Justin Kemppainen - The Legend of Ivan

She wanted to hunt him down as quickly as possible, but she had been yet young in her career. I already slipped by the feelings of regret for her recent demise, too fascinated by her mind’s data and the sophistication of her processors.

Dana discovered what confirmed Voux Hanatar’s theory; Ivan became a well-sought man after the destruction of Atropos Garden. Corporations, with hopes of brilliant new technology, began a bidding war for Ivan’s living hide. A few contracts even did not quite care if the quarry was breathing. The pay-out amount drove into the billions and far beyond. So much money lay in the simple job of finding and apprehending Ivan.

The methods were non-specific, and payment would be rendered when the dragged in husk was proven to be the real thing, or at least able to provide the information the corporations so desperately wanted.

Thousands of bounty hunters pitted against each other in a frantic attempt to find the man. Not a single one succeeded, and all but a few died by the hands of their competitors, the elements, or for the few who found him, Ivan himself.

It was during these years of chaos and pursuit that Ivan’s personal description blurred and multiplied into an absurd smattering of diversity. People were paid exorbitant sums for the most paltry details, and more than a few charlatans took advantage and thus obscured the pool of useful information. As the truth behind the myth became more and more murky, only those who had met the real thing became likely candidates to find him.

As Dana discovered, the last big push before Ivan details faded into conjecture and became dismissed as myth was eleven years ago. A coalition of bounty hunters banded together to cooperate in finding Ivan. The cooling trail was tricky to follow, but it seemed they caught up to him. Twenty-five of the most battle-hardened, ruthless individuals under the leadership of a brilliant strategist fought with Ivan.

One survived.

The incompetent and cowardly Richner Platt somehow managed to escape when all of his comrades perished. Dana had no details as to how he accomplished this, but she did, as fortune would have it, discover his whereabouts. It seemed she even managed to schedule a meeting, one I decided to attend in her place.

Platt gave up on bounty collection, seeming to lose his taste for the hunt after watching his group of comrades slaughtered without mercy.

As with each of my inquiries with the lesser intelligent of the species, Platt resided near the rim. He lived as yet another of the bumbling dregs of the working class, on a Soma Corp Class 4 orbital shipyard, its unnamed status reflecting the general importance of its function.

This particular locale was above T35B, a failed terraforming project also not named for its value. Class 4’s were manufacturing platforms which built the most economical in small cargo and personal transport ships, as well as the occasional ground vehicle.

Platt worked as a grunt and nothing more, but he was promised a small sum of money from Archivist Dana for his information, which went unspecified. I didn’t know whether or not Dana intended to actually pay him, but I certainly didn’t unless I really had to.

Wary though they were, port authorities allowed my access. Visitors outside of a regular sort were uncommon, but due to varied amenities and housing for all of the workers, they had no reason to deny new arrivals. I expressed a vague interest in obtaining a work contract and mentioned that a friend of a friend was employed.

The platform was dingy, even more so than my recent experience upon the Marxis refueling station. Condensation dripped down the walls and froze on the thinner parts of the hull where the cold of vacuum bled through. Marred and filthy bulkheads surrounded dim, empty corridors. It felt as much a derelict as anything else, but most foot traffic was limited to shift changes and common areas, most of which were bars.

Puckler’s, a title whose purpose was as bizarre and ineffable as the stench it carried within, held the site of my meeting. In the worst possible scenario, the place was crowded, packed with workers. Perspiring bodies filled the uncomfortably warm area, making my full covering including facial obscurement obvious and out of place. Dozens of pairs of eyes swept towards me and the stick I pretended to hunch upon.

I hoped an infirm manner of appearance would keep the denizens at bay, and only a few looked on with more than light curiosity, as though they could sense my lack of humanity. I expected a strong distaste for mechanical prosthetics, and I wanted to avoid a time-wasting confrontation with so many people.

Corner table , Dana’s memory informed me, unbidden by my request and almost utilizing its own voice. A bald, scarred individual . I paused for a moment, surprised by what seemed to be Dana’s hidden vestige whispering in my mind. I gave a quick perusal, but nothing internally seemed amiss. I shook it off, concerned but occupied by more pressing matters.

Shuffling through the crowd, I remained careful to conceal my mechanical parts and avoid any scrutiny. I saw Dana’s contact.

Richner Platt, a thick-muscled individual wearing an extremely filthy tank top, swigged a mug of dark liquid. Battered ears poked out of his egg-shaped head, and his one good eye lay next to a tangled mass of scarring which covered the left half of his face and threaded down his shoulder and bicep. The rest of his arm and the injury was concealed under the table.

I hobbled over and sat across from him.

“Beat it, old timer,” he took a drink, “I ain’t givin’ ya money, so take a hike.”

In my best croaking tone, I asked, “Waiting for someone, Mr. Platt?”

His expression darkened. “Get lost.”

“Dana’s not coming,” I rasped. “She sent me.”

“Shit.” He brought his left arm up onto the table, revealing that he was missing a portion of it from mid-forearm down. The stump was capped by a metallic receiver for a detachable prosthetic, a variety less effective than a fully integrated model. Absentmindedly scratching at his elbow, he noticed my stare and put his partial arm back in his lap, under the table.

“What happened?” I asked.

Glaring with his one good eye, he said, “None a’ yer damn business.”

“Sir, please,” I replied, “I’m only here to fulfill the agreement between you and Miss Dana.”

“I don’t know you,” his mouth curled in a sneer, “so unless you got the coin to double my fee, I’m not sayin’ shit.”

I gave my head a slight shake. “There was no set fee.” The memories of Dana told me they each agreed his pay would be based upon the usefulness of the information.

He appraised me, expression wary. Finally, he sighed, leaning forward. “Okay, I just needed to make sure you were the real thing. Can’t be too careful, ya know?”

Though his method of testing me seemed rudimentary at best, I gave a nod and motioned towards the table which hid his missing arm. “Forget it at home?”

“Assholes won’t let me wear it in here. Say it’s unnatural or some shit. I can only wear it when I’m working, and it hurts like hell to take it off and put it on.”

Understandable, as the nerve attachments had to painfully sever and fuse at each change. Still, the bitterness in his expression regarding the difficulty he faced with prosthetics provided an opportunity. I pulled off the glove which hid my own inhuman limb, placing my metallic fingertips on the edge of the table. His eye flitted down and unconcealed shock spread across his features.

Replacing the glove, I spoke with a clearer tone, dropping the false infirmity approach. “I understand very well what it’s like.”

Surprised, either by the obvious quality he saw in the craftsmanship of my hand or the gall I possessed to enter Puckler’s wearing it, he said, “So you’re…?”