Colonel (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 7) Read online

“You sure? What about Sandy?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Sandy’ll understand. I think the kids need to get back home.”

  Ryck was more worried about Hannah. His strong wife was taking this hard, and he didn’t want her to lose it in public.

  “OK, then, if you’re sure. When will you be back?”

  “Oh, not long. I just need to show my face.”

  Esther took a step forward and shoved her head between his arm and his side, her “snugglebunny” moment that she normally reserved for home and hadn’t done for at least a year as she had started to mature. Ryck was in uniform, but what were they going to do? Shave his head and send him to Waystation? He pulled her in tight and hugged her with more force than he’d intended.

  “It’s going to be OK, daddy. And we’re all proud of you,” she mumbled into his side.

  They stood like that for a few more moments before Hannah gathered up the kids and led them away. More well-wishers came up to him with his family gone, and it was a good twenty minutes before he could get into his Hyundai and drive over to the club. He got out of his hover, took a deep breath, and marched up the entry steps and into the venerable old building where the reception was in full-swing. Sandy was the center of attention, as it should be. It was his moment.

  Ryck went up to the bar and ordered a beer, then changed it to a panderfruit juice at the last moment. It had been a few too many drinks that had gotten him into this situation, and he thought something non-alcoholic would be a better choice.

  With Ryck in the club, though, some of the crowd started to drift over to him to offer, well, condolences would be the most accurate description. Before too long, there were a dozen or more Marines standing around him, telling him it wasn’t fair, that he should fight back, that he could go to the press. It all got to be too much for him. He couldn’t take their comments anymore, even as heart-felt as they were. And this day was for Sandy, not for someone with only a few hours left in the Corps. He finally made an abrupt excuse, breaking contact and fleeing out the side door of the club. From the looks on their faces, he’d just hurt a few of them, but he just couldn’t take it anymore.

  He walked under a huge old alder that he’d always admired and sat on the bench, looking out over the small koi pond that graced the club grounds. The koi, sensing his presence, came to gather at his feet, waiting for food to be tossed down to them. Ryck watched the swirling oranges, yellows, blacks, and whites as the eager fish tried to maneuver into position. They were like the Corps, eager bodies wanting more from him, the hero. But just like with the Corps, Ryck had nothing more to give.

  Suddenly, he knew where he wanted to be. He got up and made his way to the hover. The big car lifted up and he drove it slowly out of the camp, the last time he would be driving off a base as a Marine. The gate guard saluted him as he passed through. The guard was a civilian jimmylegs,[1] but Ryck returned the salute as crisply as he could.

  Twenty minutes later, Ryck pulled up in front of the Globe and Laurel. He sat in his hover for ten minutes, lost in his thoughts before getting out and making his way to the entrance. For a moment, he was taken back to when he was about to become a new lieutenant, and three young recruits had made a small scene right there at the entrance, barging into him and calling him an “oldster.” They’d been so proud of their making it through boot camp that they’d felt invincible. Ryck had “corrected” them of that notion, but in the end had given them 12 credits for a drink on him.

  What was that young Marine’s name? Rage something. Rage MacManus or McHarris, Ryck wondered, surprised that he’d even remembered that much.

  He wondered where they were now, if they were still Marines, if they had gotten out, or if they’d been killed on some far off world somewhere. He shook his head and pushed into the dark pub, his eyes taking a moment to adjust.

  “Welcome, Colonel,” Mr. Geiland, the manager said as Ryck came in.

  Ryck didn’t even know Mr. Geiland’s first name, but he’d been a part of the pub since before Ryck had even been born. Yet he seemed to remember every Marine who had ever graced the pub.

  “A Corona?” he asked, knowing that was Ryck’s favorite drink.

  “Um, I, I don’t think so. Not now, at least. I think I want to check the back room, if that’s OK,” Ryck said.

  “Of course. I’ll keep it closed off to anyone else,” Mr. Geiland said.

  Ryck thanked him and walked to the back of the pub, opening the door to the separate dining room behind a wall mounted with signed holos of famous and high-ranking Marines. A small amount of light made it into the room from two small, curtained windows, but that was enough for Ryck. He knew what he wanted to see. Class 2-59’s box was on the right wall, third row, four up from the bottom. It was missing the bottle of port, drunk six years before after Donte had been killed. It was not light enough to read the labels on the remaining two bottles, but he knew which one was the champagne and which was the sherry.

  Ryck looked around the room at the other boxes mounted on the walls. Most were empty, the last members of the class long gone. Others were missing the port, and some only had the sherry left. A few had only the champagne in them, representing classes in which no one had made general, either because no one had been selected or as with 1-122, no one had survived past captain, all having been killed during the War of the Far Reaches. The boxes represented centuries of Marine officers: Marines no longer alive, no longer serving. And while Ryck was still alive, he would no longer wear the uniform that had become symbolic of who he was. If he wasn’t a serving Marine anymore, then just who was he? He didn’t know anything else.

  He took a seat at one of the tables and lost himself in thought. He tried not to feel sorry for himself. His loss was nothing when compared to others, those for whom hundreds of bottles of port had already been drunk. And, Ryck knew, whatever happened to him was his own damned fault.

  An hour or so later, the door creaked open. Mr. Geiland had promised to keep the room closed, but Ryck didn’t turn around to see who had invaded his privacy. He heard a clink of a bottle and finally looked up to see Jorge Simone holding two Coronas.

  “I thought you might be here when you disappeared from the reception. And Mr. Geiland said this is your brew,” the short, broad-shouldered heavy-worlder said, holding one bottle out.

  Ryck hesitated a moment before reaching out and taking the ice-cold bottle in his hand. He raised it and took a long swallow before using the top of the bottle as a pointer and indicating the seat beside him. Jorge pulled the chair back and sat down.

  The two sat in silence for a while before Jorge said, “We all thought the next one would be for you.”

  Ryck harrumphed. Jorge was telling him that the champagne would have been opened for him when he made general, the first star in the class.

  “It’s always been for you, Jorge. We all knew that back at NOTC.”[2]

  “Could be, now, at least,” Jorge said without false modesty.

  Jorge Simone was a genius, a capable Marine who was rising through the ranks based on his unmatched abilities. He hadn’t seen the combat that Ryck had as he kept getting pulled from line units and put on staffs. Commanders who wanted to be promoted themselves knew to pull Jorge and get him to improve their units and performance. In many ways, Jorge was a prisoner of his talent. But that talent was going to carry him a long ways.

  “It always was going to be you. We all knew that,” Ryck lied.

  The reality was that Ryck thought he had a chance. Jorge might have more inherent talent, but Ryck had more accomplishments, and he had a public persona, in part thanks to the two flicks that portrayed him in a very positive light. According to The Alien’s Are Here, Ryck pretty much single-handedly won the Trinocular War, which upset the Navy and more than a few Marines to no end.

  And Ryck wanted that magnum of champagne with every fiber of his being. It had become the center of his dreams, one he had been more and more sure was within his reach. And now it wasn’t.<
br />
  The two Marines sat in silence, sipping their beers. Ryck appreciated that. Jorge’s presence was comforting, but too much talk would have been annoying. Silence was better.

  Finally, Jorge got up, stretched, and said, “Well, I’ve got to get going. You going to stay here long?”

  “No, just a little while longer.”

  “OK, then. Well, needless to say, if you need anything, give me a shout. I’m here for at least another two years,” Jorge said before shaking Ryck’s hand and making his way out of the room.

  With the sun going down, the room was getting darker, but Ryck didn’t get up to turn on the old-fashioned incandescent lights. Darkness was fine with him. He sat in silence, an empty beer bottle in his hand, checking his Mountbane watch, a gift from Hannah.

  As the time approached 1900, his pulse started racing. The seconds ticked off too quickly. He had thoughts of trying to change his mind, to put a stop to things. But it was too late, he knew.

  As his watch hit 1901 local, or 0001 GMT, 29 May 359, Mr. Ryck Lysander, civilian, sat in the darkness as tears began to roll down his face.

  Chapter 2

  “Honey, have you seen the yellow?” Hannah asked, as she opened the cabinets, trying to find the GKA Base 33.

  “Oh, yeah. I sort of did some rearranging of things. I put all the flavor bases in this drawer here,” he said, pulling out the bottom drawer by the oven.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked, trying to find the yellow. “I can’t tell which is which from just the tops.”

  “It makes more sense this way. All the flavor bases are here, right by the oven and stove. I’ve got fiber and bulk bases up over here in the pantry, and the oils over here. The raw organics are here by the cooler.”

  “But I can’t even tell what is what,” Hannah complained.

  “No, no, it makes sense, Hannah. See? Yellow is Number 33, so it is right after 30, which is after 22, 23, and 24. Just count up the numbers,” Ryck told her.

  “I don’t want to count up the numbers. I use yellow all the time, so I keep it here with porky and. . .where’s the porky?” she asked as she looked in the cabinet over the stove.

  “I told you, baby, the raw organics are all over here. See? Porky, GF 42.” Ryck said, pulling a white container of the base out of the cabinet. “Isn’t this more organized?”

  Hannah took the porky out of his hand, placed it on the counter, and then took his hands in hers.

  She looked him in the eyes and said, “Look, Ryck. I know you’re bored here, but this is my kitchen. I’ve had things organized my way for 17 years now while you were deployed to everywhere in the known galaxy, and I like it this way. I know where things are. So please, just leave things alone.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘buts.’ I want things my way. It may not be according to Marine standards, but this is a family home, not a Marine company. And I want things back to my way. Understood?”

  Ryck swallowed twice, wondering why she seemed upset, but he knew enough to simply answer, “Understood.”

  ********************

  “Bye, dad!” Esther said, leaning over the back of the couch to give him a kiss on the cheek.

  “Have a good time,” Ryck started before looking up at his daughter—and stopping dead.

  “What do you have on?” he asked her incredulously.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, trying hard to sound innocent while using the back of the couch to block his view of her.

  Ryck’s daughter, his 14-year-old daughter, was wearing tight hot pink shorts, with emphasis on the “tight” and “short.” They left nothing to the imagination. On top, she had on a silkie sleeve that clung to her budding figure. The silkies, which wrapped tightly around the torso, had come into fashion months before, and Ryck had even appreciated seeing women walking around in them. But those were grown women, not his daughter! To top it off, she had deep blue eye “patches” makeup to match the blue of the silkie, patches that ran from around her eyes all the way to her hairline at the top of her ears.

  “What do I mean? You know what I mean! You are not going out dressed like that!” he thundered.

  “Told you,” Noah said in a smug tone from where he was lying on the floor watching the holo.

  “But dad!” she started, her face screwed up in frustration.

  “‘But dad’ nothing! You are not going out in public dressed like that!”

  “All the girls do. And besides, Mom lets me dress like this!” she insisted.

  She does? Ryck wondered, unsure of himself.

  Hannah, despite her very religious upbringing, was more liberal in many ways than Ryck was, but this seemed a little far even for her. Ryck looked down to where his son was lying for confirmation if his wife actually let Esther wear the silkie or not, but Noah kept his head turned away, staying out of the confrontation.

  Esther reached over and took Ryck’s hand in hers.

  “Please, daddy? Everyone dresses like this. It is no big deal.”

  “You are not ‘everyone.’ And no, you are not going outside our house looking like that,” Ryck said, extracting his hand from hers.

  “Daddy! I can’t believe you are ruining my life like this! It’s not my fault you got kicked out of the Corps, but I’m the one getting punished!”

  Ryck’s mouth dropped open, and even Noah turned back to look at the two in shock as Esther stomped her foot and ran upstairs in tears.

  Esther was upset, but it was Ryck’s heart that was breaking into pieces.

  ********************

  “But you promised me that when I got out, you’d have a place for me on the board,” Ryck said.

  “Yes, that’s true, Colonel. And don’t worry. We still want you, but maybe not for a while. Your, uh, departure from the Marines, or rather, your actions that preceded it are not the kind of image we want for our board members.”

  “But the public, they don’t really know about that, right? I’m still me, you know, from The Alien’s Are Here. I’ve still got my Nova and all of that. That was why you wanted me, you said.”

  “I know what I said when we approached you, but . . . Colonel, can I be blunt here?” the Trieste Industries VP asked.

  “Sure, of course.”

  “We at Trieste don’t really give a rat’s ass for the public. We are a defense contractor, pure and simple, and we need to be on good terms with the brass in both the Navy and Marines. You taking out the commandant like that, well, that’s not really the kind of thing that’s going to help us in getting contracts. The commandant won’t think too highly of us if we bring you onboard.”

  “He won’t be commandant for long,” Ryck protested.

  “And we still want you. Just not now. So please, Colonel, have some patience. We’ll revisit this after things have calmed down and some people have moved on to the retired list.”

  Ryck looked back with a resigned expression at the VP, the same man who’d been heavily courting him for the last seven years, ever since he’d been awarded the Nova, and asked, “How long do you think that will be?”

  “Oh, not long. Five, maybe ten years or so.”

  Ten grubbing years? What the hell am I supposed to do until then? My retirement pay isn’t enough to pay the bills, and I can’t rely on Hannah to keep getting raises. I’ve got to get something going!

  “OK, Mr. Dunlop, I understand. Please keep me in mind, though, and let me know when you might want me.”

  “Of course, Colonel Lysander, of course. You’ll be the first to know.”

  ********************

  “You call that a shot?” Ryck asked Sams. “What was that drive, all of 70 meters? Want to use the blue tees?”

  “Hey, I’ve got better things to do,” Sams said. “Some of us don’t have all day just to loaf around.”

  He looked up at Ryck after that last comment, a grimace on his face.

  Ryck laughed off the unintended reminder that he was now a civilian, and not by his own choice. S
ams looked mortified, and Ryck’s laugh didn’t seem to do much to alleviate that.

  Sams had always been an irreverent smart-ass. It was part of who he was. But he was like all of Ryck’s old friends in the Corps who were walking on egg-shells around him, afraid to say anything that could point back to Ryck’s resignation.

  “Hey, it’s about time you did some work. Here, get out of the way and let a pro show you how it’s done, my man.”

  He pulled out his new Rancer driver, an extravagant beauty that he really couldn’t afford. It wasn’t as if he really loved golf that much. This was only the third time he’d been on the course since getting out. But it had made him feel better, even if he knew it would do nothing to lower his handicap.

  He raised the iridescent blue club high with his left arm as an offering to the gods, before he stepped up to the tee. The club was made from one solidly fabricated piece of tolumethalyne, the latest and greatest from Monsanto. It wasn’t approved by the ancient PGA, but the upstart—well, if 60-plus years could be still considered an upstart—UPGA[3] allowed for its use, and the club had flown off the shelves since its release a year ago. It was still pretty hard to get, but availability was a little better at the military exchanges, and Ryck had grabbed one the day before his release from active duty. He was pretty sure Hannah knew how much the club cost, but she hadn’t said a word about that.

  It was a beautiful morning, the sun just beginning to burn off the dew on the first hole. Even with Sams’ complete lack of experience, Ryck knew they could get through 18 with more than enough time to catch Esther’s 1230 game. He’d made every practice and game since resigning, and he wasn’t going to miss this one.

  He teed up, then made an exaggerated effort to look down the fairway, shielding his eyes as if trying to see. He addressed the ball and started to make his backswing, stopping halfway and looking back.

  “Look now, Sams, ’cause in a moment, this ball is going to be so far down the fairway that your feeble eyes won’t be able to see it anymore.”