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At first, she thought they were ODSTs wearing pieces of what
she now recognized as experimental infiltration armor systems. She had reviewed the technical specs on the systems: photo-reactive panels able to mimic surrounding textures, and underneath was a cushioning layer of liquid nanocrystals that provided more ballistic protection than three centimeters of Kelvar diamond weave without the bulk.
One of the sleeping ones, a girl, dozed with one eye open. Her shorn hair had been buzz-cut to mimic animal claw marks. She couldn't be more than twelve. She blinked, sat up, and made a subtle sideways "cut" gesture to the others.
They stopped and together turned to Dr. Halsey.
Their faces were young, but they had the well-developed physiques of Olympic athletes. These had to be Ackerson's SPARTAN-IIIs.
Dr. Halsey felt a curious mix of revulsion and maternalism.
"How are you feeling?" Kelly asked.
"Fine," she answered, and continued to examine her surroundings.
There was carbon scoring and melted gobs of metal, as if the place had been bombed. Near Mendez was what looked as if it had once been a computer workstation—now a solid lump.
Chief Mendez misread her gaze, and thinking she was looking at him, gave her a short bow.
"Doctor, it's good to see you," he said, "but you and SPARTAN-087 have landed yourselves into a kettle of fish… boiling water and all. If you're well enough, I can fill you in. But take your time; there's no rush if you feel sick"
"Indeed?" Dr. Halsey said, and raised one eyebrow.
She resented being treated like an invalid moron. As if a minor acceleration-induced blackout had crippled her mental faculties.
"Indulge me. Chief," she said. "Allow me to make a few educated guesses as to your 'kettle of fish'—just to test my mental state."
Chief Mendez made a gracious gesture with his cigar. "Please, Doctor."
"Where to start… ?" Dr. Halsey tapped her lower lip, thinking. "I suppose with you. Chief. You were recruited by Colonel Ackerson and some secret subcell of Section Three to train a new generation of Spartans."
The Chief's cigar dropped from his fingers.
She nodded toward the teens playing cards. "These must be the product of those efforts. I'm eager to question them about their training and augmentation and discover what else has been accomplished."
The young Spartans looked amongst themselves, curiosity flickering over their faces.
Kelly shifted in her kneeling stance, moved her weight onto her left foot as if preparing to pounce. Kelly was a finely honed weapon, but she had never learned how to conceal her emotions. Her body language spoke volumes: these third-generation Spartans made her nervous.
That made her nervous, too.
Dr. Halsey knew her conclusions about these new Spartans had been correct, but there were so many more unanswered questions. Mendez and Colonel Ackerson had had decades to produce and train two or three generations. If this were true, then why had she never heard of these Spartans? Keeping a pilot program secret was one thing; keeping dozens of next-generation Spartans who were likely fighting and winning battles hidden was another matter entirely.