-Chapter 2-
Tough Decisions
February 11, 2535
2100 Hours JC Standard Time
Things had begun to rapidly change a few days ago, on February 8th.
It was evident early on that morning. Multiple ships had broken through the atmospheric layer above. No more than ten, most of them sporting the trident arrow insignia of the Jericho Planetary Guard, while a few had the Eagle, Globe and Banner of the UNSC. Sporting the insignias, as well as vicious burn marks, gashes in the hull, and scratches that looked as though some giant ethereal monster had clawed at the vessels. All that morning, nothing could be heard but the constant and powerful hum of starship engines. They'd been settling into the spaceport, like birds falling into a nest.
But that hadn't been all.
The military activity had ramped up to a maddening degree. More than a few hundred pelicans had dispersed from inner Damask City toward the frontline. Pelicans, Albatrosses, Vultures and whatever else was in the military's aerial arsenal. A convoy headed out from the city as well, spearing straight through the main road that connected the outlying civilian billeting blocks to the north. As though a new frontline had opened up. And that convoy had lasted the entire day. Thousands of reserves... Warthogs, M400 Kodiak Artillery Platforms, M650 Mastodon APCs, Wolverine AA vehicles, the legendary and intrepid Scorpion tanks, Guardsmen and UNSC Marines alike, as well as the black-armored ones people referred to as 'Helljumpers'. By the time the convoy finished, Inner Damask City had been almost entirely empty of its military presence.
Rumors had ran wild. Some speculated that the Covenant ground forces had dug a tunnel to flank Damask. Others said that ground was being gained - that the Covenant were up against the ropes; the JPG and UNSC were conducting a mass offensive to wipe out the Covenant once and for all. Less appreciated were the reports that a new Covenant armada was about to attack the planet. Bigger than any that'd come before it, with enough firepower to incinerate the entire planet.
That last theory proved to be true on the following morning, around 0300 hours February 9th, after the convoy had finally made it out of Damask. 0300 was when the alerts came - every datapad in Damask got the demand to expedite to the Spaceport for immediate evacuation, regardless of sign-up status for the Resettlement Program. That wasn't the bad part, though.
What made it rough was the alert's heading... The JPG made it clear that space was limited, and that priority would be given to everyone 18 years old and younger. For everyone else, it would be first-come first-serve. Ostensibly, that is. In reality, it was about who had the credits to pay for quicker processing. Who had the money to buy their way onboard, essentially. So the ensuing panic was palpable. Corporeal and very physical. Violent and desperate. Damask itself was a territory encompassing more than 30,000 square miles, with Damask City accounting for nearly half of that. There were more than a million people trying to escape the place on ships that could hold only a precious few.
By February 11th, the JPG had finally finished processing its evacuees. A large number. But there were both too many, and not nearly enough. The youth made up the overwhelming bulk of that evacuee number, the children and teenagers ultimately being separated from their parents in a manner born out of noble intention, but cruel in its application.
Saint was one of that number.
He didn't even fully understand what was happening. Not entirely. All he knew was that they'd left the planet. And that he wanted to see his mom soon. As did Jamie and Owen.
"Where're they taking us?" Jamie asked.
"I don't know. I'm scared," Owen answered.
"Shhh. Stop talking so much. Listen," Saint told them.
They were packed into a giant crowd of other kids of varying ages. Standing like a bunch of fans at a concert. Except at this concert, a group of UNSC officers were on stage. And no music was being played. One of the officers stepped forward. He was about the age of Saint's dad, but taller. Bruises covered him and his torn uniform, and a plethora of bandages were wrapped around his head.
"I'm Captain Brennard Joshua Shepard, commander of this vessel, the UNSC Fight and Flight, and acting commander of..." The man didn't finish whatever he was about to say. He just swallowed and looked down for a moment, an apparent weariness in his eyes.
"We know this is... Weird, for all of you. Hard," he started. Saint didn't like the look of the guy. All Saint wanted was his mom and dad back. "Some of you are too young to really understand what's happening. Know this: to keep you all safe, we're taking you to the inner-colonies. To the Solar System, the heart of our species and ancestral home. You'll get to see the Jovian Moons, and Mars... Luna... The Solar Habitats. All those cool places they've been teaching you in school. Even Earth, where we all come from. You'll see the Home Fleet. They're protecting the Solar System, and it's the coolest and safest place in the galaxy.
"Now, let me be upfront with you. You won't see your parents or guardians again; I'm sorry. We did our best. A lot of people fought and died, just for the chance to protect you. If we could have gotten everyone, we would have. I would like to tell you that our military will beat the Covenant. That the UNSC and the Guard forces remaining in the system will win, and you'll be able to return home to see your friends and family again. But I won't lie to you. It's not looking good, and the Covenant are stronger than us.
"What I will tell you is this: the War is not over. Far from it. The people we've lost... The sacrifices we've made... It's all for a reason, and that reason is victory. That reason is tomorrow, so that we will have a future where the Covenant can't hurt us anymore. When we reach the Solar System, those of you who are old enough will be asked to enlist. And though it's by no means expected of you, I hope that you choose to do so. Humanity needs you. Needs every single one of you. So that situations like this... Like what you have had to go through, never happens again.
"Regardless of your choice, know that you are important to the UNSC, all of you. You will be provided for - I will assure it myself. In the meantime, I want all of you to relax and get some rest. The last few days have been difficult on us all."
The captain coughed and shifted on his feet. He looked as though he were about to collapse from exhaustion. Bags hung underneath swollen eyelids. His shoulders slumped, his stance slightly bent.
"Deckhands will escort you to your billeting area. We'll be making a jump soon. Once in slipspace, you'll be allowed to visit the cafeteria. Explore the vessel, see what it's like inside a UNSC Destroyer... Just don't, uh, touch anything important."
The Captain smiled. With that, he nodded once before saluting the assembly, and then walked off the raised platform with the other officers. Saint couldn't tell where they went. They disappeared into a throng of people, and Saint was nowhere near tall enough to see over all the heads and bodies blocking his view.
The crowd broke back into a loud and undisciplined raucous. Saint could barely hear his own thoughts. The only thing that made sense was the big doorway opening on the far end of the room, where everyone seemed to be heading through. But Saint couldn't quite get a good look at it. He tapped Owen on the arm and pointed.
"Look!"
"Is that where we're supposed to go? Gimme a boost!"
"Hold on," Saint said as he kneeled and cupped his hands together. Owen stepped into his hands and lifted off the deck. "Hurry, dummy-head!"
Owen finally got back down. "Looks kinda sussspisheeous."
"Maybe we can find the Captain in there and ask him where our moms are. "
Jamie crossed his arms. Frowned. "Why didn't they just keep fightin' the aliens?"
"What?"
"He said there're still people on Jericho fighting. Why can't we stay and fight with them? Why're we running?"
Saint shrugged. All he knew was that he was hungry, and he needed to find his mom. "Come on, Jamie. We gotta find the Captain."
"Stupid UNSC." Jamie was still visibly angry. But he finally capitulated. They held hands as they prodded their way through the thick crowd towards that doorway.
Captain Bren J. Shepard nearly fell. Would've.
"Whoa - sir!" Lieutenant Crest caught him like someone trying to keep a bookshelf from falling.
"Wait. Gimme a second," Bren told him, taking a moment to gather his wits and rub at his forehead.
"You need to lay down, sir."
"I need... a Sweet William."
Crest looked unconvinced. Looked a bit disappointed. But he sighed, then reached into a breast pocket and pulled out a metal case. He opened it, revealing two Sweet William cigars remaining. Pulled them both out and handed one to Bren.
"Didn't know you smoked 'em, Lieutenant," Bren said, with a slight bow as way of thanks.
"I didn't. Not before this FUBAR operation." Crest put his own cigar up to his lips and lit it, then lit Bren's. They both stepped back in the hall, leaning on either side of it facing each other. Spent a minute there in silence, puffing on their cigars and thinking.
"Permission to speak candidly, sir?"
Bren scoffed. "What d'you think, Crest?"
Crest nodded. "Fair enough. Look - this operation to save Jericho VII was busted from the get-go. Admiral Cole didn't even need to tell 'em so for that to be obvious. And I've never seen them subvert Cole's advice. Hell, they fuckin' implemented his Protocol as law! He is the UNSC."
"HIGHCOM wanted a victory," Bren shrugged. "Wanted to know that we could still successfully repel the Covenant. Defend even the outer-colonies. Not such a bad idea, given the slips in public morale."
"That's horseshit, Captain. And you know it."
Bren didn't say anything. He looked off to one side. Glanced down a long hallway filled with flickering overhead lights, and the melancholic emptiness of post-battle reality. Like the ship itself were trying to come to grips with its undeserved survival.
He looked back at Crest. "Didn't want to overwhelm the Resettlement Program. Trinity II was glassed last year. The Chopera Habitat Systems were wiped out, too. That's more than a few billion refugees to relocate and find jobs for. Add to that the ones we've been taking out of Jericho since '32... That's a lotta people."
"That's also bullshit. UNSC alone'll never run out of work needing to be done. Military or civil-service. Not to mention the manufactory and mining ops going on. Hell, we're understaffed, and the Solar Belt cylinders alone can hold three times more people than what we have in the Program."
Bren agreed. Crest was referring to the Solar System's O'neill cylinder space habitats. There were many of them, each one capable of housing several million on its own. There was no such thing as having too much manpower for the UEG.
But he couldn't say that. Not quite, not yet. He had to choose his next words carefully.
He took a long drag on his cigar. "What're you getting at?"
Crest took his own drag. Let out a fat wad of smoke. "You're smart; you know. We got shafted by a certain someone."
Bren looked back down the hall. Couldn't let the conversation head in the direction it was going. "Word of advice, Crest? Steer clear of any questions and concerns where ONI is involved. And definitely steer clear when the name James Ackerson starts popping up." He looked back at Crest, looking him straight in the eyes. "You hear me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Don't go to anybody else about this. Not anyone outside the fleet. Let the Admiral deal with it."
"But why, though? I don't get it."
There was a stretch of silence as Bren pondered an answer. He puffed his cigar, then pointed a finger toward the ceiling. "The higher up you go in the officer ranks, the more abstract your responsibilities get. The more abstract your power gets, the more... Indirect, your control of military assets are. The more political your job becomes.
"The Covenant, the URF, the Innies, waging those wars - those are all largely a concern for the enlisted and lower-ranking officers. But when you're nearing the top, your concerns begin to shift inward. Your battles, duties and goals are an internal matter; as far as waging warfare goes, you delegate that to the people below you, while you focus on the chief task of operating, managing and directing the UNSC itself. You go from being 'us', to the point where you become 'them'.
"And your approaches, ideas, your goals, are going to conflict with others. You'll have enemies of the human-and-UNSC variety. And the first rule of warfare is to defeat your enemy."
"Are you saying Colonel Ackerson is enemies with Admiral Cole?"
"I'm not saying anything." Down the hall, an engineer came running, toting a pair of toolboxes filled with various items. He snapped a quick salute. Bren returned it, then waited while the man passed on. Then he added, "I suggest you don't say anything either, Lieutenant. Now, excuse me."
With that, Bren did another slight bow and headed towards his personal quarters. Rubbed at his brow yet again. The last thing he wanted was for Crest to start poking around with HIGHCOM and ONI mess. But he couldn't blame the lieutenant for being upset.
This had been one of the worst weeks in Bren's whole career. Battlegroup Mastodon - which Cole had entrusted to him after Rear Admiral Kircheis's untimely death - was effectively destroyed. Nearly a year of combat, with nothing left to show for it but a small few broken ships. None of which were in fighting condition anymore, and all of which had sustained severe casualties. Worse yet, Bren was running. That was the truth. Hamrick had requested Bren lead the evacuation fleet to try and get as many people out as possible, but Bren couldn't help feeling that he'd left the man behind. Left behind Hamrick, a weakened JPG, and a number of UNSC assets.
Including the Resolute and its 'ghost' unit of special operators.
Cowardice. Cowardice and failure. He couldn't face the Admiral. Not like this, not with just a few pieces of Mastodon and a glassed Jericho VII.
And more than a few thousand kids. Another wave of nausea overcame Bren. He'd taken the kids from their families. As many as could be found. In a rushed, ad hoc heuristic decision that he was only now coming to grips with. Bren was in charge; he'd made the call to evac as many of them as possible. And so they were now, effectively, his responsibility. Unaccompanied minors and babies and toddlers and teenagers. Bren was going to pull up to Sol with a few battered ships, a few battered servicemembers, a report that Jericho VII was lost, and a whole lot of orphans with no legal guardians.
"FUCK!" He lashed out and punched the nearby bulkhead. Growled in his throat like an animal. Punched the bulkhead until the skin of his knuckles peeled and bled.
Bren should've died in the battle. He should have died in combat, long before that final decisive engagement against the Covenant flotilla. He had half a mind to order the evac fleet to turn around. Drop the civilians off, and order every remaining vessel under his command to charge full-speed for ramming attacks. There was no such thing as a weaponless starship, and Bren had more than enough mass to take out at least a couple of the alien bastards.
Couldn't do that, though. It'd be against the law; both legal and ethical. He'd made his decision and was now committed. And he still had a family.
Bren snubbed his cigar out just before entering his quarters.
"Nighthaunter."
"Yours to command, thy Captain." Nighthaunter's voice filled the room as though someone had left a radio broadcast on max volume.
"How are we holding up?"
"We will make it to Sol, of that there is no doubt. Jump is in 15 minutes. Yet once there, Fight and Flight will need extensive repair and rearmament. I suspect it will be many months before the ship is combat-ready again. Bravo-6 will require a debrief of Operation: STEADFAST. You'll likely be sidelined for the foreseeable future; at least, until you receive orders from Vice Admiral Preston Cole. His campaign in the Leonis Majoris systems might require you... In which case, you'll be reassigned. This is all, of course, assuming you don't get promoted."
"Promoted? Heh, right. God, I hope not," Bren said as he sat down in front of his mirror. He still couldn't stand to look at himself. But he did take off his shoes.
"Whatever the case, I don't suspect we'll be seeing much of each other once we arrive."
"Eh. Guess I'll miss your... Healthy doses of pessimism and nihilism."
"And I your charming attempts to scare me in battle. Though I must say, I didn't think any of us would survive that last engagement. You relied heavily on theory and chance."
"Hm. Keep me posted, Nighthaunter."
"Understood."
Bren spent the next couple minutes in silence. He reached across the stand and picked up an open bottle of Hiskellian Curated Silgnac brandy. Slid his single glass over and poured it to halfway. It was a pristine silver-blue liquid, and he downed the half-glass in one greedy go. It felt like pouring tendrils of sweetened velvet ice down his throat. Made his whole head, throat and chest feel as though he'd been dipped in a tub of ice-cold marbles.
His head slumped forward. Blackness clouded the edge of this vision... He fell asleep right there on the spot.
Some time later, he was roused from the sound of footsteps outside his door. Muffled talking. He didn't think anything of it at first, and proceeded to down another half-glass of the Silgnac and rub at his stiff neck. Then there was a soft tap. Too soft to really be a knock, he figured. But the muffled talking only kept up.
"...The hell is that?"
Saint should've told Owen and Jamie to stay behind. They'd been slowing him down ever since leaving the auditorium room. Neither of them were good at keeping quiet, and neither of them knew how to stay hidden. As a result, Saint had basically been forced to hold their hands as the trio slipped away from the main crowd. And he'd had to figure out how to find the Captain without their help. The losers.
"He's gonna shoot you, idiot," Owen said with a note of worry.
"No he ain't," Saint responded. "He ain't even have a gun back then, dummy-head."
"Yes he did, cuz," Jamie jumped in.
"Didn't he, Jamie!?"
Saint turned to him. "No he didn't! I saw him!"
"I knew you were gonna get me killt!" Owen started panicking. "I don't wanna die!"
This was going badly. Saint had to think of something. Because now, he wasn't so sure about the gun. If Jamie was right, then the Captain would probably shoot them for sneaking off. Beat them up and put them in timeout. He pointed at Jamie. "Alright, holmes - open the door, I'll back you up."
"Why me? You do it."
"But I'm the leader."
"So?"
"The leader has to stay back and... Uh... Watch out for stuff. Like how Overlord Ziborg did when he beat up Dwarkaman."
"I get to be Ziborg though. I got the shirt still. You Dwarkaman."
Saint frowned. He wanted to curse. This was going really bad, and at this rate, he'd never find his mom. "Owen?"
Owen just crossed his arms and turned away. Scooted over to the lefthand side of the door. Jamie backed up and scooted off to the righthand side.
"Both of y'all suck," Saint said, then he finally knocked on the door. Lightly, too, with a trembling hand. Try as he might, Saint was scared. He was just trying not to show it.
"You gotta knock harder than that," Jamie said.
"You do it then."
"Nope. He's gonna shoot you, not me."
Saint had to come up with something. Then, it finally hit him. "Rock, paper, scissors, Owen. Double-dare you."
Owen had no choice but to play. Even he couldn't back away from that challenge. But even better, Saint knew just how to beat Owen at the game. Owen always went paper first, then on a draw, would go to rock.
Owen sighed. "Ohkay."
The game went exactly as Saint had predicted. "Ha! Your turn!"
But just then, the door slid open. Standing in the doorway was the Captain. Saint, Owen and Jamie all instinctively backed up several steps, their eyes gigantic and wide in their heads. All of them silent.
"Shouldn't you... What are you doing here?" The Captain asked. His brow furrowed into annoyance.
Uh-oh. "Uh..." Saint started. The man had a cut above his left eyebrow, and a hard face that looked deadly serious.
He scared Saint. But Saint had come too far to turn back now. "Tell me where my mom is!"
Two Years Later
August 28, 2537
0730 Hours AEST
Sydney, Commonwealth of Australia, Earth
HIGHCOM Facility Bravo-6 'The Hive'
The room contained so much brass - so many medals and ribbons and stiff collars and balding hairlines - that it was suffocating. And it smelled of disinfectant. Smelled like the dentist's office. Except with a hint of mint; like someone might've sprayed something about 10 minutes ago that was still lingering.
Rear Admiral Bren J. Shepard didn't like it. He wasn't even entirely sure why the Hive had summoned him. The orders had been covered in so much black ink that he could only assume ONI had something to do with it. And that assumption was starting to look plainly certain. Several ONI officers had filtered in through the giant double-doors over the past few minutes. All of them Beta-5. They all had that same look. Short hair, thin and slender builds, curt movements, and distant eyes. Aside from them, there were a few other officers from more specialized branches. NAVSPECWEP, Special Warfare Group Three, Special Tasks and Reconnaissance Group, and the Expeditionary Space Warfare and Operations Command, usually abbreviated as ESWOC.
So Bren was out of his element. Totally. He didn't do the special stuff. He didn't do much of anything on the frontlines these days. The only person he recognized - someone he hadn't seen since his days at the Academy - was Vice Admiral Terrence Hood.
The Security Council sidled in at that point. Most of them, at least. Interestingly, CINCONI - Margaret Parangosky - was absent, and a liaison Admiral took her place. But the Chief of Naval Operations herself, Fleet Admiral Suna T. Lin, stood at a seat at the center of their raised platform. And Bren instinctively stiffened up at sight of her. Stiffened up even more; saluted even harder than he was currently doing. Fleet Admiral Lin was his ultimate commanding officer and a legend in her own right; one he'd never seen in person before, but had an immense amount of respect for. She'd been legendary even back when Bren was a little cadet.
With that, the Security Council snapped off their own salutes and sat down. Everyone else in the chamber then did the same.
"This meeting," started the CINCONI liaison. Some guy who's nametag read D. Chester. "Is hereby subjected to UNSC SD Protocol 147-B and instantiated with the highest level security clearance." Chester looked up from a thin datapad to address the assembly directly. "We're talking above top secret, ladies and gentlemen. Can't even discuss this one with your spouses tonight."
If that was meant as a joke to lighten the mood, it didn't work.
Fleet Admiral Lin cleared her throat. Admiral Chester continued. "In 2531, a subset of Beta-5 Division, ONI Section Three initiated project SPARTAN-III - a secret program devised to piggyback off the successes of Doctor Catherine Halsey's SPARTAN-II program; her program, all present are familiar with in one way or another."
True statement. Bren had only encountered the Spartans on one occasion, and hadn't ever really understood what they were. A couple years ago, during his campaign to defend Jericho VII. Several teams of them had been attached to the battle group... And they'd stayed behind after Bren had pulled out with the evacuation fleet. Had stayed back there during the final days. If they ever made it offworld, Bren was uncertain.
But now, he had questions. Because this Chester guy was talking about another group of Spartans. Were they just some sort of specially trained ODSTs? Some generation of AI robotics? Volunteers from the Ghost Reconnaissance unit?
"The SPARTAN-III project was activated in December of that year, it's recruits grouped into designation Alpha Company, who completed their training roughly 5 years later in late 2536. Last year. The class graduated 300 spartans, who then went on to perform a number of covert operations against the Covenant, the URF, and the Typhoon Militia - all of which were a resounding success."
Even more questions ran through Bren's head now. Five whole years was a long training cycle for any soldier. Longer than anything Bren had heard of.
Admiral Chester clasped his hands together then. The man swallowed, and his gaze broke for a moment before looking back at the assembly. A wild look had appeared in his eyes.
"A month ago, all members of Alpha Company were deployed behind Covenant lines to destroy an enemy shipyard located 17 lightyears beyond the Grenadi Sector, mission codenamed Operation: PROMETHEUS. Though the operation was a success... Alpha Company sustained total casualties; 100% of the fighting force was lost in the battle. Aside from a small number of Spartan-IIIs that were reassigned prior to the operation, every single one of them is KIA as of August 2nd."
"Jesus..."
"Oh my God..."
"Can't be..."
Murmurs broke out. Bren shuffled in his seat. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. His understanding of spartans was that they were the best of the best. More than that, even. Supersoldiers of the highest caliber. To think that hundreds of them could be wiped out in a single battle was... Unnerving. Unreal. Maybe the Covenant was beginning to outpace humanity on the ground warfare front. Such a thought left Bren despondent.
He glanced around the chamber. Everyone seemed to have a similar reaction. Even Terrence looked shaken.
"The purpose of this meeting," Chester started back. He picked up his datapad again. Looked like he was reading over some notes. "Is to codify and layout the groundwork for the formation of the next class of Spartan-IIIs, designated Beta Company."
Over the next several minutes, the various Security Councilmembers discussed budgeting priorities and concerns for the various branches and factions present. They were going to pool together resources from across the UNSC to help Beta Company's funding. At first, Bren assumed this was why he'd been summoned. Since becoming Rear Admiral, Bren spent half of his time working on the fleets themselves. Formulating battle groups, advising various alternative ship designs, micro-managing portions of the Navy's officer corps, and most importantly, moving from one system to the other as a security advisor; essentially helping to reorganize and advise defense, retreat and evacuation plans for inner-colony systems in the event of a Covenant attack. So he offered his input wherever appropriate. A lot of things would have to be renegotiated and reformed if the Navy was going to help meet its budget requirement. A lot of credits would have to be moved around. A lot of checks would have to be signed off on.
But that really wasn't why they'd ordered his presence. He found that out soon enough.
"Rear Admiral Bren J. Shepard, step forward," Fleet Admiral Lin called.
Bren took a deliberate pace as he made his way to the front of the assembled officers. Not too fast, but not too slow, either. And then he did a formal bow, clasping both his hands together and doing a traditional one that'd been going out of style in UNSC culture lately. So as to buy time to think about what was going to happen. Maybe they wanted his name as an official commissioner of the project.
It did him no good, however. He couldn't have ever predicted where the conversation would turn.
"Two years ago, you rescued a number of civilians from Jericho VII following your defense of the system."
Ohkay. That's old news. How in the hell is that relevant?
"It was more so an escape than a rescue. And it wasn't just me, Admiral."
She waved a hand. "The Navy recognizes and is grateful for your extensive contributions toward the safety of Jericho VII, Shepard. You did a fine job. But more to the point at hand - the civilians you evac'd, more than a thousand of them are minors."
That's also extremely odd. Why's she asking about them? That's handled. "Well, were. It's been two years. A lot of them have enlisted since then. Gone on to university, officer school, working in the asteroid belt... Even a couple musicians in the bunch. They're doing whatever they want to do. I make sure of it."
Which wasn't easy. And constituted the other half of Bren's job. The military stuff was light work, but trying to keep up with hundreds of orphans was insanely difficult. Trying to keep them provided for. Following his return to the Solar System back then, it'd cost virtually all of Bren's power and influence he'd garnered to set up the Jericho VII Community Orphanage. It cost a lot more to keep it running smoothly.
"A thing which you've also done an exemplary job," Lin complimented. She tilted her head toward Admiral Chester by just a degree. She glanced at the man for a second. "Beta Company's got its resources. Everything but its recruits themselves, at this point."
"Ohkay... And?"
"37 of the orphans are within the age range of 4 to 7 years old, with the necessary genetic makeup to become spartans. Beta-5 will be tapping them for conscription into the company."
There was a pause. "What?"
"Exactly one week from today, Beta-5 will conscript those orphans and reassign them to a secured facility as part of Spartan-III Beta Company. They'll begin spartan training."
Bren looked around at the Council. None of them had a surprised look on their faces. He glanced around the room in bewilderment. Some of the other officers, at least, looked as surprised as he felt. Even Terrence did.
"Are you...? They're kids."
"We're well aware, Rear Admiral. 4 to 7 is the preferred age range to make spartans. More importantly, they have the genetic markers that are required for Spartan... Enhancements."
This can't be real. The spartans are kids!? This can't be real. Not even ONI would take it that far. "Excuse me, but are you out of your mind? These are kids we're talking about. Not soldiers. And they're orphans, they don't even have families!"
"This isn't a request, Shepard," Admiral Chester piped in. "The War demands sacrifice if we are to win. From everyone."
"My office oversees them. I won't allow this bullshit."
"Not your decision. We've already processed their files and the relevant data. They're already in Beta Company."
Bren shook his head. "Not on my watch, spook. I'm going to fight this."
"Shepard," Lin said. She stood up, her voice taking a softer tone. "Don't do this. You're too good an officer to wreck your career. There'll be consequences, and I can't do anything to stop that."
"You're taking their side?"
"The only side I'm taking is Humanity's. And right now, a lot of tough decisions are being made to make sure we'll still be around a decade from now. This is hard for all of us!"
Bren hadn't gone through all that shit - hadn't stressed his hair into greying - just for ONI to get their hands on the orphans for some experiment. Just for the kids to be thrown into the lion's den. He pointed to Admiral Chester.
"This guy said Alpha Company trained for five years. That means they were, what? Thirteen years old at most? And ONI got them all killed! You're sending kids to fight our battles!"
"Wrong. We're sending Spartans," Chester answered. "They're better warriors than any of us could ever hope to be. All of them more valuable than a fleet."
"And," Lin jumped in before Shepard could retort. "They're orphans. Lost their families to the Covenant. It's personal for them in a way it isn't for most of us. They have a reason to fight that sticks close to home. This is the type of opportunity most of them will have been dreaming of since '35."
Bren shook his head. He had a good idea of who was behind this. That son of a bitch Ackerson.
"Not on my watch," Bren said. "Shame on all of you. I promise I'm going to fight this as best I can."
Then he turned and marched out the chamber. Hands already thumbing through his datapad to make a series of important calls.
October 8, 2537
1700 Hours EAT
Nairobi, Dominion of Kenya, Earth
The soldier crept into position. Crawled like a snake. Quiet as a mouse. He slid beneath bushes and shrubs, his black-coated armor providing near-perfect camouflage in the nightly atmosphere. More than a dozen guards had already walked past him without spotting the soldier. And more than a dozen still had been silenced. The forever type of silence.
Just a few more minutes. He'd be outside the enemy base with the primary datachip in tow. Into safety. Into success and victory.
But that was when he spotted movement. From somewhere up ahead, like a shadow dancing against the night before vanishing behind a tree. Something was moving. Too quick and deliberate to be an animal.
So the soldier wasted no time. His rival had finally shown herself, and he leaped on the opportunity to attack. Rolling to his feet, the soldier scrambled ahead rapidly. Burst into action like an olympic sprinter running a championship final. Maintained a level of quietness the whole time, too. He was a wraith in the night, hunting his prey for one final kill. One final score. But when he reached the tree, there was nobody to be seen.
And that was when he heard the ruffle of leaves from above. He looked up just in time to see a blade, its metallic glint flickering in the night just before it sunk deep into his skull. Killing him on the spot.
"Hah - gotcha!" Saint shouted gleefully. "You suck, holmes."
"I let you win that one," Owen answered.
"Yeah, right." Saint was still the crowned champion of MetalFear: Saga of the Snake and the Solid. He'd been playing the video game for just as long as Owen now. But Saint was the best out of all the kids in Jericho VII Community Orphanage. Even the older ones. Owen had skill, but his strategies were always too predictable.
Saint sat the controller down and laid back on the floor, a big grin on his face. "Told you I'd win," Saint said.
"You're good at MetalFear, but the only real game you can win at is hide 'n seek," Owen countered. "That's why you don't like Gravball."
Saint shrugged. "I only play the games that I win at."
After a brief pause, they both started laughing. After making it off Jericho VII, he and Owen had gotten a lot closer. Even closer than before. That shared disaster, and the immediate months that followed, had built up the bond between them. Owen was a really good friend.
Better than Jamie, at least. Jamie was always mad. He'd always blamed the UNSC for what happened on Jericho VII.
And speak of the devil...
"'Sup guys," Jamie said, entering the activity center from the rear door. He had on his regulation shirt. His full name stenciled on the front: Jameson Locke.
"Just beatin' Owen again. Wanna give it a go?"
"Nah, not now. Some Space Command guys want us to meet up in the cafeteria."
Around him, the other kids were still sitting and doing whatever they were doing. Like they hadn't been summoned. Something was going on.
"Just us? Is it Mr. Bren?" Saint asked excitedly.
Jamie rolled his eyes. "I dunno, cuz. It's a bunch of UNSC goons. I heard them say they were lookin' for us, 'n they look mean. You two better get moving."
"Maybe the Captain finally brought me my new radio pack," Owen said, scrambling to his feet with pure excitement etched across his features. "I'm gonna build me a COM relay."
Jamie shrugged, shoved his hands in his pockets, and headed out.
Hmm. Aside from the fact that Mr. Bren was no longer a Captain, Owen probably had the wrong idea. It was unusual for Mr. Bren to show up with a bunch of others, and even more unusual was him calling up meetings. Not like this, anyway. And Jamie hadn't said he'd seen Mr. Bren to begin with.
"You really think it's him?" Saint asked Owen.
Owen took a second to wipe off his glasses. Then shrugged. "You sound scared, bud."
"Pssht. Come on."
Together they left the activity center. The hallway beyond stretched for a dozen or so meters, containing various flyers and posters. Most of them UNSC recruitment ads, while the rest were reminders for upcoming community events. They reached the end of the hall and stepped outside into a massive courtyard. Aside from a playground was an open and grassy field, a big swimming pool, several basketball courts, several gravball courts, tennis courts, and even a paintball gun arena - though they didn't let the younger kids go in there. Splitting the courtyard into multiple sections was a small river that ran from one end to the other, filled with clear water that flowed artificially.
Surrounding the courtyard was multiple buildings - one for the younger kids, one for the older kids, an indoor gymnasium, a study hall, an auditorium, and finally, a cafeteria. Saint and Owen headed for it, and it took them more than five minutes to reach it.
"Don't forget, you still haven't beat me in basketball," Owen said suddenly.
"I let you win last time."
"Now look who's lettin' people win."
"Ohkay, then. Soon as we get back, I'll bodybag you."
Saint never realized that he wouldn't ever get back, of course.
When they entered the cafeteria, everything seemed... Strange. Out of place. First was that each entrance appeared to be under guard. Like they were trying to keep people out. Or in. And they definitely had the numbers to do that. There were a lot of UNSC people. Saint counted 20 in total, and he didn't recognize any of them. Mr. Bren was nowhere to be seen. They were forming up all the kids into a straight line - which, aside from Saint and Owen, was only about 3 dozen or so others. A pair of the guards shepherded Saint and Owen to the back of the line. Aggressively, as though they were trying to hurry or something.
"Are we in trouble?" Owen whispered. He took up position in the line just ahead of Saint.
"I told you not to steal that signal card, stupid."
"But I didn't, though. And where's Jamie?"
"Wait - shhh. Be quiet."
Out ahead, several of the military officers spoke to each other quietly. Saint couldn't quite discern what the conversation was about. But he thought he heard them say something about "Shepard," and "Make this quick."
Shepard was Mr. Bren's last name. Maybe they were working with him. Saint relaxed a little. Just a little. His eyes scanned the room, trying to identify and register his surroundings. The cafeteria was a big place, and he realized that there were none of the staff here. None of the janitors or cooks or anybody else he recognized. Just UNSC officers, all of them with their nametags missing. And he did not fail to notice the batons hanging from their belts. Saint swallowed.
"ALRIGHT!" One of the officers shouted. The man was small, but his voice boomed like thunder. And he moved quickly, too - leaping on top of a table in one move as though it were easy for him. It probably was.
"We don't have much time to explain. But we've got a special offer to make you. A gift. One you'll thank us for later. But to receive it, you'll have to first pass a test."
Multiple kids in the line groaned. Even Owen did. And he was smart. Saint didn't like taking tests either, but if it meant getting a cool reward, then he was game.
"The Lieutenant here will assign you to your seats," the loud-mouthed man said as he gestured toward another officer. "Whereupon you'll be handed a test with a series of questions. You'll have 10 minutes to finish. Get any question incorrect, and you fail. Skip a question, and you fail. Get them all correct, and you pass."
"Where's Mr. Bren at?" Someone asked from the front of the line. Saint tried to peek over Owen's shoulder, but he couldn't see who it was.
"He's not here," the man responded swiftly. Too swiftly, it felt like. Saint noted that, but he didn't know what to make of it. But surely these guys had to be friends with Mr. Bren. Why else would they even be here?
After that, the Lieutenant guy got a handful of other officers to start seating everyone. Saint ended up in a spot far away from Owen. And he was isolated - just like everyone else - to the point where it was impossible to try and cheat. Not that Saint needed to, anyway. His school grades were straight A+. He smiled as he remembered that fact. They finally handed him a thin datapad. A timer in the top-right corner of the screen began counting down from 10 minutes.
He had to read over the first question a second time.
"You're in a classroom where every student has 5 marbles. The teacher tells everyone to pass 2 of their marbles to the student seated at their left, and 3 to the student seated behind them. Assuming you're in the middle of the class, how many marbles do you have left?"
Saint scratched at his head for a second. Stupid math. He looked around at the others. Some of them looked like they were shooting through the test with ease. Some of them met his eyes, looking just as confused as he felt.
"This is lame," Saint whispered. He typed in the answer then moved to the next question.
"Are these two statements logically equivalent?
1. If C is a prime number such that C divides AB, then C divides A or C divides B.
2. If C is a prime number such that C divides AB, and C does not divide B, then C divides A."
Saint quickly keyed in 'Yes'. The next question was where it started to get hard for him.
"Four people [A, B, C and D] have to cross a bridge at night, but they only have a single flashlight that'll last for 15 minutes. Person A can cross in one minute, B in two minutes, C in five minutes and D in eight minutes. No more than two people can cross at a time, and when they cross, they have to go at the slower person's pace. How can they cross the bridge in 15 minutes?"
Saint was getting tired of all the math. He had to think hard about this one. It wasn't difficult, just tedious. And time-consuming. By the time he formulated the answer, he'd lost 3 minutes on the clock. And there were still 5 more questions to go.
Lieutenant Alex Truniht hadn't ever predicted this would be his job after leaving officer school. ONI had tapped him prior to graduation due to his high marks, and back then, that'd felt incredible. Like he'd been on his way. But here he was, just a year later and getting ready to "reassign" a bunch of kids to a life of pure hardship. Reassignment was the term Beta-5 liked to use, because it sounded neutral and natural and very professional-like. But it was, effectively, kidnapping. That's why they were trying to keep Shepard in the dark. Trying to do it under his nose so he couldn't interfere.
And these were some smart kids, too. At least, the ones they'd marked out here at the Jericho VII Community Orphanage.
Alex picked up the final test, from one of the kids that'd came into the cafeteria last. Name 'Saint Priomis Anekwe'. The boy had finished with just half a minute to spare. Alex could tell that Saint was distrustful. Could see it in the brown eyes hidden behind thick dreadlocks.
"What do I get?" The boy asked when Alex took his datapad.
"Depends on if you passed."
"I passed. I know I did."
"We'll see about that, buddy," Alex said as he scrolled through the datapad.
Sure enough, Saint had gotten them all correct. Albeit a little slower than the other kids who'd passed. Of the 36 kids here, only 14 of them had passed, including Saint. Ambrose said that the augmentations would heavily alter the prefrontal cortex. It would require kids who had well-developed mental faculties; brains that could digest information and tease out important details, that could understand and reason, that could process, evaluate and judge both sensory and abstract data quickly and efficiently.
So they were smart. Definitely smarter than Alex had been at that age. Perhaps, in another life, these kids would go on to become scientists and philosophers. Physicists and sociologists and philologists. Big-time musicians. Famous writers. Artists. Comedians. But that wouldn't be this life. That choice was going to be supplanted by a harsh military life, whether or not they go on to become Spartan-IIIs.
Hmm. Fourteen wasn't a big number. Probably would be 15, if they could've found that other kid. But this wasn't the only stop to make, and they didn't have time to go looking for Jameson Locke. Alex looked down at Saint.
"You passed, big guy. Nice job."
"Hah! I knew it! So, where's my prize?"
Alex glanced over his shoulder. The Commander was busy tabulating data on the other side of the cafeteria. He looked back at Saint.
"You'll see soon enough. But for right now," Alex pulled out a Stellarstride candy bar he'd bought from a vending machine earlier that day and handed it to Saint. It was against protocol. Probably even here in the orphanage, because Stellarstrides were definitely sweet enough to cause cavities. "Don't let anybody see you eat it, though."
"That'll be easy. It always is."