Tommy Thorn Marked

by D. E. Kinney

  By now, the other cloaked officer, drink finished, casually turned to look at the clearly terrified ensign before nodding toward his Marked companion. He said nothing as he started for the exit.

  Satisfied, the lieutenant released the Tarchein. “And tell your friend the next time he lays hands on an officer of the Marked, he may not be quite so lucky,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” the ensign said, bending down to revive his friend.

  Tommy and his friends, now thoroughly stunned, looked on as, after one more disapproving look, the lieutenant stepped over the body of the Tarchein en route to join his companion, the sound of the Marked officer’s sidearm going to safe mode could be heard over the now-quieted crowd, even though none had seen him arm the weapon. Once at the club’s hatch, the two men briefly exchanged smiles, raised their hoods, and exited the club.

  “Geez, those guys were armed!” Bo exclaimed.

  “You bet your ass they’re armed,” Gary said, watching the two men depart the club. “They’re Marked…”

  Twenty-five years after Earth’s inclusion into the Empire, Humans were in some cases forced to serve. Others, in search of citizenship and/or adventure, were allowed to enlist into the Star Force, most becoming infantry members of the Warrior Corps. In the year 6768, during the first colonial wars, a regiment in Bravo Company of the First Corps, Third Brigade was ordered to hold a landing zone during the orderly withdrawal of surrounded units. This regiment, except for their commander, was made up entirely of Humans, many of which felt this rear guard was a suicide mission, hence their assignment. But in the mounting chaos of the withdrawal, the regiment managed to hold their ground, repelling several vicious assaults before many of their number broke ranks and ran for extraction vehicles—though some stayed! The Tarchein commander, wanting to identify the brave few that remained, used blood from the fallen to mark the full-pressure helmets that otherwise obscured their identity. The courage of those few that stayed won the day. Not only did the unit hold, but the Human regiment turned the battle, allowing the Corps to eventually rout the enemies of the Empire. These few Humans, the ones with blood hastily smeared across their visor covers, became the first members in an elite fighting force known as the Marked—the ones who stayed!

  - Elite Star Force Units -

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Firebird Trophy

  Throughout the next year, the students of the Nickel were given an opportunity to train in many different types of environments, from frozen moons to populated planets and just about everything in between, including deep space ops. But eventually, with the Nova in orbit around a massive gas giant known as Brindle, the day of Tommy’s final training flight finally arrived.

  “Good morning.” Commander Vance turned from a 3-D display of the mission brief to face the six pilots flying the day’s hop. “Today is the day, people—your last flight before graduation.” Vance paused to smile at the group before his tone turned a bit sterner. “Now I know the Firebird is still up for grabs, but I don’t want anyone screwing the pooch out there.” He looked directly at Maco. “And that means you, lieutenant.”

  Tommy and Maco led the class in both academics and flight scores, and as such were both deadlocked in a battle for the Firebird Trophy, an award given to the top graduate.

  Maco sat up and adjusted his datapad.

  “Copy?” Vance repeated.

  “I copy, Commander, but I hope you don’t think that I intend to lose the trophy to a Human…”

  The commander stared at Maco until the Tarchein returned his attention to the datapad before continuing. “Now first off, Nasty will be tracking at point eight.”

  Papas let out a long whistle.

  Nasty was the code name for the Nova, and point eight meant that she was moving forward at eight thousand miles per hour, which meant that Tommy’s Lancer would have a very high initial velocity when he was hurdled out of a launch tube. Now of course the Lancer’s inertial dampeners, if properly adjusted, made the G forces of no effect, but things still happened fast—really fast!

  Vance turned to the projected information, now displaying a rotating image of the target drone adrift among a field of asteroids. “The objective of today’s mission is to find and put plasma rounds on a target drone located somewhere in Brindle’s outer ring.”

  Seeing the target location brought collective moans of protest from the gathered students.

  Vance only smiled and raised his hand for silence before continuing. “Come on, Hawks, you didn’t think we were just going to let you sleepwalk through your last flight.” The commander waited for the six students to settle down. “You’ll each need two direct hits. Total time on target matters, but let’s not get stupid!”

  Come on, Skipper—have we ever done anything stupid?” Magnus asked sarcastically.

  Vance again waited for the laughter to subside. “I’ll be flying safety chase. Lieutenant Thorn.”

  Tommy looked up from his flight datapad. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll take the lead until we reach the I.P.”

  Tommy nodded in acknowledgement, much to the growing displeasure of Maco.

  “Mr. Cruise, take the second element. See if you can keep Magnus out of trouble.”

  Gary smiled and looked over at Magnus. “Copy that, sir.”

  Mags would be flying short-range assault transports after graduation, as was suited for the slow-moving, good-natured alien. Not that anyone, save maybe Maco, thought badly of young Magnus; he had proven himself to be a loyal friend and a competent pilot.

  “Maco, you lead the third element with Papas on your wing.”

  Papas was very bright, worked hard, and was a fairly competent stick. But he seemed to dislike high-speed combat maneuvers and had therefore been assigned to fly Firestorm long-range tactical bombers in the fleet. These heavy, bomb-laden ships with their two-man crews seemed a good fit for the likeable Tarchein.

  “Bo, you fly off Thorn’s wing.

  Bo had been assigned to fly fighters, but she had not yet been given a squadron. She desperately hoped it would not be an assignment in the training command. Riding in the back of a Firefly or Lancer, trying to not get killed by some overeager student, was not her idea of a good time.

  Bo looked at Thorn and smiled. “Yes, sir.”

  “Any questions?” Vance turned off the display, letting the room’s lights brighten as the pilots began packing up their nav packs and pads. “I know it’s been a long difficult road, but as none of you has managed to kill me—not for a lack of trying.” Vance smiled and looked directly at Magnus. “Let me say that it has been my greatest pleasure to watch you grow into fine fleet pilots.” He took a moment to glance around the now brightly lit briefing room. “I would be proud to fly with each and every one of you.” And after another brief pause, he said, “Okay, fly safe. It’s our last hop together. Let’s make it a good one!”

  The small group of senior students’ first stop was the flight equipment room to pick up and check out helmets, comm gear, and safety items.

  “Stay out of my way out there, Thorn.” Maco spoke with his teeth clenched, as was his habit.

  Before Tommy could respond, Gary had moved in between them and put his helmet on Maco’s chest. “Take it down a notch, Maco. We’re all on the same team here.”

  “You filthy Herfer. I ought to—“

  Gary pulled his helmet back, moving his face down close to the shorter Tarchein’s. “You ought'a what, little man?” he said, drops of spittle bouncing off Maco’s cheek.

  Tommy pulled Gary back before things escalated. He had no doubt that Gary would like nothing better than to finally beat Maco senseless, but now was not the time and this was certainly not the place.

  “Come on, Cruiser, let’s get to the hanger deck,” Tommy said as he led Gary and Bo out of the room, followed by Magnus.

  “Listen to your mommy, loser—before you get hurt.” Maco spoke to their backs as they walked out into the hallway.

  All used
their best rehearsed casual pilot strides as they moved down the crowded hallway, through a hatch, and into the open hanger deck, filled with an assortment of trainers, fighters, transport shuttles, assault and rescue ships.

  “You okay, Cruiser?” Tommy said and grabbed Gary’s helmet, which was beautifully painted with a crimson symbol for Mars. He was still seething, and Tommy needed to get his mind back on their flight. “You think they’ll let you fly with this when we get to the Renegade?”

  Gary took back his helmet. “They better—and don’t get me started on flying Rapiers off the Renegade.”

  “What’s wrong with Rapiers?” Bo asked. “At least you guys got a gun squadron…”

  “Don’t worry, Bo,” Tommy said. “They’ll give you a slot.”

  “Yeah, you’re too angry not to turn loose on the bad guys,” Gary added with a laugh.

  “Maybe, but how come I’m always the last one to know?” Bo asked.

  The two shook their heads and continued the long walk along rows of trainers. “Must be a Drake thing,” Tommy said and then turned to Gary. “But Bo’s right, Cruiser. Why are you upset? We got fighters and they’re keeping us in the same squadron.”

  Approaching her assigned Lancer Bo said, “well, you boys play nice with Maco. See ya topside, Tommy,” Bo said, lifted her helmet in a kind of wave, and headed off to her ship.

  Tommy acknowledged Bo then turn towards Gary—still talking. “Yeah, we got fighters, but we got the oldest fighter in the fleet. It’s a two-seater, and…” Gary held the word and for effect. “…we’re assigned to the hottest sector in the Empire, on one of—if not the oldest ships in the Force.” He stopped in front of his trainer and paused before looking directly at Tommy. “You know this was General Ethos’s doing.”

  Tommy hesitated. He had suspected as much when he and Gary received their orders. Tommy was ranked number one in the class, but he had not gotten any of his top three choices of aircraft.

  “You don’t know that for sure, Cruiser. Besides, maybe they’re just waiting to give us a Starbird,” Tommy finally said.

  Gary just gave Tommy a look, an “are you kidding me?” kind of look.

  “It could happen, Gary. All we have to do is survive long enough for our Rapiers to get replaced—you know the fleet is retiring them. Besides, maybe having a guy in your backseat will keep you outa trouble,” Tommy said.

  “I thought you were trying to make me feel better,” Gary said.

  “Come on Cruiser. Just think, me and you flying Starbirds…”

  “Humans, flying Starbirds—I’ll believe it when pigs fly ’em,” Gary said, then paused and looked toward the ceiling as if thinking. “Wait, Maco got Starbirds…” He laughed and turned toward his Lancer.

  “Good luck out there buddy,” Tommy yelled towards Gary’s back and moved to greet his crew chief.

  “Hey, Thorn!”

  Tommy stopped, turned, and looked back at Gary, now halfway up his trainer’s boarding ladder.

  “Thanks, Tommy.”

  Tommy just smiled, nodded, and raised a gloved hand in acknowledgement before starting the ritual walk around of his Lancer.

  “How’s the bird?” Tommy, finally finished with a cursory look at his ship’s exterior, asked his crew chief while in the process of wedging himself into the front seat of his trainer.

  “Bird is tip-top, sir,” she said while handing Tommy his helmet, and started pulling restraining straps toward latches built into Tommy’s flight suit.

  “Kat, you’ve been my chief for almost a year, and all you ever say is, ‘the bird’s tip-top.’”

  The restraints latched with a series of clicks, tugging Tommy back into the contoured seat.

  “Well, hasn’t she always been tip-top, sir?” Kat asked while checking his ejection pod fittings.

  “Always, chief,” Tommy said, taking notice of how pretty the young Drake’s eyes were.

  Catching Tommy in a stare, she grinned. “Have a great flight, sir. This time tomorrow you’ll have your wings, and no more Lancers!”

  Pulling the helmet down past his ears, Tommy replied, “Still got one more hop, chief.”

  “Piece of cake, sir, just a quick shake ’n’ bake!” Kat patted the top of Tommy’s helmet and, giving him a thumbs-up, headed down the ladder.

  Watching her move down the ladder, Tommy made a mental note to at some point visit Drake, and then he took a moment to appreciate, one last time, the cockpit of the Lancer. How his hands dropped right to the controls along his sides, the interactive display, and the large canopy. I’m gonna miss ya, girl, he thought, then let himself think back on all he had accomplished and how far he had come.

  He was not yet twenty years old, and he had graduated from the Academy, flown Fireflies, and now Lancers. Then his thoughts drifted to friends that were no longer here, of Lieutenant Pascelle and the blackened patch of dirty desert on Razeier. One more hop, just one more, he thought. And I’ll have my wings.

  As Kat got in position for engine start and hover taxi, Tommy held his arms up, taking advantage of the open canopy to adjust his harness fittings. Not that the suits weren’t comfortable. In fact, when you considered how they were designed, they really did allow for a tremendous amount of movement. And, as Tommy had noticed the first time he saw Gary in one of these lightly armored pressure suits, they made even average physiques look like superheroes. Bulging chest, big arms, tight stomachs and legs—the truth was, these areas were filled with energy-absorbent material just in case a blaster round found its way into the cockpit. But no matter the reason, flexible battle armor looks pretty cool, he thought.

  “Got your ears on, Cruiser?” Tommy looked over at Gary while retracting his ship’s ladder.

  “I’ve got you five squared, Lead.” Gary feigned a salute, bouncing a gloved hand off his helmet’s visor cover.

  Tommy smiled and nodded, hitting highlighted symbols that would bring his Lancer to life, while at the same time taking in the commotion of the Nova’s prelaunch hanger deck.

  The Nova was an older ship, not as big as the newer modern battle cruisers, but to Tommy it had been home for almost a year, and he had grown attached to the old girl. Nasty, he thought and smiled to himself.

  “Go for engine start, sir,” Kat said over Tommy’s comm gear and then began to rotate one hand over her head.

  Tommy punched up a series of displayed buttons on the large, forward, colored panel.

  “D-drive is coming online—forty-six percent,” announced the female voice of the onboard computer, just audible over the whine of the single D-drive engine.

  Making a quick check of the cockpit, Tommy closed his canopy, watching as it slowly rotated down, then slid forward, just a bit, and sealed, blanking out, for the most part, the noise of the hanger deck and bringing the environmental and pressurization systems online.

  “Engine start complete, pressurization one hundred percent, cockpit temperature at standard,” the computer announced.

  Tommy adjusted his oxygen mask then reached up and tapped a button on the side of his helmet, closing his faceplate and bringing up the interactive display.

  Kat, using a remote pad, commanded power and data cables to be disconnected from the belly of Tommy’s bird. “You’re clear, sir,” she said as robotic arms retracted into recessed storage compartments on the hanger deck.

  “Graviton generator online, system checks complete, all in the green.” The computer continued to go through prelaunch checks.

  “Tip-top,” Tommy said to himself as he tapped the gear handle in response to Kat’s arm movements. The bird is tip-top.

  The Lancer’s three landing skids snapped up and into the fuselage, outer doors sealing with a muffled clunk, and Tommy’s ship settled into an easy hover about four feet off the deck.

  “Saber Hawk Lead to flight, check-in,” Tommy said while visually clearing the area.

  “Two,” responded Bo.

  “Three,” said Gary sharply.

  Tommy wai
ted, glancing down the row of polished gray trainers to Magnus’s ship. It seemed as if he was searching for something in the cockpit, his bird the only one not yet in a hover.

  “Mags, you with us, old buddy?” Tommy asked with a smirk.

  Magnus looked up at the other three pilots, all staring at him. “Four!” he said and raised his gear.

  Tommy smiled then looked to Gary, who could only shake his head.

  Maco and Papas followed quickly.

  “Five.”

  “Six.”

  “Make the call, Lead,” commanded Vance from the cockpit of his Lancer.

  “Deck Control from Saber Hawk Lead, flight of six—taxi.”

  “Saber Hawk leader from Deck Control, you are clear, taxi, contact Launch Control—over”

  “Two.”

  “Three.”

  “Four.”

  “Five.”

  “Six.”

  Saber Hawk Flight smartly acknowledged the instructions in turn. Just like seasoned fighter pilots, Tommy thought, his heart swelling with pride.

  After returning Kat’s salute, Tommy guided the trainer forward, then twisted the control grip to smoothly swing his Lancer over the illuminated taxi line, and keyed the mic. “Launch Control, Saber Hawk Flight of six ready to launch,” he said as he and the other ships, all in line, approached the restricted launch-tube area.

  The aft end of the Nova’s hanger deck was dominated by four launch tubes. Now the word tube might conjure up images of small round or oval-shaped shafts, but that did not accurately describe a battle cruiser’s launching portals. Launch tubes were curved-cornered, rectangular-shaped shafts with a high-pressure hatch at each end. Hatches that isolated and controlled airlocks, which allowed for the launching of fighters into space without losing pressurization in the hanger deck.

  “Saber Hawk Flight, take up positions and hold,” responded Launch Control.

  Tommy coaxed his ship into the brightly marked caution area behind the Alpha tube just as the inner hatch slid closed on a red-and-white, tandem-seat assault trainer; the rest of Saber Hawk flight lining up in turn with Commander Vance remaining in the rear, keeping a watchful eye on his students.