The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution (4 page)

The note concluded:

A Fiddler will play a tune
there.

Could be a Revolution.

Bring your wings.

—The Source

Ward laughed, stuffed the note
back into the white envelope, and slipped it inside the manila folder with the
others. Across the room, a dark suit with the orange wings hung prominently on
the wall. He admired it. It was his great creation, simply hanging on a hook.

“Wings. That I can do.”

CHAPTER
4

T
he
roof of the Ward Apartments building glimmered in late afternoon sunlight. It
danced off the nearby rooftops. The tarnished silver-grey of once proud
Boston’s dilapidated spires lanced into the amber sky. And there, in the glare,
Paul Ward was clad in the tight, blue bodysuit of hard plastic material. So
dark it looked black. The same color as his old Toyota Celica he'd fixed up a
few years back. They called the color “midnight blue” if he remembered
correctly. For some reason the color just seemed right.

On his back, a finished set of the
orange wings sat folded flat against him. He slipped a matching helmet over his
head, locked it down onto his shoulders. He twisted his head from side to side,
testing its flexibility. His eyes were covered by a protective orange lens,
mouth exposed. Stupid.

He looked ridiculous. But the
truth was, and he'd known this for months already, he was completely addicted
to all of it.

The wings mechanically unfurled.
They
hummed
. A quiet drone of raw power. Ward only had to think about it
and their tiny but powerful engines ignited. Like most wealthy people, Ward had
a neural transmitter in his head that could control virtually any device he
chose, hands free—just by thinking about it. If your family had enough money,
you could get a transmitter just slipped in under the skin at the base of the
skull and off you went. Outpatient surgery. And while the Council could use
them to track you through GPS, a simple procedure could disable that function.
Ward had had it done years ago. Computers, phones, televisions, nearly anything
could be controlled by thought alone—even the wings.

Long vertical lines that ran down
their length gave them a slight “accordion” look. They were an ingenious cross
between insect wings and a miniature jet.

He took in a deep breath. A single
step and—WHOOSH!—he blasted off the roof.

The exhaust from the jets was
nearly invisible. It rippled the air around him. The wings were powered by a
nonexplosive chemical combination of hydrogen and oxygen. As long as the
circulating hydrogen supply didn't leak, oxygen in the atmosphere was enough to
power the engines. Oxygen was the input and oxygen was the output. In other
words, the jets could power him indefinitely. Before the Council, he could have
sold the technology and made a fortune. But the Council made that impossible.

One of their first priorities had
been to transfer nearly every major existing patent to one of their subsidiary
companies. Their patents covered concepts, ideas, and even theories, not just
actual inventions. Whole divisions of their companies were focused on patenting
every conceivable type of technology, whether it existed or not, meaning that
as soon as someone invented something, the Council could swoop in and claim it
for their own—including all kinds of air-combustion engines. They owned the
very
idea
of air-combustion engines. If you tried to defy them, they’d
sue your ass off and you’d go broke anyway. It was easier just not to try.

Bastards.

 So the fortune he was going
to make off the wings would just have to wait.

For now, though...

He was a bullet in the wind. He zipped
above the distressed urban landscape. Rooftops rolled by beneath. Tar, steel,
concrete. The wind in his face, unfettered and free. The world blurred as the
jets increased their burst. He was riding a rollercoaster as he arched over the
curvature of a domed roof. G-forces pulled at his face, and he lowered his head
so that the helmet took the brunt of the blast. He smiled. He could never get
enough of this.

Without even thinking, he let out a
whoop that echoed across the concrete canyon below. Pedestrians looked up,
searching for the sound, but by the time their eyes met the sky he had zoomed
over the rooftops—and was gone. The pure exhilaration of flying as fast as the
body could withstand was just about as cool as anything he had ever done, or
could think of doing. It sure beat the hell out of hang gliding, formerly his
favorite hobby.

It was every little boy's fantasy
come true.

But tonight was different. Ward
had developed a secret weapon that could help him fight crime without using
violence. He glanced down at the small cuff-turrets around his wrists. The
secret they contained completed his transformation into the hero he desired to
be.

The time was right...

But if that was the road he was
going to travel, he knew it meant he'd be exposed to the world. He was not sure
that was a step he was really ready to take. Up to now, he'd barely been
noticed. There'd been very little mention of him in any respectable media,
despite now having taken down several of The Source's targets himself. With The
Source’s help, he was actually making a dent in the local crime scene.

And he loved every second of it.

But he had to face it. At some
point, he was going to have to think of a name, or just announce to the world
that he, Paul Ward, once a respectable surgeon, innovative chemist, and Harvard
professor, was the idiot flying around like an overgrown pigeon. Pigeon Man:
shitting on criminals since...

“Oh shit!” he veered wildly,
narrowly missing a small water tower.

He had to focus on what he was
doing. These flights were getting to seem nearly routine, but they were still
dangerous as hell. Man was not meant to be hurdled through space at one hundred
plus miles an hour without a titanium shell around him. Or at least some steel.

Sometimes he imagined himself as a
giant paintball hurtling through space... Okay, better get that image out of
his head. Besides, he'd spent a long time on his flight suit. It was actually
flexible armor. Mostly bulletproof, but certainly not crash proof.

Sometimes he called it his bug
suit, because that's what it looked like. Not intentionally, but as he put it
together, every time he changed the design to look better or be more
functional, or both—it looked more and more like a bug. He kind of thought he
looked like some kind of moth.
Moth Man
was already taken, though.
Didn't like it much anyway.  

Ward arced upward toward the
gold-tinted clouds above. He brought his arms in tight to his sides and rose
like a missile into the sky. He did not like to fly too high in case something
went wrong—and to avoid small aircraft. But on nights that he had trouble
focusing, he found it safer. Less chance of being spotted, too.

He leveled out, bringing his body
horizontal once more. He thought again of his enemy. An enemy he swore to
himself, in the golden blaze of the setting sun before him, he would take down
or die trying. Beneath him lay his beloved Boston. An adopted home, but one he
had come to call home just the same. Was he ready to show himself to the world?
Ready or not, his adopted home was calling.

Tonight he hoped to make that home
a little safer. Everything he had done up to now was preparation. And it was
going to be a long night...

CHAPTER
5

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

NIGHT

T
he
engines on the Apache whined from the descent. A steep, diving descent. The
black of the starry heavens spread out around the helicopter. Its lateral jet
engines fired it across the sky in a burst of power. Its angular design was
more aerodynamic, more menacing, than models of Apaches that had come before
it. Inside, a single pilot maneuvered the craft into a line of other identical
choppers. Their V formation glided to life perfectly.

A dozen choppers dove toward a
large unruly mob in the middle of a city square.

This
Boston, this world,
was run-down. The once proud buildings were cracked and dilapidated.
Shadows of their past glory. The Depression had taken its toll. Left
behind in its wake were the scars. Some of them were bizarre. Mobile media
and Internet were everywhere, yet basic sanitation, heating, or unspoiled food
could be scarce. State Street, where the large crowd had gathered, had
once been the heart of Boston's bustling financial district and a historical
marker. Now it crumbled like the rest of the city.

Like the financial centers of most
cities in the US, State Street went through a period of change. Growing
inequality fueled this change. It all started in the twentieth century and
had not stopped. Inner cities grew, and grew less safe. The financial districts
of most cities lived near the inner city. Crime here became intolerable to the
wealthy who had to travel in and out of them.

So, in Boston, as in the other
major cities, they walled off the financial district. State Street had
been a major thoroughfare through the city. But about twenty-five years
ago, it was made into State Street Square. Like a cul-de-sac neighborhood.
“If you don’t have business in State Street, you have no business being there,”
went the saying.

And then the insurgency happened.
And it happened in Boston. Boston became ground zero for insurgent activity,
and State Street became ground zero for protests, just like the one tonight.
So, for the past ten years, the financial district had been moving. Most of it
was miles away now. But enough of it remained on State Street to make this
protest meaningful. Most importantly, the local office of the Freedom Council
itself stood just below the mass of protestors gathered on this night to
“celebrate” its birthday.

An ocean of flags and protest
banners spread across the square. Signs in the crowd displayed statements like:
“END SHAM DEMOCRACY!”  or  “FREE US FROM THE FREEDOM COUNCIL!” 
Several featured stylized images of the Revolution. In the center of the square
a podium had been set up for speakers. The crowd began to quiet in anticipation
as a tall man with bright-red hair approached the microphone. His last name was
Roosevelt, and he counted two American presidents in his familial lineage. He
had a round face, though he was not an overly heavy man. His chin was long, but
his cheeks puffed out, making it seem short. His eyes were large, round, and
captivating. The appeal of his otherwise unremarkable face was in his eyes. He
was someone you wanted to follow. The crowd fell nearly silent as he started to
speak.

“My friends.” Roosevelt was
excited, confident. “Welcome to the first night of the last days of the Freedom
Council!”

The crowd cheered.

“Ten years ago tonight,” he
continued, looking up at the brightly lit offices of the local Council, “in the
midst of the Second Great Depression, the twenty-five largest corporations in
America convinced Congress and the president to violate the Constitution and
put themselves in charge of overseeing all three branches of government.” 

The crowd's jeers soared into the
electric night air.

Standing beneath the once proud
towers of concrete and steel, Roosevelt connected with the crowd
immediately. ”For most of us, time has simply stopped or gone
backwards.” He peered up at the high-rise office of the Freedom Council
and pointed skyward. “The wealthy few enjoy high-tech goodies only they can
afford.” Then he glanced back down at the mass of people. “The rest of us
barely get by. The middle class has shriveled. The rich get richer; everyone
else stays poor.

 “A century ago my
great-great-great-grandfather used the tools of government to 'prime the pump.'
To get the economy moving again.” He pointed back up at the tall buildings.
“But they tell us we can’t afford that anymore. They tell us to trust
them
.
Because
they
know what’s best. They are the best.”   

High above the mass of people, the X-1s banked hard
and rolled, all in tight formation. Their sleek black steel glimmered in the
moonlight. Far below, the crowd made a distant target. The square seemingly
teemed with insects from this heavenly perch. The turbines burst again, and the
choppers hurtled forward, their noses dipped slightly, their blades singing in
the black. High and hot, the X-1s slammed across the dark sky, lining up the
people below as their mark.

“Well, we know the truth, my friends!” shouted
Roosevelt. “The big banks and Council companies only loan money to each other.
No one else. And only then for uses of which they already know the outcomes. The
Council claims innovation is too risky. And risk is what caused the
Depression. But what is really at risk are their profits!” The crowd
erupted in applause.

“They tell us there’s no money for
inventors. No money for universities. No money for federal grants. And what’s
been the result? Innovation has slowed to a crawl. We the people are worse off,
while they bask in the sunlight!”

Employees of the Council looked on from their
lighted windows as the crowd erupted in applause. They paced to and from their
bright roosts, watching for a moment then turning away. Soon others would take
their place, and the process would start again.

The Revolution
clung tightly to the
aircraft's landing gear, staying out of view of the pilots as they adjusted for
the pitch and roll of his extra weight. The irony of hitching a ride to an
anti-Freedom Council protest on a Media Corp Chopper was thick indeed. But he
did what he had to. He was as famous for his close calls, inventive entrances,
and lucky exits as he was for his star-spangled battle armor. He was an
opportunist.