Gear in the Machine
Chapter 3
Downloading: Tolerance
****
Sector 18 - specialist barracks
Phage Squadron dormitory
Gear Works stood over a boltgun receiver, carefully scraping the interior with a sharpened probe sticking out of the point of his augmetic hoof. He hummed to himself as he worked, carving out the patches of inexplicable biomass from the metal walls of the weapon to expose the corroded metal beneath. After removing each patch of gunk, he raised the probe toward Striker, who was hovering overhead. The servo skull would wipe down the length of the probe with a rag, and then drop the rag into a nearby metal cell with a biohazard label printed on the side.
"There. I think that's all of it." Gears peered closer, and the green mono-lens visor that covered his face pulsed. His view of the receiver zoomed in, sweeping the surface for contaminant buildup.
His servo arm grabbed a canister next to the desk he was at, and then started spraying an anti-corrosive resin onto the damaged surface.
"Are you almost done with that? My visor needs work, too."
Gears looked up from the pieces of the boltgun. Poison Kiss was standing on the other side of the short table, naked, while levitating her helmet next to her head. One of the lenses was obviously cracked through; judging by the surrounding nicks on the helmet plating, it had been the target of an uncommonly accurate choppa strike.
"Almost. The rifling is clean and the receiver has been fixed." His servo arm picked up the stock and held it up. "The helmet will take longer. That lens looks like it will need to be replaced entirely. I'll need to take it to a workshop."
"Fine. Just get it back to me sometime tomorrow." She dropped the armor piece next to her boltgun and then settled down opposite the cybernetic stallion.
Gears pushed the helmet to the side slightly, and then turned over the receiver to continue his work.
"... So... what happened to your eyes?" Kiss asked after a long pause.
"I don't have those anymore," Gears remarked, using the probe injector to cure the resin. His voice, distorted as it was by his respirator mask, didn't attach any particular emotion to the statement. He didn't sound bitter, sad, or rueful. It was simply a statement of fact.
"Yes, I noticed," the unicorn said dryly, "last time we met, you had one left. What happened?"
"A bit of shrapnel to the face, is all." Gears finished with the receiver, and then started a full surface scan. "No big deal."
"I trot into firefights on a regular basis and have contracted four terminal illnesses, and even I still consider the loss of an eye to be a big deal," Kiss noted, "also, one of your legs is in an autobrace."
"Yes. The Dark Mechanicus decided to save that one, since it could still be repaired. They didn't want to give me two major augmentations all at once when I hadn't earned them, you see." The scan complete, Gear Works started reassembling the boltgun. "It's a pity, but they were ultimately correct. Hopefully the next time it's crippled, they won't see fit to save it."
"I'm not sure what's more barmy: that you seem sure you'll suffer further catastrophic dismemberment or that you seem to be looking forward to it," the unicorn mumbled.
Gear Works chuckled and placed the reassembled bolter down in front of his "client". "Miss Kiss, we both have found our future under conditions that most ponies would consider abject suffering. Acknowledging the weakness and inevitable demise of flesh and embracing the abandonment of my equinity are no more odd than your devotion to a source of pestilence and malignant parasites. You too embark upon a path which ponies fear to tread and embrace its terrors as a token of strength."
"Well, aren't we just two birds of a feather?" Kiss asked with a smirk. "But still, what actually happened?"
"Let's just say that Khorne is quickly becoming my least favorite corner of the Dark Pantheon, Miss Kiss."
"Oooooh... gotcha."
The door to the dorm slid open, and Kiss leaned to the side to get a look at who was entering. "Hiya, Breezy!"
Breezy Blight trudged into the dorm room, her ears pressed flat against her head and her head hung low. "Hey," she mumbled as she approached.
"You look zonked, girl. What's the story?"
Breezy paused to glance at Gear Works, but the Aspirant was poking at Kiss's helmet and didn't acknowledge her.
"Nothing much, I guess," Breezy moped, walking up next to her squad commander and sitting down. "I was just flirting with this guard after lunch, but then he told me that he had a marefriend already."
"Hard lines, then," Kiss sighed, "nearly all the stallions around here are taken already."
Gear Works looked up at Breezy. Like Poison Kiss, the pegasus was nude; her power armor was stored in the armoring station in her room. Gears turned to look at the entrance and started searching the adjacent walls and shelves.
"Yeah, but get this: his marefriend is in the Lunar Guard." Breezy clenched her teeth, and a blast of green fumes puffed from her nostrils. "A batpony! Can you believe that? Since when were we competing with those freaks? You seriously mean to tell me that a little bit of bad breath is more of a turn-off than fangs, eating bugs, and being NOCTURNAL?!" She stuck out her tongue in disgust. "It's just gross! Not only could you cut your tongue trying to make out with a thestral, you could end up with a mouth full of insect bits, too!"
Rot Blossom leaned her head out of her bedroom doorway, frowning.
"No offense, Blossom. There's nothing wrong with having bugs in your mouth," Breezy sighed, "it's just kind of a mood-killer, that's all."
Blossom ducked back into her room, evidently satisfied.
"I just don't know what to do anymore. If no stallions join the Cult of Nurgle, I'll never get a coltfriend," the pegasus moped.
"Excuse me, Miss Breezy?" Gear Works raised a leg cautiously to get her attention.
"Sorry Gears, but there's no way it would work out. I need somepony with all his stallion parts," she replied immediately, turning to the Aspirant. "... And preferably a face, too. What the hay happened to your other eye?"
"It's not that, Miss Breezy. I wanted to know where you keep your respirators," Gear Works explained. "I was under the impression you always wear your power armor and helmets when you travel outside."
Breezy furrowed her brow. "We don't have any respirators."
Gears stood up suddenly. "Pardon? You were walking around outside without respiratory protection?"
"Yeah. So what?" Breezy smirked and blew a thin jet of green gas into Gear's face. "I breath poison, remember? I'm immune to the bad air."
"No, you're not!" Gear Works shouted, waving his hoof in front of him to dispel the fumes. The two mares recoiled in surprise. "Miss Breezy, the toxicity of the local industrial pollution is of a completely different sort than your own poisons! Being immune to one doesn't imply immunity to the other!"
This was apparently a surprise to the pegasus. "It doesn't?"
"No! Your toxic breath is a product of the bacterial and fungal colonies within your respiratory organs!" Gear's servo arm jabbed toward Breezy Blight at he spoke, as if he was wagging its metal finger at her. "They are fundamentally organic in nature! The toxins coming out of the smokestacks of the manufactorum are corrosive chemical compounds, some of which are radioactive! Not only is it still harmful to your body, but it could easily kill the bio-organisms that you utilize as symbiotic weapons!"
"So... Nurgle doesn't protect me against that stuff?" Breezy asked, suddenly worried.
"Worse! The Plague God specifically inhibits the bodily functions that are supposed to protect you from environmental toxins!" Gears sighed and backed off. "I must advise that you utilize standard protective gear if you're going to travel through Ferrous Dominus without your power armor. You may find that the 'immortality' of Nurgle worship to be surprisingly fragile."
"Never thought of it that way," Kiss mumbled thoughtfully. "Fancy you're right, Gears."
"Okay, okay, I get it. You win." Breezy's ears pinned against her head, and she frowned at the cyborg. "I'm just a little surprised that you care."
"I have been placed in support of your unit. It is my duty to do whatever I can to keep you combat-ready, whether by maintaining your wargear or dispensing helpful medical advisories." Gears plucked Kiss's broken helmet off the table with his servo arm as he spoke.
"Okay, sure. Makes sense. But, well..." Breezy Blight hesitated, glancing over to Kiss. "I mean, I'm not sure how blatant we're being about this, but we were going to beat you up if you didn't do what we said."
"Very blatant," Poison Kiss interjected.
"Yes, Miss Breezy, I know. But with the exception of some small, lingering, slow-festering shred of resentment, it doesn't matter to me." Gear Works headed for the door, Striker floating along behind him. "I've recently come to appreciate those associates of mine who merely threaten to hurt me to extort favors, rather than assaulting me regardless."
"Bloody Khornates, yeah? Later, Gears."
****
Sector 12 - manufactorum block
Gear Works trotted through the cavernous metal labyrinth of the manufactorum, his servo skull floating behind him and Kiss's helmet grasped in the claw of his servo arm. Rumbling belts, steaming pistons, and buzzing transformers surrounded the young Aspirant, along with the constant, bumbling tread of servitors performing their assigned tasks. The building literally trembled from the force of its production, and the stallion cyborg immediately felt more cheerful for it.
The numerous intersections and veritable barricades of metal crates made the enormous factory difficult for most people - and ponies, in particular - to navigate without help, but Gears was more at home in the manufactorum than his actual room. He squeezed under a long conveyor belt and cut through a hull assembly alcove, heedless of the numerous servo arms wielding lasers and melta injectors. The sizzling, spider-like mechanical limbs churned back and forth, almost seeming to flail about haphazardly among showers of sparks and bursts of steam. Gear Works walked through the chaotic display without the slightest concern, ignoring the sparks that rolled off his robes and dodging the whirling metal appendages with practiced ease. His servo skull, despite being much smaller and more mobile, kept a good distance and floated around the assemblies, wary of being dragged into the cogs or inadvertently sprayed with a welding torch.
Gears jumped up onto a bundle of durasteel rods that was being hauled across the floor by a lifting drone. The drone was Tau technology, rather than human, as evidenced by its more economic design and lack of exposed wiring or skulls. Although devices used by the Earth Caste of the Tau were still rare within the manufactorum, the 38th Company was constantly incorporating the technology into their operations.
Gear Works had mixed feelings about the Tau. On the one hoof, the aliens tried to sacrifice his planet to the Orks to save themselves, only offered to help in order to save themselves, and treated the other members of their alliance with either feverish resentment or outright contempt. On the other hoof, the Iron Warriors, and the Dark Mechanicus especially, seemed absolutely ambivalent toward the suffering the Tau had caused and extremely interested in the bargain that had been forced on the Sept survivors. If anything, in fact, the 38th Company admired the ingenuity of the Lamman Sept's Emerald Dawn Project. Some confessed openly that they regret being unable to see its conclusion.
"I wonder what these 'Tyranids' are like, to inspire such fear and warrant such measures," Gear Works mused, looking up at Striker. The servo skull floated behind him lazily, its beeping response lost among the rumbles of the manufactorum. "To be as fearsome as an army of billions of Orks... or more fearsome, perhaps? As far as we know, the Tau were never certain which force was likely to win!"
The stallion chuckled, shaking his head. "This galaxy is truly infinite in its wonders and horrors in equal measure. To think we've been locked away, alone, for so long. I could have lived my entire life and passed away without ever seeing something like this."
He raised his right foreleg, marveling at the autobrace that buttressed the shattered limb within its iron coils. The device shifted perfectly in sync with his leg muscles, putting negligible strain on the healing bones within with each step. It still hurt significantly just to walk, of course, but Gears didn't seriously expect any Mechanicus device to aid such a petty and ephemeral concern.
"Heh. Well, I suppose I should thank the Tau, then. If not for their evil plot, we wouldn't have had to bargain for the planet's survival, and the humans would have left. And then I wouldn't be here. Irony."
Gear Works hopped off the lifter drone once he reached the next intersection, and then trotted up to a pair of blast doors. This entrance led to an armor workshop, which was naturally Gear's first choice of where to conduct power armor repairs.
Next to the door was a security console, and he linked with its logic engine remotely before sending his request for entry.
A gentle hum came from the console, followed by a rude buzzer.
"Access denied," said a harsh, electronic voice, "ranking authorization required."
Despite the refusal, Gear Works sat down in front of the console and waited patiently. Hardly a minute later the blast doors started to grind open, eventually revealing a Dark Acolyte.
"Acolyte Sheraan, greetings." Gears bowed his head to the familiar cyborg. "I wish to request access to the workshop so that I might repair this wargear, as is my assigned duty." His servo arm twisted about so that the helmet was facing Sheraan directly, as if it was staring at him.
The Dark Acolyte seemed uninterested and muttered to himself in Binaric Cant. +I can hardly believe this idiot hasn't been killed yet. Between the diseases and that lunatic pegasus, I was sure he'd lose something we can't replace by now.+
Gears tilted his head to the side. +I'll admit it hasn't been easy. Luckily, Phage Squadron isn't nearly as dirty and contagious as you'd expect. I imagine they could be if they wanted to, but they usually endeavor not to infect their allies.+
Sheraan stared down at the cyborg stallion silently. Gear Works stared back up, waiting for a reply. Seconds stretched into minutes.
+... You speak Binaric Cant now,+ Sheraan said. Only the limited tonal inflection of Binary kept the miserable resignation from his voice.
+Yes, Acolyte Sheraan. When I was having my face rebuilt, the Dark Techpriest in charge decided it would be more effective to install a cipher engine right away rather than opening me up to insert one later,+ Gears explained.
+Inconceivable,+ Sheraan retorted, +the idea that you will survive long enough to make such an investment of augmentation technology worthwhile defies all current probability models.+
+True! The Dark Techpriest actually mentioned that! He said that existing models hadn't factored the utterly improbable survival rate of equine forces under Company command, and that he had actually placed bets to take advantage of that oversight!+ Gears pointed out. +I was slightly alarmed to hear that there are elements of the Mechanicus investing considerably in my demise, but equally heartened to learn that I had already defied the best probabilistic equations that predicted my tripping into a recycling forge within the first month of service!+
Sheraan furrowed his brow. +Never mind. You were requesting access to the workshop?+
+Affirmative, Dark Acolyte.+
+Request denied.+
Gears slumped, and an aggravated groan escaped from his mask.
+The facilities are currently in use. There is no available work space and material for an additional occupant,+ the Acolyte explained.
+But according to the noosphere system log, you're the only one in there,+ Gears protested, +this facility was constructed to assist up to twenty-five Techpriests at a time.+
+Affirmative.+
The pony and human cyborgs stared silently at each other some more.
+Is this because you bet against my surviving, and you're annoyed that you lost?+ Gear Works asked.
Sheraan promptly turned around, entered the workshop, and then sealed the door behind him.
"Well, great. Now I don't know whether to feel frustrated or smug," Gears griped, turning away from the workshop entrance.
Striker beeped at him, turning to face another corridor.
"Yes, there are other workshops, but they too require Techpriest authorization," Gears grumbled. "I suppose I could just go to them one by one and hope that one of the occupants would let me in, but... wait..."
While scanning a map of the manufactorum under his visor, Gear Works noticed a workshop nearby with very different names listed among its occupants. It didn't take long to recognize that the people working inside were Tau Earth Caste, not Dark Mechanicus. A brief look at its access protocols also revealed that any member of the Mechanicus could access the facility at will, including himself. In fact, he didn't see any security restrictions at all.
"They must keep the xeno workshop open so that anyone can stop in and check if they're up to no good. Or just to kick them around for fun," Gears mused aloud. "Great! I'll just go there, instead!"
Striker beeped again.
"No, not to kick them around for fun. To work!"
He started trotting down the hall, and the servo skull turned and floated after him.
"Well... I mean, maybe kick them around a LITTLE. But not too much. I'm on a schedule."
It was very easy to find the way to the Tau’s workshop. Isolated at the end of a long stretch of hallway devoted to heavy power conduits and fuel pipes, it was one of the least convenient places for anyone to convene at. It was also less safe than other facilities, given the presence of highly combustive materials and at least two poorly-shielded conveyors of radioactive fuels running under the flooring, but that was a relative judgment. Any single part of the manufactorum could easily kill a clumsy individual, and would at the least cut years off the lifespan of everyone else.
Banners were hung on the walls adjacent to the doors, each one consisting of blue and black blocks of color that had been badly faded and dirtied by exposure. The middle of each of the banners had been torn out, and the general shape of the rip suggested that spot used to feature the emblem that symbolized the Tau Empire.
Gears couldn't help but wonder whether the Mechanicus or the Tau had been the ones to remove it.
"All right, let's see what we have to work with, here," Gear Works mumbled to himself before strolling into the workshop.
It was entirely as he had expected. Battlesuit parts and weapons littered every bench and table, and small floating drones swung above the heads of the crowd of Earth Caste workers. The drones were similar in function to the servo skulls provided by the 38th Company and used as companion devices, with the obvious exception that they weren't constructed from macabre human remains and programmed with just enough autonomy to be unnerving. Just one of the many reasons why Gears found it difficult to take the Tau seriously.
Also as expected, several of the Tau workers turned and stared while he walked past them in search of an adequate repair station. No doubt they were fairly stunned to see a pony member of the Dark Mechanicus, and completely uncertain as to what they could or should do about it.
Gear Works quickly spotted a table where two of the aliens were working on battlesuit heads. They both stared as he approached, internally struggling with their instinctual disbelief.
"I need to use this station," Gears said calmly, addressing the closer of the two Earth Caste workers. This one was a female, if he didn't miss his guess. The Earth Caste was short and squat compared to the other sub-species, and they weren't much bigger than ponies themselves. They were also a non-combat caste, which explained the palpable sense of nervousness when the worker replied.
*I'm sorry... uh... Lord? I think? I don't speak Gothic.*
She started to turn away, but Gear Works spoke up again. "Ah, don't speak Gothic? That's okay. I can speak a language everyone understands. Striker?"
The Tau worker recoiled as the servo skull hovered closer. *I'm sorry, but my companion can traaAAAAH!!*
Striker darted forward, and one of the tendrils underneath it curled up and stabbed toward the worker to deliver a painful electric shock. The Tau woman screamed in pain and then stumbled backward, nearly tripping on a power cable.
She managed to catch herself on the edge of the table before she fell over, and started gasping while the other workers began shouting or whispering in their own language.
"Did that get through to you?" Gears asked, jabbing his servo arm toward her. "MOVE, grayskin."
The worker acquiesced frantically, bolting for the door. Gear Works chuckled and jumped up onto a supply crate conveniently sized to make a decent stool.
The other alien at the table watched silently, glowering at the pony. Gears set the damaged helmet on the table, and then glowered back. "You have something to say, alien? Go on, speak up! I have my universal translator ready to go!" Striker whipped its electric tendril about, curling it up like a snake preparing to strike.
"Is this some sort of elaborate new insult by the Mechanicus? They can't actually be letting you pre-industrial savages into their scientific and engineering ranks."
Gear Works was not expecting a reply from the worker, much less a reply in perfect Gothic. It actually took a few seconds to realize that the reply had been an insult.
"Pre-industrial savages?!" Gear Works snapped.
"Yes. Are you expressing disbelief, or do you need me to actually define those words for you?" The Tau worker was stooped over the head section of a battlesuit, and he dropped his gaze back to his work. "It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if some of you pony thugs were less fluent in your own native language than I am." The top of the head section was open, and the worker gently lowered some sort of energy probe into the inner housing.
Gear Works calmly considered several possible ways to respond to the provocation, from snarky insults to hurling the damaged helmet at him. In the end, however, he found himself more fascinated than upset.
"What's your name, grayskin?" Gears demanded.
The worker looked up at him again. "Why? You want to tell on me? Run crying to the gun-toting apes that I hurt your precious little feelings?"
"The only feelings I possess are icy contempt and a psychotic obsession with technical efficiency," the stallion retorted. "All my other emotions have been thoroughly neutralized by my peers' constant denigration and frequent, brutal injuries. I'm asking your name so that I have something to call you, obviously."
The Tau hesitated. He looked up at his fellow caste-members, all of whom were nervously watching the exchange, and in an instant they all promptly returned to work. Then he looked back down at the cyborg equine.
"My name is Fio'el Fennin. The term 'Fio'el' is a-"
"It's a compound word comprising your caste and rank. Yes, I know. I didn't join the 38th Company yesterday, Mister Fennin." Gears placed Poison Kiss's helmet into a servo arm hanging over the table while he spoke. "That ranking is second only to the Fio'o, if I recall correctly. That makes you something of a big deal." The stallion paused to snicker at his own statement. "At least, by your people's standards."
"Oh, it's not so impressive," Fennin said, returning to his own work. "Considering that you ponies can't seem to master basic geometry without having some kind of equation magically pasted to your rear, your own status in the Dark Mechanicus is FAR more praiseworthy."
Gears twitched his head up. "You're right. That DOES make your achievement look fairly pitiful in comparison."
"Unless I was correct to begin with, and the Techpriests draped some tin foil and a cloak on a pony and then herded you in here just to make fun of us." Fennin shook his head. "Those augmentations look closer to Ork tech than anything the apes would put together."
Gear Works suddenly found his vision turning red. He was fairly certain that his optical visor didn't have multiple color filters, so he reasoned that it had to be the result of all the apoplectic rage he was now experiencing.
"HOW DARE YOU?!" the stallion snarled, suddenly jumping onto the table surface. Several nearby workers gasped and started backing away toward the door. "These augmentations were a gift from an esteemed Dark Techpriest, you back-stabbing, self-important, socialist freak!"
Fennin didn't flinch away. He calmly pushed the sensor head of the battlesuit to the side so that it wouldn't get damaged if the pony charged at him. "I'm sure he must have been very embarrassed to have you take his practical joke so seriously. Is that how you got into the Mechanicus? Out of pity?"
"STRIKER! ATTACK!" Gears shouted, his visor glowing furiously.
The servo skull darted forward, and its shock tendril stabbed for Fennin's neck. The engineer was ready, however, and happened to be wearing properly insulated work gloves. He grabbed the writhing cable and then swung Striker away through the air, sending the skull spinning across the room.
In doing so, however, he left his back exposed. Gear Works snarled in rage and threw himself at Fennin, slamming his augmetic hoof into the Tau's shoulder. Both of them fell to the ground, shouting and flailing at each other.
The other workers ran for the door, abandoning their companion to his fight with the pony. None of them knew how the 38th Company would react if they harmed one of the equines that had joined them, and the technicians weren't generally inclined to personally help Fennin anyway after he had so eagerly picked a fight with a Mechanicus cyborg.
One of the workers ran for the vox system next to the door, slamming a hand onto the console and connecting to the emergency channel while the others rushed by her.
"This is manufactory 31! Need help! Pony fighting!" she shouted in broken Gothic.
After a brief burst of static, a voice replied through the vox system. "Affirmative, we see them on the vid-feed."
"Yes! Send security!" the worker shouted.
"Nah. This is actually kind of fun to watch."
Sputtering curses in her native language, the technician abandoned the console and raced out of the workshop after her peers.
"We'll see how you feel about my augments when you need some of your own, grayskin scum!" Gears shouted, his servo arm clamped around Fennin's left arm while he pinned the alien. The Tau engineer kicked at him desperately, but the blows didn't seem to bother Gear Works at all.
"I could assemble better limbs from the cafeteria trash, you insipid cow!" Fennin snarled back. His free arm groped across the ground for something to use as a weapon, and then eventually closed around the edge of a crate lid.
Fennin slammed the lid upside Gear's head, and then winced from the ringing sound of metal striking metal.
"Just how much of you is augmetic, you equine monstrosity?!"
"Exactly thirty-eight-point-nine-six percent!" Gears seemed largely unbothered by the impact, and he pounded a bionic leg into Fennin's chest. "Not that I need it! I know mares who can hit harder than you!"
Fennin saw Striker approaching again from behind, trying once more to administer an electric shock. "I don't know any mares who can't hit harder than you!" The bionic hoof slammed into him again, driving the air from his lungs, but Fennin kept his eyes on the servo skull.
"Yeah, well I probably know a lot more mares than you do!" Gears shouted just before his opponent grabbed Striker's shock tendril again. "So statistically, that still means wait, what are you-"
Fennin plunged the sparking cable into Gear's leg, and a thick ribbon of electricity arced up into the pony's body. Gear Works shrieked and jumped away, tripping over his own hooves and then collapsing into a twitching, sparking heap.
Fennin flung the servo skull away, snorting in disgust. He then tried to pull himself to his feet, but a surge of intense pain in his chest dropped him back onto the floor, hissing through his teeth.
For several minutes, Gear Works and Fennin lay on the floor several feet away from each other, curled up in pain and unmoving.
Eventually, however, Fennin started chuckling.
"Heh... heh... heh..." He rolled over to face Gear Works and smirked, even while he was still clutching his chest. "You just lost a fist fight to a Tau."
"Lost? You don't exactly look victorious over there on the floor!" Gears spat.
"Fine. Didn't win. Whatever. The point is, you suck." Fennin pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing in pain. "Can I get back to work, now?"
"Yes! Fine! Geez!" Gear Works stood up without much difficulty, feeling the lingering paralysis from the electric shock wear off. "I just came here to fix the blasted helmet!" Huffing angrily, he climbed back onto his crate and pulled said helmet down to where he could work on it.
Fennin staggered back to his own spot, and leaned against the edge of the table for support. "So, what's wrong with the helmet, anyway?"
"Cracked visor lens," Gear mumbled, probing the inside of the helmet to free the damaged component. "That's the main problem. Reduced shielding in front of the eyes is rather serious, obviously."
"Yes, very serious," Fennin mumbled, staring at the horned headgear. "I never understood the design philosophy behind the power armor helmet. Why have such an unsafe structure protecting the most vital point on the body?"
Gear Works popped the damaged lens out, and then watched as the ruby-colored plate broke into shards upon impact with the table. Then he looked up at the Tau engineer. "I don't understand. How is the power armor helmet 'unsafe'?"
"Oh, just because it contains the user's actual HEAD," Fennin pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest. Then he winced from touching his bruised ribs, and rapidly un-crossed his arms. "You might notice that our pilots keep their heads and other vitals tucked far away from the most obvious weak points of our battlesuits."
"That design philosophy makes sense if the pilot is completely helpless on their own. Hence, Dreadnoughts," Gears retorted. "Additionally, a battlesuit's combat proficiency is not dependent upon or in any way improved by the physical capability of its user. Given enough training, you could get equal performance out of a Tau pilot, an Astartes pilot, a pony pilot, or a particularly smart ferret." The servo arm hanging over the work space turned so that the helmet was facing Fennin. "Power armor enhances physical performance. In addition, as it takes damage it is made to come off so that the bearer can continue fighting without it."
"So that they can fight without a helmet?" Fennin scoffed. "That sounds like a flaw, not a feature."
"Well, what happens if a battlesuit head takes a hit that could split a power armor helm?" Gears asked. "The sensor package is ruined, and the pilot is all but helpless. The secondary sensors are a joke, and barely functional enough to allow a battlesuit pilot to run away without crashing into anything."
"Which is precisely what the pilot should be doing if his suit is that badly damaged!" Fennin protested.
Gears nodded slowly. "Ah, of course. Clearly you knew what you were doing when you determined your tactical priorities, since you're the ones ruling the planet and Chaos was valiantly defeated and driven into space OH WAIT."
Fennin jabbed a finger toward the stallion and started to speak, but then hesitated. After a few seconds, his brow furrowed. "Hold on. How do you know so much about Tau battlesuits? You're only an Acolyte, right?"
"Aspirant," Gear Works corrected. "I've a long way to go before I reach Dark Acolyte."
"But you're already familiar with the control scheme and system redundancy of our battlesuits? Shouldn't they be teaching you how to pray so that ghosts don't make your guns explode in your face?"
"No, they don't teach me that," Gears sighed, "probably because they're hoping that happens to me. I've had quite a few recommendations to volunteer in the plasma testing librariums." He shook his head. "Anyway, the reason I know so much about Tau battlesuits is because the directors of the data archives gave me your people's battlesuit schematics rather than their power armor schematics when I was studying how to maintain this equipment." He tapped Kiss's helmet with his servo arm. "I imagine they thought I would be unable to tell the difference. They were mistaken."
"... But you still read all of the material on our battlesuits?" Fennin asked.
"Well, of course. I mean, it's still extremely fascinating. In fact, after I determined that the control scheme would work just as well for ponies as well as Tau, I even drew up plans for a cockpit retrofit so that your pilots could all be replaced by equines!"
"You're not even a biped!" Fennin pointed out.
"You'd be surprised how easy it is to get around that feature of the mechanical schema," Gears retorted. His servo arm clamped shut loudly, and the stallion chuckled.
The conversation ended there. Gear Works started cutting a new visor lens and filling the gouges in the helmet plating. Fennin repaired the sensor inputs in the battlesuit head and began installing a new ceramic shield layer.
After setting the new plating in place, the Tau engineer wiped his forehead and glanced up at the stallion working across from him.
"Hey, pony. You never told me your name," Fennin said suddenly.
Gears snorted. "I can't imagine you care to keep track of which of us primitive animals is which."
Fennin groaned and rolled his eyes. "All right, look: you think my species is a bunch of treacherous, selfish monsters. I think your species is a bunch of stupid pets to an army of evil maniacs. These are completely rational prejudices, and I don't see them changing any time soon." He pointed to the stallion. "But you actually seem like you have half a brain. Maybe that's just the half that the creepy robed lunatics installed while they were replacing your face; I don't know, I wasn't there. But you've actually managed to offer some interesting conversation, so I'd at least like to know what to call you."
"... My name is Gear Works," Gears said while plucking the freshly cut lens from a fabricator cask.
"Well then, Gear Works, when you're finished with that helmet, I'd like to know exactly how easy you think piloting a battlesuit is." Fennin leaned forward across the table, resting on his elbow. "If you have time, we might even arrange for a little experiment. What do you say?"
Gear Works paused in his labor, eyeing the Tau through the edge of his visor. "I say this will hardly take an hour."
****
Sector 13 - manufactorum block
Ballistics yards
*All right, you're going to have to explain this to me. When you said you wanted to conduct an experimental battlesuit trial, I initially assumed you wanted me to select a suitable candidate.*
Jerriha followed Fennin through the empty metal hallways while the engineer worked on an engineering tablet ahead of her.
*You misunderstood, Shas'vre. I wanted you to be the candidate,* Fennin explained.
*Yes, that's the part I would like clarified. I'm not a proficient battlesuit pilot.*
*But you have had basic instruction, conditioning, and the necessary surgery for the neural interface, correct?*
*Correct. But it takes much more than that to be cleared for basic proficiency with a battlesuit. ESPECIALLY a jet pack model such as the XV-8 Crisis. Perhaps I could make do with a Broadside, but otherwise I've only just begun the requisite training.*
Fennin shook his head. *Again, you misunderstand, Shas'vre. Your general lack of proficiency makes you perfect for this trial. I wish to see the results in a combat simulation between two untested candidates.*
*You want to see a couple of rookies flailing at each other? Why?* Jerriha asked suspiciously.
*It's been proposed to me that our battlesuits have a uniquely low barrier to battlefield efficacy. I want to test this hypothesis by having, in your words, "a couple of rookies flailing at each other" to measure against more conventional battlesuit trials. Your opponent in the simulation will be even less qualified than you are.*
*Really? Did this pilot not even get to basic instruction yet?*
*Your opponent isn't even the right species,* Fennin admitted, chuckling as he entered the testing area.
Jerriha mulled that over briefly, and then quickly turned to the engineer, grabbing hold of his arm. *Hold on, Fio'el! Are you telling me that you're actually letting a human pilot one of our battlesuits?!*
Fennin frowned at her hand briefly, but eventually decided she wasn't going to let go before he answered. *No. Although I think you'll find that scenario far preferable to your actual opponent.*
*What's that supposed to mean? What are you hooking into our combat armor?* the Fireblade demanded.
Fennin leaned to the side to look past Jerriha. She hesitantly followed his gaze to see what was standing behind her.
"Yo," said Gear Works.
Jerriha turned back to Fennin. *What in the name of Farsight is THAT?*
"That is your opponent. Aspirant Gear Works, of the Dark Mechanicus," Fennin replied, switching to Gothic.
*Your jokes need work,* Jerriha snapped.
"My jokes are great," Fennin retorted. "But since this isn't a joke, I'm not sure how that's relevant. Now please let go of my arm and speak Gothic. You're being rude."
*You're being insane!* Jerriha finally let go of the engineer, scowling at him. *You can't just cram a blasted horse into a battlesuit!*
Fennin arched an eyebrow. "Shas'vre, the Tau people pride themselves on their tolerance and outreach to other cultures. You're not helping that. Speak Gothic, please."
A frustrated growl came from the Fireblade before she repeated her complaint in the local language. "You can't put a pony in a battlesuit, Fio'el!"
"His hypothesis is that I can. It is the purpose of this experiment to determine which presumption is correct, and what modifications, if any, would be necessary to do so." The engineer started tapping at his tablet again. "Please take note of the battlefield. Your respective suits will be identically equipped with mock weapons made to resemble and act as twin-linked plasma rifles. There will be no drone assistance or active sub-systems. Any questions?"
"Many. First of all, since when does the Dark Mechanicus allow ANIMALS into their ranks?" Jerriha turned back to Gear Works. "I was under the impression that the Machine Cultists managed to hang on to their xenophobia and self-respect even after being leashed to the idiots that run this army."
"The idiots that run this army that completely outsmarted you and sent your big, scary fleet running back home? And then got you to help us fight off the invasion you deliberately caused? You mean THOSE idiots, right?" Gear Works asked.
The Tau Fireblade stared at him briefly, and then poked Fennin in the chest. "Are you listening to this?"
The engineer winced badly from the touch and flinched back. "If you have a counterpoint, fire away. Also, please don't touch me. I have some new bruises that have yet to heal."
"How did you get... no, never mind. I don't care. Second question: Are you seriously conducting a neural-network link surgery on this pony just so he can participate in this ridiculous simulation?"
"No," Gears answered before Fennin could. "I already have a class 2 neural jack for basic cogitator interface."
"The battlesuits are not 'cogitators' and I seriously doubt your head socket is compatible," Jerriha retorted. Then she glanced over at Fennin. "It's not, right?"
"Difficult to say. They don't function exactly the same, obviously, and our battlesuit neural linkages are far more specialized. However, the Mechanicus uplinks are designed to work with all sorts of data ports, including entirely foreign ones. There have been several reports of Techpriests successfully uplinking to Tau devices in the past, even if none of them were as sophisticated as a battlesuit," Fennin explained.
"What kind of morons would plug their brain into a completely foreign machine?" Jerriha asked in alarm.
"The kind of morons that would steal your drones, reprogram them, and then use them against you," Gears retorted smugly, walking past the Fireblade. "Mechanicus neural receptors and dataspikes can be installed in any creature of conventional neural sophistication, whether equine, sapien, or... whatever you count as. Tau implants are too specialized to be applied to our neural physiologies."
"I would venture that's a GOOD thing. The Tau Empire doesn't want foreign creatures using our weapons."
"But the Dark Mechanicus DOES. Guess which institution gives you orders now?" Gear Works reached a small dock where a XV-8 Crisis Suit was standing with its pilot bay yawning open. "Are you coming, Shas'vre?"
Jerriha hesitated, and then shook her head. "No. No, I'm not. I don't see any reason to participate in this farce."
"Oh, will you stop? This is an experiment! It's for the advancement of the sum total of our people's knowledge!" Fennin pressed.
"It's a stupid game that you're setting up for your own amusement," Jerriha growled.
Fennin paused to consider this. "... How is that different from what I said?"
"Leaving now," the Fireblade turned away and started heading toward the door.
Gears called out to her. "You realize that refusing participation in this trial is a direct violation of an order from a superior, correct? Even as an Aspirant, I have the organizational authority of the Dark Mechanicus to command your assistance."
"Oh, really?" Jerriha stopped in front of the exit, planting a hand on her hip while twisting her head around. "So, what is to be my punishment for defying your will, oh mighty Techpony? Firing squad? Daemonic sacrifice? A year of forced labor on that orange pony's stupid farm?" Although her tone was sarcastic, there was a slight twitch in her eye when she rattled off that last idea. She dearly hoped such an assignment wasn't possible.
"No, no, nothing like that. I don't have the rank to have anyone killed or enslaved yet," Gears admitted. "I suppose all I can really do is spitefully inconvenience you."
"Well, then inconvenience away, equine." The Fireblade rolled her eyes and stepped toward the doorway.
Then she yelped as the doors suddenly slid shut in front of her. If she had been slightly faster, or her reflexes slightly worse, she could have had a limb crushed by the closing barrier.
"What? Hey! Did you just lock me in here?!" she shouted, whirling around.
"No, I didn't," Gear Works said. "Which is to say, actually I did, but indirectly."
"What does THAT mean?"
"I revoked your access clearance. The identifier tag that normally opens doors within the fortress will no longer do so until it is reinstated," the stallion explained calmly. “While I am not allowed to give commands to any combat or security units, your security status has such low authority prioritus that I can change it at will. Interesting, isn’t it?”
"So I have no choice but to participate in your little experiment if I ever want to get out?" Jerriha glanced down at the small, smooth-faced card that was clipped to her belt. It was such a vital and ubiquitous piece of equipment inside the fortress that she had never even thought about how she might get around without it.
Gear Works shook his head. "That is not the case. If you don't want to participate, then we will leave this room, and you can leave with us. Your ability to navigate doorways will simply rely on following others throughout the complex until such time that you convince a Dark Mechanicus agent to correct your access." He paused. "That might make your sleeping arrangements somewhat awkward, however..."
"Ha! Nice." Fennin laughed and raised a fist toward Gears. The stallion raised his augmetic hoof and bumped it.
Jerriha scowled at the other Tau, crossing her arms over her chest. "Since when have you been chummy with the horses? Last I checked, no one of ANY species liked you!"
"Such is the power of friendship," Fennin drawled. "Now, do you want to get in the battlesuit? Because if not, then I have to see one of the ponies about acquiring a ferret."
Jerriha didn't know what that was supposed to mean and didn't want to know. With a wordless growl, she walked over to the dock opposite Gears and placed a hand on the waiting Crisis Suit standing there.
"Fine. Fix my card and let's get this over with. I have better things to do than be your lab animal," the Fireblade snapped.
"I seriously doubt that," Fennin said, ignoring the heated glare he earned in response. "Aspirant?"
Gears froze for a moment, and the optical bar of his visor pulsed. "Done. Your access has been restored. Additionally, I would like to thank you for participating in the experiment rather than resisting out of spite or attacking me in anger."
"I considered it, but then I remembered that the card also keeps the local autoturrets from firing on me," Jerriha griped while she climbed up into the battlesuit cockpit, "I'd rather not risk you revoking that function too."
"I'm surprised you thought of that. Your kind isn't known for your intelligence or foresight."
Jerriha froze in the midst of starting up her battlesuit. "What? Yes we are!" she protested angrily.
"I was talking about the Fire Caste, specifically. The other Tau sub-species are indeed known for that," Gear Works clarified.
Fennin again lifted a fist toward the pony, who again bumped it with his hoof.
"Would you get in the suit and get on with this?" Jerriha swiped a hand through the hololithic display on her battlesuit's main control panel, and the neural uplink node slowly lowered itself down toward the plug on the back of her neck.
Gear Works scrambled up into the Crisis Suit on the opposite dock, and then settled into the seat himself. It was somewhat awkward for the pony, since he was the wrong size and shape for the seat and was wearing a thick, obstructive robe rather than a pilot suit. Still, the stallion managed to squirm into an acceptable position and then waved a leg toward Fennin.
"All right, I'm hooking you in." Fennin remotely accessed the Crisis Suit's systems and initiated the start-up sequence, given that Gear Works couldn't read the Tau script that marked the necessary controls. "Establishing neural uplink."
Gear Works pulled back his hood, and Jerriha cringed at seeing the web of machinery built into the pony's skull. As much as she was disgusted by the humans' worship of monsters and vile religious rites, she was nearly as repulsed by the Techpriests' tendency toward augmetic reconstruction. The glee with which the Mechanicus stripped away their bodies and replaced them with cold, clunky machinery made them seem more alien to her than Eldar or even Orks.
The small uplink arm lowered itself to Gear's neck, and then slowly plugged into a small hole on the side. A shaky hum started coming from the battlesuit, and a few sparks shot out of the neural port.
"All right, it's starting to sync... Aspirant, how are you feeling?" Fennin asked.
The battlesuit trembled, and then a warbling string of nonsense came from the suit speaker. "HARGM FLRRM DAAL TMRS SSSSSR!"
The engineer clicked his tongue. "Synchronization levels are below nineteen percent... the neural jack is having difficulty interfacing."
"Told you," grunted Jerriha. Her voice came from her battlesuit speakers almost at the same time as she spoke, creating a slightly off-sync stereo effect. "Are we sure that just hooking him up like that is really safe?"
"No, we're not at all sure of that," Fennin replied, tapping away on his engineering tablet.
Jerriha's battlesuit suddenly stood up straighter. "Are you serious? What if this hurts him? Or KILLS him?"
"Then that would be a very valuable data point," the engineer acknowledged. "There are few experimental results more potent and worthwhile than 'don't do this or you'll die.'"
"And you don't care at all about potentially frying the horse?"
"Do you?"
A sigh issued from the battlesuit's speaker.
Fennin swept a finger across the engineering tablet, his brow furrowing. "Okay, the synchronization rate is rising... energy levels are stable... I'm not seeing any excessive feedback."
"But can he actually move the battlesuit? I'm just wasting my time here, otherwise," Jerriha grumbled.
"The synchronization rate is still improving. Just give it a-"
"UNIT COGNITION UPLOAD COMPLETE." The Crisis Suit opposite Jerriha suddenly stood upright, its speakers booming. "ENEMY IDENTIFIED: TAU XENOS. EXECUTING GENO-ELIMINATION PROTOCOL. DESTROY. DESTROY. DESTROY." The battlesuit trembling turned to jerking spasms, and its main sensor lights glowed brilliantly. The pony sitting in the open cockpit started flailing, as if in the midst of a seizure.
Jerriha recoiled, and her Crisis Suit took a step back only to bump into the platform perimeter. "Fio'el! The battlesuit! It's... I don't know what it's doing, but stop it!"
Fennin looked up at Gear's suit, and then back down at his tablet. "Aspirant Works, knock it off."
The Crisis Suit settled down, and then a rumbling laugh came from its speaker system. "HAH HAH HAH! OH, WOW! YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN YOUR FACE, SHAS'VRE!" Gear Works' body fell limp within the cockpit of the Crisis Suit even as the suit itself raised an arm and pointed across the ballistics yard.
Jerriha was confused. "That... That was a joke?" she asked incredulously.
"Barely," Fennin scoffed. "Synchronization has risen considerably, but seems to be unstable. It's averaged sixty-nine percent over the past ten seconds. Not good enough for a pilot, but technically good enough to operate the thing."
"SOUNDS GOOD!" Gear's suit boomed, opening and closing its right hand. Then it stopped. Its head swiveled to observe the hand, again opening and closing the metal fingers within the bulky forearm shielding. "OH, WOW. SO THIS IS WHAT IT'S LIKE TO HAVE FINGERS? I LIKE IT!"
"Why are you talking like that?" Jerriha seemed more and more concerned the longer she observed her opponent. "Your body isn't speaking in sync with your suit. Are you all right?"
"I'M FINE. PROBABLY. HARD TO TELL RIGHT NOW, ACTUALLY." Even as he replied, Gears had his attention firmly focused on his robotic hands while he tapped the fingertips together, completely fascinated. "I SHOULD PICK SOMETHING UP! I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO HAVE HANDS. WELL, NOT ALWAYS. LIKE, FOR THE LAST TWO MONTHS. IT DIDN'T SEEM IMPORTANT BEFORE, BECAUSE ALL OF THE SPECIES WITH HANDS ON THIS PLANET ARE STUPID, AND PONIES MADE ALL THE TOOLS EVEN THOUGH WE HAVE HOOVES. JUST THINK! BOWLING WILL BE SO MUCH EASIER!"
"What are you going on about? Is that wiring cooking your brain?" Jerriha asked.
"I DON'T THINK SO. WAIT. IS SOMEONE MAKING TOAST? I SMELL TOAST. WHICH IS WEIRD, SINCE I SHOULDN'T BE ABLE TO SMELL ANYTHING LIKE THIS."
"It's nothing, I'm sure." Fennin looked up and pointed to the ballistics yard. "Aspirant Works, you'll be operating at a considerable reflex disadvantage due to your weaker sync rate. Aside from that, I think it's time to begin. Seal cockpits."
The battlesuits straightened, and the frontal chest plates shifted closed. After a few seconds, the cockpits were sealed and pressurized.
"Good. All systems are green. I'll lower you into the yard and we'll begin our combat simulation." Fennin punched a button on a console attached to the observation railing. A clunking noise came from the platforms beneath the battlesuits, and then they lowered themselves down to the testing floor.
Jerriha rotated the arms of her suit while the platform rumbled downward, feeling nervous despite herself. She had never liked the battlesuits personally, despite the obvious advantages of the armored protection and enhanced battle performance. She simply felt more at home with her infantry, fighting on her hooves and feeling the real heft of a gun in her hands. The only reason she had begun training to pilot battlesuits was to act as a reserve pilot; the value of the battlesuits in combat meant that they could never afford such assets to be left behind for want of a user.
That training had been put on hold when the Emerald Dawn project had begun. Obviously, since then, she'd found better things to occupy her time.
The platform lurched to a stop. She stared across the ballistics yard. It was a fairly small, open space with several large and heavily dented metal columns scattered about the area that had targets painted on them. The area wasn't meant to be used as a combat arena, but it had better safety controls and diagnostic instruments than many areas that WERE built to be combat arenas. The lack of ghastly piles of skulls and gore splatters was also a plus, broadly speaking.
"All right, so let's explain the ground rules," Jerriha said while her jet pack engine warmed up. "Specifically, what kind of strategic-"
"Begin!" Fennin yelled, swiping down an arm.
"What? But what about-"
"KILL THE XENO!" boomed Gear Works, activating his jet pack.
Jerriha flinched back in shock when the opposing battlesuit launched into the air. She quickly brought up her plasma rifle, clumsily lining up her targeting arrays on the rapidly approaching target.
The shot was foiled when Gear Works struck one of the metal pillars at an angle. The impact spun him around, which caused his jets to steer him in a wide arc and head straight toward another obstacle.
"Aspirant Works, keep in mind..." Fennin paused right before Gears crashed, and then continued after he bounced off the column and rolled across the floor. "These jet packs are used primarily for strafing mobility and platform stability. The design concept and output are fundamentally different from the human jump packs, which are used exclusively to vault obstacles and close to melee range."
"THANK YOU!" The battlesuit jumped into the air again, but this time hovered in place while its pilot decided where to go.
Jerriha sighed and brought up her rifle to hit the unmoving target. "The sooner this is over, the sooner I can leave." She had difficulty lining up the weapon at first, but after a few awkward seconds managed to center the targeting reticule over her opponent.
Then Gear's Crisis Suit took off to the side, veering out of the way of the shot. The bright green energy pulse - an utterly harmless ball of fragile hard light - shot past the stallion's battlesuit and up toward the wall.
Jerriha was slightly impressed by the dodge, especially considering that the battlesuit's reflexes were impaired, but then noticed that the pony was heading for another column. "Hey, watch out for the-"
Gear Works struck the pillar, immediately bouncing off at an angle and roaring away in a confused spin.
"Stop it! You'll damage the battlesuit!" Jerriha complained.
Either the pony wasn't listening or didn't have any sense of where he was headed, because he promptly careened into another pillar and again bounced off into the air again.
"Are you doing this on purpose?!"
Gear Works slammed into another column, spinning away like a pinball bouncing off of a bumper. It was only when Jerriha saw her opponent flailing straight toward her that she realized Gears had managed to cross the length of the yard with his reckless collisions and ricochets.
"Hey! Look out!" she shouted, kicking her own jet pack into gear and trying to leap to the side.
A more experienced pilot might have been able to perform the maneuver in time, but Jerriha didn't manage to dodge out of the way. Gears crashed shoulder-first into her battlesuit, throwing both of them against the wall of the ballistics yard.
"Ow! You idiot! Why did you-" To the Fireblade's shock, Gears suddenly pounded a fist into her arm, tearing the training gun off in a blast of sparks and shards of composite ceramics. "HEY!"
"VICTORY IS MINE!" Gears shouted, slamming a punch into Jerriha's torso. "YOUR TACTICAL WEAKNESS AT MELEE RANGE WILL BE YOUR DOWNFALL!"
Jerriha lurched backward from another strike, her armor starting to fold between the impacts and the wall behind her. "Stop it! Fennin, stop the simulation! He can’t do this!"
"Melee combat, while crude and desperate, is a perfectly legitimate tactical approach!" the Fio'el shouted down to the combatants. "Keep going! I'm getting some great data!"
"You imbecile! He's damaging the suit! This is supposed to be a simulated combat!" Jerriha continued shuddering under the barrage of battlesuit punches, and more and more sections of her armor integrity readout started turning a bright red.
Gear Works pulled back both arms and sparked the jet pack, preparing to attack with all the force that the battlesuit frame could muster. "FINISH HER!" the suit growled in a strange, unusually guttural voice.
"Knock it OFF!" Jerriha roared, suddenly forcing herself forward by kicking off of the wall. In the moment that Gear Works was off-balance, she brought both of her armored fists around to punch Gear's battlesuit head on either side at the same time. The sensor mounting was completely flattened by the blow, bursting into pieces and tumbling to the floor.
Gear's battlesuit froze in place, standing still while sparks blasted out of its "neck" like a fountain. Jerriha backed away, her breath heaving.
Then the cockpit to Gear's Crisis Suit popped open. The stallion leaned out of the opening and looked up at Fennin, his neural jack already disconnected from the battlesuit's systems. "You see? I told you! As soon as the head is gone, this thing is useless! Even a fist fight is hopeless with the secondary sensors!"
"Yes, fine. I see that now." Fennin frowned at Jerriha’s unit. "Strange how you seemed so concerned about damaging the battlesuits, but then immediately demolished one of the most important parts, Shas'vre. The sensor head is a lot harder to replace than your ablative armor layers."
"Yeah, Shas'vre!" Gears said, quickly turning on the Fireblade and shaking a bionic hoof at her. "Show a little restraint! It was just a simulation!"
"I hate both of you," Jerriha calmly declared. "Can I leave now?"
Gear Works looked up at Fennin again. "Best two out of three?"
The engineer nodded. "It would be much better to have multiple trials to draw from. If we don't replace the Fireblade's Crisis Suit, then we should be able to manage a couple more experiments."
"Your theoretical analysis is flawed," Jerriha announced, stomping up next to Gear Works. "Additional trials won't yield more data."
Fennin furrowed his brow and leaned against the observation railing. "How do you reach that conclusion, Shas'vre?"
"Because if you insist upon another trial combat, I'll pulp the pony Techpriest here and now, thus depriving you of a subject," she declared.
Gears turned his head toward her battlesuit. "Yeesh. Sore winner, aren't you?"
Jerriha reared back a fist, preparing to ram it into the open cockpit of the other Crisis unit.
"All right, all right. Fine. You win. Head over to the platform and disembark. You're done here, Shas'vre," Fennin allowed with a weary sigh.
"Thank you, Fio'el." Jerriha turned away from her opponent and walked toward the platform. "Although it is, of course, an honor for the Fire Caste to serve in any capacity to improve our technology and scientific advancement, kindly refrain from contacting me ever again unless you need something killed."
"Right, because as we've seen I can TOTALLY rely on you for that," Fennin mumbled, tapping at his engineering tablet again.
"What was that?"
"I said thank you, Shas'vre, for your participation in this experiment, forced as it was. Goodbye."
****
Sector 13 manufactorum block
Tech-shrine
"So be honest with me, Aspirant. Why all the interest in our battlesuit technology, anyway?"
Fennin and Gears Works sat together on the edge of a wide table, observing a series of holo-screens. The screens were all projected above the table in a series of parallel panels, each one displaying a different layer of battlesuit schematics such that, when viewed from the front, they generated an image of a complete XV-8 Crisis Suit.
"I don't understand the question. I'd think the Tau Earth Caste, of all your kind, would appreciate the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake," Gears insisted. He reached out and tapped one of the holo-screens with a hoof. It immediately shifted to the side out of sequence, sliding between the Tau engineer and the pony Aspirant.
"I do. But I don't think that's all there is to this," Fennin countered. "I checked your record, and you're so new to the Mechanicus that you couldn't have absorbed a scrap of a fraction of one percent of the knowledge those cybernetic psychotics have hoarded. You could be spending time studying their schematics and their technologies. It would even be more relevant to your duties, which are mainly maintaining the Company's equipment. Instead you're here, looking up battlesuit specs and asking me questions about them. Even if you really want to replace the Tau pilots with equine pilots - still very unlikely, by the way - it doesn’t quite add up."
"Well, maybe it's not about the schematics at all," Gears ventured, "maybe I just enjoy your company?'
Fennin stared silently at Gear Works. Gear Works stared back through the glare of his visor.
Then they both started laughing.
After several minutes, their chortling tapered off into gasping chuckles, and then they fell silent again.
"Well... since you asked... and saw through my obvious deflection... I want to design and build a new series of war machines," Gear Works finally admitted, "one especially fit for ponies to use. Something to allow the equine element to more fully aid the war effort against the Orks and any other enemies we may encounter."
"A noble endeavor that raises further questions," Fennin replied, sliding another holo-screen out, "why are you so interested in learning about our technology for this? Last I checked, it was the humans who were designing effective pony weapons."
"The ballistics harnesses are nothing. Simply a crude compensator for our lack of fingers," Gears sighed while his servo claw clamped shut loudly. "As for the Centaur Pattern power armor, it isn't a 'human' design. It's a design by the Warsmith. Have you SEEN those schematics? It's as if he managed to transform migraine headaches into words and symbols and then created an engineering language out of them. That man's work is simply impossible for me to replicate at my current level of experience."
"Aren't you in charge of fixing that armor, though?"
"Only the Phage Squadron designs, which are much simpler than what he put into Equinought Squadron. And thank the Omnissiah for that! I couldn't possibly rebuild any of the suits if they were too heavily damaged or lost an unusual system. Fixing nicked plating and replacing lenses isn't too complicated, but even then I feel like I'm utterly unqualified to do it!"
He shook his head. "Back on the topic though, Tau technology represents a more convenient basis for my hypothetical project. Your designs are pragmatic, your engineering approaches are sensible, and your wargear tech focuses on compensating for your puny, incapable bodies."
"Ah. Good point. I guess our people have that much in common," Fennin admitted.
"Exactly!" Gears pointed a hoof at the Tau. "We'll never be of value to our masters when we're barely the size of an Iron Warrior's thigh and only half as useful. One day, ponies will stride onto the battlefield with their heads held high, able to trade blows with all the enemies of Chaos!"
"And with Chaos ascendant, darkness and warfare will swallow all of existence, leading to an age of suffering the likes of which this galaxy has never seen," Fennin drawled.
"Well... okay, yeah. But, you know... for friendship. So it's okay," Gears protested, wilting slightly.
"You go ahead and tell yourself that. I work here to live, not because it's a good idea."
Fennin slid the holo-screen back into the row hovering over the table, and Gears drew out another one.
After a few seconds of silent observation, Fennin started chuckling.
"What, is the idea that someone might want to be around you really so hilarious? You're not THAT obnoxious," Gears grumbled.
"No... I'm laughing at something else. Hee hee!" The engineer gripped a hand over his mouth, but couldn't help giggling through it.
"Oh? What's that?"
"You lost two melee battles to Tau opponents today!" Fennin squeaked as he tried to contain laughter. "I think that's LITERALLY a record for us against your species!"
"Shut up, grayskin."