Pinkie Pie’s Phenomenal Ponytech Party
The grey Overlord class dropship seemed ordinary when it appeared in orbit of the planet Malvern. Its cargo and crew were what set it apart: such a military ship normally bore those intent on waging war. Or in other common cases those looking to start or solve issues through violent means. The crew and cargo of this one, however, was intent and purposed for quite the opposite.
Outwardly shaped as any of the thousands of like vessels that could be found operating within the Inner Sphere, it had initially escaped the notice of Comstar. As the organization that facilitated interstellar communication in the human populated Inner Sphere, a veritable deluge of data passed through their systems every minute. While its arrival had been dutifully filed away for future reference, it had been overlooked at first.
The fiasco that had occurred on Malvern had revealed the nature of this vessel’s unusual crew and cargo. Inside a hall used for conferences, a number of lower ranked Comstar officers had gathered to report to their superior. A virtual representation of the ship and the planet Malvern hung silently in the air, rendered in a ghostly wireframe while flanked by various lists and facts. All were projected from the large table the meeting was set around.
Huthrin Vandel was regarding the ship while the display slowly simulated its orbit. As Precentor—the administrator to the sector of space Malvern was in—he was taking up his duty to review the available information so as to better advise his peers. Although Comstar had taken an interest in these new arrivals to human space, taking action had thus far been deemed premature.
The intelligence gathered by Comstar was always detailed, impeccably accurate and the envy of every other major power in the Inner Sphere. In this situation Precentor Huthrin had drawn upon every source available to him. The resulting reports that had come to him were in the hands of a bevy of Adepts, who waited patiently for their immediate superior to begin the presentation.
The Precentor turned to his right, and addressed his faithful adjunct, Demi-Precentor Amyas. “You’re looking very pleased with yourself. I assume you have something to impress me with. You may begin your report.”
Amyas smiled and inclined his head as he answered, “Thank you, sir. And on the point of your assumption, sir, you are correct. Although background information has thus far been hard to come by, these aliens are primarily using our systems. They are not well versed with the intricacies of their operation, and as such we were able to download records directly from the one vessel that has made contact so far.”
This news had Precentor Huthrin raising his eyebrow. His assistant smiled, and continued, “Piecing together some of the information, we have a video recording of conflict that took place on planet. Included in it is some of the time leading up to first contact, to better provide a glimpse of the character of these aliens.”
Demi-Precentor Amyas’s superior nodded, and slowly looked about at the Adepts in the darkened room.
“Tell me again what we’re calling these aliens?”
Amyas looked a little uncomfortable to be answering this question inside this particular room. A room which saw serious, grave issues dealt with on a daily basis. A hall in which some of the greatest, most well informed minds had discussed the future, the very survival of the human race.
The ridiculousness of his answer made him fidget. But Amyas straightened himself, and cleared his throat as he answered with all seriousness.
“Ponies. Sir.”
The Precentor hummed with a raised eyebrow, and Amyas quickly tapped a button on the computer pad he held in his hand. The adjunct gestured to the floating hologram as its image changed, and the video presentation sprung to life.
Vinyl Scratch pushed herself through the cramped corridors of the dropship, floating with some haste in zero-g. Her coat was lit to an almost pure white under the harsh lighting of a ship built to military specifications. She was late getting to her briefing, but her destination came into view as she rounded a corner. In short order the mare pushed open the door marked, “Party Room!!” with an official looking post-it note, then pressed inside as quietly as she could.
There were a startling number of ponies already seated in the darkened room, enough to give her pause. She recovered with a showmare’s aplomb under the glances thrown her way, and the musically inclined unicorn efficiently manoeuvered herself into a vacant spot. Vinyl quickly directed her gaze to the pony that hopped up in front of the large screen she was facing.
“Alright everypony! You all know what you’re here for!” Pinkie Pie’s voice somehow managed to convey just how seriously she was taking the joy she held for the assignment they were here to plan. Or how joyfully serious she was being.
Her hoof came down with a thwack on the podium beside her, and the screen behind her lit up without a flicker. The image of the assembled crew’s pink mission commander, rounded grin stretching from eye to eye, came up dead center on the screen. The red lettered word “PARTY!!” scrolled across the screen, superimposing itself over the pink grinning face.
Almost all the hooves in the room shot up, the assembled ponies shouting enthusiastically in unison. After their time cooped up onboard their dropship everypony was eager for something, anything to break the monotony.
Pinkie Pie seemed to be passionately ponysonifying the grinning visage still on screen, probably pleased by the perky posture everypony had assumed. She gave a nod, and proceeded to lay out her preapproved plan for the assembled crew.
Having been one of the two ponies chosen, herself based on musical merit, the DJ unicorn couldn’t help but wonder how much of this plan was actually approved of by their dropship’s designated Pony In Charge, Twilight Sparkle. As they wrapped up the orbital drop portion of the presentation, the white unicorn was pretty sure that executing a “Party Blitz” wasn’t something that their more studious superior would sanction.
Two hours later saw the premiere party pony prancing down the length of a catwalk that was suspended perhaps 11 meters above the dropship’s ‘mech bay floor. Below her, a duo of pony engineers were going through the final checks on her machine. The two huge oblong hemispheres that made up what was to be her ‘mech’s heat shielding dangled from cranes on either side of her ‘mech. Manning the controls across the bay, another engineer was waiting to secure the jet black pieces that would protect her machine from the violence of planetary re-entry.
A hop, skip, and a jump deposited her into the cockpit her very own repurposed warmachine. Thanks to the efforts of its engineers, (and a fresh coat of paint) the ‘mech now shared its colouration with its pilot. While the machine still massed in at roughly 20 tons, its normally fearsome loadout was replaced by its pilot’s own special brand of party favors, ready to bring smiles and cheerfulness to any theatre under any conditions.
Pinkie settled into her modified command couch with a little wiggle. A poke with a hoof and a prod of her nose had her Neurohelmet sliding down over her head. The helmet itself allowed the pilot to control many of the ‘mech’s functions at the speed of thought, as it registered the wearer’s brain waves and translated them into commands.
The mare stomped her hooves down on the four pedals surrounding the couch as she got fully settled and secure. Pinkie Pie nosed a couple switches and the consoles in front of her hummed and flickered with life.
With a warm digital hum rising in pitch around her, a synthesized female voice began to report in feathery tones, “Reactor: Online. Sensors: Online.”
The pilot of the ‘mech interrupted the computer’s distasteful, third reported systems’ check with a single word and a hoof in the air. Followed by a giggle-snort.
“PARTY!”
“... Online. All systems: Nominal.”
Pinkie glanced to one side as she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. The two black domes were slowly approaching her mech to encase it. Her radio clicked to life as it conveyed the voice of one of her two stringmates, “Hey, Pinkie. Are you certain dropping in on this planet like this is a good idea? We don’t even know who’s down there!”
The microphone in her neurohelmet picked up her audible reply, but not the roll of her eyes. “C’mon! Of course it is. We’ve heard alllll about how these ponies do nothing but bicker and argue nonstop. If there’s one thing I’m certain of it’s this! Pinkie’s got exactly what they need! And so do you! Besiiiides, Twilight said it was fine and you know how she’d only say good ideas are fine, right?”
The thud of the re-entry shielding heralded her engineering team’s job complete. The shield’s protective embrace also cut off any reply that might have come.
“No! This isn’t a fine idea. It isn’t even just an idea! This is a TERRIBLE idea!” Twilight stomped a hoof in frustration. How could nopony else see just how unfine this idea was? Why didn’t anypony double check with anypony else about this?
The silence reigned supreme on the cramped bridge of the dropship. A few ponies shared awkward glances between each other while the one pegasus serving as captain hedged, “Uh, well... Pinkie said you’d given her the go ahead and-”
Twilight impatiently cut him off, “So you just decided that dropping a few ponies onto the planet FROM SPACE would be perfectly fine to go ahead and do on your own.”
A sigh from behind her sounded before the pegasus-captain could rationalize any defence. Twilight half turned towards her small draconic assistant as her attention shifted.
“C’mon, Twi. We wouldn’t do something as silly as that.” He placed a reassuring claw on her hind leg, continuing. “Of course we didn’t decide that something like that would be perfectly fine.”
His eyes grew wide with enthusiasm as he grinned, “We decided it’d be perfectly AWESOME!” The little dragon threw a hand up into the air to punctuate his declaration.
The violet maned mare couldn’t believe her ears. “You don’t even know what’ll happen, do you?” she asked, exasperation colouring her query. Twilight turned to peer out of the windows overlooking the planet, in time to see 3 fiery comets flare up to life in the planet’s atmosphere. She pointed with a hoof. “That! There go three of our wonderful friends, whom you all just sent off to their burning doom!”
There was some muttering amongst the bridge crew as Spike scratched the back of his head. The dragon was sounding sheepish as he muttered loudly enough to be heard, “Aw, geeze, Twi. Don’t be like that. We found something marked as ‘heat shields’ that we figured out were designed to protect those big robots from a drop like this. Some of the engineers were convinced that they’d hold together even with the changes we made to those ‘mechs, so naturally Pinkie wanted to use them right away.”
While her assistant’s words brought her back from what he knew was full on Tirade Mode, she still stomped her hooves down on the metal deck with a little more force than necessary. Twilight looked back at those brightly burning, free-falling specks plummeting towards the unknown.
After a moment’s reflection, she sighed, “Fine. I guess they won’t get too far ahead. I hope you know where you dropped them. Somewhere safe? Where she won’t encounter too many of these humans, right?”
The replying silence was deafening.
Twilight’s head sunk slowly, her eyes closing at the same rate. She didn’t even have to look to know that the ponies assembled on the bridge would be looking at each other awkwardly. Or that Spike would be wringing his little paws quietly. Again.
“Oooookay. Tell me we know what’s down there?”
After a few seconds one of the crewponies cleared her throat. “Uhm... a party?”
The facehoof echoed all the way down the corridor.
The Bushwacker-X1 stood a silent vigil, perched atop a hill. From its vantage point, it overlooked a village that played the part of suburb to the planet’s capital. Looking for all the world like a streamlined walking tank, each of its arms ended in weapons, not hands; a long, boxy missile launcher on its left and the barrel of a laser on the right. It had a spotlight attached to its nose, that was lighting up the grassy terrain in front of it in the dimming evening light
Inside the ‘mech, Ramsey stared at his comscreen in disbelief. “Say again, control.” He prayed that the report he had just received was a terrible joke.
“Bravo lead, this is control. We are tracking a dropship in orbit. Launches are confirmed, 3 pods are inbound. Tracking puts them coming in to... 20 clicks south of your position, over.”
“Roger that, taking Bravo lance to investigate.” The mercenary leader flicked off the radio channel. His head spun as he tried to make sense of his situation.
The Davion's galactic southern flank had seemed like a fine place to lead his lance to. It was far from the heated borders of the militaristic Clans and the swath of space they had conquered a few years prior. Nothing beyond light pirate raids ever happened down here, or so he had thought.
To him, a dropship inserting ‘mechs from orbit screamed of something more than a simple ‘light raid’. An unpleasant feeling settled into his stomach as he tried to recall what factions employed tactics like this. Or even had access to the tech needed to pull it off. None of the forces he could name off the top of his head filled him with confidence.
Ramsey had broken up his lance into two pairs to cover more ground on tonight’s patrol route. It seemed as though tonight was destined to be anything but a quiet night navigating his warmachine around idyllic countryside.
The mercenary leader punched the button on his comm panel with more force than necessary, transmitting to his lance. “Alright gentlemen. Looks like we’re playing the part of welcoming committee tonight. Everyone, form up on me.”
Despite the distances involved, it took but a minute for Ramsey’s lance to reform smartly. A good crew, he knew, even if they were a bit green. After a few minutes of marching at an easy pace to the south, he finally read three contacts on his radar. They were due to pop over the hill at any moment, and they were moving fast.
“Looks like we have three possible light to medium ‘mechs, people. Campy and Walter, I want you two to take the right. Tymon, take left. I've got the middle. If we need to, draw them to the forest north of town. But we're here to protect the civvies, people. Look sharp.”
The first of the ‘mechs to crest the ridge was most certainly not a typical medium ‘mech. It almost seemed to... canter on all four of its limbs, a quadrupedal machine. The fact that even in the dark it was obviously pink was more than enough to give the veteran leader pause.
In the time it took for Ramsey to realize that this was no ordinary ‘mech he was facing, it opened fire with a cannon mounted on a small chin turret. It seemed suddenly like there was a thick cloud of some sort roiling forth at his lance like an angry storm front. A bright, multicoloured, angry storm front. Maybe the stims he took on night patrol were finally getting to him, but he could've sworn he had heard a festive party horn blowing as the shot was fired.
A glance at his targeting showed that whatever that stuff was, now blowing on the wind, was scattering his radar.
One of his lancemates sounded unhinged for a moment as Ramsey caught a mutter over the com. Something about... a massive cake? Impossible, it had to be a lie.
Ramsey swore, and pulled his machine hard to the right. There were too many unknowns here. If there was one thing the veteran had taken away from his time in the gladiator style battlemech tournaments in the Solaris circuits, it was that information was ammunition. He had to buy time and get a better idea of what they were dealing with.
“Break off, best speed to the Merrion Forest.”
The third affirmative response to his order was cut off by a deep rumble that Ramsey could feel in his gut. He swiveled the torso of his Bushwhacker-X1 around, letting him see Walter's more humanoid Commando-1D stumbling under the hit of some sort of weapon.
Without targeting information to rely on, Ramsey swung his ‘mech's nose in line with the partially obscured shape that he could barely make out on the ridge; The second bandit ‘mech had joined the first. A twitch of his finger sent a lance from his large laser stabbing through the glittering cloud.
The merc was rewarded for his efforts only by an increase of the heat cycling through the air in his cockpit, while the beam swung wide and high over its target.
There was another deep, pulsating bass rumble from the second quadrupedal machine, the one on the right flank of the leading pink one. Ramsey caught what looked like a flash of brilliant neon blue from its box shaped shoulders as it triggered its weapons. He also got the sudden impression that perhaps he'd been spending too much time in the cockpit as a deep, throaty wubwub passed through his ears. It sounded all the world like that ugly new music Tymon was forever listening to.
Walter was regaining the balance of his Commando when he was hit a second time, the air looking as though it was distorting with the wave of sound. At a glance, Ramsey could tell that the light ‘mech was teetering past the point of no return. Undamaged or not, a fall here would mean it was doomed to be overtaken by these three confusingly equipped raiders.
It seemed as though Walter, the skittish one, knew that too. Ramsey was half surprised when he saw the flash of explosive through the Commando's cockpit glass, the command chair nestled within firing its ejection rockets to catapult it clear into the night sky.
A quick glance confirmed to Ramsey that the ejection seat and pilot were arcing back towards their camp. A few flashes of what looked like cannon fire from the third machine brought him back to the situation he was still in. The mechwarrior leaned harder on his throttle than strictly necessary, his 55 ton machine breaking into a run with surprising nimbleness.
He was able to breathe a sigh of relief as he glanced at his radar. It became quickly apparent that his ‘mech was outpacing the two bandits, as they broke through the cloud behind him at a slower pace. They didn't seem to be in a terrible hurry, but a sudden multihued flash of light reminded him that he was still within their range. He kicked his Bushwhacker to the right, managing to throw off the aim of the pilots drawing a bead on him; enough for another brilliant beam to pass by him. Gritting his teeth, the afterimage on the edge of his field of vision told him not one beam, but seven tightly packed together. The colours were throwing him off though, there seemed to be more than just the small, medium, large laser colours in the mix. Not to mention that this far out, the first two shouldn't even reach.
Did these have tech beyond that of the clans? Impossible. Ramsey swore again, the dark forest with its massive, ancient trees looming ahead of him in the darkness.
What felt like a few short minutes later, Ramsey had pushed his ‘mech deep into the cover of the heavy woods. Despite the dark night’s embrace with foliage and trees all around him, he was concerned. The veteran had come through many scrapes like this, most of them during his season fighting on the Solaris. This situation seemed so familiar, and so different at the same time.
The bandits hadn’t let up their pursuit until they reached the edge of the forest. The mercenary wasn’t sure why they seemed loathe to follow him, but was thankful for what seemed a lucky break. Despite them no longer pursuing him and his lance, it was quickly made clear that the enemy was not through with them yet. Even while he continued to push further into the woods, the bandits had begun to try to flush him and his lance out of the forest with some sort of artillery.
The first strikes of the surprise barrage had nearly caught and downed them all; the deep vibrations of the sonic based attacks shaking the earth enough to actually uproot some of the trees around them. Ramsey had ordered them to head for Merrion Forest’s northern edge, lest they lose their footing or get knocked and pinned down by a falling tree.
As his lance moved with him to comply with his instructions, he glanced again at his radar. The contacts were spotty at best, but it looked as though two of those bandits were still prowling around the southern reaches, not daring to enter the trees. Where the third was, he had no idea.
The lance leader was thankful that he had made it a habit to drive his lancemates through training drills as hard as he pushed himself. Those drills had saved him in more than one instance, and he was banking on them doing so again, for him and his comrades. The trio of war machines weaved their way through the dense trees. But when they broke through the edge of the forest, he tensed up in his chair.
“You've got to be kidding me,” he muttered. Ahead of them, framed by one of the moons that made this planet a prime vacation locale, was the third ‘mech. It shone a dull looking gray under the bright moonlight, seeming to promise his end with its understated and plain colouration. Ramsey still dared to hope that plainness meant it was merely a regular pilot in the seat of a more conventional ‘mech. Regular and conventional, at least as far as it could be applied to this quad legged machine confronting him and his lancemates.
That hope sunk into the pit of his stomach, dissolving bitterly as the four legged battlemech hopped nimbly towards him and his two lancemates. The manoeuver was aided by jump jets that appeared to be mounted on its sides, the nozzles shaped almost like stubby little wings. It would take some serious skill to handle a machine that looked to be at least as heavy as his own, as delicately as that.
“Take him!” Ramsey ordered, his fingers tapping a nervous staccato over the front of his joysticks while his targeting reticule fell onto the enemy's form. Looking at it this closely, it looked like some beast shod in heavy metal. Its head completed the look, with its muzzle and slightly bulging ‘eye’ plates.
Tymon let loose with his Panther's PPC, the thick blue beam grazing the enemy's flank while it lit up their surroundings with an electric blue. Ramsey added a chattering shot from his autocannon while Campy's Wasp sent a duo of missiles spiralling in at the unknown ‘mech. The latter then finished the trio's salvo with a medium laser shot.
Most of the lance's fire landed on target, staggering it while melting and blasting off considerable amounts of armor plating. With four legs under the enemy ‘mech, however, it managed to keep its balance, recovering with another heavy hop. It then swiveled to face its aggressors, widening its stance on its four legs slightly.
Ramsey's jaw dropped at its reprisal as it fired three of its weapons simultaneously. The first two shots almost blinded him as bright beams of laser fire burst from its shoulders, the twin beams of coherent energy crossing the visible spectrum in 7 distinct steps, just as before. This time however, the veteran's world ground to a halt as he got a good look at them.
Rainbows. It was firing rainbows.
Those multihued beams lanced high, passing right over Campy's Wasp. Despite his ‘mech’s paint not even being singed by the shots, the pilot was apparently feelings their effects as Ramsey’s radio flared to life in his ear
“Double lasers?! But what does it me-” The transmission was cut short as Campy’s electronics overloaded. Ramsey caught a glimpse of the stricken Wasp pitching forward mid-stride and plowing into the ground.
The third weapon made itself heard more than seen. The staccato roar of the massive rotary cannon on the back of the enemy's strange ‘mech almost drowned out his lancemate’s desperate, disbelieving cry. Ramsey tightened his grip on his Bushwhacker's joysticks as the merc watched this beast of a pilot in front of him engage two targets at once. Ramsey's mouth went dry.
Not even the best pilots of the Inner Sphere, nor anyone with the Clans’ vaunted military training could match the precision with which the ‘mech in front of him was splitting its fire between his lancemates. His gut tightened as from his radio he could hear the chilling sound of a cockpit canopy being shattered by heavy munitions. A mechwarrior's worst nightmare, a headshot.
Ramsey closed his eyes tightly as he heard Tymon cry out in alarm. The brief swell of horror he felt was quickly befuddled as he could hear the rounds hitting the exposed cockpit interior. Rather than shearing metal and ricochets, instead he heard soft sounding thumps, and wet sounding splats.
Impossibly, he heard a soft sobbing sound from his radio.
Dear gods, Tymon's still alive! The thought rattled Ramsey. He growled again, pushing from his mind the awareness of just how badly hurt and in pain his comrade must be. No matter that he was now alone, outgunned, outnumbered and outclassed. He was going to do his duty and defend this peaceful world with every ounce of firepower he could muster.
About to let loose everything he had at the bastard in front of him, slamming his targeting reticle back onto the ‘mech. He held off the trigger for an instant, though, as Tymon's whispered words came through his headset.
“It's so... fluffy. And—oh god—blueberries.” The rookie sniffed, his voice sounding muffled as though his mouth was full.
What.
A fast running battle later, Ramsey regretted everything. The veteran's head was swimming from multiple flashings of those rainbow coloured lasers. They seemed to only be tuned to affect him, as he’d taken a few hits. The impacts themselves hadn’t even registered on his ‘mech’s armor status display.
He was faint from the heat building up rapidly in his cockpit, sweating despite the cooling vest the ‘mech jock wore. With an impulse sent through his neurohelment, his Bushwhacker crouched to gain a more stable firing platform; its operator prepared to exchange fire ‘till the last.
But time was running out for him, his instincts were screaming that the other two bandits would be closing in. Prepared to duke it out to the bitter end with this one foe, Ramsey's gut nonetheless clenched at the prospect of possibly selling his life to stop an invading force.
With a scream of defiance, he opened up with everything he had, laser and autocannon tracers streaking true to hit the enemy ‘mech. His LRMs launched a heartbeat later as they recycled, and he threw his hands up in front of himself as that huge rotary autocannon opened up in reply, directly at him.
The realization that he was truly outclassed flashed through his mind as he felt himself jerked about in his chair by the impacts of hostile munitions. The tell-tale rapport of blows on his canopy heralded his fate, all he could reply with was a resigned grunt. The front of his cockpit burst inwards, the reinforced glass shattering under the hail of high caliber fire.
Ramsey's Bushwhacker teetered backward, slamming into the earth with a crash. A thin trail of smoke wafted from burst consoles as the ‘mech's safeties powered down its fusion heart into a safer cycle now that the high combat demands from its pilot were nonexistent.
Its bruised, battered, and stunned operator groaned. What felt like hundreds of cuts covered his limbs, and his shoulder hurt. His head was still pounding as he could feel some warm, sticky, viscous fluid running down his forehead. He could feel it on his cheeks, and the prospect of a wound splattering that much could only mean...
Ramsey was resigned to his fate. He knew the price he was going to pay.
He licked his lips clear of the stuff. And sobbed.
The bits of raspberry muffins were somehow still warm and soft, the jam filling them with just the right blend of sweetness and flavour.
The pilot of the gray ace ‘mech flopped back onto her command couch, sighing.
Another delivery successfully completed.
Derpy Hooves glanced over at her display with one eye, showing that her rotary MC-20 was in the process of working through a jam. Her other eye stared hard at a radar screen, which showed only friendlies.
She heard Vinyl Scratch giving the request to their descending dropship for assistance with recovering the pilots of the machines that had partied too hard.
It seemed like there was no hurry, and despite the jam she was pleased. The blueberry muffins seemed to give the thing fewer issues than the raspberry jelly filled ones.
The dropship was on the ground, the equestrian ‘mechs recovered and were undergoing repairs. Nopony was hurt, just shaken. The worst that the human pilots were suffering from was shock from the fact that ponies, ponies, were the pilots of the machines that had so soundly defeated them.
They had successfully made contact with the planetary government and, after some initially heated moments, had opened a dialogue that everyone felt was moving in all the right directions. It all seemed like more than anypony could hope for from their first real contact with the Inner Sphere.
All in all, Twilight was furious.
The unicorn was stalking down the corridors towards the ‘mech bay with one of the junior crewcolts right on the back of her tail. His nervous chatter fell on deaf ears. The one-mare-inquisition had finally stopped giving voice to all the terrible oversights of the crew.
One of her more pointed questions was as to exactly why Pinkie Pie was given a ‘mech before anypony else more responsible?
The reply she received, “But ma’am! Responsibility is her middle name!” had dignified only an eye twitch as a response.
Or why anypony more sensible hadn’t gotten their machine operating: “But Twi! Pinkie’s got her own sense named after her. That’s like... 7 senses, right?”
Once her tirade against THAT answer was over, Spike and several ponies (whose only crime was to be standing too close to him at the time) had lost ice cream privileges for a week. While this would normally be a harsh but reasonable punishment; the fact that this was space ice cream turned it instead into a terrible one.
When asked as to why Pinkie Pie was apparently one of only four ponies to have an operational machine, it seemed like no one on the bridge had wanted to answer. Pinkie had her ‘mech up and running within two days. The dropship had traveled another week before reaching the planet. Even with that extra time, none of her friends had theirs?
Maybe the engineers were still having trouble getting the ‘mechs running properly. After all, they had to tune the pilot’s neurohelmets, which was delicate work. Connecting all the internal parts, and making sure that every last piece was calibrated properly was a monumental undertaking in and of itself. Under normal circumstances all the precise work a mechanic had to put into these massive machines to keep them operational would be time consuming, at best. In space and without the effect of gravity, the job would become all the more tricky.
The doors to the bay whisked open and the stallion behind her fell silent as she strode purposefully into the room.
“Alright! What’s going on... in...” Twilight trailed off in disbelief. The mare’s gaze fell upon the first warmachine presented to her view from across the bay, and she resisted the urge to close her eyes; one of them spasming with the herculean effort it took. It was a ‘mech with some sort of... large silver tiara being slowly lowered into place. Rarity was in front of it, directing and gesturing to the earthpony engineer who was operating the crane. The latter of the two shot Twilight a pleading look that was imbued with a sense of desperation usually reserved for the victims of hostage situations.
Having seen the commander of the vessel enter, another engineer was trotting over towards her with Fluttershy in tow.
“Ma’am. You have to tell miss Fluttershy that bird roosts, burrow-diggers, and bandage tossers just aren’t going to work on her machine.”
“Oh, but—um—If you could just... think about the poor creatures that we might bother in these things. It’s terrible, just thinking about it...” the shy pegasus’s wings fluttered anxiously.
“Respectfully, Miss Fluttershy.” The mechanic assigned to Fluttershy’s ‘mech turned to address its pilot. “Any critters you ‘bother’ in this thing are going to be those that end up underhoof. And you’ll make a brand new ‘burrow’ for them, one that bandages aren’t going to help with, got it?”
The horrified, wide-eyed mare could only squeak in response, her wings splayed out from her sides at that terrifying thought.
Twilight blinked at the two, then turned without a word and began to trot down the line of gantries. The next one down looked like somepony had taken engines and strapped them onto the back of this ‘mech. Then stuck engines on those engines. And added some boosters. And a few thrusters. Then rockets. And... was that seriously a propellor on the nose?
A few unicorns were standing around its forehooves, painting the whole thing a bright red.
A haggard looking pegasus mare was trotting around the upper level of the bay’s gantry with a certain cyan pegasus following her, arguing.
“So what is it now, Rainbow Dash? Wait, wait. Let me guess. You want it to go 20% faster, right?”
“URRRRGH! Why does everypony always say that? Look, I just think we can push it- “
“No! We can’t! It’s already so fragile that it’s not going to make it out of this bay without losing a wing or-”
There was a sharp crack that filled the bay, and a few panicked cries as the unicorns on the bay floor scattered. Rainbow Dash’s ‘mech lost one of the oversized engines, the huge device slamming onto the floor. The rest of the machine seemed to almost sag in on itself before teetering off balance and into a wall.
“Oh—Luna’s frigid nethers—not AGAIN!” groaned the engineer loudly.
Twilight sighed and swung around in place toward Applejack’s ‘mech. Surely if anypony was going to get theirs working it’d be one of Equestria’s most industrious ponies, right?
The unicorn’s inquiry was met with a halting, “Er, well...” Applejack was blushing faintly a moment later, after climbing down from her cockpit with her mechanic following.
“Ah kind of... got into an argument,” the orange earthpony informed her friend.
“An argument that you couldn’t resolve in over a week, that prevented your mechanic from working?” Twilight tried to believe there was a reasonable explanation to what sounded like her friend’s stubborn nature coming to the fore again.
Applejack didn’t answer, scuffing the bay’s floor with a hoof.
“It was with her computer’s voice. Didn’t see eye to eye, she said. Ended up bucking the hell out of most of the instruments,” the mechanic deadpanned.
Twilight let out a frustrated groan, her nose in the air as she looked heavenward for strength. “You guys! I need all of you with me on this. If you don’t get your ‘mechs in working order, what do you expect us to do? Party our way around the Inner Sphere?”
From the gantry supporting a certain pink coloured party-machine came a sudden, loud intake of breath that didn’t seem to stop. Even that gasp alone carried with it enough radiant joy at the prospect to warm all of Equestria comfortably, for longer than Celestia’s star could ever hope to shine.
Twilight closed her eyes as she realized just who that was coming from. “Oh buck me.”
The ghostly rendition of Twilight Sparkle froze, the image capturing her stricken expression while she covered her nose with a hoof.
Precentor Huthrin Vandel withdrew his hand from the control console on the side of the table. A few of the Adepts were exchanging glances, and the Demi-Precentor adjusted the robes he wore nervously.
“I believe I understand the... character of these aliens now. What was the strength of the hired garrison unit we saw?” The Precentor inquired calmly.
An Adept standing across the table from him glanced at his handheld computer pad and answered. “B minus, certified by the Mercenary Review Commission in 3053”
“So we see an alien species who has clearly come across a major cache of Star League era equipment. Who’s display of ‘force’ has utterly overwhelmed and cowed an admittedly light planetary garrison in a single night, without even firing a real shot.”
A single reluctant nod from the Demi-Precentor was his answer. A hesitant “Ah...” caught their attentions, and the two Comstar officers turned towards its source, an Adept standing beside Amyas.
The junior Adept fidgeted under their gaze, before locking his gaze on the report he held in his hand. “Sirs. It might not have been obvious from the presentation, but the mercenary ‘mechs did suffer actual damage from those... weapons that the aliens were using.”
The Precentor’s voice dripped sarcasm as he sought clarification, “Really. Pray tell, Adept, just what sort of damage can a rainbow or muffins inflict on the pinnacle of 31st century warfare?”
“Uh... terrible, terrible damage, sir.”
Precentor Vandel’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his incensed reply cut off by his adjunct suddenly snatching up the computer pad from the Adept’s hand.
The Demi-Precentor scanned through the report, and gestured at the text displayed. “It’s not actual hyperbole, sir. Having viewed the presentation we have, our experts concluded this report with that exact term.”
The incredulous reply came preceded by a sigh, “Terrible, terrible damage.”
“Yes. Sir.”
The Precentor sighed again, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Right. Have they respected the neutrality of our HPG station?”
It took one of the Adepts a moment to reply, “It appears they have so far, sir. But on this planet our Hyperpulse Generator is only defended by a modest complement of Comguards, and some light armor.”
Huthrin Vandel nodded slowly, “Demi-Precentor Amyas. You will reinforce that post with at least a lance of Comguard. As its our only reliable means of interstellar communication with the planet, it must remain under our control. Make the arrangements.” The Comstar officer saluted, and left the room with a purposeful stride.
The Precentor looked around at the assembled Adepts as he addressed them all, “I want daily reports from that station. Assuming that these outsiders are restricted in using the HPG signals for communication as we are, they’ll have to use it eventually. The intelligence we can gather from those communiques they send would no doubt prove to be invaluable.”
That line of reasoning concluded, Huthrin glanced at the computer pad in his hand, skimming over the reports he had at his fingertips.
“Everyone else here stays,” he instructed absently while the door to the hall they were assembled in shut behind Amyas.
“We’ll be conferencing with the rest of the First Circuit. I’m sure my fellow Precentors will be as eager as I am to hear the rest of these reports. However...” He took a moment to look meaningfully around at everyone, catching each Adept’s gaze in turn.
“However... We are going to skip out on the video... report... we have just witnessed. We will stick purely to facts right now. Having seen this video, let me remind you all that these are aliens, they are not ponies. They’re also not unicorns, they’re not pegasuses-”
“Pegasi. Sir.” An Adept spoke out, purely out of reflex. He winced under Precentor Huthrin’s harsh glare.
“Yes. Thank you. They are none of these things. They are an invading alien force, hostile to the Inner Sphere’s way of life. We will treat them as such. Understood?.”
There was a moment of silence, punctuated by some shuffling.
“Very good. Adept Corbin, connect us to the council.” The Adept he addressed began to punch in commands on the table.
“Let’s get this train wreck over with,” Huthrin muttered under his breath.
Thanks to these wonderful, beautiful people for their help! Skye Lyset, Ferret, Cloudy Skies, Frolic Mercury, 1337noob, SunnyDaze, Peregrine Caged, DJ Midli, Kirdus McBirdus, Dashukta, Demetrius
