Chapter 14
Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
March 16th, Gregorian Calendar
The cigarette fizzled weakly as it hit the rain-soaked tarmac. Its owner casually flattened the paper wrapping with a polished heel. Mr. Utah turned to the dutiful, silent, suited aide standing at the stairway of his private aircraft, "The last of it has been loaded?"
The man nodded curtly, "The final batch of supplies and troops is confirmed; All units and gear fully accounted for."
Mr. Utah grunted acknowledgement deep in his throat, pausing to glance across the small aerodrome at an unmarked CAA-7 cargo jet, whose engines had just begun to spin up, filling the drizzle-laden air with palpable vibrations and an ear-splitting whine.
The airport had once been a tiny floatplane base, but a post-Winnowing influx of population into the nearby city had grown it into a fairly large annex. The field lacked live controllers; It was run primarily by a computerized control and LADAR tower at the center of the complex.
Radiating out from the tall, thin, windowless, hard-edged structure was a spiderweb of taxiways and holding tarmacs. The duracrete paths connected on one side to a runway just barely long enough to handle military cargo jets, and on the other to a row of mostly-empty hangars, and spaces for VTOLs to land.
The entire affair was encircled by a tall electrified fence, with a single entry and exit point governed by an automated RFID-driven access gate. The only other structures for thousands of yards were similarly fenced miniature fusion electric generators, and small synthetic jet fuel reserve tanks, for refueling purposes.
Most of the time the field was silent, but occasionally a major Earthgov naval operation would necessitate a weekend of high-traffic military-restricted usage. At all other times, the field was open to general aviation, small commuter VTOLs, and commercial cargo aircraft.
It had served the HLF well. A strategic bribe during its construction had allowed the insertion of a permanent back door into the control tower's relatively unsophisticated and aging AI. There had never been any permanent record of the Front's activities at the airfield.
And there never would be.
Mr. Utah swept his gaze towards the shimmering lights of the city in the distance. The luminescence of a billion twinkling light sources was blurred and diffused by the precipitation into a lurid unfocused bokeh of golds and blues.
"Mid and low level assets?"
His aide stiffened, "As per protocol; No actionable information has been sent to anyone classified as a level five asset or below."
HLF operational security guidelines dictated that during a pullout, 'low level' members be kept in the dark to prevent information leaks. The Front was split into two fundamental groups; The founding and controlling parties, who had access to major corporations, military assets, and vast sums of money, and the 'followers.'
The slang term was often used within the Cabinet to brand those who were not official HLF members, but who expressed anti-Pony sentiment and marched to the same fascist agendas. Just as the KKK of old had funded and manipulated chanting drunken masses of morons to do their bidding, so too the HLF considered 'followers' to be useful. Within certain bounds.
Like the rest of the Cabinet, however, Mr. Utah had no compunctions, whether moral or logistical, about leaving followers to take the fall during an operation. That was part and parcel of their point and purpose.
He turned to his personal craft. The Lockheed/Boeing Skyrunner was one of the fastest business class jets available. The HLF made several available to the Cabinet; Some possessed legitimate markings, and were owned and operated under shell corporations. Others, like the one on the tarmac before Mr. Utah, possessed no official records or footprint of any kind.
Not even so much as a safety inspection card, or a serial number on tertiary components. The Skyrunner was painted jet black, with no other markings of any sort.
Mr. Utah spent a final moment in contemplation, checking to ensure that nothing had been forgotten. He then strode up the airstair into the plane's cabin. He nodded to the beige-camouflage guard standing beside the cockpit, his face inscrutable behind a reflective silvery faceplate, "Depart."
As Mr. Utah took a seat in the well-appointed main cabin, the guard rapped twice on the cockpit door, reaching out to fold the door and airstair closed as the aide scrambled inside.
The Skyrunner's engines quickly spun up, and the craft began taxiing to the runway. Ahead, the last of eight CAA-7's that had departed during the pullout cycle throttled up and tore a conical hole through the rain, winging its way swiftly off towards a Southern California air base.
As the Skyrunner cut a hard turn onto the runway-proper, jolting over a seam in the pavement as it went, Mr. Utah spared a farewell glance for the rain-soaked city.
Without fanfare, ado, or permission, the unmarked unnamed 'non-existent' jet screeched away into the damp night. The Skyrunner left only a contrail, and a gust of air behind on the CXH tarmac, its engines propelling a cascade of water across the aerodrome's name, stenciled into the runway in faded white paint.
'Vancouver Harbour Water Airport.'
Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
Fourth Month, Seventeenth Day, Celestial Calendar
Fyrenn surveyed the land ahead, lazily sweeping his gaze across the western horizon. He had already seen the terrain from above. What intrigued him was the peculiar patterns of golden and orange sunlight through the groves of nearby pine trees.
The experience of a sunset, he had found, was vastly different depending on whether one observed it from the air or the ground. Both had their own sublime charm, and unique aesthetic. His favorite way to see a sunset, since his Conversion, had always been to skim just above a layer of fluffy white cloud and to watch the sun set behind it.
The display of colors, shapes, and shadows that the fiery orb brought out in the formations of condensed moisture were achingly beautiful.
Fyrenn stretched lazily, savoring the moment of peace. The group had opted for a short break to prepare a meal, and then an extended flight before sleeping the second half of the night.
As his siblings worked on the Gryphons' meal, Carradan and Skye nibbled at their own herbivorous provisions. Kephic and Varan insisted that Fyrenn take the time to rest, given that he was carrying extra weight. Though the red Gryphon had protested vocally, he had been forcibly overridden in the end.
The soft thump of hooves against the grass drew his attention abruptly, and Fyrenn glanced to his left to see IJ perched in repose on a large rock, devouring a haycake of her own. He was suddenly gripped with an insatiable wave of curiosity, "Was it hard to adjust to eating? I assume Changelings don't eat, in the traditional sense."
IJ shook her head, "We can, but we get very little nutrition from it if we're not also consuming a healthy amount of love. Much the same way you can benefit from non-meat foods, as long as you consume enough flesh to stay healthy. So no. Not as hard as you'd think."
Fyrenn was pleasantly surprised that his query hadn't been met with an overabundance of frustration, anger, or snark. He decided to press his opportunity, and turned to face IJ, "What *is* growing up in the Hive like?"
She glowered, "Are you asking because you care about knowing for the sake of understanding us? Or for the sake of gaining a tactical edge? Or do you just want to disparage my upbringing?"
The Gryphon shrugged, hoping nonchalance would diffuse the situation and keep the Pegasus talking, "Call it both of the former, and none of the latter."
At first, IJ looked as if she might end the conversation there. Her scowl deepened and she kicked the last crumbs of her haycake away into the bushes vindictively. She stood as if to leave, but instead strode calmly over to a shadier position, and curled up in the grass.
After an awkward pause, which Fyrenn opted to wait out, she began to speak again. Her ears pulled back in a reflexively sign of anxiety, "Try to imagine being constantly nourished, energized, cared for, and watched over. Every single second of your adolescent life. You have access to the knowledge of an entire civilization, and you're never more than a thought away from your protectors."
Fyrenn slumped into a position of repose, and rested his head on crossed forelegs, facing IJ, "Sounds wonderful. I lost my parents early on. I had my grandmother, and she was wonderful... But I had to get used to the world and learn its lessons solely in ye olde school of hard knocks."
IJ glanced away, "I envy you."
Fyrenn's eyes widened, and his ears shot up to a confused and curious vertical position. He tensed, and cocked his head,
The Pegasus fixed him with an unflinching gaze. Her stormy blue eyes filled to bursting with roiling clouds of anger and pain, "There are advantages to growing up in the Hive. But they're *not* worth it. Not in its current state."
The Gryphon's confusion did not abate, as evidenced by the continued expression of thoughtfulness that twisted his beak downwards in introspection. IJ huffed, and resigned herself to explaining, "You *got* to grow up. You think you had it hard? At least the... 'Hard knocks' let you know that you were alive. That you were unique. You had an identity."
She paused and looked away once more. A momentary expression, somewhere between a wince and a small sob, indicated that she was steeling herself to continue. As quickly as it had arrived, the moment of near-vulnerability vanished.
When IJ turned her gaze back to Fyrenn her muzzle, and tone, were as impassive as ever, "The Hive works both ways. A drone can access the information stored there... But also the minds of every other Drone. And every other Drone can access theirs."
Fyrenn squinted in a mixture of continued confusion, concern, and mild distaste, "Can't you close off parts of your mind? Get some privacy?"
IJ shook her head slowly, "You 'can,' but it is forbidden. On pain of death. It has been for millennia. Supposedly this 'protects us from strife and dissent.' But really? It's there to make sure that you grow up serving the Queen without question or reservation. Its always there... The hum. Every Drone is always inside every other Drone's mind. The individual? The individual doesn't exist when you're inside the network. Not anymore."
Fyrenn physically shuddered in revulsion, ears flattening and tail swishing with anxiety. He glowered contemplatively, "So to grow up with that...?"
The white Pegasus snorted, "You don't grow up. You're spawned... And that's it. No name, no unique form, no personality, no sense of self, and nothing special to separate you from the millions of others *exactly* like you. The Hive is there from the moment your brain forms. Even before you're fully ready to spawn. It takes hours, at most, to learn the concepts of words, and ideas, and fuzzy logic... And it takes only seconds for the will of the swarm to impress itself on every fiber of your being. You? You got to shape an identity for yourself. And your kind? you're all so... *Sure.* So sure of what, and who you are..."
The red Gryphon winced, "I'm sorry. And if it makes any difference; We're always sure what, but not necessarily who we are, or where we're going."
IJ hissed, "What does that even *mean*?! How can you be sorry?! You're never going to understand, and you're never going to care. I'm a Changeling. That is part of my identity, no matter what your high and mighty friend sun Princess did. The only part that has ever mattered. The only part that ever will."
Fyrenn narrowed his eyes, fixing IJ with a glare of his own. His tone hardened to match his gaze, "You're right. I'm never going to completely understand what it is to be you, or to be Changeling. But I do care, and don't you ever dare to presume differently. I saved your life! I didn't do that because it suited some agenda. I did it because I care about what happens to you! Because I want you to have a chance to figure out what it means to *be* you!"
He took a deep breath to avoid becoming truly angry, and then continued in a softer timbre, "I understand a few aspects of your plight a lot better than you'd think. I know what it's like to watch one's own race run as fast as it can down the road to hell without so much as batting an eyelid. I was Human once remember? Maybe Changelings are wasting their potential, but at least you aren't all in imminent danger of *dying* if you refuse to accept the necessity of change."
IJ raised an eyebrow, "Really? How long do you think your kind, and Celestia, will continue to allow us to exist? How many more deaths, and invasions, and lies, and deceptions will you all tolerate before she tacitly grants her approval for you wipe us out wholesale? We'll fight hard. You'll bleed deeply. But do you really think we can win against the likes of you?"
Fyrenn blinked once, twice, then sighed morosely, "Touché."
The pair sat across from each other in silence, as the sun slowly dipped below the horizon.
Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
March 17th, Gregorian Calendar
Hutch raised an eyebrow, "This list you compiled is thirty-some names long..." He set the DaTab down on the desk, and folded his hands as he craned his neck up to make eye contact with Taranis and Klarien, "How do you expect to find one thieving technician in this bunch? Interview them all?"
The green Dragon raised an eyebrow, "You assume it is only one of them. And are you implying that interrogation is a bad idea?"
Taranis nodded slowly, "True, it may be more than a lone HLF sympathizer, but the General is correct in implying that interrogation is a poor means to our end. We are unlikely to be able to find all thirty of these men and women quickly enough to avoid alerting the true target, and giving him or her---"
Klarien interrupted, "Or them."
"---Or 'them' a chance to escape." Taranis finished nonchalantly, but shot Klarien a brief glare nonetheless.
Hutch tilted his head slightly, and momentarily widened his eyes, "Exactly. So unless you two have any other bright ideas...?"
Taranis blinked and nodded, "Of course. We have no way to trace the stolen chips themselves; The RFID tracking systems were burned off the PCBs before they left the factory. And we can not risk incarcerating and interrogating the technicians on our list. However, we do have the advantage of knowing the names of the only thirty people to ever have physical contact with the chips. We also know precisely what they were used for, when, and by whom..."
Hutch raised his head and snapped his fingers. His visage brightened considerably, "I see where you're going with this. That's very clever."
Klarien raised an eyebrow scale, "Will someone kindly enlighten me?"
The General sighed and tapped a finger on the edge of his DaTab, "Thirty names isn't so many, all told. It's the biggest advantage we have, and what Taranis is suggesting is that we use it to form a basis of comparison. We know the Occupy Bureaus movement carried out the bombing. We know they had HLF backing. We know the backers acquired the chips from one or more of these thirty people. So wherever these three aspects of the case cross..."
The verdant Dragon nodded slowly, "...Is where we'll find all the responsible parties. But how do we even begin chasing down this particular... 'Conflux,' of people?"
Taranis glanced down at Hutch, "General, the HLF are going to do their best to remain hidden in all this. They'll work by proxy using unofficial civilian members of the group who already closely align with the HOB. Since the microchip thief is buried in this list of thirty names, that means only one of our leads is out in the open. The Occupy movement itself. I'd imagine we should start there."
Hutch sat back in his chair, lacing the fingers of his hands together, and placing them behind his head, "I won't argue with that. I would, however caution you; I have no problem with you using necessary roughness with the HOB, but it's going to upset a lot of powerful politicians. More than that, if you play all our cards early and fail, the thief, backers, and their contacts will rabbit. So you're only going to get one shot at this. Make it count."
Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
Fourth Month, Eighteenth Day, Celestial Calendar
"I don't mean to sound like I'm complaining... But could you give us an estimate of how much more ground we have to cover? If for nothing else, then at least so we can plan our hunts and rests accordingly..."
As he spoke, Kephic glanced over to IJ, who was quietly winging her way along at the outside edge of the formation.
The Pegasus kept her eyes locked on the moonlit ground below and beyond, "If we quicken our pace slightly, and minimize rest stops? We can arrive by sundown tomorrow."
Fyrenn whistled, a long and low note, "Three days' flight between Cloudsdale and a Changeling Hive. Sometimes it feels like a small world."
Varan raised an eyebrow, "Perhaps. But getting larger every day."
Skye shifted, accidentally jabbing one of the sharper edges of her chest plate into Fyrenn's back, and eliciting a wince.
She grinned sheepishly, "And when we get there? What? We're just gonna waltz right up to the front door, knock, and politely ask, 'Terribly sorry to trouble you, but we were wondering if you might spill all the beans on your invasion plans?'"
The line was delivered in a mock high society accent, and the levity of the moment even managed to tease out a smile from Varan. The normally impassive Gryphon continued to grin, ever so slightly, as he explained, "Troop deployment on a massive scale is a complex undertaking. Forces must be marshalled, and this necessitates a wide open space. We will be able to easily observe the size and disposition of their forces from afar."
IJ glared, "You assume they can't keep them in the tunnels until time to march."
Kephic's eyes widened in concern, "*Can* they?!"
The white Pegasus sighed, "Did I say that? The point was to get you to consider your assumptions. You can assume *nothing* when dealing with my people. Nothing."
The conversation died with IJ's grim assertion, and the group flew on in silence, accompanied only by the whisper of the wind, and the pale light of the moon.
Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
March 17th, Gregorian Calendar
"You're late." Commander Aston didn't even look up from her lunch tray to greet Hutch.
The General sighed as he collapsed into a cafeteria seat across from Laura, "No. You're early. Besides, my last appointment was..."
Aston glanced up and smirked, "Big, scaly, and precocious?"
Hutch pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, "This job is gonna be the death of me one of these days." He raised his fork to his mouth, and bit into a chunk of synthetic meat, continuing to speak around the food, "What about you? Found anything so far?"
The Commander inclined her head at a DaTab beside her tray, "I've spent the last fifteen hours with the data your special investigative unit gathered from the attack site in London. The Genesists were the target of a very, very sophisticated plot."
Hutch squinted in concern, "Meaning?"
Aston sighed, and leaned forward, "Meaning this took not just a mole, but one with incredible technical proficiency. The connections between the building's AI, and the physical anti-Potion countermeasures, were bypassed at a root level, and the AI was tricked into thinking it was still connected to the countermeasures by means of devices specifically designed to emulate the monitor signals of the building's sensors. This was grade-A work. I don't even think our own technicians could have managed this."
The General whistled, "Shit. So this jackass must've been trained off-site. Which means if the PER got him into a technical position with access to the London complex..."
Laura finished the thought slowly, "...Then the PER had to backstop a full identity... And create assurances that their agent would be hired to a specific post..."
Hutch grunted, "And all in the name of denying Humanity alternatives to their promised 'rebirth.' When we find this guy? I'm throwing him to the Gryphons and the Dragons."
Aston raised an eyebrow, "Feeling vindictive are we?"
The General glowered down at the remains of his lunch, "The way I see it? The worse we make it for the ones we capture, the more those still on the loose will think twice before acting in future." Hutch paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, then inclined his head down at the almost-charred meat-substitute, "You ever seen what Dragons do to their prisoners?"
"I do not understand why we are walking." Klarien tilted his head to glance at Taranis.
The latter Dragon sighed softly, "We live in a world of beings who are perpetually bound by gravity. To find something they have hidden, it is sometimes necessary to look at things on their level. In flying, we would miss too much by gazing from afar."
Klarien grimaced, "I'm not sure I want to see this at eye level. Part of the reason I converted was to get away from poverty." He gestured expansively to the scenery around him.
The Dragons had descended from Fort Hamilton to the lowest districts of Manhattan, both in terms of income, and location. Their surroundings were bounded almost entirely by the foundations of enormous super-skyscrapers. Most of the entrances to the buildings-proper were on higher floors, accessed mainly via elevated roads and train lines. The lowest two to three-dozen levels of the immense structures were often separated from the remainder of the floors, and apportioned out as low rent micro-flats and bodegas with their own ground-level entrances.
The towers stretched away to the sky in all directions, generating a cloistered and oppressive feeling with their monolithic dull-toned metal exteriors. The only brighter punctuation to the never ending façade of steel and duracrete, was the occasional presence of neon signs, holographic billboards, and halon streetlights.
The two great reptiles were a stunning anachronism; Mountains of glittering scales sedately traversing the landscape, the brighter coloration of their exterior covering occasionally emphasized by the headlights of an oncoming car.
Most of the streets and sidewalks were deserted. People congregated in small, shifty, nervous groups inside the doors of seedy dives, or the protection of back alleys.
Klarien squinted in confusion, "I expected to see more people down here... Overpopulation and such..."
Taranis thrummed, "Hmmm. It is the middle of a work day during an all-points evacuation. Anyone who is not at their place of employment, or within their home, is likely up to business best done out of sight of surveillance."
The Green Dragon raised an eyebrow, "And you expect to find the center of the Bureau Occupation movement here?"
"Of course. The main instigators of the movement, and those they have most closely under their thrall, are effectively criminals. The only place they can find safe haven is with fellow law breakers, particularly impoverished ones who share their antigovernmental views, particularly in areas with a lower profusion of technological surveillance. All we must do is seek out areas conspicuously devoid of all Equestrian influence as well; For there we will find not only those who hate the Earth government, but Equestrians as well."
After several moments of walking in relative silence, with only the hum of climate control units, distant cars, and quiet nearby conversations to fill the air, Klarien spoke once more.
"You have to admit; Some of these people have good reason to hate their government. Look how they're living. And now they're being told that what they do have is going to be taken irrevocably away by a natural disaster, but the government isn't going to insure them for it. Worse, they were told they might have to pay to move away. Earthgov was treading some dangerous territory with the tax policy..."
Taranis nodded, "True and valid. But in the end, the systems of checks and balances prevailed, more or less. Humanity's leaders still understand the danger of governing from behind closed doors. Secrecy and a lack of safeguards breeds bias, and unhealthy subjectivity. And that can lead to anything..."
Klarien stared at his elder counterpart, head tilted in curiosity, the scales around his eyes and mouth wrinkling slightly, "You sound like you're talking from experience."
The cobalt Dragon's response was devoid of tone, "More than you know."
After nearly half a minute of silence, Klarien grew impatient, "So? Are you going to tell me what that means? Your file said ex-military... What? You run afoul of Earthgov intelligence?"
Taranis snorted, "Not precisely. I will not tell the whole story. I doubt you would believe me if I did, nor do we have time. Suffice to say; At one point I was one of the most wanted men on the planet, because I dared to do what was right, and opposed those in power."
Klarien raised an eyebrow, "Oh come on, it can't have been---"
The blue Dragon interrupted, once again with stoic atonality, "I opened fire on the bridge of a Providence class destroyer with a 50 caliber VTOL-mounted anti-personnel railgun, killing twenty people including the captain, first officer, and a senior member of the intelligence community."
Taranis continued walking unabashedly. Klarien paused, frozen stock still in shock. After regaining his faculties, he had to sprint briefly to catch up with his partner, "Ooook. I'm not even sure how to respond to that one. Obviously you were cleared eventually." He paused reflectively, then inhaled and turned to face Taranis once more, "I suppose the question that comes to mind is this; How can you hold these occupy protesters and the HLF accountable as criminals in this instance? By all accounts, they're just doing the same thing you did. Standing up for what's right with necessary violence---"
Before he quite had time to react, Klarien found himself firmly ensconced in Taranis' grip, his shoulders immobilized by vice-like blue claws. The larger Dragon's muzzle darted to within an inch of his own, and his snout tingled unpleasantly as Taranis began to exhibit small arcs of electricity.
His voice came out as a growl, more reminiscent of oncoming thunder than civilized words, "I killed twenty people who were complicit with a conspiracy to slaughter two innocent civilians under my protection, and then likely dozens more with whom they had contact after the fact. It was either destroy the bridge of that ship, or watch it shell an innocent and defenseless craft. The HLF? The Bureau Occupiers? They kill *innocents* in the name of their crusade. They invalidate the only legitimate points they have by carelessly wiping out life whenever it suits them! Their *only* desire is to create fear, and bend others to their biased will. They have *no* honor, and no legitimate morality. Do not forget it again, or this partnership will end with the infliction of serious bodily harm that you will not find it easy to recover from."
As Taranis released him, Klarien shivered, "Point taken."
The dive was most definitely 'the place.' Even Klarien could find no reason to argue otherwise. After walking for almost two hours in silence, following Taranis' guiding intuition, the pair had come upon a dilapidated looking building from New York's earliest pre-winnowing periods.
The 'small' thirty-story building was sandwiched between a skyscraper, and a pair of super-skyscrapers. It appeared so run down that without the presence of lights peeking out from behind the shuttered windows, and an armed guard casually strolling back and forth in the doorway, there would have been no indication from the front the structure was inhabited at all.
Closer inspection, however, revealed a small tent city sequestered in the alley behind the dive. The propped-up protest signs identified it as a large HOB encampment.
Klarien huffed, "I suppose we could just barge in?" The two Dragons were positioned further up the street, peering out of a darkened alley towards the establishment. The name of the bar was just barely visible as a small worn hand painted sign above the door; 'Darwin's.'
Taranis inclined his head, "Such an approach has serious potential downsides. But given that the guard's weapon is a RAC-6 military castoff..."
The green Dragon nodded slowly, "A bit upscale for your usual street thugs..."
"...And then there is the makeshift settlement in the alley. The occupy movement is most definitely here." Taranis stood, unmoving, contemplating the situation. His muzzle betrayed none of the thoughts or emotions racing through his brain. Finally he nodded once curtly, "In this instance? I agree. Our best choice would be to simply... 'Barge in.' "
Klarien's eyes widened. He hadn't expected Taranis to actually agree with his suggestion. Nonetheless, he managed a grateful smirk as his cohort set off sedately down the street, towards the Darwin's entrance.
The green Dragon caught up just in time to observe the door guard slowly raise his rifle. The man glowered at Taranis as he lumbered ever closer. He mumbled through his thick beard, "Can I help you scaly?"
Taranis continued ambling towards the door, not even deigning to acknowledge the man. As the cobalt Dragon reached the door itself, the man tensed and flicked the safety of his RAC into the 'auto' position.
Focused as he was on Taranis, he failed to notice Klarien until it was too late. The verdant reptile tapped him once on the shoulder, eliciting a turn of the head. The moment the man's nostrils were visible, the Dragon exhaled, releasing a massive pent-up breath. The air carried with it a tang akin to cut grass in the rain, or fresh sarsaparilla root, but with a sickly undercurrent like antifreeze or morphine.
The guard had just enough time to slur out a half formed word of query, before he slumped to the ground completely comatose.
Taranis continued without pause, reaching out and forcing the door open, against the significant pressure of its small magnetic lock, with a loud 'SNAP.' The inside of the establishment was so noisy, and raucous, that no one noticed the sound, or even took heed of the Dragons at first.
A tightly clustered morasse of ill-dressed, ill-kempt Humans smelling strongly of syntheholic beverages were clustered around a series of old wood tables, and a dilapidated granite bar. The oak and teak on display were, while in a state of disrepair, very real and thus very rare and expensive.
The Darwin's occupants seemed to be roughly split between militaristically clad individuals, who were sporting a variety of hidden tactical weapons, and more shabbily clad HOB protesters with a few improvised destructive implements.
The air was thick with electronic cigarette smoke, and the occasional more pungent cloud of a custom-rolled artificial drug laden cigar. The lighting was dim, and the food and drink looked and smelled as if it had been prepared in a pig sty.
The Dragons squeezed through the small entryway, and stood silently for a few moments, eyes and infrared pits piercing the gloom and scanning the faces of the crowd. Slowly, the bar's occupants began to notice them, but by the time their hostile murmurs had reached a zenith, the reptilian pair had spied their quarry.
At the farthest end of the bar, near the stairs and rusting elevator bank at the rear of the main room, was a small group of people conversing in hushed tones. They appeared to be evenly split between HOB members dressed slightly better than their cohorts, and HLF members equipped with military-grade sidearms.
What drew the Dragons' attention most, however, was the conspicuous presence of a man dressed in clean, middle-class casual civilian clothing. He stuck out like a sore claw in the crowd, and given the circumstances both partners immediately guessed that he was their quarry.
The pair began to force their way between the tables. The patrons glowered with increasing hostility, but shrank away nonetheless. The sheer size of the Dragons, and the alien nature of their scale clad forms, was highly intimidating.
Taranis helped himself to a seated position on the floor by the bar next to the casually-dressed man. Now that his face was visible, the cobalt Dragon was easily able to identify it as belonging to one of the technicians on their target list. Even when seated on the floor, and even given that the Humans were ensconced on tall stools, Taranis' eyes were still a good four inches higher than those of the tallest man in the bunch.
He allowed his voice to flow out as a low rumble, "Are you Mr. Aland Triff?" The man's eyes widened as he turned to discover the immense piercing Draconic orbs confronting him.
When he spoke, his voice cracked in fear, "Ahm... Ahhh... Wh-wh-who wants to know?"
Taranis allowed a small snap of lightning to form briefly between his teeth, adding an electrical tang to the hazy air, "We're here on behalf of the JRSF. We have some questions that you need to answer. Refusal would be... Unhealthy."
Triff gulped once, and his eyes darted back and forth between Taranis and the door. He tensed in preparation for a laughable escape attempt, but his ill-advised plan was cut short by a green claw that materialized on his shoulder. Klarien glared as Triff jumped in surprise, "I wouldn't do that. The guy outside may, or may not ever wake up, after what I dosed him with. Would you like to try it next?"
Before the impromptu interrogation could continue, the distinctive whine of an active, charging rail-pistol pierced the silence. Taranis sighed in exasperation, and spoke without turning to face the soldier holding the pistol to the back of his head, "Serrata-Tech forty-eight caliber service rail-pistol. I am afraid you will need something slightly larger in this instance. Put down the weapon."
The man, e-cig clenched between his teeth, pistol grasped firmly in both hands, grunted, "Ya'll had best be on your way. We don't serve your kind in this here establishment. 'S a Humans-only bar ya see."
Taranis nodded slowly, "We would be happy to oblige." He made as if to stand, placing a guiding claw on Aland as he did so. He paused as he felt the cold titanium of the soldier's pistol press against his scales.
The HLF follower growled, "This man here is a patron. You don't touch our patrons. Mess with one of us, you'll have to deal with all of us."
Taranis sighed again, releasing Triff and turning slowly to face the soldier. His muzzle bore a look of utmost disdain, his eyelid scales drooped and his lower jaw jutted slightly.
In a blur too quick to afford a Human nervous system any sort of reaction time, the blue Dragon seized the soldier's head lightly in one claw. The man let loose with his pistol on full automatic, burning through the entire one hundred round clip in under four seconds. The projectiles pinged haphazardly off of Taranis' scales, ricocheting all over the bar and shattering lights, glasses, and wood surfaces.
The Dragon grunted, "The patron namesake of your establishment would be rather ashamed. Clearly natural selection has not favored you very highly." As he finished speaking, Taranis tightened his right claw. The gesture appeared effortless, but with a loud 'CRUNCH,' it compressed the soldier's skull to a bone and paste mixture less than one quarter his head's original size.
Taranis casually allowed the corpse to fall to the floor, and turned to face the stunned patrons of the bar, speaking calmly, "Any other takers?"
"Is he dead?" The man nudged at the corpse with his boot. His companion spat on the pavement, her voice laden with disgust, "Looks like."
The man glanced up, "What do you suppose happened? Heart attack?"
The woman snorted, "In this day and age? Are you kiddin'? Some punk probably shiv'd him 'tween the ribs with a monoblade..."
Before the pair of HOB protesters could continue examining the dead door guard, the front wall of the building before them exploded, in the most literal sense. Stone, brick, mortar and wood shivers flew outward as if propelled by an explosive detonator.
As the debris settled, the protesters looked up through the haze, and beheld a trio of dismembered armed bodies in the rubble. A wordless glance passed between them, and in silent agreement they bolted off down the street as if pursued by minions of hell itself, not even waiting to discover the source of the blast.
Taranis stepped through the forty-foot hole in the Darwin, a furious HLF soldier clutched in each of his foreclaws, and five more driven before him on the pavement, firing their small arms pointlessly into his thick armored chest.
With a bellow, he dropped the prisoners in his foreclaws, and let loose with his breath. Lightning arced across all seven soldiers with ten times the voltage and amperage necessary to do lethal harm. As the effect continued, their bodies abruptly flash-converted to ash piles and blackened skeletons, which fell lifeless into heaps within their own singed armor and clothing.
Taranis glanced over his shoulder at the remainder of the bar's patrons, who were all frozen in abject primal terror and shock at having witnessed the display. He nodded to Klarien, who snatched Aland Triff by one ankle, and began carrying him out of the bar upside down and yowling in fear.
One brave soldier made as if to raise his rifle. Klarien snatched the weapon by its barrel nonchalantly with his free claw, and broke it over the soldier's head. The titanium squealed momentarily under the stress before it, and the man's skull, caved in two simultaneously.
As the Dragons walked away from the bar on their hind legs, their prisoner still screaming hoarsely for aid, Klarien smiled, "Well whaddya know. No one else feels lucky today. Can't imagine why."
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If that's what dragons do to any who attempt to impede their progress, I would HATE to be in poor Mr. Triff's position right now.
Hahaa! This was an awesome chapter. Lovely descriptions, I envy you. I know you love your gryphons (I do too), but the dragons are stealing the show at the moment. Especially with bad cop and worse cop.
The thing is they are being very calm and collected while doing damage. If the dragons were angry the damage and destruction would've been way worse than it was.
2835495
Being in his position is a lot like being inside a guillotine looking up at the blade as it descends in slow motion.
2835633
They needed some time in the spotlight, Particularly since, after chapters 18-21ish, they recede a good bit for a while. Taranis and Klarien serve an important role at that stage, and then the story takes a sharper focus on Fyrenn and his group. Taranis and Klarien not only act as a critical plot node, but also give us an interesting and important basis of comparison for what an angry *Gryphon* looks like, and how *he* behaves.
2835642
This exactly. Dragons have a better threshold of emotional control than Gryphons. We tend to reach a point where we cease clinically destroying an enemy, and start doing our best to hurt them first. If we're pushed too far.
2836679
Personally, I imagine it's more like having your feet tied to a train track as three hundred tons of locomotive and freight come at you.
2836679
Ooh! You'd better put up because I've been waiting two and a half stories to see an angry gryphon!
I'm not sure if I read the dragons' introduction wrong or what, but I've never really gotten a good idea of how large they are. My mental image of them has scaled from the Big Red Guy on the Mountain to the teenagers in the Migration.
2838475
My own internal scales are somewhat imperfect and flexible but they run something along the following very guesstimated lines;
Ponies; The heads of the average males come to approximately the shoulders of average human males. Exception; Alicorns, who stand a fair bit taller than humans and roughly equivalent to adult Gryphons.
Diamond Dogs: Shaq, but with quadruple the muscles and 4 extra inches of height. (EG; slightly taller than a Gryphon standing quadrupedal, but shorter by a good bit than one standing bipedal)
Gryphons; A good half-a-head to a head taller than an average human male when on all fours, and quite a bit taller when standing bipedal. Roughly equivalent to Alicorns when quadrupedal, taller when bipedal.
Dragons; Varies significantly by age, with ones who have multiple millenia under their belt ranging from the size of a naval frigate, to a large naval cruiser. 'Younger' ones like Taranis and Klarien are not so large, but still somewhere between two and five times the mass of a Gryphon, and taking up somewhere between three and seven time the volumetric area. They're still young enough to be fairly flexible though, like most reptiles, and can often squeeze into areas that look too small for them vis a vis large cosntrictor snakes.
Tirinel, if you remember him, is older than both Klarien and Taranis and as such is probably just shy of double Taranis' size, who is just shy of quadruple Fyrenn's size. ishly.
Dragons, in my mind, loose the ability to stand bipedally for long periods, with great age, because they simply no longer have a conceivable use for it. Tirinel is approaching but has not reached this phase; this makes him the tallest named character we have met; several *stories* tall on hind legs.
He likes long walks on the beach, and freezing his enemies to solid icicles, then shattering them gleefully.
2836916
You remember everything everyone said about those dire 2012 predictions? You know all the descriptions of Hell? Anyone who has endured true wrath from a Gryphon would rather die in a 2012 apocalypse and go to Hell, than deal with that Gryphon's wrath a second time. Death is not just a reprieve for those we truly loathe; its downright *relaxing* and theraputic in Hell by comparison.
2836683
That's not at all a bad description...
Badass dragons being badass. All of my yes.
That gun? Holy shit, going through one hundred rounds in not more than, what, a second? I want that shit. NAO. Either that, or I can just take a lesson from this guy:
0-media-cdn.foolz.us/ffuuka/board/tg/image/1336/68/1336686552488.jpg
More dakka, indeed.
2839519
Refire rate is one of the chief advantages of a railgun system. If you have a good cooling system and well made ceramics and alloys, there is almost no theoretical upper limit to the fire rate aside from barrel pull, and the maximum heat tolerance of the weapon.
This capability stems from three useful facts;
1; Railgun ammunition is a solid piece, not a conventional shell, which means it is cheap to make. It can also, as a result of the durability and muzzle velocity, be smaller than conventional rounds but pack much more force.
2; Railgun ammunition, being a solid piece, means that the weapon does not use a conventional action, as it does not need to eject a spent shell casing.
3; With no action, a railgun has almost no moving parts; it can magnetically feed and fire its cheap rounds at anywhere from 10, to 10,000 times the speed of a conventional chemical weapon, depending on the size of the magnets and capacitors. Aside from heat buildup, there is little to no wear placed on the weapon as a result, meaning it requires less maintenance, can fire faster, longer, harder, and cheaper than a regular weapon.
We are limited, today, mainly by capacitors. But in the future, with much more high-capacity devices in more miniaturized format, we can expect rail-guns to replace everything from the largest naval emplacements, to the smallest Sig Sauer.
2839880
So... they're like Mass Effect weapons without the Element Zero, essentially. Or the thermal clips. Or the overheat. Somehow, I don't think the weapons wouldn't be limited by something other than gun heat tolerance. Wouldn't the gun get so hot that you couldn't hold the thing after a good firefight? Is there a system that keeps the gun constantly cool enough to keep that from happening? Without that, you run the risk of melting whatever gun you're using into scrap metal.
Do not auto pistol the dragon.