Burden of Sisyphus (46 page)

           
“As I call your name,” she began, sticking to the straightforward dialogue that marked her as the head instructor, “please come forward and collect your mail.
 
Once you’ve received your packages, you may file out quietly and return to your rooms.
 
You’re officially released for the rest of the day.”

           
One by one, instructors stepped forward and began calling off names, as they emptied their bags.
 
Keryn frowned, as they went down the list.
 
They were going alphabetically, which meant she was toward the end.
 
She made herself comfortable, knowing nearly 150 students would receive mail before her, Iana included.

           
She tapped her foot impatiently against the back of the chair in front of her, much to the chagrin of the student occupying it.
 
Keryn knew she should be calmer, that it was only mail from home, but she couldn't shed the eager energy flooding her system.
 
Her anticipation turned to irritation, as she waited nearly half an hour before they broke into the higher range of the alphabet.

           
“Ralston,” an instructor called.

           
As that student claimed his mail, the instructor continued.

           
“Raylor.
 
Reavil.
 
Reihlaard.
 
Ricynth.”

           
Keryn threw back her head and murmured, “You have to be kidding me.”
 
She never guessed there were so many cadets with names starting with R, all of whom would be called first.
 
The anticipation almost killed her.
 
Her foot tapped more furiously, as she waited to hear her name.

           
“Riddell.”

           
She hurried to the stage.
 
The instructor held out her bundle, as she walked by, which she quickly snatched from his hand and moved toward the rear of the auditorium.
 
Though happy to finally hear her name, she was smart enough to hide her gloating smile, as she passed those who still waited, or whose names hadn’t been called.
 
She felt terrible, as she struggled to imagine not having anyone who cared enough to write over the first two long months at the Academy.

           
Pushing through the heavy doors at the rear of the auditorium, Keryn turned and hurried down the hall toward her room, examining the bundle in her hands, as she walked.
 
A few letters sat atop a small, nondescript brown package.
 
The whole bundle was wrapped in thin, firm cord, tied in a knot on top.

           
As she walked, she dug her nails under the tight knot and fiddled with the bundle.
 
Skipping the grace that would normally mark her movements, she tugged violently at the cord until she managed a firm-enough hold to loosen the knot.
 
Sliding the ends of the cord through the small loops, she freed it and dropped it absently into a trashcan, as she walked past.

           
The first couple letters were in her father’s barely legible scrawl.
 
Though they hadn’t parted on the best of terms, his disapproval of her career choice evident in his tone, he took the time to write at least a couple letters.
 
The next letter, from her mother, was packed into a much-thicker envelope than the ones from her father.
 
Her mother was verbose, writing small novels in every letter, even when Keryn was only conducting training a few islands away from their house.
 
Still, she appreciated the sentiment.

           
Only one other letter was buried in the stack above the package.
 
Addressed with sharp letters and almost slashing handwriting, she recognized Bellini’s printing.
 
Keryn’s heart ached at the thought of her old friend, who, by now, was undergoing intense training to fully awaken the integrated Voice within her.
 
In many ways, Bellini’s letter held her least and greatest interest.
 
She was eager to find out what Bellini accomplished during the past few months, but the girl she spent so many fun-filled days with back home was gone, replaced by an amalgamation of her own personality and that of the Voice.

           
Sliding Bellini’s letter aside, as she reached her door, Keryn pushed into the room and tried to read the faded script on the dark-brown paper.
 
Though she struggled to decipher the return address, the flourishing handwriting was unmistakable.
 
Only Eza, her brother, wrote in such a fluid style.
 
Throughout their childhood, Keryn often teased him about his effeminate printing.

           
Tossing the four letters aside with barely a thought, she tore into the thick, durable paper covering the package to reveal a simple white box.
 
Offering only a passive grunt to Iana, as she sat on the bed, Keryn dropped the wrapping paper and, with great reverence, opened the box.

           
She saw a videodisk in a case.
 
Written across the top in the same flourishing script were the words,
Baby Sis.
 
His affectionate moniker stuck with her for years, long after every other nickname she received faded into obscurity.
 
Eza called her by the name so long, she barely remembered the last time he called her anything else.

           
Climbing back off the bed, she walked toward the computer when a loud knock sounded on the partially closed door.
 
Standing there, barely visible, was the folded wings black uniform of Victoria.

           
Keryn frozen halfway between the bed and the computer, disk in hand, cursing the interruption.
 
Sighing, she turned back and placed the disk on her pillow before answering the knock.

           
“What can I do for you, Ma’am?”
 
She opened the door all the way.

           
Iana stared at them from her bed, removing a headset from her computer and video message long enough to see what the instructor wanted.

           
“Keryn,” Victoria said solemnly, “you need to go to the dean’s office right now.”

           
Keryn arched an eyebrow, trying to remember if she did anything wrong.
 
“Can you tell me why?”

           
“Unfortunately, I can’t,” she said in a low voice, “but you need to come with me now.”

           
Turning to share a shrug with Iana, Keryn stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her.
 
Victoria led her through the maze of twisting hallways between her room and the dean’s, while Keryn tried to figure out what she’d done.
 
Dean Brothius made it very clear in her last interview that any slip on her part would mean immediate expulsion from the Academy.
 
She did everything in her power to stay out of trouble and perform as a model cadet.
 
She could only guess what the dean had to say.

           
Turning down a familiar hall lined with Academy accomplishments, Victoria stopped before the dean’s door and knocked softly.
 
Keryn heard a faint voice tell them to enter.

           
Victoria held the door and shook her head, indicating she wouldn’t go in with Keryn.
 
More nervous than ever, Keryn stepped inside.

           
Dean Brothius sat in his high-backed chair, staring at Keryn with his hands folded before his face.
 
Flanking him on either side stood Alliance Infantry officers, their chests brimming with ribbons and their ranks glistening with polish on their shoulders.
 
The clean lines of their uniforms were crisp.

           
Whatever their purpose, Keryn knew this was an official visit, not a social one.

           
“Please, Keryn, have a seat,” Dean Brothius said quietly, not moving his hands.

           
Hesitantly, she sat in a cushioned seat across from him—the same one he offered when she reported to his office after the bar fight.

           
“Keryn,” the dean said, struggling to find the right words, “when was the last time you spoke to your family?”

           
She glanced at the two Infantry officers standing on either side of the desk.
 
“I….”
 
She noted their sad expressions.
 
“It’s been two months, Sir, though I received mail from them today.”

           
“Are you close to your…?”

           
The officer to Keryn’s right stepped forward and interrupted.
 
“Are you Keryn Dania Riddell, formerly of Lagurica?”
 
His tone, though soft and sympathetic, still bore the rigid dialogue of a soldier unused to dealing with more-compassionate situations.
 
“Are your parents Lilith and Malta Riddell?”

           
More confused than ever, she nodded.
 
“What is this about?”
 
She looked back and forth between the officers and the dean.

           
As her eyes fell upon the silent officer on the left, a badge on his uniform triggered an old memory.
 
Three intertwined gold loops hung above the name bar on the right side of his chest.
 
Throughout her studies, she saw that symbol many times during her Uligart studies.

           
He’s a chaplain,
the Voice confirmed.
 
Keryn, religious officers come to visit people for only one reason.

           
She hushed the Voice, but a lump formed in her throat, as she tried to think of another reason for a chaplain to be there.
 
Growing up on a planet saturated with warriors, she occasionally saw the Infantry visit parents and siblings in their homes.
 
They wore similar crisp uniform and always had a chaplain in the pair when they brought bad news to distraught family members.

           
Tears welled in her eyes, as she asked again, wanting to hear them confirm her suspicions but deathly afraid that the Voice was right.
 
“Why are you here?”

           
“Ms. Riddell,” the officer on the right said, his low voice filled with emotion, “we regret to inform you that your brother, Eza Riddell, was killed in the line of duty.”

           
Tears spilled from her eyes, rolling down her tanned cheeks and pooling on her chin before tumbling into her shaking hands.
 
Unable to contain herself, she leaned forward and hid her face in her hands, as her body was wracked with sobs.
 
The dean and the officers waited patiently.

           
Eza had always been the stronger of the two siblings.
 
It seemed impossible to believe he could die.
 
Keryn still remembered being in the auditorium during Eza’s Initiation.
 
Though only a little girl at the time, she was awed by his speed and grace once inside the Warrior’s Circle.
 
His ax was little more than a blur, as he earned his right to be welcomed into the warrior caste.

           
Of all those she watched go through Initiation, Eza retained more of his original personality than any other.
 
Even afterward, she still had her big brother.
 
That was what she remembered most about him.
 
No matter what mission he was assigned in the Alliance Infantry, he was always faithfully supportive.
 
He offered Keryn advice as she grew up and was one of the few who supported her decision to forego Initiation in order to take the Academy’s entry exam.
 
After all he did for her, he couldn’t be gone now!

           
A gentle hand rested on her shoulder.
 
Looking up through bleary eyes, she saw the chaplain’s sympathetic face, as he offered her a box of tissues.
 
She gave muttered thanks and wiped her puffy eyes and blew her nose.