by Tyler Leslie
The Warlord laughed, deep and booming. It was impossible to imagine how the humans could possibly enjoy sitting in front of a screen, watching false images parade around like prostitutes. They were fools to the last one, and as such they would be eradicated, the Scuratt’ka taking their rightful place on the surface of the world.
A sudden knock on the door to his War Room alerted the Warlord, and he forced himself to keep his anger in check. No one was allowed to disturb him while he was in here unless it was his son or the chief Kordan scientist. If anyone else walked through that door, the War Room’s magnificence would be the last thing he saw.
“Enter,” Arr’itaoll said simply. He had been about to review the battle plans for the next attack, planned three weeks in the future. He had little time for whatever was about to steal his attention.
Despite his current gruff disposition, his gaze softened when he saw the form of his young son slide through the doorway. He stood, and acknowledged his offspring with a nod.
“My son, what brings you to this end of Scurrath? Your Scur-spring didn’t put you up to this did they? You know I hate it when they get you to mediate for us. The argument we had last cycle was mine and mine alone. They have no say in the matter anymore.”
The youth, Ptuy’kka, shook his head. “This has nothing to do with them; I merely came to see if you were ready to fulfill your promise to me?”
Arr’itaoll raised his thin, wispy ears straight in the air, his species’ version of a raised eyebrow. “Promise? Forgive me son, but I have had much on my mind lately. I cannot remember what I said. Please, enlighten me.”
Ptuy’kka slowly walked up the sloped floor leading to his father, his sharp, intelligent eyes taking in the holographic portraits of his father’s ancestors.
As the youth made his way to Arr’itaoll, The Warlord couldn’t help but reflect upon his good fortune. When he had been informed that he was with child, he had feared he would bear a member of the lower class, the black-skinned warrior caste. To his delight, the child had been born with the red skin of the scientist, and as such he would be second only to his own father in the societal hierarchy. Unlike the repulsive humans, there were no Scuratt’kan females; the race simply temporarily changed sex whenever the time for reproduction was upon then.
All aspects of Scuratt’kan society were based upon caste. Since one was unable to choose the color of one’s skin, the individual was forced to accept whatever role he was born into. The scientists, or to a much greater extent, the Warlords, were genetic lottery winners, blessed with the power to lead the lesser members of the race. Had his son born the black skin of the warrior, or even the dark purple hue of the elite warrior, he would surely have had him killed right then and there. After all, it would reflect badly upon him if the current Warlord had sired an inferior child, now wouldn’t it?
Ptuy’kka reached his father, and put his small hand on the Warlord’s leg, a sign of trust and devotion. “You promised you would take me to the warriors’ ready rooms, and let me see how the Kordan armor works!” The Warlord frowned at his offspring. Excessive emotion was looked down upon in Scuratt’kan society, a lesson Ptuy’kka had yet to learn.
“Calm yourself, my son. Remember what I’ve taught you. Free yourself from burdensome emotions, and you will find yourself on the path to true enlightenment.”
The Enlightened were those who, in methods different to each caste, proved themselves worthy of recognition. To the warrior, the path of enlightenment fell with taking an enemy out in combat as he himself died. A scientist had a much more difficult path ahead of him, and must create something that benefitted the entire race. At the moment, there were only three Enlightened scientists in the city of Scurrath, the most notable of which was Ll’thay, the creator of MindGate. He had worked for decades, tirelessly toiling over the components and software necessary to make his dream a reality. None of his peers, or anyone for that matter, had expected him to succeed. His accomplishment had brought about a new age of warfare and control. Without MindGate, the Scuratt’ka would likely still be little more than akin to the human barbarians of old; mentally superior, but technologically challenged. Now, with the creation of the Overmind, as some called it, they were ready to challenge the humans and take control of the planet that was rightfully theirs.
Ptuy’kka nodded, and practiced the mental exercises his father had taught him. In a few moments, his eyes were clear and free of emotion. Exactly the way they should be.
Arr’itaoll nodded. He could finish reviewing the battle plans later. He hated having to give up a chance to personally educate his son, and was certain not to miss this one.
“I will take you to the ready rooms on the fifth level. They are currently empty, but I am certain we can find a willing warrior to demonstrate the armor for you. Please, follow me.”
The Warlord lead his son out through the doors of the War Room, eager to educate a mind he was certain would one day surpass them all.
CHAPTER 7
Prince Davenport closed his eyes as the long journey to the Bolivian village of Samaipata came to an end. The drive from the airport had been nearly unbearable. Not only had the heat risen to smoldering heights, but the ramshackle towns they had been forced to pass through had rendered the Prince disgusted beyond belief. To think people actually lived in such despicable conditions. The world would certainly be better off if they could somehow be convinced to arrange a mass suicide. Alas, such a thing was unlikely, yet the image brought a smile to his face. The majority of the world’s inhabitants were nothing more than insects to be crushed beneath the heels of the powerful. And when it came to power, his was unparalleled.
He opened his eyes slowly. The searing sunlight stung his dilated pupils, causing him to fumble for the control to the electrochromatic windows. The glass responded instantly, darkening several shades and sating his ocular distress. He stared out the window for a few beats. The villa of Thiago Marrah was visible in the distance, towering over Samaipata like a monolithic statue. The dictator’s dwelling was, naturally, nothing more than a shanty compared to the grandeur that was the Prince’s estate, but nonetheless it was an impressive sight to behold.
The Prince touched the panel that activated the walnut divider partitioning him off from the front cab. The elegant slab of wood slid down noiselessly, revealing the silhouettes of his driver, Reginald, and the youthful Godfrey. It was only on rare occasions that the Prince would leave the comfort and privacy of his New York manor, yet in this instance the trip would be more than worthwhile. Thiago Marrah had once again refused to acquiesce to the Prince’s wishes, and as such deserved a face-to-face meeting with the most powerful man in the world.
“Reginald,” the Prince began, his voice barely louder than a whisper, “make sure to remain in motion at all times as we pass through the village. I’d hate to have to execute one of the villagers for defacing my car.” Normally the Prince wouldn’t mind removing an obstacle in such a manner, but he was tired from his journey and using his precious remaining energy would be a terrible waste.”
“Yes, my Prince.”
The village passed by in the blink of an eye—there wasn’t much to it after all. As expected, the villagers gawped at the onyx black Maybach as it soundlessly slithered its way through Samaipata. The Prince briefly wondered what Thiago must drive if the villagers responded in this way to such a unassuming vehicle. He would have to have a chat with him about embellishment and its positive effect on oneself.
As the trio passed through the expansive gates leading to the villa, the Prince began going through the list of Thiago’s failures in his head. First, and most importantly, the man had refused time and again to siphon off his supply of oil. He was selling it too readily, at far too low a price. This angered the Prince greatly, as he had a large stake in the dictator’s monopoly. The second, perhaps equally disturbing defiance revolved around Thiago’s lax
policies regarding slave export. He seemed to care less and less about whether or not his slaves were fit for the duties they would inevitably carry out. The majority of the men and women that passed through his hands were ill prepared, both physically and mentally, for what was to befall them. Thiago, it seemed, needed a lesson, if not several, in how to deal with inferior beings.
Finally, the Maybach came to a stop in the middle of the expansive courtyard in the middle of the compound. Such was the Prince’s level of aggravation, he didn’t even bother to wait for Reginald to open the door for him; he simply leapt out of the car himself, storming to the front door in seconds. He turned and watched with a displeased expression as Godfrey followed, far too slowly, in his wake. The Prince made a mental note. Once they were back in New York he would have to see to it that Godfrey was properly disciplined for this lack of etiquette.
The Prince turned to the door, motioning for Godfrey to knock. The little man did so, and within moments a male servant appeared, bleary-eyed and looking as if he had no idea where he was.
“Yes, may I help you?” he said in halting, broken English.
The Prince repressed a sigh. Surely Thiago had informed his servants as to when he was to be expected? Yet another failure to add to the mounting list of his ineptitudes. “We are here to see your master; please show us inside.” The Prince rarely bothered with formalities; if someone didn’t know who he was, it was his loss. He would surely be educated on his person soon enough.
The servant seemed to hesitate, then decided it was in his best interest to allow the men inside. He shut the door behind them gingerly, as if it were made of balsa wood. With a servile gesture he led them through several corridors, up a flight of agonizingly long stairs, and through a single, massive door into what the Prince assumed was Thiago’s study. The room was a case-study in terrible housekeeping. Papers and books were strewn everywhere haphazardly, as if no one ever bothered to enter the room and straighten things up. The Prince clucked his tongue softly. What a fool. To think he had chosen this man to lead the nation of Brazil into the new age of prosperity that awaited them. He would not make this same mistake twice.
Thiago, seated behind a bank of archaic computer monitors, stood, a pleased expression on his broad, tanned face.
“Ah, Prince Davenport, what a pleasure. You’re early, yes?”
The Prince clenched his jaw. The man had the trappings of wealth and power all around him, and yet was unable to keep his clocks properly adjusted. “No, Marrah, we are right on time. Perhaps you should check your clocks. They seem to be running a little slow.” The Prince’s patience had been thin to begin with; now it was all but nonexistent. This meeting would be short and to the point. He wanted nothing more than to get as far away from this man and his rubbish life as possible. He pulled off his blazer and held it out. When no one came to retrieve it, he tossed it to the floor, not even bothering to look where it landed. This lunacy would have to end. If the dictator didn’t agree with the Prince’s proposed changes, Thiago Marrah and his woefully inadequate help would be terminated before the end of the day.
“My apologies, my Prince. I have always had trouble keeping up with the time.” He offered a weak, unpleasant smile. “Please,” he motioned to the expansive, yet dusty table on the right side of the room. “Take a seat.”
The Prince took one look at the dust-covered table and politely shook his head. Instead, he walked to the ornate maple desk Thiago had vacated, settling himself in the worn leather seat without even a nod of acknowledgement. “Let’s get down to business, Marrah. My time is short and very precious. I would appreciate it if you would respect this.”
Thiago nodded nervously, grabbed a chair from the table, and moved it over to the other side of the desk. He looked like a child sitting in front of the school principal, ready to receive a thorough lecture on correct behavior. “What is it you wish, my Prince?”
The Prince blinked in exasperation. “You don’t know? After all the time you’ve had to reflect on why I was paying you a personal visit, you still have no idea why you were summoned?”
Thiago wanted to interject that it was effectively the Prince who had been summoned, but thought the better of it given his current disposition. “I assume it is in regard to my oil regulation policies. Am I correct?”
“Your oil regulation policies, your short-sighted grasp on slave trade,” the Prince motioned around the room, “your horrendous up-keep of this villa. The list goes endlessly on.”
Thiago bowed his head in mock servility. “I am sorry to disappoint you, my Prince. I have not forgotten what you have done for me. Without your help, I would likely never have risen to this position.” He hesitated, trying to choose his next words carefully. “Even so, I am afraid I cannot allow you to make changes to my policies regarding oil circulation and slaves. They are far too profitable at the moment, and a change would surely hinder the entire country.”
The Prince narrowed his eyes in disdain. “The entire country? Once again you are being myopic, Marrah. The entire world, not just this pathetic, insignificant speck of a country, will benefit from the changes. I see now that you are too much of a fool to understand this. I have always prided myself on my quick decision-making, and my mind is now made up.” He nodded at Godfrey, who had slowly crept up behind Marrah during the discussion. The Prince’s movement would have been indecipherable to most, but to Godfrey it spoke volumes.
Even so, Thiago too caught the nod, and turned in his seat, startled at the sudden appearance of the Prince’s most trusted lieutenant. It seemed Thiago was not so much of a fool as his running of the country would suggest, as he immediately widened his eyes in fear. Then, in a move that caught the Prince completely off-guard, he turned to the wildly successful capitalist, and began to yell.
“What is this madness? Don’t be insulting! You think a mere child can stand against me? You gravely underestimate my capabilities, Davenport!”
The Prince grimaced at being referred to without his title, and flung his hand to the side in a dismissive gesture.
“I’m afraid it is you who are guilty of underestimation, Marrah. You have displeased me greatly. I see now that a more… physical… approach will be necessary to coerce you.”
Marrah laughed, long and loud. To him, the man that looked like a child was nothing more than a drawn-out joke. What harm could he possibly do?
Unfortunately for Marrah, Godfrey was always eager to demonstrate the harm he was capable of. In a single movement, too quick for the eye to follow, Godfrey snatched a cigarette tray from the desk, tossed it toward the nearest window, and grabbed Marrah with one arm, lifting him off the ground with ease.
Marrah’s eyes widened in horror and shock, and he struggled against the ‘child’s’ grasp. It was to no avail; Godfrey’s grip was harder and more unbreakable than titanium. He casually walked to the now shattered window, and shoved Marrah through it. Just as Marrah began to fall, Godfrey pulled a knife from his belt, and shoved it through the dictator’s tie, pinning it to the window frame. The hapless Marrah now swung, mere inches from his death, above one of the large cooling fans that ran the length of the house. He screamed for help, yelling so loud it shook the room’s remaining window panes.
“They can’t hear you,” the Prince said, now standing at the window above Thiago. “They’re all dead. I had Godfrey dispose of them during our short and rather fruitless discussion. Normally it’s always a pity to have to dispose of hired help, but in your case, it was a pleasure.” The Prince smiled, a fake smile that completely lacked emotion. “Now, Marrah, seeing as you’re suddenly in a rather difficult position, what say we continue our discussion? I have a sneaking suspicion you’ll be more malleable this way, don’t you agree?”
Marrah cursed at the Prince in both English and Spanish. He looked below at the spinning fan, staring at it, as if doing so would somehow save him from his pe
ril.
The Prince snapped his fingers, “Pay attention to me when I am speaking to you, Marrah. That fan may have a debris cover on it, but I doubt it will stand up to your weight. It is imperative that you see the merit in my plans. I fear the alternative will be… rather messy.”
“Let me up, Davenport! I’m not afraid of you! You think you own the world, flying around in your jets, strong-arming people into submission! You and I both know you don’t have the guts to kill me, so spare yourself the humiliation and get me back inside!”
The Prince looked down at the dictator’s tasteless green tie, running his eyes over it, as if in thought. “Terribly unreliable things, ties. They always seem to have the nasty habit of coming… undone.” As he said the last word, the Prince pulled the knot from the tie, then tossed the knife out the window as if it were beneath his notice.
The screams of Thiago meant nothing to him. They were the sounds of succession. The next dictator would be much more thoroughly studied and screened before being allowed to hold office. The Prince, if nothing else, always learned from his mistakes.
Behind him, the screams stopped abruptly, and the sound of liquid being splashed around filled the cavernous room. The Prince turned to Godfrey, who had obediently retrieved his discarded blazer.
The Prince motioned to the jacket. “Leave it. I want nothing to remind me of this useless day.” He looked down at the Versace blazer. “This is truly a shame. I really did like that jacket.”
Warlord Arr’itaoll led his son through the relatively spare door leading to the fifth-level ready rooms. The ready rooms were sectioned off into eight separate rooms, and accounted for roughly .2% of the city’s total capacity. They were bare for the most part, lacking the ornamentation and color that bombarded those who were lucky enough to enter the War Room. The walls were a dark silver, and as nearly everything in the Scuratt’kan culture was, made from polished Kordan. The purpose of these rooms was exactly what one would expect—they were the place warriors went to arm themselves and don their armor. Along each wall lay fifteen bathtub-like structures, each about 12 feet long and 3 feet wide. If a human were ever to somehow find his way into a ready room, he would likely think this was some sort of communal shower. In reality, these tubs were used to hold and disperse the elite warrior’s Kordan armor.