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Ackerson waved them closer.
A woman sat with her back to them; opposite her sat a middle-aged gentleman.
The man was gray and balding. The woman appeared older than regs permitted before mandatory retirement. Her osteoporotic slump, slender frail arms, and thinning white hair indicated extreme age.
Kurt froze as he spotted the one- and three-star rank insignia on their collars and snapped off a salute. "Vice Admiral, ma'am," he said. "Rear Admiral, sir."
The Vice Admiral ignored Mendez and scrutinized Kurt. "Sit," she said, "both of you."
Kurt didn't recognize either of these high-ranking officers, and they didn't bother to introduce themselves.
He did as he was ordered, as did Mendez. Even sitting, though, his back was ramrod straight, his chest out, and eyes forward.
"We were reviewing the record of your SPARTAN-IIIs since they went operational nine months ago," she said. "Impressive."
The Rear Admiral gestured at floating holographic panes that contained after-action reports, still shots of battlefields filled with Covenant corpses, and ship damage-assessment profiles. "The insurrection of Mamore," he said "that nasty business at New Constantinople, actions in the Bonanza asteroid belt and the Far-gone colony platforms, and half a dozen other engagements—this reads like the campaign record of a cracking good battalion, not a company of three hundred. Dammed impressive."
"That was only a fraction of the SPARTAN-III program potential," Colonel Ackerson said. His eyes stared at some distant point.
"I'm sorry, sir," Kurt said. " 'Was'?"
The Vice Admiral stiffened. It was clear that she was not accustomed to her junior officers asking questions.
But Kurt had to. These were his men and women they were talking about. He'd kept his eyes and ears open for news on Alpha Company, and had cultivated intelligence sources outside ONI, Section Three, and Beta-5. Being Commandant of Camp Currahee had its privileges, and he had learned how to use them. He had managed to track his Spartans during the last seven months, until his sources had mysteriously gone silent six days ago. Only the AI Deep Winter had given a clue as to their whereabouts: Operation PROMETHEUS.
"Tell me about the selection process for the next class of SPARTAN-IIIs," the Vice Admiral asked Kurt.
"Ma'am," Kurt said, "we are operating under Colonel Acker-son's expanded selection criteria, but there are not enough age-appropriate genetic matches to meet the larger second-class target number."
"There are sufficient genetic matches," Colonel Ackerson corrected. His face was an impassive mask. "What's missing are data to find additional matches. We need to proscribe mandatory genetic screening in the outer colonies. Those untapped populations are—"
"That's the last thing we need in the outer colonies," the Rear Admiral said. "We're just getting a handle on a near civil war. You tell an O.C. they got to register their kids' genes, and they'll all be reaching for their rifles."