Halo_ Ghosts of Onyx - Eric S. Nylund [35]
There was "88005-MX77," the fibrofoid muscular protein complex that boosted muscle density.
"88947-OP24" was the number for retina-inversion stabilizer, which boosted color and nighttime vision.
"87556-UD61" was the improved colloidal neural disunifica-tion solution to decrease reaction times.
There were many others: shock reducers, analgesics, antiinflammatories, anticoagulants, and pH buffers.
But Kurt was looking for three vials in particular, ones with different serial numbers— 009927-DG, 009127-PX, and 009762-00—that didn't match any standard medical logistics code.
They were there, bubbling as their contents were drained and mixed with picoliter precision.
He heard footsteps approaching.
Kurt lowered the panel of the infuser and stepped back to Holly's side.
There was rustling of plastic curtains and a medical technical in blue lab coat entered.
"Is there anything you need help with, sir?" the medtech asked. "Anything I can get you?"
"Everything is fine," Kurt lied. He brushed past the man. "I was just leaving."
← ^ →
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
0210 HOURS, FEBRUARY 20, 2551 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \ ABOARD UNSC HOPEFUL, INTERSTELLAR SPACE, SECTOR K-009
Kurt sat alone in the atrium viewing the candidates' progress on his tablet. He'd spent the last twenty-four hours awake, by their sides, and then caught four hours of sleep. He'd go back to them shortly when they awoke to congratulate the candidates.
Correction: congratulate the Spartans.
Every last one of them had made it. Kurt wished he could feel relief, but there were too many unknowns.
"Lieutenant Ambrose." A female voice sounded over SHIP-COM. "Report to the bridge immediately."
He got up and marched to the elevator. The doors closed and the elevator rushed through sections of normal and zero gravity; Kurt held fast to the railing.
Kurt and his Project CHRYSANTHEMUM team were supposed to be left alone—orders directly from FLEETCOM brass. So why the summons to the bridge?
The doors opened. A lieutenant commander stood with arms akimbo waiting for him, a woman barely a meter and a quarter with a gray widow's peak.
"Ma'am." Kurt saluted. "Lieutenant Ambrose reporting as ordered. Permission to enter the bridge."
"Granted," she said. "Come with me."
She skirted the edge of the large low-lit room. Not only were its three dozen officers monitoring navigation, weapon,
communication, and drive systems; there were teams controlling structural-stress compensators, tram traffic, water, power-load distributions, and ecoreclamation subsystems. The Hopeful was more city space station than ship of the line.
The Lieutenant Commander pressed her palm to the biomet-ric by a side door. It parted, and they both entered.
The room beyond was lined with shelves of gilt antique books. Old globes of Earth and a dozen other worlds had been tastefully set about a koa-wood desk that gleamed like gold under the light of a single brass lamp.
An old man sat in the shadows. "That will be all. Lieutenant Commander," the man said.
He stood and Kurt saw three stars flash on his collar. Kurt re-flexively saluted. "Sir!"
The Lieutenant Commander left, the door closing and locking behind her.
The Vice Admiral walked around Kurt once.
Vice Admiral Ysionris Jeromi was a living legend. He'd taken the Hopeful, a ship with
virtually no weapons or armor, into battle three times to save the crews of critically wounded ships.
He had saved tens of thousands of lives, and almost been court-martialed for it, too.
War needs its heroes, though. The then Admiral had lost and regained stars from his collar, but he had also received the UNSC's highest wartime decoration: the Colonial Cross. Twice.
"I'm not sure who you are," the Vice Admiral said, and his bushy white brows bunched together. "Someone a lot more important than 'Lieutenant Ambrose,' or whatever your name really is."
Kurt knew better than to say anything unless asked a direct question. He stood at attention. The code-word classification of the SPARTAN-III project prevented him from divulging anything, even to a vice