Dreams of the Golden Age (Golden Age 2)

She walked up to the wall screen, displacing the remaining monkey. “I advocate an approach that utilizes Commerce City’s downtown resources rather than abandons them. Make downtown a destination, an attraction in itself. Block off Preston Street here and here to create a pedestrian mall. Buildings on these blocks here are already slated for demolition. Replace them with high-end residential lofts. West Corp is already investing in low-income housing a few blocks out, here and here. There’s your workforce. Increase the number of teachers at the city’s public schools. Create an art district by refurbishing the Old Opera House, link it to the City Art Museum. Build light rail lines that travel in from north and east, here, with a major stop at the university, allowing industry and manufacturing interests to take advantage of cheap real estate on the city’s outskirts. Most of what we need to implement this plan is already in place. Ultimately, focusing on renewal rather than transplanting will be cheaper, promise a greater return on investment for more people, and improve the city’s morale. And you can’t put a price tag on that.”

Some people accused her of playing the altruist as a front. A trick to make her and West Corp more popular with the general public. The accusation told her a lot about the people making it.

After the meeting, every member of the city council and half the planning committee came to shake her hand and congratulate her on the magnificent proposal. Most of them assured her that she had their support and that her plan was all but approved. Of course it was, she thought. She wouldn’t have taken it this far if she hadn’t secured the majority of her support in advance.

Most of the players lingered after the official meeting ended. Meetings like this were theater that let you see the results of dealing. The real business went on before and after. Celia stuck around, not because she had anything she wanted to get done but because she wanted to size people up and listen to the gossip.

One of the out-of-town investors, a fifty-something man with a permanent thin smile, had cornered Mark. Celia wondered if he needed rescuing, then got close enough to hear what they were talking about.

“Commerce City is famous for its superhuman vigilantes. How do they factor into the planning committee’s discussions?” His name was Danton Majors, and he’d made a fortune on real estate speculation. Self-made billionaire before forty, that kind of guy. He’d thrown his company, Delta Ventures, into the melee with a plan very similar to the others, one that depended on developing new real estate and promoting it to the city on the basis of potential property tax revenue, rather than emphasizing the well-being of the people actually living here. Meanwhile, the investment-seeking monkeys were trying to woo him just as hard as they were trying to woo her.

Majors probably looked down on Celia for inheriting her money. Probably assumed she hadn’t worked a day in her life.

“They don’t, really,” Mark said, holding his own. “They do a lot of good, but they’re unpredictable. We can’t make them part of law enforcement policy, or any other city policy, really. Not unless they want to g

o through the police academy like every other cop.” He smiled at his joke; Majors didn’t.

“But that must make it impossible to implement long-term strategies,” Majors said.

“We’ve had superhuman vigilantes in Commerce City for almost sixty years. We’ve managed to do okay. We try to work with them as much as possible. Citizens generally appreciate them, and any trouble we have can usually be handled within existing code and policies. You know about our Compensation Fund for Extraordinary Damages? What damages from vigilante activities private insurance won’t cover, that does.”

One of the developer suits—call him Third Monkey—butted in, wearing a grin. “You know, just last year some kid jumped me outside a bar on Ninth and tried to mug me. Block Buster Junior stopped him. Bounced right out of nowhere, knocked the guy off his feet, and next thing I know he’s putting my wallet back in my hand. Like it was nothing. Amazing.”

Block Buster Junior usually teamed up with Senior, his father. Edward Crane, also junior and senior, though nobody else in the room knew that. Senior had been slowing down and appeared on the streets less frequently of late.

“Bruce here can do you one better,” Chen from one of the law firms said. “You remember the elementary school fire twenty-five years or so ago?” Many in the room nodded, recalling the spectacular story. Bruce, the guy he was elbowing, another hot-shot lawyer, blushed and shook his head, but Chen kept pushing.

“There were like ten kids stuck on the roof,” Chen said. “The Olympiad saved them, right? All four of them, tag teaming the way they did in the old days. Tell ’em, Bruce.”

“I was one of the kids,” Bruce said reluctantly. “Captain Olympus hauled me out of the fire himself.”

He got a lot of admiring oohs and ahhs, pats on the back, requests for storytelling. Mark glanced at Celia, a sympathetic smile emphasizing the creases around his eyes.

The mayor was the one who blew her cover. “Ms. West here knows all about the Olympiad, don’t you?” He beamed like he was showing off a golf trophy.

The others looked at her expectantly. Celia set her expression in stone. Edleston went on, blithely. “Warren and Suzanne West are her parents. She’s married to Dr. Mentis.” Warren and Suzanne, Captain Olympus and Spark, along with Dr. Mentis and the Bullet. The Olympiad. She’d long ago stopped trying to remind people that she and Arthur had never actually married. She had too many other battles to fight to waste her breath.

Most of them already knew who she was and remembered her past, at least in its broadest strokes. But a couple of them—the younger ones—didn’t. They knew only the stories, not that she was a part of them. The out-of-towner—he narrowed his gaze, intrigued. That Celia West. She’d been facing that expression her whole life.

“What was that even like?” said a junior exec who’d been fetching coffee.

Celia’s answer to that question had changed in the almost twenty years since the Olympiad was active. Since her father died. “It was an adventure,” she said and left things at that.

She could count on Edleston to keep sticking his foot in it. “It’s just not like it was in the old days,” he said, sighing and shaking his head, a perfect expression of nostalgia. “The Olympiad zipping around, big battles against the Destructor raging all over the place. That was something else.”

“I can’t say I miss those days at all,” Celia said.

The mayor shrugged. “I have to admit, I worry sometimes—what happens if someone like the Destructor comes along? Not just a high-powered bank robber, but someone who, I don’t know, wants to take over, do some real damage? We have our vigilantes, but could they really stand up to something like the Destructor?”

“You want a team again,” Danton Majors said. “Like the Olympiad.”

“Well, sure. That’d be something, wouldn’t it?” He might have been looking forward to the next football game between crosstown rivals.

Memories were short, Celia thought. To actually want those days back again was psychotic. “If someone like the Destructor ever did come along,” she said, “I think we’d manage somehow.”

Fortunately, the conversation moved on to more relevant topics, business cards were exchanged, people started drifting off. Before she could make her own escape, Majors called to her.

“I hope you don’t think this is too forward of me, but I would like to shake your hand.” He held his out, not giving her a chance to refuse. “I’ve heard so many stories about your parents. About the Olympiad. You were there through all of it, weren’t you?”