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
“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
