Tommy Thorn Marked

by D. E. Kinney

  “We got to move, LT,” Decker said over Sloan’s comm.

  Tommy pulled a small handheld blaster from a holster on the left side of his suit and proudly displayed it.

  Sloan put a hand to his helmeted head, looked up into the bright Vargus sunlight, and sighed. He then kicked a dead Vargus solider clear of his blaster rifle, grabbed it along with a couple of charging modules, and threw them at Tommy.

  “We got’a move, Thorn. When this patrol doesn’t check in, the pinheads are sure to get curious.”

  And right on cue a pair of Venoms came screaming down the narrow valley.

  “Move!” Sloan yelled and headed for cover, Tommy close behind.

  No one flinched as the two fighters made several passes over the crash site.

  “Do you think they saw us?” Tommy asked as the pair of Venoms, satisfied with their recon, finally climbed out of sight.

  “Are you kidding, Thorn?” Sloan said sarcastically before turning in the direction of Decker. “Move out, Deck, let’s put some clicks between us and this clearing,” he said, already bounding through the thick brush. “I’m sure they’ve already got an assault transport on the way—and keep an eye out for those damn stalkers!”

  Admiral Kada used the first of his six fingers to slowly scroll through his datapad. He had looked at the numbers several times, as if hoping, with each new inspection, that they might somehow magically change or even vanish completely.

  “Enter,” Kada responded to his hatch’s chime.

  Colonel Franza timidly walked into the admiral’s dimly lit stateroom. “I have the latest updates, sir.”

  Two years ago, when the then-Lieutenant Colonel Franza had accepted a position on the admiral’s staff, it had seemed like a sure way to earn his command baton. General slots were hard to secure; one had to find a war or a rising star. Franza had mistakenly thought that he had found both.

  “Let’s have them, Colonel,” Kada said, leaning his large head back against the chair to stare up at the gray featureless ceiling.

  Franza fidgeted with his datapad.

  “Well, come on, Colonel, the numbers!” Kada insisted.

  “Twelve annihilators lost, four badly damaged. We also lost eight corvette gunners, seven frigates, a pair of shadows, and one super cruiser.”

  Kada sat up in his chair. “A cruiser?”

  “Yes, sir, the Starhawk.”

  The admiral seemed confused.

  “Captain Jad went into a low orbit to help with the rescue efforts of his transport barges—they were torn up by the—”

  Kada interrupted. “Captain Jad. He disobeyed a direct order! I’ll have him—”

  Franza cleared his drying throat and politely cut the admiral off. “He died with his crew. Group commander Admiral Ty is recommending him for a Golden Dagger, sir.”

  Kada slumped back into his chair, rested his great head in one hand, and said, without looking up at his chief of staff, “Continue.”

  “Five full squadrons of Scats, sixty-three barges, forty-eight Rapiers, thirty-one Firestorms, twenty-six T-bolts, twelve Starbirds—”

  “Enough!” The admiral jumped to his feet. “Enough…”

  Franza once again lowered his datapad and looked on as Kada slouched back into his chair.

  “What do we have left, Colonel?” he finally asked.

  A week ago it was his fleet, Franza thought. Now it’s we?

  “We…can still put together seven full battle groups with ships of the line, but with the loss of nineteen Warrior Corps brigades and almost a third of our transports, a full-scale invasion seems—at least until we figure out how to take out their shields—problematic.”

  “It’s those guns, Colonel. Why didn’t we know more about those damn guns?”

  “As you know, Admiral, the existence of the guns was widely known. It was the decision of the combined admiralty that the Vargus claims of their invincibility were pure, well, bravado.”

  Kada seethed.

  Franza took a breath and continued. “Their secure underground location made it difficult to ascertain exact capabilities. In fact, any target of value is buried far below the surface—power supplies, hanger bays, command centers, but based on known technological advances it was thought—”

  Kada raised his hand. “It’s the shields, Colonel, they’re the key. If we take out the shields, the guns fall and then Vargus.”

  “Our Firestorms have pounded their shields, Admiral. We need the annihilators or even concentrated gunners,” Franza offered.

  “Yes, yes, of course. But the power required, Colonel. Why the shields alone…”

  Franza, feeling sick, paused long enough to access additional data. “All power is routed to the planet’s defensive systems during times of emergency. The populace makes do with aux power supplies. If individuals perish—well, so be it.”

  Kada shook his head. “Amazing.”

  “The massive ion cannons, once deployed, work in conjunction with shield modulators. Small areas of the field blink for an instant, allowing a focused blast of tremendous energy to escape. They’re not much good, as we’ve seen, on fast moving targets and they do have range limitations, but they’re absolutely devastating on large, slow-moving ships,” the Colonel continued.

  “Annihilators,” Kada mumbled and walked toward his cabin’s expansive series of viewing ports.

  “It would seem they were designed for the sole purpose of defeating them, Admiral.”

  Franza waited for the Imperial admiral to say something, but after long agonizing moments of silence, he again spoke up. “The intel teams were right about one thing though.”

  Kada looked up, eyes not really focused on the colonel. Instead they seemed to be staring at someplace or something far away.

  “The Vargins are in no way able to match our might in any kind of confrontation in space. What battle fleets they do have are built to protect their rather large number of commercial transports against low-tech pirates or local rebels. These fleets, by the way, have fled out of the system,” Franza finished and lowered the datapad.

  “Get a report ready for the Empress. I’ll need time to review it before transmittal,” Kada ordered.

  Franza nodded. He knew someone’s head was going into a box over this fiasco, and he’d make damn sure it wasn’t his.

  “And put a blockade plan together, Colonel. I want this planet isolated. Then get the staff working on an op-plan to hit the other, weaker members of the Collation. We will break this feeble coalition.” Kada then waved his hand, dismissing the colonel, and turned again to his view ports, the blue-green planet of Vargus slowly rotating in the distance.

  “We’ll break them…” Franza heard the admiral murmur to himself as the hatch slid closed.

  It had been almost ten days, and what was left of Sloan’s team, including Tommy, had endured a grueling eastward trek over the rugged mountains that ran like a pointy spine along the western coast of the battle-torn southern region. They were stranded, low on supplies, and forced to move only under the cover of darkness, using their suit’s infrared shielding to avoid detection. The southern region—well, all of Vargus—had been deemed too dangerous for any rescue attempt, although several Scat pilots, including Gary and Bo, had pleaded for an opportunity. And so it was decided. The team would continue on to the Shifting Sea and hold out for as long as they could while high command figured out a plan.

  “It looks empty,” Tommy said while staring up at the night sky.

  Sloan and Tommy were crouched down behind a group of large boulders on the western edge of the great desert. Both had secretly given up all hope of rescue days ago.

  “Looks a lot like Earth’s stars—all of these systems on the fringe look this way, desolate, dark, and alone,” Sloan said. He calibrated his visor’s NV settings and redirected his gaze toward the team’s concealed positions.

  “You ever stop to think about the Vargin?” Tommy asked.

  Sloan popped open his faceplate. “Whad
dya mean?”

  Tommy thought it was nice to hear his old roommate’s voice without the comm system’s electronic distortion. “You know, this is their planet. They do have a right to defend it.”

  “You’re right, Tommy, it is their planet, but it exists within a galaxy full of life forms, most of which live together in a harmonious stability provided by the Empire. A single planet, system, or even a group of systems cannot be allowed to endanger that,” Sloan said.

  “Yes, I know, galactic politics and the rights of imperial rule. But what about the right of self-rule? I mean, look at this place. They don’t control trade routes; we’ve both seen the reports on their space force—these guys are sure not a threat,” Tommy said.

  I know you flyboys aren’t used to seeing death up close. I guess when you squeeze the trigger you don’t really think about the damage eight high-powered blasters can do. But an insurrection, even though it seems insignificant, starts to pull on the fabric that holds us all together—there is no order without the Empire,” Sloan responded thoughtfully.

  “Tightly controlled order,” Tommy said and swatted at a humming pest.

  “The galaxy needs control. Without it there is only chaos and death. And let’s not forget how much even our own home world has benefited,” Sloan added.

  Chaos and death, Tommy remembered the same words coming from Remus. “Sure, Earth has gained, but they’ve lost things as well. And Earth was nowhere near as advanced as Vargus.” He paused to shoo away the persistent pest.

  Sloan’s eyes suddenly widened, and he slapped down his faceplate. “Decker, move the team up into the rocks. They know we’re here!”

  Decker looked back over his shoulder, up past the steep slope of rocks that blended into the shadowy gray towering mountain and onto the patch of dark cloudless sky beyond. “We won’t get much of a warning, LT,” he said.

  Sloan nodded in the darkness. “You think it’s gonna matter much, Deck?”

  “What’s going on?” Tommy asked as Sloan started checking power packs.

  “Smile for the camera,” Sloan said and looked up toward the tiny floating hoverbot.

  Tommy moved his head back and slapped the tiny surveillance device, crushing it against a rock face.

  “It’s too late, Tommy. That thing has already reported our position. This place will be crawling with pinheads before dawn,” Sloan said.

  Tommy nodded and started checking his equipment. It would be nice to have one of the commando suit’s night-vision faceplates, he thought.

  “I want you to head up,” Sloan continued, motioning up the rock face. “As far as you can and take cover.”

  “I won’t be of much use up there. I can barely—”

  Sloan cut him off before toggling his faceplate’s release and making eye contact with his old friend. “One more blaster, more or less, is not going to make a difference, Tommy.”

  “You never know, we—”

  “The only chance you’ve got is to stay out of sight,” Sloan interrupted.

  Tommy glanced at his friend while loading a fresh energy pack into the Vargus blaster rifle. “I’m not going out that way, Sloan,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Sloan tried to give a reassuring smile, but he knew they were going to die here.

  We sure aren’t going back up, not now, and the desert… Tommy took in the flat, featureless sand sea stretching to the horizon. “You know they’ll scan the area for life forms, and I’ve seen what they do to prisoners.”

  “Here they come, LT,” Decker said as the flashing lights of a pair of assault transports appeared over the distant ridge.

  “Randal, break out a fire stick,” Sloan said. “We might get lucky and take down one of their transports before it can offload.”

  “Copy that, sir,” Corporal Randal replied, no hint of concern in his voice.

  The members of the Q, either through practice or disposition, had all come to terms with the idea of dying in combat, and although not something they longed for, it was what it was. All death was, after all, certain.

  “All right, stay here. Wait till they start to unload.” Sloan returned his attention to Tommy, waving his blaster along the endless sand that stretched out in front of their position. “Our blasters will be useless against the transport’s shields.”

  Tommy nodded, rested the Vargus blaster against a nearby boulder, and began sighting into the darkness of the desert.

  Sloan smiled. “Their bolts are green or blue. Ours, except for yours, will be red,” he said and began moving to another secure site.

  “Hey, Sloan,” Tommy called out.

  Sloan stopped and flipped open his faceplate.

  “Thanks for the rescue,” he continued.

  Again, Sloan flashed a broad smile. “You’re a funny guy, Thorn,” he said before giving a reassuring nod. “It’s been an honor, Tommy.” Sloan slapped his faceplate down and glanced up as the transports flashed overhead and began arching around for a landing. “Try not to shoot any of my guys,” he continued and disappeared into the darkness.

  Colonel Franza turned from the pair of eight-foot royal Couragian guards and stepped into the turbo lift, doing his best to regain some sense of composure before addressing Imperial Fleet Admiral Kada. They had, of course, been notified of the envoy’s arrival, and Franza had seen Couragian before but…

  “Enter,” Franza heard the admiral say even as the hatch slid open.

  “They’re here, sir,” Franza said without looking directly at the senior officer’s eyes.

  The admiral’s quarters were dimly lit, but with all viewing ports open the glow of the distant planet Vargus gave off enough light to clearly see Kada standing tall in his finest dress uniform—replete with an enormous amount of colorful decorations.

  The admiral nodded and extended his hand to give Franza a small data storage device.

  “Would you see that these are sent to the appropriate recipients?” Kada asked, his air of superiority subdued or maybe genuinely gone.

  “Certainly, sir,” Franza said. Taking the device, and for the moment, set it on the oval-shaped conference table.

  Franza felt pity for the now-disgraced leader of the mighty Tarchein fleet. Although it had been his arrogance and sense of self-righteous predestined greatness that had cost the lives of so many, at least he had taken full responsibility for the failed invasion. Colonel Franza knew he would never be promoted. His promising career was essentially over, but for now, the only thought was one of relief—relief that he hadn’t been called to stand trial in the royal court. A trial that all knew, no matter the number of impassioned pleas or references to a distinguished military career, could have only one gruesome outcome…

  “Shall I call for the…” The colonel hesitated, not wanting to use the word “guards.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Kada responded.

  “Sir, the…the royal envoy was quite insistent,” Franza stammered.

  “As I said, Colonel, I do not require an escort to find the hanger bay of my own ship,” Kada said in a commanding tone.

  “Very well.” Franza lowered his head and turned to leave the quarters.

  “Colonel Franza,” Kada called to his former chief of staff’s back.

  Franza turned. “Sir?”

  “I regret the way this turned out. You’re a good officer,” Kada said.

  Franza only nodded before hurriedly moving through the now-open hatch—very much relieved to be out in the hallway.

  Kada waited for a moment for the hatch to slide closed, then straightening his tunic, he walked to the large viewing port, hands behind his back. All in all, it has been a good career, he thought, more than he had expected coming out of the Academy those many years ago. Kada had not been at the top of his class. He was not the brightest or the most likeable, but he had understood the politics of the Star Force. Never making controversial moves, he had always waited, judging the direction of the prevailing bureaucratic winds and becoming astute at going al
ong with the majority—that is, until Vargus.

  Vargus! Kada had grown to hate the name. With my last conscious breath I will curse you Vargus, he thought as he placed the small clear capsule under his tongue.

  Franza hit the hatch chime for a second time. He had absolutely no desire to confront the admiral again, but he had made a commitment to send out those damn messages. Why didn’t I simply put the storage device in my pocket? he thought.

  After a third attempt on the admiral’s hatch, Franza decided to act. “Override security Kada two zero nine—Franza, Colonel, identify.”

  Before the hatch had completely opened, Franza was at the admiral’s side. He was sprawled out on the deck next to the viewing ports, eyes closed, a pinkish foam bubbling from his lips.

  “Admiral! Admiral Kada,” Franza shouted as he cradled the Tarchein’s unconscious head. “Sick bay, this is Colonel Franza. Get an emergency medtech to Admiral Kada’s quarters—we have a medical emergency.”

  “On our way, Colonel,” was the reply over Franza’s integrated earpiece.

  Franza continued to hold the admiral’s dying head. “Hold on, sir,” he said, then looked up at Vargus. He had once thought the planet to be beautiful. Damn you, Vargus, he thought. Damn you, and all who live on you…

  “Hit it again, Randal!” Sergeant Decker shouted over the noise of battle.

  “Forget it, Deck, Randal’s dead.” Sloan rolled from his position just as it erupted with blaster fire. “Keep moving and concentrate your fire on that damaged transport!”

  “Roger that.” Then after a pause, “Check your three o’clock, LT, it looks like they’re trying to flank your position,” Decker breathlessly responded.

  Sloan, busy directing defensive positions, did not respond to the first sergeant, when suddenly, inexplicably, the desert landing zone erupted in tremendous explosions, sending one of the Vargus transports end over end before landing in a burning heap.

  “Nice shot, Deck!” Sloan shouted as the damaged Vargus transport flipped and exploded in a gigantic burst of flaming debris.