The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution

by Michael Ivan Lowell

  Ward's reeling mind tried to consider the situation, tried to find a solution. Revolution would survive this, of course. It was a poorly designed, inadequate trap for him. But he and Alison would die. So be it. He gazed into her eyes.

  “No!” she shouted at him, reading his mind. “You have to stop this! Don't give up! Ever!” She sobbed the words, but Ward understood. He peered in her eyes and saw her desperation. Lori had looked at him that way. He didn’t listen when he should have back then. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. She was right. It had to be stopped. Boston must be saved.

  “I won't,” he said, and they leaned in and kissed one last time. He felt her tears run down his cheeks and blend with his own.

  “You have to end this,” she said, regaining her composure for a moment. “Now hold on tight.” Carefully, she swiveled away from them, sobbing hard again, trying not to let Ward see her emotional collapse. Her throat clenched and burned. Her hand fell over the controls built into the pole behind her. Her foot careful not to slip from the trigger. She couldn't look at him again or her courage would fail.

  As she turned away, it was Ward's resolve that vanished. He needed more time with her. To love her, to know her. “Please, no! God, no!” But there was nothing more he could do. Her fate was in her own hands. She kept her back to him. Her shoulders heaved. She jammed the button, and Ward and Revolution flung to the top of the pit. Alison turned and watched them go, the tears streaming.

  She closed her eyes. “I love you, Mom and Dad. This is for you.” She lifted her foot from the lever and was ripped into a thousand pieces by the massive blast.

  CHAPTER 62

  The explosion hurled the duo from the lip of the pit as the chains separated and retracted. Ward heard the explosion, felt it, but mercifully didn't see it. They smashed down onto the pavement just past the dirt of the construction zone and were street level once again.

  The pain from Ward's wounds was starting to return full force. Revolution helped his friend to his feet, holding him up. Ward stared numbly at the stadium wall. He seemed to be going into shock, and then…

  CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.

  The unmistakable sound of the hammer on a firearm being snapped back into firing position. Thousands of them. A cacophony of the worst kind.

  They turned.

  An entire battalion stood with rifles trained on them. At least a thousand soldiers, weapons aimed. Troops had assembled everywhere. On rooftops, in the street, on balconies, hanging out windows. It was an overwhelming sight. Revolution caught movement on a nearby roof and spied a camera crew setting up and going live to cover the event.

  A loud roar suddenly echoed into the square and startled them. Tanks rumbled in. Two from each direction. One by one, eight turrets took aim. They were trapped. Revolution knew that even he could not escape this. The principle was the same as falling out of the chopper at the harbor. He had no doubt his armor would survive, but the man inside would not. If all eight guns fired on him simultaneously, he would not survive the concussions and the suit would not be able to absorb that much power that fast from that many directions. Besides, he was already hurt. The armor damaged. He couldn’t even be sure the absorption unit was still working. He'd yet to assess his own injuries caused by the Man-O-War, but he knew they were severe. The drugs were keeping him going, but he couldn't withstand another fight. Ward was useless to him, a bumbling, grieving mess. He held his friend to his side with his powerful arm, steadying him.

  Across the street on a tall balcony, General Cleeson looked on, overseeing the operation. The presence of a five-star general spoke to just how important this mission was to everyone involved. The commanding colonel had stepped aside.

  Cleeson was fully in charge.

  He was there to make sure there was no way out for the duo. Cleeson let the enormity of the odds arrayed against them pile up in their minds.

  Ward began to stir. Something about his friend holding him up. Staying by his side no matter what. Ward's mind started to clear. He wiped tears from his eyes, glanced up at Revolution, and managed a weak smile. “Live free or die?”

  Revolution just stared straight ahead, deadly serious. “Live free or die.” Ward stood on his own, the pain shooting through him. He lifted his helmet over his head, started to slip it on. It dawned on him at that moment that he had held onto it for dear life throughout the whole episode. Even through being thrown out of the stadium, even through the blast that killed Alison.

  Why?

  Was he that attached to being Spider Wasp? Maybe he was, or maybe it was something else. The disguise made him feel he was something he was not. Something different. Something better.

  He locked the helmet down on his shoulders, tested its flexibility, moving his head from side to side, shaking the cobwebs from his mind. The two marched forward. Ward limped badly, but he didn't care. He was here to follow his friend—to the grave if that's what it took. Paul Ward couldn't make that decision, but Spider Wasp could.

  The tank guns whirred to life again, following, aiming. The brigade commander stepped up beside Cleeson with a megaphone. He put it up to his mouth and shouted at the duo, all being covered live on WebTV and broadcast across the world. “Drop to the ground and put your hands up! I'm not gonna warn you again!”

  Revolution stopped. He looked up at them, and then he did something Ward could not believe. Standing in front of a thousand soldiers ready to kill him, itching to do so, in fact—the Dark Patriot, the man who had been labeled a terrorist, a murderer, a criminal of the lowest sort by the very men and women who targeted him now, stood upright and gave them a salute. He kept his right hand perfectly still. And just stood there.

  For a moment Ward had no idea what to do. And so he did the only thing he could think to do. He saluted too.

  The colonel was thrown by this move. Enough that he did exactly what he said he wasn't going to do. He repeated his warning. The duo just stood there.

  General Cleeson was about to tell the colonel to take them into custody when a low rumble bellowed across the square. It began to build, yet no one could tell what it was. It wasn't machinery.

  It wasn't an explosion.

  It wasn't Man-O-War.

  Still, it grew in a strange dissonance of sound, snaking through the avenue, falling into the square. All heads spun to find its origin. Ward broke his salute. Revolution used his scanners to search the area but saw nothing that explained it.

  And then, the first few people trickled into the square. They were surprised by the scene. Nothing can prepare you for the reality of facing off against a thousand soldiers with weapons aimed. Yet they marched right into the square and stood in front of Revolution and Ward. They said nothing, but their eyes spoke of their fear. They faced the soldiers and raised their arms in salute. Human shields. Then...

  People flooded the square.

  The rumble rolled into the avenue, covering the street, the sidewalks, even the rooftops. They swarmed like insects. The riflemen panicked. People were everywhere. Men, women, even children. Confusion reigned. None of the soldiers knew what to do; there was no protocol for this. Not on American soil.

  Revolution and Ward had become lost in the sea of faces—nearly everyone dressed in red, white, and blue. They held banners, they held flags—Old Glory.

  Where to aim? The soldiers didn’t know. So they just aimed straight ahead. Many glanced Cleeson's way to see what the old war dog would do.

  Revolution and Ward were stunned. The crowd kept swelling. Thousands descended upon the scene, upon the troops. They all saluted. The soldiers stumbled back. The crowd's numbers were forcing the troops out of the square.

  The tanks re-aimed their guns into the heart of the crowd.

  Flashes of State Street boiled across Revolution’s mind.

  Men, women, young, old, black, white, rich, and poor, though mostly poor, stood tall and proud. But the fear in their faces could not be constrained. They all remembered State Street. The fear of deat
h rolled through the crowd.

  And still they came.

  A man turned to Revolution. He had tears streaming down his face. So many in this crowd had lost so much. Lost loved ones who had disappeared during the Purge. Lost optimism of a real future for their children. Lost hope. In the Revolution they had at least found a hero to stand up for them.

  Inside the armored shell known as Spider Wasp, Ward felt his throat tighten, and he started to weep. He couldn't help it. It was all too much. What does a hero do now? Should they surrender and spare these people their lives? Should they fight on and try to overtake the soldiers? How does a hero honor the sacrifices of his followers? Does he let them die to honor their choice? Does he protect them from his own influence? Ward imagined Revolution was thinking back to State Street. He knew he couldn’t get the massacre out of his mind. He’d told Ward he couldn’t let that happen again.

  Ward would never forget what these people were doing for them, what they were risking. He would think of it every day for the rest of his life, he told himself. Whether that was only a few more seconds or thirty years.

  And then a chant began from somewhere in the crowd and built like a wave across their numbers: “USA! USA! USA!”

  Ward thought he should have found this humorous. The irony ought to have been as thick as mud. Drunks used to chant this same thing at hockey games when he was a kid. Now, the meaning was completely different. He felt fresh tears welling in his eyes. The soldiers felt it too—and were getting more nervous, fidgeting with their weapons. The situation grew more dangerous by the moment.

  And still the chant rose.

  The Chairman lounged in front of the screens which beamed the unfolding spectacle across the world as his own reporters spoke in excited tones. His hands were on his face, as if he could wrench the image out of his mind with his own fingers. He’d let them talk him into a mini-purge. The Man-O-War was supposed to be an overwhelming weapon. It would make his enemies cower in fear. No one would dare cross the Council again for a long time. That’s what he’d been told. That’s what he’d believed. It’s why he had allowed the death of the Minutemen to be broadcast across the Net. Across the world.

  The image on his screen now was infuriating. It was total message loss. Worse than the Man-O-War getting destroyed, since it had at least taken out that godforsaken glowing girl-traitor with it—and who had that been anyway? How had he known nothing about her? No matter. The Council had that technology now. He would make a glowing hero of his own.

  But none of that helped him now. At some point, one has to know when to end a bad investment and cut your losses. And sometimes, in a contagion, when the losses are compounding and spreading from market to market, there is no safe haven. Nowhere to run. Nowhere that is profitable. Sometimes the best move is just to abandon your positions, stop dreaming about what you’ll do in the future, and take the hit. Simply start over. The Chairman jammed the button down, and the speaker clicked to life. Half measures had only emboldened his opposition. He had just one move left.

  Crush them. Crush them all.

  “Cut the feed!” he yelled. “Iron Fist!”

  His screens cut to commercial. Live feeds on the Web displayed the “Technical Difficulties” page.

  Cleeson couldn't see anything but a mass of faces in red, white, and blue. For all he knew, the Revolution had escaped again. “Steady,” he told his colonel.

  A voice crackled over Cleeson's radio. It was the Chairman. “Cleeson, what the fuck are you waiting for? Iron Fist!”

  Cleeson looked out at the thousands crowding the square and was stunned. He hadn’t expected to face this, but he knew what he had to do. This just made it harder.

  “Open fire, goddamn it!” the Chairman shouted over the radio, rage spilling from his voice. Even over their crude connection, the insanity in Sage’s mind bled out loud and clear. Cleeson froze. He stared down at the mass of people chanting the name of his country. A country he had served for decades. Bled for, killed for. For him the Council had become his country long ago. They were one and the same. He knew men had to do what was needed in times of crisis. Sometimes they had to go against convention, tradition, sometimes even principle. To him that is what the Council stood for, why he had joined it. Sometimes, to do the right thing, you had to be willing to do the wrong thing.

  Yes, Cleeson knew what he had to do. He just didn't want to do it. Didn't know if he could live with himself afterwards. It would be the defining decision of his career. Of his life.

  “Cleeson!” the Chairman barked, bringing the General back down to reality, urging him to do it, to make his move.

  Cleeson looked at his troops.

  They were ready. The shock of the situation was fading for them. They were professionals, ready for the order, settling in. They could do this. None of them would be proud of their actions this night. But they followed the orders of the command. And Cleeson was that command.

  He looked out at the throng. He could see men, women, and children. All weeping, waiting to die. They'd already prepared themselves. They knew the risks when they came here. Desperate faces, taking desperate action. It was time for some of his own. All he had to do was give the command.

  He took a deep breath, turned to his colonel, and gave the fateful order.

  CHAPTER 63

  “Colonel, tell your men to stand down.”

  The commander looked at him for a long few seconds, his jaw slack, the shock on his face. Then a steely resolve washed over it, and he shouted the order down the line. Soldiers lowered their weapons all across the square as the order circulated in the slow prescribed fashion. Cleeson picked up his radio and spoke to Sage for the first time. “I'm not firing on civilians.” The Chairman screamed something back at him, but Cleeson held down the mic so he couldn't hear it. “What this country needs isn't a Freedom Council. It isn't superheroes either. What this country needs is right out there.” He didn't know if Sage had heard him. He didn't care. He put down the radio mic and switched the unit off completely. Cleeson gave a nod to the colonel, and the soldiers began a slow, orderly retreat.

  The crowd erupted in a thunderous cheer.

  Revolution watched in stunned silence. He still kept his scanners trained on the big guns of the tanks. He was not about to be fooled.

  Cleeson stepped to the edge of the balcony with a bullhorn. And the crowd began to quiet. All across the throng, silence fell until finally you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. His words were short, his words were clear. “Boston is yours!”

  The crowd erupted again, so loud Ward nearly had to hold his hands over his ears. He felt his knees weaken, and just when he thought they might give out he felt the Revolution’s strong arm wrap around him one more time. And then strangers were hugging them, pounding their shoulders, shaking their hands. Tears flowed anew. And it occurred to Ward at that moment that there were no strangers left in the square.

  Down the street, a line of old-fashioned streetlamps stood tall and proud. Ward saw one of them begin to glow. Yellow-green. As the crowd in the square cheered, it brightened. And then—flash—the lamp returned to normal.

  Becky Collins soaked in her large bathtub, bubbles all around her. She closed her tired, red eyes, and new tears streamed down her cheeks. She'd seen the mêlée, of course. The whole world had. She'd seen Fiona play the hero.

  And she'd also seen her die.

  Only a few hours before, she would have said nothing could have even harmed Fiona. But now, she waited to hear the official news of what she already knew in her heart. She should probably fly to Boston. But who would she go see? Who, that wouldn't throw her into a jail cell for the rest of her life anyway? So she just soaked. And waited.

  A small candle lamp, empty and unlit, rested beside her on the lip of the tub. The lamp began to glow chartreuse. So bright, Becky opened her eyes. “Fiona?”

  The light in the lamp began to seep out of the glass like a trail of fog. It slid down the edge of the tub and into the
water. The bubbles glowed as it passed underneath. The entire tub was blazing yellow-green. Electric velvet wrapped around her. She smiled. Becky's eyes closed again. Fresh tears, this time of joy. “Welcome home.”

  EPILOGUE

  They held a memorial service for the fallen heroes of Boston several days later. Dr. Leslie Gibbons officiated. At the Revolution’s request, the formal ceremony was held in the Old North Church. The Council would have liked to have stopped them, but Cleeson ordered the Council Guard out of the city, and the local officials followed.

  Boston was free.

  The members of the Suns all dressed in black uniforms, except Ward. He no longer had the secret identity anyway. And there was no way he was going to wear the bug suit to Alison's funeral. The Suns sat together on the front row of the pews: Revolution, Ward, Lantern—helmet and all, with his leg in a cast. Rachel was there—though you couldn't see her—and Sophia was resting in a wheelchair on the end. They were all just beginning the healing process. As Leslie Gibbons looked out at them, she hoped that she could bring some words that would help them along that road. But she knew it would be a long one.

  “Today we honor our fallen heroes,” she said, the emotion rising in her voice right away. “Today we say good-bye to our friends, to our loved ones...”

  After the funeral, the Suns held a private moment on Castle Island, just off Pleasure Bay and the home of Fort Independence. In the center of the large, open parade grounds they built up a small hill. It was christened Heroes' Hill. At the top was a modest monument in solid white. Engraved into the stone were names. At the front, two prominent names stood out:

  John “Saratoga” Bailey and just below it Ramsey “Hunley” Hollis. As the Suns visited the site alone—the public kept far away by the dutiful work of the Minutemen—they each thought of the words Leslie had spoken at the memorial service.