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| - Vinh should’ve been with the other Spartans, she knew. They were making some attempt at mingling, despite towering a foot or more above the other after-ceremony attendees. Among all the other uniforms, their Navy dress blues almost fit in. There were some she hadn’t seen in years, and some she’d counted among the dead for decades. She doubted there’d ever be a time again when they were all together. But despite their effort to branch out, the giants still stood in a consciously strung-out group, clinging together like shy children, though some on the end conversed with one of the only figures to match their height—an Elite in burnished gold armor. Him, she wanted to avoid. And so she walked by herself.
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| abstract
| - Vinh should’ve been with the other Spartans, she knew. They were making some attempt at mingling, despite towering a foot or more above the other after-ceremony attendees. Among all the other uniforms, their Navy dress blues almost fit in. There were some she hadn’t seen in years, and some she’d counted among the dead for decades. She doubted there’d ever be a time again when they were all together. But despite their effort to branch out, the giants still stood in a consciously strung-out group, clinging together like shy children, though some on the end conversed with one of the only figures to match their height—an Elite in burnished gold armor. Him, she wanted to avoid. And so she walked by herself. The morning was getting on, the sky losing its rose-pink tint and turning the memorial's silhouette on the hill into just another piece of debris in the savannah. There were plenty of those now, with the orbital elevator fallen, strewn across it. Vinh didn’t know why this piece should be paid so much attention, but so long as it was, there was one thing she needed to do. She’d waited all morning for the stream of visitors paying their respects to slow, and finally ascended the hill herself when it was empty enough for some marginal privacy. The base of the sheared-off Pelican wing was near-completely obscured by bundles of flowers, rifles left propped-up, and pictures. Dozens upon dozens of pictures, taped barely overlapping one another out of respect even as they fought for space. Standing in front of it, Vinh felt more like she belonged than taking part in any ceremony could, and slipped a hand over her heart to open her left breast pocket. She withdrew her own small, laminated photo and glanced down at it. The fuzzy image of a brown-haired man made a stab at a dumb-looking smile back at her: Isaac-039. It was just a capture from a MJOLNIR helmet recorder, and probably illegal to possess seeing as it’d been taken on a classified op… but Isaac had left it with her while she lay in a hospital bed for nine months, and he covered for them by taking on the ops they had lined up by himself. She’d already prepared the back with adhesive. She made polite use of her height to stick the photo above where most pictures clamored for space, and stepped back to take it in with her addition. There were hundreds of photos, and some with more than one face. Isaac was just one more among the scattered top fringe, and it comforted her to know he fit in with the rest of the human race. Vinh was smiling, until it struck her his was the only face up there she knew. She knew the statistics. In the course of the war, twenty-three billion human lives had been lost, more than half the sum population of mankind. There wasn’t anyone alive who hadn’t lost someone close. Family lines, entire names had been wiped out. And she had just one picture to put up there. Her mind turned back to the other Spartans clustered down the hill. Were they the only people she considered close? There were a handful outside them she considered friends, but those numbered even fewer than the seventy-four children she’d been conscripted with. Were the Spartan-IIs really that insular a group? With Spartans seemingly coming out of the woodwork, how many people did she really have to mourn? A dozen? Half? Vinh’s eyes scoured the wall, searching and almost longing for a face among them she recognized, could share in the rest of humanity’s mourning over—and quickly wished she hadn’t. On the memorial’s far right side, away from the main crowd of pictures, lay a crude etching no photo dared infringe upon. A single number, and an MCPO insignia taped above it. For a horrible, dysphoric moment, Vinh felt as if she were about to wake from a sickening dream. John was dead. So how could she, or anyone else, still be alive? Some twisted rationale in her mind rejected it as a possibility. The moment passed—but the disbelief did not. To Vinh, to every other Spartan, John was… invulnerable. Not because of strength or speed, but because he always knew, without hesitation, what to do. When the Spartans faced impossible odds, John analyzed the situation, assessed their resources—including always the other Spartans and their talents—and apply them to pull victory as if from a hole in slipspace. In training, he’d found a way to cheat so none of them were left behind, and gave Vinh pointers on assault techniques when she struggled. With him in charge, none of them ever had to think, think about what terrifying monster they faced, only act. Each trusted him that completely. If they died, it would be knowing if the war went on for a hundred years, John would find some way to keep fighting. It hadn’t lasted that long. It’d barely lasted a quarter of that, because John found a way, and it had killed him. How had it killed him? It was why Vinh couldn’t face that split-lip the others chatted with over drinks. Vinh’s fingers found their way across the rough grooves making up the number. Who had carved this? Fred, whom she knew took pride in always keeping a knife on him? Kelly, who’d always been so close to John? Another Spartan Vinh had yet to learn was still alive? No, she decided. Better not to know.
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