The Legend of Ivan

by Justin Kemppainen

  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.

  Chapter 5: How to Dismantle a Massive Criminal Organization

  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 hav
e 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."