The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins: The Complete Series: Books 1-5

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  “You think? You’d better know. Once you leave, there’s the reserves, but coming back into the active forces will be pretty tough.”

  “I know, First Sergeant.”

  He’d had more than a few talks with her, the last only two days prior at his house. She’d been pushing for him to reenlist, he knew, even if she’d tried to simply be a sounding board. He was also pretty sure that Miriam had told Fierdor everything, and he would have told his wife, so she undoubtedly knew to the credit what he’d get paid working for his uncle.

  “Let me see if the skipper’s free,” she said, sending him a message.

  Her PA bonged, and she told him, “Two minutes.”

  “Your CPM1 has gotten through the board, and it’s just waiting for the commandant’s signature.”

  His command thought Noah’s action on St. Gallen deserved an award, but evidently, there had been much debate as to just what to give the Anvil’s crew. A Silver Star, or possibly a Navy Cross, had been discussed, at least that was the scuttlebutt, but some of the Old Corps types thought that as the Anvil wasn’t facing an enemy, exactly, a combat award wasn’t appropriate. In the end, the three of them had been put in for the Civilian Protection Medal First Class, which was given for saving lives at the risk of their own. The award was pretty rare, and now Noah would have both the First Class and Second Class CPM’s, possibly the only such Marine so honored.

  Noah would be happy with that, and he was pretty sure Llanzo and WB would be, too, and he asked, “That’s official? I’d like to tell the other two.”

  “Sergeant Major Çağlar himself called me with the news.”

  “The Sergeant Major? How is he?”

  “How is he? I sure don’t know, but I imagine he’d take your call to find out,” the first sergeant said, one of the very few times she’d referred to Noah’s place as a Lysander.

  Sergeant Major Çağlar had been his father’s friend, Man Friday, and confidant. He was the last person to see Noah’s father and mother before they’d taken off on their final flight. He’d just been assigned as the Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps a few months prior. Noah could call him up, he knew, but ever since he’d enlisted, he’d tried to avoid his father’s posse.

  “Sergeant Lysander, come on in,” the skipper called out.

  Noah stood up, followed by the first sergeant, and as the Second Platoon commander left the skipper’s office, he entered.

  “So, Sergeant Lysander. It’s decision time. I know we spoke last week about your options, and First Sergeant St. Cloud has briefed me that she’s spoken to you at length. I know you’ve got your tracks greased for a pretty sweet job, but all I can say is that a salary isn’t the most important thing in life. Duty, I’d say, is more important, right First Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I think you can have a great future in the Corps, Sergeant. You’re a shoe-in for Staff Sergeant next year, and who knows after that?”

  Noah wasn’t sure if the captain was asking him a question or not, so he said nothing.

  “Well, uh, of course, you know that. I’m sure you’ve considered everything, and so let me just say, I only wish you the best in your future. I’ve been honored, Sergeant, honored,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “Thank you, sir,” Noah answered. “And I’ve been honored as well, and I’m so grateful that you made me the TC for the Anvil II.”

  “You earned it, Sergeant.

  “Well, if that’s all over, let’s get this done,” the skipper continued, picking up the Unit Diary. “Lysander, Noah,” he muttered, swiping the face. “OK, here we are. This is your Form 308. I need to inform you that this is a legal document,” he began, reading from a script. “Once your intent has been entered and you’ve been scanned, it is binding, subject to the provisions of the UCMJ. The subject Marine has 24 hours to rescind his or her decision . . . well, you don’t, Sergeant, given how late you’ve delayed . . . after which time this form will become part of the official United Federation Marine Corps records.

  “So, any questions?” he asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “OK, then let’s get it done,” he said, handing the diary to Noah.

  Noah looked at the form. It was pretty straight-forward. His service information was listed at the top, and there was some military legalese at the bottom, but the bulk of the form simply had two boxes. The first was to be checked if he wished to reenlist, and it was annotated that his reenlistment had already been approved by HQMC. The second box indicated that he wished to decline his reenlistment and wished to be released from active duty on his EAS.

  Noah had seen holo service contracts that were more complicated. It seemed odd to him that a Form 308 was such a simplistic document, but one with such heavy implications.

  He stared at it for a moment, then thought, I hope I’m making the right decision. He reached forward and affixed his thumb, indicating his choice.

  A yellow light in the image of an eye flashed, and Noah held the unit up and looked right at it. There was a chime, and the eye turned to green. It was done.

  “Well, thank you for your service,” the skipper said, taking the diary.

  “Don’t forget the reserves, Sergeant,” the first sergeant added. “You’ve still got 90 days to decide on that.”

  Noah didn’t say a word. A feeling of calm had swept over him, taking away the stress of the last month. He’d made his decision, and for good or bad, it was done.

  “So, if there is anything . . . wait. It says here you reenlisted, Sergeant,” the skipper said, sounding confused.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But, I was led to believe that you were going to get out to take that cush job with your uncle,” he said, looking at the first sergeant.

  “I’d considered that, sir, and it was tempting. But what you said about duty was right, and when it comes down to it, I can’t imagine leading a life as anything other than a United Federation Marine.”

  ESTHER’S STORY: SPECIAL DUTY

  WINSTED

  Chapter 1

  Captain Esther Lysander, United Federation Marine Corps, plummeted towards the planet’s surface, her heart pounding in her chest. The shell surrounding her started to glow as the heat built up. She was not a happy camper at all as the vibration grew, and the vessel that had carried her across the Black began to disintegrate.

  “Come on, Lysander, just keep it together,” she said out loud, her voice cracking after several days of disuse.

  Esther had made several HALO drops from Space Guard ships, and they had been a fun kick-in-the-ass. None of those jumps had prepared her for this, however. She didn’t consider herself claustrophobic, but getting locked into a tiny one-man Inert Atmospheric Insertion Capsule, or “duck egg,” at the outer edge of the system and shot like a railgun round at the planet had wreaked havoc on her nerves. The blood thinners given to her to fight deep vein thrombosis had the side effect of keeping her more alert, exacerbating her stress. Her father had often told sea stories about his duck egg inserts, but his had always been with another Marine, and none of them had taken the 68 hours that Esther had been alone with nothing but her imagination.

  And now, fully alert as she plunged thought the atmosphere, her imagination was working overtime. A thousand things could go wrong, and any of them would result in her component atoms being spread over half of the continent far below her.

  Shouldn’t this stupid thing be releasing me by now? she wondered as the vibrations increased.

  If the duck egg’s outer shell didn’t completely disintegrate, she wouldn’t be spread out over the continent, just sunk ten or twenty meters deep into the dirt at one location. Either way, she wouldn’t be around to know.

  In most ways, being inserted by duck egg wouldn’t have seemed like an odd endeavor a few months ago while she was with Recon. There was nothing unusual about that. But when she’d accepted the APOC orders, this had been pretty far from her mind. She wasn’t sure what she’d envisioned,
but playing secret agent wasn’t it. She hadn’t even known what her orders had meant; when she had accepted the APOC orders, she hadn’t known whether the “C” designated “At the pleasure of the commandant” or “At the pleasure of the chairman.”

  It turned out that the “C” meant “chairman.” Esther was a Marine, but she was being controlled by the man himself. Not that she had met him. All her contacts so far had been made out of a non-descript office in a non-descript building in a non-descript Martian industrial park.

  And now, she was hurtling towards a meeting in the jungle wilds of Winsted, hoping to connect with the Sword of the People, an insurgent group attempting to overthrow the government. The young woman back on Mars who’d briefed her hadn’t minced words. The Sword of the People weren’t nice folks. The Federation had been tied up in legal battles with the government of the independent world, however, and the chairman would be happy to see a new government, one that owed the Federation a favor, put into power.

  The vibration of her egg increased, and Esther thought she’d be shaken apart. Something was wrong—until it wasn’t, and the green LED lit up. She had only a few seconds to tuck into position before the egg split open, thrusting her into the atmosphere with a blow that knocked her dizzy. She held position, knowing that an errant limb could get broken with the force. Within a few moments, she had stabilized and was slowing down. Carefully, she extended into the age-old freefall position and started the next phase of the long insertion.

  OK, we’re good now, she thought with relief. Just a little freefall, a little glide, and we’re home free.

  At 10,000 meters high, Esther had a good view over hundreds of kilometers in all directions. Still in daylight, which better hid the light of the duck egg’s entry, she could see the line of dusk approach below her. Somewhere in the growing darkness, at a spot she couldn’t see but to where she was trusting her foil AI to get her, someone from the Sword of the People would be waiting. Esther hoped he or she would be waiting with good intentions.

  Esther’s entire descent was out of her hands, from the deployment of the foil to the glide path that would take her to the DZ. If something went wrong with the system, she had an emergency ripcord, but if that happened, the rendezvous was off, and she’d have to exfiltrate to her safe house for further instructions.

  Right about now, she told herself, hand edging to the manual ripcord, but five seconds later, her foil automatically deployed, jerking her descent, her legs flailing high until she swung back down.

  Her hands rose instinctively to take the controls, forgetting for a moment that for this jump, she was simply a passenger. With a rueful smile, she brought her hands back down and settled in for the ride. Even without control of her descent, this was a hundred times better than being in the duck egg. At least she could see where the foil’s guidance was taking her.

  Esther’s AI was the only powered piece of gear with her, and it was heavily shielded. Both the positioning system and the steering of the foil were entirely mechanical, which was an amazing piece of tech. An active system was literally child’s play, something children’s toys had used for centuries. A passive system like this, with this degree of accuracy, was a far greater technical achievement.

  The foil, with its 30 to 1 glide ratio, enabled Esther to cover a lot of territory, and between the rotation of the planet and her own progress, she passed over ground already shrouded into darkness. She was still in the light, however, and could be visible to prying eyes below her. At 1,500 meters, she, too, dropped out of the sunlight, which was a relief.

  Seven minutes later, she took over from the little foil AI, flaring out for a standing landing. She was on the ground.

  This was Esther’s first APOC mission, and she wasn’t feeling the comfort level. The three-week mini-course she’d completed on the remote Gryphon II did not a superspy make. To be honest, she still wasn’t 100% sure just what her job was. Not for this specific mission, which seemed straightforward, but her overall job description. As a Marine, she’d have thought that she would be some sort of assistant or eyes and ears on military matters, not making clandestine rendezvous with insurgents in the middle of the jungle.

  Esther turned on the foil’s self-destruct. An extremely low current flowed from the battery, too weak to be picked up by all except for the most powerful surveillance devices. The molecules in the foil, however, picked it up and oriented in long strands, strands that almost immediately began to separate and break apart. Within two minutes, not much was left of it.

  “Rey Alamosa?” a voice called out from the dense jungle surrounding the small DZ.

  Esther wanted to reach for her Brockmaster, the sweet carbine that was still strapped to her thigh, but she resisted, saying, “Yes, that’s me.”

  A few moments later, a man stepped out into the DZ, twenty meters away. Six more soldiers followed him, all pointing weapons at her as they approached.

  “I’m Comrade Blue,” the leader said as he reached her, neglecting to offer a hand.

  “And I’m Rey Alamosa,” Esther replied.

  Which was all pretty stupid, she thought. She’d spoken to General Simone several times before leaving for Mars. Between the two of them, they’d decided that while she had an excellent combat record, she’d been offered these orders because of who she was, namely daughter of Ryck Lysander, former Commandant of the Marine Corps and Chairman of the Federation. More immediately pertinent to the Sword of the People, her father had been the leader of the Evolution. Her pedigree was considered an asset. It could also be a liability, however. She might be there as Rey Alamosa, Federation Citizen, but she wasn’t the most inconspicuous person in human space. The Sword of the People didn’t need to access the secure Federation databases to see that “Rey Alamosa” was the duly registered DBA for Esther Lysander.

  And from the expression on Comrade Blue’s face, he knew exactly who she was.

  But from her “spy mini-course,” she knew there was a legal reason for this. She might be on the planet as Rey Alamosa, and she might have been inserted without going through proper channels, but if she was compromised, the encrypted data dump from the chip in her wrist could be sent to the Fifth Ministry which would confirm who she was. Under the arcane rules of the Smythetown Agreement, this made her a registered agent, subject to certain protections, and not a spy outside of the accords. Her “Rey Alamosa” chip allowed her to move about freely, but it also made her a legal entity of the Federation, sort of a legal spy.

  As opposed to an illegal spy, Esther had thought when she’d been told this.

  Being a Marine was much more cut and dried, but while this and other aspects of her new job seemed crazy to her, they still were a little exciting to a girl who’d grown up watching every spy flick to come out. She might not be Rebeth Tsung, Shadow Spy, but still . . .

  It was pretty obvious that this Comrade Blue knew who she was, but he didn’t correct her. Even with insurgents, she guessed there were rules for this kind of things, formalities to observe.

  “I’ve been asked to meet you, Mz. Alamosa. I need to tell you, though, that you’re wasting your time. We have no interest in throwing off the yoke of the Dupris government only to accept the Federation’s yoke.”

  Well, that’s a fine hello, Esther thought.

  She’d been briefed that some of the insurgents were essentially anarchists, and most were wary of the Federation, but that Comrade Brown (who had been identified as a Dr. Tor Allison, a former linear calculus professor on Watter’s World) had initiated the first contact. Esther was supposed to meet with him and his staff as part of the glad-handing necessary to seal the deal.

  “The F . . . the people I represent have no wish to yoke anyone. I’m here to learn about you and your cause and see where we can help you achieve your goals. We believe in self-determination of all peoples.”

  Esther didn’t need to see the roll of the man’s eyes to see how that statement was being received. She’d almost choked herself when she’
d said it.

  “Your, uh ‘people’s’ past history would lead me to believe that you are blindly mistaken at best or a damned liar at worst. Either one doesn’t make me inclined to cooperate with you in any way.”

  When Esther didn’t respond, he added, “I might as well shoot you right here and bury you in the mulch. Jump accident, you know.”

  Esther had to keep back a smile. She wasn’t particularly concerned with the threat, which she knew was a test. He might want to do that, but he couldn’t afford to antagonize the Federation. But by saying “jump,” she knew he had no idea how she’d been inserted. He probably thought there was a stealth aircraft hovering overhead somewhere.

  When she didn’t say anything, he said, “So let’s say we allow you to assist us, how do we know you won’t desert us like you did the Gravitors?” Comrade Blue asked.

  Good question. We did leave them in the lurch, she had to admit.

  The Gravitors was a small band of agnostics who chaffed at the Brotherhood’s “benevolent” control. They’d received financial, public relations, and military equipment support from the Federation’s Fourth Ministry—which had lasted until the Third Ministry reached an unpublicized agreement with the Brotherhood. Without Federation support, the Brotherhood Potestates quickly rounded them up and shipped them off to re-think camps where their “counter-thoughts” would be exorcised. Neither the Federation nor the Brotherhood had admitted that the Federation had been even peripherally involved, but not much escaped the myriad of tentacles prowling the undernet.

  For a moment, Esther was tempted to hold to the party line, but looking at Comrade Blue’s face, she knew that would slam shut a door that might never be reopened.

  “Winsted is not the Brotherhood, Comrade Blue,” she simply said instead.

  It might not reflect well upon the Federation, but she hoped the pragmatic aspect of what she was saying would sink in. Winsted, an independent world on the edge of human space, was not the Brotherhood, and the Federation was not as concerned as to how the planet’s central government would react to Federation interference. Sure, the Winsted president could complain to the United Assembly of Man. Despite a small resurgence of support for the UAM over the course of the Klethos War, however, it took that august body an inordinate amount of time in deciding just what salad dressing to serve at the UAM cafeteria, much less take action against the largest—and still most powerful—government in the galaxy.