Tommy Thorn Marked

by D. E. Kinney

  What did he mean by that? Tommy knew the thing had a decent range, but at most he had been only a few feet away from the rock when he had used it.

  “Piton blaster range,” Tommy said, his face scrunching up. “What the heck does that have to do with anything?”

  “Do you think we’ll have to use it as a weapon?” Gary asked.

  There were, after all, a number of very dangerous predators living in and around these mountains.

  “Don’t know, wouldn’t give any more details,” Sloan said.

  “So?” Tommy asked.

  “So what?” Sloan asked in between gulps of the purple stuff.

  “So, what’s the range?” both Tommy and Gary shouted in unison.

  “It’s about fifty feet, depending on the angle and the rock you’re trying to penetrate,” Sloan casually responded.

  Tommy, for a moment, forgot that he was talking into a helmet mic—completely isolated from his friends.

  “Fifty feet,” Gary said. “I would have never guessed.”

  “Tested it myself,” Sloan added.

  “Say,” Tommy asked, “If he dropped, how does he know about Phase V?”

  “He had a good friend that made it, didn’t think it would hurt to tell him. I guess he was trying to make him feel better—like the guy had done the right thing,” Sloan said.

  “Was your friend a loser or what?” Gary asked.

  “Did he say why he dropped?” Tommy added quickly.

  Sloan hesitated. “This guy is no loser, Cruiser. He was one of the best warriors I ever fought with. I mean, this guy is tough—and smart as a whip.”

  Tommy knew this had to be true, or he would not have been invited to join.

  Sloan continued, “After getting through the third phase, it was the Grinder that got him.” He paused. “He said trying to be Marked just wasn’t worth dying for…”

  “The Pipe,” Tommy said, not really meaning to say it out loud.

  “Took a lot of guts to admit that, I guess,” Gary said, looking up at Tommy’s back, partially covered by the harness. He and Tommy had spoken candidly about their time in the little tube on several occasions.

  But Tommy knew, as they all most certainly did, quitting would be a tough thing to bear. Courage or just stupidity—risk death for what? Why? These questions had to answered almost daily. For some, the answer was: No, this is just not worth the risk. Tommy, naturally, had given this a great deal of thought. There is no greatness without risk; everyone dies.

  Minutes passed. The three, now hanging in total darkness, could hear the howls of giant glacier wolves from somewhere far below.

  “Hey, Tommy,” Gary finally spoke up.

  “Yeah, Cruise.”

  “Why were you late getting on the shuttle the day we left the Renegade?”

  Tommy took a while to answer, thinking how strange it was that Gary had not mentioned it until now.

  “I just wasn’t sure if I was ready for the change. I liked being a fighter pilot, commanding a squadron, and I had doubts about any organization that restricted membership based on race, even if it was the Human race.” Tommy paused. “I like being the son of Remus, guys—and a citizen of Tarchein.”

  It was suddenly very peaceful there in his suit, the gentle whirl of the integrated fans, the sound of his easy breathing.

  “Being a member of the Mark won’t affect that, Tommy,” Gary said.

  Sloan tightened his lips behind his now-clear faceplate and even though he was pretty sure things would, in fact, be very different, said nothing.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right, it’s just—”

  “What made you finally decide to come along then?” Gary interrupted.

  “You guys,” Tommy responded quickly. “I didn’t want to be left behind.”

  Tommy knew that wasn’t the only reason, but it was partially true.

  “I knew it,” Gary said with a dry laugh.

  “Right, I just think you wanted to make sure you always had somebody around that could save your ass,” Sloan added, then laughed.

  Tommy yawned. “Guess you’re right, Sloan.”

  “Hold me, Steel.” Gary raised his voice and did his best impression of a female swoon.

  Tommy smiled behind his faceplate, changed his comm channel back to standard, and as large flakes of snow started to fall, adjusted his suit temperature and drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Maco

  Captain Maco had been in an unconscious state for almost three months while the best surgeons in the Empire worked to save his life—apparently successfully as the young Tarchein finally stirred and opened his remaining eye.

  He did not know how he got here, did not even know where here was. The last thing he remembered was being in the cockpit of his Starbird. He was chasing—no, his squadron was pursuing something, a ship. Must destroy this ship! But then… By the Empress, it’s huge! Must get away. But there was a T-dart suddenly filling up his canopy. We’re going to collide! Stupid Human! The last dreadful image caused him to jerk upright, only to bounce off a thin, curved acrylic lid just inches over his head. His was confined inside some kind of tube, and why could he only see out of one eye? Panic began to grow in his belly, when suddenly he saw his father’s face, General Ethos.

  “Lie still, son,” the general said in a soothing tone. “You were in an accident. Do you remember?”

  Maco looked up, his one good eye and mouth the only part of his face not covered in bandages, and nodded.

  “Good,” the general continued. “You were badly hurt, but you’re going to be fine.”

  “How long?” Maco asked, realizing for the first time that his arms were restrained.

  “You’ve been here for almost three standard months, son,” the general said, ignoring his movements within the biotube.

  “When can I get out of this thing?” Maco asked, still twisting his hand against the restraints.

  “Soon, but you need to rest and recover,” Ethos said and turned away for a moment, unable to look into what was left of his son’s face—now full of the terrible revelation.

  He did not have a left arm; at least there was nothing below the elbow. And my left eye?

  “The eye is gone too, Maco.” The general answered, though Maco had said nothing.

  They were both silent for long moments before Ethos answered another unspoken question. “Your time as a pilot is at an end. You’ll never fly fighters again.”

  Maco’s bloodshot eye blazed with hatred. “A Human slammed into me, didn’t he, Father?”

  The general nodded.

  A filthy Herfer flying a T-dart, I remember now. We were ordered to bring down this alien ship. It was cloaked, but a Princess was giving us vectors.” Maco paused to cough and catch his breath.

  “Take it easy, son,” Ethos said.

  “The thing was huge, sir, the biggest ship I’ve ever seen, but it was too late, and we broke off.” Maco’s eye searched the ceiling of the medical facility as if looking for something. “But the Herfer in the T-dart panicked.” Maco’s lip curled.

  “I know, son, we reviewed the data. The Human pilot was killed in the collision. There was nothing you could have done,” Ethos added.

  Maco clenched and unclenched his one good hand. “Damn Herfers,” he said quietly.

  The general waited before he spoke. “You’ll get a new arm, Maco, and a prosthetic eye. It’ll take some getting used to, but—“

  “I don’t want a new eye!” Maco yelled. “I want to remember what the Humans have done—I want vengeance!”

  Again Ethos nodded. “The Star Force might be able to help.”

  Maco focused his lone eye on the general.

  “As soon as you’re recovered, we want you to drive a mag.”

  “A mag pilot…” Maco seemed confused.

  “I’ve had you assigned to the Terrain circuit,” Ethos said. “And you’ll be promoted to major.” He had hoped this news would cheer up his son, but
his stare remained unchanged. “Many die on the mag tracks, Major, and the Terrain circuit is full of Humans,” Ethos added.

  This bit of insight did little to brighten his son’s mood. “Just wish Cruise or Thorn raced mags,” Maco said, more as an afterthought than a request.

  But the general, who had never lost his hatred for Gary or for Remus, was already working on a plan. “Leave that to me, Major—leave that to me.”

  On 6940-13-27 at approximately 2232.47 local standard, mishap spacecraft A, (MS-A), an SF-104 Starbird, assigned to the 606th Fighter Squadron, 32nd Fighter Wing, 12th Battle Group aboard the super battle cruiser Valiant, in operations conducted in the Trebula system, near Drake, collide with mishap spacecraft B, (MS-B), an SF-101T Dart, assigned to the 17th Fighter Squadron, 32nd Fighter Wing, 12th Battle Group, also aboard the Valiant. Both pilots successfully activated their escape pods, resulting with the Tarchein pilot, in SM-A, being critically injured, while the Human pilot, in SM-B, was killed as a result of her pod’s uncontrolled entry into the Drake atmosphere.

  The mission, to seek and destroy an alien spacecraft of unknown origin, under the conduct and direction of Princess Deric was briefed and excruciated as a strike package consisting of 30 tactical spacecraft supported by two Titan Class fast missile frigates. Of these 30 Tac assets, the pilot of SM-A was assigned as the number five, second division leader, and the pilot of SM-B was slotted as number eight in the formation of eight T-darts.

  Cockpit data and eyewitness accounts confirm that when the ‘CLASSIFIED’ alien spacecraft materialized within close range of the strike package, the pilot of SM-B reacted in a manner not consistent with Star Force protocol. To which she executed an immediate, unannounced rapid pitch up, accompanied by 90 degree hard right turn; the result of which was a catastrophic collision with SM-A.

  The convening board of admirals found clear and compelling evidence that the cause of the mishap was a direct result of a decision making error by that of the Human flying SM-B. The pilot of SM-B’s erratic change in position, coupled with the limitations of the strike package’s attack formation, did not give the Tarchein pilot of SM-A ample opportunity to take evasive action.

  The board also found a preponderance of evidence that showed the Tarchein pilot of SM-A’s single minded pursuit of the missions objectives and total disregard for personal safety were in the highest traditions of the Star Force.

  - Star Force Accident Report Summary -

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A Leap of Faith

  Tommy continued watching the landing pads long after the transport shuttle carrying Class 13-50 headed off world. Phase III, guys, he thought, looking down and across the frozen gray-white courtyard. His view partially obscured by heavy snowfall, Tommy could still make out the ground crew, busy with the prelaunch prep on the ship his class would be using. The spotless dark blue craft’s reflection was visible on a thin film of water that formed as the snow melted on the heated duracreate surface.

  “Guess we better hit it,” Gary said, picking up a small duffel and tapping Tommy’s hatch release.

  Tommy continued to stare. The birds were back, and he suddenly missed the freedom of flying—he was after all a fighter pilot.

  “Tommy,” Gary said, holding the hatch open. “We better get to the pads.”

  Tommy nodded, picked up his duffel, took another last look around the room, and headed after Gary. No turning back. The thought working its way back into his mind.

  The eleven remaining students, and their leads had flown to the staging shack, pretty much in silence—a trend that would continue as their ship made its final approach into the isolated briefing and prep facility. Tommy had hoped to do a little recon of the area on the way in, but the unusually steep approach, coupled with the limited visibility had not afforded much of a look. He did, however, even with a quick glance, glean enough information to make an assessment. If this place isn’t in the exact middle of nowhere…well, one could surely see it from here, Tommy thought.

  The shack, located on an obscure glacier thousands of miles from Calder, was actually three good-sized igloo-shaped structures connected by enclosed cylinder-shaped walkways. The white buildings, bearing bright orange markings, formed a kind of triangle, which encircled a pair of well-lit landing pads. Their high-intensity directional lighting cut through the gloom, and guided the shuttle’s commander to an uneventful, albeit, rather choppy touchdown. Kinda skittish, Tommy thought, imagining he could have done better, even in these high winds.

  The sound of D-drives spooling down quickly faded, replaced by the electronic hum of the ship’s electrical systems as Tommy stood, along with the others, and moved slowly into the boarding tunnel. He had hoped to see that the snowfall had subsided a bit, but no such luck. If anything, it was coming down harder, covering everything not heated in a thick white blanket. Why couldn’t it be a day like when we first arrived at Camp Calder, bright and clear, joyful? Surely the staff can’t predict bad weather, he thought.

  Once inside, the candidates were given a quick itinerary, then silently ushered to their quarters. It seemed strange, but no one spoke, just like on the shuttle—zero conversation, not from any of the crews working the shack, and not from the instructors as they led the way through narrow, brightly lit passageways, absolutely silent. Dead quiet, thought Tommy, immediately regretting the analogy as the hatch to his quarters slid closed. This is different, Tommy thought looking at the sparsely furnished, grey room, and had just collapsed on the bunk when the intercom let out a series of three whistles.

  “Welcome to the Shack,” Major Eldger’s voice boomed over hidden speakers. “Your graduation trial starts now. From this point on, there will be no further communication with your classmates. You will leave your quarters only for chow, and then only at assigned times.” There was a slight pause. “Your class has been divided into four groups. Each group will be shuttled to, and dropped off at, their individual starting coordinates, departing from the Alpha pad at twenty-four-hour intervals. All times have been loaded into your wristcomms. You will not be given your mission data or objective until two hours prior to your group’s launch. If you have questions or concerns, please contact your individual leads. The group assignments are as follows. Group one: Chopiak, Scott, and Thorn…”

  Tommy’s heart started to race, and he did not hear much else after that. He had assumed, or maybe hoped, that he would have a little more time. But maybe this is better, he thought. It was hard to imagine just waiting to go—nothing to do but think.

  “And Steel in group four,” Eldger finished up and paused. “That’s all for now—best of luck.”

  Tommy sat up, slid his fingers across the wristcomm, and began to absorb the newly loaded scheduling data. His heart rate was just beginning to return to normal when the intercom whistled.

  “Damn it!” Tommy wailed at the ceiling and jumped off his bunk.

  “Group one report to the ready room. Group one to the ready room.”

  Get a grip, Tommy boy, he thought, grabbing his duffel. It’s showtime…

  Nodding at Chopiak and Scott, Tommy found a console desk, the large, integrated data screen coming to life with his touch, and focused all of his attention on Major Eldger.

  “Your mission objective is being loaded into your comm’s,” Major Eldger said. The area behind him was covered with projected images of the training area. “Each of you has a unique route to the objective.”

  All eyes went immediately to their datascreen desktops, each one’s mission brief and track clearly displayed.

  “You have enough water and food supplements, if you conserve it, for five days,” he continued, “which, as it turns out, is kind of irrelevant as your battery pack will go inop in approximately thirty-eight standard hours. So eat and drink, because if you’re not at your objective in two days…” The major paused and looked at each individual. “You will surely freeze to death.”

  Tommy looked up at Eldger, thinking he would see a smile�
��but it was clear by his stern look that the major wasn’t joking.

  “You’ve got…” Major Eldger checked his comm. “Twenty-two minutes before prep needs to see you. Get it together, gentlemen.” He then walked to the exit before raising his right hand and flashing the sign of the Marked. “For those who stayed,” he said without smiling and left the room.

  Reading through the mission order, Tommy thought the objective seemed easy enough. Proceed to the designated location. Once safely inside, press the plunger. The target was a small igloo-shaped building, marked with a large orange X and sporting a hundred-foot beacon tower. Okay, he thought, and it’s twenty-two clicks from here. Wait, just twenty-two miles, can this be right? Even in this weather, I can be there before it gets dark, he thought before looking more closely at the terrain he would have to cover—and the elevation of the objective.

  He was still checking the distance readouts when the intercom whistled.

  “Group one report to prep. Group one to prep.”

  The announcement startled all three, but only Scott slammed his fist against the table. Tommy looked from Scott to Chopiak, who gave a worried shrug. The last eleven had gotten very close. Come on, Scotty—hang in there, buddy, Tommy thought, whishing he could say something.

  The announcement had been worded as an order, but they had all been reminded again at last night’s pretrial banquet. “Any time prior to exiting the shuttle, any candidate may opt out with absolutely no repercussions. But once your boot hits the ground—you are committed…”

  A wave of calm came over Tommy as he leaned back in the reclined prep-couch. It’s not too late, a small dark subconscious voice murmured. But Tommy knew differently. It had been too late as soon as he had boarded the shuttle back on the Renegade. He knew it even as he had said good-bye to Remus. The truth of which had delayed his ultimate decision. But I’m ready now for whatever might come. The revelation served to calm him even more.