Tommy Thorn Marked (31 page)

“Attention on deck,” an officer shouted as the hatch again slid open.

The twenty-four candidates rose as one, snapping to attention with the clicking of heels, and watched as a tall, muscular colonel of the Marked stepped into the small banquet hall. He paused for a moment to survey its occupants, then, removing his hood and ceremonially throwing back the cloak, he strolled to a small pedestal at the far end of the room.

“Seats,” a voice boomed.

The colonel waited to speak. There was no doubt about this man’s abilities. He commanded respect by his very demeanor. Respect earned through years of combat, his dress uniform resplendent with awards—a warrior, and what was more, a member of the Marked. Although the realization of what that truly meant—to be Marked—was not yet fully understood.

“Welcome to Camp Calder. I am Colonel Taylor, commander of this training and evaluation facility. In honor of your selection, the staff has prepared a wonderful feast, which I’m sure you’re all anxious to get to. But before you begin, I would like to take this opportunity to say just few words.”

Here we go
, thought Tommy.

“First, if during the course of your training, you are expecting me, or the members of my staff, to question your abilities or berate you with shouted insults—you’re in for a disappointment,” he continued. “You are, by definition, among the very best Humans serving in the Star Force today. For that, we honor, and by way of this invitation, acknowledge you.”

Tommy, although pleased, was feeling a bit confused. He had been through his share of military training, and there had always been a remarkably consistent theme. This was not it.

“Confused?” the Colonel asked. “Don’t be. The Marked is a unique fighting force, and as such, our training and evaluation techniques are no less—well…” Colonel Taylor took a moment to inspect the candidates. “Unique.”

All along the length of the ornate table, bewildered candidates gave one another suspicious glances.

“Your training will be intense, and yes, at times quite dangerous, but never arbitrarily abusive,” Taylor continued.

Tommy raised an eyebrow in guarded disbelief.

“You will be evaluated at least once a week and be tested normally once or twice a month. You will always know in advance both the nature and the requirements of both. Evaluations are not used to…” the Colonel paused and grinned. “I suppose the term is weed you out, but rather as a tool the staff can use to increase or modify your training regimen.”

“Doesn’t sound much like flight school,” Gary whispered leaning into Tommy.

“The officers seated in front of you will be your lead instructors—they are not the enemy,” Taylor continued.

Major Eldger smiled at Tommy.

“They will use these evaluations to ensure a candidate’s suitability and determine, to a degree, the likelihood of passing an upcoming test. Evaluations may be repeated or modified as needed, but always your lead will have to answer one question: is the candidate ready to safely undertake the next test? Failure to complete a test with a minimum required score will result in that individual, if he survives, being dropped from the program.”

“Survive?” Gary whispered.

The colonel again paused, moving his hands from behind his back. “It is not our intention that any should fail. Quite the contrary—we want all of you to become members of the Marked—that is, after all, why you were selected.”

This sounded good to Tommy, but that was what every school he had ever attended had said—everyone knew better.

Colonel Taylor then stepped off the pedestal and walked along behind the seated lead instructors before coming to a stop in the center of the room. “Sadly, this will not be the case.

I knew it
, Tommy thought.

“The tests are difficult and, well, many are extremely dangerous,“the colonel continued. As if to emphasize just how hazardous, he added, “I believe, indeed I am sure, that as competent as you all are, not one of you, without the intense training of this program, would survive, let alone pass, with a score required to wear the Mark.”

Tommy could feel the tension in the room as the colonel paused to let this last bit of cheery news sink in.

He went on, although his tone was not quite so solemn. “Now let me make one thing very, very clear. You may, at any time prior to the start of your final or graduation test, withdraw from the program without fear of stigma. Candidates that drop will be returned to their unit with only our gratitude. You are the best our worlds have to offer. Nothing you do here will be reflected in your record in a way that would indicate anything different. I give you my word.”

After another pause, the colonel continued, “We don’t use artificial physiological tricks to evaluate your ability to react to severe pressure here. We use a series of increasingly more difficult tests, culminating in a graduation exercise. And that test, once started, must be completed. At that point, you’ll either become Marked—or you will die in the effort.”

Surely, this is some kind of scare tactic
, thought Tommy and turned toward Gary, sure he would see a reassuring grin. But Gary was not smiling.

“Use this time tonight to get to know the primary instructor seated across from you. They will become a friend and mentor. As I said, they will be tracking your progress, administering evaluations, and making recommendations to the staff as to your readiness prior to each test,” the colonel said, waving a hand toward the seated officers who would act as leads.

“The staff has no authority to order you to withdraw, but they will encourage you to do so if they believe it is your best interest,” he said, then putting both hands on the back of the center chair. “In a class of twenty-four, on average, only eight of you will graduate. Eleven of you will drop, and five…” He paused. “Well, five of you will die,” the colonel said bluntly, and then waited a moment for the ensuing murmur to quiet down. “Remember—there is no shame in withdrawing. Not everyone is suitable for the Mark…”

With those words still reverberating throughout the hall, the colonel moved to the hatch. “Again, congratulations on your selection, and best of luck to you all.”

“All rise,” a voice commanded.

The group rose sharply and stood quietly as the colonel raised his right hand, spread his fingers, and revealed the sign of the Marked, which was illuminated under the skin of his palm. “For those that stayed,” he said.

“Let them be Marked!” the instructors, who had responded by flashing the sign of the Marked, shouted as the colonel left the room.

And after a couple of heartbeats.

“Seats!” the ranking lead instructor shouted.

Tommy sat but was unsure of what to do next, until Major Eldger shouted, “Let’s eat!”

With that statement, the hatch flew open and waiters laden down with platters of food scurried into the room. Candidates greeted instructors, and the hall erupted into celebration and laughter. Everyone, for now, put aside concerns that the colonel’s comments had generated.
Five will die, but not today
, Tommy thought and reached for a platter of roasted meat.

“Did you hear that sound?” Sloan asked, handing Tommy a basket of fresh warm bread.

“What sound?” Tommy asked, a waiter now filling up his goblet with a rich purple beverage.

Sloan looked directly into Tommy’s eyes. “The sound of the other shoe dropping…”

The next morning dawned clear and, Tommy suspected, very cold. However, a new dusting of powder made the area outside his window resemble a winter wonderland, the kind he remembered his mother reading about when he was a boy. A quick note to Remus, something for his pounding head—
What was that purple stuff?—
and he was off to breakfast. Although he wasn’t at all sure he would be able to eat.
Just as well,
he thought. His wristcomm said physical training.
They’ll probably have us running naked through knee-high snowdrifts before
lunch.

A few more minutes and he was in the dining facility. “Aren’t you guys going to eat?” Tommy said, standing behind Sloan and Gary. They were both seated, holding glasses of juice, but no food.

They both smiled. “Sit down, Thorn,” Sloan said and handed Tommy a menupad.

Tommy took the pad and slowly sat. “No chow line?” he asked.

“Not here, pal,” Gary said, just as a very attractive female brought his and Sloan’s food.

He was still scratching his head when a young man, dressed in the same kind of white jumper he had seen the night before, brought a pitcher and refilled their drinks.

“Will there be anything else, gentlemen?” the waiter asked.

“I’ll have whatever they’re having,” Tommy said.

The man nodded and left.

Both Gary and Sloan paused for a moment.

“Guys, please, don’t wait on me,” Tommy offered, then raised his glass.

The food looked delicious, and both men began eating. In his time with Star Force, indeed anytime, Tommy had never seen any place like Camp Calder. It really was for Humans only. The chairs, intensity of the lighting, fixtures in the head, even the food served was not made to be alien friendly.
There just aren’t any
compromises
, he thought.
This place truly is by Humans for ONLY Humans…

“Have you noticed that there are no Tarchein? In fact, I haven’t seen any aliens,” Tommy commented.

“The Marked is a Humans-only club, Tommy,” Gary said between bites.

“Yeah, I get that, but it’s got to be under Tarchein control,” Tommy responded.

“Everything is under Tarchein control.” Sloan looked up from his plate. “Doesn’t mean they have to have someone here on a permanent basis.”

“I guess,” Tommy said, looking around the hall. “Just seems weird is all.”

“You know the Tarchein, Tommy. You think any of them want to be assigned to a place with all these Humans—stuck out here in all this nature?” Gary asked, then shoveled in another large helping of food.

“No, I guess—”

“Here you are, Lieutenant,” a female hostess said, setting a plate of hot food in front of Tommy. “Will there be anything else?”

Tommy surveyed the table covered in fresh linen, plates full of food—including three different types of warm bread—fresh fruit, and large glasses, not tubes, of juice.

“Thank you, no. Everything looks great,” Tommy said.

The young woman bowed slightly and quietly moved away from the table.

Sloan pointed a fork, still full of food, at some of the staff as they scurried about the dining hall. “None of these people are Star Force.”

“I’ve noticed,” Gary said.

“Must be locals,” Tommy added.

Sloan laughed. “Are you kidding? Did you see any cities on our approach?”

Gary shook his head. “No, but maybe…”

“These people live here, rotate in every six months,” Sloan said.

“And you know this, how?” Tommy asked.

Sloan smiled between bites.

“That redhead,” Gary exclaimed.

“So many Human females, so little time,” Sloan said, then leaned back in his chair and tried to cover his smug grin by taking a long drink.

“You dog, Steel,” Gary said.

Sloan just laughed and, after finishing off his food, looked over at Tommy’s untouched plate. “You gonna…”

Tommy pushed the plate over toward Sloan. “You know we’ve got PT this morning,” he said.

Sloan stopped eating and laughed. “Come on, guys. Whatever they got planed, if you fleet types can get through it, then the Q can handle it standing on our heads,” he said and pointed a forkful of food at Tommy.

Gary and Tommy just shrugged. “We’ll see,” said Tommy, but he knew Sloan was right. Physical training was really stressed in the Corps and the Q.
Those guys are just plain
crazy,
he thought.

“You know who would have loved this?” Gary asked after a few minutes.

No one responded, but Tommy knew who Gary was thinking of.

“Bo,” he said and raised his half-full glass over the center of the table.

“A toast,” said Sloan.

All three raised their glasses as Sloan continued, “To three of four.”

“To three of four,” they all said and clanked their glasses.

“May we never have to fight her,” Tommy added.

“Here, here,” the other two said, and drained their drinks.

Bo again shifted her weight, wiggling into the Vandal’s seat in an effort to get comfortable, or at least find a position that was somewhat tolerable. She never thought she’d miss the formfitting energy absorbent material of the Rapier quite so much. And this helmet—it was hard to imagine that someone on her home world had designed it specifically for Drakins! Her old suit… Bo’s mind flashed to an image of Gary standing back at the Slate, so proud of his new flight gear, and she smiled at the memory, a rare occurrence these days.

It had been almost five months since Bo had been forced to flee the Renegade, leaving just days before Drake declared its intentions to separate from the Empire. She had found things on her home world a bit chaotic, but they had avoided, to date, a full-out invasion or worse, indiscriminate orbital retaliation.