S312

{|style="width:100%; color:#FFF;" I'm staring at my reflection. The lines etched into the pale gold surface of my helmet's glossy visor distort my face, and for a moment it appears that I have three eyes. Then the Warthog hits yet another bump and I shift, nearly immobile in my armor. MJOLNIR. Hammer of the thunder god, weapon of mass destruction. The name fits.
 * valign="top" style="padding:5px;"|

I ease the helmet over my shorn head. It seals against the lining of my neck armor with a soft hiss. Suddenly the world is intensified by an electronic screen. Numbers and letters and symbols flicker and dance before my eyes as my suit acknowledges that it's all in one piece. The familiar whiff of air scrubbers hits my face and I inhale, determined to maintain my customary calm. I pull up the date and time on my HUD to pass the time. ''July 24, 2552. 0728 hours.'' Another day, another dollar, another list of throats to slit—or maybe not. New team, new faces, new mission. No more skulking in the shadows of some backwater Insurrectionist stronghold (my life for the past decade or so).

I look up at the two UH-144 Falcons that fly above the Warthog, in perfect synchronization. My "security escort," if you will. I nearly smile as I think of the ridiculousness of that statement. I could personally dismantle both birds and snap the pilots' necks pretty as you please in under fifteen minutes; they're not protecting anybody here. Well, maybe my driver. That would be about it.

Minutes later the birds have landed and my 'Hog rolls to a stop. I climb out, feeling strangely confidant despite my unfamiliar surroundings. I have a destination and it's right in front of me, and I can hear the conversation taking place inside from where I stand thanks to a combination of amplified helmet speakers and genetically altered senses. A yellow dot lingers nearby, and I pretend not to notice as the green-armored Spartan sizes me up, all the while stuffing rounds into the magazine of his sniper rifle. Bald, maybe Asian, male. Never met him before. I pass him by without returning his scrutiny-laden stare.

"Contact with Visegrad relay was lost last night. All signals flatlined at twenty-six hundred hours."

I recognize the voice of my new boss. One of them, really. Colonel Urban Holland. Army, impressive record, extensive influence that's on par with ONI in some respects. Pulls strings for his people when he can, doesn't like to spend more lives than necessary. A good man. Not really the vulture type I've come to associate with Army brass.

"I responded with trooper fire teams, which have since been declared MIA."

Hmmm. Possibilities. Insurrection most likely. My fingers twitch, reliving the hundreds of times I've used my combat knife to take out rebel soldiers. Will today be a repeat of those actions? Maybe, maybe not. This is Reach, bastion of the Inner Colonies. What with all the military presence crawling everywhere already, I wonder how an Insurrectionist faction could even begin to exist here.

"And now you're sending us."

Male, deep and distinctly American. His voice has a ring of authority to it even in those few words.

"The Office of Naval Intelligence believes deployment of a Spartan team is a gross misallocation of valuable resources. I disagree."

I smile under the mask. I'm liking this guy already. I ascend the steps and enter the doorway, not bothering to knock or announce myself. Then I stop as I'm met with the sight of a black-armored Spartan sharpening a bent knife on his right shoulder pauldron. Normally I wouldn't give the guy a second thought, but it's his face that gets me. Not his real face. The face that's been carved into the glassy visor of his EVA helmet… a death's head. Interesting. I take another step and freeze as an arm inserts itself into my path. Yet another surprise: it's not a real arm. It's a robotic prosthetic, and the woman it's connected to is both familiar and coldly professional. "Commander," she says, and two heads turn toward us. One belongs to a Spartan in dark blue and silver armor, with a black high-and-tight. The other belongs to a massive Spartan, easily a foot taller than me, who takes a moment to size me up before making any remark. "So that's our new number six," he muses. I don't know what to make of the statement. Do I disappoint? I step forward.

"Kat, you read her file?" the skull-mask asks, ignoring me.

"Only the parts that weren't covered in black ink," Kat replies. Her face is more scarred than I remember, but it's been years since I split from Beta Company and we've all gotten older and more jaded. One thing that hasn't changed is her attitude; I doubt hacking off the rest of her limbs would make her any less forthcoming. I want to jibe back about how I know she must have read the whole file because she's Kat and being Kat means you can stick your nose into just about anyone's business because you're a wicked hacker.

Blue Guy turns back to the screen that displays Colonel Holland's face. "Anyone claim responsibility, sir?"

"ONI thinks it might be the local insurrection. Five months ago, they pulled a similar job on Harmony. Hit a relay to take out our eyes and ears, then stole two freighters from dry-dock. That cannot happen here. Reach is too damn important. I want that relay back online, Noble-One."

Blue Guy gives a curt nod. "Sir. Consider it done."

"Then I'll see you on the other side. Holland out."

As if on cue, Skull Face and Big Guy stand up. I can sense some sort of directive coming on, and as Blue Guy picks up his helmet off the table and turns to face me, I squelch any doubts I might have about this and focus on maintaining my cool.

"Lieutenant."

"Commander. Sir." I stand an attention, awaiting orders. Like a trained dog. The others move past me, toward the door, not giving me so much as a glance. I can deal with that.

"I'm Carter, Noble Team's leader. That's Kat, Noble Two, Emile and Jorge, Four and Five. You're riding with me, Noble Six." So Blue Guy has a name, huh. Carter. I file away the other names, linking Skull Face to Emile and Big Guy to Jorge. I follow Carter out the door as he puts on his helmet. The roar of Falcon rotors fills the morning air and gets my blood up. Screw all this waiting around. I want excitement. I want purpose.

"I'm not gonna lie to you, Lieutenant, you're stepping into some shoes the rest of the squad would rather leave unfilled," Carter says. I bite back a retort. Screw them, then. I follow Carter and board the Falcon before he gets in. Green Sniper Guy is waiting for us, all ready to go. I almost ask him his name, then I pull up his FOF tag on my HUD and see a set of three letters and three numbers. Jun-266. "Me, I'm just happy to have Noble back up to full strength. Just one thing. I've seen your file. Even the parts the ONI censors didn't want me to. I'm glad to have your skill set, but we're a team. That lone wolf stuff stays behind. Clear?" He then signals for the other Falcon to take off.

I don't know what to make of it—he's lecturing me like I'm some wet-behind-the-ears recruit, still sniveling over the deaths of my parents. He's obviously older than me, probably an Alpha Company veteran, but regardless of age or rank, he should know better than to go off on me like that. Then I realize that maybe it's a test, maybe he's just having to accept that I'm here and the old Six is dead, and all I respond with is an obedient "Got it, sir."

An awkward pause passes, punctuated by the choppers, and then Jun turns his helmet toward me and says "Welcome to Reach" in a neutral, maybe friendly sort of way.

I allow myself to smile an unseen smile as we head to parts unknown. Not the best way to start things off, but hey, I've been through worse. Much worse. These guys can take me or leave me, their choice. I'm just here to fill a vacant position and shoot stuff that turns up as a little red dot on my motion tracker.