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

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  So far, so good, she thought, as she watched him walking up and down behind First Squad, alert and focused.

  She checked the time. The meeting had already run an hour over with no signs of letting up soon. Esther could go inside and see for herself, but her platoon’s job was exterior duty. She didn’t want it to seem as if she was stepping on the toes of the FCDC security team that was providing security inside the building.

  “Lieutenant, we’ve got some sort of commotion to our front,” Sergeant Hammerschott passed on the P2P.

  Esther immediately switch the personal comms to her command net, then replied with the more formal, “Golf-One-Three, what kind of commotion?”

  “I don’t know, Lieu. . .I mean, Golf-One-Six. We can just hear them coming.”

  “Six” would have been sufficient on the platoon command net, but overkill was better than under. Esther was just as guilty of being a little lax with comms procedures on the P2P, but on the command or open circuit, identifying who was sending and to whom was vital. In the heat of the battle, a simple thing such as looking for the avatar on a face shield display could be a distraction. She made a mental note to stress comms procedures after they returned to the base.

  “Five, meet me at Third’s position,” she passed.

  Esther was towards the north of the building, close to where Third Squad was placed. Keeping inside the line of permanent pylon barriers, she rounded the corner, and she could now hear the “commotion,” as Hammerschott had called it. It was chanting, and it had the sound of a protest. She almost reported to Captain Hoffman, but she hesitated, wanting to get a little more information so she could give him some details.

  She found Hammerschott and stood there, ordering her AI to filter out the rumble so she could make out the shouts.

  “Froggies, out of Jordy! Froggies, out of Jordy!”

  Within moments, the leading edge of the crowd appeared coming around a corner. They were two blocks away, but Esther didn’t need magnification to read the signs they were holding. This mob was not in favor of the Francophones. One of the signs, a high-quality mono-pole screen was held high, the image a crude cartoon of a stylized figure in a beret bending over only to have a broad-shouldered image come up and kick it in the butt, sending the figure flying off the screen before reappearing to start the process over.

  “They’re not the enemy, Baxter,” she passed on the P2P to Sergeant Hammerschott, forgetting her moment’s ago promise to start stressing proper comms procedures. “Just take is easy.”

  She had placed Third over the north and north-east sector around the building because it was the least likely to see any confrontation. She was still concerned about the nervousness he’d displayed at the farm, and didn’t want to put him in that kind of position again until she was more confident of his capabilities. Intel had briefed them that the part to the west of the building was where people gathered, and the west side had longer fields of fire for a sniper, so she’d put First Squad there. The gods of battle were perverse, however, so of course, it was to the north that anything was happening.

  The protestors kept approaching, crossing Alder Ave and now only a block away. Esther looked back to the building. The conference room was on this side of it, on the second deck. She could see an FCDC trooper standing just inside the window.

  And that’s why they’re coming here. I should have thought of that.

  With the conference room on this side, and with the Frères Dans L’ègalitè rep and one of the governor’s representatives, the protestors wanted to be where they could be heard. At the park, no one at the meeting would even know they had shown up.

  The FCDC team had put up a simple tape barrier around the building, extending about 15 meters out to the other side of the street. It was a representative barrier, not a physical one. Anyone could just step over it. The protestors stopped at it, however, and continued their chanting.

  Esther caught a glimpse of another sign, this one handwritten on a piece of fiberboard. It had a pretty strong suggestion for the Francophiles that was physically impossible—unless someone was extremely flexible—and she had to force back a chuckle. As a Marine and part of the Federation, she couldn’t be seen as taking sides—despite that being the entire reason the Marines were on the planet.

  “Steady,” Staff Sergeant Fortuna passed over the platoon net. “We’re just standing here watching the protestors. Nothing to be concerned about.”

  Esther reported to Captain Hoffman, who didn’t seem too concerned, but the magenta icon that appeared at the corner of her display let her know that he was slaving into her feed.

  “Keep your eyes open,” Esther passed to Sergeants Ngcobo and Daniels-Graves.

  While she didn’t think the protest in front of her was anything serious, there was a possibility that it was a diversion. As always, Esther’s mind was whirling with all sorts of possibilities, too many to address. The diversion possibility, though, was significant enough that she thought the reminder to her other two squad leaders was warranted.

  In front of her were about 60-70 protestors. Most seemed willing to honor the barrier tape, simply shouting over it to the municipal building. A couple were more animated, striding back and forth. One young man had voice thrower, the tiny device amplifying his voice so much as he screeched and shouted that it drowned out most of the rest.

  When he pulled down the tape with one hand, Staff Sergeant Fortuna ordered him with “Citizen in the blue shirt, do not cross the tape.”

  The shoulder speaker on a Marine’s battle rattle was not as powerful as the voice thrower, which was designed for concerts, but Fortuna’s voice had the element of command that could not be ignored, and the man stopped. He didn’t let up on his shouts, but he stood on the other side of the tape.

  “OK, good, good,” Esther whispered to herself.

  She started to feel better about her platoon sergeant. She didn’t want to pat herself on the back (well, maybe a little), but maybe their talk in the gym had some effect on him.

  She started to walk back toward First Squad’s sector when Mr. Blue Shirt suddenly vaulted the tape and raised his sign, another mono-pole screen, as if it was a battle ax.

  “Snatch!” Staff Sergeant Fortuna ordered Baston and Star of Justice.

  The municipal building was surrounded by the squat shapes of pylon barriers, which protected against vehicle intrusion. These could be vaulted by individuals, but not easily. There were breaks in them at intervals, and the two Marines were at one such opening. And that was where Mr. Blue Shirt was heading, angling from where he’d stepped over the tape.

  On Fortuna’s order, the two Marines stepped back, leaving the gap open. Esther could see the look of satisfaction cross the man’s face as he ran, his voice-thrower blasting an unintelligible screech. Staff Sergeant Fortuna moved to the opening, and the protestor, probably hyped in the adrenaline rush (if not something more chemically-induced) held his sign higher as he hit the opening and shifted his direction to the platoon sergeant.

  Oh, this isn’t going to be pretty, Esther thought as she took a step forward to watch better.

  Esther was the platoon commander. She should be commanding. But she knew the man’s fate was already sealed, so for the moment, she was simply an appreciative spectator.

  Mr. Blue Shirt totally ignored Baston and Star of Justice, which was pretty difficult to do as they were both in full battle rattle, and Star of Justice was 2.2 meters and 110 kg of muscle. As the protestor reached them, his focus on Staff Sergeant Fortuna, the two Marines suddenly closed in on him like two halves of a clam. Baston hit him an instant before Star of Justice, knocking him back into the bigger Marine. His sign continued on toward Fortuna, but he didn’t. He might as well have run into the stone wall of the municipal building. Actually, that might have been better. He’d have simply bounced off the wall without having 200 kg of that wall land on him right after.

  “Oh, hell yeah,” Captain Hoffman said over the P2P.

  Es
ther winced as the man fell into a twisted heap, his head bouncing off the sidewalk. With Baston on his legs and Star of Justice on his torso, Mr. Blue Shirt was in a world of hurt. He was probably already knocked unconscious, but if not, Star of Justice’s elbow to the side of the head as the Lance Corporal stood back up finished the job. Baston efficiently pulled the man’s arms back and zip-tied his hands together.

  The other protestors stood in silence, no one moving.

  “Please stay on the far side of the tape,” Staff Sergeant Fortuna passed over his suit speakers as if telling people which bus to board.

  One of the protestors, an older man with razor tiger slashes shaved into his hair, shrugged and shouted out, “Froggies, out of Jordy! Froggies, out of Jordy!”

  By fits and starts, the rest joined in, and in a few moments, were back to their full righteous fury. Like wildebeest in the eco-parks of Africa after a lion had made a kill, they had put the lion out of mind, their fellow wildebeest forgotten.

  Staff Sergeant Fortuna picked up the man’s sign, turned to read it, then slowly folded it in half before dropping it to the ground. With careful deliberation, he stomped on it, crushing it between his feet. A flash of first red, then blue, and the sign died.

  That’s got to be 300 credits down the drain, Esther thought, but without any compassion. What did the guy expect? How stupid could he be?

  “Doc, can you come up here?” she passed. “One of the protestors ran into Baston and Star of Justice.”

  The magenta icon was still on her display, so she knew Captain Hoffman had watched the entire thing with her. She didn’t need to report back immediately. But they had to take care of Mr. Blue—well now blue with spots of red—Shirt, and not just with the corpsman. Marines did not have authority to arrest a citizen. That had to be the FCDC. She asked Sergeant First Class Larrimore, the team leader, to send someone out to pick up the still unconscious man.

  The magenta icon went out, and Esther let out a breath of relief. Having commanders observing her was part and parcel to the job, but she didn’t know many Marines who actually enjoyed it.

  The crowd seemed slightly quieter, but that might have been because of their prisoner’s voice-thrower being out of the equation. What she did notice was that no one even touched the tape. They were more than happy to let only their voices cross it.

  Fifteen minutes later, Captain Hoffman let her know the meeting was breaking up. She kept her Marines at their positions until after the governor’s rep and his party lifted off, then collapsed them into the southern entry where the four vehicles were waiting to take them back.

  “Good job out there,” she told Staff Sergeant Fortuna.

  He grunted what could have been a thanks as he motioned for Second Squad to mount up.

  “Lieutenant Lysander, can I see you a moment?” a voice called out from behind her.

  Esther looked back to see Major Postern by the Hyundai Rover motioning her over.

  What the hell? That was a righteous take-down. The idiot was warned, and he still came. What did he expect us to do?

  She straightened her shoulders and marched up to him, trying to look confident.

  “You’re going to come with me to the Landing Day Celebration in Charlestown on Monday. Make sure your Alphas are ready.”

  What the . . .?

  She’d been ready to get her ass chewed, so this took her by surprise. Over the major’s shoulder, she saw Captain Hoffman shrug his shoulders, hands palm up, telling her this had nothing to do with him.

  “Uh, sir? Me?”

  “Yes, you. I was just invited to the ceremony by the federal comptroller. The administrator thought it would be a good idea if we were there, showing the flag, so-to-speak. The election’s only two weeks away, and he thinks we need to remind everyone what being in the Federation means, and that includes having the Marines to protect them.”

  That is BS. There’s more to it than that.

  “Is this because of who’s my father?” she asked, heedless of how that might come across.

  Esther was proud of her heritage, and she’d once been willing to use it to her advantage, but now, she’d evolved. She wanted to be Esther Lysander, not Ryck Lysander’s daughter.

  “No. Well, maybe. But your name was specifically added to the guest list. I got the feeling that it is more of a dig at the Legion. We’ve had only one confrontation, after all, and you led it.”

  And lost seven Marines, she thought.

  But that made more sense. Besides rubbing the Legion’s nose in it, it was a reminder that the Marines were a potent force, and escalating the situation was not a good idea.

  “I haven’t cleared it with Battalion, but plan on it. And be looking good.”

  Her attendance was not really up to Battalion. As an official representative of the Federation, she’d have to be cleared by Division, as would the major and anyone else going. But that should be merely a formality. The warning about her Alphas was appreciated, though. This was a combat mission, not a normal deployment. Officers were required to bring one set of Alphas, but they were vac-packed into a tiny bundle, compressed as much as was possible. You couldn’t just pop the seal and thrown them on, though. It took several steps just to get them to where they could be worn, and if this was an official function, she had to get them looking sharp.

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  She looked again at the skipper, hoping to get some guidance, but he silently mouthed “Later.”

  “Tell you what, why don’t you ride in the Rover with me,” he said, suddenly all smiles. “It’s a little more comfortable than those Shannxis,” he added, pointing to the trucks. “Captain Hoffman told me your Marines pulverized that negat who tried to rush you.”

  The Rover was a loaner, far nicer than anything the Corps had for company or field-grade officers, and the Shaanxis had a habit of forgetting that they were hover vehicles, supposedly able to smooth out the ride. But Esther only considered it for a moment.

  “Thank you, sir, but I’d like to ride with my Marines.”

  “Well, OK, if you insist. I’ll get the guest list confirmed, and I should know by tomorrow. Start on your Alphas today, though. Let them air out.”

  Esther came to semi-attention, and nodded, foregoing the salute as was normal for field operations. She didn’t know what to make of what she’d been told. She hoped she really was being added to the list because of Watson’s Farm, though.

  As she climbed up into the truck’s cab and sat on the thinly padded seat, she wondered if she should have taken the major up on his offer. The truck backed up and lurched into forward, the right skirt bottoming out for a second, sending a jolt that elicited a string of curses from the cargo bed.

  It’s better than walking, I guess.

  The truck swung right, this time the left skirt hitting, as a louder chorus of curses sounded out.

  Maybe.

  Chapter 9

  Esther looked across the room, just taking in the entire surreal experience. She’d been to more than a few Founders or Landing Day celebrations in her life, but nothing was like this.

  The elections to decide whether all, part, or none of the planet would withdraw from the Federation was in 18 days. Over 300 civilians had been killed during the campaign-related violence along with 17 legionnaires and five Marines. Those numbers might have been a drop in the bucket compared to other wars or skirmishes, but they weren’t insignificant. Campaigns were supposed to be peaceful.

  Yet here in the Charleston Mövenpick’s ball room, all the movers and shakers on the planet were hobnobbing, kissing cheeks, and shaking hands as if nothing was wrong. Everyone was in the typical fervor of patriotism, and Nouvelle Bretagne’s green and brown flag hung everywhere.

  The Federation had sent the Honorable Franklin G. Rheinheim (whom Esther didn’t know from Adam, but she had gleaned the information from the engraved Schedule of Events she’d been handed at the door). Rheinheim was a career bureaucrat, the sector administrator and so respo
nsible for Federation functions for over 25 planets and stations. He wasn’t the center of attention, though. Nouvelle Bretagne’s own favorite son, the football goalie Lamont Mulliare, had arrived with the sector administrator. Mulliare was a Francophile, but he’d been vocal about the planet remaining in the Federation. Now he was being trotted around by Rheinheim like a prized dog at Westminster.

  Less than ten meters to Esther’s left, two legionnaires in their Tenue de parade, their parade dress uniform, with the black kepis of officers, were helping themselves to glasses of Grackle. Three other legionnaires were mingling, to include their commander.

  Representing the Marines, Esther had joined Major Postern, Captain Hoffman, Echo’s Captain Tojinoru, and Captain Quince, the flight detachment commander. But while the legionnaires were in their full dress uniforms, the Marines where in the Alphas, their second-most formal uniform.

  It still boggled her grasp of sensibility that both militaries were socializing together. The Federation and Greater France might not be officially at war, but Esther had been in combat with legionnaires less than two weeks ago, and for all she knew, there could be skirmishes happening at this very moment.

  Esther took a small sip of her Grackle. The local bubbly wine was surprisingly tasty, with just the right fizz, but Esther was not going to drink more than one. Captain Quince had already had four glasses, and he looked to be enjoying himself. Esther kept expecting either the major or one of the other captains to step in and stop him, but it seemed that she was the only one concerned.

  “Second Lieutenant Lysander, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” a voice from behind her said.

  Esther turned to see a young legionnaire, smiling down at her. Esther wasn’t a short woman, but the legionnaire towered over her by a good dozen centimeters. He was as thin as a rake, though, but with the wiry physique of an athlete instead of that of a scarecrow.

  “Sous-Lieutenant Mark Donald,” he said, his hand out.

  Esther certainly had not expected to speak to any of the legionnaires, much less have one come up and introduce himself. She warily took his hand. His grip was firm, but not overbearing in an attempt to crush her hand.