Chapter 6
Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
March 8th, Gregorian Calendar
"And the power source?"
"Already integrated into the casing. You'll find that in the usual PO box. The trigger is part of the main driver board, and it's set to go off within an hour of coming online, so make your entry and exit plans accordingly. The Potion is highly concentrated. We've re-enforced the anti-shock coating, but all the same if I were you? I wouldn't jostle the canister."
The Pony, a dull-bronze toned Unicorn, levitated the dangerous cargo to his partner slowly, as if he could convey the volatility of the substance within via the deliberateness of the gesture. The Human, a jacket-clad man in his late thirties, hefted the opaque unassuming cylinder thoughtfully.
"Are you sure this is enough? What about the building's countermeasures?"
The Unicorn shook his head slowly, "We're not targeting the building as a whole. Just the conference room."
The man stopped and glowered in a mixture of concern, curiosity, and confusion, "Why? Full-bore Dispersion Cylinders aren't exactly easy to build these days... With a bigger Potion reservoir we could..."
The Unicorn stopped, and held out a hoof, barring his partner's passage. The pair stood, staring each other down in the center of the white, featureless corridor. The Pony spoke first, his tone surprisingly harsh, "Ours is *not* to question. Ours is to *obey.*" He dipped his muzzle towards the floor, "Wait here. I'll retrieve your passcards and car keys."
The equine ducked into a side-chamber, glaring back at the Human as the door slid closed, "Don't move. Don't touch anything. Don't talk to anyone."
The man stood and fidgeted for several moments. He had no qualms about his capacity to complete his mission; Rather, the PER facility was beginning to weigh on his subconscious. The white plastic-like walls, off-gray floors, and white tiled ceilings made the space feel eerily antiseptic.
Beyond architecture, the personnel were the biggest contributor to the agent's sense of disquiet. The few Humans he had seen coming and going did not speak to him, or to each other. They kept their eyes on the floor and walked with a speed that seemed born of more than just purpose.
The Diamond Dog guards had, as far as he'd seen, all been wearing face-obscuring helmets that gave them a vicious, homogenous, and stark demeanor.
But worst of all by far, in the man's opinion, were the Ponies. They were unlike the members of any PER cell he had ever worked with. His current count was twelve, so he felt qualified to make assessments.
The Equines he had met so far, within the base confines, all seemed to be by his internal terminology 'off.' It was true enough that most PER Ponies seemed perpetually uncomfortable, or tense. But the ones the man had met on the premises of the new facility were different on a deeper level. From *any* Pony.
They seemed cold. As lifeless, antiseptic, and goal-oriented as the skin and bones of the facility itself; The very antithesis of Equine culture, mentality, and even biology.
The man shuffled, and checked his watch. His bronze colored compatriot had been gone for nearly fifteen minutes. He jammed his hands into his pockets, in a futile effort to curtail his pent-up energy.
He might have managed to remain where he was standing until the Pony returned, had he not heard a muffled thump emanating from the chamber across the hall. The door was like all the others in the corridor; Off-white surface with a reflective sheen, a single pastel stripe denoting department, and a number stenciled into the bar in gray.
The man stared at the door, piercing it with his gaze as if willing his eyes to gain the sudden capacity to x-ray the metal and plastic. He was on the cusp of writing the noise off as his imagination, when the thump came once more. And louder.
He slowly removed his hands from his pockets. The man glanced first right, and then left down the corridor. He was alone, save for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights interspersed in the ceiling at regular intervals.
The would-be terrorist crossed the tiles slowly, his sneakers creating a soft squeak on the linoleum that seemed gratingly loud in the absence of louder aural background stimuli.
He had just reached the portal, when there was a soft hiss, and the doors began to slide open. He barely had time to notice that the doors' lighter exterior covering belied a heavier unconventional blast-proof inner-layer as he ducked to the side, and shoved his hands back into his pockets.
To his surprise, two Unicorns exited the room, clad in white biophobic-textile lab coats. They barely offered him a glance as they silently moved into the corridor, and away. Eyes downcast, lips unmoving, muzzles locked in an expressionless thin line.
The man stood, shuffling, his own eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling, until the pit-pad of hooves had receded to inaudibility. The door had already begun to close, and he had to make a flying leap to interpose his hand, and halt the locking cycle. The portal irised back open, infrared sensors detecting the presence of an obstacle.
He stepped gingerly into the room, nearly tripping as his toes found a short set of steps down to a recessed lower floor. He turned about in a full circle, taking stock of the chamber.
It was long, thin, and dark. The walls and floor were a dim shade of gunmetal gray, and lighting came from recessed blue-toned LED floor units. The rear wall was taken up with a holo-console. The side walls, however, provided the most eye-catching feature; Row upon row of peculiar tanks, stilted at a forty degree angle from vertical, and hooked to a bevy of glowing, pulsing, spinning machines at their apexes.
The agent took a cautious step towards one of the tanks, noting the presence of a small plexiglass slit near the top. The cylinders were only half the height of a Human, sans crowning machinery, so the slit was slightly below eye level for him.
The Plexiglass was completely frosted-over. He wiped his sleeve against it, but the frost was obviously on the interior surface. He was on the verge of turning away when the jolt came.
There was a jarring 'THUMP' and something hit the plexiglass, momentarily clearing the frost. The man jumped back reflexively, then peered closely at the slit, unsure of what he was seeing. When he finally processed the image, the reflex to turn and run only increased.
He realized, with growing dread and confusion, that the misshapen object filling the viewport was a Pony muzzle.
The man had nearly reached the exit to the chamber, when the door opened on command from the corridor. He beheld his partner standing in the entryway, framed by the glare from the hall lights.
The Pony spoke with a dour, yet calm, chilling tone, "I told you not to move." He stepped aside gracefully, making room for three new forms in the hatchway.
The center creature was a midnight maned, lavender toned Unicorn; The fluorescents of the ceiling created a striking pattern of star-like lights in her hair that was almost mesmerizing. She was flanked by two Diamond Dogs, complete with unmarked white ceramic PER standard armor, and far less characteristic potion rifles normally wielded by troops on Conversion missions.
She smiled down on the man, then tossed her mane, "Take him. We can always find someone else to deliver his asset."
The man had no time to glean any data from the words. They fell on his ears as though he were deaf. Shortly thereafter, the bright purple bolts of the Potion rifles impacted his chest, the energy passing through textiles, flesh, and bone to deliver aerosolized potion directly to his bloodstream, complete with anesthetic.
As he drifted into unconsciousness, his mind finally began to register the true horror of what was befalling him. He just had time to see the Diamond Dogs eject the casing on an empty tube, and begin to hoist his body inside, before his world went permanently black.
Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
Fourth Month, Tenth Day, Celestial Calendar
Fyrenn found his room exactly as he had left it. The emotions the space evoked were equal parts welcome, and peculiar. He had spent most of his adult life, Human and Gryphon, moving from place to place as part of his military career. He rarely spent any length of time in one set of living quarters, and the last time he had called one truly his own had been decades previous.
It felt strange to step into the warm, welcoming space and be greeted by fond memories and personal possessions. To be home.
At the same time, the sense of belonging brought with it a profound sense of peace. It was easier to live an active, far-roaming life, he had found, when one had a home to return to. Easier both emotionally, and logistically.
The room was reminiscent of the guest quarters he had occupied on his first visit the city, but more expansive; Clearly designed for a longer duration stay. The floor was made of precisely cut stones fitted together in intricate patterns and trimmed at certain junctures with silver and brass.
The center of the asymmetric oval chamber was occupied by a small hearth that mimicked the shape of the floor overall. One entire wall, opposite the entry door, was given over to a crystalline window, that could be opened and closed from both inside and out by means of an intricate clasp of, what most would call, vaguely Celtic design.
Fyrenn glanced left from the window to his desk; A carved oaken piece of furniture with a thin granite top inlaid with a variety of Gryphic patterns in bronze filigree. The contents of surface were fairly neat and tidy. Papers were arranged in small stacks beside a quill made from one of his own molted feathers resting in an inkwell, and a small mage lamp.
At the opposite side of the hearth was his bed. More a nest of pillows on a flat round mattress than anything else. The door to the corridor was closer to the desk than the right wall, and most of the back wall opposite the window was taken up with bookcases and a workbench. A second door on the other side of the stone shelves led to a shower and sink tucked into a cozy alcove.
Betwixt the bookcases and the workbench there was a break, in which stood a frame, hooks, shelves, and drawers, for Fyrenn's weapons and armor.
The red Gryphon peeled off his accoutrements piece by piece, carefully examining each for damage that might need attention, before buffing it with a cloth from the workbench, and placing it lovingly in its place on the rack.
After all of his armor, his bow, and arrows had been closeted, he came at last to his sword. Fyrenn flopped exhaustively into the chair at the workbench, and examined the hilt of the weapon with a fond smile.
The design was a symbolic cutie mark rune for knowledge; A tribute to one of his closest friends whom he had, at the time the blade was forged, thought dead.
As he placed the weapon and its leather scabbard, complete with his clan crest, into the rack, he noticed a small package at the corner of the workbench. He returned to a seated position, and slid the burlap lump entwined in coarse string to the center of the stone table.
One slice of his index talon later, and the cloth fell away to reveal a small steel tool. Fyrenn grinned. He had requested the special corkscrew-like object as a special task from the city's weapon forges.
He unclasped one of the larger drawers beneath the bench, and withdrew his latest project. In his spare time, the Gryphon had taken to putting his Earthly weapons expertise to good use. He had begun to pursue what some were calling a 'career' in tinkering, inventing, and occasionally perfecting, new weapons for the Kingdoms.
His most recent concept was one part smooth steel, one part sharp alloy, one part carved oak, and entirely menacing. He laid the device on the bench, snatched up his new tool in one claw, and fitted the instrument to the business end of the weapon. He gave the object a few clockwise turns, then removed it gingerly, blew away the shavings of steel and peered into the tube.
His sharp eyes were greeted with a consistent grooved screw-like pattern. He grinned once more, a dangerous expression, as he contemplated the potential damage his creation might be capable of.
He sighed, set down the corkscrew, and gave in to his exhaustion, dragging himself to the hearth to set a fire before he took his rest. A small steel bar lay between two of the stones, and he chipped at it with a talon until the sparks ignited the leftover material in the pit, resulting in simmering embers.
Before finally sleeping, he unclasped his window, allowing the crystalline curved slab to fall away into its recessed floor slot. Cool night air flooded into the room, bringing with it the comforting sounds of the mountains and forest beyond.
Fyrenn collapsed lazily into his nest, and sighed.
It was good to be home.
Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
March 9th, Gregorian Calendar
Mr. Utah fiddled absently with his closed cigarette case. The Retribution's torpedo room was, even in his eyes, an unsuitable place to introduce flammable materials.
Mr. Utah was surrounded on his left and right by tall, ominous racks of high-explosive torpedos, their sharp repeating magnetic waveguide fins giving them a dinosaur-like predatory aspect. Behind him was the thin passage to the slightly more expansive rear of the room. Before him, standing beside the launch tube one hatch, his subordinate was busy donning a pressure suit.
"You understand your objective?"
The agent nodded once abruptly, "Perfectly sir."
The suited man twirled the cigarette case, eyeing the gear the agent was busy slithering into. To Mr. Utah, it looked like little more than a mess of dark blue plates and white fabric. The shoulder pads, arm gauntlets, and leg greaves had conspicuous hardpoints on them, obviously for latching some sort of brace into.
"Prepare for silent running. All crew to general quarters." In concert with the announcement, a series of red lights on the bulkhead began to blink, washing out the colors of the torpedo room on and off in favor of a single blood-stained tone.
Mr. Utah's face bore a deathly serious aspect, his aging skin thrown into Lovecraftian relief by the alert lamps. He placed a single hand on the agent's titanium-clad shoulder, "You must not fail. Everything hinges on your success."
The man nodded a second time, again a single abrupt motion, "Understood."
Mr. Utah stepped back into the corridor as a pair of seamen squeezed into the weapon room, and began strapping the agent into a cylindrical metallic frame, bolting the superstructure to his armor via the external hardpoints.
Mr. Utah turned, and began making his way to the bridge as the seamen hoisted the cylindrical frame, agent and all, towards torpedo tube one.
He arrived just as the Captain did, and took up a position near the central scope to observe the first of several mission-critical phases. The agent that the HLF was about to commit to his daring plan was an incredibly rare and unique asset. If he died during phase-I of the operation it would not simply mean an end to the mission, but to Mr. Utah's career as well.
The Captain nodded in acknowledgement of Utah's presence, then turned to face the forward consoles of the bridge, "Helm, make your depth one-five-eight. XO, rig the boat for stealth. Weapons, prepare a firing solution."
The executive officer clasped both hands behind her back, and stepped forward, repeating the orders in a loud, staccato military cadence, "HELM! make depth *one-five-eight!* WEAPONS! prepare *firing* solution!" She reached up and snatched a microphone/headphone device from an overheat holder, tucking it behind her ear, "Rig ship for stealth! Main reactor to standby/silent, open all capacitor junctions for backup power. All crew to silence stations. Secure exterior ports and shutdown communication suites. EM restrictions in effect!"
Several moments of tense silence passed before the officer manning the operations terminal turned to the command platform, "Sir, ship reports rigged for stealth."
The helmsman spoke next, keeping her eyes fixed on the depth gauge as she manipulated the diving plane controls with a feather-light touch, "Depth is one-five-eight and steady. Speed zero-five knots."
The Captain turned to the tactical alcove, staring over the shoulders of the two aiming officers as their faces were cast in the eerie glow of a dozen holoscreens and backlit keypads, "Weapons?"
After several more seconds of quiet typing, the senior tactical officer nodded once, and glanced up, "Firing solution prepared sir. Tubes set for eight degree up-angle. Mags charged at thirty percent nominal. Torpedo room reports hatch shut, package loaded. Tube flooded, ready to fire."
The Captain spared a short nervous glance in Mr. Utah's direction, before folding his arms, and sighing, "Computer;
Weapons posture one. Release torpedo maglocks. Safeties off."
He paused. After an acknowledging tri-tone from the bridge speakers, he threw a forward gesture at the tactical alcove with one hand, "Fire one."
"Firing one!"
There was a faint, but noticeable vibration in the deck plating, but otherwise absolute silence. Five seconds passed. Then ten. Then twenty. Finally, the communications officer gave an 'ok sign, "We have a heartbeat from the casket. Package intact, and the frame is ascending."
Mr. Utah smiled, ever so slightly, and withdrew his lighter. As he prepared his traditional nicotine stress release, the Captain sighed with relief, "Helm, make depth four-five above bottom, and move us away to the South. Manhattan harbor is a chancy place for a long-term stay."
Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
Fourth Month, Eleventh Day, Celestial Calendar
By the time Fyrenn arrived in the Library, still licking the edges of his beak to remove the last traces of his brown bread and shrimp breakfast, the rest of his companions had already arrived.
Tih’ré Seli’hn's library was legendary outside the bounds of the Kingdoms. While the subject matter was decidedly different than that of the Canterlot Archives, the size was nearly equal. The central chamber of the repository was a five story domed room, off of which jutted four vaulted chambers, four stories tall and wide enough for three Gryphons to stand with wings outstretched.
The dome of the center space mimicked the light conditions and color of the sky outside by use of advanced fiber-optic-like light trickery and well crafted lenses.
Each of the four main halls not only had bookshelves, pigeonholes, and locked compartments of their own, but the floors above the 'ground' level recessed back into the rock, leading to a warren of bookstacks, cubbies, and rooms.
Fyrenn loved the library. Curling up with an ancient scroll, or a new piece of fictional literature, wasn't just an experience in absorbing more of his new culture. When he was in the library, he felt as if the tomes that surrounded him were a direct link to history itself. The smell of the paper was mixed with the rich undertones of leather bindings and covers, the tang of ink, and a comforting whiff of sun-warmed feathers.
The red Gryphon shook himself, trying to turn down the intensity of his 'goofy' smile as he approached his friends and family. Kephic, Varan, Carradan, a Gryphon he didn't recognize, and Sildinar were all gathered around a large stone table near the base of a supporting arch in one of the vaulted antechambers.
As he approached, Fyrenn could see that they were talking in hushed tones about the documents the group had seized, which were strewn across the table in a messy overlapping hash, along with several sheets of scratch paper, quills, and inkwells.
Fyrenn stood on his hind legs and placed both foreclaws on the table, "So... Where do we begin?"
Sildinar gestured to the unfamiliar male Gryphon. His feathers were pleasant shades of brown, ranging from dark to light in stripes reminiscent of a barred owl, "Fyrenn, this is Tenek. He is a master mathematician and linguist."
Fyrenn extended a claw, smiling, "Glad to know someone has the numbers covered."
Tenek chuckled as he exchanged a clawshake, "You are not fond of arithmetic?"
Fyrenn snorted and shook his head, "Math is wonderful, and incredible, and ever-useful... As long as *I* don't have to do it. I can mess up even the most basic long division. I just don't have a head for numbers."
Tenek nodded slowly, "Well then as you say; It's good that you have me. From what little I've seen so far, I can tell you that this code is no simple cipher. It is based on well thought out equations and will not be easy to crack."
Carradan snapped a forehoof against the stone floor, "Then we'd best get cracking."
Varan glowered, "That was reprehensible. You are forbidden from speaking."
The salmon Pegasus rolled his eyes, "Who's going to stop me?"
Varan smiled slightly, and returned his attention to Tenek.
The latter nodded slowly, looking mildly bemused, "Quite... Well in order to make a start on these I shall need several volumes."
Fyrenn jerked his head at Sildinar, "We can fetch those."
Tenek glanced between Kephic and Varan, "I will also need a large abacus, and further stores of scrap paper, if you would be so kind."
Stanley cocked his head, "And me?"
Tenek gestured to the quill and paper, "Your cutie mark identifies you as someone familiar with writing. It will make all our lives easier if you handle the quill, while I juggle the numbers."
Carradan smiled, "Long as you don't mind if its all in common. I'm gettin' pretty 'handy' with my hoof writing."
Varan inhaled slowly, and deeply, "But no better with your sense of humor."
The two Gryphons worked in silence for several moments, before Fyrenn finally spoke, "Things on Earth sound like they've taken a turn for the worse."
Sildinar shrugged his wings as he rifled through a collection of scrolls, "Climates fluxuate. The situation is bad. But not irrecoverable by any means."
Fyrenn nodded slowly, "Hutch? Aston? Seyal? How are they getting along?"
The roan Gryphon smiled slightly, "General Hutchinson is exceedingly busy, but otherwise as well as can be expected for a man losing his city. Aston is still in the thick of things, but the last I heard of her she had plans to seek a sponsor for Conversion. She would be a welcome addition here."
Sildinar's smile took on a wistful air, "Seyal... She is well." He shook himself, and abruptly changed the focus of the topic, "Neyla too."
Fyrenn turned away abruptly, and began hovering beside a third story shelf, "Oh?" He did his best to remove any hint of interest or emotion from his tone. He failed miserably.
Sildinar grinned, "Oh yes. She's in a Scalebuster unit now. Highest kill-count in her division. She is a quick study, of weapons and culture both."
The red Gryphon nodded again, keeping his eyes fixed intently on the book before him; 'Airstreams: The Dynamics of Thermoclines.'
"Enjoying food, fun, and very big guns is she?"
"In my estimation?" Sildinar laid down his scroll, and folded his forelegs, standing entirely on his hind limbs. Fyrenn landed, and turned to face him.
The Gryphic prince eyed his younger companion knowingly, "Enjoying...? I suppose. But not as much as she ought be. The word I might use is 'melancholy.' "
The corners of Fyrenn's beak turned down slightly, "Oh. Well... I'm sorry to hear that." He sighed, and began leafing through the book he had withdrawn, "Here's hoping things improve for her."
Fyrenn snapped the book shut, and strode off down the corridor, trying to appear nonchalant. Sildinar twirled his scroll absently, and murmured as he set off after his friend, "You'll have to do more than hope, I think."
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2283336
Our diets range quite a bit, fish is a staple but not *always* present.
2284606
Youuuuullllll seeeee....
2285370
If the parents pass, the children get in on that.
We value family bonds highly.
2345833
Perhaps. There is plenty of room for new and clever killing machines in future.
okay cupid honestly i don't think the arrows are working here. better get the love surface to air guided missles.
There seems to be a LOT of background plotting. I wanna see when Murphy's law actually comes into play... Maybe even Finagle's, with Equestria on the sidelines watching as Earth collapses into disarray... I think that'd make a good Apoco story, dont'cha think?
2354555
Status Quo is just another term for; 'making a situation normative... so I can blow it up all the bigger.'
Oh don't you fret.
2358438
My stories run *long.*
It takes time for the first big 'uh ohs' to generate. On both sides.
As for Murphy and Finagle, I take more 'quantum' model approach to my worlds, allowing events to fall out due to motivations, and then re-factoring motivations as a result, then using the new motivations to generate events and so forth.
2358533 Thank whatever deity pleases you, I guess. I have much re-assurance now that this story will please me for the coming ages... Ahh, I can already taste the epicness!