CHAPTER THREE

2300 Hours September 23, 2517 (Military Calendar ) / Epsilon Eridani System, Reach Military Complex,

planet Reach

Dr. Halsey stood on a platform in the center of the amphitheater. Concentric rings of slate-gray risers surrounded her—empty for now. Overhead spotlights focused and reflected off her white lab coat, but she still was cold.

She should feel safe here. Reach was one of the UNSC’s largest industrial bases, ringed with high-orbit gun batteries, space docks, and a fleet of heavily-armed capital ships. On the planet’s surface were Marine and Navy Special Warfare training grounds, OCS schools, and between her underground facilities and the surface were three hundred meters of hardened steel and concrete. The room where she now stood could withstand a direct hit from an 80-megaton nuke.

So why did she feel so vulnerable?

Dr. Halsey knew what she had to do. Her duty. It was for the greater good. All humanity would be served . . . even if a tiny handful of them had to suffer for it. Still, when she turned inward and faced her complicity in this—she was revolted by what she saw.

She wished she still had Lieutenant Keyes. He had proven himself a capable assistant during the last month. But he had begun to understand the nature of the project—at least seen the edges of the truth. Dr.

Halsey had him reassigned to the Magellan with a commission to full Lieutenant for his troubles.

“Are you ready, Doctor?” a disembodied woman’s voice asked.

“Almost, Déjà.” Dr. Halsey sighed. “Please summon Chief Petty Officer Mendez. I’d like you both present when I address them.”

Déjà’s hologram flicked on next to Dr. Halsey. The AI had been specifically created for Dr. Halsey’s SPARTAN project. She took the appearance of a Greek goddess: barefoot, wrapped in the toga, motes of light dancing about her luminous white hair. She held a clay tablet in her left hand. Binary cuneiform markings scrolled across the tablet. Dr. Halsey couldn’t help but marvel at the AI’s chosen form; each AI “self-assigned” a holographic appearance, and each was unique.

One of the doors at the top of the amphitheater opened and Chief Petty Officer Mendez strode down the stairs. He wore a black dress uniform, his chest awash with silver and gold stars and a rainbow of campaign ribbons. His close-shorn hair had a touch of gray at the temples. He was neither tall nor muscular; he looked so ordinary for a man who had seen so much combat . . . except for his stride. The man moved with a slow grace as if he were walking in half gravity. He paused before Dr. Halsey, awaiting further instructions.

“Up here, please,” she told him, gesturing to the stairs on her right.

Mendez mounted the steps of the platform and then stood at ease next to her.

“You have read my psychological evaluations?” Déjà asked Dr. Halsey.

“Yes. They were quite thorough,” she said. “Thank you.”

“And?”

“I’m forgoing your recommendations, Déjà. I’m going to tell them the truth.”

Mendez gave a nearly inaudible grunt of approval—one of the most verbose acknowledgments Dr.

Halsey had heard from him. As a hand-to-hand combat and physical-training DI, Mendez was the best in the Navy. As a conversationalist, however, he left a great deal to be desired.

“The truth has risks,” Déjà cautioned.

“So do lies,” Dr. Halsey replied. “Any story fabricated to motivate the children—claiming their parents were taken and killed by pirates, or by a plague that devastated their planet—if they learned the truth later, they would turn against us.”

“It is a legitimate concern,” conceded Déjà, and then she consulted her tablet. “May I suggest selective neural paralysis? It produces a targeted amnesia—”

“A memory loss that may leak into other parts of the brain. No,” Dr. Halsey said, “this will be dangerous enough for them even with intact minds.”

Dr. Halsey clicked on her microphone. “Bring them in now.”

“Aye aye,” a voice replied from the speakers in the ceiling.

“They’ll adapt,” Dr. Halsey told Déjà. “Or they won’t, and they will be untrainable and unsuitable for the project. Either way I just want to get this over with.”

Four sets of double doors at the top tier of the amphitheater swung open. Seventy-five children marched in—each accompanied by a handler, a Naval drill instructor in camouflage pattern fatigues.

The children had circles of fatigue around their eyes. They had all been collected, rushed here through Slipstream space, and only recently brought out of cryo sleep. The shock of their ordeal must be hitting them hard, Halsey realized. She stifled a pang of regret.

When they had been seated in the risers, Dr. Halsey cleared her throat and spoke: “As per Naval Code 45812, you are hereby conscripted into the UNSC Special Project, codenamed SPARTAN II.”

She paused; the words stuck in her windpipe. How could they possibly understand this? She barely understood the justifications and ethics behind this program.

They looked so confused. A few tried to stand and leave, but their handlers placed firm hands on their shoulders and pushed them back down.

Six years old . . . this was too much for them to digest. But she had to make them understand, explain it in simple terms that they could grasp.

Dr. Halsey took a tentative step forward. “You have been called upon to serve,” she explained. “You will be trained . . . and you will become the best we can make of you. You will be the protectors of Earth and all her colonies.”

A handful of the children sat up straighter, no longer entirely frightened, but now interested.

Dr. Halsey spotted John, subject Number 117, the first boy she had confirmed as a viable candidate. He wrinkled his forehead, confused, but he listened with rapt attention.

“This will be hard to understand, but you cannot return to your parents.”

The children stirred. Their handlers kept a firm grip on their shoulders.

“This place will become your home,” Dr. Halsey said in as soothing a voice as she could muster. “Your fellow trainees will be your family now. The training will be difficult. There will be a great deal of hardship on the road ahead, but I know you will all make it.”

Patriotic words, but they rang hollow in her ears. She had wanted to tell them the truth—but how could she?

Not all of them would make it. “Acceptable losses,” the Office of Naval Intelligence representative had assured her. None of it was acceptable.

“Rest now,” Dr. Halsey said to them. “We begin tomorrow.”

She turned to Mendez. “Have the children . . . the trainees escorted to their barracks. Feed them and put them to bed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mendez said. “Fall out!” he shouted.

The children rose—at the urging of their handlers. John 117 stood, but he kept his gaze on Dr. Halsey and remained stoic. Many of the subjects seemed stunned, a few had trembling lips—but none of them cried.

These were indeed the right children for the project. Dr. Halsey only hoped that she had half their courage when the time came.

“Keep them busy tomorrow,” she told Mendez and Déjà. “Keep them from thinking about what we’ve just done to them.”