After the Golden Age

For all the chaos that the recent spate of criminal activity had caused, none of the incidents had been deadly. That had changed now. Six people had died on the bus: the driver, the man who’d been shot, and four in the crash. A couple of the injuries were critical, so the number could go up. The police assured Celia that if the bus had gone into the water, that number would have been much higher. They really did want to give her a medal.

Paulson didn’t linger to answer questions. An aide stayed behind to announce specific measures involved in the state of emergency declaration: a curfew, a requirement of all residents to carry identification and proof of employment, such as a recent pay stub, while traveling to work. All events where large groups of people would gather were canceled.

The news report continued with talking-heads commentary and man-on-the-street interviews. Public opinion seemed to support the mayor’s declaration. News had leaked about the breathing equipment under the front seat, which turned the incident from a random act of violence into a terrorist act. Another mastermind seemed to be laying siege to the city; the Destructor’s days of terror had returned.

Warren was a short breath away from a rage when the limo pulled into the West Plaza parking garage. Celia was almost afraid to move.

“Twenty-five years,” Warren muttered. “Half my life I’ve been protecting this city. Do I get any credit at all?”

“I don’t think that’s what he’s saying. It’s an election year, he has to sound decisive.”

“Are you defending him?”

“No, of course not. This is overreacting. This state-of-emergency thing won’t fly for long. People won’t put up with it. He—Paulson came to see me last night, after visiting hours.”

“Why? What’d he say?”

“Nothing. Small talk. But it felt wrong.”

“Are you okay?”

He’d asked her that twice this week. She might get used to it. “Yeah.”

He sat back against the seat and sighed. “You have to listen to that. Listen to your gut when it tells you something’s wrong. My gut’s screaming bloody murder about that guy. No one’s going to observe a curfew.”

“We still don’t have proof that he’s behind anything.”

“Maybe you could have a look at his credit card statements, see if he’s bought any scuba gear.” He said it like it was a joke.

She glared. “I’d need a warrant for that.”

By then, the limo had stopped near the private elevators. Michael, the chauffeur, opened their door. Warren wasn’t so angry that he didn’t nod a greeting at the driver. Celia pulled her bag over her shoulder as she climbed out—then Warren took it from her. She resisted an urge to grab it back.

“I can get that, you know,” she said. “I’m not an invalid.”

He ignored her.

They began another silent elevator ride.

I should say something, Celia thought. She really almost died this time. She should stop being angry at him.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. It was all she could think of.

“For what?” He glanced at her sidelong.

She shook her head and scuffed a shoe on the carpet, feeling like a teenager all over again. “I don’t know. For everything.”

“Oh. Right.” Now he looked down. Was that him scuffing the toe of his Italian leather shoe? “Your testimony the other day … I know you took a lot of flak for it. But you did good. You held up. I thought you should know.”

She stared. “Why tell me this?”

“Can’t I give my daughter a compliment?”

“You never have before.”

“Yes, I have.”

“When?”

He didn’t answer—couldn’t. They hadn’t had a civil conversation in years.

This clinched it, though. She couldn’t accept a compliment any more than he could accept an apology.

“I’m sure I have,” he said finally. “I’ll ask your mother, she’ll know.”

The elevator opened up at the penthouse.

Suzanne came to Celia to give her a hug. She drew back to touch the bandage on her forehead. “How are you? Does it still hurt?”

“I’m fine. The doctors gave me some of the good stuff. If it gets bad I’ll take a pill and sleep for a while.”

“Do you want something to drink? Juice, water?”

“I’m fine, really.”

Suzanne looked at her, like all she really wanted was to be able to do something for Celia.

Celia repressed a big sigh. “Some breakfast would be nice. I skipped the hospital food.”

Suzanne greeted Warren with a kiss, and he bear-hugged her back until she laughed. He didn’t ask her about any compliments he’d given Celia.

Over a meal of French toast, Celia’s parents gave her the updates. Mentis was at City Hall, trying to see the mayor, both to speak to him on behalf of the Olympiad, and to read what he could of his mind. If Paulson really was up to something, Mentis would learn it—assuming the telepath could get close to him. Robbie was trying to find the city’s other vigilantes, so they could coordinate their activities. At least she wouldn’t be subject to surveillance duty anymore.

Since cultural activities and events in the near future were canceled, they couldn’t guess what the conspirators’ next target would be. The Sito trial jury was still deliberating—Paulson couldn’t cancel that. It seemed as likely a target as anything. Warren and Suzanne would stake out the courthouse, just in case something happened—and to be on hand when a verdict was reached. “I just smell trouble,” Warren said, more than once.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay alone?” Suzanne asked.

Celia nodded. “I’ll call security if I need anything, or I don’t feel well. You need to be out there.”

An hour later, Celia had the place to herself. And she had her own work to do.

She tapped in the code and pressed her thumb to the scanner on the security panel outside the Olympiad’s command room. It hummed warmly against her skin, and the door slid open.

The Olympiad’s analytical mainframe was almost magical. You poured information in, and patterns emerged. Connections became clear. A mass of raw data became a conspiracy. Like her father, the computer found conspiracies everywhere.

She had gone far past tracking Sito’s assets. She wanted to know what had happened at that laboratory. She had questions for the computer, starting with the dead-ends her own inquiries had led her to. First, what could possibly be done with the raw materials and equipment listed on the Leyden labs’ requisition forms and asset reports?

Second, what had happened to the personnel? Had any of them been involved with Sito and his activities as the Destructor? Could any of them still be involved? If Sito was organizing events despite being in custody, and he did have a connection to the outside somehow, this might show how.

One after the other, she lay the pages on the scanner bed, and watched the information transform into glowing pixels. She went to the computer and typed in a search command. It took some doing—the database was immense. The search engine kept asking her to narrow her focus. It finally steered her into a specific category: scientific and inventions.

The search itself took hardly any time at all.

RESULT: 89% (+ or − 4% margin of error) of materials and equipment list entered matches list of materials found at the laboratory of Simon Sito (aka the Destructor) involved in the creation and testing of the machine known as the Psychostasis Device.

When Sito kidnapped her when she was sixteen, he’d tried using the machine on her. They all thought the Psychostasis Device was a new invention. But what if he’d created it fifty years ago? If the computer was right, he’d