Halo_ The Fall of Reach - Eric Nylund [23]
still stood at attention in their black dress uniforms. They had made it unharmed through the last— mission wasn’t quite the right word. More or less. There were a dozen others, though, who had lived . . . but were no longer soldiers. It hurt John to look at
them. Fhajad sat in a wheelchair, shaking uncontrollably. Kirk and René were in neutral-buoyancy gel tanks, breathing through respirators; their bones had been so twisted they no longer looked human. There were others, still alive, but with injuries so critical they could not be moved.
Orderlies pushed Fhajad and the other injured toward the elevator.
John strode toward them and stopped, blocking their path. “Stand fast, Crewman,” he demanded. “Where are you taking my men?” The orderly halted and his eyes widened. He swallowed and then said, “I, sir . . . I have my orders, sir.” “Squad Leader,” Mendez called out. “A moment.” “Stay,” John told the orderly, and marched to face Chief Mendez. “Yes, sir.” “Let them go,” Mendez said quietly. “They can’t fight anymore. They don’t belong here.” John inadvertently glanced at the view screen and the long line of canisters as they shrank in the
distance. “What will happen to my men?” “The Navy takes care of its own,” Mendez replied, and lifted his chin a little higher. “They may no
longer be the fastest or the strongest soldiers—but they still have sharp minds. They can still plan missions, analyze data, troubleshoot ops . . .” John exhaled a sigh of relief. “That’s all any of us ask for, sir: a chance to serve.” He turned to face
Fhajad and the others. He snapped to attention and saluted. Fhajad managed to raise one shaking arm and return the salute.
The orderlies wheeled them away. John looked at what remained of his squad. None of them had moved since the memorial ceremony. They were waiting for their next mission.
“Our orders, sir?” John asked.
“Two days full bed rest, Squad Leader. Then microgravity physical therapy aboard theAtlas until you recover from the side effects of your augmentation.” Side effects.John flexed his hand. He was clumsy now. Sometimes he could barely walk without falling.
Dr. Halsey had assured him that these “side effects” were a good sign. “Your brain must relearn how to move your body with faster reflexes and stronger muscles,” she told him. But his eyes hurt, and they
bled a little in the morning, too. He had constant headaches. Every bone in his body ached.
John didn’t understand any of this. He only knew that he had a duty to perform—and now he feared he wouldn’t be able to. “Is that all, sir?” he asked Mendez. “No,” the Chief replied. “Déjà will be running your squad through the dropship pilot simulator as soon
as they are up to it. And,” he added, “if they are up for the challenge, she wanted to cover some more organic chemistry and complex algebra.” “Yes, sir,” John replied, “we’re up to the challenge.” “Good.” John continued to stand fast.
“Was there something else, Squad Leader?” John furrowed his brow, hesitated, and then finally said, “I was Squad Leader. The last mission was therefore my responsibility . . . and members of my squaddied . What did I do wrong?”
Mendez stared at John with his impenetrable black eyes. He glanced at the squad, then back to John. “Walk with me.” He led John to the view screen. He stood and watched as the last of the canisters vanished into the darkness.
“A leader must be ready to send the soldiers under his command to their deaths,” Mendez said without turning to face John. “You do this because your duty to the UNSC supersedes your duty to yourself or even your crew.”
John looked away from the view screen. He couldn’t look at the emptiness anymore. He didn’t want to
think of his teammates—friends who were like brothers and sisters to him—forever lost. “It is acceptable,” Mendez said, “to spend their lives if necessary.” He finally turned and meet John’s gaze. “It