Team Omega (32 page)

What was happening to him? 

He screamed again as her fingers brushed his chest.  It felt as if his heart was about to explode and tear his body apart.

He lashed out with all his strength, and his hand connected with...
something.
The girl toppled backwards.  He still couldn't see her face.

He pulled himself to his feet.  Sweat ran down his skin, and he felt a sheer terror of a kind he hadn't felt since he'd realised that he was superhuman, that bullets and bombs would merely bounce off his body.  The girl seemed stunned; he reached for her, only to have his hands pass harmlessly through her leg as if she were a ghost.  Or immaterial.  One of her arms was crooked, knocked out of shape by his blow.  She was lucky that he hadn't torn it right off.

She turned as the door crashed open, revealing Mainframe and the Redeemer.  The girl started to dive down
through
the floor, only to stop dead and float between floors.  A moment later, she drifted back up again, her eyes glazed in a fashion that Hope recognised.  The Redeemer had taken control of her mind before she could escape.  He watched, shaking in pain, as the girl stopped in the air and returned to solid form.

“I’ve switched off her conscious mind,” the Redeemer said, harshly.  “She had an unusual defence; I think that if her arm hadn't been damaged I wouldn't have been able to get a grip on her thoughts.  Take her down to the cells while I deal with Hope.”

Mainframe nodded, leaving them alone in Hope’s room.  Hope stared down at his chest, where the pain told him that his invulnerable skin should have been torn open and his blood leaking down to the floor.  He’d been in training when a superhuman had been torn open by another superhuman and died, in spite of all the doctors could do for him, because it was impossible to stitch up steel-hard skin.  It was funny how a strength could suddenly become a weakness.  And yet his arm wasn't broken, and his skin wasn't torn.

And if she had managed to do that to my head
, he thought, numbly,
I would have died
.

“She shifted in and out of phase,” the Redeemer said.  One hand touched Hope’s cheek, very lightly.  “I keep a mental eye on you, but I didn't have the slightest idea that she was there until I sensed your pain.  No wonder she slipped right through my telepathic net; her mind was always out of tune with my gentle probes.  And as long as she remained out of phase, she was effectively invisible.”

“Better than invisible,” Hope said.  “She didn't even move the air until she returned to solid form...what happened to me?”

The Redeemer hesitated.  “Two things can’t exist in the same place simultaneously,” she said, thoughtfully.  “My guess is that her touching you created a psychic shock that crippled you, at least for a few minutes.  If she had rammed her hands through your brain it would probably have stopped working.”

Hope pulled himself to his feet.  He’d never felt so weak, not even in the half-remembered days before he’d become a superhuman.  Summoning the concentration for flight, even a couple of inches above the ground, seemed almost impossible.  The thought of losing his powers made him panic, a moment before his head bumped against the ceiling.  He might have to relearn everything right from the start. 

“Take it easy for the next couple of days,” the Redeemer advised. 

Hope laughed, rather sardonically. 

“I’m afraid there’s more bad news,” she said.

“Tell me,” Hope said, sharply.

“Her mind was unusual, but once I got control I managed to pull information out of it,” the Redeemer explained.  “Some of it was nonsense—I think her nature scrambles her mind a little—but there was enough left for me to discover who she is and who sent her.  She’s a covert operative from the SDI.”

Hope stared at her.  He’d only ever been part of the overt team, the one that made all the public appearances; the covert team had been kept under deep security.  It was quite possible that he’d never met someone from the covert team in his entire career, at least until now. 

“And I’m afraid she received part of her mission brief from the same person who briefed Sparky,” the Redeemer added.  She smiled bitterly as Hope felt growing horror.  “He told her that it came specifically from the President.  This wasn't a rogue mission, Hope.  She wanted to kill you for the United States of America.  That was an act of war.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

“You know,” Jackson said, “I don’t think this person is doing anything.”

Ron shrugged.  They’d been assigned to make a random check on an unregistered superhuman living in Maryland, something that Jackson suspected to be of questionable legality.  According to the files, Jennifer Ennis had saved a man’s life in a fire five years ago and had marked herself down for government attention ever since.  As far as he could tell, she was just a random housewife who worked as a piano teacher to pay the bills.  The only exciting thing they’d seen had been a sixteen-year-old girl storming out of her house, followed by her embarrassed mother.  Apparently, the mother really wanted the daughter to learn to play the piano and the daughter had other ideas.

“It looks that way,” Ron agreed.  Jackson had been promised downtime, but Team Omega didn't have any
real
downtime, apart from a handful of days leave between operations.  “But we’re not just doing this because we want to spy on people.”

Jackson lifted an eyebrow.  It was easy to understand why superhumans such as the Young Stars or the vigilantes               in New York had to be monitored, policed and—if necessary—terminated, but it was harder to follow why they needed to spend time spying on an innocent woman.  Nothing in the file suggested that she had a habit of donning a skin-tight uniform when darkness fell and setting out to purge the neighbourhood of evil.  As far as he could tell, her husband and children didn't even
know
that she was superhuman.

“Inside her body, there are superhuman organs,” Ron said, very quietly.  “Someone like Dr. Death could come along and kidnap her, then cut out her organs to implant in someone else—and that person might not be as benevolent as the Sergeant.  All such experimentation is banned, but what does that matter when nations are seeking an advantage over other nations?”

He shrugged.  “So we maintain a regular watch on unregistered superhumans for their own safety,” he added.  “You may feel that we’re doing the wrong thing, but there isn't much choice.  Do you remember the days when the first superhumans started to appear?”

“I wasn't even born then,” Jackson growled.  At twenty-six, he was very much the youngest member of Team One.  He’d grown up in a world where superhumans were real, an accepted part of the landscape, rather than characters in comic books and movies.  But, unlike so many others, he’d never really entertained a dream of donning a cape and setting out to fight crime or serve his country in the SDI.  “And you know that perfectly well.”

“They were talking about putting superhumans in camps, or setting aside private towns for them—and mutants,” Ron said.  “Humanity doesn’t respond well when it discovers something new to separate one group of people from another.  I remember a Senator making a statement about requiring all superhumans to be sterilised—apparently, he believed that superhumans represented a whole new species and that they had to be prevented from breeding for the safety of the human race.  Those who thought that superhumans were just the next step on the evolutionary chain opposed it because they believed that more and more superhumans would appear, to the point where we would effectively slaughter the entire human race.”

Jackson nodded, slowly.  America had been lucky, in many ways; other states had had real problems controlling their superhumans.  Some had brainwashed or purged every superhuman they encountered; others had collapsed into civil wars that were often spearheaded by rogue superhumans.  It was a minor miracle that there had only been one Dr. Death, although Team Omega’s files suggested that that was far from certain.  There were plenty of unanswered questions about what the Russians or the Chinese had done in their sealed science cities, away from prying eyes. 

“So we do what we can to deal with the ones who pose a real threat and leave those who don’t pose a threat to live normal lives, if that is what they want,” Ron concluded.  “It isn't a perfect solution, but there’s no such thing outside comic books and the imagination.”  He shrugged.  “Don’t you find the debate important,
Corporal
?”

Jackson snorted.  After he’d completed three missions, Lane had surprised him by announcing an immediate promotion to Corporal.  Jackson, who had given up all hopes of promotion while he’d been in the Marine Corps, had stammered out an acceptance while the rest of Team One laughed, although he’d quickly discovered that rank didn't mean as much to the teams as it did to the more hierarchical Marine Corps.  But it did mean additional pay and benefits, something that would be important when he retired or returned to the Marines.  If he ever did...he knew that several operatives had served until they died in the line of duty and, in truth, he didn't want to go back to the Corps.  Team Omega satisfied his need for action, for doing
something
, even if there
was
the risk of crippling injury, or death.  The thought made him smile, ruefully.  No one who wanted a safe life joined the Marine Corps.

“I think I’ll have to wait until I get promoted to General before I can have a say in the debate,” he said.  He didn't really know which way to jump.  Superhumans were dangerous, particularly the ones who operated outside the law or had no real training before they moved into public view.  But just because some superhumans were dangerous was no excuse for treating
all
superhumans as potential enemies.  “Don’t you have an opinion...?”

Their communicators buzzed before Ron could answer.  “The girls are dancing hot tonight,” they said, and fell silent.

Ron blanched.  “Come on,” he snapped, turning and leading the way back towards where they’d parked the van.  “Hurry!”

Jackson didn't argue.  Team Omega used a series of apparently-meaningless code words and phrases to pass instructions to operatives in the field without arousing enemy suspicion, assuming that the enemy could pick up on American transmissions.  Any mention of girls dancing, he’d been told, meant that they had to drop everything and return to base at once, whatever the situation.  From what the Sergeant had said while he’d been briefing Jackson on the codes, they weren't even used in drills.  Using one of the codes meant that there was a
real
emergency. 

“Put the light on the roof,” Ron ordered, as he climbed into the van and started the engine.  A quick tap of a switch altered the licence plates, turning the van into a federal vehicle, complete with siren and permission to disregard the laws of the road.  “Get inside—see what you can pull off the net.”

Jackson nodded as he scrambled into the van and closed the door.  Ron gunned the engine and drove off before Jackson even had a chance to sit down properly; once he was settled, he removed the secure laptop from the hidden compartment and opened it up.  Team Omega had top-priority access to the Secret Internet Protocol Router Network, but he’d used it enough to know that certain events weren't often uploaded onto the network until the political leadership and senior Generals had a chance to look at it first.  Team Omega was unusual in that it shared intelligence with its entire complement of officers and operatives; the remainder of the military and intelligence community preferred to keep intelligence to itself.  Even the Slaughter Affair and the CIA’s massive failures in Latin America hadn't changed the system.

“There’s a full alert underway,” he said, grimly.  There were few facts, as yet, but all military personnel had been ordered to report to their bases.  Judging by some of the notes flickering through the network, civilian air traffic was being ordered to ground itself as quickly as possible, while the civilian police forces were being advised to call up their own personnel.  It looked as if someone was expecting a war.  “This can’t be happening.”

“Wait till we get to the base,” Ron advised.  The civilian vehicles outside the van didn't seem to have
any
idea that a crisis was underway.  Once the public realised what was going on, there would be panic as hundreds of thousands of people tried to flee the cities.  But what the hell
was
going on?  “The Captain will brief us there.”

***

“Our assassin miscarried,” General Kratman said, flatly.

Chester winced.  He'd known that the operation was chancy—Level 5 superhumans were deadly dangerous, almost immune to conventional weapons—but he’d had more faith in the SDI than that.  Failure meant that Hope had a good reason to be pissed off at the entire United States, not just the SDI.  In hindsight, ordering the operation had been a dreadful mistake; he had no doubt that politicians were already planning their stories to convince the world that it had just been another rogue operation conducted by the intelligence community.  After the Slaughter Affair, such a defence would be plausible, at least.  He just doubted that Hope would accept the explanation.

“What happened?”

“Matt wasn't sure,” the General admitted.  “Even though he’s stealthy as hell, he doesn't have any personal cloaking abilities and if he'd gone too close to Hope’s headquarters the bastard might have heard his heartbeat or breathing or something like that.  All he could say was that Hope had been hurt, but managed to survive—and the assassin was captured.  I think we must prepare for the worst.”

“Dear God,” Chester said.  “Didn't you prepare her for mental interrogation?”

“We prepared her to deal with any normal telepath,” the General said.  “The problem is that all mental defences are somewhat...unreliable.  Given enough time and force, they break—and we have to assume that the Redeemer will have broken through the defences by now.  They’ll know that the assassin was one of the covert operatives, and who gave her the orders to attempt to assassinate Hope.”

Chester winced.  At the very least, the United States was about to have a severe public relations problem.  Large parts of the population saw Hope as a hero, as the man who had finally decided to
do something
about hopeless states that needed help before they could stand up on their own two feet.  Never mind the fact that sufficient pressure from those parts of the population could have convinced the government to intervene openly, sending troops into the Congo to quell the warlords and put an end to the fighting; they saw Hope as the man who had cut through the maze of corrupt UN representatives and charities that took donated money and did nothing to actually help the poor...right now, his standing was higher than the President’s.  The polls had made it clear that Hope was regarded as an honest man, the superhero who would always be brave, noble and true...while the government was regarded with suspicion.  It didn't help that a number of Senators, pushed by lobbyists working for mining companies, had blocked any governmental assistance from America to the liberated Congo. 

And you will be a target too,
a small voice whispered at the back of his head. 

“Damn,” he said, quietly.

Chester knew better—but then, he had access to files that the average person didn't even suspect existed.  Superhumans were very human at heart; they had the same problems as any normal human, only on a grander scale.  Chester had known that Hope had believed that he could bend the world to his will; no, that he should show the way and the rest of the world would willingly follow.  But in choosing to cut through the Gordian knot, Hope had overlooked the complexity of the issues he proposed to challenge—and how his actions would be seen by the rest of the world.  Hope would have been far more than human if he hadn't become increasingly frustrated and angry at the lack of any real help, or immediate success.  Patience wasn't a trait in a man who could fly around the entire world in under an hour.

“I convinced Continental Command to put the military on alert,” the General said, grimly.  “I think we must expect retaliation in some form.  The President will have to be moved from the White House to a secure location—if anywhere can truly be called secure in a world of superhumans.  Even without retaliation...”

Chester made a face.  The American public was either worshipful or extremely cynical about public figures.  Carter had been worshipped...and then hated after Iran had made the United States look weak and impotent.  Reagan had done a great deal to restore the prestige of the United States, only to see it come crashing down when the Slaughter Affair called his administration into question and torpedoed his Vice President’s attempt to succeed him as President.  Superhumans, on the other hand, had the backing of countless years of comic books; the true heroes were regarded as heroes, even if they had feet of clay.  Superman, Batman, Captain America and Spiderman had a great deal to answer for, Chester had often thought, because in the end they lived in idealised worlds.  The real world was a messy place. 

“You’re right,” he said, grimly.  “We have to assume the worst.”