Tommy Thorn Marked (33 page)

Gary leaned forward, cupping his chin under both hands, as Bart emerged and floated to a spot two hundred feet in front of Sloan.

Sloan’s right hand rested just outside the low-slung Browning’s grip, fingers flexed, eyes focused on Bart’s pulsing yellow band—yellow, yellow, GREEN!

Sloan grabbed the blaster’s handle. The holster, sensing his grip, rotated forward thirty degrees and launched the weapon back and out, allowing Sloan to fire as soon as his Browning was clear; scoring a perfect hit—center chest. The four-foot cylinder that was Bart’s body spun like a top, and it began to flash before returning to the far end of the range.

Sloan twirled his weapon three times, then spun the handle forward 180 degrees before slowly rotating it back and allowing the blaster to slide smoothly into the holster.

Stylishly twirling one’s 203 was a time-honored tradition that had become an identifying trademark for all members of the Marked. A fact that motivated each student to spend long hours perfecting his signature moves.

“Okay, Thorn, you’re up,” Sloan said, pointing his finger like a gun barrel, then blowing away imaginary smoke.

Tommy nodded and moved into position, legs spread to shoulder width, and rotated his neck in an effort to loosen a growing tension before commanding the targetbot to engage.

“Hey, Thorn, remember to clench when you get zapped. I hear it keeps you from crapping your uniform!” Sloan yelled from behind Tommy.

“Come on, Tommy, show ’em what a fighter jock can do!” Gary retorted, trying desperately to bolster Tommy’s resolve.

Tommy did not respond, his concentration focused on Bart’s pulsing yellow light.

Bart could fire any time after his yellow light started to pulse. He, of course, did not really draw. A bolt was fired from an integrated training blaster, but the program put in a delay, which simulated a draw—though a level-five delay wasn’t much.

Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow—GREEN!

Tommy’s right hand slapped his blaster’s handle…

And then, a moment later…

“How you feeling?” Gary asked, helping Tommy to his feet.

“I’m fine,” he said, reaching up under his training vest and rubbing a rising welt, the location, just over his heart, of Bart’s well-aimed shot.

Sloan, who had collapsed onto the bench, stopped laughing long enough to speak. “Oh, Thorn, you never had a chance, buddy. Bart is deadly on five, and I’ve got the scars to prove it.” Then standing, he cleared and made safe his weapon. “First two rounds are on you.”

Gary leaned in and spoke in a tone only Tommy could hear. “Did ya…?”

Tommy twirled his weapon twice and slid it back into his holster. “No,” he said. “I clenched…”

Another month came and went, but the long hours spent on the ranges in evaluation and weapon qualification had paid off as candidates finally completed their weapon test. And with a demonstrated expert proficiency with both the Ki-blade and the Sadler-Browning 203, members of Class 13-47 successfully concluded Phase II and could now proudly wear their sidearm. Well, most members…

Captain Sam Glen, a tall muscular assault transport pilot, had not been able to master the quick draw. His basic marksmanship scores, on all weapons, had been among the best in the class, and no one wanted to challenge his skill with the Ki-blade. But he just couldn’t beat Bart. In spite of extra training sessions and guidance from the best weapons instructors, Sam just could not master the skill. The quicker he tried to react, the more forced and jerky his motions became. Unable to focus and control his thoughts, the fear of failure had seized him like a noose.

And then there were TWENTY…

Fear was a constant theme. Every member of the Marked had to learn to control and overcome it. They also had to learn how to sense and even inflict it in others. Fear of defeat, fear of failure, fear of pain, fear of isolation, and of course—fear of death.

“Members of the Marked shall not allow fear to control their actions,” the colonel had repeated at almost every opportunity.

What does that even mean?
thought Tommy. Like all of the members of Class 13-47, he had been forced to identify and deal with these feelings early on. But there was a problem: fear was not something that a warrior wanted to bring into the light. All had learned how to put their fears into a nice tight little box and then shove it into a dark place.

But with Phase III upon them and their first training deployment looming—a course of instruction that was rumored to have killed a number of candidates—Tommy had become aware of growing apprehension. Nagging doubts about his preparation intruded on almost every activity, and he found himself spending more and more time in the meditation biodome, working through these growing fears while seated in one of its many fragrant gardens.

Tommy had of course experienced his share of anxiety over an upcoming event. Reporting to the Academy, his first solo, his first landing on the Nova—there was a long list of exploits that he could point at and take solace in. But he had known the challenge and had practiced to ensure his competence. Here you had to be ready for anything, trust your training and your instincts. He was stronger and much quicker, there was no doubt about that. And he had learned to focus his energy and ignore hunger, even pain. But clawing into the light, even while he worked to prepare for Phase III, was the final test. A once distant, hazy event, it now grew clearer, becoming more menacing with every passing day. “Complete the final test or die,” the colonel had said. No going back, no retreat, no quitting or giving up.
If you let it, the thing could consume you
.
Could! It has
, Tommy thought, trying to focus on Miss Franks, one of the program’s wizards.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said Sara.

Miss Sara Franks started every class with the same rather upbeat greeting, taking the time to look at individuals before she started the session.

There were no datapads allowed in her class. There would be no exams of any kind. But she had made it very clear that their success or failure might just depend on how well they assimilated, and put into practice, the nuggets of wisdom she painstakingly doled out in every class.

The trim, attractive, middle-aged instructor to most had taken on a kind of motherly figure, or at the very least that of a wise, caring mentor. Still, she always managed to keep the decorum of professional separation. Not so much as to depersonalize the instruction, the very subject matter precluded this, but there was always a degree of detachment. Tommy could only guess at the number of would-be Marked that she had seen either withdraw or in some cases, he knew, even die.
She walks a very tight line,
he thought.

“Today we will begin your instruction with a simple question: what is fear?” she asked mater-of-factly.

Miss Franks wore the same style of suit, although in different colors, every day. A fitted coat extended past the knees of her matching slacks. Not really a uniform, but it was in keeping with the style most of the non-Star Force personnel wore, whether by choice or requirement.

“Let us start with an example,” she said. “When confronted with a threat, let us say a glacier wolf, your body will respond in a number of predictable ways. Elevated heart rate, pupil dilation, and a surge of adrenaline, just to mention a few. Is this just the way a body responds to fear?” Sara looked around the room. “Mr. Steel?”

Sloan sat as usual with arms folded, no doubt thinking of his upcoming hand-to-hand combat practice session. He had made it clear, by his actions and body language, that he thought any discussions dealing with things like the spirit, the soul, or one’s fear were, well, mere hocus-pocus—a complete waste of time.

“No,” replied Sloan coolly. “It’s the way my body gets ready to kick the crap out of someone.”

Franks smiled broadly. She knew Sloan was being facetious. “Very good, Mr. Steel. You are correct—it’s the way your body gets ready to fight, or in some cases, run away,” she said.

“Run away—never!” Sloan laughed.

Sara smiled broadly. “But you must remember that fear lives in the mind, not in the body,” she said, “and the body, if properly conditioned, will respond in a manner consistent with what our mind has concluded.”

“But we need our bodies to respond to danger. By definition, isn’t that fear?” Sergeant Pell asked.

Miss Franks, in most cases, encouraged members of the class to speak out freely.

“Quite so, Mr. Pell,” Sara responded, “which leads us to the point of our discussion.” She paused. “What is fear? Where does it emanate from? Can it be, or should it be controlled? And probably most importantly…” Miss Franks looked directly at Sloan. “Why should any of you give a damn one way or another?”

Sara waited a moment for the chuckles to die down. “The fact is, it’s all about fear, always has been for men and women in your line of, well, let’s just say profession. Too much clouds your thinking and actually slows your response time. You may be moving about frantically, but in terms of useful actions—they’re slower, more erratic, or just plain wrong. But no fear at all? As Mr. Pell astutely pointed out, we need our bodies in a state that gives us the best chance of survival, er, success.”

Miss Franks avoided, as much as possible, making her instruction a matter of life and death, but the students all knew—it was, after all, in their job description.

“So I’ll ask again. What is fear?”

“Fear is an unsettling emotion aroused by impending danger or pain,” Captain Chopiak, a muscled hover tank regiment commander interjected.

“Very good, Mr. Chopiak, nice to see you’re keeping up with the reading,” Sara said, smiling. “However, you did leave out one very important detail.”

She walked over to the big Earthling, placing a hand on his shoulder. “That unsettling emotional response, which we know to be both psychological and physical, will be experienced.” Sara paused and looked back around the class. “Whether the threat is real or imagined.” She let the last part of her statement hang in the air.

“So we decide what is scary and what is not,” Lieutenant Gauthier said more as a statement than a question.

Sara put her hands together against her chest. “Yes, Mr. Gauthier—we decide.”

Gary looked over at Sloan and scoffed, an action that did not go unnoticed, nor, Tommy supposed, was it meant to.

Sara just smiled. “You.” She looked at Gary before shifting her gaze to the rest of the class. “All of you have learned how to deal with fear. This fact is obvious based on your accomplishments to date,” she continued, before pausing and placing her folded hands in her lap. “But I assure you, whatever you’ve done in the past will not be enough here.”

“Is this the part where we get our brains rewired?“Gary asked jokingly.

“Or better yet—genetic implants,” Sloan added, to the delight of the class.

Sara put a hand over her mouth, suppressing a laugh, and raised one hand. “I’ve heard the rumors, and I wish it were that easy. Truth is, it’s going to take a lot of hard work. You’re going to have to relearn a lot of stuff, and even then, I’m sorry to say, not all of you will be capable of doing what this program requires.”

The class’s mood turned somber.

“But,” Sara continued, “for those who stick it out, you’ll learn not only how to control your fear in every situation, but how to use it to control others.”

“Control it in others,” Tommy said.

“Yes, Mr. Thorn. Create fear in your opponent, and the battle is yours,” Sara said, looking at Tommy.

Tommy nodded, feeling a bit uneasy.

She put a hand on his shoulder and looked directly into his eyes. “I will teach you how to recognize fear in yourself.” Miss Franks paused before looking around the class. “And how to sense it in others.”

“I’m not sure how much of this stuff can be learned from a book,” Captain Hanson, a thin recon pilot from Titan, offered with a snicker.

The implication was pretty clear. What did someone like Miss Franks know about real fear? After all, it was the students who were on the broken end of the bottle, not her.

Sara walked back to the front of the class. “I assure you, Captain.” She only used rank when she wanted to make a point. “Members of the Mark have learned much from these teachings. It has saved more than one life…”