THE SUNS OF LIBERTY:
REVOLUTION
A Superhero Novel
___________________________
MICHAEL IVAN LOWELL
Copyright © 2013 Michael Ivan Lowell
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to [email protected] and include “permission request” in the subject line.
www.MichaelIvanLowell.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products 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.
Cover Illustration Copyright © 2013 by Jason Ganser
Cover design by Jason Ganser
Editing by Gabe Robinson and Becca Block
To those who still believe that “all men are created equal” and to anyone who still gets goose bumps when walking past the Old State House or the Old North Church.
Acknowledgements
There are so many people to thank for this book, I cannot list them all. But a few simply must be mentioned. A heartfelt thanks to my editor Gabe Robinson, who made this book so much better by his careful eye to detail and dedication to the story. The talented Jason Ganser for the fantastic cover art that captures the mood of the book perfectly. David, for those hours of dreaming up ideas for superheroes when were kids, many of which “grew up” and became part of this book. Becca Block, my trusted reader, for reading multiple versions of the book again and again, and making many, many crucial suggestions. Rich and Michelle who put up with my barrage of ideas and requests to “just read this!” and for convincing me I really do need a POV! Seth, who read and commented extensively on early versions of the story. To Ben, Jessica and Jason, Jim, Shawn and Casey who all read early versions and offered many fruitful ideas. And finally, to my family for the moral support and love that every writer needs to survive (and don’t we all). To my lovely wife JoAnna, who served as a little bit of each role mentioned above and still managed to retain her sanity, beauty and humor.
“Every revolution was first a thought in one man's mind”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
“Every generation needs a new revolution.”
—Thomas Jefferson
"The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don't have any."
— Alice Walker
“Dissent is the highest form of patriotism”
—Howard Zinn
“I ask you to judge me by the enemies I have made.”
—Franklin Delano Roosevelt
“Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice.”
—Barry Goldwater
"I have learned over the years that when one's mind is made up, this diminishes fear; knowing what must be done does away with fear."
— Rosa Parks
“When injustice becomes law, resistance becomes duty.”
—Thomas Jefferson
IN THE NOT-TOO-DISTANT FUTURE...
PROLOGUE
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
THE PURGE BEGINS...
The scientist was trying not to scream.
The glint of razor-sharp steel reflected the light from the street coming through the window. It pressed hard against the coursing pressure of his jugular. His face was a river of sweat. The old man grasped the sides of his chair as the figure above him pushed in closer. In the dark, quiet office an infiltration team had assembled behind him. Ready to pounce, to kill.
He couldn't tell how many were there. They’d already killed the lights.
“I'm not the one you want! Not the one you're looking for.”
“I think you're lying, Professor. I think that if I cut your throat and rifle through your things I'll find the key to your lab. And I'll get what I want, anyway. So you should just tell us. And save what's left of your life.”
The scientist gulped down fear and silently slid something from his palm up into his shirtsleeve, “You've made a mistake. It's not me!”
“We know you have a weapon. We have the best locator in the business, but I'm not very patient. Now where is it?” the attacker hissed through clenched teeth. “I would hate to have to pay that nice little family a visit. They have a little daughter, don’t they?”
The scientist’s eyes widened. “Leave them out of this. They have nothing to do with it.”
“Or a home invasion. You know, so many terrible, depraved things can happen in a home invasion these days. Even in the nicest neighborhoods.”
“Damn you!” The scientist tried to lunge at the man, but he was grabbed quickly and held tight to the chair by the others.
“Oh, I know. I hear you were quite the badass in your younger days. But look at you now. Wrinkled and frail. Only one option, old man.”
Cloaked in darkness, a shadow-draped figure moved in front of them. Silently. The figure was tall, large, muscular. Only the scientist could see him.
Only the scientist knew he was there.
Knew his identity.
That fact alone would make the scientist one of history's most important persons. He would be the last man on Earth to know the shadow's real name. For the shadow would change history.
Or more accurately, the future...
But the scientist knew none of this then. He only knew that if the man in the shadows didn't do something soon, his white lab shirt would boil red.
“Where is the weapon?” the attacker screamed, and his blade twitched from the force of his shouting and nicked the old man’s skin.
Finally, the shadow spoke. “Not where. Who.”
A snaking strand of yellow-green light, too fast for the eyes to follow, whipped across the room as he spoke.
It lashed the attacker’s forehead like a cobra and recoiled into the darkness. All before the others could react.
The knife-wielding assailant crashed backwards. His knife spiraled out of his hand. He hit the floor with a thud. The scientist dove for the carpet as the infiltration team opened fire.
The night lit up like day. They blasted away at the shadow with automatic weapons. Wood and plaster, shards of glass from the professor’s framed degrees exploded across the room. Books popped and shredded into the air. The team emptied their magazines in a hailstorm of bullets.
Then...
Silence.
In front of them, the doorway was dark and quiet.
They switched on flashlights. The shadow was gone. Clouds of dust and debris floated in the air. The room was crowded with desks and boxes and all the stuff of an overfilled storage space—now shot to hell. Still, a virtual labyrinth. A perfect nest for an assassin. The first attacker through the doorway flipped the light switch.
Nothing. It just clicked in the darkness.
He cursed himself. They’d cut the power before entering the office. The other two gawked at him like he’d lost his mind.
“Go to night vision.” The attackers were outfitted in full military garb, though their uniforms were not military, not SWAT, nor any affiliation that had come before. Still, they carried the best equipment, and they were professionals. Sent to do a job. A job at which they never failed. Even in the face of a weapon they did not and could not understand, they didn't feel fear as much as they felt curiosity, challenge.
An energy whip?
Going up against something they'd never faced before didn't happen often. Yet the
y didn't feel fear; they felt exhilaration—as the adrenaline pumped through their veins. They were ready for the kill.
But they should have felt fear.
For as they entered the adjacent room, the shadow was crouched in the corner. The shadow likewise was comfortable on this terrain. He knew what the infiltration teams stood for, knew what they wanted, knew how they worked. And the shadow would die without a moment's hesitation to defeat them. That, and the strange weapons he possessed, made him dangerous. More dangerous than the team could ever possibly know.
They were outnumbered; they just didn't know it yet.
The shadow switched on a small light that made no light. Unless you were wearing night-vision goggles. And in that case it turned on a beam as bright as the sun.
The attackers screamed from the pain and fired blindly around the room. They could see nothing but the blazing glare.
The shadow pulled a revolver from his coat with his right hand, and a long spike jutted out from a harness under the shirtsleeve of his left. In one smooth motion he lunged forward and placed the barrel of the gun on the nearest man's head.
The blast was muffled, but his head split open up like a ripe tomato, splattering the walls.
The two remaining attackers spun toward the sound. The spike was glowing the same strange yellow-green as the whip, and the shadow rammed it with ease into both men with a sickening slosh. They fell, mortally wounded.
The shadow zipped into the first room and snapped the neck of the unconscious first attacker.
The scientist was horrified—and still huddled on the floor. “Oh God, did you have to do that?”
The shadow leaned down to help him up. “You know I do. No witnesses.” The shadow peered around at the wrecked office. “Bailey was right. The purge has started. You’re the only hope this country has now.”
“I’m not the only hope,” the professor said with a knowing smirk. “We've got to get you out of here.” The scientist let the keycard slide back down into his palm. “We have to complete your transformation tonight. We're out of time.”
The shadow lifted the frail scientist in his powerful grip and grinned.
“No, we're just in time. For a revolution.”
CHAPTER 1
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
TWO YEARS LATER
THE END OF THE PURGE...
The world’s first superhero.
The Revolution faced the massive force alone. A scarlet cape billowed at his back. Body armor of bold blue. Sleek metal snug tightly to his body, with grooves and curves built into the steel. Prominent shoulder plates lay under the spots where the cloak attached. A red star on the chest, covering his solar plexus, and another across his forehead. Boots, forearms, gloves shining blood red in the moonlight. A silver-white belt with a blue star on the buckle was clamped around his waist. The only part of his body that was visible was his eyes, protected by thick, clear eye shields. Over the mouth and nose section of his helmet was a vented system that both allowed air in freely and filtered it. All of it made of the scientist's new near-indestructible titanium alloy. The living symbol of the resistance.
One man to face an army.
A soft breeze swept across the open field. The ragtag resistance militia plodded behind him, five miles over the horizon. They were coming to make a last stand, but they'd yet to see this strike force. Hopefully they wouldn't have to. Civilian-grade weaponry versus the might of the military. Rifles and pistols versus tanks and jets.
They would all be slaughtered.
The vision of the founders in which citizen militias stood against the power of the state no longer worked. It would take something different, something stronger.
It would take him.
If a war was to be waged in the name of the people, he alone would have to wage it. If the Republic was to be saved, it would fall to him to save it.
He took one last breath of the night. Fragrant mayflowers and fresh-cut grass. And then he could smell the sharp steel and rancid petrol of the machines. It was time...
It was no accident that he was standing there. He had chosen to end his personal life. He had given up being a normal human being a long time ago.
One life ends, another begins.
He had no friends, no family left. He devoted himself to the cause. The cause was his life now. There was only one catch. To be the Revolution, he knew he would have to be willing to die. And willing to kill. Had to be ready to make the decisions few could ever make. The decisions of a perpetual soldier.
The only thing he had left that meant anything to him was his country. His duty. And he would see them through to the bitter end, no matter the cost. The ancients had believed that the greatest life lived was that which ended in a glorious death. He could only hope that his glory would be the restoration of the Republic.
Other Americans had paid with their lives to secure freedom. Was it really so strange, the choice he had made? To be a soldier, a public servant? That’s all he was.
But now was not the time to reminisce about such things...
The soldiers took aim at him.
The Revolution was not afraid. Had trained it out of himself. He was resigned to his own death. No one could do the things he did every day and expect a long life. His bill was due any day now. He simply desired to make a difference before he paid it.
“The Purge ends here!” His amplified voice, smooth and baritone, boomed across the field.
Near the rear of the strike force, General Murray Cleeson put down his binoculars and glanced over at his nervous colonel. The open-air jeep they were riding in glided smoothly over the bumpy terrain. The colonel made a face. “They say he can take out an army. Think it could be true?”
“I think it's time we find out.”
“The Chairman wants us to give him a chance to surrender or retreat.”
“He's had his chance. It's pretty clear what his answer is.”
Cleeson was the prototype for hard-ass general. Crew cut, Southern accent, tall and stocky at the same time. His voice was gravelly, as if he ate batteries for breakfast. When he spoke you listened. When he gave an order you followed it. And he was in no mood to screw around.
He wanted the resistance crushed, and Cleeson thought now was the time to do it. He didn’t believe in tying up loose ends; he believed in burning them into oblivion. They’d almost killed the spirit of the resistance. The death of the Revolution would put a bullet through its heart.
Reluctantly, the colonel snapped up a small communicator and barked into it. “Send in the air strikes.” He wasn’t going to be the one to tell the old warhorse this was a bad idea. After all, Cleeson was a decorated veteran of the African Conflict. He’d seen more action over there in a single year than the colonel had seen in his entire career.
Revolution heard the colonel’s words from a hundred yards away. Enhanced parabolic hearing devices can do that for you.
He broke into a run.
The armor made him strong, made him fast. Inside his helmet, his increasing speed displayed across the visors: 50 mph. 55 mph. 60 mph. The cool night air whipped through his facemask. He would reach them before the jets reached him.
Cleeson made the same calculation. Barked an order. One of two tanks roared to life and headed right for Revolution.
It fired.
The shell zoomed across the field, red exhaust burning through the black of night.
The Revolution dodged it by centimeters, whirling out of its rocket-trail path as the servos in his armor screamed in his ears.
Earth, fire, and metal exploded into the air at his back.
He had to time his next move to the second. Had to be perfect. Any mistake would mean death. The blast was only a few feet behind him. He spun and faced the fireball.
It engulfed him.
The explosion took him off his feet and propelled him backwards toward the fighters. He burst out of the flames, landed feetfirst, and rolled only to bounce back up.
Perfec
t.
The blast hadn't even scorched him. He turned, raised his arms, and sent a gust of fire and energy straight at the tank that ripped the vehicle apart.
His eyes turned to the fighters.
They all took a step back.
“Anything you send at me, I'll send back at you!” he yelled, his voice booming again out of the loudspeakers in his armor.
The general balked.
He was wide-eyed and red faced. He didn't want to admit he'd never seen anything like it before. “Bullshit! Open fire!” Cleeson barked. He figured they’d throw everything at him and see what worked.
The soldiers took aim and did just that.
Revolution charged. Sparks flinted off his armor as he bounded toward them. The bullets had no effect. As he ran, Revolution reached into the belt around his waist and snapped up bladed metal stars.
Shurikens.
They were as big as his hands. He flung them, sidearm, at the fighters. As they left his armor-encased hands they began to glow. Yellow-green. They spun flat and menacing. Glowing trails of death slicing through the night air.
Nothing could stop them. Whatever they struck, steel or flesh, they cut straight through—until their charges faded and they returned to black steel, stabbing into the next thing they hit.
One sliced through the tank—it stopped. A direct hit into its guidance system. Sparks spewed out of the useless vehicle.
Another cut through a line of soldiers, one after the other. He slung two dozen at them. Until he ran out. There was nowhere to take cover. The soldiers' mouths gaped at the level of damage the small weapons wrought. Bodies and broken metal lay strewn across the field.
A row of tanks began advancing from the rear to help the ground troops.
The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution Page 1
