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Tom and Lucy snapped off simultaneous salutes.
Kurt retuned the salute. "Report."
"The candidates are ready to board, sir," Tom said.
Kurt got up and the three of them walked back down the corridor and into docking cluster Bravo. It was the size of a small canyon with the capacity to cycle a fleet of dropships simultaneously through its massive air-lock system. There was ample space for triage and trams that could whisk an entire company of wounded soldiers to emergency surgical faculties.
Air locks screamed and there was a sudden gust of fresh air. Dozens of bay doors parted and Pelicans rolled into the bay on steam-powered beds.
The Pelicans' rear ramps lowered and the Spartan candidates filed out in orderly rows.
Kurt had briefed them about the procedures. They'd be sedated and injected with chemical cocktails and surgically altered to give them the strength of three normal soldiers, decrease their neural reaction time, and enhance their durability.
It was the final step in their transformation to Spartans.
It was graduation day.
He'd briefed them on the risks, too. He had shown them the archived videos of the results of the bioaugmentation phase of the SPARTAN-II program, how more than half of those candidates had washed out—either dying from the procedure or becoming so badly deformed they couldn't stand.
This would not happen to the SPARTAN-IIIs with the new medical protocols, but Kurt had wanted one final test.
Not one of the 330 candidates had opted out of the program.
Kurt had had to petition Colonel Ackerson for thirty extra slots for this final phase. He simply didn't have it in him to randomly cut thirty—when every last one of them was willing and ready to fight. Ackerson had gladly granted his request.
Kurt stood and saluted as the line of candidates passed him.
They marched by, returning his salute, heads held high, and chests out. On average only twelve years old, they looked closer to fifteen with the sculpted musculature of Olympic athletes; many had hard-won scars; and all had an ineffable, confident air about them.
They were warriors. Kurt had never felt so proud.
The last candidate lingered, and then halted before him. It was Ash, serial number G099, leader of Team Saber. He was one of the fiercest, smartest, and best leaders in the class. His wavy brown hair was slightly over regulation length, but Kurt was inclined to let it slide, today of all days.
Ash snapped off a precise salute. "Sir, Spartan candidate G099 requesting permission to speak, sir."
"Granted," Kurt said, and finished his protracted salute.
"Sir, I…" Ash's voice cracked.
Many of the boys had problems with their vocal cords, still recovering from the rapidly induced puberty.
"I just wanted to let you know," Ash continued, "what an honor it's been to train under you. Chief Mendez, and Petty Officers Tom and Lucy. If I don't make it today, I wanted you to know that I wouldn't have done anything differently, sir."
"The honor has been mine," Kurt said. He held out his hand.