Gladiator (Women of the United Federation Marines Book 1)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  The d’relle held out her lower right hand, as a human would. Whether Klethos did that as well or if the d’relle simply knew human customs, Tamara didn’t know. But she took the proffered hand and shook it.

  “Yes, honored foes and respected sisters-of-the-soul.”

  Chapter 44

  “Are you ready?” Elei asked as they stood just outside the doorway of their shelter.

  “Yes, I am.”

  And she was, she knew. For whatever happened. When she woke up in the morning, she’d almost thought she’d dreamt the night before, it had been so surreal. But while her meeting the d’relle had been revealing in many ways, it changed nothing. The powers-that-be were pulling her strings, pulling everyone’s strings, evidently, but she was still a gladiator with a job to do. And the thing was, she wanted to do it.

  At that very moment, if she’d be given the option to go back to her nomination and refuse it, to never become a gladiator, to never fight in the ring, to never contract the Brick, she’d refuse it. Her time was coming to an end, whether in a few minutes in the ring, or in a year from the Brick—if she didn’t follow Grammarcy and take the quicker way out. But how many people were given the chance to fight for something so important? As an infantryman Marine, she could have been part of something bigger, true. And she could have been killed in combat. But there was no way that her individual effort would have such an impact on humanity.

  “Well, let’s get going,” she said, leading the way down the slope to the waiting humans and Klethos.

  The sun was warm on her face, the breeze cool. What had been a beautiful night had turned to an even more beautiful morning. This was far more appropriate than fighting in a stadium with the teeming masses cheering.

  Elei walked behind and one step to her left. Tamara had told her about the meeting, but she’d withheld most of what she’d learned. Elei was teeming with questions, and Tamara hadn’t decided how much she’d pass on. Would it do any good for her sister-gladiators to find out why they couldn’t have children? She wasn’t sure. Just the fact that the Klethos could speak Standard was revelation enough, and with humans now issuing the challenges, Tamara was pretty sure other gladiators, either by happenstance or by seeking them out, will meet their opponents as well. If done before the actual challenge, the d’relle would not be constrained to the Klethos language. Once more and more conversations took place, well, secrets were pretty hard to keep, especially when one side didn’t even consider them secrets.

  As they neared the creek and came into view, the witnesses turned as one to watch her approach. At least a couple of hundred Klethos crowded around their half of the ring, some of them on the other side of the creek and partway up the far bank. Tamara’s eyes, though, sought out the lone d’relle, kneeling at the edge of the ring. Her eyes were not trained to pick out individual differences in Klethos, but she knew this was her d’relle.

  Tamara gave a slight nod to the witnesses, then marched to the edge of the ring. She reached back, and Elei handed her her mameluke, but still sheathed in the silver and gold scabbard. There was a slight murmur from the witnesses. Tamara knew they’d be wondering about her haka, and this had to surprise them.

  Tamara, with exaggerated, long-legged steps, moved to the center of the ring, drew her sword, the placed the scabbard on the sand, one end facing her opponent, the other back to her gladiator witnesses. She then placed her mameluke on the ground, making an X with the scabbard. She slowly backed up, and raising her arms gracefully over her head, started her Scottish War dance. Stepping slowly, she touched each of the four quadrants made by the X, feet barely touching. Gradually, she built up the speed, her legs blurring into motion while her upper body remained still. She kept her face calm, but she was concentrating on the intricate movements. She was a gladiator, not a dancer, after all. Still, she was an athlete, and her feet flew through the steps, landing in each quadrant in turn, barely missing the sharp blade that lay there, waiting to damage an errant foot. Then she added bending to the side, one upraised arm reaching almost to the sand before coming upright to repeat the move on the other side, all the time her feet beating tattoos.

  When she added spinning, she could feel her blood pounding, she could feel her face flushing. She hadn’t been too sure about the Scottish dance when she selected it. It was not as martial-looking as her Maori haka or Turkish sword dance. It was far more of a ballet or Irish step dance. But with the added danger of a wickedly sharp blade, it just felt right. And she was living the dance, not performing it.

  With a final flurry of spinning and steps, she hooked the hilt of her sword with her foot and lifted it spinning in the air. As it came back down, she snatched it out of the air and converted the move into the challenge lunge with a loud shout.

  She’d nudged the scabbard twice with her feet during the dance, so it hadn’t been perfect, but she could live with that. She felt exhilarated.

  I’m a lean, green, fighting machine! I’m a lean, green, fighting machine!

  The d’relle waited almost ten seconds before she got up. She almost slid into her initial lunge, then started spinning around the ring, a planet in orbit around Tamara’s sun. She did twelve huge spinning jumps in a row, her sword singing through the heavy air. Tamara made no pretension of not watching. She followed the d’relle though each move, watching and somehow enjoying the dance.

  It made no sense. The two warriors would be battling to the death in a few moments, but not only had Tamara had an absurdly friendly chat with her opponent the night before, she was watching and appreciating the d’relle’s haka.

  And the dance was beautiful. It was power, it was grace, all rolled into one. When she finally stopped and fell into the challenge acceptance, Tamara was sorry it was over.

  Then, the d’relle did something unusual, very unusual. Instead of retreating to the edge of the ring, instead of launching an immediate attack, she bowed low at the waist, pulling all four arms up at the elbows, exposing the back of her crest and neck. With one easy slash, Tamara could have put an end to the fight before it even started.

  The d’relle slowly straightened up from her honor bow and stared at Tamara. Tamara stood still, then repeated the bow to her opponent—to the gasps of the humans behind her. She stayed low for several heartbeats, her neck exposed, before straightening back up herself. The d’relle nodded once at Tamara before raising her sword.

  Tamara kicked her scabbard out of the ring and raised her mameluke to her guard.

  With her heart singing, she joined the battle.

  Epilogue

  As Crystal Kovács stepped off the tram, a laughing little girl of about four accidently ran into her leg and bounced off.

  “Easy there,” Crystal said, helping the little one to her feet.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” a harried-looking woman said, a baby on her hip. “Ali, say you’re sorry to the lady.”

  “Sorry,” the girl said, looking up at Crystal’s 2.2-meter frame in awe.

  “It’s OK,” Crystal said, watching the woman gather her daughter and lead her into the visitor’s center.

  Crystal watched the small family for a moment before shaking her head. She wasn’t sure she could handle two kids like that. She liked kids as a general concept, but she wasn’t sure she was the mothering type.

  She wasn’t here for the visitor’s center, though. She’d been on the required class trips to the monument before, so she’d already been inside the center more than once. She knew the history of the place. That wasn’t why Crystal had made the two-hour maglev trip, then taken the tram from the station. She wasn’t entirely sure why she had come, but something deep inside told her that it was necessary.

  Crystal bypassed the visitor’s center and the people crowding inside and started on the winding walkway that led down the slope. The place was beautiful, she thought, and she was glad that the government allowed no commercial development of the area. It was unsullied and pure, as it should be.

  Her long legs qui
ckly ate up the distance, and as the brick path led around the last bend, the monument itself came into view. Her heart quickened as she saw the statue, then the ring. A number of people were gathered around, some at the edge of the ring itself, some in the benches set back. More than a few older people in hoverchairs sat together chatting. A ranger was talking to a small group of primary students, pointing across the creek to the far bank.

  Crystal took in the scene for a moment, then ignoring the rest of the people, marched straight up to the statue in front of the ring. She had to wait a few moments as a young man posed in front of it while a young woman snapped a few holos, but when the two finally were satisfied and left, she stepped right in front and looked up at the oversized figure.

  Tamara Veal, the Megmentő,[16] stared off into the distance, her mameluke held across her chest. Crystal had seen the real weapon displayed at the New Budapest Museum of History, but to her, the almost three-meter-long sword in the statue’s hand seemed more real somehow. A sword was nothing, after all, without the person wielding it.

  Crystal shifted her gaze to the statue’s face. The fabrisculptor had done an outstanding job of programming, she thought. Crystal could almost feel the intensity of the gladiator’s thoughts. She wished she could have known the real person, to know what she felt, to know just who she was. Instead, she was left with the statue, the Hollybolly flick, and the urban myths that tended to spring up around heroes.

  She’d watched the recordings of the fight, of course. It was required viewing for all secondary students. Where some other students had broken down and cried at the bloody battle, Crystal had been mesmerized by the violent beauty of their dance, gladiator and d’relle moving almost like dance partners in synch with each other, scoring minor hits, but carrying on their ballet. Sure, Crystal jumped back when the d’relle’s sword almost severed the gladiator’s left arm at the wrist. She anguished when the d’relle pierced the wounded gladiator’s side, but then there was that gorgeous overhand swing where the gladiator, the d’relle’s sword still deep inside of her, connected at the base of her opponent’s neck.

  She’d almost cheered, but stopped when she realized that the other students were more in shock than anything else. Everyone knew the history, but seeing it in its bloody glory was different.

  The two opponents, their weapons trapped in each other’s bodies, slowly started to fall. Then came the arm clasp. The two reached out to each other, clasping hand to forearm, and together, supporting each other, they sank to the sand.

  Despite the urgings of a couple of the UAM observers, Tamara did not carry on the fight. Neither did the d’relle. They both sat together, facing each other as blue and red blood flowed down to mix together in the sand.

  Crystal vividly remembered watching the holo, feeling the tension even if she already knew the outcome. She remembered feeling the outpouring of relief as after eight long minutes, the d’relle started to lean forward until she could no longer withstand the pull of gravity, and she fell face first into the gladiator’s lap. She was dead.

  The humans in the holo erupted into cheers, and across the creek, the Klethos farthest away from the ring turned and started to leave. Tamara Veal, though, held up her one good hand to stop her witnesses from entering the ring, and then slowly smoothed out the crest of her opponent. With her hand still on the d’relle’s crest, she started leaning forward as if to look into the d’relle’s eyes, but she didn’t stop the lean. She fell on top of the d’relle, covering her, and Tamara Veal, the Megmentő, was gone.

  Crystal stepped over the low rope that circled the statue and walked up to the base.

  “Miss? Miss? Please get back behind the rope!” the ranger, who was still with his tour group, shouted at her.

  Crystal ignored him.

  “Was it worth it?” she asked as she reached up and put her hand on the statue’s shin as if she could use the physical contact to pull out an answer.

  Of course, from humanity’s viewpoint, it was worth it. New Budapest was regained, and at almost no cost. Tamara Veal had died, but as it turned out, they discovered after the fight, she’d already contracted BRC. What was another year of one person’s life when compared to an entire world? Lives had been wasted freely for much less in return.

  But Crystal was not asking about the fight itself. She wanted to know if becoming a gladiator, of going through genmod, if the process was worth it. Nature didn’t like such a drastic perversion to her plan and inflicted BRC as punishment on the puny humans who were arrogant enough to try and challenge her will.

  “Ma’am, you have to leave,” the ranger said, starting to walk over to her.

  “Was it worth it?” she asked again. “Is the glory ever worth the suffering and sacrifice?”

  But she knew the answer to that. She’d always known it. She just needed to come out to this hallowed ground to confirm that.

  She dropped her hand from the leg and stepped back so she could see the entire statue.

  She looked Tamara Veal in the face and shouted out, “I’ll accept the nomination. I will become a gladiator, and I hope I do you proud!”

  Thank you for reading Gladiator. If you liked it, please feel free to leave a review of the book in Amazon.

  This is the first book of a planned three-book series. The other two books will be about two other minor characters introduced in this book and will feature more Marine Corps-type action.

  If you would like updates on new books releases, news, or special offers, please consider signing up for my mailing list. Your email will not be sold, rented, or in any other way disseminated. If you are interested, please sign up at the link below:

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  Other Books by Jonathan Brazee

  The Return of the Marines Trilogy

  The Few

  The Proud

  The Marines

  The Al Anbar Chronicles: First Marine Expeditionary Force--Iraq

  Prisoner of Fallujah

  Combat Corpsman

  Sniper

  The United Federation Marine Corps

  Recruit

  Sergeant

  Lieutenant

  Captain

  Major

  Lieutenant Colonel

  Colonel

  Commandant

  Rebel

  (Set in the UFMC universe)

  Women of the United Federation Marines

  Gladiator

  Sniper (coming soon)

  Werewolf of Marines

  Werewolf of Marines: Semper Lycanus

  Werewolf of Marines: Patria Lycanus

  Werewolf of Marines: Pax Lycanus

  To The Shores of Tripoli

  Wererat

  Darwin’s Quest: The Search for the Ultimate Survivor

  Venus: A Paleolithic Short Story

  Non-Fiction

  Exercise for a Longer Life

  Author Website

  http://www.jonathanbrazee.com

  * * *

  [1] LZ: Landing Zone

  [2] NBC: Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical

  [3] LOD: Line of Departure

  [4] RCET: Realistic Combat Environment Trainer. This is a huge simulator used to train Marines and sailors how to fight.

  [5] PDA: Public Display of Affection

  [6] Full bird: slang for colonel, due to the rank insignia of an eagle .

  [7] UAM: The United Assembly of Mankind, an intergovernmental organization which spans human space

  [8] Evolution: the term used to describe the civil war in which the Marines and part of the Navy conducted a coup d’état against the central government.

  [9] FCDC: The Federation Civil Defense Corps, which is a hybrid between a standing army and a federal police force.

  [10] Common Assistance Corps: a non-military force of volunteers who spend two years on public assistance projects throughout both the Federation and human space.

  [11] UA: Unauthorized Absence

  [12] PF: Physical FItness


  [13] Trinoculars: the first non-human intelligent species known to man. The first contacts were in the form of warfare. The trinoculars, or “capys,” were being pushed into human space by the Klethos who were taking over world after world from them.

  [14] Ricasso: the unsharpened part of the blade that extends out from the handle.

  [15] ROE: Rules of Engagment

  [16] Megmentő: Savior in Hungarian