Commandant (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 8)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  Ryck turned and led the way back into the inner office. Hailstone followed, ducking through the front hatch.

  “I, well, I’m not sure I have furniture for your size,” Ryck said, unsure of himself and proper protocol.

  “If you want me to sit, sir, I can sit on the floor. I’m used to it. And maybe it will be easier to talk,” the corporal said.

  “Uh, sure, if you think so.”

  Corporal Hailstone smoothly lowered himself into a cross-legged seat, his head now even with Ryck’s.

  He moves like a cat, Ryck noted.

  Not for long, though, Ryck knew. The intensive genmods, all accelerated, would have drastic consequences. Ryck, with his relatively innocuous genmods, had twice come down with the Brick, or Boosted Regeneration Cancer. The gladiators had undergone vastly more invasive procedures, actual genetic modification, and then forced regen. Whatever Peyton Hailstone had been as a boy, he was no longer that person. His body had undergone huge transformations, more than it could possibly accept. Doctors gave this generation of gladiators fewer than four years before the Brick would claim them. And two of those years were in the medical transformation, then the therapy and fight training. This huge, immensely powerful Marine sitting in front of him had probably less than a year to live.

  “And what can I do for you, Corporal?” Ryck asked, unsure why the Marine had requested a meeting.

  “Sir, I’m sorry to bother you. But I want to come back. I want to be a Marine again and fight the Federation.”

  We are the Federation, Ryck thought, but kept quiet.

  “But you are serving all of humanity, son. You’ve gone beyond the Marines.”

  “There’s no such thing as an ex-Marine, right sir? I’m still a corporal.”

  “Well, yes. You’re still a Marine. You are carried on the rolls.”

  “And I want to fight with you, sir. I can help,” he said, a hint of pleading in his voice.

  “I’m sure you can, Peyton. Can I call you Peyton?”

  “Yes, sir, but I’m rather proud of my rank. I earned it.”

  “That you did, Corporal. And I know you can help. But you can’t. I mean you could if it was allowed, but even a Marine has to bow to the treaty. All governments have to contribute gladiators, and no one can interfere with any of you.”

  “But you aren’t interfering. I want to,” Corporal Hailstone protested.

  “And I know you want to. But this is bigger than us. It is bigger than the Corps. We’ve got an agreement with all of humanity.”

  “You fought a d’relle, and you’re still in the Corps,” the corporal said quietly.

  “Yes, I did. But I’m not. . .a. . .I’m not—”

  “You haven’t been made into a freak,” Corporal Hailstone finished for him.

  “Right,” Ryck answered, not bothering with the facade of disagreeing with the corporal’s blunt description of himself. “I’m still mostly me, at least the physical me. A few new limbs, some fiddling around with my hippocampus so I can navigate, but out of uniform, no one would give me a second look. And you, I can’t know what you are feeling, but I can guess.”

  “I’ve probably got one more fight left in me. Even if I win. . .”

  “Do you know when you fight next?”

  “No one knows. It’s up to the Klethos’ challenge. Rock is next, but the schedulers tell me I might be after that, given the last fight.”

  And if he lives, the Brick will be about ready to take over, Ryck thought sorrowfully.

  “Well, sir, I thought I’d try. I’m on home leave now, so I came in. Rock said you couldn’t take me, but you know.”

  “Home leave? But you aren’t from Tarawa.”

  “All Marines are from Tarawa, sir. And Alexander, but, you know. I’m from Respite, but my grandfolks were from Vandum.

  Grubbing hell. Vandum? No wonder he wants to fight.

  “Were? They’re on Respite now?” Ryck asked hopefully.

  “No, they were killed in the fighting. FCDC troopers got them.”

  Ryck shook his head. Twenty-some-odd years ago, there had been one of the periodic strikes on Vandum. The FCDC was sent to suppress the strike, but fighting broke out, and the FCDC went berserk, killing indiscriminately. Some 30,000 civilians, out of a total planetary population of only a million, were killed.

  A thought hit Ryck. He couldn’t take the corporal back into active duty, but maybe he could do something.

  “When is your leave over?”

  “Sir? I’ve got about three weeks left before I’m back into training.”

  I can’t take you back in uniform, not that we have any big enough to you,” Ryck said with a lame-sounding laugh. “But if you want to go with us to a conference as an independent observer, I think we can swing that. There will be other observers from the other governments. I have to check with my SJA, but I think it would be OK.”

  “A conference? About what?” Hailstone asked.

  “I can’t really say. It’s pretty classified. But if you’re ready to go now, why not? We’ll be gone for only two days. Are you interested?”

  “And I’d be traveling with you and other Marines?”

  “That you would.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you, sir. I’d love that. You can count on me,” the corporal said, excitement evident in his voice.

  Ryck called General Devarja, who while he thought it was a bad idea, couldn’t think of why it would be forbidden. Hailstone couldn’t be part of the official Marine party, but he could hitch a ride and observe as an independent at the request of Ryck as the co-head of the provisional government.

  “General, you’ve got 20 minutes,” Vivian reminded him.

  Ryck tilted his head to the speakers and whispered, “She’s worse than my mother.”

  “That’s because you need it, sir,” Vivian’s sharp voice filled the office.

  That elicited a laugh, a surprisingly girlish giggle from the big Marine.

  “Ears like a bat, too,” Ryck whispered even quieter, leaning into the gladiator.

  “Vivian,” Ryck spoke out, returning to his normal voice. “Corporal Hailstone will be hitching a ride with us to wherever we are going. Please let the Navy know. I’m sending him out now, so please ask the Gunny to take him under his wing.”

  Ryck watched Corporal Hailstone stand up in one smooth motion, come to hunched position of attention, then duck out through the hatch. Ryck knew he couldn’t take the man back into serving as a Marine. He could make sure Hailstone was promoted to sergeant, though, before the Brick or some unknown Kelthos queen claimed him. He probably deserved some sort of medal, too. Ryck had received his second Nova for his fight, after all, and he’d just been reacting to the situation. Hailstone, along with the other 100 or so gladiators undergoing genmodding or training, had volunteered, knowing that even if they weren’t killed in training, fighting, or genmod rejection, they would die a pretty horrible death as the Brick ate them alive. And for them, unlike for Ryck and Sams, there was no more regen to keep the Brick at bay.

  He glanced back at the desk to make sure he hadn’t left anything and spotted the package. He was tempted to leave it until he got back, but he still had a couple of minutes, so he pulled the release and the package unfolded, revealing a small case. Flipping open the case revealed a small Bianchi 6mm and a handwritten note:

  Thought you might need this again sometime, and it was taking up too much space in the evidence locker.

  Titus Pohlmeyer, Major, Confederation of Free States Army.

  Ryck picked up the small Bianchi, remembering its feel. It had been given to him by FCDC Major Faustus Rychmont while on New Mumbai. As a diplomat, it had been highly illegal for him to carry it, but it had saved Ryck’s life when he was attacked by two assassins. It had been confiscated by the Confed police, and Ryck hadn’t given it much thought since. But having it in his hand brought back a rush of memories.

  He still didn’t know what game the Confeds were playing. Obviously, they were out
for themselves. But did that include helping the provisional government? Pohlmeyer was more than a mere major. Ryck had known that for years. But in his gut, Ryck trusted him. He hoped the Confederation had their back

  And Ryck appreciated the gesture. It wasn’t a game-changer as none of the Marines were going into the meeting unarmed. They were in a state of war, and Marines were always armed during wartime. Even in his office on Tarawa, Ryck had an M99 and his larger 8mm Ruger within a step or two from his desk. Montero had argued incessantly that going into this meeting armed sent the wrong message, but Ryck overruled him. This was a military matter, and Marines went armed, period. The main security would be from his FCDC troops and the admiral’s own security force, but still, every Marine would have his sidearm with him—with rounds.

  Ryck knew history, and Marines from Beirut to Hades had been sent in by politicians with weapons and no ammunition—with disastrous results. So when Montereo had suggested that, Ryck had immediately cut the man off, restraining himself from leaning over the table to punch him.

  No, the Marines would be armed, and Ryck’s 8mm was far more powerful than the little 2mm in his hand. Still, it felt good there. He slipped it under his blouse and into the small inner pocket. He patted down the spot on the outside, feeling the slight bulge.

  “Gunny Çağlar, you out there?” he shouted, looking at his profile in the mirror. “We need to get moving. We’ve got a mission to accomplish!”

  STUDEVAANT 3

  Chapter 17

  Ryck watched the screen that showed the outside view as the shuttle descended to the planet’s surface. Studevaant 3 was a lifeless, airless planet, and the surface below them was barren and almost featureless. As a “dead” planet, there was no volcanism nor tectonic shifts that would create landforms, and as an orphan, there were few objects in that little bit of the galaxy that could hit it creating craters.

  As a choice for a clandestine meeting, it wasn’t a bad one. It wasn’t the best, either. Ryck could name several better venues, but the loyalists would know of those, too. And the restriction against interdiction foisted on them by the other governments did not hold for stations, only planets.

  The landscape 30 kilometers below the shuttle was colorless given the minimal illumination from the nearest star, but that had its own kind of beauty, Ryck thought. But he knew that on the planet’s surface, it would be a pretty bleak place. A flare below and ahead of them indicated another shuttle was landing. Ryck absently wondered who it was carrying.

  It was ten minutes later before it was Ryck’s shuttle’s turn.

  “Please prepare for landing,” the pilot passed over the intercom before he flared the shuttle to touch gently down at one of three snake causeways that quickly reached out to latch onto the shuttle’s hatch.

  Within 20 seconds, the hatch light showed green, indicating the causeway was pressurized.

  “Let’s move it,” Bert Nidischii’ said as he stood up. “We’ve got a limited time here, so no use wasting any of it.”

  Ryck pulled out his Ruger, checked the load, and re-holstered it before stepping up to the hatch. Bert, Hecs, Çağlar, and he comprised the official Marine Corps party from Tarawa to the conference. Colonel Edison had twenty-two troopers and three Marines for security. And then there was Corporal Hailstone scrunched up in the back of the shuttle, although he was there not as a Marine but as in independent observer.

  “Do you know where to go?” Hecs asked Hailstone.

  “Yes, Sergeant Major. In the back and out of the way, in Row F.”

  And then the hatch opened, and whatever else Hecs had to say was lost as Ryck stepped forward into the cool causeway. The center was at a reasonable temperature, but Ryck could feel the cold emanating from the causeway’s walls. Ryck had used the snakes only a few times in his career, given that they tended to be temporary, and the unfortunate name, in Ryck’s opinion, brought to mind images of crawling down some huge serpent’s throat to its stomach. He hoped the image would not prove to be prophetic.

  A moment later, Ryck was passing through the inner airlock, which was already open to the station. Two Navy ratings came to present arms as a civilian functionary rushed forward to guide Ryck and the others to the elevators.

  The Studevaant 3 station was located some 70 meters underground where it was better insulated from the bitter cold of the planet’s surface. That depth coincidently shielded the station from almost any shipborne weapon, Ryck knew. Perhaps it was not so coincidental. Ryck had no idea as to the station’s scientific purpose, but it made a pretty good bunker.

  The elevator came to a stop, and their guide hurriedly led them down a passage to a guarded set of double doors.

  “The conference will start in a few moments,” the guide said as he stepped aside.

  The conference room was surprisingly large. There was a stage in the front, then at least 500 chairs arranged theater-style. Why a simple research station needed something like this was beyond Ryck, and he became convinced that the science was just a cover for whatever purpose the station really held.

  That was all well and good, but if the Third Fleet knew this place had another purpose, then so would the First Fleet. That would elevate it as a potential meeting site, raising it on the list of potential loyalist targets. It would have been impossible to completely hide that something was going to take place, no matter how tight the security had been. Despite only four men knowing the details of the meeting beforehand, leaks had to have happened. More than that, however, loyalist AIs could monitor comms patterns and movement of people well enough to surmise that. The security of the conference relied on keeping the Federation in the dark as to just what was taking place and where.

  Given that half of the Third Fleet was around and near the planet, it wouldn’t take very long at all for the loyalists to determine just where the event was taking place. It may not be the entire Third Fleet gathering around, but still, the loyalists would soon know that something big was up, and with the number of people now involved, leaks had to have occurred. And now that foreign governments had been invited only two days ago, with reps to be picked up by Navy ships, that word had to have reached the loyalists.

  Many people were already in their seats, but more were milling about the aisles, shaking hands and chatting. One man saw Ryck and immediately approached him.

  “Prime Minister de Misterie, it is good to meet you,” Ryck said, extending a hand to the Civilian Advisory Council member from the Kingdom of Hiapo.

  With their economic might and their history of four Federation chairmen, the Kingdom held a pretty powerful position within the Federation. Having them supporting the provisional government had been a coup, one rewarded with the prime minister being offered the position in the CAC. He wasn’t the king, who traditionally never left the planet and who would have been even more impactful, but as a career politician, the prime minister was a good second choice.

  “And it’s good to meet you, too, General. I’m sorry we won’t have time for socializing, but I think a person can tell the mettle of a man even in a short time.”

  The conference was scheduled for six hours. That was because of security concerns. The loyalists would be able to discover where the conference was taking place, but by the time the loyalists could hope to launch some sort of strike deep within evolutionary territory, the participants would be long gone.

  “Admiral Chandanasiri and I will have a short meeting with the five of you before we kick out of here, so I hope we’ve formed a lasting bond before we part,” Ryck said.

  Boy did that sound lame, he thought. I never said I was a good smoocher.

  “Yes, let us hope. Well, I think we’re about to kick this off, and there’s no time to waste, as they say,” the prime minister said, giving a little half bow, then making his way around Ryck to his assigned seat.

  He was followed by his personal kao’o’e, or King’s bodyguard, a huge man wearing traditional Hawaiian clothing and carrying a lei-o-nano, or war clu
b, complete with real shark teeth, if Vivian’s brief had been accurate. The prime minister had two more conventional bodyguards as well, but Ryck thought that the kao’o’e might be able to make himself noted should it ever come down to an assault on his charge. For a non-royal to have a kao’o’e was considered a sign of direct royal favor.

  “I think that has to be the second biggest man in the room after Corporal Hailstone,” Bert whispered in Ryck’s ear as they made their way forward to their seats. “He could probably fight a Klethos queen without modification.”

  “He probably is modified,” Ryck said.

  Several more people offered a quick handshake and hello as Ryck moved forward. At the start of the second row, Michiko MacCailín was standing and speaking with two others.

  “Governor, I’m glad to see you made it,” Ryck said, catching her attention.

  “After all I put you through, I wouldn’t miss it, General.”

  Ryck took her proffered hand, but the tough-looking bodyguard-type standing next to her caught his attention. Something about the man tickled the recesses in the back of his mind.

  “And I believe you know my chief of security, Seth MacPruitt?” she added.

  Grubbing hell! It is him!

  “Uh, yes. Mr. MacPruitt and I go back a long ways, actually,” he said, “We went to Charles together, that’s our recruit training base, and then Sergeant MacPruitt taught me hand-to-hand combat on Alexander.

  “It’s good to see you again, Seth,” Ryck said, reaching out to take the former Marine’s hand.

  “Ma’am, I’d better go check with the team, now. I’ll be back to escort you when the meeting is done,” MacPruitt said, ignoring Ryck and wheeling about to make his way back to the exit.

  The governor laughed and said, “He’s a bit prickly at times, but he’s capable and extremely loyal. He’s not a big fan of you, though, from what he’s told me.”

  “I gather that,” Ryck said, feeling foolish and more than a little ticked.

  “Well, I’d like to touch base with you after the main meeting, if we can, governor,” Ryck said before moving on to his assigned seat in the front row.