"How do you future proof against a galaxy as dangerous as ours? Where our enemies can burn entire cities from orbit? Our colonies never did. Naïve, we struck out into the galaxy, thinking that the systems we had in place for millennia would be enough. That high walls, sturdy roofs and watchful eyes would keep us safe from wolves in the dark, as they always had.
The Covenant changed everything. Billions died. Cut down on battlefields in droves, blown apart in fleet engagements we couldn't hope to win. Obliterated in a tidal wave of plasma fire that poured down from the heavens above.
But we learned from our mistakes. We rose from the ashes. We fought back. Inch by inch, street by street, hour by desperate hour. We survived. Ultimately, we won.
'Never again', we said. The next time we struck out into worlds unknown, we would not be so trusting.
I ask again: how do you future proof against a galaxy as dangerous as ours? You do what any infantryman worth his goddamn salt does. You dig down.
You dig deep."
- Major G. Abelev (retired), transcript of lecture entitled "On The Fundamentals of Post-War Infrastructural Design" , Melbourne Military Academy, c. 2554
It took a solid minute for the elevator to reach the depths of the eight sub-level basement.
The door pinged as it opened. Where the marble-lined upper floors of Central Command reminded Rebecca of a particularly stern luxury hotel, the underground sections, the real heart of the facility, was a coldly functional machine. Metal deck floors met metal deck walls; luminescent strip-lighting embedded in the floor lining threw up harsh shadows. Footfalls of patrolling guards clanked as they moved from section to section, quietly alert. The place was cold and unwelcoming. Much like her ever-present escort, Spartan 239, who had yet to say more than four words to her in as many hours.
That those four words had been "Doctor Pearson: it's time" hardly improve her opinion of him.
"Let's go Tin Man," she said, fully expecting no response. None came.
Dutifully, he stepped out after her, scanning for non-existent threats with slow, deliberate turns of his head.
Fortunately Kaizen had opened up somewhat, and had spent the past few days updating her on the real layout of the base. Like an iceberg, the surface layer was only a brief glimpse of the true depth and scale of the Laconia Facility. Eight sub-levels, all dedicated to varying research projects and shadow initiatives. Weapons testing, armour and equipment design and enhancement suites. Medical labs of unprecedented sophistication. The entry level security clearance was Class 4: a near platinum rating.
And below all of that, nestled amongst the bedrock, a detention suite; not even registered on the classified architectural plans. Chimera's Lair.
The Chimera. A creature made of a fusion between a lion, a goat and a serpent's tail. In other words, dangerous on paper, but otherwise an absolute mess of a creature. The name was an apt description for the entire situation, Rebecca decided . Five genetic prodigies turned misfits. Fully grown and trained for six years, but without any semblance of cohesion to them. Wild, undisciplined. Dangerous.
But the potential, Carter had stressed. Kaizen too had repeated the sentiment. Rebecca had reviewed the footage of their abortive escape attempt. She had seen the MP's writhing about, with their wrists and arms broken, their weapons stolen. Cradling gunshot wounds, pinpoint accurate, which had left them clutching at shoulders and shins, their faces wracked with agony. That had been enough to tell her hosts' definition of potential was decidedly different to her own.
But what was the choice? The kids had become adults and, against all logic or reason, those same adults had been allowed to be augmented. Like a pulled trigger, it was not a reversible process. Now they could run faster, jump higher, think smarter; kill quicker. Living, breathing weapons. Their only chance was to be used effectively, or else be scrubbed from the pages of history like an ignominious stain on a kitchen floor, soon forgotten.
Which is what brought Rebecca here, to a one way mirror peering into a large cell. The cell itself was painfully white, and fittingly spartan: a table, two chairs. The giant sitting inside didn't seem to mind though. If anything, dressed in his night-black combat fatigues and studying his wrist restraints with detached boredom, he looked used to the experience. It was the same man Rebecca had seen exercising on Kai's initial series of video feeds. The one the A.I. had recommended she interview first. Chimera's de-facto leader, by dint of being less than a month older than his peers.
Candidate 451: Damien. Surname redacted.
Clean limbed, square jaw, blue eyes, the latter a likely by-product of genetic augmentation. Mussed hair, grown slightly longer than permitted regulation length. If he weren't almost seven foot tall, he could have passed for any other handsome UNSC trooper strutting about the base. Like all Spartans, however, Damien was humanity built on a bigger scale. Even so, 451 surprised her. His build was more akin to that of a professional swimmer than the thick-necked berserkers she imagined Spartans to be. He studied the steel table in front of him, expression serious but otherwise unreadable.
As she went to approach the doorway leading into the cell, a small lens affixed to the side of Eric's helmet beamed a pixelated beam of light onto the mesh decking of the corridor floor. The light fizzled as it resolved itself into a shimmering representation of Kaizen, at three quarter's height. She looked up at Rebecca, a stern look pinching her features.
"A reminder, Doctor: it is critical to secure Candidate 451's co-operation."
"You've said this to me this before, Kai. Twice, in fact."
"Because it bears repeating. 451 coordinated the escape attempt. Of the five, he is the one most suitable in a squad leader capacity. Gain his trust, and opening the remaining group will become appreciably easier."
"I'm a psychologist, Kai. I'm aware of squad dynamics and leadership roles. You just warn me if I'm pushing any buttons that I shouldn't."
Kaizen nodded stiffly, not entirely mollified. Rebecca turned to Eric.
"You. Stay behind me."
As ever, he nodded dutifully.
She stepped past the two armoured guards flanking the entryway. The marines stepped aside, weapons snapping to attention. The door whirred open. Bright light blasted her eyes.
She took a breath, and stepped into the interview chamber.
For a moment nobody spoke.
They regarded each other. The manacled Spartan and the diminutive psychologist. The man's eyes flicked to Eric, who stared back at him without so much as a nod in greeting. The candidate seemed startled at the presence of a Spartan in the room. Unnerved, even. Evidently, he had never seen the fully fledged end-product before.
"Good morning Damien." Rebecca smiled, "I'm Doctor Rebecca Pearson. I was hoping we might have a chat."
To her surprise, Damien smiled back. There was no warmth to it, however. It was a thin, lipless smile. Polite, but eyes watchful; as a lone wolf studies a rustling bush for larger predators ahead. There was a certain hunted look in those artic blue eyes; a practiced paranoia.
"And what is it we're to chat about, Doctor?" he asked.
There was no sarcasm in his voice. Curiosity, for the most part. His tone was polite, almost pleasant. More mature than his age suggested.
"About you, Damien. I was hoping you might tell me about yourself."
"I see."
"You sound disappointed."
"It's all I ever get to talk about." he blinked, an occurrence so seldom it was jarring, "Where are my friends?" he asked suddenly.
"They've been keeping you in isolation?"
He smiled, a genuine one this time.
"'They'? You almost sounded convincing."
"The truth often does. You realise why they wanted me to come and speak with you?"
"You're a shrink. Trying to get into my head." he looked down, brow furrowed, kneading his knuckles together. "To make me want to fight for you."
"I hate that word."
"Sorry." He looked up at her again. "It's true though, isn't it? You're a psychologist?"
Another blink. He cocked his head to one side. It was an almost avian mannerism.
"Do they think me insane?" he asked.
"You were kidnapped at the age of 12, Damien. Brought here against your will. I imagine you've got one or two things to get off your chest."
That flitting smile again. It was a damaged expression.
"We were all inducted. Kidnapped is a very loaded term. I was never kidnapped."
Now it was Rebecca's turn to be surprised. She didn't dare say a word though, Damien was speaking. Something she needed to continue if this process was ever going to work.
"I remember very little of my parents. I was too young when I got separated from them. I have.. shapes of memories. Colours. A sense of warmth. I was raised by an uncle, briefly; or certainly a man who acted like an uncle."
His eyes fell back to the table once more. He seemed to catch himself, realising where he was, and looked up with a start toward where the camera on the wall gazed down at him.
"You can bring me back to my room now." he called out loudly, "I won't be doing any more talking today."
"Yes you will."
Both Rebecca and Damien jumped at the sound despite themselves. Eric had spoken. The Spartan stepped forward, his shadow bearing down over the table. The calm composure of his voice only served to make him more unsettling.
"You will speak because, like it or not, you have been selected for this program, Candidate." the Spartan continued, his voice granted a mechanical after-rasp by the crimson faceplate. "You will speak because it is expected of you."
"And why the hell should I do anything you ask?" Damien snapped. "My friends have been put through enough trouble!"
"Trouble? You speak of a thing you don't understand, Candidate. You never fought in the last war. You never served. Never went mag-dry in a foxhole, surrounded by red-flags and hurting on all things but your own squad mates. Never watched as the only people you ever knew got taken from you, one by one. Mission by mission, piece by piece."
Damien was sitting back in his seat, stunned. Rebecca shook herself when she realised she was cringing too. She preferred Eric when he was menacingly quiet, rather than abjectly menacing. The Spartan leaned over the table, knuckles resting on the table top. They bore groves into the table. His visor was inches away from the tip of Damien's nose.
"I keep hearing this word about you Chimera kids. Potential. Well I watched to footage of your escape attempt, Candidate. Amateur level. Unblooded, unorganised, undisciplined. Above all else, inexperienced. You left witnesses. You're soft. Scimitar would have cut you to ribbons without breaking a sweat, and we would have done it at half your age."
"You've jumped through every hoop they held out for you." Damien shot back. His chin was titled upward, the muscles in his jaw bunched. The boy, and he had been reduced to the boy that he was over the past minute, was beginning to rally somewhat.
Until Eric reached up and took off his helmet. Rebecca had seen her share of war injuries, but even his appearance startled her. While not quite the poster boy Damien was, Eric could once have been considered pleasant by anyone's standards. No longer. The skin, snow-pale from too many hours starved of sunlight, was pock-marked by shrapnel wounds. A curling scar pulled his lip upward in a perpetual sneer. His eyes, steel grey and without pity, could have bored through several inches of steel plate.
"Look at me, Candidate. I said look at me. I jump through hoops because I don't know if you noticed, Candidate," the word was a hissed slur, "But there aren't many of us left. There's even fewer of us who get the God-given opportunity to do what we're capable of doing. And when the next war comes around - and there will be a next war - you will be expected to do your duty. Even if I have to drag you through Induction myself."
The colour had long since drained from Damien's face.
"So the next time I have to come down here with the good Doctor, you're going to answer her questions. You're going to tell her exactly what she needs to know, or I'll feed you to the ONI Spooks myself. Right now, the only thing standing between you and a Section Zero mind-wipe is one point seven metres of 'shrink'. Consider that before you decide to try and have us indulge in another Pity Parade for you and your 'friends'. I'll give you a day to think it over."
Eric stood back, clamped his helmet over his head and stalked from the room.
Rebecca stood up from the table, pointing lamely toward the yawning open door behind her.
"I, er, have to go with him."
Damien ignored her. He was too busy looking down at his feet, face clouded with self-doubt.
"What the hell was that?" Rebecca bristled at the Eric's departing back.
Eric stopped walking. He turned about, looking down at her. Rebecca suddenly felt for all the world like a particularly well dressed target marker on the wrong end of a shooting range. She felt an irrational wave of empathy for fellow target markers across the galaxy. Still, she held her ground, fists clenched. She could be stubborn like that.
"I was assisting your interrogation, Doctor." his voice was cold once again. Functional, precise. Almost surprised at her ire.
"It's not an interrogation!" she cried, exasperated "I'm trying to get these kids to open up. What is with you people!"
"This isn't your private practice anymore." Eric replied patiently. "Candidate 451? The truth is he has talent. But him and the rest of his squad are going to be asked to do terrible things, if and when they pass Induction. Unspeakable things, in your eyes. He needs to be aware of that. They all do. The only choice they have now is whether he has to do it as the person he is now, or as a drooling ONI puppet in some classified wetworks project."
"It's not like that: these kids can be so much more!"
"They can't be more than what they already are. Basic tactical theory: you work with the situation you're given. 451 is already augmented. His choice has been made for him. The only thing you can do for them now is you give them the stamp of approval, and I get them trained up to the standard of squad discipline they'll need to survive whatever hole the UNSC puts them in."
"You're wrong. There's more to it than that. He has a choice."
"Like the choice I was given?" Eric asked simply.
Rebecca's mouth fell ajar. She had no answer to that.
"Do your job. Run your assessments. I have your back on this one, Doctor. They'll get in line."
"What makes you so sure?"
"They've been locked up for six years," he shrugged, walking away again, "They're bored."
True to Eric's word, the second interview went smoother.
The Spartan hadn't said a word to her since their previous argument. He had shown up at her room, nodded curtly, and escorted her back to the sub-basement elevator.
Damien watched them carefully as they stepped into the front room. His face was as unreadable as ever, but the air of tension had faded from him somewhat.
"You seem a bit more approachable today, Damien. If you don't mind me saying."
"I've had time to consider my position in life, Doctor Pearson. To reflect, as Rash says."
"You mean Rashid? Candidate 482?"
Damien raised an eyebrow at that.
"He prefers Rash. It appeals to his sense of humour."
"How so?"
"When you meet him, you'll see." Damien narrowed his eyes, "Of the five of us, you chose to speak with me first. A deliberate decision on your part. Why?"
"How about we trade a question for a question?"
"Shoot."
"What do you remember from before your induction?"
Damien said nothing, studying the table in front of him once more.
"Well?"
Eric tensed behind her. Rebecca held a hand up, stilling him. Damien was a thousand miles away now, lost in memories long since buried.
"Woodland. Trees. Green leaves. Damp moss beneath my feet. Smell of ferns and wet earth."
"Tell me what happened, Damien."
And so he did.