Gladiator (Women of the United Federation Marines Book 1)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  The crowd, which had been so vocal only a few moments before, fell silent.

  “Marta!” Kelly June shouted, dropping the sword case and rushing to her friend.

  The d’relle ignored her, stepping past as she walked the perimeter of the ring, sword held high as she screeched half-a-dozen more times. A small line of blue blood trickled from her collar where Marta had scored her.

  Tamara felt as if she’d been kicked by a mule. Her breath was heavy and didn’t seem to have enough oxygen in it. Marta had been one of their best, if not the best gladiators still active, and she’d been assigned for this mission because New Budapest was just too important to lose. And now, she was gasping out her last breaths on the sand of the ring in the arms of her crying friend. It wasn’t supposed to act this way.

  Shouts started reverberating from the crowd as they realized what had happened. Marta had lost, and now so had they. They all had to leave, and more than a few seemed to want to fight that edict.

  The d’relle gave one last screech of victory, then stalked out of the ring and to her tunnel, never looking back at her defeated opponent. Tamara watched as she disappeared from view. Someone belatedly threw a cup at her, but she was already gone.

  “Get it together, girls. We need to bring Marta home,” Kristani Hobario, the senior gladiator in the witness team said.

  Tamara gathered herself. She was in shock, but she had a job to do. They had to honor their fallen sister. Marta was strong, though. Despite the d’relles sword cutting clear through to the spine, she was not giving up. Tamara didn’t think she could last more than a handful of seconds, but she gurgled and fought, gasping to breath, for over two minutes—two horribly long and painful minutes. Finally, she slumped and was silent. Kelly June nodded at Kristani, and the twenty witnesses moved forward, unfolding the stretcher that they hadn’t expected to have to use. As a team, they picked Marta up and placed her on the black stretcher. Eight of the senior gladiators picked her up, and with six in front leading the way and six, along with Kelly June, behind, they started to leave the stadium.

  The stadium was emptying quickly as people realized they had little time to leave the planet, their home. Many remained, though, to give respects to the fallen. The Spectacula stood silently, arms held out, palms down, in the ancient Roman salute.

  Not everyone wanted to honor Marta, though.

  One middle-aged man burst his way through the Spectacula to the rail, and leaning out, he shouted, spit flying, “You stupid bitch! This is my home, and you couldn’t do your job!”

  Tamara was in the lead six witnesses, and anger flowed through her as she heard him.

  How dare that worm get angry at Marta! she thought, wanting to break ranks and jump up there.

  She didn’t have to. The members of the Spectacula near him took care of it, pulling the man down. Tamara could see fists rising and falling as they took their own form of punishment on the hapless man.

  Tamara had thought the Spectacula creepy, but now she was glad of their presence. At least, they cared for what the gladiators were doing for mankind.

  As the witnesses carried Marta through the tunnel to where the UAM staff waited, the Spectacula dropped rose petals on them.

  MALIBU

  Chapter 21

  Tamara trudged back to her home. Swordmaster Abad had put her through the ringer, and she ached. She didn’t understand how he’d been able to keep up with her in the torture—wrist strengthening, he called it. He was unmodified, and she had been designed for this. Yet he’d been able to outdo her easily, even with her mameluke, which was designed for a gladiator-sized fighter.

  She’d been back on Malibu for a week after Marta’s loss. The newlines were full of the story of New Budapest’s evacuation. Most experts doubted that it would be done in time, and no one knew what would happen then. The more dire predictions were that the Klethos would kill anyone left. More than a few politicians said that if that happened, humankind should go to war with the Klethos, full-out war instead of combat by champions.

  That was inherently stupid, Tamara thought. The Klethos had wiped out planet after planet, exterminating at least two entire species. Anyone getting killed on New Budapest would be a tragedy, but moving to all-out war would be even worse. The UAM and almost all governments agreed that war was not an option, but a surprisingly high percentage of citizens thought war should be the only response.

  Not that you will fight yourselves, Tamara thought. It will be the Marines, the Host, the Legion, and all the navies and armies that would be expected to fight for you.

  There had already been one more challenge. Luckily, Wanda Quezon had won, so transport resources needed to get people off New Budapest had not had to be diverted to that planet.

  Tamara reached her home and opened the front gate. The tulips lining the walkway to her front door were a nice touch. The groundskeepers tried to keep the villages pleasant as possible, and while Jonna had liked the peonies that had lined the walk for the last couple of weeks, Tamara thought the tulips, with their taller forms, were a better fit.

  Too bad they don’t have an aroma. If they can genmod us, why not put jasmine in them?

  She pushed open the door and entered the common area.

  “Jonna, you here?” she called out.

  The house was silent, which was surprising. Tamara’s training had gone on longer than normal, and Jonna should have been home an hour ago. Tamara dropped her kit in the laundry basket and pushed open the door to her room. . .

  . . .and was drenched with water as a bucket bounced off of her head. No, not water. It smelled far worse. Tamara was afraid to imagine what was in it.

  The sound of laughter reached her as feet scurried, if feet 40 cm long could scurry, towards the back of the house. Tamara bolted back out into the hall just in time to see Jonna and Elei’s backsides as they ran out the back door and into the garden.

  “You bitches!” she shouted after them. “Just wait!”

  She tried to wipe some of the water—or whatever it was—off her, but it was also sticking to her. It was going to take some time to get clean.

  She had to give them credit. A buck over the door was about as old-school as it got, but they had nabbed her. She’d have to come up with something good to get them back.

  The gladiators had taken the art of pranks to a new level. With a short future and with the weight of humanity on their shoulders, it would be easy to crack. That was why there were more mental health professionals in the campus than gladiators. Some gladiators found religion to help them, some found hobbies and activities. Pets were popular. But one thing seemed to bind them all together, and that was practical jokes. The pranks tended to come and go in waves, but at the height of one of those waves, the campus was more of a battleground than anything else.

  Tamara was chuckling as she stripped and stepped into the shower. She didn’t find it nearly as funny as it took over 30 minutes and losing more than a fair amount of skin to get whatever it was off of her. She stepped out and looked into the mirror. The skin on her shoulders and chest was red and angry where she’d had to rub hard to get the stuff off of her.

  Her PA grabbed her attention.

  “Ah, I see they got you, too,” Beth said, eyeing Tamara’s red skin. “Look,” she added, taking off her T-shirt to reveal a red swatch of skin, if not quite as extensive, covering her right side.

  She panned the PA’s pick-up down, to where the red went all the way to her thigh.

  “I can’t believe I fell for that. I think Neanderthal pulled that one on each other,” Tamara said. “So what are we going to do about it?”

  “Payback’s a bitch, Tamara. I think me and you need to come up with the most best-est, perfect-est, revenge-est prank yet.”

  “And what might that be, pray tell?”

  “I don’t know yet. But we’re Marines, damn it! We were trained in combat long before these pussies ever thought of it. So if we can’t come up with something, then we need to turn
in our warrant officer bars!”

  “Sounds good to me. Look, those two took off like frightened rabbits. Why don’t you head over here, and we’ll think of something, OK?”

  “Semper fi, do or die. I’ll be there in five.”

  Tamara took one last look at her red skin. It was a good prank, she had to admit, but with two Marines coming up with a response, those two little girls had better stand-the-eff by.

  Chapter 22

  Tamara stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair. She hadn’t had long hair since she was a child, before she started track. Growing up, then as a Marine, short hair had been more practical. It seemed odd that after the genmodd not only cut the heat from her, but took away many of her feminine traits, both outwardly physical and in her inner make-up, she now had long, and frankly beautiful blonde hair. Elei had mentioned that putting makeup on a cow didn’t make her beautiful, but Tamara disagreed. She regretted the atrophying of her breasts, but with her long hair, Tamara thought she looked quite attractive; not runway model attractive, but a fit and healthy attractive.

  Her hair had been boosted, of course. The process was related to normally boosted regen, but it worked differently enough so that it posed no threat to the gladiators. If it had, the practice would never have been approved. But the psychs thought it was good for them, and the gladiators now took long hair as a badge of honor, and like Sampson in the Bible, felt it gave them power. Tamara’s new hair really made no difference, but she enjoyed the routine maintenance. Every day, she brushed it 100 times, and she felt it helped her connect with herself. In the practice ring, she was becoming more and more aggressive—and more than a little mean, she had to admit—but here in her bathroom, brushing her hair, she felt calm and at ease with herself.

  She was only up to 55 brushes when her PA called for her attention. She was tempted to ignore off. Jonna, Beth, or whoever could wait. This was her time. But when it kept ringing, she stopped brushing and picked it up.

  It was scheduling.

  Tamara’s heart skipped a beat.

  Scheduling? I shouldn’t be up yet. I’m still number 4!

  Bertie Jun had just come back from her fight, the first in their class. But there were still two in front of Tamara. Their ranking did not necessarily reflect when a gladiator would fight, but still, Tamara hadn’t hoped to get called so soon.

  Tamara slammed down the brush and bolted from the bathroom.

  “Scheduling wants to see me!” she shouted at Jonna, who was on the couch watching a holo.

  “Really?” Jonna asked, jumping up. “Wait, let me go with you!”

  But Tamara was already out the door and on her way. Scheduling was in Raster Hall, a good five-minute walk from her home. Tamara made it in just under three minutes, skidding to a walk as she reached the front gate. Like the gladiator homes, Raster Hall had a laid-back feel, more like a community center than an administration building. Tamara paused in front of the main doors, stopped to take a couple of calming breaths, then pushed her way in. Scheduling was on the second floor, and Tamara took the gladiator stairway, three steps at a time, to go up. The door to scheduling was open, so Tamara rushed inside.

  “Warrant Officer Veal,” Hiram said, “please, Mr. Light Heart is waiting for you.

  Hiram was a Federation citizen, and he always used ranks when addressing military gladiators instead of the more common “Miss.”

  “Is it . . .?”

  Hiram smiled and nodded, but he didn’t say a word.

  Tamara felt a rush of excitement as she went around Hiram and knocked on the doorjamb of the open inner office.

  “Miss Veal, please come in,” Mr. Light Heart said in his favorite uncle manner. “Please, sit,” he continued, pointing to one of the gladiator-sized chairs.

  The scuttlebutt was that the psychs had determined that this style was the best one when assigning a gladiator to a fight, but Tamara wouldn’t have cared how she’d get the word. She was ready, and she wanted the ring now.

  She knew this wasn’t a normal survival trait, to be excited and want to enter a to-the-death fight. She also knew that her hormones and who knows what else had been manipulated during the genmod, and that probably was affecting her. But deep inside, she thought she’d always had the fire to compete with others. She’d lost some of that on the track team because she’d lost the adrenaline rush. It hadn’t been a thrill anymore. But this, how could this not be a thrill? This was the ultimate challenge for a competitive adrenaline junkie.

  “So, are you doing well, Miss Veal? I must say, your hair has come in beautifully.”

  Cut the compliments. Just get to the point!

  “Thank you, Mr. Light Heart,” she said instead, trying to keep her voice calm. “Can I ask if you’ve got a match for me?”

  “Ah, no time for chit-chat, right? But that’s OK. I’m sure you are anxious. Yes, you have a fight.”

  Baby! Tamara thought, closing her hand into a fist and giving it a half pump.

  “The planet is in the Halcon system—no name yet, except for Number 4. It is unpopulated except for the terraforming staff, about 2,000 people. It’s about 75% completed, and it has oxygen, about 65% Earth normal, so you’ll be able to function without external devices. . .”

  Mr. Light Heart went on, giving her more details, but most of that went beyond her. She’d be thoroughly briefed later, and she could get what she needed to know then. At the moment, her mind was swirling. In three short days, she’d be leaving Malibu for that unnamed planet where she would defend mankind. That was almost too much to take in.

  No more waiting! It’s time!

  Chapter 23

  Ronna, Beth, Elei, and Grammarcy escorted Tamara to the front gates. Several candidates saw the group as they walked by. One stopped dead to watch, but the others hurried on, not wanting to interfere with five gladiators.

  At the front gate, where Jasper was on duty—he was always on duty, Tamara thought—the five stopped. By tradition, only Tamara would continue outside the campus.

  “I can’t wait to see you,” Jonna said as she hugged her. “I’m sure it will be killer.”

  “Thanks,” Tamara responded. “Sorry about, well, you know, keeping it quiet.”

  “Eh, I didn’t think you’d let it slip, but you can’t blame a girl for trying. I could have cleaned up in the kitty.”

  The other three gave Tamara hugs and words of encouragement, and with one last blown kiss to the group, Tamara broke off to walk past the gate.

  “Have a good evening, Miss Veal,” Jasper said, as if he didn’t know what she’d be doing.

  “You too, Jasper.”

  “See you soon, Miss.”

  Outside the gate, Bertie, Giselle Fujioko, and Kaster McAult, the senior braided gladiator still well enough to be mobile, waited.

  “You ready?” Bertie asked.

  “Sure am,” Tamara replied.

  The four gladiators piled into one of Chicsis’ black panel vans. Inside, two over-sized benches provided plenty of room for the four women. They could have walked, but this was something that was for them alone. Official holos would go out tomorrow, issued by Chicsis, but this was for gladiators alone.

  Even in a van, however, it would be hard to keep the trip secret, and the hangers-on and paramours knew what was happening, but for the most part, they tried not to interfere.

  Ten minutes later, the van pulled up behind the small strip mall. The back door to one of the shops opened, welcoming them in. The shop had been there for a long time, and while a special chair had been installed for gladiators, the building itself had not been re-engineered, so the four of them had to duck and hunch over to move into the main shop. The shop’s curtains were closed; the shop itself had closed early as well. Tamara gratefully sidled over to the large chair and sat down.

  Frank and Illysha Delbert, the husband and wife owners of Illy’s Salon, waited quietly side-by-side, hands folded in front of them.

  “Tamara, you have to tell them what
you want,” Kaster prompted.

  “Oh, of course. Well, I was thinking of something simple. I want to keep my blonde, but only one other color, red. I want them to flow top to bottom,” she said.

  Tamara didn’t mention that red and gold were traditional Marine Corps colors, which had been a major reason she had chosen them.

  “I think that would look great,” Frank said. “So if you let me, I’ll just lean you back and get started.

  Tamara glanced up at the other gladiators. Kaster and Giselle nodded their approval, but Bertie seemed a little disappointed. Bertie had decided on a swirl of bright, almost luminescent colors, six of them. She probably thought Tamara’s choice was too boring.

  Illysha brought the other gladiators cups of lavender tea while Frank lowered Tamara into position. Illysha ran the salon, but Frank was the beautician. They’d been pretty much unknown outside of Orroville until Celeste had asked Frank to boost her hair and then color it. Now, the two had become minor celebrities. Other celebs had even come to Malibu to get their hair done at Illy’s. They never charged gladiators, but their business had done quite well since that first dye job. None of the gladiators resented that. The couple was well-liked, and if they profited from doing gladiator’s hair, then so what?

  After Module 3, all of them were officially gladiators. But it wasn’t until they were assigned their first fight that they “got their hair.” What design and colors a gladiator picked were fodder for the masses. By tradition, what she chose was to be kept a secret until the reveal, and that would be the official image released by Chicsis.

  Tamara was in the chair for 45 minutes while Frank worked his magic. Meanwhile, he and Illysha kept up a running gossip commentary with the other three gladiators. It was all surprisingly mundane, and that suited Tamara just fine. She knew the next couple of days would have their distractions, but for now, with her sisters with her, within the confines of Illy’s, all of that could be pushed aside.