The Fallen Goddess

It’s dark. No lights but the haze from a computer screen; the flame of a cigarette, lit against regulations inside the office of a ship. For all they matter now. The paper below, usually milk white, is cetacean blue. The words ineligible. Derek Frendsen takes a long, deep drag and exhales out. The room is foggy. The smoke dances between the abyss and the light in an internecine struggle. His dark skin, should it have been able to be seen, was ashen. His usually relaxed face, taut, and full of worry lines. His eyes glazed in concentration, stress and pain.
“What a fucking day,” he says to the God and himself. 
He flicks his ash into a tumbler. It is full of butts, freshly extinguished. Beside it stands a half empty bottle of Jameson whiskey. Its rim is reflective from the saliva, freshly adorned. He used to have two tumblers, but one was smashed not so long ago in an accident. He’s pretty sure the shards are still in the bin behind him. The person who smashed it is hiding somewhere in the ship from him. Derek does not have the energy to go looking for them, nor does he care. His priorities lie in this room. 
He taps his keyboard to awaken the computer. A message notification screams at him. He refuses to look at it, knowing it’s the answer he wanted. A galaxy turned upside down. He almost missed the war against the Covenant. Things were simpler then. A simple war fought conventionally. Not whatever they now faced, whatever lay ahead. 
His com rings. 
He reclines on his chair. He eyes at the steel ceiling. He squints, imagining the stars and the face of God, immutable and forever out of reach. 
His com is still ringing.
Derek sighs. He rubs the back of his hands against his eyes until brilliant shimmers lazily move across his vision. He stubs the cigarette out and takes a swig from the whiskey, setting it down gently, careful not to spill any.
He hits the com, grateful it is only to be a voice call. 
“Hi Sasha,” he says.
“Commander,” the surgeon replies. 
“What can I help you with?”
“I have an update on SPARTAN-G094.”
“Please,” Derek says softly, “tell me.”
There is a pause. Too long for good news. He is convinced he hears a sigh. 
“It’s not good, Derek,” she says, “it’s fucking bad.”
“I saw her on the hanger, Sasha,” he replies, “I read the Beckett’s notes.”
“No, Derek,” Sasha says sternly, “it’s much worse.”
“Sasha,” he snaps, “just get to it.”
Another pregnant pause.
“Please,” he whispers, “ju- just, I have had enough bad news today, I don’t need it sugarcoated.”
“Okay,” Sasha says, “Amy’s suffered life-altering injuries, even for a Spartan. Her L1 through L5 vertebrae have been absolutely shattered, not simply the L1 and L2 the Beckett reported. We can fix it, but she will require extensive rehabilitation; months, if not years of therapy.”
“Christ,” Derek replies, “we need her.”
“That’s not all, she’s been severely hypoxic due to her extended period in space - it was stabilised on the Beckett but some tissues have become necrotic. Additionally, she is septic. We’re flooding her body with antibiotics as we speak but she’s weak. The cryosleep has ironically made some things worse.”
“Will she live?” He asks, almost begging.
“I think so, but - Derek, I just, it’s bad.”
He lights another cigarette. His heart pounding, his skin slowly becoming soaked in sweat. 
“Has Xiaoping come to see you?”
There is silence on the other end. 
“Sasha?”
“Yes,” was the monosyllabic reply. 
“And?”
“He brought me a box which I can only assume is full of things I’m to use during the next operation.”
“Yes,” it was now Derek’s turn to be monosyllabic.
“Figures.”
“Have you looked them over?”
“I read the itinerary, Derek,” she says too quickly, “it’s invasive.”
“You have concerns?” he asks.
“That’s not for me to say, sir, and you know it.”
“I’m asking, Sasha,” he says, “please.”
“I’m not the one who has to be asked here, Derek!” she shouts.
Derek doesn’t reply.
“Have you even asked, Amy? Does she know what is going to happen to her?”
“I know tha-,”
“Derek! For fuck sake! She’s comatose!”
“Sasha, lis-”
“Do you know how much damage this could do? What’s being asked of me is barbaric! The amount of therapy and physio needed to prepare anyone for this kind of procedure is extraordinary!”
“We’re in extraordinary times,” Derek replied calmly.
“She’s half dead!”
The sigh Sasha makes on the other end of the line could sink ships.
“Listen to yourself, Derek,” she says, her voice back to normal volume, “think about this woman under your care.”
“I am thinking about her, I’m doing what’s best for her - to keep her going.”
“Bullshit, Derek,” Sasha snarls, “we need to ask her.”
Frendsen’s mouth became a straight line. The cigarette hung awkwardly from his lips, the flame barely flickering from lack of use.
“We don’t,” he says finally, “it’s my decision alone to do what’s needed with my Spartans.”
No reply came from Sasha.
“Will you do it?”
“Under protest,” is her reply.
“Noted,” he says, his eyes closed, “take care of her for me.”
The line goes dead. 
Frendsen picks up the whiskey bottle and drinks deeply. The amber liquid burns the back of his throat until he can’t take it any longer. It’s penance, he thinks. 
“For my sins,” he says to the God again. 
He clicks the message open. It is what he expected. Approval for the surgery being prepared below decks for his injured Spartan. The only one he feels he has left. Clara and John are unaccounted for and Andra has disappeared, likely for good from him. 
He scrolls up on the chat between himself and his superior. Sees the date stamp from his first suggestion of the surgery: twelve months ago. It’s why these experimental tools are here already on the Infinity. Planned out in advance, cutting edge technology and him with the perfect test subjects. 
Derek thinks he would have asked them had circumstances been different, but he knows it would never have been necessary. Their approval doesn’t matter, has never mattered for these things. A continuous Frankenstein project shackled to the whims of the Office of Naval Intelligence. 
His Spartans are like soft clay, forever to be reshaped and remoulded as he sees fit. He knows this, their autonomy is regulated by him and him alone. He is their Maker, their destroyer. A responsibility no one person should have, but Derek relishes it. Knows he relishes it, would not have it taken from him. There is power here, for me, he thinks unashamed. He has had this conversation with himself more times than he can count and he has never once thought about giving it up. He loves this. He is good at it. It is worth the fleeting moments of anguish like now. His ability to deal with it has gotten him where he is.
But this time, he admits to himself in a rare moment of weakness, it is difficult. Almost too difficult for any soul to bear.
He leans forward in his chair, his hands holding up his heavy head, certain of one thing.
God has turned His back on him, His gaze never to return.