After the Golden Age

There was a time when even that wouldn’t have bothered her. She remembered. She drew on that now. Don’t reveal anything to them. No weakness.

She didn’t want to die. What an oddly pleasing thought.

Finally, she reached the end of the script and Baxter shut off the recorder. He popped the memory card out of the camera, gave her a final glare, and left the room. The men with the guns remained.

All she could do was wait.

* * *

How it usually worked: the kidnappers sent the video to the police. The police delivered it to the Olympiad. The kidnappers expected Warren and Suzanne West to be despondent over the imminent danger toward their only child and to cave in to their every demand.

What the kidnappers never understood was that Celia West was expendable.

She’d understood that early on. When it came to choosing between her own safety or the safety of Commerce City, the city always won. She understood that, and usually even believed it herself.

She thought she might try to sleep. She’d been losing lots, with the late nights at the office. Leaning back in the chair, she breathed deeply, closed her eyes, and tried to relax. Unfortunately, relaxing in a hard-backed chair you were tied to was difficult at best. Though she imagined her falling asleep in the midst of her own kidnapping would annoy Baxter, which made her want to do it even more. But she was sweating inside her jacket and wanted to fidget.

All the breathing and attempts at relaxation did was keep her heart from racing, which was enough. She could meet the gazes of the gun-toting stooges in the room and not give in to blind panic.

Eventually, Baxter returned to the room. He eyed her warily, but didn’t approach, didn’t speak. He broke his minions into shifts, sending one of them for fast food. The food returned a half hour later, and they sat around a table to eat. Her stomach rumbled at the smell of cheap hamburgers. She hadn’t eaten, and she needed to use a restroom.

Just breathe. She’d had to wait longer than this before. Her watch said that only three hours had passed. It was just now midnight. She had a couple more hours at least. More dramatic that way.

She might say a dozen things to aggravate Baxter. She figured she could annoy him enough to get him to come over and hit her. That was the bored, self-destructive teenager of yore talking. And a little bit of revenge. If she ended up with a big black eye, things would go so much more badly for him later on.

Then, the waiting ended.

—Celia, are you there?—

It was odd, an inner whisper that felt like a thought, but which came from outside. Rather like how a psychotic must feel, listening to the voices. This one was understated, with a British accent. She’d felt Dr. Mentis’s telepathic reach before. She couldn’t respond in kind, not with such articulate, well-formed thoughts. Instead, she filled her mind with a yes, knowing he’d read it there. Along with a little bit of, It’s about time.

—I’m going to put the room to sleep. I’m afraid I can’t pick and choose. You’ll feel a little dizzy, then pass out. I wanted to warn you.—

She kept herself from nodding. Mustn’t let the erstwhile archvillains of Commerce City know anything was happening.

The guard by the door blacked out first. He shook his head, as if trying to stay awake, swayed a little, and pitched over sideways, dropping his gun. Startled, his compatriots looked over.

“Bill? Hey, Bill!”

Two at the table keeled over next. Then one standing by his chair. Baxter stood and stared at them, looking from one to another with growing urgency. Her vision was swimming. Squinting to focus, she braced, waiting, wanting it to be over.

Baxter looked at her, his eyes widening. “You. What’s happening? You know, I know you know—”

He stepped forward, arm outstretched. Then he blinked, stopped, gave a shudder—

She thought she smelled sage.

—Sleep—

* * *

“Celia?”

The world was black and lurching. If she opened her eyes, she’d find herself on the deck of a sailing ship.

“Celia, time to wake up.” A cool hand pressed her cheek.

She opened her eyes, and the light stabbed to life a headache that ran from her temples to the back of her neck.

“Ow,” she said and covered her face with her hands.

“There you are. Good morning.”

She was lying on the floor. Dr. Arthur Mentis knelt beside her, his brown trench coat spread around him, his smile wry. The cavalry, finally. Now she could relax.

He put an arm around her shoulders and helped her sit up. The headache shifted and pounded in another direction. She had to hold her head. On the bright side, members of the Baxter Gang were all writhing around on the floor, groaning, while the police picked them up and dragged them away.

“Sorry about the headache,” he said. “It’ll go away in a couple of hours.”

“That’s okay,” she said softly, to not jostle herself. “I think I used to be better at this hostage thing.”

“Are you joking? That ransom video was a riot. Even Warren laughed.”

She raised her brow, disbelieving.

“Will you be all right for the next few minutes?” he said.

“Yeah.”

He gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze and left her propped against the wall while he helped with cleanup. As the police collected and removed the gang members, Mentis looked each of them in the eyes, reading their minds, learning what he could from them. They wouldn’t even know what was happening.

The wall around the door was scorched, streaked black with soot, and the door itself had disappeared. Spark must have had to blast it open. The room smelled toasted with that particular flavor Celia had always associated with Spark’s flames: baking chocolate. Celia was surprised to find the scent comforting.

Her mother entered the room a moment later.

Suzanne West—Spark—was beautiful, marvelously svelte in her form-fitted skin suit, black with flame-colored accents. Her red hair swept thick and luxurious down her back. She moved with energy and purpose.

She paused, looked around, and found Celia. “Celia!”

This was just like old times, nearly. Suzanne crouched beside her, gripped Celia’s shoulders, and pursed her face like she might cry.

Celia sighed and put her arms around her mother. Suzanne hugged back tightly. “Hi, Mom.”

“Oh Celia, are you all right?”

“Headache. But yeah. Did you guys find my bag? I had notes from work in it.”

“I don’t know. We’ll look. I was so worried—did they hurt you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She tried to stand, but the headache made her vision splotchy. The floor was nice and stable.

“Don’t try to move; paramedics are on the way.”

“I don’t need paramedics. I just want to go home.”

Suzanne sighed with frustration. “I really wish you’d come live at the plaza. It’s so much safer—”

Celia shook her head. “No way. Uh-uh.”

“This sort of thing wouldn’t happen—”

“Mom, they picked me off the bus on the way home from work. I can’t not leave home.”

“What were you doing riding the bus?”

“I don’t have a car.”

“Celia, if you need a car we can—”

Headache or no, she wasn’t sitting still to listen to this. Bracing against the wall, she got her feet under her and managed to push herself up. Suzanne reached for her, but Celia shrugged her away. “I’m fine.”