until all their identities were revealed, no one even knew he was a member of the Olympiad. He was their ace in the hole. As always, he wore a suit and coat, seemingly old-fashioned, an eccentric academic out of place in the real world. One looked at him and never knew what to expect. He was easy to underestimate.

The courtroom was restless. Every moment Sito didn’t appear left more time for people to imagine what was going wrong, how he was escaping, what disaster was about to befall. Nothing went as planned where the Destructor was concerned. The proceedings were already a half hour late starting. And this was just a preliminary hearing, for him to enter his plea. What would the actual trial be like?

A door at the side of the courtroom opened. Half the people in the room stood, craning their necks for a view into the holding area, wanting to be the first to see the great villain.

He appeared small, old. Anyone would walk right by him on the street, or maybe smile to themselves at the memories he evoked of their own aged grandfathers, who taught them how to fish or brought candy at Christmas. He was harmless, they would think.

Celia stayed in her seat, staring at her hands. She didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to see him. In the second row, she was too close to the front. She should have sat farther back.

A squad of police officers escorted him. It seemed absurd, a dozen men in full riot gear surrounding a bent, pale figure, who shuffled because of the manacles chained to his hands and feet. Yet, the cops were tense, wary, and all held Tasers ready.

They hurried him past the Olympiad, who stood like stone guardians. Simon Sito appeared not to notice them.

His defense team—and they were his, bought and paid for—wearing tailored suits, looking intent and sinister, shepherded him to their table. He seemed hunched, trembling almost. Only wisps of his hair were left.

Then a gap opened in his protective circle. As if drawn by some vague instinct, he turned, looked through that gap, saw her, and stared.

She let her gaze be caught by him.

He smiled, and in any other situation the expression might have seemed kind. Celia saw only malice.

“Celia, how good to see you again. You’re looking well.”

The voice crawled into her gut and inspired nausea. She shouldn’t have come, she shouldn’t have—

Captain Olympus started to move forward, but Spark held him back with a hand on his arm.

Celia didn’t move, didn’t speak. Calm. Stay as cold and unremarkable as ice.

Then he was gone, his circle of handlers closing in around him. Sito gazed ahead and didn’t look back at her again.

The bailiff stepped forward. “All rise for the Honorable Judge Berkley.”

Celia had to unlace her fingers. She hadn’t realized she’d been squeezing her hands tightly together.

The judge, a middle-aged woman with graying hair and stylish wire-frame glasses, sat at the bench.

The rest of Sito’s courtroom appearance was blessedly dull. He didn’t speak again, not even to his lawyers, who entered a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity, as expected.

The judge announced when jury selection would begin, set trial dates, demanded that everyone behave themselves in the meantime. Then, the cops led Sito away, back to whatever hole they were keeping him in.