Tommy Thorn Marked

by D. E. Kinney

  “Ensign Figgins, this is Commander Vance—respond,”

  Figgins had dropped below and was drifting well behind Saber Hawk Nine, sliding alone into the blackness.

  “Saber Hawk Two, take the lead. Cruise, close up on Three,” Vance commanded. He dipped his right wing panel and disappeared below Tommy.

  “Saber Hawk Two has the lead,” Tommy said, trying very hard to sound casual, but inside his mind was reeling. Okay, the Nova is directly ahead moving at 4,800 miles per hour. We will need to slow to 3,500 before the perch—no, at the perch…

  “Just stay on this heading, Thorn, nice and easy.” Vance, his ship already out of sight, came back on comm. The control and calm in his voice was instantly reassuring.

  “Thorn from Seven, tally on the Nova, mark—two ninner eight off the nose,” Maco announced coldly.

  All eyes focused on the coordinates, hoping to locate the flashes of red light that would designate the battle cruiser.

  “Copy Seven, I’ve got a tally,” Tommy responded and then added, “Hawks, make your velocity three four zero.”

  Tommy punched in the new velocity and waited for the flight to check in.

  “Engage,” he finally said, watching the projected yellow symbol for the perch moving to a position that would very quickly intersect with the formation.

  The flight was closing fast now on a parallel course to the Nova, which was drifting along a straight vector, just maintaining momentum at a leisurely speed of 4,800 miles per hour. Tommy could clearly see the cruiser’s lights framed against the black canvas of space as his formation of trainers silently slid past on the left.

  “Reece, from Saber Hawk Lead—perch”, Tommy announced.

  “Reece to Saber Hawk Lead, you are cleared approach vector Kilo. All tubes are green, report the outer marker.”

  “Thorn, we need to wait for Vance,” Maco blurted out over the comm.

  “Papas from Lead, take your separation and standby for the call,” Tommy said, ignoring Maco.

  The Nova had only four arresting ramps and recovery tubes. Papas would extend his four ships down track, allowing Tommy’s flight to break left, roll in, and get into the tubes with five minutes of separation from the Papas flight.

  “Copy Lead, good luck,” Papas smartly replied.

  “Thorn!” Maco shouted.

  “Get the hell off the comm, Maco. Tommy has the lead!” Gary yelled.

  “Everybody relax,” Tommy said, taking control. “Just remember your training and hit your marks. I’ll see ya on the deck. Saber Hawk Lead—out.”

  At nine miles, Tommy rolled 180 degrees, pulling the nose of his Lancer around to face the aft end of the Nova, and began his inbound run with a closure of five hundred miles per hour.

  “Bo, Gary—go now,” Tommy commanded.

  The other two Lancers in Tommy’s flight spread out abreast, each lining up on an arresting ramp.

  Releasing the throttle, Tommy reached forward with the index finger of his gloved left hand and punched the mag-track button

  “Electromagnetic traction engaged.” The onboard computer voice confirmed what the now yellow cockpit light indicated.

  Battle cruisers brought ships into the hanger bay by utilizing a strong magnetic pulse imbedded in each of the four, 150-foot-long arresting ramps. These strips radiated a powerful invisible force that reacted with a pair of magnetic bands, which when activated and deployed, were used to grab and secure each craft before they were allowed to transition past the outer pressure doors of the recovery tube.

  At four miles…

  “Reece, Saber Hawk Two—tracked—tube Alpha,” Tommy announced at the outer marker.

  Once the flight split, all birds reverted back to individual call signs.

  Above the first tube on the left, secure behind thick clear steel, a recovery controller acknowledged the deployment of Tommy’s mag-track, the mass of the Lancer, and then again confirmed that the appropriate output for the magnetic recovery system had been set. Once satisfied that all was in order, he cycled the projected mile-long string of flashing approach lights from yellow to green.

  “Control to Saber Hawk Two, cleared tube Alpha.”

  And with that, Tommy was on his own. The green strobes of Alpha reached out from the down-curved forward lip of the ramp, aiding with the lineup. But Tommy was oblivious to their sequenced rhythm as he focused all of his attention on the flight path and color-coded vector indicator now dancing in front of his faceplate.

  In theory, the arrested landing aboard the Nova, or any battle cruiser, was a pretty straightforward procedure. Check dampeners—set to max, velocity—standard recovery was five hundred clicks per hour, and maintain a vector ten feet above the ramp, plus or minus two feet. The distance above the ramp was critical, as it had to be within the electromagnetic recovery system’s operational limits, too high and the mag-track would not engage. And if the mag-track didn’t engage, the pilot would, if not waved off, or if the auto-abort system failed, slam into the rear protective shield covering the raised outer doors of the recovery tube. There would be a flash, a momentary fireball, then the cruiser would move away. In this case, at 4,800 miles per hour, to continue with the recovery of other ships—no need to send out search and rescue, just a “we’re sorry for your loss” note to the next of kin.

  Tommy worked to control his breathing, pulling deep breaths of cold oxygen through the mask integrated into his faceplate, and made a conscious effort to relax his death grip on the side stick—commonly called, squeezing black juice.

  You’re too high, he said to himself. Get it down. The projected flight path turned from yellow to green. Speed looks good. The flight path flashed yellow. Damn it! “Get on the path, Tommy,” he yelled to himself as if reinforcing the urgency of the task.

  “Watch your vector,” the controller cautioned, his voice calm and steady, then continued, “lineup is good—speed is good. You’re locked and in the groove, Two.”

  Things were happening fast now. The aft end of the massive cruiser was quickly filling up Tommy’s canopy.

  “Watch your lineup, Two,” the controller said in a stern voice. “On speed, you’re drifting, stay on this line. You’re drifting! Steady, steady…

  BAM!

  The mag-track grabbed, and Tommy’s Lancer slowed from five hundred miles per hour to zero almost instantly. Inertia dampeners, set to full, eliminated the lethal effects of the generated negative G forces, but even so, Tommy found the experience of stopping so quickly to be a bit disorienting. The sight of those big, steel, pressure doors—just a heartbeat away from a violent collision. This is going to take some getting used to, Tommy thought.

  “Welcome aboard, Saber Hawk Two. Proceed as directed into recovery tube Alpha.”

  The controller’s voice helped bring Tommy back to practiced procedures, and he instinctively watched and waited as the outlining yellow lights on the outer pressure doors turned green before separating and sliding apart.

  “Saber Hawk Two—copy.” Now composed, Tommy responded in his best fighter pilot tone before suddenly, and without any premeditation, he let out a wail of delight! And even though the sound was confined behind the clear visor and the sweat-soaked oxygen mask of his flight helmet, the instant release of tension felt wonderful as though that shout had freed a great weight from his shoulders.

  He was back on a ship, a ship that he, Ensign Thomas Thorn, had landed on! Filled with elation, Tommy then looked right toward Bo’s Lancer and took a moment for a mutual celebration before pulling into the illuminated airlock. She, no doubt feeling the same rush, used her bright eyes in acknowledgement, the mask concealing a broad grin that he knew was there. Then, from behind her closed canopy, Bo held up four fingers, flattened them out, and made a backhand slashing motion across her helmet’s faceplate. Tommy nodded in response. No sweat indeed, he thought. Then, with the maneuvering mode of his Lancer engaged, he eased the stick forward and floated through the pressure doors just as Saber Hawk Six m
ade his marker call for the Alpha tube.

  The aircrew lounge onboard the Nova was, as usual during late-night cycles, loud and crowded. All officers were welcome, but the always-boisterous throng was usually regulated to strike crew students, pilots, engineers, weapon operators, and tactical navigators. Occasionally, a group of instructors would swagger in, but they never stayed for very long, fearing the combination of adult beverages mixed with the constant and often intimidating pressures of flight training might lead to an otherwise avoidable confrontation. And as for the ship’s company of staff officers, experience had taught even the most hardy that it was never a good idea to party with these over-exuberant student pilots, who lived every day as if it were their last. Sadly, for some it would be.

  Tommy waited just inside the club’s hatch long enough for his eyes to adjust from the soft bright lights of the hallway to the dim multicolored illumination that, along with the rhythmic pounding of a sound system’s deep bass, now flooded his senses.

  The room was large with a ten-foot ceiling, standard in all common areas. Three of the walls were covered with wide, brightly colored booths. The floor, with the exception of a square, wildly lit dance area, was filled with round tables, each adorned with a squadron patch. The remaining long main wall was almost completely covered with observation ports that extended from floor to ceiling. Most of the time these multipurpose viewing ports allowed for breathtaking panoramic cosmic scenes. However, with the ship currently traveling in hyperspace, resulting in an exterior view that resembled that of swirling milk, the panels had been set to display the rainforest of Pntel-five; the Nova’s next destination.

  After scanning the room and fending off the aggressive coaxing of a Utema female tacnav student, Tommy was finally able to join Gary, Bo, and Mags at one of the corner booths. Their seats were so close to the viewport’s display of the dense green foliage that he could almost feel the moist air.

  “Took you long enough,” Gary said, raising his voice a little to be heard over the music.

  “Just wanted to make sure my stuff got delivered to the right cabin,” Tommy responded.

  Gary nodded towards, Ensign Magnus. “Mags was giving us the scoop on Figgins.”

  Tommy watched Bo politely turn down an offer to dance before giving Mags his full attention.

  “Yeah, like I was saying, by the time we caught up with Fig—man, he was completely wiped out. Couldn’t even speak on the comm.”

  Mags paused to look back at the alien leaning over the side of the booth trying to talk to Bo.

  “She said no thanks, pal. Now get over it!” Gary said, adding a look designed to get the inebriated student’s full attention; the young ensign, getting the point, quietly disappeared into the mayhem.

  Tommy watched the alien slink away, then turned to Bo. “Saving yourself for James?”

  Bo blushed but said nothing.

  Gary was getting annoyed with the distractions. “So…”

  “Yeah, so Fig was all over the place, rolling, sliding up then reversing, but Vance was calm,” Magnus said, leaning in toward the middle of the booth to be heard.

  “How did you stay with him?” Bo asked.

  “I didn’t,” Magnus responded. “Vance took the controls. You should see that guy fly!”

  Vance was Tommy’s primary instructor, and as such had seen him handle the controls of a Lancer many times; he needed no convincing of the commander’s skill as a pilot.

  “So what happened? Is Figgins all right?” Tommy asked and punched a drink order into the booth’s integrated pad.

  “He’s good. Well, what I mean is, Vance talked him back to the Nova.”

  “You mean Fig regrouped enough to take a track?” Bo asked.

  “Goodness no, Mags replied. “You should have seen his approach.”

  The group looked puzzled.

  “He rode a beam,” Mags interjected.

  The three nodded in understanding.

  “Pulled him right down to one of the shuttle pads,” Mags continued.

  “Not a good way for a fighter jock to come aboard,” Bo commented, the others agreeing with nods.

  Each battle cruiser, even older ones like the Nova, had at least a couple of shuttle pads located topside. A standard low-power tractor beam locked on and pulled the shuttle onto a pad, which then descended into an airlock and finally the hanger bay. As was the case with Figgins, the system could be used for disabled or damaged tactical craft. Still, the fastest way to get a squadron back aboard was the magnetic recovery system.

  A hoverbot brought Tommy his drink and quickly departed, floating across the dance floor, taking an occasional hit from a well-aimed empty tube or wade of trash—no doubt the result of a bet between a pair of future weapon systems operators.

  Tommy smiled at the controlled chaos, took a long drink and was about to speak, when Figgins showed up by his side.

  “Sorry about today, guys,” Figgins said sheepishly, half spent e-stick dangling from his mouth.

  “No sweat,” Gary said and slid over to give Figgins some room. “Sit.”

  Figgins tried to smile, took the e-stick from his mouth, and said, “No thanks, Gary. I think I’ll get some chow and turn in.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Bo said. “We’ll be in orbit around Pntel tomorrow, and I hear they’re really going to wring us out.”

  Figgins took one last long drag on the e-stick before pinching it off and throwing it into a tray on the table. “Not for me,” he said. “I’ve been transferred to transport shuttles.”

  All three looked on, not sure what to say. Shuttle pilots were selected after only two months in a Firefly. The powers that be figured that was long enough to determine if a student had the right stuff to fly strike. Not that there was anything wrong with flying shuttles; you were, after all, still a fleet pilot. But the thing was, Figgins had worked long and hard to fly strike, and just like that, it was over.

  “Man, that’s tough, Figs,” Gary finally said.

  “It could have been worse,” Figgins said. “If it wasn’t for Vance and his impassioned plea, I would have been dropped from flying status all together.”

  Tommy’s admiration for Commander Vance continued to grow even as he nodded towards his dejected friend; waiting for him to finish speaking.

  “You should have—”

  “Well, if it isn’t the Wildman,” Maco interrupted Figgins.

  “Keep moving, Maco,” Gary said. His eyes blazed with hatred for the Tarchein.

  Maco returned the gaze. “Just wanted to say how glad I was this freak wasn’t flying my wing.”

  “That’s enough, Maco,” Tommy said as Gary stood.

  “Maybe it’s time we settled this, Maco—man to mongrel.” Gary’s lip curled and his fist clenched.

  Figgins stepped in between the two. “It’s all right, Cruiser, and besides he’s right—I lost it.”

  Maco took this opportunity to walk away, but not before he took one more parting shot. “Could be worse, Figgins. Besides being a coward, you might have also been a Human.”

  Figgins, who was not quite as tall as the Martian but much heavier, pushed against Gary’s chest. “It’s over, Cruiser. Let it go.”

  Figgins turned to leave, but then paused and looking back, sighed. “It’s all over, my friend.” Then he made his way through the crowd and out of the club.

  Almost a year later, Tommy heard that Figgins, after receiving his wings, had been assigned to Sunga Station, an obscure orbiting refining facility located in the desolate fringes of the Empire. There he shuttled miners, parts, and supplies to and from a volcanic smoke-covered planet three times a day. Tommy remembered thinking, upon hearing the news, that at least Figgins was still flying, but Tommy didn’t really believe that to be true—not for a moment.

  Gary stood, trying to get a tally on a drink he had ordered some time ago, when he noticed a pair of hooded officers standing at the bar.

  “Hey, Tommy, check it out,” Gary said whi
le pointing toward the two men.

  Tommy turned, still holding his drink. “What about them?”

  Gary sat back down and leaned in toward Tommy. “I think they’re Marked.”

  Tommy, Mags, and Bo said nothing.

  “You know…”

  Gary suddenly stopped talking as the club grew ghostly quiet.

  “You Marked think you’re so bad. Well I got news for ya—you’re still nothing but stinking Humans,” the taller of a pair of Tarchein ensigns said, poking one of the men in the back.

  Neither Human bothered to turn towards the direction of the insult.

  “You two Herfers too good to talk to us?” the second Tarchein ensign asked.

  With that, one of the men slowly turned, removed his hood, and tossed back the cloak to reveal a dark blue uniform, which included a low-slung sidearm attached to his right thigh.

  “You’ve had too much to drink, ensign,” the Marked lieutenant calmly said. “Why don’t you call it a night?”

  “Why don’t you Humans know your place?” the ensign asked, pushing a finger into the Marked patch on the lieutenant’s shoulder.

  The lieutenant smiled, then deliberately moved his left hand up to the Tarchein’s right wrist, wrenching it away and down. He held it for a moment, looking into the Tarchein’s now-wide eyes, then, with lightning quickness, slammed his right elbow into the ensign’s left earhole. The young Tarchein officer went limp, then crashed to the floor, unconscious, but before his body had stopped twitching, the lieutenant had turned, grabbed the Tarchein’s friend by the throat, and was slowly pulling him up onto his tiptoes.

  “Take your friend to his quarters, and we’ll forget all about this little incident, ensign,” the lieutenant said.

  The Tarchein, who could only move his eyes, looked nervously from his friend to the Marked officer. “Ye—yes, sir.” His voice was just barely audible through his pinched windpipe.