Halo: Ghosts of Onyx

Lucy was down from his tree as weli, machine gun balanced on her shoulder. She moved onto the field to help Adam and Min get up. "Come on," she said. "We still got a bell to ring."

Adam boosted Tom and then Lucy to make a human ladder, and then Min clambered up and clanged the bell.

Nothing had ever sounded so good.

They all climbed down. "Now for some payback…" Tom said. "Adam, Min, take up spotting positions"—he pointed—"in those trees there and there."

They nodded and ran off to the trees.

"You and me and these," Tom told Lucy, patting his machine gun, "will set up there." He pointed to a large boulder. "I’ll be there." He nodded to the tall grass on the edge of the field.

"And do what?" she asked.

"Well, we’ve cleared the field and rung the bell. I figure with the other teams getting here and ringing the bell in record times…"

Lucy smiled. "The DIs will come running and gunning."

The DIs at Camp Currahee were a mix of handpicked NCOs, medics, and the washouts from the first Spartan class. The washouts always went out of their way to make the lives of the Beta Spartan trainees hell. Two years ago Team X-ray vanished on a routine exercise up north. A lot of the kids said there were ghosts up there—floating eyes in the jungle—but everyone really knew the DIs had done something and covered it up. ONI even came in and fenced the place off. Called it "Zone 67" and declared it was "absolutely off-limits."

It was time to teach those DIs they couldn’t get away with bullying Beta Company.

Min whistled from the treetops.

Teams Romeo and Echo slinked into view. Tom signaled them and explained the plan.

Teams Zulu and Lima joined them, and soon two dozen trainees were scattered in the trees and grass, watching and waiting.

It only took fifteen minutes before a whistle sounded at three o’clock. There was a subtle motion in the grass on the edges of the field.

Tom signaled his scouts to fall back while Lucy maneuvered to get a better line. Tom ran in a crouch to intercept.

He spotted three targets, their SPI armor mimicking the grass well, but not well enough to cover the parted grass at their feet. They turned to face Lucy.

Tom fired, spraying at knee level where the armor was weakest.

Three human-shaped outlines crushed the grass, screaming and convulsing as the rubber bullets pelted them.

Lucy joined him and opened fire.

When the screaming stopped, Tom moved in and peeled off their armor, revealing three very dazed DIs.

They had not identified themselves, so by the rules of engagement they were fair targets.

Adam ran up and helped him and Lucy strip the bodies.

"Pistols and MA5Ks, both with stun ammunition," Adam said.

Lucy held up a double handful of grenades, and smiled. "Flash-bangs."

"Now," Tom said, grinning, "this really gets interesting."

The moon had come out and set. The grass was wet with dew and Tom’s stomach growled so loud he thought it might give away his position in the dark.

Five waves of DIs had come, and been neutralized by a now armed, armored, and fully equipped Spartan Trainee Defense Team. The instructors were tied up in the middle of the field by the bell. Hostages.

Tom and the other Spartans were working together like they never had before. And they were winning. He was hungry, wet, and cold, but Tom wouldn’t have traded places with anyone in the entire galaxy.

He heard a rustle in the tall grass, turned, machine gun aimed waist high.

There was nothing there, and nothing on the thermals, either. He must be getting jumpy.

A hand clamped on his shoulder, while another hand wrenched the machine gun from his grasp.

Chief Mendez stood over him. At his side was Lieutenant Ambrose.

Tom half expected Mendez to shoot him right there.

"I think that’s quite enough," Mendez growled.

The Lieutenant knelt beside Tom and whispered, "Good work, son."

CHAPTER TEN

0420 HOURS, FEBRUARY 19, 2551 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \ ABOARD UNSC HOPEFUL, INTERSTELLAR SPACE, SECTOR K-009

(FIVE YEARS AFTER SPARTAN-III BETA COMPANY OPERATION TORPEDO AT PEGASI DELTA)

Kurt walked the empty corridors of the UNSC Hopeful and entered the atrium. Blazing lights overhead mimicked a realistic sun. Air recirculators made the leaves of the small grove of white oaks rustle. He smelled lavender, a scent he hadn’t experienced since he was a child.

The most extravagant feature of the Hopeful, however, was the ten-meter curving window in the atrium—something utterly unheard of on any other ship in the UNSC fleet.

But then the Hopeful was unlike any other ship in the fleet.

Naval officers described her as "the ugliest thing to ever float in zero gee." The ship had been built before there had been major rebel activity in the colonies. A private medical corporation had purchased two scrapped repair stations—each a square kilometer plate of scaffolding, cranes, and cargo trams. These two plates had been connected to make an off- centered "sandwich," and within, a state-of-the-art hospital and research facility had been constructed.

In 2495 the UNSC had commandeered the vessel, added engines, minimal defensive systems, six fusion reactors, and a Shaw-Fujikawa translight system, and transformed the Hopeful into the largest mobile battlefield hospital in history.

While most Naval officers agreed she was unsightly, every en-listed Marine Kurt had ever spoken with declared her the most beautiful thing they had ever seen.

The Hopeful had taken on mythical proportions with the men and women who had to fight and die on the front lines. She had been damaged, but had survived, eighteen major Naval battles with rebel forces and four encounters with the Covenant. The ship’s staff and technology had a reputation of saving lives, in many cases literally bringing the dead back to life.

Today the ship had been parked in interstellar space— essentially the middle of nowhere—by order of Vice Admiral Parangosky. And while the thousands of critically ill patients could not be evacuated, the eight decks surrounding docking cluster Bravo had been cleared of all personnel while ONI moved in their equipment and staff. The SPARTAN- III program had to remain under a cloak of absolute secrecy.

Kurt wished the Hopeful lived up to her reputation because today the lives of his Spartan potentials were at stake.

His candidates had had to endure so much in the last year. To accelerate the program’s timetable, puberty had been artificially induced. Human-growth hormone as well as cartilage, muscle, and bone supplements had been introduced into their diet, and the children had metamorphosed into near-adult stature within nine months.

They had become clumsy in their new, larger bodies, and had struggled to relearn how to run, shoot, jump, and fight.

And today, they’d face their most dangerous test. They would either become irreparably disfigured, die, or be transformed into Spartans.

No, that wasn’t right. While these kids didn’t have the heightened speed or strength of a Spartan, they already had the commitment, drive, and spirit. They already were Spartans.

Kurt heard boots clicking down the corridor, then muffled steps crossing the atrium lawn.

"Lieutenant, sir?"

A young man and woman approached with the long loping gaits of people who had spent much time in microgravity. They wore standard Naval uniforms bearing the stripes of a petty officer second class. Both had close-cropped black hair and dark eyes.

Kurt had had to pull a few strings to keep the Beta Company survivors of Pegasi Delta with him. Colonel Ackerson had wanted Tom for his own private operations. And ever-silent Lucy had narrowly avoided an unfit-for-duty classification and permanent reassignment to ONI psych branch for "evaluation."

He’d had to appeal to Vice Admiral Parangosky, claiming he needed Spartans to train Spartans.

Over Ackerson’s objections, she had agreed.

The result: Tom and Lucy had become Kurt’s right and left hands over these last years, and Gamma Company were the finest Spartans ever.

Tom and Lucy spent so much of their time in their SPI armor, it took Kurt a moment to recognizes his attaches. Their armor.

along with the rest of Gamma Company’s Semi-Powered Infiltration suits, was being refitted with new photo-reactive coatings to boost their camouflaging properties. There were other experimental refits—gel ballistic layers, upgraded software suites, and other functions—that would hopefully be working within a year’s time.

Tom and Lucy snapped off simultaneous salutes.

Kurt retuned the salute. "Report."

"The candidates are ready to board, sir," Tom said.

Kurt got up and the three of them walked back down the corridor and into docking cluster Bravo. It was the size of a small canyon with the capacity to cycle a fleet of dropships simultaneously through its massive air-lock system. There was ample space for triage and trams that could whisk an entire company of wounded soldiers to emergency surgical faculties.

Air locks screamed and there was a sudden gust of fresh air. Dozens of bay doors parted and Pelicans rolled into the bay on steam-powered beds.

The Pelicans’ rear ramps lowered and the Spartan candidates filed out in orderly rows.

Kurt had briefed them about the procedures. They’d be sedated and injected with chemical cocktails and surgically altered to give them the strength of three normal soldiers, decrease their neural reaction time, and enhance their durability.

It was the final step in their transformation to Spartans.

It was graduation day.

He’d briefed them on the risks, too. He had shown them the archived videos of the results of the bioaugmentation phase of the SPARTAN-II program, how more than half of those candidates had washed out—either dying from the procedure or becoming so badly deformed they couldn’t stand.

This would not happen to the SPARTAN-IIIs with the new medical protocols, but Kurt had wanted one final test.

Not one of the 330 candidates had opted out of the program.

Kurt had had to petition Colonel Ackerson for thirty extra slots for this final phase. He simply didn’t have it in him to randomly cut thirty—when every last one of them was willing and ready to fight. Ackerson had gladly granted his request.

Kurt stood and saluted as the line of candidates passed him.

They marched by, returning his salute, heads held high, and chests out. On average only twelve years old, they looked closer to fifteen with the sculpted musculature of Olympic athletes; many had hard-won scars; and all had an ineffable, confident air about them.

They were warriors. Kurt had never felt so proud.

The last candidate lingered, and then halted before him. It was Ash, serial number G099, leader of Team Saber. He was one of the fiercest, smartest, and best leaders in the class.

His wavy brown hair was slightly over regulation length, but Kurt was inclined to let it slide, today of all days.

Ash snapped off a precise salute. "Sir, Spartan candidate G099 requesting permission to speak, sir."

"Granted," Kurt said, and finished his protracted salute.

"Sir, I…" Ash’s voice cracked.

Many of the boys had problems with their vocal cords, still recovering from the rapidly induced puberty.

"I just wanted to let you know," Ash continued, "what an honor it’s been to train under you. Chief Mendez, and Petty Officers Tom and Lucy. If I don’t make it today, I wanted you to know that I wouldn’t have done anything differently, sir."

"The honor has been mine," Kurt said. He held out his hand.

Ash stared at it a moment, and then he grasped Kurt’s hand, clasped it firmly, and they shook.

"I’ll see you on the other side," Kurt said.

Ash nodded and left, catching up to the rest of the candidates.

Tom and Lucy both nodded their approvals.

"They’re ready," Kurt whispered. He looked away so he wouldn’t have to meet their gazes. "I hope we are. We’re taking a hell of a risk."

Kurt, Tom, and Lucy stopped at a staff conference room, now an improvised ONI command and control center. Medical technicians in blue lab coats watched 330 video monitors and bio-sign sets. Tom spoke to one of the techs while Kurt’s gaze flicked from monitor to monitor.

He then went down to the open surgical arena. It had four hundred sections—each partitioned by semiopaque plastic curtaining, and each fitting with a sterile-field generator that blazed with its characteristic orange light overhead.

Kurt entered one unit and found SPARTAN-G122, Holly, there.

The partitioned area was crammed full of machines. There were stands with bio monitors. Several intravenous and osmotic patches connected her to a chemo-therapeutic infuser, loaded with a collection of liquid-filled vials that would keep Holly in a semisedated state while it delivered a cocktail of drugs over the next week. There was a crash cart and portable ventilator nearby, as well.

She struggled to rise and salute, but she fell back, her eyelids fluttering closed.

He went to Holly’s side and clasped her tiny hand until she settled into a deep sleep.

She reminded him of Kelly when she was this young: full of spunk, and never giving up.

He missed Kelly. He had been dead to his fellow SPARTAN-IIs for almost twenty years. He missed all of them.

The chemo-therapeutic infuser hissed, vials rotated into place, micromechanical pumps thumped, and bubbles percolated inside its colored liquids.

It was starting. Kurt remembered when he went through the augmentation. The fevers, the pain—it felt as if his bones were breaking, like someone had poured napalm into his veins.

Holly shifted. The bio monitors showed a spike in her blood pressure and temperature.

Tiny blisters appeared on her arms and she scratched at them. They filled with blood and then quickly smoothed into scabs.

Kurt patted Holly’s hand one last time and then went to the infuser and lifted the side panel. Inside were dozens of solution vials. He squinted, reading off their serial numbers.

He spotted "8942-LQ99" inside the infuser. That was the carbide ceramic ossification catalyst to make skeletons virtually unbreakable.

There was "88005-MX77," the fibrofoid muscular protein complex that boosted muscle density.

"88947-OP24" was the number for retina-inversion stabilizer, which boosted color and nighttime vision.