The Legend of Ivan

Francis scowled. “Parker, I’m warning you…”

The ruffian held his hands up. “Easy, old-timer. I’m just tellin’ the Grayskin how it is.”

“I’ve been ‘round these parts before,” I said, lilting into a mocking tone. “I reckon I dun know how it works.”

The barman cracked a slight grin.

Accurate as the imitation was, Parker was neither impressed nor amused. He stood up, and his cohort joined him a moment later.

“Is that funny, Grayskin?” Parker asked, moving across the bar to me.

“I thought so.” I took a sip.

“Archivist…” Francis warned, amusement fading.

I put up a hand. “I’ll pay for any damage.” The barkeep sighed in response.

“What’s that?” Parker asked as he and his friend neared.

Considering options, I double-checked the various hidden defense mechanisms I held. Unbeknownst to any present, a row of needles flitted out of hidden housings on my mechanical hand and retracted, functioning as normal. A tranquilizer delivery mechanism is often an excellent way to avoid damaging confrontation with people or even animals. If necessary, I could pressurize the housing chambers and fire the needles up to thirty feet. The two folks would hardly know what hit them before waking up a few hours later under the duress of a terrible headache.

The sonic emitter in my skull plate, useful for a brief moment of incapacitation in a five foot radius, warmed up with an inaudible whine before powering down again. Other systems for electronic security bypass and intrusion, a cache of listening devices, and various others were not useful in this situation.

“Well?” Parker snorted. “Whatcha gotta say to me, freak?”

With the amazing technology geared to defend my person against all manner of threat, I decided to use my bare hands.

Stuck on this stinking ball of dirt for two days, waiting in this tavern for three hours past the agreed meeting time, and bathing in the brain-dead existence of this low-brow planet left me somewhat cranky.

Parker put his hand on my shoulder. “You better answer me!”

I didn’t bother to give any warnings.

Standing and whirling around, I slipped out of Parker’s grip and kicked his cohort in the face. With a sickening crunch, the man’s nose shattered, and he was knocked out cold before gravity could catch up and drag him to the dusty floor.

Parker had enough time to gasp at the sudden incapacitation of his friend as I grabbed him by the arm, pulled him forward, and slammed him facedown into the bar. He sputtered, dazed as he struggled against my grip. In a swift motion, I dragged his arm up, giving it a good wrench and hearing the satisfying pop as his shoulder dislocated.

The pain must have been glorious, considering the howling which ensued. He was lucky. A little more twisting, and I could have taken home a souvenir.

“Are you finished?” I asked, leaning down.

Parker didn’t really respond in any coherent sense; his latest tactic seemed to be trying to burst my eardrums with pathetic wailing.

I let him fall to the ground, nodding an apology to the barkeep, who rolled his eyes. As I sat back down, Parker’s screeching died to a mishmash of whimpering curses. “Jeesuss,” he cried. “You broke my arm. You broke my arm, ya goddamn freak!”

“It’s dislocated,” I said, taking a sip.

Shaking his head, the bartender moved to the wall, where a simple communicator interface lay silent. He punched in a few buttons to contact the local authorities, and a face appeared after a moment.

“Franky,” the man greeted him with a grimace, “isn’t it a little early for trouble?”

The barkeep sighed and shook his head. “Sorry, Chief, I got a couple of injured dipshits here who need patchin’ up. They attacked a guest of mine and got themselves hurt.”

“Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

I sipped at my drink more freely now that I felt the danger past. Parker remained on the ground, whimpering weakly and cursing. Consciousness had not returned, nor likely would for quite a while, to his friend.

More than a few wide-eyed expressions greeted me as the local constabulary arrived along with medical staff. Francis gave his statement and pointed the ruffians out as the perpetrators. He insisted the boys had learned their lessons and no charges needed pressing.

The officers and medics didn’t speak to me. A couple featured the ever-popular animosity, but they all seemed wary and afraid, realizing I wasn’t just some schmuck with mechanical prosthetics. I’d bet three of my cortical processors that none of them had ever heard of an Archivist. We’re not very common so far out.

We’re not very common at all.

I grew impatient as the mess was cleaned up. From the activity, most of the patrons departed for quieter, less activity-filled accommodations, but there remained no sign of my contact.

“Well, now ya done it.” Francis wagged a finger at me once everything was taken care of. “This place’ll be crickets for the next couple of days.”

I considered telling him the chirping insects were not native to this world, but tact suggested a different approach. “Sorry for the trouble,” I said.

The barkeep waved off the apology. “No need, no need. Takin’ care of this heap is my retirement, so empty days give me a chance to enjoy some peace.”

“Still,” I said, producing a large wad of currency. I placed it on the table. “Will that cover what you’d have made tonight?”

Francis threw back his head and laughed. “Son, that’d be about a weeks worth.”

Shrugging, I pushed the money across the counter. “Consider us even, then, as long as you assist me briefly in my search.”

“Ah yes,” he nodded, “I admit I’m a bit curious. Who might you be lookin’ for?”

I swept off my hat, scratching the thin, brittle hair remaining to my organic scalp. “Raymond Cobb; he has information for me, and we set up—”

“Sorry to say, Archivist, but Cobb moved on from these parts not two days ago.”

“He told me he lived nearby and frequented this location,” I said, clenching a fist. “In our messages, he himself suggested we meet here.”

The barkeep nodded. “Certainly. Time was you could find ol’ Cobb sittin’ right where you are, pissin’ away what little life he had left. However, it seemed he ran outta money and hopped a shuttle to the next shit-mining world before any of his substantial number of creditors knew what hit ’em.”

Sighing, I stood up. “Then I’ve wasted my time here. Where did he go?”

“’Fraid I can’t say.” The barkeep shrugged. “He stopped in here to pay a small bit of his outstanding tab and bid me a fond farewell. Hell, I never expected him to—”

“I appreciate your time and kindness,” I said, straightening my long coat, “but I need to leave. I must track down where this shuttle went. Please tell me the exact time of his departure, if you can.”

“Oh, it was about… Tuesday ‘round four in the afternoon.” Frustration pulsed within my veins, as I’d then need to find if the local station kept decent enough records. Of course it was also assuming Cobb didn’t give a false name or stowaway on board. Hopefully the outbound traffic was slow enough that I’d only have to search a couple of systems to get back on track.

“Hold up!” Francis called as I moved towards the exit. “Yer not workin’ fer one of his collectors, are ya?”

I shook my head.

The barkeep motioned for me to sit back down. “I was probably the closest thing Cobb had to a friend around here. Maybe I can help you out?”

I contemplated the possibility. A bartender can be like a primitive Archivist, in a way. Stories, gossip, and information flows freely in this kind of environment. Of course, the standard brain architecture can’t process near as much data, but…

“What do you know?” I asked.

Francis grinned. “What were you lookin’ for?”