Tommy Thorn Marked (7 page)

After what seemed like hours but had been in reality less than thirty minutes, the shuttle had mercifully docked, and their captain, after finally activating the gravity system, waited patiently for the last of the gagging to stop before keying the shuttle’s PA.

“
You Toadies unstrap and get off my shuttle
,”
he said without emotion.

There was the sound of metal latches, mixed with harnesses being stowed and the feel of a slight air-pressure change, but nobody spoke as they stood and waited for the Tarchein cadets to exit.

“Oh, and welcome to the Zoo,” the captain added as the newest wobble-legged members of the Hondo Brigade filed down the tunnel and into one of six wedge-shaped reception areas. Like the gates on Tarchein, each reception area was adorned with the colors and symbols of the individual brigades.

Years ago, the Academy had picked up a nickname, the Zoo
,
but no one knew for sure the origin. Supposedly the name was given because of the small cabins and months of confinement aboard the station, but most believed it was started by Tarchein cadets soon after the Academy opened its ranks to aliens.

“Feeling better?” Bo asked Gary.

He had held out for as long as he could, occasionally swatting at clear bags of puke that randomly floated about the cabin, before giving in to waves of nausea.

“I’m fine,” Gary said, a bit perturbed. “It was the damn smell that got me!”

Bo smiled at Tommy. She had been completely unaffected by the mad goings-on in the shuttle’s cabin, keeping her attention focused—first on the lights of the planet displayed overhead as the shuttle rolled, and then finally on the expert rapid tactical docking maneuver performed by their Tarchein captain.

“I bet all of the Tarchein threw up,” he continued. “Probably why they keep them separated.”

Tommy was sure, by the look of their ashen faces, that most of the Tarchein had indeed gotten ill. He also knew the reason for the segregation, and it had nothing to do with getting sick. He had seen racial prejudice firsthand on Tarchein, although Remus did his best to shield him.
They’ll understand soon enough,
he thought, and let it go.

The newcomers, still in a bit of shock, assembled loosely at the bottom of a small platform directly inside the receiving area. The group didn’t seem as alert or enthusiastic as they had been before the nightmarish flight, but soon all eyes had focused on a waiting cadre of senior cadets. Who, much like the one they had encountered at the gate on Tarchein, seemed already displeased over something.

“Listen up!” a fourth-year Tarchein cadet yelled over a spattering of apprehensive chatter. All noise stopped!

He was dressed in the standard working uniform, similar to Tommy’s, but it did not include a jacket and in addition to the red trim of the Hondo Brigade, it included four red stripes at the bottom of each sleeve, topped off with a red star. The four stripes denoted his senior status, and the star displayed his position as Cadet Brigade Commander.

At a nod from the commander, the senior cadets bounded off the platform and swarmed over the sick, somewhat frightened and confused Toadies. Moving with practiced precision, they began guiding them into even ranks, molding the mob, through shouted threat and deed, until they more or less resembled neat, rigid rows. Only then did the cadet brigade commander slowly, deliberately, come down from the platform and swagger past the ranks.

He had a look of cold disdain as he eyed the newest members of the Hondo, stopping now and then to make a disparaging remark about a cadet’s ancestry or the inadequacy of a particular body part before returning to the superiority of his elevated perch.

“Welcome to the Star Force Academy,” he finally said. “Do not think this will be easy, or in any way enjoyable. You are here to become officers in the finest military organization in all the galaxy. We are here to ensure that you are worthy of that status, and judging from what I see, well I don’t see many future officers—not in my Star Force!”

The cadet waited for a moment, continuing to look down at the first-years. “All Tarchein cadets report to Mister Gadman on deck twelve in the Camron Complex for berthing assignments.”

Although the Tarchein were a minority at the Academy, the segregation policy, as with the shuttle, was rigidly adhered to—Tarchein cadets staying in isolated and, most believed, superior quarters.

The Tarchein Toadies, confused by their orders, stared up—wide eyed.

“Well, what are you waiting for!” the commander yelled. Little dark blue veins, like tree branches, became visible on both sides of his head just above his earholes.

Tommy had never seen a Tarchein raise his voice. Humans, along with most aliens he had encountered, yes, but the Tarchein had never developed, or maybe had overcome, the adage—he who yells loudest is right.
Or maybe they just don’t think Humans are worthy of elevated
speech
, he thought. Whatever the reason, Tommy assumed that the actions of the cadet brigade commander were simply contrived, either through practice or conviction—the mere recognition of this fact making him more impressed with the dramatics than intimidated by the phony rage.

Meanwhile, the Tarchein cadets, who had no idea where the Camron Complex was, or even how to get to a lift for that matter, began to mill around aimlessly. Like most, they had never been abused verbally, and this fact, along with the growing number of unexpected and somewhat horrific events, had resulted in a good deal of trepidation. Nevertheless, not wanting to appear clueless and hopelessly useless on their first day, they began to randomly follow anyone that seemed as if they knew what they were doing.

“This way, you mindless berry-eating Toadies!” The commander pointed toward one of three exits on his left and looked back at one of his companions, who had by now returned to the relative seclusion of the stage. “Honestly, they get worse every year.”

Tommy had never heard the term berry-eaters used to describe anyone, alien or Tarchein—but, as with Toadie, he thought it must be a term of some rebuke.
Well, at least the boisterous senior cadet seems to have the same level of disdain for both alien and
Tarchein
, thought Tommy as he began to timidly move out with the others.

“Wait there. You—Human!”

Tommy stopped, turned, and pointed toward himself as if to ask, are you talking to me?

“Yes, you. Do you have a great bald head and four nostrils?”

“No, sir.”

“‘No, sir,’ he says. Then you ain’t no Tarchein.” Once again, he glanced over his shoulder. “Now they don’t even know what race they are!”

Tommy stood, dumfounded, not sure what to do. It had not occurred to him yet that no matter what he, or any other cadet did, it was going to be wrong.

“Get over here, you great hairy beast!”

Tommy began to move toward the raised platform as the remaining alien cadets looked on in silent horror.

The ill-tempered senior, unhappy with Tommy’s progress, made a long exhale while shaking his head. “Well, how about double-time missy!” Then he turned to the formation. “Unless directed to the contrary, all Toadie movement will be at the double—understood!”

There was a halfhearted, rather random response. “Yes.”

“Yes, sir! And sound off like you mean it!”

“Yes, sir!” the formation shouted, more or less in unison.

Tommy had picked up the pace and was now positioned in front of the platform, doing his best impression of standing at attention, being careful to look straight ahead and not up at the cadet.

The Tarchein, after taking a moment, came down off the platform, putting his face inches from Tommy’s. “What do we have here? This Human has the wrong collar tab. Didn’t think we would notice your tiny head and great hairy body?”

“I’m the adopted son of Chairman Remus—“

“Did I ask you to open your foul, gaping pie hole, cadet!” the Tarchein yelled, spraying little bits of spittle onto Tommy’s face.

“No, sir. I just thought—”

“He’s done it again! Do not speak unless myself or another senior cadet makes the gargantuan mistake of asking you a question,” the commander interrupted.

“Yes, si—”

The Tarchein held up his hand in disgust. “Not one word. Now, I do not care if you’re the Queen Mother’s son—get over there with the other silly aliens,” the cadet finally said, pointing with the first of his six fingers.

Tommy hesitated.

“Move out, Toadie, and just for the record—you’re Human!” he yelled at Tommy’s back.

Gary and Bo could no longer hold in their chuckles, which caught the attention of Tommy’s tormentor.

“And look at these two,” the Tarchein commander said and rushed to Gary’s side. “Another Human and a silly Drake, both with their cake holes open!”

Both Bo and Gary locked up their bodies, all signs of a smile gone.

“Excuse me, sir but I’m from Mars,” Gary said sheepishly.

“I couldn’t care less what insignificant planet you come from, Toadie. Check your collar tab, all Terrans are Human!” the commander yelled, and took another deep breath in exasperation before returning to the platform. “They’re all yours, Cadet Abel, and may your God help you,” he continued in disgust and turned the remaining non-Tarchein cadets over to a fourth-year Terran, an Earthling named Abel.

Abel turned and acknowledged the commander.

“See if you can get them fed and berthed,” the brigade commander sighed.

“Will do, sir,” Abel said before turning to address the formation. “You heard the commander. Follow me, single file, and try not to trip over each other.”

Mr. Abel wore the four stripes of a Hondo senior cadet, but only three of them were red. The bottom chevron was a dark orange, denoting his selection into the Warrior Corps after graduation.

“I think that went quite well,” Gary whispered as the group stumbled after Abel to the mess hall.

Tommy smiled inwardly. He was glad for his new friends and now truly understood the meaning of a phrase he had heard long ago.
Misery, it seems, does in fact love company.

The mess hall was open and bright with large, clear steel panels that covered the outer curved section of the seating area, but as it was after normal chow time, strangely quiet.

“Take all you want, but eat all you take,” Abel turned and said to the line of hungry cadets, most apparently recovered from their earlier ordeal. “Eat quickly and quietly.”

The first-years, now seated in groups of twelve, ate in silence at tables situated nearest the windowed wall. Tommy suspected it would be the last time that Toadies were afforded such prized seats, and as it turned out, he was right. They sat together, only Abel had separated himself, the hundred or so cadets taking up a small portion of the great dining facility, where Tommy found himself staring out at the planet below. The City was in a night cycle, and he could clearly see the capital’s huge clusters of lights. S
omewhere down
there is my home
, Tommy thought. But then, just as quickly, he shook off the feeling and looked around the mostly empty hall, imagining it full of cadets. “This is my home now,” he said to himself and smiled as a calm washed over him.

“All right, Toadies, let’s pack it in.”

The new cadets looked over at Abel, some already picking up their trays, but most just staring, mouths still full of food.

“Move it, people,” he said, this time with added gusto. “I’m not going to babysit you all night.”

And with that, the meal abruptly ended.

The narrow hatchway that divided the cabins was white, had hidden integrated ceiling lights, and the now-familiar red trim of the brigade. The confined space—one could stand in the middle and touch each wall—was nothing new for Tommy, but it did seem odd considering the enormous size of the orbiting school.
Another attempt to acclimate cadets to their future lives in space, I suppose,
thought Tommy.

“Thorn and Steel,” Abel said, pointing at an open hatch before moving on down the hall.

Tommy stepped into the cabin, followed by his new roommate.

“I’m Sloan,” the thin, athletic-looking Human said, extending his right hand.

He took Sloan’s hand. “I’m Tommy.”

Tommy avoided staring at his new roommate’s shaved head. In the capital he had seen Humans called Imperialists, or sometimes the more unflattering Imps, who underwent a medical procedure to remove all body hair. He supposed it was an attempt to look more like the Tarchein, although an Imp would say it was just a more evolved look. Remus thought it was a silly thing, although a politically connected Imperialist probably stood a better chance of getting their son into the Academy. At any rate, Tommy noted while surveying the room, you had to be sixteen to have your hair removed permanently.

“Looks like you’ve got this one,” Sloan said, pointing to a bed, desk, and locker fixture.

Tommy nodded and moved to a locker positioned at the foot of one of the beds. “Cadet Thorn, Thomas” was displayed in an illuminated strip at the top of the locker.

He took a moment to absorb the new title.
I really am a member of Star Force,
Tommy thought before pressing his hand to the security pad.

“Six jump suits, PT gear, two pairs of boots…“Sloan spoke out loud while going through his locker.

Tommy likewise surveyed the contents of his locker, running his fingers over the red stylized Banshee patch and name tag stitched onto his dark gray jumpsuits before setting down on his rack and fiddling with the standard controls. Bed temperature, firmness, and individual lighting were all available through touch or voice, though it always took several tries to get it just right. And as for their room, it was small, with just the lockers, desk, two chairs, and beds—they shared a bath with the two occupants in the next cabin—but it was all Tommy needed.
Quite nice,
he thought. It even had a gravity adjustment, something he was sure Mister Cruise would appreciate.

He had noticed how Gary had labored a bit in the one-G standard throughout the school. Even though Gary had been required, as all aliens with similar limitations, to spends many hours in one-G training facilities before reporting, Tommy could see that he had not yet fully adjusted from the one-third gravity that existed on Mars.