Franklin Mendez was a soldier above all.
Honor, courage, and duty were the three guiding principles of his life. He followed orders and trusted that his superiors knew their jobs. It was an attitude that had caused some friction early in his career with the Navy, but had been well-rewarded after his transfer to NavSpecWep.
He'd served on nearly a dozen worlds, and clocked at least two years in cryosleep, being shuttled from planet to planet chasing the wildfires of Insurrection. In that time, he'd seen many of his comrades question themselves.
In the field, complications meant failures. Complications meant an increase in doubt and hesitation. Their doubts slowed them down. It got some of them killed. It was a luxury that Mendez could not afford, and neither could the UNSC.
Was the UNSC perfect? No. Was the Insurrection a superior option? No.
Was it any more complicated than that?
No.
In the last ten years of his career, he'd focused every aspect of his soul to the job. Where others drank with wild abandon, he kept his consumption light, kept a cool buzz and nothing more. Where others lazed and slacked off, he took double-shifts and spent his spare hours on the mats, the ranges, or the yards. Where others laced their bodies with all manner of chemicals, he smoked the occasional Sweet William cigar, and nothing more.
That attitude would have won him few friends, but he was in NavSpecWep, and they were twenty years into a fight against an Insurrection that had already bled lives during counter-terror operations. They were the tip of the spear, the first into the fight, and they couldn't afford anything but the best, or they would die. The stereotypical view of special operators was a band of gung-ho, ultra macho men that pumped iron, shot steroids, and drank wildly, but that was pure Hollywood. Most special forces were like him – calm, quiet, focused men who were dedicated to the job first, and everything else second.
He'd earned a reputation very quickly in NavSpecWep, and it meant that ONI didn't really know what to do with him.
There were essentially two kinds of UNSC special forces: the shooters, and the trainers. The UNSC was an enormous organization, constantly undergoing the churn of recruiting, training, and retiring. Even recruiting 'just' the best 1% for special forces, that meant that the combined Army, Air Force, Navy, and Marine special forces was a million strong at its lowest ebb.
It also made it hard for civilians and bureaucrats to understand if they were talking to one of the best killers in the galaxy, or merely someone that had passed the entry-level training course and got his Ranger tab before returning to his Army unit of grunts. Narrow it down, sift through the huge population of "special forces" to get the real elite, the kind of people that were invited to join ONI and other special projects, and you were looking at about ten thousand people.
From that limited pool of ten thousand, add in that some 'operators' spent their entire careers without firing a single shot in anger. Likewise, some door-kickers could never teach their special edge. That was just as a non-commissioned officer. If you wanted a strategic mind on top of that, a tactical leader who could run a unit larger than a platoon, it dropped even lower; so low that you could count those people on a single hand. Two of the people on that hand had defected to the Insurrection. It had been a real loss.
In that hallowed realm populated by the best of the best, Mendez was a dual threat. He was both one of the best shooters and one of the best trainers in the galaxy, capable of handling any mission, or training men to do the same. It made him a rarity. If you asked him a year ago, he might had said there were fifty men as capable of that as him, just off the top of his head.
Apparently, there were at least seventy-five of them. ONI had grabbed them from duty-assignments all over the Inner and Outer Colonies, pulling them from training camps, wet-works squads, and things so clandestine that Mendez hadn't even heard their names before he met some of them.
ONI had put them in charge of training children. One trainer per candidate, to ensure absolutely nothing hindered their training. Mendez had been placed in charge of the trainers. The others thought that the children would be trained to be like them. Mendez alone knew that the children had a different fate; in seven years, they would be surgically enhanced, made even better than a mere human.
That was the thing about the military. Every time you thought you understood it, you would be told to do something incredibly stupid, for reasons that were beyond you. Bad soldiers complained about these moments. Good soldiers sucked it up, and did their best.
Mendez and his men were accustomed to dealing with adult soldiers, who'd already been through Basic Training and Ranger selection. They were tools of refinement, the equivalent of a sandpaper finish over an almost finished statue – not hammers and chisels to be applied to an untouched stone block.
Children. Really.
None of this showed on Mendez's face. Not a twitch of muscle as he ordered the uncoordinated six-year olds through their new morning PT routine. Not a gram of emotion as some struggled and were aided by their trainers, or protested and were berated or jolted with stun prods.
How, exactly, does one train a six year old?
Can you give them a filled rucksack and order them on a twenty-mile march? Of course not, you'd damn near kill them.
Can you give them a loaded weapon, and put them on a firing range? Of course not, the recoil would be far too much for them.
Can you train them in hand-to-hand combat, and beat them into the ground? Of course you can, but that was a great way to kill their morale and any willingness to participate in this already dubious training.
So for now, Mendez was left with the most basic training, like a Maestro from the Sigma Octanus Planetary Orchestra trying to conduct a grade-school concert band. Pushups, sit-ups, squats, lunges, jumping jacks, in increments of no more than twenty. Then a slow-paced jog, followed by dropping them off at the schoolhouse for some lessons.
Then, while the children spent an hour learning about the concept of teamwork through holo-vids of wolf packs and being given snacks of protein-crackers and nutritional cocktails, the trainers would run a mile to the nearby 'playground' that Gunnery Sergeant Wentworth had been working on, erecting a bizarre jungle-gym of poles, ladders, ropewalks, and other training equipment over a pool of water. Above it all, at the highest point and above the singular exit pole, was a bell.
The idea, per Doctor Halsey, was to sort the children into twenty-five teams of three and sent them into the jungle-gym all at once. It sought to accomplish multiple goals. Most importantly, fostering teamwork in the candidates by directly telling them to cooperate, and by punishing anyone who violated that teamwork directive. After that, it would encourage them to compete against each other as a fairer metric of success than trying to contest fully grown, elite spec ops units.
After they had a good little bit of team-building fun, the candidates would be run through another set of PT, followed by another lesson, this time in normal educational areas like math, writing, and science. Then another set of PT, followed by another team-building exercise in the once-again reconfigured 'playground'.
It promised to be mind-numbingly boring until the candidates could actually start learning useful skills. Mendez had already improved the process by having each trainer perform the exercises with the candidates, since six year olds wouldn't know the proper techniques. The side-benefits included keeping his men from losing their minds at the inanity of watching kids struggle with basic PT.
By the end of these seven years, Mendez believed that his trainers would be in the best shape of their lives, if only from the boredom driving them into more exercise, like inmates at a prison.
Mendez didn't know what to think about the program as a whole.
Yes, he trusted his superiors, and he trusted the UNSC, but he was metaphorically a lone soldier in a foxhole, his information highly limited. Even in NavSpecWep, even working for ONI Section Three, he had possessed the invisible luxury of not knowing how the sausage was made.
The motivation, science, and logic might be beyond him, but what little Mendez knew did not paint a pretty picture of the UNSC's true success with the Insurrection. Generally speaking, a nation doesn't turn to wild science projects when they're winning the war handily. A nation turns to them when they're concerned, when they've got a reason to worry. Personally, he couldn't see the bigger picture. Couldn't even guess. From what he knew, the Insurrection was doing a great job fighting a doomed war. There was no need for a project like this, to his eyes.
But he was only the bleeding edge of the knife. Every time he fought the enemy, they had lost. It made him feel great, but it meant nothing about the overall success of the war. You could win battle after battle, and still lose the war by neglecting important things, as many ancient kingdoms had learned. His own biases did not reflect reality.
He was caught between two emotional positions; his trust in the UNSC's capabilities, and his awareness that the UNSC itself seemed afraid. Neither was a logically consistent position that could be defended objectively.
All he could do was his best, as he had in other difficult times. Some problems were insurmountable as singular items, but quite possible when tackled as separate smaller parts.
The first part of this problem: ONI wanted him to train six year olds, in order to make genetically augmented super soldiers. This implied that there would be a desperate need for such super soldiers. Worrying, but it wasn't the worst sign. It was still a desire to solve whatever issue they saw approaching in the future, even if they thought it would require abilities far beyond that of a normal elite operator.
The second part of this problem: split command chains. Captain Wilson was his nominal superior, but he was clashing with Doctor Halsey, the program's creator, designer, and chief scientist. Easily resolved, if there was a clear chain of command. Unfortunately, even on his third check of what little documentation he had been provided, there simply wasn't a clear chain of command written out. It was nearly unheard of for ONI, but it made an odd sense for this project, which was unquestionably military focused, yet also relied so much on as-yet un-invented science.
The third part of this problem: keeping his trainers focused for the duration. The normal training cycles meant that they were accustomed to training a class for, at most, three months. Any issues with a given trainee, a fellow instructor, or the nature of the training itself, could be shelved by professionalism until the class was over, and then a reassignment requested. But here, this was simply not possible. There were only so many people with their specific skillset, and the classification requirements made easy reassignment impossible.
The fourth part of this problem: Adjusting their teaching methods to six year olds. So many of their techniques would be invalid for years. They would be hard-pressed to retain their edge for those same years. Not to mention the keeping up the necessary professional detachment to apply the right mix of encouragement and motivational stimulation to children that they had literally watched grow up.
Together, impossible to overcome. Tackled in sections, fairly easy.
The first part could be ignored until more information was gathered. At this level, if there were warning signs of whatever the higher-ups saw coming, he would be the first to know. Doctor Halsey was going to be giving regular briefings to HIGHCOM on the project's progress, and from what he saw of the Doctor thus far, she wasn't the greatest at hiding her true feelings. If she had been, she wouldn't have objected so harshly to Captain Wilson. Especially not for reasonable questions about why the training schedule was so delayed, when this project had clearly had years already invested into it.
The second part was much more concerning. Split chains of command were a nightmare that would cause plenty of problems, if they weren't resolved. For now, he'd have to keep a close eye on it; if it worsened, he might have to take action. ONI wouldn't be happy to get a quiet word from an NCO that their two project leads were in a bitter feud, but they would appreciate the chance to fix the project at an early stage, before the project was ruined. At the moment, Mendez simply didn't know enough to tell who was right, and who was wrong here. For all he knew, their initial clash had been an irregularly aggressive set of posturing, and they would both settle into polite professionalism over time.
The third and fourth parts were… frankly, looking like the hardest part of the problem. They would take the longest time to manifest, but they would be the biggest problem for the men under his command. HIGHCOM could worry about whatever future problem they saw coming, and ONI could worry about the officers and scientists infighting, but Mendez alone had the responsibility of caring for the wellbeing and success of his men.
He was the highest ranking NCO on the project, and the head trainer. Gunny Wentworth, though a capable man with good combat scores, had left the world of shooting behind after a bad deployment years ago, and was a Quartermaster now. Wentworth would care about his technical staff, the state of all equipment in their compound, and nothing more. The wellbeing of the combined Navy and Marine trainers, all seventy-five of them, belonged to Mendez, and Mendez alone.
None of his trainers had said anything yet. This early, that wasn't a bad thing, as he himself was still adjusting to this strange new program. He knew most of his men; they were professionals like him, who buried their feelings behind their work effort. But some of the men were new to him, and as time passed, sooner or later those feelings would start to affect their performance.
The best he could do was keep an eye on both the candidates and his trainers. Watch them for the tell-tale signs of stress, and step in when it got to be too much.
Frankly, Mendez would have done that normally. It was part and parcel of being an NCO or a trainer. The only difference was that now he would have to perform those same tasks at a higher level, with higher stakes, for both his men and the candidates he was now in charge of.
And the same applied to the unexpected task of training young children. There was no magic solution to this problem. It was a bad situation, but he would handle it as best he could. It was a harder challenge than training adults, and he would have to live up to the trial. They all would.
The third day of Orion-II training was emblematic of the norm.
The children rose before the dawn, his trainers barging into the candidate barracks and shouting, dragging children from the bunks, overturning the beds of the slowest risers. It was blunt, cruel, and heavy-handed. It was, per Doctor Halsey's notes, a necessary evil to teach the children to… how did it go? 'Respond swiftly and promptly to the rigors of military discipline.'
It was one thing to do that to adults who had been lazy. It was another to do it to children, especially when the same orders had emphasized that the children be in bed by the early hours of the night, to ensure sleep deprivation would not affect their growth.
Even without Doctor Halsey's full plan, Mendez could predict the broad strokes based on what little info he had. The gradual increase in physical workouts. The weapon training with air rifles on a bi-weekly basis. The skill lessons starting with basic camping, and ramping up to month-long expeditions with no equipment.
It was like smoking a brisket – the proper way involved reduced heat over an incredibly long time frame compared to more conventional meats. ONI was investing a decade into these children, and they were cutting no corners in the process.
Mendez led the children through their normal morning PT, then dropped them off with the A.I. for lessons on history, tactics, warfare, all glamorized to draw their attention.
When he picked them up, they did not return to the playground. Doctor Halsey had been correct about the harsh measures used on the candidates that shirked teamwork, and on only the second day of training, every candidate had learned to cooperate. As a result, they were getting a reward: a lighter, softer training that offered a break from physical exertion or mental memorization.
Today was their first introduction to weaponry. It was little more than air rifles, but it was still a weapon. Only once the candidates were more trained, mature, and responsible would they be upgraded to the smallest of vermin rifles.
Mendez had spent thirty minutes preparing both the range and his trainers. They would teach these children as if they were holding live weapons, with deadly seriousness. They would correct technique, explain principles, and instruct the candidates as if they were their very own children.
It was yet another of what Mendez was growing to identify as Doctor Halsey's signature training methodology – a knife edge balance between punishment and rewards. The candidates would always shoot alone, with the instructors stepping in during their reloads. If they failed to perform – as they would, because they were children – then they would be firmly instructed and manhandled into proper form. If they performed well, then the trainers would step back and leave them to continue their practice, resulting in the most time the candidates would have in relative solitude since their training program had started.
It was an incredibly stupid way to teach children, in Mendez's personal opinion. Children were inconsistent at the best of times, ruled by emotions and whims that they themselves didn't understand. Sure, punishment and incentivization had worked on children for millennia, but that commonly included a huge amount of forgiveness, leniency, and acceptance of their failures. Repeated explanation of why their failure was being punished.
Halsey was treating the children like adults, cutting the tolerance for failures to the bare bones. They had one chance to get something right on their first time, and then they would be punished for every failure afterwards.
It was also, to his professional amazement, working. The standout failure of the playground, Candidate 117, had been ostracized by his fellow candidates for his selfishness and abandonment of his teammates, who themselves were furious at him. The very next day, he had worked with the same teammates, created a plan that relied on each of their strengths, and come in third. The three of them were becoming fast friends, bonded by their shared experience.
They halted the collection of jogging six-year olds outside the wide doors of the large indoor range. It was overbuilt, easily capable of holding a hundred shooters simultaneously. In the next ten years, it would see plenty of use, both as an optimal training environment, and as a substitute when the Highland Mountain's weather forced them inside.
"This is a rifle!" Mendez barked to the assembled candidates, holding up an air rifle in his hands. "With this rifle, you will learn the skills of a soldier. You will learn discipline, precision, and focus. You will listen to your trainers as they attempt to teach you a mere ounce of their accumulated skills! You will treat this duty as if it is your very life!"
He cast his gaze out over the crowd. By now, most of the candidates had started to get with the program, at least outwardly. A few were still sullen, still suspicious, like Candidate 023.
"There will be no laughter in the firing range," he told them, lowering his volume and projecting his words, so that they would still hear him, but listen all the harder. "There will be no yelling. There will be no running. In this place, you are always calm, methodical, and in control. The moment that you are not in control of a weapon is the moment that weapon will kill you. You will treat every weapon you touch with the same respect, regardless of its power. And if you do not respect these weapons, then your trainers will not have to teach you – the weapons themselves will teach you with pain, and death."
He waited a few moments, making sure to meet the eyes of as many of the candidates as he could. A personal touch was always important in training, but with seventy-five candidates, Mendez himself could not ensure that personal relationship with all of them.
The candidates filtered into the firing range slowly, each one escorted by their dedicated trainer at their right shoulder. Seventy-five stations were already set up for them, with targets at an easy ten meters, rifles already waiting on each station, the tables lowered for their short heights, and the targets themselves being coated in high-visibility reactive paint.
The trainers would instruct, observe, and question their candidates about what they did wrong, and only after the candidate had answered would they correct the children. ONI wanted intelligent supersoldiers, capable of initiative, not unthinking grunts. Instilling that initiative would have to start immediately, but only ever under controlled circumstances, lest it lead to rebellion.
Mendez himself did not have a candidate to focus on. This early in the Orion-II program, there was no point in singling out any one of them for attention, and gauging the overall situation was a far more important task.
They stayed at the firing range for just under an hour. Mendez walked patrols behind the stations, standing well back from the thick red border painted into the concrete floor that marked the firing line. Plenty of the candidates made mistakes. For almost all of them, it was their first time shooting anything. But they learned quick – much quicker than he'd anticipated.
Perhaps there was something to the selection criteria, Mendez mused as he walked. When he'd read the briefing, he'd been unimpressed with the logic of choosing individuals based on their genetics. In his opinion, individual choices and discipline resulted in far more performance than hereditary advantages. But in Doctor Halsey's opinion, the best performance combined the two.
Three of the candidates stood out already.
Candidate 058 had been unfamiliar with the air rifle, but when she was questioned on her performance, she identified the mistakes without needing to retract her target, before the trainer had retracted it. Her trainer had almost believed that she was lying, trying to inflate her scores or fool him, but each time he pulled the target close, she was right. The trainer started leaving the target down-range, and used a small scope to evaluate her accuracy, in an eerie sight that almost resembled a sniper and her spotter, were it not for the minuscule size of both the sniper and the rifle.
Candidate 104 was less gifted in eyesight, but made up for it with a prodigious memory, and was easily the highest performer among the group. Others edged him out in some small way, but Candidate 104 was always in top contention, regardless of the specific category. Every one of the many small metrics that their trainers were watching out for – safety awareness, wasted time, kinesthesia, he was right in the top, while all of the top performers were unequal, suffering in another area to make up for their excellence.
And Candidate 016 had clearly already done this before. She was the least compatible candidate from a genetic standpoint, but she was quickly demonstrating that genetics weren't everything. Of the candidates, she had taken his lecture the best, and even with clear evidence of already knowing some of these skills, she didn't showboat to others or ignore her trainer. She listened attentively, incorporated advice even when she didn't need it, and never once acted out. In many ways, she was already a little soldier, and Mendez paid close attention to that.
Would all of the candidates become like 016? Miniature soldiers, cold in temperament and automatons in discipline?
Mendez didn't know, and it disturbed him. The children were doing what many their age would, playing around with air rifles, but the underlying difference in reason was nearly insurmountable.
He could only do what he had always done. Trust in the UNSC's overall competence. Trust in his superior's leadership. Trust in Doctor Halsey's vision.