Justin Kemppainen - The Legend of Ivan

“Very well,” I said, rising as I contemplated correcting his atrocious use of triple negatives. Considering his obvious hostility and the fact that he kept one hand on his belt, next to his side arm, I chose to depart in good grace. “Thank you for your time.” I bowed.

“Yeah, yeah.” He slammed the door behind me.

All eyes were on me again as I departed from the station. I half-expected someone to stop me, to detain me for some kind of questioning. It had happened before for no other reason than a general feeling of distrust. Most often, I endured it and was found to have not even the slightest blemish on my record. Occasionally, a call from my client would speed things along. Important figures of multi-quadrillion dollar corporations tended to have that effect.

I considered the information the sheriff provided as I took a ship back to the larger city which contained the spaceport. My curiosity had pushed Donnely over the edge, but knowing more about the murder scene wasn’t very necessary. The mere possibility of Ivan’s involvement was enough to make this visit worthwhile.

It was time to see Hanatar.

Orkanis, third moon to the gas giant Lyun, holds the galaxy’s largest maximum security prison. Even as Minerva peeked into the outer edges of the system, early warning beacons signaled for unauthorized business to kindly depart or face brutal retribution.

Once closer to the planet in question, proper code transmission sent signals to the mine field around the area to rearrange to a random open sequence. This was transferred back to my automated systems, which carefully navigated based upon coordinates. The dozens of weapon platforms in orbit and on the ground, though hot and targeting, did not fire. I didn’t intend to give provocation for such an act.

The space port and local colony on Orkanis, crammed inside a series of atmospheric bubbles, was located sixty miles away from the prison itself. Shuttles ferried guards, visitors, and anyone else over to the facility.

Security checkpoints were on either side, making absolutely certain that only particular items were allowed to pass through. Prior to my departure, I left every detachable piece of my body on Minerva as to avoid scrutiny. No listening devices, needles with sedative, sonic emitter charges: nothing was brought with.

The checkpoints themselves were rigorous with airlocks, redundant security, and ID checking. Numerous physical scans were conducted, including personal searches, and all manner of automated weaponry lay embedded in the walls in case of necessity.

The prison employed thousands of guards, each undergoing regular psychological evaluations and scrutinized almost as heavily as their charges. Any deviant behavior was subject to inquiry, evaluation, and termination without notice.

Their salary was excellent, and the hiring system even more so.

Outside, the conditions upon the moon were unlivable. There was no air, beyond freezing temperatures, and not even much gravity to speak of. Even if an inmate could manage to escape regular confinement, steal a protective atmo-suit, and break through the many walls and doors, the air tanks didn’t hold enough charge to last a sixty-mile hike.

Yes, the Orkanis prison retained thorough security. Visitation was difficult to establish and entailed a considerable amount of waiting, followed by poking, prodding, and more waiting. However, in its proud, three hundred year history, not a single inmate ever escaped from the facility.

Not for lack of trying. During my research on Voux Hanatar in Marqyni’s office, I noted many news reports of his attempted exits, some of them as frightening as they were close to success.

Warden Sarya Stokes took issue with my visit when I sent in the request, as Hanatar’s poor behavior through the years had caused many revoked privileges. Through some gentle coaxing, I convinced her to allow the meeting. Fortunately, my employer happened to supply a large amount of hardware and technology to the prison, and reminding Stokes of this fact went a long way in expediting the negotiation.

The warden herself was there to meet me with a stern and piercing gaze when I finally moved through the last of the exhaustive security. “I want you to know, Archivist, I’m expecting some strong kindness when Daedra-Tech’s contract renewal comes up,” she said as she shook my metallic hand without a trace of discomfort.

Not even remotely within my power to affirm, I still nodded. “I’m confident something can be worked out.”

“Good,” she clapped her other hand over mine. “I’m sure you’re very busy, so I won’t keep you. I’m going to allow two hours of visitation with Hanatar, but I can’t promise he’s going to say anything.”

I gave a nod.

“Very well. Right this way.”

She personally led me, flanked by a pair of weapon-toting security guards, through several areas of the complex. The prison was laid out in narrow, twisting hallways with dozens of turns and loops. We passed up and down staircases, a convoluted path most certainly intended to confuse any who didn’t have it carefully memorized.

At last we came to a conference room containing a small table. In a neosteel chair welded to the floor, wrists and ankles bound in chains, sat a fairly old man who stared off into nothing with a passive expression. He didn’t appear to notice my entrance.

Turning to the warden, I asked, “Are the chains necessary?”

“Of course,” she said, scowling. “His record precludes any lenience when it comes to—”

“Perhaps we can bend the rules in this one case.” I removed my hat and coat, revealing the gleaming metal of my face and arm. “After all, I doubt either the chains or the guards will be needed.” I lightened my facial expression, raising my one eyebrow in a gesture I hoped would suggest I was making a personal request, not a demand.

She retained an irritated expression. “I can’t allow—”

I took her gently by the arm, dropping my voice to a low whisper. “He may provide greater compliance if he’s allowed a small measure of comfort. I assure you there is nothing he could possibly do to overpower me, much less the two guards who will remain right outside the door.”

The warden glared, poised to object, but she sighed instead. “Very well.” She gave a sharp motion to the guards, who unshackled Hanatar. “Two hours, and if I get the slightest sense of anything off, your ass is out of here.”

“Thank you.”

With the warden and guards out of the room, the prisoner’s gaze instantly settled on me. He was thin and gaunt, featuring thinning hair streaked with gray and a dusting of stubble on his cheeks. I could feel his eyes roving across my metallic parts, but no emotion registered on his lined face.

I sat across from him, folding my hands and leaning forward.

The two of us sat without speaking for ten minutes. I had the slightest concern that perhaps he’d been stuck in solitary for too long and had lost his ability for general discourse. However, his expression, the slight narrowing of his eyes as he processed each visual cue, betrayed the slightest tinge of a calculated, intelligent nature. I waited.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” he finally asked in a clear and relaxed tone.

With a slight tilt of my head, I replied, “My name is Sid, and you have information for me.”

“Do I?” Hanatar chuckled. “What could I possibly have to offer an Archivist? One, I might add, I’ve never heard of.” He studied my passive expression carefully, seeking some kind of reaction. I provided none, so he shrugged. “Yes, I knew about every single one of your blasted kind before my retirement in this lovely villa. You must have been cut together after I arrived.” He sat back with a smug expression. “Since my access to information has been mostly cut-off for the last couple of decades, except for the warden’s recent “kindness” in giving me a datapad with limited access, I’m guessing you know much more than I do. So I’ll ask again, what do you want?”