The Wheel Turns
29 Oct 2018Isaiah Evanson
Isaiah Evanson. Born September 19th, 3270 in Chantilly on Eravate Five. Former Federal Navy Auxiliary, Federation Foreign Service. Later joined Loren’s Legion after defecting to Imperial forces following allegations that he may have attempted to assassinate the High Commissioner of the Foreign Service.Evalyn shook her head in disbelief. She was stunned that such a man was ever allowed to integrate back into society, let alone achieve such notoriety and high rank in the Empire. From what she could tell, he had a history of shady dealings. He skirted the law when it suited him, even before he came to Prism. He had a pattern about him — moving from place to place, worming his way into the inner workings of an organization or group, and then ripping it apart.
As she laid in bed, she studied images of him contained in his dossier. His jaw was always set, his gaze was somehow always defiant. But she could see hints of weariness in the candid images. It was the depth of the wrinkles in his forehead, the beginnings of crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. She saw the mileage wearing on him.
That’s your great folly. You can’t stand the peace and quiet. You need the fight because it’s all you know.
She studied his personal history next, sifting through the documents pertaining to his life before joining the Federal Navy Auxiliary. He’d been married, but for some reason or another the name of his wife had been redacted and sealed. Her clearances wouldn’t permit her to see the identity of his late wife, nor anything pertaining to her. Even images of the woman were edited heavily.
Evalyn chewed on the inside of her lip. Concealment signaled to her that there was something to hide, but she couldn’t think of a good explanation. She flicked through past known romantic partners. To her surprise, they were few and far between. Aside from the odd one-night stand in the years following the Eravate insurrection, there was only one other romantic interest that yielded anything of insight.
Caitlin Miranda Shaughnessy.
An Elite combat pilot that had been tasked with hunting Evanson, they’d apparently clashed and both were injured as a result of their encounter. She’d come out with a head injury, and despite the fact that she’d sought to kill him and claim his bounty, Isaiah had extended the olive branch.
They talked. Talking became flirting. Flirting led to romance. And romance inevitably led to secrets. While she couldn’t be certain that there was anything that could incriminate Evanson politically, she knew there had to be something that would cast doubt upon his character. The relationship did end, after all. There had to be a reason for that.
She filed that bit of information away in her mind, and was about to continue perusing Evanson’s file when a k-cast notification appeared in the center the display.
BOLTZ, DILLEGARD.
With a roll of her eyes, she acknowledged it.
“What are you doing up this early?” Boltz asked, his voice coming out as a rasp. “You’re in the killhouse today.”
“Nope. Personal holiday,” Evalyn replied with a smirk that might have been a little too smug given the other party in the conversation. “Not going into the killhouse until next month.”
“Ah. Perks of seniority. I see how it is.”
“No, those are the perks of reliability. Work hard, prove indispensable to the agency, have a good attitude about shitty assignments.” Evalyn added emphasis to make her point. “Try it sometime. You might find yourself in excellent places.”
“That last part is bullshit. We both got the Prism assignment because we work hard.”
“I’m not the one having to go into work today though, am I?”
Boltz rubbed his eyes and leaned in closer to the holofac lens, whispering. “Nobody likes you.”
Both of them laughed.
“Hey, while I have you,” Evalyn said, making a flicking gesture towards the display. “You know anything about Caitlin Shaughnessy?”
“Evanson’s old fling? Little bit.” Boltz’s eyes became unfocused and he studied the documents Evalyn had just sent him. “Shit-hot ex-bounty hunter. Emphasis on the hot,” he said, giving a low whistle. “What’s got your attention?”
“From what I can tell, they were together for a little while. No clear reason for why they split up, though if I had to hazard a guess, I’d put money on it being due to Evanson’s involvement with Kahina Loren.”
“What, you think Evanson was putting moves on Loren and Shau--Shan—”
“Shaughnessy,”
“That word,” Boltz made a gesture with his hand that was half-point, half-wave. “Yeah. You think he was cheating on her with Loren and she found out about it?”
Evalyn shook her head. “No. I mean it’s not outside the realm of possibility, but Evanson seems less like a love-’em-and-leave-’em type. He was married once.”
“So? That’s never stopped anyone. You’d know, you were married once too.”
Evalyn’s eyes narrowed. “Wherever you’re going, don’t.” She brushed a lock of her hair back behind her ear and looked away, trying to banish the thoughts of her ex-husband and his “hobby.” She still had the scar to remind her.
She quickly pivoted back to Evanson. “He’s nothing if not monogamous. Very few partners in the past few years — actually, that number was at three up until recently, with Shaughnessy being a relatively long-term interest. She probably knows a lot about him. Maybe some intimate details that could shed light on his motivations. If we’re lucky, maybe even some incriminating evidence.”
“Interview her?”
Evalyn’s index finger tapped thoughtfully at her lower lip. “Maybe. If I can. A jilted lover can be convinced of a great many things.”
“She’ll want evidence.”
“If fabrications are necessary, they won’t be hard to create.”
Boltz blinked a few times. “That’s not very ethical.”
“Ethics isn’t the point. I need a line of attack if I’m going to get Evanson on his back foot.”
“Might want to keep it off the books if you do decide to pull on that thread. Agency doesn’t like extracurricular activities. Evanson won’t like it either, especially if you start telling lies about him to an ex.”
Evalyn nodded, shifting slightly in her bed and pulling the blankets up to her neck. “Yeah, yeah.” Her mouth twisted slightly as she flicked through another page. “Everything I look at, he’s got his shit on lock. He doesn’t let anybody get close to him, and those that are close are loyal to a fault. He’s always armed. He’s always suspicious. He or Sobanii always hand-pick their closest confidants. I don’t see an obvious way to get intel on him.”
Boltz made a show of rubbing his chin. His eyebrows lifted as a flicker of an idea crossed his features. “Maybe you need to look a little closer.”
Evalyn shrugged. She gazed at an image of Evanson and Shaughnessy, captured from a closed-circuit camera months ago. They were holding hands, walking along the Leeson City riverfront. Shaughnessy was looking out over the water, but Evanson’s eyes were fixed on her.
“He loved her,” Evalyn said. “He loved Caitlin. There was no infidelity there. She left him.”
“How do you know?”
Evalyn sent the image to Boltz. “See that? I know that look well. That’s the look of a man in love,” she said. “And if she left him, he’s going to be hurting. So where would he go to soothe his pain?”
“I’d go to a whorehouse, get blitzed, and let a couple of redheads have their way with me,” Boltz said with a laugh. “But that’s just me.”
The gears turned in Evalyn’s head, working through the possibility. It made sense. He was a man who’d been through ordeal after ordeal. For well over a year, he’d been an island unto himself. How long could a man like him go before he sought to connect again? His circumstances had been anything but normal, and even something as simple as a one night stand could give him some sort of relief from the tempest surrounding him.
“You might be onto something, Dill,” she said, thinking it through. “That… that makes a lot of sense.” She sat up, holding the blanket to herself to protect her modesty, and swung her legs out to the side of the bed. She swore under her breath and ran a hand through her hair, thinking.
“You think he’d visit a whorehouse?”
“Hard to say. He might just be hooking up with whoever spreads their legs for him. But… it’s a thought. It’s an angle I can work with.”
“So does that mean you’re coming into work today?”
Evalyn shot Boltz a dirty look and shook her head. “Like hell. I’ve got most of my work here at home anyway.”
Boltz rolled his eyes and sighed, sitting back from the screen slightly. “All right, you have yourself a good time slaving over your work then. Some of us have to shoot things today.”
“Have fun flashbanging plasteel cutouts,” Evalyn replied. “Try not to get shot in that pretty face.”
“I really, really hate you,” Boltz said, grinning from ear to ear.
A few moments passed. Evalyn stared at the display for a little longer, watching Boltz as he forced himself to get out of his own bed. She liked him, perhaps more than she should have. For the time they’d been working together, she’d kept her distance for the most part. But lately it seemed like she was becoming more interested in the man behind the badge, so to speak.
“Hey Ev?” Boltz said, taking one last look at the holofac. “Try not to get sucked into this, will you? I know you want Evanson’s head on a plate, but some threads are better left to fray.”
Evalyn measured her words carefully, then replied. “Not this one, Dill. This one needs to be put down.”
Boltz nodded his head. “Just be careful.”
Evalyn smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
* * * * *
The Leeson City waterfront was alive with the sounds and smells of festivities and excitement. A multitude of colorful sailing ships raced along the waterway leading in towards the city, each one jockeying for position as crowds gathered to watch along the shoreline. Although it lacked the prestige and history of other sailing events, the fourth annual Prism Regatta played host to the most skilled yachtsmen from across the expanse of civilized space.
Yacht racing had become something of a novelty in the centuries following humanity’s ascent to the stars. In recent years however, it became a popular spectator sport in the Empire. Different worlds presented unique challenges to sailors and shipbuilders alike. Yachts were custom-built for varying gravity and weather conditions while the crews trained for the rigors of high and low gravity sailing.
Isaiah sat at a table for two on the patio of one of the waterfront restaurants, casually glancing up from his data slate every so often to watch as a pack of yachts sailed past. Over the years he’d come to appreciate the skill of the sailors, and part of him desired to take it up as a hobby one day if he could ever find the time. But while the races provided the last hour’s entertainment, Isaiah was expecting company.
One of the waiters brought another glass of water to his table. Isaiah avoided small talk by peering down at his slate, reading over the local news and attempting to look engrossed in the story of yet another arrest of a ground-level neo-Reclaimist. Since the Legion had taken a more offensive stance, the Reclaimists had gone to ground once again. A series of high-profile captures and arrests had dismantled the Reclaimist leadership, but pockets of resistance still remained. It was a stubborn problem they’d have to address fully at some point.
As the waiter left with his empty glass, Isaiah checked the time and let out an exasperated breath.
Cuthrick had wanted this meeting, had said there were things that Isaiah needed to know, to be aware of. That alone had started the gears turning in Isaiah’s mind. Naturally, his thoughts turned to the Club — had they taken notice of what was happening in Prism? Surely forces were being mobilized against them. And yet months had passed since Vespar’s ascendance to Senator without a major crisis. Perhaps the Legion’s return was merely a footnote in the memoirs of the gods.
Perhaps the silence should have been more unsettling than it was.
There was a three-ping chime from Isaiah’s slate. A message flashed across the screen — a single word.
WATERSIDE.
Isaiah glanced again towards the water. Benches lined a stone footpath in regular intervals along the sea wall, and sitting on one was a man wearing a derby hat, canted slightly forward.
There he is.
Swiping his credit chit on the tableside scanner, Isaiah took one last swig of water and rose to his feet, walking off of the patio and down towards the riverfront.
“I apologize for my tardiness,” Cuthrick said as Isaiah approached. He gestured to the empty spot on the bench next to him, adding quietly. “There are quite a few things we need to discuss.”
Isaiah sat down alongside Cuthrick without a word, simply listening to the man as he spoke. He could sense an air of weariness about Cuthrick, something that seemed to rob the ambassador of his usual whip-like precision wit.
Cuthrick extended out his hand and presented Isaiah with a data card. “I believe you may find this interesting,” he said as Isaiah took it. “Consider it required reading.”
“What is this?” Isaiah asked, examining the card. He turned the wafer-thin device over in his hand, seeing the scuff marks from repeated use. It appeared quite old.
“Records pertaining to my time in the Imperial Proctorate, before I took the role of ambassador,” Cuthrick replied. “Most of it is unredacted, but there are a few gaps in the timeline. I missed a great number of connections many decades ago. You’ll have to put the pieces together yourself, I’m afraid.”
“What kind of connections are we talking about?”
“Insurrections throughout human space. Various Imperial clandestine operations, some of which I was a part of directly and others I was merely a consultant for.” Cuthrick gazed out onto the water, watching as a pack of sailing vessels drifted past. “Among other secrets. There are things that you won’t like.”
Isaiah’s hand closed over the card and slipped it into a pocket inside his jacket. “I have questions.”
Cuthrick’s expression remained deadpan. “I have few answers, but I’ll answer them as best as I can.”
Isaiah draped his arms on the back of the bench and stretched legs out in front of him, looking down the waterway towards where a crowd had broken out into cheers. He didn’t like having secrets dumped into his lap like this. It was less about the content and more to do with the fact that all of his theories might be knocked down, rewritten, uprooted…
He’d gotten comfortable with the constant knowledge that the Club was manipulating human affairs. It colored just about everything he did. He ate, drank, slept, and breathed defiance.
“Why this, and why now?” he asked.
“Ask yourself if you really want to know.”
Isaiah’s mouth twisted slightly. “You’ve gotten my curiosity piqued. That’s as good a reason to find out why as any.”
Cuthrick chuckled slightly and shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He rubbed his hands together briskly, then gazed down at them. Isaiah saw the calluses on his palms — rough and cracked. They spoke of a different time, a different duty post. Cuthrick rarely spoke of his previous station before he became an ambassador, but there were hints that he had once been a darker, crueler man.
“You do not have the slightest clue just how vast this… struggle… is.” Cuthrick held his hands outward. “The Club. They’ve always existed. In some form or another, by some name or moniker, they have always been around for as long as human beings have been connected with each other. Kahina was not the first to resist them. Neither was Rebecca, or Luko, or any of the others like them. It has gone on for centuries — millennia, even.
“They are the men of the age. They rise, whether it be through wealth or conquest, and they fall. But they always occupy the same place in human history, always at the top of humanity. They’re corporate executives, politicians, celebrities, dictators and demigods. And with each successive age, their numbers grow or shrink depending on the kind of influence wielded by each member. Their reach expands with every successive generation. And they always act in what they believe is humanity’s best interests — though what they believe seems to change with the age.”
Isaiah sensed a note of hopelessness in Cuthrick’s voice. He watched the man’s posture sink into a hunch, his head hanging on his shoulders. Cuthrick reached up and removed his hat, setting it down on his knee. “It’s important for you to understand that no matter what you do, or what I do… we are all pawns in their game. And should the Club fall, another will rise to take its place. It always has. It always will. The names and people change, but the Club remains the same.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Cuthrick said, matter-of-factly. He glanced over at Isaiah with a bitter smile. “Because I’ve been a witness to the power struggle for decades. And that data card is the proof.” He placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. “You must understand, Isaiah — the Club is the manifestation of human ambition. It is the inevitable nature of humankind to have a select few — the smartest, the wealthiest, the most powerful — assume a position of absolute supremacy over the rest of the species. At the heights of power these people reside, there is no limitation to what they can do. They are untouchable.”
“I refuse to believe that we are destined to be ruled and controlled by the select few,” Isaiah said, rising to his feet as well. “Kahina fought against that kind of tyranny. She defied them.”
“And she lost her life as a result. But that’s not the point. She was one of many who found themselves in a place as a pawn for someone else’s game.” The corner of Cuthrick’s mouth twitched with contempt. “Had I known her fate was always sealed, I would have encouraged her to flee from all of this. To walk away.”
“I respectfully disagree,” Isaiah said, placing his hands on his sides. “Our very existence is defiance. Kahina’s death was a blow to us all, but it wasn’t the end. She paid the price for us to carry the fire. We’re here, right now, making our way and doing the best we can for the people who have entrusted their lives to us. It isn’t about overthrowing the Club, or rooting them out. It’s not even about avenging her. It’s about making the stand. It’s refusing to be cajoled and provoked. It’s rising above their petty games. The Club believes what it does is for humanity’s survival. I believe what we do is to make us worthy of survival.”
“I do not doubt that your intentions for Prism and the Legion are anything but noble,” Cuthrick said, placing a hand on Isaiah’s shoulder. “But you are idealistic. So was Kahina. She wanted to know the answers to the same questions you’re entertaining right now, and it cost her her life.”
Isaiah bristled with quiet anger. He knew Cuthrick wasn’t deliberately trying to insinuate that his fate would be the same as Kahina’s, but it still struck a nerve with him. It was still an aching wound, and Cuthrick’s words were applying enough pressure to make him uncomfortable.
“I don’t understand what it is you’re getting at, Cuthrick,” Isaiah said. “Why are you saying all of this? What’s the point?”
Cuthrick placed his hat on top of his head and gestured for Isaiah to walk with him. They walked side-by-side along the water. Cuthrick was quiet for a long time, looking out at the waves as they washed upon the seawall and the opposite shoreline. His face was a hardened mask of disappointment — no, despair — as they walked along.
Isaiah never expected such… pessimism from Cuthrick Delaney. He became conscious of the fact that his hands had tightened into fists. He wanted answers. That’s all he ever wanted. To know the secrets that had been carefully concealed over the centuries. And here was Cuthrick, presenting him with a piece of the puzzle but warning him that it wasn’t anything that would solve the problem.
“Did you love her?” Cuthrick asked finally, stopping. He turned to face Isaiah, his eyes solemn and sad.
Isaiah couldn’t hide the flash of confusion. “What?”
“Kahina. Did you love her? Is that why you followed her?”
“No! I mean—” Isaiah stammered. “Not romantically. I…” He licked his lips, his brows furrowing intensely. He looked past Cuthrick, trying to find some answer in the waves and boats on the water. His mind raced for an answer. He had, in a way, loved her. Admired her. Her strength and will. There was an affection for her that resided deep in his heart. It wasn’t based on lust or desire, but rather a simple but profound respect for her leadership and her authenticity. His tongue felt thick and stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he couldn’t form the syllables for the right words.
His eyes watered and sought Cuthrick’s. “Yeah,” Isaiah said hoarsely, barely above a whisper. He choked his words out past the lump in his throat. “I loved her. I wanted to protect her. I wanted to make sure she survived and could keep this movement alive. Because I’m not that guy. I’m not…” he inhaled sharply, his lungs incapable of capturing enough air. “I’m not sure I can do this.”
He felt a weight pressing down on him, heavier than gravity. Cuthrick simply studied him. Isaiah tried to hold back the tears, but the dam broke. He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple and shuddered.
“You haven’t grieved for her.”
Isaiah shook his head.
“You’ve been so focused on taking vengeance for her that you’ve not allowed yourself to feel that loss,” Cuthrick said, placing his hands on Isaiah’s shoulders. “Look at me, Isaiah. You need to allow yourself time to feel that loss. Come to terms with what happened. Because what you’re doing to yourself is one of the most sadistic kinds of self-torture.”
Isaiah swallowed hard. Shook his head. “Someone has to speak for her.”
He shrugged off Cuthrick’s hands, moving to the side. He leaned against the seawall railing, wiping his eyes with his thumb and index finger. Inhaling a sniffled breath, he spoke: “Before she died, she shared something with me. Told me what she was afraid would happen if we simply let this go.”
Cuthrick took up next to him, folding his arms on top of each other.
“She envisioned a time when the things created to ‘protect’ us would be our undoing. The Thargoids were — are — a villain of opportunity. An excuse to lock down everything. The permit locks. The vast swathes of space, sealed off. She saw a world where the space lanes were no longer free. Private ship ownership outlawed. Entire sections of the bubble and unexplored space locked behind unobtainable permits and regulations.” Isaiah shivered as he tried to picture what a world like that would look like.
Her vision terrified him. It struck at something deep in his soul. If it came true, then no one would be free from the grasp of the Club. They could pick who lived and who died and there’d be nothing to stop them. It meant that private ships would be a thing of the past. They’d impose regulations, whether in the name of profit or protection. Flying without the proper permits would be tantamount to signing your own arrest warrant. Eventually ports of call for independent vessels would disappear. The day would come when even the Pilots Federation would fade out, and being Elite would be a dangerous prospect.
They’d have the last word. And there’d be no one left to say otherwise.
Isaiah’s hands clenched into tighter fists. With a spark of defiance, he turned to Cuthrick and nodded his head slightly. “Someone has to fight to prevent that day from coming. That is why I followed her. That is why I would’ve laid down my life for hers. Why it should’ve been me meeting my end in Anumclaw and not her. Because she saw it. And she could fight it. And all I’ve done is let her down.”
Cuthrick didn’t look him in the eyes, but nodded his head. “Such a world would be a dark place,” he said. “I can’t convince you to think twice about what you’re getting yourself into. You’ve brought the Legion back to form and for the first time in years it has a proper Senator. Your service to this system is beyond question. I simply worry for you, Isaiah.”
“Your concerns are valid,” Isaiah said, wiping away the last few tears from his eyes. “But I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to fight until my very last breath. I won’t let that vision come to pass.”
“Look over that card,” Cuthrick said, pulling his hat down over his eyes. “But be warned: you won’t like much of what you see.”
With that, Cuthrick turned on his heel and left.
Deep down, Isaiah knew it was an empty platitude. It was a statement of defiance, devoid of substance. It was what every freedom fighter, resistance member, protestor, voter always said just before the bottom fell out and reality crushed their idealistic vision of the future. He didn’t even know what victory would look like.
He pulled out the data card, staring down at it once again. Ran his thumb across the smooth surface, turned it over between his fingers. What was it all for?
To remember.
* * * * *
“Play it again.”
He sat forward, watching as the holofac flickered and the message restarted again. He placed his hands flat together, palms down, and held them against the tip of his nose. He couldn’t believe what he’d witnessed.
The image shook slightly as the camera was tossed around, then focused. Isaiah had almost not recognized him. He was younger, fitter. His eyes were cold, distant.
“This isn’t necessary.”
A female voice spoke in the background, indistinctly.
“Come on,” the male said. “Why are we doing this?”
“Posterity. And as an insurance policy.”
“Insurance policy…”
“You said you were committed to this cause. I am not one to take chances. You wanted in on this after what we did in Lave. This is the price you pay for being part of it.”
The male laughed slightly, then shrugged. “I guess I shouldn’t expect anything less from you—”
“Ah, ah. No names. Except yours.”
The male’s eye wrinkled slightly. “Who did you say you were again?”
“It won’t matter in a while.”
The male rolled his eyes.
“Do you consent to a hexedit treatment course after creating this video file?”
There was a pause, and the male shifted uncertainly.
“I do.”
“The date is October 28th, 3274. Go ahead.”
Isaiah held his breath and ground his teeth.
“My name is Cuthrick Delaney, and I am a member of the Imperial Proctorate...”