CHAPTER THREE
2300 Hours September 23, 2517 (Military Calendar ) / Epsilon Eridani System, Reach Military Complex,
planet Reach
Dr. Halsey stood on a platform in the center of the amphitheater. Concentric rings of slate-gray risers surrounded her—empty for now. Overhead spotlights focused and reflected off her white lab coat, but she still was cold.
She should feel safe here. Reach was one of the UNSC’s largest industrial bases, ringed with high-orbit gun batteries, space docks, and a fleet of heavily-armed capital ships. On the planet’s surface were Marine and Navy Special Warfare training grounds, OCS schools, and between her underground facilities and the surface were three hundred meters of hardened steel and concrete. The room where she now stood could withstand a direct hit from an 80-megaton nuke.
So why did she feel so vulnerable?
Dr. Halsey knew what she had to do. Her duty. It was for the greater good. All humanity would be served . . . even if a tiny handful of them had to suffer for it. Still, when she turned inward and faced her complicity in this—she was revolted by what she saw.
She wished she still had Lieutenant Keyes. He had proven himself a capable assistant during the last month. But he had begun to understand the nature of the project—at least seen the edges of the truth. Dr.
Halsey had him reassigned to the Magellan with a commission to full Lieutenant for his troubles.
“Are you ready, Doctor?” a disembodied woman’s voice asked.
“Almost, Déjà.” Dr. Halsey sighed. “Please summon Chief Petty Officer Mendez. I’d like you both present when I address them.”
Déjà’s hologram flicked on next to Dr. Halsey. The AI had been specifically created for Dr. Halsey’s SPARTAN project. She took the appearance of a Greek goddess: barefoot, wrapped in the toga, motes of light dancing about her luminous white hair. She held a clay tablet in her left hand. Binary cuneiform markings scrolled across the tablet. Dr. Halsey couldn’t help but marvel at the AI’s chosen form; each AI “self-assigned” a holographic appearance, and each was unique.
One of the doors at the top of the amphitheater opened and Chief Petty Officer Mendez strode down the stairs. He wore a black dress uniform, his chest awash with silver and gold stars and a rainbow of campaign ribbons. His close-shorn hair had a touch of gray at the temples. He was neither tall nor muscular; he looked so ordinary for a man who had seen so much combat . . . except for his stride. The man moved with a slow grace as if he were walking in half gravity. He paused before Dr. Halsey, awaiting further instructions.
“Up here, please,” she told him, gesturing to the stairs on her right.
Mendez mounted the steps of the platform and then stood at ease next to her.
“You have read my psychological evaluations?” Déjà asked Dr. Halsey.
“Yes. They were quite thorough,” she said. “Thank you.”
“And?”
“I’m forgoing your recommendations, Déjà. I’m going to tell them the truth.”
Mendez gave a nearly inaudible grunt of approval—one of the most verbose acknowledgments Dr.
Halsey had heard from him. As a hand-to-hand combat and physical-training DI, Mendez was the best in the Navy. As a conversationalist, however, he left a great deal to be desired.
“The truth has risks,” Déjà cautioned.
“So do lies,” Dr. Halsey replied. “Any story fabricated to motivate the children—claiming their parents were taken and killed by pirates, or by a plague that devastated their planet—if they learned the truth later, they would turn against us.”