The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution

by Michael Ivan Lowell

  “Yes, sir, I understand.” He leaned into the com and shot a firm directive into the static. “Cease fire. Return to base.”

  The diving birds split and forked off above the Revolution. They zoomed past him on either side. The frightened crowd cowered behind him.

  As fast as they had attacked, the rat-a-tat-tat of their propellers echoed away, leaving only an eerie silence. Revolution lowered his eyes to the street. Bodies and body parts were scattered in a sea of red gore.

  Too many dead to count.

  Revolution wandered into the horrific mass of human ruins. He stopped at the feet of a couple that seemed familiar to him. He had noticed them earlier as he’d scanned the crowd. Their blood-soaked placard lay torn between them. He knelt and closed the woman's eyes. He turned her head from the unnaturally twisted position in which it had come to rest. As he did so a sickening pulse of blood from a gaping hole in her skull gushed over his armored fingers.

  He wiped the blood from his hands with his already scarlet cloak. He rose, taking in the full scene. Bodies dotted the far expanse of the square. Mothers and sons. Fathers and daughters.

  “A massacre.”

  Far above, in a circling Media Corp chopper, a cameraman leaned out the bay door, trying to keep his lens trained on Revolution. It was time to blend into the crowd. For a while the brilliant colors of the armor stood out and, no doubt, made it easy for the cameraman. But soon, the red, white, and blue of the throng provided virtual camouflage. The Revolution slipped away. As usual.

  The Chairman slumped back into the cushions of the recliner, unable to take his eyes off the screen.

  A million scenarios rushed through his brain.

  But there was only one way to deal with this. Those goddamn pilots had forced his hand. Even a man as powerful as the Chairman couldn't control everything. Not the protocol set for the pilots, not the orders the trigger-happy local Council leaders in Boston had set for the pilots—having lost their patience dealing with the insurgency day in and day out. Understandable really, but it meant they had to be watched constantly. They were always out for blood. Should have seen tonight coming.

  This level of violence was sure to have the insurgents howling. Pressure would be applied to rein in the Council Guard and momentum would turn against the Council. How far would that pendulum swing? He couldn’t afford to learn that.

  It all went back to the beginning. The Council had long debated the wisdom of two master approaches to their opposition: The Iron Fist or the Velvet Glove. The Iron Fist had its supporters, but the Velvet Glove was where the smart money was. The Purge had represented the Iron Fist, and it had been as brief as humanly possible, even though elements of it lasted for years. It had been an unfortunate yet necessary evil.

  Since then, relative calm, growing stability, and a “new normal” had crept into the country. All were the work of the Velvet Glove: a media-driven, ideological battle that ceded ground without surrendering the fight. The Velvet Glove allowed the Revolution to exist in order to show how benevolent the Council truly was.

  Not that it was official Council policy to protect him—it wasn’t. But he was only one man. His presence meant minimal threat for maximum show of restraint. It was all about public perception.

  The Iron Fisters, on the other hand, would have loved nothing more than to crush the Revolution and his resistance. But the raw use of power like that only showed weakness. The Purge was a moment of weakness when the Council had to eliminate its greatest foes. True power is not having to use it.

  But now, in the aftermath of this bloodbath, as Media Corp itself beamed the images across the world, a feeding frenzy was starting. Social media networks were already exploding with talk of the massacre. The Chairman watched it all happen in real time. He had access to everything. He could snoop in anywhere he wanted. And he could see past his small screens to the big picture: the power of the Velvet Glove was already draining away. Nothing was going to stop it. Could it be that the Velvet Glove lay dead and bleeding on State Street along with the others?

  There was no choice now.

  The decision had made itself. He would call General Cleeson in the morning and find out about the weapon. A supersecret concoction so need-to-know-only that even he had no details on what it actually was. Only that it was unstoppable.

  Plausible deniability.

  Sometime back, word had come up through the ranks that Council scientists were developing an ultimate weapon. Sage had green-lit it to keep in his pocket in case the Council ever needed a trump card. Plausible deniability required he know as little as possible. So he received periodic updates about a weapon he had never seen, that could do things he did not know. Sage hoped he would never have to find out. Never have to use it.

  And that's exactly how it should be. The man running the science division was not only smart, he was also savvy. He kept the info locked down, just as Sage had asked.

  But now, it was the last best option. If the weapon could take out the insurgency with one blow, a temporary return to the Iron Fist would be worth it. Just one devastating lightning strike, then back to the status quo. No more resistance, no more opposition, no more Revolution. Sometimes you have to cut your losses. There was no choice now.

  CHAPTER 11

  A group of patrol cars, lights flashing, surrounded the entrance of First Federal Bank of Boston. A group of onlookers and reporters were being held back to a safe distance. The summer sun beamed down, baking sweat out of muggy foreheads.

  The large glass bank doors swung open. A mountain of a man rushed out with confident strides. His name was Lithium—a barrel-chested, late forties, bodybuilder type, clad in armor that was part Robocop, part infantry man—and he exited the bank in a gush of strength.

  His armor was essentially an Army-green flak jacket set over dark steel—the best stuff they made. The padding was all over his body. Soft spots at the joints allowed him a great degree of freedom of movement, which the big man needed. He was as strong as an ox, but like a lot of men who were all muscle, he gained that strength at the expense of flexibility.

  Flopped over his powerful frame was the unconscious body of a thug. The bank had just been robbed. Or at least the thug had tried to rob it. But one scumbag up against the man known as Lithium wasn't even a contest. The nightly news was there to broadcast that fact to the entire nation, not just Boston.

  The assembled officers cheered. They thanked the big man by name. Lithium was more than yet another masked man who had risen to prominence in the aftermath of the Revolution. He was a virtual celebrity.

  And he had one thing that none of the others had. The unconditional support of the Freedom Council.

  Lithium dropped the thug to the ground with a dull thud, and camera flashes exploded from everywhere. Somewhere behind the silver reflective visors that concealed half his face, his eyes twinkled with delight. He loved the attention.

  The exposed lower half of his face broke into a big, beefy smile that revealed a wide, toothy jawline and prominent chin.

  “There ya go, sweethearts,” he beamed.

  The thug was unharmed. In fact, what might have looked like unconsciousness at first inspection was nothing of the kind. Lithium had gained his name from the unique brand of weapon he brandished. He called it his lobotomy beam. It could render someone comatose instantly, and depending on the intensity at which he fired it, the effect could be permanent or it could only last a few minutes.

  The whole permanent coma thing, that wasn't something the public knew about. He kept that to himself. In fact, the Freedom Council had insisted on it.

  The thug on the ground would only be out for a few moments. Just long enough for Boston's finest to cuff him and haul him away. And, more importantly, get him in front of the cameras.

  Later, Lithium stood with his arms around a group of kids who looked on adoringly at their hero. More kids were grouped behind him. They all grinned into a camera, and Lithium spoke the lines that ran across the camera'
s teleprompter.

  “And remember, kids, that's why it's always important to do the right thing. Trust the authorities. And remember, don't listen to the Revolution.”

  The big man gave another of his million-dollar smiles. He was “used car salesman meets superhero.”

  “That's a cut!” the director of the video crew yelled from fifty feet away. Instantly, everyone near the scene headed in a thousand different directions. This “production” was over. The cop cars were long since gone save one that had been kept in camera shot.

  Lithium high-fived the kids and strolled over to his rotund public relations manager, a middle-aged man named Bob.

  “How'd it look?” Lithium asked. “We get a good shot?”

  “Excellent. Be all over the six o'clock news.”

  “And remember, kids, don't listen to the Revolution.” Lithium said, mocking himself. “Jesus, Bob! Do I really have to say that every time?”

  “Look, we're both just following orders.”

  “Yeah, but it's like banning music. As soon as you tell some kid not to listen, they’re gonna listen.”

  “You sound like one of ‘them.’” Bob said with a shit-eating grin that pissed Lithium off immediately.

  “No, I sound like somebody who's not got shit for brains, that's what I sound like. Jesus! Anyway, whadda we got on the perp?”

  “Uh, yeah...about that...” Bob was clearly trying to think of how to break whatever bad news he needed to tell Lithium, when at that very moment a voice interrupted them from behind.

  “Hey, man, you got a light?” the voice asked. A cigarette was stuck in Lithium's face.

  “Aw, yeah, buddy, sure.” Lithium was already holding his own lighter. He lit the cigarette and for the first time looked carefully into the man's face.

  It was the thug from the heist. In different clothes and with a completely different hairstyle and color, but the same guy.

  “Thanks, man,” the thug said, walking away casually. “Nice working with ya.”

  Lithium gasped. A slickly produced arrest was one thing, but to realize that the whole thing had been a setup, that nothing about his day had actually been real… That was insulting, as well as more than a little dangerous. Lithium waited until the guy was out of earshot and then let loose.

  “Jesus! Can't I ever fight a real bad guy? Not some clown from central casting! We gotta connect the dots. ‘Criminals and insurgents, both scum. Both cause the pain in your life,’” Lithium said, testing the line. Lithium lit a smoke for himself. “Ain't rocket science.”

  “Don't look at me, man. I've tried to tell 'em. Truth is, not too easy getting hold of the Council these days. I can't even get a human on the phone,” Bob said.

  Lithium fumed. He was used to bureaucratic bungling, but this was the ultimate insult. Turning a real arrest into a publicity stunt, which they’d done plenty of times, sucked, but at least it let him know not to do any real damage to any of the stuntmen or actors he’d be facing. And it served the larger cause of showing the world that the Revolution wasn’t the only guy taking out the bad guys.

  But it was entirely unacceptable to fake it and then not even have the courtesy to tell him—the guy who was actually going to be taking down the perp! What if he had actually hurt that guy?

  Lithium's real name was Clay Arbor. And in another life, not that very long ago, he had been one of the most decorated fighters the Special Forces had ever seen. He was a man known for his extreme loyalty to the chain of command. He would do the jobs no one else wanted to. He liked to believe that he thought long-term, big picture. Sometimes to defend democracy, freedom, apple pie, and all the rest of that shit, you had to do things that made you hold your nose.

  Understandably, given the ol’ Stars and Stripe’s larger-than-life legend, Arbor’s persona was mainly concocted to be a corrective to the Revolution. The Anti-Revolution. Proud to be it! He'd gone up against the Star-Spangled Freak many times and had always held his own. Their battle that destroyed the Brooklyn Bridge. The fight on the Mall in Washington, and a dozen other scrapes in Boston itself. You could always count on lots of real estate damage when the two went on a date together. Their battles always sold lots of advertising, so no need to guess why the Council kept the Revolution around.

  But this dog and pony show was getting old. Arbor had always done whatever he was asked, but he was accustomed to being utilized to the best of his ability.

  Fighting some limp dick from Broadway was not going to get it done.

  “I thought I was the great white anti-Revolution hope. Why can't we kill him again?” Asking the questions he already knew the answer to, Arbor added, “And why aren't we out stopping real crime? Folks know the difference.” Arbor read Bob’s face. “Yeah, I know…I know the answers. Sometimes I just like to hear myself ask the questions.”Bob was holding his hands up, nodding to every word out of the big guy’s mouth. He was entering what Arbor called Bob’s “time to talk his star down mode.” “Ask me,” the rotund manager said, “I think they've got too much manpower diverted to trackin’ him. We have to know where crime's gonna pop up—”

  “Jesus!” Arbor howled, and Bob immediately winced, like he’d been caught going into the dirty bookstore. “They're too busy tracking the Revolution to help me beat the Revolution? They need to either let me take him out or beat him at his own game. I mean, those kids today. Now they're gonna remember that for the rest of their lives. Phony or not, that shit makes a difference!”

  Just then a burst of laughter caught their attention. Beside them were a couple of temporary trailers set up for the actors and film crew, but disguised as construction trailers for a fake road repair, so Arbor hadn’t noted them before. Now, camped out in front of one of the trailers they saw a group of young kids smoking cigarettes. They recognized them instantly. The children from the bank.

  Child actors.

  “Jesus!” Arbor spat in complete and utter disgust.

  Neither of them said anything for a long moment.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Arbor stewed. The kids just continued horsing around, oblivious.

  Bob fought it as hard as he could.

  Straining.

  Sweating.

  But finally he could hold it back no longer.

  He let loose a snort of a laugh that sounded like a pig dying. And when Arbor shot him the inevitable “eat shit and die” look, he totally lost it. A belly howl like a hoarse hyena erupted from the fat man.

  Arbor glared at him, revolted. “Really?”

  Bob couldn't breathe. He was whining and wheezing, and it looked like he could piss his pants at any moment, and the angrier Arbor became, the harder he howled.

  Arbor expected Bob would shit his pants, too. Sure looked that way. Which was kinda funny.

  A reluctant smile spread across Arbor's face. He didn't know if he was laughing more at Bob or himself or the whole damn situation, but he began to chuckle. And then they laughed at each other. The two were bent over, roaring deliriously. Arbor peered up at Bob, who was sweating and crying. He could barely make the sound:

  “Jesus!”

  CHAPTER 12

  Miles away from the bank scene with Arbor, the ivy-covered brick of Covington South Boston sat nestled into a quiet, wooded lot. A small and exclusive private high school. Inside, children of Southie's few elite families and those desperate enough to shell out the dough sat crowded into high-school classrooms, working quietly.

  Fiona Fletcher struggled silently at her desk, writing the paper assignment. As was standard, several boys glanced at her, obviously hoping to catch her eye in case she looked their way. She never did.

  Fiona never attended any social functions or spoke much with her classmates after school. This could have made her a pariah among her status-conscious peers, but instead it simply served to fuel her legend. She was easily the most beautiful girl among an already stunningly attractive teenage set. In the hallowed halls of Covington South, she was a mysterious, ghost
ly goddess who disappeared every day as soon as classes let out. A black SUV was there like clockwork, fifteen minutes before school ended, waiting for her. Even on days school ended early.

  Fiona grimaced at her notebook. She had set up a story about a beautiful princess finally able to share forbidden love with her gallant knight. War had kept them apart.

  It wasn't Shakespeare. In fact, it was pretty clichéd. Maybe that's why her mind wandered...

  A blood-red sky. Thick, gray smoke billows in the distance.

  Fiona—an older, more mature Fiona—stands upon a deep-green hill. She's wearing a corset and dress from another time. She is stunning. Glorious feminine beauty that is at once the svelteness of youth and the womanly confidence of age.

  A knight on horseback gallops up to her. The horse is majestic white and snarling its power into the crisp air. On the stallion’s back is the Revolution. He dismounts his steed with grace and confidence.

  “Hello, Fiona.”

  “Hello, my darling,” she says with pent-up longing.

  He runs to her, embraces her in his powerful arms.

  “I have won this war. For you.”

  Suddenly her rather more womanly body is speckled with golden body glitter. They lean into a deep bow, and with one hand Revolution rips off his helmet and throws it away. He is the poster child for tall, dark, and romantic.

  This broke the spell for just a second. She realized that the face in her vision had adorned that obnoxious romance novel she had spied in the bookstore the other day. The only good thing about it having been the male model on the cover.

  Better try a different tack...

  Though she cannot see his face...his jawline is strong, his hair dark and tousled. Fiona throws her head back as he nuzzles into her breasts and kisses them. He caresses her body, takes in the scent of her, his breath hot on her skin. Moves his lips up to her neck with spine-weakening precision. She feels her knees give a bit. His tongue leaves hot trails. He crosses the threshold to her lips.