Chapter
12: Alpha and Omega
“What
can we do? We are, as a people, as a species,
reduced. What can we do against beings with such power? We have
reached an end.”
-
Professor Gregory Gould, chairman of biology, Duke University, 1953
The elevator hummed as it
descended to the basement of Lynch Labs. Majesticus stood
straight-backed next to Shade and Patriot, hands clasped behind his
back. He watched the numbers on the elevator tick down.
“I don't see why we have to do
this,” Patriot said. He pounded his fist into his open palm. The
sound of his armored hands slamming together rang through the small
space. Majesticus winced. The sound almost eclipsed the harsh
static of Patriot's frustration. “We should be out there,
following Nucleon and the rest of those traitors. Instead we're
going to be stuck doing a stupid publicity stunt.”
“It's important, isn't it?”
Shade said. “And they worked.”
Patriot nodded. “Right. So
let's follow up on their performance. Let's get out there and chase
'em down. They're on the run. We're wasting time doing this.” He
looked down at his open palm and curled it into a fist. “I want
this over. Now.”
Majesticus touched Patriot's
shoulder, the highest part of his teammate's body he could reach.
“Patience,” he said. “We have our orders.” Inside,
Majesticus shook. Patriot's anger made him uneasy. Patriot
had been like this since the funeral in Chicago. Eager for a chance
to get back at Nucleon after he'd literally slipped through their
fingers.
The rest of the ride passed in
silence until the doors slid open onto the main basement of Lynch
Labs. The basement was at least forty feet tall floor to ceiling,
all of it vast and echoing space lit by flat florescent lighting.
Glass tubes lined the room from floor to ceiling, each of them large
enough to hold a man and filled with some thick blue liquid.
President Lynch was already there, talking in low tones to Dr.
Stewart. Sweaty cameramen and glossy reporters stood about, talking
and finalizing preparations. The sounds they made bounced around the
cavernous room, lost amongst the constant hum and bubbling sounds
emitting from the endless ranks of glass tubes.
President Lynch looked up at the
approaching heroes. He clasped his hands together and smiled.
“Good. We can begin.” He nodded to the scientist. “Ready,
Dr. Stewart?”
“Ready,” said Dr. Stewart.
Lynch beckoned to the heroes.
“You remember your lines?”
“Of course,” said Majesticus,
speaking for all of them. He could always feed them their lines
telepathically if needed. Patriot grunted. Shade smiled
automatically.
“Cameras ready?” Dr. Stewart
asked as he adjusted his tie.
“Ready,” came the response.
Majesticus positioned himself by
the president, next to Patriot and Shade. He tugged at the bottom of
his cowl, smoothed out his cape, and assumed a sombre stance,
something appropriate for the occasion. Patriot stood with his fists
on his hips, the dramatic pose the public was used to seeing him in.
The red lights on the cameras
blinked. “Aaand, three two, one...”
“Good afternoon, America,”
Lynch said to the cameras. “As many of you have surely heard,
Lynch Labs, under the watch of Director of Research Dr. Lyman
Stewart, has developed a new weapon to fight the evil Metahumans in
this war: the Omegamen. Just yesterday we proved that these new
weapons have what it takes to win. The Omegamen found Nucleon and
his supporters and handed us a clear victory.”
It was interesting, Majesticus
thought, the range of emotions flying through the room at that
moment. Pride and a nervous energy from Dr. Stewart. Resentment
from Patriot. Tightly coiled excitement from the president.
“Our very own National Heroes
will soon be fighting alongside the Omegamen,” Lynch continued.
“And with the power and leadership they provide with the might of
the Omegamen, victory in this war is a certainty.” The president
swept his hands behind him into the depths of the basement.
Majesticus now saw that in each of the glass tubes floated a man,
wires hooked into arms and chest, breathing apparatuses in their
mouths. Their minds were blank, less than the babbling thoughts of
infants.
Lynch strolled down the path
between the towers of glass tubes. “Tell us about the Omegamen,
Dr. Stewart,” he said, speaking half to the doctor and half to the
cameras.
“Of course.” Dr. Stewart
pushed his glasses up his nose, opened his mouth, closed it, then
opened it again. “We created them using the latest technology.
Years of research. They're artificially created. Like clones.
Test-tube bred. We used genetic material from various soldiers in
our service, as well as Metahuman DNA. It grants them an astonishing
level of powers.” Dr. Stewart gestured to the ranks upon ranks of
men in the tubes. Further down, some of the Omegamen looked
different, less human. Younger ones, Majesticus reasoned. Less
developed. They had a doughy look to their flesh. The muscles
weren't fully developed, undersized or bulging under skin not yet
grown to fit. Wires and electronics fit in under the skin on their
bald heads. Some looked younger still, but not like children. Like
small adults made of clay. “Super strength. Bulletproof skin.
Not that we don't provide them with armor, but having Kevlar-tough
skin never hurts. Enhanced senses, the most useful of which are
microscopic and telescopic vision. We gave them flight too, of
course. No need for troop transport. And it's a very intimidating
sight to see them fly in rank. Strike fear into the enemies.” He
held his hands out above him, indicating the grandness of his vision.
The shirt fabric under his arms was wet. “And, this is the best
thing: a hive mind.”
“Could you explain what that
means, doctor?” the president asked, his tone light and
inquisitive.
“Yes. Quite simply, they share
one mind. Single thoughts in all of their heads. The fastest method
of communication we could think of, far faster than speaking or even
telepathy. Each Omegaman perceives the world independently, sees and
hears it by themselves, but they all know what each other sees at the
same time. They can create complex strategies and plans and they'll
all instantly know them. We call it the Omnimind.”
They had reached the end of the
walkway, where a group of new Omegamen stood, suited in their crisp
new uniforms. The bright red Omega symbol and the white stars on
their chest pockets were the only things that stood out in the beige
camouflage-patterned fabric and similar faces. Large black assault
rifles lay cradled in their arms. As one, they saluted President
Lynch and the National Heroes as they approached. Patriot nodded to
them, stiff-necked and irritable. Dr. Stewart rapped on the chest of
one of them. It made a dull ringing sound.
“They've also been given the
finest military training available,” the doctor continued.
“Downloaded directly into their minds. Mind,” he corrected.
“Fascinating,” muttered
Lynch, his face turned away from the camera. “Amazing. So shiny
and new. Perfect, like gods.”
Like gods, indeed, thought
Majesticus. What did that make the Metahumans, then? The titans?
Creators of the universe, perhaps, but diminished and forgotten when
the gods arrived. And in many ways, perhaps the heroes were like the
old gods of myths. They had flight, super speed, incredible
strength, lightning at the tips of their fingers...some heroes even
had the egos and hubris to match. They'd had stories told about them
so many times that there was debate over what the real story was.
Not that it mattered. The characters themselves were what mattered.
The tales of their deeds were mutable. So too, the superheroes lived
on in stories.
The only difference, really, was
that the new American gods wore capes.
Majesticus walked up close to one
of the Omegamen. The artificial man stared back at him with flat
eyes. “May I look into your mind?” he asked. The Omegaman
didn't respond.
“The won't take orders from you
yet,” Dr. Stewart explained. “Not yet. They're programed to
take orders from only select people. Makes them easier for us to
control, you see. No risk of enemy takeover.” Majesticus nodded.
“Omegamen,” Dr. Stewart said in a clear voice, “this Metahuman
is going to read your mind. Admit him.” Majesticus closed his
eyes and opened his psychic awareness.
Ah. Yes. It was true. Despite
the many Omegamen around him, hundreds and hundreds of bodies, there
was only one mind, a singularity that marched through their heads in
perfect syncopation. Multiple bodies perceiving, one mind analzing.
It boggled the imagination. It had to be a sensory overload for
them, with one mind processing so much input and information. But
they were artificial. The more Majesticus looked the more their mind
resembled not a human brain, but a computer, obeying preset rules and
programs.
President Lynch turned to
Patriot. “Are you ready to serve alongside the Omegamen, Patriot,
and secure the future of this country?” The question was clearly
asked for the benefit of the cameras. To Patriot's credit, though,
he contorted his chiseled features into a close approximation of his
usual toothy grin.
“I am.” He put an arm around
the shoulder of the nearest Omegaman. The artificial soldier didn't
respond to the gesture. “Anything to win this war.”
Lynch smiled. “That's what I
want to hear. We're in good hands.”
The show and tell session
continued for some time, with Dr. Stewart and President Lynch
bragging about the many traits of the Omegamen and how they were
perfectly equipped to deal with Nucleon and the rogue Metahumans.
Majesticus played his part, the silent and respectful observer,
nodding along with the comments made and answering questions asked of
him. Secretly, he was concerned. He waited until the cameras were
off before voicing them.
“Mr. President?”
Lynch broke away from a
conversation with Dr. Stewart. “Majesticus?”
“I understand,” he began,
“that these Omegamen have proven useful. But they do not sit well
with me. Is this wise? How long shall we need them?”
“As long as is necessary,
Majesticus.” The president's face hardened. “Nucleon has been
free for almost a month. A month that he's held our nation in the
grip of terror and anarchy. Clearly, the efforts of our heroes are
not enough.”
“But keeping them a secret from
the public until now...”
“We needed the element of
surprise against Nucleon,” Lynch said. “We could not risk
tipping our hand.”
“And what will become of the
Omegamen once the war has ended?” Majesticus pressed.
“What do you think? They'll
stay, of course.”
“Stay. So you plan on
incorporating them into the military and MPA.”
“With the approval of the
varying other parties, of course. They need to be officially
approved by Congress and the generals of the army, and the
Departments of Defense and Metahuman Regulation will have to look
into it, but it's all formalities. After the success of the raid on
Nucleon's base, Congress will vote in favor of the program, and the
army won't be able to say no. We can only benefit from them.”
The two men walked through the
corridors of the basement together, president and superhero. Both
influential in their own ways. Without the political clout of the
White House the Metahumans would have amounted to nothing, and the
might of the state superhero gave the government power. Majesticus
remembered each president since Eisenhower had signed the Metahuman
Police Act into law. Each had used the superheroes for something
different. War, back in the sixties and seventies. Hope and unity
in the eighties. Peacekeeping in the nineties. And now?
“I wonder,” Majesticus said,
“how did you know where to find Nucleon? We've been searching
since the breakout and made no progress. And to find him in
Professor Portal's old headquarters of all places...” It was the
first time the villain's base of operations had been found, despite
the many years he'd been in operation and the years he'd spent in
Eisenhower Memorial Prison. Majesticus had always assumed that the
base had been hidden in a pocket dimension, a product of the
professor's space-bending powers. With all the temporary pathways
Professor Portal made by folding space onto itself, a permanent
wormhole would have had to emerge, or some other disastrous side
effect. Instead the blasted thing had been hidden in the desert,
protected with turrets and clever cloaking devices.
“Good old fashioned detective
work, Majesticus,” Lynch explained. “That, and we were able to
figure out where the portal that took Nucleon out of Chicago led to.
Stupid move on Professor Portal's part, leading Nucleon right back to
his secret base.”
Majesticus frowned. “I thought
we tried that when we were tracking Professor Portal during his big
crime spree in 1988. And a number of other methods too.”
“Well, it worked this time,”
Lynch said. He stopped and turned to face Majesticus, hands in his
trouser pockets. “Majesticus. May I ask you something?”
“By all means.”
“Do you trust me?”
Majesticus blinked, taken aback.
“I'm sorry?”
“Do you trust me?” the
president repeated. “It's a simple question.”
“Why?”
“You're on edge,” Lynch said.
“Suspicious, I'm afraid. And the Omegamen aren't helping. It's a
big change, I know. I wasn't sold on the idea myself until Dr.
Stewart showed me the figures and results on the project. He was
very adamant, and the rest of my cabinet was with him. After the
results at Professor Portal's base, well, I couldn't say no.”
Majesticus nodded.
“I ask again, Majesticus: do
you trust me?” Lynch put a hand on the Majesticus's shoulder,
comforting and fatherly. “We need to all trust each other, or else
we crumble. If we become paranoid and start seeing knives in the
shadows, then Nucleon wins. We can't have that, can we?”
“No,” Majesticus said, but in
his mind he remembered Nucleon from thirty years ago, young and
fresh-faced as the crowds applauded for him while Majesticus looked
on. “Never.” Part of Majesticus realized the absurdity of the
situation, of two grown men having a frank and serious conversation
while one was dressed a suit, the other in tights and a cape.
“Then...”
“I trust you,” said
Majesticus. “Don't worry. And Shade and Patriot do too. Believe
me Mr. President, regardless of the outcome in this war, we will stay
together.”
As the President walked away
Majesticus realized that he couldn't read Lynch's mind.
“I don't like 'em,” Patriot
declared the moment the team left Lynch Labs and had gotten past the
swarms of reporters and paparazzi (Patriot had stopped to sign
autographs and shake hands, and several teenage boys had begged to
have their pictures taken with Shade). “Not at all.”
“They're useful,” Shade said.
“Just get over them.”
“Hmmph.”
Majesticus was lost in thought.
Did President Lynch simply have an extremely guarded mind, difficult
to read and perceive? Perhaps he'd had training. It was not
uncommon in this day and age for politicians to be trained to block
their thoughts against invasive telepathy. It had happened enough in
the Cold War, presidents and senators afraid of having their secrets
ripped from their minds by Soviet Metahumans. He could have used a
Psiblock, standard among DMR officials working with telepaths. But
Psiblocks were either large and bulky, meant for large radii, or
personal earpieces. Majesticus had seen no earpiece.
“We must do something!”
Patriot said, interrupting Majesticus's musings.
“We already have a plan,”
Shade said. “Look: the DMR's tracking Nucleon, and we'll lead a
raid on them with the Omegamen.”
Patriot slapped his hands
together. “I won't have them win this war on their own.” He
frowned. “I'm speaking to the president. We'll organize a strike
force, find Nucleon, and end this. Now.”
