The Necessary Evil
22 Jun 2018Isaiah Evanson
Do you ever feel the loneliness crushing you?That was the question Isaiah wanted to ask the woman laying next to him in his bed. Her skin was warm, still inviting him to run his fingers along her soft cheek, her slender arm, the sensuous curve of her hips. But he refrained. Instead of indulging in the desire to touch with — and be touched by — caring hands,.he watched shadows dance on the ceiling, cast from the city lights outside his bedroom window.
It was a meaningless encounter that started in one of the few all-night bars in Leeson City. There was no tiptoeing around the matter — she was looking for company, and he was playing things straight with her about his intentions as well. They’d gone back to his place with only a few questions, took their pleasure, and…
He wasn’t sure if she was awake — he didn’t have the courage to ask. But he wondered how the conversation might go. Maybe she’d confess her loneliness as well, and there’d be some common connection beyond the physical. Maybe they’d find some sort of solace in knowing they were being truly honest instead of simply masking their deepest pain with their chance encounter.
But it wouldn’t happen. It never did. The pain was numbed in the act, and when it was over, there was just… this. Whatever this is.
Isaiah hadn’t always been this way — sleeping with strangers. There was a time when he was utterly terrified of it. It was a newly-acquired vice. He indulged at the Olive Grove one night and now it was an escape. He’d forgotten what it felt like it feel something good. And when it felt as good as it did to have someone’s body next to his own, he couldn’t handle the thought of denying himself any longer.
You can only go so long without another person’s touch before you start feeling as though you don’t even exist.
His mind drifted to Cait, as it often did. Whether in pleasurable company or on his own, his thoughts always turned to her. He wondered if she was doing the same somewhere, sleeping beside a man she didn’t know. Or worse, sleeping beside a man she did know, and loved. It had been long enough. Had she found someone after settling down? Was she happy without him?
He felt a familiar lump in his throat. These were thoughts, feelings, emotions that he never bothered to share with anyone else. If he had, his path would have become far darker than it already was.
Isaiah reluctantly turned over onto his side, his back facing the woman in his bed. He drew his arms around himself, trying to imagine that the person he was laying next to was Cait. He craved her touch, the sound of her voice. An eternity seemed to separate him from the last time he felt her body against his.
The woman next to him shifted slightly. He waited, wondering what she’d do next. The weight on the mattress shifted again and he felt the woman sit upright in the bed before casting aside the blankets and standing. He could hear her gathering up her clothes, then the sound of the bathroom door opening. The light flickered on before the door closed.
Isaiah didn’t say a word.
Loneliness. He didn’t mind being alone. Before things took the turn that they did, he enjoyed being alone. But this was something else — something that robbed him of his spirit and weighed heavily on his soul. It was bad enough being hated for his choices, but the loneliness was the slow knife that was killing him from within.
And it was a vulnerability. It was like depriving a man of food and water for weeks and presenting a feast to them. Anyone seeking to get to him could exploit his favorite vice, and there’d be nothing he could do. He’d quite literally be on his back and at the mercy of whoever had him pinned.
Minutes passed, and Isaiah sat upright in the bed. He ran his hands over his face, trying to think of something to say when the woman came back out. He didn’t want to be alone for the rest of the night, and some part of him hoped she didn’t either. But when the door opened and she came out wrapped in a towel, he looked back and had nothing to say.
“I need to go,” she said, not making eye contact. She went to the bedroom door.
“Wait,” he said. He struggled to find something to say, something to keep her from leaving.
“What?”
“You don’t want to stay for breakfast?” Fucking idiot. Does she look like she wants anymore contact with you? You both got what you wanted and you’re trying to extend a courtesy to her—
The woman shrugged. “No. I have to get my ship ready.” She turned the latch and opened the door, but stopped before she crossed the threshold.
“It was a pleasure,” she said quietly. “But that’s all that it was.”
The door closed, and Isaiah was alone again.
As always.
* * *
Evalyn Voss grinded her teeth, pacing slowly around the small break room, waiting for the coffee machine to finish brewing the only thing that would make the early hour bearable. It was the only meaningful activity she could find while she waited for Boltz to come into the office.
They’d been partners for two years now; Boltz wasn’t much older than she was, but if anyone asked, he’d insist she was the more cynical one of the pair. It was an assertion she wasn’t going to disagree with. Working her way up through the ranks of the Internal Security Service had been no small feat. She was angling for a place in the Imperial Proctorate, but…
Prism has been a thorn in my side since that goddamn traitor left.
She’d been charged with leading the investigation into Ambassador Delaney after the Legion’s two senior officers defected to help Kahina Loren. Mission creep inevitably led her to overseeing the daily security operations for the entirety of the Prism sector.
If she was being honest with herself, she took no small measure of pride in having kept the ship straight and true. But it irritated her to think that all of her hard work was in danger of being ruined by the same person who betrayed his loyalties to the Empire. Oddly enough, Evanson’s return to Prism had spurred some sense of righteous indignation in her heart. She not only wanted to protect her investment in the region, but also put him in his place.
And so her mind conjured up visions of seeing him put into chains, marched out to the center of Loren Piazza, and publicly shamed before being hung for his crimes. Even though public executions were the thing of fantasy in this civilized age, the dark desire remained. Maybe someone would get brave and put him down before she had to. Less paperwork would be involved.
It’s what that bastard deserves.
There were rumors churning continuously in the back rooms and dark corridors that people were plotting against the Legion because of Evanson’s return. Senator Faveol was a man that no one felt confident in, and his commutation of Evanson’s sentence did him no favors. Hushed whispers from Capitol said that his rise to Prism’s seat of power was a feeble attempt to restore his own meager legacy. Many got the sense that he was merely a figurehead… but for who?
“Morning, sunbeam,” Boltz said, striding into the break room with a large data slate tucked under his arm. “Have you had your coffee yet or should I keep my distance?”
Evalyn snapped an icy look at Boltz, half wishing that such a glance would have exerted enough physical force to crack his jaw. Alas, it remained firmly attached to his skull. “Keep talking like that and it won’t matter if I’ve had my coffee or not.”
Boltz chuckled to himself as he bellied up to the countertop, taking over the process of pouring them both a cup. “I’m guessing you’ve heard the news then.”
“What news?”
A grin crept over Boltz’s gaunt face. “Mobilizing for war against the Archon Horde in HIP 114135.”
“Now?” Evalyn’s jaw dropped open. “Is Faveol mad?”
“Seems he’s got no patience for pirates,” Boltz replied, pushing a cup of coffee over to Evalyn. “Legion’s on the march again, it seems. This is right after the election victory in HIP 114291, too.”
“I don’t understand. Why so soon?”
Boltz took a noisy sip from his cup, then shrugged his shoulders. “Something tells me it’s to inspire the troops, so to speak. Get people back into a particular mindset. They’re coming off a long period of idleness and uncertainty. Faveol’s trying to instill confidence in the Legion again.”
“You think it’ll work?”
Boltz shrugged again. “What if it does, what if it doesn’t? Our job doesn’t change.”
Evalyn chewed on the inside of her lip, lifting her cup to her lips and inhaling the scent of the beverage. “I’m still trying to figure out what our job is now, exactly.”
“Keeping an eye on the new management.”
“Really? Sounds more like babysitting to me.”
“Well, someone is keen to know what’s happening here,” Boltz said, reaching for his data slate. He tapped the screen nonchalantly, then held it up for Evalyn to see. “Read this and tell me that something doesn’t add up.”
Evalyn turned and leaned against the counter, cautiously supping at her cup as she read the local news article.
08 June, 3304 - High-Profile Corporation Investing in Prism
The Achilles Corporation, an industry leader in the fields of robotics and aerospace, have announced that a new manufacturing facility will be constructed in the Prism system.
Spokeswoman Cass Rosenthal said in a press conference on Chione: “The Achilles Corporation is proud to announce our Prism manufacturing center. We sought a place where we could design, construct, and field-test our newest lines of automated industrial rigs and construction exoskeletons, and the Prism system more than fits that criteria."
The new facility is expected to bring in roughly five thousand new jobs, as well as bolster economic growth.
The move comes as a result of Senator Vespar Faveol’s announcement of a new initiative to strengthen the infrastructure and invest in new economic opportunities for the systems that benefit from his patronage.
“Many in the Empire regard this corner of Imperial space to be a backwater, but I humbly contest that claim,” he was quoted as saying during the Achilles Corporation press conference. “We are far more than some backwater. We are an untapped wellspring of potential. I invite all who seek new opportunities to come to Prism and seek a new horizon.”
Critics have been quick to point out the questionable stability of the region, citing the proximity of Thargoid attacks to Prism and her surrounding systems.
Cass Rosenthal addressed the problem head-on: “Achilles Corporation has been very selective in where we decide to place our facilities. We feel secure in knowing that Loren’s Legion has kept a firm hand on the systems surrounding Prism for the past two years, and if there is any threat that presents itself to our investments, we trust the Legion to protect them on our behalf.”
Evalyn bristled slightly, setting her cup down a little too hard. Coffee spilled over the sides, splashing on the countertop. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath, quickly turning to grab paper towels and clean up the mess.
“Yeah,” Boltz agreed. “Shit indeed.”
“So you tell me what you’re thinking and I’ll tell you what I’m thinking,” Evalyn said, dabbing at the mess. She glanced out of the corner of her eye, studying Boltz’s reaction.
“Seems odd to me that Faveol earned that kind of investment right off the bat,” Boltz said, turning the slate back around. “It’s funny, you know? Just doesn’t look right. We didn’t even know he was in the running to be Senator, and yet here we are. Now there’s investors lining up all the way to Achenar, wanting to tap into the resources of this area of space.”
“That isn’t entirely unsurprising considering the resources available, but Achilles is a perplexing one,” Evalyn remarked.
“They aren’t the only one either. There’s less… savory types taking an interest in the new management. The acquisitions division of Interstellar Factors, for one.”
Evalyn frowned. Anarchists. Of course. Evanson made a name for himself fighting for them in Coma.
Boltz shook his head and sighed. “If this happened over the course of months, I might be inclined to think it was simply the work of a master statesman. But the speed at which these events have transpired… I don’t know. Maybe he’s been angling all this time for this moment. Poised for a comeback. Maybe he’s not the impotent old man we all figured him to be.”
“I don’t think so,” Evalyn replied. She stared down into her coffee and watched as the streamers of cream and coffee swirled about lazily. Her fingers drummed on the marble as she worked on the problem in her mind. “Faveol was ambitious, but he was never particularly cunning. He’s more of a blunt instrument than a surgical one. I feel like there’s more to this than we’re seeing. Someone’s pulling the strings, and it isn’t Vespar Faveol,” she concluded.
“That’d be my guess as well.” Bolz looked down at his slate, his mouth twisting slightly. “Gonna be late to a meeting. Gotta run.”
“Eyes and ears open,” Evalyn said.
“Always,” Boltz replied, turning on his heel and leaving the break room.
Just doesn’t look right. Mobilization for war, victory in the latest election, investors flocking to the region, the return of one of the local heroes… why does it feel like this is all one big play for power? Faveol didn’t get this far on his own merit.
Evalyn closed her eyes tightly. She could see Evanson again in her mind’s eye, the night he returned to Chione.
Is it you? Could it be you?
He’d flown in like he knew exactly what would happen next. No fear. No reservations. He accepted his fate with the stoicism of a monk. And what he’d said to her…
I do not care about the Empire.
“Goddamnit,” Evalyn swore, snapping up her coffee and taking a swig. She couldn’t see it being masterminded by a common criminal like Isaiah Evanson. Someone else was behind the veil, working the strings, pulling the levers. And they were sharp.
She needed to be sharper.
* * *
On the back wall of the ready room was a wood bas relief. It depicted, in stunningly intricate detail, the profile of four skeletonized horses and their mounts. On each horse rode a cloaked Reaper, some holding their scythes outstretched, another holding it down low at its side. One pointed towards some enemy outside the scene. Above them was the profile of a Fer-de-Lance, hardpoints out, charging forth towards battle.
Isaiah managed a slight smile at seeing Phisto Sobanii, his friend and the Legion’s second-in-command, admiring the artwork.
“That is probably one of the most impressive things I’ve seen in this whole place,” Phisto said, running a finger along the nose of the carved Fer-de-Lance. “Where did you get this?”
“One of the traders we saved during Operation Mythic a year ago sent that to us,” Isaiah replied, his arms folded across his chest. “Turns out he really appreciated the help. Made that just for us.”
Phisto continued to study the carving, seemingly absorbing all of the fine details with a practiced eye. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a place like this?” He paused, looking back at Isaiah and gesturing to the room with his hand. “The Athenaeum, I mean.”
Isaiah shrugged, turning away from Phisto to glance back at the holofac console in the center of the room. “I honestly thought I’d never see it again...”
The ready room stank of sweat and stale air. Seats were arranged around the holofac console at the center. Conversations went on indistinctly as those present watched and re-watched the combat footage from the skirmish earlier in the day.
The “instructors” from Loren’s Legion had taken advantage of every weakness that their Children of Raxxla “students” had shown. The battle hadn’t even lasted five minutes, but by the time it was over, nearly every large ship had been driven from the field.
The Children of Raxxla pilots were obviously disappointed in their performance, and from his seated position on the floor in front of the holofac, Isaiah knew it was a hard dose of reality for them. He sympathized. Memories of training during his time in the Eravate system defense forces bubbled just below his inscrutable countenance.
He’d gotten used to having his ass handed to him by the experienced veterans. It always bothered him, knowing his mistakes could have cost him his life if it’d been real. But the sting helped him focus. He knew it was better to toil and sweat and agonize over the details in a safe environment than to do it in real combat, when lives were on the line.
One of his wingmen had finished showing his recorder footage, and was wrapping up his analysis of the fight when Isaiah’s combat recorder footage appeared next in the queue. A prompt appeared on the console. All eyes turned to him.
He glanced around the room at the members of his wing, taking measure of them. Grizzled veterans of the Pegasi Pirate War, all of them. They’d been holding the line against the forces of the Kumo Crew for nearly two years, and they were still fresh from Operation Mythic, distinguishing themselves against the pirates prowling the shipping lanes during the Legion’s appeal for tantalum.
The Children of Raxxla pilots, however, were only moderately experienced with combat. They were traders, explorers, not warfighters — yet they’d come to Prism for instruction. They wanted to be ready when the time came to stand up and fight. Isaiah admired their persistence, their determination. But he knew, in that moment, that they were feeling the pangs of uncertainty.
“I don’t have much to add to what’s already been stated,” Isaiah said calmly, quietly fiddling with the twist cap on his water bottle, chewing on the inside of his upper lip. “We’ve established that focused fire is devastating against large ships, and a well-coordinated wing can utterly destroy an entire fleet of combat-fitted vessels in no time flat.”
The fight had been a savaging — Isaiah’s wing had made quick work of several Cutters and Anacondas, focusing all of their fire on each ship before moving on. One Cutter had fallen in only a matter of seconds, while another had its shields worn down quickly until it fled. The wing waded through the Children of Raxxla ships until the simulated destruction of their flight lead’s Fer-de-Lance spelled the end of the mock engagement.
It was not a pretty sight. But it was necessary.
“A wing of determined attackers can quickly overwhelm superior numbers if the superior force is uncoordinated and doesn’t have an assigned role,” Isaiah continued, clearing his throat. He looked up at Cornelius and his wingmen, which included a well-to-do but wet-behind-the-ears Legion rookie. “Corrigendum’s flight kept the fight anchored while mine went through and routed the large ships one by one.”
He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, looking over at the Children of Raxxla pilots, noting the grim expressions on their faces. He continued: “You saw the elephant up close today. I know it sucks and it’s not a good feeling right now, but this is the reality you face. This is what you’re up against. It’s as real as it gets, folks. Over the next few weeks, we’re going to work hard to instill confidence in yourselves and in your wingmen. We’ll teach you how to fly and fight as a cohesive unit.”
Isaiah’s eyes softened slightly, looking at the tired faces of each one of them. “But you cannot give up. You can’t let this setback determine what happens next.”
He listened to himself as he talked to them, wondering at what point it occurred to him to take a paternal view of the pilots in his charge. Most of them he’d never met before, and would likely never see again once their training was complete, and yet he felt some attachment to them.
“So… we have a lot of work ahead of us,” he continued, pushing off the wall at his back and rising to his full height, approaching the holofac console. He dismissed the combat footage, instead opting for a holographic diorama of each ship as it was in the fight. “We’re gonna run some defensive drills in a bit, so let’s discuss the game plan, then we’ll get back out there.”
He looked around the room one last time, managed a wry grin, then added: “Well, how ‘bout it? Harden up, ladies and gents, we’re not done by a long shot.”
“I — we trained them. The Children of Raxxla. In this room,” Isaiah said, thinking back wistfully on the long hours in the simulators, in-depth debriefings, and sleepless nights worrying about all that still had to be done. The memories crashed over him in waves.
Behind his eyes he could still see each of their faces, each one wearing masks of uncertainty and doubt. They looked to him to guide them through, and there were times where even he wondered if he could carry the burden.
No chance in hell. That’s what people honestly believed. And yet, in such a short time, they’d proven to themselves that it could be done. Kahina Loren could be protected, even saved if necessary.
Inevitably, Cait’s memory poked through the snapshots in his mind. While he was secretly training Salomé’s vanguard, Cait languished at home alone without him, and without any idea about what he was really doing.
“Hey, you all right?” Phisto asked, placing a hand on Isaiah’s shoulder. “Still with me?”
Isaiah shook himself out of his reminiscence and nodded. “Yeah. Sorry.” He ran a hand over his mouth and sighed. “Come on, walk with me. Still need to show you the hangar.”
The pair exited the ready room, the actinic lights winking out behind them. They went down a long corridor, their footsteps echoing off the vaulted ceiling and polished marble floor.
“So why is this place called the Athenaeum?” Phisto asked. “Isn’t that just a fancy word for a library?”
“Cornelius had the idea to call it that,” Isaiah said, speaking with his hands as much as his mouth. “We wanted a place that could house our quick-response ships. Except this wouldn’t simply be a hangar, it’d be… a ludus. Which is just a fancy way of calling it a school.”
“Imperials do seem to enjoy their ancient Roman influences, don’t they?” Phisto said, half-jokingly.
The corners of Isaiah’s mouth quirked upwards. “You have no idea. But yes, this was meant to be a full-service facility. We have ship engineers, components, maintenance crews, training facilities, living accommodations. The view ain’t bad either,” he said, turning left down another long corridor. Ahead of them, clear panels of reinforced duraglass wrapped around the top half of the corridor, allowing Prism’s light to shine and illuminate the way.
The Athenaeum was situated in the middle of the ocean, some 400 kilometers away from New Ithaca and the seat of power on Chione. A modular facility, it could be expanded with relative ease to accommodate larger vessels, more personnel, and other amenities. In an emergency, it could even submerge for a short period of time.
“Ever seen a water launch?” Isaiah asked Phisto, a smug look on his face.
“Water launch? Like what, a missile?”
“I mean a ship.”
Phisto’s jaw slackened ever so slightly. “You can do that?”
“It’s not something you wanna do frequently, but yeah — we can launch vessels from underwater if we need to.”
“No shit?” Phisto whistled. “How’d you manage to get a place like this built anyway?”
“Financial planning, investments from the systems benefitting from our patronage.” Isaiah visibly scowled at the end of his sentence. “Much as I don’t like seeing systems having to answer to an authority, I’m not going to complain about the perks of it here. I just hope we don’t lose our way and become like every other government to ever exist.”
It was one of Isaiah’s greatest fears — becoming what he hated most. Tyrannical authority. Dictating what could or could not be done to people under his care. It was a fine line over which one could easily slip across and not notice. He was aware of the apparatus at their disposal, and how easily they could apply it to the wrong cause.
Everything he did, he second-guessed, evaluated, scrutinized. But even after examining it from every angle, he could never be sure he was seeing it the way others saw it.
“I trust you,” Phisto said. “And I’ll call you out on it if I ever see you get out of line. But you need to trust yourself as well, you hear me Isaiah?”
Isaiah nodded his head as they came to a halt in a massive observation deck. Below them, the cavernous hangar bay stretched out from one end of the glass to the other, and beyond. Although many of the bays were empty, ships of all sizes and types were berthed in a few of them, separated and surrounded by catwalks and cranes. People mulled about while sparks flew from arc welders as crews effected repairs and modifications to the vessels parked in the bay.
One ship in particular was receiving an overhaul, hull panels and internal components being removed and set aside while new ones were being installed. It was an Imperial Clipper.
The Seven Veils.
“Is that—”
“Yup,” Isaiah cut Phisto off. “She’s been in need of it for a while. Especially after the fight we had with your friend.”
Phisto made a low sound of acknowledgment. “I know you had her flight-worthy some time ago, but…”
“Like I said, she needed an update. I can’t have the ship bearing Kahina’s legacy lying around and collecting rust.”
Phisto laughed heartily, leaning forward and bracing his arms against the window sill. “Goddamnit Isaiah, this is real, isn’t it? All of this. We’re actually doing it.”
Isaiah crossed his arms behind his back, studying the crews as they went about their work. “We are. But we’re on an uphill incline right now. We’ve got more than a few enemies looking at us. Some of them are former friends who aren’t happy to see us doing well. Others are people who remember what we did in Coma and aren’t going to step in to stop us from falling down if we take a hit. We need to be on our guard.”
“No one is coming. It’s up to us,” Phisto said, looking over at his friend. “Isn’t that what you always say?”
Isaiah nodded.
“We’re gonna need pilots,” Phisto continued, straightening his posture. “You know, I could use my contacts and see if we can recruit from some of the local systems. I’m sure Kahina’s legacy reaches much further than Prism.”
“I’m inclined to agree, and if you want to pursue recruitment, then feel free to. There’s a few systems that I can think of that had some sympathetic elements. Haoria. Atroco. Njorth. Guguroro. Those might be good places to start.”
“I’ll make arrangements then.”
Isaiah nodded, his gaze never breaking from the sight of the Clipper. It seemed to be an embodiment of what was happening with the Legion — the structure was there, but it was in need of a great deal of work. It required effort to repair and restore. But most of all, it required the right set of tools and the right set of hands wielding them to bring the Legion back to life.
They needed more than pilots. They needed people. They needed the people. And out here in the backwater of the Empire, people either regarded the authorities with disdain… or with reverence.
He wanted to make sure the people regarded the Legion as protectors of their lives and livelihoods.
“Look for pilots like us,” Isaiah said to Phisto. “The outlaws. The firestarters. Revolutionaries. Warriors. The common folks. The smugglers and traders that live on the edge. The disaffected and disenchanted. The outcasts. We’ll need to persuade them.”
Isaiah glanced sidelong at Phisto, who had a smug grin of his own on his face. “I can be a very persuasive person,” he said, winking at Isaiah. “Trust me.”
“Well then, get to it,” Isaiah replied. “No time to waste.”
“Aye, sir.” Phisto cracked a genuine smile, then turned on his heel to leave.
Isaiah returned his gaze to the hangar bay. He tried to visualize what it might look like to have dozens of ships. He tried to imagine what it might be like to see ships leaving and coming back from sorties around the Prism sector.
He tried to imagine a future where the Legion and the Prism sector itself stood apart from the Empire, and instead stood for something more. Something true. Something real.
But for the time being, they would need to go beyond the accepted norms. They’d need to move outside of the confines of Imperial law — indeed, all law — and do what was necessary to protect Prism and her sister systems… from the Thargoids, from the superpowers…
And the Club.
He knew they were watching. He knew they’d taken notice. And in some way, he felt proud. Defiant. You didn’t destroy us. You didn’t defeat us. You just inspired us to find another way. You want to see Kahina’s legacy forgotten?
You’ll have to come and take it.