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Authors: Michael Ivan Lowell
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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
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
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