Team Omega (41 page)

“One we have to stop,” Lee said.  Matt knew that Lee had his doubts, but nothing showed in Lee's voice.  “Will the two of you come with us?”

“Yes,” Jack said.  He paused.  “How many of the students are you going to take with you?”

Matt had to smile.  Jack might have been an unregistered vigilante, but he was far from stupid.  “As many as will come with us,” Lee said.  “The time has come for them to join the fight.”

***

“These things are experimental,” Polly said, in the tech bolthole “We intended to produce a more refined model for general issue, but...”

Jackson took the device she offered him, got a feel for its weight and mass, and studied it thoughtfully.  It looked rather like a grappling gun, like the ones they’d practiced using to scale buildings in a hurry.  The projectile, however, looked nastier than the grappling hooks that dug into walls and locked solid. 

“What does it do?” he asked.

“Several things,” Polly said.  “First, the line is”—she hesitated—“I’ll spare you the technobabble.  Suffice it to say that the line is pretty much unbreakable, even by a Level 5 superhuman with something else on his mind.  You could hang on while he flies off into orbit if you wanted...”

“Which wouldn't be very smart,” Jackson interrupted.  “What do we do with it?”

Polly grinned.  “You slap this onto him,” she said, passing him a black, disc-shaped object barely larger than a CD.  “You know that some superhumans have to have brains that work differently from the average human?”

Jackson nodded.  Telepaths had a sixth sense, but most higher-level superhumans had enhanced versions of the mundane five senses, forcing them to work to control them so as to avoid being overloaded with unwanted information. 
Maybe Hope hadn't been able to control his powers properly,
he thought, rather sourly.  He’d certainly proven that he couldn't avoid hearing the sounds of people in pain. 

“This device is basically an updated Screamer,” she told him.  “The standard Screamer produces a great deal of noise to scare the shit out of anyone who doesn't expect to hear it.  You’ve used them in hostage rescue simulations.  This one not only broadcasts a deafening racket, it produces a racket on levels that the average human simply can't hear.  In theory, it will even force superhumans to feel overwhelming emotions, maybe even physical pain.”

“Like a dog whistle,” Jackson said.  “And what does it do to them?”

“We never got around to testing it,” Polly admitted.  “The SDI promised us that America or one of the other Level 5 superhumans would agree to play target, but we didn't manage to get it done in time for this crisis.  Simulations suggest everything from their minds shutting down in self-defence to a few moments of panic—I suggest you use it carefully.  And make sure that you wear your earpieces, too—you may not be able to hear
all
of the racket, but it will still be very disorienting.”

She stood up and paced around the room.  “You have the laser—it won’t be much good against invulnerable skin, but someone with a force field that lets in the light is in for a nasty surprise,” she added.  “And you have the atomic bullet—and the monofilament knives.  We’ve updated the capture glue—Hope doesn’t need to breathe, but even he will have problems struggling against it.  And we have...”

Jackson blinked at her hesitation.  “What?”

“This,” Polly said, picking up what looked like an oversized pistol.  Someone had inscribed DANGER—DO NOT USE UNLESS SHIT MEETS FAN along the barrel.  “We were working on this before the Congo crisis and...well, it’s kind of frightening, actually.  Ever since Warsaw, we have been working on ways to hit a moving target with a vast amount of energy as quickly as possible.  Nukes are ineffective unless they go off very close to the targeted superhuman.  This...you hit him, Hope dies.”

“Then...”  Jackson hesitated.  There was actual fear in her voice.  He’d never seen Polly scared of anything before, not even slightly nervous.  “What’s so bad about it?”

“It came out of research into nanotech, monofilaments and other tricks we could use against superhumans,” Polly said.  “There’s a chance, perhaps a very good chance, that using it in Washington could blow up half the city.  I’ll send the notes back with you to your Captain—he can make the final call.”

She hesitated.  “One way or another, that genie cannot be let out of the bottle unless there is no other choice,” she said, grimly.  “It will change the world.”

Chapter Forty-One

The White House felt different now, even to Hope.  It had once pulsed with life, the walls heavy with secrets that shaped and reshaped the world.  Now, it was almost empty, apart from the handful of superhumans who occupied the rooms and the former President, locked in his bedroom with his wife.  There was something almost sad about its fall, something that touched him even though he knew that he’d had no choice; once, he’d revered the office of President, before he’d discovered that Presidents were mere mortals.  But they could still have lived up to the promise of America.  George Washington hadn't had superpowers, nor had Lincoln or even FDR.

He found himself in a corridor looking up at portraits of past Presidents, which seemed to be scowling in disapproval at him.  Adams seemed horrified that someone could have forced his way into power; Nixon’s face seemed to conceal amusement, even though he’d played a dubious role himself.  But all of them had had limits to their power.  Hope had none.

He knew that that gave him a responsibility to the rest of the population.  Great power brought a moral obligation to use that power in the service of humanity...in a way, he'd been a superhuman for so long that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to be a mundane human.

But Mimic hadn't forgotten, part of his mind nagged at him, and the enigmatic Mr. Harrison had never been more than human.  And they’d both tried to warn him that he was going too far.  He was doing everything for the benefit of humanity, not out of a selfish desire for power, and yet no one else seemed to realise it.  Outside the core group of Saviours, there were people questioning the wisdom of what he’d done—and plenty of civil disobedience outside Washington.  Hope would have liked to blame it all on the state governments, which were just as corrupt and tainted as the federal government had been, but there was just too much evidence that that wasn't the case.  America was slowly grinding to a halt, and no application of superpower seemed able to stop the decline.

And where
was
Mimic?  He’d asked Gateway, and she’d told him that Mimic hadn't passed through one of her portals.  The former SEAL could have asked a flyer for a lift to an airport outside the Congo, or simply taken one of the vehicles and driven out of the country, but that wouldn't have been as quick as using a portal.  And if he’d really intended to warn the United States of Hope’s plan to invade, why not use the quickest way to Washington?  Gateway wouldn't have known that Mimic intended to betray his leader...

He looked up at Reagan’s portrait and wondered what the former President had thought when he’d uncovered the Slaughter Affair.  His own Vice President—and the man he’d nominated for President in the 1988 election—had been responsible for a scheme that had damaged the fortunes of the Republican Party, threatening its grip on power.  Not that anything had really changed—both parties were too solidly entrenched to be broken so easily—but Reagan had to have felt betrayed. 

Mimic had betrayed Hope. But where
was
he?

“Hope,” a voice called.  The Redeemer floated down the corridor behind him, her presence sending a flash of excitement running through his body and soul.  “I thought you were going to hold the trials?”

Hope shrugged.  “They can wait,” he said.  “I need to think.”

He wasn't in the mood to oversee the trials—and it wasn't as if they needed him either.  Washington’s power elite had created laws to protect their secrets from telepaths, but there was nothing actually backing the laws apart from the SDI.  Mr. Harrison might be lucky enough to have an unreadable mind; the mass of Senators and Congressmen weren’t so lucky.  Hope’s telepaths had already uncovered a surprisingly large number of secrets that might be considered criminal—no, that
would
be considered criminal, if carried out by someone outside the government.  Lobbyists bribing the government to pass specific laws, insider trading, even sexual misconduct and a murder...they had all been torn from their minds and paraded on live TV.  Few Americans trusted their government without reservation, not after Nixon had dragged the presidency through the mud, but they hadn't known the specifics, not until now. 

“Thinking is what I do best,” the Redeemer said as she dropped to the ground beside him.  Up close, she was tiny, barely coming up to his shoulder blades.  “What do you need to think about?”

“Mimic,” Hope said.  “He tried to tell us that we were going too far.  Do you think he was right?”

“I’ve never heard you doubt yourself before,” the Redeemer said, dryly.  “You always knew that superpower had to be used in the service of humanity.”

Hope tapped his ears.  “Outside, just beyond the gates, there’s a crowd of protesters who want me out of the White House,” he said.  “They don’t care about the dangers of challenging superhumans; they just want to be rid of me.  I can
hear
their passion as they demand the return of the President and an end to my reign.”

“They don’t see the bigger picture,” the Redeemer said.  Her voice softened.  “There are always winners and losers, just as there were winners and losers in the Congo before you intervened.  Very few people are capable of seeing what’s beyond their noses—and what needs to be done for the good of all humanity.”

She shrugged.  “And those protests are not as spontaneous as you believe,” she added, sardonically.  “Some of the organisers used to work for Congressmen—they helped get their candidates elected into Congress, where they became as corrupt as the rascals they threw out.  Maybe most of the protesters think they’re doing the right thing, that they are standing up for their right to rule themselves, but they’re being manipulated by the same people who always manipulated them.

“Give them a hot-button issue, and then watch the sparks fly.  Abortion is murder—no, it’s a woman’s right to choose—no, it’s murder...  Guns are deadly, ban guns; gun ownership is an essential right and must be defended at all costs.  Religion is important, yet there should be freedom
from
religion as well as freedom of religion.  And all crafty political leaders ride the storms they whip up into office, whereupon they become just like any other politician.”

“You sound very passionate about the subject,” Hope teased.

“I learned to read minds when I was very young,” the Redeemer admitted.  “Do you know just how many people are slow and stupid?  Even the ones who look impressive on the outside are so...banal on the inside.  So few dare to dream big, even those who go into Congress.  One lobbyist was successful simply because he arranged for Senators to have dates with pretty girls.  And he wasn't even doing something
great
!  All he wanted was to keep an unnecessary government subsidy flowing smoothly.”

She shook her head.  “Most people are sheep.  Give them an idea and it jams in their heads, until no amount of logic and reason can extract it.  All those people who say that abortion is murder simply
cannot
think that there might be a situation when abortion is justified, even necessary.  And if one of their number
did
make that mental leap, they’d turn on him as a heretic.  The same goes for the other side.  They’re so hung up on a woman’s right to choose that they don’t allow themselves to think that abortion means ending an innocent life before it has a chance to grow into something worthwhile.  The thought that the other side might have a point is alien to both of them.

“Out there, there are hundreds of protesters who think that what you’re doing is wrong, because someone with a working brain and their own political bias has convinced them that you’re in the wrong.  They don’t see that the problems gripping this country—the problems gripping the world—defy the simple answers they want.  It needs a man with a vision and the power to push that vision through into reality to save the world.  And when you leave, having cleaned out the government, they will thank you for it.”

“I hope you're right,” Hope said.  He looked at her, suddenly.  “What happened to Mimic?”

The Redeemer’s expression didn't change.  “I believe he walked off into the Congo,” she said, smoothly.  “I wasn't keeping an eye on him after he decided to leave.”

Hope smiled.  “I thought you kept a mental eye on everyone,” he said.  “And I hope that means that you’re not watching me in the toilet.”

“I have better things to do with my time than play voyeur,” the Redeemer said, sternly.  “And I do have limits, as you are well aware.  I keep a link to you because without you, this whole project would fall apart, but I can't keep a link to everyone.”

“Pity,” Hope said.  “Maybe I should go find Mimic.”

“I don't think he wants to be found,” the Redeemer said.  “I think that he left because he couldn't carry on with you, but didn't go back to America because part of him knew that you were in the right and he didn't want to oppose you.  The best thing you can do for him is leave him alone until he comes back—besides, it isn't as if we don’t need him in the Congo.”

He’d ordered most of his army of mutants to return to the Congo after they’d found themselves targeted by the more rebellious segments of the American population.  With a handful of the more powerful superhumans to back them up, they could keep the Congo peaceful, work on the planned road network to start distributing food and encourage economic growth while building themselves a new homeland as well.  It wasn't fair that the mutants were being targeted, but humanity had never responded kindly to people being different. 

“If he’s still there,” Hope said.  “I hope you’re right.”

“Forget about him,” the Redeemer urged.  “He’ll come crawling back once he is prepared to admit that you are right—until then, forget him and leave him in the past.”

She smiled, brilliantly.  “And besides, you have the trials to attend,” she nudged him.  “You have to be there to convince people that you mean business.”

The White House Press Room had been hastily redesigned to serve as a makeshift courtroom for the arrested Senators and Congressmen.  One of the superhumans with power over wood and trees had created a wooden dock, topped with iron spikes, for the accused to stand in while the superhumans debated his fate.  It looked like something from the Victorian Era.  The whole process was a great deal cruder than any other courtroom that would be used to charge the rich, powerful and famous, but it should work.  Telepaths made it easier to separate the guilty from the innocent. 

Hope took his seat as a handful of reporters flowed into the room to sit in the benches that had been set up for them.  A number of reporters had refused to return after his first speech to the American population, but there was no shortage of replacements. Besides, he’d agreed that every television and internet channel would have access to the live footage from the cameras.  Hope had wanted to broadcast the trials over every channel, overriding the endless barrage of entertainment broadcast to couch potatoes, but Mainframe had talked him out of it.  Upsetting so many people might just lead to more rioting in the streets. 

There was no jury, but then there was no
need
for a jury—or for lawyers.  A single telepath could separate truth from lies, rather than have a lawyer doing his best to muddy the waters.  And, more usefully, they could tell what someone had actually been
feeling
at the time; if he’d been governed by deliberate malice, desperation, or if the whole affair had been nothing more than a tragic accident.  Hope had learned during his training that there was a difference between
objective
and
subjective
truth.  Now, telepaths could bring both truths to light and allow him to decide if the
subjective
truth justified the
objective
truth. 

“Bring in the first prisoner,” he said, picking up the tablet PC Mainframe had prepared for him.  “Show him to the dock.”

The first prisoner had been chosen carefully, even though his crimes happened after Hope’s takeover of the United States.  He’d drifted into the press room just after the first speech, made his way to Hope, and offered the superhuman a vast bribe in exchange for various services.  At least he’d had more imagination than most of the other prisoners—or the average supervillain, for that matter—but Hope had been outraged that someone would try to bribe
him
.  He’d put the lobbyist into the prison camp personally and insisted on trying him first.

Warrior Girl read the charges.  “Casey Wong, you stand accused of attempting to corrupt the new government of America by bribing some of its operatives,” she said.  Hope hadn't been the only one Wong had tried to bribe.  “Telepathic evidence has confirmed that you intended to manipulate your victims until they did as you wanted, including wrecking your employer’s competitors in business.  Do you have anything you wish to say in your defence?”