Justin Kemppainen - The Legend of Ivan

“This was about that man, Raymond Cobb, and Ivan’s trip to…” Marqyni frowned, “Hunter’s End, was it?”

Nodding, I replied, “Exactly, and the other source I found was a long shot at best when I was refueling at Ethra. Two more stops on the way here provided nothing, including a discussion with the family of a veteran of New Prague. The other stop was a liar using the Ivan name for intimidation.”

The librarian’s frown deepened, and his disappointment was obvious. I shrugged. “Come, Marqyni. You know how this works. You can’t throw a stone in this galaxy without striking three people who know Ivan tales. Nine-tenths of those are completely false, and the ones which have some truth were usually done by someone else with the Ivan name tacked on.”

“Yes, yes of course, you’re right…” The librarian sighed. “I was hoping for something a little more exciting, you see.”

I replied, “I understand, but it remains a methodical process. I’ve returned here because a couple of leads have developed which require a measure of research before I proceed. I’m trying to discover more information and whereabouts of an individual who may have had more than just a passing experience with Ivan.”

Cocking his head, Marqyni asked, “Who?”

“Traverian Grey.”

Curiosity crossed his face. “Truly? I’ve never heard the name before.”

I spread out my hands. “He’s a mercenary. Well-known to some, but he has no mythic status among general population. It seems he was present with Ivan on Hunter’s End; wounded actually.”

“What in particular makes you believe that this Grey fellow is any more real than Ivan is?” he asked.

I smiled. “He exists. My employers used his services once or twice.”

Marqyni tossed up his hands, exaggerating a frustrated tone to his voice. “Well then my friend… as always, you have your bases covered and desire only to string along your good friend Marqyni while battering him senseless with your astonishing intellect. I assume your search for his whereabouts is why you’ve come down from on high to grace me with your presence?”

“Indeed it is,” I replied, laughing. “Even the highest order of genius occasionally needs the assistance of a few lesser beings, am I not mistaken?”

The librarian tried to scowl, but his amusement betrayed him, and soon he was trembling with poorly concealed laughter. “Yes…” he relented, shaking his head with a half-scowling smile on his face. “I can see your need as clearly as your shining brilliance, good master. Tell me what you’ll be needing on this occasion.”

I touched my fingertips to my brow. “The normal rules for my net immersion, if it’s possible. I’m in no great hurry as of yet.”

“Yes, of course.” Marqyni nodded, a flicker of concern touching his face. “Sid, are you certain you wouldn’t rather have someone else handle these inquiries for you? I’ve seen how much damage it can cause, and I admit a small amount of regret for helping you endanger yourself—”

Shaking my head firmly, I held up a finger. “Too slow. Second hand data. Acceptable risks. Should I continue to list reasons?”

“Your processing isn’t infinite—”

I cut in, “-and every second endangers a permanent fixation, I’m well aware. I’ve resisted it through hundreds of hours previous. I only require someone I trust,” I gave an obvious gesture to my friend, “to make certain I don’t sink too deeply or remain too long.”

Marqyni sighed. “Very well, Sid, very well. I’ll set you up in my office and give you one hour.”

“You’re very gracious.” I bowed.

He shook his head. “One of these sessions is going to be the end of you, Sid. When that happens, upon whom will I bestow my undying devotion?” A hint of amusement returned to the light worry in his eyes.

Laughing, I gave an exaggerated shrug. “You’ll have to find something of consequence to fixate upon, good Marqyni.”

The usual banter continued as he led me into his office. I swept off my overcoat and hat, feeling the chill of recycled air pass over my thin flesh. He fell silent as I seated myself in his quite luxurious chair, and I could feel his eyes upon the unnatural ashen hue of my human skin. His terminal booted quickly.

I gave him a nod, and he returned it with a solemn expression. I tapped the side of my temple, activating my implants. Internally, I disabled certain firewalls to allow external data flow. With an imperceptible mental tweak, I established a wireless connection and opened wide the flood gates.

Consciousness and awareness of my body was ripped away as my mind tumbled along through the unbelievable depths of data: historical, fictional, useless and marvelous. I had universes of information at my fingertips along with a deep hunger which could only be met with further inconceivable levels of desire.

As I swept along in the tide, reveling for only an instant in the almost carnal ecstasy of being near everything I could ever want, a ghost, a familiar but unknown phantom, spoke:

“One hour, Sid.”

An hour? An eternity…

But still never enough.

This was my one hundred and seventy-second direct link to nets and informational databases in my fourteen years as an Archivist. Each and every time it has happened, including this one, I have spared one-tenth of a second in considering my personal existence.

Archivists are somewhat special. The people we are crafted from are not.

It is necessary to drag together a person with little identity or sense of self-worth, as a strong will and purpose can still exist even after immense change. It is also preferable to gather someone on the very brink of death, or perhaps even a few millimeters beyond it.

I can no longer be entirely certain the images of my previous life are accurate, and I cannot remember my old name, not that it interests me. The images I retain and conjecture I was informed of suggest I was a man not unlike the drifter and destitute Raymond Cobb: working-class with little mental faculty to speak of.

A very tiny portion of me hopes that Archivists require some kind of hidden mental aptitude, perhaps a genetic anomaly or a kernel of greatness, to be created. That way, I would be able to hold a certain amount of pride in the basic sludge from which I was created. I’m given small comfort that the Archivist procedure does not take in all individuals; not everyone survives the transition.

In either case, it matters little. My former shell provides as much identity to me as the mountain which provided the ores that created my prosthetics.

My death was simple, avoidable, and useful. It was an accident while working on space station construction, perhaps a small psychological reason why I feel drawn to the Dei Lucrii. There was an explosion: a brief moment of pain as shrapnel ripped through a protective suit. The horrible chill of vacuum seeped in as blood bubbled out of lacerations, crystallizing before my fading vision. I experienced blackness and an awakening to greater awareness.

The procedure is long, arduous, and extremely expensive. Considering that most of working-class individuals are all but owned body and soul by the corporations that employ them, tragic accidents turn into profitable opportunities. A low success rate and a general notion that the high level of augmentation turns a person into something not quite human prevents an attitude of volunteerism, thankfully. There are also pesky laws and regulations about the treatment of most living and deceased individuals. Those and various other elements in the galaxy make for only a handful of Archivists at any given moment.

Principle among the reasons: our lives tend to be very short.

One would not always consider the pursuit of information to create an excess of danger, but that entirely depends upon the nature of it. A schematic or document, even something as simple as a notion or idea, given to the right person can make a universe of difference. Indeed, it was an information leak which spread the Archivist creation process, the true and undiluted method, from its birthing at Potomac Industry to every corporation with means.