Ancient Armada

by Tyler Leslie

  Joseph glanced at the clock; it was 7:03, three minutes past his usual departure time. He had returned to swipe another glance at an insurance report he received earlier that day. The report had seemed to be in order, but Joseph hadn’t had the time to give it a thorough going-over. He sank deep into the expansive leather chair that served as an exclamation point to his walnut desk. His eyes quickly skimmed the stack of legal paraphernalia currently dominating his workspace. Now where was that report? Ah, there it is. He snatched up the thick document, scrutinizing it for errors. At first glance it seemed as if his memory had turned out to be correct—the report was flawless—until a certain figure caught his eye.

  What the? Joseph thought, how did I miss this!? Right in the middle of page 24 sat a blaring discrepancy between the insurance company’s stated office claim and what he was being billed in reality. There were 50,674 dollars coming out of his company’s pockets that shouldn’t be. Joseph cursed. He put his fingers to his temples, gently massaging away all the emotion adversity welling up inside him. Forget it, Joseph. You can deal with this mess tomorrow.

  As if things weren’t bad enough with all the work he’d been forced to do in order to keep his company in good standing, now the insurance company was after his head.

  DelTek had routinely supplied computer parts for the CIA and other government corporations for five years. This had proven to be an exceptionally lucrative decision and Joseph was not going to give up without a fight. Joseph tossed the plethora of papers onto his desk in disgust and turned to leave. What he needed was a cup of coffee and a good night’s sleep. Nothing could distract him from this small enterprise, nothing at all.

  Joseph stepped out into the parking garage. The cool evening air sent shivers cascading through his body, forcing the CEO to pull his Gucci cashmere topcoat close. Joseph searched the parking garage for his car, finally spotting it by the entrance. The brand new Aston Martin Vanquish sparkled faintly in the dim light of the garage, seeming to give off a soft red glow. Joseph smiled to himself. The car was as much a statement of his wealth as it was transportation, and the CEO always indulged himself in some self-appreciation whenever the need arose.

  At the moment his needs focused clearly on getting out of this town, away from the noise and the light, to his secluded mansion in the hills. Joseph depressed the door handle and the Vanquish beckoned him inside with its graceful swan-hinged door, the taupe interior giving off the aroma of expensive leather. Joseph slid into the curvaceous bucket seat and prodded the ‘engine start’ button. The battle-ready V12 roared to life and the CEO was off, with nothing but sleep and comfort on his mind. He got only about fifteen feet, right to the entrance of the parking garage, before his car exploded in a cacophony of noise and light, sending flame and fumes in all directions and instantly ending the life of the on-duty toll-worker.

  Prince Davenport leaned back in his elegant albino-

  crocodile-skin chair and allowed himself a slight, but very cleansing sigh. Things were going well, as they usually did at the top of the ivory tower he had worked so hard to erect. Today alone he had netted MikkaDyne three important fossil fuel contracts with neighboring countries, increasing both his profits, and his control tenfold. He was certain that one day he would have control of the entire world, yet for the time being he was content with his influence. He knew the contentment wouldn’t last—it never did; but at least for the moment he could concentrate on what mattered most in life—luxury that defined perfection. His palace, built in the heart of New York City and 70 stories tall, was nothing short of a modern marvel. It was as much a work of art as it was a dwelling; the chief architect in charge of building it had taken four years and a warlord’s ransom to construct it. It had been worth every single penny. Well, almost. The fountain in the lobby, thirty feet high and made of the most precious exotic marble, was a little small for the Prince’s taste, yet was still admittedly a masterpiece in and of itself. He would have to have it enlarged sometime in the near future, but for now it served its purpose—instilling a sense of smallness and inadequacy in the hearts of anyone who walked through the building’s doors.

  While the building was the primary residence of the Prince, it also served as the center for his business practices. There was always a plethora of people coming and going, and as such the Prince had made sure to make security incredibly tight. A man in his position could, after all, make enemies of the most kind-hearted folk. Most seemed to resent the fact that, despite his formal renunciation of his crown, he had decided to keep his royal title. And why shouldn’t he? He had been born a prince, not a pauper, and as such he should always be remembered. Let the lay people decide whether or not it was a just decision; he could care less.

  A sudden knock on the doors to his private chamber alerted him. A sudden and all—consuming rage flooded through him. How dare anyone interrupt him in the middle of his afternoon relaxation? Everyone in his employ knew he was never to be disturbed while in his private chambers. Instead of standing, walking the substantial amount of distance to the door, and opening it, he flicked a switch that activated the intercom system built into the room. A microphone, despite being located a hundred feet above him in the ceiling, would pick up every nuance of his voice and relay it to the panel outside next to the door.

  He tried to keep his voice civil and free of anger, but it was no use. His irritation always showed through; it had been his one weakness ever since his childhood.

  He had once had a servant—one of his mother’s personal servants actually—banished from the Davenport winter estate because the man had brought him milk two degrees too hot. To the Prince it had been a perfectly acceptable punishment. The man still lived did he not? Others however, including his own mother, had chastised him for the decision, and he had been confined to his room for the rest of the day. What an insult that had been! That decision, and several others like it over the next few years, had been the foundation for his decision to leave England to pursue a career in capitalism across the sea.

  He had been quite successful by his own estimation, and now owned nearly every single enterprise in the United States. Brazil was his next target, but that would have to wait until the current dictator he had imposed there acquiesced to his wishes for more slave trade and less oil circulation. When the Scuratt’kans, blasted annoyance that they were, had destroyed the Middle East the price of oil had gone up exponentially. It was merely good business to make sure he controlled as much of the remaining supply as possible. If others suffered, it was their problem; the Prince was only concerned with the good of the world.

  The Brazilian dictator, a man by the name of Thiago Marrah, was in need of a lesson or two in obedience. Perhaps his teenage daughter could prove the fulcrum in the Prince’s plans, or perhaps his three wives. He would have to think about it. At the moment however, this annoying interruption had to be dealt with.

  “Yes?” The Prince coolly replied, marveling at his ability to quell his initial anger and keep his composure for once. “You know as well as everyone else that I am not to be disturbed while in my chambers.”

  The voice that greeted him was that of his primary aid and most trusted servant, a man named Godfrey. Godfrey had a secret; he was the unfortunate victim of a terrible thing known as Moor’s disease. While he was in actuality in his mid thirties, he appeared to be around 14. His disease, while certainly unfortunate for Godfrey, was a blessing in disguise for the Prince. Because of his childlike appearance, Godfrey was rarely taken as a serious threat, and therein lay his true usefulness. Godfrey was an assassin, and an incredibly gifted one at that. The Prince had made sure the man had been augmented with the most state-of-the-art, and therefore expensive, bionic enhancements available. He was therefore incredibly strong and fast; his targets, or would be opponents, never knew what was coming until it was too late.

  Godfrey’s voice was certainly that of a child, yet held an intelligence and auth
ority well beyond his age. “My Prince, I am sorry to disturb you, but you have a level A call from an entity you are well aware of.” That was code for the Prince’s most valuable ally, one most people would never have imagined possible. Oh, if only they knew what was being planned. The Prince allowed himself a tight smile, and responded with a kindness reserved only for Godfrey.

  “Very well, thank you for alerting me. I will take the call in my office.”

  “As you wish, my Prince.”

  The Prince rose and walked with a grace that could be attributed to none other than the most skilled dancer. The expansive black walnut doors to his chambers opened automatically as he neared them. They would respond like this only to him; and only a few of his most trusted employees, Godfrey included, had the codes to open the doors. In the event of an emergency, they were free to enter the chambers uninvited, but only in such a case. The Prince’s wrath would be swift and furious if anyone were to ever use the codes to barge in unannounced, and even Godfrey would be susceptible to the full extent of the Prince’s punishment.

  The walk to his office was uneventful, but the Prince couldn’t help but be annoyed at his caller’s timing. He had just begun to relax after a slightly stressful day, and had been looking forward to a long bath. As he walked through the doors to the office, nearly as large as those adorning the entrance to his private chambers, he decided to make the coming exchange as brief as possible. He had just remembered a new dancing girl had been provided to him courtesy of, no surprise, Thiago Marrah. He had assured the Prince she was the cream of his crop so to speak, and the Prince couldn’t wait to test out the claim.

  The office doors automatically shut and sealed themselves when the Prince took his chair, this one black alligator skin—a nice artistic juxtaposition to the chair in his chambers, he thought. The room was completely soundproof. His palace was full of ears, as they always were, and no one could become privy to the Prince’s private business.

  He waved his hand over a smooth, black plate, activating the holographic screen that sprouted from the middle of the office floor. The screen was roughly ten feet high, and would allow the Prince to see, in detail, the face of the person or persons calling him. He was an expert at FACS, or Facial Action Coding System, and could immediately tell if a person was lying. The ability had given the Prince a reputation for mind reading—yet another ploy that had proven immensely useful. Misdirection and fear were useful tools to any man with a modicum of power, and the Prince reveled in the use of his own methods.

  The image that appeared on the screen was one of a strikingly beautiful woman. Dark brown hair framed her perfect porcelain face, and her eyes seemed capable of piercing the very soul of a man. To the Prince however, she was nothing more than a novelty, a facade. He knew her real persona all too well. This was the face of MindGate, the omnipresent Artificial Intelligence that governed all aspects of Scuratt’kan life. Everything from their cities to the armor their warriors donned was controlled by the AI. Not even the Warlord had control over his empire to the extent that MindGate did.

  The woman, though the AI had no actual gender to speak of, spoke in a cool alto, the kind of voice that would make an ordinary man wilt with desire. The Prince, of course, was no ordinary man, and even if MindGate had been a real woman he would have given her less than a second glance. He was, like Godfrey, in his mid-thirties, and yet had never once found a woman worthy of his magnificence. He was, for all intents and purposes, superior to everyone. He had come to accept this.

  “Prince Davenport, it is, as always, a pleasure.”

  The Prince had half a mind to tell MindGate to dispense with the pleasantries, yet held off. Since the woman in front of him was nothing more than a network of machines, it was immune to flattery or charm, yet the Prince always did his best to affix the being with troves of both.

  “The pleasure, as ever, is all mine.”

  Was that a smile that flittered across the face of the ‘woman’? This was a new turn of events. Not once had the MindGate responded to the Prince’s attempts at false flattery. If he had indeed seen what he had, this was disturbing news. Perhaps the AI still thought it could ensnare him with its kind words and beautiful visage, despite a lengthy past history of failing to do so. If that was the case, MindGate had yet another surprise in store for it. The Prince bowed to no man, let alone a cognizant machine. He would never allow his emotions to be manipulated, not for any man’s—or machine’s—gain.

  “Please,” the Prince began, “what news do you bring?”

  “The Scuratt’ka will be attacking the Czech city of Prague within the week. If you have any valuable instruments—human or machine, in the city, it would be advisable to remove them posthaste.”

  Always straight to business, MindGate. It was something the Prince truly loved about their exchanges. As was far too often the case with human liaisons, banter, political ramblings, and simple words couched in mock concern got in the way, slowing negotiations considerably. The Prince was quite adept at such verbal fencing, naturally, yet still hated having to partake in it. His interactions with MindGate always proved a refreshing mental elixir, freeing him from the monotony of the day with incredible alacrity.

  “Thank you for warning me in advance. As it so happens, I have nothing in Prague of great value to me. Have at the city as you will.”

  The negotiations ended, and the image of MindGate blinked out, replaced with the Prince’s personal logo. There was never any courtesy goodbye with the AI; yet another thing the Prince liked about it. The AI knew it would be in contact with the Prince in the future, and as such had no use for formalities. If only all his subordinates acted thus.

  The Prince touched a pad next to the hologram receiver, and nearly instantaneously the voice of Godfrey reached him.

  “Yes, my Prince?”

  “Godfrey, prepare my bath.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Davis lay on his cot, fully awake, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. It was 0200 hours, 2 a.m. in civilian time. He had, as instructed, gone to Regina’s personal quarters at precisely 11:00. What had awaited him was nothing like what he would have predicted. Despite the fact that her mood toward him hadn’t improved much, she had tried to get him to engage her in sexual activity! He had declined her offer, of course.

  It wasn’t as if Regina was an unattractive woman—she was quite beautiful in a chiseled, intimidating kind of way, yet the offer had both repulsed and intrigued Davis. It was certainly the last thing he had expected; his mind had been filled with visions of exotic torture of the most cruel and unusual kind. Actually, sex with her, Davis realized, may in fact very well fit directly into that category. One thing was certain, he had come out of her quarters disturbed to the point of muteness. He would never dare speak of this to any of his peers, despite the fact that Regina hadn’t forbade him to do so. In fact, it was likely she expected him to run around with his mouth open telling everyone on the base about what had nearly been a midnight tryst. He would do no such thing; anything Regina desired would be denied her if Davis had his way.

  He couldn’t help but wonder what Commander Pikes would think of what had just transpired. Had she done this before? Davis thought it likely. Regina had proven, yet again, to be most unlike any woman he had ever met.

  Upon his return to the barracks he had tried to study the disc Gregg had given him earlier that day, but his mind refused to focus on anything but Regina and her unique methods of teaching. He hoped his lack of attention in class and his inability to study would fail to render him behind. Tomorrow it seemed would be a day of questions. Until then, he had nothing to do but try to catch some sleep.

  The next few weeks were largely uneventful. It had been more of the same every single day; classroom instruction in the morning, physical drills in the afternoon, and study at night. Regina had not invited Davis to her quarters again. She had not in fact spoken of, n
or even hinted at, the occurrence. It was as if it had never transpired, which was perfectly fine with Davis. The less he thought about it, the better he felt.

  The classroom instruction, while as boring and droll an affair as ever, had yielded some useful and very interesting information about the Scuratt’ka. Davis had been intrigued and terrified to learn their armor was far more advanced than he had previously thought. The material it was forged from was called Kordan, and its origination was unknown. Scientists who had studied it hypothesized veins of it were located either close to, or within the planet’s core. How the Scuratt’ka had managed to collect and process the mineral was another unknown; however it was nearly infinitely useable once processing was complete.

  The incredibly unique thing about Kordan was its ability to instantaneously morph from gelatinous and malleable to rock hard and nearly invulnerable. The change happened when an electrical current of sufficient strength was passed through the mineral, and allowed the warriors encased in the armor to literally pull pieces of it off and use them as weapons. A training video Gregg had shown them depicted a Scuratt’kan warrior in the field pulling a piece of the armor off. It then flattened, hardened, and grew vicious blades like a giant ninja’s shuriken. Most warriors also possessed staffs made from Kordan that had the ability to change from limp and whip-like to hard and razor-sharp in the blink of an eye.

  The training video had been a thing of nightmares. It had been the first time Davis had seen a fully armored Scuratt’kan warrior, and it was a creature of far more fear than even the myths suggested. The armor covered the creature head to toe, and the piece covering his face was emblazoned with a demonic scowl, reminiscent of the face plates worn by the ancient Samurai. From what the video depicted, Kordan came in only one color, a dull black with a hue similar to that of obsidian. This made the warriors incredibly difficult to see when darkness fell, and night-vision equipment was highly recommended during night-ops.