Gladiator (Women of the United Federation Marines Book 1)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  It wasn’t as if they were a secret, however. Pretty much everyone knew that they two had gone out to town for dinner a couple of times, and they had become somewhat of a thing.

  Not that Tamara knew just what that thing was yet. She liked him and like the attention he gave her, and they’d made out at the theater the Saturday before. She wasn’t sure if he was really a good match for her or if she was just enjoying the relationship part of it, and with a newly reinforced determination to make good in the Corps, she didn’t want anything to get in the way of that. But in the meantime, she planned to enjoy whatever happened between them.

  It doesn’t hurt that he’s easy, oh so easy on the eyes, she thought as the tiniest of smiles creased the corner of her mouth.

  “Took you long enough,” the platoon sergeant said as she finally reached him. “Look, go report to the sergeant major. He’s waiting for you. I’ve got to get back to the lieutenant and the squad leaders. We’re up in about 20.”

  “Will I make it back in time? I want to do this, too.”

  “Well, aren’t we just too precious,” Staff Sergeant Abdálle said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “The thing is, the CO hasn’t confided in me with this, so I think Sergeant Vinter’s just going to have to manage without you. So get your ass in gear and report in, Lance Corporal.”

  “Yes, Staff Sergeant,” she said automatically before she wheeled about and hurried out of the RCET.

  Dummy! she admonished herself. Don’t be too eager. Be professional!

  The battalion CP was a good two klicks from the RCET. There had been a bit of a flurry of interest by the press in her after the holo of her hit the newslines, and she’d given three interviews (under the watchful eye of a public affairs lieutenant colonel, who made her more nervous than the reporters and camrecorders), so Tamara figured this was probably more of the same. That left a problem. She could run to the CP, cutting down the time anyone, reporter or the CO, was waiting for her. But she’d arrive sweaty and with her hair, short as it was, a mess. If it was a reporter, she should look squared away. If it weren’t a reporter, though, appearances would not matter, and she didn’t want to keep the CO waiting.

  Between military and civilian reporters, the military won out. Tamara broke into a fast jog back to the CP. She arrived less than seven minutes later, only slightly winded. She felt strong as she straightened her utilities in the full-length mirror just inside the front hatch of the CP, then hurried on down the passage to the sergeant major’s office.

  She knocked three times on the doorjamb of his open hatch, announcing, “Lance Corporal Tamara Veal, reporting as ordered, Sergeant Major.”

  “Veal! Took you long enough,” the sergeant major said, rising from his seat and coming around the desk.

  The sergeant major was a good four centimeters taller and thirty kilos heavier than Tamara, and he tried to get around her and out the hatch. The fact that she was blocking the way and he was trying to get out didn’t register with Tamara, and she just stood there, expectantly waiting for an order.

  “Can I get out, if you please, Lance Corporal?”

  “Oh, sure, Sergeant Major. Sorry about that,” she replied, jumping out of the way.

  She followed him, one step in back and one to his left, down the passage to the CO’s office.

  “Colonel? Lance Corporal Veal’s here,” the sergeant major said through the open hatch.

  “Send her in,” Tamara heard from inside.

  “Report to the battalion commander,” the sergeant major told her.

  Tamara pulled down the bottom of her utility blouse, very conscious of her disheveled appearance, and then stepped through the hatch with as much confidence as she could muster, centering herself in the position of attention on the CO’s desk.

  “Lance Corporal Veal, reporting as ordered, ma’am!”

  “At ease, Lance Corporal Veal,” the CO said, looking over her desk.

  Tamara had the uneasy feeling that the CO was looking at her as a hawk might watch a mouse, despite the slight smile on the woman’s face.

  “I’m glad we tracked you down. I believe you know Lieutenant Colonel Versace, and that’s Colonel Covington with him,” the CO said, nodding over Tamara’s left shoulder.

  Tamara took that as permission to look around, and it was only then that she noticed the two Marine officers sitting on the couch behind her.

  What’s Versace here for? she wondered. Does he want me back on the team?

  Her heart fell at the thought. She was fitting in with the squad, and she rather liked the feeling. She did not want to leave her fellow Marines, her friends—no, more like her brothers and sisters—to go back to the track team.

  “Lance Corporal Veal, why don’t you take a seat,” Lieutenant Colonel Versace said, indicating a second couch kitty-corner to the one on which he and the colonel were sitting.

  Almost warily, Tamara took the seat, sitting on the edge of the couch at a modified position of attention.

  “Lance Corporal Veal,” the colonel said, “I’m Colonel Covington. I’m the Marine Corps liaison to the Combined Human Single Combat Corps. Do you know that that is?”

  ‘Uh, yes, sir. I know what it is, sir.”

  Tamara was puzzled by the question. Pretty much everyone in human space knew what the CHSCC, or “Chicsis,” was. They were the gladiators, the human champions who fought the Klethos queens in hand-to-hand combat to determine the outcome of the challenges. They fought in single combat instead of both species conducting full-fledged wars. They were basically the defenders of human space.

  How could anyone not know who they are?

  “So, I can imagine you know then why I’m here.”

  What? she thought, her mind racing. What does he want me to say?

  “Not really, sir,” she said after a few moments hesitation.

  “I should think it would be obvious, Lance Corporal, the CO said, interrupting. “The colonel wants you to join the CHSCC. He wants you as a gladiator!”

  Chapter 4

  Tamara sat there in shock, her ramrod position slumping as she tried to take in what the colonel had just said.

  A gladiator? Me?

  “I . . . what . . . ?”

  When she was wondering why she was being summoned to see the CO, she would never have guessed in a million years that she was going to be asked to volunteer to be a gladiator.

  “Why me?” she managed to choke out, momentarily forgetting military courtesy.

  Colonel Covington smiled, then said, “Fair question, Lance Corporal. And yes, this has a lot to do with your latest exploits on Wyxy. But that just brought you to our attention, and that was enough for us to initiate an evaluation.

  “You have proven yourself to be quick on your feet and a fighter, and of course, those are two of the basic parameters we want in a candidate. But there are many more things involved. One of the first things we look at is body mass.”

  “Body mass, sir?”

  “Yes, mass. And do you know why?”

  Like most people, Tamara was vaguely aware of the process of becoming a gladiator, mostly based on the several Hollybolly flicks. She didn’t remember anything about body mass being a prerequisite. In fact, Natyly Jutlin, who had the starring role in last year’s Queen Killer, was not a particularly large actor. Buxom, yes; large, not really.

  “No, sir, I don’t.”

  “You do know that our gladiators are genmodded to match the d’relle queens in size and strength, right?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Well, as you can surmise, it takes a lot more genmodding to bring someone at 100kg to 400kg than someone who starts at 50kg soaking wet. And it’s not just a difference of 50kg. It is a matter of percentage. It takes half as long to build up the 100kg candidate than the 50.”

  “And do you know why this is important, Tamara?” Lieutenant Colonel Rhonendren interrupted, a note of, was it concern, in her voice?

  Tamara didn’t know what scared her most: the
note of concern or the fact that the CO had just called her by her first name.

  The full bird[6] looked slightly annoyed that the CO had interjected herself in the conversation, but he said nothing as LtCol Rhonendren continued with, “Because of the Brick. The longer time it takes in genmodding, the less time a gladiator has to serve humanity. If the Kelthos don’t claim you, the Brick will.”

  Tamara flinched at the CO’s comment. The gladiators are the heroes of mankind, feted and admired. They were the very thin line that protected human space from an all-out war, one that no one thought they could win. But they paid a very heavy price for serving. Their genmodding was very extensive, pushing the very limits of what the human body could endure, and Mother Nature did not take that interference lightly. Gladiators were extremely susceptible to the BRC, Boosted Regeneration Cancer. Even if they were not killed in combat, they had a life expectancy of five years or so after starting genmod.

  “Thank you, Colonel Rhonendren,” Colonel Covington said, although not sounding overly thankful.

  Then to Tamara, “What the colonel said is true, to an extent, but there is more to our analysis that just mass and a warrior spirit. We look at things such as biofeedback, fast-twitch slow/twitch ratios, intracardiac electrophysiology rates, and, well, a host of other measurements. But perhaps most of all, your G-rating. You can be the world’s best athlete, but if you have a low G-rating, the genmodding will just not take root well. And you, Lance Corporal, you are almost off the charts with a 97.4% rating. This is very, very good.”

  He looked at Tamara expectantly, but when she just stared blankly back at him, he shrugged, then continued, “What I mean to say is that you are a prime candidate to fill one of our slots at Malibu, and I think you would make the Corps proud.”

  “Begging the colonel’s pardon, sir, but not everyone thinks Lance Corporal Veal is a prime candidate,” Lieutenant Colonel Versace said, speaking for the first time since Tamara had entered the office.

  “Well, yes, but that is what the official screening’s about,” the colonel said.

  “Lance Corporal Veal, what Lieutenant Colonel Versace is referring to is what he thinks was a lack of desire when you were on the track team. Or to be more specific, how your competitive edge seemed to fade the longer you were on the team. I’d like to hear your take on that, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well, sir,” Tamara started immediately into her set spiel, the one she’d hammered out long ago for just this sort of question. “I joined the Marines to defend the Federation, and while I appreciated being selected to the track team, and I tried to represent the Corps to the best of my abilities, I just thought of the track team as a temporary assignment. I thought it was time to get back to the real Corps.”

  She saw a slight flinch in LtCol Versace’s face when she said “real Corps,” and she regretted that. The colonel had been nothing but supportive of her, and she didn’t want to insult him or his position. And, she realized, that the spiel she had just recited was just that, a spiel. She knew she hadn’t her heart into the track team for her last year or so on it, and she hadn’t known why. She worried that maybe she really didn’t have that competitive spirit.

  “I think that’s sound reasoning,” Colonel Covington said the other two officers. “Of course, I’m just a liaison, not a psychiatrist, so any evals will be done by them, not by me.

  “Lance Corporal Veal, I know this is a lot to take in. But I want you to consider the honor of what is being offered you. This is your chance to serve Corps and Federation in more than just about any other way.”

  “But I would have to leave my platoon?” she asked with a note of sorrow in her voice. “So I won’t be a Marine anymore?”

  Colonel Covington looked surprised at her question, then said, “Well, of course, you will have to leave your present unit. You’ll be on Malibu. But you will still be a Marine. In fact, you’ll get a nice promotion to Warrant Officer, and you’ll be assigned to our detachment there. Why would you think you wouldn’t be a Marine? Remember, Federation Marines have a strong history with the CHSCC. General Lysander was the first gladiator, after all.

  “Look, as I said, I know this is a lot to take in, and the UAM[7] code requires a ten-day cooling off period during recruitment. I’ve got a team standing by to brief you, and after that, we’d like you to go home and visit your family. Talk it over with them. And in ten days, we’ll meet with the commandant himself where you can let us know your decision. Does that sound fair to you?”

  “Uh, yes, sir,” Tamara responded, really not knowing what was fair or not.

  Her world had just been turned upside down. She’d just been offered a death sentence, but one that came wrapped in honor and the chance, a real, honest-to-goodness chance, of serving mankind. She felt a surge of patriotism that was cloaked in a fear of dying, not so much in the gladiatorial ring, but of the Brick.

  “I know you have questions, but why don’t you hold them until after your brief. I’ll meet with you again right after, and then we’ll get you on your way to see your family.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” she said, wondering if that was a dismissal.

  The CO came to her rescue by calling out, “Sergeant Major, why don’t you escort Lance Corporal Veal to your office for a moment and wait there. Then have the duty driver ready to take her to the head-shed for her brief.

  The sergeant major must have been waiting right outside the open hatch because he immediately stuck in his head and said, “Lance Corporal Veal, why don’t you come with me.”

  Tamara dutifully followed the sergeant major back to the office where he indicated a worn couch.

  “Do you want something to drink? I’ve got Coke and Sunset,” the sergeant major asked, opening a small stand-alone cupboard.

  Tamara’s mind was reeling, and her mouth was dust-dry, so she said, “A Coke would be great, Sergeant Major.”

  He pulled out two Cokes and asked, “Twelve OK for you?”

  Tamara liked her Coke really cold, at a 17 at least, but this was the battalion sergeant major, so she said, “Yes, Sergeant Major. A 12 is fine.”

  The sergeant major dialed 12 on the chiller, popped in the two Cokes, and hit the start. Twelve seconds late, the timer rung, and he pulled out the Cokes, handing one to Tamara and popping the top on his. He sat down on the front edge of his desk, facing Tamara, and took a long swallow of his drink.

  Tamara sipped hers a little more hesitantly, but the cold wash down her throat was welcome. It was the first piece of normality to hit her over the last twenty minutes.

  “Kind of a hellacious howdy-do, huh?” the sergeant major asked as he took another swallow.

  “I’d say that’s an understatement, Sergeant Major,” Tamara said.

  She wondered immediately if she’d been too familiar with the sergeant major, but the man simply laughed and said, “You might be right at that.”

  He seemed thoughtful for a moment, then asked, “I know you haven’t had any time to think this over, but what’s going on in that head of yours now?”

  “I can’t rightly say. I mean, I know it’s an honor and all of that, but . . .” she said, trailing off and leaving the rest unsaid.

  “But the Brick is an awful way to go. If you even make it that far.”

  She stared glumly at her Coke as if she could find answers in the labeling.

  “Uh, Sergeant Major, what would you do? I mean if it was you.”

  “I can’t answer that, Veal. Aside from the obvious that it could never be me, I just don’t know. I can wave the flag and all, I can remind you of the Corp’s special position in the Chicsis and give you names like Lysander, Hollis, Singh, and more, but when it boils down to it, this is a personal decision, and one you have to make.” He let out a loud an unapologetic burp, then added, “I’ve faced combat, and I’ve sent men and women to their deaths, but this is not a decision for me or for anyone else.”

  Outside in the passage, Tamara could hear the CO and the other two office
rs talking. A moment later, the CO came into the sergeant major’s office, waving Tamara down as she started to jump up to attention.

  “You got another Sunset in there?” she asked.

  “That’s nine of them, ma’am,” the sergeant major said, pulling one out and popping it into the chiller at 19.

  How cold the CO liked her drink was apropos of nothing with regards to what had just transpired, but Tamara could help but watch the timer tick down. A 19 was almost frozen, and Tamara felt the tiniest bit of kinship with the lofty lieutenant colonel over a shared appreciation for very cold drinks.

  “I’ll get you a case soon, Sergeant Major. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Just reminding you, ma’am. You’ve got a habit of getting too much on your mind,” he said, a smile and an easy tone letting Tamara know this was some of their common banter.

  To Tamara, the sergeant major was next to God, and the CO was God, so it was interesting to see them with their guards down.

  “So, Tamara, what do you think?” the CO asked as the sergeant major handed her the cold Sunset.

  “I don’t know, ma’am. This has all be pretty sudden like.”

  “I can imagine. Look, though. This is your decision. I’m not going to feed you all the bullshit about honor and duty. This is a suicide mission, pure and simple. It might just take a little longer, but that’s what it is.”

  “But doesn’t someone have to do it? To keep us out of the war?”

  “Yes, someone has to do it. But we have over 400 billion people, and we have maybe six or seven battles a year. So don’t feel obligated. If you decide not to volunteer, someone else will. You have to be 100% sure of this decision. If there is any hesitation, then maybe there is a reason for that.”

  Tamara had taken to staring at her Coke again, but as before, no answer magically arose from it.

  “Can I ask the ma’am something?”

  “Yes, you can ask ‘the ma’am,’” the CO said with a smile. “That would be me, I’m guessing.”

  Uh, yes, ma’am. I—well, would you do it? I mean if they asked you?”