Kingdom: The Complete Series

by Steven William Hannah

  The King growls and leaps, and Mark is ready. He ducks under the leaping King, driving his fist up into his gut. As he doubles over and rolls on the ground, Mark pounces, driving his arm under his guard and around his neck.

  As the King struggles, Mark kicks and battles to stay where he is: with his arm firmly around the King's neck.

  “You can't choke me to death,” growls the King. “You can't do anything to me. No prison can hold me. Nothing can kill me. You're powerless, Mark, powerless.”

  Mark closes his eyes, and in his mind, he is holding Stacy above the clouds. The sun rises in his eyes, and he breathes deeply, totally in the moment.

  “I'm not powerless,” he whispers over the King's roaring protests. “I can fly.”

  Mark bends his legs, tightens his grip on the struggling King, and leaps into the sky.

  The Trespasser listens as the pilots of the two fighter jets are patched into his earpiece.

  “Echo One to Command, we have no visual on the target, no visual on the target.”

  “Tell them to look lower,” shouts the Trespasser, running out of the galleries with the squad following behind him. “He just took off, he should be visible within a second or two.”

  They all tense and flinch as the roar of fighter jets echo across the city.

  “Echo One to Command, we have visual on target. He's accelerating.”

  “Tell them to keep on him, don't let him out of their sight, and be ready with the cannons if the King breaks loose!”

  The squad join him outside and look up. They can see the contrails above them as Mark lifts off, shooting upwards like a rocket, leaving a white trail of mist behind him.

  “How fast is he going?” asks Jamie. “Can they tell us how fast he's going?”

  “Yeah, they've got a radar lock now,” says the Trespasser, shielding his eyes from the sun to follow Mark. “He's accelerating.”

  The King thrashes, screaming abuse and threats at Mark. He almost lets them sink in, but the rush of the air, the scream of the wind in his ears, silences the King. Such is the noise that Mark doesn't notice the jets turning above him until they come into his line of sight. They circle like hawks as he soars past them, the King hanging from his arm, and follow him into the sky.

  Wind and air tugs at Mark, twisting him from side to side, and he grimaces and pushes his fist out in front of him to cut through the air. As thought the atmosphere is fighting back against his ascent, it sends rhythmic shocks down his arm, trying to pull him in any direction but up.

  Mark blasts through the clouds, still driving himself upwards, and as he bursts out the other side he is bathed in sunlight. It warms his face, cools his nerves, and although his entire body is shaking and trembling from the air resistance tugging at him, Mark takes a deep breath and wills himself higher, faster.

  “Command,” shouts Trespasser One, “come on, keep me updated. Status, height, speed, delta V, give me everything.”

  “Your man is approaching the speed of sound, Trespasser One. Climbing rapidly.”

  “Altitude?”

  “Twenty five thousand. Wait, twenty six – twenty seven -”

  “He's going transonic,” whispers the Trespasser. “He's doing it.”

  They all hear it. An intense, trembling roar followed by a loud, thumping heartbeat in the sky:

  Sonic boom.

  “Target has gone supersonic. Echo 1 and 2, match his speed and maintain visual.”

  Mark feels the pressure building in his ears, and grimaces, almost slowing – but always, always his mind comes back to Stacy, kissing him above these very clouds. With a trembling crash, the air in front of him seems to shatter, and like emerging from cold water, everything goes quiet and smooths out.

  Mist cascades off his shoulders and his extended hand in a cone, as though pointing him upwards, and Mark pushes himself harder, faster.

  “Mark!” shouts the King, nothing but anger and hatred in his voice. “You idiot, gravity isn't going to kill me. I can survive a fall from any height.”

  Mark says nothing.

  The King struggles harder, almost breaking free, but the force of Mark pulling upward on his neck has him helpless.

  Up here, Mark is the king.

  “This is Echo One. Target is climbing, no signs of deceleration.”

  “What's his speed?” asks the Trespasser, patching in. Around him, the squad are sitting on the steps of Buchanan Galleries, listening to the radio together.

  “Trespasser One this is Command, he just hit Mach Two.”

  “Jesus christ,” whispers the Trespasser. “He's going as fast as Concorde.”

  “Is that fast enough?” asks Jamie.

  “Not yet. But he's going straight up.”

  “This is Echo One, can't keep up with target. I'm stalling at sixty two thousand feet, breaking pursuit.”

  “Damn it,” says the Trespasser. “Don't you have any Blackbirds at high altitude? Get them over there!”

  “Negative, Trespasser One. We're on satellites and radar only now, no visual.”

  “Shit. Speed?”

  “Mach Two and accelerating.”

  “Just get him high enough and let go, Mark,” says the Trespasser, achingly aware that Mark can't hear him. “Not much further now.”

  Mark hears the planes drop away from him, and resists the urge to look down. He focuses his eyes upwards, always upwards, despite the King thrashing and kicking. He's trying to pull at Mark's armour, screaming abuse at him all the way, but Mark is somewhere else. In his head, though the drink tries to fill him with fear and doubt, he feels a peace he's never known before.

  Every second he climbs another few thousand feet higher. He's stopped counting, but if the planes have stopped following them then he must be close, he knows.

  The cone of air around him fills his lungs, the only breathable air up here, and as he climbs ever higher it begins to vanish and peel away, leaving just him blasting higher and higher into space.

  Mark takes his last breath, and holds it.

  He makes his peace, closes his eyes, and climbs.

  “Trespasser One, your man has passed eighty thousand feet.”

  “I'm not a pilot, is that good?”

  “It's the last breathable air he could have at supersonic speeds. He's got whatever he had in his lungs now.”

  “Speed?”

  “Mach Four.”

  “He's not going to make it.”

  “Why?” asks Stacy. “How fast does he need to go?”

  “Escape velocity? Mach thirty-something.”

  “Mach thirty seven,” whispers Donald, staring at the Trespasser's radio. “Seven miles per second.”

  There's nothing in Mark's way now. No sound – only the feeling of the King struggling like an impatient child. His own blood is pounding in his ears, louder with every passing second that he doesn't breathe.

  His focus begins to falter: he is desperate for air, but he knows that even if he opens his mouth, there's nothing to breathe. There's nothing up here but silence and the cold.

  As he climbs ever higher, the last vestiges of resistance give out before him, and Mark urges himself faster, higher, harder still.

  He doesn't know how fast he's going. He doesn't know how high he is.

  All he can do is go as fast as he can, for as long as he can – and hope that it's enough to rid the world of this disease forever, for better or for worse.

  No matter the cost.

  “He's going for it. Mach five.”

  “Come on, Mark,” whispers Jamie, clutching Chloe's shaking hand.

  “Wait – wait!”

  “What?”

  The entire squad lean in towards the radio.

  “He's past any air resistance now. He's accelerating. Mach six – seven...”

  They all hold their breath without realising it.

  “Holding at mach seven, two hundred thousand feet and counting. He's stopped accelerating.”

  “Damn it, come on Mark,
” urges Stacy.

  Mark feels his eyelids grow heavy. His grip on the King is loosening, and the King isn't getting any weaker. His nose starts to trickle blood, which immediately boils away and evaporates as red mist.

  He's not going any faster. He can't go any faster.

  Mark feels the doubt starting to creep in.

  He looks down at the King, who is thrashing harder than ever, pulling at his neck-hold and trying to break free, to fall back towards Earth.

  He almost lets go of the King.

  Almost.

  Looking down is what changes it.

  Mark, soaring to two hundred and twenty thousand feet now, sees Earth as he has never seen it before. His lungs are on fire, his entire body aches, and his mind is beginning to darken, but it brings him an intense feeling of peace.

  He sees his home, in the truest sense. From where he flies, the blue pearl is visible in both night and day. Far to his right is the night time, sparkling like diamonds hidden within coal. To his left is the rising sun, cresting the Earth's surface and burning with unbridled ferocity.

  Then there's Mark, carrying a disease, a human cancer, away from it.

  He makes the decision then, and his mind is completely settled.

  With nothing left to hold him down, with no doubt or fear, Mark's shackles finally break and shatter, and he becomes little more than a streak of light.

  “Mother of god -”

  “What!?” shouts the squad, leaning forward.

  “He's practically disappeared. Mach ten – fifteen – twenty – twenty five -”

  “Fuck sake,” whispers Gary. “How long has he been holding his breath?”

  Jamie punches his leg, silencing him.

  “Shut up, he can do it.”

  “Mach thirty,” says Command. “Thirty five.”

  “He's done it.”

  “Forty. He's passed escape velocity. He's done it.”

  The Trespasser looks up at the squad.

  “Did you hear that? He's done it. That's it. It's over.”

  Jamie doesn't smile. He looks at the radio as though it were Mark himself.

  “Why aren't you slowing down?” he whispers. “Why haven't you let go yet?”

  Mark's eyes glaze over, and his grip on the King finally slackens enough that the King kicks himself free and drifts away into the distance. He tries to swing at Mark, but the distance between them increases with every second.

  In space, the King tries to move himself, to rotate his body, and finds it impossible. With the last of his energy, Mark watches him: he watches his face, watches him realise what is happening.

  The King starts to scream, scrambling and reaching for Mark, unaware that it is too late. Mark's willpower peters out like a car running on empty, and he begins to slow down. There is no sensation of speed up here.

  Mark comes to a stop eighty miles above the surface of the earth, up where the stars are almost infinite, and blazing in every direction. The moon is a mirror floating far away, and the King; the King is a distant shape now, flailing and screaming in silence, drifting ever away.

  Mark uses the last of his will to urge himself back towards the Earth. After a few seconds of pushing, Mark is done.

  The spark fades from his eyes, and his body begins to shut down. Only the furnace burning in his heart, the fire that gave him his power, continues.

  Like a mother calling her son home to her embrace, Earth's gravity pulls him down, faster and faster. From up here, from space, there are mountain ranges like spines running the length of the Earth. Mark takes in the shining oceans, the crystal ice caps atop the globe, and the swathes of lights, burning like torches, that mark every city on the dark side of his home.

  His home.

  His planet.

  His responsibility.

  He hasn't any breath left – he hasn't any fight left; any will left.

  Mark feels Earth pulling him home, and like falling asleep in the embrace of a lover, he closes his eyes and lets himself fall towards the blue pearl.

  “He's coming back,” says Command. Trespasser One grins at the squad, but his smile disappears as Command continues. “Don't get your hopes up. He's not coming in much faster than you'd expect for any object.”

  “You mean he's not flying home?” whispers the Trespasser.

  “No.”

  He nods, coming to terms with the news. “Ok. Ok, do we know where he's going to land?”

  “We'll be able to begin working it out soon, orbital forces are going to buffet his body a hell of a lot on the way down. Not to mention the heat of re-entry.”

  “Mark has been burned before,” he says. “Besides, he's wearing Trespasser armour, it has an ablative layer for plasma-burns doesn't it?”

  “Uh, yeah actually.”

  “Exactly, so he has a chance. Send us an aircraft right now, I want to be airborne within a minute and heading to wherever Mark is coming down.”

  “Roger that, Trespasser One. Standby.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you have something tracking the King?”

  “A couple of satellites, yeah.”

  “Good. Make sure he hits the target intended for him.”

  “What target is that?”

  “The god damned sun.”

  “I'll keep you posted, Trespasser One. Aircraft is en route for pick-up.”

  A burning mass of fire roars through the upper atmosphere, tumbling and twisting as it falls. Pieces break off – armour, cape, boots, burning away like tiny meteors and hissing to nothing. As the air friction burns everything else to a cinder, there remains nothing but a naked man, his skin burning and sizzling, blistering with the heat, as he plummets towards the Earth.

  The Agency helicopter roars over the Scottish landscape.

  “He's landing in Scotland?” asks Jamie. “How the hell did he manage that?”

  Donald shrugs. “He went straight up, he came straight back down. Relative speed would ensure he's coming in at roughly the same place.”

  “I wouldn't call the outskirts of Dundee the same place.”

  “Still impressive if he meant it.”

  Trespasser One raises his hand for silence.

  “There's a fair chance he'll cause a lot of destruction upon impact. If we can stop it, we will. Be ready to act at a second's notice.”

  “Speaking of which,” says Chloe, and points out the helicopter's side door. The sky above Dundee flashes like thunder, and a roaring ball of fire shoots through.

  “Oh god, that's Mark?” says Stacy. “He's never surviving that.”

  “It's ok, Stace,” says Jamie. “You remember the Destroyer?”

  “Of course.”

  Jamie points to the crates of whiskey loaded in the back of the helicopter.

  “We've got this.”

  Mark wakes up in a crater, his skin sizzling and hissing as it knits itself back together. His first thought is aliens. Strange figures in space suits are dousing him with chemicals.

  As his eyes recover and heal themselves, he realises that the murky shapes assaulting him are nothing more than men in thermal suits, dousing him with – he sniffs – whiskey by the hose-load.

  He tries to move, and his skin scabs and tears.

  “Sir?” shouts one of the men. “He's moving, I think he's alive!”

  Mark lets his eyes roll into the back of his head.

  When he next opens them, Mark's eyes are sharper – for one, they have eyelids around them. Everything is much brighter.

  “He's waking up,” says a familiar voice, and as the blur recedes, Mark sees the mousy face of Stacy leaning over him. Jamie and Chloe stand at her side, smiling, and Trespasser One's scarred face breaks into a rare grin as Mark struggles into consciousness.

  Donald has a hand on his wrist aside his bed, and Cathy and Gary are staring down at him. In the middle of them is his mother, giving him the relieved yet worried look that only a mother can.

  Mark smi
les, and goes back to sleep in the pleasant drunken buzz that his IV drip is administering.

  Epilogue

  One Month Later

  Stacy looks down at the clouds below her, wrapped in a billowing blue and gold cloak, her feet on Mark's boots, her arms around his neck. The sunrise coats the clouds amber-pink, and everything smells like Mark's aftershave and her shampoo; they only got showered and ready ten minutes ago.

  “Any reason you're parading me around up here for the satellites to see?” she asks, giving him a coy smile.

  “I dunno,” he shrugs. “I've got a long day ahead and it's nice to have something to think of.”

  “Long day?” she asks.

  “I'm visiting Donald; him and Gary want my advice starting a charity for people affected by the entire Kingdom thing. Then I'm off to have lunch with Jamie and Chloe, which you're welcome to join for. Then Tony is helping Cathy train for a marathon or something, so I told him I'd drop by for a catch up. Then I have some actual work to do.”

  “Actual work?” she laughs. “Did somebody's cat get stuck up a tree?”

  “Nah. Helping with the reconstruction of course. If my pager goes I'll need to leap into action, too. It's not as cool as my idea, but -”

  “You're idea?”

  “Yeah, shining a massive picture of my face onto the moon whenever they need me. Which would be awesome.”

  “Which is impossible,” she adds, laughing. “But I'm sure Earth's other superheroes will understand, we're all busy these days. Except me.”

  “You're starting university, what's not busy about that?”

  “'Cos I'll completely wipe the floor with the course. It's a formality. They won't let me build rockets without a degree so I need to start somewhere.”

  “Build them anyway. Now, I brought you up here so that I -”