“Since you're alone, and there's no way in hell you're 16, I have to ask if you're orphaned or emancipated.” The fifty-ish lady crewing the front desk (for lack of a better term) of Conversion Camp 4077 asked, her Afrikaans accent thick with weariness. A camp … with only a few weeks left before the end, the Bureaus were long gone, replaced by movable tent cities where Humans walked in by the thousands and Ponies walked out, often the same day, sometimes the next. Usually with a bare-bones packet to orient them to their new life, but even that wasn't guaranteed.
“Disowned. Said he'd paint the wall with my brains if I came back. Told me that if I was such a pansy, I should go play with the pansy Ponies. His words.” Well, that demon – I won't call him my father, not after even a quarter of the shit he's done – said a lot more, but the clerk didn't need to hear it, or the rest of my sob story. “I don't have anyone else.”
“Alright, I'll list you as 'Emancipated' … what's your name – both birth and Pony if you have one – GIN, and date of birth?” Six weeks before Ragnarok, and she's focused on her damn paperwork? Some things never change, really. Still, I was getting my way out – even six months ago, I'd have been up shit creek without a paddle, but as the end drew nearer, they were Ponifying those under sixteen without a legal guardian – hell, we got priority.
“Lukas A. Gunter. You don't want to know what the 'A' stands for. No Pony name yet. GIN 27-038-3827-4707, and February 28th, 2079” She started slightly at the date of birth – no surprise, I'm not exactly big for my age, and have something of a babyface. “Any other beans for your bosses to count?”
“Nope. This is just so that if any of your relatives do show up, we can reunite you with them.” Pull the other one, it has bells on it. WorldGov just wants us all tagged and collared, up to the point when we leave. And besides, the only family that could care died years ago, and even if the PER finally got the Old Rat or his Toady, I still don't want to see either of them. “There, you're good to go. There's a map of the complex just inside. Report to Tent 23 by 1400 hours. You're free until then. Good luck.” She managed a tired smile before I walked off and she greeted the family behind me. Lucky them. They'd return to Johannesburg when they were done and let the barrier incorporate them as a part of their community. Kids without, like me – or even if they just had a fairly young sibling or two – would be airlifted to the old base camp in Equestria to be fostered by Equestrian or established Newfoal families. Unlike some, I never had any yearning for it – I just didn't want to catch a terminal case of the deads. Still, I was used to moving, and a clean break with the past might be nice.
Sure enough, the directory was right where she said it would be, a big multicolor plastic thing, with everything marked in numbers and symbols, with a big purple “4077” in the upper right-hand corner. Apparently, everything got set up the exact same way whenever they pulled up and moved. They had the forethought to put a clock next to the sign, one display showed the current time – 1337 hours – and the other counting down until Zero Point. Crap, just over 20 minutes until I had to get to my destination, and from the map, I barely had the time to duck into a bathroom. Also, this place was huge, there were over a hundred tents, each maybe thirty meters long and ten wide, looking like field barracks from those war movies I used to endure – all in that army green, with a white number painted on every side of it. And they were all full of people, Human and Pony … mostly the former set on becoming the latter, and the latter getting a brief adjustment time, a swift meal and shove out the door so the next wave could come in.
As I walked towards Tent 23, I noticed patterns to the flow like an assembly line; my journey to Ponydom might snake a bit, but it was pretty much linear: enter in the east, conversion to the north of that, west to orientation, then south to eat, then leave at the west. I'm pretty sure that the overall direction was deliberate … Ponies – well, Equestrian Ponies at least – have stronger cultural links to the sun than Humans do, and that's saying a lot. Hell, apparently one of their rulers moved their world's sun … it sounds fucking stupid, sure, but seeing as I'm fifteen minutes away from drinking a magic potion to turn me into a technicolor magic horse in order to avoid getting killed by an advancing force field that's eating the world, I won't pass judgment before I see evidence.
The Barrier, that's the scariest thing I can think of … it's been a growing shadow in my mind for over six years … it appeared as I was breaking free of my little-kid fears, and replaced them all. Well, almost all of them at least. The scariest moment came last June, when they showed Olduvai Gorge – where Humanity was born – being consumed by the Barrier. Scared the Old Rat too, and he didn't take it well. Never did, especially not when someplace important to Humanity fell. The worst was Athens; that was when … not going there. Happy thoughts. All that fear is going to be gone soon, and the more immediate fears too, all in one fell swoop.
At last, I reach the bathrooms – oddly enough, they're unisex … must be a Pony thing. I've read that they don't split bathrooms by gender in Equestria, though I've obviously never been in a position to check. Heck, even in the Human side of the bathroom, everything hints at what we'll soon become – even the crude drawings on the stall walls – such as the one of a flying Pegasus stallion taking a leak, captioned “I gotta piss like a race horse before I become one”. Yeah, I laughed. What of it? What wasn't funny was the crudely drawn Human skull someone else had drawn near the end of his stream. I mean, yeah, I get gallows humor, but this just needlessly twisted the knife.
Opening my stall, I almost accidentally hit a girl with the door. That's right, a girl. Coed bathroom. “Shit! Sorry! Didn't see you there. You OK?” Just my luck, ten minutes left as a Human, and I almost hurt someone.
“It's all good … you missed me. Apology accepted, though.” She was more-or-less my age, dark skin, dreadlocks down to the middle of her back, and a willowy build. Her outfit struck me as well – patchwork coveralls in a riot of red, gold, and green. “I'm Windsong. What's your name?”
“Lukas … haven't thought of a Pony name yet. Pleased to meet you, though.” Damn, it was weird to talk to someone while casually washing your hands in a public bathroom … guys didn't do that, at least Human ones didn't. No clue about stallions … one more thing to get used to, I guess.
“Waiting to see what kind of Pony you turn into? My brother's doing that … has some ideas, but isn't committing to any of them.”
“Something like that … also, I haven't really had time to think about it. Long story.” Nope, I refuse to burden someone so happy with my troubles. It'd be like kicking a puppy or something. “Are you here with your parents too, or just your brother?”
“Just Jim … our parents are gone … got caught between the PER and the HLF last year. We're going to be fostered in Equestria.” Ah, fellow orphans. There were no shortage of those, and supposedly Celestia herself had anticipated this, and was part of why there was such an emphasis on immigration in the first few years, so that new communities could be built to help raise the displaced children of dying Earth. We met up with her brother outside – also fairly close to my age, couldn't tell if they were twins or just a year or so apart – and, while he shared his sister's lanky physique, his personality seems to be a total opposite of hers … withdrawn, quiet, borderline brooding. Or maybe just overwhelmed with emotion. Either way, he barely acknowledged my presence, his eyes a thousand miles away. Just a nod and a grunt.
“Where are you from?” I asked. The conversion tents were all in the same area, and some companionship sounded nice.
“Nairobi” Jim grunted, wearily.
“Our dad was from there, but our mom was from Roanoke in the Northamerizone.” Windsong, on the other hand more than made up for her brother's quiet demeanor.
“Not familiar with it, though I only really know the big cities there – New York, Washington, LA, and so forth. Where's it at?”
“It's up in the mountains, about four hundred kilometers southwest of Washington … it's a smaller city, or at least it was … it got Included back in Year 4.” Windsong's voice seemed far away, almost wistful talking about it. “Mom was a folk singer, grew up singing and made a career out of it, it's how she met Dad, actually.
“Was he a fellow musician?”
“Only an amateur one, he was a Physicist as his day job, but he loved music, didn't matter what kind … always said the universe had it's own song, and his job was to help us all learn just a few more notes of it.”
We were all kinda tearing up at that last part, so I decided to change the subject. “On a different note, are you twins or something?”
“Nah, I'll be fourteen in June, but Jim won't be thirteen until September.” Hmm, that'd put me right in between them in age.
“Way to rub it in, Sis!”
“Sorry!”
We arrived at our tents with only a couple minutes to spare. Jim and I would be going into tent 23, while Windsong was assigned to tent 24 just across the dusty path. “I'll catch up with both of you afterwards” she promised, holding up a pendant shaped like a crescent moon inside a stylized sun.
Jim and I walked into the tent, unlike the sweltering, smelly bathroom there was a palpable coolness inside. Just inside was a middle-aged man sitting at a table, a shit-eating grin pasted just below his sleazy mustache. “Names?” I don't know how he managed to sound bored, irritated, and smug at the same time, but he did it in a one-word question.
“James Otieno”
“Lukas Gunter”
“OK. Consider yourselves checked in. Find an open mat, and be sure to note the number above it. We'll begin once everyone's here, or at 1400 sharp, whichever comes first.” With that, he waved dismissively to shoo us onward. After all, people were coming in behind that.
Scratch that, boys were coming in behind us. And the tent was mostly full of boys. Yeah, there were a few androgynous looking kids in there, but nobody looked actually feminine. It seemed odd, fishy even, to be divided up by gender, especially after the unisex bathroom.
“Something's up.” James voiced my concerns before I could.
“Yeah, it sure seems like it to me, too.” I tried to contain my reluctance as best I could, but at least some got through. “Still, I don't think we have any alternative.” At this point, there was no room for anyone's doubts or second thoughts, not with the End Of All Things a month and a half away - once we were into the system, we either Ponied up on our one chance, or we died horribly of magic poisoning when the Barrier came for us. According to the news, there wouldn't be enough time, enough potion to save everyone, and that those under 30 (and their immediate families) got priority, and everyone else was on the lottery system – if your GIN was selected, you had two days to report to a Conversion Camp and get Ponified, otherwise that's all she wrote, and your potion would go to someone else. In the highly unlikely case that everyone's number came up, they'd re-randomize and call again, with a shorter deadline. As of this morning, it looked like there'd be enough potion for about half of the older adults and all of us younger ones, though that estimate could change easily if PER forces surrendered their own stockpiles, or if Worldgov troops captured it – both of which had happened more than once – or if the HLF managed to sabotage it, which they hadn't managed to for well over a year, though not for lack of trying.
Jim and I wound up near the back, at mats 88 and 87 respectively. It was a fairly sterile setup that had clearly been honed to a minimum – the mat itself was a foam rubber gym mat, and off to the side there was a partially full bin of clothes – again, all fairly masculine – a folding metal table, and a mirror. We had maybe a minute to catch our bearings before a swarthy, portly man who looked to be about fifty walked up to the front of the room.
“Can I get everyone's attention please?” I couldn't really place his accent, though it wasn't anywhere near thick enough to make him hard to understand. Just enough to drive me bananas. “Ok, first off, it's time to strip, and put your clothes in the bin next to the mat. You won't be needing them anymore, and quite frankly, they're a danger to you while you're transforming. If you want, though, you can retain an accessory or other trinket to help companions elsewhere recognize you. Just be sure to take it off and place it on the tray table, along with any other small, non-electronic keepsakes. While you're doing that, I'll go over a few things”
I did as he asked, though I didn't have anything to put aside – I hadn't been allowed to keep anything of Mom's, and never really had anything of my own, unlike Rolf. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jim set aside a pendant that matched his sister's.
“OK, you're all going to be part of a pilot program; since there's currently a bit of a shortage of our regular potion, and since Equestria only has one stallion per five mares, we're going to be emulating that ratio among the fosterlings we send there in order to minimize the disruptions in their culture. Because of that, we're going to be using our supply of red potion - courtesy of the P.E.R. - to make most of you fillies. If I call out your number, come to the front for your potion, you will be colts. Just don't drink until you're back at your mat. Everyone else, your potion will be brought to you; if you choose to back out, you will not get another chance to Pony Up. You will drink the potion you are given today, or none at all.” A murmur rose up in the tent. How in the hell was this legal? How was it possible? When this all began, it was guaranteed that we'd all be converted as our own gender, hell, Worldgov even considered your gender to be sacrosanct, in as much as they gave a shit about your human rights to begin with. So either Equestria altered the deal, or this was happening without Worldgov's approval. Before I could pursue that line of thought much further, the old windbag had one more bomb to drop. “Before I start calling names, would anyone volunteer to go filly and improve everyone else's chances?”
“I will” the voice came from the front, from a kid who couldn't have been much older than six.
“I volunteer as tribute!” That was from an older boy-who-wouldn't-be-one-long – maybe fifteen or sixteen.
“Tribute? Are you on drugs or something?” Someone else shouted, around the same age.
“Don't you ever read, numb-nuts?”
“That's enough insults. We have twenty one and sixty three volunteering, any others?” After about thirty seconds of silence, Windbag continued. “Alright, it looks like that's our volunteers. I salute you. Now to find out who'll become colts.” With that, he began calling out numbers. Jim's was called fairly early on, and other than sighs of relief and him calling numbers, it was almost too quiet. Quiet enough that I could hear how he was getting his numbers – fucker was rolling dice! With our bodies, our manhood on the line! Even as Jim went up and got his purple potion, my number was never called.
The Old Rat would be laughing his ass off if he knew, I was always the unmanly one, never measured up to Rolf … always “Sissy”, always “wuss” always told that I might as well be a girl … to hell with this world and it's unreasonable standards, of forcing me into a mold. Fuck Earth, trying to squish me into something I'm not, then ripping away the shreds of my attempt like filthy rags. Maybe that's all masculinity was worth in the end. Hell, maybe that's all Humanity was worth – and whoever'd drawn the skull on the bathroom wall was right. I took my potion from the attendant, eased myself into a reclining position, and saluted this hellhole with my cup, lifting a line from some old movie. “Farewell Earth, don't let the door hit ya on the way out!” I downed the contents in one long pull like I was told, and my last thought before darkness took me was that it tasted like cough syrup.