Team Omega (14 page)

“You’d have to ask the Redeemer to scan them to find out,” Warrior Girl said.  “You want my guess?  They
knew
that she was taken away to have sex with the leader—and I bet you didn't bother to make it clear to them that she wasn't violated.  And even if you did, they probably didn't believe you.  Everyone would know that she’d been raped, that she wasn't a virgin, and her value on the marriage market would fall to nothing.”

Her voice softened.  “And she was dishonoured...”

Hope had learned self-control from the moment he had first discovered his powers.  Nothing would ruin human-superhuman relationships quicker than a Level 5 superhuman losing his temper and wrecking half a city.  Restraint had been worked into his very soul until it was almost a liability in facing other superhumans.  And yet he found it almost impossible to avoid losing control and burning down the slums.  He could burn them all out, the good and the bad, the decent and the inhuman, eliminate them all once and for all...

“Find them,” he growled.  There were no courts in Kinshasa, or the rest of the Congo.  But he had the Redeemer, the most powerful telepath in the world, to prove their guilt.  And whatever they had had in mind, he would show them that he wouldn’t tolerate such behaviour.  A public execution was the least they deserved after what they had done.  He’d saved lives before, but he’d never wondered if people would have been better off
if
he’d left them to die.  “Find them and bring them to the mansion.”

“Understood,” Mainframe said.  There was a pause.  “What if anyone tries to stop us?”

“Don’t let them,” Hope snarled.  Anyone who could defend a family that chose to execute its daughter because they believed that she had been dishonoured didn't deserve to live.  “If anyone gets in your way, kill them.”

Boiling rage obscured Hope’s last comment as he threw himself into the air, staring down at the city and countryside below him.  An honour killing...the whole custom was so abominable that he hadn't taken it seriously.  But he’d grown up in a civilised country, a country so civilised that it accepted other countries as civilised, even if they were manifestly nothing of the kind.  He opened his senses, listening for sounds that might indicate another honour killing, or one of the missing superhumans.  A fight would allow him to burn off his rage...

...But there was nothing.  Merely people trying to rebuild their shattered lives now that the warlords had been killed and their armies scattered.  Some of the Saviours were out hunting bandits, or clearing the roads of booby traps; others were trying to help Kinshasa stand on its feet again.  But how could they help people so depraved, so lost to humanity, that they killed their own kind?  He clenched his fists in bitter rage.  Someone had to take a stand against it, someone unaffected by the cultural relativism that had gripped so many universities and commentators in the Western world.  Someone had to stand up and say what was right.

Hope believed, firmly, in individual rights.  What did it matter to him what someone did, so long as they refrained from hurting others?  It had been one of the issues that had led him to leave the SDI’s team and renounce his American citizenship, because he believed that the ideals of America didn't allow for petty scrabbling over gay marriage or abortion—or, for that matter, if mutants were truly human or something else. 

But an honour killing...?  Even if the girl had been something more than an unwilling participant in her own rape—a rape that had never happened, because Hope had saved her before it was too late—it wouldn't have justified her death.  How could
anyone
act in such a fashion?

It didn't matter that their society justified it.  It didn't matter that their economic situation demanded it.  It didn't matter that they believed that it was the only thing they could do.  It was wrong, wrong, flat-out wrong...a lesson Hope would teach them before they finally died a death so horrible that it might deter others from killing their own children. 

How could they save lives if the people were not worth saving?

He looked down at the country below him and wondered, for the first time, just how far he would have to go to save the world.

Chapter Fourteen

“You didn't fuck up, I suppose.”

Jackson smiled.  Team One had relaxed completely after he’d proved himself, welcoming him into their brotherhood.  The latest report said that Basil would make a full recovery and probably return to duty within a month, thankfully.  Team Omega had access to the best medical facilities and even a couple of Level 1 superhumans with healing powers, access they constantly pushed to the limit.

“Thank you, Ron,” he said, tiredly.  The flight back to their base had been uncomfortable, to say the least.  “What do we do now?”

The Sergeant smiled.  “You’ll be pleased to know that we go over what we did time and time again until we have isolated all of our mistakes,” he said.  He nodded to the small group as he started to reply the footage.  “Where did we go wrong?”

“It wasn't the best of locations for a pitched battle with three superhumans,” Ron said, after a moment.  “But we didn't exactly choose it on our own.”

“No, sadly,” von Shrakenberg agreed.  “The courier wanted somewhere nicely isolated and he succeeded remarkably well.  If we’d picked the spot ourselves, do you think that it would have gone any better?”

“We might have managed to take them down quicker, before Basil was hurt,” Thomas said.  Jackson didn't know him so well; he tended to be less talkative than the other operatives, none of who were exactly chatterboxes.  “Maybe we should have asked the DEA to take a backseat and let us operate directly.”

“They did want to make the drug bust,” Ron reminded him.  “If the Young Stars had just surrendered, instead of trying to fight, they would have had a stunning success to their credit, rather than seventeen dead agents.”

The Sergeant cleared his throat.  “The problem is that there is an ideal situation and there is reality,” he said, ruefully.  “In an ideal world, the situation would be perfect and we would be ready to deal with anything.  Reality...tends to be a messy fucking place.  How else did we screw up?”

“We underestimated Nova’s ability to use flaming plasma to shield himself,” Chris French said.  The sniper leaned forward.  “I took four shots at him, any one of which should have killed him.  Instead, the bullets were vaporised or deflected by the plasma...”

“Or you missed,” Ron suggested, snidely.

“I took down an enemy commander from a far greater distance, under far worse conditions,” Chris said, refusing to rise to the bait.  “Nova was a much clearer target and he was practically standing still, even when he was firing fireballs at the DEA agents.  I should have hit him, and I would have if he hadn't been shielding himself.  We may need to produce tougher rounds for sniper rifles.”

“Unfortunately, we’re reaching the limits of what current technology can do,” von Shrakenberg said.  Some of the rounds Chris and the other snipers used were illegal, at least when used against normal humans.  Jackson had never quite understood the problem.  “I’ll put a request in to R&D, but you know what they’re like...”

“They never understand that we need to use their wonderful creations outside a lab,” Chris said, sourly.  “I thought they were working on something else to give us an advantage.”

“So I’m told,” von Shrakenberg said.  “But it’s fucking difficult to tell the difference between working hard and jerking off in the labs.”

He tapped the table and smiled, unpleasantly.  “We could have deployed quicker and we should have,” he said.  “Or at least that is what the politicians are going to say, should this entire mess become public.  Unfortunately, our deployment speed was based on the location and enemies who had boosted or extra senses—by deploying closer, we might have tipped them off ahead of time.  Any comments?”

“We were pretty close,” Jackson pointed out.  “Yes, we could have moved in once the Young Stars had entered the engagement zone, but that might have risked warning them that we were there.”

“All too true,” the Sergeant agreed.  He looked around the table.  “Jackson was good enough to knock out Nova before he could set the entire area ablaze, even if it did cost him some body armour.  A few more seconds and his chest would have melted into a puddle.  But we failed to catch Youngster himself.  Where did we go wrong?”

“He moved too quickly,” Ron said.  “We tried to snare him with gas grenades, but he flew away before the gas could bring him down.  Even when we tried to catch him in a confined space...”

“...He just went through the wall,” the Sergeant agreed.  “The labs swear blind that they’re working on something that should put a crimp in such escape plans, but so far they haven’t produced any workable hardware.  We’re going to have to work on that in the exercises.  The geeks are already running up a new program that will allow us to re-fight the battle time and time again until we’ve drained all the lessons we can from it.”

He looked over at Jackson.  “One problem: you should have secured the two prisoners before you saw to Basil.  I understand the impulse to take care of your teammate first, but if either of them had woken up ahead of time, it would have been disastrous.  You can’t count on these freaks remaining down even after you clobber them in the head.”

Jackson took a breath, but said nothing.  In cold blood, the Sergeant was right; he
should
have seen to the prisoners before seeing to Basil.  But he’d never left a teammate to die when he could have saved him, and he hadn't wanted to start.  Team Omega had to be ruthless in a way that the Marines refused to allow themselves.  What sort of team could hold together for long if its members rated one another as expendable?

“Once we
had
the prisoners, everything proceeded reasonably well,” von Shrakenberg said, returning to the subject at hand.  “Thankfully, it appears that we will not be called upon to testify in court about what happened; the recordings made by the FBI should suffice.  However, as that cannot be taken for granted, try not to get dead before the Young Stars face a secret court.”

Jackson blinked in surprise.  “They’re not going to try them publicly?”

“Probably not,” von Shrakenberg admitted.  “The bastards are just too popular and powerful for us to put in front of a jury, even with so many dead.  It stinks like Limburger, but it’s just a reality of our world.”

He shook his head.  “Welcome to the New World Disorder, New Guy,” he added.  “Speaking of which, allow me to be the first to formally welcome you to Team Omega.  The lads can take you out drinking tonight.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Chris said, quickly.  “You really should come along.”

“I have new exercises to design,” von Shrakenberg said.  Jackson was surprised; even the most dedicated Marines had a life outside the Corps.  But then, von Shrakenberg looked like a mutant and would stand out in a crowd.  He probably wouldn't want public attention.  “Anyone who isn't sober tomorrow morning will be spending the day trying to nurse a hangover while exercising in the chamber.”

He chuckled.  “I am informed that there will be a public interview on SUPER-SPAN at 1500, so you may wish to watch it,” he added.  “Get your gear stowed away, sort out what you will need for your next deployment—and then you have liberty.  Just make damn sure that you carry your beeper at all times.  Dismissed!”

Jackson stood up with the others and walked to the barracks.  The deployment bag he’d taken with him to Chicago still lay where he’d dumped it upon return; he opened it up, removed the clothes inside and started to replace them.  A spare uniform, an outfit that would allow him to pass for a civilian—and a set of light body armour.  Below the clothes, there was a pair of loaded pistols and five different grenades.  Team Omega insisted that its operatives be prepared for deployment at all times, not something Jackson could fault.  He picked up the wallet and checked it, making sure that the ID cards were still there.  If he had to fly civilian, something he’d been warned might have to happen from time to time, he had permission to carry weapons in the cabin.  Apparently, one Team Omega operative had even stopped a hijacking by shooting the terrorists before they could secure the aircraft.

“Well done,” Chris said, sticking his head into Jackson’s compartment.  There was no such thing as privacy in the barracks, something that Jackson—coming from a poor family—had found easier to accept than some of his fellow recruits, years ago.  “Basil credits you with saving his life.”

Jackson nodded, his treacherous memory replaying the brief struggle with Nova.  A few seconds either way and they would both have died.  Superhumans were just too dangerous to be allowed to operate without supervision, and some form of control.  The whole concept of using them as superheroes seemed insane, all the more so when he looked at the files and saw just how many superheroes had gone off the rails.  And yet, apart from the SDI and Team Omega, there didn't seem to be any way to control them. 

The Soviet Union had been even less prepared for the superhumans than the United States—and their first superhuman had emerged in Poland.  They’d never expected to see a Pole who was so strong that he could tear through tanks with his bare hands, or so tough that he could shrug off bullets and grenades, or so fast that he could jump from one end of the country to the other quicker than a speeding rocket.  Poland had wanted to be free—and the Poles had fought, led by their new champion.  In the end, the Russians had had to use a tactical nuclear weapon to take him out, along with most of Warsaw.  No one in Eastern Europe would ever forgive them for what they had done to people whose only crime had been wanting to be free. 

Now, Jackson knew, there were weapons that might have worked against such a superhuman without so much collateral damage, but they’d never truly been tested in the field.  The United States had been luckier; the first superhumans who had emerged into the glow of publicity had been patriotic, willing to fight for their country.  By the time Slaughter and Jim Crow had emerged, the superheroes had been firmly established.  And then the SDI had started building them up into a formidable force.

And if the CIA hadn't had the bright idea of using Slaughter as a living weapon, all of the American superheroes might have remained under firm control.

Jackson was as patriotic as anyone else; he loved his country enough to lay down his life in its defence.  But even the most ardent patriot would hesitate when confronted with the evidence of what the CIA had done.  Slaughter would have been dangerous even if he hadn't been a superhuman, a sociopathic murderer with no concept of right or wrong.  He hadn't cared about the cops, or about the bloody trail he was leaving across the country; why should he when there was no one who could stop him?  It had taken a superhuman to put him in jail—and then the CIA had offered him his freedom, in exchange for serving his country.  How many people had died at his hands in Latin America?  No wonder Latin America was so vocally against the United States these days.  The CIA had unleashed a rogue superhuman on innocent villagers who had only been trying to stay alive.

He finished packing his bag, stowed it within easy reach and changed into civilian clothes.  Operators got more latitude than regular soldiers, including permission to wear civilian clothes on base if necessary.  Besides, he’d been warned that Team Omega rarely wore uniforms outside the base, something that helped to prevent inconvenient questions.

“If they ask you what unit you’re in,” von Shrakenberg had said, “just wink and ignore the question.  Better they think you’re a poser than start uncovering our existence.”

I could just claim to be on leave from the Marines
, Jackson had thought, in response. 
That would be better than being publically mocked
.

Pocketing his ID and checking the pistol in its concealed holster, Jackson walked out of the barracks and back to the briefing room.  Ron and Thomas were already there, playing a game of cards that seemed to involve each of them accusing the other of cheating at regular intervals.  Jackson had already played poker with Thomas and learned to his dismay that he was not only a very skilful player, but he was armed with a dozen different ways to cheat.  He would have lost a great deal of money if they’d been playing for anything more serious than old bottle tops. 

“Just about time for the interview,” Ron said, without looking up.  “Want to add your money to the pool that says it will be a full confession?”

“People like them never confess,” Jackson said, shaking his head.  “They’ll probably try to find some way to wiggle out of it.”