Justin Kemppainen - The Legend of Ivan

Linus talked a bit about their tech-free living-situation, but I tuned most of his drawl out while I counted the number of house-type structures. There were enough buildings for the couple hundred individuals, and they were nothing amazing in design. Simple accommodations for simple people.

Some of whom provided disquieting stares as we progressed towards the end of the town. No one approached or said a word, but their eyes registered a distaste for outsiders. A small cottage-like dwelling sat near the end of the town, and a short, railed ramp led up to a doorway. Linus held up a hand for me to stay back, and he walked forward and knocked on the door.

“Deacon Grey?” he called out. “Linus Newson here.”

Moments dripped by, and I could hear slight sounds coming from within. The door opened a crack, not enough for me to see the occupant. Newson’s neck craned downward, suggesting he looked at a very short man. “Linus,” a gravel-toned voice came through. “What can I do for you, today?”

“There’s a man out here says he wants to chat with you,” he pointed towards me, “but you say the word, and I’ll send him on his way.”

“Of course not, c’mon inside.”

Newson pushed the door open, looking back at me. “Well? Come along, then.”

I walked up the ramp and stepped into the cottage, whose overall size seemed to barely outstrip Minerva’s cockpit. The interior was simple, clean. A small stove area lay next to a cot. A closed wardrobe likely held a few articles of clothing, and an open closet-door led into a latrine area. A few loops of fabric hung from the ceiling along with bars fastened to the wall to accommodate the occupant’s infirmity.

Traverian, or Silas, Grey sat in a wheeled chair, much of both legs gone along with an arm up to the elbow. Far from the cold, steely glare of a long-time mercenary, his grizzled, unshaven face held a kindly appearance behind the numerous scars and missing teeth.

“What’s your name, friend?” the man asked, extending his remaining hand and leaving me to wonder if this was truly the terrible mercenary I’d heard about.

The situation was so far out from what I was expecting that I hesitated. I searched his expression for some manner of analysis, calculation, or anything suggesting the shrewd and unyielding nature of his reputation. Nothing: only a soft smile and patient air. He didn’t even seem to react to seeing what he must have known was an Archivist.

“Sid,” I finally spoke, reaching out for the awkward left-handed shake.

His grip was quite firm. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Sid.”

“No Mister, please,” I replied with a bow. “Just Sid, or Archivist if you must.” I felt a soft reminder would bring a reaction.

No such luck; he remained unreadable. “Of course, Archivist, of course.” He cocked his head, waiting for me to speak.

A hundred strategies of information coaxing flitted through my mind, but for once I seemed at a disadvantage. I kept searching for an ounce of alarm, appraisal, confusion, fear, anything at all to provide a tactic of approach, but there was nothing. I assumed he’d instantly know why I was there the moment he laid eyes on me. However, looking at him, I couldn’t gauge anything.

Awkward silence dripped by. “Well, you’re the one who came here, stranger,” Linus piped up. “Why don’t you say something already?”

Frustrated, put off balance in what must have been Grey’s own strategy, I went for the direct approach. “Traverian Grey,” I said, staring directly at the crippled man. “I’m here seeking information from you about Ivan.”

“I told you his name wasn’t Traverian—”

Grey held up a hand, cutting off his friend. “Mr. Newson, thank you for bringing him. I need to speak privately with Sid here, so if you could please shut the door on the way out…?”

The man seemed poised to object, but he nodded. “I’ll be right outside, Deacon. Holler if you need anything.” He passed a brief, irritated gaze in my direction before passing outside. The door clicked shut.

“My friend Mr. Newson was correct,” Grey said, still nothing but passive interest registering on his face. “I don’t go by Traverian.”

“But that is… was your name.” I folded my arms.

He gave a nod.

“And you knew Ivan.”

Another nod.

“He gave you those injuries.”

He didn’t respond.

Confused, I asked, “He didn’t?”

A tiny smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, the first real reaction I’d seen out of him, but he skipped by the question. “I go by Silas now, Deacon to the First Church of the Penitent Children of Ivan.”

“Listen, Mr. Grey.” I gestured. “I’m trying to find both information about Ivan’s location and Ivan himself. I know you were the last known individual to see him. I respect the fact that you’re hiding here in peaceful retirement, and I don’t wish to disturb you any longer than it takes to find out what I want to know.”

He chuckled, wheeling his chair around with one hand and the stump of his other arm. “Can I get anything for you? Something to drink, eat maybe?”

“No, thank you.”

Moving over to the stove, he set down a clean pan and clicked on a heating element. “Must have been Lorric, hm? Tell you where I was?”

“Yes.”

“Shoulda known he’d keep tabs on me.” Grey shook his head, laughing softly as he opened a cooled box. He withdrew a few eggs from a small container. He held them up. “You see these? Fresh as you can get ’em.” He pulled out a tomato. “Same as this. Better than any hydroponics garden can ever match.”

He grabbed a knife from a block and set the tomato down, skillfully cutting without difficulty. Still smirking, he dropped what looked like some kind of animal grease into the pan before cracking the eggs.

“I’d like to get moving along as soon as possible,” I said.

He ignored me.

I watched, impatient, as he cooked the ingredients together, slicing off a slab of some kind of cheese to go with it and scrambling everything together. Eventually, he dumped the whole mess onto a plate. Cradling it in his lap, he used a fork to take a few bites. He gestured at the plate. “I’ve spent a thousand credits on a meal not half as satisfying.”

“Impressive,” I replied in a tone suggesting not the least bit of interest.

Grey tossed his head back and laughed. He didn’t say anything, still chuckling as he took a few more bites.

“May I ask what is so funny?” I asked, gritting my teeth.

“Oh nothing, it’s just…” Shaking his head and laughing, the crippled man said, “You think I’m crazy. Out of my mind. Snapped, cracked, overcome with madness, and unable to cope with my one magnificent failure.”

I said nothing.

“You think I’m hiding, laying low in this land beyond corporate reach, beyond the vengeance of comrade and kin, beyond the niceties of modern civilization. You think I live on this antiquated pebble of the galaxy to let my reputation die, afraid of what the unwashed masses will think of my poor, crippled self. You think I’m crazy to have not bought five or six mansions to live in, new body parts to make me whole again, and enough expensive luxury items to live out my days in blissful abandon. And most of all…” He paused, taking another bite. “You think I’ve gone completely batshit to be hanging around Ivan worshippers. Does that about cover it, Sid the Archivist?”

Blinking, I kept an even expression. Everything he said was more or less true, and I considered his ability to acknowledge madness poor proof to him lacking it.

Grey laughed again. “It couldn’t possibly occur to you, with your infinite wisdom and experience, that I stay out here in this place because I actually like it?”