The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution

by Michael Ivan Lowell

  On that night she oversaw a skeleton crew working in the large, empty office. As usual she chain-smoked her Marlboro Reds, overflowing an already very full ashtray. She emptied it into the trash as she eyed her staff. She was by all accounts a very attractive woman whose long hours, heavy smoking, and pressures for deadlines had pressed themselves into the lines of her face. She was equally at home in an elegant evening dress, trudging through the press room in jeans, or riding a Humvee through a war zone. She was not one to be fucked with in any of those scenarios. She glanced up at the clock and frowned.

  “Thirty minutes to deadline, folks. Let’s pick it up.”

  Outside, four patrol cars screeched to a stop. The dozen officers piled out in a frenzy. The staff inside the office heard the commotion and peered out only to be shocked at what they saw as the gang of officers charged for their door.

  Watson led the men and never paused in his gait. He didn't stop to see if the door was unlocked. He just unloaded on the goddamn thing.

  The door splintered off its hinges as Watson kicked it down. It slammed on the concrete floor, and the dozen officers trampled in over it. The staff just stared, still in shock.

  “Everyone up against the wall right now! Hands up!”

  If Blake Lane was shocked, she didn't show it. She was out from behind her counter and headed straight at the red-faced officer in the lead. She put herself between the cops and her staff.

  “You gotta lot a balls bustin' in here. You got a warrant?”

  Watson approached her almost as an afterthought, as he surveyed the place, and shoved a pistol under her chin.

  “Yeah. I got a warrant. A warrant to do whatever the fuck I want. Now get up against the goddamn wall!”

  The staff didn't need any extra coaxing. They did exactly what he said. Most of them were straight out of college. Watson meant business, and a good number of them were about to do their business…in their pants.

  Blake killed Watson with her eyes. She didn't like taking orders. Her years as a reporter had put her in more dangerous fixes than this. War zones, rape camps, hostage situations. She knew to respect the gun, but the man behind it was probably less war-tested than she. Watson kept the pistol under her chin and pushed her forcefully up against the counter where the phone and the ashtray were and where she had been only seconds before.

  Her spine hit the edge of the counter, and she let out a high-pitched grunt.

  “All right, missy, get on the phone and get your pal, the Revolution, over here.”

  “Not like I have a hotline to him!” she hissed.

  “Just make the call. I'm sure he'll find out. He always does.”

  “Can I get a cigarette?” she asked. It was a challenge, not a question. Watson knew it. He'd play along. He had the bitch anyway.

  “Sure, babe, whatever you want. Full service here.”

  Blake Lane might not have had a gun, but she believed firmly in the idea that the pen was mightier than the sword. Brain over brawn. That kind of thing. And she knew she was a lot smarter than this prick of a cop. She gave him a fake smile and strolled over for her pack. She made it clear that she was going to smoke first—and think over her options. She noticed one of the officers giving her an admiring once-over.

  She lit a cigarette. Slowly.

  The officer watched her with a dumb grin as she took a long draw. She was clearly doing it for him. Watson watched her too, bemused at her moxie.

  She rolled her eyes and thought, Stupid pig. She picked up the phone and dialed the number. Watson wasn't even smart enough to notice what it was or to ask her who she called.

  That should have been his first sign that he was, once again, outgunned.

  “Now we wait,” was all he said.

  CHAPTER 23

  Ward crouched in the covey of the church, reading the latest edition of Common Sense by flashlight. He was often an issue behind. This issue, like several before it, was mostly dedicated to the State Street attack on the protesters. There was also a special piece on the Revolution’s role in stopping it. He’d leapt from a rooftop to do it.

  Why was Ward one of the only people who seemed to realize the guy traveled by rooftop? That was his MO. It was why he had been able to catch up with him several times. Ward even knew several of his normal routes. Why hadn’t the Council Guard figured that one out? That was one of the things on his list to mention to Revolution when he sat down and had his heart-to-heart with the big guy.

  A flurry of movement suddenly caught his eye. Darting across the horizon was the Revolution. Leaping from roof to roof. Ward’s mouth dropped open. How ironic was that?

  He was moving fast.

  “Shit!”

  Ward slipped on his helmet. Locked it down. Peering up into the heavens, he launched skyward. He could track the Revolution from above. He knew it was risky trying to follow him. He was sure Revolution could be a real danger to him had he wanted to be. His darts would have no effect on his armor. There were no soft spots to hit. And he did not relish the idea of abusing his trust. It occurred to him that if he could track the Revolution, then wouldn't the Revolution know it? Be able to detect it? Ward figured that was part of how Revolution had eluded capture all these years. He must have had some kind of detection system in that armor of his. Ward had to warn him, though. He would just have to take that chance.

  Besides, Spider Wasp was just a guy in a flight suit. Too small to show up on most radar systems and specifically designed to play havoc with those on which he did. Most would read him as a flock of birds, if anything. The smallest flying object Revolution had ever dealt with was probably an X-1. So Ward was banking on being too small of a data point to matter. And if things took a turn for the worse, he had his whole speech memorized about The Source, the arms shipment, and how he was really just worried about Revolution. Not that he was stalking him.

  I'm not stalking him. Am I?

  He shrugged the thought off with a chuckle and continued his climb.

  Blake Lane's ashtray was full again. She exchanged glances with her terrified staff. She was not intimidated. And that fact was freaking the rest of them out. What was she planning? they wondered. The young staffers mostly just wished that she would stop looking at them.

  Suddenly the room plunged into darkness. It caught everyone off guard.

  Almost everyone.

  Blake Lane made her move. She stabbed her stiletto down into her admirer's foot and pushed him backwards. The poor fool tumbled back, dominoing the officers behind him.

  Watson spun, startled.

  “Run!” Blake screamed at her staffers, who, in the confusion, darted past the officers.

  The officers rose to give chase. But Watson stopped them.

  He pointed above them. “Let 'em go. He's here.” There were at least eight floors to the building above them. Watson knew where Revolution would go.

  A floorboard creaked above them.

  “Upstairs. Let’s go.”

  Watson flipped on his flashlight, and the others followed suit. As they turned to go, a sound like rushing wind whistled past them in the darkness. Two of the men screamed and fell. Shurikens jutted out of their shoulders.

  “Shit!” Watson yelled, glaring toward the door. “Just stay down!” he yelled back to the injured men.

  The rest of them charged out of the room, guns drawn. A dark spiral staircase was the only way up. No elevator in sight. They began the climb, two down in numbers. More than one of them thought the staircase now looked like a death trap. Even Watson's flashlight trembled.

  Davey was killed by a throwing star.

  “Ten versus one!” Watson bellowed. “Remember that!” Watson knew exactly what he was looking for. What he was listening for. And then he heard it. Just a creak in the stairwell. He opened fire. The others did the same. They sent a tornado of bullets into the black for ten seconds straight. Watson held up his hand, and they all ceased.

  The staircase was silent. Debris from the wood, the plaster, the
wallpaper hung in the air like fog. “Be careful,” Watson sighed and stepped forward.

  Suddenly…

  A glowing whip snaked down from above with blinding speed, wrapped around an officer's neck, and pulled him off his feet. He screamed all the way up. He rose four floors in seconds.

  Then, he dropped.

  Straight down the center. Arms, head, and legs thudded the railing as he fell. Landed with a crunch. He lay at the bottom in the eerie glow from the streetlights.

  He didn’t move.

  The officers opened fire again. Lighting up the dark. Shooting blindly, terrified. They emptied their guns. Rolling cartridges and debris clattered in the dark. Then a deafening silence. They waited. No one moved. Ten seconds. Twenty. Half a minute.

  Lithium stepped out.

  For a moment they looked completely confused. They probably thought they’d been shooting at Lithium all along. Clay Arbor figured they were all shitting their pants about now. So the big man finally spoke. “Just turn around, boys. He's all mine.” Arbor had monitored Watson's precinct for days. He had the intel on the Timbecks and knew Davey's condition. He'd paid a Guardsman off to stake out the station house and had gotten the call the moment Watson and his crew had left for the newspaper office. Sometimes he even impressed himself. Clay Arbor wasn't the top Special Forces commando for nothing.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” Watson protested.

  “Council wants him taken alive,” Arbor shot back, letting them know he was aware of their purpose.

  “Get out of the way, Lithium. We'll shoot you if we have to.” Watson was trying to sound tough. Impressive under the circumstances.

  “Let me tell ya a story, boys. Before you were sucking the placenta outta your mommas’ wombs I was killin' women, children, and little puppies for my country. In hellholes that would make you shit your pants. What makes you think I'd give a second thought to killin' any o’ you?”

  That made them take a step back. For a moment they just stood there. Then Watson made a lunge for his ammo.

  Arbor opened his palms, and an intense light struck them all in the eyes. They collapsed. When they opened their eyes again they were changed men. Dumb smiles spread across their numbed faces. Happy zombies. Arbor bent down, gave Watson's face a pat.

  “Don't worry, son, it's only temporary.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Clay Arbor turned, jammed a button on his belt. The same light burst from his boots, and he propelled up the stairs. They contained a lithium-powered rocket system. They allowed him to fly short distances, like a jet pack. Or he could make long leaps. This was a combination of the two.

  Four floors up, Revolution ascended the stairs three at a time. He was fast. But no match for Lithium's jets. The big man tackled him in midflight from behind. A linebacker sacking a quarterback. Arbor snatched him up, not skipping a beat in his flight. They crashed through a window at the top of the stairs and spilled out onto the roof.

  They tumbled and skidded across the slate. Punching, pulling, grabbing. Each snagged a handhold on the bulky metal armor of the other. They both lunged for the throat. Squeezing reinforced steel—a deadlock.

  Lithium's armor was a different design than Revolution's. It made him slightly stronger but less protected than his rival. Despite Arbor’s more flexible armor, Revolution still retained a slight edge in that category. Taken together, it made them perfectly matched adversaries.

  Lithium's muscle won out. He pushed, and they stumbled for the wall. He lurched with power and slammed the Revolution against it.

  Or he tried to. Revolution was more agile. Just before Arbor could make his move, he twisted the big man around. Their momentum carried them. They crunched into the wall together. Shards of concrete showered them. They crashed down onto the floor of the roof.

  Revolution spun away. Leapt to his feet, Arbor a step behind.

  The big man fired his boosters and rocketed into him.

  Revolution ducked as Arbor swung with his right. The big man grunted in anger as he missed. But his left uppercut cracked across blue helmet. Revolution sprawled on the slate.

  Arbor landed hard just in front of him as Revolution again spun and found his feet. Dazed, his world spinning, he shook it off. His eyes refocused. A throwing star slid into his hand. A compartment on his armored sleeve slid shut. He slung the star at Arbor…

  …who ducked it expertly just as it started to glow. As the big man evaded the shuriken, the Dark Patriot made his move.

  Revolution leapt into the air with augmented power and planted a cracking boot heel directly into Arbor’s chest. He felt something give, move, tear. The big man crumpled and toppled off his feet and rolled backwards.

  In a second Arbor was back up—and pissed off.

  In fact, he'd had enough. No more holding back. He aimed his hands and blasted the lobotomy beam, full power, right into the Revolution's open eye shields. The light shown in his eyes. A deer in headlights.

  Arbor waited for him to fall.

  Revolution just tapped his eye slots. No effect.

  Arbor growled.

  Then he grinned.

  What he did next took Revolution completely by surprise.

  He raised his arm, and a jet of bright orange flame erupted from a steel turret just above his right wrist. The power of the blast ripped Revolution off his feet and threw him across the roof. The heat was suffocating. This was far from their first tussle. But it was a weapon from Arbor he'd never seen before.

  Stunned from the heat, he picked himself up, nunchaku in hand.Arbor fired again.

  Revolution spiraled the nunchaku. They glowed.

  The flames shot across the roof. Revolution blocked them with the glowing nunchaku. The blaze ricocheted straight up, making a great L-shape of fire, and dissolved harmlessly into the air.

  But then the nunchaku’s glow faded. They were out of their charge. Revolution flung them at the big man, who simply swatted them away.

  “C'mon, damn it!” Arbor stampeded across the opening. He lifted his arms.

  Revolution could see turrets on both wrists. Both aimed at him. They sparked orange inside. He prepared to take the blast. This was going to hurt. Then, out of nowhere...

  Thwap! Thwap!

  Two darts sank into a soft spot in Arbor's armor between his bicep and forearm. The big man looked confused. He grimaced at the darts in his arm.

  And then his heart beat.

  Arbor sunk to his knees as Spider Wasp zipped by him at high speed. Ward brought himself vertical, slowed the thrust of the engines, and landed gently right next to Revolution. “Okay, so I followed you. Just couldn't wait for our date.”

  “I don't need a Robin,” was the only reply.

  Arbor was trying to rise. He grimaced. Took a look at Spider. “In ten seconds this roof is gonna be crawling with SWAT,” he grunted.

  Ward swiveled like he'd heard the voice of the devil. His eyes went wide when he saw Arbor trying to stand. His mouth dropped open. No one had ever gotten up from even one dart, let alone two.

  Revolution nodded to Arbor. Lithium was giving this Spider Wasp guy quarter. It was a classy move. He turned to Spider Wasp.

  “Get outta here. Go! Not your fight.” Pain from the flame blast clipped his words.

  “All right.” Ward nodded. “But this isn't over. You need my help. I have to talk to you.”

  “Later,” Revolution groaned. “Later.”

  Ward blasted off but quickly swerved behind a nearby chimney, landing quietly. He settled in to watch.

  Back on the roof, Arbor was on his feet. He yanked out the darts and seemed to shake off their effect. From fifty yards away, Ward's mouth fell open again. “No way!” Oh shit! Had he said that out loud?

  Doors on the roof behind Arbor flung open. A dozen SWAT members filed out, bazookas on their shoulders. Revolution's eyes went wide. This was a serious attempt to capture him. He was impressed.

  Painkillers were pumping through his bloodstream. A f
ew more seconds and he would feel better than new. The long-term effects of these concentrated, accelerated drugs had yet to be tested. But he was not worried. For him, there would be no long term.

  But he did have a problem in the short term. He was surrounded.

  Arbor shot him a grin. “No way out of this, friend. The man who faces down armies. It was myth that had to die sooner or later. You had a good run, but now it's over.”

  The SWAT team closed in on him. Hunkered, staying low, weapons aimed, creeping forward. He had nowhere to go. Ten feet from him. Five feet. Four. He steadied his stance, drew up his arms, prepared his defense. And then…

  A windstorm hit.

  A news helicopter rose behind Revolution with a mighty gust. A small tornado engulfed the crowded roof. The area was flooded in light. The SWAT boys all shielded their eyes, tried to keep their bazookas steady. The chopper hovered above; a guy leaned out taking video.

  From somewhere along the Revolution’s armored wrist, a high-powered intelli-hook, or i-hook, zoomed out trailing an impossibly long cord. I-hooks weren’t really hooks at all, but steel cables that could morph to nearly any form needed and used magnetized microfibers that allowed them to cling to nearly any surface. The “intelli-” part referred to the AI that was programmed into the hooks that allowed them to scan and adjust to different surfaces as needed.

  Ward watched with stunned amazement as the i-hook lanced into the night sky. It wrapped around the copter's landing skids, locked on, and right on cue, the chopper took off, hoisting Revolution up and away.

  Several officers opened up on him with handgun fire but Arbor waved them off.

  “Cease fire! For chrissakes, you wanna bring down a Media Corp chopper?”

  The officers swallowed hard and reholstered their weapons. The Media Corp logo was emblazoned along the side of the chopper. Big as day. In the chaos they had failed to notice. No one wanted to have to explain to the Chairman of the Freedom Council itself why they had shot down one of his choppers.