The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins: The Complete Series: Books 1-5

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  “Didn’t you attend the brief? We’re on a station now. No stims unless you’re in a hood or authorized space. Do you see one here?”

  Esther wasn’t sure why the restriction on stimsticks. It wasn’t as if they leaked much into the air. Hell, a fart was worse for the scrubbers. Most commercial stations allowed them, but the government worked in mysterious ways.

  “Can we sit, Staff Sergeant?” Fi asked.

  “I don’t care if you do or not. You can stand all day if that launches your ship. Just don’t wander off. I don’t want to be chasing anyone down when the van gets here. That goes for everyone,” he said, raising his voice so the rest could hear.

  That was good enough for Esther; she dropped her seabag and sat on it. The other three newbies immediately followed suit.

  “So, what have you heard about the battalion. Any chance of action out here?” Fi asked.

  “Oh, nothing since you asked that last time when we got aboard the shuttle,” Esther said, trying to sound like an old salt.

  But the fact was that she was extremely interested in the answer to his second question. Esther considered herself to be a sane person, and no sane person wanted to be put into combat where he or she might not only be killed, but they had the potential to have to kill another human being. Still, she felt an ache to be battle tested. Her dad had often spoken of how combat developed a person, how it brought life into perspective, and while she’d never heard a shot fired in anger, she’d looked death in the eye while a prisoner of the old government, and she thought she at least had an idea of what her father had meant.

  It might not be PC, but the fact was that she wanted to go into combat, she wanted to see if she had what it takes to succeed in the most intense circumstances. She was confident in her abilities. She was sure she wouldn’t turn coward, but how could she know either until she’d been tempered by combat?

  One-Sixteen was not organized for sustained combat. It had only minimal arty attached, only a platoon of the Mamba assault tanks (not the normal Marine Corps M1 battle tanks), and two Storks for airlift. But the tempo could be high in the Far Reaches, with smaller engagements with pirates and the like. With a three-year tour of duty, the odds probably favored her seeing some limited action, at least.

  Noah, on the other hand, would probably relish never seeing combat. He’d never been very aggressive. For the thousandth time, she wondered why he’d enlisted, and more to the present situation, what perverse sense of humor of the gods resulted in them being sent to the same battalion together. In three years, his enlistment would be close enough to being over that he could take an early out. He’d go back to Prophesy or Tarawa or whatever, find a nice girl, and settle down with five kids and a dog.

  It shouldn’t matter to her, she knew. She had her own goals and aspirations, and she should focus on her career alone, not his. Still, she retained enough of her sibling rivalry to wish he was serving out his tour on the other side of the Federation.

  It took almost three hours of waiting before the “van,” which was nothing more than a platform that followed the embedded tracks, showed up. No one had eaten for hours, and Esther was starving. They loaded up their seabags, then clambered aboard, using the sea bags as seats. The van slowly moved out, following one of either the green, blue, or orange track lights that started out alongside each other.

  “Ten on the blue,” one of the corporals said.

  Immediately, he had offers, and within moments, all of the more experienced Marines, along with Pusht, had covered which of the tracks the van was following. Esther didn’t bet, but she couldn’t help but to take interest on who was right.

  Almost immediately, the orange lights veered off to the left, which resulted in both groans and cheers. Pusht had been one of those who’d put his credits on orange.

  They moved slowly, stopping for foot-traffic. They’d only traveled about 100 meters over the next two minutes when they came to a fork in the track lights. Without a dog in the fight, Esther still held her breath as the van approached the fork, and she laughed when it split right to follow the green lights.

  PAs came out and touched, transferring the winnings to the two now trash-talking winners, Sergeant Orinda and a lance corporal. Esther settled back on her bag, just taking in the lay of the land as the van crept along. About two minutes and another 75 or 80 meters farther, the van pulled in front of a guard post manned by a bored-looking Marine. Above the hatch behind the post was a sign where was written, “First Battalion, Sixteenth Marines” on the top, “Duty First” beneath that.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Esther blurted out despite her intention of keeping a low profile. “We waited two hours to ride 200 meters? We could have walked that in a couple of minutes.”

  “Welcome to the real Corps, boot,” Sergeant Orinda said. “And no one ever accused the Corps of being logical.”

  They debarked the van while the staff sergeant approached the guard post. A moment later, he came back to tell everyone to get scanned. He watched while each Marine leaned into the scanner and confirmed that they were who they said they were and that they had orders into the battalion. Each time, a small light turned green and was accompanied by a soft chime—until the staff sergeant leaned in. The light flashed red, and a three raucous “whoops” sounded.

  “What the. . .” the staff sergeant said.

  “Try again,” the Marine on post instructed him. “The scanners have been a little wonky lately.”

  Staff Sergeant York frowned, but submitted to another scan—with the same results.

  “Like I said, welcome to the real Corps,” Sergeant Orinda quietly told Esther.

  “This is bullshit. I’m me, and I’ve got orders to the Roos.”

  “Wait one,” the duty said, then after checking a screen, added, “Yes, I see you’ve got orders here, Staff Sergeant, and the scan says you’re you, but it won’t clear you.”

  “Just open the hatch and let us in. This is a fuck-up that admin has to fix,”

  “You know I can’t do that, Staff Sergeant. Everyone gets cleared before entering the battalion area. I’m going to let everyone else in to report, but you need to wait until I can get your clearance.”

  “This is bullshit!” he repeated, this time with more force. “I’m me, and I’m supposed to be here!”

  “I understand, Staff Sergeant, but you know. . .”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve been in for 14 years now; believe me, I know,” he said sourly.

  Esther was frankly shocked at the exchange. First that the staff sergeant wasn’t cleared, and second that he seemed to accept it—reluctantly, but still, he accepted it.

  “Sergeant Orinda, take everyone to admin and get them checked in. And get someone to unfuck this so I can spend my next tour doing something worthwhile instead of sitting on my ass in the corridor!”

  The front hatch into the battalion area whooshed open, and the 12 Marines entered. Esther wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but she could have been on any generic ship. On Tarawa, whether at headquarters or Camp Charles, bases were broad expanses of grass and trees, where each unit had its own buildings. The admin center for the depot was a stand-alone, two-story building. This was nothing like that. The entire battalion was mushed together in a series of corridors and levels. As the twelve Marines trooped down the main corridor, various signs indicated offices along both sides of the passage.

  Esther liked the wide-open spaces. She did not particularly like shipboard life, so she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to like this.

  Only three years, only three years.

  That had become her mantra over the last few days, and she had a feeling that she’d be repeating that to herself much more often as time went on.

  Admin was like any other of the dozen or so offices they passed. The front hatch was open, leading into a small waiting area separated from the main workspace by a large counter. With 12 Marines milling about, it was pretty crowded.

  “Scan yourselves,” a
corporal shouted from behind a desk. “I’ll be with you in a sec.”

  Once again, Esther was surprised at the lack of basic organization. At Charles, someone would line each of them up, then give each an individual command to get scanned. Now, as the twelve jostled with each other, the organized method at boot camp made sense and was much less confusing.

  But she realized that an effective unit didn’t act only on orders, so maybe the micromanaging method didn’t fit in well with a culture where Marines were expected to complete the mission, even if, or especially if, that took initiative.

  The corporal stepped up to the counter just as they completed scanning, saying, “OK, I’m about to zap your checklist. You’ve got until COB to check in to supply to draw your gear, and then check in with sickbay, the chaplain, and the armory. Do all of this before checking into your units. Orinda and Lysander, check with me before you head off.”

  “Which Lysander,” Esther and Noah asked in unison.

  “Oh, yeah, I see we’ve got both here. That’s Esther Lysander. Lysander, E. Check in with me.”

  He thumbed the send on his PA, and an instant later, all 12 Marines’ PAs buzzed.

  Esther looked down at hers. It indicated that she was assigned to Third Platoon, Bravo Company, and it had a large red “CHECK IN WITH ME” flashing, signed by Corporal Matise Jullien.

  There were murmurs from the others as they checked their assignments.

  “Ess, I’m with Charlie, First Platoon. I’ll be in PICS!” Noah said excitedly.

  Esther wasn’t sure how Noah knew what kind of platoon he had. All her assignment notice indicated was the unit name, not its T/E.[6] Still, she felt a flash of jealousy. She hadn’t bothered to check the exact T/E and T/O[7] of the battalion before leaving Tarawa, so she didn’t know which companies had PICS Marines and which were straight-leg, but serving in combat armor was considered more prestigious by many Marines, and certainly by the Hollybolly establishment—and through their flicks, the broader population at large. Their father first served in PICS and started his reputation with them.

  “OK, whadduyah got, Corporal,” Sergeant Orinda asked as she and Esther came up to the counter.

  “Sergeant, you and the boot are with Bravo’s Third. The platoon is the alert platoon now, so you’re to go down to the armory first and draw your weapon. Gunny Delpino’s waiting for you. Then go immediately to supply. Top’s got an assault kit for you. The alert ship’s the Gallipoli—”

  “Really? Our patron’s the Australian Marines, and the Navy alert ship’s the Gallipoli?” the sergeant asked, sounding bemused.

  “Yeah, yeah, we all know,” the corporal said with a voice that said he’d heard the coincidence a thousand times before. “Very ironic, we all get it. So if you can get beyond that, the ship’s at berth A10. Staff Sergeant Czyżewski’s standing by for you—”

  “Wait, Staff Sergeant who? Ciz-a-what?” Sergeant Orinda asked.

  “Ski. Just Staff Sergeant Ski, not to be confused with Doc Ski or Corporal Ski in Charlie. Anyway, he says he wants you there ASAP. Finally, get your AIs in the brain shack.”

  “What about the rest of our check-in?”

  “After you come off alert. Which is in 70 hours from now.”

  “Balls. You mean they just went on two hours ago?”

  “Got it in one, Sergeant. Can’t put much past you.”

  For a moment, Esther thought the sergeant was going to tear the smug look off of the corporal, but she hesitated, then shrugged and said, “You heard the man, boot. Let’s get it in gear.”

  “Where’re you going, Ess?” Noah called out.

  “Third Platoon, Bravo,” she said as she followed the sergeant. “We’re the alert platoon now.”

  “OK, I’ll see you when you get off.”

  “Uh, Sergeant?” Esther asked as she followed her down the corridor, following the signs for the armory. “Can we get something to eat? I’m starving.”

  “You and me both, boot. But you heard that fat-ass corporal. We need to get aboard the ship ASAP.”

  “But surely a few moments—”

  “Listen, boot,” the sergeant said as she spun around and grabbed Esther’s collar, pulling her down until they were nose-to-nose. “This isn’t Camp Charles, and most of that drill field spit-and-polish has no place in the fleet. But one thing that we don’t mess with is the alert unit. That gets our full and undivided attention. If our platoon sergeant says ASAP, then we salute smartly and beat feat. Understand?”

  Esther was shocked at the sergeant’s reaction. She still didn’t think that taking a couple of minutes to grab a bite to eat would cause the Federation to collapse, but she wasn’t about to say that.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” she said, trying to sound sincere.

  “OK, then. Let’s draw our weapons.”

  The armory could have been the twin to the admin paces, except that instead of a counter, a cage separated the racks of weapons from the Marines. Both Marines submitted to yet their third scan, and the duty armorer told them to wait for a moment.

  “Uh, Sergeant, can I ask you something?” Esther asked, both anxious to create a better impression and out of curiosity.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What was that about the ship’s name that you were talking about?”

  “Hell, boot, what do they teach you in your military history classes at the depot now? You never heard of Gallipoli?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me? Gallipoli was one of the seminal battles of WWI—”

  “Like on Earth, in the Old Reckoning times,” Esther interrupted.

  “Yes, Earth. Early 20th, Old Reckoning. Well, it was a big battle between the Ottoman Empire and for the Allies, the Newfoundland, Indian, French, but for this discussion, the ANZAC forces.”

  “ANZAC?”

  “ANZAC. Australia and New Zealand.”

  “Oh, and since 1/16’s patron is the Australian Marines, I see what you mean about the ship’s name.”

  “Coincidence? Maybe, but the Aussies are pretty influential in the Federation, and not just because they’re reaping in the big credits with their mining concessions in the Juarez Belt. Both countries and their settlements still celebrate April 25 as ANZAC Day.”

  “From that long ago? I never realized that,” Esther said.

  Her dad had been enthralled with history, an interest he hadn’t managed to pass onto her. He’d been somewhat of a star with the Portuguese after commanding the “Fuzos,” whose patron was the “Corpo de Fuzileiros.” Portugal was no longer much of a Federation power, but their support of him couldn’t have hurt. The Australians had much more political clout, and if they cared so much about a battle fought long ago on Earth, then they might hold the same affection for members of “their” battalion. This kind of thinking was new to Esther, but if she really wanted to succeed, she couldn’t afford to turn away any potential opportunity.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when the armorer called both Marines to the cage, handing each a brand new M99.

  “They’ve been zeroed at 400 meters at one G. After you get off alert, you need to go to the range and get your personals.”

  The M99 was a dart thrower, firing a hypervelocity 8mm dart that was accelerated with mag rings, and capable of reaching 2,010 meters per second past the muzzle. The body of the dart was nowhere near 8mm across, but once it was fired, fins popped out for stability, and it was the fins that stretched 8mm.

  No one else seemed to take issue with the “8mm” designation, but it bugged the crap out of Esther.

  The “personals” they’d get at the range would be the settings for Null G, .5 G, 1 G, and 1.5 G. The factory settings were already set, and on these, at 400 meters, but each individual was different, and the weapons needed to be set for his or her shooting style.

  “Thanks,” Sergeant Orinda said to the armorer. She turned and told Esther, “Let’s get to supply.”

  Supply was almost a copy of the ar
mory, even to the cage front. Within three minutes, the two Marines were out, assault packs in their hands. They’d arrive on Wayfarer Station with their personal gear, their boots, their skins, and the skins’ bones inserts. They were leaving for the ship without too much else, but still enough to go to war if it came to that. Esther was finally beginning to feel like a Marine.

  Some appetizing aromas reached them as they hurried to the brain shack, and a line of Marines was entering what had to be the messhall. Esther still wanted to rush in for a quick bite, but the sergeant was pushing on, and Esther stayed on her ass. It only took a minute or so until they reached the S7, the “brain shack.” This space was nothing like the armory or supply. It looked more like a Hollybolly clean room. White and spotless, this was where the civilian techs kept the processing capabilities humming.

  The two Marines handed over their helmets. It wasn’t the helmets themselves that the tech wanted, but the AI chip embedded in each one, the same AI chip that could be taken out and carried in a multiple of chassis, from a fighter pilot’s HUD to a recon Marine’s soft cover. Hopefully, this AI would be the only one Esther would ever need, updated as required, but growing with her, integrating with her over time. The AI was a vital piece of Marine Corps gear, but it took the tech less than 15 seconds each to upload the battalion pathways, check them, and hand them back as if the two Marines were both annoyances to his daily routine.

  Less than a minute after entering the brain shack, they were back in the corridor and hurrying to the front gate. They stepped into the scanner at the gate, which logged each piece of equipment they carried and compared that with their authorization to leave the battalion area with said equipment—notably, their M99’s—and a moment later, they were back out in the corridor.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Staff Sergeant York said from where he was sitting on a bench along the other side of the corridor. “You two are already locked and loaded while I’m still cooling my jets out here?”

  “Sorry, Staff Sergeant, but we’re on the alert platoon.” Sergeant Orinda said. “I told them you needed to get your situation unfucked,” she added as they jogged down the passage