It had been nearly three months since I was introduced to Project Orion-II.
From the first moment, it had been a hellish nightmare. I had done my best to present an image of professional competence, but behind that mask, I was a pitiful wreck, screaming as I ran from fire to fire, doing my best to douse the flames before they were fanned ever higher by the numerous iniquities that I was surrounded by at the Office of Naval Intelligence.
I did not need trainers who did not care for their trainees. I did not need a military liaison who believed the ideal solution to child-rearing was to beat them into obedience. I did not need a scientific staff that believed they were plumbing hypotheticals, unaware that the slightest laxity would lead to the death of children.
Ideally, this pruning and shaping of the program would have taken place before it was ever initiated. I could have taken my time, ensuring that every precaution was taken, every variable accounted for. Like a bonsai tree, perfection would have required diligence and foresight.
Alas, we were doing it live. Instead of clipping a bonsai tree with precise shears, I was battling kudzu with a chainsaw. The silver lining of ONI being a military intelligence organization was that I could use military tactics on it without any remorse or guilt. Precision, speed, and force, the three loanwords of any blitz attack, and I'd used all of them on the roadblocks that stood in my way, just like I had once used them on trenches in the Rhine.
Yet now, after three months of little sleep and frantic work, I was finally starting to think that I had a good handle on Project Orion-II.
My trainers now understood the specific requirements that I had for them. Chief Petty Officer Mendez had demonstrated himself to be an excellent instructor and manager, and was adapting well to my methodologies. The four research teams were making steady progress on their associated tasks, and understood the gravity of the situation.
That was not to say that my life was perfect, or that I was 'happy' about being in this abominable situation. Even if these deeds stayed locked behind the iron bars of ONI's classification until long after my death, it did not change how much of my life had been carved from me, without my ever knowing.
Unlike the other researchers, who would have a permanent security detail following them around for the rest of their lives, I knew full well that I was now shackled to ONI forever. There was no adequate security detail for a person like me. My guards did not have to protect me from stalkers or random violence. The only men who would come after me would be the darkest of black ops, the most experienced killers in the galaxy – and you could not protect a person from those men if the target had anything resembling a normal life. No security route could handle every road that you would cross, on any random day that an assassin might strike.
The only way that I could ever be safe was to stay inside UNSC perimeters for the remainder of my life. A situation that ONI had no doubt considered a benefit to this unholy situation. Yes, my contract was only for Project Orion-II, given that it would take the next ten years, but they'd known full well that it was essentially a lifetime of service to their secretive ways.
There was still hope, of course. If I performed this task well, I could barter my way into a cushy, relaxing position researching Shaw-Fujikawa drives, FTL communications, and better municipal Artificial Intelligences. But even then, I would be locked into a life of research and little else – never able to go for a relaxing beach holiday, never free to travel as I saw fit. I would be made comfortable, like an exotic animal in a city zoo, never able to flee my cage.
Worse still was the death of any normal life, even within ONI. In the halls of power, the only friends you can trust are the ones that you made before you ever became powerful – and this project had ruined those friends for me. I had only ever been close to my three old roommates from the University of Circumstance, and they all despised me now, demonstrating their disgust with denial, depression, and anger: three of the five stages of grief.
Steve Sullivan was secluding himself and trying to pretend that he was exclusively developing exoskeletons for normal people – a tactic that would work for the next few years, but eventually, he would have to confront the truth.
Paul Wu had become nearly silent in his interactions with me, exchanging the bare minimum words needed to communicate in our staff meetings. His terror had rendered him taciturn.
David Meyer was furious at me, and were it not for ONI's security and my own private assurance, I would have genuinely feared for my life in his presence. He'd always had the biggest heart, and I knew that he among them had the most anger. In our last meeting, he had bullied me into bringing the psychology team up to the training camp, threatening me in the process.
It was a shame. I had truly respected and admired all of them. I still did! But it was clear that this project had irrevocably severed all ties of our relationships, and they all considered me to be a monster. It was just one more thing that ONI had stolen from me.
But for all my morose fears of the distant future, the immediate present was… tolerable.
The cadets were beginning to get 'with the program', as the phrase went. For all that we were pushing them as hard as we could, they were responding positively to the challenges. Truly, the competitive instincts of human nature were a wonder. They slept, learned, ate, and struggled as one team, one family, and yet they still pushed each other ever higher. When one of them slowed, the trainers were hardly needed; the others would help and encourage the laggard back up to the standard of the rest.
The trainers were obedient and thoughtful to my revisions for the training program. They'd even reacted well to the sudden presence of a half dozen psychology experts that had their own rooms, lecture halls, and offices in our little compound. They'd accepted the comments, questions, and concerns of the psychology team, adapting as necessary to refine the program for even greater efficiency. I had expected at least some degree of professionalism, but I'd worried about the risk of conflict between the men of action and the isolated thinkers, and none had emerged.
I'd even had time for leisure activities. I was now getting up to eight hours of sleep a night, a true luxury for any retired soldier. I had hours available to plan for the next five years, rather than the next five days. So much time that I'd even had thoughts on topics as frivolous as renaming 'Orion-II' to something more fitting.
I was enjoying the view of the natural landscapes around me. The stars at night were breathtaking, the mountain vistas around us were gorgeous, and I'm sure if I mustered up the time to climb one of the mountains, I would behold a scenic vista so immaculate that it deserved a portrait.
These days, my mornings were available for physical training, which I had decided to take alongside the cadets. The children's first reactions to me joining them on their daily PT was murmurs of surprise, and quiet glances. The trainers were more professional, but I could see their distant disapproval at both my interruption, and my miserable physical state.
Of course, it was good that the children's PT was aimed at their pre-pubescent musculature, because had I thrown myself straight into the PT regimen of the trainers themselves, I'm pretty sure that I would have crashed out in exhaustion within the first twenty minutes. Still, what mattered with personal fitness was not how fast you learned or how capable you became, but the fact that you were keeping yourself healthy, in whatever way you could.
Today was no exception to my new routine – indeed, if I had my way, I would attend morning PT with the cadets for as long as I could. The potential benefits were not limited to my own health and fitness, but the strengthening of bonds of trust between myself and the cadets.
It was hard to trust in an invisible system over your head, and it was much easier to trust in an individual that you knew (or at least believed you did). That was one of the primary reasons why politicians were public figures, nearly celebrities in their own way – without such a focus, it was harder for the common man to form the essential bonds of trust that were the building blocks of civilization.
And so, I donned the standard issue physical training clothing, tightened my running shoes, and left my office before the dawn had risen. The crisp air greeted me as I left the compound's command center, and I jogged the short distance to the cadet's barracks, where I could hear the trainers shouting the usual wakeup calls, and see the steady stream of cadets forming into ranks on the dew-slick grass.
I joined Mendez at the head of the formation. Three months after they'd had their heads shaved, each of the cadets had an inch of hair growth, perhaps an inch and a half. Yesterday, I'd informed the trainers that we would not require the cadets to be repeat their initial haircuts. They'd be allowed to grow it out in whatever way they wanted, so long as it followed military regulations, which effectively meant so long as they could keep it away from their face and fit it under a helmet, would be fine.
It was a small thing, but the smallest freedoms often were the most important ones. Besides, it made it easier to tell the cadets apart, and I had emphasized repeatedly to both the trainers and the psychology staff that we needed to be tailoring our approach to each cadet in turn – rewarding them for their achievements on an individual basis, and not confusing them for other cadets, lest we foster the self-destructive belief that there was no point in trying hard.
Mendez surveyed the group with an emotionless face, glancing down at an antique pocket-watch to count their time. The last of the cadets filed out, joined the formation, and stood ready. Mendez waited another few seconds, then tucked the pocket-watch away. He'd given them five minutes, and they'd all been outside, dressed and ready for PT, with a minute to spare.
"Cadets, follow me!" Mendez roared, starting the jog. I waited as the cadets streamed past in their two-man wide formation, each cadet accompanied by a trainer on their outside edge. I fell into the formation at the back, where I could participate without drawing too many of their eyes, without them seeing how I struggled to match up to the other adults in performance. In time, I would be as fit as them. In time.
Today's jaunt was a relatively easy one. Just a couple miles of jogging, some bodyweight calisthenics, and then a trip to the outdoor firing range.
It was not advisable to exercise immediately prior to shooting, because your heart rate would be elevated and your accuracy affected. However, since it was inevitable that combat troops would be fighting in worse conditions, it was a necessary part of their education. Frankly, it only mattered for target shooting, because in actual combat a soldier would simply substitute volume of fire for their adrenaline-affected accuracy.
Still, we had taught the children to aim for excellence in all things, and it was time that they learned the next vital lesson – that sometimes, excellence was outside your grasp for reasons that you could not control, and you had to do the best that you could. Sheer skill, an excess of effort, or more creative solutions would be required for those situations when you were pressed up against the wall. It was time that they learned that, albeit in this small way.
The exercise was a welcome experience, both for the physical results, and for the time to think. Chair time, as I once heard a farmer call it. A repetitive task that you could perform on autopilot, using enough attention to keep your brain engaged, while allowing your higher thoughts to wander freely. The same concept as a 'shower thought' from my first life, but with the benefit of increased blood-flow stimulating the mind.
Landsknecht. I weighed the word in my head, tossing it back and forth. No, that would not work. Setting aside that the UNSC was primarily dominated by the descendants of the anglosphere, I didn't want a name that evoked mercenaries, especially ones prone to mutiny. Praetorians was out for similar reasons, as was Vikings.
I could try to appeal to the anglo-roots with Minutemen, perhaps… but alas, Project Orion-II was about as far as one could get from the citizen militias of the American Revolution. On the opposite side of the problem, Immortals would be accurate to the role, but was too Persian.
Perhaps something mythological? Kronos, Titans, Olympians, Daedalus? No, definitely not that last one. Still, the Greek names were appealing. I had a feeling that I was getting closer to a proper name for the cadets… but I was not there yet.
I wiped away the sweat from my brow with a towel after we finished up the last set of burpees, and took a sip from my water bottle. The cadets around me did the same, carefully moderating their sips, to the watchful eyes of their trainers.
"Cadets, to the range!" Mendez called.
The children fell into line again, and we jogged the hundred or so meters to the range. Today, they were firing real rifles, albeit small calibers. The recoil of a .22 was light, but the smell of gunpowder, the ballistic drop, the knowledge that the slightest slip up could cause a fatal injury – that was what mattered right now. Slowly increasing the verisimilitude of their training, step-by-step as the children grew, until they were at the capability of actual soldiers.
Stations were marked out by firing mats, empty rifles lying next to boxed ammunition and empty magazines. The targets today were still a short distance away, barely twenty meters, though we'd shrunk them down in size to increase the difficulty.
I did not join the cadets in this activity. My own experience with firearms was primarily in my last life, and I'd… abstained as Catherine Halsey. It was one thing to join the light exercises with confidence, knowing I could perform to the standard. It was another to return to shooting with almost no muscle memory in this body. That I would practice on my own, in the privacy of the indoor range when it was unoccupied.
Instead, I occupied myself by patrolling the ranks, inspecting both cadet and trainer as they took to their tasks. They had to perform an inspection of the rifle, load the magazines, and only once their trainer approved, begin firing. Two shots each per circle, five circles per paper target.
By now, the worst rough edges had been sanded off the children. Almost all of them had never encountered firearms before, yet now they were comfortable with inspecting the receivers, peering down the barrel with white cloth to inspect for debris, loading, and firing on their own. Only once did I see a trainer intervene, and that was for a child that was taking too much time inspecting their rifle for safety, which was hardly the worst trait.
As usual, their performances had a wide range separating the best and the worst – though even the worst were still scoring above 60 in the scoring metrics, by which I mean, hitting all of the circles without any flyers, or missing the letter-size paper entirely. Pathetic by adults standards, but quite competent for six year olds.
Some of the trainers were prone alongside their charges, participating with constant advice. Some knelt, allowing the cadet more room to breathe. Only one trainer was standing, and he seemed entirely uninterested in helping his cadet.
I looked to Mendez, who had also spotted the exception. I was closer than the Chief, so I inclined my head and briefly pointed to myself, then moved over to address the man.
"Sergeant," I murmured as I approached. "Why are you standing?"
"Doctor Halsey," the Sergeant acknowledged with a nod, as he kept one eye on his charge – adhering to my standing request that I not be saluted, as I was not a military officer. "Cadet 016 hasn't needed any advice thus far. I'm ready for when she needs it, but…"
The Marine NCO shook his head softly. We were speaking quietly, soft enough that the cadets shouldn't be able to hear us, even though modern hearing protection allowed regular conversations and only muffled noises above a certain decibel level.
"What is it?" I asked, pursing my lips. The man did not look fully comfortable, and while some of that was probably from addressing me, the rest appeared to be unease with his cadet, judging by the look he was directing at her.
"She's talking to herself," the Sergeant whispered. "Doing math, I think. I don't know what the hell it is, but since she started, she hasn't missed a single shot. It's bad form and technique, and I'll correct it later…but right now, it doesn't make sense, and I don't know what to do. The movement of her jaw, her chest, her lungs, all those things should be throwing off her aim. Yet she's hitting 100's right now, and it's…"
I frowned. That was absurd. We hadn't taught the cadets enough math for them to be doing ballistic trajectories yet, and even if we had, they were shooting at a mere twenty meters. This close, math was less important than the basic techniques of body control – basics that Cadet 016 was blatantly ignoring.
Yet when I glanced through my spotting scope, I saw nothing but perfect shots through the bull's eye, so perfect that had I not been watching, I'd have though she was missing her second shots each time – the bullets passing through the exact same holes, barely disturbing the torn edges.
I stepped to the side, as if moving away, but kept my eyes fixed on Cadet 016. Sure enough, once I got a good angle, I could see her lips barely moving, but moving nonetheless, as if she was whispering to herself. Most curious. The trainer was right – her jaw was moving ever so slightly, but with the rifle firmly seated on her shoulder, those jaw movements during her firing should have resulted in minor deviations.
Approaching, I knelt down beside the cadet, and strained my ears to listen.
Math. The trainer was correct. I could hear Cadet 016 reciting a formula. In fact, it almost sounded familiar…
I opened my mouth, and repeated some of the formula to myself. Where had I heard it before?
As I followed along, mouthing the words, I realized, all too abruptly, where I knew it from – I recognized the effects before the words came rushing back to me, like a pitcher of ice-water spilled over my skull. I could feel my body reacting, my eyesight sharpening, my body control increasing, my mind churning faster and faster, my reaction times decreasing.
The words were a jargon that I had not heard spoken in more than twenty-five years, and a language much the same. I had not recognized them because I had learned first to process the formulas in my head, and then later on, to simply select the proper formula out of the pre-set list with the aid of my computational orb. Speaking the formula out loud was an emergency measure, a way of using the technique when you had no orb.
Cadet 016 was speaking Germanian, and she was reciting the standard Germanian Aerial Mage's formula for reflex enhancement.
I stepped back, nearly trembling.
The young Cadet finished her final shots, cleared the rifle with experienced hands, and set it down. She rolled over, perhaps to speak to her trainer, and froze as she saw me standing above her. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open. She clamped down instantly, stiffening to attention even in her prone position. She was scared of me, I recognized faintly, as if it was some unimportant trivia.
Her brown hair was shorter than I had ever seen it before. Her face was rounded by baby-fat that I had never seen, long removed by starvation and puberty when I'd first met her. Her eyes were bright blue, but surrounded by lashes far shorter than I remembered.
None of those things alone would have jogged my memory, so different was her face…
…but once I'd heard the magical formula, once I'd listened to that accented Germanian, tinged with the slightest traces of Rus, I knew who she was instantly, like a thunderbolt from God coming to strike me down.
Viktoriya Ivanovna Serebryakov lay before me, wearing the unadorned jumpsuit of a child conscript, and she was terrified of me.
I recoiled backward, hurriedly stepping away, barely able to keep my balance.
I don't know what expression was on my face, so great was my loss of control. I turned on my heel, ignoring the Marine NCO that I had just been speaking with, and walked from the firing range as fast as I could without breaking into a run.
My hands shook as I typed away on my keyboard. I was in my office, back in the command center. I hadn't changed from my exercise gear, hadn't showered, hadn't done anything more than throw on a spare labcoat to ward off the phantom chill that had seeped into my bones.
The smart windows were blacked out, removing the normal view of the Highland Mountains from my vision and preventing anyone from looking in. I'd locked the door, and no one in the compound had the authorizations to override it. I'd even ordered a full security blackout from Déjà, without telling her why.
I paged through the ONI computer with cautious, hesitant fingers, navigating the file structure until I found the personnel files.
Seventy-five children stolen from their homes. I'd been so confident that I had things under control, that I was finally gaining a 'handle' on the situation, that I hadn't bothered to read their individual files.
Finally, I reached the file labeled 016. I opened it, and there, right at the top, was a picture of Visha.
The picture had clearly been taken before her conscription, for her hair was long, down to her shoulders, just as I remembered it from my past life. It did not change the alien sensation I got when looking at this vastly younger version of her, but it was the final nail in the coffin; one that I did not need, after hearing her use magecraft, but which confirmed that Visha, unlike myself, had been reincarnated into an identical body to her past one.
Her legal name was Victoria Pelham. She was born on July 28, 2511, on the colony of Siberia Prime. Daughter of a loving family, their only child. Identified by ONI first due to compatibility to proposed Orion-II augmentations, further selected after ONI obtained her early school records. Victoria had excelled in nearly every area, scoring perfectly on every single subject, and had been strongly recommended for skipping several grades. Strong kinesthetic awareness, excellent body conditioning, a mature attitude towards authority, highly self-disciplined… practically the ideal candidate for the project.
I recognized the signs. How could I not? I had lived three lives, it was relatively easy to see that Visha had not been excelling purely due to her genetic makeup or intelligence quotient, but due to her knowledge of her past life, and her adult memories.
Visha was an adult in mind, trapped in a child's body – the same horrific punishment that I had suffered in my last life.
Is this what Being X intended from the start? I wondered. Months ago, I convinced myself to not blame that demonic entity for ONI's misdeeds… but this was too ironic for it to be mere happenstance or free will. There was no chance that a person would just 'happen' to be reborn with all that past knowledge, for reincarnation was a purely fictional conception in this world. I would know, I had checked. And for it to be this person, of all people…
Not only was I being forced into the role that Germanian High Command had played in my last life, forced to make children suffer through the abominations of ethics that I myself had volunteered for… no, that was not punishment enough. Now, I had to do the same to poor Visha, the closest companion I'd had in any of my three lives.
I could no longer pretend that this was an impersonal task, ruled only by cold logic and efficiency. This was personal now. How could it not be?
Her terrified reaction made sense. She was an adult, and she was likely the only cadet that realized – truly realized – what the full implications of Project Orion-II were. The obvious indication that the UNSC's government was teetering on the edge and was resorting to desperation ploys, the fact that they were throwing morals and ethics out the window to ensure their own survival, and the looming reality that ONI would never allow these horrific crimes to be publicly known.
Undoubtedly, she knew that a lack of performance would not result in merely 'washing out'. She knew that it would instead result in her being taken away and summarily executed, to prevent any secrets spilling from her lips.
And to poor Visha, I was the architect of it all. I was Doctor Catherine Halsey, the self-identified head of the program, the woman who had taken responsibility on that first night. It had all been an act to ensure that ONI would not remove me from the program due to my very real disagreements with it, and one that I had performed to the best of my ability.
This can't possibly get any worse, I thought to myself, gnawing on my bottom lip.
No sooner had I thought those words, then I reached the bottom of the personnel file, and my eyes widened as I read the damning words that concluded the ONI document.
Subject 016 compatibility index with proposed augmentations: 93%.
Subject 016 ranking of compatibility among all selected subjects: 75/75.
NOTE: Subject 016 is the least compatible with the proposed augmentation procedures out of all selected subjects. Despite this, her selection was chosen over several more compatible candidates due to her combination of extremely high performance metrics and complimentary psychological profile, making her a 'high risk, high reward' option.
Nonetheless, if any candidate will fail the augmentation stage, it will undoubtedly be Subject 016. As such, in the event of any resource allocation difficulties, Subject 016 should be triaged last.
My hand slipped from the keyboard. My arms were boneless, unable to exert the slightest pressure.
What a cruel retribution this was. To be forced to crush my dearest subordinate under the same millstone that I had once suffered under, and to know the entire time that her survival was the least likely of all.
Will I be forced to watch? I wondered. To see as her augmentations failed, to behold my dearest friend dying on the very literal table of my ambitions and arrogance. After spending seven years working to ensure her survival, only to fail at the end, with Visha never knowing that I was not her tormenter, the vicious Mengele playing sick games with the bodies of children?
No.
I refused. I will not stand to allow Visha to suffer in that way, or in any way that I can prevent. She did not deserve it, even more than I myself had not deserved my initial fate. She was a true innocent, blameless even of the aggressive yet accurate insults that I have levied at Being X in our fateful encounter.
I would not lie to her. I would tell her the truth, as quickly as I could. It was the least that I could do, but the most immediate. I could not bear the thought of Visha spending years living under the same fears that I have lived under, the feeling of unsalvageable despair, knowing that you were doomed, and escape was impossible – no matter how much I had reassured myself, had schemed to escape the trenches, the fear had persisted.
New vigor filled my body. I reached up for the control interface, and depressed the large red button that would disable the security blackout.
"Déjà," I snapped out firmly, as the hologram emitter was replaced with the artificial intelligence's chosen avatar. "Inform Chief Mendez that Cadet 016 is to be brought to my office as soon as the current training activity finishes."
"Of course, Doctor Halsey," the 'Dumb' A.I. responded, obediently heeding my instructions. "Shall I inform him of the reason?"
"No," I told her coldly, before cutting the connection.
I folded my hands in my lap and leaned back in my chair. I would need to make changes, I knew now. The research teams would need to be informed of the new urgency, the need to redouble their efforts. I had been determined to not let a single cadet die when I had merely thought of them as innocent, yet faceless children. To know, without a doubt, that if any died, it would be Visha…
Silently, I ran through the same reflex enhancement formula that Visha had performed earlier, out of muscle memory, in total silence. I refused to allow my body to shudder, to display my visceral reaction before the world.
Long minutes passed as I ran through ideas in my head on how best to invigorate the research teams, how much I would need to be alter the training schedules. I had been planning for how to handle the next five years, but now I tossed those plans aside without a second thought – the next five years was still two years before the augmentation procedures, and that was the true objective, the gate that I had to breach, the filter that I had to destroy.
Visha would survive. This was no promise, no declaration to a false god watching. This was a fact, and I would burn this world to cinders to ensure that this fact became truth.
After some time, there came a knock at my door.
"Enter," I called, my face an iron mask of willpower.