Justin Kemppainen - The Legend of Ivan

There was one other piece that the bed-ridden man provided. “He had a thing…” the man swallowed, wheezing against his respirator. “He had his own cutting torch. It had a… a name, but I don’t… I don’t remember what it was.”

I had a strong inkling.

Whether or not the tale had any truth, it still didn’t provide particularly useful data or leads to follow. Intriguing and technically possible, Ivan must have suffered grievous injury from the action. True or not, knowing Ivan leapt out into the deathly nothing to save a fellow human didn’t tell me where he was hiding, but it did suggest more to his behavior and moral standing.

Either way, I became weary of chasing the tiny myths and silly stories. If I was going to waste my time, at least I could do so with Ivan’s biggest legend.

Assignment: Seeking information regarding the truth and whereabouts of Ivan.

Location: Everywhere

Report: Too many Ivan-related stories. Too many fruitless inquiries. Little data discovered.

Probability : 7%

Summary: Though some truth may be found within the varied inquiries, many too absurd. Nothing in this period of weeks has given information to the whereabouts of Ivan or Traverian Grey. One story suggested strong humanistic nature; Ivan willing to put himself in danger to save another. Interesting if true.

It was time to investigate this matter’s heart.

No fame, no notoriety, not even the slightest whiff of his current reputation would exist for my quarry if not for this one event. No matter the truth behind any other rumors, no matter how many brilliant victories in battle, crime lords destroyed, or shocking heists, Ivan’s successful career and legendary status was created by his supposed destruction of the colony at Atropos Garden.

The Garden was a beautiful world on the rim with the highest concentration of diverse flora and fauna ever seen since the toxification of Old Earth. It became a haven of evolutionary study and exploration towards the greater meaning of existence. Thus, it housed a prominent research facility. Galactic Central Government-sponsored, it was protected and secretive, one of the last remaining pieces of actual clout politicians retained in a galaxy ruled primarily by corporate interest.

Until the colony was vaporized.

The situation was kept quiet with very few details granted to the public. Even still fourteen years later no one but specific GCG officials knew what happened. However, most conjecture suggested that the damage, whose range was from full-colony crater to entire planet cracked in half, was caused by something which no one had ever seen before. Some new manner of technology.

No one I had spoken to in my long search retained any notion as to why Ivan, for the last fourteen years, had been accused of this crime. Near anyone could say who caused the incident; it was common knowledge with no backing.

The only thing tying Ivan to the Garden, indeed one of the only pieces officially acknowledging his existence excusing my painstaking information-hunt, was a GSA-created bulletin stating Ivan was wanted for questioning on that matter. Without a full name or a picture, it gathered no success.

Even so, what spurred the creation of the notice and the subsequent mythos surrounding Ivan was not clear. A billion suggestions floated through the galaxy from all manner of conspiracy theorists. Indeed my esteemed and unbalanced friend, Dr. Trevors, was likely not the first to suggest Ivan as some manner of obliteration technology with or without the android portion.

I discovered the existence of Captain Josef Onnels after a not insignificant amount of digging. His destroyer-class vessel, the Cassander, ran a patrol route for many years in a particular sector of the rim not far removed from Atropos Garden. Records not often accessible to the public stated that the ship had received a distress signal and was first on scene. Depending upon who told it, they either witnessed the destruction and were helpless to stop it, or they arrived too late and saw only the aftermath.

My assumption was that either he himself or someone on his crew became the source which carried Ivan’s name to the stars. Onnels and the Cassander became a priority.

Though I happen to have a great many contacts and a high amount of influence, boarding a military vessel and questioning its captain was somewhat out of my range of abilities. Fortunately, I discovered a refueling station visited by the Cassander with some frequency.

Marxis type stations differ significantly from the Dei Lucrii. Less a hub of trade and variety and more a dingy stop-over point for large cargo vessels, they exist for fueling and base amenities out on the rim.

The usual authorities granted my docking request, and I was pleased to note my appropriate timing. The mammoth destroyer was berthed outside, almost half the size of the station itself and boasting significant firepower. Dozens of lines for fuel and supplies snaked out of the station and connected to the Cassander.

I wrapped myself in my usual cloak, donning a facial wrap and gloves in a mild attempt to disguise my mechanical nature. The risk for assault was moderate, but it wasn’t fear of damage which motivated my attempt at concealment. I had strong doubts that any drunken miner or cargo-pilot could match me in any physical or mental fashion. Though the prospect of knocking around a few illiterates was alluring indeed, I was not there for that purpose. Any such confrontations would inevitably waste time.

My feature-concealing garb drew a few suspicious glances as I passed through the check-in point and moved into the market area, but no one spoke to or accosted me. Milling around the crowd, I spotted a few crew members in uniform. No one was of significant enough rank to be worth speaking to.

I had hoped to see a member of the command staff, but I didn’t know if any of them would depart the ship for any reason. It was too much to hope Captain Onnels himself would be out and about, but I kept an image of him and the flight crew in a recent memory file in case I happened to spot one. Five minutes would be all I’d need.

I continued my walk through the market, cringing at the filthy sights and smells of dirty stalls containing worthless trinkets and food of questionable edibility. As time passed, I started to regret not contacting the Cassander directly to attempt to set-up a short meeting.

In cases of highly questionable cooperation, I try to catch my potential source off-guard rather than to give them the opportunity to deny me access or time to craft a suitably false story. Failing to find someone of importance, I considered speaking with one of the underling crew members when I saw someone else.

A flicker of light glinted off of a metallic limb not twenty feet away. A wary eye not made of organic flesh stared at me, scanning and scrutinizing. A sudden awareness of hunter and prey developed with no certainty toward who was which. An outward hiss of breath resulted as concrete realization struck, catching up with brutal instinct.

Someone jostled me, and another patron crossed between us. In the nanosecond of distraction, the figure disappeared.

All manner of thought related to my presence on the station and the inquiry I was attending vanished, driven away. Pulse quickening, I slid through the crowd, flitting every spectrum of scan available through my synthetic eye.

Stinking organic gas bags swarmed all around, stifling and choking me with their absurd idiocy. Electrical signals in neon lighting and cooking grills. Body heat surrounded by the cool metal bulkheads. Nothing but squishy, intellectually-devoid…