Kingdom: The Complete Series (25 page)

The Trespasser and
Jamie emerge from the dust, guiding Donald towards the two injured photographers
on the ground. One of them is writhing in pain, clutching his midriff. Donald
walks straight past him to the blonde, lying still on the ground.

He gets to his knees
and checks for a pulse. Looking up at the Trespasser, he shakes his head and
moves towards the man making all the noise. The photographers look on as he
kneels beside him and hovers his gloved hands over him.

“
Trespasser,”
Jamie nudges the soldier and nods towards the reporters. Already some of them
are raising their cameras.

“
Trespasser
Four,” he waves at Cathy, who is staring, transfixed. “Trespasser Four?”
Nothing. “Cathy!”She snaps out of it, looking up through her mask. “Cathy, get
over here. Donald, hold on.”

Donald, presiding over
the injured man like a faith healer, has bowed his head in concentration.

“
What
can I do to help?” asks Cathy, her voice trembling.

“
We
don't want any pictures.”

“
I'll
do what I can,” she says, and walks over to Donald. She places a hand on his
shoulder – though he barely notices – and as Jamie watches, she focuses and -

They're gone.

For Donald, the world
goes dark asides from his small circle of it, as though a spotlight were
shining on him.

His mind is searching
through the man's body, the pressure building in his head. He can sense the
man's pain; if he holds it much longer he'll begin to feel it, too.

Putting the pressure
aside, he lets his energy flow through the injured soul's bones, knitting
wounds and cauterising blood vessels. Organs repair themselves as he passes his
fire through the broken cells, flakes of metal shrapnel rising out through the
open wounds and tinkling onto the concrete as the wounds close themselves over.

Donald opens his eyes,
and puts his hand over Cathy's, which rests on his shoulder.

“
Thank
you,” he says, lifting his mask and wiping the sweat from his brow. “Can
anybody see us?”

She shakes her head,
and he looks up. All around them is a darkness as thick as the night sky,
marked by a dense fog that has descended over everything except for them.

“
Nobody
can see us until I let them.”

“
You
can let them now.”

Cathy squeezes his
shoulder. “Put your mask on, Donald.”

“
Oh
yes,” he mutters, and pulls it down. The wounded man under his hands has fallen
into a deep sleep by now. Cathy lets go of his shoulder and -

Jamie watches them
reappear. The photographers reel in surprise, lifting their cameras again.

“
That's
enough -” the Trespasser begins, starting forward – but there is no need.

The camera's don't
work. The flashes never come.

Donald and Cathy stand
up together, and Donald points down at the man on the ground.

“
He's
fine – get him to the aid tent. As for the girl -” he turns to the Trespasser,
“I can't heal the dead. I'm sorry.”

“
You
guys get to the helicopter,” says the Trespasser, nudging Jamie too.

As they turn to leave
they see Stacy's thin figure, one hand held against her mask as though her head
were aching.

“
Come
on, Stacy,” says the Trespasser, putting his arms around her shoulders like a
protective brother, leading her away from the scene as military personnel
descend upon it, bringing stretchers and medical staff with them.

“
I
didn't think I could control that many things at once,” she groans, clutching
her head through her mask.

“
The
cameras? That was you?”

“
Of
course. I think my nose is bleeding, but.”

“
That's
ok. Just don't push yourself.”

“
I
just wanted to help -”

“
I
know, I know. You did good, lass.”

They get onboard the
helicopter, where Mark is sitting with a now-conscious Gary, his head in his
hands.

Stacy nudges him as she
sits down at his side, patting his knee.

“
Migraine,
Gary?”

He groans and nods.

“
Aye,”
she sighs, “me too mate.”

Mark waits until
everybody is aboard, and then gets up out of his seat and heads for the ramp,
walking past the Trespasser.

“
Mark?”
shouts the Trespasser.

He ignores him.

Trespasser One turns to
those in the back of the helicopter.

“
Get
buckled in. We're leaving.”

He's met with weary
nods as they take off their helmets and masks, taking grateful breaths of fresh
air. His boots clang on the ramp as he follows Mark back down into the camp.

“
Trespasser
Seven?” he shouts. Mark doesn't stop. “Mark?”

He turns and the
Trespasser tenses, ready for him to jump into the sky and leave.

“
They
can't target starving civilians, Trespasser, I won't let them.”

“
Neither
will I, why would I?”

“
Then
why are you trying to stop me from doing something about it right now?”

“
Because
we're a team, Mark. If you go out there alone then I don't care how strong or
tough you are, the King already found a way to kill you and it almost worked.
There's nothing to stop somebody doing it again. You're
not
invincible,
and whatever is left of his men are well aware of that.”

Mark turns and looks at
the camp. The body of the blonde-haired reporter is loaded onto a stretcher and
covered with a blanket as it is carried away. Turning back to the Trespasser,
his face still hidden by his mask, he clenches his fists.

“
You're
going to let them get away with this?”

“
Mark,
we will bring those bastards to justice. I promise you. But we'll do it
together. As a team.”

“
And
if I just jump away, right now? What will you do?”

“
Nothing.”

“
Really?”

“
Well,
maybe I'd come after you myself; but only to try and talk sense into you. You
want to go that badly, go – but you can't fight fanaticism with your fists,
Mark. These people are well hidden and they'll strike at the weak until they
get to you.”

Mark looks out across
the camp and sees the area clearing. Already the disaster is over. One dead,
one injured but stable.

A miracle, by anybody
else's standards.

“
The
bomber; he tried to say that the
King
sends his regards.”

“
I
heard him.”

“
The
King's in jail. It's over for him. Why would he say that?”

“
They're
fanatics, Mark.”

“
But
never suicide-bomber fanatical. They were always too smart for that.”

“
They've
gotten desperate, clearly.”

Mark looks around,
agitated. “Will you check on his prison, anyway? I want to be sure he's not
pulling strings from his cell.”

The Trespasser nods.
“Ok. If it makes you feel better.”

Mark wipes the
perspiration off of his visor and follows the Trespasser back up the ramp. He
takes a seat beside the others, strapping himself in as the helicopter's
engines roar into life. Standing, holding onto a handle, the Trespasser raises
a hand to his comms unit.

“
Command?
We're extracting. I'll debrief you when we're back.” He exchanges a quick look
with Mark and adds: “Can you do a check on the cell holding the King, too? One
of my squad is a little paranoid: he suspects that the King has a form of
communication with the outside. Search the cell, search the King, and screen
the guards.”

He waits until Command
replies. With his mask still on, none of them see his face drop. He looks up at
them, and Mark leans forward against his harness.

“
Trespasser,
what did they say?”

Trespasser One looks
him in the eye through their visors and swallows. He can't hear him, but it's
enough to see his masked head frozen in shock.

“
Oh
shit.”

Episode
3

Checkmate

Mark storms across the
base's hanger as soon as the helicopter's ramp slams onto the concrete. The
Trespasser walks down the ramp after him to find him with his head in his
hands, having tossed his mask across the landing pad.

“
This
can't be happening.”

The Trespasser takes
his own mask off and rests his hand on Mark's shoulder. “I'm sorry, Mark.”

“
Tell
me I heard that wrong,” says Jamie, coming down the ramp with the rest of them
as the sound of the helicopter's engine fades.

“
What's
everybody so upset about?” asks Gary, wiping dried blood from his top lip.

“
The
King.” says Jamie. “He's loose.”

“
Trespasser?”
asks Stacy, her voice suddenly frail and small. “Is that true?”

“
Command
says there must have been somebody on the inside.” The Trespasser shakes his
head. “Total bloodbath. Fourteen guards dead, one in medical. Somebody smuggled
him a silenced pistol, they think. He's gone. We only just got the news.”

“
Are
they doing anything?” asks Donald.

“
Nothing
we
can
do,” says Jamie. “Glasgow is his city. He'll have disappeared by
now.”

“
We
nearly died bringing that bastard down,” says Mark, “just so he could walk
right out of prison. This is
exactly
what I was afraid would happen.”

“
He
doesn't have the resources he once did,” the Trespasser reassures them. “We
can
find him. The Agency won't just let him slip away, trust me.”

The Trespasser looks at
Mark for a few seconds, holding his stare.

“
What
are you looking at me like that for?” asks Mark after a moment.

“
You've
already done enough good today. Don't go vanishing on me. Leave it to the
professionals this time.”

Mark considers this,
then takes a swig from the flask on his belt. “I'll let the Agency handle it,”
he concedes, and raises his hands in surrender. “Until they can't.”

“
Thank
you. Now let's get you lot to medical. The doctors want to check you all; we've
got a widespread case of nosebleeds.”

“
It's
better now,” Gary protests. “I don't need another blood test.”

Stacy snorts. “You're
just scared of needles.” 

The Trespasser points
them to the doors leading down into the base.

“
All
of you. Medical. Now.”

“
You
not coming, Tony?” asks Jamie on his way past.

“
My
name's not -” he begins to scold him, and then gives in. “I've got to go and
see my superior.”

Jamie and Mark both
give him a nod as they leave.

“
Squad,”
the Trespasser shouts after them and they all turn, with their masks off and
their tired eyes drooping. “For the record; whatever spin the media puts on
today's events, I want you to know that you all did bloody well. You averted a
disaster. Saved a lot of lives. We worked as a team, and you should be proud of
yourselves. I suspect my superiors feel the same way. After the medical, go and
get some rest. We're back to training tomorrow.”

They turn to leave, all
feeling a little taller.

The King stands back
from the damp concrete wall, admiring his work. Three paintings line the walls,
classical pieces from his old office.

“
That's
a bit better.” He is interrupted by a knock at the door. He shouts for them to
enter and his lieutenant appears through the door, his suit dustier and darker
than the previous visit. “Yes, Gregor?”

“
Ah,
I see you've hung the paintings sir.”

“
I
have. The thieves that we bought them from: did you do as I asked?”

“
Necks
and hands bound to cinder-blocks and dropped in the Clyde, sir. Of course.”

“
Good.
It's a sad day when my throne room is looted; they didn't even know how much
these paintings were worth. They're originals. I can't believe I had to buy
my
own
paintings back.”

“
We
did recover the money after we dealt with them, to be fair sir.”

“
It's
the principle of the thing, Gregor.”

“
At
least they won't make the mistake again, sir.”

The King finally turns
around, hands clasped behind his back, his chest puffed out as the lieutenant
closes the door shut behind him. The King turns, letting out a deep breath.

“
So
how did our announcement in George's Square go?”

The lieutenant puts his
hands in his pockets, his shoulders shrinking inwards.

“
Badly,
sir. I'm sorry.” He waits, and the King says nothing. The patient expression on
his master's face prompts the suited man to continue. “The bomb went off as
planned, but we didn't account for the survivors of Operation Firefall
intervening.”

“
I
feared as much.” The King sighs. “No matter. The objective was completed,
regardless.”

“
The
objective, sir? The attack only claimed one life -”

“
It's
not about a death toll, son,” the King lowers his voice, disappointed. “The
point was to show the Agency's new pups that they aren't safe. Glasgow is a
no-man's-land for them now. They'll think twice before coming back to
interfere. We hit their
morale
. In that regard: the objective was
completed. We've dented their confidence: they aren't soldiers.”

“
Yes,
sir. So what now?”

The King sits down in
his plastic red chair, cringing as it squeaks under his weight. “How many days
until the arrival?”

“
Three,
now.”

“
Then
we have three days to prepare. We still have our man in the observatory?”

“
Yes,
sir.”

“
What
about our man in the Agency?”

“
He's
gone, sir.”

“
I
see.” The King strokes his chin, beginning to show a bit of stubble. “I'm going
to need some time to think on this. In the meantime, keep the pressure on the
Agency; mentally. Guerilla warfare. Terrorism. Become an enemy the military
can't fight.”

The King spreads his
hands on his desk like a general, visualising the rumours spreading through the
city like a virus, carrying word of his return.

“
I
want the people to know that I'm back, and I want them afraid. Either the
Agency tries to intervene, in which case we neutralise them before the arrival
to strengthen our position – or the Agency doesn't intervene, and I know that
watching me terrorise this city will drive at least one of them insane. Force
them into action. Divide and conquer.”

“
I'll
set up a team, sir. Any preferences on targets?”

“
People
that have disobeyed me. Make sure the city sees the bodies. We want word to
spread – oh, and maybe get some people out with spray cans. Graffiti is the
language of the city. I want the people to know that their King is back. I want
them afraid for every small part they had in my fall.”

“
I'll
see to it, sir.”

The lieutenant leaves
by the only door.

The King stretches in
his chair, pulls some paper over from his desk, and begins to write with the
pen from his breast pocket. He writes 'assets' at the top of the page, and then
stares at the blank page for a while. He writes the words:

Prisoners. Prison
Break. Makeshift Manpower.

He stares for a while
again, but nothing comes to the front of his mind. The viciously sharp fountain
pen hovers over the pristine paper like a dagger, but nothing is written.

He grits his teeth,
scrunches up the paper, and tosses it into a waste basket beneath his desk.

Taking another piece of
paper, he begins to scrawl a map of his thoughts, smiling as his old
calculating mind is finally put to use again.

He writes Mark's name,
and Jamie's next to it. He draws a line between them, to the Agency, linking
them to Glasgow. Beneath Mark's name he writes 'The Gardens Project', and
underscores it: vulnerability. He draws a chemical-waste symbol beside Mark;
poison, another weakness.

Next to Jamie he writes
a question mark, and a raindrop. The King remembers all too well the vanishing
figure in the rain, taking him and his men to pieces. He writes Chloe's name
beside his, and draws a gun. He draws another line: arrival. New people, new
powers, new opportunities to take advantage of. He sketches some prison bars
and writes 'distraction' beside it.

He continues writing,
his hunched form lit by the washed out halogen. Soon, a pile of papers begins
to form beside him, each one a potential plot to take advantage of the assets
he has. Each one has the same conclusion, the same single word written at the
bottom, like the solution to a three-page long equation.

The word is Kingdom.

Morning comes – not
that there are any windows to let the light in – and Jamie unwraps himself from
Chloe's sleeping form and nestles the covers back over her.

The room is barely lit
by strings of fairy lights contained in glass jars that Chloe insists they keep
on all night. Unconscious, her hand moves across the pillow to where he'd
normally lie, a small frown flashing across her sleeping face. Squeezing her
arm and leaving her to her dreams, he stands and heads for the shower.

Half an hour later,
wearing his gym shorts and a black t-shirt, Jamie walks into the dining hall
with the intent of eating before training starts. It's there that he finds Mark,
sitting by himself at one table in an otherwise empty hall, staring at the
front page of a newspaper.

“
That
today's paper?” asks Jamie, and Mark looks up, startled. His eyes are red and
heavy, as though he hasn't slept.

“
Uh,
yeah,” he slurs, and twirls it around for Jamie to see.

The front page is a
snapshot of first-aid crews rushing over the George's Square camp – their
stretchers are all empty. The word 'miracle' is printed in giant black letters.

“
That's
not so bad,” says Jamie, sitting down. “I expected worse, to be honest.”

“
There's
more,” says Mark, pulling over the rest of the papers.

One of them has ran
with a picture of the Trespasser and the squad, the Trespasser drawing his
pistol.

“
It's
a good action shot of Tony, at least,” sighs Mark.

“
Tony?
I thought you insisted on calling him Trespasser One.”

“
It's
too early in the morning for all those syllables.”

Nodding, Jamie reads
another headline:

“
Moments
From Disaster
. Not so bad either.”

He reaches for another
and stops.

The front page of this
one is a blonde girl that he'd know anywhere. The last time he saw her, she was
lifeless on the ground in front of him, a broken camera still around her neck.

There is no headline:
the front page is a memorial.

“
She
worked for that paper,” says Mark, as though it weren't obvious.

“
I
know.” Jamie pushes it away. “When my power kicked in, she had already been hit
by the pressure wave.”

“
Donald
couldn't save her?”

“
He
tried and then just shook his head.” He reads the writing below the headline.
“She was the same age as Chloe.”

“
Damn
shame.”

“
That's
the world man. We're not superheroes.”

“
We
saved a lot of people yesterday.”

“
That
was a mixture of luck and coincidence. I don't think the attack would even have
happened if we hadn't been there.”

“
We
can't blame ourselves for that.”

Leaning back in his
chair, Jamie pushes the papers aside.

“
Yeah,
you're right.”

“
We
can blame the King, though.”

Jamie looks up to see
Mark, arms folded, staring right through him. Jamie keeps his voice low.

“
I
thought Tony spoke to you about this.”

“
I
know. I'm not going to go rogue, don't worry. I'm just saying. If I get the
chance, I'm bringing him in.”