by Tyler Leslie
Regina didn’t even bother to drop into a fighting stance of her own this time. She knew the fight was over just as much as Davis did. Still, that didn’t stop her from smirking like a fiend before she landed the punch that broke Davis’ nose and sent him to the ground for the final time. This time, Davis didn’t try to rise. It was a fool who fought a battle he knew he couldn’t win, and this was certainly one of those battles. Regina came to a stop over him once more, this time an oddly pleased look on her face. The world blinked out for a second, and when Davis came to again, Lt. Marks had joined the female officer, appraising him with the same scornful expression that had likely never waved from his face.
“This one might just make it all the way.” Regina said softly. She leaned in close to Davis’ ear so only he could hear her. “You are mine. I will make you into the best soldier on this base, or destroy you utterly. If you have the strength to make it to the final test, I have no doubt you will succeed. However, I suspect that you won’t.” She stood up and said something to Lt. Marks that was lost on Davis. He was too far gone to understand anything anymore. Instead, he allowed the overpowering blackness that had threatened him for so long to finally take him. It was a blissful escape.
When he came to, Davis was unsure whether hours had passed, or mere minutes. Regardless, the officers were rounding up the fallen cadets, forcing them back into formation for the march to their barracks. Lt. Marks was once again the one to speak.
“Listen up you worthless scum; now that you’ve passed your initiation ceremony, it’s time for the real work to begin. The walk to your barracks is long and grueling. You will march every single step of the way. If any of you falls behind, or falls unconscious, you will be left behind. Consider that your informal ejection from the program. If you are too weak to even make it across the drill field, you are certainly too pathetic to make it through the ranks of the military.” He seemed satisfied with his spiel, and stepped back into line beside Regina and the nameless blonde man.
The blonde man had said less than a single word the entire time he had been there, instead watching over the proceedings with a detached air. He seemed as if he could care less about the cadets—his eyes gave that away, and it seemed to be beneath him to address them or even give them the courtesy of his name and rank. As Marks finished his short speech, the man turned away and began the march to the barracks alone, ready to return to whatever duty he had been pulled from in order to oversee the cadets’ initiation into the US military training program.
Davis leaned over to Ricky, who had suffered a black eye and a bloody nose. Davis was afraid he looked even worse than his friend. “Who do you suppose that blonde guy is? The one walking away from us?”
Ricky stole a glance in the direction of the retreating man, them redirected his gaze forward toward the training officers. “I don’t know, but I think talking to me was a mistake.”
Davis was about to ask why when he spotted Regina walking—no charging—toward him, an expression of utter distaste on her face. She reached him in only a few long strides, and got as close to his face as her stature would allow. “And what do you think you’re doing, cadet Martin? Is this a social function? I wasn’t aware you had been given leave to fraternize with your fellow cadets.”
Davis wanted to ask how the heck she knew his name, but decided against it for fear of another lashing, be it physical or verbal.
“This cadet was merely asking Cadet Belmont if he knew the identity of the third training officer.” Davis swallowed, ready to take a punch or kick if it came.
Instead, Regina seemed to visibly relax. “Well, at least one of you worthless imbeciles remembered to speak in the proper method. I’ll let this one slide because of that. In fact, I’ll even go so far as to answer your question in Cadet Belmont’s stead. That is Commander Richard Pike. You will likely never have anything to do with him, so it would be best to put him from your mind. Understand?”
“This cadet understands. He is to forget about Commander Pike and focus instead on his duties.”
That seemed to satisfy Regina, and she turned on her heel and marched back to the front of the group. Before she reached Lt. Marks, she turned her head and, in a movement imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t paying close attention to her, winked at Davis. This was to be the first of many inexplicable actions on her part, and it haunted Davis that night.
The march to the barracks was indeed grueling. By the time the cadets reached the ramshackle building on the eastern side of the base, Davis was ready to collapse and never again return to his feet. He slumped onto the small cot that was provided for him, completely indifferent to the rank smell that emanated from the mattress. It was the smell of fear and misery, the scent of the countless cadets who had bunked here before him, the odor of subservience. Even so, Davis found it remarkably easy to fall asleep, and was gone from the world in a matter of minutes.
CHAPTER 3
The next day the cadets were roused at 4 a.m. and forced to once again march across the base. The destination this time was the classrooms—situated, surprise, surprise, on the complete opposite side of the base. When they arrived, Davis found them even more unbearable than the barracks. They were even smaller, even more claustrophobic. The students nearly sat on top of one another as they studied through hour upon hour of grueling lecture and written tests. Their assigned teacher, if he could even be called such a thing, called himself Gregg. There was no last name or rank given to the students. Less for them to forget, he had said.
He was a short, stocky man with average looks and auburn hair, yet his temper was far from normal. At the slightest infraction, be it speaking out of turn or even asking a question he considered foolish, he would whack the cadet with a metal ruler, right on the top of the head. Having suffered several such attacks on the first day alone, Davis knew all too well the pain they caused. Every time he was forced to watch another cadet endure the beating, his heart (and his head) ached in sympathy.
Despite the brutal conditions in which the cadets were forced to learn, the first day had been incredibly insightful. Davis had already learned nearly everything he had ever wanted to know about their enemy, the Scuratt’ka. The Scuratt’ka were the bipedal, humanoid race that had been discovered on Davis’ mining rig that fateful day five months ago. For some unknown reason, when the humans accidentally tunneled into the vast city that the race called home, it had started a war the likes of which Davis had thought possible only in movies. The aliens, if they could even be called such a thing since they had reputedly lived on earth for as long as man, had attacked without remorse. In a matter of months they had devastated entire cities, most notably turning the Arabian city of Dubai into little more than a deserted wasteland.
It was widely debated why they had chosen the Middle East as their first target, but the reason most accepted revolved around the region’s wealth of oil. The Scuratt’ka had set fire to it all, burning up both the precious resource and nearly the entire country within a single day. Millions had died in a single moment. It was the single greatest tragedy in human history, and Davis feared it was destined to get much, much worse.
He turned his attention back to Gregg, who was lecturing them on the weaponry they would use against their alien foe.
“Now, this is where things get interesting.” Gregg drawled on, making the statement anything but. Davis hoped things would pick up the pace soon. He was eager to get out of the classroom and back into drills—something he never thought he’d want.
“These Scuratt’ka have some kind of crazy armor that is completely invulnerable to munitions-based weaponry. At first, this dumbfounded us. We thought they were invincible and would wipe us out without us laying a single scratch on their ugly hides.” He chuckled for emphasis, although for what reason Davis had no idea. “Then we had the good fortune of discovering that the newly developed Davenport Enterprise plasma weaponry cooks them like an
ant under a magnifying glass. He held up his hand as if he were holding such a thing, and simulated a burning sound with his mouth. It was all Davis could do not to burst out laughing at the absurd sight. Gregg may be a dull man, but he was well built, and seemed capable of taking on at least half the class at once without breaking a sweat. To see such a man making noises with his mouth was borderline hysterical.
The teacher continued, apparently unaware of his demonstration’s effect on the class. “Unfortunately, plasma weapons are massive and far too heavy for a soldier to carry into combat. That’s why we devised these bad boys.” He pulled down a screen on which a schematic of a mean-looking suit of battle armor stood. Davis leaned forward, immediately interested. This was why he had signed up for the military. The modern day weaponry was beyond state of the art; it was like something from a science fiction novel.
“We call these AMBAs. That’s short for Ambulatory Mechanized Battle Armor. Say that with me, class.”
“AMBULATORY MECHANIZED BATTLE ARMOR!” the class shouted in unison.
Gregg seemed annoyed by the fact that none of the students had messed up the name, and as such he was unable to use his beloved ruler. He continued after a few seconds. “These things are like nothing the military has had before.” He slapped at the sheet for emphasis. “These Scuratt’kan dudes are huge, at least 10 feet tall on a good day. Because of this, the AMBA is a very large beast. We reckon they are 12 feet head to foot, and are capable of being outfitted with a large assortment of weaponry, everything from RPGs to the latest plasma repeaters.” He looked around the class, savoring the gleeful, even childlike expressions on most of the students’ faces. Everyone wanted a piece of this action, to pilot one of the AMBAs. Gregg spoke up again, his voice catching briefly. Davis realized that despite the man’s gruff nature and his sadistic love of physical punishment, Gregg truly enjoyed his job. He really loved teaching future warriors about the instruments of destruction they would soon see the insides of.
“Now, you might ask what’s the point in throwing on a few rocket launchers or machine guns if these alien scum-bags are immune to them. Well, you see, not all of them wear that snazzy immortal armor they seem to love so much. As far as we’ve been able to tell, only the elite warriors are worthy of wearing the stuff. Standard grunts aren’t even armored at all. They wear little more than loin cloths, like some kind of cave man freak.” The class couldn’t help but laugh at the image, and surprisingly Gregg laughed along with them.
“Now, because of this, these grunts aren’t worth the cost of sending out even a single AMBA; a lowly machine gun would make mince meat of them. However, if there are elite warriors mixed in with the riff-raff, we’d better send in at least one suited-up soldier. In a situation like this, the AMBA you may very well be piloting will likely be equipped with standard machine guns as well as a plasma repeater or two. Plasma weaponry takes a time and a half to recharge, so the machine guns will hold off the grunts until you’re ready to take another shot at the big boys.”
“Now, sometimes,” he pulled down another sheet containing a schematic of a tank, “you’ll have the good fortune to be sent in alongside one of these. This is the AT88 Katana main battle tank. Most of you will never have seen one of these, an’ that’s intentional. This is still top-secret stuff, and it’s still in development. The AT88 is armed with three, count ’em three, plasma cannons. These cannons aren’t like the repeaters you’ll get on an AMBA; oh no, these will take out an entire city block of Scuratt’ka bugs with a single shot. And you’ve got three of those things ready to rock and roll.” Fire all three at once, and you might even be able to take out the Warlord himself!”
As the class had learned earlier on that day, the Scuratt’kan Warlord was the aliens’ version of a general, only with even more power. He was effectively President, General, and Judge of the entire Scuratt’kan race. No one had ever seen him, and for good reason, but the stories told about him were mythical to the point of ridiculous exaggeration. Even before he had enlisted in the military, Davis had heard stories of the creature. The most noteworthy one involved the Warlord single—handedly invading a heavily fortified base, killing every single soldier by himself, and shipping the base commander’s heart to the doorstep of the White House. Davis knew this was likely a huge exaggeration, but still, it was hard not to be bowled over by the fear the Warlord instilled in common men and women.
Gregg was smiling like a child at Christmas. “I’ve had the opportunity to ride along in one of these things, and trust me, it’s worth the hype. I wasn’t able to see the devastation that the triple cannon charge creates, but I got a pretty good idea of what it would look like to see it. Even a single shot rocks the thing like the apocalypse is upon us; the boom the impact creates will shake you to your very soul. When the Katana barks, all the other dogs in the pound shut the heck up. There’s no point in even trying to compete.” He pulled down two other schematics alongside the two already on display.
“The AT88 comes in two smaller variants, the AT56 and the AT17. Code—named the Wakizashi and Tanto respectively, they are pretty much what you would expect. The AT56 carries two plasma cannons, and the Tanto just one. Even still, the old AT17 will make meat pie out of a whole chunk of alien filth, so take even the small boy very seriously indeed.” Gregg looked around the class for any raised hands. He spotted one, and called on the young woman. Davis thought he recognized her from the first day. Apparently she had transferred in from another group for an unknown reason, and was named Amanda. Davis couldn’t remember her last name; maybe he hadn’t even heard it. Regardless, he had immediately become smitten with her. Not only was she incredibly attractive in an Egyptian goddess kind of way, but she possessed a searing intelligence evident through her repeatedly giving correct answers and her curious nature.
“Is there a reason why the tanks are named after Japanese swords?” Amanda asked in her beautiful, sonorous voice. “If memory serves, the Samurai carried all three of those at once, all for different, specific tasks.”
Gregg seemed pleased with what was surely his favorite student. “That is a very good question, Cadet Amanda. As far as I know it’s just for the sake of easily identifying the things. Katana is a lot easier to remember than AT88, don’t you think?”
Amanda nodded, her curiosity apparently sated for the time being.
Davis made a decision, right then and there, to get to know Amanda better before the end of the day. While relationships were discouraged for obvious reasons, there was no harm in making a friend, now was there?
The lecture dragged on. Gregg continued to explain the features of the tanks, most of them boring and nearly useless. He even touched on the new F-45 stealth fighter that not only had the capability of carrying plasma repeaters, but could make itself completely invisible in a matter of seconds, Star Trek style. While this information was certainly interesting and would be infinitely useful, it was all likely stored away on the computer discs every student had been given at the start of class. Davis decided to study it in depth later on that night, when everyone else was asleep. He could therefore allow his mind to drift, to soar outside of the metal box that was the military and return home, oddly enough where he truly wanted to be right now. He wondered what his mother was doing.
His father had been a world renowned plastic surgeon, and had spent most of his retired life chasing young, beautiful women across exotic continents. Ever since the beginning of the invasion, however, he had confined himself to his house in Malibu, not daring to go outside for even a breath of fresh air. He had become, Davis feared, one of those eccentric wealthy men, never leaving home and indulging in odd and often disturbing activities due to their self-enforced captivity.
Then, out of nowhere, his father had experienced a psychotic break from reality, and had been sent to a psychiatric institute. Davis closed his eyes for a few seconds, slipping into a deep reverie that brought him back to age nin
e and swirled with the memories of his late father and the final day of his life.
The lights were bright, a sort of searing intensity that was uncommon in most areas of human existence. The Andamis Psych Ward in eastern Illinois was a place Davis had never wanted to visit. There had been talk for years about admitting his ailing father to the place, but Davis had never actually believed the day would come.
The halls were a spotless white and seemed as if they had never seen the slow, destructive imprint of hands and cleaning products. Everything seemed sterile to the point of looking fake, right down to the steel-mesh reinforced windows, which looked like they belonged on a doll-house. Davis’ feet dragged. His shoe laces were undone and tracing short patterns in the perfect shine of the floor, like little alabaster-white snakes. His mother accompanied him this time, and she seemed even more withdrawn and stoic than ever. It wasn’t surprising.
Her decision to place her husband in this place had taken everything out of her. The warmth she used to exhibit in times of need, the caring caresses, the soft-spoken words of affirmation—all had been taken from her, and therefore indirectly, from Davis. He felt more alone now than he had ever felt before, and each step brought them closer to the cold reality of life. Nothing good lasts forever. This was the first true lesson Davis had learned so far in his nine years of life, and he was determined to make the most of it.
