The Legend of Ivan Read online

  The Legend of Ivan

  Justin Kemppainen

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 Justin Kemppainen

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  Chapter 1: Alcohol

  Many of my meetings occur in bars.

  This is not an unusual principle. When seeking information, my everlasting quarry, it is best to find subjects in the most amiable mood. A bar represents a location where leisure attitudes spring forth. It is a comfort zone for many.

  There is also alcohol.

  Alcohol.

  For ages, eons, long before the muddy dregs of Old Earth cast humanity in search of a less toxic habitability. Long before colonization reached the far edges of the galaxy. Millennia prior to centralized government crumbling before the wealth and might of corporate interest. Indeed, centuries before the thought of entering that infinite void crossed the pitiful minds of the earliest civilized inhabitants of that ill-fated planet...

  Alcohol has been a most effective facilitator.

  Pair a comfort zone with a decrease in motor functions, not to mention a quelling of inhibitions. Suddenly, the most bizarre stranger becomes a brother, nemesis, lover, or some combination of all three within a few moments of indelicate, slurred speech. For certain, the risk becomes that their ramblings will often tend towards the unintelligible, but this is of little concern. Memory in the inferior structure of a standard human brain vanishes, represses, and erodes regardless of how much blunt force trauma or poison is applied. Simply: the squishy tissue doesn't retain information so well to begin with.

  My task is not only to gather the pitiful, vomitous remains of human memory but to interpret them: to glean the tiny semblances of truth and reality found within.

  I seek Ivan, a man of myth and wild, absurd tales. I seek him, if indeed he exists.

  The beginning of this long journey, naturally, took place in a bar.

  Hours of waiting, sipping on a simple solution of grain alcohol, drove an irritating boredom into my normally patient mind. Unfortunately, the entertainment value of liquor in and of itself does not function as normal within my augmented body.

  The substance gave the slightest giddiness to the few organic parts of my brain a few moments before the mechanical functions siphoned it off as a crude energy source and cleaning implement.

  I'd arrived on the world called Dessida a couple of days prior, sources and research suggesting someone who had met the enigma known as Ivan lived there. A very brief exchange of messages later, the contact named Raymond Cobb suggested a meeting at the bar.

  As the alcohol completed its brief round of clouding and vanishing, I let myself marvel at the fabricated artistic-crystal of the glass I held. It was laser cut, done so manually with precision to create specific refractions within its facets. "Where did you get this?" I asked the man tending the bar.

  The barkeep, by his attire and stench, appeared to be one of the dirt poor denizens filling the near-fringe world. Dessida lay distant from the core, filled primarily with miners and other working-class individuals. The man carried himself with a well-traveled air, but still...

  "It was a fella about four or five years ago," the barkeep spoke with the local lilt, but underneath it were hints of an intelligent, almost educated tone. "He exchanged them for a few drinks and a bit of local coin. I think he musta stole 'em without recognizing their value."

  "Did he now?" I rotated the glass, staring at it. It was a very impressive piece, well-cut, dazzling colors shifting and swirling to form fractured and beautiful patterns.

  The barkeep set down the identical glass he was polishing. "Why do you ask, Master Archivist?"

  I am not often surprised. However, being correctly addressed by what I assumed was a slack-jawed yokel on a backwater planet where luxuries such as the fabricated crystal would cost an individual his home, organs, and ten years worth of salary came as a bit of a shock.

  "You know what I am," I said, hints of a question in an otherwise flat tone.

  The barkeep nodded. "Certainly. Your kind is hard to mistake. The etchings there give it away." He pointed to the faint insignia upon the metal above my synthetic eye.

  My breath caught in my throat. "You've seen more. Recently?"

  "No, no." The barman chuckled. "In my years merchanting core-ward, I saw a couple of you Archivists out and about. Never struck up a chat or anything, but..." He shrugged. "That was before my luxurious retirement out in these lovely parts."

  Impressed, I asked for his name.

  "Francis Basil, at your service, good sir." He grinned. "Can I refresh that for you?"

  I agreed, and the barkeep, who shook off more of my assumption of brain-dead illiteracy with each passing moment, refilled my drink. My tip was more generous.

  "Thank you kindly," he said, scooping up the paper and coin currency. "Now, what could a fine seeker such as yourself be doing out here on the ass-end of the galaxy."

  I smiled, liking this man. "I'm looking-"

  Before I could highlight anything particular, the saloon-style doors banged open. Two individuals entered, and it took barely a moment for me to assume there would be trouble.

  They were raucous, loud, and carefree as they greeted a couple of familiar patrons. Their middle-grade IQ almost spewed from their pores as their half-literate speech washed over me.

  The lead man, fresh and ripe after a day's labor, spotted me at the far end of the bar. "Aw geez, Frank. Why ya gotta let that Grayskin freak in here?"

  The insult didn't particularly bother me, as it has always seemed an accurate description. Mechanical parts made up a considerable portion of my body, including full prosthetics for my right arm and leg as well as the upper-right portions of my face and skull. Internal augmentations bring the rest of my muscle and bone structure to a higher strength and density to match the prosthetics.

  The true mastery, however, of my altered architecture exists within the cranial changes. Implants lay within every cubic centimeter of my brain tissue, creating a significant boost to my faculties, especially that of memory. More than half of my body, including the externally visible prosthetics of my limbs and skull, one synthetic eye, and other internal components, is machine.

  A byproduct of these augmentations was an ashen hue to organic flesh. Hence: "Grayskin." There were repigmentation treatments to bring back a semblance of normal human skin tone, but I've never bothered with them.

  Francis was more irritated by the insult than I was. "Stow it, Parker, he's a well-mannered customer, and the only color I care about is green."

  Admiration growing, I smiled.

  With a lingering glare, Parker grabbed two bottles of weak ale for himself and his friend. They sat down at a round wooden table and stole the occasional glance in my direction, animosity obvious.

  "Thanks," I said to Francis as he came near again.

  He shook his head. "Don't thank me yet."

  Grimacing, I set down the glass. A quick systems diagnostic flitted past my synthetic eye. Green lights shone from each mechanical function. As always, my body was in pristine condition, ready for any encounter.

  Time passed, and I began to feel more comfortable. Francis and I didn't speak any further as the ruffians put away several bottles each.

  "Hey, Grayskin," the one known as Parker called from across the bar. "You best watch yer step. Some folk don't take kindly to mechanoid freaks."

/>   We only like God-fearin', true-blood humans 'round these parts, the silent voice of so many rang in my head. It wasn't unusual to find intolerance towards augmentation out away from the core. They would sooner see a man with a peg leg than a brand new, fully functional limb.

  Francis scowled. "Parker, I'm warning you..."

  The ruffian held his hands up. "Easy, old-timer. I'm just tellin' the Grayskin how it is."

  "I've been 'round these parts before," I said, lilting into a mocking tone. "I reckon I dun know how it works."

  The barman cracked a slight grin.

  Accurate as the imitation was, Parker was neither impressed nor amused. He stood up, and his cohort joined him a moment later.

  "Is that funny, Grayskin?" Parker asked, moving across the bar to me.

  "I thought so." I took a sip.

  "Archivist..." Francis warned, amusement fading.

  I put up a hand. "I'll pay for any damage." The barkeep sighed in response.

  "What's that?" Parker asked as he and his friend neared.

  Considering options, I double-checked the various hidden defense mechanisms I held. Unbeknownst to any present, a row of needles flitted out of hidden housings on my mechanical hand and retracted, functioning as normal. A tranquilizer delivery mechanism is often an excellent way to avoid damaging confrontation with people or even animals. If necessary, I could pressurize the housing chambers and fire the needles up to thirty feet. The two folks would hardly know what hit them before waking up a few hours later under the duress of a terrible headache.

  The sonic emitter in my skull plate, useful for a brief moment of incapacitation in a five foot radius, warmed up with an inaudible whine before powering down again. Other systems for electronic security bypass and intrusion, a cache of listening devices, and various others were not useful in this situation.

  "Well?" Parker snorted. "Whatcha gotta say to me, freak?"

  With the amazing technology geared to defend my person against all manner of threat, I decided to use my bare hands.

  Stuck on this stinking ball of dirt for two days, waiting in this tavern for three hours past the agreed meeting time, and bathing in the brain-dead existence of this low-brow planet left me somewhat cranky.

  Parker put his hand on my shoulder. "You better answer me!"

  I didn't bother to give any warnings.

  Standing and whirling around, I slipped out of Parker's grip and kicked his cohort in the face. With a sickening crunch, the man's nose shattered, and he was knocked out cold before gravity could catch up and drag him to the dusty floor.

  Parker had enough time to gasp at the sudden incapacitation of his friend as I grabbed him by the arm, pulled him forward, and slammed him facedown into the bar. He sputtered, dazed as he struggled against my grip. In a swift motion, I dragged his arm up, giving it a good wrench and hearing the satisfying pop as his shoulder dislocated.

  The pain must have been glorious, considering the howling which ensued. He was lucky. A little more twisting, and I could have taken home a souvenir.

  "Are you finished?" I asked, leaning down.

  Parker didn't really respond in any coherent sense; his latest tactic seemed to be trying to burst my eardrums with pathetic wailing.

  I let him fall to the ground, nodding an apology to the barkeep, who rolled his eyes. As I sat back down, Parker's screeching died to a mishmash of whimpering curses. "Jeesuss," he cried. "You broke my arm. You broke my arm, ya goddamn freak!"

  "It's dislocated," I said, taking a sip.

  Shaking his head, the bartender moved to the wall, where a simple communicator interface lay silent. He punched in a few buttons to contact the local authorities, and a face appeared after a moment.

  "Franky," the man greeted him with a grimace, "isn't it a little early for trouble?"

  The barkeep sighed and shook his head. "Sorry, Chief, I got a couple of injured dipshits here who need patchin' up. They attacked a guest of mine and got themselves hurt."

  "Yeah, I'll be right there."

  I sipped at my drink more freely now that I felt the danger past. Parker remained on the ground, whimpering weakly and cursing. Consciousness had not returned, nor likely would for quite a while, to his friend.

  More than a few wide-eyed expressions greeted me as the local constabulary arrived along with medical staff. Francis gave his statement and pointed the ruffians out as the perpetrators. He insisted the boys had learned their lessons and no charges needed pressing.

  The officers and medics didn't speak to me. A couple featured the ever-popular animosity, but they all seemed wary and afraid, realizing I wasn't just some schmuck with mechanical prosthetics. I'd bet three of my cortical processors that none of them had ever heard of an Archivist. We're not very common so far out.

  We're not very common at all.

  I grew impatient as the mess was cleaned up. From the activity, most of the patrons departed for quieter, less activity-filled accommodations, but there remained no sign of my contact.

  "Well, now ya done it." Francis wagged a finger at me once everything was taken care of. "This place'll be crickets for the next couple of days."

  I considered telling him the chirping insects were not native to this world, but tact suggested a different approach. "Sorry for the trouble," I said.

  The barkeep waved off the apology. "No need, no need. Takin' care of this heap is my retirement, so empty days give me a chance to enjoy some peace."

  "Still," I said, producing a large wad of currency. I placed it on the table. "Will that cover what you'd have made tonight?"

  Francis threw back his head and laughed. "Son, that'd be about a weeks worth."

  Shrugging, I pushed the money across the counter. "Consider us even, then, as long as you assist me briefly in my search."

  "Ah yes," he nodded, "I admit I'm a bit curious. Who might you be lookin' for?"

  I swept off my hat, scratching the thin, brittle hair remaining to my organic scalp. "Raymond Cobb; he has information for me, and we set up-"

  "Sorry to say, Archivist, but Cobb moved on from these parts not two days ago."

  "He told me he lived nearby and frequented this location," I said, clenching a fist. "In our messages, he himself suggested we meet here."

  The barkeep nodded. "Certainly. Time was you could find ol' Cobb sittin' right where you are, pissin' away what little life he had left. However, it seemed he ran outta money and hopped a shuttle to the next shit-mining world before any of his substantial number of creditors knew what hit 'em."

  Sighing, I stood up. "Then I've wasted my time here. Where did he go?"

  "'Fraid I can't say." The barkeep shrugged. "He stopped in here to pay a small bit of his outstanding tab and bid me a fond farewell. Hell, I never expected him to-"

  "I appreciate your time and kindness," I said, straightening my long coat, "but I need to leave. I must track down where this shuttle went. Please tell me the exact time of his departure, if you can."

  "Oh, it was about... Tuesday 'round four in the afternoon." Frustration pulsed within my veins, as I'd then need to find if the local station kept decent enough records. Of course it was also assuming Cobb didn't give a false name or stowaway on board. Hopefully the outbound traffic was slow enough that I'd only have to search a couple of systems to get back on track.

  "Hold up!" Francis called as I moved towards the exit. "Yer not workin' fer one of his collectors, are ya?"

  I shook my head.

  The barkeep motioned for me to sit back down. "I was probably the closest thing Cobb had to a friend around here. Maybe I can help you out?"

  I contemplated the possibility. A bartender can be like a primitive Archivist, in a way. Stories, gossip, and information flows freely in this kind of environment. Of course, the standard brain architecture can't process near as much data, but...

  "What do you know?" I asked.

  Francis grinned. "What were you lookin' for?"

  I took a deep breath. "Various leads
suggested that Raymond Cobb interacted with the man known as Ivan on the world TF-557, named-"

  "Hunter's End." Francis laughed out loud. "Oh, I know this one. Cobb'd been spewin' this story for years. I always kinda wondered how much there really was to it." He shrugged. "You being here means that there's gotta be some truth to those tales about Ivan, yeah?"

  I gave a nod. "My employer seems to believe so, and the sparse records left from Hunter's End do state that someone called Ivan, whether imposter or otherwise, came and left during the time when Cobb was employed there."

  "Oh yeah," the barkeep nodded seriously. "I know exactly what yer lookin' for."

  I sat back down. The ever familiar hunger, the allure of fresh information, settled into my mind. "Tell me."

  Chapter 2: Ivan and the Dinosaurs

  "There was something Cobb always said every time he started this story. I believe it wouldn't do this Ivan fella or Cobb himself justice if I told it any other way.

  Ivan punched a dinosaur.

  Hunter's End just so happens to be on the ass end of the ass end of the galaxy, as I'm sure you're so keenly aware, good Archivist. The usual devices were set up to fix the unlivable conditions, only take a few hundred or so years to accelerate nothing into proto-goo. Before you know it, they got eating, breathing, shitting life. Well in that time, administrations changed hands, documents and hard drives fell into the incinerator, people moved on with their lives, and, whoops, someone misplaced a planet.

  The terraforming processes were a set it and forget it type of arrangement. In this case, "forget it" was key. Plenty of ambient life sprang up in the meanwhile, and, by the time the damn place was re-discovered, some monstrous lizards had the run of it.

  The usual pack of rough-edged explorers found it teeming with all manner of life, thinking it was some monumental discovery that'd make them stinking rich. They thought they'd claim and sell it off to some corporation or another. One of the people, however, took one look at the size of the critters down below and thought of something else.