Ten By Ten

"I remind you that Room-014 is prepped and ready, sir."
There was nothing better in the morning than a fresh cup of joe from the officer's lounge, and Hestia's low, sultry tones in Agent Reynolds's ear. 
A smart AI's choice of appearance and voice wasn't always a reflection of the original donor, but Reynolds couldn't help but assume that Hestia had been quite the beauty in her previous life. If the file pertaining to information about the origins of all military AIs wasn't far above his clearance level, he may have even hazard a peek and confirm for himself.  But he liked this job, and his freedom, so he'd better not. 
"Thank you, Hestia. How's he looking this morning?"
"Heart rate and body temperature readings indicate that Corporal Jerome Brandt is... uneasy, sir."
Reynolds chuckled. Passing personnel shot him a curious glance, before returning to their duties. Of course he was. Room-014 may have been decorated like any other meeting room in your average office building-- but the half-hearted attempt at normalcy only made it more unsettling. 
"Can't blame the guy. I'd be pretty on edge too, if I was in his place. Bet it's not every day you get called to HQ,"  He skimmed Jerome Brandt's service record one more time on his comm pad, and nodded. "Alright, better not keep the poor guy waiting,"
The metal door slid open with a whoosh as the room's security pad confirmed the agent's identity. Inside, Reynolds found Corporal Jerome Brandt seated in one of the two chairs arranged across from each other, with a minimalist metallic desk between them. The man's deep set brown eyes shot at Reynolds, wide as dinner plates. They moved from the agent's face, to his collar, and to his face again.
There was no visible rank insignia nor name tag on the agent's crisply pressed uniform, yet Jerome began to rise to salute anyway. He was a tall man, Reynolds knew. But reading his height in a personnel file wasn't quite the same thing as seeing the giant in person. He must have stood head and shoulders above the agent, the arm he moved to salute with thick with hard muscle.
Reynolds stopped him with a wave of his hand.
"Woah, easy there, Marine! No need for any of that, you can go ahead and stay seated. Have you been waiting long?"
"No, sir," Jerome lied. Reynolds knew for a fact that he had been sitting alone in this tiny little room for well over an hour. Hardly the response he expected from a seasoned Orbital Drop Shock Trooper. 
Maybe that was a good thing, Reynolds mused, slipping into the vacant chair across from the man. The dozens of ODSTs he had interviewed before hadn't been too keen on his offer. But Mr. Brandt here may be different.
"Anything I can get you, Corporal? Water? I can get somebody to bring a glass here," Reynolds smiled a practiced smile, honed through years of pleasantries. That only seemed to make Jerome Brandt more nervous. 
"N-No, thank you, sir. I-I'm sorry, but am I in trouble, sir?"
Reynolds couldn't help but laugh. He took a sip from his coffee cup. 
"No, Corporal, just the opposite."
Jerome's brow scrunched in confusion, but when he didn't say anything after a bit, Reynolds continued:
"You've been keeping up with the news? You heard about New Phoenix?"
"Yessir." The ODST nodded sullenly. "Horrible stuff."
"You got that right, Corporal. It's still a big bad galaxy out there, and humanity's as vulnerable as ever. We need good men," Reynolds pointed a finger at Jerome. "We need good men, like you. But that alone isn't enough. We need you to be great."
He had meant for there to be a bit of a pause after that, to let his words sink in, but Jerome was too quick on the uptake.
"Are you talking about making me into a Spartan, sir?" The man calmed his nerves, but it wasn't exactly enthusiasm that Reynolds was sensing.
"That's right, Corporal. You ever seen a Spartan in action before?"
He knew the answer even before Brandt nodded. Of all the missions and engagements on the ODST's rap sheet, none caught the agent's interest as much as Circumstance. Right next door to Reach while all hell was breaking loose, sons and daughters of high ranking officers spirited away to safety-- and a Spartan, killed in action, along with half of the ODST's battalion. And those were just the parts the ONI censors allowed him to access.
"Then you know just how incredible they are. The hope they inspire in every man, woman and child that lays eyes on them," Reynolds leaned forward. "And when I look at you, Corporal, I see the makings of a hero."
Maybe he was laying it on a bit thick. But it was true. Section II would have had a field day with Jerome. After all, who didn't love the story of a humble colony kid,  galvanized into becoming one of humanity's greatest champions after a brutal attack on their home planet?
The man might have had a bit of a dopey face, but that was alright. Nothing the propaganda jockeys in Section II couldn't fix in post.
"That's kind of you to say, sir..." Jerome pursed his lips, and looked away for a moment. As if he was considering his next words carefully. "Just me? What about the rest of my team?"
"Fireteam Wolf?" Ah, yes, them. "Well, I have no doubt that they are very... special, in their own right. But there are only so many slots in the program, Corporal. And there's a multitude of factors we have to consider."
It wasn't a lie, not completely. It was true that Reynolds couldn't make every man who wanted a Spartan, but after the attack on New Phoenix, the UNSC wanted more supersoldiers than ever. And they didn't quite care how many credits it took.
"I'm sorry, sir. I'm just having a hard time believing I have what it takes if they don't. I could never shoot like Calson, or lead like the Staff Sergeant. And Lloyd--" Jerome started to babble. He'd already said more in the past two seconds than he had in the rest of the interview, and probably would have gone on if the agent had not raised a hand to silence him.
"I'm aware, like I said, Corporal. We have their files, same as yours."
And that was the problem. Sure, on paper, transitioning the entirety of Fireteam Wolf into the Spartan Branch sounded well and good. But the analysists just didn't agree.
It was quickly uncovered that Staff Sergeant Edwards's father, a former CMA man, had known Insurrectionist ties. Well, probably not to known to Edwards himself, but that didn't matter. Despite the UNSC's best efforts, a handful of rebels had manage to slip their way into the program before and cause no shortage of troubles. So now, any candidate with so much as a hint of rebel sympathy was off the table. Too bad. The new Spartan recruits could use a leader like Edwards.
Lance Corporal Calson might have been a crack shot like Jerome said, but it was clear from his long list of NJP's that he was quite the problem child. His name was a matter of some concern as well. The Calsons were no rebels, but the Spartan branch had enough accusations of nepotism as it was. How would it look if the public found out the son of one of Luna's wealthiest families had been awarded Spartanhood? People loved rag to riches, not riches to more riches.
And Petty Officer Lloyd? That one had a file dripping in black ink. Which made her the most interesting member of Wolf by a country mile. But if Reynolds had his way, he would sooner have the woman on his own staff.
Jerome just sat there, silent. He was staring at the desk like he expected an answer from it. In contrast to his team mates, there was no sordid past. He did what he was told, and he did it well. And that was the kind of man Reynolds was looking for.
"This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, Corporal." Reynolds said, leaning back in his chair. "Think it over, carefully now. Spartanhood comes with a lot of benefits. Like a commission, and a hell of a pay raise besides. You'll be making three times what you are now."
"I-I'm sorry, sir," Jerome repeated his seemingly favorite phrase. But when the man looked up, Reynolds didn't see worry or hesitation in those eyes. Only steel. "But I'm not going anywhere without my team. Nowhere."
Reynolds stared at the big man across from him for a time. Jerome met his gaze, unflinching, for perhaps the first time today. The agent was the first to blink. Then he exhaled-- and slapped the desk with a palm, startling Jerome.
"Then that's that, then!" He extended a hand for the trooper to shake. 
"That could have gone better," Hestia's golden avatar appeared on the agent's comm pad after he dismissed Jerome.
"You think so?" Reynolds remained in the ten by ten room. It was a good place, if nothing else, to just sit and think. And it felt a lot more spacious when he didn't have to share it with that mountain of a man.
"I do. Your job is to secure candidates, Agent Reynolds," She tilted her head. "Isn't it?"
"If he was never going to say 'yes' in the first place, then he's not really a candidate, is he?"
"Really, sir? Excuses? I expected better from you."
"Call it whatever you want, Hestia. But it is what it is. I can lead a horse to water, but I can't make him drink."
"Not a horse-- and nor a wolf, seems to me,"
He snorted.
"Now you're starting to get it. So, when's the next one?"
"Room-037 is still being prepped, I'm afraid,"
"Ah, no worries. Gives me plenty of time to finish my coffee."
Category:The Weekly
Category:Short stories