Team Omega

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “I suppose you’re all wondering why I called you here today,” he said. As he’d intended, the line drew their attention and broke the ice. A handful of chuckles ran through the air. “And I suppose that some of you have wondered why you were chosen for such great power. What makes you so much better than anyone else?”

  He smiled at their puzzled faces. No one really knew where superpowers came from, although experiments by Nazi Germany—or American and Russian scientists during the Cold War—were the favoured theories. But all attempts to create superhumans tended to create beings with flaws, ones that could be exploited. A natural superhuman was far more stable than an engineered creation.

  Of course, those in this room weren't the only ones with superpowers. There were supervillains, who stole, raped and murdered on a far larger scale than any mundane crooks. And there were the covert operatives for a hundred governments...and the independent actors, ranging from the mercenary to the downright weird. Hope had been slightly relieved to discover that the Fashion Witch had turned down the invitation to the meeting. Hope might have been a Level 5 superhuman, but the woman scared the pants off him.

  “I believe that we were put on this Earth to make it better,” he said. He’d said it before, in a dozen venues—and in front of the cameras, back when the Saviours had first introduced themselves to the world. “Think about it; we have the power to do so much, power that shortcuts ordinary technology and could save millions of lives. We were the ones who lifted a space station into orbit and established a network of bases on the moon. And many of us work on a smaller scale. How many of you have rescued people who were doomed, if a superhuman hadn't been around to save them?”

  He paused, remembering the woman he’d saved. He hoped she’d made it home alive - and remained safe until his people arrived.

  “It is time to take it to the next logical position,” he said. “For the past fifteen years, the Congo has been trapped in a nightmare. We have the power to end that nightmare once and for all, by destroying all of the different factions and permitting the people of the Congo to breathe freely. How can we save individuals facing certain death and not save entire populations from their tormentors?

  “It is the intention of the Saviours to remove by force the evil governments, rebel groups and outside forces in the Congo. I ask you all to join us. We are intimidating, but an entire army of superhumans—natural superhumans—would be far more threatening to the outsiders. If they retreat and stop supplying the various factions, they would be far less dangerous.

  “We will enforce the rule of law over the state—and disarm the different factions. We will provide help that will get the population back on their feet, rather than keeping them helplessly dependent for the rest of their lives. We will provide training and support to build a police force and an army that can prevent rebels from destroying the country once again—or outsiders interfering to steal the country’s mineral resources. And it will provide a harbour for those of us who feel unwanted by mundane society. We will create a whole new shining city on the hill, an example for the human race—and a warning to all tyrants that the old laws no longer operate. Who will join me?”

  He watched their reactions. Some were idealistic, inclined to help; others were more cautious, or bound to various corporations that might not approve of them launching an altruistic invasion of the Congo. It was strange to think that he might have fallen like that, if he hadn't been too idealistic for his own good as a young man. Working for the SDI had been an eye-opener into the ways of the world that would never be shared by any of the corporate whores.

  JQ Public was the first to speak out loud. “You’re talking about a massive commitment,” he said. For someone who was normally as idealistic as Hope himself, he sounded reluctant to join him in the operation. “And operating on a far larger scale than anyone else. What happens if the rebel factions refuse to disarm?”

  “We disarm them by force,” Hope said, flatly.

  “And what,” JQ Public added, “if the population refuses your gifts?”

  Hope had an answer for that one, back when they’d discussed all the ways the meeting could go. “I do not believe that the Africans are unable to accept democracy, to say nothing of the other gifts we will bring. They will see what we can offer and accept it freely. We’re not interested in exploiting them, nor are we interested in taking what little they have—including their bodies. We are merely there to help them rebuild, to make their lives worth living. They will not refuse our gifts.”

  The discussion raged for hours. Hope had no illusions about the size of the task ahead of them. The more power on their side, the better.

  Eventually, somewhat to Hope’s relief, forty-two superhumans agreed to join the Saviours, at least for the duration of the intervention in the Congo. A number of the mutants noted that they would have to consult with their fellows before they could make any decisions, but at least some of them would probably join. Some might have looked inhuman, yet they could be deadly fighters.

  “We move in a week,” he concluded as the meeting broke up. Gateway would transport them all back home. “Thank you all for listening.”

  Chapter Six

  Jackson fell back as his opponent jabbed at him, and then threw a haymaker at his chin, missing by scant millimetres. He lifted his fist to retaliate, just as the Sergeant’s voice could be heard down the corridor, bellowing for Team One to get off their asses and join him in the briefing room. It was a little unfair—Team One spent most of their time exercising– but he was getting used to the Sergeant by now. And, after a month and a half of constant exercises and alerts that went nowhere, the members of Team One were starting to accept him as one of them.

  “Saved by the bell,” Ron Friedman said, mockingly. A specialist in close-quarter combat, Ron had qualifications and awards that Jackson had never seen before, even among the Force Recon Marines he’d met. “If the Sergeant hadn't called for us, you would have had your ass kicked.”

  “You wish,” Jackson said, as he grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat away. Actually, he suspected that Ron was right. He was far more experienced at hand-to-hand combat—and was a vicious little bastard to boot. “Maybe this would have been my lucky day.”

  Ron snorted. “Better get moving,” he said, as he picked up a bottle of water and drank it quickly. “The Sergeant doesn't like it when we’re late.”

  Entering the briefing compartment, Jackson was surprised to see Professor Blunt—and a middle-aged man wearing an old suit and fedora standing beside Lane, talking to him too quietly for the soldiers to hear. A Fed, Jackson guessed, as he took his seat, one that had been brought in just for him. All SF units had their own little rituals; Team Omega’s included sending the seats that belonged to operatives killed in the line of duty to the nearest bar, which happened to be tended by a former Delta Force commando. Apparently, it had been the last wish of the first operative to be killed in action—and had then become a tradition.

  “Be seated,” Lane said, briskly. There had been a dozen alerts since Jackson had joined Team One, but none of them had led to any action. This one felt different. “This is Harvard Coombs of the DEA. He’s here to brief you on a prospective mission.”

  Jackson took his seat and pulled a notebook out of his pocket, ready to take notes. It was better to have a reminder of whatever they were told, just in case his memory failed him at a crucial moment. Besides, it showed the outsider that he was actually paying attention. The last briefer had been so nervous around them that she’d stuttered through the briefing and then gone off for a quick drink. At least it beat the ones from Washington who expected everyone to bow and scrape because their distant relative happened to be the President’s personal pool boy or something like that.

  “Good afternoon,” Coombs said. He launched straight into the briefing without attempting to flatter or put down the soldiers. “For the past six months, the Drug Enforcement Agency has been attempting to break open a distribution ring bringi
ng various hard drugs from Latin America up into the United States. This distribution ring appears to operate on a national scale and includes an alarming number of cut-outs, men and women who can be abandoned to face the law without threatening the big bosses who control the network. Most of them, naturally, don’t have the slightest idea of the true scale of the operation; very few of those caught realised that it stretched outside their hometown.”

  He hesitated, clearly unsure of how much they already knew. “It isn't common to have a network that operates largely independently of the more...restricted networks in towns and cities,” he continued. “Crime lords tend to resent someone poking into their territory and generally take steps to throw the intruders out, something that is generally ignored because the criminals are threatening or killing other criminals. This network, however, seems to be tolerated—as near as we can tell, it is tolerated because it isn't actually competing for business.”

  Jackson nodded, very slowly. Drug distribution might have been illegal in much of the United States, but it operated along similar lines to any legal distribution network. One drug dealer could set the prices as he liked; a dozen would have to lower their prices to compete with their fellows, a situation that benefited the addicts, but not the drug lords. The criminal masterminds—although mastermind wasn't a term he would use for most criminals—would either attempt to bring all drug dealers under their control, forcing them to sell at the same rates, or eliminate the competition. Just like a regular nine to five job, with the added danger of being shot, knifed or arrested by the police.

  “I don’t understand,” Ron said, thoughtfully. “If they’re not selling their drugs, how the fuck are they making money?”

  Coombs nodded. “That was the question that bedevilled the analysts back home,” he said. “Their first thought was that the network simply supplied users in the Midwest, away from the border with Mexico where shipping drugs across can be quite risky, but it didn't seem to be linked with any of the known distribution networks in the area. There’s no profit to be had from smuggling drugs into Canada through the United States. It kept nagging away at us until we finally managed to catch a middle-ranking fish in the organisation. Carlos Hernandez, in exchange for a reduction in his sentence, had quite a story to tell.

  “He claimed that the network operated out of Columbia, the drug capital of Latin America, and brought nothing but the finest grades of cocaine, marijuana, heroin, scopolamine and ultimate up into the United States. I understand that ultimate is of particular concern to you.”

  “Yes,” Lane said, shortly.

  Coombs hesitated, and then returned to the briefing. “When pressed about the destination of the drug pipeline, Carlos was reluctant to talk, but finally admitted the truth. The drug pipeline leads straight to the Young Stars Foundation—and the Young Stars themselves. We probed the links in the chain Carlos claimed to be linked to and discovered enough circumstantial evidence to support his claim. Just how far it reaches, unfortunately, is debatable; my Director requested support from the SDI before we moved any further and General Kratman pointed him to Mr. Harrison.”

  “Thank you,” Lane said. “We will discuss the plan for a joint operation later, once my team is fully-briefed and ready for deployment.”

  Coombs nodded and headed out the door. The Sergeant checked that it was sealed before returning to his seat, while Lane nodded to Professor Blunt, who stood up and took the stand.

  “Some of you know this already, but it never hurts to go over the material again,” he said, flatly. Jackson, who knew very little about the Young Stars, started taking notes again. “There are only five super team organisations in the world that recruit from teenagers and even children, as there are no shortage of concerns about the ability of children to handle combat situations, even with their...remarkable power levels. Such teams have always been closely supervised, and two of them have even operated as training camps for later SDI operatives. However, the Young Stars have largely evaded government control and supervision.”

  His gaze swept the room. “According to their website, the Young Stars were founded to provide a home and a purpose for homeless kids with superhuman powers,” he continued. “In reality, the situation is quite different. The Young Stars were formed around a handful of teenagers, including the son of one of the richest men in the United States. As a charitable foundation, they are largely spared the onus of paying taxes and are permitted to make large donations to charitable causes, often without any oversight at all. They are tolerated largely because they are registered superhumans and because they don’t really engage in actual crime-fighting or other superhuman activities. On the face of it, they are glorified celebrities, people famous for who they are rather than what they do.”

  “Kind of like Paris Hilton,” Ron muttered. “Do they make porno movies too?”

  “Probably,” Jackson muttered back.

  “Pay attention,” Professor Blunt snapped. He’d been an operative and wasn't about to be scared by them. “The Young Stars have a core membership of six superhumans and about a dozen allies who are not technically members, but do associate with the core group. Some of them have independent careers of their own that don’t really bring in the cash, so they make appearances with the Young Stars from time to time that serve as a fucking licence to print money. Bear that in mind at all times. Each of the Young Stars is a millionaire at the very least, even though most of their money goes into charitable causes. It’s difficult to trace where the money goes, but I have a suspicion that a large amount goes into campaign donations for various Senators and Congressmen. Anyone proposing a bill to ban young super teams from operating has had it shot down before it ever reached the floor.

  He picked up a remote and activated the PowerPoint projector. “Their leader is Youngster himself, the kid of the rich man who created the Young Stars franchise. Officially, he’s nineteen; old enough to be reasonably mature, but young enough to serve as an idol for the children. He’s been nineteen for a while now; his birth certificate may have mysteriously vanished, yet there is enough evidence left to confirm that he is at least twenty-five years old. His lawyers issue a storm of legal threats every time someone questions his age, so don’t count on it being breaking news any time soon.”

  Jackson blinked in surprise. No one had realised Youngster had been officially nineteen for at least six years?

  “On the record, he’s as sweet and wholesome as your mother’s apple pie,” he continued. “Off the record, he’s got a reputation for being a bit of an asshole. He has slept with countless super-groupies, many of whom may have been younger than sixteen when he fucked them. Even if he was nineteen, he would still be a pervert, but there won’t be legal trouble, because he has a small army of lawyers on his side.

  He shrugged. “No steady girlfriend, no mother...and a father who sees him as a source of money. That sort of shit is always a recipe for trouble.”

  Jackson nodded. Youngster didn't seem very nice, but most of the super teams he’d been studying tended to have skeletons in their closets. At least one super team had broken up after discovering that its founder had very bad intentions...too late to stop him from using them to rob a bank and escape with the cash.

  “His power level is generally rated as a low Level 4,” the Professor added. “Most of them probably relate to gravity in some way; he can fly, has a limited form of invulnerability and is formidably strong. On the other hand, he does need to breathe”—he winked at Jackson—“and has a handful of other weaknesses, all of which will be covered in the detailed briefing notes.

  “Next up is Sparky.” He clicked the remote, using the projector to show an image of a Latino girl showing off her cleavage, Jackson sucked in his breath and heard some of the others doing the same. “She actually is eighteen years old, but like Youngster she has a bit of a reputation behind the scenes. Unlike him, there are plenty of teenagers and even young men willing to brag online that she picked them up after a show and took t
hem to bed, where they spent the entire night with her. You won’t be surprised to discover that she’s done nude shoots for Playboy in-between her activities with the Young Stars. Her powers all involve manipulating electric power; she has a very limited flight ability that doesn't seem to be anything like as flexible as a normal flyer.”

  “And you can go look up the pictures of her online later,” the Sergeant injected. There were some chuckles from the team. “And if we do have to fight her, don’t hold back. Any freak is dangerous, even the sexy ones.”

  Professor Blunt cleared his throat. “Nova and Brute have been teamed up by the Young Stars as a message about the importance of racial harmony,” he said. Jackson had to smile; Nova was a tall African-American, while Brute was at least as large as the Sergeant—and looked older than twenty years old. “They detest each other, although no one is quite sure why; they never share a room or a flight if they can help it. There’s probably quite a story in there somewhere if we knew what it was. Maybe they just pretend so that people don’t think that they’re secretly lovers or something stupid like that.