Chapter 3
Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
Fourth Month, Fifth Day, Celestial Calendar
While Fyrenn loved the mountain highlands of Equestria more than any other place he had traveled, the desert also held a special allure. Granted, it was difficult for him to say one part of the world was more appealing than another, given the sheer living vibrancy and unspoiled nature of the landscape.
Equestrian deserts were no less vital than any other part of the world. The arid tang in the air spoke volumes with its slight touch of reptilian musk. The reddish sand was broken by regular wadis, rock outcroppings, cacti, and scrub brush.
If one flew for long enough, there were inevitable oases of greener foliage, with low wide trees and hardy grass, clustered around underground springs.
From his vantage point, Fyrenn's eyes provided an even more vivid rendering of desert life; Mice, rabbits, predatory birds, lizards, and insects abounded. Despite the nocturnal nature most of the creatures were prone to, even their daytime hiding places could not shield them entirely from a Gryphon's gaze.
Fyrenn raised his eyes, and spied the telltale glint of their destination. A faint glimmer of sun on parallel bars of iron, polished smooth and shiny by the constant passage of weighty cargo on metal wheels.
It did not take long for the group to arrive. As the others landed, Fyrenn bent and ran a talon across the silvery top surface of one rail, leaving a small trail of sparks, "No train since at least yesterday."
Stan kicked at one of the wooden ties with a hoof. The oblong braces were laid out in a criss-crossing pseudo-diamond pattern, rather than the traditional parallel bars seen in Earth's history and favored by Ponies.
"How can *you* tell?"
"Dirt." Varan offered the singular word as if it were the obvious factual answer to all of life's most pressing questions.
Kephic nodded and provided a more fleshed out explanation as he stared down the length of the tracks, towards the south, "When the train passes, it clears the rails of any significant detritus. Wind blows dirt and sand back onto the rails in the time between the passage of each train. That means today's ore train hasn't arrived yet."
Carradan tilted his head, then stepped slowly over the rails and back onto the desert floor, "Okay... So here's how I think it plays out..."
The three Gryphons shifted their undivided attention to the Pegasus. They had long since learned that Stan had valuable wisdom buried beneath his glib, humorous exterior. Fyrenn leant down and placed an ear to the rail as Carradan aired his postulation.
"So the Badlands clans own this line. Alright. Why does a Troll from a mountain clan, who's part of a pack that's been hired to make scare-tactic raids on your settlements, turn up with a map that leads to this line?"
Kephic stepped gingerly around a cactus, and plucked out a spine between his left index talon, and thumb talon, twirling it in the sunlight and examining the imperfections idly, "The clans here have nothing to gain by provoking our southern mountain defenses."
Carradan nodded, and began pacing in the rail-bed, "Righto. So the way I figure it, they're just the middleman... Errr dog. The mountain Trolls come here, and drop off proof of their bad turns. The train goes north, stops at the mines, where someone else takes the proof, and offloads payment. On its way back, the train drops off the swag with the do-badders, along with new orders."
Fyrenn raised his head, and stared down the tracks thoughtfully. Carradan took his place at the rail, his far more sensitive Equine ears discerning even the vibrations caused by Varan shuffling.
Kephic glared into the noonday sun, unperturbed by the brightness, "So how do we follow the trail from here? When the mountain clan pack doesn't make the scheduled rendezvous, it's going to send their handler scurrying."
Varan glanced down at the prone Pegasus. Stan shook his head ever so slightly. No train. Yet.
The golden Gryphon stretched lazily, splaying his wings momentarily to allow the sun to warm the joints, "We have only one viable course. We must acquire whatever information the 'middle dog' has, before the handler is alerted to the change in the situation."
As Kephic nodded slowly, Stan stood and cocked his head, "Meaning?"
Fyrenn smirked, "Meaning we're going to rob a train."
Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
March 3rd, Gregorian Calendar
Hutch tucked his arm in to protect his thermos of coffee. Traffic in the Bureau had been best described as 'jammed' since the Barrier came into view. The advent of such a stark, visible, foreboding indicator of the fate facing the city had galvanized the populace.
The change from apathy to engagement was not, Hutch reflected, entirely for the better. For every person coming to the facility to down a cup of potion, there seemed to be two outside hefting picket signs, noisemakers, and occasionally large pieces of detritus that they would hurl at the bullet-proofed windows as a futile gesture of rage.
This signs said everything from, 'EARTHGOV = PER' to 'GOD HATES DIAMOND DOGS.' The angry crowd was a combination of paranoid or wronged persons still upset over the results of the Diamond Dog Conversion scandals, and disenfranchised low-income workers who could not afford the new moving tax, but also had no desire to Convert.
They were calling themselves the 'Humans Occupy Bureaus' movement, taking a page from the playbook of a century-old band of protesters enraged over pre-Winnowing financial mishaps and bungles.
Hutch sighed, and squeezed between two long lines of disheveled people, being slowly guided through a security checkpoint by the familiar silhouettes of black-armored ConSec troopers.
He shook his head and murmured under his breath. As far as he was concerned, the HOB were a waste of air. They had legitimate points, but they were fouling the moral foundation of their movement by engaging in childish, dangerous, vindictive, and vapid behavior.
There were even whispers that the HLF were quietly stoking the flames of HOB movements, particularly the one in New York. The taint of association had all but nullified the validity of anything the group said, in the eyes of the government at-large.
True, other copycat groups had sprung up in major cities around the world, particularly ones like London, that were soon to be in the Barrier's path; But the movement was by far at its largest, and most dangerous, in New York.
Panic from the evacuation, combined with the HOB riots, had led to seven deaths, four fires, and eight thousand incidences of vandalism, theft, looting, and aggravated assault. And those statistic were, as far as Hutch knew, already days-old.
The seriousness of the situation was underscored by the activity, or lack thereof, from the PER. Forced Conversions for the region had fallen off by a staggering thirty percent in a month's span.
Even the 'Secret Knights of Celestia,' as they thought of themselves, were afraid to stoke the ire of the restless city.
Hutch finally made it to the elevator bank, crabbing sideways to avoid a mid-sized Dragon. While Ponies and Humans were still the majority demographics on the planet, three years of Gryphonization and the ensuing other programs had contributed to a visible rise in the presence of other species.
Hutch strolled to the rightmost elevator, and pressed his palm to the call-pad. Security had been tightened repeatedly since the discovery of HLF infiltration technologies, and the 2114 PER attacks. Full DNA scans were now mandatory biometric access denials for secure areas.
When the car arrived, the General took up a position against the back wall, leaning against the stainless steel inner railing. "Fifth floor." He could have, if asked, made an excuse about being too tired to push the manual touchpad by the door, but in truth he had a secret boyish fascination with voice control technology.
Hutch sipped his thermos quietly, and allowed his eyes to sweep the atrium as the elevator rose. The tube, and car, were made mostly of high-density plexiglass, and the atrium space was several floors high; This afforded riders in the elevators a view of everything going on in the heart of the Bureau as they rode.
The general smiled as he noted the presence of a Gryphon and a Pony on an upper balcony, staring down into the crowded space below. Both were clad in armor plates, colored in the gray digital camouflage and single crimson stripe of the JRSF.
The fighting force had grown from a series of small strike teams to a full blown precision military branch gracefully. The many talents and capabilities introduced by species diversity made the organization flexible, powerful, and resilient.
Hutch slept slightly easier during the night, knowing that such a strong and unified cadre of beings were protecting Bureaus, potion shipments, and high value targets around the globe.
He took a final glance at the atrium as the elevator passed through the ceiling and into an opaque shaft that led to the upper floors. The heart warming concept the eclectic gathering of species evoked was partially spoiled by the still-visible protestors outside, even cordoned as they were by an intimidating blue Dragon, several Gryphons, and a full contingent of Military Police.
The elevator emitted a soft tone, and the doors slid apart with a barely audible hiss. Hutch leant forward and walked purposefully into the Bureau's central situation room.
The Conversion Bureau Network was responsible not simply for dispensing Potion to the population, but for overseeing its manufacture by third parties, aggregating and shipping it, purity testing it, defending itself in conjunction with the JRSF, and acting as an embassy to Equestrian governments.
The Manhattan Bureau had been the first, and the central hub of the network. In light of the Barrier's arrival, central operations were in the process of being transferred to San Diego, the second Bureau to break ground.
In spite of, or perhaps because of the transfer, the Manhattan Bureau situation room was filled to the brim with technicians. The room was vaguely ovoid, with most walls dominated by screens, or tinted glass walls that were shared with adjacent and connecting offices.
The center of the room was filled with work surfaces, desks, semi-cubicles, and a main central console with a holotank.
As one of the mainstay Human representatives on the JRSF's governing board, Hutch was also the main liaison to the Bureaus, and their in-house security wing; ConSec. Thus Hutch maintained an office space, incidentally directly across from his previous posting as ConSec section chief for the Bureau.
He shot a glance, and a smile, across the room at the latest officer to fill the post; A stocky, athletically built Zebra. After the JRSF had begun picking up momentum, it hadn't been long before Ponies, Zebra, and the occasional Gryphon, mostly Converts in such cases, had begun to acquire posting in non-JRSF entities as well.
The General passed their shared secretary in her spacious, ironically horseshoe shaped alcove. She was a lime hued Unicorn with close cropped white mane, shaped into a peculiar beehive fashion that was reminiscent of older Earth styles.
She glanced up at Hutch and glowered. They were on good terms, so he knew immediately that the expression was both a warning, and her opinion on his next appointment. Hutch grunted and took another draught of his coffee, the gesture more of a shot than a sip. "Bucking wonderful," he mumbled under his breath.
Hutch had developed a fondness for Equestrian expletives, in light of the fact that the increasing stress of his job was driving a similar increase in his use of 'colorful metaphors' overall.
Hutch steeled himself against the unknown threat, and tapped the 'open' panel in the glass of his door. He was greeted by a disaster. At least, that's what Aston called people who dressed the way his appointment did.
The woman was clad, head to toe, in a shade of fuchsia that could only be quantified as 'violently repulsive.' The clothing itself was a well tailored business suit and skirt, but the hue of the fabric, and the peculiar hat-like object perched atop her done-up tangled nest of auburn hair, destroyed any image of suave professionalism.
The General spied the traditional silver and emerald Earthgov pin on her collar, and a few tiny flecks of gray in her hair. He also noticed that she was wearing just enough makeup that Aston would have likely tried to strangle her on the spot.
The pin meant that she was, at minimum, a parliamentary member. All elected officials at the parliamentary level and above were issued the pins; An officially-unofficial highly exclusive fashion statement.
He set his thermos on the desk, swept around behind it, and offered his hand in greeting, "You're my two-o-clock?"
The woman shook his hand with a light grip and nodded primly, "I am. Councilor Menera Loryss."
Hutch raised an eyebrow, "Councilor?" He didn't recognize her name.
She nodded once more and seated herself, folding her legs, "I am Councilor Korvan's replacement."
The general sat, and pulled up his terminal, holographic displays dotting the surface of his desk as a screen rose from a concealed compartment in one side, "I thought the elections weren't until next week."
Councilor Loryss nodded, "True; But there are provisions for selecting interim members to recently vacated postings, and an emergency Council session has been called."
"Concerning?" Hutch fiddled with a holographic keyboard, running a search on Loryss, and simultaneously offering silent thanks to God that whoever had designed his office had placed the screen so that those sitting across from the desk could not see what was on it.
"Concerning Bill 2-14-117-2. The 'moving tax.' I expect the session will close with a repeal, or at the very least a strong amendment."
Hutch glanced up from a quick perusal of Loryss' records, and shrugged, "And so you're here because...?"
Loryss sat back and blinked, as if Hutch's question was undignifiedly redundant, "Well because, in replacing Korvan, I shall be the liaison from the Biotechnological Combine party to the Bureaus, and the JRSF."
Hutch blinked rapidly for several moments before stiffening. The woman before him was assuming that her position would become official during the election cycle. It was not an entirely uncommon occurrence for an interim to be elected officially to their position. 'Better the devil you know' was quite applicable to voters.
But for Loryss to assume, with such complete surety and confidence, that she was going to take the election? To the General, that meant she was either incredibly arrogant, highly politically savvy, or exceedingly connected and corrupt. Or all of the above.
Hutch spared a quick, casual glance for the screen; According to the records, Menera Loryss was a political maverick. A swift ascension from lower level positions to parliamentary speaker with a distinguished, albeit ruthless, record for 'getting it done.'
Hutch sighed and leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk's surface, "Ma'am; Don't you think this meeting is a bit---"
She interrupted, as if she knew what he was going to say next, with a tone bordering somewhere between matter-of-fact, and patronizing, "Premature?"
"Ill-advised." Hutch's response brought her up short. He leaned back in his chair, framed by the light from the exterior window. The day in Equestria was partially cloudy, and the peculiar intermix of the dead sky of Earth, with the odd ocean weather of the other world, cast the city in an ethereal palette of almost underwater colors.
The General shook his head slowly, "I respect the fact that you have initiative, but I don't see your full-time election as being a sure thing, if you will excuse me saying so."
Loryss stood, and stepped slowly to the window, her gait almost demure. She gestured down to the protestors five stories beneath.
Hutch spun his chair to observe as she spoke, casually clearing his screen before she could turn to see her file.
"General; What do you see?"
He shook his head once more, "A whole lotta disillusioned and directionless fools."
Loryss nodded, "What they are doing is 'ill-advised.' And they are doing it because, in-spite of their disillusionment, they *have* been wronged. Wronged because what my predecessor did was also 'ill-advised.'"
As she continued to speak, the interim Counselor took several steps back, and leant on Hutch's desk, "And when I, and the new interim Counselors, reverse the moving tax, we will be given a certain... Surety."
Hutch shivered as Loryss drew the final word out, tainting it with a saccharine tone that made him sick to his stomach.
He stood and gestured to the door, his face becoming abruptly stony, "Well then, I recommend you set up a future appointment with my secretary, because I deal in present surety, not future speculation."
Councilor Loryss shot a distasteful glance through the glass of the office door at Hutch's secretary. The speciesism behind the glare was self evident. Hutch thumbed the open-pad, and gestured with less subtlety, "I'll have her pencil you in. Have a nice day ma'am."
From the way he said it, Hutch was positive that Loryss gathered the intended meaning. 'Get out, and drop dead.'
As she strutted out of the office, Loryss offered a parting remark, "We will be seeing each other again shortly General."
Hutch grunted, and waited until the door closed to mouth his unseen response, "Not if I see you first."
Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
Fourth Month, Fifth Day, Celestial Calendar
Fyrenn shifted and sighed. It would have been nice to relax, and just let the heat from the rocks below seep into his muscles and wear away at the tension, but he was too wound-up and too focused to even consider rest.
"I see why so many of us like the southern colonies. I could get *very* used to naturally heated rocks, low humidity, wide spaces where nothing else has the eye-range to match us..." Kephic smiled, the setting sun framing him in sharp relief against the red rock of the mesa.
Fyrenn, who was closer to the edge because his coloration afforded him more natural camouflage, tossed a disdainful glance over his shoulder, "No shrimp, no fishing at all, very few trees, no snow... Nice to visit but you wouldn't want to live here. You love the mountains too much."
Kephic snorted, and glanced back at his folded wings, "True. And I'm not well colored for this environment anyhow."
Fyrenn snorted, grinning as he returned his eyes to the rails below, and to the west, "You stand out anywhere you go brother; I'm afraid you're hopeless in that respect."
"Says the Gryphon who couldn't blend into a surface to save his life, unless it was red sand, or a pool of fresh blood."
"Give me some credit. I blend well with the setting sun too. The only thing you could disappear into is a lightless room. Or a pile of dirty snow."
Kephic chuckled quietly as Fyrenn glanced up at the next-nearest protrusion of rock. He managed to pick out Varan's beak and eyes peeking above the edge of the sandstone, similar to the way his own eyes and beak were barely visible to Varan above the edge of the mesa.
Fyrenn returned the focus of his gaze to the furthest point he could make out on the rail line. Equestria, while not a spherical world, had a curvature like an utterly gigantic contact lens, so even Gryphons had a maximum line of sight to objects on the ground, and Fyrenn's eyes were riveted to that point, searching for a telltale puff of smoke, or glimmer of steel.
"It will certainly make our lives easier if the next train comes during the night." Fyrenn sighed once more, and swished his tail in boredom, the fan of feathers at the end disturbing a few flecks of dust with their passage.
Kephic inclined his head, "Stealth aside, I am beginning to tire of this dust. If I have to lie here much longer, I'm afraid my chest fur will end up the same color as Stan's coat."
Fyrenn shifted again, moving the sword and bow at his back to afford better comfort. The group had opted to hide their armor in a small cave slightly west of Varan and Carradan's hiding spot. The gleaming metallic surface posed the danger of drawing sensitive eyes, or more likely sensitive ears.
Diamond Dogs had by far the best noses, and some of the best ears, of any creature in Equestria. Even though the noise and smell from the train would help to mask the impromptu heist, it had been decided that it was better not to tempt fortune and fate.
Fyrenn stiffened as he caught sight of a tiny puff of smoke on the horizon. As the train came into view over the curve of the world, he grinned and nudged Kephic with a back paw, "Get prepped. They're running hard on the throttle."
Ironically, native tribes on Earth had once referred to trains as 'Iron Horses.' Fyrenn doubted that the Diamond Dogs would appreciate the irony.
The train was, like the oddly designed tracks it ran on, a testament to the alternative flare a species could bring to a technology. Although in the case of Diamond Dogs, flare generally meant 'spartan, pragmatic, and patchwork.'
The engine was a monstrous metal cylinder perched atop twelve wheels, six to a side. The front played host to a tapering set of interlocking armored plates, two powerful headlights created by shining oil-burning lamps into Fresnel lenses, and an ugly serrated re-enforced scrape blade.
Each of the six wheels were interconnected by a dizzying bevy of eccentrics, levels, and shafts, that fed into larger cylinders, and were attached to smaller recessed flywheels.
The top of the engine was broken by a hodge-podge of relief valves, steam vents, and in the center a short, stubby smokestack. The asymmetrical cab was bolted to the right side, as it it were an afterthought, and Fyrenn could see two beefy Trolls working overtime to feed coal into the firebox, while a third constantly adjusted valves and levers.
The tender was a double-long car with a flexible center, and behind it was a string of empty open-topped ore cars. At the tail end of the two-mile-monstrosity was a smaller collection of rusty boxcars, and a final car Fyrenn recognized as some form of caboose.
Fyrenn swept his gaze across the train once more to ensure there were no unwanted eyes marking their passage, then signaled Kephic with a claw. The two Gryphons leapt gracefully from the mesa, tucked their wings, and shot straight down the side like thunderbolts cast out of the heavens.
At the last tenable moment, their wings snapped back open; First partially, in a cupped braking shape, then fully, using the air swept under them by their passage to gain speed, and maintain lift.
The pair whizzed along, inches above the desert floor, cutting a shallow arc towards the passing train.
Fyrenn aimed for the first box-car in the lineup. He tilted in a lopsided pose as he struck the train's jetstream, reaching out with his talons and latching onto the car's door. He pulled as quietly as he could, and when there was enough of an opening to wedge himself in, he front flipped into the car, drawing his sword as he came up.
The dark space was filled with sealed wooden crates. Judging by the markings, and the smells, they were cured beef, dried fruits, and other non-perishable foodstuffs; Likely destined to be supplies for the mines. Nothing whatsoever suspicious.
Kephic arrived in the car at almost the same time as Varan began to open the door on the opposite side. Fyrenn moved to help him in, and shortly they were all joined by Stan.
Fyrenn nodded, and snorted in satisfaction, "Well. Now that we're all here..."
Varan swept the car with a claw, "We can enjoy our bounteous and glorious haul. Of sub-standard foodstuffs."
Kephic chuckled briefly, "It's just the first car. C'mon. We've got five more to search. Heaven forbid we end up needing to search the final car. I doubt we can do that without leaving... 'Traces' of our passing."
Carradan grunted and shook his head, "What the hell am I doing with a bunch of goons who call dead bodies 'traces' ?"
Fyrenn smirked, and stepped to the door.
Quietly, and swiftly, the Gryphons and Pegasus moved from car to car, checking for anything out of the ordinary. The second box-car was also filled with foodstuffs, the third and fourth with newly minted steel mining equipment; Picks, shovels, bracers, carts, buckets, and sluices.
The group were beginning to despair of finding anything related to their suspicious communique without a fight. Fyrenn hefted a pick and examined the sharp silvery edge, "Good workmanship. I think they're starting to come abreast of early Human steel-working technique."
Stan nodded, "Books travel almost as widely as coins, or so they say."
Fyrenn quietly set the implement down, and nodded towards the aft end of the train, "All right then. Last car, last chance for this to go according to plan."
Kephic squinted as Fyrenn jumped out the door, "Are you having delusions again? Nothing ever goes as planned."
Varan grunted, his tone utterly deadpan, "Well we can dream."
The three Gryphons held their position beside the car as Varan exited, flapping regularly to maintain the same speed as the train. Stan followed suit, but as the Pegasus was pushing the boxcar door closed, Fyrenn cast a fortunate glance over his shoulder. He spied a Troll in the caboose moving to the window, and hissed, "Problem! We have a problem!"
He snatched the salmon Pegasus in both claws, eliciting a small yelp, and dove out of sight. Kephic and Varan vaulted for the top of the train, lying flat on the sun-warmed iron surface. Kephic was facing rearward, and peered over the edge of the car to see the Troll leaning out the forward window of the caboose, scanning down the side of the train as it passed through a shallow left S-curve.
Below, Fyrenn had managed the near-impossible acrobatic feat of sliding between the wheel bogies of the car, and was grappled to the underside of the vehicle with his claws, Stan clutched uncomfortably beside him in the bowl of one wing.
"Don't mention this in future. Ever." Stan grunted from his squeezed feathery compartment.
Fyrenn chuckled, "Agreed." A more serious expression took over his beak, and he shifted uncomfortably, "We can't risk looking. We have to wait for the others."
As if on cue, Varan's head poked over the side of the car, "Clear."
Fyrenn gave Stan a nod, then tossed him clear of the undercarriage, the Pegasus' wings flaring to bear him aloft before he could strike the desert floor. Fyrenn followed shortly thereafter, and the four companions slowed to bring themselves level with the final box-car.
The red Gryphon raised an eyebrow in surprise. The final car's door was bolted shut with a thick-set old style lock. Without missing a beat, Varan spun around and latched onto the side of the car vertically, digging into the ledge of the door with his back claws and paw-pads for traction.
He inserted one of his right talons into the lock, and began to fiddle. Moments later it came loose with a barely audible click, and he carefully un-threaded it, ensuring it would not fall free of the train and leave an indication that someone had been tampering.
As Fyrenn landed beside him in the freshly opened car, he grinned, "I had no idea you could do that."
Varan raised an eyebrow, "It is a useful talent."
Stan snorted as his hooves touched the floor, "I'll say. Every once in awhile, I hate having hooves. Just a little bit."
Fyrenn swept the compartment with his gaze, and stiffened, "Shit. This changes things."
Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
March 3rd, Gregorian Calendar
Mr. Utah generally had a deep-running distaste for Cabinet meetings. The HLF cabinet was divided into several groups based on their contributions to the front, all with codenames based on famous World War II nomenclature.
The meetings were held at a variety of locations, but the March one had been scheduled for the Retribution, and he felt he had the 'home field advantage.'
The HLF Submarine Retribution was based on an aging just-post-Winnowing design for a ballistic missile Earthgov interdiction vessel. The hull had never been brought to launch phase, and Mr. Utah had managed to acquire it via his company ties, under the guise of repurposing the scrap to build low-income housing in New Roanoke.
In reality the hull had been shipped quietly to South America, where the HLF had poured hundreds of millions into making it into a failsafe mobile command and control center.
It sported advanced anti-LADAR countermeasures, stolen from the latest Naval research projects, supercavitating high-ex AI-guided torpedoes, a VLS anti-ship and anti-aircraft SSAS missile system, and four retractable deck-mounted railguns pilfered from aging littoral ships, all powered by a 'decommissioned' nuclear fusion reactor from a defunct manufacturing plant.
The vessel had a complement of thirteen AI that oversaw not just onboard subsystems, but the integrated server that acted as a mobile, untraceable secure comms hub for the Front.
The most recent use for the vessel had been ferrying Queen Chrysalis, batches of Changeling excretion, and the Pony prisoners the HLF traded for the excretion, to and from Equestria.
The submarine also had a well apportioned conference room to host the Cabinet, and it was at the headmost right hand position of its center table that Mr. Utah sat.
At the head of the table, framed by a wall-screen, stood Mr. Stalin; The current head of the HLF. To his left Dr. Omaha. The rest of the table was filled with the other members, seated by section, with the exception of Mrs. Juno, who was late. A fact Mr. Utah was savoring nearly as much as the cigarette he had swiftly consumed before entering the room.
He had 'intimated' to the boat CO that Mrs. Juno should not be cleared through security as swiftly as the other members of the cabinet. It seemed petty, but nothing Mr. Utah ever did was purposeless. Everything that happened in a Cabinet meeting was a subtle power struggle, and cutting Mrs. Juno off at the knees was an excellent compliment to his home field advantage.
When she finally arrived, the glower on her face attested to a clear realization that Mr. Utah had been responsible for her special treatment. He offered her an expression that amounted to the closest analogue of a grin he had ever given another Human being.
Mr. Stalin, a military general, as was obvious by his bearing and section, started the meeting without any preamble, "Phase-Three. Where are we?"
He ruffled his graying military moustache in impatience, as Dr. Omaha stood to deliver a response.
"We are on schedule to deliver ten units by the middle of the month, with a hundred more by the end."
Stalin nodded once abruptly, then brought his hands down on the steel table firmly, the sound resounding off the grating of the floor, and the metal ribs of the walls, despite their token faux-oak plating, "All right then. Ragnar. Talk to me."
Mr. Utah stood, and activated the screen with a subtle touch to his table terminal. A wireframe image of the globe, including weather systems, surface indicators of varying types, and satellite tracks, appeared. The Bubble was clearly visible as a large bluish blemish on the surface, with a dotted representation of the rest of the sphere that it truly was.
"The positioning will be correct for the operation, and according to the internal sources our 'Benefactor' has provided, the White Queen will be on-station as expected, in the City of Glass, leaving the Black Queen in the Marble Castle."
Mr. Stalin sensed a 'but' and glared. Mr. Utah straightened his suit jacket, and continued, "We are, however, still in need of certain assets."
Mrs. Stuka, a prominent military general from Aircav section, stood and nodded at the screen, "The platforms have received software upgrades, as we feared. We have the authentication index, true, but we still need a terminal with Danger-Red level command access, and we need to convince the AI governing that system of a Defcon-one situation."
Mr. Stalin leaned back, and crossed his arms, "Suggestions?"
Mr. Utah offered another smile, dropping the perceived temperature in the room, "I have a target in mind."
Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
Fourth Month, Fifth Day, Celestial Calendar
The dark, dank, oblong compartment was filled with crates. Like the crates in the previous cars, they were tightly sealed. Unlike the other crates, they were built of sturdy steel panels. And they had air holes.
The space was bookended with metal desks, bolted to the walls and floors. The sides of the spartan writing surfaces were made up of tightly locked cabinets.
Fyrenn took a cautious step towards one of the crates. Empty. He was about to turn his attention to the desks, when a slight rustle caught his ears. The red tuft of cartilage and fur twitched, and he took another step, approaching the next crate in line.
When the emaciated muzzle poked out the air hole, he nearly jumped backwards in surprise, hissing in warning out of reflex.
"Helllp..." The voice was little more than a dehydrated rasp. Fyrenn leaned forward, and realized that the muzzle was Equine. He shuddered, "My God! They're Ponies!"
Another voice emanated from another crate, "Hello?! Who's out there?! Let us out! Please!!"
Kephic hissed slightly, "Ssssh! If you get any louder you are going to bring the guards down us!"
Fyrenn gestured to the locks on the crates, and glanced questioningly at Varan. The golden Gryphon nodded, and set to work on the first crate. Fyrenn went back to the desk, and began to exert pressure on the locked drawers.
They quietly popped open as he strained the latches well past breaking point with minimal exertion. At the other desk, Carradan and Kephic had begun a similar process. Fyrenn pulled a sheaf of paper from the first drawer, and began to read.
It didn't take him long to realize that the majority of the papers were ledgers for transactions. Transactions in gems, gold, silver, steel tools, information. And Ponies.
He spat in disgust, flicked through the stack to memorize the contents, and shoved the papers back into the drawer. He was about to turn away, when another sheaf caught his eye. Extracting it carefully, he immediately realized it was a map, and accompanying text of some sort. The text was in code, but the map clearly indicated a Gryphon settlement, and the best route to approach from, in the tactical sense.
Fyrenn quickly memorized the entire pair of documents before replacing them. Kephic caught the sheets up before they had even begun to settle, "We may as well take these. Once we free these prisoners, they're going to know someone was here. There is no point to stealth anymore."
The speckled Gryphon's tone was not resigned. Rather it was close to gleeful. Fyrenn wondered if the Diamond Dogs on the train had more to fear from his smoldering ire, or Kephic's.
There was a loud click as Varan finished with the first lock. While Kephic folded the documents, and secreted them somewhere safely in his neck feathers, Fyrenn moved to get a better look at the prisoners.
They were, sure enough, a disheveled band of Ponies. He inhaled sharply as they came fully into view. They were emaciated from starvation and dehydration. He shook his head in a mixture of restrained fury, and utter lack of understanding, "How did this happen? Who *did* this to you?"
The eldest of the group, a dark purple stallion with a graying mane, wheezed an answer, "Trade convoy... There was a raid...
We didn't even have time to call for help."
Varan glanced up from picking the second lock, "You are safe now."
Carradan offered a sheltering wing to the group, guiding them to the door for fresh air. The second lock came undone in short order, and a somewhat less bedraggled group of Ponies were set free.
Kephic spoke in undertones with the mare in charge, while Fyrenn and Varan went through the second desk. There were more ledgers, and a series of maps with attached coded text; Some indicated Gryphon settlements, others trade convoys, and still others fringe Equestrian settlements.
Fyrenn thumped one of the maps with a claw, "This is more than simple posturing attacks. I wondered... It didn't seem any of the past night raids accomplished anything except to..." He trailed off as the truth hit him.
Varan finished for him calmly, "To test our defenses, and distract us."
Fyrenn nodded, and scratched absently at his head-feathers, "But why the trade convoys and Pony settlements? The prevailing suspicion was that these raiders were working, by proxy, for the PER... The PER doesn't do abductions..."
Varan nodded, "Troubling development."
"Understatement."
Kephic strode over, looking perturbed, "The second group are newfoals. Their over-land group was attacked between settlements," He glanced between Fyrenn and Varan, rage boiling in his golden eyes, giving them a distinctly volcanic aspect, "I think this is past the point of stealth. Or diplomacy."
To Fyrenn's mild surprise, Varan was the first to express support, "Agreed. I will take Stanley and decouple our carriage from the next."
Fyrenn smiled, a decidedly unsettling expression in the context, "That leaves me and Kephic the caboose. I think I'm going to enjoy this more than I should."
Kephic shook his head, "No you won't." He turned to the door and unsheathed his sword, "You can never enjoy something like this too much."
The first indication that there was trouble came in the form of a jolt. The four Trolls in the caboose were playing a simplistic kind of card game, and their deck leapt into the air, scattering the cards all over the compartment.
The one in charge, a massive brown wall of meat covered in battle scars, spoke first, "What that?"
One of his subordinates moved to the window, and peered out at the desert. It took his brain several seconds to process the input, "We... Slowing down?"
He turned back to face the table. With a jaw-dropping abruptness, an arrow sprouted from his forehead, tip bathed in orange-tinted blood.
The other three Trolls were taken so much by surprise, that they could not find the impetus to move, even as their comrade pitched forward lifelessly onto the table, upending it in a shower of bits, gems, cards, and bodily fluid.
The veteran fighter was the first to regain composure, snatching his large gnarled crossbow from a cargo net at the top of the car filled with weapons.
The device was made of rusted iron, but the cables were freshly cleaned steel. It was not as precise, or well made, as the Gryphon equivalent, but it was twisted with far more and thicker cables, giving it easily five times the piercing force.
The bolts in the chamber were claw-sharpened shards of pure granite.
The veteran scrambled over the body of his dead pack-mate, and smashed out the left window with a fisted paw, not even stopping to think about the glass slivers, which did very little to break the surface of his hardened skin and weathered fur.
The attacker was a red Gryphon, with a compound bow, and he had already knocked another arrow to the string. The veteran fired without thinking.
Outside, Fyrenn spun, neatly dodging the granite bolt, and releasing his own arrow at the same time. The weapon, a hollow seamless alloy tube, buried itself up to the fins in the Diamond Dog's skull. But he didn't drop.
Fyrenn swiftly prepared another arrow, as the Troll scrambled to add a new bolt to his own crossbow. Before either of them could fire, the tip of another type of quarrel abruptly appeared in the Troll's throat.
The combination of arrows finally felled the giant, revealing Kephic on the other side of the carriage, arbalest in-claw.
Fyrenn seized the opportunity to dive into the caboose, via the smashed window. He eschewed the hidden blades on his bow; The remaining Trolls were clearly inexperienced omegas. With a heavy blow from a fisted claw, he laid the first out unconscious. The second surrendered.
As Fyrenn knelt to bind him, he hissed in the creature's ear, "You will *sorely* wish you had fought me, and died swiftly."
As it turned out, the veteran Troll was the pack Alpha. He was also capable of, apparently, surviving even an arrow to the brain, followed by a quarrel to the throat.
The meaty Troll, along with his two remaining Omegas, were lined up on the floor of the box-car, bound tightly with spare steel wire from a toolbox. Carradan had guided the freed Ponies to the outcropping where the group's armor was stored, and divvied up the provisions to them.
The group had determined, unanimously, that the best course was to blow the entire food and water stash on their new protectees, so that they would be capable of reaching the next nearest friendly settlement.
Kephic and Fyrenn were bent over the coupling between the caboose and the box-car. The caboose had a fold-out paw/hoof/claw crank to spin the wheels, so the plan had quickly become to put the group into the vehicle, and have Stanley and Varan work the machinery while Kephic and Fyrenn flew scouting duty to prevent a collision.
The Gryphons estimated it was no more than a few hours' journey to the nearest station, from which the train had originally come.
All that remained was to deal with the Trolls.
The coupling finally came loose with a satisfying 'CLANK,' at the insistence of Fyrenn and Kephic's claws. The Gryphons signaled Varan, who cranked the Caboose a few hundred yards down the track to the south, away from the box-car.
Stan arrived back at approximately the same time as Varan returned; Between himself and the less bedraggled members of the freed Equines, they had retrieved the group's armor.
Silently, and grimly, the Gryphons suited-up, glittering and menacing plates lending them an almost legendary air. Fyrenn's armor was sleek, chrome-like in appearance with bronze-colored trimming in a similarly burnished material.
Kephic's was of similar design, but the metal resembled brushed aluminum, with the colorless chrome of Fyrenn's armor bearing nearly identical appearance to his trim. Varan's armor was the same combination of colors as Fyrenn's, but more angular, darker, and less shiny, like gunmetal.
All three suits bore the brothers' clan emblem in various places; Fyrenn's was on a foreleg shoulder guard, Kephic's on the upper left of his chest, and Varan's on a wing joint guard.
When they had finished, much to the silent awe of the assembled Ponies, Kephic gestured to Stan, and the caboose, "I think you'd better take them along. They aren't going to want to see what's next."
Stan winced, and quietly did as he was asked. He knew enough about the brothers to know that they, like all Gryphons, took an exceedingly dim view of slavery. And what Gryphons took a dim view of, they seldom allowed to die painlessly.
Fyrenn, Kephic, and Varan stepped into the box-car, expressions murderously calm.
The Alpha spat, missing Fyrenn's back paws by a millimeter, "Foolish Gryphons! Let us go! NOW."
Fyrenn smiled, an intentionally sickly sweet expression, and leaned in close, "Now... Why would we do that? You're not very bright are you... Do you know what the punishment is, in the Kingdoms, for keeping slaves?"
One of the Omegas whimpered, "But! We not in Kingdoms?!"
Kephic inclined his head, nodding, "True, true... But no Gryphon has ever been known to keep a slave... So the law is not really for *us.*"
The Smaller Troll looked up, confused, "No?"
Varan lunged, cutting the movement short a feather's breadth from the Diamond Dog's muzzle, "No. It is for you. As is the punishment."
Fyrenn rounded on the Alpha, a sarcastic note of cheerfulness in his tone, "Death!" He grinned, his beak twisted into an instrument of terrifying lethality, "And not a swift one."
Varan reached outside the car, and hefted a large crate, pilfered from the caboose, into the space. He dropped it with a resounding metallic noise, and the contents spilled out onto the floor. Then the Diamond Dogs understood.
The Omegas promptly soiled themselves in abject terror. Even the alpha looked shaken.
Fyrenn grinned once more, "Not that you could justify what you did to those Ponies... But have you any final words?"
The three Gryphons approached the caboose on claw and paw, walking sedately, and conversing in low tones about the best route home. Stan met them at the stairway to the vehicle, "I almost don't wanna ask but... What did you do to those poor buckers?"
As if in answer, flames burst from the doors and roof of the boxcar, faint screams wafting on the air, along with a uniquely acrid stench, as the coal and oil fed fire within reached critical mass, and melted the weaker portions of the metal down onto the burning occupants.
Fyrenn sighed, "We locked them in their own slave cages."
Kephic nodded, "We didn't feel it was fair to *lock* them in though, so we tied the eyelets of the doors shut with oil soaked hemp. After packing the corners of the car with oil-soaked coal, and dousing everything else inside, we left them each a flint and steel. It seemed the sporting thing..."
Varan raised an eyebrow, "I wonder which of them broke and took his chances first. It would be an intriguing look at the pack dynamic under duress."
Stan shivered, "You know, sometimes I'm afraid to sleep near you guys."
Kephic clapped him on the shoulder, his expression taking on a serious, but comforting bent, the corners of his beak turned up in a sad smile, "You know us better than that. You know the species better than that."
Stan nodded, "I know. But still... You guys are some cold mother... Err... Cold feathered beasties."
Fyrenn glanced over his shoulder, taking in the howls of unquantifiable pain coming from the boxcar, "Oh yes. Won't argue that one."
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Welcome to the wild rumpus. I hope everyone is going to enjoy riding the roller-coaster as much as I'm enjoying making it.
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And here we go~ */Joker*
Mwahahaha <3
Yes.
Hell yes.
Hell fucking yes.
Oh jeez. You make griffons fucking terrifying. Seriously, that's the kind of vindictiveness I'd expect from Raiders from the Fallout universe, not this Proud Warrior Race.
I will read this as soon as I get back from lunch.
2228380
We are not your cutesy little 'angry birds.'
We tend to like to make examples of major offenders.
NO.
2229206
Well I'm trying to re-summarize (in 'brief') to make sure nothing comes as a surprise to OG readers that shouldn't have come as a surprise.
I still don't feel the full effect of the characters is present if one hasn't read OG, but we'll see how it goes.
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Achievement Get: Witty Response
Achievement Get: Godwin's Executor
Achievement Get: Video Response
TRIPLE KILL.
2229315
*hoof waggles* IMO, a good sequel can be read on its own, but may inspire someone to read the earlier book.
2229376
Well, just because it *can* be read on its own does not mean that the *best* experience comes from reading it on its own.
*Shrug* Matter of perspective I s'pose.
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I NEVER DIE.
2229411
Spartans never die George; they just push X to respawn in 15 seconds.
Once again I'm reminded why I loved your gammaverse to begin with. You sir are a sculptor of words, and I cannot wait to see what happens next!
- You want a period where that comma is.
- *These or *The
I have to say, the scale, grandeur, and... well as Dash would say: "Awesomeness" is simply astounding. I look forward to reading more.
So many references! I'm pretty sure I spotted Borg and Hulkbuster references in there, and I'm currently trying to decide if Loryss is inspired by Dolores Umbridge. If she is I am quite prepared to shift all of my hatred onto her - Umbridge is easily one of my most despised characters ever.
2230945
Yes to the first, yes to the second, there is also a Buzz Lightyear nod tucked in somewhere, and yes to Loryss, although there is a great deal of Mrs. Parker from the Pretender (all the bad bits) as well as Congresswoman Bobbi Latham from JAG. If you think you hate her now? Just you wait.
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The encouragement is always appreciated, and I'm glad everyone is enjoying things so far.
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Fyrenn, in the foreground, comes from an image done by my insanely talented sister, who resides here.
I photoshopped the background.
any chance we'll get to see a dragonization? i mean a controlled one not a HLF one.
2229417
30 seconds if they team kill.
2233016
There is a difference between supersonic and creating an actual sonic boom in Equestria.
Pegasus innate magic holds the forces that normally cause a boom in to fuel added speed until mach 4.
Once Mach 4 is broken (as you mentioned, an insanely difficult feat) this force is released violently as the fields holding it in dissipate. The shock-wave carries the remnants of the unique magic field outwards, creating the distinctive patterns.
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What gave you the idea that they are flying at mach 4?
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I'm guessing the mach cone seen before Rainbow Dash hits rainboom speeds.
Also: random idea inspired by the diamond dog train: a Zebra steam locomotive, with built in espresso maker. Among other things, it means the trains can go all day and all night long, with alert engineers.
Also also, seeing how ponies seem to be more comfortable growing stuff than mining, I can see them using more bio fuels (like wood charcoal) than the fossil fuels that diamond dogs likely use.
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You should keep a record of all the references you make in the story, then release the full list once the story is complete so we can play a Where's Wally style game of find-the-reference in the interim between tales.
While I generally don't comment often... anywhere... I couldn't help but notice "Compound Recurve Bow" which, as far as my knowledge of Archery works... isn't any type of bow as the power would be drawn from the Pullies and cables (Compound) or the bending of the frame (Recurve) for the power up to the limit of the frame to handle...
That aside I may as well take the time to convey that I have found all of the gammaverse as I have read so for to be quite enjoyable. Do continue the excellent work!
Too bad...
...you missed a perfect reference to drop there.
8823543
How's that?