The Legend of Ivan Read Free Page A

there wasn't a whole lot of fear or wisdom in his blood.
    So Cobb became a guide.
    It seemed he found his true calling in life, as Cobb, even three sheets to the wind, could always find his way out and back. He might be missing a hunter or two, but he himself always managed a return.
    His last run was with a man who called himself Ivan.
    Now, I've heard more than my share of stories about this guy, and the size, shape, and stature changes more often than fashion trends in the core. A tiny guy, a huge guy. He's dark-skinned, light-skinned, every Old Earth nationality put together. He's an alien, he's a devil. I'm sure you know, Archivist.
    The way Cobb told it was that Ivan was huge and fair-skinned. A regular bear of a man with a rumbling laugh that would shake the walls and the liquor tolerance of a whale. Reckless and wild, he was strong as a bull with twice the temper. He'd crush you to death with a hug, and that's if he liked you.
    Of course, Cobb only spent a few hours with the man, so I don't take much stock in anything but his description of Ivan's appearance. He said the man had a funny way of talkin', almost harsh in its sound. I'll try to mimic the way he portrayed it for your benefit, Archivist, but I'm not much good at that sort of thing. Hell, I don't know if Cobb had it right to begin with.
    Anyway, what Cobb always said, before he got too deep into exaggeration, was that Ivan had a sense of brains inside the brutish body. "A hint of cleverness," he said. It's probably why the big fella made it outta Hunter's End with more than his own skin."
     
    ******
     
    The settlement area stank to high heaven, due to the thick repellant necessary to keep the vicious beasts away. It worked for the most part, though they kept defense towers on the walls with pretty heavy equipment in case. The owners turned a tidy profit from the insanity and death their preserve offered, but they obviously wanted nothing to do with the massive beasts themselves.
    It was a muggy afternoon when Cobb stumbled out of his bunk, strung out with a pounding headache. After the usual bout of morning retching as his body reminded him of the dangers of drinking, he took a swig from his three-quarters empty bottle of whiskey.
    "Raymond," a voice called. He looked up to see the fellow with the laughable title of "Tour Planning Advisor" heading towards him.
    "Mornin' boss," Cobb replied in a thick slur.
    Shaking his head, the advisor replied, "It's after noon, Raymond, and we got a small group ready to go. They're looking to find Max."
    Max was somewhat of a legendary figure. Supposedly he was the biggest, meanest, blood-thirstiest lizard on the planet. The beast was rumored to have been the end of more than three hundred wayward hunters.
    "I sawr 'im plain as day," Cobb told anyone who would hear it, especially if the individual be willing to provide drinks for the duration of the story. "Th' meanest sumbitch, fitty feet high with bigass teeth and leathery skin tough as starship plate. I tell ya, Max'd chewed up 'is share of dumbass gunnies. He had nuttin' on Ivan though."
    Following behind the advisor, Cobb vaguely wondered, as he always did, if this would be his last run. The pay was far too good though, and he considered how many other places allowed heavy intoxication on the job. The customers were too reckless to care about that particular added risk, and the owners didn't care much about the guides or the guests.
    "They're already waiting by the transport," the advisor told Cobb, who nodded and took off at a jog. Managing not to stumble or fall down, he approached the transport helicopter, the usual anti-grav or hover lifts not functioning due to the interference.
    Cobb's jaw hit the floor when he saw the hunting party. One man was armed to the teeth. Bandoliers of ammunition and weaponry were strapped across what appeared to be every inch of his body. Slung across his back was a massive flechette rifle, the type that fired the razor clouds