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Master Force (Original Contemporary Mil-Fi LitRPG)

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NATO was founded to counter all major worldwide threats to its members' existence. They've dealt with many over the decades. Still, one they never anticipated was super-powered rogue groups trying to take over land bases in a display of abilities worthy of a movie or videogame. They acquire weird skills, they level up, and with each ratchet, the threat level rises.

To face this new menace, NATO needs its own empowered units. The Master Force is their answer to the plague of super-enemies. Carolus Zimmer of NATO's Security Directorate hopes that his elite force led by Captains Varanson and Zacharias will be enough to keep the momentum on NATO's side.

But it is hard to play in a game whose rules nobody understands against all forms of enemies, small and large. And when the Master defenders of NATO realize what might be at stake, they may end up starting World War Three. With real super-beings. On all sides.

Disclaimer​

This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This is even more apparent when it comes to NATO. The NATO depicted in this story does not operate like real-world NATO, and I am very much aware of this. But when writing fiction involving super-hero levels of power, you can't aim from vraisemblance, only merely… verisimilitude. Consider this an alternate history of sorts, even if it refers to event you know happened in the past.
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Chapter 1 - Supremacy in Poznan New
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    • Vincent Archer

    Vincent Archer

    CHAPTER 1 - SUPREMACY IN POZNAN​

    If you're plotting to reshape the world, you should do it from an underground base on an extinct volcano island. Not a dingy apartment on the second floor in the suburbs.

    Cyrek Borkowski looked up the old apartment.

    Unsurprisingly, a face was just looking down as he stepped out of his decrepit car. No doubt Marek had twigged on his approach. The Level 2 Steward Overseer would have tracked him with near-absolute precision while driving to the meeting.

    Cyrek climbed the dimly lit stair toward Marek's home. That wasn't the first time the former gaming group had met there. But, if Marek had called all of them now, then today would be different.





    A year ago, none of the principal members of the game guild Polish Supremacy had any idea they would end up there. The group had formed itself nearly a decade ago as a bunch of spaceship addicts in a massive space empire game, where they hunted their designated opponents relentlessly – Russian gamers. It was a good time, bringing together a few Polish youths yearning for more than their boring real world. They had their enemies. They were underdogs, but they had their dedication. And the Russians' holdings blew – virtually – often.

    Since then, they'd done tank simulations, first-person shooters, everything. As long as it was online and had Russian groups in it to shoot down. Germans might do if they couldn't get enough targets.

    Players drifted in and out depending on which game was popular at the moment, but the core of the guild remained steadfast. Right now, they were mainly doing Wizardry Wars, a blatant Harry Potter knock-off RPG shooter from Korea, of all places. The Polish Supremacy had earned itself a righteous name in that game.

    Bartosz Tarnowski was the current Guild Leader when Oskar Kowal appeared one day on the guild's online chat system. He was surprised – and delighted to see the avatar icon pop up in the connected list. After their previous real-life meeting, Oskar and his brother had vanished entirely two months ago.

    "Hey, man! I was starting to think you were a goner. Even the Russians were starting to miss you!" Bartosz typed.

    "Nah. I had… other things to think about," Oskar replied.

    "Life first, man."

    "It's complicated. Can we talk about it IRL?"

    "You and me?"

    "No, the whole core."

    "You want a guild meet? Why?"

    "I need to show you all something. Online isn't enough for that."

    Marek Rataj had been online and, as usual, offered the services of his apartment. You needed a good walk from the nearest tramway station if you didn't have a car, but most others had smaller apartments around Poznan, and none were suitable for a guild meeting.





    Over half a dozen of the prominent guild members had made it. Most of the rest were far from Poznan and would have needed an earlier warning to organize a trip. Oskar and his twin brother, Janosz, arrived first. The two had joined the guild when it was founded and usually played together unless work hours interfered.

    A handful of glasses were put out, and vodka was poured while everyone debriefed the last Wizardry Wars raid on a minor Russian group. Success had been so-so, and Cyrek was trying to convince everyone to harvest more consumables in-game to fuel the following fights. Exotic alchemy potions could be critical between mere victory for the Polish Supremacy and the humiliating, abject defeat – of the Russians.

    Finally, once everyone had settled and mellowed, Oskar stood and called for attention.

    "OK, I have a big question. How would you like to be wizards?" his question was.

    "Those wands are a pain in the ass."

    "Hey, just because you didn't loot an epic one yet."

    Oskar raised his hand.

    "No, I mean, what if you were wizards? For real."

    "Wizards are fun. But I'm not doing Pig Latin incantations. I'd rather speak Russian."

    There were a lot of catcalls following this outrageous proposition.

    "I'm not saying live Wizardry Wars. I'm talking about real magic in the real world, which is different," Oskar elaborated.

    "You obviously got more vodka before coming, Oskar."

    Oskar shrugged.

    "I'll let Janosz show you something."

    All eyes turned on Janosz. Both brothers were interchangeable, save that Janosz had a big scar from one of their youthful capers above the left eye. Janosz raised his glass for everyone to see. Then, without warning, the vodka froze, and an ice sheen formed all over the glass.





    Everyone stared at the glass. Bartosz was the first to frown. He reached out his hand toward Janosz. The man dropped the frozen glass in it, and Bartosz yelled in shock, almost dropping the glass.

    "It's fucking burning!"

    "It's colder than liquid nitrogen if you want to know," Janosz explained.

    "How did you do that?" Bartosz asked.

    "I'm a Level 1 Freezer," he replied.

    Bartosz was confused.

    "You're a refrigerator?"

    "No. A Freezer. My magic ability right now is freezing things", Janosz added.

    Marek had watched the exchange. He rose and went to the kitchen, returning with a simple potato. He handed it to Janosz.

    "Ok. Now, do it again."

    Janosz simply shrugged, and then the potato whitened, and a cold white vapor rose from his hand. Marek pulled out a knife and tried to cut the potato before resorting to smashing it open on the table's border. The bits of potato were hard to the touch, and the guild members had difficulty handling them from the extreme cold.

    Marek started to say, "I'd say cool, but that's…"

    Multiple groans cut the joke before it was even finished. Marek contemplated his potato bit before asking again.

    "Okay. How do you do it?"

    "I decide it's going to freeze, and it does," Janosz answered.

    "No, I mean, really. What's the trick?" Marek pressed.

    "Zero trick. I can freeze anything you want. Come, watch this one; it's even more fun."

    Janosz moved to the kitchen, everyone piling up behind. He opened the faucet to let a small flow pour into the sink. Then he flicked his finger under the water flow. An ice shard pinged to the side of the sink. Everyone stared again as he flicked a couple more shards of ice.





    Back in the main room, Michalina Trusewicz, the only woman in the guild's core, asked the next question.

    "Ok, so you say you're… a Level 1 Freezer… what do you mean by that? You can freeze bigger things later on?"

    "That I am, like, at my first level, and I can use only one magical ability. My freezing touch," Janosz said.

    "You have to touch something to freeze it, then?" Michalina asked.

    "That's correct. Unfortunately, I don't know how to project the cold around. That one would be perfect to have. But I can freeze anything with my hand," Janosz explained.

    "And Level 1 means…" Marek pressed.

    Janosz shrugged.

    "That eventually, I could get Level 2 and get a second ability, then Level 3, and so on. You know the drill."

    "How do you know that? I mean… you freeze stuff, like that American mutant guy in the comics… so maybe you're just a mutant. All those mutants have one single power, that's all," Bartosz conjectured.

    Janosz turned to Oskar, who had been silent during the demonstration, letting his brother explain. Oskar lifted his half-touched vodka toward the guild and shrugged before taking over the explanations.

    "That doesn't work like that. I don't know anything about mutant genes or stuff like that, but it's… like a role-playing game. A real-life Dungeons & Dragons. You gain some kind of experience, you gain levels, but instead, you gain new powers. A different one for every level. If you ever got to Level 10, you'd have ten different powers available."

    Michalina asked, "Are you one… what do you call it? Wizard?"

    Oskar corrected her.

    "Master. Yes, but I'm a Level 2 Oracle Lighter, not a Freezer."

    "Oracle? You know the future? Can…"

    Oskar interrupted.

    "No, that means I can know… things. Things I shouldn't know normally. I don't predict events, at least like that. I'm not sure it's not one of the possible abilities, but I wouldn't bet against it. But being Oracle means I know lots about the Master System."

    Oskar raised his finger, and a small light globe appeared, floating just above him, prompting more incredulous looks.

    "What the…?"

    Cyrek immediately understood.

    "The Lighter bit, you said? You have two abilities, and that's the other?"

    Oskar smiled.

    "Exactly. I started with both. Unlike Janosz, who got only one, probably because he's the youngest."

    Janosz corrected him, "by 20 minutes!"

    "You were always a lazy boy!" Oskar countered.

    Marek waved his hands, trying to take the discussion back on track.

    "So, ok. You two are mutants…"

    "Not mutants. We were latent Masters, and we got our powers awakened by chance. Well, I got them by chance, then Janosz," Oskar elaborated.

    "Still sounds like mutant stuff to me," Maciej added.

    "Whatever. Ok, I said that Master is like an RPG thing. You have levels, experience, and factions, and…" Oskar replied.

    "And you have a small blue stat screen in your vision like the usual RPG?" Marek interrupted.

    "No. I just know things instinctively…" Oskar replied.

    He stopped and stared at Michalina.

    "And I have to ask you, Micha… what do you see now?"





    Michalina frowned.

    "What do I see? What do you mean, what do…"

    She paused.

    "That's… what you just said… Master? Both of you?"

    Oskar nodded.

    "It looks like you just awakened. And that means you can now recognize a Master by sight. That's us both."

    "Wait a minute… are you saying I'm one of your… Master people? I'm some kind of witch?" Michalina asked.

    Oskar confirmed her intuition.

    "You are now. You were not when we came in, but I can recognize the… Master in you now. Every Master can recognize one when they see one. That's not something you can turn off. It's automatic and instinctive."

    Michalina voiced her thoughts.

    "So… I can freeze stuff? Or…"

    "Or a different thing. Each Master is different. I have an advantage over you; I'm an Oracle. I couldn't see what your first power could be until you awakened, but now I know. So… try doing something. Just on impulse," Oskar suggested.

    Michalina shrugged back.

    "Like what?"

    "Anything. Just try… what you wouldn't do normally. Come on. Just go with the instinct. I'd tell you more on how to figure it, but it's more fun if you find out yourself," Oskar said.

    Michalina stood up and hesitated. Every eye was on her. Then, without warning, she rushed toward the wall and jumped, landing in a crouch.

    On the wall itself.





    Everyone stared in silence. Then Cyrek applauded: "That's a good show, guys. You really have to tell us how you do it. You're in it, Marek?"

    "It's not a show. Tell them, Micha," Oskar replied.

    "It's…"

    "No, really. You…"

    The conversation became confusing as everyone tried talking at once. Cyrek looked as Michalina carefully removed her ankle boots. Then, her socks, putting her naked feet on the wall. Then, she slowly climbed on all four up to the top of the wall, slid over to the ceiling, and moved back toward the center of the room, finally letting go of her arms. She remained there, suspended, arms dropping nearly to the table.

    Janosz waved at her.

    "Does it look like she's got wires? Or sticky pads? Or something?"

    "Well, you're the ones doing the trick. You tell me how you got her to do it."

    Oskar sighed.

    "Pick me, I'm dropping down," Michalina warned.

    Both Bartosz and Cyrek moved to catch her. She dropped from the ceiling, and they flipped her back to the upright position. Cyrek looked carefully, but there was no trace of whatever the brothers had made for their accomplice on the ceiling. But then, she moved next to the old couch, put her feet flat on the side, and sat on her haunches. The sight of her in that position, feet glued to the sofa, felt a bit surreal.

    Michalina looked at the guild.

    "OK, now see if you can find something about who you are."

    Seeing their incredulous looks, she sighed, "OK, I'm… what? Oskar?"

    "A Level 1 Sticker. You should know that by yourself. It's not like there's a game user interface or something showing up; it's instinctive if you think about it. You just know, without being told or shown anything," Oskar explained.

    Michalina shook her head.

    "I wasn't bitten by a radioactive spider, though. Or I don't remember it."

    "No, but you saw Janosz and me demonstrate our abilities. And that was obviously enough to awaken your first ability," Oskar elaborated.

    "I have more than one?" Michalina asked.

    "Potentially. If you can acquire experience, you can reach Level 2 and unlock a new one. And since I'm an Oracle, I can tell your next ability, but not the one beyond. That one could be anything," Oskar said.

    "And my next magical ability is…?" Michalina asked.

    "Burning Hand," was Oskar's answer.

    "No way! She can burn things with her hands?" Marek asked.

    Oskar amended his claim.

    "Not yet. She's a fresh Level 1. She needs to gain… experience. Then, at Level 2, you'll be able to make a flame around her fists and burn anything you touch," he added, looking at the woman whose eyes had goggled in surprise.

    "And you didn't know she was a… how you say… Master?" Cyrek asked.

    "I knew she was possibly one as soon as we met here, even if she had yet to awaken. Part of being Oracle. Just like I now know a few of you are also latent."

    "Wait a minute, wait a minute…"





    Maciej opened the door before Cyrek could even knock. It looked like everyone was already there. Cyrek tried to find a place to sit and settled on the side of the old couch. Marek didn't waste time.

    "Ok, everyone made it. Thank you all. Today is the day."

    Bartosz asked, "You have a target?"

    Marek confirmed, "I have a target. That East Germany/West Poland District has begun activating, and the location of that Control Base is now fixed in advance."

    Everyone took a deep breath. This was what they had been waiting for the last few months. An active District in Europe. The first active District ever on Earth, possibly. And it was next door.

    Marek completed his explanations.

    "If the Polish Supremacy can claim the District, we'll be the ones to shape how Earth will enter the Master System. Poland will have all the power and legitimacy. Not even the EU or the USA will be able to gainsay us. And once we leverage the District, we'll have recruits to bolster us."

    Maciej raised his hand.

    "How hard is that going to be?"

    Cyrek saw Marek's face dropping. That meant the claim wouldn't be easy. Marek pointed toward the topographic map on the table.

    "It's going to be tricky. Very tricky."

    Maciej saw the circle drawn around the designated location, and his eyes widened.

    "You've got to be shitting us. A NATO base?"

    Marek downplayed the complication.

    "A minor NATO supply depot. Oskar and I have always guessed Control Bases could be… attached to military or leadership structures. So it's not entirely a surprise."

    Maciej pressed on.

    "You want us to take on NATO? Really?"

    "So what? If we control the District, we get a massive advantage. And without Masters on their own, NATO will quickly realize they have to talk to us. Unless they want to MOAB their stuff. If they want to counterattack, they'll get slaughtered once we bring in our recruits and start awakening them. They can't just drop a WMD on us in the middle of a District in Germany; they need a conventional attack… and if we have enough level 2 and 3 – or more, with luck – we'll be too much for them," Bartosz countered.

    Michalina raised her hand.

    "While I think Bartosz is optimistic about how easy it can be, it's not as if we have another option. Say we don't move. So, Germany and NATO find themselves with an active Control Base for study. They're going to figure out sooner or later about the Master System. And then, Poland will be forever a small cog in the machine."

    Marek turned to Borkowski.

    "Cyrek, you're going to be the vanguard if we move. What do you think?"

    Cyrek took a deep breath.

    "I'm close to Level 4, I'm sure. But that won't happen fast enough unless we can get more recruits awakened. Certainly not in time for this… activation. We've done all we can for now."

    "But can you do it?" Marek checked.

    Cyrek voiced his thoughts: "Even if I'm 'only' a Level 3 Plasma Kinetic Freezer, it's a very, very strong combo for fighting. And I have a reasonably fast recharge for the plasma. And you're no slouches either, most of you."

    Michalina raised her finger and started a flame going along its length, grinning. She had been a Level 1 Sticker but got her Level 2 Burning Hand last month. According to Oskar, she'd be even more powerful later, but that wouldn't be possible for a while, just like with Cyrek's slow progression.

    "So taking over the district is possible," Maciej prompted.

    Cyrek was feeling more confident now.

    "Certain. Unless they have, like, a company waiting for us. And even then. We'll mow them down. It's only a small depot," he added, pointing at the map.

    They all turned to Janosz. He was the other Level 2 heavy hitter of the group, and his opinion weighed a lot.

    "It's a gamble. But we've known that for a long time. We would have to face opponents depending on how the first Bases were coming. And it might have been better if the East Poland District had been first, because that one is mostly within borders. But we know it's easier to awaken someone in an active District, and we do have the candidates to join us once we have it."

    Marek pitched in.

    "The real job is to convince the government of Poland that we are the legitimate arm of Poland in the System. If they agree, we win."

    "And old man Mordecai will do it."

    All of the Polish Supremacists looked at each other. In the end, there was no doubt about it. They would move to that NATO depot at Bergholz to grab the dome as soon as it went up and then get Poland officially involved before NATO escalated its response to kick them out.

    And their names would live forever in Poland's legend.
     
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    • Chapter 2 - No Plan Survives Contact New
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    • CHAPTER 2 - NO PLAN SURVIVES CONTACT​



    Al "Main Man" Varanson got his nickname because one of his squadmates was a fan of B-flicks. Carl "Baseball" Johnson swore up and down that he looked like some alien bounty hunter from a 2000s movie. Of course, once the squad tracked the actual movie, they agreed that if you stripped the Kiss makeup, maybe it would be his adopted brother or something. Besides, the idea that Varanson would be the guy hired by the Easter Bunny to assassinate Santa Claus was far too funny to let go, so the nickname stuck.

    At least, that squad was composed of buddies. After six months in Afghanistan, they sometimes forgave him for being a simple lieutenant and all. Afghanistan had been his first deployment after the grueling training for a brand new special forces officer, and it had been a good one. Getting a platoon command immediately instead of waiting to get promoted further was its own reward.

    Afghanistan, in the now third decade of the War on Terror, was a weird mix of boredom, a show of force, and the occasional cleanup of insurgent caches, and that lasted until the bi-annual force rotation for NATO. The USA regularly detached forces into NATO, rotating them in and out, and his unit had been designated as the next on this rotation. So, he and his company were moved last month to NATO's armed forces active roster, Special Forces Division. That meant out of the usual Afghan policing duties that were a USA-exclusive operation and probably into the Middle-East mess that the Alliance tried to manage on behalf of Europe.

    Of course, once that was decided, nothing happened. The entire company had been stuck in the usual administrative limbo that accompanied a change of affectation chosen according to a spreadsheet in the bowels of the Pentagon or Brussels. Three weeks stationed next to Kabul, with its incredible nightlife and nothing in the way of distractions, not even a patrol through pacified areas. Then, his platoon had been split in two, and he had been told to head to Germany, of all places, with only half a dozen special forces snake eaters.





    Landing in Eastern Germany, his commander – who also had managed to be sent with them – had finally figured out the whole problem. As most NATO units, they'd be formed as an integrated unit – meaning mixing squads from various nations –, and so, while the great shuffling occurred, troops were pulled out of NATO, others replaced them, and people waited.

    Varanson thought the whole thing completely bonkers, and the reform of NATO from a paper organization to an actual autonomous military force that perpetually churned units had been an exercise in stupidity, but that was because he was a lieutenant, not a 4-star general.

    So, the plan was that, over the next week or so, several other special forces, including some French Foreign Legion of all things, would merge into a battalion, following which they would have a massive exercise to get them to work together. After that, they might get deployed back on the field… somewhere for the next two or three years until they were reassigned to the normal Army. His understrength platoon was going to get some British SAS guys. As soon as someone upstairs figured out which ones.

    Meanwhile, the only thing left was R&R. In a civilized country – as much as Eastern Germany could be for an American. And that meant sampling the bars and gasthaus and all the various ways Germany could accommodate semi-bored elite American – now NATO – special forces on half-leave with accumulated money from Afghanistan to burn. He and the team looked forward to that one after the boredom of Kabul.





    This evening's outing came courtesy of Hector "Legs" Nories. The squad's unofficial recreational officer had cross-referenced all of the various tourist and culinary guides and picked a small gasthaus near Prenzlau, not too far from Berlin. The local menu boasted an unofficial triple-star rating and "French-inspired German cuisine," which looked awfully lovely on paper. There was also a large choice of locally brewed beers.

    Besides, if the team didn't like it, Hector would be the one paying, so he took minimal risks. So, the seven of them loaded in two Humvees from the base and headed toward their latest watering spot. They just had settled in and started sampling the wares when things went wrong.

    The smartphone buzzed. Al looked at it and saw a simple "secure, callback" text from the major.

    "Call from upstairs, guys. Be right back."

    Al went outside and lifted the secure satphone from his pickup. He dialed the major's line, and the call was immediately connected.

    "Varanson?" Major Mackay asked.

    "Aye, major," Varanson confirmed.

    "We have a problem. And it looks like your team is the closest to the site," Mackay started.

    Varanson felt a sinking feeling mixed with the alluring prospect of an ending to last month's boredom.

    "End of R&R, then? What's the problem?"

    "We got a call from a small supply depot out in the boonies near your location. They were reporting that they were under assault. The local detachment is a small garrison with around thirty people; most staff are day civilian contractors. It's not heavy military weapons, more like vehicle parts and sundries," Mackay explained.

    "Under assault? We're not in Afghanistan; how can we get under assault? Rabid Germans?" Al answered, feeling confused.

    Mackay ignored the rhetorical question.

    "The point is, the depot no longer answers. So, we have an unknown force moving in, and apparently, they did neutralize the garrison."

    "Counter-terrorism for the rescue," Al perked.

    "You guessed it. Extraterritoriality rules for this; we have authority. We have forces inbound, but I realized you're positioned right to become our front-line scouts for fast reaction. You have your kits, I assume," Mackay confirmed.

    Varanson mentally checked his memory and confirmed, "Always prepared. Not a full kit, but good enough. Good to recon, assess, and intervene, or at least report back."

    Major Mackay gave him more details. The depot was a place called Bergholz. Administrative personnel would have left for the day, leaving only a small military police cadre as guards, thirty men at most.

    "Move. Mackay, out."

    Al returned to announce the bad news that the Leipzig Carrot Cake would have to wait another day.





    The two Humvees were streaking through the night. Hector was the driver for the first one, and while they were now in a hurry, he wasn't going to drive too fast across the unknown and largely unlit German plains and forests. Meanwhile, the rest of the team was checking their light kit.

    Al would have preferred to have the full complement of body armor and weaponry, but even in a locked military vehicle, there was no way they would have been allowed to take their complete kit for an evening restaurant excursion. Not that there should have been a reason to. Still, everyone had their weapon and a few ammo clips, and Jonas even had an armor vest stashed at the back that he'd put on as soon as they arrived. They were not supposed to have that one out, but even the Major would know better than to ask.

    Al started the briefing.

    "OK, guys. We do recon, evaluate, and then figure out what happened. The major said that nobody is answering anymore."

    Carl had a first question.

    "Has the police checked?"

    Al replied with the negative.

    "It's a NATO base; the German Polizei has no jurisdiction there. So we didn't call them. Besides, there's a complement of troops to guard the depot, and those should have been able to handle a situation, even if they were surprised. But apparently, they got overwhelmed."

    "Which is why they call us. Messy is our job," Quintrell "Smoke" Dillard interjected.

    Al felt he should moderate his team's ardor.

    "Still, be careful. We're not Seal 666 or something. I have no idea why someone would want to attack a NATO supply depot unless they want to steal weapons, which I'm told there aren't. We get intel; then we figure out if we counter-attack."

    "Coming up to base, according to the GPS," Hector interrupted.

    Al stretched a bit.

    "Stop us at half a mile. We'll finish by foot discreetly."





    Some kind of explosive had breached the depot wall, leaving a large hole in the fence, burn marks, and scorch marks all around. It did not look like the more classic charge demolition that Al had seen in use in Afghanistan. It was more… raw if anything. As if the fence had been ripped off and burned at the same time. Al shook his head.

    "Ok, definitively hostile action."

    Hector Nories scratched his brow.

    "Does not compute. If that were Iraq, I'd expect that. But this is Europe. Who would do that? What you think, Main Man?"

    Explosive breaching entrance into a NATO Base was some serious fecal matter impacting the rotating impeller. Al started to feel a bit more wary than he had ever been in Afghanistan. The locals back then were a serious but known quantity. This one was a complete mystery.

    "No idea who or what their objective is, Legs, but that's serious. I need numbers, weaponry, everything. Keep tight, and watch everything."

    The team looked at Al. He went on.

    "Most of the lights seem still up, but there's no sound. If there's been a fight, it's over. And since we were not notified that the alert was over… looks like the bad guys won that one. Now, we do round two. I'll call the Major to keep him informed."

    Mackay didn't waste time answering.

    "Mackay. What's the sitrep, Varanson?"

    "On-site, can confirm hostile action. The base's perimeter was breached with some kind of explosive device, but there was no visible presence there. Hostilities appear to have ended. I'm assuming the guard force was completely overwhelmed and is neutralized or down," Al answered.

    Mackay took that in stride.

    "We're inbound on the ground, four platoons on full alert. Air support is supposed to catch up, but it might not arrive before us. Two choppers are being prepped. Apparently, no one had anything on alert, peacetime Germany and all. ETA one hour."

    "Will recon and assess the hostiles' force. Varanson out."





    The squad crossed the fence and spread out slightly, taking cover. They appeared to be next to a series of containers, blocking their view of most of the base. Hector signaled a clear line, no hostiles. Al signaled his troops to start progressing with cover toward the end of the containers.

    At the end of the first row, they stopped. A guy was wearing some kind of runner's tracksuit, standing at the end of the row, facing to their right. The guy looked European but didn't look military. So… one of the intruders, probably. He didn't sport any visible weapon. Al gestured, indicating a capture. They needed answers, and this hostile could be the one giving them.

    Some kind of instinct had the man turn his head. He spotted Jonas "Handle" Maxwell advancing and turned toward them. Both Jonas and Carl rushed immediately. The man raised his hand, and lightning danced across the two-foot interval, striking Jonas in the face. Carl Johnson tackled the man who fell, hitting his head on the wall of a barrack-like building behind him.

    Al rushed toward Jonas. The private had a horrible grimace across his face, his body slack. A burn mark next to his left eye indicated where the lightning arc had entered. Al put his finger on the carotid, trying to feel for a pulse. Nothing.

    Hector slid toward him, whispering: "What the fuck? That looked like an electric arc or something. Taser?"

    "This guy electrocuted Handle without wires. Not a taser."

    Al gestured toward Carl, who came around.

    "What was he using? Never seen such a weapon", Varanson asked.

    "That's the thing, Main Man. His hands are empty. He didn't drop anything, either. No taser gun or anything," Carl replied.

    "I thought I had missed something when it happened. You're saying he really didn't have anything? He shot… lightning from his fingers?"

    "Looks like. What about Handle?" Carl asked.

    Varanson made a negative sign.

    "No pulse. Handle is dead, I think. The tango?"

    "Knocked out. He's bleeding from the head. Nasty fall," Quintrell confirmed.

    Al didn't take long to think.

    "Baseball tackled him good. Ok, secure him. We'll have to leave him for now. Can't wait until he wakes up, if he does. Legs, Farm, anything?"

    Mark "Farm" Hertzler answered: "Nothing moving so far."

    "OK, don't hesitate to use your weapons if there's a risk, even if that gives up the alarm. One casualty is one too many. Let's move."





    Two people were across the road at the end of the barracks, talking in low voices. The man was wearing the same kind of cheap tracksuit the first man had, but the woman simply wore faded and ripped jeans and a sweatshirt, with her hair pulled in a bun. They would have looked very ordinary in other circumstances, but there were three corpses in uniforms sprawled next to them, which didn't seem to faze them. Al stopped his troops.

    "Ok, they don't have guns either… but if they have the same lightning weapons, they're still very dangerous."

    "No good sniper position, but I can take any one of them," Marco "Porridge" Carducci said.

    Mark grimaced.

    "As soon as we fire, we're going to get noticed. Baseball, can you…"

    Al raised his hand. The woman had turned and was heading toward the back of the base. If she left her accomplice alone, the attack would be easier. Al immediately decided to adjust the plan.

    "If she leaves, I want you to take the man. Don't make sounds."

    They all waited. As the woman reached one of the buildings, she simply put her hands on it, then jumped slightly and started crawling fast, like an easy-mode climbing wall.

    Mark nearly exclaimed, "What the?"

    Al shushed Mark. Thankfully, none of the two enemies had heard. The woman was now on top of the building and walking away. Hector voiced their shared thoughts.

    "We have Spiderwoman? Who the fuck are those guys?"

    Al waved away their concern.

    "We'll figure it out later. For now, we have one guy isolated. Baseball, take him."





    Carl Johnson made his way around the barrack. The man kept under the only light that the stretch of the road still had on, which helped Carl get in position. He would have to rush over 30 feet to take the guy, but that would be doable if he kept looking at where his accomplice had left. Despite his name, he was fast, but not as fast as Legs would be. Carl looked toward Al, which made an ok sign.

    He stood and sprinted. The target noticed something because the man turned, and his eyes widened as he saw the corporal running with a commando knife in hand. The man raised his right hand, which turned white while dodging. Carl feinted, and the man's eye followed the knife. That was the wrong move, and Carl sliced at his legs. The man raised his hands as he fell, and Carl felt a rush of air as… something narrowly missed him.

    Al was already running. He saw a pair of… white streaks fire from the hostile's left hand, nearly impacting Carl's head. Al flicked his own knife and launched. The blade went true, entering the man's shoulder as he hit the ground. He tried to turn toward Al, but Carl didn't waste time and sliced upward with his own blade. A soft gurgle told Al that the threat was neutralized.

    They both looked over the target as Mark and Hector approached, keeping watch toward where the woman had left. The left hand was empty, but the right was still covered in a white sheen. Al gingerly touched it and pulled back his hand.

    "Fuck, it's cold."

    Mark Hertzler reached and felt.

    "Looks like some ice cover."

    "Ok, one guy throws lighting, this one has ice over his hand, and we've got Spiderwoman… what is going on?" Quintrell summarized.

    "I saw him firing something. Looked like silver darts," Carl added.

    "He's got no gun," Mark replied.

    "Like electric guy. Do we have…" Carl continued.

    A scream of rage interrupted them.





    The squad looked up. The woman had come back to the top of the building. And she very obviously had seen her friend lying on the ground with a small pool of blood already spreading. She raised her fists… and flames started to pour out.

    While all the men tried to shift their aim toward her, the woman simply ran toward the building's border and then ran vertically across the wall toward the ground.

    Al was the most surprised of them all. The woman running down the wall seemed… off. Not just the impossible running over a wall, but he somehow recognized something about her. Impossibly, he could tell she was… a Master? Even if Al had no idea what to make of that concept, he somehow knew that specific quality about her.

    The team spread out in all directions. Even if she had no visible weapon, that hadn't stopped the previous two enemies, and she very obviously had something going on with the burning hand. Still, they held their fire, trying not to raise the alarm.

    Al didn't think about his gun. He instinctively raised his left hand, aiming toward the woman rushing toward him. And he fired a streak of lightning. The woman was struck in the chest by the twisting electric arc and sprawled on the ground.
     
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    • Chapter 3 - Master vs. Master New
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    • CHAPTER 3 - MASTER VS MASTER​



    Al looked at his hand in disbelief. Then he noticed the faces of his team looking at him.

    Marco was the first to ask, "What did you just do?"

    "I think… I used some lightning arc," Al replied.

    "You can do that?" Quintrell asked.

    "I was going to say no, but I obviously did," Al had to answer.

    Hector was squatting, looking at Al's hand from all angles.

    "There's nothing."

    Al thought quickly.

    "Just like the first guy. I just… aimed and tried to hit her center. It came out of my fingers."

    Carl turned the woman over. He pointed toward her sneakers, which had a burn mark where the electrical bolt had discharged into the ground.

    "Looks like you electrocuted her, like the guy did with Handle. Since when have you been a superhero?"

    "I frankly have no idea. But…" Al started.

    "But?" Marco prompted.

    Al tried to explain: "I… sort of recognized something in her when she came running over the building. Like I was aware that she was something more than some random terrorist woman."

    Marco stated the obvious, "Well, she had her hands on fire."

    "More fundamental than that. But I didn't had this impression when she was there before we took her friend down. I think I just… awoke some kind of power," Al countered.

    An instinct made him turn his head. A man was standing near the building, looking toward the squad. Just like the woman, Al could somewhat recognize him. A Master again… whatever it was.

    Al flashed toward his team, urging immediate caution. But it looked like it was too late to keep quiet, as the man screamed a bunch of Slavic-sounding insults and started sprinting straight toward Al with his hand raised in a grip-like gesture. Al raised his hand as well, trying to feel the same lightning, but he could feel only heat coursing through his tendons.

    A ball of fire formed in his palm and streaked toward the man. The blowup was loud.





    Everyone was looking at Al in utter disbelief.

    "Did you just throw a fireball at the guy?" Hector asked.

    Al was nearly speechless.

    "I was trying to get the same lightning bolt."

    "Well, you failed," Hector deadpanned.

    "Can you fly?" Mark instantly asked.

    Al could only answer, "No idea."

    Varanson looked at the corpse. The fireball had exploded, leaving an arm with scorched marks and a mangled body whose head was bent at an angle. The fireball itself had left no residue, entirely dissipating after the explosion.

    "That's even more destructive than the lightning," Quintrell remarked.

    "None of the intruders had that one," Marco added.

    "Or maybe they didn't use it? I mean, if I have two different 'weapons,' they probably have as well. Or maybe even more?" Al mused.

    "Ok, we got four tango down. How many more?" Carducci pushed.

    Varanson grimaced.

    "No idea, but if we face some kind of supervillain team, they might be a small group. I assumed lots more to overwhelm the guards, but who knows what else they can be using."

    Al waved his team forward.

    "We need to make sure of the force. If the reinforcement arrives with superpowered enemies, they might get into big trouble."

    Carl Johnson couldn't resist adding his usual old movie quip:

    "… in Little China."





    The team moved smoothly, covering each other and checking every angle. The base offered an environment not too dissimilar to what they had used in their urban warfare training. They stopped when they spotted a couple more military police bodies.

    Al waited until the team had checked their surroundings. Now that they knew a bit more about what to look for, they noticed more details about the deceased.

    "Left body has a lightning burn. Second has a caved chest like someone used a hammer. Other two have some small holes in the throat," Hector reported.

    "Hammer? Sounds like some more powers," Marco said.

    "The small holes might be the dart-like projectile type the second guy used," Al added.

    The team looked at each other, then shrugged as one man. Al spotted some variations in the lighting on the far edge of the path. Squinting, he thought he could see someone's silhouette. He pointed.

    "Next target. Keep cover."





    The barracks ended short of their next target. There were more buildings, but the part they would have to cross had no cover. Their destination seemed to be a small metallic communication dome, like a covered satellite antenna. To Al, the dome looked out of place. Regular domes were made out of plastic, usually grey or maybe white. A metallic covering would block the satellite links. The setup was definitively odd.

    No one was moving around, and there was no trace of whatever silhouette he had spotted earlier. Either he or she had moved or gone inside the dome structure. Al had to decide quickly: either get to the dome to check inside or set up an ambush to see if they could surprise the remaining enemies. Major Mackay's forces were probably not too far away, so the latter might be the best option. If the hostiles showed up, they'd neutralize them. If they didn't, they'd join up with reinforcements and sweep the base.

    Al took the time to assess his state. The surprising turn of events and display of powers were entirely out of the left field. That, and spotting that his enemies were something called Masters.

    But Varanson realized that he could tell the same about him. The same instinct that told him the enemy Masters told him something about himself. Apparently, he was a Master as well. And a bit more details… Something about being a Level 3. And level 3 was associated with… some labels. Like Plasma, Lightning, and something called… Neurolyzer? What the fuck was a Neurolyzer? The first two were self-explaining since he'd seen them in action and matched what he expected. Lightning bolts and plasma fireballs. But he might have some additional ability he hadn't used yet. Something about neurons? A brain power?





    The ambush dilemma was broken by movement from the dome. The doors to the side opened outward, and a man stepped out. The casual demeanor and civilian attire left little doubt about him being yet another of the enemies. Then Al saw its face, lighted sideway by the halogen lampposts, and did a double take. It was the same man… no. That one lacked the scar that the man he and Carl had taken down. A twin? A clone? At this point, nothing could have surprised him.

    The hostile lifted a phone to his ear. Al strained to listen, but the man wasn't talking, only listening. At one point, however, he swore loudly in some Slavic-sounding language and threw his phone to the ground. Whatever he'd been told, it wasn't good news. Al felt cold. The most likely explanation was that another hostile was still roaming around the base and had found one of the corpses left by the team. This meant the rest of the hostiles would now be expecting them.

    The enemy turned toward the door and spoke to someone still inside. Al couldn't hear any answer, but the man was talking fast. He quickly turned aside, moved to the side, and started looking around. That confirmed Al's theory; the enemies hadn't heard the various fights but had been warned somehow.

    There was no time to dither, and Al took the only option. If the hostile was superpowered as well, as the mental Master label seemed to indicate, Al had the best chance of overwhelming him. Plus, it would be nice to have a second prisoner to interrogate. He rose and started running.





    Oskar Kowal was trying to see any enemies. The news from Marek that Michalina, Bartosz, and Janosz were dead filled him with dread. Maciej was still alive somehow, though, even if he wasn't answering his phone, and he hoped he would come and reinforce them. Cyrek would stay inside the Dome to keep the timer running and be on guard for anything happening. Both were Level 3, but there was no doubt about which one would be the fighter there.

    Movement from one of the buildings interrupted his planning. Someone was there… someone was running toward the dome.

    A Master. And not a Polish Supremacy one. He couldn't see the man well, but his Oracle ability already let him know the abilities of the runner. Those weren't Maciej's combo, which could only mean one thing.

    NATO had brought in a Master to counterattack. Not only that, but they had reacted almost immediately. This meant they knew about Masters and had a large enough reaction force to deploy one anywhere within hours.

    At that point, things were looking grim.

    And there was no time left, and the man barreled toward him.

    Oskar jumped up.



    Al did not anticipate the guy's move. The enemy Master jumped and vaulted over him as he tried to tackle him, a feat more worthy of the Olympics than anything he could have expected. Al braked hard and turned, but the man had twisted above him and was already throwing a punch. Al tried to block but only partially succeeded. He felt like a hammer had hit him. The dodge might have spared him broken bones.

    The team had correctly interpreted the combat and held their fire, covering the close fight between him and the enemy. Al feinted, and the hostile turned. At least he didn't look like he had any serious unarmed combat training. Of course, whatever power fueled his attack might more than make up for his weaknesses. Al's shoulder still smarted a bit from the punch.

    Would Al's third power let him overwhelm the guy? There was only one way to know, and that was to try. From the general instinct that came with each power, this one might require him to touch the enemy. Al feinted again and grabbed with his left hand.

    The sensation was weird. He could feel something, but it was oddly muted, like he was sticking his hand into sand. Whatever the mind-affecting ability of Neurolyzer was, it clearly failed to find purchase in his opponent's brain, which left Al with the option of trying to taser the guy. If he could knock the enemy without killing him…

    Two gunshot cracks sounded across the courtyard.





    Al saw his enemy crumpling. If his team had opened fire, then… yes, someone had come out of the satellite dome. His team had probably made the correct decision. With an additional enemy in play, trying to capture took second place to neutralize the hostiles. His first target was down, but they had missed the other guy, who had thrown himself aside as soon as he saw the combat going on outside.

    Another gunshot sounded across the place, but the guy twitched. It looked like he might be dodging fire. The man raised his hand, and a ball of fire launched, smashing into one of the buildings. Al saw Marco plunge and start crawling away.

    Al turned back toward the hostile. The enemy had raised his left hand, which was covered in white frost and giving a foggy smoke. Al took stock of the thing. It looked like the man had the same icy hand ability they'd encountered earlier, and he also had the same fireball attack Al had. So, at least two attack abilities.

    Al raised his hand and tried to fire his taser. A small, barely visible arc sparked, grounding itself near his enemy. Al winced inward. It looked like this form of attack required a significant electrical charge, and Al's… 'internal battery' was currently depleted.

    He tried and fired a plasma ball of his own instead. The ball barely missed the hostile, smashing into the dome behind him and throwing a massive billowing smoke. Just like before, a feeling of depletion and refilling came to him. So, the plasma attack had some cooldown and recharge period before being useable again. Al tried to estimate the time required, but it felt like it would be a couple of minutes before he could try to fire again. At least, the other guy hadn't fired either, so he had the same limitation.





    Cyrek Borkowski had come to the same conclusion as Oskar before him. The military guy in front of him was registering as a Master. And it very obviously had Plasma as well. And Lightning, but he had expended his charges and would be unable to shock Cyrek from range and probably be too weak on contact. At the very least, a Level 2 Master. NATO had sent one immediately, which meant that one of the guards had been able to identify a Master attack and notify NATO of that before Polish Supremacy finished securing the base.

    At that point, Cyrek already knew that it was effectively over. With luck, he might be able to overwhelm the NATO Master, who appeared to be solo – his inactivated support team didn't really count. However, NATO would almost certainly send a bigger team from their reserves if necessary. The plan of bringing in Latent Masters and getting them up and operational to guard the District against conventional forces while diplomacy worked out was doomed to failure. It always had been.

    All that was left was trying to neutralize the Master, hopefully escape, regroup... and without Oskar's Oracle, it would be nearly impossible to find new recruits to regrow the Polish Supremacy, even outside the District. Poland would go down in the trash heap of history. Hopefully… he and Marek would try to live in the cracks of the Master System, a secret tiny faction. Maybe some surprise would come. Maybe not.

    But first, defeat the enemy. Close the range and ice him if he wasn't immune.





    During the instants where Cyrek elaborated his exit strategy, Al had moved back. He had no idea if his brain ability would finally work on the new enemy, and he was out of plasma for the moment. Better draw out the guy in the open and let the team shoot him. He sent a flurry of minor signs to his squad, signifying trying to incapacitate rather than kill. A second prisoner was still the best option.

    The hostile didn't let him stand aside, though. He started running toward Al, which probably meant he was trying to use his icy hand attack. Al knew he had to avoid that while keeping him distracted until the team could handle him.

    The man slowed down and spoke. For once, Al could understand his opponent. The man spoke English with a heavy Slavic accent.

    "So, NATO missed the ball. And you came alone?"

    "I'm good enough to deal with you. Plus, I have backup," Al replied.

    The hostile shrugged.

    "They don't count. Not Masters. Only you matter."

    Al smiled, "Thanks for the vote of confidence, pal. Don't worry; we'll have plenty of questions to ask you later."

    The enemy raised his middle finger, an amateur attempt at replying.

    "No questions. I deal with you and then with trash."

    The man suddenly lunged while one of his team shot, trying to incapacitate the enemy. Al ducked, avoiding the iced hand. He tried to grab the hostile's leg, but as soon as he reached, he felt a kick and got thrown a couple of feet away. He hadn't seen the leg kick, but it smarted. Al rose back, backpedaling.

    The man looked at him, then shook his head.

    "You're lucky. We would snatch your district Dome, and you're just in time. But I can't let you stop me."

    "I will," Al replied. "You've already lost; you're just too stubborn to see it. Surrender, and we'll work out a…"

    "As if you would. I'm not giving you a new Master. Let me go, and NATO will not lose one," the man countered.

    The man turned and shot a new fireball toward the end of the square. Al saw Carl and Mark get thrown away by the explosion. Quintrell shot back, then ran to a new cover. Al would have shot back a new plasma ball, but he felt like it would require a minute or so. Whatever this enemy Master was, he could fire faster than him.

    While the man was looking away, he took the opportunity. He closed in again, and he kicked him before the hostile could turn back. It felt like kicking a wall, but the leg slipped, and the man started to fall. From the corner of his eye, Al saw Hector shoot, but the bullet appeared to miss again.

    The enemy tried to turn on the ground to face him, but Al reached and tried to use whatever "juice" he could bring. The feeling intensified and took hold, and for a fraction of a second, Al could understand what he was pushing. Panic, fear, confusion, distraction, everything. The man's eyes grew as the flow of sensations started to overwhelm him, but he kept trying to turn.

    At last, Al felt the electrical load within him take hold and run across his fingers. As the voltage discharged, there was a small pop sound, and the man twitched twice.

    And Cyrek Borkowski's brain, weakened by the conflicting impulses from neurolyzing, blew an aneurysm from the otherwise non-lethal partial current.
     
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    • CHAPTER 4 - TO THE VICTOR, THE SPOILS​



    The silvery dome looked a bit worse after the various explosions but was essentially intact. The open entrance now beckoned. Hector was the first to reach Al as he contemplated the scene.

    "So, Main Man, what's that shit?"

    Al looked doubtfully at the dome.

    "No idea, Legs. But these guys were doing their best to protect that dome. And I do think it's not a standard NATO issue for a supply depot. Feels wrong."

    Mark came around the corner of the barracks.

    "All clear. Looks like we got them all."

    Al turned.

    "Baseball, you good?"

    "I'll live. Bruises and a small burn from some ember fallout, I think," Carl answered, making a show of dusting himself off.

    "How is our survivor?" Al asked.

    "Still unconscious. Smoke checked, he's still secured," Mark answered.

    Al sighed.

    "Let's hope he stays that way. After all they did, I'm not sure he can't break his bindings or become a ghost or something. Get Smoke to keep watch if he wakes up. We're going to need answers. Speaking of which, get me the radio."

    Carl handed the headset.

    "Here, Main Man."

    Al called up the major. Mackay answered immediately.

    "I'm still on the way. How are you doing?"

    "Looks like we got all the bad guys. Five dead, one prisoner," Al reported.

    Mackay was surprised.

    "Six? That's all? From what you said earlier, I thought we were facing dozens of hardcore terrorists. If that's only six guys, how come it took you so long?"

    Al tried to explain, "They were fairly unconventional. But now, there's a construction in the middle of the depot and that does not look like it belongs."

    Mackay had not expected that.

    "A construction?"

    "A dome of some kind. It's a bit like the radar dome at some bases, but all metal instead of white plastic. The last two guys looked like they were protecting it," Al elaborated.

    "Did they come to erect some prefab stuff in the base?" Mackay asked.

    Al shrugged, then realized Mackay wouldn't see that.

    "No idea. And… well, something else came around during the fight. But I don't think I can talk about it right now. It will have to wait until you arrive."

    "Keep me informed. Reinforcements are half an hour away," Mackay acknowledged.

    "Will do. Varanson, Over."

    Al handed the radio back to Mark. They all turned toward the dome. Al took the initiative.

    "Shall we check?"

    Hector bowed and replied, "After you, lieutenant."

    "Thanks for the confidence."





    The three squaddies entered the dome. The doors were very basic: steel doors with a simple push handle. They didn't even look like they could be locked. The hinges moved easily like well-oiled ones, without a sound.

    Inside, the dome was mostly empty, with dim light coming from somewhere. One could see the geodesic struts that linked the panels, and the floor was covered in a kind of paving filled with geometric fat and slim arrow shapes. Al stomped on it.

    "Feels like hard stone."

    There was no furniture of any type. But the dome was still lit, and there was a… kind of hologram floating to the side – a large flat transparent panel. The men looked around before turning toward the floating display.

    Carl was the first to remark, "Well, now that's weird."

    "That's what they were after? Some alien technology stuff?" Hector mused.

    "Why alien?" Al asked.

    "Well, dunno, but that chicken scratch writing doesn't look like any writing I've ever seen," Hector replied.

    Al was surprised.

    "Chicken scratch? What you mean…"

    Al stopped. It was, he realized now, thick dots with stick lines oriented in all kind of directions. But even though he couldn't remember any alphabet anywhere looking like that, the stick figures were perfectly clear to him.

    "Guys?"

    "Yes?" Carl replied.

    "Add one more abnormal thing going on. Those… chicken scratches, I can read them perfectly fine," Al elaborated.

    Hector was surprised.

    "Why, they're English?"

    "No. It is alien writing, definitively. But I do understand what it says," Al replied.

    "Are you sure you're not an alien? Like one of those old movies where aliens fight covertly for the control of Earth or something?" Carl asked.

    "Positive I'm not an alien. Unless my parents hid that one from me after my ship crashed on their farm, and I have a genetic memory of their language or something," Al deadpanned.

    "So what does this say? You know, the central thing looks like a download bar on my computer, except vertically. Is that the countdown to self-destruct, and it blows in 30 seconds?" Hector asked again.

    Al corrected Hector.

    "No. The… writing says 'Claim suspended' or something similar. And on the other side, it says 'Polish Supremacy' and some… numbers that don't feel correct. Like my head is trying to parse it differently than it should."

    Carl inserted himself in the exchange.

    "Polish Supremacy? Like Poland stuff?"

    "That's how I read it. It looks like whatever was going on is stopped now," Al tried to explain.

    "We did kill the bad guys, after all. Poles?" Carl tried to guess.

    "Maybe. They spoke some Slavic-sounding dialect among themselves. And that last guy had a strong accent in English," Hector guessed back.

    Al waved away the question.

    "Anyway, it's over. The base is back in NATO's hands now."

    At the moment, that display blurred slightly, before coming back in focus again. Both men to Al's side of moved slightly away from the hologram.

    "Chickenshit changed. Al? Is the self-destruct counting now?"

    "Nope. But it is slightly different now. It reads 'Claim in progress,' and the other side reads 'North Atlantic Treaty Organization' now," Al replied.

    Hector was startled, "Wait, what? Just like that?"

    "I think I might just have adjusted this thing by voice. Beats that Google agent stuff. At least it's now saying it's property of NATO instead of a Poland gang," Al tried to guess.

    The progression bar was moving slowly. Al tried to estimate the progression speed by checking on his watch. From the feel of it, it looked like it would be complete in, maybe 2 hours.

    The numbers still felt not right.





    Major Mackay stood in the middle of the alien dome, watching the hologram panel.

    "It's a fine mess you've gotten me, Varanson."

    Al's answer was an automatic, "Sure is, major."

    "So. You've fought Polish supervillains. You're using superpowers yourself. And you're speaking an alien language now. Is that correct?" Mackay summarized.

    "It's a bit more than that. And I don't speak the language, as far as I know. I just can read it," Al elaborated.

    "Show me," Mackay asked.

    Al started, "The language, Sir?"

    "No, the superpowers. You could tell me this is downloading the latest Star Wars movie, and I'd have to take you on your word, which would be very hard, even for me," Mackay said.

    Varanson thought for a second, then raised his hand and split his fingers and thumb. A spark came, and then a tiny lightning arc started going up and down, bridging the finger pair. Mackay looked for a moment, then turned back to the holographic display.

    "Ok. So, the power bit seems to be true. I don't envy you when you have to write your report."

    Al started to worry, "I thought…"

    "No, I'm not writing it," Mackay deadpanned. "You were the man on the ground; it's your job to pass for a fool and a prankster. Although with the pictures of this attached… Does it even show on a photo?"

    "Tried, no problem. Except that you need to use manual focus on the holograms, the automatic tries to focus on the back of the dome instead of the display. But it looks perfectly clear if you adjust the focus correctly," Al explained.

    "We're going to keep the survivor sedated to prevent him from waking up, at least until he's secured at battalion HQ. I hope we'll get more details about why we got Polish terrorists attacking a NATO base because of a dome. And what this dome means," Mackay said.

    He looked at Al.

    "Unless you can tell me more?"

    "No, Sir. I can read this display, but it's pretty sparse, and I don't have any context. At the moment, it's counting down some timer about Claim and NATO," Al replied.

    Mackay asked: "You are sure it says NATO? Even with the alien writing?"

    "Positive," Al confirmed. "It was about Polish Supremacy and stopped until I said it was in NATO's hands, then it switched to that and started counting. Maybe voice-activated? Even if I spoke in English instead of Alien."

    "How long?" the major asked.

    "I've tried to measure the way it counts because it's not a normal clock. Unlike the rest of the text, the numbers feel all wrong to me. But there's about 5 minutes left on it if I'm correct," Al tried to explain.

    Mackay settled for the wait. Al kept watching. At last, the third 'digit' vanished, then the second… and the progression bar filled entirely.





    The new floating screen that replaced the bar was completely different. Al looked over it before noticing, "Looks like a topographic map of the area."

    "Yes. You can recognize the bay and the border of the Baltic," Mackay confirmed. "The reddish borders don't fit the frontier or any border I recognize, though."

    "The writing translates into… 'Local district view'. It says 'NATO control' to the left. Looks like the aliens write vertically from top to bottom, so they use the left and right of the picture as labels." Al explained before pondering the display again.

    "The last hostile talked about taking over a District, which is how I read that panel. No idea what it is about, but it's probably more important than it looks," he added.

    "Write it down. With pictures of the view," Mackay ordered.

    Mackay moved his hand to check for the picture and was surprised when the view moved to the side, before being replaced with a new view. This one seemed to be a larger scale, with the full Baltic sea in view. The same district border was highlighted, but the surrounding countries had blueish lines across them, drawing additional sections.

    One stretched across what the two officers recognized as NW Germany, including Denmark, the Netherlands, and part of Belgium. Another covered the south parts of Norway and Sweden. And there were other sections, none of which aligned on the frontiers one would expect on a normal map. Maybe the aliens had different ideas about what frontiers there should be, Al thought.

    For a couple of minutes, both tried to find new views. It looked like the screens had various modes, and you swiped left, right, up, down, like the holographic interfaces in that old sci-fi movie. At one point, two smaller holographic panels appeared all around the room. Apparently, the three views had exactly the same panels available, but they could be operated and switched individually.

    "You know what? It reminds me of some kind of situation room. It looks like a monitoring room for some kind of headquarters," Al remarked.

    "I don't like the implications about the area being a military operation theater for aliens," Mackay frowned.

    "Well… we still have peacetime situation room views. So… I don't know? Maybe some kind of administrative directory?" Al hesitated.

    Mackay did not like that one either.

    "Whatever administration this implies, it's not ours. The borders don't really align with anything. But your 'local' District sounds like a main geographical unit. I assume the rest are adjacent 'Districts,' whatever these are used for."





    A soldier peeked inside the dome.

    "Major Mackay? Headquarters on the line."

    "Coming."

    Al kept playing with the panels, but there were only half a dozen various views of the so-called District and the ones just adjacent to it. And those were incomplete; beyond those that touched the local area, no borders were showing. There should be more Districts all over, but the Interface displayed only the one around Bergholz and five surrounding areas. The largest topographical map showed more territory but no borderlines.

    Mackay came back in.

    "Ok, HQ is asking more questions about you."

    Al cringed a bit.

    "Me?"

    "Yes, Varanson, of course, you," Mackay confirmed. "They want to figure out why you're exhibiting, quote, anomalous abilities, unquote. We've got two choppers landed at the base's helipad area; take one and haul yourself to the main NATO Hospital in Hamburg."

    Al joked feebly, "Hope the dissection team is gentle enough."

    "As if they would dissect you. Too easy. This is Germany; live medical experimentation is a long tradition," Mackay snorted.

    "Hope you didn't drink too much before I called you, though," he added before Al reached the door.





    Corporal Diar Tokhi had no idea why the man had been brought in at the base rather than a hospital. Even if he was some kind of enemy combatant, the military hospitals were well equipped to deal with that type of situation. The young man had suffered from some kind of head wound, as the bandage attested, and had been moved immediately to the main holding area.

    The man was cuffed to the bedframe, and the instructions were to notify upstairs as soon as he showed any sign of waking up. From what Diar had heard, he'd been sedated for the transport for security reasons rather than medical ones. His guard tour was almost over, and he eagerly awaited his replacement. Keeping watch over an unconscious man was one of the most tedious forms of guard duty.

    A rattling sound came from the bed, and Diar turned to see the man's arm trying to shake the shackle. The enemy turned his head and spotted the corporal, who immediately pulled himself, trying to intimidate the prisoner.

    "Do not try to escape. You're in a secure facility," he said.

    The man's brow furrowed as if he was trying to figure out what Diar had just said. The corporal came to the bedframe, mouth drawn in what he hoped would be an intimidating scowl worthy of his training officer.

    The shackle snapped, and the man shot up, grabbing Diar. He brought his hand to the corporal's face, and Diar felt pain. For a few instants, he thought the man had thrown something, as his face felt like burning, his muscles seizing. Then Diar felt nothing at all.

    Maciej Trochim broke the next shackle holding his other arm and swiveled, getting himself up from the low bed. Sounds coming from the outside told him that his escape attempt was likely already noticed. He snarled in anger. He had no idea what happened… someone charging him… no, multiple someones. There was a slight throb at his head, annoying without being painful.

    The door opened, but Maciej was ready. The first soldier in the door frame took a lightning bolt at close range aimed for the head, instantly killing him. As the corpse fell, Maciej brought up his hand, charging acid. The second soldier who was trying to bring up his weapon screamed as the acid splatter ate into his hand, then fell as Maciej's fist smashed into his face, pushing bone into his skull.

    The Pole peered into the hallway, seeing nothing. He ran toward the end and looked across the corner. Again, he saw no one, but noises behind him made him realize everyone was mobilizing. He only had a short time. He might be a Level 2 Master, but that didn't make him invincible or immortal. Enough unawakened with guns, and he'd be overwhelmed even with his speed and strength.

    He ran toward the windows. Peering, he saw he was only on the second floor, over a courtyard. Drab buildings and raked gravel pathways told Maciej that he was probably on some military base, NATO most likely. His guards had been uniformed, after all. They had counter-attacked then, and he'd been caught first. At least he was still alive. He'd figure out about the rest of the guild afterward.

    He smashed the window in a single blow and vaulted over the frame, dropping to the ground.

    A soldier turned the corner and started running toward him. Maciej braced himself as the foolish NATO guy simply tried to overwhelm a seemingly unarmed man. The Master swept the man and drove his elbow into the man's chest. A creaking sound told him the attack had connected, and the soldier dropped like a dead weight. Maciej ran.

    He turned and found himself facing two more soldiers running toward him. Seeing the Pole coming the left one started to pull out his gun while the right one accelerated. Maciej wasted no time and threw a lightning arc toward the armed enemy. The rightmost one flinched as he spotted the arc flashing near his face, and then they collided, dropping to the ground.

    Maciej brought an acid-smeared palm on the man's face, causing him to scream shrilly as the feeling of the acid ate at his skin. Maciej then grabbed the man's head and smashed it before rising. Now, he had to try to find an exit. At least the signboards were written in both English and German, both of which he understood at least some.

    A loud noise came from behind, and Maciej fell, fire running through his shoulder. He managed to catch himself and turned, seeing two more soldiers coming, both of them with a gun drawn. He managed to point his hand, trying to muster another lightning from his dwindling charge.

    A hole appeared just below the neck, and Maciej fell.



    In a Poznan apartment, Marek Rataj jerked, his eyes opening wide as the last of his Masters' tracks vanished from his mental list.
     
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    • CHAPTER 5 - DISTRICT​



    General Moretz looked as the bed slowly retracted from the MRI apparatus. The young lieutenant liying there didn't look extraordinary, but he had already read the complete reports and stayed there as the medical teams performed today's set of tests.

    Getting a demonstration of the… abnormal abilities that Lieutenant Varanson exhibited was easy. Getting them while under MRI was hell. Both the plasma charge and the lightning bolt interfered massively with the magnetic fields of the medical device, so they had only analyzed his touch-based abilities. The… volunteer that had stayed with him to allow Varanson to perform had been shaken but stayed on for the entire test.

    From Moretz's perspective, that wasn't very spectacular. Still, the noises made by the medical team told the general that whatever ability Varanson used, it was very, very detectable by the medical apparatus. Which in itself, was satisfying. Supernatural magic didn't feature high in the list of things Moretz could feel comfortable with. Things that could be measured were much better.

    "So tell me, Doctor Vanhersh, what did you get?"

    "Very anomalous results. Very unexpected."

    "Anomalous in what exact way? And don't use too many anatomy names. I'm a ground soldier, not a military MD."

    "Well, you can easily detect exactly when Mr. Varanson… engages his ability. It's very obvious."

    "So you can see how he does it?"

    "Not how. When. His visual cortex lights up massively. Lots of activity. Far more than someone normally would have, except maybe during an epileptic seizure."

    "So, you're saying he's… seeing things?"

    "He reports he does not. He hasn't reported anything strange or unusual with his vision when he tries using his cerebral manipulation ability. But the way his visual centers are excited indicates that something related to that happens. Even if he is not really conscious of that part. The activity immediately drops when as he stops trying to affect the volunteer."

    "Can I get in?"

    "Yes, we're done. The MRI is turned off, so you shouldn't have any problems. We're deciding what tests come next, and we'll tell you immediately."





    Moretz entered the preparation room. Seeing a general come in, Lieutenant Varanson immediately came to attention and saluted.

    "At ease, lieutenant."

    "Sir."

    "I'm General Moretz. Your boss at NATO, since you're special forces. I've read all the reports and seen a few vids you made yesterday. But, can you show…"

    Al Varanson immediately pulled his fingers apart and let a small electrical arc come to life. Moving the finger and thumb in and out, he demonstrated the lightning arc.

    "I would try to avoid the plasma. It's very tricky to keep under control, forming up but not actually firing, and if I slip, well, throwing a concentrated ball of explosive fire within a hospital is not a good idea."

    "No need to show everything. The electric arc alone is very… visual. How does it work?"

    "It's kind of automatic. I want to throw lightning, and I do. It's just like walking. I flex whatever electricity muscles I have in my hands, and it goes. I'm still getting the hang of the fine control."

    "How much electricity can you put into this?"

    "Some. Lots, in fact. It's like an ultra-powerful high-wattage taser in your fingers. There is lots of dissipation over range, so I can probably pump more electricity by touch, but even at medium range, I can at least knock down people or possibly outright kill them. It's like an adjustable taser. I need to recharge somehow. It recharges a bit on its own when I walk around like I accumulate static charges, but I can even draw from batteries or any electric source. Lighting up lightbulbs also works as well for demonstrations."

    "You know, we've pulled up your DNA and files to ensure you are not some kind of alien chameleon."

    "I expected as much, general. Did we get anything from the prisoner?"

    Moretz made a face. That alone told Al that things had not gone well.

    "He woke up and tried to make a break for it. The guy checking him was almost immediately killed. Like his face was burned by acid. He apparently broke his restraints and killed the two guards who tried to intervene. We lost two more people before someone could shoot him down."

    "Ouch. Another power, then. At least one."

    "Looks like. We've got an investigation ongoing. All the deceased have been identified, and they all apparently belong to an online group for some Internet games, if you can believe that. The Polish counter-terrorist force is already rounding the rest of that group up for interrogation as we speak."

    "And what about me now?"

    "As you well know, the medical staff is trying to figure out exactly what is happening. The doctor in charge tells me they can detect your use of whatever it is that you have, but they have no explanation about how that happens. Biopsies, blood tests, everything says you're a pretty normal person. As much as the special forces are normal, that is."

    "We have an alien base in Begholz to study."

    "Yes, and there is hope that the survivors back in Poland have more information since they knew about the alien's dome before anyone did. Speaking of which, pack your bags again, Varanson. The colonel in charge of Bergholz base for the moment wants you back to help figure out their alien construct since you're the only one that can read the manual. Until the staff have more ideas for examinations. Dismissed."

    Al snapped to attention and looked as the general left the examination room. Then he sighed.





    The first hint of change was when the helicopter maneuvered over the pad at the Bergholz base. Last time Al had been there, it was nighttime, but the pad was mostly packed ground with chalk lines. This time, it was a suspiciously-looking fresh concrete circle with painted circles.

    There was only one plausible direction, and he wasted no time heading toward where the dome was located.

    As he moved across the base, he noticed all sorts of details. The Begholz depot was supposed to be lightly staffed, with a thirty-man garrison and administrative civilian staff. Yet, everywhere he looked, there were groups of two or three soldiers moving around, lots of terracing engines digging, flattening, and moving earth around. The ant-hill feel was quite unexpected, and he was sure the metallic geodesic dome Bergholz now sported was the primary reason for all that agitation.



    "So, Lieutenant Varanson. Nice mess you left me here."

    "My major said the same."

    A Colonel Murchison had been designated to take over the half-wrecked depot after the deaths of most of the staff. At least until better plans could be made for the NATO base and the strange new dome in the middle of it. Like the frenzied work outside, the newly minted commander looked simultaneously energized and tired.

    "For the moment, I'm deputized to manage this depot. And the… thing we have in there."

    The two men walked across the road until they reached the flat area that had been so recently torn up. There were more trucks dropping supplies, and a work team was trying to fix the various holes left in the wake of the fight. The colonel kept looking at the burn marks.

    "It looks like an artillery duel in Iraq. And that was just you and one guy?"

    "We couldn't throw fireballs all the time. I needed some time before I could pull out a new one. Same for him. Except, I think, he was faster than I was. In the meantime, we threw other stuff at each other."

    "I've read the debrief. That script would get thrown in the trash in Hollywood. Not even believable."

    "I didn't believe it either, Sir. At least the part when I started throwing lightning from my fingers."

    The men reached the new dome. It was the first time Al saw it by day. It shined in the morning sun, a geodesic set of metallic pentagons and hexagons with reinforced edges. It looked brand new even now. The tiny moat ditches were filled with dirty rainwater. The entire thing was surrounded by a foot-deep ditch, except for the front pentagonal side where the doors were embedded. The twin doors were open, letting the colonel and Al get in without delays.





    Inside, the central room was now crowded. Several tables and chairs had been brought in, along with computer equipment and cameras probably running 24/24 aimed at all the interesting sides.

    The holograms were still up.

    "To be honest, the teams were anxious to get you back. While the thorough description of the various… panels is helpful, we still get stuck with stuff you hadn't seen yet and which we can't decipher."

    Colonel Murchison gestured toward one of the tables. Al approached and looked. There was a stack of tablet devices and what looked like pairs of glasses with a weird attachment to the side.

    "We got some hotshot AI contractors working, and they already made miracles. They have all your translations in there, and you can use the tablets to figure out what it says or look through the headsets in Augmented Reality. The computers here try to translate the… text… into English."

    "That works?"

    "Almost. Ok, 70% of the time, at best. The rest of the time, we get some garbage that looks like something tried to cross English and Korean. We're counting on your help, Lieutenant."

    Al looked at the main holographic view. At the moment, it showed the baseline topographic map of the District up to the arbitrary and odd borders the alien device had drawn.

    "May I?"

    "Go ahead. At least I can pull back the views. Most of everyone here can use it, but we still haven't figured out why some people can't control the views, no matter what moves they try."

    Al moved to the central area and aimed for the main panel, swiping.

    "Hey," one of the technicians complained.

    "Sorry. Checking if the writing has changed."

    "How would you… hey, you're the guy who supposedly reads that stuff?"

    "That's me."

    "Don't move. I have questions to ask…"





    "Ah, here's my first assistant. Captain Zacharias here will help change this depot into something more secure. She's my G1 and G4 until I get someone else to take over G1."

    Zacharias was a slim-looking brunette in her mid-late twenties. Unlike many of the logistic and supply officers Al had known, she looked like she could still pass physical without having to prepare a month in advance.

    "Captain."

    "Lieutenant."

    "So we're turning this middle-of-nowhere depot into a proper NATO base?"

    "Until we figure out all the implications of this construction, we might have to," Murchison added.

    "At least you don't have to worry about the maintenance on this part, I hear."

    "Your report said you had almost caved part of a panel. We couldn't find the traces of the fight on the next day. We've tested it, and the structure repairs itself. Very handy."

    "Have the science geeks figured out what it's made of?"

    "Funnily enough, yes. The pentagonal parts are a type of titanium-aluminum alloy that everyone says is theoretically possible but probably hard to make. The hexagons are titanium-silicates of sorts. The doors are plain iron. Surprisingly, it's not steel or stainless anything, just iron. Nothing else. And yet, they don't look like they're going to rust. But I guess that if the building repairs itself, it will keep its doors without rust."

    "No mechanisms in them?"

    "None that you can find. Since it repairs itself without requiring anything, we did cut pieces of everything to analyze. People are looking for things like nanomachines and similar. But no, the building is simply alloy panels with zero components embedded. We don't even have an idea how it's lit inside. Let alone running the Interface. Zacharias, you have a question?"

    "I've been able to accept the slightly impossible here since I arrived. But the idea that we had to fight Polish terrorists over what looks like an alien base is… still a bit hard to swallow."

    "We still have no idea what the base is about. You, Varanson?"

    "No idea either. I can just read the text. It's like I have this whole alien language in my head, but unless I can ask the question and get an answer, there's no context to it. I can't even talk the language."

    "But you got turned into a superhero with knowledge of an alien language."

    "I think they come together. Watch this."

    Al raised his two indexes, and started the show. An arc of lightning began, joining both hands. He moved the hands, making all kinds of complicated gestures, curving the arc in all kinds of shapes. He could feel the charge slowly draining, so he cut short the demonstration.

    Zacharias looked very impressed. So did Murchison. Even if both had read the reports, seeing the Lightning in action was very different than watching some movie with CGI effects.

    "I no longer need a taser now."

    Zacharias looked around, then froze and blinked.

    "Uh? Did you do something with the display? Because it's now in Engl…"

    She stopped, realizing something.

    "It's not English. It's still the same stick writing… but it reads Faction Map. Or something like that…"

    Colonel Murchison looked at his G1/G4 oddly.

    "What are you talking about, Zacharias?"

    "It's more than you think, Colonel," Al injected, starting to smile.

    Both Murchison and Zacharias's heads turned toward Al. But Zacharias made a little gasp when she faced him.

    "Notice it too?"

    Seeing the incomprehension on the face of the base colonel, Al added quickly, "I had the same thing after I got powers during the fight back then. When I was looking at my people, everything was normal. But when I was looking at the intruders, I saw them, but at the same time, I knew that they were something called a Master."

    "And?"

    "And I now get exactly the same impression when I look at Captain Zacharias. I know somehow she's… a Master. Another NATO Master, I guess."

    "And I think that's the same at my end. I can see you being a Master… person. But I didn't when you met."

    "I didn't either. But you…"

    Al stopped.

    "I think what this means is that you just got awakened, or whatever the bad guys called it. Like me after meeting all those Polish terrorists. You just got your power from me."
     
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    • CHAPTER 6 - NUMBERS GO UP​



    Zacharias looked incredulous. So did Murchison.

    "Come on. It doesn't happen just like that."

    "Maybe we're both mutants. And seeing others using their powers jumpstarted us. I mean, I saw a lot of action during that night, and then, blam. I started throwing fireballs and zapping lightning."

    "So, you say I should be doing lightning and fire, too?"

    "I don't know. The enemies were all doing different things. The only woman in the group was walking on walls, and she had fire covering her fists. Some of them were freezing things so hard that metal broke into shards. I can't do any of that. So maybe you have different powers than mine as well."

    "I don't feel different. I mean, except for the readability of the Interface part and the Master bit."

    "Try doing something. Just be careful because if you start a fireball, try… I can't describe it… try to swallow it back."

    "Lieutenant, if you're messing with my G1, I will be very, very angry."

    "Look, colonel… she has to try herself. I'm pretty sure she has some power. She just…"

    Both men looked at the captain, who was squatting next to one table, looking at it. They both held their breath, waiting to see what she sought.

    For a moment, she hesitated. Then, she gingerly reached for a glass of water from one of the technicians, who looked fascinated as if he was watching a snake or something get close. She took the glass, and there was a faint screeching as a sheen of white suddenly appeared all over it.

    Then, there was a bigger sound, and the glass broke in two. She held half of it while the rest crashed on the table. The glass and what looked like the water separated. The water was now solid ice.

    "Oops."

    "You froze that glass."

    "I think. I did that… by instinct."

    Murchison picked up the broken glass and immediately dropped it, swearing.

    "It fucking burns!"

    "It's probably colder than anything. The enemies using it during the attack night seemed ready to use it offensively, and I'm sure that if they held you when doing that, you'd have lost a limb instantly. We sure didn't know, but it's obvious in retrospect. Thankfully, we neutralized them before."

    Al noticed Zacharias turning the remaining half of glass in her hand.

    "Not feeling anything?"

    "No. It's… cold. I mean, I can feel it's cold, just… not painful cold. It should be painful, but it's just… a sensation."

    "Guess you're immune to your own effects. You'd freeze your own hands otherwise. I know I'm completely immune to electricity flows. How do you feel yourself now?"

    Zacharias frowned

    "I… I can identify myself? I think I'm something like… Level 1 Freezer?"

    "That looks like a Mastery thing. Like all the hidden knowledge that pops into your head and lets you read the holograms and find out if the person you're talking to is a Master as well. I'm a Level 3 Plasma Lightning Neurolyzer myself. Welcome to team NATO superheroes."

    Murchison did some quick thinking.

    "Ok, so I will need both a G1 and G4 now. Thanks a lot, lieutenant, that was very helpful stealing my assistant. Zacharias, you're temporarily detached and assigned to Lieutenant Varanson's unit. You're a captain and outrank him theoretically, but don't try to impose yourself if he's the best expert we have so far. I have to report this new development; there will be an even bigger mess to sort out now. Until Brussels decides how to deal with it, consider yourself available for whatever. And try to figure out more about that Master power thing."

    They exited the dome, and Colonel Murchison turned toward them.

    "Your team is now in barracks B1, like everyone. Dismissed. You too, captain," he said.

    Al and the captain looked at the colonel's back as he was striding toward the command building.

    "I guess that's not the last trouble that will happen around. Ok, I'm Al Varanson."

    "Erika Zacharias."

    She contemplated her hand as if expecting to see something changed. Al smiled and raised his.

    "Welcome to the special forces," he said. "Never expected to get a woman in my unit."

    "That's temporary, I think."

    They shook hands.

    "No women? I know the special forces are particularly… masculine," she asked.

    "That comes from the stringent physical requirements. When I got in, my instructors said one or two women usually attempted the entrance every year, and most failed before half of the tests were done. Anything dealing with raw strength or speed is hard to qualify for a male soldier already and borderline impossible for a woman unless they're a freak of nature. Maybe if you got pumped up full of testosterone and steroids for a year before."

    Erika made a face, and Al raised his hands defensively.

    "I don't think you'll need any."

    "Well, I do keep in shape. Even if I'm in admin. Back when I was in officer school, they noticed how detail-oriented I was at times, so they didn't waste time putting me into logistics. But even then, I don't think I'll attempt to keep up with you guys. As the colonel said, it's temporary."

    "You'd be surprised," Al said with a knowing smile.



    Erika escorted Al to the barracks B1, as she knew the base's layout much better. It turned out that B1 was a brand-new prefab, the kind he'd seen once in Afghanistan. It came as a kit in a pair of containers, and you could assemble it in less than three days, complete with plumbing and everything you could need for fifty men except wifi and internet access.

    She made a face at the sight of the structure.

    "I'll pass. I might be detached to your unit, but I do have a room in the original admin building. Besides, if it's all men…" she made a face again.

    "The guys are all nice. But you're right," Al admitted.

    No one was in the barracks, save for a single corporal trying to fix an electrical socket. The prefab kit came with them pre-installed, but that did not guarantee functionality. Al inquired and was told they were probably in the original tiny base gym.

    He located the section of the barracks where they were assigned and immediately found that his personal kit, which had been in the helicopter, was missing.

    "Need to square this," he told Erika. "Why don't you head to the gym and tell the guys I'm back?"

    "Assuming I find them."

    "You can't miss special forces."





    It took him nearly half an hour to track down the two bags that belonged to him. Someone had stashed them along boxes of office supplies, of all things. He dragged everything back to the barracks before heading to the gym. There were directions for that one, since it had been part of the original base unlike all the structures that were popping up everywhere.

    When Al arrived at the small gym, the team was gathered around the weightlifting station. As he approached, he saw that Erika was doing a bench press, with Mark being the help.

    Somehow, he wasn't entirely surprised by the numbers on the weight plates.

    "Hey, Al! Can you believe it? The captain here lifts hundreds!"

    "I can see that. How high are you set?"

    Erika didn't answer as she was readying for her next lift.

    "She's set at 250 pounds now. She's just started to sweat a bit."

    Al sat, watching the move. She started the lift, raising the bar to the maximum extension while Mark stood ready to assist. Then, she slowly dropped the bar back to the support.

    "Ok, put 20 more."

    "You sure?"

    "I'm starting to feel a bit the strain, but I can do it."

    The 270-pound lift went smoothly, if a little slowly. At 290, she needed Mark's guidance to steady her. She waved her hands.

    "Ok, I'm done. Let me breathe a bit, guys."

    Al asked: "You done this before? Lifting 290, I mean?"

    "No. I keep fit, but…"

    "But you never lifted 250, right?"

    "My normal is 140. I can… could do a bit more, but it wasn't as if I was doing competition."

    "And you lifted 140 like it was nothing and started to look for your limit."

    Erika looked at Al from her position on the bench.

    "You're not… surprised."

    "Mark, get the bar ready."

    "Your usual 300 start?"

    "Nope. Double."

    "Double? You want 600 pounds? That's…"

    "Record levels? Yup."

    Al leaned under the bar, as Marco and Quintrell placed a couple of the biggest plates on both ends. Then, he carefully wrapped his hands over the bar, and… lifted, with a smooth and steady movement.

    Everyone's eyes went wide.

    "Ok, put 200 more."

    "200? You want 800?"

    "World record without special preparation and Olympic magic shirts is only 770. Let's smash it."

    Everyone's eyes were glued to the weights, as Al raised the bar slowly and steadily. Erika was carefully watching the arm muscles though, he noticed.

    "That's… not even hard looking. How can you do it?"

    "200 more. Let's try the round thousand."

    The thousand pound took a bit more effort, but Al didn't even need help steadying the bar before bringing it down.

    "Ok, I could probably do a lot more, but you know what? I'm going to try to break my record later."

    "Your record?"

    "I've done this before. In tests at the hospital. Why do you think I asked 600 for starters?"



    Everyone stayed silent until Erika stated the obvious.

    "We're both far stronger than we appear to be."

    "Apparently, the Master status doesn't stop at magical-type abilities."

    The rest of the team groaned.

    "Not fair!"

    "Shit man, if you cheat, how can we keep up!"

    "I want that Master thing. Even more."

    "Did you tell…?"

    "The major? Not yet, but I'm sure he's already read the reports," Al replied. "I'm still trying to figure out the whole thing."

    "I did not notice anything until those guys tried to get me started," Erika noted.

    "Neither did I realize until the hospital," he explained. "It's not as if we're massively stronger all over. I'm not breaking eggs by mistake; it's just that our normal limits are now much, much higher than before."

    "I should have noticed that you ran fast at that guy," Hector said.

    "In the heat of the battle, you don't pay attention to that."

    "Well, now you can compete in the Olympics. Although you'd be cheating," he said.

    "No one's going to know. I've got holes all over where the doctors took samples of muscles and bones and everything. Don't know if they found anything yet, but when I left, all the tests were still 'normal,' for whatever normal is for them."

    "How high can…"

    "How much more…"

    He raised his hands to stem the flow of questions.

    "Let's just say I break all sorts of Olympic records without too much sweat. Let's hit track."

    Hector's eyes lit up, as he was usually the best runner on the team, thanks to the oversized legs that gave him his nickname. But then, he realized what he had seen and immediately looked at Al in askance.

    "Are you going to cheat?"

    "No. I'm going to run backward while you guys try to keep up with us."

    "Us?"

    "Me and Erika."

    As he called her name, she raised a hand to stop him.

    "Wait a minute. Shouldn't this be classified? I mean, it's one thing to test our limits in a gym on our own, but out there, in front of everyone?"

    "Well, nobody told me it was classified, not even General Moretz. In any case, no one should be running track at this time of the day. What's your normal time for an 800-yard run?" he asked her.

    "Hmmm… around three and a half? I'm not a fast runner."

    "Let's see if we can humiliate Legs. He's the team champion."





    True to his predictions, the outdoor track was utterly deserted. Few people would do PT in the middle of the afternoon, except crazed special forces. They moved to the start and warmed up a bit.

    Al called upon Carl, who, despite his namesake, was not the fastest runner on the team.

    "Can you clock?"

    "Sure."

    They moved to the start position, where Al and Erika exchanged glances.

    "Any of the guys who finish after me can buy me lunch. I don't intend to pay for the rest of the week," Erika called.

    The faces on the team were set as the gauntlet was thrown.

    "Ready? Set?... GO!"

    Despite his promises, Al didn't try to run backward. It was far too dangerous on track. Instead, he zig-zagged over the track, going from inside to outside and back.

    Erika, for herself, didn't waste time. She simply ran. Before the first curve, she was more than 20 yards ahead of the next runner, Hector, with Marco just behind him.

    It was a good thing that there was no one to watch. The presence of a woman trying to run amidst obvious ultra-fit soldiers would have been noticeable on its own, but the sight of one sprinting 50 yards before a bunch of very obviously straining soldiers would be astonishing. That was without the absolutely mindblowing antics of Al running back and forth between Erika and the rest.

    At the last second, Erika tried to speed up, but Al had been careful not to run too much backward and they hit the 800 mark nearly simultaneously. Then, they turned and watched Hector try to catch up.

    "Times?"

    "You and her did 1:50… I think.. Legs did 2:10," Carl called.

    "You're set for the week, Weightlifter."

    "Hey, who are you calling Weightlifter?"

    "I think you need a nickname. Everyone calls me the Main Man, but Main Woman sounds lame."

    "I can be Wonder Woman?"

    "Nope. The team decides. And I'm the head of the team, so…"





    The team stopped in front of the locker rooms back in the gym.

    "So, we are insanely strong, we're fast…"

    "1:50 is better than the women's current world record for the 800-meter run. I just checked. And I've got way faster reflexes than I used to. You probably have as well."

    "Well, I'm running faster than I thought possible, but you were…"

    "Supreme? Unassailable? Magnif…"

    "I was going to say insane, but whatever."

    "Pfft. Ok, what I think is that the Level also changes things."

    "Because I'm now higher than Olympic class, but you're…"

    "Far above. That might be associated with the abilities we each have, but I think that the higher your Level, the more physical ability you gain. That's why at Level 3, I'm nearly…"

    "Superman?"

    "So far, I don't fly, and I don't see X-rays, but I wouldn't be sure it's not on the cards."

    "Those… Levels imply bigger Levels. Can we get higher? How strong do we get? Green skin and ripped pants strong?"

    "We still have zero idea how any of this works. The guys couldn't figure out why my abilities work. I'm frankly surprised I'm not already strapped in a lab and dissected."

    Hector laughed, "As if that would hold you."

    "Don't laugh."

    Al described the way the captured Polish terrorist had killed a total of seven people before being shot down when he had woken up from sedation. Everyone sobered.

    Erika drew the obvious conclusion.

    "We're sort of supersoldiers now."

    "With very different abilities, but yes. You can freeze things, I can throw lightning and fireballs and knock you out, and that's before the massive strength and reflexes boost."

    "How are we going to keep up, Al?" Mark asked.

    "I have no idea. But… barring you guys becoming Masters, Erika can probably outdo any of you."

    "I'm a logistic/admin gal, not a special forces operator."

    "You were. Right now, you could probably pass very easily the tests, and become the first woman to do so, before you even start freezing the examiners if they annoy you."

    Al started thinking.

    "As long as there's only two of us, nobody is going to know what to do with us. That, plus the Dome. But if there's more… well, either they'll make teams with a Master on top, and support forces, or they'll make all-Masters strike teams. Seal 7 times 7."

    He looked at Erika: "and there's no way they're going to keep you at a desk".
     
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    • Chapter 7 - Through the Looking Glass New
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    • CHAPTER 7 - THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS​



    Colonel Murchison, behind his desk, was not looking pleased.

    "I expected better," he half-growled. "Everything about this is absolutely classified. The details of the attack, the dome, your abilities – both of you now – all under wraps."

    "I was not told anything," Al started.

    "Well, you're still an officer. You should have guessed, even if no one made you sign anything. That goes for you, captain."

    Captain Erika Zacharias stood at attention, blank-faced.

    "Next time you want to do PT, figure out a way to do it discreetly instead of in front of the entire base."

    "No one saw us," Al noted.

    "Yet."

    The colonel sighed.

    "I know; it's going to be hard to keep it genuinely secret. But that does not give you leave to shout on the rooftops – figuratively – your bizarre capacities.

    "In any case, I'm sending you to Poland. The Polish have identified one terrorist accomplice. Well, identified was a big word. He more or less admitted to it immediately when interrogated but clamped hard afterward. Since the interrogation went nowhere, NATO has decided to send specialists. In this particular case, that means people who knew what the Master aspects are about, so… you two."

    They both saluted and wasted no time departing the office. When safely out of range, Al blew a breath. Erika sighed, too.





    When Al and Erika entered the viewing room, they immediately noticed the man on the other side of the one-way mirror.

    "Master."

    "That's… I'd say obvious, but just like how we can recognize each other's status, there's no way anyone else can. So he's another one, but he did not join in the assault. I wonder why. Or why he did not try to resist arrest."

    A sergeant entered the interrogation room to whisper to the captain conducting the interrogations. Hearing that his "special interrogators" had arrived, the officer stood up, closed his folder, and left.

    "That's our cue, I think."

    "Do you think he'll…" she wondered.

    "Know that we're Masters? There's no reason why he wouldn't. That will be interesting to see his reaction to us two coming in, though."





    Al was proven right. As they entered, the man lifted his head to see who would interrogate him next, and his eyes widened upon seeing the lieutenant and captain entering the room. They both sat on the other side of the table.

    "I think we can dispense with the pretenses any of us is not what we are," Erika started.

    "You're Masters. Both of you," the Pole acknowledged, eyes switching back and forth between the two officers.

    Since she officially had the rank over Al, even though they were formally in different branches, Erika opened up the folder and started.

    "Marek Rataj. Polish software developer for a national bank. Two counts of drunk driving… which probably makes you a very serious and sober Pole. Family's farmers in a small village next to Poznan. Heavy online gamer, member of a gaming group called Polish Supremacy..."

    Erika lifted her head to see if Mr. Rataj had anything to say yet.

    "Everyone starts reading the same bit of my file as if it changed every hour."

    "Well, your file does not include you being a Master, for starters."

    "As if it would. Nobody knows about Masters. Or, at least, that's what Oskar kept saying. But Oskar swore that NATO couldn't have Masters on hand either, and here you are. Top secret enforcer arm of the USA."

    Al and Erika looked at each other briefly. Better not give Marek a hint that the USA didn't have a secret arm of Masters. Yet.

    "Oskar… Ah, you are referring to Mr. Kowal, then."

    "Yes, him."

    Al decided to bluff: "We're going to check what you say with him at one point, you know."

    "You guys have Deathreaders, then?"

    Erika frowned. Al winced a bit inside. She was an admin type, not a trained special force – yet. Basic interrogation techniques and the need to never show your hand, no matter what, weren't in her repertoire. But it would have been abnormal if the lieutenant had started the interrogation rather than the captain. However, they could have done it in civvies instead.

    "I suppose you can't read me, then. Otherwise, you'd have known."

    "Known what?" she asked.

    "That I would know all the guys got killed during the fight at the depot. Except for Maciej. He died later."

    The bit about the survivor having been killed later trying to escape convinced Al that the terrorist wasn't doing some cold reading or something. Which assuredly meant that some kind of Master ability was in play. Erika reached the same conclusion.

    "What's your Level and abilities?"

    "You'll probably find out somehow. I'm Level 2. A Steward Overseer."

    Marek looked at both.

    "And since you couldn't read it, you're both below Level 8 then. Not that it would truly matter; even if the US has 'only' Level 7 maximum, then everything would have been lost already. Before we even tried."

    Al knew that once you get them started, more answers would be easier to get next. So he didn't ask about the Level 7/8 part yet but pounced over the other mention.

    "We don't know the full list of abilities. This… Overseer… does what?"

    "I don't think anyone can have the full list. Maybe one day. I might as well tell you all. I'm the last of the Polish Supremacy now. The faction is as good as dead. Over."

    Marek Rataj steeled himself.

    "Okay, Overseer means… I can oversee Masters. I can track my faction's Masters, know exactly where they are, if they suddenly gain or lose Level. That kind of stuff."

    Seeing both stares, Marek added: "I can only track a limited number of people, all within my faction. But that's how I knew they were dead. Because suddenly, they changed status to zero Level, and then I lost my connection to them."





    Al felt a brief moment of empathy then. The guy had been here in Poznan, far from the action, but he had felt each of his team's kills as they happened. He would have known his friends had run into trouble and he had known they had lost before anyone else. And he had stayed, alone in his apartment. Knowing well that he would probably be found out, the target of a counter-terrorist team's assault, and his life was over.

    "They were not easy to defeat, your friends."

    "No, I guess not."

    "A fireball duel is good. That guy might have been a tiny bit faster with it than me, but you were facing trained troops," he bluffed.

    "Fireball? You are a Plasma, then. Like Cyrek was."

    "He wasn't just that but…"

    "No, he wasn't just that. He was our best Level 3. He'd have been even better at his next Level, but we couldn't let the District pass us. It was now or never."

    Marek closed his eyes while whispering sadly, "never…"

    Al kept his poker night face on, but he was happy. The Polish terrorist was already volunteering information, even interrupting him. This would be easy.

    "I saw him throw stuff and freeze as well. So that's what his three abilities were then."

    "And you were there. How high are…" the Polish man stopped.

    "I'm a Level 3 as well, if that's a consolation. But I'd rather not be telling the rest of my arsenal, thank you."

    Erika reoriented the conversation.

    "You said even better at the next Level."

    "Yes. Oskar… that was our Oracle… he saw his next Level would be Necrotic. That's close combat, but almost as good as anything against people. Plus, of course, you'd improve on the existing Plasma and Kinetic by simply growing your Level."

    Necrotic seemed nasty from the name alone. But Erika kept pushing the conversation.

    "You didn't come with them because of your abilities."

    "No. They're both information-related stuff. Once I got Level 2, Oskar saw that the next one for my Level 3 was Darksight, so there was zero chance I'd ever be an operational combat Master. At least for a long time."

    "You could still probably rip the manacles and break down the door at Level 2. You could have helped there."

    Marek didn't seem surprised by the allusion to the Master super strength potential and simply ignored the fact.

    "I was going to make contact with the Polish government once we got control of the district. My Steward ability would tell me exactly when we won and obtained control over the base. We had… an entry. And we would have presented how we could turn Poland from a minor EU country back to a world power like it was until the 19th​ century."

    Marek relaxed a bit, almost smiling.

    "It was our dream, you know. Poland was once a great country. But Germany and the Russians tore us down, and communism kept us down, and the only thing we're good now for is vodka. And plumbers, if you believe the EU. But with a major force of Masters and nominal control of Districts… we could have changed all that."

    "A bit above your britches, I think."

    "No, really. Oskar… it's too bad Oskar is dead. He automatically knew a lot about Master mechanics and how everything worked, thanks to Oracle. He could tell you better why and how. I just have what he told us. But a faction with Masters… that's like having the nuclear bomb. Others have to take you seriously."

    Marek laughed at the idea.

    "The next UN security council might have been made of Masters factions instead of the old nuclear countries. Oskar thought that Masters were ultimately better than nuclear bombers."

    "Why?"

    "Because you can't use nuclear bombs. If you have to use them, it's because you've lost. It's over, and you just make the other guy lose, poison the well. But Masters? You absolutely can use Masters strategically and offensively."

    Marek looked at Al.

    "You're Level 3. You can already tell how better you are compared to a normal soldier. Imagine that you have an army coming at you, and they're headed by a… Level 10, say. Someone with ten Levels, almost all in offensive powers. If you can't kill him instantly with a headshot because he's too tough, he'll get back up and keep going at you. He'll fire plasma at your tanks. He'll rip apart bunkers. He'll jump over your drone flyers to knock them down and dodge your hellfire missiles. You can wage your remote war with missiles and drones but on the ground?"

    Al suddenly realized that he'd seen that scenario already playing. In his nightmares. When they were back trying to counterattack the depot and… that Pole, Cyrek, threw lightning, ran across walls, and slaughtered his team. And then him. And laughed while doing it.

    "Now, imagine your President has decided to order a strike on, say, little upstart Poland. And there's a mere Level 6 Polish Supremacy Master clandestinely placed in your capital. Unless your President and his Secret Service can run a mile in half a minute, they can't outrun or outfight a Level 6 coming after them. And your President is dead. And your Vice President dies an hour after the Polish secret service finds out where he is before you even have a judge swearing him in. And the next guy on the list hides in the NORAD under the mountain, and a Sculptor-headed team gets down to it by running through the rock itself and kills everyone in the way."

    "Unless we have a team ready to intercept you," Erika said slowly.

    "Yes. If you have good Masters, you can stand against a Master assault. If you hadn't had one… we'd have gotten the district."

    Marek looked at Erika.

    "And we might be talking, except it would be across a large varnished wood table, with aides everywhere, and you would be there to negotiate with us. Instead, we're dead, and it's all ashes. And you're never going to let Poland stand on its own."





    They all stayed silent after that. Both Al and Erika realized that there was far too much they did not know about the whole Master system. And, so far, their only source was going to be this Polish extremist terrorist. He might have been severely mistaken about how the takeover of a NATO base would have played out, Masters or no Masters, but a lot of what he painted didn't seem overblown to Al.

    Superheroes were fun in comic books. But anyone who watched movies could guess at the immense destruction that could happen whenever two of these guys faced each other off. And even if the Masters were not strictly comic book movies superheroes and villains… they seemed very close.

    "You're right. You've played, and you've lost. And you're going to spend the rest of your life facing the consequences of that," Erika said. "The real question remains is… how harsh are going to be those consequences."

    "So, mighty America will deal with the Polish Supremacy… or what remains of it?"

    "It's going to be NATO first, but…"

    "NATO? You mean…"

    Marek exploded in laughter, confusing both Al and Erika.

    "Oh, god. I thought you were both Americans, uniform and all. But you come from NATO itself? The USA didn't know, right? You didn't have spies or scryers and were not waiting for us to attack. That was just random bad luck…"

    "What's the difference?" Al asked. "Except that Poland is actually part of NATO as well."

    Marek looked at the two, blinking as if caught by surprise.

    "You truly have no idea? You're new Masters? Tell me. Who stopped us? You two? You, lieutenant, …"

    Seeing as Al was not forthcoming with his name, Marek kept on.

    "You went inside the control base dome, right?"

    "Correct so far."

    "And the Polish Supremacy was … getting control? Or never in?"

    "There was a progression bar. Which I stopped."

    "By simply asserting the claim of your faction."

    "You keep using this faction thing."

    "Because that's what groups up Masters. And districts. And all that."

    Marek kept on

    "There's no top-secret USA Master team, right? You were just there, and you were just a random Master. Did you awaken during the combat? You must have. It makes sense."

    Marek's fingers started to drum on the table and Al let him elaborate.

    "So you defeat the Polish Supremacy, and you have the control bar still ticking, and you state the obvious, which is that the base belongs to… NATO."

    Marek eyed Al. He took it as his cue.

    "And the bar started progressing backward, then forward."

    "Correct so far," he confirmed, waiting.

    "So that's what happened. You claimed the district in the name of NATO, which makes NATO the official owner of the district as far as the Master System goes. And which made you a NATO Master. Not an American Master."

    "Hey, I'm a true Americ…"

    Al felt a sharp spike of pain across his head.

    "What the…"

    Marek leaned back on his chair, smiling as if it were all a huge joke.

    "You've just tried to claim an affiliation you don't have. And you couldn't do that. From the point of view of any Master… you are a member of the NATO faction. You can't be American instead. Not anymore."

    Erika raised her hand.

    "Ok, ok. Let's start back from the beginning. When you talk about faction… you mean?"

    "Faction. A group of people, affiliated under a common unifying identity, with Masters in it."

    "Apart from the Masters bit…"

    "It is like any association, or country, or political party. And it can be one. But when you add a Master to it, it becomes a different thing. More… real, somehow. Something that exists objectively, a physical idea if you want. Rather than being just an arbitrary idea in the minds of like-minded people."

    Marek looked back toward Al.

    "When you awakened in the middle of nowhere, you were just a Master. A random, unaffiliated awakened. Because you can be many things. I mean, you are American-born, you're a member of your military, you're detached to NATO, you belong to a church, you may have a political party card, a membership to a store chain… But that changed when you claimed the district. You became a NATO-affiliated Master, and claimed the base in the name of NATO simultaneously."

    "And in Erika's case?" Al asked.

    Marek looked back at her.

    "If you awakened later… then I presume you awakened in the same district? Correct?"

    Erika hesitated, then decided to answer: "Yes."

    "One handy property with a district under a faction's control is that you can't awaken within a district unless you belong to the same faction. So, it didn't matter what you think of yourself as. If you are a member of the NATO forces… then you can awaken within a NATO district, and that awakening makes your affiliation to NATO immediately permanent."

    "So, you are saying that the only people who can… awaken… their Master abilities within the borders that the base interface shows are members of NATO."

    "Yes. And they need to be real members of NATO. You can't simply say 'okay, I'm NATO', and voilà, you can awaken. You must be NATO, according to the rules that NATO has for its personnel."

    "And now, I can't change that?" Al asked.

    "Oskar explained this. When he claimed to belong to the Polish Supremacy, this made it a full-fledged Master faction, not just a gamer guild anymore. If you're a Master and join a faction, you can't leave on your own."

    The two of them looked at each other before turning back to Marek.

    "And the district base…"

    "Same thing. It belongs to NATO, nobody else. It can be conquered, though. You need Masters of a different faction to come and enter the dome, which would simply start their claim on the base. According to Oskar, a faction needs more Levels in total than those remaining in the dome, and then you can do it. Unless it's interrupted and you're ejected from the dome, the district will flip and, you no longer control the base. Or the district."

    "Well, that won't happen as long as we have troops on the ground."

    "It does not matter. Not in the meaningful sense. You can't use the base interface, you can't access any function – and don't ask; Oskar was the one who would know what those are and you killed it before he got in – and nobody of your previous faction can awaken anymore."

    Al realized that he now had an explanation for why some people could pilot the base's holograms and some couldn't. There were a few civilian defense contractors brought around, and if the alien base did not consider them to be NATO personnel… they might be locked out of the interfaces.

    "So, if we wanted the whole thing to be American instead of NATO…"

    "You would need to find a Master who can claim to be American. Then, you must let him claim the base by vacating it. Then he would have to defeat all of you, one by one, in combat, and you'd offer your loyalty. And I suppose NATO would cease to exist."

    Seeing Erika's horrified face, Marek quickly added, "As a Master faction, that is. It would just be some arbitrary military supra-national organization completely irrelevant to Masters' matters."





    "Ok, now why would our… faction be important? I'm still an American citizen. I think," she said.

    "Yes, but it goes deeper, I think. Oskar would have known. The thing is, as a NATO Master, you owe loyalty to NATO first, above all. There's stuff related to districts and how factions work that makes legitimate authorities, per NATO's own rules, the only legitimate authorities that can command your loyalty. The lieutenant here had just a little warning when he tried to convince himself he was an American Master. If America left NATO and decided to wage war on it, you would have to fight on NATO's side, not the USA. Trying to do otherwise means you die painfully."

    Marek thought briefly before adding, "There's also a snowball effect with factions. It is far easier to awaken within a claimed district than by chance. That was part of the plan. Oskar…"

    Erika started to think this Oskar character would have been a far better catch than this poor excuse for a terrorist who knew things but too little.

    "… had several Latent recruits in sight. As soon as we had control, we'd enroll them into the Polish Supremacy, by getting them a validated account on our forum server and…"

    "Wait, so you recruit Masters by… an account on a game server?"

    "It's the rule for recruitment within the Polish Supremacy. When we became a Master faction, those rules were locked in. The only way you can become a member of the faction is by getting that registration in; a forum officer validates your account as a member. And then, we can awaken you."

    "That's… insane. How can an account on a computer somewhere…"

    "In Korea. We use a Korean hosting service."

    "… in Korea can let you become a Master in Poland?"

    "That's the rules we have. I presume that, for NATO, you need to have the proper paperwork that detaches you from your normal military for NATO or that has you as a civilian permanent employee of NATO or something. And for an American faction, you would need to be born in America. Or naturalized. I doubt you could do it with a fake ID; it must be genuine."

    "How could… I give up. That's pure fantasy."

    "It was kinda hard for us as well to accept. The entire Master System objectivizes all kinds of things. I have no idea if that's because we believe it or if there's something, somewhere, that tracks and formalizes all that, but it works. It works that way, no other."

    "You're telling me that NATO can no longer change the rules by which it recruits its personnel?"

    "I think so. I mean, you can have people decide that you need to be sworn in with a sword blood-spilling ceremony, but I'm certain it wouldn't work, and you still wouldn't be allowed to awaken within NATO territory. Not until you did the proper paperwork."

    Both Erika and Al looked at each other. Untangling this political nightmare would be very, very hard. And neither relished the idea of having to explain it above their paygrade.
     
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    • Chapter 8 - The Powers That Be New
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    • CHAPTER 8 - THE POWERS THAT BE​



    Erika tried not to flinch. Although Al Varanson had a slightly better handle on the Master business and was at a higher Level, she was a captain, and he was a lieutenant. Even if a special forces lieutenant probably commanded more respect than a glorified clerk like her, the captain bars meant she was the one Master facing the upper echelons of NATO and their opinions on the situation.

    After they'd compiled all the current information extracted from Marek Rataj and as much as they could verify, much to their surprise, their report had taken nearly two weeks to percolate through the arcane upper levels of NATO. And now, it was time to explain and defend it.

    "This report is bullshit."

    The 2-star general at the end of the conference table didn't seem inclined to indulge much in diplomacy.

    "So, let me say it better. We are supposed to believe that you have magical powers, and now that you are a special snowflake, you dictate how NATO must be run?"

    "I don't dictate…"

    "There's too much paper produced for this made-up thing, and we should no longer…"

    Erika breathed in, then reached and turned the glass of water before her. All eyes turned to the table. And the block of ice that had dropped from the glass.

    There was a trick to it, and she'd learned how to apply her Freezer power appropriately. Unsurprisingly, given the properties of ice, you wanted to freeze it by picking and applying the icing effect from the bottom of the glass to avoid shattering the conference room's glasses.

    "I can make this ice at will. Sir."

    The general – Enright was the nameplate – gingerly pushed the round ice block over the table.

    "Well, Isaac, she got you there," another participant said, smirking.

    General Isaac Enright seemed to be at a loss for words.

    "As explained. In the previous report, annexed. I'm a NATO supply officer who is now a kind of super-soldier named a Master. As a Level 1 Master, my current capacity is to freeze at will anything I touch. Which I can demonstrate any time, under any circumstances, if necessary."

    "And Polish terrorists did that to you?"

    "Extremely indirectly, Sir."

    "And your last report says that your existence, somehow, means that NATO has a whole new set of prerogatives."

    "Our interrogation of the surviving member of the Polish extremists yielded that piece of information, yes."

    "And you believe a terrorist."

    "Lieutenant Varanson and myself have verified… indirect effects that make us think his descriptions are essentially correct."

    The general recovered his combativity immediately.

    "Which is mighty convenient since you experience… headaches when you think of leaving NATO. Which, of course, cannot be measured."

    The only civilian-looking man in the conference pulled a small folder.

    "Well, Captain Zacharias. How did you join NATO?"

    Erika carefully considered which answer to provide.

    "I was detached by my original service, the US Army, to serve in NATO's forces for the duration of said mission. Five years default."

    "And I have here all the copies of that incorporation process. Well, except the detachment ones that remain in the USA's files, I think. So I wonder. If there's no incorporation, how can anyone tell you are a member of NATO?"

    "I have no answer to that question, Sir."

    "Please don't Sir me. I'm not in the military branch. Or even HR. I'm the security directorate, and things that affect our internal security greatly interest me. And I think that we could simply make you disappear – metaphorically speaking – and we'd solve several problems."

    The civilian pulled out a lighter and started a fire under the file. The paper quickly caught fire, and was dropped in the big crystal ashtray on the conference table.

    "See. No records, no problem. I thank the fact we're not using digital official records yet for those."

    Erika looked at the ashtray, which presumably contained what used to be her NATO inprocessing records. Did she see a… kind of movement?

    "I agree, at least partially, with General Enright. The idea that an arbitrary system can impose itself on…"

    "Sir."

    "… don't interrupt me, captain… on the functioning of the North Atlantic Treaty…"

    "Sir!"

    Everyone followed Erika's finger toward the ashtray, where paper was starting to overflow and unfold itself. They all looked in silence until a couple of paper sheets finished going from black-brown to white. Then, when no one else moved, Enright fished the papers and looked at them first before pushing them back to the security directorate man.

    "It seems that… those are indeed your personnel records. In perfect condition."

    "I think that this confirms what Mr. Rataj said about the fact that I can't leave NATO. You literally can't expel me."

    "How can this happen? I mean, how does… this magic know that your papers are there? It's just ink and paper. There's a lot of ink and paper all around. And none of it regenerates spontaneously."

    "Well, at least the dome does not look like some magic lair. It is definitively a technological artifact, complete with UI and the bells. But the thing with advanced technology is that if you have no idea how it works, it might as well be magic."

    "Clarke's Law," another general injected.

    "One of Lieutenant Varanson's squad members mentioned that one, yes," she confirmed. "This Master System seems to be tracking about everything that happens, and that includes how NATO acts. And it has implications."

    "Apparently, it will protect the captain's official status as a member of NATO," said the security director.

    "At least, we're supposed to be able to give you orders," General Enright sighed.

    He carefully considered his next words.

    "I wonder if any treaty signature altering how NATO works would stick. Maybe the paper would spontaneously combust, in that case?"





    The meeting quickly turned after that unexpected demonstration. Erika still had chills – the nonphysical ones, to which she was not yet immune – about the file regenerating. She shouldn't have been surprised; the district dome regenerated spontaneously when damaged without any detectable mechanism. But the dome was an alien construction of sorts. Those were paper files made back in the USA when she got detached to NATO because higher-up people here in Brussels didn't like relying on electronic records and wanted paper everywhere.

    Erika and Al were soon bored during the next two days. Al had been called once to testify, rather quickly, and they were told to keep themselves available "whenever". So they sat in the cafeteria most of the day and simply chatted.

    "You should have kept that guy alive."

    "Legs shot him when the last one came out, not me," Al protested.

    "But most of what Rataj knew came from him," she sighed as she did more and more as the day passed.

    He threw his hands up.

    "Can't undo this."

    "To be fair, it doesn't feel as if this Oracle thing was a full manual," she admitted. "More like a help system. Question, answer. You need to figure out what questions are pertinent first."

    "And he apparently didn't have the most important answer."

    "How come he had that many 'latent' as they called them?"

    Al nodded back.

    "The Polish police has been interrogating all the recent members, but none are confessing about being recruited for future Masters."

    "They might have been normal gamers," she countered.

    "Sure, and it's not as if we have an Oracle ourselves to check."

    "Alas."

    Al relaxed in the cafeteria's chair, looking at the fizzy water he'd settled on since the cafeteria did not serve alcohol – it was only available with meals.

    "What do you think will come out of this," she finally asked him.

    "You're the superior officer," he shot back.

    "As if that helped in this. This is so out of the ordinary… no Oracle for answers," she said again.

    "As I said at the beginning, it all depends on how many latent NATO can find and if they can 'awaken' them. But I told you, there is no way our capacities won't be used, one way or the other."

    "Is that why you got your guys set up to train me?" she raised an eyebrow.

    As Erika had been attached to the special force unit, Al immediately believed that she needed to get to an appropriate level of combat capacity. The reasoning was incredibly flimsy, and she was technically their superior. But that physical session had had an impact.

    Of course, the problem was satisfying Colonel Murchison's secrecy imperatives. The gym was helping a bit – it had been made for a small garrison of thirty soldiers and the occasional civilian day employee. An entire squad in it was enough to fill it. Erika's physical performance, while vastly increased, was close enough to human norms that she could pass for a fitness freak, especially if she were attached to special forces and training with them. There was now a training course outdoors – hastily erected as part of the base reinforcement around the District dome – and she'd been thrown back to the days of boot camp before officer course. Except, of course, this was now much easier. She could jump rather than use rope all the way and roll over easily.

    Al had to cheat. It was way too easy to blow everyone's records and run circles around them. He was no longer surprised about the acrobatics of his last opponent, seeing as the man had been a Level 3 as well. So, he couldn't actually do PT outdoors. He might be looking like he was running hard, but for him, he wasn't pushing himself at all. Even the indoor gym didn't have what it took to ensure someone looking in to see if there was room for training did not notice the guy doing weightlifting hanging from the ceiling.

    The hypothetical Level 10 Marek Rataj had described them was superman, and he might be one someday. How would one train at that level to maintain shape? Al had no idea.

    But for Erika? Al had a few.

    "Your Freezer is a very close combat ability. I mean, the general physical improvement applies to anything you do in combat. But to use all of the Master improvement, you need to be good at close combat, or even more, unarmed combat."

    "That's the special forces lieutenant speaking," Erika laughed.

    "Well, that's what I know best."

    "I'm not sure it helps," she said. "It's not as if that thing is obvious."

    Al raised an eyebrow in question.

    "Seeing the documents simply regenerate, without a detectable cause. That's the same thing for our athletic performance, don't you think?"

    "That's why the doctors keep finding only normal things, you mean?" he asked back.

    She made a face. She'd been almost immediately hauled to the NATO hospital in Hamburg, where an expanding team of medical and biologist staff tried to find what made one a Master. Having a second subject had made them excited until they discovered they couldn't find anything special except measure physical performance. Even after calling up Al himself for a set of comparison tests, they failed to show anything that his early tests hadn't been covered.

    "I'm starting to think that they won't. Even if it sounds way more complicated than un-burning paper, this Master System can simply tweak all sorts of things. Including making plausible performance enhancements without an underlying cause. No implants or alien stuff. Just… magic," she said.

    "At least it follows the rules. Hard ones," he added.

    "True. Definitely not what I signed for when I became an officer."

    Al had to snort.

    "Well, I didn't sign for that either, but I can't say I'm that unhappy."

    She smiled.

    "Special forces."

    "You're one now. Or you will be once the upper echelons sort the clusterfuck. Why did you sign up, anyway?"

    She looked at him.

    "Just curious," he raised his palm.

    She looked at her half-finished lemonade, then looked in the distance.

    "It's not that complicated, after all. My parents were fairly middle class. Office work-type for both – they actually met at work in the 90s. They raised us well, we never wanted for anything. But I was the younger daughter, and my older sister went to college. They paid for a lot; she took only a small loan to cover the rest. I don't know exactly, but she should have paid it back by now."

    "And they didn't have money for you."

    "By the time I was getting toward the end of high school, Olivia was getting her degree and already looking for work. I know they could… no, I know they would have found a way to pay for me, at least as much as they could. But I didn't want them to. I mean, I didn't know what I wanted as a degree. No computing or big STEM stuff, that was sure. But I didn't want to end up with some useless social science degree with zero employment prospects and have them pay for that. Thankfully, there was a solution."

    "The good ole' Army."

    "Do good enough, qualify high enough, and they'll put you through college. So, no, it wasn't a vocation, or an army tradition, or anything like that. It was a kind of student debt, except it was at least a useful debt, paying back, serving in the US military. That was the right thing to do."

    "And you got officer track."

    "Good scores. The Army isn't going to ask for Ivy League stuff, so being good enough is… good enough for govt purposes. I got sent to officer school, and they put me on management degrees and stuff with an eye on getting me on logistics. I came out a lieutenant, got promoted to captain after my four, worked for two years under Murchison when he got rotated into NATO… then they called him to take over some obscure supply depot that terrorists had attacked. And the rest is now history."

    "Some history. This will end up so classified, the Earth will be long gone before they declassify it," he laughed.

    "Hey, you're that history yourself, Lieutenant Varanson."

    "The one that unknowingly made NATO, NATO. That one's never ever going to be declassified. Not until the heat death of the universe."

    "Possibly. So what brought you there? Just the special force rah, rah allure?"

    Al nodded.

    "Not quite. I mean, I was an active kid, but then, when you live on the edges of a tiny town in the Appalachians, that's not surprising.

    "No, my childhood was a lot lower class than yours seems to be. Dad was a construction worker, and mom was stay-at-home, I think."

    Erika stood a bit straighter in her chair.

    "I mean, he was not a bad dad. He drank, but almost entirely on weekends, with his friends from work, as they'd play poker or pool in town or something. You knew you did not talk back, and it was all good. But we weren't anything like the middle class. And even if I was an only child, I wasn't going anywhere."

    "Good ole' Army, then?"

    "Good ole' Army, yes. The day I graduated from high school, I told him I was heading to the recruitment office before the end of day, and he just mussed my hair and say 'good for you'. So, I hauled ass, put myself in front of the recruiter and said 'I want to be a Marine'."

    "A Marine?"

    "Who wouldn't want to be a Marine? That's all you hear about when you think of the elite military. But that recruiter sergeant probably had his quota of Marines already filled, so he managed to talk me into the Army. He taunted me with Ranger school, making it sound as if it was way above Marines' requirements."

    Erika snorted.

    "I guess that would work."

    "Especially if that's mostly true."

    "Really?"

    "Yes, it is. They train you to be Marines, but they select you to be special forces."

    She shook her head, a smile coming up.

    "So, you went straight to special forces."

    "Not quite. Bootcamp, figuring out I was qualified as a potential officer, and figuring out what exactly the qualifiers for the forces were. I know; I pictured myself going straight out of Moore to the Delta Forces or something, then I found out how hard the qualifiers were."

    "You were not superman, you mean."

    "I didn't have the Master System boosting me. I actually barely squeezed through the qualifiers. I had to work my way to qualify as an officer and pass all the stuff."

    "But you did."

    "Eventually, I did. Then, I got sent to Afghanistan for my first tour, where I got assigned to the guys' platoon. We barely had time to settle before we got into NATO. And the very first thing you know, we're the closest guys to a supply depot that reported being under attack in the middle of Eastern Germany."

    "And you became a Master."

    Al wiggled his fingers. From an outsider's perspective, there was nothing to show anything special. For any of the hurried or relaxed people that moved around the central part of the Brussels' headquarters of NATO, he and Erika were just two of the many soldiers that were the big machine of NATO, a young lieutenant, and a captain called upon for whatever task required their presence there.

    Yet, for all of that, she was uniquely distinct. He could pick her in an entire crowd. For she was a Master, he could tell it without knowing exactly how he could tell, and that was unique. And he knew she could tell the same. For better or worse, they were now distinct, the two – first two, potentially – Masters of NATO.

    That made him wonder, how much of a voice the top echelons of NATO would have when it came to their Masters.
     
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