"Choosing a client world for Laconia proved difficult. We needed tundra; harsh environment: limited vegetation, prolonged exposure. Soaring ridgelines and plunging valleys. Then we needed temperature extremes; scalding sands, ice so cold it burnt to the touch. We needed contained environments too; dense woodland, marshy swamps, steaming jungle.
Most importantly, we needed somewhere that hadn't been completely glassed within the past thirty years. We were looking to deliver payback, on an industrial scale.
That it just so happened to resemble Reach seemed fitting."
- excerpt from the personal audio logs of Director Idris Carter, recovered 2561
The Pelican swooped low over the Vaphio Heights, mist-shrouded mountains whose craggy peaks loomed out of the gloom like inquisitive giants.
"Inbound, Director." the pilot's voice rasped over the engine noise. "Four minutes out from Laconia."
"Noted with thanks, pilot." Carter replied into his headset, "Set us down gently, the Doctor isn't much for flying."
Carter smiled encouragingly over at Rebecca, who, in the interest of professional courtesy, was doing her utmost not to get sick all over his spotless uniform. Atmospheric re-entry from a Pelican was seldom smooth, and combined the wind chop angling off the slopes of the mountainside, the descent shook them like marbles in an old-fashioned tumble dryer.
"Weren't you an Admiral before, Director?" she asked, smiling past the lingering gurgle of bile in her throat.
"Until very recently, Doctor. We're no longer at war," Carter replied, patting the simple UNSC Eagle that adorned his jet black greatcoat, "Priorities change, my responsibilities with them. I see myself as a more of an educator now.
"As," he added, "should you."
She nodded, swallowing back an unpleasant liquid that might have once been this morning's breakfast. Her teeth chattered in her gums from the incessant rattling. She clung to her restraint harness for dear life, distracting herself by studying the other passengers in the hold. Most of them were hardened military, and seemed to be coping with the situation far better than she was. One of them even slept.
You could spot the prospective candidates a mile off. They were an eclectic mix: young adults barely out of their teens rubbed shoulders with buzz-cut career military, who dressed in all manner of uniforms. Combat medics, field engineers, former ODST; they had been plucked fresh from active duty and hastily pressed into the induction process. Some of them were still in their field kit. The dress of the non military was even more diverse; denim jackets, blue collar overalls, even a gas station attendant's uniform. There was a tangible crackle of shared excitement in the air. Of the unknown, of a new adventure undiscovered. A first day at school all over again.
Further down the hold, large enough to occupy two entire crash seats, was what they aspired to become.
A lone giant, plated top to toe in thick crimson armour. It was scuffed in places; dented and scraped, like an old rally car. One of his arms was a slim prosthetic. That too showed signs of combat fatigue. Idly, she wondered what could possibly do such damage to such a seemingly impervious figure, and shuddered; not wishing to know the answer.
His helmeted face seemed reminiscent of ancient samurai masks; an almost leering metal cowl, with a single horizontal visor inset into the faceplate. He wore no restraining harness, instead content with resting his hands on the rifle set across his knees, his boots mag-bolted to the floor. Where others shook and jostled in their seats from the constant buffeting of the rocking lander, the giant seemed frozen in time, utterly unmoving. If anything, the Pelican seemed to shake around him, as though afraid to unsettle this slumbering, vengeful machine of war.
A living, breathing Spartan.
She'd seen the vids, of course. Who hadn't? Section III's favourite poster child. Humanity's greatest and strongest. The recruitment drive had come only recently. Advertisement flash spots, hot-beamed and digitally spliced throughout social networking sites and Chatterforums across the Waypoint Network. One compelling advert had stayed with her in particular: a single Spartan, retrieving a scuffed MA5 from the depths of a plasma-scored trench. An alien roar boomed out a challenge in the distance. Without hesitation, the Spartan leaps over the trench line and - pausing only to give the camera a brief, affirming nod - charges into the curling gun smoke.
It was the smaller details that did it. The build up of strings, rising in an orchestral swell. The way the Spartan's almost-conspiratorial nod made you want to follow him. But you couldn't follow him. You were left behind. You wanted to do something, to pick up that rifle and stand a post of your own. To step into the unknown and be counted.
The response to the drive had been immediate. The sheer number of Pelicans flying in from orbit stood testament to their effectiveness. Even Rebecca, a practiced cynic, had been impressed.
They cleared the mountain peaks and entered the blessed shelter of the valley floor. The juddering of the Pelican eased off to an ambient vibration. Below them stretched a rich tapestry of dense woodland, laced with streams, rivers and lakes; mirror smooth. Occasionally, rugged hillocks speckled with yellow gorse and pink heather rose out of the woodland, or spread out into an open clearing. Everything was a patchwork of vibrant green and autumnal orange.
At the far end of the valley, sprawling in the centre of an open grassland, was Laconia Academy.
Academy was probably the most delicate way of describing it, Rebecca thought. It was a small, armoured city. The design of the thirty or so permanent buildings on site was largely practical in nature. Many of the more essential structures; the fusion plant, the air traffic control tower, were more akin to towering armoured bunkers. Their rooftops blistering with machine gun nests. A tall perimeter wall threaded with glinting razor wire boxed the academy inside. Other structures served a more benign role: a library, a transport depot. Their appearance, even with the ubiquituous blast-proof glass that graced every UNSC post-war design, reflected this. The outskirts of Laconia was of a less long-term nature: a rugged tent city; bulbous pod-like structures jostling for space alongside more traditional synth-mesh camo tents. Smoke rose from a half dozen cook fires, where thermal heating packs had been discarded in favour of more primitive, and appreciatively tactile, cooking methods. Planetary defence cannons smoothly tracked them as the Pelican made its approach, whirring on automated servo-struts until their clearance was verified. Satisfied, they retracted into their gun ports, disappearing beneath the surface like sinking ships.
The landing gear set down on the hardpan with a muffled bump. There was a rattling jingle of restraints being popped and shrugged off. Somewhat tellingly, the Spartan was allowed to exit first. Despite her diminutive height, Rebecca unconsciously ducked her head as she exited the loading ramp. The flash of the sun against the concrete hardpan was blinding. The unexpected shock of warm sunlight on skin that had been confined to a UNSC transport ship for three weeks was a welcome sensation. Slowly, her eyes adjusted.
It was bedlam. The debarking crowds swarmed her. Five other Pelicans were disgorging their human cargo simultaneously. An imposing line of Beta V security personnel were waiting for them, roaring instructions at the prospective candidates, snapping at their legs with taser-batons. Everyone was treated equally, though again there was an appreciable difference between the qualified military personnel and the fresh faced post-teens. Primarily because it was the post-teens doing all the yelping. That the instructors' voices were for the most part filtered through impassive helmets made the entire process seem even more frenzied. Adding to the confusion were the landing bay teams, who were busy unloading and reloading cargo from a series of larger bulk haulers that had arrived earlier that morning. There were loading forklifts, heavy wheeled HC1500's and small ATVs, which beeped impatiently as they shuttled service teams to and fro.
Carter had already vanished, swallowed by the bustling crowd. Rebecca looked about, decidedly bewildered and hopelessly lost.
A shadow fell across her.
"You're the civilian." an emotionless filtered voice said.
Rebecca looked up to see her terrified reflection mirrored in a golden visor. The Crimson Giant himself. Up close, she did her best to ignore the dents in the breastplate where bullets had tried, and failed, to stop him.
"Yes! Yes, that's me… I mean I'm the civilian. Doctor Civilian. I mean, the-"
"Follow me, Doctor Pearson."
By the time Rebecca had finally gotten the last tangle out of her tongue, he was already stalking across the hardpan toward the towering command centre situated at the heart of the Academy. The crowd parted in a wave before him, like something from biblical scripture. Rebecca followed gingerly in his wake, offering meek smiles to those the Spartan had all but crunched underfoot. They ignored her entirely, instead staring after the glib giant with a uniform combination of awe-struck terror and admiration.
She had to jog to keep up with his stride.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
Much to her annoyance, he didn't have the courtesy to slow down. He didn't even turn as he spoke over his shoulder.
"Induction."
The Atrium was the single most important building in Laconia. Fittingly, it was also the tallest and most robust.
It reminded Rebecca of the Concert Hall of New Alexandria, with its sloping roof and glass curvature. The exterior was a marriage of martial practicality and minimalist elegance. The sun shone off the beige limestone cladding, which itself was a front for the underlying skeleton of reinforced Titanium-A. The Entrance Hall was an atrium that rose up the full internal height of the structure. Walled with marble, the auditorium bore a striking resemblance to a majestic cathedral. UNSC banners hung from poles overhead. Unit banners from decorated outfits, memorial tapestries for celebrated actions; the significance of them were lost on a civilian like her. Many of them were perforated with bullet holes or partially scorched. A bronze UNSC emblem was inset under the smooth plate glass of the lobby floor. A dozen marines lined the edge of the lobby, standing at ease and surveying the passing crowds. A sniffer team waved a scanning paddle at her as she walked by, prompting a series of incomprehensible beeps. She was still trying to catch her breath.
Dominating the centre of the atrium was a statue of a single battle-scarred Spartan standing astride some broken rubble, holding an MA5 and looking imperiously over the horizon. Sierra 117 needed no further introduction.
A plaque was set into the base of the plinth: True Legends Never Die, it read.
The Crimson Giant didn't spare it so much as a second glance. Instead, he marched past into one of the elevators lining the rear of the atrium. Rebecca hastened in after him. He took up most of the room. The elevator music, "Requiem for Reach", failed to alleviate the awkward silence. Rebecca watched through the glass of the transparent lift as the people flooding into the entrance hall quickly shrunk to the size of ants. She tried catching her breath.
The elevator opened. Fourteenth floor, the highest storey in the entire Academy. Office of Carter, Idris; Director of Operations and Chief Administrator of the Laconia Academy.
It was a well-lit space, made up of a formal anteroom and what appeared to be a traditional headmaster's study. A reflection of the man who owned the room, everything was tasteful, understated. Functional too. The floors and walls had been paneled with oak, locally sourced. There was a circular map projection suite in the centre of the anteroom, while the rear of the office held a number of bookshelves. Classical texts, for the most part: Sun Tzu's the Art of War, Tacticus' Annals, even a rare first edition of Admiral Harper's Advanced Fleet Tactics. The mahogany bureau at the furthest end of the room was the only form of extravagance on display.
Director Carter stood at the far end of the room, staring out of the full height viewing window. It overlooked the training fields below. His travel pack was still set on the middle of the desk. His overcoat had been hung up on an antique coat rack nestled in the corner of the room. He turned around as they stepped from the entry room into the office proper. The man's uniform was, as ever, immaculate. Rebecca felt decidedly disheveled by comparison.
"Ah, Doctor, you made it. Excellent. Please, come and take a look."
The view was superb. Below her, the recruits had been lined up for initial processing. Jet black P.T. gear had been issued, and heads were being brutally shorn with systemic efficiency. With the sun beating down on their raw scalps, the candidates looked so tiny and vulnerable. Rebecca felt quietly guilty about the air modulated comfort of the Director's office.
"There are three thousand candidates down on that concourse, Doctor Pearson." Carter said, "Each of them gifted, each of them talented."
He turned to face her, expression solemn.
"Of those three thousand, I expect fewer than thirty will qualify for this programme."
"That few?" she asked, turning to study him.
"We no longer have the luxury of taking our pick of the litter. The litter is smaller now, for one thing."
"The Covenant saw to that." she agreed quietly.
"Indeed. Our methods may have improved, and with new technology our chances of building better Spartans improves further. But a Spartan is a very special thing indeed, Doctor."
"Special enough to warrant a one percent pass rate?"
"I will settle for less than one percent, if necessary. The original Spartan II's numbered three hundred. Every single one of them gave their lives just to give us the simple privilege of waking up in the morning. Just one of them changed the fate of the galaxy, almost single-handed. Believe me when I say I am not one for overstatement."
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe in this programme, Director."
"Glad to hear it. Every race, every creed, every culture and background is represented on that field below you. When I say you're looking at the best and brightest of humanity, I mean it."
Carter spared a glance over his shoulder. The ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth.
"Eric here still has his doubts."
"Eric?" Rebecca asked.
"Eric-239, Operator; Spartan Class." a female voice said, as a holographic projection blossomed out of a display projector fixed into Carter's mahogany desk. She stood less than a foot tall, but the detail in the petite rendering, from the stylish business suit to the no-nonsense ponytail, was exquisite.
Eric for his own part said nothing, instead offering a single curt nod, which she returned.
Rebecca decided she didn't want to try force conversation out of a post-human armoured death machine, and instead turn toward the shimmering blue AI. Kaizen studied her coldly in return.
"I don't believe we've been formally introduced." Rebecca smiled down at her.
"Kaizen. Integrated combat A.I. and informational assistant."
"'Kaizen'? As in 'continuous improvement'?"
"'Change for the better', but essentially correct."
"I thought it was a business term."
"Our business is war, Dr. Pearson. We do it well. Eric's reservations about being here are a matter of record, but as I have informed him multiple times, the presence of a Spartan on site is logical, and indeed necessary. As both an instructor and a functioning example of what the average candidate hopes to become. My purpose is to assist candidates in realising their aspirations, providing guidance and technical assistance when necessary."
Rebecca turned to Carter.
"And my role in all of this?" she asked.
"Won't be immediately active until the recruit pool is narrowed down to the final class selection. We're not scheduled to commence Spartan training for another three months. What you see out there is simply pre-training preparation."
"Pre-training?"
He gestured toward the scene unfolding below them. The recruits, freshly shaved, had been marshalled into three neat blocks of men. A drill instructor was making his way up and down the line, barking instructions and reinforcing suggestions with not entirely gentle taps of his taser-baton. Some were faring better than others.
"An initial hazing, as it were. Military induction, of an old school variety. We've modelled it on some of the more ruthless ODST recruitment programmes. Very much intial proceedings at this point."
"And what do the initial proceedings entail?" she asked.
"Physical assessment, muscle improvement and nutritional enhancement. Basic weapon handling and maintenance. Former military? Fresh from college? Doesn't matter. Everyone, man or woman, gets the same treatment. We need a uniform foundation to work from. This process provides that foundation."
Six of the candidates were being forced to do push ups. The drill instructors stood over them, roaring abuse in their faces. One hapless candidate stood off to one side, vomiting.
"You make them bond. Unity through shared adversity."
"Quite. As I said, it's all relatively text book in the early stages. The first week is likely to see the most substantial drop off in numbers. Physical injury, psychological fatigue. Homesickness. After that it's a matter of screening the candidates for underlying flaws which might have escaped our initial appraisal."
"And after that?"
"From there it's a genetic lottery." he stroked his goatee as he considered the view below him. "We have to be extremely selective. "
"Why not use all the candidates you can?"
"We can only fill so many places, provide so many suits of armour. The cost of producing a single Spartan - food, housing, medical and physical augmentation - is staggering. Those with potential will be noted, and recycled at the next intake."
"And those found to be... lacking in potential?"
"Physical washouts post augmentation will be offered positions within ONI Intelligence, with an option to re-apply at a future date. Those who decline will have their memories altered, and be quietly tagged as being unsuitable for continued public service."
"Harsh."
"But ultimately necessary. This isn't the only training facility of its kind, but the work we do here is critical to the future stability of the UNSC. Security and secrecy are at a premium. We can't take afford to take any risks."
Carter started walking over to the anteroom. She followed, and Eric trailed in their wake, utterly silent.
"Fortunately you won't have to deal with any of those outside. Until we extract the candidates we need from the latest intake, your responsibilities are regarding a more… pressing issue."
Rebecca felt that familiar sinking feeling.
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
The holo-projector in the ante-room lit up. Images of children's faces appeared. Sullen, unhappy. In one or two cases, bloodied and bruised. Barcodes and serial numbers began scrolling across the side of the image pane. Further images overlayed themselves. The children, older now, running on a treadmill as lab-coated technicians took notes. Firing weapons on a target range. Practicing hand to hand combat. Operating a flight simulator. Glaring at the camera.
Kai's voice spoke through the speakers set into the wall panels.
"Class One already has five candidates already confirmed, pending final psych-eval."
"Candidate Team Chimera." Carter announced, "A mistake ONI would rather soon forget. They were some of the first IV's created; a hasty by-product from the tail end of the war. Fully augmented, but without the necessary psychological screening. ONI cut corners, and the result was... unfortunate."
The image switched to a single video feed. It was night time, and the view was hazed with drifting palls of smoke from a fire somewhere off-screen, but it was unmistakably Laconia.
"Six months ago, Chimera tried to escape UNSC custody." Kai reported, "The candidates overpowered their wardens, commandeered a Pelican transport, and managed to escape for a time period of thirty five minutes, before being intercepted after their shuttle ran out of fuel. In the course of their attempt, they injured twenty five service personnel, destroyed a munitions depot and caused significant damage to the subroutines of Laconia's Administrative A.I., Autumn Night. The system has yet to make a full recovery."
"Sounds like they didn't want to be here. And you need me to do their assessment? Why?"
"Because you're a civilian, Doctor Pearson." Carter replied, "Unaffiliated with the military. Forgive me for saying, but you're not exactly the type of candidate ONI looks for in a spook. We think they might respond to you more favourably, as an outsider with no overt military ties."
Rebecca looked back at the image of one of the candidates, a dark-skinned girl operating a flight simulator. There was a regal quality to her, a vibrant warrior's pride. The image was a still-frame from a video feed. She had stood up from the simulator, and was staring at the ceiling-mounted camera. The raw malice in her expression chilled Rebecca's blood.
Carter was still speaking. An image of a series of men in suits appeared, their faces blurred. Behind them, the ONI logo was merged with a second logo, of a razor sharp arrow tip, coloured black.
"These candidates were recruited in a different time, under vastly different circumstances. They were sourced as part of Operation ARROWHEAD, run by a black-ops team working under ONI jurisdiction, codename Black Shard; now defunct."
"'Sourced'? You mean kidnapped."
A red line ran through the Black Shard logo. It disappeared.
"As I said, different times." the regret in Carter's voice was palpable, "The war ended. ARROWHEAD was terminated, and the candidates were never formally enrolled in the Spartan Program. Nevertheless, the damage was done. We have five augmented candidates, and no idea how to process them."
The next image was of a handsome young man with short brown hair. He had stripped to the waist and was throwing a dizzying combination of punches and kicks at a punching bag. The impact registrations on the digital overlay were continually hitting a maximum force threshold. His fists were almost blurs. With a start, Rebecca realised the video feed was being played back at half speed.
"ONI jumped the gun on this one. They weren't ready for augmentation; not mentally. What do you do with an ab-human that has no formalised training and no love for the UNSC? We've been keeping them in protective custody until we can determine a solution. A solution we're hoping you can provide."
"How long have these kids been held prisoner?" Rebecca asked. She couldn't hide her bubbling anger.
Kai answered her.
"Candidate Fireteam Chimera have isolated in UNSC custody for approximately six standard Earth years."
"Six years?!" Rebecca hissed, "No small wonder they tried to escape!"
"Their treatment to date has been regrettable. You won't find argument from me there, Doctor. Ordinarily, ONI would have taken care of the problem in its own ruthless way, but fortunately I have friends in high places who saw the bigger picture. We haven't seen genes this good since the Spartan II's were put into service. Enormous potential, truly enormous. I've pulled a lot of favours keeping them out of Intelligence's claws."
Carter fixed Rebecca with a look. He ignored her.
"Make no mistake, Dr. Pearson: this is their last chance. You've got three months before the current cycle are ready to initiate formal Spartan training. Get their heads straight, get them ready."
"And if I fail?"
"If you fail, then I'm afraid the candidates will need to be held indefinitely. Chances are, ONI will seek to re-acquire custody. We're talking memory wipes, reassignment and redeployment. ONI know how to clean house, believe me. And in truth I don't blame them. These kids are too dangerous to be allowed free, not when there's a possibility they could fall into Insurrectionist hands."
"So I'm their only shot. Great."
The doctor looked back up at the holo-display. Two of the Spartan candidates were sparring. One, an Amazonian girl of East-European extraction, hurled her opponent clean across the room, where he smacked into the wall and landed in a tangled heap. Eric nodded in quiet professional approval. Rebecca swallowed audibly.
"Alright then. Five superhumans with a burning resentment of their captors and the ability to snap me like a twig. Great."
She turned to Carter, eyebrow raised.
"When do I start?"