Again we moved through numerous similar corridors. I found it momentarily confusing that we hadn’t crossed any other individuals, but I supposed they may have set themselves up nearer to some sort of administration sector. Bethel must have been trying to limit the disturbance my presence represented by keeping me out in the distant and abandoned areas.
He palmed open a doorway, an empty room with a table and a few chairs. I recognized it as one of the psychological profile and evaluation rooms. Bethel had explained it during the tour: the presence of crippling anxiety and depression afflicted most slaves. Like everything else, a measure of counseling at the very least to determine dosage level for medication was mandatory. Personality screening boiled the laborer’s disposition down to a simple equation: another element of choice for the clients.
“Wait here,” my guide told me. He moved to the door, hesitating before turning back. “This is the man who saved us. Because of him, we are able to live as decent, dignified people. We consider him one of us, and we
I sat in the facility, hardly daring to believe Bethel would return with my quarry: the subject of my assignment and obsession. So much time spent, so much recent danger.
Again the flailing lament rose to the surface, highlighting my choices and the difficulties of recent days. I worried about what would happen if Cain caught up to me here, and I was surprised to further discover a twinge of guilt for bringing risk down upon these poor individuals.
I tried to shove aside the feelings, frustrated and shocked at their refusal to depart. With time to myself, I dedicated a moment to question my own thoughts. I searched for signs of Dana’s ghost meddling and finally brought the emotional turmoil to the front of my consideration. Though whispery echoes of her tingled in my mind, providing a mystery of how much remained of her, I couldn’t detect any direct manipulation.
It had to be her. She was the main factor, the only change in my recent existence, but it didn’t seem as though her tiny vestige was actually doing anything to me.
The more I tried to disregard, to rationalize the guilt, the more it pressed in around me. My mind battered against it: I was no longer human; I was task driven and unemotional. An Archivist, no more than a human recorder: no longer possessing, needing, or wanting a true sense of self.
I took a deep breath, remaining confused by the stream of dormant emotion. My rational mind tried to inform me it was a product of compartmentalization. The freedom gained by reaching the end of my goal allowed other thoughts and problems to surface.
The theory didn’t help my contemplative affliction, and I wondered if it was even correct. Dana’s ghost finally stirred. She tittered in my thoughts and shoved forth a recent memory:
“There’s enough human left in you to do the right thing. Don’t disappoint me Archivist.”
It was the statement at the end of Grey’s message. Most of my mind scoffed at it, but part of me wondered if the idea of me lacking humanity truly was the problem. Maybe I wasn’t experiencing an arbitrary emotional state based upon a malfunction; maybe it all linked to what Grey said. Maybe part of my long dead human state was struggling to be recognized.
Even so, the “right thing” for this situation was a fluid concept. I supposed
The ghost of Dana snickered as if to remind me of how and why she was now plaguing my thoughts. I sighed out loud, wondering how much longer I’d have to be sitting there alone. I glanced about the room, hoping perhaps the introspection, in spite of it being present long before I arrived, was a result of some kind of gaseous narcotic. I detected no such thing.
Perhaps it truly was Dana, spurring the thoughts, not allowing them to depart back into the unemotional and obsessive state. I felt a trickle of laughter, whispering in the corners of my mind. Whether it was a vindicated sense of triumph in her success at causing me trouble or simply pleasure at my discomfort, I didn’t know.
All of my consideration evaporated as the door opened. My powerful obsessive nature easily kicked the emotions aside, now ready to return and finish the task.
Silhouetted in the doorway was the figure of an enormous man, tall and broad-shouldered. He wore the torn, dirt-stained clothing of a laborer and gloves with the fingertips cut out. Heavy boots thudded upon the floor as he approached, echoing and seemingly amplifying the minute vibrations as small asteroids continued to nudge the housing of the slaver facility.
A stubbled face and head revealed incredibly fair skin. Nicks and scars adorned various visible places on his head and body, and piercing blue eyes shone out, appearing to radiate their own light. His squarish head with a prominent chin seemed tiny atop the massive chest, and thick muscle covered every inch of his body.
Staring at this man, I didn’t notice I was holding my breath.
“Hello.” His voice was deep and booming, a monotone lilt and slight accent cementing his identity in my mind. “You must be this Archivist Sid who has spent so much time looking for me. I am Afanasi Sergeyevich Lukyanov. You may call me Ivan.”
Never before in any information gathering assignment have I been so struck, shocked, or amazed at the magnitude of a discovery. My mind, capable of instantaneous memory recollection and lightning calculation, froze for a moment.
I stood, not quite knowing what to do or say. Finally, I spit out something. “And here you are.”
The man raised an eyebrow.
Smiling at my own foolishness, I said, “It’s been quite a journey.”
“Yes, I can imagine.” Ivan didn’t appear to be as impressed or excited as I was. “It seems you have been turning many stones in the search to find me.”
Realizing that my attitude was as close to childish as I could muster, I let the mirth slip out of me. The calm and cool attitude of subject interview settled over me, tempered only a little by the unkillable giddiness.
“Have a seat.” I gestured at the chair opposite.
Ivan folded his thick arms over his massive chest. “I do not wish to be rude, in particular after you have spent so much of your time trying to arrive at this place. However, before we progress any deeper, I will need to know your intentions.” Danger loomed beneath the question.
A tiny thought wondered how I would fare against Ivan, or better yet how Cain would. The still-excited portion of my mind irrationally wished I could make such a fight happen. On the outside, I remained in complete and relaxed calm. “Primarily, I am seeking specific detail regarding your actions at Atropos Garden. Second, I…”
I trailed off, noting a quickly concealed expression of sorrow cross my quarry’s face. The smallest hint of moisture formed in the radiant blue eyes, which narrowed as he noticed my close perusal.
“Second,” I continued, “out of a sense of personal curiosity, I wish to have you validate or repudiate some of the many actions attributed to your name.” I gestured at him. “Even out here, in hiding and seclusion, you must hear some of them.”
Ivan shrugged. “A few, here and there, but I assure you I am not much of a match for any one of the stories.” He waved a hand. “We will get into those in one moment, but you must understand I will not allow you to do anything to put these people in danger. I also would
I narrowed my eyes. “After all this time, do you think that’s at all possible?”
He grinned, flashing white teeth. “Of course not. Preference is always at odds with practicality, no? I would
I cracked the slightest smile.
“However,” his eyes went hard, “I will insist upon the safety of this place and these people. They have endured enough hardship.”
After a moment of consideration, I gave a nod.
“In any case,” Ivan continued, “I have heard a few things about you in the last short while. Some say you are a good man.”
“And others suggest I’m not a man at all.” I waved his statement aside. “What
