Free Tommy Thorn Marked by D. E. Kinney Page A

late hit—but Gary had. He jumped up, already out of his goalie pads, and jetted toward Maco, now floating upright, sinister snarl on his thin lips, admiring his handiwork.
    Now, as previously noted, Gary was not the best of flyers, but he needed only to fly straight, his intended target being completely unaware of his approach. Maco saw the big Human only a split second before impact—his look instantly turning from a satisfied grin to one of horrified surprise—and WHAM!
    Maco flew back from the tremendous impact, but Gary held on, pounding the now witless Tarchein as they both tumbled end over end across the center of the arena. The cheering crowd, gradually becoming aware of the beating, now fell silent as both teams rush to aid their comrades, and a weightless, many times comical, brawl ensued.
    Tommy awoke in the medical bay, ribs aching, surrounded by Bo, Sloan, Ram, Socks, and Remus. He tried to smile.
    “Some finish.” He winced.
    “Great game, Tommy,” Remus said and put his hand on the boy’s arm.
    Sloan nodded from the other side of the bed as Bo put a hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
    “Like I was hit by a hover tank,” Tommy said. “But I think I’ll survive.”
    “You really got ’em with that pass, Tommy,” Ramky said.
    Tommy shook off the compliment and looked over toward Socks. “It was your shot. I’ve never seen better, and the way you got open!”
    “Well—” Socks started
    “Hey, where’s Gary? Still celebrating?” Tommy asked, looking around the room.
    Everyone looked to Remus, who after a pause said, “He’s in the brig, Tommy.”
    Well, so much for the Trilight break. Tommy spent it recovering in a bed next to Maco, and Gary stayed locked up until a court could convene, which was three days into the start of classes.
    Maco’s dad, the general, made an impassioned plea for expulsion. But after reviewing the game tape, cooler heads prevailed and Gary was put on probation, given extra duty for three months, and not allowed leave for the rest of that second year.
    By the time their third year rolled around, all seemed forgotten. Although Gary and Maco took every opportunity to cast disparaging glances at each other, no further combat ever materialized. Tommy was sure that Maco suspected what they all knew: if there were a next time, Gary would most likely beat him to death.
    General Ethos, however, never forgave—or forgot…

    The third year at the Academy was arguably everyone’s best year. Third-years were never bothered with what seemed to be endless hazing by upperclassmen, and they had not yet been burdened with the responsibilities of class leadership, as all four-stripes were.
    Gone too were the intro-level classes, replaced with practical applications and simulations.
    “Mr. Magnus.” The Tarchein warfare strategy instructor looked past his nose holes at the distracted Farsee. “Mr. Magnus,” Lieutenant Anton repeated, this time with more conviction.
    Mags looked from the battle sphere as Anton froze the simulation.
    The warfare strategy simulation room, dimly illuminated by individual battle spheres, could hold twenty-four pairs of combatants. Each pair stood, hands gripping control paddles, on either side of a circular console. Just above each console’s shallow, bowl-like base was a twelve-foot-diameter projection, which encompassed a particular tactical situation: moon, planet, or in this case, a section of space.
    Today Mags was up against Bo, who had maneuvered her simulated battle group into a position of superiority from which he would never recover. Although his red forces would probably languish for the majority of the class period, victory for Bo’s blue force was already ensured—and Anton knew it.
    “Yes, sir,” Mags finally responded.
    “I’m curious Mr. Magnus. Why would you sacrifice your missile frigates in this way?” The instructor walked into the middle of the simulation and highlighted a pair of red starships positioned