Nothing Left to Say
29 Dec 2021Isaiah Evanson
For the past six and a half years, I've had the pleasure of playing Isaiah Evanson in the Elite universe. From the beginning, he was always meant to be a good man compelled to do terrible things. As time went on, he became a vehicle for me to explore different ways of thinking and possibilities.I was fortunate enough to see him become an official part of Elite Dangerous canon in Drew Wagar's novel, Premonition, as one of Kahina Tijani Loren's personal escorts at the novel's conclusion. It was through the lens of that event that much of my in-game activities were seen through from that point forward.
To say that the character has been influential in my life is a massive understatement. He became a part of me, in some ways. But all good stories need an end. Mine came to a conclusion earlier in December.
This is his.
Moon Installation, Ts'in Gu
The Pegasi Sector
December 9th, 3307
“I wasn’t expecting company.”
Phisto Sobanii stood in the doorway of his Fer-de-Lance’s darkened bridge, his voice steady despite the initial shock of finding someone aboard his ship. Before him stood a figure silhouetted by the hangar lights beyond the canopy, though he could not tell if they were facing him or if they had their back to him.
“You left your door unlocked,” a familiar voice replied. “And I know how much you like surprises.”
Phisto cracked a wry, fleeting smile as the figure turned around slowly, stepping forward into the glow of the skylight for him to see. The face belonged to Isaiah Evanson, but the luminescent blue eyes and the red tattoo on his cheeks and forehead spoke of deep changes in the man Phisto Sobanii once knew.
Phisto cocked his head to the side ever so slightly, taking stock of his old friend’s appearance. Dark brown hair now had the beginnings of grey, and crow’s feet started at the corners of his eyes. Subtle red circuit-like tattoos covered half his face — countermeasure for facial identification systems — while iridescent blue eyes faintly glowed in the low light. “It’s been a minute, hasn’t it?” Phisto said. “You look good, Isaiah. I dig the whole sci-fi superhuman thing you've got going on now, it's a good look."
“It’s Jaime Ward now,” Isaiah replied, his voice and expression deadpan. “But you already knew that.” Isaiah made a gesture with his thumb back to the two seats at the front of the cockpit. “We should catch up.”
A cold chill ran down Phisto’s spine, and he was struck by the uncharacteristic nervousness he felt in Isaiah’s presence now. His sense of things told him that this was no mere meeting, nor would there be any brotherly exchange of stories. Things had changed. He had changed.
Isaiah turned and sat down in the co-pilot’s seat, behind and to the left of Phisto. As he sat down, Isaiah let out a long, slow sigh. Neither of them spoke for several long minutes.
“Do you remember that conversation we had a few years ago, back when I rescued you from that black site?” Isaiah began, his voice low. “We were on the Seven Veils, sitting just like this. And I asked you to tell me your story. About your clan. Your people.”
“I do.”
“You remember what I told you after you finished?”
Phisto chewed on the inside of his upper lip and stared straight ahead. “You said you thought there were two types of bad guys in the universe.”
“Remind me again what they are.”
Phisto swallowed hard. “The ones you save, and the ones you stop.”
Isaiah was silent, letting the statement hang over them the way a guillotine blade would over the neck of the condemned. Behind him, he heard the telltale scratch of metal leaving kydex - a handgun leaving its holster. Understanding suddenly gripped Phisto and he turned to look back at his friend.
“Which one do you think you are now?” Isaiah said with an unsettling calmness, gazing back with cold blue eyes that seemed to glow in the shadow of the cockpit. In his hand was the pistol, resting on his leg.
“I don’t understand. Why are you asking me this?”
Isaiah's mouth twisted with contempt. “After all this time, you’re playing stupid with me?”
Phisto turned back to the front of the cockpit, his eyes flickering quickly across the consoles and dashboard in front of him. His hands gripped the armrests of his seat.
“When did you figure it out?”
Isaiah inhaled sharply. “I think I always knew it was you that killed Linnea. But I couldn’t accept it. Couldn’t believe that you would do that to her. That you’d do that to me.”
Isaiah rose from his seat and sat down on the dashboard beside Phisto. He crossed his arms, the pistol jutting out from under one arm. “I spent… years going back to the flight recorder from Bloodfeather, looking over all the sensor data. No residual low-energy wakes. No other ships in that area. Every time I kept coming back to the same conclusion. There's only so many possibilities, and anyone could plainly deduce the most obvious one."
Phisto glanced sidelong at Isaiah, studying his mannerisms. His shoulders were slumped, his lips drawn into a thin grimace as he spoke. The burden of grief was visible in the way he carried himself and he could hear it in Isaiah’s voice.
“I always came back to the same conclusion and simply couldn’t accept that you had killed her.”
“I looked for you,” Phisto said, trying to shift away from the subject. “I spent weeks trying to find you.”
“You weren’t going to find me. I didn’t want to be found.” Isaiah’s face twisted in a mixture of anger and sadness. “Two years, Phisto. I spent two years trying to understand why you killed her. And now that I have you here…”
Isaiah curled his hand into a fist.
“What’s stopping you?” Phisto replied. “What do you need, an order?”
Isaiah shifted his posture, placing his hands on his upper legs, staring blankly at the far end of the cabin. A sudden, quick flash of motion was all the warning Phisto had before Isaiah’s fist smashed hard against his jaw. His head snapped around on his shoulders with the impact, causing Phisto to groan with pain.
Isaiah stood up, pacing around behind Phisto’s chair, fists clenched. His voice dropped into a low growl.
“Why’d you do it?”
“I did it…” Phisto started to say, but the next words died in his throat as he considered his reasons. He’d told himself he was protecting Isaiah from Black Flight and the Club, but… that wasn’t entirely true.
It was more than that.
For years before he met Isaiah, Phisto Sobanii was a killer - plain and simple. He had no need for friends nor allegiances. But he had found a kindred spirit in Isaiah Evanson. At first it was a professional respect, but it became a brotherly affection as time went on. The battles they’d fought in Coma and in the Pegasi sector had forged their friendship into iron. Phisto thought nothing would ever separate them.
Until Isaiah met Linnea Gudjonnson.
She had tempered the ruthlessness in Isaiah, and for the first time since Phisto had met his friend, he sensed a growing distance between them that Linnea had settled into. Over time, he began to resent the woman, seeing his friend become less of a killer like he was and more like the people who fell prey to them. He watched Isaiah become softer, less impulsive, more contemplative. Certainly the man could be spurred to action, and his prowess in a fight had not changed. But deep down, Phisto feared that his best friend was slipping away.
In truth, Phisto had entertained the idea of killing Linnea long before he actually committed the act, but the knowledge of what would come of it had held him back. Black Flight’s offer to him - Linnea’s life in exchange for Isaiah’s, and the promise of enduring youth - simply gave him the excuse he needed to end her life. He didn’t have to go far to find a justification. That was the easiest part of all.
“I did it to protect you,” Phisto said, to which Isaiah scowled.
“Protect me?” Isaiah replied, his eyes wide. “What made you think I needed protection?”
“Black Flight was going to kill you.”
Isaiah held Phisto’s gaze with an iron grip, his blue eyes glowing in the low light. “When has that ever not been the case, Phisto? We made our living on killing and being in the crosshairs of everyone from the Empire to the Thargoids. That’s not the reason you sold me out or killed her.”
Phisto of the Sobanii clan grit his teeth, holding up a warning finger.
“You don’t know what I know, pal. Seen what I’ve seen. Those clones…they could have killed all of us any time they wanted, in or out of our ships.”
Isaiah scoffed. “I doubt that. We could have taken them. Together."
A look of genuine pleading flashed in Sobanii’s eyes.
“Carcosa… even Carcosa was a setup in the end. If the Reapers were fighting to hold some worthless rock, they weren’t seeking out the real foe. It was the only way.”
Evanson drew himself up, his jaw set in contempt. "How dare you make excuses for your pathetic insecurities, trying to justify betraying me and the Reapers. Phisto Sobanii, sucking Club cock,” he spat viciously. “Thanks for making this easy.”
Phisto watched as Isaiah’s posture shifted, the subtle change in body language signaling an all-too-familiar warning to him. The tightening of the hand on the pistol, the straightening of the spine, shoulders pulling in and body hunching down. This time Phisto was ready when the fist came from the left, his arm lancing out and catching Isaiah’s clenched fist. Phisto scrambled from his seat and reached to block Isaiah’s other hand, catching the top of the pistol and trying hard to angle it away.
Isaiah grunted in exertion as he fought for balance, twisting his body to try and buy leverage as Phisto struggled to control where the gun was pointing. With a shout, Isaiah felt Phisto’s hand pry the pistol from his grip, loosening the one he had on Isaiah’s left hand. A shot rang out, then another.
Isaiah’s hand wrapped around Phisto’s throat, squeezed. Squeezed so hard he could feel his fingers sinking into the other man’s throat, his trachea closing. The gun clattered noisily to the ground as Isaiah wrapped his other hand around Phisto’s throat. Isaiah cried out in rage and pain, pushing his friend—his enemy—back against the dash and pinning him down.
Darkness crept in at the edges of Phisto’s vision, his lungs beginning to burn. He was surprised at the sheer strength of Isaiah's grasp around his throat. He tried to speak, but the hands around his throat tightened again.
Isaiah’s voice softened into a savage whisper: “Don’t fight it. This is how it has to be,” Isaiah said, his grip secure and unrelenting despite Phisto's thrashing. “It was inevitable. There’s nothing left to say, Phisto. Nothing. Just let go.”
Phisto’s arms flailed as he tried to pry Isaiah’s fingers away, staring up at him with wide eyes and seeing nothing but fury and vengeance in those belonging to his old friend.
“You remember what we always said, Phisto? That you were always on the winning side?”
Isaiah leaned in close, his eyes burning, Phisto’s throat collapsing in his grip. Isaiah's final words to his old friend came out as a venomous hiss through bared, clenched teeth.
“Not… today.”
* * * *
Isaiah Evanson descended the Fer-de-Lance’s boarding ramp slowly, holding his side with one hand and his pistol with the other. Pain lanced through his body, the heaviness of fatigue starting in his arms and legs and working its way towards his core.
Each step was becoming a struggle, and as he pulled his hand away from his flank, blood poured down his side. He was no doctor, but somewhere in his animal brain, he knew his death was imminent. He could feel his body failing him as it lost the vital essence it needed to keep going.
The hangar was quiet, save for his own labored breaths. Behind him, the body of the man he once knew as Phisto Sobanii was cooling, and Isaiah found it poetic, if not ironic, that both of them would meet their ends so soon after the other.
Putting his sidearm into its holster, Isaiah closed his eyes and leaned against one of the support struts on the boarding ramp. A mixture of emotions passed over him - relief for avenging Linnea, anguish for having to avenge her at all. But what surprised him most was that he felt no hatred towards Phisto in the end. Instead, there was sadness. Even as he felt his life leaking from his side, his time quite literally running out, he wondered how it all came to this moment.
Was it destiny that brought them together, or had this all been the result of randomly occurring events? Isaiah never believed in divine purpose, but he had long suspected the universe created what it needed to accomplish a goal, then disposed of those things once they were no longer useful.
He realized too late that his crusade to avenge and champion the cause of Kahina Tijani Loren was a futile effort in the face of the Club's vast power, but he always felt it was a necessary struggle. To have simply shrugged his shoulders, given up, and walked away would have meant admitting her cause had always been in vain.
And he had made a promise to her. One he would never have been able to live with himself if he'd broken it.
Phisto had been a force of nature. To some extent, he had been one as well. Brothers in arms, until they weren't. But it was impossible for him to know if what they had done together had mattered.
In a little while, it won’t matter to me anyway.
The hangar air scrubbers kicked on with a ragged hiss. All around him, Isaiah noticed the small details. The greasy spots that dotted the deck around Phisto's ship, the flickering light at the far end of the bay. The way the air smelled faintly of burnt silicone lubricant and ozone. Even as he was dying, he felt as though his senses had sharpened somehow. Maybe it was animal instinct, the primal part of his mind taking in as much stimuli from his environment in a vain attempt to stay alive for just a little longer.
In a morbid sort of way, he found it fascinating.
Slowly, Isaiah pulled a commtab from his pants pocket, just below where Phisto had shot him. The holographic display flickered in the dimness of the hangar, Isaiah selecting Jubei Himura’s name from a short list of contacts. The tab began recording.
“It’s done,” Isaiah said softly, trying to mask the strain in his voice. “Phisto has been… dealt with.”
Isaiah looked down at the wounds Phisto had inflicted, watching as the blood poured from them. After all the battles, fighting Thargoids and humans, defying everything and everyone from Prism to Coma and to Carcosa and back again, it was two bullets that would end his life. He smiled weakly at the thought that at least Himura would have something for a funeral when he found him. Most spacers weren't so lucky.
Several long moments passed, then Isaiah huffed and continued. “I’m afraid it wasn’t without a struggle. Think there’s no coming back from this one, Himura. Reckon that by the time you get to me, there’s gonna be two bodies to bury.” His voice cracked ever so slightly as he spoke what he knew were his last words to Jubei. “This ain’t on you though, I hope you know that. To be honest, I’m a little relieved.”
His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he continued to speak, knowing he couldn’t waste his breath on meaningless words. “I did the best I could. In the end, that’s all any of us do. I always did what I thought was right, even if that put me at odds with others. I charted my course and stayed true to it. To her.
"I've hurt a lot of people. But I'd like to hope that maybe I helped a lot of people too. Funny thing about death is that you never get the answer. Takes a bit of faith to believe it all meant something in the end."
Isaiah turned his head, erupting into a fit of coughing and hacking that brought up copious amounts of blood. He drew in a deep, ragged breath, then coughed hard once more, his chest clenching painfully.
"I've never believed in an afterlife, but I wouldn't mind being wrong about that," he continued, closing his eyes and imagining Linnea's face, her golden hair framing her soft features, her blue eyes inviting and her lips in a gentle, welcoming smile. "I'd like to see the people I've loved, and the people who loved me, again. I don't think I'll be so lucky, but it's a nice thought. If there is, I reckon I'll see you around, Himura. And if not, thank you… for everything.”
The commtab pinged to confirm that the message was sent, and Isaiah flicked it away. He stumbled down the Fer-de-Lance’s ramp, the soft pattering of his blood dripping and trailing behind him.
“So this is how the infamous Isaiah Evanson meets his end,” a woman with a thick Achenarian brogue said from beside and behind him. He turned slowly, cradling his side, to see a thin figure wearing a black Remlok suit, helmet on. The mirrored finish on her visor showed him a distorted reflection of himself. She brought a Tormentor up from her hip to eye level, aiming squarely at Isaiah.
Black Flight, he thought. Fucking of course Black Flight.
“Should’ve known you weren’t far," he said, his voice carrying an ember of defiance. His right hand secured the grip of his handgun, lifting it from its holster, keeping it behind his hip and out of her sight.
“We’re never far, Commander Evanson. Or is it Ward? Gault, maybe? So many names you’re hiding behind these days. And Agent Sobanii’s termination happened precisely on schedule, and for that we thank you. These things are so often… untidy. All that remains is the location of the datacore. You know the one.”
Isaiah struggled to keep his balance, but managed to laugh. “The core from Bloodfeather? It’s been years. Core was lost with the ship.”
The woman canted her head to the side. “That is inaccurate. We know you stashed it somewhere after you crash-landed it in Eravate.”
“Don’t know who told you otherwise, lady, but I left all that behind in fire and smoke.”
“You’re lying.”
Isaiah took a step forward towards the woman, who extended her arm, taking aim. “Not another step.”
“Or what?” Isaiah replied, stumbling forward again. “You’ll kill me?” He coughed out a laugh, blood splattering down his chin, his finger on the trigger of his own handgun. “Come a little closer and I’ll tell you where Raxxla is too.”
The woman didn’t hesitate. A single bolt of plasma erupted from the end of the Tormentor’s barrel, energy cracking through the air and searing into Isaiah’s chest. His eyes widened as a wave of searing, white-hot pain lanced through him as he stumbled several more steps toward the woman.
Her voice grew cruel under her helmet.
“The core, Evanson.”
Looking up at her, he smiled. He was so close to oblivion. So close to the end, it was almost touching him.
Just give me the satisfaction of one last act of spite.
“Fuck you and everyone you work for,” he rasped. “You won’t get a fucking thing from me except my life.”
The woman scoffed, pointed the gun at Isaiah’s head. “You’re a fool if you think that your death will shield its location.”
Isaiah managed a final, dying, defiant grin. Blood ran freely down his chin, his throat, his flightsuit.
“No,” he whispered. “But yours will.”
A single shot rang out, and the helmet cracked right at its center, the woman’s head whipping back with the recoil and suddenly dropping to the hangar floor into a crumpled heap. Isaiah held his pistol at his hip, the barrel smoking.
The gun slipped from his hand as his grip weakened. Isaiah blinked several times, trying to focus, and looked down to see the blackened, charred remnants of his suit and the angry deep red burns from the plasma bolt that he’d taken to the chest. In the back of his mind he knew he should feel pain, but he couldn’t even find the strength to lift his head, or his arms. He couldn’t move.
Somewhere, he thought he could hear a voice, soft and feminine. It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. In his mind, he reached out to it, and felt a presence that took hold of him. The last vestiges of rationality said that it wasn't possible, but the sensation of being held, protected, safe in those final moments overpowered him.
He let his body slacken and fell to the floor onto his side, and as his vision blurred, he was sure he heard a voice, growing louder and stronger even as the rest of his world faded to black.
"Lin?" he whispered with his final breath.
Don’t be afraid, min älskling. I’m here…
* * * *
Vespar Faveol, Cuthrick Delaney, and Jubei Himura stood around the pyre under Daedalion’s glow, watching as the flames reached up toward the water world’s presence in the sky. None of the men said anything, each with their own thoughts, watching as Isaiah Evanson’s remains were consumed. They danced and licked in the chill night breeze, the soil staining the boots of all present.
Cuthrick's reaction to the news had been subdued, in keeping with his reserved and dignified Imperial nature. Vespar, however, had no such inhibitions about sharing his grief. He replayed Isaiah’s final message several times as Jubei stood quietly in the Senator's chambers, watching as the elderly statesman openly wept before him.
Despite the fact that Jubei had found Isaiah several hours after he’d received the man’s final message, it still hadn’t set in that he was truly gone. Even as he told allies and friends of his demise, it felt surreal to even utter the news of his death.
The funeral arrangements were simple. Jubei had brought his remains to Prism at the request of Senator Faveol and with Ambassador Delaney’s blessing. Isaiah was to be cremated in accordance with his wishes, and his ashes to be spread by his friends and loved ones wherever they deemed appropriate.
The ceremony was a spartan affair with only a handful of guests. There was no fanfare, none of the pomp that Isaiah Evanson had earned and then scorned several times over the course of his dynamic life.
There was no Federal honor guard, because he’d abandoned the Federation to fight for the Empire.
There was no Imperial honor guard, because he’d abandoned it to pledge to Newton’s Fusiliers.
There were no Fusiliers present, because he’d left them to reconstitute Loren’s Legion.
There were no Legionnaires present because he’d taken half of them into Carcosa as bloody-handed Reapers, with the other half striking his name from their ranks.
And there were no Reapers because in the end, they too were abandoned after he lost his lover to Phisto Sobanii's hand.
There had only been a few pictures of the man at his wake, such as it was. One of him as a child, something Jubei had stumbled upon while going through Isaiah's personal effects. He was sitting in a high chair, no more than a few years old, clutching a model of a Cobra in one hand, his eyes bright and a broad smile plastered across his face. Jubei found it endearing, if not somehow unsettling knowing the man that that child would become.
Another picture showed Isaiah wearing a Remlok, helmet in one hand, a cocky smirk on his clean-shaven face. He was much younger, perhaps in his early twenties, the quintessential Commander with newly-minted wings. His eyes spoke of optimism and naivety, both backed by confidence.
Then there was one that seemed more familiar to Jubei. The beard, the hard, determined gaze belonging to a senior officer proudly wearing the black and seafoam green of Loren's Legion. Before Salomé. Before fate had its say in the course of his life. Jubei felt a sense of admiration for him in that image.
The last one was candid - taken sometime before the Reapers departed Prism but after the Thargoid invasion of Atroco. It was a slight profile shot, his eyes looked weary, but a slight smile was on his face. At his side was Linnea, his love. Jubei understood the reason for the smile. In the preceding years, he hadn't had many reasons to smile. But when he'd met Linnea, there was a subtle shift in his personality. Jubei got the sense that he was thinking of the future he and Linnea were building for themselves, even as he tried to build one for the Reapers.
That smile was the evidence of hope. The evidence that he still believed the future to be a light to strive towards.
It was that image he called to mind as he stood at the funeral pyre.
Jubei looked at the two other men, watching their expressions in the glow of the flames. Vespar’s face was tightened into a grief-stricken grimace, while Cuthrick’s was an inscrutable mask. He wondered if Cuthrick felt the same as he had when he’d learned of Kahina’s demise.
It came as a surprise when Cuthrick broke the silence first.
“Before he left Prism, Isaiah and I spoke in the garden outside the palace on New Ithaca,” he said, reverence in his voice. “We were discussing the future after the Thargoid incursion in Atroco had been repulsed. He was absolutely driven to fulfill the mission he believed Kahina had set out to accomplish. I reminded him that the Club had ways of getting to those closest to him and turning them against him."
Cuthrick chuckled bitterly. "In typical fashion, he said he would not live in fear of that, and I said…" his voice trailed off for several moments as he relived the meeting. His voice broke ever so slightly, speaking the same words he'd spoken to Isaiah years ago.
"'Then you'll live alone, or as a failure… or not at all.'"
Neither of the other two men spoke.
After a lengthy silence, Cuthrick clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat. “Salome was a martyr, and he had taken it upon himself to be her champion and avenger. Perhaps he was misguided. But he remained steadfast in his convictions and in his belief in what she stood for, until the very end. Lesser men would have given up."
"Lesser men did," Vespar said derisively.
Jubei nodded, his movement turning into a long, dignified bow before the flames.
“He was a warrior. A brother. A… friend. I hope that whatever remains of his essence has found peace in the aftervoid.”
Vespar simply shook his head, coughing into a silken cloth, specks of blood left on the fabric. His was the voice of an old man, alone and weary of the world he’d navigated for long decades.
“It isn’t… it isn’t right that I outlived him. I always saw the future in young Evanson. Now I only see darkness.”
Cuthrick nodded, his eyes grave.
“Yes,” he intoned. “All the old heroes seem to have left us, leaving only we few who even remember them. But it was never about us, was it? We could only place the pieces on the board. It was up to them to move themselves.”
Vespar nodded, thick circles under his eyes.
“And move they did, more than what the board or its tired old rules could sustain. So they made their own, and played a better game than the powers-that-be created. And in the end, that’s what doomed them all.”
Cuthrick smiled, a bittersweet gesture.
“Quite right. So many heroes, and so many sorrowful partings. And you, Inquisitor–you are the last of them, are you not?”
Jubei’s forehead wrinkled in thought, the greys of his eyes glinting in the flames.
“Stannis Jellicoe is somewhere out there. I don’t think that The Madman can die,” he said, half-smiling. “And the others? Andor and Purpura haven’t been heard from in months. Marrakech Morgan disappeared right as her sad little kingdom came crashing down. Ouberos retired from the piracy scene. Renraiku Kordai was last seen in Carcosa. Kari Kerenski died at the hands of that monster Hathaway. Jemine Caesar and her Gallic runaway Apollonia, scrubbing it as nomadic surface dwellers. There was even this bounty hunter I used to know, and his purple-haired companion. Real looker, she was."
He shook his head, memories in his eyes.
“But they’re gone, too. And you know damn well that I’m no inquisitor, Delaney. Not any longer.”
The ambassador bowed in respect.
“Then what are you, Himura?”
Jubei grinned, gesturing to the skies.
“Just some nobody with a spaceship. The way it should have been all along.”
"What happens now?" Vespar asked, looking deeply into the flames that seemed to climb ever higher into the night.
"Isaiah left the data core from his old Fer-de-Lance with me," Jubei replied, his arms crossed over his chest. He lifted his chin slightly, considering his options now that Evanson was gone. "Part of me wants to release all of that data into the news feeds. Flood Galnet with the things he saw, the places he went."
"But…?"
"It would be wasted," Jubei continued, glancing sidelong at Cuthrick and Vespar. "Like shouting into the void. The times have changed. Feels like fewer people would listen, let alone act." He let out a long, slow sigh as he turned his eyes back to the fire. "And Isaiah made more than a few enemies in his time that wouldn't think twice about discrediting his claims."
"Then it is best to save it. For when the timing is better and people are more willing to hear the truth," Cuthrick replied.
"That may be years from now. Decades, even," Vespar added.
"Centuries," Jubei concluded, a hint of weariness in his voice.
"At this point, we have to be willing to play the long game. Our opponents certainly are," Cuthrick said. He stepped around Vespar and alongside Jubei, placing a hand on the man's shoulder.
"It seems that you now carry the burden he once shouldered. Are you prepared to carry that weight?"
Jubei drew in a long, slow breath, his chest rising as his lungs filled with the cool night air.
He exhaled. "Does it matter? Did it ever?"
Cuthrick squeezed Jubei's shoulder and gave a low sound that was neither agreement nor disagreement..
“The truth fights hard, but it fights fair. Much like you, young Himura.”
* * * *
"There's one last matter to discuss. A footnote, really."
Infrastructure glanced sidelong at the dimmed visage of Personnel, who had remained connected after the year-end meeting between the members. Infrastructure lifted his champagne glass and settled comfortably into his chair, giving a subtle nod. "Go on."
"Local news feeds in Lusonda reported a triple homicide at one of the planetary outposts. A trivial matter were it not for the fact that two of our agents were involved."
Infrastructure lifted an eyebrow, his voice lowering an octave. "Two?"
"Phisto Sobanii and Belchira," replied Personnel. "However, the third person is of particular interest." An image flashed onto the holofac, showing the tired face of Isaiah Evanson. "It came at a cost, but at least one thorn has been removed."
Infrastructure made a low, satisfied sound in the back of his throat and took a slow sip from his glass. "That's two loose ends neatly tied."
"There is the matter of locating the data core from Evanson's old Fer-de-Lance, but given the current political and economic climate, it's unlikely that any leaks would make much headway in the news." Personnel waited a moment, then added: "If my estimations are correct, there are only a handful of people left to address from Salomé's inner circle."
"Shame," Infrastructure said, lifting his chin. "I've found a sort of pleasure in hearing about their efforts to expose us. To think we will have outlasted their best efforts saddens me."
"Indeed. Those we didn't neutralize simply turned away. Our ploy to keep Evanson's Reapers stuck in Carcosa worked flawlessly — even absent Sobanii’s leadership, they still remain there, harassing the powers-that-be over that same useless pebble."
"Very good. I believe that concludes our meeting, does it not?"
"It does."
"That will be all then."
Infrastructure set aside his glass and stood up, paced around the study. Behind him, the fireplace crackled. Beyond the window, not a single cloud marred the perfect purple sky above. In the distance, Earth's sun sank into the western horizon, glowing the same orange as a dying ember.
Evanson's legacy, and that of Sobanii, would be erased in time, as Salomé's legacy had been. They had served their purposes, though they never knew the depth and intricacies of the plots they'd served to advance. Every victory, from Coma, Pegasi, Atroco, Carcosa — it all had broadened the scope of control the Club wielded over its implements. The destruction of the rogue AI, Theon, as well as expo Gideon Hathaway's secret cloning and training programs using the Pivot performance enhancements, had allowed the Club to prepare for far greater threats.
In some way, Infrastructure felt he owed both of them a debt of gratitude. Were it not for Evanson's blind zealotry for Salomé and Sobanii's arrogant brilliance in combat, neither of them would have accomplished anything.
Yet despite all they had done, it never once served the cause they'd both fought so hard for. But it was essential that the illusion was never broken. Even in defiance, they served the Club's goals. Without it, things would not have panned out the same way.
The data core was a loose end, to be certain, and one that needed to be dealt with in time. But as with all things, time was an ally. Infrastructure knew this, as did his colleagues. It would be made to serve their ends in due course.
Infrastructure smiled, allowed himself a moment to revel in his place in the tides of history. A pity that my role in all this won’t be discovered until long after I’m dust. Still, I do what I must.
Everything eventually faded into the darkness, washed away with enough time. But there was a nobility in defying the inevitable. Evanson embodied it, even if he was never fully aware of it.
He could respect that, even if the man was on the wrong side of history.
Beyond the window, beyond the horizon and the sun setting behind it, the dark wheel of time and history continued to turn. The inevitable clash of competing ideals and visions for humanity's future would go on without Evanson, Sobanii, their comrades. For the moment, the future the Club designed seemed secure.
But as with all things, the time would come when that wasn't the case. New tools would be needed. Secrets would need to be uncovered. Plans would need to be set into motion. Eventually the same story would unfold, with different names and different players, but all of them participating in the same game. New heroes, new villains, new stories and legends.
Infrastructure drew in a deep breath, the lavender and lilac scent of the study pleasing to his senses. He relaxed, reached up and drew the curtains closed, then turned towards the doorway.
He paused before he stepped over the threshold, remembered something he had heard from someone many years ago. It was simple, but given his current frame of mind, it was also poignant.
We step onto the stage, we say our lines, and we step off.