//------------------------------// // Chapter 16 // Story: Hegira: Option Gamma // by Guardian_Gryphon //------------------------------// “You! You are a *marvelous* specimen of a Gryphon, d’you know that? Of course you do!” Wrenn was counting; That made the fifth time the new specialist from Equestria had called him a ‘specimen.’ Obviously it wasn’t meant as an insult, and it didn’t bother Wrenn, but the incessant repetition did. The specialist was a light shade of taupe, with a short cropped silvery mane, a stethoscope for a cutie mark, and half-moon glasses that made him look stern unless he was smiling, which he always seemed to be doing to some varying degree. On the surface, he reminded Wrenn of every office doctor he had ever met, but the Pony was far more jovial, to an almost ridiculous degree, even for an Equestrian. Wrenn was standing in the middle of a medical ward, wings splayed, as the physician went over every single primary feather. He had already suffered through a check of his, apparently, six chambered heart and ‘compound high-low-pressure tolerant lungs,’ along with the standard eye, ear, nose, and throat exam. “Now, can you hold up your tail?” Wrenn grudgingly obliged. Gryphons’ tails came in two varieties; those that ended like a lion tuft, and those that ended in a fan of tailfeathers. Wrenn’s was the latter, as were Sildinar’s and Kephic’s, Varan’s was the former. The doctor hummed appreciatively, “Very nice! Good spread of tailfeathers!” Wrenn craned his head to look over his shoulder, “Is there any mechanically useful difference in the two types of tails?” The doctor looked up, “You mean tuft versus fan? Certainly. Fantails like you possess ever so slightly better balance and control of your motion in flight. Tufttails don’t have much advantage nor disadvantage in and of themselves, but their tails are far more suitable for mounting barbs, blades, and other horrid things like that.” Wrenn spent a few moments imagining Varan with a tail barb. The mental picture was a bit frightening. Finally the doctor finished his seemingly incessant poking and prodding. “You’re fit as a fiddle. Healthy young Gryphon. Good life expectancy, sayyyyy three hundred years total!” Wrenn stiffened, “My life expectancy is three hundred years?” The Pegasus nodded, “Indeed, if I had to take a guess. Your kind was always a bit longer lived than us, but of course we all pale in comparison to Dragons. There’s another fascinating flying specimen for you!” The specialist walked out, tossing over his shoulder, “Make sure to be back in here at least once more before you set off for the barrier. And remind your friends that they have appointments too!” Wrenn spent several minutes trying to conceptualize three hundred years of time. He was going to live to see the Earth disappear, and then some. The thought was deeply sobering. He had known Gryphons were long lived, but none of the others had ever mentioned an actual time frame. He did his best to shake off any philosophical considerations before they set in for the long haul. Sildinar was supposed to start his sword training today, and being distracted was probably a good way to get thrashed. Mercifully, Sildinar spent the better part of the day teaching Wrenn basic things; How to hold the weapon, good starting positions, the advantages and disadvantages of stabbing versus slashing, and how not to behead oneself when spinning the weapon. Varan joined them for lunch in the training room, which was normally used to teach ConSec recruits martial arts, and thus had suitable unobstructed space for close range swordplay. Kephic was needed for a weekly security sweep. Sildinar and Varan did the job sometimes, but that week was Kephic’s turn. Wrenn took a large chunk out of his meat strip, chewed pensively, then decided to get the weight off his chest, “So... Three hundred years?” Varan looked confused for a long moment, then he realized what Wrenn was referring to, “Yes, of course. Why bring that up now?” Wrenn nearly choked on his next bite, “Well... Because it was a bit of a shock. None of you ever gave an actual number, in years, for our average lifetime. I assumed it was maybe a hundred and twenty or something.” Sildinar glanced up, looking surprised and upset with himself, “I’m sorry Wrenn... I don’t think it ever occurred to us that life span was going to be such an emotional thing. That was quite an oversight on our part.” Wrenn waved a claw, “No no no… there’s no need to be sorry. I imagine you take it in stride, its normal for you. It’s not as though finding out you’ll live so long is bad, most people would kill for a life span like that.... It’s just quite stunning. This is definitely something that needs to be added to the orientation classes. Really a comprehensive unit on our biology, from a twenty thousand foot view, and a closer 'daily practicals' view both would be ideal.” Sildinar nodded, “I’ll make sure of it.” Varan stood and glanced at Wrenn, “Training going well?” Wrenn snorted, “I feel like a recruit again. Adjusting to a bigger gun and better eyes is easy. Adjusting to swinging a bladed weapon at what feels like lightspeed, with accuracy? Not so much.” Varan shrugged, which turned into an amusingly cat like stretch of the legs, followed by a very bird like stretch of the wings, and a yawn, “Well, save some of your embarrassment for tonight, you’ve put off obstacle course training long enough.” Wrenn snorted, “Oh joy...” A thought occurred to him, “By the way, the new specialist asked me to remind you that you all have standing appointments with him.” Now it was Varan’s turn to look put out, “Oh joy...” The next few days passed with a comfortable enjoyable routine; Morning flight, breakfast with the usual group, sword training with Sildinar, lunch, arbalest target shooting with Kephic, dinner, obstacle course laden with armor, gear, and Varan’s deadpan good natured taunts, then an evening flight. Wrenn found that every time he ran the obstacle course, he felt more at home with his new legs. He hadn’t tripped, slipped, or even stumbled in days. He was unlearning all his human instincts for movement, balance, and the five senses. In their place, the fully formed Gryphon instincts that had come with the body were roaring to life. Arbalest training became more about nailing down a fast reload routine. Aiming was easy once he had the feel of the weapon. Sword training was a different matter. Sildinar told him he was improving, but he still felt like a complete amateur in the presence of a master. The roan Gryphon kept encouraging him by telling him he had excellent potential, and good warrior’s instincts, which kept Wrenn’s spirits high. The work was certainly enjoyable, the deadly weapon was sometimes little more than a lethal lightshow in Sildinar’s claws, moving so fast it seemed to disappear into a silver blur without the aid of time dialation. Sildinar and Kephic even put on a practice duel for Wrenn’s benefit. The action was nearly soundless, each combatant was thinking and reacting so quickly, that the blades almost never touched. As soon as Sildinar would make a move, Kephic would adjust to counter it, which Sildinar would adjust to counter in turn, and so on. Wrenn could barely keep up, they were moving at close to the maximum limit for even a Gryphon. His near-perfect memory was of great use. He often learned more by replaying something in even slower motion which he had once seen than by seeing it for the first time. It wasn’t that Wrenn couldn’t replicate the same raw speed in his own swordplay, he was simply not accomplished enough in the kinesthetics of the weapon; The ways it could move in experienced claws. He didn’t know how to predict where Sildinar’s sword was going to be, and every time he tried he could only hold the duel for a few seconds before the master swordsgryph gave him a resounding thwack on the head, or wings, or chest. Their weapons were always locked into rubber training sheaths, and his fur and feathers were very pain tolerant, but it was always a bit humiliating to lose so quickly. Still, it was never wholly unpleasant. Every defeat brought with it a lesson, and a slight increase in his skill, and a lengthening of the time he could successfully keep his guard up. The only truly unpleasant moments came when Carradan sat in on some of the various training sessions. It was part of the agreement, so he had no room to complain. After the second time, it got easier to deal with the man. Carradan had made a truly off-color ribald joke, and Kephic had given him a serious scare with his arbalest, leaving a large hole in Carradan’s left pant leg, a rug-burn like mark on his left leg, and a large stain in the crotch. That put an end, for a while at least, to the recalcitrant reporter’s crass social ineptitudes. Wrenn wondered if it had also put an end to any chance that Carradan would take the abrupt flying leap into Ponification. The reporter talked about it on and off in both interested, and frightened tones; It was clear he had given the idea consideration before, and that he was seriously giving it consideration in the moment. What remained unclear was which way he was leaning. Wrenn guessed the man didn't even know himself. The emotionally confusing issue of Wrenn's forthcoming three hundred year life had mostly faded. It didn’t seem real enough to hold any serious emotional sway, and by the time it did, surely he would be much more used to the idea. It seemed as though life might remain relatively routine until time to depart for Equestria. And then, on the morning of the day before their scheduled departure, Skye came to breakfast with news that put an end to the status quo. “You guys, you are gonna flip when you see this!” Skye blurted as she skidded to a stop in front of the table. The tan unicorn was out of breath, and her vibrant blue mane was a tousled mess. Wrenn wondered if that was because she hadn’t slept in days, or because she had run all the way down to the cafeteria. Whatever she had been up to, it had made her late for breakfast. Everyone else, Wrenn included, was nearly finished with their food. She plowed ahead, barely taking a breath, “So, I took the ‘tab you gave me, Carradan’s, and I ran everything I could on it. No joy. But on a hunch, I took the one you recovered at the Liberty Bell Tower and I did comparison spells on them, and...” She inhaled deeply before blurting out, “I found them!” Hutch looked up sharply from his coffee, “Found who?” Skye was practically shaking with excitement, “THEM! The people who planted the AI, the people who sent Carradan the super secret data, I guess the people responsible for the attacks... That would make them PER. I found them!” For a beat, no one spoke. Then everyone tried to speak at once, resulting in a cacophony of overlapping questions and exclamations. Hutch banged his coffee mug on the table to restore a modicum of order, “I think we’d best move this conversation to a secured area. Now.” I took a few minutes for everyone to get upstairs. Hutch, Skye, and Sildinar managed to catch the lift; Wrenn, Kephic, and Varan had to wait for a second car. They found Hutch and Sildinar waiting as Skye cleaned up her office. The space was similar in configuration to Sildinar’s office, but infinitely messier. Wrenn couldn’t spot a single flat surface besides the floor that wasn’t covered in DaTabs of various size and description, circuit boards, and small electronics tools. Skye was frantically trying to clear off enough chair space for at least Hutch to be able to sit down. Wrenn resigned himself to standing. Somehow the little unicorn had managed to accrue more junk in her workspace in one week than most did over the course of one month. Varan groaned, “It doesn’t have to be perfect, just show us what you found!” The gold toned Gryphon rarely displayed so much emotion. Wrenn guess that the suspense was getting to Varan just as much as him. Skye triumphantly shoved a collection of circuit boards off the desk mounted controls for her wall holoscreen, and tapped the surface, bringing up an enormously complex stream of data. Hutch downed another gulp of his coffee, “What exactly are we looking at?” She waved a hoof at the screen, “Oh, nothing special, just signal traffic for the entire North American wireless comms grid. Courtesy of Earthgov defense satellites.” Wrenn raised an eyebrow, “And this 97 gigaquad stream of data is relevant because?” Skye’s grin was terrifyingly predatory for a Pony, “Because science. That’s why. I’ve perfected a little spell to compare circuitry, and any data it might have stored on it, or may have stored at any previous time. Long story short, there was a similarity in the two DaTabs. They both received some now-erased transmissions on a very specific frequency band. All I had to do was pull monitoring for the times the transmissions were sent, and isolate the frequency.” Varan nodded appreciatively, “Clever girl.” Kephic gestured to the screen, “And?” Skye’s horn flared to life and magically manipulated the control pad, “And, this is where the transmission streams lead; Carrenton Kansas.” The screen showed a map of North America, with intersecting dotted lines over a dot marked ‘Carrenton.’ Hutch set down his coffee on a precariously perched DaTab and stood up, “I’ll be damned.“ Skye basked in the appreciative murmurs and glances of the assembled Gryphons. “I did a little research. Carrenton is an abandoned refinery town built in 2026. It’s been off-grid for over sixty years, even squatters don’t go there; The ground was toxified, *majorly* toxified after some kind of accident. Some sorta goop you guys call ‘Cyclohexane’ or something spilled everywhere after a big explosion.” Wrenn nodded, “Nasty stuff. But if you think about it, it’s a perfect hiding place for the PER. Refinery equipment that can be repurposed to create illicit potion, no connections to the power or comms grid, no significant monitoring...” he glanced at the map, “...no nearby settlements, no aircraft overflight routes, and they could use Earth Pony magic to at least partly help in de-toxifying the ground, modern remediation chemicals could do the rest of the work.” Hutch turned to leave, snatching his coffee mug as he did so, “I’m going to get on the line with Military Stratcom, get them to do a direct overpass with a surveillance satellite. Even if they’re using jamming tech, we know exactly where to look, we’ll be able to see the signs. Really good work Skye, you’re definitely earning your keep.” Skye smiled, and blushed slightly, at the compliment, “So what happens now?” Wrenn turned to follow Hutch out the door, “Now? It's time for a little number called 'Return to sender.’ ” The rasping voice in his ear was insistent, “We didn’t teach you these secrets in order for you to waste them. If the human military discovers---” Mr. Utah cut the caller off, shifting his secure DaTab a bit to ensure his voice carried clearly through the microphone, “The military is firmly within our sphere of control. If anything leaks out, we will put a stop to it before it becomes an issue.” “See to it that you do.” Mr. Utah closed the connection, and watched, dispassionately, as two armored soldiers unloaded a large slate gray coffin-like object from a CAA-7. The massive craft’s four engines were still on, in standby, creating backwash that precluded even so much as trying to light a cigarette. The aircraft was a legitimate military transport. The crew likely had no idea they had been used to ferry a piece of HLF tech under the guise of classified munitions. There were definitely benefits to having been founded, as a group, by military higher ups. Hangar 18 at the Wichita airfield had been commandeered, also under the guise of military work, and was serving as Mr. Utah’s temporary command post. Mr. Stalin had long since departed to oversee other matters. The two soldiers now ferrying the coffin-shaped container into the hangar were also HLF, as was the man in a military uniform waiting for Mr. Utah just inside the cavernous corrugated steel structure. The man’s uniform read “Private FC Franklin Sanchez.” If one searched for him in the military database, one would find that his file was marked ‘KIA.’ He had ‘died’ as part of an HLF raid the previous year. In reality the supposed death by gunshot was cover for his promotion within the front, to full time agent status. He was more valuable as a soldier working directly for the HLF than as a spy in a low level military position. Once the offending jet thrust was no longer an issue, Mr. Utah lit up his first cigarette of the day, as he watched the armored soldiers place the coffin shaped crate in the center of a ring of computer equipment mounted on movable trolleys. Three technicians began opening ports and panels on the crate, colloquially known as a Sepulcher, and started plugging the control equipment in. The screens flickered to life, displaying double helix patterns, chemical formulae, temperature graphs, and a series of command inputs. Mr. Utah stood beside Sanchez, and let a puff of smoke go in the young man’s direction. To his satisfaction, a small cough escaped the private before he managed to lock down the reflex. “You understand the consequences of what we’re asking you to do?” The young man nodded, “Yes sir. And the rewards. I’m ready sir.” Mr. Utah stepped over to the Sepulcher, pressed a control stud, and watched as the lid irised open, revealing a shaped composite bath-tub like interior three quarters full with a viscous, opaque, reflective silvery liquid. He shot a glance at Private Sanchez, “Bath time.” He brushed his fingers against the plexiglass vat, ruminations about the watery fluid within filling his mind. “All we need now, is a small sample...” he murmured to himself. He turned to look at the violet unicorn beside him, “Has the story on his implants broken yet?” Veritas hung her head, “No, and the first reporter we seeded information to disappeared. They’re on top of it now, I doubt it would make much difference even if we could convince anyone else to try and air it.” The man shook his head, “We’ll find another way. It was worth a try. If nothing else, now we know something else about them. They understand the media and how to manipulate it.” Veritas was relieved to hear his answer. His depressive streak was over. As always, working on a project had restored his usual optimistic tones and buoyant spirit. She turned to look at the rows of vats, thousands of them, stretching off into the distance. The facility was a low-ceiling concrete rectangle, with a myriad of twisting pipes and catwalks surrounding the rows of chemical containers. The only other living beings in the room were two tall, armored figures wreathed in shadow. Their white combat armor stood out, but their faces were hard to see in the low light conditions. One of them touched a partially gloved digit to his left ear, then spoke, “They are ready... Yes-yes, ready for you.” Veritas shot a glance at the man, his hand still held against the side of the tank, “It’s time.” He nodded and followed her down the catwalk to a stairwell. The world above was filled with blinding light, compared to the dim confines of the concrete spaces below. The exit to the facility let out into what first appeared to be an abandoned patch of scorched earth, like any other plot of flat land on the planet. Dirt, petrified gray dead trees, and little else. The only structures were abandoned houses and the seemingly decaying ruins of an industrial complex, into which the entrance tunnel opened. Only by squinting, at close range, could one see the invisible city. All around, interspersed in the empty spaces between decaying buildings, new constructions, some reaching ten stories, filled the skyline, each cloaked with a sophisticated jamming unit on the roof. The shallow dish-like protrusions acted as satellite and LADAR jammers, as well as control circuits for the chameleon panels that covered every exterior inch of each structure. At close range, the illusion of the panels was prone to glitches, a hazy pixelated shadow of the buildings becoming visible in the right light. At long range, the illusion could fool all but a direct scan from a surveillance satellite. The man looked out appreciatively upon the shimmering vista. It was one of the largest PER settlements in North America; Home to ten thousand human soldiers, their Ponified families, and even a few sympathetic native Equestrians. Flanked by their tall, intimidating bodyguards, the leaders of the PER set off towards the largest structure; A short, but wide geodesic dome. The inside of the structure was refreshingly warm after the chilling flatland breezes from outside. The dome’s roof was transparent, its interior filled with stadium seating, which was in turn filled with humans and ponies. The dull roar of thousands of conversations pulsed through the air. A dais resides at the center of the dome, with a podium and microphones. The man stepped up to the podium, resisting the urge to shade his eyes against the brightness of the floor lights, which cast their illumination up onto the stage. He shot a glance at Veritas, then raised his hands for silence. Instantly, all noise ceased. The interior of the dome was abruptly home to absolute quiet. “You are all to be commended. Were it not for the tireless work you do here, we would be weaponless against a threat unlike any we have ever faced.” He paused to scan the audience. The first row of seats was too far away for him to actually make eye contact with anyone, but to them it seemed as if he was staring right at each of them, and that was what counted. “Ten years ago, one of the founding members of this organization looked out and beheld a ruined world. A spinning ball of rock, home to eight billion lost souls. A spinning rock on a countdown timer. Humanity, is running out of time.” He punctuated each of the last words with a thump of the podium, pausing to take a deep breath before continuing, “The world doesn’t understand it yet, but there is only one true way to salvation for our race. Salvation does not lie in escape, nor in repair of our dying world. Even if we could accomplish either of these ends, what good would it do? Should we be given more chances to spread our *taint*? to ruin once again this world? or worse, to ruin other pristine glittering orbs of life?” He shot Veritas a glance, she in turn gave him a small smile, which brought new vigor to his words, “The answer was clear from the moment Celestia herself deigned to speak to us; There is only one way. We must Convert now, or forever fall. Our race is fundamentally diseased, and Ponification is our cure. But now, a false hope threatens to turn away potential converts...” He gestured, and a massive holodisplay behind him flared to life, showing a silent loop of a news broadcast, “Gryphonization. A perversion of a beautiful gift; A temptation unto darkness. Your work here, at this facility, will enable us to put a swift and final end to this menace. Your work, will enable us to prevent more humans from being lead astray. Your work, will result in the salvation of many, so that they may be reborn in light.” The man turned to leave the stage, flanked once more by his guards, and followed by the sound of thunderous applause from hands and hooves alike. Outside, a VTOL was waiting, perched on a flat patch of dirt beside the fractured and disappearing road that had once served as the main entryway to the dead town. The rotor wash from the engines rattled a decrepit signpost, as the man and Veritas clambered into the vehicle. Veritas raised her voice to be heard above the engines, “Beautiful as always! It is no wonder they accomplish such incredible work. You inspire them!” The man laughed and shook his head, “No... Celestia inspires them. I’m just the messenger.” As the VTOL ascended, the air from its engines whipped around the rusting sign suspended by its two tenuous looking chains, shifting it so that the vanishing words inscribed on it in reflective paint caught the sunlight; ‘Welcome to Carrenton.’