After the Golden Age

The mayor had instituted the curfew. He could send an order through the commissioner to the cops, who’d be all too happy with any excuse to go after the superhumans. Again, the mayor.

Arthur said, “Celia, I find it disturbing that you and your father view the world in exactly the same way.”

“What, we’re both paranoid with severe persecution complexes?”

There, she’d done it again. Made a statement that was far too obvious and true to be funny. He raised a brow as if to indicate, You said it, not me.

The elevator doors opened to the penthouse. Businesslike, Arthur strode out, into the West home and to the Olympiad command center. Celia trailed behind a couple of steps, realizing too late what this was going to look like. Arthur’s hair was mussed, his shirt rumpled—at least it was mostly tucked in—and he’d forgotten his jacket. Her own hair was usually tousled to some degree, but she’d been sleeping on it. Futilely, she ran her fingers through it to smooth it out. The bandage over her stitches had come off. Her dress suit looked thrown on. She still smelled Arthur’s sweat on her.

It was going to be obvious to everyone.

Her phone rang again before she reached the command center—just in time, before she entered the shielded room. She looked at caller ID, and resisted the urge to throw it, to get it to shut up.

“What?” she answered.

“It’s Mark. Celia, you need to tell your people to stay off the streets.”

That boy had the worst timing. She even felt a thread of guilt at hearing his voice. But the way she saw it, he’d left her first.

“My people? What do you mean, my people?”

“Your parents. The other vigilantes.”

“They’re not my people, Mark. And what the hell do you think I can do about it? You think they listen to me?”

“They’re your parents. You at least have access to them.”

And the police would, too, if they ever bothered to talk to the Olympiad.

“You ever tell your father how to do his job?” she said.

“What they do isn’t a job! It’s a hobby!”

No, she thought. It’s a vocation. A calling.

“Mark, we’re already trying. Can’t you tell your guys to back off Typhoon? She’s not the one trying to start anything.”

“The cops at the harbor district have just called for backup,” he said.

They were going to spook Analise.

“Mark, please, tell your people to stand down.” She wasn’t used to begging, but it was a surprisingly easy thing to do when it was the right thing to do, when it might actually help.

He paused, and she thought she was going to scream, waiting for him to answer. When he finally spoke, despair weighted his voice. “I’m not there. I’m listening to it on the radio.”

“I’ll call Chief Appleton,” she said. “Maybe he can do something.”

“No, I’ll call him. But if there’s any way you can get the Olympiad off the street, please try.”

“Okay, yes. Thank you, Mark. Thank you for calling.”

“Celia, I … take care.” He clicked off.

They needed to have a nice long talk. God only knew when that would happen.

She entered the command center in time to hear Suzanne say, “Arthur, thank God you’re here! And Celia—did you sleep well? Are you feeling better?” she called from her post at the communications terminal. She was in street clothes, though her skin suit showed under the collar of her blouse.

Her mother assumed she’d been in bed—here, in bed—all day. Maybe she and Arthur wouldn’t be discovered.

“Mark just called. He wants all you guys off the streets. The cops are ready for a standoff.”

Suzanne said, “Arthur, call Warren and Robbie in, we can’t risk a confrontation with the police.”

“I already contacted Warren. Robbie’s with him.”

“Are they coming back?”

“I don’t think so—” He cocked his head, listening to an unheard voice, sensing something ethereal. “Something’s happening.”

The city’s vigilantes and police force had avoided an outright battle for over twenty years. Forty, if you counted the Hawk’s tenure. Surely one wouldn’t erupt now.

Suzanne turned a dial that brought the volume up on the police radio. A voice crackled from the speakers.

“Shots have been fired, I repeat, shots have been fired. There’s been a flood, a wave of some kind, we have men down—”

TWENTY-SIX

SUZANNE returned from discarding her civilian clothes. She was Spark, now. When the costumes came out, they ceased being her parents and became the four-color heroes of legend.

“Suzanne, what do you possibly think you can do?” Arthur said.

“I don’t know.” Spark paced back and forth along the computer console. “I have to be ready. They might need me.”

The news channels had finally gotten cameras to the harbor area, though the police forced them to keep a wide berth. Pierson Street was completely flooded, as if a tidal wave had crashed in and scoured the place. No one had been killed outright, but two police officers were missing, and feared swept out to the harbor. Typhoon had disappeared during the confusion, and one officer reported seeing the Bullet—briefly.

Reports were mixed as to whether the police had fired at Typhoon before or after she released the tidal wave.