Prologue
Gamma Centuri system, planet Carpacy, ONI Section Three research and medical centre, 2511, 4th April, 1200 hours
"Hello, Gunnery Sergeant Foster. It's been a hell of a long time," said a sickeningly familiar voice through the darkness of his eyelids. They were illuminated red by some strong, glaring light shining on his body. He was lying on a somewhat hard bed, and he could not move his limbs. They must be shackled.
He opened his eyes, but immediately regretted it. The image he caught in the instant in which he was not overwhelmed with pain showed him a domed, white room, bathed in high-intensity lights. Sterilized tabletops glinted with surgical tools and syringes, and monitors around his bed displayed his vitals. His pulse spiked.
"Easy, Michael. You've had a rough day." This was another man, with a much kinder voice. "I apologize for your lack of feeling in your extremities. It's a side-affect for the anaesthetic we administered after the accident. Your control will return."
"Where am I," he choked dopily through the painkiller. "What happened?"
"Of course you don't remember. You were a victim of a reactor malfunction aboard the Orienteer."
Something wasn't right here. The man's voice was too kind, and the other… why would he be here? They hadn't seen each other in years. That man was classified MIA last he'd checked.
"I suppose that's a side affect of the anaesthetic as well?"
The kind man, who he presumed to be a physician by his long white coat and pager, smiled, wrote something down on a metal clipboard, and looked back at him. "There's really never been a sufficient replacement for the good old pen and paper, don't you agree, Mr. Foster?"
"Doctor, why. am. I. here?" He accented every syllable, demanding more than asking this time.
"You're a bright man, aren't you, Sergeant Foster?" He patted Foster's hand unhelpfully. "That's good. You'll do good."
He muttered something to the other man, then turned and a door opened seamlessly to admit him to what looked like a control room, and closed with a sharp hiss.
"You're here because you were selected to be here, Michael. You're special, one of a few who will become an elite corps of warriors. You will fight the Insurrection like no other, and be the best."
"Don't call me by my first name, you bastard! Don't assume that we're still best pals."
The man tilted his head curiously. "Alright, we'll play it your way, Sergeant. I'm Spartan X001. You're here to become like me, like my brothers in arms. You'll become a Spartan."
"And a pawn of Lord Caster?" he said incredulously. "Never. I won't agree to this operation."
"You have no choice, Foster. They chose you. There was nothing I could do."
"Bullshit. Get me out of this and you'll have your choice."
X001 bowed his head in regret. "I'm sorry. That would be desertion, punishable by death. This operation… It takes away your will to act, your humanity. I'm afraid that I can't say you'll be alright. Good bye, Michael."
"You son of a bitch!" His plea was on deaf ears as his long lost friend exited the room, and nodded before the door shut him out.
Foster twitched, screamed, and attempted to kick out of his neural restraints, but the blockage was complete. The bed tilted backwards until Foster was lying on his back, and he felt needles pierce his skin everywhere. The next thing he saw were the lit undersides of his eyelids, and he was out.
We all die sooner or later. My fate was sooner. I live in a time of war, but I never thought that I lived by corrupt principles. By time of reckoning is now, the day I lose my humanity to the machine of war.
