Ancient Armada

by Tyler Leslie

  The final and most unsettling piece of information was supposed to come that same day at the end of the classroom session. Gregg had gleefully let that slip at the end of class the previous day, and Davis had overheard countless whispers regarding what it could be. Even so, he hadn’t put much thought into it, because the next day the training was scheduled to truly begin. The cadets hadn’t reached the stage of actual field-work yet, but holographic training simulations involving actual AMBA armor and live weaponry awaited them. Davis had been so excited when he discovered this that sleep had evaded him for nearly two days.

  Now, as he trudged to the classroom with the other students, eager to get the lecture over with so he could begin his training, he caught sight of Amanda as she exited her barracks. The last couple of weeks had provided Davis multiple opportunities to woo the woman, but so far none of them had succeeded. Either she wasn’t interested in men in general, or simply found Davis repulsive. Even so, Davis had elected not to give up that easily—he would have her eventually no matter what it took.

  He fell into step beside her, as he often did on the trek to class, and tried to casually bring her into a conversation with him. “I hear we get to start the holographic training today. Doesn’t that make you excited? It’s sure got me going. I couldn’t sleep at all last night!”

  Instead of a response, Amanda offered little more than a quiet grunt, and continued walking.

  Davis was disappointed his come-on had failed yet again, but he had never been one to give up so easily. This time, he turned the conversation to politics.

  “Did you know Prince Davenport allegedly struck up a contract with a Brazilian dictator in order to confine the oil trade to a more manageable margin? How ridiculous is that? The man is nothing more than a narcissistic fool. All he cares about is his own agenda—screw the rest of the world and our suffering. We’re in the middle of a war for crying out loud; we need all the resources we can get!”

  This time Amanda actually turned her head to Davis before grunting in disdain. It seemed this time, though, the grunt was directed toward the Prince rather than Davis. This gave him hope. He decided to try one more time.

  As he opened his mouth, a slap caught him roughly on the back. For a split second he feared he had once again fallen across Regina’s radar, but then realized the slap had been far too soft and far too friendly to have possibly come from the blonde-haired siren. He turned around, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw Ricky’s grinning face. For what seemed like the first time in ages, the man was clean-shaven. Davis knew this had been far from Ricky’s decision—the training officers had instigated a ban on facial hair at the end of the first day, and Ricky had been literally forced to shave it off before the barrack doors closed.

  “Hey, Bud.” Ricky began, his voice quivering with excitement. “You know what today is, right?”

  Davis returned Ricky’s smile, his own nervous excitement rising once more. “You better believe I do. After Gregg’s lecture we get to strap into an AMBA for the first time and duke it out with some holographic Scuratt’ka!”

  Ricky pounded Davis in the arm several times with his fists. “I can’t wait to show the officers what a crack shot I am.” He raised himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest. “Not even you will be able to compare to my ability. They’ll see those battle suits were custom-made just for me!”

  Davis blew an exasperated breath out through his lips. “Yeah sure, keep dreaming hotshot.” He pointed his thumb at his chest, “I’m the one who’s gonna woo the officers today. Even Regina will get off my back once she sees how capable I am in the field—even if it is only an illusory one.”

  “Yeah, speaking of Regina,” Ricky drew himself close to Davis so he could whisper, as if he feared she was listening to them even now. “What in the name of Plato did you do to tick her off? She rides you like a wild bronco. I always see the two of you trading punches, sometimes literally, behind the barracks.”

  Davis shook his head, part in dismay, part in aggravation. “I defied her the first day. You wouldn’t have seen it because she knocked you out cold.” He stifled a chuckle. “I refused to submit and, not only did she force me to do so, but she made me her primary target.”

  Ricky chuckled softly. “Woo, tough luck pal, that’s rough. I know I’d sure rather have Lt. Marks on my case than her any day. She’s gotta be part Scuratt’kan with how tough she is! From what I’ve heard, some of the new cadets have nicknamed her Isis after the Egyptian goddess of death. I think the name fits.”

  Davis nodded again; it certainly did. He hoped Regina didn’t catch anyone calling her that. He had no doubt she would abhor the nickname.

  Ricky pointed, indicating they were nearing the classroom. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see who aces the simulations. For the time being, better hope you studied up. That last ruler whack Gregg gave you looked like it stung more than most.”

  Davis reached up and gingerly fingered the still somewhat large welt on the top of his head. It had been a gift from Gregg when Davis had spoken out of turn. It hadn’t been his fault, he was merely excited about the prospect of finally starting the training he had been aching for ever since they first landed at the base. Gregg however, had thought differently, and the attack he forced upon Davis had been worth at least three beatings.

  “Yeah, that one will definitely make me think twice about blurting out a question again. Let’s get past these guys and get the good seats at the back!”

  The two men shouldered and shoved the small group of cadets in front of them aside, eager to keep them from stealing what had become their traditional seats in the rear of the classroom. Once seated, they prepared to focus their attention on Gregg with the utmost intensity. Neither one of them wanted to waste any more time than possible in this class. The training session was so close they could taste it!

  A few minutes later, the class was ready to begin. Instead of making his usual grand entrance in which he literally charged through the doorway, perpetually late, there was but silence. A few of the students started whispering amongst themselves, but Davis merely remained quiet. There was nothing to gain from idle speculation; it was likely Gregg had just been a little slower than usual in getting his class work organized and ready.

  As if in answer to his question, an all too familiar figure slowly walked into the classroom, Gregg’s precious steel ruler held firmly in her hands like a baseball bat. Davis could feel the entire class groan internally. No one dared to vocalize their compunctions of course; Regina would surely launch into a lengthy tirade of both verbal and physical parts.

  She surveyed the class, her trademark sardonic smile etched across her lips.

  “Good morning class! Allow me to get straight to business. As you can see, Gregg will be unable to join you today. He has met with a rather unfortunate set of circumstances. As likely none of you know, Prague was hit by the Scuratt’ka a few weeks ago and, since we are in the middle of nowhere out here, the news has only just reached us.” She slapped the ruler against her hand so hard it seemed as if it must have drawn blood. “Gregg, poor thing, lost quite a few loved ones in that attack, and is therefore in Germany tending to the remainder of his family.”

  She leaned forward toward the students, the smile once again favoring them. “Luckily for you, it means you get to spend an extra amount of time in my care! How fun!”

  She sobered. “Now, to begin.”

  Regina, if anything, was even more boring than Gregg usually was, and that was quite an accomplishment. Davis had the suspicion her drollness was purposeful, since she seemed quite capable of injecting emotion into her actions whenever she felt like it. Regardless, the class dragged on like never before, finally culminating with the ‘information’ they had been promised the prior day.

  Regina walked to one of the drawers that lined the far wall of the classroom and removed a
small metal box. She carefully placed it on the teacher’s desk and opened it gingerly, as if the contents could be harmed by the air itself.

  “This, ladies and gentlemen, is the most terrifying method by which you can engage a Scuratt’kan warrior. Pray you never have to use one of these in the middle of a battle.”

  This last statement brought forth a whirlwind of raised eyebrows and “Huhs?” from the class.

  “Allow me to explain.” She pulled down a screen and hit the button to engage the classroom’s projector. An image of a Scuratt’kan elite warrior filled the screen, and Regina paused the playback on the picture. She held up the device that had been inside the box, turning it so everyone could see. It seemed to be some sort of radio transmitter, about the same size and shape as a garage door opener. A single orange triangular button dominated the face of the remote, and it appeared to be the only switch on the thing.

  “This is a radio transmitter the likes of which may very well get you killed.”

  The class gasped in unison, and Regina nodded vigorously in response.

  “That’s right. As I said before, pray you never have to see one of these in the field. This is the alternate method of disposing of one of these.” She slapped at the image of the Scuratt’kan with her right hand. “As you have no doubt already learned, the Scuratt’kan technology—yes, all of it, is controlled by the artificially intelligent entity known as MindGate. It is only through MindGate’s abilities that the Scuratt’ka are capable of controlling the viscosity of their armor and weaponry. It directly interfaces with the warriors, connecting them to both their armor and the electronic server upon which it operates.”

  She gestured toward the screen again, a solemn look upon her face. “If you ever find yourself in battle against one of these elite warriors and there are no AMBA units around, you have two choices. You can either run, or use this transmitter.” She held up the device again. “Now, what this thing does is send a controlled radio wave into the MindGate’s connection with the warrior, temporarily disrupting their symbiotic relationship. When this happens, the armor will revert to its natural gelatinous phase, at which point you have a very limited amount of time to shoot the warrior in the heart or head.” She pointed at each member of the class individually in turn. “If you fail to kill the warrior in the timeframe, and it is very small, you will die. It is as simple as that. There is no second chance. Kill the Scuratt’kan, or be killed yourself.”

  One of the male students in the front row raised his hand, a suspicious look on his face. “How does that work? Kill him or be killed yourself? That’s stupid. Of course they’ll try to kill you if you fail with the shot, but they’ll try to kill you regardless! That’s why we’re fighting them! They’re the enemy!”

  Regina shook her head, “No, you misunderstand me. It isn’t the Scuratt’kan that will kill you if you miss the shot, it’s the MindGate.”

  The student looked more confused than ever.

  Regina began to look annoyed. “You see, when you use the transmitter, the MindGate will lock onto the signal it creates almost immediately. This thing is far from stupid, and knows exactly what you’re trying to do. It will zero in on your position, and if you don’t kill the warrior before it can re-harden the armor, you are as good as dead.” She shook her head. “Perhaps it will be best if I just show you what happens.”

  She turned to the screen and hit the play button on the projector. The image rolled forward. A Scuratt’kan was standing on the top of a small ridge, surveying the area. Two marines were stationed at the bottom of the ridge, hiding in a small patch of trees. It was clear one of them was filming the situation, probably for the very purpose it was being used for now. Both soldiers were breathing heavily, and seemed very ill-at-ease.

  The soldier not filming spoke quietly. “Okay, we gotta get ourselves together Mike; we were charged with demonstrating and filming this device, so we might as well just get it over with. Let’s hope it works.”

  Due to the way the camera moved, it was obvious the other solider was nodding vigorously. “Your move Bill, take him down. I’ll line up the shot. He’s getting it in the head so there will be no chance of recovery.”

  Mike, the one filming, put the camera down and lined up his machine gun’s sights on the Scuratt’kan, who was still surveying the scene, completely oblivious. “Okay, hit it!”

  There was a soft snapping sound as the transmitter was pressed, and a sudden, loud roar from the Scuratt’kan. It was a terrifying sound, the sound of a feral creature ready to pounce at anything that moved against it. Mike fired his weapon, and the Scuratt’kan rocked from the impact. It was obvious that Mike had missed any vital spot on the creature, however, as it reared back and roared again. Then, without any warning or indication of what was about to happen, a long, thin tendril shot out of the warrior’s armor, nearly invisible against the dark sky, and pierced Bill right through the head. He slumped to the ground, spurting blood all over the place.

  The entire class, once again in unison, gasped in horror.

  Back on the film, Mike was screaming and cursing, firing his weapon blindly at the now charging Scuratt’kan. It was no use, the Kordan armor had already re-hardened. Mike was a goner. The film ended with the warrior stabbing Mike through the heart with a staff, and froze as the image of the creature’s death mask filled the screen.

  Regina shut off the projector and stared intently at the class.

  “I hope you understand now what this device does, and how it should be used. You cannot miss your shot. There is no second chance. That tendril that is fired from the armor is far too fast to dodge, and it will never miss you. Make sure you have a teammate who is a crack shot, otherwise don’t even risk the use of the device. It’s called the MG Transmitter for those of you who want to know. Every soldier who leaves for battle will carry one. Let’s hope none of you have to use it. Are there any more questions?”

  One of the students that was usually quiet shot up his hand. “I have one. Even if you manage to kill the Scuratt’kan warrior after using the MG transmitter, why can’t MindGate kill you even though he’s dead?”

  Regina seemed oddly impressed by the question. “That is a great question. MindGate is linked to the warrior’s biological information. It exists only because he does. Kill him, and you kill the connection.”

  That seemed to satisfy both the cadet and the class, and after a few seconds of silence, Davis and his fellow soldiers were dismissed.

  Scuratt’ka Warlord Arr’itaoll stood in front of the glassine Kordan wall in his War Room, admiring his uniform as he usually did after a major battle. His army had launched a successful raid against the Czech city of Prague, killing millions and liquidating the entire city in a matter of hours. As far as wartime accomplishments went, there was little at fault there. Unlike their attack on the Middle East, there was no real gain to be had from attacking Deutschland; the attack had been merely a test of the enemy’s resolve. It had been intended to continue to broaden the feeling of helplessness the humans were no doubt burdened with in the face of their superior enemy.

  He straightened the Kordan jumpsuit, looking for any creases. As usual, there were none. The outfit had been specifically made for him, and was only to be worn by the Warlord. The other castes were unworthy of the material, for it was incredibly difficult and expensive to produce. It took nearly a thousand Scuratt’kan hours to piece together the individual layers of the paper-thin material, and several hundred more to fuse and refine them once applied to each other. It was, like a few other pieces of Scuratt’ka memorabilia he possessed, beyond price.

  Satisfied with the uniform’s appearance, he stepped down from the ornate dais next to the mirror and walked to his chair. Seat was a term far too lowly for what the piece of furniture was; fauteuil worked well, while throne was better still. The throne dominated the center of the large, ornate room, and served, lik
e most aspects of the Warlord’s life, to instill a sense of power in himself, and loyalty in others. Very few members of his race were allowed inside his War Room, and those who were were likely only to remain there for a very short period of time.

  The War Room featured holographic images of both himself and previous Warlords in various poses of victory and authority. There were twenty-nine in the room, and Arr’itaoll was proud of every one.

  There had been far more than just twenty-nine Warlords over the years, yet these twenty-nine were the ones Arr’itaoll looked up to the most, the ones he revered with the most conviction. There had in fact been hundreds of Warlords, as the Scuratt’kan race had existed for millennia. A Warlord was born only once every fifty-five years, and as such they were beyond irreplaceable. If ever one was to be killed, the entire race would be thrown into chaos. It was because of this rather unfortunate fact that Arr’itaoll had never set foot on the surface of the planet. In fact, it was very rare that he would even leave the capital city of Scurrath; it was simply too dangerous.

  Despite this, it was Arr’itaoll’s great pleasure to be the first Warlord to engage in combat with the imbecile humans that littered the planet’s surface. The fools. How long had they existed on the surface, looking to the stars for signs of intelligent life, never questioning the fact that what they so earnestly searched for already existed right under their feet.

  The Scuratt’ka had always planned to move against the humans, but centuries of infighting and civil war had kept their focus squarely on their own world. To most members of his race, it was completely acceptable. The humans had no idea the extent to which the interior of the Earth was developed. They still thought the planet was solid right up to the ‘core’ as they called it. In fact, the interior of the Earth was nothing more or less than cities upon cites, and the planet ‘core’ was the capital city of Scurrath, the majestic jewel of the Scuratt’ka. Billions of tunnels and networks leading to other cities spanned the interior of the planet. If it were possible to crack the planet in half and look at the inside from afar, it would be a spectacle worthy of the human’s foolish movies.