Chapter 3: Number "Four"
1110 HOURS, SEPTEMBER 10, 2552
EN ROUTE TO UNSC POINT OF NO RETURN
It takes just three hours to reach Point of No Return, but it's three hours crammed in a windowless transport ship across from a scowling Dr. Skala. The last time we spent this much time together she was busy injecting bio-mutating chemicals into my body. She glares at me now as if she would like nothing more than to do that again, but this time with undetectable lethal variants.
Or just straight up rat poison.
As much as I welcome a good cage match with my Moa-ish arch nemesis, I'm too distracted by the pounding in my right temple and the mystery behind Admiral Parangosky's summons. With Skala called as well, I suspect it has to do with my condition. A ray of hope tickles my chest. Did they make a breakthrough in a new treatment? Are they bringing Skala just to rub it in her face?
As if disgusted at the thought of a cure, the pain rakes in earnest against my skull, and my vision blurs for a moment. Despite my eagerness to leave the Hopeful as quickly as possible, I wish we had finished in Skala's office. It's been a while since I've gone this long without meds.
By the time we dock on Return, I'm a sweaty, trembling mess. Security officers escort us out of the terminal and through a stark hallway with a single door at the end. Biometric panels blink aggressively at us, and we place our hands on the panels and follow the officers through another set of corridors. After passing a retina scan at the next door—a DNA cheek swab at the next—a voice test at the next—and a personal information quiz at the elevator, we reach a darkened catwalk, where the shadows are so thick I can hardly see ten feet in front of me. At the end is a curved white wall, and the officers stop us in front of it.
"Wait here," one orders, and they leave the way we came and close the enormous door behind them. The lock spins and drops with a thunk like a vault, leaving us alone on the eerily muted catwalk.
Skala rounds on me and lets loose.
"What the hell is going on, Harper? What are we doing here?" Her words are swallowed by the inky black chasm around us.
I scoff and I cross my arms, but it's more to hide my shaking hands. "What are we doing here? In this secret room, on this secret ship, in the middle of a—let's go crazy—secret location? I'm gonna go on a limb and say it's a secret. I don't know."
"Think. Obviously this is about you. You did something, or said something…"
"Oh, I remember now. Dear Admiral Parangosky. Help, my doctor keeps poking me with needles, and I think she's trying to kill me. Sincerely, Harper."
"I never tried to kill y—"
The curved white wall—at least, I thought it was a wall—slides open, revealing a tall, severe-looking man with sharp eyes under a receding hairline. His uniform glints with medals and bears the eagle insignia of an Army colonel.
Years of Spartan training, dormant during my time working behind a desk, arouse at once, and even though I'm not technically a soldier anymore, his high rank overwhelms me. I snap to attention and salute him. "Sir."
The colonel barely looks at me and waves us in.
My eyes struggle to adjust to the round room, at least fifteen feet in diameter with white concave walls. A black oval conference table dominates the center of the room, like the slit of a pupil within an eye. At the center of the table sits Admiral Parangosky, who, despite her diminutive and withered figure, commands the immediate attention of everyone in the room. Her claw-like hands rest on top of a data tablet, and she dissects me with a cold stare that makes me feel like a wobbly gazelle in front of a hungry lioness.
"Please sit, both of you," she says. "I suspect you do not need an introduction, but I am Admiral Margaret Parangosky. This is Colonel James Ackerson."
I take the seat directly across, flipping my hair from my face nonchalantly, like I frequent top-secret stealth ships all the time. I push my headache aside and try to tap into Parangosky's emotions, but it's hard to read anything over Skala's anxious panting and hammering heartbeat. She sits next to me and wrings her hands.
My gaze slides to the colonel. So this is James Ackerson. The "founder" of the SPARTAN-III program. A man who, for an Army colonel, has a disproportionate amount of pull within ONI. A man whose name either stirs intimidated respect or pure loathing within the UNSC. A man who, even though we've never met, I always presumed hates me and my stain on his perfect Gamma Company.
But at the moment, his iron expression tells me nothing.
Parangosky thumbs her tablet and it glows with data. "We will try to make this brief. We don't want to deprive the Hopeful of helpful hands longer than we have to. I'd like to start with a few simple questions." Her cold eyes bore into mine. "First, tell me your name."
"Harper Coyne."
She frowns, as though that was the wrong answer. "Your tag."
I blink in surprise. "Uh. 124. Harper-G124, ma'am." The numbers feel strange on my tongue. I can't remember the last time I said my Spartan ID out loud.
"Your age?" asks Parangosky.
"Seventeen, ma'am."
Another doubtful pause. She raises her thin eyebrows. "You look quite a bit older than seventeen."
This speechon the other hand is well rehearsed, and usually ends with "Does my fist look older than seventeen?" But that's probably not the way to go here, and for the first time, I can actually tell the truth.
"Ma'am. My company was given growth hormones during our training, even before the augmentation procedures. And I was older than most of the recruits to begin with, so the augmentation procedure was sort of like…second puberty." I feel like a first-grader explaining the alphabet to my teacher; surely she knows all of this? The pain in my head flares, and I ignore it and take a stab at a smile. "Helps at the pubs, when the bartender thinks I'm mid-twenties."
The joke evaporates as soon as it leaves my mouth. Parangosky glances, almost lazily, at the data pad in front of her. "Of course. And after your failed augmentation last February, your services were rerouted in ONI. What is it you do now?"
My headache pauses long enough for me to take a step back and weigh this conversation. What's my name? How old am I? Where do I work? I just won the Galactic Cup, what am I going to do next? These answers are two clicks away on any generic ONI personnel database. By now I expected to be celebrating the news of a cure for my condition. But the most powerful person in the UNSC has brought me to the most secretive ship in the fleet—to small talk?
A tidal wave of anger washes over the confusion, and my migraine resumes in full force. She knows damn well what I do for ONI. Every day, I sit behind a desk in the darkest corner of the deepest basement in the most remote base on Reach. I pore over trivial Section Three documents until my eyes bleed (and with my continued seizures, I mean that almost literally). I file report after report from active officers in the field. I drown in data entry. I shake the vending machine that eats my credit to get my damn cheese puffs. I know I have Skala—and, I suspect, Colonel Ackerson—to thank for my segregated employment. Just brush the failed recruit under the rug, and place Gamma Company on the pedestal as the perfect SPARTAN-III company.
And I'm sure Parangosky knows all of this, so why the hell is she asking?
I grit my teeth and sit a little straighter. Yes, I've been chained to a desk for a year, and maybe the seclusion gave me some separation anxiety and a disturbing habit of talking to myself, but it also gave me a stubborn sense of autonomy. Suddenly, I don't give a damn that Admiral Parangosky is my significant superior. If she's going to be cagey now, then I will too.
"I'm a Beta-5 logistics admin," I answer shortly, offering no elaboration. I'm pretty sure that's verbatim from my personnel record staring Parangosky in the face.
Ackerson does nothing to hide his eye roll, and I'm not sure if it's my imagination but I think Parangosky resists a smirk. Without missing a beat she says, "Next I'd like to review your Spartan training. During your six years on Onyx, you were the leader of one of the top teams in the program."
This time it's my heart, not my head, that clenches painfully.
"Yes. In fact," adds Ackerson with a sour smile, "Lieutenant Commander Ambrose named you as the 'pinnacle' of the SPARTAN-III program. He said you were likely the one who would lead the rest of the company."
My voice is stuck in the back of my throat, just like the memories of Onyx are stuck in the shadows of my mind—exactly where I want them to stay.
It's rude not to acknowledge anything an officer says, but I can't even muster up a polite "Yes, sir." Parangosky and Ackerson gaze at me presumptuously, and I consider instead: "Can you just get to the goddamn point and stop telling me crap I already know?" Yes, that should go over well.
"Have you seen your teammates or any others from your company since the augmentation procedures?" asks Parangosky.
"No. I haven't seen any of them."
I catch a slight whiff of sympathy from her, but it evaporates just as quickly. She purses her lips. "Dr. Skala. In the wake of her unsuccessful augmentation, did G124 ever exhibit an indifferent or resentful attitude toward the SPARTAN program? Even when she was reassigned to a menial administrative position?"
Skala flushes, which is evidence enough that she forced me into that job, and through gritted teeth replies, "Not that I recall, ma'am. Harper has always—"
"Use her ID."
"G124 has always shown dedication to the program, despite her…issues." Skala looks like she swallowed a lemon, like it physically pains her to compliment me.
Parangosky consults the data pad. "And did G124 ever—"
Without warning, red-hot pain slices across my forehead, like a bolt of lightning from temple to temple. I gasp and clap a hand to my head.
Everyone looks at me.
"Do you need a glass of water, 124?" asks Parangosky.
I cringe as the aftershocks crackle across my skull and down the back of my neck. Not a good sign at all. Why, why, why didn't I insist Skala finish up with the meds before we left the Hopeful?
"No, ma'am. Just a…small headache." I hide my trembling hands under the table.
She scrolls to the next page on her data pad. "On cue, it seems, as your condition is the next topic of this discussion."
My migraine thrums like a purring cougar, happy to be in the spotlight now. I suppress a groan of pain.
"First," Parangosky says impatiently, "so we are on the same page, everyone in this room is aware of the illegal neural mutagens used in Gamma Company's augmentations. Colonel Ackerson"—she nods to him brusquely—"and Lieutenant Commander Ambrose have disclosed their decision and their reasons to authorize these drugs. I want it understood that we are not here to discuss their repercussions."
I know this. Skala knows this. The questions surrounding my condition were never what or when. The anatomical enhancements—bone ossification drugs and muscle protein complexes—worked as intended. But the minute the neural-altering agents slithered into my brain, the dams broke, and bloody noses and debilitating seizures poured out. With dozens of MRIs and CAT scans yielding no answers, it's the why and the how that wrinkled Skala's face and grayed her hair.
I know about the drugs and how illegal they were—Lieutenant Commander Ambrose himself admitted his involvement to my face—but I'm surprised that the secret broke through our circle and Skala's team of tight-lipped med techs in Project CHRYSANTHEMUM. But Parangosky shrugs. I guess morally questionable decisions don't faze her at all these days, no matter how illegal.
Colonel Ackerson looks as smug as can be. He unlocks his own data pad and types something on the screen's keyboard. His breath is even, his heartbeat steady. Parangosky's "repercussions" were likely nothing but a slap on the wrist. My head pounds in indignation.
"Dr. Skala," Parangosky says, "without the extensive medical jargon, tell me about the side effects of G124's augmentation. Clearly," she adds, looking me over, "it wasn't a complete failure."
"Well, no," says Skala. "Harp—G124's body accepted most of the physiological enhancements. On her good days, she is as strong and fast as any other Spartan-III. But with the neural mutagen…" She glances at me as if I grew an extra head, before shaking her own in revulsion.
"It was supposed to enhance aggression?" asks Parangosky, half turning to Ackerson.
He nods. "And it was supposed to make them near impervious to pain."
"It did enhance aggression and make them impervious to pain," says Skala, borderline petulant. "It worked perfectly for 329 of the 330 candidates. But for whatever reason—" Whoops. Couldn't quite hide the bitterness that time. "—the drug targeted G124's anterior insular cortex instead of the frontal lobe, despite countless doses of cyclodexione and miso-olanzapine—"
"I said omit the medical jargon," Parangosky warns.
Skala nods in apology, but her eyes still burn. "In other words, it targeted the wrong part of her brain. The immediate results were incapacitating seizures, inexplicable bloody noses, and frequent fainting spells."
Slowly, her voice fades into the background, and memories creep up from the shadows that stain my mind. I'm usually good at forcing these unwelcome thoughts back down into place, but they seem particularly emboldened after revisiting the Hopeful earlier and listening to Skala's haunting recollection now. They snap through my mind like a photograph reel…Flat on my back, muscles on fire, tears streaming down my face into my ears…Skala juggling syringes and shrieking different theories and solutions to the perplexed med team…Lieutenant Commander Ambrose, holding my hand, hazel eyes filled with grief as he tells me heauthorized the drugs that caused all this…
"Strangely enough…" says Skala, pulling me out of my trance. She gazes at me like an art critic would a painting. "The mutagens also gave 124 an impossibly high sense of awareness of the biological states of others. Physiological hyper-intuition, biological empathy, electromagnetic acuity—we've made up several names for it. Essentially, G124 is able to gauge the heart rate of another person and make inferences—often correct—on what their mental status is. Sometimes she even predicts what their next move will be."
Ackerson raises an eyebrow and smirks at me. "Interesting. What am I thinking right now?"
I clench my jaw, which only aggravates my headache further. I keep my tone polite but even. "I'm empathic, sir, not psychic. I can't read minds, as it were."
"Nevertheless, it sounds useful," says Parangosky. I see the cogs spinning behind those calculating eyes.
"Sure, if you're looking for a personal polygraph."
"It's useful to an extent," clarifies Skala, before Parangosky can slice my throat with her claws. "She takes daily meds for the slighter symptoms. We also administer a regimen of potent counteragents that depress her receptors. Without them, she becomes overstimulated to the point where her brain can't handle the information and simply shuts down—but not before a dramatic display of debilitating headaches and violent seizures."
An excruciating sizzle of pain in my skull, as though it's flattered. My fingertips rattle against my head as I try to physically press the migraine back.
"How often does she need the counteragents?" asks Parangosky.
"Twice a month."
"And can they be self-administered?"
"Excuse me?"
The question slips out of my mouth before I can tack on a "ma'am" at the end.
But I'm fed up now. I'm done with this bewildering line of questioning, tired of being talked about like I'm not sitting right here. My head is splitting in two, my vision is swimming, my stomach is roiling with nausea.
Skala clears her throat in the awkward silence. "Well, yes, they can. If necessary."
Their voices fade again, like the volume of the whole room has lowered. And I feel it now…that familiar tip over the edge of the cliff, where the pain pulls me right over into the abyss. My voice is caught, already lost. I put a trembling hand on Skala's arm, trying to warn her—and just before my vision tunnels completely I see her eyes widen in recognition and panic.
"No. No."
But it's too late—the seizure grabs me and pulls me out of reality.
These are the bad ones. The ones I've only had "three" of in the past two weeks. The ones that make Skala and every neuroscientist from every corner of the galaxy gape at the brain scanners like drooling monkeys.
One of these scientists, while fuming over my dubious seizure tests, mockingly called it a "black hole" seizure, before tossing my scan results in the air and dismissing me as just another lost-cause Spartan washout. But his insult was startlingly accurate. In a blinding burst of pain, I implode in on myself, absorbing every sound, every smell, sucking in all emotions. Time goes screwy, slowing down to the speed of a snail, every movement slow and labored as though underwater.
In the split-second before I lose consciousness, I spread the pieces of this conversation on a mental table and pick through them like a puzzle. First Ackerson, his self-assured expression, his relaxed shoulders…the eager chug of his heartbeat, like a steam engine train with nothing but blue skies and flat horizon in front of him. Doesn't bode well for you when a man who hates you, who would likely prefer you never existed, is pleased for some reason. Earlier he typed something on his data pad, and I recall the scene in hyper-slow motion, deconstructing his finger placements and mapping them out on a mental keyboard: "Deployment to XQ-526."
I fit that piece into its spot, and shift to Parangosky. Reputation: check; on the outside, she is as stone cold as they say. But I feel the salty tang of her sweat more than I smell it, and I can almost see her heartbeat drumming in her throat, the kind of heartbeat that soldiers in the field have before ambushing an enemy. The kind when they know the stakes are far too high for failure. And I understand now why she's asking the most inane questions—it isn't that she doesn't know the answers, it's to get a sense of my core character, of the amount of patience I have under unknown and uncontrollable pressure. Why she's bringing up my training on Onyx and using my ID instead of my name—to reset my mind back as a Spartan, not an ONI paper pusher. Why she's asking Skala if I resent Lieutenant Commander Ambrose and the SPARTAN program—to gauge my loyalty to the program, to the UNSC, to humanity.
Maybe I'm picking her apart right now, but she's been doing it to me this entire meeting.
And the last piece, the discussion of how my condition affects me day to day, snaps into place, and the image resolves.
How stupid. How stupid I was to think this was about a cure. This is about activating me for a mission. A mission so dangerous the Commander-in-Chief of ONI herself has to deliver the order. A mission so dangerous the man who wants me erased from Gamma Company is assured that it will happen.
Another surge of agony, and the room goes black.