Tommy Thorn Marked (35 page)

The fifth and final phase of the program was conducted entirely at Camp Calder. Classes continued pretty much as they always had, although now at a frenzied pace. These included a variety of new hand-to-hand combat techniques, and the seemingly never-ending behavior modification classes at the hands of the wizards. But Phase V training included something new: field excursions into the cold, harsh, unforgiving environment of Luna–tae.

These trips to the majestic nearby ranges were confined primarily to developing a level of proficiency in mountaineering and cold-weather survival techniques. Skills that, acquired while climbing the towering obelisk-shaped mountains, would no doubt be required for the final and most difficult trial of the program.

Initially, members of the Warrior Corps, with their extensive combat and survival training, had a slight advantage. But the program was never meant to be competitive. “We desire that each and every one of you earn the Mark,” the colonel had said. And now, so close to achieving their goal, the final thirteen began to pull together as never before. A tremendous feeling of brotherhood, already present to an extent, really began to grow. Maybe it was the absence of aliens and the constant depletion of their numbers, or maybe it was just the nature of these fighting men, Marked candidates, that had fostered and solidified the closeness of what remained of Class 13-47. Whatever the reason, Tommy could feel it like never before, a we’re-all-in-this-together kind of philosophy, even though it had been made abundantly clear that the Phase V test, like all test, would be done alone.

Once in the field under helpful supervision, he and the other non-ground-force guys had quickly adapted to operating in the lightly armored, fully heated combat suits, which included a piton blaster, used along with a handful of specialized equipment for scaling the giant cliff faces.

The piton blaster was a small, lightweight, pistol-type device used to shoot pitons loaded with prethreaded spiderwire into even the hardest of surfaces, like the smooth, towering, frozen mountains of Luna–tae. Once the piton had been imbedded, the climber, through his or her integrated suit harness, was automatically attached to the cliff, although it had taken a good deal of time for Tommy to get used to hanging thousands of feet off the ground, suspended only by the thin wire. But Eldger had been reassuring. “Even a shuttle could be dangled from a single piece of the black spiderwire without fear of it breaking,” he said, something for Tommy to ponder while suspended from the copper-colored featureless cliff face next to Gary and Sloan.

“It’s not the fall that will kill ya.” Gary’s voice was clear over Tommy’s helmet.

Tommy, suspended in a kind of harness cradle that he had woven into place with spiderwire, was busy using his tongue in an effort to corral the straw next to his mic. He needed something to eat, and for now a nutrient-enhanced liquid dinner would have to do.

“It’s the quick stop at the bottom,” Gary continued. He too had rigged a harness and was secured for the night.

Tommy could hear Sloan’s laughter, positional cues in his helmet’s comm system directing his gaze toward his friend’s relative location. “You better button up, Steel,” Tommy said, looking up at Sloan.

Sloan, like all the others, had settled into his sling, but unlike most his faceplate was open, white clouds of freezing breath bellowing out as he hurriedly shoveled meat wafers into his mouth.

The air, even at these altitudes, was quite breathable, but opening one’s faceplate to the subzero temperatures invited disaster. It wouldn’t take long for the frigid air to overwork a suit’s environmental control system, or at the very least drastically reduce the life of the battery pack. Sloan finished stuffing the last of the wafer into his mouth and slapped at his helmet’s latching device, which lowered and sealed his frozen faceplate.

Tommy breathed a sigh of relief. They had been told stories of frozen faceplates that refused to close, or if they did close, would refuse to seal. Either case would result in the same tragic ending—freezing to death! Perched here, thousands of feet above the glacier, God only knew how far from Calder, Sloan would have surely frozen to death and for what? A meat wafer!
And I bet it was frozen at that
, thought Tommy, although he knew that it wasn’t about the wafer. Sloan was always pushing at the edge, always testing himself. That being said, a meat wafer, even a frozen one, sounded pretty good after two days of nothing but purple goo.

“That was delicious,” Sloan said, making sure all could hear his chewing.

Tommy could not see his broad grin through the as-yet-unfrosted faceplate, but he knew it was there.

“Guys, go to preset Alpha,” Sloan continued.

Alpha was a private communication channel the three had come up with before their first deployment. It would allow them to chat privately.

“How’s it hanging, Gary?” Sloan asked once they had all switched over.

“Funny, Steel, I didn’t think Imps had a sense of humor,” Gary jabbed.

Tommy wished he could have seen Sloan’s reaction. Both he and Gary had noticed that Sloan had started growing his hair out, but neither had wanted to comment.

“So you guys did notice,” Sloan said and then paused. “I’m beginning to like the look. Besides, it was time for a change.”

“You mean time to look Human,” Gary replied.

“Maybe you’re right, Cruiser,” Sloan said.

It was one of the few times Tommy could remember Sloan being serious. Maybe it was the fact that they were having a conversation while dangling from a ledge, suspended almost a mile over a frozen alien planet, he thought as he watched the last blades of light dance over and illuminate the copper-colored peaks before silently slipping out of sight.

“Hey, have you guys noticed how the staff have started avoiding us?” Gary asked.

It wasn’t that the staff were mean or abusive. It was just, well, they were strictly forbidden to talk about the last trial. Plus it just didn’t seem like they wanted to get too close. After all, Class 13-47 still had a ways to go before, or if ever, getting their Marks.

After a long couple of silent minutes, Sloan spoke up. “I hear the last test isn’t that bad.”

Tommy and Gary said nothing.

“I knew a guy at the Q,” Sloan added quietly, although only they could hear, “He dropped during the fourth phase.”

“Have any useful information about the last test?” Gary asked eagerly, speaking softly as well.

“Not much, but he did say it was all about the mountain training,” Sloan continued.

Gary adjusted his position, trying to get comfortable in his sling. “Come on, Sloan, I think we already figured that much out.”

“And we know it happens on world,” Tommy added.

“Okay,” Sloan spoke up. “He also said you better understand the max range of the piton blaster.”

“Piton blaster,” Gary mused.

What did he mean by that?
Tommy knew the thing had a decent range, but at most he had been only a few feet away from the rock when he had used it.

“Piton blaster range,” Tommy said, his face scrunching up. “What the heck does that have to do with anything?”

“Do you think we’ll have to use it as a weapon?” Gary asked.

There were, after all, a number of very dangerous predators living in and around these mountains.

“Don’t know, wouldn’t give any more details,” Sloan said.

“So?” Tommy asked.

“So what?” Sloan asked in between gulps of the purple stuff.

“So, what’s the range?” both Tommy and Gary shouted in unison.

“It’s about fifty feet, depending on the angle and the rock you’re trying to penetrate,” Sloan casually responded.

Tommy, for a moment, forgot that he was talking into a helmet mic—completely isolated from his friends.

“Fifty feet,” Gary said. “I would have never guessed.”

“Tested it myself,” Sloan added.

“Say,” Tommy asked, “If he dropped, how does he know about Phase V?”

“He had a good friend that made it, didn’t think it would hurt to tell him. I guess he was trying to make him feel better—like the guy had done the right thing,” Sloan said.

“Was your friend a loser or what?” Gary asked.

“Did he say why he dropped?” Tommy added quickly.

Sloan hesitated. “This guy is no loser, Cruiser. He was one of the best warriors I ever fought with. I mean, this guy is tough—and smart as a whip.”

Tommy knew this had to be true, or he would not have been invited to join.

Sloan continued, “After getting through the third phase, it was the Grinder that got him.” He paused. “He said trying to be Marked just wasn’t worth dying for…”

“The Pipe,” Tommy said, not really meaning to say it out loud.

“Took a lot of guts to admit that, I guess,” Gary said, looking up at Tommy’s back, partially covered by the harness. He and Tommy had spoken candidly about their time in the little tube on several occasions.

But Tommy knew, as they all most certainly did, quitting would be a tough thing to bear. Courage or just stupidity—risk death for what? Why? These questions had to answered almost daily. For some, the answer was: No, this is just not worth the risk. Tommy, naturally, had given this a great deal of thought.
There is no greatness without risk; everyone dies.

Minutes passed. The three, now hanging in total darkness, could hear the howls of giant glacier wolves from somewhere far below.

“Hey, Tommy,” Gary finally spoke up.

“Yeah, Cruise.”

“Why were you late getting on the shuttle the day we left the Renegade?”

Tommy took a while to answer, thinking how strange it was that Gary had not mentioned it until now.

“I just wasn’t sure if I was ready for the change. I liked being a fighter pilot, commanding a squadron, and I had doubts about any organization that restricted membership based on race, even if it was the Human race.” Tommy paused. “I like being the son of Remus, guys—and a citizen of Tarchein.”

It was suddenly very peaceful there in his suit, the gentle whirl of the integrated fans, the sound of his easy breathing.

“Being a member of the Mark won’t affect that, Tommy,” Gary said.

Sloan tightened his lips behind his now-clear faceplate and even though he was pretty sure things would, in fact, be very different, said nothing.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right, it’s just—”

“What made you finally decide to come along then?” Gary interrupted.

“You guys,” Tommy responded quickly. “I didn’t want to be left behind.”

Tommy knew that wasn’t the only reason, but it was partially true.

“I knew it,” Gary said with a dry laugh.

“Right, I just think you wanted to make sure you always had somebody around that could save your ass,” Sloan added, then laughed.

Tommy yawned. “Guess you’re right, Sloan.”

“Hold me, Steel.” Gary raised his voice and did his best impression of a female swoon.

Tommy smiled behind his faceplate, changed his comm channel back to standard, and as large flakes of snow started to fall, adjusted his suit temperature and drifted off to sleep.

Captain Maco had been in an unconscious state for almost three months while the best surgeons in the Empire worked to save his life—apparently successfully as the young Tarchein finally stirred and opened his remaining eye.

He did not know how he got here, did not even know where here was. The last thing he remembered was being in the cockpit of his Starbird. He was chasing—no, his squadron was pursuing something, a ship. Must destroy this ship! But then… By the Empress, it’s huge! Must get away. But there was a T-dart suddenly filling up his canopy. We’re going to collide! Stupid Human! The last dreadful image caused him to jerk upright, only to bounce off a thin, curved acrylic lid just inches over his head. His was confined inside some kind of tube, and why could he only see out of one eye? Panic began to grow in his belly, when suddenly he saw his father’s face, General Ethos.

“Lie still, son,” the general said in a soothing tone. “You were in an accident. Do you remember?”

Maco looked up, his one good eye and mouth the only part of his face not covered in bandages, and nodded.

“Good,” the general continued. “You were badly hurt, but you’re going to be fine.”

“How long?” Maco asked, realizing for the first time that his arms were restrained.

“You’ve been here for almost three standard months, son,” the general said, ignoring his movements within the biotube.

“When can I get out of this thing?” Maco asked, still twisting his hand against the restraints.

“Soon, but you need to rest and recover,” Ethos said and turned away for a moment, unable to look into what was left of his son’s face—now full of the terrible revelation.

He did not have a left arm; at least there was nothing below the elbow.
And
my left eye?

“The eye is gone too, Maco.” The general answered, though Maco had said nothing.

They were both silent for long moments before Ethos answered another unspoken question. “Your time as a pilot is at an end. You’ll never fly fighters again.”

Maco’s bloodshot eye blazed with hatred. “A Human slammed into me, didn’t he, Father?”

The general nodded.

A filthy Herfer flying a T-dart, I remember now. We were ordered to bring down this alien ship. It was cloaked, but a Princess was giving us vectors.” Maco paused to cough and catch his breath.

“Take it easy, son,” Ethos said.

“The thing was huge, sir, the biggest ship I’ve ever seen, but it was too late, and we broke off.” Maco’s eye searched the ceiling of the medical facility as if looking for something. “But the Herfer in the T-dart panicked.” Maco’s lip curled.

“I know, son, we reviewed the data. The Human pilot was killed in the collision. There was nothing you could have done,” Ethos added.

Maco clenched and unclenched his one good hand. “Damn Herfers,” he said quietly.

The general waited before he spoke. “You’ll get a new arm, Maco, and a prosthetic eye. It’ll take some getting used to, but—“

“I don’t want a new eye!” Maco yelled. “I want to remember what the Humans have done—I want vengeance!”