Burden of Sisyphus (Brink of Distinction book #1)

by Jon Messenger

“We’ve established a steady orbit around Purseus II,” the pilot called back to the crew cabin of the transport ship.

  “Roger that,” Vance yelled back, trying to be heard over the low din of the humming engines. Looking out the open back bay, he watched two other Cair class transports starting their engines and activated his radio before continuing. “Halo, are you online?”

  “I’m here, Michael,” she said, transferring her voice communications to the covert operation team’s channel. “I’m bringing satellite tracking online now.”

  “Let me know when you have a visual for our descent,” he said into the microphone hanging before his face. Like the rest of the soldiers crammed into the rear of the transport ship, Vance wore the dark-plated armor more typical of infantry than covert operations. It sat uncomfortably on his shoulders, as it did the rest of his team. Still having a bad feeling about the mission, he wasn’t willing to take any chances. Though it was uncomfortable, body armor was capable of stopping a direct shot from most Terran weapon systems.

  “Imagery is now online,” Halo finally said. “I’m ready when you are.”

  “Roger that, Halo.” Vance pulled the mike away from his mouth to yell to the seated soldiers. “We’re starting our drop in five minutes. Make sure you’re securely locked into your seats. It’ll be a bumpy ride through the atmosphere. Check your buddy, too. I need all of you healthy when we hit the ground.”

  He motioned Dallis and Decker to join him near the cockpit. “Are your men ready to go?”

  “The Black Talons were born ready,” Dallis said with a smile.

  “I’ve double checked their equipment and basic loads myself,” Decker said flatly, sharing a knowing glance with Vance. Neither Pilgrim felt confident since the mission briefing. “We have enough ammunition onboard to stop a small army.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Vance patted their shoulders and moved toward the cockpit. “Looks like we’re ready to start our drop,” he told the pilot. “Let me know when we break through the atmosphere. I want to get eyes on the city before we land.”

  “Yes, Sir,” both pilots replied.

  Vance went back to strap himself into a webbed seat.

  The meager light flooding through the rear door of the transport ship began to disappear as the heavy door slowly slid closed. With the last sliver of light finally gone, the interior of the ship rumbled as it lifted off the floor of the hangar bay. Sitting sideways, all the soldiers were thrown against each other as the ship accelerated quickly to launch free of the Goliath. The ship settled in the frictionless space and the noise died to a low hum. Vance was able to unlatch from his seat and stand to address the soldiers.

  “Listen up!” he called. “You’ve all received the intelligence brief containing everything we know. As you’re aware, that’s very little. That means I expect every one of you to be vigilant once we’re on the ground. Take nothing for granted. If it seems wrong, it probably is, and there’s a chance it’ll kill you. Everyone onboard this ship will be located with my team, which means I’m relying on you to watch our backs. Do you understand me?”

  “Sir, yes, Sir!” they called.

  Vance smiled, having forgotten the rigid discipline enforced among the infantry. It was very different from his own team’s behavior, many of whom ignored his speech.

  “We’ve got just under an hour until we hit the atmosphere around Purseus II. Take this time to do one final check of all your gear and ammunition. We won’t have time for combat checks once we’re on the surface.”

  Vance sat and closed his eyes, beginning the ritual he started years earlier. He slowed his breathing, letting himself drift into a meditative state. His heart rate slowed and the nervousness he felt fled. On the planet, no one needed a commander too stressed or worried to make timely, correct decisions. Lives hung in the delicate balance based on the decisions he made during the mission. He wouldn’t let people die because he made the wrong one.

  A few seats down, Yen stared intently at his open palm on his knee. The heat within the cabin grew as the air shimmered. In his open palm blue light coalesced, illuminating the dark cabin. Yen’s eyes narrowed as the blue light grew, elongating from a single point into a blue tendril that waved in the recirculated air. Sweat beaded his forehead as he tried to maintain control over the manifestation of his psychic energy, but the tendril wavered unsteadily while they watched. Though he strained to keep it together, it quickly broke apart, dissipating like sand in a strong wind.

  Once again, the cabin was cast into gloom. Yen cursed as Eza leaned toward him.

  “Close, Yen,” Eza said, his eyes readjusting to the darkness.

  “What was that?” a voice called from across the narrow aisle.

  They looked up and saw an infantry soldier watching, his face hidden behind a thick, black helmet.

  “Just trying an experiment,” Yen replied, looking at his empty palm. “One that really isn’t working out too well so far.”

  “You’re the psychic, right?”

  Yen cocked an eyebrow at him. “And you are?”

  “Roberts. I’d shake your hand but I’m kind of strapped in place right now.” He reached up to remove his helmet, letting his flowing silver hair cascade around his face. Yellow and green Wyndgaart tattoos glistened against his sweaty skin—a drawback of wearing so much protective equipment.

  “Look, Eza.” Yen elbowed his friend. “It’s another one of you.”

  Eza smiled at Roberts. “There’s no one else like me.”

  Roberts, to his credit, changed the subject. “So what were you trying to do?”

  Yen shrugged. “I’m trying to do more with my abilities than minor telepathy and telekinesis. I’m trying to manifest my powers as a physical weapon.”

  “He’s jealous,” Eza chided, “that he doesn’t get to get physical with the Terrans like I do.”

  Yen elbowed him harder. “Maybe it’s true but if I get it to work, I’ll have a weapon at my command any time I require one. Imagine carrying a psychic whip capable of passing through armor and disrupting a Terran’s nervous system when it strikes. Think about how much stronger I’d be if I could wield that!”

  Roberts recognized the lust in Yen’s eyes. That look was very familiar to the savage warriors of Wyndgaart. “Sounds impressive but it’ll never replace the cold steel of a strong knife.” He unsheathed an eighteen-inch blade from his hip, flipping the well-balanced metal in his hand.

  “A knife?” Eza asked. “Why carry a knife when you can carry a man’s weapon?” He pulled a curved ax from its sheath on his leg. “This is what a real man carries.”

  Eza’s ribbing began a litany of arguments between the two Wyndgaarts about the benefits of their respective weapons. The conversation eventually turned to discussion of their home world and the lives they left behind when they joined the Alliance military. Their talk filled the rest of the house until the intercom sounded, notifying them that they were preparing to enter the atmosphere of Purseus II.

  “If you aren’t already strapped in,” the pilot said, “you may want to do so now. The onboard inhibitors will be able to absorb only part of the shock when we hit friction.”

  Yen turned to Eza. “Give them up.” He held out his hand.

  Grumbling, Eza struggled to pull his ID tags over his head. He begrudgingly dropped his set into Yen’s hand while Yen handed his own tags to Eza.

  “This is a stupid ritual.” Eza slid Yen’s tags over his head.

  “It’s tradition. Break it and it’s bad luck. Quit complaining and hold on tight.”

  The transport’s tip glowed gentle red as the ship dipped into the planet’s thick atmosphere. As the rest of the craft immersed itself, fire enveloped the bottom, flaring brightly past the cockpit window. The pilot threw a switch to make the front glass darken, blacking out the blinding flames as he flew on instruments.

  Within the crew cabin, the transport shook violently. Soldiers grabbed their harnesses and clung tightly as
they were tossed from side-to-side, while the ship skipped along the surface of the atmosphere. The temperature became sweltering as the hull heated from the friction. Sweat beaded on foreheads or spilled unhindered from under thick, oppressive helmets.

  Vance gritted his teeth against the shaking, feeling his stomach dance and twist as he was jostled back and forth. Bile rose in his throat and he blanched. Pulling tighter against his harness, he planted his feet firmly and lowered his head, trying to get it as close to his knees as possible, knowing that was one of the only positions he could manage while strapped in that helped alleviate the threatening nausea. After seven years of covert operations and eight before then in the infantry, he never became accustomed to entry into a planet’s atmosphere.

  “Your vital signs are spiking, Michael,” Halo cooed in his ear.

  Aside from monitoring their descent via satellites, she recorded their vital signs to track their health during the chaos of battle. “You never were very good at this.”

  “Not right now, Aleiz,” he growled between clenched teeth.

  In a lot of ways, her transformation into the Goliath’s Halo was a blessing in disguise. His leaves were taken aboard ship instead of traveling back and forth through atmospheric turbulence.

  Though it felt like eternity to Vance, the transport eventually broke through the worst of the turbulence and the ride evened out. As soon as he was sure he could move without feeling lightheaded, he unstrapped from the webbed seat and walked to the cockpit. His arrival coincided with the pilot lowering the darkened blast shield from the windows, allowing vibrant sunlight to flood the small cabin.

  Stooped in the low ceilinged cockpit, Vance had his first good view of the planet as the transport broke through the high-altitude cloud cover. A sparkling lake stretched out below the ship as it sped over the surface. Green trees jutted from the far shoreline in small groves, isolated by large fields of tilled earth and budding vegetation. Though he was unfamiliar with the vegetable life on Purseus II, many of the plants looked similar to a variety of maize. Vance scanned the fields and occasional farmhouses as they passed over fertile rural land, but he saw neither work animals in the fields nor people wandering around the homes.

  “What’s the local time?” he asked the copilot.

  He checked a dial on the dashboard. “Should be early afternoon here, Sir.”

  Vance frowned. Early afternoon, when the crops were just starting to grow, would have been an optimum time for farmers to be nurturing their fields. If nothing else, they would’ve been tending to the livestock that also seemed disturbingly absent. Much like the images of the city, the farmland around the military outpost was devoid of life.

  “Sir,” the pilot said, interrupting his musing, “we’re approaching the city. It should come into view in ten seconds.”

  Vance, peering through the thin layer of soot on the windows, struggled to see the city as it slowly materialized on the horizon. Built in a traditional style of the Alliance, a series of tall buildings stood like the tip of a spear in the center of the city, spreading outward and downward until the city leveled out in single and double-story shops and residential neighborhoods. From a distance, with the sun high in the sky, light sparkled from windows on tall office buildings.

  “The landing zone is approaching shortly, Sir, and I don’t detect any anomalies in the air.” The pilot marked their location on the console.

  “Fly past the landing zone on this approach. Take us on a slow pass over the city. I want to see what we’re walking into before we touch the ground.”

  “Yes, Sir.” He adjusted their approach so the three transport ships would fly over the main city road before looping back to their designated landing zone.

  “Anything worthwhile?”

  Vance turned to see Decker’s broad, smiling face behind him.

  “We’re about to pass over the city. Why don’t you join us?”

  Adam squeezed his bulk into the already cramped cockpit. His broad shoulders pressed firmly against Vance’s, leaving little space for much more than observation.

  “Where’s Dallis?” Vance asked.

  “He’s still strapped in his seat.” Decker nodded toward the rear of the ship. “He gets a little motion sick when we hit turbulence. Want me to get him for you?”

  Vance thought about it and then shook his head. “No. Let him stay where he is. Somehow, I think you’ll appreciate this more than he will.”

  The Cair transport slowed as it began its flight over the city. The initial areas, though empty and without signs of life, seemed mostly unharmed. Vance noticed the destroyed vehicles, a trend that continued the deeper they flew into the city. Vance confirmed they wouldn’t find any chemical or biological weapons being used since the vehicles seemed systematically destroyed, as if someone tried to keep the residents from fleeing the city. That meant whatever caused the Alliance to lose contact with the city was probably still inside. Vance felt unseen eyes on their ships, waiting for them to land.

  The heart of the city, where the tall towers of wealth and privilege stood, showed the most damage. The glass windows Vance saw sparkling from a distance proved to be only partially intact. Up and down each façade windows were smashed haphazardly, without any apparent pattern. The gaping holes on the still windowed exteriors looked like a broken code, dotting and dashing its way from building to building in an undecipherable message.

  Or, Vance thought darkly, not like a code at all.

  Instead, it looked like eyes watching the intruders as they passed into a forbidden zone.

  “Tip the nose,” Vance said quietly, breaking the silence in the cockpit. “I want a better view of the street.”

  As the wings tipped, the transport hovered over a vacant street. Trash swirled under the powerful exhaust, dancing and slipping across the street, piling up in already cluttered gutters. Rows of smashed cars, their roofs collapsed and sparkles of shattered glass lying on the streets around them, sat like silent ghosts of the prosperous city.

  The first-floor windows on both sides of the street were shattered outward, panes of glass jutting like daggers from the sidewalks. Though piles of debris shifted along the street, prodded forward by the exhaust from the transports, nothing moved. No animals roamed the street. No people peered hesitantly from behind cover or within the buildings.

  The only signs of life where what Decker and Vance saw on the satellite images. Smeared across a number of cars and peppered throughout the shattered glass on the street, large droplets of bright blood painted the street scene in a macabre undertone, telling a tale of death and suffering for which the victims had yet to be found.

  “Take us out of here,” Vance said soberly. “Get us back to the landing zone.”

  Vance and Decker slipped from the cockpit and back into the stifling heat of the crew cabin. Two dozen faces turned to the pair of Pilgrims as they finally stood upright, their expressions serious.

  “Everything good to go, Sir?” Ainj asked, pulling his sniper rifle against his body.

  “As good as we’ve ever had it.” He didn’t look at the Avalon. Still look forward, he called loudly, “Lock and load, everyone! We’ll hit the landing zone in two minutes.”