Gladiator (Women of the United Federation Marines Book 1)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  “I asked him,” Tamara answered for Jonna.

  “As simple as that?”

  “As simple as that.”

  “Well, slap my britches,” the major said. “I’d never thought of that. Did you have to justify it?”

  “No. I just asked his secretary, and an hour later, it arrived.”

  “If you want me to wait, I can,” Jonna said. “I was going to, but Tamara asked me to come.”

  “No, if it’s good enough for the commandant, it’s good enough for us,” Falcon Coups, the senior Marine gladiator said. “Everywhere else, the ball is open to everyone anyway. I don’t know why we closed this off to others, but it’s been that way since I got her, at least. No, Johanna, stay.”

  Jonna looked relieved.

  “Well, I guess that’s all of us. So Beth, if you will?” Falcon said.

  Beth stepped to the door and opened it a crack. She didn’t have to wait. With Tamara’s arrival, the color guard had prepared for their summons. Beth opened both doors as an electronic drum played out the cadence. The guard marched through, the Federation and the Marine Corps colors in the middle with the other two Marines, under arms, flanking them. The six Marines—and one honorary Marine—came to attention as the color guard passed them, reached the far bulkhead, and performed their counter-march. They came to a stop while the drum beat continued until the colonel managed to stop it and play first the Federation anthem, then the Marine Corps Hymn. Tamara stood tall as the familiar notes filled the room.

  “Bev, if you will,” Falcon asked as the last noted died away.

  At units across the Federation, the ball was quite a bit more stylized and rehearsed. Not so much at Chicsis.

  The major picked up an old-fashioned manila envelope from one of the tables and pulled out the first piece of plastisheet. She held it up to start reading, then stopped.

  “It’s for you, Tamara. From Sergeant Major Çağlar,” she said, handing her the sheet.

  “Me? Why me?”

  She took the sheet and looked at it. Yes, it was addressed to her and written on the Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps’ letterhead.

  Dear Chief Warrant Officer Veal,

  I just wanted to send you a small personal note. I watched the transmission of your fight on Frieson, and I was surprised to see your haka. You may not recognize the background of my name, but I am from Cennet, which was settled by Turkish pioneers. We kept many of the customs from old Turkey, so I readily recognized your sword dance.

  You’ve done the Marines and the Federation proud in earning your second braid, but you made me feel proud of my roots. I sometimes forget about my warrior heritage. I have not been back to Cennet in years, but I’m taking my next annual leave there, thanks to you.

  I wish you more success in your mission. I don’t need to tell you how vital it is to humanity.

  Semper fi

  Hans Çağlar

  Sergeant Major, United Federation Marine Corps

  Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps.

  “What is it?” Queen asked.

  Tamara looked up to see seven eager faces. Instead of answering, she smiled and simply folded the sheet and slid it into the breast pocket of her blues.

  “OK,” the major said, extending the “oh-kay” almost into an interrogative. “I guess it’s personal.”

  She seemed a little frustrated, but the note was personal. It was nothing earth-shattering, but it was written to her.

  The major pulled out the next sheet, and this time, after reading the heading, she seemed relieved.

  “OK, this is General Ling’s birthday message,” she said, holding it out and clearing her throat.

  Message from the Commandant of the Marine Corps

  On this, our 399th anniversary of our founding, I want to wish all Marines, sailors, and families a most happy birthday. As I write this, Marines are in harm’s way from Dupree to Possington 4, serving the needs of the Federation. Eight Marines are serving all of humanity as Single Combat Specialist, as Gladiators, and another two are in training.

  The major had to pause as the other Marines let out a few ooh-rahs.

  We are the Federation’s reaction force. We keep her safe and secure from all enemies. If you choose to fight the Federation, you choose to fight the Corps, and let me be one hundred percent clear on this, if you chose this route, you will die. It is that simple.

  We are a proud force, proud of our heritage and history. But all of you, from recruit to general, are the new history makers. What you are doing today will be written down and read by people 10,000 years from now. Think of that as you perform your missions. You are history in the making.

  I want all of you to enjoy your birthday. Relax and enjoy the camaraderie of your brothers and sisters in arms. Eat your birthday cake, and lift up a few in memory of our fallen. Then tomorrow, I want all of you to kick ass and take names. The Marine Corps never rests on past laurels, but on what we will do today.

  Joab Ling

  General, United Federation Marine Corps.

  Commandant of the Marine Corps

  The major put down the envelope, then nodded at Colonel Covington. The colonel marched up in his best drill field manner, holding a smallish, one layer caked. It was vanilla, of course, one of the few flavors that seemed to be programmed into their genmod recipe. In the middle of the cake was a gold Marine Corps emblem.

  The major had brought her mameluke to Chicsis—not a gladiator-sized mameluke, but her original she’d gotten upon being commissioned. It looked ridiculously small in her hands as she sliced the cake.

  As per Marine Corps tradition, the first piece went to the oldest Marine present. Actually, it went to the oldest gladiator Marine present, Beniful Terez. Benni had been a staff sergeant when she’d been nominated, and she was two years older than the major. Colonel Covington was technically the oldest Marine in the room, but none of the gladiators would ever reach much older than they were at the moment, so he was politely ignored for this purpose. Benni took a bite of the cake, then the major cut another piece and gave that to Queen, who was 24 days younger than Tamara.

  After that, the other six received their pieces of cake. The color guard stacked arms and put the colors in their stands and along with Colonel Covington, got their cake as well. They stood around, eight gladiators dwarfing five norms, but all chatting as if family. The bonds of the Corps were strong.

  The ceremonial part of the birthday ball was over. It might not have been fancy, it might not have been organized, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the simple fact that they’d remembered it.

  A knock on the door was followed by it cracking open.

  One of the major’s friends poked her head in and asked, “Are you guys done yet?”

  Within twenty minutes there were at least 300 gladiators and more than a few norms in the hall. Any excuse for a party was always welcomed, especially one that was officially a ball. Music turned on, and the “ball” part began. Mostly, it was gladiator dancing with gladiator, but Elei, complaining about too much estrogen in the room, grabbed Sergeant Nelson and took him out to the dance floor, much to the delight of everyone else. The sergeant acquitted himself well, and before long, each of the color guard, Tiktik and other male staff members, Master Abad, and even Colonel Covington were dragged out to the dance floor. “Dragged” was the operative term for what happened to the reluctant but laughing colonel. It wasn’t as if he could put up much of a fight against a gladiator, after all.

  When Fleetwood showed up in his hoverchair, he was pretty much mobbed as other gladiators lined up to dance with him.

  “So, what do you think?” Tamara asked Jonna as the two sat and watched the dancing.

  “Thanks, Tamara. I’m glad I could have been part of the ceremony. I’ve always been a little jealous of you and your bond with the Marines. And now, I’ve gotten a tiny taste of that before it’ll be too late.”

  “Hey, don’t be a downer. You’ve got plenty of time, Reindeer Girl
. There’ll be more birthday balls, and you’re an honorary Marine now, invited to every one.”

  Jonna nodded but looked out at the others without saying anything else.

  And Tamara knew she was right. Not about her. She was wickedly capable with her sylvian, something the Klethos had not even seen yet. She’d do fine in the ring, and she had several years before the Brick caught up with her. But out there, out among the now 400 gladiators, a good portion of them would not be around a year from now. The ring and the Brick would take their toll.

  Come one! Let’s get into happier thoughts. It’s the Marine Corps Birthday Ball, for goodness sakes! she admonished herself.

  “Come on, girlfriend,” she said, jumping up and taking her best friend by the hand. “Let’s show these plodding heifers how Marines dance!”

  Chapter 35

  Tamara lay in her bed, luxuriating in the lazy feel. The Marine Corps Ball had been a nice release, and she wasn’t quite ready to let it go. She’d get a good workout in later in the morning, and she had an appointment with Master Abad in the afternoon, but for the moment, it was nice to simply lay where she was with nothing pressing on her attention.

  When her PA buzzed, she was tempted to ignore it. Whoever was calling knew where to find her if it was important. It kept buzzing, though, refusing to stop. And as she’d picked the buzz to be particularly annoying, she finally gave in and reached to the side table to grab it.

  A glance at the screen indicated it was a TAG, or “To All Gladiators.” Probably another party in the making, she thought as she almost put it back down. When she heard a muffled “Shit!” from Jonna’s room, though, she quickly sat up and keyed in the message.

  “Oh my God!” she said aloud as she read it.

  Fleetwood Case, the last male gladiator, had just died.

  “Did you see the TAG?” Jonna asked, bursting into Tamara’s room.

  Tamara just held up her PA, at a loss for words.

  “But he looked OK last night! We just danced with him a few hours ago.”

  But he hadn’t looked OK. He hadn’t looked OK ever since Tamara and Jonna had been nominated. He’d been a scarecrow of a man, haggard and gaunt as the Brick devoured him. He hadn’t looked any worse at the ball, and he’d seemed in good spirits when Tamara and Jonna had stolen him from some of the other gladiators and danced with him, one on each arm as he spun his hoverchair.

  Fleetwood had never fought in the ring, but he’d become a vital part of the sisterhood. Everyone’s big brother, he was a symbol more than anything else. He’s been their anchor. It had been very difficult for Tamara to get to know him, given her fear of the Brick, but he’d always been there for her, just as he’d been there for all of them. And now that he was gone, Tamara felt a hollowness inside of her.

  Jonna started to cry, and Tamara held out her arms into which her friend gratefully melted. The two held each other for several minutes, saying nothing. Tamara could feel Jonna’s hot tears roll down her shoulders and onto her breasts. She felt like crying, too, but she held back, afraid that if she started, the tears would only feed on each other.

  “Let’s get dressed. We should go over to the Man Shack,” she finally said.

  Jonna nodded, pushing herself up and away from Tamara. With a final squeeze of Tamara’s hands, she left to return to her room. Tamara quickly threw on some running sweats, and a few minutes later, Jonna met her. Together, they left the house and started to walk to Gustavson Village, joining other small groups and individuals as they made their way. By the time they reached the Man Shack, where Fleetwood had lived alone, there were several hundred of them there, with more arriving every minute.

  Auntie Ruth was at the front door of Fleetwood’s home. Auntie Ruth was fond of old-fashioned physical make-up, the kind that was applied every day, and her mascara was streaked with tears. She was acting as the gatekeeper, letting in small groups of gladiators at a time into the house to pay their last respects. It took almost 45 minutes for Tamara and Jonna to make it into the house and into Fleetwood’s bedroom.

  Fleetwood was laying on his back in his heavy wood-framed bed. Most Brick-suffers looked bad in death with faces in rictuses of pain. Fleetwood, however, somehow looked better, as if death relaxed the muscles of his face, giving him a slightly softer look. Most people who died of the Brick had long, debilitating, and painful slide into death, and Fleetwood hadn’t. He’d been as mobile and normal, whatever normal was, just the evening before. He looked like he’d simply slipped away in his sleep.

  If the Brick is going to take you, that’s the way to go, Tamara thought as she stood at the foot of Fleetwood’s bed. God be with you.

  Then it was time to move on so more gladiators could file in. Tamara and Jonna went out into the common room and out the back door into the garden, then looping back around into the front of the house.

  “It was his time,” Jonna said as they milled out in the street, unsure of where they should go.

  “No it wasn’t. He was 29 years old, for goodness sakes,” Tamara snapped. “It’s none of our time.”

  “I meant. . .” Jonna said before giving up and falling into silence.

  The gladiators knew death. Five of Tamara’s classmates had already died in the ring, along with eleven others from other classes since she’d been a gladiator. Over forty had died of the Brick. Death was a constant presence, hovering over the Chicsis campus. With the grim reapers scythe constantly hovering over them, the dead were not celebrated as on Orleans or with the Blackrobers, no parades filled with music and professional mourners. There was a simple ceremony before the cremation, attended by anyone who wished.

  Except for a few cases where she’d had a real relationship with the deceased, Tamara didn’t wish, especially when the death was from the Brick. She tried to avoid reminders of that grim possibility. She’d be attending tonight, though, just as would probably every other gladiator and staff.

  Tamara and Jonna drifted back to the Sichko rec center. There were at least 50 other gladiators there, sitting around and talking. No one seemed to want to go on with their routine. Tamara knew that she should hit the gym, if for nothing else than clearing her mind. But she stayed, sipping tea and chatting about the most mundane things. The PA announced that the closed memorial service would begin at 1600, so they had another four hours to kill, and it seemed appropriate that they spend that time together.

  Tamara was actually laughing out loud in the middle of a story Beth was telling about a paramour’s advances to her the week before when Elei came into the rec center, pale as a ghost. She spotted Tamara’s group and made a beeline to the couches the gladiators had arranged in a little tea klatch.

  Beth didn’t notice and kept going, pushing her description of the events into the more fantasy side of what probably had really happened, but those sitting on the couch with Tamara looked up, wondering what was up with Elei.

  “It will be passed on the TAG in a few moments, but Grammarcy is dead.”

  “What? How can that be? She’s not that sick yet!” Tamara protested.

  “Suicide,” Elei said as the entire rec center went quiet.

  It wasn’t common knowledge throughout the population, but more than a few gladiators committed suicide. Most recruits had been athletes of some sort, women in tune with their bodies, and to see those bodies break down into a painful regression was more than many women could take.

  “She’d said more than once that she didn’t want to become disabled,” Elei went on.

  “But she wasn’t disabled yet,” Tamara said, not wanting to accept it.

  “Yet. And with Fleetwood today, I guess it pushed her over the edge,” Elei said.

  Tamara wanted to stand up and scream, to shout out her pent up emotions to the gods. But that would do nothing. They all volunteered for this, knowing the ramifications of their choices. They were saving humanity, but at a price.

  But throughout human history, it was always that way. Soldiers protected their family,
tribe, or nation, sacrificing their life and limbs in doing so.

  Queen looked back at Beth, then pointedly asked, “So what did he say then?”

  Beth looked surprised, then shook her head a few times before continuing, “Well, then he says to me, he says he wants to buy me a Hyundai Comet if I just have dinner with him. A Comet, like I can fit in one of those pocket rockets! Can you imagine that?”

  Slowly, first with chuckles, then building to laughter, the group of sisters leaned back and let loose. The story wasn’t really that funny, but their release was total.

  Tamara started laughing a few heartbeats after the rest, but when she did, she let cut her emotions free. She would mourn Grammarcy later, but life went on, and with their life expectancy so short, she had to grab for all the laughter she could.

  Chapter 36

  “I’ve got my assignment!” Jonna shouted, entering the gym.

  Tamara was on the bench, 600 kilos on the bar. She looked up as a happy gladiator came rushing over.

  “It’s on IGA 23,” Jonna told her.

  “IGA 23? What’s that, where they mine the iridium?”

  “Yes, siree! Almost 38% of all the iridium mined in human space. And I get to defend it.”

  “Not bad, Reindeer Girl, not bad.”

  Frankly, Tamara was surprised. She was very confident of her roomie, but the powers-that-be usually assigned braided gladiators to very important challenges, and with 38% of humanity’s iridium, IGA 23 certainly would seem to be important.

  “I guess they’ve been saving me,” Jonna said, her happiness barely contained.

  Jonna had been brooding for a good six months on why she hadn’t gotten the call. With her extra training, she was a good year behind the rest of her class in getting a fight, and having a roomie with two braids reminded her of that every day.

  Tamara got off the bench and gave her roomie a hug.