Tommy Thorn Marked

A piece of coal was given an audience with the Great One, wherein he was granted any request. “I want to be a diamond,” the soft black rock said. The Great One talked of the beauty inherent within the purpose of coal, in service and self-sacrifice to others in need of heat—“I wish to be a diamond,” the coal repeated. Very well, but do not seek from me mercy, when the pressure comes…

It was early spring when the Tarchein, (Tar Shun), arrived. The year was 6737-14 Tarchein Standard, or 1T-05 Modified Terran. They came without detection, well, at least undetected until it was far too late for the fragmented meager forces of Earth to in any way disrupt the imminent invasion, the foreshadowing of which had been the sudden appearance of a massive Imperial armada. Though in fairness, even if the nations of Earth had, for the moment, set aside their bickering in an effort to pool all of the planet’s resources and military might, it would have done little good. The fact was, that confronted with such an overwhelming technological advantage, except for isolated instances, the absorption of Earth into the Tarchein Empire had been a bloodless affair. One day, one normal sunny spring day, Earth was a jumbled mass of dialects, disjointed cultures, and warring factions—the next, well, the next day, the third planet in a somewhat isolated system located on the fringe of the galaxy was to be forever part of the Great Tarchein Empire. Annihilation through assimilation was an ages old art, and one in which the Tarchein excelled.

To soften the blow of a civilization lost, and perhaps, to bolster cooperation of another skittish race of savage aliens, the Tarchein had promised world peace and prosperity, an end to disease and hunger, and they had been true to their word. Gone were the hundreds of different languages, replaced with Tarchein-speak, the only recognized dialect of the Empire. Gone too, at least unofficially, was Earth’s history, replaced now with the accomplishments of the Tarchein, the rise to greatness, and their benevolent aid to the once-destitute Human race, including the expansion of Humans throughout the system.

And there was no denying the fact. In less than two hundred years, Earth had been transformed into the center of a controlled migration that included colonies on Mars, Titan, Europa, and Ganymede, as well as dozens of orbiting stations, plus mining and research facilities spread throughout the far reaches of the Terran system. Humans were free to move about within their system, but humanity had lost its right to self-determination, and every day the labor of Humans aided the Tarchein in the harvesting of the resources of Terran worlds, all while increasing the strength of the mighty Empire.

Nevertheless, it was into this world, in the autumn of 180T-09, that Edward and Kileen Thorn had applied, and had been given permission, to have a male child, an only child—Thomas Thorn.

Tired engines pushed the long, bulky, somewhat angular Star Force ore freighter silently through space at just a tick under 0.01C, or about seven million miles per hour. Every minute bringing the ship and its crew closer to the giant ringed planet of Saturn, where after some standard gravity braking, it would move on to its final destination—the methane harvesting facility on Titan.

The ship had been in a costly max burn for the better part of six days, the necessity of which had been dictated by an unusually tight schedule, one that forced a hasty departure from an ore-processing plant currently in a standard orbit around Earth’s moon.

“It’s going to make for a more expensive trip,” the freighter’s captain had complained.

But the tall, well-dressed Human had been most reassuring.
“
Additional credits will be transferred to your account upon the successful delivery of the cargo,” he had said, taking a long drag from his e-stick.

Satisfied, the Tarchein captain had gotten underway. A rather longer voyage, due to the non-optimum orbital position of their departure point, but for the most part it had been a routine turnaround for the Jolly Roger. The aging freighter’s name, applied decades earlier in large block letters, now faded along the scuffed light gray main cargo haul, was still just legible under the glare of white identification lights and flashing red exterior position strobes that bathed a significant portion of the massive ship.

“Mr. Thorn, please update and plot our vector for the braking maneuver,” the Tarchein captain said and turned his command chair to the left, making eye contact with his Human navigator.

“Aye, sir,” Edward Thorn responded without turning from a large, clear, curved screen, his fingers already dancing over and modifying the displayed symbols and images.

“Helm, slow to standard,” the captain continued.

“Slow to standard, aye,” the young Martian officer replied, not turning back to make eye contact with his captain, who was seated above and behind him.

It seemed early for such a maneuver, thought the helmsman. They were still four hours from braking, even at their current speed. But the Martian, on only his second cruise, was in no position for a rebuttal. Although to be honest, a hundred trips would never rate enough clout to even discuss, let alone question, the orders of a Tarchein commander.

“Braking vectors loaded and ready at the captain’s discretion,” Mr. Thorn offered.

Captain Yanz smiled, satisfied that all was, as usual, ready for their arrival, and leaned back in his well-worn command chair to survey the bridge. Not what he had expected as a young Star Force ensign. In those early days, fresh out of the Academy, he had dreamed of commanding an annihilator, a fast frigate, or even a battle cruiser, but that was long ago and not to be. In sharp contrast to the fleet’s state-of-the-art warships, the Roger’s dimly lit bridge had been cramped even when new. Now, with upgrades to navigation, propulsion, and engineering control stuffed willy-nilly, his command staff had been forced to adapt, many times having to crawl over newly installed equipment in order to wedge themselves into their aging command seats, all four of which were positioned behind sections of curved rectangular-shaped clear steel that wrapped the forward section of the Roger’s elevated bridge.

Control buttons and handles were faded from constant use, power fluctuated, lights—even annoying warning lights—flickered with enough regularity to be ignored, and it had been a full cycle since he had summoned the courage to spool up the hyperdrive.

Well no matter
, he thought.
I’ve got a fine crew, and we’ve all done our duty to the Empire
. Duty that was scheduled to terminate in just two standard weeks. Retirement, especially now with enough credits to enjoy it, brought an uncustomary smile to the Tarchein’s normally stoic face.

“I am detecting a single contact bearing zero two eight mark three two seven,” the ship’s computer voice announced abruptly.

The captain, already alerted by a shrill warning tone, began to speak before the female voice could complete its statement. “Identify.” The captain turned to his navigator and asked more than commanded.

Lieutenant Thorn made a quick console entry, and the bridge’s center screen, after a momentary flicker, displayed technical data and a large image of a Saber class light cruiser.

“Scan confirm, it’s Jayram, sir,” he said. “Proton torpedoes, twin plasma cannon, and six pairs of heavy turbo blasters. Plus it looks like—“

Yanz turned to his engineer and politely raised one hand. “I think we get the picture, Mr. Thorn. Open a beam and broadcast non-hostile codes on all bands,” the captain said and again turned his attention to the forward screen, now showing a real-time image of a tiny black speck. “Can you magnify, Mr. Kiel?”

“Affirmative, sir,” the helmsman said and punched up a magnification setting.

“Negative on comm, sir, no response on any band,” Thorn calmly stated. All eyes now focused on the warship coming into view.

“Are they receiving the beam, Mr. Thorn?” Yanz asked.

“Everything is operational on our end, sir,” Thorn had rotated his chair in order to look directly at the captain, who continued to stare at the warship.

“Shields,” the captain commanded.

“Shields, aye, sir,” Kileen Thorn responded quickly.

The captain turned to face his engineer, seated on his right. “Status?”

“We’re at seventy-two percent,” she said, and then added with a smile, “better than normal.”

Yanz nodded before turning again to the forward screen, his face bathed in the glow of the bridge’s instrumentation. He knew even 170 percent wouldn’t be nearly enough.