I Love the Smell of Friendship in the Morning

by Moosetasm

Recaffeinating

Rust and Sheen moved through the maintenance tunnel side-by-side while the Commissar brought up the rear. The passage would have been wide enough to accommodate all three ponies shoulder-to-shoulder if it hadn’t been for the plethora of pipes and bundles of cable festooning the walls and ceiling.

The twins’ augmented eyes allowed them to see perfectly in the near-total darkness. They would have been able to make swift progress through the tunnel were it not for the Commissar pausing every fifteen to twenty hoofsteps to send a lasbolt or two in the direction they were strategically retreating from. Then there was the fact that he was running or smashing into 73%—

Crash

[Recalculating]

—78% of the exposed pipework, and tripping or tangling on a statistically similar percentage of laid or hanging cables. It was astounding that they were making any measurable forward progress.

Rust tilted his head at the sound of lasbolt fire from behind. He watched as the Commissar turned for the sixteenth time and fired four lasbolts into the passage to their rear. His acoustical feedback augment indicated three hits on the bionics of the Commissar’s intended target, and one hit on fur and flesh. They then indicated the sound of the target hitting the floor.

The Commissar ejected the spent clip and turned, smashing face-first into another piece of piping. He somehow managed to keep a solid mouth grip on his laspistol as he loosed another string of pain-laced profanity into the confines of the passage.

Rust sent a burst of binary static to Sheen: ”That is the seventh clip the Commissar has expended.”

Sheen was quick to reply: ”Judging by the mark IV laspistol’s clip size and the dimensions of the Commissar’s greatcoat and the Commissar’s bodyweight registered during his last physical, he cannot have more than three clips remaining.”

Rust felt compelled to speak: ”Commissar, the enemy has been performing exploratory thrusts for fifteen minutes now. it is only a matter of time before they plow into our rear with great force.”

The Commissar gave him a look that alternated from, based on Rust’s muzzle expression recognition database, disgust, dawning comprehension, and more disgust.

The Commissar shoved his head into his greatcoat and pulled out a smooth round object. “Alright then,“ he mouthed around the grenade; “I’ll collapse the tunnel with this.”

“High-explosive plasma charge,” Sheen observed. “Proper technique will be key in maximizing the chances of blowing everypony in this corridor.”

“You mean ‘blow them up,’ right?”

“Feel along one of the horizontal shafts on the ceiling with your lips,” Sheen continued. ”Then stop and insert your payload beneath one of the ribbed sections—“

There was a click as the Commissar pulled the pin with his tongue and a retching sound as he spat the grenade out. Rust’s olfactory sensors registered trace amounts of bile in the air. The grenade’s trajectory was such that it wedged in between two of the pipes that lined the ceiling.

The Commissar swept past Rust and Sheen in a full gallop. “Move it you two, unless you want to get… well, you know.”

The twins fell in behind him, but soon overtook the Commissar as he ran headfirst into a tangle of electrical wiring. Rust applied his plasma torch to the bundle of cable while Sheen grabbed the Commissar, tore him free of the melting cables, and threw him across her back. Then the twins galloped down the hallway as fast as their augmented limbs and enhanced senses would allow.

Rust turned a sharp corner in the tunnel and stopped just short of a security hatch. Sheen stopped with her muzzle precariously close to Rust’s protruding posterior.

“We must insert ourselves into the alcove,” Sheen transmitted in a burst of static. “My flanks are hanging out and will be devastated by the Commissar’s payload.”

“Impossible,” Rust answered. “The dimensions of this aperture preclude inserting all three of us at once without industrial lubricant and significant pushing.”

“Then we must force our way in. Go on; it is your turn anyway.”

Rust felt a crackle of electricity as he undressed the aperture with his optical implants and admired its craftsponyship. “Oh, hush now, no no no; those heretics were unkind, but they have not yet tainted any of your internal mechanisms with their foul brand of techno-sorcery—”

A lasbolt tore into the wall next to Sheen, rupturing a length of conduit that made a loud *POP* as it turned to tiny bits of shrapnel. Most of it just bounced off Sheen’s metallic hide, but the Commissar was not so lucky. He swore loudly, pressed a hoof to the right side of his muzzle, and fired off a few retaliatory shots past Sheen’s flank into the tunnel. “Just get to it with that door; the grenade timer’s only good for thirty ticks!”

Rust emitted a low burst of static that an unaugmented pony might’ve been mistaken for a sigh, then lightly caressed the interface port of the door with a mechadendrite. The portal shuddered open with a squeal. He stepped through, followed closely by Sheen, who unceremoniously deposited the Commissar face first into a pile of grease-stained Adeptus Marecanicus robes.

The Commissar rose from the pile. Blood streaked the side of his face where he had been peppered by shrapnel. “Get those doors closed, you two! I’ll never get my thrice-damned coffee if that grenade ignites the gas main!”

“Unlikely, Commissar,” Sheen said. “The majority of the pipes in the tunnel were marked for transporting water and it is far more likely that we will be douched to death if this door fails to close in time.”

The Commissar adopted the same half-confused, half-disgusted expression that he’d worn earlier.

Rust inserted his mechadendrites into the various orifices surrounding the door’s control panel. After a few moments, he shook his head. “Commissar, it is proving much more difficult to actuate the mechanism a second time via its front-door command protocols. I am currently probing to see if some kind of back-door entry might be feasible.”

Sheen ran a hoof along some of the hydraulic pistons attached to the door frame. “Commissar, these thrusting rods are dry and have become stuck in their slots. I will apply holy machine oil and rub them vigorously to start the pumping action.

Nutmeg pressed a hoof to his forehead. “Maybe drowning wouldn’t be so bad after all…”

A detonation in the tunnel sent a rush of ozone-tinged air through the portal. The sounds of rending metal and rushing water followed shortly afterwards. Water began to flow around the corner of the passage and up to the door.

Rust looked at Sheen, noting her liberal application of lubrication and delicate stroking of the mechanism. He thrust his mechadendrites into the panel’s command protocol one more time, at last feeling satisfaction as the door shuddered closed in time to stop the deluge coming from the outside. By the time he was done, only a little bit of moisture licked at the bottom of his robes.

Commissar Nutmeg let out a sigh and started prodding delicately at the right side of his muzzle. “I don’t suppose either of you two have a medpack?“ He hoofed a white tin from his greatcoat. There was a large caliber hole melted into it and the contents seemed to have been reduced to ash. “Mine seems to be… malfunctioning.”

Rust didn’t answer. He stared at the network of electrical wiring and piping that crisscrossed throughout the room. Various pressure hatches lead in different directions, which would allow the room access to the entire refinery. Machines of varying age and function filled most of what would have otherwise been a vast space. A faded tapestry, which depicted a disembodied representation the Omnicorn hovering over Mares, the holiest of planets, hung behind a command lectern which was mottled with centuries-old patina. The high level of craftsponyship and the age of the room left him with less than a 3% doubt as to their current location.

“Commissar… We are in the heart of the Adeptus Marecanicus shrine for the refinery.”

“It must be pretty ancient and sophisticated if it has you at a loss for words.” The Commissar trotted up to the command lectern and frowned at it. “Well, get to it; molest this console and retask those servitors before our ponies get overrun!”

”Commissar, this is not some common system we are talking about here.“ Rust shouldered the Commissar aside and pulled out a censer and aspergillum. ”The patina indicates this equipment is centuries or even millennia old. It is Ancient and must be treated with the proper respect, and the proper rites must be observed.”

A lasbolt flew from one of the hatches at the rear of the shrine and impacted a tangle of machinery which Rust identified as a brew-strength cogitator. The Commissar dove for cover next to one of the two open hatches that had begun to spew lasbolts into the room. He hoofed wildly at the emergency pressure seal rune. The portal swung shut and they were greeted by the familiar hiss-kachunk sound which indicated the door was properly sealed.

Sheen rushed from behind the cover of a water compressor and mashed the rune on her door with a mechadendrite. Nothing happened. Sheen grabbed the door with all of her limbs and heaved it shut with a groan of metal which originated from both her mechanical joints as well as the door frame.

After a few moments, the sound of lasbolt impacts were replaced by the sound of something heavy slamming into the door. Sheen extended her limbs to the pipes surrounding the door and wrapped around or held fast to them. “Commissar, I will be able to hold this entryway shut for only a short time before their continued thrusting penetrates—”

“Rust! Retask those Celestia damned servitors!” The Commissar shouted as he galloped to the lectern. “We don’t have time for you to wine and dine it before plowing its datafiles!”

Rust ignored the Commissar. His attention was focused on the blinking crimson rune that had appeared on the lectern’s display when he had finalized the rites of activation. ”There appears to be a problem, Commissar.”

“Well, flashing red is never good. What’s the problem?”

“It seems that the heretics are using protection!”

The Commissar facehoofed. “Can you please translate this nonsense into the Princess’ Equestrian?”

Sheen huffed a low burst of static as another impact caused the portal behind her to move slightly. “It seems my counterpart has found… affinity with that old patina-encrusted—”

“Can we do this later?!” bellowed the Commissar. “Preferably after we not die?!”

Rust and Sheen made contact via their optical implants; laser data transmission allowed their lovers’ quarrel logical dispute to take place in an instant. Rust looked away, and Sheen shook her head.

“A Lyran techno-sorcerer is preventing this console from accessing many key systems, including servitor control,” Rust said. “It is the master console; it can control most systems in the facility.” Rust again tried to work his magic tendrils on the lectern. “If we can just sever the heretic’s connection…” Another crimson rune appeared. “but I…” Still more runes began to blink. “I am unable to perform a reach around from this location.”

“Is there a way you can block their sorcerer’s access?”

“Negative, their magicks are too potent.” Rust pulled up a blue holographic display of the facility and highlighted an orange track from their current location under the main refinery to an outbuilding. “The techno-sorcerer is operating out of this structure. Our only chance will be to physically sever their connection between here—” He moved the display from the outbuilding, following the orange lead to a point where it met with the rest of the facility. “—and here, then I will be able to re-establish control.”

“Except we’re stuck here and pinned down, unless we can somehow block them and get the servitors mobilized… We would need to do one to even hope to do the other.”

Sheen released a literal jet of steam from her ears. “I wouldn’t be so quick to limit my options to some patina-gussied-up, too-eager-to-please—”

“That’s it!” the Commissar clopped his forehooves together and grinned like a madpony. He reached up to his communicator and hoofed through the available channels. His grin quickly faded. “Does either of your comms still work?”

Rust’s and Sheen’s attempts were both met with static.

“Commissar,” Rust began, “we are receiving input from each other, so we are not being jammed, but the shrine must be shielded against stray signals.” He moved to a wall panel with what appeared to be a speaker built into it. His tendrils worked furiously. ”There. I’ve rerouted our signals through this panel into the refinery’s local comm system. You should be able to reach somepony on the surface now.”

“This is Nutmeg, to anypony still operating outside. Anypony, come in?” The Commissar’s request was met with deafening silence.

“I repeat—” a burst of static and booming voice cut the Commissar off.

“I read you, Commissar.” The statement was punctuated by the whoosh of a flamethrower and the screams of conflagrating heretics.

“Inferno! Excellent! Where are you? I need you and Blitz to get to the outbuilding—” He paused to look at the holographic depiction of the refinery again. “—on the east side of the compound and destroy one of the towers that’s running network wires from there to the main structure. You’re going to need a—”

“Five kilogram charge would be optimal.” Rust interjected.

“—five kilogram demo charge to bring down one of the towers so we can wrap this mission up and have a nice evening cup.”

“Negative, Commissar. Blitz is fetlock deep in the dead on the other side of the compound. But, Celestia be praised, I have the heretic outbuilding in sight. I’ll advance and complete the objective on my own.”

“Inferno, I know you don’t have any demo charges, you need to get Blitz. He has enough explosives to level half the facility.”

“Don’t worry Commissar, I know how to take out network towers… I’ll use a firewall.” The shrieking of burning bipeds in the background had increased in both frequency and volume.

“Dammit Inferno, Equestrian Guard ponapalm can’t damage those towers—”

“Then it’s a good thing that I siphoned some of the fuel from the heretic shuttle I found behind the refinery.”

“Wait, what?”

“I know the Adeptus Marecanicus say that it can’t be done, Commissar, but I know from personal experience that that jet fuel can melt plasteel beams.”

Comments

[CoffeeMinion]

Oh, that ending line.

(FYI, there's a stray misspelled "smaps" tag hanging out in the middle.)

[Moosetasm]

8806086
Fixed it. Im surprised there weren’t more smcaps related errors, I wrote it so many times, I’m practically doing it in my sleep.

[FanOfMostEverything]

So... Are they doing this on purpose, or does devoting your life to the Omnicorn do things to your subconscious that would make Freud giggle?

[Moosetasm]

8808465
It’s just them. If you remember (I know, it was over a year ago, I personally blame me) they’re on this suicide mission because of their excessive and unsanctioned “servicing” of Equestrian Guard equipment.

[MisterNick]

What a fun read! I wish I had something more profound to say.

[BlueMoonHarlot]

“I know the Adeptus Marecanicus say that it can’t be done, Commissar, but I know from personal experience that that jet fuel can melt plasteel beams.”

Damn, man. I just gotta pause here and breathe in the ponapalm fumes.