MILITARY CALENDAR MARCH 9, 2525, 0500 HOURS
EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM, ONI MEDICAL FACILITY, REACH ORBIT
The Eve of Surgery
The lights in the barracks had been out for three hours.
Ethan lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling.
The metal bulkhead reflected the dim glow of the emergency lights, bathing the room in a sickly, pale green hue.
He could hear the breathing of the other children—some steady, some rapid, and some stifling quietly suppressed sobs in the dark.
Tomorrow.
The word echoed in his mind.
Tomorrow, they would undergo the so-called “augmentation procedures.” The instructors said it was “the only path to becoming true Spartans.” Dr. Halsey had said in their final briefing that there would be “some discomfort, but you are all carefully selected children—you will be fine.”
But Ethan knew the truth.
He was the only one who knew.
Seventy-five children.
Thirty-three successes.
Thirty dead.
Twelve permanently disabled.
Those numbers were carved into his mind, burning every nerve like a white-hot iron.
He couldn’t tell anyone.
He couldn’t tell Tucker, couldn’t tell Riley, couldn’t tell Cohen, and certainly couldn’t tell John.
What good would telling them do?
Run away?
This was Reach.
There was nowhere to run.
A bunk creaked.
It was Tucker.
Ethan heard him tossing and turning, the metallic grinding of the bed frame sounding exceptionally sharp in the silence.
“Can’t sleep?” Ethan asked softly.
Silence.
Then came Tucker’s raspy voice: “What’s going to happen tomorrow?”
Ethan opened his mouth, wanting to say something comforting.
But the words caught in his throat, unable to surface.
He wanted to say “it’ll be okay,” but he knew that was a lie.
He wanted to say “don’t worry,” but that was equally false.
“It will be hard,” he finally said, his voice very light.
“But we’ll pull through.”
Was that a lie or the truth?
He didn’t know himself.
Perhaps it was both.
Tucker didn’t speak again.
He simply stopped tossing and turning, his breathing gradually leveling out.
Perhaps he had fallen asleep, or perhaps he was merely pretending.
Ethan shifted his gaze to the other side of the room.
Cohen was lying face toward the wall, his back to everyone.
But his shoulders were trembling slightly.
Cohen never cried.
Ethan had known him for three years and had never seen the tough boy shed a single tear.
But now, his shoulders were shaking.
Ethan didn’t walk over.
Some fears needed no words.
In the corner, Riley sat by the window, staring out at the starlight through the viewport.
Clad in thin sleepwear, his frame looked frail, resembling a pale statue under the starlight.
His footsteps were light, but in the quiet night, it was enough to make Riley turn his head.
“Can’t sleep?” Riley asked softly, a trace of a self-deprecating smile in his voice.
“Yeah.” Ethan sat down beside Riley, also looking out through the viewport.
The starfield was brilliant.
The orbital station revolved around the blue-green planet of Reach, offering a complete view of its continental outlines from this angle.
Those oceans, those landmasses—in another twenty-five years, the Covenant fleet would appear in that very sky.
“You know,” Riley suddenly spoke up, “my mother used to say that the stars are dead people watching over us.”
Ethan remained silent.
“I think,” Riley continued, his voice so soft it was as if he were talking to himself, “no matter what happens tomorrow, I’ll remember tonight’s starry sky.” He turned his head to look into Ethan’s eyes.
“If I die, at least my last memory will be beautiful.”
“You won’t die,” Ethan said.
“How do you know?”
Ethan fell silent for a moment.
“I just know.”
Riley smiled, that peculiar, slightly sarcastic smile unique to genius youths.
“You’re always like this,” he said.
“Like you know everything.”
“Maybe I really do know a few things,” Ethan whispered.
Together, they looked out at the sea of stars.
Ethan found the faintly blue star—Reach.
Its light was unobtrusive among the countless stars, but it was their home.
At least for now.
“Reach,” Riley murmured.
“Our home.”
Ethan didn’t correct him.
In this moment, they were just children.
Not Spartans, not soldiers—just children, terrified of tomorrow beneath the starlight.
They sat by the window for a long time, until the eastern “horizon” began to turn pale.
***
Surgical Preparation
0600 HOURS.
Ethan lay on the operating table.
The metal surface was freezing, penetrating his thin surgical gown and sinking into his back.
Restraints bound his wrists, ankles, and chest, locking him firmly in place.
Bright white lighting poured down from overhead, stinging his eyes.
His hair had already been shaved off.
The buzzing sound of the electric clippers still resonated faintly in his eardrums.
Now his head felt like a freshly picked kiwi—fuzzy and numb at the roots.
His body was covered in laser-etched surgical guide lines.
The squiggly red lines glowed faintly under the bright light, extending from his neck down his spine and out to his limbs.
A roadmap for surgery.
Looking down at himself, he felt like a damn map.
He turned his head to the left.
John.
117.
John was lying on the adjacent operating table, similarly secured by restraints.
His hair was gone as well, his skin marked with the same red guidelines.
But John was fighting to stay conscious—his eyelids twitched violently, his breathing heavy and hurried.
The pre-op sedative was taking effect.
John caught Ethan’s gaze.
“Hang in there,” Ethan mouthed silently.
John’s eyes closed.
Then he forced them open again in a struggle.
Gradually, his breathing stabilized.
Ethan turned his head back, staring at the ceiling.
Intermittent voices sounded from the corridor.
Sam was telling jokes to a nurse, his voice clearly audible even through several sets of doors—classic Sam, using laughter to mask his fear.
Kelly was trying to do sit-ups, refusing to stop working out even as the sedative began to take hold.
Fred lay quietly, motionless like a stone statue.
Footsteps.
Ethan didn’t turn his head.
But he heard it—Chief Petty Officer Mendez.
The man whose voice sounded like grinding metal.
He was standing in the hallway, talking to someone.
His deep voice penetrated the walls, reaching Ethan’s ears.
“…success rate?” Mendez’s voice asked.
“Based on previous data, roughly forty percent,” another voice replied—Dr.
Halsey.
“However, this time we screened the candidates under far stricter parameters. The success rate should be higher.”
“Should be,” Mendez repeated the words, his tone completely devoid of emotion.
Ethan closed his eyes.
Forty percent.
Sixty percent would die or suffer lifelong disabilities.
He should have felt fear.
Anger.
Despair.
But in this moment, only a single emotion filled his heart—a bone-deep, searing hatred.
Not toward the Covenant.
Not toward these so-called “augmentation procedures.” Not toward death.
Toward the program itself.
Toward Halsey.
Toward ONI.
Toward the high-ranking figures sitting comfortably in the rear, signing documents and sending children into this game of death.
What right did they have to do this?
On what grounds?
By those high-sounding excuses of “for the future of humanity”?
By those numbers written on paper?
Seventy-five children.
Thirty-three lives.
When they signed those documents, did they hesitate for even a single second?
Hatred flowed through his veins like molten lava.
Scorching.
Scalding.
Threatening to burn him to ashes.
But he couldn’t let it show.
He couldn’t.
The pre-op drugs began to take full effect.
A chill spread from the IV site on his arm, traveling along his blood vessels toward his heart.
His limbs grew numb, his consciousness turning hazy.
Using the last of his strength before his mind faded into blackness, he swore silently to himself:
*Remember this hatred.*
Then, everything sank into darkness.