Tommy Thorn Marked (17 page)

Things were happening fast now. The aft end of the massive cruiser was quickly filling up Tommy’s canopy.

“Watch your lineup, Two,” the controller said in a stern voice. “On speed, you’re drifting, stay on this line. You’re drifting! Steady, steady…

BAM!

The mag-track grabbed, and Tommy’s Lancer slowed from five hundred miles per hour to zero almost instantly. Inertia dampeners, set to full, eliminated the lethal effects of the generated negative G forces, but even so, Tommy found the experience of stopping so quickly to be a bit disorienting. The sight of those big, steel, pressure doors—just a heartbeat away from a violent collision.
This is going to take some getting used to
, Tommy thought.

“Welcome aboard, Saber Hawk Two. Proceed as directed into recovery tube Alpha.”

The controller’s voice helped bring Tommy back to practiced procedures, and he instinctively watched and waited as the outlining yellow lights on the outer pressure doors turned green before separating and sliding apart.

“Saber Hawk Two—copy.” Now composed, Tommy responded in his best fighter pilot tone before suddenly, and without any premeditation, he let out a wail of delight! And even though the sound was confined behind the clear visor and the sweat-soaked oxygen mask of his flight helmet, the instant release of tension felt wonderful as though that shout had freed a great weight from his shoulders.

He was back on a ship, a ship that he, Ensign Thomas Thorn, had landed on! Filled with elation, Tommy then looked right toward Bo’s Lancer and took a moment for a mutual celebration before pulling into the illuminated airlock. She, no doubt feeling the same rush, used her bright eyes in acknowledgement, the mask concealing a broad grin that he knew was there. Then, from behind her closed canopy, Bo held up four fingers, flattened them out, and made a backhand slashing motion across her helmet’s faceplate. Tommy nodded in response.
No sweat indeed,
he thought. Then, with the maneuvering mode of his Lancer engaged, he eased the stick forward and floated through the pressure doors just as Saber Hawk Six made his marker call for the Alpha tube.

The aircrew lounge onboard the Nova was, as usual during late-night cycles, loud and crowded. All officers were welcome, but the always-boisterous throng was usually regulated to strike crew students, pilots, engineers, weapon operators, and tactical navigators. Occasionally, a group of instructors would swagger in, but they never stayed for very long, fearing the combination of adult beverages mixed with the constant and often intimidating pressures of flight training might lead to an otherwise avoidable confrontation. And as for the ship’s company of staff officers, experience had taught even the most hardy that it was never a good idea to party with these over-exuberant student pilots, who lived every day as if it were their last. Sadly, for some it would be.

Tommy waited just inside the club’s hatch long enough for his eyes to adjust from the soft bright lights of the hallway to the dim multicolored illumination that, along with the rhythmic pounding of a sound system’s deep bass, now flooded his senses.

The room was large with a ten-foot ceiling, standard in all common areas. Three of the walls were covered with wide, brightly colored booths. The floor, with the exception of a square, wildly lit dance area, was filled with round tables, each adorned with a squadron patch. The remaining long main wall was almost completely covered with observation ports that extended from floor to ceiling. Most of the time these multipurpose viewing ports allowed for breathtaking panoramic cosmic scenes. However, with the ship currently traveling in hyperspace, resulting in an exterior view that resembled that of swirling milk, the panels had been set to display the rainforest of Pntel-five; the Nova’s next destination.

After scanning the room and fending off the aggressive coaxing of a Utema female tacnav student, Tommy was finally able to join Gary, Bo, and Mags at one of the corner booths. Their seats were so close to the viewport’s display of the dense green foliage that he could almost feel the moist air.

“Took you long enough,” Gary said, raising his voice a little to be heard over the music.

“Just wanted to make sure my stuff got delivered to the right cabin,” Tommy responded.

Gary nodded towards, Ensign Magnus. “Mags was giving us the scoop on Figgins.”

Tommy watched Bo politely turn down an offer to dance before giving Mags his full attention.

“Yeah, like I was saying, by the time we caught up with Fig—man, he was completely wiped out. Couldn’t even speak on the comm.”

Mags paused to look back at the alien leaning over the side of the booth trying to talk to Bo.

“She said no thanks, pal. Now get over it!” Gary said, adding a look designed to get the inebriated student’s full attention; the young ensign, getting the point, quietly disappeared into the mayhem.

Tommy watched the alien slink away, then turned to Bo. “Saving yourself for James?”

Bo blushed but said nothing.

Gary was getting annoyed with the distractions. “So…”

“Yeah, so Fig was all over the place, rolling, sliding up then reversing, but Vance was calm,” Magnus said, leaning in toward the middle of the booth to be heard.

“How did you stay with him?” Bo asked.

“I didn’t,” Magnus responded. “Vance took the controls. You should see that guy fly!”

Vance was Tommy’s primary instructor, and as such had seen him handle the controls of a Lancer many times; he needed no convincing of the commander’s skill as a pilot.

“So what happened? Is Figgins all right?” Tommy asked and punched a drink order into the booth’s integrated pad.

“He’s good. Well, what I mean is, Vance talked him back to the Nova.”

“You mean Fig regrouped enough to take a track?” Bo asked.

“Goodness no, Mags replied. “You should have seen his approach.”

The group looked puzzled.

“He rode a beam,” Mags interjected.

The three nodded in understanding.

“Pulled him right down to one of the shuttle pads,” Mags continued.

“Not a good way for a fighter jock to come aboard,” Bo commented, the others agreeing with nods.

Each battle cruiser, even older ones like the Nova, had at least a couple of shuttle pads located topside. A standard low-power tractor beam locked on and pulled the shuttle onto a pad, which then descended into an airlock and finally the hanger bay. As was the case with Figgins, the system could be used for disabled or damaged tactical craft. Still, the fastest way to get a squadron back aboard was the magnetic recovery system.

A hoverbot brought Tommy his drink and quickly departed, floating across the dance floor, taking an occasional hit from a well-aimed empty tube or wade of trash—no doubt the result of a bet between a pair of future weapon systems operators.

Tommy smiled at the controlled chaos, took a long drink and was about to speak, when Figgins showed up by his side.

“Sorry about today, guys,” Figgins said sheepishly, half spent e-stick dangling from his mouth.

“No sweat,” Gary said and slid over to give Figgins some room. “Sit.”

Figgins tried to smile, took the e-stick from his mouth, and said, “No thanks, Gary. I think I’ll get some chow and turn in.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Bo said. “We’ll be in orbit around Pntel tomorrow, and I hear they’re really going to wring us out.”

Figgins took one last long drag on the e-stick before pinching it off and throwing it into a tray on the table. “Not for me,” he said. “I’ve been transferred to transport shuttles.”

All three looked on, not sure what to say. Shuttle pilots were selected after only two months in a Firefly. The powers that be figured that was long enough to determine if a student had the right stuff to fly strike. Not that there was anything wrong with flying shuttles; you were, after all, still a fleet pilot. But the thing was, Figgins had worked long and hard to fly strike, and just like that, it was over.

“Man, that’s tough, Figs,” Gary finally said.

“It could have been worse,” Figgins said. “If it wasn’t for Vance and his impassioned plea, I would have been dropped from flying status all together.”

Tommy’s admiration for Commander Vance continued to grow even as he nodded towards his dejected friend; waiting for him to finish speaking.

“You should have—”

“Well, if it isn’t the Wildman,” Maco interrupted Figgins.

“Keep moving, Maco,” Gary said. His eyes blazed with hatred for the Tarchein.

Maco returned the gaze. “Just wanted to say how glad I was this freak wasn’t flying my wing.”

“That’s enough, Maco,” Tommy said as Gary stood.

“Maybe it’s time we settled this, Maco—man to mongrel.” Gary’s lip curled and his fist clenched.

Figgins stepped in between the two. “It’s all right, Cruiser, and besides he’s right—I lost it.”

Maco took this opportunity to walk away, but not before he took one more parting shot. “Could be worse, Figgins. Besides being a coward, you might have also been a Human.”

Figgins, who was not quite as tall as the Martian but much heavier, pushed against Gary’s chest. “It’s over, Cruiser. Let it go.”

Figgins turned to leave, but then paused and looking back, sighed. “It’s all over, my friend.” Then he made his way through the crowd and out of the club.

Almost a year later, Tommy heard that Figgins, after receiving his wings, had been assigned to Sunga Station, an obscure orbiting refining facility located in the desolate fringes of the Empire. There he shuttled miners, parts, and supplies to and from a volcanic smoke-covered planet three times a day. Tommy remembered thinking, upon hearing the news, that at least Figgins was still flying, but Tommy didn’t really believe that to be true—not for a moment.

Gary stood, trying to get a tally on a drink he had ordered some time ago, when he noticed a pair of hooded officers standing at the bar.

“Hey, Tommy, check it out,” Gary said while pointing toward the two men.

Tommy turned, still holding his drink. “What about them?”

Gary sat back down and leaned in toward Tommy. “I think they’re Marked.”

Tommy, Mags, and Bo said nothing.

“You know…”

Gary suddenly stopped talking as the club grew ghostly quiet.

“You Marked think you’re so bad. Well I got news for ya—you’re still nothing but stinking Humans,” the taller of a pair of Tarchein ensigns said, poking one of the men in the back.

Neither Human bothered to turn towards the direction of the insult.

“You two Herfers too good to talk to us?” the second Tarchein ensign asked.

With that, one of the men slowly turned, removed his hood, and tossed back the cloak to reveal a dark blue uniform, which included a low-slung sidearm attached to his right thigh.

“You’ve had too much to drink, ensign,” the Marked lieutenant calmly said. “Why don’t you call it a night?”

“Why don’t you Humans know your place?” the ensign asked, pushing a finger into the Marked patch on the lieutenant’s shoulder.

The lieutenant smiled, then deliberately moved his left hand up to the Tarchein’s right wrist, wrenching it away and down. He held it for a moment, looking into the Tarchein’s now-wide eyes, then, with lightning quickness, slammed his right elbow into the ensign’s left earhole. The young Tarchein officer went limp, then crashed to the floor, unconscious, but before his body had stopped twitching, the lieutenant had turned, grabbed the Tarchein’s friend by the throat, and was slowly pulling him up onto his tiptoes.

“Take your friend to his quarters, and we’ll forget all about this little incident, ensign,” the lieutenant said.

The Tarchein, who could only move his eyes, looked nervously from his friend to the Marked officer. “Ye—yes, sir.” His voice was just barely audible through his pinched windpipe.

By now, the other cloaked officer, drink finished, casually turned to look at the clearly terrified ensign before nodding toward his Marked companion. He said nothing as he started for the exit.

Satisfied, the lieutenant released the Tarchein. “And tell your friend the next time he lays hands on an officer of the Marked, he may not be quite so lucky,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” the ensign said, bending down to revive his friend.

Tommy and his friends, now thoroughly stunned, looked on as, after one more disapproving look, the lieutenant stepped over the body of the Tarchein en route to join his companion, the sound of the Marked officer’s sidearm going to safe mode could be heard over the now-quieted crowd, even though none had seen him arm the weapon. Once at the club’s hatch, the two men briefly exchanged smiles, raised their hoods, and exited the club.

“Geez, those guys were armed!” Bo exclaimed.

“You bet your ass they’re armed,” Gary said, watching the two men depart the club. “They’re Marked…”

Twenty-five years after Earth’s inclusion into the Empire, Humans were in some cases forced to serve. Others, in search of citizenship and/or adventure, were allowed to enlist into the Star Force, most becoming infantry members of the Warrior Corps. In the year 6768, during the first colonial wars, a regiment in Bravo Company of the First Corps, Third Brigade was ordered to hold a landing zone during the orderly withdrawal of surrounded units. This regiment, except for their commander, was made up entirely of Humans, many of which felt this rear guard was a suicide mission, hence their assignment. But in the mounting chaos of the withdrawal, the regiment managed to hold their ground, repelling several vicious assaults before many of their number broke ranks and ran for extraction vehicles—though some stayed! The Tarchein commander, wanting to identify the brave few that remained, used blood from the fallen to mark the full-pressure helmets that otherwise obscured their identity. The courage of those few that stayed won the day. Not only did the unit hold, but the Human regiment turned the battle, allowing the Corps to eventually rout the enemies of the Empire. These few Humans, the ones with blood hastily smeared across their visor covers, became the first members in an elite fighting force known as the Marked—the ones who stayed!