“Unfortunately, our litigious society now insists that the police have to document everything,” the Professor said. “If there happens to be a gap in the chain of custody, for example, a wily defence lawyer can probably call the validity of all the evidence into question. Or...if a superhero captures a rapist in the act and breaks both of his legs, his lawyer could argue that the rapist had been abused while in custody and use it to manipulate the DA into dropping the charges. It is extremely difficult to legally hold a superhuman responsible for such...overreactions, so the blame tends to fall on the police force involved.”
“Because they’re scared of provoking a reaction from the superhuman community,” Jackson said, slowly. He had known about superhumans and superheroes, of course, but he hadn't realised just how much latitude they were granted by mundane society. Some people had shied away from him when they realised that he was a Marine; how much worse would the reaction be, he asked himself, if superhumans were involved?
“And because the bigger names have powerful corporate backers,” the Professor added. “Whatever the...justice of any case, very few people could bring a suit to bear against a superhuman with access to such deep pockets. Certain superhumans even have connections with powerful political figures. It’s much easier to drop the case than risk drawing attention from those quarters.”
“Why?” Jackson asked. “Why do we even tolerate this situation?”
The Professor shrugged. “Different reasons for different people,” he said. “Some believe in the legend of Superman, Batman and others who upheld the ideals of law when the government, police and military were hopelessly incompetent. Groupies, basically. Others think that provoking trouble between humanity and the superhumans will eventually lead to outright war, one we might lose. And still others want the United States to maintain the lead in superhuman power—Iraq’s taken over most of the Middle East, Latin America has its own force intent on keeping the Gringos out and Bangladesh is turning into a superpower. The next war will be a superhuman war.”
“Shit,” Jackson said.
“I wouldn't argue with that,” the Professor said, mischievously. “I also wouldn't argue about the legal problems involved in your operations, which are really quite alarming. You might wind up taking down a superhero who hides a great deal of trouble under his cape.”
Jackson stared at his fingers. “Why doesn't everyone know about this?”
“Much of the information I gave you is in the public domain,” the Professor said. “Draw your own conclusions.”
“They don’t want to know,” Jackson said.
“Of course not,” the Professor said. “And even if they did...take a look at the President. His approval ratings are never very high at the best of times. What would happen to him if he was to open up a full investigation into superhuman activity, perhaps even strengthened SARA? His ratings would plummet, his enemies would see their chance at an impeachment...and absolutely nothing would be done. After the oil shock when Saudi Arabia collapsed into chaos, you’d think they’d learn...”
“But they didn't,” Jackson said.
“That’s why Team Omega exists,” the Professor said, quietly. “Your task is to keep a lid on this situation in the hopes it won’t blow up in humanity’s collective face. I don’t envy you.”
***
“Superhumans fall into three categories,” Professor Blunt said. Unlike Professor Hayworth, he was military, a former Ranger who had joined Team Omega and had been crippled in a nasty confrontation with a pair of criminal mutants. “There are those who are registered and catalogued, or seen in operation—the known knowns, if you like. Vice President Rumsfeld devised the term five years ago, and it stuck.”
Jackson nodded. Everyone seemed to have different categories for superhumans.
“Then there are those who are not registered and catalogued, but are known to be superhuman—the known unknowns,” Blunt continued. “We know they’re superhuman, yet we don’t know for sure what powers they have—we end up treating them with extreme care because we are moving blind. It’s better to use extreme force than risk having an outraged superhuman crush you like a bug.
“Finally, there are the unknown unknowns—we don’t know they’re superhumans, and sometimes they don’t know it, either, until their powers spark. Most of the time, when we get called in to clean up someone else’s mess, it's when a superhuman or two were involved, but those on the spot didn't know it.” Jackson nodded, remembering what had happened to New York’s SWAT team in the simulation. “You cannot take anything for granted, ever.”
He grinned, revealing a mouth that was missing several front teeth. “Beyond that, superhumans are classed as being levels one to five—with ‘X’ for the inexplicable powers. Level 1 superhumans aren't too difficult to deal with; level 4 and 5...we as a society are just hoping they’re good people. Dealing with them is extremely difficult and can be very costly.”
Jackson nodded, slowly. Blunt had been crippled in one such operation—and five of his teammates had lost their lives.
“Superhumanity is practically becoming its own subculture,” Blunt continued. “You’ve seen the black subculture...superhumanity is becoming something similar, with its own way of doing things. Some of the surveillance tapes are remarkable; the so-called superhero teams all tend to fall into the same pattern, no matter what the original intent of the team’s founder was. The stronger superhumans lead; the weaker ones follow. I don’t think we can count on a Batman to keep them all in line.”
“It's illegal to dress up as a superhuman unless you actually have powers,” Jackson said, quietly. There had been a number of incidents where mundane humans wearing costumes had been killed because the superhuman who had confronted them hadn't known to hold back. “Kids are so disappointed at Halloween...”
Blunt ignored him. “I’m writing a book on it, which I doubt the boss will ever allow me to publish,” he concluded. “I think there will be an explosion, sooner or later, and there will be a major confrontation between us and the superhumans. Team Omega’s real purpose is to prepare the tactics for the coming war. God help us.”
Chapter Five
He could hear the screams.
Hope floated high over the Congo, staring down at the darkened countryside. No normal human could have sensed the endless torment of the population as the civil war raged on and on, but Hope’s ears could hear a pin drop from half a world away. Down below, he heard men groaning in pain, women sobbing and children screaming as they suffered. There was so much pain and suffering that he could barely pick out individual sounds
The Congo had been bad enough before superhumans had floated north from what remained of South Africa to add to the chaos. Now, no less than twelve other nations were meddling openly in the remains of the state the Belgians had created, while the population tore and rent at what remained of the fabric of their nation. Conflicts were fought over tribal differences, religion, even superhumans versus normal humans. The death toll was terrifyingly high; hundreds of thousands had been forced to flee into refugee camps, breeding grounds for starvation and disease.
A woman screamed just loud enough to attract his attention. Eyes that could peer through anything short of a sheet of lead plating watched as she was chased by one of the victorious soldiers from a tiny battle that had taken a village from its previous overlords. They had probably told the population they’d been liberated, but the locals wouldn't be able to tell the difference. By the time the soldiers left, there wouldn't be an untouched girl left in the village, while the men and boys would have been conscripted into the army and taken off to fight the war. Children barely old enough to think would be handed weapons and pushed into the front lines; lacking any adult perspective, they would be ruthless and brutal on a scale unmatched by anyone short of the Nazis or Japanese from the Second World War. And they hadn’t had superhumans to help them commit an endless stream of atrocities.
He couldn't let it happen. Not any longer.
Hope moved before he’d quite realised what he intended to do. A Level 5 superhuman could move at supersonic speed; he was on the would-be rapist before he had any idea that he was under attack. One hand caught the man by the neck and hauled him into the air, carrying him miles above the countryside before letting go and allowing the rapist to plunge to his death.
Good. The man had deserved it.
Hope knew that he shouldn't feel such satisfaction at watching anyone die, but he couldn't help it. He was tired of poor women being brutalized because of this endless war. And while he couldn't save everyone, he was glad he'd saved this one.
It had all seemed so simple when he’d sparked and come into his powers. He’d registered, of course, and accepted the training that the government offered. It had been easy to fight crime with his powers, even when dealing with supervillains, but he never seemed to make anything better for the world. No one really understood what it meant to have superpowered senses, to see and hear far more than the normal humans who thronged the planet. He’d saved a thousand people from death by hearing their desperate struggles from miles away, but how could he not hear those in countries tormented by war, oppression and suffering? Eventually, he’d walked away from the SDI because it was set up to defend the United States alone. Hope wanted—needed—to do something on a grander scale.
He flew higher, until he could see all of the Congo from his position. Dozens of little warlords, some superhuman, struggled for supremacy, while the populations they supposedly served simply struggled to survive. There was nothing the outside world could do—or, rather, there was nothing the outside world would do. Hope had no illusions about the power gathered by the SDI, or the European or Russian superhuman teams. They could have pacified the entire country in a week, but actually fixing the problems tormenting the Congo would take a long-term commitment—and no outside country would make such a commitment. The African countries surrounding the Congo were all involved in the endless war. He looked northwards until he saw the unit of Libyan troops that had been dispatched by their leader to ensure that the outcome of the civil war favoured his proxies. The task had been impossible; the troops had rapidly become as savage as the rest of the armies fighting for dominance. Hope couldn't look away from the mass graves where they’d buried their victims after they’d had their fun.
The outside aid workers were just as bad. Some fed all sides indiscriminately and kept the war going long past when it should've ended. Others abused the population themselves, even helping one side round up the others for extermination. It hadn’t been that long since one side had launched an attack on a refugee camp, one the victims had thought was safe. They’d looted, raped and burned at will, even murdering the Western do-gooders who had thought that organising a refugee camp was the right thing to do.
And no one had done anything about it.
Hope clenched his fists, trying to shut out the noise, but it was impossible. Men were screaming in pain as they died; women were being raped and murdered; children were howling for their missing parents...it never got any better. Nor could he block his senses for long. His ears repaired themselves automatically; he'd once torn them off, only to have them regenerate within a day. Rage boiled through him as he found himself looking down at Kinshasa, the capital city of the Congo. Right now, it was a city in the grip of a tyranny worse than anything Berlin or Moscow had ever known, a tyranny enforced by a superhuman who had declared himself Emperor of the Congo. His writ didn't run for more than a few miles outside the city, but that didn't stop him from keeping the entire population under strict control. They couldn't hope to rebel.
They called Hope a hero. The American population loved his blond good looks, his muscles on his muscles and willingness to risk his life to save people and make the world a better place. If only they’d realised that, for all of his crime-fighting, he’d done nothing to save the population of the Congo and a dozen other failed states. He hadn't even managed to clean up Hell’s Kitchen or any of the other inner cities across the United States. Hope had removed a hundred drug lords, henchmen spraying him with bullets that just bounced off his impregnable skin, but what had really changed? He could remove a drug lord each day, but a new one would be in power within hours.
The irony chilled him. If the CIA was to be believed, the first known superhuman had appeared in Africa—and yet Africa was still a mess. Superpowers had only made a bad situation worse.
No more, he swore to himself. No more.
He smiled as he felt another presence near him, turning to see the Redeemer as she floated above the tormented land. No one really knew what the Redeemer looked like; she appeared differently to each person who saw her, a minor use of her extremely powerful mental talents. Hope saw her as a woman on the verge of middle age, combining youth and wisdom in her smile. He had no idea what others saw when they looked at her.
“Such a tormented land.” The Redeemer sighed as she looked at him. Her talents were, if anything, more prone to being distracted by the suffering below than his own. Hope had long since come to terms with the fact that she was so telepathically powerful that she could read his mind without ever intending to. “They sent me to inform you that they are ready.”
Hope nodded. Enough was enough. It was time that superhumanity lived up to its potential for making the world a better place. And if that meant that a number of petty tyrants and their attack dogs in human form had to die, it was a worthwhile price for saving so many lives. He looked down, once again, at the Congo and shuddered inwardly. So many people were dying, trapped in an endless hell...something had to be done. Something would be done.
The Redeemer shrugged. “They’ll try to stop us, you know.”
“I know,” Hope said. She’d read his thoughts again. The world would not enjoy discovering that superhumanity had taken steps they were unwilling to take themselves. “But we have no choice.”
He touched the communicator built into his belt. One of the early superhumans had been a genius, so intelligent that he made Einstein look like a moron. He’d died early, but before he’d fallen he’d invented computers that were lightning-fast, communications devices that couldn't be jammed or censored and thousands of other devices that would have reshaped the world, if they’d ever been released on the open market. Various governments had tied the patents up in litigation, just to make sure that the existing balance of power wasn't threatened. Opportunism like that, back when he'd been a good soldier, had convinced Hope that it was time to leave the SDI.
“Gateway,” he said, “bring us home.”
There was a flash of light. They both vanished.
***
The Saviours had wanted to make it clear that they were beholden to no country when they went public, so choosing a place for their headquarters had required some careful negotiation. They finally built their headquarters in Antarctica, very close to the South Pole. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it had won them some plaudits for keeping illegal mining away from the final untouched continent. Besides, explaining why they owned Antarctica would have been tricky for several governments.
Hope winced as he materialised in Gateway’s room, feeling the urge to be sick once again. Gateway was barely sixteen years old, but her talent—instant teleportation, as well as the ability to open gates from place to place—was too useful to be discounted. Besides, if she had stayed in America, she would have been snapped up by the SDI and put to work protecting the country—and advancing the country’s interests. She was far more useful as one of the Saviours, even if her talent did make people feel sick.
The Redeemer looked over at Gateway in mock annoyance. “You didn't have to bring us here,” she said, with a thin smile that suggested she knew very well why Gateway had brought them to her rooms. Her crush on Hope was as obvious as it was embarrassing. “You could have brought us to the main room.”
Gateway flushed, her face suddenly bright red. She looked up to The Redeemer, everyone did. “I just wanted to see y
ou alone,” she said, seemingly unaware of the double-meaning in her words. “I...there’s a lot of people out there.”
“I know,” Hope said. It was difficult to convince superhumans to work together, particularly ones who considered themselves to be the equals—or superiors—of every other superhuman. Eventually, it had been the Redeemer who had convinced most of them to come and hear his speech. “Thank you for the chance to compose myself before I faced them.”
Gateway smiled, clearly relieved. “You’re welcome, boss,” she said. “Knock them dead.”
Hope concealed his smile as he walked out of the girl’s quarters and into the main room. They’d built it large enough to house a jumbo jet—and all of the space was occupied by superhumans, most of them wearing gaudy costumes that showed their underwear on the outside of their pants. Hope was old enough to remember the jokes from the first era of superhuman activity, before the glow had worn off. Behind them, a handful of mutants lurked, watching through inhuman eyes as the ones who had won the genetic lottery showed off in front of their peers. These mutants were a part of Hope’s plan.
He cleared his throat as he floated into the air, looking down at the crowd. They’d been very careful regarding whom they’d invited, aiming for the semi-independent teams rather than the government-sponsored teams like the SDI or the British Lions. Even if they rejected his proposal completely, they wouldn't betray him to the world governments ahead of time. Besides, few of them would want the Saviours as their enemies.
Team Omega Page 5
