THE UNITED FEDERATION MARINE CORPS’ GRUB WARS
BOOK 1
ALLIANCE
Colonel Jonathan P. Brazee
USMC (Ret)
Copyright © 2017 Jonathan Brazee
A Semper Fi Press Book
Copyright © 2017 Jonathan Brazee
ISBN-10: 1-945743-14-X
ISBN-13: 978-1-945743-14-6 (Semper Fi Press)
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Acknowledgements:
I want to thank all those who took the time to offer advice as I wrote this book. A special thanks goes to beta readers James Caplan and Kelly Roche for their valuable input.
Cover art by Matthew Cowdery
Graphics by Steven Novak
DEDICATION:
This book is dedicated to one of my friends, Marten Ekema. Marten retired from the British Army Catering Corps after 16 years of service due to a painful spinal. That condition kept him in pain for most of his life, and kept him almost bedridden for his last years until he passed away last month.
I only knew Marten online after he read one of my books and joined my mailing list. I not only used his name, but also his profession for a character who made appearances in several of my UFMC and UFMC Twins books.
Marten and I shared many emails over the last couple of years. I appreciated his insight, but more than that, I just enjoyed our discussions. We may have never met in person, but I appreciate our connection. I mourn his passing.
AS-419
Prologue
Chief Warrant Officer Four Mary Curnutte, the “Purple Sledgehammer,” shook out her bright magenta and purple hair.
Got to look good, girl, she told herself before stepping out of the tunnel to the cheers of the 500 or so humans who’d made the journey.
She stopped for a moment, then flicked her four braids before blowing a kiss to the Spectacula, her fans.
Mary knew that some, well, many of her fellow gladiators didn’t appreciate her showboating, but she couldn’t help it, especially on today of all days. This was her chance to join the nine other gladiator aces with five kills in the ring. She could retire, and while no ace would ever want for anything, the more she could connect with the public, the more opportunities would come her way.
Gladiators had been stars since the first some 120 years ago, but it had only been over the last 60 years that advances in medicine could keep the Boosted Regenerative Cancer, the “Brick,” at bay so that they could live out a full life—if they managed to survive the ring, and the Klethos d’relle usually had something to say about that. Over sixty percent of all gladiators were killed during the duels. Most of the rest were either injured and retired, had regen setbacks, or never gained the skill to be deemed worthy of combat. All gladiators were honored for their sacrifices, but the aces had a special place in humanity.
“Are you going to get to the ring, Mary, or just bask in the glow?” Cora, her second asked her.
“Ah, Cora, you need to learn how to enjoy the process,” she told her second. “I’m on the cusp of history, and I want to savor the moment. When you get two more braids, you’ll understand.”
She didn’t turn at Cora’s wordless sound of frustration. Mary and Cora were best friends, closer than sisters, but their preparations for a fight were polar opposites. Mary relaxed up and to the fights, not wanting to waste mental or physical energy. She used her haka to call forth her warrior. Cora got serious from a day out, focusing her thoughts and using positive imagery to prepare. Between the two of them, they had six ring victories, so both methods seemed to work.
Not that Mary was going to let a chance to dig at her friend pass by. Trash talking didn’t work against the d’relle, so Cora became her target.
She slowly walked up the path to the ring, set on a level spot on the hillside. Her opponent, “Sally Mae,” knelt on the far side with 40 Klethos gathered. Her name wasn’t Sally Mae, of course. D’relle went unnamed, even among the Klethos-lee. That was the human label assigned to her after her first fight almost five years and six fights prior. After over a century of war, humans still didn’t quite understand how the Klethos organized their fighters, but Sally Mae seemed to be the active d’relle with the most victories.
Mary wasn’t overly concerned. She’d studied holo after holo of Sally Mae’s fights, and she was confident in her abilities to overcome her opponent. Only one of her fights had been against a Gladiator of note, Fiona Fell-Walsh, and that had been a close thing. Mary had mad respect for Fiona, but without false modesty, she knew she was a far better fighter than her fellow gladiator had been. Mary wasn’t going to underestimate her opponent, but neither was she afraid of her.
On the near side of the ring, and running up the slope, were the assembled humans. Mary had fought in front of 100,000 on Belaster, and she had fought with only 50 humans in attendance. Of course, millions, if not billions, of people would watch the holocast safe at home.
The Klethos, on the other hand, rarely had more than 20 observers, so the 40 here was quite unusual. AS-419 had been a Klethos world at one time and won by the humans. Now, the Klethos for reasons only known to them, wanted it back. Mary was determined to keep it under human possession.
“Győzelem!” someone from the Spectacula shouted as Mary came up to the ring.
She turned and blew another kiss from the general direction of the shout. Mary was proud of her heritage, and even if she didn’t speak old Hungarian, “győzelem,” which meant “victory,” had become a rallying cry for New Budapest gladiators.
After Tamara Veal, the Megmentő’s victory to take back the planet a century ago, New Budapest always provided more than its share of gladiators. Despite having less than a tenth of a percent of humanity’s population, no fewer than 38 of the current 347 active gladiators were daughters of the planet. The great Crystal Kovács was the first gladiator ace, although the Brick claimed her a year later.
“Győzelem,” she shouted back to the delight of the crowd.
“It’s time,” Cora quietly said.
Mary wanted to make some smart-ass remark, but her friend was right. It was go time. She took several calming breaths and stepped to the edge of the ring before sinking into a seiza, or kneeling posture, hand on her thighs, eyes focused straight ahead.
The d’relle queen stood up in the typically smooth movement of their kind and strode to the middle of the ring, eyes locked on Mary for a few long moments before lifting her head back and screeching, her neck feathers flaring out. Then came the stomp, where she lifted one leg high in the air, then brought it forward, slamming it into the ground, clawed toes pointing forward as she leaned over the leg, looking back at Mary.
All d’relles started her portion of a challenge ceremony much as Sally Mae had done. Once completed, they moved into their personalized haka, and this was what Mary wanted to watch. As her opponent launched into her challenge haka with a series of whirls, each one faster than the previous, Mary studied the movements of her opponent, looking for anything that stood out that differed from the holos. More than a few gladiators had los
t fights when specific d’relles showed different patterns than they’d previously shown. Sally Mae was more graceful than most, as Mary already knew, but that grace didn’t come at the expense of her strength. There was also power in each stylized movement. She twirled and spun, all four arms intertwining in continual motion. Her typical Klethos cutlass looked no different than any other d’relle weapon, but it didn’t sing through the air as most did. It was more as if it was slipping through the air instead of cleaving through it. With ten or twelve blindingly quick pirouettes, the d’relle kicked up a small cloud of dust before landing back in the challenge pose, one foot stretched out and pointed at Mary.
Mary didn’t detect anything new in Sally Mae’s haka. That didn’t mean the d’relle wasn’t going to try and surprise her, but it did give her a better sense of confidence.
Mary waited ten, then fifteen seconds before she slowly stood up with none of the fluid grace of her opponent. She stretched, almost languidly, making sure her shark suit was smooth against her skin. She flicked her left forefinger, the tiniest of motions, but one for which Cora was watching. Without turning around, she reached back with her right hand at the moment Cora swung Kitten down by the blade, the handle smacking right into her hand.
More than the fight itself, this had worried Mary, and the two had practiced the little handover a hundred times if they’d done it once. And it was stupid, she knew. It wouldn’t somehow cow her opponent, and while it would look great in the holo, the slightest mistiming or mistake and she’d be going into the fight either cut or even missing her hand.
With that out of the way, Mary took ten steps forward until she was a meter from the motionless Sally Mae. She stood there a moment, calling forth her warrior self.
Mary considered herself a schizophrenic fighter, something Cora thought was utterly ridiculous. Part of her was a berserker, full of rage and unstoppable power. But at the same time, part of her was cool and collected, analyzing the fight and planning ahead four, five, six moves at a time.
Berserkers had power and rage to crush an opponent’s defenses, but a berserker can be cut down by the quick and smart fighter. By keeping half of her mind in her analytical strategist mode, she could take advantage of her power and force of will while still fighting a cerebral battle. Cora thought it was crazy, that no one could split themselves like that and still function, but four kills in the ring rather attested to how well it worked for her.
A haka was part of the formalities of challenge and acceptance, but like most Gladiators, Mary used hers to focus. She did not dance with the style of a Celeste, nor with the historical significance of a Tamara Veal. To her, her haka had only one purpose, and that was to build the dust devil of martial will into a tornado that can’t be stopped. She spun away from her opponent, yelling at the top of her voice, swinging Kitten as if to cut the sky. She stomped her feet, spun heavily, and ran to the edge of the ring and back to the center, time and time again. And it was working. Her warrior-self pushed through, coursing through her body, filling her with unstoppable strength. Kitten became a tiger in her hands, the heavy claymore ready to smash through her opponent’s defenses and crush her. Her rational brain knew her tirade of a haka was spending precious energy, but she didn’t care. None of her previous fights had gone past 30 seconds, and this one wouldn’t, either.
Finally, when her body just couldn’t contain the power any longer, she slammed her foot down in the lunge before Sally Mae, accepting the challenge.
She paused there for three full seconds before bolting back five meters, gaining a bubble of breathing room.
Now, you are mine, she told herself raising her claymore so that the tip was above her right shoulder, the pommel out in front of her belly.
Her opponent never moved and just stared at her.
OK, if that’s the way you want it, sister.
With a shout, Mary started to charge, but not the headlong charge of a mindless fighter run amok. Her strategist self was active and ready for any movement, any feint, and strike, confident that she could counter anything the d’relle could throw at her and possibly return with a fatal blow. The d’relle couldn’t just crouch there; she had to react, or she’d be killed.
But in warfare, the unexpected is usually the expected.
Before Mary closed the distance, the d’relle, who had been still crouching in her challenge lunge, dropped her sword into the dirt and bowed lower, forehead touching the ground and all four arms splayed as she presented her neck to the charging gladiator.
The berserker was in full rampage, and the d’relle’s neck called out for the bite of Kitten.
She dropped her sword? Mary managed to wonder as she lifted her claymore for the death stroke.
Never, in the history of over 798 challenges, had a d’relle willingly give up her sword.
Mary had already started her downstroke when her strategist self pulled the stroke to the side. Something was wrong, and Mary didn’t like surprises.
She could hear shouts of “Győzelem” from the Spectacula and “Mary, kill her!” from Cora, but she pulled back, still conscious of the sword beside the d’relle. She knew this could be a trick, an effort to strip her of her berserker. If so, that could be working, because she could feel the power of her warrior begin to fade. But the strategist in her realized something bigger was happening, even if she didn’t know what. She kept the point of her claymore pointed the prone d’relle.
“Sally Mae,” she said, clearing her throat before realizing that was only their name for her opponent. “D’relle, why have you stopped fighting?”
“Do you accept victory, Mary Curnutte?” the d’relle said in surprisingly flawless Basic.
Accept victory? She’s giving up?
“Why don’t you fight?” she asked again.
“Do you accept victory, Mary Curnutte?” the d’relle repeated.
There seemed to be almost a ceremonial feel to the question. Keeping the tip of her sword pointed at the d’relle, Mary looked back. Cora was urging her to kill the d’relle, the UAM officials looked concerned as several of them started forward, and the crowd started yelling out.
She looked back at the d’relle, who was sitting still, bottom hands on her knees, waiting for an answer.
God help me if I’m wrong, Mary thought.
“Yes, I accept victory,” she said with a rush.
“Good. You and I must now talk.”
EARTH
Chapter 1
Skylar
“Congratulations, Doctor Ybarra,” the vice-minister himself said holding out his hand.
“Thank you, sir. I’m honored, and more than a little surprised, I have to admit.”
“Why surprised? You’re the best xenobiologist on my staff, so who should I be sending?”
Sky had made her name in xenopsychology. She knew she was the best xenobiologist in the entire ministry, as did most of her peers, but she hadn’t thought that the lofty vice-minister knew her name, much less her accomplishments.
“It’s just . . .” she tried to compose herself a frame a response that wouldn’t make her look like an idiot. “It’s just that with my lack of field experience, I’d have thought you—”
“You thought I would assign someone who’s been in the field for forty or fifty years, like Madeline Sumuko, right?”
Sky blanched at the thought. Madeline had been with the ministry for almost as long as there had been a Department of Alien Affairs, and she was essentially part of the furniture. She was also stubborn, close-minded, and prone to inopportune comments. Sky could think of no one worse for the assignment. She stammered, trying to come up with a response when she saw the twinkle in the vice-minister’s eye.
He’s playing with me, she realized with a start.
“So, unless you think your young years renders you unqualified . . .” he said, trailing off in a question.
“Oh, no, sir. I can do it. I know I can.”
“I know you can, too, Doctor Ybarra. That’s w
hy I chose you, and I’m not used to having my subordinates questioning that.”
Sky started to protest that she wasn’t questioning him, but the twinkle was still there. He was simply having his fun.
“Far be it from me to do that, sir. I trust your judgment implicitly,” she said, playing along.
“Good to hear. Well, I need to get back to my desk. You’ve got five days to prepare, and I expect most of that will be in meetings, so don’t let me keep you.”
“Right, sir. And thank you, sir,” she said, understanding that she’d been dismissed.
The vice-minister turned away and took a step before turning back to her. “Skylar, I was 23 years old on Porcelain. I thought I was in over my head, but, I think it turned out OK. You’ll do well, too. Just remember, you are the Ministry’s rep in the field, so don’t let the military or the First Ministry push you around, much less the UAM, OK?”
Sky knew the story of Porcelain, where the vice-minister, then brand new to the Second Ministry and on his first assignment, almost single-handedly averted a planetary war. She felt a surge of confidence. If he thought she could do it, then she knew she could.
“Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. So,” he said, holding out his hand again. “Kick some ass for us, OK?”
“Yes, sir!” she said, shaking his hand.
She watched him try to wend his way out of the conference room, only to be stopped by three people with something vital that he had to address. That was life as a Federation vice-minister, never a free moment, yet he had just spent several of those moments with her. Skylar Ybarra, a lowly FS12 Junior Counsellor from the backwater planet of Nuevo Monterrey.
Alliance (The United Federation Marine Corps' Grub Wars Book 1) Page 1
