The Legend of Ivan (12 page)

He was so damn big. I figured him for a grunt, an enforcer who'd do what he was told without the burden of thought or worry. Simple jobs, and he had a nice ship for smuggling escort. You know, the kind with a few nooks and crannies for overflow. It was fast with a few choice weapons. It had a broad's name.

Again, I thought he was a moron. Hell, his accent was so thick I almost figured he was illiterate. I'd seen him a couple times out of the first few months when he handled some of my smaller business. He was good. Right off the get go, he managed to rough up a few of the more disloyal pricks when they started muscling Damien. He got my attention then, but he kept working and doing a good job.

What finally put him over the top was when, by himself, he saved a huge, profitable shipment for me. He was quiet and respectful, so I brought him in closer. Big mistake."

*******

High up in an office overseeing the work, Voux Hanatar watched through monitors as a brute of a man stepped out of his vessel. Blackened scoring lay across the hull from the most recent job, and Hanatar smirked as one of his lieutenants jogged up.

Even through the grainy image, the relief on Damien's face was obvious. The lieutenant appeared as though he was about to burst into tears.

"You did it!" Damien spoke, his voice coming nasal-toned through the speakers. "I can't believe you actually did it! You're one crazy sumbitch Ivan!" The smallish, greasy man seemed ready to leap into Ivan's arms, but the large man turned away, examining the damage on his ship.

"Oh, don't worry about it, Ivan, we'll get it fixed up, good as new. I promise. I promise anything after what you did out there." He threw a gesture at the cargo ship docked a hundred yards away. Men were milling in and out, pushing grav-lifts carrying valuable cargo.

Ivan continued to examine the burns, running his hand across the hull. "Good, please get her repaired. I hate to see my Olga in such difficult shape." The letters of the ship's namesake lay marred, unreadable.

The other man nodded vigorously. "Oh yeah. For sure. I'll personally see that it gets sorted out. Jeez, after you saved my bacon, I'll give you whatever you want." He clapped Ivan on the shoulder. "I can't believe you really shot down all of those raider ships. When I heard your distress call, I thought you guys were all dead. Then I thought I was be suckin' space or chucked in a fusion reactor when Hanatar found out I lost his cargo."

With a thin smile, Ivan gave a nod. "I am glad I could be of service, my friend. But I should go assist with the unloading, yes?"

Ivan started to move down the walkway, but Damien held up his hands and moved in front of him. "No, no. Not a chance buddy. Your hard work and dedication means you ain't gotta do any more grunt shit. I got the word from Hanatar. He said he wanted me to bring you upstairs to talk."

"Very well," Ivan said, gesturing. "Lead the way."

Grinning, the little man, almost bubbling with excitement, led Ivan over to the lift. He jabbered about Ivan's success, continuing to marvel at the miracle.

The cargo ship had contained a heavy load of refined neosteel from an off-the-record mine which didn't precisely adhere to a perfection of trade, safety, or anti-slave regulation.

Damien's planned route was a complete disaster. For certain, it avoided any of the usual patrol routes, checkpoints, and traffic. However, the not-too bright lieutenant was far too eager to please his employer. He shaved a few days off the planned travel, cutting right through a stretch of space known well for its ability to misplace vessels.

The raider ships destroyed five out of seven of the escorts and heavily damaged the cargo freighter. Ivan's expertise alone saved what remained as he destroyed twelve fighters himself, tracked the remaining two back to their salvage transport, and wiped the rest of them into oblivion. All of this while Damien cringed under the distress transmission and what seemed like his own impending doom.

Relief escorts, tugs, and salvage cleaned up the debris and brought everything back in short order, still a day ahead of the original schedule. Rather than having Damien jammed into a cannon and fired into space, his employer congratulated him on his excellent choice of mercenary and suggested Ivan be given higher responsibility.

They stepped out of the lift into an overseer's office. Hanatar took a sip of brandy while watching his valuable cargo being transferred to other ships for distribution.

"You've done me a great favor," Hanatar said, turning and raising his glass as Ivan loomed over him with a passive expression.

Though it was clear that none of it was directed at him, Damien beamed at the praise. "Thanks, boss. Thanks. I couldn'ta done it without Ivan, here."

"Someone like you isn't suited to outside work. Don't you agree?" Hanatar ignored Damien, focusing only upon Ivan.

Ivan gave a nod. "Whatever you say, sir."

"Hah-hah!" Hanatar reached over and clapped him on the back. "That's right, good attitude. A
damn
good way of thinking. I can already tell you're going to be perfect for what I've got in store." He produced a set of documents. "These are travel papers. You're to fly to my home on Gretia and wait there for me. I have a bit of pressing business to attend to before my latest indictment. I hear they're looking to arrest me again, so I thought I'd save 'em the trouble this time and just show up."

"What are you going to plead?" Damien asked.

His boss laughed. "Nothing probably; the charade won't get that far. It's a little game I play with the GSA and Sector Attorneys. They accuse me, something pops loose in the investigation, and I go free."

Ivan didn't seem to be very amused by the situation. "When will you be arriving on Gretia?"

"Who knows?" Hanatar shrugged. "Maybe those boys at the GSA actually have something that they think'll stick. Whatever, it should only be a day or two. Keep an eye on my house, and maybe relax a bit. After this job," he swept a gesture out the bay window, where underlings continued to labor, "you've definitely earned it."

"What about my ship?" Ivan asked.

Hanatar tossed a glance at Damien, who appeared surprised that he was being deferred to. "Oh! Uh, we can probably have it stowed in a bay on the transport you're taking. Any other repairs can be done when you get there."

Their employer smiled. "There, are we all taken care of?" Ivan nodded. "Good, good. Now go ahead and get outta here. I'll see you soon, kid."

As soon as Ivan departed down the lift, Damien almost burst with excitement. "See? What did I tell ya? He's a helluva guy! Didn't I say-"

"Yes, Damien," Hanatar rolled his eyes, "finding a man like Ivan almost overshadows your stupidity. Or did you think I had forgotten whose blindly moronic idea almost led to the loss of that entire shipment."

The grin vanished from Damien's face as his employer glared at him with a dangerous expression. "B-but, boss, I-"

Hanatar waved away the objection, smiling wickedly. "It doesn't matter; no real harm done. Ivan's proven himself to be damn good help, and I intend to make sure he's used properly."

"I'm just not sure this time. Not everyone's as loyal as you." His underling beamed at the compliment. "I think one of my boys might have turned."

With a gasp, Damien stammered, "N-no way, boss. Can't be one of our guys!"

"We'll see, and we'll take care of it if we have to."

******

"I can't believe this piss-licking bullshit," Hanatar shouted as he slammed the door to his luxurious home on Gretia. "Someone is going to get shoved into a sun for this!"

Ivan had been waiting, awkward and bored in his employer's home for two weeks without any word.

When Hanatar burst through the front door, Ivan was seated in a chair near the entrance. Setting aside the digital pad he was reading, Ivan stood up and smoothed his dark suit. "Sir?"

His employer ignored him as he stormed through the foyer. "Cyndee!" He called out to his wife. "Cyndee, where in the blazing hell are you?"

"She took a transport to the capital," Ivan spoke with a calm tone. "Shopping."

Baring his teeth and seeming to notice Ivan for the first time, Hanatar slammed his fist against the wall. "Perfect. Bloody-bitch-ass perfect. I'm about to get sucked into a legal shit-storm, and she's off blowing money on pedicures when I need to pay for my defense."

Ivan raised an eyebrow. "Sir?"

"Let the shit-weasel tell you." Hanatar waved him off, storming out of the room. Ivan continued to hear a swarm of loud cursing as his employer moved through the large house.

The front door opened again, and a meek and nervous-looking Damien slunk through the slight crack. Closing it as softly as possible, Damien turned, surprised to see Ivan looming over him.

"What is going on?" the large man asked.

"It didn't go very well," Damien swallowed hard, "and they tried to stall things to keep him in lock-up. He still managed to get out, but the list of charges was pretty intense."

A yell issued from the floor above, echoing throughout the house. "
Where the Christing-shit is that bottle?!
"

"Extortion, smuggling of illegal cargo, slave trafficking..." Damien continued the tale with a helpless shrug, not noticing Ivan's expression darken briefly. "The boss thinks one of the other fellas turned witness. He's not too happy about it."

Hanatar came rushing down the grand foyer staircase, clutching a bottle of dark liquor in one hand. "You're goddamned right I'm not too happy. This has to be fixed. Fixed right
now
before it gets any further out of hand. And you," he thrust a finger towards Ivan, "are going to take care of it." He sped away again, and the other two could hear him clattering in another room.

With a quick exchange of glances, Ivan and Damien followed behind. Hanatar was hunched over a table, plucking ice cubes with a pair of tongs and putting them into a fabricated crystal glass. He dumped a healthy quantity of booze in before taking a long sip. As the alcohol swirled around his tongue and burned a trail down his throat, Hanatar closed his eyes and gave a deep sigh.

"What is it you want me to do?" Ivan asked, still wearing a calm expression.

The crime lord gestured towards the entryway with his glass. "I want you to get out there. Find out who's railroading my shit," he jammed two fingertips into his temple, "and deal with it. Make this whole thing go away." Taking too vigorous a swig, he fell into a coughing fit. His two employees watched, one passive and one concerned, as Hanatar recovered, red-faced. With a strained expression, he finished speaking. "I don't care how it gets done or who needs to disappear."

Wiping his mouth and still recovering, Hanatar turned away. Neither he nor Damien, who was too concerned with his boss's well-being, noticed the troubled expression cross Ivan's features. It vanished before anyone looked his way.

******

A month passed.

Voux Hanatar spent a considerable amount of time in tortured anguish and half-liquored delirium. Aside from Ivan, he had ten more of his best people out digging for a solution to destroy the case. He heard almost nothing.

Brooding, angry, and aware that every move he made was watched, recorded, and scrutinized, business decisions fell into the capable but ambitious hands of his underlings. Due to his constant outbursting and heavy drinking, Hanatar's own wife decided to take an extended vacation until her husband calmed down or was sent to prison.

Constant pressure was felt on all sides, as three-quarters of the news reports seemed to be focusing upon his imminent demise. His blood was in the water, the sharks were circling, and Hanatar was getting more and more nervous.

The only one remaining to comfort the disturbed employer was Damien. The constant presence of the ass-kissing, not-too-bright fellow was almost more than Hanatar could bear.

The month went by in anguish for the prominent criminal, and he was starting to wonder if he was running out of options when Ivan finally returned.

The deafening roar of ship engines shook Hanatar out of a restless slumber. His panicking, half-asleep mind warbled about the apocalypse before he recognized the disturbance enough to generate his usual enraged disposition. "Who in holy hell is low-flying over my home?!" he screamed to no one, words inaudible over the ear-splitting racket. His rage and confusion tripled when a thud resounded on the roof.

With a huff of air and a lingering whine, the engines cut out. Hanatar burst from his bedroom, hastily adjusting the cord on his lush bathrobe. After half a moment's consideration, he ran back into the bedroom, wrenched open the desk, and grabbed the flechette pistol concealed in a side compartment. As he charged back down the hall, Damien emerged from his own room, rubbing his face. "Whosere?" he asked, eyes widening as he saw his employer carrying a weapon.

"Some dead prick is all," Hanatar said as he moved towards the stairs which lead to roof access. He knelt behind a column and aimed the weapon.