The Legend of Ivan (20 page)

One survived.

The incompetent and cowardly Richner Platt somehow managed to escape when all of his comrades perished. Dana had no details as to how he accomplished this, but she did, as fortune would have it, discover his whereabouts. It seemed she even managed to schedule a meeting, one I decided to attend in her place.

Platt gave up on bounty collection, seeming to lose his taste for the hunt after watching his group of comrades slaughtered without mercy.

As with each of my inquiries with the lesser intelligent of the species, Platt resided near the rim. He lived as yet another of the bumbling dregs of the working class, on a Soma Corp Class 4 orbital shipyard, its unnamed status reflecting the general importance of its function.

This particular locale was above T35B, a failed terraforming project also not named for its value. Class 4's were manufacturing platforms which built the most economical in small cargo and personal transport ships, as well as the occasional ground vehicle.

Platt worked as a grunt and nothing more, but he was promised a small sum of money from Archivist Dana for his information, which went unspecified. I didn't know whether or not Dana intended to actually pay him, but I certainly didn't unless I really had to.

Wary though they were, port authorities allowed my access. Visitors outside of a regular sort were uncommon, but due to varied amenities and housing for all of the workers, they had no reason to deny new arrivals. I expressed a vague interest in obtaining a work contract and mentioned that a friend of a friend was employed.

The platform was dingy, even more so than my recent experience upon the Marxis refueling station. Condensation dripped down the walls and froze on the thinner parts of the hull where the cold of vacuum bled through. Marred and filthy bulkheads surrounded dim, empty corridors. It felt as much a derelict as anything else, but most foot traffic was limited to shift changes and common areas, most of which were bars.

Puckler's, a title whose purpose was as bizarre and ineffable as the stench it carried within, held the site of my meeting. In the worst possible scenario, the place was crowded, packed with workers. Perspiring bodies filled the uncomfortably warm area, making my full covering including facial obscurement obvious and out of place. Dozens of pairs of eyes swept towards me and the stick I pretended to hunch upon.

I hoped an infirm manner of appearance would keep the denizens at bay, and only a few looked on with more than light curiosity, as though they could sense my lack of humanity. I expected a strong distaste for mechanical prosthetics, and I wanted to avoid a time-wasting confrontation with so many people.

Corner table
, Dana's memory informed me, unbidden by my request and almost utilizing its own voice.
A bald, scarred individual
. I paused for a moment, surprised by what seemed to be Dana's hidden vestige whispering in my mind. I gave a quick perusal, but nothing internally seemed amiss. I shook it off, concerned but occupied by more pressing matters.

Shuffling through the crowd, I remained careful to conceal my mechanical parts and avoid any scrutiny. I saw Dana's contact.

Richner Platt, a thick-muscled individual wearing an extremely filthy tank top, swigged a mug of dark liquid. Battered ears poked out of his egg-shaped head, and his one good eye lay next to a tangled mass of scarring which covered the left half of his face and threaded down his shoulder and bicep. The rest of his arm and the injury was concealed under the table.

"Shit." He brought his left arm up onto the table, revealing that he was missing a portion of it from mid-forearm down. The stump was capped by a metallic receiver for a detachable prosthetic, a variety less effective than a fully integrated model. Absentmindedly scratching at his elbow, he noticed my stare and put his partial arm back in his lap, under the table.

"I don't know you," his mouth curled in a sneer, "so unless you got the coin to double my fee, I'm not sayin' shit."

I gave my head a slight shake. "There was no set fee." The memories of Dana told me they each agreed his pay would be based upon the usefulness of the information.

He appraised me, expression wary. Finally, he sighed, leaning forward. "Okay, I just needed to make sure you were the real thing. Can't be too careful, ya know?"

Though his method of testing me seemed rudimentary at best, I gave a nod and motioned towards the table which hid his missing arm. "Forget it at home?"

"Assholes won't let me wear it in here. Say it's unnatural or some shit. I can only wear it when I'm working, and it hurts like hell to take it off and put it on."

Understandable, as the nerve attachments had to painfully sever and fuse at each change. Still, the bitterness in his expression regarding the difficulty he faced with prosthetics provided an opportunity. I pulled off the glove which hid my own inhuman limb, placing my metallic fingertips on the edge of the table. His eye flitted down and unconcealed shock spread across his features.

Replacing the glove, I spoke with a clearer tone, dropping the false infirmity approach. "I understand very well what it's like."

Surprised, either by the obvious quality he saw in the craftsmanship of my hand or the gall I possessed to enter Puckler's wearing it, he said, "So you're...?"

"Quietly," I murmured. "I don't care for the extra attention."

Platt made a comically inept show of nonchalance, lowering his head like a conspirator and passing a paranoid gaze around the bar. If any of the drunken buffoons present had paid the slightest attention, there might have been trouble.

Even so, he hissed, "So whaddya wanna know?"

"Relax," I said, leaning back to demonstrate and speaking in a normal tone. "It's a simple conversation of no great secrecy or importance. We have nothing to hide, and anyone listening will gain nothing of consequence." Folding my hands, I continued, "I received information- excuse me, Dana received information -that you were involved in the unfortunate group who had the last encounter with Ivan."

Platt drew in a sharp breath and stiffened, appearing ready to bolt. His flesh and blood hand gripped the mug tightly, and fear seeped into his expression.

"What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "I ain't gonna talk about that. No way."

Stifling a laugh, deciding that doing so at the expense of the brave, former bounty hunter would make him difficult to converse with, I put out a reassuring hand. "It's all right, Mr. Platt. I understand it must have been quite the difficult ordeal."

"Difficult?" He clenched his teeth. "Watching all my buddies get cooked? Burning light taking away most of my arm? The liquefied remains of that arm spilling onto my skin and
boiling
it?" He shook his head. "Naw... nothin' difficult about it at
all.
"

"You survived," I offered.

Bitterness subsumed his expression, and he pounded his stump on the table. "Look at me. Look at where I am." He passed a gesture with his arm at the surroundings, the dingy bar and sweating, drunken men. "I know I ain't the brightest star in the night sky. Hell, you known me for three minutes, and you prolly figured that much out. My surviving wasn't any a' my doin', so it don't count for shit."

Platt appeared puzzled for a second. "No, not Ivan," he said, glancing back and forth. His face developed that same fear, and he leaned forward and dropped his voice to a low murmur, "
Grey.
"

I felt a bubble of adrenaline as possibilities whirled in my thoughts. Some of it began to make sense, but I didn't have enough yet to see the whole picture. "You have to tell me more."

Platt shook his head, and I felt a flare of irritation. "I can't. It don't matter that it was so many years ago; I still have nightmares about what he did, about what he threatened to do to me if I told anyone. I don't care if he was missin' his-" he stopped short, clapping one hand over his mouth.

Closing my eyes, images of beatings and threats washed through my thoughts. I disregarded them, doubtful that I could manage such a thing without drawing considerable attention. Still, I had to at least try to coax him. "We can start it slowly, and I promise you'll be well paid."

"Ehhh..." the thought of currency seemed to chip at his resolve.

"He must be getting old by now. Crippled as well, as I heard it." I watched his troubled expression flinch, his mind perhaps recalling Grey's injuries.

Something else was there, a sudden cold calculation. I thought for a tiny instant that there might have been more to this man than I could see, but the expression vanished, leaving me to wonder what it could have been.

Platt balled a fist, wincing. "That don't matter. I can't..."

"Whatever his grievance with you, he's long departed," I made a sweeping gesture. "It's a big galaxy, Mr. Platt. He's in hiding, and he won't come out just to find you."

The former bounty hunter swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead. "I, ah... I don't..."

Dropping my voice to a low whisper, I said, "I'm an Archivist, you know. When I find him, and I will, he won't question how. He knows of my kind. We tend to be very persistent."

He propped his elbows on the table and buried his face in one hand and a stump. Wiping away the perspiration, he looked up at me and said, "Okay."

******

"So I'm not very bright. I know that, but I always thoughta myself as a guy people could count on. And people did say to me, all the time, 'Ricky, you're not too bright but a helluva guy.'

I did jobs here and there. You know, some of 'em simple like the one I got now, and some of 'em more, uh... complicated and maybe even illegal. I just do the job people ask me to, and no one ever expects me to figure anything out or think too much, ya know?

I got no real clue as to why Lorric Bren, the fella who put the bounty group together, asked for me to come along. I'd met him once before, working as a bodyguard for a small-time crook. The boss I had back then hired Lorric to chase down some guy who stole money from him. I helped Lorric out a little on the coordination and brought him the records and research he asked for. He got the job done quick, and I was damn sure impressed.

Beats me how he managed to remember me a few years later when I went to be considered for the Ivan hunt. Lorric greeted me by name, and it took hardly a second for him to size me up and say he wanted me to come with. He said he knew he could count on me.

I still don't really know if he was right."

******

Richner Platt, self-admitted, was not the brightest. He was a thug, an enforcer, a reliable fellow, and a pretty good shot. Not a thinker by any means or even a doer unless prompted, Platt could handle most anything that came his way, provided it didn't require a great deal of consideration.

Which was why Lorric Bren, organizer of the grand hunt for Ivan, decided to give him a place on the crew.

"Uh, okay," Platt mumbled, scratching his uninjured face with a hand that would not be present in ten month's time. "Sure."

Lorric smiled. "Good to have you, Platt. You'll be with me on team four. You have your own gear, a ship?"

Platt shook his head. "I got my stuff in a crate outside, but I don't do no flyin'."

"All right, no problem. Make sure your gear gets loaded onto," he checked a datapad, making a disgusted face, "'Eternal Loss,' jeez..." Lorric rolled his eyes. "Grib Denko's the pilot. He's a bit odd, but then..."

Who among us isn't?
the silent question rang.

A motley assortment was gathered, ship and person names reflecting the strange quirks of personality of those individuals in the field of bounty hunting. Regardless of these oddities, the selection was all on purpose.

And it was Lorric's purpose.

Lorric Bren was said to be a more successful strategist than anything else. He had no great notoriety for piloting, shooting, driving, detonating, or any other task the job often required. Though he didn't bring in his target every single time- who among them ever did -he always emerged alive and unscathed from each encounter. This was accomplished through careful planning and allowing others to shoulder some of the burden when necessary

Even cooperation, though, was not entirely useful on every occasion. The desire for high caliber financing with a general lack of compassion formed the basic disposition for bounty hunters.

Three out of five of the most honorable and loyal people in the noble profession would sell their own mother for half of an increased share. A cohort meant little in the face of more money, and the usual extended courtesy was to limit the amount of suffering, or if killing wasn't on the menu, to leave limbs and teeth relatively intact.