Few details seemed to be gained from my time on Ethra, but I was encouraged because the stop only lasted a couple of hours. My contact with the alleged Dr. Trevors, though unpleasant and a bit rambling, was still useful enough to justify the time expenditure. The truth of his tale was doubtful, but at least I was not inconvenienced.
Further yet towards the core I traveled, seeking more balanced worlds industry-wise. Though corporations own and handle a great deal of business, too much secrecy and doubt is found on their home worlds. It becomes hard to search for information when individuals guard their tongues.
I made two more stops, and both were riddled with complete and utter unimportance. A local city magistrate on Gaheena had claimed Ivan as his bodyguard a number of years back. It took all of five minutes to pick his tale apart and get him to admit he’d only hired some random mercenary and called the man Ivan in an effort to intimidate his rivals.
Another contact had passed away the week before I arrived: a veteran fighter pilot from a prominent battle which Ivan was allegedly involved in. However, the grieving family denied any knowledge of their mother seeing or meeting anyone such as Ivan. The mere conjecture that it was anything but the bravery of soldiers like their mother which turned the tide of battle, instead of the actions of some legendary figure, seemed to offend them gravely.
I was followed by a brash youth from the family out to Minerva as I prepared to leave. A small conflict ensued, but no one was harmed. A dose of tranquilizer ensured the child would wake up later with little more than a headache while I moved along to my next destination.
If I have any home in the universe, aside from Minerva, it is upon the Dei Lucrii Commerce Station XVII, orbiting the gas giant Paradoth. Unlike many of the small colonies and metropolitan worlds, average social class and occupation is less solidified on this and other stations of its kind. A steady gradient of population from dirt poor to obscene wealth, including accommodations spanning the entire range, has proven a vast and deep reservoir of varied information.
The Dei Lucrii stations are found in many places, most often in systems with no colonizable worlds. To facilitate the ever-expanding population and desire for a greater density of habitable space, hundreds of orbital stations were created. From trade and commerce to accommodation and pleasure to defense and warning, many different varieties of stations exist. Dei Lucrii is one of relaxed trade and commerce.
I am well known on Dei Lucrii XVII. Its location is central and accessible but not so perfect as to attract too many others of my kind. I have friends, allies, and contacts there. I am through often enough to know many of the security staff by name and friendly enough with them to receive proper warnings if it becomes necessary.
Minerva put into the docking bay without incident. I donned my usual cloak and hat as I walked in and among the milling passengers.
“Sid, good to have you back,” a security woman smiled as I passed through the checkpoint.
I gave her a nod. “Officer Tani.”
She swiped my identity card through the scanner. “You going to be staying long?”
“Not terribly,” I replied. “A bit of business before I continue on.”
“Anything exciting?”
I smiled. “Always.”
Laughing, she said, “Enjoy your stay, Sid.”
Through the checkpoint I moved, nodding to a couple of other on-duty personnel as well as some of the small shop owners. Like any other transport hub, last or first minute drinks, food, or impulse trinkets were available for purchase.
Without delay, I moved through the station, passing through elevators and very similar corridors until I arrived at my intended destination: the library.
Though paper books died out long ago, commissioned libraries have retained their purpose as storehouses of varied information. Nostalgia kept the traditional style of row upon row of what appeared to be shelves. However, they were actually monolithic storage units accessible from the dozens of links and terminals available. This library was named by the proprietor as Bibliotheca Dei Lucrii XVII, which few recognized as a bit of an homage to Old Earth’s Great Library at Alexandria. The proprietor loved ancient history.
A loud, boisterous voice cried out from behind the reception desk as soon as I set foot inside. “Sid! My good friend!”
I turned to see a large, bearded man with a beaming smile. Marqyni Avieli, indeed a good friend of mine.
Smiling, I offered my hand as he charged forward, almost crushing me in an embrace while laughing. “Ah, it is good to see you, very good indeed!”
“There’s… not going to be… much to see… if you don’t… let me… breathe.” I feigned a struggle and exasperation against him. Marqyni was strong, but he had no musculature or skeletal modifications. We both knew I could twist and fold him into about any conceivable shape, but as always we enjoyed the usual repartee.
He released me, still grinning, and I smiled back, extending my hand. He grasped it with his pudgy fist. “Ah, Sid, Sid, Sid. What brings you to my humble abode of knowledge and wonders? Still chasing dreams and legends? Or are we on a new quest?” He clapped me on my mechanical shoulder. “I had not expected to see you for quite some time? ‘Tis only been a couple of weeks, yes?”
Prying my hand out of his grip, I gave a nod. “A month, but yes. My excursion out to the rim was useful in a couple of ways, but not to excess. I returned because I need the services of your fine establishment.”
Marqyni cocked his head, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. “Useful, you say? Does that mean…?”
With an exaggerated shrug, I lowered my voice and said, “It would seem that there might be a little truth to Ivan’s existence after all.”
“Ha-hah!” My friend bellowed out a laugh and clapped his hands together. Our less than silent exchange garnered a few glances from nearby patrons sitting at terminals. Only one or two expressed annoyance, as any regulars would be keenly aware of Marqyni’s less than traditional outlook on the quiet, contemplative stature of a normal library.
He wagged a finger at me. “I knew that if anyone could dig up anything on that silly myth, it’d be you, Sid. How about your clients; what do they think about your—”
I held up a hand. “They don’t often provide feedback to my reports. Even so, I’ve only gathered concrete details from two sources so far, both of which contained varied suspect elements, but…” I shrugged again. “I’ve at least confirmed a decent probability of his existence and some distinct possibilities regarding him.”
“Such as?” Marqyni curled a smile at the corner of his mouth.
With a soft chuckle, I replied, “Possible real name, for one. Size and appearance, perhaps an important possession. A strong chance of internal augmentations.”
The librarian’s smile wilted. “Is that all? Doesn’t sound like you have much. I expected proof of his… involvement at the Battles of New Prague and Caldonis. The single-handed dismantling of Voux Hanatar’s criminal empire! All you’ve got is a vague description and the notion that he’s stronger and faster than a normal human? What about the cataclysm at—”
I cut him off. “Look, Marqyni, I apologize if this is at all disappointing, but, as you’ve said, it’s only been a matter of weeks, barely a month. I’ve spent three-quarters of that time in my ship, traveling. I was dragged on a merry chase for a drunken buffoon that I never did locate. How fortunate I was able to gather his information anyway without wasting another three weeks. It was all second hand, but it confirmed some very necessary things.”
“This was about that man, Raymond Cobb, and Ivan’s trip to…” Marqyni frowned, “Hunter’s End, was it?”
Nodding, I replied, “Exactly, and the other source I found was a long shot at best when I was refueling at Ethra. Two more stops on the way here provided nothing, including a discussion with the family of a veteran of New Prague. The other stop was a liar using the Ivan name for intimidation.”
The librarian’s frown deepened, and his disappointment was obvious. I shrugged. “Come, Marqyni. You know how this works. You can’t throw a stone in this galaxy without striking three people who know Ivan tales. Nine-tenths of those are completely false, and the ones which have some truth were usually done by someone else with the Ivan name tacked on.”
“Yes, yes of course, you’re right…” The librarian sighed. “I was hoping for something a little more exciting, you see.”
I replied, “I understand, but it remains a methodical process. I’ve returned here because a couple of leads have developed which require a measure of research before I proceed. I’m trying to discover more information and whereabouts of an individual who may have had more than just a passing experience with Ivan.”
Cocking his head, Marqyni asked, “Who?”
“Traverian Grey.”
Curiosity crossed his face. “Truly? I’ve never heard the name before.”
I spread out my hands. “He’s a mercenary. Well-known to some, but he has no mythic status among general population. It seems he was present with Ivan on Hunter’s End; wounded actually.”
“What in particular makes you believe that this Grey fellow is any more real than Ivan is?” he asked.
I smiled. “He exists. My employers used his services once or twice.”
Marqyni tossed up his hands, exaggerating a frustrated tone to his voice. “Well then my friend… as always, you have your bases covered and desire only to string along your good friend Marqyni while battering him senseless with your astonishing intellect. I assume your search for his whereabouts is why you’ve come down from on high to grace me with your presence?”
“Indeed it is,” I replied, laughing. “Even the highest order of genius occasionally needs the assistance of a few lesser beings, am I not mistaken?”
The librarian tried to scowl, but his amusement betrayed him, and soon he was trembling with poorly concealed laughter. “Yes…” he relented, shaking his head with a half-scowling smile on his face. “I can see your need as clearly as your shining brilliance, good master. Tell me what you’ll be needing on this occasion.”
I touched my fingertips to my brow. “The normal rules for my net immersion, if it’s possible. I’m in no great hurry as of yet.”
“Yes, of course.” Marqyni nodded, a flicker of concern touching his face. “Sid, are you certain you wouldn’t rather have someone else handle these inquiries for you? I’ve seen how much damage it can cause, and I admit a small amount of regret for helping you endanger yourself—”
Shaking my head firmly, I held up a finger. “Too slow. Second hand data. Acceptable risks. Should I continue to list reasons?”
“Your processing isn’t infinite—”
I cut in, “-and every second endangers a permanent fixation, I’m well aware. I’ve resisted it through hundreds of hours previous. I only require someone I trust,” I gave an obvious gesture to my friend, “to make certain I don’t sink too deeply or remain too long.”
Marqyni sighed. “Very well, Sid, very well. I’ll set you up in my office and give you one hour.”
“You’re very gracious.” I bowed.
He shook his head. “One of these sessions is going to be the end of you, Sid. When that happens, upon whom will I bestow my undying devotion?” A hint of amusement returned to the light worry in his eyes.
Laughing, I gave an exaggerated shrug. “You’ll have to find something of consequence to fixate upon, good Marqyni.”
The usual banter continued as he led me into his office. I swept off my overcoat and hat, feeling the chill of recycled air pass over my thin flesh. He fell silent as I seated myself in his quite luxurious chair, and I could feel his eyes upon the unnatural ashen hue of my human skin. His terminal booted quickly.
I gave him a nod, and he returned it with a solemn expression. I tapped the side of my temple, activating my implants. Internally, I disabled certain firewalls to allow external data flow. With an imperceptible mental tweak, I established a wireless connection and opened wide the flood gates.
Consciousness and awareness of my body was ripped away as my mind tumbled along through the unbelievable depths of data: historical, fictional, useless and marvelous. I had universes of information at my fingertips along with a deep hunger which could only be met with further inconceivable levels of desire.
As I swept along in the tide, reveling for only an instant in the almost carnal ecstasy of being near everything I could ever want, a ghost, a familiar but unknown phantom, spoke:
“One hour, Sid.”
An hour? An eternity…
But still never enough.
This was my one hundred and seventy-second direct link to nets and informational databases in my fourteen years as an Archivist. Each and every time it has happened, including this one, I have spared one-tenth of a second in considering my personal existence.
Archivists are somewhat special. The people we are crafted from are not.
It is necessary to drag together a person with little identity or sense of self-worth, as a strong will and purpose can still exist even after immense change. It is also preferable to gather someone on the very brink of death, or perhaps even a few millimeters beyond it.
I can no longer be entirely certain the images of my previous life are accurate, and I cannot remember my old name, not that it interests me. The images I retain and conjecture I was informed of suggest I was a man not unlike the drifter and destitute Raymond Cobb: working-class with little mental faculty to speak of.
A very tiny portion of me hopes that Archivists require some kind of hidden mental aptitude, perhaps a genetic anomaly or a kernel of greatness, to be created. That way, I would be able to hold a certain amount of pride in the basic sludge from which I was created. I’m given small comfort that the Archivist procedure does not take in all individuals; not everyone survives the transition.
In either case, it matters little. My former shell provides as much identity to me as the mountain which provided the ores that created my prosthetics.
My death was simple, avoidable, and useful. It was an accident while working on space station construction, perhaps a small psychological reason why I feel drawn to the Dei Lucrii. There was an explosion: a brief moment of pain as shrapnel ripped through a protective suit. The horrible chill of vacuum seeped in as blood bubbled out of lacerations, crystallizing before my fading vision. I experienced blackness and an awakening to greater awareness.
The procedure is long, arduous, and extremely expensive. Considering that most of working-class individuals are all but owned body and soul by the corporations that employ them, tragic accidents turn into profitable opportunities. A low success rate and a general notion that the high level of augmentation turns a person into something not quite human prevents an attitude of volunteerism, thankfully. There are also pesky laws and regulations about the treatment of most living and deceased individuals. Those and various other elements in the galaxy make for only a handful of Archivists at any given moment.
Principle among the reasons: our lives tend to be very short.
One would not always consider the pursuit of information to create an excess of danger, but that entirely depends upon the nature of it. A schematic or document, even something as simple as a notion or idea, given to the right person can make a universe of difference. Indeed, it was an information leak which spread the Archivist creation process, the true and undiluted method, from its birthing at Potomac Industry to every corporation with means.
People of any stature will go to great lengths to preserve secrets, and so at the risk of our health and safety, we go to greater lengths.
So unwavering are we in our desire for any manner of information that it causes what should be a near immortal existence to snuff out within decades, sometimes only a few years. Those who survive climb into an endless process of data collection and sale to finance more and more. Personal upgrades and defenses are bought to be capable of garnering more intriguing, sensitive information. Our existence is bound within this cycle, and we could hardly be more pleased.
The entirety of Old Earth French military history blazed across my synthetic processors as I finally dragged out of the tiny moment of nostalgia. A pique of curiosity whispered in my thoughts, and I began cataloguing psychological profiles of the most famous military and political leaders, searching for key signifiers. Napoleon, Hannibal, Alexander, Churchill, Sun Tzu, Dekyr-Pryce, Saladin, Cherynijhan, Bastille, Xerxes I, II, even the millennia-later poser Xerxes III, and so on. In no historical order, dozens of individuals flitted by.
Considering personality as a subject of nature versus nurture, I slipped into genetics research, digging for materials that could suggest a gene sequence responsible for military success. Thousands of studies and journals written over the course of hundreds of years pointed to several possible markers in genetic code related to conquest and political ambition:
Restrained but focused aggression, intense charm, sadistic or sociopathic tendencies, tactical brilliance, ability to calculate abstract spatial concepts, and empathic insight without being emotionally involved. Many more potential traits found in genetic code and subjected to a varied mix of nurture.
Genetics moved into the evolutionary path of humans, halted for thousands of years while limited to one planet of exploration. Mechanical adaptation to new worlds led to minor physical changes, varying temperature tolerances, lessened bone and muscle density for ship or station bound individuals. A suggestion of increased skin respiration for the carbon dioxide dense environments of a few worlds, as well as freak mutations across the ages.
Mutation moved into details regarding the varied effects of radiation. Radiation gave way to fission as a primitive means of producing electricity. Ancient energy production in other means, specifically geothermal, spun out of control towards planetary core and composition, then terraforming procedures. Mining operations. Industry accidents and miraculous survivals through the years. Phineas Gage and Piper Welkin. Brain tissue grafts, augmentation, Archivist creation-
My mind pulled into control of itself as I reasserted a rational, personal control and recalled a sense of self in the infinite immersion of data. I mentally logged the time. Ten minutes of my hour had gone by. Not a bad loss by any means.
The inevitable byproduct of net-diving for an Archivist is being dragged along by curiosity. Something sparks interest in something else, and before we know it, our inquiry is twelve degrees removed from the original intent. The process draws us so far away that the initial data no longer has much applicability, so usually few useful conclusions can be drawn.
Carefully shutting out all but the most direct inquiry, squelching every stray or curious thought, I set about my search regarding Traverian Grey:
Conjecture, very little confirmed details. Wanted for questioning on a dozen worlds but nature of offense classified. No military record to speak of. Suspected corporate ties to Soma, Keritas, ISCG, Berlioz, Seryia Hakar, and more. Criminal ties to Phoenix Organization, Dathan Reynolds…
More names, places.
Voux Hanatar. Familiar: logged as important. Marqyni mentioned it.
With so many current-day criminals sliding by, I hardly noticed when my inquiries dropped into deep history of infamous outlaws. Archaic metal repeaters hid in musician cases. Famous orchestral performances. Conductors, batons, redwood forests, environmentalism, the toxification and flight of civilization from Old Earth and expansion into the galaxy, starship innovation, alloy production, mining operations, industry accidents and miraculous survivals. Phineas Gage and Piper Welkin. Brain tissue grafts, augmentation, Archivist creation-
Warmth blazed inside my skull, and I could feel an electrical tingle behind my eyes as the processors lodged in my brain tissue overtaxed. Isolating myself, I ceased all inquiry, imagining deep, calming breaths as my whirling brain relaxed. Slowly, I peeled back sensory blocks, letting bytes of data pass through. Twenty minutes on valid inquiry, another sixteen lost.
Some Archivists more keen on self-preservation utilized contacts and proxies to complete net-searching. I spend much of my time speaking with sources displaying a wide variety of unreliability, so I prefer to gather direct information when I can. I have a system, and it has functioned quite well for me.
A gentle notion, the eternal and simple interest in my own creation and existence has allowed me to survive and focus my inquiries through nearing two hundred net-diving attempts. Every tangled web of queries will eventually end at the creation of Archivists, which will remind me where I am, giving me the tiniest moment to reassert self-control.
Marqyni himself suggested the idea to me, swearing it was no different than a normal person discovering how to dream in lucidity, reining control over the actions of their subconscious. He told me of a mental image he crafted of the starry night sky. Every time he looks out a window and sees the inky void, a tiny thought passes where he wonders if he is asleep. What began as a conscious effort to think about a dreaming state turned into a conditioned response which he says has followed him into his slumber.
Indeed, it was his suggestion to try it myself when attempting net searches that created our friendship and my great respect for him. Prior to this, my net experiences yielded about ten minutes of useful searching for each hour spent.
Fourteen minutes before Marqyni was set to cut me off. More on Voux Hanatar or Traverian Grey?
Useful Traverian Grey information exhausted. Voux Hanatar. Famous with massive criminal organization. Compartmentalized; many years without concrete evidence to convict. Reputation for paranoia and ruthlessness. Sudden change. Headlines for weeks about crumbling organization. Hanatar arrested with difficult trial. Convicted, sentenced to life imprisonment in maximum security. Failed escape attempts.
Still alive.
My mind became lost again with inquiries on health conditions and life expectancies of individuals, followed by a half-dozen tangential searches. I was entrenched within a mire of data regarding New Earth avian species when the connection was severed.
The highest risk involves an Archivist without a dedicated internal kill-switch to net inquiry. The individual will almost certainly become lost in the unending stream of data, burning out processors or starving to death without knowing or caring. To be safe, I also set Marqyni to disconnect me in case my undying hunger to eternally bask in the reservoirs of information caused my subconscious to override the redundant fail safes.
Even so, after being cut off, my mind continued to dredge through the recent data, stored for analysis and cross-examination: the secondary danger of net-diving. In rare instances, enough information is stored to provide a long, cyclical search pattern. Even disconnected from the nets, the Archivist continues the unending stream of searches within the confines of his or her own mind.
This didn’t happen to me. After a few moments of disorientation, I discarded the data related to accretion disk artwork and realized that Marqyni had cut me off three minutes early.
He stared down at me, sweating and nervous. I scowled. “Why in the various hells would you—”
“Another Archivist came through customs four minutes ago,” the librarian interrupted. “Your friend, Officer Tani, contacted me. You have to leave.”
I stood up, pressing my fingertips to my temple as I internally and externally disengaged all wireless implant activity. My heart-rate, already elevated from the searching, sky-rocketed. Staring at Marqyni, I asked, “Who is it?”
He wrung his hands together, shaking his head back and forth. “I… I am not certain, but… she described him as almost entirely mechanical.”
Closing my eyes, I grit my teeth. “Cain.”
“It sounds that way,” the librarian murmured. “Which means that you need to get to your ship and depart as soon as possible.”
I experienced a tiny, infinite moment of thought. Find him, part of me screamed, Find him and kill him. Take what he has for your own. Another piece of my mind spoke up. It’s not worth the risk. Defeating him is doubtful.
Without further hesitation, I snatched my coat and hat from the desk. Sweeping them on, I grasped Marqyni’s hand and spoke, “Thank you, my friend.”
The librarian grinned, almost overcoming the fear still upon his face. “Good luck, Sid. Come back soon, and for God’s sake have something concrete when you do.”
I bowed and departed.
As I passed through station corridors, trying to consider the route least likely to create a confrontation, I wondered if I should have dropped a listening device in Marqyni’s office. It seemed possible that Cain would stop to question him, but I rather assumed he would bend his effort to finding me.
Archivists cannot abide other Archivists. A terrible principle, as few others in the universe understand the horrid agony of a gruesome near or actual death followed by excruciating months of surgical implantation and a brief, obsession-driven life. It is a very isolated existence. The happy few who understand what is sacrificed in the process would tear each other apart given the slightest opportunity.
The kind of information in my data stores is the kind that corporations pay millions for; it is rare and delicate. Since our greater existence is bent towards finding these delicious secrets, simply knowing another Archivist is nearby can drive any one of us into a frenzy. No matter the surroundings: a funeral, fragile negotiations between warring parties, a hull breach on a crowded freighter… Put two Archivists in the same room, and they will do their best to bash in each others’ skulls until one emerges victorious with a handful of bloody cortical processors.
Still, self-preservation dictates pragmatism. The time, effort, and threat ratio to information discovered has always proven more favorable for those who avoid conflict with other Archivists. There have always been others, like Cain, who cloud the calculation with emotional entanglement: the thrill of the hunt, sadistic desires, an inferiority complex. Cain had taken credit for a dozen Archivist deaths, and reputation suggested it was how he received most of his information. Though I didn’t know if I was his specific target on this occasion or if he just happened to be stopping by, I had little desire to find out.
I moved through the station bazaar, tiny store-front shops lining the long, wide open space. Dozens of people milled about, buying trinkets and food. Exiting the market area, I neared the docking bay where Minerva lay waiting to spirit me away.
Moving through the station checkout with no hassle, I passed by row upon row of silent vessels. I saw Minerva and breathed a sigh of relief which caught in my throat as I noted something else.
A large figure leaned up against her. “Sid,” a mechanical tone issued from his throat. “Running so soon?” The man grinned. His mouth and cheek structure was the only visible flesh left on his body. It lay beneath the metallic skull plate which made up the top half of his head, including two synthetic eyes, red and radiating malice.
Cain. Every inch of him the brute I expected, though I cursed myself for not considering that he’d simply turn around at customs and wait for me at my only means of departure. It seemed he was looking for me.
I made no response, and silence held between us for a few moments as we sized each other up. My own synthetic eye flitted through several visual analyses and noted heat signatures, power sources, and frightening hardware hidden within my foe.
My teeth clenched. Cain was almost all machine, but I could sense the barest vibration of an organic heart. Infrared sensors detected some manner of warm tissue in his torso region behind the cold lifelessness of the metallic pieces, however…
His every limb was mechanical and loaded with weaponry I wouldn’t be quite able to identify until it was peeling apart or vaporizing my body.
“Tranquilizers is the worst you have?” Cain broke the silence, laughing and evidently completing his own analysis. “Sid, I’m disappointed. I’d heard you were the consummate survivor.”
The slightest tremble, a flicker of fear, settled over me. “The opportunity to install upgrades has been limited,” I replied, cycling through his hardware and trying to find some manner of weakness to exploit.
He laughed again, taking a step towards me. “Yet ever so vital, lest you find yourself in a situation such as this.”
Taunting. Cain knew of his physical superiority, but he insisted upon eliciting a fear response, toying with his prey. Even though probability figures screamed that I hadn’t the slightest prayer in a fight, part of me still hungered for what must of been amazing data stores in his brain.
Cain continued moving towards me. “Nothing to say? Not even going to put up a fight?” I felt the slightest tug as his wireless implant pinged my own, seeking a means of incapacitation. He likely intended to lockout my programming or freeze me in place to make it easy to reduce my body to ash or twist my head off with his bare hands.
His intrusion mechanism continued to scrape at my mental firewall, but his efforts felt clumsy and sloppy. It gave me an idea.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, stalling as a portion of my brain scrabbled to write a program.
He shrugged, and I could see heat pouring into his right arm: some kind of firing device. “You seek what I seek, so I must know what you know.”
Clenching a fist, I replied, “You’re looking for Ivan?”
“Oh sure. He seems to be an individual of relative importance, so why wouldn’t Daedra-Tech be looking for him?” His grin didn’t falter as he casually named my employer, a piece of information that was most definitely not well-known. “Now you question: am I working for someone else, or am I just trying to figure it all out and sell it to the highest bidder?”
I shook my head. “I have no interest in your motives, Cain.” This wasn’t true at all, but I was busy stalling and trying to find a way not to die. Power continued to ripple in what I assumed was an energy cannon inside his arm. If it was a singular pulse or beam, I believed I could dodge it without too much difficulty. If the weapon had sustain, Cain would likely be able track my movements and reduce all but my important bits to dust.
Still working on the program, I said, “I’d suggest against trying anything. I have many friends aboard this station.” A semi-empty threat. No doubt he could murder me, dig out my brain tissue, implant my data stores in his mind, and stop at the bazaar for lunch in the time it would take for them to discern that the ashen remains were mine and attempt to arrest him.
Cain threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, Sid, be real.”
“I don’t have anything useful on Ivan yet anyway. Killing me now would be a waste.” Still stalling, the program I was writing was almost complete, and his intrusion attempts became more urgent.
“For you, perhaps.” My assailant shrugged, casually raising his arm. “I’m sure Ivan’s not the only thing rattling around in that skull of yours.”
Finished, I smiled. “Indeed.”
Cutting loose my firewall, portions of his consciousness slammed into my own, driven right into the program I created. Noting the trap, he panicked and withdrew, intrusion of my own trailing behind and cutting into his own defenses.
A bright shaft of amber light exploded from the end of his hand, lancing over my head as I ducked. A deep scorch sliced into the nose of a nearby ship, and the stench of cooking metal filled the air.
I knew my tranquilizers would do little good here. I also wasn’t certain of how effective my sonic emitter would be. Even so, I’d have to get very close, which was too risky by itself. The reality was that I had to hope my program was enough to give me half a moment to escape.
The only equivalent device I had to his impressive array of hardware was the processing and intrusion pieces intrinsic to our brains. His indelicate pings suggested he didn’t know much about finesse in that department, so I took my only chance.
His beam was charged again, but his hands clapped to the sides of his head. My program succeeded, opening a port in his own firewall and transmitting a connection to the nearest open wireless terminal. His consciousness was cast into a random pool of information.
Cain’s head dropped to his chin, appearing as though he’d merely fallen asleep as he fell to the deck with a heavy clang. I cursed as small, deliberate pings suggested he only established a connection to a restaurant’s transaction terminal in the bazaar.
I took off at a run, moving past the downed body. I considered my options for one tiny moment. An eternity of calculation, anger, and regret blazed through my thoughts before I fled, palming the hatchway to Minerva.
There was no chance. I believed I could exact some severe injury, tearing off his organic lower jaw being about the most heinous. However, there was no further incapacitation or life-ending method capable of succeeding before he recovered and blasted me apart at point blank range.
I could have bashed his shining skull against the decks for a month without breaking through. I could have tried to peel away the metallic plates which protected his functioning organs, but that too would take time and analysis. Hitting arteries, nerve clusters, even the most basic methods of dirty fighting were protected against.
No wonder Cain had killed so many Archivists. He was well-armed and defended. Nothing I had in my own arsenal could compete, so I had to run.
I strapped myself into the cockpit and rushed through pre-flight checks as I was cleared by the station to depart.
Even as Minerva slid out of the stall, I became gripped by the wild urge to fire her main guns. My desire to vaporize as much of Cain and the surrounding deck as I could, perhaps preserving his head and brain tissue, was startling to me, but desperate caution overrode. I liked Dei Lucrii XVII. Security might overlook an Archivist fight and perhaps even the gruesome victory it could bring, but opening fire with ship weaponry inside of a docking bay might sour my image in their eyes.
“Damn,” I whispered as my vessel soared away from Dei Lucrii XVII, barely ninety minutes after my arrival. Being followed, hunted even, and I now was not the only one dredging for Ivan information.
At least I knew where to travel next.
Assignment: Seeking information regarding the truth and whereabouts of Ivan.
Location: Dei Lucrii XVII
Report: Utilized local datalink to gain information on possible contacts [Traverian Grey, Voux Hanatar].
Probability: N/A
Summary: Stopover on Dei Lucrii short but useful. Discovered possible connection to both Ivan and Traverian Grey in Voux Hanatar. Currently imprisoned; may have information on Grey whereabouts as well as info on long-standing Ivan rumor [Caused Hanatar downfall].
*Addendum: Met Archivist Cain, barely escaped. Need defensive hardware upgrade ASAP, as he is tracking me and will not likely cease.