SIX
___________
A week later he was out of the brig, released on his own recognizance. Some of the other Spartans, he saw, were in as bad or worse shape than he. Fhajad had uncontrollable muscle spasms and was confined to a wheelchair. Rene and Kirk had had the same difficulty that he had, but their bones were so twisted and deformed that they were now floating in gel tanks, unable to move on their own.
A few others were even worse, kept in isolation chambers, comatose and always on the verge of death. Somehow he didn‘t find it comforting to think that their fates had been worse than his own.
After a few weeks the pain seemed to have diminished a little, though they kept him drugged enough that it was hard to say. The drugs did help with the pain but he hated the confusion they caused within him, the sense he had of having to plow through ideas, of not being able to finish a thought. That started to get as frustrating to him as the pain had been.
He slowly began to scale back the medication, palming a few of the pills each time he was given them, then more and more. The pain was strong and intense, but definitely slightly less than when he‘d first awoken. He found he could stand it. I can live with the pain , he tried to tell himself. What I can’t live with is not being able to think. Sometimes, though, he would make an imprudent twist or just move wrong and find himself on the verge of passing out, his forehead beaded with sweat.
He kept at it. Everything felt rawer to him, but yes, he could stand it. His head was clearer in a way, though the pain, like the drugs, could make it difficult to think. Still after a month he was palming all the pills, pretending to take them but instead taking them back to his room and dropping them into a drawer. In another two months, the drawer was almost completely full.
It was true that he was insanely strong. Early on, in a fit of frustration, he punched the wall in his room and was surprised when his fist tore through the metal panel as if it were thin plaster. He moved the bed so its post partially hid the damage and was careful from then on out.
It’s not hopeless, he started to think as time went on. He was stronger than he‘d ever been—faster, too, despite his awkward gait. And even if his arms and legs had suffered somewhat he still had everything he needed to be an excellent soldier, better than any normal, unmodified human. I’m still a Spartan , he told himself.
BUT NOTeveryone, he found, agreed. When he tried to report back for active duty, CPO Mendez took a long, hard look at him and then said, in a voice gentler than any Soren had heard him use,
―Walk with me, son."
They went down the hall together, an odd pair: Mendez straight and tall, his stride brisk and confident, Soren massive, but hunched and leaning, weaving as he went.
―Sweet William?" Mendez asked him, taking out a cigar.
Soren, looking surprised, shook his head.
―Ah," said Mendez, after first biting off the ends, ―sometimes it‘s difficult for me to remember that you‘re all only boys. Filthy habit, this. Don‘t start it young."
―Yes, sir," said Soren.
Mendez got the cigar lit and sucked on it hard. The end glowed red and then ashed over, the smoke slowly oozing out of his nostrils. ―I can‘t do it, son," he said.
―Can‘t do what?" asked Soren.
―I can‘t have you in active service."
―But I‘m strong," said Soren. ―I‘m even stronger than the other Spartans, and almost as fast as some of them. I can keep up and I‘m smart and . . ." Seeing the stern expression on Mendez‘s face, he let himself trail off.
―Nobody doubts your courage, son. And I for one don‘t doubt your ability. But if I put you in a team with the other Spartans, you know what‘ll happen?"
―What, sir?"
―They‘ll always be thinking about the ones who didn‘t make it, the ones that died while they went on. They‘ll feel a special obligation to look out for you and keep you alive that will affect their ability to perform. It‘ll hurt their focus, keep them from having that edge when they really need it.
Right now, without you, they all move and think in a similar way. They work like a well-oiled machine. But there‘s something to be said for the symmetry they display, the instinctual
camaraderie. You‘re good, no doubt about that—hell, I could see that on the day you woke up and went apeshit—but being on a team with other Spartans just isn‘t going to happen."
―Respectfully, sir—"
―Plus body armor," Mendez said. ―It just won‘t fit you. Plus the difficulty of firing a weapon with that hand. No," he said, stubbing the Sweet William out on the floor. He reached out and put his hand on Soren‘s shoulder, looked him straight in the eye. From his look, Soren suddenly could see how hard it was for Mendez to say all he was saying, that he wished things could be different. ―I‘m sorry, son. Just be patient and maybe something will come along for you. But this, this just isn‘t it."
―CPO MENDEZis right," said Dr. Halsey, just as he‘d known she would. ―He doesn‘t mean to hurt you, but he has to do what‘s best for the rest of the recruits and for the program."
―But it‘s not what‘s best for me," said Soren.
―Who says it isn‘t?" asked Dr. Halsey. ―It‘s not what you want, but that doesn‘t mean it‘s not what‘s best for you."
―I want to serve," he said. ―I don‘t want to be left behind."
―I‘m sorry, Soren," she said. ―You can‘t serve in this way. You‘ll be able to serve, but not in a combat position."
―All I want is to be given the choice," he said. ―You always were willing to give me a choice in the past. Can‘t you do it again this time?"
She shook her head. ―I‘m sorry, Soren. Not this time."
SEVEN
___________
Later, when he thought back to it, he saw that as the turning point. It shut too many doors for him, damaging him, closing parts of him off. And it was stupid, he tried to tell himself. They should have used him, they should have figured out something specially suited for him and his uniquely
deformed body. It wasn‘t that he wasn‘t as good as the other Spartans—even Mendez had had to admit that. In some ways he was better than them, stronger. Sure, his skin and his brain sometimes felt like they were on fire, but he was learning to control that, learning to get around it and even focus it.
They could have found something for him, something that fit him, but instead they strapped him with a desk job within the compound, an ordinary run-of-the-mill job that just about anybody could have handled. They said it was temporary, but as time went on, it felt more and more permanent.
Barely sixteen and already retired from active duty, already a paper pusher. It was as if they hadn‘t even tried to think of the right job for him. It was hard not to feel resentful.
Which was why, almost six months later, when one of the technicians—a fellow named
Partch—began talking to him about revolution, instead of reporting the man he began to listen.
Partch started slow, just bits and pieces, hints. Sure, he said, the UNSC was much needed and important—we couldn‘t live without them. But didn‘t they sometimes come down too hard? Didn‘t they sometimes do things that were carried out with the best of intentions but, when you looked at them closely, were just simply wrong?
―Like with you, for instance," said Partch, once Soren had confessed what had happened to him.
―Why aren‘t they making proper use of you? Strong as a bear, quick, smart too: It‘s a damned waste, if you ask me. Yet they‘re still putting wet-behind-the-ears Marines right in the line of fire."
At the time Soren didn‘t respond, but later he couldn‘t help but thinking that yes, it was a waste, Partch was right. Soon, it wasn‘t just that he wasn‘t reporting Partch: He‘d started to search him out.
He listened, very rarely revealing what he was feeling about what Partch was saying, but listening, listening. Finally one day he said, ―So what can we do about it?"
Partch shook his head. ―I don‘t know," he said. ―It‘s hard to know what to do to fix the system when it breaks. People are afraid of change; they‘d rather limp on with a broken system than do the hard work of making a change. If you‘re not careful, before you know it you‘re labeled a terrorist."
―But there must be something I can do," said Soren.
―A guy like you," said Partch giving him a sidelong look, ―sure, there‘s a lot you can do. But will you?"
―I think I would," said Soren.
―Even if you knew that others might see you as a terrorist? Do you care more about what people think, or about doing what‘s right?"
―I‘ve never cared what people thought," said Soren, lying.