The Last Holdouts - A Conversion Bureau Story

by Aedina

As Above

Oliver's wings ached of fire and strain as they beat over the choppy waves. "It's a good thing we went to those classes, eh Doctor?", he asked. Oliver had insisted that everypony on board the Bonne Chance go to Conversion classes, even if they were still in human form. He blessed his foresight now, as he tried to trust to his new instincts and the fading memory of his Conversion dream. He struggled to hold on to his passenger with both forelegs, unable to raise himself higher due to their combined weight. Knowing that it should be possible for him to carry her was, he found, quite different from knowing exactly how he was supposed to do so.

Netta merely nodded, her teeth clenched in terror as she bobbed like a cork in the spray her hooves kicked up beneath her. All of her concentration was on a brightly swaying dot of light in the distance - the rescue crew on the aft deck of the Bonne Chance were holding it high for Oliver to follow, as they threw out pony-sized life preservers and uncoiled a tow line, securing it it to the stern.

Oliver felt the motion of her assent, his eyes focused on the very same goal, the light, a sharp pinpoint of hope and haven growing steadily closer. He glanced briefly over his shoulder, and was relieved to see that the H.L.F. ship was no longer in hot pursuit. One of the two copters had engaged the enemy and was busily exchanging rounds while the other hovered just behind his path. The force barrier prevented any closer approach of the vehicle, but the roar of the propeller beat the water to an icy froth. As Oliver returned his attention to the Bon Chance, a spot light flooded over him.

The glare from above cut a sudden swath for him, marking his own position more clearly for his crew. Oliver wished he knew if the copter's light included other, more lethal things, being aimed at him.....whose side were these guys on? Just because the other copter had gone for the H.L.F.-ers did not automatically rank this one as an ally. They could very well be on two completely separate teams from each other. Hell, it could even be completely different chapters of the H.L.F. fighting for the honor of taking out the last ponies on Earth before Doomsday claimed their misbegotten bigotry for good and all.

Static rattled and hissed through the ship's receiver despite every effort Marina made to adjust the settings. "The barrier's interfering with our reception, Sir. I just can't seem to get through to them."

"It doesn't matter, now, in a little while there'll be no more barrier," answered Captain Smollette. "Once we've recovered our over-boards, and everypony is accounted for, we're gonna cross!"

Marina understood. The two unidentified new foals would be safe, once Immersion was completed. It was simply that the chances of the two arriving in the same place as the rest of the ship's complement was lean, at best. Granted, the exponential lands might cease to grow, once all of Terra had been absorbed - but that was only one of the many theories being bounced around. Risking the loss of even one of their on-board family to such a chance was out of the question if it could at all be prevented.

It bothered her, though. It seemed very un-pony not to try and help the copter's crew. Of course there was no way of knowing if they even needed help. Anypony in their right minds would already be converted, or have the means of being so on hoof. Marina tried to focus her attention to the reports coming from the aft deck, so that she could let the Captain know when the rescue was completed. She'd already heard from down below. Greenwind had helped organize the cargo bay and was ready to dose the remaining unconverted any moment now, she knew. The Baptism of purple goo would be an interesting sight and part of her wished she could be there to see it. Duty called, though, and despite many nagging tugs on her conscience, she did her best to deal with the task at hoof.

The ever-present, rhythmic thwump of rotating blades was apt to induce an hypnotic state of mind. It didn't matter how many years Paul had been flying, or how many times he'd been behind the stick - only his protective ear cups kept him from giving into the seductive drone of engine and blades. Below him the two ponies he held in his spotlight struggled to reach their ship. Behind him he could hear his co-pilot rooting through their belongings for the flask of purple conversion potion. Everything had seemed so easy when they'd left Cape Town. One last tour of the coast to check for any stragglers, then home in time to cross over. The flask had been a precaution, only, until now. In his lap lay the now defunct radio transmitter. The voice of the kind mare on-board the endangered yacht below no longer reached out to reassure him through the barrier's interference.

"Shame the deck's too small for us to land on, hey Paul?", his copilot shouted to him, from over his shoulder.

"Yeah, at this point I'd settle for a rock, a breaker, anything that we could put down on, Artie.", Paul replied. The problem, he knew, wasn't leaving the helicopter. The problem was avoiding being turned to mince-meat by the copter's uncontrolled descent once no-one was piloting it. Both of them would have to down potion and bail very quickly, and very soon. Any injuries could be cured in Equestria, with magic. But death was irreversible. And if the copter hit the yacht? Well, he didn't even want to THINK about that one.