Burden of Sisyphus

by Jon Messenger

  “That’s disgusting!” Tusque said, clearly nauseous. “How can you eat those?”

  “I love them.”

  “No, I think he means it literally,” Yen said, while the others laughed. “You don’t have a mouth.”

  The black hide on the face oozed peach-colored liquid. Flowing like water, the ooze congealed and formed two full lips. They were out of place on the rest of his still-black face, as he smiled, revealing two rows of razor-sharp teeth. He picked up an insect and popped it into his mouth. The larvae crunched loudly, as his sharp teeth tore through the hard exoskeleton.

  “Delicious.” Ixibas scooped up the box of insects.

  “It’s only because he doesn’t have a sense of smell or taste,” Nova muttered, her brow furrowed in horror.

  “Nothing for you this time, Yen?” Tusque asked, looking at the remaining packages.

  “No family,” Yen explained. “There really isn’t anyone to send me care packages.”

  “You’re more than welcome to any food my parents send,” Nova said dramatically. “My treat.”

  Eza waved his hand in front of his face to get rid of the smell, as he came closer to the table. “Any packages for me?”

  Ainj pushed through the last packages, pulling out a small box with Eza’s name on it in feminine script. “There is, and it’s from a woman!”

  “Give that to me.” Eza’s hand snaked out in a blur, cleanly snatching the package from Ainj’s grasp. Moving away from the group, he went to his bedside with the others following. Knowing he couldn’t escape them, he opened the box and pulled out a letter and a picture of a beautiful, young, silver-haired Wyndgaart.

  “Oh, she’s cute,” Ainj said, drawing an angry punch from Nova.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Eza replied angrily. “She’s my sister.”

  “Sister?” Yen groomed himself. “Have you told her about me yet?”

  “She’s not your type,” Ainj teased.

  “But she’s yours?” Yen asked.

  “I’m everyone’s type.” He unfurled his wings.

  “Enough,” Eza said in agitation. “I’m serious. This is my little sister you’re talking about.”

  “All right,” Tusque told the group. “Enough teasing.” The massive Oterian nodded to Eza. “Tell us about her, since you so casually forgot to mention her before.”

  Eza turned to face the intrigued team. “Keryn is a brilliant little girl. Well, I guess she’s a woman now. It’s hard to believe we’ve been gone long enough that she’s a woman. She’s already old enough that she’s getting ready to graduate from the schoolhouse.”

  “Is she getting ready for Initiation, then?” Nova asked.

  “No. She’s….” He looked slightly embarrassed. “She’s not going through Initiation.”

  “I thought that was mandatory.” Ainj sidled up to Nova. “I thought the Voice forced Wyndgaarts to go through the ritual at a certain age.”

  “How much do you know about the Voice?” Seeing only a few sheepish shrugs, he tried to explain. “All Wyndgaarts are born with the Voice already part of their genetic programming. Held within that complex genetic code are the memories of centuries of warriors who came before us. For most Wyndgaarts, it’s an honor to merge with your Voice and accept the memories of your ancestors, but the merge changes a person.

  “Suddenly, the weight and responsibility of hundreds of years rests solely within the confines of our mind. As much as it’s a badge of honor to most, it’s not a requirement among us. For those who are willing to pursue different courses in life, you can find loopholes in one’s predisposition, means by which a Wyndgaart can break from his genetic coding and enact his own version of free will.”

  “You make it sound like your race is held hostage by the Voice,” Yen said. “I thought it was an honor to go through Initiation.”

  “It is for those who are willing. There has never been a greater experience for me than Initiation and finally fusing with my Voice, but that path isn’t for people like Keryn. They have too much potential to wind up like me, a gunslinger fighting on the front lines. She deserves more from life. If all goes well, she’ll never be exposed to the kind of danger we see every day.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Will you slow down?” Bellini yelled, as Keryn passed within inches of a coral pillar.

  In response, she accelerated, driving the hovercraft wildly between the coral pillars that jutted in rising spires from the surface of the cool, blue water. Tossing her head back and letting the wind whip through her flowing silver hair, she laughed and decelerated. As the hovercraft drifted onto the pearly beach, she cut the engine and let it settle gently to the sand.

  “You’re insane!” Bellini’s heart pounded in her chest.

  “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy yourself,” Keryn teased, sliding off the side of the hovercraft and smiling as gritty sand crunched underfoot. Closing her eyes, she tipped back her head to let warm sun soak into the red and purple tattoos tracing her barely concealed body.

  “If I ever join the military”, Bellini said, disrupting Keryn’s sunning, “I hope I never wind up with you as my pilot. I can only imagine what you’ll do to a spaceship.”

  “That much power at my fingertips.” Keryn ran her index finger along her best friend’s blue-and-green tattooed arm. “That’s exciting.”

  Bellini knocked away her hand and smiled. “I’ll miss you, Keryn. I know it’s corny and childish, but you’re actually leaving the planet, so I may never see you again.”

  Keryn looked at her friend sympathetically. “You’re right. That’s really corny.”

  Bellini shoved her playfully, as they began their long walk up the stairwell to the houses built precariously atop the coral rise.

  “I know you leave tomorrow, and you still have to pack,” Bellini said, as they climbed the winding stairs, “but promise me….”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be there tonight. Just because I’m not going through it doesn’t mean I won’t be there to witness your Initiation.”

  Bellini smiled despite herself before rushing ahead. “I have a ton to do before tonight. See you there.”

  “See you tonight!” Keryn called, as Bellini disappeared over the crest of the stairs and hurried home.

  Keryn didn’t want to admit it, but she truly would miss her friend. They’d been friends nearly since birth. Both families were deeply involved in off-world trade negotiations, which resulted in the children traveling in similar social circles. For sixteen years, Keryn grew comfortable with the familiar surroundings of Lagurica, the Wyndgaart home world. The thought of leaving for the Fleet Academy on Arcendor simultaneously excited and terrified her. She traveled off world only once with her parents but never left their galaxy. She hated to admit it, but she didn’t know what she was getting into.

  Pondering her future, Keryn strolled the rest of the way home and went in to change clothes for the evening and to pack for the rest of her life.

  Religious figures carved from the pink and pale-blue coral that encompassed the staircase encircled Keryn, as she climbed the last few stairs to the shrine’s flattened plateau. Male and female figure sat entwined, their legs wrapped around one another while their hands held the typical martial weapons of Wyndgaart warriors—knives, axes, and spears. Keryn looked away from the carvings, disturbed by their perverse amalgamation of sex and war. Their imagery reminded her of the Initiation to come, and a lump of fear swelled in her bosom.

  As she neared the rise, a pounding beat reverberated through her, and wild drums kept a steady rhythm in the clearing beyond. Though the moon was covered by clouds threatening rain, a soft glow was cast upon her face, and she finally entered the shrine. The glow, reflecting off two sets of elevated seats that stretched left and right, came from hundreds of small wax candles placed along the waist-high wall surrounding the open-air amphitheater.

  Keryn stepped beyond the elevated seats until she reached a set of stairs that wound through the audi
ence and would take her to her place among the already-burgeoning crowd. Her hand resting on the railing, she paused at the base of the stairs. Beyond the short wall, the shrine dropped off to crashing waves below. Candlelight illuminated a sandy stage, where a row of annual Initiates stood. Keryn caught Bellini’s eyes, as she looked over the Initiates, each clothed only in white wrappings wound repeatedly and tightly around their bodies.

  Pulling up the end of the silky dress she wore for the occasion, Keryn climbed the steep stairs and found a seat among the throng of spectators. Though respectful silence blanketed the shrine, Keryn saw her own concern mirrored in many of the gathered faces.

  There’s no reason for you to hide in the stands, a soft Voice whispered in the back of her mind. Take your place of honor among the other Initiates.

  Keryn smoothed her soft lavender dress and acted as if the Voice didn’t exist. Ignoring the whispers in her mind, she found her eyes trained on the pathway across from her, through which the Schoolmaster would soon enter. Part of her yearned to cast off her feminine dress and join her friends in the ritual circle, but she knew that a large part of those desires came not from her own wants but from those of the Voice.

  Keryn struggled since puberty to identify and separate her own emotions from those of the Voice, to make her own path instead of having it dictated by an invasive presence within her mind. It was a constant battle, one she hoped she could continue to win, as she attended the Fleet Academy.

  The drums built to a crashing crescendo. Keryn’s heart beat in rhythm with the pulsing drums, as an elderly Wyndgaart emerged from the pathway opposite the raised seats. As the Schoolmaster raised his weathered hands, the drums ceased pounding, and the shrine was cast into silence, save for the thunderous crashing of waves below.

  “May the sun strengthen your body, as the waves strengthen your soul,” he began in traditional prayer.

  “There’s power in the Voice,” the audience replied in unison.

  Keryn mouthed the words without speaking them, knowing it was better to remain silent than blaspheme within the Shrine of Initiation. She never followed the organized religion of her people as blindly as most expected of the younger generation. Her voiced dissent was one of the primary reasons she found herself sitting among the spectators instead of taking her place as an Initiate.

  Two priests emerged from the pathway carrying heavy bundles. The objects were swaddled heavily on coarse, brown fabric, obscuring their shape. Pulling incense sticks from within his robes, the old man lit them in a candle. Thick, blue smoke poured from the incense, and the weathered man waved the sticks back and forth over the bundles, muttering soft prayers. Turning, he walked down the row of Initiates, waving the incense stick in intricate patterns above each candidate.

  Returning to the center of the stage, he spoke to the audience, giving a speech that was not only well-rehearsed but repeated each year to a similar crowd. “The annual Initiation has been a time-honored tradition among the Wyndgaart for hundreds of years. The ritual is an important step for our youth on their way to adulthood, but this ritual is more than just a stepping stone in puberty. It’s a significant statement to the dedication and commitment of these Initiates.

  “Behind me stands the potential future for our civilization. These future leaders, generals, and honored warriors will guide the path of our society for generations. This is a heavy burden, but one that I can personally guarantee each is ready and willing to accept.”

  The Schoolmaster stepped aside, allowing the audience full view of the gathered Initiates. “Each of these Initiates has trained diligently under the combined tutelage of the school’s priests and instructors. They’ve been taught social skills, studied histories of dozens of modern and historic cultures, and trained in fighting styles passed down and improved over hundreds of years of open warfare. They’re prepared in mind, body, and soul to go through the Initiation.

  “Only one step remains in their training—the Initiation. Every year, half our students can’t overcome the rigors of Initiation. They’re rejected by their Voice and cast aside as failures. This is a laborious ritual that requires each Initiated to find his internal strength. For some, the sense of family drives them to succeed. For others, they find a previously untapped reserve of dedication that pushes them beyond and above their peers.”

  Keryn swallowed hard, a knot forming in her stomach. Bellini was a talented, brilliant warrior, but still, Keryn feared for her safety during the dangerous ritual.

  “We gather today to welcome those who complete the Initiation into the fold of the warrior caste. This is also a ritual to honor those who don’t succeed. We honor their memories and the loss each family feels, as their son or daughter falls within the Warrior’s Circle.”

  The Schoolmaster gestured to the priests standing to either side of the Initiates, straddling their heavy bundles. In unison, they dropped to one knee and untied the thick cord holding the bundles closed. They unfurled the bundles with great reverence, revealing row after row of metal weapons that glistened in the dim candlelight.”

  “Initiates,” the Schoolmaster called without turning toward the nervous students, “choose your weapons carefully. Your decision at this juncture could very well determine your fate.”

  The students split into two groups and walked toward their respective bundles. In the organized chaos, Initiates pulled free swords, knives, axes, and spears, arming themselves with the weapons with which they felt most comfortable. Keryn watched Bellini’s lithe form bend to gather a spear and dagger from the pile. She tested the spear’s balance and swung it slowly in an arc. Satisfied, though her expression betrayed no emotion, she rejoined her fellow Initiates in their line, armed with dangerously sharp weapons.

  She was never as good at hand-to-hand combat as you were, the Voice mocked. Join her and show her how it’s done.

  Keryn frowned, growing annoyed at the Voice for its intrusion and at herself for know it was right. Bellini, a talented warrior, had the potential to excel in the Initiation, but she paled in comparison to Keryn’s skill with a long and short knife.

  Even without me, the Voice continued, you were exceptional. Just think of how much better we’d be together.

  “Silence,” she hissed quietly, though her outburst drew concerned looks from those nearby.

  Keryn turned her attention to the stage, as the Schoolmaster stopped in the center of the sandy circle and prepared to speak again. As the crowd grew silent, a drum beat a slow, rhythmic pace.

  “We’ve gathered to welcome those into the fold and honor those who fall tonight.”

  The drum began building to a maddening crescendo.

  “It’s time to identify our first two Initiates.”

  The drum pounded wildly, as two priests approached from the wings, carrying wooden bowls. They stopped on either side of the Schoolmaster, holding the bowls out. As he reached into their curved interiors, the drum stopped, casting the audience into an eerily charged silence.

  The Schoolmaster took a slip of paper from each bowl and held them before his eyes to read the names. “Yusef,” he said loudly.

  A strong, male Wyndgaart stepped forward with a loincloth around his waist, carrying a curved ax in each hand.

  Dropping the first piece of paper, the Schoolmaster read the second name. “Bellini.”

  The thin blonde stepped forward, bowing slightly to the crowd. The rest of the Initiates stepped back until they stood against the far wall, where they took seats. Perched precariously on the edge of the cliff, they watched the chosen pair take places on either end of the Warrior’s Circle. Facing each other, Bellini and Yusef took practice swings with their weapons, stretching their muscles in anticipation of the battle.

  Keryn felt a knot tighten in her stomach and reflexively let her hand run over the thin, silky fabric covering her. Yusef was a superb warrior who stood with unwavering confidence, flipping the axes in a dizzying display. His hands were unbelievably quick, as he tossed one ax, then t
he other.

  “Initiates,” the Schoolmaster called, his frail voice carrying over the quiet crowd. “I don’t need to explain the rules to you. You’ve trained all your lives for this moment. Fight with honor.” Turning, the withered old man walked from the circle, clearing the way for the two combatants. Stopping just outside the circle, he looked back. “Begin!”

  Bellini and Yusef circled each other, a sheen of sweat on their bodies reflecting the candlelight. Testing each other’s defenses, they took turns snapping their weapons forward. Bellini’s spear was deflected wide. Yusef’s ax was turned aside by her flashing dagger. Content the fight wouldn’t end quickly, both settled into offensive stances before charging.

  Spinning aside, Bellini dodged both axes, as they came toward her in an over-handed chop. Yusef tilted his head aside at the last moment, letting her spear slip inches wide, as she jabbed at his face. Reaching up with an ax, he hooked the curved bottom of the blade around the spear shaft and pulled down, trapping the wood against his shoulder, and drove his other ax forward in an unexpected thrust.

  Bellini was barely able to get her dagger in the way and stop the ax’s forward momentum. Locked together, they stared at each other. Yusef set his right foot behind him and pushed, trying to use his superior weight and strength to his advantage. Though her arm strained against the pressure, his ax pushed her dagger back, dipping the blade closer and closer toward her exposed neck.

  With a final surge, he threw his weight forward. Breaking free of their locked position, Bellini leaped backward but was slower than Yusef. She cried out in pain, as the tip of the ax slashed her upper right arm. Though it wasn’t a deep wound, her eyes showed surprise.

  “First blood has been claimed by Yusef,” the Schoolmaster called.

  Settling back into their stances, Yusef began stalking Bellini again. Her blood still marked the end of his ax, a reminder that even the slightest misstep could be fatal in the Warrior’s Circle. As he stepped forward, Bellini swung her spear in a high arc.