Gladiator (Women of the United Federation Marines Book 1)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  “You’re not doing so well yourself,” she countered. “Have you made it back with the pack even once?”

  A cloud seemed to form over Elei’s eyes for a moment. Tamara knew she should apologize, but she couldn’t. And that wasn’t fair. Over the last week of the course, they had become friends, and after Jonna, Elei was probably her closest friend.

  “No, not once. But we are never going to race a d’relle, only fight her. So, shall we dance again?” Elei asked, turning her blade on once more and bringing it up in a salute.

  Tamara turned her blade back on, and the two clashed several more times. Tamara even scored win, the AI giving her credit for a crippling blow. Combatmaster Hallen stood by during one more fight, observing, but he said nothing as Elei notched another kill.

  Both women stopped to get a drink when the outer doors opened, and a tall, but wasted figure in a hover chair came into the gym.

  “That’s Fleetwood Andrews,” Elei said unnecessarily.

  Fleetwood Andrews was the last remaining male gladiator. He’d been in the last group of men to be genmodded, just before the gender switch. Because of the hiatus in fights, he’d never been assigned a mission. He’d been genmodded for nothing. He’d stayed on at CHSCC as an instructor for as long as his body held out. Now, his wasted body confined to a hover chair, he was just marking time until the Brick claimed him, the last of his kind.

  One by one, the groups of women stopped fighting to watch Fleetwood maneuver his chair to the bleacher area. Tamara couldn’t take her eyes off of him. He looked horrible, as if the Brick had already killed him a year ago, and now his corpse was somehow reanimated, a zombie.

  “Young ladies, please continue,” the combatmaster shouted out.

  Slowly, the women got back to their training, but everyone seemed to be conscious of Fleetwood as he watched them practice. The gladiators tended to avoid Area 1, where the candidates lived and trained, so any gladiator excited interest. But Fleetwood, was, well Fleetwood, a famous, if tragic figure.

  Tamara tried to focus on Elei, but her attention was on Fleetwood. She kept looking over at the man. When the combatmaster went over to talk to the gladiator, she dropped all pretense of training, and simply stood, staring at them.

  “I heard that the braided gladiators offered him his hair, but he refused,” Elei said as she stood beside her.

  Gladiators “received their hair,” as they called it, when they were assigned their first fight. Each gladiator chose her colors, and together with her sisters, had it done at a beauty shop out in town. Once a gladiator fought—and survived—she braided one strand of hair that hung down the left side of her face. If she fought twice and survived, she added another braid. As this tradition didn’t start until Celeste hit the scene, no men had it done. So to offer it to Fleetwood was simply an honor, like an honorary doctorate.

  “I would have refused it, too,” Tamara said, not sure she really would have.

  Combatmaster Hallen realized he had lost the class, so he called an end to the session.

  “Come one, I want to meet him,” Elei said, pulling on Tamara’s arm as other candidates started flowing to the bleachers.

  Tamara pulled back, resisting.

  “Come on, what’s the matter with you?”

  “I don’t want to go,” she said. “He’s going to be mobbed, and in his condition . . .”

  “His condition? Don’t you think he wants to meet us? Why would he come if he didn’t?”

  “You two coming?” Jonna asked with Gert D’Amato, her fight partner, as they passed the two of them.

  “No, really. If you want to go, fine. But I don’t want to bother him,” Tamara told Elei.

  “OK, suit yourself. But I want to meet him. I doubt we’ll have too many more opportunities,” Elei said as she left Tamara standing there.

  Not too many opportunities because he’ll be dead of the Brick, Tamara thought.

  She slowly made her way behind her fellow candidates, then slipped out the door into the welcoming embrace of the afternoon sun. She took several deep breaths, calming herself.

  Too many candidates mobbing him had only been an excuse. She didn’t want to meet Fleetwood because she feared him, or feared what he’d become. What she’d become if she survived the ring.

  She had volunteered to become a gladiator, and by doing so, she knew she had a very limited lifespan. The thought of dying in the ring fighting a queen was sobering, but she wasn’t too upset or worried about the idea. But surviving the ring and then facing the cold hands of the Brick frightened her to no end. This was the nightmare that woke her up at nights.

  Chapter 11

  “The lateral tendons are a weak spot in a d’relle’s legs,” Dr. Cheboi said as Gail’s outer skin went transparent, and the candidates could see the inner workings of her legs.

  “While these allow the stored energy to unleash tremendous power in front kicks, they offer little in the way of lateral support. No less than 18 victories in the ring have come from disabling the knees in this manner, crippling the d’relle first.”

  Gail performed several deep-knee bends, the tendons glowing fluorescent pink so there could be no mistaking them. Dr. Cheboi stepped forward, half the height of Gail, and mimicked striking the sides of the knee.

  “Do we really know the exact placement of the tendons?” Grammarcy Regent asked as the class collectively groaned.

  Grammarcy was a springbutt, the worst in the class, always asking questions, mostly inane or, as in this case, something that had been answered time and time again.

  “Ooh, one more and I’ve got bingo!” Jonna whispered.

  With so many springbutts—Grammarcy was just the most prominent—quite a few of the candidates had started playing Springbutt Bingo. A table was drawn with three rows up, three rows across, making nine separate boxes. In each box, a candidate’s name was written. If that person asked a question in class, the holder of that bingo sheet marked that box as filled. Jonna and Tamara had only recently found out about the game, but they had eagerly joined, paying 10 credits per game played.

  Tamara glanced at Jonna’s PA. She had two of the diagonal boxes filled. If she got her bottom right box filled, she’d win the pot of 230 credits. Tamara couldn’t quite make out whose name was in that bottom box, but she hoped it was one of the quieter candidates. She didn’t wish Jonna bad luck, but she wanted to win once herself.

  “As I’ve mentioned, several times now, the Klethos simulacrum was designed after countless man hours of analysis. Gail’s outer form is a pretty accurate depiction of an actual d’relle, but as to the inner workings, well, the Klethos are not about to give up one of their d’relle for us to autopsy. We do have the bodies of the basic warriors recovered on Tri-30, but just as a gladiator’s genmodded body is a far cry from that of a normal human’s, so a d’relle’s physical workings are probably different from that of a normal Klethos.

  “However, based on the bodies we do have, and from analyzing recordings of each fight, we think Gail is a pretty accurate construct.

  “So now, unless there are any more questions?” Dr. Cheboi asked, pausing to look out over the class.

  Jonna quickly looked past Tamara to stare at Elei as if waiting. Then it struck Tamara why.

  Ha! Fat chance! Elei’s never asked a question in class!

  “So, watch while Gail kicks forward,” Dr. Cheboi continued, instructing the simulacrum to kick out. “If a d’relle connects solidly with this type of kick, it could disembowel a gladiator and end the fight right there.”

  “They should just genmod us with stronger guts, like steel,” Jonna whispered.

  “They can’t. Protocol Six,” Tamara reminded her.

  “Yeah, I know, but still . . .” Jonna said, trailing off to nothing.

  Protocol Six was the self-imposed limit as to how capable, and how vulnerable, a gladiator was. A human could be modified to the point where they would practically be invulnerable to a Klethos queen. But as with the g
ladiators in combat suits, once the Klethos realized the deck was stacked against them, they would demand a change, with the threat of all-out war if their demand was not met. So the gladiators were genmodded to allow them to compete with a d’relle, but still leave them vulnerable enough that they could lose. It made sense from the long view of the situation, but it almost meant that a certain number of gladiators were essentially being sacrificed for the greater good.

  Tamara turned back towards the stage where Dr. Cheboi was sending Gail through a series of kicks. It was sometimes hard to believe that Gail was simply a wind-up doll—a very sophisticated and expensive wind-up doll—but still a doll. If you could forget how Dr. Cheboil made parts of her skin transparent when he wanted the candidates to understand the physiology of a real d’relle, Gail looked like a living, breathing creature. She was the pinnacle of Dreamworks-Huawei technology, and she cost the same as a small planet’s GDP.

  During Module 3, the gladiators would fight other simulacrums, but much cheaper ones which merely moved like a d’relle, not one that had all the inner organs and bones like Gail. Fighting them sounded like fun, and Tamara looked forward to it. As usual, though, she refused to think of what happened before that, in Module 2. She had to agree to enter Module 2 first, and then go through a successful genmod.

  She looked over past Jonna to Beth. The seat beside Beth was empty. Oda had quit the day before. Beth had seemed to take it OK, but to have your roomie quit like that had to raise questions. Tamara had made it a practice to ignore Module 2, to act as if it didn’t exist. Jonna was the same way, but while they discussed life as a gladiator, they never mentioned that first necessary step. If they didn’t think about it, they couldn’t brood over it and start having second thoughts.

  Thirteen candidates had already fallen to those doubts and quit. The class was getting smaller, and they were still in the first third of Module 1.

  Chapter 12

  Beth waved from the table she’d staked out, and Tamara and Jonna made their way through their fellow candidates to join her. Tamara had thought the two of them would be among the first to arrive, but there were already at least 25 of their fellow candidates there, most looking like they’d gotten good start on the night. Tamara nodded to several of them as she scooted between the scattered tables; she’d touch base with all of them before the night was over, but for now, she wanted to start with Beth and Elei.

  “I’ve ordered a pitcher of Wolfshead Red, if you don’t mind. Might as well go supreme, and it’s not like we don’t have the money.”

  And this will be our last night with alcohol, Tamara thought, unwilling to say it out loud.

  “Where’s Elei?” Jonna asked as she slid onto the bench seat next to Beth.

  “In the head. She’s hurting a bit after stuffing herself at the banquet.”

  “Oh, jeez! Me too. That was some feast,” Tamara said, patting her still-full stomach.

  “The tacos were the best,” Jonna said. “I think I’ll miss them the most.”

  The three women were silent for a moment, afraid to say more about what else they would be missing after the first of them started the genmod process tomorrow.

  Genmodding and regen were very broad processes. Someone could go in for a skin color change, a straighter nose, or even a double row of teeth (Tamara had never understood that particular craze) and go home the next day. Within a month or so, and with no regen, the change would be completed, and there would be no other effects. A battle-wounded Marine could go into boosted regen to replace limbs, and after nine months, they would be good as new, even if he or she now had a greater chance of contracting the Brick. But a gladiator went through a much more radical genmod that wrought huge changes on her body, and then the regen went into overdrive to make the changes actually grow.

  The basic processes were the same, but just as a Cali and a Hyundai were both hovers, the Hyundai was a higher class and needed more care. If the person wanting purple skin was the Cali, the wounded Marine was the Hyundai. And that made the gladiator a Bugatti: an amazing machine, but a very temperamental one that needed lots and lots of care.

  Once the candidates started the process, alcohol was out of the question, as were spicy, high fat, and acidic foods. No more beer, no more tacos, no more orange juice. So tonight, the last night of Module 1, the traditional banquet had been served with a huge array of food. And now, all of the candidates were gathering at the Moldy Lion to celebrate or drown their sorrows, depending on their frame of mind. Seventy-nine were still in the class, and Tamara expected all seventy-nine to show up.

  Elei made her way out of the head, looking sheepish as she sat down with a groan.

  “I lost most of what I’d eaten,” she admitted ruefully. “And it didn’t taste so good the second time around.”

  “No problem,” Ronna said. “I’ve ordered a pizza from Gary’s, and it’ll be here in an hour. So now you have room for it.”

  Tamara groaned when she heard that, but she was intrigued. Gary’s pizza? She might be able to nibble on a piece.

  Several more women came in, including Captain Tolbert. Tamara knew she’d have to share a beer with her. They had not become particularly close during Module 1, but along with Beth, they were all three Marines, and that bond still held strong.

  Tamara was becoming very close with her fellow candidates, but she would rather have spent her final night with her family back on Orinoco. But while the candidates were told they were free to do what they wished, going home was not an option. The only way to do that was to quit the program. The consensus was that the powers that be knew that if they went home just before Module 2, too many candidates would simply not return. Someone like Angela Timothy, sitting at the next table, for example, would be extremely vulnerable. Angela had two young children, and seeing them might be too much for her. The Federation wouldn’t even nominate a candidate if she had children, but Wayward Station, where Angela was from, evidently didn’t have the same restrictions.

  The next couple of hours were filled with drinking, eating (Tamara managed to put down three pieces of pizza, to her surprise), laughing, and a few tears. At one point, a pitcher of beer showed up unasked. The waiter pointed to a table in the back at which four men sat.

  The five women (they’d been joined by Grammarcy as she made the rounds) lifted up their steins in a toast.

  “Paramours,” Grammarcy said with a hint of disdain.

  The Moldy Lion was a large tavern, with seating for at least 400 in all three areas. All 79 candidates were now there, mostly congregated in the upper loft, and they seemed to take up the most area. But scattered along the periphery of the loft, and in the tables below the loft, were quite a few men, most nursing a drink as they watched the candidates.

  “Remember us after Module 2,” one of them shouted out, only to be hushed by one of his companions.

  “Too late for that then,” Jonna, who was pretty far gone to the beer, muttered. “After they cut the heat out of us.”

  “Shit, Jonna,” Elei said. “Do you have to remind us about that?”

  “Cutting the heat out” was the slang for the genmod neutering. Working ovaries and the uterus would not survive the process. Not only that, but estrogen would be minimalized, and the nerves that transmitted sexual pleasure would be deadened. With no desire and a lack of stimulation, gladiators would be sexless. For some of the gladiators, this was their biggest sacrifice, bigger than their eventual death in the ring or to the Brick.

  The given reason for this was that the reproductive system was so full of active stem cells that they would take a huge portion of the genmod process and be far more susceptible to the Brick that it was minimalized for the gladiators’ health and welfare. Very few of the candidates believed that, feeling control was more of an issue. But no one still in the course complained about it.

  There were rumors that some gladiators did, well, partake with one or more of the paramours who hung around like junkyard dogs looking for scraps, but i
f they did, they couldn’t get physical pleasure from the act. It could only be a psychological benefit.

  As usual for her, Tamara tried not to think about things that could upset her, so she tried not to think about having the heat cut out of her. Her experience with men was extremely limited, mostly because of her shyness and a lack of many opportunities. On one hand, she wished she’d had some experiences, but on the other hand, she thought it might be best if she simply didn’t know what she was missing.

  The night dragged on. Tamara made it to all the tables, and things were pretty fuzzy before she made it back to her original seat. Elei was face down on the table, one hand around an empty stein, and dainty snores emanating from her big body. Tamara ignored her and refilled her own stein.

  At midnight, a ragged cheer rose from the women. It was officially the start of Module 2. In 12 short hours, the first 15 of them would start the genmod process. As one of the larger candidates, Tamara still had four more days until it was her turn. Four more days to change her mind.

  By 2:00 AM, a few of the candidates, mostly the smaller candidates, started to leave the tavern. Tamara didn’t envy them. With only a short time before they had to report in to the hospital, their bodies would never be able to purge themselves of the food and alcohol, so they would be “assisted” in purging, which was by all accounts an extremely unpleasant evolution. At least Tamara wouldn’t have to go through that.

  Suddenly, it was 3:30. A moment ago it was 2:00, and Tamara looked around confused. She’d fallen asleep. Elie was gone, but Jonna was slumped in her chair.