Justin Kemppainen - The Legend of Ivan

“Quietly,” I murmured. “I don’t care for the extra attention.”

Platt made a comically inept show of nonchalance, lowering his head like a conspirator and passing a paranoid gaze around the bar. If any of the drunken buffoons present had paid the slightest attention, there might have been trouble.

Even so, he hissed, “So whaddya wanna know?”

“Relax,” I said, leaning back to demonstrate and speaking in a normal tone. “It’s a simple conversation of no great secrecy or importance. We have nothing to hide, and anyone listening will gain nothing of consequence.” Folding my hands, I continued, “I received information- excuse me, Dana received information -that you were involved in the unfortunate group who had the last encounter with Ivan.”

Platt drew in a sharp breath and stiffened, appearing ready to bolt. His flesh and blood hand gripped the mug tightly, and fear seeped into his expression.

“What’s wrong?”

He shook his head. “I ain’t gonna talk about that. No way.”

Stifling a laugh, deciding that doing so at the expense of the brave, former bounty hunter would make him difficult to converse with, I put out a reassuring hand. “It’s all right, Mr. Platt. I understand it must have been quite the difficult ordeal.”

“Difficult?” He clenched his teeth. “Watching all my buddies get cooked? Burning light taking away most of my arm? The liquefied remains of that arm spilling onto my skin and boiling it?” He shook his head. “Naw… nothin’ difficult about it at all. ”

“You survived,” I offered.

Bitterness subsumed his expression, and he pounded his stump on the table. “Look at me. Look at where I am.” He passed a gesture with his arm at the surroundings, the dingy bar and sweating, drunken men. “I know I ain’t the brightest star in the night sky. Hell, you known me for three minutes, and you prolly figured that much out. My surviving wasn’t any a’ my doin’, so it don’t count for shit.”

“What happened?”

He shook his head. “I can’t tell you. He said he’d kill me.”

“Ivan?” I asked.

Platt appeared puzzled for a second. “No, not Ivan,” he said, glancing back and forth. His face developed that same fear, and he leaned forward and dropped his voice to a low murmur, “ Grey. ”

It was my turn to be shocked.

“Traverian Grey was there,” I whispered.

He nodded.

I felt a bubble of adrenaline as possibilities whirled in my thoughts. Some of it began to make sense, but I didn’t have enough yet to see the whole picture. “You have to tell me more.”

Platt shook his head, and I felt a flare of irritation. “I can’t. It don’t matter that it was so many years ago; I still have nightmares about what he did, about what he threatened to do to me if I told anyone. I don’t care if he was missin’ his—” he stopped short, clapping one hand over his mouth.

Closing my eyes, images of beatings and threats washed through my thoughts. I disregarded them, doubtful that I could manage such a thing without drawing considerable attention. Still, I had to at least try to coax him. “We can start it slowly, and I promise you’ll be well paid.”

“Ehhh…” the thought of currency seemed to chip at his resolve.

“He must be getting old by now. Crippled as well, as I heard it.” I watched his troubled expression flinch, his mind perhaps recalling Grey’s injuries.

Something else was there, a sudden cold calculation. I thought for a tiny instant that there might have been more to this man than I could see, but the expression vanished, leaving me to wonder what it could have been.

Platt balled a fist, wincing. “That don’t matter. I can’t…”

“Whatever his grievance with you, he’s long departed,” I made a sweeping gesture. “It’s a big galaxy, Mr. Platt. He’s in hiding, and he won’t come out just to find you.”

The former bounty hunter swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead. “I, ah… I don’t…”

Dropping my voice to a low whisper, I said, “I’m an Archivist, you know. When I find him, and I will, he won’t question how. He knows of my kind. We tend to be very persistent.”

Platt chewed on an already mangled thumbnail. “He said he’d find me if I left.”

“How would he know?”

“I, ah…” His brow furrowed, twisting the scarred half of his face.

I sensed he was ready to relent. “Tell me everything, Mr. Platt. From start to finish.”

He propped his elbows on the table and buried his face in one hand and a stump. Wiping away the perspiration, he looked up at me and said, “Okay.”

“So I’m not very bright. I know that, but I always thoughta myself as a guy people could count on. And people did say to me, all the time, ‘Ricky, you’re not too bright but a helluva guy.’

I did jobs here and there. You know, some of ’em simple like the one I got now, and some of ’em more, uh… complicated and maybe even illegal. I just do the job people ask me to, and no one ever expects me to figure anything out or think too much, ya know?

I got no real clue as to why Lorric Bren, the fella who put the bounty group together, asked for me to come along. I’d met him once before, working as a bodyguard for a small-time crook. The boss I had back then hired Lorric to chase down some guy who stole money from him. I helped Lorric out a little on the coordination and brought him the records and research he asked for. He got the job done quick, and I was damn sure impressed.

Beats me how he managed to remember me a few years later when I went to be considered for the Ivan hunt. Lorric greeted me by name, and it took hardly a second for him to size me up and say he wanted me to come with. He said he knew he could count on me.

I still don’t really know if he was right.”

Richner Platt, self-admitted, was not the brightest. He was a thug, an enforcer, a reliable fellow, and a pretty good shot. Not a thinker by any means or even a doer unless prompted, Platt could handle most anything that came his way, provided it didn’t require a great deal of consideration.

Which was why Lorric Bren, organizer of the grand hunt for Ivan, decided to give him a place on the crew.

“Uh, okay,” Platt mumbled, scratching his uninjured face with a hand that would not be present in ten month’s time. “Sure.”

Lorric smiled. “Good to have you, Platt. You’ll be with me on team four. You have your own gear, a ship?”

Platt shook his head. “I got my stuff in a crate outside, but I don’t do no flyin’.”

“All right, no problem. Make sure your gear gets loaded onto,” he checked a datapad, making a disgusted face, “’Eternal Loss,’ jeez…” Lorric rolled his eyes. “Grib Denko’s the pilot. He’s a bit odd, but then…”

Who among us isn’t? the silent question rang.

A motley assortment was gathered, ship and person names reflecting the strange quirks of personality of those individuals in the field of bounty hunting. Regardless of these oddities, the selection was all on purpose.

And it was Lorric’s purpose.

Lorric Bren was said to be a more successful strategist than anything else. He had no great notoriety for piloting, shooting, driving, detonating, or any other task the job often required. Though he didn’t bring in his target every single time- who among them ever did -he always emerged alive and unscathed from each encounter. This was accomplished through careful planning and allowing others to shoulder some of the burden when necessary

Even cooperation, though, was not entirely useful on every occasion. The desire for high caliber financing with a general lack of compassion formed the basic disposition for bounty hunters.