An all-white Pegasus moved silently through a deep underground corridor in what had once been part of a vast subterranean network. She, like all her sisters and brothers, bore no name. There was no point in having one. Apart from components that had been added to them- -or taken away- -they were supposed to be interchangeable.
This particular mare had been the one who originally brought a contract deep into Andalusia, and who had returned a second time to deal with perceived inconsistencies in Caballeron’s behavior. Like names, her kind had no rank; they were considered all equal. Being in charge of the operation, though, she had become the center of coordination. Although there would be no permanent hierarchy, the others had wordlessly and implicitly accepted her command until a Higher arrived to take it from her.
Two ponies approached her from behind. Both were Pegasi. One was a pale colored Pegasus with a stern expression and a Mohawk. She was nude. The other was an armor-pilot, and her helm had been removed to reveal a face identical to that of the other two but with a short-cropped mane. Her head looked tiny compared to the strange proportions created by the heavy armor.
The white mare did not need to turn around turn around to recognize them, nor did the near darkness of the dank hallway make it difficult for her to see. Although she did not possess optical implants, her eyes- -as well as the eyes of all her siblings who were fortunate enough to have kept their originals- -were distinctly sensitive.
“Sisters,” she said. She slowed and addressed them properly, looking into each of their eyes. She was sure to show distinct disgust when she saw the greenish contact lenses that the Mohawk-bearing Pegasus was wearing. “Sister,” she said, “why are you still wearing those? And do you insist on being painted that gauche color? I would think you find it unbearable.”
“It does not wash out,” replied the mare. “As for the lenses, I believe that despite my identity I have developed some level of report with these ponies. They interface more successfully if I look more like them.”
“You mean less like us.”
“It’s the eyes. The red eyes. It disturbs them.”
The commander paused for a moment. “Very well,” she said, before turning to the mare in heavy armor. Despite the fact that all of them looked identical, it was possible to tell that she was a much younger sister. This was likely her first mission. “And you?”
“Reporting on our sister’s mission.”
The commander knew exactly what she was speaking of. “Go on.”
“An explosion was reported and observed. However, no damage was reported. Analysis suggests that an unknown individual was able to move the devices to an altitude greater than their blast radius before they were able to detonate.”
“Impossible. The operation protocol required a timing of less than two minutes on the timers. Just enough for her to clear the blast radius. The time period is too short for intervention. Even if she was discovered, which I doubt.”
“And yet it did occur.”
The commander paused. “Well, then. I will need to hear her report on her failure. This will likely lead to her being sanctioned. Quite harshly.”
“The sister tasked with the operation has not yet returned to the rendezvous point.”
The commander’s eyes narrowed. “Which implies that she was captured.”
“It is likely. We cannot currently locate our target or her associate either. I believe that they are connected.”
“And tracing spells?”
The armored mare shook her head. “Something powerful is interfering. Not just here, but throughout the city.”
“I would surmise it is the work of the crow-wraith,” suggested the Mohawk Pegasus. The commander agreed, but did not say so out loud. She did not need to.
“Fine,” she said. “The operation was a failure anyway. We will consider that sister terminated. We will not waste resources on recovery. She is of no consequence anyway.”
“Who among us are?” said the unarmored mare, her tone strangely dark.
“My point exactly,” replied the commander.
In exact unison, they began to walk with the commander, following behind her. The armored pony would likely go with her, although the one with the Mohawk was probably just going in the same direction. None of them minded the others’ company; they in fact preferred it.
A fourth pony appeared from one of the perpendicular hallways. He was a stallion dressed in the same armor as the others. His eyes were perfectly red, and his face expressionless.
“Sisters,” he said.
“Changeling,” said the commander.
The stallion frowned. “Changeling? I don’t understand. It’s me. Your brother.”
“No,” said the armored mare. “You are not.”
The stallion’s face contorted into a grimace of hatred. “You shouldn’t be able to tell.”
“Nevertheless, we can,” sighed the commander. “Despite being identical and lacking names, we are quite able to distinguish each other. And those that are not us. I suppose it is the same way that you distinguish your own kind. Or did, before the rule of Thorax.”
Argiopé continued to glare, and then shifted. Her armor degraded and contracted into a black dress with orange ornaments on her shoulders while her body grew more narrow and severe as it developed stripes. She rendered herself as a zebra.
“We are not all ruled by Thorax.”
“Really,” said the commander. “Then what ruler do you serve?”
“I serve Caballeron. Very well. And very often.”
“A strange choice indeed.”
The armored mare stared at the changeling. “You can replicate our armor?”
“Yes,” growled the changeling. “Of course I can.”
“But no doubt not its function,” noted the commander. “It would be like that dress you’re wearing now. Just modified flesh. If that fabric were cut, you would bleed. And on that note, a warning: attempt to mimic us again, and I will personally have you injured. In a way that will heal during your next molt, but not until then.”
“I’m more durable than I appear.”
“And we are very good at our jobs.”
The zebra-changeling stared at them, her blue-green eyes narrowing. “What is wrong with you?” she asked, slowly.
“Nothing in particular.”
“I can’t see into your minds,” continued the changeling, as though this were an accusation of severe cunning. “I can’t see what you love, who I should become for you. Why?”
“Our skulls are plated with a dimeritium-titanium alloy. It blocks telepathy. And bullets.”
The changeling continued to glare. “I don’t like you,” she said, slowly.
“Yes. It’s apparent.”
“Don’t touch Caballeron,” she hissed.
“I have no intention to. None of us do. If it helps, we tend to find your kind somewhat unattractive.”
“My kind? What do you- -”
“I was on my way to visit your master. I would like you to accompany me.”
The changeling still looked suspicious. “Why?”
“Because you are either his chief lieutenant or a pet. I don’t know which.”
“That isn’t a real answer.”
“No. It isn’t.”
The commander began walking. The Pegasus with the Mohawk nodded and passed down the perpendicular path that the changeling had come from, no doubt going to find her contact within Caballeron’s organization, a certain sunglasses-wearing eccentric. As the commander began to leave, the armored mare fell into step behind her- -and the changeling walked beside her.
“He loves me,” said the changeling. “You have to understand that.”
“And it is that love that fuels you. Yes, I am familiar with your biology.”
“You don’t love anypony, do you? Maybe you were lying about that alloy in your head. Maybe I can’t feel anything from you because you cannot love.”
“I do love.”
“What do you love?”
“My sisters. My brothers. Our mother.”
The changeling smiled viciously. “Oh. So it’s that kind of relationship. How perverse.”
The commander did not react. She saw no reason to. The changeling did not especially bother her, at least not any more than the cold and damp and lack of sunlight did. They, like her, were just environmental aspects. Aspects that Caballeron had bought and paid for, dampness and all. And no doubt aspects that he considered to be the manner of assets that one would consider a means and not an end.
Caballeron was working in a large chamber at the end of the corridor. It had once clearly served as a storage room, and a number of enormous but empty casks stood off to the side, gathering dust and cobwebs. Rogue and Withers were actively checking them for contents, while Zel was sitting in a chair in the corner, patiently peeling an apple.
A table had been moved to the center of the table, and several lanterns had been placed around it. Strewn about its top were notes, images, diagrams, and a recently acquired spiral-bound book. It was obvious that Caballeron was working hard on the translation, and obvious from his face that the process was going poorly.
When the commander entered, Zel looked up. He looked upon the commander with dismay, but his eyes quickly moved to Argiopé and his expression became more quizzical. “There indeed is a peculiar sight/for a bug, you look good in black and white.”
“I always look excellent,” retorted Argiopé, pointing her nose upward. “And at least I can speak properly.”
“Hmm,” said Caballeron. “Yes. Clearly. Clearly your bickering is helping me get my work done.” He feigned laughter. “I just don’t know what I would do if you BOTH SHUT UP!”
Argiopé frowned, but did as she was told. Zel shrugged and returned to his apple. Rogue and Withers seemed to be immensely interested in a large cask that was quite clearly split in half.
“Caballeron,” said the white Pegasus, stepping forward to the edge of the table. “Is the translation coming along?”
Caballeron looked up and glared at her. His eyes flashed with hatred, but the mare did not care. She was more concerned with something of much greater significance: a brief glimmer of suspicion.
Then Caballeron sighed. “Would you like to do them yourself, perhaps?”
“We are paying for you to retrieve the artifact.”
“It’s called the ‘Hand of Doom’,” corrected Caballeron.
“A hand?” asked Argiopé.
“Don’t be a moron. It’s not literally a hand; it’s meant as a metaphor. For a device that can bend fate.” He brushed some of the notes with his hoof, causing them to flutters and slide randomly across the table. This did not seem to bother him. “It is an artifact of immense power but apparently one that cannot be handled by just anypony. The Exmoori feared it greatly, but were attempting to find a way to wield it.”
“Why?” asked Argiopé.
“To change fate.”
“To what end?”
“Considering that they are extinct? I would suppose it was that particular fate, actually. Clearly they failed.” He pointed at the images in the spiral-bound book. “Going over all of them, it is apparent that this device was theoretical. There is no mention of this system ever being deployed.”
“So you have made progress,” said the commander.
“With regard to meaningless history? Yes. Yes I have. If I was still tenured at the Institute I could present this data for the next ten years and be famous across all of Equestria.” His gaze hardened. “But that doesn’t pay, does it? This is all pointless until that artifact is in my hoof!”
“Agreed. Our employer is growing impatient. I understand that the spear you spent so much of your funds on retrieving is imperative for opening the Exmoori security system, assuming it is even still functional.”
“They are ALWAYS functional,” sighed Caballeron.
“We have the key, to use an analogy. But where is the door? What aspect of this diagram is a map?”
“None of it.”
“Impossible.”
Caballeron glared at her. “Are you telling me that you can do this job better? I’ve checked and checked again, and then a third time just to be sure. These images? There is no map.”
“But we supplied you with the missing half.”
Suspicion flashed in Caballeron’s gaze again. The commander took note of it. “Yes. You did. And most of it is indecipherable iconography. The mechanism for translating it does not exist. The texts that would state it were lost centuries ago. I believe it has to do with cosmology, and the inner nature of the structure. But no part of it is a map. Of this, I am sure.”
“Then we are at an impasse.”
“Yes.” Caballeron paused. “But not one without a solution.” The commander looked up inquisitively. Caballeron continued. “That…thing. The disgusting collection of filthy birds.”
“We believe that it was a type of magical construct.”
“And I don’t really care what it was. What concerns me is that it mentioned that my rival is in possession of this text.” Caballeron placed his hoof on the spiral-bound book.
“You mean Daring Do.”
Argiopé hissed softly, and in the rear of the room Rogue and Withers winced.
“I do,” said Caballeron. “And just as every ancient tomb or temple is guaranteed to have working traps even after millennia of disuse, Daring Do is guaranteed to be able to find her way to get into it.”
“You said that her half of the text contained no map.”
“I did. But it contains a number of text that I do not have the ability to translate. Pictographs, insignias, a language that varies depending on context and intended meaning. What I know is technical. Their descriptions of the device they were attempting to build, the machine. The part I cannot read is its history, its purpose- -and the context necessary to understand where it is.”
“So you are saying that she is the superior translator.”
Caballeron grimaced. “No. What I’m saying is that we need to employ her as…a secondary source.”
“Collaboration will not be possible,” said the commander suddenly and harshly. “We believe she is either being outright controlled or highly influenced by opposing and incompatible elements.”
“Nor would she be willing to work with us anyway,” spat Argiopé. “Nor would I tolerate it…”
“I was not proposing working with her.” Caballeron laughed. “I hardly doubt there would be a situation dire enough for me to even remotely consider that! I only mean to imply that if we were able to procure her notes? I know that she always keeps them with her. If I could see what she had done with her half…well…translating the remainder would be foal’s play.”
The commander stared at him for a long moment. “I have spoken with my employer,” she said. “And I have been instructed to take a greater role in this operation. I will be working closely with you from here on in.”
“That wasn’t the deal!” growled Caballeron.
“You will be more than compensated.”
“For being turned into a glorified consultant?”
“You will not be glorified. Your task will be to complete the translation of this text and then to lead us to the Hand of Doom. Only when it is in our possession will you be paid.”
“It doesn’t matter if she’s offering manure or honey,” said Zel from across the room. “Don’t forget, pony, you still owe me a lot of money.”
“Yes,” said Caballeron through gritted teeth. “I know that.”
“My role does come with perks,” said the commander. “Clearly you cannot be trusted to pick your own mercenaries. You take the lowest bidder too easily. My brothers and sisters will therefore serve in this capacity. As will I. My employer will spare no expense in retrieving this artifact. State what you need, and we will acquire it.”
Caballeron stared at them for a long time. Then he chuckled. “You’re almost making this too easy,” he said, softly. “I’m apt to get nervous.”
“There is no need for that. You are still quite valuable to us.”
“For now,” he sighed. His green eyes met the commander’s red. “Bring me Daring Do, and her notes.”
“Doktor,” gasped Argiopé.
Caballeron smiled, although it was strangely hollow. Any joy within it was masked with something darker. Argiopé understood this, but the commander did not. She had seen too few smiles in her life to know the difference. “Do not worry, my dear.” He lifted Argiopé’s hoof and kissed it. “A reconciliation for my terrible treatment of you these past few days, you will be permitted to extract the information from her if she refuses to cooperate.”
“And if she does cooperate?”
Caballeron shrugged. “Then you can have her afterward, of course.”