Ancient Armada

by Tyler Leslie

  “Hey!” the soldier suddenly yelled, “come have a look at this!”

  Godfrey put down a piece of glass he had been examining and walked down the hall to where the voice had come from. The soldier was in the third office down the hallway, standing over something Godfrey couldn’t make out. The ‘child’ edged closer and gritted his teeth in anger. A huge bloodstain dominated the floor behind one of the desks in the room; the crimson liquid had splashed up onto the walls as well. The blood seemed to form art nouveau paintings of disturbing origin. What had the assassin been thinking? This job had been done with so little finesse it wouldn’t have been fit for a B-rated horror movie.

  Godfrey turned to the soldier. “We’re going to have to torch this entire building.”

  “I agree; I’ll get the materials.” The soldier rushed off in the direction of the elevator.

  Godfrey pulled out his secure cell phone and dialed the Prince’s personal number. He wasn’t going to be happy at all about this.

  CHAPTER 17

  Davis awoke with a start. All around him was a sea of blackness, not even a single pinhole of light shone through anywhere. He was cold, and his body was covered by something rough and scratchy. He was lying on his back on what felt like cold stone. He slowly turned his head to the side and grimaced at the pain even such a small movement caused. What had happened in the AMBA and where the heck was he? He tried to take a deep breath of air in but was at once reduced to a spluttering cough. When he regained his composure he managed to slowly sit up. He grasped his head with both hands and vainly tried to squeeze his building headache into submission.

  Sweat dripped off his brow, despite the cold, and splashed onto the ground making a soft patter that reverberated throughout the room. He tried to make it to his feet, but his right leg gave out and collapsed, sending him hard to the ground on his right shoulder. The pain felt like it had been caused by a hot iron. He bit back a yell and rolled back onto his back. He decided to stay put for a moment and try to get a bearing on where he was. Wherever this was, there was no discernible way out. The thought suddenly occurred to him that he might be blind, and fear surged through him anew. If that was the case, he was helpless, and would simply lay here for the rest of his life. A blind Marine was no good to anyone.

  He mentally chastised himself for thinking such things. Of course he would carry on, and find a way to make do. He tried to stand again, and putting weight only on his left leg, managed to get vertical. He took a tentative step with his right leg and was able to stand the pain enough to move forward a little. Progress. He took another step and then another, and before he knew it he was up against a cold wall. Walls meant doors, and doors meant freedom. He lightly traced his fingers along the wall and began walking alongside it. Several long seconds passed before he realized there was no door on this wall, and thus he transferred to the adjacent wall and did the same to it. No door. He tried the third wall and came up short again. There had to be a way out of here, unless it was in the ceiling, and that would be a sizable problem for escape. The fourth wall seemed like more of the same, but in the far corner Davis touched freedom. A metal door, inset about an inch into the wall. He tried the small metal handle and wasn’t surprised when it didn’t budge. He was being held prisoner by the Scuratt’ka. That much was now obvious.

  Davis blindly searched the floor for anything he could use to get the door open, but came up empty-handed. There was nothing at all in the cell, and Davis was the only one in it. It was uncommonly large for a cell, about 15 steps by 15 more. It must be useful for storage as well in times of peace. That was simply a guess, but Davis had nothing else better to do than guess about his new world.

  A sudden, loud knock came from the door, shattering the bone-chilling silence. Davis moved to the corner of the room farthest from the door and waited for the inevitable torture.

  Warlord Arr’itaoll once again sat behind the desk he had learned to call home. He was restless, as was usual as of late, and had nothing better to do than reflect upon the ‘accomplishments’ of his life. Ever since his birth it had been drilled into him that he was ‘The Chosen One’ that would lead his race to certain victory and endless glory. He had eaten it up like a stack of crimpi. In his early years he had carried himself with an all-important air, and was treated like a god. There was nothing that he couldn’t accomplish if he put even a small amount of effort into it, and his lifestyle had always been one of lavish trappings. Now though, a new surge of consciousness had surfaced from the black depths of his mind, and he found himself questioning his very existence.

  As was usually the case when his mind was allowed to wander, we began to question why it was necessary to attack humanity. What if the MindGate was telling lies? What if it were possible to coexist with the humans? What if this war—this bloodbath that seemed to have no end—was nothing more than a useless crusade filled with silver-tongued spiels and useless platitudes? It was a question that seemed destined to haunt him for the rest of his life.

  In order to put his thoughts to rest, he had tried to enter into commune with the MindGate two nights ago, and had stumbled upon a meeting between it and an unknown human male. The two had been conversing for quite some time as far as the Warlord could tell, and the bits and pieces of the conversation that he overheard had filled him with nothing but more questions. It seemed as if there was some kind of alliance between the human and MindGate, but for what purpose? Surely the infinite wisdom of the being had some sort of ploy up its sleeve. There was nothing more dangerous than a human with a little too much power; and from what the Warlord could make out, the man seemed to be a being of immense power and opportunity. It was evident by the way he carried himself.

  By the end of the meeting the Warlord had slipped back out into the main hall, his mind spinning full force. He had to get the answers to the questions that buzzed through his head. He had to, or he would never be able to find rest again.

  Davis tried to open his eyes. Hot, searing pain leapt from his skull like a firebrand. His right eye was swollen shut, his left barely able to open. Davis grunted, hoisting himself up on one battered elbow. His forehead was wet. Davis reached up to touch the spot. Blood. The thick red liquid was oozing from a large laceration just above his right eye. Davis sat still and took in a large, deep lungful of air. He thanked God his lungs still seemed to be working correctly, although each breath drew in more and more of the dust and filth that covered the floor of his cell.

  With some effort Davis managed to reclaim his footing, scanning his surroundings for any sign of the thing that had come to call. The lights had been turned on during his beating, and had remained on since. Whatever the Scuratt’kan warrior had wanted, he had made no indication of it to Davis.

  Give it up Davis, he thought, you’ve finally gotten yourself into a situation from which there is no escape. He sighed, mentally chastising himself for being so pessimistic. However terrible and hopeless a situation became he always took pride in finding the light, the good in the situation. The glass was always half full for him.

  Davis took a moment to listen to anything happening outside. The sounds had resided for the time being, replaced by the sound of silence. The calm before the storm.

  The captured warrior set his jaw and began looking around the room once more for any sign of escape, any way out of this hell. After what seemed like an hour of scanning, Davis’s eye caught something he hadn’t been able to detect in the darkness. A small blade of grass was peeking through the hard mud wall. Davis bent down and examined the blade. The plant’s excursion had crafted a small crevice in the wall. Davis tentatively picked up a small rock lying nearby and lightly tapped the wall. Then again, this time more forcefully. The small fissure gradually widened with each thrust of the rock, filling Davis with hope and spurring him on. Just a little bit more. Come on! Finally, stab after stab, the mud gave way, spilling out through the hole. Light cascaded into t
he room like liquid topaz.

  Before Davis could continue his excavation a loud knocking sounded on the wooden door. It sounded as if Goliath himself was coming to call.

  NO! Davis silently exclaimed. He couldn’t be caught now, his plan foiled!

  Quickly he scooped the dirt and mud back into the hole and covered it as best he could. He shuffled over to the far wall where he had woken up and pretended to be unconscious. The door burst open, the sound of footsteps filling the room. A booming voice filled the tiny hut. It was a language Davis didn’t understand—the guttural language of the Scuratt’ka.

  The warrior stopped speaking after a few seconds, realizing Davis couldn’t understand him. He stepped forward and grabbed Davis by the chin, turned his head to the side, and shoved something hard and cold into the frightened human’s head.

  Davis bit back a scream as the thing the warrior had put inside his head seemed to expand and fill his ear canal.

  Suddenly the enemy warrior’s words were clear.

  “Well, Soldier, it looks as if this is your lucky day. Your afternoon beating has been rescheduled. It seems you have an appointment with fate.”

  The warrior took his gleaming staff to the side of Davis’ head, sending him once more into the land of the unconscious.

  Davis stirred, blackness enveloping him like a dark cloud as he attempted to open his eyes. Something was over his head, making each breath a labored effort. Slowly Davis became aware of the rest of his body. He was being carried across a rough surface, most likely a dirt road. His feet carved large swathes in the muddy terrain, slightly hampering his captor’s progress. The air was extremely humid, the intense heat causing him to perspire profusely.

  His arms were bound behind him, the ropes cutting into his wrists like razor blades. His legs felt to be similarly tied. Davis tried moving them, the slightest movement causing intense, white hot pain to shoot through his entire body. Where was he being taken? Davis remembered his huge assailant uttering something about fate. The sounds of commotion penetrated the cloth bag, masking the sounds of his captor’s footsteps. Davis tried to speak, but his throat was severely dry and every syllable felt like he was gurgling lava.

  “Where… are you… taking me?” he finally managed to verbalize.

  “Shut up!” came the reply, followed by an aggressive slap to the side of the head. Davis reeled and fell on one knee, and was severely jerked back to his feet. His head was spinning. Davis’s mind raced. Whatever was about to happen to him would most likely end in death. No, Davis thought, would most certainly end in death.

  After what seemed like an eternity of agonizing travel over rough terrain, Davis was thrown face first into the dirt. The black bag that had masked his head was removed, allowing a blazing light to decimate his eyes.

  Once he could safely take in his surroundings, Davis gasped. He was inside some sort of underground military compound. The surroundings reminded him of videos he’d seen depicting the Holocaust. Scuratt’kan warriors surrounded him on all sides, gleaming staffs and spears pointed directly at him. Davis opened his mouth to ask what was going on and was viciously bludgeoned in the back of the head by one of the soldiers.

  “You will speak when you are spoken to, yes?” The command had been issued by one of the soldiers standing in front of him. The creature had dark, purplish skin and a large scar running from his left eye all the way down to his prominent, alien chin. His voice was broken and gravelly, as if he had made a habit out of swallowing nails. Davis nodded his agreement and stayed silent, waiting for what would come next.

  What did come next was hardly pleasurable. The scarred soldier roughly grabbed Davis by his filthy shirt collar and hauled him to his feet, pointing in the direction of one of the many small buildings lining the compound. Two more soldiers stepped forward and grabbed Davis by the biceps, dragging him once more along the broken terrain toward the building. The building was a small, hastily constructed, one-story bunker with chipping walls and a dirty black roof. All the buildings in this compound looked oddly human in their construction. Davis wondered if they had once belonged to his race.

  The ground here was very dry, and a sudden strong wind whipped dust around the exterior of the building like a Lilliputian sandstorm, kicking it into Davis’ mouth and nose and forcing him to bend over in a fit of coughing. One of the warriors back-handed Davis across the face, knocking him to the ground and forcing the wind from him. The soldier spouted something off to the other in rapid-fire Scuratt’kan, gesturing with his hand toward Davis. The other soldier nodded and hauled Davis to his feet once more, ripping his shirt off in one clean motion and kicking him in the back, sending Davis to his knees. Davis wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out against this abuse.

  Just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse one of the soldiers pulled a bull-whip type device off his gleaming armor and uncoiled it. The soldier tested the whip against the side of the building, a resounding crack echoing through the compound. The soldier, satisfied, drew the whip back to strike Davis. Davis knew if he uttered a syllable his punishment would increase tenfold, so he resolved to keep quiet no matter how intense the pain became. The warrior had just begun his swing when the door leading to one of the dilapidated buildings burst open, issuing forth a tall creature with flowing black hair and what resembled a crown adorning his head.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” The thing yelled to the soldier with the whip. “Put that whip down and step away from Mr. Martin.” The creature glared at the warrior with an intensity and hatred Davis had never before witnessed. “I will deal with you later. Return to your quarters and await my arrival.”

  The soldier nodded and slunk away with as much dignity as he could muster, not daring to look back over his shoulder. The creature from the building turned to Davis.

  “It seems as if you have already overstayed your welcome, Mr. Martin. I would hate to see you maimed before we can have a sensible chat.”

  Davis glared at the creature, wiping blood from his split lip. He decided to forgo formalities and jump straight into his tirade. “I don’t know who you are or why you brought me here, but I demand an explanation!”

  The Scurrat’kan warrior smiled, revealing brilliantly white, razor-sharp teeth that shone in the false sunlight. “All in due time, Mr. Martin. Why don’t you step inside for a cold drink? The heat here can be murderous at times.”

  The remaining soldier shoved Davis harshly toward the door. The tall creature gestured Davis through the door, shutting it behind them when they had passed through.

  The interior of the building was the complete opposite of the exterior. Everything was minimalistic and simple; the only pieces of furniture in the room were a small desk made of what looked like Kordan and two large chairs. Reams of odd-looking papers were piled on the corner of the desk. Davis assumed them to be military in nature.

  The creature motioned to the room with open arms. “Welcome to my home away from home, Soldier. I hope you like it.”

  Davis turned to look at his captor. “How about that explanation?” he spat fiercely. “Ever since I arrived here I’ve been beaten, bludgeoned, dragged across rock-laden terrain and very nearly whipped. What’s going on here and why am I involved? I know nothing. Just kill me now and get it over with.”

  The creature studied Davis with cold, luminescent yellow eyes, a venomous hate clearly burning within them. “Have a seat, Mr. Martin” the man said, gesturing toward a chair in the corner of the room. Davis did as he was told, wondering how it was that the creature knew his name.

  The creature picked up the chair from the desk and walked over to where Davis was seated, spinning the chair around and resting his arms on the back.

  “I am Warlord Arr’itaoll. This humble operation you see around you is my life’s work.”

  Davis held back a gasp. This was the Warlord of the S
curatt’ka? He wasn’t nearly as impressive as Davis had expected. His garb was little different from the rest of the run-of-the-mill soldiers that dominated the compound outside.

  The Warlord continued. “I was once just like you, Mr. Martin. I thought about everything from an army’s perspective, calculated everything with the rhombus of military might. I came, I fought, I conquered—even within the confines of this planet’s interior.” He bored those yellow eyes deep into Davis’. “You see, soldier, our race is not as much like the cavemen of your past as you might think, nor are we so much different from you. Our culture has been dominated by endless civil wars and excursions of hatred and violence.” He motioned to the door with a scaled hand. “Those soldiers outside would kill me in a second if they thought they could get away with it. My position is coveted above all others, and even though they could never usurp by position due to their inferior births, they would still relish the opportunity to destroy what I command.”

  Arr’itaoll stood from the chair and casually walked over to where Davis was seated.

  “You see this Mr. Martin?” he asked, holding a glistening gold ring in front of his face. “My dear friend gave me this ring many years ago. This is all I have left of him. After I took command of the armies of this underworld, he was murdered by a member of my own command. There was nothing I could do. Needless to say, his existence is no longer on this earth…”

  Arr’itaoll brought his hand to his face, rubbing at his temples in thought. “As you can see Mr. Martin,” he continued after a moment, “the realm of war has taken everything from me. I, however, have a mission to carry out despite this, and bear the world no ill will. Once the humans on the surface have been eradicated, we can begin construction on a new society, one where everyone is equal and the entire planet is shared.”