16: Believe
Light Despondent Remixed
Chapter 16: “Believe.”
As usual, I can’t thank Jed enough for this! Jed did a frankly amazing amount of work here. Shouts out also to TB3 for approving Verity's characterization.
“Universal law is for lackeys. Context is for Kings.”
Captain Gabriel Lorca, Star Trek: Discovery - “Context is for Kings”.
I don't even know if I believe
I don't even know if I believe
I don't even know if I believe
Everything you're trying to say to me
So open up my eyes
Tell me I'm alive
This is never gonna go our way
If I'm gonna have to guess what's on your mind
Mumford and Sons, Believe.
Dancing Day
December 2022
“So,” Heliotrope says, “that was what we were doing. How’d it go for you?”
Kraber sighs. Looks down, shoulders sagging.
“It was great getting a fresh start on the Columbia,” Kraber said. “But…”
“But?” Yael asks. “You have that Look, Kraber. The one that Nny gets when he’s trying to lie but doesn’t feel like putting in the effort.”
“Romero did something for me that nobody else would have,” Kraber says. “Except maybe Lovikov, or Soldano, or Anton Kessler. And those people were fokkin’ dildos, so, y’know, fok those guys.”
“Um,” Aegis says, raising one foreleg.
“I lied to you and your children,” Kraber says bluntly.
“Fair’s fair, I guess,” Amber Maple says.
“I don’t get it though,” Heather says. Dancing Day had kind of forgotten that she was there. “What didn’t you like?”
“I’ll get to that,” Kraber says.
Somewhere near Casco Bay
It was massive, and sure looked like it belonged to a navy. He’d never been big on ships, but he could have sworn there was something familiar about it: like he’d seen something like it before.
It looked somewhere between a skyscraper lying on its side and a submarine. The outside was rounded, sleek and featureless, save for the command tower sticking up near the stern. It looked almost like it could go to space.
Up on the deck, he could see people in uniforms, but he couldn’t place them as part of any military he knew. They were mostly wearing blue jumpsuits with white piping and other detailing, black boots and undershirts. There was, however, a symbol on most of their uniforms, even his guards’ Kevlar vests; an HLF badge like a star with names, ID numbers, ranks and the name ‘Ex Astris Victoria’ printed on neatly.
He felt them watching him.
Can they see me? Kraber thought, watching a series of large black letters stenciled on the side of the ship pass by.
HLS Columbia TC-03
The Columbia, in the flesh, Kraber thought, eyes widening. Well, fok me up the gat sideways.
If there had been any doubt before about where he had ended up, there was none now.
The boat drew to a stop next to the leviathan supership. Kraber watched as Rogan the shotgunner spoke into the radio, and ‘Lucky’ fluttered up.
“Pull us up!” she yelled. “We’ve got a special case!”
“You realise that never sounds anything less than ominous?” someone called over to her.
“What am I supposed to say, Freeman?” the mare countered. “‘We’ve got Viktor Kraber with us’? They’d shoot him on sight.”
But nonetheless, a lift inched down from the deck, drawing steadily closer to the boat. Kraber watched it, waiting for the other shoe to drop. On the surface, everything about this screamed ‘bad idea.’
Kraber had never met Romero in person. The closest he’d been to the man or any sort of HLF navy was when Helmetag had ‘indefinitely loaned’ him to Yarrow as a punishment, and he’d been definitely-not-strongarmed onto a train into Quebec, then onto a boat heading for Bastion.
He’d been kicked out of the Reavers, eventually. It hadn’t been on good terms, but they’d let him live.
Somehow, Kraber wasn’t certain that would still apply. He had, after all, been very publically part of a great victory wait what the fok no the destruction of Portland. And if the PHL - the merciful ones, fokkin’ right? - had tried to kill him before, Romero probably wouldn’t be much kinder.
Every instinct should’ve been screaming at Kraber to run.
“Definitely not in favour of being shot,” Kraber called up.
“Well goddamn,” said one other crewmember, this one a woman, “you weren’t kidding. That really is Kraber. I just got one question, Lucky.”
She looked over to the blue and white pegasus.
“What in the hell made you want to drag him out of the ocean?!”
The lift rattled to life, and Rogan motioned for him to step onto it with the barrel of his shotgun.
“Are you, uh…”
Rogan just scowled, shotgun still pointing at Kraber. His point had been made abundantly clear.
“He was gonna die in there,” Lucky said. “Also, we couldn’t find any sharp objects on him.”
...I feel naked without them, Kraber thought, stepping onto the lift. Shit. Medical bag is gone.
“I don’t like it either,” Rogan called up. “But, well, too late now.”
Talking about me like I’m not even here, Kraber thought. But he was at point blank range for a shotgun. So it was best to just go with it.
“I hope,” ‘Freeman called out, “You recognize how precarious this is.”
Kraber looked down at the ocean, then over to a nearby island. I miss my phone now.
Then again, it might be for the best if I don’t use one...
“You’re Viktor Kraber. Most people wouldn’t mind you getting shot whilst ‘resisting arrest’,” Freeman continued, as the lift drew closer to the upper deck. “Do you even know who you are?”
So many answers to that question, Kraber thought. The lift was so close to the deck that Kraber almost felt like he could step aboard then and there.
“Well?” Freeman asked.
“Oh, fok jou sideways,” Kraber said, “That literally just happened. Twice.”
Whatever response the guard was expecting, that was definitely not it. “Uh…”
“I just got blown up and drowned in the span of…” Kraber thought about it. “I mean, I was unconscious in the ocean, it can’t have been that long. The last couple hours, anyway? Before which, that exact thing happened. Twice. One of them had a helicopter. I’m just not in the mood right now.”
He coughed, and staggered slightly. Am I really that out of it?
“He said something about getting his limbs broken and rehealed,” Lucky Strike volunteered. “And shot. And stabbed.”
“You don’t look like any of that happened,” the guard said, suspicious.
“I asked a unicorn for help. Even if I don’t,” Kraber said, “Do I somehow not look fokkin’ HALF-DROWNED?!”
“Eh, not really. More like one-third drowned,” Lucky Strike said. “Which is still pretty bad, but, y’know, levels of bad.”
“Look, just give me a bed, maybe a hot drink, and I’ll do anything,” Kraber said. “Ek is siek en sat van sy fokkin’ nonsens. Maybe, 24 hours ago, I’d threaten to bliksem jou, but… I just don’t care right now.”
“Hey, Rogan, save the date,” Lucky Strike chuckled. “Little Vicky Kraber’s out of fight. Only took about half an ocean of blood, right?”
Kraber growled. “Seriously?”
“I just spent most of the last few days with the Reavers,” Strike said with a wink. “I can think of worse things to call you, if you really wanted.”
As if there needed to be more reasons we didn’t trust this side of the Split, Kraber thought. Working with gluesticks… ugh.
Then:
No. Not like… not like that.
“Should we keep on tighter alert?” Rogan, the shotgunner, called up to him. “The ‘Fraktion might want him back, and after what we’ve seen, I don’t think they’d stop short of coming for us.”
“They won’t come for me,” Kraber said dully. “As of whenever it was that I stole that boat yesterday, I’ve chucked the Menschabwehrfraktion.”
Dead silence on the deck. Nobody knew quite how to respond to that bombshell.
Freeman stared at him. “Wait, what.”
“Ja,” Kraber said. “I quit. Entirely voluntarily. With the added bonus of accidentally faking my death so Lovikov can’t unretire me. I just…” he ran a hand through his sopping wet hair. “I don’t fokkin’ care right now. I just… I need some rest right now. I fokkin’ insist.” He paused. “Sure, I had to pass up on severance pay, but I’ll work something out.”
“Uh huh,” one nearby guard said. “I feel so much better. This is my so much better face.” He was wearing a gas mask, so the sarcasm was even more obvious than it would have been. “Just get movin’, wouldja? The Captain’s an impatient man. Then we decide on what to do with you.”
Strike snorted. “He’s not really. People just say that. Although he can get pretty rage-y when he dies on Super Mario.”
Kraber blinked. “The fok.”
“I know what I said,” Strike smirked.
It was the most fokkin moerse ship Kraber had ever set foot on. The corridors were a stark gray-white, but - strangely enough - were decorated with paintings and a few potted plants. It looked like they’d been riveted to the wall and floor.
This isn’t just a ship. This is a pozzy, Kraber thought.
The interior of the ship had more ponies wandering around, most in that same blue jumpsuit uniform, wearing the same symbol that had been on the guards’ uniforms. None of them looked happy to see him.
That same symbol was also painted on doors and walls liberally, along with a few other tags and symbols Kraber recognised. Reaver tags, Corsair symbols, a few of Kevin “The-Mildly-Miffed” Flowers’ icons, and more besides.
The guards - including Strike - escorted him down a few flights of stairs, before finally reaching a door with Captain D. Romero printed on it.
“Alright,” Strike said. “Bit of advice, Kraber, if you ever take it.”
Kraber’s immediate thought was ‘not from a gluestick’, and he grimaced at the thought. Some things were instinct, hard to kick. Strike frowned slightly, clearly misinterpreting his expression.
“Well, take it or not,” she said, “the Captain isn’t the sort of guy with whom to fuck.”
Kraber bit back a retort. Neither am I.
“But if you’re here,” Strike continued, “there’s a reason. I don’t get it, myself, but the Captain knows what he’s doing, and I trust him.” She leant forward slightly. “So help me, if you repay the Captain’s kindness with your usual shit -”
“You’ll what?” Kraber cut in. “You know who I am. What I’ve done.”
“Yeah, but you don’t know me in the slightest,” Strike retorted. She grinned nastily. “But I guarantee, Little Vicky. You will.”
And with that, and a final look at the guard, she left. Kraber blinked, trying to decide if he should be worried, before shaking his head as the guard opened the door.
Here we go, he thought.
A high-backed leather chair was facing away from the doorway, a desk with a small bulldog bobblehead on top next to an old laptop in front of it. It was almost ridiculously normal.
“Thank you gentlemen,” a voice came from the chair, speaking in a polite deep-South accent. “That will be all.”
The guards nodded and left without another word, leaving Kraber alone in the room, the door shut behind him. There was a moment’s silence.
“Mr Kraber,” the voice said. “Viktor Kraber.”
“Ja?” Kraber asked, putting every ounce of fight he could into that single syllable.
The chair spun around, revealing a man in a long-sleeved pale-blue shirt, epaulettes on the shoulders and a nametag - reading “ROMERO” - on the chest. He was dark haired, maybe fifty, with a soft smile and blue eyes filled with a mysterious humour that seemed to know too much. There was a certain sense of deja vu about him that Kraber couldn’t pinpoint: the blue uniform, the eyes, the dark, neat hair…
Actually, come to think of it, he looked a lot like Jason Isaacs. Yeah, that had to be it.
“Well, well,” Captain Daniel Romero said. “Hello, finally.”
Dancing Day
Everyone has dubious expressions on their faces. It isn’t exactly surprising.
“So…” Aegis says after a moment. “Romero, huh?”
“Right,” Kraber says, giving a sardonic smile. “You can imagine how thrilled I wasn’t.”
Yael looks even more dubious. “I always wondered what he was like. Before, y’know, I actually met him.”
“What were you expecting?” Heliotrope asks.
“From the man with two Thunderchild-class ships, enough mysterious connections to make a mysterious switchboard of mystery and a reputation as the R&D Guy of the HLF?” Yael replies. She thinks about it for a moment. “I think I probably expected him to be taller.”
“You too, huh?” Kraber asks.
“...You’re both like six feet tall!” Vinyl Scratch protests. “What, were you expecting him to look like a basketball player?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Was it as weird for you?” Kraber asks Yael.
“Tell you when we get there,” Yael replies.
“Well, I’m not going to be here for it,” Vinyl says, waving a hoof. “I… look, I get it, you’re talking about HLF, but I’d rather not hear about that overgrown warlord.” She looks at Heliotrope. “Come let me know when we’re past this, please? I’d like to get to the parts where Aegis comes in.”
“Okay, then…” Heliotrope replies, waving a wing.
Vinyl leaves, and Kraber lets out a sigh. And just as he is about to continue-
“You’re still telling this?” Verity Carter asks, still trotting in, still a pony. Still looking like she wants to murder everything inside. “I thought you just sort of ended up in New Hampshire somehow.”
“No, we’re getting to that,” Aegis says.
“Well then, how come Lovikov and I didn’t hear about the parts with Romero?” Verity asks. “You’d think that during the Battle of Montreal, that would’ve come in handy.”
“Simple,” Kraber says, “You’re all horrible people and I don’t like you.”
Dancing Day is pretty sure Kraber doesn’t entirely mean that, but he said it so bluntly that it’s hard to tell.
Verity’s eye twitches.
“Four of the people in this room have tried to kill you, and you were telling them first?” Verity asks.
“Five,” Aegis says. “Vinyl walked out earlier.”
“He and that side of the Split cost us everything,” Verity says. “We could’ve had it all, Kraber. We could’ve ended the war! And here you are, sitting with war criminals, and the war’s still going!”
“Some cures,” Aegis says, cold fury in his voice, “are worse than the disease.”
His tone of voice leaves no room for argument.
“Where was I?” Kraber ponders aloud. “Oh, yeah. Romero.”
Kraber
“You sound almost min to meet me,” Kraber said, eyes scanning the room. He’d ended up with someone on the other side of the Split - chances were, they weren’t happy to see him. God, I miss having a gun!
But these people had made sure he was stripped of every conceivable weapon. Kraber’s eyes scanned the room. The wall of firearms over there? No, only an idiot keeps loaded firearms in plain view like that. Maybe the chair?
“Eager would be a strong word,” Captain Romero said, leaning forward. “But you are quite famous. Some would even say ubiquitous. To have Viktor Kraber, the Viktor Kraber, on board my ship… I don't know whether to update my will or ask for a selfie.”
Kraber wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Usually people were his friend, or afraid of him - this kind of flippancy from a total stranger was… new.
“Gaan for the will,” Kraber said.
“I hope that’s not a threat,” the other man said idly. “I might be a nice guy, but I wouldn’t respond well if you were threatening me.”
“Nooit,” Kraber said. “I just can’t think of a way the selfie would end well. I think it’s for the best I stay dead for a bit, aweh?”
“Well, most people seem to be able to take them without anything untoward happening,” Romero said, smirking. “But then, this is you we’re talking about. I’d half expect your average visit to the toilet to be a bloody affair.”
“Haven’t been like that since I quit cold turkey,” Kraber said. “It’s more that… well, I’m guessing nobody knows where I am? I think it’s safer if I keep it that way.”
“Ha. You. Talking safety,” Romero said. He straightened. “Formal introductions, I suppose.” He stood up, revealing the full blue uniform. Who makes uniforms for a militia anyway? “Captain Daniel Romero. Welcome aboard HLS Columbia.” He smirked again. “Now, at least, you’re sure where you are, though I suspect you had a good idea already.”
“It wasn’t hard to guess,” Kraber said. “Besides, I already knew that the Columbia was somewhere off the coast of Maine.”
“We’re not as inconspicuous as I’d like, it's true,” Romero said with a sad smile. “But we make up for it in other areas. And we’ve got reasons to be around here right now that make up for any potential security... issues.”
“Do any of them involve Lovikov?” Kraber asked. He didn’t expect an answer (or at least, not one beyond ‘none of your concern’), but to his surprise, Romero only smiled.
“Not yet, but give it time,” he said. “There’s always some… issues, with our other halves, but those haven’t yet become so problematic that direct intervention is warranted on the Columbia’s part. I leave that to Max.”
“‘Max’?”
“He was probably the only person I’ve ever heard call Yarrow ‘Max’,” Kraber says with a shrug. “I have no idea.”
“Besides,” Romero continued. “Can you imagine how the… esteemed Colonel Gardner might have felt if we’d intervened in Lovikov’s recent…”
He coughed, frowning.
“Monumental fokup?” Kraber suggested.
Romero snorted. “That’s certainly one word.”
Kraber snorted. “I don’t have to fokkin’ imagine. Gardner’d probably have accused you of rape, then shot you, then acted like you provoked him, then acted like a hero for shooting you execution-style.”
There was silence. Romero looked at Kraber expectantly. Kraber, in response, stayed stonefaced.
“... you’re not joking, are you,” Romero said after a moment. “That’s a real thing. It actually happened.”
“He had one subordinate named Summers,” Kraber said by way of explanation, “who actually said my kids were better off ponified.”
“Christ,” Romero said, looking away for a moment and actually paling. “That… in this day and age, that’s…”
“Given the sorts of shit he’d researched, I figure he probably thought it was almost as bad as I did,” Kraber muses. “Either that or he was thinkin’ about Sharon.”
“Who?” Heliotrope asks.
Kraber shakes his head. “Later.”
Kraber took a deep breath.
“You might want to keep an eye on that one if he’s ever close by,” Kraber said. “I know they’re not PHL command, but…”
“But they’re dangerous already,” Romero said. “I understand. It’ll be just one more problem to deal with in a growing sea… or shrinking sea, technically.”
He sighed.
“But there’s something else, too. We’ve been using our… shall we say, ‘equipment’... to monitor Solar Empire activities behind the Barrier, and they’re planning… something from their shipyards in Western Europe, specifically the one in Iceland. It’s been reflected in the enhanced PER presence on the eastern seaboard. You could write it off as their preparation for Barrierfall, but anyone with their ear to the ground should be able to tell that Lovikov aside, the brazen escalation that we saw in Portland was not normal.” His grin became wolfish. “And my ear is always to the ground.”
Kraber nodded, thoughtfully. “What… what do you think they’re planning?”
“Our… ‘intel’ is sketchy,” Romero said, turning to look out the porthole, before looking over his shoulder at Kraber. “If I’m to start talking about what we do here, what we know, there’s something I need to know first.”
“Name it,” Kraber said.
“Our intel put you with Lovikov’s team attacking the rig. I’m tempted to ask,” Romero said. “How did you come to be here?”
“Fok weet,” Kraber said bluntly. “I woke up in the middle of the ocean.”
“And how did you get in the ocean, Mr Kraber?” Romero asked. “I can’t imagine the best fighter in the ‘Fraktion being let go so easily. Not by Lovikov.”
“Lovikov was going to set me up for some grand, heroic death, and he was starting to piss me off,” Kraber said. “I was starting to piss me off. So I… left. Went into Portland, fought Reaper - you probably already know most of this kak - then when Colonel Gardner, Smoky, and Summers got me, I tried to surrender, they tried to execute me, so I peeled off half of Summers’ face-”
Romero raised an eyebrow at that last one, then shrugged.
“-and tried to escape by boat,” Kraber finished.
“I notice a distinct lack of that boat,” Romero said, arching both eyebrows.
“Well, Yael Ze’ev blew it up,” Kraber said. “With an MP50 Obregon. While I was on it.”
Romero raised an eyebrow. “How did you survive that?”
Kraber shrugged. “Fok weet. I remember being on fire, I remember rushing for the bow, then losing consciousness. Kinda disappointed to wake up, honestly.”
“There’s just one question,” Romero said. “See, I have a file on you.”
“...How?” Kraber asked.
“The usual means,” Romero said, as if that explained everything. “A lot of it came from the Reavers’ resident psychologist. The man described in that file would’ve tried to kill Clements, Rogan and Lucky Strike, regardless of how insane the odds were. I want to know why you didn’t.”
“Aw, fok. There’s no other way to put it!” Kraber said, raising his voice but not quite yelling. “I’m fokkin siek en sat of what I do for them!”
“I’m afraid I don’t speak Afrikaans,” Romero said, looking at him and frowning slightly.
“I said that I’m sick and tired,” Kraber said. “And I didn’t know it until… well, right during the attack on the Sorghum. I just… I stopped being able to feel the same anger. I realized that what we were doing… wouldn’t accomplish anything, and that hurting the PHL ponies on the rig would be…. Aw, fok it, it wouldn’t be right.”
Romero nodded. “I see.” He unfolded his arms, before leaning forward to look at Kraber. “Did you ever hear Algie Spader’s speech about rage, Viktor?”
Kraber shrugged. “Bits and pieces. Never the whole thing.”
Did he just call Spader ‘Algie’?
Romero grinned. “The part that always struck me was this. ‘Rage untempered is a fire that burns all, makes barbarians and rapists and murderers. Rage honed and sharpened, tempered and cooled, becomes the bullet, the flamethrower, the knife, the soldier. One kills your enemies, for a time. One wins your war... forever’.” He straightened. “It strikes me that you seem like you're getting pretty tired of being untempered.”
“I…” Kraber started. “Jou know what? Ja. Everyone was talking me up at Defiance like I was their pet monster. Their ace in the hole. And… and I feel like I’ve had to ask lately, ‘Is that the Viktor Kraber that Kate married?’”
“I can understand that,” Romero said. “We’ve all become different people during this conflict. Unfortunately, as many of us on this side of the Split have come to realise, Lovikov and his ilk aren’t interested in putting those changes to any practical use. Aren’t interested in making our suffering into something more than, as you say, ‘pet monsters’.”
“No,” Kraber said, surprised at the venom in his voice. “They fokkin’ well aren’t. They’re interested at taking angry people and pointing them in the direction of ponies until something dies.”
“Which, apart from its poor military application, is a shocking waste of resources,” Romero said dryly. “Tell me, just what was your medical speciality again?”
“Trauma surgery,” Kraber said. “I also wanted to be a pediatrician, or pioneer the use of artificial cybernetic limbs, or be a vet somewhere rural so I could operate on bobcats or wolves or African Wild Dogs or something.”
“Interesting. And ironic, considering your disdain for-”
“Don’t,” Kraber interrupted.
“And your mother’s trials on Newfoals - you did some work with her on that, right?” Romero continued. “Or at least, are familiar with it?”
“Too fokkin’ familiar,” Kraber growled.
“I see,” Romero said. “I'd like to share some things with you, Viktor, if you're willing. A man with your talents shouldn't be left in a cell to rot, not when you can make a real difference.”
Kraber raised an eyebrow. “Go on…”
“I'd like to know I can rely on you,” Romero said. “If you agree to join us, you're on side. You're with us all the way to the finish line, wherever that may be. If not… I’m happy to let you off at the nearest port town, give you some equipment, and let you on your way.”
“I’ll need some time to think it over,” Kraber said. “At the very least, I’m not fokkin’ going back to Lovikov. Ponies or not, this is… this is a man who humiliated me in front of my friends the day Emil fokking died, all because I didn’t kill a child.”
“Wise move to not go back,” Romero said. “Rest assured: nothing we do here is so… dehumanising.” He smiled. “Actually, in time, we may achieve the opposite.”
Kraber blinked. “...Wat. You’re not talking about what I think you are, are you? Mom… she said that was impossible!”
“Everything is impossible, Mr Kraber,” Romero said, tapping an intercom button. “Until someone achieves it.”
The door opened and a guard in a similar uniform to Romero’s entered.
“Sir,” the man said.
“Please escort Mr Kraber to an empty room on D-Deck,” Romero said. “And have fresh gear delivered to him. Oh, and have the special order I asked for sent up to his room as well.”
The man nodded, before stepping outside and waiting.
“Special order?” Kraber repeated.
“You'll find out, Mr Kraber,” Romero said. “I’ll speak to you in the morning.”
Later
The room on D-Deck was not a brig. Which surprised Kraber. It had enough beds for about four people.
“Well fok,” Kraber said. “This is actually nicer than my old room.”
He fell on the mattress, and was surprised to feel how comfortable it was. Then, of course, he noticed the special order.
“And you even put my stuffed animals against the pillows!”
“I’m tempted to ask,” his escort said, “why you’d want a stuffed horse. Captain was rather specific about that thing.”
Kraber glared at the man, who stepped back immediately.
“Just a question, sir,” the man said, holding up a placating hand. “Always sleep with my first ever navy shirt I got issued on myself. Amazing what comforts people, right?”
Kraber shrugged.
“There’s also a rec room not too far off. It has an XBox, PS4… couple public computers, too. You’re allowed the use of any game consoles onboard, though your internet access has been restricted to those for security reasons. Includes online multiplayer, unfortunately.”
“Surprised you even get internet,” Kraber commented. “This is a warship, right? An HLF warship no fokkin’ less. I'd have thought the US Navy would have torn you up.”
The man didn't answer that, and Kraber didn’t press him.
“Considering what I’ve heard about you,” the man said after a moment, “I’m surprised you’re taking it this well.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” the man said. “You're on the other side of the Split.”
Kraber chuckled dryly, then sighed. “I… well, I finally understood what my side of the Split is like. And I think I’ve had enough of it.”
The man nodded. “Had to happen sometime, huh?”
“Yeah,” Kraber said. “I guess it did.”
“Mind if I ask what brought that on?” the man asked.
“I was on the rig when they were about to fire,” Kraber says. “And a day before, Lovikov went and threw all my stuff on the ground because I decided not to shoot a small child in the face. It was the day my boyfriend died too, so kind of kak all around.”
“...Holy shit,” the other man said. “That’s… if anyone in the Reavers or Ex Astris tried to do that, the Captain would shoot them.”
“Not blood eagle them, or give them a show trial?” Kraber asks.
“Nah,” the other man said. “Just shoot ‘em.”
There was an awkward pause.
“I’m, ah, Louis, by the way,” the man said. “Believe it or not, I really do understand what you’re going through here. I left the Carter side about a year back.”
“Oh?” Kraber asked, blinking. “Which unit?”
“Thenardiers,” Louis said, snorting. “Birch’s voice alone is enough to make you want to shoot yourself, but… well. It was the Thenardiers. You know what they’re like.”
Kraber did, in fact, know what they were like.
“Or, God forbid, Glanzon’s Gluemakers,” Kraber said.
“They’ve all been dead a couple months now,” Louis pointed out.
“Eh, no loss,” Kraber said.
“Literally had a man from the Thenardier Guard tell me he’d shoot a PHL pony rather than a human PER member once,” Kraber says.
“...Christ,” Heather says.
“How are these people that dense?!” Yael wonders aloud.
“Have you never heard of a joke?” Verity snorts.
“Yeah; it’s call the HLF,” Heliotropes says scathingly.
“At least the PER aren’t the ones that took over what’s left of America!” Verity started. “At least they’re not-”
“They turn people into THOSE GODDAMNED THINGS!” Kraber yells. “FOK! You’re like klansmen that go out of their way to stab black nurses in the hospital!”
“That’s weirdly specific-” Aegis starts.
“Don’t ask,” Heather whispers. “Just don’t.”
“I’m latino, you-” Verity starts.
“YOU WANT TO MEASURE YOUR FOKKING MISERY DICK?!” Kraber yelled. “WELL YOU HOU JOU FOKKIN’ BEK, CAUSE I’M ABOUT TO TURN LEFT AND-”
“YOU SOLD OUT HUMANITY, YOU SON OF A-” Verity screamed.
“I.. YOU… FOKKIN’ WHAT THE FOK?! O JY DINK JY’S WY’S NE?! VERTEL ME HOE IN DIE FOK VERSLAWENDE FOKKIN’ TEL AS-?!” Kraber yelled back,
“Viktor. Don’t,” Aegis says, very quietly. “I need to ask you something, Verity. It’s very important.”
“And that is?” Verity asks, defiant.
“Why are you here?” Aegis asks. “Everyone here has an axe to grind, maybe even against you. Viktor, very transparently, does not like you.”
“And you?” Verity asks.
Aegis looks down at the floor. “...Not important here. But I can’t see any way that being here is causing you anything but suffering. For your own health… don’t be here, Verity. You’re only hurting yourself.”
Verity sighs.
“Do you know what I lost because of the War?” Verity asks.
“I don’t see where you’re going with this,” Yael says.
“I lost my mother, and senior year of high school,” Verity says. “I was seventeen at the time. I was so busy protesting and fighting, so angry that I missed out on… too much. I never got to go to RISD like I wanted. And now I never will.”
“We all lost out on the people we got to be, Verity,” Astral Nectar says.
“So, because of the fucking War, I had to be a kid standing up at the adult’s table,” Verity says. “I had to deal with creepy, greasy bastards day after day. I suffered to stay at that table. And that is not even starting on this.” She motions to herself. “And now, you-”
She pauses. There is dead silence.
“I’m nowhere,” Verity says. “And you were too, Viktor.”
“What do you mean?” Kraber asks.
“I mean that somehow, you managed to carve out a place,” Verity says. “And I need to know how you did it. Because… I’m stuck here. And if I don’t find out how to be not stuck, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”
Kraber nods.
“Very well then,” he says. “Just… try not to defend too many war crimes.”
“Well hi, Pot,” she replies with a snort, “I’m a black kettle.”
“So Romero had you escort me because of that,” Kraber said.
Louis nodded. “It can be… difficult getting used to it here. Lucky Strike is really good at putting the fear of God into you, but…”
Part of Kraber really wanted to start insulting her, but… it’d been a long day, she’d made it abundantly clear she wouldn’t care about killing him, and the longer he tried to justify saying ‘gluestick,’ the less it felt like it was really worth it.
Kate had said that the longer you try to justify something, the more you prove it wrong. And that felt about right.
“But?” Kraber asked.
“But we do good work here,” Louis said. “No matter what, we’re not in a place that celebrates cruelty. We’re in a place that looks toward the future. That’s why I came here, you know. I knew that they’d eventually reach something like Portl-”
“About that,” Kraber said. “Portland isn’t an endpoint. I know the man, and whatever Lovikov wants to do next, it’s going to be worse.”
“You’re telling me,” Louis said, “that you think Lovikov’s going to outdo Portland?”
“I’m not telling you I think that,” Kraber said. “I’m telling you I know that. The man doesn’t de-escalate or step back.”
They both considered that.
“Then,” Louis said, “I think we both did the right thing leaving when we did.”
“Did you actually sleep?” Heliotrope asks. “I mean… it was the Columbia, and you were you, so…”
“After everything? Fok yeah, I slept,” Kraber says, laughing softly. “I didn’t think they’d kill me in my sleep, if that’s what you mean. Honestly, at that point, I didn’t care if they did.” He pauses. “So… gotta ask. Did anything come of Gardner wanting to ‘visit’ Romero?”
Yael frowns. “Eventually. But he was getting stonewalled by someone else.”
“Who?” Kraber asks.
Yael sighs. “That’s a long story…”
“And one with a lot of shouting,” Heliotrope adds, grimacing. “Plus side, I think it did get Gardner punched in the face.”
“Again?”
“Again.”
“Fokkin’ lekker.”
“With all the head shots you gave that man, how does he not have a concussion?” Spitfire asks.
“Yeah,” Heather points out. “I’ve seen Viktor give people concussions with one kick before. Is Gardner’s skull adamantium or-”
“Honestly, I just don’t think it’d have any noticeable effect,” Yael says.
“I’m a doctor, and I can confirm that,” Kraber says.
“Can you?” Aegis asks. “I mean, does it really work like that?”
“Do you think it doesn’t?” Kraber asks.
Aegis just shrugs. “Fair enough.”
“What about Summers?” Dancing Day asks. “Did he get a concussion too?”
“Let’s just say that’s a bit of a non-issue at the moment,” Heliotrope says.
Kraber awoke to a knock on the door. Sleep had, thankfully, come easy.
He woke up, staggering to the door. Looked through the peephole, readying himself for a-
Oh wait. They don’t trust me with guns.
There was nobody at the peephole.
Kraber opened the door, and looked down to find a tray with a hot breakfast sitting atop it. And in a bowl was-
Shrimp and grits?! Seriously?!
There was a note next to the bowl.
Dr. Kraber,
I had the ship’s cooks make this special for you. I didn’t tell them who it was for, but I felt it was best that you’re comfortable. You have a big day ahead.
I will be returning in one hour. Please, be ready for the tour by then.
--D. Romero
Kraber quickly set to dismantling his breakfast, bite by bite. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like Romero had used instant grits, or cooked them with water. Kraber had threatened people at gunpoint for that last one.
I probably don’t have long till this turns out to be an elaborate trap, Kraber thought, but I might as well enjoy this.
And he called me Doctor! Shit, it’s been way too long.
An hour later, as Kraber slipped on the shirt and trousers, a knock came at the door. When he opened it, Romero was standing there, hands behind his back.
“Mr Kraber,” he said. “I trust the sleep was good?”
“Best I've had in a while,” Kraber said softly. “But I've got a funny feeling like I’ve been sleeping with the enemy.”
Romero nodded. “I guess we’ve been that to you for a while. Shouldn’t have been the case, but we can’t exactly help that now.”
“No, I guess not,” Kraber said. He let out a sigh. “So, uh… is there a tour guide?”
“Yeah,” Romero replied with a wink. “Me.”
“Alright,” Kraber said. “But I only do this on one condition.”
Romero’s smile dropped like a stone.
“You’re not in a place to make demands,” he said flatly.
“But this is an easy one,” Kraber said. “You tell me why I’m here.”
“I thought I made that point earlier,” Romero said, folding his arms. “Furthermore, I thought you had a good answer.”
“Maybe,” Kraber said. “You had a lot of good reasons. But the PHL was willing to shoot me for resisting arrest. The Spader side of the HLF hates me. Lovikov is probably going to want me dead next time we meet. So why me? Why here?”
Romero nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. Finally, he met Kraber’s eyes with the most serious expression Kraber could imagine. It was like he had aged ten years, and turned to stone.
“Because we must win the war,” he finally said, speaking slowly. “We must. I cannot afford to waste any opportunity, squander any resource, when that opportunity or resource might be the key to winning this conflict. I cannot, and will not, pass up any chance of victory. Whatever we have to do, I will do it.” He chuckled. “To be frank, Kraber? You are not the worst thing I’ve done. And you’re sure as hell not the worst thing I’m willing to do.”
Admittedly, that answer raised more questions for Kraber.
But at the very least, it made it clear that this wasn’t a trap. That Kraber wasn’t going to die. That he wouldn’t have to give someone a concussion (again).
That was good enough.
As it happened, Romero made for a pretty good tour guide. He was jovial and friendly, for the most part. Even… nice.
The same couldn’t necessarily be said for some of the other crew. Kraber could feel the glaring eyes from more than one of the crew of this ship.
“None of them want me here,” he commented as they walked.
“Let them think what they like,” Romero replied, conspicuously not answering, “but this is my ship. My ship, my rules. They’ll do what I tell ‘em, even if they don’t necessarily like it.”
Kraber nodded slowly. That hadn’t been his experience of the HLF. “If you say so. Surprised it hasn’t got you killed.”
“We’re not some floating band of pirates, no matter what people choose to call us,” Romero retorted. “For one thing, I happen to prefer the term ‘privateer.’”
“That’s literally just a pirate that attacks…” Kraber said. “Ohhh. Lekker. I get it now.”
“I’m glad,” Romero said, smiling. “Anyway, why would they want to kill me? We’re aboard a human marvel, and they get to serve aboard her.”
“Wait, human marvel?” Kraber repeated. “Really?”
“The Columbia was one of four combined research and warships that were built by the Armacham Technology Corp for the war effort,” Romero explained as they continued walking through the halls. “One of those ships is a testbed for the latest and greatest in UNAC and PHL tech under the command of Rebecca Kleiner - the Prometheus. But I suspect you’re more likely to have heard of the prototype ship - the Thunderchild.”
“Wait: this ship’s Thunderchild-class?” Kraber asked, frowning in disbelief.
That was why the design had looked familiar! These things weren’t just advanced, they were top-of-the-range, or they had been when they were announced. A massive propaganda win for the PHL and UNAC, a massive upswing for morale even among HLF. Rumor was, the design had been originally intended for space travel, before the big governments had all dropped that one like a lead balloon.
But after Lyra’s death, the project had disappeared from public view, never brought up except in reference to the obvious tragedy.
“Yup,” Romero said. “And the Columbia and her sister ship Challenger are both under my authority as head of Ex Astris Victoria.”
“How did you even get these?” Kraber marveled.
“It’s… well, a long story,” Romero chuckled.
“Seriously, how did he get those?” Heliotrope asks in the here and now.
“Well, the Thunderchild and the Prometheus were built under contract by ATC,” Yael suggests. “He had connections there, right? Same as with the Reavers. So maybe they built them for him? I mean, I don’t know of anyone saying there were four of the Thunderchild-class being in any paperwork, but it’s not like they’d have told me. I’m just a proverbial grunt.”
“But the cost must have been astronomical!” Heliotrope says. “Seriously, how in the name of fuck -”
“No way to know,” Kraber cuts her off. “Not like it matters. I don’t think he’s gonna be a problem with it: he’s hardly Lovikov.”
“That’s not very reassuring,” Yael mutters.
“Seriously, though,” Kraber said. “How? These are top-of-the-line.”
“They had top-of-the-line tech,” Romero corrected. “Or were designed to. But they’re also unwieldy and slower than they need to be.” He sniffed. “And they’re over-designed.”
“They’re what?” Kraber repeated, stopping. “‘Over-designed’? You’ve got one of the coolest ships ever built, and you’re complaining?”
“‘Cool’ doesn’t stop her from being an over-designed, co-developed boondoggle,” Romero said blandly. “She’s a dreadnought that can go underwater, she’s a battleship that’s also designed to carry science and research teams, and she’s got enough superfluous space to be a functional small arcology - which we actually have to use her as, I might add. Plus, these things are ridiculously expensive to build.”
Kraber blinked, trying to figure out how to respond to that.
“That… doesn’t explain how you got them,” he said after a moment.
“You know, you’re absolutely right,” Romero said, chuckling. “It doesn’t.”
At Kraber’s exasperated expression, he just laughed again, and Kraber resisted the urge to punch him.
That would be a bad idea, he thought, restraining himself.
“People talk about Max Yarrow having ‘backers’,” Romero said. “Truth is, the man had me, and the brains to let me use my connections to get more connections. And, to be fair, quite a bit of moxxy, too, so that helped.” He gave Kraber a sidelong glance. “So using those connections, we… acquired them, shall we say, and I renamed them and put them to work.”
“‘Renamed them’?” Kraber repeated. “What was wrong with the names they had?”
“No one on my crew can pronounce ‘Deucalion’,” Romero replied, mangling the word slightly and wincing. “Not even me.”
Kraber shook his head. “So you’ve got these ships.”
“I got the ships, Max gets the esoteric weapons you've no doubt heard rumours of, we both get access to specialised personnel, and a certain amount of space from awkward questions,” Romero replied. “Which suits me just peachy. ‘My ship, my rules’.”
As they walked, a pony in a pale blue shirt and dark blue trousers trotted past, and Kraber couldn't help but watch it - her - go past with a slight glare.
“On this ship,” Romero said, noticing this, “we don't let prejudice prevent us from working with the best minds. If we did, I'd never get you on board.”
“What?” Kraber said. “You're comparing me to a gluestick?!”
“To some people, and a lot of ponies, you're much, much worse,” Romero said casually. “Almost every depravity a human can commit has been laid at your door. If even half of it is true, a lot of people aren't going to like my keeping you aboard.”
“The parts about rape and cannibalism aren’t true,” Kraber said. “I’ve never done either of those things.”
“You realize that doesn't help, right?” Romero said dryly.
“And I’m… gonna try and be less… the rest of it,” Kraber added, wincing at how trite it sounded. “Turnin’ over a new leaf. That kind of thing.”
“Good,” Romero said. “Let's try to keep it that way, shall we?”
He led Kraber into another room, where men, women and ponies were handling chunks of what looked like some sort of Equestrian Crystal.
“This is the testing room,” Romero said. He smirked as Kraber leant down to look at the crystal, eyes wide in shock. “What you're looking at isn’t Equestrian – it’s actually primed Earth crystals. A variety of diamonds, and other similar rocks, all worked on to allow them to retain thaumic charge. They haven’t passively absorbed as many thaums as are present in Equestria, but they’re much, much cheaper.”
“Still,” Kraber said, whistling. “Lovikov would throw a fokkin’ fit like a viswyf if he knew you had this much. This’d buy enough guns to wipe out America.”
“Which would be a rather pointless exercise when those guns are so much scrap metal in the face of the Barrier,” Romero pointed out with a wry smile. Said smile disappeared as he noticed something, and he sighed. “Jenkins, why the hell isn't this pile processed? I ordered it done two days ago.”
“Uh, we hit a snag, sir,” one of the technicians, a nervous looking man with a goatee, said. “Glitter couldn’t -”
“Glitter couldn’t what, do the job we keep him in for?” Romero snapped. His expression had turned in the blink of an eye from genial to stern, almost stony. He pointed at the pile. “If there’s a setback, I expect to be kept notified. If there’s delay, I expect to know when it happens, not two days later when I happen to be passing through! And if he’s on Breezie Dust again…”
“Then?” the goateed man volunteered.
“Then he’d better hope I don’t find out,” Romero said, narrowing his eyes. “Or… maybe Lucky Strike would like that information?”
Another technician - a dark-haired Thai woman - jumped slightly at the mention of ‘Lucky Strike’. The name sounded vaguely familiar to Kraber, but he couldn’t place it.
Oh, fok, that gluestick, he realised, before wincing internally.
Jenkins was stammering. “Uh, yes sir -”
“So: why wasn’t I kept informed?”
“Uh, b-because we thought we’d -”
“What?” Romero thundered. “‘Pick up the slack before I noticed’?”
“Uh… well, yes, sir…”
“Well, you didn’t,” Romero said, his tone now colder, calmer, but with an undercurrent of disappointment. “Next time, you keep me informed.”
There was a pause, and then Jenkins nodded.
“Uh, y-yes, sir,” he said.
“Now. Glitter.”
“Uh, G-Glitter said something about needing to rest or he’d r-risk… over-channeling? Whatever that means?” Jenkins raised his hands. “I swear to God, he didn’t get high. Not after Lucky Strike...”
Dancing Day
”For the record,” Kraber says, “Breezie Dust was slang for some drugs they grew in some of the unused spaces on the ship. And Lucky Strike...”
“Guess Romero doesn’t run such a tight ship after all,” Verity interrupts, smirking slightly.
“I’m getting to that,” Kraber says. “Lucky Strike apparently did… something… so siek that nobody would ever consider doing dust ever again. And as for why this was a problem, well…”
Kraber pauses.
“A Thunderchild is groot,” Kraber says. “As in, not-hard-to-get-lost-in-there big. About half of the day-to-day work on the things involved trying to jippo them back into working order. And it’s not like Romero could buy spare parts.”
“...It’s not?” Rivet asks.
“Well, who would make them?” Heliotrope asks.
Dancing Day nods. That seems to make sense.
“The point here is,” Kraber says, “Keeping the thing going is hard graft. You’re expected to give fourteen hour days, if need be. It’s hard not to imagine something to take the edge off at huistoegaantyd.”
After blank looks:
“...that’s the end of the day,” Kraber explains.
Dancing Day nods. She’s honestly kind of grateful he explained that, because that was even harder to understand than a lot of the other words that came out of his mouth.
Romero sighed. “Just… Get him working as soon as he can.” He paused. “Over-channelling… have him also speak to the doctors, tell them everything he knows. Might be something that we can use.”
“Yes, sir,” Jenkins nodded again, and then wandered off.
Kraber whistled, letting out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
“Bit… harsh?” he asked.
“This is a research vessel and battleship, in the middle of a war of annihilation,” Romero replied, his voice terse. “I don’t have time for people to get high, not do their jobs and then conveniently forget to tell me.”
“They’re not all professionals though, are they?” Kraber asked. “I mean, aren’t most of these guys volunteers, like the rest of the HLF?”
“On my ship, we have professional standards, or at least I damn well try to,” Romero replied. “Letting standards slip is how we get Lovikov or Birch or…”
He paused, and looked almost awkward.
“Nah, you can say me,” Kraber said, chuckling weakly. “I’m not exactly a paragon of discipline.”
“No, you aren’t,” Romero agreed. “And if you’re going to work with us, that’s going to change.”
There was an awkward pause.
“Been meaning to ask, by the way,” Kraber said suddenly.
“Oh?” Romero said, turning to look at him, his expression slightly testy.
Kraber crossed his arms. “How’d you hack Overwatch to give you a reverted Mercy?”
Romero gave him a blank look, before chuckling, the tension gone from his expression.
“I didn’t,” he said. “Just got a contact of mine at Blizzard to revert her.”
There was a pause while this processed.
“You had a contact at Blizzard,” Kraber said dully.
“Yup,” Romero said with a grin.
“And you got this contact to revert a character the entire Mercy main playerbase has been trying to get reverted for years.”
“Yup.”
“You had time for that?”
Romero rolled his eyes. “I was correcting an injustice. Classic Mercy was easily the best.”
“Fokking right?!” Kraber asked.
“Absolutely!” Romero said, grinning. “I don’t care what DPS players say. If they can kill a whole team with a skilful and well-timed use of their ult, why shouldn’t a healer be able to rez a whole team with a skilful, well-timed application of theirs?” He paused. “Anyway, I had them make it optional. I know one guy who’s incredible at using Valkyrie, would be a real injustice to rob that from him.”
Kraber was too busy boggling at the fact that the character had been reworked just at Romero’s say so. That, in its own way, was a lot scarier than him just hacking the game.
Just who the fok is this guy?
“Besides, Mercy’s been in kind of a rut since her ult got nerfed,” Kraber found himself saying. “Sure, a healer that lets their team die is kinda counterintuitive, but… it was her niche. It was an integral part of her! And when you get rid of that, what’s left? It’s like a burger without the meat.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Romero said. “Anyway, like I said. Correcting an injustice. I’m big on those.”
“That right,” Kraber said. I could get to like it here.
More than once, they came to parts of the ship where mechanics were working to fix things: loose panels, charred wiring, etc.
“We had the resources to acquire these ships,” Romero said evenly. Kraber noted that he still didn’t elaborate. “But some things about her are still a little… ad hoc, shall we say?”
“Ad hoc?” Kraber repeated, frowning.
Romero grimaced slightly, running a hand through his hair. “It’s… complicated. Suffice it to say, she’s Thunderchild-class, but she’s not quite up to Thunderchild specs.”
The fok? Kraber thought. This guy was just… admitting that his ships weren’t the best? This can’t be a trap. Or it can be, and it’s either a really fokkin’ bad one or a really scarily good one.
With everything that had floated around about Romero over the years, either was possible.
“We’ve managed to bring her closer than you’d think with limited resources,” Romero continued. “To the point where she’d do the job, and she does. I did manage to get a replacement main cannon and secondary particle turrets installed.” He sniffed. “We were running on Windows Vista for about three weeks, though.”
Kraber blinked. “You’re fokking tuning me kak.”
“I wish. It was… frustrating.”
“I mean,” Kraber said slowly, “at least you weren't running on Windows 7?”
“Some of our surplus Armacham gear actually was for a while,” Romero said with a frown.
“Oh, come on.”
“Well, we got Linux instead,” Romero said after a moment, “but that took about a week where the Challenger and the Purity had to cover us. You’ve no idea how embarrassing it was to have the old tug there, more able to shoot than we were.” He grimaced. “And I’ll be honest, I still don’t understand Linux.”
“Me neither,” Kraber said blandly. “But… does this ship work?”
“Oh, she works, yes,” Romero said. He grinned. “Just takes a bit more coaxing than if I had permission to dock at UNAC’s chief port at Boston. I ended up making sure the Challenger was better equipped for actual fighting - Captain Brooke’s gotten herself into a few scrapes - but we’re both on level pegging now.”
“Seriously, how did you get this stuff?!” Kraber asked.
“Like I said,” Romero replied easily. “Connections.”
He chuckled, and said nothing more. Kraber found himself wondering if Romero enjoyed people not knowing where he’d gotten this ship, or these weapons.
Dancing Day
“He totally does,” Kraber says suddenly. “Like, you can tell when you’re in the room.”
Yael raises an eyebrow. “I mean… isn’t that a bit childish?”
“Hey, I can’t throw stones,” Kraber says.
“So, wait, his ships aren’t full-spec?” Heliotrope asks. “I mean… how ‘not full-spec’ are we talking?”
Kraber shrugs. “The way Romero told it, he got Columbia and Challenger without some of the more… ‘flashy’ tech installed.”
“How d’you mean ‘flashy’?” Heliotrope asks.
Kraber shrugged. “Apparently the Thunderchild specs he had included a few redacted bits and blanked out spaces. Lots of stuff he told me they didn’t know what equipment was meant to go there. It’s why his labs had the room they did.”
“Makes sense, if Thunderchild was the one with the most complex stuff,” Yael says quietly.
“Yup,” Kraber says, nodding. “Also, Columbia and Challenger have no PEPS point defence, just conventional and some ATC lasers. And their shield generators aren’t the specialised model the Thunderchild or Prometheus had when they launched - think I overheard someone saying Columbia’s was a modified Armacham Elite Powered Armour shield? Or maybe one of the prototype Enhanced ones…” He shrugs again. “Either way, most of that stuff, and their particle guns and stuff, were added later. Or so he said. For all I know he got them through fokkin’ space magic.”
“Huh,” Heliotrope comments. “If you’d told us that when we worked for Gardner, he might have been interested to know it.”
“I wouldn’t have told that kontgesig a goddamned thing,” Kraber says.
“If you wouldn’t have then, you sure wouldn’t have now,” Yael adds, snorting. “But he’d probably sleep easier knowing.”
“Good thing he doesn’t, then,” Kraber grins. “Frankly, if he craps his pants at night thinking Romero’s got a laser that can fry his penis from the other side of the world, I’m all for it.”
“I dunno, a laser like that would need to be pinpoint accurate to hit such a small target,” Yael says blandly.
There’s a moment, and then most of the adults laugh.
Eventually, they came to the lower decks, and Romero led Kraber down a corridor with glass-walled rooms, each one holding a pony or human in an orange jumpsuit, each one glaring out with such hatred that Kraber felt his own anger rise, and the urge to break something.
“These are the prison rooms,” Romero said grimly. “Most HLF never take any, hence why I tend to take their prisoners off their hands. There’s a considerable value in it.”
“Value in what?” Kraber growled. He motioned to one of the prisoners, a woman with a shaved head. “That’s Jenny K. I saw her potion a school bus once.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Romero said, “and before she worked as an intern in a Bureau she was an artist and a YouTuber who specialised in hair styling.”
Looking over the shaven headed woman, Kraber frowned.
“Seriously?” he asked.
“I’ve seen reports that indicate that the Bureaus were mind-manipulating even without potioning,” Romero said, a low, angry growl in his throat. “You don’t think a self-genocidal organisation can grow to tens of thousands strong even after war is declared and the worst atrocities come to light just from disillusionment, desperation, disgruntled otherkin, hypocrisy and wilful stupidity, do you?”
“I dunno, I know a lot of disillusioned people,” Kraber said.
Romero snorted. “Let’s say, hypothetically, someone joins the PER to put food on the table, because as far as they’re concerned-”
“Is this an actual story?” Kraber interrupted. “Because I’ve heard it before. Wasn’t exactly praat 'n gat innie kop.”
“Yes,” Romero said. “Let’s say someone joins because of… because of that. Now, this is someone whose heart isn’t really in it. They just want food, or money, or some kind of fulfillment, or they want to survive up to the Last Resort. And yet, within the space of a year they’re running with Shieldwall. Part of his worst excesses. Participating in experiments, guarding one of his Reconstitution Camps.”
“Seems there’s a missing step in here,” Kraber said.
“Exactly,” Romero said. “When we talked to a man like that, he said… ‘It wasn’t me, it was the PER’.”
“That’s a terrible fokkin’ alibi,” Kraber said.
“Indeed,” Romero said. “He was disillusioned, but... enough to potion babies? To completely ignore the insanity that is Newfoals, the abominations of the spitters, the Newcalves, the brain-foals?”
Dancing Day
“Brain-foals?” Dancing Day asks.
Almost everyone and everypony there winces.
“Trust me,” Rivet says, “You’re better off not knowing. It’s…. You just look at it and you want to vomit.”
“Sounds like a newcalf,” Dancing Day says. “Or, or a megacorn.”
“...Sure let’s go with that?” Amber asks, looking over at her brother.
“Cause of, uh,” Rivet says. “Cockroaches.”
“Cockroaches?” Amber asks, looking at him strangely.
“Yeah,” Rivet says. “Cockroaches. Like, you look at a newcalf and you think ‘what does that make humans? Cockroaches?’ Like… are humans just so low that that’s an improvement? Are they cockroaches?”
“Maybe leave that discussion for another day,” Aegis says gently.
Kraber
“I don’t think so,” Romero finished. “There aren’t that many psychopaths in the world.”
“So… they’re brainwashed?” Kraber asked. Jenny was still glaring at them. She wasn’t even blinking.
“They are, or at least that's our theory,” Romero said with a nod. “Some PER the Reavers captured at Hadley’s Hope were exposed to… something. It seems to have broken that brainwashing.”
“Which is lekker,” Kraber said.
“...Unfortunately, it did so by breaking something else,” Romero said.
He indicated the cell next to Jenny, where a man was rocking back and forth in a corner. There were conspicuous bloodstains on the wall.
“What happened to him?” Kraber asked, not sure he wanted to know.
“He’s uninjured,” Romero replied softly, a frown on his face. “The woman he was captured alongside was in that cell before him, though, and she killed herself by slamming her head into the wall sixty seven times. After we put her in a straitjacket.”
Kraber almost gagged. “Fok off.”
“I am deadly serious,” Romero said, almost sighing. “I don’t know what it was - there were no direct witnesses to it - but it was… unnerving to watch on the security cam.” He frowned. “Still, every little thing we learn is a step in the right direction.”
He moved along, and pointed to a few of the ponies. All of them had a variety of shields as their cutie marks.
“Guardsponies,” Kraber guessed.
“That’s right,” Romero said.
“Yeah, figured,” Kraber said with a frown. “What can you learn from these konts?”
“From what we’re told, the Guard are subject to something my pony staff tell me is called a Geas,” Romero explained as they walked past the cells, ignoring the dirty looks the ponies gave.
“Oh, ja,” Kraber said. “That’s a magical spell that forces people to obey commands, right?”
“The entire Guard is subject to it,” Romero said with a nod. “Makes them loyal to Celestia. We’ve reason to believe similar magic is in use across her realm. Might explain how a skittish magical herbivore race can take to conflict with the ease and zeal these ponies have. As opposed to, say, the griffons.”
“...I guess when you put it that way, it makes a lot of sense,” Kraber said.
“And yet most of our colleagues never consider that these soldiers are victims of something that is forcing them against their will,” Romero said. “Not even the PHL really think about it, outside their R&D.”
“They don’t?” Kraber asked. “And you do?”
“Like I said, outside their R&D,” Romero said, shrugging. “I don’t know the extent of their position. Every officer I’ve spoken to has focused on weapon and defence research. Just easier not to worry about it or outsource it, maybe.”
Aegis looks over at Yael and Heliotrope.
“Is that true?”
“It’s…” Heliotrope says. “Look. I’d love to be able to break the geis. But….”
“But you usually don’t get the opportunity,” Aegis says.
“We do try it on prisoners,” Yael says. “The failure rate is… unacceptable. So normally we just try to keep them comfortable in prison.”
“Do any of them try to enlist with us?” Heliotrope asks. “It gets… lonely sometimes.”
“Even if it does work,” Yael says, “they’re usually not in a mood to just pick up arms for us. They’re usually just relieved to stop fighting, though.”
Romero kept walking, and Kraber kept following.
“One of the prisoners we took even said he was a botanist before the war,” Romero continued. “And yet, he displayed a lust for conflict I’ve never seen in a human soldier.”
“Wait,” Kraber said. “Wait. Wait. Fokkin’ wait. You’re saying that… after talking to me, saying what you just did about ‘every depravity.’”
“You feel remorse for your actions,” Romero pointed out. “This former botanist only regretted that he was prevented from carrying them out. Going off of a hypothesis from Commander Lucky Strike, we kept him in an isolation tank as an experiment, and he went practically catatonic. We had a vial of fake potion-”
“That had better have fokkin’ been grape juice or something,” Kraber said.
“Watered down blackcurrant with purple dye, actually,” Romero said, his expression pensive. “But when we tempted this botanist with it, only then did he become responsive. Specifically, he tried to splash it in my face.” He clicked his tongue. “He missed me. He got the woman next to me, one of our mechanics.”
“But it was fake, right?” Kraber asked.
Romero paused, before stroking his chin. “Mr Kraber. Have you ever heard of ‘conceptual magic’?”
“Conceptual magic?” Kraber repeated. “Er… no?”
“The fake potion ponified my officer,” Romero said evenly. “The botanist believed it was potion, and it acted like potion. The idea in his head created his reality.”
Kraber’s eyes widened. “How?! How in the fok does that even work?!”
Romero shrugged. “Like I said. Conceptual magic. And if the ingredients aren’t the most important element to the final product, that at least explains how PER can manufacture bootleg potion with relatively makeshift ingredients for terrorist raids.”
“So… you shot the woman?” Kraber asked. “Right?”
Romero paused again. “Actually… no.”
“No?!” Kraber repeated.
“It’s strange,” Romero said. “Presumably because it was conceptually created rather than actually brewed properly, it made her… well, a kind of anomalous newfoal. She’s perfectly loyal to Celestia, in the same way extremely devout Christians are perfectly faithful to the idea that Genesis is literal, but she just fixes things. That’s all she does.”
“You’re tuning me kak,” Kraber said.
“No, I’m not,” Romero said. “Fixes things. Cheerful as heck. ‘Oh, I don’t mind helping you out before your inevitable ponification or destruction. Seems only fair I should make what’s left of your life on Earth easy. Don’t mind me, just fixing this gasket. Can you pass me the spanner? Oh, you’ll look great as a Pegasus. I hope you’re a Pegasus.’ That kind of thing.”
“Ah, ‘curse your sudden yet inevitable betrayal!’” Kraber quoted. “That is seltsam.”
“We double check her work, of course,” Romero said, “but I think she’s… she just does what she did before. Minor repairs, odd jobs. It’s like the ‘conceptual potion’ ponified her, made her think Celestia is a goddess, but didn’t instil aggression, the desire to actively potion us, any of that. Like a half-programmed machine.”
He paused, his expression becoming almost nauseous.
“When she doesn’t relapse, that is,” he said quietly.
“Relapse?” Kraber asked.
Romero shrugged. “Again, we don’t understand it yet. And you can understand, I’m not exactly willing to test it out some more.”
“I see your point,” Kraber said. “Mom was always skittish about any sort of tests involving newfoals. My only question is… if the botanist did that with a fake, why doesn’t Celestia take it even further, if they can just… believe something into potion?”
“I have no idea,” Romero said. “But if I had to hazard a guess, it’s because the ‘fake’ potion didn’t do what they needed it to. And he was at an emotional… high point? Low point? His belief was higher than it would have been? Some other circumstance that’s difficult to manufacture? We don’t know, but if we don’t know then that makes it unreliable.”
“And being unreliable in a war is bad,” Kraber guessed.
“Exactly,” Romero nodded. “So perhaps that has something to do with it. Imagine if they… believed a water tank into potion, then made a thousand newfoals… but they just did odd jobs and occasionally said ‘oh, I’ll fix that for you, but I’ll probably potion you one day’. Unnerving, sure, like a bad animatronic. But useless in war, and that damage is all-but irreparable. And then, like I said, relapse.”
“Yeah, what did you mean by that?” Kraber asked.
Romero stroked his chin. “You ever heard of the Slow Newfoals?”
“Yeah,” Kraber said. “Newfoals who weren’t befok from the start. They were… well, them for a little while. My cousin Richard was one, y’know. But there was something wrong with his variant.”
“What happened to him?” Romero asked.
“...He started having memory problems,” Kraber said. “Then he started having these sections of time where his nieces said he was foaming at the mouth angry, then he started forgetting how to talk. Kinda like the newfoals of Bellweather. Then when the Purple Winter came, he just… collapsed. Joined up with the Bureau staff, and we never saw him again.”
“A Slow Newfoal might slowly ‘lapse’ into the state of a blank Newfoal,” Romero said quietly, “until that state becomes permanent. Sharon -”
“That the mechanic?”
“Yes, her name was Sharon, though she prefers ‘Sunbeam’ now, usually,” Romero nodded. “As I was saying, Sharon… relapses. There are odd moments where she seems almost… no, not almost. She seems human. Aware. Terrified.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “They’re usually brief. Fortunately.”
“So… like the opposite of a Slow Newfoal?” Kraber asked, frowning. “Progressing from the blank state to a state of… consciousness?”
“I wish I knew,” Romero said quietly. “Truth be told, it’s not up there with my favourite things to have happened on this ship.”
“I can imagine,” Kraber said quietly.
“Still,” Romero said quietly, “it does give us an opportunity to study.” He paused. “Theories, Mr Kraber?”
“Theories?”
“You are familiar with some research into Newfoals,” Romero pointed out. “Speculate.”
Kraber frowned, thinking it over.
“Maybe the most important part of the potion isn’t about transforming, but the rewriting,” he said after a moment. “Mom and I knew it had some invasive psycho… psychoactive? Psycho-whatever properties in the mind, right from the beginning. Maybe the most important part of the potion is whatever it is that causes so much aggression in newfoals.”
“Perhaps. Unfortunately, this is all theory.” Romero snorted. “In any case, none of our colleagues on the other side of the split have considered that if the Geas is a spell, most of our enemy's forces could be neutralised with nothing but a powerful enough counter-spell. We’ve discussed this possibility with the Equestrian Resistance, but they’re not sure how to go about it. The best idea they have is trying to retrieve the Charter of the Guard, but God knows how they plan to get that.”
“You think it’s that simple?” Kraber asked.
“Magic works on that principle.” Romero stopped. “As an energy, it always has an opposite. It isn't an exact science - or even a science as you or I understand the term - but it is something that roughly translates. It has its own rules. It has limitations. Things still have to make their own kind of sense.”
“Funny, isn’t it? Real magic obeying Sanderson’s Laws,” then Kraber paused. “Wait. Back up.”
“What?” Romero asked.
“You said Equestrian Resistance,” Kraber said. “You work with them?”
“Well… yes,” Romero said, frowning, “of course we do. Our goals are similar, and we can exchange important information with each other. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.” He paused. “That, and they seem to find it refreshing to deal with someone who works outside a government. I’m not privy to everything they have to say, but I’ve picked up on some… concerns.”
“That so?” Kraber asked.
Romero snorted. “Look at the government. They’ve got Gardn-”
“Point immediately fokkin’ taken,” Kraber said.
“I thought it might be,” Romero chuckled. “I do hope you’re not going to make good on what you threatened to do to him.”
“Not all at once,” Kraber said. “But soon. Sometime. I’m not the kind of man who says that idly. It was sort of a spur of the moment sort of thing, but, well, I’ll figure something out.”
“Well, I’ll have to ask you to refrain until it’s politically convenient,” Romero said, a small twinkle in his eye even as his expression was deadly serious.
“I’m not really into the whole ‘brain-sausage’ thing anymore,” Kraber says. “Nowadays, I’m thinking I’m just going to beat him to death with his own wheelchair.”
“Gardner… doesn’t use a wheelchair,” Verity points out.
“Challenge accepted,” Kraber says.
“It’d probably sour the well if you - Well, I won’t repeat it all. More than one person uploaded the whole thing to Vimeo, and one of the things you said has become a hashtag.”
“Not YouTube?”
“Got copyrighted.”
“Fokkin’ seriously?!” Kraber yelled. “This is is why I had to keep uploading my medical drama podcast to podbay.”
“It is getting pretty ridiculous, isn’t it?” Romero said sympathetically. “Come on, there’s still more to see. We haven’t taken you to the medical testing wing.”
He paused.
“I do kind of miss that podcast you wrote,” Romero said. “It was just so wonderfully absurd. I have to ask, though. What possessed you to make it also a musical?”
“I listened to Fall Of The House of Sunshine once,” Kraber said.
“That was a good show,” Romero said, nodding.
“You don’t have any more Newfoals on this thing do you?” Kraber asked.
Romero gave him a Look.
“Fok,” Kraber said mildly.
“And here’s Daisy,” Romero said a few minutes later, folding his arms as he and Kraber stood outside a converted sickbay room.
It was a standard Newfoal: a mare, restrained and apparently sedated. There were charts and graphs surrounding her.
“I told you we were working on the opposite effect,” Romero said quietly. “As far as any of our experts understand, Newfoals are subject to something much stronger - and much more devastating - than the Geas.”
“From a neurological perspective, that makes sense,” Kraber said. “The Geas needs to command people - getting ponified, from what I’ve read, rewrites your muscle memory completely.”
“In a completely destructive manner,” Romero agreed. “I had a man who works with PHL R&D in here once -”
“Fok, seriously?” Kraber asked with an appalled expression.
Romero raised an eyebrow, and Kraber sighed.
“He described Newfoals by saying that ‘literally the only thing that the human aspect contributes is raw material. A positive number to do a subtraction sum on to get to the newfoal state’,” Romero continued. “And I wish he was wrong, but all our research seems to conclude the same. It’s only special cases - anomalous Newfoals, or subjects like Sharon or Slow Newfoals - that aren’t purely subtractive.”
“And Slow Newfoals don’t exist anymore,” Kraber said quietly. “Fok. Mom always said there was something really fokked about the process, that it couldn’t have been good to change that much.”
“But still, it’s magic,” Romero said, smiling ruefully. “Magic can be used to destroy - surely it can be used to repair, as well. In time - not a short amount, I’m sure, but in time - we will discover how to fix this. Fix them.”
Kraber looked at the Newfoal. She seemed oddly serene: he wondered whether they were all like that when not awake and screaming about the glory of Celestia.
“This is the work I’ve wanted to do the most,” Romero said quietly. “I don’t think anyone or anypony hasn’t lost someone to the potion. It’d be a damn pyrrhic win for humanity if killing Celestia just annihilated them all and we never got the chance to save them. If we never even saw it as worth the attempt.”
“I can understand that,” Kraber said. “I’ve… you know, I’ve thought of what happens if we have to find something to do with all the newfoals.”
Romero looked at Kraber, a look of not-quite-surprise on his face. “Have you now?”
“Captain,” Kraber said, “You know who I am. What I’ve done. And I’ve had to drink myself into a stupor just to stop thinking about either option I came up with.”
“You as well, ” Romero said. He sighed. “Though if it comes to it, I’d settle for that pyrrhic win.”
“Would you?” Kraber asked, surprised.
Romero gave him a bland look. “I want to win this war, Kraber. I want to not die, and for the rest of the human race to not die. One day, if things keep going the way they have been, this war’s going to get desperate, and if I have to, I’ll get desperate right alongside it. We’ve got a dozen plans that’re straight up vile in our stores, just waiting for the eleventh hour.”
There was a long silence after that.
“How many do you have aboard, or are Daisy and your anomaly the only one?” Kraber asked quietly.
Romero glanced sidelong at him. “Daisy’s one of three standard Newfoals aboard.”
“Standard?” Kraber repeated.
“Oh, we have a few tricks up our sleeves,” Romero said with a small grin. “Although I drew the line at having a spitter on board, for various reasons.”
“That’s good,” Kraber said quietly. “But, uh… what do you have?”
Romero smiled. “I’d probably better show you Dave.”
‘Dave’ was a Newcalf of all things, a mass of flesh, muscle and bone slamming itself against what must have been reinforced glass, though glass that regenerated cracks seemed far beyond what Kraber thought of when he considered the term. A few guards stood nearby, scowling at the glass, their trigger fingers understandably itchy. Most of them were holding type-7 particle weapons, ATC’s finest in ‘big shooty sci fi guns’.
“The absolute fok,” Kraber whispered. “How’d you capture that?!”
“More horse tranquilizer than I care to think about,” Romero said blandly, “pun not intended.”
“But… why?!” Kraber asked.
“Lots of reasons,” Romero said sadly. He raised a hand and touched the glass, even as the Newcalf slammed into it again. “Because even these things might be salvageable, somehow. We’ll never learn how if we don’t look. But also because these things are the proof of two things.”
“What things?” Kraber asked.
Romero sighed. “Thing one. The Solar Empire is using magic that fundamentally alters and affects the body and mind on levels beyond that of traditional magic. No Unicorn I ever met, PHL, my R&D, or otherwise, understands a Newcalf or megacorn. From what little we’ve been able to read about alicorn physiology-”
“You have books on that?!” Kraber asked. “Can I see?”
“In time,” Romero said. “From what we’ve read, the average megacorn’s growth of alicornal tissue and unicorn ivory rivals or surpasses even that of alicorns. Both these types violate laws of conservation of mass, thermodynamics, magical principles that should not and could not be violated by any standard transformative action or spell. You cannot create something from nothing. And yet these ‘specialised’ newfoals… seemingly, they come from it.”
Kraber frowned. That made sense, actually. Both types of newfoal came from a single person, (and rumors that there was a kind of newfoal that could come from two people were hopefully just rumors) converted into those monstrous forms from a single dose of a modified potion. Where did the energy and matter come from? What catalysed it?
“The second reason we keep Dave around is more morale based than anything to do with the science,” Romero continued. He tapped the glass. “It’s a reminder that what we’re fighting isn’t some misguided benevolent demigoddess trying to save us from ourselves in some hubristic, blinkered attempt to be kind. No.” He took a deep breath. “This is an attack, designed to hurt us. Smother us. Crush us under the boot and leave nothing. The average Solar Empire grunt would say they’re here to help and ponify, but they’d have made far more without the soldiers incinerated by fire spells, the bombings, the use of explosives, or the stolen guns. And that…” He motioned to Dave. “That is not help. Not even by the standards of the most misanthropic, depraved idiot on the planet could you consider that thing preferable to the human condition.”
Kraber looked at him, and then back at the Newcalf, even as it slammed itself against the wall again.
“Yeah,” he said, “I can see that.” He took a breath. “So.. what else you got?”
“Oh, there’s a metalfoal on the deck below we named ‘Star Platinum’, and a few other assorted odds and ends,” Romero replied. “No spitters. No brain-foals.”
“Fokked up,” Kraber muttered. “And you just… run tests on these things.”
“That’s right,” Romero nodded.
“Dunno how I feel about that,” Kraber said quietly. At Romero’s look, he shrugged. “They were human once, weren’t they?”
“That’s why we’re here, Mr Kraber,” Romero said quietly. “We’re going to find a way to fix this, somehow. Beat the Empire. Free the Newfoals, free the Guards, free the brainwashed PER, and prove to the world conclusively that we’re fighting the real good fight, and then - just to cap off - winning said good fight.”
Romero turned to look at Kraber, and motioned to the room around them.
“So,” he said evenly. “What’s it to be, Viktor? You with us?”
Kraber frowned, looking at Dave the Newcalf, and found himself wondering.
“Why you?” he asked suddenly.
“Why me?” Romero repeated.
“Why do you do this?” Kraber clarified. “This seems like… I dunno. The sort of thing the PHL do.”
“It is,” Romero replied. “And also the sort of thing members of the Russian ‘Division E’ did, though we’re not unprofessional butchers like them.”
“I remember how Lovikov was back during that leak from the Prospect,” Kraber said, remembering the infamous photos of Division E’s experiments that’d been leaked to major newspapers all over the world. The official Russian statement was that it was a PER smokescreen to distract from the truth, but Kraber still didn’t buy that.
“How was he?” Romero asked.
“I’ve had one-night-stands where the patriotism was less disgusting,” Kraber said. “I used to cut people up for a living, but fok!“
“And all this without mentioning the Chinese’s Conversion War Defense Group and their… work,” Romero continued, grimacing in disgust so palpable that Kraber could feel it. “It says a lot when their magic work still lapses into pseudoscience. But these groups existing doesn’t mean I can’t do it too. Better than some, even.”
“Might even be a reason to do it,” Kraber muttered.
“True,” Romero nodded. “And I prefer doing things myself where possible.” He gave a small grin. “After all, someone else might have gotten it wrong.”
Kraber gave him a sideways glance. “Is that a Mass Effect reference?”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
“… how is one of the boogeymen of the Spader-Loyalists such a geek.”
“How is one of the boogeymen of the ‘True’ HLF such a geek?”
“... touché.”
“Still, could be worse, at least when you heard about Star Platinum, you didn't say-“
“Wait, was that a MOTHERFOKKIN JOJOS REFERENCE?!”
“Ah, I spoke too soon.”
At the end of the day, they came back to Kraber’s room.
“And you’re in,” Romero said.
“There’s not gonna be paperwork, is there?” Kraber half joked.
“You get a uniform, and we’ll talk duty roster when I figure out where best to use you,” Romero replied, smirking. “But no. No paperwork. Technically, we don’t have a payroll. Although Max does pay taxes.”
“He does?”
“Obliquely. It’s kind of hard having a direct debit to a government when you have enough guns to start your own banana republic,” Romero said. “And that’s leaving aside our… friends in UNAC. Gardner need only see one letter with an address and -”
He made a ‘pop’ with his mouth. It was a surprisingly casual reference to the consequences of getting in Gardner’s way.
“I wonder if he’d been so blasé after Defiance,” Heliotrope says softly.
“No idea, haven’t spoken to him since,” Kraber replies, “but… somehow, I doubt it.”
“I take it you don’t pay taxes,” Kraber asked, snorting derisively.
“Ah, yes, taxes,” Romero replied, shaking his head and chuckling. “Let me fill that form in. ‘Occupation: privateer. Place of residence: dubiously acquired naval vessel. Workplace: selfsame dubiously acquired naval vessel’. That’d be swell for the paperwork.”
The two of them laughed, but Kraber’s died soon. Romero’s smile faded.
“Wondering when the other shoe will drop?” he asked.
“Kind of,” Kraber replied. “The work you’re doing… not gonna lie, some of it seems…”
He trailed off, not sure how to adequately describe it.
“You haven’t started gloating like a Bond villain yet,” Kraber said.
“Am I a Bond villain?” Romero asked.
“You have a floating base, a research department, troops, guns, and massive funding,” Kraber said. “You tell me?!”
“I understand,” Romero said quietly. “But I don’t have a cat. Or a Nehru collar jacket. Kinda wish I did have the former, might make the place homely.”
“Right? The ship’s cat is a time-honored tradition,” Kraber agreed. “Even if the gloating hasn’t started yet, I feel like I should be… worried. This wouldn’t the first time I walked into something that looked too good to be true and someone tried to kill me.”
“Bad business deal for the Menschabwehrfraktion in Tunisia?” Romero suggested.
“How do you even-” Kraber started. “No. Not that. College, actually. Would you believe it wasn’t my fault when someone tried to kill me twice there?”
Dancing Day
”I still can’t believe you got off with self-defense that time. I mean, you threw a woman out a second-floor window,” Heather says.
“I had a good lawyer,” Kraber says offhandedly, as casually as someone admitting to preferring blackberry jam over blueberry.
“Wait, you what?!” Amber Maple yelps.
“Viktor pissed off some girl something fierce,” Heather explains.
Dancing Day is genuinely confused to hear someone call him by his first name. Usually everyone just calls him ‘Kraber’ and that’s that.
“Mostly not my fault,” Kraber adds. “And, well, after arresting me for going down the same set of stairs as her didn’t work, she got a bunch of friends to try and kill me. And one of them was the first friend I made on campus.”
He looks down.
“She was the one that got thrown out the window, by the way,” Kraber adds.
“Your first friend from college,” Heliotrope says, softly. “You never told us any of this.”
“You didn’t ask,” Kraber says.
“It honestly… makes sense,” Yael says. “The way you’re so… guarded.”
Kraber
“That’s surprising,” Romero allowed, “But yes.”
“I just feel like at any moment, there could be some moment where suddenly, someone throws my stuffed animals over the deck for laughs, “ Kraber said. “Or I’m about to be turned in for the reward money, but it’ll say ‘alive or dead,’ so somebody’s going to paralyze me for shits and giggles.”
“Are you saying it because you’d do it,” Romero said, “Or because-”
“Because if I’m not doing that, someone else will. That’s the best I can expect,” Kraber said. “I just…”
“So you wanna know what the catch is?” Romero asked.
“I guess I do,” Kraber said. “I want to be sure this isn’t some kind of elaborate trap.”
Romero nodded. “The catch is that you work for me, Viktor. For some people, that alone is the dealbreaker.”
“I’ve worked for Lovikov,” Kraber pointed out.
“I realise that,” Romero said quietly. “But what you have to understand is, the work we do is hard. Emotionally, physically, mentally. It is not without sacrifice. We are a long way from done. But I know it is a sacrifice worth making.” He sniffed. “Still… Columbia has a pretty high transfer rate.”
“Where do they transfer to?” Kraber asked.
“Sometimes Challenger, for more action or less Newfoals,” Romero replied evenly. “Sometimes the Corsairs or the Reavers take ‘em, or one of the smaller units that still operate with Max. We’ve even had people transfer to groups like Kevin’s little band: they want to go back to old-fashioned militiaman work.”
“Tempting,” Kraber said, “But… I worry a bit, though. That I might get stir-crazy. That might not be such a bad offer.”
Romero sighed. “What we do here might change the world, or help change it if we catch something PHL R&D happens to miss. But it takes commitment to the course.” He frowned. “And frankly, asset that you will be, I don’t know that you have that, yet.”
“What the fok else am I gonna do?” Kraber asked, shrugging. “Go back to Lovikov, wherever the fok he is?”
Romero shrugged. “No. Much as I’d like to know what desolate hole he dragged those poor bastards into. But just because I’m not Lovikov, that doesn’t mean this is the right choice for you. You think about what you want.” He raised a finger. “Because every second you’re here, I want your best. And if I don’t get it, we’re going to have a talk. I expect everyone on this ship to do the job I keep ‘em for. No exceptions.”
Kraber nodded without another word. He had a half-dozen glib responses, yet somehow none of them felt quite apt.
“The plus side,” Romero continued, “is that - whether you believe me or not - none of my people are going to do anything untoward to you. If they do, after all, they have to answer to Lucky Strike. Or to me.”
Neither of those options sounded particularly brilliant for a would-be smartass or office bully, but still… something was nagging at the back of Kraber’s mind.
“Alright,” he said, in lieu of anything better.
After a moment, Romero nodded and headed off, leaving Kraber alone with his thoughts.
Again.
“And that’s how I joined the Columbia and learned the true meaning of Christmas,” Kraber says with a smirk.
Everyone gives him a look.
“Alright, maybe not,” Kraber says, shrugging. “But still. It wasn’t bad for a while there.”
And so it was that Kraber had the rest of the day to sit back and relax.
He arranged the stuffed animals on the bed just right, and set to browsing the bookshelf for something to read.
The Terror? By Dan Simmons?
Who the fok kept that on a boat? Well, whatever. He’d read it a few times before the War, and it’d been a good read.
Part of him really wanted to… Do Things. Go to the red room. Eat something. Find a human, talk their pants off.
But that last one probably wasn’t going to work. The last couple of days had felt like years, and walking around unsupervised, in a t-shirt that desperately needed a wash, on a ship full of people happier to see ponies than him seemed like a bad idea.
So, for tonight, Kraber was happy to sit, read, and do nothing.
And tomorrow would be fine.
It had to be, right?
“It didn’t quite happen that way,” Kraber says. “Things got worse before they got better.”
Stats
Page generated in 0.059 seconds
Total duration
922 users online
1,747,557 hits today, 2,139,894 yesterday
FIMFiction
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Fanfiction
Designed and coded by knighty & Xaquseg - © 2011-2024
Follow & Support Us
Support us
SubStar
Chat!
Discord
Follow us
Twitter
MLP: Friendship is Magic® - © 2024 Hasbro Inc.®
Fimfiction is in no way affiliated with or endorsed by Hasbro Inc.®
10046279 10046442 10046776
I think that the root of the arc itself has plenty of merits. It It puts Equestria in a politically fragile position it never had to deal with before (public opinion is easily shattered when allies start killing your own). It makes the PHL more morally grey (brainwashing two ponies, one of them being their own even, right after they had a moral shpiel about lies and secrets). It introduces elements of tension between Equestria and the PHL (after all, these are the people who tried to have you frame one of your own ponies, scarring her for life at best, for their own convenience).
The core of the problem then, or one of the biggest at least, can be found at the beginning. Because if memory serves, it is Luna who came up with the idea, and the moment Luna became the one to come up with the idea, the image that Equestria was the idealized counterpart to the Solar Empire kinda shattered. Because this is the exact thing that the Tyrant would do, and having it be suggested by Luna, without any of the desperation that would fuel the PHL driving her... kinda makes her just as bad as the Tyrant. Now if it had been the PHL that came up with the idea, that would have made sense. The PHL is the faction used to the 'hard men making hard decisions' mindset. So some smooth snake like -I think he was called umbrella man?- coming of with the plan and selling it to be the only option or Equestria is doooomed would have made sense. You could then carry on with the arc, perhaps have Equestrians noting how wrong this is and the PHL trying to convince them (and themselves) of the necessity.
Which brings us to the ending, which... yeah, I wouldn't have liked the Trixie suicide ending. That just seems to run anathema to the idea that Sunny Equestria is there to drag the PHL out of the dark spiral they have been descending into, and reverses it to the PHL dragging Sunny Equestria down to their level. This narrative would justify the Tyrant and ponies' like Icewind's claims that humanity is a corrupting influence, as that would literally be what they had just done. Intentionally so, even, for the sake of convenience.
No, in that light I prefer the ending as it was. Even if I would have made Equestria the ones to shoot down the idea in the end, giving the whole 'dragging the PHL out of the darkness' some initial oomph. But I'm aware as to the previous story founder's... inclination to make its MC the hero of everything.
Anyhoo, caught up on comments, now to devour the new chapter!
10076694
Now, I seem to recall it wasn’t entirely my idea that Luna came up with the idea, yet I can’t find it in myself to see it in as negative a light as you do. Mainly because my experience of writing Celestia and Luna has been the AOA/Freeverse versions, where they are - unlike the versions of Spectrum - more accustomed to the moral greys of war. Leaving that aside, however, I seem to recall that it was also vital that Prime Equestria’s characters cease being as… well, passive as they had been. They’d spent the majority of the story being either sidelined or mishandled (and not mishandled like you perceive Pale Moonlight to have mishandled them, where at least Luna and a Celestia are both decisive, but mishandled by making them overly emotional and too eager to step aside and abrogate responsibility). Fundamentally, though, OG Spectrum was a mess, and that mess could only beget messy results.
As for the ending I originally set out, I’ve no particular desire to engage in a debate about the relative merits of one course or another - Lord knows I had that debate enough when we were writing it! - but I will say that once a decision was made I wish to God we’d stuck with it. As written, the thing’s a godawful mess that seems to lead one way and then just doesn’t, sharply and stupidly.
Anyway, thats enough me tearing old wounds open, eh? 🙂
10076701
For awhile I thought it was ironic that Spectrum's universe barely focused on the Prime Equestria, cause they were supposed to be what made this fic stand out...
...until I realized that for most of the story's lifespan, they might as well not have been there in the first place.
Aaand chapter finished. Yay! More Verity!
Step one: get your head out of your ass and realize that not every pony is by default an enemy, and that some of them want the Tyrant to fall just as bad as you do. Maybe even more.
Fastest argument shutdown ever.
Hee, I remember this story. Good line, worth salvaging.
Don't think that first get is supposed to be there.
I'm guessing that's a dig at how TOSOTS was going to end, If so, I hope it means you guys are going to approach it differently, cause the newfoals basically just dropping dead, unsalvageable... It always rubbed me the wrong way. Needless angst for the sake of it, I always prefered how AOA did things involving the ponified after the war was over.
10091833
My bad - these chapters are HUEG, so it's easy to miss something.
Always had mixed feelings. On the one hand, it's "interesting." On the other hand, it's just... depressing. I'm absolutely in agreement that I like AoA's take on it more.
10091833
Aw, thanks 🙂
10092744
...I was gonna tag you but I felt like it was more special if you saw it yourself :P