Justin Kemppainen - The Legend of Ivan

“Oh what’s the matter?” Zimmer said in a mock-worried tone. “Did I hurt the robot’s feelings? Pah.”

Still frowning, Cain ignored the insult. “So what are you going to do with Ivan? It’s not like you can keep him locked up forever.” Even as the words tumbled out of his mouth, Cain didn’t understand why he said them.

Zimmer’s face screwed up in a mixture of appall, condescension, and amusement. “What, are you serious? Did the itty-bitty Archivist you smashed up ring your bell too hard? Tell me: why can’t I leave that hulking brute locked in his cell with tubes in every orifice until the universe explodes? Who’s going to stop me?” He gave a sharp laugh. “Cain, one of these days I’m going to have to replace you with one of those smart Archivists. You’re halfway useful in target retrieval, but you’re so thick sometimes.”

Cain pressed a fingertip to the side of his head. “Sorry, sir. It’s the… it’s the others. I didn’t realize Sid had taken another Archivist so soon, and their memories and thoughts are still not integrated.”

“ Well ,” the other man said without a trace of pity, “here’s hoping you’ll leech a little of their brain power and become useful for a change. Anyway,” he waved it aside, “I’ve got your repairs scheduled. Who knew a few hours of work could cost me several hundred thousand…”

The Archivist’s mind buzzed with the presence of too many thoughts, some of them he couldn’t identify as his own. Zimmer continued on his next rant about how much Cain’s maintenance and functions cost against the tiny gains from the half-wit machine. Cain again saw in his mind the bloodied Vice President sailing into daylight with the trickle of broken glass behind him.

Do it. Cain gave a start, hearing a voice in his mind, impish and feminine in quality. A tittering laugh followed. The Archivist shook his head, trying to clear it.

“What, you’re disagreeing? That’s rich. How many times—”

“No, it’s my head,” Cain interrupted, clenching his teeth, hearing a building laughter in his mind.

“You see, I was thinking the same thing! Your head’s about as useful as—”

“ Stop talking, ” the Archivist said, hissing through his teeth. Mercifully, his employer ceased ranting and finally favored him with a tiny bit of concern.

“Boy, the pipsqueak actually did a pretty solid number on you, didn’t he? We should get you—”

Cain’s mind vanished into a sea of memories. He saw again the fight between Sid and Dana, every whirling motion and the threading on their clothing clear and crisp. He watched Sid’s conversation with Dr. Trevors, the now-dead Archivist not realizing how much subtle truth laid beyond the mindless ranting.

The images disappeared, and Cain found himself walking down the hallway outside of the Vice President’s office. Zimmer was leading him to the lift. “What the—” Cain stopped, glancing around. “How did I—”

Again his thoughts drifted off, memories of his ship- no, Sid’s ship- Minerva. Countless hours spent flinging messages back and forth as well as non-interfaced research while skimming across the endless void of space.

His sight returned to find himself walking down a corridor in some other portion of the Keritas Headquarters. The style had shifted from the warm carpet and artwork of the offices to a sterile white of research and medical. “Repairs,” Cain murmured. His imposing size, appearance, and damaged form drew startled looks from some individuals in white coats, but he continued walking…

Another memory: He was- no, it was someone else again -walking down a similar corridor in a hospital gown. One metallic leg clicked upon the tile, but a bare human foot plodded opposite. The same was true of his arm; one was mechanical and one was flesh. The man reached up and touched his face, feeling the metal plate, and he screamed…

Cain found himself seated on a table, a robotics specialist glancing over him. “We should be able to get your damaged parts fixed right away, but we’ll have to reinstall your arsenal in stages. Gotta make sure the energy balance is okay.”

Archivist Cain shook his head. “Never mind the repairs,” he said, gasping for breath. “There’s something wrong with my—”

Cain’s own memories rushed forward. The whirlwind of bodies flying and breaking within the bar at the shipyard. Sid had escaped out of the entrance as the stench of ripe workers pressed in all around, but Cain only knew the joys of battle and causing pain. Sid would be caught eventually, and his fate would be no more pleasant than the unfortunate laborers who were crushed under Cain’s might.

Blood covered Cain’s hands as his thoughts returned to reality. He stood within the same lab, but everything was damaged and broken. “Hands?” he asked, staring at them. Both eyes functioned, both of his limbs were intact, repaired, but the robotics specialist lay dead at the Archivist’s feet. The man’s mouth twisted in an agonized, eternal scream, and terrified eyes stared into nothing.

Fear trickled into Cain’s heart. “What’s happening to me?” he whispered, noticing blaring alarms resounding all around him.

Again, his awareness disappeared as memories flooded forth:

Klaxons blasted and red light flashed as a flesh and blood man sprinted through the corridors, heavy boots thudding against the deck. Flanked by a few comrades, the man who would eventually be a new variety of Archivist carried a flechette rifle.

The ship he served upon, the Nicaea, shuddered against the impact of another boarding craft. Aside from intruders on every deck, the destroyer-class vessel had been torn apart by an ambush from unknown forces. The man who would become Cain, eventually sadistic and brutal in attitude, feared his end was near.

A breaching charge exploded down the corridor, and he and his fellow soldiers opened fire. Razor clouds shredded through the new opening, and screams resulted as they tore through the flesh of the intruders.

Scattered energy fire issued from the end of the smoky corridor, and two of the man’s comrades fell to lethal shots. Screaming, he fired again and again…

Cain flashed away from his past back to reality, but it felt like a memory instead, as he couldn’t control his actions. His metal hands pounded against a wall, breaking through the material…

Back again to the battle aboard the destroyer, Cain felt an energy pulse sever the sensation below his midsection. Artificial gravity had failed on the dying ship, and crusted bits of the cauterized flesh drifted up in front of his eyes. Still he fought on, making the boarding party pay for every inch.

His now metallic hands smashed through a console and ripped apart a door. An enormous man stood waiting, surprised by Cain’s entrance. Cain heard his own voice, deep though not holding its accustomed malevolence. “I have him under control, and I’m gaining ground with each step, but we still need to hurry.”

The losing battle aboard the Nicaea returned, and the man who would be Cain floated through the corridors. Every movement in the shadows was greeted with a blast from his flechette rifle, and he kept conscious only through stimulant and three packs of medical gel slathered into the hole of his lower torso…

His metal hands gripped the collar of a familiar man. The Vice President, Zimmer, held a terrified expression veiled by blood and bruises. Cain watched, unable to stop himself, as he gripped the man and hurled him to the window…

The last memory sprang to the forefront of his mind. Trapped in an airlock and still gravely wounded. Not enough air to survive long, and the freezing death of vacuum seeping in as the Nicaea’s lifeless husk drifted. Eternities passed as he floated at the edge of death. He remained.