Tommy Thorn Marked

by D. E. Kinney

  Gashnar was an ancient Drake word that embodied the unknowable, indescribable essence of the afterlife. It was a special place reserved for fallen Drake warriors that had lived a life of honor. Bo had been told about the wonders of the place by her grandmother, Grand Admiral Vox, when she was just a little girl. But her grandmother had been dying and she, well, Bo had always wanted to believe she would see her beloved admiral again,

  You will see her again, little one.

  The thought, but not her thought, not her internal voice, came to her like out of a dream. But she was awake—wasn’t she?

  Bo forced her eyes open and saw. She could see! That she was in a well-lit and comfortable cooled room of some sort, although for the moment, she could only see the off-white honeycombed ceiling infused with a soft blue glow.

  Bo lifted a hand. She was still wearing the cursed Drake pressure suit, but for once she was actually glad to feel its pinches and pricks. I’m not dead, she thought.

  Just then, an ungloved hand was placed softly on her forehead. This gentle touch was followed by the sight of a very tall, well-muscled alien. His silver battle armor, trimmed in a rich dark green, shimmered in the incandescent lighting. And his large golden eyes flashed with flecks that resembled clear emerald as he bent down to look at Bo.

  I’m Devlin. His thoughts entered her mind.

  A wide smile spread across his chiseled handsome face.

  Honor and glory be yours.

  “And yours,” Bo whispered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Fear Not

  Another month of intense preparation, and Class 13-47 deployed to the desert planet of Seardra, where for two months they were forced to endure its hellishly hot, desolate environment. Their base camp was small and provided little in the way of protection. They were not allowed the relative comfort or safety of a fighting suit, nor were they spared from the dangers of the local predators. The soft yellow sands were full of scorpion-type creatures called Sasori that grew as large as lions and could easily kill with either of their twin stingers. There were also snake-like reptiles over twenty feet long, with six sets of legs and four huge poisonous fangs, always on the prowl for easy prey.

  But the members of Class 13-47 were not, as it turned out, easy prey. In fact, it wasn’t long before their arduous months of preparation began to pay off. They had learned how to adapt and overcome pain, hunger, and thirst, always the thirst. And for most, not only did they survive, but by the end of the deployment it was the sand creatures who feared the candidates. If they could find them, they ate them. Sloan joked that the darn snake-like things tasted like chicken.

  But not all did well. This was Class 13-47’s most severe challenge to date. Oh, they had been tested on marksmanship, fighting techniques, endurance, obstacle courses, and the like, but this was quite different. The desert provided a good deal of hardship and plenty of time for self-examination. Three candidates dropped and were sent home. One, Major Jed Ringer, never went home—at least not while still among the living…

  He was attacked by a Sasori while on a fifty-mile solo land-navigation trial just a week before the class was scheduled to terminate this phase of training. His biostrip triggered an immediate recovery operation. Not that there was any hope of rescue. Ringer’s strip would not have been activated unless his heart had stopped beating. No, the sense of urgency was motivated by a desire to recover his remains before he became a meal for one of the desert’s many scavengers. No one left behind was a very real motto of the Marked, one that sometimes required dying for. Fortunately, in this case, with the aid of Ringer’s beacon his body had been recovered quickly. He was found face down in the sand, a Sasori’s deadly stinger in his back—the major’s Ki-blade still buried deep in the skull of his attacker.

  Major Jed Ringer was posthumously awarded his Mark, and his cremated remains were sent to Tarchein, where he was placed on the honor wall in the Great Hall of the Marked.

  And then there were SIXTEEN…

  The next phase of training lasted three months, all of which were completed off-world. Training and trials were conducted on a number of remote sites that stretched from one end of the Empire to the other. Rainy swamps, high-altitude mountainous terrain, worlds underwater where they stayed submerged for weeks on end, dark moonless planets, bright barren planets, and even asteroids. These were, well, bad, but the worst and most difficult by a very wide margin was an orbiting training station, their last stop before fulfilling the requirements of Phase IV.

  If the Marked station had an official name, the members of Class 13-47 did not know it. To them, the spartan facility would always be affectionately known as the Grinder. Used for deep space isolation instruction and weightless combat tactics, the Grinder was just that. And it would prove to be the most formidable and deadly test to date.

  Even though Tommy, as expected, had little trouble adapting to the weightless environment, everyone struggled, especially during the gravity-free combat instruction. The class had to endure what seemed to be endless long days in the warm stale air of the combat chambers, training with little sleep and no days off. And it wasn’t just the month spent on the small, dimly lit, cramped orbiting station, but each candidate also spent ten days adrift in the Pipe.

  Rumors had been circulating about the Pipe almost since day one. “Have you heard about the Pipe?” “What do you think about the Pipe?” “Do you think the Pipe is real?” It was real all right, and Tommy was about to slide into the darn thing.

  The Pipe was an eleven-foot-long cylinder with a diameter of only four feet. Not what one would call spacious, especially when you considered that the first four feet were dedicated to life support and maneuvering thrusters. It had enough water and air, if conserved, to last ten days. There was no communication of any kind, but it was well-lit and it even had a small round viewing port. All the comforts of a burial pod, Tommy had thought when the test in the Pipe was briefed.

  The Pipes were loaded into, and launched from, converted proton torpedo tubes, with a maximum of eight adrift around the Grinder at any given time. As always, once the Pipe was launched candidates were on their own for ten days. The only way anyone would be retrieved sooner was if their biostrip pinged. Not a very cheery image, Tommy thought while waiting for Bobby to climb into his Pipe.

  But Warrant Officer Bobby Bailer, who had just disappeared into his assigned gray tube, was in trouble. Confronted with the claustrophobic dimensions of the Pipe for the first time, he had scrambled out before the hatch could be sealed. His eyes were wide with fear, and in an uncontrolled panic he had fled past Tommy and the others in this group, who waited to board their little tubes.

  There was a deathly silence. Even Sloan was speechless, before Major Eldger stepped to the Pipe and calmly motioned Tommy forward.

  “You’re lucky, Thorn, you get to sleep for ten days. Although I’m going to miss pounding on you in the combat sphere,” Eldger whispered, then smiled.

  Tommy smiled back before grabbing the loading bar and sliding in, feet first, once again thinking how fortunate he was to have Eldger as his lead instructor.

  Damn this thing is small, he thought as the hatch swung closed and locked with a finality that made Tommy’s heart begin to race. Eldger had wasted no time in getting him sealed in, committed. Bless you, Major, Tommy thought. If the hatch would have still been open, he might have tried to back out, just like Bobby.

  “It’s okay, Tommy,” he said out loud between huge gulps of air. He glanced at the little oxygen quantity readout as he felt the Pipe being pushed down the launch tube, then heard another loud latching noise. CLANK!

  Tommy flinched at the sound, even though he had studied the operation of the launch and should have been prepared. His breathing was so rapid now that he was beginning to see tiny flashes of light. His fingers had long since gone numb, and his mind was yelling, GET ME OUT OF HERE! Settle down—besides it’s too late now. The thought did little to comfort him. It is tight, but you’re okay. R
emember your training—there is no danger, he thought.

  And then, “I’m going to die in this damn can—let me out!” he screamed, but no one heard.

  There was a sound of metal on metal as his Pipe was shoved into space. The launch wasn’t violent—there wasn’t any need for speed, but it did tumble and spin for a few minutes before small thrusters stabilized the rotations. Again, they weren’t savage, just enough to disorientate.

  “Damn it, Tommy, think. You’re all right!” he shouted to himself. There is nothing to fear, he again silently pleaded with his psyche. The panic had escalated quickly, surprising Tommy, but he was slowly regaining control.

  We decide what is scary, Miss Franks had said. Retired Marked Lieutenant Colonel Franks, Tommy had a growing appreciation for the women. She went through this. They all went through this—so can you.

  Tommy looked out the little viewing port while thinking of Miss Franks. There was another Pipe, bearing a large red number 12 on its side. He could just make out a waving hand, then a thumbs-up as it slowly drifted by. Number 12 is Gary, he thought while floating weightless. I sure hope he doesn’t throw up, Tommy thought and noticed that his breathing had slowed.

  The ten days passed. Tommy spent a lot of time catching up on sleep or in meditation. Gary’s Pipe drifted away, but Tommy knew he was out there along with Sloan and the others. And even though he was technically cut off and alone, he did not feel alone, or fearful, and he suspected that he never would again.

  With the completion of pipe trials their time in the Grinder finally came to an end, and Class 13-47, Phase IV completed, headed back to Camp Calder for the fifth and final phase. Three more members had dropped, all at the Pipe, making for an uncomfortable flight back to Luna-tae. The members who had dropped wore their failure like a mask. Tommy was sympathetic to their plight. He had felt the darkness as well, but he had not given in to it, at least not before the pipe had been secured. There was little doubt in Tommy’s mind that if it had not been for the quick actions of Major Eldger in sealing the pipe, he too would have succumbed to the panic. But regardless of how each candidate now felt, to a man, no one thought the members who had dropped to be cowards. Bobby had won a silver dagger, for crying out loud. The Marked was not for everyone—the colonel had emphasized this time and time again. This training was about maximizing potential. In doing so it exposed, then tried to correct, weaknesses. If they could not be corrected, an individual could simply drop or try to bluff his way through. Faking it oftentimes, however, proved fatal—as it turned out was the case with Bailer.

  Two weeks after his defeat on the Grinder, Warrant Officer Bobby Bailer put a blaster to his temple and pulled the trigger. He died in the Pipe, and he didn’t even know it, Tommy thought when he heard the news.

  Then there were THIRTEEN…

  The fifth and final phase of the program was conducted entirely at Camp Calder. Classes continued pretty much as they always had, although now at a frenzied pace. These included a variety of new hand-to-hand combat techniques, and the seemingly never-ending behavior modification classes at the hands of the wizards. But Phase V training included something new: field excursions into the cold, harsh, unforgiving environment of Luna–tae.

  These trips to the majestic nearby ranges were confined primarily to developing a level of proficiency in mountaineering and cold-weather survival techniques. Skills that, acquired while climbing the towering obelisk-shaped mountains, would no doubt be required for the final and most difficult trial of the program.

  Initially, members of the Warrior Corps, with their extensive combat and survival training, had a slight advantage. But the program was never meant to be competitive. “We desire that each and every one of you earn the Mark,” the colonel had said. And now, so close to achieving their goal, the final thirteen began to pull together as never before. A tremendous feeling of brotherhood, already present to an extent, really began to grow. Maybe it was the absence of aliens and the constant depletion of their numbers, or maybe it was just the nature of these fighting men, Marked candidates, that had fostered and solidified the closeness of what remained of Class 13-47. Whatever the reason, Tommy could feel it like never before, a we’re-all-in-this-together kind of philosophy, even though it had been made abundantly clear that the Phase V test, like all test, would be done alone.

  Once in the field under helpful supervision, he and the other non-ground-force guys had quickly adapted to operating in the lightly armored, fully heated combat suits, which included a piton blaster, used along with a handful of specialized equipment for scaling the giant cliff faces.

  The piton blaster was a small, lightweight, pistol-type device used to shoot pitons loaded with prethreaded spiderwire into even the hardest of surfaces, like the smooth, towering, frozen mountains of Luna–tae. Once the piton had been imbedded, the climber, through his or her integrated suit harness, was automatically attached to the cliff, although it had taken a good deal of time for Tommy to get used to hanging thousands of feet off the ground, suspended only by the thin wire. But Eldger had been reassuring. “Even a shuttle could be dangled from a single piece of the black spiderwire without fear of it breaking,” he said, something for Tommy to ponder while suspended from the copper-colored featureless cliff face next to Gary and Sloan.

  “It’s not the fall that will kill ya.” Gary’s voice was clear over Tommy’s helmet.

  Tommy, suspended in a kind of harness cradle that he had woven into place with spiderwire, was busy using his tongue in an effort to corral the straw next to his mic. He needed something to eat, and for now a nutrient-enhanced liquid dinner would have to do.

  “It’s the quick stop at the bottom,” Gary continued. He too had rigged a harness and was secured for the night.

  Tommy could hear Sloan’s laughter, positional cues in his helmet’s comm system directing his gaze toward his friend’s relative location. “You better button up, Steel,” Tommy said, looking up at Sloan.

  Sloan, like all the others, had settled into his sling, but unlike most his faceplate was open, white clouds of freezing breath bellowing out as he hurriedly shoveled meat wafers into his mouth.

  The air, even at these altitudes, was quite breathable, but opening one’s faceplate to the subzero temperatures invited disaster. It wouldn’t take long for the frigid air to overwork a suit’s environmental control system, or at the very least drastically reduce the life of the battery pack. Sloan finished stuffing the last of the wafer into his mouth and slapped at his helmet’s latching device, which lowered and sealed his frozen faceplate.

  Tommy breathed a sigh of relief. They had been told stories of frozen faceplates that refused to close, or if they did close, would refuse to seal. Either case would result in the same tragic ending—freezing to death! Perched here, thousands of feet above the glacier, God only knew how far from Calder, Sloan would have surely frozen to death and for what? A meat wafer! And I bet it was frozen at that, thought Tommy, although he knew that it wasn’t about the wafer. Sloan was always pushing at the edge, always testing himself. That being said, a meat wafer, even a frozen one, sounded pretty good after two days of nothing but purple goo.

  “That was delicious,” Sloan said, making sure all could hear his chewing.

  Tommy could not see his broad grin through the as-yet-unfrosted faceplate, but he knew it was there.

  “Guys, go to preset Alpha,” Sloan continued.

  Alpha was a private communication channel the three had come up with before their first deployment. It would allow them to chat privately.

  “How’s it hanging, Gary?” Sloan asked once they had all switched over.

  “Funny, Steel, I didn’t think Imps had a sense of humor,” Gary jabbed.

  Tommy wished he could have seen Sloan’s reaction. Both he and Gary had noticed that Sloan had started growing his hair out, but neither had wanted to comment.

  “So you guys did notice,” Sloan said and then paused. “I’m beginning to like the look. Besides,
it was time for a change.”

  “You mean time to look Human,” Gary replied.

  “Maybe you’re right, Cruiser,” Sloan said.

  It was one of the few times Tommy could remember Sloan being serious. Maybe it was the fact that they were having a conversation while dangling from a ledge, suspended almost a mile over a frozen alien planet, he thought as he watched the last blades of light dance over and illuminate the copper-colored peaks before silently slipping out of sight.

  “Hey, have you guys noticed how the staff have started avoiding us?” Gary asked.

  It wasn’t that the staff were mean or abusive. It was just, well, they were strictly forbidden to talk about the last trial. Plus it just didn’t seem like they wanted to get too close. After all, Class 13-47 still had a ways to go before, or if ever, getting their Marks.

  After a long couple of silent minutes, Sloan spoke up. “I hear the last test isn’t that bad.”

  Tommy and Gary said nothing.

  “I knew a guy at the Q,” Sloan added quietly, although only they could hear, “He dropped during the fourth phase.”

  “Have any useful information about the last test?” Gary asked eagerly, speaking softly as well.

  “Not much, but he did say it was all about the mountain training,” Sloan continued.

  Gary adjusted his position, trying to get comfortable in his sling. “Come on, Sloan, I think we already figured that much out.”

  “And we know it happens on world,” Tommy added.

  “Okay,” Sloan spoke up. “He also said you better understand the max range of the piton blaster.”

  “Piton blaster,” Gary mused.