Ancient Armada

by Tyler Leslie

  “Oh, forgot to mention, your AMBA isn’t equipped with plasma weapons, Cadet. Something to think about. It would have made the test far too easy otherwise. Good luck!”

  Davis clenched his jaw in anger. How dare Regina alter the rules of the test like that? It had been clearly stated that the AMBAs utilized in the final trial were equipped with all the latest plasma technology. This wasn’t supposed to be an un-winnable trial, after all. Now there was little chance of defeating his enemy! Davis now stood protected, yet completely lacking in offensive weaponry.

  The warrior had started moving again during Davis’ exchange with Regina. Apparently he had assessed the battle armor as not much of a threat and was ready to reengage the Cadet. Davis wasn’t going to allow the enemy warrior the advantage of such confidence; he just needed to find a way to injure the creature without endangering himself. There was only one way Davis could make things work out in his favor. He still had his radio transmitter that disrupted the armor’s connection to MindGate. Even if he missed his shot, the AMBA would likely protect him from the lethal AI-controlled intervention. It was his only shot.

  He pulled the transmitter from his belt and aimed it straight at the warrior’s gaining form. With one hand on the joystick that controlled the weapons he pressed the button, ready to unleash a barrage of mini-gun fire that would surely decimate the creature’s unprotected flesh. Click-click. Nothing happened.

  Davis hung his head and awaited the inevitable comm channel chastisement. It came not even a second later.

  Regina made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Cadet Martin, did you really think that would work? Think about it. If we allowed this captured warrior to keep his full uplink to MindGate what would stop him from escaping? Perhaps you are not ready for active field duty after all. Try to think things through in the future.” She paused for a second, “If you survive, that is.”

  Davis had had enough deception. When he completed this trial he was going to have a word with Commander Pikes about Regina’s lack of protocol in regard to, well, everything. He readied his AMBA for the barrage of attacks that was about to ensue, and narrowed his eyes. Let the games begin.

  The warrior raised his axe and swung in a downward arc, an attack that surely would have taken the right arm clean off the AMBA had Davis not sidestepped the blow. With the increased sensory ability of the armor, fighting this enemy had become a lot easier. He was able to anticipate attacks with far greater clarity, and perform maneuvers not possible on foot.

  The warrior was clearly thrown off guard by the speed at which the admittedly clumsy-looking AMBA performed, and had to readjust his strategy. He backed off and readied his arm as if he was aiming a pistol.

  What was he doing? Davis didn’t have to wait long to find out. The warrior fired a long javelin of hardened Kordon at the AMBA; the projectile wasted no time in penetrating straight through the canopy mere inches from Davis’ head. Davis cursed and turned the front of the AMBA away from the warrior—an instinctual maneuver, yet one that was incredibly dangerous. The AMBA’s weaker rear armor was now exposed, and the warrior immediately took advantage of the situation, running up to and slicing the suit with his axe. Shrill warning sirens began to emanate from the cockpit of the AMBA, and Davis felt the suit’s cockpit lose pressure. Luckily for him, he was still on earth and not fighting this battle in a vacuum. The life-support system had been compromised, but the weapons were all still intact.

  Davis decided to stop messing around and give the warrior everything he had. He turned with the ferocity of an injured jungle cat and swatted his enemy aside with the AMBA’s sizable left arm. The warrior tumbled into the brush about ten feet away and, using the momentum, immediately rolled back on his feet, charging like a Native American brave. As the creature advanced, Davis unloaded on him with the AMBA’s aerofighter-grade mini-gun. The bullets pinged off the armor, doing no real surface damage, yet the force of the barrage caused the enemy warrior to stumble and fall to his knees.

  Davis rushed the fallen warrior and backhanded him again, this time with the hatchet attachment fixed to this particular AMBA’s left arm. To Davis’ surprise, the hatchet dug deep into the armor, eliciting a blood-curdling scream from the creature it protected. As expected, the comm once again crackled to life, and the voice of Regina occupied Davis’ metal haven.

  “Nicely done, future warrior. The hatchet you just used was crafted from none other than Kordon. Turns out it’s the only thing capable of cutting through the armor. Ironic really.”

  As the comm signal fizzled out a wellspring of uplifting hope swelled through Davis. It WAS possible to defeat this enemy—it would torment him no more. Soon he would be a full-fledged Marine, and would take the fight straight to the Scuratt’ka! Visions of blood and gore, of victory and domination, filled his mind. A red haze seemed to cover his vision as he mercilessly hacked the enemy warrior to pieces with the newly discovered power of Kordon weaponry. Finally it was over. This had no doubt been his most difficult test, and he had barely scraped by. Still, it was finished and he was ready to claim his well-deserved reward.

  CHAPTER 12

  Ricky Belmont stood tall, towering over the other Cadets at the initiation ceremony. Alongside him stood Davis, a ridiculous, ecstatic grin plastered across his face. He knew he looked like a fool grinning like that, but he just couldn’t help it. Not only had he successfully gained entry into the most selective and elite group of the military, but he had proven that he could be his own man and accomplish his own goals without the help from his narcissistic, overbearing father. The man had hounded Davis from day one, trying to mold him into the man he thought was proper. Davis had never wanted to be a plastic surgeon; all he had ever wanted was to fight and win against insurmountable odds. In his own way, he had done just that—and before actually entering combat! To Davis, that was the best part of all.

  Ricky elbowed his friend in the side in an attempt to get him to look more normal.

  “Stop grinning like an idiot, man!” he whispered cautiously. “Are you trying to get kicked out before you actually get your uniform? You’re embarrassing all of us!”

  Davis shook his head and grinned even wider. There was nothing that could be said or done that could keep his elation from showing. Nothing, save the woman that was currently walking between the rows of seated Cadets, heading right for them. Regina actually looked somewhat resplendent in her Marine dress uniform, Davis had to confess—too bad the new paint job was wasted on such a hydra. She mounted the steps the future Marines stood upon and walked to the back, deciding to stand by none other than Davis.

  “I’m not quite sure how you managed to pull this off, Cadet,” she whispered venomously, “but if you think the easy life awaits you, think again.” She smoothed out a crease in the top of her uniform and a bright, albeit fake, smile lit her face. She waved to the gathered Cadets below her as if to tell them to enjoy being here, because none of them would make it to the steps upon which she now stood.

  Davis turned his head slightly toward Ricky in a vain attempt to escape the claustrophobic effect her presence created. He realized his smile had vanished; leave it to Regina to sap the pleasure from such an incredible ceremony. He fixed a new smile to his face, but couldn’t help but dwell upon the fact that this time it was fake. Oh the sweet relief of deployment…

  Prince Davenport stepped out of his green marble shower, warm water dripping off his athletic form. He had dabbled as a football quarterback in his days of English royalty, and had been quite a good one at that. He smiled as he remembered the parties, the girls, and the smell of the chilly November air the day his team had won the state championship. Well, they had ‘won’ because he had been on the team. Royalty always won by default. That’s just how it was. He knew he had been hot stuff back then—this was the case now more than ever.

  The sudden ringing of his personal com-link brought him out of his remin
iscent state; the shrill noise was starting to get on his nerves. He picked up the phone with a sigh.

  “Yes?” He made no effort whatsoever to remain cordial; he hated being dragged away from a moment of relaxation after a long, hard day.

  “My Prince?” The voice belonged to Shari Reinhart, one of the many secretaries he currently employed. She was hardworking and beautiful, yet nothing really special. “Parker Turner responded to your query for a meeting, and has accepted. He wishes to see you at three o’ clock on Wednesday.”

  Prince Davenport smiled to himself. Parker Turner was one of the most successful and enterprising of his remaining corporate opponents. He would have to maneuver through miles of bureaucratic red tape and, of course, legality in order to garner what he sought from Mr. Turner, but he would get what he wanted. He always did.

  Warlord Arr’itaoll steepled his long, clawed fingers on the top of his Kordon desk in thought. He had just received the intel from MindGate that he had been waiting on for several days. MindGate had developed a very complicated algorithmic representation of the potential battlefield scenarios involving an attack on the Australian continent’s interior region. According to the projections there would be very few fatalities on his army’s behalf; everything would go rather smoothly and victory would be accomplished within a single day. All that was needed now was his permission to go ahead with the attack.

  There was only one problem with this—the Warlord was becoming unsure of his own motives. His entire life had been planned out for him. He had been genetically selected to be the next Warlord, and had played out that role flawlessly, but recently there had been a roiling within his gut that couldn’t be sated. What was the real purpose in attacking humanity? Would it really be an exercise in futility to try to negotiate with them peacefully? According to MindGate there was no reason to try such a method; humanity would simply attack without warning, devastating the ranks of the Scuratt’ka. There would be no glorious revolution or crusade for them. They were simply defending their planet. This all seemed logical when taken at face value. MindGate was, after all, their race’s crowning achievement and something to be valued above all else. Its intellect and reasoning were infallible.

  The Warlord sighed, a deep loud noise that reverberated throughout the expanses of the chamber.

  Prince Davenport settled into the deep leather chair and bored his eyes into Parker Turner, CEO of SysTek and one of his greatest corporate opponents. The man seemed reasonably calm and was returning his glare with equal vigilance. After a moment, Prince Davenport spoke:

  “I feel I must apologize for my lateness to this meeting, Mr. Turner,” he began slowly, pausing to read Parker’s response. “An associate of mine had something very important to discuss.”

  Parker leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving the Prince’s face.

  “Don’t worry about it, Prince Davenport,” Parker responded casually, “It was refreshing to be able to use the time to rethink the proposal you recently offered me. In fact,” Parker leaned forward across the desk, “I’ve decided to forgo this transaction in its entirety. It simply isn’t as lucrative as I had been led to believe.”

  Parker leaned back and smiled, a maneuver that nearly made Prince Davenport squirm with rage. When Turner was in control of his element it never failed to evoke a rather unpleasant reaction from him; he couldn’t help but slowly begin clenching his jaw so tightly it seemed as if it would snap like a twig.

  “Mr. Turner,” Prince Davenport managed through clenched teeth, “such a decision would prove very unwise. Our lawyers have already begun the preparations to legalize this transaction. Backing out now will force me to make a number of… unpleasant… decisions.

  Parker opened his mouth, as if ready to riposte with a clever retort he’d been saving for the past few minutes, when something akin to a dark veil seemed to settle over his face. It seemed as if his train of thought had been suddenly and inexplicably derailed, like he could remember nothing at all regarding where he was or what he was doing.

  Prince Davenport was nearly shaking with fury across the table, oblivious as to why Parker was acting in such a way. “Mr. Turner! Why do you suddenly seem to be at a loss for words? I sincerely hope you’re rethinking those last few statements. Tell me you were just attempting to play me for the sake of humor?”

  A sudden motion came from the edge of the room, and Godfrey slipped through the crack in the door just far enough to make eye contact with the Prince. That was all that was needed. The Prince allowed himself a tight smile. His loyal associate’s appearance explained everything.

  Parker once again leaned across the table, a peculiar, almost lost look dominating his face. “Prince Davenport, I think you will find this business proposal irrevocably sound.” He slid a manila envelope toward the prince and smiled. His smile seemed akin to that of a man who had realized the only way out of a dire situation was to follow along with the demands of his captives, yet was somehow different.

  Prince Davenport reached across the table and fingered the envelope, trying not to let the puzzlement roiling around in his gut filter through to his face. What had Godfrey done to the man to elicit such a favorable response? Parker seemed not to notice anything around him at all, as if he was in a narcotic daze. Surely Godfrey wouldn’t be so daring as to go that far.

  As Parker attempted to bring his hand back across the table, he upset the ostentatious candle holder that sat in the center of the table, sending melted candle wax pouring across the mahogany table, ruining a portion of its lacquer. In normal circumstances Parker should have been furious; that table had allegedly cost nearly ten thousand dollars and was one of a kind, but the CEO’s newfound bout of delirium had registered it as little more than a slight nuisance. He quickly made a slightly slurred apology.

  The Prince couldn’t help himself; he had to goad his opponent on a bit, enjoy the moment a bit longer. “Mr. Turner, is everything alright? You seem a little… confused.” A sly smile slowly crept across his face.

  Parker’s only response was to slowly extricate himself from his chair and wend his way toward the door, refusing to even recognize the question. Within moments he was gone, the only key as to his presence being the manila envelope clutched in Prince Davenport’s hand. The Prince smiled. It was time to pay a visit to an old friend.

  Senator John Morgans placed the little white ball on the tee, sighting down the fairway as he did so. After he was positive its placement would merit him a flawless drive, he selected his best TaylorMade driver and readied himself for the “tap”, as he liked to call it. He slowly drew his arm back, let out his breath, and swung the driver with the precision and grace of an ice sculptor. The ball instantly became a white spec in the distance, landing a mere 20 feet from the hole. A flawless hit reflecting a flawless career. He took a step back from the tee, which had not been touched by the “tap”, and admired the incredible Tennessee weather. It was on such days that Senator Morgans felt truly at one with both himself and the world as a whole.

  He turned as he heard the approaching footsteps of his old friend, Prince Davenport.

  The Prince smiled as he neared the Senator, giving a cordial wave and selecting a club from his caddie. “An excellent hit, Senator, as usual,” he said with a false smile. “You’ll be under par for sure this hole.”

  “Thank you, Prince Davenport,” John returned with a smile of his own, his being real. “Your presence is the key factor in my success I’m sure.”

  Prince Davenport laughed as he came alongside the Senator. “Nothing makes me happier than helping you improve your golf game, Senator.” He paused, an almost cruel expression forming on his face. “Nothing save taking as much as I can from the businessmen of this country, that is.”

  John looked at the Prince quizzically; he knew the man had just completed an important acquisition from a well known corporate enemy known as Park
er Turner, but knew nothing of its value to the CEO. “This computer chip you recently garnered—was that valuable to Mr. Turner?”

  Prince Davenport laughed, a low, hearty sound that seemed to vibrate the ground itself. “Of course it was, Senator, but I was referring more to the fact that he lost a respectable amount of face that afternoon.” He paused. “The man is, or was, after all, one of my greatest corporate enemies.”

  John raised his eyebrows. “So he didn’t take well to this transaction then? You are indeed quite the businessman. To be able to squeeze such an important asset out of the grip of one of the most powerful men in the country must have been no small feat.”

  “Of course he didn’t. In fact for a moment he was going to back out of the deal completely. It was only after I admittedly lost my cool that he came back around to things.”

  John thought about that for a moment. “Not the business tactic I would have used myself, but if it worked you can always thank good old ingenuity for the success of the meeting.”

  Prince Davenport gave another false laugh. “Very well put, Senator. It was indeed nothing less than ingenuity.”

  John smiled again and changed the topic back to sport. “Now, if you want to get that ball down onto the green please step this way.” He motioned to the still intact tee he had used not five minutes ago.

  Prince Davenport nodded his acknowledgement and placed his ball on the tee. He lined up for his shot, and sent the ball one of the most flawless lines he had ever placed. Things, he decided, were going even better than he had imagined.