Chapter 2: Until Proven Innocent
0745 HOURS, SEPTEMBER 10, 2552
ABOARD UNSC TRIDENT
"…pursuant to JAG 3411-SR, Article 29 Section 3-C of the martial statutes of the United Nations Space Command…"
He waits, as he has every day for the past two weeks, stuck in this godforsaken chair in this godforsaken courtroom on this godforsaken ship. The difference now, though, is that this is the last time. After today, he won't have to wait any longer. He finally sees the light at the end of the tunnel.
Of course, the light is public execution and the tunnel is complete dissolution of his rank, reputation, and military record as though he never existed. But that's beside the point.
"…through neglect and culpable inefficiency…"
His nose itches, and he strains against the titanium cuffs that pin his wrists and ankles to the chair. He scrunches his face and tries to scratch with his upper lip.
"…his willful dereliction of duty…"
The court-martial officer reading the summary sits at the head of a massive crescent-shaped desk that arches like scorpion pincers in front of his solitary chair. On either side sit the dozen military prosecutors who have dedicated the past two weeks of their lives to ending his own. Behind them, a thirty-foot-tall window rises to the ceiling with nothing but black, star-spotted space outside. He can't help staring over their heads into the void, as though the deep black itself is judging him as well.
"…unwarranted and excessive military and civilian loss…"
An angry buzz behind him. The eyes of hundreds of soldiers—Navy, Army, Marine alike—burn into his back. In the alcoves to his right, swarms of ONI reporters shake their heads and sharpen the focus on their cameras.
He yawns and tilts his head left and right, cracking the rusty joints in his neck. He wonders what they all expected. Maybe they thought a sentence would magically erase the atrocity of his crime. Maybe they thought watching the failures of another would absolve them of their own. Or maybe they just wanted to see blood, to see him strung up and left to die.
Be it a lethal jab from a syringe or a kick out the Trident's huge window, his end is imminent.
But at least he won't have to wait anymore.
The officer finishes the summary and looks up from the data pad, almost bored. "Dom-258," he drawls. "For the final time, and for the official record, do you deny any of the seven thousand aforementioned counts of negligent manslaughter?"
The room holds its collective breath, but his chest rises and falls steadily. Ready to give the answer all of them so desperately want. Ready to end this.
But before he can speak, a door in the back opens, and an MP scurries in, pale and shaky. Everyone watches, stunned, as he half sprints to the horseshoe desk and whispers urgently to one of the prosecutors, whose eyes widen in shock. Without a word of explanation he jumps to his feet and motions to the rest at the desk, and after a second's hesitation they all rise and follow the MP back to the door.
Dom throws his head back on his chair and almost yells in fury. More discussing. More deliberating. More waiting.
But half a dozen MPs flow into the room and start ushering everyone else out as well. Dom's brow furrows, and he twists in his chair as confused soldiers and irritated reporters are herded out the door. Are they just moving court somewhere else? He waits for someone to unlock his restraints and nudge him with the barrel of a rifle, but not one of the officers glance his way. Thirty seconds ago every person in this room couldn't take their eyes off him. Now they can't seem to leave fast enough.
Slowly the room empties, and Dom is left completely alone, still manacled to the chair.
"So…not guilty, then?" he says. His voice echoes to the high ceiling.
Maybe they really are going to open the window and flush me out, he muses. A second later the door opens again—and Dom suddenly wishes that were true.
Fleet Admiral and newly appointed head of the UNSC Sir Terrence Hood, Senior Chief Petty Officer Franklin Mendez, and Lieutenant Kurt Ambrose file through the door.
Dom's breath catches in his chest. After two weeks of staring at pimply MPs, watching the leader of the UNSC and the two most influential men in the SPARTAN-III program stroll into the room sends his adrenaline skyrocketing to battlefield levels. His chest aches, his fingertips tingle with energy—even his nose seems to be so shocked that it stops itching. Every muscle screams at him to jump to his feet and snap to attention.
Mendez takes a seat at the horseshoe desk, to Dom's left. Just one look at the legendary drill instructor and Dom is back on Onyx years ago, at Camp Currahee with orders to follow and training exercises to complete. Deep crow's feet frame Mendez's eyes and his hair is predominantly silver now, but his stony gaze demands as much respect and discipline as it did all those years ago.
Lord Hood settles at the apex of the desk. The rows of ribbons and medals decorating his dress uniform glint proudly as he laces his fingers together and appraises Dom from head to toe.
And Lieutenant Kurt Ambrose. Even out of his armor, the forty-year-old Spartan-II stands over seven feet tall. It's been over a decade since Dom last saw him, but his LT, aside from an extra line or two on his face, looks the same as Dom remembers, with short brown hair and eerily perceptive hazel eyes. He gives Dom a small smile and a nod, just like he did when Dom first arrived on Onyx, freshly orphaned, desperate for a leader, ready to follow whatever order his new lieutenant gave him. Dom spies the golden oak leaf insignia on Kurt's chest and mentally corrects himself: Kurt Ambrose is now a lieutenant commander.
Dom can take dozens of prosecutors. He can take Lord Hood, and hell, he can even take Chief Mendez. But for the first time since he left Reach, he's nervous. If anyone can suss out the truth, the real reason why he's sitting in this chair, it's Lieutenant Commander Ambrose.
Lord Hood clears his throat. "Excuse the rather dramatic entrance, Spartan. We were trying to catch the trial before it ended."
Dom's voice is crisper now than it has been in weeks. "The apology is mine, sir. Please do not doubt I would be on my feet in a salute if I weren't…in my current predicament." He fidgets under his metal cuffs.
Mendez crosses his arms. "And why wouldn't we doubt that, 258? Insubordination is the very reason you're in your predicament, isn't it?"
"Sir. Yes, sir."
Lord Hood peruses the data pad the court-martial officer left on the desk. "I suppose only a Spartan would call seven thousand counts of negligent manslaughter a 'predicament.'" He sighs and looks at Dom sternly. "Rest assured, we aren't here to belabor the details of this case any further. I think the JAG Corps—and, I suspect, ONI—has gotten their point across with their 'guilty until proven innocent' crusade. Don't misunderstand me, of course—your right to a proper trial was appropriately forfeited by the nature of your crime." He glances at Mendez and Kurt. "Even so, several of us couldn't help but notice that you've been staunchly disinclined to offer any evidence in defense of yourself. Nor have you provided any details to clarify your, if I may, suspiciously dubious field report. It struck us as rather peculiar for a Spartan in your position.
"So the first reason we're here, 258, is to give you this final opportunity to reveal any details about the incident that you may have withheld during the trial, for whatever reason. We'll briefly walk through the incident, and you're hereby ordered to recount the complete and utter truth—and that means no lies by omission, either. Do you understand, Spartan?"
Dom swallows and clenches his fists. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Now. On August 25th in the city of Áldozat, you gained control of a class-five Covenant antimatter explosive. You prevented the Covenant from using it and obtained the detonation codes."
"Correct, sir."
"Then you reported to HQ that you planned to detonate the bomb."
"Yes, sir."
"The commanding officer, with compelling rationale, ordered you not to detonate."
"Yes."
"But you did anyway."
"Yes."
Mendez's cheeks redden. "I want to hear it straight, Spartan, because what I've heard these past two weeks just can't be true, and I'm tired of being served information after ONI's had their fingers all in it. So—why. Why did you disobey this order?"
Dom wishes he could pinch the bridge of his nose and try to squeeze some of this exhaustion away. As quickly as it came, his adrenaline withers and evaporates completely, leaving the all-too-familiar stale crust of resignation. He remembers that at the end of the day, no matter how high he regards these men, they are just men. No different from the prosecutors, or the judges, or the soldiers. Same questions. Same answers. He's had two weeks of rehearsal, and not even Chief Petty Officer Mendez can intimidate him enough to forget his self-written script now.
"Sir. As I've reported, a civilian girl was captured by a Covenant ground team. I was afraid she might compromise the locations of other colonies, including Earth, and other vital UNSC intelligence."
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kurt squint at the ceiling doubtfully.
"I'll remind you, Spartan," warns Hood, "that I said no lies."
"Yes, sir. This is the truth."
Mendez puts his hands on the desk, palms facing each other, as though mapping the story and trying to keep it from spinning off the table. "How old was this girl? Did you have any evidence to suggest she was particularly important? Was she…related to military personnel, perhaps?"
Dom pauses. "She was maybe twelve or thirteen. And I don't know, sir."
Hood and Mendez share an exasperated look.
"Do twelve-year-old civilian girls make it a habit of knowing Earth's interstellar coordinates and 'vital UNSC intelligence'?" says Mendez through clenched teeth.
"Sir. It was unusual that the Covenant captured instead of killed her, and we know the Covenant do not typically take prisoners unless there is something to gain. I presumed that they intended to extract some kind of information from her, so I did the only thing I could at the time to prevent that from happening—which meant detonating the bomb."
"And in addition to the thousands of civilian casualties," finishes Hood, "dozens of Marine ground squads, ODST reinforcements—and the three other Spartans in your own fireteam—were lost."
"That's correct, sir," Dom deadpans.
The look on Mendez's face reminds Dom of when he forgot to polish his boots or when he slept in and missed morning formation. "Spartans can make mistakes, I'll admit it. But this…this was just complete senselessness. It is the worst judgment call I've ever seen from a Spartan," says Mendez.
It's been simple, boring even, taking abuse from puffed-up prosecutors and ravenous reporters and scandalized soldiers for the last two weeks. Though they stripped him of his Mjolnir and fired insults and accusations at him, his mental armor remained intact and deflected all attacks. But condemnation from Mendez, a man who dedicated his life turning Dom into a Spartan, a man who became like a terrifying but trustworthy father figure, burns deep and threatens to melt all his barriers. He takes a breath and considers Mendez's point of view. A faulty Spartan implies faulty training. He knows that before anything personal, Mendez is just trying to investigate the root problem, as a mechanic would a sputtering Warthog. He's just trying to find the loose bolt, the frayed wire. He's just trying to figure out what really happened.
Which is something Dom can never tell him.
Kurt leans forward, and Dom fights the urge to recoil. He finally looks his lieutenant commander in the eye.
"During your campaign in Áldozat, did your fireteam happen across any sensitive information? Of any nature?" asks Kurt.
Dom licks his dry lips. "No, sir."
"Did your team leader, Eric-A103, order you to detonate the bomb?"
"No, sir."
"What was the last order he gave you before he died in the explosion?"
Trying to twist his words. To tangle his story. But Dom has been weaving this web for two weeks. "Sir. As I've reported, Eric was killed in battle before the bomb." He puts just enough edge in his tone to indicate that Kurt can't trick him. "And I'm afraid I don't remember what his last order was, sir."
"Of course. And your other teammates?"
"They did die in the explosion."
"Did you expect to die, Dom?"
Dom blinks. He thought the prosecution had exhausted every single question possible in their investigation. But this was a new one. One he could actually answer with the truth.
"Yes, sir. I did."
Kurt opens his mouth with another question, but stops, and instead scrutinizes Dom with that sharp gaze a few more seconds, clearly wrangling with a decision—before closing his mouth and leaning back. Dom stifles a sigh of relief.
A protracted silence descends from the high ceiling. Dom looks over Lord Hood's head at the black space out the window. He imagines the cold. The weightlessness. The nothing. He's ready to feel it all—or, rather, not feel it. And he supposes, if he's going to be sentenced today, better to hear it from these three men than a contemptuous JAG corpsman.
But he is tired of waiting.
"So," he says, testing the steadiness of his voice. "However you decide to do it, I respectfully request that you do it soon. I'd like to get it over with."
They allow even more seconds to tick by, and all exchange a glance before Lord Hood uncrosses his arms and says, "258, the UNSC is not going to simply dispose of a Spartan, even when his actions were so severely negligent as yours. I hope you understand the gravity of our situation now that Reach is gone. I hope you understand that, despite our response efforts, we do in fact face complete annihilation. And I need you to understand that every capable soldier must now be prepared to dedicate their entire worth to humanity's hard road ahead in the coming months. And for those with special training, that means undertaking special orders."
It certainly doesn't sound like a death sentence. And then it clicks, as he looks at all three of them collectively. These were the men usually putting him on the battlefield, not taking him off. Hood is talking reentry in the field. And the way he's dancing with his words, it's dangerous.
"You're talking about a mission. An operation," Dom says.
Hood inclines his head. "A necessary one, make no mistake. If successful, your team could win the war single-handedly."
Strange. There was a time when these words would ignite in his chest a frenzied fire of determination. His heart would pulse with patriotism, his chest would swell with duty.
Now, though…his mind is as blank as the void outside.
He rotates his wrist under the metal cuffs. "Surely my credibility in the field is compromised. What soldiers would want to work with me after all this?"
"Your team comprises just you and another soldier, and to put it bluntly, the two of you don't really have choice regarding this assignment," Mendez says. He raises an eyebrow. "But Headhunters have been proven effective in the past."
Before Dom can ask what Headhunters are, Lord Hood adds, "It is the second reason we've come here today, because before we get into the details, we need to make something very clear to you. This is a two-man mission, but there is a rank. Your partner is the team leader, not you. After this Áldozat ordeal, we thought we should deliver this order personally. You are to follow your team member's command without question. Both of your lives, and in extension, the lives of millions, could depend on it, so there will not be another incident of insubordination like Áldozat. Do you understand?"
"I understand," says Dom, suppressing the petulance in his tone.
"This isn't some walk-in-the-park operation, either," Mendez insists. "No Spartan-III has ever been tasked on something like this. So, keep that in mind." He grunts in approval, his eyes softening for the first time. "We wouldn't give this to just anybody."
Dom nods, but the words filter in and out without effect. If it's not a syringe, it's a mission. Either way, his death is still close, and the only difference now is he just has to wait longer.
"Dom," says Kurt calmly. The lieutenant commander studies him, like he used to while evaluating Dom's training progress years ago. "I don't know what happened on Reach. But I know you. Whatever you did, you did because you thought it was right. You're no criminal. You're one of the best Spartans to come out of the program."
The words, once beacons of honor, ring hollow. It's not true. None of it. Maybe Kurt "knew" Dom at one point, but that person was left on Reach, in Áldozat, dead and buried under concrete and glass.
Still, he nods to the LCDR. He manages a crooked smile and one more lie: "I'll do whatever is necessary to complete this mission, sir."
"Good. Now, to business," says Lord Hood, activating the holo-projector over the crescent desk and bringing up the image of a planet, an array of coordinates, and a UNSC profile of a young woman. "Let's first address the matter of your partner."
Thanks for reading!
I tried to keep my (disturbingly) passionate love for Kurt-051 from showing. I think I toned it down to obvious-crush level. Hopefully.
The Darkness Knight – I know, right? The Spartan-III program is the best. Thank you for the kind words! =)