The recent encounter continued to trouble me as I passed into the asteroid field. Full concentration would have been preferable, as the flexible flight path only corrected for small to medium sized obstacles. However, the rising number of competitors and my recent actions left me preoccupied.
I didn’t bother to check, but there was certain to be a flurry of news and gossip relating to the recent assault and lockdown of the Dei Lucrii XVII system. For certain, Daedra-Tech would be displeased about having my name attached to both their own and a fugitive status. However, losing the lead in the Ivan pursuit would likely have upset them more. They’d be able to handle the bad press and even get the Cassander to back off.
Either way, I didn’t hold excessive loyalty. They provided the means to perpetuation, as there would always be secrets to pursue for a massive-sized corporation. Still, I had no reason not to fulfill my contract.
In spite of the time taken, my flailing internal state remained mired in guilt. No amount of rationalization or the anticipation of finishing my task could scrub it away, and I could detect no immediate issues with my internal hardware. Yet it persisted, a seed of obsession in my mind. The best I could do was continue on and hope it did not distract me.
A hailing blip appeared on my screen as I swooped by another asteroid. “Vessel Minerva, this is Vapaus Colony. We are tracking your approach.” A calm voice came through. “Stand by for docking instructions.”
It seemed Grey’s warning had gone through; they were expecting me.
I cleared another large obstacle, and my eyes and the coordinates confirmed my arrival.
The asteroid which housed the colony appeared miles long, massive and appearing immobile against the consistent scattering of its smaller brothers. Tiny structures dotted some of the rocky surface, mostly metallic plates, and I suspected most of its infrastructure would be inside.
Warnings resounded in my cockpit as several defense mechanisms targeted my position. A precaution, I hoped.
The landing continued without any vaporization, but I wondered if a loud argument in the control center debated the pros and cons of such an action. Sets of heavy steel docking bay doors opened in one of the regions of the asteroid. They directed me to it and allowed my entrance, the doors sealing shut behind me. Dim lighting was strung around the area, and a short walkway led to a building. Not an inch of rock was seen; the whole interior section appeared to be encased in metal.
Once my ship touched down, a door opened in the structure, and several people carrying weaponry and clad in light ballistic armor spilled out. My instruments shone green for atmosphere, so I slipped out of my seat and opened the hatch.
No one spoke a word as I set foot on the docking platform. Fourteen individuals appearing as soldiers trained weaponry upon me. The deck had an inconsistent vibration, not quite a tremor, as the smaller asteroids outside occasionally nudged the larger one.
I stood, waiting with my arms folded.
Out of the building walked a man dressed in similar ballistic armor with various symbols and insignias etched upon it. A stern expression and sharp features gave the unmistakable air of authority, and he was flanked by two additional guards, these more heavily armed and armored.
“I am Security Chief Pallum Bethel.” The man spoke with a hard edge. “I am also the acting governor of Vapaus Colony.” He pointed at me. “You are Archivist Sid, and you are not entirely welcome in this place.”
I said nothing, keeping my arms folded and favoring the leader with a blank expression.
“It is only by the request of a very important individual that I grant you sanctuary in this place. However, your leash will be extremely short, and any action construed as against the well being of Vapaus Colony will see you locked in a very dark place for a very long time. Your business here will be brief, and all records of our location will be purged from your navigation systems once this debacle is finished.” He leveled his gaze at me. “Do I make myself clear?”
I still didn’t speak, restraining myself from rolling my eyes and diving deep into condescension.
“You will answer me, Archivist, or you’ll be sent on your way without hesitation.”
Sighing, I swept my hat off and replied, “Let’s move beyond the tired posturing. I represent very little threat to your miserable way of existence. I’m here for a specific purpose, and once done, I have no further need to remain.”
Glaring angrily, he opened his mouth to speak, but I held up a hand. “Very obviously, I’ve been granted particular courtesies you are not fond of. Your threats are hollow because someone higher than you wishes this to occur. I hold no particular ill toward you or this place, but I will provide you with similar courtesy should you decide to continue this foolish hostile attitude.”
I absolutely love being a guest of importance. The less I have to deal with the careful wordplay associated with causing no offense, the better. A frank attitude is nearly always more efficient.
Chief Bethel tightened the thin line of his lips. I could see he wanted to cause issue in some fashion by yelling, sending me away, or locking me up. Marvel of marvels, he turned on his heel. He gave a sharp hand motion. “Follow me.”
Flanked by and trailing the entourage of armed individuals, I obeyed. For fifteen minutes, we crossed through numerous bland corridors. The acting Governor and Security Chief moved in silence, irritation fixed upon his features.
We stopped moving in a long hallway lined with heavy-security doors. Bethel turned to me. “Your assessment, though arrogant and flippant, was correct.” He raised his chin. “If it were up to me, I’d have you and your ship harvested for useable parts before discarding the rest. We take care of our own here, and only one person has received the freedom to come and go as he pleases.”
I had an inkling toward who it might have been, but I sensed my new friend would be upset if I interrupted him. His self-important air annoyed me, but I didn’t feel like having him shout at me for several minutes before the conversation progressed.
Seeing no reaction from me, Bethel continued. “However, others are hoping, foolishly in my opinion, that you will not bring death from the galaxy upon us. They believe you should be happy, merry, cheerful, and able to gallivant about without a care as to how it may affect our way of life.”
He grit his teeth. “What we arrived at was a fair compromise. You are about to embark upon a mandatory tour of this facility, our prison-turned-home. They are hoping you will gather an appreciation for it. A sympathy. I have my doubts, but I also retain no ability to prevent your stay and meeting with our important individual.”
“However,” Bethel held up a finger. “If you should give me the slightest reason to mistrust or dislike you, I can make absolutely certain that all conversation takes place under the least comfortable circumstances. Do you understand me?”
If only for the sake of expedience, I nodded.
Bethel made a hand motion, and all of the soldiers save his pair of guards departed. He turned to me. “You may consider our current way of life to be one of misery and lack of civilization, but I assure you: it is infinitely better than the degradation and horror of our lives as forced laborers.”
“You have my greatest sympathy,” I replied. With a wary eye, he searched my expression for any sign of sarcasm or irony, but he discovered none. I didn’t gush, but there was at least a little sincerity behind my statement.
The security chief continued. “Where you are standing right now is one of the many prison wards.” He opened one of the doors and gestured. “Laborers in training are kept here, isolated.”
The room appeared cramped. A tiny bed, toilet, and sink were in close proximity, and empty floor space was close to nonexistent. A flickering recessed light provided a source of variability, entertainment, or more likely madness. “Countless hours are spent in silence and solitude. Simple meals and constant punishments are found during the period of training.”
Without waiting for me to respond, he moved on. Through dozens more hallways very similar, I gathered the facility housed a very large number. Considering the size of the asteroid, the number could have ranged into the tens of thousands, depending upon how much interior was taken up.
He stopped in a different corridor. The doors were the same security style, but they were further apart, each room at least three times as large. “This is a training ward. Every room,” he palmed the door, “contains equipment to precisely condition a subject to perform specific menial tasks at peak efficiency.”
Inside lay what appeared to be fragile materials and common household items. Cleaning implements were stacked on a shelf, and cameras and monitoring equipment were embedded in the walls. “For cleaners: dust particles, amount of pressure utilized upon various fragile and non-fragile items, amount of cleaning product expended, and numerous other facets are recorded. Requirements of each and being as close to perfection as possible is hammered into every fiber of their being. Each day brings different items and review. Improvement is expected. If there is no improvement, punishment is exacted.”
He palmed open another door. “Miners are directed to put forth the exact amount of physical requirement prior to exhaustion and injury. Strike pressure and angles are very important to perfect.” A faux rock wall lay with varied mining equipment.
Bethel made a sweeping gesture. “There are twenty-six different types of training rooms, and a full forced-labor staff is kept on site to maintain and prepare them for every session. Each individual in training remains for an average of one month at ten hours a day. Increasing punishment is exacted upon those who cannot perform adequately or learn too slowly.”
I sensed punishment had been a common factor in the existence of the slaves here. I also sensed he was building up to what the punishment actually was. I found his continued description of the facility as if it were still in use odd, but I didn’t comment.
Again we progressed. After five minutes of bland hallways, we stopped. The corridor held rooms appearing very similar to the training spaces. “Exercise rooms; self explanatory. Mandatory physical conditioning based upon age and future task. Inadequate performance leads to punishment.”
We stopped in another room. “Mess hall,” he informed me. It was more of a hallway than a hall. Several stalls lay on one side, appearing to have slots but no windows. “Ten minutes, four times daily,” Bethel said. “A prisoner walks to one of the stations, and handprint identification issues a personalized meal from each slot. The food and any vitamin or drug supplements are to be eaten to entirety within the amount of time or…” He stared at me with a stern gaze.
“Punishment,” I offered.
The acting governor nodded and moved on. The next area was larger, featuring rooms with several long tables. Countertops and cupboards surrounded the space. Medical implements lay about, and Bethel didn’t need to tell me what occurred in this place.
“Medical facility. All new trainees are given a complete physical examination to determine capabilities and needs. There is a minimum level required, and those not capable of any labor tasks are not punished.” He paused. “Elderly and ill are those generally considered incapable. Children are kept because they are the most easily trained and can grow into tasks. Those who cannot, simply by virtue of condition, are disposed of.”
He led me to a few other locations, but my mind began to wander as the repetition of poorly treated human beings dulled my sympathies. Indeed, I had seldom seen things more terrible, and this place bordered on the level of atrocity. Even with the lingering strain of odd emotional-levels, the intensity of the colony’s wrong diminished with each moment I spent on the tour.
Assisting this was my own purpose in being there. Finding this efficient machine, a facility for producing some of the finest in forced labor no matter how horrid the process, was not why I came. We passed through several more areas: showers and recreation, classrooms for laborers which required more than simple hands-on training.
Another corridor held booths filled with scanning equipment. The individuals would be placed within, and all manner of measurements would be taken. “Forced labor is a client-centered business,” Bethel said. “These provide specifications of every tiny detail for the use of selling.”
He continued, “Most often, we are sold in lots ranging from ten to a hundred. Sometimes more, many more. We are utilized by black market mining operations: those free of government influence and regulation. Some are used in widespread agriculture projects, and others are bought by private citizens. Some remain here to tend the facility.”
A few more places flitted by, and it seemed we ended our tour in the same location as we started it. From what I could tell, we traveled a mostly linear path, so we came to what was most likely another series of the same facilities.
“At last we arrive at punishment.” This perked my interest and provided an irritating twinge of sympathy. The notion had continued to appear throughout the rest of his presentation, and I admit I was curious as to the methods. He held out his arm, sliding up the sleeve. A tiny scar lay on his wrist, barely perceptible if he hadn’t been pointing directly to it.
“Upon our arrival, we are implanted with nerve impulse generators. These travel through the bloodstream and hook into various places in our bodies. A majority of them arrive in the brain.”
He gestured at several places. “Upon a command, be it a switch, a word, or any other conceivable trigger including removal attempt, these devices will cause degrees of intense pain. One of the devices,” he held up an index finger, “resides within the person’s heart. It does not link itself with the others, but it is the final failsafe. If certain conditions are met, such as distant proximity in the event of an escape attempt, the owner’s vital signs failing for those assigned as bodyguards, or simply the whim of someone trying to teach a lesson…” He trailed off, clenching his teeth. “A tiny plasma charge will obliterate the laborer’s heart. It is brief and excruciating.”
He paused, tapping his chest. “As these are mass-produced, design defects have been noted over the years. In some, the device’s detonator can break down over time, which in turn can cause the charge to trigger on its own. Two weeks ago, this happened to our elected Governor. Mercifully, he died in his sleep.”
I wondered if Bethel or the cohorts who arranged this tour had encountered many Archivists. Someone had to know that sympathy and empathy were not high on our list of common traits. Few of us would ever be strongly affected by a heart-wrenching tale of shredded human dignity. Even with my strange, malfunctioning emotional state, caused by factors yet unknown, I still kept my outward expression entirely passive.
My rational mind was able to generally disregard the emotional state, which in itself seemed somewhat arbitrary. I assumed the horror of the slaver colony, guilt about Cain’s continued violence, and the killing of Dana were simply triggers. I suspected the malfunction would remain regardless of the input.
In either case, the former plight of the freed slaves didn’t effect me in any deep or life-changing way. Indeed, a majority of my concern lay in thoughts of why I was experiencing sympathies in the first place rather than the subject of them.
Regardless, the long tour irritated my rational mind and sense of purpose. In other circumstances, I’d have been thrilled to gather every tiny piece of information about this place. If nothing else, it provided an interesting character study on several levels, but I was present there for a different reason.
“You may be wondering why I speak as though the facility remains in operation.” Bethel didn’t speak this as a question; it seemed as simply another portion of the tour. This element was one of the more curious pieces to his presentation. I assumed it related to some manner of simple psychology or social bonding effect.
My guide folded his arms. “We do not forget. Our children, their children, for a thousand generations will know what happened in this place. We do not forget.”
Social bonding it was. I vaguely wondered how much time and effort was expended in the pursuit of remembering the atrocity instead of cultivating the local gardens and fixing maintenance issues. The entire presentation and the simple fact that people still lived in a place where they were abused and tortured begged a question.
It was likely the only real point of curiosity I held in that moment. “Why are you all still here? If the facility was shut down, why didn’t you all return home?”
Bethel scowled at me. “Some of us did, but others…” He swept a gesture. “What is there to return to? Many people see their loved ones killed in raids where slaves are taken. Families are brought here and split up, never again to see their spouse, parents, siblings or children and to forever wonder what happened to them.” He sighed. “Most of the people who stayed are the career laborers responsible for maintaining this facility. For us and the others… the galaxy forgets us moments after we are captured, so why would we return?”
I asked a frank question. “Is the life here sustainable in the long term? Shipments of supplies and food must have been regular when the facility was in operation, and you certainly can’t trust average merchants to assist you in that any longer.”
My guide took on a smug air. “We do not need the assistance of any outsiders. We’ve set up our own means of production. We take care of each other, and we’ll be here for a very long time.”
I doubted this very much, but I didn’t articulate the fact. The acting governor thus far had no reason to make my stay less comfortable, and I didn’t believe putting that in jeopardy would be wise.
Silence lapsed for several moments as Bethel continued to size me up. I could practically read his thoughts and see the gears grinding in his head: ever fiber of his being wanted to expel me from this sanctuary. However, aside from flippancy early on, nothing I did was remotely antagonistic.
“What is it you’re seeking from him?” Bethel asked in a flat tone, and of course we both knew who he was talking about.
I had been expecting a question of my intent for quite a while, but the tour and the attempt to garner my sympathy was extensive and thorough. I replied, “Information.”
The acting governor frowned. “Of what nature?”
“Varied.”
Bethel’s frown deepened into a scowl. “Be specific.”
Sighing, I replied, “I have numerous claims regarding his life which, out of personal curiosity, I would like to have validated or denied. Most importantly, I am here to find out everything about his involvement in the Atropos Garden incident. Depending, I may request custody of him or his vessel.”
Several subtle emotions crossed the man’s face. Confusion, surprise, irritation at my mention of taking Ivan away, all quickly masked as the stern expression returned. “Why the ship?”
I said, “It’s possible the vessel holds prominent technology capable of destruction on a massive scale. Only a theory at this point, but one of many reasons why I need to speak with him.”
He regarded me with a blank stare for a moment. “Very well. Follow me.”
Again we moved through numerous similar corridors. I found it momentarily confusing that we hadn’t crossed any other individuals, but I supposed they may have set themselves up nearer to some sort of administration sector. Bethel must have been trying to limit the disturbance my presence represented by keeping me out in the distant and abandoned areas.
He palmed open a doorway, an empty room with a table and a few chairs. I recognized it as one of the psychological profile and evaluation rooms. Bethel had explained it during the tour: the presence of crippling anxiety and depression afflicted most slaves. Like everything else, a measure of counseling at the very least to determine dosage level for medication was mandatory. Personality screening boiled the laborer’s disposition down to a simple equation: another element of choice for the clients.
“Wait here,” my guide told me. He moved to the door, hesitating before turning back. “This is the man who saved us. Because of him, we are able to live as decent, dignified people. We consider him one of us, and we always take care of our own.” He stepped out.
I sat in the facility, hardly daring to believe Bethel would return with my quarry: the subject of my assignment and obsession. So much time spent, so much recent danger.
Again the flailing lament rose to the surface, highlighting my choices and the difficulties of recent days. I worried about what would happen if Cain caught up to me here, and I was surprised to further discover a twinge of guilt for bringing risk down upon these poor individuals.
I tried to shove aside the feelings, frustrated and shocked at their refusal to depart. With time to myself, I dedicated a moment to question my own thoughts. I searched for signs of Dana’s ghost meddling and finally brought the emotional turmoil to the front of my consideration. Though whispery echoes of her tingled in my mind, providing a mystery of how much remained of her, I couldn’t detect any direct manipulation.
It had to be her. She was the main factor, the only change in my recent existence, but it didn’t seem as though her tiny vestige was actually doing anything to me.
The more I tried to disregard, to rationalize the guilt, the more it pressed in around me. My mind battered against it: I was no longer human; I was task driven and unemotional. An Archivist, no more than a human recorder: no longer possessing, needing, or wanting a true sense of self.
I took a deep breath, remaining confused by the stream of dormant emotion. My rational mind tried to inform me it was a product of compartmentalization. The freedom gained by reaching the end of my goal allowed other thoughts and problems to surface.
The theory didn’t help my contemplative affliction, and I wondered if it was even correct. Dana’s ghost finally stirred. She tittered in my thoughts and shoved forth a recent memory:
“There’s enough human left in you to do the right thing. Don’t disappoint me Archivist.”
It was the statement at the end of Grey’s message. Most of my mind scoffed at it, but part of me wondered if the idea of me lacking humanity truly was the problem. Maybe I wasn’t experiencing an arbitrary emotional state based upon a malfunction; maybe it all linked to what Grey said. Maybe part of my long dead human state was struggling to be recognized.
Even so, the “right thing” for this situation was a fluid concept. I supposed not jeopardizing the well-being of these former slaves, the people on Dei Lucrii, and even the idiotic drunks in the bar on the shipyard would be the right thing to do. On the other hand, very little of the chaos in the Ivan search was directly my fault.
The ghost of Dana snickered as if to remind me of how and why she was now plaguing my thoughts. I sighed out loud, wondering how much longer I’d have to be sitting there alone. I glanced about the room, hoping perhaps the introspection, in spite of it being present long before I arrived, was a result of some kind of gaseous narcotic. I detected no such thing.
Perhaps it truly was Dana, spurring the thoughts, not allowing them to depart back into the unemotional and obsessive state. I felt a trickle of laughter, whispering in the corners of my mind. Whether it was a vindicated sense of triumph in her success at causing me trouble or simply pleasure at my discomfort, I didn’t know.
All of my consideration evaporated as the door opened. My powerful obsessive nature easily kicked the emotions aside, now ready to return and finish the task.
Silhouetted in the doorway was the figure of an enormous man, tall and broad-shouldered. He wore the torn, dirt-stained clothing of a laborer and gloves with the fingertips cut out. Heavy boots thudded upon the floor as he approached, echoing and seemingly amplifying the minute vibrations as small asteroids continued to nudge the housing of the slaver facility.
A stubbled face and head revealed incredibly fair skin. Nicks and scars adorned various visible places on his head and body, and piercing blue eyes shone out, appearing to radiate their own light. His squarish head with a prominent chin seemed tiny atop the massive chest, and thick muscle covered every inch of his body.
Staring at this man, I didn’t notice I was holding my breath.
“Hello.” His voice was deep and booming, a monotone lilt and slight accent cementing his identity in my mind. “You must be this Archivist Sid who has spent so much time looking for me. I am Afanasi Sergeyevich Lukyanov. You may call me Ivan.”
Never before in any information gathering assignment have I been so struck, shocked, or amazed at the magnitude of a discovery. My mind, capable of instantaneous memory recollection and lightning calculation, froze for a moment.
I stood, not quite knowing what to do or say. Finally, I spit out something. “And here you are.”
The man raised an eyebrow.
Smiling at my own foolishness, I said, “It’s been quite a journey.”
“Yes, I can imagine.” Ivan didn’t appear to be as impressed or excited as I was. “It seems you have been turning many stones in the search to find me.”
Realizing that my attitude was as close to childish as I could muster, I let the mirth slip out of me. The calm and cool attitude of subject interview settled over me, tempered only a little by the unkillable giddiness.
“Have a seat.” I gestured at the chair opposite.
Ivan folded his thick arms over his massive chest. “I do not wish to be rude, in particular after you have spent so much of your time trying to arrive at this place. However, before we progress any deeper, I will need to know your intentions.” Danger loomed beneath the question.
A tiny thought wondered how I would fare against Ivan, or better yet how Cain would. The still-excited portion of my mind irrationally wished I could make such a fight happen. On the outside, I remained in complete and relaxed calm. “Primarily, I am seeking specific detail regarding your actions at Atropos Garden. Second, I…”
I trailed off, noting a quickly concealed expression of sorrow cross my quarry’s face. The smallest hint of moisture formed in the radiant blue eyes, which narrowed as he noticed my close perusal.
“Second,” I continued, “out of a sense of personal curiosity, I wish to have you validate or repudiate some of the many actions attributed to your name.” I gestured at him. “Even out here, in hiding and seclusion, you must hear some of them.”
Ivan shrugged. “A few, here and there, but I assure you I am not much of a match for any one of the stories.” He waved a hand. “We will get into those in one moment, but you must understand I will not allow you to do anything to put these people in danger. I also would prefer not to put myself to any trouble.”
I narrowed my eyes. “After all this time, do you think that’s at all possible?”
He grinned, flashing white teeth. “Of course not. Preference is always at odds with practicality, no? I would prefer for myself to remain quiet and unscathed here, but a practical mind suggests such a thing is not so probable.”
I cracked the slightest smile.
“However,” his eyes went hard, “I will insist upon the safety of this place and these people. They have endured enough hardship.”
After a moment of consideration, I gave a nod.
“In any case,” Ivan continued, “I have heard a few things about you in the last short while. Some say you are a good man.”
“And others suggest I’m not a man at all.” I waved his statement aside. “What I am is clear and unimportant in equal measures. I’ve come here to talk about you.”
Ivan spread his massive hands. “Here I am before you. To whatever end, you may begin asking your questions.”
I decided to start simply, asking for confirmation on some of the stories and actions of myth. I had developed my own conclusions during the time of my search, but I hoped discussion of a lighter tone would keep the focus away from my intrusive presence. I retained no doubt that he could take me apart in the span of seconds, but based on my research, I believed him to be somewhat honor-bound. Regardless, I hoped to ease him into the discussion.
In addition, it appeared Grey’s message provided not only a warning but a character dossier, summary, or something else. Why Grey, Ivan, and several others, including the whisperings of Dana and my own subconscious, focused on my humanity and ability to do the “right thing,” I didn’t know.
We spoke about Hunter’s End.
“Ahhh,” he settled back in his chair. “I believe I had more enjoyment in that place than many others. There is nothing better than a relaxed, carefree, mostly legal job. But a cannon, you say?”
I said, “The information was second-hand, initially provided by the inebriant guide you had and passed on to the barkeep with whom I spoke.”
“Ah yes,” Ivan said with a reminiscent smile, “the poor man seemed uncertain as to what was going on. I carried a large weapon, yes, and did bring down the monster in very short order, but it was an explosive launcher. Rockets and such. The idea, however, of using such an unorthodox weapon is interesting indeed…”
Nodding, I moved on.
“Hmmm…” Ivan rubbed his chin. “I admit my memory of the procedure is in many ways hazy.” I had asked him about his experience with Keritas. “I was to be a subject in their experiments, and I was in very bad shape when they brought me there. I’m afraid I don’t remember much of it. It was, ah… augmentations. To save my life among other things.” He flexed his muscles. “I don’t precisely recall how it was I departed, but… aside from muscle and bone pain lasting many months, I have not met anyone as strong as I. In addition to healing my injuries, I believe they added something extra.”
Interesting, maybe the crackpot digging around inside the maintenance tunnels of the Keritas facility was correct about the breakout. Maybe he actually was Dr. Trevors, gone mad from the strain and a head injury. Something experimental and new levels of potent augmentation technology would have explained Ivan’s prodigious success in his endeavors.
Time passed as we spoke, seldom pausing. A dark cloud passed again over his face as Ivan recalled his time with and against Voux Hanatar. “The man deserved far worse,” was all Ivan said before we moved on.
I asked about the battles of Caldonis and New Prague. Ivan shook his head. “I was indeed present, but as a volunteer, not a mercenary. My actions were important but not vital; I believe it was, eh… overblown? It was so long ago…”
A few other of his minor actions came to light. “Did you go EVA without a suit?”
Ivan threw his head back and laughed, slapping an open palm on the desk. “That incident was without question the most stupid thing I have ever done. Yes, the man’s life was saved, but I would not have survived if I hadn’t gotten the operation at Keritas I remember so little of.”
An interesting connection. Timelines of the stories were somewhat vague; it made me again curious to know more about what the corporation did to Ivan.
I skirted aside the Garden incident, as it represented the pinnacle of what I needed to speak with Ivan about. We continued to talk, and he laughed at some of the more outrageous claims. As we neared the end of the conversation, the mirth slowly faded out.
The same flicker of sadness came over him as we spoke about the original hunt, but it remained in place as we discussed the near misses he endured. From what I knew, the bounty hunters never came very close to capturing him, but he insisted they were skilled and formidable.
In a somber tone, he described his fight with Traverian Grey. “A few times in the past, we encountered each other. I so dearly hoped his offer of assistance was true. It wasn’t, but of course you know that. When he tried to claim the bounty, we fought. He lost.”
“Do you know why he contacted you recently?” I asked, curious about the former mercenary’s motivation.
Ivan shrugged. “You say he was in, what, a cult devoted to me?” He shook his head and laughed. “Who knows why? This was the first I’d heard of him since our fight. I didn’t know where he went or what he was up to. Him knowing where I’ve been hiding is as much of a surprise as him not coming here to try and finish his job.”
“He doesn’t seem interested in mercenary work any longer,” I said.
“A pity.” Ivan chuckled. “He was the best.”
Thinking back upon Grey’s crippled status, I said, “Evidently not.”
“Ah! You say because I beat him I am better, yes?”
Spreading my hands, I replied, “Am I wrong?”
Ivan wagged a finger. “I may hold more fame, but Mister Grey’s success is not in his notoriety but in his lack of it.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Is it not best to do the job and go unnoticed?” Ivan asked. “My tiniest deeds are a matter of myth and foolishness. Everything has been blown open to the grandest stupidity. All people in the galaxy know and fear my name. Mister Grey? His name is known to a few, and he cares not. The job, the task was what mattered to him, and he lived his life based upon it.”
“Ah,” I cracked a half-smile, “but his existence developed from a need for self-satisfaction. His hubris ended up breaking him; he’s only a shell of his former self.”
“Yet you say he chooses, with his infinite finances, to remain in quiet retirement.”
Nodding, I said, “Yes, but out of fear. He knew his relentless nature would send him after you, his only failed conquest.”
Ivan laughed openly. “One failure is all for him, eh? So we consider our levels of success as not fame or fear generated but a simple equation of success versus failure. I assure you in such a case, Mister Grey wins quite easily.”
I smirked. “I suppose you’re correct. Regardless, I believe we have come to the end of it. You know what I have to ask.”
The enormous man’s grin faded, and he let out a heavy sigh. “Yes, of course. Ask your questions then. I will answer as I see fit.”
“I want to know what happened at Atropos Garden.” A thought struck me. “And I believe it may relate to something else I’m curious about.”
He gestured for me to continue.
I cleared my throat. “The name OLGA has appeared throughout these stories.” At the mention of the name, Ivan stiffened as though startled. Watching his expression dissolve into sorrow, I continued. “It came first as the title of your weapon, then as pieces of experimental technology, simple tools, your ship, and several others. Grey had the idea that it was the project name dealing with your vessel and other new technology. Is that what OLGA was?”
Ivan bent his neck, touching a hand to his forehead. “It is almost funny. You see, you are right, and your two questions about Olga and the incident at the Garden are very much linked. Olga…” He covered his mouth with a hand. “Olga is… was… all of those things you heard she was. She is the weapon, the tools, the ship, and she even resides in my very bones. It is to her I owe everything: my happiness, sorrow, regret, guilt, and yes, even the renown which grants the galaxy fear of my name.”
A hint of moisture formed in the clear blue eyes as he looked at me. “You see, Olga was not some piece of advanced technology or a research project. Olga was my wife, and God rest her, she was responsible for what happened at the Garden.”
Assignment: Seeking information regarding the truth and whereabouts of Ivan.
Location: Vapaus Colony
Report: *Pending*
Probability: n/a
Summary: *Pending*