Chicago was rainy this time of year. The thunderstorm came from the west, driving towards Lake Michigan, whipped itself into trouble as it went into the water.
Objectively, it sucked. Real horrible feeling, thinking you might have a decent day of weather, and bam, God's spitting flashbangs at your eyes and ears. The howling wind, and if you were late enough in the year, the cold that came sliding in like a late runner trying to hit home plate before he was caught.
Funnily enough, he didn't mind the storms. They should've set off his instincts, made him look like just another PTSD'd soldier back home from the colonies. The suddenness of the thunder. The shock of the lightning. The feeling in the air, like somebody just slapped the atmosphere like a bongo drum.
But Avery Junior Johnson had been born and raised in Chicago, and he'd grown up in the storms. He was comfortable with them. Hell, sometimes too much.
There was a storm rolling in from the lake as he got off the "New L" and started the two-block walk to the Seropian. People were rushing around, trying to get indoors before the storm hit. Johnson didn't bother. If he got wet, then he got wet. He was already gonna take a shower anyway, and the Seropian staff already hated his guts, so it wasn't like dripping some water over the floor would change anything.
The fifty-story highrise was both too deep and too shallow in the Chicago Industrial Zone for most people. If you were some rich young kid, wanting a city life, then you wanted to be lake-side, partying it up at the clubs along the riverwalk by the night, and walking the Navy Pier's tourist traps by day. If you were anybody else, you probably wanted to live on the outskirts, away from the crime and the ghettos and the noises.
Since the Seropian was a retirement home, the elderly people here didn't get a choice. They got to live in the places where nobody else cared to be. Too close to the factories, too far from anything important. But that was fine and dandy – they rarely ever left the tower, after all.
Not like him.
The automatic doors opened smoothly as he walked in. Not a moment after they closed behind him, the deluge started. Rain pounded on the glass, coming down in big wet buckets of the stuff.
"Mister… Johnson," the receptionist greeted him, his smile weak. "Welcome back. Just visiting?"
Johnson rolled his eyes, and fought the urge to cuss the kid out. Wasn't his fault. Corporate policies and all that crap forced him to ask.
"No," the Marine said, looking the boy in the face. "I'm staying with my aunt Marcille. You got a problem with that, you tell the shift manager to come talk to me."
"I-I'm sorry, sir, but-" the receptionist tried to say, voice wavering.
"Look kid," Johnson sighed. "The lease says she can do whatever she wants with her rooms. There's no prohibition on long term guests. I know you're just doing your job, but you don't have to ride my ass like a DI, you got me?"
"Sorry, sir," the receptionist muttered, slumping his shoulders a little.
Johnson walked off towards the elevators, shaking his head.
Damn kids. They were getting younger all the time. That boy was barely twenty, probably working his first real job after high-school. He probably believed that he'd only have to deal with the official job description – taking care of elderly retirees just waiting to die in their mega-tower, chatting with each other and exercising in the pool and playing bingo and that happy, sappy crap.
The kid probably hadn't been planning on dealing with a burned out Marine with nearly thirty years of combat experience, who was staying with his retired aunt on the thirty-seventh floor. He couldn't have predicted the row that this would cause between the Seropian's managers and Marcille Johnson.
Frankly, the Seropian's managers were just lucky that Marcille was the one angry about the situation, and not Avery Junior himself.
Johnson just wanted to take care of his aunt. He didn't trust the on-call nurses. They did good work, sure, but a single nurse for an entire floor was too few. He had enough money to pay his Aunt for using the spare bedroom, and he'd do everything he could to make sure she was taken care of, for as long as he could.
Even if he knew that he'd be going back to the Marine Corps soon enough, when he ran out of money and couldn't stand seeing the news show young kids getting blown up by Innie bombs. It was inevitable. He was bound to the Corps more tightly than any marriage. A unity of purpose. It was the only place for a man like him. A place where he could do some good, save some lives, and maybe stop this damn Insurrection before it burned every single good part of humanity to shreds.
The elevator dinged as he got to his aunt's floor. The on-call nurse wasn't at the station. Figures. Probably dealing with some medical emergency.
Still feels wrong for Aunt Marcille to be here,Johnson thought bitterly as he walked down the familiar hallway to her room. In his head, she was still the young, vibrant woman who'd taken him to church, and sewed his clothes all nice and new, and baked bread in that old walkup apartment on Blackstone Avenue.
But Marcille had been the older sister to his bum of a father, and she'd had fully grown sons before she'd taken him in. She was almost ninety years old, and time had worn her down like one of the cigarettes she was always smoking.
He stopped walking, eyes narrowing.
Down the hallway, right in front of the door he knew belonged to his aunt, was a man standing guard in an ill-fitting suit. Johnson knew the type. He recognized the stance, the watchful eyes, even the deliberately awkward suit – it hid the body-armor underneath.
It was impossible for him not to recognize. He'd worn the same thing a few times, on clandestine missions for the Office of Naval Intelligence.
The ONI operative spotted him immediately. He turned towards Johnson, just slightly, just enough to make it clear that he'd seen the man… and to hide his right arm from view, making it possible to covertly draw his weapon if he needed.
Johnson felt the absence of a firearm pretty damn strongly at the moment. He'd never had a reason to get a private firearm, since he spent most of his time on deployment, but right now, he wished that he had. He knew, deep down, that ONI wasn't here to do anything violent – because if they had, Johnson would have never been allowed to enter the building. But he still wanted to feel the grip of a pistol in his hand. Better yet, a good shotgun.
What in the hell does ONI think they're doing, pulling this stunt on me? he thought to himself, his chest rumbling and warming up.
That was the only option here. Some stunt. He must have annoyed somebody, and they were making a point that Staff Sergeant Avery Junior Johnson was well within their reach, and he'd best learn to mind his place in the world.
But he hadn't done shit to piss anybody in the UNSC off. He'd been a good soldier for most of his life.
So why the hell were they doing this now?
"Johnson," the operative said, as he approached. The man didn't salute, but he'd straightened up a little, and he nodded respectfully to the Marine – the closest he could come.
"You wanna tell me why you're here?" Johnson growled, staring the man in the eyes.
"You've got friends in high places," the operative replied, smiling lightly, in a friendly manner that didn't fool Johnson for a moment. "Go on in, they'll tell you more inside."
He eyed the ONI operative for a moment, then opened the apartment's door and walked through.
"Aunty?" he called out.
With a wary eye, he glanced at the shoe-rack by the door. His aunt's loafers were there, but so was a pair of expensive shoes that he'd never seen before, politely set aside. He'd have taken his own shoes off, but he was too high strung right now for that.
"Avery! Come in, come in!" his aunt's musical voice responded from the living room. "I was just talking to this wonderful man about the church."
The living room was as warm as ever, full of quilts and homey decorations, and the heat set up way too high. Aunt Marcille was sitting on her usual lounger near the center of the room, smiling up at Johnson as he entered. Across from her, sitting on the edge of the couch with a neatly pressed suit and perfect posture was a man that Johnson didn't recognize. He glanced down, and saw the man's black socks standing out against the white carpet.
"Avery Johnson, I believe?" the stranger asked.
He stood up and extended his hand with a warm smile. His expression was kind, but Johnson knew it was faked. Men like this weren't nice. They acted nice to get the job done.
Johnson's eyes flickered down to the hand, and he felt his aunt's heavy gaze watching him, seeing how he reacted.
She didn't know, Johnson knew instantly. She didn't know who this man was, what it meant for this man to be here. She just knew that she was entertaining a guest, and her guest had been polite to her nephew.
He took the man's hand and shook it once, firmly.
"That's me," he said, smiling back at the man. "And who would you be?"
He wasn't as practiced at faking it, so his grin was a little toothier, and little colder. Hopefully Aunty Marcille didn't notice.
"My name is Marcus Lynch," the agent said, giving what was probably a fake name. "I'm here from the United Nations Space Command's veteran's outreach program."
"My aunt never served," Johnson replied, flatly. "She's a gentle woman, not someone like us."
Lynch's smile widened slightly, almost imperceptibly, and then shrunk back down to the polite size. An acknowledgment of Johnson's pointed remark.
"Oh, I'm not here for your aunt, Staff Sergeant," Lynch said, bowing his head slightly in respect towards Marcille. "Though I consider it an honor to meet her. She's a wonderful woman. No, Sergeant Johnson, I'm actually here for you."
"Really?" Johnson asked, not surprised, but having to fake it. "And what could the… veteran's outreach program… want with an upstanding Marine like me? I'm doing quite well, and I'm planning to re-upping in a few weeks."
A veteran's outreach program, Johnson thought to himself. Sure, and I'm the Tooth Fairy. Don't you give me a reason, Mister Lynch, or I might have to collect yours a little early.
"Well, it appears that bureaucratic error caused all of this," Lynch said, his smile turning sheepish with remarkable ease. "I'm here because we got an automated alert from the Chicago Zone's municipal A.I. systems. They thought you were homeless, Sergeant, and reached out to us so that we could help you."
"Homeless?" Johnson repeated, quirking an eyebrow up and taking his steady gaze off the ONI agent long enough to glance at his Aunty, who looked amused by the entire situation. "No sir, as you can see, I'm living with my aunt."
"The city A.I. isn't the smartest," Lynch said with a shrug. "I can see that there's no need for our help… but…"
Johnson tensed a little as the ONI agent looked over at his Aunt with that fake smile, all warmth and kindness.
"That doesn't mean we can't help you, Sergeant," he continued. "Our office isn't just for the aid of veterans, but also their families. In your case, I see that you're spending quite a bit of time taking care of your lovely Aunt."
"Oh, Avery's a dear," Aunt Marcille laughed, reaching over and patting Lynch on the side. "He always did care so strongly about people."
"As it happens, we have a few spaces open at a UNSC-funded retirement facility Marcille," Lynch said, nodding to his Aunt. "I'd like to offer one of them to you."
"Why?" Johnson barked, unable to keep the suspicion out of his voice.
"Avery!" Aunt Marcille replied, visibly taken aback at his tone. "Don't you be like that! Marcus here has been nothing but kind to me."
That's because it works, Aunty. He's playing you like a pinball machine, Johnson wanted to say, yanking the words back before he could spit them out, and make things worse.
"I understand your worry, Sergeant," Lynch said, nodding to him. Still faking. Still pretending to be a normal person, and not a soul-sucking vampire with a silver tongue. "If you want a cold blooded, logical reason, then that's more than fair. My orders are to do whatever I can to ease your concerns."
Orders. Johnson's eyes narrowed. He'd known the man was ONI, known it from his outfit, from his charming persona. But for the man to admit that he'd had orders… this came from higher up.
This wasn't just some ONI bureaucrat finding out about his aunt, and deciding to send a goon squad to remind Johnson that he worked for the company, and not his aunt, and he'd better re-up soon before they decided he might run off the reservation and go Innie.
This was somebody way up on the food chain. Somebody with real power. Someone with enough pull to access the Greater Chicago Industrial Zone's records and track him down. They hadn't gone to his mother, who'd been living in a therapy home for years after what his deadbeat father did. They hadn't made the mistake of going to his father. They'd known that Johnson's strongest family tie was his Aunt.
That would have taken an awful lot of time to sort through all those old records… or it would have taken only a few minutes with a fancy Smart A.I. – the kind that were reserved for Admirals.
It wasn't hard to figure out why somebody like that would be interested in him. It was more than just his record. He'd led a lot of black-ops missions over the last seven years, since Operation: TREBUCHET had launched, sure, but so had plenty of others. You couldn't shake a bush without uncovering some Army Ranger or Air Force Pararescueman that had led an op against the Innies, these days.
No, he knew why they'd singled him out.
Project ORION. That damn experiment that they'd played on him and a couple hundred of his brothers and sisters in service. The project that had been shuttered for fourteen years, after too much cost, and too little reward.
"And if my concerns are about how well my Aunt will be treated?" Johnson demanded, asking the only question he could, without blowing half a dozen secrets in front of Marcille.
"Then I'm to assure you that your Aunt will be given the absolute best care that the UNSC can provide," Lynch replied, saying words that had no meaning. Polite excuses, but no promises. "The facility in question is Shady Pines Towers. It's closer to downtown, but it is… exclusive. There's an on-call nurse for every two residents, as well as three restaurants, four gyms, and hourly activities."
"And what about church?" Johnson asked, pressing the man with whatever he could. "Aunt Marcille loves to go to church. She can't start missing it. She's a staple there. They'd all starve without her baking cookies for Sunday brunch."
"Oh, you're right, Avery," Marcille gasped, as she realized. "Oh, Mister Lynch, it's not far, is it? I've got my community, you know. I can't just abandon them."
"Not a problem, Marcille," Lynch replied, smiling down at Johnson's aunt. "There are private drivers attached to the building. They'll take you anywhere you want, at any time, for free. If you want to attend mass every day, they'll be happy to take you there."
"What kind of retirement home has private drivers?" Johnson asked, squinting at the man.
"Shady Pines currently houses ten retired Generals, and five Admirals," Lynch told him, his voice smooth and unhurried. "As well as two dozen former colonial Governors, and nearly a hundred O-6's or higher."
Johnson stared the man.
That wasn't possible. That kind of place… they didn't have spots open for newcomers. Especially not lower-class people like him or his Aunty. Not for disdained groups like Evangelical Promessics. They were only open to people with a Name, the dynasties that ran the UNSC for the past three hundred years.
"I don't buy it," he said slowly. "This kind of thing doesn't happen to people like us."
Lynch shrugged, with a strange expression crossing his face. It was almost… disbelieving? No. Uncertain.
For a moment, the ONI agent didn't look like a physical representation of the UNSC's most dangerous intelligence organization. He looked like a mere mortal, a guy who didn't understand the bizarre world he stood in, any more than Johnson did.
"I am told," Lynch replied, his words picked with careful deliberation, "that your Aunt, and anyone else on my list, has the direct recommendation and support of Admiral Harold Stanforth. All expenses paid, in honor of your service and dedication to the UNSC."
Hallowed Harold Stanforth, Johnson thought to himself, numbly. The Hero of Eridanus II, one of the highest ranking members of HIGHCOM. A goddamn O-9 was recommending his aunt for this place.
Well, that explained a couple of his lingering questions… and cracked open a suitcase full of new ones.
It was definitely related to Project ORION. There was no other option. Not with this kind of power descending from on-high to bring Johnson on board.
A chill ran down his spine, despite how warm Aunt Marcille normally kept her apartment.
What the hell is going on, that they're doing all this?
"You said anyone else on your list," Johnson said, his voice catching a little in his throat. "How many are on that list?"
"Five people," Lynch told him. "I'm told that you might be familiar with them."
Lynch reached down, his hand moving with deliberate slowness, and he pulled out a small datapad from his suit pants, before offering it to Johnson.
The datapad read:
Avery Johnson, Chicago.
Jace Holt, New York.
Kara Vance, Sydney.
Ryder Kane, Auckland.
Gideon Shaw, London.
Johnson knew those names. He'd bled alongside them, on the training grounds, on the surgical tables, and out on the dirt of a dozen Colony worlds. They were all ex-Orions.
He had been right. This was something to do with that damn project.
The Marine let out a long sigh, and looked over to his aunt, who was looking between Johnson and Lynch with a concerned expression. Heh. Ninety years old, but still as a sharp as a knife. She'd picked up on something – maybe the name, maybe just the way that Johnson or Lynch had reacted to that name.
"And what would this offer… require?" he asked Lynch, hating the words as they came out.
Something this good… it had to have a price. It had to have some horrible, monstrous catch. There was no way it could possibly work otherwise.
But Aunt Marcille was getting older. She'd told him not to worry, that her time might come just from old age alone. She also smoked like a chimney, a classic pack-a-day chain smoker. Johnson hated that. Not the smoking, he could hardly cast blame there, with how many Sweet Williams he went through – but the thought of her passing.
He hated how powerless it made him feel. He'd tried to be one of the strongest, toughest men out there, all so he could keep his Aunt, and people like her, safe from harm… and it hadn't mattered, because time came for them all the same.
The Seropian was decent, but it was overworked and understaffed. The nurses did their best, but Johnson kept coming back whenever he wasn't on deployment because he was afraid that one day, he'd come back to find his Aunt dead. Lying on the ground, cold, unnoticed by the people who were supposed to care for her.
This was some kind of sick test. Whether it was Admiral Harold Stanforth behind it, or somebody else that called in a favor with the Admiral. Johnson wasn't dumb, he could see it clearly. Hell, he could practically hear some smooth-talking, slick-haired ONI spook whispering the words in his ear.
Oh, so you care about your aunty, huh? Well, we can take care of her. We can reward your loyalty to her. We'll make sure she never wants for anything in life, for the rest of her time. And as for the cost… well, why don't you come on in, Staff Sergeant, and we'll discuss that behind a closed door?
Damn them. He'd never really had any hatred for ONI. He'd seen what the Innies were doing to innocent people out in the Colonies. He and all his fellow soldiers in the Orion Project had been volunteers. All that stuff about ONI being cruel, sadistic, malicious monsters… he'd never really believed them.
And this still wasn't proof of that. It was, Johnson had to concede, entirely possible that this was ONI's idea of a bribe, not blackmail. A reward to encourage him to sign onto whatever new mission they had, rather than a veiled threat to his last real loved one.
Maybe it was a good thing, and maybe it was a bad thing… but regardless, the eye from above was looking down on A.J. Johnson.
The worst nightmare of an enlisted man: to be noticed by HIGHCOM. To be a name, a person of interest.
Oh, sure, you might get amazing rewards, like this miracle for Aunt Marcille… but once the eye of Command was on you, it never looked away. You were in the spotlight from now on. Never able to hide away. Never able to go back to being a normal person, an average joe, a trooper on the line.
"We can go into details later, but essentially, it's a training job," Lynch told him. "You've got a lot of valuable skills, Staff Sergeant, and the UNSC thinks that the best way to use those skills is to have you teaching the next generation. You'd be looking at a substantial pay increase, ample support, and involvement in a cutting edge program to train the best soldiers that the UNSC has ever seen."
"Training, huh?" Johnson repeated, thoughtfully.
"That sounds like a good idea to me, Avery," Aunt Marcille spoke up. He glanced at over, and saw a small shimmer growing in one of her eyes. "You know I never liked the idea of people shooting at you."
"Hey, hey now," he murmured, stepping away from Lynch and kneeling by her chair. "Don't you cry, Aunty. I'm not getting shot at, I promise you."
"Oh, don't lie to me, boy," Marcille said softly, shaking her head as a tear started rolling down her cheek. "You've been in that Navy hospital three times in the last ten years. I know you're doing the best you can, but… I worry, Avery. If you're busy on some training camp far back from those terrorists… well, I know I'll feel much better."
"This is blackmail," Johnson told her, gruffly. "You're blackmailing me."
"No, I'm asking you," Marcille replied. "Blackmail would be if I threatened to tell the nice Mister Lynch about some of the trouble you got up to as a child, unless you went."
"You wouldn't," Johnson said, squinting at her.
"Oh, how about the time that you were seeing that girl… what was her name, Samantha…" Marcille drawled, looking up at him with a fake, put-upon glare.
"Alright, alright, that's enough!" Johnson exclaimed, shaking his head with an over-the-top, exaggerated shudder. "Woman, you're gonna get me drummed out of the Corps!"
"I'd never do that to you, Avery," Marcille replied, reaching up a frail, thin hand and laying it tenderly on his cheek. "You love your Marines. And that's why you should take this offer. Not for me. But for you."
Johnson stood up from his aunt slowly, and smiled wistfully at her. He stared at her for a long moment, trying his best to burn the image of his amazing aunt in his mind, before he turned back to the ONI agent.
"Alright," he said, working his jaw for a moment. "Let's talk."
It took eight weeks to get to Reach.
Two weeks to wrap everything up on Earth, get his aunt moved into her new home, and make sure that ONI wasn't gonna welch on the deal.
Two weeks to go through the re-enlistment process, get his medical checkup, and get his new gear issued to him – though he still had plenty of the old stuff that he'd either kept, or 'kept'.
Two weeks of cryosleep, passing in an instant, on a converted colony ship that the UNSC was using as a bulk carrier. He emerged from the pod naked and cold, coughing out that disgusting syrupy crap, and stumbled right to the showers.
Two weeks of NDA's and briefings in the FLEETCOM complex, explanations and questions and answers. Drinking at the old bar in the nights, chatting with some of the other Orions that were going through the same process. Catching up with comrades who'd stayed in, and others who'd come back from civvie life for this deal.
Finally, after too long, he was back in the saddle. The Pelican rumbled around him, and he looked out the front windscreen, over the head of the pilot, at the growing sight of the UNSC training base, nestled deep in the mountains.
"Now approaching the compound," the pilot said.
The pilot plucked the stubby end of his recently-gifted cigar from his mouth and set it down on a distinctly non-regulation ash-tray that he'd mounted underneath the console.
"See that up there?" he continued, gesturing with his free hand. "Your new home, Sergeant."
"Appreciate the lift," Johnson said, nodding. He reached into his chest pocket and pulled out another Sweet Williams cigar, and set it in the utility cup-holder, right in front of the pilot's watchful eyes. "Any words of advice, for a fellow Marine?"
"Yeah," the pilot said, taking the cigar and tucking it away into his own pocket. "Don't rock the boat. They've got everything dialed in just right down there, and they don't like too many… surprises."
"Nobody does," Johnson replied, but he got the message. "I'll do my best. You have yourself a nice night."
"You too, Sarge," the pilot said, chuckling as he lowered the Pelican down to the landing pad.
Johnson stepped out of the cockpit, and looked around at the troop bay full of older men and women. The youngest kid they'd ever had in the Project had been just twenty-four when everything had been scrapped in 2506. Now, seventeen years later, he was a venerable forty-one, with over twenty years of UNSC service under his belt. Avery himself was around the middle of the pack, just a few years shy of fifty.
"Alright, grandpas and grandmas, it's time to get off the bus!" Johnson barked out, drawing their attention. "Now, when we get off, make sure you don't go wandering around, looking for your dentures, or whatever the hell else you forgot back at FLEETCOM! We got an example to set for these young bucks!"
"Fuck off, Johnson!" came a chorus of replies from half a dozen throats, along with no shortage of raised fingers or provocative gestures.
He laughed, warm and rich and full of a feeling that he hadn't in a long while. Comradery. Far too many of the younger kids that he'd had in his squads over the course of Operation: TREBUCHET had been grim, serious boys and girls that had lost family to the Insurrection, and he'd known better than to poke those balls of repressed trauma and anger.
The other folks from the Project, though, they'd all bonded in some way, from all the shit they'd gone through. The tests, the surgeries, the mood-swings… and the missions.
The Pelican settled down on the landing pad with a jolt, and the ramp lowered with the hiss of hydraulics. Daylight spilled in, and the Orions rose from their seats and walked out. Maybe they weren't the best dressed unit, or had the snappiest formation, but Johnson still felt proud to be among them. Happy. Like he belonged.
Theirs wasn't the only Pelican coming from FLEETCOM. Two more Pelicans had joined them, bringing a total of thirty-six veterans from the Project. Most had been still serving in lesser roles, like Johnson had been. Some had been retired, properly. A few, like poor Kara, had been genuinely homeless. It was absolute overkill for any mission, much less a training one. Previously, ONI had preferred to spread them out, have one augmented trooper leading a squad of others.
A small welcoming committee was waiting for them. A dozen men in UNSC day dress, split fairly evenly between Navy and Marines. It was a good sign, considering the Project had the same kind of split back in the day. Arguments about being a separate service or not, the Marines and the Navy were brothers. Where one went, the other would follow.
Johnson didn't recognize any of them personally, but he recognized the name on the lead man's chest – Mendez. He'd heard good things about Mendez, though the man had vanished into a black hole sometime in the last few years.
But that wasn't all.
Next to Mendez, at the head of the formation, was a woman wearing the pitch-black uniform of an ONI officer, with a white labcoat of all things thrown on top, like the world's worst camouflage. The guy next to her, a tall, broad man who looked like he ate weightlifting plates for breakfast, looked more like a doctor than this woman, wearing his civilian clothes.
It was her attitude that gave her away to Johnson. The stiff way she held her body, while her face was cold and firm. She wasn't a human being. She was a shark wearing a skinsuit. There was no hesitation to this woman, no softness. She was all edge, razor sharp, and she looked like she'd cut you up at the slightest hint of disagreement.
She was, undoubtedly, the ONI higher up that had concocted this plan. The woman who'd pulled strings with HIGHCOM and ONI, and gotten thirty-six of the most hyper-lethal men and women in the galaxy assigned to her private play-pen. Some Admiral or Director or something like that.
"Welcome," the woman said, after the roaring engines had died down. "My name is Doctor Catherine Halsey. I am the head of the Spartan-II Program. We are quite excited to have you all here for the next month, and potentially longer. This is Chief Petty Officer Mendez, the head of our trainers. You'll be working with him on a variety of tasks, for the betterment of our cadets."
She paused, as if waiting for comments.
None came, of course. There were no greenhorns among them. No impatient rookies or idiotic fools.
After a moment, the woman continued.
"I regret that you have not been properly briefed on this project, but that shall be remedied immediately," she said, as her chin shifted slowly, scanning the loose ranks of Orions like a security camera, back and forth. "A longer briefing will accompany your dinners tonight at the mess hall. For the sake of getting you all 'into the action' as quickly as possible, the Spartan-II Program is the successor to your own Project Orion. Everyone on this base is fully briefed on your former project, and will display the utmost respect for your service, and your sacrifices."
Johnson narrowed his eyes. Around him, he felt the others doing the same.
A successor project… and they'd never heard a word until this very moment. How far along were they? How many had undergone the aug surgeries? Were some of the man behind Mendez supposed to be their replacements?
So many questions. They'd better get those answers at dinner, because Johnson wasn't feeling too happy with the way this had all been sprung on him.
It smelled too much like a trap. Too suspicious, too open, too damn weird.
You could practically smell something wrong in the air, in this place. It didn't feel like a military base, but like some kinda cult compound, or Potemkin city, set up for propaganda pics of what training would be like, to trick all the civvies.
Sure, not all training bases looked the same, but this place looked like it had been airbrushed. Neither the Corps nor the Navy cared to make a base look 'photo-friendly' – dull concrete, olive gray paint jobs, and plenty of right angles.
Yet here, there were little touches that didn't match. Non-regulation notice boards up on the buildings, racks of picnic tables and lounge chairs by the mess hall… and the obstacle course looked like a damn water-park.
"Chief?" Halsey asked, stepping back and turning to Mendez.
"Thank you, Doctor," Mendez acknowledged, before stepping forward and looking over the Orions. "Welcome. As the Doctor has said, the Spartan-II's can be considered Orion-II's. The most important thing is that our Spartan cadets have not yet undergone their augmentation surgeries."
Johnson frowned. If the new kids hadn't been augmented, then why had Halsey dragged them out here?
He remembered the post-aug days. Men that couldn't judge their own strength, women that struggled to walk straight. A terrifying mix of physical therapy and incredible danger. Try to practice some grappling, and you could easily dislocate a man's shoulder without trying. Try to spar with light force, and you might crack somebody's ribs.
Bluntly, that was the only reason to drag Johnson and the other Orions in – so that the newly augmented 'Spartans' could safely train with people that could actually handle their enhanced strength.
So if they weren't augmented… what was the point? Why bother? Maybe some of the Orions had been DI's at some point, but that was long in the past, and they'd never been that amazing at the job. Not like Mendez, who had a reputation for turning iron into steel.
"You'll be joining our trainers as they perform one-on-one training sessions," Mendez continued. "Just observation at first. Your advice will be given utmost attention. We want you to refine our training techniques so that we'll be prepared for any difficulties after the augmentations are performed. Your expertise will be important for determining what will, and will not be safe. Any questions at this time?"
Nobody moved, nobody spoke. This wasn't the time for questions. Oh, they had plenty – Johnson by himself had a dozen – but without more information, there was no point. Better to get the lay of the land first, before they went sticking their noses into everybody's business.
The Chief Petty Officer waited a few moments, then nodded. He'd probably expected that. With few more words, the formation broke ranks, and followed him down, past the landing pads, and through the compound.
The sun shined down on them as they walked. With no cloud-cover, and the mid-summer heat soaking through their uniforms even this far up the Highland rang, the light breeze was a welcome change. It drifted through the buildings, channeled by the barracks blocks, the mess hall, and the other buildings. It whistled a little as it came off the mountains. Raw nature hitting man-made obstacles, and changing. Like the Orions had.
Johnson bit back a grin. He was getting all melancholy. Too much time to think. He'd better get back to work, before he started writing poetry and composing sonnets and all that artistic stuff. He wasn't suited for it, despite what he'd privately admit was a decent ability to turn a phrase. He was just a simple man, trying to make his way in the universe. Better that way. Kept things from getting too complicated.
Mendez lead them through the compound for about three minutes, and when they emerged on the other side, there was a wide flatland before them. It wasn't filled with scrub-brush, or low grass, or even just dirt – but with exercise mats, and sweating bodies.
There were easily a hundred people working out on the mats. Some were doing calisthenics, following the lead of a trainer. Some were stretching, or doing the slow-movements of martial arts katas. Some of them were grappling, doing everything from hand-to-hand sparring, to proper wrestling, to knife-fighting, to close-range disarming techniques with rubber guns.
Aside from the trainers in their uniforms, every single one was a pre-teen child.