Esther's Story: Special Duty (The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins Book 4)

by Jonathan Brazee

  Not that bath water could harm it, she acknowledged to herself. A meson beam couldn’t scratch it.

  Still, she didn’t bring it into the tub with her.

  The tub kept the water temperature steady, and Esther felt her muscles slowly relax. She didn’t bother to get out when the announcement was made that the ship was undocking. With all the dampeners on the ship, she never even felt it pull out and start the first of two legs of the journey to Earth.

  Her skin wrinkled like a prune, she finally got out of the tub. She walked, dripping, over to the bed and started to open her valise to get changed, then thought better of it. She opened the closet, and sure enough, there was a robe and a set of loose pajamas. She wasn’t going to be on the ship long, but she might as well be comfortable. She managed to put on the pajamas, and she immediately knew she’d made the right choice. They were marvelous, some fine-spun synthetic that felt great against her skin. She dumped the valise, unopened, in the closet, and lay down on the bed.

  The “window” showed a view of space. Juliette Station was no longer in sight, and stars filled the screen. Sailors and Marines referred to space as “the black,” but this was anything but. She thought the view had to have been enhanced for the passengers.

  She asked the room to pull up the menu, and immediately the flat-screen on the bulkhead lit up. Food on the ship was provided as part of the ticket price, along with house pours. Other booze required payment, which while the prices gave her pause, didn’t really affect her. She was dry for the trip. She ordered a ribeye steak, sunrise potatoes, and montez beans, then started scanning the entertainment menu to find a good flick to start off the trip.

  ***************

  Esther turned off the screen, a lump in her throat, tears forming in her eyes. It was stupid, she knew. Suki Hodges was the figment of some writer’s imagination, not a real person. She wasn’t the mother of two that she’d given up for adoption, she didn’t have the Plaxico Virus, and she didn’t finally succumb to the virus with her long-lost kids and her old flame at her side. Still, the story was both sad and happy, all at the same time.

  She wiped her eyes with the corner of her 5,000-thread count Albergis cotton sheet (she knew that because of the placard the ship’s staff had left on the headboard) and leaned back on her pillow. There were four more flicks in her queue, but she needed time to digest Suki’s story.

  Her empty plate sat on the night-table, empty. The steak had been delicious, a Big Black. She had to remember to let Noah know she’d tried it. He was partial to Higgensworth (he always made sure to state the full name of “Higgensworth of Parker Manor”), but Big Black, a 50-year old strain of a Black Angus named Big Black 43 (something else she’d learned from the placard that came with the meal—evidently Ambrosia Lines didn’t just want to offer luxury, but make sure everyone knew it was luxury) was also one of the foodie strains that everyone was supposed to eat at least once in their lives. She contemplated ordering up a dessert, but she was still full.

  “Room, what time is it at Station One, Mars?”

  “It is 23:31:50 at Station One, Mars, Sol,” the room’s AI informed her.

  With her own PA, she could keep track of simple things like that, but without it, she was a little lost.

  Esther liked to synch her time when traveling as early as possible. She’d never gotten into Juliette Prime time, which for some reason, was different from GMT, unlike most stations in human space. Still, she should be getting some sleep. She blanked out her window screen, then dimmed the lights.

  Sleep wasn’t coming though. Her thoughts flitted from Suki to viruses to the Brick, never going deep, but bouncing back and forth. She wondered what would Tater de Gruit say if she came back one day, but as herself, Esther Lysander. She thought about Noah and Miriam, hoping things were OK between them. She thought of just about everything, and that kept her awake.

  She could take a zinger, and that would ease her into sleep, but Esther wasn’t a big fan of the hormone supplement. Most people swore by it, but she didn’t like the feeling of giving up control.

  But you’ll drink five ciders, Lysander.

  Alcohol had far more effect on a body than a zinger, but still, she refrained. Sleep would come.

  Her mind was drifting when she heard the tiniest of whispers at her door. She had to pull herself up from sleep’s reach. She’d put the Do Not Disturb on the door, but whoever was trying to get in evidently didn’t see it for some reason. She was about to call out to tell them not to bother, that the door was locked when with a soft hiss, it opened a crack.

  Esther froze as a shaft of light from the passage briefly lit up a portion of the room, blocked momentarily by the unmistakable bulk of a body slipping in. The door closed, and Esther could feel the presence of someone in the darkness.

  She tried to keep her breathing steady. This wasn’t housekeeping. Someone was in the stateroom do her harm.

  Couriers did get hit on occasion, which is why she, Major Urritia, and several of the other Marines felt that human couriers were not the most secure form of communications. Most couriers who were hit, though, were commercial couriers who were transporting goods of value. Esther didn’t know of a government courier who’d been hit recently.

  It looks like it’s happening now, though, Lysander. Get yourself ready.

  Her stomach fluttered in nervous anticipation as she considered her options. This wouldn’t be some street thug looking to brawl but a professional. She wasn’t a pushover, but neither was she a hand-to-hand expert. She had to find an advantage.

  Slowly, on little kitten’s paws, the body moved across the open space. Esther kept her eyes closed, figuring the intruder had on NVGs. With her mouth open, she had to concentrate on keeping her breathing steady, the very picture of a woman in dreamland. She waited, listening for the tiniest of sounds until she was sure the intruder was standing beside her. She heard the barest whisk, perhaps of a blade being drawn.

  “Window, daylight!” she shouted, rolling forward just as something thunked into her bed where she’d been laying.

  A tuxedoed man stood beside the bed, a blade of some kind stuck right through all 5000 threads and into the biofoam mattress. He reared back, abandoning the blade, hands reaching to tear off the small NVGs he wore.

  Esther didn’t hesitate. She continued her roll off the bed, and with a lunge, jumped on the man’s back, flipping the bindle’s snake over his head and around his neck. She pulled tight, knee in the man’s back, straining for all she was worth.

  The man was a beast. He reached back, hands grabbing the top of her head with incredible power. If he could get those paws on her face, Esther knew she would be lost. Panic gave her strength. She kicked the back of his knee and pulled him over, taking the opportunity to make another loop around his neck before he could react. He tried to body slam her with his back, and as she felt his hands reaching for her, she simply got small.

  Hugging his back, pushing her head into him, she suffered several blows, and a chunk of her hair was pulled out as she tightened the noose with all her might. He almost got loose when he half-rose and threw her into the corner of the night-table, but she desperately managed to hang on. His struggles got weaker, but she didn’t let up. Even when he stopped moving, she held on, pulling with every ounce of her strength.

  Finally, she released the pressure, ready to reapply the noose at the first hint that he was still conscious. He made a rattle from deep within his throat, but he didn’t move.

  “Room, lights,” she said, barely getting out the order through her gasping breaths.

  Turning the window into a daylight view didn’t flood the room with unbearable light, but the man, with his NVGs on, would have been momentarily blinded. That had given her the opportunity. And now, under full room light and looking at the man, looking at the chunk of her scalp he’d torn off that was now laying on the deck, she knew she’d needed that opportunity. He was corded with muscle.

  Esther pushed the body off
of her, then felt his carotid. His pulse was feeble, but he was alive. She contemplated rectifying that situation, but the Federation would want to know who he was and why he’d targeted her.

  She couldn’t let him recover, though, so she pulled the blade out of her bed. She could see the blade, which looked to be made of some densely-packed wood or synthetic wood, had been hidden inside an ornate walking stick, a recent affectation of some of the uber-wealthy. The bejeweled handle of the walking stick didn’t make for a convenient sword hilt, but the blade was sharp, and she quickly cut some strips of the sheet. She used them to tie his legs and arms, then asked the room to deliver some duct tape.

  Whatever she ordered, food or otherwise, would be noted by the ship’s crew, but if they thought that her asking for the tape was odd, that didn’t interfere with their customer service. A few moments later, a small chime announced its arrival.

  Holding the sword pointing at the man, she reached inside the dumbwaiter and pulled out the tape. From outward appearances, the tape wasn’t much different than when it was developed centuries ago, but it had been improved over time. Easy to pull off the roll, it was all but impossible to break once applied. Esther ran the tape up along his legs, encircling him like a maypole. Then, with his hands behind him, she did the same with his arms. He was just coming to when she shoved him up against the bulkhead and ran the tape across his neck, each end fixed on the bulkhead itself. His eyes opened just in time to see her apply the last piece to his mouth. She jumped back and picked up the sword, pointing it at his chest.

  He immediately tried to pull forward, but the tape across his throat convinced him this was a bad idea. There was a flash of anger in his eyes as he glared at her, and she could see his muscles bulge as he tried to pull against the tape.

  Esther was running full throttle, her heart pounding, but seeing him, in what she assumed was a very expensive black and silver tux, complete with a bio-metallic silver rose boutonniere that had somehow stayed in place during their fight, made her want to laugh with relief. This was a professional, and now he was trussed up like a medieval pig ready for the spit.

  She felt something seeping out her smashed nose, and she slowly lifted her tongue to taste the blood. She wasn’t sure when she’d hit her nose so hard, but she was pretty sure it was broken.

  The fire in the man’s eyes faded when he saw her touch her tongue to the blood. It didn’t turn into fear or despair, but more like resignation. She figured that he knew if she hadn’t killed him yet, she wasn’t going to.

  “Room, ignore any voice other than mine until I debark,” she said.

  She didn’t think her prisoner could free his mouth, but she wanted to be safe.

  “Understood, Mz. Patterson, and logged in.”

  The man almost snorted disbelief above the tape covering his mouth.

  So, he knows who I really am? Or just that I’m not Anne Patterson?

  Esther could call ship’s security. They’d be more than accommodating, arresting her attacker, upgrading her to a suite, and probably offering her all sorts of lucrative compensation. That wouldn’t do Esther Lysander any good, and it wouldn’t do the Federation any good, either. Ambrosia Lines was registered in Manna Lipo, and it was licensed to operate within Federation Space, of course. But at the moment, the ship was in deep space, out of Federation jurisdiction. If the ship took custody of her prisoner, the Federation would never get its hands on him. And that wasn’t good enough for her. Even if she didn’t have a duty as a Marine, she wanted to know why he’d been sent to take her bindle.

  Almost getting killed had a way of making it personal.

  Once they docked at Glenn Station, the Federation security forces would board the ship, if they had to, to take custody of the man.

  Esther leaned the walking-stick sword up against the side of the bed, then took a tissue, rolled it up, and stuck it in her right nostril, from which most of the blood had flowed. It was pulsating with pain now, in counterpoint to her throbbing head where her attacker had pulled out a chunk of scalp, but she wasn’t going to give the man any degree of satisfaction.

  Standing there, she surveyed the stateroom. It was a mess. She took five minutes cleaning up, aware of her prisoner’s eyes following her every move. There wasn’t much she could do about the damage, however.

  There was one more thing she had to do, though. She grabbed a towel from the head, then lifting her prisoner’s legs, slid it the best she could under his butt. Mr. Tuxedo was not going to be released for piss breaks, so when he did let go, she wanted something to sop it up.

  “Room, menu, please.”

  Her mouth was dry, and there was blood in the back of her throat. She really needed something to cut through that, and she ordered a pomegranate juice. At the last second, she ordered a pasta that she didn’t recognize, only that it had “triple garlic.”

  She said nothing to the man as she waited for the food. A soft chime sounded four or five minutes later, and she reached into the dumbwaiter to pull out her food and drink. The smell of garlic instantly filled the stateroom. She carried the plate over to her bed, then made a show of eating it. She hoped her message was clear. Mr. Tuxedo wasn’t getting anything to eat until the Glenn Station police had him in their hands.

  Surprisingly, and maybe more from relief than anything else at simply still being alive, the pasta was pretty good, and the pomegranate juice was refreshing. Her hands were barely trembling as she put the plate back into the dumbwaiter.

  “Room, I want to watch ‘Suki’s Children,’” she ordered.

  The reviews of the sequel were not as kind as they were to the original she had watched earlier, but they were going to be there in the stateroom for a while, so there was time to spare. And if it wasn’t that good, at least her prisoner, who was taped to the bulkhead and directly facing the display screen, would have to suffer through every moment of it. He couldn’t turn away.

  A perverse part of her hoped the flick sucked.

  MARS

  Chapter 28

  Esther hit the center of the battle-eye, and locked onto the major, it sent the small, 40-gram squash ball out at him at 135 KPH.

  “Shit, Lysander! That’s the fourth time,” Lent said, rubbing his chest where the ball had nailed him. “I should never have agreed to battle squash.”

  “Battle squash,” or any of the “battle” court games, was simply a modification of the existing game, one favored by Marines, troopers, and drunks. A simple target, called the “battle-eye,” was fixed anywhere on the forecourt wall. If a player hit the red center of the battle-eye with a ball, shuttlecock, or whatever, the target’s AI tracked down the opposing player and fired the ball right back at him or her. A player could possibly dodge out of the way, but not often. To make things more interesting, if the player hit the blue ring outside the center bullseye, the same thing happened, but the player hitting the ball was targeted. The blue ring kept players from targeting the battle-eye continuously, only attempting when a good opportunity presented itself.

  “My serve,” Esther said, picking up the ball.

  She was being a little rough on the major, she knew, so she fed him an easy return, and sure enough, he pounced on it—and hit the blue “ego ring.” He didn’t have enough time even to attempt to dodge when the battle eye nailed him in the chest again.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” the major muttered, rubbing the spot. “What’s with you today? Anything to do with your new hairstyle?”

  After getting her debrief, Esther had reported to the government clinic in Brussels before catching a hop back to Mars. She hadn’t been damaged enough for regen, so a nano-boost had been enough to close off her wound. But nanos didn’t grow hair, so unless she gave in and shaved everything or spend the big credits needed for an acceleration at a salon, she was going to look more than a little shaggy. And maybe that had put her in a bad mood, one she was taking out on the major.

  “All the rage in Brussels, sir. Haven’t you heard?”

&nb
sp; “What I did hear was that you caught yourself a fish on your mule mission,” he said, looking out of the corner of his eyes at her.

  Esther shrugged. Their missions were supposed to be secret, even from each other, but secrets were hard to keep.

  “I can neither confirm nor deny, sir,” she said, the rote answer.

  “Kind of hard to deny something interesting happened. Ambrosia Line issued a blanket apology for failing to keep passengers safe while at the same time protested the Glenn Station police for boarding one of their ships.”

  “You know how it is, sir, with those commercial lines.”

  “Yes, I do. I’ve been on the Ambrosia Cloud twice myself. Helluva nice ship, huh?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said with a smile, giving in. “Helluva nice ship—for all we get to see of her.”

  She didn’t know why she was being so aggressive with the major. Her nose felt fine, and her scalp was only slightly sore. The trip to Earth hadn’t been that bad. She reached a truce with her prisoner, taking off the tape over his mouth and even letting him pick a flick to watch, a horrendously sophomoric teen comedy. Pretty gracious of her, she’d thought, for someone who’d tried to kill her.

  She’d actually been thanked during her debrief, something that had never happened to her before. Most of all, she was alive when she should have been killed. So, she wasn’t sure why the pent-up emotion, and why she was trying to kill the good major with death-by-squash-ball.

  “If you want to take off the battle-eye, sir, I’m down with that.”

  “What, and let you get off scot-free, your tender skin unbruised? Au contraire, mon capitaine. Serve it up.”

  You can always tell a Marine, she thought to herself. You just can’t tell them much. Ba-dum-dum!