Tommy Thorn Marked (15 page)

“Come on, Tommy, I’m too big. Plus you’re the stick and rudder guy…”

Tommy pulled away from the mag and looked up at his friend. “All right, if we’re still in one piece after our hitch.” Tommy laughed.

Gary stood. “I mean it, Tommy, you’d drive one for me—right?”

Putting a hand on the mag and standing, Tommy saw that Gary was serious. “Sure, Gary, if you need me—I’d drive a mag for ya.”

Gary beamed and slapped Tommy’s back as he once again bent under the mag.

“Easy there, chief,” one of Reef’s techs said to Tommy.

Startled, Tommy bolted up, both feet leaving the ground. “Sorry, I was just trying to see how these things hover.”

The tech laughed at the way Tommy had gotten airborne. “New to Mars, son?”

“Yep,” Tommy said sheepishly.

“She don’t hover. Well, not like you think. I mean, she’s got no grav generators.” The man said.

Tommy looked puzzled.

“It uses mag-disk,” the Martian continued.

“Each mag-disk—they’re stuck on the under plate of the racer—uses commanded amounts of repulsion or attraction to hover, turn, or stop on an active or magnetically charged track,” Gary said proudly.

“Yeah, what your friend said,” the tech added.

“But why not just hover? I don’t get it,” Tommy said after thinking for a moment.

The weather-beaten tech laughed out loud. “Hover—you can’t race a track like this in a gravity-free hover.” Then after a heartbeat, he added, “No sport in it.”

Tommy thought for a moment before speaking. “Seems dangerous.”

Gary gave a knowing look toward the tech and waited for the shrill of a passing mag to fade. “That’s the point.”

The old tech smiled and jerked his thumb at Gary. “What he said.” Then he added, “Yep, it’s crazy dangerous all right, son—crazy dangerous.” He then walked back into the shade of the garage and a waiting mag.

The two continued walking down the row of garages, now busy with team techs making adjustments before sending their pilots back out on the course for testing.

“Where did Bo wander off to?” Gary asked.

Tommy pointed at the red-and-white bay of Cooper Racing, where Bo was standing next to one of the team’s mags, chatting with a driver.

Gary looked. “No way,” he said, moving toward Bo. “Billy James!” Gary stuck out his hand. “You’re Billy James.”

Billy James, one of two drivers for Cooper Racing, had to be the most popular driver in the Terran system, indeed in the galaxy. He was young, brash, and very good-looking—a poster child for all that was noble and wonderful about the Human race, and a growing annoyance to the Tarchein claim of superiority.

The bronzed-skinned Human looked away from Bo and, pushing thick dark hair back from his clear blue eyes, smiled and shook Gary’s hand. “Guilty,” he said.

“Bo, do you know who this is?” Gary asked excitedly.

Bo shrugged.

“This is Billy James,” Gary said, looking over to Tommy as if seeking a confirmation. “Billy James—he’s just the best mag pilot in the Empire.” Gary continued to gush.

Billy looked a little embarrassed. “Well…”

“He’s been the Terran champion two years in a row. What are your chances of taking the cup this year, Mr. James?” Gary blurted out before Billy could reply.

Every year, during the Trilight celebration, the top three drivers from every system’s circuit competed on Tarchein for the Imperial Cup. To date, it had never been won by a Human.

Bo looked on with a new sense of respect. “Champion, huh?”

“Well, it is a thrilling tale.” Billy flashed a broad smile.

“I’d love to hear it,” Bo said, moving a bit closer to Billy.

Just then, two of Billy’s techs moved up next to the mag. “You ready?”

Billy raised a gloved finger. “How about I tell ya over dinner tonight?”

Bo looked back at Tommy and Gary as Billy slid into his mag. “Do we have plans, guys?”

Tommy looked over to Gary. “Plans, I—“

“No plans. You two go have fun,” Gary said. He seemed more excited than Bo.

Billy looked up at Bo from inside the tiny mag cockpit and smiled while techs went about the business of strapping him in. “Well great. Can you wait while I make this run?”

Bo flashed that great Bo smile. “I’ll wait.”

The techs energized Billy’s mag-caddy and after attaching it to a hand-tug, began towing the racer toward the starting grid.

Billy nodded and pulled his helmet down over his ears. “Be back in a flash,” he said as the mag was pulled away.

Bo watched the mag until it disappeared into a tunnel that led to the track before turning to face her friends, who were both grinning.

“What?” she finally asked.

“Billy James,” Gary said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“It’s just dinner,” she said.

They both nodded and continued to grin, arms folded.

“What?” Bo said again, and they all laughed.

The next week spent on Mars was full of planed activities. There was rock climbing, a day under sail on the large lake, a short trip drifting down the river through the towering canyons, and of course the usual tourist things, including taking in all of the must-see sights. The three had quickly adjusted to a life without the relentless pressure of the Slate, but, as all restful times tend to do, their vacation was soon at an end. And so, after Ellie’s teary goodbye, along with promises to visit again soon, they were once again on their way back to the structure and stress of the Slate.

Mag racing was invented long before the discovery and development of graviton generators
,
which some believed would spell the end of the popular racing event. With the ability to hover, what need was there for magnetic repulsion? This has proven not be the case, however. In fact, mag racing has continued to grow in popularity, becoming the largest sporting event in the galaxy. Mag pilots from almost every species in the Empire risk life and limb piloting high-tech mags in death-defying, tightly regulated competition. Mags, that if freed from magnetically charged tracks, would tumble and spin out of control, much like a dart thrown feathers-first; resulting, tragically, with most exploding in spectacular fireballs, killing or maiming many brave pilots in the process.

It is due to this alarming increase in the number of growing fatalities that mags and mag tracks have recently undergone a number of significant changes designed to increase pilot and spectator safety alike. Changes that include newer, more powerful retaining force fields, improved racing suits, new high-energy automatic ejection systems, upgraded energy-absorbent material, and improved sixth-generation magnetic control disks, just to mention a few. Yes, we’re proud of our sport, a shining example of courage and cooperative fair play as exemplified by the entire Tarchein people.

Another month in the trusty Firefly, and the Mudhens graduated, moving on to advanced flight training. And although most stayed on Razeier, not many stayed at the Slate. Only students deemed fit for future strike assignments—such as traditional fighters, light attack, reconnaissance, or even heavy bombers—stayed and were transferred to the Saber Hawks of TSA-555, sometimes called the Triple Nickel. The student pilots in the Triple Nickel flew the nimble AT-108 Lancer, mastering the trainer’s basic flight characteristics in the familiar skies above the Slate before moving on to the formal advanced strike training syllabus, which was carried out on the battle cruiser, Nova. It was while training from the Nova that these future strike and recon pilots would first be tested in the harsh, unforgiving environment of space.

“Come in,” Gary said in response to the chime.

The hatch slid open silently, allowing Tommy to enter Gary’s new quarters, located in the outer curved wall of the Hawks’ ringlet. He started to speak, but was dumbstruck at the sight of Cruiser admiring himself in his new pressure spacesuit—complete with a gloss-black helmet.

“What do ya think?” he asked, his voice sounding a little muffled as he spoke behind his helmet’s partially opened faceplate.

The black suit, trimmed in red, with its lightweight energy-absorbent armor, clung to his athletic body, making him look like some kind of fictional superhero.

“Nice,” Tommy responded, touching the raised red-and-black Saber Hawk patch on Gary’s shoulder.

I’m just happy they were able to find a suit that would fit my manly physique,” Gary said posing.

“Yea, imagine that,” Tommy said sarcastically.

“I just hope they—“

Gary’s chime again sounded, and he hit the hatch release without bothering to see who it was.

“Check this out,” Bo said, rushing into the room holding her suit. Then, seeing Gary, she started to laugh.

Gary held out his arms and slowly turned as Tommy collapsed onto the couch, head in hands.

“Well, I should have known you’d be the first,” Bo said.

Gary smiled and turned to Tommy. “As soon as your orders are confirmed, supply will get you hooked up.”

“But you better give yourself some time. It’s not a quick process getting these babies fitted,” Bo added, admiring the Saber Hawk symbol on her suit’s nametag.

“Speaking of time.” Tommy glanced down at his wristcomm. “You’ve got about twelve minutes before a squadron formation.”

“Formation,” Gary said disgustedly.

“Meet and greet,” Bo said.

“Yeah, and wait till you see some of our new mates,” Tommy said with a sly smile.

Gary looked confused and started the laborious task of getting out of his suit.

Bo exchanged looks with Tommy before she spoke. “Maco is in our class, Cruiser.”

“Maco, that lousy Tarhead—sorry, Tommy.” Gary remembered how his friend felt about Tarchein, and of course he too had the upmost respect and fondness for Remus. He immediately felt sorry to have said it.

“It’s okay, Cruiser, but you better hurry,” Tommy said, following Bo out of the hatch.

Damn,
Gary thought, pulling the suit down off his shoulders.
Damn
.

Early the next morning, members of TSA-555 found themselves in one of the advanced flight training classrooms, datapads at the ready.

“Good morning. I am Commander Vance. Welcome to advanced strike training, and congratulations on your success in primary.”

Vance was an Academy grad from Imadall. His immaculately tailored uniform, which included a red bloodstone fixed atop his black pilot’s badge, gave the tall, mild-mannered instructor instant credibility.

“However,” he continued, “that being said, I must caution you about the intensity of advanced training you are about to undertake. No doubt you have come far, but there is still much to accomplish if you are to earn your badge.” At that Vance pointed to his own wings as if to emphasize the point.

A few in the class of twenty squirmed a bit in their seats. They were all well aware of the thirty percent washout rate, and most, like Tommy, could not bear the thought of failure now that the dream of earning their wings seemed so close.

“Now, before we get started…” Vance snapped on a large 3-D image of a battle cruiser. “Let me just say a few words about the commitment you’re making as future combat pilots.” The commander paused for a moment and ran a long hand through thick, dark gray, shoulder-length hair while taking in the room.

The black high-backed seats, adorned with Saber Hawk patches and adjustable work tables, were arranged in a semicircle of three elevated steps that closed around a small platform on which Vance now stood.

“I know firsthand the thrill of flying fighters and the horrors of combat.” He again paused, allowing the class to take a quick inventory of his awards and a row of small, jeweled campaign medallions fixed to his chest. “But remember that this job, once undertaken, is about defending the Empire,” Vance continued. “It will require a sacred oath, that I’m afraid will most assuredly require you to risk as well as take life.”

Vance again looked around the now-silent room, motionless save for the slow rotation of the huge projected image.

“If any of you has doubts as to your inclination to perform such duties, please see me privately after class, or any time before we deploy to the Nova,” Vance continued. “There are plenty of noncombat flying jobs available with the fleet, or at least jobs that do not require direct intervention. At any rate, there is no dishonor in selecting a new designation at this juncture. However, failure to carry out specific orders, as must be given to flight crews in the prosecution of combat operations, is unforgivable and will result in the most dire of consequences.”