The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution by Michael Ivan Lowell Page B
Authors: Michael Ivan Lowell
Tags: Superheroes
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still
thinking about it a second after he lost consciousness.
Revolution spun the nunchaku from
his left hand to his right and back up under his cape as he drew them around
him in one seamless move. In the blink of an eye, his hands were empty again.
The teens cheered. Two officers
writhed on the ground, their consciousness fading fast from blood loss. And two
were just out cold.
“Get home now!” Revolution barked
at the teens, who rushed away like they'd been shot at. He held his hand up to
his head. A phone line crackled in his ear. A 911 operator answered
“What is your emergency?”
“Officers need medical assistance at
Eighth and Grimes,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. Pausing for a moment, he
considered them for a long second and then added, “I'd also suggest sensitivity
training.”
Revolution was not unconcerned for
the men he had wounded. The thought raced through his mind that if an ambulance
did not arrive soon, the big one could easily die. That had not been his
intention. But he knew that in the psychological war he was engaged in with the
Council and its allies—like these officers—every move and countermove mattered.
He subscribed to the old gentlemen's agreement of war: casualties should be
avoided and quarter should be given whenever possible. But this was still war.
And in war people die.
He had sent a clear message
tonight that this curfew would not go unmonitored by him. If the Council's
allies wanted to take advantage of the people in a time of crisis, they would
have to go through him. And they would pay the cost with their own blood.
CHAPTER
17
GOVERNOR 'S MANSION, BOSTON,
MASSACHUSETTS
ONE DAY LATER
G overnor
Copley Adams, late sixties, distinguished and graying, was perched behind his
large, ornate desk. He scanned the day's agenda and the bills up for signing.
Sunlight beamed in from the large colonial-style windows. The limbs of oak
trees swayed just beyond them. Adams was a distant relative to the Adamses that
had founded the country: John, John Quincy, and Samuel. He had originally
started out as a Republican, but as the Depression ravaged the political system
as well as the economy, he had switched his allegiance to the Freedom Party
rather than follow many of his mates into the conjoined Democratic-Republicans.
The Unity Party, as it was sometimes called, had unified to kill the
Republic, Adams thought. That much he was sure of. The Freedom Party had been
the only other alternative. So he had held his nose and joined.
He'd never been an enthusiastic
supporter of the Council, but he had seen their time coming a long way off. If
you gave the country no other alternative, then you had to expect something
like the Freedom Council was going to happen. Sometimes to save democracy you
had to put it on life support. Abraham Lincoln had known this.
The truth was he had never thought
the Council's rule would last this long.
Ten years. Jesus Christ.
But in a way he understood. It was
hard to give up power once you had it. He should know. His party switch had
been early on, and he had been rewarded ever since with “reelection,” no matter
how popular his opposition became. One of the perks of—
His intercom beeped.
“Governor, the deputy chief of the
Council Guard is here to see you.”
“Tell him to make himself
comfortable. I'll be down as soon as I can.”
The retort came quickly over the
intercom as his secretary realized he had not understood what she meant. “Uh,
no, sir, he's on—”
The door swung open, and an entire
regiment of uniformed officers filed in with purpose. A short, serious-looking
man, midforties with a crew cut, emerged from their center. He was the only one
not wearing a helmet—standard gear for Council Guard, who always looked a bit
like they were suited up for a SWAT mission. Hard blue-gray steel shells
protected their chests, arms, legs. The abdomen sections were black steel. The
helmets were made of the same
thinking about it a second after he lost consciousness.
Revolution spun the nunchaku from
his left hand to his right and back up under his cape as he drew them around
him in one seamless move. In the blink of an eye, his hands were empty again.
The teens cheered. Two officers
writhed on the ground, their consciousness fading fast from blood loss. And two
were just out cold.
“Get home now!” Revolution barked
at the teens, who rushed away like they'd been shot at. He held his hand up to
his head. A phone line crackled in his ear. A 911 operator answered
“What is your emergency?”
“Officers need medical assistance at
Eighth and Grimes,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. Pausing for a moment, he
considered them for a long second and then added, “I'd also suggest sensitivity
training.”
Revolution was not unconcerned for
the men he had wounded. The thought raced through his mind that if an ambulance
did not arrive soon, the big one could easily die. That had not been his
intention. But he knew that in the psychological war he was engaged in with the
Council and its allies—like these officers—every move and countermove mattered.
He subscribed to the old gentlemen's agreement of war: casualties should be
avoided and quarter should be given whenever possible. But this was still war.
And in war people die.
He had sent a clear message
tonight that this curfew would not go unmonitored by him. If the Council's
allies wanted to take advantage of the people in a time of crisis, they would
have to go through him. And they would pay the cost with their own blood.
CHAPTER
17
GOVERNOR 'S MANSION, BOSTON,
MASSACHUSETTS
ONE DAY LATER
G overnor
Copley Adams, late sixties, distinguished and graying, was perched behind his
large, ornate desk. He scanned the day's agenda and the bills up for signing.
Sunlight beamed in from the large colonial-style windows. The limbs of oak
trees swayed just beyond them. Adams was a distant relative to the Adamses that
had founded the country: John, John Quincy, and Samuel. He had originally
started out as a Republican, but as the Depression ravaged the political system
as well as the economy, he had switched his allegiance to the Freedom Party
rather than follow many of his mates into the conjoined Democratic-Republicans.
The Unity Party, as it was sometimes called, had unified to kill the
Republic, Adams thought. That much he was sure of. The Freedom Party had been
the only other alternative. So he had held his nose and joined.
He'd never been an enthusiastic
supporter of the Council, but he had seen their time coming a long way off. If
you gave the country no other alternative, then you had to expect something
like the Freedom Council was going to happen. Sometimes to save democracy you
had to put it on life support. Abraham Lincoln had known this.
The truth was he had never thought
the Council's rule would last this long.
Ten years. Jesus Christ.
But in a way he understood. It was
hard to give up power once you had it. He should know. His party switch had
been early on, and he had been rewarded ever since with “reelection,” no matter
how popular his opposition became. One of the perks of—
His intercom beeped.
“Governor, the deputy chief of the
Council Guard is here to see you.”
“Tell him to make himself
comfortable. I'll be down as soon as I can.”
The retort came quickly over the
intercom as his secretary realized he had not understood what she meant. “Uh,
no, sir, he's on—”
The door swung open, and an entire
regiment of uniformed officers filed in with purpose. A short, serious-looking
man, midforties with a crew cut, emerged from their center. He was the only one
not wearing a helmet—standard gear for Council Guard, who always looked a bit
like they were suited up for a SWAT mission. Hard blue-gray steel shells
protected their chests, arms, legs. The abdomen sections were black steel. The
helmets were made of the same
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