Justin Kemppainen - The Legend of Ivan

Many of my meetings occur in bars.

This is not an unusual principle. When seeking information, my everlasting quarry, it is best to find subjects in the most amiable mood. A bar represents a location where leisure attitudes spring forth. It is a comfort zone for many.

There is also alcohol.

Alcohol.

For ages, eons, long before the muddy dregs of Old Earth cast humanity in search of a less toxic habitability. Long before colonization reached the far edges of the galaxy. Millennia prior to centralized government crumbling before the wealth and might of corporate interest. Indeed, centuries before the thought of entering that infinite void crossed the pitiful minds of the earliest civilized inhabitants of that ill-fated planet…

Alcohol has been a most effective facilitator.

Pair a comfort zone with a decrease in motor functions, not to mention a quelling of inhibitions. Suddenly, the most bizarre stranger becomes a brother, nemesis, lover, or some combination of all three within a few moments of indelicate, slurred speech. For certain, the risk becomes that their ramblings will often tend towards the unintelligible, but this is of little concern. Memory in the inferior structure of a standard human brain vanishes, represses, and erodes regardless of how much blunt force trauma or poison is applied. Simply: the squishy tissue doesn’t retain information so well to begin with.

My task is not only to gather the pitiful, vomitous remains of human memory but to interpret them: to glean the tiny semblances of truth and reality found within.

I seek Ivan, a man of myth and wild, absurd tales. I seek him, if indeed he exists.

The beginning of this long journey, naturally, took place in a bar.

Hours of waiting, sipping on a simple solution of grain alcohol, drove an irritating boredom into my normally patient mind. Unfortunately, the entertainment value of liquor in and of itself does not function as normal within my augmented body.

The substance gave the slightest giddiness to the few organic parts of my brain a few moments before the mechanical functions siphoned it off as a crude energy source and cleaning implement.

I’d arrived on the world called Dessida a couple of days prior, sources and research suggesting someone who had met the enigma known as Ivan lived there. A very brief exchange of messages later, the contact named Raymond Cobb suggested a meeting at the bar.

As the alcohol completed its brief round of clouding and vanishing, I let myself marvel at the fabricated artistic-crystal of the glass I held. It was laser cut, done so manually with precision to create specific refractions within its facets. “Where did you get this?” I asked the man tending the bar.

The barkeep, by his attire and stench, appeared to be one of the dirt poor denizens filling the near-fringe world. Dessida lay distant from the core, filled primarily with miners and other working-class individuals. The man carried himself with a well-traveled air, but still…

“It was a fella about four or five years ago,” the barkeep spoke with the local lilt, but underneath it were hints of an intelligent, almost educated tone. “He exchanged them for a few drinks and a bit of local coin. I think he musta stole ’em without recognizing their value.”

“Did he now?” I rotated the glass, staring at it. It was a very impressive piece, well-cut, dazzling colors shifting and swirling to form fractured and beautiful patterns.

The barkeep set down the identical glass he was polishing. “Why do you ask, Master Archivist?”

I am not often surprised. However, being correctly addressed by what I assumed was a slack-jawed yokel on a backwater planet where luxuries such as the fabricated crystal would cost an individual his home, organs, and ten years worth of salary came as a bit of a shock.

“You know what I am,” I said, hints of a question in an otherwise flat tone.

The barkeep nodded. “Certainly. Your kind is hard to mistake. The etchings there give it away.” He pointed to the faint insignia upon the metal above my synthetic eye.

My breath caught in my throat. “You’ve seen more. Recently?”

“No, no.” The barman chuckled. “In my years merchanting core-ward, I saw a couple of you Archivists out and about. Never struck up a chat or anything, but…” He shrugged. “That was before my luxurious retirement out in these lovely parts.”

Impressed, I asked for his name.

“Francis Basil, at your service, good sir.” He grinned. “Can I refresh that for you?”

I agreed, and the barkeep, who shook off more of my assumption of brain-dead illiteracy with each passing moment, refilled my drink. My tip was more generous.

“Thank you kindly,” he said, scooping up the paper and coin currency. “Now, what could a fine seeker such as yourself be doing out here on the ass-end of the galaxy.”

I smiled, liking this man. “I’m looking—”

Before I could highlight anything particular, the saloon-style doors banged open. Two individuals entered, and it took barely a moment for me to assume there would be trouble.

They were raucous, loud, and carefree as they greeted a couple of familiar patrons. Their middle-grade IQ almost spewed from their pores as their half-literate speech washed over me.

The lead man, fresh and ripe after a day’s labor, spotted me at the far end of the bar. “Aw geez, Frank. Why ya gotta let that Grayskin freak in here?”

The insult didn’t particularly bother me, as it has always seemed an accurate description. Mechanical parts made up a considerable portion of my body, including full prosthetics for my right arm and leg as well as the upper-right portions of my face and skull. Internal augmentations bring the rest of my muscle and bone structure to a higher strength and density to match the prosthetics.

The true mastery, however, of my altered architecture exists within the cranial changes. Implants lay within every cubic centimeter of my brain tissue, creating a significant boost to my faculties, especially that of memory. More than half of my body, including the externally visible prosthetics of my limbs and skull, one synthetic eye, and other internal components, is machine.

A byproduct of these augmentations was an ashen hue to organic flesh. Hence: “Grayskin.” There were repigmentation treatments to bring back a semblance of normal human skin tone, but I’ve never bothered with them.

Francis was more irritated by the insult than I was. “Stow it, Parker, he’s a well-mannered customer, and the only color I care about is green.”

Admiration growing, I smiled.

With a lingering glare, Parker grabbed two bottles of weak ale for himself and his friend. They sat down at a round wooden table and stole the occasional glance in my direction, animosity obvious.

“Thanks,” I said to Francis as he came near again.

He shook his head. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Grimacing, I set down the glass. A quick systems diagnostic flitted past my synthetic eye. Green lights shone from each mechanical function. As always, my body was in pristine condition, ready for any encounter.

Time passed, and I began to feel more comfortable. Francis and I didn’t speak any further as the ruffians put away several bottles each.

“Hey, Grayskin,” the one known as Parker called from across the bar. “You best watch yer step. Some folk don’t take kindly to mechanoid freaks.”

We only like God-fearin’, true-blood humans ’round these parts , the silent voice of so many rang in my head. It wasn’t unusual to find intolerance towards augmentation out away from the core. They would sooner see a man with a peg leg than a brand new, fully functional limb.