Tommy Thorn Marked (38 page)

What was that sound
? Tommy wondered, not fully awake, and for a moment not even sure where he was, before opening his eyes to find himself staring directly into the side of a frozen cliff. The gray featureless rock, only inches from his faceplate, instantly reminded him of where he was. But that sound, like a faint growl. Tommy tapped his wristcomm, adjusting to max his helmet’s ambient speakers.

GROWL!

Tommy rolled over in his harness and looked into the snarling face of a very large and seemingly very hungry glacier wolf, a gigantic paw waving only a foot from his helmet.

“What the…” Tommy flinched and, startled into full consciousness, instinctively pulled his 203 and fired two shots point-blank into the monster’s forehead. The headless body rolled off the ledge and plummeted to the glacier floor.

In the darkness, Tommy could not have seen the wolves’ den just ten feet above where he had chosen to spend the night. A narrow ledge, giving the animals access to and from their concealed home, blended back into the mountain just above and short of where he had chosen to dangle for the night. A position suddenly full of the next wolf in line…

Two hours later, the carcasses of the destroyed pack lay far below. Heaped into an easy meal, they were beset by howlers and, by morning—there would be giant silver buzzards, but finally Tommy was able to continue with his trial, although to do so meant going up. And so, cursing the wasted time, Tommy holstered his nearly spent blaster and fired the first of many pitons into the frozen surface just above his head. He had slept for only three hours, but that had been more than enough. The combination of the wolves’ wakeup call and the whirl of his suit’s dwindling power supply provided all of the needed adrenaline to continue with the night climb.

At least the snow has stopped
, he thought. It was, in fact, clear enough that the light from the two full moons allowed Tommy to switch off his helmet lights, although he dared not look at the endless stretch of smooth rock towering above. “One foot at a time, Tommy,” he said to himself. “One foot at a time.”

The morning found Tommy collapsed on the wide, flat summit. He had stopped just long enough to drink a little food and give some relief to his aching arms and legs.
Eight hours
left
, he thought, glancing at his wristcomm. He then lay on his back, staring up through his darkened faceplate, a silver buzzard making lazy circles in the bright blue, cloudless sky above. “Not yet, my feathered friend, I’m not dead yet,” he said and then thought of Remus and the pod.
Not dead yet, Mr. Thorn…

“Now what?” Tommy asked himself. He had been heading east toward the deadly crevasse for almost an hour, sure that there would be some way to cross over, when he found the stone bridge. The ice-covered span had seemed at first the answer to a prayer, but it now appeared to be just another dead end!

Tommy edged a little closer to the abrupt end of the cantilevered slab of rock. “Just sixty more feet!” he shouted and silently cursed the still-circling bird.

He was tired, having slept just three hours in the last three days, and was sick of drinking purple crap. His body hurt all over, and he was running out of both time and ideas, but he was not fearful.
If it comes to it
, Tommy thought looking out at the endless white vista, t
his isn’t such a bad place to pack it in—at least I died trying.

Absentmindedly, Tommy checked his wristcomm.
Seven hours of power left
, he thought and then forced himself to focus on better days. Like the day he found out that he was going to the Academy, or when he got his wings. The taste of that warm dark drink at Gary’s home on Mars.
Gary, I wonder how he’s doing? Been almost twelve hours since they dropped him off
. Then thoughts of the last time he, Gary, and Sloan had really talked.
Hanging off the damn cliff. I wonder if Gary will escort my body
, he thought. Then he glanced up at the buzzard, the twelve-foot wingspan occasionally blotting out the sun’s glare as the bird sized up what he hoped would be his next meal.

Tommy drew his 203 and took aim on the scavenger, but then thought better of it, twirled the weapon, and let it slide back into the holster. He had never liked shooting anything with wings.
Bet Sloan would shoot him, probably use his piton blaster so he could reel him in and eat ’em.
Tommy smiled at the thought and shook his head. “Sloan,” he yelled—“SLOAN!”

Tommy moved to the edge of the frozen slab of rock and took another bearing.
Forty-nine feet seven
inches. It will have to work
, he thought, taking out his piton blaster.
It has to…

But it didn’t work. Sloan had been very accurate with his estimate on the device’s range. The piton had the distance but not enough force to penetrate the rock on the far side. Tommy needed to be about ten feet closer.
Ten more feet!

Then, in desperation, Tommy had an idea. He would get a running start and dive toward the other side. “Surely I can jump ten feet,” he said while checking the piton blaster and backing off the edge.
Besides, slamming into the bottom of the gorge would be a better way to go than slowly freezing to death,
he thought. Without hesitation, he began to run toward the end of the bridge.

Reaching the edge, cleated boots digging in just enough, Tommy dove out toward the opposite cliff face and fired! But as he started to fall, the piton just bounced off the rock. The angle was too great.
I’m going to die
, he thought. But, as if in slow motion, he tried again, one last desperate chance. “Not dead yet, Tommy!” he yelled between clenched teeth. He aimed between his legs, at a spot lower on the cliff, a spot he thought, at the rate he was falling, would be even with him by the time it hit—and fire!

By the time the piton had buried itself into the far wall, Tommy had fallen another hundred feet, but it held. The thin black wire slammed him back against the cliff face, where he hung, limp, allowing himself a few precious moments before starting the climb back to the top.
Not dead yet…

Finally, on the far side of the gorge, Tommy checked his power pack and took another bearing to the objective. He had six hours before his suit went dark, six hours before the frigid temperature would turn him into a popsicle, and he still had five miles standing between him and the Mark. “Five miles, Tommy, and you’re home. You can do this,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. Even the buzzard had disappeared, no longer patiently circling overhead for his next meal.

Not today, my friend, not today…

Four hours later, Tommy got his first glimpse of the igloo, well, the tower anyway. A half hour later and he was close enough to make out the orange markings, but the final trial had one more terrible surprise. The buzzard was back, but this time it wasn’t loitering over Tommy.

He wasn’t sure at first, but then he saw the bright red stripe on the white suit. It had to be Captain Chopiak.
But how?
Tommy kneeled by the body. He was on his stomach, head up—one final stare at the salvation he must have known he would never reach, only two hundred yards away. The captain’s faceplate had been damaged, and frost covered the big man’s face.
He must have fallen. A crack like that would have forced the suit to use power at
a rate…
Tommy looked up at the igloo and felt sick
. To be so close.
Tommy followed long deep tracks. Chopiak had dragged his freezing body for almost a half-mile, the same body that had now become part of the glacier. Tommy had wanted to carry his fallen classmate into the igloo, but the ice, in its jealousy, would not release him.

“Two hundred damn yards!” he screamed into the heavens. Then Tommy stood, pulled his hand cannon, and casually blasted the giant silver bird, its carcass falling a yard from his dead friend. He twirled the 203 and headed for the entrance of the snow-covered igloo.

It wasn’t until he was reunited with Gary and Sloan, while waiting for their successful retrieval, that Class 13-47 had a final tally. Two more candidates, one from each of the remaining groups, had refused to get on the shuttle, and Captain Hanson, the recon pilot from Titan, well, his body was never recovered.

And then there were EIGHT.

Another week at Camp Calder, which included a banquet celebration and the awarding of personalized weapons, and the eight remaining members of Class 13-47 headed to the Tarchein capital. It was there, at the pristine Marked Headquarters, where they would be officially inducted into the order through a somber ceremony called the Marking. On the night of the formal ceremony, the eight, as they were now called, along with local and invited existing members of the Marked, including the commandant and his staff, gathered in the Hall of the Marked.

To stand where they stood—to be marked, even as they were marked.

Tommy noticed something very strange as he and the other seven waited in the outer court to be called into the assembly: no nerves. He had not worked to suppress any anxiety or uneasiness—it had just happened. He was persuaded, without any doubt, that he could handle whatever was to come. He was, after all, Marked. Tommy smiled at the thought and, looking about at the calm, composed faces of the others, was filled with a pride he had never known, not even at the presentation of his pilot’s badge.

“Lieutenant Gary Cruise.” The announcement filled the court area in a subdued quiet tone, a respectful summons.

Gary smiled at Tommy before double doors swung open and he marched into the dimly lit hall.

After some minutes each, in turn, was called into the ceremony until finally…

“Captain Sloan Steel.”

After a smug grin, Sloan was through the doors, leaving Tommy alone in the outer court, which was a kind of shrine or hall of fame. Its polished marble walls and reflective red floor were lined with pillars topped with busts of the greatest members of the Marked. Accent lighting meant to illuminate their engraved accomplishments also served to exaggerate the chiseled features of each figure. Standing in their midst, Tommy knew they had all stood here and waited. They had all spent time in the Pipe; they had all learned that battles were won—or lost—long before the fighting began. The enemy always had been, and would always be, within each of them. The Marked knew this.
They see victory with each and every breath. Death in no way can change that, look around you,
Tommy thought.
Look around at the immortal members and breathe…

“Lieutenant Thomas Thorn.”

Tommy entered the Great Hall and marched, each click of his boot punctuated by a lonely drum beat, down the long corridor lined with members of the Marked, until finally, standing in front of the raised platform, he stood, rigid, in front of the commandant and the other presiding officers. The hall fell silent.

“Lieutenant Thomas Thorn, step forward and be recognized.”

Tommy, wearing the elegant dress uniform of the Marked, including the dark blue cape and the Browning 203 blaster secured low on his right hip, slowly, deliberately, walked up the three steps to the stage, turned, pulled back his hood, and faced the formation.