After the Golden Age

She hated being like this. She felt sixteen years old, all over again.

“Why won’t you let us help you?”

The question wasn’t about this, the rescue from the kidnapping, the arm to get her off the floor. It was the big question.

Celia focused on the wall, which didn’t make her dizzy. “I haven’t taken a cent from you in years; I’m not going to start now.”

“If it’ll keep you from getting assaulted like this—”

“Well, I wouldn’t get assaulted like this if I weren’t your daughter, would I?”

If she’d said that to her father, he would have lost his temper, broken a chair or punched through the wall with a glance, and stalked out of the room. Her mother, on the other hand … Suzanne’s lips pursed, and her eyes reddened like she was about to cry. Instantly Celia felt guilty, but she couldn’t take it back, and she couldn’t apologize, because it was true.

“Everything all right?” Mentis had returned. He stood, hands in the pockets of his trench coat, and looked between the two of them inquiringly. He was in his thirties, with brown hair grown slightly shaggy and a pale, searching face. The Olympiad had been active for over ten years already when he joined, as a student at the university medical school. Despite his younger age, he carried around with him this maddening, ancient air of wisdom.

Celia and her mother stared at one another. Mentis, the telepath, must have seen a frothing mass of pent-up frustrations and unspoken thoughts. They couldn’t hide from him like they could from each other.

Nevertheless, Celia said, “Fine. I’d just like to go home and sleep off this hangover.”

“Right,” Mentis said. He held out her attaché case, unopened and none the worse for wear. “I think this is yours. We found it in Baxter’s car.”

“Thanks.”

He turned to Suzanne. “We should move on. Captain and the Bullet have cleaned up the bank robberies, but two branches of the gang are still at large.”

Celia paused. “What’s happening?”

“This was more than a simple kidnapping,” Mentis said. “It was a distraction. Baxter’s people launched attacks all over the city. He wanted to see how much he could get away with while we were busy rescuing you.”

If Baxter could have held her indefinitely, moving from place to place, keeping one step ahead of the Olympiad, he might have run them ragged.

They’d taken the time to rescue her.

“Detective? Could you see that Miss West arrives home safely?” Mentis called to a young man in a suit and overcoat standing near the doorway. One of the detectives on the case, he held a notepad and pencil, jotting notes as Baxter’s men were escorted out. The cop looked at Mentis and nodded.

She suppressed a vague feeling of abandonment, that she could have died, and now Mentis and her mother were just leaving her alone. But she remembered: the city was more important. And Celia was always saying she could take care of herself, wasn’t she?

—You’ll be fine. I have faith in you.—Mentis’s smile was wry, and Celia nodded in acknowledgment.

“Thanks,” she said. “For coming after me. Tell Dad I said hi.”

Suzanne crossed her arms. “You could call once in a while.”

He could call me. “Maybe I will.” She managed a smile for her mother and a last wave at Mentis before leaving.

The cop escorted her out of the building. “I’m Detective Paulson. Mark Paulson.” Endearingly, he offered his hand, and she shook it.

“Celia West.”

“Yeah, I know.”

A few awkward, silent minutes brought them to the curb and a swarm of police cars, lights flashing a fireworks display on the street. A half-dozen men were occupied keeping reporters and news cameras behind a line of caution tape. A couple of hero groupies were there as well—the creator of a low-end gossip website dedicated to the city’s heroes, another guy holding up a big poster declaring: CAPTAIN OLYMPUS: OUR ALIEN SAVIOR. There were always a few lurking around every time something like this happened. Instinctively, Celia looked away and hunched her shoulders, trying to duck into her collar.

Paulson brought her to an unmarked sedan. They might actually get away without the reporters noticing. Opening the passenger side door, he helped her in.

While he situated himself and started the car, she said, “Paulson. Any relation to Mayor Paulson?”

He developed a funny little half smile. “I’m his son.”

That was where she’d seen that jawline before. And the flop of dark hair. The mayor’s hair had gone handsomely salt and pepper in his middle age. Mark’s still shone.

“Ah,” she said, grinning. “Then you know all about it. I shouldn’t pry—but he wanted you to go into politics, didn’t he?”

“Not quite. He wanted me to be a lawyer, then go into politics. I got the law degree. Then, well…” He shrugged, his glance taking in the car and the flashing lights behind them. “Then I decided I wanted to be on the front lines rather than the rearguard. Make sure no one gets off on a technicality because they weren’t read their rights.”

“Cool,” she said.

“What about you? I mean, your parents—” He let out an awestruck sigh. And who wouldn’t, after meeting Spark? “They want you to go into … the family business, I guess it is?”

“Oh, they certainly did. Nature had different ideas, though. I’m the offspring of Commerce City’s greatest superhumans, and the most exciting thing I ever did was win a silver medal in a high-school swim meet.” Good thing she could look back on it now and laugh.

She still had that medal sitting on her dresser.

“It must have been amazing, growing up with them.”

“Yeah, you could say that.” The strength of her sarcasm invited no further questions.

Finally, they arrived at her apartment building. Detective Paulson insisted on walking her to her front door, as if one of the Baxter Gang splinters would leap out of the shadows and snatch her up. She had to admit, twice in a night would be embarrassing.

“Thanks for taking me home,” she said, once her door was unlocked. “I know you’ve got better things to do.”

“Not at all,” he said. “Maybe I could do it again sometime.”

Though he turned away before she could read the expression on his face, she thought he was smiling. She watched him until he turned the corner.

Closing the door behind her, she shook her head. She’d imagined it. Her head was still foggy.

Later, she sat in bed, drinking a cup of chamomile tea and watching the news. All the city’s “independent law-enforcement agents” were out in force, quelling the riot of criminal activity. Typhoon created floods to incapacitate a group of bank robbers. Breezeway swept them off their feet with gusts of air. Even the telekinetic Mind-masher and his on-again, off-again lover, Earth Mother, were out and about. Block Buster Senior and Junior were as usual directing their brute-force mode of combat toward a trio of vandals holed up in an abandoned convenience store. The two superhumans were taking the building apart, concrete block by concrete block, until it formed an impromptu jail. Block Buster Senior used to be just Block Buster until a couple of years ago, when Junior showed up. Anyone could tell he wasn’t much more than a kid under the mask and skin-suit uniform. Lots of people speculated if the two were actually father and son as their names suggested, or if they instead had a mentor/apprentice relationship. Whatever their story, Celia thought they took a little too much joy in inflicting property damage.

And if they were father and son—how had Junior managed to inherit his father’s power? Why him and not her?

Most of the coverage focused on the beloved Olympiad, who’d been protecting Commerce City for twenty-five years now. One of the stations had exclusive footage of Captain Olympus and the Bullet, the fourth member of the