Dreams of the Golden Age

SEVEN

CELIA hadn’t been able to sleep, again. She dragged herself to her desk in the morning and wanted nothing more than to lay her head on the surface and sleep some more. Her head was throbbing and that crick in her neck hadn’t gone away. Four aspirin hadn’t done the trick.

Arthur came into her office, hefting a rolled-up newspaper. “You’ll want to see this.”

It couldn’t be good. She took a deep breath and braced herself. “What do I want to see?”

He straightened the paper and set it in front of her. It seemed to hit the desk with a thunk that rattled her head; she had to squint to read. It was the Commerce Eye, harkening back to its histrionic roots with a headline blazing in inch-high letters: “Commerce City’s Newest Crime-Fighting Team Makes Its Mark!”

Celia should not have been surprised when, like some powerful exothermic reaction, the subjects of her experiment spun out of control on their own trajectories. It was the natural order of things. A better person—someone who knew what they were doing—would be pleased that the kids seemed to be not just learning to use their powers, but forming the kind of team that had made her own parents so effective. Instead, she felt nascent ulcers blooming in her gut.

The whole thing happened by chance. Analise had had her twins a year after Anna was born, then Bethy came along, so naturally they scheduled playdates. At one time Celia would have stabbed herself over the idea of doing something so predictably maternal as playdates. But it was a great excuse to dump the kids on the playground while she and Analise sat on a park bench and caught up over coffee. It was also a great excuse to watch Teia and Lew without seeming like she was scrutinizing them for the odd case of superstrength or telekinesis. Analise had superpowers, after all. Never mind that she hadn’t used them in twenty years, she still had them, theoretically. If her children had powers at all, they’d likely manifest them at puberty rather than have them from birth. Of the nearly two dozen supers Commerce City had produced, only six had manifested powers at birth. Her father had been one of those.

Arthur and Mark Paulson were the only other people who knew about the list in her safe. According to that list, a whole cluster of Leyden descendants had been born around the same time. Celia’s kids, Analise’s kids, the Stowe grandchildren, Donaldson’s grandson, a couple of others from the Masters line—cousins of Barry Quinn, aka Plasma, who had been institutionalized for schizophrenia, so Celia kept an especially close eye on them. Before this generation, supers had been scattered, appearing alone or in pairs. But this was different. It seemed like the most efficient plan in the world to secretly grant them all scholarships to Elmwood, to get them all in one place where she could better watch them. With a good education in a safe, stable environment, they would be better able to manage their powers if they had them, yes? That was what she told herself. It certainly couldn’t hurt, and maybe some good would come of it.

But once they were all together, she couldn’t stop tweaking: subtle suggestions to the school guidance counselor, anonymous hacks into the computer database, and she’d gotten the kids of the same grades into the same homerooms, the same gym periods, the same intramural sports programs, the same lunch hours. Nothing overt, simply increasing the odds that they would spend time together. Find each other.

And it had worked.

Her parents had met at Elmwood Academy. They’d discovered each other, shared their abilities, learned how to use them. Taught each other. For good or ill, the Olympiad had been born at Elmwood. Maybe, for good or ill, it would happen again. Celia wanted to see, and she’d turned the school into her petri dish without anyone knowing.

Arthur would stop her, she kept thinking. If she ever went too far, Arthur would tell her. He hadn’t yet, so she kept watching, and waiting.

Finally, here it was, and she could stop waiting.

The Eye’s story even had a picture, a major coup for a newspaper covering new vigilantes, who usually kept to the shadows and loathed publicity. Not these guys. In the photo, three of them stood in the middle of a downtown street, hands on hips and chins lifted proudly. They were in shadows—the picture had been taken without a flash, which made them seem like ghosts—masked and shrouded in costumes so their identities weren’t apparent. But they were definitely posing, and they were obviously a team, all in black shirts and jeans and jaunty masks made with bandanas with cut-out eyeholes. The first formal superhero team in twenty years was what it looked like.

She was absolutely sure that when she studied those figures, she’d find Anna under one of the masks. But she didn’t. In fact, she had a pretty good idea who these kids were. She continued on to the story.

The fire at the south side tenement block would have been a tragic disaster, if not for the arrival of the three superhuman heroes—

Celia looked up from the page. “They went after a burning building their first time out? Very traditional.”

“Indeed. Keep reading.” Arthur seemed to be enjoying this. He wouldn’t have been if Anna had been one of the trio. But then, he probably would have known about it ahead of time. And he wouldn’t have told Celia. Was it too late to lock Anna in her room for the rest of her life?

The article was breezy and admiring. Our young crime fighters, it called the trio, arrived shortly after the firefighters. While the firefighters were busy attaching hoses to water supplies, raising ladders, and whatever else firefighters did at the scene of burning buildings, the heroes had gotten to work: One had caused a rainstorm that soaked the fire, another had frozen the building to keep the fire from spreading, and the third had had some kind of explosive power that broke down walls and allowed people to escape. The fire department mostly stood around watching. Of course, someone called the newspaper, and the reporter and photographer arrived to snap pictures of the team before a backdrop of smoking brick façade. No one had died, no one had been hurt. They’d been smart, staying out of the building, stopping the fire first and not trying to rescue people directly from the blaze.

But she wished they hadn’t done it at all. They weren’t ready, not yet.

“Just trying to help,” said one of the intrepid heroes, before the team disappeared into the night.

These stories never changed, not once in her whole life.

“Lady Snow, Stormbringer, and Blaster,” Celia read off the names the vigilantes had given themselves.

“Teia and Lewis Fletcher and Sam Stowe, aren’t they?”

Sam Stowe was sixteen, one of the many grandchildren of Gerald Stowe. The Stowe family had produced more superhumans than any of the others from the laboratory accident—his oldest grandson was Justin Raylen, aka Breezeway, and his second daughter, Margaret Lee, had a career as the vigilante Earth Mother before retiring to have kids. Margaret’s son Cody was ten now. She wondered if any of the Stowes had ever sat down and figured out just how many cousins donned masks and fought crime. Probably not, that was what the masks were for. But Raylen had gone public years ago; Margaret Lee and other Stowes with powers had to be wondering. At some point, someone else had to make the genetic connections that Celia was keeping secret in her files.

And then there were the other two in the photo. Out fighting fires at age sixteen, just like their dead father. They might have waited specifically for a fire to come along, so they could swoop in for a rescue in some kind of tribute to him. They must have thought they were following in his footsteps, not their mother’s. God.

Celia sat back and sighed. “I need to call Analise.”

“Probably,” Arthur said. “If she doesn’t call you first.”

She studied the picture further, looking for other figures hiding in the shadows. Theodore Donaldson, maybe. Anna, who was sneaking out at night to do God knew what. She closed her eyes, squeezed the bridge of her nose, futilely willing the headache to go away.

Arthur sat on the edge of her desk. “Celia, are you all right?”

“I just … it’s just shocking to see the picture. They’re so young.” Ridiculously young.

“I thought this was what you wanted.”

“I wanted them to meet each other, to practice with each other so they wouldn’t feel lost, so they wouldn’t grow up alone, like you and Robbie and Analise and my parents did until you all met each other.”

“You hoped they would work together.”

A superhero team, even better than the Olympiad had been. “Yes, eventually. Not before they’ve even graduated.”

“But the experiment is out of your control now. Alas.” He was laughing at her, quietly, at least. Nothing overt, just a wry smile and a flash in his eye.

She leaned back in the chair. Was she getting a migraine? Was this what a migraine felt like? When she finally opened her eyes again, Arthur wasn’t smiling. That worried tension in his mouth had returned.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’ve been working too hard. I need a vacation.”

“So we’ll take one.”

Easier said than done. As soon as the development plan went through the committee. She kept saying that, didn’t she?

“Celia—”

Her cell phone rang. Her personal phone, with Analise’s name on the caller ID. Too early to be facing this call. She hadn’t worked out what she was going to say. Arthur merely gazed innocently at the ceiling; he wasn’t going to be any help.

Carefully, like handling dynamite, she answered the call.

“Celia?”

She tried to judge Analise’s mood by her voice—stressed, certainly. Sharp, edged with anger. And panic. Celia could guess her emotional state because she’d been living in that state herself the last week or so.

“Hi, Analise,” she said, sighing.

“Have you seen the Eye this morning? Are those my kids? Tell me those are not my kids.”

She spoke slowly, trying to give so very little away. “Yes, I’ve seen the Eye. I don’t know if they’re your kids, they’re wearing masks.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, the masks don’t mean anything to you.”

Celia first met Analise precisely because she’d recognized the woman in her civilian guise, without Typhoon’s mask. “Really, you’d know better than I would—have they been sneaking out at odd hours?” Like my kid has …

“I don’t know, they’re being … sneaky!”

“Analise, do you want to go get lunch? We should have lunch.”

“No, I don’t think we should, because I need to yell, and I’m not going to yell at you in a restaurant.”

I should have told her sooner, Celia realized. Right from the start, I should have told her. We should have been doing this together. “Have you asked them? Show them the paper and see what they say—”

“I did, and you know what they said? ‘Mom, that’s crazy.’ In stereo, like they’d been practicing. But I’m not asking them right now, I’m asking you.”

“Analise—

“Back in my day I was the only black superhero in Commerce City, and now two black kids show up in costumes fighting crime and you’re going to tell me they’re not mine?”

“Fine. You’re right. It’s Teia and Lew.”

A long pause. Analise probably hadn’t expected her to admit it. Celia wanted to crawl under the desk. Arthur stood by, being very quiet, looking sympathetic.

“You knew,” Analise said finally. During the pause, she’d obviously figured it out. “You knew they had powers, that they were planning something like this, this whole time.”

“I didn’t know they were planning something, honest, I only thought … I guess I hoped that if any of them did have powers, they’d be there for each other. Help each other.”

“They—this isn’t just about my kids, is it? My kids, your kids—that other kid in the picture. And who else? And they were only ever going to help each other if … The scholarships. That was you, wasn’t it? So you could put them right where you wanted them. Putting together your own little Olympiad.”

“No, that isn’t—”

“And you couldn’t tell me? Why couldn’t you tell me?”

Keeping it secret seemed like a good idea at the time was a very lame excuse. “Analise, I’m—”

“I can’t talk to you right now,” she said, flustered, and the phone clicked off.

Celia tossed the gadget onto the desk and glared. The gnawing hole in her stomach seemed to be getting bigger. She probably could have handled that better. Starting about five years ago, when she put together this crazy scheme.

“That didn’t go particularly well,” Arthur observed helpfully. As if she needed it spelled out.

“It’ll be okay. She’s been pissed off at me before. This is exactly how she reacted when she found out about me joining the Destructor. It’ll pass.” Eventually … Celia would call her later this afternoon, after she had time to settle down. After Celia figured out what she was going to do next.

Arthur’s own worry grew strong enough to be evident, pressing out past his usual carefully maintained mental shields. All of it was directed at her.

“What?” Celia asked.

“Get your things together. We’re going for a ride.”

“I don’t have time for a ride—”

“Yes, you do. I’m clearing your schedule for the rest of the day, and I’m taking you to a doctor.”

“What?”

He repeated, offhand, “I’m clearing your schedule and we’re going to the doctor. Tom will have the car outside in a minute.”

“But he’s supposed to be dropping off the girls—”

“Soren can drop off the girls today. Tom is driving us to the doctor.”

“Arthur—”

“Celia, you’re not well.”

“I’m fine—”

“You don’t believe that. You’re worried. You’re ignoring it, but you’re worried.”

She’d never been able to hide from him. “I’m just tired,” she said, but even she could hear the lie in it.

“You’ve been ‘just tired’ before. This isn’t it. When was the last time you went swimming?”

Celia’s favorite sport and workout of choice was swimming. She’d even had a current pool installed in the penthouse so she could duck in for a few laps whenever she wanted. In her early teens, it had been the only thing she was good at, and she still enjoyed it out of a sense of nostalgia if nothing else.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used the pool. Weeks—no, months. Maybe longer. Well, that explained a lot. But even now, the thought of swimming made her tired rather than inspired. She blinked up at Arthur, defeated.

“Please come.” He held out his hand, and her further arguments faded. She took his hand because he’d asked, because he was himself, and she trusted him.

Analise married a firefighter, which Celia always thought was perfect. They’d met at the rec center where Analise taught swimming. Morgan was teaching a first aid class. They’d hit it off, his fire to her water; they were opposites and a perfect match. He was methodical, she had a temper. He could always make her smile—it was a game, even, her trying hard not to laugh and him poking at her until she did. And he was a hero, without having a single superpower. He was living, walking proof that the powers weren’t everything and that maybe she was better off without them. At least she could keep telling herself that, and in the meantime live vicariously through Morgan’s exploits. He was tall, six three, with a great physique, dark skin, and close-cropped hair. Movie star handsome but down-to-earth, and his eyes lit up when Analise walked into a room.

They had a small ceremony with a justice of the peace at City Hall. Just a few friends, no fuss, and they all went out to dinner after. Partway through the evening, Arthur graciously took baby Anna home—at six months, she was too wiggly and her attention span too short to last the whole evening—so Celia could keep celebrating with her friend. Somewhere in between all the drinking and dancing, Celia ended up sitting in a booth with Analise, just the two of them slumped together shoulder to shoulder, and they talked.

“Have you told him about Typhoon?” Celia asked, her voice low.

“No,” she said.

“Are you going to?”

“Why bother? She’s gone now, long gone. No need to talk about her.”

“What if he figures it out?”

Analise turned a lazy, tipsy smile to Celia. “Cross that bridge when I get to it. It’s not important anymore.” She kept telling herself that.

Celia wondered what had happened to the scrapbook Analise used to keep, clippings of all the news stories praising Typhoon’s exploits. Maybe she still had it, well hidden. Maybe, more likely, she’d thrown it out when her power became blocked.

Ten years later, when Teia and Lew were nine, Morgan was killed fighting a fire. The unit had been trying to keep a convenience store fire from spreading to neighboring buildings, and a hidden propane tank exploded and caught him in a wall of flying debris. He’d died instantly. After, Celia did everything she could to keep Analise in one piece; it hadn’t been easy. Arthur and Suzanne and the girls invited Teia and Lew to the penthouse for sleepovers, while Celia sat on Analise’s sofa, holding her friend while she cried and cried. Everything had been perfect there, for a little while, and now it wasn’t, and would it ever be again? Well, maybe not. But things got better. You moved on because you had to, because you had kids and they needed to see you strong. Celia didn’t talk much. Just held Analise, as best she could.

“Typhoon could have saved him,” Analise sobbed the first night after the accident, curled up, barely responding to Celia’s grip on her. “She should have been there, she could have saved him.”

Except that was wrong, because Celia had read the medical examiner’s initial report, and the fire hadn’t killed Morgan, the explosion had. All Typhoon’s rainstorms, all her floods and waves, however quickly she might have put out the fire if she had been there, Analise still couldn’t have guaranteed saving him from the blast. But Celia didn’t try to tell her that.

The what-ifs went on forever, and your rational brain might try to shut them down, but your heart kept dwelling on the future that might have happened if you’d been a little faster, if you’d gotten free more quickly, if you’d sabotaged Mayor Paulson’s apocalyptic weapon just five minutes sooner, so it had exploded and killed you before Captain Olympus arrived and shielded you, at the cost of his own life …

Analise collected Morgan’s pension, gathered herself enough to comfort her children, put them all through counseling, and somehow mended the pieces of their lives enough to keep going. Their father was a hero, no one could argue that, and Celia knew that the knowledge actually helped. A little.