Pain.
That was the first impulse that punched through the darkness, eliciting a startled, shuddering gasp. Every tortured nerve was suddenly alive with agony, and muscle spasms managed to squeeze extra twinges of misery from the pony’s terribly abused body.
Despite the pain suddenly jump-starting a general sense of awareness, the darkness remained. The pony simply writhed, gasping and twitching, completely lost in his senses.
“It… It worked? It actually WORKED?” came a voice. Female.
“Brainwave readings have climbed considerably and are stabilizing. Circulatory pressure is elevated, but falling. The procedure is successful,” the second voice was… weird. It was a droning buzz. It sounded completely unnatural, “As you were advised.”
“Okay, okay, fine. You were right. Nurse, could you contact the family, please? They’ll want to know he’s conscious again.”
“Yes, Doctor! Right away!”
More groaning and twitching came from the pony. He could hear voices, and make out what they were saying, but he couldn’t make any sense of it. Everything was just a jumble of rushing thoughts, confusion, darkness, and the ever-loving PAIN that wracked his body. He could smell something. Antiseptic?
“Can we administer painkillers now? He’s obviously suffering!”
“There is little point. The pain is not due to any physical injury, and will not induce shock. Administering further medications can only complicate the immediate recovery and waste resources.”
“And the patient’s comfort is of absolutely zero concern to you?”
“Affirmative. We learn from pain. It is-“
“NO. I am NOT sitting through that lecture again! I will happily use your tools and let you butchers help save my patients, but I am sick of hearing about your psychotic opinions on physical distress!”
The pony struggled to turn his head away from the noise above him, but he couldn’t budge. At least, he thought he couldn’t. There wasn’t much sensation other than the feeling of a million needles being slowly pushed into his body. What was going on? Who was arguing? Where was he? Why was it so dark?
WHO was he?
Thankfully, after considering that last desperate question, an answer bubbled to the surface. His name was Gear Works. He was an earth pony. He lived in Canterlot. He had a shop that sold and repaired clocks, locks, pumps, and other assorted mechanical devices.
“In fact, now that the patient is finally conscious again, I believe your job is done, Techpriest Carmed. You may go.”
“Negative. The patient has not yet recovered.”
“What do you mean? Of course he has! Or did you want to give him ANOTHER ‘nerve shock’ just to make sure?”
Had. He HAD a shop that sold machines. What happened to it, again? Something bad.
“Negative. The patient has not yet been restored to operational status.”
“Operational… well… no, I suppose he hasn’t. Still, it’s a little early to be worrying about THAT. The poor dear has barely woken up. And after what happened to him…”
Right. Something bad. He wasn't sure what had happened, but he did recall the entire roof caving in on his head. That was pretty bad.
“Irrelevant. The patient is conscious, and we can begin implantation procedures within the hour.”
“Implantation-! Now, hold on! He hasn’t agreed to anything, yet!”
“There is no other prospect of the patient being returned to operational capacity. Augmentation is the only acceptable option.”
“Ugh!”
How the hay was he even alive? Had someone unburied him? What happened to Canterlot?
“H-h-h-h…” Gear Works’ attempt to speak came out as little more than a shuddering breath. However, it seemed enough to attract the attention of the weird voice.
“The patient’s consciousness has stabilized. Reverberations in esophagus indicate attempt at verbal communication.”
“He’s trying to talk? Oh! Here, let me get some water!”
Gear Works sucked in a deep breath and then tried again. “Hhhurrrts,” he hissed quietly.
“Affirmative. That is consistent with operational expectations,” said the weird voice, “your condition is stable. You are in no danger of expiration.”
Gear’s body shook slightly as a wry chuckle tried and utterly failed to escape his lungs. He hadn’t had the honor of working with Dark Techpriests nearly as much as he’d wanted, but to hear of one talking about him “expiring” like a jug of old milk struck him as funny, somehow.
“Here you go. Have some water, Mister Works,” said the feminine voice.
A moment later, Gears felt something being stuck into his mouth between his teeth, and then water started flowing down his desperately dry throat. He drank greedily, and after nearly a minute the tube was pulled out of his mouth again.
He gave a relaxed sigh. The pain was starting to ebb, and now a general ache had settled over his muscles and in his head.
Well, most of his muscles. Now that he was feeling well enough to tell one cluster of agony from another, he noticed that he seemed to be missing sensations from some sectors of his body.
“I’m sure you have questions,” the feminine voice said, “my name is Doctor Miracle Tonic, and that irritating grating sound is Dark Techpriest Carmed. How much do you remember?”
“Everything,” Gears gasped, his breaths coming heavily, but steadily, “Canterlot was taken over by the Tau… the Royal Guard had been imprisoned… a few of those Fire Warrior guys made me take them to my shop... they finished searching it for weapons and then started interrogating me... then there were some explosions and everyone took cover... I could hear a lot of shouting, and some gunfire... I hid behind the counter, but I'm... not sure what happened after that. ”
Gear Works took several more deep breaths before he concluded, “I think the building collapsed.”
“You are correct,” Carmed confirmed, “additionally, your decision not to evacuate a dwelling under sustained assault was poorly considered.”
“Yeah,” Gears huffed, “I can see that, now. Kind of a bad call.” He groaned again. “Speaking of seeing, why’s it so dark in here? Or do I have gauze on my face? I really can’t tell.”
“Your optical-“
“Techpriest, I think it would be best if you left this part to me,” Miracle interrupted. Then she cleared her throat. “Mister Works, let me say first that Canterlot was saved. The Tau threat was defeated, and for the foreseeable future, we’re safe.”
“Huh. Really? How did that happen?”
“The Elements of Harmony led the 38th Company into the city. Eventually they cleared out the other aliens,” the Doctor pony said, “anyway, after the battle, it wasn’t until a full day later that someone figured out there was somepony inside the collapsed ruins of your home. We managed to get you out, and you were still alive, but you were in a coma. It’s been a week since the battle.”
“Oh… well, that’s not too bad,” Gears said cautiously, “and… I woke up at night, before anypony managed to fix the lights in the hospital?”
“Er… no. While we did manage to save your life, we couldn’t save… ALL of you.”
“…… Oh, ponyfeathers.”
“Negative,” interjected Carmed, “you do not possess any feathered extremities. Which is fortunate, as pegasus wings would have certainly been crushed under the debris as your legs were.”
“Carmed! I told you to leave it to me! I need to break it to him gently!” Miracle shouted.
“No, Doctor Tonic, it’s okay,” Gears sighed, “I made a mistake, and I paid the price for it. And really, I’m surprised to even have survived at all.”
“The equine subspecies ‘earth pony’ possesses much denser musculature and skeletal structure than is normal for an organism of your approximate size,” Carmed explained, “such resistance to injury was critical in preventing expiration before your body was recovered.”
“Heh… well, finally, being an earth pony comes in handy,” Gears grunted, “is my family here?”
“No. They visited several times, but I decided not to inform them about the… procedure we used to wake you up. I’m still quite surprised that it worked.”
“I informed you that its success rate-“
“Yes, I know what you said. I didn’t believe you, and I was wrong. Now would you LEAVE?”
“Negative. The implantation operation must begin as soon as possible.”
“No, he’s not-“
The doctor was cut off by Gear Works, who coughed loudly as if to remind the two that he was conscious and lucid. “What implantation procedure?”
“Designated citizen Gear Works,” Carmed buzzed, “the damage to your body due to the structural failure of your home was considerable. Two of your extremities were crushed beyond any possibility of recovery, and skeletal damage is extensive. Numerous internals have ruptured, as has your right optical organ. I have recommended to your so-called ‘medical professionals’ a complete augmetic rebuild and upgrade to restore and enhance bodily function.”
“This is true,” Doctor Tonic grunted, “and in my professional opinion as a doctor, and my personal opinion as a pony, the augmentations are a mistake.”
Gears shifted uncomfortably. “Wh-What do you mean?”
“I mean that the ‘upgrades’ Dark Techpriest Carmed is considering are absurd. We’re not discussing a mere replacement liver or a new leg,” Miracle complained, “they include such obtrusive parts as a servo arm, respiratory filtration engine, dermal carapace, neural uplink, and internal generator.”
“The upgrades are-“
“UNNECESSARY,” Miracle interrupted, “I recommend limiting the procedure to merely organ replacements, and if you MUST, the augmetic limbs. Although even those may be too much. We can magically regenerate his legs. They won't be as functional as before, but they're better than attaching those big heaps of metal to him. Ponies have done just fine with walking sticks and leg braces for generations, and I honestly don't see it as an improvement to be wired up to some giant hydraulic contraption.”
"Your professional opinion is subject to entirely irrational bias against non-organic components. Your advisory role has been compromised."
“Whoa, wait,” Gear Works mumbled as his ears twitched, “Techpriest Carmed wants to do all that to me? Why would he offer me all that?”
“Proof of concept,” the Dark Techpriest replied without reservation, “I wish to create a template for converting equines to servitors. My peers insist that equine anatomy is incompatible with common bionic augments and standard technical protocols that govern servitor processing. I suspect that they are beholden to a common, illogical prejudice that only the sapien form is an acceptable template for servitor conversion. Your reconstruction and area of technical specialty are ideal for this purpose; if I can restore your body to full operational capacity and even improve upon it, then I will have evidence that equine anatomy poses no substantial barrier to service, and greatly expand our base of available resources.”
There was a long pause as Techpriest Carmed completed his explanation.
“… So, in addition to wanting to turn you into a walking blender like he is, the Dark Techpriest wants to use you as proof that our species makes perfectly good cyber-slaves,” Doctor Tonic said dryly. Then she sighed. “As you seem to be in perfectly lucid condition, Mister Works, I must allow you to make the decision for yourself. However, I must point out that such obtrusive, extensive augmentation is going to have an extraordinary and detrimental effect on your quality of life. You won’t just be a pony with bionic parts; you’ll be as much machine as equine. It will be a jarring change, to say the least, and there are some who would consider such an individual… less than pony, if you will.” The way she cleared her throat seemed to suggest that she herself just might hold that point of view. “Nonetheless, the choice is yours to make. What do you say?”
Gear Works took several deep, shuddering breaths as the Doctor and Dark Techpriest watched and waited patiently.
“AWESOME.”
****
SFaccountant proudly presents
A My Little Pony/Warhammer 40,000 crossover set in the Iron Age divergence…
Gear in the Machine
Punctuation key: “Gothic speech”, *Tau speech*, +Binary speech+, Non-verbal communication such as telepathy
Chapter 1
Booting Up
****
It was quite amazing how the world looked through the eyes of a machine.
As Gear Works stared through the window at the passing terrain, his view was split between two utterly different landscapes. One was a blur of color, shadows, and textures that he had known all his life. The ordinary view that his mind unraveled to determine distance, depth, hardness, and a variety of other casual estimations that were necessary for navigation. It seemed so ordinary, as many things did when one practiced them since birth.
The other half of his vision was a web of green wire frame images. A bizarre, precise, mechanical mirror-image of his biological eye, the sensor sphere wedged in his skull took measured calculations of distance, depth, and material composition and broke it down into a feed of data points. Then it laboriously re-constructed those data points into a crude image to feed them back to his mind to give spatial context to the river of information. One eye broke down a picture for information. The other put together information to paint a picture. It was almost poetic.
Gear Works was inclined to favor the view from his natural eye. It was more familiar, more aesthetically pleasing, had colors, and wasn't as confusing as the monochrome jumble from his augmetic. Yet the more he thought about it, the more doubtful that preference became. After all, his optical bionics provided all the information he needed and more. Its limitations came from having to reconstruct the visual information into crude images for his brain to comprehend. In that context, his natural vision was holding him back, keeping him from viewing the world around him as a set of measurements rather than a pretty picture. It was a fascinating conundrum.
He glimpsed something large moving through the grass outside, but in a moment he had passed it by. The mag-lev train moved too quickly for one to really enjoy the view, which was why few other passengers bothered trying. There were but four other ponies in his car and one human, and only the human was looking outside, apparently fascinated by the landscapes.
Ironic, really. The man had been to other planets, and come to the surface on a metal vessel capable of escaping a world's atmosphere and navigating the depths of space. His life contained a sort of grand, near-infinite freedom that an Equestrian could only dream of: the ability to leave the planet and explore others. Yet he looked upon something as mundane as lush grasslands and unspoiled forests as something remarkable.
Gears thought back to the creature he had seen briefly, and the vision in his right eye disconnected from the view in his left. A playback of the last minute proceeded before him, freezing when the creature was displayed in all of its green, hard-angled glory. Text flickered across his optical until a match was found. That had been the tail end of a chimera (the monster, not the APC), evidently. The creature had been startled by the passing of the train, no doubt.
Gear Works chuckled, shifting in his seat. Once the hefty hybrid predators had been considered a serious obstacle to traveling through the region. And they still were, he supposed, if one were traveling by hoof. But there were a plethora of better options nowadays.
The mag-lev train that connected Ponyville to Ferrous Dominus ran through some fairly harsh terrain in its path to the badlands, including a few swamps and jungles infested with dangerous creatures. None of the dangers of the route proved any real impediment to the well-armed and armored train. Large animals quickly learned to stay away from the electrified rail lest they be smashed aside by the transport’s mighty prow or strafed by automated defense lasers. The rough ground may have proven some small impediment to laying the rail track, but once established the train itself floated above such hazards at fantastic speed. The route was a remarkable departure from the familiar train system that linked Canterlot to the rest of the kingdom, and that was even before taking into account its destination.
Once the train reached the badlands, physical evidence of Chaos taint was quite obvious; trees were withered, discolored seams of ground crawled over the dirt like veins of darkness, and an unnatural number of carrion birds roosted on the bare tree branches while scanning for food. Gears could feel a distinct chill along his spine as his transport crossed over the wasted ground, as if Death itself had crossed his path.
“Checkpoint alert,” growled a distinctively unfriendly, pre-recorded voice from the train vox caster, “security scans engaging. Reducing speed.”
The scenery started passing by much more slowly as the train decelerated, and Gear Works tilted his head at an angle so that he could get a better view of what was ahead. Large black obelisks were situated on both sides of the track ahead, a thick red sensor lens built into the sides facing the train’s path. As the mag-lev train passed between the obelisks, a glimmering red screen appeared between the paired sentries, filtering through the train’s armored shielding.
“Wow…” Gears was nearly breathless as he watched the checkpoint scanners sweep over the train, and his breath caught in his throat as the first of the crimson webs appeared at the front of the car and was swiftly carried through it. As the scan field reached him, the stallion’s augmetic eye flickered and started returning static.
Gears grunted as he felt his right side grow heavy, and indication that his other augmetics were losing power. He felt slightly worried as he glanced down at his bionic foreleg, but put his fear aside as he shifted his weight. This was probably normal; and even if it wasn’t, Ferrous Dominus was the home of the Dark Mechanicus and undoubtedly the best place in the world for one’s augments to suddenly lock up and stop working.
Several more crimson screens passed through his train, and as the final one swept over him, Gears felt a sudden jolt run up his back. His optical started rebooting, and after a few seconds his vision was returned to its usual mix of normal vision on one side meshed with green wire-frame outlines on the other.
With his vision returned to “normal”, Gear Works once again leaned toward the window, and he gasped. Looming up ahead were the massive walls, cannons, and smokestacks of Ferrous Dominus.
Gear Works had seen numerous images of the place. Pict-captures, paintings, and even a fancy hololithic model set up in the Iron Chest. He had talked to many ponies that had visited the fortress-factory. But nothing they conveyed held a candle to the grim majesty of seeing the bastion himself. Ferrous Dominus was as unique a place as any city in the world, even with such exotic locations as Cloudsdale and Canterlot on offer. A living space carved into one of the most wasted, inhospitable lands on the planet, which somehow sustained its population while making the area, in many ways, even MORE hostile. The number of guns immediately visible from Gears’ current distance was staggering, and he could see the base’s enormous anti-ship batteries stretching toward the sky behind the walls.
Almost giddy with excitement, the stallion clambered over to the other side of the train. The noisy clanking of his augmetics against the metal floor drew some alarmed stares from the nearby passengers, but Gears paid them no heed as he peered out the window on the other side.
From this angle he could see the bulk of the manufactorum, its smokestacks pouring a constant stream of green-brown poison into the air. And off on the side, looking entirely out of place with jet-colored facings and crescent moon emblems, was Nightwatch, jutting into the soot-stained sky like a massive black spike.
The sight almost brought a joyful tear to his organic eye, and the stallion grinned as he plastered his face against the armorglass.
Then the door that separated the train cars opened, and the sound of heavy, metal-clad footfalls diverted the attention of everyone in the car, Gears included.
Gear Works had been lucky (or so he would claim) enough to see an Iron Warrior before, so he wasn’t shocked still at the sight of the giant armored man that had entered the car and started looking over the passengers. At more than eight feet tall in his power armor, before one considered the brass horns jutting up from his helmet, the Chaos Space Marine made it abundantly clear why the train’s ceiling was so tall.
The Iron Warrior’s gaze locked onto Gears, and the stallion felt his heart jump as the super-soldier advanced on him. The warrior’s weapons were mag-locked to his thigh and belt, but Gear Works had to consider that a Chaos Space Marine could easily kill him with his bare hands. And he’d never seen an Iron Warrior with bare hands.
Stopping in front of the augmented stallion, the Iron Warrior remained silent, looking the pony over. The equine had a slate blue coat of fur, with a shock white mane. What was more interesting was the pony’s augmetics, which were more extensive than the Marine had ever seen in a pony before: there was a bulbous optical piece, and his front left and rear right legs had been replaced. A black rubber cloak covered much of the pony, obviously in imitation of the Dark Techpriests. The tip of a metal tendril poked out the back of the robe, suggesting that the pony had even been given an augmetic tail.
What was most bizarre, however, was that the emulation of the tech-clergy had gone so far as to include a servo arm. The additional limb was folded against the stallion’s back in an effort to be as unobtrusive as possible, but adding a presumably functional servo arm to an individual was not something that was done lightly outside of the Cult Mechanicus or the Iron Warriors themselves.
The Iron Warrior placed a hand to the side of his helmet as it performed a more comprehensive scan of the augments. They were surplus-grade; heavy, bulky, and most likely created from recycled materials. The sort of components that were normally fitted to servitors. Such bionics would have embarrassed most Techpriests, but then it was hard to imagine a Techpriest supplying such equipment to a pony in the first place.
“You are clear,” the Chaos Marine rumbled as his visor confirmed that the augments possessed no weapons or dangerous materials. Then he connected his vox to the train operator. “All scans negative. The passenger cars are secure.”
He started to turn, but hesitated as he saw the pony still staring up at him with an expression of silent, thoroughly intimidated awe. The Iron Warrior decided to indulge his curiosity.
“You wear robes and boast bionics in imitation of our Dark Techpriests. How did you come to be augmented like that?” the Marine asked. It was meant to be an idle question, but the helmet vox and long habit made it sound a lot like a growled demand.
Gear Works almost jumped. “It was after the invasion of Canterlot, Lord!” he barked stiffly. “The first one, that is! I was buried in my home and the Dark Techpriests dug me out and saved me!”
“And rebuilt you too, clearly,” the Iron Warrior mused, “but that cloak isn’t something borne by individuals outside of our Mechanicus detachment. Has the Cult Mechanicus truly started inducting you equines into its ranks?”
“Er, no, Lord, not as such,” Gears admitted. Then he gulped and looked up at the soldier. “But I hope to be the first, actually.”
The Iron Warrior shifted as the train started slowing further, indicating that they had reached the gates that served the mag-lev track. “It seems an odd ambition for one of your kind. Your horned folk are associated with fanciful and surprisingly harmless psionic abilities, and those of you with neither wings nor psychic powers are thought of as banal, rural beasts.”
Gears chuckled nervously. “Well, I suppose we can give that impression.” Then he paused. “Wait, what about the pegasi?”
“They’re mostly associated with flying into windows, whining about the soot clouds, and generally being idiots.”
“Sounds about right,” Gears mumbled, “regardless of the preferences of the rest of my species, I, at least, aspire to be more. I wish to join the Cult Mechanicus, learn the secrets of the machine, and serve the 38th Company to the best of my ability.”
“You aspire to be servant to us?” the soldier snorted in amusement. Gear Works briefly wondered if the amusement was due to an aspiration of submission, or the suggestion that he wasn't a servant already.
“If it weren’t for the 38th Company, I would be dead. Twice over, maybe thrice,” Gears mumbled, “all Equestrians owe you a debt. I would consider it an honor and an opportunity to repay mine personally with my service."
The train's vox caster crackled with static. "Now arriving at station Primus 1. This is the end of the transit route. All passengers are ordered to disembark for screening and security checks. Compliance is mandatory. Defiance will not be tolerated."
Gears turned to look at the vox caster, and then back to the Chaos Space Marine. "It's nice of you to specify when defiance won't be tolerated. Otherwise we'd think it wasn't a good idea at all."
"I can never tell if you creatures are being sarcastic or not," the Iron Warrior mumbled, turning away. He started to leave, but then paused after a few steps. "... A word of caution, equine."
"Yes, Lord?" Gears asked, perking up attentively.
"We have numerous servants already. The mercenaries, the menials, the slaves, and those of your kind who have already immigrated here to take up arms or pursue commerce within our walls," the warrior explained, "the Dark Mechanicus are not among them, however."
Gears blinked his organic eye.
"To be Mechanicus is to be much more than another sack of flesh for us to use as we see fit. They are not the equals of us, the Astartes, but still they are too powerful, too valuable to be treated as expendable tools like the other mortals. They are our allies, not our servants."
Gears furrowed his brow in thought.
"Keep that in mind when you make your plea to them, equine," the Iron Warrior warned, "they do not accept all those who wish to join, but only those who have earned their place. They do not wear their symbols as a mark of ownership or mere allegiance, but a mark of pride; an honor earned through suffering and effort."
He said nothing else, leaving the train car without looking back or looking over the other passengers. The train had slowed to a crawl now, and through the windows Gears could see the great metal buildings of the fortress-city through a web of chain link fencing. The train stopped entirely, and another blast of static came from the vox caster.
"Welcome to Ferrous Dominus," growled the voice from above, "now get out."
****
Ferrous Dominus - sector 19 processing
"Next!" shouted the officer at the front desk.
Gears absent-mindedly took a step forward as the line shifted, bringing him one step closer to being released into the fortress at large. He was close enough now to overhear the interview going on at the front of the line, but wasn't paying the slightest attention to the man or the ponies ahead of him.
The augmented pony was completely entranced by his surroundings. No doubt by Iron Warrior standards it was drab, cramped, and ramshackle. To Gear Works it was a marvel.
A huge air purifier was mounted on the ceiling, rumbling obnoxiously as it constantly sucked up air, processed it, and then blasted it back into the room. Gears could feel the machine's vibrations through his hooves, and the cleaned and regurgitated air had a slight chemical scent to it.
One wall of the immigration processing station was covered by a bright orange hololithic screen, floating barely an inch over the wall itself, which displayed various warnings and advertisements. There was evidently a sale going on to celebrate the opening of a new clothing store - equine and human ensembles, so it said - and a dessert shop was seeking new hires. A recruitment poster featured a proud-looking stallion standing over a fallen Ork warrior with the Iron Skull hovering above him. Atop the holo board was a general greeting for those waiting for admission: Welcome to Ferrous Dominus. Our bread baked fresh daily.
The other side of the admission line was what held Gears' absolute attention, however. In contrast to every other pony, who was trying to ignore it. Gun servitors slowly shifted right and left in an endless search for a target, their glowering red optics casting rays of blood-colored light across the equines waiting in line. Boltguns clicked back and forth from pony to pony, and rotary cannons would turn every few seconds, whirring to action and then slowing to rest. There were two standing gun servitors that were plugged into a length of cable that ran into the wall; presumably they could disconnect from their power source and move if they needed to chase something, although Gears recalled that the exterior of the building was a web of criss-crossing fire arcs and automated guns anyway. Between the two mobile servitors was a human torso that had been installed in a wall port, covered over with armor and boasting two small Gatling guns.
The other ponies seemed almost desperate to distract themselves from being a finger twitch away from obliteration, but Gears struggled to keep from leaving the line to start crawling around the place and toying with the various machines and cyborgs. He was surrounded by the sights and smells of wartime industry. Grim, dirty, unfeeling, and generally awful. He loved it. He might have burst into song, but he was pretty certain that would cause the sentry guns to open fire on him.
"Next!"
The line budged again, and Gear Works finally found himself at the front of the line. He turned to face the stony-faced human standing behind the counter, and then felt a knot of nervousness that had been conspicuously absent while staring down the barrel of the gun sentries.
"Name."
"Gear Works."
"Species."
"Earth pony."
"Origin point."
"Canterlot City."
The questions from the desk clerk came rapidly and with a curiously hostile inflection that made them sound like demands.
"Combat training."
"N-None, Sir."
"Hmph. Profession."
"Machinist. Or, well, I suppose you would call me a Techpriest. Er... maybe?"
This finally prompted the man to halt and look up from the hololith screen at who he was interviewing. He seemed slightly surprised at the sight of the augmented stallion, which implied that he hadn't looked up at the ponies he was processing once since Gear Works had entered.
"... YOU'RE a Dark Techpriest?" He asked, furrowing his brow. Confusion had briefly eclipsed his disdain, but he seemed hesitant to argue the point. After seeing ponies armed with lasguns and even with power armor, it wasn't obvious anymore which roles equines couldn't fill at all.
"Well, not really. I hope to be, though!" Gear Works said, placing his augmetic hoof up onto the counter. "I'm just not sure what you call those that work and build machines who aren't necessarily associated with the Mechanicus."
"We usually call them victims," the man quipped.
"Oh. Uh... I'd rather not characterize myself that way," Gears mumbled.
The man frowned, but then entered something in his console anyway. "I've assigned you temporary lodgings in temporary hab-block Alpha-3 in sector 18. Your room number is 611."
"Ah. And I'll be moved into permanent housing after my application is processed?" Gears asked.
"You'll be issued a return ticket to your station of choice when your application is rejected and you're removed from the base premises," the clerk corrected, "assuming you don't join a different organization after your initial rejection that isn't going to toss you out into the streets like so much trash."
Gears frowned as the man continued entering data into his console. "... I have to say, Sir, that the Iron Warrior I met on the train was FAR more encouraging."
"It's hard to best our Astartes masters when it comes to withering contempt for your people, but I'm proud to be among that particular class." The clerk slid a finger across the hololith, and a shaky grinding noise came from the cogitator. A shiny metal card slid out of a slot in front of Gears. "There is your access card. It will allow you to enter any building that is not subject to a security access level. Most structures are subject to a security access level, so it won't get you very far. It will also deactivate after two days, which I believe should be sufficient time for the Dark Mechanicus to destroy your aspirations entirely. Enjoy your stay for as long as you can."
Then he waved his hand to the side. "Next!"
****
Ferrous Dominus - sector 18
Gear Works had obviously been experiencing some mixed messages since he had arrived in Ferrous Dominus.
The lone Iron Warrior had been bizarrely accommodating, and the clerk specifically responsible for dealing with pony immigrants had been almost hostile. The streets of the fortress-factory were a similar mix of contradictions. He had been expecting large, open streets with tank convoys and security checkpoints and maybe - HOPEFULLY - a giant monstrous armored walker.
There were all those things, including the walker. Which was amazing and wonderful and great even if it had snapped at him like an angry dog and scared him into hiding under an APC. But then there were things that one rather wouldn't expect to see in a massive industrialized war factory. He had passed by several restaurants and a coffee shop, and there were posters advertising various Equestrian goods, the benefits of joining the 38th Company's mercenary corps, and some kind of show by the Great and Powerful Trixie. Those last ads in particular Gears found odd, since he recalled Trixie as being a warrior unicorn that had bravely led the assault that liberated Canterlot from the Tau, and it seemed strange that somepony like that would be putting on magic shows.
Still, that wasn't QUITE as odd as a pony giving guided tours through the fortress. Close, but not quite.
"On your right you'll see a standard pattern Leman Russ main battle tank," said a bright orange mare pleasantly as she walked ahead of a crowd of other ponies, "the standard pattern model possesses a turreted main battle cannon, a hull-mounted lascannon on the body, and two heavy bolters attached to the sponsons on either side! Many also boast an additional heavy stubber on the pintle mount, bringing it to a total of five guns! It is one of the most heavily armed and armored main battle tanks in the known galaxy, and its performance is respected even among aliens that generally hold human technology and wargear in contempt!"
Gear Works matched the pace of the surrounding tour group, completely absorbed in the guide's explanation. His augmetic focused on the Leman Russ, and within seconds reams of data spilled out of the crude wire-frame construct. Mechanisms hidden under the outer layers of armor were highlighted and sketched out by his bionic, then slid away from the rest of the image before being surrounded by measurements and data points. It was fantastic.
"Most of the Leman Russ and Chimera vehicles are either stolen from military bases or restored from recovered wrecks on the battlefield! This is in contrast to the Astartes vehicles such as the Rhino APCs and Predator attack tanks, many of which have been in service for thousands of years!"
The pegasus acting as tour guide sounded fairly ridiculous giving her cheerful monologues through a respirator mask, but the crowd gave her their polite attention whenever they weren't busy gawking at something the guide was pointing out. Besides, they all looked equally silly wearing their own masks along with touristy sun hats and flower-print shirts.
"Oh! Here comes a Sentinel patrol! Lucky!" The tour guide spread a wing out to point down the street while four stilt-legged light walkers moved around a bend at a jog. "These vehicles usually serve as combat scouts in the Company armies, although I hear they've been shifting to a fire support role as of late! Pegasi and batpony squadrons can find and mark targets much faster and more easily escape retaliation, which makes them better scouts, but lack the heavier armor and weaponry of the Sentinels!"
"Uh... Why are they dragging a human behind them?" asked a stallion uncomfortably. As he had noted, there was a chain length trailing from one of the light walkers, and it was attached to a screaming man being dragged over the ferrocrete streets.
The tour guide's relentless cheer was unmoved by the grisly spectacle. "What we're seeing here is a criminal execution! Punishment for various crimes against the 38th Company or the citizens of Ferrous Dominus range from relegation to slave labor to death!"
"Wait, really?" asked a mare. "Isn't there anything less severe than either of those?"
"Crimes that don't warrant making the perpetrator a slave or a corpse are considered too petty to warrant the time of the 38th Company's enforcers or military administrators, and as such are effectively legal!" the guide explained. "Fun fact: in hosting the world's first Chaos and machine cults but banning worship of something called the 'Whore God' under pain of death, Ferrous Dominus has both the greatest religious diversity and the strictest religious laws of any city in the world!"
Some of the tourists paused to take pict-captures of the Sentinels and their victim as they passed by, which Gear Works found incredibly morbid. Then they were on the move again, finally approaching the section of the military fortress that he had come to see in the first place: the temples of the Dark Mechanicus.
"Please use caution when navigating the area! Any sudden movements may be interpreted by the combat servitors as an attack pattern and unleash a fusillade that will kill us all!" The guide's voice didn't waver in the slightest from her usual cheerful, bright tone, and a few of the touring ponies chuckled at the warning. The chuckles trailed nervously off as the group slowed down and a few targeting lasers swept across them.
Gears had to restrain an excited squeal. There were servitors everywhere; from the simple, minimally augmented lifters to very heavy models bearing tank-like tread chassis and heavy cannons. Many of them were armed, and these units seemed to pay particular attention to the group of alien creatures with low security access.
"So are these those slaves that everypony makes a big deal about?" mumbled one of the tourists.
"No, not at all!" the guide said with a giggle. "Servitors are humans who have had their minds erased and their bodies rebuilt to work as machines! They don't fit Equestria's definitions of slavery, as their neural re-programming robs them of anything resembling free will, sentient dignity, or complex emotions! By our standards they're more or less worker zombies!" She started heading forward again. "It's ironic, really, since the process of turning humans into servitors is easily just as cruel as the executions and slave labor, yet don't excite nearly as much criticism from Equestria! Hah! Now, up here we see the main refineries..."
Gear Works let the crowd of ponies pass around him, rooted to the spot. His head was craned upward, and his augmetic zoomed in on a massive iron relief over the doors of the main temple. A giant human skull wrought in metal loomed down over the streets, half its face bone, and the other half composed of machinery. The Star of Chaos surrounded it, the arrows spreading into tracks of glowing red circuit tracers that spread over the face of the temple. A cascade of feelings washed over him as he beheld the mighty temple. There was fear, certainly, but it was drowned under the strength of his awe and curiosity.
The Dark Mechanicus had a controversial reputation among the Chaos factions in Equestria. They were the source of all the technology that gave the 38th Company their many advantages - military and commercial - over Equestria and the rest of the planet. And for those that had less interest in material conveniences or warfare, they also had a database of knowledge that any academic-minded equine would sell their own foals for. The problem being, of course, that the Tech Cult would probably buy them. Just as the Iron Warriors freely demonstrated their tyrannical and brutal nature even as they defended Equestria from rampaging aliens, the Dark Mechanicus made little effort to hide their lust for resources and exploitation while sustaining the new trade in alien goods on Centaur III. They would happily carve the entire planet apart for metal and chemicals, and enslave anyone who stood in their way.
And now - FINALLY - Gear Works would get his chance to help them.
Two wall-mounted gun servitors swiveled to face him as he approached the front gates, and one spat a harsh command from behind the grill of its face plate.
"Halt. Unit not authorized for entry. Unauthorized access will result in unit termination."
Gears stopped as instructed, but didn't seem nearly as bothered as he probably should be by having a sparking plasma cannon aimed directly at him. "Hi! Can I speak to whoever is in charge of applicant processing?"
An assortment of robotic beeps and squeals came from the servitor, and then a hololithic screen appeared in front of its face.
"Contact permissions granted. Accessing vox-link 8204-239815. Opening channel."
A blast of static came from a completely different speaker on the servitor's chest, and then a new voice spoke. It was deeper and spoke faster than the servitor, but other than that Gears found it remarkable how similar it was to that of the lobotomized cyber-slave.
"This is Dark Acolyte Sheraan. Auspex scans complete: adult equine, genus 'pony'. Earth sub-genus, male. Twenty-nine percent of body mass represents bionic augmentation. Weapon class null." There was a brief pause. "Speak."
"Hello, Acolyte! My name is Gear Works, and I would like to talk about the possibility of joining your fine organization!" Gears said. He would have stepped closer to the servitor to make sure his voice reached wherever the vox receiver was, but he wasn't sure that the gun servitors weren't still set to annihilate him for approaching without permission.
There was a long pause, and more static and beeping noises came from the servitor.
"Access to temple lobby granted. All defensive units are ordered to stand down," barked Sheraan. The servitors quickly turned away from Gear Works, swiveling about to watch other people passing down the avenue. "Proceed."
A heavy groan came from the front doors of the temple, and then the hiss of pistons shifting. They swung open with surprising speed, and Gears made a mental note that the caution striping below the entrance wasn't just a theme-related welcome mat.
"Well. I've officially made it further than I really thought I would," the stallion mumbled to himself as the gates settled into their open position, "here goes everything..."
The temple lobby was rather sparse, with a cavernous main hall that mostly served as an empty space branching off into different parts of the temple interior. There were a few podiums near the back with cogitator consoles, and the walls were overrun with piping and cables. Above the center of the hall was an enormous cog suspended from the ceiling with heavy chains. The top of it was covered in clusters of lit candles, and the entire room smelled of incense.
Standing in the middle of the room was a single man in charcoal-black rubber robes. His arms were bare and still mostly flesh, but his face was completely covered with a face plate and emerald-green visor. A pair of servo arms curled up over his shoulders, aimed toward Gear Works as if waiting for a chance to strike.
Two more figures in robes stood behind the podiums further back, both of them more obviously and extensively augmented than the man in front of Gears. The stallion nonetheless gave the closest engineer-cultist his full attention and sat down on the floor in front of him.
"I am Dark Acolyte Sheraan," the man said once Gears sat down. "You have come seeking employment by the Dark Mechanicus?"
Gears took a moment to consider the question. "Well, I don't think 'employment' is the right word for it. I'm not just looking to work for you; I want to become one of you!"
Bursts of static came from the Techpriests further back. After a mere three seconds they were quiet once more, and Gear Works blinked in surprise.
"Noted," said Sheraan in monotone. "You mean to take up worship of the Omnissiah, the Dark Machine God. The greater construct of the pantheon of Chaos, the source of all wisdom, and the Truth."
"Yes. Absolutely. I am all about that." Gear Works nodded rapidly. "Granted, I don't have all the details on that 'Machine God' thing, but that's why I'm here to learn!"
"You wish to take up worship of a God you know nothing about." Although the wording suggested it was a question, it sounded a lot more like an accusation.
Gears felt himself starting to sweat, and he took a deep breath to calm himself. Whatever sense of fearless apathy he called upon while staring down the barrel of a plasma culverin was not in evidence here, while he was being grilled by the cyborg cultists who would determine the major course of his immediate future.
"I do know some things about it. Not enough, obviously," the stallion began, "as you can see, I already have a bit of the Machine God in me already!" He chuckled nervously, and his servo arm unfolded above him.
"A product of one of Dark Techpriest Carmed's failed experiments," mumbled Sheraan.
Gear Works didn't know if calling the experiment a "failure" was some kind of judgment on him or with the man's work in general. "The experiment was a failure, Acolyte?"
"Affirmative. Equine biology is inferior, and unsuited to servitor conversion."
"Ah. I see. Well, that's... unfortunate? But anyway, I wanted to-"
"Likewise, your kind are unsuited to the duties of the Dark Mechanicus," Sheraan continued, "your technological achievements are risible, your reliance upon psychic power revolting, and you lack proper tool-centric physiology."
"Counterpoints!" Gears raised a hoof sharply. "First, technological achievement in Equestria is not limited to purely mechanical and electronic devices - which are uncommon in our country, but do exist - and as such one must consider the remarkable magic-based creations developed by our people when judging our technology level. Second, whatever prejudice you have against psykers, I'm an earth pony, and thus shouldn't be subject to any related stigma. Finally, I know enough about the Cult Mechanicus to know that overcoming one's biological origin is the entire POINT, which means that the weakness of my flesh versus yours is quite irrelevant; in the end, we both aspire to be machine, and machines are judged according to their efficiency and objective worth, not some random incidence of their creation."
Gears took a deep breath as he finished speaking, surprised that his nerve had held up long enough to deliver his rebuttal. The Techpriests engaged in another few seconds of indecipherable machine-speak, and then the stallion was again the subject of their cold, bright green stares.
"Explain your qualifications and desire to serve the Cult of the Machine," Sheraan demanded.
"Oh, sure! So, my special talent is working with and building machines! Obviously relevant, although Equestrian machines are several orders of magnitude less complex and impressive than your own! Personally, I think it's because scientific advancement is reliant on ponies ending up with research specializations as their-"
"Remain on-topic," Sheraan interrupted, "you are currently diverting otherwise productive time, and the numerous failings of your wretched alien society do not concern me."
Gears swallowed loudly. "Ah! Right! Good point! Uh... well, after my shop in Canterlot was demolished by the Tau - or, rather, demolished by the Company trying to fight the Tau - I decided to try to work for the 38th Company directly to get better access and understanding to your technology! I was doing some petty recruitment work at first, because Master Delgan didn't want me poking around at all the machines instead of working, or disassembling his inventory. That didn't really stop me from doing those things, though, so I was... uh... fired."
There was more Binaric chatter from the Techpriests in back.
Gears didn't hear anything from Sheraan, though, so he continued. "It was suggested by many of my former co-workers at the time that I should try out for the Dark Mechanicus. They weren't serious, of course, but the more I looked into your organization the more intrigued I became. I already have bionic enhancements, and your unusually spiritual approach to industry interests me deeply. My family was against it. Like, seriously, totally against it. They were trying to save up money so I could start a new shop. But after seeing the second liberation of Canterlot, and the way the Iron Warriors saw off the final Ork threat, I made up my mind! I wanted to serve the Company, and the best way I can do that is by joining the Dark Mechanicus!" He grinned brightly. "See? I got a robe and everything!"
Dark Acolyte Sheraan tilted his head to one side. "You say you undertook this decision contrary to your family's wishes. Membership within the Dark Mechanicus precludes any marital or paternal attachments outside the cult. You cannot bring your spouse with you, in particular if it will obstruct your duties in any way."
Gear Works blinked in surprise. "What? Spouse? Oh, no, that's not what I meant! I was talking about my parents and sister! I don't have a wife or kids. Or a marefriend. So that's not a problem. I don't have to sever ties with my relatives, do I?"
"Negative," Sheraan said, "this concludes the preliminary interview. Processing application."
The Acolyte immediately twisted around to face the Dark Techpriests behind him.
+Adjudication: There is no technical impediment to applicant admission. I await input,+ Sheraan bleated to the Techpriests.
+Interrogative: When did species cease being a technical qualification to the Cult Mechanicus?+ replied one of the cyborgs as his mechatendrils quivered.
The other Dark Techpriest interjected before Sheraan could answer. +Hypothesis: Current precedent includes the enlistment of mutants and daemonkin within the Dark Mechanicus. Conclusive: Strict sapien heritage need not be a requirement for service.+
+Retort: The organisms listed share a human DNA base. To accept a xeno will further pervert our order and damage our reputation relative to other Dark Mechanicus detachments.+
+Interrogative: When has genetic deviancy and daemonic influence been determined to be a detrimental deviancy of the Dark Mechanicus? Hypothetical: The expansion of genetic samples and techniques allow for our own to be further tested and refined, and to add new ones. Conclusive: There may be unexpected advantages to allowing the applicant to achieve Aspirant status, and negligible risk.+
Sheraan interjected his own blast of static. +Concurrence: The equine shares sufficient anthropomorphic traits to provide service. Conclusive: Applicant may be exploited and then ejected from the Cult Mechanicus with minimal disruption to operations.+
+Hypothetical: Applicant will by then possess knowledge of the Dark Mechanicus that cannot be allowed to leave the cult.+
+Practical: Then applicant can be terminated, or converted to a servitor as Dark Techpriest Carmed originally intended.+
+Interrogative: You wish to give that lunatic's experiments legitimacy? Are you malfunctioning?+
Gear Works fidgeted nervously as the three robed cyborgs spat Binaric Cant at each other. The exchange went remarkably quickly, ending in some two minutes. But for the anxious stallion it was a painfully long time before Sheraan whirled back around to face him.
He jumped to his hooves immediately, startled. "Yes! What is it? What's happening?"
"Your application has been considered. There is one final step remaining in the admission process," Sheraan said.
Gear Works blinked, surprised. "Oh! Really? Okay. What is it?"
"Stand over here, onto the designated testing area," the Dark Acolyte pointed to a square slightly off to the side of the stallion.
"Okay, sure, I just thought-" Gears twitched to a stop when he saw the 'testing area' that was being pointed out to him. "Uh..."
"Step into the designated testing area," Sheraan repeated.
"The... testing area? This area, here? With the black and yellow warning stripes that generally indicate 'danger'?" Gears said, pointing a hoof toward the colored tile.
"Affirmative."
"The area with the warning stripes that has a very obvious open seam around its circumference, as opposed to the rest of the flooring around it?"
"Affirmative."
Gear Works stared down at the spot, and then cautiously pressed the tip of his hoof against it. As he applied more pressure against the tile, he felt it give slightly, only for it to push back into place as soon as he let up.
"Is... Is this some kind of springboard?" Gears asked incredulously.
"Affirmative," Sheraan said again, "now get on."
Gear Works looked up at the Techpriests behind Sheraan, noting that one of them had a mechanical, tri-jointed arm poised over a large red button.
"... No. I'm not stepping there," the stallion said.
Sheraan immediately whirled around again, and then the black-robed figures began sputtering Binary at each other again. Gear Works idly wondered if he should take the time to flee.
Then Sheraan turned to face him again. "Your application has been approved. You are granted the rank of 'Aspirant'. You are now officially a member of the Dark Mechanicus."
Gear Works recoiled, almost stunned. "Wha-You-Really?"
"Affirmative. You will submit to processing and be given an assignment immediately." Behind him, the two Dark Techpriests left their podiums, one of them sputtering a curiously bitter-sounding string of Binaric Cant.
"This is... I... I can hardly believe it!" Gear Works said, fighting to hold back tears. "I was willing to do whatever it takes to join you, of course, but I thought that even then-"
"Please be aware that displays of emotion are considered to be beneath you, with occasional allowances of murderous rage and lofty contempt," Sheraan interrupted, "shameful conduct may result in your being ejected from the ranks of the Dark Mechanicus. Most likely into the recycling forge."
Gears quickly recovered from his joyful outburst, adopting an expression of grim seriousness. "Of course! You're right! I look forward to serving the interests of the Dark Mechanicus and the Iron Warriors! Glory to the Omnissiah!" He bowed his head deeply, closing his biological eye as he did.
Then he cracked that eye open again. "By the way, just to be sure: if I had stood on that panel there, would you have really flung me out of the temple and possibly seriously injured me rather than just telling me to leave?"
"Affirmative," the Dark Acolyte said, "furthermore, we are allowing your admission based on the presumption that you will eventually fail, and most likely die."
"Huh. I suppose I should feel resentful about that, but honestly this has all gone much better for me than I had any right to expect," the pony reflected, standing up again.
"Welcome to the Dark Mechanicus, Gear Works."