Team Omega (33 page)

Hope had over five hundred superhumans and mutants working for him in the Congo, an unprecedented gathering of superhuman power.  Most of them weren't powerful enough to cause real trouble on their own, but the core Saviours group was definitely a real threat—and they had enough support to outnumber the SDI.  Team Omega hadn’t been designed to deal with a full-scale superhuman war, yet if the SDI lost the fight, they’d be the only ones left.  The rest of the military was even
less
prepared to fight so many superhumans...

They’d gambled—and they’d lost.

“You need to convince the President to speak to the nation,” Chester said, quietly.  If worst came to worst, he would have to convince the President to let him and the General fall on their swords, if it would save the rest of the country.  The President was surprisingly loyal to his closest allies and advisors, but that wasn't a virtue right now.  “I’ll come with you to the White House.”

He hesitated.  “How is the SDI handling it?”

“Most of them don’t know,” the General admitted.  “I need to go to New York, to the base.  You have to go to the President.”

Chester nodded.  “Good luck, General,” he said.  “God help us all.”

***

“All right, what’s up?”

The base was a whirlwind of activity.  Officers and men from a dozen different units were running around like headless chickens, while helicopters and aircraft were buzzing overhead, either delivering men to the base or taking them to their deployment posts.  Jackson had never seen the base so active, even during the deployment to Chicago—and it wasn't just Team Omega.  Every unit on the base seemed to be going to war.

Ron stopped outside the barracks and pressed his hand against a fingerprint sensor, angrily vouching for Jackson when the machine queried his identity.  As soon as the door unlocked, he walked inside, right into the chaos.  Jackson followed him and nearly stopped in surprise.  Team One had been on downtime, but Team Two and Team Four were scrambling out for deployment and Team Three was already gone.  He ducked as someone threw a helmet from the supply lockers to one of the operatives, packing at frantic speed.  No one seemed to know what was going on. 

“Team Two will take up positions at Gamma Point,” Captain Langley was saying, as they walked into the briefing room.  Jackson didn't know Langley very well—he commanded Team Two, which rarely served beside Team One—but he was clearly very concerned about whatever was going on.  “We’ll leave in ten minutes and check in once we’re there.”

The Sergeant spied Ron and Jackson before they could announce themselves.  “Get your gear,” the Sergeant barked.  “I want you to be ready to move out in twenty!”

Jackson saluted and ran for his locker.  Thankfully, they had standing orders to have a bag packed and ready to go at all hours.  He swung the bag over his shoulder, picked up a selection of pistols and grenades, as well as some of the newer surprises from the techs who designed their weapons, and headed out to the mustering point.  The rest of Team One was rapidly gathering there.

“Hey,” someone yelled.  “There’s a broadcast on TV—you have to see it!”

Jackson followed the others into the briefing room and looked at the main screen, which had been switched to CNN.  A golden face had appeared on it, staring right into the camera and out at the watching population.  The stream of information running along the bottom of the screen confirmed that the message was going out on all news channels, while entertainment channels were suggesting to their viewers that they switched to the news immediately.

Hope—he was instantly recognisable—looked grim, but determined.  Jackson felt a shiver running down his spine before the superhuman uttered a single word.  All of their scenarios for dealing with a superhuman of such power ended with at least half the team dead.

“It was my hope,” Hope said, “that I could set an example that would lead the rest of the world to work to solve the problems gripping the Third World.  Instead, Western Governments have not only refused to help, they have actively sabotaged my operations and ensured that the suffering of the Congo—and the rest of the continent—became prolonged.  This culminated with an assassination attempt aimed at me personally by the American Superhuman Defence Initiative.  The assassin was interrogated telepathically by two telepaths working for the United Nations and they confirm that she was ordered to kill me personally. 

“The American Government has failed in its duty to uphold the values of the United States.  It has allowed mining corporations to prevent any help from being dispatched from America, despite the fact that those corporations paid vast bribes to the warlords and happily raped the Congo while its inhabitants suffered.  Instead of helping to prevent such disasters from happening, the government stood by and did nothing while people suffered—it even allowed the CIA to arm some of the warlord factions in the hopes of ending up with a friendly government that would, no doubt, allow the corporations to continue to rape the Congo while people died.  The American Government did not even stand up for the Americans caught up in the fighting, or punish those responsible for their deaths.

“It is the duty of every American to hold their government to account,” he concluded.  “I therefore give notice that I intend to remove the current government and replace it with one that will better represent the people and respond to the crisis points in the world.  We do not wish to harm civilian and military personnel, but be warned.  Any resistance will be harshly crushed.”

His image vanished from the screen.  Jackson stared, unable to believe what he’d heard.  The world had just changed—and not for the better.  Everyone else seemed just as stunned.

“We’re at war,” Lane said, his voice cutting through the shock.  “Get ready to move, now!”

Chapter Thirty-Three

“Have you lost your mind?”

Hope turned to face Mimic as the superhuman appeared out of the shadows, his naked skin shifting colour to blend in with his surroundings.  It was a remarkable effect, one that had helped him to assassinate a number of Libya’s higher-ranking officials during the intervention.  Even Hope’s senses couldn't see him from a distance. 

“You just went and declared war on the entire United States,” Mimic snapped.  He’d never been scared of Hope, or unwilling to criticise him if he felt it was necessary.  “What the fuck do you think you are doing?”

Hope stared back at him, unable to escape the twinges of pain that kept running through his body where the ghost girl had touched him.  Pain wasn't something he was used to experiencing, not pain that seemed to defy all of the mental discipline he’d learned from the SDI.  It even seemed to be invulnerable to the painkillers he’d downed after rejecting the Redeemer’s offer of a mental block.  But then, he couldn't really get drunk—why would he assume that painkillers would work, either?

“They tried to kill me,” he said, sharply.  “And they blocked all international aid that might have helped us save the country...”

Mimic took a breath.  “And what the fuck did you expect?  Damn it—I know you can be naïve, but this is absurd!  You invade Libya, you wreck the government and the military and everything else holding the country together...and then you retreat, having caused a disaster nearly as bad as the one you stopped in the Congo!  Did you even bother to follow the reports from Libya?  There are a dozen factions fighting for control, several religious factions that want to impose strict fundamentalist law on everyone and a massive exodus of everyone who can afford it to Europe, or Algeria, or even Egypt!  And all of that is because of
you
!”

Hope rounded on him, angrily.  “I don’t recall you saying anything against the retaliatory raid on Libya,” he said, coldly.  “Or about invading the Congo.”

Mimic stared back at him, unblinkingly.  “I spent ten years working as a SEAL and finding myself unable to actually do
anything
to help the civilians caught up in war zones,” he said.  “I was forced to watch as civilians were brutalised, raped, murdered, or pressed into the service of one warlord or another, unable to lift a finger to save them!  And not because I couldn't do anything, but because my hands were tied by politicians who never saw the suffering from their comfortable offices in Washington.  I saw children die of diseases we could have cured, if they’d let us intervene; I saw husbands beating their wives we could have killed, but no—we weren't allowed to intervene.  I joined you because you promised a chance to end suffering on such a scale.”

He paused, visibly getting a hold on himself.

“You couldn't have made the Congo much worse, no matter what you did,” he added.  “You took out the warlords, you established control and you started to work on fixing the many problems tearing the state apart.  You even took a step towards establishing civilised rules of life when you punished those fuckers who carried out an honour killing—as if such bastards had honour to defend!  And even though governments were concerned by what you did, they weren't about to try to prevent you from saving the Congo.  Besides, they even benefited from having a better trading partner in the area.

“But then you shattered Libya, and you didn't even
start
trying to put the pieces back together, leaving the rest of the world to deal with your shit,” he yelled.  “Did you think that it would be just Libya’s leadership that would suffer at your hands?  Or did you think that it would only be the Libyans who wound up dealing with the chaos you left behind?  The world is a fragile fucking place, and you’re hammering on it with no regard at all for the long term effects of your actions.  Don’t be so fucking surprised when it decides to hammer back!”

Hope controlled his temper with an effort.  “What does all of that actually matter?”

He hurried to speak before the former SEAL could say anything.  “I heard so many excuses for not doing anything, ever since I was a kid,” he said.  “We can’t save them all, so why save any?  It would be too costly to intervene.  The nation we liberated from the warlords would turn on us for freeing them and rise up against us.  International opinion would consider us imperialists for liberating and occupying an oppressed country, even if we intended to leave in ten years!  It doesn't get any better at home.  We can’t provide a real safety net for the poor, those who are poor because of circumstances beyond their control, because it would be exploited!  Or we can't deal with the gangs in the inner cities because they’re partly ethnic gangs and we would be accused of racism!

“We have the power to intervene, and that gives us a moral responsibility to help those less fortunate than ourselves.  How can we look ourselves in the eye when children starve because the food has been stolen by a corrupt government?”

“That isn't the issue,” Mimic said, sharply enough to make Hope wince.  “You just declared war on the United States.”

“The American government is broken,” Hope snapped back.  “It needs to be removed so that American resources can start helping the world...”

“If the population of America wants the government removed, they can remove it through elections,” Mimic said, keeping his voice level with an effort.  “You’re talking about launching an act of war against the most powerful country in the world.  The system isn’t broken—but it
will
break when you strike.  And then America will follow Libya into chaos.”

He took a breath.  “You have every right to be angry at what they tried to do to you,” he said, in a more conciliatory tone.  “You could complain, reasonably, and demand restitution.  You’d probably get the President burning all the political capital he has to get the aid bill through Congress just to ensure that the truth behind this matter doesn't come out.  Or you could take it public and manipulate public opinion so you get what you want.  Remember what happened to Bush after the Slaughter Affair?  Do you think that President MacDougal will last any longer?

“And you don’t have a right to complain, or to act directly against the government, because you renounced your American citizenship!  You cannot change your mind and claim to be an American because it puts a facade of legality on an act of war!”

Hope gritted his teeth.  “None of that bullshit changes the facts,” he said, coldly.  “Do you really think that the average American citizen has a hope in hell of changing his government’s course?”

“I believe that large numbers of American citizens can and will change their government’s course,” Mimic hissed.  “But you just decided to declare war!  Even the citizens who might have supported you, you know—the ones who contributed vast amounts of aid over the last few weeks—will have second thoughts.  They may dislike Washington, but it’s still their government.  About the only support you’ll get will come from those fans who admire and worship superheroes—and those kooks who call themselves anti-government militias.”

He lowered his voice.  “Hope, this is crazy,” he concluded.  “Any good you’ve done in the Congo, and you have done a great deal of good, will be undone by this act of madness.  The best you can hope for is that America manages to pull itself back together after the strike—you cannot hope to control such a large country long enough to actually put its resources to work.  It didn't work for the Soviet Union, and it won’t work for you.”

Hope shook his head.  “I've had enough of dealing with politicians who won’t do anything to help people who need help,” he said, coldly.  “If they won’t help of their own free will, I will force them to help.  I will give the entire world a chance to live in peace, a chance for everyone to have enough to eat and to live their lives as they choose...”

“Then you can do it without me,” Mimic said.  He pulled his communicator wristband off his wrist and dropped it in Hope’s hand.  “Goodbye.”

Hope watched him go, staring down at the wristband in his hand.  He'd believed that Mimic was committed, that they were
all
committed, but he’d just left.  But the Saviours weren’t one of the teams that existed only for public appearances and nothing else.  He couldn't keep someone in the team when they wanted to quit.  Slowly, he turned and walked up to the planning room.  He had a superhuman with a dangerous mission to brief.

***

Mimic had never developed any hyper-senses, nothing comparable to Hope’s enhanced ears or the Redeemer’s telepathy, but he
had
spent years since passing BUD/S and becoming a SEAL developing his combat senses.  It was difficult to explain—and his sparking into a superhuman didn't seem to have made it any clearer—yet he
knew
when something was wrong.  He sensed it the moment he walked into one of the former warlord’s halls, with bright windows overlooking the rear garden, and found himself alone. 

And yet something was badly wrong.  He hesitated, reaching for the weapons he carried at his belt, while slipping over to the wall and blending in with the erotic painting one of the warlord’s men had painted for him.  Mimic could pass unnoticed in a crowded room, if necessary, but this room was empty—and the nagging sense that something was badly wrong was still howling at him.  What was he even
doing
in the room?

He knew the answer before she appeared at the far end of the room.  To him, the Redeemer had always seemed a fellow chameleon, her skin changing colour to blend in with her surroundings.  As a telepath, she had a trick that allowed her to effectively duplicate Mimic’s talents, simply through broadcasting orders to watching minds to ignore her.  And now she’d manipulated him into coming into an empty room.  Outrage boiled through his mind as she strode forward, breaking the thin web of control she’d woven around him.  But there was no point in blending into the surrounding walls when she could just pick up on his thoughts and localise them. 

She could read his mind, but he'd always found it easier to verbalise his thoughts.  “Why?”

The Redeemer looked at him, her mind touching his lightly.  “Because it has to be done,” she said, flatly.  Mimic had wondered—and knew he wasn't alone in wondering—if The Redeemer and Hope were lovers.  Hope had been voted the world’s sexist man by a dozen different female magazines—not that he read those, of course—and The Redeemer presumably looked like Hope’s ideal woman to him.  “Someone has to deal with the growing problems in the world before they overwhelm the human race.”

Mimic felt cold, almost frozen with terror.  “You manipulated him,” he said, flatly.  He’d wondered how the assassin had gotten through the Redeemer’s telepathic nets, and then miscarried.  Anyone who could do the former had to be good enough to strike a killing blow as soon as she revealed herself.  Hell, given her powers, she should have been able to knife Hope in the back of the head before he even knew that she was there.  Had the Redeemer allowed her through, yet prevented her from completing her mission.  “Why?”

“Because it has to be done,” the Redeemer said, again.  Mimic hadn't felt terror before, not even during the infamous diving exercises that defeated half of the prospective SEAL recruits at BUD/S.  And yet he was scared now...she had to be manipulating his emotions, using them against him, but he couldn't escape the fear.  “Someone needs to save the world from itself.”

“And all the while, you play your games,” Mimic said.  He’d heard whispers of a telepath so powerful that he'd built himself a harem where the girls were nothing more than extensions of his will.  The SDI hadn’t been able to deal with him, but luckily his power didn't extend to controlling mechanical objects.  A single missile, fired from outside his range, had ended his life—and that of the girls under his control.  There had been no other choice, the SDI had said, and they’d been right.  “What do you want?  A world where everyone is your puppet?”

“Don’t be stupid,” the Redeemer said.  Her grip on his mind seemed to intensify, almost as if he were trapped in his own body.  “I want something much more important than that.”

She shook her head.  “But you won’t understand,” she added.  “You were planning to go back through the portals and warn the American government.  And I’m afraid I cannot allow that.”

You couldn't strategise against a telepath, Mimic knew.  The moment you came up with a plan, the telepath would know it.  But if one acted on instinct...he triggered a mental discipline he hadn't wanted to use since leaving the SEALs and broke free of her control, throwing a powerful punch right towards her face.  It could have killed her, but instead his fist passed through empty air.  The Redeemer was too smart to be caught by such a trick; she'd hidden under a telepathic illusion and projected a false image to absorb the weight of his anger.  She could be anywhere in the room, or within the mansion.  There was no point in looking for her.