by Tyler Leslie
For the moment, however, Davis needed to concentrate on his surroundings, for he was about to be pitted against a live, human opponent in another AMBA. Davis had assumed he’d be fighting against Ricky in this test, seeing as they were the top two in the rankings, yet Drake had surprised everyone by setting Davis up against Mark Filmore. Mark Filmore was the lowest-scoring cadet in the sim’s history, and had been nothing less than an embarrassment to Drake and, as the sim trainer constantly reminded him, the entire base. Despite this, Mark had shown an incredible tenacity in the face of adversity, and had neither given up nor let the berating comments of his officers get inside his head. Davis was sure if the man continued to practice hard he would be as competent as any of the other cadets. He just needed a little more time to wrap his head around things.
Unfortunately for Mark, Davis was an incredibly adept fighter while at the helm of an AMBA, and would surely crush the struggling cadet into rubble.
Davis, having successfully completed the start-up sequence, began taking his very first steps on the surface of a real battlefield. Immediately everything felt different, the variations in the ground completely new to a warrior who had trained exclusively on the flat floor of the training sim. Davis nearly tripped as his first step melted into his second. His secondary screen revealed a rocky outcropping to be the source of his clumsiness, and he made an effort to pick the feet of the AMBA farther off of the ground with his subsequent steps. He quickly acclimatized to the new conditions, and was soon running at full speed. The sensation was worlds different from the endless monotony of the sim—the changes in the ground’s elevation coupled with the added elements of wind and temperature changes forced the AMBA pilot to adapt in ways previously unimagined. It was like entering the world for the first time, and Davis savored every second of it.
The battlefield that had been chosen for this assignment was located several miles from the main base, and consisted of rocky, frosted terrain near the top of a mountain. Splotches of snow decorated the landscape like ivory tear-drops, and served to further hinder the progress of the AMBA-equipped warrior. The snow patches worked against the mechanized armor in a similar manner to walking on ice with flat-bottomed shoes, and Davis had already nearly toppled over backwards several times when traversing them. Knowing that his instructors were watching every movement he made through floating cameras located across the battlefield, Davis made sure to show no signs of weakness or failure to control his AMBA. He had to prove to his instructors—especially Regina—that he was far from the failure they all predicted him to be. He would destroy his opponent and return to the base victorious and triumphant.
A slow, quiet blipping noise began to permeate the cockpit, and Davis immediately recognized it from the sims. It was the sound of a target being picked up on radar, and signaled the start of the exercise. Immediately Drake’s harsh voice invaded Davis’ cocoon of warfare, already nearly shouting.
“Okay, this is the first time you have ever faced a live opponent in the field, so no screw-ups! Those AMBAs each cost more than both your families are worth, so don’t go flipping down a hill with them, understand? I want to see nothing less than the utmost respect for each other as well, no mouthing off over the comms. If such a thing happens, I will disable the comms for the remainder of the match. That’s it.”
Drake’s voice faded out of existence with a soft crackle, and the drone of the AMBA’s electronics filled the air once more. Davis took another look at his radar and saw his opponent was several hundred yards from him, right over the crest of a large hill. Davis maneuvered the bipedal weapon toward the hill and eased the throttle down. The AMBA was now taking small, tentative steps, as if it were a living being wary of an attack. Davis spared another glance at his radar, and saw Mark was standing motionless on the other side of the hill. What a coward! Davis thought to himself. Waiting for me to come to him so he can get the jump on me as I clear the hill. Well, we’ll see who scores the first hit.
Davis clenched his jaw and began to slowly ascend the hill. He had considered trying to come around the hill and surprise his opponent, but it was likely even Mark frequently checked his radar, and would see Davis’ maneuver as soon as he started it. Instead, he would charge up the hill, firing even before he cleared it, hopefully scoring the first damage of the match. The contender who scored the initial hit was rewarded with extra points, and Davis was confident he would be the one to do so. As Davis crested the hill, he glanced at his radar one last time and caught his breath. Mark’s signature was fading, and had nearly disappeared from the scanner. What the… ?
Davis cleared the hill, not even bothering to check his weapons. Something was very wrong here, and it immediately became apparent what it was. At the bottom of the hill stood a smoldering crater—the source of the radar signature. Davis nearly smacked himself on the forehead when he realized his folly. The AMBA radar system was dual-coded. It was able to detect both infra-red signatures and electronic frequencies. The default setting was IR, and Mark had used this to his advantage.
Davis had to repress a chuckle at his opponent’s cunning. Mark may be inept when it came to operating weaponry, but he was far from stupid. Davis would allow this one breach of foresight on his part, and give credit where it was due. He swung his AMBA around just as Mark came charging through a thicket of trees, already firing his shoulder-mounted machine guns and scoring the coveted ‘first-damage’ points. Davis’ armor rocked under the assault, and its occupant roared with rage and aggravation. If he had seen through Mark’s deception, he would have been the one to score the initial points. Now the only way to regain his ‘honor’ was to utterly annihilate his opponent.
Davis keyed in the plasma canon located in his left arm, and fired a volley at the still-charging Mark. The burst caught the cadet right in the center of the torso, and sent him to the ground. The AMBA lay still, and Davis realized the massive change in inertia must have rendered Mark unconscious. This was an unexpected stroke of luck, and Davis was sure to capitalize on it. He quickly strode to his fallen opponent, and leveled his plasma canon at the fallen warrior. As in normal, human-on-human warfare, a strategic position over a fallen opponent constituted a victory, and Davis was mere moments away from such.
Suddenly, in the second surprise of the match, Mark’s right leg sprang into the air, delivering a blow to Davis’ cockpit and knocking the nearly victorious warrior off balance, immediately evening the odds. Davis stumbled back onto a patch of snow, his left leg slipping out from under him and sending the AMBA into a kneeling position; it was all the warrior could do to keep from careening to the ground. Mark rolled over onto his stomach and used his AMBA’s arms to get back on his feet. He had equipped his AMBA with a bladed weapon in place of the right arm, and used it to swing at Davis’ left leg.
Davis intercepted the blow with his left arm, but suffered immediate and irreparable damage to the limb, rendering it and its plasma canon useless. He cursed under his breath and tried to get back to his feet. The AMBA did nothing but slip around under its own weight, slowly sliding toward the edge of the hill. If Davis went over the edge of the hill in this position, he would tumble down it and lose the match. A victor was pronounced when one of the AMBAs was damaged to the point of in-operation, and a roll down a large hill would certainly do Davis in. Mark had realized this, and was now standing down, watching his opponent’s certain demise.
Davis clenched his fist in anger, mentally running through his options. He had only one. He bit down on his teeth so hard he tasted blood, and played the one card he had left to play—he slammed his fist into the eject button, and unstrapped himself from the seat. What he was about to employ was an extremely dangerous maneuver he had learned from a senior cadet he had come across in the second week of sim training. In theory, if a warrior unbelted himself from his seat and ejected, he could land free of the seat, allowing him to resume fighting. At the time Davis had through it an impossible an
d incredibly foolish maneuver, but now it seemed the only viable option.
Mark was now standing a few hundred feet away—roughly the distance the ejection sequence would throw Davis. There was no turning back now; the sequence was completed and the cold ambient air rushed into the cockpit. All he could hope for now was to remain free of the seat and stay away from Mark’s immovable metal legs. If he was crushed by the seat or thrown into Mark’s AMBA, it would be game over for him.
The front of the armor blew off with an incredibly loud explosion, and Davis was suddenly airborne. The wind rushed past him with enough force to pin him to the seat, and it was all the man could do to push himself off the side of the chair. It was lucky he did, too, for the seat crashed right into Mark’s kneecap and bounced off into the underbrush. Davis landed between his opponent’s legs, and managed to roll as he touched down. As he spun across the frosted grass, he caught a glimpse of his AMBA sliding off the side of the hill and disappearing. He thought for a second he could hear Drake’s voice screaming curses over the comm, but chocked it up to his imagination coping with the pain now coursing through his entire body.
When he finally came to rest, he was on his back, about thirty feet from his enemy. He sprang to his feet, an action that sent shock-waves of searing pain through his legs. Davis grunted. There was no time for pain; he had to act quickly if he wanted to salvage this fight. Now that Mark was encased in impenetrable armor and Davis was for all intents and purposes bare, there was only one course of action. He had to force Mark to eject and fight him hand-to-hand.
Davis pulled the small laser-cutter from the emergency tool kit he had been provided and ran at the AMBA. Incredibly, Mark hadn’t moved an inch since witnessing Davis’ insane maneuver—a response likely attributed to being chewed out on the comm by Drake. Davis would use this to his advantage.
When he reached the armor, he leapt onto its back and began climbing to the maintenance hatch near the ‘head’. Normaly, a technician would use a powerful screwdriver to remove the screws holding the hatch on, but Davis had no time for that. He leveled his laser-cutter at the attachment points and began searing through the thick metal plating. A few seconds later, the hatch was free, and Davis tossed it like it weighed nothing. By this time Mark was aware of Davis’ actions, and the AMBA moved beneath the intrepid warrior. The giant metal behemoth began swaying from side to side as Mark tried to shake Davis from his back. It was all Davis could do to maintain his grip on the edge of the hole he had cut in the armor. His body was moving across the AMBA like a pendulum, and each time he returned to the center of his trajectory he was slammed into the unforgiving metal backside of the armor. He couldn’t keep hold for much longer. He had to get Mark out of the AMBA now. With an unnatural surge of strength that was more adrenaline than anything, Davis pulled himself up on the edge of the maintenance hatch and groped for the emergency release button.
Each AMBA was equipped with a small button that, in the event the warrior became stuck inside the metal beast, would allow a technician to safely eject the warrior. The button would not eject Mark in the same way that Davis had been, however; it would merely blow the front hatch off of the AMBA. Davis would still have to extricate his opponent himself.
Davis synchronized his movement with the motion of the AMBA, using the momentum from the swing to reach the button. He slapped at the flat red button with all the force he could muster, the action rewarding his ears with the sound of Mark’s AMBA depressurizing the cabin. A few moments later and the sound of the cockpit’s hatch being catapulted across the field filled Davis’ ears. There was no time to lose here; Davis immediately released his grip on the AMBA and fell, harshly, to his knees. The pain was nothing, merely another unwelcome obstacle in a course that threatened to defeat him. Davis pulled himself to his feet and dashed to the front of the armor, coming face to face with a supremely startled Mark.
“What the heck are you doing, Davis? The match was over the second you began sliding down the hill! I’ve been on the comm with Drake this entire time. He assures me your career has taken a serious hit with this maneuver. You’ve lost this match! Just give up!”
Davis squared his jaw and through clenched teeth whispered, “Never.”
He leapt into the cockpit, using the adrenaline still coursing through his body to overcome the pain beginning to seep through every fiber of his being. The ejection sequence, followed by the repeated bashing of his body against the AMBA, was beginning to take its toll. Davis had to end this fast. He grabbed Mark by his sweat-soaked T-shirt and delivered a shattering punch to his face. The man reeled in his seat, momentarily dazed. Davis used the following few moments of submission to unbuckle his opponent and heave him through the front of the cockpit. Both men toppled out of the AMBA, hitting the ground with surprising force. Nearly as soon as they landed Davis was on top of the still partially unconscious Mark, and began laying into him with his fists. Davis quickly found himself enveloped in a wartime bloodlust that eclipsed all judgment. All he could think of was landing punch after punch—nothing else mattered. Later, when Davis thought back on the ordeal, he wouldn’t be able to recall exactly when Drake arrived. All he could remember were bits and pieces of fragmented information, nothing truly cohesive. Suddenly there were several more AMBAs around him, and the staccato sound of Drake’s cursing filled the air. Moments later the sharp prick of an anesthetic needle surged through his neck, followed by a total, crushing pain. Davis slapped the needle out of Drake’s hand and was on his feet, running faster than he had ever run in his life. The little bit of anesthetic that was coursing through his veins gave him an extremely light-headed feeling—like he could pass out at any minute. Still, he ran as fast and as far as his legs would take him.
Prince Davenport was seated at the head of his favorite table in the New York palace. The table had been hand carved from a gargantuan piece of wood—roughly fifty feet long and taken from the trunk of the most exotic of trees—the nearly extinct African Blackwood. The carpenter who had been charged with creating the table had charged the Prince a warlord’s ransom and required a month to carve it. Shortly after completing the table the master carpenter had met with an unfortunate accident while felling a tree for another well-to-do American client. It was such a shame he had chosen to make an exact duplicate of the Prince’s table for the man. Had he not, he might still be alive, perhaps even working for the Prince again.
Prince Davenport sighed. Ah, such was life sometimes. He looked down at his plate, picking at his food. Naturally, being the astute and powerful man that he was, the Prince had access to the most skilled chefs in the world. The woman who had prepared his current meal was a perfect example of this. Her Boulette d’Avesnes was as succulent as any example the Prince had sampled in France itself, perhaps even more so. His current mood, however, had put him off eating. Delicious as the food was, this was not the time to enjoy it.
The Prince had just received a visit from Godfrey explaining a most troublesome situation that had developed. It seemed there was an intruder in the palace. Normally this would be a nearly useless piece of information—the security in and around the Prince’s stronghold was second to none. Within seconds anyone not authorized to be within the building would be discovered and dealt with. Unfortunately, the current insurgent was a little more skilled than the average. Even Godfrey himself had lost track of the man—and it was apparently a man—and was currently attempting to locate him through the holographic security channels.
Prince Davenport knew he had little to fear, despite the intruder’s ability. Even if the man was able to get within close proximity to the Prince he was in for a surprise. The Prince had been trained in countless forms of combat since an early age; his mother had insisted her son be capable of defending himself. If the would-be assassin attempted to kill the master of the palace, he would be in for a heck of a fight.
The Prince stood and brushed a piece of food off of his s
hirt. Let the fool come. He yearned for a good fight. He hadn’t had one in years. The last person who had attacked him had been rendered lifeless in less than 30 seconds, thanks in no small part to the wonders of jujitsu. He had been nothing more than an ant beneath the Prince’s heel. Perhaps this new intruder would prove to be of heartier stock.
Godfrey chimed in on the Prince’s private network. The business monarch walked leisurely to one of the many safe-rooms in the palace, and accepted the call. A larger-than-life image of his most trusted assistant phased into view, greeting the Prince with a curt nod.
“My Prince, I have urgent news regarding the development.”
“Go ahead. Any information you have is most desirable. I find this situation most intriguing.”
“I managed to locate him, briefly, gaining access to the secondary stair system in the third quadrant. He seems to be jamming the camera and sensor system with some kind of wireless device. At this time we have no idea what or where it is.”
The Prince nodded. His opponent was even more adept than he had previously thought. To be able to smuggle any kind of device into the palace was a feat worthy of novelization. There were no less than five security checkpoints in the lobby alone, all heavily fortified with armed guards and a battery of sensors. This assassin, or whatever he was, was an incredibly able individual. The Prince nearly rubbed his hands together with anticipation. He grew more excited for the confrontation with each new piece of information.
