by D. E. Kinney
TOMMY THORN
D. E. KINNEY
TOMMY THORN – MARKED
Copyright © 2013 by David E. Kinney
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, in any form, without prior written consent from David E. Kinney & JUVAT Entertainment
Published by JUVAT Entertainment
http://www.tommythorn.com
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters or events portrayed in this book are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design & art by Simon Williamson
Formatting by Polgarus Studio
To General John R. Dailey
a Fighter Pilot, a Marine, a Man,
Always Faithful
Contents
PROLOGUE
Conquest
ONE
Jayram Raid
TWO
The Pod
THREE
Adrift
FOUR
Viceroy Remus
FIVE
The Dark Queen
SIX
New Beginning
SEVEN
Welcome Aboard
EIGHT
The Academy
NINE
The Slate
TEN
Solo
ELEVEN
Mag Racers
TWELVE
Saber Hawks
THIRTEEN
Firebird Trophy
FOURTEEN
Vargus
FIFTEEN
SNAFU
SIXTEEN
Salvation
SEVENTEEN
Few Are Chosen
EIGHTEEN
Camp Calder
NINETEEN
Glory and Honor Be Yours
TWENTY
For Those Who Stayed
TWENTY-ONE
Devlin
TWENTY-TWO
Fear Not
TWENTY-THREE
Maco
TWENTY-FOUR
A Leap of Faith
TWENTY-FIVE
Crimson Lions
TWENTY-SIX
Titan Mission
TWENTY-SEVEN
Time to Choose
TWENTY-EIGHT
Treason
TWENTY-NINE
Rise of the Regulus
THIRTY
Change of Command
THIRTY-ONE
On the Beach
A piece of coal was given an audience with the Great One, wherein he was granted any request. “I want to be a diamond,” the soft black rock said. The Great One talked of the beauty inherent within the purpose of coal, in service and self-sacrifice to others in need of heat—“I wish to be a diamond,” the coal repeated. Very well, but do not seek from me mercy, when the pressure comes…
- House of Hawks -
PROLOGUE
Conquest
It was early spring when the Tarchein, (Tar Shun), arrived. The year was 6737-14 Tarchein Standard, or 1T-05 Modified Terran. They came without detection, well, at least undetected until it was far too late for the fragmented meager forces of Earth to in any way disrupt the imminent invasion, the foreshadowing of which had been the sudden appearance of a massive Imperial armada. Though in fairness, even if the nations of Earth had, for the moment, set aside their bickering in an effort to pool all of the planet’s resources and military might, it would have done little good. The fact was, that confronted with such an overwhelming technological advantage, except for isolated instances, the absorption of Earth into the Tarchein Empire had been a bloodless affair. One day, one normal sunny spring day, Earth was a jumbled mass of dialects, disjointed cultures, and warring factions—the next, well, the next day, the third planet in a somewhat isolated system located on the fringe of the galaxy was to be forever part of the Great Tarchein Empire. Annihilation through assimilation was an ages old art, and one in which the Tarchein excelled.
To soften the blow of a civilization lost, and perhaps, to bolster cooperation of another skittish race of savage aliens, the Tarchein had promised world peace and prosperity, an end to disease and hunger, and they had been true to their word. Gone were the hundreds of different languages, replaced with Tarchein-speak, the only recognized dialect of the Empire. Gone too, at least unofficially, was Earth’s history, replaced now with the accomplishments of the Tarchein, the rise to greatness, and their benevolent aid to the once-destitute Human race, including the expansion of Humans throughout the system.
And there was no denying the fact. In less than two hundred years, Earth had been transformed into the center of a controlled migration that included colonies on Mars, Titan, Europa, and Ganymede, as well as dozens of orbiting stations, plus mining and research facilities spread throughout the far reaches of the Terran system. Humans were free to move about within their system, but humanity had lost its right to self-determination, and every day the labor of Humans aided the Tarchein in the harvesting of the resources of Terran worlds, all while increasing the strength of the mighty Empire.
Nevertheless, it was into this world, in the autumn of 180T-09, that Edward and Kileen Thorn had applied, and had been given permission, to have a male child, an only child—Thomas Thorn.
CHAPTER ONE – PART I
Jayram Raid
Tired engines pushed the long, bulky, somewhat angular Star Force ore freighter silently through space at just a tick under 0.01C, or about seven million miles per hour. Every minute bringing the ship and its crew closer to the giant ringed planet of Saturn, where after some standard gravity braking, it would move on to its final destination—the methane harvesting facility on Titan.
The ship had been in a costly max burn for the better part of six days, the necessity of which had been dictated by an unusually tight schedule, one that forced a hasty departure from an ore-processing plant currently in a standard orbit around Earth’s moon.
“It’s going to make for a more expensive trip,” the freighter’s captain had complained.
But the tall, well-dressed Human had been most reassuring. “Additional credits will be transferred to your account upon the successful delivery of the cargo,” he had said, taking a long drag from his e-stick.
Satisfied, the Tarchein captain had gotten underway. A rather longer voyage, due to the non-optimum orbital position of their departure point, but for the most part it had been a routine turnaround for the Jolly Roger. The aging freighter’s name, applied decades earlier in large block letters, now faded along the scuffed light gray main cargo haul, was still just legible under the glare of white identification lights and flashing red exterior position strobes that bathed a significant portion of the massive ship.
“Mr. Thorn, please update and plot our vector for the braking maneuver,” the Tarchein captain said and turned his command chair to the left, making eye contact with his Human navigator.
“Aye, sir,” Edward Thorn responded without turning from a large, clear, curved screen, his fingers already dancing over and modifying the displayed symbols and images.
“Helm, slow to standard,” the captain continued.
“Slow to standard, aye,” the young Martian officer replied, not turning back to make eye contact with his captain, who was seated above and behind him.
It seemed early for such a maneuver, thought the helmsman. They were still four hours from braking, even at their current speed. But the Martian, on only his second cruise, was in no position for a rebuttal. Although to be honest, a hundred trips would never rate enough clout to even discuss, let alone question, the orders of a Tarchein commander.
“Braking vectors loaded and ready at the captain’s discretion,” Mr. Thorn offered.
; Captain Yanz smiled, satisfied that all was, as usual, ready for their arrival, and leaned back in his well-worn command chair to survey the bridge. Not what he had expected as a young Star Force ensign. In those early days, fresh out of the Academy, he had dreamed of commanding an annihilator, a fast frigate, or even a battle cruiser, but that was long ago and not to be. In sharp contrast to the fleet’s state-of-the-art warships, the Roger’s dimly lit bridge had been cramped even when new. Now, with upgrades to navigation, propulsion, and engineering control stuffed willy-nilly, his command staff had been forced to adapt, many times having to crawl over newly installed equipment in order to wedge themselves into their aging command seats, all four of which were positioned behind sections of curved rectangular-shaped clear steel that wrapped the forward section of the Roger’s elevated bridge.
Control buttons and handles were faded from constant use, power fluctuated, lights—even annoying warning lights—flickered with enough regularity to be ignored, and it had been a full cycle since he had summoned the courage to spool up the hyperdrive.
Well no matter, he thought. I’ve got a fine crew, and we’ve all done our duty to the Empire. Duty that was scheduled to terminate in just two standard weeks. Retirement, especially now with enough credits to enjoy it, brought an uncustomary smile to the Tarchein’s normally stoic face.
“I am detecting a single contact bearing zero two eight mark three two seven,” the ship’s computer voice announced abruptly.
The captain, already alerted by a shrill warning tone, began to speak before the female voice could complete its statement. “Identify.” The captain turned to his navigator and asked more than commanded.
Lieutenant Thorn made a quick console entry, and the bridge’s center screen, after a momentary flicker, displayed technical data and a large image of a Saber class light cruiser.
“Scan confirm, it’s Jayram, sir,” he said. “Proton torpedoes, twin plasma cannon, and six pairs of heavy turbo blasters. Plus it looks like—“
Yanz turned to his engineer and politely raised one hand. “I think we get the picture, Mr. Thorn. Open a beam and broadcast non-hostile codes on all bands,” the captain said and again turned his attention to the forward screen, now showing a real-time image of a tiny black speck. “Can you magnify, Mr. Kiel?”
“Affirmative, sir,” the helmsman said and punched up a magnification setting.
“Negative on comm, sir, no response on any band,” Thorn calmly stated. All eyes now focused on the warship coming into view.
“Are they receiving the beam, Mr. Thorn?” Yanz asked.
“Everything is operational on our end, sir,” Thorn had rotated his chair in order to look directly at the captain, who continued to stare at the warship.
“Shields,” the captain commanded.
“Shields, aye, sir,” Kileen Thorn responded quickly.
The captain turned to face his engineer, seated on his right. “Status?”
“We’re at seventy-two percent,” she said, and then added with a smile, “better than normal.”
Yanz nodded before turning again to the forward screen, his face bathed in the glow of the bridge’s instrumentation. He knew even 170 percent wouldn’t be nearly enough.
“Standby for evasive, Mr. Kiel—and Mr. Thorn, get a call out to Titan Control. Give them a sitrep, position update, and our projected ETA.”
“Roger,” was Thorn’s reply, but he took a moment to cast a reassuring smile toward the engineer, his wife, before starting the task of relaying the ship’s current situation and estimated arrival time.
“Should we initialize the gun, sir?” Kiel asked a bit timidly.
Yanz actually managed a chuckle. “Are you joking Mr. Kiel? I’m not even sure it will still take power. Besides, we don’t want whoever’s out there to think we have anything on board worth fighting for,” he said, then turned to the engineer and gave her a look of resignation.
The medium-sized, dirty, bronze-colored warship made a maneuver designed to give separation while at the same time optimizing firing solutions.
“Their weapons are powering up, sir,” Kileen reported.
“Sir, do you think they’ll board us?” Kiel asked, looking over his shoulder.
Captain Yanz hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, and looked directly into the young helmsman’s eyes. “No, Mr. Kiel, I don’t believe they have any intention of boarding us.
Two weeks—two more damn weeks, the Tarchein captain thought, clutching the sides of his command couch as the first in a series of torpedoes impacted the ship’s shields. He then slowly, deliberately, used the finger bearing his Academy ring to press the intership comm switch, which was located on the tattered left arm of his aging command chair. “Viceroy.” He paused to acknowledge the anxious eyes of his young helmsman. “Sir, you had better get to a pod.”
Stardrive, or hyperdrive propulsion systems implemented by the Tarchein shortly after the accession to the throne by Queen Darvona, gave the emerging ambitious race a tremendous technological advantage and was the primary impetus behind the formation of the early Empire. Of course, over time, other advanced races discovered the secrets of traveling faster than light, but by then the Tarchein had secured and stabilized more than half the galaxy, thankfully, a number that continues to grow. The ability to travel the great distances between populated systems scattered throughout the galaxy was and still remains the key to expansion and power.
It should also be noted, however, that travel at these speeds required advances in navigation that rivaled the propulsion system itself—there are no insignificant collisions at light speeds! For that reason, Light Transition Corridors were charted and continue to be laid down with very well-defined entry areas designated as Light Transition Points or LTPs.
As a footnote, although recent breakthroughs in Stardrive technology promise a reduction in size, currently, massive power requirements, coupled with the restrictive dimensions of hyperdrive propulsion systems, relegate their use to larger ships of the line or capital warships.
- Book of Imperial Starships -
CHAPTER TWO
The Pod
Tommy’s eyes flashed open with the realization that his nagging tormentor was not merely one of a myriad of sounds intertwined in the fabric of a bad dream, but was in fact the low, steady honking of the ship’s alarm system. An alarm designed to alert passengers and crew alike of an impending emergency evacuation.
An evacuation! The sudden recognition caused Tommy to jerk upright, and using well-rehearsed actions developed through endless emergency drills and simulations, he jumped out of bed and dove toward the small metal clothing container integrated into the wall of his small, barely lit room.
“Ouch!” Tommy wailed as he stumbled over one of his boots. Another drill, he thought, but it must be… The thirteen-year-old glanced down at his wristcomm. “Three a.m.!”
The constant burp…burp of the alarm, like a heartbeat, continued in its annoying and somewhat frightening pattern along with the ship’s periodic announcements.
“Please proceed to your assigned escape pod.” The emotionless announcements added to the building feelings of dread welling up in Tommy’s stomach as he punched up a code on his wristcomm and pulled on a clean jumpsuit.
“Mom…Dad!” Tommy yelled, seemingly to no one. He grabbed his emergency pack and hit the hatch release before he heard a response.
“Tommy, sweetheart.” It was his mother. “Get to our pod. Your father and I will meet you there.” Her voice was calm, but there was definitely a tone of urgency.
“I’m on my way,” he yelled and dashed into the chaos of the corridor, now full of hurried crew, family members, and passengers trying desperately to follow emergency directional lights that flashed with the same steady rhythm of the alarm.
“Please proceed to your assigned escape pod.” The computer’s constant pleading was barely audible over the noise and confusion now present throughout the ship.
“Tommy, pl
ease hurry. This is not a drill, sweetheart. We may…” His mother’s transmission was cut short by a loud explosion.
As Tommy struggled to make his way through the smoke-filled corridor. The seriousness of this event needed no further reinforcement. Must get to the pod, he thought, bouncing off a stern-looking crewmember. His mother’s warning notwithstanding, Tommy could sense the fear. A fear that was evident in the face of the normally friendly first officer, now wearing a sidearm, as he disappeared into the smoke, moving against the mass of panicked people trying to wedge themselves into the now dangerously overcrowded lifts.
This is not good, Tommy thought, breaking free from the hysterical crowd and fighting his way to the emergency ladder shaft.
He was halfway down to the escape pod level when the great freighter was again rocked by a series of rolling explosions. So violent were the blasts that Tommy’s feet were momentarily knocked free of the U-shaped metal rungs. Inertial dampeners must be offline, he thought, regaining his footing and continuing half stepping, half sliding down the tube, his chest heaving as he sucked in great gulps of air. Must hurry!
Finally hitting the last rung, Tommy leaped into the long, smoked-filled evacuation corridor and began running past rows of opened pods, stopping periodically to take notice of the illuminated numbers located above each hatch. He had done this so many times in drills—Pod A34, A36. Getting close now, he thought, while dodging other Terrans frantically searching for their assigned pods in the thickening smoke, when another explosion tossed him against the corridor’s smooth curved wall.
The disabled freighter began to wallow and then rolled almost ninety degrees, throwing Tommy on top of a middle-aged woman clutching a small bag as if it were a priceless treasure. Their eyes met, only for a heartbeat. Then the big spaceship groaned and righted itself, casting them asunder, each to their own fate, before Tommy, trying to regain his bearings, was slammed into the open hatch of a nearby evacuation pod. Where Tommy, on all fours, counting only four frightened faces seated there, was tempted to take an open couch, but the instruction had been clear. “Remember to move swiftly to your assigned pod. Do not, I repeat, do not take someone’s seat and force them to find a spot. The key is not to panic.” The training officer had said this and then repeated, “DO NOT PANIC!” Besides, Tommy wanted to be with his parents, and they would surely be in their assigned pod. They must be.