Justin Kemppainen - The Legend of Ivan

A few more places flitted by, and it seemed we ended our tour in the same location as we started it. From what I could tell, we traveled a mostly linear path, so we came to what was most likely another series of the same facilities.

“At last we arrive at punishment.” This perked my interest and provided an irritating twinge of sympathy. The notion had continued to appear throughout the rest of his presentation, and I admit I was curious as to the methods. He held out his arm, sliding up the sleeve. A tiny scar lay on his wrist, barely perceptible if he hadn’t been pointing directly to it.

“Upon our arrival, we are implanted with nerve impulse generators. These travel through the bloodstream and hook into various places in our bodies. A majority of them arrive in the brain.”

He gestured at several places. “Upon a command, be it a switch, a word, or any other conceivable trigger including removal attempt, these devices will cause degrees of intense pain. One of the devices,” he held up an index finger, “resides within the person’s heart. It does not link itself with the others, but it is the final failsafe. If certain conditions are met, such as distant proximity in the event of an escape attempt, the owner’s vital signs failing for those assigned as bodyguards, or simply the whim of someone trying to teach a lesson…” He trailed off, clenching his teeth. “A tiny plasma charge will obliterate the laborer’s heart. It is brief and excruciating.”

He paused, tapping his chest. “As these are mass-produced, design defects have been noted over the years. In some, the device’s detonator can break down over time, which in turn can cause the charge to trigger on its own. Two weeks ago, this happened to our elected Governor. Mercifully, he died in his sleep.”

I wondered if Bethel or the cohorts who arranged this tour had encountered many Archivists. Someone had to know that sympathy and empathy were not high on our list of common traits. Few of us would ever be strongly affected by a heart-wrenching tale of shredded human dignity. Even with my strange, malfunctioning emotional state, caused by factors yet unknown, I still kept my outward expression entirely passive.

My rational mind was able to generally disregard the emotional state, which in itself seemed somewhat arbitrary. I assumed the horror of the slaver colony, guilt about Cain’s continued violence, and the killing of Dana were simply triggers. I suspected the malfunction would remain regardless of the input.

In either case, the former plight of the freed slaves didn’t effect me in any deep or life-changing way. Indeed, a majority of my concern lay in thoughts of why I was experiencing sympathies in the first place rather than the subject of them.

Regardless, the long tour irritated my rational mind and sense of purpose. In other circumstances, I’d have been thrilled to gather every tiny piece of information about this place. If nothing else, it provided an interesting character study on several levels, but I was present there for a different reason.

“You may be wondering why I speak as though the facility remains in operation.” Bethel didn’t speak this as a question; it seemed as simply another portion of the tour. This element was one of the more curious pieces to his presentation. I assumed it related to some manner of simple psychology or social bonding effect.

My guide folded his arms. “We do not forget. Our children, their children, for a thousand generations will know what happened in this place. We do not forget.”

Social bonding it was. I vaguely wondered how much time and effort was expended in the pursuit of remembering the atrocity instead of cultivating the local gardens and fixing maintenance issues. The entire presentation and the simple fact that people still lived in a place where they were abused and tortured begged a question.

It was likely the only real point of curiosity I held in that moment. “Why are you all still here? If the facility was shut down, why didn’t you all return home?”

Bethel scowled at me. “Some of us did, but others…” He swept a gesture. “What is there to return to? Many people see their loved ones killed in raids where slaves are taken. Families are brought here and split up, never again to see their spouse, parents, siblings or children and to forever wonder what happened to them.” He sighed. “Most of the people who stayed are the career laborers responsible for maintaining this facility. For us and the others… the galaxy forgets us moments after we are captured, so why would we return?”

I asked a frank question. “Is the life here sustainable in the long term? Shipments of supplies and food must have been regular when the facility was in operation, and you certainly can’t trust average merchants to assist you in that any longer.”

My guide took on a smug air. “We do not need the assistance of any outsiders. We’ve set up our own means of production. We take care of each other, and we’ll be here for a very long time.”

I doubted this very much, but I didn’t articulate the fact. The acting governor thus far had no reason to make my stay less comfortable, and I didn’t believe putting that in jeopardy would be wise.

Silence lapsed for several moments as Bethel continued to size me up. I could practically read his thoughts and see the gears grinding in his head: ever fiber of his being wanted to expel me from this sanctuary. However, aside from flippancy early on, nothing I did was remotely antagonistic.

“What is it you’re seeking from him?” Bethel asked in a flat tone, and of course we both knew who he was talking about.

I had been expecting a question of my intent for quite a while, but the tour and the attempt to garner my sympathy was extensive and thorough. I replied, “Information.”

The acting governor frowned. “Of what nature?”

“Varied.”

Bethel’s frown deepened into a scowl. “Be specific.”

Sighing, I replied, “I have numerous claims regarding his life which, out of personal curiosity, I would like to have validated or denied. Most importantly, I am here to find out everything about his involvement in the Atropos Garden incident. Depending, I may request custody of him or his vessel.”

Several subtle emotions crossed the man’s face. Confusion, surprise, irritation at my mention of taking Ivan away, all quickly masked as the stern expression returned. “Why the ship?”

I said, “It’s possible the vessel holds prominent technology capable of destruction on a massive scale. Only a theory at this point, but one of many reasons why I need to speak with him.”

He regarded me with a blank stare for a moment. “Very well. Follow me.”

Again we moved through numerous similar corridors. I found it momentarily confusing that we hadn’t crossed any other individuals, but I supposed they may have set themselves up nearer to some sort of administration sector. Bethel must have been trying to limit the disturbance my presence represented by keeping me out in the distant and abandoned areas.

He palmed open a doorway, an empty room with a table and a few chairs. I recognized it as one of the psychological profile and evaluation rooms. Bethel had explained it during the tour: the presence of crippling anxiety and depression afflicted most slaves. Like everything else, a measure of counseling at the very least to determine dosage level for medication was mandatory. Personality screening boiled the laborer’s disposition down to a simple equation: another element of choice for the clients.

“Wait here,” my guide told me. He moved to the door, hesitating before turning back. “This is the man who saved us. Because of him, we are able to live as decent, dignified people. We consider him one of us, and we always take care of our own.” He stepped out.