Epsilon Eridani System, Reach Military Complex,
Planet Reach.
"On your feet, trainee!" an instructor barked, snapping Sylvain out of his sound slumber.
Instantly, he hopped out of his military cot, the disorientation of awakening in such a rude manner dissipating in a fraction of a second. Without having to be told to, he swiftly dashed to the showers, deftly maneuvering his path to curve around any obstacles of other cots, and trunks that might impede. With a light touch to the shower spigot, lukewarm water sprayed all over his body, spewing a thick, white soap as well. He was then rinsed in sudden jets of icy cold water. Three seconds later, he was completely dry from the high-powered fan system located inside of the stall. Behind the stall door, he slipped on his sweat top and pants, which had been freshly cleansed of any body filth, and laid out, hanging upon a hook on the neutral tiled wall. He stepped out of the stall, completely sterilized and demagnetized.
Chief Petty Officer Mendez, the high-ranking officer charged with the duty of training the young recruit, watched as Sylvain placed his black combat boots on his feet and began to secure them.
What seemed like a lifetime ago, Mendez was the one who had trained the first set of Spartan-II candidates. With his strict schedules, perfectly planned exercises, and respect-instilling demeanor, those soldiers of might had earned a spectacular war-career record within United Nations Space Command's history. But each of them were children. Each of them were undisciplined, young, weak, and inexperienced.
He vaguely recalled one certain Spartan candidate who had learned the value of teamwork, the hard way, on his very first day of training: Spartan-117. The trainee's name was forever lost in the vast archives of Mendez's overloaded subconscious.
But now, decades later, he was training a former rebellion faction soldier, already introduced to the action of live combat and tactics. At the age of twenty-four, he had the abilities that Marine regulars could only wish to attain. It wasn't a standard Section Three mystery as to why Mendez had been placed with the responsibility of training him in the standard UNSC fashions of combat.
Trainee Reno had finished tying his boots up in 6.79 seconds. His fingers and hands were a blur of speedy motions. Upon finishing, he stood up with perfect posture, and snapped off a crisp salute to his CPO.
"Same drill as yesterday, Reno!" Mendez ordered in a firm tone. "On the grass in ten seconds!"
Sylvain replied, "Sir, yes, sir!" and marched out of the dimly lit barracks, and onto the verdant training grounds. Mendez followed behind him.
Morning calisthenics had gone through and was completed. Jumping jacks, push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, and squats had not slowed Trainee Reno down one bit. By the final exercise, leg lifts, Mendez found himself sweating, panting, and desperately trying (but failing) to keep pace with his trainee. How could he have turned into such an old man so soon?
Sylvain stood as straight and perfect as he could, as Mendez was doubled-over with exhaustion. Between hoarse gasps for breath, the CPO managed out, "Jog to the Naval Officer's Academy for strategy training." Soon, Mendez was back with half of his composure. "I believe that you know the way," he assumed as he gave a somnolent grin.
Sylvain replied, "Sir, yes, sir!" His hands were clasped against his thighs, and he looked straight ahead of him. He hated this, but if it was what he had to do to fight Covenant, then so be it.
"Well, then, get moving, trainee!" Mendez roared with a small smile. He watched as Sylvain broke into a paced sprint. In mere seconds, his red beret disappeared from behind a small hill. Mendez would take an LRV to the Academy today. His muscles ached, but the sense of pride he received for training, or at least attempting, that young man pushed the incapacitating stinging aside.
The three-kilometer run from the barracks was always something Sylvain enjoyed every last second of. It gave him that feeling that he wasn't apart of the UNSC, and the Covenant were still hidden in the shroud of space, unknown to mankind. It allowed him the time for introspection, to reflect upon himself, and order his thoughts together. Was he a good soldier, UNSC or not? Of course he was. Had he made the right decisions in his life? Of course he did. He wanted to fight the Covenant, and now, though in the uniform of a UNSC Marine, he would be doing so. Sometimes he slowed his jogging pace, trying to elongate the time he had to himself. But Mendez was always behind him, keeping the pace. And there was no doubt in his mind that he was standing on the Academy stone steps, timing him. If he wasn't, his AI class instructor, Gala, certainly was.
The twenty-five steps of the Naval Officers had been quite the ordeal for the already fatigued CPO. Each step felt like a bound. But Sylvain had jogged right up them in eight seconds flat. He was fast. When he arrived as expected, both the CPO and Gala were awaiting his appearance.
"Hello, and good morning Trainee Sylvain Reno," Gala greeting warmly. She had always called him by his full and complete name, but it didn't annoy him. If it had, there was no way he could succeed in stopping it.
"Good morning," he answered back politely. Gala smiled to him, turned, and stepped inside of the Academy, the motes of light she produced illuminating the dark interiour. Sylvain nodded to CPO Mendez, and followed his AI instructor.
Gala's class was a rather peculiar one. Normally, the trainees are required to be taught many forms of complex math, chemistry, biology, and history, all merging to form one very dangerous soldier. However, Sylvain had not been subjected to those types of lessons, since pre-screenings had proven that he had a very good understanding and knowledge of the fields. It was odd, especially for a former rebellion faction member. The other soldiers the UNSC had recovered/captured during that fateful afternoon, many of whom already MIA or KIA, were dumb to say the least. They only knew how to fight, and take orders. Sylvain, on the other hand, expanded his knowledge somehow. Gala instead had given him holographic views and scenes of mock-battles against the Covenant, and, without any sort of warning, would ask him what his decisions would be as commanding officer. It was all hypothetical and simulation, but the UNSC had integrated many new programs to replicate a real life battlefield down to the gore. His personal feelings on the situation, evaluation of the yields of success and the losses of failure, and his final decision would all be recorded and graded.
"Before we begin today's practice sim," Gala spoke in her calming, resonant voice, "please insert the ADR Brainwave monitor into your implants. We cannot grade you if we do not know what you are thinking."
Sylvain snatched the ADR monitor plug from the arm of his seat, and carefully inserted the receiver prong into the small implant out-port hidden behind his right earlobe. Almost instantly, a staff of Section Three scientists and a collective of officers from the Office of Naval Intelligence, about twenty-five kilometers away from the Reach Training Facility could practically read his mind. Each activity, no matter how irrelevant, would be recorded for later study. No anomalies so far.
Gala cleared her artificial throat, but Sylvain knew she did it to sound respectable. AI's did not have to breathe.
"Now, Sylvain, I want you to clear your mind of all thoughts," she requested. Sylvain did his best to stop his brain from chattering wildly; incorporating slow-breathing techniques that Mendez had taught him. When Gala detected minimal activity of brainwaves and thoughts, the ambient lighting dimmed, and her glowing body reduced light energy by 65 percent. A holographic battlefield appeared in the middle of the room, illuminating the walls beyond.
Before Gala could even get a single word out, Sylvain's mind bombarded her monitoring systems with lighting-fast precision. He quickly took into account everything that lay before him, his fiery blue eyes wide open, and darting between every nuance of the simulation. Two Pelican drop-ships were positioned behind a somewhat large hill at the six of a twenty-troop squad, marked Red team. Another troop with thirty-five Marines were positioned just east of Red team 200 meters away. They were tagged as Blue team. A Covenant drop-ship, which normally could hold about seventy-five soldiers, was descending from orbit, and would make a landing at an area marked as Navpoint Beta, four kilometers away from Red and Blue teams. Navpoint Beta was located just ten meters of slightly elevated forests to the north. That was the information displayed, but Sylvain would require more.
"What is the objective of this mission?" He asked Gala, enthusiasm in his tone of voice. This was his favourite segment of training. He adored tactics and strategies. It was always like a game.
"The objective," Gala informed, "is to destroy the approaching Covenant force."
Of course. Was it really necessary to ask? That was always the mission objective: Covenant destruction of mass proportions. But more information was necessary to make an educated plan of action over the situation. "Weapons check of teams Red and Blue."
Sylvain watched as his mission timer dropped from 10:00 minutes to 09:25 before freezing. If he were in command, a thirty-five weapons and equipment check of fifty-five Marines would be unacceptable. But that wasn't what he would be worrying about. He needed to focus. The lives of holographic soldiers and an invisible victory depended on his resolve.
Artificial soldiers' voices echoed in his ears via the implant connection. "Red team reporting that each soldier is carrying an MA5B assault rifle, three ammo clips, and an M8D sidearm, two ammo clips, sir!"
Another voice sounded. "Blue team reporting that our Marines are carrying an MA5B assault rifle each, three ammo clips, and an M8D sidearm, two ammo clips, sir! But one soldier is carrying a Jackhammer rocket launcher with only one rocket, and we also have three Warthogs with a cache of 300 incendiary grenades!"
Incendiary grenades had been proven completely worthless against the energy shields of the Elite Covenant warriors, and were hardly ever used any more. Why did they come with that?
But it was valuable data nonetheless. Sylvain began to play out many different designs in his head, and Section Three and ONI quickly committed each to databases designated specifically to Sylvain Reno.
In the recorded time of eleven minutes and thirty eight point zero seconds, Sylvain had finally decided on a course of action. Gala listened closely, and registered everything as well. She would relay his commands.
"Teams Red and Blue move out on foot while blue team members utilize the Warthogs. The soldier equipped with the launcher must be with them. The Pelicans begin to fly to the opposite ends of the forests, avoiding the Covenant drop-ships' trajectory of descent and landing. The Pelicans wait on the ground beyond the forests. When Blue team's Warthogs arrive at Navpoint Beta, they immediately begin planting the incendiary grenades underneath the dirt, following a typical spider web pattern, only more concentrated on the point where the drop-ship is supposed to land. By then, Red and Blue teams should have arrived, and taken positions inside the forests with a clear sight of the Covenant's LZ. When the grenades are placed, the Marines of Blue team back away, and join the others in the cover of the forest. Jackhammer unit should be aiming exactly at the center of the incendiary grenade placements. At 00:01 remaining time, he will fire at the grenades, igniting them. The blast of the grenades should destroy the drop-ship effectively, and any enemy soldiers that might have attempting escape. The MA5B units mop up any remainder of t he Covenant troops. When all are defeated, they pass through the forests heading north, board the landed Pelicans, and exit the battlefield. I estimate a total of zero casualties of the UNSC Marines." Sylvain gave a sly smirk to Gala when he finished.
"Quite a bold estimate, Trainee Sylvain Reno," she defiantly murmured. "And quite a bold mission plan. Is that your final decision?"
Sylvain, that smirk not leaving his expression, declared, "Yes. Now, begin the simulation, please."
In less than a nanosecond, Gala assigned all specified orders to each of the simulation soldiers, and they responded with to Sylvain with a morale filled, "Yes, sir!" And each marine proceeded to exactly where they were commanded to be.
Sylvain watched as the tiny soldiers of blue team drive the LRV Warthog over to the Navpoint, the mini-engine whining with a bit of wear and tear. Red team sprinted as fast as they could, and were making excellent time for standard Marines. He quickly eyed the mission timer. There were seven minutes twenty three seconds left. Plenty of time.
At four minutes twenty seconds, the LRV unit was putting the finishing touches on the grenade snare. Immediately after they finished, they joined their comrades in the edge of the forest, and the Jackhammer Marine reported that he was ready to fire.
Four minutes elapsed, and the Covenant drop-ship floated ten centimeters above the grassy surface. As soon as it's mandible-esque fuselage hinges opened, and a large collection of Elites, Jackals, and Grunts were about to debark their ship, the catalyst rocket blasted out of the woodland terrain, and lit up the ground booby-trap. Flames surged upward as the hazardous chemicals were detonated in a makeshift fashion. Parts of the drop-ship, including it's boosters, were melted and singed away from it's exposed belly. The enemy units were ablaze, and Elites rolled about on the ground, hoping to extinguish the fires on their combat harnesses. The hidden Marines filled the air with lead to exterminate the cooked Covenant. A lucky bullet had collided with a Grunt's methane breath tank unit, and the gas had instantly turned the small campfire into a fifteen-meter barbecue. If there were any enemy survivors, they were neutralized now. The charred drop-ship sputtered, and plummeted into the bodies of it's released soldiers.
Every single member of the Red and Blue teams cheered, and made their way through the thick forests with ease, boarded the Pelicans, and escaped the battlefield.
Instantly, Sylvain's final statistics were displayed onto the hologram, floating above the battlefield as it slowly faded away. A smile curved his lips as he read his score with satisfaction.
STRATEGIC BATTLE SIMULATOR MISSION #25VB.
SUBJECT: TRAINEE SYLVAIN RENO.
FINAL SCORE:
UNSC CASUALTY TOTAL: 00
COVENANT CASUALTY TOTAL: 75
SOLDIER COMMAND EFFICIENCY: 97.2
EQUIPMENT USAGE EFFICENCY: 89.9
ATTACK PLAN EFFICIENCY: 98.0
ESCAPE PLAN EFFICIENCY: 100.0
GALA'S FINAL SCORE: 99
ONI'S FINAL SCORE: 97
EVALUATION: 98
The score faded into nothing, and the lights had returned to 100 percent illumination. Gala had also increased her light energy output by 65 percent, and she clapped her "hands." "Outstanding, Sylvain. Personally, I am quite impressed!"
Sylvain laughed out loud as he removed his ADR Brainwave monitor from his implant port, and replaced it on the arm of his seat. "Is that the first time an AI has been impressed by the tactics of an organic human being?"
Gala shook her head. "The answer to that inquiry is completely irrelevant, Sylvain," she gently scolded. "But ONI is also very impressed by your success. This training simulator is red-flagged as a level 10 difficulty rating."
Sylvain liked the sound of that. A level 10 difficulty rating? That was as hard and as tough as they came. Had he slipped up with a command, or changed it around, it would probably result into a holographic human catastrophe.
"ONI is requesting you to report to the shuttle bays for transport to Reach Military Command Complex Three," Gala informed. "It seems that you have graduated, Sylvain Reno."
"Graduation?" Sylvain repeated. He must have been right on the line of that goal, and the last training simulation must have pushed him well over the line.
He was going to miss the training routines, Chief Petty Officer Mendez, the tactic training simulations, and Gala. But he had to go. He had to fight.
"It has been a pleasure to have a student as gifted as you, Sylvain Reno." Gala's voice had a hint of sorrow in it. She must have been sad to see him leave.
"The pleasure, Gala," Sylvain grinned, "was mine." And Sylvain stepped out of her classroom for the very last time.
Outside, CPO Mendez was leaning against an LRV, smiling proudly. He must have received the transmission as well.
"Need a ride, kid?" he asked, still grinning a set of perfect white teeth.
Sylvain smiled back, adjusted his red beret, and replied, "Think you can drive double-time to the shuttle bays? I cant afford to be late, and I would hate to blame the guy who taught me that promptness is everything."
Mendez laughed, and answered, "I beat you here, didn't I?"