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The guard’s reaction to the Master Chief—and the medals on his chest—was not uncommon.
First word of the Spartans and their accomplishments had spread despite the cloak of secrecy ONI hadtried to surround them with. Three years ago the information had gone public at Admiral Stanforth’sinsistence—for morale purposes.
It was hard to mistake the Master Chief for anything other than a Spartan. He stood just over two meterstall and weighed in at 130 kilos of rock-hard muscle and iron-dense bone.
There was a special insignia on his uniformed as well: a golden eagle poised with its talons forward—ready to strike. The bird clutched a lightning bolt in one talon and three arrows in the other.
The Spartan insignia was not the only thing about his dress uniform that called attention to him.Campaign ribbons and medals covered the left side. Chief Mendez would have been proud of him, butJohn had long ago stopped keeping track of the honors that had been heaped upon him.
He didn’t like the flashy ornamentation. He and the other Spartans preferred to be inside their MJOLNIRarmor. Without it, he felt exposed somehow, like he’d left his quarters without his skin. He had grownused to the enhanced speed and strength, to his thought and actions melding instantaneously.
The Master Chief marched into the main building. Outwardly, it had been designed to look like a simplelog cabin, albeit a large one. Its inner walls were lined with Titanium-A armor plate, and undergroundwere bunkers and plush conference rooms that extended a hundred meters below the earth and into themountain of rock.
He rode the elevator to Subbasement III. There, he was instructed by the Military Police attendant towait in the debriefing lounge for the committee to summon him.
Corporal Harland sat in the lounge, reading a copy ofSTARS magazine, nervously tapping his foot. Heimmediately stood and saluted as the Master Chief entered the room.
“At ease, Corporal,” the Master Chief said. He glanced disapprovingly at the thickly padded couchesand decided to stand.
The Corporal stared at the Master Chief’s uniform, nervous. Finally he straightened and said, “May I askyou a question, sir?”
The Master Chief nodded.
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“How do you get to be a Spartan? I mean—” His gaze fell to the floor. “I mean, if someone wanted tojoin your outfit. How would they do that?”
Join? The Master Chief pondered the word. How hadhe joined? Dr. Halsey had picked him and the otherSpartans twenty-five years ago. It had been an honor . . . but he had never actuallyjoined . In fact, he hadnever seen any other Spartans other than his class. Once, shortly after he’d “graduated” from thetraining, he had overheard Dr. Halsey mention that Chief Mendez was training another group ofSpartans. He had never seen them—or the Chief.
“You don’t join,” he finally told the Corporal. “You are selected.”
“I see,” Corporal Harland said, and wrinkled his brow. “Well, sir, if anyone ever asks, tell them to signme up.”