//------------------------------// // Chapter One // Story: The Conversion Bureau: The First Choice // by Westphalian_Musketeer //------------------------------// “We don't get to choose what is true. We only get to choose what we do about it.” ― Kami Garcia, Beautiful Darkness “Everyone has choices to make; no one has the right to take those choices away from us. Not even out of love.” ― Cassandra Clare Earth Calendar: 2114 Equestrian Calendar: 12 AC Sergeant Willard Radrim looked out the passenger window of the freight truck he was riding. Beyond the thin plexiglass barrier the Sergeant could view the cars on the street eagerly passing the truck and its contents. He looked up at the sky to see a mass of grey-teal that blocked out most natural sunlight. "Take a left here on ninety-sixth street, then we have a straight shot to the harbor. That way we'll have an hour to spare for security checks and patrols," Willard said to the driver, Andrew Wight, Private First Class. "Yes Sarge." Andrew complied, manoeuvring the massive truck down another street. Willard returned his gaze to the street running by, people went busily along with their lives. Interspersed among them however, were inhabitants that had been around for the last twelve years, ponies. They had appeared when Equestria manifested itself in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. For reasons that required two dozen people, each with a degree, Equestria and Earth were on an extended collision course of universal proportions, playing across decades. "Sergeant, permission to speak freely?" Andrew asked with professionalism. "Permission granted Private," Willard answered amiably. "What's the manifest say about what we're delivering?" Willard pulled out his DATab, a personal computer to end all others; document readouts, live feed maps and video, downloading, everything one could want could be done with the small device. Opening the relevant files, Willard read out some of the titles that they were hauling. "Kafka, Franz ‘Reports to an Academy’; Hitler, Adolf ‘Mein Kampf’..." Browsing some more Willard concluded, "Looks like it's twentieth century German writings." "Germany, Germany, that country caused quite a kerfuffle back then didn't they?" Private Wight asked. "A kerfuffle might be putting it lightly in some historian's views, but yes," Willard replied. "Chances are there are a few hundred pieces that will be shipped off to Canterlot, with the rest going to the main archives. Apparently Celestia's concerned that some of the writing would inspire some less than desirable events. Wouldn't surprise me if this Mr. Hitler's book ends up in Canterlot." The truck then pulled up to a security gate by the harbor. The customs officer walked to the passenger window and Willard opened it. "Shipping manifest," The pale-skinned, white-bearded man demanded. Willard obliged, passing a separate DATab with clearance codes and cargo information. A quick once over elicited a raised eyebrow from the man before he waved his hand. "Go on in, some of the other trucks already arrived." Private Wight proceeded to drive into a cargo bay beside several other trucks. He shifted the vehicle into park and the two soldiers got out, picking up their RAC-7 firearms from the back resting compartment. The RAC-7 was an automatic railgun, using magnetic pulses to send out shots with enough velocity to pierce most armour with a good shot, and paint a wall with a fine red mist if fired at anything that got in the way without a damn fine set of protection. "Alright Private, let's go check in with the lieutenant. Then we can do our patrol until the ship arrives," Willard stated, entering the warehouse with a knock to the door and his rifle slung across his shoulder. Entering the building, the two soldiers looked around, the ceiling reached high above them, and massive crates were stacked all around, ready to be transferred to the S.S. Bordeaux of the EarthGov military when the ship arrived. Standing between two walls of boxes, Lieutenant Karan, the highest ranked officer of the operation, stood with five other soldiers. Turning around, Karan spoke up. "Willard, it's about time, any idea where the last two trucks are?" His voice was gruff, much like his face. The lieutenant had a well defined chin, along with cheekbones that looked as though they were corded with muscle from the near perpetual scrutinizing squint that Karan had when on a mission. Snapping off a salute Willard replied. "No sir, Bravo units six and nine didn't contact us during the trip over." "Well, no news is good news in our line of work." Karan turned to two soldiers. "Jameson, Vickers, go with Sergeant Willard and keep an eye out for the other trucks." He looked around the warehouse before giving a dissatisfied growl. "And somebody find that damned forklift operator! He needs to empty these trucks and fill the shipping containers in time for the SS Bordeaux's crew to carry all of it on board." Jameson and Vickers fell in line behind Sergeant Willard and Private Wight as they exited the building. Vickers had a regular build, with black hair and eyes that were set deep inside his head, giving them a sunken appearance that coupled with his fairly pale skin, gave him the appearance of the Jolly Roger. His constant joking and smugness only added to the effect. "So, we're all ready to defend against a bunch of book burners?" Vickers asked. "You really think anybody's going to attack this? I mean, isn't it a good thing to spread knowledge and culture?" Jameson questioned openly to the entire squad. Willard cast an eye to Wight, who took the cue to inform the soldier of reality. "If you paid attention in school," Wight said, "you'd probably have noticed that sometimes people haven't liked to share. Even if nobody cared about books though, the SS Bordeaux is going to be carrying newfoals, and you know who loves to show up then." "Human Liberation Front," Jameson nearly growled. "Honestly, I don't get what their problem is, if people want to go to the Conversion Bureaus and become ponies, that's their business. No need to try killing them over it." "Thankfully the HLF is a case of a noisy minority," Willard interjected. Glancing around, he added , "Alright, five meter spread, don't want us all mowed down if we are ambushed." The soldiers spread out and continued their patrol. "Speaking of noisy minorities," Wight said, "you guys heard about how the PER attacked the Manhattan bureau a few days ago? I hear they've got rifles that can convert people now." Vickers shuddered. "HLF, PER, they're both fucked up, but what I'm thinkin' Jameson meant when he was talking about our protecting these books was that he was concerned about efficient allocation of resources." "Oh boy, here comes a lesson on griping," Wight chuckled. Casting a glance all around as each soldier aimed their rifles at various corners, they continued among the shipping containers. "Take me for instance," Vickers said. "Put me with a good rail-snipe, and a one mile line of sight with whichever sick bastard runs the HLF or the PER. Bang, take your potion or not boys, ain't nobody gonna want to take that mantle." "The HLF and PER are run by ideas, concepts, judgments," Willard spoke out. "Some people find those things worth dying for. I for one am happy to oblige them on that count... Alright, we're at our section." The group focused on scanning their surroundings for anything amiss. Red, blue, yellow and green shipping containers were stacked around, some carried goods being brought in to the city. Others were filled with goods flowing out. Most of the latter were shipping containers that had already been filled with crates from the trucks. "Keep an eye out for that forklift operator, never know where those civilian volunteers wander off to." Willard rounded a corner. The group saw a forklift half-way inside of a blue shipping container, driver absent and engine still running. "Vickers, Wight, check it out; Jameson, help me cover them," Willard instructed. Taking position, Willard looked down his rifle sights, taking in and surveying the surrounding area. All around, containers were double stacked and obstructed the view of the outside world. I don't like this, Willard thought. Vickers reached the fork-lift with Wight scanning the surroundings with his RAC-7 at the ready. "No operator!" Vickers called out. A creak sounded from inside the container. "And the books are still here," Vickers concluded, walking back out of the container. "Should I turn off the ignition? Maybe the operator just had to go to the can and forgot to turn it off." Willard offered a thumbs up. Vickers turned the key and looked at the others. "Well, that was anticlimactic." A static tone came in through the group's radios then, Lieutenant Karan speaking on the other end. "Any sign of the... hang on, I see him. You! Civvy! Time to get back to packing crates, we have a schedule to... what are you?— Reborn in the light!" With that the radio cut off and Willard cocked his rifle. His fellow soldiers didn't even need to be told what was going on, the final voice had chanted the PER's slogan. They were under attack. Hugging the right side of the main building, Willard called out orders as shots began to ring out from inside. "Wight, Jameson, up the stairs to the upper floor, Vickers, you and I will breach the lower floor." The soldiers positioned themselves and Willard yelled, "Alright!" kicking open the door and leveling his rifle. Inside the building, a purple mist was coalescing on the ground a hundred feet away. An unconscious, brown-and-white-painted unicorn was laying among the settled goop. At the entrance several feet behind the converted PER operative a dozen troopers in white, unmarked armour had taken cover and had Lieutenant Karan and the others pinned with occasional shots from their rifles. Karan himself was another hundred feet away from Willard on the opposite end of the building. A catwalk over Willard's head rattled as Wight and Jameson entered the building. Willard radioed Wight, "Provide covering fire from the second level." Willard sneaked behind a crate and popped out briefly, catching a PER trooper in his sights, he let out a burst from his RAC, and the enemy soldier slumped to the ground before his friends started firing at Willard. Vickers poked his head out of cover and ducked back in when a blast of purple blast of light flew by his head, missing by a few inches. The soldier that had made the shot had his mind opened in the most literal sense when Wight unloaded a well placed shot into the PER's brain. The remaining PER troops dug in and Lieutenant Karan and the others moved forward, firing on the move to keep the enemy pinned. "No grenades, we can’t risk killing the newfoal, or destroying our shipment," Karan called out over the radio. Willard and Vickers began making their way to the left flank, popping from cover and taking shots at exposed troopers as their position became open to crossfire. A PER trooper stood up, a potion grenade in his fist. Before Willard could shoot the PER, the enemy threw the grenade at the upper balcony where Wight and Jameson were perched. "NO!" the sergeant called out as the potion grenade detonated a second after Jameson had jumped over the nearby rail, landing with a crack as his feet made contact with the floor below. "Vickers, head back and help Jameson, I'll hold this position and cover you." As Vickers turned around, a PER trooper was slamming his fist into his jammed rifle. Soon the soldier screamed as the arm he lifted to punch the uncooperative gun was ripped off by a passing RAC-7 round. Willard provided covering fire and Karan and the others were now where Willard and Vickers had entered the building. Vickers reached Jameson and dragged him to cover, neither had been hit by enemy fire. Willard allowed himself a small smile as he leaned out to see the engagement progress. Karan was now half-way to the new foal, and there were five PER troopers left. He saw another trooper begin fiddling with his own malfunctioning weapon; a burst of potion shot out of the side into the soldiers helmet visor, blinding him. Just then, Willard felt a sharp piercing sensation in his left shoulder. Leaning back behind cover the sergeant grasped at the area; the armour was intact, but when he lifted his hand out he could feel an anesthetic working through his body. "Motherfucker," Willard muttered as he dropped his rifle, it would be the last thing his hands ever held. The sounds of the battle grew dim, and soon Willard was unconscious.