After the Golden Age

age.

The Tupperware was still in the cupboard next to the dishwasher. Celia packaged the leftovers and found room for them in the fridge, ran the dishwasher, rinsed out the wineglasses, and took a nostalgic swing around the place.

An entire floor of Celia’s apartment building would fit inside the West penthouse. More than half of that was taken up by the Olympiad’s base of operations. That still left a spacious home that had been featured in City Living Magazine, back when the Wests were still just the Wests, socialites and heirs to a mercantile fortune. Floor-to-ceiling windows made up one wall of the great room—living room and rec room on one end, dining room on another. It was like having a gymnasium in your house. The carpet was soft and newly cleaned, not a speck of dust or a wrinkle anywhere. The place hardly looked lived in. Her parents probably didn’t spend much time here anymore. It had been a while since they had a kid losing popcorn down the sides of the cushions on the leather sofa while she watched videos.

Visitors never noticed the décor at first. They always went to the windows, which looked over the city: a grid of streetlights, a mosaic of buildings stretching out to the distance, to a black band that was the river and harbor. A faint noise—the hum of car engines, an occasional siren or barking horn—could be heard despite the thick glass. A person could feel like a god, standing up here, gazing over a world that seemed smaller—like a picture, or a model. They might feel like they owned it all. Wonderful view, people always said.

She’d learned her way around Commerce City by staring out these windows, naming the streets, identifying the buildings, labeling the green swath that was City Park and the university beyond it. She always knew where she was by looking up and spotting the glowing blue West Corp sign with its crescent moon logo attached to the skyscraper’s side.

A hallway past the living room led to a suite of offices where Warren ran the family business. Around one more corner were the bedrooms: the master suite and half a dozen guest suites. And her room. Curious, Celia continued on and opened the door.

Inside were her four-poster bed, oak dresser, a couple of toy chests, bookshelves, all the same as when she’d left. Someone had taken down the heavy metal band posters that had decorated the place when she’d last lived here and repainted. But if she looked in the closet they’d probably be there, rolled up and waiting.

She’d left so quickly, without a backward glance. She hadn’t been given a chance to grow out of the teenager she’d been. Instead, she’d had to smash that teenager utterly and try to build something decent to replace her. In doing so, she’d burned a lot of bridges. She wondered: Had she ever been expected to work for her father—in the business, not as part of the Olympiad—and that somehow got lost amid the disappointment of learning she was a perfectly average model of Homo sapiens? Did West Corp need another accountant? Although working in a company as the daughter of the owner wouldn’t be any different than living in a city as the daughter of its premier superhero.

She wasn’t going to complain. She was lucky to be alive.

The cab that she’d called was waiting for her by the time she reached the lobby of West Plaza. That was how huge the damn thing was. Heir to the West fortune. She ignored the label, because she honestly didn’t believe it. She hadn’t seen her parents’ will. They hadn’t offered to show it to her, and she hadn’t asked. She really didn’t think her father would leave a cent to his traitorous, mundane daughter.

“Celia? Celia West? Is that you?”

She turned, startled. The security man at the front desk of the lobby had called to her. He was a different guy than had been here when she arrived. The shift must have changed. He was older, but still lean and fit; he wore the dark blue uniform well. Probably a retired cop. Then she brightened and found a smile.

“It’s Damon, isn’t it?” she said, walking over to the desk.

Damon Parks, he’d worked the desk here since forever. He must have had to unlock the door of the building for her a hundred times, during her rebellious phase when she insisted on coming home past curfew. He’d never said a word of reproof. He’d just given her a half-smiling, half-reprimanding look, and called up to her parents.

Now, he beamed. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember me. It’s been a while.”

“Of course I remember you. How are you?”

He shrugged. “Can’t complain. But you—look at you, all grown up. Back visiting your folks?”

“Yes.”

“First time, isn’t it? Since you left.”

“I guess we all decided it was time.”

“That’s good. I’m glad.”

The cab honked its horn, so Celia waved a farewell and turned to the door.

Another piece of the old life fell into place, but at a slightly different angle, or with a subtle change in color. Like the redecorated kitchen. All she had to do was go away for a few years, and she came back to a world that looked a little friendlier than it had before. That was all it took.

TEN

CELIA was riding the bus to Smith and Kurchanski when one of Bronson’s lackeys called her cell.

“Bronson wants you here right away.”

“Why? What happened?” Jury selection had been a complicated, contentious process—the lawyers faced not just the problem of finding jurors who didn’t have a strong opinion about Simon Sito, but of finding ones not likely to be intimidated by the presence of the Destructor in the courtroom. It was over now, a jury had been seated, and the trial was due to start. Celia worried that something had happened to stall that.

“He wouldn’t say, he just said he wants to see you immediately. When can you get here?”

She looked at her watch, looked out the window to the route the bus was taking. She was going the wrong way. “Give me half an hour.”

“You can’t get here sooner?” The guy sounded like he was having a seizure. Bronson probably held him personally responsible for not being able to teleport her to his office instantly.

She hung up on him, then called work to tell them she’d be late.

Exactly a half hour later, she knocked on the door of Bronson’s office.

“Who is it?” His voice was rough, exhausted.

“Celia West.”

“Get in here, close the door.” She did so, shutting it quietly behind her, not willing to let go of the doorknob. She wanted to be able to escape.

“Look at this.” Bronson, sitting behind his desk, offered her a sheet of paper.

She stepped forward to take the page from him, moving softly, gently, as if that would calm Bronson and make whatever was wrong less terrible. “What is it?”

“The witnesses the defense wants to call. Read it over.”

The page held a list of about a dozen names, in alphabetical order. Mostly doctors, testifying to Sito’s insanity. The very last name, though, was Celia West.

She flushed, her cheeks burning. She felt like she was going to faint. Or throw up. She set the page down and dropped her arms to her sides, so Bronson wouldn’t see her hands shake.

“Why would they do that?” she said. “What could they possibly—”

“Come on, you know. They’re going to discredit you, that’s what this is about. Discredit every piece of evidence you’ve touched by blowing your story wide open.”

“They can’t, the record’s sealed—” Her voice was shaking, and she wished it wouldn’t.

“They can. Yeah, it’s sealed, but you can bet Sito told his lawyers all about you. All they have to do is bring it up. Even if the testimony gets thrown out, it’s still there. What was it you said? They’re using you to get to your parents.”

Mechanically, she shook her head. She’d leave town. She’d go into hiding. Get Dr. Mentis to induce a coma so she’d sleep through the whole trial—“I can’t do it, I can’t get up there and let them do this.”

“I’ve already lodged a complaint. That’s why we get to look at all this stuff beforehand. You were one of Sito’s more prominent victims. That was what made the papers, and no judge would expect you to face that guy in