//------------------------------// // 06 - An Inconvenient Truth // Story: Final Solution // by Luna-tic Scientist //------------------------------// Days of Wasp and Spider, Part II: Final Solution by Luna-tic Scientist === Chapter 06: An Inconvenient Truth === The cross-species prison known to its inmates as the 'Cube Farm' was not a happy place. A sprawling underground structure composed of helical passageways that bored deep into the earth like titanic screws; it housed those of the People declared unfit to be free within the Hive by dint of criminal or political leanings. A section was reserved for gryphons, but they didn't get to suffer the boredom of confinement. Instead, there were secure barracks for the exhausted members of the Re-Education battalions that hunted the deep storehouses and surface farms for rats and rabbits, until they were considered obedient enough to return to their units. Rthar, normally insulated from this side of Security's duties by his role as a reaction team leader, was in an increasingly foul temper as he waited for the lift capsule to arrive. His mood must have been obvious to any of the three species that frequented the spotless corridors; he occupied a zone of clear space that suited him perfectly. A Captain without a command, reduced to being a servitor for that-- Rthar bit off the thought, memories of the night-time raid on the corral still fresh. What in the world did Salrath hope to achieve by that little display? That poor creature she had euthanized -- it had obviously lingered too long and should have been terminated a long time ago, but to make a public spectacle of it... This one joined Security to save lives, not take them. Rthar gritted his teeth and growled quietly under his breath. Still, this one supposes this trip might be interesting, as one survivor to another. Anything was better than his empty apartment, filled only with memories, both old and new, that were best forgotten -- and there were those odd discrepancies in the long range sensor reports from the Arclight units, from before they turned their arcane weapons on the Institute. Rthar's time since the disastrous attempt to root out the rogue servitor had been filled with interviews frighteningly similar to interrogations -- when he wasn't running errands for Salrath. The price for being the one of the only People to face the pony and survive... and what about Rthar's own gryphons? He's been told that other Security staff would be questioning them, but to be denied any contact at all... There were protocols for disposing of members of the client races that had outlived their usefulness, but these were highly trained troops, valuable in their own right. The capsule arrived and Rthar stalked towards the doors, coming face to face with its only other occupant, a lightly built, dark blue pony with bulky panniers emblazoned with medic patches. Rthar paused at the threshold, a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Anger replaced by something far more unwelcome, he stepped forward, reaching out to grip the rail that ran around the perimeter of the capsule. This can't be happening, he thought, as his heart started to pound. Mouth dry and feeling short of breath, Rthar shook his head and swallowed. --a blue silhouette, surrounded by a field of violet light so deep it made your eyes ache, stalking down a wrecked corridor surrounded by jagged lumps of floating concrete-- Feeling dizzy, Rthar let out an involuntary gasp, flinching when the pony swung its head in his direction. The doors slid shut and the floor lurched under his paws, then the capsule seemed shrink. Shadows crawled in from the corners of his eyes, dancing away when he tried to look at them, the formless shapes flowing across the walls and draining any intensity from the light. A sourceless feeling of dread washed over him, its intensity jumping when the pony took a step towards him. Its horn lit with a blue glow and-- --trapped and unable to move in the dark, the air thick and damp. A pony-headed monster wreathed in violet haze standing over him, somehow visible despite the fullerene-ceramic plate covering his face. Light flared, the actinic welding-torch glare of a horribly powerful thaumic discharge, and his armour started to buckle-- --something punctured his terror and drained all the fear away. "--aster? Can you hear me, Master?" "Y-yes... w-what?" Rthar shook his head in confusion, then reached up to grip the rail and pull himself to his paws. Breathing hard, he glanced at the pony, who stared back, looking uncomfortable. The stallion's horn was still glowing, and Rthar could feel a gentle tickling sensation that seemed to emanate from the middle of his head. The feeling of motion had stopped; over the pony's shoulder, Rthar saw the emergency stop indicator flashing. "Apologies, Master, I had to use magic on you without your permission." The creature's ears flattened and it shivered all over. "It appears you suffered a panic attack." Its words were strained, like those of a pilot trying to talk during a turning fight. "What did the pony do to me?" A momentary needle of fear stabbed at him, then it was gone. "I am currently suppressing your fight-flight reaction... would you prefer it if I stopped?" "No!" The word was out before Rthar even had a chance to consider his response. This one has never felt it so badly, not even before his first live mission. He took a deep breath, then another. "What is the pony's name?" The pony had been looking more relaxed, but his question made its ears droop. "I am Trocar Point PM8821, Master," it said softly, bowing. He'd never had much in the way of direct dealings with the creatures before, all that was left to the specially trained handlers, but dim recollections of how his now-dead Handler, Elorm, used to act around them came to the fore. Reaching out, he tentatively patted the pony on its shoulder. "Rthar thanks the pony Trocar. Does it know what caused this one's attack?" ...and is it going to happen again? The pony immediately straightened up, a slightly dopey smile curving its lips. "It's not uncommon for those who have been through combat to experience some form of reaction; I am not a mental practitioner, but I'd guess you are suffering from post traumatic stress. There is normally a trigger -- and it could be insignificant -- for such things." Trocar's eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. "Were you involved in the emergency at the Institute? That might explain--" His mouth snapped shut and he winced. "Sorry, Master, it is none of my business." Rthar waved one paw tiredly. "Yes, this one was." So the rumours have already spread this far, he thought. "Rthar suspects the pony is correct in its assumptions." Trocar relaxed again, but still looked uncomfortable. "Captain Rthar, it is probably my presence in this confined space that triggered your attack." He took a step back, pushing his bulk as far from Rthar as the limited space allowed, then restarted the capsule, only to have it stop almost immediately; the doors opened and the stallion quickly stepped out. "Captain, that spell will give you a few moments grace after I am out of range, but alone you should recover fully... unless you would rather I stay?" The subtle tension behind the artificial calm lessened slightly with each step the pony took, and Rthar nodded slowly. "No, that will be all. This one will note the pony's assistance in his report." "Thank you, Master." The pony bobbed his head once, then wheeled around and trotted down the corridor and out of sight. Rthar watched it go, feeling the little tendril of alien thought vanish. Breath suddenly coming in great gasps, he fumbled for the 'door hold' button, thankful that no one else was waiting at this floor. Leaning against the capsule wall, free paw on one trembling knee, he took deep breaths, holding each one until the urge to hyperventilate passed. After what seemed like an age, but was probably only a pawful of seconds, he felt composed enough to send the lift on the remainder of its journey. By the time the capsule had reached the hospital checkpoint, having passed through the labyrinthine network of tunnels that infested the prison, Rthar was feeling almost normal. Marching through the still opening doors, he surrendered his personal firearm to the bored-looking Person behind the reception desk, then waited for his escort. That little incident will play havoc with this one's next psych evaluation, he thought, staring off into space, then jumped at a loud snap from somewhere behind him. Turning, he came muzzle to beak with a large gryphon, who stared back with indifference. The guard, a buzzard-leopard variant with dark spots all down his thick, fluffy tail, held his gaze for longer than was strictly necessary, then lowered his head. "This way, Captain Rthar." He followed the gryphon in silence, the loudest sound the occasional scuff of his boots on the fused stone floor. This wing was designed like the rest of the prison, only much smaller; a series of rooms jutting out from a wide central corridor that curved around in a compact, stepped spiral. The centre of the coil contained stores and the actual medical facilities, all run by a pair of gryphon medics with the assistance of prisoner trustees. Actual expert medical staff were very thin on the ground; the occasional visit by a Person, one of the Eugenics Board's surgeons wanting to brush up on the latest techniques, or a medical pony was the best they could expect. The main section was wholly run by the People, but in the gryphon wing, it was gryphons who watched over their own kind, tracking every collared inmate, ready to shock them senseless should they stray in any way. In a very real sense the prison ran itself; trustees managed most of the basic operations, with only the security, maintenance and medical functions overseen by a small staff of People. It descended for several levels and, by the time they had reached the right ward, Rthar was almost hypnotised by the metronomic swing of his guard's tail. The ward door was a heavy thing, a solid slab of metallic glass so clear that it presence was only betrayed by the distortion of the room in the other side, and it opened reluctantly at the gryphon's touch. Inside, away from the forced ventilation of the corridor, there was a strong smell of disinfectant that almost managed to cover the feathers-and-fur scent of gryphon. The equipment in the room was far more basic than might be found even in an out-patient clinic for the People, and had the worn look of machines well past their scrap date. Most of the space was taken up by the stall, little more than a pair of low walls either side of a padded slab that lifted its occupant half a length off the floor. A little too low for one of the People, it was the perfect height for one of the prison's quadrupedal medics to work at. The gryphon currently in the stall seemed to be asleep, with his body slumped against the near-side wall and one wing, still encased in a battlefield trauma sleeve, draped over his tawny flank. His throat vibrated, so fast that it blurred. "Wake up, Bergthor, you have a visitor," the guard said, hammering one scaly fist against the stone wall. The figure didn't move. Rthar hesitated, staring at the trauma sleeve. This one hasn't taken a cross-species biology class in a long time, but surely that should have been removed by now. There was something else in the thick smell of the room, a trace that was tantalisingly familiar. He took a few hesitant steps, walking around the end of the stall to get a better view of the ex-flysoldat Olvir Bergthor. "Paws and claws, you waste of feathers!" The guard strode forwards, reaching out with a foreclaw to shake Olvir awake. "Don't!" Rthar's paw snapped out, levelled at the guard like a pistol. The gryphon froze, then reluctantly retreated. "Master," he said, the word seemingly pulled from his throat with pliers, "we must maintain discipline; this prisoner is a coward an' a disgrace to--" "Be silent. The guard will wait outside." The gryphon stared at him with those blank avian eyes, great yellow things set above a grey beak that was large enough to shear off a paw with one bite. The overhead lights glittered off the sharp edges and hooked tip, and Rthar suppressed a shiver. This is what happens when we give them too much autonomy, he thought. This one is too used to the elite forces; he forgets what some are like. The guard held his gaze for slightly too long, then gave an exaggerated snap of his beak and stalked out of the room. Rthar wrinkled his nose and sniffed again. Almost buried under the other smells was something foul, an odour he hadn't experienced since his days of shared accommodation with other officer candidates. Too much food and too little time to clean up inevitably meant some scraps were forgotten until too late. That faint hint was coming from the figure in the medical stall. This one must be careful, Rthar thought, his gigasecond distant training coming back, if the gryphon really is asleep, the Captain doesn't want to trigger an instinctive attack... A quarter tonne of combat trained carnivore was not something to awaken without caution. An eye fringed with snow-white feathers twitched open and rolled in his direction, then the beak opened, emitting a mournful croak. Still watching the gryphon's head, Rthar carefully slid one paw under a feline hind leg, hunting for a pulse. The gryphon barely stirred at this invasion of his personal space, something that did nearly as much to alarm Rthar as the fever-hot flesh and the fast and thready pulse. Straightening up, he used his comms bracer to open a channel to the prison's control station. "This is Captain Rthar of Hive Security. Send a medic to my location, immediately." "Acknowledged. Is the Captain injured, and does he require additional security assistance?" The reply was fast and efficient, and Rthar relaxed slightly. "No and no; there is no physical danger." While waiting for help to arrive, he used his nose to track down the source of that elusive odour. It didn't take long; gently peeling back the end of the trauma sleeve released a stench foul enough to make him hiss with displeasure. Whoever had treated the gryphon had done precious little other than spray-seal the damaged flesh; what should have been a healthy pink between the remaining feathers was dark and inflamed, and the very tip of the wing had turned black. In less than two hundred seconds a pair of gryphon veterinarians came through the ward door with a clatter of talons on stone. They took one look at Rthar, then busied themselves with Olvir. The Captain watched them work, noting when their movements changed from frantic to methodical, and one of the pair had paused to dispose of the soiled trauma sleeve. "Why were this gryphon's injuries allowed to progress into this state?" he said quietly. "This appears to be a gross dereliction of duty." The gryphon, a male with a grey and brown mix of goshawk and lion, snapped to attention at Rthar's words, staring over the Captain's left shoulder. His colleague, of the same subspecies as the unfortunate Olvir, paused while adjusting the intravenous line she had just inserted and and turned her head in his direction, a look of fear in her eyes. "Keep working," Rthar said, pointing a paw at her, "this one needs to talk to Olvir Bergthor as soon as is practical. The paw shifted to the male. "You. Answer the question." "Captain, resources for this facility are extremely limited, and..." His eyes became distant, as if he was reading off a screen somewhere on the horizon. "In the light of Bergthor's record of cowardice, command made the decision not to prioritise his case. As the wing was scheduled for amputation within a hundred kiloseconds anyway--" The gryphon swallowed heavily when he saw Rthar's expression, then lowered his eyes. "I made an incorrect assumption and the necessary checks were not made." "Indeed. Can the veterinarian save the gryphon's wing?" He looked around at his partner, who shook her head slightly. "Not with what we have here, Captain. Thaumic medical would work, but that request has already been rejected." This is no way to treat a soldier... The flysoldat is one of the few who survived contact with the mad servitor. The Captain has no idea of the fate of his other troops, but perhaps he can save this one... Rthar smiled thinly, lips barely moving. "This one understands. However, this gryphon is an intelligence asset. Captain Rthar will authorize the necessary procedures." The medic looked almost shocked, then fumbled for his own communicator. "Of course, Captain," he said, hastily tapping out a command. A moment later the orders request chimed on Rthar's bracer, and he hit accept. Things will be said about this, he thought, but what's one more reprimand? It wasn't long before there was a whump of air and the click of metal shoes hitting the floor. The guard gryphon snarled something indistinct, then there was a brief flash of blue light and the sound turned into a yip of surprise. A dark blue servitor stepped into the doorway and froze, one hoof half raised, his eyes locked on Rthar. "Captain Rthar, what are your orders?" he said, with a quick dip of his head. This one should have known it would be you; how many other servitors would they have for this place? Rthar thought, heart suddenly pounding in his ears. "The C-Captain wants to question this gryphon; he may also have other uses for the flysoldat, and wants it to be fully functional, if possible." "I understand." Trocar stepped into the room, keeping as far from Rthar as he could, then glanced at the gryphon medics. "May I have the room, Captain? The work will be easier." Rthar felt a sudden flash of gratitude, almost enough to stem his rising panic. They are so perceptive! "Of course; whatever the pony needs." He waved at the others, then walked quickly from the room to join all three gryphons in the corridor. Heart rate starting to subside, Rthar scowled at the pair of medics. "Return to your duties; this one will discuss this matter with the base commander." They jumped to attention, snapping beaks in near unison, then half cantered, half flew up the spiral corridor and out of sight. Mentally composing his answer to his temporary superior when she inevitably asked him to justify this special treatment of a gryphon that'd likely never be returned to active duty, Rthar started to record his report on his bracer; the difficulty of using the small display was a good distraction from the occasional hostile glances the guard was giving him. Eventually, the pony poked his head around the prison ward door. "Captain, I have awoken the flysoldat; if you wish it, I can continue his treatment while you question him." Rthar flinched, waiting for a resurgence of that sourceless terror, relaxing when there was nothing more than a vague feeling of unease. This one bets it will be different if he steps into the room, he thought, this one should be alone for this. Pausing, Rthar shrugged to himself. Who is the pony going to tell? It's obvious that knowledge of the rogue has spread widely. Wait... "When we spoke in the lift capsule, Trocar mentioned an incident at the Institute. What exactly does the pony know, and how did it come by the information?" Trocar froze, mouth dropping open. "I-I-" His throat worked, but no other sounds emerged. Rthar glanced at the guard, who had his beak half open in an avian grin, then pointed down the corridor. "Leave this one; stand guard on the next level up, if the gryphon must." "My orders--" "The other gryphons who were directly involved in this matter are either all dead or--" He had a sudden premonition of where his soldiers had gone."--in the care of the Eugenics Board." Rthar smiled, lips lifting to show rows of sharp, white teeth. "It is up to the gryphon; this one doesn't care." The guard looked uncertain, then backed away down the corridor. Rthar waited until he was out earshot. "This one thought as much," he muttered. The pony was watching him with frightened eyes, little tremors running over its flanks. "Well?" he said. "M-Master, the majority of my duty is to assist at the local hospital. I was on shift when a pair of ponies flew in with an injured Master. Before they were given further orders, they talked about what they'd seen at the Institute, about how a pony had gone mad and--" His voice cut off and he shook his head, teardrops flicking out from his eyelashes. "They said the pony had attacked this Master, broke almost every bone in her body." Trocar lowered his head, voice becoming a faint whisper. "How can this have happened, it hurts to even consider that a pony could--" Rthar raised one paw, then carefully rested it against the pony's bowed head. See? It won't try and rip the Captain's arms off, he told his recalcitrant heart. "Do not be concerned; Trocar has done no wrong." The pony bobbed his head, then backed into the ward. "Thank you, Master." Behind it, Rthar could see Olvir's white head poking up above the sides of his stall; the gryphon moved like he was still drugged, but his eyes were clear and focused on Rthar. "The pony may continue its work." Paws clenched, Rthar followed Trocar into the room and took slow, deliberate breaths until he felt he could talk normally. === Olvir's right wing felt like someone had covered it with white phosphorus and set it on fire. Red-hot needles were growing from the root, extending throughout his flank and reaching into his chest. The heat was a real thing and he panted, throat fluttering in short gasps. His wonderful eyes weren't working properly and the world was mobile and distorted; parts of it moved in and out of focus in a manner that would have been nauseating if he had the strength to keep them open for long. Something was moving around him. There was a voice; loud, grating and familiar, then another, speaking in tones that reached into his brain and demanded obedience. A paw reached between his hind legs; that was too much to ignore, even in his weakened state. Beak opening, he tried to curse the interloper, but nothing came out. The world blurred again and vanished under the accumulated weight of fire and darkness. Cold, Maker-blessed cold, was creeping along his wing, extinguishing the fire as it moved. Behind it was a wave of comfortable numbness, advancing to the point where the world slowed its mad spinning and finally was still. The absence of pain and nausea was so shocking that he had a sudden overwhelming fear that he might be dead. A blessing, then. I know what's in store for me. The time after the disaster at the Institute was mostly a blur, distorted by pain or hazed by drugs, with the occasional bout of lucidity at the interface between the two. Either one was preferable to the contempt in the guards and medic's eyes, and the way they talked about him like he wasn't there. At the start he'd tried to tell them what he'd seen, about what had so comprehensively annihilated his squad-mates, but they'd called him coward and mad, so he just kept quiet and bore the rough treatment as best he could. It didn't take long before thoughts of his own future had dominated those increasingly brief moments of clarity. Long-term prison was never considered an option for gryphonkind, like it was for the Masters. If you were not useful, then you were of no use. Too badly injured? The needle and a fast death. Important skills but a bit too old? Training and light duties, becoming the institutional memory of the Hive's military, security, or police. A disgrace to your unit, thrown out as a worthless waste of feathers, yet still functional? Hunt for vermin in the vast farms that fed the Hive, gelded and permanently collared, confined by virtual fences. ...and if the only thing of utility left was your genome? Leave your body to science before you actually died, vanishing into the Eugenics Board's study programs as if you'd never been alive at all. That particular horror was the only thing that truly scared Olvir, the ultimate deterrent to ensure obedience from his race. The cold brought with it the ability to think, but without the luxury of movement. There was the delicate, alien touch of magic, the feeling of things moving beneath his skin of his paralysed body. At that instant, Olvir realised that the half-heard, half-hallucinated conversations that had been going on around his stall had been real. They are going to take my wings. Great tears welled up in the corners of his closed eyes, the only outward expression allowed to him. Not like this; I don't want to be able to feel it. "Please try to calm yourself, soldier gryphon. It will be easier to reconnect the blood vessels in your wing if you don't fight it." The voice was quiet and distracted, like its owner was concentrating on some complex and difficult task. The tones were melodic and gentle, so unlike the harsh screech of another gryphon. It has to be a pony, not just some medical machine, he thought. What have I done to deserve such treatment? The strange sensations carried on, sometimes uncomfortable, but never actually painful. Olvir bore it all gladly, his dread for the future fading with every moment the pony worked on him. "I am going to let you move now, but please be careful. The repairs to your wing are very delicate." The voice was a quiet whisper, so close he could feel hairs brushing the feathers on the side of his head. Reflexively, Olvir nodded, and was surprised when he was able to. "A Master wants to talk to you; it is because of him that I am here with you." Olvir opened his eyes, blinking furiously to clear his vision, as the hollow clip-clop of hoof on stone marked the departure of the pony. Turning his head, he glanced at his flank, then hurriedly looked away when he caught sight of the battered and lumpy thing that lay where his wing should have been. Trying to erase that distressing image, he instead focused on the Master and the pony at the door to the ward. The Master was familiar; there was no way Olvir was going to forget the time they'd first met. It's the squad commander from the Institute, he thought, why does he want to talk to me? Equally obvious were the Captain's insignia and Security service tags on the Person's equipment vest, but those paled into insignificance before the other details that were painfully obvious to a gryphon's razor sharp vision. Twitches of the ears and whiskers, darting motions of the eyes, and a nervous, near imperceptible movement of his paws, like they were trying to fold around the grip of a weapon. He's afraid of the pony. The idea was ridiculous, and yet... The veterinarian has almost the same coat colour as the other one. --the whining crack of metal accelerated to unreasonable speeds, propelled by a hard-edged, near ultraviolet, glare that was impossible to focus on and left shifting blobs of colour across the eyes. A blue pony, vanishing in a flash the same colour-- Metal creaked alarmingly, and Olvir carefully unwrapped a set of talons from the thin walls that ran down the sides of the stall, ignoring the new set of scratches and dents he'd added to the already scarred sheet metal. Watching as the Person walked slowly behind the blue pony, he suddenly had to know. "Master," he said, snapping his beak weakly. "You saw her, didn't you?" "That is why the Captain is here, flysoldat." "No longer, I think, even if I do ever escape from this place." Olvir glanced at his damaged wing, staring, as if mesmerised, at the blue flames that licked along its denuded surface. "I heard the other medics talking, so I know what comes next. They'll take them both, I suppose... no point in one without the other." The gryphon blinked, then refocused his gaze on Rthar. "My apologies, Captain. I was told you have questions." The Master twitched, his ears drooping for an instant. "Perhaps not," he said, so softly that Olvir thought he might be hallucinating again, then his gaze refocused on the gryphon. "Yes, this one does. The gryphon is the only survivor of--" "I'm all that is left from the whole barricade force!" Olvir cringed when he realised what he'd done, waiting for the reprimand, the order for the pony to stop work, anything as punishment for interrupting the Captain, but all he did was nod tiredly. "Yes. All the People and gryphons perished in the attack, either as a direct result of the fight, or when the Institute collapsed after the servitor's explosives detonated." The Master dropped his gaze, staring at the backs of his paws, then continued as if reading from a report. "Engineers are excavating the ruin now, but there is precious little data to go on until they get to the transit hub. The whole place is so unstable that it could take megaseconds before that happens -- more, if the individual suit logs are as corrupted as the transmitted feed was." Olvir nodded dumbly. "I understand. I'm not sure how much I can add, the... pony... did most of her work after she hit me." "Nevertheless." Rthar waved a paw, and Olvir took it as a signal to start talking. Over the next two kiloseconds he went through his story, the whole relatively brief encounter taking far more time than it should have because of the detail Rthar wanted to include. The Captain kept his comm's recorder running the whole time, its little remote lens rig positioned on the side of the stall, while he scribbled his own set of notes in the machine's holographic display. Olvir didn't mind the continuous backtracking and repetition; the longer he talked, the more time the pony had to work, and with every passing moment his wing looked less like something that had been dead for three days. "Rthar is still not clear on one thing," the Captain said, running both paws from ears to muzzle tip and back again. "Why is the flysoldat lying to this one? Olvir twitched, his wings fluttering unconsciously, earning him a disapproving glare from the pony. "Captain Rthar, I've told you everything I can remember; it all happened so--" "Fast. Yes, the gryphon said. Several times. The gryphon's story is not consistent -- this one does not want to hear what Olvir thinks he wants Rthar to hear, he wants the truth!" With the final word, Rthar slammed his balled paw into the side of the stall with enough force to leave a dent in the thin metal. At the sudden noise, both Olvir and the pony jumped, the veterinarian letting out an involuntary whinny. Rthar waved for the pony to continue his work, then leaned forwards, one claw tapping on the end of Olvir's beak. "Start again, from just after the pony's decoy was destroyed." Olvir resisted the urge to snap at the finger and slumped a little deeper into the stall's thin padding. "Yes, Captain. When the decoy was destroyed, I thought it was over, but then the first airtank exploded. Superconductor quench, lit the transit hub like the sun had come up. Then..." This is where he calls me mad. Olvir resigned himself to being sent away, perhaps to one of the farms, but more likely to the Eugenics Board for study. "...there was a flash of violet light behind me, and... she was there, surrounded by a halo of floating rocks." "How did the pony get there? The remote sensor reports say it was on the other side of the chamber. Did it fly?" "I don't know, Captain. Perhaps she's fast, or perhaps she was always there, and had been hidden while controlling her decoy." But you do know differently, don't you? Involuntarily cringing, Olvir fell silent, waiting for Rthar to say something. "What does Trocar think?" Rthar said, suddenly looking up at the blue pony. "If the pony was doing a large amount of magic remotely, could it hide successfully?" Trocar stared back at Rthar, mouth working. Olvir felt a sudden pang of sympathy for the creature, as well as a little distress for himself. Whatever the Captain had interrupted was starting to sting, a rapidly building heat that started at his wing tip. He hissed quietly, then clamped his beak shut in an effort to remain unnoticed. The little noise jolted the pony, and blue fire once more glimmered along its horn to extinguish his pain. "Sorry Master, you surprised me. No, any working of magic will leave its mark. Very minor spells might go unnoticed, but not anything of the order flysoldat Bergthor has described." Trocar's tone turned to one of awe, and his wings twitched with excitement. "That amount of power is beyond any ten ponies, possibly more. Such magic would be very obvious even to normal thaumic sensors." Rthar grunted, then nodded for the pony to resume his work. "Continue, flysoldat." "Then she hit me with something and, while I was helpless, destroyed my autogun and visor. Then she... apologised, like she really didn't want to hurt us, even though we'd tried as hard as we could to kill her. After that, there was another violet flash and she was gone." Rthar leaned forward, head cocked to one side with interest. "What does the gryphon mean, 'gone'? The pony took off? Ran away?" "No, Captain. Gone. She vanished, then the shooting started again from a completely different part of the transit hub." === "What makes the Captain think that the gryphon is telling the truth?" Agent Salrath said, her voice raspy and distracted. Even as she talked to him, she was staring at the wallscreen, as if by pure force of will she could pull something from it. Rthar smiled thinly, schooling his expression to one of polite interest when she glanced in his direction. The room could have held three, but the other two instrumented beds were empty. Salrath looked little different from when he'd seen her at the corral; a twisted figure covered with scars, her once sleek, brindled fur now patchy and dull. Traces of pain, well controlled, narrowed her eyes to a permanent squint and made her jaw clench periodically. The only other Person present was there virtually; the life size image of a blandly smiling Sector Chief Orgon sitting behind his desk, the grey bulk of his personal servitor just at the edge of the shot. It was the pony that Salrath was looking at, not Orgon. This one wonders why the Agent isn't getting the care she so obviously expects... perhaps she has outlived her usefulness? The pony normally keeps out of sight for video conferences; that it is visible at all... Rthar covered his mouth with one paw when he felt that smile threatening to return. "The Agent has seen the same reports that Rthar has; there are too many discrepancies in the sensor data and this is the only thing that makes sense." He snorted and shook his head at the wonder of the thing. "This one knows what it sounds like... but the Agent was unconscious by the time the rogue really started its work. Rthar is prepared to believe it is possible. In any case, the gryphon should be moved somewhere safer; in its current location it will suffer further, and may lose any value as an intelligence asset." Rthar said the words as neutrally as possible, resisting the urge to hold his breath as Orgon considered his suggestion. It will do these ones no good if Olvir is murdered in some pointless fight over an accusation of cowardice. There were already some sarcastic comments on his report by a variety of superior officers, asking about the expense of dedicated thaumic intervention for a single gryphon of dubious record. He had a nagging feeling that what the gryphon had said was the absolute truth. Salrath's opinion of his report was clear; the sneer on her muzzle was obvious even with the scars on her face. The ever-smiling Orgon was impossible to read, as always, but this new servitor ability was so outside his own experience that, if it wasn't for actually facing the creature in combat, he wouldn't have believed it, either. But if it is actually true, then catching the thing will be well-nigh impossible. Is it somewhere out there in the world, doing Maker-knows what? Lacunae is already under suspicion from the World Court... Face blank and ears held in an attentive posture, Rthar pressed his tongue under one canine tooth and bit down in an attempt at a distraction, but the thoughts came anyway. ...if they discover this super-servitor is loose, what will they do? The chaos and public revelations of a full-scale Audit could put the Hive's economic and political power back by a gigasecond; confidential research and hidden plans would be laid bare to the multi-Hive investigation teams. It had happened before, although not to Lacunae and not for several gigaseconds. The example of Soro Hive was not one to be taken lightly. Will they go that far? Rthar swallowed dryly; the conclusion was obvious. How could they not? They will rip us apart to discover every detail about the servitor and what it might do. This one really hopes he is wrong and it is dead. Orgon finally nodded at this, one paw coming up to stroke the fur under his muzzle. "This one agrees; the flysoldat may be useful. It will be taken care of." The Sector Chief did something on a panel below the camera's view, then continued. "Despite the outlandish nature of the gryphon's claim, Orgon has checked with our thaumic experts; there is, apparently, nothing in the laws of physics that prohibits this kind of translation. None of the People had any idea as to how it might be achieved, unfortunately. This one has one more avenue of research to try... although its reliability may be compromised." "Vanca," Salrath said, then coughed weakly, her lips curling back to reveal clenched teeth. "How is the Academician reacting to her confinement?" "Surprisingly well, but she is of the type who mostly lives in her head. She is using it as an opportunity to get some work done without distractions. These ones have almost no hold over her; she really doesn't seem to care where she is." For the first time since the meeting had started, Orgon lost his smile, replacing it with a delicate frown. "Technical Services still don't understand half of what she is doing." Rthar felt his ears dip slightly and struggled to keep the rest of his features relaxed. Orgon comes from the same side of Security as Salrath, and it shows, he thought. "It is hardly surprising, when the Sector Chief has had the Academician declared dead," he said, then winced when Orgon glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "There is something," Salrath said, losing her battle to stare at the screen, and instead let her head rest against the pillow she was propped up against. "Has the Sector Chief considered allowing the Academician access to her experimental data? This one assumes she's been kept under full isolation until now... if this one reads her correctly, this is probably all it would take to gain Vanca's interest." The Sector Chief interlaced his paws before him, laying them on his desk. "Orgon has... it is likely she will need such sources to work efficiently, in any case. What's of more interest at this time is what Security should do if such a feat of magic is possible -- or what will happen if the World Court comes to the same conclusion." The possibilities are almost without limit, Rthar thought, watching the by-play between Salrath and Orgon. At least all the suspended ash and dust from the Hammer strikes will make for some colourful sunsets for the next few megaseconds. "Catching the creature would be difficult; even without this teleportation, it took only one to massacre Rthar's team... and it's not like these ones are able to use servitors to hold the rogue." This one does not want any more pointless deaths on his conscience. Rthar closed his eyes briefly at the memory of hot, green light. "This is true," Orgon said. "The World Court is watching the excavation of the Institute with interest; this one would rather not be surprised by what is -- or is not -- found there." His smile faded slightly, a change in expression that, for the normally unreadable Sector Chief, did more to convince Rthar that Orgon was taking this seriously than anything else. "Perhaps this one can arrange a more rapid exhumation without arousing suspicion... it will cost us little, in event that this is all nothing more than data anomalies and the fever dreams of a half-dead gryphon." === Alfgeir's flank itched from the latest round of injections. A little patch of skin behind his right foreleg, no bigger than a Master's paw, had been completely stripped of feathers. He lifted his wing, bending around to look at the bare patch, the once pale skin now stippled and red with needle marks. The desire to get in there with his beak and nibble was almost too much to resist, but they had placed it with care and it wasn't quite within reach. The room --call it what it is, featherbrain, Alfgier thought-- the ward was a cool white chamber with a glass wall along one side and a heavy hatch in one wall that had the look of something from a spacecraft. There was no visible light source, instead the whole ceiling glowed with a gentle light that slowly brightened and dimmed over the course of a day. Sanitation and water were provided by a compact module in the middle of the wall opposite the glass. There was no real way to measure time, other than by the plentiful meals delivered through the only other opening to the room, a rotating drum low down on one wall. Alfgeir stared morosely at the other members of his now much reduced flock. The only one left from his original Talons trial group was Svartr; the Maker only knew what had happened to the rest. Inducted into the Military prison system, they had been told nothing, and at first thought it was some kind of escape and evasion training. Uncertainty hadn't really started to take hold until he'd realised that Kafli was with them, looking shaken as he'd been stripped of his armour and weapons. Even then, it might have still been a test, but Kafli had never faltered in his act, showing real emotion when they'd all had their claws blunted. The last straw had been the injection of an identifier implant, done with the casual roughness normally reserved for farm animals; the skin between his wingroots was still tender. Aside from the two gryphons he knew, there was one other. Lightly built, she had the same grey feathers as the goshawk Kafli, but was lean and with a physique more like that of a pony than the serjant's muscular bulk. The gryphoness was older than himself or Svartr, but significantly younger than Kafli, she also had an air of waiting about her, of infinite patience. She had said little and, like Svartr, bore no outward signs of any medical treatment. All he had managed to get was a name, Ellisif Inga, and the fact that her last engagement had gone spectacularly badly. The rage he'd felt at what could only be described as a betrayal at the claws of the military justice system had long faded, leaving only a yawning sense of despair. The trial had been a joke; little more than something to use as an example of the Master's 'fairness' to other units, despite the claim that they had failed so completely. "Fair," Alfgeir muttered, "look where being fair has got you now." The ex-sersjant Kafli lifted his dusty grey head from where it rested on his foreclaws. "Play the game, son. This is just another kind of punishment, no different from time in the stockade. You screw up, you have to pay the price." He yawned, bottom mandible of his beak knocking against his oversized collar. Over in her corner, Ellisif made a quiet hissing noise that could almost be laughter, subsiding when Kafli glared in her direction. Yes, but it wasn't our fault! That stupid Gunnulf, if it wasn't for-- He wanted to scream it at the ceiling, but kept the thought to himself; all those arguments had been made days ago and had fallen on deaf ears. Frustrated, he smoothed down the feathers on the back of his head and neck, wincing when he encountered the surgical scar. The end of one talon, now blunted from its normal needle point, probed the patch of bare skin, feeling the small, hard lump that had appeared the first morning he'd been incarcerated. They must have done it the night before; Alfgeir's memory was hazy, but he did remember falling asleep very suddenly. The other three gryphons in the group had suffered the same indignity. Whatever had been implanted wasn't very large and nestled against the bottom of his skull, almost like it was part of the bone. The collar was the other new addition -- a bulky thing, quite a bit heavier than his old command collar, and completely seamless, like it had been cast around his throat. Careful examination with a talon-tip had located cavities and blunt lumps on the inner surface, but any further exploration was cut short when it shocked him hard enough to leave his chest tingling for a kilosecond. "I don't think they are ever going to let us out," Svartr said, her dark, bottomless eyes staring through the glass wall and into the corridor beyond. "I think we're going to be in here until the Masters have no further use for us... and that might be a very long time." She turned slightly and ran a foreclaw over her belly in a gentle motion, then shivered. For a moment Alfgeir saw a glimpse of revulsion on her face, then the expression vanished. "What makes you say that, Svartr?" The dark grey feathers on her head twitched, then lay flat, blending into the near black of her fur. She pulled her wings and legs in, drawing them tight about her body, so much so that they seemed to disappear amid her fur and feathers. "I've heard of places like this... places where they work on us to improve the b-breed--" Svartr glanced down at her flank once more, then broke off, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. "It's drugs for you," she said flatly, staring at Alfgeir and his collection of needle marks, "perhaps something to boost endurance or strength... or healing." How would they test enhanced heal-- Alfgeir's beak dropped open as he reached the obvious conclusion. "They wouldn't..." he said, weakly. "Wouldn't they? Look where you are, you fool. Locked in a cell in some Eugenics Board facility and pumped full of whatever compound their scientists want to test. We remain free as long as it is useful for us to be so. If they can't use us for fighting--" "That's enough of that!" Kafli snapped. "You don't get to order me about any more," Svartr hissed, beak open in a threatening gape. "You are in exactly the same situation!" Kafli levered himself off the padded floor and advanced on the more lightly built peregrine gryphon. Alfgeir stayed where he was, muscles tensing in anticipation. A warning tone, like the high-pitched chirp of a chick, sang out from each collar. There it is... Kafli changed direction, as if he was going back to his pad, then abruptly jumped sideways. Claws outstretched, he landed on Svartr's back, big talons closing convulsively around her left shoulder and right wingroot. This should have been the end of it, but Kafli's talons were just as blunt as every other gryphon's. Svartr twisted in his grip, avoiding the curved point of the sergeant's beak as it dipped towards her throat, and slammed one scaly fist into the side of his head. Knocked sideways, Kafli lost his grip and fell backwards onto his rump. Snarling, he lurched upright, then blue-white sparks flashed under both the gryphon's collars. Alfgeir kept very still, his eyes focused on the pair; whatever was controlling the punishment routines was very trigger happy and was liable to zap everyone in the room just to be thorough. Svartr rode out the shocks, curling into a ball and enduring the pain. Her collar went silent after a clawful of seconds and she lay there panting, watching Kafli with narrowed eyes. The sersjant thrashed, trying to get purchase on the collar, but that just seemed to up the tempo. The buzzing crackle became a high frequency shriek, the discharges bright enough to cast flickering shadows on the white walls. The air was hazy with the smoke of burned feathers by the time Kafli finally collapsed, his chest heaving and limbs trembling. "Fair. Yes, I can see how fair this is," Svartr said, her voice flat and disinterested, then turned her back on him. Kafli slowly pulled his legs back under him and tried to stand; after his forelegs collapsed for the second time he stayed down and crawled to his sleeping pad. Alfgeir watched him carefully for a few seconds, then quietly padded over to sit next to Svartr. The peregrine gryphoness glanced at him once, then resolutely turned away, studying the floor between her foreclaws. He just waited, and finally she spoke. "What do you want?" she said, her voice a barely intelligible mumble. "You shouldn't antagonise him like that. Collar or no, he could kill you if he's quick enough," he murmured, beak a claw's breadth from her ear. "What makes you think that isn't what I want?" Svartr turned her head and glared at him, her dark eyes suddenly full of despair. Alfgeir flinched, then reached out slowly with one foreclaw to touch her on the shoulder, freezing when she hissed a warning. "Let me check your back, make sure there's no obvious damage." Svartr closed her beak and nodded shallowly, watching every move as he slowly probed the muscles of her shoulder and wing. There's precious little I can do, Alfgeir thought, running through the checks from the basic first aid training every trooper received, but perhaps all she needs is someone to talk to. Svartr relaxed slowly under his touch, twitching occasionally when he encountered a particularly tender spot. "You've got no obvious marks, other than whatever they put in the back of your head. What do you think they did to you?" "I ache in ways and places that you don't have the capability to understand." Alfgeir puzzled over the cryptic sentence, then his beak dropped open as he made the connection to Svartr's strange actions leading up to the abortive fight. "You think they made you pregnant?" He found his eyes drawn to the silent Ellisif, who was watching the pair of them. You too? he thought; the other gryphoness also had no overt signs of experimentation. Noticing his attention, she turned her back to all of them, resolutely staring at the wall. "I'm certain of it. I've done my duty to the race once already... but not like this." The gryphoness moved slightly, rolling onto the flank away from Alfgeir and turning her head to stare at her belly. He pulled back and followed her gaze, absurdly expecting to see some sign of change in the flat, toned muscle under the slate grey fur. "They've put something in me."