Voux Hanatar had influences upon seventeen major worlds near the core and dozens outside of it. His syndicate spread across thousands of light years and dealt in the black market, slave trade, addictive substances, and anything else of high profit and questionable legality.
The man was famous. He had a dozen homes and many hidden bases of operation, the organization holding no massive presence in any one place. It was compartmentalized. Any number of his underlings could fall without compromising his own position. The few times any circumstantial evidence warranted an arrest, Voux Hanatar complied without resistance. The witnesses, prosecutors, judges, bailiffs, or anyone associated with the case invariably disappeared, and the charges had always been dropped.
In a galaxy full of corruption, it was not difficult to make someone disappear, even someone well-guarded and protected. With the exception of the more righteous brand of civil servants and the hundreds of grieving widows left behind by his business dealings, few had truly wanted Voux Hanatar out of the picture anyway. Indeed, the rumor was that his biggest clients were corporation-based.
He was smart, and he was nigh untouchable.
Until one day when Hanatar was discovered unconscious in a pool of a victim’s blood, the murder weapon still clutched in his fingers as the dead man lay slumped on the sofa. This was in his own home, and suddenly no one wanted anything further to do with him.
Minerva slid into a port upon Gretia, the world of Voux Hanatar’s primary residence. It was a simple, average planet with no direct corporate ownership or strong original nationality. Indeed nothing really of note, aside from considerable amounts of food production, but they did that quite well at least.
Voux Hanatar’s estate, containing a very large, luxurious home and many acres of land, was located outside of the small city of Viera.
Before his arrest, he had been under constant observation by the Galactic Security Agency, the main policing force for the dwindling Galactic Central Government. Even with their monitoring, the first officer at Hanatar’s home on the night of the incident was one local Sheriff Declan Donnely, who received an anonymous tip. In spite of a fierce jurisdictional battle with the quite embarrassed GSA, who hadn’t the slightest clue that murder occurred during their surveillance, Declan Donnely was recorded by history as the man who took down Hanatar. Even the first round of the trial was held in a court on Gretia.
I wanted to know the truth behind what happened the night of the arrest as preparation for my intended meeting with the famous criminal, so I traveled first to the former home world of the former crime lord.
As a stark contrast to Ethra’s high-towering cityscape stretching everywhere conceivable, Gretia remained a more agricultural world with spread out, smaller cities. Its wealth level featured an average to low gradient, but a few of the fancier gadgets from the core could be seen. People on worlds like these, indeed in many places of the galaxy not receiving immediate and constant technology upgrades, live in what seems to me like the somewhat distant past.
In spite of hundreds and thousands of years of progress and galactic expansion, wondrous technology has not produced the enlightened era envisioned by those early industrial primitives. In reality, not much has changed: people live, die, work, and go about their business, most of the time staying on one continent of one world. Even with ease and speed of travel, only about twenty-five percent of galactic population will actually travel to another planet in their lifetimes.
Unless a particular world finds a niche in the galactic market or can fulfill some role, its economy doesn’t too often extend beyond its own borders and perhaps nearby systems.
Even police stations, from the archived photographs I’ve seen, were not much different than the one I entered. Offices, rows of desks, conference rooms, and holding cells were largely the same. Standard equipment has improved somewhat, but the facilities served the purpose well enough before, so no changes were truly necessary. Policing itself remains a task won or lost by the individual officer’s aptitude and intelligence.
People of various shapes and sizes moved about, working, and many eyes were upon me as I traveled through the station. I walked into Declan Donnely’s office, five minutes early for my meeting. Though commendations decorated the walls, it seemed the sheriff had done little with his fame other than to easily win the subsequent elections to his posting.
“You Sid?” the graying-haired, overweight individual asked. He was seated at a desk, peering into a terminal screen. Scans with my synthetic eye detected nothing besides an ordinary, God-born, flesh and blood human.
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Have a seat.”
Complying, I sat in the chair opposite, waiting for him to speak.
He stared at me, suspicion clear in his expression as he sized me up. His gaze lingered at my metallic hand, which lay upon the desk.
“So Mr. Sid—” he started.
“No mister,” I interrupted. “Sid. Or, Archivist if you prefer.”
He nodded. “Archivist… right.” Donnely leaned back in the chair, rubbing his mustache before folding his arms. “You know, I’ve never actually seen an Archivist before. Never believed they existed.”
I sighed inwardly. He appeared hesitant, unwilling to speak overmuch. “Does this pose a problem for you?”
Donnely rubbed his chin. “Not really, but I’ve got no obligation to speak to you at all, much less about a case from, what, fifteen years ago?”
“Seventeen, but what you might have to offer me isn’t a matter of planetary security, and I do believe local laws have a freedom of information policy.” I said this as politely as I could.
“Hmmm… but that applies to criminal records and court transcripts, not arrest reports.”
Irritation rising, I responded, “Yes, but evidence records would also be a part of that, including your testimony on the matter.”
The sheriff shrugged. “Well, I suppose you don’t really need any of my help then, do you? The records office is on the other side of town. I can give you directions, if you like.”
Frustrated, I closed my eyes, touching fingertips to the side of my head.
“Look, son,” Donnely leaned forward in his seat, folding his hands on the desk. I tried not to bristle at the condescension. “I can see you’ve got your fancy limbs and eyeball there, but you’ve gotta give me some decent reason as to why you’re asking about the Hanatar case. As far as I’m concerned, it’s long since closed. His property’s been split up and sold off, and there’s ain’t been a mention of that piece a’ shit in five years now. So tell me,” he raised an eyebrow, “why are you here? Are you working for him? Is he shootin’ for another appeal?”
Unable to help myself, I laughed and shook my head. “I’m not here representing Hanatar. Besides, an appeal wouldn’t help very much considering the extra hundred years added to his sentence from escape attempts, am I correct?”
“Yeah, I guess.” The sheriff frowned. “Then why are you here?”
I folded my hands on his desk. “I’m looking for someone, possibly two individuals, who were connected to him.”
The sheriff leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, who?”
“Afanasi Sergeyevich Lukyanov.” I didn’t bother mentioning his more well-known title as of yet, “and Traverian Grey.”
He gave a blank stare. “Never heard of them.”
With a thin smile, I replied, “It’s possible you have and aren’t aware of it. If you’ll answer my questions, I’ll be on my way.”
“What do these folks have to do with Hanatar?” Sheriff Donnely persisted.
“All I wish to know is what happened the night you made the arrest, and that includes the anonymous tip.”
The sheriff drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly, staring at me with his arms folded. “There’s not much to tell other than what’s in the report.”
“I haven’t seen the report. I’d rather hear it from you.”
He repeated, “There’s not much to tell. I got an anonymous phone call saying someone had been killed at the Hanatar estate.”
“Who called?” I asked.
Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Son, do you understand what the word ‘anonymous’ means?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, what I meant was: did you get any information about who it was, where they called from, or anything else?”
“We later traced it to coming from inside the house itself.”
“Really?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “What did the person say?”
He shrugged. “Not much: just that someone had been killed.”
“Any particular signifiers? What did the man sound like?”
The sheriff blew out another breath. “Oh, let’s see… male, deep voice.” He paused, thinking. “Thick accent of some kind. A fella I picked up for drunk and disorderly, a tourist a couple years ago, made me think of that call. He said he was from… New Kharkov, some colonized moon or some such, I think.”
If the sheriff’s memory was correct, this was good evidence. New Kharkov was indeed a world settled by the descendents of Old Earth eastern-Europeans. The speech patterns could match, in theory.
I asked him, “Have you ever heard any mention of a man named Lukyanov, called Ivan by some, as being affiliated with Hanatar?”
“Excuse me, son. Did you say Ivan?”
“Yes, I did.”
Clenching his teeth, the sheriff scowled. “I shoulda known… Goddamn people can’t give good officers credit for their hard work.” He pounded his desk. “They gotta invent some kind of superhero because obviously we couldn’t have handled something as big as Hanatar.”
“Listen, sir, I meant no offense.” I held up my hands in a surrendering gesture. “My task is finding the reality, the truth behind the myth, and there’s a lot of people who believe Ivan had something to do with it.”
Sheriff Donnely glared at me in silence.
“Ivan is supposedly of eastern-European descent; that’s the accent you heard. It means he might have been involved in a set-up to—”
The sheriff pounded a fist on the desk, shouting, “Hanatar killed that man! The evidence was there, and he was found guilty by a jury of his peers!”
“Set-up as in getting caught in the act, not as in framing.” I tried to reassure him. “I’m not questioning your work, Sheriff. Hanatar went down, and the success of the police-work speaks for itself.” I paused. “You did think there was something else to it, didn’t you?”
Seething, Donnely settled back in his chair. His eyes kept flitting over to my prosthetic arm. Finally, he said, “Yeah. We, the GSA and I, when they weren’t too busy trying to steal the case, thought one of his lieutenants was trying to take over the business. We figured Hanatar popped the victim, and then the turncoat knocked him out and made the call.”
“But then everything went poorly for the organization after his arrest, did it not?”
The sheriff’s expression didn’t change. “Yeah.”
Curious, I continued, “What did you find when you went to the—”
“Look, son, I’m sorry,” he said without a trace of apology in his tone. “I got a lot of work to get to, and I’ve had enough of you. There ain’t nothing left I can tell you that’s not a matter of public record.” He stood up, crossing the room before opening the door. “So beat it.”
“Very well,” I said, rising as I contemplated correcting his atrocious use of triple negatives. Considering his obvious hostility and the fact that he kept one hand on his belt, next to his side arm, I chose to depart in good grace. “Thank you for your time.” I bowed.
“Yeah, yeah.” He slammed the door behind me.
All eyes were on me again as I departed from the station. I half-expected someone to stop me, to detain me for some kind of questioning. It had happened before for no other reason than a general feeling of distrust. Most often, I endured it and was found to have not even the slightest blemish on my record. Occasionally, a call from my client would speed things along. Important figures of multi-quadrillion dollar corporations tended to have that effect.
I considered the information the sheriff provided as I took a ship back to the larger city which contained the spaceport. My curiosity had pushed Donnely over the edge, but knowing more about the murder scene wasn’t very necessary. The mere possibility of Ivan’s involvement was enough to make this visit worthwhile.
It was time to see Hanatar.
Orkanis, third moon to the gas giant Lyun, holds the galaxy’s largest maximum security prison. Even as Minerva peeked into the outer edges of the system, early warning beacons signaled for unauthorized business to kindly depart or face brutal retribution.
Once closer to the planet in question, proper code transmission sent signals to the mine field around the area to rearrange to a random open sequence. This was transferred back to my automated systems, which carefully navigated based upon coordinates. The dozens of weapon platforms in orbit and on the ground, though hot and targeting, did not fire. I didn’t intend to give provocation for such an act.
The space port and local colony on Orkanis, crammed inside a series of atmospheric bubbles, was located sixty miles away from the prison itself. Shuttles ferried guards, visitors, and anyone else over to the facility.
Security checkpoints were on either side, making absolutely certain that only particular items were allowed to pass through. Prior to my departure, I left every detachable piece of my body on Minerva as to avoid scrutiny. No listening devices, needles with sedative, sonic emitter charges: nothing was brought with.
The checkpoints themselves were rigorous with airlocks, redundant security, and ID checking. Numerous physical scans were conducted, including personal searches, and all manner of automated weaponry lay embedded in the walls in case of necessity.
The prison employed thousands of guards, each undergoing regular psychological evaluations and scrutinized almost as heavily as their charges. Any deviant behavior was subject to inquiry, evaluation, and termination without notice.
Their salary was excellent, and the hiring system even more so.
Outside, the conditions upon the moon were unlivable. There was no air, beyond freezing temperatures, and not even much gravity to speak of. Even if an inmate could manage to escape regular confinement, steal a protective atmo-suit, and break through the many walls and doors, the air tanks didn’t hold enough charge to last a sixty-mile hike.
Yes, the Orkanis prison retained thorough security. Visitation was difficult to establish and entailed a considerable amount of waiting, followed by poking, prodding, and more waiting. However, in its proud, three hundred year history, not a single inmate ever escaped from the facility.
Not for lack of trying. During my research on Voux Hanatar in Marqyni’s office, I noted many news reports of his attempted exits, some of them as frightening as they were close to success.
Warden Sarya Stokes took issue with my visit when I sent in the request, as Hanatar’s poor behavior through the years had caused many revoked privileges. Through some gentle coaxing, I convinced her to allow the meeting. Fortunately, my employer happened to supply a large amount of hardware and technology to the prison, and reminding Stokes of this fact went a long way in expediting the negotiation.
The warden herself was there to meet me with a stern and piercing gaze when I finally moved through the last of the exhaustive security. “I want you to know, Archivist, I’m expecting some strong kindness when Daedra-Tech’s contract renewal comes up,” she said as she shook my metallic hand without a trace of discomfort.
Not even remotely within my power to affirm, I still nodded. “I’m confident something can be worked out.”
“Good,” she clapped her other hand over mine. “I’m sure you’re very busy, so I won’t keep you. I’m going to allow two hours of visitation with Hanatar, but I can’t promise he’s going to say anything.”
I gave a nod.
“Very well. Right this way.”
She personally led me, flanked by a pair of weapon-toting security guards, through several areas of the complex. The prison was laid out in narrow, twisting hallways with dozens of turns and loops. We passed up and down staircases, a convoluted path most certainly intended to confuse any who didn’t have it carefully memorized.
At last we came to a conference room containing a small table. In a neosteel chair welded to the floor, wrists and ankles bound in chains, sat a fairly old man who stared off into nothing with a passive expression. He didn’t appear to notice my entrance.
Turning to the warden, I asked, “Are the chains necessary?”
“Of course,” she said, scowling. “His record precludes any lenience when it comes to—”
“Perhaps we can bend the rules in this one case.” I removed my hat and coat, revealing the gleaming metal of my face and arm. “After all, I doubt either the chains or the guards will be needed.” I lightened my facial expression, raising my one eyebrow in a gesture I hoped would suggest I was making a personal request, not a demand.
She retained an irritated expression. “I can’t allow—”
I took her gently by the arm, dropping my voice to a low whisper. “He may provide greater compliance if he’s allowed a small measure of comfort. I assure you there is nothing he could possibly do to overpower me, much less the two guards who will remain right outside the door.”
The warden glared, poised to object, but she sighed instead. “Very well.” She gave a sharp motion to the guards, who unshackled Hanatar. “Two hours, and if I get the slightest sense of anything off, your ass is out of here.”
“Thank you.”
With the warden and guards out of the room, the prisoner’s gaze instantly settled on me. He was thin and gaunt, featuring thinning hair streaked with gray and a dusting of stubble on his cheeks. I could feel his eyes roving across my metallic parts, but no emotion registered on his lined face.
I sat across from him, folding my hands and leaning forward.
The two of us sat without speaking for ten minutes. I had the slightest concern that perhaps he’d been stuck in solitary for too long and had lost his ability for general discourse. However, his expression, the slight narrowing of his eyes as he processed each visual cue, betrayed the slightest tinge of a calculated, intelligent nature. I waited.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” he finally asked in a clear and relaxed tone.
With a slight tilt of my head, I replied, “My name is Sid, and you have information for me.”
“Do I?” Hanatar chuckled. “What could I possibly have to offer an Archivist? One, I might add, I’ve never heard of.” He studied my passive expression carefully, seeking some kind of reaction. I provided none, so he shrugged. “Yes, I knew about every single one of your blasted kind before my retirement in this lovely villa. You must have been cut together after I arrived.” He sat back with a smug expression. “Since my access to information has been mostly cut-off for the last couple of decades, except for the warden’s recent “kindness” in giving me a datapad with limited access, I’m guessing you know much more than I do. So I’ll ask again, what do you want?”
Listening to his long speech, I caught much of his former arrogance still intact. It seemed the many years hadn’t yet broken him completely.
“Information, of course,” I said, smiling.
“What if I don’t feel like talking?”
“Then I’ll depart in peace.” I shrugged. “However, considering the special privilege of actually seeing another human—”
Hanatar burst out laughing. “Human? C’mon pal, I wasn’t born yesterday. You’re gonna have to try harder than—”
“My mistake,” I interrupted, raising my hand, “and a poor choice of words, I’ll agree.” He was taunting me; there was no real malice in his assertion, and I’d have wagered my left arm that his normal-appearing flesh hid a few upgrades, assuming they hadn’t been stripped out. However, I hadn’t yet gauged his disposition, and relaxed humility seemed a good starting point. “I am fairly certain you’ve not seen much of anyone from the outside world for, what, seventeen years now?”
He gave a thin smile. “Seventeen from my arrest. Fourteen years of solitary ever since my last amazing failure to escape this wretched place.”
A reaction must have shone on my face, as he chuckled. “Shocked I’d say so? No matter. My network of contacts, lieutenants, stoolies, informants… my entire organization is totally gone now. I have no money, no family, and no friends. It was obvious to everyone, including the prosecutor and the bumpkin of an arresting officer, that I was set-up for the crime that landed me here. Even so, there’s no chance of appeal. No one’s left to help me here, and even if I managed to leave, I’d get torn apart by the thousands of people I did wrong to.”
I listened as he spoke, strong bitterness evident in his tone. I had already known his pool of contacts and organization had dissolved within five years of his arrest. I knew he had nothing left to lose or gain in his life. What surprised me was how he seemed to know and accept it, yet he still retained a sense of will and spirit.
“…I’m gonna die here. I know it, you know it, the warden knows it.” Hanatar finished. “Tell me what you want so I can say no and get back to my luxurious accommodations.”
Tapping my index finger upon the table, I spoke, “Clearly you’ve come to an understanding about your situation.”
“Yeah, I have.” The former criminal rubbed the stubble on his face. “I have nothin’ to gain by speaking to you, except maybe the scorn of the warden and security staff.”
A smile curled at the corner of my mouth. “There’s one advantage.”
“Oh?” he asked.
“An unbiased audience. Someone to tell your story to, as that is what I’m interested in. I’m willing to give you a soapbox for you to lament the entirety of your downfall. I would hear the tale of how your end came about.” My gaze bored into him, seeing the slightest measure of consideration. “You’ve been dying to tell someone new about how you were robbed of life and accomplishment. Someone who can take that message out into the stars.”
There it was: a hunger. Hanatar had spent much of his sentence in solitary confinement, unable to do anything save brood about the end of his career. There was a longing, a bitterness at the edges of his expression. It was one which wanted at the very least to complain to someone willing to listen.
“What’s your angle?” he asked, still suspicious but not denying the desire to speak.
“There are two individuals I’m seeking information on. One or both may have worked for you, and one of them may have been principally responsible for your current situation.”
Hanatar sat bolt upright, an angry scowl etched across his aging features. “You’re talking about that motherless piss-pot, Ivan. You’re looking for him, aren’t you?”
“Perhaps.”
Slinking back in his chair, the prisoner laughed bitterly. “I tell you: build the biggest and most successful business in all of history. Influence the dealings of hundreds of worlds and billions of people. Remove any person who stands in your way no matter how little they can do to you, and still no one remembers you when it’s all gone. But annihilate one tiny little settlement on one tiny little planet?”
“This isn’t about what Ivan did on Atropos Garden,” I said. “This is about, first, the circumstances of your arrest and conviction, as well as if and how Ivan was involved.”
A smirk lay on Hanatar’s face, and he slowly shook his head back and forth. “Involved…” He gave a bitter sneer. “Yeah. He was involved.”
“I won’t say anything stupid, like I didn’t have it coming. I did a lot of bad shit to a lot of people. Still, I’m going to hate that pus-sucking sonofabitch with every fiber of my being until the day I die. He didn’t simply betray me; he hammered every nail into my coffin. No matter what I did, how I tried to get myself out of the trial and this stinking place, Ivan always stopped it. For all the shit he did to me, I think he musta hated me for something.
But to this day I still have no idea why.
Whatever the case was, I hired Ivan; he had good references. People we knew in common said he was a fellow who could get things done. It was a lieutenant of mine, one of my wife’s cousin’s nephews or some shit, who brought him in. Damien Pintz was his name. It was probably about the only smart thing that idiot ever did, but it still turned to shit later on. Anyway, Ivan was strong, fast, and a great pilot; every single contact I knew said he was perfect for any job, so I brought him in.
He was so damn big. I figured him for a grunt, an enforcer who’d do what he was told without the burden of thought or worry. Simple jobs, and he had a nice ship for smuggling escort. You know, the kind with a few nooks and crannies for overflow. It was fast with a few choice weapons. It had a broad’s name.
Again, I thought he was a moron. Hell, his accent was so thick I almost figured he was illiterate. I’d seen him a couple times out of the first few months when he handled some of my smaller business. He was good. Right off the get go, he managed to rough up a few of the more disloyal pricks when they started muscling Damien. He got my attention then, but he kept working and doing a good job.
What finally put him over the top was when, by himself, he saved a huge, profitable shipment for me. He was quiet and respectful, so I brought him in closer. Big mistake.”
****
High up in an office overseeing the work, Voux Hanatar watched through monitors as a brute of a man stepped out of his vessel. Blackened scoring lay across the hull from the most recent job, and Hanatar smirked as one of his lieutenants jogged up.
Even through the grainy image, the relief on Damien’s face was obvious. The lieutenant appeared as though he was about to burst into tears.
“You did it!” Damien spoke, his voice coming nasal-toned through the speakers. “I can’t believe you actually did it! You’re one crazy sumbitch Ivan!” The smallish, greasy man seemed ready to leap into Ivan’s arms, but the large man turned away, examining the damage on his ship.
“Oh, don’t worry about it, Ivan, we’ll get it fixed up, good as new. I promise. I promise anything after what you did out there.” He threw a gesture at the cargo ship docked a hundred yards away. Men were milling in and out, pushing grav-lifts carrying valuable cargo.
Ivan continued to examine the burns, running his hand across the hull. “Good, please get her repaired. I hate to see my Olga in such difficult shape.” The letters of the ship’s namesake lay marred, unreadable.
The other man nodded vigorously. “Oh yeah. For sure. I’ll personally see that it gets sorted out. Jeez, after you saved my bacon, I’ll give you whatever you want.” He clapped Ivan on the shoulder. “I can’t believe you really shot down all of those raider ships. When I heard your distress call, I thought you guys were all dead. Then I thought I was be suckin’ space or chucked in a fusion reactor when Hanatar found out I lost his cargo.”
With a thin smile, Ivan gave a nod. “I am glad I could be of service, my friend. But I should go assist with the unloading, yes?”
Ivan started to move down the walkway, but Damien held up his hands and moved in front of him. “No, no. Not a chance buddy. Your hard work and dedication means you ain’t gotta do any more grunt shit. I got the word from Hanatar. He said he wanted me to bring you upstairs to talk.”
“Very well,” Ivan said, gesturing. “Lead the way.”
Grinning, the little man, almost bubbling with excitement, led Ivan over to the lift. He jabbered about Ivan’s success, continuing to marvel at the miracle.
The cargo ship had contained a heavy load of refined neosteel from an off-the-record mine which didn’t precisely adhere to a perfection of trade, safety, or anti-slave regulation.
Damien’s planned route was a complete disaster. For certain, it avoided any of the usual patrol routes, checkpoints, and traffic. However, the not-too bright lieutenant was far too eager to please his employer. He shaved a few days off the planned travel, cutting right through a stretch of space known well for its ability to misplace vessels.
The raider ships destroyed five out of seven of the escorts and heavily damaged the cargo freighter. Ivan’s expertise alone saved what remained as he destroyed twelve fighters himself, tracked the remaining two back to their salvage transport, and wiped the rest of them into oblivion. All of this while Damien cringed under the distress transmission and what seemed like his own impending doom.
Relief escorts, tugs, and salvage cleaned up the debris and brought everything back in short order, still a day ahead of the original schedule. Rather than having Damien jammed into a cannon and fired into space, his employer congratulated him on his excellent choice of mercenary and suggested Ivan be given higher responsibility.
They stepped out of the lift into an overseer’s office. Hanatar took a sip of brandy while watching his valuable cargo being transferred to other ships for distribution.
“You’ve done me a great favor,” Hanatar said, turning and raising his glass as Ivan loomed over him with a passive expression.
Though it was clear that none of it was directed at him, Damien beamed at the praise. “Thanks, boss. Thanks. I couldn’ta done it without Ivan, here.”
“Someone like you isn’t suited to outside work. Don’t you agree?” Hanatar ignored Damien, focusing only upon Ivan.
Ivan gave a nod. “Whatever you say, sir.”
“Hah-hah!” Hanatar reached over and clapped him on the back. “That’s right, good attitude. A damn good way of thinking. I can already tell you’re going to be perfect for what I’ve got in store.” He produced a set of documents. “These are travel papers. You’re to fly to my home on Gretia and wait there for me. I have a bit of pressing business to attend to before my latest indictment. I hear they’re looking to arrest me again, so I thought I’d save ’em the trouble this time and just show up.”
“What are you going to plead?” Damien asked.
His boss laughed. “Nothing probably; the charade won’t get that far. It’s a little game I play with the GSA and Sector Attorneys. They accuse me, something pops loose in the investigation, and I go free.”
Ivan didn’t seem to be very amused by the situation. “When will you be arriving on Gretia?”
“Who knows?” Hanatar shrugged. “Maybe those boys at the GSA actually have something that they think’ll stick. Whatever, it should only be a day or two. Keep an eye on my house, and maybe relax a bit. After this job,” he swept a gesture out the bay window, where underlings continued to labor, “you’ve definitely earned it.”
“What about my ship?” Ivan asked.
Hanatar tossed a glance at Damien, who appeared surprised that he was being deferred to. “Oh! Uh, we can probably have it stowed in a bay on the transport you’re taking. Any other repairs can be done when you get there.”
Their employer smiled. “There, are we all taken care of?” Ivan nodded. “Good, good. Now go ahead and get outta here. I’ll see you soon, kid.”
As soon as Ivan departed down the lift, Damien almost burst with excitement. “See? What did I tell ya? He’s a helluva guy! Didn’t I say—”
“Yes, Damien,” Hanatar rolled his eyes, “finding a man like Ivan almost overshadows your stupidity. Or did you think I had forgotten whose blindly moronic idea almost led to the loss of that entire shipment.”
The grin vanished from Damien’s face as his employer glared at him with a dangerous expression. “B-but, boss, I—”
Hanatar waved away the objection, smiling wickedly. “It doesn’t matter; no real harm done. Ivan’s proven himself to be damn good help, and I intend to make sure he’s used properly.”
“Y-yeah…” Damien replied, shaky and sweating, as yet unsure whether or not any brutal punishment awaited him.
“It’s good, Damien,” Hanatar turned back to the window, “and it comes at an opportune time.”
“Boss?”
He took a sip of brandy. “I think the GSA might have dug up something solid. They’re too confident for my tastes.”
Damien waved a dismissing hand. “Aw, c’mon. There can’t really be anything to worry about, right? You just said—”
“I’m just not sure this time. Not everyone’s as loyal as you.” His underling beamed at the compliment. “I think one of my boys might have turned.”
With a gasp, Damien stammered, “N-no way, boss. Can’t be one of our guys!”
“We’ll see, and we’ll take care of it if we have to.”
“I can’t believe this piss-licking bullshit,” Hanatar shouted as he slammed the door to his luxurious home on Gretia. “Someone is going to get shoved into a sun for this!”
Ivan had been waiting, awkward and bored in his employer’s home for two weeks without any word.
When Hanatar burst through the front door, Ivan was seated in a chair near the entrance. Setting aside the digital pad he was reading, Ivan stood up and smoothed his dark suit. “Sir?”
His employer ignored him as he stormed through the foyer. “Cyndee!” He called out to his wife. “Cyndee, where in the blazing hell are you?”
“She took a transport to the capital,” Ivan spoke with a calm tone. “Shopping.”
Baring his teeth and seeming to notice Ivan for the first time, Hanatar slammed his fist against the wall. “Perfect. Bloody-bitch-ass perfect. I’m about to get sucked into a legal shit-storm, and she’s off blowing money on pedicures when I need to pay for my defense.”
Ivan raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”
“Let the shit-weasel tell you.” Hanatar waved him off, storming out of the room. Ivan continued to hear a swarm of loud cursing as his employer moved through the large house.
The front door opened again, and a meek and nervous-looking Damien slunk through the slight crack. Closing it as softly as possible, Damien turned, surprised to see Ivan looming over him.
“What is going on?” the large man asked.
“It didn’t go very well,” Damien swallowed hard, “and they tried to stall things to keep him in lock-up. He still managed to get out, but the list of charges was pretty intense.”
A yell issued from the floor above, echoing throughout the house. “Where the Christing-shit is that bottle?!”
“Extortion, smuggling of illegal cargo, slave trafficking…” Damien continued the tale with a helpless shrug, not noticing Ivan’s expression darken briefly. “The boss thinks one of the other fellas turned witness. He’s not too happy about it.”
Hanatar came rushing down the grand foyer staircase, clutching a bottle of dark liquor in one hand. “You’re goddamned right I’m not too happy. This has to be fixed. Fixed right now before it gets any further out of hand. And you,” he thrust a finger towards Ivan, “are going to take care of it.” He sped away again, and the other two could hear him clattering in another room.
With a quick exchange of glances, Ivan and Damien followed behind. Hanatar was hunched over a table, plucking ice cubes with a pair of tongs and putting them into a fabricated crystal glass. He dumped a healthy quantity of booze in before taking a long sip. As the alcohol swirled around his tongue and burned a trail down his throat, Hanatar closed his eyes and gave a deep sigh.
“What is it you want me to do?” Ivan asked, still wearing a calm expression.
The crime lord gestured towards the entryway with his glass. “I want you to get out there. Find out who’s railroading my shit,” he jammed two fingertips into his temple, “and deal with it. Make this whole thing go away.” Taking too vigorous a swig, he fell into a coughing fit. His two employees watched, one passive and one concerned, as Hanatar recovered, red-faced. With a strained expression, he finished speaking. “I don’t care how it gets done or who needs to disappear.”
Wiping his mouth and still recovering, Hanatar turned away. Neither he nor Damien, who was too concerned with his boss’s well-being, noticed the troubled expression cross Ivan’s features. It vanished before anyone looked his way.
“Are you still here?” Hanatar asked, seeing Ivan not yet departed. “Get your fat ass moving!”
With a somber nod and no indication that he was bothered by the shouting or the insult, Ivan stepped out of the room.
Hanatar took another drink. “Jesus. Surrounded by idiots.”
Damien, unsure of what to say, let out a nervous giggle.
“Shut up,” his boss said, settling down onto a thick leather chair.
A month passed.
Voux Hanatar spent a considerable amount of time in tortured anguish and half-liquored delirium. Aside from Ivan, he had ten more of his best people out digging for a solution to destroy the case. He heard almost nothing.
Brooding, angry, and aware that every move he made was watched, recorded, and scrutinized, business decisions fell into the capable but ambitious hands of his underlings. Due to his constant outbursting and heavy drinking, Hanatar’s own wife decided to take an extended vacation until her husband calmed down or was sent to prison.
Constant pressure was felt on all sides, as three-quarters of the news reports seemed to be focusing upon his imminent demise. His blood was in the water, the sharks were circling, and Hanatar was getting more and more nervous.
The only one remaining to comfort the disturbed employer was Damien. The constant presence of the ass-kissing, not-too-bright fellow was almost more than Hanatar could bear.
The month went by in anguish for the prominent criminal, and he was starting to wonder if he was running out of options when Ivan finally returned.
The deafening roar of ship engines shook Hanatar out of a restless slumber. His panicking, half-asleep mind warbled about the apocalypse before he recognized the disturbance enough to generate his usual enraged disposition. “Who in holy hell is low-flying over my home?!” he screamed to no one, words inaudible over the ear-splitting racket. His rage and confusion tripled when a thud resounded on the roof.
With a huff of air and a lingering whine, the engines cut out. Hanatar burst from his bedroom, hastily adjusting the cord on his lush bathrobe. After half a moment’s consideration, he ran back into the bedroom, wrenched open the desk, and grabbed the flechette pistol concealed in a side compartment. As he charged back down the hall, Damien emerged from his own room, rubbing his face. “Whosere?” he asked, eyes widening as he saw his employer carrying a weapon.
“Some dead prick is all,” Hanatar said as he moved towards the stairs which lead to roof access. He knelt behind a column and aimed the weapon.
An individual, large in stature and face concealed in a pilot helmet, moved down the stairs, carrying something which appeared to be a body over his shoulder.
Hanatar, bare knees spilling out of the bathrobe, snapped the pistol up towards the figure. “Move and you’re dead, asshole!”
The individual stopped and held one hand out. He started fumbling at the clasp of his helmet.
“Ah, ah!” Hanatar stood up and took a few steps towards them. “Let’s just move nice and slow. Now I don’t know who you are or why you landed your shit-mobile on top of my house, but give me one good reason why I shouldn’t peel off your flesh and wear it as a cape!”
A noise sounded from behind him, and Hanatar swiveled, very nearly pulling the trigger on the approaching Damien, who held an energy rifle. Heart thudding in his chest and adrenaline spilling into his blood, Hanatar heard a clatter on the staircase. Realizing he’d turned his back on the intruder, he spun around, squeezing the trigger.
The ceiling above the figure exploded as Hanatar’s poorly aimed shot punched through it. A shower of plaster fragments and dust rained on the man, easily recognized now that his helmet, the source of the clatter, finished its roll down the stairs.
“I have done as you asked,” Ivan said, appearing unfazed that his employer nearly shot him.
Hanatar’s jaw fell wide open. “What the? Who in…? Why did you land on my house? Who is that?” He pointed at the body.
Continuing his path down the stairs, Ivan moved past his gawking employer and confused associate, saying, “This is the man who has given you trouble.”
“The man… who…?” It took a moment for the exasperated Hanatar to realize to whom Ivan was referring. “Wait a second, are you serious?” Ivan didn’t respond, moving down the stairs at the end of the hall. “Goddammit, this is not happening.”
Hanatar and Damien followed behind. Ivan had brought the body down to the main floor and into the sitting room, laying it upright on the sofa.
“Jesus Christ!” Hanatar screamed, veins throbbing on his neck. “I told you to take care of it! What part of that implied that you should bring the corpse back to my home and soil my furniture with it!”
Ignoring the shouting, Ivan produced a small capsule from a pouch on his clothing. “This man is not dead,” he said, breaking the casing in half and waving it under the captive’s nose.
With a snort, a man who appeared familiar to Hanatar awoke. Angry, shaking, and brandishing the pistol, the crime lord watched as the man’s head lazily glanced about the room. “Wheerrmi?” he slurred.
“Why…?” Hanatar took a deep breath, trying to still the rage. “Why did you bring this guy here?” He spoke between clenched teeth. “Do you realize my house is under constant surveillance by the GSA, or is that massive body of yours just filled with all kinds of dipshit?”
Still not acknowledging the shouting and anger of his employer, Ivan gestured, “This is Barian Dreger. He handled the slaving portion of your business enterprise. Two months ago, he was quietly arrested. Shortly after, he was granted courtesies by the GSA in exchange for information about you.”
Fear and realization dawned in the captive’s eyes. He made as if to rise, but Ivan put out a hand and shoved him back into the seat.
“That’s great,” Hanatar spat, no less furious. “That’s fantastic, but it doesn’t explain shit. Was I not clear? Did I not ee-nun-cee-ate enough for your tiny brain to comprehend, or are you actually as dumb as you are ugly?” He jabbed the weapon at the prisoner. “I wanted him gone. I wanted him dead. I wanted him gently floating in vacuum or vaporized in a fusion reactor. I most certainly wanted no evidence of his presence anywhere near me. I did not. Not. NOT. Want this man brought alive to my home!”
After the tirade, Ivan continued. His refusal to acknowledge the ranting cranked Hanatar’s rage up further. “When he was initially cornered, he cut loose his shipment, a cargo of individuals, in an asteroid field in order to dispose of the evidence. The container would have been smashed to pieces. One thousand people nearly lost their lives.”
“I don’t care what the stupid shit-face did,” Hanatar hissed. “You screwed this up. You’ve endangered me a helluva lot more than this prick,” the man on the couch winced, “ever did. So you’re going to clean this up. You’re gonna take him back into your ship, fly him over to some other system, and shove him out the airlock. If you manage to not mess it up, I might not—”
“No,” Ivan interrupted.
Blinking, Hanatar replied. “Excuse me?”
“I will not do any of that.”
Unaccustomed to this level of disrespect, Hanatar was taken aback, and he wasn’t sure what to say. “Okay,” he finally said, “then how about you do it, or I’ll kill you right now.”
He raised the pistol, which disappeared from his grasp before his brain registered Ivan’s whip-like movement to reach out and snatch it.
“Punishment,” Ivan said, firing the stolen weapon at the terrified captive. The razor cloud shredded through the man’s chest, lacerating his flesh and major organs as well as the fabric and frame of the couch. Blood spattered the nearby surroundings as the man died without making a sound.
Both Hanatar and Damien stared in shock at the sudden, unexpected violence. They jabbered incoherencies as Ivan calmly turned back towards them, wiping flecks of blood off of his clothing with a handkerchief.
“What… the…” Hanatar breathed, stammering. “Why did you…? The evidence! My couch!”
Ivan smirked, the first sign of emotion Hanatar had viewed from the man. “Yes, I can see how someone of your moral standing would be more concerned about furniture than the life of one of his employees.”
The crime lord’s eyes widened, a trickle of fear seeping into him as he realized that Ivan might have been guilty of more than simple disobedience or foolishness. “Kill him!” he shouted to his loyal man.
Not certain of what he should do, Damien sputtered and started to raise his weapon.
“No,” Ivan said, picking up an ashtray from the end table. With a casual motion, he flung it through the air.
The projectile cracked into Damien’s skull, knocking him unconscious and flinging him backwards. The weapon the lieutenant carried slipped out of his hands and tumbled away.
Hanatar made as if to dive to retrieve it, but Ivan repeated, “No,” as he seized the back of his former employer’s robe. With an effortless motion, Ivan dragged him over and flung him onto the couch, next to the dead man.
Screaming, Hanatar skittered away from the corpse. He tried to rise, but Ivan pushed him back down and aimed the pistol at him. “Jesus, shit, Jesus…” he swore, wiping the blood from his hands on his bathrobe. “Wh-what-what do want? Why are you doing this?” He shrank away from the weapon.
Ivan didn’t fire. “I don’t like you, Mister Hanatar, or what you stand for.”
“But… I mean, why the…”
“Be quiet,” Ivan said, and his former employer shut his mouth. “I don’t like you,” he repeated, “because you engage in some very terrible dealings. It should be more than obvious that human trafficking is an unacceptable practice.” Ivan raised his chin. “I am going to leave your employment now, but I promise there will be justice for your actions.”
“Y-you want more money? I can get you more money, you just have to—” Hanatar tried to rise, but Ivan shoved him back onto the couch.
Ivan’s face developed a slight scowl with a quiet intensity both menacing and terrifying. “I want nothing more to do with you, other than to see you pay for the things you’ve done.”
Hanatar swallowed hard, eyes wide with fear. “Oh jeez, please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything, I swear; just please don’t—”
“Your retribution will come soon enough,” Ivan said, “and I promise I am not yet finished with you.”
A gloved fist descended.
“When I woke up,” Hanatar said, rubbing his face absentmindedly, “I was in a hospital, cuffed to the bed with a mouthful of busted teeth. They added murder and some kind of witness tampering or something charge. Damien apparently had slipped out somehow and didn’t get caught: maybe Ivan dragged him along. I had a concussion, so I didn’t really register much of it.” The crime lord turned prisoner sighed. “You probably know the rest: that circus of a trial…”
I nodded, not registering much sympathy for the man but curious anyway. “They found you, unconscious, next to a dead man you didn’t kill. Ivan’s vessel had to have been seen leaving. Why did they charge you with the crime?”
“Because they wanted to.” Hanatar gave a bitter smile. “And because my finances were fluctuating so wildly: unrest in the organization and my darling wife swiping every penny, you see. I had trouble keeping my staff of defense attorneys around. Oh, and I’m pretty sure Ivan was driving the fear of God into ’em. It wasn’t enough him puttin’ me in dentures for life, he seemed determined to make sure I got shoved into the deepest, darkest hole.”
Frowning, I said, “Still, the evidence must have screamed it was a set-up.”
Hanatar shrugged. “Prosecutors did a lot of dancing, that’s for sure. In the end, they convinced the jury I was betrayed by one of my own after popping Dreger. That, and I had about fifty other charges to deal with and few to no advocates. They had surveillance of Ivan’s ship, but it came and went: no one saw the man, docking records led nowhere… In the end, the mystery ship was disregarded.”
He shook his head, continuing. “The whole trial was a mess of posturing, legal horseshit, and a gross misconduct of the justice system. Everyone and their grandmother, including a large portion of my own organization towards the end, wanted to see me drawn and quartered. So they danced around the inconsistencies and watched me hang.”
I folded my hands on the table. “Speaking of the organization…”
“Bunch of morons.” Hanatar rolled his eyes. “A few of the smarter or more loyal ones tried to help me, but the rest were tearing things apart trying to get to the top. Dozens more of my high-ranking fellows were killed or arrested.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that, everything I had worked for was crumbling away.”
“What about your,” I considered my method of phrasing, “attempts at early release?”
The prisoner laughed openly. “Early release? Hah! That’s a good one.” He threw his arms wide open. “This place is a fortress. Three of my ships got vaped in the minefield. A couple of explosives and an extended-charge atmo-suit almost got me to the space port and beyond before I was snatched up. Seven different attempts, and only one of them had a decent shot. One.”
“The assault.”
“Yep,” he nodded. “The last of my finances, the last piece of anything I had in the galaxy. My Apollo-class cruiser shredded their defenses and tore half of the moon to pieces. At that point, I didn’t care; I wanted out of this shit-hole.” He rubbed his cheek. “I heard Damien was the one who brought it, the dumb bastard. The prisoners got a riot going after the ground started shaking from bombardment, and the screws had backed off to an outer sector. I mean, they still had us locked in, no problem. Where could we get to?”
I motioned for him to go on.
“Anyway,” Hanatar continued. “I had popped into the warden’s office and was looking at the scopes, laughing my ass off as the cruiser blasted apart the minefield and the orbital guns. It was dropping a few shots on the space port to keep ’em running, but then the thing started to fall. My last remaining hope of ever leaving blew up and smashed into this godforsaken moon.” He hesitated, resting his face on a hand.
Frowning, I asked, “Is that all?”
A faraway look developed in the prisoner’s eyes. There was something there, appearing as more than wistful regret at a lost opportunity. A frustration developed which I recognized as something he had to have thought of often. I leaned forward. “What is it?”
He scowled. “I’m positive I saw something else. The scopes were fritzing with a lot of sensor damage. Most of them were on the guns, so there weren’t many angles left to look from either.” He shrugged. “I don’t know if anyone else happened to see it. It wasn’t mentioned in the news; they said the cruiser sustained too much damage and couldn’t keep its orbit. I’ve thought about it every day for the last fourteen years, every day they kept me in solitary and stripped away my privileges and rights because of what I brought down on them.” He paused, laughing bitterly. I saw the tiniest bit of moisture form in his eyes.
I waited for him to speak.
“That son of a bitch wasn’t joking when he said he wasn’t done with me.” Hanatar nodded. “By himself, he blew apart my last hope.”
Eyes narrowing, I said, “You saw…”
“A ship. Ivan’s ship. OLGA, or whatever he called it.” Hanatar turned away.
Quite vindictive if true, and surprising at that. I doubted it astonished me half as much as the bitter, aging criminal to whom I spoke. It seemed Hanatar did nothing directly to Ivan, but for Ivan to piece together a scheme to imprison him and endeavor to keep him there… by shooting down a cruiser no less…
“No recordings?”
Hanatar ran a hand through his thinning hair. “That’s the ironic part. I sabotaged the scope data system to make sure they didn’t have visual confirmation of what was blowing them to shit. The only physical evidence of the cruiser ended up being its scattered remains.”
I wasn’t finished yet. “I appreciate your time, but I have one more person to ask you about.”
“Who?” he asked, still turned away.
“Traverian Grey.”
He blinked, looking over at me. “What do you want with Grey?”
“Same thing I wanted with you. It seemed he and Ivan crossed paths more than once.”
Hanatar chuckled. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Meaning?” My eyes narrowed.
“Retired,” the prisoner shrugged, “is what I heard quite a while back. Somewhere out on the rim where the law and vengeance couldn’t find him. They said he lost a limb or two and gave up the business. Though why he wouldn’t buy new ones with all the money he’s got is beyond me. He was a great fella; always got the job done. Shoulda used him instead of that fat prick.”
“How did he lose his limbs?”
“Well, Archivist,” Hanatar slouched in his chair, “you know rumors. They twist and turn, and God only knows where they began.”
“Yes…?”
He grinned. “Let’s say maybe you weren’t the first fellow to look for Ivan after he got himself famous. And maybe one or two caught up with him before he did the whole disappearing into legend thing.”
“They fought?”
Shrugging, Hanatar replied, “Grey was no slouch, and he always got the job done if it paid well enough. After the colony at the Garden blew up, Ivan’s head must’ve had value. Grey woulda gone for it no question, no matter their friendly history, but…” He shook his head. “If there was one fella that Traverian Grey couldn’t take down…”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Hanatar gave a thin smile. “You’ve been good company, Archivist. If I wasn’t certain you had no further use for me, I’d invite you to return sometime.”
With a slight bow, I smiled and stood. “Good day, Mr. Hanatar.” I stepped out of the room.
The warden pestered me with questions as we wound our way through the twisted corridors of the prison, and I held a passing curiosity as to how roughly Hanatar was being led back to his eternal cell. He was responsible for a planetary attack. Even fourteen years ago, I doubted the grudges died very quickly.
“…whatever he provided is not admissible in a court of justice due to the special privilege and non-disclosure nature of your visit,” Stokes continued rattling off information I cared nothing about. I knew it, she knew it, and Hanatar knew that any chance of him breathing free air ended when the cruiser was blasted to fragments and scattered across the Orkanis surface.
Warden Stokes halted and turned towards me, a stern expression on her face. “Do you understand all of this, Archivist?”
I gave a nod, having heard little of her speech. “Yes, of course.” Lying didn’t bother me, and she needed compliance as much as I needed to ignore her prattling and consider my options.
“And don’t think I’ve forgotten about your promise,” she held an index finger up near my face. “That contract is coming up, and I expect some serious generosity on the part of your employer.”
Nodding again, I expressed reassurances as we crossed through the redundant security checkpoints. The warden shook my hand. She still regarded me with a wary eye as I stepped onto the transport to return to the spaceport.
Blessed silence, aside from the occasional soft conversation of other returning visitors, resumed, and I was given an opportunity to think.
The trip back to my vessel was uneventful, and I paid little attention to the flight as the autopilot followed the plotted course through the minefield. No mistakes: no horrible death.
I was on my way once more.
Assignment: Seeking information regarding the truth and whereabouts of Ivan.
Location: Gretia/Orkanis
Report: Interviewed former crime lord [Voux Hanatar] and arresting officer [Declan Donnely] regarding rumored Ivan involvement in Hanatar downfall.
Probability: 93%
Summary: Sheriff interview, though hostile, provided further credence [anonymous tip accent] to Ivan involvement. Hanatar confirmed Ivan’s presence and betrayal. Story retains strong suggestion of Ivan’s personal moral code [certain crimes unacceptable]. Behavior indicates possible vindictive nature. No compunctions about punishing those he may have been loyal to [Barian Dreger, Voux Hanatar] for infractions against this code.