After the Golden Age (Golden Age 1)

His latest plan—bombs set to destroy government buildings all over the city—was nearing fruition. She could stop this, she occasionally considered. Sabotage the mechanism or call her parents. Redeem herself.

She kind of wanted to see how they stopped it on their own. It would be interesting, watching from the other side.

She perched in the window of the skyscraper where he worked that day, looking down on the canyons of a tiny cardboard city. Cars crawled, people were only specks of dirt shifting around. Everything looked flat.

“I read what the papers say about me. Do you?” The Destructor spoke to her for the first time in weeks. He stood beside her, gazing out the window with her, amusement brightening his features.

“Lots of speculation about why I do what I do. Am I mad? Disturbed? Was I abused as a child? Why am I so bent on destruction? There is so much they don’t consider, you know. They don’t consider how much worse I could be.”

She quirked a smile.

“You’ve been watching me. I think you’ve been taking notes. If you wanted to be worse than me, what would you do? What could be worse than mass destruction?”

Mass destruction sounded pretty good to her. It was partly why she was here. She’d never been able to create or save. Maybe she could destroy. Except she didn’t seem to be very good at that, either.

“The pundits are wrong about me,” he said. “I’m essentially lazy. Mass destruction is for the lazy. It’s not difficult. Anyone can crash an airplane. But using an airplane to destroy a cultural icon? That creates despair. That’s where the real power lies. In symbols. Money is easy to steal. But a rare gem? A unique painting? These things are truly worthwhile. People will die for them when they will not die for money. So tell me, what can be worse than mass destruction?”

She said, “Specific loss. You choose your target.”

He smiled, and she felt as if she’d been rewarded. “How much worse for your parents, to turn you into their next great adversary. Better I had destroyed you last year. How does that sound?”

“Like you’re planning to use me to get your own revenge. Again.”

“Maybe when the time comes I’ll let you push the button,” he said.

SEVENTEEN

SHE never got around to ordering dinner. Too much ice cream made her lose her appetite. She didn’t even pull herself off the sofa to go to bed. It was much easier to flip channels until she found a decade-old action movie playing on cable. It looked more dated than it should have, and the good bits of dialogue had been edited out. When that movie ended, another one started, and she stared at the TV until she fell asleep.

Halfway through the next morning, her doorbell rang. She flinched to wakefulness and looked at the clock: ten. Sunshine filled the living room. She wanted it to be night again, to get the day over with.

If she stayed quiet, whoever it was would go away. Some kid selling magazine subscriptions or a charity looking for donations. She didn’t want to deal with it.

Then the thought burst upon her like a migraine.

—Celia, it’s me. Open the door.—

Arthur Mentis. Couldn’t hide from him.

She looked at her unshowered self, ratty pajamas and all, wondered if she ought to tell him she needed to change clothes. On the other hand, he could read her mind; what did it matter what she was wearing? Running her fingers through her unkempt hair, she reached the door, opened it, and moved aside to let him in. He studied her, his brow raised, and remained standing in the doorway, hands shoved in the pockets of his trench coat.

“If you don’t want me here, I can leave,” he said.

She sighed. “If you were anyone else I’d never have opened the door in the first place. Come in.”

He did, and she closed the door after him. He said, “You weren’t at the courthouse yesterday. I tried calling you to check on you, but there wasn’t an answer.”

“Worried I was getting in trouble?”

“Just worried,” he said.

“I had my phone, I would have gotten your call— Wait.” The cell phone was still lying on the floor. She retrieved it, checked the display, hit a couple buttons. “I think it’s broken. I threw it.”

“Did it make you feel better?”

“Not really.”

“I see you’re not at work.”