Mark lifts his jacket from the camp bed and eases it on, wincing at his aching muscles.
“What's your plan?” asks Stacy.
“I'm going to talk to him. Where is he?”
“Blytheswood Park,” says the Trespasser. “Up near Pitt Street -”
“I know where the park is, Tony,” laughs Mark. “Ok, if I'm not back soon then tell my mum I love her.”
“Woah, woah,” Jamie stands up, putting a hand on Mark's chest. “Are you going alone?”
“I can take a punch from him if it comes to it,” says Mark, zipping up his jacket. “You lot can't. Let me go – I'll run if I end up in a fight.”
Jamie steps back. “What are you going to tell him?”
Mark faces all of them.
“I'm going to convince him to stop this. Maybe we can't kill him, but we can stop the Kingdom at the least.”
“And if it doesn't work?” asks Jamie.
Mark lowers his head and his voice with it. “Then there's always that other thing we talked about.”
“Oh yeah. Jesus...”
“Right, wish me luck.”
“Mark,” the Trespasser stops him.
“Yeah?”
He tosses him a phone with a set of earphones wrapped around it.
“Stay in touch. Chloe will phone you – put one earphone in and your phone in your top pocket. We'll be listening.”
“Got it,” says Mark.
“Good luck,” says Jamie.
The two share a look, and Mark gives him a nod.
“I'll be careful, don't worry.”
The King stands in Blytheswood Park.
It is a caged, tamed piece of nature in the heart of the city centre. Ringed on all sides by fancy hotels and offices, the King is used to seeing it corralled by cars that cost more than the average house. Unkempt and overgrown since the Destroyer's attack, the park is nothing but muddy puddles; decrepit trees and flowers choked by the invading weeds. Nature is victorious here, whilst the once-glistening offices jealously standing guard have fallen into disrepair; lying empty with boarded windows. They have been forgotten like so much else.
The King shrugs; time will bring prosperity back to Glasgow under his reign. A little sacrifice in the short term is worth the gain in the long term.
Taking off his suit jacket, he tosses it aside. The navy-blue fabric melds with the darkness till he can barely see it. Rain lashes his back, turning his white shirt into sodden cloth.
A body lies on the grass, crumpled and pale in the inky rain.
Gregor, the King's right hand man, stares into the dying trees with glassed over eyes. There's a dark red hole in the centre of his forehead, and the rain is washing the scabbing blood from his face.
The King sighs, and gets to his knees. Flattening his hands likes shovels, he drives them into the ground and begins scooping the earth up in great chunks, heaving it aside.
Rain fills the grave as he claws the earth out, ripping up tree roots like arteries.
The ground trembles, and a wet splash erupts from the nearby grass. Looking up from his fox-hole, the King sees a familiar figure standing in the rain. He gets to his feet, growling, cracking his knuckles.
“Woah, woah,” shouts the figure in the rain, holding up his hands. “I don't want to fight. I'm here to talk.”
The King stops, wiping his soaking black hair across his face as it turns into a curious scowl.
“I don't know if we've got anything to talk about, Mark.”
Mark comes forward, his face clear in the rain, and holds out his hands as though trying to catch the rain.
“Hell of a night, isn't it?”
The King screws his eyes up in the rain. “I don't really feel the cold anymore.”
“Strange. I do, just – not that much, I guess.”
There's a strange silence between the two, and Mark takes his jacket off. The King tenses, but Mark only tosses it aside.
“Don't know why I wear a jacket, still, if I don't need it.”
“Force of habit,” says the King.
“Yeah. What are you doing up here anyway?”
“Burying a friend.”
Mark looks past him, at Gregor's limp form, a pale ghost in the darkness.
“Oh.”
The King twists his mouth, a facial shrug.
“He knew the risks. Gregor was a good soldier.”
“You'll understand if I don't share in any sympathy.”
“It would be an insult if you did.” The King looks back at Gregor's body, and then up at the angry, grey clouds backlit by the moon before looking sideways at Mark. “You, uh, mind if I finish -”
“Go ahead,” says Mark. “I'll wait.”
With a faint nod, the King turns and lifts Gregor with one hand, and puts him over his shoulder like a fireman. He drops into the hole with a loud splash, and after a few moments he emerges without Gregor. Piece by piece, the King begins piling the earth back upon his old friend, until he is left stamping the sodden earth back into place; eventually there's nothing left but a well-trodden mound.
The King stands in the rain, soaked to his skin, staring at the mound.
“You two were close?” asks Mark, coming and standing beside the King.
“He had something that most people nowadays don't.”
“What's that?”
“Something that both you and I have. He believed in something greater than himself.”
“I don't know if conviction in your particular beliefs is a virtue.”
“Well that's the point isn't it? If you weren't entirely certain of your own ideals, you'd share mine.”
“I guess so. Good thing I'm certain.”
The King looks at him sideways.
“You didn't come here to fight, then? Really?”
“I'm done fighting you,” says Mark, sighing as the rain bounces off his shoulders, silhouetting him.
The King chuckles. “The boy wonder has grown up? Finally stopped trying to punch all of your troubles.”
“Punching you doesn't do anything.”
“True – although you hit like a freight train.”
“Likewise.”
“It just so happens that doesn't hurt me either,” the King laughs.
“What about a nuclear blast?”
The King stops laughing and lowers his voice.
“Well, there'd only be one way to test that, wouldn't there?”
“I'd give you maybe ten-to-one that you'd survive it. Ninety percent chance you won't.”
“Better odds than most people get in a nuclear blast. You thinking of nuking me, Mark?”
“You know me better than that – I'd never do that to the city.”
“No – but the Agency might.”
Mark smirks. “Nailed it.”
“You think I didn't see a nuclear strike coming? They know that a ground invasion would be a disaster. They can't hurt me with anything else – let me guess, neutron bomb? Try to preserve as much of the infrastructure as they can?”
Mark looks at him, eyebrows raised. “I'm impressed.”
“It's only what I'd do if faced with an immortal, unstoppable being threatening the world order. I take it, since you're telling me this, that you'd like me to stop before they do it?”
“Ideally, yes.”
“Would you stop pursuing your dream, just because somebody asked you to?”
“Of course not. Difference is, my dream doesn't come at the cost of people's freedom and safety.”
The King laughs again, a heart, friendly laugh.
“And why do you want to preserve the current order so much anyway? You have any idea who your masters really are Mark? You were bought and sold a long time ago to the highest bidder, as were the government and everybody down from there. Money makes this planet turn, and it hurts so many people, Mark. I can reshape it – I can give them a world where at least they know the face of their master. I don't want money, Mark. I want humanity to thrive. I'm a humanist if
nothing else.”
“And how are you going to do that when you're busy killing people that don't agree?”
The King laughs. “Mark, what do you think I'm going to do? The Glasgow that you wake up to tomorrow will be exactly the same – except for the one very important difference: no crime, no poverty, no corruption. There'll be jobs for everybody rebuilding this city. People will return when they see that things are better here. Things will actually work like they were meant to. Efficiently.”
“Because you'll destroy anything and anyone that refuses to comply.”
“Yes.”
Mark shakes his head. “And then after Glasgow; the world, right?”
“It would be selfish to restrict my abilities to one small city when the world is such a big place, Mark.”
“And when you have the world... then what? Just sit on your throne all day and administrate?”
“I don't want power for the sake of power,” the King sighs. “Humanity has stalled – we don't shoot for the stars anymore, we're content to sit in our comfort zone, to vegetate on our computers and dream, but we never chase those dreams.”
“You're talking about inflicting a nightmare on the people.”
“I'm talking, Mark, about dragging this entire world into the future whether it wants to come with me or not. With our minds, our passion and ingenuity, we should be building hotels on Mars. We shouldn't be relying on oil economies – hell, we shouldn't even be using paper in this day and age. Where are the cures for cancer? The pill that stops aging? Why are the masses letting the corrupt few decide what to spend the money on? We could do so much if only we weren't afraid of what we're capable of. Mark: I am going to give humanity its full potential, and I don't care how reluctant or afraid it is. Is that really a nightmare? Or are you afraid too?”
“I'm not afraid of making the world a better place.”
“Then why haven't you done it?”
“Well shit,” whispers Mark, turning to the King, “I tried, but somebody bankrupted me and tried to have me killed for my trouble.”
“That was before your power. What good have you really done with your strength?”
“Well there was that time I punched a malevolent alien force to death?”
“And since? You're so hell-bent on stopping me; you could have rebuilt your Gardens ten times over with your own bare hands in the time you've wasted.”
Mark looks up into the rain.
“Fine. But if you go ahead with the Kingdom, all of the people in this city are going to die in a nuclear firestorm. How is that, in any way, good?”
“A small sacrifice for the cause. Once the world sees that force is useless against me, they'll begin to get used to my constant presence. Imagine the difference; no country would declare war upon another. I would simply walk into their political centre and kill the leaders. No more war, Mark. I'd have wiped out one of humanity's most fervent plagues. In a week, I can end world conflict.”
Mark is staring at him in the rain. “You tell me I can't punch my problems away, then plan to do the same. You'd let Glasgow get nuked so you can play god?”
“Yes. I'm fairly sure I'd survive the blast, and it would let the world know that I truly cannot be stopped. The Agency would be accountable for the deaths, not me. I stand only to benefit.”
“But Glasgow is your city,” says Mark. “Your home.”
“Was. This city is a husk of what it used to be.”
“That's not anybody's fault.”
“No, it's not. But if the Agency want to tear it down to spite me, let them. I'll simply walk to the nearest city, and begin my Kingdom there. Glasgow is just one of thousands of possible Kingdoms. One day, all cities will be.”
“And the people? They don't mean anything to you?”
“There are seven billion people on earth, Mark. How many die every day? The universe won't notice a few thousand deaths. And the end result will be the same; the world will unite behind me, and we'll push forward into the future. One day, this will be a bad memory, and they'll thank me.”
“They'll never love you, though. Will they?”
“Is that your plan?” he sneers. “Earn their respect and affection, then inspire them to do great things?”
“Well, yeah. Lead by example.”
“And what about the corrupt? The cruel? They won't give a damn about your 'example'. I can control them; I can make good men out of criminals.”
“There'll always be people like that. You can't just terrify seven billion people into going against human nature. They'll follow you out of fear – they'll respect you out of obligation, out of necessity. Love isn't born in a cage, King, it has to be given freely. And nobody will give you anything freely; you're going to have to take it.”
“Then take it I will.”
Thunder breaks on the horizon, illuminating the steeples of the churches in the west end. Mark puts his hands in his pockets and turns to the King one last time.
“Look, I've tried to talk you out of doing this, but we both know that you're not going to listen.”
“Would you?”
“Of course not. So I'm just going to level with you, then I'm going to leave.”
“Ok. Go for it.”
The King meets his gaze, and Mark takes a deep breath.
“I've figured out how to beat you. I can't tell you in case you find a way to counteract it, but I can assure you: it's doable.”
“You'll do what a nuclear detonation can't, eh?”
“Yeah,” says Mark, staring the King in his bottomless eyes. “I'm telling you now – begging you – to stop this madness, before I have to follow through with it.”
“Sounds like an empty threat, Mark.”
“I wish it was. You've got three days to stand down and hand yourself over to the Agency.”
The King laughs. “Or what? You can't hurt me, Mark. There's nothing you can do to stop me.”
Mark steps in close, till his forehead is almost touching the King's.
“If you don't comply,” he whispers through the rain, “then I will inflict upon you a fate so severe, so horrifying, that I am begging you not to make me do it. Consider that for a moment. I don't want to do it. But I will. If you make me: I will.”
The King holds his burning gaze.
“What if I don't believe you?”
“Then you're going to feel like an idiot in three days.”
The King smirks. Mark shakes his head and walks away, lifting his soaking jacket from the ground. Holding it in one hand, he stalks off into the rain.
“I love our little philosophy debates, Mark,” shouts the King.
“Three days,” shouts Mark. “Counting from sunrise.”
There's a deep boom as Mark leaps into the air, leaving the King alone at the solitary grave.
When Mark returns to the safehouse, the entire squad is gathered around Chloe's computer bank, watching something.
“Mark,” says Stacy as she looks up. “You're home. How did it go?”
“You weren't listening over the phone-thing?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Then you know how it went.” He takes off his soaking t-shirt and tosses it onto his camp bed, pulling on a fresh one as he ruffles the rain out of his hair. “The King doesn't believe me.”
“So what now?” asks Jamie.
“Now I've got three days to learn how to fly.”
Trespasser One looks up. “What?”
“Can't tell you in case the King gets to one of us. All part of the plan.” Mark points at the computer screens. “What are we watching?”
“Come see,” says Chloe, and the squad shuffles around in silence to let Mark in.
The screens show him scenes from across the world whilst a reporter talks over the top of the images. He sees demonstrations in London, clashes between people calling for military action against the King and those already throwing in their lot with his vision. Crowds are gathered before the White House, demanding action. Every sc
reen brings a new picture, leaders of various nations urging the people to stay strong, to unite in the face of this danger, whilst the people on the street fight over whether to destroy or appease the King.
“They're afraid,” says the Trespasser. “Everyone is terrified. The Destroyer brought us close to Armageddon – this is worse. You know the Pope called him the anti-christ?”
“Really?”
“Yeah. There's already riots in European cities; they're so terrified of what the King might do to them in the coming years that they want to nuke Scotland.”
“What, all of it?”
“Yeah. Just to be sure.”
“Idiots.”
“There's something else.”
“What?”
“Chloe, show him.”
Chloe taps the keyboard a few times and it jumps to a different channel. On this one, in the middle of Edinburgh in the pouring rain, march a few quiet protesters holding placards and signs.
The one at the front, the most prominent by far, is a picture of Mark taken straight from the internet. In bright white letters on the front are the words:
Where are you, superman?
Mark does a double take.
“Wait, do they think -”
Stacy puts a hand on his shoulder. “You went on national news once and told the King you'd stop him. You're maybe the only person left that's not afraid of him.”
“I am afraid of him. He's nearly killed me twice – three - how many times now?”
“Did it once too,” says Jamie.
“Well, yeah. In another timeline, he actually did it. I'm terrified of the guy.”
“Yeah,” says Stacy. “But the world doesn't know that. They're all waiting for someone to do something.”
Gary laughs. “This might actually be a job for Beerman.”
Mark lets out a shuddering breath and folds his arms. “I'm not a superhero.”
“We've saved the world once before,” says Jamie. “We might not be superheroes, but we're the closest thing the world has. That's got to count for something.”
Mark puts his hand on his chin.
“Beerman's thinking,” laughs Gary. “Someone get the whiskey before he gets us all killed.”
“What are you thinking?” asks Stacy.
Kingdom: The Complete Series Page 45
