A Lesson on Life

{0430 Hours, April 22, 2525 / UNSC Carrier Atlas on patrol in the Lambda Serpentis System}

<John's POV>

I reorientate myself as I enter the gym.

From the stationary corridor, it was easy to see that this section of the Atlas rotated. The constant acceleration gave the circular walls a semblance of gravity.

Unlike the other portions of the carrier, however, this section wasn't cylindrical, but rather a segmented cone. The outer portion was wider and rotated more slowly than the narrow inner portion - simulating gravitational forces from one square to two gravities along the length of the gym.

There were free weights, punching and speed bags, a boxing ring, and machines to stretch and tone every muscle group. No one was up this early. I had the place to myself.

I decided to start with arm curls. I went the to the center section, which was calibrated at one gee, and picked up a twenty-kilogram dumbbell. It felt wrong - too light. The spin of the gym must be off. I set the weights down and picked up a forty-kilogram set. That felt right.

For the last three weeks, we Spartans had gone through a daily routine of stretching, isometric exercises, light sparring drills, and lots of eating We were under orders to consume five high-protein meals a day. After every meal, we had to report to the ship's medical bay for a series of mineral and vitamin injections. I was looking forward to getting back to Reach and my normal routine.

There were only fifty-eight soldiers left in my squad. Thirteen candidates had 'washed out' of the Spartan program; they had died during the augmentation process. The other three, suffering from side effects of the process, had been permanently reassigned within the Office of Naval Intelligence.

I missed them all, but the others and I had to go on - the had to recover and prove themselves all over again.

I wished Chief Mendez had warned me. I could have prepared. Maybe that was the trick to the last mission - to learn to be prepared for anything. I wouldn't let my guard down again.

I took a seat the leg machine, set it to the maximum weight - but it still felt too light. I moved to the high-gee end of the gym. Things felt normal again.

I worked every machine, then moved to a speed bag, a leather ball attached to the floor and ceiling by a thick elastic band. There were only certain allowed frequencies at which the bag could be hit, or it gryated chaotically.

My fist jabbed forward, cobra-quick, and struck. The speed bag moved, but slowly like it was underwater . . . fart too slowly considering how hard I had hit it. Then tension on the line must be turned way done.

I twanged the line and it hummed. It was tight.

Was everything broken in this room?

I pulled a pin from the locking collar on the bench press. I walked to the center section - supposedly one gee. I held the pin a meter off the deck and dropped it. It clattered on the deck.

It looked as if it had fallen normally . . . but somehow it also looked slow to me.

I set the timer on my watch and dropped the pin again. Forty-five-hundredths of a second.

One meter in about half a second. I ran through the calculations using calculus. I even calculated the square root. I frowned. I had always struggled with math before.

The answer was a gravitation acceleration of nine point eight meters per second squared. One standard gee.

So the room was rotating correctly. I was out of calibration.

My experiments were cut short. Four men entered the gym. They were out of uniform, wearing only shorts and boots. Their heads were cleanly shaven. They were all heavily muscled, lean, and fit. The larges of the four was taller than John. (AN/: John is currently a little under 7ft tall, and the guy is even taller than John. A literal giant.) He had scars covering one side of his face.

I could tell they were part of the Special Forces - the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers. The ODSTs also had the traditional tattoos burned onto their arms: DROP JET JUMPERS, FEET FIRST INTO HELL.

'Helljupers' - the infamous 105th division. I had overheard mess hall chatter about them. They had a reputation for success . . . and for brutality, even against fellow soldiers.

I gave them a polite nod.

They brushed past me and started on the high-gravity free weights. The larges ODST lifted the bar of the bench press. He struggled and the bar wavered unsteadily. The iron plates on the right end slid off and fell to the deck. The opposite end of the bar tilted, causing him to drop the weight, almost crushing the spotter's foot.

Startled by the noise, I jumped up.

"What the -" The big ODST stood and glared at the locking collar that had slipped off.

"Someone took the pin." He growled and turned to me.

I picked up the pin. "The error was mine," he said stepping forward. "My apologies."

The four ODSTs moved one step towards mee. The big guy with the scars stood a hand's breadth away from my nose.

"Why don't you take that pin and shove it, meat?" he said, grinning. "Or better yet, maybe I should make you eat it." He nodded to his friends.

I only knew three ways to react to people. If they were my superior officers, I obeyed them. If they were part of my squad, I helped them. If they were a threat, I neautralized them.

So when the men surrounded me . . . I hesitated.

Not because I was afraid, but because these men could fall into any of the three categories. I didn't know their rank. They were also fellow servicemen of the UNSC. But, at the moment, they didn't seem friendly.

The two men flanking me grabbed at my biceps. The one behind me tried to slip an arm around my neck.

I hunched my shoulders and tucked my chin to my chest so I couldn't be chocked. I whipped my right elbow over the hand holding me, slammed it into the ODST's side, then straight punched the man and broke his nose.

The other three reacted, tightening their grips and stepping closer - but like the dropped pin, they moved slowly.

I ducked and slipped out of the unsuccessful headlock and spun, breaking the grasp of the man on his left at the same time.

"Stand down!" A booming voice echoed across the gym.

A sergeant stepped into the gym and stored toward them.

Unlike Mendez, who was fit and trim and was always serious, this man's stomach bulged over his belt, and he looked bemused.

I snapped to attention. The others stood there and continued to glare at me.

"Sarge," the man with the bleeding nose said. "We were just - "

"Did I ask you a question?" the Sergeant barked.

"No, Sergeant!" the man replied.

The Sergeant inspected me with his eyes, then the ODSTs. "If you're all so eager to fight, get in the ring and go to it."

"Sir!" I said. I went to the boxing ring, slipped through the ropes, and stood there waiting.

This was starting to make sense. It was a mission. I had received orders from a superior officer, and the four men were now targets.

The big ODST pushed through the ropes and the others gathered to watch. "I'm going to rip you to pieces, meant" he grunted through clenched feet.

I sprang off my back foot, launching my entire weight behind my first strike. My fist smashed into the man's wide chin. My left hand followed and impacted on the soldier's jaw.

The men came up; I stepped forward, pinning one of the man's arms to his chest, and followed through with a hook to his floating ribs. Bones broke.

The man staggered back. I took a short step and brought my heel down on the man's knee. Three more punches and the man was against the ropes . . . not moving, his arm, leg, and neck tilted at unnatural angles.

The three other men moved. The one with the bloody nose grabbed an iron bar.

I didn't need orders this time. Three attackers at once - I had to take them out before they surrounded him. I might be faster, but I didn't have eyes in the back of my head.

The man with the iron bar swung a vicious blow at my ribs; I sidestepped, grabbed the man's hand, and clamped it to the bar. I twisted the bar and crushed the bones of the attacker's wrist.

I snapped a sidekick toward the second man, caught him in the groin, crushing the soft organs, and breaking his target's pelvis.

I pull the bar freer - whipping it around and caught the third man in the neck, hitting him so hard that the ODST was propelled over the ropes.

"At ease, Number 117," Chief Petty Officer Mendez barked.

I obeyed and dropped the bar. Like the pin, it seemed to take too long for the impromptu weapon to hit the deck.

The ODSTs lay crumpled on the ground, either unconscious or dead.

Mendez, at the far end of the gym, strode toward the boxing ring.

The Sergeant stood with his mouth open. "Chief Mendez sir!" He snapped crips salute. "What are you -" he turned to me, his eyes widening, and he murmured, "He's one of them, isn't he?"

"Medics are on their way," Mendez said calmly. He stepped closer to the Sergeant. "There are two intel officers waiting for you in Ops. They'll debrief you . . ." He stepped back. "I suggest you report to them immediately."

"Yes, sir," the Sergeant said. He almost ran out of the gym. He looked once over his soldier at me, then moved even faster.

"Your workout is over for today," Mendez told me.

I saluted and left the ring.

A team of medics entered with stretchers and rushed toward the boxing ring.

"Permission to speak, sir?" I ask.

Mendez nodded.

"Were those men part of a mission? Were they targets or teammates?"

I knew that this had to be some sort of mission. the Cheif had been too close for it to be a coincidence.

"You engaged and neutralized a threat," Mendez replied. "That action seems to have answered your questions, Squad Leader."

I wrinkle my forehead as I thought it through. "I followed the chain of command," I say. "The Sergeant told me to fight. I was threatened and in imminent danger. But they were still UNSC special forces. Fellow soldiers."

Mendez lowered his voice. "Not every mission has simple objectives or comes to a logical conclusion. Your priorities are to follow the orders in your chain of command and then to preserve your life and the lives of your team. Is that clear?"

"Sir," I say. "Yes, sir." I glanced back at the ring. Blood was seeping into the canvas mat. I had an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I hit the showers and let the blood rinse off me. I felt strangely sorry for the men I had killed.

But I knew my duty - the Chief had even been unusually verbose in order to clarify the matter. Follow orders and keep me and my team safe. That's all I had to focus on. I didn't give the incident in the gym another thought.