Tommy Thorn Marked

by D. E. Kinney

  “Survive?” Gary whispered.

  The colonel again paused, moving his hands from behind his back. “It is not our intention that any should fail. Quite the contrary—we want all of you to become members of the Marked—that is, after all, why you were selected.”

  This sounded good to Tommy, but that was what every school he had ever attended had said—everyone knew better.

  Colonel Taylor then stepped off the pedestal and walked along behind the seated lead instructors before coming to a stop in the center of the room. “Sadly, this will not be the case.

  I knew it, Tommy thought.

  “The tests are difficult and, well, many are extremely dangerous,“the colonel continued. As if to emphasize just how hazardous, he added, “I believe, indeed I am sure, that as competent as you all are, not one of you, without the intense training of this program, would survive, let alone pass, with a score required to wear the Mark.”

  Tommy could feel the tension in the room as the colonel paused to let this last bit of cheery news sink in.

  He went on, although his tone was not quite so solemn. “Now let me make one thing very, very clear. You may, at any time prior to the start of your final or graduation test, withdraw from the program without fear of stigma. Candidates that drop will be returned to their unit with only our gratitude. You are the best our worlds have to offer. Nothing you do here will be reflected in your record in a way that would indicate anything different. I give you my word.”

  After another pause, the colonel continued, “We don’t use artificial physiological tricks to evaluate your ability to react to severe pressure here. We use a series of increasingly more difficult tests, culminating in a graduation exercise. And that test, once started, must be completed. At that point, you’ll either become Marked—or you will die in the effort.”

  Surely, this is some kind of scare tactic, thought Tommy and turned toward Gary, sure he would see a reassuring grin. But Gary was not smiling.

  “Use this time tonight to get to know the primary instructor seated across from you. They will become a friend and mentor. As I said, they will be tracking your progress, administering evaluations, and making recommendations to the staff as to your readiness prior to each test,” the colonel said, waving a hand toward the seated officers who would act as leads.

  “The staff has no authority to order you to withdraw, but they will encourage you to do so if they believe it is your best interest,” he said, then putting both hands on the back of the center chair. “In a class of twenty-four, on average, only eight of you will graduate. Eleven of you will drop, and five…” He paused. “Well, five of you will die,” the colonel said bluntly, and then waited a moment for the ensuing murmur to quiet down. “Remember—there is no shame in withdrawing. Not everyone is suitable for the Mark…”

  With those words still reverberating throughout the hall, the colonel moved to the hatch. “Again, congratulations on your selection, and best of luck to you all.”

  “All rise,” a voice commanded.

  The group rose sharply and stood quietly as the colonel raised his right hand, spread his fingers, and revealed the sign of the Marked, which was illuminated under the skin of his palm. “For those that stayed,” he said.

  “Let them be Marked!” the instructors, who had responded by flashing the sign of the Marked, shouted as the colonel left the room.

  And after a couple of heartbeats.

  “Seats!” the ranking lead instructor shouted.

  Tommy sat but was unsure of what to do next, until Major Eldger shouted, “Let’s eat!”

  With that statement, the hatch flew open and waiters laden down with platters of food scurried into the room. Candidates greeted instructors, and the hall erupted into celebration and laughter. Everyone, for now, put aside concerns that the colonel’s comments had generated. Five will die, but not today, Tommy thought and reached for a platter of roasted meat.

  “Did you hear that sound?” Sloan asked, handing Tommy a basket of fresh warm bread.

  “What sound?” Tommy asked, a waiter now filling up his goblet with a rich purple beverage.

  Sloan looked directly into Tommy’s eyes. “The sound of the other shoe dropping…”

  The next morning dawned clear and, Tommy suspected, very cold. However, a new dusting of powder made the area outside his window resemble a winter wonderland, the kind he remembered his mother reading about when he was a boy. A quick note to Remus, something for his pounding head—What was that purple stuff?—and he was off to breakfast. Although he wasn’t at all sure he would be able to eat. Just as well, he thought. His wristcomm said physical training. They’ll probably have us running naked through knee-high snowdrifts before lunch.

  A few more minutes and he was in the dining facility. “Aren’t you guys going to eat?” Tommy said, standing behind Sloan and Gary. They were both seated, holding glasses of juice, but no food.

  They both smiled. “Sit down, Thorn,” Sloan said and handed Tommy a menupad.

  Tommy took the pad and slowly sat. “No chow line?” he asked.

  “Not here, pal,” Gary said, just as a very attractive female brought his and Sloan’s food.

  He was still scratching his head when a young man, dressed in the same kind of white jumper he had seen the night before, brought a pitcher and refilled their drinks.

  “Will there be anything else, gentlemen?” the waiter asked.

  “I’ll have whatever they’re having,” Tommy said.

  The man nodded and left.

  Both Gary and Sloan paused for a moment.

  “Guys, please, don’t wait on me,” Tommy offered, then raised his glass.

  The food looked delicious, and both men began eating. In his time with Star Force, indeed anytime, Tommy had never seen any place like Camp Calder. It really was for Humans only. The chairs, intensity of the lighting, fixtures in the head, even the food served was not made to be alien friendly. There just aren’t any compromises, he thought. This place truly is by Humans for ONLY Humans…

  “Have you noticed that there are no Tarchein? In fact, I haven’t seen any aliens,” Tommy commented.

  “The Marked is a Humans-only club, Tommy,” Gary said between bites.

  “Yeah, I get that, but it’s got to be under Tarchein control,” Tommy responded.

  “Everything is under Tarchein control.” Sloan looked up from his plate. “Doesn’t mean they have to have someone here on a permanent basis.”

  “I guess,” Tommy said, looking around the hall. “Just seems weird is all.”

  “You know the Tarchein, Tommy. You think any of them want to be assigned to a place with all these Humans—stuck out here in all this nature?” Gary asked, then shoveled in another large helping of food.

  “No, I guess—”

  “Here you are, Lieutenant,” a female hostess said, setting a plate of hot food in front of Tommy. “Will there be anything else?”

  Tommy surveyed the table covered in fresh linen, plates full of food—including three different types of warm bread—fresh fruit, and large glasses, not tubes, of juice.

  “Thank you, no. Everything looks great,” Tommy said.

  The young woman bowed slightly and quietly moved away from the table.

  Sloan pointed a fork, still full of food, at some of the staff as they scurried about the dining hall. “None of these people are Star Force.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Gary said.

  “Must be locals,” Tommy added.

  Sloan laughed. “Are you kidding? Did you see any cities on our approach?”

  Gary shook his head. “No, but maybe…”

  “These people live here, rotate in every six months,” Sloan said.

  “And you know this, how?” Tommy asked.

  Sloan smiled between bites.

  “That redhead,” Gary exclaimed.

  “So many Human females, so little time,” Sloan said, then leaned back in his chair and tried to cover his smug grin by taking a
long drink.

  “You dog, Steel,” Gary said.

  Sloan just laughed and, after finishing off his food, looked over at Tommy’s untouched plate. “You gonna…”

  Tommy pushed the plate over toward Sloan. “You know we’ve got PT this morning,” he said.

  Sloan stopped eating and laughed. “Come on, guys. Whatever they got planed, if you fleet types can get through it, then the Q can handle it standing on our heads,” he said and pointed a forkful of food at Tommy.

  Gary and Tommy just shrugged. “We’ll see,” said Tommy, but he knew Sloan was right. Physical training was really stressed in the Corps and the Q. Those guys are just plain crazy, he thought.

  “You know who would have loved this?” Gary asked after a few minutes.

  No one responded, but Tommy knew who Gary was thinking of.

  “Bo,” he said and raised his half-full glass over the center of the table.

  “A toast,” said Sloan.

  All three raised their glasses as Sloan continued, “To three of four.”

  “To three of four,” they all said and clanked their glasses.

  “May we never have to fight her,” Tommy added.

  “Here, here,” the other two said, and drained their drinks.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Glory and Honor Be Yours

  Bo again shifted her weight, wiggling into the Vandal’s seat in an effort to get comfortable, or at least find a position that was somewhat tolerable. She never thought she’d miss the formfitting energy absorbent material of the Rapier quite so much. And this helmet—it was hard to imagine that someone on her home world had designed it specifically for Drakins! Her old suit… Bo’s mind flashed to an image of Gary standing back at the Slate, so proud of his new flight gear, and she smiled at the memory, a rare occurrence these days.

  It had been almost five months since Bo had been forced to flee the Renegade, leaving just days before Drake declared its intentions to separate from the Empire. She had found things on her home world a bit chaotic, but they had avoided, to date, a full-out invasion or worse, indiscriminate orbital retaliation.

  As predicted, the Empire had its hands full with Vargus and the CFP. Plus, seeing the Vargus campaign as a weakness, several other systems had taken this opportunity to break free.

  For many, this proved to be ill-advised…

  The defensive technologies and strategies of Vargus were not well-known outside the CFP, at least not at the beginning of what was being called the Great Separatist War. Many planets paid dearly. Total destruction, especially for worlds not deemed particularly important either economically or strategically, was the order of the day. Laid to waste by the orbital bombardments of well-protected annihilators and gunners, the smoldering lifeless planets left as a solemn reminder to would-be defectors.

  But Drake had, for the most part, weathered the early going of the war and now found itself embroiled in a drawn-out campaign of isolation and gradual attrition. The Empire could simply cut off and starve the system by employing blockades. This tactic was fairly easy to implement, based on the relative strength of Drake’s space force, and it put far fewer assets at risk. Assets that, at the moment, were sorely required elsewhere. It would not be long, postulated Star Force high command, before the people of Drake would themselves rise up against their government and demand reinstatement. It was only a matter of time, and time was something the Empire and Empress Darvona had in abundance.

  “Con, Falcon—the third quad is clear,” Bo said and released a small button on her center mounted control grip.

  It had taken little time for Bo to become thoroughly competent in the little Drake fighter. But may the Great God help me if I ever have to take on the boys in this thing, she thought, slapping at the outdated technology of her integrated panel.

  “Falcon, Con—copy. Proceed to quad four. Con, out,” was a female Drake’s crackled response.

  Every day it was the same, check the near space around Drake for Imperial recon drones or ship movements. It wasn’t dangerous, at least not yet. Star Force had scattered its ships out into relatively predictable deep space tracks. They would pounce on commercial traffic or Drake capital ships, but a lone fighter—it posed no threat and just wasn’t worth the trouble.

  Bo tapped her throttles, adjusted the Vandal’s instrument scan range, and punched up a readout of Star Force vessels in this sector. There it was, just as the latest intel brief had stated—the Valiant. What is a super cruiser doing here? she wondered and forced herself into a heightened state of alertness.

  “Contacts bearing two six ninner point three zero five and closing,” the Vandal’s computer squawked.

  Bo fiddled with the center display, again cursing its intermittent operation, until she was able to ID the contacts. “Report,” Bo commanded.

  “Contacts are twelve Starbirds, eight T-darts, ten Firestorms, and a pair of Titan Class fast missile frigates,” the computer reported.

  Bo’s heart raced. Might already be too late to run, she thought, then instinctively rolled the fighter over and dove for the surface of Drake. Lot of ships for a lone fighter. This doesn’t make any sense, or maybe this is the start of a ground campaign. So that’s why the Valiant is here, she thought.

  “Contacts now bearing three five zero point two three four.” Bo’s computer gave a position update.

  They’re closing fast, she thought and increased the Vandal’s dive angle. Her only hope was a high-speed plunge into the atmosphere, a tactic that just might scramble their fire-control sensors, at least long enough to get away. She slammed the throttles to full forward and let her gloved thumb tap a slender red-capped switch.

  “Shields configured—forward coverage only.” The computer confirmed her action.

  Starbirds and T-darts, there’s no way it could be…no, they’re still in Marked training, or… She hated to think it. Dead. Bo pushed thoughts of her friends away as great sheets of flame flashed off the Vandal’s shields and curled away from the tiny angular canopy.

  “Contacts now bearing three zero one point two five seven. Shields at forty-seven percent,” the outdated computer continued its methodical updates.

  “Damn this thing,” she shouted into her oxygen mask and eased back on the dive angle, hoping to save her shield strength. Then she had a thought. Two five seven. She let the last position update settle in and did a quick calculation. They’re going away, she thought, making yet another manual adjustment to the large center display.

  They were indeed chasing something, but it wasn’t her. And they weren’t headed for the surface. The sudden realization came as a relief, but what, or who, were they after?

  Bo pulled out of her dive and pointed the Vandal’s nose toward the cluster of Imperial spacecraft, now moving along a parallel course.

  “Contacts bearing three zero—“

  Bo used a switch on her control stick to silence the computer, then pressed the comm button. “Con from Falcon—I’ve got contact with a strike force moving through quad four.”

  “Roger Falcon, we’re tracking multiple enemy contacts—does not, at this time, appear to be an assault force,” Con replied.

  “Copy,” Bo responded. Starbirds, T-darts, and Firestorms—enemy spacecraft. She would never get used to that.

  Bo thought for a moment. She had adjusted her course to shadow the Imperial ships. They’re chasing something…

  “Con, Falcon—do you have any other near orbit contacts in this quad?” she asked.

  There was a long pause. In fact, it was long enough that Bo was beginning to think her comm system had gone inop again, or maybe it was being jammed.

  “Con, Falcon—comm check,” Bo said while checking the strength of her beam.

  Silence…

  “Damn!” she shouted and keyed the comm button again, but before she could speak a massive shape began to shimmer and then take form directly in her flight path.

  She yanked the throttles aft and hit the thrusters while p
ulling back on the stick. “Come on, baby!” she yelled. “Move!”

  But she never had a chance. The giant wedge-shaped ship, over a mile and a half mile wide, was far too close. The impact was sudden and violent.

  Light, she thought. Bright blinding light! And then her Vandal was shredded into strips of flaming debris.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  For Those Who Stayed

  Throughout the first four months of training, or Phase I, Tommy had learned to do things he had not thought possible. The demanding, completely immersive course of instruction, refined through constant practice, evaluations, and finally tests, had allowed him to achieve results that surpassed anything he could have previously imagined. Of course there was the normal physical training, both endurance and strength, including a battery of physical fitness evaluations and tests. These had proven to be challenging for even the most gifted of candidates, but at least these skills could be improved through hard work and self-discipline. Not so the techniques taught to focus one’s energy, increase quickness, and control emotions. Whether in the classroom or during the brutally competitive martial arts training.

  “No wasted movement! Find your opponent’s weakness, then exploit it quickly. There are no style points in personal combat,” their instructor barked. His words reverberated with every blow and counter-blow.

  Yes, Phase I, pushed all of the candidates to exceed what they had assumed to be natural limitations, especially when it came to some of the more unusual academic requirements, such as memorization techniques and intense mental disciplines, which included both physical and emotional control.

  Tommy soon found that success in the area of emotional control was most often based on some sort of unseen genetic ability. For which, the Marked selection committee, aware of the inherent requirements, did their best to identify during the screening process. It seemed, however, that this was more of an art than a science. As a result, prior to the start of Phase II training, three members of Class 13-47 were encouraged to reevaluate their career goals. The result—all three voluntary dropped from the program; a decision that no doubt saved their lives, Major Eldger had told Tommy upon hearing the news.