CHAPTER ELEVEN
0600 Hours, November 2, 2525 (Military Calendar) / Epsilon Eridani System, Reach UNSC
Military Complex, planet Reach
John wondered who had died. The Spartans had been called to muster in their dress uniforms only once before: funeral detail.
The Purple Heart awarded to him after his last mission glistened on his chest. He made sure it was polished to a high sheen. It stood out against the black wool of his dress jacket. Occasionally John would look at it, and make sure it was still there.
He sat in the third row of the amphitheater and faced the center platform. The other Spartans sat quietly on the concentric rings of risers. Spotlights flicked on the empty stage.
He had been in Reach’s secure briefing chamber before. This is where Dr. Halsey had told them they were going to be soldiers. This is where his life had changed and he had been given a purpose.
Chief Mendez entered the room and marched to the center platform. He wore his black dress uniform as well. His chest was covered with Silver and Bronze Stars, three Purple Hearts, the Red Legion of Honor award, and a rainbow of campaign ribbons. He had recently shaved his head.
The Spartans rose and stood at attention.
Dr. Halsey entered. She looked older to John, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth more pronounced, streaks of gray in her dark hair. But her blue eyes were as sharp as ever. She wore gray slacks, a black shirt, and her glasses hung about her neck on a gold chain.
“Admiral on deck,” Mendez announced.
They all snapped straighter.
A man ten years Dr. Halsey’s senior strode to the stage. His short silver hair looked like a steel helmet.
His gait had a strange lope to it—what crewmen called “space walk”—from spending too much time in microgravity. He wore a simple, unadorned black dress UNSC uniform. No medals or campaign ribbons. The insignia on the forearm of his jacket, however, was unmistakable: the single gold star of a Rear Admiral.
“At ease, Spartans,” he said. “I’m Admiral Stanforth.”
The Spartans took their seats in unison.
Dust swirled onstage and collected into a robed figure. Its face was obscured within the shadows of its hood. John could discern no hands at the end of its sleeves.
“This is Beowulf,” Admiral Stanforth said as he gestured to the ghostly creature. Stanforth’s voice was calm, but distaste was evident on his face. “He is our AI attaché with the Office of Naval Intelligence.”
He turned away from the AI. “We have several important issues to cover this morning, so let’s get started.”
The lights dimmed. An amber sun appeared in the center of the room with three planets in close orbit.
“This is Harvest,” he said. “Population of approximately three million. Although on the periphery of UNSC-controlled space, this world is one of our more productive and peaceful colonies.”
The holographic view zoomed in on the surface of the world and showed grasslands and forests and a thousand lakes swarming with schools of fish.
“As of military calendar February 3, at 1423 hours, the Harvest orbital platform made long range radar contact with this object.”
A blurry outline appeared over the stage. “Spectroscopic analysis proved inconclusive,” Admiral Stanforth said. “The object is constructed of material unknown to us.”
A molecular absorption graph appeared on a side screen, spikes and jagged lines indicating the relative proportions of elements.
Beowulf raised a cloaked arm and the image darkened. The words CLASSIFIED—EYES ONLY
appeared over the blackened data.
Admiral Stanforth shot a glare at the AI.
“Contact with Harvest,” he continued, “was lost shortly thereafter. The Colonial Military Administration sent the scout ship Argo to investigate. That ship arrived in-system on April twentieth, but other than a brief transmission to confirm their exit Slipstream position, no further reports were made.
“In response, Fleet Command assembled a battle group to investigate. The group consisted of the destroyer Heracles , commanded by Captain Veredi, as well as the frigates Arabia and Vostok . They entered the Harvest System on October seventh and discovered the following.”
The holograph of the planet Harvest changed. The lush fields and rolling hills transformed, morphing into a cratered, barren desert. Thin gray sunlight reflected off a glassy crust. Heat wavered from the surface. Isolated regions glowed red.
“This is what was left of the colony.” The Admiral paused for a moment to stare at the image, and then continued. “We assume that all inhabitants are lost.”
Three million lives lost. John couldn’t fathom the raw force it had taken to kill so many—for a moment he was torn between horror and envy. He glanced at the Purple Heart pinned to his chest and remembered his lost comrades. How did one simple bullet wound compare with so many wasted lives?
He was suddenly no longer proud of the decoration.
“And this is what the Heracles battlegroup found in orbit,” Admiral Stanforth told them.
The blurry outline that was still visible, hanging in the air, sharpened into crisp focus. It looked smooth and organic, and the hull possessed an odd, opalescent sheen—it looked more like the carapace of an exotic insect than the metal hull of a spacecraft. Recessed into the aft section were pods that pulsed with a purple-white glow. The prow of the craft was swollen like the head of a whale. John thought it possessed an odd, predatory beauty.
“The unidentified vessel,” the Admiral said, “launched an immediate attack against our forces.”
Blue flashes strobed from the ship. Red motes of light then appeared along its hull. Bolts of energy coalesced into a fiery smear against the blackness of space. The deadly flashes of light impacted on the Arabia , splashed across its hull. Its meter of armor plating instantly boiled away, and a plume of ignited atmosphere burst from the breach in the ship’s hull. “Those were pulse lasers,” Admiral Stanforth explained, “and—if this record is to be believed—some kind of self-guided, superheated plasma weapon.”
The Heracles and Vostok launched salvos of missiles toward the craft. The enemy’s lasers shot half before they reached their target. The balance of the missiles impacted, detonated into blossoms of fire . . . that quickly faded. The strange ship shimmered with a semitransparent silver coating, which then vanished.
“They also seem to have some reflective energy shield.” Admiral Stanforth took a deep breath and his features hardened into a mask of grim resolve. “The Vostok and Arabia were lost with all hands.
The Heracles jumped out of the system, but due to the damage she sustained, it took several weeks for Captain Veredi to make it back to Reach.
“These weapons and defensive systems are currently beyond our technology. Therefore . . . this craft is of nonhuman origin.” He paused, then added, “The product of a race with technology far in advance of our own.”
A murmur buzzed through the chamber.
“We have, of course, developed a number of first contact scenarios,” the Admiral continued, “and Captain Veredi followed our established protocols. We had hoped that contact with a new race would be peaceful. Obviously this was not the case—the alien vessel did not open fire until our task force attempted to initiate communications.”
He paused, considering his words. “Fragments of the enemy’s transmissions were intercepted,” he continued. “A few words have been translated. We believe they call themselves ‘The Covenant.’
However, before opening fire, the alien ship broadcast the following message in the clear.”
He gestured at Beowulf, who nodded. A moment later, a voice thundered from the amphitheater’s speakers. John stiffened in his seat when he heard it; the voice from the speakers sounded odd, artificial
—strangely calm and formal, but laden with rage and menace.
“Your destruction is the will of the Gods . . . and we are their instrument.”
John was awestruck. He stood.
“Yes, Spartan?” Stanforth said.
“Sir, is this a translation?”
“No,” the Admiral replied. “They broadcast this to us in our language. We believe they used some kind of translation system to prepare the message . . . but it means they’ve been studying us for some time.”
John took his seat.
“As of November 1, the UNSC has been ordered to full alert,” Stanforth said. “Vice Admiral Preston Cole is mobilizing the largest fleet action in human history to retake the Harvest System and confront this new threat. Their transmission made one thing perfectly clear: they’re looking for a fight.”
Only years of military discipline kept John rooted to his seat—otherwise he would have stood up and asked to volunteer on the spot. He would have given anything to go and fight. This was the threat he and the other Spartans had been training for all their lives—he was certain of it. Not scattered rebels, pirates, or political dissidents.
“Because of this UNSC-wide mobilization,” Admiral Stanforth continued, “your training schedule will be accelerated to its final phase: Project MJOLNIR.”
He stepped away from the podium and clasped his hands behind his back. “To that end, I’m afraid I have another unpleasant announcement.” He turned to the Chief. “Chief Petty Officer Mendez will be departing us to train the next group of Spartans. Chief?”
John grabbed the edge of the riser. Chief Mendez had always been there for them, the only constant in the universe. Admiral Stanforth might as well have told him that Epsilon Eridani was leaving the Reach System.
The Chief stepped to the podium and clasped its edges.
“Recruits,” he said, “soon your training will be complete, and you will graduate to the rank of Petty Officer Second Class in the UNSC. One of the first things you will learn is that change is part of a soldier’s life. You will make and lose friends. You will move. This is part of the job.”
He looked to his audience. His dark eyes rested on each one of them. He nodded, seemingly satisfied with what he saw.
“The Spartans are the finest group of soldiers I have ever encountered,” he said. “It has been a privilege to train you. Never forget what I’ve tried to teach you—duty, honor, and sacrifice for the greater good of humanity are the qualities that make you the best.”
He was silent a moment, searching for more words. But finding none, he stood at attention and saluted.
“Attention,” John barked. The Spartans rose as one and saluted the Chief.
“Dismissed, Spartans,” Chief Mendez said. “And good luck.” He finished his salute.
The Spartans snapped down their arms. They hesitated, and then reluctantly filed out of the amphitheater.
John stayed behind. He had to talk to Chief Mendez.
Dr. Halsey spoke briefly with the Chief and the Admiral, then she and the Admiral left together.
Beowulf backed toward the far wall and faded away like a ghost.
The Chief gathered his hat, spotted John, and walked to him. He nodded to the hologram of the scorched colony, Harvest, still rotating in the air. “One final lesson, Petty Officer,” he said. “What tactical options do you have when attacking a stronger opponent?”
“Sir!” John said. “There are two options. Attack swiftly and with full force at their weakest point—take them out quickly before they have a chance to respond.”
“Good,” he said. “And the other option?”
“Fall back,” John replied. “Engage in guerrilla actions or get reinforcements.”
The Chief sighed. “Those are the correct answers,” he said, “but it may not be enough to be correct this time. Sit, please.”
John sat, and the Chief settled next to him on the riser.
“There’s a third option.” The Chief turned his hat over in his hands. “An option that others may eventually consider. . . .”
“Sir?”
“Surrender,” the Chief whispered. “That, however, is never an option for the likes of you and me. We don’t have the luxury of backing down.” He glanced up at Harvest—a glittering ball of glass. “And I doubt that an enemy like this will let us surrender.”
“I think I understand, sir.”
“Make sure you do. And make sure you don’t let anyone else give up.” He gazed into the shadows beyond the center platform. “Project MJOLNIR will make the Spartans into something . . . new.
Something I could never forge them into. I can’t fully explain—that damned ONI spook is still here listening—just trust Dr. Halsey.”
The Chief dug into his jacket pocket. “I was hoping to see you before they shipped me out. I have something for you.” He set a small metal disk on the riser between them.
“When you first came here,” the Chief said, “you fought the trainers when they took this away from you
—broke a few fingers as I recall.” His chiseled features cracked into a rare smile.
John picked up the disk and examined it. It was an ancient silver coin. He flipped it between his fingers.
“It has an eagle on one side,” Mendez said. “That bird is like you—fast and deadly.”
John closed his fingers around the quarter. “Thank you, sir.”
He wanted to say that he was strong and fast because the Chief had made him so. He wanted to tell him that he was ready to defend humanity against this new threat. He wanted to say that without the Chief, he would have no purpose, no integrity, and no duty to perform. But John didn’t have the words. He just sat there.
Mendez stood. “It has been an honor to serve with you.” Instead of saluting, he held out his hand.
John got to his feet. He took the Chief’s hand and they shook. It took a great deal of effort—every instinct screamed at him to salute.
“Good-bye,” Chief Mendez said.
He turned briskly on his heel and strode from the room.
John never saw him again.