by Tyler Leslie
He stood and walked across the room in a daze. Unlike his CFO, who preferred more old-fashioned artwork and interior design, Andy’s office was state-of-the-art. Modern tapestries and paintings hung from the walls; the furniture was a case-study in glass and brushed aluminum. The only ancient thing he had was that old fountain pen. It had been a gift from his wife. It was the only thing he had left of her. He turned and walked out of the door to his office.
He had had enough. The endless nightmares had finally driven him to this. Prince Davenport had to be stopped. That was all there was to it. Atrocities like the ones he’d gone through couldn’t continue under the Prince’s ‘rule’. If no one else would do the deed, there was only one thing to do…
CHAPTER 8
Davis stood in the front of the line of cadets awaiting use of the newly installed holographic simulators. His position at the head of the group had not been easily earned, and had required him to win quite a few mock hand-to-hand battles in order to garner the honor of first into ‘battle’. Despite Ricky’s similar procedure, his friend was set back in the line at fifth from the front. He seemed very cool and calm to the casual eye, but Davis knew his old friend was fuming like a volcano. Ricky always hated being anywhere but the front of the pack, on the front lines, at the helm of a battle. His having to wait to engage in another form of mock battle would surely bolster his resolve—and his temper-induced combat high. Ricky had always been one of the top scorers in pre-training, and Davis was glad to have him on his side.
The sound of the simulator warming up snapped Davis from his thoughts. It was finally time to engage in what every cadet had been dreaming of since they first set foot on this icy hell-hole. Simulations were nothing as incredible as the real thing, but they were certainly a step in the right direction and infinitely more pleasurable than Gregg’s droning lectures.
The simulation room was roughly the size of a large aircraft hangar, with white hexagonal tiles set into the floor, walls, and ceiling. It looked a bit like a futuristic image of a giant padded cell. The tiles would function together, according to Gregg, to create the images the cadets would be fighting against. From what Davis had heard, it was an incredibly realistic exercise.
In the middle of the room, standing like an ominous, incredibly deadly golem, was a single AMBA. It was finished in a red and white motif, and looked as if it had just been manufactured. Its cockpit yawned open invitingly, revealing rows of switches and groups of monitors. The sight stirred Davis’ blood and got his adrenaline flowing. He would be the first of his group to sit inside an AMBA, and he would relish every second of it.
The instructor for the exercise, a thin engineer named Drake, motioned for Davis to come to him. Drake was standing next to the AMBA, and every step Davis took toward him and the armor made his heart beat a little bit faster. When he reached the instructor, the man looked him over with a disapproving smirk.
“So, you’re the one they chose to be the first to sample the delicacies of the AMBA, eh?” He spit a thick line of tobacco juice at Davis’ feet. “You don’t look like much to me.”
Davis reddened. He wanted to retort, but knew it would be a mistake. He couldn’t do anything to jeopardize his shot at being the first to train in the sim. Instead, he clenched his jaw and responded to his superior.
“Yes, sir! This warrior is indeed the first to engage in the vaunted combat simulator!”
Drake’s look of disgust increased. “You can drop the fancy flattering talk, cadet. I’m just an engineer. Plus, it doesn’t suit you.” He motioned into the interior of the AMBA. “I’ve never been much for small talk; jump inside, cadet. Fire her up.”
Davis eagerly scrambled into the cockpit, nearly tripping over the control stick as he settled himself into the seat.
“You good?” Drake asked, seeming bored.
Davis gave the man a thumbs up, and the expansive front of the AMBA slid shut, encasing Davis in darkness. For a split second, he panicked, claustrophobia setting in. Then, the soft whine of the suit’s power plant coming online filled his ears, and the blinking lights signaling a successful power-up sequence greeted him. All around him, monitors blinked online, filling the cramped space with views of his surroundings. Davis was very impressed with the technology, as he expected he would be. Not only was the holographic image of the outside perfectly clear, but he was able to toggle views of what lay behind and beneath him at will.
The sound of Drake’s voice filled his ears, abnormally loud as it came through the AMBA’s internal speakers.
“As you can see, Cadet Martin is now successfully encased in the armor. There is very little that can damage him now, such is the power and might of the AMBA.” Drake turned toward Davis and the battle armor. “Cadet Martin, there is a softly glowing blue panel next to your right hand. Place your hand on it, palm down.”
Davis did as instructed, and nearly jumped at the effect it caused. The blue pad served as a sort of buffer between the armor and its inhabitant. Electrical currents emanating from the panel were siphoned straight into the warrior’s brain, connecting him to the machine in a symbiotic relationship that mirrored the Scuratt’kan’s. Once this mental connection was established, the interior of the AMBA faded away, replaced by a surreal sensation of control. It was as if the armor had connected its cameras and sensors directly to Davis’ brain, allowing him to literally sense and see what was around him. The monitors lining the inside of the suit were there only for back-up purposes, in the event of a malfunction.
The slight jerk Davis gave upon becoming connected was mirrored by the suit, and Drake gave a knowing smirk.
“Cadet Martin, you have just undergone your first AMBA connection. Ergonomics have reached a new level, yes? You can respond to me, cadet. I can hear you.”
To the rest of the eager cadets, Davis’ voice sounded hollow and tinny, yet loud and intimidating as it passed through the armor’s loud-speakers. “Yes, sir! This is quite a sensation. I feel as if all my senses have been heightened. It’s a wonderful feeling.”
Drake laughed at the response. He seemed genuinely amused. “Cadet, I have been training new blood for several months now, and that is the first time I have ever heard someone describe the sensation as wonderful. Perhaps you are simply lucky, or perhaps simply mentally retarded. Either way, it is a sensation you will grow used to.” He began to walk toward the group of cadets, yelling over his shoulder as he did so.
“The remaining cadets and I will observe your first simulation behind the safety glass on the far side of the hangar. The simulations are fake, but the weaponry on the AMBA is live. Please refrain from shooting in our direction.”
That was the end of the lecture. Davis was surprised Drake didn’t mention anything about the penalties associated with firing in his direction, yet assumed there would certainly be some. He made a mental note of the position of the ‘safety box’. He couldn’t afford to draw the ire of someone who wasn’t even a training officer. Regina was bad enough as it was.
When the cadets and Drake were safely ensconced in the ‘box’, the room’s lighting dimmed considerably, awash now in only the positioning lights on the AMBA. Drake’s voice came through the AMBA’s built-in comm channel, loud and angry, startling Davis. He nearly yelped at the sudden intrusion. “The first exercise will pit you against a single Scuratt’kan elite warrior in a jungle environment. I am under instruction to inform you that despite the realism of the sim, you are in no way in danger, so stay cool. This is, after all, just an illusion.”
Drake’s voice clicked off the comm, and there was nothing but the sound of Davis’ breathing. As the holographic images of a lush, vibrant jungle began to fill the room, Davis’ heart-rate intensified. Finally he was about to engage in the training he had dreamt of for so long! He was suddenly glad Drake couldn’t see his face, for he surely had a stupid grin plastered across it.
The sim ro
om finished loading the environment, and the fabricated sound of birds squawking filled the air. Davis looked around, searching for his enemy. He was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the program parameters had been incorrectly entered?
As if in answer to his thoughts, the voice of Drake came through the comm once again.
“Cadet, you aren’t to stand there like a fool waiting for your enemy to appear. This exercise is supposed to represent realistic battle conditions. Stop standing around and search for the enemy!”
Davis nodded out of habit, despite the fact that Drake couldn’t see him, and started moving forward, his hand gingerly grasping the throttle stick. The massive machine moved forward, its heavy, clunking footsteps echoing through the ‘jungle’. The floor of the sim unit was built to move as the AMBA did, allowing enormous arenas to be depicted in the relatively small space. In the far corner of the ‘jungle’ lay a yellow rectangle designating the position of the safety box. Davis put the yellow shape behind him and began moving through the simulated environment, eyes darting across trees, rocks, and even small streams as he made his way to the enemy.
Slowly, sweat began to bead up on his forehead, threatening to spill into his eyes. Despite the knowledge that this was all fake, the images that assaulted his senses were nonetheless awe-inspiring, the sensation of fear all too real. Davis knew that at any moment his enemy would leap from the undergrowth, weapons ready to tear him to shreds. While this knowledge should have invigorated him, spurring him on, it served only to terrify and perplex him. Drake obviously had become privy to Davis’ timidity, as his booming voice once again came online.
“Cadet Martin, what’s the matter? Overcome with fear of the fake enemy? You’re moving like a grandma in a Lincoln! Get some pace on and push the attack!”
Davis squared his jaw and forced himself not to say something smart. Despite what the typical response would be, it was highly likely Drake knew exactly what it felt like to be in this situation, and probably would have handled it with the utmost grace and composure.
The far-off sound of twigs and branches cracking alerted Davis, bringing him back to the mock battle. He thought he could see an obsidian form moving slowly through the trees ahead of him, and he was determined to get the jump on his enemy. Slowly the fear began to give way to anticipation, and sent adrenaline rushing through Davis’ body. He made his way, as quietly as possible, toward the Scuratt’kan warrior, who was still oblivious to his presence.
His enemy seemed to be searching for something, possibly him, and was crouching near the forest floor, scanning for footprints and other signs of passage. Davis brought the AMBA to an agonizingly slow crawl as he neared the warrior. He was now within twenty feet of the being, and was certain he had the upper hand. Using his free hand, Davis lightly grasped the trigger for the arm-mounted weaponry, careful to line up the warrior’s bulky head-plate in his reticle. When he was certain he had the shot, he slowly squeezed the trigger, holding his breath like a sniper. The AMBA spat streams of red-hot bullets toward the Scuratt’kan, which did nothing more than bounce off the back of the warrior’s armor with metallic pings. The warrior, now more than aware of Davis’ presence, let out a blood-curdling scream and charged the AMBA, reaching it within seconds, and lashing out with the whip he carried. The shiny black tendril snaked around the armor’s left arm and pulled, eliciting a yelp from Davis’ onboard computer. According to the schematic, the Scuratt’kan had somehow ripped the left arm clean off the AMBA, and a holographic representation of it lay useless on the jungle floor.
As if on cue, the sound of Drake’s shouting filled the AMBA once again.
“You fool! How many times have you been drilled on the fact that munitions have no effect on these warriors! You should have cycled to your plasma cannon! Now you’ve lost half your primary armament! If there were multiple warriors around, you’d be scrap by now! Focus, Cadet!”
Davis bit down on his tongue to keep from lashing out at his superior. Sure the mistake had been his, but he had been taught in the heat of battle sometimes unexpected things happened. Davis knew Drake would never accept that rationalization, however, so he kept it to himself. He would take out his aggravation on the warrior in front of him, who had done nothing but stand there since pulling the AMBA’s arm off. Now that Davis was moving again, the warrior responded likewise, rushing the armor once again and—in a very surprising and acrobatic move—leaping over the top of the AMBA, landing behind it and unleashing its staff on Davis’ weakly armored backside. Davis spun around, catching the Scuratt’kan with his remaining arm and sending the warrior crashing through the trees. An angry roar was the only indication his opponent still existed, and within moments he was back in striking range.
Davis was forced to concede that, if these sims were accurate, the Scuratt’ka were much quicker and much more deadly than he had expected. The lectures and reading material had suggested that the AMBA was an all-powerful tool capable of rending ranks of Scuratt’kan warriors like they were mere insects. The truth of the matter, however, was that Davis felt completely outmatched and terrified in the face of his enemy. As the warrior ran toward him, Davis vowed to never underestimate an enemy again, be it a Scuratt’kan elite warrior or one of the training officers. He would always be ready for a new attack, always anticipating unfair play.
He squared the warrior in his sights and unleashed, this time, a plasma bolt that caught the Scuratt’kan right in the center of the torso, sending him to the ground, a smoldering hole in the center of his armor.
That was it, the warrior was defeated. Davis allowed himself a small smile. Perhaps they weren’t as tough as he thought.
As soon as this thought crossed his mind, alarms started shrieking inside the AMBA. The damage display showed the rear torso armor was into the red and nearly completely sheared off. Davis quickly pulled up the rear view just in time to catch another elite warrior smash his staff into the now unprotected rear of the AMBA. Simulated sparks flew everywhere, and the onboard computer began the ejection sequence countdown.
Davis slammed his fist into the main control panel. NO! How was this possible? Drake had lied to him! There had been more than one warrior the whole time! Now Davis had been defeated, and would be mocked and scorned by the entire cadre of cadets!
The countdown concluded, and the front of the AMBA exploded outward, flying off into the ersatz jungle as if shot from a cannon. Davis was roughly shoved by something inside the AMBA, and he flew out of the armor like he had been fired from a slingshot. He hit the ground hard and rolled, landing on his back and seeing stars. Within moments his holographic enemy was upon him, his spear mere inches from Davis’ face.
Davis was forced to admit, despite the crushing sensation of his loss, that the sim unit was incredibly detailed and looked just like the real thing. The Scuratt’kan standing over him was a thing of real fear, and were it not for the knowledge that it was all a facade, Davis would surely have had a panic attack right then and there.
Suddenly, as quickly as it had appeared, the Scuratt’kan and the jungle surroundings vanished, replaced by the cold white walls of the sim chamber. Davis let out a sigh of relief as his enemy faded away. It had been intensely real, and the reality that now flooded over him was a welcome sight.
The slow sound of someone clapping filled the expansive room, so that it seemed as if a whole throng of people was applauding him. When Davis looked up, however, he saw that it was only Drake who was clapping.
“Congratulations, Cadet Martin. You have just failed your first sim exercise. I certainly hope you’re proud.” He was walking toward Davis with a sense of urgency he had not displayed before. The rest of the training unit was still behind the glass in the ‘box’. “Before you say anything, yes, I lied to you. There were actually three Scuratt’kan warriors in that test. You were merely lucky to have come across only two of them. My deception was necessary to prove that in the bat
tlefield, there are no absolutes. You never know exactly how many enemies await you, and therefore should always be prepared to fight an endless horde. Your defeat proves to me, as I had suspected, that you and all your ilk are ill-prepared for combat, and as such your sim time will increase. We need you in top form when you set foot on the real battlefield. Is that in any way unclear, Cadet?”
Davis responded through clenched teeth. “Yes, Sir, understood.” It was bad enough he had been defeated in the first training sim of his career; Drake’s chewing him out in front of his peers was just another nail in the coffin. He hated this place and all it represented, and would stop at nothing to get out as soon as possible.
Drake nodded derisively and turned toward the safety box. “Cadet Tomms, you’re up!”
TWO WEEKS LATER
Davis squared his jaw as the now all-too-familiar sensation of his AMBA connecting itself to his brain washed over him. He quickly ran through the list of start-up procedures in his head, then duly performed the tasks with the utmost efficiency. It was no surprise he was so adept at the start-up sequence—every single minutia of the process had been endlessly drilled into his mind, as well as the minds of his fellow cadets, for weeks. What had once been a thrilling, enabling experience had become routine and mundane. The sims were now nothing more than a prison for both the mind and body, forcing the cadets to engage in combat that was nothing like as stimulating as the real thing would be.
Here, finally, in this most hallowed of moments, Davis was strapped into the cockpit of a real AMBA on a real battlefield. His training sessions in the sim were finally over, and the real test of the warrior was about to begin. The three months of virtual trials had made his mind even sharper than before, and he had scored second highest on the virtual score boards time and again. As always, it was Ricky that was number one, and Drake had taken quite a liking to the man. Despite this, Ricky had received no special treatment, much to the relief of the other cadets. Personally, Davis had developed even more of a respect for his friend through it all; Ricky had not once developed a swelled head over the successes he garnered on the virtual battlefield. Davis admired his friend’s composure, and looked up to him more than ever. He was certain Ricky would soar through the ranks of the military once they were released to wreak havoc on the armies of the Scuratt’ka.
