Nothing interesting existed there: the society, the world, or its general purposes. The richest man on Belgriad could clean toilets for a Keritas middle-management fellow on Ethra. It seemed a lesser version of a multi-facet world, poor to decent by comparison in most areas but lacking anything impressive. At least poverty and crime levels were low.
Truly nothing was wrong with this world, but I didn't like it nonetheless. Belgriad existed in an era passed by; its decades-behind progress might as well have been centuries to me.
I felt uncomfortable, out of place. In spite of suggestions of Belgriad's general tolerance to heavy prosthesis being impressive for its distance from the galactic core, I held no strong desire to land Minerva upon its partly barren surface.
Why Traverian Grey sought his retirement in this place seemed clear and confusing at the same time. Out of the way and insignificant, it certainly provided an obscurity that all but guaranteed he'd never be bothered by his past. However, with the amount of money made in his long career, there had to exist a thousand places more luxurious.
Returning to my impressions of the planet, I realized that Grey might have been the aforementioned wealthiest individual on Belgriad, and the thought of him cleaning toilets was laughable. It made me wonder if his current role was some manner of scam.
Traverian Grey: assassin, mercenary, hunter of dinosaurs, and as near to legend as Ivan himself without a planetary destruction. This man, this hired gun, was playing deacon for an Ivan-worshiping organization.
The Penitent Children of Ivan lived in a small commune, more cult than established faith. Thankfully, they didn't exist under one of the many absurd leaders with delusions of grandeur as well as a penchant for control of the feeble-minded. The outsider's perspective, gathered from a few of the quaint inhabitants of a nearby city, was an impression of harmless quirk.
Even the other locals provided to me this odd sense of unnerve. Far from a few decades, I viewed some kind of bizarre amalgamation between a post-industrial and hyper-commercial society.
I've grown accustomed to the mining camp appearance. Dusty earth, filthy prefab barracks or bungalow housing. Half-brained workers operating equipment one hundred times more valuable than their lives. But Belgriad...
The cities and villages were so spread and varied, including dwellings from small shacks to neo-plast towers. They hardly seemed to be of the same world at all. Development moved so slowly, and in spite of an age where pre-fabricated cities could practically be dropped in from orbit, tenacious construction crawled along the surface without the greater aid of a massive budget.
Yet the people were strangely content, making me all the more uncomfortable. Net access was somewhat limited, but the citizens still had to realize that plenty of places in the galaxy could provide better technology, better quality of life, and not this limbo of being spread across eras.
Even more bizarre to my eyes, after renting a wheeled electric vehicle about four centuries old in design and traveling a few hundred miles, was the dwelling of the two hundred or so denizens of the Penitent Children of Ivan. It was a ranch.
A ranch.
They utilized cattle, beasts of burden, and traded the fresh, unaltered genetics of inferior animal specimens to attain simple supplies. None of their devices and implements required more than rudimentary electricity. Buildings were made out of stone and wood from the local, gnarled variety of trees. Passing along the outskirts, I couldn't help but gawk as I saw laborers actually using nails to fasten pieces of their dwellings together. The entire spectacle blurred my vision and made me wonder if perhaps I had fallen into some manner of alternate existence of millennia long passed.
Clenching my elegant metallic fist, proof I was a product of and existed in a civilized, technology-driven universe, I approached the small village and prayed this experience would be brief.
"Good afternoon, friend," an individual wearing dusty clothing and a wide-brimmed hat spoke as I pulled the quiet vehicle forward to a long fence outside of the wooden shacks. It might have been imagination or expectations, but the man's tone seemed as an empty-headed drawl. "What brings you out this way?"
He regarded me with a sharp, wary appraisal, eyes lingering on the metal hand which gripped the steering control of the vehicle. Trying to keep the scorn out of my voice, I spoke, "I'm looking for someone."
"That so?" The man raised an eyebrow. "Who, might I ask?"
"A man by the name of Traverian Grey. I was told he was the deacon of your church."
He frowned. "It's true that we have a Mr. Grey as our worship-aid, but he goes by Silas. You sure you have the right place?"
"Definitely," I nodded, "and Silas Grey is who I need to see."
The suspicion deepened in my new friend's eyes. "What is it you want with Deacon Grey?"
I held up my hands, trying to appear non-threatening. "I only need to ask him a couple of questions. It won't take long, and you can keep an eye on me if you like." I had nothing to hide. Grey, on the other hand...
His appraisal continued for a moment. "All right. You can come in, but you have to leave the wheeler here. We prefer a simple life, and fancy technology, no offense," he said, motioning towards my prostheses, "doesn't fit into that."
Nodding, I stepped out of the vehicle, glad to be away from it. Pathetic speed, bumpy suspension, and unpadded seats: it was little more than wheels, a frame, and a cheap engine. My hours-long ride was dull and uncomfortable, and I didn't relish the thought of a return trip. On the other hand, considering my surroundings, I expected to be longing for it soon.
My new friend stuck out his hand. "Linus Newson."
"Sid." We shook, and I felt a blip of satisfaction at the discomfort on Newson's face as he gripped the cold metal of my right hand.
"That short for anything?"
"Just Sid."
We traveled through the village, dust swirling around our heels as he pointed out the function of a couple of buildings. Their construction was fine, elegant handiwork for certain, but the concept of such base manual labor without the involvement of prefab assembly seemed laughable. There was a small water pump in the middle of town, its apparatus disguised by a circular well of brick.
He motioned to a provisions building. "Most everyone gets their food and supplies from there, and most of filling it we take care of ourselves. A little gets traded with nearby towns, but they don't think much of us."
I understood why. Even the odd amalgamation of somewhat new and very old technology of the rest of the planet was far in advance of what they had going on in this place. I wondered if their lifestyle was a product of some backward religious ideology.
"That's the generator." He pointed to a larger building made of brick and stone. "Lines go underground. Some of the folks wanted to get rid of that, too, but..."
We exchanged looks, and a moment of clarity settled between us as we agreed upon certain simplicities: running water, plumbing, energy for light and heat when necessary. Still, as I glanced at the building, I couldn't help but imagine their power being fabricated by a thousand rodents running on wheels.
Linus talked a bit about their tech-free living-situation, but I tuned most of his drawl out while I counted the number of house-type structures. There were enough buildings for the couple hundred individuals, and they were nothing amazing in design. Simple accommodations for simple people.
Some of whom provided disquieting stares as we progressed towards the end of the town. No one approached or said a word, but their eyes registered a distaste for outsiders. A small cottage-like dwelling sat near the end of the town, and a short, railed ramp led up to a doorway. Linus held up a hand for me to stay back, and he walked forward and knocked on the door.
"Deacon Grey?" he called out. "Linus Newson here."
Moments dripped by, and I could hear slight sounds coming from within. The door opened a crack, not enough for me to see the occupant. Newson's neck craned downward, suggesting he looked at a very short man. "Linus," a grav
el-toned voice came through. "What can I do for you, today?"
"There's a man out here says he wants to chat with you," he pointed towards me, "but you say the word, and I'll send him on his way."
"Of course not, c'mon inside."
Newson pushed the door open, looking back at me. "Well? Come along, then."
I walked up the ramp and stepped into the cottage, whose overall size seemed to barely outstrip Minerva's cockpit. The interior was simple, clean. A small stove area lay next to a cot. A closed wardrobe likely held a few articles of clothing, and an open closet-door led into a latrine area. A few loops of fabric hung from the ceiling along with bars fastened to the wall to accommodate the occupant's infirmity.
Traverian, or Silas, Grey sat in a wheeled chair, much of both legs gone along with an arm up to the elbow. Far from the cold, steely glare of a long-time mercenary, his grizzled, unshaven face held a kindly appearance behind the numerous scars and missing teeth.
"What's your name, friend?" the man asked, extending his remaining hand and leaving me to wonder if this was truly the terrible mercenary I'd heard about.
The situation was so far out from what I was expecting that I hesitated. I searched his expression for some manner of analysis, calculation, or anything suggesting the shrewd and unyielding nature of his reputation. Nothing: only a soft smile and patient air. He didn't even seem to react to seeing what he must have known was an Archivist.
"Sid," I finally spoke, reaching out for the awkward left-handed shake.
His grip was quite firm. "What can I do for you today, Mr. Sid."
"No Mister, please," I replied with a bow. "Just Sid, or Archivist if you must." I felt a soft reminder would bring a reaction.
No such luck; he remained unreadable. "Of course, Archivist, of course." He cocked his head, waiting for me to speak.
A hundred strategies of information coaxing flitted through my mind, but for once I seemed at a disadvantage. I kept searching for an ounce of alarm, appraisal, confusion, fear, anything at all to provide a tactic of approach, but there was nothing. I assumed he'd instantly know why I was there the moment he laid eyes on me. However, looking at him, I couldn't gauge anything.
Awkward silence dripped by. "Well, you're the one who came here, stranger," Linus piped up. "Why don't you say something already?"
Frustrated, put off balance in what must have been Grey's own strategy, I went for the direct approach. "Traverian Grey," I said, staring directly at the crippled man. "I'm here seeking information from you about Ivan."
"I told you his name wasn't Traverian-"
Grey held up a hand, cutting off his friend. "Mr. Newson, thank you for bringing him. I need to speak privately with Sid here, so if you could please shut the door on the way out...?"
The man seemed poised to object, but he nodded. "I'll be right outside, Deacon. Holler if you need anything." He passed a brief, irritated gaze in my direction before passing outside. The door clicked shut.
"My friend Mr. Newson was correct," Grey said, still nothing but passive interest registering on his face. "I don't go by Traverian."
"But that is... was your name." I folded my arms.
He gave a nod.
"And you knew Ivan."
Another nod.
"He gave you those injuries."
He didn't respond.
Confused, I asked, "He didn't?"
A tiny smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, the first real reaction I'd seen out of him, but he skipped by the question. "I go by Silas now, Deacon to the First Church of the Penitent Children of Ivan."
"Listen, Mr. Grey." I gestured. "I'm trying to find both information about Ivan's location and Ivan himself. I know you were the last known individual to see him. I respect the fact that you're hiding here in peaceful retirement, and I don't wish to disturb you any longer than it takes to find out what I want to know."
He chuckled, wheeling his chair around with one hand and the stump of his other arm. "Can I get anything for you? Something to drink, eat maybe?"
"No, thank you."
Moving over to the stove, he set down a clean pan and clicked on a heating element. "Must have been Lorric, hm? Tell you where I was?"
"Yes."
"Shoulda known he'd keep tabs on me." Grey shook his head, laughing softly as he opened a cooled box. He withdrew a few eggs from a small container. He held them up. "You see these? Fresh as you can get 'em." He pulled out a tomato. "Same as this. Better than any hydroponics garden can ever match."
He grabbed a knife from a block and set the tomato down, skillfully cutting without difficulty. Still smirking, he dropped what looked like some kind of animal grease into the pan before cracking the eggs.
"I'd like to get moving along as soon as possible," I said.
He ignored me.
I watched, impatient, as he cooked the ingredients together, slicing off a slab of some kind of cheese to go with it and scrambling everything together. Eventually, he dumped the whole mess onto a plate. Cradling it in his lap, he used a fork to take a few bites. He gestured at the plate. "I've spent a thousand credits on a meal not half as satisfying."
"Impressive," I replied in a tone suggesting not the least bit of interest.
Grey tossed his head back and laughed. He didn't say anything, still chuckling as he took a few more bites.
"May I ask what is so funny?" I asked, gritting my teeth.
"Oh nothing, it's just..." Shaking his head and laughing, the crippled man said, "You think I'm crazy. Out of my mind. Snapped, cracked, overcome with madness, and unable to cope with my one magnificent failure."
I said nothing.
"You think I'm hiding, laying low in this land beyond corporate reach, beyond the vengeance of comrade and kin, beyond the niceties of modern civilization. You think I live on this antiquated pebble of the galaxy to let my reputation die, afraid of what the unwashed masses will think of my poor, crippled self. You think I'm crazy to have not bought five or six mansions to live in, new body parts to make me whole again, and enough expensive luxury items to live out my days in blissful abandon. And most of all..." He paused, taking another bite. "You think I've gone completely batshit to be hanging around Ivan worshippers. Does that about cover it, Sid the Archivist?"
Blinking, I kept an even expression. Everything he said was more or less true, and I considered his ability to acknowledge madness poor proof to him lacking it.
Grey laughed again. "It couldn't possibly occur to you, with your infinite wisdom and experience, that I stay out here in this place because I actually like it?"
Cold surprise and realization spilled through my body. My careful control of emotion must have slipped, considering the hysterical torrent of laughter my new companion fell into.
"Right on all counts, I see!" he shouted, thumping his hand against the stub of his leg as he laughed.
A hot flush bristled through my body. It was embarrassing to be ridiculed, to be coming in with such high preconception only to have completely misjudged. His amusement did little to temper my rising irritation.
Striking him crossed my mind briefly, but I decided there would be no satisfaction to be had in such an act. Besides, Grey still managed to kill two bounty hunters and wound another who was a brilliant strategist. This was after losing three limbs in a cataclysmic explosion and crashing a hover vehicle.
Granted, "Silas" Grey was much older, and the people he ambushed were half-starved. Either way, I still had no good reason, aside from his continued mirth at my expense, to hit him.
Besides, my assumptions though premature were quite reasonable. "Why should I believe otherwise?" My tone contained a hard edge as I tried to cut through his amusement. "Here you are, what's left of the mercenary legend. Traverian Grey, playing worship-aide to a ridiculous cult."
"Ah, ah, ah." He wagged a finger at me. "I caught you again. You think I can't possibly be this man, this wholly legitimate Deacon of the Penitent Children of Ivan, without ulterior motive. You thi
nk I can't believe."
This time, surprise was knocked aside by anger. "Not a chance. You've met Ivan. You know he's nothing more than a simple man, unless your mind truly was addled by failure and fear."
Grey ignored the insult, another peal of laughter escaping him. "Oh-ho! Clearly you don't know much if you think of anything about Ivan as simple. I thought Archivists were supposed to be smart." He grinned, far too smug, and I again contemplated the advantages of striking him.
"Very well..." I seethed. "You are aware that he's made of flesh and blood. He is human, not some kind of deity."
"Oh, well technically," he waved his hand back and forth. "Our doctrine states that Ivan is a manifestation, a living embodiment of God sent to herald our salvation or destruction." He shrugged. "It sort of depends upon humanity's worth as a whole."
I shook my head. "Superstitious absurdity, and your seeming adherence only proves your madness."
Shrugging, he replied. "Perhaps, but perhaps it's you who can't see beyond your preconceptions of what does and doesn't make sense for an individual in my situation." I opened my mouth to object, but he held up his hand. "I can see we're not off to the greatest start, so why don't we begin again. I'll stop poking fun at you if you agree to hold an open mind."
I pulled a folding chair out from a corner and sat down, waiting for him to speak. Even with my irritation, I could not overcome the curiosity I felt. The situation and how it developed was too strange to overlook. I wondered if it was some kind of madness or if Traverian Grey, galactic scourge, changed so drastically as to become a peace-loving country bumpkin, worshipping his greatest foe.
"You want to know why I'm here," he offered.
Nodding, I responded, keeping my tone carefully neutral. "Of course. Even you must understand it represents a very odd change in attitude and priority. Though it's possible all I've heard about you was mere conjecture..." I trailed off, the question hanging.
The Legend of Ivan Page 18
