The Legend of Ivan (22 page)

That night, they made camp, and no discussion of what happened to the other group or what would happen to them occurred. There was no discussion at all, as each man assumed their time was short.

Brilliant lights and muffled explosions from miles distant filled the air on their final night. It punctuated with a deafening boom, and everything then went quiet. There was no talk, no speculation of what it might had been. The hunters had given up.

******

Tears formed in Platt's remaining eye as he lapsed into a grim silence. His remaining hand, whether he was conscious of it or not, ran along the tangled scarring pattern of his shoulder and neck.

During his story, I cultivated more than a couple of theories. A thought struck early on, and I continued listening under different assumptions. Some of the fear Platt displayed and this sorrow he moved into: it appeared for the most part genuine. I certainly would admit a gradual starvation of the physical body and hope of survival would be terrible indeed.

The story itself held no particular lies, but I could tell in each moment that elements were arranged carefully, most likely to make me avoid reaching a particular assumption. Even so, the deliberate orchestration of detail expressed more than outright lies would have.

That, and a bit of the ignorant character he was playing slipped during the parts more immersive to him. I could see an air of sophistication hidden behind the sweaty, disfigured grunt persona. The calculation I saw on his face before he started the story was a tiny hint, a visual cue which allowed me to observe him closely. Everything was very subtle, but much lay beyond his words.

How I developed the conclusion so rapidly was odd to me. I again wondered if whatever remained of Dana was exerting influence upon me, whispering in my subconscious and putting forth ideas.

"Anyway," Platt raised his head, "the next morning, the hovercraft we saw before plowed into a ridge nearby. It gave the tiniest bits of hope as we sprinted towards it, until energy rifle fire spewed out. The other two were burned down, and, as I dove towards cover..." he held up the stump of his arm and gestured at the burns.

"Grey?"

The former bounty hunter shook his head back and forth, not in denial but disbelief. "You shoulda seen him. When I woke up, the wreck of what he called a body was a few feet away. But he was a scary-looking sumbitch, I tell ya. His right arm up to the elbow was missing. Both legs, one at the shin and the other mid-thigh: gone. He had burns and cuts everywhere, dirty bandages slapped half-cocked over everything. Grey looked like a corpse, and the injuries... he shoulda been in a coma for God's sake. There was no fear or pain in his eyes, not even a little dizziness or that glazed look you get from drugs." The man shuddered. "He calmly told me that I was gonna get him to his ship and fly him someplace safe, or he'd burn me down inch by inch."

"Obviously you agreed."

Platt nodded. "I thought about killin' him. Probably had about a fifty-fifty of doin' it too, but I was scared. Scared of him still beatin' me and more even of if I'd be able to get offa the planet without him. After all of his slaughter, me wandering half-starved and hopeless, even then with me missing a hand and an eye because of him, Grey was still the best shot of me makin' it out alive."

"He kept tellin' me the ambush was nothin' personal; he needed the Lorric Crew out of the way to reopen negotiations in his favor. Hell, he said he even made a few extra credits on small side offers for some of the fellas in the group. He promised to let me live." Platt shrugged. "No profit to killin' me now, he said."

I motioned for him to continue.

"Not much after that. He had me drop him off on some planet. Some friend or hired guy came and picked him up, and I guess he probably got treatment." Platt sighed. "As for me, he told me he wanted to keep tabs. He said to come here, work, and never leave. He said if I told anyone what happened, if I left, if I did anything at all, he'd make good on that promise to melt the rest of me."

There it was, the final statement I knew by simple instinct was an outright falsehood. I felt a strong urge to confront him on it right away to prove I could read him and find the truth, but I decided to give him one chance to provide the information I needed. I said, "You don't know where Grey ended up?"

"Don't worry," I said with a reassuring gesture. "I certainly won't tell anyone that Lorric Bren is still alive, and indeed I doubt many these days would even remember the name."

"Nothing concrete, but each detail of your story seemed particular and rehearsed." I gestured at him. "The mediocre grunt persona clashed with the careful recitation. Most often, pieces get muddled, changed, and confused. You never paused during the story, and you never missed a beat."

"Oh sure," I said, a layer of smugness in my tone. "Platt himself seemed so misplaced in the group to begin with, and his faux-leadership role once grounded on the planet seemed even more odd. What actually happened?"

He sighed. "Not much different. If you swap Eternal Loss with Sapient Grace, that about covers it. It was Grib Denko who detonated in orbit and myself who crash landed. The short battle still evaporated once my communications were down, and I could do nothing to help them as they died."

"Who was with you then, if not Denko?"

Lorric smiled. "The real Richner Platt. Not so different in attitude and intellect than my portrayal, so I'm at least comforted that you, good Archivist, were incorrect about his presence being out of place."

I bowed my head, conceding the point.

"Besides that, nothing else was different. Platt and the others were killed by Grey." He scratched his head. "He let me live, perhaps out of professional courtesy but more likely because he needed someone to fly him out. I was not lying about his condition. Even with what must have been the most impressive organic augmentations to his body, some very impressive skills, and good hardware, Grey was in pieces."

With a sly smile, Lorric replied, "Yes, Ivan was there, but Grey never told me exactly what happened. I certainly understand why."

Shaking my head, I asked, "He didn't actually threaten you either, did he?" Lorric said nothing. "You were content with disappearing, both of you. Grey must have spent as much time as you convincing wealthy, interested parties that he alone could bring in Ivan. You both failed, and by your preference no one has seen either of you since."

Chuckling, I shrugged. "A man like you, even in exile, has a certain level of, what... paranoia? Curiosity? Something else, perhaps." I waved that aside. "Regardless of any other factors, I'd be quite surprised if you didn't keep track of the one remaining man who knows who and probably where you are."

"You seem to be awfully smug, Archivist," Lorric swiveled an irritated glare back to me, "but yes, I know exactly where he is and what he's doing. Maybe you don't find
that
surprising, but I guarantee you'll never guess what he's been up to."

I leaned forward, and as simple as that, he whispered a location and current occupation. "Belgriad. He's a deacon." He leaned back. "If you can't find him from that, it's time to hang up your hat, Sid."

My quick conclusion of where Grey was hiding was swept away in mild shock. I hadn't told him my name. "How did you...?"

It became Lorric's turn to be smug. "I didn't, until now. From your appearance, I guessed you could be Klaus, Sid, or..." he trailed off, eyes widening.

"Sid!" a familiar voice shouted. An eerie quiet settled over the bar, and I froze in my position. "Where are you m'boy? We have a spot of unfinished business, Sid."

Out of the corner of my eye, I stole a glance towards the entrance to the bar. Cain, the metallic beast, was near the entrance. A grin stood out on his face. "Don't make me tear this place apart just to find you, Siddy-boy."

Individuals in the bar, the strong and stupid variety, approached the other Archivist. "What in the
hell
... do you think you're doing here, you metal
freak?
"

"Oh, I'm just here to talk to my good friend, Sid. If you don't mind..." Cain stepped forward.

The unfortunate man moved to block him. "Oh, I
do
mind. I don't care if yer here to see the Galactic President hisself. We don't like grayskin and metal freaks in our bar, and you need to step outta here before something bad happens."

Cain's grin never faltered. Focused, watching the situation unfold while trying to pick the best possible escape route, I heard a metallic sliding I realized was Lorric's escape.

"Good luck," the man whispered, but when I turned to look, the seat was empty with no hint of where he disappeared to. A secret compartment of some kind perhaps. Definitely it seemed like something Lorric Bren would have, even in a place of leisure.

I searched, scanning the area for some kind of mechanism as Cain continued to speak with the thugs. "Now, my smelly monkey friends... our galaxy doesn't actually have a president anymore. Aside from the fact that we're primarily governed by enormous corporations who put many of their finger puppets into the varied positions, the office-holding officials form a Senate of sorts. A larger body representing individual worlds and whatnot. Even so, meeting any former Galactic President would be difficult as..."

I could almost sense the rising anger among the bar patrons as I spotted the mechanism. "Oh hell..." I muttered, noting that the device retained functions for a remote control, a device which my good friend Lorric most likely took with him.

Abandoning the thought of escape out the back, I turned my attention to the inevitable confrontation. A quick scan revealed that Cain received no additions since our last encounter, and the same doubts about bashing at his reinforced vital areas in the instants before my vaporization crossed my mind.

No nearby terminals, not even for the bar's financials, but I didn't think my trap would work on him quite as well a second time. Desperate and running out of planning time, I noted a few impromptu weapons being taken into hand by the patrons: stools, bottles, even a dislodged pipe. At least a dozen individuals took interest, and I thought maybe they would be distraction enough for me to slip out.

I didn't have a better plan.

Cain was gleefully highlighting the historical change which abolished the practice of a central leadership figure about seventy or so years prior. The rage in the room at this intruder and his condescension became near palpable. It didn't help that he insulted the patrons at every opportunity. "So, my slovenly brethren, the last Galactic President passed away quite some time ago, so me meeting him here would be of particular difficulty. Unless, of course, you fine specimens of astonishing intellect happen to care for some very peculiar varieties of recreation. That in itself would be a challenge: a pile of barely evolved simian reprobates violating the grave of one of the galaxy's most recognized figures."

Someone threw a punch. I didn't see which one of the unfortunate idiots did it because the individual went rocketing half a moment later into the display behind the bar, smashing bottles and a large mirror. The man fell to the ground in a heap of glass and lacerated flesh.

A heartbeat of silence rang as each man took stock of what happened. Though feeble-brained, some fraction of the patrons must have known the intruder could take apart each and every one of them with minimal effort. It didn't matter, as an instant later all hell broke loose.

Two things saved me. The first was the enthusiastic stupidity of the bar patrons. Stools, bottles, and bodies flying, they piled upon the other Archivist with intense, unyielding fervor. The moment the fracas began, I made a beeline for the exit.

Ducking projectiles and dodging past tables and people, I caught a glimpse of the second thing which saved me: my opponent's sadistic nature. Cain became a whirlwind of carefully placed, damaging strikes. I heard him laughing wildly along with the sounds of snapping bones and falling bodies.