//------------------------------// // 11 - The Blizzard, Braved // Story: Cypress Zero // by Odd_Sarge //------------------------------// Echoing hooves fell muffled as the door to the room shut. Cold glanced back at the hologram of Golden Graham. Without Fokienia’s history, it was surprisingly difficult to find a position to hold: this was the governor, a pony he’d held in high regard for most of his time plugged into Cypress’ local relay networks. Despite the zealous nature of some of his words, he seemed honest, or enough to fool Fokienia at least. Truthfully, Cold wasn’t too worried. The mood was undermined by the fact that a pony of the law was coming for him… but that was hardly the end of the world. “You gave her a way out?” The projected stallion nodded at him. “And I appreciate your compliance. I understand it’s been an… enduring, couple of days.” “What do you mean?” Graham smiled. “Nothing untoward, if that’s what you’re thinking.” His smile fell as he continued. “There have just been many signs, and unforeseen variables. I’m sorry to have you trapped in the midst of all this. I really am.” Cold’s voice and look flattened into a deeper monotone, something he hadn’t fallen on since boarding the station. “So what happens when the marshall arrives?” “He’ll be taking you to a safe place.” “A cell?” “…I think I’d agree with the marshall if he took that route.” Cold just nodded. “Right.” Graham blinked. His perplexed visage was quickly hidden away. “Given the circumstances, you’re very conservative with your attitude.” “I’ve been through worse.” He paused. “And I trust that you won’t subject me to harm… if legal consequences are still on the table.” “They still very much are.” Graham tilted his head ever-so slightly, analyzing Cold while the kirin sat as still as a sunken stone. “I’m not going to do anything to you, captain. This is purely for your protection.” Cold puffed hot air, but didn’t move. “Why do I need to be protected when— quite clearly—it is my friend who is the target at large?” “That’s something I’d like to discuss with you pony-to-pony.” The kirin leaned back. “What?” “Captain, I…” he turned away for a moment, his head hung low. Clearing his throat, he came back around, trotting along the conference room floor. “Troubles for Cypress are ahoof, and they need to be addressed as soon as possible. The margin of error is only widening with every passing moment, and I’m simply attempting to contain as much of it as I can.” He stopped pacing. “I don’t want to harm you, or anypony for that matter. You will be safe under Concord watch.” Cold twitched. “…If it’s information you want—” “No,” Graham interrupted, taking Cold aback. “Captain Cold, I am earnestly doing my best for you. You are a loyal associate to the leading ponies of Cypress. Please understand that you are just a displaced pony. You were at the wrong place at the wrong time. Your role, as inadvertent as it has been, is at an end. You are an innocent kirin, and furthermore…” he took a deep breath, “I’d be honored to call you Cypressean. I assure you, true to my word, that we will discuss this later.” A fragment of Cold’s dreams—cached deep below daily troubles and present conundrums—jittered at the claim. A Cypressean kirin. It was almost enough to break his mask, but there was a problem. A big problem. “And in that time, what will happen to my friend? She’s as much a bystander to this rogue research laboratory as I am. They’ll still want her.” For a moment, it seemed as if the governor was prepared to shutdown the projectors: his hovering hoof came back down. He eventually frowned. “Rogue, you say?” He looked away, once again looking at some panel beyond the projectors’ range. “That’s one way to put it.” Cold’s lip twitched. He kept his silence. “My answer is the same as before, captain.” His eyes were hard, and his voice unapologetic. “Whatever her allegiance is, I can’t be sure of it. You’re a kirin. And—” It should make no difference. The governor stopped. Cold’s heart thud. “It should make no difference.” He repeated himself, and this time he was sure he’d said the words. “Neither I nor her wanted any of this to happen, Mister Graham.” He sighed. “Even if she were as innocent in this as you say, she still carries their proprietary technology. Evidently, they’ve weaponized it. I have to stop the ponies I know I can. I…” He hesitated. “I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt by letting her go.” “We’ll see how that works out,” Cold replied icily. He didn’t stand, but his hooves started to ache on the uncomfortable steel chair. “She’s got the mind of a filly. Sheltered for a majority of her foalhood by some shadow organization, coerced into training for them, and put through whatever experiments they want.” He openly huffed. “I thought you knew the right way to resolve this, but it’s clear now that you have other plans in mind, and those plans don’t involve her.” It wasn’t like he could leave, not anymore. But he could only wonder what plans he had in mind for Fokienia. Graham had an implacable, placid look strewn across his face. “The marshall will be there for you shortly. I look forward to speaking to you in-pony.” He lifted a holographic hoof, and pressed it off-screen. And then, Cold was alone. And like the good kirin he was, he waited. In just under a couple of minutes, the governor’s orders rectified his onset loneliness. The door opened, and a Concord unicorn in uniform stepped in. A sharp black beret was perched on his short-styled mane. He cleared his throat, not even bothering to look around the room. “Captain Searing Cold, walk with me.” Silently, Cold stood. “Do you want me in hoofcuffs?” The unicorn’s flat look didn’t falter. “Are you willing to continue complying?” “Yes.” “Then no, we don’t. Walk with me, please.” The hallway was devoid of any trace of Fokienia. Cold didn’t know why he’d expected more. The mare they’d spoken to prior was still sat at her desk, quiet as she tapped away at the keys to her terminal. She glanced up as Cold and the marshall passed, but said nothing. Instead, she bore a dainty smile. When Cold turned around, several ponies in black uniforms stepped out of an elevator. The marshall in front of him ground to a halt. Cold stood behind the unicorn, peering around him with just a pinch of nervousness. The real nerves were struck when he saw the bulky pegasus: his extra appendages were covered by a pair of black fabric sleeves, but there was no doubt in Cold’s mind that there were metal wings hidden beneath them. By his side, a familiar bat pony stared into Cold. They were here. An even more familiar stallion spoke for the three ponies behind him. “CSO. We’re here to provide support.” His eyes didn’t stray like his comrades: his full focus was on keeping professional with the marshall. The marshall, to his credit, didn’t budge an inch. “Where’s the rest of your squad?” “Securing the lobby.” He nodded. “We’ve also secured a transport. He’s to be expedited to C.C.C. detention and holding. Maximum security.” “Show me some credentials.” The unit leader was quick to start reaching for his jumpsuit pocket, and the marshall continued. “And off-record, it’s about time you ponies saw some action.” The glint of light from the unit leader’s pocket flashed Cold. Stoically, he watched the plastic-encased card be put on display. “Good?” The marshall nodded. “Governor putting you to work?” “Aye. It’s been a day like no other.” The unit leader met Cold’s eyes. “Elevator’s already called. We’re trying to keep the terrorist’s presence as under wraps as possible.” Behind him, Cold could hear the secretary’s constant staccato stumble. It was something nopony else appeared to have noticed—after all, he had a keen ear for rhythm. Still, she had to be given credit for recovering so quickly. “Terrorist?” The marshal said for Cold. His tone was flat, but he didn’t look back at Cold. The unit leader’s muzzle twitched. “News is spreading slow. He detonated an explosive charge in a civilian zone. A private clinic.” Cold didn’t speak. What was there to say when it was his word against four, and more? Finally, the marshall checked back on him. A dim light shined behind his eyes. “But he’s a kirin.” There was a great deal of doubt in his voice. “That doesn’t matter,” the leader responded. “Respectfully, marshall, you weren’t there.” The unicorn peeled away from Cold. He glanced between him and the four pegasi. His horn lit with magic. From his front pocket, a blue-coated metal ring—no bigger than a piece of old Equestrian coinage—was levitated out. Solemnly, Cold bowed his head out, and closed his eyes. He felt cool metal slip across the jutting bone of his forehead. Tendrils of magic warped and strewn across each keratin groove of his red horn, sapping the life from his own essence. With each step of the slow, frictionless slide, the aching pang grew in severity. At the final thud of an impassable curve, the world thrummed a beat of silence for him. Across its entire existence, a magic suppression ring had never been applied to a kirin of the enclave, but Searing Cold now knew first-hoof what true void was like. The peculiar whine that had always tucked itself away in the corners of his ears shrieked openly. He flinched, and cracked opened his eyes. The sheer frigidity of the magical implement was overwhelming: his hooves shook, and he struggled to stay upright. The four operatives, and the unicorn marshall, were all watching him. He fought to stand for himself—if words wouldn’t suffice, then his actions would. When Cold had finally fought enough to breathe easily, the light of the marshall’s eyes had dimmed further. The unicorn just looked away. The march to the elevator was harsh. Cold felt as if he were tugging at the controls of a planetside shuttle mid-blizzard. Copious amounts of force compelled him to fight for each hoofstep. The piercing waves lodged in his ears were harder to deal with; the noise convulsed with each focused squeeze he put into suppressing it. Torturous was the only way Cold could describe it: of all the pressure-held ambient magic in the station atmosphere, to have it dangled before him, but barred from touch, was an inhibition worse than the touch of the galactic vacuum. It was less than two dozen steps to the elevator, but by the time he’d clambered in, he needed the support of the cybernetic pegasus and bat pony to stay standing. Nopony said a word, and Cold couldn’t be asked to look at any of them; he was too encumbered by the simple enchanted ring, carefully constructed by the Equestrian Concord to bog the mind and spirit of a horn-wielding criminal. His stomach lurched at the mere thought of it, as well as the rising movement of the metal box intended to send him away. And still, not a single word was spoken aloud. To be at the heart of the place he called home, and to experience such silence, it did make the situation worse for Cold. Fokienia had said something about the Project ponies wanting him. As far as he could tell, those plans involved keeping him alive. But could he really say he was safe? Weakly, he pivoted his burdened head around the elevator. There were no eyes to meet; they all stared ahead at the rotund indicators above the sliding door. They ticked by, the yellow bulbs harsh like sun-fire, until the process came to a head on the eighth and final knob. There was no pleasant chime, only the sound of sliding steel. The doors opened, and Cold found himself herded out onto the flat of a central city rooftop. Six stories high, a cool breeze of station atmospherics blew through. A ways away, but not directly overhead, sky-lanes of pegasi flit by. Cold’s ears prickled; a whirring siren wailed from a place out of sight, and the invisible gap closed with each passing moment. On the roof, there were a few set plates of secured maintenance hatches, pipes, and façades, but most prominently a flat octagon-shaped pad that spanned maybe a dozen ponies wide in each way. Cold was helped up the steps to the elevated metal-rimed slab of concrete and metal. He stood there on the edge, supported by the cyborg and bat pony, both with a tightened grip. Behind him, the marshall spoke. “Search his jacket. I… neglected to.” Cold craned his neck down while the cyborg pat him down roughly. The bat pony whispered just loud enough for him and the cyborg. “You’re a hard catch, kirin.” Huh, she was a mare. He could’ve sworn they were all stallions… “Gave me and Sequoia quite a run… speaking of, where is she?” “Hey!” the marshall barked. “Escort or not, he’s under my custody. Governor’s orders. Any words that come out of him come on my order.” Cold heard the bat slip away, but Sequoia answered with his rough, brusque voice. “Everypony needs answers…” The statement lacked the evocative nuance Cold expected. The cyborg continued to swipe up and down the inside of Cold’s jacket. His burly hooves could crush diamonds if he tried… “That’s enough, C1. He’s clean.” Grunting, Sequoia let him be. “We’re not trying to overstep our boundaries, marshall,” the unit leader assured. He gave Cold a wary eye. “He’s just no shortage of trouble, that’s all.” The ever-present siren was closer than ever before. Cold’s hooves were beginning to clam up on the ramp, and he couldn’t tell why. He lifted his head again, fighting over the lead-like weight curled around his horn. From the edge of the rooftop, a roaring current of air blasted at him. The Concord sky-chariot was a rare sight, but only for Cypress Station. Cold was no stranger to it. Like the other hover-craft in operation throughout Cypress and the Equestrian Core Worlds, the enclosed vehicle made its controlled ascent on exhaustless projectors. Where a typical thruster exploited universal fundamentals to achieve propulsion, the humming projectors breathed the artificially-deposited magic saturated about the station atmosphere. It washed over him, as familiar a feeling as ever: the Sparkle Drive aboard the Waste Peddler worked in its own cyclical manner of siphoning and distributing magic. Unlike his hybridized ship, the vehicle descending before him was very much designed for in-atmosphere use. Even this far from their planet of origin, the magic being pulled through the projectors felt as rich and dense as ever. Cold was pulled back roughly by one of the pegasi, and the warmth left him just as quickly: his horn froze till it was dull again. The siren whooped one last time before both it, and the flashing lightbar, settled into nothing. The boxy and black vehicle was imprinted with a Concord insignia, and the usual blue-tinted windows. It didn’t so much as land as it did come to a near-silent hover just a hoof above the roof’s landing pad. The ponies on the rooftop moved for and toward it. After a moment of tapping hooves, one of the few side doors to the vehicle slid open. The limited view of the interior showed nopony. The brown-coated unit leader rapped on the side of the sky-chariot’s front windshield. The tint was too thick to see through, but that didn’t stop him from smiling. He threw his head back toward Cold, the marshall, and the remaining operatives. “Load up!” As Cold was once more put to march, one of the pegasi operatives by the chariot called back behind him. “Marshall?” The unicorn grunted, and passed Cold and his entourage. He paused, tapped his ear twice, then continued trotting for the sky-chariot’s open entrance. “I’m coming.” Cold was buckled in by one of the operatives, and Sequoia settled into place beside him. It felt strange to be seated where he was in the sky-chariot: the intimidating gunmetal bars at the back of the room were where he’d expected to be. He supposed that, yet again, he was a special case: kirins weren’t typically handled like prisoners. He would’ve smiled and shook his head at the understanding, but he was still so drained from the suppression ring. Once everypony had piled into the spacious compartment, the marshall slid the exterior door shut with a hoof. He buckled himself to one of the seats beside a sturdy blue-metal door. Presumably, it lead straight to the cockpit of the craft. With a spring of magic, his ear glowed briefly. “We’re good to go, pilot.” His voice rang out through speakers hidden about the cabin. With the short-wave radio communique signed and sent, the vehicle hummed, and Cold felt the world flit skyward. Below them, the shielding stretched across the center of the passenger bay’s floor split open; through the windowed floor below, Cold was treated to a view of Cypress from above. He opted to close his eyes. “So, nopony’s gonna cuff him?” “Give him some dignity,” the marshall replied. “He’s already suppressed.” “Don’t rightly see why we should.” The operative in the seat across from Cold leaned back—his uniform ruffled fiercely as he adjusted. “Charge he blew nearly wiped the unit.” “You mentioned the charge earlier. What type?” “Standard door charge,” another operative answered. “Full-payload.” Despite the marshall’s continued efforts to veil his emotions, Cold could feel the shock buried in his voice… and the draw of his stare. “Were there any casualties?” For a moment, the only sound in the cabin was that of the projectors humming outside the hull. “Superficial injuries,” the unit leader answered. “The operation was conducted minutes before twelve-hundred. We were back on our hooves in that time.” The marshall spoke, his voice now steeled. “Then I apologize for my doubts.” “…Regardless, the cuffs won’t be necessary.” Cold lifted his head. The unit leader just shook his head at him. Cold craned again. “I’m sorry.” He hazarded the chance, and met the marshall’s look. In that instant, the pain that pulsed by Cold hurt so very badly. Hanging his head, he resolved to silence. The ringing in his ears didn’t pick up. Yet, it felt like more of a punishment than anything else. All he could think about was Fokienia. The flight didn’t last much longer. The Central Command Center wasn’t a long flight away, even on normal wings. Not that Cold had much of a gauge on that: typically, ponies traveled here through elevators and tunnels. The windowed floor of the sky-chariot sealed up as the pilot deposited the curt vessel in the hangar. That familiar magnetic hum buzzed to life, and everypony began to unbuckle themselves. Cold was escorted out by the marshall himself, and stepping onto the concrete below. Similar to the blue-green exterior, the internal steel-crimped walls were painted in iridescent evergreen hues. There was room for one additional sky-chariot shuttle in the bay, but there wasn’t one at present. There were two sets of doors on either side of the consolidated room—judging by the big sign labeled ‘component compartment’ only one of them was the way forward—but nopony was waiting for them. For some reason, Cold expected a bigger welcoming party, especially with all the fuss thrown up around him. Still, this was his first real look at the interior of the command hub: maybe this was how they usually handled things. Then again, Cold was almost certain the detention center would be devoid of inmates. How many could say they’d been deemed dangerous enough to warrant the highest security possible? Now, Cold started to worry. As he was shepherded past the first doors of the complex’s hangar entrance, he put his energy into maintaining a level mind and spirit. He was Searing Cold, the cool kirin captain, and he was being forced into the Hydra’s den; there were bound to be eyes on him from all around, but none were going to be out to directly harm him. Not yet, at least. With that minute degree of comfort in mind, he raised himself up, and transitioned to walking without the support of the operatives flanking him. The halls were of robust construction, and damp with the smell of melted ‘roid. It was a surprise, considering how far they must’ve been from the real remaining core of the long-hollowed asteroid, but a surprise that filled Cold with fond memories of the past. Metal girders stretched across the open ceiling as vents and croaking pipes worked away. Valves bore free to the open air. It was a good sign to him: Cypress had never been a glamorous place, and the lack of façade to even the most basic systems was a welcome visual. There were bound to be bureaucrats in the halls ahead, and if the rest of the facility was built like this, then they’d be ponies of the more hardy and understanding sort. For the moment, he pressed on, hoping for any hint of a friendly face. The first ponies they came across were all Concord guards. The white blazed insignia was a messy slurry to Cold’s eyes, and it only doubled down as he was forced deeper into the complex. Black uniforms gave way to suits and dresses, but when he passed, they still dropped quiet, and stilled on the dime. A fuming whine bubbled in his ears in response to their sobering silence. Cold faded in and out. His hooves skimmed the ceramic floor senselessly. He breathed. The operatives at his side found new holds on him. His first real breath came as the ring was lifted from his horn. Gasping, he collapsed against a flat slat of metal jutting out from the wall. An evergreen cushion was stretched across it, and a dull white pillow met his outstretched foreleg. He looked up and over at the three ponies at the door: the bat pony, the unit leader, and the unicorn marshall. “Yeah, he’ll be fine,” the brown unicorn cut in. He stepped backwards, then out of the doorway. His focus landed square on “If he gives you any ‘special’ issues, ring us up. We’ve got more experience with kirins than anypony else in the nearest five sectors, I can guarantee it.” The aura shrouding the horn of the marshall paled; the flap on the breast pocket of his uniform fell shut. He nodded, his eyes never leaving Cold. “Governor’s going to be sending more orders soon, I’m sure. For now, I’ll get the warden on his case.” With great finality, he walked backwards, and turned away from Cold. “Thanks for the assist.” The bat pony took the unbidden cue, and stepped out of the room as well. She gave Cold a curt, fanged grin, and sealed the sturdy steel door shut. Soon after, the viewing slat went with it. The walls seemed to close in, and the roof, too: in the corner of the ceiling, almost out of sight, a red light began to blink. The camera it was attached to buzzed imperceptibly. After its readjustment, the lens refocused, and the whole armature fell still. The unexplored territory of the detention facility was the least of Cold’s worries, now. He curled up on the cot and tucked his head down. An unintentional groan left him. He let out another one on purpose, as if it would excise the phantom grip of the magic suppression ring. The only thing Cold could care for right now was the comfort of his unloaded mind. After all Cold had struggled through in the last two days, he knew he should’ve cared more. Why? Because the world of a peacemaker was all but peaceful. A new familiarity sounded: the viewing slat gave another sharp clink. “Hey there, space kirin.” And that old, deep space dread carved into Searing Cold’s chest.