Isaac Clarke awakens on Titan Station in the middle of a new outbreak. Will his faltering mind allow him to overcome his guilt and pain, or will he forever remain captive to the machinations of the Marker?
Rated Teen for strong language and violence. Disclaimer: I do not own Dead Space 2 or MLP:FiM. Also, some dialogue is taken from the game.
She was speaking to you through a lighted haze that spread out into a starless void. Alone, a syringe to her arm. The arm you’d kissed so many times.
The memory hurt. You didn’t want to be reminded of this, the moment she’d given up. It was this stick-up-the-ass prick sitting across the desk in front of you, this corporate fucking psychiatrist talking business, who was forcing you to bag and vacuum seal the only thing that had ever really mattered to you.
I loved you spoke the frightened voice of the memory. I always loved you. She faded with the haze into the darkness.
The psychiatrist was tapping at his keyboard, his face lit orange by the translucent view screen. “Yes,” he said, looking you in the eye. “Nicole Brennan. She was a senior medical officer stationed aboard a planet-cracker class vessel.”
Planet-cracker … the colony ... something horrible had happened aboard the …
The memories were distant, some of them too distant for you to recall. But the name, the name was almost there.
You shake your head. Your mind seemed like a chalkboard that had just been erased; the words and equations were all there, blurred and out of focus, but you could still read them if you took your time and squinted.
“The Ishimura,” you mutter. That was the name.
“The USG Ishimura,” corrected the psychiatrist. “Yes. Part of a mining operation on Aegis VII …”
You stopped listening. It was all part of the routine. The same routine that had been repeated for God knew how long. Remember, forget. Remember, forget.
“You were part of the repair mission, a mission for which you volunteered, am I right?” Of course you’re right, dumbass. You say the same goddamn things every time.
“What did you find aboard that ship, Isaac?”
“I found something …” What was it? It was right there, at the edges of your thoughts. Well-engineered. Intricate. How could you forget it?
“What did they find aboard the ship, Isaac?”
A vision of the twisted red monolith flashed into view. Someone … Nicole? Someone was standing in front of it. “A Marker.”
The psychiatrist was leaning forward now. “Did you have contact with this … Marker? It made you see things, didn’t it? Things you didn’t want to see.”
Nicole flashed into view again, slowly walking towards you out of the pulsing, ruddy glow of the Marker. Her face was … oh God, Nicole, what happened to you?
The psychiatrist babbled on, his questions fading away. All you could think about was the hunger that seemed reflected in Nicole’s battered face, in her bearing, in her vicious glare as she approached. The Marker had taken her. Remade her. She stepped up onto the desk, unnoticed by the shrink, her splayed thigh cutting off your vision.
It never played out like this. She never got this close. The pain was never so crystal clear.
She was gazing down on you like a predatory cat, her own blood running down her pale face. Her sleeves were black up to the elbows. There was nothing but her. Nothing but her and the Marker commanding you in Nicole’s changed, hissing voice.
Make us whole.
***
You snap awake, jolted by the sound of a whoop and a crash. Awake? So it seemed, or at least your mind had finally decided to kick off a different dream. There was a light … someone was shining a light in your face.
You blink rapidly, trying to force your eyes to adjust faster. Your head felt like all the hangovers you’d ever experienced had invited themselves back for a surprise encore, all at once. That was real enough.
One thing is certain; the wraith masquerading as Nicole is gone.
You can’t help but smile. Somehow, despite the record of memories skipping for so long, as frightening as the visions had been sometimes, you had kept your sanity. You chalk it up to the small mercy of whatever sadistic powers controlled the universe; Nicole had at least never appeared to you as a necromorph. Seeing those feelers poking out of her ruined face, or fighting off the stench of decaying flesh and the crooked sword-like limbs sprouting out of her back, swinging and driving to impale you - that would have been a one-way ticket to loony tunes city.
Goddamn necromorphs. While the finer details of exactly what had happened aboard the Ishimura were still lost in the noise of your thoughts, the ordeal of being relentlessly assaulted by the mutated, reanimated corpses for days had made that particular aspect hard to forget.
“Isaac. Isaac, can you hear me?” whispers a young man’s voice from the light. Somebody here knew you, wherever ‘here’ was. He sounds nervous, or maybe excited, or both. You could feel him snapping his fingers a few inches from your nose.
“Daina,” he calls quietly. Who was Daina? You hear a noise, a soft shifting off to your right. Was there someone else in the room?
“… I have Isaac Clarke. Repeat, I found him.” The guy was still whispering. There had to be someone nearby, but so far that didn’t jive with the conversation.
“Great work Franco…” a woman said through a hiss of static. Of course. Radio. You can just make out Franco’s old-fashioned transceiver strapped to his chest. The man looked like he’d tossed down one too many espressos. “Be careful. He’s been out a long time,” came Daina’s voice again, full of concern and anticipation.
Franco grips your shoulders and pulls you up. You can’t remember the last time you stood, and neither could your legs. You try to reach to hold onto Franco’s elbow for support, but something was holding back your arm. “OK, good, good, steady,” says Franco. “We gotta get you out of this straightjacket.”
Straightjacket? Shit. “Where … where am I?” you ask, expecting the worst. God you sounded bad.
Franco was examining the buckles and clips that fastened your sleeves to your ribs. “All right,” he was stammering, “I know you’re confused right now, but I can explain everything but you gotta trust me, OK? Listen, something wonderful is about to happen. Is happening, right now. As soon as I get you loose I’m going to take you to the, wait, what was that?”
Something knocks against the ceiling. Franco looks up into the bright white LED lights, letting you go to shield his eyes. Elation dawns on his face, and he reaches up as if worshiping some unseen idol. “All hail Princess …” he manages to cry before going down under a torrent of colorful candies dumped on him from above.
You look up quickly, trying to detect the source of the attack. All you can see are flapping wings, and that’s all you need to see.
“Shit. Shit. Shit,” you hiss as you scramble over Franco, whose flailing arms and legs were slowly being buried beneath the growing mound of candy.
“Franco? Oh Celes … oh, oh God. Isaac!” you hear Daina’s muffled voice trailing away behind you. No time to listen to her. You appraise the situation as you hurtle out of the gray-walled room, nearly slipping on a tumbling trail of tootsie rolls.
Patients are everywhere, most of them bound in straightjackets like you. Some are kneeling or sitting cross-legged on the floor, giggling and laughing and singing songs. One or two are playing patty cake with … what the fuck are those things?
You’re only able to take a quick glance as you rush through looking for an escape route. Big heads, big eyes, long hair. Bodies like … like ponies or something, all colors of the rainbow, like out of some over-the-top happy fairy tale. Lucky charms, Isaac. Lucky fucking charms.
One of them spots you with its enormous, sparkling teal eyes. Its disturbingly intelligent eyes. It reaches for you as you run past with its … yup. Those were hooves. “Don’t touch me! Don’t you little bastards touch me!” you yell, ramming it with your shoulder.
It was like the Marker had taken a stable of baby horses and a box of Crayolas and went its usual mix-and-match apeshit.
You dodge as one of the creatures charges down the center of the hallway pushing a patient in a wheelchair, a cut, military-looking guy with glittery pink stars painted on his straightjacket and a big grin on his face. “Whee!” he laughs. He was kicking his legs in glee.
No way you were ending up like that. No way in hell. You turn a corner and look to the end of the hallway, struggling to catch your breath. There’s your salvation; a set of reinforced sliding security doors, unobstructed and unlocked. Now just to …
Two wiry blue forelegs burst through a door to your left, wrapping around your waist in a gentle embrace. “Looks like somepony needs a hug!” giggles a cheerful voice. A soft, round face begins nuzzling your elbow.
Your eye twitches, like it does when you spend half an hour trying to get a solder joint to fix. The little winged horse is talking to you, Isaac. She wants to be chums. Pals.
She called you a pony.
“Shut up! Shut up! I know what you are! You bastards aren’t butchering me. Not today.”
She was trying to pull you away from the security door, flapping her wings and dragging downward at your waist. You stumble forward foot by foot, defying the unwieldy mass clamped to your midsection.
As you get to the door, the creature finally manages to pull you down. You topple through and land hard on your side. She falls on top of you, smiling as she tenderly brushes her pink-and-white striped mane out of your face. “Don’t be scared,” she says. “Sorry about the bump. My name’s Sweet Breeze. What’s yours?”
You seize the opportunity. Somehow you get your knee underneath her and shove her through the door. As she squirms back to you, the sliding panels bang together against her head.
“Ouch!” she squeaks, withdrawing to the other side. Before the panels slam shut, you catch a glimpse of tiny stars circling above her ears. Her eyes had gone all googly.
You crouch against the wall, alone at last, fighting your fear and exhaustion. There was no way what you just saw was real. Your mind must have deteriorated over however long you’d been locked up in that cell; the constant brutality and despair, the endless interrogations and demands of the Marker had finally broken you down.
Not good. You had lost the ability to see the horror for what it really was.
But you’re alive, sane or not. That meant there was still hope, still a chance to find a way to clean up this godforsaken mess. You sigh and struggle to your feet. It was times like this that you wish you were able to just call it good enough, like the innumerable EarthGov parasite contractors you’d had to deal with. Yeah, some credit-soaking coaster, living for weekend nights at the bar. Never mind your future as a raving homicidal corpse.
You inch down the hallway, annoyed by the flickering ceiling lights. It’s too quiet. There are no patients in this section, and no fairy ponies, although you spot a pencil sketch of one of the winged ones on a set of medical charts tacked to the wall. What were those called? You think back to a Gen Ed course you’d been forced to take in Greek mythology, way back as an undergrad. Perseus, pegathon … pegasus, that was it. A few minutes ago you had nearly been captured by a bright blue, friendly, miniature pegasus. Perfect.
You scan the darkened doorways of the seemingly empty hospital rooms as you proceed, wary of another ambush. Every few minutes something bumps or crashes far behind you, or above in the air ducts. Loose papers, gauze, pillows and other medical supplies litter the floor. You’re careful to avoid them. The last thing you need right now is a twisted ankle.
The corridor branches left and right ahead, but the left passage is barred by a locked security door. From the right, you can hear the echoes of pleasant laughter. More ponies. You creep to the edge of the corner and chance a look.
Two big, uniformed EarthGov guards were sitting side by side on the floor, legs outstretched, munching on what looked like pink cotton candy. They were covered in it. Their assault rifles lay behind them, the barrels and actions jammed to bursting with the thick fluff. The guards were flanked by two ponies, who were resting on their haunches and chatting while they played with their manes.
“Don’t eat too much you two,” says the one nearest to you, an orange-colored female. No wings. She and her companion seemed to be tending the guards. “You want to have some room left in your tummies for dinner, don't you? Scroll Whisper will be here any minute with some fresh, hoof-picked carrots. I think she said she was even going to bring an apple or two. How does that sound?”
The guards mumble something unintelligible through their full mouths and keep eating. The orange pony rolls her eyes and turns to resume her conversation.
You’re not sure what to do. They’re blocking the only obvious path out of the hospital, and sooner or later the pandemonium you left behind was going to catch up with you. You spot a roll of toilet paper and are about to kick it as a distraction when both ponies go quiet and look down one of the hallways branching from their location.
The orange pony waves a foreleg and smiles. “Hi Scroll Whisper! Just in time. Our new friends here are starving!”
“Hi Marmalade. Hi Sprout,” calls a new voice. You stifle a groan as a stubby horn pokes into view, followed by a pudgy, lavender face. A unicorn. Why not?
The newcomer, Scroll Whisper apparently, stops and looks over the guards with her huge amber eyes. “A little hungry, huh?" she asks, "Well, let's see if we can take care of that. But first, could you two step back a little? I've only done this spell two or three times. I’m not sure how it would affect you if my aim is off and you get caught up in it.”
Wait. Spell? Here we go.
Marmalade and Sprout – you always did have a healthy imagination – stand aside, giggling. “This is so exciting!” whispers Sprout.
Scroll Whisper closes her eyes and sticks out her tongue. An amber glow surrounds her little horn. The light intensifies for a few moments, then bursts and projects forward in a sparkling beam.
You can’t look away, as ridiculous as it is. The hallucinations your mind was creating were actually kind of pleasant to look at.
The beam hits the guards, and expands into a shimmering translucent cloud. The men look up, dropping their handfuls of cotton candy. For a full minute, nothing happens.
Then they begin to shrink within their clothing, their limbs melting and reforming, changing in proportion and absorbing their hands. Short, colored hair rises in thick patches from their skin, which grow and coalesce into slick, uniform coats. Their skulls twist and elongate into blunt snouts, and their eyes … God, their eyes.
You bend down, back behind the corner, and vomit as quietly as you can. You dare not turn back and look again. Poor bastards.
It’s silent for a few more moments. You wonder in fear whether they heard you gagging and had come to look. Then you hear Scroll Whisper’s melodic voice.
“Hey fellas, look what I brought in my saddle bag! Three carrots each and an apple!
“Yum!”
“Let me at ‘em!”
You feel the nausea and despair rise in your stomach again. They were so excited, and over nothing but a few fruits and vegetables. You can hear them crunching and slobbering.
Scroll Whisper keeps talking as they eat. “Say, when you colts are done, you want to help us make some new friends?”
The sound of chewing pauses for a moment. “Sure! Let’s go!”
“Great!” says Scroll Whisper. “Later on we’ll take you to meet the Princess. She wants to get to know all of her subjects.” After a while it grows quiet again, and you hear hoofsteps circling, clanking on the metal floorplates.
“Ready to go? Ready to go?” you hear Marmalade ask. You grind your teeth as you picture the impatience on her sickly sweet face.
“Heck yeah! Lead on,” answers one of the newly made colts.
“Here we go,” says Scroll Whisper. There’s a pop and an amber flash of light, then silence.
You wait what you guess is five minutes, then look back around the corner. They’re gone.
Your legs feel hollow, and your gut is still churning. You’ve seen this before. You’ve seen this. The images come reluctantly, flickering in the static noise of your memories. There had been a type of necromorph, back on the Ishimura, that would flop around reanimating bodies, mutating them into killing machines. Hard buggers to kill, and quicker than they looked.
You bang your head against the wall. You had always been in control, always a step ahead. You could do this. You had to keep going. You couldn’t let the delusions, no matter how warm and fuzzy, trick you into letting your guard down.
No, those had definitely not been frolicking little pony creatures, sharing food and making friends. They were necromorphs, they were killing people, and they were infecting their corpses.
A strong, confident voice crackles out of an unseen loudspeaker, hidden somewhere in the shadows above you.
“This is Director Tiedemann to all project personnel. I want the key subjects terminated and the facility scrubbed. This is not a drill. Tiedemann out.”
Message short and to the point. Finally, someone with a normal human brain. You step carefully past the spot where the guards had met their end, eyeing their gummed-up assault rifles and bunched silver uniforms in the dim light. Director Tiedemann, is it? The key subjects better watch their asses. Sounds like he means business.
The guns are a lost cause. There’s no way to pick the weapons up, hampered as you are by the straitjacket. Even if you could, that cotton candy had probably come out of Marmalade’s cute little knapsack. Not with the world’s longest ramrod would you try reaming that shit out.
Director Tiedemann’s message repeats itself as you move past the carnage, echoing from the dripping concrete walls and hissing steam pipes. You couldn’t see the mess for what it was, the severed limbs still wrapped in the tangled uniforms, the splatters and streaks of thickening blood covering the floor and walls. But it was there. And the bodies … who could tell where or what they really were now? Maybe that was why you had woken up in what was obviously a psychiatric ward. Hell, someone with delusions as extensive as yours deserves to be quarantined.
"I want the key subjects terminated …”
Tiedemann’s voice follows you up a corrugated metal staircase and into a short hallway. There’s only one door available to you. As you wait for it to slide open, you glance up at the gleaming white sign fixed above it: Observation Room.
The office beyond is as dark as the hallway, except for the pale blue glow of a single computer monitor. A clip of some kind of video playback is flickering on the abandoned screen. Whoever had loaded it had been here only minutes ago, it seems. You stop to listen, curious as to what someone had thought important enough to watch in the middle of all this insanity.
“Subject is Nolan Stross. Extension 158 …”
That voice. It’s the psychiatrist, the one who had terrorized your dreams for months. Or was it years? The same one who had barked at you for answers, smirking at the way you described Nicole for him as he took notes. Now here he was, pacing behind another sorry-looking dude asking more of his goddamned questions.
You kick the side panel of the desk holding the monitor. If your arms were free, you would throw the screen against the wall hard enough for that asshole to feel it.
The other guy’s face, someone you hadn’t seen before, was directly in front of the camera. The doctor was still giving orders.
“… let’s talk about what you saw today. Come on Stross, I’m here to help you.” Right. Help you go from third rate to first rate nutjob.
Stross choked quietly, his dark eyes searching as he struggled to remember, to find the words. “She was blue. Dark blue with a sparkling blue mane. She whispered to me.” You look down. This was tough to watch. Too close to home.
The psychiatrist leaned in close and hissed in Stross’s ear, “And what did the pony princess whisper to you? Come on Stross, what?”
Pony princess? There was something about a princess, something familiar …
“I, I can’t remember,” answered Stross. He started raising his voice. “She, she put so much stuff in my head, so much shit in my head. Promises of … happiness, joy, harmony forever. There’s no room for anything else. I can’t remember what she looks like. I can’t remember what she …”
The psychiatrist was pacing again, his padded cotton clinician’s shirt white against the gray tiles of the wall behind him. His face was out of view. “The princess, Stross! What did the princess tell you?”
“She told me I could be like her! That I could be a, a pony. Like her. Fucker.”
An impatient sigh. “Put Mr. Stross back in stasis, adjust his medication up 30 milligrams, and we’ll try another session first thing in the morning.” The screen flickers and the clip restarts from the beginning. “Subject is Nolan Stross. Extension 158 …”
Well that was messed up. The guy hadn’t even pretended to be professional, like he thought his little interrogation was some mildly amusing cat and mouse routine. This had to be before the outbreak, or else doctor douchebag would have been hanging on Stross’s every word. If anyone needed five minutes alone with a necromorph, it was that guy.
No, that wasn’t true. You couldn’t really wish that on anybody. You back away slowly from the desk, ignoring the canned voices. Whoever Nolan Stross was, clearly he shared your mental delusions. Could he be another survivor of a necromorph infestation? And why fairy ponies, of all things? Why not munchkins, like from the Wizard of Oz? Why not just normal, psychopathic humans? You’d personally met more than enough of those to fuel some good hallucinatory episodes. Were you that sensitized to violence, so much so that your brain had to transform it into something la-la sweet?
Well, you wouldn’t find the answers standing here with your thumb up your ass. You start humming “Over the Rainbow” as you tread as quietly as you can to the exit on the opposite side of the room. You used to hum and sing to yourself when working under serious deadlines, in better days, back when the world made sense. It helped, sometimes.
You pass through another tight, low-ceilinged hallway. Whoever had designed this facility obviously did not have had comfort and ease of mobility as their top priorities. Again, only two ways in and out. If a pack of pon… necromorphs happened to crash through the door you were approaching, you’d be up brown creek. Extra chunks.
Nothing. Not so much as a nicker. The door opens into a dark office, styled much the same as the Observation Room. Desks, monitors and not much in between. In the low, pale light you can see that the far wall holds panel windows overlooking an unlit, empty space below.
Out of the corner of your eye, you spot him. A solitary, white-clad figure standing with his back to you, staring through the windows into the darkness. Could it be Director Tiedemann? Thank God, someone you could talk to, who might be able to help you put a stop to this nightmare. You approach him quickly, eager to make your introduction and maybe get some much needed details as to how necromorphs had cropped up … wherever this was.
Before you can call out a greeting, you notice that he’s already watching you. He was watching you the whole time.
He lunges, gripping the back of your neck and spinning you around. You fight for a few seconds, trying to regain enough of your balance to launch a knee at his groin, but it’s a losing battle. You’re the one sporting a straitjacket.
His other hand comes up. Shit. He’s got something cold and hard pressed against your neck. There’s only one avenue left, and it isn’t a promising one.
“Come on, man,” you say as you give one last shake, trying to make it seem like you were a couple of pals dicking around.
Your captor chuckles in your ear as you strain to get a better view. “Patient four. I remember you.”
Of course. The good doctor. He continues talking, studying your face while reinforcing his grip on your neck, “Tiedemann said all the key subjects had to be eliminated. Terminated.” You could see his eyes in the darkness, small and livid. Not daring to look away, your peripheral vision catches dark, irregular stains covering the front of his shirt. Two and two meet up in your mind. You’re one of the key subjects.
He goes on laughing and babbling manically, but he hasn’t cut you yet. Maybe you can calm him down. “Listen … listen to me,” you begin, easing into it. “We can both get out of here. Just, just cut me out of this straitjacket.”
He holds your gaze, speaking through a brilliant smile: “No one’s getting out of here alive. No one.”
Oh fuck. This is it Isaac.
The white-sleeved arm arcs downward. It isn’t happening. It isn’t real. Your mind retreats from what’s about to happen. You shut it all out, squeezing your eyes closed, falling down into the darkness, turning away.
I’m sorry, Nicole. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.
Something hard jabs into your gut and twists in place. There’s a click, and your arms slip free.
The doctor takes a step back, grinning playfully, appraising you. “There’s no escaping from what I’ve done.”
“Just take it easy, buddy, take it easy,” you say. You’d gotten lucky. Now the trick was to coax him away from any lingering bloodlust.
“Your RIG is red,” he replies, a hint of sanity flickering in his eyes. “It’s red.”
Sad state of affairs, Isaac. You had forgotten about the health status indicator fixed to your back, and all of the other modules making up your resource integration gear set. Spending the past few minutes being chased by necromorphs might have had something to do with your lapse in memory. Or maybe it was the eternity of drugs and stasis you’d awoken from just prior.
In any case, he’s probably right. You must have gotten beat up pretty bad making your break from the psych ward, though it had only seemed like a brief tussle with a pegasus.
He points to a tall yellow cabinet standing against the wall opposite the windows. “There’s a health pack and a flashlight in that wall locker. You should grab them.”
If he was going to attack again, distracting you would be pointless. You risk a glance at the cabinet. The flashlight may be a bit of a liability – you’ll have to use that judiciously so as not to give away your position – but the health pack was another story. You could almost feel the warm blue gel already, absorbing and spreading through your bruised skin and muscles.
You walk to the locker and open it. Sure enough, small med pack, flashlight. As promised.
“Go ‘head. Take it. I won’t be needing them any more.”
You turn to thank him, anxious to hear his thoughts on what your options are. He might know where to find some weapons, or other survivors. Or if you’re really lucky, some anti-hallucinatory meds.
He’s gone back to the window, the force of his gaze pinning you where you stand. “Isaac, we’re all going to burn for what we did to you.” Before you can call out to him to wait, to tell him that there was still hope, before you can do anything, he raises the knife to his throat, and pressing hard, draws it across leaving a dark red line. Again he cuts.
You cringe, waiting for him to collapse. No matter how much violence you see, you’re never prepared. Paralyzed and sickened, you reach out, powerless to forestall another death.
Something is off this time, though. The blood, a severed jugular, the blood should be…
Slowly you realize that it’s not a knife he’s holding. It’s a red marker. He rubs it all over his face, leaving a tangled scribble like a kindergartner’s drawing. “Look you motherfuckers! Look! I’m already one of you, so come and get me. Come and get me!”
He falls with his back against the glass, sliding to the floor and blubbering. A dull silver key slips out of his grip.
“I’m a pony. I’m already a pony.” He starts coloring his hands, line by red, narrow line.
You reach out, palm upturned in truce. Taking a slow step forward, you direct your flashlight at the fallen man’s chest to make sure he hadn’t really done anything to hurt himself. The light catches his hands and puffy eyes, along with his red-streaked uniform. He doesn’t look up.
“Hey buddy, listen, it’s all right. It’s all right. You’re not alone. Just calm down and talk to me.”
“Already a pony, already a pony,” he was sobbing to the floor. He sniffs hard and continues coloring his hands and wrists. “They were right … it’s the better way. The only way. Please Princess, come for me soon. I’m ready. You’ll be so happy when you see how ready I am. Already … already … please, please …”
On he goes, whispering and mumbling in and out of pleas and promises. You shake your head. Poor guy had spent too long trying to understand nutjobs like you.
There’s a bump, maybe the sound of a metal ceiling fixture falling in the hallway you’d passed through on entering the room. You look down at the flashlight in your hand, then at the doctor. He was still cowering beneath the window.
You run back to the door. Its motor control circuit was pretty much just two wires and a relay, but there was no time to hack it. Shuffling to one of the nearby desks, you upend it and slide it in front of the doorframe.
There. Would that stop a necromorph? Maybe if it really were a pony. You turn and rush past the doctor, leaving him to his fate.
The exit next to him slides upward and you step through. The floor slopes down, leading to an elevator. Before you can reach it, audio begins to sputter through your RIG’s telecomms. A washed-out blue projection blinks into view a few feet in front of your face.
It’s a woman, already talking through the static. Her pinched features and penetrating gaze waver next to the elevator door. “Clarke – Isaac Clarke, is that you?”
“Who are you?” you all but shout. You weren’t in the most trusting frame of mind, having just finished with someone who had held you captive with a dry erase marker.
“My name is Daina. I’m the one trying to rescue you…”
Daina. That’s right, you’d heard her talking to Franco back in the psych ward before those flying necromorphs had killed him. “Why? What’s going on?” you ask. Maybe, just maybe she would stay sane, at least long enough for you to get some straight answers. You get into the elevator and punch the down arrow.
“You’re suffering from a unique form of dementia, Isaac,” she replies, “something you contracted on Aegis VII.”
Aegis VII, the mining colony, where all of this had started. Where the colonists had … had …
Prepared the bodies
Pain flares behind your eyes, the hiss of the whispers cutting through the haze of your uncertain past. Images flash in your mind’s eye, bloody arms raised, waving with inhuman purpose, helpless victims being hacked, dismembered, impaled where they trembled …
This time you do shout. “How do you know that? How do you know all this about me?”
Was that a smirk on her face? “Your dementia will kill you,” she said. “But if you get here I can treat you and get you to safety.”
This was going nowhere. “Why should I trust you?” you ask. Why should you trust anyone at this point? You couldn’t even trust yourself.
“Because I’m not the one shooting at you.”
Good enough, but not really. No one had actually sent heat your way yet, but given Tiedemann’s orders the guards probably would have had they not been distracted by all that cotton candy. “Fuck.”
“Just follow the route I’m sending you.” Her face turns to the side. Was that another voice she was answering? There was someone behind her …
The image bounces and recedes into static. Some help that was. Well, she was trying to keep you alive, at least. What’s more, she hadn’t referred to ponies or anything even slightly pony-related. Maybe she really was able to help you see past the delusions.
The elevator grinds to a halt, and the door opens into a black, silent room. Was this facility on some kind of permanent fucking cost saving program? You click your flashlight on and proceed into a maze of chairs and lunch tables.
Piles of clothes lay tangled on the floor. Apples, carrots and daisy chains mingle with empty white blouses, shirts and pants. You cover your mouth and nose instinctively, shielding against the odor of blood and decay your sick mind refuses to register. As you sweep the flashlight from right to left, your elbow knocks a paper cup to the floor. The echoes of its hollow tapping are the only sounds you can pick out from the vacant room. You sidestep out of the aisle and shimmy by the nearest table, keeping a wall to your right. No necromorphs were coming at you from that direction, at least.
A widescreen monitor hanging next to you bursts to life in a roar of static, flashing images of two equine faces in rapid succession. One was bright, with a creamy coat and hazy pastel mane screened by the static. The second was a dark, depthless blue, violet blue like, like a twilight sky reflected by the sea. You jump back and knock your ass against one of the abandoned chairs, scattering a lump of hay.
The images die, and the room shrinks to the circle of your shaking flashlight.
Christ you’d almost pissed yourself. Something was twisting in the pit of your stomach. Their eyes, their huge eager eyes, lavender, deep green, gleaming with hunger, beauty … love …
All for you. Only for you.
“Shut up, Isaac, shut up,” you whisper under your breath. Gotta focus. Focus on the light. You bring the flashlight under control, holding it steady with both hands. It’s quiet. That’s good. More tables, chairs, scraps of memos and magazines … and there’s a doorway. Excellent. Follow one light to another, that’s how it works. You’d be out of here in no time.
You test Daina’s route with your RIG. The projector on your wrist superimposes a winding blue line along the floor, leading through the door. Trusty RIG. That’s one piece of technology you could depend on. It very dependably got you into trouble.
The path leads to an HVAC maintenance room. With no one to tend the pressure relief valves, steam jets blasted unchecked against the walls and support beams. Glycol fumes were thick in the air. With no obvious exit, you ping your route again. The glowing line reappears, trailing up the wall. Time for a duct crawl.
You wave your palm over the scanner, and the cover plate slides upwards. If this had been the first time you’d taken this particular plunge, you’d be shitting forged steel bricks. The interior of the tunnel glows a dull red. No backup, no weapons, no clue where you’re going. The only advantage you had was that the necromorphs couldn’t take a good swing at you in the narrow space. All they could do was nip and poke, and what were they going to do when you shined your flashlight in their bugged out eyes?
You laugh and hoist yourself up, imagining a mortal struggle with a pretty little pony trying to stuff an apple into your mouth while you blinded her with your flashlight. Your knees and elbows thump against sheet metal panels as you struggle forward, inching through the duct. Where are you Tinkly Winkly? Papa Isaac’s got a surprise for you.
There’s a noise, and you freeze in place. Something was with you in the ducts, probably in the next row over, giggling like a child, whispering secrets. There was an eighth inch of steel between you and the freakshow.
You push hard, bumping and shuffling along as quickly as you can. The flashlight is no help in the pulsing red light. And there was too much noise. Sound travels really well through solids. They had to know you were here. They were toying with you, snickering and chuckling inches away, waiting for you to tire yourself out, then it’s just a matter of reaching right through and …
Goddammit! The panel beneath you slips and then gives way, dropping you into a room below. You land hard on your shoulder, the air rushing out of your lungs in a ragged grunt.
Have to get up. Have to get up. There’s no telling what’s in here. Get up Isaac!
“Isaac, what happened? Are you alright?” Daina’s voice pipes up through your RIG telecomms. She must be tracking you somehow, and saw that you had deviated from her route when you fell.
You roll onto your stomach. No obvious threats at ankle-level. “Why are you helping me?”
“If Tiedemann finds you, more people will die.”
No argument there. “Including me.”
“Not if you follow my route.”
Her route, that at its first turn had led into an unlit, decaying air duct. “I don’t like this.”
“You don’t have to like it. Just hurry, before you get locked in!”
Locked in? You stand warily, ready for an immediate attack. But you’re alone, unless you counted the corpse floating in the center of the room. You take the opportunity to apply the med pack the psychiatrist had given you. The ache from the fall disappears in a warm flush, and the health status indicator bar on your armband lengthens from amber to light blue.
Wait, a real corpse. Not a pile of clothes, not some fool making snow angels in powdered sugar. A real human had actually died a nonviolent death, and by the looks of it, was the subject of an unfinished autopsy.
The flashlight had rolled next to a chest high control console. You move slowly, not yet trusting your legs to hold your weight after the fall. You stoop to retrieve your one asset, considering your options. The console must govern the gravity envelope that was suspending the body. That meant there had to be a Kinesis module somewhere in its output circuit path. A Kinesis module that would fit very nicely into your RIG armband.
You pry open the faceplate of the console and dig in. After a few seconds of probing, your fingers find the module, sliding along the ridges of its onboard heat sink. The 24V power feeds come free with a loud pop, and the cadaver that had been held aloft by the artificial gravity field crashes down onto the field concentrator cage beneath it. You gently pull the Kinesis module out of the console enclosure and align its connector pins to the Stasis/Kinesis socket on your armband. It clicks home, powering up with a comforting blue glow.
Now, how to get out of this room and back on course? The walls are mostly plate glass, probably meant for medical students to observe the proper way to dissect a cadaver. Even with your RIG’s strength enhancements, you weren’t going to be able to break through on your own.
The gravity field console is contiguous with the floor, so no way to pull a Hercules and ram it into the windows. The corpse? No, too soft. You couldn’t punch with its fist any harder than you could your own. The cage had broken into tie rods …
Of course, the rods. You could grab one with Kinesis, pull it in close, then invert the gravity vector field to achieve a positive divergence.
You reach towards the nearest rod and cycle on the Kinesis module. Tendrils of soft white plasma arc forward and surround your target. With practiced movements of your fingers, you manipulate the field, drawing the rod as close to your hand as the unit would allow, then invert the polarity with a quick flick of your fingers.
The rod accelerates into the adjacent window, bringing it down in a rain of glass shards. Del dot g for the win.
Something outside snorts, as if waking from a deep sleep. “Huh? Wuh? I’m awake!”
It’s a pony. You see a bright green mane sprout up from the bottom of one of the observation windows and begin bouncing towards the broken glass. Its face rounds the corner, a yellow muzzle followed by sleepy pink eyes. Another female.
She looks up from inspecting the glass and spots you. “Oh, hey there. I had a dream about falling coconuts. I guess that was you! My name’s Pillow Lace. I’m, uh …” she yawns, revealing a cavernous pink mouth. “Say, have you seen somepony named Eye Sack? Princess Luna asked me to give him this sleeping potion. Said this Eye Sack – weird name, I know – needed help quieting down for a nap, and that I would be the best pony for the job. I put ponies to sleep all the time, and that’s without any special potions.” She stepped into the room and began opening her saddle bag. Three Z’s were stamped in a diagonal line on her rump.
You grab another tie rod with your Kinesis behind your back. It was time for this pony, this pony right here, to learn an important life lesson.
Do not fuck with a PO’d engineer.
“I am Isaac, and I am not a pony,” you growl. Whipping your arm to the fore, you release the tie rod in the general direction of Pillow Lace’s face. How about 1500 kilojoules of kinetic energy to brighten your fairy princess high hopes glitter drizzled day you fucking necromorph?
The rod impacts with loud crack, back in the hallway beyond the broken glass. It had caught in Pillow Lace’s curly mane in its blink-of-an-eye flight, pinning her to the wall where it had embedded itself. There she swung, suspended a few feet above the floor.
She wasn’t dead. How could the little shit ….?
A barrier inside you falls, smashing like the glass wall you’d broken moments ago. You charge at her, blind to everything but the beacon of her tender yellow hide.
“No more of this bullshit!” you roar as you pummel the creature with both fists.
“Ouch! Hey! Cut it out! That smarts!” Pillow Lace kicks her stubby legs as you continue your onslaught. A right hook to her neck upends her saddle bag, sending a thick-walled glass bottle and an apple tumbling to the floor.
You plant your hands on your knees and try to regain your breath. That felt really good. It was dead. Right? That’s when they drop their shit, when they’re dead.
“Eye Sack …” Pillow Lace squeaked.
“Shut up. You’re dead. Shut up. You dropped your shit, that means you’re dead. I know that’s a difficult concept for you necromorphs.”
“Eye Sack, if you wanted the sleeping potion, all you had to do was ask. You sure do need it. You can have the apple too if you want. Princess Luna told me to pack it special for you, in case you couldn’t find anything to eat now that we’re gathering …”
You pick the items up, giving the apple a quick sniff. What was she saying? It smells like a real apple, and the sloshing, dark pink liquid in the bottle doesn’t seem particularly strange.
But of course not. No unpleasant stimuli for your tender psyche. There were two options. These were ammo packs for whatever passed as weapons around here, or they might be pieces of necrotic flesh. A mutated skull, or pincer or something. Pincers could be used as projectiles. You tie the objects to the free loops in your straitjacket.
“Please drink the potion, Eye Sack. It’s raspberry flavored. The Princess asked me to …”
“Listen, Pillow Lace,” you interrupt, “I don’t know what suppressed childhood memory my brain puked up, but you’re not real. Your Princess isn’t real. Reality is too fucked up for Eye Sack’s tired mind to handle, so he compensates.” Compensates. The psychiatrist would be proud.
“Please Eye Sack, she’ll be so disappointed in me,” whines Pillow Lace, still swinging and kicking her legs.
“Not real, not listening,” you reply, hoping no one was watching you talk to yourself. You turn and head down the hallway, trying to work the tightness out of your shoulders. Beating up ponies was hard work, and you weren’t exactly a strapping young lad.
“Now just stay there and rot like a good little corpse,” you call back behind you.
The hallway branches to the left, leading to another elevator. You step in and hit the “up” arrow.
You tap your finger against Pillow Lace’s sleeping potion while you wait. Why does it seem like the elevators always go down? One way elevators, half-empty sleeping potions. Ponies in the attic.
The door opens on the upper floor of the observation room. The ramp in front of you spirals down to a circular deck furnished with sleek black chairs and desks. You can see the mess of the ruined concentrator cage below.
Your ever-present headache pounds harder. Another pony is sitting at the base of the ramp, singing softly. Its saddlebag slouches on the floor behind it.
Had it seen your assault on Pillow Lace? No, it would be flipping out if it had. It was probably daydreaming, lost in the words and melody of its simple song.
You consider the saddlebag. Could be some credits in there, or maybe even some single-crystal semiconductor chips. The bastards had an annoying habit of swallowing useful shit for some reason.
You creep forward in a crouch, hoping for a better look and to get closer to the saddlebag. When it’s within grabbing distance, you slide it towards your feet and reach inside. Another apple, probably ammo. And oh, look at that. Three hundred credits. And a red foam finger? Thieving pony necromorph freak. You add the strange booty to your makeshift utility belt.
The careless pony whose belongings you were liberating was a female, judging by the voice. Why so many … what were they called … mares? Was there some hidden meaning to horses in particular, or the overabundance of females? Something your subconscious was trying to communicate? Did they represent Nicole somehow?
The little mare stops singing and begins to turn. You shift further behind her to keep out of view. Her coat is a very dark purple, and silky smooth. The mane and tail were both corn-yellow, and were styled into flowing waves. The shoulders and rump look soft and round, with no obvious muscle definition. Almost mathematical curves. Where the hell had you seen anything like this?
She sighs, looking away toward the observatory windows and resuming her song. It was starting to make sense. Nicole was gone, and your life had been reduced to a constant death struggle. On top of that, if Daina’s word could be trusted, you’d caught the same mass-psychosis-inducing bug that had turned the Aegis VII miners into a necromorph buffet. Combine the two and you got … ponies?
No, there was room for doubt. The universe had scraped together some oddball lifeforms. Like humans. Just maybe …
What the hey, there’s time for a little experiment. You move forward, turning the saddle bag upside down. As you pin the tresses of the pony’s tail to the floor with your boot, an unfamiliar scent drifts by. Hay and grape juice.
You let a chuckle slip. Shit.
The pony jumps. “Pillow Lace? Is that …”
You bring the saddle bag down over her head, muffling her query. You’d slapped the poo poo out of Pillow Lace. Let’s see if you could put this little runt to sleep.
Wrapping your bicep around the bag to keep it in place, you squeeze the mare’s long supple neck and pull down with your weight, expecting to drag her to the floor. Muted laughter seeps through the thin canvas. “Pillow Lace, are you that bored? All right, here we go …” The mare springs up and starts hopping at an impossible rate. The saddlebag was coming loose.
Fuck. This psycho merry-go-round horsie was much, much stronger than you. With a mighty kick, she dislodges you from her back. You sail through the air, preparing for another painful impact.
Great work Isaac. You’d pretty much hugged a necromorph. You deserve this.
You slam into the side of another ramp with a groan and slip down into a disheveled heap on a set of chairs. Something soft and sticky was tickling your neck. More of their cotton candy.
Ignore that shit, Isaac. Stay quiet. She thinks you’re Pillow Lace. Just get up, crawl up the ramp and …
“Hey Pill, are you OK? Where are you? Switching it up to hide and seek?”
OK, question answered. You roll off of the chairs and military crawl up the ramp. For now you’re shielded from view by a safety railing. Another door stands closed at the top of the ramp. You take a moment to pick the cotton candy from the stubby hairs already cropping up on your chin. Sorry honey, didn’t have time to shave this morning.
Nicole. Can’t go there, not now.
“One two three, here I come!” you hear the purple mare call. A rhythmic tapping signals that she’s on the move, her miniature hooves clicking away. Deceptively powerful hooves. Lucky for you, she was searching the other side of the circular deck.
Up you go. Just a quick sprint to the door. The few seconds it takes to open are agony. Ready for a brawl if need be, you duck inside.
If you were in the foyer of the nuthouse hotel before, you are now in its broom closet. Medical diagrams and charts backlit by light boards on the walls are scribbled over with pictures of ponies, clouds and stars. Cryptic messages are scrawled everywhere.
I have wings
Harmony. Beauty. Truth.
Moon and Sun Sun and Moon
A riot of colors drips from the wall where the passage turns right. In the center was the outline of a person in a wheelchair, surrounded by broken rubber strips. Someone had been ballooned, party-style. Their empty hospital gown lay crumpled in a muck of paint.
More wonders greet you as you turn the corner. Patches of soil had been deposited in open floor grates and on desktops, and planted with daisies, tulips and daffodils. Butterflies flitted back and forth between them.
Probably best not to linger here. It might be some kind of necromorph infection chamber. The messages were the most disturbing, as if someone had been overjoyed by the idea of ponyhood. Like the, the …
An awful pain spikes in your right eye as the images return. Blood everywhere, stupefied lunatics chanting, crying, cutting themselves. And the messages written in red, written by converts, true believers. Unitologists.
Deep in the colon of the universe, there was a large dried chunk of shit that was in sore need of an enema. And that special turd was Unitology. How many minds had it rotted? How many had it cost through its grand achievement, the rise of the necromorphs? Too many. And they had reveled in it. Even as they were being sliced to ribbons, they spared a few seconds to leave behind their mantras and catchphrases, in case some lost soul in need of salvation might happen by and have an epiphany.
Right. Look, there’s nothing left of this dude but a torso. Where do I sign up?
The sign above the door at the end of the corridor reads Intensive Care. Before it opens, you hear a terrified voice shouting from beyond.
“Help! Help!”
Someone’s in trouble, someone who obviously wanted no part of this pony bullshit. Something else was wailing and blubbering in the background.
The bright light of the Intensive Care lab spills beneath the door as it lifts upward.
You take a moment to let your eyes adjust. Although you can’t see it, there’s a pony in the room, and it’s upset. To your left was a white, oval-shaped inner room with more observation windows. The cries for help were coming from inside.
You hunker down and peer through the glass. A young man lay confined to a table in the center of the room, struggling to break free of his bonds.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he cries at the noise outside his chamber. Couldn’t blame him. You’d be wondering the same thing if you’d been abandoned in the middle of an operation and something was bawling like a little girl a few feet away.
“Is there anyone out there? Is anyone out there? Who’s out there?” he calls. The guy was terrified, but you couldn’t risk blowing your cover to help him, not until you had located the necromorph. You ease forward and peek around the corner of the partition separating the workspaces.
There it is. Strapped to a gurney in the shadows on the far side of the outer room, an orange filly was throwing a tantrum. She was trying to squirm free, reaching for a big candy-striped lollipop on the floor. Neutralized for now, but how long would that last?
You dart into the operating room, putting a finger to your lips to try to keep the guy quiet.
“Jesus, man, help me. Would you fucking help me?”
No good. He was all but shitting himself. What to do? Think Isaac. His wrist straps were thick nylon and double locked, so there was no quick way to unbind him. Glass? No, nothing to break it with, and even if there was it would take an eternity to saw through the cords.
This wasn’t the stone age. There had to be cutting implements in the fucking surgical unit.
Three collimated light beams shimmered in the darkness, illuminating the patient’s chest. They traced back to a small stationary console at the head of the operating pallet. You jog ahead and check the monitor.
Surgical tissue incision in progress.
The only remote cutting tool you knew of involved plasma. Plasma … tissue incision …
Plasma cutter. You start to work on the electronics, finally in control of the situation.
“Calm down. I’ll cut you out of there,” you tell him with as much professionalism as you can manage. “Is that a tissue laser? A plasma cutter?” You already knew the answer, but the guy needed to hear the sound of a human voice right now.
“Oh my God!” he screams. You turn just in time to see a sea-green pegasus plop down in the middle of the doorway and fold her wings. “What’s all the ruckus?” she asks cheerfully. “How are you fellas doing today? Are you sick, buddy?”
Time. God, just a little more time. “Fuck,” you hiss, trying to concentrate on extricating the plasma cutter from the magnetic lens assembly.
The patient starts rocking back and forth on the pallet, screaming at you in abject terror. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see the pegasus strutting into the room, rummaging in her saddlebag.
“Just a sec, buddy,” she was saying. “I’ve got just the remedy for a frazzled brain.” She pulls a set of paints and tiny brushes from her bag. “How about a hooficure?”
Almost there, almost there. You hear the little paint bottles pop open. “Oh shit.”
“Help!” the patient cries, pushing the pegasus away with his foot.
“Easy now,” says the pony, gripping the patient’s leg with one of her own. “You’ve probably never had a hooficure before. You’re supposed to lay still and relax. It feels good.”
“I’m trying!” you shout back to the patient, finally pulling the plasma source from its connector.
“Help!” he screams. The pony easily overpowers his leg, and sets to work on his toenails.
No, not another one. “I’m trying, I’m trying!” you yell in frustration. Just a few more seconds. The plasma source clicks into your RIG armband.
The pegasus has already finished his foot and one of his hands. Now she was standing on her hind legs, humming industriously as she massaged his scalp. He had gone quiet, groaning in extreme relaxation. The pony finished by placing two cucumber coins on his eyes.
“There. All better,” she says, caressing his forehead.
“Yeah, really,” he agrees. “All better. This is … sweet.”
She giggles in satisfaction. “I love love love my job!” she says, turning to you with a smile. “How about one for you? Do you want a hooficure too?”
“In a minute,” you reply quietly, rotating the plasma cutter’s sight beams perpendicular to her front legs. “Let me give you one first.”
Three deafening booms fill the room as you unload three bolts of plasma into the pony’s knees. She yelps and tumbles backwards into the wall, dropping her brushes and paints.
For the first time in what had to be years, you smile. And damn did it feel like a million bucks. Screwdriver is to screw as plasma cutter is to pony. It was beautiful, really, the way she’d crumpled, the way she shriveled up and died like a miserable …
She sits up, wavering from side to side. As her drooling tongue lolls out, stars begin to circle her pointy little ears. Stars and tweety birds.
Shaking your head, you turn to the patient. The dude looked ridiculous.
He had fallen into a relaxed slumber. “Hey man, wake up, time to get moving,” you say gently, peeling the cucumbers off of his eyes.
“I’m chill, man, leave me be,” he whispers. The pony had given him just a hint of lip gloss.
Done for. You should have known. He wasn’t really alive. Once a necromorph had its way with you, you were done, delusions notwithstanding.
The pegasus starts to come to, blinking at the stars in front of her eyes. “Far out,” she says groggily.
Far out? You bring your boot down on her neck, roaring in rage and disgust.
“Fuck you.”
She squeals and falls over, babbling nonsense. That’s right.
As you head for the exit, you catch a pair of translucent green eyes peeping at you through one of the windows. They quickly look away.
One more item of unfinished business. Hefting the plasma cutter, you leave the operating room and stride purposefully to the filly you’d seen tied to the gurney on the way in.
The sheets are soaked and dripping with her tears. “I dropped my lollipop,” she says.
Tough fucking luck. As you level the plasma cutter at her head, you reconsider. Bending down, you sweep the lollipop of the floor and twirl it in your fingers, just out of her reach.
“Is this what you want?” you ask.
She nods and stretches out her hoof.
You break off the candy and shove the white paper stick into her mouth.
“There. Hope you enjoyed the show you little shit.”
The filly glares up at you, her lips pouting around the decapitated lollipop. The little orange chest begins to heave harder and harder as fresh tears pool in the corners of her big, see-through green eyes.
“Now, now,” you chide her as you stride past the gurney to the exit. “Papa Isaac knows best, little Twinkler. Don’t you know too much candy will rot the teeth right out of your skull?”
Rot the teeth out of your skull. Mom had used that one a few times. Oh Ma, if you could see me now! Have a … had a … beautiful, intelligent girlfriend. Got a wonderful career. Took me all the way to the edges of the universe. Met the kindhearted folks residing there, too. And now I’m naming them.
You cough as the door slides closed behind you. Ma wouldn't give a shit. Not about anything that didn't involve Unitology.
There’s a crackle at your wrist. Another message inbound, no doubt from …
“Isaac, it’s Daina. You have to dismember the creatures to stop them.”
Story of the century, Daina. You step over a white paper box of donuts, open with its golden brown goodies strewn across the floor of the cramped laboratory you had entered. Too colorful to be human donuts. No, you're not quite that hungry yet.
“Daina, I know. I've had a lot of practice. I just dismembered one with a jury-rigged plasma cutter. But something weird’s going on. Daina, the necromorphs … I think I’m hallucinating.”
“Of course Isaac. You’re very sick. You have to try to make it through to me so I can treat you.”
“Daina, you don’t understand. I’m seeing …”
“Seeing what, Isaac?” There might have been some real concern in her voice.
God. “Ponies.”
“Pon …” There was a crackle. The signal had gone dead.
“Daina? Daina, can you hear me?” you call. Shit. It was getting harder and harder to ignore the pain in your temples. Was there any danger in sitting down to rest, just for a few minutes, just to think things through? You stop and give the cluttered laboratory floor a long hard look. Just a short time-out …
Your RIG's armband speaker splutters back to life. “Ponies?” Daina shouts. “Yes Isaac. They’re part of your dementia. What you need to do is …”
More static. Beneath the noise, you can hear sharp whispers and low, soft voices. There’s an A and B conversation going on, which means that Daina and whoever she’s talking to are hiding something.
This was not the time for secrets. “Daina, I’m not copying that. Is there someone there with you?”
The signal cuts off again, then returns after a few seconds. “It’s very important that you listen to me now, Isaac,” says Daina. “It may seem to you like you’re fighting and neutralizing the infection. That you’re doing what is necessary to survive. But you have to believe me when I tell you that the opposite is true.”
“What are you saying? And you didn't answer my …”
“What you need to do is try to placate the, er, ponies. Distract them. Get them to laugh or sing or something. Shooting them will not do the job properly.”
“What do you mean? The one I hit with a plasma cutter went down fine.”
It may have been the static, but it seemed that there was a commotion on the other end. “Only temporarily,” Daina continues. The tension in her voice is clear now. “They’ll be back up and after you before you know it.”
That pegasus back in the operating room had never really gone quiet. Maybe Daina was telling the truth. “I guess you’re right. But this discussion isn't over.”
“That’s fine. Just try to stay in one piece.”
“Thanks.”
This was bad. The ‘opposite is true’, she had said. It was all bass ackwards. The illness was so deep, that blowing the limbs off of necromorphs was supposed to look and feel like feeding petting zoo animals.
You press the cold butt of the plasma cutter against your pounding forehead. A lesser man would lose his shit over being this fucked up. A lesser man would become useless, sniveling, down-on-all-fours alien food.
It’s fine, it’s fine. Just have to try and go with the flow. It’s all a matter of interpreting the delusions. You’re fine, Isaac.
The laboratory exits into a hallway, branching left into the smoky darkness. There’s a dead end to the right, blocked by another gurney. This one bears the outline of a person, like at a crime scene, but instead of tape, it's a ring of marigolds. Smart buggers. Wouldn’t want the bunnies and hares nibbling at your victim’s toes before he’s ripe.
So left, or through the broad double doors across the way? You ping Daina’s route. Through the doors it is. The bright sign above them burns spots into your vision, accustomed as you are to the gloom.
Intensive Care Waiting Area, it reads, with an alert message: Unauthorized Personnel Detected.
Personnel. Attention, orderlies, we have unauthorized personnel in Intensive Care. They are fairy ponies and are forcibly delighting the patients. Escort the assailants out of the building immediately.
The doors slide open onto an all-too-familiar scene. Weak emergency LEDs flicker over toppled furniture, wheelchairs, plants, and tables. No humans or ‘personnel’ in sight. The only clue as to what had happened here is a splotch of pink paint on the floor, marked with a jumble of horseshoe hoofprints. You ease into the empty lobby, surveying the shadows.
Quiet elevator music is tinkling through the loudspeakers in a flat treble. Too, too quiet. Could everyone have been infected that quickly? That would be a cruel fate indeed. Sitting here nervously waiting for your loved one, for hours maybe, suffering through that god-awful muzak. Then a big steaming pile of necromorph plops into your lap.
One of the two exit hallways was, by the looks of it, now part of the tropical biome. Thick, dripping foliage bristling with flowers and insect wings cut off any view of what lay beyond. Something was hooting and snorting behind the wall of vegetation.
Jesus, Altmann, Crick and Freud. Shit. Ma wouldn’t approve of such blasphemy.
That simplified things. Heading to the right, you pass into a network of open single- and dual-patient visitation rooms, all dark and empty. Lots of corners and half-open doors. Only one thing for it.
You start examining the rooms, ducking in to each and doing a quick once over. No round lumps huddling under the bedsheets, nothing crouching behind the doors. There were a few hundred credits on the counter next to the headboard in the room to your right. Better grab them before they end up in a saddlebag or …
A steam pipe in the ceiling bursts and swings down, blasting the side of your face.
“Motherf …” Motherfucking half-assed welds. You can just see the Neanderthals who’d done the work – toolbelts halfway down their asses, second-rate scotch a’flowin’. You got that, Billie? Sure do Willie, is this gonna be a braze or a weld? All the same to me, Billie, now what’s up with that canteen! Ha ha, git ‘er done!
Avoiding the plume of steam still flowing out of the pipe, you jog into the room and swipe the credits off of the counter. A first degree burn on the side of your face was a small price to pay.
Your hand’s in the cookie jar, Isaac. You’ve cornered yourself. Keep moving.
Back outside, the hallway splits in several directions, each with a confounding selection of doors. You stop at the intersection and consider your strategy. You could continue searching the rooms for necromorphs that could shadow you and strike when your guard is down, or go for stealth, keeping strictly on course.
Well, if they caught you with your pants down, there wasn’t much you could do about it. You press the button on your armband once again, studying the path of Daina’s holographic guide line. It disappears beneath one of the nearby doors in the left-hand hallway. Easy does it.
“Gotcha!” There’s a crash overhead as a pony breaks out of the ducts and attaches herself to you, wrapping her soft, powerful legs around your shoulders and waist. The warm, wet nostrils bulge against your skin as she furiously snuggles you and nuzzles her snout into your neck.
There were more of them, bumbling and bumping around up there. The whole corridor was infested.
“God … fucking …” you grunt, teetering in your assailant’s clutches. You push toward the wall. Maybe you could beat the little shithead off of you.
Wait. No. A negative and a positive equal a negative. Two positives equal … a positive. For you. Something like that. How to distract this one?
Something flicks against your cheek. It’s her eyelashes. She had opened her eyes.
Slowly you turn your head. Two huge golden irises peer kindly back at you, inches from your own, twinkling with keen intelligence. She smiles and pats your head.
“Shhh, calm down. It’s going to be OK. We’re going to be BFFs! Doesn’t that sound good?”
She’s got your right arm with the plasma cutter pinned, but your left is still free. You manage to work one of your apples out of your straitjacket loops.
Another pony bumps its head on the ceiling coming out of one of the rooms you hadn’t checked. A big cobalt colt with a goofy grin. Holy shit, if the little ones could chuck you across the room without noticing, this guy could wreck a mountain.
He’s coming at you on his hind legs, the front ones stretched out for a nice big hug. That seemed to be their thing.
The apple shakes in your fingers as you bring it up to neck-level “Yeah, sure, I’ll be your pal. Here, uh, girl. Are you hungry?”
“Oh thanks! And I have a name, thank you very much. Friends should call each other by their names. Mine’s Curly Cue. What’s yours?”
“It’s, ah … Arthur. Arthur Asimov. Nice to meet you Curly.” You smile and nod like a true BFF would, trying not to wipe her mucus from your neck too vigorously.
“I can see you’re already an agent of the Royal Pony Sisters,” says Curly Cue as she takes the apple in her mouth and drops to the floor. She begins to munch. “So, um … mmm, that’s good … so what’s your mission, Arthur?”
“I’m just, well, you know, going around looking for stragglers. Non … non-ponies like me to, uh, bring to the light. Yeah, I met up with Scroll Whisper a little while ago.” You start inching backwards, closer to the door.
“Oh, and how is she?” asks Curly Cue, still concentrating on her meal. The big colt had dropped to all fours and was looking around in slack-jawed wonder. Not the brains of the operation, that one.
“Great, great. Adding to the ranks every minute. Speaking of that, listen Curly Cue. I’ve got a quota to reach. I don’t mean to be rude, but could we meet up later sometime? I’ve really got to get going.” You’re less than a foot from the door.
“Sure, I understand, Arthur. We all want to make the Princesses proud.”
“Right. Long live their Highnesses, glory to the kingdom. See you later.”
Curly Cue waves a hoof. “Bye Bye! And thanks for the apple! Working with you humans is making me hungry as a … human!”
Very funny you little cretin. You wave and back through the door. After a few tense moments, it slides shut.
Well that went as well as could be expected. One dead necromorph and one … stunad? Too wounded to be a threat? Didn’t matter. It was a victory either way. Even so, you had to be more careful. Curly Cue had immediately taken the plasma cutter out of play, and while the encounter had panned out, it could have gotten ugly.
Another mistake: you had entered a room backwards like a dipshit. You’d been spared another pony hug, this time.
It seems to be a storage space. A cot and medical monitor had been shoehorned into one side, and a row of lockers lined the adjacent wall. It was clean and well lit, unlike every other room you’d passed through. Here you could almost imagine that everything is fine: business is good, the hospital staff is right outside, snapping charts and histories onto their clipboards, talking about how the dead shift lagged like always. That necromorph ponies aren’t slobbering away on apples ten feet beyond the door. The cot looked really comfortable.
Never mind that. There’s a small green transport crate on the floor that doesn’t quite belong. Vibration dampers, reinforced corners, interior hinges – military most likely. It’s got a combo lock. Could be something valuable inside.
You bring your heel down on the crate, cracking it open like a jack o’lantern. Plasma cutter cartridges tumble out, color coded for ten charges each. Fancy that.
Sure, the distraction tactic had worked exactly as Daina had suggested, but every system functioned or failed according to the quality of its redundancy. The cutter was going to be plan B. You pick up the cartridges and reload.
You must have gotten too close to the exit's motion sensor. It slides open, and you immediately wish it hadn’t. Two goofballs were inside a lightless lab beyond, sitting in front of a catering cart, stripped down to their undies. Lucky you, they’re facing away from the door. You skip to the side as a precaution and lean around the doorframe to scan the room for ponies.
The cart was loaded with pastries, cakes, pies and cookies, and the fat pigs were browsing through them by the handful. Maybe these are the assholes responsible for the broken steam pipe that almost burned your face off a few minutes ago.
“So she seems to like slightly undercooked chocolate chips. What do you think Rick?”
“Hold on a sec, let me just try another one …” There’s a groan of effort as Rick sits up to snatch up one of the gooey treats. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. They’re a little raw in the middle. Maybe you don’t have to worry about salmonella once your, uh, on the other side.” He grabs another one and stuffs it into his mouth. “Shit, I mean, shoot. You saw her. Spotless, dude. Not a germ on her body. Ponies like her don’t get sick.”
“Well, I’m just relieved they gave us these samples of Her Highness’s preferences. The standards for our new role as Royal Bakers appear to be well within hoof’s reach.”
“Nice dude, you sound just like one of them already!” They laugh and dig back in.
The fuck were these guys high on? More than just the sugar. They might transform any second now. Best to avoid the confrontation if you can.
It’s dark enough for you to sneak by and out of the room unnoticed, engrossed as they are in their nibbling and refined conversation. You slip behind them, keeping the plasma cutter leveled at their heads, and make it out into the next hallway.
There’s a voice recording playing in the distance, and the faint buzzing of a siren. That can’t be good. You check Daina’s route, hoping that it takes you in a less hazardous direction. The blue guide line stretches ahead, straight beneath a set of double doors labeled Upper Lobby. Straight towards the siren.
All right, fine. Maybe your luck would hold for whatever was setting off the alarm. As the doors open, you see someone hopping and waving you forward from across an island of cushioned waiting benches, magazine tables and artificial plants.
“Isaac? Isaac! Come on, come on! They’re after us!” he shouts, running on down the hall.
“Wait! Wait! Who is? Who’s after us?” you call after him. Did he mean the ponies? Maybe he hadn’t fared as well evading them. Maybe one of Tiedemann’s squads was after him. In any case, he knows your name, and that’s incentive enough to chase him down.
The rapid flashes of the emergency strobe lights wash over the room, making the shadows spin. Your thigh bangs into one of the magazine tables as you round the corner of the island.
“Dammit! Why not just give me epilepsy while you’re at it, you …”
A calm female voice blasts from the loudspeakers.
Warning: security lockdown. Hospital bulkheads are closing. Please stand clear.
Shit. You rub your leg as you right yourself, sprinting down the wheelchair-accessible inclines and around the corners of the winding corridor while trying to keep the runner in sight.
You reach the lower lobby of the ER just in time to see him on the other side of a security fence that had shut behind him. He’s shaking it, yelling over the harsh wail of the siren.
“Isaac! Isaac! Through here! Come on! Isaac! Aww no …” Two massive stainless steel bulkhead panels were sliding together from either side. You only had a few seconds.
“Isaac, remember me? Patient five?” he asks. “I’m patient five, remember? Do you remember?”
Patient five? You get a clear view of his gaunt, nervous face as he presses against the fence. It’s Stross.
“Stross!” you shout as the bulkheads clamp shut. You fire a shot at them with the plasma cutter. Just a few sparks and some oxidation. No good.
Enough of this shit. You’d been avoiding contact with Daina, assuming that Tiedemann would be monitoring the local RF comms. Now you’re out of options. You jab the communications button on your armband. “Daina, your fucking route didn’t work. There’s a security lockdown!”
The static crackles, then drops to a low hiss. “I told you to hurry! How did you miss it?”
Wrong question. “Look, I don’t need your help.” Shit. Wrong reply.
Before you can backpedal, Daina’s voice shoots back at you through a riot of white noise. “Fine! Let’s see how long you last without it!” The signal drops out. She had stranded you.
“Shit!” You slam the bulkhead with your fist. Excellent work, Isaac. Your one contact with the outside world, the one person whose advice had worked out, and you’d told her off like a moping three-year-old …
There’s a tapping behind you, and the soft flutter of beating wings. Oh fuck.
You turn and discover the reason for the lockdown. Ponies were meandering into the ER lobby, chatting among themselves. A trio of pegasi floated down from a balcony above the receptionist’s desk, yawning and stretching their legs. Two pairs of the earthbound ones emerged from the direction you’d come from, looking toward you and smiling as they talked. One of the pairs was led by an olive unicorn.
When they had all settled down and taken off their saddlebags, the unicorn came forward a few paces and raised a hoof. “Hey there, buddy, don’t be scared! We’re not going to hurt you. We heard voices and thought we’d come see what’s going on. Are you a friend of the Princess?”
Eight ponies, twenty-three charges, three rounds per leg, thirty-two legs ... too many. Plan B was out of the question. Make them sing, Daina said. Make them laugh.
What would a pony necromorph like to sing? You rack your brain, trying to recall nursery rhymes, choir songs, jingles, anything. All you need is a few more seconds to think. Time to stall.
“Uh yes, as a matter of fact. We go way back. Did lunch with Her Highness just yesterday. Yeah, good times.”
The unicorn scratched her chin with her hoof tip. “Yesterday, huh? I was at her meet-and-greet luncheon yesterday and I didn’t see you there.”
Shit. “Oh, did I say yesterday? I’m sorry, my mistake, I’ve uh, got a lot on my mind with the, uh, goings on and all …” The handle of the plasma cutter bites into your palm. Twinkle, twinkle, little star – that might work …
She frowns, advancing a few more steps and searching your face with her pale powder blue eyes. “Say, is your name Eye Sack? We’re actually here on a mission to take him to see the Princess. She said he’d be coming through this way.”
“Eye Sack? No, my name’s Bernard.” Better not use the same name twice. They’re not as dumb as they look.
“Well nice to meet you, Bernard. Anyway, aren't you sick of being a human yet? Let me get my list. I'll check to see what kind of pony you're scheduled to become. After that I'll fix you right up!"
There’s no way anyone named Bernard is on that list. It was only a matter of seconds before the unicorn's little green horn started glowing.
The fence behind you is cold against your back. “Oh, I know you can, I know you can. I, uh, I’m on a special mission from the Princesses to, uh, throw you a party.”
The ponies look at each other, shrugging and scratching their chins with their hoof tips. Some of them are murmuring. “Party? At a time like this? Who is this guy?”
Think quick, Isaac. “Yeah, listen! The Princesses know how hard you, uh, guys are working, and they wanted to help relieve some of the stress. A little entertainment, you might say.”
“Well, we did make, like, thirty-five new friends in, like, the past hour.”
Thirty-five men and women. Thirty-five people turned to shit by a worthless alien disease.
If they could see you grinding your teeth, they must be mistaking it for a smile. “See! I’ve got just the thing to break the tension. Wait right here, I’ve got to get my supplies. I’ll be right back.”
“This better be good!” Voices call out from behind as you jog past the cluster of frowning faces and swishing tails, back to the lobby’s entrance. “Yeah Bernard, I’m really stressed!”
You’re going to be stressed when I rip your little legs off you … no. No, no, no. Have to stay focused. Kindness is killing, killing is kindness. Not a bad mantra, considering the new way of doing business. And oh the plan that had come to you was a case study in compassion. If their “Princess” loves sweets so much, it’s a safe bet that the little bastards do too. The pastry cart was the missing factor in the equation: the lardasses that were grazing from it weren’t likely to give it up without a fight.
The gray-tiled corridor winds back up to the upper lobby, the flashing emergency lights still whirling across the empty inclines and corners. Well, if they got a couple of pie tosses off at you before you blew them to hell, so be it. They weren’t ponies yet, so the ‘be nice’ rule didn’t apply to them.
The hallway outside their door is still empty, and there’s no sign of imminent danger. Probably best to hold up and listen for activity.
A minute or so passes before something scuffles inside. Then a weak voice groans softly, muffled by the walls, “Ugh, Rick, my stomach! I feel like I’m going to pop.”
“I hear ya, bud. How are we gonna fit into our new Royal Bakers’ aprons?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. I’m …” There’s a pause, then a yawn. “I’m so upset. She trusted us, was going to give us the world! Royal bakers? Now we’ll be lucky if she lets us scrub dishes in her under-kitchen!”
“Tell ya what, Keith, let’s take a nap, sleep on it. Maybe we can come up with some way to spin this so we don’t end up looking like primetime doucheba … I mean, knobs.”
“You’re right. Sleep on it.” Another yawn. “Good idea.”
There might have been some more munching, and maybe a fart. Whatever had actually happened to these guys, outside the gingerbread house of your delusions, it must have been extreme even for the usual necromorph butchery. It’s not long before muted snores and mealy-mouthed lip smacking seep through the sealed panels of the entrance.
The time had come. You wave your hand in front of the door’s motion sensor to open it and pivot around the corner.
There they are, laid out like drunks, mouths ringed with sponge cake and icing. They’re wearing matching thermal mitts, and oh Christ. Mitts on their feet too. No fingers, just round flat stitched bottoms, white with a yellow sun emblem. Their bellies are distended, pointed up at the ceiling and heaving in labored sleep.
These poor fuckers gave a whole new meaning to human waste. And shit, their pastry cart is almost stripped clean. You creep into the room, the plasma cutter ready. There could be ponies incubating in those jelly guts. You couldn’t put anything past the necromorphs.
You tie the cutter to a rear loop in your straightjacket and take hold of the cart, carefully turning it through the mess. The wheels skip and slide through the half-eaten sweets. Yeah, that was exactly what you needed; slimy purple and pink mares squirming out of the squelching innards of these corpses, getting the jump on you. Surprise, Papa Isaac! It’s my birthday! Can I have a hug?
No. No you can’t. Isaac’s getting out of here, and he’s exterminating every one of your feather duster asses while he’s at it.
The doors slide shut behind you as you backtrack to the ER lobby and the waiting gang of necromorphs. Now to work out the details of the plan. What remained of the array of pastries was meager at best. Was there anything left that might tempt a pony’s palate? Crepes loaded with cherry glaze and powdered sugar, candied apples, chocolate strawberries with mint leaves, all kind of cookies, tortes and pies, all bitten and slobbered on, except for …
The centerpiece. A two-foot diameter pound cake with white cream-cheese frosting, and another one of those damned sun patterns on the top in golden fondant. It wasn’t completely intact, but it would be enough to convince hungry ponies.
The bottle of sleeping potion clanks against the polished metal of the cart. Yes, yes, of course. Why not seal the deal?
You sweep away the crumbled chunks of the smaller treats with your sleeve and hustle down the inclines. Half the bottle should do it. The stopper pops away from your thumb, and the thick liquid begins to gurgle out over the cake, turning the white frosting an odd shade of pink.
There. The rest might come in handy later. You retrieve the stopper from the cart top, close the bottle and hang it back in its loop. How much further was it now?
You nearly crash into two pegasi who had been posted at the entrance of the lobby as you round the final corner.
Suspicious little fuckers. “Oh, excuse me! Didn’t see you there. Bernard’s back, and boy are you going to like what he’s cooked up!” You show them your pearly whites again, trying to channel a hired party clown at a kindergartner’s birthday party.
One of the pegasi licks his lips, his eyes taking in the enormous cake. “Whoa, look! Cake!” His partner crowds close, trying to sniff it.
“Well it’s about time.” The olive unicorn was tapping her hoof and checking her … watch. Sorry sweetie, didn’t mean to keep you waiting. I hope snacktime sends you into a permanent coma.
She stays put, eyeing you as the others smile and gather around the pastry cart. They hold out their hooves, shoes up. Guess you had to improvise when you didn’t have opposable thumbs, or even fingers.
After a few moments watching you break off pieces of the cake and dole them out to her companions, the unicorn’s expression softens. She sighs and comes to join you.
Good, they’re buying it. “That’s right. The festivities start with a little something for your tummies, then some games, then … let’s take a vote: songs or dancing?”
“Both! Both!”
“Fantastic! We’ll do both. Now why don’t you dig in and take a well-earned break?”
They gobble up their portions, licking the tainted frosting from their hooves and mouths. It’s hard to concentrate with the chomping jaws, grinding sideways, clapping together and pausing for the orange-pink tongues to slurp out and clear the way for more. If you could focus, maybe you could catch a glimpse, just a few seconds of the real action; of your fists hammering rancid chunks off their twitching bodies, of their all-too human screams fading out as …
“Gosh, I think I ate too much. I feel so sleepy!”
The unicorn was wobbling on her hooves, looking up with bleary eyes. “Um, Bernard, is it OK if we take a nap before we play games?” Her friends were already kneeling down and tucking their snouts under their forelegs, drifting off to dreamland. Just as planned.
You grab one more handful of cake and stride over to her. All the time in the world, now. You catch her by her squishy chest as she falls and lift her to eye level.
You lean in close, avoiding her messy mouth. “Does the word ‘personnel’ mean anything to you?” you whisper into one sagging ear.
“Wuh?” Her neck tilts to the side, her eyes drifting in different directions.
You cram the glob of cake into her mouth and let her fall. She hits the floor, tumbling into in a snoring heap.
“Nighty night.” You scan the battlefield. The security lockdown siren fades, and the whirling lights die away. Sweet silence. Judging by how quickly the creatures had fallen asleep, they were going to be out for a while.
You’d gotten lucky. If the cart hadn’t been an option you would have been hosed. You needed an ally if you were going to make it through this. A longer-term plan would help too. You tap the telecom button on your armband as you crouch over the unicorn’s saddlebag.
“Daina? Daina! OK, you’re right. I do need your help. Talk to me.”
You open the flap and take a peek. Apple, apple, ruby semiconductor chip, thank you very much, pony hit-list, goddammit, ten charges for the plasma cutter, yes yes, guh, it all reeks of pine …
Daina barks out of the static. “Look, Isaac, we don’t have to be friends. But like it or not, we’re stuck together. Tiedemann’s your enemy, not me.” There’s a break in the tongue-lashing. You collect your haul, considering looting the other bodies. Too much. Daina returns, quieter now, “Alright, I’ve found you a new route.”
She sounded pissed, but she had a right to be. You’d kind of been an asshole. “Fine. So where the hell am I? How did another necromorph outbreak get started?”
“You’re on Titan Station, orbiting Saturn. As for the outbreak … shit, Tiedemann’s jamming my signal …”
Titan Station? Wonderful. Word had been when you’d left the solar system that it was a low-budget shit gutter, and a low-budget shit gutter it had apparently remained. What could you expect from a government project built on moon chunks?
And Tiedemann continued to interfere with your efforts to make it out of the hospital. Dude didn’t even know you. Or rather, you didn’t know him. Assholes like that had explicit documentation on each and every time a man took a shit, so if the two of you ever had occasion to meet, you would be the one asking the questions. Whether or not he answered would depend on his taste for concentrated xenon plasma.
At least Daina’d had time to upload the new route. You raise your hand and send out the blue guide line. It traces out past the lobby’s glass-partitioned, empty front desk to a door you hadn’t seen on the way in, preoccupied as you’d been with the necromorphs. Maybe now you could catch up with Stross and coax some real information out of him.
It’s quiet on the other side. The problem with quiet was that it magnified every sound you made. And it usually meant that a pony was keeping mum just around the bend, about to try to tear you a new one.
The desk is clear, except for something blinking by the filing cabinets below. A power node. The chairs squawk as you shoulder them aside and heft the dense cylinder. It had been years since you’d gotten your hands on one of these. The raised spec label on the side reads 240 W, about double the output of the nodes used on the Ishimura. At least Titan Station wasn’t operating entirely in the Stone Age.
There was one loop left in your straightjacket, but it was worth the added weight; a juiced plasma cutter might even the odds if the ponies clustered again and there was no nice guy solution. Hopefully Titan Station wasn’t so behind the times that it hadn’t been outfitted with a workbench to access the node’s energy cell.
The route continues through a small biomed metrology station set up in the walls of the reception desk’s exit passage. In better times, patients would have been called out of the waiting room, little Jimmy and his mom, pointing at the cool microscope and pipettes, waiting for the doctor. Nicole loved taking care of the kids …
Nicole.
They’d chopped her up.
No, there was no evidence of that. No video, no audio log, no nothing.
Jabbed her full of alien shit. Turned her to shit.
“Fuck.” The word comes out high-pitched, broken. You stagger against the wall, covering your face with the plasma cutter.
Don’t be a girl, Isaac. No one can see. There’s no one left to see. You’re doing great.
What’s that up ahead … Triage Room … with a warning. Stasis beds in operation. Stasis beds … that meant entropy inhibitor anodes. That’s the ticket; slow the bastards down to a really slow canter and shuffle on by. Be on your merry way. Daina would be happy, you’d be happy. Maybe even Princess fucking Celestia would be happy.
You enter to a deep electric hum, the characteristic sound of stasis fields interacting with the atmosphere. It resonates in your chest like the old-style pipe organs your mother used to force you to listen to. Two cylindrical vessels lie extended across the floor, and recessed far within them you can see the pale blue glow of the zero-point energy quantum effect photon discharge. People with critical injuries could be kept stable inside these units for weeks until they could receive advanced medical care.
There’s a closed security gate barring your way at the other end of the room, looming behind a password-secured terminal. Probably there to keep crazies from getting in and screwing with the stasis routines. It was going to be a problem, but first things first.
The anode would be in the black standalone junction box that fed each of the beds. You run over to it and pry off the maintenance access plate. This one would be a little more of a trick than the kinesis module. There were four beds in operation, and each one would have a lead tied into the anode. Still doable, but it would take time. You dig your fingers into the mass of wires behind the front interface.
A ceiling panel across the room drops to the floor. There’s no doubt about what that meant. Have to stay focused. The wires were tied too fucking tight, no way to get to the back …
“Which style do you like? I’ve got pack, bareback, dressage, leather stirrup, canvas stirrup, and … yup, ceremonial silk. For the exodus.”
A lemon yellow mare was toddling towards you on her hind legs, holding an array of miniature saddles draped over her outstretched hooves.
Fuck finesse. The wires gotta go. You rip them away from the anode plate, causing the beds’ power conduits to short and send spark showers bouncing and skidding over the floor. The anode cell slides out of its pocket.
“The exodus, you say?” That didn’t sound good. You clip the cell into your armband.
“You got it! So, could you, um, get a little lower? I’d like to fit you for these. Let’s start with the silk!”
Your stasis bolt hits her in the face, enveloping her in a hazy blue cloud. Her dim-witted smile slowly turns into a look of consternation as she tips in place. Hard to sell saddles or poke holes in humans when you’re putzing around in your own time-decelerated microcosm.
You take hold of her limp midsection, fling her to the back of one of the stasis beds and slam it into its slot. How about thirty years to decide which saddle to wear, Twinkler? The keypad buttons on the front of the bed each give a satisfying beep. One zero nine five zero. Plenty of time.
Now about that security gate. Its terminal had unlocked when you’d pulled the stasis module. You tap “ADMIT” on the flatscreen, and the big stainless steel plate grinds open. To be extra sure, you put it in stasis too. That camera above the doorframe was way too suspicious. Setups like this typically scanned your RIG for your ID, and could prompt responses anywhere from sounding an alarm to megawatt UV laser blasts. Better to be paranoid than sorry.
There’s an unsecured door just behind the gate. You step through just in time to catch a tawny beige stallion hugging an unstable hospital attendant, pouring some sparkling brown liquid into the man’s mouth from a wooden mug. The attendant is pumping his fist and hooting, letting it splash down his chin and neck. The stallion hiccups and starts pumping his foreleg together with his chum.
Here’s a situation that might take care of itself. You step quickly to the wall and crouch down in the shadows. Sure enough, after a few seconds of lame-ass dancing, the two stumble and collapse into a guffawing heap, trying pathetically to untangle themselves from each other.
Perfect. You scoot down the wall and slip into the lab next to them. The door shuts with a hiss.
“Well, well, well, look who made it to the party!”
Shit. That was the second time you’d backed into a room, and now you’re paying for it. You swivel and brace for the worst.
A blubbering woman was lying at the hooves of a taffy orange mare, in a puddle of what you hope is beer. The necromorph was waving around another sloshing mug.
“Open your mouth! I bet I can get at least half of this in from here!” She heaves the stuff at you in a long golden stream.
Whatever that was, you’d be jiggered if you let one drop so much as stain your fraying straightjacket. You sidestep and let it land on the body sprawled across the table next to you.
Only it wasn’t a body. It was a patient, shit-faced and giggling like a prom queen. There were other patients, all laid out on examination tables in various stages of insobriety. The ponies must have gotten to them while they were sedated. Pretty inconsiderate, given the synergetic effect of alcohol and …
A brown fan of liquid hits your chest, soaking through to your skin. The bizarre array of items strapped to your waist drips and gleams with what you can now smell is apple cider.
“Hee hee, gotcha that time. I told you to open your mouth. Let’s try again!”
“I’m not thirsty,” you growl. It was a lie, of course. You could kill for a glass of water, but you’d lick the condensation from the glycol lines before drinking that shit.
There’s only the one, but she might start whining for help if you ignored her and just kept going. Your RIG is showing enough charge for one more stasis bolt. Not good, but there wasn’t much in the way of alternatives. Trying to distract and entertain a drunk pony would be a waste of precious time.
You fire the stasis module, locking her in the blue haze. Her mouth drops open as she raises her foreleg to inspect it, all in slow motion. Seeing your chance, you draw out the remainder of the sleeping potion, pop the cork, and pour the bottle down her throat. No harm no foul.
You wind through the tables. Each one bears a chortling, slack-jawed reminder of the disgrace that awaited the unwary. All of these poor fucks would be ponies before the day was through. Touching any of them might bring infection.
Flickering fluorescents blink in the silent hall beyond the exit. Other than a few tousled gurneys and some abandoned clothing, the passage is empty. To the right, a glowing white sign marks the way: Elevator to Patient Care.
You step in and lean back against the wall, tapping the butt of the plasma cutter against the cold sheet metal. You close your eyes, listening to the soft hiss of the door as it closes, then the soft swish of the elevator as it accelerates.
How could things possibly get this fucked up? We had gotten ourselves out of the cradle sure enough, thanks to ShockPoint travel. Reached out into the vacuum for its far-flung treasures. Ore, room to spread out, a chance to set the clock back to a time when there were empty frontiers. To when there was a goal. It was a diffusion problem gone wrong wrong wrong.
We’re spread too thin, and that’s the irony. All that potential, all the measures taken to control and organize, circuits in our spines for Altmann’s sake, and here we are. Titan Station, pride and joy of human enterprise. Good luck staying perky about the glorious future of humanity when you find yourself accidentally wedged up your neighbor’s keister every time you turn around.
We’ve set out into the infinitude of space, and there’s no space to breathe. There’s no master plan, no way to keep it on the rails. No common interest, no altruism, no law to respect, natural or human. Things just happen as they always have, and either you decide to put up with it and stay alive, or you, well, considering the current state of affairs, you strap on a saddle.
The elevator bumps, and the light goes out. You slip against the wall and lose your grip on the cutter. “What the fuck?”
A face, Nicole’s face, is peering out of the darkness. She’s smiling, approaching you slowly in a pale glow. She’s wearing a long white trench coat, with the sun mark on the shoulder. Her eyes are a clear rose, and she was singing something …
Though quarrels arise, their numbers are few … laughter and singing will see us through ...
Her face is beautiful, untouched by the filth and decay of the Ishimura. She’s at peace, coming back to you to start a new life.
She’s right there. You could touch her, run your fingers along her warm cheek like you used to. Nicole, baby, you’re OK. I need you so much right now …
As you lift your hand to reach to her, she leaps forward.
Make us whole!
You bury your face in your elbow, turning away from the too-bright face. It’s not real. It’s one of Celestia’s, no, the Marker’s delusions.
They’re fucking with you. Mocking you. “You know where laughter and singing get you in life?" you shout, slamming the wall with your fist. "Nine to nine every day in a fucking crawlspace, a septic discharge station you get to escape every ten days to drink yourself to piss with your fellow mongoloids!”
You wheel back. “Can you hear me, Nicole? Nopony’s laughing!”
Wait, did you just say …? Shit. You’re alone again.
The elevator light is back, and before long the door opens. The Patient Care wing, it appears, is in no better state than the rest of the hospital. Chunks of chocolate cake dot the walls, compacted and splattered just like the blood and tissue of necromorph victims. They must have worked fast here. No lingering around waiting for Scroll Whisper or whoever to show up.
A poster on the wall behind a dual cashier’s desk reads Heart to Heart Gift Shop. Only a bunch of purple heart-shaped balloons tied to the desk on the left remain untouched. Get Well Soon. One of them detaches and floats into the air, only to pop when it hits the ceiling lights. Teddy bears and toy trucks had fallen out of the shelving, lying in mounds of stuffing and broken plastic. Move along Isaac. Don’t think too much about it.
There’s more than one way out of the room. Best to check your route. The blue ribbon winds into the East Wing hallway, around the corner. The intersection leading left out of the gift shop ends quickly in a door marked Critical Needs Patient Care. You steady your breathing. Really messed-up patients might make for mutations you hadn’t seen before.
The door opens. A small fire is burning at the far end of the room. It’s a good sign. Ponies don’t light fires. You breathe in the rank smell of melting plastic. Could the delusions be clearing?
Two rows of empty hard cots run along the walls. The room has a large plate glass viewport looking out on the towering apartment complexes of the residential sector. That was a nice touch, giving the hard luck patients a room with a view.
The lights in the windows of the distant structures twinkle in the gloom of the station’s night. Maybe the infection was localized to the hospital. Maybe you could stop it before it consumes all of those lives.
Some of the lights go out, then return a moment later. The next row over go dead. That’s odd. Power outages don’t cascade in patterns, not that quickly. It was almost like something was out there, floating in between …
Fuck. There’s a flash like lightning, and a corner of the plate glass blows out. The room begins to decompress, sending the cots slamming into the walls, pinwheeling out into the darkness.
“Holy shit!”
You hug the nearest cot before it tears free, flailing to keep your balance. A pipe hits your shoulder blade as it sails past, shattering the rest of the window.
Pressure differential? Considerable, but decreasing. Vacuum conductance? Way too fucking high. Maybe you could wait until all of the air had been evacuated, but then you’d have a different problem.
Sure enough, the air begins to thin. There had to be an interlock for this situation. The station had to have safety standards, run down as it was. Where is it? It had to be accessible to anyone in the room, easy to manipulate in case people were panicking, and visible …
Fuck, fuck, fuck … there it is, on the crossbeam above the window. A blinking red triangle, right in front of your goddamn face, Isaac.
You blast away with the plasma cutter, hitting the beacon on the third try. A steel gate falls down in place over the ruined window, sealing the hole. Humid puffs of air jet out of the vents, resupplying the room’s atmosphere. It’s still hard to breathe.
A prerecorded voice twangs over the noise. “Hull breach rectified.”
Thank you for the PSA. Too close. This had been no accident. There had been a flash that looked for all the world like lightning. But that wasn’t possible, not through empty space, unless … could necromorphs, some new form, build and focus electrical charge? Not entirely out of the question. It shouldn’t be much trouble for them to fart some ionizable gas to allow for an arc, being made of decomposing shit.
You circle around the cot and pass through the exit. Another attack was coming, any second now, and it was something new. At least you didn’t have to play by Daina’s ridiculous rules anymore. You load the cutter with a fresh cartridge.
The short passage beyond is really a divided room, opening into a separate space on the right through a doorless arch. The adjacent room is well-lit, and … was that a Store …
There’s a necromorph on the floor, lying just inside, waiting for some doof like you to rush in so it could cut them down at the ankles. A real necromorph - not a pony, not a sorry pastry-munching pony wannabe - a real monster, straight out of your nightmarish memories.
A negative and a positive equal a … dead little fucker. You stop, take a breath to steady the cutter, and squeeze the trigger. Two reports hammer the walls, rattling the dull gray panels in an echoing roar. The plasma tears into the creature’s gangrenous flesh.
It pops up with a shriek, already missing one of its sword-like arms. You put two more shots into its thigh, and another into its remaining arm. Both limbs break off in a bubbling hiss, spraying black fluid across the floor. It goes down, gurgling raw-throated cries of pain.
Piece of fucking shit. You walk over to it and splatter its head with your boot. No more make believe, Twinkler.
It wasn’t the lightning shooter, though. You step around the room’s central support column. The Shop is yours, but you’d have to make it quick if you didn’t want to get ambushed. You smooth your hands over the keyboard that folds itself out of the little alcove, hoping something good was left over from what was sure to have been a panic buyout.
What the fuck is taking this thing so long? You eye the exit, waiting for the GUI to unfuck itself. After a more few nervous seconds the inventory screen pops up. A friendly cashier AI greets you. “Welcome to MicroStore. CEC Engineer Isaac Clarke. Updating inventory to CEC engineering load out.”
Hmmm. Engineering Suit, CEC variant, and nothing else. 1,000 credits. Could be worse, and it was a far sight better protection than your straightjacket.
Your RIG’s armband had already been scanned. Apparently you’d swiped 1,300 credits from the ponies. You hit the purchase button, and the viewscreen folds and retracts into the alcove. Have a nice day.
It’s going to be a hell of a lot nicer now. The back panel of the alcove opens, revealing a gear fitting station. Some time to strip off the straightjacket before the Store’s fab injectors began building the suit around you would be great, because it stank like shit, but even a few seconds’ delay might cost you your life. Being vacuum-locked inside a fitting station compartment was not a tactical advantage.
The doors close, and the liquid alloy injectors approach your chest. They start to revolve around you, stopping, extending and retracting with flawless precision. In seconds, the warm, bronze-colored shell is complete.
You step out of the alcove, flexing in your new suit. A little tight in the shoulder, but it would do in a pinch. Or a stab, as the case may be. You can’t help but smile as the three-tiered helmet self-assembles around your head.
The sign above the exit reads To Emergency Arrival Area: Watch for Incoming Patients. As the door opens, a gust of air presses against your back. You engage the magnetic soles of your boots. The walls in front of you are completely demolished, the bulkheads and reinforcement beams scored and twisted like an iron briar patch. The dark cityscape of Titan Station glimmers through the wreckage, backlit by the stars.
Whatever had attacked you back in the Critical Needs room was hunting you. It had blasted this room to hell hoping you’d be blown into space when you opened the door.
There’s a mind at work, conceiving of nothing but the best way to kill you, tracking your movements even from beyond the metal skin of the Station. You navigate through the field of debris hanging in the airless, zero-G environment. Too slow, too fucking slow …
Something moves outside, fluttering at the edges of your vision. There’s too much shit in your way, no way to get a good look at it. But it couldn’t get a clear shot at you either. You hurry to the other end of the ravaged room and slip through the wide double doors.
You’d entered a cavernous gathering hall, or some type of docking bay. There’s another door, far across the way, maybe thirty meters.
A burning pile of metal that might once have been a transport vehicle is laying near the expansive windows of the outer wall. That’s odd. There’s no blood, and nothing else in the room is damaged. You check your route. The blue guideline streaks straight towards the ruined machine.
Nothing to worry about. If you were jumped, you had the suit, the plasma cutter, and a shitload of confidence now that the delusions had cleared. You start moving, watching for signs of a trap.
A shadow mounts the hill of rubble, a dusky shape that seemed to churn and fold within itself. It’s like looking at a walking piece of the void, deep formless blue with stars, wings and pale terrible eyes that burned with an unrelenting will. Rotting, reanimated flesh frantically trying to kill you was bad, but this, this was much worse. Yet it was impossible to look away.
She was wearing a crown, and on her black breastplate there shined a silver crescent moon emblem. Her gaze found yours … she had found you.
You are mine.
My God. Your knees buckle, and you choke, just a little.
Way too many pony faces rise over the crest behind her, pink, yellow, green, purple and brown. Pegasi and unicorns are among them, all smiling, all ready to give chase. No stasis charge, no sleeping potion, no ideas – luck had run out at last.
Then there’s a laugh, ringing with surprise and delight, loud beyond belief. It’s the Princess.
Your Princess. Bow to her.
She spreads her wings wide, seeming to double in size. “Ha ha! We have found thee! Collect him, my ponies! We have sought long to claim him.”
The crowd charges, cheering with delight. In seconds they’ll be all over you, all hairy snuggles and sloppy wet-nosed kisses. Holding you down. Changing you.
“Fuck me,” you whisper, firing blind shots with the plasma cutter as you run towards the exit.
Please be unlocked, please be unlocked, please be unlocked … shit!
They’re closing in from behind, hooting and yelping like a pack of sugar-high third graders. The drumming of little hooves on the floor panels grows to a rattling roar. You send some more plasma their way and keep moving, not pausing to see if you’d tagged any of them.
Not that it mattered. The biometric display on the front of the exit is orange, which in this particular context confirmed your earlier assessment: you’re fucked. The necromorphs and their Princess must have locked it, trapping you inside for their sick playtime. Blood’s in the water and the sharks are hungry. If you can just make it to the door, get your back to the wall like you did in the ER so they can’t surround you …
Something grinds and pops out from under your boot. You look back again, firing another shot. Gumballs and jawbreakers are clacking and skittering towards you across the floor in an ankle-spraining tide. A ragged flock of pegasi was swooping down at you from the ceiling, flinging pails of the slippery spheres. A bunch of them were carrying nets, ready to wrap you up nice and snug. If you trip now, you’d be buried like Franco in a matter of seconds.
There’s a flash, followed by a concussive pressure wave. You stumble closer to the door, steeling your nerves for the worst. Looking down, you search your suit for the place where the lighting had blown a hole through your chest.
Nothing. Still kicking, Isaac, still in the game.
“Isaac Clarke!”
There’s another blast of air from the right, focused into your ear. The noise of the ponies fades to a painful ringing. You cringe, raising your RIG-enhanced fists to protect your head and neck. Not her. An army of slobbering little ankle nippers, a cloud of the candy toting flying ones, anything but her. Your eyes fight back against your will to turn them, a millimeter at a time, trying not see …
… her dark, smiling muzzle in your face, showing all of her perfect white teeth. Her eyes are shining with victory. Huge, depthless green eyes. Something’s moving, deep down inside them, blue-green like the oceans of Earth by the shorelines, cradled in the Mediterranean, her currents running swift beneath the evening sky, brimming with life and warmth …
She is beauty. She is truth.
No. Fuck that. The Mediterranean had been a shithole maritime garbage dump for the past two centuries. She is a royal pain in the ear, with no fucking sense of personal space.
“Fuck off!” You swing out with the cutter, which she dodges as if you’d tried to give her an unwelcome pat on the cheek. She’s toying with you, taking her time. Look at the silly human, fighting for its adorable little life. Still swinging, you stumble backwards towards the wall.
It’s over Isaac. Lie down. Be still for her.
Sleep.
“Shut up! Get out of my head!” Her mane and tail were dancing in a deep violet display of stars and lights, side to side. Were they as soft as they looked? Why not talk with her a while, let her share her wisdom with you?
She advances a few paces, reaching up with a single slender foreleg. The ponies are with her now, whispering and giggling not a few yards behind in a loose circle. Wings are beating just above your head. She calls out again in her unbearable voice. “Thy destiny is with us. It is fate, Isaac! Why art thou fighting us?”
Why are you fighting?
You shake your head and look down. Loud. Too loud. A new cartridge. The plasma cutter is out, needs a new cartridge. That’s OK, just pop in a new one. Plenty more where that came from. Click, click. There. The door is close, the walls are right there. All those ponies? No sweat, Isaac, just line up your shots. You bring up the cutter and push back to the door, ready to make a noise of your own.
Except the door isn’t there. The Princess lunges forward and reaches out with both hooves. Her thin silver shoes slide down your armored chest as you fall through the opening behind you.
You spring up primed to go to work on the beast’s thin, delicate limbs, only to see the door cutting off the noise and the light, returning you to the rusting gloom of the Station’s substructure. It locks again, its display going orange. Hot pipes are ticking somewhere in the darkness.
What the fuck just happened? They’d had you, sure as liquid shit after a 3D printed burger. Couldn’t they execute a simple ambush? Maybe you should just hang the cutter on your belt and wait for them to trip and stub their nubby snouts. Pathetic.
No, no. That would be mean. That would hurt their feelings. Which meant a few more ticks off your health meter, which … godammit … which wasn’t doing that great by the look of it. Either way, this is a bad place to ponder their incompetence. It wouldn’t take Princess Necromorph or whatever her name was very long to turn the entire wall to slag. Best not to be here when it happens.
The tunnel spirals downward, kind of like your luck since you’d left for the Ishimura. Back to the drawing board. That door had been locked before you’d fallen through. You’d seen it. And before that your perception of the infected had gone from sweet ponies to gizzards galore man-butcher and back again.
You swerve to avoid a low-hanging conduit. Ah, but Isaac, believing your eyes at this point was a conscious decision to shove your head up your tired ass. Had reality peeked through back by the MicroStore, whipped open its dirty trench coat and shown you the diseased, naked truth? Or was it the necromorphs that were the hallucination?
Hallucination. Oh fuck. You stop and steady yourself against the plain wood-paneled door at the bottom of the tunnel. Deep, slow breaths, take it easy. Think it through. Stross had mentioned the Princess in the recording. Described her to a T – dark blue, sparkling blue mane. When people have identical delusions, it’s usually called the truth. That meant that the Princess, the ponies, and all their candies and balloons, potions and magic, snazzy done-up manes and goofy babbling - all of that was real.
Unless you had imagined Stross too.
The old wood dents under your fist. Damn it. There aren’t enough clues to conclude anything. Well, almost anything. What you had a hard time doubting was the pain in your ear: it still hurt from Princess Necromorph’s god-awful shouting. Daina’s voice would sound really good right now. Maybe you could raise her before …
Something explodes a level above you. They’re through. You’d spent too much time philosophizing, like some goddamned Unitologist. Your only advantage now is the darkness and your meager head start. You scan your RIG’s armband across the door’s display and mash the telecomm button as you duck inside.
Before you speak and draw attention to yourself, you give the room your precautionary inspection. You’re in another maintenance cellar, probably servicing the hospital. No blood, no gumballs. You vault over an oil-stained workbench, kicking off a forgotten roll of duct tape. There seems to be another passage ahead. Might be a good hiding spot somewhere in here.
The channel to Daina is clear, and the only ones who can hear you now already know where you are. “Jesus that thing was obnoxious. Daina? I’m out of the hospital.”
“OK,” Daina answers through the static. “The tram station is just beyond the apartment blocks.”
A brimming fountain of information as usual. “Hang on. I need more answers. How long have I been here?”
“Three years. Tiedemann found you floating in space near Aegis VII and brought you here for study.”
That would explain the psychiatrist and his pony delusions. The guy had obviously dug too deep. “Why can’t I remember anything?”
There’s a long pause. More of her whispering to someone out of earshot. Oh well. If the team helping her rescue you wanted to remain anonymous, that was fine and dandy. Besides, they seemed to be giving decent enough advice.
She comes back full of confidence. “The Marker you found imprinted your brain with a self-replicating signal. The longer you’re awake, the more the signal spreads. It’s killing you Isaac. Tiedemann tried to keep it in check with memory suppressants.”
How very humane of him. Fucking dick. “You said you could fix it, right?”
“Only if you reach me in time. Tram station. Get moving.” The telecomm beeps, cutting her off.
The pipes are still rattling, ticking in the walls and ceiling. Well isn’t that a hoot. Tiedemann wants the needle, but has to keep feeding the haystack. Fucking himself over nicely.
Midway up the far wall, you spot the lighted faceplate of another service duct, a perfect bottleneck for Princess Necromorph and her little army. The plate comes free with a short burst of kinesis, and you scramble in. This time you’re alone in the narrow crawlspace. Maybe the infection hadn’t spread this far yet.
You kick through into a tech shop. Sweet Altmann you’d been waiting to find something like this. It’s outfitted with a MicroStore, and oh, what do you know, a Nanocircuit Repair Bench. The cutter could use a clip upgrade.
A red tool cabinet spotted with oil and wreathed with flower garlands divides the room island-style. So much for an effective quarantine. There’s an audio log tablet half-buried amidst the pony vandalism. You click play as you circle around to the Store.
“Listen up! This is Sorensen from CEC. Cut off their limbs! It’s the only way they go down! It’s their limbs, that’s the secret! Comms are down, we can’t get a broadcast out, so tell everyone you see!”
That news was old when Daina had spread it half an hour ago, and that’s only if you’re of the zombie alien faction of the world’s new split personality. Noble intentions, Sorensen, but useless. The Store’s display panel flips down. Here we go, now for some real weapons. Let’s see what we have …
“Jesus.” Your forehead hits the screen. All of the items are flowers, carrots, pastries, and saddles. The prices are listed in increments of small gold coins, like some shit you’d see teens plugging into VR consoles at an arcade. Little by little, bit by bit, the ponies - their taint - was creeping into cracks, corrupting even the tiniest details.
According to the Store, you have 7,000 of the coins in your account. Why the fuck not? Nothing to be overly concerned about at this point, really. Placating the creatures seemed to have worked better than shooting them. Cause and effect, cause and effect. That is the law. The funhouse craziness? Incidental.
Saddles would be too bulky, flowers too fragile. Two bunches of carrots and a cherry turnover should do the trick. You glance over at the Bench as the injectors fab your purchase. Would adding a few more rounds to the cutter be worth it if you were going to be playing zookeeper? No, probably not. Better hold onto the power node in case you needed to improvise a voltage source. You step out of the Store’s alcove and head through the exit.
Another pre-recorded message is looping in the next room, which looks to be one of the tram station’s transit hallways. Large windows to the outside provide a dim view of the city. They’re smeared with chocolate words, more nonsense of the fanatics and the broken. There’s trash and debris everywhere, human and pony alike.
Ah, it’s our friendly neighborhood Director of Operations. What self-justified bullshit is he spouting now?
“… is Director Tiedemann. A station-wide emergency is in effect. In accordance with Titan Station Civic Code, I am declaring martial law. All citizens are ordered to evacuate. Looters will be shot on sight …”
You miss the last part of what he’s saying. Nice move, Tiedemann. Now you could snuff anyone you wanted and write it off as protecting the property of law-abiding citizens. And if the corpse of a psychotic engineer or two ended up in the pile of dead looters, who would blow the whistle? The ponies?
You round a corner, using the faint city lights filtering through the windows to search the jumbled mess for threats. Nothing but Tiedemann’s face flickering from a dozen TV screens, explaining how you were supposed to get out or get shot. Not much of a threat there. There’s a moving walkway conveyor leading to the other end of the room. A shuttle moves by, silent out in the lunar night.
Your feet could use a rest, even for just a few seconds. The conveyor starts to roll as you step through its laser trip sensor. Shit, it’s going the wrong way.
There’s movement at the far end. A pony is getting up, shaking rubble and dust from her back as the conveyor speeds her towards you. Her grass skirt is parted over the guava fruit symbol on her pink hindquarters.
She notices you and smiles. Taking a moment to smooth out her seashell motif headscarf, she draws a hibiscus lei from around her neck and gestures with it. “Hey buddy! I’m Cool Waves. Want to come hang with us?”
You shake the cherry turnover back at her and set it at your feet. When she reaches the end, she drops her lei and chows down. Nice and easy.
“Sorry, uh, Cool Waves. I’ve got a job to do for the Princess, getting snacks to all you hungry ponies so uh …” By the volume of her gobbling, you guess she’s tuned you out. “Uh, valiantly winning over new subjects for her kingdom.” The creature mumbles something through a blob of cherry filling.
Hmm. The lei might lend credibility to your guise. A pony supply courier should look laid back. The suit? Oh, that’s to help those hardworking horses outside, of course, funny you should ask.
You crouch next to her and point to the string of flowers. “Mind if I take this? Hibiscus is my favorite.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Thanks for the grub. You were right, I was starving!”
“No problem,” you mutter, donning the lei. Fucking disgusting pig.
You move on, passing the multitude of screens flashing an earnest, in-command Tiedemann, giving his spiel over and over. You would loot one out of spite, but you’d have a hard time explaining it to the ponies, let alone Tiedemann’s security teams.
The exit opens into another corridor, letting in the awful noise of chaos. For the first time since escaping the psych ward, you’re able to witness to the full scale of the slaughter. Through a collapsed gateway you can see people leaping, sobbing, running, being transformed where they waited, ecstatic on all fours, playing with their new friends. It’s a picturesque view of things going completely to shit.
The train wreck is unfolding, and there’s nothing you can do but watch. Cause and effect. Did it really mean anything? What if there is no shit, no sanity? What if all of this is just one more of nature’s games, one selfish gene battling another for reproductive dominance? That body you’re occupying? Time to vacate, you’ve been evicted. That ego you’ve spent your entire life nurturing and defending? No worries, just your imagination.
Fuck it. The voice of reason is an asshole sometimes.
A few yards ahead, two mares, white and eggshell blue, are tag-team tickling a writhing, helplessly laughing young woman. Thrown from the train. Too late again, Isaac. You tear off two carrots from one of your bunches.
“Hey there!”
The ticklers turn, both aglow with satisfaction.
You lob the carrots over to them. “Can you tell me the quickest way to get to the apartment blocks? The Princess asked me to do a quick head count of the new, uh, recruits while I’m on my supply run.”
“Um, sure, there’s an elevator right over here,” says the blue one. Her partner digs her hooves back into the lady’s neck and armpit. “That’s how we got in. After that, I’m not sure.”
You give them a salute as you jog past. “Thanks. I’ll add your new pal to my list.” Before they can answer, or think too much about your story, you bring up the elevator and jump in.
Quiet. Peace and quiet. Stop shaking Isaac. She was gone. Going up, up this time for sure. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Elevator noise is so calming. Almost to Daina, almost out of here. Daina would get these monsters out of your head, help you to remember everything, help you …
The lights go out. You’re slowing down. Someone was trying to get in, beating on the panels above, his muffled cries growing louder. “Help! Leave me alone, leave me …”
The elevator jerks to a stop, overshooting the next floor. As the doors stutter open, a guy reaches up and starts lifting himself in. “Help me, please! Get them off me! Get them …” A thick swarm of butterflies enfolds him, drowning out his cries. He disappears as they carry him out of sight like a pastel magic carpet. The doors close again. Your quiet ascent resumes.
Dead. They’re all dead. Death is simple. Natural. Sometimes the lion catches the baby gazelle. Motherfucking lions. Sharks. Keep going, there are still others you can save. Daina’s got the cure.
You reach the top floor and step out onto a balcony. It’s clear, with the exception of a lone resident sitting on a white cushioned bench. He’s humming to himself, looking at nothing in particular, a cigarette between his grimy fingers and a bottle of scotch at his side. His shirt reads My other shirt is a rocket launcher. Hundreds of cigarette butts are arranged into a powdery message at his feet.
Death to Celestia Shoot ponies in the face
Dude is blitzed out of his mind. All good evidence that he gives zero fucks about his impending doom. Best not mess with him.
Your telecomm sputters. “Isaac! Isaac! Over here!”
You lean against the railing, scanning the first floor. Nothing human left down below. Wait, there. Someone’s waving to you from another balcony across the atrium. His voice barely carries over the pandemonium. Streamers and confetti are raining down from the ceiling, and balloons are thick in the air. There are butterflies and colorful birds everywhere, rampant in the madness.
You shout into your mic, struggling even to hear yourself. “Who are you?” There’s something very familiar about him. If you could only get a good look through the glittering haze.
“It’s the drugs, Isaac. They gave us drugs to make us forget. But it’s all coming back …”
Drugs? Whose ‘they’? “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why are you calling me?”
Static. Then, “Isaac. Isaac look out.”
Something was grunting, climbing up the railings. Two twinkling vermillion eyes peer up from the edge of the balcony floor, widening as they find you. The unicorn’s rounded vanilla horn was already glowing.
“God damn it!” The guy on the bench gets up and flicks his cigarette at the unicorn, who was clambering over the railing, waggling her little orange tongue in concentration. Another country heard from.
“Who set these fuggin’ things loose in the station? More a’ fuggin’ EarthGov’s …” he waves his bottle at the struggling creature, “… handiwork. Dirty mutts are runnin’ the place. Looka that bassard! Here.” He staggers to the railing and grabs the unicorn under her forelegs, lifting her over.
“You know what I do with little pony mutts like you? I put ‘em down. Shoot ‘em, right in the face. Point blanket. No pain, no sufferin’.”
What? That must be some good shit he’s drinking. You’d better break it up before he gets a genetic makeover.
The pony giggles and lowers her horn. “Like this?”
You drop to one knee and shield your eyes, avoiding the flash. No warning, no mercy. But maybe this time you can stop the slaughter. Maybe if you interrupt the spell, toss the little fucker back over the railing and splatter her on the punch bowls and piles of confetti … but no, that would break Daina’s kindness symmetry. You have to be nice. How could you coax the lioness off of her prey?
The flare of pony magic intensifies, and even through your suit you can feel its sharp tingle. You squint into the wavering shell of light, ready to bum rush both of them. Just a little violence, surely that wasn’t bending the rules too much? You were so overwhelmed with joy at witnessing a fellow man’s rebirth into ponyhood, you could tell her, that you just had to hug someone. Yeah, the unicorn might buy it. As for the guy, he …
He wasn’t a guy anymore. At least not completely. He was changing from the head down, his face already covered in thin orange-brown hair, eyes bigger than grapefruits. He stood there downing the rest of his scotch, flipping his pony assailant a calm, defiant bird.
You tear your eyes away and scramble around a divider, deep in the shadows between the balcony and the adjacent hallway. There’s a door at the end, its panel glowing a sweet blue. You race to it, trying to ignore the laughter and the wailing leaking through from the other side.
***
Steady Isaac. You’d made it. You’d cut them all to pieces.
You retrieve the plasma cutter clip that had slipped from your trembling hand and slide it into the smoking receiver. Your RIG’s vibration correction servos could only handle so much adrenaline.
Take a time out, buddy. Yeah, just a short siesta to clear the mind.
Your temporary refuge is quiet and empty. It’s an electrical closet, somewhere near the tram station. Nothing but cables, junction boxes and thick steel walls. One way in, one way out.
The cutter is cooling down, the smoke thinning out. Every step of the way had been a death struggle. The necromorphs had returned after the attack on the balcony. The real ones. The ones that made sense. First there had been a family, a woman agonizing over leaving her ailing mother behind as she fled the outbreak. They had both become infected. Their heads came off clean and quick – one, two. More of the freaks had ambushed you in a laundry room, the slash-happy kind. And right before you’d jumped in here, something new had bid you a friendly hello by blowing itself up next to you, some scrawny scrap of flesh lugging around a sac of explosive shit. Your ears were still ringing from that little surprise.
You crawl to the wall and lean back, enjoying the cool dry air your suit’s filtration unit was pumping to your helmet. Jumping back and forth between killer and cuddler was annoying as fuck. Insanity couldn’t be simple. Nosiree, can’t have that. Daina had said the ponies are manifestations of the dementia, and that the hallucinations would deepen until she could treat you. So there’s no choice but to assume that Daina exists, and that even as everyone you meet dies, becomes infected, or trots merrily off on dainty hooves, it’s possible to wade through the bullshit and get to her in time.
But why should the illness make any exceptions? Why should it allow for a happy ending?
Back up a step. The only fact yet to be contradicted is that you’re sick. If that’s the only constant, then why should you believe Daina? Maybe she’s a necromorph. Or a goddamn pony. Sure, every living person you’d encountered who had seen the ponies or spoken of them as real had been crazy – the doctor, Stross, the guy on the …
Except the guy on the balcony. He’d been the first person not obviously insane and/or wearing a straightjacket who had acknowledged the ponies. Drunk, sure, but mostly coherent nonetheless. So two opposing viewpoints from two presumably sane people.
Assuming that the ponies are real, then what about the necromorphs? How do they fit in?
You shake your head and stand up. You’re backsliding, Isaac, lapsing into theory like a chalkboard-humping physicist. Rationalizing the irrational. The empirical evidence is all there is, all there ever was. Be nice to the ponies and they leave you alone. Stomp the necromorphs after you chop them up and they poop out money and ammo. It’s kept you alive so far.
You exit your ad hoc sanctuary, sweeping the broad passage with the cutter. With evidence comes confidence. The sign above the door to the left reads Galilei Transit Station. That’s the ticket.
The empty hallway beyond slopes downward, then up at the end in a gentle curve, a whimsical piece of architecture designed to break up the monotony, maybe give the residents the impression of trekking through a hilly field on their way to the workday commute. The perky advertisements cycling through the flat panels lining the wall, yeah, check those out as you sip your coffee. EarthGov. Safe and Sound. Stand tall, great Oz. Good things are happening, and pay no mind that the view never changes.
You reach the bottom of the slope. Safe and Sound.
Isaac are you there? I’m cold.
The screens flicker, coughing static and disjointed words. The floor plates are shifting under your boots. She’s at it again.
But you’d already had this discussion. She’s just rehashing the same old shit. “That’s not going to work Nicole! I don’t care anymore! Are you listening? I don’t give a fuck!” Your breath fogs the inside of your visor.
The needle is burning in my arm. Isaac, where are you?
Snippets of her dying thoughts were coming through, just for you. Wouldn’t want to miss those, would you Isaac? You miserable fuck.
“Oh, that’s just perfect. That’s out of bounds, understand? I didn’t ask you to …” But you had asked her. You’d nagged her relentlessly to join the Ishimura’s medical unit, and in time she’d given in. You had packed her uniforms, kissed her on the transport landing pad. Told her you’d miss her.
The room is getting dark. I can’t see you.
Not fair. She’s not playing fair. Nicole is gone. Lost, light years away.
You run uphill to the end of the hall and through into the tram station. She’s there, sitting on the backboard of a waiting bench, just like she used to in the tropical mini-parks back home. She’s still dressed in white, smiling like the dawn in a painting of old Earth. Never mind the rising heat.
You step closer, watching her bright rosy eyes. She had changed again. Her hair had grown long and colorful. It was flowing behind her, lifted in a dreamy light. One hand was reaching to you, holding a unicorn’s horn. In the other danced a miniature sun.
Can you see me?
A burning tram car screams past behind the bench, setting the posters and signs in its tunnel ablaze. She vanishes.
You trudge to the bench, bringing both fists down where she had been sitting. The thin plastic cracks and clatters to the floor. Something bumps behind you as if in answer.
“And it’s over, just like that?” you yell at the flames. “You play your fucking mind games and then just disappear?”
A door is hissing open. “Whoa … whoa!” calls a quavering voice.
Motherfucker not now. The broken bench splinters in your grip. “I don’t know what you are, but you sure as hell aren’t Nicole. She wasn’t a coward.” You turn in time to see a chubby brown unicorn coming out of another tram. She’s teetering on the shoulders of a necromorph.
Later, maybe in another electrical closet, or even a secluded bathroom, one with fresh clean urinal cakes and newspapers left folded for you by conscientious stall occupants, when you aren’t pissed as fuck, you could ruminate on the psychology of that one. Later.
Two shots from the cutter blow the knees out from under the necromorph. It falls into a growling heap, sending the unicorn rolling to your feet. You pick her up and hold her tight with one arm.
“Hey there kiddo, what’s your name?”
“Cookie Jar,” she grumbles.
You squeeze her legs against her pudgy gut until you feel her joints pop. “Well, Cookie, here’s a science lesson. Plasma is referred to as the fourth state of matter by some. It’s just hot gas, really, so hot that the atoms lose their electrons.”
“Plasma? Duh, we learned about that in …”
“Be quiet and listen!” You wave the cutter under her nose. “This here is a little something I threw together to help young ponies like you experience plasma firsthand.”
“Young? I’m twenty seven! And I’m offended by your use of the word ‘firsthand’. I’m going to tell Princess Luna …”
“Shut up! I told you to shut up!” You shout in her face, shooting off one of the necromorph’s blade arms.
Cookie Jar squirms in your grip. “Don’t hurt her! She’s got long legs. She was helping me see out the windows.”
“Oh, you want down?” You punt her into the shadows of the smoldering tram tunnel.
Fucking whiner. You kick the convulsing necromorph aside and step up into the tram. How to get this thing moving? Everything was automated per ISO standard, so driving was out. The PLCs of these jobs were usually housed in the back. Worth a hack, maybe. You head to the last car, trying to remember how municipal class units are wired.
There it is, gray cover plate with a high voltage warning. It comes off with a quick tug, and you dig in.
Not too bad. Your average terrorist would be pretty well out of luck. Grizzled engineers like yourself, much more dangerous.
The car bucks, then begins to build momentum. There we go. Just a short ride to Daina, pop some meds, then get to sorting through this mess. No more ponies.
Ponies. There might still be one or two lurking on the tram. Cookie Jar and her pal had been pretty quiet before your little outburst. Best to root out any malingerers. It would be bad manners to darken Daina’s doorstep with unwanted guests.
You canvas the car, checking under all of the seats. Clear. The next car up is empty too. As you cross into the third, you hear a thump on the ceiling behind you. Then two more. Hoofbeats are crisscrossing up above. Shit.
The windows of the second car crash inward all at once, breached by sharp hooves and hard little skulls. The space above the seats fills up with a suffocating cloud of wings and manes. More glass breaks ahead of you.
This wasn’t like the other surprise attacks. If they surround you now, your options are out the window. Literally.
You slam through two cider swillers that had boarded the third car, splashing their fetid drink in your face, trying to blind you. The head car was probably reinforced against crashes: small windows, thick steel. Get in there and you had a chance. The stupid bastards might even wedge themselves in the doorway.
The fourth car is clear. The fifth car … is missing. Empty track separates you from the rest of the tram, roaring by in a blur of cables and concrete.
Where the fuck is the fifth car? Did the assholes on duty this morning put their five collective brain cells together and decide connecting the tram was above their payscale?
“There he is! OK team, let’s bag this troublemaker!”
The pegasi are in, nets and candy buckets in tow.
“Princess Luna, in here! Eye Sack is in here!”
So that fucking loudmouth was still on the prowl. If you didn’t want the worst kind of headache, you’d have to risk using your suit’s on-board thrusters and cross the gap to the next car. You jump forward into the dim tunnel, switching on the twin rockets housed in your boots.
The tunnel weaves right, and you weave with it. This had never been an easy operation. Keeping the legs parallel was key. If they went off-axis, you could go into a nasty spin. Six thousand RPM was not good for the neck.
The broken door of the car ahead breaks off and blows past your face. Just a few more inches … and … your fingers catch the frame. Reaching with your other hand, you pull yourself in and look back. The pegasi are scattering, tumbling away in the turbulence of the tram’s wake. Rockets beat wings every time.
You get up and keep moving. This car is quiet. Nothing under the seats. Excellent. The only way the fliers had boarded earlier was because the tram hadn’t picked up a good head of steam. Another aerial hijack is unlikely. Onward to the lead car, then …
Something bangs and starts grinding overhead. The car swings left and right, jolting hard every few feet. You grab the handrails on either side, bobbing like a punched out boxer. You’re slowing down.
Another hard jolt breaks your grip and sends you to the floor. The lights sizzle and go out. You know from working over the PLC that the lights and the motor are on the same signal path. If the lights are out, so is the power.
But the car is still inching forward. No, not the car. You’re moving, but how?
An apple rolls by your shoulder. Oh shit.
The front of the tram drops to an incline, pulling you down into the darkness. Your feet slam through the door to the next car, straight through a pair of twin blue unicorns.
“Ow! Hey, it’s Eye Sack! Get him!”
They just miss latching onto your legs as you slide past. Balloons are bouncing up the tilted ceiling, and pastel streamers hang in limp webs above the aisle. The bastards had been setting up one of their parties by the looks of it, probably to celebrate your capture and transmutation.
The angle of the broken tram steepens, accelerating your descent. Ponies attack from both sides as you as you crash through the remaining cars, casting gobs of sticky cotton candy, trying to catch you in balloon string loops, diving for you in desperate bids to slow you down.
Then you see the floor, not thirty feet below the end of the tram and coming at you way too fast. “Fuck …” you growl, and brace for the impact. Suit or no, med packs can’t heal broken bones.
Something catches your foot at the jagged edges of the car, flipping you over and out below the groaning wreck. Your leg jerks up hard, stopping your freefall.
A trashed-littered tiled floor is swinging above your head, flickering in the amber light of small grease fires. What the fuck? You don’t know whether to laugh or shit yourself. Doing both was a stark possibility. Despite your every attempt to keep luck out of the equation, it had pulled your panicking ass out of the cockpit and landed the fucking plane.
The mouth of the tram is dark and silent. Saddlebags, flowerpots and scrolls tumble down like shit from a broken pony sewer pipe. And here you hang, a turd dangling on a clog of their sweet sparkly hair. It’s only a matter of time before one of their fluffy asses squirts out of the pipe. Time to get down and get moving.
Your foot is knotted in a cable, which would be frying you right now if the ponies hadn’t killed the power. Severing it with the cutter would be the wrong move; just an inch or two off and you’d be minus a foot. If you pull yourself up and work the knot loose …
A squeaky voice calls out from your left. “Oooh, is he pretending to be a piñata?”
“I think so! Let’s decorate him!”
Two mares had come out from behind a stack of storage crates. One was dragging a bulging sack twice her size, equipped with a hose and nozzle. The other was carrying a painting palette. “Cookie Jar said he was really mean, so we’ll have to try extra hard to cheer him up.”
More ponies drop down from the broken windows of the tram, shaking glass and debris from their backs. Pegasi, unicorns and cider drinkers are converging on you, tapping their hooves together and ruffling each other’s manes in triumph.
You twist left and right, trying to calculate. The royal courier routine is out. Should you start shooting? They’ll just go dizzy for a few minutes, then come back for more. It could buy some time, but would it be enough to extricate yourself and get past them?
The first two reach you and get to work. The artist begins dabbing her brush on your visor, two yellow dots, a third below, then a long red smiling arc.
Just focus. Do not laugh. Do not smile. Do not let them break you.
“Hee hee. Better already!” squeals the beaming mare, admiring her work. “Ooh la la! What a dapper lad you are!”
The one with the bag was peering at your face, winking at you with long wispy lashes. “I bet you’ve got a sweet tooth,” she says, and turns the valve on her nozzle. Thick brown fluid gushes onto your neck, hardening into a crunchy shell. Chocolate.
While she spreads more across your shoulders, something warm and soft encircles your waist from behind, and again from the side. Two pegasus mares are hugging you, leaning their velvet faces against your tired thighs.
One taps your knee with a brilliant green hoof. “Shh. It’s OK. No pony wants to hurt you. See?” She carefully massages your calf. Seeing that you’re not struggling, the other follows suit and begins nuzzling your hip.
So … gentle. Can’t … let them … win. Can’t … fight back. Just a little longer, and they’ll go away. That’s how you kill them. That’s how it’s supposed to work. Daina promised.
The tram creaks above you. The ponies go quiet and bow as one.
“Well done, my ponies. Victory is ours!” The terrible voice roars overhead, rattling your teeth. She had come.
The ponies raise their forelegs, leaping and laughing as they cheer, “Huzzah!”
Past the crude paint streaking your visor, you look up to see her, Princess Luna, commanding the room with a fiery gaze. Her sea-green eyes range over the battlefield.
Full of light.
Share her secrets. Receive her wisdom.
“No,” you whisper.
She addresses her warriors once more. “Hast thou enjoyed thy sport?”
“Huzzah!” they cheer a second time, clapping and stomping jubilant hooves.
The Princess nods. “Huzzah, and huzzah again! All shall receive dwellings and gardens for delivering our prize to us. Now behold as we fulfill his destiny, and usher in a new age of peace and harmony for all pony kind!”
“No!” you shout, aiming the plasma cutter at her throat. Your shot explodes upward, a brief flash in the darkness.
It hits her neck and fades without so much as a sizzle.
Princess Luna chuckles. “Oh! A tickle! Art thou playing with us already?” she calls down to you, smiling.
“Stay the fuck away from me!” you cry, gripping your plasma cutter with both hands and empting the cartridge. The few bolts that find their mark shrink and disappear like the first.
It doesn’t make sense. Absorbing even one of those should throw something her size twenty feet. She hadn’t even flinched.
“Poor thing. All out of tickles? Celestia was right. Thou art indeed a wily, spirited creature.”
A soft silver glow envelopes you. The cable trapping your foot untangles itself, and you drift slowly to the floor. The aura remains, cradling you with a gentle strength.
The Princess descends and stands over you, her dark breastplate inches above your face, rising and falling with her quiet breathing. You can see the fine filigree, the endless swirls and patterns engraved in the lunar sign it bore. The sparkling lights falling from her shoes whisper and tinkle by your ears.
She lowers her face and smiles, speaking only to you.
Only to you.
“At last we have claimed thee!”
Her mane flows down and around her shoulders, the cloudy arm of a shining spiral galaxy teeming with mysteries and wonders. It flows down and touches you, passing over your aching arms and chest in warm, soothing streamlets. Your terror is fading, your anger drifting out of sight in that calm, violet sea.
It’s over. Sleep.
It’s over. It’s over. It’s not that bad. Time to sleep.
“Now where is that spot? Sister doth make it look so easy.”
The sparkling blue tresses snake towards your stomach, probing the soft spots between the rigid alloy ribs of your suit.
The veil tears - the one you always knew was there, the one you had guessed would be lifted only at death, or never at all. In floods knowledge, secrets, images – a three-tiered mask, or was it the creature’s face, glowing neon blue at your hooves? Silly beast, he doesn’t know.
These memories are long-shadowed, memories … yes … of the dawn of his kind, swimming and playing in our gentle tides. Every such world has its moon to quicken it. To cast its spiraling light and stir its elements, to bind them in noble purpose.
We were old when the nearer planets had formed. Older than the dust trailing amongst them, ashes of suns long dead. Uncounted strains of life had since blossomed and flourished, reaching toward the light for their few precious moments, finally to fade into senescence and obscurity. But not before they had given themselves. Their joyous minds are speaking, laughing and sharing their enlightened discourse with us forever in righteous communion, shining stars rejoicing in accord with their beautiful Luna.
Rest, child. We shall clean your lifelong wound.
She is taking you now, your gentle Princess is gathering you in. So you too have come to the final refuge of all prey. Perfectly safe and free of pain.
Her thoughts shift, growing troubled and anxious. You look up through her eyes and your own, up along her long neck, past her smooth jaws and chin, and up from below your black crown and tingling blue forelocks.
The human vessel above is cracking, threatening to fall and crush our long-suffering ward. He must not be harmed.
I must not be harmed.
Your shared intent turns again, back to warmth and safety. She looks down, finding your eyes somehow through your mask. At last, at long last you know exactly who you are. The remnants of your fear yield to the unspeakable word told by her gaze. There’s no time for magic. You smile with her, deciding together what you must do. Together you unfurl your wings and bend low.
The dangling end of the tram breaks loose, hitting the floor and bursting into flames. It’s OK. There’s nothing to be afraid of. She’s strong, as invincible as dreams, and she’s with you. None of it can hurt you now.
The ceiling supports give way, dropping ton after ton of concrete, copper piping, drop panels and rebar. The ponies are ducking, covering their heads with their forelegs, scattering away from the avalanche. There’s a crushing weight, and … God no, she’s gone. Please Luna, please don’t go, I don’t want to be alone. It’s dark, and I’m …
***
You’re dragging yourself away from the wreck of metal and wires on all fours, mindful of your tail dragging … what happened to your tail? Why had your beloved ponies ceased their jubilant revelry?
There’s a structure ahead of you, still intact, half-hidden in the dim amber light. A staircase. Mayhap our children have taken refuge here? Shhh, shh. No, there’s nopony here, no one here. She’s gone. You’re alone, Isaac.
You draw in your knees, hugging them and rocking slowly in the corner, shielded from view by the narrow metal mesh ramp. Arms are for … lifting. They should be free, not bearing weight. Load bearing. Studs to joists, locked by tenons, the even rational ribs that build the structure. Sir Newton had been great, truly great. He had revealed the framework, had shown the path for all who choose sanity. He was no speck of primordial slime, no gooey helical selfish self-replicator. A man, a mind. Not a pony.
Better. That’s better. No one can see, no one can hear. What’s that? A change in pitch of the mechanism. The humidity control of your suit’s environmental regulator adjusting, drying your eyes and face. It’s OK as long as no one can see your face.
A memory is lingering, soft blue strands draped over your visor, shielding you from the darkness. Had it been years or minutes? Nothing in the world – the familiar world of relays and grease and stasis field generators, transgalactic corporations and weak-ass perk-me-up slogans plastered everywhere so you don’t blow your fucking brains out staring into the black vacuum of space every single day of your goddamn life – nothing had been as real as what you had seen in her eyes. It had been the same look Nicole had given you sometimes, lying on the bed, watching you get dressed in the morning. It was the look mom used to give you after dinnertime prayers. Food for flesh and love for soul. Bless Altmann and speed the Marker’s ascent.
She had protected you.
You activate your telecomm, slowing your rocking, talking into the corner, down at your wrist. “D-Daina? I’m hurt. Are you there? Daina, I need a new route.” This one sure as hell hadn’t panned out.
She comes back, no delay this time. “What happened? I thought we lost you.”
Good old Daina. You stand, your aching feet finding purchase despite the whirling visions of stars and planets long dead blinking on and off around you. “Unscheduled stop. Where am I?”
“How did you end up there? Hang on,” she replies. There’s a rustling, maybe of blueprints or schematics. How about some nice service closets? Some remote access terminals, one-man lockers buried in the deepest crevices of this miserable time capsule of neurotic claustrophobia? Anything as long as it took you far away from windows and the outside.
Your RIG beeps, finishing a download. Daina had come through again. “This won’t be the most pleasant route, but it’ll get you to the Thiessen Towers residential sector …” The signal cuts out in a short rash of static. Daina fades back in, yelling over the noise. “Dammit! Tiedemann has your signal again. Keep moving.”
You look back at the ruin you can’t remember escaping. “OK.” Keep moving. Nothing else to do.
There’s a rare break in the static. Daina’s low, calm voice clears the fog, chasing away the unwanted bliss the sight of the rubble stirs. “You’re very important to them, Isaac. Hold tight, I’ll contact you soon.”
Right. Right. Soon. You stand up, swaying on your hind legs. No, your legs, the only two you have. Step by step, you clank your boots down on the mesh incline, up and around. That’s right. This is how men walk. There’s a door at the top, along with some sort of data log console. No need for that. The ponies don’t want to hurt you. The Night Princess had proven that point. Hadn’t she? Besides, it’s not like anyone’s going to be around to study your vital history. Except Tiedemann, maybe, the douche.
The door slides up, revealing a short cramped hallway that ends in a T. Something was moving at the end - the shadow of small child, its hands clawed as in the final moments of mortal pain, its back broken and hunched. The shadow jumps and flees at the sound of your entry. You run to the intersection, hoping it was a trick of the light.
“No, not the kids, please not the kids,” you plead to the silent walls. Back so soon, you fucks? Feeling that generous with your goddamn disease? You’re not choosy, are you? Not in the least bothered, not in the least satisfied until you pervert every last chromosome. God damn every single one of you.
Another short flight of stairs at the end of the corridor leads into a commercial concourse. Fashion Kid chain outlet. Toy store. Not a soul in sight. Upbeat electronica is still chiming from within the darkened windows.
The little necromorph had been a vision, that’s all. Just the fading remains of an anesthetized memory. At least your growing madness was leaving something sacred. You advance to the broad doors at the end of the room.
Glass breaks to your left. You duck as a wave of yelping fillies and colts storms out of the shattered Fashion Kid doorway, a whirlwind of yellows, greens and pinks clambering to bury you under a squirming dogpile.
Clever. You can’t dismember them, and you can’t reason with them. You run, trying to buy enough time to think. Fucking monsters. They’d trapped kids, sweet innocent kids looking for something cool to wear, maybe some sneakers or jeans that mom and dad wouldn’t mind handing over some credits for. Trapped them and defiled them.
Light flashes across your eyes, a glance back across black empty space, back through starlit eons, voiceless time spent watching and waiting. Of course. The children had died suffering and in terror. There’s only one thing to do. They must be delighted and comforted as much as possible. They must be instructed.
You turn around at the end of the concourse, reaching out and suppressing the mob with slow, steady movements. “Hey now, calm down, calm down!”
The youngsters skid to a halt. You count over twenty shaggy heads, stout little bodies hopping, rolling, playfighting and pulling up on your shins. They’re barking out their hearts’ desires, staring up at you with their shining oversized eyes.
“Candy!”
“Presents!”
“Pizza!”
You raise a hand for silence. The noise dies to a half-hearted bickering, giving you the opportunity you need. “Patience,” you say, giving them a finger-wag your old Philosophy of Science professor would have been proud of.
Some of them stick out their tongues. “Patience? Yuck!”
“Boring!”
“Who has time for that?”
You shake your head and raise your hand again, demanding silence. “Patience. Do you know what’s special about patience, young ones?”
“Yeah, it’s specially lame,” grumbles a chubby blue colt. He yanks the tail of a teal filly in front of him, who spins around and whacks him on the nose.
Better head that off before it gets ugly. “Hey, listen now. What’s your name?”
“Dribble.”
“Alright Dribble, what do you want the most right now?”
“Uh, lemee see,” he replied, scratching his scruffy head with his hooftip. “Uh, I want it to be my birthday.”
“Ah, your birthday. Little one, patience can make it your birthday. And the more patient you are, the more you’ll get what you want.”
“Really?” he asks. The foals are sitting in a rapt circle now, trying to see into your visor.
“Yes indeed! Patience can take something that’s far away, say, uh …” you glance to your left, into the dark violet glow of the stars. Her stars. “Say, the moon, and bring it closer. You get in your shuttle, you fill your brain up with patience, and before you know it, there you are!” Foals would buy it. Heck, even the adults you’d met were mentally deficient enough to buy it.
The colt raises his foreleg. “Kinda like the Convergence?”
The fuck? “Uh yeah, yes! Just like that.”
He stands up on his hind legs and punches the air. “Awesome!”
The rest of the group gets up and starts hopping again. The teal filly makes her way through the crowd and sits in front of you. She mutters to you from behind the back of her hoof, leaning in close. “Thank you so much. Waiting for Holy Convergence will be so much less of a chore now. And now that annoying colt Dribble has something else to occupy himself with besides pulling my mane. Isn’t it pretty?” She flicks it in your direction.
Smile and nod to victory, Isaac. “That’s great! Now listen, there are a lot of other ponies out there who are struggling with this whole ‘bored-to-death-waiting-for-Convergence’ thing, so I’ve got to run and give them the good news, too. Why don’t you all go on back to Fashion Kid and think about what you’ve learned today?”
She sighs and turns away. The others had overheard and taken your suggestion. They run off, their merry jibes fading into the dark façade of their clothing store.
“I can be twice as patient as you.”
“Yeah, twice the mental patient.”
“Ha ha, real funny …”
You watch them leave, fading into the darkness. Shadows. Laughter, silly kids’ chatter still echoing in the emptied corridors of a broken city. Nicole had never wanted kids. Why give someone a death sentence, she’d always said. And look how right she was. Pestilence doesn’t discriminate. Just metes out the pain, trotting along atop its pale …
An angry burst of static stabs your ears. Someone is trying to reach you, and not on Daina’s frequency. Your RIG begins to spew out choppy video.
“Isaac! Isaac, you still alive? We can’t talk long.” Stross again. Maybe he’d learned something.
He goes on, looking around like he’s expecting a stealth necromorph nuzzle any second. “I think they’re tracking our signals! Are the memories coming back to you? They’re coming back to me … the good ones … ow! The bad ones … the more I remember, the more my head hurts. I keep seeing the ponies. Do you see the ponies too, Isaac? And Her … I keep seeing Her face. Ah shit, they’ve found me.”
The signal breaks off. As usual, nothing useful on that front. Poor guy hadn’t had the luck of finding even a standard astro suit. Though on the other hand he’s probably immune to the ponies and their bullshit by now. There’s clearly not enough left of his mind to corrupt.
Bullshit? That’s right. Sitting patiently wasn’t going to get you to the cure. Now that you have the chance, you appraise the door you’d used to cover your back when the foals had appeared. Another elevator. You step in and jab the button.
A few silent seconds pass, alone with another panoply of ads. Stross. Cracked like a moon full of kimberlite. It’s hard to see a man reduced to that. He’s going to be completely useless when you finally get your shit together and draw up a real plan for purging the Station. Maybe Daina has something for him in her medicine cabinet.
The doors open on the top level of the concourse mini-mall. The middle of the floor is cut away, giving a bird’s eye view of what lay below. You take a quick peek over the glass safety railing. The bottom story looks to have been transformed into a barnyard stockpile of hay and tilling equipment, complete with a placid, tail-swishing cow. She’s staring up at you, her dull teeth grinding a mouthful of golden hay. You switch the frequency of your telecomm back from Stross’s and open the line.
“Hey Daina, there’s this crazy guy that keeps contacting me. I saw him back at the hospital.”
She responds without delay. “Nolan Stross. He was a patient in the project just like you.”
She must be listening, giving you her full attention now that you’re getting close. You circle around the railing, avoiding the cow’s curious, all-too intelligent gaze. Snazzy upbeat techno pumps from the overhead speakers. A little coke for your soul, shopper. Keep you in the game.
“Yeah? Why was he there? What does he want?”
“He’s a psychopath, Isaac, stay clear of him. He murdered his own wife and foal. Oh sh …”
She’s gone. Did she say … no, that couldn’t be right. Could it? The signal is replicating, oscillating faster and faster now, compounding Tiedemann’s comprehensive mindfuck. It was the child infection, that was it. Some realities are harder to adjust to than others. Nothing to worry about. The foals are fine now, asleep in their hay bales.
Where to go? Which one of these shops has a waste chute or duct access that leads to, where was it Daina had said, Thiessen Towers? Your RIG knows, thanks to her download.
The ghostly blue line snakes around the glass railing, past the cartoonish faces of well-groomed hair stylists, past the sign affirming the awesomeness of nothing in particular, and into the open foyer of a Unitol … no, Bronitology recruitment center? Bronitology? Could it be some sort of competing denomination that sprang up during your three-year brain melt? You step inside to take a closer look.
The interior is paneled in backlit plastic, glowing orange and bearing the mark of Celestia, crown Princess of the necromorphs. There’s a new design too, that of a winged unicorn silhouetted against a blinding sun, her legs outstretched in triumph.
The amber LED of a text log is winking at you from under a toppled pile of pamphlets. Some intrepid Bronitologist had put his thoughts to record in the middle of the pandemic. You push the cheery brochures off of the reception table and scan the log.
We, the foals of the Solar Mare, grow tired of the discordant, inharmonious attacks from EarthGov on our rights to worship as we please. Reduced hours of operation for the Community, fire marshal restrictions on the size of festivals, permits needed to distribute literature. These are all poorly concealed attempts to quash the Truth. HER TRUTH. And they will not succeed …
And on it went. These people weren’t frightened. They hadn’t run from the monsters when they attacked. They worshipped them, knelt down with open arms and assisted in their own impalement. Those messages on the walls you’d seen earlier, wings this and harmony that, those had been the prayers of the disciples of Celestia.
You toss the log tablet back on the pile of pamphlets and head to the only door leading into the complex. It’s all dairy farming to you, of course. You’re certainly not taking any ponies with you when you finally blast off from this glorified asteroid.
The door is locked. Hmm. Modern security interface, probably fifty thousand plus credits of electronics. It was easy to forget that sects like this comprise top-level scientists, politicians, artists and engineers, not just the directionless and bleeding heart types that flock to anyone who’s convinced themselves of their own bullshit. Anyone and everyone is qualified to become a pony.
Regardless of the price tag, the interface is no more than RLC and op amps, and would be hacked into submission like the rest. You have the alarm disarmed and the door open in less than twenty. A new record, maybe. You step through the door, cutter first.
***
Your boots touch down on the last platform before the danger zone of the extract turbine, their magnets pulling true even through the layer of chunky brown grease coating the floor. You’d spent the last five minutes dodging the garbage that the giant shielded blades were blowing into the 0 G compactor below Thiessen Towers, the backdoor route Daina had given you that led to her secret location.
You almost miss the door at the edge of the platform, slick as it is with the same oily filth that covered the floor. When you lived on a fragmented slab of rock, your options were limited as to where to flush your shit. Compaction and ejection are typical of this sort of outfit. Daina deserves points for seeing the chamber’s potential as a point of entry. Nary a hoof nor pincer the entire way. Which seems wrong. This is the residential sector of the Station. The infection should have run rampant through the apartment blocks, sending necromorphs in every direction. Particularly down into the fudge tunnel network where they liked to fester and mutate. Where are the people who used to live here?
The sludge over the door’s biometric display comes away with a swipe of your glove. Behind this door you’re going to find answers. You’re going to put an end to the visions and find a way to save this outpost.
The other side is too dark to see without your flashlight. Your narrow beam falls on metal grate floor panels and walls, locked storage cabinets and a few crates. You must still be in the utilities sub-floors, unless the Titan Station civilians had some very Spartan ideas about home aesthetics.
Something is tapping down the access tunnel to your right, and it doesn’t sound like the pipes. You kill the flashlight and notice a faint flickering glow at the end of the tunnel. Nothing was bum rushing you yet. Maybe you could take the element of surprise for once.
The source of the noise trips into view as you enter the erratic light’s outer glow. A single filly is wandering around in the intermittent dark, stumbling on wobbly knees. “Mom? Mom? Where are you? I was out in the food court and the ponies came and wanted to play just like you said they would and now I’m lost. They said my name is Sugar Free now but my name is Lena, right? Mom?”
You stay silent, letting her meander back into the ductwork. A necromorph that doesn’t know its own name isn’t likely to manage decapitating you.
The PA splutters to life as you exit the tunnel. “Power malfunction. Please replace the power unit to use the elevator.”
How quaint. Power unit … power unit. There it is. The hefty cube had fallen from its wall seating, probably bumped by Sugar Free or Lena or whoever she was in her blindness. They tended to do that, which was why the main power grid had gone nodeless ten years ago. At least it had in the rest of the known galactic sphere. You latch on with your kinesis and fit it into the outlet. The pulley system begins to hum behind the walls next to the elevator. Taking a breath to steady your nerves, you step in.
Gravity doubles for a good five seconds, telling you you’re going up this time, and fast. Too easy. This is way too easy. A population center this size would have flooded the substructure with the bastards, and all you’d seen in the past ten minutes was a single feeble-minded pony child. That means that there had been a successful evacuation, or there was a shit ton of apple nibblers up there waiting to make you the guest of honor in their surprise infection jubilee.
You rotate the plasma cutter’s guide lasers to horizontal and aim them at thigh-level, roughly the same height as a pony’s face. Game time.
The elevator door opens, and you shoulder into the hallway, ready to do combat with anything, equine, necromorph or otherwise, that might be waiting in ambush. But as you gaze about the adjacent rooms and lobbies, your arms drop to your sides, suddenly weak, and you sink to your knees.
Your last confidence in your grip on reality bounces away, a tumbleweed rolling into the Technicolor sunset behind the galloping steed of your ego, the idiot star of the show. Nothing you’ve been through thus far has prepared you for this.
You had found the residents of Thiessen Towers. There, strolling and skipping happily by long wall murals of round, snow-capped mountains, waterfalls and vibrant green meadows, there, pruning and admiring brightly-lit indoor flower gardens, there, cheerfully conversing amidst vegetable carts and grocery stands with human men, women and children, were ponies.
No one was going fruit loops. No one was so much as laughing too hard. It was completely insane. You had to be completely insane.
As you kneel, staring at the floor and hoping that death, when it came, would be swift, you hear two sets of footsteps approaching. Someone, a man thank God, touches your shoulder. “Hey there, buddy, are you OK? Were you looking for the recruitment center? And what’s with the engineering getup? The HVAC is working fine in here, not that we’ll need it for much longer. What do you think, Panflute sweetie, is it too warm, or cold, or anything? Do you know if somepony called in a work order?”
You raise your eyes, just a little, and take in a pair of black leather work boots. Beside them are four powder-blue hooves.
“No, I don’t think so, honeycakes,” answers a smooth, female voice. “Everypony is caught up in all the Convergence hubbub. Maybe this gentleman is here about that.”
And a more spritely gentleman there never was. Wonder what she thinks of the mishmash of junk strapped to your belt. A sack of their gold coins, apples, a few limp carrots, your plasma cutter, the semiconductor chip had fallen loose and shattered, goddammit, a single power node, and the red foam finger. And your hibiscus lei, of course. You’re a cornucopia, a regular pony Christmas tree, complete with garland, decked with yuletide goodies and delights. Maybe you’re all about Convergence, Isaac, running thither and yon with that shit flapping around. Like a goddamn tool.
You slump lower, covering your visor with your hand.
“Aw, hey now, what’s wrong?” the man asks. He pats your shoulder. “Listen, I can tell you’re not a member of the Church, and that’s OK. Her Highness offers her gift to everyone and everypony. Come on, let’s get you up and at ‘em. I’ll introduce you to some of the community here. Our brothers and sisters. Did you ever want a family? A real family? It can be yours, right here, right now.”
You straighten up, meeting the gaze of his intense blue eyes. Family. You remember your mother’s smiling face, long ago, long before you knew the word ‘love’. She’s holding you up, facing towards the sun. It’s warm and blinding, and she’s saying something over and over …
Fuck that. She'd spent more time hanging up Unitology flyers than being a mother. You push off from the floor, forcing your sore knees to lift you to your feet.
If you cared, Ma, you would have let me follow my own dreams. Not yours. There’s no family here or anywhere.
Your would-be brother claps you on the shoulder. “There we go, awesome. What’s your name? I’m Eric.”
“Isaac. Pleased to meet you Eric.”
“Likewise my friend! This is my fiancée and mentor, Panflute.”
Panflute smiles and extends a hoof. “A pleasure to meet you, Isaac! Welcome to Thiessen Towers.”
Fiancée. He said fiancée. Your legs buckle, and you fall back against the wall.
Eric hops forward and grabs your arm. “Whoa, easy fella. Are you ill? Do you need help? Do you think you could carry him, sweetie?”
“Oh I think I could manage. Climb aboard!” She sweeps her long green mane to the side and hunkers down by your feet.
You give her a quick wave. “Thanks, no. I’m OK. I guess I kind of fainted a minute ago, and I’m still a little out of sorts. I’ve been doing a lot of walking. So, you two are ... getting married?" Please tell me I'm hallucinating, a nightmare inside a delusion is fine, just tell me ...
Eric smiles and helps you regain your balance. "Absolutely! Panflute here is the best thing that ever happened to me. Princess Celestia gave us permission just last week. She prearranged it of course, so the permission was just a formality." He sighs and shares an intimate look with Panflute. "We've been saving ourselves for each other for so long. I can't wait until my Ascension. And we asked Princess Luna to co-preside! It's going to be a fantastic wedding."
"And honeymoon," adds Panflute.
Isn't that the sweetest thing? Isn't that the soul of piety? Romeo and Juliet are saving themselves for each other. Two corpses, joined in fetid matrimony, 'til dismemberment do you part.
It takes all of your resolve not to collapse again. "That's ... really great! Congratulations! Say, after you take me around for the meet-and-greet, could you, I mean, I’ve heard a lot about Princess Celestia, and seen her glorious works firsthand, and I was wondering … could you take me to see her? It would be a great honor.”
It’s a gamble, but a safe one. By the way they’re acting, word from Luna and her assault squad that Eye-Sack is an ill-tempered bastard hadn’t reached them yet.
Eric chuckles. “No need to ask, my friend! She’s been turning the whole Station inside out looking for you.”
“In more ways than one, I’m sure,” you laugh with him, hoping he can’t hear the sarcasm. Makes sense that they’re aware of you. The unicorns are carrying lists of names, after all, gathered no doubt by some zealot holding a security position, or siphoned from the undead minds of the infected.
“Tell you what, Isaac. Panflute and I have instructions to stay here for now to help out with the Convergence preparations. So once we get you introduced and comfortable, we’ll need to find you somepony who the Princess knows and trusts to show you the way. Some of our new friends,” he nods over at a grumbling colt, “are still, uh, getting the hang of it.”
The pony he’d pointed out was clutching a carton of cigarettes to his chest, stuffing one at a time into his snout and trying to light them as a minder slapped them away with her hoof. The remains of a shirt hang from his neck in limp tatters. Faded lettering is still visible on the wrinkled rag.
other shirt is a rocket
Where had you seen that? It had been one brain-jarring adrenaline hit after another for the past few hours, and not a bite of food. Real human food, not the infected flesh the ponies were farming. Maybe you'd only been half-fibbing to Panflute about fainting. Not so easy to stroll down memory lane, punch-drunk and starving.
Drunk. That’s it. It’s him, the pony-hater guy from the balcony. So he’d ended up here, learning his lessons, turning his grumpy gus frown upside-down. It’s hard to see him like this, all fuzzy and bug-eyed and doted on like a baby. Still fighting it, though, even in death. Good man.
You salute him as you pass by behind your guides. Time to find out exactly what you're dealing with.
The network of aisles connecting the communal living suites are jam-packed, narrowed to winding paths by benches, barrels, shops, and the people and ponies tending them. Where was the typical panoply of ass cracks spilling out of the greasy pants of lounging perma-break shop techs? The wandering douchebag supervisors getting paid for their sadism? Nowhere in sight. The creatures march along in too many colors. Industrious, organized. Shoulder to shoulder, two by two through the buzz of jokes and encouragement like blood in pulsing veins. They're workers, balancing loads of hay, lettuce, and carrots as they tramp along, pausing only to dump them onto wooden carts that are pulled away around corners and into the vents, supply lines for distant friendship soldiers. Rows upon rows of candles light their way, their sweet perfumed smoke mixing with the scent of earth and leafy produce.
They’re charged up, ready to swarm. It’s in their eyes, in the air: a vibration, a restless energy churning, surging, sweeping everything up like the sulfurous red storms of Jupiter. Yes, in the look that woman packing saddlebags was giving you, the smiles of her pony companions, the cheerful waves and hellos as you pass by with your escorts. They’d taken you in, no questions asked. You’re a fresh-face convert, Isaac, on the high-road to sanctity.
A couple of giggling fillies scuttle between your legs, earning a gentle reprimand from Panflute. That’s why you’re not being mobbed of course. They figure you’re already infected, being led away to a discreet sewage collection cistern, maybe, a private, dignified place in the substructure below to ferment into something extra special. Hey, if you're lucky, you’ll get to be one of the meat butterflies you’d seen jerking around the corpses and do some infecting of your own. You drown the image of stomping the two little shits into purple and yellow jelly.
"Happy ponies. Nice little foals," you whisper to yourself as you shake their hands and clasp their small polished hooves. This is it. This is the nest. And one unwitting drone had just offered to take you right to the queen. Or princess, or whatever. That’s how you’re going to finish this job. Get an audience with Celestia, compliment her mane style, give her a nice big hug, tell her the story of your life. Become her best friend. Then when the necromorphs revert to their shit piles, as they seem to do when deprived of their local overmind, getting to Daina would be easy.
Smiles. Laughter. Fun. The living, breathing motivation of believers. One mare is standing in the center of it all, the focus of a train of ponies watching in rapt reverence. She's the one setting the candlesticks, drawing them out of her saddlebag and speaking soft words of prayer as an assistant lights them.
Eric and Panflute stop next to her and turn back, smiling wide. “Isaac, this is Candle," says Eric, putting his arm around the white mare's shoulders. "She’s highly honored among the believers here. Candle, why don’t you tell our guest a little about yourself? He's on his way to meet Princess Celestia, and he might find your story inspirational.”
“You bet!" Candle nods to her assistant, who continues taking candles from her bag. She sits down and wipes her forehead. "Whew. This is a workout. So you’re new here, huh? And a fellow engineer, by the looks of it. That's cool. I was like you once, from what I can remember: running errands for the Church, eager to please the Stewards – those are the higher-ups – and prove my value to the Animator. I didn’t have a ton of money, so the donation route was out. So I put my technical skills to work, and what a payoff! Believe it or not, I was one of the first to ascend on Titan Station. I’ve gotta say I deserved it. It was me who unlocked the hidden doors and set the Princesses free. Imagine that! A green-as-can-be neophyte entrusted with such a crucial task. That's the Church in a nutshell, really, opportunities for anypony and everypony. I had another name before. It was Vannie … Wanda … or Karrie … something like that. I can’t remember. You stop caring after a while, you know?”
An engineer. Another fine mind wasted. “Yeah, I imagine it’s easy to let go once you’ve ascended to, ah, glory.”
“Oh, so easy! None of that stuff matters, now. Now I’m Candle, because that’s my gift. I light the way to Convergence, to salvation, then and now. Those are the words of Celestia herself. Have you seen my work?” She points at the rows of dripping, fragrant candles. “I don’t want to mislead you, my friend. My path was long, difficult and sometimes dangerous. Yours may be too. But I promise there's light, so much beautiful light when the darkness passes. Tell you what, I'm so happy for you, I’m gonna go ahead and tell the Princess you’re on your way.” She gives her saddlebag to her assistant and canters off, out of sight in the mix of the crowd.
She had set the Princesses free, she'd said. Now that's a bit of news. What could it mean? You glance over at Eric and Panflute, who had begun moving again. There isn't going to be a better opportunity to gather information. Coming right out with the big questions would be the wrong move, though. You step up in line with your guides.
“Excuse me, Panflute, can I ask you something?
"Of course, Isaac. Ask as much as you like. Don't be shy."
"Great, thanks. Why do all of you, uh, ponies have tattoos? Is that a tribal thing?”
Panflute looks back at her rump and smiles. “Well, yes and no. We call them cutie marks. They represent your true identity, the gift you have to offer the world, open and honest for everypony to see.”
“Cutie marks, you say? So that gets back to something else that’s been puzzling me. Why all the, what's the right word? Joy. Yes, joy. I’m sure some humans were frightened or even resentful about their ... initiation ... into the Church."
Panflute raises an eyebrow. “Is there something wrong with being happy?”
Shit. She has a point.
Before you can shoot any holes in her reply, she continues. "It's true. Some of the poor souls we're trying to save are full of fear. But it's fear of the unknown, and what is unknown is not real. What is real is kindness, laughter, generosity. Loyalty, Isaac, honesty and, oh! I'll save the last one. You'll be experiencing that first-hoof soon enough!"
The last one. Experiencing it soon, eh? Not if I have anything to say about it.
She looks to be winding up for a real philosophical monologue. Head it off while you can, Isaac. "So I've been wondering too about the Princesses ..."
"Oops! Here were are," says Eric. He had stopped in front of a dark doorway. "This was my niece Ship Shape's room. She's with Celestia now, bless her. She doesn't need it anymore. Wait here while we see about getting you a proper guide. We'll be just a second.”
Panflute nods to you, and they merge back into the bustling traffic.
Goddammit, that was your chance. Well, you can always jump back in when they return. They're only necromorphs. Who cares if they find your manners lacking?
Now where are we? It's a child's bedroom, packed with toys and books. Scribbled pictures of animals are hung by shiny red tacks on the walls. Up above, a mechanical spinning night light is shining warm yellow silhouettes over the walls and cabinets, shapes of horses, charging around and around in an endless carousel display. A small bed is tucked into one corner, empty it seems except for a folded paper card imprinted with Celestia's sun mark and a message in flowing script.
Abide Forever in Her Light We're So Proud of You Ship Shape
Sick cultists, celebrating a child's probably terrifying, drawn-out death. Or maybe they sacrificed her to Celestia. Maybe Her Royal, Kind Benevolent Highness had 'prearranged' it. Oh well. Spilled blood is spilled milk at this point for all you can do about it. The bed is a better seat than the floor. Sorry Ship.
The bed is nothing special. Just a cot, really. You pick up the card, admiring the thick high-quality paper, trying to imagine the little girl who once lived here. There's a conversation going on in the next room. Two women, and they sound like they're on the verge of tears. "This is a very special time, like, once in a lifetime. Actually once in a million lifetimes! They say we've been preparing for this since before we were human! Do you know how special that makes us? ... I'm so excited my skin is tingling ..."
You place the card back down, just so. Why can't these people see it? It would be so nice to grab every one of them by the collar and shout the miserable reality of their existence into their bewildered faces. We're out here in space, people, nothing but a long, overblown chemical reaction spreading out of control, dying in the far reaches of nowhere. EarthGov is fucked three kinds of sideways, and the only reason you're alive is to collect resources for them to keep their idiot machine running. We've got nothing. Nothing but miles of black empty space.
What's this? There's something else, peeking out from the folds of the wrinkled covers. A pony statuette. What a surprise. You pull it out, turning it over, pressing the hard blue plastic with your thumb. Not cheap stuff. The mane and tail are an iridescent blonde, smooth and soft between your fingers. This is more than just a toy to these people. This is a lesson for the children, a tool to help them learn about themselves and their faith, not unlike the one you had when you were ... wait ...
"She's pretty, Isaac. What's her name?"
"Shit!" You jump to the left, almost falling off the bed. Nicole is sitting next to you, smiling like the sun. She has wings now, spreading to the ceiling from her shoulders. Long, white angel's wings.
Altmann's balls she has to stop doing that. "What do you want, Nicole?"
"Don't be afraid, Isaac. You won't die. It's the only way out." She extends her white-gloved hand, offering you the unicorn horn she was carrying back in the tram station.
The room is spinning, flashing like another lockdown. No, it's the lights, the ponies projected onto the walls, galloping around you laughing and cheering in sweet voices, free to play forever. "You're not Nicole," you say, standing up and taking a step back. State the facts, Isaac. Facts are what keep you alive. Keep you sane. "Nicole is dead. You're not really here."
She withdraws the horn, giving you a disapproving look. The laughter fades away, lost in the ever-present hum of the Station's air regenerators. Nicole's bright pink eyes close, and she vanishes like a light being switched off.
"You see that Nicole? Reality is the correcting factor. Always was, always will be. And I don't want to be a unicorn! I'd rather take the wings. More tactical."
There's a gentle knock behind you. "Isaac? We're back! And ... were you talking to Ship Shape's Ponysona Doll?" It's Eric and Panflute, back from their search.
The little blue figurine is still in your hand, smiling at you from between your thumb and forefinger. "No, of course not. I was just taking a breather here on the bed, and started thinking out loud. I talk to myself. Bad habit. I think I've got my strength back."
"Well that's good to hear," says Panflute. "Because we've got another pillar of the community here to lend you a hoof with your pilgrimage to the Princess."
A stout forest-green pegasus steps between them and waves a foreleg. "Hi there!"
You toss the doll back on the bed. Some memories need to stay buried.
The newcomer's mane and tail are striped a bunch of different colors, like she'd run them through a pile of spilled paint buckets. Like some kind of punk. Maybe she'd been a no-account freeloader when she was alive, one of the tattooed sulking grinders who malingered in the substation terminal shopping outlets, ignored and avoided by the CEC and EarthGov citizens of high repute. Now look at her. She fits right in.
You walk over and extend your hand, hoping that the microfiber of your glove would hold against the pathogens. "Name's Isaac. What's yours ... friend?"
She raises her hoof, letting you grasp it. “Gleaming Over. Got a ring to it, huh?”
“Yeah it’s, uh, something else.” She returns your firm shake and somehow meets you eye through your visor. This one's a cut above. Probably a conglomerate form, a real killer. Losing sight of her on the way to the Princess would be a mistake. Best to walk behind.
Eric claps his hands and rubs them together. "OK, you two, are you all set? Isaac, can I offer you anything for the road? We've got plenty of oats, carrots, celery, and apples. You might want to consider getting used to pony meals. It's all vegetarian from here on out."
So good. Celery would be so good right now, bite after watery bite of thirst-quenching celery, just a little something to tide you over on the way to Daina. God you're thirsty. But food offered in hell comes with a hefty price. Just ask Percyphone, or whatever her name was.
"No thanks. I'm, uh, fasting for my Ascension. Candle's story, and Ship Shape's have really given me a sense of ... wonder and humility." And I'd rather not cough up my gall bladder changing into one of you wackos.
Eric's eyes widen in surprise. "That's really special, Isaac. Good for you. Well, go with the blessing of the Royal Sisters. And when you're on the other side, look us up. We'd love to hear about your time with Celestia, and how her gift manifests in you."
"I'll make a point of it," you say, checking to make sure nothing had become detached from your belt. "You'll be the first to see my cutie mark. Thanks for your help, Eric, and you too Panflute."
"It was truly our pleasure, Isaac. Bringing lost foals like you to the Light of the Daybringer fills us with the joy you're coming to understand. Go now with Celestia's grace."
You nod and turn to Gleaming Over. "Ready to go, greenhorn?" she asks. "This way." Without waiting for you to follow, she opens the only other door in the room and heads through.
You jog a couple of steps to catch up. Excellent. Everyone is smiling, hearts are warmed, good feelings all around. Necromorphs defeated.
You'd entered a hall leading to the right, with a single exit straight ahead. Candle has been busy. Somehow she'd found the time to plant her twinkling votives even while hurrying ahead to announce your arrival. Even ... without her saddlebag. Special gift indeed.
Gleaming Over is leaning over a balcony a short distance down the hallway, hindquarters cocked against the wall, tail swishing away. Her mark shines in the candlelight, a circle of water ripples, with each crest a different color. She spots you and calls you over. "Hey buddy, come check it out." She tips her muzzle over the railing.
You reach her side look out over the railing. More preparations are underway below. Ponies are packing up, hugging, shaking each other's hooves. Some of the younger foals are crying and waving goodbye to their still-human parents. A granite statue of Celestia towers above them all, its wings and forelegs stretched to the sky like in the signs at the recruitment center.
"They don't look excited about the Convergence. What's going on?" you ask.
Gleaming looks up at you. "The little tumblers? Oh, uh, they're not up to the tasks that still need to be done, so they're being relocated. Don't worry, they'll see their moms and dads again soon."
"Relocated? Where?"
Gleaming rolls her bright green eyes. "Um, can't tell you that just yet. Convergence mystery. Not for the uninitiated. Sorry to be all smoke-and-mirrors with you, but, well, the Princess can explain it better anyway. She's the one with the master plan."
Interesting. Not so open and honest now, are we? Maybe you can pry out the monster's secrets if you dig a different hole. "OK, no problem. All in due time." You pause, watching the scene unfold below, pretending to be lost in thought. After a while, you lean toward her. "So what's your story?"
She shrugs her shoulders. “Me? Oh, I'm a water specialist. Top of the CEC utilities staff before my Ascension. Guess you can say I make it rain." She giggles for a moment. "The Princess says that I’m to be the first in a long line of rainbow ponies. I’ve been a loyal churchgoer pretty much my whole life. Time, talent and treasure, my friend. Had to downgrade to a base unit apartment after a while. But that’s how faith is, you have to really give. Sacrifice. When my time came, the Princess gave me this sweet mane and a wing boost for my dedication and hardship in service to the community."
"Bye bye mama, I'll miss you ..." a filly's voice reaches up from below.
Gleaming takes a step back from the railing and sighs. "But enough about me. Time's a wastin'. I'd carry you down, but I don't want to startle anypony below. There's an elevator a little way's up. Let's get a move on!" She strides ahead and to the right, through the other door you'd seen on the way in.
Your first impression had been spot on. She walks lockstep wing in wing with Her Highness the Princess, and knows her role. CEC mentality to the core. Getting more information out of her is going to be ticklish business.
The next room is an elaborate overlook surveying the courtyard below. Gleaming Over is shaking her head, pointing toward the statue of Celestia. "Hey, our mutual friends are here. Wanna say hello, Isaac?"
Mutual friends? Not Eric and Panflute again - they were still tied up with organization duties. You hurry around a support column blocking your view. Maybe you'd get some backup at last.
A mid-size assault ship is rolling back and forth outside behind a two story viewport, like a snake charmer's hypnotizing hand. It's trying to angle its searchlights around the stone Celestia's overshadowing wings. You duck back behind the support column. Gleaming stands her ground, grinning and waving her hooves at the pilot.
You fumble to raise Daina, hissing into your RIG's mic. "Daina! Tiedemann's soldiers have found me! They're tracking me in some sort of gunship!" You pause to check on Gleaming. She's mooning them, unimpressed it seems by the triple racks of gatling pulse rifles bristling under the ship's cockpit.
Daina responds, her signal crystal clear now that you're close to her position. "You're almost here! Hurry."
You sever the comm link this time. If the necromorphs find out you're in collusion with other survivors, there would be hell to pay. "Gleaming, we've got to get out of here! These guys are trying to kill me!"
She yawns, waving them away with a lazy hoof. “Them? Those lame-o's couldn’t hit the broad side of a star. Though they might get in a lucky shot or two. Better not chance it – come on!” She leaps up and flies to an exit on the far side of the overlook.
Damn she's quick. You duck your head and give chase, running as fast as your suit will allow. You make it through the door before it has time to close.
You're in the East Wing now, still in a residential block. A lone pony is lugging an overstuffed suitcase out of his apartment.
"Hey Gleaming!" he calls as she lands to give you time to catch up. "What's the rush? Who you got there with you?"
You reach them and keep running. "Ixnay on the estionsquay!" She shouts, passing you again and leading you to an elevator. "I've got the package. En route to the Golden Swan. Delivery in ten."
"Luna be praised, Celestia in the highest! The hour is upon us!" he cries, and runs back inside. "Honey, you won't believe this ..."
The elevator door closes on you and your companion, pressing you against each other. What the hell was that all about? Golden Swan? Bronitologists and their shibboleths. Maybe letting a known necromorph guide you to its revered overmind is taking it a step too far. You give Gleaming a good hard look.
Her cheery tail is draped down your leg in thin wisps of red, yellow, green and purple. She clears her throat, her snout bunched into the opposite corner of the cramped metal box. You can almost read her mind. 'If you don't make it a thing, I won't make it a thing'. Fine, let's not go there.
The elevator is slowing down. Awkward discomfort is good. Discretion is good. She's acting civil, so the rule holds. There is no pony, and if there is, there is no necromorph. You're fighting, and winning. Nothing to worry about, Isaac.
The doors open, and Gleaming rushes off to the right, held up only by piles of luggage, hugs and messy last-minute transformations performed by overworked unicorns. The statue of Celestia watches over the departure, decorated and graffitied in honor of the end times she was orchestrating.
We are ready The Goddess walks among us All Ascend
Funny. She actually is protecting them in a way. The gunship can't see any of them to get a clear shot.
Gleaming weaves through the milling ponies and piles of belongings, leading you to an elaborate door surrounded by runes and swirling foreign symbols. One or two look like horseshoes, but that's all you can make out. There's no time to study them, even if you wanted to. Gleaming is already through, waiting for you at the end of a blue-lit corridor.
You pick up the pace. Stained glass windows shine slant-wise on memorials and placards, outlining the origins and history of the Church, judging by the captions. One of them catches your eye. It's a triptych. On the left is a family - mom, dad, three kids and a dog, surrounding a tall woman who was holding a pen. She's pointing to the right, the center panel, where Celestia and Luna are standing tail to tail, forelegs raised in noble poise. On the right are a unicorn, a pegasus, three foals and a dragon.
OK, so the family met the Princesses, who killed them and turned them into necromorphs. That's easy enough, though the Bronitologists would probably see it differently. But who's the tall woman? And dragons? Is that next on the menu, Isaac? Are you going to turn the next corner and get a discount cremation courtesy of some magical alligator's case of gas?
The center panel bears a motto, engraved deep into the solid, dark rosewood frame.
BENEATH MOON AND SUN ALL ARE ONE
This is wrong. This shouldn't be here. This phrase, this prayer is already in your head, already echoing in your memory. They know. They know and they're making damn sure you stop forgetting, stop ignoring. Stop ... stop ...
Gleaming Over is stamping her hoof. "Come on, Isaac, quit dawdling. Everypony knows that stuff. If you need a history lesson I can give you one on the way."
You're leaning on the display, transfixed by the image of the Royal Sisters. Almost to Daina. Almost there. She's going to fix this. "Sorry, just admiring the bronzework on these panels here. You ponies got some real artists Gleaming." That's right. The bullshit variety. You follow Gleaming through the door at the far end.
You take the steps beyond two at a time. You're in what looks to be a sanctuary, or lobby of some kind leading into a Bronitologist cathedral, a quiet check-in point to screen out potential EarthGov infiltrators. Somber faces glare down from the tall stained glass windows and ceiling. Prophets and saints of the apocalypse. Don't misbehave, Isaac.
It's calm. Good time to pump Gleaming Over for more info. Can't use the direct approach, of course. Start her off talking about something in her comfort zone first. Her family, maybe. "So, Gleaming, I was wondering ..."
Glass explodes overhead, blowing into the outer vacuum. Your RIG's oxygen readout blinks on and begins counting down. The gunship had located you somehow, the persistent fucks. And perfect timing too.
Twenty-five millimeter slugs hammer into the delicate stone and woodwork behind you, raining chips and sawdust onto your helmet and shoulders. Negotiations appears to be out of the question.
Before all of the air evacuates, you hear Gleaming Over growl. She slams her front hooves together. "OK, that's it. Isaac, go on ahead into the Church and wait for me. I'll take care of these clowns." She spreads her powerful wings and springs upward, spiraling and rolling between the streaking tracers, riding the torrent of air as it rushes into space.
You start to ponder how she's going to last more than five seconds in the frigid, minimal atmosphere above Titan Station when another volley of gunfire gouges fist-sized holes in the floor at your feet.
She's a necromorph, she can handle it. Pondering complete. You lunge forward through the exotic double doors.
Pneumatic valves click open, sending jets of compressed air into the empty Church around you, inching up the pressure bit by bit. You’re on sacred ground, Isaac, the Bronitologists' sanctum sanctorum, and … paintings? Candelabras? What are they running here, a museum? You'd think they'd have the cheddar to pay their utility bills. Emergency lighting isn’t part of their belief system apparently. And not one, but two welcome booths to receive the faithful. Judging by the shattered windows, the attendants had gotten a little too excited by the goings on, caught up in the rapture of their impending doom. Get your tickets here, folks. Giveaway bonanza today, courtesy of the pony community of Thiessen Towers and oh my goddess there’s the Princess. We’re coming to you sweet holy one, let us ride bare-back together, onward to Convergence!
You step over the debris, picking out the larger shards in the soft candlelight. Or maybe Princess Dementia had pulled them through the glass, biting out their throats and assimilating their flesh while they stroked her mane and shed tears of joy. Sick fucks.
Well shit. Choices, choices. Do as Gleaming says and wait for her to neutralize the gunship, or abandon the strategy of chumming with Celestia and look for Daina instead?
You call up your route, half-expecting the silver-blue line to snake back the way you came. It winds out and under a nearby door, leading deeper into the Church.
No, it can't be. Could this actually be good luck for Isaac? Daina's route ends here, right here according to the RIG’s calculations, less than three hundred meters away. That’s like five minutes, tops, depending on whether there are any battles to be fought along the way. Cleansing the infestation would have to be put off, sure, but that would be easier with your head screwed on right. Wouldn't it?
Nevertheless, this has also got to be a hotspot for the necromorphs. It might even be ground zero of the infection. Odd place for survivors to be holed up, waiting for your arrival. It would be wise to double-check with Daina, make sure she hadn’t fudged the coordinates.
Your air supply switches back to outboard external. That was quick. There must be a hundred outlets hidden in the grout and seams to fill a volume this size. You open the telecomm. "Daina? The Church of Bronitology? Why here?"
"It's one of the few places on Titan Station that Tiedemann can't monitor. Separation of Church and State," she replies.
You duck beneath the door before it can retract into the frame. You're actually going to make it, goddammit. You're going to pull through.
Fuck. Unlike those guys. Four Church members are lying face-up on the floor at the bottom of a staircase in the next room, encircled by candles and wild messages written in chalk, dressed to the nines in gold-embroidered ceremonial uniforms. All dead, and not a scratch on them.
So much waste. Full body donations to the magical horse in the sky. Check your souls at the door, ye faithful, all we can use is the machinery. As for Isaac, the see-saw’s swinging back the way of kill or be killed. Party time's over.
“This is bad. I shouldn’t be here,” you murmur to Daina, watching the bodies for movement. “This is the last place we want to be right now.”
“Isaac!” Daina shouts, her voice raised in panic. “My brother died trying to rescue you. This is important. This will work.”
She’s calming down now. You can’t fault her for being on edge. She probably knows what really happened to Franco, and it sure as hell didn’t involve gumballs and lollipops.
“I’m in a safe room at the top of the Church,” she continues. “Meet me there, OK?” The line goes dead.
Touchy, touchy. Well, she’s been up there for a few hours, so she must have decent defenses set up. A couple more minutes won’t hurt. The same goes for you. The necromorphs had come at you with unicorns, for Altmann’s sake; you’re getting to the top of this Church.
You circle around the remains of the Unitologists and hop up onto the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. The flights spiral into the vacant darkness above. Steel and rubber arteries of pipes and wires hidden behind the violet papered sheetrock hum and hiss as you ascend.
You climb the final step, admiring the trim and finish bridging the walls and ceiling. Some real painstaking work. It’s more a mansion, really, than a museum. The amber sign next to the door at the end of the landing lends more to the impression of trespassing in some absent executive’s island chateau:
UNITY LIBRARY
_________________
Reminders
Stay with your tour guide
Please, no talking during church services
No recording devices
_________________
LISTEN
Who the fuck has their own library these days, like with old-style paper books? Filthy rich motherfuckers, that’s who.
The door slides upward. Right on the money. The library is an arcing hallway, encrusted with portraits and loaded with sagging wooden bookshelves. Fifty thousand credits per square foot, that wall, and not an iota less. No wonder the rest of the Station is a shithole. That’s a hundred families’ tithe contributions right there. A hundred hungry little kids who won’t be able to afford study files for …
A belch and a growl boom from beyond the hallway’s bend. What’s this? Not the timid tittering of a dream pony. You stalk forward, flexing your trigger finger.
One of the meat butterflies – the infectors – is hovering above another well-dressed corpse, flapping its skin-and-sinew wings and poking at the body’s bobbing skull with its repurposed coccyx. The corpse’s face ruptures, spraying blood blackened and boiling from hyper-accelerated metabolisis. It begins pushing itself up, twitching and cutting the air with its red, glistening new blade-arms.
Here we are. These fine ponies aren’t interested in carrots and candy. They’ve got a rumble in their tummies for plasma. Don’t worry, lads, Papa Isaac’s got just what you need.
Before the infector can finish squirting its yellow slime into the hole it had bored into its host’s skull, you pull the plasma cutter free and aim at its dripping proboscis. The incisions have to be precise. Perfect. Failing to serve these gentlemen with the utmost skill would be disrespectful. Offensive to the greater pony community.
The bolts explode from the muzzle of the cutter. One, two hit the mass of feelers and the blubbering orifice below, severing them from the creature’s deformed spine. It slumps down the side of the now livid mutation it had birthed.
You lower the laser sights, scanning down across the silk and gold-embroidered shirt. Two more shots split the creature’s kneecap, sending it to the floor on top of its bleeding progenitor. It digs its blades into the carpet and starts dragging itself toward you.
Thirteen charges left. Not a heck of a lot, and you’re not going to be finding any more if the past thirty minutes of hay-filled wheelbarrows was any indication. Maybe try feeding in one of the apples and hope it morphs into a clip?
The blunt tips of the blades are five feet away. No, there’s a more efficient option. You rush forward and kick the necromorph in the face, popping its ruined head like a baked melon. Another kick whips its arm backward, breaking it off in a brief red spray. The creature gurgles out a death rattle and collapses.
Damn that’s sweet. The punch of the plasma cutter pounding through your glove, every shot reminding you – promising you – that the real world is still there. That kindness and patience are not the answer. Mauling the shits into piles of poo felt pretty good too.
You continue down the library hall, sweeping the darkness ahead with the flashlight and laser guides. There have to be more. The bastards like clusterfucks. The way descends in a staircase, leading into what might have been a meeting hall before the outbreak. Somewhere secluded and safe, where curious students of holy Unitologist scripture could go after making their selections in the library and learn the holiest ways to end their lives.
There’s an elevator in the middle of the room servicing a narrow walkway above. The only exit, at first glance. Perfect for an …
The enormous blade of bone swipes across your ribs from behind, throwing you to the floor. You roll, ignoring the hot streaks of pain in your side, gaining enough time to see your attacker raising its pincers for the deathblow. There’s an infector behind it, already dancing its obscene jig with the limp body of another brave Unitologist.
You move the cutter over a few inches and start blasting, whiffing the first two shots. The third connects with the beast’s ankle, taking it down in a roaring, spitting tantrum. Before it can right itself, you spring to your feet and get to work on the infector.
“Wait! What are you doing?”
Two forest green limbs encircle your waist and pull you backwards. Your final shot goes wide, obliterating an icon of a sunbeam-crowned Marker.
You push down on her hooves, fumbling with the cutter. “Let me do my job, Gleaming! This isn’t your …”
The pegasus spins you around, glaring at you and shaking her head. She’s flanked by two pony companions carrying saddlebags full of gauze and medicine bottles.
She points at the floor behind you. “They’re crying, Isaac, you’re hurting them! Can’t you see?”
You turn back, fighting the urge to give the lot of them a close shave with the cutter. The monster dribbles out a whine and looks up at you with puppy dog eyes. At least that's what it would be doing if its eyes hadn't exploded and run down its face.
This can’t be happening. It had almost cut you in half a second ago. Why won’t they just admit they’re all trying to kill you?
“What do you mean? Look at them. Touch them. Wipe your little hoof across your buddy’s bushy little noggin there tell me how it smells. They stink, Gleaming. Like shit. Oh wait, I’m sorry, like BM’s. They’re dead, just like you. Just like your Princess.”
Your guide peers at the necromorph groveling at your feet. After a moment, she nods and raises a hoof.
"Oh, now I get it. The Princess said you might be sick, which is all the more reason why you need my help to ... um, never mind. I'm not supposed to be talking about that."
The butt of the plasma cutter grinds against your palm. "Talking about what, Gleaming? You’re being very evasive. That’s not how friends treat each other in my book."
She scrapes the red carpeted floor and looks to the side. "Nothing. Not important. Let's get moving. We're almost there!"
The rescue ponies turn their noses up at you as they rush to tend the wounded necromorphs, massaging their torn limbs and pouring purple liquid from the medicine bottles into their unhinged jaws.
Whatever. Whatever. Let the fucking cheap shot slide. They’re all getting what they deserve when you have your lace doily tea party play date picnic with their carrion blob Princess and send them back to the primordial pus from whence they came.
“Come on, come on,” calls Gleaming Over, waving you on to elevator. “Go on up. It’s a little tight for me in there.” She says with a hard glint in her eye. “I’ll meet you up on the catwalk.”
The elevator door is an alloy relief of Celestia, triumphant before her sun. The Unitologist verses that you’d seen scribbled over every available surface since you'd entered the Church had sometime in the last few minutes become a foreign script; choppy glyphs and swirls arranged in curves and patterns. And the candles, the candles are still there, glowing, whispering secret words of encouragement and peace you can almost understand.
The ride up is only a couple of meters. You join Gleaming Over on the catwalk and head through the door at the end.
Something crinkles under your boot as you pass into another branching corridor. You pull your foot back, waiting for the inhuman scream of some new species of flesh puppet.
Papers. Papers strewn on the floor, yellowed and thin with fine wrinkles, dropped perhaps in the rush of the exodus. Not a beartrap of bone or chitin waiting to snap shut and take off your foot. Not this time.
They’re pencil sketches. Simple, accurate renderings of ponies in all their poses, moods and labors. Swirling clouds, dark, vine-encumbered forests, neat sunflower gardens. There are even some fantastic animals that looked like they could wreck a city without much effort. These are more than just children’s doodles, judging by their age and the obvious care that had gone into preserving them. They're drafts. Blueprints for a new reality. For the Bronitologists or Unitologists or whoever to leave them behind was like chucking da Vinci's prototype schematics in the dumpster on the way out the door. Then again, if their goddess is walking among them, why do they need drawings?
Something catches your eye as you step up behind Gleaming Over, who had tramped over the pages without even looked down. One set of characters repeats, one part of the lore that the artist had tried to communicate above the other patterns. Luna and Celestia, Celestia, Celestia and Celestia, Luna, over and over again, on almost on every sheet. Here posed with curled foreleg, there flying, other times reclining in a royal bower surrounded by pillows and tapestries. All of the likenesses were looking out at the world, smiling, inviting any who happened upon them to join in their wonderful, grand design.
Join them in Paradise.
Ssh, ssh, not now. Not when you're so close. Their faces are too much. Their delight is shining through, too bright. Look away from the Sun, Isaac. Hide from the Moon. Over there. The branch to the right ends in a mural-sized stone portrait of a woman’s face, stern and resolute. You’re in her domain, believer.
Her domain. The tall woman, the one on the history placard at the Church's entrance. She'd been holding a pen, guiding the faithful to the Royal Sisters. Guiding them through the gateway.
It's her. You're looking into the eyes of the person responsible for all of this madness. No help that way. Better talk, buddy. Better say something before you look down again and see those loving, welcoming faces. “Hey, Gleaming,” you mutter as she leads you through another door.
A booming loudspeaker cuts off your question. “Have you ever felt like you were meant to be part of something bigger? Then maybe Bronitology is for you. Founded two hundred years ago by our savior …”
The rest of it is lost. Gleaming Over is heading off across the room, and you're standing, shaking your head, swaying on your feet. Giving up. Is that what you're doing? The fighting, the running, the countless times you'd pinched it shut just in time to avoid loading your trousers - the RIG's bionic enhancements could only do so much to keep you going. Rehydration and electrolyte balancing are not part of the package.
You're not leaving this room - that's the special goodnight message your mind is telling you. The lights are out - on purpose for once. Folding chairs are arranged row and column in front of a projector screen, and in each one, happy as a clam, is a variety of human gone wrong. Necromorphs, men, women and ponies, slouching, cross-legged, chin-on-hoof - all captivated by the infomercial flashing in front of them, one big, happy family washing their brains at the Bronitologists' masterpiece theater. Say what you want, the fuckers know how to put meat in the seats.
Gleaming Over stamps her hoof. “Isaac! Come on, chip chop, buddy. We're taking a shortcut. This will cut a good five minutes off our route, but not if you're going to zone out watching videos." She stands in the doorway, keeping it open for you.
Shortcut. Five minutes. Good. Because you're not going to last another ten, unless Gleaming lets you curl up on her back for a nice little nap. And judging by the stinkeye she'd given you at the prospect of another joint elevator ride, that's not going to happen.
You nod, because you're too weak to answer her, and creep behind the silent, grinning audience. Daina had better have a grilled ribeye and a gallon of water to go with the meds she'd promised if she's expecting you to be of any use hashing out an escape plan. Once more unto the breach, visions be damned.
Gleaming Over lets you go first, giving you a once-over as you shimmy by. She's knows about the illness. Probably on the lookout for signs of you flipping out on her and her playmates again. It's only fair. One paranoiac deserves another.
You had emerged into a security monitoring booth. Rack-mounted flatscreens showing thirty or more locations throughout the Church flicker in black and white. Little forms were ambling down the two-dimensional halls, sitting around playing cards, hanging decorations, drawing on the walls. Was that Candle turning that corner?
One by one the panels fill with static, the volume rising and falling in staccato bursts of noise and jabbering.
The attacks are coming faster. Sharper. She needs to fuck off already.
Nicole's voice spits through the speakers. "I'm so cold, Isaac. It hurts."
They're torturing her. Hunchback fucks sawing off her arms in the shadows, dancing like clowns, watching for your reaction. She had put herself to sleep and they're still torturing her. Using her mind. Her voice.
"Stop. Stop," you whisper, pounding on the keyboards. Anything to kill the images. Put the shitheads back in their place.
But it doesn't stop. Nicole's twisted voice keeps cutting, stabbing. "Where are you going? You can't run from the pain forever. Soon you'll beg for a way to end it all."
End it all. Like she did. How would that translate? Throwing yourself a birthday party? Inviting all your new friends, handing out the favors? Coloring books, powdered sugar, ice cream cake, cider all around. I'm here to stay, fellas, tie on my feedbag.
"Through here, Isaac," calls Gleaming through the echoes of laughter and screams. God's own Marker, thank you Gleaming. There's the red and yellow tip of her tail slipping behind a corner. She'd gone ahead out of sight, past another set of screens and into some other room.
It's fine. Gleaming's here to get you where you need to go. You're down, but not out. It's just Nicole being Nicole, breaking your spirit, trying to get you to kill yourself. No sweat.
All at once the grating noise of the static dies away, and the drab video feed returns. Where is that mare? If you lose sight of her for too long, the shitheads might return for real, and you obviously don't have the pep to deal with them anymore.
You stumble around the corner of what looks to be a maintenance closet. There she is, waiting by a duct access point. She'd pushed some storage crates out of the way and was scanning her hoof in front of the access panel, trying to open it.
Pretty sure your RIG is decommissioned when you flatline, hon. No offense. You move up next to her and wave your wristband in front of the chip reader. The narrow tunnel opens, revealing the station's inner workings.
Gleaming leans back against the wall, inspecting her mane. "Thanks. Yeah, I know it's not the most convenient route, but you need to get used to doing things our way, you know? We’ll call it practice. You first.”
How very kind of you, and such sage advice. Practice makes perfect. You pull yourself into the hole and crawl into the darkness, trying not to imagine yourself with a snout and hooves.
"That's the way. In you go," she says. You hear her scoot in behind you, bumping the metalwork with her hooves and wingtips.
There was a time, not too long ago, in fact, when you would have kicked her face in. You've come so far, Isaac. Made so much progress.
You reach the other end, without your helpful guide tearing your legs off as luck would have it. You'd taken a big chance letting her take the rear. None of the ponies had made the social faux pas of mutating, but after the movie theater, anything's possible. The safety mechanism of the exit panel activates. You flip onto your back to pull through so you can land on your feet. Once you're out and steady, you look back in to give Gleaming a hand. She's lagging behind. Some very unponylike curses echo from around the dark bends of the duct.
Not so swift at this yourself yet, are you sweetheart? You turn to get your bearings.
There's a hiss, something dull and heavy cutting through the air. Your arms come up, your palm bumping the buttons on the back of your RIG's wristband by accident. A white-gloved hand slams downward onto your forearms as your helmet collapses, pressing you to your knees.
The room's natural acoustics, strange now after being filtered through your helmet's audio circuit for so long, are alive with a chorus of whispers. The candles! You can hear them, and in their endless dancing perceive the joy of the one they were set to honor. Their esoteric musk takes you by surprise.
Another scent is washing over you, like vanilla on a high wind in the sunlight. "Make ... us ... whole," Nicole says from above, as if she's complimenting the sky on a beautiful sunrise.
Her long, broad wings surround you as she leans forward, gentle but strong beyond belief. She's pressing something towards your exposed forehead. The unicorn horn. Its fibrous roots are twitching, yearning for skin and bone in which to weave, to heal all the humanity away. You can be clean. You can be free. Nicole's rosy, loving eyes are saying it.
So tired. Just relax.
It would be so easy. Who was it you were fighting for? Daina? Some theoretical survivors of a dirty infection on a dirty space rock? Be with her. Take the horn.
It dips downward, little by little. Nicole smiles. She always had a sweet smile. You search the face you know so well, the upturned lips, the narrow, delicate nose, the eyes, beaming with profound compassion.
If it really was her, if those eyes were a soft blue instead of metallic pink, you could stop fighting, and start your life over with her.
Your burning triceps shudder against her impossible weight. She can't win. They can't win. They won't.
And she's gone. Nothing left but a ringing in your ears. Nothing but a sad-looking carrot quivering in your hands.
"Hey, uh, buddy. Want to talk about it?"
Gleaming Over is sitting by the duct, keeping a safe distance. She must have struggled out while you were arm wrestling with Nicole. Probably saw the whole thing. Probably considering leading you to the nearest airlock and ejecting you into Saturn before you hurt somepony.
Now now, calm down. She just wants to give you a shoulder to lean on. Be your mentor. Necromorphs are your support group, champ. Unfuck yourself now.
"Uhh, give me a minute. Let me walk it off a little."
"Anything you need, pal, take your time." She goes back to picking at her mane, tearing the strands apart and checking the colors. Her green eyes flick up from her work now and then, tracking you.
Great. Don't worry about me, sweetheart. Just gotta find a way to forget that just happened. First, let's get rid of that vanilla smell and activate the old helmet. That's it. Now where in this intestinal logjam of a space station are we? That high-backed chair and desk place it as an office. Pretty swank. Some high-ranking Bronitologist dignitary's little throne room judging by the quality of the woodwork and brimming bookshelves. God, transportation costs from Earth alone were ridiculous for that stuff, and that was three years ago. But that's OK. It's all part of the cult connection. All taken care of courtesy of the shits they're selling hope to.
The titles of these books. Priceless. The Sixfold Path to Harmony ... Writ of Celestia's Blessings ... The Transformation: What We Believe ... Equine Peace, Equine Truth ... Green Bounty, Confectionary Pleasures: the Diet of the Goddess - nice - A Strong Mare for a Strong Family ...
Family - that’s right. You’d been trying to cajole some more information out of Gleaming Over before being interrupted by Tiedemann’s lackeys back at the Church entrance. This one's hiding something, and not doing a very good job of it. She's in the mood to talk, so why not try to trip her up? It's an excellent opportunity to distract her from your little heart-to-heart with the carrot, too.
"OK, I'm ready. Let's go."
She stands up on all fours. "All set, wiz? Follow me. We'll ease up the pace for a bit. And don't be shy - I'm here to help." She walks past you to the exit. You toss the carrot onto the desk and follow her.
The corridor on the other side bears right. Someone put a lot of effort into decorating this one. Glitter-streaked drawings and portraits of ponies are plastered on the upper half of the walls. Pink streamers had been hung from between the ceiling panels. The wafting tips brush the top of your helmet as you pass.
You step up in line with your guide. You're best buds, just two friends groovin' down the hall, shootin' the breeze, havin' a convo on the way to work.
You smile behind your visor. An old customer service trick to make yourself sound more engaging. "Been on Titan Station for a while?"
Gleaming Over nods without looking up. "Yeah, five years or so. As you can imagine, dead moons don't get a ton of precipitation. So EarthGov put out a bid request to mine and process hydrosilicates from the smaller chunks of Titan still floating in a local orbit. And surprise, surprise, the CEC won the bid! Like there's anyone else that has a chance." She smirks and ruffles her wings.
Nothing gets them warm and fuzzy like talking about the fam. "So, did you transfer by yourself? Do you have a husband, or fiancée waiting for you back in the Towers?"
“Husband? Ha ha, no. I was a dude.”
That's ... an odd way to put it. Must be some new slang. You were in la-la land for a long time, Isaac. Not like you'd ever left. “You mean a dude, like you, uh, were single, hung out with the guys, played rugby, that sort of thing? Not your typical girl?”
“Yeah, that’s precisely what I meant, because I was a guy. A man. Packed heat, if you catch my drift.” She looks up with one electric green eye and winks.
A ceiling panel flips open by your head, and the cigarette pony swings out upside down, blowing a party horn into your ear.
You grunt and fall to the side, covering the side of your helmet. Your shoulder rakes a row of Christmas tree drawings free from the wall. The sparkly sheets drift to the floor.
That. That right there. An entirely new feeling Isaac, or rather, several feelings at once. The whole lunch buffet of I’m fucked, contract cancelled, have a great life.
Gleaming Over tries to hide her giggling. “Hee hee, nice one Smokey. Actually, Isaac, I'm going to have the honor of bearing my first foal in a few months, believe it or not. It was …”
Vomit splatters the inside of your visor. Done. You're done. Enough.
You disconnect the neck couplings and yank the reeking helmet off your head, not even letting it finish folding into standby. And whoops! There it goes, bouncing down the hallway along with your last fuck.
“What the hay, man? Are you OK?”
Am I OK? Good question. Some questions are trivial. Some are stupid. And some, like whether or not the ponies, the necromorphs, or anything else is real, are ill-defined. “I’m awesome, Gleaming. Awesome. I understand now, buddy.”
It’s time. You extract the foam finger from your belt. Somehow it made it through the hellish gauntlet of the last few hours, not even a scratch or tear, hanging in there strong and true as if fate had squeezed one last footnote into the back chapters of history for its safe passage to this moment.
You hold it up, tracing over the white painted lines that formed a palm and knuckles on its hard, porous surface. Because it is fate, my friend, and your destiny is to deliver Isaac and the one or two people left still clinging to their humanity from this holocaust.
“I win.” You slip your hand into the narrow slit.
Gleaming Over chuckles. “Hey, what’re ya doin’?”
Get the feel of it, Isaac. Stretch out that arm. Try it out. “You ponies have obviously not been properly entertained. You're still feeling," your index finger slides into the foam pointer, "hmm, yes, you're still feeling a bit glum. But we're going to take care of that real quick, don't you worry."
Gleaming Over sits back on her haunches, her tail swishing much too close to a set of Candle's candles. "Umm, no, everypony I've talked to is pretty excited. The Convergence, remember? Weren’t you paying attention back at the Towers?"
You grip the tool of your liberation with your free hand, aiming at a muddy watercolor horseshoe painting for practice. It fits snug. Secure. "Mmm hmm. Yup, Convergence. Gleaming, could you do me a favor and sit still right there for just a second?"
The rainbow tail stops swishing. "Uh, sure, OK."
You point the finger at her snout. "Now, please describe to me, with as much detail as you can, how this makes you feel."
"Pointing a foam hand in my face? Doesn't really do much for me. Now can we get going, we're wasting time and ..."
"Bang bang bang bang bang!"
Gleaming stares at you, a smile spreading across her face. "What ... in Celestia's name ..." She falls to the floor, consumed in wave after wave of loud, unbridled laughter.
What now, Ms. Over? Not so spry, are we? “That’s right. Enough of your shit. No more games, no more playtime. I told you once, I’ll tell you again. That’s what he said, right? Good ol’ Smokey here? You and your pallies, your scheming pack of lovebirds and BFF’s have done nothing but let me down again and again and again, and I find your behavior completely unacceptable. Isn’t that right, Ma? You Unitologist scarecrow! Look where it all led! Look who’s on the path to damnation! Look at the drain it’s all circling around! Your killing spree is over you fucking monsters.” You bring your heel up to stomp the helpless pony, avoiding her wriggling wings and legs.
No. Keep it consistent. Maintain the strictest scientific discipline. As she wipes the tears from her eyes, you tickle her under her foreleg with the toe of your boot.
She laughs harder, spluttering out a few words. "W-wait! You’re sick! You … y-you don't know the way!"
"Don't worry. I'll figure it out without you, Gleaming. This,” you shout, wagging the floppy red finger down the dark passage ahead, “this will point the way! I’m leaving now. Shouldn't be too hard for you to," you hit her a couple more times with the Hand's devastating ordnance, "get over it."
She collapses again, snorting and guffawing.
The party horn goes off again. "You want some too, don't you?" you shout, spinning and firing the Hand at Smokey's head. "Bang! Bang bang bang!"
He cracks up, dropping his horn. After a few more shots he crumples, clutching his ribs and falling down next to Gleaming. They look at each other for a moment, then laugh even harder.
Sweet, sweet victory. You stand up straight and straighten your lei. Motherfuckers had ruffled it. "See that? Now you bastards are mine. Time to swab the fucking decks."
Armed and blessed with the Hand, you jog on to the end of the hall, already able to hear the hoots and cheers of your hapless, unsuspecting foes.
Come on, come on, open God damn you. Millions of credits on lacquered oak and leatherbound hard covers and you get room temperature rated motors for a liquid helium stasis facility? Guess we know what the Church priorities are. Maybe the idea was to pray for half an hour for your beloved's safe passage to the winners' circle while you wait for the doors to open, tooth by rusty gear tooth. A fine atmosphere of solemnity for your zombie bait meat locker.
There we go. See? You can do it. Now onward. The Hand is hungry.
Crunch crunch, a winter wonderland. Oh look at them all tucked away in their little cryo pods, eyelids blue and puckered shut. Go to sleep, go to sleep kids. When you wake you'll find the brand new carcasses Santa left for you to play with under the tree. But wait, I'm the tree, got the hibiscus to prove it. No corpsicle beatification for you.
Let's see, who we got here? Young missionary guy, young missionary guy, well-groomed family patriarch grandpa, mom and her three sons, barely see their frozen-solid hair through the frost on their monitor windows, and oops, that one's got a tail, sunblock on her snoot, kickin' back in her hammock. One little pupa sprouted wings, all growed up. Tropic bliss for the ponies, isentropic chill time for the two-leggeds. Perfectly sensible.
Shit that one's awake, cheering its fool head off. What is your problem, dude? A handsome creature, if I do say so myself. My face, no mane, crystal clear blue horn. Waving my hooves around like the star assclown in a circus not made for mules. No no no that is not me. I said I wanted the wings, not the godamned horn.
"Quit fucking yelling, me!"
Look, you listened. You? Me? Guess it doesn't matter when we've settled into our stasis cells for permanent naptime. Good night, buddy, rest easy. We're all supposed to be one anyway, right? That's what Princess Luna would say. She thinks of herself as We, bless her and praise her, and she's wiser than ...
Shut up about Princess Luna. Shut the fuck up.
OK, geez. Calm down. You good, Hand? Yeah? Awesome.
We took care of all those crazies back there, we sure did. And did it matter what they were? No sir. Wolf things with their insides on the outside bum rushing us, pegasus squadron creeping up out of that burial pit upstairs. Ah well. It is fucking cold. Engineer suits have good thermal resistance, but not 250 K good, 'specially when the helmet's been zuked on and pitched. Let's go for a jog. A spritely jaunt. Just me and me.
Thump thump, crunch crunch. The hive's been busy here below the bustling Titan metropolis, burrowing out their tunnels and junctions, installing their sub-zero honeycomb. At least they got the coolant lines right, miles and miles of veins and capillaries plumbed to each slumbering grub. Argon-purged high vacuum sheath, ribbed for polystyrene ties, mounted to the ceiling. Very nice. Helium I, of course. Gotta keep it viscous.
"Are we there yet?"
"Mom? I need to go pee pee real bad. Mom?"
Whoa now! What's this? You're not supposed to be up this late, little tykes. Watch that broken glass, son. Shit, that's two ... three counting the one yawning around the bend behind. We've got a situation here, Hand. Let's get to work.
"Bang bang! Bang bang!"
Down you go, chillins. Hey there, no making snow angels when you're splattered. That's disrespectful. Down you go, just like the wolves and the flappers. You see, the Hand's got something for everyone, great and small, short and tall. Hup, back in your beds. Enjoy the chuckles.
What's that, me? You hear more of them? Yeah, I do too. The nasty ones. Sure is getting thick in here. Maybe we should scoot on down to the next door. Nope, not that way. Left, down, left ... here we are. Let's say a little prayer for the pleasure of the freezer gods. Hand, do you have any words you'd like to share in this moment of reflection? OK, then, I'll speak for the team. Merciful Macrostate, forever who you're meant to be, receive the souls of these the ecstatic departed, smitten by the singular joy spilling from the mouth of the Hand, and open unto us the way of our deliverance.
Abra fucking cadabra.
And now we're in a zero-G chamber equipped with a ... meat processor? Oh, wait, I get it. It's a corpse picker. The worms float in, the worms float out, the worms get their DNA hacked, attain a gargling godhood and kill everything in sight. All well-organized and according to plan.
Ah, this must be what Daina was thinking by sending us through the crypt. Should just be a matter of shutting down the mass simulator and boosting up and out. Just a few teaks here on this command console and ... ha ha. That would have been too easy. Time to call customer service.
"Daina? I think I've found the exit but it's way above me. Gravity controls are locked out."
Thirty seconds of static. A minute of static. Shit, she's not answering. Why isn't she answering? Not good. Tiedemann's with her right now twirling a gun, deciding where to put the bullet, necromorphs got in and diced her up, ponies fluttered by and offered her a makeover she couldn't refuse ...
"Daina? Fuck!" OK. It's OK. Console's down, so trace the process flow. It's a small chamber, cylindrical geometry, so the simulator must be a gyroscope of some kind. 4D most likely, levitated to reduce friction. Yeah, old fashioned tech, and they'd put it as low as possible to maximize the use of the space. It's obviously not on this level so that means ... yes, yes, service elevator, 10 o'clock. Eight ball, corner pocket.
Man this thing looks lived-in. That's a fresh coat of grease on that rail. Bad sign when your system access dumbwaiter is the shiniest piece of equipment in the place. Bet the sarcophagi get backed up more often than we'd like, eh Altmannites? Some devilish odors circulating through your lobby every so often? Should have diverted some of that interior decor cash to the funerary fund.
And the verdict is ... voila. Called it. Three-circle gyro, concentric spatial cross section. Shit-ton of imaginary angular momentum. Why is it beeping?
Oh, it's not. Caller on the line. My dame in shining armor, slaying static on the right hand and on the left.
"... I don't know if you can hear me. You need to go up. Do you hear me? You need to go up!"
Jesus, Daina. I'm thinking down would take me into the fucking bedrock. Anyway, let's play a little hackey sack with the gimble crossover box here. Allow me to take your jacket, honey, and ... fuck's sake, alligator clips? Really? Only the best for poor little Twinkler, taken before her time. And quit your whining, you. Get used to her postmortem perfume. This one goes here, that one goes ... Bam.
"Attention: Crypt systems set to diagnostic mode. Gimble capture arms released. Authorized technicians only."
Isaac is always authorized. Awesome. Two arms for each circle, one on either side. A pinch of stasis magic here, a sprinkle of kinesis there ...
"Gravity in the shunt is now offline."
Shunt. Sun, shun, hut, shut, hunt, nut, thus, stun. When you squash so many words together you're bound to muddy the waters, o grand oracle of system status. Make brown out of all the colors, like the mashed rainbow walls of this shunt. Hunt? Rejuice that stasis, we're off to russle up some ponies.
Beautiful. I love the way the condensation spheres dance and ripple amongst the garbage. Ready to go join them, Hand? Here we go. Wait, let me stasis that cooling fan for you. It would suck if that's what separated us and not the biggest, baddest necromorph those fuckwads can muster.
Feel that spine decompress. Heavenly. Flying is so much more relaxing without the killer horses and exploding trams. There goes the corpse picker, busy embalming a nonexistent cadaver. I should be scared shitless right now, but I'm not. Because you're here with me, Hand, and it's so quiet, those cryo-tube manipulators are so precise and dedicated, and the debris is spinning around us like dead fish in an anoxic algal bloom.
Look up. I told you we're in Heaven. Get that fucking casket out of my way, I'm ascending into the light.
Top level already? Dammit. Time to stop dicking around I guess. Gentle boost to the left. Left, left, watch that yaw, Isaac. Touchdown. OK, one instrument panel, no necros, no ponies, what do we got? Artificial Gravity Offline ... Activate? Current Value: 0.001 G. Press F2 to Resume Normal Operations. Sure.
"Exiting Zero-Gravity."
Don't sound so disappointed, sugar. Uh-oh, incoming. Daina, you look worried. If you're worried, I'm worried. Is that pilot leather you're wearing? Good sign. Maybe I'm not so worried. Let's bypass that micro store. There's an empty seat on an escape shuttle with Isaac's name on it. God, the static! Can I not have a normal conversation for five seconds without the video cutting out?
"Isaac? Dammit! I think they're jamming our signal with a mobile device. Someone get me the frequency on that jammer. They must have a gunship positioned near the compound!"
Some shit just won't flush. "Now what? Change of plans?"
"No. If they knew where we were, they'd have killed us by now. Shit! Signal's fading! Just following your locator and hurry."
Out of the bowl and into my coffee. No problem, no problem. Can't stop now. I can almost taste that ribeye. I'll shave off a slice for you too Hand, a nice juicy one with plenty of seasoning charred onto the perfectly seared tip. The choice morsel. The corner is to cowflesh as the center is to cake. Wash that down with something that's not cider. But first ...
Dead end. Bench in the corner, which is good - I'll get to you in a minute - but no exit. Nothing else but a rack of empty cryo-tubes. RIG, what say you? The tubes? That doesn't make any sense. You're turning on me too, trying to get me to climb into of those aren't you you little bastard ... Behind the tubes? Speak up, Hand, I didn't catch that. Look at the I-beams, you say. Really. Genius. You have a Kinesis module, remember, Isaac? Just slide them out of the way, one, two ... duct duct goose. We're up for a crawl, but first, my distinguished foam friend here needs a reward for being so observant. Let's crack open the old Bench. Here we go, one slot. Node ... for ... you! You like that? Yes you do.
Now - careful, mind the lei, Isaac, the petals are fragile - that's it, pull us up. I know it's hard to hear over the pipes and my bumbling. I don't do this every day you know. Just shout if you see anything. 'Bang', yup, you know the way. 'Pew pew'? Interesting phraseology, not a dialect I'm familiar with, but I trust your judgment. I'm sure the ponies will get a kick out of it. I wish they'd put guide lights in these tunnels, something on motion detection. Keep it green. As engineers we're a cut above, but it's not like we're Luna and can see in the dark. Sea in the dark. Blue, violet, shining brilliant white wavelets in the moonlight ...
"What the fuck did I tell you about that shit? Toe the line, buddy. God damn you, I turn my back for five fucking sec ..."
Shhhh ... it! What is wrong with these stooges? Can't they weld two fucking joints on the fucking vent panels? Is that procedure not in their salvation handbook or whatever the fuck it is they drool into twelve hours a day trying to find the verse that tells them when to take a shit?
Get up, Isaac, you've been through this. Maybe one day you'll give the ponies a taste of their own medicine and land on one when the sheet metal breaks. Bless my stars, darker than a cave on a new moon in winter in here. Thanks for the light, Hand. Always resourceful, always prepared. More storage, I see. Not quite as interesting as the last time we fell out of the heavens. So many figurines of Sister and oh, plenty of us too! Splendid, ye neophytes. All the mares shall have a pair for their mantle.
Well, Hand, I think little hooves have been at play here. See those wreaths there on the floor? Smell the evergreen and the winterberry? The foals have been busy, bless them and comfort them. Stay alert. Watch the corners once this door opens. Anything? OK, move to the next one. Clear? Just more crates? Check under the tarps, there might be somepony under there. Alright, just some bubble wrap. No worries.
Shh, quiet. There's something at the end of the hallway. Dammit I hate being right sometimes. Foal, diaper looks clean. Too small - I don't think we can hit it from here. It's got something on its back. No, it's carrying ... wreaths! Duck! One of those lands around our neck and we're sunk. Now, while it's standing!
"Bang bang bang!"
Careful baby, don't hurt yourself on the ramp there. An infant's laughter is priceless. Hold onto that, sweetie. Oops, another one, and momma too, all in a huff coming to check what the ruckus is about. Let's show them.
"Pew pew pew pew pew! Pew pew!"
Look at you, look at you. That node was tasty, huh? Loosened up the ol' tongue? You're knockin' 'em dead, buddy. Don't stop.
Hmm. Looks like mom here was polishing that Celestia icon before we Titanned her up. Cracked up, like Titan. Get it? Solid silver, or I'm ... wait. There's a Marker behind her. Do you see that? Look close, behind the mane. Bifurcated spires, twinned crystal lattice stained ferrous red, the normal to the surface tracing the greater root of the square of the ratio of the height to the width diminished by the sum of the ratio and ... Unity. The runes are singing, aligned to transmit the call to all the flesh squirming in every sweltering nook and crevice of every circumstellar habitable zone. Tell us, Hand, why would they carve one of those behind Sister ...
... shut up shut up shut up she's not your sister don't fucking lose it Isaac you're almost ...
Poor fucks. To be that wrong, to have your religion fail that miserably. Expected a paradise of brotherhood, got a pony Princess.
So it goes. Let's get this over with, Hand. Fifty meters to go as the pegasus flies. Try to keep your voice down: we're entering the Sanctuary. Ooh, Candle's been here. That's a good sanity check, except of course we're not planning on gaining an audience with Celestia anymore. Not until we get something to eat. Am I seeing things or is that whole fucking wall stained glass ...
"Guh!" Fuck. Fuck! Where did she ... don't breathe that ... too sweet ... lavender dawn rots the brain daybreak dewfall mist slipping through her too strong too much genesis gardens ... shh ... shush ... no, stay away, get off me ... get out ...
Outside? Why are we up there?
We have found him! He was protected from the fall by his gnarled skin when we smote him, only gently, we trust. The same skin he wears to hide from our touch. But see, he hath shown his precious, poor disfigured face! The oyster opens, displaying his shining pearl. Fear not, child, now we shall take thee, this our final chance before Sister has her turn.
The beautiful face in the mirror is smiling, looking down the long secret-telling mane as it breaches the glass, pooling around us. I'm the reflection, and she's the one holding the mirror. Praise her! Speak so she might hear!
"I am thy reflection, great world roamer! I am thy crystal twin, refracting thy flawless light!"
“Yes child, yes! We have come far, and too much time has passed since first we met, above the seventh shield, as your kind call it. Take our kiss of friendship, one ... for each ... precious cheek. Thus with joy we claim thee. Let the prophecy come to fruition by our hoof.”
Take us, take us Princess, my own self. Enshroud me in thy mane, and in let thy magic flow. Let the prophecy ... the prophecy? Mother, my mother, not yours, gave me up to the ... the murmuring lunatics bowing to the sun ... promised them my soul ... my destiny ...
I don't want this. I'm Isaac Clarke. God damn it.
You almost had me, didn't you? Got me distracted, worked your tresses through the ribs of my suit, started to crack me open like a walnut. Hand, you still with me? Hell yeah, you are. Wavy, wavy, check what I got!
"Hail and high tidings, me! Have we introduced ... ourselves ... to you?"
"Whatever do you mean, child? We have known thee from thy foalhood."
"No? Well now's the perfect time to remedy that. I apologize for any lack of decorum, Your Highness. For this most serendipitous engagement, I must defer to my partner."
Go time. Hit her, buddy! Take out that scrawny-ass neck! "Bang bang bang bang! Bang bang! Pew pew pew pew!"
You like that, don't you grandma? Havin' grand old time, now. Enough, was it? Sorry, everything's belly up topsy turvy to this little foal, so I'm tacking a big fat logical NOT operator in front of everything you say. Your rules, not mine. Under the wing, Hand? Damn right, nice and tender under there. Look at those skinny little legs kicking. Bang bang, you tell her, buddy. Tear that shit up.
“Stop! Hee hee ... Enough! Silly creature! Thou art already ours. Go thy course: it leadeth thee to thy destiny all the same. We ... hee hee hee ... we shall see thee soon."
Oh, you're going to bug out just like that, huh? Flash, zip, I'm out? Isaac, pal, we can't expect delusions to curtsy and graciously take their leave, whether or not we've worked our asses off putting a smile on their face. I suppose so, Hand. Ours is a thankless job. Laughter engineering - add it to my resume. Highly proficient with foam finger grump resolution. Necromorph pony parity certified. All we can do is do what we can.
Hold on. There's a colt up on that wall. Right there! Must have been following Luna around, waiting for story time. He spotted us, and ... holy shit that's the whole K through twelve coming at us. Now Hand, I bet they think they're going to get some kind of preferential treatment owing to their age. Like we might take it easy on them. Or maybe that you, modest and unassuming chap that you are, might not be up to the task of breaking every deformed bone in their murderous little bodies. Oh kiddies, we're going on the trippiest field trip you ever did see!
"Bang! Bang bang bang!" Where is the fucking exit? "Bang! Bang!" Bang. Pew pew pew. Actually, where are the pews? This is supposed to be the Sanctuary, right? Maybe the Bronitologists packed them up for their herd's great migration. Matters exactly nothing in the grand scheme of things. At least the little tykes go down easy. Not like our beloved Princess. Took half a dozen shots and some hardcore rib-tickling to neutralize her discolored ass.
"Bang! Pew! Bang bang! Woo!" Up those stairs, to the second level, Isaac. Nothing but squealing, sniggering wreckage on this floor. Hold your horses, we got a town hall meeting up here folks, all the mamas and the papas. The green grocer with his price tag dispenser - bang. The firefighter with a bucket of water, galloping to douse the flames of our wrath - bang. The elementary school soccer coach, going berzerk with her whistle - bang. The orthodontist - the fucking orthodontist. Made my mouth bleed for five fucking years.
"Pew pew pew pew pew!" Sit the fuck down. Is that it? Anypony else feeling froggy? Hand, dead ahead, behind those confectioners with the chocolate sacs. I see a door! Bang, bang bang. Ha ha, look at them squirt their shit all over themselves. The door, Isaac, the door! I know, let me just ... look at that, shell's already dried hard as carbon steel. And they're trying to lick their way out. Do you ever feel understimulated, Hand? I mean, is this the best they can do? No wonder Daina was able to turtle up in here for so long. She's besieged by fucking toddlers.
Be that as it may, let's see what's behind door number one. Low ceiling, lots of redundant support pillars hand-carved into pony Atlases, pudgy forelegs hugging planets and stars, and one sorry-looking legless necromorph guarding the exit, dragging its pre-kicked ass towards us. Isaac, point me at its arms, please. Sure thing, bud. You're the brains of the operation, just tell me when and where.
"Pew pew pew." Dang, that was a juicy one. Think we need to stomp him? Not this time Isaac. I'm having trouble hearing you, so let's keep moving. I'd be out of luck if you wandered out of earshot. You know I can't carry myself around, as fun as that would be. Wouldn't be much better than a necromorph then, would I? You're right, Hand. I'm sure glad somebody's got their wits about them. Forget that asshole, we've got better things to do. Door number two, what are you hiding? A new car? An all-expenses-paid trip to Las Vegas? I hope not - I hate Las Vegas.
No slot machines here, unless there are some really boring ones with no lights or buzzers buried in the complete fucking darkness. Come on people. Maybe this is where they haze the newbies. Lock them in here for long enough and sure as shit they're going have visions of Convergence. Visitations from the holy spirit of Altmann himself. Can you see anything, Hand? Nope, not me. Nothing but that ring of candles surrounding us. Yeah I know, thanks Captain Obvious. Oh, and that stone Marker in the center, don't crack your crown on that.
I won't - I can see it. There's another door right behind it ... an elevator ... shit ... God ... my head. Skull's splitting, not a hunger headache ... old friend of mine ... take cover. Brain's grown bat wings and it's off into the night ...
What's happening to you, Isaac? You tried to kill yourself. Why do you think that is?
Nicole ... honey I don't know what you mean. The thing with the horn back at the duct? Don't be mad at me, please. I wouldn't stab myself. I won't throw my hand no matter how bad ... It must have been so bad for you. You must have been so scared. I'm responsible, goddammit. I told you to go. I'm responsible, and that's why I have to do this. I have to keep going.
That's right. Ignore the pain. Bury it deep inside. Let me fester - let me rot.
I'm sorry, Nicole, I'm sorry baby. I ... I wasn't there for you, but I'm going to make it right, OK? I'm gonna get healthy, gonna work things out, get my ... get my fucking ducks in a row, and I promise you, I will not let one more person die because of my ... my own ... fuck me ... my own blind neglect. I'm a good person ... I'll show you ...
The silver blue tracer line fades away, cut short less than a meter in front of you. This is it. The relentless ghost of Nicole, the dopey, sugar-fiend ponies, the bleeding, roaring freaks falling over themselves to infect you at every blind hallway intersection and unsealed vent junction ... you'd outfought and outsmarted them all. Just a man keeping his wits about him. Just your average engineer, using his tools - his acumen and determination - to solve his problems. The Hand had a bit to do with it too. Got to give credit where credit is due.
You bring up your route one more time, just to relive the little morale boost. No doubt about it. It ends here, on the other side of this doorway. Daina and whatever forces she has with her must have cleared out most of the necromorphs in this area, because you'd only encountered one in the last ten minutes. Busted through the top panel of the elevator on the way up, all business, probably trying to cut you before you could get a shot off. Just clocked that one until it broke apart in its high class robes. Let the RIG do the hard work.
Every ounce of strength it had taken to get here is going to pay off. Every time you'd picked your balls up off the floor after being jumped or blindsided or cornered by whatever version of alien shithead happened to present itself. Every time you'd manned up and did what needed to be done. All of it had been worth it. Your actions were going to save lives. Lives that matter.
The broad, stone-panelled doors grind open, an orange light dawning between graven images of the Royal Sisters, and the cloven spires of the Marker, set in grand seal in the center. It might be the sunrise, or sunset, a new or dying light lingering on the horizon of Saturn as it turned. Or it might be auxiliary sodium lamps filtering through the smog ever spewing out of Titan's exhaust stacks.
A woman - a calm, sane, well-dressed woman - is standing at the end of a wide room with her back to you, gazing out through spotless wall windows at the ruined crags and stained skyscrapers of the Sprawl. Daina.
Daina, you holy angel of deliverance - no offense to you, Hand - fuck me if I thought I'd ever actually meet you. God, get me something to eat. Get me a shower. And most of all, get these fucking toy box dollies out of my ... wait ... that smell ... so clean ...
Two long, pale forelegs slip down over your shoulders from behind, hooking in front of your chest and drawing you backward against a warm, heavy body.
"... the fuck?"
You push up with shaking legs, trying to wrestle out from beneath the crushing weight. Fuck this bullshit. You did not come all this way to be killed three goddamn meters from your rescuer. You'd earned your ribeye, and you're going to savor every last drop of salty, succulent juice from that motherfucker.
You raise your arm to blind-aim the Hand at the creature's head behind you. If you can get just one shot off, just one shot to the face or the neck ...
One of the forelegs slides down, the rune-carved golden shoe slipping around to your elbow, locking it snug against your ribs. "You diseased ... piece of ... shit, get ... the fuck ... off ..." You flail your left arm, punching, tripping, trying not to fall. If you can reinforce your momentum, apply enough torque at each swing ... that's good, just a few centimeters ...
The legs hug you tighter, pulling you in, deep inside the soft, warm prison. Too strong. Infinitely strong. You’re pinned so tight against the supple beast you can feel the thing breathing, bending your spine in a slow, constant rhythm. It’s not even trying.
It calls to you in a gentle voice, a voice far above your struggles and the sordid conflicts of the world, untroubled by the greed, the civil wars fought over food and scraps of land, the desperate, mindless desire of the tired human gene to keep redefining its tidepool's shorelines. It speaks the last words you want to hear.
“I am Princess Celestia.”
Well that's it, son. Last go at the whack-a-mole. Blow it here and you're stuck on the carousel for the next billion years. Somehow she had found out what your plan was - one of her rat fink little runts must have overheard you talking to Daina - and she'd ducked in while you were dealing with her lackeys, waiting until she could be sure you'd be too battle-weary, starved and dehydrated to really give her a fight. Smart.
Now she's going to pop you open like a soda can, pally. Easy as pie. “God, no! Get off me! Get the fuck off me!”
A shimmering pastel cloud drifts into view from either side, endless undulating sheets and streams of a living mane, dulling the world away, leaving you alone with the sound of her deep, calm breathing. Alone with the spices of her joyous scent.
Daina's still watching her infernal sunrise, unaware of your thrashing, or of the groups of ponies and their human friends emerging from the shadows in the unseen corners of the room. There's Smokey, and Gleaming, and Candle, Luna's squadron of pegasi, Sprout and Marmalade and Scroll Whisper, Eric and Panflute, and Stross, and all the others you'd chased and battled trying to get here. All come to applaud their Princess as she dismembers and infects her prized victim.
“Daina! Look out!” Does she have a death wish? Why isn't she helping you? Why isn’t she moving?
Two giant, swan-white wings spread wide behind you, so close they could be sprouting from your own back. Their enormous feathers, broad as your hand, rustle as they stretch to either wall. The tips sweep up, curling inward like fingers, crossing as they fold over your chest. Below, the tricolor serpentine mane is working at your stomach. The fabric of your suit rips, then splits open, the metal reinforcing strips whining as they bend apart.
The wings. It had been her in the tram station, her sitting next to you on Ship Shape's bed, her pressing the horn down onto your head with your own hands. That's how she'd known you were coming here. She's been in your mind all along, tempting you, tormenting you, wearing Nicole's face to deceive you.
If she's in your mind, then she knows about your past. Your childhood. You twist between her unyielding hooves. "No! You're lying! You don't exist. None of you are real. Daina, help me! The delusions, they're all around us! I can't fight them anymore!"
Daina turns, a radiant smile dawning on her face. She raises her arms and speaks to the gathering. "Behold, the Avatar of the Consummation! The Sun has risen, and now before us cradles the Chosen in her mighty wings. It was foretold, and it has come to pass!"
The congregation chants in unison. "Beneath moon and sun, all are one. Beneath moon and sun, all are one."
They know. They all know.
"Even so! Even so," Daina responds. "The Age of Harmony is dawning. My brothers! My sisters! Convergence is at hand!"
How did you not see this coming? All of the whispering in the background while she was talking on the telecomm, the secret location inside the Church, the doors unlocking by themselves ... she wanted you to get here, but it sure as shit wasn't to save you. "Daina? You're a Bronitologist too? Of course you are. Why did I trust you?"
Daina looks up above your head. "May I answer, your Highness, or would you prefer to proceed?"
"Tell him what he wishes to know, child," the sublime music of Celestia's reply resonates against your back. "It may help him adjust. Rest assured he is secure, and will run from us no more."
Daina nods and answers your question. "Well, you didn't have a choice, Isaac. I told you there was a cure, and you came running."
You twist again, hoping to catch your towering captor by surprise. No good. The massive forelegs squeeze you tighter. "What is wrong with you people? Why can't everyone just leave me alone? Daina, don't do this. Don't let this hap ..."
There's no cure. There's no goddamn cure. She's been mindfucked exactly like Stross. Leaving you with the same two options you've been agonizing over since this started: either her behavior is part of your hallucinations, or ... fuck. Or you're not hallucinating.
Occam's Razor rules out option two. Right? The Marker has her brain scrambled so bad she's worshiping the things that are just a hair's breadth from slaughtering what could be the last remaining humans on Titan. All you have to do is convince her. “Daina, they're necromorphs! We’re under attack! They’re going to kill you!”
“Necromorphs?" Through the spaces between Celestia's fragrant feathers you can see Daina stepping closer, shaking her head. The thin braided loops in her hair swing like nooses. "Isaac, there are no necromorphs. It was all a cover-up, false memories our pathetic government planted in your head to hide what we," she gestures to the crowd, "the faithful daughters and sons of of the Royal Sisters, the true disciples of the Animator, have labored so hard, and so long to achieve. What you helped us achieve."
"Daina, you're not making sense. I've been drugged, locked up for years. How could I have helped you? Wake up."
"That's the drugs talking Isaac. The years of brainwashing they put you through. After you built the Mirror, the portal to Aegis VII, they quarantined you. Made you forget what you'd seen, the joy you'd found on the Ishimura."
What is the answer? What is real? All you can do is squirm in Celestia's bejeweled hooves. "God damn it, Daina, I lost Nicole to that fucking deathtrap. Don't you mock me! I'm trying to help you."
"No Isaac. We're trying to help you." She turns and walks back to the ponies. "They quarantined you, and they sealed the Mirror away below the Government sector where they thought they could keep it under lock and key. After they realized what they'd done, they tried to save themselves. Preserve their power. They hoped to stop the spread of harmony; to curtail the reign of the Royal Sisters."
The footsteps stop. "But we set them free."
Candle's voice pipes up. "Yup, that was me, hee hee!"
Daina laughs and gives Candle a short bow. "Just as we freed you, Isaac. Because you are the Chosen. The one whose knowledge and fearless spirit will guide us to Paradise, the promised land the Animator prophesied."
"Praised be the Animator! Glorify her sacred hand!" the crowd shouts as one.
The downy feathers brush across your eyes, slipping, whispering, bidding you to sleep. What could reason hope to accomplish against a lifetime of indoctrination? Daina's a lost cause. Maybe you should sleep. Tip the king over, send him off to dreamland. Maybe when you wake up, the board and all the mad pieces would be gone.
You see Daina raise her arms once more. "Now we beseech you, O Life-giver, return to us and complete the Trinity of Ascension!"
A bright blue flash crackles for an instant, with a sharp burst of air you know all too well.
My child, my own. Thou art home at last.
Princess Luna, the Giver of Life, the Creator, had come to claim what belongs to her. Lavender and rain mix with Celestia's lilies and summer wind, growing stronger as your sweet, terrible huntress approaches.
They never stop ... not a moment's rest. Nothing left to ... fight her with ... I'm sorry Nicole, I couldn't save anyone ... a man against gods ... I'll see you in a sec, baby ... I'm ... I'm ...
I am yours, sweet Princess of catchflies, opening in the small hours of the morn, drunk on dew and nighttime rain, whilst we walk the starry ways amongst the moons ...
Sister, we are ashamed. We tried our best to collect him, yet here we find him embracing thee. Thou always makest this business seem trivial.
Just a bit of patience, Luna. Nothing more. Think not of it, but that our sweet foal is here with us, and will be with us, forever.
You rear and rest your dark, slender forelegs over Celestia's - Celestia and Luna, those are your names - the moon of your ancient black torc shining like first it did when it was forged in the heart of the nova star you fancied most, far back behind time's shifting veils. You tilt your crowned head back and close your eyes, calling your magic forth. Your mane stands on end for a moment, electrified by your boundless power, then darts down in a thousand spirals at the exposed flesh below. Let your poor wandering foal by comforted by midnight of your body. Let the child see nothing else.
Both manes dig into your navel, prying their way in. Celestia's gentle breath touches the top of your head. “Just try to relax.”
The soothing words echo in triplicate. Who heard them? Who spoke them? We all did. Even young Isaac.
The dense tip of the manes digs deeper. The pressure is building on your insides.
Isaac? Am I me?
I am. I don't want this. I am not you. I'm Isaac Clarke. CEC Engineer. I'm ...
Shit. She's gone again. Killing you takes a lot of concentration, apparently.
OK Isaac, this is bad. Hand, we're down to our last card here, buddy. You want these dirty fucks shoving their grubby little hooves into you, putting you on eternal cheerleading duty? We can hit Luna. Yeah, right there, just like in the Sanctuary. Almost there. Almost ...
"Isaac." Daina had appeared by your side. She grasps your arm and begins straightening your wrist, pointing the Hand dead ahead at Luna's chest.
Mother of Altmann. "Daina! After that little speech I thought you'd lost it. That's right, now, when they're caught up in their magic bullshit, Luna first, then Celestia. We can do this. We can get out of here ...
She takes hold of the Hand and pulls it off of you, tossing it to a grinning Gleaming Over. The pegasus works it onto her hoof and gives you a salute. "Tickley tickley!"
Fuck me.
The manes break through, piercing the skin of your navel, gushing into your midsection like water through a broken dam.
You hear yourself scream. The long, thick horsehair is snaking through your veins, all ice and fire and electricity pounding in your heart and in your brain. Every neuron, every cell, every muscle fiber rages with the Sisters' loving magic. The sparkling motes of light that adorn their wondrous manes are flowing, bursting from the lofty, regal heads and coursing into your convulsing body in a constant torrent of warmth and energy.
The air around the three of you explodes into a fiery aura of light, a column of dancing gold and azure flames. Daina calls out again, "The umbilicus is complete, praise Celestia in the highest! Praise Luna in the highest!"
"Beneath moon and sun, all are one! Beneath moon and sun, all are one!" the congregation responds. They begin bobbing up and down, murmuring the chant at a feverish pace.
“Mmmm. This part always feels wonderful," says Celestia. Her lips nuzzle your ear. "Don't you agree? Rejoice, little one! You're going to have a new beginning. You may feel a little awkward at first, but we have the rest of eternity to help you discover the real you, the pony you were destined to become."
The rest of eternity to use your corpse to kill and infect the innocent. "God … damn you. Just fucking off me and get it over with."
Celestia nuzzles your other ear. “Dear stars, so much aggression.”
"He gave us much trouble, sister," says Luna. "Even now he defies us." She smiles and dips her wings under her sisters' to encircle your waist. A free wisp of her mane drifts up and caresses your forehead.
Celestia holds you tighter, hugging you with her wings. "He has lived his whole life without our love. The love he was born to receive."
Where is she? Where is the traitor? “Daina ... you've ... murdered us all!"
The manes churn in your stomach, seeking. Probing. You can feel Celestia's hot muzzle smiling against your cheek. “Ahh, I can sense your mother. Here, where you were connected to her in her womb. She was a strong woman."
"Fuck you ... my mother ... was a lunatic. And so are you."
"Hush, child. Be calm. She devoted you to us the moment you were born. Did you know? Yes, your memories tell as much. She bound you to the Sun and the Moon for all eternity. She held you up to your world's sun ..."
She held us up to the sun, the Sign of the Daybringer. The priests and Stewards had gathered, singing and drawing symbols in the earth below your tiny feet, anointing you with oils and incense, awaiting the coming moon and the eclipse. And when it came, when the moment night and day coexisted, they pronounced you Celestia and Luna, Luna and Celestia, three-in-one, and in that moment, we resided in you ...
You fall to your knees. Over the roaring of the magic, you hear the whine of your RIG flatlining.
God damn you, I'm not you. I'm Isaac Clarke ... I'm Isaac ... Clarke ...
Somewhere far away Daina is crying, “Behold it was written by the Animator's own sacred hand! In the light, whether from moon or sun, all belong. All are one!” Somewhere, the congregation gives its assent.
"Beneath moon and sun, all are one!"
***
Wind. Rushing in, sighing out. The wind is blowing.
You wake on the steps of a beautiful white temple, surrounded by hibiscus flowers, looking out between two towering marble pillars founded at their bases in gold. A strange glistening sky flows overhead, purple and rose and green currents gathering and dispersing, winding away into the obscure distance. It must be a temple in the clouds, because what lay beyond was lost in a restless haze.
The other half of the sky is darkness, lit by a giant crescent moon and meandering tracks of stars. There must be a jasmine grove hidden there, and lavender gardens and citrus orchards laden with delicious ripe fruit, perfuming the breeze that's moving through the mist.
What a nice dream. It's been like this for years, for centuries. Eons. Just you in the comfort of the temple. And the voices. The voices are nice too. Friendly voices. They're all your friends, your brothers and sisters. And best of all, most wonderfully best of all, is Her voice.
"Rise and shine, little Star."
The dream is changing. The clouds are clearing, and ... what fun! You can see your friends! They had been with you all along while you rested on the steps of the temple. If only you weren't so weak and hungry, you'd run to play with them.
"Praise the Daybringer! It has come to pass just as she promised!"
There's a face that seems familiar. Her name is Daina. Daina Le Guin. She's nice. And sweet stars is she happy!
She sinks to her knees in front of you, clasping her hands over her heart. “A brilliant gem, shining with her own light! Praise unto you Celestia, praise unto you Luna, immortal and blessed are your works! So beautiful. You are so beautiful, Isaac. Or should I say, Your Highness?”
Beautiful? Your Highness? Back before the temple, before Her - whenever that was - people had called you many things, but never 'Your Highness'. And only one person had ever called you beautiful. What had her name been? So hungry. Brain fuzzy. Another nap - maybe then you'd remember.
Daina's crying. "How wonderful! Celestia, you mared him!"
Poor lady. Why is she sad now? She'd called you Celestia, and that wasn't wrong, but it seems there's more to it than that. Oh, wait ... of course Daina. As you know ...
"Of course, Daina. As you know, I prefer fillies and mares for my subjects, especially the ones with whom I am to entrust important responsibilities. I find it easier to come to an understanding with females. The males tend to be a bit, shall we say, single-minded."
... single minded. How odd. So many voices, but only one is talking out loud.
Can you see what's going on? What does she look like? She's adorable! Praise Luna! Celestia in the highest! The Animator's prophecy has come to pass ... She gives me so much hope ...
All the ponies - your friends - had formed in a circle around you, maneuvering to catch a glimpse of the newest addition to their family. You can feel the love and joy kindling in their hearts every time they catch sight of you. All of their thoughts and feelings are open to you. And Hers too. Well done, Daina. You have ...
"Well done, Daina. You have done all that we asked and more."
"Thank you Celestia, most holy, most serene. I have gained the access codes to the Ishimura as you commanded. EarthGov no longer has the strength to defend it. The ship is ready once," she looks down at you, "once Her Highness makes the necessary repairs and plans the attack route. The population centers will be completely unprepared."
"Well done. Well done indeed. You have earned your reward."
Daina breaks down, sobbing and laughing as she bows low to the floor. She crawls forward on all fours. "My ... my reward! I've ... waited ... I've waited so long. I'm ready! Take me! Take me!"
Celestia speaks from overhead. "For your diligence and performance under pressure, I shall make you Commander of the pegasus legions. Great will be your fame, and long will your name live in the songs amongst the clouds. Scroll Whisper?"
The cheerful unicorn moves away from the crowd to stand next to Daina, who is reaching towards you mouthing 'take me, take me'. "Yes Your Highness?"
"You've had a lot of practice with the basic transformation spell of late. Would you mind making Daina a pegasus of the first order?"
"Right away!" Amber light bursts from the tip of her horn, reflecting in a hundred twinkling eyes.
Daina lifts her arms to the ceiling, screaming in ecstasy.
Good job, Daina. You made us proud. I can feel it, I can feel the Daybringer's joy, the Life-Giver's love, their attention turning to me. All for me. Only for me. And you ...
“You shall be Princess Star Topaz, first ruler of the Crystal Ponies!"
The crowd cheers your name. It's a beautiful name. The old one was a hodgepodge anyway. Something to laugh at. And to me, you shall be ...
"And to me, you shall be my beloved daughter."
"And ours," says Luna, laughing with delight.
Daughter? Can it really be true? Yes! Oh yes it can, for we have shared ...
"For we have shared our very essence with you, the essence of the flesh in which we eternally dwell, and our immortal life. Our thoughts shall be your thoughts. Our love shall be your love. In the centuries to come, we shall teach you how to be a Princess ..."
"And a mare," chuckles Luna.
"Thank you mama! Thank ..." You jump at the sound of your new voice, musical and gentle like that of your mother dams. You clasp your tiny hooves over your snout, looking up, up, up at both of them.
Celestia smiles. “It's alright, child. I know it's strange. Glimmer, could you please bring little Star a mirror?”
“You bet, Princess!” Your pegasus friend, somehow both a sister and a foal to you, looks around, trying to catch somepony's eye.
Candle waves her hoof. "I've got one! Over here." She reaches into her saddlebag and sifts through the loose tapers.
Gleaming flaps to her, digs her hooves into the bag and yanks out a small cosmetics mirror. "This isn't the time for dilly-dallying, Candle. This is royalty we're dealing with." She shakes her head and zips back to you, touching down and bringing the mirror to your face.
"You really are a sight, Highness," she says in a low voice. "Have yourself a look-see."
A peep escapes between your clasped hooves as you gaze at your reflection. Your body is translucent, smooth, light blue crystal. Only magic could do this. Your mane and tail are tripartite violet, white and indigo banners of stars, flying, driven by an inner turbulence, disappearing into unseen dimensions in fractals and arcane geometries. And you got your wings! The horn ... you could learn to live with that, especially because you knew mama had wanted so badly to give you one.
How could this be? You peer into the eternal depths of your eyes, aqua green like Luna's, and flecked with rose and gold. The light refracting though them, and through you, is tinted all the colors you can imagine.
You tremble where you lie, unable to look away.
"Hey, I'd ask you to be my foalsitter," says Gleaming, "but it kind of looks like you'll be needing one yourself for a while. No offense."
It's true. You're barely out of foalhood, your flanks bare except for the circled crosses of crystal asterism, like the settings of jewels that have yet to be chosen. You try to stand, wanting to leap into Celestia's and Luna's open hooves and hold them. Show them how grateful you are for their gifts.
But your knees buckle, and your faceted hooves slip on the bare floor. You land hard and bang your head. You really are just a foal. And you're so hungry, and there's nothing to eat. Tears well up and spill down your cheeks.
Celestia's wing sweeps down like a curtain, and with one prehensile feather she dabs your face dry. “Oh sweetheart, you must be starving."
Luna rushes to you and lays down by your side, her own wing draping over your narrow, shivering shoulders. "Sister, perhaps we should ..."
... feed her in the way of dams and foals.
Yes.
Yes.
"Yes, you are right, Luna. We shall do what mothers do when their foals need nourishment. It shall be a lesson for the gathering as well, a display of humility, a virtue we prize and cultivate in all of our children."
The great mare lies down with her belly towards you. She raises her wing above the mountain of her body and shifts her massive hind leg back. "Come little Star," she calls, wrapping you tight in the glow of her magic and drawing you close. "Mother is here for you."
You smile, looking out through the golden light at all the happy ponies as you glide backwards through the air. So many new friends. And you know them all so well.
"Oh, how sweet!" they're saying, "Bless Celestia! Bless Luna! They are mothers to us all."
Your back presses into Celestia's fierce warmth. You look to your right, and see what she is offering.
Two fuzzy, pink, hoof-thick teats, almost as long as your foreleg, ready to give you everything you need.
They're so big. There's no way you can ... if you did, wouldn't you choke? Besides, everypony would see, and mother would be shamed. You recoil, pushing between Celestia's forelegs.
“Oh my precious, don't be afraid," she says, stroking your mane. "There’s nothing here that can hurt you.”
Luna nudges you with her nose. "We assure thee it is safe, dear one. Please, it pains us to see thee listless and hungry. Thou art a pony now. It is natural. But ... ours are not so fearsome. Wouldst thou be more at ease with us?" She parts her inky haunches, letting you view her more modest marehood.
You look back down towards Celestia's hindquarters. There is a place, a hollow of sorts in her underbelly, just above her hind legs. Just the right size for burrowing and curling up. Perfect for snuggling.
She cradles you within her magic once again, drawing you tight against her.
Here, child? Is this where you want to be?
Yes mama, right here.
OK. How to start? Maybe if I just touch with my lips, like this ... OK, not so bad. Maybe ...
You open your mouth wide, wide as only a pony could, wider than you ever thought possible, and crane forward, inch by inch. It's almost in, almost all the way ...
You clamp down, breathing through your nose, careful not to bite. You can feel the mammoth teat filling your mouth, all the way past the back of your throat. Cool! You're not gagging! You did it! All the soft tiny hairs on your tongue are a little weird but ...
... this is insane this is insane this is insane this is insane oh fuck it hurts please somebody help me please somebody help me somebody help me please please please please please ...
No, no, ssshhh, it's fine, it's OK. It's not like you're being impaled through the mouth. No, definitely nothing like that. Because the first drop of milk has touched your tongue. Vanilla, cream, cotton, ginger, cinnamon ... everything good and clean.
"Best thing you ever tasted!" yells Smokey. He's trumpeting into a handkerchief, crying into Gleaming Over's shoulder. She rolls her eyes and pats his shaggy mane.
Silly billy. You pull on the spongy teat with long, desperate draws, nursing and guzzling the delicious milk. It disappears down your throat, diffusing into the crystal lattice of your body, washing away the dirt left over from your old self. Washing away the last vestiges of your humanity.
Celestia arcs her long neck back to you. She sniffs at your thin, distended ribs, and begins to lick them with slow, gentle strokes. Luna joins her, lapping your neck and chest.
Words cannot express how we favor thee, little gem. Precious Star. Sleep now. Perhaps we can provide thy next meal.
You nod and begin to coo, rasping through the thick milk. Your mouth and tongue are working on their own now. You slip in and out of a dream. A dream of a wonderful white temple and a dazzling sky.
"Mmmm. There. She's happy now. Let's give her a little privacy." Celestia lowers her wing, blanketing and shielding your face from the world. Luna rests her head on Celestia's thigh, smiling, watching you as you suckle and drift away. She lowers her wing behind Celestia's, hiding the rest of you. You stare into her kind, brimming green eyes.
They will take care of you. They will take care of everyone. You fold yourself into a ball between them, soaking in their warmth and their love. Here you shall stay, the sun overhead, the moon watching behind, in the center of everything.
I love you Celestia. I love you Luna. With all my heart, I love you.
Oh, sweetheart, I love you too. My daughter! My little Princess! Will you help us with the journey ahead? Will you share your knowledge with us?
Anything you ask, anything for Mother Sun and Mother Moon.
That's a brave filly. We are so proud of you. Now, let us console our foals. They need to be reassured that we have not forgotten them.
Yes sister, speak to them of the future we have won for them today.
Celestia raises her head and addresses the congregation. "You are the first, my children. The stars were young when last we lived and ruled among our own, our cherished ponies. Now we shall begin the cycle anew!"
"Beneath moon and sun, all are one!" they answer, loud and strong.
"No longer will you suffer with imperfect bodies and imperfect souls. Everywhere you have wandered, we shall gather you in. Each and every one."
"Beneath moon and sun, all are one!"
"Let all who have yearned and waited in darkness, come now to the light!"
Deep within your living, breathing nest, you can hear cheering and shouting. Through the eyes of your brothers and sisters, you see all of the remaining humans being lined up against the window by unicorns and transmogrified in one brilliant blast. Or perhaps, just for a moment, perhaps you see them screaming, spraying blood from severed arteries, rolling in spilled organs and armless torsos ...
“And we shall find our perfect place. And we shall call it,”
... but such details are no longer your concern. For you had already found your perfect place, in the center of everything.
Sleep, little Star. We shall keep watch over thee.
Yes, Mother Moon, at last ... sleep.
Celestia's final word is the last thing you hear before you yield to sweet, dark oblivion.
