After the Golden Age (Golden Age 1)

Racing from the sidewalk to the park’s main bike path, she swerved to avoid a jogger, cut across the grass, and swooped down to the cobblestone pad circling the park’s central fountain.

No one was there.

Water arced and danced away from a trio of art-deco lily-shaped spouts, splashing into the marble pool below. A couple of pigeons strutted around, searching for invisible bread crumbs. Celia stopped, got off her bike, and let it fall to the ground.

“Dad?” She looked around. Not so much as a jogger or dog walker was in sight.

She heard a hiss and felt a sting in her shoulder. Wincing in pain, she grabbed for it, thinking to find a hell of a monster mosquito. Instead, she pulled out a dart.

She stared at it a moment, a silver pellet with an inch-long needle—terrifyingly long—lying in her hand. A wave of dizziness crashed against her skull, only because she realized what had happened.

The tranquilizer took effect a second later, and she dropped to her knees.

Her limbs went numb, her nerves died, her muscles escaped her control, and she fell. Her eyes remained open, and her mind raced in a futile panic. Lying on her back, staring up, she saw the old man approach. Two black-suited guards flanked him. He wore charcoal gray. He had a fringe of thin white hair and smiled a grandfather’s smile down at her.

He held up a mini tape recorder and pressed the button. “Celia! Thank God! I need your help—”

Her father’s voice, synthesized.

With gentle fingers he pressed her eyelids closed, and his men carried her away.

At some point she gratefully fell into unconsciousness. Didn’t dream. Regretted waking up, which she knew she was doing when she heard a voice.

“You have your mother’s hair, don’t you?”

She opened her eyes and jerked back at the sight of the old man bending over her. Or tried to jerk back. She’d regained control of her muscles, but she was in a dentist’s-type chair, nylon straps securing her arms and legs in place. Even her head was restrained. She felt

tired, weak, but nothing hurt. Except her knotted stomach.

“And your father’s eyes,” he said. “Lovely.”

The room was dark. She squinted, trying to see. A row of computer banks stood along one wall. They gave off a blue-white glow and a faint hum of cooling fans.

“What else do you have of theirs? Spark’s fire, the Captain’s strength? A bit of telekinesis perhaps. The ability to fly, or to see through solid walls. No? Nothing? How disappointing.”

She glared at him, her face contorting in a grimace. It wasn’t any of his business.

But he knew that her parents were the Olympiad.

Had she said anything, done anything to reveal their identity? No, of course not. He’d taken her because he already knew who they were. But when she disappeared the police would think it was a simple kidnapping of the daughter of a wealthy businessman for ransom. They’d be expecting a ransom note. She wondered if they would get one.

She didn’t think so. This didn’t seem right. A “simple” kidnapping involved warehouses and car trunks, not tranquilizer darts and computer labs. What this room reminded her of most was the Olympiad’s command center, gleaming and sinister.

The man reached out, and she drew away as much as she was able, wincing. “Oh, shh, shh there,” he said, like he might calm an animal. He ran his finger along her chin. He had a look in his eyes, intense and clinical, like a child who took pleasure in breaking his toys to see what made them work. He would gladly use people, but he didn’t need any of them.

She managed to whisper, “What are you going to do with me?”

“Well. I’m going to send you back to your parents. After I’ve made a few adjustments to your pretty little mind. A childish sort of revenge, I admit. Enjoyable nonetheless.”

“Who are you?” she said, though in her gut she already knew.

“Can’t you guess? I’m the Destructor.”

Screaming at this point would be so undignified. She swallowed back any noise into her too-tight throat.

She prayed. Dr. Mentis, I’m here, please look for me, please help me. The telepath had only been with the Olympiad a year, but she liked him. He didn’t brush her off just because she didn’t have any powers. He didn’t treat her like a kid. Surely he would hear her.

The Destructor leaned on the chair, an arm on either side of her waist, and stared down at her with a look of such vicious longing she wanted to vomit. Tears welled in her eyes, which she squeezed shut. She had to be brave. She’d be brave, and she’d get out of this.