There was a small planet named Highgate on the edge of the Blue Sun system. Orbiting this planet were two moons, Stonewall and Perth. The latter had never been terraformed properly, and was still a barren wasteland despite the Empire's best efforts. Stonewall had fared better, although its climate left much to be desired.
The only settlements on Stonewall were mining colonies, but the towns that grew up around them were equipped with most of the comforts of home and a few luxuries. Work in the mines was grueling and sometimes dangerous, but it paid well enough to afford a decent life.
Dr. Stable sometimes wished he could handle such backbreaking labor. It would certainly be less nerve-wracking than his current job as the lesser of Forgeright’s two doctors. It was a small town, but he was always very busy.
The morning was hot, as he had come to expect after two years on Stonewall. He watched as a long line of creatures, chained together at the ankles, trudged along Main Street. Each of them gleamed faintly in the morning light, chitin and multifaceted eyes occasionally catching the sun in just the right way. They stared straight ahead, ignoring the small crowd that had gathered to watch them go. Each prisoner carried either a pick or a shovel to do his or her work for the day. Two wagons followed the band, one loaded with supplies and the other empty.
The line was kept in check by several guards, each armed with shotguns and pistols. They served the dual purposes of keeping the prisoners from escaping and making sure the small crowd that turned out to watch kept a safe distance.
At the column’s head was a grim, unapproachable mare with a scowl that could curdle milk. She carried a collapsible rifle in one of her saddlebags, but almost never used it. An iron war hammer, wrapped with gleaming bands of steel and lovingly polished to ward off corrosion, hung in an improvised sling across her right side.
Doctor Stable fell into step beside her. Neither spoke, but a few of the prisoners made snide comments at his appearance. He could pick out the word “maggot” somewhere in the mix of grumbling and insults.
The sheriff, a friendly earth pony named Caramel, met them at the edge of town with his deputy. “Take care, lads!” he called in his musical accent. “She’s a brutal one today, she is.” The mare standing next to him was sky blue, with a wild grey mane that often fell in front of her face. She waved cheerfully as her friends passed
None of the prisoners were foolish enough to make a break for it today; a recent escape attempt was still fresh in their minds, and none of them wanted to end up like the escapee. Mjolna had crushed the unfortunate prisoner’s leg when he ran, shattering bone and chitin as easily as she might crack open an egg. It was the kind of brutality that sent a very clear message.
It was only ten minutes before the chain gang became bored with walking. “Hey!” one of the veteran inmates called. “I heard the law comin’, but I tried to run!” Several of the group immediately replied with “I got sixty long months under the desert sun!”
Doctor Stable noted smiles forming, even among the guards. The song grew in volume and pitch until every prisoner was lending his or her voice. The beat was kept by stomping hooves and rattling chains that kicked up a small cloud of dust behind the grim choir.
Mjolna adjusted her harness and snorted irritably. “About time,” she muttered in a voice that still spoke of her Horsewegian childhood.
“Walkin' the trail, headin’ way out west.
Feel the rhythm deep in your chest.
That iron hammer’s poundin’ out the beat.
Sand and dust far as the eye can see.
This pound of flesh sure weighs a ton!
Sixty long months under the desert sun.
When you hear the law comin’, don’cha try to run.
You’ll get sixty long months under the desert sun.
Sixty long months under the desert sun.”
Mjolna looked at a tall building occupying a nearby hilltop. The Heart of Gold Ranch had once been a productive farm, but in the last few years it had become infamous for something much less wholesome. “Something wrong?” Stable asked. “I mean, besides the heat.”
“Yes,” Mjolna said, and spat into the dirt. Her lip curled with disgust. “Something is very wrong.”
“Like broken glass under your hooves.
They'll say the chains are for your own damn good.
Sun-bleached bones and an iron cage.
No rest for us in this day and age.
I could starve to death without a taste of love.
Sixty long months under the desert sun.
When the Iron Bringer’s comin’, don’cha try to run.
You’ll get sixty long months under the desert sun.
Sixty long months under the desert sun."