The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution Read Online Free PDF Page A

was what those coordinates pointed to. They
were not simply latitude-longitude, but they were definitely geocentric. Based
on the kinds of information The Source had provided in the past, he guessed The
Source was someone with military, government, or academic background. There was
no other way to get the kind of technical and inside information The Source
routinely leaked to him. So he was also guessing The Source could put those
coordinates into the right database to find a match. Naturally, he'd been
right. The code pointed to a bank. The site of his enemy’s next heist.
    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,