Burden of Sisyphus

its tip, she stood to face the audience.

“Bellini is the victor of her Initiation,” the Schoolmaster exclaimed. “Congratulate our newest member of the warrior caste!”

The audience cheered, while the two priests lifted Yusef’s body and pulled it into the stage’s darkened wings. Still bleeding from her wounds, Bellini bowed respectfully to the audience, then the Schoolmaster, before taking her place against the low back wall.

Two at a time, the Initiates faced one another, always with one surviving and the other dead. Those were the rules of Initiation, by which Keryn couldn’t abide. Before the ceremony ended, she stood and walked down to the middle path through which she entered the temple. She caught Bellini’s eye, as she prepared to leave, but she said nothing.

Keryn had no interest in sticking around until the end of the ceremony to congratulate her friend. The Bellini she knew was gone, replaced, at least in part, by the Voice. She would rather not condone her transformation into the savage warrior she became.

Walking slowly, crying softly, she returned home and prepared the last of her belongings before her departure the following day for the academy on Arcendor.

CHAPTER FOUR

Michael Vance walked down the brightly lit corridors of the Goliath, drinking in the sights. Raised and trained as an infantry soldier, where dirt and grime where as much a part of one’s uniform as the pants and jacket, he found it strange to be onboard a ship kept so immaculately clean. The light-gray walls glistened from the thick lacquer spread evenly over the paint. Colored lines of yellow, black, red, and blue traced the hall, splitting toward different directions, guiding crewmen toward unseen objectives. The infantry was fond of teasing the Fleet, accusing them of needing color-coded walls to avoid getting lost.

Watching the faces of the crew and officers he passed, their uniforms pressed and creased to perfection, he suddenly became aware of his appearance. Still clothed in thick boots and dusty red robe, cinched at the waist by a tattered leather belt, he trailed red clay and dust from the planet’s surface to be ground into the carpet, as he walked toward one of the ship’s many classrooms. He heard a rumor that the Fleet actually had a job for watercraft operators, which hadn’t been used by the Fleet in more than 150 years. He wondered if they also had a job for carpet cleaners.

A loud guffaw escaped his lips, drawing the attention of nearby crewmen. He could only imagine a crewman cursing loudly, as he shampooed and vacuumed the halls, tracking Vance’s movements throughout the ship. It would be easy to locate him if the crewman really wanted to find the source of the persistent red clay. The special operations officer was so obviously different from the rest of the crew aboard the Goliath. Dirty and sweaty, he still carried his large rifle slung across his back. The barrel bounced harmlessly against the back of his calf, as he walked. He was so accustomed to the weapon, he hardly noticed.

Nearing the first of many elevators he must take to reach the classroom, he tapped his foot impatiently, as he waited. A rush of recycled air brought a sour smell to him. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he looked around in surprise before realizing he was the source of the rancid scent.

“No wonder they were looking at me so weird,” he mumbled to the closed doors. He laughed despite himself at the great divisions between the Fleet and infantry. He couldn’t imagine what a crewman would do if forced to sleep in the mud.

The light above the door turned from red to green, acknowledging the arrival of the elevator. The doors parted with a soft hiss, revealing a spacious chamber with a single unfortunate warrant inside. Despite his broad shoulders and Terran heritage, Vance moved gracefully, as he slid past the closing doors and took a place against the back wall.

Eying him warily, the warrant politely lifted the back of his hand to his nose, trying to block the smell. Running his own hand across his thick, black beard, Vance flashed bright, white teeth at the trapped warrant. Returning the smile weakly, he gave a subtle nod.

Two floors later, obviously uncomfortable about being in such an enclosed space with Vance, the warrant pressed a floor button at random. When the doors slid open, he quickly left the elevator.

Finally alone in the lift, Vance stretched his arms wide and relaxed, as the elevator took him the rest of the way up through the ship’s numerous floors.

After catching another set of lifts and walking nearly the length of the ship, Vance found himself before an open door leading into the rear of a tiered classroom. At a podium at the bottom of the steppes, gesturing wildly toward a holographic projection of a battle, a Pilgrim officer taught historical battle scenarios to a group of enthralled, young pilots. Slipping into the room unnoticed, Vance sat in the rear and listened.

“When the newly formed Alliance first faced off against the Terran Empire’s Fleet, the crew of those Alliance ships weren’t much older than the faces I see in this audience,” the audience said. “They were inexperienced but brave. They fought valiantly against an aggressive, dangerous enemy.”

The instructor removed his glasses and set them gently on the podium. “Don’t smile. They were summarily wiped out by the superior Terran Fleet.”

Stepping away from the podium, the Pilgrim ran a hand through his thinning gray hair. He smiled gingerly at the captive audience, his face breaking into a spiderweb of wrinkles. “My concern is that I see the same youthful bravado in your pilots and crewmen. You have the urge to prove yourself. You want your name to go down in history. The problem is, there’s no place for attitudes like those among the crew of this ship. In this atmosphere, you either work as a team, or you die alone and forgotten.”

He stopped pacing and stared at the defiant faces of the pilots and crewmen. “How many of you think that the war between the Alliance and the Empire is over? Give me a show of hands.”

Seeing no one move, he continued, “Good. The Taisa Accord, signed nearly 150 years ago, was just a mutual agreement between both sides to end open hostilities. The key word is open hostilities. Under the radar of the populace of both the Alliance and the Empire, there’s still a war being fought. Outposts are being built in enemy territory. Platoons of infantry are facing off in bloody battles which history will never record. Notes of condolence are being sent to families who’ll never know how their loved one died.

“The fighting between the Alliance and the Empire will never truly end until one or the other is completely destroyed. The Goliath has been tasked to uphold the illusion of peace throughout the Alliance. That’s what the citizens of the Alliance want-to be told and lulled into believing that an uneasy truce still exists. To reach that goal, we’ve been outfitted with not only a superior array of weapons, but this ship has been integrated with a Halo system. Our mission will always be to hunt down and destroy any Terran elements that try to establish a foothold in Alliance space.”

Vance frowned at the mention of the Halo system. Its installation in the ship was still a sore spot for him.

“Welcome to the world of covert operations, Ladies and Gentlemen. No matter how good you were in your old job, no one will ever congratulate you on a job well done. If you do well, no one should know you did anything at all. If you don’t do a good job, you’ll be dead. It’s the job you signed up for.”

He returned to his podium and retrieved his glasses. “Are there any questions? No? Then good luck to you all. This concludes your welcome brief.”

All the audience members standing in unison braced in a firm salute, which the instructor brusquely returned. Vance waited until the room cleared, and the officer was collecting his paperwork, before he stood and walked down the stairs.

“I don’t remember ever looking that scared when I left one of your briefs, Sir.” He cleared the last step and stood before the Pilgrim instructor.

The Pilgrim turned with a broad smile. “Believe me, Michael, you were always that scared around me.”

Vance snapped to attention and saluted. “Captain Young, it’s a pleasure to see you again, Sir.”

The captain dismissed the formalities with a flippant wave of his hand. “I make the new recruits do that, because it reminds them we’re a military at war. I served with your father too long to have you stand at attention in front of me.” He motioned Vance to sit and pulled over his own chair. “Speaking of which, how is your father?”