Justin Kemppainen - The Legend of Ivan

The door opened.

“Good morning, Ivan,” the doctor said cheerfully, his annoyance tempered by finally being through the security countermeasures. “Today we should get to see you up and about for real.”

The slab of metal and synthesized flesh on the table gave no reply, lying as a brainless lump of trillion dollar parts. Truly the only task remaining was to get Ivan’s augmented human brain installed.

For weeks, they’d done countless testing of Ivan’s motor functions with a simple processor linked to controls. Bent sections of starship hull plate lay, discarded in one of the testing areas from the strength demonstration. A hideous indentation was smashed into a concrete wall as one of the idiotic and now-fired techs had not slowed Ivan’s impressive sprint quickly enough in the speed test.

A capacitor chamber had nearly overloaded at a demonstration of Ivan’s power output, an action which very well could have caused a cataclysmic explosion that would have destroyed a quarter of the Keritas complex. This was at a tenth maximum load.

“We’ll never have to worry about using that function, now will we my devastating little pet?” Dr. Calloway practically crooned. His affection for the project appeared excessive but not so much that Keritas thought he needed to be removed. “You’ll always win without it. I just know you will.”

In the unlikely event of a detachment of Ivan-units being unable to secure an objective or certain varied circumstances, the Annihilation Nexus portion of his namesake would activate. In tandem, their reactors would release an energy stream straight into the core of the planet, the intention being to cause a world-shattering event. Then in the aftermath, Keritas could in theory send a ship to scoop up the undamaged Ivans, recharge them, and haul them to the next objective.

Dr. Calloway was almost sad to see the project at its end. Once they had a viable prototype, the schematics would be carted off to a manufacturing center for production, and he’d likely not see his precious children unless on the opposite end of their promised brutality.

The doctor ambled through the lab, checking over some of the instruments and analyses. System diagnostics spooled through the large monitor. Everything displayed green lights.

Stepping over to the table, he ran a hand over the remarkable synthetic skin that coated the structure of the human-in-appearance body. Cold and lifeless at the moment, it was remarkably smooth, soft. “Like real flesh,” he murmured, always astounded when he felt it.

The airlock hissed open. “Is it really such a surprise?” Trevors asked as he stepped into the room. Calloway felt a pang of irritation at his fellow doctor’s air of smug satisfaction. Trevors, the impudent cad that he was, did create the design for the flesh and was instrumental in altering it to suit the energy dispersion and channeling functions.

Calloway didn’t answer his colleague. He stepped over to some charts and pretended to sift through the documentation. In truth, very little could be accomplished. Countless simulations and tests had been run to determine Ivan’s viability, and the final stage was only minutes away.

“Or hours,” he said, again the annoyance at the delay springing to the front of his thoughts. He turned to Trevors, who scanned over the same diagnostic data. “When did you say the surgeon was supposed to arrive?”

Trevors didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “I didn’t.” Before Dr. Calloway could open his mouth in a retort, his colleague continued, checking his watch. “However, I believe he ought to be here any minute.”

The corner of Calloway’s mouth curled in a sneer. “Well, he’s three weeks late already. What’s another few minutes?”

Dr. Trevors didn’t reply. He hunched over diagnostics, still occasionally glancing at the news reports on his datapad. Calloway busied himself with digging through any of the slightest anomalies detected during the weeks of testing. He knew each miniscule malfunction by heart, and he was more than assured the problems had been fixed, tested, re-fixed, re-tested, and re-everythinged a dozen times.

There was truly nothing to do but wait.

An hour passed in the dullness which followed, and finally the neurosurgeon arrived.

Dr. Calloway’s irritation had deepened significantly during the period of waiting, as contemplation of already-solved problems didn’t hold his attention very well. When the escort of soldiers filed out of the elevator, his face was fixed in an angry scowl.

They moved quickly, taking positions around the isolation lab and standing at attention. Two more men stepped out, one wielding an air and expression of military authority along with the markings of high rank. The other was a short, bald man who carried a cryo-container labeled Organs for Transplant.

Calloway immediately disliked both men. Military personnel often seemed so short-sighted and arrogant, and the expression on the surgeon appeared so damnably smug. Without saying a word, the surgeon made it seem as though the entire project, all of Calloway’s hard work, was of his doing.

“Surgeons…” the doctor muttered, turning back to his work.

The two men cycled through the arduous security, and after several moments, the door to the lab slid open.

“Greetings Dr. Calloway, Dr. Trevors,” the military man spoke in a crisp tone. “I’m Colonel Pierce, and this is Dr. Ymarin.”

The surgeon gave a thin smile and a nod, all but ignoring the other two doctors before moving toward the table. “This is the one, yes?” he asked in a nasal tone. “Hm. Brutish. IVAN, is it?” He peered down his nose at the body on the table. “Was it really necessary, doctor, to craft him with an Old Earth eastern-European descent?”

An involuntary growl, almost inaudible, escaped from Calloway’s throat. He spoke in a scathing tone. “We seemed to have a surplus of time on our hands due to the significant delays in the project. Crafting a more intimidating form seemed an appropriate diversion while we waited .”

Ymarin shrugged. “I apologize my rigorous and very important schedule could not easily accommodate this small diversion.” Calloway’s scowl deepened.

“Gentlemen,” Colonel Pierce interrupted, “I believe it would be best if we focused upon the task at hand.”

“Yes, yes.” Dr. Ymarin waved a hand in dismissal. “I have many pressing matters to attend to. Dr… Calloway, is it?” He cocked his head. “Could you see to it that my payment is processed? I would like to avoid any unnecessary delays once the work is completed.”

Calloway bared his teeth. “Listen here, you little—”

“I’ll contact the boys upstairs to take care of it Dr. Ymarin,” Trevors cut in, barely concealing a smile at Calloway’s expense. “You’re going to need Dr. Calloway’s assistance for the procedure, anyway. I’m afraid the implantation process, though fascinating, is a bit beyond my own expertise. All I can do is watch.”

“Hm. Indeed.” Ymarin eyed Calloway. “Well? Are you just going to stand there with a dour expression, or are you going to make yourself useful?”

Biting back a retort, Calloway stepped towards his diagnostics console. Hiding his amusement, Trevors moved out of the room, heading toward the office to make his call. The colonel stepped to the side and held a passive, watchful expression.

The two remaining doctors continued to snipe at each other as they set about the task. Ymarin cracked open the cooling unit and gingerly extracted the final piece of Ivan. Calloway took a brief moment to marvel at the human brain. Normally so small and unimpressive, this particular organ crawled with cybernetic enhancements. Metallic parts spewed from every inch of the gray tissue, a cocoon of brilliance and technology. Trevors stepped back to the observation glass as they began the work.