Eventually, the car tilted, slanting forward as it traveled down a ramp. They seemed to continue downward for a very long time. For all their efforts, the Olympiad hadn’t found the Destructor’s most recent headquarters. She could go back and tell them: underground. Far underground.
She could never go back.
After parking, the driver let her out into a dimly lit garage-type structure and escorted her through a door. Again, only a few dim lights showed the way. The Destructor either wanted to create as creepy an effect as possible, or save on electricity bills.
He probably pirated his power off the grid anyway.
The corridor ended in a wide doorway. The driver gestured her through, staying behind.
Ahead, an old man sat at a vast mahogany table. It was the only furniture or decoration in a slate-colored room. His hair was thinned to nothing, and he peered through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. A half-dozen computer monitors sat on the desk at reg
ular intervals. He spent a little time at each of them, in no particular order: he looked at one, tapped a few keys on the single keyboard in front of him, looked at another, typed again.
Studious, a scientist, he was planning his next act of mass chaos.
Her stomach lurched; she swallowed back a surge of nausea. This man had tried to rip her mind apart a year ago. This man cared nothing for her. This man was a monster.
The enemy of her enemy was her friend. If she had a place in the world, this was it. She shrugged her jacket partway off, exposing her shoulders.
“Hi,” she said.
Not looking up, the Destructor said, “It’s the famous Celia West. What do you want?”
She’d practiced this in her mind a hundred times. The way she’d walk, the look in her eyes, calm and cool. She was powerful, in her own way. Step by step, she moved toward him, her heels clicking slowly on the tile floor.
When she got to his table, she half-sat on it, her skirt riding up one thigh. One of the monitors was in the way. She swiveled it aside, so he could see. He looked up.
“I can tell you about the Olympiad. Their headquarters, their computer systems, procedures. Just about anything you want to know.”
“And what do you want?”
“A place here. I want to be a part of this.”
For a long minute, they regarded one another. If she kept her mind a blank, she wouldn’t look away.
He said, “You’re only here to aggravate your parents. While I commend the endeavor, I have no use for you.”
It occurred to her that if she had a knife right now, she could slit his throat. Wouldn’t her parents be shocked and impressed? Except they didn’t kill. Eschewed killing as a crime.
She just couldn’t win.
He added, “The Olympiad has its headquarters in the penthouse of West Plaza. I know the secret identities of every member of the Olympiad—as you know. I’m naturally immune to Mentis’s telepathy. Everything you think you know, I already know.”
The worst that could happen, he’d just kill her. Lock her up, torture her, finish her off. And the thing was, she didn’t care. At least she could say she tried. If this didn’t work, she just didn’t care. She had nothing left.
She couldn’t let him see that. She only showed him blank. Like Arthur would do.
His lips pressed into a tight, unfeeling smile. “On the other hand, keeping you around might prove amusing.”
Set the hook, reel him in. As if she were actually having an impact on him. She’d imagined herself doing this, thinking it would give her some power over him. Imagined how she might possibly win some power for herself in this world, where men flew and women played with fire.
She stalked around the table. It was a long walk, it seemed like. She’d always pictured him in a huge leather executive chair, the kind that dominated a room, massive and luxurious. Like the kind her father had. Instead, he had a simple office chair, flat and dark, with a low back. It didn’t even have wheels. He perched at the edge of it, watching her progress.
When she reached his chair, she put her left hand on his desk, her right on the chair back, just behind his thin, dark-suited shoulder. Not touching it. Leaning forward, keeping her eyes open and looking, she kissed him on the lips. It was just a press; he didn’t respond. His lips were dry, frozen. She pulled back, waiting for a response.
“Don’t do that again,” he said. He pointed to a door behind her. So much for her vast powers of seduction.
In the days that followed, she spent a lot of time sitting on tables at the periphery while he plotted, planned, schemed, whatever. She didn’t pay much attention. He ignored her. Kept her around because it might be amusing. She fetched coffee sometimes. At his command, all his henchmen ignored her as well. She might have had a little fun, otherwise. They all treated her like a kid.