by D. E. Kinney
“How are your roommates?” Tommy asked.
“I’m a single,” Bo said with an annoying smile.
The Force made every attempt to pair species and gender. Bo got lucky, although Tommy thought a roommate in these early days, and nights, at the academy might be a good thing.
“I’ve got a Martian kid named Demery,” Gary said, plopping down in one of the chairs.
“And…” Tommy prodded—he had a feeling there was more.
“And he’s sitting in our cabin sobbing.”
“Well, it’s been a long day,” Tommy said, looking to Bo and Sloan for a sympathetic comment, but he got none from either the Drake warrior or the self-assured Earthling.
“Hondo Brigade, report to training assembly area Bravo. Hondo Brigade to training assembly area Bravo. Dress is working-class jumper,” the commander’s voice reverberated over the room’s speakers.
“Looks like it’s about to get longer, boys and girls,” Sloan said, already working on the black, top button of his jacket.
“Where in the hell is area Bravo?” Gary asked, turning to Bo.
“It’s loaded into your wristcomm. Did you even look at the orientation guide?” Bo yelled back at Gary, both already out the hatch and heading down the hallway.
Tommy could only smile as he reached for a jumper. Here we go, he thought. Here we go…
The Imperial Star Force, which includes the Warrior Corps, has been recruiting and conscripting alien members into its ranks for almost six hundred years. But it has been only in the last eighty years that aliens were allowed to hold limited-duty commissions, specifically to be placed in billets that commanded units of their own races. Bolstered by the success of these early operations and spurred by the growing demands of the expanding Empire, Star Force, thirty years ago, opened the Academy to selected alien races as well. First and foremost, selected aliens, in order to be considered for appointment, must be an Alpha Class Tarcheinoid. The designs and requirements of equipment and facilities will tolerate nothing else. Furthermore, they must be from races that are endowed with certain minimum standards in leadership, intelligence, aggressiveness, physical abilities, loyalty, and a willingness to fight for the glory of the Empire.
- Excerpt from The History of the Star Force -
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Academy
That first year at the Academy was challenging for many, including Tommy. Not that the classes were overly difficult; certainly Remus had prepared him for the rigors of the school’s academics. And the required participation in athletics was more of a welcomed release from the unyielding regimented routine than a burden. No, it was primarily the separation from everything they had known and the stripping away of self—well, an attempt to do so at any rate. It was a new reliance on all things Star Force, and the imposed discipline of a very structured lifestyle, which included no leave for the first-year cadet, that really took its toll.
For some, the isolation of an orbiting school coupled with the strict, often harsh military standards had been too much. Tommy’s brigade alone had lost twenty-two cadets, including Gary’s roommate—all returning home after being paraded past an Academy formation. Tommy hoped they would at least engage the gravity on the flight back to Tarchein, but he somehow doubted it. One last indignation to endure, he supposed.
Consequently, as a direct result of this ongoing adversity, and no doubt as part of some grand team-building scheme, the young cadets were encouraged to develop personal bonds and a sense of camaraderie through sanctioned study groups and on the numerous playing fields located throughout the school. The Tarchein had always used competitive athletics as a way to hone leadership and combat skills. And as if to reinforce this philosophy, what free time the Toadies did have was spent in the required participation of organized sporting events, the most significant of these being stratagem. A kind of weightless lacrosse, stratagem was a violent, fast-paced sport invented by the Tarchein over a hundred years ago—perfect for the molding and testing of would-be Imperial military leaders.
Tommy, as one might imagine, was a natural in the weightless arena, even managing to win a spot on the brigade’s team, and although he saw very little action, Tommy wished that Remus could have seen a game. He would have liked to show off his strat suit, but of course no first-year was to have any contact with anyone from the outside. And although he knew Remus, as chairman, could have visited whenever he wanted, for Tommy’s sake he had refrained, choosing instead to wait like all the others for the end of the term to visit with his adopted son.
But finally the term did end, bringing with it some significant events. A month-long visit with Remus, Tommy’s three new friends joining him for the break’s final week before their return flight, and the addition of two red stripes on his sleeve—Tommy was no longer a Toadie!
In year two, Gary, Bo, Sloan, and Tommy, already good friends, became inseparable, even spending breaks with Remus relaxing in his opulent home at the capital or exploring the endless meandering trails of Mietree. And things at school were getting easier to manage. For instance, getting to classes or formations on time had become a bit less stressful, as the second-years had finally learned to navigate the giant station. And although the upperclassmen still took every opportunity to harass them, it didn’t seem quite so harsh—or maybe they were becoming immune to the regular, albeit fabricated, tirades.
Whatever the reason, Tommy’s second year of the Academy had settled into a somewhat tolerable routine: classes, formations, physical training, eating, studying, and of course, sports. There was always the required participation in a competitive activity, the more violent, the better. For Tommy and Gary, this meant stratagem!
Partially due to his natural athleticism, but primarily as a result of Tommy’s extraordinary skills at operating in zero G, he had made the stratagem team’s starting lineup as an offensive flyer. Gary, too, had made the squad, though as a backup goalie, his size and courage making up for any apparent failings he suffered in the weightless arena.
Unfortunately, however, the second year at the Academy for Tommy and his closest friend was not without incident.
Just prior to the Trilight break, Hondo’s strat team was scheduled to play Vixtin, with first place on the line. Over 20,000 fans had crowded into the almost vertical seating to witness the spectacle, and as it was just before the biggest holiday in the Empire, spirits were high.
“Nice crowd,” Gray said, looking up at the stands.
Tommy nodded, though he was preoccupied, his eyes searching the entrance tunnel for Remus, who he soon found seated in the Commandant’s booth halfway up the far side of the arena.
“Are we flying to Tarchein with the chairman tonight?” Gary asked while pulling on the bulky goalie breastplate and shoulder padding. He had noticed Tommy searching the stands for his foster father.
Sometimes Remus would pick up the Four, as Tommy, Gary, Sloan, and Bo were now known, in his private space yacht. And as all four were spending the break with Remus on Tarchein, Gary had assumed, and hoped, that this would be one of those times.
Tommy adjusted the jet nozzles on his red strat suit and smiled at his friend. “Yes, if you don’t mind missing the thrill of puking in space.”
“You’re a funny guy, Thorn…”
Tommy knew that Gary loved leaving the Zoo from the VIP launch pad. Flying with his friends and Remus in the yacht without erratic weightless maneuvers was a pure delight for the Martian cadet.
“And here are your—Vixtin flyers!” the event announcer declared as the crowd erupted into boisterous cheers.
Gary, Tommy, and the other members of the Hondo team watched the purple-clad Vixtin contingent jump from the gravity of the warm-up area and soar high into the arena.
Gary leaned in close to Tommy so as to be heard over the noise. “Never get used to the look of a Tarchein head stuffed into a helmet.”
Both laughed out loud, although Tommy felt a little guilty at his reaction.
&nbs
p; Each stratagem team had twenty players, although only nine were in the air at any given time. These nine were broken down into four defensive and four offensive flyers, plus a goalie. All strat players, even goalies, wore snug-fitting strat suits, each equipped with a small propulsion system, including a pair of small jet nozzles integrated into a low-profile backpack. These jets could be activated by squeezing a small control lever that each flyer attached to either the left or right hand.
The light-weight, high-powered propulsion system took care of thrust, but maneuvering was achieved by precise body control—point the nozzles, attached facing rearward, in the direction you want to go, or use them to curtail motion. It took a lot of practice, plus a natural-born gift, to be a good strat flyer.
Each flyer was also equipped with a long, curved, brightly colored crespa, which was used to catch, launch, or even carry a small glowing sphere, called the dagget. Yes, flyers could, and often would, dash across the arena, keeping the illuminated ball securely cradled in their crespa, but of course there were restrictions.
Imbedded within the dagget was a sensor that ejected it from the flyer’s clutches if it was held for more than ten consecutive seconds, the indication of which was a flashing pulse of light. When caught, the dagget would begin to pulse. Ten pulses, the last three being bright red, and it would launch itself back into the weightlessness of the arena.
Now, as to the stratagem arena—it was oval shaped, 450 feet long by 250 feet wide, and completely surrounded by a grandstand that rose up over the entire height of the zero-G playing area’s sixty feet. In addition, a translucent force field, marked on the sides by evenly spaced strips of vertical light and solid multi-colored caps on both the top and bottom, marked the boundaries of the null-gravity gaming region.
The object of stratagem was simple, really: put the dagget in the other team’s heart, a twelve-foot-wide oval-shaped goal suspended thirty feet off the lower deck of the playing area. This was done by passing, flying, blocking, or knocking off the other team’s flyers in an effort to somehow launch the dagget past the goalie, who wielded a large dagget clutch, or glove, and a small electronic shield.
“You all set?” Tommy’s captain, an Alterian flyer, asked.
Tommy had just latched his protective helmet, white with a large red number two, and was positioning himself to leap into the arena, fingers gripping the trust lever. “All set, Ramky.”
The fourth-year’s full name was far too hard to pronounce, so it had been reduced to Ramky, or sometimes just Ram.
Ramky led a Hondo team, which like other strat teams was a mixture of races. All were eligible, but it seemed not all were suited for the fast, combative game. Tommy’s division alone included a Drake named Jax; a Volarie named Stockton, or Socks; and his division leader, a fourth-year flyer from Imadall named Gamda. Not that the Hondo team didn’t have its share of Tarchein. Tommy’s team had two who started as defensive flyers, and their goalie was a very talented, and likeable, Tarchein named Atmel.
“Here comes…Honnnn—do!
The arena’s surrounding PA system blared the brigade’s fight song. Gigantic scoreboards positioned at each end of the stadium displayed pictures of the starting players, and the floor of the arena flashed with the team’s colors as Tommy, along with his teammates, leaped into the gravity-free air and fired their jets.
The Vixtin team looked on from their bench area with open disdain, especially Cadet Maco, whose flying ability and knack for taking out unsuspecting members of the opposing team had earned him a starting spot on Vixtin’s defensive division. A knack that became apparent late in the second half.
The match was tied with just two minutes left, when Tommy took a pass from Jax and headed, full speed, toward the Vixtin heart—the ten-second clock ticking in his head. Four, five—Tommy shut off his jets, pulled his legs up, and rolled to his right, narrowly dodging, then flashing by a charging defenseman, before throwing his arms back and rocketing, once again, at the Vixtin goal—seven, eight.
Tommy was a blur as he streaked toward the Vixtin goal. Then he abruptly released the thrust lever, rotated his hips away from the enemy’s heart, and with nozzles pointing directly at the Vixtin’s fidgeting goalie, fired his jets. Now, suddenly and unexcitingly motionless, Tommy reared back to launch the dagget.
Ten!
But Tommy faked the shot, instead passing to Socks, who had checked up to the right of the goal. He caught the dagget, then whirled and redirected the glowing orb perfectly, burying it in the left upper corner of the Vixtin’s heart just as time expired—victory!
The crowd, already standing, broke into a mighty roar. The entire stadium was filled with flashing colored lights and Hondo’s victory march when Tommy, both hands held high over his head, was hit by Maco.
The Tarchein had activated his jets and, flying full speed, slammed into the unsuspecting Hondo flyer. His bulbous helmeted head cracked Tommy’s exposed ribs and knocked him, spinning, across the arena, where he finally came to rest, adrift and unconscious
It seemed, in the excitement of the moment, that no one had noticed the Vixtin defenseman’s late hit—but Gary had. He jumped up, already out of his goalie pads, and jetted toward Maco, now floating upright, sinister snarl on his thin lips, admiring his handiwork.
Now, as previously noted, Gary was not the best of flyers, but he needed only to fly straight, his intended target being completely unaware of his approach. Maco saw the big Human only a split second before impact—his look instantly turning from a satisfied grin to one of horrified surprise—and WHAM!
Maco flew back from the tremendous impact, but Gary held on, pounding the now witless Tarchein as they both tumbled end over end across the center of the arena. The cheering crowd, gradually becoming aware of the beating, now fell silent as both teams rush to aid their comrades, and a weightless, many times comical, brawl ensued.
Tommy awoke in the medical bay, ribs aching, surrounded by Bo, Sloan, Ram, Socks, and Remus. He tried to smile.
“Some finish.” He winced.
“Great game, Tommy,” Remus said and put his hand on the boy’s arm.
Sloan nodded from the other side of the bed as Bo put a hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I was hit by a hover tank,” Tommy said. “But I think I’ll survive.”
“You really got ’em with that pass, Tommy,” Ramky said.
Tommy shook off the compliment and looked over toward Socks. “It was your shot. I’ve never seen better, and the way you got open!”
“Well—” Socks started
“Hey, where’s Gary? Still celebrating?” Tommy asked, looking around the room.
Everyone looked to Remus, who after a pause said, “He’s in the brig, Tommy.”
Well, so much for the Trilight break. Tommy spent it recovering in a bed next to Maco, and Gary stayed locked up until a court could convene, which was three days into the start of classes.
Maco’s dad, the general, made an impassioned plea for expulsion. But after reviewing the game tape, cooler heads prevailed and Gary was put on probation, given extra duty for three months, and not allowed leave for the rest of that second year.
By the time their third year rolled around, all seemed forgotten. Although Gary and Maco took every opportunity to cast disparaging glances at each other, no further combat ever materialized. Tommy was sure that Maco suspected what they all knew: if there were a next time, Gary would most likely beat him to death.
General Ethos, however, never forgave—or forgot…
The third year at the Academy was arguably everyone’s best year. Third-years were never bothered with what seemed to be endless hazing by upperclassmen, and they had not yet been burdened with the responsibilities of class leadership, as all four-stripes were.
Gone too were the intro-level classes, replaced with practical applications and simulations.
“Mr. Magnus.” The Tarchein warfare strategy instructor looked past his nose holes at the distrac
ted Farsee. “Mr. Magnus,” Lieutenant Anton repeated, this time with more conviction.
Mags looked from the battle sphere as Anton froze the simulation.
The warfare strategy simulation room, dimly illuminated by individual battle spheres, could hold twenty-four pairs of combatants. Each pair stood, hands gripping control paddles, on either side of a circular console. Just above each console’s shallow, bowl-like base was a twelve-foot-diameter projection, which encompassed a particular tactical situation: moon, planet, or in this case, a section of space.
Today Mags was up against Bo, who had maneuvered her simulated battle group into a position of superiority from which he would never recover. Although his red forces would probably languish for the majority of the class period, victory for Bo’s blue force was already ensured—and Anton knew it.
“Yes, sir,” Mags finally responded.
“I’m curious Mr. Magnus. Why would you sacrifice your missile frigates in this way?” The instructor walked into the middle of the simulation and highlighted a pair of red starships positioned near the top portion of the sphere.
Mags looked confused. “Sir?” he asked.
“Your frigates, Mr. Magnus, can you not see that Cadet Bo has maneuvered a strike force into this quadrant?”
He used a finger to touch and highlight a heavy cruiser, which was flanked by two corvette gunners and four frigates, before continuing. “They will funnel you into the main body, and your frigates will die, Mr. Magnus, outgunned and outmaneuvered. Four hundred and twenty brave Star Force crewmen—dead.”
Mags looked from the ships, suspended near Anton’s head to the Tarchein instructor, trying to think of anything to say, but of course there was nothing.
“Try it again, but this time, patience, Mr. Magnus, patience.” He then turned to Bo. “Excellent work, cadet. If the Empire ever lets a Drake command a battle group, you’d be the one.” Anton smiled and reset the simulation.