“I thought you'd given up on teaching us hand to hand,” says Jamie to the Trespasser, who leaves Mark and Stacy alone on the mat and joins them on the bench. The metal man still lies in the middle of the ring.
“This changes things,” says the Trespasser. He leans forward to address everybody on the bench. “I wanted everybody to see how quickly Stacy's control over her powers has developed. This is why we're training you to use them.”
Suddenly, he stands up and links his hands behind his back: an older man in a grey shirt and a grey suit, held together with a silver tie, enters the room and gives him a brief nod.
“Trespasser One.”
“Command,” he says, still getting used to his new superior.
This man, this new Command, is grey: everything about him – from the thinning hairline to his eyes, his thin lips and his blank personality – is devoid of colour, as though he is a man stuck in black and white. If men are weather, Command is a storm cloud.
“What is it that you wanted me to see, Trespasser?”
“The potential applications of one of my squad member's abilities sir. Already I can see possible usage in bomb disposal, search and rescue, fire rescue – I'm sure engineering will be able to come up with more.”
“Which squad member, and what abilities, Trespasser One?”
“Stacy,” he turns, shouting to her on the mat. “One round, you and Mark. When you're ready.”
The duo on the mat nod, and the audience watches as Stacy closes her eyes, concentrating, one hand on her temple.
The metal man, his crude smiling face dented and bent now, rises to his feet. Command is watching as Rob the tin man assumes a stance and extends a closed fist, which Mark bumps with his own. Trespasser One is watching Command; his face turns from shock to intrigue. Then he sees the cogs begin to turn.
“Is she controlling that -”
“Yes.”
“No power source? No engine, no -”
“Any mechanical system, sir: she can control any mechanical system.”
The fight begins, and Rob the metal man steps in and punches Mark in the gut. Grabbing the machine by its arm, Mark pirouettes and throws it to the ground. It slams onto its back with Mark on top of it, and Stacy gasps and lets go of her head.
Jamie stands up, whooping and clapping.
Cathy tuts. “This is how that terminator film started, I'm sure of it.”
Gary cups his hands around his mouth as the machine gets to its feet and assumes the stance again.
“Kick his wee head in, Stacy,” he shouts.
Command turns to Trespasser One as the second round begins.
“Why don't we put her in a Challenger tank?”
“They need fuel, ammunition, you can break a tread and immobilise them. That thing there can do any job a man can do, without any risk of life. It can enter buildings, clear mines -”
“No fuel? No power?”
“Well, Stacy is powering it, and she needs to eat I guess. Asides that, not really. Breaking it doesn't even do much – Mark has been punching lumps out of it and it hasn't slowed it down. It's just poles and metal: there's not a lot to break.”
“I'm thinking, Trespasser.” Command smiles. “How many of these things can she control at once?”
“I think more than one or two might be pushing it, sir. But I asked the boys down from engineering too. I want to know if making lighter ones might help her. That one's steel, for instance. I wonder if a lighter alloy might take the strain off her.”
“Could we mount weaponry on it?”
“Probably – but I'd like to leave that decision up to Stacy. She's not a soldier, sir.”
Command rubs his chin, watching the sparring match.
The second fight goes better for Stacy.
Rob ducks Mark's first hook and grabs him by the legs, tugging him off balance. Mark grabs on to its metal shoulder as he falls, rolling with the throw and tossing Rob sideways on to the mat.
Stacy grits her teeth, trying to focus, and Rob makes it to his feet and dances to Mark's side as he throws a second punch. Rob plants one foot behind Mark's, puts a steel palm on his chest, and pushes him over. Mark hits the ground with a thud, and it is Cathy and Gary who stands up this time, applauding.
“That's one each,” says Donald, stroking his chin. “Not bad.”
“Mark, this is amateur stuff,” shouts Jamie. “Come on, get drunk. Get angry.”
Mark laughs and flips his middle finger at Jamie, who laughs.
Command pats Trespasser on the back. “I'll give engineering everything they need, Trespasser. I've seen enough. I'm convinced. Continue the training.”
“Yes, sir,” he says. “Thank you, sir.”
“On another note: less than forty-eight hours till arrival, I believe?”
“Much less, sir. At the last update, my timer said thirty two.”
“Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
Command jerks his head towards the door, and the Trespasser follows him away from the squad, where Command lowers his voice.
“Are your squad ready?”
“Yes, sir.” he says, without hesitation.
“What about that one?” Command looks straight at Mark, preparing for round three on the mat. “His profile has him listed as a drunk; self-destructive, with something of a messiah complex. Will he be ok?”
“He's fine, sir.”
“You realise the complications arising from the King's return? Your squad have to prepare for the possibility of an attack against them.”
“I know sir. Undercover units are already embedded in the city. This is still an Agency operation – we just have far better fail-safes this time around.”
“Good to hear it, Trespasser One. See to it that we don't have a repeat of Operation Firefall.”
“Yes, sir.”
They both turn around when Jamie and Donald erupt in cheers again. Mark has raised the metal man over his head like a wrestler and turned to the crowd, roaring in triumph, before throwing it to the ground with a crash.
Stacy holds her hand up for a break, her armband flashing from green to orange. Gary boos them as they leave the mat, which earns him a slap on the back of the head from Cathy – Jamie has a chuckle at his expense.
“Here,” says Gary, “since Mark needs to drink to stay powered up, can we call him the tenants-super man?”
Jamie slaps his thighs, laughing harder.
“What do we call Stacy then?” asks Donald
“Machine Girl?”
“That's awful,” says Cathy. “What about like, the Iron Lady.”
“Like Maggie Thatcher?” asks Jamie. “No chance.”
“Beer-Man,” says Donald.
“For Stacy?”
“For Mark, obviously.”
“He drinks whiskey, actually,” says Jamie. “What about you – you're a doctor, right Don? What about like, Doctor Death.”
“He hasn't killed anybody,” says Cathy, shocked by this.
“Can Cathy just be like, 'Mist' or something cool?” asks Gary. “'Cause of that thing she does with the invisibility and all.”
“That's actually not bad,” says Jamie. “You can be the Crimson Swagger.”
“I don't have a swagger -”
“You have such a swagger,” says Donald.
“So what, are we just getting a colour and a characteristic?” asks Gary. “That's how they usually do it, right?”
“Yeah,” says Cathy. “Like the Green Whatever or the Red Something-or-other.”
“Hold on,” Jamie thinks. “Mark, what's your favourite colour?”
Mark is helping Stacy up and looks over, shrugging as he gets his breath back.
“Brown?”
“Brown? Who's favourite colour is brown, seriously?”
“Ok, like cream or something then.”
“No, no, brown's fine,” says Gary. “The Brown Mark suits him.”
“The Brown Mark it is,” Jamie announces, e
arning another middle-finger from Mark. “Or just skidmark?”
Stacy applauds.
Command and Trespasser share a look filled with unsaid thing, and Command raises his eyebrow before turning and leaving.
Miles away, the frosty air steals over a quiet Glasgow.
“The nights are coming in fast these days,” says Gregor, looking up at the darkening skies. “At least it's clear.”
“Ye kin see all-a-tha' stars,” says the drunk sitting beside him on the steps, tripping over his own words. He slurps cheap vodka from a blue plastic bag and leans in to him. Gregor tries to hide his disgust. Grinning and showing his three brown teeth, the spirits seep out from between his rubbery lips. “Awfa' pretty,” he says.
“Well, no light pollution any more,” says Gregor. “It's getting cold, I'd best head in for the night.”
The drunk leans back, taking another swig. “Aye mate.”
Gregor stands, adjusting his fingerless gloves and the old, piss-stained duffel coat he is wearing. Fixing his wool hat, he climbs the steps and pushes the door open. The heavy oak door creaks and lets him in, and he closes it behind him, twisting the handle until it locks.
He tries to ignore the stench. Walking down the corridor brings him to a wide open room with a roof high above, like a cathedral. A spiral staircase runs around the interior like the inner workings of a castle tower.
In the middle stands a circular garden, bursting with colour even as winter sets in, the scent of the flowers briefly taking away the stench of drink, weed and sweat. Noise from above filters down like snow drops, and he catches bits and pieces. Somebody slapping someone else about. A man begging somebody for a needle.
Sighing, Gregor takes off his hat and scratches his head.
“This would never have happened under the King,” he mutters to himself. “Never.”
“Whit 'ye sayin' there, big man?” asks a female figure from the shadows.
Gregor jumps, almost going for the pistol hidden in his filthy coat. A young woman appears from the darkness, shaking and huddling a tartan shawl around herself. Her hair is matted in clumps, and she has open sores at the edge of her mouth. She looks like a skeleton.
“Nothing,” says Gregor, clenching a fist in case she comes any closer. “Just looking for a place to sleep tonight.”
“Aw aye,” she croons, and Gregor can't help but sneer as he sees the track-lines on the veins of her forearm. Her voice sounds as though she is gargling razorblades, and her eyes have had mascara badly smeared around them in an effort to make her gaunt face more attractive. “Ye lookin' for some company?”
Gregor puts his hands in his pockets, his hand closing around a set of brass knuckles.
“No,” he says.
“Just a fella without a house, eh? Loads-a them these days.”
“Mhm,” he says, looking around in case there are any witnesses.
“Did you used to work for him, too?”
Gregor stops. “Him?”
“Aye. The King.” He says nothing, and she narrows her eyes, nodding and pointing a gnarled finger at him. “Aye, ye did. I can see it in yer eyes – yees have all got that look. Psychos,” she whispers, shaking her head.
Gregor remains silent, seconds away from knocking her out for peace and quiet.
“Though al say this,” she waves her finger and smacks her chapped lips. “Ye'd never have got smack on the streets when he wis in charge. Least workin' girls were looked efter.”
“They were.”
“You'd better no be here to kill emdby, mate. We've got a nice place here.”
“I just want a place to sleep.”
There's a pause, and she looks around as though afraid somebody will hear her.
“Is he dead?”
“The King?”
“Aye – is he dead?”
Gregor shakes his head, and she seems to shrink back into the darkness, shrivelling as though he'd shone light on her.
“Is -” she's shaking now. “Is he coming back?”
Gregor nods.
“Am I in trouble? Is it me you're here for?”
He shakes his head.
“I just – we all thought he was dead. The boys that ran the sauna didny come in for three days, we were starving, nobody telt us whit to do -”
“Quiet,” says Gregor. “In time, the King will make it clear what he has planned for you.”
“Ok,” she says, relaxing. “Ye know it does get cold in here at night, ye sure ye don't want some company -”
She comes in towards Gregor, giving him an earnest smile. He holds out a hand to stop her, lowering his voice.
“Come any closer and I'll shatter your jaw.”
She reels back, screwing her face up.
“Aye aw'right mate.” She shuffles back into the shadows, mumbling, “you huv a nice night too.” Gregor walks away, ignoring her whispered, “arsehole.”
He turns and heads for the stairs, pulling an ancient mobile phone from his coat pocket. He flips it open and dials the only number in it, and seconds later the voice at the other end picks up.
“Are you in the Gardens?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have everything that you need?”
Gregor double checks – a plastic bottle filled with petrol, matches, pouches full of explosives, wiring and a detonator; and of course, the deodorant-sized canister of hydrogen sulfide.
“Yes,” he says. “I've got everything.”
“Then get comfortable,” comes the voice of the King. “The rest of your team is in position.”
“Is the prison ready?”
“It will be when the times comes.”
“How long am I going to be waiting here? It's a dump – filled with squatters and junkies.”
“How poetic. We have to wait until the last possible moment. Perhaps six hours before the Arrival.”
“I'll keep the phone on. Just give the word.”
“Thank you – and Gregor?”
“Sir?”
“This target, Mark. He's dangerous. Don't try to fight him, don't show-boat: hit him with the gas, get the helmet, detonate the explosives, and leave. Are we clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
“If we can pull this off, we have the Agency beaten as far as the Arrival goes. This will open the path to the creation of the Kingdom – and it all starts with you, Gregor. Good luck.”
“Likewise, sir.”
Gregor hangs up, checks that the explosives are still in his pocket, and pulls out a crudely drawn map with X's marked where he has to place them.
Episode 6
The Fall
The Agency elevator comes to a stop and the doors hiss open, soaking them in the sharp chill of the early morning air. The lift disgorges its passengers between a pair of shipping containers covered in rust and moss, into a flat concrete wasteland populated by dust, weeds and patchy ice, with an empty industrial shed in one corner and high barbed wire fences running around it.
In the midst of the barren block sits a silent helicopter, the large transport model that they're used to. The Trespasser, dressed for duty in his overalls and mask, stands by it with his hands clasped behind his back. The crowd walk towards him, the squad accompanied by Chloe and Mark's mother.
“Come on squad,” he shouts. “The fire is coming. Arrival is in eight hours, we have to get moving.”
“Shouldn't we be wearing our masks?” asks Jamie. “What about satellites seeing our faces or something?”
They are all in plain clothes, just civilians for the time being.
“We're safe here, Jamie, trust me,” says the Trespasser, despite his own face being hidden by his head-wear. “Your overalls and armour are waiting for you in Glasgow – it's all been taken care of.”
“Hello Tony,” says Chloe, giving him a familiar wave and a playful smile.
He nods his head. “Chloe.” He regards the rest of them. “Everybody say any goodbyes you want to say, and get on the chopper.”
“Stacy,” the Trespasser interjects before Mark can agree. “You can't take Rob. He's too heavy.”
“But he's useful -”
“You can't carry him on an operation, Stacy. Leave him here, I'll have somebody pick him up.”
She huffs, and drops him to the ground with a hollow clang and heads for the chopper. “Fine.”
“Engineering are working on a lighter, portable model for you. Next time, ok?”
“I said fine, god.”
She barges past Donald and Gary.
“See,” Gary is explaining to the older man, “if I drop the 'DJ' part of my DJ name, I could use that.”
“So you'd just be 'Void'?” asks Donald.
“Aye, that's a great super-hero name.”
Cathy pats him on the back as she walks by. “We're not superheroes, sweetie,” she says with a condescending smile, walking onto the chopper along with Stacy.
“She's right, superheroes don't use helicopters,” says Gary. “How come we're not in, like – I dunno, the Agency-Mobile or something.”
“Helicopters are the Agency's primary method of insertion, Gary,” says the Trespasser. “It's either that or high-altitude-low-open drops from a Hercules aircraft. Would you prefer that?”
Mark shouts a reply before Gary can answer. “I could do that?”
“We don't know if a parachute would work for you, Mark,” the Trespasser says. “Your weight fluctuates with your power -”
“Ha!” shouts Jamie, who is mid-embrace with Chloe. “Fatty.”
“I mean his density,” says the Trespasser, sighing at his own mistake.
“Who says I'd even need a parachute?” asks Mark.
“Me,” his mother says, patting his arm. “Now have you got enough... you know.”
“I have a litre and a half of single malt in here.” Mark taps the silver flask on his leather belt, hanging off his jeans like a growth. “I'll be fine.”
“Just don't forget to drink every half hour or so -”
Kingdom: The Complete Series Page 24