The Suns of Liberty: Legion: A Superhero Novel (5 page)

     He figured he’d have bruises, but Leslie hadn’t been
kidding about her new armor upgrades. He turned his grimace back to a smile as
the two thugs collapsed to the floor.

     Ward strode toward Marconi. “It’s a new day, fella.
Brains over brawn, I’m afraid. You’ve ruled this city through terror and might.
And you just got taken down by a nerd with a pocket protector and his super
sexy girlfriend.”

     With that Ward shifted the dart canisters. He could
feel them slither under his wrist, and he fired straight into Marconi’s bicep.
The serenity dart hit home. A dumb smile spread across the godfather’s face.

     “Stealth...” Ward said.

     And she appeared. Right next to Marconi. The hood from
her invisibility cloak still covered most of her face, but her full blood-red
lips glistened out of the shadows as did her angular chin and strands of her
silky brown hair—enough for Marconi to tell she was a knockout. She opened her
black leather cloak with a delicious gesture and showed Marconi’s slipping mind
the tight white top, tan bare midriff, and form-fitting miniskirt she was
wearing.

     “Suck it,” she said in a little girl’s voice with a
bit of throaty menace thrown in for good measure.

     Ward knew that the effects of the drug would combine
with the sight of Rachel’s centerfold body to give Marconi a healthy dose of
priapism
:
a persistent and painful erection that would, in this case, manifest itself
during a conscious but comatose, drug-induced state. That’s how Ward’s medical
books would have listed it anyway.

     A raging woody just before he went all “Woodstock” is
what Rachel would have called it.

     It was an evil thing to do, Ward knew, as it would
stay with Marconi for the duration of the drug’s effects. Which, given the
dosage Ward had just injected into him, would be at least half the day.

     Ward snickered at the thought.

     He’d worked on the trazodone chemical base of his
serenity serum for years to try to stop the effect from occurring, but had been
unsuccessful. Trazodone is an antidepressant that had long been known to cause
sexual side effects like priapism. Now, he wondered why he’d not seen it as a
side benefit...

      “Girlfriend, huh?” Rachel said.

     Ward smiled at her and shrugged. “Hey, a guy can
dream.”

The
arrest of Boston’s last gang brought an enormous surge in public support for
the Suns from the people of Boston. Spontaneous celebrations broke out in the
streets of working-class Southie. 

     Gang activity, long a begrudging local tradition, had
grown to be such a nuisance during the depression that it had long since lost
any element of romance it might have held for the denizens.

     The mayor and police commissioner jointly sponsored a
Suns of Liberty Appreciation Day soon after, and the Revolution, Ward, and
Sophia each received keys to the city.

     Much to the irritation of many members of Boston’s Finest. 

CHAPTER 5

NEW YORK CITY

W
illiam
Howke had a tall, looming presence with a vulture-like face. He was taller, in
fact, than Thomas Sage as the two men passed each other at the podium.

     Sage looked tired. Where he had once been suave and
debonair, Boston had taken its toll on him. He looked out one last time as the
Chairman of the Freedom Council. A council he had created. Before him was a
crowd of dignitaries. Included were members of the Council itself, members of Congress,
and a few CEOs from big client firms under the thumb of the Council—and, of
course, the Media Corp camera that was exclusively covering the event live for
the world. He ran a nervous hand through his black slicked-back hair, waved a
final good-bye, and slipped out the side door.

     And was gone.

     The historical significance of the moment was lost on
no one. The only chairman the Freedom Council had ever known in its ten years
of existence was no more. The room fell dead quiet. They all wondered the same
thing:

     How would this affect their stock price?

After
the worst of the Second Great Depression had abated, the out-of-control
financial markets had been reined in. New rules were established that limited
risky investing. So, in a way, the stock market was not as important to
American capitalism as it had been before. Instead, Thomas Sage had engineered
not only the rise of the Freedom Council, but also the formation of the IBC:
the International Banking Consortium.

     The IBC was the main funder of the U.S. and especially
the twenty-five member companies of the Council. But access to those very favorable
loans were contingent on a company’s capitalization, or in other words, their
stock price.

     It had meant that once you got a seat on the Council
you gained advantages that your competition could not match: access to cheap
money. Connections. Legal and policy control. So Sage’s departure was eyed
nervously by everyone on the Council.

As
his successor, William Howke, watched Sage file past the others seated at the
grand tables in this grand ballroom, Howke was thinking of how badly the
Council needed a distraction. They needed a story in the press that would make
the fall of Thomas Sage fade from the headlines. And Howke knew just what to
do... It had hit him the night he watched the events in Boston unfold three
months ago.

     A team... 

Thomas
Sage stepped out into a frenzied throng of reporters. Light bulbs flashed,
questions flew. He approached a bank of microphones set up with the Media Corp
logo plastered all over them. The world’s media were finally allowed to get a
glimpse of him on this historical day. Of course, the breaking story of the day—that
today was the final day of his chairmanship—had already been broken by his own
company.
Former company
, he had to remind himself.

     This second press statement was just a bone they were
throwing to the rest of the media players.

     The scandal surrounding the violence that had broken
out in Boston three months prior had only grown since. Even Media Corp had not
been able to stop the tide of outrage that had flooded through social media
sites. Sage had decided to put an end to it all. He stepped to the podium to
reiterate the words he had spoken only moments before to a far more important
crowd.

     “The Freedom Council greatly regrets the incident in Boston three months ago,” he began. “We thank the young woman, Fiona Fletcher, wherever she
may be, for her remarkable intervention in that matter. The Council has put the
full weight of the United States government behind finalizing the report on why
the Man-O-War weapon malfunctioned. No effort will be spared in getting answers.
As contrition for the Council’s role in the horrific events, I am stepping down
as Chairman of the Council, effective immediately. I am also stepping down as
CEO of Media Corp. My good friend, advisor, and constant confidant, William
Howke, will replace me in both those roles. Thank you.”

     And with that, he bounded away from the microphones
and toward the clear path Council security had made for him to his waiting limo
and his wife, Marguerite, inside. He was satisfied that those words would calm
the market and wind down some of the more heated speculation about a change in
direction for the Council.      

     Everyone had expected this. It had already been
announced, and Sage had already lost a no-confidence vote on his leadership as
CEO of Media Corp. The writing was all over the walls and part of the ceiling
too. Still, the reporters stood in shocked silence.
This was really happening.

     All stood silent except one. Blake Lane shouted as
loud as she could, “What
about
Boston? Why did the Council evacuate Boston? Is it true the Council is no longer in control there? Some are claiming you ordered
the Man-O-War to attack. Is that true?” Blake Lane knew the answers to her
questions—after all she lived in Boston and ran the nation’s premiere Resistance
newspaper. So well known that Sage himself had been unable to shut her down. Or
worse.

     She also knew that the giant mechanical jellyfish
they’d sent to Boston hadn’t malfunctioned at all. It had been sent to put down
the Resistance with brutal force.

     Sage instantly shot a glance at her filled with pure,
unadulterated hatred. At that moment Blake realized just how badly wounded he
was by the events in Boston. Was he hurt badly enough to throw caution to the
wind and have her killed?

     He glanced over at the Council Guardsmen who awaited
his instruction. Just one nod from him and she could disappear forever. For
just a moment Blake Lane let herself feel fear.

     Sage waved them off and vanished inside the limo.

     Blake breathed a sigh of relief. The editor-in-chief
of the nation’s premier Resistance newspaper,
Common Sense
, would live
another day...

Inside
Freedom Rise, William Howke had called the first meeting of
his
Freedom
Council to order. Unlike Thomas Sage, who had nearly always controlled the
conversation from the start, Howke let a debate commence. Unsurprisingly, the
issue still on everyone’s mind was the Fire Fly.

     “We’ve got to do something about the fucking Fletcher
girl!”

     They all broke into chatter.  Howke simply watched
them all. He was sizing them up in his mind. He’d heard Sage talk about the
other twenty-four many times, but this was the first time he had seen them in
action. In this secretive, privileged chamber, these titans of industry often revealed
their true selves, Sage had told him. Now those true selves were on display.

     It was odd to be the newbie and yet also the leader.

     “We know where she is.” An icy voice broke through the
chatter, and they all stopped on cue. It broke Howke from his internal strategizing
as well. Bannister Tarleton, model-handsome yet with a hawkish face punctuated
by piercing blue eyes, peered about the table. His gaze focused finally on
Howke. “We should drop an ICBM on her.”

     “Jesus, Bannister,” someone said from the other end of
the table.

     They sat in silence for a moment. No one knew what to
say to that. It was so extreme, so out of place.

     Howke stood suddenly. “Mr. Tarleton’s right.” This
brought audible gasps.

     “He is?” someone exclaimed.

     “A missile strike would send just the right message:
we can hit her, we can hurt her. A nuclear strike is too strong, to be sure...”
Howke’s face turned rigid and his speech became staccato—the sign that he was
excited. “But a strike into the heart of her perfect little world...” He was
not as media friendly as was the telegenic Thomas Sage, one reason Howke would
be relying on the handsome, if trigger-happy, Mr. Tarleton for public
relations. A good reason to throw Tarleton this bone. “Yes, I think I like it,
yes.”

     Howke took a deep breath as they all watched him. Now
was the time to lay out his plan. “You see, for too long we’ve debated and
divided ourselves among those who favored the Velvet Glove and those who
favored the Iron Fist.” Tarleton, two seats down from Howke on his right,
bristled with energy at the very mention of the term. To him, the Iron Fist
represented more than just aggression, it meant winning. “Tom favored the
former. Boston has shown that alone won’t work. But it also showed us the
limits of the Iron Fist. We need to use the best of both approaches. We’re all
worried about our stock prices.”

     This elicited a wave of mumbles down the table from
the other twenty-four. “The IBC raises all our interest rates as our stock
prices fall!” someone shouted above the din.

     “Yes they do,” Howke agreed. “I have a plan to
stabilize the situation. I’ve been busy in this transition period. First, I am
stepping up production at our New Jersey facility. In fact, we’ve already done
so. You’ll be happy to know that Dr. Von Cyprus has already given us our first
great success.”

     An image suddenly flashed to life on a holographic
screen in the center of the table. It was multi-dimensional, so that no matter
where you sat at the table you had a crystal-clear view of the image.

     “This, ladies and gentlemen, is the
USS Delaware
.
A fully robotic all-terrain battle station.”

     The image that had sizzled to life in front of them
was truly awesome. It was a flying armada all built into one machine. It was an
enormous battleship, cargo jet, armored tank and aircraft carrier…all pooled
into one. Its fat body was reminiscent of a large metal blimp, but it had wide
wings on the side.

     “What you see here is a vehicle that can move on the
land, in the air, on or underwater. It is entirely unmanned and contains an
army of robotic, weaponized drones, all completely under remote command. It is
our first completely mobile, robotic military base.”