Tommy Thorn Marked

by D. E. Kinney

  Two weeks, Tommy thought while lounging on his couch. Having made plans to visit Mars with Gary and Bo, he found himself again checking his wristcomm and staring out the window. It was strange not to see swarms of Fireflies dancing and darting in the skies above the Slate’s flight operations area, but with the coming storm, aircraft were now tied down or sealed away in the protection of the massive hanger bays. The last of the primary students were already at base ops waiting to board shuttles—all but Tommy, Bo, and Gary.

  Where are they? Tommy wondered and continued to fidget, checking his wristcomm for the umpteenth time as his hatch chimed. “Finally,” he said, grabbed his bag, which had been packed for three days, and darted to the hatch, arriving just as it slid open. “Bo.”

  Bo lugged in her rather large, hard-shelled travel bag and surveyed the room. “No Gary?”

  Tommy shook his head and collapsed back onto the couch, frustration showing on his face.

  “The make-up exam should have been completed twenty minutes ago,” she said adjusting her uniform’s integrated waist belt.

  While all three had been doing very well with their flying, Gary had struggled at times with academics, particularly with the science of static propulsion compensation. It was this failing that had prompted his instructor to assign extra credit in the form of a practical evaluation, an evaluation that should have ended by now.

  Tommy again rolled his forearm and stared at his wristcomm. “We’re not going to make it,” he said, tapping the display’s face.

  Bo frowned, about to suggest they make a mad dash for ops, but then thought better of it. After all, they were headed to Gary’s home, and with that thought, she too slumped onto the couch.

  Suddenly, Tommy, feeling a tingle on his wrist, swiped at the face of his comm.

  “Tommy!” It was Gary, sounding out of breath.

  “Where are you, Cruiser?”

  “Is Bo with ya?” Gary asked.

  “Duh,” was Tommy’s sarcastic reply.

  “I’m on my way to the shuttle—get your butts over there.”

  Tommy and Bo grabbed their bags and were out of the hatch before Gary stopped speaking.

  “Hold them off, we’re on our way!” Tommy shouted.

  Making unprecedented time, Bo and Tommy dashed inside flight ops and ran directly to their boarding tunnel, where they encountered a very perturbed corporal still waiting by the gate.

  “Ensigns Thorn and Bo?” the corporal asked, making a point to check his wristcomm.

  “Yes,” Tommy said, and then between deep breaths, “thanks for holding her.”

  Bo looked up, hands on knees, taking in large gulps of air, and acknowledged the young Farsee.

  “Okay, sir, ma’am,” he said, waving them through the gate. “You two are lucky. The only reason the shuttle hasn’t launched is some ensign fell and twisted his ankle, or some such—blocked the gate for almost ten minutes.”

  Tommy gave Bo a knowing look as they strolled up the boarding tube to the open hatch, both now completely recovered from their dash and moving with the practiced swagger of Star Force officers.

  “Looks like Cruiser has made a miraculous recovery,” Tommy said, looking over his shoulder at Bo as they entered the shuttle’s cabin.

  She glanced up from stowing her case, and there was Gary with his usual broad smile, standing and pointing to the last pair of open seats.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mag Racers

  Tommy opened his eyes and squinted at the sunlight streaming through partially closed window blinds. The whirlwind trip to Mars had been two days of starports, military shuttles, and space liners, leaving the three weary travelers to climb into their assigned beds or cots pretty much as soon as pleasantries had been exchanged and, of course, good manners had allowed.

  Gary’s mom was very understanding. “You three dears must be exhausted,” she said with a friendly smile.

  There were lots of hugs. Mrs. Cruise completely ignored Bo’s traditional greeting. And there were prepared snacks, little cakes, and large heavy mugs of sweet, warm drinks.

  “Now, Bo, dear, you’ll stay in Gary’s room, and I’ve put a couple of cots in the spare room for you and Tommy,” she said, turning once again to hug Gary. “I just can’t believe you’re home…”

  It had been a long time since Tommy had been around a mom, and he had forgotten so much of how… Well, anyway, it was just good to be away from the Slate. No tests, no getting up at the crack of dawn, just sleep—beautiful, lazy sleep.

  Tommy held up his wristcomm, checking the local time before switching to Razeier standard. Yep, four in the morning Slate time, his body trying to will him out of bed and into a flight suit. Not today, he smiled to himself and rolled over, putting his head under the pillow. Not today. What a delicious feeling, he thought and let himself drift back into sleep.

  Although soon enough, he was once again awoken. This time though, it was the smell of fresh bread and brewing coffee. Tommy rolled onto his back, letting a arm hang over one edge of the narrow cot and blinking away the last remnants of sleep, focused, for a moment, on the now-empty bed pushed up next to his.

  “Thorn, you gonna sleep all day?” Gary shouted from somewhere outside his room.

  Tommy sat up, stretched, put both feet on the floor, and was immediately aware of the effects of the higher oxygen content in the transformed Martian atmosphere. He really did feel more refreshed, he thought and forgetting the lower gravity, literally bounced out of bed—an action he countered by buckling his knees to avoid hitting the ceiling.

  “Come on, Tommy. Gary has a big day planned,” Bo shouted from the other room.

  He dressed quickly, and though unaccustomed to civilian clothes, he thought he looked pretty good as he entered the rather small food preparation area, now full of the most wonderful smells.

  “So what’s this big plan?” Tommy asked, running a hand through his thick uncombed hair, and taking the nearest seat.

  “You must be starving, dear. What can I get you?” Gary’s mom asked.

  Like Gary, Ellie Cruise had dark skin and beautiful black eyes. Her round face seemed to be always smiling, and she possessed a delightfully throaty laugh, just like her son. Her apartment, Gary’s home, was small but very clean and neat with lots of windows, most of which overlooked the large lake full of pleasure boats that dominated the southern end of the gleaming city.

  “Everything smells great, ma’am. Whatever they’re having will be fine,” Tommy said, watching Gary shovel something yellow into his mouth.

  “Mag track,” Gary said, taking a big swallow and reaching for a half-empty glass.

  “Mag track?” Tommy looked from Gary to Bo as Mrs. Cruise sat down a large plate full of warm fresh bread and several different types of colorful fruit, which she had peeled and cubed.

  “Here you go, and please call me Ellie.”

  Tommy smiled. “Thank you, ma—Ellie.”

  “It’s some kind of sporting event,” Bo said.

  “Some kind of sporting event.” Gary looked at his two friends in amazement.

  Tommy, forgetting to adjust his arm strength, threw his first utensil of fruit against his face and onto the floor.

  “Sorry, Miss—”

  “That’s all right,” Ellie said, drawing out the all.

  Gary laughed and sprayed a mouthful of orange-colored drink, some of it coming out of his nose.

  “Can I get you something else, dear?” Ellie asked Bo while sticking a large straw into Tommy’s glass.

  “No thank you, Mrs. Cruise,” Bo said politely and turned to Tommy. “Use the straw. This is my second outfit.”

  Odd, he thought, nodding to Bo. Last night he remembered having that warm, dark, drink without trouble.

  “It’s my fault, dear, I forgot to warn you—happens to everyone,” Ellie said.

  “Last night we drank from grav-compensator mugs,” Bo continued as though sensing Tommy’s confusion.

  That made Tommy
feel a little better. Of course—the heavy mugs, he thought.

  There were gravity compensators, weighted bands one could wear on his wrists and ankles or heavier eating utensils and glasses or mugs, for example, that were designed to help tourists adjust to the lower gravitational forces: one third of standard. But these artificial aids would never do for a Star Force officer. Tommy would adapt and overcome.

  “I’ll take some more,” Gary said, handing his mom an empty plate.

  She took the plate and nodded once again toward Bo. “You’re so skinny, dear. Are you sure you won’t have just a little more?”

  Bo smiled and shook her head. “I’m good, ma’am, but it was delicious.”

  “Don’t they feed you at that fancy flying school?” Ellie said over her shoulder as she refilled Gary’s plate.

  The three exchanged smiles.

  “Mag racing is only the coolest thing ever, and thanks to my mom, we have passes to the garage area,” Gary continued.

  “My supervisor, Commander Wright, got them for y’all. He asks me about you every day, Stanky.”

  Gary’s mom had done administrative work for the Martian PDF for as long as he could remember. It was the time he’d spent with pilots and ground crew, running along the ramp, that had made him sure that he wanted to fly.

  “Stanky?” Tommy asked over Bo’s laughter.

  “Mom,” Gary complained.

  “Oh, that’s just what everyone over at the base calls him—have since he was little,” Ellie said, dropping another slice of fresh bread onto Tommy’s plate.

  “Is there a race today, Stanky?” Tommy asked.

  Gary gave a look that convinced Tommy to never use the term again. “Just practice today—but we got garage bay passes!”

  “Well, it sounds great, and the sooner you two stop eating, the sooner we can get out into this beautiful Martian sunshine,” Bo said, already standing.

  They call Ruby City the jewel of the Empire, and it truly is something special. Towering red crystal like buildings jutted out of a wide green plain that blended into the burnt-orange, sandy beaches of a large, light blue inland sea. A sea whose river, via sculptured banks, wound through the city, ending in a series of cascading waterfalls which plummeted hundreds of feet into dark red canyons. These vistas, along with the low gravity and the thick, rich, oxygen-laden air, had made Mars a vacation paradise.

  The three had opted, at Gary’s insistence, to ride one of the colorful, open-air shuttle boats down the rather narrow—well, more of a canal than a river, to one of the entrances of the Martian Sporting Complex, which included the mag track. Their little boat had glided silently under giant broad-leaved plants arching from manicured, tile-covered banks, winding past shops and little eateries surrounded by fragrant flowers, all covered with dark green vines that hung from thatch coverings, the like of which Tommy and Bo had never seen.

  But there was something… What is it? Tommy thought. And then it hit him. No birds. In fact, he hadn’t noticed an animal or insect of any kind. Ah, the sanitation stations. Last night, before leaving their gate, everyone and everything had been sanitized. Makes sense, he thought, and laid his head back against the cushion.

  Almost as soon as Earth was absorbed by the Empire, terraforming had begun on Mars. The Tarchein were masters of this science, and the red planet had been an ideal candidate, with Humans establishing Ruby City in less than 120 years after the process was first initiated. Mars was a beautiful planet, a clean piece of paper, and although it was covered with plants and trees of every description, there would never be any other life forms introduced. Earth, like other life-supporting planets that had evolved with animals, had over billions of years developed the intricate dynamics of predation. Not so on Mars, nor would it ever be—the Martian sanitation stations would ensure that.

  As the small boat continued on its lazy pace, Tommy was not sure if it was the comfort of the padded seats or the sweet scents now flooding into his lungs, but as they pulled into the little docking area, he could not remember feeling so relaxed.

  “Let’s go, Thorn,” Bo said. She had stood and was waiting for Tommy.

  Looking up and smiling, conscious of the warm sun on his face, Tommy reminded himself of the gravity, took a deep breath, and gingerly moved to the ramp.

  Isn’t this oxygen content delightful?” Bo asked, nudging Tommy forward.

  Maybe it was just the oxygen, or the gravity, but whatever the reason Tommy made a decision to revisit this planet. He loved this place, and he felt a strange pride in the fact that it was a Human city.

  “What did I tell ya,” Gary said excitedly, motioning toward the massive red chrome, mag track as the three exited the little dock and headed towards a guarded entrance.

  Tommy and Bo stopped to admire the structure in awe.

  No two mag tracks were exactly alike, but they all had several distinctive features in common. First, they all looked very much like gigantic roller coasters. The use of the magnetic disk located on the bottom of each mag and their interaction with the magnetically charged track made for an extreme form of racing. Secondly, they were all brutally dangerous, with their milky-white racing surfaces soaring to unimaginable heights. Many towered over two thousand feet. Of course, the racing surface was only white when not charged. Once active, the track cycled through vibrant hues, symbols, sponsor-supported advertisements, mag pilot track status, and graphics that flashed and danced along the wide track as mag racers, or mags, screamed along on a three-foot-high magnetic cushion.

  The track was impressive to be sure. But how could anybody race on it, Tommy thought.

  How indeed…

  “Come on.” Gary hurried them on to the gate, where they flashed the badges that Ellie had supplied.

  “You three have fun,” the friendly Martian guard yelled over the sound of a mag racer rocketing down the backstretch.

  The two-mile, straight main stretch of track was lined on one side by automated pit stalls, one for each mag. Above and behind this area were the elevated team control and monitoring stations, and just past these control boxes, out of sight to most, was the garage area. It was there, after passing through several more security gates, that the three found themselves, walking between busy bays full of mags, techs, curious visitors, and even an occasional mag pilot—sometimes call magpie, although it was not a term the mag drivers liked.

  Each of the garage bays was adorned in the colors of the team that now occupied them. There was the green and gold of Radcliff Racing, the navy blue and white of the Patterson team, and so forth. All told, there were upward of forty teams, most from the Terran system, but there were a couple of exceptions. The Tarchein Empire had at least one Star Force team, sometimes more, in every system’s circuit—the Terran circuit was no exception.

  In fact, it was by the Tarchein Star Force’s team that Tommy had stopped to admire a beautiful dark grey mag with a gleaming red winged dagger, the Star Force symbol, displayed on its long tapered nose.

  “Look at this,” Gary called to Tommy. He had found and was admiring a bright red mag from the Martian team.

  “Reef Rayborn,” Bo said, pointing at the pilot’s name painted in yellow on the cockpit fairing. “You ever heard of this guy, Cruiser?”

  “Heard of him, are you kidding? The guy’s a legend on Mars,” Gary replied.

  “Man, I thought a Lancer was a tight fit,” Tommy added, peering into the mag’s cramped cockpit.

  “These are so cool. Boy, would I love to drive one of these beauties,” Gary said as Tommy dropped down to one knee, trying to get a look under the racer.

  “How about it, Tommy? When our contracts are up, we set up a team. I’ll manage and you drive,” Gary continued.

  “Sure, Cruiser, in twenty-five years we’ll go into the mag-racing business,” Tommy said sarcastically without looking back from under the red racer.

  Gary walked over and knelt down beside Tommy. “Think about it. We’ll still be young—what else we gonna do
?”

  Tommy was having a hard time seeing the racer’s underbelly past the attached mag caddy. “Well, why don’t you drive one, Cruiser?”

  “Come on, Tommy, I’m too big. Plus you’re the stick and rudder guy…”

  Tommy pulled away from the mag and looked up at his friend. “All right, if we’re still in one piece after our hitch.” Tommy laughed.

  Gary stood. “I mean it, Tommy, you’d drive one for me—right?”

  Putting a hand on the mag and standing, Tommy saw that Gary was serious. “Sure, Gary, if you need me—I’d drive a mag for ya.”

  Gary beamed and slapped Tommy’s back as he once again bent under the mag.

  “Easy there, chief,” one of Reef’s techs said to Tommy.

  Startled, Tommy bolted up, both feet leaving the ground. “Sorry, I was just trying to see how these things hover.”

  The tech laughed at the way Tommy had gotten airborne. “New to Mars, son?”

  “Yep,” Tommy said sheepishly.

  “She don’t hover. Well, not like you think. I mean, she’s got no grav generators.” The man said.

  Tommy looked puzzled.

  “It uses mag-disk,” the Martian continued.

  “Each mag-disk—they’re stuck on the under plate of the racer—uses commanded amounts of repulsion or attraction to hover, turn, or stop on an active or magnetically charged track,” Gary said proudly.

  “Yeah, what your friend said,” the tech added.

  “But why not just hover? I don’t get it,” Tommy said after thinking for a moment.

  The weather-beaten tech laughed out loud. “Hover—you can’t race a track like this in a gravity-free hover.” Then after a heartbeat, he added, “No sport in it.”

  Tommy thought for a moment before speaking. “Seems dangerous.”

  Gary gave a knowing look toward the tech and waited for the shrill of a passing mag to fade. “That’s the point.”