Halo: Traitor

“You have all sacrificed a great deal to stand here today,” Chief Mendez had said then, pacing before a formation of some three hundred-odd twelve year olds. “You have worked and fought and bled for the right to stand here. But there’s no reward waiting for you when we reach the Hopeful. It’s not a right, or an honor they’ll bestow upon you. No.” His eyes flashed, dark and dangerous as always, glaring over the assembled ranks of trainees.

“No,” he repeated, his line of march coming to an abrupt end at the perfect midsection of the formation. He had rounded on the formation then with a crisp right face, barking over the heads of the trainees as they stood at rigid attention. “No, it is a privilege. The privilege to stand here alongside your brothers and sisters. The privilege to board the Hopeful. And the privilege to call yourselves Spartans.”

Not one of them said a word. Some of them hardly dared to breath. They watched Mendez intently, hanging on his every word.

“It won’t be long before you’re out there on the battlefield. Every skill you’ve learned, every drill, every maneuver, will be put to the test. You will fight. You will watch your brothers and sisters die. You may even die yourselves. There’s no glory in it for you, no honor, no fame. Most of the people you fight to save will never even know you were alive. But that’s not why you do it, is it?” His eyes flashed, as if daring someone to break ranks and defy him. Of course, no one did.

“No. You do it because that’s who you are. Because you have been granted the privilege of calling yourselves Spartans. Bear that name with pride and never, ever dishonor the ones who fought and died before you. You will defend humanity. You will beat back the Covenant. You will—”

“Commander? Commander?”

The warrior blinked behind the visor of his Semi-Powered Infiltration helmet, suddenly refocusing on the person standing across the holo-table from him. The memories—of Mendez, the assembled trainees, of the day he had become a Spartan—evaporated as quickly as they’d come upon him. He flexed the fingers inside his gauntlet and inclined his head to the speaker. He noticed with irritation that the other warriors assembled in the command room were staring at him. He’d catch hell for that lapse, at least from some of them. The few he didn’t outrank.

“Yes, yes, I heard you,” he said with a wave of his hand. “We’ll get the job done, like we always do.”

“So you say, Commander,” said a smooth voice from a head projected above the table. An elongated, reptilian head. “But as you humans say, talk is cheap. The Didact’s Hand demands results.”

“And we’ll deliver.” The warrior removed his helmet and set it before him on the table. He locked eyes with the holoprojection and rapped a fist against his battered SPI breastplate in a mock salute. “’Mdama will get his results.”

“See to it that he does,” the Sangheili remarked. He glanced around the command room at the other warriors assembled around the table. “I expect the best from all of you.” “Shut up and let us work.” The human warrior—the only human unit commander within Jul ‘Mdama’s resurgent Covenant—leaned in on the table. “He’ll get his prize.”

On that day so many years ago, aboard a shuttle bound for the medical station Hopeful, Mendez’s harsh words had fallen on the ears of a small, frightened boy called Simon, designation Gamma Two-Nine-Four. A walking failure. A near washout. Worst performing trainee in all of Gamma Company. He’d trembled then as he stood in formation, terrified Mendez would call him out before everyone as he’d done so many times before. That he’d do what he’d been threatening to do for years and fail him from the program.

Today, a mercenary, criminal, and traitor known as Stray smirked up at the holographic visage of Shinsu ‘Refum, Jul ‘Mdama’s head of intelligence. “Got anything else you want to add? Some words of encouragement for our brave troops?”

“I leave such things in your capable hands.” A touch of amusement filtered through Shinsu’s annoyance. Unlike many warriors in his position, this one actually had a sense of humor. Sometimes. “Or hand, in your case.”

Stray flexed his prosthetic left hand. The limb was human sized, but crafted from Sangheili alloy. One of many gifts to come of his new position in the Covenant. His arrival among the aliens had hardly been a peaceful one—they’d fished his mangled body from the wreckage of one of their fleet carriers. After he’d blown it up.