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 cha
meleon, 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.
Desperately, he threw himself at the window and crashed through it into the bright sunlight, falling nearly five metres to the ground. Somehow, he managed to twist in the air so he landed without injuring himself, only to realise that the crowds of people nearby hadn't even noticed his appearance. The Redeemer’s telepathic net had sunk its hooks deep into their minds, preventing them from seeing anything out of the ordinary. A moment later, he felt her mind attempting to lock onto his thoughts. She wouldn't settle for just holding him in her grasp this time; she’d either take complete control or shut him down completely. And then no one would be able to warn the United States...
Silly, The Redeemer said, directly into his mind. The contempt in her thoughts struck right into his soul. She was mad; no, worse than mad. The Redeemer knew exactly what she was doing. But surely a telepath would understand that what she was doing was wrong. Even the most basic telepath was empathic, aware of the fear and guilt that affected normal humans when they encountered a telepath. But some telepaths gloried in the fear they caused.
The Redeemer’s thoughts hardened. What do you think you can tell them that they don’t already know?
Mimic stumbled to his feet, only to lose control of his legs moments later and crash back to the ground. One hand fumbled for the pistol at his belt, moving it up towards his forehead; he couldn't tell if it was his own determination to escape being turned into a puppet or if she was pushing him into committing suicide. He tried to fight the depression overcoming him, but it was too strong, too focused. He’d failed everyone and now he was going to become a puppet, unless he killed himself before she caught him...
The gun barrel felt reassuringly solid against his teeth as he pressed it into his mouth, and then pulled the trigger. There was a moment of horrified despair, a moment of chilling realisation that he’d been manipulated...and then there was nothing.
***
Matt stared in disbelief as Mimic put the pistol in his mouth and blew his brains out. No one else seemed to have noticed the shot, let alone the dying chameleon in front of them, a sure sign of telepathic interference. A moment later, he realised that he was also the only one who could see the Redeemer as she hovered over Mimic’s corpse. He might be shielded from her telepathy—it had been how he’d been able to get so close to the mansion—but if she turned and looked at him, he’d be seen for sure.
Luck was with him. She never turned around. Instead, the Redeemer waited until a couple of men with body bags arrived to take Mimic’s remains to the mass graves outside the city, and then floated back through the window, into the mansion. Matt wanted to slip up to the men and take the body from them, but the Redeemer had obviously meddled with their minds and any interference might draw her attention. Shaking his head, he replayed what he had seen and sensed in the moment since Mimic had plummeted out of a window and hit the ground. He wasn't the personality type to consider suicide—anyone who had completed BUD/S wasn't inclined to give up and die—and that suggested the Redeemer had murdered him, even though his hand had been the murder weapon. There had been a telepath, a decade ago, who had been driven mad by sensing the moment when a person died and turned into a serial killer. Had The Redeemer joined him in madness?
Shaking his head, Matt slipped away from the mansion and back to the hotel. The United States had to be warned of this new danger. Hope was bad enough, but if the Redeemer was mad...God alone knew what would happen. Telepathic madness tended to be contagious, the telepath accidentally infecting other nearby minds with memes that created madness or death. It was one of the many reasons why telepaths were so strictly controlled...
And if Hope really did intend to invade the United States, a mad telepath would be a formidable weapon.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“I really don’t like this, sir.”
General Kratman nodded, unsurprised, as America paced his office. Part of the reason he'd kept his job through three administrations and a dozen incidents that would have terminated anyone else’s career was because he never let anything bother him. Other officials would have found the presence of so many superhumans intimidating, but the General had seen death and terror in the secret wars that had followed Vietnam and no longer allowed fear to influence his life. Besides, he’d given plenty of orders to men who could have killed him, particularly as he’d grown older. It had been a long time since he'd led men on a mission.
America was the public face of the SDI, a superhuman wearing an all-covering spandex costume made from an American flag. What wasn't known to the general public was that there had been no less than five different superhumans playing the role of America, in
cluding two who had died in the line of duty. The precise details of the SDI’s organisation were kept highly classified, not least because the General knew that the SDI was badly outnumbered by the rest of the superhuman population. It wouldn't do to allow untrained superhumans to think that they could beat the team that, if worst came to worst, served as a final sanction on their behaviour.
The public lapped up whatever information was fed to them through tame reporters with gusto, but most of it was nonsense intended to hide the truth and convince them that the SDI could be trusted to do its duty. In reality, the General feared that the system of taking the most powerful superhumans they could find and offering them whatever they wanted to serve as part of the SDI was badly flawed. Some superhumans had issues that made them ill-suited to work in a military organisation, no matter how powerful they were. A handful wound up in the covert team, fighting the underground battles to keep the United States safe; others were watched and, if necessary, eliminated. The General would have preferred to work with boosted SOF operatives who had passed psych tests intended to weed out those who couldn't be trusted with enough power to bring down a city, but no one had come up with a safe procedure for granting superpowers.
“I can't say that I’m very comfortable with it either,” the General said, finally. America had objected, politely but firmly, to the plan to assassinate Hope. America knew, of course, that Hope’s plan had weaknesses even before he left Libya in chaos, but someone attempting to assassinate a Level 5 superhuman had to worry him. It didn’t help that no one had been warned about it before the assassin had made her attempt—and failed. “But do we have any other choice?”
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