Burden of Sisyphus (17 page)

           
“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 started 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.