The Suns of Liberty: Legion: A Superhero Novel Read Online Free Page A

than from
where Stimpy was standing. It took them a millisecond to size it all up. “No!”
one of them screamed, but it was too late.
         Stimpy fired the shot, and just as he did, it finally
dawned on him what was wrong with the stranger, what had bothered him about the
way he had looked from the start.
         The stranger was just slightly transparent.
         And although he was generally considered one of the
dimmest bulbs in the grow-house, Stimpy was an expert shot.
         Too bad.
         The thing about MagCharges is that when they are
unprogrammed they are just as dangerous as a stick of dynamite. Their explosive
charges are raw and volatile. A gunshot, for instance, could blow them to kingdom
come.
         Stimpy’s bullet was right on target—right between the
eyes, and it zipped through Lantern’s Hollow , like the hologram it was,
and slammed into the rows of MagCharges. The explosion ripped the brick wall
away and sent fire, shrapnel, and energy mushrooming across the open space.
         The wise guys leapt into the open doorway they had
just ambled through and could feel the heat of the flames roar overhead,
shrapnel ripping into them. 
         “Told you I had a bomb,” the Hollow said. And then
blinked away. The holograph was gone.
         In New York City, still affixed to the side of the
skyscraper, fighting the frigid high winds, Lantern smiled and turned his attention
back to Freedom Rise . 
         Back in the Counting Room at Marconi’s stash-house,
the blast threw everyone to the floor and knocked over the tables. Flames and
energy rushed into the room. Cash scattered everywhere. Smoke, dust, and
currency filled the air. When it cleared, the men lay bloodied and moaning,
choking from the smoke. A few tried to pick themselves up. Someone bolted to
the door and swung it open, hoping for air. The dust and smoke billowed out the
opening in the roof, and the room began to clear. They were all gasping for the
clean air when someone said, “What the hell is that?”
         Those who could looked in the direction the guy was
pointing, which was up and through the gaping hole in the roof of the now demolished
Weapons Room.  In the grey sky, a small dark object was diving straight toward
them.
         Finally, someone yelled, “Spider Wasp!”
         Above the smoking stash-house of the Marconi crime
syndicate, Paul Ward made a final calculation as he dove. Ward was clad in a
tight blue body suit of hard plastic-looking metal material. So dark it looked
black. He’d gotten the color from his old antique Toyota Celica he'd fixed up a
few years back. They’d called the color “midnight blue” back then.
         On his back was a set of large orange wings, spread out
wide, flat against his back. 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. The wings were powered by a non-explosive
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. The wings gave him
unlimited flying time.
         The dark-blue helmet he wore on his head was formed to
fit and had a bit of a gladiator curve to the back of it where it met his
shoulders. His eyes were covered by a protective orange lens; his mouth was exposed.
He called it his bug suit.
         He raised his arms in front of him and took aim. Large
cuffs on his sleeves whirred to life as they rotated like the canister of a
machine gun. All he had to do was think about it—and the Neural Transmitter,
implanted at the base of his brain, did the rest.
         Thwap! Thwap! Thwap!  
         Darts zipped out from the rotating canisters and
struck the men as they tried to scramble for cover. 
         There had been ten of them. In one pass he’d hit