Leaving only the King.
The blue suited King fires in wild panic into the cascading man-shaped waterfall, and the bullets pass through as it dissolves, leaving a silhouette in the storm where it once stood. The stolen rifle clatters to the tarmac.
The man reappears behind the King and his hands reach around and pluck the assault rifle from the King's grasp.
The King turns, lashing out at the rain.
As though it were teleporting, the figure is suddenly behind him, and crashes the rifle's stock into the back of his skull, sending him reeling forward onto the ground.
Then there is silence.
Only the helicopter's rotors speak, and it is to wind themselves down from the constant chopping of the air to the slow clap that ends the show.
Then that goes, and there is nothing but silence and the lashing rain.
Only the elemental remains standing, looking down at the King with the rifle in its hands. Mark, ignoring those shouting his name behind him, begins walking into the storm, one hand up to guard his face from the stinging raindrops.
As he gets closer the figure looks up, and in the darkness Mark sees two eyes staring back at him: eyes filled with sadness, and a fire as bright as his own.
“Mark?” the darkness asks him, and then Mark sees through the rain.
In what little light he has, Mark sees Jamie standing over the fallen form of the King.
“Jamie,” Mark says, “thank you.”
“Is it over now? Is this him?”
“It's over, Jamie,” Mark nods. He is all too aware of the rifle that Jamie has pointed at the King.
Jamie says nothing. He is staring down the sights at the King's suit, dark-blue with the rain now.
“Is your mother ok?”
“She's alive – I think we're fine. They used some kind of gas, but I feel ok.”
Jamie is shaking, Mark realises. The trembling gun gives out a hollow metal death rattle.
“Jamie, you can put the gun down.”
“Can I?”
Jamie is talking to the King on the ground. He stirs, looking up from the bottom of his own puddle.
It is Mark he looks to, not Jamie.
“What a waste,” he sneers.
“You have to let him live, Jamie,” Mark says, holding his hands out to Jamie. “He has to be put on trial for this.”
Sighing, Jamie passes him the assault rifle and turns away, holding his hands out to cup the rain, trying to wash the blood from his hands to no avail.
Mark throws the rifle aside where it clatters and splashes in a puddle.
More helicopters announce their presence, and Jamie looks up, shielding his eyes. Seeing the silhouettes of Agency helicopters approaching through the rainy mist, Jamie puts one foot on the King's back to keep him down.
“The Agency won't touch me,” the King coughs from his puddle. “I told you Mark. This goes higher than you. Honestly, I expected better.”
“Wait until they read the files down there.”
“Mark, don't be stupid.” The King tries to look him in the eye, but Jamie presses him deeper into the ground, letting the rain dance on his skull. “Think of everybody I've helped. Everybody that has a job because of me – everybody that has a life because of me! You'll crash the economy in this city, you'll destroy it! You can't honestly think this is a good idea, can you? Do you have any idea what you're doing? This place will crumble.”
“I'm trusting the people with the truth,” says Mark, shouting over the roar as the black helicopters come in to land.
“The people can't be trusted! Has your project shown you nothing? It failed because you can't trust people, Mark.”
“It failed,” Mark looks down and shouts, “because you stuck your filthy fucking hands in and broke it.” Without warning, Mark kicks the King as hard as he can in the face. The King jolts in surprise, and Mark watches the consciousness fade from his eyes.
Mark takes a breath, wipes the angry tears from his eyes, and steps away as Jamie takes his foot off the King's back. Panting, Mark storms back towards the King and kicks his ribs as hard as his sober muscles can manage.
“That was for my mother. And the Gardens. And everybody I could have helped if I wasn't -” he stamps on his snarling mouth, and the King's broken face crumples, “- stopped by you.”
Finally, Mark paces away, wiping his face and taking a breath.
He turns back to Jamie: the two give each other a knowing look, and Mark's shoulder sag as he takes a deep breath. Jamie puts a hand on his shoulder.
“You ok, man?”
Mark nods. “That felt good. You?”
Jamie returns the nod. “We're all fine, I think.”
Agency helicopters land in the wide open car park, and soldiers in black outfits like the Trespasser's converge on them, rifles raised.
Mark and Jamie return to the small crowd framed against the helicopter's silhouette: Mark's mother is sitting on the ground with Chloe whilst a soldier checks her eyes with a tiny torch.
The Trespasser has stood upon seeing his people arrive.
“Trespasser?” asks Jamie as they approach through the rain, leaning on one another as they approach. “Are they on our side this time?”
“If they aren't,” Mark groans, “I honestly don't think I've the strength to fight.”
“Me neither,” says Jamie.
Clustered together, the group watch as the soldiers split into two groups: one group heads for the prone figures of the King and his men on the ground, the second towards the Trespasser and his ragged civilians.
“Trespasser One?” shouts the man approaching from the helicopters. He is the only man without a weapon drawn. Trespasser One raises his hand, standing in front of the crouched survivors. “We got the broadcast,” says the soldier. He has a strong American accent.
“What did Command say?” Trespasser One looks up from his perch.
“Nothing, soldier. Hard to speak with a bullet in your head. All hell's broken loose at HQ.”
Everybody looks at the Trespasser in that moment. There's something in his eyes – but none of them would ever know it.
“He couldn't face the music,” says the Trespasser. “Coward.”
“There's a trapdoor in there,” Mark says, pointing to the old factory. “Through the fire door. Under there you'll find a group of admin workers. They're all a part of the Kingdom Project. You'll also find files and documents incriminating everybody involved in it, no doubt including your commander -”
“Command,” Trespasser One says. “He was called 'Command'.”
“Him, then,” Mark corrects himself. The black-clad soldiers size him up, before turning back to Trespasser One.
“So what happens now?” asks Trespasser One.
“We have to take you all into Agency custody, I'm afraid,” the lead officer says. “This is going to require one hell of an investigation – not to mention we were all ordered to ignore your broadcast. My money says the Agency is going to be getting a serious refit. We're all up for investigation.”
“I'd have done the same for you,” Trespasser One tells his comrade.
“That's why we came.”
“Just do me a favour, Trespasser Two,” he stands up off the edge of the chopper.
“Yeah?”
“That guy up there, the King? Watch him like a hawk. Do it personally. He's got people everywhere and he'll get out if you give any of them the slightest chance. There are people much higher up the chain than Command who wanted to see this thing work out, and they'll try to protect their investment.”
“I'll see to it,” says Trespasser Two, and turns and signals to the squad that went to get the King. One of them holds a thumbs up, and Trespasser Two turns back to them. “You'll need to wait here with some guards while we check out this administration facility, then we'll take you back to the holding facilities.”
Jamie speaks up, moving closer to Chloe.
“I'm not going to any prison.”
“He a target?”
“He is.”
“What?” shouts Jamie.
“He means you got hit by the fire,” Two tells him. “You're different. The holding facilities are just until we can figure out what happened to you – if you need any help.”
“I've managed fine myself.”
“I bet you a nosebleed says otherwise,” says Two without missing a beat. “Relax. We're not going to start doing experiments or anything. We just need to understand what happened, and prepare for what comes next.”
“What comes next?” asks Mark.
“They'll explain once we're there.” Trespasser One rubs his eyes, and extends a hand to Trespasser Two. “Thanks again for coming, Two.”
“Don't thank me yet, this entire thing is still a massive shit storm and you're dead in the centre of a lot of sights just now.”
The figures walk away, leaving two shadowy guards to watch over them. Mark sits on the ground beside his mother, checking that she's ok, whilst Chloe takes Jamie's hand and steps in close, telling him:
“You did what you had to; the King and his men, I mean.”
“I'd do it again,” he says. “After what he put us through, I didn't even hesitate.”
“Everything that's happened – if you want to talk about it -”
“Bit soon, Chloe.”
“Sure,” she says. “As long as you're ok.”
He looks at her and smiles.
“I'm ok,” he says, and comes in closer, whispering, “but we can still run, if you want? They won't even see us leave.”
She looks around at the people she has come to know over the last day, and in that moment the rain stops as suddenly as it started, as though somebody had turned it off at the switch. Her nose is filled with that indescribable smell that you find after a rainstorm – when the air is clean, as though it has filtered all of the badness out. A little beam of amber sunlight breaks through the darkness and sparkles over Glasgow as day finally turns to night, and she rests her head on his shoulder and says.
“I think I'm done running.”
He smiles and puts a soggy arm around her.
“Yeah, me too.”
Epilogue
2 Months Later
Movement catches Jamie's attention out of the corner of his eye, and he turns his head to see Mark walk into the room. The janitor looks a world better than the bruised, half-starved figure that Jamie remembers.
“Mark,” he smiles; Mark is wearing the same black overalls that he is.
“Jamie,” Mark gives him a beaming smile and walks past rows of chairs to sit beside them.
The room looks like a classroom: rows of chairs with a large whiteboard or video screen at the front, sterile white and as clean as a hospital ward.
Mark shuffles in and sits beside Jamie – the two shake hands, and Jamie catches the familiar scent of alcohol coming from the janitor, masked by a heavy veil of aftershave. There's a bit more weight on his face now: he no longer resembles a walking scarecrow with visible cheekbones.
“They treating you and Chloe ok?” asks Mark, reclining back in the steel chair.
“Very,” Jamie nods. “Better than I thought. They tell you what this is all about?”
Mark gives him a cynical laugh.
“Nah, they've just been keeping me on the booze to stop my nose bleeding.”
“I was told not to use my powers until they could observe me.”
“They tested you yet?”
“Health wise yeah – I'm fine as long as I don't push it, but -”
“But?” Mark prompts him.
“They haven't tested the actual power yet. It makes them nervous for some reason.”
“Think we'll meet the others today?”
“It'd be a waste of all these chairs if it was just the two of us.”
The door clatters open and they both turn, seeing a familiar half-scarred face nod their way.
“Trespasser,” shouts Mark waving.
The Trespasser wears the same black overalls, with insignia and ribbons adorning the breast and regiment-badges on his arms.
“Lads,” says Trespasser One, and walks to the front of the room. “The others not here yet, I take it?”
“Unless one of them can turn invisible,” says Mark, turning as he waits for somebody to appear.
Nobody does, despite the hope in his eyes.
“No, she's not here yet,” the Trespasser shakes his head, pointing at the door. “Ah, here they come.”
A troop of people wearing black overalls enter the room as one unit. An older man in glasses leads the way, and after him comes a short, young woman with a long pony tail, a slight overbite and badly concealed acne. Another woman, older and with long crows feet coming from her eyes, follows. She's heavier than the younger woman, her body lacking any defining shape. Finally, another younger man comes in behind them, a short lad with a swagger and eyes too close together.
They sit together, away from Mark and Jamie, and the two sets of overall-clad civilians eye each other with curiosity. Mark gives them a wave that only the older man returns with a polite nod.
“We're all here,” says Trespasser One, “good.”
The soldier picks up a remote and clicks it, bringing the video screen to life.
A blurry picture of an explosion, cast against a dark night, appears on the screen.
“Anybody know what this is?”
“Explosion in the middle of the night?” offers Jamie.
“This is what hit you two months ago. The fire that fell on Glasgow. This is a picture taken from a digital telescope that happened to be pointing up when the fire came.”
The Trespasser clicks the remote again, and they see another picture that is the same, although somebody may have smeared grease over the camera lens.
“This,” the solider tells them, “is a picture taken from a satellite mounted telescope peering into space. One of several – we've been looking for something like this ever since we found out that the fire was coming.”
“What is it? Another one?”
“We think so.”
“Is it going to hit us?”
This is the older man at the back. His voice has no fear in it – he speaks like a scholar, more curious than afraid. The Trespasser answers him.
“The last time, the fire was on a course to miss us. It continually corrected its course as it approached to make sure it hit earth.”
“That's why you thought it was an alien intelligence.”
“Indeed. We expect this one to do the same.”
“What do we know?” asks Jamie.
“That if it hits us, it'll be in about a month. Some of our boys have analysed the light coming from it and it seems to be made of the same stuff that the first one was – which is, we have no idea what the hell it's made of. But it is the same composition of whatever-the-hell.”
“But it's coming?”
“It is. We can expect arrival in twenty nine days, if all of our information is correct.”
“Do we know where?”
The Trespasser shakes his head.
“No way to tell. The last one corrected course at the last moment to hit Glasgow. It may just have aimed here because it was the shortest path to the ground when it arrived. This one could hit anywhere, just the same. It might correct its course as well.”
“So what do we do?”
This comes from the young, red-faced girl with the pony tail. Her voice is a nasal squeak with a heavy Glaswegian accent.
“Like, what's this got to do with us?” she asks.
“As many of you will remember,” the Trespasser sighs, “we had a lot of trouble bringing in the people hit by the fire; yourselves.”
Jamie watches him shift around as though he's nervous, and that worries him.
“This time, our hope is that we'll be better prepared – we know roughly what to expect. If we're going to get another batch of people with po
wers, we want to be ready.”
“You want to train us to fight people with powers?” laughs Mark. “What is this, a comic book?”
“No,” the Trespasser says. “The potential for civilian casualties if two powered people fought is ridiculous. We want to prepare you all for field work: when the fire hits we can track them down, but we think they'd be more willing to come in if they knew they weren't in danger. For example, if they knew that the last people who got hit by the fire – you guys – are safe and well. Maybe even if it was you guys speaking to them. This avoids the need for shooting or strike teams.”
Mark and Jamie give each other a look, raising their eyebrows.
“We begin training for field work tomorrow,” the Trespasser says, “and I'll be overseeing your training and deployment myself. Admin and law departments will take you through all of the paperwork and we'll have professionals talk you through the details. The rest of today is free: no tests, no training.”
“That's it?” Jamie asks.
“That's it,” Trespasser One nods. “You'll be taken through team building exercises as well, basic training for working in operations, and so on. We've a lot to do and not a lot of time.”
“This is weird,” Mark chuckles. “We're going to be like a team of super-powered therapists.”
“I'll see you all tomorrow,” the Trespasser says. “You're all dismissed.”
The room is filled with the screech of chairs being pushed back, and Jamie and Mark give each other another knowing look and then nod, walking towards the group of new people – other people that were hit by the fire.
“Shall we introduce ourselves?” asks Jamie, and Mark follows him over to them.
That Day
Dumbarton Emergency Detention Centre
The man once known as the King sits on the edge of his bunk, staring into the floor, his mind working over and over through the various problems set before him. The cell is bare save the hard wooden bed and a blanket, a black mirror of the room that Mark once slept in – not that the King knows that.
The cells are freshly poured concrete; the best effort that the army could manage when confronted with a few thousand arrests of highly dangerous criminals and disgraced politicians and business; all in a few days.
Kingdom: The Complete Series Page 17
