//------------------------------// // The Devil's Plumbing // Story: Friendship Space // by the dobermans //------------------------------// “God damn it!” The guy on the bench gets up and flicks his cigarette at the unicorn, who was clambering over the railing, waggling her little orange tongue in concentration. Another country heard from. “Who set these fuggin’ things loose in the station? More a’ fuggin’ EarthGov’s …” he waves his bottle at the struggling creature, “… handiwork. Dirty mutts are runnin’ the place. Looka that bassard! Here.” He staggers to the railing and grabs the unicorn under her forelegs, lifting her over. “You know what I do with little pony mutts like you? I put ‘em down. Shoot ‘em, right in the face. Point blanket. No pain, no sufferin’.” What? That must be some good shit he’s drinking. You’d better break it up before he gets a genetic makeover. The pony giggles and lowers her horn. “Like this?” You drop to one knee and shield your eyes, avoiding the flash. No warning, no mercy. But maybe this time you can stop the slaughter. Maybe if you interrupt the spell, toss the little fucker back over the railing and splatter her on the punch bowls and piles of confetti … but no, that would break Daina’s kindness symmetry. You have to be nice. How could you coax the lioness off of her prey? The flare of pony magic intensifies, and even through your suit you can feel its sharp tingle. You squint into the wavering shell of light, ready to bum rush both of them. Just a little violence, surely that wasn’t bending the rules too much? You were so overwhelmed with joy at witnessing a fellow man’s rebirth into ponyhood, you could tell her, that you just had to hug someone. Yeah, the unicorn might buy it. As for the guy, he … He wasn’t a guy anymore. At least not completely. He was changing from the head down, his face already covered in thin orange-brown hair, eyes bigger than grapefruits. He stood there downing the rest of his scotch, flipping his pony assailant a calm, defiant bird. You tear your eyes away and scramble around a divider, deep in the shadows between the balcony and the adjacent hallway. There’s a door at the end, its panel glowing a sweet blue. You race to it, trying to ignore the laughter and the wailing leaking through from the other side. *** Steady Isaac. You’d made it. You’d cut them all to pieces. You retrieve the plasma cutter clip that had slipped from your trembling hand and slide it into the smoking receiver. Your RIG’s vibration correction servos could only handle so much adrenaline. Take a time out, buddy. Yeah, just a short siesta to clear the mind. Your temporary refuge is quiet and empty. It’s an electrical closet, somewhere near the tram station. Nothing but cables, junction boxes and thick steel walls. One way in, one way out. The cutter is cooling down, the smoke thinning out. Every step of the way had been a death struggle. The necromorphs had returned after the attack on the balcony. The real ones. The ones that made sense. First there had been a family, a woman agonizing over leaving her ailing mother behind as she fled the outbreak. They had both become infected. Their heads came off clean and quick – one, two. More of the freaks had ambushed you in a laundry room, the slash-happy kind. And right before you’d jumped in here, something new had bid you a friendly hello by blowing itself up next to you, some scrawny scrap of flesh lugging around a sac of explosive shit. Your ears were still ringing from that little surprise. You crawl to the wall and lean back, enjoying the cool dry air your suit’s filtration unit was pumping to your helmet. Jumping back and forth between killer and cuddler was annoying as fuck. Insanity couldn’t be simple. Nosiree, can’t have that. Daina had said the ponies are manifestations of the dementia, and that the hallucinations would deepen until she could treat you. So there’s no choice but to assume that Daina exists, and that even as everyone you meet dies, becomes infected, or trots merrily off on dainty hooves, it’s possible to wade through the bullshit and get to her in time. But why should the illness make any exceptions? Why should it allow for a happy ending? Back up a step. The only fact yet to be contradicted is that you’re sick. If that’s the only constant, then why should you believe Daina? Maybe she’s a necromorph. Or a goddamn pony. Sure, every living person you’d encountered who had seen the ponies or spoken of them as real had been crazy – the doctor, Stross, the guy on the … Except the guy on the balcony. He’d been the first person not obviously insane and/or wearing a straightjacket who had acknowledged the ponies. Drunk, sure, but mostly coherent nonetheless. So two opposing viewpoints from two presumably sane people. Assuming that the ponies are real, then what about the necromorphs? How do they fit in? You shake your head and stand up. You’re backsliding, Isaac, lapsing into theory like a chalkboard-humping physicist. Rationalizing the irrational. The empirical evidence is all there is, all there ever was. Be nice to the ponies and they leave you alone. Stomp the necromorphs after you chop them up and they poop out money and ammo. It’s kept you alive so far. You exit your ad hoc sanctuary, sweeping the broad passage with the cutter. With evidence comes confidence. The sign above the door to the left reads Galilei Transit Station. That’s the ticket. The empty hallway beyond slopes downward, then up at the end in a gentle curve, a whimsical piece of architecture designed to break up the monotony, maybe give the residents the impression of trekking through a hilly field on their way to the workday commute. The perky advertisements cycling through the flat panels lining the wall, yeah, check those out as you sip your coffee. EarthGov. Safe and Sound. Stand tall, great Oz. Good things are happening, and pay no mind that the view never changes. You reach the bottom of the slope. Safe and Sound. Isaac are you there? I’m cold. The screens flicker, coughing static and disjointed words. The floor plates are shifting under your boots. She’s at it again. But you’d already had this discussion. She’s just rehashing the same old shit. “That’s not going to work Nicole! I don’t care anymore! Are you listening? I don’t give a fuck!” Your breath fogs the inside of your visor. The needle is burning in my arm. Isaac, where are you? Snippets of her dying thoughts were coming through, just for you. Wouldn’t want to miss those, would you Isaac? You miserable fuck. “Oh, that’s just perfect. That’s out of bounds, understand? I didn’t ask you to …” But you had asked her. You’d nagged her relentlessly to join the Ishimura’s medical unit, and in time she’d given in. You had packed her uniforms, kissed her on the transport landing pad. Told her you’d miss her. The room is getting dark. I can’t see you. Not fair. She’s not playing fair. Nicole is gone. Lost, light years away. You run uphill to the end of the hall and through into the tram station. She’s there, sitting on the backboard of a waiting bench, just like she used to in the tropical mini-parks back home. She’s still dressed in white, smiling like the dawn in a painting of old Earth. Never mind the rising heat. You step closer, watching her bright rosy eyes. She had changed again. Her hair had grown long and colorful. It was flowing behind her, lifted in a dreamy light. One hand was reaching to you, holding a unicorn’s horn. In the other danced a miniature sun. Can you see me? A burning tram car screams past behind the bench, setting the posters and signs in its tunnel ablaze. She vanishes. You trudge to the bench, bringing both fists down where she had been sitting. The thin plastic cracks and clatters to the floor. Something bumps behind you as if in answer. “And it’s over, just like that?” you yell at the flames. “You play your fucking mind games and then just disappear?” A door is hissing open. “Whoa … whoa!” calls a quavering voice. Motherfucker not now. The broken bench splinters in your grip. “I don’t know what you are, but you sure as hell aren’t Nicole. She wasn’t a coward.” You turn in time to see a chubby brown unicorn coming out of another tram. She’s teetering on the shoulders of a necromorph. Later, maybe in another electrical closet, or even a secluded bathroom, one with fresh clean urinal cakes and newspapers left folded for you by conscientious stall occupants, when you aren’t pissed as fuck, you could ruminate on the psychology of that one. Later. Two shots from the cutter blow the knees out from under the necromorph. It falls into a growling heap, sending the unicorn rolling to your feet. You pick her up and hold her tight with one arm. “Hey there kiddo, what’s your name?” “Cookie Jar,” she grumbles. You squeeze her legs against her pudgy gut until you feel her joints pop. “Well, Cookie, here’s a science lesson. Plasma is referred to as the fourth state of matter by some. It’s just hot gas, really, so hot that the atoms lose their electrons.” “Plasma? Duh, we learned about that in …” “Be quiet and listen!” You wave the cutter under her nose. “This here is a little something I threw together to help young ponies like you experience plasma firsthand.” “Young? I’m twenty seven! And I’m offended by your use of the word ‘firsthand’. I’m going to tell Princess Luna …” “Shut up! I told you to shut up!” You shout in her face, shooting off one of the necromorph’s blade arms. Cookie Jar squirms in your grip. “Don’t hurt her! She’s got long legs. She was helping me see out the windows.” “Oh, you want down?” You punt her into the shadows of the smoldering tram tunnel. Fucking whiner. You kick the convulsing necromorph aside and step up into the tram. How to get this thing moving? Everything was automated per ISO standard, so driving was out. The PLCs of these jobs were usually housed in the back. Worth a hack, maybe. You head to the last car, trying to remember how municipal class units are wired. There it is, gray cover plate with a high voltage warning. It comes off with a quick tug, and you dig in. Not too bad. Your average terrorist would be pretty well out of luck. Grizzled engineers like yourself, much more dangerous. The car bucks, then begins to build momentum. There we go. Just a short ride to Daina, pop some meds, then get to sorting through this mess. No more ponies. Ponies. There might still be one or two lurking on the tram. Cookie Jar and her pal had been pretty quiet before your little outburst. Best to root out any malingerers. It would be bad manners to darken Daina’s doorstep with unwanted guests. You canvas the car, checking under all of the seats. Clear. The next car up is empty too. As you cross into the third, you hear a thump on the ceiling behind you. Then two more. Hoofbeats are crisscrossing up above. Shit. The windows of the second car crash inward all at once, breached by sharp hooves and hard little skulls. The space above the seats fills up with a suffocating cloud of wings and manes. More glass breaks ahead of you. This wasn’t like the other surprise attacks. If they surround you now, your options are out the window. Literally. You slam through two cider swillers that had boarded the third car, splashing their fetid drink in your face, trying to blind you. The head car was probably reinforced against crashes: small windows, thick steel. Get in there and you had a chance. The stupid bastards might even wedge themselves in the doorway. The fourth car is clear. The fifth car … is missing. Empty track separates you from the rest of the tram, roaring by in a blur of cables and concrete. Where the fuck is the fifth car? Did the assholes on duty this morning put their five collective brain cells together and decide connecting the tram was above their payscale? “There he is! OK team, let’s bag this troublemaker!” The pegasi are in, nets and candy buckets in tow. “Princess Luna, in here! Eye Sack is in here!” So that fucking loudmouth was still on the prowl. If you didn’t want the worst kind of headache, you’d have to risk using your suit’s on-board thrusters and cross the gap to the next car. You jump forward into the dim tunnel, switching on the twin rockets housed in your boots. The tunnel weaves right, and you weave with it. This had never been an easy operation. Keeping the legs parallel was key. If they went off-axis, you could go into a nasty spin. Six thousand RPM was not good for the neck. The broken door of the car ahead breaks off and blows past your face. Just a few more inches … and … your fingers catch the frame. Reaching with your other hand, you pull yourself in and look back. The pegasi are scattering, tumbling away in the turbulence of the tram’s wake. Rockets beat wings every time. You get up and keep moving. This car is quiet. Nothing under the seats. Excellent. The only way the fliers had boarded earlier was because the tram hadn’t picked up a good head of steam. Another aerial hijack is unlikely. Onward to the lead car, then … Something bangs and starts grinding overhead. The car swings left and right, jolting hard every few feet. You grab the handrails on either side, bobbing like a punched out boxer. You’re slowing down. Another hard jolt breaks your grip and sends you to the floor. The lights sizzle and go out. You know from working over the PLC that the lights and the motor are on the same signal path. If the lights are out, so is the power. But the car is still inching forward. No, not the car. You’re moving, but how? An apple rolls by your shoulder. Oh shit. The front of the tram drops to an incline, pulling you down into the darkness. Your feet slam through the door to the next car, straight through a pair of twin blue unicorns. “Ow! Hey, it’s Eye Sack! Get him!” They just miss latching onto your legs as you slide past. Balloons are bouncing up the tilted ceiling, and pastel streamers hang in limp webs above the aisle. The bastards had been setting up one of their parties by the looks of it, probably to celebrate your capture and transmutation. The angle of the broken tram steepens, accelerating your descent. Ponies attack from both sides as you as you crash through the remaining cars, casting gobs of sticky cotton candy, trying to catch you in balloon string loops, diving for you in desperate bids to slow you down. Then you see the floor, not thirty feet below the end of the tram and coming at you way too fast. “Fuck …” you growl, and brace for the impact. Suit or no, med packs can’t heal broken bones. Something catches your foot at the jagged edges of the car, flipping you over and out below the groaning wreck. Your leg jerks up hard, stopping your freefall. A trashed-littered tiled floor is swinging above your head, flickering in the amber light of small grease fires. What the fuck? You don’t know whether to laugh or shit yourself. Doing both was a stark possibility. Despite your every attempt to keep luck out of the equation, it had pulled your panicking ass out of the cockpit and landed the fucking plane. The mouth of the tram is dark and silent. Saddlebags, flowerpots and scrolls tumble down like shit from a broken pony sewer pipe. And here you hang, a turd dangling on a clog of their sweet sparkly hair. It’s only a matter of time before one of their fluffy asses squirts out of the pipe. Time to get down and get moving. Your foot is knotted in a cable, which would be frying you right now if the ponies hadn’t killed the power. Severing it with the cutter would be the wrong move; just an inch or two off and you’d be minus a foot. If you pull yourself up and work the knot loose … A squeaky voice calls out from your left. “Oooh, is he pretending to be a piñata?” “I think so! Let’s decorate him!” Two mares had come out from behind a stack of storage crates. One was dragging a bulging sack twice her size, equipped with a hose and nozzle. The other was carrying a painting palette. “Cookie Jar said he was really mean, so we’ll have to try extra hard to cheer him up.” More ponies drop down from the broken windows of the tram, shaking glass and debris from their backs. Pegasi, unicorns and cider drinkers are converging on you, tapping their hooves together and ruffling each other’s manes in triumph. You twist left and right, trying to calculate. The royal courier routine is out. Should you start shooting? They’ll just go dizzy for a few minutes, then come back for more. It could buy some time, but would it be enough to extricate yourself and get past them? The first two reach you and get to work. The artist begins dabbing her brush on your visor, two yellow dots, a third below, then a long red smiling arc. Just focus. Do not laugh. Do not smile. Do not let them break you. “Hee hee. Better already!” squeals the beaming mare, admiring her work. “Ooh la la! What a dapper lad you are!” The one with the bag was peering at your face, winking at you with long wispy lashes. “I bet you’ve got a sweet tooth,” she says, and turns the valve on her nozzle. Thick brown fluid gushes onto your neck, hardening into a crunchy shell. Chocolate. While she spreads more across your shoulders, something warm and soft encircles your waist from behind, and again from the side. Two pegasus mares are hugging you, leaning their velvet faces against your tired thighs. One taps your knee with a brilliant green hoof. “Shh. It’s OK. No pony wants to hurt you. See?” She carefully massages your calf. Seeing that you’re not struggling, the other follows suit and begins nuzzling your hip. So … gentle. Can’t … let them … win. Can’t … fight back. Just a little longer, and they’ll go away. That’s how you kill them. That’s how it’s supposed to work. Daina promised. The tram creaks above you. The ponies go quiet and bow as one. “Well done, my ponies. Victory is ours!” The terrible voice roars overhead, rattling your teeth. She had come. The ponies raise their forelegs, leaping and laughing as they cheer, “Huzzah!” Past the crude paint streaking your visor, you look up to see her, Princess Luna, commanding the room with a fiery gaze. Her sea-green eyes range over the battlefield. Full of light. Share her secrets. Receive her wisdom. “No,” you whisper. She addresses her warriors once more. “Hast thou enjoyed thy sport?” “Huzzah!” they cheer a second time, clapping and stomping jubilant hooves. The Princess nods. “Huzzah, and huzzah again! All shall receive dwellings and gardens for delivering our prize to us. Now behold as we fulfill his destiny, and usher in a new age of peace and harmony for all pony kind!” “No!” you shout, aiming the plasma cutter at her throat. Your shot explodes upward, a brief flash in the darkness. It hits her neck and fades without so much as a sizzle. Princess Luna chuckles. “Oh! A tickle! Art thou playing with us already?” she calls down to you, smiling. “Stay the fuck away from me!” you cry, gripping your plasma cutter with both hands and empting the cartridge. The few bolts that find their mark shrink and disappear like the first. It doesn’t make sense. Absorbing even one of those should throw something her size twenty feet. She hadn’t even flinched. “Poor thing. All out of tickles? Celestia was right. Thou art indeed a wily, spirited creature.” A soft silver glow envelopes you. The cable trapping your foot untangles itself, and you drift slowly to the floor. The aura remains, cradling you with a gentle strength. The Princess descends and stands over you, her dark breastplate inches above your face, rising and falling with her quiet breathing. You can see the fine filigree, the endless swirls and patterns engraved in the lunar sign it bore. The sparkling lights falling from her shoes whisper and tinkle by your ears. She lowers her face and smiles, speaking only to you. Only to you. “At last we have claimed thee!” Her mane flows down and around her shoulders, the cloudy arm of a shining spiral galaxy teeming with mysteries and wonders. It flows down and touches you, passing over your aching arms and chest in warm, soothing streamlets. Your terror is fading, your anger drifting out of sight in that calm, violet sea. It’s over. Sleep. It’s over. It’s over. It’s not that bad. Time to sleep. “Now where is that spot? Sister doth make it look so easy.” The sparkling blue tresses snake towards your stomach, probing the soft spots between the rigid alloy ribs of your suit. She’s going to infect you.