Lieutenant (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 3) (4 page)

Chapter 3

Ryck was in a good mood as he got off his bike and put it in the rack, locking it never crossing his mind.  It was an old Reimer mountain bike passed down from class to class.  He’d only paid 150 credits for it, and he expected to get another 150 from someone in the next class for it.  Some of the guys had bought old hovers the same way, but most mids stuck with bikes. 

He’d just ridden over from the base where he’d stopped to pay a call on Dr. Berber, his Marine history instructor during recruit training.  It was Dr. Berber‘s classes that had germinated Ryck’s interest in history, and that had led to his earning his degree.  In no small way, it was because of Dr. Berber that Ryck was now about to accept his commission.  To Ryck’s surprise, Dr. Berber not only remembered him, but also knew of Ryck’s combat record.  Ryck had spent an hour with the instructor, and he could have spent more time if he hadn’t needed to get to the Globe and Laurel.

As he opened the pub’s door, a small group of recruits came barging out, almost knocking him over.  No, Ryck corrected himself, they couldn’t be recruits—recruits were not allowed out in town.  They had to be part of the class that had graduated that morning, and these four seemed to have gotten an early start on their celebration.

One of them put a forearm up, hitting Ryck in the chest and pushing him aside.

“Out of the way, oldster,” the new Marines said, eliciting a laugh from the others.

“You just graduate?” Ryck asked.

“Yeah, we’re fucking Marines now, ooh-rah!” one of them said, staring at Ryck a little blurrily.  “What’s it to you?”

Ryck wasn’t about to cause a scene or get them into trouble, but someone else might not be so lenient.

“What’s your name, recruit?” Ryck barked.

The four hesitated, trying to focus.  One started to object to being called recruit, but another seemed to suddenly take in Ryck’s haircut, military demeanor, and obvious older age, and he stepped forward, coming to attention.

“Private Rage MacHarris, sir.  Sorry sir, we don’t mean anything.  We’re just celebrating.”

“Well, Private MacHarris, no problem with celebrating, but you’re a Marine now, so act like one.  The Globe and Laurel is popular with officers and staff NCO’s, so do you really want to start your Marine career getting office hours?”
[13]

Three of the new Marines were at attention, only the one who had pushed into Ryck being too drunk to realize what was happening.

“Sorry sir, we didn’t mean to come to an officer’s area, and we didn’t mean to offend the officer, you, I mean, sir,” MacHarris said, struggling to conquer his booze-befuddled mind and sound somewhat coherent. 

“This is the ville, and there are no areas reserved for officers.  It’s just that if you are going to push the envelope tonight, a smart Marine, and I assume you four are smart, would go to where there weren’t any NCOs or officers around.  I might suggest the Pelican’s Beak, over on 12
th
Street,” Ryck said.

“Uh, yes, sir!  Sounds like a great idea.  Begging the officer’s pardon, then, but maybe we’d better move on,” MacHarris said while he and one of the other new Marines started to push the other two past Ryck and down the Globe and Laurel’s walkway.  “Have a great night sir,” the private called out.

Ryck watched them hurry to the street before he called out, “Hey, Marines!”

The four stopped, and with a look of resignation, slowly turned around.

“Yes, sir?” three of them chorused.

“Congratulations, devil dogs!” he called out, holding up his PA.  “Have a round on me.”

“Aye-aye, sir!” all four shouted out with much more enthusiasm while MacHarris held out his PA. 

Ryck zapped 12 credits to the private’s PA, enough for four steins of beer.

Ryck watched the four hurry out of sight.  They seemed so young.  The “oldster” the private had called him was hardly appropriate, but seeing how young they were, Ryck guessed it was all relative. 

Ryck turned back and entered the pub.  The Globe and Laurel reeked of history.  It was mostly wood and barely lit with old fashioned faux incandescent bulbs, giving it a feel of age.  Photos and holos of various Marine commanders, commandants, sergeants major, and heroes were on the walls, some being signed command photos, some being taken with the pub staff.  Memorabilia hung on the walls, but the entire back wall and part of one side wall had the class time boxes, the boxes with the three bottles in them. 

Ryck made his way back to one of the dining rooms where the class was gathering.  At least half of the class was already there. A few looked to have been tapping the kegs that Mr. Geiland had put out for them while others were munching on the small snack line.  The Globe and Laurel put on this little party for each class gratis, but the three bottles were paid for by the mids themselves.  All three bottles were there on the table.  Ryck had to remind himself to find out who was taking the collection for them.

“I see you made it,” Prince said, handing Ryck a stein of beer. 

“Wouldn’t miss it, my friend.  Wouldn’t miss it,” Ryck said.

Ryck spent the next hour drifting about, touching base with most of the others.  More than a few toasts were called, and after three beers, Ryck was beginning to feel the effects.  He knew he was being a lightweight, but he slowed down.  He didn’t want to be completely plastered before the time box was locked.

It was good to relax.  For once, he didn’t have to worry about whether he would make it or not.  He could listen to sea stories, even tell a few of his own.  It felt good to be with his class, and it was not lost on any of them that they would be the first generation of new lieutenants for a long time to have been blooded in a real war. 

The last full-fledged war had been the War of the Far Reaches, and there weren’t any Marines left on active duty who had served in that conflict.  Granted, the latest war with Greater France was not termed a war for political reasons, and most of the fight had been between the navies, but still, Marines had fought a well-armed, well-trained force.  Another all-out war was almost unthinkable, so it could very well be that his generation of officers would be the last to have real war experience.

When Jorge Simone, as the class honor graduate, clinked the side of his glass for attention, everyone in the room stopped their conversations and turned to him.  Jorge looked brutish, to be blunt, with a bullet-shaped head seemingly sprouting up directly from his broad shoulders.  He’d proven, though, that he had a keen intellect, and Ryck acknowledged Jorge as his tactical superior. 

“Gentlemen, we are gathered here for comradeship, for one last gathering before we are sent out to serve our Corps.  We have been forged from the same crucible, though, so we will always share that connection.  We are brothers of the blood,” he said, not bothering to refer back to the written words given to him by Colonel Jimjim Stacy, the oldest retired Marine on Tarawa.

“To keep this connection, we now place three bottles of elixir in this sacred case, three bottles to be taken out when the time is right.

“If you can all create the chain, we will dedicate our box.”

At that, each midshipman put his hand on the shoulder of the man next to him, until all were connected.  The mid closest to the class time box reached out to put his hand on it.  Another mid reached out to touch Jorge, keeping him in the chain.

“The port, the drink of remembrance, will be opened on the Marine Corps birthday following the first of us to fall.  Any of the class present will open the bottle and toast our fallen brother.”

With that, Jorge picked up the bottle of 298
Quinta do Vesúvio and almost reverently placed it in the first cradle in the box.

“In remembrance,” the rest of the mids intoned.

“The champagne, the drink of celebration, will be opened when the first of us earns his brigadier’s star.  All who are present for the promotion will join in the toast as the stars are a reflection of not only an individual, but our entire class.”

“In celebration,” the class intoned as Jorge placed the
Krug Clos d’Ambonnay in the second cradle.

“The sherry, the drink of loyalty and service, will be opened by our last two surviving classmates on the Marine Corps birthday following the passing of our third longest surviving classmate,” he said as the placed the bottle of 302 Massandra in the last cradle.

“In retrospect,” the rest of the midshipmen finished.

They stood there, all of them, knowing that after commissioning, they would never be together like this again.  Some would spend a career in the fleet, leading Marines.  Some of them would die.  Others would leave the Corps and make their way in the civilian world.  But right then, at that moment, they were all the same.  They were a band of brothers.

The midshipmen kept their hands on each other’s shoulders for longer than necessary, none of them wanting to be the first to break the connection.

Chapter 4

Ryck opened the door to Room 246 at the Escalante, dress blues in hand.  He had to admit, they looked good, even without his staff sergeant chevrons on the sleeves.  They should look good.  He’d had to pay over 4,600 credits for them, and that didn’t include his other uniforms or sword.  As an enlisted man, his uniforms had been provided:  as an officer, he was expected to pay for his.  The problem was that he wasn’t an officer yet and wasn’t receiving officer pay.

Oh, well.  That’s what credit is for
, he reminded himself.

He placed the uniform carefully on the bed, then looked around.  He heard something in the bathroom, his senses on alert.  Stealthily, Ryck moved to the side of the room and inched his way along the wall to the bathroom door.  He could hear a male voice.

As quietly as possible, he eased open the door.

“Well, Mrs. Lysander,” he said to the woman in the tub, bubbles covering her up to her neck, watching the holo.  “I trust you had a relaxing morning.”

Hannah had kept her last name after they had gotten married just before he’d left for NTOC, but Ryck enjoyed calling her Mrs. Lysander.

“Well, since my big strong husband be decidin’ to leave our nice warm bed and abandon me, there wasn’t much for me to do now, was there?” Hannah replied. 

Although they had been married for over a year, they had only spent a handful of days together, and the thoughts of their reunion the evening before (and the night, and the morning), still had the power to arouse him.  He sat down on the edge of the tub, looking at his wife. 

His wife.

The thought still amazed him.

“I would never leave you, madam, but duty called,” he said as he leaned over to kiss her.

Hannah reached up, took him by the collar of his polo shirt, and dragged him into the big tub.  He only put up a token resistance before sliding into the warm water.

“Duty be not just to the Marines, but there be a concept called marital duty, too.  You know that, right?” she whispered into his ear.

“Yes ma’am, and I tried to fulfill those obligations last night.  And this morning.”

“‘Obligation?’  Be that what you call it?” she asked with a laugh.

Ryck didn’t answer, but took the PA out of his pocket, shook off the water and bubbles, and placed it on the sink beside the tub.  He turned back to his wife and slid an arm around her, marveling at her supple skin.

From an objective standpoint, Ryck knew his wife was not some holo-star.  She was a few kilos heavier than what was considered optimum, and her nose had a decided crook courtesy of a fieldball game, one she refused to get corrected (“It’s my battle scar,” she would say).  But to Ryck, she was his Helen.  Smart, funny, and capable: she fit him.  He couldn’t understand what she saw in him, though, but he wasn’t going to press that issue. 

She snuggled up against him, but in the way a cat snuggles against a person, not in a “I need more sex” way.  Ryck might have been capable of another round, but the simple closeness reassured him, that she was comfortable with him.  He was still unused to being married and being with her, and the quiet moments of normalcy made him feel more secure.

“So what are you watching?” he asked her, pushing some bubbles out of the way so he could see the holo at the foot of the tub.

Ryck had been surprised to see the holo when they’d checked in.  The Escalante was a new chain of luxury hotels—this one, the first on Tarawa, had only opened four months before.  It was full of little surprises, and a bathtub holo was just one of many.

“G.K. Nutrition,” she said.  “The SPCA be tryin’ to bring charges up on those farmers.”

Three talking heads were discussing the situation.  One was backing the farmers, one was backing the environmentalists and religious groups, and the moderator was obviously trying to set the other two on each other.  Behind the three people were images of the dead trinoculars.

The trinocluars were the only multi-celled vertebrates yet discovered on another planet.  They looked like meter tall capybaras, but seemed mindless.  G.K. Nutrition Six was an extremely fertile world with lush vegetation, and the trinocluars were the top life-form.  The initial planet surveys had somehow missed them, something that still was a minor scandal and the fertilizer for endless conspiracy theories.   They had ambled out of the forests a few years after the initial indentureds had established themselves, eating through the crops that had been planted.

Their discovery had rocked the net, but the trinoculars, nicknamed “capys,” had turned out to be extremely dull, and most of the public quickly lost interest.  There had been some indication that their DNA did not match what should have evolved on G.K. Nutrition, but even that had died out after a few weeks.  It wasn’t until the wholesale massacre by the farmers that the capys were back in Prime Time.

Fed up with destroyed crops and without the promised Federation compensation, the farmers had simply slaughtered all the known herds of capys, over a million individual animals.  This had raised an outcry, but the farmers had been adamant as to their rights to defend their crops, and legally, they were correct.  Federation laws protected business interests more than individual, but the farmers were all corporate indentureds, and without a way to grow crops, they would not be able to pay off their servitude.

In back of the talking heads, the scene changed to one that had been going viral—that of two laughing farmers pulling chunks off a capy being roasted on a spit, then taking huge bites, mugging for the holo recorders. 

That holo had come out a few days ago, much to the outcry of certain groups.  Even some doctors got their 15 minutes in, discussing if it was even safe to eat the foreign flesh.

“What do you think?” he asked Hannah.

Hannah had recently earned her Ph.D., and Ryck respected her view on life in general.  He wasn’t too proud to admit that her academic intellect was on a higher plane than his.

“We’ve got specimens throughout most research facilities, and they’ve recovered cells from the dead animals for cloning, but still, it seems like a waste.  Those animals were there long before we humans arrived on the scene, so I think something should have been worked out,” she said, snuggling closer, her Torritite accent fading as she shifted to a more academic subject.

As she moved, some of the bubbles opened up to reveal a long expanse of smooth skin along her side.  Ryck tried not to notice as he attempted to come up with something that sounded astute.

“What do you think of the claims that the capys never evolved on G.K. Nutrition?” he asked.

“I’d have to see more results, but if they evolved elsewhere, then how did they get to the planet?  That would be a rather intriguing question,” she said. 

“So how long do we have?” she asked, changing the subject as a questing hand reached to his belt.

“About two hours,” he said, reaching over to cup her breast.

“Two hours?” she screeched, suddenly standing up, bubbles and water streaming off her.  “Why didn’t you tell me?  I’ve got to get ready!”

She stepped over Ryck, getting out of the tub.  Ryck had a glance of a lovely rounded ass as she darted towards the bedroom, continually complaining that she had no time.

Ryck looked down at himself, fully clothed in a bathtub full of rose-scented bubbles.  His capable, accomplished wife had changed in one second from professor to high-school girl getting ready for prom.  He sighed, then got up, water streaming from him as well.  He pulled off his sopping clothes and stepped into the separate shower to rinse off.  It would take him 15 minutes, 20 max to get ready, so he toweled off, slipped on one the Escalante’s terry cloth robes, and went out to see what he could do to help.

He knew there wasn’t much he could do, but even he knew he should at least ask.