extricate you from normal NavSpecWep operations… from your recon mission to Station Delphi."
Kurt remembered the explosion on his T-PACK; he blinked and saw for a split second
the dizzying blur of stars in his faceplate.
"My team," Kurt said, "are they—"
"Fine," Ackerson replied. "No injuries."
Kurt inhaled, feeling his cracked rib. Not quite no injuries.
Something changed in the Colonel's expression. The dark stare and hardness softened
almost an imperceptible fraction.
In a lowered voice, Ackerson said, "Section Three has issued you new orders." He pushed a reader across the table to Kurt.
Kurt thumbed the biometric and the screen warmed. There were code-word classified warnings and then he saw his transfer orders under Colonel Ackerson. The usual fields for assignment location, routing protocols, and record verification were redacted.
"You are now a part of a subsection of Beta-5 Division," Ackerson said, "a top-secret cell within Section Three. All the events at Station Delphi were staged to bring you here in the utmost secrecy for a new mission."
Staging the events at Delphi? Arranged by a subcell of Section Three? Something seemed wrong in a way Kurt couldn't quite put his finger on.
But part of it made sense now. The partially decommissioned Shaw-Fujikawa drive at Delphi Station was the perfect lure and the ideal excuse for a malfunctioning T-PACK. The sensor echo the Circumference had picked up on the in-system jump was another prowler, the ship that had picked up Kurt's exhausted body—after he had been propelled on a not-sorandom explosive trajectory. Though he resented the manner in which they obtained him, he had to admire the sheer elegance of the extraction plan.
"You have been classified as missing in action," Ackerson said. "Presumed dead."
Something cold contracted in Kurt's stomach. He checked his emotions, though, sensing that in this instance, they might not have been able to help him.
"What is this new mission, sir?"
Ackerson stared at him a moment, then seemed to look through Kurt, past him. "I want you to train the next generation of Spartans."
Kurt blinked, taking in what Ackerson had just said, not quite understanding. "Sir, I was under the impression that Chief Petty Officer Mendez had been reassigned years ago to carry out that mission."
"The effort to train additional SPARTAN-IIs was postponed indefinitely by Dr. Catherine Halsey," Ackerson said. "There were other candidates within the gene pool, but they were out of synch with her age restriction protocols. And with the continuing war, her program funds were… diverted."
Kurt had always presumed other Spartans were being trained.
that he and his fellows were the first in what would be a long line of Spartans. He'd never considered they might be the first, and the last, of their kind.
Ackerson said, "Mendez will, of course, join you."
"It would be an honor to serve under Chief Mendez," Kurt replied.
One of Ackerson's brows quirked up. "Indeed."
He motioned at Kurt's secure tablet. "Read. New training protocols have been outlined as well as an improved augmentation regime. We've learned much from the unfortunate medical processes Dr Halsey had at her disposal."
Kurt balled his hands into fists, remembering the pain of the bone grafts—like glass breaking inside his marrow, and the fire that had burned along every nerve as they had been reengi-neered for enhanced speed.
As he read he started to grasp the opportunities and challenges of this new program. The new bioaugmentations were a quantum leap ahead of those he had received. There were lower projected wash-out rates. There was, however, only a fraction of the original SPARTAN program training time and budget. MJOLNIR armor was to be replaced with something called Semi-Powered Infiltration (SPI) armor systems.
"With these new candidates," Kurt said, "you're trying to do more with less."
Ackerson nodded. "They'll be sent on missions with higher strategic values but
Kurt remembered the explosion on his T-PACK; he blinked and saw for a split second
the dizzying blur of stars in his faceplate.
"My team," Kurt said, "are they—"
"Fine," Ackerson replied. "No injuries."
Kurt inhaled, feeling his cracked rib. Not quite no injuries.
Something changed in the Colonel's expression. The dark stare and hardness softened
almost an imperceptible fraction.
In a lowered voice, Ackerson said, "Section Three has issued you new orders." He pushed a reader across the table to Kurt.
Kurt thumbed the biometric and the screen warmed. There were code-word classified warnings and then he saw his transfer orders under Colonel Ackerson. The usual fields for assignment location, routing protocols, and record verification were redacted.
"You are now a part of a subsection of Beta-5 Division," Ackerson said, "a top-secret cell within Section Three. All the events at Station Delphi were staged to bring you here in the utmost secrecy for a new mission."
Staging the events at Delphi? Arranged by a subcell of Section Three? Something seemed wrong in a way Kurt couldn't quite put his finger on.
But part of it made sense now. The partially decommissioned Shaw-Fujikawa drive at Delphi Station was the perfect lure and the ideal excuse for a malfunctioning T-PACK. The sensor echo the Circumference had picked up on the in-system jump was another prowler, the ship that had picked up Kurt's exhausted body—after he had been propelled on a not-sorandom explosive trajectory. Though he resented the manner in which they obtained him, he had to admire the sheer elegance of the extraction plan.
"You have been classified as missing in action," Ackerson said. "Presumed dead."
Something cold contracted in Kurt's stomach. He checked his emotions, though, sensing that in this instance, they might not have been able to help him.
"What is this new mission, sir?"
Ackerson stared at him a moment, then seemed to look through Kurt, past him. "I want you to train the next generation of Spartans."
Kurt blinked, taking in what Ackerson had just said, not quite understanding. "Sir, I was under the impression that Chief Petty Officer Mendez had been reassigned years ago to carry out that mission."
"The effort to train additional SPARTAN-IIs was postponed indefinitely by Dr. Catherine Halsey," Ackerson said. "There were other candidates within the gene pool, but they were out of synch with her age restriction protocols. And with the continuing war, her program funds were… diverted."
Kurt had always presumed other Spartans were being trained.
that he and his fellows were the first in what would be a long line of Spartans. He'd never considered they might be the first, and the last, of their kind.
Ackerson said, "Mendez will, of course, join you."
"It would be an honor to serve under Chief Mendez," Kurt replied.
One of Ackerson's brows quirked up. "Indeed."
He motioned at Kurt's secure tablet. "Read. New training protocols have been outlined as well as an improved augmentation regime. We've learned much from the unfortunate medical processes Dr Halsey had at her disposal."
Kurt balled his hands into fists, remembering the pain of the bone grafts—like glass breaking inside his marrow, and the fire that had burned along every nerve as they had been reengi-neered for enhanced speed.
As he read he started to grasp the opportunities and challenges of this new program. The new bioaugmentations were a quantum leap ahead of those he had received. There were lower projected wash-out rates. There was, however, only a fraction of the original SPARTAN program training time and budget. MJOLNIR armor was to be replaced with something called Semi-Powered Infiltration (SPI) armor systems.
"With these new candidates," Kurt said, "you're trying to do more with less."
Ackerson nodded. "They'll be sent on missions with higher strategic values but
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