Kingdom: The Complete Series (23 page)

He forks his fingers at
the last two, a pair of shorter, younger survivors. Stacy is the only one in
the room with a pony-tail, and Gary is easily a foot shorter than Mark but
walks with the – undeserved – swagger of a champion athlete.

“
You'll
be looked after by a mixture of Trespasser and undercover units – you'll be in
no danger at any point.” Looking around the room, the Trespasser finds confused
faces staring back at him. “Look, just be here tomorrow at oh-seven-hundred,
and be in full uniform. No need to pack anything. You're all dismissed – except
Mark and Jamie: stay a moment, please.”

The others stand,
giving them curious looks as they leave. The door clicks shut and leaves the
three men in a thick silence.

Mark breaks it.

“
A
photo op?” asks Mark. “Really?”

“
Command
wants to show the world that you aren't dangerous. We need to manage the
peoples' expectations through the media.”

“
He
has a point, Mark,” says Jamie, leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his
knees. “It'll be easier to convince the new powered people to come with us if
they've seen that we aren't getting bisected in area fifty-whatever.”

“
But
we
should
be helping,” says Mark. “Us – the three of us – took down the
King. Jamie, you were there: he
told
us Glasgow would fall apart without
him; and it bloody has. We broke it; we should fix it.”

“
It
was already broken,” says Jamie.

“
That's
besides the point -”

“
We
will help, Mark,” says the Trespasser. “We will. First, though, we need to make
sure that the next time the fire falls on Glasgow we don't end up with open
warfare on the streets again. Things are bad enough as they are without people
getting more powers and running amok.”

“
Wait,”
Jamie stops him. “It's going to hit Glasgow? For sure?”

The Trespasser nods.
“The fire keeps changing course, like the first one did. It's adjusting to hit
the city again.”

“
Why?”

The Trespasser clenches
his fist and rests it on his jaw, scowling.

“
We
don't know. Perhaps the first one set a precedent. We don't even know what 'it'
is yet. All we can do is prepare for more powered people: and that means
getting the public used to seeing you guys out there in uniform.”

“
You
don't like this,” says Mark, “do you?”

“
What
do you think, Mark? You guys aren't soldiers, you aren't operatives, you aren't
agents; you're civilians. I'm being asked to take a group of six civilians –
each of whom has the capacity to take out an entire strike team by accident –
into a lawless war-zone
and
take pictures with them. You guys aren't
even slightly trained – you've yet to run the bloody assault course properly
for christ's -” he catches himself and trails off.

“
We're
trying,” says Jamie.

“
Look,
it's not your fault. You guys have had to be forced through some very, very
basic training in two months. For all that, the team still barely know each
other.”

“
I
don't even know what the others are capable of,” says Jamie. “I don't even know
what their powers are.”

“
Then
a field run will help to fix that. We three met in the middle of the grinder,
we've at least got an idea what it's like out there. The others; they came in
peacefully: they don't know what it can get like.”

“
Shouldn't
we maybe focus on getting ourselves together, first?”

“
Time
isn't going to let us, Jamie. Look, Command is giving the orders here and I
have to follow them. Tomorrow we go back to Glasgow, and I need you two in
particular to be ready for anything.”

“
Why?”
asks Jamie. “What's worrying you?”

Mark is still silent, staring
at the floor as the Trespasser goes on.

“
The
city is still crawling with remnants of the King's organisation, squabbling
over what's left. It's a dangerous place, and you two know what those people
are like. The others are new to this. If it does go south, I'm going to be
relying on you two. Mark, that means you as well.”

Mark finally looks up,
his eyes red and unfocused. “I promise I won't throw anybody into the rafters.”

“
No
rafters in George's Square anyway,” says Jamie, nudging Mark and trying to get
a smile out of him.

“
Good
enough for me,” says the Trespasser. “You're dismissed, Mark. Jamie, stay a
moment longer?”

Mark and Jamie give
each other a nod as he leaves, the door creaking shut and finally clicking
behind him. There's a brief silence as they wait to see who will talk first.

Trespasser One breaks
the silence.

“
He's
drinking more.”

“
I
noticed.”

“
Do
you know why?”

“
Boredom.
Frustration. He's been in here months and the team still can't function
together. They look at him like he's an idiot.”

“
They'll
learn. Tomorrow I'm going to need you to keep a close eye on him, Jamie.
Anything starts to go amiss, you calm him down; or you stop him.”

“
I
don't know about
stopping
him -”

“
I
mean – just do your thing. Stop time, remove him from the environment. Masked
people with powers is one thing – drunk people with powers is another; and he's
hard to explain. The public don't know him like we do, they'll assume the worst
in him. It's a headline waiting to happen.”

“
I
get it. I'll keep an eye on him. He just wants to help, you know. He feels like
he's wasting his power, otherwise.”

“
I
know. I'll see you bright and early tomorrow, Jamie.”

Prison
Cell

Dumbarton
Emergency Detention Centre

The man known as the
King sits on his hard wooden bunk, cross-legged in a lotus position, his eyes
closed and his breathing so shallow that he appears lifeless and frozen.

Time seems to pass
around him as though he were an inconvenience, leaving him sinking deeper and
deeper into a meditative state. Thoughts as clear as glass slide through his
mind's eye, plans and plots for the future, connected like a web.

Only when a muffled
coughing sound comes through the wall does he stop breathing and open his eyes.
Another, similar sound reaches his ears as he concentrates, listening; it
sounds like a sneeze cut short.

Then silence.

Then footsteps.

He remains on his bunk,
staring at the door as soft metallic sounds tip-tap on the other side. The door
shakes so hard and suddenly that he jumps, as though a wild beast were knocking
on the other side. With a wisp of smoke trailing in, the door creaks open.

A man dressed entirely
in black – his face hidden behind a mask – stands in the doorway, holding a
silenced pistol in his hand. Stepping forward into the room, he takes the mask
off and reveals a young face, clean-shaven, with grey eyes focused on the King.

Looking from the pistol
to the young assassin’s face, the King clears his throat.

“
I
assume you're here on behalf of what's left of my investors. The Kingdom
Project is over. Killing me accomplishes nothing – they're all going to
prison.”

The young man says
nothing; he raises the pistol, drops the magazine into his palm, and swaps it
for another on his belt. Ramming the magazine home with a click, he racks the
slide and turns it around, holding it by the suppressor.

He offers it to the
King.

“
The
Kingdom Project may be over,” he says, “but there is still a Kingdom. And a
King.”

The King stands from
his bunk and takes the pistol being offered, checking the safety catch is off.

“
As
far as they're concerned, I'm a guard,” the youth goes on. “Your way out is
clear: the doors leading to the exit are unlocked, and a car is waiting outside
to take you back to the city. Cameras are down, it'll seem like a squad blew
their way in and got you out.”

“
And
you?”

“
I
am yours to command.”

The King nods, a smile
spreading across his smooth-skinned face.

“
Ok
then son,” the King takes a step forward and plants a hand on his shoulder. “I
want you to stay here. Remain in character, don't let them know who you are: I
need a man inside this prison. I have a very important job for you when the
time comes, but you need to wait until then. Can you do that?”

“
Of
course, sir.”

“
Anything
else?”

“
Arrival
has been brought forward sir. Our sources tell us that the fire has
accelerated. It's heading for Glasgow again. Four days.”

“
Timing
means nothing; if the arrival is happening at all, then I can work with it.”

“
Yes,
sir.”

“
Now,
you understand I have to make this look authentic.”

“
Do
what you have to do sir.”

The King nods, and the
youth fixes a blank stare at the wall as the King pulls the pistol back and
smashes the grip across the man's forehead, knocking him to the ground where he
lies, slumped against the door.

The King steps over his
unconscious body and out into the corridor, stretching his neck and shoulders.
Taking a deep breath of the air outside his cell for the first time in months,
he begins walking down the corridor, taking care to step over the bloody bodies
of the guards that litter the path to the exit.

Freedom beckons – and
he has much work to do.

Episode
2

War
Zone

“
You've
got that look on your face, Mark,” says his mother. “I know that look.”

Mark pulls his black
overalls up over his legs, adjusting the tightness at the knee pads for
comfort, before zipping it up to his chin and tapping the ceramic plating on
his chest.

“
I
don't know why they've given me body armour. It's not like I need it.”

“
Don't
change the subject.”

His mother sits on her
bunk, the scrubbed-clean floor stretching like an ocean between them. On the
desk between their beds sit very different things: assorted bottles of alcohol,
pens and paper on his side; on hers, pictures of family – pictures of him and
their home.

Mark picks up the mask
from his bed and turns it over in his hands to find the fastenings. He stands
up, trying to fit it on.

“
These
look just like the masks that the Trespasser units wear.”

“
Mark,
what did I just say?”

He stops and looks up.
“What?”

“
Stop
pretending you can't hear me.” She stands and folds her arms, pacing across to
him. Although she is far shorter than him the indignation in her tiny frame
makes him step backwards. “You can quit the bloody act right now. I know that
face, and I know that look.”

Mark says nothing – no
point in lying to the one woman who knows him best.

“
It's
the same look,” she says, “that you had when you knew that project of yours was
failing, and refused to sell it. The same look you had just before you
announced you were leaving school. It's the
'stubborn bastard'
look.”

Turning aside, Mark
puts the helmet on the bed.

“
I
know what you're thinking,” she says.

“
What
am I thinking then mum?”

“
You
aren't going to come back from Glasgow.”

He laughs. “Don't say
it like that. I don't plan on dying for Christ's sake. I can help -”

“
You
can help
later
. You've already given that city years of your life that
you'll never get back. One hour, Mark, then home.”

“
You
can't fix the problems that city has in one hour, mum.”

“
Exactly.
So come home when you're supposed to, and fix it over time.”

“
I
can't just go there, and then leave again. Especially not if the King's men are
still roaming the streets.”

“
You've
already brought the bloody King down, leave it to the soldiers. That's their
job – yours is doing what the Trespasser tells you.”

“
Why
put soldiers' lives at risk when I can do it for them? How many soldiers have
been gunned down in the streets trying to bring these guys in? And here I am,
Mark Mcbulletproof, sitting with my thumb up my arse in a secret base getting
drunk.”

“
Those
are your orders Mark. You
have
to follow orders, now: you're part of a
team.”

“
You
know that isn't how I work.”

“
It'd
be a nice change though.”

He gives her a
frustrated sigh and turns, picking up the helmet again.

“
I'm
going to keep everybody waiting,” he says, and slides it over his head, hiding
his features behind the mask and tinted visor, the dark head-gear stretching
back over his skull like a soldier's helmet.

“
Ok
Mark.” His mother puts her head in her hands and groans. “Go and charge in
without thinking, same as always.”

He takes a step away
and stops, turning back. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“
How
many times have people told you you're about to make a mistake? How many times
have I told you? Or your uncles? But every single time, you just charge off and
do it anyway.” She puts her hands on his shoulders and her eyes fix on his
through the visor, as though she can see straight through it. “Just make sure
you come back on that helicopter – and please, please: try to
think
before
you act, ok?”

He concedes, nodding.

“
Love
you, mum,” he says, giving her a brief embrace before turning and leaving.

“
Two
minutes till we land,” the voice comes through the comms units in their masks
over the rhythmic boom of the helicopter's blades.

Sitting in the back of
its bulbous body are seven dark figures, each wearing the smooth black overalls
and matte black face mask of an elite Trespasser squadron; of course, only one
of them actually bears the title.

Strapped into their
seats along the side of the helicopter's red-lit interior, one of the
black-clad figures raises a hand to its mask, pressing in the comms unit.

“
I've
forgotten which one of you is Donald,” the voice comes over everybody's radio:
it's Cathy, her older, curt tone unmistakable. Her voice sounds like something
off the radio. “These masks make it impossible to tell anybody apart.”

“
I'm
Donald,” comes the reply, from the younger, thinner figure beside her.

“
Gary,
you're half my size and you're fooling nobody,” says Donald, leaning forward in
his seat and waving to Cathy. “I'm here, Cathy.”

The Trespasser – the
only one standing up – turns around, activating his own comms.

“
You
should all have memorised the seating, like I told you – and don't use first
names, remember. Call signs only.”

“
Call
signs?” asks Stacy, her pony-tail hidden under the helmet now. Her nasal voice,
however, is harder to disguise.

“
Your
Trespasser number, Stacy.”

“
Which
number am I again?”

“
You're
six. It starts with the same letter as your name, Stacy. Easy to remember.”

“
Eh,
that could be seven too?”

“
I'm
seven,” says Mark, breaking his silence.

Jamie laughs. “We're
not going to forget you any time soon. None of us have a flask full of whiskey
on our belts.”

“
We
should have worn different colours or something,” says Stacy, folding her arms.
She can't see the Trespasser rolling his eyes beneath his mask, the black visor
hiding his exacerbation.

Gary leans forward.
“Then we'd be the power rangers, Stacy.”

“
I'd
be the red one,” says Mark.

Jamie laughs. “Of
course you would.”

“
It
beats all being dressed in overalls like painters,” says Stacy, still adamant.

Gary taps his chest.
“How many painters line their overalls with bulletproof plates?”

“
Ones
that work in Drumchapel?” asks Mark.

The Trespasser sends a
quick burst of static through their radio, causing them to flinch and clutch
their ears, swearing.

“
That's
enough. We're landing.” They all fall silent as they feel the helicopter begin
to descend, their stomachs lurching in the dimly-lit clutches of the cargo bay.
“Remember the briefing. Stay close to me, stick to formation, don't talk, don't
acknowledge questions, and if it all goes to hell then stick together and
listen for my orders.”

They all nod, quietened
now as the realisation sets in. With a sudden heave the helicopter touches down
and they tense up in their harnesses. As the engines whine away to nothing, the
clamouring riot of the crowd outside pierces the helicopter's body.

“
Don't
be scared. We're a team. Just remember your training.”

“
What
training?” asks Mark, his mask muffling him enough that nobody hears him.

The King inhales,
turning his nose up in disgust: the stench of damp concrete and rotten wood
knots his stomach. He reaches for a light switch in the gloom and a single cold
bulb stutters on.

Wincing at the sudden
brightness, he gazes around the room:

One bare desk that
looks as though it has been stolen from a high school, with a red plastic chair
sitting behind it.

“
I
realise, sir, that it's not what you're used to,” says a suited man behind him.
“Under the circumstances, it's the best that we could do.”

“
Is
that a chair from a hospital waiting room?”

“
A
community centre, I believe.”

“
You
couldn't just buy a better one? What happened to our funds?”

“
Our
funds, sir,” the suited subordinate shuffles into the room, closing the door
behind himself, “were tied into the city and its workings. The systems that
generated our revenue streams are gone now – as are our backers, as you know.”

The King takes a deep
breath to calm himself, then scrapes the red chair out, sitting down and
smoothing out a suit that is still a size too large for him.

“
My
suits?”

“
Taken
along with everything else, sir. Most of our safe-houses were raided by the
military. They did quite a number on us.”

“
Men?
Cars? Weapons?”

The man in the suit,
his insect-like eyes trying to find a place to settle in order to avoid the
King's gaze, gives a nervous shake of his head.

“
Nothing.”

He jumps as the King
slams his fist on the desk, the thin aluminium legs almost buckling under his
blow. Flexing his knuckles, the King regains his composure and runs his hand
through his short dark hair.

“
Tell
me what we
do
have.”

“
A
few dedicated men and women: those who truly believed.”

“
You'll
all be rewarded for your faith, of course. In time. What happened to the
others?”

“
The
people of Glasgow knew who we were– when the military and the Agency troops
came round, the civilians just pointed us out. Most of us fled underground – we
can't build the Kingdom in death, after all.”

“
Thinking
long term; good.”

“
The
rest fought the soldiers in the open, like idiots. We're not infantry. They
were cut down, of course. Those that remain in hiding may return if we put the
word out.”

“
What
word?”

“
Word
of your return, of course.”

“
No.”
The King clenches his fist in front of his mouth, thinking. “Those who have
strayed from the path: they're useless to me.”

“
With
respect, sir, we need the manpower.”

“
No
we don't. We need dedicated followers.”

“
Controlling
the city with our current numbers, sir, is next to impossible -”

The man trails off upon
seeing the King's expression, his brow lowered and his eyes blazing. His voice
drips with malice.

“
Can
you imagine trying to write an equation where the numbers keep changing?”

“
No
sir,” whispers his companion.

“
I
cannot do the calculations if I have to account for disobedience. The system
only works when everybody does as they are
told
, do you understand?”

“
Yes,
sir.”

“
Now
listen: these aren't the golden days any more. We no longer have the backing of
the Kingdom Project. We no longer control the law enforcement; we no longer
have the unflinching obedience of a populace. Things have to work differently
now, and as far as manpower is concerned, quality is preferable to quantity. A
second fire is coming. In four days, there'll be a whole new batch of
super-humans to exploit.”

“
Sir,
that plan already failed us once.”

“
I
learn from my mistakes, son. In four days, we won't need followers; we'll have
gods walking among us. We can't control the city; but a sufficiently trained
group of super-humans could – and if we can control them, we
do
control
the city. Do you understand?”

“
Yes,
sir.”

The King sits back at
his plastic chair. “Anything else I should know?”

“
Everything
else is in the documents stapled beneath your desk.”

The King feels under
the desk and smiles, ripping the cardboard folder free and leafing through it.