Tommy Thorn Marked (32 page)

As predicted, the Empire had its hands full with Vargus and the CFP. Plus, seeing the Vargus campaign as a weakness, several other systems had taken this opportunity to break free.

For many, this proved to be ill-advised…

The defensive technologies and strategies of Vargus were not well-known outside the CFP, at least not at the beginning of what was being called the Great Separatist War. Many planets paid dearly. Total destruction, especially for worlds not deemed particularly important either economically or strategically, was the order of the day. Laid to waste by the orbital bombardments of well-protected annihilators and gunners, the smoldering lifeless planets left as a solemn reminder to would-be defectors.

But Drake had, for the most part, weathered the early going of the war and now found itself embroiled in a drawn-out campaign of isolation and gradual attrition. The Empire could simply cut off and starve the system by employing blockades. This tactic was fairly easy to implement, based on the relative strength of Drake’s space force, and it put far fewer assets at risk. Assets that, at the moment, were sorely required elsewhere. It would not be long, postulated Star Force high command, before the people of Drake would themselves rise up against their government and demand reinstatement. It was only a matter of time, and time was something the Empire and Empress Darvona had in abundance.

“Con, Falcon—the third quad is clear,” Bo said and released a small button on her center mounted control grip.

It had taken little time for Bo to become thoroughly competent in the little Drake fighter.
But may the Great God help me if I ever have to take on the boys in this thing
, she thought, slapping at the outdated technology of her integrated panel.

“Falcon, Con—copy. Proceed to quad four. Con, out,” was a female Drake’s crackled response.

Every day it was the same, check the near space around Drake for Imperial recon drones or ship movements. It wasn’t dangerous, at least not yet. Star Force had scattered its ships out into relatively predictable deep space tracks. They would pounce on commercial traffic or Drake capital ships, but a lone fighter—it posed no threat and just wasn’t worth the trouble.

Bo tapped her throttles, adjusted the Vandal’s instrument scan range, and punched up a readout of Star Force vessels in this sector. There it was, just as the latest intel brief had stated—the Valiant.
What is a super cruiser doing here?
she wondered and forced herself into a heightened state of alertness.

“Contacts bearing two six ninner point three zero five and closing,” the Vandal’s computer squawked.

Bo fiddled with the center display, again cursing its intermittent operation, until she was able to ID the contacts. “Report,” Bo commanded.

“Contacts are twelve Starbirds, eight T-darts, ten Firestorms, and a pair of Titan Class fast missile frigates,” the computer reported.

Bo’s heart raced.
Might already be too late to run
, she thought, then instinctively rolled the fighter over and dove for the surface of Drake.
Lot of ships for a lone fighter
.
This doesn’t make any sense, or maybe this is the start of a ground campaign. So that’s why the Valiant is here,
she thought.

“Contacts now bearing three five zero point two three four.” Bo’s computer gave a position update.

They’re closing fast
, she thought and increased the Vandal’s dive angle. Her only hope was a high-speed plunge into the atmosphere, a tactic that just might scramble their fire-control sensors, at least long enough to get away. She slammed the throttles to full forward and let her gloved thumb tap a slender red-capped switch.

“Shields configured—forward coverage only.” The computer confirmed her action.

Starbirds and T-darts, there’s no way it could be…no, they’re still in Marked training, or…
She hated to think it.
Dead.
Bo pushed thoughts of her friends away as great sheets of flame flashed off the Vandal’s shields and curled away from the tiny angular canopy.

“Contacts now bearing three zero one point two five seven. Shields at forty-seven percent,” the outdated computer continued its methodical updates.

“Damn this thing,” she shouted into her oxygen mask and eased back on the dive angle, hoping to save her shield strength. Then she had a thought.
Two five seven
. She let the last position update settle in and did a quick calculation.
They’re going away
, she thought, making yet another manual adjustment to the large center display.

They were indeed chasing something, but it wasn’t her. And they weren’t headed for the surface. The sudden realization came as a relief, but what, or who, were they after?

Bo pulled out of her dive and pointed the Vandal’s nose toward the cluster of Imperial spacecraft, now moving along a parallel course.

“Contacts bearing three zero—“

Bo used a switch on her control stick to silence the computer, then pressed the comm button. “Con from Falcon—I’ve got contact with a strike force moving through quad four.”

“Roger Falcon, we’re tracking multiple enemy contacts—does not, at this time, appear to be an assault force,” Con replied.

“Copy,” Bo responded.
Starbirds, T-darts, and Firestorms—enemy spacecraft
. She would never get used to that.

Bo thought for a moment. She had adjusted her course to shadow the Imperial ships.
They’re chasing something…

“Con, Falcon—do you have any other near orbit contacts in this quad?” she asked.

There was a long pause. In fact, it was long enough that Bo was beginning to think her comm system had gone inop again, or maybe it was being jammed.

“Con, Falcon—comm check,” Bo said while checking the strength of her beam.

Silence…

“Damn!” she shouted and keyed the comm button again, but before she could speak a massive shape began to shimmer and then take form directly in her flight path.

She yanked the throttles aft and hit the thrusters while pulling back on the stick. “Come on, baby!” she yelled. “Move!”

But she never had a chance. The giant wedge-shaped ship, over a mile and a half mile wide, was far too close. The impact was sudden and violent.

Light
, she thought.
Bright blinding light!
And then her Vandal was shredded into strips of flaming debris.

Throughout the first four months of training, or Phase I, Tommy had learned to do things he had not thought possible. The demanding, completely immersive course of instruction, refined through constant practice, evaluations, and finally tests, had allowed him to achieve results that surpassed anything he could have previously imagined. Of course there was the normal physical training, both endurance and strength, including a battery of physical fitness evaluations and tests. These had proven to be challenging for even the most gifted of candidates, but at least these skills could be improved through hard work and self-discipline. Not so the techniques taught to focus one’s energy, increase quickness, and control emotions. Whether in the classroom or during the brutally competitive martial arts training.

“No wasted movement! Find your opponent’s weakness, then exploit it quickly. There are no style points in personal combat,” their instructor barked. His words reverberated with every blow and counter-blow.

Yes, Phase I, pushed all of the candidates to exceed what they had assumed to be natural limitations, especially when it came to some of the more unusual academic requirements, such as memorization techniques and intense mental disciplines, which included both physical and emotional control.

Tommy soon found that success in the area of emotional control was most often based on some sort of unseen genetic ability. For which, the Marked selection committee, aware of the inherent requirements, did their best to identify during the screening process. It seemed, however, that this was more of an art than a science. As a result, prior to the start of Phase II training, three members of Class 13-47 were encouraged to reevaluate their career goals. The result—all three voluntary dropped from the program; a decision that no doubt saved their lives, Major Eldger had told Tommy upon hearing the news.

And then there were TWENTY-ONE…

Phase II, in addition to the constant ongoing physical fitness and physiological control classes, introduced the candidates to advanced weapon training. It was on the weapon ranges, located under the warm green domes of Camp Calder, that the eager students learned to fire, assemble, disassemble, and clear every weapon in the Empire, including most of the weapons their enemies used.

It was also here that they were first introduced to, and became proficient with, the standard weapons of all who bore the Mark. These included the Sadler-Browning 203 handblaster and the Ki-blade.

No member of the Marked wore a uniform that did not include the Browning 203, reputed to be the most powerful handheld blaster in the galaxy. It was a wonderfully balanced precision weapon, which could be drawn and fired in the blink of an eye thanks to the holster’s imbedded auto quick-draw technology. And its high energy levels, coupled with a unique micro encapsulated splinter mass
,
gave the pistol unprecedented accuracy, range, and unlike the majority of blasters, a devastating punch.

The Ki-blade, on the other hand, was only worn with fighting suits, which included everything from lightly protected flight suits to heavily armored adaptive-camo commando combat gear. The Blade
,
as it was called, represented the traditional ceremonial weapon most often associated with the mystic nature of the order. It was usually secured to either the left arm or inside the boot on the left leg, and could be pulled, used, and returned to its scabbard with lightning quickness. A nasty close-quarter weapon, the beautifully crafted Ki-blade, whether thrown or thrust, was lethal in the hands of any member of the Marked.

A standard Ki-blade was issued to each candidate while in training, as was a handblaster. They would not be presented with their own engraved, handcrafted, and personalized weapons until graduation. In the meantime, completion of Phase II meant qualification with the Browning 203. This meant that the members of Class 13-47 would be authorized to wear it at all times. A fact that thrilled Sloan and ensured that if not absolutely required to be in class, he could be found on one of the ranges.

“Missed you at the Wizard’s today,” Tommy said, walking up behind Sloan. He and Gary were just logging in at the blaster range for some pistol practice.

Sloan just smiled. “Needed some work.” He was not a big fan of psychic classes or their instructors—called wizards by most
.

Both Tommy and Gary knew for a fact that Sloan needed no practice. He had by far the best scores in the class, but you couldn’t keep out of the weapon ranges in biodome three. Normally the Star Force used simulators to perform weapons training and yearly qualifications, which had proven to be very effective. But Sloan thought putting real bolts downrange was the only way to really appreciate the destructive power of a blaster weapon, especially the high-powered 203.

Gary sat on a molded bench facing downrange as Tommy pulled the 203 out of his holster and checked the charge.

“How about it, Tommy, sudden death?” Sloan asked while letting a spent power pack fall from the handgrip of his blaster.

The weapons range looked like a wide-open close-cut field of fresh green grass, but was in reality a series of thirty well-defined, segregated shooting lanes. Each lane, separated and protected by an invisible force field, was fifty feet wide and sixteen hundred feet long. The shooter stalls, located at the near end of the range, included a bench, loading and charging stations, and a control panel mounted on a four-foot pedestal. The clear acrylic control panel allowed students and instructors to select preprogrammed practice or qualification sessions, which in turn commanded the distance, size, and actions of targetbots. Each hovering targetbot, hardened to withstand and register hits from blasters, would, upon the shooter’s command, be launched from a small control and maintenance facility located under the far end of the range. One of these programs, designated quick-draw, tested the students’ ability to outdraw and outshoot an opponent. Get beat and receive a jolt from your robotic adversary, nicknamed Bart.

Tommy smiled and nodded. Sloan was already punching codes into the panel.

“What do you say to level five, flyboy?” Sloan asked with a wicked grin.

Quick-draw had five different levels. In each level Bart got a little quicker and shot a little straighter. It should be noted, however, that all Marked qualifications required a proficiency at no higher than level four!

“Level five, you sure, Steel?” Gary asked in shocked disbelief.

“I’m a killer, man, no sweat. What about it, Lieutenant?” asked Sloan.

“Ring it up, stud. Loser buys the first two rounds at the club,” Tommy replied, twirling his 203 before letting it slide gently into his holster.

“Okay, Thorn.” Sloan shook his head. “Either you’ve been practicing, or—well, no need to state the obvious.” He laughed, then turned downrange.