Tommy Thorn Marked

by D. E. Kinney

  “Control checks complete,” Roat said, his computer-generated voice bringing Tommy back to the present as the wing panels quietly slid back into a stowed position along the fuselage.

  “Hey, Cruiser, you all set?” Tommy asked, looking over at Gary’s fighter.

  “As always, waiting on you, boss.” Gary was already staring at Tommy, faceplate open, smug grin clearly visible.

  Smiling, Tommy tapped his helmet, lowering his faceplate, closed the fighter’s canopy and keyed the mic. “All right, hot shot, let's see if you can earn some of those fight credits,” he transmitted before switching channels. “Lion Lead—Control, two for taxi and launch,” Tommy said as the chief saluted and moved clear, e-stick back in his mouth.

  Tommy smiled through the faceplate, snapped up the Starbird’s gear, and guided the fighter out of its parking stall.

  “Lion Flight of two, from Control—cleared taxi launch tubes three and four.”

  Gary coaxed his fighter into a position behind Tommy as they hovered toward their assigned launch tubes. Heads turned to watch the two beautifully painted and maintained fighters glide by—Lions of the Mark.

  “Lion Flight of two, cleared for immediate launch. Contact…”

  The latest state-of-the-art weapon system developments have incorporated what is widely believed to be the most sophisticated reactive logic modules in the galaxy. An example would include the latest iteration of advanced synthetic intelligence, or ASI, which was developed and integrated into Star Force’s newest fighter, the SF-104A Starbird. Of course, intelligent onboard systems, designed to reduce and/or elevate crew performance, do not rate as cutting-edge technology. Control units, in one form or another, have been in service for hundreds of standard years. The ASI, however, is something new and quite extraordinary.

  It was designed originally by Dr. Roatten, a renowned Tarchein cyberneticist, in an effort to meet an Imperial mandate of creating a robotic fighting force. Roatten discovered that the real strength of his synthetic brainchild was in a symbiotic relationship with some form of a naturally occurring intelligence. The Roat, as the ASI is commonly called, actually embodies the vehicle that it is integrated into. It feels, using a natural term, problems within its perceived body—or in the above example, Roat becomes a Starbird, fully capable of exchanging and evaluating information from other equally equipped systems. A Roat learns, even developing a unique personality of sorts.

  Early examples of Roatten’s work include the autonomous operation of the UTF-506 Blister, which many believe to be superior to Tarcheinoid-manned weapon systems. However, Dr. Roatten found and documented cases where Blisters refused to press a dangerous situation if, in their analysis, the outcome had a high probability of failure. Furthermore, this variable proved to be inconstant during evaluations of several UTF-506’s when placed in identical circumstances. Leaving the good doctor to conclude that ASI-developed personalities invariably morph into personal awareness, which fosters a real sense of self-preservation. “In short,” said Dr. Roatten, “they become fearful…”

  - Excerpt from Star Force Tech -

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Time to Choose

  Once clear of the Vanguard and still well above Titan’s thick orange atmosphere, Tommy and Gary effortlessly rendezvoused with the slower Scats, giving Tommy a moment to admire the beauty of Saturn. “Been a while, beautiful,” he said to himself, while configuring his Starbird for atmospheric flight. The sight of the ringed planet brought to mind thoughts of the escape pod, Remus, and his mother and father.

  “Coming up on the entry point, Mr. Thorn,” Roat announced.

  Happy to refocus, Tommy inspected the entry track now being projected on his faceplate and keyed his mic. “Lion Lead to Strike, make all preparations for penetration.”

  “Scat Lead copy,” said the senior Scat pilot, the same pilot who, a short time ago, had Tommy’s blaster pushed against his midsection.

  Huh, Tommy thought. He was impressed with the Vantek’s professionalism in getting the assault ships up and to the rendezvous on time. Flying in space was a dangerous business, and he admired all who could do that well.

  “Forward shields now at maximum, Commander,” Roat reported.

  That was the first time Roat had called him commander, reminding Tommy of the efficiency of the onboard computers and their interface with the Vanguard’s main systems, including, it would seem, admin.

  “Cruiser—you set?” Tommy asked.

  “Shields at max, penetration configuration complete—all set, Lead,” Gary responded.

  “Lion Lead to Strike, commence your push,” Tommy commanded and eased his control stick ever so slightly forward, plunging the big fighter into Titan’s dense white-orange atmosphere.

  The moon’s low gravity made the entry a fairly straightforward affair. In fact, if had it not been for the cloud cover, it might have been an altogether pleasant experience just to plunge straight in at high-speed. But as the formation approached 95,000 feet, Tommy, once again, keyed the mic. “Gary, stand by for level off and checks,” he announced and then adjusted his inertial dampers to eighty percent.

  “Sir, I do wish that you would keep the—”

  Tommy cut off Roat before he could finish. “Roat, we’ve had the discussion.”

  “Yes, sir, but I really must…”

  Tommy liked to feel the fighter, just a little, and he had found that eighty percent was the right amount of feedback without jeopardizing his ability to handle the forces associated with fighting starships. Of course, Roat did not agree.

  “It is for these reasons that I again request, in the strongest—”

  “Roat, spread the wing panels and engage the maneuvering stabs,” Tommy said, interrupting the computer.

  “Yes, sir,” Roat responded. “Wing panels and stableators deployed.”

  Tommy could actually detect a hint of exasperation. Amazing, he thought.

  “Give me auto extend on the stabs, Roat,” Tommy added, keeping the fighter precisely aligned on the projected course, Roat calling out altitudes and stableator sweep angles.

  Steven, still breathless from his dash to the fighter, had just squeezed his helmet down over the thick skullcap and audio gear, when Major Gill’s head popped up over the canopy rail.

  “You all set, Sandman?” the major shouted over the blaring scramble alert horn.

  Lieutenant Steven Sanders, or Sandman, was just nineteen. He had received his wings through Earth’s PDF commissioning program, and had been recently recruited to fly for the Sons of Freedom. This was, in fact, his first combat mission, and Lance Gill had grave concerns about the lad’s preparedness.

  As usual, Steve flashed an eager smile. “You bet, sir. I’ve been ready.”

  Gill smiled back. The kid’s got spunk, he thought. Just wish we had more time.

  “Pilots to their ships—alert, pilots to their ships,” the hanger deck’s control commanded and then silenced the horn.

  Gill glanced over toward his crew chief, who was growing impatient, and held up two fingers. “Okay, kid, now I want you to stick with me. These are Star Force pilots. They’re good.”

  Steve nodded. He remembered some of the talented Star Force guys from his days at the Slate, but he remained focused on hitting switches, anxious to get his Shadowbat’s engine started.

  The major waited, finally getting the boy’s full attention. “They’re good, Steve. If we get separated, just hightail it…”

  “Sir?” Steve asked.

  “You heard me—get low, get back into the canyon, shut down, just go cold,” Gill continued.

  “I hear you, sir, but, I’m a gunslinger, Major—you know that,” Steve said with his normal cocky smile.

  “Okay, Sandman, but remember—no matter what, they cannot be allowed to discover the location of this base,” Gill said, putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

  “Got it, sir, you can count on me,” Steve replied.

  Major Gill nodded. “Okay, le
t’s go get ’em,” he said and started down the ladder.

  Steve had done most of his flying to date in an SF-101J Dart, or J-dart, the primary fighter for Earth’s PDF. It was an older design, mostly phased out of Star Force squadrons in favor of the more advanced T-dart, but in many ways still superior to the aging Shadowbat he now sat in.

  “You’re clear for engine start, Lieutenant,” Steve’s chief said, his voice sounding scratchy over the Jayram-supplied comm.

  Steve tapped the engine start sequencer for a second time, and for a second time got the same results.

  “There is insufficient power reserve for initiation of the…” the Shadowbat’s computer droned on.

  “Chief, the—” Steve started, but the chief was up at his side, directing a swarm of outdated looking mechbots, before he could finish.

  “Hang on, kid, we’re changing out your power pack,” the chief said and scurried down the ladder.

  Gill, already in a hover, looked on, secretly hoping they wouldn’t get his number four fighter started, for the sake of the kid’s mom, and maybe for the sake of his own conscience. I’ll just tell him to abort, but how can you tell a fighter pilot, even a young one, to sit this one out? Better to die in the air than a little each day, knowing you didn’t do your part, he thought.

  At 42,000 feet, the strike package hit a layer of slightly increased visibility, where Tommy again leveled out the formation and let his bird slid back to the lead Scat. “Lion Lead to Scat Lead,” he said, looking through the Scat leader’s flat-sided angular canopy.

  “Scat Lead, go ahead, Commander.”

  The entire formation, streaking through the mist, was bobbing at bit in an effort to stay within visual contact. The flashing of red position lights, meant to aid in station keeping, surrounded now by an eerie orange glow, became mesmerizing—almost hypnotic.

  “We are over the rally point,“Tommy advised. “You boys stay put while we do a sweep of the area.”

  “Copy,” the Vantek pilot responded and led the assault ships into a tight left-hand level turn, setting up his orbit.

  “Okay, Cruiser, let’s do some of that fighter pilot stuff—pushing up to three point seven,” Tommy said, slamming the throttles forward, increasing his speed, and pulling the fighter hard over into an inverted dive.

  “Three point seven—roger,” Gary acknowledged and rolled inverted, watching Tommy through the top of his canopy.

  At four thousand feet, Tommy finally broke through the thick clouds and, dragging long orange trails of vapor, snapped his fighter upright to stay in the more manageable haze present at this altitude.

  Gary pulled hard to stay with Tommy, his stabs twitching as he tightened up the formation.

  “Keep your scans on low band, Cruiser,” Tommy advised, moving sensor data to his faceplate’s readout. “Roat, I've got nothing. You feeling anything?”

  “Lots of signals—passive looks from Seaside, but no hostile scans,” Roat replied.

  “Roger that, Roat, keep listening, but nothing active,” Tommy said, concern evident in his tone.

  “Copy, nothing active,” Roat said, then added, “Seaside Commander.”

  Tommy, banking hard left, took a long look at the dazzling beauty of the brightly lit, isolated Titan colony of Seaside. “We’re at the checkpoint, Cruiser.”

  Seaside, one of the first colonies established by the Tarchein, was located on the coast of a large methane sea. It consisted of five agricultural spheres, each twenty miles in diameter, all connected to a central hub or cityscape of clustered, soaring, sculptured airtight buildings.

  “Coming right now—to five one mark seven for the I.P.” Tommy announced and put the lights of Seaside behind them. A light on a hill, it’s nice to see humanity thriving in such a desolate place, Tommy thought.

  “Let’s push it, Cruiser,” Tommy continued.

  “Ready for the push,” Gary replied, readjusting his position in the EAM.

  Tommy could hear the smile in Gary’s voice as he rolled the Starbird over and pulled back on the control stick, descending at high speed, first inverted, then rolling upright, and diving toward the seemingly endless stretch of dunes below.

  “Initial point in seven, six…” Roat counted off.

  Tommy scanned a projected color map and course line now flashing a turn point symbol. “Stand by for the cut, Cruiser.”

  “Three, two, MARK!” Roat announced.

  Tommy, with Cruiser now slightly above and off his left wing panel, raked his bird into a ninety-degree right-hand turn and descended into a very deep and dark sharp-sided canyon.

  “Roat, give me the track,” Tommy commanded, eyes glued to his helmet’s displays. An updated three-dimensional track appeared on Tommy's faceplate as the two fighters screamed through the canyon, just wide enough for both birds. In fact, the narrow canyon forced Gary to slide up into a modified trail position as Tommy led them through a series of twisting, high-bank, high-speed turns.

  “Target at two point three miles. Negative on all scans—we are not being painted,” Roat advised.

  “Copy, Roat, better wake up the fins—just in case,” Tommy said, banking left then back hard right, wisps of nitrogen rolling off his control surfaces.

  Tommy yanked his bird back to the right, coming dangerously close to the rocky cliff, and keyed the mic. “Cruiser, start the music, but wait for my signal.”

  “Missiles are ready, all blaster ports charged and in the green…scans?” Roat asked.

  “Two’s hot—standing by,” Gary said and commanded more suit cooling. He was working hard to stay with Tommy.

  “Negative on scans, Roat,” Tommy cautioned Roat, then squeezed the throttle’s mic button. “Cruiser, keep your scans passive. I don't think they know we're here. Let’s not ring the bell.”

  “Roger that, Lead,” Gary replied.

  A large outcrop of shadowy, dark gray buildings started to take shape on the canyon wall.

  “We are over the target,” Roat calmly announced.

  Climbing up and out of the canyon, both Starbirds banked to the left and flashed by the structure, helmet readouts flashing as target designator symbols turned from a segmented circle to a locked diamond. The fleet’s target was a well-lit, thermal-control complex, consisting of a series of structures that extended down into the canyon wall as well as up on the flat, barren dune. The gray-colored main complex, positioned on the dunes, included a half-mile-diameter biodome, which, at the moment, was full of Human families relaxing and playing in the wooded setting.

  “For someone under attack, they sure look casual,” Gary said, taking a quick glance as the two streaked by the dome.

  Tommy slowed his fighter and rolled inverted just below the thick overcast in order to get a better view of the startled men, women, and children, now moving for the security of the main complex.

  Gary, now seeing the panicked commotion below, added, “What’s up with that?”

  “Not sure, Cruiser,” Tommy replied as the two ships entered the lower cloud level.

  Continuing to slow, both Tommy and Gary dropped back out of the clouds and cautiously came back around for another look. “Lion Lead to Scat Lead—report.”

  “Scat Lead, steady on station—negative contacts.” The Vantek pilot’s response came quickly.

  “Copy that, Scat Lead, we may have gotten dressed up for nothing. Looks like somebody called off the party. I don't see any signs of a Jayram attack,” Tommy offered.

  “Copy, we’ll stand by,” the Scat pilot reported, clearly disappointed.

  “Cruiser, find a perch and stay ready. I’m going to make another pass.”

  “Tommy, are you sure—”

  “Find some high ground, Lieutenant,” Tommy ordered.

  “Breaking off,” Gary bemoaned as his fighter pulled into a steep vertical climb, trailing vapor until out of sight.

  “Roat, go hot with a scan, find me something—and contact strike ops,” Tommy said as he rolled around and back in
to the canyon, but this time slowing into a controlled hover.

  “What’s up, Roat?” Tommy asked and swung the nose of his fighter to the left, bringing weapons to bear on the lower complex as Roat focused high-powered beams of light to help identify possible threats. The Starbird’s target acquisition sensors continued with a now-active search.

  “I’m still showing negative on all scans, no locks, no shields—nothing, Commander. The target is dark and cold,” Roat said.

  “Anything from ops?” Tommy’s helmet-mounted targeting information continued to jump from spot to spot on his faceplate as his fighter slowly drifted past the darkened lower complex.

  Roat hesitated…

  “Roat?” Tommy repeated.

  “I’m sorry, Commander, but contact with the ship is intermittent. Strange, but it appears that my long-range communication amplifier is malfunctioning,” Roat finally responded.

  “The communication amplifier, Roat?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m afraid so. I’ll keep trying,” Roat said.

  Saying “I told you so” to a computer just didn’t seem to feel right, but he did it anyway. “Seven percent, Roat.”

  Tommy got no response from his artificial crewman.

  Suddenly, deep within the canyon, several miles from the complex, a rock façade parted, activating a thick iron hanger door, which unsealed and rattled open, releasing shafts of red light and four Jayram Shadowbat fighters!

  “Sir, contact!” Roat shouted.

  Tommy did not hesitate, but kicked the left control for his vertical vane and went to full power! The Starbird rolled violently to the right, shooting up and out of the canyon, just as a pair of missiles impacted on the face of the lower complex.

  “Shadowbats—four of them, Delta class,” Roat calmly announced.