Kingdom: The Complete Series

by Steven William Hannah

  “Of course, sir.”

  “And a can of ginger, son. Maybe two.”

  “There's not a lot of luxury items like that left in the city -”

  The King looks up from his papers, raising an eyebrow.

  “Gregor, I believe I made myself quite clear.”

  The runner bows his head. “I'll acquire some,” he says, and leaves without another word.

  “Mark?”

  The voice is just another piece of static in the background. Through the mask, Mark's expression is hidden – he is speechless, staring out across the rows of canvas tents as he tries to formulate what he feels into words.

  “Mark?”

  Jamie shakes him, and he snaps back to the present.

  The noise is all around him: the clamouring of the crowd and the constant click-snap of cameras. Somewhere a reporter is speaking into a microphone. In the bitter, frozen air, Mark sees Jamie's words as fog in front of his mouth.

  Then the noise is gone; the cold vanishes, turning to a balmy neutral heat, and Jamie and Mark are the only ones for whom time still marches.

  Jamie lifts his mask, and taps Mark's visor.

  “Time's not flowing, you can come out now.”

  Snapping into the frozen present, Mark lifts his mask.

  “Jamie?”

  “Look man, if you need to take a seat or something, you do it. You're going full zombie on me here, people are starting to notice. Not good for the cameras, you know what I mean?”

  “The people are starving, Jamie.” says Mark, looking out at the grey, unmoving crowd beneath them. With time stopped, he can make out the desperate expressions on those clawing at the food packages. Above them stand the others in their black overalls, faceless robots throwing aid packages into the mass. “We did this. We caused this.”

  Jamie gives him a light slap across the face that Mark barely feels. The drunken haze fogs his vision until he's no longer sure if he's standing up straight or not. Jamie's dark-ringed eyes anchor him to the spot, keeping him focused.

  “The King did this, not us.”

  “But we can fix it -”

  “In time, Mark. In time – and not today.”

  “It looks like a bloody third world country.”

  “This?” Jamie waves a hand out at the still camp, in all its poverty and grime. “This is preferable to a life of terror, believe me. You know how bad it was under the King.”

  Mark takes a breath and presses his hands against his closed eyes.

  “You ok?” Jamie lowers his voice. “Need a minute?”

  “I'm fine. Just -”

  “Just breathe.” Jamie squeezes his shoulder. “Get your head in the game, and focus.”

  “I'm too drunk for this, mate.”

  “Just focus on getting they aid packages out, we'll be done in no time.”

  “Ok. Ok,” Mark takes a deep breath and sighs, his vision sharpening into focus. “Thanks Jamie.”

  “Don't mention it. We good? Ready for the big snap when time comes back?”

  “I think I'm used to it by now.”

  “Ok then,” says Jamie, and then he is gone.

  Colour and sound blast back into the world.

  Mark's visor is back down, his face covered without him touching his mask, and he is standing atop the truck once more.

  Shaking away any disorientation, Mark grabs one of the aid parcels from the back of the truck and passes it into the crowd. A grimy faced man with a young girl clinging onto his shoulder takes it, elbowing his way past two others who reach for it.

  Mark makes sure to pass the next parcels to those who were shoved aside, growling under his breath.

  “That's the last of it,” the Trespasser pats Mark on the back as the crowd disperses. “Well done.”

  A gaggle of reporters are still hanging around the truck, taking snapshots of those aboard it.

  “Trespasser One?” asks Donald.

  “Yes?”

  “The medical staff here are sorely under-supplied and stretched thin. I'd like to help, if that's possible.”

  “Sorry, Donald. Rules are rules.”

  A young female reporter with blonde hair tied back in a ponytail tiptoes to see over the edge of the truck, waving for attention. “Actually, I wouldn't mind a few shots of that. Are you medically trained, sir?”

  Donald almost answers, before the Trespasser puts a hand on his chest.

  “You've gotten the pictures you were promised, lass. Stop trying to worm more out of them.”

  With that, the Trespasser leaps off the back of the truck and onto the ground. He claps his hands twice and the six masked figures look around, standing up.

  “Ok squad, work's done for the day. Pack up and wait for my word, we'll extract the same way we came in.”

  “Can we get a group picture of your squad?” This question comes from an older photographer with his camera balanced on his protruding gut.

  “No.”

  The Trespasser turns to find that Stacy has already arranged everybody into a row with their arms around one another.

  “Come on, Tony,” she urges him. “It's like a family day-trip.”

  The Trespasser sighs and throws his hands up.

  “Fine. Fine, just one. Stop it with the Tony nonsense, too.”

  He stands in front of them and kneels in the red tarmac, his chest puffed out as he leans on one knee with his forearm.

  A circle of photographers form around them, freezing the squad in a rapid strobe of flashing cameras.

  One photographer, a thin man with sallow eyes, muttering to himself under his breath, steps forward with a small camera. It is attached by wire to something inside his bulky winter jacket – far too large and padded for a man with a neck that thin.

  It all happens in about two seconds.

  The Trespasser has seen suicide bombers before – he's even stopped a few.

  His mind races – first, he assumes the worst.

  Head and body shots are ruled out – he might be wearing a dead man's switch. Electrical weaponry like his tazer are useless: the direct current will force his hands to contract, maybe setting a trigger off.

  The man stutters through his chattering teeth.

  “The King s-sends -”

  His wild eyes, pupils like black holes, focus on the Trespasser. For a second, the two men stare at one another.

  The Trespasser draws his pistol, deciding on a forearm shot – but too late.

  He presses in the button, and the explosives coating the inside of his coat go off, sending the packets of nails stuffed into the lining of his jacket flying into the squad and the photographers.

  Time stops for Jamie.

  He feels his brain become a barrier, halting the flow of time like a blockage in a pipe. Already the pressure is building like a migraine.

  A huge cloud of grey and red dust hangs before him, spiked and jagged where the explosives float in mid detonation.

  Thousands of tiny pieces of shrapnel hang unmoving in the air, like a swarm of flies descending on the crowd. Pieces of the bomber – a finger, a piece of skin, some scalp and hair, teeth, red mist – hang in the air too, forcibly removed from his body by the blast.

  The rest of him is suspended in the middle of the cloud, an unrecognisable lump of human.

  Jamie looks around. The photographers have barely had the chance to flinch. One of them already has flecks of blood emerging from their body where the shrapnel has hit.

  The one closest, the blonde-haired girl with the ponytail, is frozen in mid air. Her skin is rippled from the force of the pressure wave, her eyes flinched shut.

  Time begins to build up in his mind, urging him to let go: to relax the invisible muscle that keeps it held there and let the pressure out. He steadies himself and, though his heart is pounding in his ears, forces himself to think.

  He turns around and grabs the Trespasser by the forearm. The echo of the Trespasser's pistol shot is muffled and fades to nothing, missing the bomber's
arm.

  Calming himself down, the Trespasser looks around at the frozen scene.

  “Time stop?”

  “Yeah. What do we do?” asks Jamie, his mask hiding his pained expression.

  “How long can you hold this?”

  “Not much longer. Maybe a minute.”

  “Then hold it that long. We need Gary.”

  “Gary? What can Gary do?”

  “Forcefields.”

  “Some of the people are already hurt.”

  “I know. Donald can help them afterwards.”

  “Healer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mark can't help, can he?”

  “Not yet – same for Cathy and Stacy. Nothing they can do.”

  “Ok. Grab their arms, I'll try to hold everything together.”

  The Trespasser realises now that dark red fluid is dripping steadily from the bottom of Jamie's mask. He turns around and grabs Gary's skinny wrist.

  Mark watches the the explosion bloom and the fade as quickly as it came.

  A faint blue aura ripples and blossoms around the explosion, expanding like a bubble and then deflating with the pressure wave. It dissipates, leaving a swirling cloud of smoke and debris.

  Gary falls to the ground, his mask leaking blood from the jawline. Mark catches him as he falls and lifts him into his arms, calling for help.

  Donald, unmistakable by his bulk, places a hand on Gary's neck, checking for a pulse. He nods, and motions to the helicopter.

  Mark begins carrying the skinny figure to the helicopter with Stacy running after him.

  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 fa
natics, 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.”