Nothing more could be gained, and much could be lost. Too many individuals would have accosted me for being what I am, and any delay risked discovery of the murder. As I crossed into the market again, the stink of dubious cooking and personal odors again pressing all around, I realized I'd not be able to return. This didn't bother me much.
Minerva slipped out of the dock without trouble. The mammoth destroyer looming outside, the only witness to the destruction of a world, provided no indication that it cared about my presence.
******
Departed, safe from the threat of discovery, I had time to consider everything. Barely forty-five minutes on the station, it seemed a lifetime wrapped in a whirlwind instant. As Minerva set her course, a general direction of elsewhere, I carefully peeled back layers of her memory.
Playing a few in particular, I watched her plotting and her intended defense mechanism against Archivists. She expected, knew, she would encounter others, but she had a target in mind.
Cain.
It appeared word of my narrow escape passed through a number of ears, and Archivist Cain's weakness appeared to be laid bare. As yet another of the denizens in search of Ivan, Dana calculated a probability of meeting him and prepared for it with a brilliant, original, but untested plan.
Her system was marvelous, elegant. It didn't matter what happened to her body and initial brain tissue. She utilized her memories and a framework, a virus almost, containing the edges of her personality. To an individual such as Cain, whose approach to everything seemed to be a mindless battering into submission and a love of brutality, her mental architecture would sweep through him without a second thought.
In a quiet victory, Dana had hoped to take control of the most potent physical embodiment of an Archivist, absorbing all of the information he collected over the years as well as the weaponry.
Unfortunately, her test was against me, long conditioned to extract myself from the lost depths of memory and data. She may have been able to best Cain or any other Archivist, but meeting me cost her dearly.
Or perhaps not: I allowed myself to wonder on the prospect. Perhaps her intent was far beyond what I could detect. Perhaps she slipped in a subtle programming, distracting me with both the mental duel and the data-swarm. Perhaps her mind was now a part of my own, a deep and delicate mingling of personality and experience, or further perhaps such a thing would come to fruition once I inevitably integrated all of her memories. Though I didn't feel any different, I suspected our personalities, including the deep-seated hunger for information, were not far removed from each other.
In addition, I wondered if the escaped portion was still hiding in the recesses of her or my programming. I didn't believe there was enough of her left to cause any further trouble, and I'd triple checked and layered protection over my important systems. Even if she had full processing power and wasn't just a ghost of code, she'd have been hard-pressed to break through it without me realizing.
In any case, more pressing concerns were present, and I more carefully reviewed other portions of her memories. The first time around, while she held me drowning within them, didn't provide as thorough an analysis as I wanted.
I saw again the destruction of Atropos Garden, a terrible, silent, and rapid disintegration of the world and its denizens. The ship, the one that fled, seemed about the right size and shape. Connecting it to Ivan remained conjecture, but it bore a similarity to Hanatar's description of the fighter. I enhanced, angled, zoomed, and attempted every measure of visual scrutiny on the vessel. It may have been wishful thinking, but I believed I saw lettering on the side: OLGA.
Another file, one I missed initially, was the distress call recording she stole from the databanks of the Cassander. Most of it remained a pile of static and garbled mash. I watched a frightened woman fade in and out, her words lost.
All but one.
Her face and expression of fright became all-too clear for one moment, one word. Nothing else to suggest the how and why of the terrible occurrence, nothing at all about escapees or last testaments. Her voice, filled with endless despair, cried out before the very end in a single moment of clarity.
"Ivan!"
This was it. The connecting piece, an innocuous phrase that created a universe of fame and myth for Afanasi Sergeyevich Lukyanov: the man called Ivan. The final word spoken by a dying woman connected with an unidentified, fleeing vessel.
No context, no suggestion of responsibility upon his shoulders. The scream could have been an apology or a woman calling out the name of her lover as easily as a curse at the one responsible. The number of possible, subtle meanings was infinite.
But rumor had a mind of its own. This tiny iota of truth, one word of Ivan's involvement, spun out of control and exploded with falsehood and possibility. His legacy became galactic property, and very few would ever know or believe the real truth.
One thing was even more obvious. I realized this as I sat, safe for the time being within Minerva. Myself, Dana, Cain. Archivists, experts of data collection, all searching for the same man, the same answer.
They who employed us weren't looking for simple stories, no matter how amazing they were. They wanted to know the truth behind the Garden. Daedra-Tech, Seryia Hakar, the government, whoever else was involved wanted to know how an entire world was reduced to a mass of disconnected debris. Ivan was the only one with knowledge yet unaccounted for in the incident, and clearly they believed he knew something.
I wished I could spend more time, days and weeks, absorbing and integrating the memories of Archivist Dana without any distraction, but events were accelerating. I wasn't the only one looking for Ivan, and my already potent curiosity was driven into near madness at the prospects.
Archivist Sid
Assignment:
Seeking information regarding the truth and whereabouts of Ivan.
Location:
Marxis Station
Report:
Intended meeting with captain [Josef Onnels] of planetary distress [Atropos Garden] call respondent vessel [Cassander]. Necessary information obtained from fellow Archivist [Dana - now deceased].
Probability:
n/a
Summary:
Encounter with Archivist Dana fulfilled all needs for information regarding the incident at Atropos Garden. Discovered source of Ivan mythos in one clear word of the distress signal. Potent, unknown technology involved in full planetary destruction.
*Addendum: Archivist Dana retained significant data unrelated to Ivan search but likely of prominent interest, including a subjugation protocol inside security intrusion devices. May be useful in future encounters if intricacies can be discovered.
**Second Addendum: Ivan issues now seem to be of great interest by multiple parties; will have to accelerate process and disinclude leads with low probable utility.
Chapter 9: Hunted
Archivist Dana's memories held a treasure trove of data, but her Ivan tracking thus far had proven to be limited. Her source of information led her almost immediately to the Cassander and the cataclysm of Atropos Garden. Rather than a methodical gathering, she leapt right to the foundation of his fame as though the event could tell her everything about him, including current location.
However, it seemed she held in her mind other leads. Her intent was to follow his progress from the pinnacle moment onward, not bothering to discover his prior actions and persona. I thought it a glib approach, as I sought to develop a rudimentary profile for his behavior and motivation, bringing forth an understanding that would all but guarantee success in finding him.
She wanted to hunt him down as quickly as possible, but she had been yet young in her career. I already slipped by the feelings of regret for her recent demise, too fascinated by her mind's data and the sophistication of her processors.
Dana discovered what confirmed Voux Hanatar's theory; Ivan became a well-sought man after the destruction of Atropos Garden. Corporations, with hopes of brilliant new technology, began a biddi
ng war for Ivan's living hide. A few contracts even did not quite care if the quarry was breathing. The pay-out amount drove into the billions and far beyond. So much money lay in the simple job of finding and apprehending Ivan.
The methods were non-specific, and payment would be rendered when the dragged in husk was proven to be the real thing, or at least able to provide the information the corporations so desperately wanted.
Thousands of bounty hunters pitted against each other in a frantic attempt to find the man. Not a single one succeeded, and all but a few died by the hands of their competitors, the elements, or for the few who found him, Ivan himself.
It was during these years of chaos and pursuit that Ivan's personal description blurred and multiplied into an absurd smattering of diversity. People were paid exorbitant sums for the most paltry details, and more than a few charlatans took advantage and thus obscured the pool of useful information. As the truth behind the myth became more and more murky, only those who had met the real thing became likely candidates to find him.
As Dana discovered, the last big push before Ivan details faded into conjecture and became dismissed as myth was eleven years ago. A coalition of bounty hunters banded together to cooperate in finding Ivan. The cooling trail was tricky to follow, but it seemed they caught up to him. Twenty-five of the most battle-hardened, ruthless individuals under the leadership of a brilliant strategist fought with Ivan.
One survived.
The incompetent and cowardly Richner Platt somehow managed to escape when all of his comrades perished. Dana had no details as to how he accomplished this, but she did, as fortune would have it, discover his whereabouts. It seemed she even managed to schedule a meeting, one I decided to attend in her place.
Platt gave up on bounty collection, seeming to lose his taste for the hunt after watching his group of comrades slaughtered without mercy.
As with each of my inquiries with the lesser intelligent of the species, Platt resided near the rim. He lived as yet another of the bumbling dregs of the working class, on a Soma Corp Class 4 orbital shipyard, its unnamed status reflecting the general importance of its function.
This particular locale was above T35B, a failed terraforming project also not named for its value. Class 4's were manufacturing platforms which built the most economical in small cargo and personal transport ships, as well as the occasional ground vehicle.
Platt worked as a grunt and nothing more, but he was promised a small sum of money from Archivist Dana for his information, which went unspecified. I didn't know whether or not Dana intended to actually pay him, but I certainly didn't unless I really had to.
Wary though they were, port authorities allowed my access. Visitors outside of a regular sort were uncommon, but due to varied amenities and housing for all of the workers, they had no reason to deny new arrivals. I expressed a vague interest in obtaining a work contract and mentioned that a friend of a friend was employed.
The platform was dingy, even more so than my recent experience upon the Marxis refueling station. Condensation dripped down the walls and froze on the thinner parts of the hull where the cold of vacuum bled through. Marred and filthy bulkheads surrounded dim, empty corridors. It felt as much a derelict as anything else, but most foot traffic was limited to shift changes and common areas, most of which were bars.
Puckler's, a title whose purpose was as bizarre and ineffable as the stench it carried within, held the site of my meeting. In the worst possible scenario, the place was crowded, packed with workers. Perspiring bodies filled the uncomfortably warm area, making my full covering including facial obscurement obvious and out of place. Dozens of pairs of eyes swept towards me and the stick I pretended to hunch upon.
I hoped an infirm manner of appearance would keep the denizens at bay, and only a few looked on with more than light curiosity, as though they could sense my lack of humanity. I expected a strong distaste for mechanical prosthetics, and I wanted to avoid a time-wasting confrontation with so many people.
Corner table, Dana's memory informed me, unbidden by my request and almost utilizing its own voice. A bald, scarred individual. I paused for a moment, surprised by what seemed to be Dana's hidden vestige whispering in my mind. I gave a quick perusal, but nothing internally seemed amiss. I shook it off, concerned but occupied by more pressing matters.
Shuffling through the crowd, I remained careful to conceal my mechanical parts and avoid any scrutiny. I saw Dana's contact.
Richner Platt, a thick-muscled individual wearing an extremely filthy tank top, swigged a mug of dark liquid. Battered ears poked out of his egg-shaped head, and his one good eye lay next to a tangled mass of scarring which covered the left half of his face and threaded down his shoulder and bicep. The rest of his arm and the injury was concealed under the table.
I hobbled over and sat across from him.
"Beat it, old timer," he took a drink, "I ain't givin' ya money, so take a hike."
In my best croaking tone, I asked, "Waiting for someone, Mr. Platt?"
His expression darkened. "Get lost."
"Dana's not coming," I rasped. "She sent me."
"Shit." He brought his left arm up onto the table, revealing that he was missing a portion of it from mid-forearm down. The stump was capped by a metallic receiver for a detachable prosthetic, a variety less effective than a fully integrated model. Absentmindedly scratching at his elbow, he noticed my stare and put his partial arm back in his lap, under the table.
"What happened?" I asked.
Glaring with his one good eye, he said, "None a' yer damn business."
"Sir, please," I replied, "I'm only here to fulfill the agreement between you and Miss Dana."
"I don't know you," his mouth curled in a sneer, "so unless you got the coin to double my fee, I'm not sayin' shit."
I gave my head a slight shake. "There was no set fee." The memories of Dana told me they each agreed his pay would be based upon the usefulness of the information.
He appraised me, expression wary. Finally, he sighed, leaning forward. "Okay, I just needed to make sure you were the real thing. Can't be too careful, ya know?"
Though his method of testing me seemed rudimentary at best, I gave a nod and motioned towards the table which hid his missing arm. "Forget it at home?"
"Assholes won't let me wear it in here. Say it's unnatural or some shit. I can only wear it when I'm working, and it hurts like hell to take it off and put it on."
Understandable, as the nerve attachments had to painfully sever and fuse at each change. Still, the bitterness in his expression regarding the difficulty he faced with prosthetics provided an opportunity. I pulled off the glove which hid my own inhuman limb, placing my metallic fingertips on the edge of the table. His eye flitted down and unconcealed shock spread across his features.
Replacing the glove, I spoke with a clearer tone, dropping the false infirmity approach. "I understand very well what it's like."
Surprised, either by the obvious quality he saw in the craftsmanship of my hand or the gall I possessed to enter Puckler's wearing it, he said, "So you're...?"
"Quietly," I murmured. "I don't care for the extra attention."
Platt made a comically inept show of nonchalance, lowering his head like a conspirator and passing a paranoid gaze around the bar. If any of the drunken buffoons present had paid the slightest attention, there might have been trouble.
Even so, he hissed, "So whaddya wanna know?"
"Relax," I said, leaning back to demonstrate and speaking in a normal tone. "It's a simple conversation of no great secrecy or importance. We have nothing to hide, and anyone listening will gain nothing of consequence." Folding my hands, I continued, "I received information- excuse me, Dana received information -that you were involved in the unfortunate group who had the last encounter with Ivan."
Platt drew in a sharp breath and stiffened, appearing ready to bolt. His flesh and blood hand gripped the mug tightly, and fear seeped into his expression.
&nbs
p; "What's wrong?"
He shook his head. "I ain't gonna talk about that. No way."
Stifling a laugh, deciding that doing so at the expense of the brave, former bounty hunter would make him difficult to converse with, I put out a reassuring hand. "It's all right, Mr. Platt. I understand it must have been quite the difficult ordeal."
"Difficult?" He clenched his teeth. "Watching all my buddies get cooked? Burning light taking away most of my arm? The liquefied remains of that arm spilling onto my skin and boiling it?" He shook his head. "Naw... nothin' difficult about it at all."
"You survived," I offered.
Bitterness subsumed his expression, and he pounded his stump on the table. "Look at me. Look at where I am." He passed a gesture with his arm at the surroundings, the dingy bar and sweating, drunken men. "I know I ain't the brightest star in the night sky. Hell, you known me for three minutes, and you prolly figured that much out. My surviving wasn't any a' my doin', so it don't count for shit."
"What happened?"
He shook his head. "I can't tell you. He said he'd kill me."
"Ivan?" I asked.
Platt appeared puzzled for a second. "No, not Ivan," he said, glancing back and forth. His face developed that same fear, and he leaned forward and dropped his voice to a low murmur, "Grey."
It was my turn to be shocked.
"Traverian Grey was there," I whispered.
He nodded.
I felt a bubble of adrenaline as possibilities whirled in my thoughts. Some of it began to make sense, but I didn't have enough yet to see the whole picture. "You have to tell me more."
The Legend of Ivan Page 15
