Kingdom: The Complete Series

by Steven William Hannah

  “And how far down is he going to sink before it gets him to the surface?”

  The Trespasser endures a silent second of thought, and then sprints for the back of the boat. Stacy starts the engine with a tweak of her mind before he even gets there. Erupting like gunfire, the engine spurs them forward, skipping over the waves.

  The ocean hits Mark like a train, knocking the wind from his lungs and bending his armour out of shape. His cape wraps around him, blinding him, and his mouth fills with water when he tries to scream. Like an air-bag, the life-jacket inflates – it struggles for a minute, but Mark keeps sinking, speeding up.

  Cold, icy weights rest on Mark's chest, and though he claws and punches at the water all around him, the bitter taste of salt and blood overpowers him.

  He's sinking, fast.

  Struggling spluttering, he feels the ice growing inside him. The fire is dying, sizzling and fading to nothing. Barely a spark remains when Mark claws the cape from his eyes, and sees what little light of the moon can break through the water.

  The waves break up the beams, and for a hopeful moment he wonders if it's a torch, a searchlight trying to find him.

  But it's not.

  The ocean starts to pull him down, more weight pressing on him every second. He sinks as though a great hand is wrenching him downwards.

  Mark's numb fingers clasp around the flask on his belt, and as the darkness sets in and the light above him dies, he expels the last of the air from his body, wraps his lips around the open flask, and tries to inhale the whiskey.

  Jamie leans over the edge of the boat.

  “Mark?” he shouts into the darkness. “Mark!”

  Trespasser One shines a tactical light from his shotgun over the edge, scanning it over the waves.

  “He definitely fell around here somewhere,” says Stacy. “I could sense the phone in his pocket until he hit the water.”

  Jamie takes off his jacket, tossing it aside and ripping his facemask off.

  “Donald, be ready in case he's hurt,” he shouts, and clambers onto the edge of the boat.

  “Wait, Jamie -” begins Stacy. “Don't get yourself -”

  Jamie dives into the water.

  The protests of his squad fade into silence above him, and the frozen shock of the ocean stuns his muscles. Everything hurts, and he's already running out of breath. His open eyes see nothing, just the endless abyss of the ocean stretching down before him.

  He curses, and the bubbles float away and dissipate, carrying his anger with them. When he surfaces, he gasps for air and tries to work his frozen muscles. Already the boat is drifting away from him.

  Trespasser One's light shines on him, blinding him. Seconds later, over the shouting and clamouring, a life ring lands in the water nearby, and he clings onto it and lets his squad drag him in.

  They grab his armour and pull him over the edge of the boat with a wet thud, shivering uncontrollably.

  “L-Let me up,” he stutters. “I just need a breath. I'll go back in.”

  “You're going to die of hypothermia lad,” whispers Donald, trying to hold him back from the edge of the boat.

  “I won't let him drown, Don,” shouts Jamie. “Maybe I can stop time and -”

  They all stop as they hear it.

  A rumbling, bubbling, like -

  Crash.

  A blue and gold missile streaks out from the surface of the water, a boiling geyser of froth and foam exploding with it. They all look up, the relieved grins fading from their faces when they see Mark flailing, helpless in mid air, already falling.

  “Gary, catch him,” orders Trespasser One, and as Mark begins to fall a blue ball of light folds around him in mid air.

  Gary rests a hand on his forehead and focuses, bringing Mark on his makeshift stretcher back down to the waiting boat. When the forcefield dissolves, Mark's limp body drops out with a heavy bang, and Donald drops to his side along with the squad.

  “He's not breathing,” says Donald, running his hand over Mark's bare neck. “Swallowed a lot of water. I can – wait -” He closes his eyes, focusing. “There,” he whispers.

  Water explodes out of Mark's mouth, showering them all in salty bile. Spluttering and coughing, Mark retches and leans over to one side.

  Jamie leans back, relieved, running his hands through his soaking, freezing hair.

  Both him and the Trespasser look at each other, shaking their heads.

  “We need a new plan,” says Trespasser One.

  “To kill the King?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then we'd best get thinking.”

  “I know,” he says. “We've got less than sixteen hours left.”

  “Guys,” says Stacy, still holding Mark as he brings up more water. “Guys, what if we don't stop the King just yet? What if we focus on stopping the nuke instead?”

  “Neutron -”

  “Shut up Tony,” she snaps. “It drops tomorrow. If Mark can get me high up enough to where they drop the bomb, I can deactivate it with my power.”

  “That doesn't fix our problem,” says Jamie.

  “We need to prioritise. It buys us time. Time for this guy,” she gestures to Mark, “to learn to fly well enough to do – well, whatever it is you guys are keeping secret from us.”

  Mark wipes his mouth and shakes his head, getting to his knees with a groan.

  “She's right,” he says. “We have to stop the nuke.”

  “Ok,” says Trespasser One. “Someone get Jamie a bloody blanket and phone Chloe to get our stuff ready. We'll need a solid plan.”

  Stacy starts the engine without moving, and turns the boat. “I've got this,” she says, “just keep me going in the right direction.”

  “Thanks Stace,” says the Trespasser, patting her shoulder.

  As she focuses on pushing the boat's engine on with her mind, her hand finds Mark's deathly cold fingers – Mark can barely feel them, but the little warmth she gives off is like an explosion. With any strength he has left, he squeezes her hand, and she squeezes back.

  Looking over at him, she squints through the spray from the boat's edge.

  “You ok?” she whispers.

  He nods. “Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Letting you all down.”

  “You nearly died,” she says. “Shut up. We'll stop him eventually. For now you'll just have to settle for saving Glasgow, eh?”

  Mark says nothing. He unscrews his second flask and brings it to his lips, gazing out into the darkness as he pours the whiskey through his teeth.

  “Mark?” she asks.

  “It's not just Glasgow,” he turns back to her, pushing his wet hair out of his face, wincing as the whiskey hits him. “The King won't stop at Glasgow.”

  “Well that's that then,” she says, forcing a cheerful tone. “When the time comes, you'll just have to save the world again.”

  “Yeah,” he murmurs, and turns back to the ocean, drinking again.

  Final Episode

  Seven Miles Per Second

  It's two hours before the dawn of the third day, and the sky begins to lighten. The stars fade out and the clouds part; birds are singing already, the first ones awake. A single figure in a dark navy suit strolls the streets of Glasgow on his own, relishing the solitude. With his arms spread wide to the sky, he grins and takes a deep breath.

  The King watches the skyline from the streets outside his offices – his throne room, rather – and waits for the first slithers of sunlight. First light: when the Agency intend to drop a nuclear bomb on him.

  Looking up to the sky, the King smiles at the satellites that he expects will be watching, a smug and knowing grin.

  He puts his hands in his pockets, bringing one out to check his watch every few minutes. There he stands, waiting for the sun to rise, with all the confidence of a man who cannot be killed; and wants to prove it.

  The squad leave the bunker in their Trespasser armour, all painted different tints to keep them apart, and Chlo
e in her winter coat. At the front, chest puffed out and head held high, is the Trespasser himself, shotgun held in his arms as he walks into the misty early morning streets. He turns to the squad.

  “The Agency said they'd strike at first light. In Agency-speak, that's about twenty minutes from now. We stick to the plan, is everybody clear on their orders?”

  He looks around at them, only their eyes visible through their masks – apart from Mark, in his royal blue and gold, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped.

  They all murmur in agreement.

  “Good. Jamie, Cath, Gary, Donald, and Chloe: you're with me. We'll stay in the city centre and in the event that Plan A fails and Mark and Stace can't stop the neutron bomb, your powers should ensure our survival, then we'll do what we can to pick up the pieces. We'll be heading to a secure location from where we can respond quickly and probably survive the initial blast if it comes to it. All good?”

  “Yeah,” says Chloe, laughing. “My powers will keep us all safe. Give me a laptop and wifi and I'll stop the nuke.”

  “You'll be safe with us, Chlo,” says Jamie, taking her hand.

  The Trespasser's squad step aside, leaving Mark and Stacy alone with their arms folded.

  “Mark, Stace; you good?”

  “I guess so,” says Mark, who is finally clean shaven.

  Stacy takes off her face mask and tosses it to Chloe.

  “We're great, this won't be a problem. Fly up to detonation height and stop the bomb going off while Beerman here carries me: easy.”

  Though she gives him a coy smile, he only managed to return a forced chuckle.

  “Right,” says the Trespasser, “to stop any accidents, I'm going to connect the webbing on your armour together. It should hold you on, Stace.”

  “Fine by me,” she says, and her and Mark stand facing each other, their armour touching, as the Trespasser connects them by a series of clips and harnesses. She gives him a look filled with confidence and optimism, and all he gives her back is a tired stare full of doubt.

  “In that case...” the Trespasser leans in and takes Mark's hand. “Stay in touch via comms. Best of luck, son. You too, Stace.”

  He shakes her hand too, and she gives him a soft punch on the shoulder.

  Mark looks across at the rest of the squad, and gives Jamie and Chloe a reassuring nod. Jamie gives him a mock salute.

  With nothing else to do, Mark looks up at the sky.

  “Let's get on then. See you lot on the other side.”

  They wave him and Stacy goodbye, and she stands on his boots as he focuses his mind and begins to ascend into the early morning sky. They wrap their arms around each other, and as they rise past the rooftops they accelerate, vanishing from sight.

  High above Glasgow, the clouds burn a dim orange-pink with the sunrise, and Mark and Stacy hover in silence. Only the wind talks, in low hushed whispers. They keep their arms around each other in an embrace. Stacy is pressed against his armoured body, trying to avoid looking down.

  “How will we know when the bomber is coming?” asks Mark, breaking the silence.

  “I'll feel it,” she says, her teeth chattering. “Also it's bloody freezing up here.”

  “Here,” says Mark, and pulls his golden-blue cape around her, keeping her pressed against him.

  “Thanks.”

  “Better?”

  “Much.” She rests her head against his chest. “You look weird without your hobo-beard.”

  “Thanks?”

  “It can't be long now, can it?”

  “Till the bomb?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nah. Not long.”

  She leans back and looks up at him; he won't meet her eyes. “You ok?”

  “I'm fine.”

  “Mark? You've been all funny since that ocean incident last night.”

  “I nearly drowned, Stace, give me a break.”

  Stacy feels her stomach drop, as though they were falling. She looks down, and pats Mark on the chest with frightened urgency.

  “Mark? Mark, why are we going down?”

  She looks up when he doesn't answer, and sees his eyes closed with concentration.

  “Mark?”

  “Let me focus Stace, you're not helping here.”

  “What's wrong? Why aren't we flying? Mark, we're going to fall -”

  They start to fall faster, and Stacy's hair is caught by the rushing wind and blows in her face. She cries out to him, but the wind whips her voice away.

  “I can't focus,” he shouts, his voice booming over the wind. “I can only fly when I'm focused.”

  His cape is a whirling mess of colour consuming them both now, and Stacy holds onto him as hard as she can.

  “What's stopping you?” she asks as they begin to tilt and wobble in their descent.

  “Fear,” he shouts over the rushing air. “Doubt.”

  “Ok, ok,” she mumbles, and grasps for his hands. The harness holding them together strains and groans. She rubs his hands in hers, trying to sound as soothing as she can when she's shouting over the rushing wind. “Try to focus on me. My voice. My hands, feel my hands.”

  Their descent slows, and she hears Mark breathing in peacefully, like sighing.

  “Ok?” she asks him, and they come to a stop above the city. She can see the streets now, far below them, and prays that nobody looks up and sees them. The sun is getting brighter. “Concentrate on that – the feeling of my hands. That's all you need to focus on.”

  With a faint smile, Mark feels himself get lighter, and the fear and doubt drop away as he shifts all of his focus onto the sensation of Stacy's hand in his, their fingers intertwining and crossing over each other, tracing shapes in each others' palms.

  “Better,” he says, as they begin to soar into the sky once more.

  “Woah,” she whispers, and holds on tight. “We're going pretty fast.”

  Mark brings them to a stop in the misty morning clouds, and Stacy burrows herself into his chest, the cape keeping her warm in the dewy, fleecy sky.

  “Hey, Stace?” he asks, and she looks up, squinting against the brightness.

  “What?”

  “Do you want to go above the clouds? Do you want to see?”

  She nods, and he pulls her in close, focusing on the feel of her mousy hair against his shaven jawline, her head resting on his chest. They break through the clouds in seconds, and Mark feels her breathing harder.

  “You ok?”

  “Just a little scared. We're really high up.”

  “I've got you, it's ok.”

  “What if we start falling again?”

  “Then hold my hand. We'll be fine. I just need to keep my mind focused – positive, you know. I can only fly if I feel like I can.”

  “What if you're flying and I'm not there?”

  “Well I'll need a memory or something to use, won't I?”

  They hold there, neither ascending or descending, Mark spins them slowly.

  The two of them float, embraced in mid air above the rolling clouds. Over the horizon, shafts of golden sunlight are piercing the sky. Chalky blue sky lies above them, coated with stars as though someone has painted glitter across it.

  “How's this for a memory?” she asks him. “It's bloody beautiful.”

  “I reckon I could fly to the moon on this,” he says, smiling. Their hands tighten around each other's, and Stacy lets her weight rest on the harness as she leans back.

  “I could make it better,” she whispers, nervous as the wind whips her hair across her face.

  Mark tears his eyes away from the sunrise.

  He looks down at Stacy. He's always thought she looks a little like a mouse: button nose, big eyes, soft brown hair, and her slightly bucked teeth. She has no make up on, showing a few spots and blemishes

  It's always her, he thinks, who takes his hand when things get rough; who throws him a bottle when he needs it.

  Neither of them say anything.

  She wraps her arms around his
neck and tiptoes on his boots, planting her lips on his. She doesn't care that he tastes like whiskey. He doesn't care that neither of them have brushed their teeth or washed in days. For all they know, the world is about to end.

  During that blissful minute they lose themselves in each other, lips locked and eyes closed, alone except for the breeze and the sun.

  When they part, Stacy's eyes are filled with alarm. She pats his armoured chest.

  “I can feel it,” she whispers. “The bomber. It's coming.”

  “Ok,” he says, and pulls her in close. “Keep talking to me. We've got this.”

  “We've got this,” she repeats. “We've got this. You need to climb, it's high.”

  “Climb,” he says, and focuses on the lingering sensation of her lips on his. “Hold on.”

  “I'm in a harness, Mark.”

  “Shh.”

  They soar into the sky.

  Trespasser One sees the light shine over the skyline, and turns to the rest of the squad, who are crouched in an abandoned café attached to Buchanan Bus Station. The light spills over Glasgow, and the dust and debris in the air is visible in little motes of dust.

  “Ok,” he says. “The bomb should be dropping soon.”

  Gary wrings his hands. “I hope they two are ok up there. Mark kinda fell out the sky last time.”

  “They'll be fi -”

  Trespasser One stops – there's a buzzing in his belt. He pulls out his old phone and gives a small chuckle.

  “Agency. I was expecting this,” he says, and raises it to his ear. “This is Trespasser One.”

  He listens for a full minute, his face unchanging.

  “Ok,” he says, and hangs up.

  “What was it?” asks Jamie. “What were they saying?”

  “They were telling me that my deadline is up, they're dropping the neutron bomb, and that they hope I make it out of the city.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. They've got two fighter jets protecting the plane. Chloe, you got the comms stuff there?”

  She gives an eager nod, and opens a satchel filled with phones and headsets.