The Suns of Liberty: Legion: A Superhero Novel

by Lowell, Michael Ivan

  “Fiona!” Becky breathed like a scandalized mother.

  Fiona raised her chin. “Drop your opposition.”

  The mayor’s face turned red, and he stammered and stumbled on his words.

  “Fiona!” Becky was shouting now as she watched the wave. It was approaching the first set of boats. In only moments they would be capsized.

  “There’s no time! Please!” Elders begged.

  “Not so tough now, huh?” shot Arcadia.

  Becky seethed at her. The girl would do or say anything to get in Fiona’s good favor!

  “Okay, anything you want, just please save my city!”

  “See, that wasn’t so hard.” Fiona teased.

  Flash! She was gone.

  Fiona materialized just behind the wave—and watched in horror as it swallowed a sailboat with three on board. A luxury yacht was swept up by the monster wave next. The big boat fought against the swell and finally tipped. Rolling under the wave, it smashed into the bubbling water. Tiny figures fell, slipped from the deck, as it turned, and Fiona watched as they tumbled into freefall.

  She saw a girl no older than herself, blonde hair, string bikini. Probably very pretty. Screaming, fighting to get inside, as if that would save her. She slipped and rolled down the deck, slammed against the yacht’s guardrails, and went limp, only to go spinning head over heels into the deadly, monstrous surf. The ship and it occupants were consumed by the roiling waters. There was nothing Fiona could do for them. There just wasn’t time. She had to stop the wave from striking the shore and the inlet where a whole host of boats lay helpless in the gigantic wave’s path.

  She shot out a massive wall of energy in front of the wave, and like water sloshing in a bathtub, the great wall of water hit the barrier of energy with an all-powerful BOOM! Water wrenched backwards with a pounding, colossal roar.

  Great. But now it was headed back toward the encampment. Fiona raised another wall behind her as the great wave passed through her now ethereal form. Why didn’t I think to turn to light-form when the missile blasted?

  The water sloshed against the back wall and headed again toward South Lake Tahoe, but some of the water began to slosh in other directions as well. Fiona raised two more walls, boxing the water in from all sides.

  It took twenty long minutes before the water calmed enough for Fiona to dissolve the energy walls. But when she did, she was miles away. Because...

  She had gone to seek revenge.

  Veronica Soto never saw it coming. One second she was sitting in her cockpit watching as the impact spread across the target area and wondering why the signal was coming back so goofy. It was a direct hit and yet the reverberations seemed to be going psycho.

  The next second, the world exploded.

  The lieutenant found herself in freefall. She’d blacked out. Her whole body was numb. When her brain finally registered what was happening—that she was falling, from 30,000 feet, toward the Earth—that’s when she noticed the blood.

  Her arms, her legs, she still had them, but they were ripped to shreds. Those shreds flipped and flopped and rippled in the wind as she fell. She should have been in agony, but she felt nothing.

  She peered down at the ground below her as she spun. The great Sierra Nevada mountain range rising to meet her. And she realized that the ground was coming up far too fast. She’d had no time to hit the ejection seat. She hoped she still had a chute in her suit. She hoped it wasn’t ripped to shreds like the rest of her.

  Fiona watched as the stealth fighter exploded in front of her. The fireball was tremendous. She could have just burned the jet into oblivion, but instead she had blasted the engines and waited to see what would happen. She thought the plane would just fall from the sky.

  And when it did she was going to incinerate the parachute of the pilot and let he or she plummet to the Earth. That seemed like it would be sufficient payback. Payback is a bitch. And she was feeling very bitchy at the moment.

  When, contrary to what she had been expecting, the aircraft had exploded and flung the pilot free, Fiona had let out a whoop and a laugh that she had almost felt guilty for.

  Almost.

  The lieutenant hit the ejection button on her suit with the bloody clump of flesh that used to be her right arm and hand.

  The chute opened.

  But she kept falling. The chute was ripped and some part of the mechanism wasn’t working right. It took it a full fifteen seconds to fully unfurl and even when it did, the rips in the fabric were limiting its effectiveness. Her descent was twice as fast as it should have been.

  Veronica Soto fell to the Earth. When she hit, she bounced. Blood splattered into the air. Limbs, already torn and burnt, shattered. Her body lay twisted unnaturally in the green forest of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Bent and curved in ways no human body should be. A pool of red gathering around it.

  It would take twenty minutes, but the rescue team that was standing by reached her by honing in on her transponder signal. They were astounded to find that the brash and highly gifted young pilot was still alive. Barely.

  They immediately began administering emergency medical aid, but it was clear she was going to need extensive and heroic measures to save her life, if it was even possible.

  So it was particularly jarring when their classified, top-secret communications were interrupted by the highest security clearance channel in the system: it was the voice of the chairman himself.

  He said only two things. “Bring her to me. She’s perfect.”

  That is how, though barely clinging to life, First Lieutenant Veronica Soto came to be wheeled into the Freedom Rise medical center in New York City—the most advanced and exclusive medical trauma center in the country and reserved for the members of the Freedom Council itself—long after there was any hope to save her arms or her legs.

  CHAPTER 8

  Clay Arbor grimaced.

  He was using his Death Stare. It could melt the back of a man’s skull in a matter of seconds if he concentrated hard enough.

  Or at least he wished it could. In truth, all it could really do was give him eye strain.

  Didn’t matter. He was still going to stare at the back of Bob Bigley’s head until the fat man turned around and saw Arbor giving him the evil eye.

  Oh, it would be worth it.

  Because this absolute utter horseshit that Bob had gotten him into was the very last straw.

  In front of the room was a large movie screen, and Arbor, his agent, Bob, and a dozen studio men in shiny suits from Media Corp’s film division sat watching the new trailers for the upcoming film The Legend of Lithium, in which an aging action star, who was twenty pounds too heavy and ten years too old, was playing Clay Arbor: the man otherwise known as Lithium.

  Arbor was a mountain of a man—a barrel-chested, late-forties, bodybuilder type. He was clad in his armor that was part Robocop, part infantry man. The armor was essentially an Army-green flak jacket set over dark titanium 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 they came, but like a lot of men who were all muscle, he gained that strength at the expense of flexibility.

  To add to Arbor’s grievances today was the plastic abomination he held in his huge fist. An action figure they said would be noted for its realistic portrayal of Lithium. Yeah, realistic if you counted the exaggerated wrinkles and the ass the size of Bob’s beer gut!

  A loud explosion flashes across the screen and a beat-up and clearly weakened Revolution helps the overweight Lithium destroy what was a clearly cheesy attempt to create the Man-O-War.

  Lithium turns to the Revolution as the thundering score crescendos. “You’ve earned yourself a reprieve! Till we meet again, flag-waver!”

  The lights rose in the small private theater, which was tucked into one of the many basement floors of Freedom Rise. The studio guys all stood and turned toward Arbor and Bob, clearly pl
eased with themselves.

  Arbor thought he might spontaneously combust. “Till we meet again, flag-waver? Really?”

  “Yeah,” said one of the Suits. “Tracked really well with suburban housewives over fifty.”

  Bob finally turned toward Arbor, and damned if Arbor had forgotten all about the Death Stare. But one look at Bob and Arbor could tell his erstwhile agent had gotten the message—despite the fact that the silver reflective visors of Arbor’s helmet concealed half his face. The exposed lower half of his mug that Bob could see evidently spoke volumes. And those volumes were all saying they wanted to kick Bob Bigley’s fat ass.

  Bob sprang to life. “No! How many times do we have to tell you, the real money is in the Tweens!” Bob said, and then swung back with a grin to get his star’s approval.

  “Jesus,” Arbor breathed. “Look, do whatever the hell you want. Just leave me out of it from now on, okay?”

  At that moment the door opened behind them and the studio guys’ mouths all dropped open. Arbor turned to see a seductive brunette slipping into the room. She was wearing a dress that was so tight everyone in the room realized she had no underwear on. “Hey, honey babe,” he said to her. “Ready to go?” Arbor swiveled on his heel and headed for the door.

  “Wait, Mr. Arbor...I mean Mr. Lithium, we can reshoot the scene. We can change the line, we can—”

  “Whatever,” he said, dismissing them with a wave.

  “But we still have the action figure to talk about!”

  Arbor stopped, still holding the toy in his gloved hand, and he turned and tossed the Lithium toy into the air.

  And blasted it with a quick burst of fire from his wrist-flamethrower that made the brunette squeal with delight and the studio guys crap their pants.

  It plopped on the carpet in a gooey glob of green-colored slime.

  “I’m sure they’ll be hot sellers, sweethearts. Now—and I mean this in the most pleasant way possible—go fuck yourselves!”

  Arbor slammed the door behind him.

  In the hallway, Arbor looked at the dame at his side. What was her name? Dorothy, Darla, Denise? Fuck it, what did it really matter? “You feel like going to my penthouse and losing that dress of yours?”

  “Whatever you want, big fella,” she said. “I’m yours all day.”

  “Good answer, babe.”

  Arbor put his arm around her just as two things happened. First, from behind him, a red-faced Bob Bigley burst out of the theater door, ready to try to do some major damage control with his star.

  Second, from in front, a group of five strolled around the corner. Arbor recognized them immediately. The elite members of the Council Guard whose job it was to protect only one person: The Chairman of the Freedom Council itself.

  William Howke. Flanked by four of the elite Guard.

  Howke’s tall frame stood above the others, and he spied Arbor immediately. “Captain Arbor,” the chairman said. “Mind if we step into the lounge here and have a word?” Howke pointed to a small employee lounge that was set up for hourly employees working the theater.

  Arbor stopped and looked at ‘Honey Babe.’ He handed her a set of car keys. “Why don’t you take the Porsche out ‘til I give you a call?”

  The woman squealed but then instantly pouted and held out her hand.

  “Oh yeah,” Arbor said. He reached into the utility belt that stretched from his shoulder down to his waist and back up and found a pocket. He pulled out a wad of cash. She took it with another squeal and click-clacked down the hallway in her eight-inch heels and short skirt.

  “That your niece?” Howke asked.

  “Something like that.”

  The two men stepped into the lounge. It cleared out. The Council Guard closed the door but stayed close by outside, Arbor could tell.

  “You’re not very happy these days, are you, Captain?” Howke began. “You’re not feeling well utilized, are you?”

  Arbor blinked. “Well, I, uh...”

  “It’s okay. I know you’re trustworthy. I just see a man who’s unhappy. You obviously have a taste for the good life. But you leave the PR decisions to your manager. You look for love in what,”—Howke motioned back to the hallway—“high-class escorts? Captain, you’ve served your country and this Council with unmatched distinction. But Tom stopped using you to your fullest potential sometime back, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir,” Arbor said quietly. He’d liked Thomas Sage, but there was no denying the former chairman’s policies toward him had left him feeling frustrated.

  “What if I told you that I want to give you your own unit to command?”

  Arbor perked up. He was not sure what he was hearing. “My own unit, sir?”

  “And what if we promoted the Captain? Fast-tracked his promotion to where he really ought to be after all these years of distinguished service to, say...Colonel?”

  “I’d say I sure as hell like how that sounds!” Arbor said a little too excitedly. “Uh, sir.”

  “I thought you would.” Howke rose from his seat, Arbor started to rise with him but Howke waved him off, so Arbor stayed put. “You see, we have a problem with these Suns of Liberty. They’ve stolen the show, so to speak. And no amount of shitty movies about you or poorly designed action figures are going to turn that around.”

  Arbor smiled his big toothy grin at the chairman. He couldn’t help it. How long had he been saying the exact same thing?

  “You see,” Howke continued, “I realized the night we lost Boston that we needed to do something to take back the attention of the country. Now, Tarleton, you know how he is, right?”

  Arbor nodded.

  “Iron Fist, Iron Fist,” Howke mimicked. “He wants me to nuke that compound they have in Boston.”

  Arbor shrugged. He’d heard worse ideas.

  ‘I know, you’ve been at this a long time. Probably like to see your little grudge match with Revolution come to an end.”

  “If it ended the right way.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But you had a chance to end it in Boston, didn’t you?”

  Arbor squirmed in his chair. How could he know about that? It wasn’t often anyone could make Clay Arbor squirm, but here he was suddenly nervous as a cat. Howke was supposed to be a less effective communicator than Sage had been. But Arbor was pretty fucking impressed so far. The guy was unpredictable.

  “Well,” Howke said, rescuing Arbor. “Here’s my theory. You want to beat him with honor. You want to beat him so the whole world knows the truth. That you are twice the man he is. That you are loyal and patriotic without plastering the fucking flag all over your face. That you are the true hero.”

  Arbor pursed his lips and nodded. Sounded as good as anything he would have come up with.

  “I’m going to give you that chance,” Howke said, fire suddenly burning in his eyes.

  Whatever his idea was, he was excited about. The Chairman of the Freedom Council had a big idea and he wanted Lithium to be at the center of it!

  “That sound good to you, Colonel?”

  “Fuckin’ A!” Arbor said, grinning ear to ear. “Sir.”

  “Good. Then you’re going to lead your own super team. We’re already working on it. We’ll call it...the Legion!” Howke said it with a sweep of his hand as if he were seeing it up in lights on the digital screens of Broadway.

  “The Legion? I like it. Who’s in this team with me?”

  “We’re working on that, too. But you got anybody in mind you’d want?”

  “Yeah. Kendrick Ray.”

  “X-Ray!” Howke said, like he’d already put him on the roster.

  “Yeah. He’s a weird little fuck, but there’s nobody better. And just what do you see us doing? I mean it’s still gonna be hard to justify breaking down their door in Boston and wiping them out.”

  “Oh, that time will come. But first, we need to put the new team on the map. And not like we did in the past. No more phony bank heists.”

  Arbor’s grin
was just getting bigger and bigger; he could hardly believe what he was hearing.

  “I want you doing real hero stuff. We’ll outshine the Suns, and then trust me, they’ll come to us. And we’ll expose them for the goddamn traitors they really are. A terrorist can’t hide his true nature forever. At some point he wants to come out into the light.”

  Howke sat back down in front of Arbor.

  “What we’re going to do,” the chairman said, “is give them the light switch.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Ward flew to his apartment building.

  His chest was starting to burn from where the bullets fired by Marconi’s thugs had bounced off his armor. Mostly he just wanted to get back to his building and take a long shower. He owned the building and rented the bottom twenty floors to families who now clamored to live at the same address as the Spider Wasp. A management agency ran it for him, but it made up the bulk of his annual income. The top five floors of the building made up his home.

  Per usual, he landed on the roof and remote-triggered an outside door to open with a simple thought-command from his implanted Neural Transmitter. Security for his unusual five-story home had been significantly updated since his identity had been revealed to the public some months back. Ward’s main living areas were on the top floor. It was supposed to be his work area, but he spent the vast majority of his time there, so he’d given up and just made it his living space as well.

  Or that was until three months ago. Since then, since the battles he’d faced and the losses he’d suffered, he spent less and less time up there.

  He entered it now out of necessity. It was where he stored his flight suit and wings. The large case they went in was open on the wall when he stepped into his workroom, just off the roof.

  He stripped down to his boxers immediately.

  Ward lay the bug suit into the case. He pressed a button and watched the lid slide closed over it. Done.

  He looked around his workroom. Neater than usual. The truth was he just hadn’t had it in him to work much these days. Since the Man-O-War, since Alison’s death, since Bailey’s death, since Hollis’s death.