Hegira: Eternal Delta

by Guardian_Gryphon

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Death, Alternate Universe, Human, Princess Luna, Original Character, Mystery, Science Fiction, Dragons, Profanity, Adventure, Griffons, Violence, Princess Celestia, Gore
Length: 94220

Change is inevitable; how we react is vital.

Not everyone can accept change. But sometimes, failing to do so is an unthinkable decision. Sometimes, intractability leads to war.

So often conflict has been driven by the selfish, or the fearful; but never before has the fate of an entire species been at stake.

Billions of lives are at risk.

Six friends face change in their own ways... But will they be the right ways?

Book Two of the Hegira Trilogy - This story only takes MLP G4 Seasons 1 - 3 as cannon, and ignores 4 and onwards.

Published 2013-03-07 08:20:01 UTC
Last updated 2014-12-08 02:26:49 UTC

Chapter 1

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Third Day, Celestial Calendar

'Seedy.'  That was the first word Stanely Carradan could think of to describe the establishment.  The floors were oaken planks, stained with countless spills and worn so smooth by the passage of paws, claws, and hooves, that multiple inches of the original surfacing had been lost.

The walls, mostly comprised of the unfinished inner side of the logs that made up the structure, were illumined only by the guttering light of a few ill-placed and poorly maintained plant-oil lamps.

The class of person that made up the majority of the patronage more or less mirrored the disheveled aesthetic of the structure.  As a result, the smell of garlic, unwashed fur, sizzling meat, and alcohol permeated the space, tinged at times with the faintest whiff of Poison Joke smoke.

To top it off; the ale was rough, strong, and terribly bitter.

Carradan smiled, and mumbled, "My kind-'a bar."

The salmon toned Pegasus ruffled his wings, and blew a wisp of teal mane from his face.  Reporter's instinct kept his gaze moving, never once settling, as he strode slowly to the bar.  By the time he had arrived, he had sized up every single one of his fellow patrons.

Here a down-on-his-luck Diamond Dog Vulpine miner, there an irritated Minotaur mercenary.  In the back corner, a small pack of Diamond Dog Trolls who looked lost in macabre conversation, judging by the wicked grins on their grimy muzzles.

That left a few more assorted Trolls, one of whom was seated on the stool beside the one Carradan was opting for, and finally a Buffalo who looked to be drunk well beyond the ken of rationality, or even basic motor control.

Carradan offered the inebriated creature a small smile as he passed, "Hi.  How ya doing."  There was no response, beyond a small sound that might have been a hiccup.

He ensconced his flank on the stool next to the Troll, and fished a pair of five-bit coins from his saddle bags, "Ale if'n you please, and lotsa salt cubes to go with it."

Wordlessly the barkeep, a grizzled looking male Zebra, scooped up the golden discs from the stone surface, and turned to the taps.  Carradan glanced sideways at his neighbor.  The Troll looked to be young; just barely into his adult phase, which placed him in the lowly station of kappa, or lambda in his pack.

With interest, Carradan noted the plethora of overturned glasses and mugs surrounding the young Diamond Dog.  Most Trolls in this region were miners, or part-time mercenaries.  They certainly did not make enough, on average, for a lowly kappa to indulge in such a profusion pleasurable beverages.

Casting another carefully timed glance as the barkeep returned with his ale, and a small dish of salt cubes, Carradan noted that the kappa bore a similar shoulder tattoo to the pack of Trolls he had seen in the corner on his way in.

That, combined with the Troll's unusual display of recent monetary gains, meant he was the reason Carradan was there.  The Pegasus smiled into his ale glass as he took a deep draught.  He had faced plenty of trouble in the course of his life, but he was a firm believer that a touch of proverbial liquid courage was an indispensable advantage for such occasions.

He took an exploratory nibble of his first salt cube, then offered his compatriot patron a deliberate sideways smile, "Had a good run eh?"

The Troll belched loudly, slammed down another empty glass, and nodded with a lopsided grin.  The gesture exposed several ugly yellow teeth, and Carradan had to brace himself to keep from recoiling at the creature's abhorrent breath.

The Pegasus forced himself to keep grinning, and raised his mug with a hoof, "Well here's to uncommon success then eh?"

The Troll snatched a mug from the Zebra's muzzle as he passed, and slammed it into Carradan's proffered toast with such force that the reporter feared both glasses would shatter.

Stan took a reserved sip from his mug.  The Troll, on the other hoof, bolted down his entire mug in a single swift draught, slamming the vessel back into the bar with such force that the base of the glass did indeed chip.

Carradan spent several moments indulging in his first salt cube, then made another attempt to invigorate the conversation, "So... struck good mining prospects then?  I thought all the good gems had been pulled out o' these mines a while back."

The Troll grunted, "Gems no'fing.  Mining stupid job here.  We gerr paid ten times as much as dem silly miners."

Carrdan cocked his head, turning on his reporter's charm at maximum, feigning curiosity worthy of an Oscar, "So... ahhh... what'd a Pegasus like me have to do to find work like *that* in these parts?"

The Troll grunted a second time, and gestured to the Zebra, who glared, but acquiesced when he noticed the goose-egg sized ruby clasped in the Diamond Dog's paw, "I not 'fink you cut out for that sort of work little Pony.  Go back to cloud-bucking or some'fing."

Stan took a deliberately large gulp of his ale, and let out his own belch, "Well what if I *was* cut out for somethin' that pays a bit better than weather work?"

The response came with a snort, "Well 'den I still f'ink..." the Troll paused to hiccup loudly, "f'ink you stupid for asking.  Little Pony wouldn't like our employers.  Not the kind of work 'er majesty is appro'fing of."

Carradan allowed the conversation to lul temporarily, and finished his first salt cube.  He cast a surreptitious glance over one shoulder, and noted that the Trolls in the back of the room had ceased their raucous conversation, and were now murmuring in low voices, their gaze firmly fixed on their wayward Kappa... And the Pegasus beside him.

Stan turned casually back to the bar, and sighed.  He was running out of time and options.

"So what if I didn't much care for her majesty's approval?"

The Troll glared, "Den we still wouldn't tell you who we work for.  Not Little Pony's business.  Go back to cloud bucking."

Carradan squinted his eyes shut in a mixture of frustration and trepidation, murmuring rapidly under his breath.  He inhaled deeply, then tossed a hoof around the Troll's shoulder.  He could feel the creature's muscle stiffen; steel cords pulled taut, driven by unimaginable power.

The Pegasus leaned in conspiratorially, "Listen brother... I didn't come all the way out here to the seedy-flank, grimy-plot underbelly of these dreary mountains, just to spend my time hauling gems for miners.  I came here to score.  You know something I wanna know and brother?  I always get what I want... you savvy?"

The response took on a menacing undertone, and Carradan could feel the vibrations of a deep-throated growl welling up through the canine, "Little Pony is going to take his prissy pink hoof off.  Now."

Carradan sighed, and removed the offending limb, bowing his head in apparent sullen defeat, "Pal..."

The Diamond Dog looked up just in time for Carradan's hoof to connect with his muzzle, driven by all the force the Pegasus could muster.  The blow had been unexpected, and the Diamond Dog was more than slightly drunk.

The Troll flew backwards, head smashing into the bar with a loud crack, and rebounding into the Buffalo beside him, causing the latter to spill his ale all over the pair.

Carradan swiftly downed the last of his ale, "Nobody calls me pink, fuzzball.  You get me?"

The Pegasus hopped down from the stool, and marched forward to the tangle that was the Troll and the inebriated Buffalo, "Now.  Let's talk about who you work for shall..."  Carradan was interrupted by a shuffling sound.

He turned to see the other member of the pack, all ten of them, clustered around him.  The last of his truncated sentance came out as a squeak, "...we?"

The Alpha stepped forward.  He was clearly the Alpha judging by his expensive steel armor plating, large well polished war axe, hulking build, and commanding demeanor.  His voice was like iron against a sharpening stone, "Little Pegasus was foolish.  To attack one Dog is to attack the Pack.  And Pink Pony is all alone."

Carradan stiffened, then cocked his head, this time in genuine curiosity, "Whatever gave you the idea I was alone?"

A slight whistle caused the Alpha to begin to turn his head.  But as soon as the motion had begun, it was reversed with a resounding 'THUNK!'  The Alpha's head twisted completely in the opposite direction, teeth and bloodsoaked fur flying from his collapsed jaw.

The offending seventy pound, iron cored, steel plated morningstar was withdrawn, pulling all eyes towards its owner.  A fierce looking golden Gryphon with brown markings around his eyes.  He calmly stepped forward and offered the bloodied Alpha a deadpan glance, "As I recall; he told you not to call him pink."

The Gryphon offered the Pegasus a nod, "Stanley."

"Varan.  Fancy meeting you here."

Varan nodded once at the Kappa, who had finally struggled to his paws, "Get anything from him?"

Carradan shook his head, "Drunk, stubborn, stupid... and suffering a wicked case of halitosis, let me tell you."

Varan nodded, "Ah.  Then this will have to proceed the simpler way."  The Gryphon raised his morningstar, and glanced at the circle of growling, shuffling Diamond Dogs.  Patrons were quickly vacating the tavern, and those who weren't, mostly Diamond Dogs themselves, were slowly taking up supporting positions behind the Trolls.

"So... Which of you would like to go first?"

The Beta turned from helping the Alpha to his paws, and strode directly up to Varan, glaring into the flaming seas of his golden eyes with an unusual lack of trepidation, "Gryphon would be wise to leave little Pony to us, and go.  We might even let Gryphon keep his wings."

Varan nodded, "You first then.  Excellent."

The Diamond Dog raised his weapon, a vicious looking pole-arm, to block an expected blow from Varan.  But it never came.  Instead there was a soft 'whoosh' followed by a wet 'THWOK.'

The Beta stood in confusion for several seconds, before managing to cross his eyes and get a glance at the huge arrow buried firmly between his occipital lobes.  Wordlessly, he keeled over backwards, dead before he hit the floor.

Stan sighed and gestured with a hoof, "*He* should have worn a helmet."

"At least this way he has both eyes intact for the funeral."

The owner of the new voice stepped calmly down the stairs at the back of the room, moving on two legs as Gryphons are sometimes wont to do.  The fiery red Gryphon had a large sword at his back, gleaming sleek armor on his body, and carried a huge compound recurve bow.

He had already nocked another arrow to the triple-steel-cabled strings.

His voice was even and measured, with a small hint of amused deadpan coloring the inflections, "Hello.  I'm Fyrenn.  I'd very much like for you mangy, mongrel, stinky, unwashed, mother-loving, gem-snorting curs to take a few steps back, and let my brother and his friend get what they need from your Kappa."

Fyrenn pulled the arrow slightly more taut, creating a menacing twang in the bow's strings, "We are *not* interested in taking no for an answer.  And I have a powerful urge to shoot something else, so I will *not* be disappointed if you want to test your luck."

The Alpha, finally having regained some balance, roared and lunged at Varan, axe descending like a glittering arc of chain lightning.  Varan smoothly stepped aside, moving so fast that only Fyrenn's eyes could even register the change immediately.

The Alpha's Axe crashed into the bar, splitting the stone surface neatly in half, and leaving him well exposed to Stan, who laid into his ribcage with both hooves.  The blow left the canine stunned more than long enough for Varan's morningstar to find its target once more.

As the weapon came away, it was made abundantly clear that the first blow had been a mere warning; the most obvious sign being the fact that half of the now-dead Troll's skull came away with the blood-soaked mace.

Fyrenn grinned manically, "Alright then."

Without further warning he loosed his arrow into the pause that followed, felling an opportunistic Vulpine who had been fingering a set of wicked looking throwing knives.

The arrow was like the starting flag of a race.

All hell quite promptly broke loose.

The Creaking Pines Tavern, despite its run-down aesthetic, was well placed and frequently did good business.

Situated at the juncture of four major roads and mountain passes, several of which led to mines, and one of which led to a railroad station, it was the last example of civilization one would encounter travelling North-East of the Equestrian Nation.

The next closest substitute for 'civilization' came when one arrived at the outskirts of the Diamond Dog mining settlements of the region.

The area had a reputation for being rough; it rained, snowed, sleeted, or fogged more days of the year than it was clear, by a margin of five to one.

The Diamond Dog mining clans had fallen to dirty tactics to secure the dwindling gold and gem reserves of the mountains, the Gryphons to the east occasionally stepped in if anything became too violent, and even the Changelings occasionally took mines by surprise to get at stores of crystals.

There was no law, short of the might a pack could leverage, or the swift and harsh insta-justice marauding Gryphons often visited upon hooligans, murderers, thieves, abusers, and Changelings when they randomly swept through.

Named for the pine logs it was built from, and the many surrounding trees of the self-same species, the Tavern had remained a fixture of the crossroads for nigh on a century.

The typical fog-laden silence of the paddock laid out before the building was abruptly shattered.  Literally.

A hulking Diamond Dog, entangled with a drunken buffalo, came careening through the front window.  The pair tumbled head over hooves and paws, glittering shards of glass spiraling through the air around them.

The rest of the fight followed swiftly; Fyrenn, Varan and Stan driven before a horde of furious Trolls, and a few assorted supporting Lupines and Vulpines.

The latter were less concerned with the slight the friends had paid to the Troll pack, and more interested in simply taking out their vindictive racial hatred for Gryphons and their kith.

Most Lupines and Vulpines were actually on good terms with the avians, but more than a few of the loners, and less reputable small packs, resented the forceful administration of justice the winged guardians were fond of dispensing.

Stan, being weak-boned and not nearly as muscularly strong as an Earth Pony, helped himself to the added dimension their air afforded him.

He adopted his usual strategy; wait for Varan to distract a pair of enemies, then abruptly assault one from the rear by flying high, then stooping at his maximum speed and impacting hooves first.

Since he was a Pegasus, that velocity approached mach 1.5, and Carradan was a 'pudgy' example of his species.  The impact would, if it didn't instantly kill or maim the target, keep him busy while the Gryphon eliminated the second hostile.

Varan, for his part, was a terrifying whirling dervish of high-impact lethality.  His wings also afforded him access to the sky, but his Gryphic agility was several orders of magnitude higher than a Pegasus.

Combined with the speed at which his avian brain could process events, and the incredible muscular flexibility of Gryphons, he could deal death with precise blows, to indefensible areas, at a high rate of speed, while dodging multiple incoming strikes.

Fyrenn was similarly engaged, but in an even faster style; using hidden blades in his bow as close-in melee weapons to support his claws, squeezing off longer range shots whenever he had an opening, and dancing upward out of enemies' ranges as soon as they rounded on him.

In the three years since his Conversion, Fyrenn had learned a great deal about Gryphic combat disciplines.  His position as a Knight placed him firmly within the Alarians; warriors equipped with light, foldable, recurve bows and the more oft favored long-sword, but over time he had been picking up Sagittarian techniques too, learning to wield arbalests and shorter blades.

Despite the Gryphons' obvious prowess, which far outstripped the blunt, untrained, flailing style of the Diamond Dogs, the battle was slowly beginning to turn against them.  Diamond Dogs, though slow and inflexible, were incredibly tough creatures.  And the Trolls alone outnumbered the friends by over four to one.

Fyrenn dodged a particularly fierce blow, and twirled the lower end of his bow, the hidden blade snapping out and finding a path thru a weakness in the offending Lupine's armor.  The blow didn't immediately kill the Diamond Dog, but it bought Fyrenn the time to spin the weapon in reverse and bury the second blade in the canine's skull.

The Gryphon ducked under an incoming pole-arm, leaving his bow behind temporarily, and gutted the offender with his bare claws.  His opponents were making rookie mistakes; but the sheer profusion of them was beginning to wear on him.

He spun up and over the newly made carcass, and drew his sword.  As much as he loved the unconventional modifications his bow afforded, Fyrenn felt most at-home with a sword in his claws.

He flipped, sliced an enemy's head open with the tip of the weapon, rolled, and come down hard with his wings flared, knocking back two assailants who were pressing hard on Varan's defenses.

"We can not sustain this indefinitely."

Fyrenn shrugged, "If we have to retreat, then we have to.  We can always snipe for a bit."

As if somehow in response to the words, a pair of Trolls wheeled a large contraption out the doors of the tavern, and began locking wooden struts into place.

Fyrenn recognized it as a badly made, but still lethal copy of a Gryphic weapon.

A repeating heavy arbalest.

Stan shouted out from above, "I take it that's a bad sign?"

Varan grunted as he cleaved an offending Troll's arm off, "That is an understatement."

Both Gryphons took to the air quickly, dodging and weaving like mad creatures as the pair of Trolls worked the fast-fire weapon, trying desperately to get up enough fire rate with the hand-cranked repeater mechanism to present a threat to their more nimble foes.

While Varan held back, and tried to draw fire away from Carradan's less agile and chunkier form, Fyrenn dove straight for the weapon at an oblique angle.  He cannoned into the crank operator, taking her by surprise and plunging his sword all the way through the neck joint of her armor.

As she fell, he reached out with his free claw and snagged his bow from the Lupine carcass he had left it in.  He tossed his sword skyward, swiftly yanked an arrow from the quiver, nocked, fired, then twirled the bow into the chest of the arbalest's operator just as the arrow impacted an enemy across the paddock.

By the time the next Troll had arrived to assault him, the sword was already on its return trip.  Fyrenn neatly caught the weapon, and began using it in tandem with his sword, to throw his enemies off balance.

Unfortunately, his tactic had drawn the attention of *all* the remaining enemies, and they had abandoned pursuit of Varan and Stanley, to focus entirely on the red Gryphon.

Fyrenn decided to break out every weapon in his arsenal.  Every Gryphon Knight's armor was made uniquely to their specifications.  Fyrenn had insisted on the addition of spring-loaded hidden blades in the greaves, gauntlets, and wing-joint guards.

As he struck, or defended with these plates, the lethal serrated edges would pop out and, hopefully, sever limbs, bisect arteries, and damage armor.

At first, the presence of the seemingly invisible killing force gave his foes pause.  But they rapidly learned which parts of the armor were lethal, and began to adapt.

Grryphic armor was designed for maximum agility.  While it was excellent protection given its light nature, it simply could not compare to heavy armor in terms of sheer deflection, and left many areas unprotected.

As four particularly meaty trolls closed in, and a pair of Vulpines took over the arbalest, Fyrenn began to feel nervous.

That was when the first quarrel appeared in the nearest Troll's throat.  The fracs continued for several seconds unabated, until the Diamond Dog's compatriots finally noticed the three inch thick, two foot long, solid steel projectile buried in their Beta's throat.

All motion ceased.  All eyes turned.

On the roof of the tavern, Into the golden light of the sunset, stepped a black and white speckled Gryphon.  A black and white speckled Gryphon wielding a massive Sagitar Arbalest, with a fresh quarrel already in the trough.

The Gryphon shouted, his powerful throat sending the sound loudly and clearly through his yellow beak, "Attention ass-hoels!  You are all at my mercy.  I can hit a speck the size of the head of a pin, at five miles out and two miles up.  I can reload this weapon in the time it takes you mongrels to blink.  And these are solid steel armor-piercing quarrels with flaring tips.  Go back inside and lie down on the floor, or I will blow new holes in every single one of your little skulls."

For an incredibly tense moment, no one spoke and no one moved.

Fyrenn had just begun to think that they would have to kill every last one of their foes indeed, when the first Troll sullenly broke ranks, and obediently moved back into the Tavern.  The action was like the opening of a floodgate; the anger-fueled blood-rage of the canines melted just as quickly as it had arisen.  It was backed only by fury, no real courage.  Seeing the carcasses of their fallen packmates, they had abruptly lost the desire to value valor above discretion.

Fyrenn smirked, and sheathed his sword, carefully collapsing his bow as Carradan and varan rejoined him.  Stan glared up at the speckled Gryphon on the roof good naturedly, "Kephic! What the flamin' buckin' HELL were you doin'? Stopping for coffee?"

Kephic calmly glided down to join his brothers, and the Pegasus, "I was... detained by a party of re-enforcements."  He paused and glanced between Varan and Fyrenn, smiling,  "There are no more reinforcements.  In case anyone was curious."

Fyrenn chuckled, "And for reference, brother, its 'assholes'  not 'ass-hoels.' If you're going to swear in Terran English, do it properly."

Varan shook his head and rolled his eyes, "Semantics aside; we still need to acquire what we came here for."

Kephic groaned, "I suppose we'll have to search this stinking lot then?"

Carradan grinned wickedly, "Nope.  I got what we came for right here."  The Pegasus deftly withdrew a small dirty piece of cloth from the joint between his left wing and shoulder.  He tossed it to Fyrenn, who unfolded it, and snorted in amusement, "How did you get this?"

"Pulled it off the Kappa during the scrum."

Varan glared, "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Would it have mattered?"

Kephic chuckled, "Excellent point.  Is it all there?"

Fyrenn nodded, and held up the small, ill proportioned map, "The rendezvous is marked.  Dumb mutt probably couldn't remember it without the map."

Varan smiled, a terrifying expression, "So where are we going?"

Fyrenn pointed to a small 'x' on the fabric, "West."

As he unfurled his wings, Carradan cocked his head, "And when we get there?"

Kephic clapped the pegasus on the back, and spread his own flight appendages, "We do what we do best.  Wreck everything in sight."

Celestia hesitated.  She had knocked once already, and she did not wish to disturb her sister if she was asleep.  Despite Luna's attempts to hide the signs, Celestia knew she had not been getting as much rest as she needed.

The Solar Monarch was about to depart, and find some other use for her free half-hour, when the doors finally opened.  Luna looked fairly rested on first glance, but closer inspection revealed small, nigh imperceptible signs of exhaustion.

Celestia had to work to keep her expression normal.  She wanted to engulf her sister in both wings and rock her to sleep.  But Luna was too proud for that.  She had begun to feel coddled recently, and desperately desired to be trusted as an equal.  So Celestia trusted her; opting to give her support in a more subtle fashion.

"Still up at this hour?"  Celestia stepped slowly into her sister's office, eyes carefully ranging over each item in the room for clues to Luna's state of mind.

Luna nodded and returned to her desk.  Her horn flared, and magical aura surrounded a pen, and several sheafs of paper, as she returned to the previous subject of her attention, "It is no small thing for you to make one of these trips sister.  Especially at a time like this.  There is much preparatory work to be done."

Celestia sighed as she stepped to the window, noting by its covering of dust that the telescope her sibling was so fond of had not been touched for weeks, "Unfortunately it is times like this when my presence is most needed on Earth.  Many lives are being endangered by the childish politics that seem to have taken over, of late, and those who still side with us need all the leverage on public opinion that they can muster."

"I understand..." Luna's pen scratched away at the reed-parchment, walnut ink flowing from the quill's tip at a voluminous rate, "I was simply noting that the circumstances here bear equal concern."

"Which is why I think this is for the best,"  Celestia ambled over to the desk, and waited until her sister set down her writing implements, "You are better suited to issues of war, political strife, and the gathering of intelligence than I am.  I have no doubt you sense the coming storm even more keenly than I do."

Luna rose from her haunches, and stared absently out the window, "War *will* come to us.  Make no mistake.  I sense the stirrings."

Celestia stiffened, ever-so-slightly, and raised an eyebrow, "War?"

The Lunar ruler continued unabated, shuffling papers and taking notes as she went, not even stopping to look up, "Diamond Dog mercenaries, emboldened by an anonymous sponsor, press against the Gryphons' southern borders.  Large contingents of Changeling Drones have been purportedly seen in the north-east mountain passes..."

Luna finally paused, and locked eyes with her older sister, "And rumors speak of darker things further to the north.  Whispers of some faceless, nameless terror that slowly encroaches on warmer climes each night, moving under cover of darkness.  The world is poised upon the brink... conflict is inevitable."

"All the more reason for you to be left in charge.  With the separation of the barrier, appealing your decisions to me will become difficult.  I can ensure such stalling moves could be made even more trying for any party interested in contradicting your judgement."

Celestia did her best to convey reassurance in her expression, and tone, as she continued, "I have little love of war and its vulgarities.  But I believe I have the wisdom to not only know when I am ill suited to a task, but to know when to apportion it to one better suited to it.  You will do far better things for our Little Ponies than I ever could, in this crisis."

"Art thou sure they sentimentality hast not got the better of thee?"  There was just enough of a playful trill to the words, and the tiniest hint of an upward curl to Luna's muzzle, to convey the humor.

Celestia turned to face the balcony, smiling.  The golden radiance of her sun bathed her fur in a comforting warm light. She closed her eyes and murmured softly.

"Aye.  Sentimental tho we be."

Chapter 2

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 2nd, Gregorian Calendar

"Mind the Gap.  The next train is for Trimms Green.  This station is Heron Quays.  Change here for the Waterfront Line, Elizabeth Line, Greenwich Hydrofoil, and other Docklands Light Maglev Trains.  Disembark for Heron Quays docks, and heliport.  Mind the Gap"

John Odie hated London weather.  He had only been living in the UK zone for a year, and already he was doing his best to arrange to move somewhere warmer, and less prone to frigid deluges of mildly toxic rain.

He glared at the maglev trench below the platform and huffed.  He hated the transport station AI's voice even more than the rain.  It was terribly... British.

Odie was a North-Amerizone native, and had one asked his previous neighbors about him, they would have likely denied knowing him as anything more than the village idiot.  He had made a name for himself in his small Oregon settlement.  A bad one.

Moving to the UK had been a half-baked attempt at escaping potential charges after his last and greatest run-in with the Military Police.  But none of that mattered anymore.  Soon he would be in Southern Italy, and he could get back to his favorite pastime; taking advantage of everyone he met to make a quick credit.

His reveries on the past, and future, were abruptly cut short as the train arrived, heralded by a melodic trill from platform-embedded speakers, and the hiss of rain being deflected off the pressure wave of the vehicle's passage.

The doors snapped open, and Odie shouldered his way in, not even bothering to wait for those trying to disembark.  He helped himself to a seat, and snorted, staring up at a screen embedded above the opposite window that had been set to a news feed.

"This is Heron Quays.  This is a Docklands Light Maglev train bound for Trimms Green.  Please stand clear of the doors."

Odie winced, and tried to ignore the voice, and the chatter around him, as the train silently accelerated away from the platform.  He passed the trip in silence, wishing everyone else on the train would just melt through the floor and seep into the magnet compartments.  Especially the Ponies.

Their cheerfulness was a damnably irritating contrast against the gray sky, gray buildings, and Odie's gray mood.  He hated contrasts.

"The next station is; Canary Wharf.  Change for the Jubilee and Waterfront Underground lines, national maglev services, and city busses.  Disembark for the Canary Wharf financial plaza, mall, and docks."

The train glided to a halt, the doors popped open, and the crowd began to file out.  Canary Wharf was a major exit point in the morning, and few people were getting on to replace the departing passengers.  Odie stretched as the seat beside him was vacated.  In so doing, he noticed that the occupant had left his backpack behind.

It was an unassuming little scrap of fabric.  Black, misshapen, and utterly ordinary.

"This is; Canary Wharf.  Change here for the Jubilee and Waterfront Underground lines, national maglev services, and city busses.  Disembark for the Canary Wharf financial plaza, mall, and docks."

Odie glanced around and tensed.  Aside from a few humans buried in their DaTabs, an older Earth Pony in a rear corner, and two Unicorns facing the doors, there was no one else in the car.  No one was facing him, or seemed to be paying any mind to the unattended luggage that was now so tantalizingly close.

Just peeking wasn't a crime, he reflected gleefully, as he silently endeavoured to unzip the backpack without drawing notice.  The moment the fabric fell away he wished that he'd simply gotten off at the wharf.

"This is a Docklands Light Maglev train bound for Trimms Green.  Please stand clear of the doors."

Odie balked, scrambling from his seat.  The backpack tipped over, as his attempts to disentangle his proverbial sticky fingers failed miserably.  There was a loud metallic clank, and a silver cylinder rolled across the beige floor of the car; purple lights flickering regularly in time with a soft,  insistent, accelerating beep.

All eyes, Human and Equine alike, fixed firmly on the device.  There was a solitary instant of frozen deadlock; as fight and flight vied for control of the passengers.  Odie was the first to determine that discretion was the better part of valor, but by then it was too late.

The doors snapped shut with the innocuous hiss of hydraulics, and the train's magnetic motors began to spool up, their AI driver blissfully unaware of the unfolding catastrophe in the carriage.

Had anyone on the Canary Wharf platform been paying attention to the departing train, they might have just managed to glimpse a screaming, dirty, poorly shaven face pressed against the glass of car three's doors, before it was engulfed in a cloud of noxious purple gas.

London's subsurface tunnel network was one of the most extensive on Earth.  Rivaled only by similar warrens in New York, Moscow, Paris, Rome, and Shanghai, it still dwarfed all but the original Catacombs for sheer size and mystique.

The passages ranged from massive four-track maglev tunnels near the surface, to tiny single-person pre-Winnowing passages.  Some were as old as the middle ages, some had been built during the World Wars, and some were begun as part of a dearth of unfinished construction projects from the city's colorful past; never finished, and never charted.

But the majority of the the tunnels, by volume, belonged to the Underground.  Once an electrified third-rail subway, it had since been converted to a high-speed monorail configuration, and vastly expanded.

Even within the train tubes alone; one could easily become lost.  Workers had to be equipped with network-connected DaTabs, loaded with maps and RFID trackers, to avoid becoming permanently marooned in the writhing techno-mechanical wasteland.

Even in the rare cases where such devices malfunctioned, the AI that controlled the trains were networked to a host of sensors, cameras, and microphones.  Most workers were smart enough to approach the nearest one, and put in a call for help; rescue times were usually under an hour.

Yet there were still areas of the tube that were without surveillance.  Blind spots in the network.  Old maintenance junctures, and rip-tracks, that were charted, but not directly monitored, aside from sensors within the rail itself.

Whenever a train's internal sensors detected a contaminant, the protocol was for the internal AI to register the hazard, then direct the train to a siding for servicing.

Train 18593217-A; a Docklands Light Maglev unit, was occupying one such track.  According to the manifest that track-control AI had access to, the unit was empty, and had been sidelined due to a simple magnetic induction coil malfunction at Heron Quays.

The train sat, idling, within a small junction of maglev trench, tucked away deep below the Thames, between two service tunnels and an Underground tube.

Orange warning lights pulsed, illuminating the duracrete of the walls at regular intervals.  The Train's AI projected a constant warning through external speakers,  "Warning.  Bio-hazardous Contaminants detected.  Train Sealed.  Quarantine in Effect.  Train in Need of Servicing.  Quarantine in Effect."

Under normal circumstances control-AI would have dispatched a hazmat team the instant the train's internal sensors registered a biological attack.  But the train had, instead, registered that it was empty of passengers, and that it was malfunctioning.  Control-AI had apportioned it a rip-track, and filed a maintenance request.

Despite the fact that the onboard AI knew the vehicle was contaminated, it could not send the information along.  The same device that had released the biological hazard had jammed and replaced its transmissions to track control.

So the train waited in deadlock.  Exactly as intended.

It wasn't the hiss of the doors, nor the resounding klaxon.  It wasn't even the thump of hooves.  It was the AI's voice that pulled Odie from unconsciousness, "Warning.  Bio-hazardous Contaminants detected.  Train Sealed.  Quarantine in Effect.  Train in Need of Servicing.  Quarantine in Effect."

Everything felt wrong.  His head hurt, his eyes didn't seem to want to focus, and his arms wouldn't move.  The latter realization generated a rising sense of panic, that helped him to partially focus his vision, and hearing.

"...an you hear me?  Are you awake yet? You have to wake up! They'll be here soon!"

Odie grunted, "Mmmph! Who..? What...? Talk *sense!*  Help me free my arms!" As he spoke, he managed to bring the creature before him into focus.  It was the Earth Pony from the back of the train car, an expression of panic plastered to his muzzle.

Before the Equine could respond, the doors behind him were violently pried open, revealing the blurry image of a figure in a white armored hardsuit.

The second the doors were open, there was a tense pause.  Words came from the armored figure, but it took time for them to sink in through the haze of latent sedatives, "Twelve.  Looks like three natives, nine converts."  As he parsed the sentance, Odie noticed that the soldier-like figure was equipped with a stun baton, rather than a lethal weapon.

When the word 'converts' finally managed to make a connection with his conscious faculties, he stiffed; memories of the moments leading up to his abrupt bout with unconsciousness flooded back.  He began to feebly scrabble, desperately trying to wish away his new hooves.

As the realization that he was no longer human fully set in, further feeding his panic, Odie could just make out a distinctly feminine voice speaking in response to the soldier.

The tone was not only casual, but almost matter-of-fact, "We need as many as we can get.  Take them all."

He barely had time to make out the source, a hazy figure of a purple-hued mare, before the soldiers put their stun batons to use.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Fourth Day, Celestial Calendar

A fire was one of the many luxuries of travelling in charted lands.  No creature in their right mind, so far south of the wilds, would attack three Gryphons and a Pegasus, no matter how visible they made themselves.

As he stoked the flames with a long sturdy pine twig, Fyrenn paused to watch the patterns of light play across his feathers.  Three years since he had converted.  Three years of being a Gryphon, and sometimes it still hadn't fully sunk in.

Usually it was little things that grabbed his attention; the mundane activities of life.  On occasion the disconnect between his new existence, and his old human routine, would reassert itself in a bout of emotions, and he would find himself rediscovering the joyous small moments of wonder that came with Conversion.

He cast a glance upwards as he heard hoofsteps, confirming that Stan had returned with more wood for the blaze.  As he silently added the new fuel to the mound, the red Gryphon wondered what it was like for his brothers.  Kephic and Varan had adopted each other, having each lost their parents to war.  Unlike Fyrenn, they were native Gryphons; born and bred with feathers, wings, beak, and talons.

Some days, Fyrenn wished he could have experienced youth as a Gryphon.  Others he was grateful to be a Convert; the sheer contrast between old and new life meant that there were certain things he didn't take for granted, like his incredible vision.

Having once been blind, but for an uncomfortable ocular implant, he appreciated sight more than any of the other physical improvements his form brought, even if only by a small margin.

The reminiscence caused his train of thought to skip to a new tack; Earth.  At first, he had visited with a certain degree of frequency, helping to get the then-nascent Gryphonization program off the ground by leveraging his experience as the first Gryphon Convert.

But after a year of going back and forth, he had settled in Equestria on a more long-term basis.  He had the Gryphic equivalent of an apartment in the capital, a full time position in the Brotherhood of Knights, and for nearly two years he had been content to embark on missions for the Kingdoms, mostly in the companionship of his brothers, and Carradan.

The Pegasus was not officially attached to them, but was often paid a mercenary fee for participating in their missions, which he supplemented by selling a column based on their adventures to Equestrian Newspapers.

Fyrenn chuckled.  Old habits died hard.  He and Stanley shared their Convert status in common.  though they had once been at odds, years of working, fighting, eating, and relaxing together had made them more like family than anything else.  It had also, Fyrenn noticed, begun to erode some of Carradan's Equine pacifism, imparting a well balanced capacity for violent acts, when they were necessary.

As he finished placing the final log, Fyrenn sighed, and slumped back into a prone, relaxed, leonine pose.  His last visit to Earth had been a brief logistically-driven, weekend-long stay just shy of two-years-previous.

He found himself wondering how much had changed.  He stared into the dancing flames, and tried to picture people adjusting to the groundswell of change that he had played such a strong role in.  His mental focus shifted again.  He found himself wondering how *'she'* was adjusting to an alien world.

"Bit for those deep thoughts of yours?"  Carradan's words were jarring.  Sometimes the reporter's skill at reading someone was so powerful that it seemed preternatural.  It wasn't hard to see that the Gryphon was lost in thought, but Carradan had chosen his timing deliberately.

Stan pressed his advantage, glaring good-naturedly at Fyrenn, "When are you gonna learn, featherbrains, that there's no secrets on camping trips?"

Fyrenn sighed and chuckled half-heartedly, "Just wondering how well Neyla is getting along.  I shudder to think what might happen when she discovers espresso."

Carradan leaned in and grinned, his words tumbling out in a sing-song tone, "Yoouuu.. miiiis herrrrr!"

Fyrenn snorted, and shoved Carradan away with an almost casual swipe that sent the big-boned Pegasus staggering backwards, "Of course I do.  But not like that.  She was... is... a good friend."

Stanley chuckled, "Listen, pal, its ok.  I come from a world where 'if you repeat it enough times, it must be true' is an axiom."

Fyrenn glared, the expression tinged with a mischievous grin, "Don't you have better things to do?  Like finding some water for supper..."  Carradan glowered, so Fyrenn appended his sentence, "...before I make *you* into appetizers?"

Stan sorted, rolled his eyes, and set off into the air with a lopsided grin, leaving Fyrenn to continue his reflections.  Inwardly, he admitted that it would be nice to get the chance to see Neyla again.

She had been a friend and companion to the group ever since they had recruited her three years previous.  Until one day she had decided she wasn't coming home with them.

Deep down, Fyrenn knew the reasons were complex, but when he wanted a simple explanation, he told himself that it was because she had finally given up on her life's dream, but still couldn't face that fact.

Neyla was a sentinel; a Gryphon from an independant family with no clan.  She was doubly disenfranchised, given that she was also the last living member of her entire family.

She knew her family had not always been clanless, and for years since her father's death, she had labored to find legal precedent to redeem her clan.  If she were able to present a viable land-claim, or proof of a family tie by marriage to an existing clan, or if she were to marry a husband willing to leave his own clan, or merge it with hers, then she could lay claim to assets and proceed with the redemption.

The latter option was not appealing to her, for a plethora of painful emotional reasons, and difficult logistical reasons.

The other two options had been exhausted for some time when she had joined the group; she simply hadn't come to terms with it at the time.

The last Fyrenn had heard, she was doing paid work for the JRSF.

His ruminations were completely dispelled by the return of Kephic and Varan, hauling a large elk between them.  Dinner.

Fyrenn put his thoughts firmly in the back of his mind, and cheerfully went about helping to prepare the kill.  When Carradan returned with a skin full of fresh stream water, the four set to making stew with smiles and laughter.

As he neatly separated meat from bone with a talon, Kephic popped a small piece of the raw flesh into his beak, and chewed thoughtfully.  The results were unusually tidy; despite their ability and propensity to eat meat both cooked, and raw, Gryphons were not overly messy creatures; chewing their food with a hidden sharp edge inside their beak that performed the same function as teeth.

The speckled Gryphon spoke around his beak-full, "If I recall, this rendezvous we are... misappropriating, is close to one of the new railway lines."

Varan nodded, "I ensured as much on the charts.  This particular spur connects a series of mines to the main line that passes through Neighvada.  The Troll clans of the badlands own and operate it."

Rails and steam power were not new to Equestria, having existed in theory and practice even before Contact.  But initial forays into railways had been primitive at best.  The advent of human ideas had caused a major boom in the technology and associated industries that was still swelling and gaining momentum.

Stan took a sniff of the stew, made a face, and began rummaging through his saddlebags for hay.  while he had become fairly accustomed to watching the consumption of meat, as a Pony, he still had a deep inhibition towards consuming it, even if it came from a non-sapient prey animal.

As he extracted a large muzzle-full of golden-brown stalks, he added his own thoughts to the conversation, "So this is.. three? Four days away as we fly?"

Fyrenn nodded, "By my guess, assuming we don't exert ourselves overly."

Stan snorted, "Fine by me.  When you fellas say 'double time' it feels more like triple."

The Gryphons shared a laugh at their slightly-chubby Companion's expense.  Caradan smiled and stuck his tongue out gleefully.  Even out-of-shape as he was, the salmon Pegasus could move at military aircraft speeds, leaving the Gryphons far behind, in the short term.

In exchange, like all Pegasi, he had almost no agility or flight endurance by comparison.

The Gryphons could fly at swift pace for days and nights on end, stopping only to hunt.

Carradan was lucky to go for a whole day without stopping to rest, under most circumstances.

How he had managed to stay so sedentary despite their active lifestyle, was a great source of speculation to the Gryphons.  Fyrenn's personal theory was an overabundance of chocolate consumption.

The conversation turned to light-hearted banter at the stew simmered.  Even as the light of the fire, and the warmth of the camaraderie pushed back the cold mountain spring air, a small part of Fyrenn's mind still wandered in nostalgia.  Wondering.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 2nd, Gregorian Calendar

"Beta team, this is Alpha team; popping the lid."

Neyla stiffened, and checked her weapon one final time.  In place of her preferred arbalest, she was carrying a long, thick javelin.  Two blue hued slits near the leaf-shaped blade indicated that the weapon had full magnetic charge.  At a twist of the central grip, the tip, and the core of the haft, would be ejected from the base at six times the speed of sound.

The weapon's blade had a monomolecular edge, and overall it clocked in at nearly a quarter of a ton in weight.  The majority of the construction was pure depleted uranium.

She shifted uncomfortably in her armor.  The thick, angular gray nano-ceramic plates were heavier than the gear she was accustomed to.  It came with the posting.  Scale-buster units had to fend off more than mere sharp objects and projectiles.

At her sides, just behind her twin short swords, two rail-pistols provided a comforting added bulk to her arsenal.  She had to give the humans one thing; they knew how to make incredible instruments of war.

She chanced a swift look around the corner of the building she was using for cover.  To the north, she could see her first teammate, Beta three, perched atop a roof.  His immensely bulky armor was made of a dull, color-adaptive material that could fool human eyes in a passing glance.  Neyla could make out the centimeter-wide imperfections in the plating edges.

She knew that somewhere to her left, and ahead, the man's sister, Beta four, was crouched in a stairwell wearing a nearly identical super-heavy class armor kit.

Neyla was Beta two.  Beta one was entirely unseen, which was a masterful feat of stealth considering his size.

When she had first met him, the large metallic Dragon known as Tirinel had not been known for subtlety in combat.  But after two years of point-creature on their Scale-buster team, he had become as adept at concealment as a multi-ton silver-plated creature could possibly be.

It was an absolutely indispensable skill.

Far ahead, the sound of gunfire erupted.  Neyla's keen golden eyes could pick out individual muzzle flashes, even at such distance.  Without the warren of tall buildings that made up Dubai's suburbs, she could have read the lips of Alpha team.

The only response to the gunfire was a similar, but distinctly different staccato echo.  No sirens, no screams.  A twenty block radius had been quietly evacuated prior to the start of the operation; the first time a 'Buster unit had seen action, it had leveled eight blocks of Shanghai.  Their operations tended to unavoidably produce large quantities of collateral damage.

"Get ready.  Thermal just lit up like a Christmas tree.  This one is a big one; at least fourteen meters."

Beta three sounded unfazed.  Beta four's response, however,  seemed just the tiniest bit breathless to Neyla, "How are they doing that?  I thought newscales were relatively small."

"Growth accelerants.  Likely the reason we're necessary in this instance.  Dispense with the.. 'chatter.' "

Tirinel's voice was low, but surprisingly melodic, and at his insistence, the radio went silent.

Neyla tightened her grip on the javelin, and prepared her wings, unfurling them the slightest bit and tensing the appropriate muscles.

At a distance, the unaided human ear might have mistaken the sound for a large truck.  Beta team knew better.  The growing rumble was the sound of a building roar.  The sound of an irate Dragon.

Suddenly, the night was lit as brilliantly as noon-day by a column of vibrant flame.  The hallmark natural weapon of a Red Dragon.  The growl of the creature's fury, and the smashing noises of its flailing passage through various buildings, was gradually augmented by the noise of an approaching fuel cell engine.

A heavily armored APC, fitted with special secondary layers of heat-resistant ceramic plating, tore around the corner at what Neyla guessed was close to seventy miles an hour.  The gun turret was revolved completely to face the rear, and spouting a constant jet of rail-rounds.

The vehicle's pursuer followed suit, scrambling across rooftops and demolishing weaker structures with the violence of its passage.  A wild Red Dragon; fully mature from a biological standpoint.

The latest in HLF terror tactics; though Neyla wondered how much longer the organization could tolerate the damage it was inflicting to itself; a wild Dragon knew no master, no friends, no allegiance, and no conception of one target from the next.

Draconic Conversion was already risky enough, even with the stringent psychological testing required by Earthgov to try and weed out candidates with a high mental instability.  The accelerants the HLF was adding to get full sized Dragons right-away were likely doing little more than vastly decreasing the chances of a successful Conversion.

The way Tirinel had described it, Dragonization was like a tightrope act thanks to the depth of a Dragon's connection to magic itself; you had to have just the right state of mind to emerge with your sentience intact.

In Neyla's experience, HLF soldiers were not what one might classify as 'ideal candidates.'

The APC rushed past her hiding place, carrying a blast of hot air in its jetstream.  The ceramic outer hull had already been deeply carbon-scored in several places, and part of the railgun barrel had melted inward, then been punctured by successive rounds leaving the muzzle.

Despite the weighty caliber of the ammunition, and the exceedingly high muzzle velocity, the weapon was doing almost nothing to the pursuing Dragon.  It generally took a straight shot from a ship-scale battery to do any damage; Dragons were not agile creatures, but their hides were so thick as to seem nigh invincible, even to the most formidable human weaponry.

Neyla had watched Dragons, allied and otherwise, shrug off acidic compounds, magma, napalm, railgun strikes, laser blasts, and even hits from small drone-based AMRAAM missiles.

Killing a Dragon was not an issue of brute force; such a contest was the most literal approximation of seeing an unstoppable force meet an immovable object that any sentient being was ever likely to see.  No, Neyla reflected, killing a Dragon was about precision, and timing.

Like clockwork, the APC ground to a halt, and in a seemingly display of abject battlefield stupidity, held its ground as the crimson juggernaut barreled towards it.

Just when it seemed as if the Dragon would simultaneously crush, and incinerate the JRSF vehicle with its onslaught, the entire world seemed to explode.

Neyla's Gryphic eyes rendered the sequence for her in full detail, her brain processing time in a modified fashion, as most Gryphon minds were wont to do in combat.

Like a round from a gun, a monumental silver form exploded out of a nearby building, the front wall and most of the roof disintegrating to tiny chunks as powerful wings and claws laid waste to duracrete as if it were no more than wet toilet tissue.

Like the rest of Beta team, Tirinel was clad in armor; gigantic alloy/ceramic plates that added a secondary layer of protection over parts of his already nearly-impenetrable metallic scaling.

A quartet of Hummer-scale railguns studded each foreleg gauntlet, and Neyla could just make out the two guided mini-missile launchers tucked between the wing-joint protection plates.  She also knew that there were no less than twelve human-sized hidden blades, with wicked serrated edges, concealed in the armor's outer layers.

Due to his Draconic lack of agility, Tirinel's weaponry was nearly useless at-range, or against a small target such as a person.  Even a hostile unit with the weaknesses of a human could easily avoid his wrath.  Were he unencumbered by his weaponry he would certainly have greater flexibility.  But Tirinel's gear was designed for the swift and violent destruction of close, slow moving, large targets.  Tanks.  Ships.  Buildings.  And most especially; other Dragons.

Large angry Dragons.

The great silver creature raised both of his forelegs, standing nearly two stories tall on his hind legs.  Without warning or pleasantries, Tirinel fired all eight of his guns simultaneously with a flex of both claws, sending six of the eight shells directly into his enemy's back, and the other two through the leathery fabric of his wings.

The rounds that impacted scale simply crumpled and fell away, their momentum little more than a slap between the shoulders for Big Red.

But the ones aimed for wing passed directly through, shredding the thin material in a painful manner, and detonated in buildings far beyond the initial target.  Evacuation had indeed been a wise precaution.  Neyla knew, from experience, that this was little more than a kind, perfunctory greeting compared to what would inevitably happen next.

Tirinel's enemy, while essentially a non-sapient, rage-driven killing machine, was also larger than him by more than a third of his own body mass and length.

The enemy Dragon rounded on Tirinel with remarkable swiftness for something so large, and muscularly encumbered.  He trumpeted a visceral, instinct-driven challenge to the skies.  Tirinel calmly took the opportunity to fire again, managing to sink one round into the soft flesh of the enemy's tongue.

The infuriated Red reflexively let loose with a huge column of flame.  The licking red tendrils engulfed Tirinel, the shockwave from their multi-thousand Kelvin temperature bombarding Neyla with a gust of nearly unbearable warmth, even at-distance, and through the duracrete she was concealed behind.

Gasps from several troopers in Alpha team were audible over her headset.  The sounds of distraught shock swiftly transformed into abject awe.

The flame dissipated, as if sucked into a vortex.  In its place, a gust of bitingly cold wind swept over the block.  A visible whirlpool of ice and vaporated water had formed at Tirinel's open muzzle, and consumed the flames wholesale; putting an instantaneous stop to the reaction with the power of pure entropy.

Tirinel abruptly switched tactics, blowing the pocket of sub-zero air back at his opponent.  The gust washed over the red Dragon, instantly causing frost to form on the edges of his scales.

The beast dropped to his belly and moaned.  Reds had a massive weakness for non-ideal thermal conditions.

Neyla sighed.  Despite the red Dragon's unusual size, this was the swiftest end to a Scale-buster offensive that she had ever seen.  Her evaluation was premature.

She saw the threat first; her eyes picked up on the faintest of glimmers,  "Twelve high!"

The shouted warning over the radio was all Tirinel needed.  He sidestepped, almost casually, as a massive rail-round passed through the space his left wing had so recently occupied.  The silver Dragon traced the source of the blast and fired.

The action, while fruitless in terms of damage potential, did manage to coax the new combatant into moving fully onto the battlefield.

The newcomer turned out to be an HLF heavy tank.  A large main gun, and a quad of treads, augmented by two small independently gimballed flamethrowers, and four anti-personnel CIWS guns.  All coated in enough beige colored, energy diffusing, nano-carbon sheathed alloy to stop an oncoming  train.

The tank pilot was savvy.  He trained his flame-throwers on the red Dragon, and the heat from the weapons was more than enough to rejuvenate the groaning monstrosity.

Tirinel was now badly outmatched.  It was time.

As if on cue, Beta four rose from her hiding place, and shouldered her weapon.  The CAV-7, XL, was a heavy-class Close-Anti-Vehicle missile with a warhead packing the equivalent of a seven metric ton TNT bomb.  Each round was equipped with heuristic tracking and detonation AI designed to ensure the warhead found its target, and waited to detonate until all proper criteria were met.

The trooper ran up to the JRSF APC, which had begun to fire its weapon into the tank, and was in danger of being obliterated.  She ducked behind the gray beleaguered vehicle for cover, and leaned out hesitantly.

After a momentary pause, she aimed the launcher directly at the tank.  The laser beam was invisible to human eyes, save for the spots where it passed through a mote of dust; but Tirinel's thermal vision, and Neyla's lightspeed eyes could make out the entirety of the menacing red meridian.

"Tk tk..." Beta four pulled the trigger, and the missile flew across the intervening meters, moving too quickly and at too close a range for the tank's anti-projectile CIWS to stop it.  The warhead buried itself up to the fins in the armored hide of the vehicle's turret.

Beta four paused, seemingly arbitrarily, but any seasoned combatant knew that she was merely allowing the missile to complete its 'inchworm' algorithm.  The round gyrated and writhed using rotating external plates, and internal gyros, working itself as deep into the enemy vehicle as possible.

Inside her opaque, thick-set helmet, Beta four smiled, "...Boom."

The explosion tore most of the turret off the tank entirely, pushing the base back several feet with the force of the blast.  The quad of treads tore trenches in the Dubai street, synth-rubber stripping off so swiftly that it combusted, leaving a short flame trail.

As the tank shuddered to a halt, Neyla snapped her wings to their extended position, and launched with all the force she could muster.  Beta three stood from his hiding place, and began firing all his weapons at the primary target.

Neyla knew that now, the crux of the operation rested with her.  For all his power, Tirinel had no chance whatsoever of killing the red Dragon single-clawed without seriously injuring himself in the process.  The size disparity was simply too great.

With support from HLF armor, his chances of survival were slim to none.  The Gryphoness knew that the CAV missile would not have completely incapacitated the tank, despite the level of damage it had done, so now the onus was on her to finish off the red Dragon, and do it as swiftly as Gryphicly possible.

While she knew she was swift, and agile enough to avoid any expression of her enemy's wrath, she also knew that he would be instinctively capable of defending his weak points.  Now it was on Tirinel and Beta three to keep his attention fixed firmly on them, so that she could make her move.

She heard and felt the approach of the shells long before they arrived.  It was an easy thing to dodge the oncoming stream of railgun fire, but quite another task entirely to do so while also approaching an immense and furious red Dragon that was lashing out with all of his limbs at anything within reach.

The HLF tank had survived intact enough to run both of its CIWS guns with full fire-control.  One was trying, and miserably failing, to get a bead on Neyla, and the other was punching credit-chit sized dents in the JRSF vehicle.

Neyla just barely had time to glimpse Beta four loading another CAV-7 warhead, before she had to cut a daring negative-G reverse-corkscrew to slide between Red's outstretched wing, railgun fire from the tank, and a missile from one of Tirinel's launchers that had missed its target, and was on the return arc to re-acquire.

The move placed her almost precisely where she needed to be.  The Gryphoness decided, in what appeared to be a split second, to take an enormous risk.  In reality, for Neyla, nearly twenty seconds of internal time had passed.  Of all a Gryphon's combat abilities, the capacity to think and act on a higher plane of speed and agility, that humans referred to as 'bullet time,' was perhaps the deadliest.

Seeing her beginning her dive prematurely, Tirinel launched himself fully at his opponent, sinking his claws into the hard edges of the red Dragon's belly-plates, and locking in.  He latched his jaws around part of his enemy's neck, and began projecting frozen air, while simultaneously firing his foreleg guns at their maximum rate.

The added weight caused Red to reflexively go into a partial kneeling position, and this gave Neyla precisely the conditions she needed.  With a speed so great that a human would not even be able to fully perceive it, Neyla landed directly on the back of the red dragon's head, right where the plates of the neck joined the ones between the ears that protected the brain-case.

All Scale-Buster troops were trained heavily in Draconic anatomy. Dragons were possessed, in addition to their incredible scales, of a highly durable skeleton.  The braincase itself would take an enormous amount of force to crack, even without the plating layer.  Neyla had come prepared.

Even as her enemy began to feel her presence, she began the highly-practised routine.  First she inserted her left claw's lethally sharp and unbreakable talons into the tiny joint between the final neck plate, and the first head plate.

She pried with all her might, and managed to get enough width, nearly two centimeters, to ram the blade of her javelin into place.  The massive collection of ruby scales beneath her began to buck, and writhe, but at the speed she was perceiving time, she was able to compensate, if only barely.

She leaned into the javelin, forcing the scale plating up enough for the weapon to gain entry.  It abruptly sank in down to the grip, and Neyla was rewarded with a scream of defiant rage and pain from her target.

The red, unable to reach her with his feverishly scrabbling limbs, instead turned his unchecked pain and fury on Tirinel, shaking his neck-hold and acquiring one of his own.  But it was far too late for him to do any further damage.

Neyla grinned devilishly and whispered into her opponent's twitching crimson ear, "Well fought.  Goodbye."

She twisted the grip of her javelin hard, and there was a loud 'clunk-CRACK-squish.'

Propelled by a full capacitor discharge, the one-time-use weapon propelled its quarter-ton depleted uranium core inwards; monomolecular blade carving a path effortlessly through sinew, muscle, bone, and brain tissue, backed by incredible magnetic forces and its own weight.

The projectile penetrated all the way to the inside of the red Dragon's brain, instantly and painlessly cutting the creature's miserable 'life' short.

As the enormous form caved downwards, Neyla nimbly backflipped, coming to rest on top of the fallen creature's skull in a proud pose as the dust settled.  As if to offer backdrop to the victory, the brief silence was momentarily interrupted by the concussion of Beta four's second missile shredding the HLF tank, and its occupants, to shrapnel.

Neyla glanced up at Tirinel and smiled, "Well done.  You almost dented him this time."

Tirinel raised one great eyebrow and snorted, "Congratulations are in order for you too.  You could have almost managed this one without my considerable contribution."

The Gryphoness chuckled, and sighed, "What is it the humans say? 'If wishes were fishes...' "

Tirinel huffed, "Then at least one of us would dine well."

Chapter 3

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Fifth Day, Celestial Calendar

While Fyrenn loved the mountain highlands of Equestria more than any other place he had traveled, the desert also held a special allure.  Granted; it was difficult for him to say one part of the world was more appealing than another, given the sheer living vibrancy and unspoiled nature of the landscape.

Equestrian deserts were no less vital than any other part of the world; the arid tang in the air spoke volumes with its slight touch of reptilian musk.  The reddish sand was broken by regular wadis, rock outcroppings, cacti, and scrub brush.

If one flew for long enough, there were inevitable oases of greener foliage; low wide trees and hardy grass, clustered around underground springs.

From his vantage point, Fyrenn's eyes provided an even more vivid rendering of desert life; mice, rabbits, predatory birds, lizards, and insects abounded.  Despite the nocturnal nature most of the creatures were prone to, even their daytime hiding places could not shield them entirely from a Gryphon's gaze.

Fyrenn raised his eyes, and spied the telltale glint of their destination; a faint glimmer of sun on parallel bars of iron, polished smooth and shiny by the constant passage of weighty cargo on metal wheels.

It did not take long for the group to arrive.  As the others landed, Fyrenn bent and ran a talon across the silvery top surface of one rail, leaving a small trail of sparks, "No train since at least yesterday."

Stan kicked at one of the wooden ties with a hoof; the oblong braces were laid out in a cross-crossing pseudo-diamond pattern, rather than the traditional parallel bars seen in Earth's history, and favored by Ponies, "How can *you* tell?"

"Dirt."  Varan offered the singular word as if it were the obvious factual answer to all of life's most pressing questions.

Kephic nodded and provided a more fleshed out explanation as he stared down the length of the tracks, towards the south, "When the train passes, it clears the rails of any significant detritus.  Wind blows dirt back onto the rails in the time between the passage of each train.  That means today's ore train hasn't arrived yet."

Carradan tilted his head, then stepped slowly over the rails and back onto the desert floor, "Okay... so here's how I think it plays out..."

The three Gryphons shifted their undivided attention to the Pegasus.  They had long since learned that Stan had valuable wisdom buried beneath his glib, humorous exterior.  Fyrenn leant down and placed an ear to the rail as Carradan aired his postulation.

"So the Badlands clans own this line.  Allright.  Why does a Troll from a mountain clan, who's part of a pack that's been hired to make scare-tactic raids on your settlements, turn up with a map that leads to this line?"

Kephic stepped gingerly around a cactus, and plucked out a spine between his left index talon, and thumb talon, twirling it in the sunlight and examining the imperfections idly, "The clans here have nothing to gain by provoking our southern mountain defenses."

Carradan nodded, and began pacing in the rail-bed, "Righto; so the way I figure it, they're just the middleman.. errr dog.  The mountain Trolls come here, and drop off proof of their bad turns.  The train goes north, stops at the mines, where someone else takes the proof, and offloads payment.  On its way back, the train drops off the swag with the do-badders, along with new orders."

Fyrenn raised his head, and stared down the tracks thoughtfully.  Carradan took his place at the rail, his far more sensitive Equine ears discerning even the vibrations caused by Varan shuffling.

Kephic glared into the noonday sun, unperturbed by the brightness, "So how do we follow the trail from here?  When the mountain clan pack doesn't make the scheduled rendezvous, its going to send their handler scurrying."

Varan glanced down at the prone Pegasus.  Stan shook his head ever so slightly.  No train.  Yet.

The golden Gryphon stretched lazily, splaying his wings momentarily to allow the sun to warm the joints, "We have only one viable course.  We must acquire whatever information the 'middle dog' has, before the handler is alerted to the change in the situation."

As Kephic nodded slowly, Stan stood and cocked his head, "Meaning?"

Fyrenn smirked, "Meaning... we're going to rob a train."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 3rd, Gregorian Calendar

Hutch tucked his arm in to protect his thermos of coffee.  Traffic in the Bureau had been best described as 'jammed' since the Barrier came into view.  The advent of such a stark, visible, foreboding indicator of the fate facing the city had galvanized the populace.

The change from apathy to engagement was not, Hutch reflected, entirely for the better.  For every person coming to the facility to down a cup of potion, there seemed to be two outside hefting picket signs, noisemakers, and occasionally large pieces of detritus that they would hurl at the bullet-proofed windows as a futile gesture of rage.

This signs said everything from, 'EARTHGOV = PER' to 'GOD HATES DIAMOND DOGS.'  The angry crowd was a combination of paranoid or wronged persons still upset over the results of the Diamond Dog Conversion scandals, and disenfranchised low-income workers who could not afford the new moving tax, but also had no desire to Convert.

They were calling themselves the 'Humans Occupy Bureaus' movement, taking a page from the playbook of a century-old mob of protesters enraged over pre-Winnowing financial mishaps and bungles.

Hutch sighed, and squeezed between two long lines of disheveled people, being slowly guided through a security checkpoint by the familiar silhouettes of black-armored ConSec troopers.

He shook his head and murmured under his breath.  As far as he was concerned, the HOB were exactly like their early twenty-first century predecessors.  They had legitimate points, but they were fouling the moral foundation of their movement by engaging in childish, dangerous, vindictive, and vapid behavior.

There were even whispers that the HLF were quietly stoking the flames of HOB movements, particularly the one in New York.  The taint of association had all but nullified the validity of anything the group said, in the eyes of the government at-large.

True, other copycat groups had sprung up in major cities around the world, particularly ones like London, that were soon to be in the Barrier's path; but the movement was by far at its largest, and most dangerous, in New York.

Panic from the evacuation, combined with the HOB riots, had led to seven deaths, four fires, and eight thousand incidences of vandalism, theft, looting, and aggravated assault. And those statistic were, as far as Hutch knew, already days-old.

The seriousness of the situation was underscored by the activity, or lack thereof, from the PER; forced Conversions for the region had fallen off by a staggering thirty percent in a month's span.

Even the 'Secret Knights of Celestia,' as they thought of themselves, were afraid to stoke the ire of the restless city.

Hutch finally made it to the elevator bank, crabbing sideways to avoid a mid-sized Dragon.  While Ponies and Humans were still the majority demographics on the planet, three years of Gryphonization and the ensuing other programs had contributed to a visible rise in the presence of other species.

Hutch strolled to the rightmost elevator, and pressed his palm to the call-pad.  Security had been tightened repeatedly since the discovery of HLF infiltration technologies, and the 2114 PER attacks.  DNA scans were now mandatory biometric access denials for secure areas.

When the car arrived, the General took up a position against the back wall, leaning against the stainless steel inner railing.  "Fifth floor."  He could have, if asked, made an excuse about being too tired to push the manual touchpad by the door, but in truth he had a secret boyish fascination with voice control technology.

Hutch sipped his thermos quietly, and allowed his eyes to sweep the atrium as the elevator rose.  The tube, and car, were made mostly of high-density plexiglass, and the atrium space was several floors high; this afforded riders in the elevators a view of everything going on in the heart of the Bureau as they rode.

The general smiled as he noted the presence of a Gryphon and a Pony on an upper balcony, staring down into the crowded space below.  Both were clad in armor plates, colored in the gray digital camouflage and single crimson stripe of the JRSF.

The fighting force had grown from a series of small strike teams, to a full blown precision military branch gracefully.  The many talents and capabilities introduced by species diversity made the organization flexible, powerful, and enduring.

Hutch slept slightly easier during the night, knowing that such a strong and unified cadre of beings were protecting Bureaus, potion shipments, and high value targets around the globe.

He took a final glance as the atrium as the elevator passed through the ceiling and into an opaque shaft that led to the upper floors.  The heart warming concept the eclectic gathering of species evoked was partially spoiled by the still-visible protestors outside, even cordoned as they were by an intimidating blue Dragon, several Gryphons, and a full contingent of Military Police.

The elevator emitted a soft tone, and the doors slid apart with a barely audible hiss.  Hutch leant forward and walked purposefully into the Bureau's central situation room.

The Conversion Bureau Network was responsible not simply for dispensing Potion to the population, but for overseeing its manufacture by third parties, aggregating and shipping it, purity testing it, defending itself in conjunction with the JRSF, and acting as an embassy to Equestrian governments.

The Manhattan Bureau had been the first, and the central hub of the network.  In light of the Barrier's arrival, central operations were in the process of being transferred to San Diego, the second Bureau to break ground.

In spite of, or perhaps *because* of the transfer, the Manhattan Bureau situation room was filled to the brim with technicians.  The room was vaguely ovoid, with most walls dominated by screens, or tinted glass walls that were shared with adjacent and connecting offices.

The center of the room was filled with work surfaces, desks, semi-cubicles, and a main central console with a holotank.

As one of the mainstay human representatives on the JRSF's governing board, Hutch was also the main liaison to the Bureaus, and their in-house security wing; ConSec.  Thus Hutch maintained an office space, incidentally directly across from his previous posting as ConSec section chief for the Bureau.

He shot a glance, and a smile, across the room at the latest officer to fill the post; a stocky, athletically built Zebra.  After the JRSF had begun picking up momentum, it hadn't been long before Ponies, Zebra, and the occasional Gryphon, mostly Converts in such cases, had begun to acquire posting in non-JRSF entities as well.

The General passed their shared secretary in her spacious, ironically horseshoe shaped alcove.  She was a lime hued Unicorn with close cropped white mane, shaped into a peculiar beehive fashion that was reminiscent of older Earth styles.

She glanced up at Hutch and glowered.  They were on good terms, so he knew immediately that the expression was both a warning, and her opinion on his next appointment.  Hutch grunted and took another draught of his coffee; the gesture more of a shot than a sip.  "Bucking wonderful," he mumbled under his breath.

Hutch had developed a fondness for Equestrian expletives, in light of the fact that the increasing stress of his job was driving a similar increase in his use of 'colorful metaphors.'

Hutch steeled himself against the unknown threat, and tapped the 'open' panel in the glass of his door.  He was greeted by a disaster; at least, that's what Aston called people who dressed the way his appointment did.

The woman was clad, head to toe, in a shade of fuchsia that could only be quantified as 'violently repulsive.'  The clothing itself was a well tailored business suit and skirt, but the hue of the fabric, and the peculiar hat-like object perched atop her done-up tangled nest of auburn hair, destroyed any image of suave professionalism.

The General spied the traditional silver and emerald Earthgov pin on her collar, and a few tiny flecks of gray in her hair.  He also noticed that she was wearing just enough makeup that Aston would have likely tried to strangle her on the spot.

The pin meant that she was, at minimum, a parliamentary member.  All elected officials at the parliamentary level and above were issued the pins; an officially-unofficial highly exclusive fashion statement.

He set his thermos on the desk, swept around behind it, and offered his hand in greeting, "You're my two-o-clock?"

The woman shook his hand with a light grip and nodded primly, "I am.  Councillor Menera Loryss."

Hutch raised an eyebrow, "Councilor?"  He didn't recognize her name.

She nodded once more and seated herself, folding her legs, "I am Councilor Korvan's replacement."

The general sat, and pulled up his terminal; holographic displays dotting the surface of his desk, as a screen rose from a concealed compartment in one side, "I thought the elections weren't until next week."

Councilor Loryss nodded, "True; but there are provisions for selecting interim members to recently vacated postings, and an emergency Council session has been called."

"Concerning?"  Hutch fiddled with a holographic keyboard, running a search on Loryss, and simultaneously offering silent thanks to God that whoever had designed his office had placed the screen so that those sitting across from the desk could not see what was on it.

"Concerning Bill 2-14-117-2.  The 'moving tax.'  I expect the session will close with a repeal, or at the very least a strong amendment."

Hutch glanced up from a quick perusal of Loryss' records, and shrugged, "And so you're here because...?"

Loryss sat back and blinked, as if Hutch's question was undignifiedly redundant, "Well because, in replacing Korvan, I shall be the liaison from the Biotechnological Combine party to the Bureaus, and the JRSF."

Hutch blinked rapidly for several moments before stiffening.  The woman before him was assuming that her position would become official during the election cycle.  It was not an uncommon occurrence for an interim to be elected officially to their position; 'better the devil you know' was quite applicable to voters.

But for Loryss to assume, with such complete surety and confidence, that she was going to take the election?  To the General, that meant she was either incredibly arrogant, or highly politically savvy.  Or both.

Hutch spared a quick, casual glance for the screen; according to the records, Menera Loryss was a political maverick.  A swift ascension from lower level positions to parliamentary speaker, with a distinguished, albeit ruthless record for 'getting it done.'

Hutch sighed and leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk's surface, "Ma'am; don't you think this meeting is a bit..."

She interrupted, as if she knew what he was going to say next, with a tone bordering somewhere between matter-of-fact, and patronizing, "..premature?"

"Ill-advised."  Hutch's response brought her up short.  He leaned back in his chair, framed by the light from the exterior window.  The day in Equestria was partially cloudy, and the peculiar intermix of the dead sky of Earth, with the odd ocean weather of the other world, cast the city in an ethereal palette of underwater colors.

The General shook his head slowly, "I respect the fact that you have initiative, but I don't see your full-time election as being a sure thing, if you will excuse me saying so."

Loryss stood, and stepped slowly to the window; her gait almost demure.  She gestured down to the protestors five stories beneath.

Hutch spun his chair to observe as she spoke, casually clearing his screen before she could turn to see her file.

"General; what do you see?"

He shook his head once more, "A whole lotta disillusioned and directionless fools."

Loryss nodded, "What they are doing is 'ill-advised.'  And they are doing it because, in-spite of their disillusionment; they *have* been wronged.  Wronged because what my predecessor did was also 'ill-advised.'"

As she continued to speak, the interim Counselor took several steps back, and leant on Hutch's desk, "And when I, and the new interim Counselors, reverse the moving tax; we will be given a certain... surety."

Hutch shivered as Loryss drew the final word out, tainting it with a saccharine tone that made him sick to his stomach.

He stood and gestured to the door, his face becoming abruptly stony, "Well then, I recommend you set up a future appointment with my secretary, because I deal in present surety, not future speculation."

Councilor Loryss shot a distasteful glance through the glass of the office door at Hutch's secretary.  The speciesism behind the glare was self evident.  Hutch thumbed the open-pad, and gestured with less subtlety, "I'll have her *pencil* you in.  Have a nice day ma'am."

From the way he said it, Hutch was positive that Loryss gathered the intended meaning; 'get out, and drop dead.'

As she strutted out of the office, Loryss offered a parting remark, "We will be seeing each other again shortly General."

Hutch grunted, and waited until the door closed to mouth his unseen response, "Not if I see you first."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Fifth Day, Celestial Calendar

Fyrenn shifted and sighed.  It would have been nice to relax, and just let the heat from the rocks below seep into his muscles and wear away at the tension; but he was too wound-up and too focused to even consider rest.

"I see why so many of us like the southern colonies.  I could get *very* used to naturally heated rocks, low humidity, wide spaces where nothing else has the eye-range to match us..." Kephic smiled, the setting sun framing him in sharp relief against the red rock of the mesa.

Fyrenn, who was closer to the edge because his coloration afforded him more natural camouflage, tossed a disdainful glance over his shoulder, "No shrimp, no fishing at all, very few trees, no snow...  Nice to visit but you wouldn't want to live here.  You love the mountains too much."

Kephic snorted, and glanced back at his folded wings, "True.  And I'm not well colored for this environment anyhow."

Fyrenn snorted, grinning as he returned his eyes to the rails below, and to the west, "You stand out anywhere you go brother; I'm afraid you're hopeless in that respect."

"Says the Gryphon who couldn't blend into a surface to save his life; unless it was red sand, or a pool of fresh blood."

"Give me some credit; I blend well with the setting sun too.  The only thing you could disappear into is a lightless room.  Or a pile of dirty snow."

Kephic chuckled quietly as Fyrenn glanced up at the next-nearest protrusion of rock.  He managed to pick out Varan's beak and eyes peeking above the edge of the sandstone, similar to the way his own eyes and beak were barely visible to Varan above the edge of the mesa.

Fyrenn returned the focus of his gaze to the furthest point he could make out on the rail line.  Equestria, while not a spherical world, had a curvature; like a nearly-infinite contact lens; so even Gryphons had a maximum line of sight, and Fyrenn's eyes were riveted to that point, searching for a telltale puff of smoke, or glimmer of steel.

"It will certainly make our lives easier if the next train comes during the night."  Fyrenn sighed once more, and swished his tail in boredom, the fan of feathers at the end disturbing a few flecks of dust with their passage.

Kephic inclined his head, "Stealth aside; I am beginning to tire of this dust.  If I have to lie here much longer, I'm afraid my chest fur will end up the same color as Stan's coat."

Fyrenn shifted again, moving the sword and bow at his back to afford better comfort.  The group had opted to hide their armor in a small cave slightly west of Varan and Carradan's hiding spot.  The gleaming metallic surface posed the danger of drawing sensitive eyes, or more likely sensitive ears.

Diamond Dogs had the best noses, and some of the best ears, of any creature in Equestria.  Even though the noise and smell from the train would help to mask the impromptu heist, it had been decided that it was better not to tempt fortune and fate.

Fyrenn stiffened as he caught sight of a tiny puff of smoke on the horizon.  As the train came into view over the curve of the world, he grinned and nudged Kephic with a back paw, "Get prepped.  They're running hard on the throttle."

Ironically, native tribes on Earth had once referred to trains as 'Iron Horses.'  Fyrenn doubted that the Diamond Dogs would appreciate the irony.

The train was, like the oddly designed tracks it ran on, a testament to the alternative flare a species could bring to a technology.  Although in the case of Diamond Dogs, flare generally meant 'spartan, pragmatic, and patchwork.'

The engine was a monstrous metal cylinder perched atop twelve wheels, six to a side.  The front played host to a tapering set of interlocking armored plates, two powerful headlights created by shining oil-burning lamps Fresnel lenses, and an ugly serrated re-enforced scrape blade.

Each of the six wheels were interconnected by a dizzying bevy of eccentrics, levels, and shafts, that fed into larger cylinders, and were attached to smaller recessed flywheels.

The top of the engine was broken by a hodge-podge of relief valves, steam vents, and in the center a short, stubby smokestack.  The asymmetrical cab was bolted to the right side, as it it were an afterthought, and Fyrenn could see two beefy Trolls working overtime to feed coal into the firebox, while a third constantly adjusted valves and levers.

The tender was a double-long car with a flexible center, and behind it was a string of empty open-topped ore cars.  At the tail end of the two-mile-monstrosity was a smaller collection of rusty boxcars, and a final car Fyrenn recognized as some form of caboose.

Fyrenn swept his gaze across the train once more to ensure there were no unwanted eyes marking their passage, then signaled Kephic with a claw.  The two Gryphons leapt gracefully from the mesa, tucked their wings, and shot straight down the side like thunderbolts cast out of the heavens.

At the last tenable moment, their wings snapped back open; first partially, in a cupped braking shape, then fully, using the air swept under them by their passage to gain speed, and maintain lift.

The pair whizzed along, inches above the desert floor, cutting a shallow arc towards the passing train.

Fyrenn aimed for the first box-car in the lineup.  He tilted in a lopsided pose as he struck the train's jetstream, reaching out with his talons and latching onto the car's door.  He pulled as quietly as he could, and when there was enough of an opening to wedge himself in, he front flipped into the car, drawing his sword as he came up.

The dark space was filled with sealed wooden crates.  Judging by the markings, and the smells, they were cured beef, dried fruits, and other non-perishable foodstuffs; likely destined to be supplies for the mines.  Nothing whatsoever suspicious.

Kephic arrived in the car at almost the same time as Varan began to open the door on the opposite side.  Fyrenn moved to help him in, and shortly they were all joined by Stan.

Fyrenn nodded, and snorted in satisfaction, "Well.  Now that we're all here..."

Varan swept the car with a claw, "We can enjoy our bounteous and glorious haul of... foodstuffs."

Kephic chuckled briefly, "Its just the first car.  C'mon; we've got five more to search.  Heaven forbid we end up needing to search the final car.  I doubt we can do that without leaving... 'traces' of our passing."

Carradan grunted and shook his head, "What the hell am I doing with a bunch of goons who call dead bodies 'traces' ?"

Fyrenn smirked, and stepped to the door, "That's family-goons-in-charge to you."

Quietly, and swiftly, the Gryphons and Pegasus moved from car to car, checking for anything out of the ordinary.  The second box-car was also filled with foodstuffs, the third and fourth with newly minted steel mining equipment; picks, shovels, bracers, carts, buckets, and sluices.

The group were beginning to despair of finding anything related to their suspicious communique without a fight.  Fyrenn hefted a pick and examined the sharp silver edge, "Good workmanship.  I think they're starting to come abreast of early Human steel-working technique."

Stan nodded, "Books travel almost as widely as coins, or so they say."

Fyrenn quietly set the implement down, and nodded towards the aft end of the train, "All right then.  Last car; last chance for this to go according to plan."

Kephic squinted as Fyrenn jumped out the door, "Are you having delusions again?  Nothing ever goes as planned."

Varan grunted, his tone utterly deadpan, "Well we can dream."

The three Gryphons held their position beside the car as Stan exited, flapping regularly to maintain the same speed as the train.  Stan followed suit, but as the Pegasus was pushing the boxcar door closed, Fyrenn cast a fortunate glance over his shoulder.  He spied a Troll in the caboose moving to the window, and hissed, "Problem!  We have a problem!"

He snatched the salmon Pegasus in both claws, eliciting a small yelp, and dived out of sight.  Kephic and Varan vaulted for the top of the train, lying flat on the still-sun-warmed iron surface.  Kephic was facing rearward, and peered over the edge of the car to see the Troll leaning out the forward window of the caboose, scanning down the side of the train as it passed through a shallow left S-curve.

Below, Fyrenn had managed the near-impossible acrobatic feat of sliding between the wheel bogies of the car, and was grappled to the underside of the vehicle with his claws, Stan clutched uncomfortably beside him in the bowl of one wing.

"Don't mention this in future.  Ever."  Stan grunted from his squeezed feathery compartment.

Fyrenn chuckled, "Agreed."  A more serious expression took over his beak, and he shifted uncomfortably, "We can't risk looking.  We have to wait for the others."

As if on cue, Varan's head poked over the side of the car, "Clear."

Fyrenn gave Stan a nod, then tossed him clear of the undercarriage, the Pegasus' wings flaring to bear him aloft before he could strike the desert floor.  Fyrenn followed shortly thereafter, and the four companions slowed to bring themselves level with the final box-car.

The red Gryphon raised an eyebrow in surprise; the final car's door was bolted shut with a thick-set old style lock.  Without missing a beat, Varan spun around and latched onto the side of the car vertically, digging into the ledge of the door with his back claws and paw-pads for traction.

He inserted one of his right talons into the lock, and began to fiddle.  Moments later it came loose with a barely audible click, and he carefully un-threaded it, ensuring it would not fall free of the train and leave an indication that someone had been tampering.

As Fyrenn landed beside him in the freshly opened car, he grinned, "I had no idea you could do that."

Varan raised an eyebrow, "It is a useful talent."

Stan snorted as his hooves touched the floor, "I'll say.  Every once in awhile, I hate having hooves.  Just a little bit."

Fyrenn swept the compartment with his gaze, and stiffened, "Oh boy.  *This* changes things."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 3rd, Gregorian Calendar

Mr. Utah generally had a deep-running distaste for Cabinet meetings.  The HLF cabinet was divided into several groups based on their contributions to the front, all with codenames based on famous World War II nomenclature.

The meetings were held at a variety of locations, but the March one had been scheduled for the Retribution, and he felt he had the 'home field advantage.'

The HLF Submarine Retribution was based on an aging just-post-Winnowing design for a ballistic missile Earthgov interdiction vessel.  The hull had never been brought to launch phase, and Mr. Utah had managed to acquire it via his company ties, under the guise of repurposing the scrap to build low-income housing in New Roanoke.

In reality the hull had been shipped quietly to South America, where the HLF had poured hundreds of millions into making it its failsafe mobile command and control center.

It sported advanced anti-LADAR countermeasures, stolen from the latest Naval research projects, supercavitating high-ex AI-guided torpedoes, a VLS anti-ship and anti-aircraft SSAS missile system, four retractable deck-mounted railguns pilfered from aging littoral ships, all powered by a nuclear fusion reactor from a defunct manufacturing plant.

The vessel had a complement of thirteen AI that oversaw not just onboard subsystems, but the integrated server that acted as a secure comms hub for the Front.

The most recent use for the vessel had been ferrying Queen Chrysalis, batches of Changeling excretion, and the Pony prisoners the HLF trades for the excretion, to and from Equestria.

The submarine also had a well apportioned conference room, to host the Cabinet, and it was at the headmost right hand position of its center table that Mr. Utah sat.

At the head of the table, framed by a wall-screen, stood Mr. Stalin; the head of the HLF.  To his left Dr. Omaha.  The rest of the table was filled with the other members, seated by section, with the exception of Mrs. Juno, who was late; a fact Mr. Utah was savoring nearly as much as the cigarette he had swiftly consumed before entering the room.

He had 'intimated' to the boat CO that Mrs. Juno should not be cleared through security as swiftly as the other members of the cabinet.  It seemed petty, but nothing Mr. Utah ever did was purposeless; everything that happened in a Cabinet meeting was a subtle power struggle, and cutting Mrs. Juno off at the knees was an excellent compliment to his home field advantage.

When she finally arrived, the glower on his face attested to her clear realization that Mr. Utah had been responsible for her special treatment.  He offered her an expression that amounted to the closest analogue of a grin he had ever given another human being.

Mr. Stalin, a military general, as was obvious by his bearing and section, started the meeting without any preamble, "Phase-Three.  Where are we?"

He ruffled his graying military moustache in impatience, as Dr. Omaha stood, "We are on schedule to deliver ten units by the middle of the month, with a hundred more by the end."

Stalin nodded once abruptly, then brought his hands down on the steel table firmly, the sound resounding off the grating of the floor, and the metal ribs of the walls, despite their token faux-oak plating, "All right then.  Ragnar.  Talk to me."

Mr. Utah stood, and activated the screen with a subtle touch to his table terminal.  A wireframe image of the globe, including weather systems, indicators of varying types, and satellite tracks, appeared.  The Bubble was clearly visible as a large bluish blemish on the surface, with a dotted representation of the rest of the sphere that it truly was.

"The positioning will be correct for the operation, and according to the internal sources our 'Benefactor' has provided, the White Queen will be on-station as expected, in the City of Glass, leaving the Black Queen in the Marble Castle."

Mr. Stalin sensed a 'but' and glared.  Mr. Utah straightened his suit jacket, and continued, "We are, however, still in need of certain assets."

Mrs. Stuka, a prominent military general from Aircav section, stood and nodded at the screen, "The platforms have recieved software upgrades, as we feared.  We have the authentication indices true, but we still need a terminal with Danger-Red level command access, and we need to convince the AI governing that system of a Defcon-one situation."

Mr. Stalin leaned back, and crossed his arms, "Suggestions?"

Mr. Utah offered another smile, dropping the perceived temperature in the room, "I have a target in mind."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Fifth Day, Celestial Calendar

The dark, dank, oblong compartment was filled with crates.  Like the crates in the previous cars, they were tightly sealed.  Unlike the other crates, they were built of sturdy steel panels, and had air holes.

The space was bookended with metal desks, bolted to the walls and floors.  The sides of the spartan writing surfaces were made up of tightly locked cabinets.

Fyrenn took a cautious step towards one of the crates.  Empty.  He was about to turn his attention to the desks, when a slight rustle caught his ears.  the red tuft of cartilage and fur twitched, and he took another step, approaching the next crate in line.

When the emaciated muzzle poked out the air hole, he nearly jumped backwards in surprise, hissing in warning out of reflex.

"Helllp..."  The voice was little more than a dehydrated rasp.  Fyrenn leaned forward, and realized that the muzzle was Equine.  He shuddered, "My God!  They're Ponies!"

Another voice emanated from another crate, "Hello?! Who's out there?! Let us out! Please!!"

Kephic hissed slightly, "Ssssh! If you get any louder you are going to bring the guards down us!"

Fyrenn gestured to the locks on the crates, and glanced questioningly at Varan.  The golden Gryphon nodded, and set to work on the first crate.  Fyrenn went back to the desk, and began to exert pressure on the locked drawers.

They quietly popped open as he strained the latches well past breaking point with minimal exertion.  At the other desk, Carradan and Kephic had begun a similar process.  Fyrenn pulled a sheaf of paper from the first drawer, and began to read.

It didn't take him long to realize that the majority of the papers were ledgers for transactions.  Transactions in gems, gold, silver, steel tools, information.  And Ponies.

He spat in disgust, and shoved the papers back into the drawer.  He was about to turn away, when another sheaf caught his eye.  Extracting it carefully, he immediately realized it was a map, and accompanying text of some sort.  The text was in code, but the map clearly indicated a Gryphon settlement, and the best route to approach from, in the tactical sense.

Fyrenn quickly memorized the entire pair of documents, before replacing them.  Kephic caught the sheets up before they had even begun to settle, "We may as well take these.  Once we free these prisoners, they're going to know someone was here.  There is no point to stealth anymore."

The speckled Gryphon's tone was not resigned; rather it was close to gleeful.  Fyrenn wondered if the Diamond Dogs on the train had more to fear from *his* smouldering ire, or *Kephic's.*

There was a loud click as Varan finished with the first lock.  While Kephic folded the documents, and secreted them somewhere safely in his neck feathers, Fyrenn moved to get a better look at the prisoners.

They were, sure enough, a disheveled band of Ponies.  He inhaled sharply; they were nigh-emaciated from starvation and dehydration.  He shook his head in a mixture of restrained fury, and utter lack of understanding, "How did this happen?  Who *did* this to you?"

The eldest of the group, a dark purple colt with a graying mane, wheezed an answer, "Trade convoy... There was a raid... We didn't even have time to call for help."

Varan glanced up from picking the second lock, "You are safe now."

Carradan offered a sheltering wing to the group, guiding them to the door for fresh air.  The second lock came undone in short order, and a somewhat less bedraggled group of Ponies were set free.

Kephic spoke in undertones with the mare in charge, while Fyrenn and Varan went through the second desk.  There were more ledgers, and a series of maps with attached coded text; some indicated Gryphon settlements, others trade convoys, and still others fringe Equestrian settlements.

Fyrenn thumped one of the maps with a claw, "This is more than simple posturing attacks.  I wondered... it didn't seem any of the past night raids accomplished anything except to..."  He trailed off as the truth hit him.

Varan finished for him calmly, "To test our defenses, and distract us."

Fyrenn nodded, and scratched absently at his head-feathers, "But why the trade convoys and Pony settlements?  The prevailing suspicion was that these raiders were working, by proxy, for the PER... the PER doesn't do abductions..."

Varan nodded, "Troubling development."

"Understatement."

Kephic strode over, looking perturbed, "The second group are newfoals.  Their over-land group was attacked between settlements,"  He glanced between Fyrenn and Varan, rage boiling in his golden eyes, giving them a distinctly volcanic aspect, "I think this is past the point of stealth.  Or diplomacy."

To Fyrenn's mild surprise, Varan was the first to express support, "Agreed.  I will take Stanley and decouple our carriage from the next."

Fyrenn smiled, a decidedly unsettling expression in the context, "That leaves me and Kephic the caboose.  I think I'm going to enjoy this more than I should."

Kephic shook his head, "No you won't."  He turned to the door and unsheathed his sword, "You can never enjoy something like this too much."

The first indication that there was trouble came in the form a jolt.  The four Trolls in the caboose were playing a simplistic form of card game, and their deck leapt into the air, scattering the cards all over the compartment.

The one in charge, a massive brown wall of meat covered in battle scars, spoke first, "What that?"

One of his subordinates moved to the window, and peered out at the desert.  It took his brain several seconds to process the input, "We... slowing down?"

He turned back to face the table.  With a jaw-dropping abruptness, an arrow sprouted from his forehead, tip bathed in orange-tinted blood.

The other three Trolls were taken so much by surprise, that they could not find the impetus to move, even as their comrade pitched forward lifelessly onto the table, upending it in a shower of bits, gems, cards, and bodily fluid.

The veteran fighter was the first to regain composure, snatching his large gnarled crossbow from a net at the top of the car filled with weapons.

The device was made of rusted iron, but the cables were freshly cleaned steel.  It was not as precise, or well made, as the Gryphon equivalent, but it was twisted with far more and thicker cables, giving it easily five times the piercing force.

The bolts in the chamber were claw-sharpened shards of pure granite.

The veteran scrambled over the body of his dead pack-mate, and smashed out the left window with a fisted paw, not even stopping to think about the glass slivers, which did very little to break the surface of his hardened skin and weathered fur.

The attacker was a red Gryphon, with a compound recurve bow, and he had already knocked another arrow to the string.  The veteran fired without thinking.

Outside, Fyrenn spun, neatly dodging the granite bolt, and releasing his own arrow at the same time.  The weapon, a hollow seamless alloy tube, buried itself up to the fins in the Diamond Dog's skull.  But he didn't drop.

Fyrenn swiftly prepared another arrow, as the Troll scrambled to add a new bolt to his own crossbow.  Before either of them could fire, the tip of another type of quarrel abruptly appeared in the Troll's throat.

The combination of arrows finally felled the giant, revealing Kephic on the other side of the carriage, arbalest in-claw.

Fyrenn seized the opportunity to dive into the caboose, via the smashed window.  He eschewed the hidden blades on his bow; the remaining Trolls were clearly inexperienced omegas.  With a heavy blow from a fisted claw, he laid the first out unconscious.  The second surrendered.

As Fyrenn knelt to bind him, he hissed in the creature's ear, "You will *sorely* wish you had fought me, and died swiftly."

As it turned out, the veteran Troll was the pack Alpha.  He was also capable of, apparently, surviving even an arrow to the brain, followed by a quarrel to the throat.

The meaty Troll, along with his two remaining Omegas, were lined up on the floor of the box-car, bound tightly with spare steel wire from a toolbox.  Carradan had guided the freed Ponies to the outcropping where the group's armor was stored, and divvied up the provisions to them.

The group had determined, unanimously, that the best course was to blow the entire food and water stash on their new protectees, so that they would be capable of reaching the next nearest neutral settlement.

Kephic and Fyrenn were bent over the coupling between the caboose and the box-car.  The caboose had a fold-out paw/hoof/claw crank to spin the wheels, so the plan had quickly become to put the group into the vehicle, and have Stanley and Varan work the machinery while Kephic and Fyrenn flew scouting duty to prevent a collision.

The Gryphons estimated it was no more than a few hours' journey to the nearest station, from which the train had originally come.

All that remained was to deal with the Trolls.

The coupling finally came loose with a satisfying 'CLANK,' at the insistence of Fyrenn and Kephic's claws.  The Gryphons signaled Varan, who cranked the Caboose a few hundred yards down the track to the south, away from the box-car.

Stan arrived back at approximately the same time as Varan returned; between himself and the less bedraggled members of the freed Equines, they had retrieved the group's armor.

Silently, and grimly, the Gryphons suited-up; glittering and menacing plates lending them an almost legendary air.  Fyrenn's armor was sleek; chrome-like in appearance with bronze-colored trimming in a similarly burnished material.

Kephics was of similar design, but the metal resembled brushed aluminum, with the colorless chrome of Fyrenn's armor bearing nearly identical appearance to his trim.  Varan's armor was the same combination of colors as Fyrenn's, but more angular, darker, and less shiny, like gunmetal.

All three suits bore the brothers' clan emblem in various places; Fyrenn's was on a foreleg shoulder guard, Kephic's on the upper left of his chest, and Varan's on a wing joint guard.

When they had finished, much to the silent awe of the assembled Ponies, Kephic gestured to Stan, and the caboose, "I think you'd better take them along.  They aren't going to want to see what's next."

Stan winced, and quietly did as he was asked.  He knew enough about the brothers to know that they, like all Gryphons, took an exceedingly dim view of slavery.  And what Gryphons took a dim view of, they seldom allowed to die painlessly.

Fyrenn, Kephic, and Varan stepped into the box-car; expressions murderously calm.

The Alpha spat, missing Fyrenn's back paws by a millimeter, "Foolish Gryphons!  Let us go!  NOW."

Fyrenn smiled, an intentionally sickly sweet expression, and leaned in close, "Now... why would we do that?  You're not very bright are you... Do you know what the punishment is, in the Kingdoms, for keeping slaves?"

One of the Omegas whimpered, "But! We not in Kingdoms?!"

Kephic inclined his head, nodding, "True, true... But then no Gryphon has ever been known to keep a slave... So the law is not really for *us.*"

The Smaller Troll looked up, confused, "No?"

Varan lunged, cutting the movement short a feather's breadth from the Diamond Dog's muzzle, "No.  Its for you.  As is the punishment."

Fyrenn rounded on the Alpha, a sarcastic note of cheerfulness in his tone, "Death!"  He grinned, his beak twisted into an instrument of terrifying lethality, "And not a swift one."

Varan reached outside the car, and hefted a large crate, pilfered from the caboose, into the space.  He dropped it with a resounding metallic noise, and the contents spilled out onto the floor.  Then the Diamond Dogs understood.

The Omegas promptly soiled themselves in abject terror.  Even the alpha looked shaken.

Fyrenn grinned once more, "Not that you could justify what you did to those Ponies... But have you any final words?"

The three Gryphons approached the caboose on claw and paw, walking sedately, and conversing in low tones about the best route home.  Stan met them at the stairway to the vehicle, "I almost don't wanna ask but... what did you do to those poor buckers?"

As if in answer, flames burst from the doors and roof of the boxcar, as the coal-fed fire within reached critical mass, and melted the weaker portions of the metal.

Fyrenn sighed, "We locked them in their own slave cages."

Kephic nodded, "We didn't feel it was fair to *lock* them in though, so we tied the eyelets of the doors shut.  We left them each a flint and steel.  It seemed the sporting thing..."

Varan raised an eyebrow, "I wonder which of them broke and took his chances first.  It would be an intriguing look at the pack dynamic under duress."

Stan shivered, "You know, sometimes I'm afraid to sleep near you guys."

Kephic clapped him on the shoulder, his expression taking on a serious, but comforting bent; the corners of his beak turned up in a sad smile, "You know us better than that.  You know the species better than that."

Stan nodded, "I know.  But still... You guys are some cold mother... err...  cold feathered beasties."

Fyrenn glanced over his shoulder, taking in the howls of unquantifiable pain coming from the boxcar, "Oh yes.  Won't argue that one."

Chapter 4

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 4th, Gregorian Calendar

Neyla had been enamoured with Human flying machines since the first time she laid eyes on one.  That a species bound by gravity, and not naturally possessed of wings, would put such time and effort into crafting such powerful extensions of themselves to tame the sky, was telling.

Given her time with the JRSF, Neyla had learned to identify nearly every type in current military service, and had even studied several historical craft.  She was amazed by the bravery it must have taken to trust such weak bodies to such piecemeal fragile machines, in combat situations.

Most of the craft on the Northolt tarmac were cargo transports, VTOLs, or heavy gunships;  but a few sleeker shapes in the mouths of distant hangars marked the presence of a wing of FA-26 Scythe fighters.

The air was thick with the scent of synthetic aviation fuel, a commodity reserved almost exclusively for military use given that its only advantage over electric fuel-cell powered engines were the indispensable tactical traits of speed and acceleration.

Neyla had come to love the smells of Human military life.  To be sure, it was not quite the familiar tang of leather, warm feathers, and hot steel; but it had an indellible kinship born from the enduring warrior qualities in both worlds.

As a lone fighter thundered overhead, dull sky leaving a small flash of metallic fervor on the tailfins, Neyla smiled and bent to the crate before her.

Her Scalebuster unit was being recalled to New York and, as such, new and repaired gear had been issued to replace anything damaged or missing from the Dubai assault, or any gear that might have become dated during their deployment.

The crates had been shipped, one per member of the team, fresh from the Dublin armories, to meet them at their layover in London.  The next leg of the flight would be unseasonably long, as the craft would have to navigate around the barrier.  Soon enough, it would be simpler to fly over all of Eurasia towards the Western Americas rather than take the arcing path through the Northern Atlantic.

Neyla gave the gear in the crate a once-over; a new RAC-9 repeating semi-automatic DMR railcarbine designed specifically for Gryphons, spare pistol ammunition clips, a new case of modified stun grenades with secondary EMP charges to disable potion dispersers, and five newer model magne-javelins.

Tirinel snorted as he lumbered past, a brace of multiple crates slung between his wings containing his own gear, "I will never understand how your kind can do so much damage with such small weapons."

The blue and beige Gryphoness grinned slyly, "Timing and accuracy.  But a big flashy ice-breather like you wouldn't know much about that."

Tirinel smirked in return, the expression so slight that the average onlooker wouldn't have caught it at all, "As you say; I am an ice-breather.  I do not need accuracy, merely my excellent lung capacity, and sufficient cause to be angry."

Neyla's smile became less mischievous, and more genuinely approving, "You certainly did a good job with that big red."

The silver Dragon nodded once in agreement and reciprocation, "As did you."

Neyla followed Tirinel into the rear of a CVA-5 superheavy cargo jet.  The Dragon was able to fit with room to spare for other passengers and crates, given that the vehicle was designed originally to carry six tanks.

Neyla strapped her gear crate into an open slot, then waved and stepped back to the ramp.  Tirinel raised an eyebrow, or at least the analogous scale plate, "You're not coming?"

Neyla shrugged, the gesture raising both of her wings a few inches in a fashion humans seemed to find highly comical in its mimicry of their own movement, "I wanted to fly myself.  Get some endurance training in, and have some time to think.  See you in New York."

Tirinel nodded, as technicians helped him to secure his own plethora of gear crates, "Be safe, and have fair winds."  The Dragon, like most of his kind, did not have the endurance to make the trip at the same speed Neyla could.

She smiled and descended the ramp, cinching her arbalest and short scimitars tight in their straps.  Those particular pieces of gear never left her side; they were of Gryphic make, and had been her weapons of choice for decades.

Neyla sighed, and cast an eye to the teal and gray dome above.  It wasn't the Equestrian sky she knew and loved, but it had a certain magnificent desolation to it, and there were times she enjoyed the feeling of being utterly alone in a void.

She extended her wings, and glided away, parallel to the runway.  When she reached the end, she flapped hard and gained altitude quickly, catching the downdraft from a departing CAA-7 to provide a quick shortcut to added momentum.

As she leveled off and settled into a long-range rhythm and speed, she reflected that as many times as she had been grateful for the solitude, there were twice as many times that it had eaten away at her soul like tendrils of ice.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Sixth Day, Celestial Calendar

Sangre Naranja was true to its name; orange and bloody.  Fyrenn shook his head slowly as he observed what passed for a peacekeeping force in the town end a particularly heated debate between a Lupine Diamond Dog and a Vulpine.  Forcefully.

Fyrenn leaned against a rickety wooden railing, and swept his eyes up and down the main, and only street in the town.  Ramshackle wooden and plate-iron buildings were interspersed with intermittent domes of stucco.

The town's populace was mostly composed of Diamond Dogs, Buffalo, and the occasional straggling Zebra.  At the end of Main Street, a large rail depot and station fed off into a series of covered pits for ore and cargo.

The Gryphons had inspected the site from above, but seen no further evidence of slave trafficking.  As such, Kephic and Stan had remained just outside the town until Fyrenn and Varan could scope it out.  When it had been deemed more or less 'safe,' the bedraggled string of Ponies had been led in, and put up in whatever tavern or hotel rooms could be found.

Though it had nearly taken the entire cache of bits and silver bars that the group had brought along, they had still managed to maintain enough spare currency to purchase provisions for a trip further south.

All had agreed that it would be highly unsafe for the freed Ponies to proceed alone; the flaming example the Gryphons had made of the slaving pack would surely draw attention to the missing Equines within days, if not hours.

Fyrenn and Stan had volunteered to watch over the group while Kephic and Varan made the necessary foodstuff purchases.  Carradan had been swamped by the foals of the group, who were clambering over his wings as if he were a jungle gym, and their new adoptive uncle, all in one.

The red Gryphon smiled at their resilience; children of any culture, and race, seemed to have the durability of granite, and the flexibility of rubber.

He shifted as his ears detected the pit-pat-pit-pat of small hooves to his right.  He chuckled, "You're not scared of me?"

Fyrenn turned to see the young colt shaking his head slowly, "Nnnnoo..." The colt cocked his head to the side, "I'm Roughshod.  How old are you?"

Fyrenn laughed outright, and closed his eyes for a moment, counting mentally.  It had been some time since anyone had asked him his age, "Thirty one.  What about you?"

Roughshod placed his front hooves on the wooden railing, and peered up into Fyrenn's eyes unflinchingly, "Seven.  My mom says Gryphons are dangerous... is that true?"

"Oh yes,"  Fyrenn nodded slowly, "...but only to bad people."

"Like those Trolls?"

"Yes.  Like those Trolls."  Fyrenn sighed and stretched his wings, "You sure your mom would be ok with you talking to me?  Especially about this?"

Roughshod shuffled his hoof idly, "Mmmm... Not sure.  Mom's not here.  The Trolls took me on the way back from a trip to granddad's."  The colt sighed, and Fyrenn thought he noticed a small teardrop in his eye, "Mom prolly thinks I'm dead now... I don't know how to find her again..."

Fyrenn flared his right wing, tucking it around the young Earth Pony protectively, "Don't you even worry a little about it.  I'll help you find her.  Where do you live?"

"Neighvada."

"And that's exactly where we're going."  Fyrenn gave the colt a light shove with his wing, "Now, if you want to get an easy laugh; go ask Stan why his coat is pink."

As Roughshod bolted off to rejoin his playmates in harassing Carradan, Varan stepped out of the general store, "Are you sure you don't wish for a fledgeling of your own?"

Fyrenn snorted, "Hell no; I'm sure I *do.*  But I don't think I'm ready for a *mate* and I'm not about to put some poor fledgeling through the added stress of having only one parent, when they could have two."

He shrugged his wings, and turned his head to fix Varan with a mock glare, "Besides; I'm a lousy cook."

Varan began to chuckle.  As Kephic arrived with sacks of food, and a quizzical expression, Fyrenn nodded slowly, "I mean, *really* lousy."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 4th, Gregorian Calendar

The Lucapa facility; six hundred acres of fabrication, quality control, assembly, fuelling, and storage space in central Africa.  The Genesist-run base was the first, last, and only viable attempt Humans were ever going to get at escaping Earth without Converting.

Lucapa was essentially mankind's only starship factory; massive pits, hangars, and gantries filling the desert floor, to the point that they were visible from orbit.  The objective was to assemble large, silvery, arrow-head shaped sleeper-ships.

The Genesists would load the vessels with frozen humans in cryogenic pods, provisions of all types, and  data-cores containing copies of the internet, and every database on the planet.

Most of the funding for the initiative, and the party, came from high level pro-human constituents with major business connections.  The remainder was paid for by mining operations beneath the base; the Genesists opted to sell off any materials that didn't have a direct connection to the construction of their starships, and the profit was enough to keep the organization afloat.  Barely.

The northernmost end of the immense compound was comprised of personnel facilities, labs, processing stations, and a large observatory.

The latter was a cylindrical multi-story steel and glass building, with a satellite plexus on the roof.  Inside, a cadre of Pony mages, Human scientists, and even a few Zebra astronomers worked tirelessly to find a few intrepid colonists a potential new home.

A constellation of orbiting satellites, each fitted with a bevy of telescopic lenses, particle detectors, and long-range sensor palettes, searched the Milky Way for clusters of habitable worlds with precisely the right criteria to fulfill the explorers' needs.

Far above, out beyond the taint of the ruined atmosphere, satellite GN-A-11-C opened the aperture of its detection aparati to the influx of cosmic radiation whizzing through the void.

The plethora of useful information impacted the metal and glass of the sensors, registering terabytes of data in the space of mere moments.  Within the space of another microsecond, the data had been transmitted down to Lucapa base.

The stream of compressed information, translated into invisible wavelengths, struck the observatory satellite dish, and was instantly retranslated to computer code.  From there, it wound its way through a half hectare of positronic matrices held inside server racks.

Multiple task-specific AI sifted each tiny fragment of information, cross-referencing their findings with more general-purpose constructs, and collating the data for final review.

On the fifth pass of the final overall filtration, the carbon-searching AI nicknamed 'Bellicose' discovered a level one green flag.  Upon cross-referencing, multiple overseer programs were able to determine that there were no less than seventy two green flags, ranging from levels three to one.

Within five more seconds, the data had been fully prepared for viewing, and transmitted to a console.

Councilor Janet Martins had come to expect and accept the reality of late night phone calls.  When her prefered communications DaTab began emitting an attention demanding trill in harmony with her bedroom wallscreen, she knew the situation was more pressing than a simple diplomatic call.

As head of the Genesist party, Martins was responsible not only for her duties as an Earthgov Councilor, but also for administratively overseeing the Genesist Initiative itself.  Those who knew her well enough to have some idea of her workload often speculated as to the source of her seemingly supernatural stores of energy and patience.

She sat up, rubbed at her eyes, and took a moment to force her graying auburn hair out of her vision cone.  A swift check indicated that the calls to her screen, and DaTab, were both from the Lucapa facility, so she opted to answer the DaTab given that it was close to three AM local time, and all she had on was a faux-silk nightgown.

She pressed the accept key, and was treated to a spinning circle inscribed with the words, 'Establishing Secure Link: Standby'

Martins sighed, and set the DaTab back on the nightstand, thumbing the 'SPKR' key as she did so.  She stood, stretched, and glanced around her newly issued apartment.  The lights were at their dimmest setting, with illumination provided only by a few discreet floor lights, and the glow emanating from the city of Vancouver, visible through the floor to ceiling east-facing windows.

The space was mostly bare; the items that had adored Martins' Harrisburg residence were still mostly packed into a series of crates, stacked in the corner of the living room.  She had no plans to unpack; the apartment was a temporary solution, intended to provide a space for sleeping until the official diplomatic quarters of the new Earthgov Vancouver Council Facility were complete.

As she stepped to the refrigerator, and withdrew an energy drink, the DaTab finally made a connection, chirruped once, and went to the call.

A male voice Martins recognized as her chief Unicorn Mage emanated from the speaker, "Councilor?"

She took a draught of the synthetic fruit juice, laced with vitamins and a caffeine substitute, before answering, "I'm here Astris."  Martins tapped a control on the countertop, and brought the wallscreen on, set to a muted newsfeed.

The voice on the other end of the DaTab paused, then spoke with barely restrained excitement, "Councilor; how soon can you be here?"

The Councilor glanced at the DaTab with an expression of mixed confusion and curiosity, "We're in the middle of emergency deliberations to repeal a tax bill.  What's the rush?"

Astris took an audible breath of anticipation, before speaking again, "Because... we... we think we found it.  We've found our destination."

Martins paused, staring, before dashing to the nightstand, and abruptly shoving the lighting control to maximum, "Expect me by tomorrow."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Seventh Day, Celestial Calendar

"Octal for your thoughts?"

It took Fyrenn several seconds to process the voice. Octals were the small gold, silver, and bronze octagonal coins that Gryphons used for currency.  Every coin had a series of pits on one side, and corresponding nubs on the other so that they could fasten together in rods for easy counting, carrying, and storage.

Fyrenn glanced over at Kephic, and grimaced, "Trying to reason out how we're going to go about breaking the codes we discovered."

Kephic shook his head emphatically, and dipped one wing to account for an updraft generated by the morning sun, "It takes more specifically trained minds than ours.  We'll head home; restock, and relay what we now know."

The pair flew on in silence for several more moments, soaking up the warm morning sun.  Below, Varan flew at a slower pace and much lower altitude, conversing with a mother and her foal, as Stan helped guide the rest of the group down the dirt road to Neighvada.

Sleep and nutrition had done wonders for the Ponies, enough that their powerful metabolisms had come to bear once more.  Fyrenn knew they would reach Neighvada within half an hour.

He stared down at Roughshod, who was trotting in tandem with Stanley, pestering him with questions.  To Fyrenn's amusement, and pride, Carradan was smiling, laughing, and fielding the constant stream of chatter with incredible grace and kindness.

"Do you have any idea where to start with finding his mother?"  Kephic cocked his head slightly, and followed Fyrenn's gaze.

The red Gryphon nodded, "There is a Royal Guard contingent on-station thanks to the recent unrest.  She will have doubtless been on their doorstep every hour of every day begging for answers."

Kephic nodded sagely, "I'd expect nothing less from a worried parent."

After another forty minutes of amicable silence, Neighvada was at last large on the horizon.  Within another five minutes, the group had entered the city.  The large settlement was a study in juxtapositions; traditional Equestrian architecture reminiscent of the late middle ages, mixed-in with adobe buildings crafted from natural clay and sand deposits found nearby.

Technologically, the city was nearly as eclectic as its architecture.  Heavy initial newfoal immigration, a pre-existing enclave of Gryphons, and the Diamond Dogs attracted by the nearby mines; all had lent their unique concepts to the city's infrastructure.

Magelights were interspersed with torches, and more modern gas-powered street lamps.  Some of the foundries and metal refineries were powered by traditional bellows, others had powerful boiler-driven blowers and mechanical smoke-stacks.

Tellingly, the Town Watch arrived to meet the group at the north entrance of the city.  Five stocky Pegasi in Royal Guard Armor; muzzles fixed with the same stony expression members of the corps always seemed to wear.

Fyrenn and Kephic made a swift landing, and the former offered a curt nod to the Sergeant of the Guard, "Greetings.  We freed these Ponies from a pack of Diamond Dog slavers, moving northwards.  We'll need some help arranging safe lodging and later transport for the dislocated, and I know at least one of them lives here and needs help finding his family."

The Sergeant nodded, "We'll make all the appropriate arrangements."  His gaze swept the Gryphons, "Any report you could give us on the state of the land to the north of us would be greatly appreciated."

Varan inclined his head, "Consider it done."

Varan departed with a master-at-arms, while Kephic and Stan herded the majority of the freed prisoners towards the garrison.  Fyrenn singled out Roughshod, and took up a slow walking pace beside him, "You ready to see your mom again?"

The young Colt nodded emphatically, and yawned.  Fyrenn smiled.

"You are sure of this?"

For a response, Varan merely nodded once.  The Master-at-arms winced involuntarily, "This bodes ill for us.  There *have* been more disappearances in the region of-late.  Now perhaps we know why."

The chart-room of the garrison was old; stucco construction with low hanging wooden roof-beams.  The lighting was still provided by torches; an example of Equine stubbornness and resistance to change.

Large maps of the Equestrian Nation hung on the walls in tapestry form, while regional charts on papyrus covered the surface of the main oaken table.

Varan had spread out the maps pilfered from the train, and helped the Master-at-arms to make a set of detailed copies to be sent to the Commander of the Guard in Canterlot.

The older Stallion smiled at Varan, "Thank you; your raid may have given us information that will prevent future tragedies."

Varan returned the smile and rose, stretching, "I hope so.  I certainly hope so."

The house was modest; wooden construction with wattle and daub structuring.  All the lamps inside were lit to hold out the evening dimness, and Fyrenn's ears detected the subtle hints of conversation inside; a fact he verified with his eyes as they pierced the veils of the curtains to reveal a female Earth Pony, and two female Pegasi, comforting her and helping her to prepare a meal.

Fyrenn shifted his wings, and fisted his claw to deliver a slight rap to the weathered acacia wood door.  The conversation instantly died.  Seconds later, there was a sound of hoofsteps, and the door opened.

Fyrenn smiled down at the Earth Pony mare, and gently shifted his right wing to reveal Roughshod; sleeping soundly on his back, head to the side, chest rising and falling, tiny snores emanating from his throat.

The mare gaped, tears of joy and shock welling in her eyes.  She charged forward and then, with surprising grace, gently shifted Roughshod to her own back.  The young colt whimpered in his sleep, then smiled and sighed contentedly as he sensed the scent and heartbeat of his mother.

The mother smiled up at Fyrenn, her expression conveying more than words ever could.  She didn't speak, neither did the Gryphon.  He merely smiled in return, nodded once, then turned and walked down the front steps of the porch.

The red toned Gryphon turned as he reached the street, extending his wings for flight.  He stole a final glance at the reunited mother and son, soaking up the warmth of the moment he had been party to creating.

Fyrenn smiled, holding back tears of his own as he took to the sky.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 5th, Gregorian Calendar

For years, ever since he had been assigned his post at Fort Hamilton, Hutch had enjoyed stepping out for lunch, rather than partaking in the officers' mess.

He enjoyed the opportunity to sit, away from his work, and simply observe passers-by; taking the pulse of the city.  The General's preferred Lunchroom was a small venue renting out the base floor of an older Skyscraper a block from the Fort.

As far as Hutch knew, the proprietor intended to continue operating at least one final week before evacuating.  The General had made a point of coming for lunch every day, for he knew he would miss the restaurant; it had become something of an avatar to him for the loss of New York itself.

Hutch stepped through the front door, and sighed with a twinge of remorse.  The crowd was light, and the door was plastered with an evacuation notice.  The General straightened his gray digital camouflage jacket, bringing the lone red stripe into line, and helped himself to a seat in the back of the room.

He smiled, and waved to the proprietor; a young man with a dark green apron, shock of blond hair, and thickset circular cosmetic glasses, returned the gesture.  He knew Hutch's usual preference; a thick BLT sandwich, made with real Equestrian ingredients, fruit juice, and a hot coffee.

The General fiddled with the rank chevrons at his collar; five interlocking gold chevrons, two of which were stamped with silver stars.  He watched the patrons for a few moments; several Humans, a family of Ponies, and even a lone Gryphon, before shifting his focus to the street beyond.

Most of the street traffic was either utility vehicles, or transport trucks ferrying people and their belongings to the airports, seaports, or train stations.  Foot traffic had also diminished, with most of the passers-by walking quickly and keeping their eyes fixed on the pavement; subtle indications of nervousness and despair.

Sometimes, when the sun was out in Equestria, a current of lighter mood could be felt as a result of the warmth, and golden light.  But it was a cloudy day in both worlds, and public moods were mirroring the weather.

Hutch refocused on the Lunchroom as his meal arrived; the floors were a classic teak-like synthetic surface, the walls were painted a pleasant shade of beige, trimming was composed of faux gold, and the finishing touches came in the form of a green granite bar top, and tabletops.

The General offered the proprietor another smile, "Thanks Len."  He spent several minutes indulging in his sandwich, relishing in the divine taste of real, juicy, fresh meat and vegetables.  While Ponies were responsible for the import of most of Earth's fresh food, they had deep running inhibitions against meat.  Most beef and pork products came from the Gryphon Kingdoms, with the surplus being picked up by Minotaurs.

Hutch had finished his sandwich, and just begun his coffee, when he was abruptly jarred by the arrival of a second guest at his table.  The General had been so preoccupied staring into the swirls and bubbles of his after-lunch drink, that he hadn't noticed the man's approach.

It took him several seconds to fully register the newcomer; beige trench coat, black slacks, cream colored suit, and matching fedora.

Hutch sat back and shook his head, "Matthas Korvan.  What's the matter?  Looking for a job?  I suggest you look elsewhere; you're not really military material."

Korvan slowly removed his chapeu, and set it lightly on the table, "General.  I'm not here to beg.  I'm not here to search for a job.  And I'm certainly not here to be insulted."

The General snorted, and took a large sip of his coffee, "Oh?  Then what are you here for, because I have very little else for you besides insults, and I'm not ashamed to admit it."

The ex-Councilor sighed and leaned back in his chair, "You and most of Manhattan, General.  But I'm not here to receive anything from you, but to deliver something *to* you."

Hutch merely raised an eyebrow, the disdainful expression twisting his lip was question, and opinion, enough that he didn't need works.

Korvan leaned forward conspiratorially, "I'm here with a warning.  I hear you've met my... 'successor.' "

Another snort prefaced Hutch's response, "If you're referring to the insufferable woman who's clothing is the only thing as loud as her jumped-up arrogant.."

Matthas slammed a fist into the table, rattling Hutch's cup in its saucer, "Hutchinson! Do *not* underestimate this woman.  You're making..."  Korvan glanced around before lowering his tone once more, "You're making the same mistake I did.  And it cost me my seat on the Council.  More than that; very soon there won't be a New York left, and without a representative district, my political career is going to suffer mightily as a result of my impeachment."

Hutch chuckled, "You enjoy understatement almost as much as you enjoy undercutting others don't you?"

Korvan snatched up his hat and stood, glowering, "I don't give a damn what you think of me General, and I expect you don't much care for my opinion of you as a man either; but you've always struck me as a discerning military leader so please take my advice.  Have care for Menera Loryss.  She.  Is.  Dangerous."

Without any further preamble, or parting gesture, Korvan stormed out of the lunchroom, collar turned up against the wind.

Hutch breathed deeply, widening his eyes momentarily, before picking up his coffee and finishing it in a slow, thoughtful drought.

Chapter 5

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Ninth Day, Celestial Calendar

Fyrenn enjoyed evening watch.  The comfort of smouldering coals, bracingly fresh cool air, a full stomach, and keen eyes was surpassed only by the comfort of the presence of his family.  He tilted one russet tufted ear backwards, indulging in the sound of the group's calm rhythmic breathing.

The group had departed Neighvada that morning, having sent word of their forthcoming return to the Gryphon capital by messenger the previous night.  All had agreed that a full sleep cycle in actual beds would be beneficial before actually setting out.

Fyrenn stared out over the side of the hill the group had chosen to camp on; Pine trees, interspersed with occasional hardwoods, blanketed the grassy slope all the way down to a small stream, where the landscape changed over into a pastoral plain that stretched on for miles to the south.

The scene was well lit, for a Gryphon, by the illumination of the moon and stars above.  Equestria's sky was a stunning expanse of black velvet, studded with glittering diamonds and silver.

Fyrenn was never sure what he loved most; the wonderfully unique, ever-changing, always-welcoming sky, or the verdant and diverse land below.  Having grown up with no plants, no animals, no sun, and no moon, he was sometimes struck with a simple gratitude for the blessing of a living world.

As much as he relished the expanses of earth and sky, he relished even more his ability to defy gravity and be master of either.  When he was known as Isaac Wrenn, he had suffered a degenerative condition in his eyes.  Wrenn had been reduced to wearing barely semi-legal SONAR-based implants that painted his world in a cruelly color-devoid palette of digitized blues and teals.

He had also been barred from the one career he had desired above all things, even since childhood; becoming a fighter pilot.  On reflection, Fyrenn had often wondered if he had always been a Gryphon-in-spirit without quite knowing it.  From the earliest of ages he could remember whizzing through the house barefooted, a small model of a Scythe clutched in-hand, imaging ever-growing exploits of daring and bravery in the battlefield of the sky.

But at last, he had wings of his own on which to explore and tame the heavens, and he wouldn't have traded them for anything.

Nonetheless, deep down, Fyrenn continued to wonder what it would have been like to pilot a sleek fighting craft at speeds well in excess of the sound barrier.  He unconsciously reached up to rub his eyes. grateful for their clarity and power.

The condition that had befallen his human ocular organs had not been natural;  most natural ailments could be treated with gene therapy, but the damage had been utterly inoperable.  The severity of the injury had been the result of a bioplasmic grenade.

Fyrenn winced at a flash of memory; an impassioned plea for change, an enraged and twisted face, and the image of the grenade as it arced above his head, framed by the sight picture of his sidearm as he pulled the trigger, the barrel aimed squarely at the occipital lobe of his best friend.

Robert Gilchrist.  Or more appropriately; Robert Gavin, although the man had also gone by many other aliases as a result of his time at the helm of the PER.  One he had been Isaac Wrenn's closest friend, when the young man was still human, and still working as a bodyguard for an Earthgov Councilor.

Gilchrist had changed everything on that fateful day; entering the Council chamber to attempt an assassination via bioplasmic grenade; a reaction triggered by anti-interspecies marriage laws intended to boost Conversion rates.

Fyrenn had thought his friend dead, by his own hand; the pall of his actions and inactions had haunted him for years.

The russet and burgundy Gryphon jolted, a wave of painful emotions coursing through his soul with a severity that he hadn't felt since the day of Gilchrist's *actual* death, three years previous.  The flash of pain brought with it a vague image; a pair of red narrowed eyes, framed by skeletal eye sockets.

Fyrenn jolted once more, physically, and peered into the darkness.  Every fibre of his predatory muscles tensed, wings prepared for flight, legs cocked like springs, claws digging into the grass beneath him ever so slightly.

A voice at his side brought his head around slightly, one eye focused on the owner, with the other still trained partially on the area of his suspicions, "See something?"

Kephic moved with the grace and silence of a stalking lion, coming to stand quietly at Fyrenn's side, gazing out across the plains in the direction of the red Gryphon's body.

Fyrenn shook his head slowly, "I'm not sure."

The answer was highly unusual; Gryphons were rarely unsure of something they had seen, possessing the not merely the best eyes of any living creature, but a spectacular photographic memory similar to that of Alicorns, Dragons, and Changelings.

Kephic raised an eyebrow.  Fyrenn inhaled deeply, "I... thought I saw eyes.  Red eyes."

His monochromatic brother stiffened reflexively, the edges of his beak turning downwards in a sharp angle of concern, "Wisp?"

Fyrenn inclined his head in acknowledgement.  The two Gryphons stood for nearly a quarter hour in total silence; the only movement their eyes, ever scanning and re-scanning the world before them.

They had encountered the creatures' direct presence only once, but the battle had very nearly cost them their lives.  Their appearance was like a demon; the skeleton of a Pony with a scorpion tail that could whip deadly barbs and pierce bone, armor, and flesh.

The creatures had an aura of energy; the true being possessing the bones,that had the capacity to pull the fragments back together if they were not sufficiently separated.  Not only did the Wisps possess reflexes and movement speeds equal to a Gryphon, they also possessed the ability to reflect and manipulate emotions in others, fostering negativity and feeding off of it in turn.

After the feeling of tactical concern and dread had finally passed fully, Kephic turned to his brother with an expression of more familial concern, "Are you alright?"

Fyrenn sighed, and nodded.  He allowed the silence to pass for several more seconds before replying slowly, "I want to thank you again.  I know we've had this conversation before... but it still bears saying.  You did me a greater kindness than you'll ever fully know."

He gazed at Kephic, recalling the expression of equal parts grim resolve, and satisfaction, that had graced the speckled Gryphon's face as the resounding 'crack' of his rifle's shot died away.  The shot that ended Gilchrist's life, so that Fyrenn's could be spared.  And so that he might *be* spared the burden of ending Robert's life a second time, or worse; coming to terms with a dim facsimile of forgiveness.

Kephic slung a wing around his brother in a brief hug, "I think I understand.  And as I've said before; you will always have my support, and my love, and my blade.  As you did then."

They stood in a more comfortable silence, reminiscing, until the crack of an ember from the fire brought them back to the present.  Kephic sighed, "Do you ever think about... her?  Where she went?  What she's doing now?  How we'll find her?"

Both Gryphons knew the unspoken antecedent to the nameless pronoun.  The driving evil *behind* Gilchrist's own foolishness.  The purple coated, navy maned mare who had vanished in a starlike apparition, after forcing Gilchrist to attempt to murder Fyrenn.

"Veritas?"  The red Gryphon spoke her name more as an epithet than an appellation.  He shifted stance, and nodded, "Often.  Three years and I still have no idea what to make of her, or what we saw that night.  I can't even reason out the riddle of my *own* words."

"In bonds of family six set out; to seek The Dispossessed, In joy and sorrow, grief and strife, bearing morbid stress.  Where Sun and Moon the expanse share, the six will find the power, To put an end to Darkness, strife; the war of Night's own hour."

The brothers turned to see that their sibling had joined them.  Varan ushered them back to the circle of the firelight, moving carefully to avoid waking Carradan.  He kept his voice low, "I have applied much thought to the riddle as well.  Our discussions of it never seem to yield much fruit beyond what we have already reasoned out."

Fyrenn nodded, as he took up a leonine recumbent position, back legs stretched out behind him, forelegs similarly in front, and crossed, "Six set out; well there's me, you two, Stan, and as far as family goes the next closest thing we have are Skye and Neyla..."

As Fyrenn trailed off, Kephic took up the discourse, "The Dispossessed... If not the Wisps then what?  They definitely seem dispossessed of corporeal form in their natural state...  But there is no guarantee that they are the answer to that line...."

Varan nodded slowly, finishing the thought, "And the rest appears to imply a coming war, and the final solution to provide for its victory, but in most.... enigmatic terms."

Fyrenn inclined his head, then stared into the fire. The riddle taunted him with the tantalizing prospect of answers to the deepest mystery in his life.  And the ominous tone of its implicit warning.

He had spoken the lines himself, moments after effectively 'dying,' having lingered for some time in a coma sustained from injuries.  A mere fraction of a second before his own living will specified that he was to be put down with a lethal dose of sedatives, he had  come bolt upright on his hospital bed, and recited the lines.

It was not until *after* that moment that he recalled waking up, so the riddle had been recounted to him by his brothers.  He could not even remember speaking the words.

Airing his thoughts as they occurred to him, Fyrenn slowly etched circles in the dirt with an extended talon.

"If ever we were on the eve of war it is now... Diamond Dogs under the auspices of some party, perhaps the PER, are raiding our settlements and those of our allies.  A disquiet is creeping over the land; I may well have just seen, or at least felt the presence of, a Wisp.  The Changelings will not react well to our most recent offensives, and the HLF have been so quiet recently that I can't help but think we're in for a world of trouble."

Varan nodded once more, staring into the fire as if to follow both Fyrenn's gaze, and his line of thought, "Disquiet is indeed the appropriate term."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 6th, Gregorian Calendar

City of Glass.  The Rain City.  Neyla found Vancouver's nicknames quite apt.  The metropolis was one of the least densely populated on the West Coast of the Northamerizone, despite its eight million inhabitants.

Neyla glanced up at the forebodingly dark sky as she disembarked the maglev.  A slick glimmering sheen of water covering the platform's duracrete surface bespoke a recent downpour.

She created something of a stir with her passing as she made her way to the station exit; Gryphons were not so uncommon anymore as to draw interest all the time, merely with their presence, but the sight of one riding a train was fairly unusual.

Neyla had chosen the maglev over flying herself to Vancouver partly for the time to rest it afforded, and partly because she had never had a chance to ride a train for any lengthy period of time, and she wished to add the experience to her growing repertoire of Earthly memories.

The blue and tan Gryphon had developed a strong interest in humanity's technology and popular culture; from the first time she had set paw and claw in New York, she had been enamoured with the peculiar, but refreshingly new viewpoint the pink-skinned creatures offered.

Neyla paused as she found herself standing on the sidewalk beyond the terminal.  She had arrived in New York only to find that there were new orders waiting from JRSF centcom; proceed to Vancouver and stand ready for an operational briefing.

Tirinel and the rest of her unit had already been re-routed, so she was left to her own devices; a situation she was quite used-to, having been utterly independent since a young age.

Having arrived, however, she was unsure what was expected of her.  She pulled her DaTab from the small satchel between her wings, and quickly checked her official military communications account; nothing.

Neyla sighed, and took a moment to scan the landscape around her, as she considered her options.

Vancouver felt much less dense than Manhattan; a perception mostly enforced by the greater distance between buildings, lower density and volume of mega-skyscrapers, and higher profusion of artificial trees and grass.

The structures themselves were often shorter, wider, and composed of an airier glass-centric construction with minimalist visible framing and support.

As she examined the city, the Gryphoness concluded that, in the absence of orders, she would find some way to pass the time until the enigmatic silence surrounding her next mission was lifted.  A soft rumble from her stomach provided a more pressing, immediate, and basic objective.

She glanced behind her at the train station; a hanging light-monorail was departing the terminal on one side,  and a VTOL was rising from a pad somewhere on the opposite side of the compound.  Neyla could see a few signs for restaurants through the arcing transparent front wall of the building.

She scanned the menus, attracting some intrigued stares from passing pedestrians, and concluded that she would rather hold off on food long enough to find an eatery with proper meat, than indulge immediately and settle for synthetic Earth 'meat.'

Synth-meat was, for the most part, absolutely vile to a carnivorous predator, such as a Gryphon, who was thoroughly accustomed to real, juicy, nutritious, flavorful *meat.*  Neyla had known a few Converts who remained accepting of certain brands of synthetics, but even so they always preferred the real product.

She smiled inwardly as she was reminded of Fyrenn; having been an Earthgov Special Forces marine, he had become so acclimated to Synth-Meat that he continued to have the capacity to stomach it, even post-Conversion.

The Gryphoness sighed, putting the memory abruptly out of her head, and stretched.  Trains and aircraft had slowly begun to make changes to accommodate Gryphons, just as they had already changed to accommodate Ponies, nonetheless; Neyla's seat had been more cramped than she would have preferred, and her muscles were paying the price.

She slowly scissored her wings open, leaning first to one side, then the other, and stretching the limbs out to their farthest tolerances to ease away the cramps.  With the soreness alleviated, she took to the air with a swift beat of her wings, leaving behind swirling downdrafts of rain mist kicked up from the pavement.

From above, it was easy to select a destination.  Two years of Earth-side service had taught Neyla how to use her acute vision to recognize and classify aspects of Human cities.  The usefulness of this pattern recognition went beyond tactical benefits, and provided a valuable glimpse into the civil make-up of a city; including the most likely spots to find good food.

She picked out a nearby eat-in restaurant that, according to its menu, had real meat shipped in from Equestria, via a shipping agreement with the city's Bureau.  More than the menu, the building intrigued the Gryphon as well; it was one of the few constructs she could see that was rendered in an obviously older style, with stone construction, pillars, molding, and gilding.

Neyla tucked her wings partially, and dipped into a wide, high speed, sweeping arc that brought her to her chosen destination in a matter of moments, with no expenditure of wing power.  At the last second, she pulled up short, and stuck a perfect landing on all-fours in a clear patch of sidewalk.

Her arrival generated a moment of surprised attention from nearby pedestrians, both Human and Pony, before they fully processed the landing and went back to their business.  Neyla smirked ever-so-slightly; Gryphons might have become a known and accepted quantity on Earth, but they  obviously still held a certain surprise factor.

Three years was hardly enough time to become fully accustomed to the idea of a new species for most people, especially not with the advent of other Conversion types complicating the issues at-play.

Neyla ducked into the eatery; the interior was lovingly crafted to emulate an old twentieth century fine dining establishment.  A synthetic crimson carpet smothered the floor in several inches of fabric that felt quite nice under paw and claw.

The walls and ceiling were covered in an intricate molding pattern, covered at intervals with understated gilding trim.  The smell was heavenly; every type of fresh food imaginable seemed to have an ephemeral olfactory presence.

Neyla made her way to the bar; the stools in most establishments had been modified, over the years, to be highly adjustable.  She lowered an empty seat to a height that would keep her head at roughly the same altitude as other patrons.  Plus perhaps a few inches.

She took a seated position on her haunches, paws providing a stable grip on the stool, and waited for the bartender.

The Gryphoness acquired a drink quickly, something humans referred to as 'beer.'  It bore some vague similarity to Gryphic meade, albeit with noticeable differences stemming not only from the peculiar methods of fermentation, but from the synthetic base chemicals that stood-in for organic components.

Like all Gryphons, Neyla's metabolism and immune defenses precluded the possibility of even a slight 'buzz,' much less inebriation.  She had simply acquired a fondness for certain human cuisine and beverages.

For a few quiet minutes, she nursed the Gryphon-sized tankard she had been served.  She noted, with mild interest, that the majority of non-human patrons in the building were other Gryphons.  While there were a few Ponies, the ratio was unusually low; likely as a result of the establishment's meat-centric menu.

She was on the verge of lapsing into hypothesising about various cultural interactions centered on the preferred cuisine of differing races, when a voice from behind interrupted her.

"Neyla!  This is a nice surprise!"

The Gryphon turned to see Kara Sorven.  The two-star general was one of the human JRSF liaisons, and had been present for the events of the foiled PER attack on Manhattan in 2114.  She hadn't known the woman long, but Neyla had been quite impressed with her leadership skills, bravery, and tenacity.

"General Sorven?  I'm surprised to see you here..."  Neyla paused as her gaze shifted down, and she noticed the two young blond-headed boys at the general's side.  They couldn't have been more than ten or eleven, and were staring up at the Gryphoness with an intense wide-eyed fascination.

She smiled down on the twins, and then glanced up at Sorven, "Are these your fledglings?"

The General chuckled and held one hand to her mouth, suppressing her mirth to prevent it from exploding into outright improprietous laughter.  She nodded, laying a hand on the head of each child in turn, "Yes, these are my boys; James and Michael."

The latter of the twins abruptly worked up the courage to speak, his voice ringing out with surprising clarity and confidence for his age, "Are you a Knight?"

Neyla snorted and shook her head, a smile pulling at the corners of her beak in-spite of herself, "No.  I'm not very good at following orders.  My job with Earthgov is fairly... 'loose' in the command structure.  At home, I'm called a 'Sentinel.' "

Michael scrambled up onto the stool to Neyla's left, prompting James to do the same with the stool on her right.  Breathlessly reaching eye-level with the Gryphon, he posed his own question, "What's a Sentinel?"

Neyla sighed, and her smile turned slightly wistful, "It means I stand alone, but can still work with others.  Sometimes."

James gawked unabashedly, "Wooow! So you don't have to take orders from *anyone*?  Even Mom has to take orders!"

Sorven glared good-naturedly, "*Everyone* has to take orders at some point in their lives.  You and your brother, for instance, are ordered to march right back to the table and finish your kelp."

The mandate drew simultaneous groans from the twins, "Moooom!"

Michael pouted, "We want to talk to the Gryphon!"

James nodded, and made a face of disgust so comically amusing, that Neyla was very nearly forced into fits of laughter, "And besides, Mom, Kelp is *nasty.*"

The general nodded, "Yes it is.  Its also good for your bones and muscles, and if you follow my order, then maybe you can come back here and join us for dessert."  She leaned forward conspiratorially, "*Real* chocolate even."

The twins dashed away so swiftly, that Neyla paused to wonder if fledglings, of all races, were somehow party to an unknown form of innate magic that gave them their seemingly limitless energy.

Sorven collapsed onto the vacated stool to Neyla's right, and sighed, "Those two.  I love them to bits but... they've been a real trip to handle since their father passed."

Neyla inclined her head, "When?"

The general shook her head, inhaling, "Oh... Five years ago now.  Much as those boys nearly wrecked me for all the effort they needed to stay afloat... They're also the only reason I had to go on, and still the best one."

Neyla nodded, then chipped away at her generous portion of meat in silence for a full minute.  After Sorven had ordered, and drunk most of, a glass of something called 'cherry,' the Gryphoness indulged her curiosity, "So why are you here?"

Sorven raised her head from her glass, and musing, "In Vancouver?  I'd bet a month's pay, same reason as you; classified opspec briefing for some kind of upcoming operation."

The Gryphon nodded again, a single blunt affirmation.  Sorven continued, after a sip from her glass, "Why am I here talking to *you*?  Welll..."  The General shoved her newly emptied glass away, and turned to face Neyla, "To cut a very long story short, I'm *strongly* considering Conversion.  Myself and the boys."

Neyla immediately understood, and she twisted her head to face Sorven directly, "You're considering the Gryphon program."

Sorven raised an eyebrow, "More than 'considering.'  I've more or less made my decision.  I just need some questions answered; the kind best answered by a Gryphon, but not a new Convert.  I need an honest appraisal.  For their sake,"  she inclined her head at her twin sons, who were busy at a nearby table, apparently having started a contest to see who could make the most laughter-inducing disgusted face each time they took a bite of kelp.

Neyla cocked her head slightly, "What do you want to know?"

The General jerked her head curtly at her sons, "Kids.  What's their life like?"

The Gryphoness sighed, and breathed deeply, "Honestly?  As someone who spent more of their fledgehood than they should have had to without parents?  As someone who is clanless?  I'd still recommend it overall.  I'm an exception.  True there are many fledglings who lose their parents to battle, but they're always cared for.  Family drives us.  Second only to faith, and in a large way part of it.  You wouldn't have to worry; James and Michael would be gladly accepted and welcomed like any other fledgeling, wherever they went and whatever they wanted to be."

Sorven smiled, a genuinely relieved and pleased expression that seemed refreshingly rare for her features.  After a long pause, she sighed, and gestured to the bartender, tapping out an order for two pieces of fudge on the holo-surface of the bar, "Now my problem will be getting sponsors."

Neyla shot a glance at the twins, smiling as they looked up and waved, "On the contrary. That won't be a problem at all."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Tenth Day, Celestial Calendar

Tih’ré Seli’hn; capital of the Gryphon Kingdoms, largest city in the empire, and oldest inhabited settlement of the species.  Fyrenn loved it.

In old Gryphic, the separate written and spoken language Gryphons used for historical documents, and architecture, Tih’ré Seli’hn meant 'Strong Mountain.'  Like all words in Gryphic, it had a far more complex and specific meaning that was better translated, 'A mountain eyrie, strong because of its tight-knit family of warriors.'

The nomenclature was very apt.

Fyrenn, Kephic, Varan, and Carradan crested a peak, and beheld their home.  The journey from their last camp had taken a full day, so it was once again the 'golden hour' of evening, just between late afternoon, and early dusk.  The same time of day that Fyrenn had first seen the city, not long after his Conversion.

The settlement was built directly into, and on, the side of a huge mountain peak.  The central peak housed the castle-proper, court of the King, armories, vaults, and library.  The exterior buildings flowed out from the main Caer, ensconced firmly within the rock, to fill the slopes and a small highland glen.

The free-standing structures were more akin to modern Earth skyscrapers than the, perhaps, expected medieval aesthetic, substituting inscribed arcs and beautiful leaf-like structuring for more traditional architectural features.

The independent buildings were mostly dwellings, shops, and external defensive structures; either freestanding, or near the top third of the incredibly tall, thick coniferous trees ringing, and sparsely populating, the glen.

Gryphons were truly directionally unlimited society; while most flew, some also walked over shorter spans.  The city was, therefore, possessed of streets, crafted from precisely shaped cobblestones.

The majority of the structures were built of a special type of seamless, smooth, flowing stone that allowed for graceful curves and arches; fantastic shapes that made the city appear, in a strange way, to be a natural part of the mountain, despite its obvious artificial construction.

Fyrenn knew from experience that the flowing-stone was essentially impossible to destroy, once fully set, without the right knowledge, chemicals, and many months of time.

On the whole, Tih’ré Seli’hn was a very open city.  Fyrenn smiled as the golden rays of the sun bathed the swooping, neo-Celtic-like structures and their inhabitants, in a warm welcoming light.  As he had on his first trip, he noted the hidden defenses of the city with a grin; deployable steel panels, hidden alloy spikes, and pop-out arbalests meant that the open nature of the city could quite swiftly be changed, converting it into an unassailable fortress.

The Gryphic military sensibility in no way hampered the city's ability to act as a display of artistry; the flowing-stone of the settlement was trimmed with marble, steel, and burnished bronze.  Windows tended to be immense, unsupported by filigree or visible framing.

They were, as far as Fyrenn knew, made of some type of clear shatterproof crystal, and they could swing, slide, iris, and recess in all manner of inventive ways to allow passage of light, wind, and Gryphons.

The group made directly for the Concourse, a part of the mountain stronghold framed between two guard towers, that opened onto a large semi-circular landing space intricately inscribed with twisting designs that contained written Gryphic script.

Fyrenn dipped a wing and increased his speed as he noted the presence of a familiar figure on the Concourse.  He beat the rest of the group, arriving in a burst of air as he was forced to flare his wings completely to avoid an unceremonious crash.

He strode forward, smiling from one side of his beak to the other, and fell into a bear-hug of wings with the roan Gryphon, "Sildinar! I wasn't told you'd be returning anytime soon?"

Sildinar pulled back and smiled wryly, "I was nearly as unaware as you.  I returned for a short stay to see to small affairs, only for my father to ask that I stay longer; your message beat you here by several hours."

Fyrenn smiled and sighed contentedly, "Its good to see you again."  Sildinar had been a primary driver in cutting through the red tape necessary to get Fyrenn into the first, or for that matter any, conversion slot.

The roan Gryphon was older than Kephic and Varan by several decades, and outranked them all; being reigning prince of the Kingdoms.  Fyrenn hadn't known when he first met him, and it had come as something of a shock when he first discovered the tie.

Over time, it had become normative and comfortable; Gryphons took command and authority quite seriously, but in a way that was often very loose at the same time.  Leadership was always based on close ties of friendship, respect, and sometimes even family.

Sildinar moved to take Kephic and Varan into salutatory embraces as they arrived, and he even exchanged a firm hoof/claw shake with Carradan, smiling as he did so.  The endorsement of the other Gryphons had gone a long way towards building Sildinar's faith in the reporter.

As the all-around greetings came to an end, two more Gryphons came forth from the mountain.  King Siidran was a similar shade of roan to his son, but with streaks and patches of darker fur and feathers.  His mate, and queen, Linnea was a shade of dark near-black blue that shifted towards purple in some lights, with patches of lighter fur and feathers that were more of a cream shade.

Both royal Gryphons were decked out in ceremonial armor, mostly comprised of Gryphic alloy, with decorative trim of bronze, silver, and diamonds.  Gryphons never used malleable substances like gold for armor or weapons.

Siidran smiled, and greeted each member of the group in turn, coming last to Fyrenn with a warm smile, "Welcome home Fyrenn.  Your journey went well?"

Fyrenn nodded, returning the smile, "Well enough, but with its own share of foreboding."

Linnea snorted and shook her head, "There will be time enough, and then some, for reports.  First, I think rest, food, and drink are in order."

Carradan grinned, "I've said it before ma'am, and I'll say it again; you speak my language, right to my soul by way of my stomach."

Linnea's laughter was like the flowing melody of a cool stream, "I have learned much from my mate, and from my crown, and foremost of these lessons is that a warrior needs a full stomach and a rested spirit as often as he or she can get them."

The Gryphons, and Pegasus, made their way into the mountain Caer.  The halls were wide, tall, vaulted, and had windows or skylights wherever possible.  The airy nature of the structuring, combined with a multitude of clever lighting aparati dispelled, almost entirely, the sensation of being underground.

They quickly reached the great hall, which was only one floor above the Concourse.  The room was a long, vaguely ovoid space with an arched ceiling of smooth rock and oaken beams.  The entryway afforded access to staircases, and the corridors on the central level.  The opposite wall was one single pure crystal window that looked out upon the Concourse with its guard towers, the city, and the valley beyond.

Much of the center of the room was dominated by a huge oval hearth.  Tables and Gryphic 'chairs' that were used in times of feasts and large meetings, were pushed up against either wall, well out of the way.

At the far end of the room, before the window, sat a smaller round table with chairs, and the royal thrones surrounding it.  The thrones themselves were intricate stone masonry with bronze filigree, that somehow managed to be eye-catching, yet not-at-all ostentatious.

Fyrenn spied, with a growing sense of hunger and relief, skewers of meat already laid on the hearth, along with more than enough brown bread, rice, and dried apricots to round out a full meal for not only the assembled Gryphons, but Stanley as well.  Judging by the smell, the meat itself was equal parts scallops and salted boar.

Most tantalizing of all was a cask laid by the table, along with a profusion of stone tankards.  Fyrenn knew by the markings on the side that it was Heather Meade, and by the beads of condensation on the aged oak, that it was fresh from some dark and cool cellar.

Heather Meade was, to other races, one of the strongest non-Draconic intoxicants in existence.  To Gryphons, Dragons, and other races immune to inebriation it was a kingly delicacy of brews; the most sought-after type of spirits in all the northern lands.

To Fyrenn, it held extra special significance as one of the first Equestrian drinks besides Coffee that he had ever tasted.  During his trials of Knighthood, the King had wagered a cask on his victory.  The aged brew had been a sweet, refreshing, fulfilling way to celebrate victory; the joyous memories of the moment had bonded strongly with the flavor.

The Gryphons all set to finishing the preparation of their meat.  Carradan, for his part, indulged in the rice, apricots, and bread to compensate for his mild meat aversion.  Time spent with the Gryphons had allowed him to develop the stomach to smell cooked meat, and observe its consumption, without discomfort.  But he still shied away from actually consuming it.

As the group took their seats, one by one, Fyrenn plied Sildinar with a burning question, "So how are things Earthside?  Its been four or five months since I last heard anything."

Sildinar took a deep draught of his Meade before answering, his tone calm but grim, "The situation has deteriorated badly.  The Bureaus are suffering, the political climate is imploding, and whatever handle we thought we had on the PER and the HLF has vanished.  True enough they're quiet... But in this case that's not the best of signs."

Varan stared grimly into his tankard, "Our news is no better."

Siidran glowered at his plate, spearing a piece of meat with a talon, "Your missive mentioned that you discovered critical information about the recent attacks..."

Kephic nodded, swallowing the bread he was chewing, and pausing to take a sip of Meade before replying, "We have the answers...  But we're not going to be able to read them.  Not yet."

Linnea sighed, and leaned back in her throne, "This ought to be interesting."

Over the next half-hour, each member of the group took turns recounting their past month of activities; the clues they had followed to the Creaking Pines Tavern, the brawl, the map they had recovered from the Trolls, the train battle, and the documents it had yielded.

When the tale was completed, Siidran unconsciously mimicked his mate's pose, leaning back in his throne.  He steepled his claws before him, a thoughtful expression locking his eyes on the middle-distance as his mind churned over the new information.

It was Sildinar who spoke his thoughts first, "Troubling.  To say the least."

Siidran nodded slowly, "Though, I am not sure what is more troubling; the fact that the PER, or some unknown entity, is using the Trolls to take slaves and attack our borders, or the fact that you may have sighted a Wisp well within the borders of civilized land."

Fyrenn tapped the surface of the table with a solitary talon, "Well the main thing is to get these documents decoded.  *If,* and that's one very big if... If I saw a Wisp, then there's nothing we can do about it right now.  But these attacks?  If we can find out who's been orchestrating them, we can put a *permanent* end to them."

Sildinar nodded one curtly, "Agreed.  We have never allowed slavery, or provocation of our borders, to go unanswered."

Siidran glared out the window, as if searching the landscape for the culprit and skewering them with his gaze, "And we will not begin today."

He turned to gaze at Fyrenn, Varan, Kephic, and Carradan, his expression changing subtly to one of grim approval, "You have all done very well.  I will have the documents delivered to the Library and, hopefully, decrypted shortly."

Linnea placed a conciliatory claw on her husband's shoulder, then offered the group a soft, empathetic expression, "That will take at least several hours, if not days.  You should all rest easy while you have the opportunity."

Fyrenn raised his tankard, "I'll drink to that ma'am."

Kephic smirked and raised his tankard likewise, as did Carradan and Varan.  The latter nodded slowly, "Aye.  We all will."

Chapter 7

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 10th, Gregorian Calendar

Hutch pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger.  His headache had begun shortly after his morning exercise, and had only intensified as the day progressed.

He glanced down at the holographic rectangle hovering over his desk, and shook his head, grimacing.  Four dead, thirteen wounded, and a hole the size of a tractor in the Bureau steps.

At that point, the HOB had officially gone from 'problem children' to 'terrorists' in Hutch's book, and he had snapped.  Setting fires and turning over cars was one thing; setting off an IED was quite another, and as sad as the casualties made him, he was deeply relieved to finally have the one thing he had wanted more than anything since the situation began.  Precedent to act.

The General sat back, and stretched, preparing himself.  As he finished straightening his uniform jacket, the familiar two-tone sounded at his door.

"Come."

His office was swiftly filled by the ominous form of a glowering female Gryphon, two armored ConSec troopers, and the comparatively diminutive silhouette of a man who might best have been described as a 'hobo.'

Hutch gestured to the guest chair in front of his desk.  The man did not move.  Hutch glanced ever-so-slightly to his right, and without warning the Gryphon snagged the man's shoulders in her vice-like claws, and forcibly ensconced him in the chair.

He squirmed violently, and grunted, but it did little good, "How *dare* you!  You can't force me to say anything, I have *RIGHTS!*"

Hutch raised an eyebrow, "I think you misunderstand.  I'm not here to force you to say anything.  You're here to listen to me."

The man relaxed slightly, and glared, "There is nothing you have to say, that I want to hear, unless it is apology and surrender.  Take your filthy lies back, pack up that foul serum you keep, and ship it all away until Equestrians can come here on *human* terms."

Hutch sighed, and flicked through the screens on his terminal, "Human terms...  Interesting choice of words considering all four people who died today, were human."  The General paused, then glanced up, a dangerous light dancing in his narrowed eyes, "Mr. Reinmar Lansky.  Twenty eight, Unemployed.  Criminal record dating back four years, recently added to the master Earthgov terrorist watch list, and ostensibly the leader of the HOB movement as of last month.  Do you have any idea how much trouble you are in?"

Lansky spat, leaving a glistening cluster of mucus on the surface of Hutch's desk.  The general glared at it in disdain.

Reinmar glared across the intervening space. involuntarily shifting as the Gryphoness' claws continued to dig uncomfortably into his shoulders, "Do *you* have any idea how much trouble *you* are in General?  How many people on this planet are truly ready to buy into the drivel you all preach!?  Less than one percent.  Did you know that?  The rest of us will NOT be silenced forever!"

Hutch snorted; half a dry snicker, half a disdainful exhalation, "You want to know the irony in this Lansky?  I love freedom.  I love the freedom of little daily choices, freedom of species, freedom of faith, freedom of speech..."

The General leaned forward, and stared deep into the bedraggled man's eyes, "...and most of all I love the freedom we all have to simply *live.*"  Hutch's voice took a dangerous turn, the steel in his words piercing Lansky like a knife, "You.  And your people.  You have infringed on this freedom.  And you know what else I believe?"

Hutch leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head, "That when a scumbag like you infringes on that freedom... you deserve to lose all of yours."

Lansky stared defiantly, "You can't silence us.  We have the right to be heard!  And to Assemble! Your superiors..."

The General interjected,  shaking his head, "Sure... on public soil.  Funny thing?  Smart-ass?  Bureaus are sovereign independent soil, jointly operated by the races of the Conversion Accords.  Your citizenship rights?  They don't count here.  You have no right to assemble, and you?  Personally?  Have no right to an attorney.  No right to remain silent.  No right to fair trial."

Lansky sneered, "Oh really?"

The Gryphoness tightened her claws, and the man winced.  Hutch nodded, "Really.  See, this is partly Gryphon soil.  Dragon too.  I'm sure either of them would be more than happy to begin extradition procedures on you.  Do you know what will happen to you, if you are convicted of an attack on Gryphon soil?"

Lansky glanced up at the Gryphon holding him to his chair.  She grinned, and clacked her beak suggestively; the knife-sharp yellow edge glittering under the flourescent lights.

For the first time, the man looked afraid.  Hutch seized on the opportunity, "I want this to go smoothly.  You want to avoid becoming a ceremonial execution meal."  At the word 'meal'  Lansky visibly blanched.  The General smirked, and tapped one finger on his desk slowly, "You go back out there.  You tell that stinky, ugly, uncivilized crowd of animal terrorist-wannabes you call a 'movement,' to disperse and go home nice and quiet-like; and I won't arrest you on the spot."

Hutch stood, straightening his jacket reflexively.  He turned to stare out the window at the courtyard below, where the newly-intensified standoff between the JRSF and the HOB was framed in the stark contrast of emergency vehicle lights, "If you fail to comply, I will rescind all no-fire orders for those troops down there.  And you will suffer the fury of Gryphons, and the fire of Dragons.  None of you will leave with all your limbs intact, and most of you will leave in body bags, and frankly?  I don't give a damn about the political consequences, because I have one hell of a migraine, and I'm tired of dealing..."

Hutch turned, and slammed a fist into the desk, causing the still-moist globule of spit to fly from the surface onto the carpet, "...with your *CRAP.*"  Hutch's tone instantly reverted to a calm, almost amicable tenor, with only a hint of sarcasm,  "Have I made all this clear for you?"

Lansky nodded, barely able to move as he began to vent a multitude of bodily fluids onto Hutch's guest chair.

The General glowered in disgust, "And before you go? Fix my damn chair."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Twelfth Day, Celestial Calendar

Fyrenn stared at the collection of mesmerising characters, and yawned, beak opening wide in an expression of pure exhaustion.  Amongst Gryphons it was, he had been delighted to discover, quite normative to publicly yawn and sneeze without shame, silly gestures, or need for apology.

The Red Gryphon was thoroughly sick of the myriad lines of encoded information that had become his waking obsession; to the point that he had more than a small temptation to shred the offending parchment sheets in his claws and scatter the giblets to the four winds.

In truth, Fyrenn was used to working far longer hours, and on far more difficult problems.  But cryptography was simply not within his skill sets; and the frustration of being unable to offer anything concrete to the investigation was compounding with the frustration of having an unsolvable problem to generate stress.

Fyrenn held no delusions; he knew he was the sort who could easily be tormented for years by an unsolved problem, particularly one with such high stakes.

The Gryphon reached for his coffee, and took a long satisfying gulp of the hot liquid.  The large stone tankard, sized to the average Gryphon claw, also made a good insulator, keeping the drink piping hot for hours after brewing.  Out of all the tiny life-pleasures of coming to Equestria, real coffee was close to the top of Fyrenn's list of favorites.

A voice brought him out of his reverie so sharply, that he had to make a conscious internal effort to keep from flinching, "Keeping busy?"

Fyrenn glanced up to see King Siidran peering over his shoulder at the parchments scattered before him.  The red Gryphon spent several seconds trying to figure out how his monarch had snuck up on him so adeptly, and so casually, before finally simply accepting that hundreds of years of seniority doubtless bestowed rewarding experience and skill.

Fyrenn inclined his head respectfully, and shifted to the side so Siidran could pick up the parchments, and rearrange them, "I'm afraid I'm not one for math.  Would you believe I can't even do long division, or basic algebra?  Consequence of being raised in a computerized society."

Siidran chuckled, a low but clearly amused sound that came from somewhere deep in his throat, ruffling his neck feathers slightly as it passed through his beak, "In your case, that's not a serious concern.  You have plenty of time to re-learn what was lost."

Fyrenn stood, and stretched; forelegs extended like a cat, wings outspread momentarily.  The gesture brought immense relief to his stress-knotted muscles, "Time for myself, yes.  But I don't expect we have much time to solve this code, if we want to get any decent use out of it.  When I was an Earthgov soldier, we were taught that plans can change within days, or even hours, of a discovered breach in opsec."

Siidran tilted his head by a fraction of a degree, "Op-sec?"

"Sorry; Operational Security.  There's Opsec, and Opspec; operational specification; each informs the other, and if the former is breached, you can bet your extra rations that the latter is going to change.  Its usually a logistical nightmare, so I suppose we've accomplished *something* already..."

Siidran gently pushed the coded missives aside, and gestured to the space around them; the library had dimmed, as day had turned to night and the skydome had gone jet black, with pinpricks of intense starlight, "I understand the advice is trite; but perhaps you should take a moment and focus on something external to your problem."

Fyrenn glanced over to the tables where his friends and family were working with Tenek, and his abacus.

The device was nothing at all like the object, of the same name, from ancient Earth history.  Gryphon abaci were complex pieces of gold and brass calculating machinery that had more in common, visually, with the antikythera mechanism, and could produce calculation results easily as complex as a primitive computer.

Fyrenn briefly pointed to the device with a talon, "An impressive mechanism.  How long has our civilization been using this type of thing?"

Siidran smiled, "Longer than the memory of my father's father."

Fyrenn whistled, "Not moving very fast in terms of technology, are you?"

The King inclined his head slightly, and sighed, "Sadly no.  We are content with what we have, and this is good... up to a point."  Siidran turned and fixed Fyrenn with a serious, piercing gaze that startled the younger red Gryphon, "But Fyrenn?  There is such a thing as being too content with the status quo.  I see it affect not only our race, but many individuals, to their detriment."

Siidran stood, and began to pace around, Fyrenn, a move that disconcerted him even more thoroughly than the continued stern gaze of the monarch, "Do not be content to live with merely that which you can already achieve.  We are at our best when we strive to go beyond our boundaries.  Your human forefathers' history is replete with examples of this lesson.  Do not settle for simplicity, or loneliness.  Be bold."

The King sighed, and seemed to relax into a less urgent, more remorseful mood, "Our race is dying a slow death of satisfaction.  It is true that the lust for conquest can lead to ruin... but was it not your own most successful rulers who believed humanity had to "expand or die" ?  It is true that we are strong... But we must *grow* as a race."

Fyrenn cocked his head.  Siidran nodded, "Would you believe it? More of us die than are born each year.  We need to explore, and to conquer new lands, lest we become *too* content with what we have.  And we must learn to make new things; new technologies and ideas, sometimes merely for the sake of evolving."

The Red Gryphon nodded, "And this is part of why you were willing to open yourselves to Conversion?  To let those who were once something else be a seamless part of you.. our.. whole?"

Siidran smiled slightly, "Exactly.  My generation is too old, and too set in its ways.  But your generation?  My son's generation?  You could bring about a golden age not seen, or known, since the days of the first-clans."

Fyrenn mirrored his ruler's smile, "If I were you sir?  I wouldn't worry.  I've never been the sort to be content with status quo."

Siidran's expression fell slightly, and he raised an eyebrow sternly, "Haven't you?  Fyrenn..." The King sighed, and shook his head slowly, "Not all struggle, or adventure, or evolution, is about civilization, or invention, or politics...  Everything starts with the heart, and the heart lives with the family."

Before Fyrenn could even begin to process a response, Siidran offered him a small parting smile, and padded regally away down the length of the room, vanishing out of sight behind the doors long before Fyrenn had even begun to suppress his swelling tide of emotions.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 10th, Gregorian Calendar

"What do you suppose we're doing here?"

Sorven's question managed to pull Neyla from her in-depth examination of the building they had entered, "I assume we are going to receive new orders..."  The Gryphoness trailed off as she returned to scrutinizing the architecture.

The facility was in a mostly-complete state, but scattered here-and-there was evidence that parts of the site were still under construction.  The complex was slated to be the new North American headquarters of Earthgov, and it was easily the most modern human building Neyla had seen.

While it was true that most buildings in human cities were, by anyone's standards, 'futuristic,' the Vancouver facility had, if possible, even more sweeping edgeless glass windows, minimalist chrome plated supports, and visible holotechnology.

The floors seemed to be mostly marble, and they made a satisfying clack as Neyla's claws connected with them, every time she took a step.  The lobby was an elongated 'T' shape, mostly made of sweeping transparent arches, and Neyla spied Tirinel around the corner, well before they arrived at the junction of the passages.

The silver dragon filled much of the horizontal space, but had a surprising amount of vertical clearance.  It dawned on Neyla that the entire complex had likely been constructed with multiple races in mind; perhaps a first for a major Earth governmental complex.

Neyla gestured between her comrade in arms, and Sorven, "General Sorven, this is Tirinel; my combat partner.  Tirinel, this is General Sorven, she was present during the 2114 Manhattan attacks, in central operations."

Tirinel inclined his head slightly, a deep satisfied rumble emanating from his chest, passing through his legs, and vibrating the floor, "It is agreeable to meet you General.  Have you been summoned to this briefing as well?"

Sorven nodded twice rapidly, "You got it.  No one in the command chain will breathe a word about what's going on, so we're in for something intriguing, at minimum."

The trio continued down the corridor in silence, until they reached a bank of elevators.  Sorven pressed the call holopad, while her companions simply beat their wings, and began to rise. The final portion of the hall had been thoughtfully designed such that there was a large-dragon-sized shaft of unobstructed space running up the height of the structure.

The wind from Tirinel's enormous, glimmering, membranous pinions blew Sorven's hair into a wild tangle as she waited for the lift.  She arrived several moments later on the fourth floor, glaring at the silver Dragon as she tried with only moderate success to smooth her tresses.

Neyla tried, and mostly failed, to suppress a snicker of amusement.  Sorven shifted her glare to the Gryphoness, who responded with only a quick smirk.

The briefing room turned out to be quite close to the lift, and the space was no less impressive than the lobby.  While the room likely could have been made several orders of magnitude smaller without sacrificing usability for most, Tirinel would have never been able to fit comfortably had the ceiling not been nearly two stories tall.

The space was shaped like nothing so much as a compressed ovoid dome.  Much of the ceiling was comprised of interlocking triangular plexiglass tiles, and the rest of similarly sized and shaped matte gray holoprojection paneling, its purpose given away only by the tiniest of glimmers from the glass focusing lenses tucked into the corners of each plate.

Dominating the center of the room, framed by the rail-laden Vancouver sky, was a solid obsidian table surrounded by chairs.  The furniture was multi-species in all of its form factors, the floor was thinly carpeted in a deep shade of blue, and the final feature to catch Neyla's eye was a large hologram of the Conversion Accords Seal floating over the table.

A variety of Ponies, Humans, and even a pair of Gryphons, were already seated around the table, and several spots were obviously open to Neyla, Sorven, and even Tirinel; whose place was designated merely by a large break in the chairs.  Draconic furniture was seldomly seen, and even more seldomly used.

Neyla just managed to take her seat before the final arrival made his way in through a secondary access door.  She recognized the salt-and-pepper haired man immediately as General Miles Lantry.  He was a highly influential member of Earthgov military command, and one of the biggest sponsors of the JRSF.

Neyla was also vaguely aware that he had done something to elicit Fyrenn's distaste, but apparently nothing *completely* irreparable.

Lantry strode up to the table, and swept two fingers across the the surface before him.  The hologram above the table vanished summarily.

"Ladies and Gents.  I'm General Miles Lantry, for those of you who don't know me; and I'm pretty darn positive you're all wondering why you're here."

The General tapped the table in several spots, manipulating small holographic interface elements, until a data-stream appeared behind him, projected over the glass portion of the room's dome.

Lantry gestured with one hand, continuing to face the assembled soldiers, commanders, and technicians, "To break this down succinctly; every so often, an Equestrian dignitary will decide to make a public visit to Earth; usually one of its Monarchs.  When that has happened, heretofore, the Earthgov military has been primarily responsible for liaising with their royal protection, and providing escort while on-planet.  Not anymore."

Lantry cycled the data through a fast-paced bevy of recordings; mostly detailing recent PER and HLF military escalation, "The situation has changed people.  We are fighting conflict on a post-human level, and that means a post-human way of doing things is the rule from now on.  Not the exception."

The General paced slowly back and forth across the width of the room, staring down the length of the table as he continued to speak, "From now on, whenever we have an off-planet visitor, we will be tapping the best performers from a variety of ConSec, JRSF, and Special Forces positions to comprise a protection detail.  You're all here, because her Royal Highness Princess Celestia is coming here, in two weeks, to be part of the dedication of these facilities, and to issue a new public statement on behalf of the Equestrian members of The Accords.  You will be her protection detail."

The revelation brought forth a chorus of whispered commentary from the assembled creatures.

Sorven leaned over and whispered to Neyla, "Dunno about you... But I didn't see that coming."

Lantry smacked his palm against the back of his chair, "And with any luck, Kara, neither will anyone else."

Neyla wasn't sure if Sorven was more embarrassed by Lantry's use of her first name, or that his aging ears had somehow picked out her covert commentary from six yards away.

For his part, the General cracked a small smile, "Lets get to work shall we?"

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Twelfth Day, Celestial Calendar

Fyrenn sighed as he fiddled with his fish.  The dish had been cold for quite some time, and he half-heartedly made his way over to the hearth to warm it.  For the second time.

He had moved to the Great Hall after a rushed breakfast, and had stayed there well past noon meal, still staring at his assigned sheet of code; he felt no closer to a solution.  He sighed, and speared the filleted fish neatly with a talon as it began to sizzle, opting to hork down the majority of the food in a single gulp.

He was on the verge of beginning a new pacing spree, when Tenek and Kephic arrived through the Hall's north-east stairwell entrance.  Fyrenn raised an eyebrow in question.  Tenek sighed, and placed his abacus on the main table, "As much as it pains me to admit it;  this code is uncrackable.  At least, uncrackable with the equipment we have here, and my knowledge."

Fyrenn cocked his head, and Kephic sighed, placing the remaining sheafs of meaningless hash on the table beside the mathematical instrument, "Tenek did his best.  But the formulae associated with the encryptions are too complicated to crack, even with our best abacus."

Tenek nodded morosely, "I have never seen anything like it before.  It is almost as if the encryption were based on math created by a machine orders of magnitude more complex than our best equipment."

Fyrenn's head snapped around to face the mathematician, "Say that again."  The urgency in his words brought an expression of concern, and curiosity, to Tenek's beak.

The Gryphon in question stammered slightly, "Ah... well it seems, to my eyes, that this encryption would have had to have been created by a larger, more powerful, more complex mathematical machine."

The red Gryphon sat back on his haunches abruptly, eyes slowly unfocusing in shock, "That's it.  That's *exactly* it!"  His face became more animated, and he swiveled to stare at Kephic, eyes alight with the fire of discovery, "Where do you think all the encryptions and codes on Earth come from?"

Kephic's eyes widened by several centimeters as he finally guessed at Fyrenn's conclusions.  He spoke haltingly, "So... you are suggesting that a computer was used to encrypt this information?"

Fyrenn threw up his claws, "Is there anything *else* in either world that could create math that complicated?"

The speckled Gryphon shook his head slowly, "No.  Not when you put it like that."

The red Gryphon nodded abruptly, "Right.  So now..."

His brother finished his thought, "Now we find a computer capable of decrypting these sheafs?"

Fyrenn nodded.  Kephic sighed, "Earth is a several-day trip away.  More for the return journey.  By then, these may well have become *entirely* useless."

Fyrenn stood frozen for several moments.  Then a grin began to spread over his beak, "And what if I told you I knew a way for us to get these decrypted in less than two days?  Assuming we fly hard, and fast..."

Tenek snorted, "I'd say you could work miracles."

Fyrenn's smile widened, "Prepare to be amazed."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 10th, Gregorian Calendar

Hutch started abruptly at sound of a voice, clearing its throat, over his right shoulder.  He spun to see the last person he expected; who was also, incidentally, the last person on the planet he *wanted* to see.

"Mrs. Loryss."

She tossed her tangled nest of gray hair, "It's Councilor now.  Actually.  You said I should pencil myself in.  So here we are."

Hutch didn't even bother to remind her that he had requested she have his *secretary* pencil her in.  He knew that there would be no getting rid of the offending politician, now that she had come all the way to the Bureau.

The General gestured to the seat across from him.  The Bureau cafeteria was mostly empty, given that he had intentionally selected a late hour for his lunch.  The usual dull roar of friendly chatter had given way to the softer chatter of scattered conversations, and the hum of the central heating.

Menera took her seat in a manner that managed to come off as both prim, and arrogant, to the point that Hutch wished he could simply upend his food tray onto the Councilor's lap.  He even considered the option seriously for several seconds.

Before he could make up his mind, however, Loryss began the conversation, "I was very interested to discover that my path to the Bureau was... unimpeded today."

Hutch snorted, grinning in-spite of himself, "So you saw what became of the HOB?  They cleared out pretty dern quick once the Gryphons put on their first intimidation display.  Haven't seen a single one for hours."

Loryss nodded slightly, the motion of her head inclined oddly, almost as if to make the gesture intentionally grating, "Indeed.  That is why I am here."

The General's hope for a swift and congratulatory ending to the encounter was dashed instantly, as Menere continued, "General... Don't you think you could have been a bit more..."

Hutch cocked his head in abject confusion.  Loryss finally settled on a word, "...patient?"

The General stared for several seconds, open mouthed, "...Patient?"

Loryss nodded slowly, "Mmmhmm.  If you will recall, Mr. Hutchinson, we discussed how the Bureau Occupation movement, while misguided, were protesting very real wrongs.  Did we not?"

Hutch gripped his juice glass tightly, the force of his grip causing the plastic to make a nearly inaudible squealing noise, "Misguided is when someone smashes a store window, and forgets to take a gorram bath for a week because they're too busy hoisting a half-assed grimy protest sign.  These dillwads detonated an *IED* on our *doorstep.*  Four people *died.*  That's not misguided ma'am.  That's terrorism."

Loryss sighed deeply.  The sound bore a patronizing tone, as if she felt she were trying to explain a complex topic to a difficult child, "General; did it ever occur to you that one terrorist is not enough to call into suspicion the whole of a legitimate protest?  Much less remove them illegally?"

Hutch chuckled slightly, the sound nearly as patronizing as the Counselor's own tone, "Miss.. I may be known for doing my job with a bit of a heavy hand... but I'm also known as a stickler for protocol.  I checked the precedent, I followed our opspec, and I did quite frankly, the only thing that made any sense."

The Councilor shook her head, "And it never occurred to you that, starting with the repeal of the moving tax today, the HOB might simply disperse once there was nothing left to protest?"

Hutch's eyes came so far out of his head that Loryss recoiled visibly.  The General's tone lost all pretense at respect, "Are you out of your damn *mind* woman?!"  He threw out an arm, gesticulating in the general direction of the lobby, "Some idjits have no crusade beyond *having* a crusade.  You start to capitulate?  They will take you for every cent you're *worth.*  And maybe they weren't all terrorists... but you have to admit this all stinks of the HLF.  The Humans-Occupy movement was a perfect spawning ground for homegrown Liberation Front bombers."

Loryss sighed, and sat back, as if offended, "Are you *quite* finished?"

The General shook his head emphatically, "No ma'am I ain't.  But I think I'd better stop before I say something not suited for mixed company, or something that upsets your prim-rosy view of the world too badly."

The Councilor stood, and huffed, "I *had* hoped to discuss this calmly General... but I can see that the rumors surrounding your command style are decidedly understated."  She began to step away, then turned abruptly, "Since you will broker no civil discussion, allow me to lay some new 'opspec' for you.."

The way the woman used the military term made Hutch want to stand up, lunge across the table, and strangle her with her own pink fuzzy purse.  Loryss punctuated each word with a slow nod, as if it would somehow impress her directive on Hutch the way a parent might impress an order on a naughty child, "Keep your hands *off* the HOB."

Before Hutch could speak, she barreled ahead, "You are not to infringe their rights again.  And if I hear of any such punitive action, I will most certainly take similar steps against your command.  Are we clear?"

Hutch raised an eyebrow, his scowl hardening to blood-curdling intensity, "Ma'am... with no respect of any kind, seeing as how I can't muster any; you're not in my chain of command.  None of your fellow Councilors are.  This is Bureau turf; so I have every right to enforce JRSF security measures.  And if you show up here without an appointment again, I will have you escorted out in a way that will make you feel very much like a shrew in a hawk's beak.  Is *that* clear enough for you?"

Loryss glared, "We will speak of this again.  And I'm afraid you won't enjoy it."

As the irate politician departed, Hutch sat down to finish his meal, mumbling, "And, rules be damned, I'll make sure you won't either."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Twelfth Day, Celestial Calendar

Fyrenn smiled, as he turned his helmet over and over in his claws.  The armor, like most of the gear Gryphon Knights wore and used, was of his own personal design.  He had even had a claw in its forging, under the close tutelage of master armorers.

He set the protective covering on the oaken table, and turned to ensure one last time that his pack was secure.  Next to him, his brothers and Carradan were repeating his routine, except that in the Pegasus' case, he was busy cinching down a set of canvas saddlebags.

As Fyrenn finished tending to his pack, he spied Siidran and Linnea entering the hall.  As Linnea went around to each member of the party in turn, issuing encouragement in her usual motherly fashion.

Before she made it down the line to Fyrenn, Siidran gestured for him to come to a more private corner of the room.

The Gryphon snatched up his helmet, and quizzically obeyed his King's summoning gesture.  Siidran offered him a smile, "I just wanted a moment to bid you farewell.  Your journeys often run long, and we see each other far too little."

Fyrenn smiled, and dipped his head in respectful appreciation, "Perhaps we will see eachother again sooner."

Siidran offered Fyrenn a claw, "I would enjoy that greatly."

Fyrenn reached out and grasped Siidran's foreleg in the customary fashion; which reminded him of the medieval predecessor to the handshake.

The rest of the group had already departed for the Concourse, and Fyrenn loped through the corridors to catch up.  He arrived outside just in time to note the presence of Sildinar, garbed in armor and a pack of his own.

Linnea had apparently just concluded a farewell embrace with her son, and as she passed Fyrenn on her way into the mountain, she smiled, "Fair winds Fyrenn.  Return soon; food and fellowship reside eternally in these halls, and their doors are always open to you."

To his surprise, she then placed a wing over him briefly, in a motherly hug, before quietly padding away into the corridor.

As Fyrenn joined the group, looking slightly bemused, Carradan chuckled, "If she could, I betcha she'd want to be mom to every orphan in both worlds."

Sildinar raised an eyebrow and glared sharply, "*If* she could?"

Carradan scooted to the side, "I think I'll fly beside Fyrenn this leg.  On the outside of the formation."

The group laughed heartily as they took to the sky; wings framed by the setting sun as they sped south, and east.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Twelfth Day, Celestial Calendar

"I fail to understand."

Three's muzzle twisted into a grimace, "We're not here to understand.  We're here to observe and report."

His partner, Four, shook his head slowly, "I realize that.  But my confusion disturbs me."

Three sighed in exasperation, ruffling his wings to display his annoyance, "How so?"

Four gestured with a pastel colored hoof, towards the structure nearest them, "What is its purpose?  Aesthetics?"

Three shook his head, "How should I know?  And what does it matter?"

Four was on the verge of pressing his point, when Three smacked his right foreleg with a hoof, silencing him, "She's here!" The revelation was delivered in a whispered monotone.

The pair of pegasi ducked behind a stray wisp of cloud, and watched as the object of their attentions exited her place of work, and took to the air.  Four hissed, "It is most definitely our target.  How do we proceed?"

Three hovered for a moment, hoof against his chin in a pensive expression.  Finally, he spoke, "You follow her to her residence.  I will alert the others."

As Four prepared to follow the target, he cast a quick glance back at his superior, "Then... we will be moving soon?"

Three's eyes flashed green, as the sun caught their secondary layer of refractive lenses, "Soon."

The pair of not-quite-pegasi each darted off in a separate direction, leaving behind the structure that had been such a source of confusion to number four.

The Cloudsdale Rainbow Factory.

Chapter 8

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Thirteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

The group had flown non-stop, all through the night.  Time had become a precious commodity, and everyone was keenly aware of each passing minute.  Even Carradan seemed to have gained an unnatural second wind.

As the mountains fell away into forests and plains once more, the first hints of orange and pink began to smudge the eastern horizon.  Fyrenn tilted the angle of his wings, and allowed the change in airflow to send him drifting across the formation, until he was beside Sildinar.

He beat his wings in amiable silence for several minutes, before speaking his mind, "You said things had deteriorated.  Back on Earth..."  Fyrenn turned to ply his friend with a questioning stare, "How far have things gone?"

Sildinar sighed, his eyes remained fixed on his flight path as he spoke, "Nothing irreparable has been said or done... but things are the worst they have been in many years.  The phrase most in the Bureau seem to favor is 'perfect storm.' You are aware of the events surrounding Diamond Dog Potion?"

Fyrenn nodded, wincing involuntarily, "My last visit was only a few weeks after the start of the temporary program shutdown.  I remember the rioting, and truth be told it's part of the reason I haven't gone back in recent years.  I suddenly found I'd lost much of my desire to stay in touch with my former species; the legitimate grievances aside, they behaved in ways I can't condone."

Sildinar grunted, "Yet as you say; their grievances are legitimate.  No one was truly adequately warned as to how powerful a sway the pack mentality would hold over their beliefs, desires, and impulses.  Humanity values freedom nearly as much as we Gryphons do.  They had a right to know what they were entering in to, a right that the Diamond Dogs wilfully ignored.  And Earthgov, while not complicit, certainly failed to do their due diligence."

Fyrenn inclined his head, "I'll give you that one.  So I'm gonna go out on a limb here; I'm assuming there's more to the current spate of ill will?"

"Earth's Government was eager to keep Conversion enrollment numbers positive.  They instituted a series of strong controls on the Diamond Dog program, and then removed the temporary hold on applicants."  Sildinar's expression told Fyrenn everything he needed to know about the results of the decision.  He loosed a query nonetheless.

"And that went badly?"

Sildinar nodded slowly, "Badly indeed.  In and of itself, it was far too soon to attempt a restart of the diamond Dog program.  People felt, and rightly so, that it was disrespectful to the initial victims.  But there were other latent consequences.  In the past, there has never been an illicit market for potion beyond the PER; Ponification is open to all, and our serum is too complex to be produced outside of a government facility.  But Diamond Dog serum..."

Fyrenn stiffened, the beat his wings more swiftly, to make up for his momentary lapse, "Oh no...  Of course.  Ponies have a natural non-violence compulsion, we have a natural set of moral safeguards..."

"And Diamond Dogs have neither.  Aside from the pack instinct, and other strong aspects of their baser nature, they are free to do as they will.  Given that our program is restricted to applicants, and that Ponies carry a stigma amongst those with fewer scruples, and a desire to retain the ability to commit harmful acts..."

The red Gryphon finished the thought, "...A Black Market for Diamond Dog Potion?"

"Precisely."  Sildinar cast a glance at his companion for the first time, eyes filled with concern and disgust, "Within a few months it was being sold on the street.  After that, it wasn't long before it became part of 'gangland.'  Both native criminal cartels, and immigrant Diamond Dog riff-raff  began abusing the resentment of those looking for a way to convert without sacrificing their ability to be violent.  The majority of their victims have either been barred from our program, or found psychologically unsuitable for Draconification."

Fyrenn grimaced, "And by the time they realize they've been duped?"

"It is far too late.  The pack owns them.  Body and Mind."

"That's not how it was intended to be." Fyrenn's voice cracked slightly, his sadness on behalf of the lost finally getting the better of him.

Sildinar shook his head wistfully, "No indeed; the pack is meant to be an expression of family ties, in its own unique way, as well as a safeguard against baser impulses.  Instead, the Troll clans have twisted it into a vessel to *serve* their greed.  The impact to crime on Earth has been... unfortunate.  And that is still only part of the problem."

Fyrenn inhaled sharply, "There's more?"

Sildinar nodded once more, his beak turned down in an expression of melancholy, and ears laid back slightly, "Bureau public relations had already been badly damaged by the issues with Diamond Dog Conversion.  Then the Barrier arrived at New York.  To most of humankind, disasters are curiously 'un-real' in their minds, until they are faced with an oncoming calamity directly.  Now that the Earth is faced with the imminent loss of one of its largest cities..."

"Let me guess... A resurgence of xenophobia?  Political shakeups?  Protests?  Anger?  Fear?"

Fyrenn sighed and cast his gaze upon the pines below, taking comfort in the myriad hues of green, all suffused with the gold of the rising sun.

"Sadly, you are correct.  Human moods and desires fluctuate quickly; the climate on Earth has become exceedingly polarized, particularly in areas that will soon succumb to the bubble.  Those who have an abundance of time left have a smaller stake in the matter, but those in the immediate path of Equestria are being forced to take a side."

Fyrenn inhaled again, slowly and deeply, "And all we can do is try to convince them to take ours."

"Indeed."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 11th, Gregorian Calendar

Hutch glanced up from his DaTab, and smiled, as Commander Aston entered his office, "Commander.  Here to deliver the new batch of recruits?"

Aston snorted, and shook her head, smiling slightly, "You haven't been sleeping much have you.  That's tomorrow."

The General's face fell, "Is it?  I must be slipping... That... *shrew* Loryss was after me again yesterday."

The Commander grimaced, and took a half-seated position on Hutch's desk.  The surface was mostly clear, for the first time in years. The more the Fort Hamilton shutdown forged ahead, the more Hutch felt a desire to spend less time in the office there, and more time in his temporary Bureau office.

The General chalked it up to an instinctive understanding that the Bureau would soon be nothing more than a memory.  Whether he was willing to admit it to others or not, Hutch knew, and accepted internally, that some of the best memories of his career were associated with the Manhattan Bureau.

He sighed, and set his DaTab down, leaning back in his chair and taking a moment to drink in the sight of Aston, framed against the rising Equestrian sun, as its rays crossed the barrier, wove between the city's mega-skyscrapers, and finally came to rest in her hair giving it a halo-like ethereal quality.

"So if you're not here to bring me fresh meat, what's the occasion?  Or did you just come to renew our weekly lunch date?"

Aston chuckled softly, "You *wish* we had that kind of time.  I haven't slept a full night since the evacuation began.  I know you haven't either.  No, this time I brought you an unexpected visitor."

Hutch looked up sharply to see a well dressed, slightly older female figure standing just beyond the frame of his door.  He started, in recognition, and then cocked his head sideways, piercing Aston with a questioning glance, "She say why she wanted to see me?"

The commander shrugged, "Ask her yourself."  As she pivoted through the open sliding semi-transparent door, Aston turned and offered Hutch a parting smile, "And... on the off chance you *do* find some spare time in your schedule... I'm free after eight."

Aston excused herself quietly.  Her presence was swiftly replaced by a tall, imposing woman in an immaculate business suit.  Hutch smiled; not quite with the warmth one might reserve for a friend, but with no small amount of genuine pleasure, "Councilor Martins.  What brings you to New York?"

Hutch stood and proffered a hand, which Martins grasped and shook firmly, returning his smile with nearly the same precise level of warmth and professionalism, "Business.  As always.  Commander... you recall that I once did you and your favorite Lieutenant a favor... I've come to collect on your payment.  I need your advice... and your backing."

The General sighed and swept his gaze across the carpet momentarily, as if he would find some solace in its fibers.  He brought his eyes back up, and locked them with the Councilor's, "Am I going to regret putting myself in your debt?"

Martins grinned slightly, in a rare display of amusement, "No.  I don't think you will.  Tell me... do you enjoy astronomy?"

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Thirteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

Fyrenn would never have admitted it, but he was glad to have a moment to stop and take in the afternoon.  Even if it was brief.  The stream the group had selected as their rest site, and hunting ground, was a beautiful pastoral setting;  Fyrenn found it hard to keep his eyes off the scenery.

Sildinar and Carradan had stayed with him to help refill water canteens, while Kephic and Varan had volunteered to hunt down a quick meal.

As the red Gryphon bent to allow the cool, clear water of the brook to flood into the leather water-skin clutched in his claws, he heard Carradan strike up a conversation with Sildinar, "So.. why did you suddenly decide to hitchhike with us poor bums at the last minute?  And don't tell me you just wanted to go sightseeing..."

Fyrenn grinned slightly, and dipped his beak directly into the stream for a quick sip, even as his canteen finally reached capacity.  He had wanted, from the moment the Group departed, to ask the Gryphon Prince the same question, but he was too respectful of his friend's privacy to simply come right out and pry without an invitation.

Carradan, on the other claw...  Fyrenn chuckled to himself.  Once a reporter, always a reporter.

He raised his head in time to see Sildinar respond.  The roan Gryphon did not seem perturbed by the question in the slightest, "I am travelling with you at the behest of the Lunar Monarch; she has reached out to my father for assistance in... a sensitive matter requiring the type of tactical skill that Gryphons naturally possess.  Given our newfound ties to Equestria, my father requested that I act as envoy in this matter."

Stanley leaned in close, nudging the Gryphon with a wing, "Top Secret Mission eh?  Mind letting us in on the ol' scoop?"

Sildinar glared, "Infact, I do.  I am not given to breaching confidence.  I have told you more than I would tell most.  I expect discretion on your part."

Fyrenn ambled up, and placed a half-intimidating, half-protective wing over Carradan, grinning down at him in an expression equal parts hollow and menacing, "And he would never *dream* of being indiscreet.  Would you Stan?"

The Pegasus flinched, grinning sheepishly, "Hehe... my lips are zipped pal."

Sildinar smiled, a genuine expression of trust, "Good.  I believe our lunch has arrived."

Fyrenn turned to follow Sildinar's gaze, and noted with satisfaction that Kephic and Varan had managed to find a large enough kill to serve not only as lunch, but as cured meat strips to fuel the remainder of their trip.

As they touched down, dropped the carcass between them, Varan pointed a claw up at the noon-day sun, "We had best get the skinning done swiftly.  That took longer than I would have liked."

Carradan raised an eyebrow, his muzzle twisting into an expression of disgust, "Aaah.. if you guys don't mind, I think I'll go over that hill and... I can't believe I'm sayin' this... graze a bit.  Beef Jerky is still a little ways off for me, much less guttin' and skinnin.' "

Fyrenn shrugged, "No worries.  I'll be sure to save you a few strips for later."

The salmon Pegasus glowered, "Har de har har."

As the four Gryphons set to relieving the deceased mammal of its skin, Kephic plied Fyrenn with a question, "You really think this is worth the trip?"

Fyrenn nodded emphatically, "Don't tell me, after everything we went through, that you doubt we're going to the expert among experts?"

The speckled Gryphon shook his head, "No no... I'm just worried that expertise won't be able to match the power of a computer encryption..."

His crimson brother snorted, "Who said we were relying on expertise alone?"

Varan made a precise swipe with his talons, and peeled away a large segment of fur seamlessly, "In the vein of encryption; this is effectively proof that the trolls attacking our borders are in league with the PER.  Where else would they gain access to human-level computing power?"

Sildinar grunted, "Where indeed."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 12th, Gregorian Calendar

"Relax."

Hutch cast a sideways glare at Aston,  "What makes you think I'm not relaxed?"

The commander snorted, "Has no one ever told you that your left eye has a nervous twitch?"

Hutch grimaced, "It does *not.*"

Aston smirked, "Its allright.  I'd be unnerved too."

The General nodded, "Damn straight.  We're talking about dragons here.  Nevermind that either of them could flay me alive, nevermind that they breathe all kinds of terrifying shizz, and nevermind that they have a fiercely independent streak; they're also both Earthgov citizens, *and* diplomatically immune members of the Dragon race.  Trying to be CO to a creature like that is like trying to hit a bullseye with a revolver, blindfolded, while walking a dadgum *tightrope.*  That's been Lit on fire."

"Look at it this way..." Aston rounded the corner slightly ahead of Hutch, and tapped the lift call button, "You're not so much their commanding officer as their... Tactical liaison."

Hutch stepped into the lift, and exhaled slowly, eyes expanding slightly, "You got that right.  Every time I have to give an Equestrian... a non-Pony Equestrian, an order... it feels more like I'm asking nicely than telling sternly."

Aston inclined her head, as the lift began to descend to Fort Hamilton's 'ground' floor, "And you wonder why Politicians always seem so ornery?  Imagine trying to deal with a Gryphon in the Council chambers on some sort of sore issue..."

Hutch raised an eyebrow as the doors opened onto the central atrium.  Aston winced, "Oh.  Right.  I forget.  We've been there, done that."

Hutch strode out of the lift, straightening his jacket, "So I think we can handle this."

The pair walked in silence; years of military practice keeping them precisely in step as their JRSF issue black combat boots clacked against the plating of the floor.  They reached the main courtyard doors, which slid open at their approach to reveal a glorious Equestrian sunrise.

The light sparkled and glinted off their destination; a pair of adult, yet still relatively median sized Dragons.

The one on the left was a brilliant shade of emerald; he appeared slightly younger, and more lithe than his counterpart.

The one on the right was a shade Hutch would describe as 'anodized aluminum blue.'  Pure, vibrant, and evocative of nothing so much as the plates of an armored vehicle fresh off an assembly line.  Ready for combat.

He looked several years older, and more experienced in his comport and posture.  His expression was also, the General noted, considerably less inviting.  The Green Dragon, while standing at attention like his compatriot, had a look of optimism and excitement to his muzzle.

The Blue Dragon looked more grizzled.  Hutch immediately marked him down as more likely to be the most problematic of the pair.

The reptilian life forms by no means filled the courtyard, but nonetheless they felt very large, in comparison to the armored vehicles and platoons of soldiers moving across the vast duracrete tarmac.

Hutch squared his shoulders and strode up to the pair, "Mornin'!  I'm General Hutchison!"  Somehow, a halfway shout felt like the most appropriate way to address a creature nearly three times his height, "Welcome to Fort Hamilton!  You're here because you volunteered for special service as part of your Conversion.  More specifically, you are *here* in New York, because in light of the evacuation, we are expecting trouble.  More than usual.  You two ready to help me make sure that whoever comes busting down the door gets more than they bargained for?"

The Green Dragon nodded emphatically, clearly trying to resist breaking into a toothy smile "You *bet* we are!"

The blue Dragon simply nodded once gruffly.

Hutch returned the gesture, "Alright then.  You know me; hows about I get to know you?"

The Green Dragon, predictably, leapt into the silence with his response, "Most people used to know me as Kaidaan Rel.  I go by Klarien now.  I volunteered because I felt like the limitations of my human body were keeping me back from doing Earth true service.  When I got into the Draconification program...  Well... The decision practically made itself."

Klarien bent his head down to look Hutch in the eye, "I've read about you, and your service record.  You're a master tactician and I'm looking forward to learning from your experience."

Hutch smiled slightly, "Well I don't know if I'd call myself a master, but I do knock a few heads together in creative ways now and again."  The General turned to face the other reptile, "And as for you?"

The Dragon's voice seemed to vibrate the very duracrete beneath Hutch's' boots, "I am called Taranis.  I have extensive military experience, and I would like to get started with my duties right away;  I expect to need minimal re-training or supervision."

Hutch knit his eyebrows.  Aston tapped away at a large DaTab cradled in her arms, "It says here you're retired military...  You have two citations for valor..."  She winced, and her tone dropped, "As well as a half dozen unspecified redacted standing charges, and psychological flags."

Hutch glared up at Taranis, secretly feeling quite nervous at locking eyes with a creature who would outlive him by measures of millennia, "This isn't going to be a *problem* is it?"

The cobalt Dragon exhaled sharply, creating a strong gust of wind that bore a tang, like melting silicon or scorched air, "Not for me."

Hutch glowered, "Well then.  I think we'd best move on to gear, quarters, and schedules.  Lets go."

The group made their way around the courtyard to a large entry-way, from which a steady stream of vehicles were coming and going.  The Dragons inserted themselves into the traffic pattern, while Hutch and Aston made their way along a side area reserved for foot traffic.

Once inside, they peeled away from the vehicle lane, and moved down a series of giant corridors towards the underground armories.

Fort Hamilton had, in the years since post-Pony Conversion programs came online, been retrofitted extensively to handle various species in certain portions of its infrastructure.

Hutch led the way into a large room off one of the main access junctions, "Your gear is a lighter, urban-level version of the equipment they're putting on scalebuster units.  Light-class anti-material armor, basic area-denial countermeasures, and a single high-accuracy wrist-worn railgun."

Klarien reached out to one of the two identical suits of armor, suspended on large Dragon-shaped racks, and removed the helmet.  He turned it over in his claws, smiling, "Incredible!  I thought it would seem unusually large but... from this perspective it really isn't."

There was a loud *CLANK* from the other side of the bay, and Hutch spun to see Taranis, railgun in-claw, in the process of sighting down the barrel.  The tell-tale blue glowing slits at the breach of the weapon indicated he had inserted, and cycled the power cell.

Aston inhaled, "A little larger than what you're used to?"

Hutch tensed and waited for the Dragon's response.  Taranis continued to stare down the weapon, eyes glinting as if with the fury of a storm.  Then he slowly laid the device down on the room's large central worktable, "Not especially.  No."

Hutch gestured for the Dragons to proceed into the corridor again.  He leaned close to Aston after they had passed, "I can tell already; this is going to be *so* much fun."

Aston smirked, "I don't work this division so... Not for *me.*"

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Fourteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

Fyrenn found Canterlot a fascinating city.  As much as he preferred Gryphic architecture, he still found plenty of room in his tastes for a healthy appreciation of Equine aesthetic.  It had a neo-classical charm to it; spires, minarets, and slender towers made of pure marble, trimmed in obsidian, gold, and silver.

More than the architecture, however, the Gryphon enjoyed the occupants of the city, and its culture.  Ponies had a sedentary, leisurely charm that was, in small doses, appealing as a break to the usual stress of travel and combat.

It was late enough in the morning that Fyrenn's keen eyes could spy wisps of smoke and steam from a thousand cooking breakfasts.  Ponies moved to and fro in the streets, hauling carts, setting out cafe tables, and delivering all kinds of commodities.

The group angled directly for Canterlot Castle.  Fyrenn and most of his fellow Gryphons had managed to sleep in the air, taking turns leading the formation to ensure no one would crash while snoring.  Carradan, being a Pegasus, did not possess the biological mechanisms to sleep properly in-flight.

The Salmon Pegasus was clearly flagging, badly.  As far as Fyrenn was concerned, first priority was getting Stanley a place to sleep off his undue exertion.

The group angled down towards a marble and tile arrival pad built into the side of Canterlot's royal palace, coming to a swift and practiced landing between two rows of Royal Guards, their gold armor glittering in the sun.

The accoutrement bore a striking similarity to Carradan's own steel-gray armor; indeed the suits were identical save that Stan's lacked the gold plating, and blue crest.

Gryphons manufactured the base pieces for all the Equestrian Nation's Royal armor; Carradan's gear was simply a suit pulled from a shipment years before in time of need.  He had taken a personal liking to it, and been allowed to keep it.

The doors to the palace were opened by a pair of guards, one of whom inclined his head and spoke to Sildinar, "Her highness Princess Luna is expecting you.  Shall we have rooms prepared for your companions as well?"

Sildinar cast a glance back at his compatriots.  Carradan was leaning against Fyrenn, barely able to keep his eyes open.  Sildinar nodded, "Yes, but only one need be ready immediately.  The rest can wait."

The Guard nodded curtly, "Anything else?"

Fyrenn stepped forward, "I'd like for you to have someone sent for."  He began to step through the door, then paused, "...And, would you please take a missive for Princess Celestia?"

The four Gryphons had fallen mostly to pacing.  After Carradan had been seen to a room, wherein he had fallen directly onto the bed and begun to snore immediately, the avians had been brought to one of the castle's ancillary dining rooms.

There a spread of cheeses, breads, and fruits had been laid out.  While their metabolisms required meat, on average, with every meal in order for them to survive, they could still gain nutrition from other foodstuffs if their daily meat quota was filled.

Fyrenn had divvied up the leftover meat strips from their last kill, and they had fallen to eating an impromptu breakfast.

While the food was welcome, a feeling of unrest had fallen upon the group.  They had flown practically non-stop to try for Fyrenn's mysterious hail-mary pass, and now they were being made to wait for seemingly no apparent reason.

In reality, it had been less than a quarter of an hour since they landed, and their arrival had been unexpected.  But to the Gryphons, Fyrenn and Kephic especially, it felt longer.  Patience was not the brothers' strong suit; that was more Varan and Sildinar's purview.

At long last, a knock came at the door, followed swiftly by a newcomer.  Princess Luna was an imposing presence; a touch of her regal bearing even bled through the Gryphons' impassivity.  Few figures of authority outside the Kingdoms warranted much respect from the avians, but princess Luna was one of them.

True it was sometimes a source of conflict between Ponies and Gryphons; many Equines held their rulers in nigh-on deific esteem, while for the Gryphons 'respect' meant that Luna and Celestia were viewed as, in most cases, as unusually powerful and aged equals.

Luna allowed a very small hint of a smile to pull at the corners of her normally unfazed muzzle, "It is most agreeable to see you all again.  Particularly you Sildinar, and Fyrenn.  I am told you come with news, as well as a request?"

Fyrenn nodded, "We do; but time is of the essence here.  How soon can we begin?"

Luna nodded toward the door, "She is awaiting you in the passage, though she does not yet know why.  I did not have time to explain it to her; my sister and I took your message to mean you were in urgent need of alacrity."

Sildinar inclined his head, "That we are."

The group filed out into the corridor, to behold a Pony standing at the far end, shuffling her hooves and staring out the stained glass windows into the morning light.

Fyrenn dashed forward silently, and pounced, wrapping the young Unicorn in a tight hug with both wings, "Surprise you little imp!"

She shrieked; a sound that went instantly from surprise, to delight.  The Unicorn fell into a fit of laughter, returning the Gryphon's familial embrace and momentarily pressing her head into the comforting crook of his neck, "Good to see you too featherbrains."

She finally managed to extricate herself from the crushing display of brother/sister affection, and gain a touch of her composure back, though she continued to grin with her trademark devil-may-care glint in her eyes, "Now... I don't suppose you came all this way without sending ahead just to surprise me?"

Fyrenn shook his head, "No Skye.  No we did not."

Skye's smile widened, "Well a girl does love an unexpected challenge now and then."

Chapter 9

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 13th, Gregorian Calendar

When Neyla arrived in the armory, most of her team had already begun to sift through their gear, and prepare for the day.

To her surprise, the Gryphoness had found herself placed in charge of a full detachment.  Her unit, along with three others much like it, reported to Seyal by way of General Sorven.  The more she contemplated the arrangement, the more clever she realized the concept was.

Gryphons were the species best suited to point, and command roles in a fire team, but they also had the distinct disadvantage of being highly independent.  Gryphons would rarely conscien reporting to a superior of another species; most Gryphons saw even the highest ranking members of other races as equals, at best.

The average well-adjusted Human, on the other claw, could be trained to follow almost anyone all things being equal.  But by the same token homo sapiens felt very uncomfortable if the interests of their species, social class, gender, genetic subset, and even geopolitical heritage, were not being served at all times.

Neyla could grasp the concept of species pride quite well, but in total she was often appalled.

Appalled by not only the number, and depth of the divisions humanity placed on itself *within* its species, but even more so by the way humans behaved when such petty distinctions were *not* elevated to high import and treated as golden rules.

She sometimes found it hard to believe, but according to the history files she had read it had once been far worse, to the point that some people were brutalized for no other reason than the sequencing of their genetic code.

While most Humans seemed to think the majority of those issues had died with the Winnowing, Neyla had quickly come to realize that the fresh external perspectives of Equestrian species were unearthing the still-rotting dregs of classism and culture-phobia, on *both* sides of the barrier; dragging their more subtle, but no less insidious, modern practices into the light.

Often kicking and screaming.

Somehow, in spite of such issues and more besides, the JRSF had, by necessity, become masterful at serving the needs of all its species, petty and otherwise, to keep a smooth command structure in place.

Sorven's liaison position allowed the baser members of Humanity to feel as if its interests were being given special treatment, while Seyal's position at the top of the command chain afforded the JRSF a dual advantage.  Not only could they put Gryphons in command of the protection detail fire-teams, but the other parties with vested interests could rest assured that Seyal's moral safeguards would prevent her from being, as the human phrase went, 'flipped.'

Neyla sighed, squared her shoulders, and padded quietly into the large oblong room.  Her team consisted of herself, Tirinel, and a dozen other members.  The remainder of the team was split; half humans, another Dragon, another Gryphon, and the remaining one-third comprised of Ponies, the latter serving spotter, technician, and medical roles.

Every member of the unit had veteran combat status, having been part of a military detachment of some sort for a minimum of three years.  All had seen heavy action a minimum of twice.

The blue and tan Gryphon paused at the mouth of the room, and stared down its length.  It was shaped vaguely like a trapezoidal cross-section, with thick titanium supports every few feet.  Between each set of supports was a pair of lockers containing armor and weapons for a human, Pony, or Gryphon.  At the end of the bay, opposite the entrance, were two considerably larger areas for the Dragons.

Neyla examined each member of her team in turn.  While she was used to seeing human warriors, the Ponies took her somewhat by surprise.  They were clearly still governed in some capacity by their passivity, but there was also a definite hardened aspect to them.

It shone in their eyes; a firm resolve instilled by years of easing into combat roles.  They were not so ideally suited to the role of a fighter as even a human could be, but they were also far less restricted from it than the average Equine.

They could and would, Neyla realized, take a life if necessary.

To many in the Equestrian Nation that would be distasteful.  To the Gryphoness, it was reassuring.  Beyond merely the scope of her assignment, it reassured her that perhaps Ponies *could* be taught, as a species, to be ready to stand up and fight when their lives and loved ones were threatened.

She knew that neither she, nor anyone else, could expect them to become warriors like Gryphons or Dragons, or even humans.  But perhaps they could avoid becoming *entirely* career pacifists.

Neyla had seen the colorful Equinids defuse potentially bad situations enough times to appreciate their skills with diplomacy; something her own kind lacked sorely.  But she was also old and wise enough to know the difference between diplomatic kindness, even empathy, and outright unconscionable passivity.

The Gryphon shook herself, and strode quickly to her locker.  Lockermates were intended to be partners, but Neyla was in charge of the entire unit.  Consequently the locker beside her own, at the head of the line, was reserved for Sorven's combat gear, incase the General was needed in the field.

While Sorven's tasks for the day would have her practically bolted to her desk, she had nevertheless made the trip down to the armory to give her new gear a once-over, and synchronize action items with the Unit's schedule.

The General was staring down the inside of a RAC-7, having just inserted an energy cell into the butt.  She snapped the weapon shut, cycled the power, and glanced up at Neyla, "You're early."

Neyla dipped her head and smirked, "Surprise is the best advantage."

She pressed one claw to the pad beside her locker.  The two doors immediately irised open with the confirmation of her DNA, to reveal her gear, sequestered in a series of stacked compartments.

The weapons were in precisely the same condition they had been when she inspected them on the Northolt tarmac, minus the magnetic javelins.  The armor, however, was clearly something new.

Neyla removed the helmet, and flipped it over in her claws, before glancing over at Sorven, "We've been issued new gear?"

The General grinned, "I thought you might find that interesting.  They took a lot of the feedback from you guys 'n girls in the field, and did some serious refactoring.  It's one thing to design a suit of armor to fit something, it's another thing entirely to design a suit based off experience and hard data."

The Gryphon flipped the helmet over, and knocked on it with a claw.  The surface was a dull shade of gray with a carbon composite-like texture, but in certain lights the telltale hexagonal pattern of an energy diffusion matrix was visible sandwiched somewhere between the layers of alloy.

The matrix, as Neyla understood it, allowed for dispersion of some kinetic force, and a great deal of energy from laser and particle weapons.  Combined with the anti-ballistic gel layers, ablative outer skin, and tough teryllium/carbon alloy plates in between, it was the best stopping power short of a magic shield.

Neyla brought the helmet to rest on her head, and rolled her shoulders, "Good fit!  I'm impressed."

Sorven gestured to the remainder of the armor, its crimson JRSF stripe noticeably duller and low-visibility than the previous version Neyla had worn,"You haven't even begun to see 'impressed.' "

The Gryphoness hefted one of the foreleg gauntlets.  At a slight, but intentional flick a pair of wicked looking double edged serrated blades emerged from the sides of the plating.  Neyla raised an eyebrow.

The General chuckled, "You'll have time for a test flight later I expect; but they tell me whatever effort and time you spend acclimating... It'll be well worth it."

Neyla set the gauntlet back on the rack, and pulled off her helmet.  Her head crest momentarily flared in response to the static built up between the surface and her feathers.  Sorven chuckled.

The Gryphoness glared, and the feathers gradually receded of their own accord.  She turned to stare down the length of the bay once more.  Seeing that most of her troops were in the finishing stages of their preparations, she expelled a shrill whistle from her beak.

Once all heads had turned to face her, she began, "Now that you're all aware of your new gear, and you have your partners, we're going to do some qualifying runs to you can get acclimated to both.  After that, starting tonight and running through tomorrow we will have strategy meetings.  Once those are concluded, we split.  Half of us are canvassing this city, block by block, and nipping problem spots in the bud.  The other half are going to turn this facility into the most secure place on the planet."

Neyla paused, and looked to each member of the squad in turn, "Questions?"  No one spoke.

She nodded once, "Good!  Let's move."

As the various creatures began filing out, pair by pair, Sorven shot Neyla a genuine smile of respect, "You're a natural at this."

Neyla snorted as she began to heft her own gear into place, "I hate it.  I live as a sentinel for a reason; I like my independence.  Leadership is the antithesis of independance."

Sorven snorted, "You have a good bit to learn yet if you really believe that.  Want to know a little secret?  No one is *truly* independent, and you wouldn't *want* to be even if you could.  Independence is morbidly lonely."

With her parting words, the General excused herself from the armory, leaving Neyla to ponder as she snapped each piece of her armor into place.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Fourteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

"How come you hardly ever write?" Skye offered a curious glance to accompany her query, tilting her head as she walked down the hallway at the head of the group.

Fyrenn scowled, "We don't exactly get a lot of chances to stop by a post office you know."

Skye nodded morosely, "Yeah... I guess you guys don't see the nice side of civilization as much these days..." she glanced up at Fyrenn and smirked, "Judging by the smell anyways."

Kephic snorted, and took a playful swat at the Unicorn, which she gracefully dodged, pirouetting to face backwards and sticking out her tongue.

Fyrenn chuckled, as his monochromatic sibling returned the childish gesture in kind.  Varan put an abrupt end to the antics, before Fyrenn could join in and turn the situation into a free-for-all, "As much as I respect your talent, Skye," he shifted his gaze briefly to Fyrenn, "And your judgement, brother, I still do not see how the arithmetical skills of a single Unicorn, even a prodigy, will help us crack a computer-generated code."

Skye rolled her eyes, "Have a little faith will ya?  Nobody said anything about me going it alone... I've been pretty busy with my new 'project' while you guys have been tearing up the frozen north."

The group moved on in silence for several more moments.  Sildinar and Luna had left together as soon as brief greetings had been exchanged all around.  They had been quietly whispering about the best troop formations for securing a convoy, and how to avoid attention by marching on less-traveled routes.

Fyrenn hadn't given the conversation much thought; he had more immediate concerns.

Finally, the group reached the end of the hall.  The opposing wall was gilded with ornate filigree, reminiscent of a tall victorian gate.  The center of the decorative formation contained a brass door-like structure.  Skye stepped up to the wall, and pressed a hoof against a small innocuous button.

The doors snapped open, to reveal a small rectangular box-like room.  Kephic snorted, grinning, "I'll be... an elevator."

Varan sighed, "Joy."

After a small amount of squeezing and shuffling, it turned out that there was indeed enough room in the elevator car for the entire group.  Barely.

Skye was the last one in, by necessity, in order to allow her access to the controls on the front right wall.  She smiled, "Please, keep your claws, wings, and paws inside the car at all times, and no flash photography."

She smacked her hoof against one of the buttons, and pulled away to ensure her muzzle was a safe distance from the doors, "Going... down."

The brass portals snapped shut, and the vehicle began to descend rapidly, and uncomfortably, with the loud whirr, hiss, and click of gears and steam-driven machinery.  After several quiet moments passed, Varan spoke up, "We must already have passed beyond the lowest levels of the archives."

Skye tilted her head, "Welll... The lowest *public* levels."

After another minute of silence, the elevator gradually ground to a halt, and the doors opened once more onto a vaulted hallway.

As Fyrenn extricated himself from the car, and stretched his wings reflexively, he swept his gaze over the passage.  Much of it appeared to be solid granite, as if the space had been hewn directly through the mountain; it was all artfully trimmed and polished, but it lacked seams.

Augmenting the natural granite were swooping pillars of marble, trimmed in the traditional Canterlot gold and silver.  The entire construction was easily thirty feet tall, and twenty feet wide.  Fyrenn glanced down the length of the space, judging it to be nearly thirty yards.  At the opposite end of the passage stood a pair of thick marble doors, flanked by a pair of Luna's Night Guards.

Skye set off down the corridor, leading once more, "This way please; and hold all questions 'till the end of the tour."

As they approached the doors, Fyrenn took a moment to examine the Night Guards more closely.  One was much like all the others the Gryphon had seen before; coat dyed ashen gray, mane colored a deep shade of amaranthine.  Outfitted in armor sheathed in pure polished obsidian, and trimmed with silver, the imposing image was completed by magically disguised wings taking the form of the leathery appendages commonly associated with bats.

The other guard was armored and colored identically, but conspicuously lacked wings.  Instead, his Unicorn horn bore an obsidian and silver ornament, complemented by a pair of vicious looking minotaur horns that seemed to be growing out of his head, and poking through slits in his helmet.

If the fierce appendages were anything like the Night Guards' traditional bat wings, they were a form of magical disguise, placed on the troops to give them a more distinctive and intimidating appearance.

When the group reached the doors, the Unicorn guard held out a hoof, then nodded towards Skye, "Step aside please."

She rolled her eyes, but did as she was asked.  The Guard looked her over, as if examining a gem for flaws, then his horn flared to life.  The subtly magenta field swept over Skye from nose to tail., then back again, before dissipating.  The Guard nodded once abruptly, "You're clear.  Welcome to the archive vault."

The Pegasus guard pressed a hoof against the doors, and the swung open noiselessly.  As the group passed through, Fyrenn cocked his head and fixed Skye with a questioning gaze, "What was *that* all about?"

The Unicorn snorted, "We had a break-in a few months back.  A Changeling.  Now they have to test everyone who goes in, or out.  You guys get a free pass because they still can't copy Gryphons.  Mercifully."

Kephic raised an eyebrow, "Why would a Changeling want to break into the Archives?"

Skye chuckled, "You mean *besides* all the unholy and awesome spells of power in the secure wings?  Apparently the imposter was under the impression that we might be storing human military secrets down here."

Kephic shook his head, "Wrong archives.  Last I heard Celestia wanted no part of anything to do with humanity's technologies of violence.  We've been taking charge of anything military related and storing it in the capital library."

Varan nodded, "Doubtless we will make better use of it in any case."

All conversation came to an abrupt end as the group reached the end of the corridor.  The passage opened out onto a vast chamber; the sight elicited a whistle of awe from Fyrenn, "That... is a lot of crates."

Spread out before the group was an enormous domed chamber.  Like the passages, it was cut directly from the rock of the mountain.  The space was, in the red Gryphon's estimate, at least two hundred yards long, more than half-again as wide, and nearly six stories tall.

The space was filled to bursting with immense floor-to-ceiling shelving structures.  The structures themselves were packed to the brim with wooden crates.

Skye shrugged nonchalantly, "The Human Archiving project produces a lot of... stuff.  This is recieving; it waits here until it's tagged, and moved to its home somewhere in the new human wing of the Archives."

She set off down the rows of boxed documents, paintings, and statues, "C'mon!"

Varan raised an eyebrow, "Is it safe to assume you did not bring us all the way down to these caverns simply to look at crates of books?"

Fyrenn interjected, "It's safe to assume.  Don't you worry."

Skye led the group swiftly passed the stacks of human art, history, and culture, to another large door on the far side of the cavern.

The aperture was clearly sealed with a series of heavy, intricate steel locks.  The center of the circular portal contained a small hole, as if for a key.  Skye bent over, and inserted her horn, which flared briefly as her unique magical signature triggered the wards on the door.  A moment later, she withdrew herself, and the locks began to clank open, one by one.

As they waited for the door to open, Skye gestured to the rock around them, "Apparently this place has been here since the dawn of time, or something.  Before the castle and city even existed, a bunch of offshoot xenophobe Unicorns lived down here.  Real nice bunch."  The sarcasm in her words was painfully evident.

At last, the door was clear of its locks.  The immense steel disc rolled to the side, revealing a sight that put the storage caverns to shame.

The roof of the new chamber was shorter, only two stories high. But it seemed to go on for nigh on a mile in every direction.  By far the most eye catching feature, however, was not the cavern but the crystals that filled it.

Row upon row of glittering translucent hard-edged stones, grown over centuries by some inscrutable process of geological change, and ambient magic.

While much of the crop of crystals was natural, and unspoiled, a path had been cut from the entryway to the center of the chamber.  Along all the sides of the path, the towering geological formations had been cut into symmetrical pillars, and surrounded with an organized chaos of wires and fittings.

Skye cracked a grin that seemed to raise the light level in the entire chamber, "Behold boys; my new project."

Fyrenn chuckled, "It's even more impressive than your letters led me to expect."

The Unicorn nodded, as she led the way towards the center of the room, "We've expanded it twice since our last exchange.  We're going to have to do the same thing three more times this year alone if we ever hope to accommodate all the incoming data."

As the rest of the group stared in confusion, Fyrenn gestured to the natural crystals, "And.. what?  You mine some of them into smaller gems to use for the transfer?"

Skye nodded, "Got it in one, feathers.  The transfer rate isn't ideal, but it works; we take what we can get."

Kephic finally lost all semblance of patience, "Would someone mind telling me how this is going to help with our code-breaking problem?"

As the group reached the platform in the center of the room, the answer became clear almost as Skye voiced it, "You guys are standing *inside* the very first Thaumatic Computer."

The speckled Gryphon grinned wryly, "So *that's* what this is all about.  I should've known."

Fyrenn shrugged, resettling his wings in the same motion, "I knew, but I was asked to keep it a secret for now.  Apparently this is the single highest value potential target for PER sympathisers in Equestria.  They are half way to saving the internet, after all."

Skye hummed absently, "Mmm... more like a little over a third of the way, but we're getting there all the same."

She ascended a small flight of stairs, followed by the Gryphons, arriving on the central platform itself.

Much of the space was given over to eerily glowing thaumatic machinery; tubes imbued with an ethereal light, twisted coils of copper wire that arced from time to time with tiny bolts of electricity, and bank after bank of mechanical switches and dials made from brass and gold.

The center of the platform was a clear space, dominated by a horseshoe shaped oak desk.  On the desk sat something akin to a keyboard, with each key representing either a letter in common or a function of some sort.  Each button was approximately the size of a hoof.

On an adjustable silver arm, sat a monitor-like protrusion of clear crystal in a fitting of bronze.

Beside the keyboard Fyrenn noted a series of geometrically shaped, gold-lined slots, some of which were playing host to Crystals.

Skye hopped onto a stool positioned before the terminal, and jammed her hoof into a large silver button beside the keyboard.

With a low, ominous thrum, the crystals immediately surrounding the platform began to glow, ever so slightly.  Fyrenn's ears twitched as he detected the sound of arcing current, and shifting gears in some of the upright machinery.

The display crystal abruptly went from transparent, to a shade of black, and a series of common text lines began to spell out swiftly in green.

As Skye began rapidly tapping away at the keyboard with her hooves, Fyrenn stared over her shoulder, cocking his head in confusion, ears perked, "You're not initializing all the available crystal arrays?"

The Unicorn's eyes widened, "Hoho.. noooo buddy.. if we did *that* this place would go up like the biggest fireworks display ever."

Varan's head feathers puffed out in mild surprise, "You mean to say you can not make use of its full potential?"

Skye shook her head as she input several commands to initialize an array of crystals as random access memory, "The computer depends on both magic and electricity.  Problem is, electricity does *not* play well with magic, especially not ambient magic; and Equestria is charged to busting with the stuff.  We have decent insulators now, thanks to some hotshot Unicorn out of Ponyville, but they're not advanced enough yet for us to boot the whole lattice down here; only about a quarter of it at any one time."

The Unicorn spun her stool around, and smiled, "So where's this supposedly computer-generated code?"

Varan pulled the sheets from his pack, and proffered them to Skye.  She quickly grasped the sheafs in her magic field, and levitated them over to the desk, spreading them out sequentially, "Oook; so long story short, I have to enter these as files first, and that's going to take about forty five minutes.  Then I have to spend some quality time running the initial blocks against various cipher programs until I find a lead."

Kephic sighed, "And *that* will take...?  A day?  Two?"

Skye tilted one ear, as if listening to a voice inside her own head, "Mmm... two.. three hours at most."

Fyrenn smiled, and nudged his speckled brother with a wing, "Have a little faith.  We might just make something out of this mess yet."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 13th, Gregorian Calendar

As he had expected, Hutch found Taranis and Klarien in one of Fort Hamilton's larger armor bays.  The compartment had originally been a vehicle repair facility, but had been repurposed to suit Dragons in light of their unusual size.

The General paused to watch in fascination, as Klarien attached his helmet.  As the magnetic clamps engaged with the panels already secured to the reptile's neck, the plating across the entire upper assembly flattened from its maintenance position, to its combat position.

One by one, the dull menacing segments of alloy hissed and clicked into place, wreathing the Dragon's already durable verdant scales in a secondary layer of anti-projectile defense.

Hutch turned to size up Taranis, who was already completely geared-up, and seemed intent on checking every last component of his wrist-mounted guns.

JRSF accoutrement lent the reptiles a fearsome aspect beyond the natural terror they exuded.  The plating of standard urban warfare suits covered all the weakest spots in their scale sheathe, as well as the areas closest to their vital organs, and most vulnerable joints.

The glowing slits at various junctures of the armor were a subtle indicator of the enormous capacitors hidden within the paneling that powered the weapons, and transceivers embedded in the gauntlets and back plates respectively.  One Dragon's suit could act as a small relay station for communications.  Two could support an entire battalion.

When fully armored, Hutch decided that the creatures almost looked more like some sort of whimsical, terrifying, hell-spawned vehicle than any kind of living thing.

Subtlety and flexibility were irrelevant.  The marriage of human tactical assets, and Draconic biology, was about pure force and durability alone.  A post-human, post-tank, post-gunship war machine.

The General gave the pair a moment to finish their preparatory work, then cleared his throat loudly, "Ehem.  Gentlemen; I see you've gotten acquainted with your gear.  Today I'd like you both to run an urban combat training test.  You're not bipeds in power suits anymore; you are multi-ton reptilian predators with the capacity to wipe out a city block.  I'd rather not see an overage of collateral damage coming from you two.  I need you on the front-lines of this evacuation ASAP; and I need you to be *discrete.*"

Hutch paused, and coughed politely, "Well.. as discrete as a Dragon can be."

Klarien snorted amiably, "No offense; but where do you plan to find a testing ground big and empty enough for us?"

"Almost a fifth of the city has been evacuated already, with particular emphasis on the East shore closest to the initial arrival point of the barrier.  Until landfall, we have the run of the place, and a three hectare area has been drawn off specifically for urban combat training."

Taranis lumbered over, and dipped his head down into the conversation, "What, precisely, do you expect us to do once we have finished your 'retraining' ?"

For an answer, Hutch merely tapped two keys on his DaTab, then spun the device around for both Dragons to see.  A series of shaky, blurred DaTab videos from the Bureau steps played in sequence, each showing the moment of the HOB bombing from a different angle.

Paving stones flew in all directions, chips of marble impaled screaming civilians, and Klarien even noted the presence of several bodiless limbs in two shots.  The green Dragon grimaced, a low rumble emanating from his chest cavity to shake the floor.

The General switched off the DaTab, "You're going to find the sons of bitches who did this.  Then you're going to find out who trained and supplied them.  Then you're going to kill them all.  Violently."

Taranis snorted; a small gesture to him, but a veritable wind gust to Hutch, "Would not a human operative be better suited to a subtle investigation?"

The General nodded, "Yes.  But I'm not lookin' for subtle.  I don't want to do this quietly, I want to make a statement; hands off the Bureaus, and stay away from the evacuation proceedings.  Or else.  Not much out there that can make a statement as boldly, or as visibly, as a brace of armed and angry Dragons with kill orders."

Taranis nodded slowly, "Where will we begin?"

Hutch glanced down at his DaTab, "I'll prepare you a full briefing for tomorrow morning, but suffice to say you're going to have to delve deep into the HOB, and in turn that's probably going to take you to the worst parts of the city, and eventually to more.. unsavory parties."

Klarien tilted his head, and stretched his wings slightly.  The fluorescent lights of the armor bay highlighted the blood vessels in the enormous flight organs, and Hutch noticed with a small start that the Green Dragon's veins looked much like the patterns of leaves.

"You think the HLF were involved in the bombing?"

Hutch shook his head, "I *know.*  I also know that once we're finished with them, they will think twice about pulling a stunt like that again.  We're gonna prove to them that no matter how big they go, and how loud they yell, we're always gonna make the cost too high.  Even for their 'fine' tastes."

Taranis rumbled, "And if their tastes run too 'fine' ?"

Klarien shrugged, his wings propelling a burst of his exhalations toward Hutch.  The smell reminded him at once both of the plants the Ponies kept in the Bureau hydroponics bay, and the scent of coolant.  Sweet, but with the distinct sickly tang of death.

"Isn't it obvious?  We take them for everything they have."

Chapter 10

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 13th, Gregorian Calendar

Neyla stared contemplatively into the hologram, as if piercing it with her gaze would uncover some long-buried secret, "It is a large city.  And the divisions of the river complicate things."

Vancouver had indeed become large; after the Winnowing, the metropolis had absorbed all the nearby boroughs and municipalities as people fled the countryside and sought shelter from the brutal northern winters.

Sorven, Tirinel, and Seyal were gathered at the other sides of the holotank, each likewise searching the projected map for vulnerable or vital locations related to the city's defense.

Seyal tapped a claw against the projection membrane thoughtfully, the image above rippling in time to the beat of her sharp index digit, "We'll have the support of a light carrier, starting tomorrow.  With its defense skiffs, we can be fairly assured that the river won't be used as a method of ingress."

Sorven nodded, fisted left hand propped under her chin pensively, "Both the PER and the HLF would have good reason to... 'attend the summit uninvited..."

Tirinel let out a deep thrum from his chest, finishing the sentance slowly, "And both would require large heavy devices to accomplish their purpose.  If we have sealed the river to them, the only remaining entry points are the maglevs, and via the aircraft terminus."

Neyla sighed, "Which means we will have to stretch our forces out across the ports, the train stations, *and* the air terminal."

"And that's just to secure the city's entry points."  Sorven tapped at the center of the hologram, her finger creating a series of cyan ripples in the buildings.  She turned to Neyla, "Like you said; its a big city.  They could easily have the materials *here* already to build a helluva bomb."

Seyal dipped her head in agreement, flattening her ears in thought, "Meaning we would be best advised to squeeze them from both sides.  Secure the premises of the complex here, as planned.."

Tirinel finished the thought, "And, as Neyla has already suggested, we should seek to root out potential bases of operations within the city.  Force them to fall back and defend rather than spend their time scheming and preparing."

Neyla grimaced, her ears mimicking Seyal's and defaulting to a concerned prone position, "It is a 'tall order' as you are so fond of saying General."

The silver Dragon interjected, "But not an impossible one.  We are a highly effective force, as today's qualifying runs so amply demonstrated."

Sorven nodded slowly, "Thank God for interspecies cooperation."

Seyal began dragging small colored lines on the map as she spoke, "In light of the size of the city, I suggest we split our forces in this manner; one third will remain here in the compound for security, augmented by existing Earthgov forces.  The remainder will split between securing entry terminals, and combing through known PER and HLF sympathetic zones."

Neyla glanced sideways at General Sorven, raising an eyebrow and perking her ears, "You do understand that we tend to be very... agressive in dealing with trouble spots.  There could be political fallout."

Sorven snorted, "The first rule in doing this job Neyla?  There is *always* political fallout.  And its not our problem as long as we can keep the politicians blaming *each other* while we do our job."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Fourteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

One looked up just in time to see Three arriving with Two.  He gestured to the empty seats at the table, his voice a flat monotone, "Join us."

One was an expert at his trade, but for the mission at hoof he found himself constrained to his native mannerisms; something most Equestrians found to be fairly alien.  The constraint was a byproduct of infiltration; without someone to actually replace, One had no particular target to study, and thus no grains of truth around which to build the facade of a false personality.

This fact was certainly alleviated by the nature of the mission; there was no need to convince anyone that he, or any of his cohorts, were truly specific Ponies with specific identities, pasts, behaviors, careers, and loved ones.

When dealing with strangers, Ponies had an incredible tendency to overlook even the most attention-demanding of oddities in individuals.  This lack of paranoia made them highly permeable to infiltration, draining, and even replacement; some Ponies were even more keen to forgive peculiarities in the ones *closest* to them, rather than mere strangers.

They were not, One reflected, at all like Gryphons, or Dragons, who had cultures that were both exceedingly difficult to emulate facetiously, and highly distrustful of outsiders or outsider behavior.  They were all but impossible to infiltrate effectively, let alone replace.

As the two newcomer 'Pegasi' obediently took their seats, a waitress appeared with a smile on her face and a tray balanced between her wings, "Can I get you anything gentlemen?"

One tilted his head slightly, as if trying to parse her request and weigh his response, before nodding, "Four waters."  The request was so emotionless that it seemed to visibly affect the waitress, nonetheless she nodded, forced a smile, and darted off back into the cafe.

The building was a beautiful combination of nimbus, and cumulo-cirrus cloud formations built at the corner of Cloudsdale's largest 'streets.'  At least, the locals described it as 'beautiful.'  One found it both difficult, and loathsome, to attempt to assimilate the aesthetic viewpoint of the Pegasi, or any other Equinid for that matter.

After the water arrived, Three leaned forward over the table and spoke in a hushed tone, "Do we move now?"

Four, the youngest of the group, nodded emphatically, "The sooner the better, yes?"

One shook his head slowly, his response delivered in the same sedate and flat manner as the motion itself, "Patience.  A large storm is planned for tomorrow evening; residents have been advised to avoid certain areas of the city's structure during this time.  The lightning and wind will make these locations... dangerous.  We will use this to our advantage."

Two cocked his head, a kinesics made peculiar by the almost robotic nature of its delivery, "We will make it appear to be an accident?  To avoid arousing suspicion?"

One hefted his water glass on one wing with expert motor control, and took a measured sip, "Precisely."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 13th, Gregorian Calendar

Hutch sighed deeply as he watched the two Dragons plod down the empty boulevard.  The sheer surreality of the scene did very little to dampen his melancholy.

The segment of the city they had entered was utterly devoid of life.  With all its inhabitants evacuated, and no animals to fill in the cracks and crevices, it was utterly and truly desolate.  Pavement, steel, stone, and glass stretching on in a continuous expanse of antiseptic testament to advanced technology, and modern architecture.

The Dragons were a sharp contrast, not simply because they were the only moving things, but because they represented such an incredible paradox. Dragons in Manhattan.  Hutch shook his head and snorted.

Capping off the uncanny vista was the golden glow of an Equestrian afternoon; the distant world's sun bathing the buildings in a lively hue evocative of some primordial sense of crispness, peace, and balance.  The Barrier itself was, despite its proximity, still far enough away to be almost invisible, unless one actively sought to identify it.

It was far simpler to look at the sharp terminus between the iron sky of Earth, and the painfully beautiful blue of Equestria.

It was the contrasts that hurt the most.  Manhattan had always been a place evocative of life to Hutch.  It pained him to see his city emptied.  The sunlight and blue sky only served to worsen the effect; like a prisoner's last perfect meal, the simple but powerful joy of a cool, sunny afternoon brought only the bitterness of 'what might have been.'

The General closed his eyes and tried to imagine the street filled with traffic, and pedestrians.  He dredged up recent memories of smells, and sounds, and merged the memories with the alien, yet strangely familiar idea of seeing New York under a living sky.

Aston had told him it evoked a connection to history for her; not only would their generation be the last living witnesses to the city, but they had also become the first to see it under true sunlight in several generations.

She had drawn a parallel to the myth of Janus.  Hutch wasn't much of one for history, but once she had explained he had agreed; the metaphor seemed to fit the situation well.

He opened his eyes, and was struck by a curious thought; how did the Dragons see the situation?

They were Converts, so doubtless there was some similarity between their reaction and Hutch's own, but they were also by the same token, Dragons.  Their lifespans would now encompass eons of time, and a city was a much more transient thing to them, as a concept.

To a human, or even a Gryphon, a city was something that often pre-dated one's life, and would likely endure long after one was dead.

To a Dragon, a city was unlikely to exist longer than a lifespan, especially if it pre-dated that lifespan.

Finally, the trio arrived at the center of the evacuated district.  The presence of several JRSF vehicles, crates, tents, and a small contingent of personnel created a startling island of activity in the sea of silence.

Hutch picked up his pace, striding past the Dragons to meet an armored trooper exiting the central tent, "Commander.  Everything ready for our guests?"

The man snapped off a salute, and nodded, "The building is prepped.  Seems like an awful waste of materials if you ask me."

The General grunted, "Better here, and better this way, than letting these two smash helter skelter through a populated region without any training, guessing as they go.  'Collateral Damage' for these guys is measured in megatons."

The Commander shivered, visibly, as he turned and made a quick series of hand signals to his men.  As the troopers darted to-and-fro, mostly endeavouring to remove their vehicles from the immediate vicinity of the designated training area, Hutch turned to the Dragons.

"My boys have turned this building," he tossed a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the largest nearby skyscraper, "Into a reasonable reconstruction of an HLF hostage scenario.  The point of all this being to teach you two how to thrash an enemy, on the clock, without incurring civilian casualties or doing *too* much collateral damage."

Klarien squinted in confusion, "How do you intend to present us with challenging opponents?"

"Holography; most of the building is wired with four-color low-fidelity, high-coverage emitters.  The techs did some kind of wizardry and tied the controlling computer into the battlenet, paired it with your armor's sensors and a load more gobbledeygook that makes no sense to me.  The long and short of it is that your armor will record damage done to you, as well as kills and damage you incur to living targets.  The building will tell its own story at the end."

Taranis grunted, "If it is still standing."

Hutch glowered, "It had best be if we have any hope of sending you two into the field without raising hell from the press, the public, *and* the politicians."

Klarien gestured to the ground level entrance with one enormous beryl claw, "You said it was a hostage situation?"

The General nodded, "You're going to be scored based on enemies killed, hostages killed by enemies, hostages killed by you, time taken, and structural damage.  Obviously you only get points for one of those; the rest are penalties of varying severity.  I imagine you're both capable of filling in the blanks on what counts for what."

Taranis dipped his head, scowling, "Quite."

Hutch began to back away, "At the sound of the air horn, the timer starts.  This is a flash-deploy operation; no intelligence, no backup, no communication to central command; the operation is on you two alone and your actions are being judged accordingly.  Good luck."

Klarien grinned, "Not that we need it."

Taranis pierced him with an expression that spoke volumes, implying his opposing opinion wordlessly.

As Hutch made it to the line of JRSF vehicles, he turned and watched the giant reptilians preparing.  Their armor's hard edges and dull texture offered a menacing contrast to the glint of the evening sun on their jewel-like scales.  As the pair dug at the pavement below them, claws tearing into the duracrete as if it were tissue paper, Hutch whistled.

The Commander, who had taken up a protected position behind a humvee, snorted, "I think I'd rather fight my ex in court again than piss one of those things off."

Hutch inhaled, and shook his head slowly, "That's a tough sell, but point well made."  The general nodded over his shoulder, "Whenever you're ready."

The Commander winced, "Watching this is gonna give me nightmares..." He mashed his thumb into a small remote, clutched in one gray plated glove.  An air horn affixed to a tall pole near the skyscraper's entrance let out a three second blast.

Klarien took off like a shot, directly through the front entrance.  Hutch cocked his head in confusion as Taranis neglected to follow suit.  The cobalt Dragon's motivations became clear momentarily, as he spread his wings and ascended rapidly with a few powerful beats that shook the air like a turbine engine.

If Karien's wings evoked leafy vein patterns, then Taranis' wings bore an uncanny resemblance to a stormy sky laced with clouds and lightning.

Within seconds, Taranis had ascended to the top floor of the skyscraper, utilizing the great precision afforded him by his biological wings to pull off maneuvers that even the smallest of VTOLs were ill-suited for.

Without warning, prelude, or any regard for potentially injury, Taranis dove muzzle-first through the top floor windows, creating an enormous entry breach with such speed and effortlessness, it seemed as if his body were gracefully displacing water, rather than steel and plexiglass.

The Commander whistled, "Frack me..."

Inside the lobby, Klarien was surprised to find that the holographic HLF troopers were nowhere to be seen.  Indeed, the vast atrium space was just as deserted as the street outside.

He took an experimental sniff of the air, before remembering that his digital opponents did not leave any sort of scent trail.  He snorted, and decided that this was an unfair handicap, but not by any means a serious hindrance to completing the mission.  There was more than one way to track prey.

A hologram would produce no smell, nor heat, but it would certainly produce sound and an overabundance of light.

Few were surprised to learn that a Gryphon could be stealthy; the combined leonine and avian grace they exuded made it obvious that they were predators of precision, and could leverage stealth masterfully to that end.

Dragons, in contrast, seemed to be everything that subtlety was *not.*  Large, loud, and capable of wreaking havoc with a gesture as simple as a sneeze.  Certainly; it was impossible to mask their presence from a Gryphon, with their all-seeing eyes, or a Diamond Dog with their unbelievably sensitive ears.

But humans were possessed no such traits; they were half blind, lacked any sense of smell at all, and were almost totally deaf, by Equestrian standards.  They relied almost exclusively on their technology as an extension of their senses, in combat situations.

Stealth was rarely useful to a Dragon, but Klarien decided that it would serve his purposes well, for once.

He slid across the marble floor, belly inches away from the tiles, holding his claws at such an angle as to minimize the noise of his passage.

He snaked his way to the stairwell, wings tucked close to afford the squeeze through the door, which had been designed for humans only.

His first opponents made themselves apparent instantly; a pair of lightly-armored HLF soldiers one floor above.  As their first ethereal rounds zipped downwards, pinging off the green Dragon's scales, he launched himself up the center of the concrete space.

He knew he was running on a second timer; it was only a matter of moments before the virtual soldiers would begin to kill hostages in hopes of cutting their losses, or even forcing him to halt his advance.

He found a moment, as he ascended on the force of his wings and back legs, to hope that Taranis had not alerted the guards to their presence to early or too forcefully.

Klarien banished far-reaching concerns from his mind as he connected with his assailants.  The force of his arrival pulverized the second floor landing, dispersing both holograms instantly.  Had they been corporeal beings, there would have doubtless been a fine red mist to accompany their momentary screams.

He shook himself quickly, to work chunks of duracrete and metal out of the joints of his scales and armor, before taking stock.  According to a small holographic readout summoned from his helmet, he had done more damage to his armor hitting the landing than the HLF's weapons had; effectively nothing more than scratches and a minor dent.

Given the sheer weight a Dragon could heft, their lightest armor was more akin to vehicle anti-material plating than actual personal armor.  It would take far more than structural impacts and rifle fire to pose any sort of risk to the verdant reptilian.  The real worry was the safety of the hostages.

Klarien flattened himself against the wall adjacent to the next doorway, and cautiously poked his head far enough around to get a clear view of the room beyond.

He was rewarded with a stunning flash of light, and a screech from his helmet alerting him to severe damage to the upper regions of his armor.  He cursed inwardly; one or more of the enemies in the room were equipped with anti-vehicle railguns.

The powerful weapons were often two-man portable by means of a tripod, and posed little danger to Klarien's chest or sides.  His eyes, and certain parts of his head and neck, however, were vulnerable.  The scales there would not be thick enough to promise invulnerability to such weapons for at least another four hundred years of his life.

He briefly considered using his breath as a means to clear the room, before promptly dismissing the notion; it was unlikely the holographic soldiers were programmed to react to his hidden talent, and if they were then the civilian hostages would be as well, which would inevitably lead to disastrous results given that his control of the ability was still awkward at best.

In the end that left only one option; the 'direct approach.'

He tensed, muscles coiling to store power on a level that would have put a tank's power plant two hundred percent over the red-line.  He knew that once he entered the room, the time remaining to make decisions and rescue the hostages would be cut to a matter of seconds.

For a moment, he debated holding off until Taranis made his strategy apparent.  It didn't take long for him to decide against the idea; the Blue Dragon seemed sullen and isolationist at best.  Klarien snorted, reflecting that it would be a miracle if he hadn't compromised their scores *already* with his 'loner' act.

He spent a final few seconds taking stock of his armor, and the areas he would need to protect, before lunging through the entryway.  The shock of his passage, and his bulk, promptly disintegrated the frame of the door, creating a cone of choking duracrete dust, and an ear-splitting 'CRASH,' that served to sow confusion amongst his enemies.

The tenth-second delay created by the brutality of his entry gave Klarien just enough time to locate the most serious threat to his efforts; a large anti-vehicle railgun wedged between two pillars at the far end of the room.  The emplacement was manned by two spectral digital soldiers, and protected by a series of overturned desks.

The Green Dragon lunged across the space, beating his wings once to stir up the dust further, and add to his speed.  He dug in his front claws at the last possible second, spinning and transferring all his accrued momentum into his long thick tail.

The limb, which was long on muscle and short on nerve endings, swiftly turned the makeshift defensive desks into deadly shrapnel grenades; slivers of plastic faux-wood ranging from human finger size, to Dragon claw size, pelted the entire far end of the chamber.

The two soldiers manning the antivehicle gun died instantly, bodies riddled with momentary holographic disruptions where the flak would have torn bloody holes in living beings.

Klarien wasted no time; he hefted the weapon in both front claws, rose to his full height, and simply heaved the device at the next group of soldiers.  The fury his forelegs transferred into the maneuver lent the object so much speed, that it impaled the entire line of enemies.

Since their holographic bodies had no mass, the gun flew on, unimpeded, burying itself up to the trigger assembly in one of the room's previously unscarred walls.

Klarien paused to examine the chamber; the hostages were bound and gagged in the center, grouped together in a huddle.  A pair of soldiers were holding ethereal weapons to their equally translucent heads, shouting and gesturing for the Dragon to surrender.

He snorted, raised his forelegs a second time, and emptied the chambers of his wrist-mounted railguns before the stunned troopers had time to react.

Klarien smiled, and was on the cusp of relaxing, when everything went horribly, unpredictably, wrong.

The first sign of trouble was the overwhelmingly loud klaxon, projected via his helmet, alerting him to a dozen serious hits on his wings and back.

He instinctively rolled, looking up to behold upwards of a dozen heavily armored holographic Phase-II Augments dropping from the ceiling on rappelling-insertion cables.  The nano-technologically augmented soldiers carried massive shoulder-mounted RAC-8s, which they were wasting no time in emptying in the scrabbling reptile's direction.

Klarien found himself cut off; he could not reach the hostages without taking mortal damage, and he could not find a secure place to attack from, without leaving the hostages to their imminent gruesome fate.

His deadlock was interrupted by a sound akin to the detonation of a twelve megaton thermonuclear warhead.

In a display of glittering scales, spinning chunks of duracrete, and flashing slivers of steel, Taranis desenced *through* the roof, from above, like an enormous azure missile.

As he fell, his wings and claws snapped out, ensnaring and disemboweling several of the Augments with the force of gravity, combined with the Dragon's incredible mass.

As Taranis approached the hostages, he snapped his legs closer to his center of mass.  The limbs came down like pillars around the hostages, not even so much as scraping at the edges of their flickering forms.  The cobalt Dragon flared his wings, then furled them down into a shield around the civilians.

Before Klarien could right himself, and seize the moment, Taranis opened his jaws.  The ensuing chaos could only be described as a storm.

Lightning, brighter than the sun and crackling with twice as much heat, flew from the space between his teeth, arcing across the entire room and promptly frying anything electronic or conductive that was not under the protective shell of his wings.

The blots even connected with Klarien, jolting him severely and sending a feeling akin to liquid fire through his blood and bones.  The naturally mineral-laden qualities of Dragons' scales made them, with the exception of the Blue subspecies, fairly susceptible to electricity as a means of attack, assuming they were grounded.  Klarien was most definitely grounded, and regretting it with every new tremor that wracked his muscles.

If the bolts of energy were causing Klarien pain, they were causing the simulated HLF troopers nothing short of Hell on Earth.  After only three seconds, the electricity not only overwhelmed the health-counters of the remaining simulation troopers, it quite simply atomized all the electrical componentry in all the holo emitters that had been projecting them in the first place.

With a resounding 'KRZZZT' and terrible popping noises akin to a large glacier breaking up, the emitters exploded simultaneously like small firecrackers, scoring the duracrete around their mounting points with the remainder of the energy from the reaction.

At last, after what felt like ages, but had been merely seconds, Taranis ceased his onslaught.

He slowly shifted his wings.  The hostage holograms were intact; their emitter having been protected along with the projections by the null-charge-zone the Dragon's own body had created.

Klarien, with enormous effort, finally stopped shaking and began to breathe once more.  He wheezed, then glared, "Were you *trying* to kill me?!"

Taranis raised an eyebrow, "If I had been trying to kill you, then your scales would have been turned to the equivalent of volcanic glass, your brain would have fused, then melted, and your internal organs would have given up and died within seconds from the heat."

Klarien continued to glare, gingerly forcing his way past his partner to the exit, "I think you're exaggerating."  As he reached the demolished doorway, he turned and sighed, "Please don't do that again."

Taranis tilted his head, "It worked, didn't it?"

Klarien winced, "*Not* the point."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Fourteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

Fyrenn gazed out over the buildings and sighed.  It was disheartening to see such accomplishment laid low by a disaster no one could explain, or stop.

Nature could not be bargained with, threatened, or brute forced.  The Barrier was certainly a forceful example of the power worked into the fabric of the universe.  And all the damage it could do.

The field of energy moved slowly, but if he focused on the nearest super-skyscrapers, the Gryphon found that he could center on the millimeters surrounding the terminus of the phenomena, and watch its agonizingly slow, yet terrifyingly fast, progress as it chewed through steel, duracrete, and glass remorselessly.

A voice from his left side caught him off guard, "It is coming."  Fyrenn started, and turned to see Varan, his normally impassive expression plastered to his beak, his ears perked slightly forward.

Fyrenn gestured across the gulf from the building they were standing atop, to the glowing edge of the bubble, "The Barrier?"

"No."  At the sound of the second voice, the red Gryphon whirled to see his other sibling standing on his right, beak firmly affixed with the same dour countenance as their golden hued brother.

Varan spoke once more, his voice even more atonal than usual, "And yes. It is coming."

Fyrenn exhaled sharply, twisting his head back and forth in confusion, glancing between his brothers in turn, "I don't understand...  No?  And Yes?  What's coming?"

Fyrenn flinched as his gaze swept back around, and was arrested by another figure; a tan and blue Gryphoness.  Neyla's expression was decidedly hostile, her ears were pinned flat, wings partially spread, claws raking at the surface beneath her.

Her eyes seemed to glow with an inborn fire, "Your end."

"Hey!"

Fyrenn inhaled sharply as his eyes snapped open.  It took his brain a millisecond to engage; nearly two billionths of a second longer than it took his reflexes to kick in.  As a result he had to forcibly arrest the impulse to lash out and strike Skye with a fisted claw.

The moment passed so quickly that the Unicorn had no perception of it.

Fyrenn sighed, and slumped back to his former resting position on the floor, "What's up?"

Skye snorted, a sound halfway between a sarcastic laugh and a sneeze, "What's up?  You were thrashing around like a fish in a net, and it was distracting.  That's up."

Fyrenn shook his head, and yawned, stretching out his forelegs, then his back legs, then his wings in sequence, "Sorry.  I don't *always* sleep lightly you know.  I do like to get better rest occasionally."

Skye  grinned, "So, feeling rested?"

Fyrenn glowered, turning his gaze to the rock of the floor below pensively, "No."

The Unicorn tilted her head, and stared, muzzle twisted into a questioning half-sneer.  Fyrenn glanced up and shook his head, then gestured to the roof of the cavern, "I don't like being underground very much.  Even in a space this big.  It makes it hard to think, sleep, and even eat for us."

This explanation seemed to satisfy Skye, who began nodding slowly and frowning in sympathy, "Sorry.  Things took about twenty minutes longer than I expected.  I didn't figure you'd use that time to go off to la la land."

Fyrenn stood, and shook himself, "So you're done?"

Skye bobbed her head slightly, "Aaaah... mostly.  The final decrypt is running now, but it could take anywhere from four, to fourteen minutes to actually do 'the magics.' "  As she uttered the tail end of her sentance, she raised one hoof and waggled it in the Pony equivalent of an 'air quote,' simultaneously rolling her eyes.

Fyrenn got the impression she was mocking some distant third party.

He stretched his forelegs a second time, and swept his gaze around the cavern.  Carradan was busy near the central work station, seemingly trying to goad Varan into a game of 'I spy.'  Fyrenn snorted a half-chuckle; despite, or perhaps *because of* the fact that he always won, Varan was adamantly and calmly declining.

Further down one of the crystalline rows, Kephic was busy inspecting some of the as-yet untamed geological formations, idly running a claw against the translucent minerals and watching the resulting sparks with mild interest.

Finally, Fyrenn smiled down at the Unicorn beside him.  She was akin to a sister; one of two Ponies who held a special familial place in his heart.  He realized that he had missed her company sorely; she possessed a singular combination of spunky, wit, and heart that was a blessing to the entire group.

Not to mention, he reflected inwardly, she was savvier and more clever with magic and technology than anyone else he had ever known in his life.  Put together.

Skye chuckled, "What are you grinning at, space cadet?"

Fyrenn snorted at the older human expression, realizing that his train of emotions had become visible in his expression, "Just thinking that its good to see you again.  We don't do this often enough."

She snickered, "And who's fault is *that*?"

The burgundy and crimson Gryphon rolled his eyes, ""Take it up with my CO."

"Yeah.  Sure.  Conveniently situated thousands of miles away on his royal throne, probably busy doing kingly business."

Fyrenn snorted and chuckled, "Watch it.  Sildinar has sharp ears, and Carradan even sharper."

Skye grinned wickedly, "Unless pink Pegasus there has a death wish, he won't rat on me."

Fyrenn had to make a visible effort to keep from bursting out into laughter, "Yeah... and unless you have a deathwish, you'll never ever call him pink again.  He killed a Diamond Dog ten times his size for saying it."

The off-brown Unicorn raised an eyebrow incredulously, blowing a lock of her short-cropped zany blueish mane out of her eyes.  Fyrenn sighed, "All right, Varan helped.  But Stan did break a good few of the Troll's bones first."

Skye smiled in spite of herself, "He's getting the hang of things.  I think you guys are having a bad influence on him."

Fyrenn chuckled, "One can only hope."

After a moment of contented silence, further chance of conversation was cut short by a series of demanding tones from the computer.

Skye trotted up the stairs, and plopped into the control chair, "Lets see what you boys have gone and stepped in *this* time..." Her hooves flew over the peculiar Equine keyboard as the members of the group swiftly assembled behind her, with Carradan jostling for a position to see over the Gryphon's wings.

The computer let out a final beep, and Skye sat back, looking more than slightly confused.  Her muzzle went through several expressions, before settling on a sullen scowl, "Well.  The good news is we decrypted the information.  The bad news is, I don't speak the language."

Kephic glanced at Fyrenn, and Varan, both of whom nodded.  They were obviously thinking precisely the same thoughts as their brother.  The speckled Gryphon whistled, long and low, "This ought to be *yoodles* of fun."

Skye glanced over her shoulder, both eyebrows raised almost to her horn, "Uh... that's 'oodles.'  Will someone please enlighten me?"

Fyrenn glanced nervously at Skye, then at Carradan, ""Errr.. I nominate Stan."

The Pegasus glowered, "Gee.  Thanks."

Chapter 11

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 14th, Gregorian Calendar

The light carrier was the staple of Earthgov command and control.  Unlike the few, and massive Area Control Vessels that headed the fleet, the light carriers were sleek and fast.

The ships were all of a fundamentally similar design; a single long thin flight deck, a fared and sleek hull, a pair of catamarans connected by fins at the rear, and a bridge that arched over the entire flattop, at the center of the vessel, connecting to the hull via structures on either side of the deck.

A set of shield doors fore and aft of this structure allowed aircraft to be staged, similar to the way destroyers would operate in a combat zone, even as the ship was surfacing and still underwater.

Since most LCAs were designed to act as troop support, logistics nodes, and command centers, they often carried a higher proportion of VTOLs than fighters.  They were also designed to sit slightly lower on the surface than a full blown carrier, affording their water garages easy access to deploy defensive skiffs.

The profusion of support technology, personnel, and vehicles onboard left very little room for offensive armaments, and as such an LCA was entirely reliant on its special forces battalions, VTOLs, fighters, and skiffs, to make an impact.

The UES Blue Ridge, LCA-19, was the newest Light Carrier in the Earthgov fleet, and the next-to-last in the production run of large scale vessels.  No one in Naval Command felt that there was any need to spend more money and materials on capital class ships given that the planet itself was on a death clock, and the Navy was already well equipped and future-proofed.

Blue Ridge had left dry-dock only a few months prior, and was assigned to its first mission for mostly bureaucratic reasons; why pay for extra shakedown tests when you could assign a vessel to a mission that was almost sure to be so quiet, that it would effectively provide the same opportunities?

The bridge was mostly quiet; an oblong chamber that was far wider than it was long, its bank of windows closed off with pressure shields.  While travelling sub-surface, most Naval ships kept their windows shielded incase of attack, instead projecting a three-dimensional tri-color stereoscopic representation of the outside onto the inside of the ports; effectively creating externally-aimed view screens.

Being a command ship, the bridge of Blue Ridge was mostly dominated by a holotank, and consoles dedicated to communications.  The helm and navigation controls were unconventionally placed at the rear of the bridge on a raised section to afford them a view out the main windows.

The remainder of the space was arranged horizontally, with the holotank in the center, and two horseshoe shaped console banks on either side, opening towards the center of the space.  Personnel sat both inside and outside of the U-shape, separated by vertical screens in most cases.

Unlike other ships, the main bridge windows had a significant gap aligned with the holotank; this was taken up by an enormous edgeless always-on tactical stereoscopic holo display.

Given that the ship was not yet at full mission-deployment status, only the officer of the watch, helmsman, navigator, a LADAR operator, and a weapons operator were on duty.

The calm, punctuated only by the soft chirps of consoles and LADAR pings, was abruptly brought to an end by the arrival of the Captain.

By the time he had taken his position behind the holotank, another weapons officer, his first officer, a flight operations manager, and a surface operations manager had arrived on the bridge.  He glanced at the main tactical display, noting the ship's position on the top-down projection map.

He swiveled his head slightly to compare the information to markers projected on the fore and aft window ports, before nodding to his XO, "Rig for surface mode; stand by for perimeter flight and surface operations."

The commander tapped a control surface on the holotank, and folded his hands behind his back, speaking into the PA system, "General quarters.  General quarters.  All hands, prepare to surface the ship.  Alpha flight crews to ready-five, Alpha skiff crews to ready-five.  Prepare command and control systems to receive encrypted support package linkups."

After several moments of stiff, silent waiting, the Blue Ridge arrived at the precise co-ordinates of her destination marker.  The main navigational AI even sounded a small chime on the bridge.

The Captain crossed his hands behind his back and stepped towards the fore windows, "Raise the ship."

A series of repetitive, insistent tones sounded from the ship-wide alarm system.  The helmsman tapped several portions of his touch panel, and placed his hands on the large physical switches that adorned the center of the surface, "Venting ballast tanks.  Standard zero-slant ascent.  All stations, secure for surfacing turbulence."

The rumble of machinery could be felt as a small vibration through the deck plates, and the ship began to rise, as indicated by the sensation of ascent in the crew, and the passage of depth markers on the viewports.

As the vessel neared the surface, the holography vanished abruptly and the shields retracted into invisible slots, leaving the crew with a view of the murky, lifeless water as the ship neared the surface.

Abruptly, in a wash of spray and droplets, the Blue Ridge broke through the surface, rocking slightly as the forces of the tide caught the angles of the hull.  The moment the ship began to settle, crews charged out of the island's stanchions and began to prepare the deck for operations.

The Captain sighed and peered out the windows, "Launch a CAP, and put two skiffs in the water to secure our AO."  He stood in silence as the XO repeated his orders to the appropriate personnel, before tossing an observation over his shoulder, "So.  Vancouver.  Not too shabby."

Mr. Utah sighed, and let the stub of his cigarette fall to the pavement, stomping on it with the heel of his shoe.  He gazed out into the foggy California morning, and pursed his lips.

San Diego was home to a high concentration of Equestrians; the liberal and open atmosphere of the region, which dated back to pre-winnowing times, made it a hub for diversity in the Western North-Amerizone.

To add insult to injury, it was home to the second Bureau ever opened; a few mere months after the first complex in Manhattan, in late 2104.  As a result, San Diego ranked third highest city in the world for ratio of Converts to Humans, behind only Manhattan and London.

To Mr. Utah, that made it one of the most despicable places on the planet.

But not, he reflected with a wry grimace, entirely irredeemable.  The local cuisine was palatable, the synthetic fauna was quite prolific, and the Bureau was in the midst of security refits.  Thus, the Bureau was effectively an ideal target of opportunity.

Mr. Utah glanced up at the waitress, and frowned.  A Unicorn.  The server who had taken his order had been human.  Nonetheless, he accepted the coffee, wincing as her magic field brushed against his hand, and scowling to make it clear that he was not in the mood for small talk.

He glanced down at the steaming drink, then over his shoulder at the retreating Equine.  Wordlessly, he leaned forward and poured the drink over the balcony of the cafe and onto the rocky coast below.

Touched by a Pony, tainted by a Pony.

As he drummed his fingers, and waited for the human waitress to return, his contact finally arrived.  The man was clad in a fluorescent worker's vest covered in dried coolant and lubricant.  He clutched an equally grimy, and slightly dinged hard hat to his side, and wore a tool belt complete with a ruggedized miniature DaTab.

Mr. Utah glowered, "You're late."

The man raised an eyebrow, flopping into his chair and scratching his scruffy beard, "Yeah... so?"

"So; its cold.  And wet."

"Meh.  Its California.  If you don't like the weather?  Wait five minutes."

Mr. Utah pierced the construction worker with an icy stare, "Time is precious.  Punctuality is mandated.  Do not be late again."

The man shrugged, "Or what?  You'll dock me overtime pay?"

"Or my associates will clock you out.  Permanently.  California is the highest ranked state in this global zone for automobile accidents due to synthohol consumption after all."

The construction worker blanched, "Ah... Yeah I see whatcha mean.  Punctuality.  Right."

Mr. Utah glowered, snapping his fingers to attract the waitresses' attention as she passed, then nodding down towards his empty coffee cup sharply.  He turned back to his contact, "Is the site prepared?"

"Jus' like you asked.  The building is closed for renovations, but we ain't doin' squat now that the inside is cleared out, an' its just a shell."

"You're prepared to accept delivery of the equipment?  You understand your instructions?"  Mr. Utah snatched the steaming fresh cup of coffee from the waitress as she once more arrived at the table, not even pausing to make eye contact.

The worker nodded, "Yeah; we already signed off on your guys, and the trucks.  Soon as it comes, we open the gates, and get the hell out."

Mr. Utah took the entire cup of coffee down in one gulp, with no sweetener or cream substitute, "Good.  I appreciate efficiency.  Especially with regards to demolitions projects."

Councilor Martins straightened her suit jacket for the fourth time in fifteen minutes.  The male Unicorn standing beside her cocked a wry glower that bore more in common with a knowing friendly smile than an actual expression of malice, "You're doing it again."

Martins sighed, "Sorry Astris.  I forget; your compulsiveness and mine don't get along particularly well."

The Unicorn shifted his stance slightly, hooves rustling across the thin carpet.  The hallway was comfortably adorned, but not especially ostentatious; beige walls, dark blue business-like carpeting, and faux-wood sliding doors marked by recessed alcoves lit with tastefully dim sconce lights.

The colleagues stood before one such door at the end of the hall, counting off minutes on Martins' watch.  She hated to be early for certain meetings nearly as much as she hated to be late.  By contrast, in some cases, she considered 'on time' to be *worse* than late.

Astris found it hard to keep up; he was an astronomer by trade, not a politician.  His talent lay in discerning the movements of the stars.  Martins' lay in discerning the movements of people's minds and feelings.  And sometimes, in exploiting that knowledge for all it was worth.

The Unicorn knew that in their present case, however, Martins was mostly interested in logistical efficiency and common courtesy; they were working with allies and comrades, not enemies.  The Counselor's compulsive need to be precisely on-time when dealing with her colleagues had always been a source of annoyance to Astris, but he took it in stride.  He knew that more than a small share of his quirks had a tendency to annoy Martins as well.

Nevertheless, the two had an excellent working relationship; they were both very good at their jobs, and both dead set on the same goal.  Allowing humanity the option to preserve its form.  Somewhere.  Somehow.

The day's meeting had, the astronomer reflected, been called precisely because the Genesist initiative was closer than ever to finding the where, and finishing the how.

At long last, Martins' watch let out a single, subtle, dulcet tone.  She nodded, adjusted her grip on the DaTab tucked under her right arm, and pressed the control panel beside the door.  The slabs of wood-look-alike parted to reveal a large conference room.

A dozen suited humans, and a few Ponies, were in the process of arriving by the space's other two entrances, and taking their seats.

Martins stepped through the portal, followed by Astris.  The pair each took only a brief moment to glance out the windows that made up the room's opposite wall.  The torrential rains of the morning had given way to an all-consuming fog that completely obscured the London skyline.

As he seated himself beside Martins, at the head of the table, Astris allowed himself a brief moment of distraction to wonder how the Counselor dealt with the 'jet lag,' as humans called it; Africa one day, Vancouver for a few, New York on short notice, and then to London.  All in less than two weeks.

He allowed himself a tiny tiny grin; perhaps, if she ever had a cutie mark, it would be a human tank.  The metaphor for resilience, stamina, agressive manner, and determination seemed appropriate.  And the last time Astris had seen someone who had crossed Martins, they had ended up looking not-unlike the victim of a railgun shell.

As the Genesist Party board finished situating themselves around the room-length granite table, Martins cleared her throat, "Ladies and Gentlemen; I call this emergency meeting of the board to order."

She waited a moment for the murmurs to settle, glancing at each board member in turn, "To explain why we're here, I am turning this over to one of our senior astronomers.  Astris Lux."

The Unicorn disliked public speaking, but it was merely simple distaste.  There was no real fear behind it; usually once he got started on a subject of interest to him, he could forget the audience entirely and get into a good flow.

He stood, and smiled briefly at Martins, "Thank you Counselor."  He swept his own gaze across the room, mimicking Martins; both Humans and Equestrians were always advising him to 'maintain eye contact' when speaking publicly.

"As you know, our facility in Lucapa devotes considerable resources to finding habitable worlds beyond this one.  Assuming we complete even the full run of eighty four sleeper ships, we have to have a destination in mind before we can work out their course, provisioning schemes, and even certain final elements of their design."

Astris swiped one hoof through the air above the control pad by his seat, activating the main screen at the head of the room, "Well.  We've found a destination."

After a second of total silence, the room erupted into intense whispered and murmured conversation.

The Unicorn allowed the dull roar to propagate for a moment, before continuing to speak forcefully.  As he did so, the conversation gradually died, "*M* Class.  Elliptical orbit.  Main Sequence star.  Nominal sidereal period.  Multi-month orbital period.  Nitrogen/Oxygen atmosphere at suitable pressure.  Surface temperatures in the ideal zone.  High concentrations of liquid water.  Comfortable gravitation."

Astris began pacing before the screen, "This describes almost *ten* percent of the worlds in cluster AC-1359-AA-22-Z2.  That is, at minimum conservative estimate, over eighty planets."

After almost five seconds of silence, Martins nodded, "We've done a great deal of legwork to confirm; this is *real.*  And potentially?  Reachable."

A man at the opposite end of the table frowned, fidgeting with the end of his tie, "I thought we were still decades away from a faster-than-light drive?"

Martins grinned like a shark, "We *were.*  Until about five years ago, when we began quietly exploring options to fuse magic and technology to get the job done.  As of now?  We are less than three months away from a first test."

The board was on the verge of exploding into protest; Astris could see it in their faces.  Martins raised a hand for silence, and incredibly, she succeeded.  She leaned forward, placing her hands on the table, "Before you begin the doubtless long stream of questions and protests... "

Astris stiffened and held up a hoof, "Shhhh."

Martins stared at him, raising her eyebrow in an expression that said, 'EXCUSE me?' almost as forcefully as if she had uttered the words.  Nevertheless, the silence bought Astris time to verify what his ears were telling him, "Do you *hear* that?"

The human members of the board glanced at each other in confusion, but one of the Ponies further down the table cocked her head, then nodded and glanced up at Astris, "sounds like a high pitched whine.  Maybe a camera flash or..."

Astris flattened his ears, "Or a bomb."

Most of the board members had expressions ranging from dumbfounded confusion, to disbelieving amusement plastered to their faces.  But Martins' countenance was grim; she knew Astris.  He was potentially the most observant being in the room.

She stood, and gestured to the door, "Everyone out.  *Now!*"

Almost half the room began to stand, and shuffle towards the doors, but the entire scene instantly ground to a halt as one of the board members snorted, "This is ridiculous.  We're going to evacuate because one of our astronomers heard an *off-pitch holoemitter* warming up?"

Astris was about to protest, when the whine, previously only discernable to Equine ears, rose in volume and became audible to all.

His eyes widened, and as the pitch of the unseen device reached feverish levels, he whirled and leapt at Councilor Martins, who was standing in the just-opened doorframe, "GET DOWN!"

After that, everything happened in such swift succession that Astris had to replay it over and over in his mind afterwards to get it straight.

As he and Martins sailed through the door into the hall, the whine intensified to a painful level.  Nearly two thirds of the board members were able to scramble out of the room's three exits, before the whine abruptly ended in a loud 'POOF.'

The noise came just as Astris and Martins hit the floor.  The Councilor struggled reflexively, but Astris shook his head, "No! Wait!"

An instant later his worst fears were confirmed as he felt the cool mist of liquid landing on his back and clumping in the fur there.  Martins' eyes widened, "My God..."

The Unicorn glanced over his shoulder to see the board room engulfed in a purple cloud, that was slowly settling over the table, chairs, and members who had failed to heed the warning in time.

As he turned his gaze back to his friend, he noted that the hallway was spattered helter skelter with lavender goop; a tertiary effect of the Potion Bomb's detonation.  He held up a hoof, "Councilor... Be very very careful.  *I'm* covered in Potion, the *floor* is covered in Potion, and if you make any sudden moves *you* will be covered in Potion."

Martins nodded slowly, "I'm going to move on the count of three.  One.  Two..."

Astris tensed.

"Three."  As Martins spoke, he calmly pushed himself backwards, using the floor as leverage.  As he fell away into a puddle of Potion, which was harmless to him, Martins crabbed backwards swiftly, purposefully, and carefully.  She looked, for all the world, as if she wasn't even afraid.

Astris stood at almost the same time as Martins did, resisting the urge to shake himself and send globs of the purple substance coating his fur flying in all directions.

Martins, having safely reached the opposite end of the hallway, whistled.  She shook her head slowly, "Damn."

"Well... No civilians *died,* so you've got that going for you."  Hutch set DaTab he had been reading down on a workbench, and leaned against the steel surface, crossing his arms, "But you two did a *lot* of damage.  You didn't co-operate, didn't pre-plan your insertion... One of you nearly got yourself and the hostages killed, and one of you nearly killed the other in the process of saving the hostages.  Did I miss anything?"

Taranis thrummed as he set down his helmet, filling the armor bay with a resounding clang, "An accurate account from a factual standpoint.  Though it was slightly emotionally biased."

Klarien huffed, "Biased?  Right... My head is *still* splitting..."

The cobalt Dragon raised an eyebrow, "The situation would not have deteriorated, had you followed me instead of your own path."

The Green Dragon raised an eyebrow, "Why.  Why should I have followed you?  Why not you follow me?"

Taranis glared, though his voice remained calm, "Because I have decades of military experience.  You don't have nearly the same level of tactical expertise.  You even told the General you hoped to learn from him."

Klarien hissed in self recrimination, and pinched the scales between his eyes, "Yes... Yes I did.  I suppose I was just hoping to make a good impression."

The blue Dragon raised an eyebrow, "You have potential.  But nothing much more than that."

Klarien hissed again, an agressive tone creeping into his voice, "Is that an insult?"

Taranis gazed at him, unblinking, "Any fool can train for years, and still be limited by a lack of raw talent.  You *have* potential.  Do you think that's an insult?"

Hutch held up a hand, "Regardless of what either of you think;  command agrees.  Klarien; you have a great deal of potential.  Taranis... you're very skilled.  But unorthodox.  You managed to piss off the rest of the JRSF command board with that simulation... 'performance.'  So here's how it works now..."

The General paused; the only sound in the Fort Hamilton armor bay was the hum of fluorescent lights embedded in the concrete ceiling.  Hutch glanced back and forth between the Dragons, "You *are* going to be deployed to hunt the HLF ties to the Occupy Bureaus movement.  Taranis; you're in charge.  Klarien; you're his partner.  And you both report directly to JRSF command board, via me."

Klarien inhaled slowly, "And if we end up with another... 'performance' on our claws?  And we upset the command staff again?"

Hutch shrugged, "We can't prosecute, or punish you.  They'll kick you out of the JRSF for sure... Might even ask you firmly to leave Earth.  But I think the main reason you ought to ensure you don't drop another 'performance' like that is because it would damage the JRSF, damage the Bureaus, damage the reputation of your species, and *destroy* our chances of nailing these scum-sucking leeches who are feeding the HOB bomb materials."

The green Dragon sighed, "Good points."

Taranis nodded, "Indeed.  When do we begin?"

The General tapped the DaTab absently with his index finger, "Tomorrow.  I'll see you both here.  with any luck I'll come bearing gifts."

Hutch stood, collected his DaTab, and began marching out of the armor bay.  Klarien cocked his head, "Gifts?"

Hutch nodded, without turning or slowing his pace, "Metallurgical analysis of the bomb fragments.  Merry Christmas."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Fifteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

She found cloudsdale to be as comfortable a living place as she had ever inhabited.  The architecture was far less solid than what she had been raised with, but it had its own ephemeral appeal.  Perhaps even beauty.

The Pegasus shivered; the air temperature was dropping sharply in preparation for an oncoming storm of epic proportions.  She would be able to go home and sleep through the event; her work had more to do with permanent rainbows, which provided several architectural and magical benefits to the city as a whole.  She had no role in direct weather manipulation.

She paused on the cloud outside the factory, and stretched.  She didn't know her co-workers well, but they were nice enough to her.  Occasionally she joined them for drinks.  But she felt tired, and had no desire to make her way home, in a massive storm, while 'buzzed,' as the term went.

The Pegasus finished stretching, and beat down sharply with her wings, ascending rapidly.  The storm clouds had already begun to gather, and gain their own momentum as energy was fed into them by professional weather-Ponies, creating a temporarily self-sustaining momentum-gaining reaction of pressure, moisture, and temperature change.

She arrived at the entrance to her apartment complex with almost a minute of spare time; exactly according to her calculations.  She had her routines down to a science.  It helped her cope.

As she fished a key from her saddlebags, she paused and stiffened.  A familiar sensation, one she had not felt in years, had begun to creep up her neck, raising the fur on the nape.  Immediately, she whirled.

What she beheld confused her; but only for the briefest of moments.  She stared into the eyes of her mirror image.  An identical twin; right down to the tiniest aspects of shading in her mane.

As her mind went from 'civillian' mode to combat mode, comprehension instantly dawned, and she glared, "So.  That's how it is then?"

As her doppelganger spoke, voice eerily similar to her own not only in tone, but inflection and cadence, she swiveled her head and noticed three male Pegasi slowly stepping out of the shadows, hooves silent against the surface of the clouds.

"Naturally.  Tragically; you cut things too close.  Got caught in the storm on the way home.  They'll find our body sometime tomorrow.., perhaps the day after.  You don't seem to have many friends to show for these last years... And once they verify that it is infact you, down to the cells..."

The original Pegasus nodded, her muzzle turned down, "They will stop looking.  So what did you do to draw suicide role?  Piss off your hive queen?"

Her twin smirked, "I volunteered.  I am almost twenty one; my time is at hand in *any* case.  This is an admirable way to serve.  One, Two, and Four will be amply equipped to restrain, and carry you.  Leaving me behind ensures that they will not be followed, and you will not be missed."

The Pegasus glared at her illicit twin.  She knew the Changeling would not hesitate to fly directly into the teeth of the storm, intentionally killing herself and sending her body plummeting to the ground far below.

The practice was a common method of abduction; if an infiltrator chose to shift completely to a form, they could lock themselves in it and loose all connection to their base state.  The advantage, to the Hive's purposes, was often to create dead bodies that were indistinguishable, even by magical detection, from the original.

The other infiltrators, the ones her double had referred to as One and Two, approached.  One roughly yanked the saddlebags off her back, and Two pulled the apartment key from her mouth.  The latter dropped the glistening gold item into the bags, as One fitted them to her twin.

The mirror image smiled coyly, "Are you sure you don't want to kiss yourself goodbye?"

The Pegasus spat, "Go to Tartarus.

Her doppelganger chuckled as she snapped open her purloined wings, and began to hover, "That's the idea!"

One sighed deeply, "This can be as simple, or complicated, as you desire.  But be aware; the latter choice will involve a proportionately greater level of pain for you."

The Pegasus rolled her eyes, "Well.  I have been accused of being a masochist."

Without any further warning, she lashed out with her back hooves, catching Four off guard.  He tumbled sideways into Two, sending the pair rolling across the clouds in a tangled mess.  She took advantage of the distraction to open her wings, and shove downwards as hard as possible, blasting off with the maximum force of magical boost she could muster.

As she passed safe city-navigation speeds, the rain began to fall, driven sideways by gusts of incredibly powerful wind that threatened to overwhelm the envelope of her innate magical protection.  She chanced a look over one shoulder, and winced; One was closer than she would have liked, Two wasn't far behind.  Worse still; Four was nowhere to be seen.

She rolled left, to avoid being ambushed, and dived abruptly to avoid a cyclonic air current.  The latter maneuver proved to be her undoing.

Four had, unwisely, but successfully, braved the current, and used its momentum to launch himself onto her back, forcing them into an uncontrolled tumble that was mercifully cushioned by the clouds of a nearby building roof.  They punctured the layer of white fluffy moisture, finally rolling to a stop on the upper floor.

She wasted no time in delivering a vicious bite, crabbing backwards as Four juked away, the green back-facets of his eyes glittering as a bolt of lightning split the sky outside.

The floor fluctuated slightly as One and Two entered through an open window, joining their compatriot and once more surrounding the female Pegasus.

She huffed, "Really?  This is your strategy?  With your lack of coordination, it's virtually guaranteed that I'm going to kill one of you.  That's going to make dragging me all the way back to your Hive a truly 'enjoyable' experience for the two survivors."

One glowered, but his tone remained eerily emotionless, "Why is it so difficult for you to simply accept your fate calmly?"

The Pegasus raised an eyebrow, "It's called feeling emotions for *yourself.*  You should try it sometime.  Much like slicing off your own muzzle and swallowing it, it would be an improvement."

One glanced between his two subordinates, "Take her.  Please try to avoid unduly damaging her."

The besieged Pegasus opened her wings, and tensed, stretching out into a pre-battle position, "You want me?  Fine.  I'm going to make you earn your capture in *blood.*"

Before the battle could be joined, on the instant before she planned to pounce, a familiar object whistled through the air, passing through Four's skull and continuing on through the cloud of the floor.  A long, thick, Gryphon Arbalest bolt.

Four stood staring cross-eyed at the three inch wide, bleeding hole in his skull, before wincing, and concentrating.  Within moments, he had dropped his morph, resuming his default Changeling Drone shape and repairing his internal organs in the process.

One and Two swiftly followed suit.

The owners of the arbalest bolt hit the building like the storm itself, tearing through the roof so violently that most of it sheared off and drifted away as wild wisps of cloud, to be sucked up by the storm.

The Pegasus sighed, as she recognized the male Pegasus, three Gryphons, and the Unicorn who leapt off the back of the latter avian.  She blew a strand of mane out of her eyes, and glared, "Why in Discord's name are *you* here?"

Fyrenn snorted, " 'Oh! Thank you for coming to the rescue!'  I don't suppose gratitude is too much to ask?"  The red Gryphon unsheathed his sword, and levelled it at One, glaring.

Carradan shrugged as he squared off with Four, "Its... *her.*  What do you expect?"

Skye raised an eyebrow in disgust, "Um... *No!*  You are not seriously gonna tell me that *this* is the witch you replaced me with.  *This* is IJ?"

Kephic inhaled and winced, "Skye?  IJ.  IJ?  Skye."

Varan exhaled slowly, speaking in a dry tone, "And may God look upon this day with mercy."

Chapter 12

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Fifteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

As a chitin-armored hoof swept through the space her head had occupied moments before, IJ grunted and twirled, catching her opponent across the head with one wing and buying herself breathing room, "Why *are* you here?  Is Celestia watching me *that* closely *still*?"  The milky white Pegasus grunted, and slammed her back hooves into Four, as he strayed too close.

Varan parried a swift and terrible assault from Two as he answered; the fact that he was utterly unfazed by the peril of the situation reflected in his placid tone, "We came to ask your assistance in translating something written in Changeling.  We arrived just in time to discover that you were under attack."

Kephic screeched, and embedded his sword into One as Fyrenn distracted the drone with a lightning parry.  One hissed in pain, but pulled away and seemed to be mostly unharmed; his skin boiling temporarily like a pot of stew, before resettling, sans wound.

The Speckled Gryphon glowered, "Would you *rather* we'd let you handle them by *yourself?!*"

IJ huffed, "I had it sorted.  I wasn't spawned *yesterday!*"  She grit her teeth, adding emphasis to the last word as she ducked under a renewed assault from Two, who had temporarily eluded Varan.

From experience IJ knew that their enemies were dangerous.  She had been a Changeling once herself; her name, short for 'Inside Joke,'  had been her final cover assignment.  She had spent weeks travelling with Fyrenn, Kephic, Varan, Neyla, and Carradan on a mission.  Her own objective had been to collect Gryphon life-code samples, and report on their actions to the Queen.

When she had been discovered by Neyla, Fyrenn and the others had, to varying degrees, interceded on her behalf, thanks in no small part to the fact that she had passed up an opportunity to betray them and escape cleanly.

Celestia had taken this into consideration and, as punishment, consigned her to live permanently in her Pegasus morph; she had forced her to fully shift.  Changeling morphing required a Drone to keep a hold, of several percent, on their own life-code.  They could shift entirely to a form, but doing so was an irrevocable choice.  For some forms, the required percentage of 'anchor' was higher than others; for Ponies it was quite low, for Gryphons quite high.

In the end, the latter had never much mattered; no Changeling had ever escaped a mission to acquire Gryphon life code.  One of the greatest shames of the Hive, and greatest tactical disadvantages.

Celestia's act was not entirely one of punishment;  Changeling Drones' life spans were short, and Ponies' were quite long.  With IJ's new life came the promise of a new future.  Try as she might, however, she had never quite been able to adjust to life in Cloudsdale.  She would never admit it, but it had its moments and pleasures.  Nonetheless, it wasn't her home.

She hadn't seen her true home since the attempted Changeling assault on Canterlot years prior.  During the route and retreat, she had been given instructions through the Hive Mind, to embed herself in the Royal Guard.  Apparently the Queen herself had maintained, temporarily, close access to the Captain of the Guard himself, allowing her to lay backstops for the infiltration.

IJ's appearance still reflected the events; her coat was white and adorned with a divided drama mask cutie mark; her mane was bright blue and short cropped.  Like a Royal Guard.  Unlike the guards, it was not dye in her case; it had been simpler to just morph the colors completely.

So she was stuck with them.

She rammed her front hooves into Four, taking advantage of a moment of distraction.

The last time she had seen Drones fighting, they had been in an incredibly weakened state; the product of mass famine.  They had relied, foolishly, on pure swarming numbers and 'Pony passivity' to win them the day.  But Celestia's hoof-picked proteges had put a stop to the invasion in short order.  IJ had personally witnessed dozens if not hundreds of Drones defeated by six Ponies alone.

The Drones she and her rescuers were facing, however, were a smaller and much more lethal force.  A fully rested and prepared Changeling, while not as fast as a Gryphon, came very very close; a combat ready Hive Drone was one of the most dangerous warriors in Equestria.

The remainder of the speed and agility gap between them, and species like the Gryphons, was more than compensated for by the ability to use morphing to move and duplicate internal organs, repair wounds, and deaden pain receptors.

It was energy intensive in the extreme, making it useless for large scale battles; but the Drones they were facing had clearly been infused with love from Chrysalis herself; ample to their task, with surplus left over.

Under most circumstances, an enemy would have fled from three Gryphons, backed by Ponies; but the Drones, while they had no hope of defeating the avians, did still have a chance to subdue IJ and make off with her.

If they could render her unconscious, they would likely be able to hold off the others long enough to morph Pegasi, and carry her away.  With their access to innate weather magic and higher speeds, they would be able to loose her rescuers in the storm, and make good on their escape.

IJ groaned.  As much as she hated to admit it to herself, she realized; she *did* need a rescue.

There was only one logical course; using a brief moment of free movement, IJ launched herself between Four and Two, landing beside Fyrenn and Kephic, and placing her firmly out of reach of the attacking Drones.

Fyrenn grinned at One, "Come on then!  Is this suddenly starting to look a little less like the one-sided fight you had your shriveled little chitinous hearts set on?"

Carradan winced, and glared, ears pinned flat, "Ahhhh... Do we *really* have to *antagonize* them?"

The Gryphons tensed, spreading out into a semi-circle; weapons raised in defensive positions that covered all possible angles of attack.  Skye slowly crabbed to the side to make it easier to provide defensive magic for Carradan if necessary.  The move brought her slightly closer to IJ, who glowered, "Stay out of my way *horn-head.*"

Skye snorted, "Relax miss priss.  There is *no* danger of you being close enough to *my* league for *me* to get in *your* way."

Any further chance of argument was precluded by the Drones.  Two bowed his head, eyes glittering with calculating malice, and stepped backwards, taking up a seated position on the floor.  As One and Four spread out, crouching into ready positions, Two's twisted horn began to glow softly; wings rustling absently and muzzle moving swiftly as he quietly uttered enchantments, or mnemonics to help him remember the components of a complex spell.

IJ's brow knit reflexively; their enemies were too far from the Hive to leverage the perfect and infinite memory that it provided.  Whatever Two intended to do, it was likely unpleasant; she had never seen Unicorns use mnemonics to remember spell components in her time at Canterlot, save for the mages and captains in the Royal Guard's inner circle.  Their spells were stunningly powerful, and far beyond the ken of an average mage.

She glanced up at Fyrenn, "You can't let him finish that spell."

Kephic adjusted the grip on his sword, never breaking eye contact with Four, "Why?"

IJ sighed, "Well I don't know!  I suppose it *could* be the fact that any spell requiring a mnemonic to remember its components, being cast by a sworn enemy of yours, sent here to drug me and carry me away into the night, should be *concerning* to you.  But I suppose that's just a theory."

Kephic shot a sideways glance at Fyrenn, sighing, "I suppose its too late to just hand her over to them and pretend this never happened?"

Varan twirled his mace lazily in a wide arc, shaking his head briefly, "Many years too late.  In some small way perhaps, we still owe her.  To say nothing of what honor requires of us."

The speckled Gryphon sighed again, deeply, "Are you *ever* going to understand sarcasm?"

Fyrenn shrugged, "Maybe IJ can give him pointers when we're done here."

One rolled his eyes slowly, "*Enough.*  Does your kind always waste this much time with words?"

The red Gryphon smiled, beak glinting as a bolt of lightning temporarily drove the illumination in the ruined attic to blinding levels, "Who said it was a *waste?*"

As he spoke, he lunged forward, bringing his sword down in a tight arc that ended with the tip buried in One's left eye.  The stroke would have entirely decapitated One if he hadn't jumped backwards instinctively.

The Drones had been ever-so-briefly blinded by the lightning; their eyes were primarily adapted to night vision, thus possessing very little default protection against brightness or rapid changes in light level.

The Gryphons, on the other claw, had eyes suited to any conceivable light level, and were able to adapt to instantaneous and vast changes in illumination.

One hissed in anger, his right eye gaining enough focus for him to lunge upwards and sideways, in the counter-diagonal direction of Fyrenn's stroke.  The move was well planned; it allowed him to avoid being caught by the sword's return arc.

As Kephic engaged Four, Varan sidestepped to a position from which he could strike at any of the Drones if they attempted to approach the three Ponies.

One attempted to sink his long fangs into Fyrenn's back as he passed over, but the Gryphon gracefully sidestepped, and batted the Drone away with one of his wings; the joint-protecting armor plate produced a satisfying 'CLANG' as it impacted One's skull.

As One spun away, managing to right himself and land on all four hooves, Fyrenn noted that his left eye had already healed.

Kephic was having similar troubles with Four; while a direct blow from any of the Gryphons would doubtless sever one of the Changeling's heads, and render their incredible healing useless, they seemed more than agile enough to avoid falling prey to such a stroke.

Their chitinous natural armor, and regeneration powers, allowed them to shrug off 'glancing' blows that would have permanently maimed, or outright killed, almost any other similarly sized creature.

Fyrenn had studied much of what Gryphons knew about potential enemy races in Equestria; he knew the Drones' combat effectiveness was directly proportionate to their energy reserves, and that their energy was dependant on sapping emotions from Ponies.

That meant that One, Two, and Four could only keep pace with the Gryphons for a limited amount of time.  Kephic, Varan, and Fyrenn had all eaten recently; they were potentially able to fight for hours or even days without stopping, assuming they could break to imbibe more water and nutrition.

Fyrenn glanced over his shoulder at IJ, as he circled One slowly, "How long can they keep this up?"

IJ shook her head, "No way to know for *sure.*  But I'd guess no more than a few minutes; they don't have the support of the Hive at this range."

Kephic offered Varan a nod; the gesture passed so quickly, that all three Ponies completely missed it.  The latter Gryphon lunged from his guard position, mace raised, making a beeline for Two.

At the same instant, Kephic and Fyrenn renewed their attacks with added intensity, ensuring that One and Four would be unable to interfere with Varan, or take advantage of the fact that the three Ponies were suddenly relatively unprotected.

As the glow around Two's horn slowly began to build, Varan brought the mace down towards the Drone's head at full speed, providing it with more than enough momentum to ensure it would shatter the carapace, brain, horn, and parts of the spine.

Two's eyes were shut tight, and his concentration was fixed rigidly on his burgeoning spell.

Yet, incredibly, Varan's strike missed, grazing his side and crushing several of the chitin plates protecting the area where the ribs would be in a Pony.

The Drone had, somehow, managed to perceive the attack and skitter to the side just in time to avoid a grisly and instantaneous death.  Varan gazed on with a mixture of confusion, and well-controlled anger.  His attack had, at least, caused Two to loose some of his concentration, setting him back and buying the Gryphons time.

IJ shouted above the howl of the wind, "They're sharing information and perceptions simultaneously!  They're probably linked in a miniature semi-hive cluster!"

Kephic growled as he achieved a hit on Four's back right hoof, "I don't suppose it occurred to you to tell us this *sooner?!*"

Skye sat down hard with a thump, and shut her eyes tightly.  Carradan's wings flared slightly in concern, "Aaahhh... If you don't mind my asking... What're you doing?"

Skye grinned slightly, "Information theory is my skill.  They're passing information between each other.  You ever see what happens if you put a DaTab inside a microwave?"

Stan's ears flattened nervously, "Yyyyesss... Why?"

The Unicorn's horn began to glow, softly at first, but with steadily rising intensity, "Because that's what I'm going to do to their brains if they don't drop their telepathic link like a hot haycake."

IJ huffed, "Amateur.  Its not true telepathy in the sense of the main Hive.  They probably can't share every thought or word, only critic..."

Skye cut her off abruptly, without turning or opening her eyes, "You want to help end this battle?  Then do *everyone* a *huge* tremendous favor... Shut the buck up."

As the Unicorn's spell began to coalesce, the Gryphons' battles intensified.  The Drones knew their window of opportunity was within inches of slamming shut, and the imperative of urgency lent them bursts of speed and fury.

Fyrenn suddenly found himself facing a new threat; One grinned wickedly, the first sign of emotion that had crossed his muzzle, and flexed his hooves.  The chitin around what would have been the fetlocks lengthened and sharpened, resulting in a set of serrated obsidian colored biological blades.  The holes that seemed so endemic to Changeling anatomy swiftly vanished under layers of added chitin armor.

By the time the process had finished, One looked more like a nightmarish cybernetic weapons platform than a living creature.

He began to circle once more, insectoid wings twitching, eyes locked with Fyrenn's, "I have fought your kind before.  In defense of my home.  Many were weak, but I was strong.  I survived."

Fyrenn twitched his sword left, then right, watching the Changeling's reactions right down to millimeter changes in his pupil dilation, "Sure... But your home didn't fare too well as I understand it.  I'll admit; your armor is a nice trick..."

Fyrenn paused, and smiled as he felt a tell-tale tingling in the feathers at the base of his skull, he casually sheathed his sword, much to One's confusion, as he spoke, "Sooo... how are you going to account for the next *lightning* strike?"

The blazing, forking, blinding streak of illumination split the sky the instant the words left Fyrenn's beak.  As the thunder roared with the force of an angry Dragon, he lunged forward and began to grapple with One claw-to-hoof.

The Changeling was nearly as fast as he was, but far weaker in terms of actual muscular power.  Fyrenn slammed his gauntlets, and fisted claws into One's hooves repeatedly, allowing the impacts to weaken the muscles even further.

As they flew through the air on the momentum of Fyrenn's lunge, One attempted to rake the Gryphon's chest-plate with small blades on his back hooves.  Fyrenn blocked with his back claws, and responded by clubbing One's head and back repeatedly with the armored plating attached to his wing joints, swiftly shattering the carapace of the Drone's back and neck in a series of brutal and well-aimed strokes.

The pair hit the cloud of the floor hard enough to deform it.  One tried to roll away, but Fyrenn curled his wings into a preventative barrier, placing extra pressure on One's chest with his forelegs and front claws.

As One continued to lash out frantically with all four legs, Fyrenn grunted, "You know something else?"  He flicked his wrists.  Blades snapped out from their hidden compartments in his foreleg gauntlets.

One's eyes fixed instantly on the sharp edges.  He ceased his struggles momentarily, and began to concentrate.  Judging by the roiling bulges beneath his plating, Fyrenn guessed he was morphing extra muscles.  The measure was too-little, too-late.  The Gryphon smiled, and pressed the blades towards One's glittering eyes, "I have hidden blades too."

One managed to throw Fyrenn off, but not before the Gryphon completely punctured both of his eyes.  The injury didn't seem to cause the Drone any pain, but it did send him staggering backwards into a corner as he tried feverishly to regenerate his optic nerves and cornea.

Kephic had managed to corral Four into a corner, and seemed to be content to keep the Drone confined until he wore himself out and provided the Gryphon an opening for a killing strike.

Varan had squared off once more with Two, but the Drone had continued to avoid all his strikes, using One and Four's perceptions to feel out the battlefield from multiple angles, while still amazingly maintaining some sort of concentration on his spell.  The sickly green glow around his horn had grown to a bright halo, a fact which Fyrenn noted with deep concern.

He chanced a cursory look over his shoulder, and noted that Skye seemed to have made great progress with her own spell; the purple tinged bluish aura around her horn had reaching blinding levels.

Just as One managed to finish regenerating his eyes, complete with a set of secondary internal lenses for light adaptation, when Skye let loose.

A series of hazy blue waves began to pulse from her horn, filling the room with a soft suffused light.  As the waves struck the Changeling's horns, they produced sparks.  The Drones winced, as one.  As the waves continued, their horns began to glow; rather than a magical luminescence, however, the effect was more akin to a hot coal in a fire pit.

All at once, the sparks and heating effect ceased as a brief green crackle shot from each Drone's horn; they had dropped their pseudo-hive connection in the interest of saving their own brains from being fried by whatever insidious feedback-loop Skye had generated.

Unfortunately, Two made good use of the confusion, and let his spell fly indiscriminately.

The magic took the form of a strong green blastwave that erupted outwards towards the three Ponies in the center of the room.

Skye acted quickly, throwing herself in front of Carradan and erecting a small magical barrier that took the form of a blue translucent quarter-dome.  Two's spell broke on the defensive structure like water on a rock, causing Skye to wince slightly at the drain, but doing no other damage.

The wave passed over Kephic and Varan as well, but their Gryphic magical immunity meant that, irrespective of its purpose, it was of no concern to them.

IJ was not as fortunate.

The wave created a cascade of greenish-blue light around her head, reminiscent of an aurora.  She cried out in pain, and the sound galvanized the Gryphons into action.

Fyrenn lashed out once more, fully severing One's front right hoof from his body as the chaos of the moment distracted the Drone.

Kephic was able to force Four to the ground, and with a ferocious victory cry, dropped his sword and ripped the Changelings leathery translucent wings directly from their sockets.

Varan, for his part, moved towards Two, who had expended all his energy on the spell. The golden Gryphon wasted no time; despite the Drone's whimpering cries for mercy, he swiftly embedded his mace in its skull.

The impact was strong enough to completely dissociate Two's head from the top of his spinal column, sending the entire assembly flying through the hole in the roof and out of sight.  The body, now free both of life, and thus of whatever internal morph had given it cloudwalking magic, fell through the floor and vanished.

Fyrenn crabbed backwards, and shouted to IJ above the din of the storm, "Are you alright?!  TALK to me!"

IJ shook herself, wincing, and staggered to her feet, hooves shaking under her weight, "I... I'm fine.  I'm fine."

Fyrenn drew his bow, snapping the legs into place, and knocked an arrow.  He sighted directly at One's left eye and glowered, "You want to follow your comrade?  Its three of us and two of you now.  And you've made us all *very* angry."  As if to lend emphasis to his brother's words, Varan quietly moved to stand beside Fyrenn, thumping the end of his mace into one open claw rhythmically.

As Four tried to scramble out of his corner, the stubs of his wings slowly beginning to regrow, Kephic hissed, giving the Drone pause.

Fyrenn continued, his tone dangerously low and calm, "Now.  Either stay, and lose your heads like your unfortunate friend.  Or listen to me, and take me on this offer, because I'm only going to give it once;  *Get.* *Out.*  Now."

One hissed, baring his fangs.  Kephic finally allowed Four to hobble over and join the other Drone.  One wrapped his good hoof around his compatriot, beating his own wings and doubtless morphing an internal structure to provide access to Pegasus lifting magic, "This is not over."

Varan tapped the end of his mace against the floor, "No indeed.  I suspect it will not be over until you are dead, and picked apart by carrion."

Kephic grinned wickedly, "Assuming, of course, you make it through the storm alive.  If you had enough energy left to morph new Pegasus bodies, you'd have done it by now."

Fyrenn waved with one claw, his voice dripping with malicious sarcasm, "Have a 'nice' flight."

One glared in a rare display of fury, but hobbled dutifully in a one-hundred-eighty degree circle, and leapt through the rend in the ceiling, dragging Four with him.  The pair swiftly vanished into the rumbling black thunderheads above.

Kephic knit his brow, "Think they'll make it?"

IJ limped over, her legs slowly beginning to steady.  She clapped a hoof to her head, "Mmmph.  Unfortunately?  Yes.  The storm is starting to abate."

Fyrenn sheathed his sword, and turned to her in concern, dropping to all-fours to bring his head closer to her level, "Are you sure you're alright?  What did they try to *do* to you?"

The Pegasus shook her head, "I think they were trying to link me to them so they could overpower me."

Carradan cocked his head, eyes widening in fear, "Did it work?"

Skye and IJ spoke virtually in unison, "Does it *look* like it?"

The Ponies glared at each other.  Kephic had to resist the urge to chuckle.  Fyrenn sighed, "Well.  Once the storm abates entirely, I feel like we all deserve a rest.  And we need to see about translating those sheafs."

Varan nodded, "To say nothing of reporting what has transpired to the city watch."  He paused and raised an eyebrow, "We *will* be reporting this, yes?"

Kephic chuckled, "Are you *kidding?*"

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 14th, Gregorian Calendar

"We are *quite* sure?  We achieved the desired result?"  Veritas stared directly through the holotank projection.  Her cerulean eyes seemed to pierce the floating translucent image with the intensity of white-hot steel.

The woman on the opposite side of the room nodded, working up the composure to maintain a professional stance and nonplussed expression despite the purple Unicorn's disconcerting gaze, "At least one third of the Genesist Party governing board were in the room at the time of the detonation.  Several of the highest value targets escaped, but the mission did accomplish base stated minimum objectives."

Near-silence hung over the room for several moments.  The only sound in the circular, dim chamber, was the hum of the air circulation system, and the accompanying trill of holographic readouts.

Most of the room was taken up with the central holotank.  There were no furnishings; simply a series of holographic control readouts projected over the gray paneling of the walls, and a single sliding opaque double door for entry and exit.

The woman shuffled, her nervousness beginning to breach the seals of her external comport.  Known only by the enigmatic name 'Veritas', the amethyst toned, navy maned Unicorn had firmly cemented her position as sole leader of the PER in the years since Robert Gilchrist's death.

She had once stood by his side as he headed the organization, and in the chaos of the enormous 2114 defeat at the hands of the JRSF in New York, her credentials had been more than enough to convince most people to follow her.

Those who had not been convinced by her credentials had vanished so swiftly and utterly from the face of the earth, that any remaining doubts were forcibly purged by their owners in the firm and undying interest of self preservation.

Finally, the woman could take the silence no longer, "Orders ma'am?"

Veritas glanced up; her gaze was inscrutable, and her calm tone revealed nothing of her internal mood, "In the end...  I think we can consider this a fairly major success.  The long-term benefits of this action will far outweigh any small publicity losses we incurred by failing to convert the highest level targets."

The woman was so relieved, at first, that she could not muster the faculties to move, or speak; merely to regain control of her breathing.

Veritas turned back to the holotank, using a burst of her magic to spin the complex projection of pipes and wires, "That will be all."

The words were delivered in such a calm and distracted monotone that it took the woman several seconds to process them, nod stiffly, and finally make good on her escape from the room, walking as swiftly as she dared.

Much about Veritas remained an enigma, but one thing everyone in the PER knew for sure from the unexplained disappearances, and tortured shrieks heard through sub-basement walls; to cross her, or to fail her, was tantamount to signing a confession of treason.

And a death warrant.

Hutch found Klarien and Taranis both practicing in the shooting range.  The cavernous space, which had been carved from the very soil beneath Fort Hamilton, provided a seven mile shooting distance at the longest segment of its range, and acres of training space that allowed for everything from small-scale live fire exercises to inter-squad football games.

Both dragons were standing on a grassy knoll, claws depressing into the synthetic green turf so far that they were leaving permanent gouges.  Each was sighting along their right foreleg, and periodically discharging combat ammunition rounds from their gauntlet guns.

The General watched for several moments in silence, mentally keeping tabs on the two reptilians' scores.  Their accuracy put their human counterparts to shame, even the ones who had the benefit of the latest digital imaging scopes and corrective barrel systems.  Nonetheless, their display of marksmanship was trite, at best, to Hutch.

He had worked with enough Gryphons to have become severely jaded to feats of accuracy from any other species.  Dragons, Ponies, and Diamond Dogs had their own special and dazzling unique advantages, but none could approach the visual capacity, and thus gunplay excellence, of a Gryphon.

The General found the sheer destructive capacity of their weapons more interesting by far.  While strong, a Gryphon or even a Diamond Dog could not hope to carry a portable weapon of the sheer scope that Dragons considered to be 'personal.'

A Dragon could make a weapon 'man portable' that would have once been consigned to medium APCs and light tanks.

Given the thickness of their scales, sensitivity of their jacobson's organs and heat sensing pits, and the flexibility afforded to them by simply being a living creature; mounting a vehicle weapon to a Dragon had the potential to generate a four thousand percent increase in its battlefield effectiveness.

Hutch coughed politely, "Ahem.  I think practice time is over gents."

Klarien latched the safety of his railgun firmly into place, and turned to the General, "You have the fragment analysis?  Is it a definitive lead?"

Taranis squeezed off a final shot, blowing the head off a test dummy nearly two miles downrange without a scope, or spotter.  He spoke without turning, "He would not be here if it was entirely useless information."

Hutch nodded slowly, tapping his DaTab against one hand slowly, "The metallurgical analysis was fairly conclusive.  The bomb's casing and the shrapnel were fairly generic stuff; whoever built the device was careful to ensure there was no way to tie it back to them by conventional routes.  But thanks to a few of the more talented Unicorns in our midst, we've been able to separate the chemicals of the device's structure from the pavement, and the victims."

The General paused, and glanced between the Dragons.  Taranis turned and finally offered up his full attention.  Hutch raised an eyebrow, "*All* the chemicals.  Right down to the tiniest traces of minerals in the circuit board of the detonation driver.  Normally this kind of work is impossible, but magic can discriminate in ways that even the most precise electromagnets can't.  And that leads us to this."

Hutch raised the DaTab; displayed spinning on its surface was a circuit diagram.  Klarien cocked his head, "A computer chip?"

The General nodded.  The green Dragon raised an eyebrow scale, "Aaaand?"

Taranis rumbled deep in his chest, "A *military grade* computer chip."

The General nodded again, more slowly, plying the cobalt reptile with a curious glance, "Very... Astute.  Yes.  It is, in fact, a model of chip that was being produced by an electronics company for Earthgov munitions detonators.  They were outbid by another corporation and as per nondisclosure laws, were ordered to scrap the designs and cease production of all prototypes."

Klarien gazed down at the computer screen clutched in Hutch's hands, "And yet... here one is?  In the possession of the HLF?"

Hutch flipped the DaTab over and shoved it under one arm, beginning to pace slowly, "We've known for some time, based on their patterns of attack, that the HLF and PER are periodically gaining access to high level corporations to fund their work and provide a chain of logistics for their operations.  The very fact that the HLF has consistent access to military level hardware for major missions is proof enough in their case, and I don't have to remind either of you about the Gavin/Schummel mess and the PER."

The General swiveled abruptly to face the Dragons once more, "These chips?  They're a dangerous indicator that the HLF has penetrated a defense contractor.  Your next task is to get geared up and be ready for briefing in an hour... We're going to squeeze these corporate weasels, and hard, until we find out for *darn* sure whether they have an unwitting leak, or are working off-books with the Front.  Follow the chips; from the source, down to the bombmaker, then follow his contacts out to the whole web inside the HOB..."

Klarien smacked one enormous claw into the other with a resounding 'CLACK' of scales, "Then tear it down."

Hutch nodded once abruptly, "Exactly.  I'll see you both in one hour."  He turned to exit the firing range, then stopped, making an about face momentarily, "And... gentlemen?  I'd much appreciate it if you didn't *kill* anyone on the *first* day.  'Autonomy' doesn't mean the JRSF is entirely above political blowback, something I'd like to minimize for our sake.  And for the Bureaus'."

When Hutch reached his office, he found the impulse to flop into his desk chair completely irresistible.  His sleep schedule had finally become so fragmented, that his circadian rhythms were fully desynchronized from his schedule.

Ironically, this effect could not have come at a more inconvenient time; the proximity of the bubble, and fair Equestrian weather, meant that the sun had amplified his body's desire to keep to a traditional eating and sleeping cycle.  Apparently such things were built into the very basis of human genetics.

He glanced out the window at the oncoming bubble with his usual paradoxical mixture of fondness, and hatred, and rubbed his eyes.  As he laid back in his chair and tried to resist the temptation to close his eyes, he noticed a blinking 'message waiting' indicator on his desk's holo-interface.

He sighed, paused to work up energy, then reached forward and pressed the ethereal words hovering an inch above the surface of the desk.  A projected screen sprang into existence above the desk, automatically adjusting for the angle of his head.

After several moments of a generic 'please wait; establishing live link' message, the space was filled with the unexpected visage of Councilor Martins.  Her face was contorted in exhaustion and concern, and her hair was utterly disheveled.  In the background behind her, the General could just barely make out the lights of emergency vehicles.

He sat bolt upright, "Councilor!  What the..."

She held up a hand, "Is this connection fully secured?"

Hutch squinted in confusion, "I'm sorry what?  Its a military encrypted..."

Martins shook her head adamantly, "*Fully* secured.  I don't want this transmission on the record."

The General paused, staring, and trying to process her words.  Finally he sighed, and tapped several controls on his desk.  The connection image pixelated briefly, and 'hiccupped,' before returning to normal, "Secured Janet."

The Councilor glanced over her shoulder, then leaned into her DaTab, "We were attacked."

Hutch's eyes bugged out, and he mimicked Martin's gesture, leaning in towards his screen, "*What?*"

Martins nodded, "A Potion bomb; planted *inside* our conference room *within* the secure London Earthgov complex."

The General stared, his expression continuing to spiral further into blatant indications of shock and worry, "That shouldn't be *possible*..."

The Councilor nodded, "It gets worse, if you can believe it."  She paused, as if evaluating whether to speak at all, before finally continuing, "The room's countermeasures were *disabled.*  From the *inside.*"

Hutch sat back and began to rub his temple, "*Sheeesh*..."

Martins exhaled slowly, "I'm not sure who to trust at this point.  To smuggle such a device into this complex undetected, and disable countermeasures built into the very structure of the building...  That requires *military* clearance."

The General's head snapped up sharply, "Cripes Martins, don't you think I *realize* that?  I'm just not sure I can *Fathom* the idea...  Or even begin to guess *how* they did it..."

The Councilor glared, "Regardless of how, why, or 'if,' the fact remains that this raises serious concerns for myself, my party, and our endeavor."  She paused and drummed her fingers on the hood of the vehicle she was seated on.  Judging by its white paint, it was likely an ambulance.  She continued, slowly, as if evaluating each word, "I think its time to arrange those favors we discussed.  I can no longer, in good conscience, trust the government's military Police...  But the JRSF have always been straight shots."

When Hutch did not speak, she continued, speaking more quickly, "The endorsement of the JRSF would be good for our publicity, *and* yours.  We'd be guaranteed proper security and an impartial, untainted investigation.  This is exactly the type of situation your organization was formed to respond to..."

Hutch raised a hand, "Save it Janet.  I don't need a lecture from you on my objective statement.  And... I don't need convincing either.  *I* don't necessarily think its worth it, but your project is something that some small fraction of humanity wants to sign onto.  The fact that someone is trying to infringe on that freedom is good enough reason for me to get involved, if nothing else.  And I do owe you."

Martins allowed the tiniest hint of a grin to pull at her lips.  Somehow, despite the hell she had been through, the subtle gloss on them had not deteriorated, or even smudged, "Yes.  You do owe me."

The General waggled a finger, "After this?  We are, as they used to say, 'square.' "

The Councilor sighed, "Agreed.  I know this is asking to add another huge stressor to your overloaded plate..."

Hutch snorted, "What else is new?  This is practically my job description.  I'm used to it."  He sat back once more, and stared out the window, his brow wrinkling as his gaze became pensive, "Still... I'm worried that you've gotten me in over my head this time."

Chapter 13

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Sixteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

"You're sure you feel up to translation?"  Fyrenn looked down at the white Pegasus with concern.

IJ glowered.  Despite the fact that she was holding a small block of ice, wrapped in a towel to her forehead with one hoof, she still looked both menacing and frustrated, "Stop asking if I'm 'up to it' and just give me the sheets.  We're wasting enough time as it is."

Fyrenn shrugged, "Touche."  He reached into his pack and extracted the decoded sheets of paper gingerly, setting them in a stack on the table in front of IJ.  She promptly splayed them out into a row with her free hoof and leaned in closer.

Carradan peered over her shoulder expectantly, "Well?"

She pierced him with a stare midway between patronizing, and disbelieving, "You want to take two big steps back and let me work *unmolested*?  It's been a few years since I had to read Changeling, so I expect this will take a moment."

The salmon Pegasus slumped back into his seat.  Fyrenn sighed, relieved that IJ had not reacted more violently, and paused to take in his surroundings once more.

The Barracks of the Cloudsdale City Watch comprised the most defensively-minded structure he had seen in the Equestrian Nation;  The exterior wall was made entirely out of thunderheads, which roiled with a constant inward energy that guards could direct into devastating lightning strikes against any assaulting foe.

The internal structures were made of a form of reinforced cloud, characterized by a peculiar stippled pattern, and a mesmerising grayish-blue color.  A permanent rainbow, which apparently had been Thaumaticly tuned to boost ambient magic levels, adorned the crest of the tiered castle-like structure.

Inside, the building was reminiscent of traditional Pegasus architecture, but Fyrenn had spotted more than a few militaristic features as well, such as arrow holes in dividing walls, a distinct lack of stairs designed to impede non-flighted invaders, and alcoves for defenders to duck into should the opportunity present itself.

Skye, Varan, and Kephic had gone with the Captain of the Watch to an inner chamber to make a full report about the previous night's battle.  Fyrenn had initially worried that he would have to carry Skye throughout the entire city, but she had wordlessly conjured some form of temporary cloudwalking spell when they initially landed.  Her propensity for useful and unconventional spells never ceased to impress.

Since the end of the tussle with the Drones, the Unicorn had exchanged only monosyllables with IJ, and that state of affairs suited Fyrenn just fine.  He had no desire to be present when the inevitable 'cat fight' finally broke out.

After several moments of silence, made more comfortable than awkward by pure exhaustion, IJ spoke, "You were right; it is time sensitive information.  And I expect that any chance of it being useful to you on its own has passed.  Its a series of attack instructions; they probably had them adjusted within hours of realizing these copies had been stolen.  You said you found these on a Diamond Dog train?"

Fyrenn nodded slowly, "We think the clan that runs a spur of the northern railway are acting as couriers.  We also found a small herd of Ponies... Locked away in cages."

IJ rifled through the missives on the tablet absently, seemingly unperturbed by the revelation, "A Hive has to keep its population fed.  These days, thanks to you Gryphons, thats harder than it's ever been.  The Ponies were probably being delivered for extra payment; judging by what these documents say, the attack orders focus on causing fear and confusion.  Transferring 'acquired commodities' is merely a bonus."

Carradan shuddered.  Fyrenn's face fell; a combination of frustration, melancholy, and anger twisting his beak and ears downwards, "We had thought, at one point, that the PER might have been responsible for all this... I'll admit that the Changelings being the hidden hoof makes a certain sort of sense... But why now?  Why run a campaign of distraction and terror on Equestrian and Gryphon settlements *now?*  In preparation for a larger attack?"

IJ nodded, "Most likely.  When I was last part of the Hive, the predominant consensus was that we needed to adapt our fighting style as a result of our famine, overpopulation, and your growing propensity for meddling with our attacks.  It wouldn't surprise me to learn that we've changed over to warfare based on sowing fear and confusion."

Stan grumbled, "How comforting."

Fyrenn sighed, and sat back on his haunches, "So there's nothing else new to be learned from these?"

IJ raised an eyebrow, "Did I *say* that?"

The red Gryphon sat up, ears perking attentively.  The former Changeling inclined her head, "There is nothing more to be gained from the obvious contents of the messages.  But for a Changeling, there is a wealth of buried information."

Carrada leaned forward once more, infringing on IJ's bubble of personal space and prompting her to pierce him with another icy glare.  The reporter-turned-adventurer didn't seem to care, "Soooo?  These are gonna be worth it after all?!"

IJ shifted slightly to gain more space, shoving her icepack into Carradan's hooves, before applying both of her own to the sheets, spreading them out until they were all individually visible.

She glanced up at Fyrenn, "The changeling 'Hive' often refers to the whole of us, just as the 'Kingdoms' refer to all of you.  It also refers to the joined Hive mind.  But for the sake of organization, there are divisions and a hierarchy within *The* Hive.  Geographically and logistically, a specific settlement of Changelings can be referred to as *a* Hive."

Carradan cocked his head slightly, "Huh..."  He dropped the icepack, failing to even take notice as it passed through the floor and vanished to parts unknown.  He instead buried his muzzle in his saddlebags, finally emerging triumphantly with a notepad and quill, "This is good stuff!  Next time we're Earthside I can probably get some kinda exclusive publishing deal!"

IJ and Fyrenn both stared on in a mixture of disdain, confusion, and mild annoyance.  Carradan clutched the quill firmly in his muzzle, waving a hoof and speaking around the feathery material, "Well?  Go on!"

IJ huffed, and returned her gaze to the paper, "As I was saying; every individual Hive has its own idiosyncrasies, particularly the old ones.  Organizationally, each Hive has its own Queen and a command structure that flows down from her.  All Hive Queens in turn report to the Over-Queen.  *The* Queen.  Including her own Hive, which is usually the largest in the empire.  Each Hive has, among other things, a unique..."

The Pegasus tilted her head and paused, trying to find the words to frame the concept, "A unique... 'signature.'  In its writing, its thoughts... The signature even gets impressed, over time, onto the Hive's Drones; making it easy to identify their origin the instant you examine their minds."

Fyrenn's visage brightened, "So you can tell us which Hive these came from?"

IJ tapped one hoof against the table.  A small part of Fyrenn brain idly wondered how the furniture kept from falling through the floor, as she spoke, "Yes.  I can.  These missives originate from the Razor Spires Hive."

Carradan's eyes widened, "You can recognize this 'signature' with that much certainty?"

IJ raised an eyebrow, "It was almost as easy to recognize as the signature on the Drones last night.  That really surprises you?  It was my old Hive; I would be quite remiss if I couldn't recognize the signature I *grew up* with."

Fyrenn glared, "You didn't think to mention this earlier?"

"Was it that important?"  The white Pegasus tossed her mane slightly, blowing a few stray locks of blue hair out of her eyes.

The Gryphon pinched the bridge of his beak in-between thumb and index talons, "IJ... *everything* is important at this stage.  Every single tiny detail.  Is there anything else that you've been sitting on that might conceivably be important?  Anything at all?"

She shrugged, "The letters make allusion to a large attack happening in a few days' time... But we already knew that."

Fyrenn groaned.  The sound gradually turned to an angry, frustrated hiss, "No.. we knew a major attack was *imminent.*  Now you're telling me we know that it's going to be within a week?"

IJ nodded, "Less than that."

Carradan winced, "How major?"

The ex-Changeling raised both eyebrows, "Let me put it in perspective for your small herbivorous brain;  the Over-Queen expects enemy casualties to be, and I quote, 'innumerable millions.' "

Fyrenn stiffened, "This changes things.  Do you think they will be mobilizing the Hives?"

IJ glowered, "For an assault of such a scale?  Are you truly asking such a stupidly obvious question?"

The Gryphon was too busy getting a grasp on the repercussions of her words to take offense.  He murmured to himself, "We have to dispatch messages immediately..."

"Messages?" Kephic's voice came from across the chamber.  Fyrenn glanced up to see that he, Varan, Skye, and the Captain of the Watch had returned.

He nodded as his siblings approached, "IJ translated the sheafs.  The news is not good.  The Changelings appear to be planning a massive all-out assault within half a week; these initial attacks are a distraction tactic to pull attention and troops away from what will become the main front."

Varan hummed softly, "That is indeed troubling.  We must dispatch messengers at once, both to Canterlot, and to our own Capital."  With his characteristic bluntness, he turned and made his way out of the room without further prelude.

Fyrenn turned to Kephic, and inhaled slowly, "Given what she's told me?  I think we have to pursue this.  Part of her final mission was to acquire samples of our DNA... 'lifecode,' to return to the Hive for dissemination.  It can't possibly be coincidence that Drones from her old Hive show up to kidnap her on the eve of a major assault, ostensibly co-ordinated from the *same* Hive."

Kephic inclined his head, "Far too much to be coincidental.  I agree; I expect Varan will too.  We're probably the closest Warriors; it falls to us to scout, and make an early report if possible."

Fyrenn sighed, "Every little bit of pre-battle information helps."

Carradan shuddered, "Venturing into Hive territory... Not the week's activity I'd been planning on when I got up this morning."

Fyrenn raised an eyebrow, turning his head to treat the Pegasus to wry glance, "You didn't get up this morning; you didn't get any sleep last night."

Stan groaned, "Don't *remind* me.  I'm runnin' on fumes here... And I could use some food..."

Kephic nodded, "As pressing as time is, I expect we will all wish to take several hours to sleep and eat."

Skye raised a hoof, "Um.. excuse me?  Helooo?  Resident Unicorn reporting; I'm not exactly equipped for a plunge into the heart of the swarm here... Neither is miss-priss over there."

IJ grunted, "Vulgarities and stupidities notwithstanding; we are both in need of armor if you are planning to take us with you."

Fyrenn glanced between the glowering females, "Well I suppose you have a choice Skye; no one is making you come.  IJ?  We need your expertise.  And I don't expect you're keen to pass up the chance to follow up on last night's abduction attempt."

The ex-Drone's expression spoke for itself, in the affirmative.  Skye huffed, "You seriously think I'd back out of this now?  Besides; if I don't come along, she's liable to throttle you all in your sleep."

Carradan interjected before the backbiting could continue, "Ahhh... Just a moment... How come no one asked me what *I* want?"

Kephic snorted, "Because even though you'd never admit it; you wouldn't turn down the chance at a healthy dose of peril.  Especially not one that is bound to lead to a good story."

The salmon Pegasus glared good-naturedly, mumbling under his breath.  Fyrenn thought he detected a hint of a suppressed grin pulling at his muzzle.

The red Gryphon turned to the Captain of the Guard, who had stood stone-faced during the entire exchange, "I hate to impose... But do you think you could lend us two suits of armor?"

The Captain huffed; he was a brawny male Pegasus; his stature was all the more impressive, for a Pony, with the added effect of his helmet crest, "The armor of the Cloudsdale City Watch is a *uniform* unto itself.  The design is as old as the first Pegasus tribes; we do *not* hand it idly over to those who are... unqualified."

IJ pierced the stallion with a killing glare, and Skye snorted, pawing at the cloud beneath her.  Before either enraged Pony could speak, Kephic interjected quickly, "They are about to accompany us on an extremely dangerous mission deep into enemy territory, on behalf of both your kind and ours.  We are pressed sorely for time; its not as if we can simply fly all the way to Canterlot once more, or wait for a blacksmith to turn out new sets of gear.  They need protection, and you have it."

The stallion glared wordlessly for several moments, before rolling his eyes, "I see I am left with no choice."

Fyrenn sighed, "Glad you see it that way."

As IJ and Skye made their way across the room, the latter continued to glare at the Captain, "Yeah... for *your* sake.  Lead on Captain tight-britches."

As the Stallion silently escorted the two mares through a side door into the courtyard, Kephic inhaled slowly, "I think its probably..."

Fyrenn clapped him between the shoulderblades, "Not it." "

Kephic raised an eyebrow, "...Best that one of us go with them... What is 'not it'?"

Carradan chuckled, "It means he called dibs."

"Dibs?"

Fyrenn laughed, "It means *you* get to go play peacekeeper while I sit here and relax."

Kephic glowered, "Not fair."

The red Gryphon snorted as he flopped down onto a particularly puffy segment of cloud, and rested his head on his crossed forelegs, "Your point?  Have fun dear brother.  I'll say a prayer for your safety."

As the speckled Gryphon loped away to catch up with his charges, Fyrenn whistled, "I wouldn't want to be him.  Those two Ponies are like a brick of C4 on a short fuse."

Carradan chuckled wryly, "What scares me more than anything?  What if they end up being *friends* before all this is through? I'm scared outa my fetlocks they'll be callin' each other 'sis' by the end of this week."

Fyrenn opened one eye lazily, "Maybe so... But I'll just bet that either way, they're going to call each other a good few other... 'nastier' things first."

Carradan nodded, "Yeah..."  He paused thoughtfully, before nudging one of Fyrenn's wings with a hoof, "So which of em do you think I have a better shot with?"

The red Gryphon raised his head, and allowed his expression to speak for itself.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 15th, Gregorian Calendar

Kaliss Manufacturing provided nearly a third of the computer hardware in use by the Earthgov military.  The company's primary chip factory, stationed in an area of New York once known as Saugerties, sprawled over nearly thirty hectares of land.

Most of the facility was run by machines; automated assembly lines controlled by two hundred AI, and their subsidiary interface routines.  In the early 2100's the company had begun to put skilled laborers back onto the production lines, however, to further augment production speed as the need for computing devices continued to rise exponentially, and unabated.

Klarien stared down at the extra-large DaTab strapped to his left foreleg; according to contract records, the Saugerties facility had produced the only batch of prototype chips that matched the metallurgical analysis of the bomb fragments.

The green Dragon glanced over to his 'partner.'  Taranis seemed busy examining the facade of the central warehouse structure.  Klarien wasn't sure how he felt about being paired with the cobalt Dragon.  He knew for sure how he felt about the fact that Taranis was in charge.  Displeased barely covered it.

"So... Are we going in?"  Klarien glanced around the parking lot as he waited for a response.  The scene struck him as almost comical; two Dragons standing calmly in the middle of the pavement, surrounded by cars, staring up at a warehouse.

Taranis nodded, "Stay silent;  I will speak, you will observe."

As the pair began to lumber towards the facility's main entrance, Klarien glowered, "Is that wise?  You don't even sound like a Convert.  You sound like a native... Or someone who has been a Convert for a while."

The blue Dragon nodded a second time, "And that is to our advantage.  Aside from that; I have professional experience in questioning techniques."

After a short moment of silence, Klarien indulged his curiosity, "So why *do* you talk that way?  You sound almost like a native... But you haven't been a convert that long... right?"

Taranis raised an eyebrow scale, "Did you get this erroneous information from a file?  Or did you simply assume facts not in evidence?"

The green Dragon knit his brow, "So... You've been a convert for...?"

"Some time.  Long enough to come to appreciate the Draconic way of speech and thought."

The conversation came to an abrupt end as they arrived at the factory's doors.  The aperture was not ideally suited to a Dragon, but was still large enough to admit the pair, one after the other.

While the interior space had not been designed with giant reptiles in mind, it was cavernous enough, for other reasons, that it felt quite roomy, even to Taranis.  The front lobby-like portion of the building was partitioned off from the factory floors by an enormous floor-to-ceiling plexiglass window, reinforced with criss-crossing alloy beams.

The ceiling was also transparent, and held up by a similar girder structure that had an almost geodesic pattern.

The Dragons' entry instantly garnered the full attention of every person in the lobby; the receptionist, a janitor, and several security guards.

The latter moved to place their hands on their side-arms, before quickly thinking better of the idea; it dawned on them almost immediately that their civilian chemical-reaction driven pistols had no chance of penetrating Draconic scales, but every certainty of provoking the owners of those scales.

Taranis stared down at the receptionist.  The young man was gawking, finger paused in mid-swipe over a DaTab, "Greetings.  We are looking for the administrator of this facility."

The receptionist stuttered, "Aaah... umm... Well..."

The blue Dragon glowered, "Now.  If you please."

Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the Dragons' enormous claws, the receptionist reached across his desk and tapped a small holo-control, "Mr. Lansing; you're needed in the lobby."

After several moments of intensely awkward silence, during which both the receptionist and the security guards shuffled frequently, a door opened on the right side of the chamber.

Mr. Lansing was tall, gray haired, but still spry for a man of his apparent age.  His neat gray suit, and the small golden pin on the collar, shaped like the Kaliss company logo, identified him as the plant supervisor.

To his credit, he took the surprise of seeing two Dragons in his lobby almost entirely in stride, only hesitating slightly as he made his way across the polished floor; shoes clicking in perfect time.

"Good morning.  What can I do for you gentlemen?"  He managed a professional tone, and a neutral expression; a fact for which Taranis mentally gave him credit.

"We're here on behalf of the JRSF.  I think it would be better if we spoke in private."

Lansing's office was, thankfully, on the same floor as the lobby.  Klarien had been eyeing the elevator nervously, wondering how the reptilian soldiers would fit within the small carriages if they needed to visit another level.

The chamber overlooked part of the factory floor, in a manner similar to the lobby, by means of an enormous floor-to-ceiling plexiglass window.  Klarien stared for several moments in fascination ; the factory was a stunning display of well programmed robotic choreography.

Hundreds of thousands of armatures picked, soldered, and snapped away at billions of computer chips as they passed by on an ever-advancing labyrinth of conveyor belts.  It was beautiful; in its own peculiarly mesmerising way.

Lansing's voice swiftly put an end to the green Dragon's mental wanderings, "If the JRSF saw fit to send two of you here, then I don't expect you have good news."

Taranis shook his head.  The gesture nearly laid waste to the supervisor's desk; had his office not been unusually large, the two Dragons would not have even been able to squeeze into the space.  Maneuvering room was at a premium.

"Are your inventories well controlled?"

Lansing raised an eyebrow, "Every single thing that happens in this factory is monitored; twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five.  All items are given a unique RFID plate, and corresponding serial number, at time of manufacture.  They are then tracked, without fail, from time of manufacture to time of shipment arrival."  He paused and leaned forward, his chair squeaking slightly, "What, exactly, is this all about?"

Taranis tapped one claw on Lansing's desk; the chitin produced a slow reverberating rhythm on the steel slab, "Is there any way you could conceive of, for an employee to smuggle goods out of the factory?  Specifically, goods slated for destruction due to faulty behavior?  Or for other similar reasons?"

The supervisor appeared both genuinely baffled, and deeply upset, "No!  Of course not!  We're very careful with all defective, or sensitive materials!  Are you going to ask a more specific question or not?!  Do you suspect we have some sort of leak?!"

Taranis allowed the silence to stretch of for almost five seconds while he evaluated Lansing with a cold, calculating gaze.  He spoke without shifting his ocular focus in the slightest, "We have evidence that suggests prototype chips designed for a military contract bid, and produced at this factory, were sold to the Human Liberation Front."

Lansing stared in open mouthed shock.  Both Dragons could easily taste his fear and confusion, as his body ejected floods of indicative hormones into the air; chemicals that were easily sampled by their jacobson's organs.

It was child's play for them to reach the same conclusion, silently and simultaneously; Lansing was not complicit in the theft.

Before the supervisor could speak, Taranis hummed in concern, "Clearly you were not aware of the surreptitious activities taking place at your factory.  We'll need access to all of your employee records, as well as any information you maintain on employee movement; security lock timestamps and such."

Lansing sat back and threw up his hands, "Wha...?!  I don't... You're just going to...?!"

Klarien grunted, unable to resist the impulse to speak, "Trust you at your word?  We can smell your concern and confusion.  Its legitimate.  Pungent too.  You should consider a better brand of deodorant."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Sixteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

Luna stared in confusion.  The sight before her was baffling; she had rounded the corner of the main hall, to find that the throne room, perhaps the most familiar space to her in all of Canterlot Castle, was missing.

In its place was a heap of rubble covered in a swarm of work-Ponies operating a tread-crane, and freneticly wielding masonry tools in a haze of marble dust.

The Lunar Monarch stood dumbfounded, muzzle agape, until a worker passed close enough for her to reach out with a hoof and stop him, "Pardon me citizen.  What hath befallen the throne room?!"  In one of her more common symptoms of distress, Luna found herself unable to avoid slipping into Old High Royal Canterlot speech patterns.

The worker tilted his head in confusion, "Where have *you* been for the last month?  We're finishing repairs on the battle damage."

Luna's eyes widened abruptly, "Battle damage?!"

The stallion nodded, "Of course.  Actually... We need your opinion on something.  We just finished the atrium, and we wanted to get your approval on a new decorative feature."

Before Luna could press the mason for more information, he trotted nonchalantly back down the hallway.  Baffled; the monarch followed him.  The stallion preceded her through a set of familiar double doors.  Luna followed; unable to suppress her curiosity long enough to fire off any more queries.

As she passed through the entryway, the sight that filled her eyes chilled the blood in her veins.  She felt as if her heart had been instantly encased in a thick layer of ice, and she had to bite her lip to resist the impulse to scream.

The palace atrium, a familiar and comforting space that she knew and loved, had been transformed into a grotesque and heart-rending display, by the addition of a single object.

The white monument, of sorts, was enshrined on a vast marble pedestal, and supported by cleverly hidden wires.  Much like a museum exhibit.  It shone with the transfixing glitter of burnished gold, which only served to heighten the macabre of the sight.  The gold, like the room itself, and the monument, were all too familiar.

Luna inhaled slowly, a tear forming in the corner of one eye, as the reality of the sight finally sunk in.  Before her, decked out in the royal regalia of the Solar Monarch, stood the bleached skeleton of an Alicorn.  A familiar Alicorn.  Her beloved sister.

Before Luna could bring herself to move, or speak, a deafening voice seemed to fill the chamber.  The dulcet, yet ominous timbre was not only familiar, but lacked an echo.  The Lunar Princess realized with a violent start that it was not so much filling the atrium, as her mind.

"Look long and well upon our greatest triumph."

Luna collapsed to the floor; hooves tangled in the throes of agony, as the voice was abruptly joined by a wracking pain in her skull.  As the agonizing pangs receded, she gazed up at the monument once more, and noted the presence of six glittering gems in the base of the pedestal.

She inhaled sharply, "No..."

The voice returned to her mind once more; soft rather than deafening, as if its owner were speaking directly into her ear in an intimate whisper, "Now you see the folly of your stratagems.  *You* did this.  You made this possible. I suppose..."

The final two words abruptly acquired direction, and echo, seeming to instantly transition from the reaches of Luna's mind, to a point-source above her.

She slowly raised her head, struggling once more to hold back tears.  She beheld a chillingly familiar sight; the amethyst hued Unicorn from the darkest moments of her recent slumbers.

The apparition stood on the marble slab, beside the bones of Celestia, and smirked proudly.  She bent her head to lock eyes with Luna, and finished her thought, "I suppose I should... thank you.  We're so grateful for your failure."

"Sister?  Sister... were you having nightmares again?"  It took Luna a full half of a minute to shake off the bonds of sleep, and process the words.  When she finally managed the feat, she raised her head from her desk, where it had fallen when she dozed off.

Celestia stood in the entryway to her office, looking down on her with a mixture of sadness and concern.  Luna stood, and hung her head, "I am sorry sister.  I'm afraid I slept, and lost track of time.  I am late for our lunch aren't I?"'

Celestia nodded slowly, "Luna... It nears sundown."

A long moment of awkward silence passed, punctuated only by the mercifully comforting sound of Canterlot's evening hubbub, and the soothing trill of songbirds in the Palace gardens below the room's vast open window.

At last, Celestia brought an end to the moment by simply stepping forward, and quietly embracing her younger sibling.  Luna did not resist the unusually 'undignified' display of affection as she might have normally, but instead returned the gesture.

When the sisters separated, Celestia noted that Luna's eyes were moist with tears.  She sighed, "Explain to me what is troubling you.  Starting from the beginning.  If you are willing."

Luna nodded slowly, and exhaled, "I suppose it is time you knew.  I think it concerns you, and that I need the boon of your advice, particularly since you will be departing shortly."

Celestia moved to take up a comfortable position on one of the study's couches, and patiently waited for Luna to follow suit.  Once they were seated, and a guard had been summoned to fetch tea, the Solar Monarch spoke once more, "Tell me all that is on your mind."

Luna stared out the window, towards the afternoon sun, "I have not been sleeping well of late..."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Sixteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

"Its not exactly Royal Guard armor..."  Kephic tilted his head and thrummed a note of interest and critique deep in his throat.

Varan finished the thought, "I think, however, that it will be as serviceable as can be hoped for at short notice."

Skye glanced up at the plume of her helmet, crossing her eyes to try and see it in clear focus, "Don't let 'his eminence,' Captain Tightpants, hear you say that.  He'll probably flip his lid."

IJ raised an eyebrow as she yanked a final cinch on her chest-plate tight with her muzzle, "Are you always given to such dramatic nomenclature and metaphors?"

Carradan whistled a low note, "Well... You two do *look* pretty dramatic.  And dashing... And..."

The two female Ponies pierced the salmon Pegasus with a glare that Fyrenn guessed could have melted a solid block of aluminum into a whimpering puddle.  Internally, however, the Gryphon had to admit; Stan was right.  The pair cut dashing figures in their new gear.

Pegasus armor was weaker than standard Royal Guard armor; it was produced entirely in Cloudsdale, with exclusively Pony manufacturing processes and materials.  As such it lacked the durability and impact resistance of alloy; it was effectively simple steel plates.

Despite its comparatively weaker construction, Fyrenn still admired the gear.  It had been burnished and painted a shade of onyx black.  Intricate silver filigree adorned the two primary components; a segmented and plated guard for the back and chest, and a half-helm with a tall, dark plume.

Both pieces of armor were trimmed in gold leaf, and the helmet's plume appeared to be genuine Pony hair, dyed a deep and glittering shade of black.

On the whole; the effect was elegant, intimidating, and even militaristic.  Fyrenn was both pleased, and surprised, to see a Pony-crafted object elicit such feelings.  He made a mental promise to himself to learn more about Pegasus history once he had breathing room.

At last, Varan broke the awkward, albeit slightly comedic, silence, "It is approaching sundown.  We should depart before we lose any more time."

Stan sighed morosely, "Ah well.  There's always tomorrow."  He shouldered his pack, and perked up as a thought occurred to him; muzzle pulling into a smirk and ears perking, "Say ladies...  If you're feeling vulnerable because of your weaker armor, I'm never averse to a little protective cuddli--- OOMF!"

Carradan doubled over as IJ delivered a swift, sharp blow to his chest with one wing.  Skye snickered, "Good shot."

As Fyrenn passed Stan on his way to the corner to pick up his own pack, he patted the wheezing Pegasus on the back softly, "I warned you buddy.  Stay away from the catfight."

Kephic snorted, "I'd advise he stay away from anything female entirely."

Varan shrugged, and shifted his wings to make room for his own pack beside his mace and bow, "I think the attempt would kill him."

Fyrenn inclined his head as he spread his wings, "Not if our dear 'sisters' kill him first."

Carradan smiled dreamily, "Given the choice?  I'll take death-by-ex any day."

Kephic chuckled as he opened the door, "Which one is the lucky mare then?"

The salmon Pegasus cocked his head and squinted, "You know what?  I haven't deci---YEEEOWCH!"

The Gryphons, Varan included, could not resist a chuckle at Stan's expense, as Skye whistled innocently across the room, and the sharp arrow tip that she had jabbed into Carradan's rear fell to the floor.  The magical aura around her horn dissipated instantly, and she grinned slyly, "Be careful what you wish for fatso."

Fyrenn raised an eyebrow, "If I'm going to keep carrying you?  I'm laying a ground rule right now;  no kicking, stabbing, punching, screeching, scratching... Or any other horrible things you can think of."

Skye rolled her eyes skyward, "If you keep him away from me, you've got nothing to worry about."

Fyrenn mumbled as he bent to lift Skye onto his back, "That's what bothers me.  I'm not sure *God* could keep Stan away from a girl once he's fixated."

IJ glowered as she snapped her wings open, "At this point?  I want to point out that you need me to guide you to the Hive.  If you, or your god, do not succeed at keeping that overweight hooligan away from me?  I will slit him end to end in his sleep."

Kephic raised a claw, as the group began to leap off the edge of Cloudsdale, one by one, "New rule; the three Ponies must be separated from each other by at least one of us every night."

Varan sighed, "I do not look forward to shouldering the watch rotations amongst the three of us."

Fyrenn became airborne, turning in a gradual bank for Skye's sake, until he was pointed a few degrees shy of the setting sun.  He smiled wryly, "It's better than the alternatives.  Believe me."

Chapter 14

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 16th, Gregorian Calendar

The cigarette fizzled weakly as it hit the rain-soaked tarmac.  Its owner casually flattened the paper wrapping with a polished heel.  Mr. Utah turned to the dutiful, silent, suited aide standing at the stairway of his private aircraft, "The last of it has been loaded?"

The man nodded curtly, "The final batch of supplies and troops is confirmed; all units and gear fully accounted for."

Mr. Utah grunted acknowledgement deep in his throat, pausing to glance across the small aerodrome at an unmarked CAA-7 cargo jet, whose engines had just begun to spin up, filling the drizzle-laden air with palpable vibrations and an ear-splitting whine.

The airport had once been a tiny floatplane base, but a post-Winnowing influx of population into the nearby city had grown it into a fairly large annex.  The field lacked live controllers; it was run primarily by a computerized control and LADAR tower at the center of the complex.

Radiating out from the tall, thin, windowless, hard-edged, structure was a spiderweb of taxiways and holding tarmacs.  The duracrete paths connected on one side to a runway just barely long enough to handle military cargo jets, and on the other to a row of mostly-empty hangars, and spaces for VTOLs to land.

The entire affair was encircled by a tall electrified fence, with a single entry and exit point governed by an automated RFID-driven access gate.  The only other structures for thousands of yards were similarly fenced miniature fusion electric generators, and small synthetic jet fuel reserve tanks, for refuelling purposes.

Most of the time the field was silent, but occasionally a major Earthgov naval operation would necessitate a weekend of high-traffic military-restricted usage.  At all other times, the field was open to general aviation, small commuter VTOLs, and commercial cargo aircraft.

It had served the HLF well; a strategic bribe during its construction had allowed the insertion of a permanent back door into the control tower's relatively unsophisticated and aging AI.  There had never been any permanent record of the Front's activities at the airfield.  And there never would be.

Mr. Utah swept his gaze towards the shimmering lights of the city in the distance.  The luminescence of a billion twinkling light sources was blurred and diffused by the precipitation into a lurid unfocused halo of golds and blues.

"Mid and low level assets?"

His aide stiffened, "As per protocol; no information has been sent to anyone classified as a level five asset or below."

HLF operational security guidelines dictated that during a pullout, 'low level' members be kept in the dark to prevent information leaks.  The Front was split into two fundamental groups; the founding and controlling parties, who had access to major corporations, military assets, and vast sums of money; and the 'followers.'

The slang term was often used within the Cabinet to brand those who were not official HLF members, but who expressed anti-Pony sentiment and marched to the same agenda.  Just as the KKK of old had funded and manipulated chanting drunken masses to do their bidding, so too the HLF considered 'followers' to be useful.  Within certain bounds.

Like the rest of the Cabinet, however, Mr. Utah had no compunctions, whether moral or logistical, about leaving followers to take the fall during an operation.

He turned to his personal craft; the Lockheed/Boeing Skyrunner was one of the fastest business class jets available.  The HLF made several available to the Cabinet; some possessed legitimate markings, and were owned and operated under shell corporations.  Others, like the one on the tarmac before Mr. Utah, possessed no official records or footprint of any kind.

Not even so much as a safety inspection card, or a serial number on tertiary components.  The Skyrunner was painted jet black, with no other markings of any sort.

Mr. Utah spent a final moment in contemplation, checking to ensure that nothing had been forgotten.  He then strode up the airstair into the plane's cabin.  He nodded to the beige-camouflage guard standing beside the cockpit, his face inscrutable behind a reflective silvery faceplate, "Depart."

As Mr. Utah took a seat in the well-appointed main cabin, the guard rapped twice on the cockpit door, reaching out to fold the door and airstair closed as the aide scrambled inside.

The Skyrunner's engines quickly spun up, and the craft began taxiing to the runway.  Ahead, the last of eight CAA-7's that had departed during the pullout cycle, throttled up and tore a conical hole through the rain, winging its way swiftly off towards a Southern California air base.

As the Skyrunner cut a hard turn onto the runway-proper, Mr. Utah spared a farewell glance for the rain-soaked city.

Without fanfare, ado, or permission, the unmarked, unnamed, 'non-existent' jet screeched away into the damp night.  The Skyrunner left only a contrail, and a gust of air behind on the CXH tarmac, its engines propelling a cascade of water across the aerodrome's name, stenciled into the runway in faded white paint.

'Vancouver Harbour Water Airport.'

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Seventeenth Day, Celestial Calendar

Fyrenn surveyed the land ahead, lazily sweeping his gaze across the western horizon.  He had already seen the terrain from above; what intrigued him was the peculiar patterns of golden and orange sunlight through the groves of nearby pine trees.

The experience of a sunset, he had found, was vastly different depending on whether one observed it from the air, or the ground.  Both had their own sublime charm, and unique aesthetic.  His favorite way to see a sunset, since his Conversion, had always been to skim just above a layer of fluffy white cloud, and to watch the sun set behind it.

The display of colors, and shapes, and shadows that the fiery orb brought out in the formations of condensed moisture were achingly beautiful.

Fyrenn stretched lazily, savoring the moment of peace.  The group had opted for a short break to prepare a meal, and then an extended flight further north and west before sleeping the second half of the night.

As his siblings worked on the Gryphons' meal, Carradan and Skye nibbled at their own herbivorous provisions.  Kephic and Varan insisted that Fyrenn take the time to rest, given that he was carrying extra weight.  Though the red Gryphon had protested vocally, he had been forcibly overridden in the end.

The soft thump of hooves against the grass drew his attention abruptly, and Fyrenn glanced to his left to see IJ perched in repose on a large rock, devouring a haycake of her own.  He was suddenly gripped with an insatiable wave of curiosity, "So... Was it hard to adjust to eating?  I assume Changelings don't eat, in the traditional sense."

IJ shook her head, "We can, but we get very little nutrition from it if we're not also consuming a healthy amount of love.  Much the same way you can benefit from non-meat foods, as long as you consume enough flesh to stay healthy.  So no.  Not as hard as you'd think."

Fyrenn was pleasantly surprised that his query hadn't been met with an overabundance of frustration, anger, or snark.  He decided to press his opportunity, and turned to face IJ, "What *is* growing up in the Hive like?"

She glowered, "Are you asking because you care about knowing for the sake of understanding us?  Or for the sake of gaining a tactical edge?  Or do you just want to disparage my upbringing?"

The Gryphon shrugged, hoping nonchalance would diffuse the situation and keep the Pegasus talking, "Call it both of the former, and none of the latter."

At first, IJ looked as if she might end the conversation there; her scowl deepened and she kicked the last crumbs of her haycake away into the bushes vindictively.  She stood as if to leave, but instead strode calmly over to a shadier position, and curled up in the grass.

After an awkward pause, which Fyrenn opted to wait out, she began to speak again.  Her ears pulled back in a reflexively sign of anxiety, "Try to imagine being constantly nourished, energized, cared for, and watched over.  Every single second of your adolescent life.  You have access to the knowledge of an entire civilization, and you're never more than a thought away from your protectors."

Fyrenn slumped into a position of repose, and rested his head on crossed forelegs, facing IJ, "Sounds wonderful.  I lost my parents *early* on.  I had my grandmother, and she was wonderful... But I had to get used to the world and learn its lessons in ye olde school of hard knocks."

IJ glanced away, "I envy you."

Fyrenn's eyes widened, and his ears shot up to a confused and curious vertical position.  He tensed, and cocked his head, "What? But you just..."

The Pegasus fixed him with an unflinching gaze; her stormy blue eyes filled to bursting with roiling clouds of anger and pain, "There are advantages to growing up in the Hive.  But they're *not* worth it.  Not in it's current state."

The Gryphon's confusion did not abate, as evidenced by the continued expression of thoughtfulness that twisted his beak downwards in introspection.  IJ huffed, and resigned herself to explaining, "You *got* to grow up.  You think you had it hard?  At least the... 'hard knocks' let you know that you were alive.  That you were unique.  You had an identity."

She paused and looked away once more.  A momentary expression, somewhere between a wince and a small sob, indicated that she was steeling herself to continue.  As quickly as it had arrived, the moment of near-vulnerability vanished.

When IJ turned her gaze back to Fyrenn her muzzle, and tone, were as impassive as ever, "The Hive works both ways.  A drone can access the information stored there... But also the minds of every other Drone.  And every other Drone can access theirs."

Fyrenn squinted in a mixture of continued confusion, concern, and mild distaste, "Can't you close off parts of your mind?  Get *some* privacy?"

IJ shook her head slowly, "You 'can,' but it is forbidden.  On pain of death.  It has been for millennia.  Supposedly this 'protects us from strife and dissent.'  But really?  It's there to make sure that you grow up serving the Queen without question or reservation.  Its always there...  The hum.  Every Drone is always inside every other Drone's mind.  The individual?  The individual doesn't *exist.*  Not anymore."

Fyrenn physically shuddered in revulsion, ears flattening and tail swishing with anxiety.  He glowered contemplatively, "So to grow up with that...?"

The white Pegasus snorted, "You don't grow up.  You're spawned, and that's it.  No name, no unique form, and nothing special to separate you from the millions of others *exactly* like you.  The Hive is there from the moment your brain forms; even before you're fully ready to spawn.  It takes days, at most, to learn the concepts of words, and ideas, and logic... And then it takes only seconds for the will of the swarm to impress itself on every fiber of your being.  You?  You got so shape an identity for yourself.  And your kind?  you're all so... *sure.*  So sure of what, and who you are..."

The red Gryphon winced, "I'm sorry.  And if it makes any difference; we're always sure what, but not necessarily who we are, or where we're going."

IJ hissed, "What does that even *mean*?!  How can you be sorry?!  You're never going to understand, and you're never going to care.  I'm a Changeling.  That is part of my identity, no matter what your high and mighty friend sun Princess did."

Fyrenn narrowed his eyes, fixing IJ with a glare of his own.  His tone hardened to match his gaze, "You're right.  I'm never going to completely understand what it is to be you, or to be Changeling.  But I do care, and don't you ever dare to presume differently.  I saved your life!  I didn't do that because it suited some agenda; I did it because I care about what happens to you, and you're *damn* lucky that I did, and do."

He took a deep breath to avoid becoming truly angry, and then continued in a softer timbre, "I understand certain aspects of your plight a lot better than you'd think.  I know what it's like to watch one's own race run as fast as it can down the road to hell without so much as batting an eyelid.  I was human once remember?  Maybe Changelings are wasting their potential, but at least you aren't all in imminent danger of *dying* if you refuse to accept the necessity of change."

IJ raised an eyebrow, "Really?  How long do you think your kind, and Celestia, will continue to allow us to exist?  How many more deaths, and invasions, and lies, and deceptions will you all tolerate before you wipe us out wholesale?"

Fyrenn blinked once, twice, then sighed morosely, "Touche."

The pair sat across from each other in silence, as the sun slowly dipped below the horizon.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 17th, Gregorian Calendar

Hutch raised an eyebrow, "This list you compiled is thirty-some names long..."  He set the DaTab down on the desk, and folded his hands as he craned his neck up to make eye contact with Taranis and Klarien, "How do you expect to find one thieving technician in this bunch?  Interview them all?"

The green Dragon raised an eyebrow, "You assume it is only one of them.  And are you implying that interrogation is a bad idea?"

Taranis nodded slowly, "True, it may be more than a lone HLF sympathizer, but the General *is* correct in implying that interrogation is a poor means to our end.  We are unlikely to be able to find all thirty of these men and women quickly enough to avoid alerting the true target, and giving him or her---"

Klarien interrupted, "Or them."

"---Or 'them' a chance to escape."  Taranis finished nonchalantly, but shot Klarien a brief glare nonetheless.

Hutch tilted his head slightly, and momentarily widened his eyes, "Exactly.  So unless you two have any other bright ideas...?"

Taranis blinked and nodded, "Of course.  We have no way to trace the stolen chips themselves; the RFID tracking systems were de-activated and destroyed before they left the factory.  And we can not risk incarcerating and interrogating the technicians on our list.  However, we do have the advantage of knowing the names of the only thirty people to ever have physical contact with the chips.  We also know precisely what they were used for, when, and by whom..."

Hutch raised his head and snapped his fingers.  His visage brightened considerably, "I see where you're going with this.  That's very clever."

Klarien raised an eyebrow scale, "Will someone kindly enlighten me?"

The General sighed and tapped a finger on the edge of his DaTab, "Thirty names isn't so many, all told.  It's the biggest advantage we have, and what Taranis is suggesting is that we use it to form a basis of comparison.  We know the Occupy Bureaus movement carried out the bombing.  We know they had HLF backing.  We know the backers acquired the chips from one or more of these thirty people.  So wherever these three aspects of the case cross..."

The verdant Dragon nodded slowly, "...Is where we'll find all the responsible parties.  But how do we even begin chasing down this particular... 'Conflux,' of people?"

Taranis glanced down at Hutch, "General; the HLF are going to do their best to remain hidden in all this.  They'll work by proxy using unofficial civilian members of the group who already closely align with the HOB.  Since the microchip thief is buried in this list of thirty names, that means only one of our leads is out in the open; the Occupy movement itself.  I'd imagine we should start there."

Hutch sat back in his chair, lacing the fingers of his hands together, and placing them behind his head, "I won't argue with that.  I would, however caution you; I have no problem with you using necessary roughness with the HOB, but it's going to upset a lot of powerful politicians.  More than that; if you play all our cards early, and fail; the thief, backers, and their contacts, will rabbit.  So you're only going to get one shot at this.  Make it count."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Eighteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

"I don't mean to sound like I'm complaining... But could you give us an estimate of how much more ground we have to cover?  If for nothing else, then at least so we can plan our hunts and rests accordingly..."  Kephic glanced over to IJ, who was quietly winging her way along at the outside edge of the formation.

The Pegasus kept her eyes locked on the moonlit ground below and beyond, "If we quicken our pace slightly, and minimize rest stops?  We can arrive by sundown tomorrow."

Fyrenn whistled, a long and low note, "Three days' flight between Cloudsdale and a Changeling Hive.  Sometimes it feels like a small world."

Varan raised an eyebrow, "Perhaps.  But getting larger every day."

Skye shifted, accidentally jabbing one of the sharper edges of her chest plate into Fyrenn's back, and eliciting a glare.  She winced sheepishly, "And when we get there?  What?  We're just gonna waltz right up to the front door, knock, and politely ask, 'Terribly sorry to trouble you, but we were wondering if you might spill all the beans on your invasion plans?'"

The line was delivered in a mock high society accent, and the levity of the moment even managed to tease out a smile from Varan.  The normally impassive Gryphon continued to grin, ever so slightly, as he explained, "Troop deployment on a massive scale is a complex undertaking.  Forces must be marshalled, and this necessitates a wide open space.  We will be able to easily observe the size and disposition of their forces from afar."

IJ glared, "You assume they can't keep them in the tunnels until time to march."

Kephic's eyes widened in concern, "*Can* they?!"

The white Pegasus sighed, "Did I say that?  The point was to get you to consider your assumptions.  You can assume *nothing* when dealing with my people.  Nothing."

The conversation died with IJ's grim assertion, and the group flew on in silence, accompanied only by the whisper of the wind, and the pale light of the moon.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 17th, Gregorian Calendar

"You're late."  Commander Aston didn't even look up from her lunch tray to greet Hutch.

The General sighed as he collapsed into a cafeteria seat across from Laura, "No; you're early.  Besides, my last appointment was..."

Aston glanced up and smirked, "Big, scaly, and precocious?"

Hutch pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, "This job is gonna be the death of me one of these days."  He raised his fork to his mouth, and bit into a chunk of synthetic meat, continuing to speak around the food, "What about you?  Found anything so far?"

The Commander inclined her head at a DaTab beside her tray, "I've spent the last fifteen hours with the data your special investigative unit gathered from the attack site in London.  The Genesists were the target of a very, *very* sophisticated plot."

Hutch squinted in concern, "Meaning?"

Aston sighed, and leaned forward, "Meaning this took not just a mole, but one with incredible technical proficiency.  The connections between the building's AI, and the physical anti-Potion countermeasures, were bypassed at a root level, and the AI was tricked into thinking it was still connected to the countermeasures by means of devices specifically designed to emulate the monitor signals of the building's sensors.  This was grade-A work.  I don't even think our *own* technicians could have managed this."

The General whistled, "Sheeeeesh.  So this jackass must've been trained off-site.  Which means if the PER got him into a technical position with access to the London complex..."

Laura finished the thought slowly, "...Then the PER had to backstop a full identity... *And* create assurances that their agent would be hired to a specific post..."

Hutch grunted, "And all in the name of denying humanity alternatives to their promised 'rebirth.' When we find this guy?  I'm throwing him to the Gryphons and the Dragons."

Aston raised an eyebrow, "Feeling vindictive are we?"

The General glowered down at the remains of his lunch, "The way I see it?  The worse we make it for the ones we capture, the more those still on the loose will think twice before acting in future."  Hutch paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, then inclined his head down at the almost-charred meat-substitute, "You ever seen what Dragons do to their prisoners?"

"I do not understand why we are walking."  Klarien tilted his head to glance at Taranis.

The latter Dragon sighed softly, "We live in a world of beings who are perpetually bound by gravity.  To find something they have hidden, it is sometimes necessary to look at things on their level.  In flying, we would miss too much by gazing from afar."

Klarien grimaced, "I'm not sure I want to see this at eye level.  Part of the reason I converted was to get *away* from poverty."  He gestured expansively to the scenery around him.

The Dragons had descended from Fort Hamilton to the lowest districts of Manhattan; both in terms of income, and location.  Their surroundings were bounded almost entirely by the foundations of enormous super-skyscrapers.  Most of the entrances to the buildings-proper were on higher floors; accessed mainly via elevated roads and train lines.  The lowest two to three-dozen levels of the immense structures were often separated from the remainder of the floors, and apportioned out as low rent micro-flats with their own ground-level entrances.

The towers stretched away to the sky in all directions, generating a cloistered and oppressive feeling with their monolithic dull-toned metal exteriors.  The only brighter punctuation to the never ending facade of steel and dura-crete, was the occasional presence of neon signs, holographic billboards, and halon streetlights.

The two great reptiles were a stunning anachronism; mountains of glittering scales sedately traversing the landscape; the brighter coloration of their exterior covering occasionally emphasised by the headlights of an oncoming car.

Most of the streets and sidewalks were deserted; people congregated in small, shifty, nervous groups inside the doors of seedy dives, or the protection of back alleys.

Klarien squinted in confusion, "I expected to see more people down here... Overpopulation and such..."

Taranis thrummed, "Hmmm.  It is the middle of a work day.  Anyone who is not at their place of employment or within their home, is likely a gang member."

The Green Dragon raised an eyebrow, "And you expect to find the center of the Bureau Occupation movement *here?*"

"Of course.  The main instigators of the movement, and those they have most closely under their thrall, are effectively criminals.  The only place they can find safe haven is with fellow law breakers, particularly impoverished ones who share their anti-government views.  All we must do is seek out areas conspicuously devoid of *all* Equestrian influence; for there we will find not only those who hate the Earth government, but Equestrians as well."

After several moments of walking in relative silence, with only the hum of climate control units, distant cars, and quiet nearby conversations to fill the air, Klarien spoke once more, "You have to admit; some of these people have good reason to hate their government.  Look how they're living.  And now they're being told that what they *do* have is going to be taken away by a natural disaster, but the government isn't going to insure them for it.  Worse; they were told they might have to pay to move away.  Earthgov was treading some dangerous territory with the tax policy..."

Taranis nodded, "True.  But in the end, the systems of checks and balances prevailed.  Humanity's leaders still understand the danger of governing from behind closed doors.  Secrecy and a lack of safeguards breeds bias, and unhealthy subjectivity.  And that can lead to anything..."

Klarien stared at his elder counterpart, head tilted in curiosity, the scales around his eyes and mouth wrinkling slightly, "You sound like you're talking from experience."

The cobalt Dragon's response was devoid of tone, "More than you know."

After nearly half a minute of silence, Klarien grew impatient, "So?  Are you going to tell me what that means?  Your file said ex-military... What?  You run afoul of Earthgov intelligence?"

Taranis snorted, "Not precisely.  I will not tell the whole story.  I doubt you would believe me if I did, nor do we have time.  Suffice to say; at one point I was one of the most wanted men on the planet, because I dared to do what was right, and opposed those in power."

Klarien raised an eyebrow, "Oh come on, it can't have been---"

The blue Dragon interrupted, once again with stoic atonality, "I opened fire on the bridge of a Providence class destroyer with a 50 caliber VTOL-mounted anti-personnel railgun, killing twenty people including the captain, first officer, and a senior member of the intelligence community."

Taranis continued walking unabashedly.  Klarien paused, frozen stock still in shock.  After regaining his faculties, he had to sprint briefly to catch up with his partner, "Ooook.  I'm not even sure how to respond to that one.  Obviously you were cleared eventually."  He paused reflectively, then inhaled and turned to face Taranis once more, "I suppose the question that comes to mind is this; how can you hold these occupy protesters and the HLF accountable as criminals in this instance?  By all accounts, they're just doing the same thing you did; standing up for what's right with necessary violence---"

Before he quite had time to react, Klarien found himself firmly ensconced in Taranis' grip; his shoulders immobilized by vice-like blue claws.  The larger Dragon's muzzle darted to within an inch of his own, and his snout tingled unpleasantly as Taranis began to exhibit small arcs of electricity.

His voice came out as a growl, more reminiscent of oncoming thunder than civilized words, "I killed twenty people who were complicit with a conspiracy to slaughter two innocent civilians under my protection.  It was either destroy the bridge of that ship, or watch it shell an innocent and defenseless craft.  The HLF?  The Bureau Occupiers?  They kill innocents in the name of a *pointless* crusade.  They invalidate the only legitimate points they have by carelessly wiping out life whenever it suits them!  Their *only* desire is to create fear, and bend others to their biased will.  They have *no* honor, and no legitimate morality.  Do not forget it again; or this partnership will end with the infliction of serious bodily harm that you will not find it easy to recover from."

As Taranis released him, Klarien shivered, "Point taken."

The dive was most definitely 'the place.'  Even Klarien could find no reason to argue otherwise.  After walking for almost two hours in silence, following Taranis' guiding intuition, the pair had come upon a seedy looking building from New York's earliest pre-winnowing periods.

The 'small' thirty-story building was sandwiched between a skyscraper, and a pair of super-skyscrapers.  It appeared so run down, that without the presence of lights peeking out from behind the shuttered windows, and an armed guard casually strolling back and forth in the doorway, there would have been no indication, from the front, the structure was inhabited at all.

Closer inspection, however, revealed a small tent city sequestered in the alley behind the dive.  The ratty materials and propped-up protest signs identified it as a large HOB encampment.

Klarien huffed, "I suppose we could just barge in?"  The two Dragons were positioned further up the street, peering out of a darkened alley towards the establishment.  The name of the bar was just barely visible as a small worn hand painted sign above the door; 'Darwin's.'

Taranis inclined his head, "Such an approach has serious potential downsides.  But given that the guard's weapon is a RAC-6 military castoff..."

The green Dragon nodded slowly, "A bit upscale for your usual street thugs..."

"...And then there is the makeshift settlement in the alley.  The occupy movement is most definitely here."  Taranis stood, unmoving, contemplating the situation.  His muzzle betrayed none of the thoughts or emotions racing through his brain.  Finally he nodded once curtly, "In this instance?  I agree.  Our best choice would be to simply... 'barge in.' "

Klarien's eyes widened; he hadn't expected Taranis to actually agree with his suggestion.  Nonetheless, he managed a grateful smirk as his cohort set off sedately down the street, towards the Darwin's entrance.

The green Dragon caught up just in time to observe the door guard slowly raise his rifle.  The man glowered at Taranis as he lumbered ever closer.  He mumbled through his thick beard, "Can I help you scaly?"

Taranis continued ambling towards the door, not even deigning to acknowledge the man.  As the cobalt Dragon reached the door itself, the man tensed, and flicked the safety of his RAC into the 'auto' position.

Focused as he was on Taranis, he failed to notice Klarien until it was too late.  The verdant reptile tapped him once on the shoulder, eliciting a turn of the head.  The moment the man's nostrils were visible, the Dragon exhaled, releasing a massive pent-up breath.  The air carried with it a tang akin to cut grass in the rain, or fresh sarsaparilla root, but with a sickly undercurrent like antifreeze or morphine.

The guard had just enough time to slur out a half formed word of query, before he slumped to the ground completely comatose.

Taranis continued without pause, reaching out and forcing the door open against the significant pressure of its small magnetic lock, with a loud 'SNAP.'  The inside of the establishment was so noisy, and raucous, that no one noticed the sound, or even took heed of the Dragons at first.

A tightly clustered morasse of ill-dressed, ill-kempt humans smelling strongly of syntheholic beverages, were clustered around a series of old wood tables, and a dilapidated granite bar.  The oak and teak on display were, while in a state of disrepair, very real and thus very rare and expensive.

The Darwin's occupants seemed to be roughly split between militaristically clad hoodlums, who were sporting a variety of hidden weapons, and more shabbily clad vagrant HOB protesters.

The air was thick with electronic cigarette smoke, and the occasional more pungent cloud of a custom-rolled artificial drug laden cigar.  The lighting was dim, and the food and drink looked and smelled as if it had been prepared in a pig sty.

The Dragons squeezed through the small entryway, and stood silently for a few moments, eyes piercing the gloom and scanning the faces of the crowd.  Slowly, the bar's occupants began to notice them, but by the time their hostile murmurs had reached a zenith, the reptilian pair had spied their quarry.

At the farthest end of the bar, near the stairs and rusting elevator bank at the rear of the main room, was a small group of people conversing in hushed tones.  They appeared to be evenly split between HOB members dressed slightly better than their cohorts, and HLF members equipped with military-grade sidearms.

What drew the Dragons' attention most, however, was the conspicuous presence of a man dressed in clean, middle-class casual civilian clothing.  He stuck out like a sore claw in the crowd, and given the circumstances both partners immediately guessed that he was their quarry.

The pair began to force their way between the tables.  The patrons glowered with increasing hostility, but shrank away nonetheless.  The sheer size of the Dragons, and the alien nature of their scale clad forms, was highly intimidating.

Taranis helped himself to a seated position on the floor by the bar next to the casually-dressed man.  Now that his face was visible, the cobalt Dragon was easily able to identify it as belonging to one of the technicians on their target list.  Even when seated on the floor, and even given that the humans were ensconced on tall stools, Taranis' eyes were still a good four inches higher than those of the tallest man in the bunch.

He allowed his voice to flow out as a low rumble, "Are you Mr. Aland Triff?"  The man's eyes widened as he turned to discover the immense piercing Draconic orbs confronting him.

When he spoke, his voice cracked in fear, "Ahm... ahhh... Wh-wh-who wants to know?"

Taranis allowed a small snap of lightning to form briefly between his teeth, adding an electrical tang to the hazy air, "We're here on behalf of the JRSF.  We have some questions that you need to answer.  Refusal would be... Unhealthy."

Triff gulped once, and his eyes darted back and forth between Taranis and the door.  He tensed in preparation for a laughable escape attempt, but his ill-advised plan was cut short by a green claw that materialized on his shoulder.  Klarien glared as Triff jumped in surprise, "I wouldn't do that.  The guy outside may never wake up after what I dosed him with.  Would you like to try it next?"

Before the impromptu interrogation could continue, the distinctive whine of an active, charging rail-pistol pierced the silence.  Taranis sighed in exasperation, and spoke without turning to face the soldier holding the pistol to the back of his head, "Serrata-tech forty-eight caliber service rail-pistol.  I am afraid you will need something slightly larger in this instance.  Put down the weapon."

The man, e-cig clenched between his teeth, pistol grasped firmly in both hands, grunted, "Ya'll had best be on your way.  We don't serve your kind in this here establishment.  'S a humans-only bar ya see."

Taranis nodded slowly, "We would be happy to oblige."  He made as if to stand, placing a guiding claw on Aland as he did so.  He paused as he felt the cold titanium of the soldier's pistol press against his scales.

The HLF follower growled, "This man here is a patron.  You don't touch our patrons.  Mess with one of us, you'll have to deal with all of us."

Taranis sighed again, releasing Triff and turning slowly to face the soldier.  His muzzle bore a look of utmost disdain; his eyelid scales drooped and his lower jaw jutted slightly.

In a blur too quick to afford a human nervous system any sort of reaction time, the blue dragon seized the soldier's head lightly in one claw.  The man let loose with his pistol on full automatic, burning through the entire one hundred round clip in under four seconds.  The projectiles pinged haphazardly off of Taranis' scales, ricocheting all over the bar and shattering lights, glasses, and wood surfaces.

The Dragon grunted, "The patron namesake of your establishment would be rather ashamed.  Clearly natural selection has not favored you very highly."  As he finished speaking, Taranis tightened his right claw.  The gesture appeared effortless, but with a loud 'CRUNCH,' it compressed the soldier's skull to a bone and paste mixture less than one quarter his head's original size.

Taranis casually allowed the corpse to fall to the floor, and turned to face the stunned patrons of the bar, speaking calmly, "Any other takers?"

"Is he dead?"  The man nudged at the corpse with his boot.  His companion spat on the pavement, her voice laden with disgust, "Looks like."

The man glanced up, "What do you suppose happened?  Heart attack?"

The woman snorted, "In this day and age?  Are you kiddin'?  Some punk probably shiv'd him 'tween the ribs..."

Before the pair of HOB vagrants could continue examining the dead door guard, the front wall of the building before them exploded; in the most literal sense.  Stone, brick, mortar and wood shivers flew outward as if propelled by an explosive detonator.

As the debris settled, the protesters looked up through the haze, and beheld a trio of armed bodies in the rubble.  A wordless glance passed between them, and in silent agreement they bolted off down the street as if pursued by minions of hell itself, not even waiting to discover the source of the blast.

Taranis stepped through the forty-foot hole in the Darwin, a furious HLF soldier clutched in each of his foreclaws, and five more driven before him on the pavement, firing their small arms pointlessly into his thick armored chest.

With a bellow, he dropped the prisoners in his foreclaws, and let loose with his breath.  Lightning arced across all seven soldiers with ten times the voltage and amperage necessary to do lethal harm.  As the effect continued, their bodies abruptly flash-converted to ash piles and blackened skeletons, which fell lifeless into heaps within their own singed armor and clothing.

Taranis glanced over his shoulder at the remainder of the bar's patrons, who were all frozen in abject primal terror, and shock at having witnessed the display.  He nodded to Klarien, who snatched Aland Triff by one ankle, and began carrying him out of the bar upside down and yowling in fear.

One brave soldier made as if to raise his rifle.  Klarien snatched the weapon by its barrel nonchalantly with his free claw, and broke it over the soldier's head.  The titanium squealed momentarily under the stress before it, and the man's skull, caved in two simultaneously.

As the dragons walked away from the bar on their hind legs, their prisoner still screaming hoarsely for aid, Klarien smiled, "Well whaddya know.  No one else feels lucky today.  Funny thing eh?"

Chapter 15

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Nineteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

As the hours had ticked on and on, Fyrenn had noticed a gradual change in the terrain below.  Mile by mile the forests and fields of Equestria, and snow-capped mountaintops belonging to the Minotaurs, had fallen away into rocky crags and desolate canyons.

Since the sun had begun to set several hour previous, the only visible terrain features had been comprised of either rock, or crystal.  Not a single plant or animal stirred in the dying rays of the evening's light.

Fyrenn rocked slightly, dipping first one wing and then the other, to waken Skye.  The Unicorn had been quietly snoring since noon, and the Gryphon had let her have her rest.  Having more or less arrived at their destination, he decided that an extra pair of eyes, and her razor sharp intellect, would soon be beneficial to their task.

Skye yawned, tried to stretch, and was forced to scramble to avoid falling off of Fyrenn's back, "Sorry!"

Fyrenn snorted, "What?  Forget you were on the road?  Err... wing?"

The Unicorn snorted, "Not that your feathers aren't soft and all.. But I'd really rather get my shuteye on a surface that isn't moving through their air constantly."

Carradan snorted, "You got no room to complain sis.  You *got* to sleep.  Some of us actually have to move muscles to get places!"

Kephic grinned, "Yes, but look at it this way; the more you work, the more buff you get.  The more buff you get, the better chances you have with the mares."

IJ glowered up at the speckled Gryphon from her position at the bottom of the formation, "*Don't* encourage him."

Varan grunted, and gestured down to the sharp spires of granite below, "I hate to intrude; but I see nothing resembling an army down there.  Unless the invasion involves battalions of eroded mineral formations."

Fyrenn turned his eyes to follow his brother's talon, and exhaled, "It *is* very quiet down there," he glanced over to IJ and raised an eyebrow, "How close are we?"

IJ squinted, looking concerned as her ears flattened slightly, "Very.  The entrance to the Hive is just there..."  The Pegasus motioned with a hoof towards an unassuming outcropping of shale.

Kephic whistled, "That's exceptionally well hidden."

Sky shifted uncomfortably, "So why no soldiers?  Shouldn't this canyon be swarming with Drones?"

Fyrenn cocked his head, "In *theory* anyways.  I don't like this.  I do not like this one little bit."

Kephic shot a questioning glance at IJ, "Any chance the message was some sort of diversion?  Or the time scale was off, and the attack isn't supposed to happen yet?"

The ex-Changeling's glare was more than answer enough.

Varan growled deep in his throat and chest, "We are not entirely alone.  I believe there are at least two sentries below us."

Fyrenn glanced over his shoulder at Skye, "You think you can conjure that disruption spell of yours while in motion?"

The unicorn's eyes widened, and she fixed her friend with a suspicious glare, "Yyyyeesss? Why?"

The Red Gryphon smirked, "I'm thinking we should try the 'direct approach.' "

Kephic chuckled, "Ah yes.  My favorite way to make new friends."

Noting IJ's confused expression, Carradan leaned in and spoke in a mock stage whisper, "By, 'make friends,' he really means, 'make bloody smears on the wall.' "

The white Pegasus merely responded by rolling her eyes.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 18th, Gregorian Calendar

"Has he said anything?"  Hutch tipped back his thermos, then shot a questioning glance at Taranis, flicking his eyes briefly towards the prisoner; Aland Triff.

The Dragon responded with a silent shake of his enormous plated head, "Nothing besides expressing a deep desire to retain all his limbs intact, and a feeble demand for legal counsel."

The General took another sip of his coffee, then shrugged, "Alright then.  This shouldn't take long."

Taranis inclined his head slightly, "*You* intend to handle the interrogation?"

Hutch smirked and rolled his eyes, "Please.  Just because I don't breathe fire doesn't mean I don't know how to put the fear of God into some thug on the other side of a steel table."  He strode to the door, and paused, glancing over one shoulder, "Besides; this rat enabled terrorists to kill innocent people on my doorstep.  I'm not shy about personally returning favors."

Taranis stepped to the one-way window and watched, with a detached interest, as Hutch entered the interrogation room.  As he took his seat, with almost casual nonchalance, Klarien entered through the observation room's secondary access.

The Green Dragon paused, and raised one scale above his left eye, "Did I miss something?"

"No; but I suspect you won't want to miss what follows."  Taranis pointed to the observation window with a single claw, and the two reptiles shuffled as close as they could, to get a view of the room beyond.

Hutch pulled a small container from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and upended the contents onto the table.  The small black objects rattled against the steel, and their plastic-like smooth surface gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lighting.

Triff squinted down at the small ring-like articles, before looking back up at Hutch, "Are these supposed to prove something?  I want my *lawyer.*  I have rights..."

The General dipped his head towards the mystery objects, "Go ahead.  Take a closer look."

The accused man picked up one of the rings of material, and fingered it briefly, holding it up to the light, "So?"

"So the way I see it, you get one life sentance for each.  That's four consecutive one hundred and ten year periods, incase you missed it."

Triff raised an eyebrow, and held up the object clutched between his thumb and forefinger, "For a couple of bomb fragments that you can't tie to me?"

Hutch took a deep draught of his thermos, speaking just before he did so, "Finger fragments actually."

It took Aland a full two seconds to comprehend the words.  Once the reality of what he was touching dawned on him, he fumbled wildly, and dropped the bone back onto the table, shivering in revulsion, "GEEEZ!"

The General lashed out with his right fist, slamming Triff's shaking hand down on top of the bone, and then applying a constant pressure.  His voice was calm, but laden with an obvious disdain, and controlled fury, "We have proof that you sold the HLF classified microcomputer devices that were then used as components of an IED.  You're facing charges of terrorism, treason, disseminating classified information, theft, industrial espionage..."

Hutch sat back and folded his arms, "You're in a *world* of trouble son."

Triff rubbed his bruised hand, and glowered sullenly, "You can't prove even one of these assertions.  You arrested me just because I worked on the factory floor the chips were stolen from, and decided to get a drink at a bar you didn't like.  You're going to lose *your* head over this.  *I'm* going to go back to my job; and I'm going to bring civil charges against your unit."

Hutch began to chuckle.  Triff tilted his head in confusion, and in response the General held up a hand, and wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, "No no... you're right.  We don't have enough evidence to convict you in an Earthgov court.  But you're going to plead guilty to the lesser charges anyways."

Aland snorted, "And why would I do that?  Whatcha gonna do?  Break my knuckles?"

The General tilted his head back and forth, as if considering the offer, "As tempting as that sounds?  No.  I'm just going to sign this."  He snapped his fingers above the table, and a holographic interface appeared, displaying a short official looking document.

Triff leaned forward to read it, as Hutch continued to speak, "Here's a fun fact you may not be aware of; Bureaus are considered partially the sovereign territory of all the races involved in the Conversion Accords.  Now I'm sure you remember those two fine scaly gentlemen who initially arrested you?  Well it turns out that your mere presence in a known HLF establishment is enough evidence to convict you by *Draconic* law."

Aland sat back and raised an eyebrow, "I'm an Earthgov citizen.  I don't give a rat's ass what their laws say."

Hutch chuckled, "Oh, well you *should.*  You see this document is an extradition order.  I'm going to sign it, and you're going to be remanded into their custody.  By the time any legal action is taken against me on your behalf, they will be punishing you according to the dictates of their laws, that you seem so very nonchalant about.  Do you know what Dragons do to enemies who commit terror attacks on their soil?"

The General reached out with both hands, snagging Triff's left hand in a firm grip, and a finger bone in the other.  He pressed the charred and blackened object into Triff's hand, and grinned, "By the time they're finished with you?  This is all that'll be left.  For identification purposes and such."

Hutch rose and made his way to the door.  As he pressed his thumb to the exit control, allowing it to sample his DNA to disengage the lock, he glanced over his shoulder, "Can I get you anything for your last meal?  We have lots of nice fresh Equestrian produce in the kitchens---"

"ALRIGHT!"  Triff slammed his fist into the table, and took a deep shaking breath, "Alright.  I'll tell you everything I know."

The General stepped calmly back to the table, and tapped its surface with his index finger, "And you'll plead guilty to the charges of industrial espionage, and theft.  Ten years in max-sec lockup; you give us what we want, you serve time... And you stay in one room-temperature piece.  Deal?"

Triff nodded morosely.  Hutch smiled, and sat down in his chair once more, "Good choice.  How about we start with your contact in the HLF."

April glanced up at the concrete girders and sighed as a maglev whisked by overhead; it's bright halogen headlights sliced through the midnight drizzle as though they were solid gleaming blades of luminescence.  She allowed herself a brief moment to fantasize about stepping onto one of those trains and trying to make an escape.

The desire passed almost as quickly as it came; when the first evacuation orders had hit in lower Manhattan, she and Sonya had tried to make an exit in the confusion and hustle.  But the spikes betrayed them.

The nanites that saturated their blood, produced by the array of metallic objects buried in their spines, were infallible tracing beacons.  Sonya had the scars to prove it; the men in armor had stopped the train before it even made it to the city limits.  Then they had gunned down everyone onboard.

The sisters had barely escaped with their lives, and Sonya had nearly lost an arm.

April knew they were in no danger of being caught by the bubble; they were too valuable to their handlers to be left to die.  Yet, she grimly reflected as she picked the lock on the container in front of her, not so valuable as to be left unmolested.

When she had been younger, she hadn't understood why those who commanded them were always pursuing them, and were even willing to kill them if they failed to escape.  Then she had been spiked, and it began to make sense.

Using the spikes was not something that could be taught; it had to be intuited.  Fear, it seemed, was the strongest and fastest motivator to induce proficiency.  April had seen others her age who had failed to learn the spikes.  Sometimes their corpses contained useful resources; money, food, water.

Sometimes resources were harder to come by, and more drastic action was needed.  Sonya had found a container yard several days prior; it had been setup as part of the evacuation efforts in midtown.

April and her sister had returned under cover of darkness to discover that some of the enormous metal boxes contained relief provisions.  She finished picking the lock, a trivial exercise, and swung open the container's main doors, gesturing to Sonya, who was hiding in the shadows of the next container over, filling the role of lookout.

The pair darted inside the ten meter long steel crate, and found themselves facing row upon row of packaged dry goods; non-perishable food, water purification tablets, and medical kits.

Sonya grinned, "Perfect!"

April hefted a small trauma care package, "We should take as many of these as we can carry.  Food and water are easier to find..."

"Riiiight.  Meds and stims, less so."  Sonya pulled the pack from her shoulders, opened the top flap, and began to rapidly sweep medkits into the empty space with her left arm.

April shifted uncomfortably as she picked through the food and water supplies, "Are you sure we should be doing this?  It's not as if this stuff is just lying around... There are evacuees that need it too."

Sonya snorted, "There's a million of them, and only two of us.  Besides; dontcha think the high and mighty government can afford to replace what little bit we need to keep going?"

April sighed and hefted a packet of iodine tablets, "Do you think they're all like the ones who chase us?"

"No.  Worse." Sonya finished with her pack, snapped the lid shut with an angry finality, and moved to help her sister sort through the foodstuffs, "They're willfully blind.  They know that some of their underlings do horrible things to innocent people, and they let it pass because in the end we're 'useful' to them.  They choose deliberately to know nothing about us, except that somewhere, somehow, an 'asset' exists that does a job as part of the great machine of 'progress.' "

"Where do you suppose they'll send us when Manhattan is swallowed?"  April made a dour expression, and kicked over a small stack of food packets in a combination of disgust, and frustration that spilled over into her tone.

Sonya shrugged, "Another big city.  Maybe Vancouver, or San Francisco."

April sighed, sank to the floor, and hugged her knees, "How do they keep finding us? Do they track the nanomachines with communication towers maybe?  Do you think---"

Her sister held up a hand, "Don't get your hopes up kiddo.  This is Earthgov we're talking about; each of us probably has a dedicated Satellite in orbit that does nothing but keep a close watch on our every move.  Unless you can figure some way to get the nanites out of our blood entirely, the most we can do is keep running and keep living."

April glanced up and tilted her head, "There's always potion, right? "

Sonya nodded, and smiled wanly, "When you're old enough; yeah."

"But nine years is a long tiiiiime!  Can't we get some off the street?"  April's lip jutted out, and she injected as much pout into her whine as possible.  She knew that it was a losing battle; she and Sonya had the same conversation on an almost monthly basis, and it always ended the same way.

Her older sister shook her head vehemently, "Nothing has changed since the last time we went over this April;  Conversion doesn't work like that.  Without proper treatment the Potion will do to us what it did to Simon."

April sighed, hugged her knees close once more, and wiped away a small tear from her right eye.  For almost a year, Simon had been a friend to them both, and travelled with them all over the city.  He was kind, selfless, and secretly she decided he had been in love with Sonya.

The three had decided on a plan to escape their tormentors, by taking illicit street potion distributed by the PER.  Simon had volunteered to go first to test the process.

Sonya and April had been forced to watch as the nanites produced by his spikes fought against the nanites in the Conversion serum; in the end his body had liquefied to base carbons before the serum could overpower the spikes, and finish taking effect.  Simon had died in agony; the last in a string of innocent people who had suffered trying to help the sisters.

They had sworn an oath afterwards; never again would they allow another to sacrifice on their behalf.

Sonya leaned against the container wall, then slid down into a sitting position beside her sibling, placing a comforting arm around her shoulders, "Hey.  Look at it this way sis; you've survived with me this long; we can make it through nine more years.  The day you turn eighteen?  We'll march right into the nearest Bureau and get treated and Converted on the spot."

The plan was a long shot, but it was all the sisters had.  The ACACIA law had lowered the minimum age of Conversion consent to eighteen; assuming the Bureau didn't ask too many questions about why the siblings needed augmentation removal treatment pre-Conversion, they had a small chance of actually managing to go through with it before their captors could intuit what was actually happening.

Once free of the spikes, and the nanites, they would be able to cross over to Equestria.  The word itself had come to be synonymous with heaven for Sonya and April; a place where their captors could never hope to follow them.  A place where they could be free.

"Think about this,"  Sonya smiled down at April, clapping her on the shoulder, "Eighteen is really young for a Pony!  We'll have a long, long, long time to forget all this.  After a few years?  It'll all seem like nothing more than a bad dream."

Sonya stood, and pulled April to her feet, "We'll get there."

April forced a smile, "Promise?"

"I *promise.*"

The pair swiftly filled April's pack with an even mixture of food, and water purification supplies, before making one final survey of the container's interior to ensure there was nothing else worth taking.

As the siblings exited back out into the manhattan drizzle, Sonya glanced over her shoulder, "I thought I saw a cooking equipment label on one of the smaller containers, maybe we should---"

To April's confusion and dismay, her sister froze mid-sentance.  The next telltale warning sign appeared too late for April to take any action; she could already feel the tingle beginning in her own spine.

The sensation was all to familiar; like a limb going to sleep, but over the entire body; skin, bones, and muscles alike.  April froze, unable to move anything except her eyes; all other muscles save her heart, and lungs locked down by her own nanites.

A hologram appeared over Sonya's back displaying the word 'LOCKED' prominently, much like the hologram April knew to be hovering over her own back.

she could feel the exterior plating of her spikes irising outwards into maintenance mode, a process she could see occurring on her sister's back; a blue glow emanated from her spine, and there was a disconcerting ripple of movement under her shirt as the protective plates opened, granting access to the spikes for repair or upgrade purposes.

"Girls.  I hope you're having a pleasant evening..."  The voice, like the horrifying sensation of nightmarish immobility, was familiar.  Sonya and April knew their 'handler' only by his codename; 'Minos.'

The man stepped from the shadows beside the container, grinning wickedly.  The rain gave his unmarked black armor a reflective aspect, matched by the oily dampness of his dark hair.  He was young; likely no more than thirty years old, and he held a small DaTab that had complete control over the sisters' nanites.

Aside from that, the only other fact they knew about him was that he was their immediate superior, and responsible for the soldiers that chased them.

He always met them alone, and unannounced; he seemed to feel no need for guards of re-enforcements of any kind, and why should he?

No matter how hard Sonya and April tried, they could never budge so much as an inch in 'lockdown mode.'  The nanites that filled their bodies were physically blocking all neurochemical impulses to their muscles.

Minos strode out to stand between the siblings slowly, his smile widening, "Well well well!  I see you two have picked up a new bad habit."  He clucked softly, and stepped in close to Sonya, brushing his hand against her hair in a sick imitation of affection, "Girls your age shouldn't be stealing.  You're setting a bad precedent."

He slowly extracted the backpack from Sonya's shoulders, then stepped over to April, and did the same, shouldering both packs himself, "I am impressed with the lockpicking job though.."  He stepped over to the container, and pushed the doors closed casually, resetting the magnetic lock with the tap of a key, "But as of now you have other concerns, and we have need of you more... 'tactical' skills."

Minos finished with the container, and made his way back to stand between the sisters.  He pulled a second DaTab from a pouch on his belt, held it up and wiggled it for emphasis, then dropped it to the pavement.  It was clearly a hardened military model, and suffered nothing from the impact, or the dampness.

The man glanced from sibling to sibling, "We'll be sending you orders on that within the next few days.  I don't suppose I need to remind you what happens if you fail to follow those instructions, but what the hell eh?  I want to be able to sleep well tonight, and I figure you need the reminder, since you've already shown a willingness to steal."

He leaned in close to April, his hot breath pushing up against the skin of her face and triggering a maddening flight response in her brain, "If you fail to follow orders?  My men will stop playing 'hide and seek' with you, and start playing 'whack a bitch.'  I have not specified which of you should die first, but one of you *will* be forced to watch while they have their fun with the other... And they're an imaginative lot if I do say so myself."

Minos leaned back, smiled, and held his hands up above his head in a gesture of subtle contempt, "Do your job, or lose your value.  It's that simple."

As he moved back towards the shadows, he tossed a final sentance over one shoulder, "And don't think about breaking into any more containers.  My men will be here in less than five minutes; your lockdown will rescind in four.  You're going to have a very busy night."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Nineteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

"Hello there!"

The sentry drones whirled to behold the last sight either of them expected; a speckled black and white Gryphon, striding jovially out from behind a rock cropping, a smile plastered to his beak.

The drones tensed, and readied their wings, crouching forward into a combat pouncing stance.  Both tried, simultaneously, to raise their voices within the Hive to sound the alarm, only to find that they were abruptly cut off by a sharp pang of head pain.  The constant thrum of the Hive vanished, and it was only then that they realized they had made a grave mistake.

Kephic snorted, "Funny thing isn't it; magic.  Another funny thing?  At least *I* find it funny; creatures that live in a Hive are reliant on it.  Take that away..."  The Gryphon's grin changed from jovial, to predatory in one terrifying smooth second of transition, as he drew his glittering sword, "...And you lot aren't quite so good at the whole 'staying alive' thing."

The lead drone hissed, his fangs glittering in the sunset, "Two of us.  One of you.  Foolish Gryphon."

Kephic tapped the side of his head with his free claw, "Stupid drone.  Gryphons can't cast magic.  Where did the disruption spell come from?"

As the drones' eyes widened in sudden recognition of their plight, Fyrenn descended from above, claws outstretched.  The surprise attack robbed the lead drone of any chance at survival whatsoever.  Changelings were strong and durable, but not immune to a crushing all out assault.

The armored being put up a valiant resistance, but most of his internal organs had been crushed when Fyrenn stooped onto him; his weight augmented by the mass of Skye clinging to his back, and projected forward into his fisted claws.

In the end, the Gryphon was too swift to his task for the drone to have any chance at regenerating, or escaping the crushing grip of the avian's claws.

The second drone turned to bolt, doubtless hoping to warn the Hive of intruders, but found his way abruptly blocked by Varan and Carradan.  The former tapped his mace against one claw, "My brothers are very good shots.  You could try to fly..."

Carradan inclined his head, "...Buuuut you'd also have a long way to fall.  Cry uncle?"

The drone squinted in confusion.  Kephic tapped him on the shoulder, and smiled as his chitinous head whirled in surprise, "Means; 'do you surrender?' "

The drone hissed, and backed away towards a defensible corner of craggy stone.  Fyrenn shrugged, "Guess that means no."

"You should have really taken them up on that."  The drone didn't even have time to turn fully, before IJ's back hooves connected firmly with his skull.

As the drone collapsed, Fyrenn whistled, "That was quite a shot..."

IJ raised her left eyebrow, "I knew precisely where to aim didn't I?"

The red Gryphon shrugged, "Touche."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 18th, Gregorian Calendar

"I don't suppose anyone can tell me why we're actually here?  Seems like a fat waste of time to me..."  The Blue Ridge's tactical officer slumped into his seat, and raised an eyebrow.

The LCA's entire senior staff had been requested to gather in the vessel's conference room to await a JRSF envoy.  The chamber was more well appointed than its counterpart on older naval vessels, sporting actual carpeting and a faux-oak main table.  The ceiling was pleasantly arched, and the space was well lit overall.

The captain glared, "You know why we're here.  The JRSF asked, we answered.  It's what we're here for.  For the duration of the mission, I need not remind you.  My advice to you?  Can the attitude and stow it where no one will see.  'Envoy' in this case probably means non-human, which means you could end up breathing out of your colon if you mouth off."

"I prefer making my holes between the eyes; but it's really a matter of personal touch."  All heads turned as Neyla's voice filled the room.  The tactical officer blanched momentarily, before realizing that she was being darkly humorous.  He chuckled sheepishly.

Behind the Gryphoness, General Sorven entered the room, a DaTab clutched under one arm, "Ladies and gentlemen.  Captain.  Time is short, so I'll make this simple,"  The General strode to the front of the room, set down the DaTab, and crosslinked it smoothly to the main screen.

"This," she gestured as a map appeared, "Is an HLF compound.  We found it by running analytics on military and civilian shipping manifests with a unique proprietary JRSF AI.  For obvious reasons, a facility of this size inside the city is a serious concern given the guest we expect to have here within the week."

Neyla nodded, "In short; we can not allow this facility to continue to exist.  We're going to wipe it off the face of the planet."

Sorven tapped the main screen with one finger, "Unfortunately, we don't have the luxury of simply bombing the complex; the location was carefully chosen to make it all but impossible to use heavy weapons, or Draconic assets, without causing extreme collateral damage to nearby apartment complexes."

The Gryphoness moved to stand beside the General, "As such, this will be a precision strike.  Our forces are stretched thin, and we will be in need of tactical support by way of air vehicles, troops, and AI processing power, from the Blue Ridge."

The Captain nodded, "That's what we're here for.  Action plan?"  The rest of the senior staff shifted subtly, straightening and leaning forward.

Neyla grinned, "I'm so glad you asked..."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Nineteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

"This... is a categorically bad idea."  Skye glowered down at the tiny air shaft, which was little more than a well disguised irregular hole cut into the side of a razor-sharp rock spire.

Fyrenn winced, "I'm not one to shy away from dangerous pastimes... But I have to agree wholeheartedly.  This is a *bad* idea.  Unfortunately it is also the only way into the hive."

Varan nodded sagely, "We have little choice, save to enter unseen and see this supposed invasion force for ourselves."

Carradan grimaced, "Is it too late to cast a vote of 'neigh?' "

IJ responded by jamming her right hoof into his side, knocking the wind out of him.  The salmon Pegasus coughed, managing to wheeze out the words, "Geez! The pun wasn't *that* bad was it?!"

IJ narrowed her eyes, "That was meant to be humorous?"

Fyrenn groaned, " 'Neigh.'  Pony.  *Meant* to be humorous... not especially so in practice."

The white Pegasus shifted her glare back to Carradan, and delivered another jab with her hoof.  Carradan collapsed onto his side in a wheezing fit of equal parts pain, and laughter,  "I think..."  He coughed for several seconds before regaining partial control of his breathing, "...I think she likes me."

As Fyrenn stepped over his groaning companion towards the airshaft, he smirked, "I *warned* you about this Stan.  Anything seriously injured?"

The Pegasus grinned, and wobbled back to his hooves, "Just my pride."

Kephic gestured down the rough rock tube, "Remember; after we're inside, *absolute* silence."

Varan nodded in agreement, "We enter, we reconnoiter, we leave as soon and as silently as possible."

As the Gryphons began to clamber down the air shaft, one by one, Skye sighed, and cast a wan look at Carradan and IJ, "Brace yourselves.  Nothing ever goes exactly according to plan in a place *this* creepy."

IJ raised an eyebrow once more, "For once?  We are in *complete* agreement."

Chapter 16

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Nineteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

Luna sighed, and tapped one armored hoof against the small strongbox, "Only you know the combination?"

The object was rectangular, metallic, and heavily riveted.  A complex lock based on Equine seasonal glyphs adorned the front; its gold and silver trim reflected onto the floor by the torchlight.

Sildinar nodded as he hefted the container, "Until it is delivered to Shining Armor?  Aside from you and your sister?  Yes."

Luna sighed, and glanced out the window at her moon.  The night was still young, but she had developed an incessant habit of checking its position every few minutes while it was in the sky, "I worry.  Is this truly the solution to my concerns?"

The Gryphon inclined his head, "Your sister has given her counsel; she agreed to this.  I have no personal say in the matter; indeed I have little opinion, because I am not sure I understand all the factors that went into the decision.  I am, however, quite happy to be of assistance."

The Lunar monarch nodded, and offered the closest thing to a smile Sildinar had ever seen on her muzzle, "Your kindness is appreciated.  I know the Crystal Empire is out of your way for your return journey."

"The time spent is worth it.  Give my regards to Celestia when she returns."  Sildinar began ambling towards the grand hall's immense doorways, and Luna fell into step beside him.

The princess gestured with a hoof, "Be safe, and swift of wing."

Sildinar smiled as he left his companion at the doors, spreading his wings while the guards opened the mighty portals, "You as well."

Silently, the Gryphon prince took to the air, strongbox firmly nestled between his wings, and tied to his rucksack, secure in the fact that only three living beings knew of the infinitely precious contents.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 18th, Gregorian Calendar

"You're sure?"  Lantry steepled his fingers, and leaned in towards his screen, increasing the size of his face on Hutch's monitor.

The latter general nodded emphatically, "Triff was very... 'cooperative,' once he finally grasped the particulars of his situation.  He's been passing hardware to the HLF for a long time, and they trusted him enough to bring him out to their nearest compound for consultation work."

Lantry's brow furrowed, "Good work.  As disturbing as these developments are, it's good to finally be one step ahead."

Hutch sighed, and sat back in his chair, glancing briefly out of his office window at the distant Equestrian stars visible across nearly a third of the sky, "This is definitive proof that the Front is funding and puppeting the Occupy movement as well.  They set the bombs, the bombs were made with the chips Triff supplied, and his point of contact was purely HLF."

"Yes.  That little revelation has sparked some changes of heart inside Joint Command.  There's talk of establishing a treaty amendment to stipulate a mile-square safety zone around Bureaus and JRSF facilities wherein martial law would be in effect, and right of assembly would be indefinitely suspended."

Hutch's eyes widened, and he leaned forward once more, "Is that even legal?  Is there any kind of precedent?"

Lantry tilted his head, "Surprisingly, yes.  The initial terms of the Conversion accords allow for the establishment of not only sovereign Equestrian soil on Earth, but jointly-owned soil as well.  Under that stipulation, the species could establish the safe zones by unanimous vote, then invoke Gryphon law to permit the martial rule."

Hutch scratched the back of his neck, and sighed once more, "For now, I just want permission to handle the HLF.  I won't have anyone else dying on my watch."

Lantry tapped at his screen, "We discussed your predicament as well, and Earthgov Military command agrees; it's time for the gloves to come off again."

"If we don't put holes in heads every now and again, the Front forgets who we are."  Hutch snorted wryly.

Lantry nodded slowly in agreement, "They attacked first.  They're HLF, so this is a purely military matter, and we're not going to suffer a repeat of Carrenton here.  You've been assigned an FB-26 squadron from Fort Bragg, a support artillery package from Tobyhanna depot, and of course you're expected to make full use of all joint assets your command affords you."

Hutch chuckled, "Oh no worries.  I've never been one for subtlety."

Lantry sat back and folded his hands again, "And in this case, that's a good thing.  Command would like this done neatly, and quickly; strike hard and fast, pulverize any resistance, and pick your prisoners out of the survivors.  If there are any."

"Yes sir.  You want me to bring you back a souvenir?"  Hutch grinned, and raised an eyebrow.

Lantry shrugged, "I'll settle for more prisoners.  Actionable intelligence is the best thing you can possibly put on my desk."

Hutch chuckled more heartily, "So noted.  I'll try to convince the Dragons not to torch *everyone* before the troops land."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Nineteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

"Have I ever told anyone how much I hate small, dark places beneath the ground?  You know I didn't used to be so claustrophobic..." Fyrenn grunted as he scraped one wing against a particularly rough protrusion of rock.

Kephic held a talon up to his beak for silence, but spoke in ironic defiance of his own gesture, "Well we're flighted creatures.  What did you expect to go along with that?  A proficiency in mining?  An urge to go spelunking?"

IJ glared at the two Gryphons, but Varan beat her to the verbal punch, "If our voices echo through this tube and carry to an occupied chamber, we will almost certainly be caught and slaughtered by a vastly superior host of foes.  Shut.  Your.  Beaks."

Carradan rolled his eyes, confident that no one would catch the gesture in the darkness.

The group pressed on, wiggling through the rock tube, until it abruptly widened out into a small chamber.  The smooth basalt walls were peppered with a dozen other offshoot apertures.  The Gryphons paused, squeezing to one side to allow IJ to pass and examine the potential routes.

The Pegasus swiveled her head from opening to opening, before finally raising her snout and sniffing twice.  Her eyes immediately went to one exit in particular; the irregular, dim opening was slightly larger than the other exits, and to the Gryphons' collective relief, IJ motioned with a hoof towards it.

The group continued their silent, unpleasant journey with Fyrenn in the lead, and Varan in the rear.  While Carradan and Skye swiftly lost track of time, IJ had enough combat experience to keep a fairly precise internal clock.

The Gryphons were both blessed, and cursed, with the ability to count and recount the exact seconds since the start of their trip.  In the absence of anything to look at, or even listen for, Fyrenn found himself agonizing over the passage of time.

His only consolation was the presence of his friends.

Gryphons subjected their warriors to intense tests designed to strain both mind, and body, to the breaking point, before promoting them to Knight status.  One of the more difficult tests involved being dropped into a deep cave with no light whatsoever, and not a single soul for companionship.

For an avian, particularly one reliant on its eyesight, there were few physical tortures worse than total enclosure in a small dark space.

A horrifying thought occurred to Fyrenn; he had nowhere to go if a smaller opponent, such as a young Drone, were to surprise him.  His relative bulk would make him an easy target, and his equal agility would be useless in a space so small that he was unable to even twitch his wings.

Just as the thought occurred to him, however, he found himself suddenly tumbling out of the tube, and into a dimly lit space.

He turned his momentum to his advantage, and rolled silently, drawing his sword in the process.

The red Gryphon came up to his hind legs, and assumed a ready stance, as the rest of the group forced their way out of the ventilation shaft.

The lighting in the chamber was barely equivalent to what a smouldering leaf would have produced, but it was more than enough for Gryphic eyes to make out every detail.

Fyrenn squinted, then raised an eyebrow, and cast a curious glance at IJ.  He gestured to the cavern's most obvious feature, and spoke under his breath, "Pods?"

Lining both walls for several meters were a series of organic pod-like structures.  The pony-sized containers looked as if they had been grown into the rock, and their leading face was made from some sort of glistening hardened secretion that emitted a faint glow.

IJ nodded, "They're for healing, and regeneration, when the Hive does not have the energy to repair the damage the normal way.  We've... They've been using them all too often recently..."

Kephic glanced at the cavern's two diametrically opposed entrances, "Which way now?"

IJ's brow knit, and she shook her head, "I'm not sure."

Carradan flinched, and the panic in his voice elevated the volume of his whisper to wince-inducing levels, "Are you saying---"  Skye roughly smacked his left hoof, and glared.  The Salmon Pegasus blushed, and continued in a lower tone, "Are you saying we're lost inside a *Hive*?"

The ex-Changeling raised one eyebrow disdainfully, "I *know* where *both* of these lead... But I do not know which path we should take.  We should have met opposition by now if an army was truly being mustered here, in secret."

Varan's beak turned down, and his ears flattened in concern, "This is, indeed, troubling.  Is it possible new expansion tunnels have been created since your departure?"

IJ nodded, "Yes.  And if so, they'd be off of the main Cavern.  That's up the passage to the north... But getting through the central chamber without being spotted is impossible."

Fyrenn shook his head, "But we *have* to know if they're readying an assault."

Kephic held up a claw, "Shouldn't we be able to tell if they are just by observing the activity in the central chamber?"

IJ nodded once more.  Kephic gestured with his head towards the northern passage.  Fyrenn stepped forward to the point position once more, followed by IJ, then Kephic.  Skye and Carradan followed side by side, and Varan provided rear guard.

The group was finally inside the Hive.  Threats could come from anywhere, at any time.  And their enemies had the homefield advantage.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 18th, Gregorian Calendar

Hutch placed both hands on the center console, and leaned over the dim green holoprojection of the landscape.  The interface structure itself was situated between the vehicle's Commander, on the left, and the Gunner on the right.

Both officers were faced by large sweeping stereoscopy-enabled screens that provided a night-vision enabled view of the vehicle's exterior.

The Commander doubled as driver, and thus had four chunky steel control pedals at his feet, and an otherwise unadorned complex master systems display panel beneath his viewscreen.  The Gunner's station had only two pedals, and a more specialized targeting panel, but also possessed dual control sticks within easy grasping range of both hands.

The cabin felt only slightly cramped due to the General's presence; it was designed to accommodate battlefield commanders should the need arise.

Hutch braced himself as the vehicle lurched to a stop.

The Mark VII Long-Range Rail Accelerated piercing artillery support Cannon, or L-RAC, was an unusually beefy land vehicle; the mobile self-propelled gun was dwarfed only by its rare and monstrous cousin, the Assault purposed 'A-RAC.'

Mark VIIs were effectively windowless hexagonal metallic prisms with four underslung suspension bogies containing tank-like drive treads, and deployable three-foot-thick titanium stability struts.

Their main, and most obvious feature, was their enormous dual-barreled rail cannon.  The fantastically-sized metal tubes were widest at their base, narrowing to a smaller point before flaring into enormous twin angled muzzle guards at the end.

The weapon was so long, that while it was rear-mounted, it stuck out nearly another vehicle's length when stowed horizontally.

The base of the cannon was attached to a rotating hexagonal pyramid turret with one hundred fifty millimeter thick composite armor, comparable to the mid-class side armor of the hull itself.

The forward edge of the Mark VII was studded with an array of protected and hardened sensing instruments that took the place of traditional windows and scopes.  To the rear, a protected satellite uplink antenna allowed for remote data transfer.

Hutch raised an eyebrow, and sat back into his auxiliary jumpseat, peering down once more at the terrain hologram, and the square icons residing on its surface that indicated his vehicle, as well as the other five L-RACs, and two escort tanks, in the convoy.

The vehicle's commander flipped his headset microphone into ready position.  Hutch reached beside his seat and snatched a wireless headset for himself.  Despite the vehicle's incredibly thick armor and kinetic damping layers, the noise of firing still reached several hundred thousand decibels within the compartment.

Ear protection was not just for communication; it was to prevent hearing loss.

The Commander spoke as he reached out and flicked a heavyset switch behind a pulldown safety interlock above him, "Deploying struts."

Outside, the pneumatically powered rods on each wheel bogey began to gracefully extend, while the track carriages themselves locked into place via a series of thick steel umbilical bolts, and shock absorbers.

When the struts reached the ground, a series of fifty thousand PSI pneumatic pulses drove the feet several inches into the topsoil firmly rooting the L-RAC in place.

After several moments of silence in the cabin, lit by the eerie green touchscreen and holographic instrumentation glow, the Gunner spoke.  Her lilting and peaceful Indian accent belied the fury and havoc of her trademark skills, "All other vehicles report; ready to fire on command."

Hutch nodded, and reached out to pinch the terrain hologram, pulling his hands apart to zoom out the view until he could see the target on the scope, "Enable Sat-vision uplink.  Connect me to the air-wing."

The Northrop/Boeing Dynamics FA-26 'Scythe' was the mainstay VsTOL attack fighter of the Earthgov Air Corps. Lesser known, rarer, and more seldomly used was its beefier counterpart, the FB-26  Scimitar.'

Scimitars lacked VsTOL capability due to their added weight, and sported a bulkier midsection than a Scythe.  Otherwise their airframes were effectively identical to the two-seater version of the FA-26.

With six external hardpoints, two irising stealth-enabled missile launch tubes, and a mid-sized fast-cycling bomb bay, an FB-26 could carry enough smart munitions to level an area equal to the square mileage of Manhattan to dust in less than twelve seconds.

Attack Wing 'Kestrel' out of Fort Bragg North Carolina, was comprised of eight FB-26 craft.

"Kestrel Lead; assault control.  Status?"

The RIO of the lead aircraft tapped the 'COMM' holo-toggle on the left side of his display, "Kestrel 1; We're Angels-Ten and fourteen miles out; time-on-target is one point two mikes.  Requesting weapons-free authorization."

Hutch's voice filtered through the sixteen headsets once more, "Permission to engage is granted.  Warning-red condition; you are ordered to expend *all* ordinance on the target zone with extreme prejudice, and pacify any surviving ground assistance with remaining armament."

The RIO nodded, and tapped the rear of his pilot's seat, "Computer; disengage warhead safeties; authorization Sierra One, One, Two, Charlie."  As he spoke, the man nudged open the cover of the 'MSTR ARM' switch, and depressed the toggle.

The Pilot did the same with her own safety interlock, speaking as she did so, "Computer; disengage warhead safeties, and arm all payloads.  Authorization Sierra, Two, Five, One, Tango."

The Computer beeped twice, and spoke in a deep masculine voice, "Safeties released.  Wing-hardpoint warheads armed.  Bomb-bay warheads armed.  Warhead AI engaged.  Diagnostics complete; all weapons ready to drop."

The RIO shrugged, "The HLF seems to think pretty highly of humanity... Let's see if we can remind them how 'creative' we can be with stuff that goes boom."

The Pilot chuckled, and raised an eyebrow, "Some poor 'tard is about to kiss the donkey..."

The HLF compound in Syracuse had done its best to benefit from several years of peace and quiet in the uninhabited New York wilderness.

The installation was one of the primary compounds used by the Front to backstop it's East-Coast North Amerizone operations.  Built under the ruins of an old Air National Guard base, the facility was ensconced under two hundred feet of granite, steel, and kinetic-absorption alloy armor with backscatter stealth coating.

HLF command had been assured that the facility would never be located.  Assurance had led to sloppiness.

While the Front possessed contacts and technology allowing them to detect incoming stealth-equipped fighters, none of the systems were in use, for the sake of power consumption.  The mistake proved utterly fatal.

Kestrel-I released all six of it's external bombs in swift succession.  Designed for multiple roles, the warheads were each equipped with toroidal steering fins, LIDAR guidance scanners, and independant AI.  Each was programmed to search for targets of opportunity as they approached the ground; the hope was that each warhead would find a soft target by making its decision as late as possible.

The first two warheads found no targets.  The concussion of their twin detonations did little to the compound below.

The remaining four bombs, however, swiftly located the camouflaged exit hatches for the facility's anti-air weaponry.

Each shell impacted with a quarter-megaton hybrid thermobaric/concussion-shrapnel explosion that instantly immolated it's target.

The Syracuse compound was now devoid of countermeasures capable of dissuading the FB-26 squadron from it's mission.

As an air-raid alarm began to sound, and personnel rushed to seal blast doors, the rest of Kestrel squadron unleashed its entire payload simultaneously.

While aiming for a decent spread, given that Earthgov Intelligence did not know the exact dimensions of the base, nearly two-thirds of the warheads were concentrated on what Hutch guessed to be the exact center of the compound.

The General guessed well.

One hundred twenty two warheads slammed into the earth and detonated simultaneously.  Forty two quarter-megaton shells from wing hardpoints, and eighty half-megaton thermionic-fusion devices.

In one gigantic expanding wall of pure light, sound, and air compression, the combined detonation shook the earth with a 6.7 magnitude quake, and produced a non-nuclear twenty-five mile air-burst equivalent to several hundred Hiroshima bombs.

While the detonations did very little to damage the compound itself, the quake they triggered caused instantaneous and critical damage to form in the facility's armor as the Earth buckled and twisted in the throes of seismic fury.

Eighteen four meter gouges formed in the metal, along with a host of deep running smaller cracks in the shock-absorption layer beneath.

High above, Kestrel-I's RIO smiled, and spoke into his headset, "Ground Command; payload delivered.  No resistance spotted.  The meat is tenderized."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Nineteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

"I don't understand..."  Fyrenn cocked his head as the words escaped his beak in a nearly-inaudible monotone.

He shifted slightly to allow IJ, Skye, and Kephic to peer out of the oblong rock fissure, and down into the cavern below.  The group's hiding spot was little more than an ancient maintenance tunnel; long since abandoned.  As a consequence, space was once again quite scarce.

IJ tensed visibly, "This... this makes no sense."  Kephic raised an eyebrow inquisitively.  IJ shifted uncomfortably, and gestured slightly with one hoof.  Fyrenn gazed once more into the central cavern in continued astonishment.

Spread out hundreds of feet below, stretching out for six hundred yards in all directions, was an immense void in the rock.  The floor was populated alternately with dark angular crystalline structure, and swarms upon swarms of Changeling Drones.

The red Gryphon silently did a head-count and arrived at the exact, and staggering, number; two million four hundred and eighty seven thousand six hundred and ninety eight.

Under the dim green lighting of bioluminescent fluid trapped in crystal globes; the majority of the worker drones were shoring up the main supports of the cavern, and the crystalline structures that dotted the floor.  Most of the younger drones, and those dedicated to other roles, were huddling inside the structures, as if seeking protection.

Fyrenn's eyes narrowed, and he inhaled slowly, "They look... almost as if they're expecting some sort of attack."

IJ shook her head slowly, "No.  Not an attack.  A disaster.  My only memory of anything similar was during an earthquake that occurred shortly after I was spawned.  The construction drones built redoubts like those for us to hide in during the aftershocks."

Varan cocked his head slightly, "Then this Hive is not preparing for an attack, but rather some sort of cataclysm?"

The white Pegasus flared her wings reflexively in frustration, and glared, "We don't know that for certain.  We have no way of finding out either."

Skye inclined her head, "Wellll... that's not entirely true."

IJ glowered, Carradan winced, but the Gryphons all perked up in their own unique fashion.  Fyrenn spoke first, "Go on..."

The Unicorn avoided eye contact, "It's just a theory; but it might be possible for me to break into the Hive using IJ.  The Hive mind I mean."

IJ squirmed in a circle until she had revolved one hundred and eighty degrees to face Skye, "Do you have even the first clue as to how dangerous your proposal is?  If the attempt at connecting does not shatter your mind into a million pieces, then the Queen will almost *certainly* detect us, and we will all die as a consequence!"

Skye glowered, "What?  You don't think I can fool a glorified pony-shaped insect?"  The words elicited a similarly piercing expression from IJ, but the tan Unicorn forged ahead unimpeded, "We can't afford to let this just lie.  We need to know what those coded letters meant.  Somewhere, sometime, somehow, we know there is going to be an attack..."

IJ waved her hoof dismissively, "I'm not disagreeing with that.  But I think you're underestimating just how much we 'glorified insects' can sting."

Skye snorted, her gaze unwavering, "You have a better idea?  For that matter; do you have an alternate idea of *any* description?"

IJ paused, her glare turning into a sour scowl.  After a tense moment of silence, she shook her head slowly, "No."

Fyrenn sighed, and stared down into the cavern, speaking in a low but firm undertone, "We can't leave here without answers.  Too many lives are at stake, and we don't have time to get this intel any other way."

He arched his head over his back, and fixed Skye and Stan with his gaze by turns, "Neither of you need go any further.  This is inching closer and closer to a suicide mission by the minute, and that's not what you signed up for."

Skye chuckled, a wry note creeping into her voice as one eyebrow shot up, "You three?  Alone?  Down here?  For starters, I'm the only Unicorn here, and possibly the only Unicorn *anywhere* who has the know-how to break into the Hive Mind and download thoughts."

She chuckled softly, "More importantly?  Three Gryphons underground?  Three *male* Gryphons?  Your collective sense of direction is about on par with the IQ of a parsnip down here.  Even if you survived whatever cocka-mimi plan you'd manage to cobble together, you'd never figure out how to get back to the surface."

Varan tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly, "Though I agree with your first argument, and while subterranean environments do make us uncomfortable; I assure you they have no negative impact whatsoever on our sense of direction, nor our capacity for remembering...."

Kephic cleared his throat softly, grinning at his brother all the while, "It was a joke."

The golden Gryphon froze, then shook his head slowly, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his beak, "Ah."

Carradan ruffled his wings uncomfortably, his feathers chafing against the rough rock walls of the tube, "So... can we just get this over with already?  I'm a sky dweller too ya know.  I don't like it down here any more than the featherbrains do."

Fyrenn nodded firmly, and turned one eye towards IJ, "You know this place better than any of us ever could.  Where do we start and how do we maximize our chances, however slim, of getting out of here in one living breathing piece?"

The blue and white Pegasus grunted in a brief show of contention, then gestured with one hoof and began to speak in a clear-cut monotone, "See that outcropping?"

"I wanna go on record right now; this is a bad, bad, *bad* plan, and you should all feel bad."

In response to Carradan's whispered tirade, Fyrenn shot him a piercing expression that was two parts warning, and one part good-natured admonishment.  The red Gryphon swiveled his head back to the edge of the rock outcropping.

As he maintained his careful vigil over the cavern, he responded in the lowest tone his syrinx could produce.  The sound was many octaves below what most creatures could perceive, but he knew Stan's acute Equine hearing was up to the task, "It's going to be a bad, bad, bad *day* for all of us if your chattering brings a drone over here.  And then you'd feel bad."

Carradan rolled his eyes, and settled into the onerous task of lying perfectly still and quiet, with nothing more than four inches of shale separating him from the largest conglomeration of Changelings within hundreds of miles.

Several meters to the right, just out of safe talking range, Kephic and Varan were similarly ensconced in a perch of IJ's choosing.  Both of the groups were tasked with a small but vital component of the plan.

Creating an opportune distraction.

"Before we do this... "  IJ turned to bring Skye into her peripheral vision as she spoke.

The Unicorn snorted, "You're really going to ask me if I can handle this?  Again?  I was pulping Human countermeasure AI's in my spare time, before you even knew what *Earth* was."

IJ spared a single moment to fix her companion with a vicious glare, "Before we do this," she grit the words out as if she were spitting nails, "I want to warn you that simple disruption is not enough; you will have to continue to produce a mimicry of the Drone's mental imprint---"

Skye rolled her eyes, "Or the Queen will notice that there's a gap in the Hive?  No!  Really?!  That had *never* occurred to me.  Especially not after you gave such a vivid description of 'growing-up-drone.' "

The Pegasus sighed, "When dealing with Changelings, an *abundance* of caution is the most prudent course.  Trust me; I have some experience with this."

The Unicorn inclined her head slightly, the sarcasm dropping away from her voice and her expression alike, "Yeah... I guess I can't really blame you for being on pins and needles here."

By way of response, IJ gestured with one hoof towards their quarry.  The Pegasus had been watching the Drone for several minutes, and noticed that its pattern of activity was likely going to bring it to the edge of the cavern.  Away from its compatriots.

Skye tilted her head.  IJ answered the unspoken query with a single nod.

The Unicorn slowly conjured a small spell at the tip of her horn, and held it as silently as she could.  The magic took the form of an exceedingly faint glowing orb of light.  When the time was right, and the Drone was at the farthest point from the Hive, and the closest point to the hidden Gryphons, Skye loosed the bolt.

The nearly-invisible halo of blue light zipped across the intervening space instantly, and took up a position just behind the head of the Drone.

Kephic was in the best position to act on the signal.  The speckled Gryphon moved too swiftly for IJ and Skye to catch more than a glimpse of his crest, as he slung a small pebble of basalt from his perch, and ducked away into hiding as it flew straight and true.

Skye reached out with her magic, squinting as she tried to sense and memorize the imprint the Drone's mind was making in the aether.  She managed to pin down the unique Thaumatic signature just as Kephic's projectile struck the target's skull.

The rock had been meant as nothing more than a lure, and as such the impact barely managed to get the Drone's attention.  But it was enough.

The chitin-covered creature froze, its glittering verdigris gaze instantly fixating on the rock's origin point.  As the Drone began ambling slowly towards Kephic's hiding spot, Skye worked furiously to weave a disruption spell together with a false projection of the Drone's mental imprint.

Ephemeral runes, glowing various shades of white, blue, and cyan, began to weave their way around her horn as she locked her eyes on the back of the Drone's head.

Just as the Changeling reached the edge of Kephic's perch, Skye finished knitting together the instructions for her magic.

Skye's spell flew at the back of the Drone's head, in the form of a glittering bolt of blue and green energies.  The Thaumatic charge arrived nearly two seconds before Kephic's fisted claw.  By the time the force of the Gryphon's limb has rendered the Drone unconscious, his link to the hive had been nearly as scrambled as his wits, and his skull armor.

For a protracted moment of silence, no one moved.  Skye herself was not entirely sure that her impromptu spell had functioned as intended, and no one was eager to reveal themselves and test the validity of her theories too recklessly.

After nearly half a minute, Fyrenn finally lost patience and leapt silently over the rock that comprised his cover.  He darted across the gravelly floor of the chamber with absolute silence, slung the Drone over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and loped back to safety.

The red Gryphon finished laying the unconscious insect out on its back just as Skye, IJ, Kephic, and Varan arrived.

Carradan chuckled grimly, "I gotta admit... I wasn't real sure that was gonna work."

Skye exhaled in relief, "You and me both."

IJ squinted in concern, "There is no cause for celebration yet.  The harder task is still to come."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 18th, Gregorian Calendar

Hutch sat back, and tapped one finger against the holotank as he turned to the L-RAC's commander, "Begin the primary assault.  No weapons-holds, no quarter.  Keep cycling until we're fresh out of shells."

The man nodded, and spoke into his headset as he swiveled his seat to face the holotank, "All vehicles; access Sat-Vision five and set target co-ordinates based on overflight data.  Range for high-arc trajectory, time weapon release for synchronic impacts."

The Gunner nodded, and pushed a lock of hair away from one ear as she grasped her left control toggle, "Ranging for ninety-degree impact; synchronizing fire with formation.  Computer has selected high-density tungsten/depleted uranium shells.  I concur.  Permission to release interlocks?"

The commander swiveled back to his console, "I concur.  Prepare to disengage safety interlocks.  Please insert your firing key, and place your thumb on the biometric scanner."  As he spoke, the man performed the requested actions himself, removing a small semi-transparent chip from a chain around his neck, and sticking it into a slot.

Both officers placed their thumbs on identical panels on the cabin's opposite walls, and placed their free hands on the stubs of their keys.

The commander counted down, "At this time; 01:50 zulu, I am authorizing weapons release as per our orders, and pursuant to Earthgov directive twenty-nine-A.  Computer; please verify orders by Stratcom uplink and engage biometric access system."

"Orders verified.  Access system is online.  Verifying biometric data... Verified.  Please turn your keys."

The Commander inclined his head, "Three. Two.  One.  Initiate."  The officers turned their keys in tandem, and the computer let out a three-toned klaxon, "Warning!  Safety interlocks are now disengaged.  Cannon live.  Rounds loaded."

The Commander turned back to the holotank, and nodded at the gunner, "Lock gun bearing; Twenty degrees positive yaw rotation, seventy-point-five-two-six degrees positive gun depression, four inch barrel extension.  Set guards to precision fire mode, and cycle heat sinks."

The Gunner depressed several keys with one hand, peering intently at the data overlaid onto her scope.  The device was positioned at eye-level such that she could easily lean into it, or pull back to see her console.  She smiled, "Bearing locked.  Heat sinks cycled.  Computer reports diagnostic complete; ready to fire."

Hutch grinned, "I always did love a good fireworks show."

"Fire!" The commander could not resist performing a traditional forward charge motion with his right arm.

The Gunner flicked up the hat switch on her joystick, and rammed her index finger into the trigger.

Even through the electronic aural-cancellation, and compression-based acoustic mufflers of the headphones, the noise was as deafening as the thunder of the apocalypse.

The guns of the L-RAC firing line spoke out in sequence; each artillery unit fired one after the other, right barrel followed within a half-second by left-barrel, with a single second in-between vehicle firing times.

Each of the four-set of magnetic rails energized, powered by the massive banks of capacitors, themselves filled by the vehicles' onboard dual high-tension fusion reactors.

Under the insistence of the 'right hand rule' twelve identical seventeen ton magnetic-cored, tungsten-sheathed, depleted uranium rounds peeled away from the L-RACs at over two-hundred-thirty times the speed of sound.

While capable of lofting only smaller shells in comparison to an A-RAC, L-RACs could configure to impart spin to their projectiles in such a way as to maximize accuracy and impact speed.  The most incredible feature, however, was their range.

A Standard A-RAC could hit a target with reasonable accuracy half a continent away; a fire range just short of the guns on Earthgov naval vessels.  An L-RAC, by contrast, could loft a shell across nearly an entire hemisphere in a pinch.  And once the metal chunk impacted, it would pierce far more armor than virtually any other weapon ever devised.

The twelve initial shells in the L-RAC volley landed with almost the same force as the preceding bomber run.  The critical difference, however, was that this force was maintained as kinetic energy for several seconds as the rounds passed through granite, and the cracked barrier shield of the base, like a pistol shell through a watermelon.

When the ordinance finally encountered the meat of the base, it lost ninety percent of its kinetic energy, dispersing it in the form of rayleigh waves into the structure, an air-burst, and several immense explosions.

The glassed surface-crater produced by the bombing rippled from the sub-surface energy, registering as another major earthquake, and setting off smaller un-felt aftershocks as far away as South Carolina.

Abandoned rail tunnels, mine shafts, and forgotten bunkers within a five hundred mile radius collapsed violently as the shockwave reached them, and liquefied their aging pre-winnowing supports.

Back in Syracuse; the barrage continued unabated for nearly three hours, at a rate of fifty one shells per minute.  By the time all nine thousand one hundred and eighty rounds were exhausted, the HLF compound's entire defensive layer had been reduced to scattered glowing glass shards.

Where once had stood an abandoned air base, surrounded by petrified trees, now stood an immense miles-wide smooth crater that was nearly a half mile deep at its center.

The pale half-light of a full moon just barely pierced the iron sky to cast a dingy gray luminance on the lower levels of the HLF base; suddenly raw and exposed like damaged tissue.

"Do you suppose any of them are left alive?"  Klarien let out a long, slow breath as he stared towards the soft glow of the burning base on the horizon.

Taranis rumbled deep in his chest as he removed the safeties from his weaponry, "If any of the opposition survived, they will soon wish they had not."

The cobalt Dragon lifted a single claw, and waved it forward.  The assembled craft in the clearing began to hum and whine with the collective spooling of multiple engines.

The five APCs and two VTOLs were mostly on site for prisoner transport, and to deploy data mining specialists once the compound had been secured.  Klarien personally doubted there would be anything left for them to hack; He was well aware of the sheer destructive force of an artillery strike.

Led by the two armored reptiles, the strike team set off to finish their grim task.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Nineteenth Day, Celestial Calendar

Carradan sighed, and shifted for what seemed like the thousandth time, "I still don't get why she has to bridge them.  Why doesn't she just reach into that thing's mind and take what we need?"

Skye spoke in an edgy monotone, without turning, focused almost entirely on her task, "Because the Gryphons are magic-immune, and you and I don't have the brain structure to cope with the Hive mind.  IJ does.  Doesn't matter what Celestia did to her body proper; her mind is the same as it's always been.  Now if you don't shut your muzzle and let me work?  I'll fry *your* brain like a haycake."

Stan raised an eyebrow and glanced at Fyrenn, silently mouthing, 'Can she do that?'

Fyrenn shrugged his wings, and placed a single talon to his beak in a shushing gesture.  Silence reigned once more, save for the nigh-imperceptible chime-like sound of Skye's magic.  Her horn had become the apex of an arc of light bridging IJ's unconscious form, and that of the Drone.

Kephic grunted, "I wonder what it's like..."

Varan shook his head slowly, "I do not.  I doubt that it is, in any way, pleasant."

Most of the time the Hive was a series of voices, images, and miscellaneous sounds that tugged at the back of the brain incessantly; coming forward into the center of consciousness when a piece of information or a specific link was summoned.

It was, however, possible for a Changeling to disconnect from their external senses and perceive the Hive as a space within their consciousness, through an imitation of the five senses.

Using Skye's mental bridge, IJ was doing just that, via the unlucky target Drone's link to the Hive.  The use of its own link, combined with Skye's imitation of its mental footprint, would hopefully fool the Hive-Queen into ignoring the queries IJ was about to make.

She took a few slow steps forward, and allowed the nascent stream of whispers to wash over her.  The words projected themselves as hieroglyphs in the air around her; a glowing stream of ancient language stretching out into the infinite blackness in every direction.

In a few places, images and blurry colored amorphous representations of emotional ebb and flow were ensconced within the datastreams.

Tentatively, IJ reached out a hoof and tapped one of the streams, linking her thoughts in the guise of the Drone's to the Hive at large.

Abruptly, the whispers decreased in volume, and a smaller subset of voices and sounds leapt to the forefront.  Corresponding with the aural change, several images and glyph streams expanded to fill the air in a sphere around the Pegasus, shouldering out the other data to the horizon in the process.

IJ's first indication that something was wrong came in the form of a telling absence.  Given the swarm of activity within the central chamber, the Hive should have been so abuzz with information on the current situation, that it would have been impossible to avoid it, let alone difficult to find it.

Yet, IJ could find no mention whatsoever of the reason for the Razor Spires Hive's odd behavior in the top layers of thought.

She debated pulling away.  Something was clearly wrong.  But in the end, she opted to push just a few layers down.  The chatter within the swarm was immense; surely the Queen wouldn't take notice of such simple queries.

She knew the instant she made the connection, that all was lost.

"You have erred.  Most gravely.  And your error shall be my crowning triumph."

As the words echoed through her skull with grim certainty, and frustratingly justified arrogance, IJ shivered in fear.  And made peace with her impending death.

Chapter 17

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Chapter 18

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Chapter 19

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Chapter 20

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Chapter 21

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Chapter 22

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Chapter 23

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Chapter 24

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Chapter 25

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Chapter 26

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Chapter 27

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Chapter 28

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Chapter 29

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Chapter 30

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Chapter 31

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Chapter 32

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Chapter 33

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Chapter 34

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Chapter 35

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Chapter 36

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Chapter 37

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Chapter 38

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Chapter 39

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Chapter 40

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Chapter 41

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Chapter 42

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Chapter 43

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Chapter 44

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Chapter 45

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Chapter 46

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Chapter 47

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Chapter 48

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Chapter 49

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Chapter 50

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Chapter 51

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Chapter 52

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Chapter 53

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Chapter 54

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Chapter 55

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Chapter 56

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Chapter 57

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Chapter 58

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Chapter 59

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Chapter 60

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Chapter 61

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Chapter 62

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Chapter 63

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Chapter 64

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Chapter 65

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Chapter 66

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Chapter 67

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Epilogue

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Prologue

“Don't adventures ever have an end?

I suppose not.

Someone else always has to carry on on the story.”

― J.R.R. Tolkien

“The world is so much larger than I thought.

I thought we went along paths-

-but it seems there are no paths.

The going itself is the path.”

― C.S. Lewis

Earth Calendar: 2113

Equestrian Calendar: 11 AC (After Contact)

August 12th, Gregorian Calendar

April ran.  April had been running as long as she could remember; which was as long as her legs had been able to support her own weight.  April knew very little save how to run, why she was running, and her name.  Her sister had named her; her sister had found her on the first of April.

Sonya had saved her, and in her own unintentional way, she had condemned April as well.

Sonya was already tagged.

For April it was only a matter of time, but still they ran; a hope against all hope that their fate could somehow be avoided.  It wasn't fair.  April was only five, Sonya nine; far too young to be made into experiments.  Into soldiers.

Sonya knew she had been born on the streets, abandoned from the instant she had left her mother's womb; alive only due to the providential intervention of unsavory, but concerned elements.

April's memory, like most children, was dimmer.  The mystery of her life-that-once-was sometimes haunted her, in the quietest moments of the night, with only the sounds of passing cars beyond the mouth of some dim alley for company.  A time when the concerns of running and scavenging seemed distant.

She wondered what might have been.  Day was for wondering what might be next, but night was for wondering what might have been, and crying softly for what *should* have been.

Day was also for running.  In darkness there was safety; hiding was easy in the dark.

Though the sky seemed made of iron, or copper left to decay in the rain, it let in more than enough light to make hiding difficult.  When hiding became difficult, the men in armor came.

The men in armor had been chasing Sonya since she was three.  April knew how they always seemed to find them; when they had first found Sonya they had hurt her.  They had cut her open, laid chips all inside her back-bone.  April could still see the damage whenever she had to bandage a fresh wound on her older adoptive sister's back.

Now the men in armor wanted her too.

It was day again, and April ran, following Sonya through the alleys, gutters, pipes, and catwalks of hell.  Or it felt like what hell must be.  It seemed strange to April; overall New York must have been a nice enough place for anyone who could come home to electricity, loved ones, and a locked door at night, and go out into the crowds unafraid during the day.  Even the grimy underbelly of the city was surprisingly well maintained for being the most neglected part of it.

The alleys weren't what made it hell, nor the grime.  It was the men in the armor.

April knew; she had begged and pestered Sonya to tell her.  A known fear was always better than an imagined one.  Sonya had described the way they cut her; slicing open her back from hairline to navel, laying her spine bare without anesthetic.

She had described, in the sort of clear detail only true joy, or excruciating trauma, can lend to the usual imperfections of Human memory, the way they had stabbed the spikes into her bones.

Glowing spikes.  Spikes full of tiny machines, with enigmatic and sinister purpose one and all.

The spikes owned Sonya now.  And the men with armor owned the spikes.  The men with armor owned Sonya, though she ran from them all the while.  As they used her own body against her, and followed the sisters, it became apparent that they wanted April too.

Sonya had mentioned that there were other children, dozens or maybe hundreds, when she had been cut open and filled with machines.  April had owned, or stolen, a few second and third hand DaTabs.  Some of them had books.  She knew what an experiment was.  The men in armor wanted to make them experiments.

It was a cruel fate; April was not yet able to survive on her own.  Neither she nor Sonya trusted anyone else on the street enough to protect them from the men in armor.  Once they had tried to trust a Pony, but the men killed the Pony.  Their distrust was now for the protection of others, as much as themselves.

April didn't care much for the Ponies, except to dream of going to wherever they came from one day.  Somehow.  An escape to a place the men in armor could never follow.

Mostly; April was too busy worrying about running, or too scared that the men following them would kill more Ponies if they got in the way.  The Ponies didn't deserve to suffer.

April vaulted a railing with practiced ease, and continued pounding the pavement, inches behind her sister.  If the men in armor caught her, they would put spikes in her too.  Then, like Sonya, they would always follow her.  Always kill anyone who helped her.  Force her to survive on her own, force her to be alone so that she would learn to rely on the spikes.

Then, like Sonya, they would own her too.  If she could stay free long enough, she could escape.

But the Bureaus had an age limit, and so far little thought seemed to have been given to an exception for orphans.  The Bureaus seemed the only escape.  The men in armor had eyes everywhere.  Every camera on every DaTab, every street corner, and every drone that patrolled the skies, belonged to them.

Nowhere on Earth was safe for long.

Sonya put on a burst of speed, and rounded the corner.  April quickened her own pace to catch up, skidding around the duracrete side of the new skyscraper as her ratty old sneakers connected with a puddle.  Her sneakers always aged quickly.  Too much acidic grime, not enough time to clean them.  The acid melted the rubber.  Eventually.

Upon rounding the corner, April skidded into a man, and stopped dead in her tracks.  This man wore no armor.  This man wore a suit, and an expensive one if comparison to other men she had seen from afar amounted to anything.

Sonya was already standing behind him, quietly, as if he were protecting her.  April glanced past the man at Sonya, cautiously, and saw that there were three other men, also in suits.  Together they formed a square around a car.  A very expensive car.

From the expensive car stepped a woman.  Her auburn hair was trussed up in a curly nest that was meant to look fashionable, but reminded April more of the tangle wires and cables got into when left alone with no one looking at them.

The woman too wore a suit; but it was a deep shade of red.  Like satin... or blood.  A curious silver pin adorned the collar, but all April could make out about it was the twinkling glint of an emerald setting.

The woman smiled, "It's alright little one.  You can stop running.  I'm here to take care of you.  Are you cold?"

April thought for a moment.  The men in the suits had guns, big guns.  If the woman wanted to help, surely the men in the armor wouldn't dare to attack the men in the suits.  Men in suits meant the woman was powerful.  For the first time in months, April allowed herself a tiny hope.

She nodded meekly, and the woman gestured to her car, "Come! Ride with me! It's warm inside, and safe.  I even brought you food."

Again April hesitated, looking to her older sister for advice.  Sonya offered little to no indication, so April assumed that meant it was safe.

She took a hesitant step towards the car.  The woman smiled, "That's right! Come with me my little one."

The woman hadn't been lying; the inside of the car was warm, and comfortable, and it felt very safe.  There was food on a tray in front of her seat; hot drink, and good high quality synthetic meat.  April bit directly into it without hesitation; a good meal didn't come along very often.

It was only after the suited woman had taken a seat beside her, shut the door, and gestured to the driver, that she realized how deep a mistake she had made.  The signs all came together at once, starting with the pin.

By the light of the car's luxuriant rear compartment, April could now make out that the woman's silver pin was in the shape of three globes, with inset emeralds in the shape of the continents.

Looking beyond the woman, and tensing, April saw the telltale indicator that had been invisible from her previous position; the man in the suit whom she had first run into was holding a gun, a small ugly, menacing thing, to the back of Sonya's head, so hard that it was pressing a temporary indentation into her skin.

Finally, April realized that whatever she had just eaten was not what it seemed.  Sonya had given her something called morphine once, when a shot from a man in armor had cut open her shoulder.  The effect April was feeling reminded her of the morphine, but much more powerful.

As the car began to move, the suited woman smiled again, "There there.  No need to be frightened.  I am going to take extra special care of you.  I am going to give you a wonderful gift my little girl.  I am going to give you a purpose."

As she fell into unconsciousness, desperately trying to scream, the last thing April saw was the pin.  The same emblem the men in armor wore.  The same word stamped below it; 'Earthgov.'

"In bonds of family six set out; to seek The Dispossessed,

In joy and sorrow, grief and strife, bearing morbid stress.

Where Sun and Moon the expanse share, the six will find the power,

To put an end to Darkness... strife... the war of Night's own hour."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

February 26th, Gregorian Calendar

For the first time in a century, Manhattan was being bathed in the warm glow of sunset.  Mankind's well-meaning, but ill-timed attempt to bring an end to atmospheric pollution had soured the firmament in the mid 2000s, and so for nearly one hundred years the planet had done without the sun.

To be sure; some light did filter through the more-or-less opaque teal dome above, but it was hardly enough to sustain livable temperatures, let alone a food web.  All animals, plants, and most microbes, had perished within a decade.  Man was alone on Earth, and everything man ate now came out of a synthekelp farm.  Or from Equestria.

Equestria was the reason that the towers of New York were now being tinged with the molten auric tones of eventide.  Equestria was the reason mankind had a future.  And it was also the reason New York had been designated a level five disaster zone.

Major General Hutchinson, or 'Hutch' to his friends, staff, and favored subordinates, stole a moment from his overloaded schedule to take in the sunlight.  The brilliant rays and warmth, reflected from the Equestrian west, off the dome of their healthy sky, and back onto the Earth, were pouring into his eighteenth story office window from the east.  From the Barrier.

The Barrier, the Bubble, The end of the world... the glimmering wall of light had been given many apt nomenclatures ever since it had sprung into existence in 2102.  The dome-shaped monstrosity was, in fact, not a solid wall, but 'merely' a discontinuity between two space-times.  The reality of Earth, and the reality of a land called Equestria.

And the latter was consuming the former.

A former scientist had once illustrated it to Hutch as an example of momentum; the quantum reality of Equestria had ten to the third to the third more than Earth's reality did, so it was going to pass through the fabric of local space, absorbing everything in its path.

That absorption came with a price.

Humans, complex Earth materials, and any remaining microbes on the planet, were totally incompatible with the building blocks of Equestria's space time.  Anything 'incompatible' with Equestria was atomized violently upon contact with the Barrier.  Reduced to base carbons instantly.  To this process, there was no manner or form of exception.  There was no defense.

Man could not cross into this tantalizing biological paradise, that was so close, and so swiftly immolating his world.  Until Conversion came.

Hutch snorted, sipped his coffee, and smiled wryly.  The beverage was real Equestrian imported brew.

Hutch had long considered the idea of Conversion.  At first the only option had been the Equine species who had been the lynchpin of first contact between the two worlds.  Ponies.

The pastel colored Equinoids had a penchant for peace, friendship, and cooperation.  They also had a deeply ingrained passivity, and struggled with serious cultural stagnation, by comparison to mankind.  Cultural anthropologists from both races estimated that they had been around for approximately the same amount of time; yet in those millennia humanity had leapt ahead of Equestria technologically by nearly un-quantifiable levels.

Magic was partly to blame.  Then again, magic was partly to blame for almost everything; while Earth's Thaumatically-arid environ could not support magic the same way Equestria's rich space-time could, its presence had still forever changed the course of Human society in startling ways.  Hutch found it easy to see why a race possessed of such power would find swift technological development less imperative.

But it was only by a combination of magic and technology that Conversion had been created; the salvation of both Man and Equestrian alike.

With a few ounces of the colorful, sparkling Thaumatic nano-fluid, a human being could shed their Earthly pink-skinned familiar form, and become a member of an Equestrian race.  Memories, personality, identity, and traits preserved; melded with the traits and instincts, form and mentality of an Equestrian.

Man could evacuate his dying world, and shed many of his human flaws, and in turn Equestria could get a sorely needed infusion of Human vitality, inventiveness, and drive for self-improvement.

This was where Hutch came in.  The Conversion Bureau initiative had not met with an entirely positive response.  Some were prepared to make the symbiotic self-initiated evolution to a new species, a larger portion of the population were apathetic and dazed, and then... there were the extremists.

They called themselves the HLF, and the PER.  Human Liberation Front.  Ponification for Earth's Rebirth.  Earthgov called them terrorists, war criminals, and designated shoot-on-sight targets.

The HLF were comprised of Humans who were either so terrified of conversion, or so caught up in the baser aspects of Human nature that Conversion often eliminated, that they were willing to slaughter their own indiscriminately to terrorize the populace and put people off Conversion.

They never intentionally targeted Humans outside the Bureaus and the military.  But they never did anything to mitigate collateral damage when attacking Equestrians either.

The PER were comprised of Humans and Ponies so infatuated with the Equine race, and its powerful monarchs, that they viewed the taking of free will as an acceptable measure in guaranteeing Humanity's 'Rebirth in Light.'  The PER were all about forcing people to become Ponies, whether they were ready and willing or not.  Before, the crime had been despicable, but now it was downright unconscionable.

At first, Ponification had been the only option at the Bureaus.  There were many Equestrian races, but only Ponies seemed prepared to take part in the Conversion initiative, and it did not look as if the science would support the inclusion of the other races.

Hutch smiled once more and stared out at the piercingly blue sky, the ripples of the Barrier giving it a slight ethereal haze.  He had been part of the Option Gamma Project.  The Military code-name for the first foray into Conversion as applied to other species.  As a result, some of his best friends were now neither Human, nor Pony, but Gryphon.

A fierce, proud, stubborn mix of shining talons, sharp beaks, majestic wings, deadly claws, and unshakeable morals; Gryphons were one of the more militaristic Equestrian species.  Despite a sharp cultural divide, they had long been close logistical and military allies of the Ponies.

The peaceful Equines needed the Gryphons to protect them from the dangers of Equestria, and the valiant Avians needed the Ponies to prevent them from severing or losing too many diplomatic ties at once, and ending up in a multi-front war too great for even their considerable power.

After the success of initial Gryphonizations, several Equestrian races had signed a pact with Ponies and Humans.  The Conversion Accords.  Dragons, Zebra, Diamond Dogs, and Buffalo were the newest options for the future of the Human race.

The Accords specified a staggering in release dates; Zebrification and Draconification had already been running for two years.  Despite initial incidents related to the latter program, the unique success of the former combined with swift and brave action had helped smooth things over.  For a time.

Then, the previous year, Diamond Dog and Buffalo Conversion Serum had become publicly available.

Hutch winced as he considered the immensely detrimental impact the former had generated.  The Buffalo Conversion program still suffered abysmally low numbers thanks to how badly the scandal surrounding the Canine serum had overshadowed it.  The effect had metastasized into the other programs as well, but the dip in numbers of program applicants had been offset by the approach of the Barrier.

For every monetarily stable person that had been put-off Conversion by the scandal, there was a monetarily deprived person who lacked the means to escape the coming Barrier by moving to another part of the globe.

But it wasn't enough.

The latest Earthgov projections, the somber material on Hutch's DaTab, indicated that unless Conversion rates increased soon, that there would be a 'bubble-up' effect.  People would, out of misplaced apathy or political, or emotional motivations, wait until it was too late.

Serum and space shortages would result as the bubble logarithmically sped up, leaving growing numbers of Humans without places to live.

The results would be riots, famine, a three hundred percent increase in murder rates, a climate rich for increased terrorism beyond its already chronically hellacious levels, and in the end, up to two billion people would perish as the planet died.

That was the *conservative* estimate.

Hutch grimaced and scrolled the text with a flick of his fingers in the air just above the sensitive touch and gesture-based screen.  A second document came into view.  A briefing on new Earthgov policy.

The Global Government had struggled for years to find ways of 'encouraging' people to Convert, while walking a legal and ethical tightrope between the untenable extremisms of the HLF and PER.

Perhaps the most important laws related to Conversion were ACACIA and the harshly maligned, somewhat older, Cross Species Intimacy Act.  Equestrians and Humans were already biologically incompatible; even a small amount of fluid transfer was enough to kill a person; Equestrians were simply far and away above the mere human biological tier.

But the Intimacy Act had taken things a step further, outlawing cross-species marriage.  There had been an immediate and fierce backlash from a small minority, mostly comprised of pro-PER sympathisers, dangerous radicals, and Humans who were having trouble choosing between a loved one and their doomed bipedal form.

Despite this, the bill had later been amended to include even stronger language, specifying that parents could not convert unless they also converted their children, and that if a child was converted, intentionally or not, that a parent must follow suit within a year, or lose custody of their child.

ACACIA had appeared shortly thereafter; the 'Age of Consent for Acceptable Conversion Initiation and Amenability' bill, lowered the minimum Conversion age for a Human without parental or guardian consent from twenty one, to eighteen.

ACACIA also contained new protocols for infants.  Whereas before, it was illegal to Convert any child under the age of ten, now a child could be Converted from two years of age and up, as long as his or her parents were also being Converted or had been Converted.

Hutch sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he read the re-summarization of the bills, and the new information on upcoming legislation.

'It shall forthwith be the policy of this Council, that the following measures, having been adopted by popular vote, be implemented at once;

1; This Council, in conjunction and cooperation with the Equestrian mint, and reputable banks, shall offer a monetary stipend and land-claims to any New Yorker who will Convert before the Barrier arrives.  The intent of this action is to incentivize the unconvinced to take initiative, in order to prevent a crisis.

2; This Council shall impose a logistics tax on any New York citizen moving away from the city, to another point on the globe, equal to five percent of the cost of whatever land or space such citizen or party is moving into, plus fifteen percent of the cost of the land or space that is being vacated.

3; This Council, in conjunction with the JRSF, and the Gryphon brotherhood of Knights, shall offer guaranteed equivalent ranking, pay, training, and a JRSF position, to any non-JRSF officer willing to Convert within the next five years.

In Council,

Vancouver

February 14th

A.D. 2117

15 AC'

Hutch set the DaTab down and tried to absorb the information.  It was striking enough that, while the Harrisburg facility was still intact, the Council had already moved its North American headquarters to Vancouver.

The third measure seemed a long-time in coming.  The JRSF, or Joint Reconnaissance & Strike Force, was a NATO-like paramilitary organization comprised of Human soldiers, Gryphon warriors, and Pony technicians, medics, and advisors.

In the years since the Option Gamma project, some Dragons, Lupine Diamond Dogs, and Zebra had also joined the program, but their patron races were still not yet official sponsors of the large, and swiftly growing, program.

Since its inception, the JRSF had been the Accord-races' first and best line of defense against threats to peace on the Earth-side of the Barrier.  There had even been talk of making the JRSF presence on the Equestrian side of the barrier more official.

JRSF Ponies and Gryphons had long-since been working to guard HAP shipments and facilities in Equestria.  The Human Archive Project was a shining example of Equine altruism; a vast organization dedicated to saving the sum total of human art and knowledge in a format that could be carried across the Barrier.

Hutch perused the DaTab once more, and sighed.  The Conversion incentive was a well-conceived idea, but the addition of a moving tax for those who weren't opting in, felt forced.  The General's instincts told him there would be political hell to pay for the measure.

His musings were sharply interrupted by a rat-a-tat-tat on the glass sliding door that separated his office from the main war-room of Fort Hamilton.  The New York facility now exclusively belonged to the JRSF, though admittedly for only a short time more.

"Come."

The door slid aside, and Hutch glanced up to see a tall, demure, fierce looking female Gryphon.  Seyal was one of the main Gryphic representatives on the JRSF's leading council.  She beckoned with one crooked talon, "You might want to see this."

Hutch grunted and rose, "Is this going to be bad news?"

Seyal smirked, the devil-may-care twist on her beak tinged with a faint trace of concern, "You didn't have any evening plans... right?"

"Oh.  Wonderful."  The words came out as an entirely flat monotone.  Hutch stepped through the portal to behold a large group of assorted officers from multiple species standing before the main holo-screen of the war room.

The space was ovoid, arching, open, and gleaming with displays, chrome, polished plastic, and thin self-cleaning military carpeting, all caught in the evening light tones washing in through the huge quarter-dome window that occupied one end of the room.

The giant display was tuned to the NorthAm News Network, and the in-studio reporter seemed to be nearing the end of his monologue,

"...scene here in New York continues to be one of muted chaos, as Earthgov struggles with the logistical impossibility of preparing to evacuate one of the largest cities on the globe, by the dreaded end-of-March deadline.  As everyone seems well aware; April showers will no longer fall on the Big Apple, whose land it is estimated, will begin falling to the Barrier in a matter of weeks, and will be entirely consumed by May.  Earthgov has been attempting to ensure that there are no casualties as a result of the first major landfall of the Barrier in a populous area, but the results of these efforts are startlingly mixed.  For more on that, we're going live to Vancouver... Ted?"

Despite the fact that it was three hours earlier in Western Canada, the lack of Equestrian sunlight made the next image dimmer than the New York studio had been.  A reporter, clad in buttoned up peacoat, was standing before a snow-dusted steel and glass building that was still partially under construction.

Sprawling out to either side were lawns of synthetic plastic grass, stone paths, and incomplete VTOL pads.

"Thanks Jim.  I'm being told that a special emergency session of the Council has just been concluded.  We'll have the pertinent footage for our viewers shortly, but I can certainly tell you right now; there is going to be a shake-up in the halls of power.  It's not often you see a Councilor ousted before the end of their twenty-five year term, but given that this is an election year, it seems likely that the majority of the sponsors who backed the new moving tax on New Yorkers, will be facing an end to their political career.  We're about to find out."

Hutch shifted uncomfortably and glanced at the officers around him.  Their expressions ranged from concern to apathy.  Some knew the significance of what was about to come to light, others were less engaged, mostly Equestrians who did not yet grasp Earth politics.

Hutch shifted his gaze back to the holoscreen in-time to catch a view of the new Council chambers as recently recorded footage of the Speaker For All, addressing the council, began to roll.

The man's vaguely Australian accent carried and rebounded through the large, domed, minimalist-construction chamber, giving it an air of finality even across the airwaves, "By a majority vote, of one hundred and fifty two, to seventy one, this Council has approved the measure to impeach the following members.  Councilor Emile Vastris of the Socialist party.  Councilor Andrea Miyagi of the Agricultural Sciences party.  Councilor Lenys Vernya, of the Socialist party.  Councilor Arno Loskys of the Transcendentalist Party.  Councilor Matthas Korvan, of the Biotechnological Combined Party.  The Council has voted.  We are all in accord."

Hutch stiffened at the final name and let out a hiss of surprise.  Korvan had been a thorn in the side of the Option Gamma program early on, and the General had emotions toward the man that were more easily described as hatred than distaste.  But Korvan had always been a strong supporter of the Bureaus, even if it was generally a politically motivated attitude.

The General mentally reviewed the list of names again, as the Council descended into confusion and anger on-screen, and he noted with grim concern that most of the dismissed Councilors were from parties that had a stake in the Bureaus or the JRSF, and the rest, with the exception of Vastris, were some of the most Bureau-supportive members of their neutral parties.

Hutch was not an especially good hand at politics, he preferred the Gryphic view of candor first, followed by pragmatism, but even he could grasp the implication.  In an election cycle where the Bureaus' PR was at a serious low-point, the last thing anyone needed was to see five major party heads, from Bureau supporting corners of the Council, dismissed dishonorably.

Hutch growled to himself.  He was willing to bet dollars to bits that Korvan had been the one responsible for persuading the others to go astray and sign the tax initiative on with the other bills.  Now the initiative would surely be stricken down, *and* the Bureau had lost critical support.  To cap it all off, the initiative would add weight to the Equestrian opposition parties at a critical moment of political upheaval; an election cycle.

Hutch flicked a small holographic toggle, and the screen vanished.  The action swiftly gained him the attention of everyone in the room.  He inhaled and shook his head, "You see that, people?  That is the kind of royal FUBAR we can't afford right now."

He stride around the table and gestured out at the barrier, where the first Equestrian stars were beginning to appear.  The shimmering wall was still a few miles out to sea, but it was getting closer with each passing week.

"*That* is going to wreak merry HELL on this city when it arrives, and it is going to turn into a major emotional, popular opinion, and political SCAT-storm when it starts chewing this place up.  How people react is still in-lay, and if they react badly then it's going to damage the Bureaus irreparably."

Hutch closed his eyes and held up his hands, "Now I can not believe I am saying this, because I swore I'd never get into this damned political nonsense... but I want you all to have an ear to the ground on this.  A slip up in the JRSF is *just* what the anti-parties need to spread their foul-mouthed 'Celesthulu' rhetoric to the public, and I for one refuse to let their cancerous bull-roar infect the populace at large.  Keep it *together* people."

As the officers nodded and dispersed, murmuring amongst themselves, Hutch turned back to the window to watch the moonrise.

He mumbled the rest of his sentence to himself, "We have to.  Or we are all going to to go to hell in a handbasket before anyone realizes the Devil's got us."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Third Month, Eight Day, Celestial Calendar

Chrysalis didn't like Converts.  There was a peculiar tang in their aura... a strength of buried fury, that upset the flavor balance of their emotions.  She preferred Native Equestrians; timid and kind, they produced a sweetness that was just short of sickening, and absolutely divine.

The Queen sighed as she stepped calmly over the half-dead body of the shivering Convert.  The repeated feedings had begun to take their toll.  Soon he would be depleted.  Good only for the emotions of pain his death would produce in other prisoners.

As she passed the guards Chrysalis licked her chitinous black lips and shook her head slightly.  She reflected that she couldn't complain; after her defeat at the hooves of the insufferable love-sick pink Alicorn, and her doting moronic mate, her Hives had fallen into famine and disarray.

Contact with her 'benefactors' on Earth allowed her a steady, if somewhat constrained, stream of prisoners from their paramilitary operations.  While most were Converts, this caused them to differ from Natives in flavor only.  They still fed the Hives well enough.

All the Human traitors asked in return, was a peculiar byproduct of the excretions the chitin of her drones produced every molting cycle.  She had some idea of what they did with it; it had a similar use in banned and mostly forgotten dark potions for the temporary changing of form.

Only; Humans didn't use magic.  They had a tantalizingly advanced technology, which was part of the motivation for liaising with them... while they remained useful.

As she ruminated on the status of her relationship with the Human 'terrorists,' known as the HLF, Chrysalis quietly strode the rock corridors of the central Hive.  She was over-Queen of the Changelings, and thus many Hives and hive Queens reported to her, but she had her own special Drones, and she even cared for them in her own peculiar way.

The corridors were mostly undecorated in the section she traversed; built swiftly and in utilitarian fashion out of a pressing need for space to handle refugees from recent Gryphon offensives.  The hated avians had begun to sense coming conflict, and had, in their usual modus operandi, pushed back against past incursions over their borders to establish pre-emptive cordons, reclaiming stadia of land that had been intended for the founding of two new hives to handle overpopulation.

The assaults had been incredibly swift and brutal, but the irony was that there were just enough survivors to make their bedraggled return to the Empire an added burden on top of the loss in drone-power the twin slaughters had ended with.

Chrysalis passed through the antechamber to her throne room; a massive cavern that was as old as Equestria itself.  Over the millennia, the rocks and crystals had been shaped and carved and inlaid until they had finally ended a bizarre, ephemerally beautiful tangle of patterns and designs that repeated back on themselves in mind boggling ways.

The Room was now filled to bursting with refugee Drones, huddled in groups on the cold stone under burlap scraps of cloth.

As she passed, the Queen could not help but share a tiny bit of the energy she had acquired from her recently concluded feed.  She not only pitied these Drones, but she needed them ready for work.  And battle.

At the end of the central cavern stood a pair of immense and intricately carved doors, fashioned from pure deep-rock obsidian that had itself formed in the fires of lava lakes miles below.

The Drones on guard pushed the giant portals inward, the immense slabs moving with utter silence and incredible ease on their frictionless, magic-infused hinges.

The throne room was as old as the central cavern, and just as ornately carved.  It was shaped vaguely like an arrowhead; as if those within were standing inside the upper half of a giant spear tip.

At the termination of the room, the tip, sat the Throne itself; it was fashioned from a metal the like of which could be found nowhere else.  Whenever Chrysalis sat upon it, small lights, akin to magelights, lit within the grooves and protrusions of its dark structure.  It seemed to almost come alive.

The Throne exhibited the behavior, as usual, when she ensconced her black chitinous flank within it.  She sighed, steeling herself for the usual bevy of bad reports and logistics nightmares that accompanied her work.

But the routine was not to be.

A female Drone scampered forward, green eyes glittering with excitement.  She knelt, and waited for Chrysalis' word.

"Arise.  What news?" Chrysalis tinged the words with just the right mixture of candor, abruptness, and reassurance.

The Drone twitched her dragonfly-like wings nervously, and spoke in a hushed tone, "Majesty.  They found her."

After a long pause, in-spite of herself, a grin split Chrysalis' muzzle.  She cackled in a low, thrumming tone, "Good.  Very good.  Prepare an infiltrator.  We shall makes plans to return her to the Hive.  At once."

Chrysalis leaned back into her throne and murmured with satisfaction, "I shall broker no resistance.  Her knowledge shall be ours...  Her biological distinctiveness."

Darkness.  Not the familiar, comforting, blanket-like darkness of a starlit sky; its brilliant pinpricks offering comforting counterpoint to the light of a waxing moon.  No.  Darkness as if in a cavern.  Cloying.  Oppressive.  Dank.

Dead.

The world was dead.  She had killed it.  This hadn't been what she wanted!  Her hoof inscribed a slow, melancholy circle in the gray charred dust.  When had grass last grown on these fields?

She gazed up at the ruin of Canterlot.  Once magnificent towers strewn across the mountainside in utter ruin.  Mighty, seemingly impregnable granite and marble, shattered to dust like so much decayed cement.

"It's so.... Beautiful."

She started, crabbing to the side violently and swiveling her head right so sharply she felt tendons snap.

The voice came from a paradox.  Standing in stark contrast to the magnificent desolation that Equestria had become, was a Unicorn.  Her deep amaranthine coat was startlingly complimented by her even deeper navy mane; which shone as if it had become an impromptu refuge to the missing stars above.

She looked down at her little Pony, and noted her strange cutie mark; Ankh.  A Symbol of one of Earth's ancient cultures.

The smiling Unicorn turned to face her, eyes seeming to drill into her soul, "And we have you to thank... don't we?"

"No..." She shook her head and took a halting step back, hoof clanging against something sharp and metallic.  She glanced down, then bent her muzzle closer.  The golden hoof guard, bent, twisted, and sullied by grit, seemed strangely familiar.

She noticed the inset sun symbol almost at the same time as she noticed the skeleton, and the rest of the buried regalia.  Two wings.  Four hooves.  A Horn.  A familiar brace-plate set with a fiery Amethyst.

"NO!"

The Unicorn smiled, her eyes seeming to light from behind with a preternatural red glow, "Oh *yes* Princess.  If only your sister could see you now.  *You* made this all possible."

"AAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH!"

Luna's screech immediately drew the attention of her chamber guards.  With a familiar whisper of smoothed metal against marble floors, the two jet-black stallions entered; stone faced and tense, as per usual.

Luna shifted uncomfortably.  She had fallen asleep at her desk.  Again.

Night was supposed to be her time.  Her realm.  Yet an inability to sleep, during day or night, had left her exhausted and stressed for nigh on a month.  She had begun to fear that she would not be able to keep the signs of her physical and mental degradation from her sister much longer.

Her sister.

The images of the dream came flooding back.  What had, seconds before, been a faceless nameless terror maddeningly nipping at the dim edges of memory, was now a horror so forceful, real, and present, that she felt a violent physical urge to vomit.

She sighed and gestured one still-armor-clad hoof at the guards, "Leave us.  We... allowed our frustration at our work to get the better of us.  It is no cause for concern."

She maintained a stiff, calm demeanor until the silver-laced doors to her chambers had once again swung shut.  Then she slumped, muzzle first, onto the desk.  And she wept.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

February 27th, Gregorian Calendar

The suited man was having what his subordinates might term an 'off day.'  It had started when he lost a pack of his very rare, very expensive real cigarettes down a storm drain.  It had culminated in reports of a new Gryphic military offensive making incursions into an HLF facility in Dubai.

Mr. Utah straightened his suit compulsively, and started on his fifth cigarette.  The habit was expensive; synthekelp was scarce enough that very little could be legally purchased for making non-consumables.  Cigarettes, whether left-over from before the Winnowing, or made from kelp, were something only the hyper-rich could afford to indulge in.  The current price per twelve-pack was five hundred dollars.

Mr. Utah felt he needed the stress-reduction of the nicotine-substitute however.  The Gryphons' declaration of war three years back had not been small potatoes; beyond mere involvement in the JRSF, they had begun sending full battalions of warriors to fight the HLF and the PER.

Battalions that were increasingly outfitted with Earth technology in addition to their own unconventional weapons, to give them a further edge.

The HLF had been attempting to maximize their advantages to stem the tide of recent crushing defeats.  The main tools at their disposal were their 'Gray Operatives' and their Augments.

The Grays were a benefit of their relationship with the 'Equestrian Benefactor,' but recently new forms of identity checking had diminished their value somewhat.

The Augments were their first, last, and best line of defense on the ground.

Just after the Winnowing, when all the plants and animals on the planet had died off catastrophically, Humanity had made an ill-advisedly swift foray into the field of biological cybernetic augmentation.

The results had been so horrifying, thanks to the alacrity with which caution and ethics were dispatched as central concerns, that the practice had been entirely outlawed except where it was absolutely necessary to save a life.

The advent of Conversion had even seen a massive dip in the allowed permissions for legitimate augmentation; the government would not give even life saving technology to its own citizens, if there was any way in which they could accomplish the same salvation with Conversion, instead of the fear-inducing and much maligned process of bio-augmentation.

Here, Mr. Utah reflected, the HLF's more... 'pragmatic' viewpoint allowed them a foothold.

Unfettered by laws, ethics, or fears, augmentation had allowed them to produce soldiers that were up to half as effective as a Gryphon on the battlefield.  A massive achievement considering that a lone un-augmented fully kitted soldier was less than one-five-hundredth as lethal as any Equestrian, let alone the predatory Gryphons.

But it wasn't enough.

Enrollment in the HLF had never been higher, but the Gryphons, and the JRSF as a whole, were starting to pull fewer punches and to adapt to existing Augments and their still-glaring flaws.

Mr. Utah watched through a five foot thick transparent aluminum wall, as a Phase-II Augment pulverized a holographic dummy.

The faceless soldier, and the gray-haired leader were both starkly at odds with their environ; the former clad in beige armor plating, the latter in a suit.  The hallway, and the combat laboratory, were mostly built of stark white biophobic plastic, lit harshly with fluorescent lumibars, and trimmed with insistent yellow warning stripes.

Mr. Utah watched, smoke wreathing his head lazily, as the soldier brought his incredible strength to bear.  Phase-IIs were actually stronger and more durable overall than Gryphons, approaching the resilience and striking power of Diamond Dogs.  Their main weakness lay in their utter lack of speed and agility.

A Phase-II rated several hundred points lower for agility than even a Diamond Dog Troll in base-line combat scores, making it easy for the literally unparalleled, seemingly paranormal,  agility and thought-speed of the Gryphons to negate the advantages of an Augment in equal-numbers combat.

Against Ponies and Diamond Dogs they fared somewhat better, but once a Pony was riled they often had hidden strengths that were difficult to account for.  Pegasi had straight-line speed approaching that of small aircraft.  Unicorn magic was damnably unpredictable.  Earth Ponies... well... their 'buck' could hit with enough force to shatter even a teryllium/carbon-alloy chest plate.

In the test chamber, the hologram finally got the better of the training soldier, penetrating the weak neck plating of his suit with a simulated ethereal sword.

Mr. Utah sighed in mild exasperation, and took a long pull on his cigarette.

"Do you see the potential?"

The voice came from behind.  Mr. utah recognized it and acknowledged with a slight nod, "Potential, yes.  Bringing it out, however, seems... elusive."

The newcomer, an older man in a white lab coat that matched the surroundings perfectly, stepped forward to stand beside his suited compatriot, "Mr. Utah."

"Doctor Omaha."

The men shared a 'Section' in the HLF Cabinet.  Each section had a unique purpose, based upon where its tenets were drawn from.  Each section also shared a subset of related World War II based codenames.

Mr. Utah and Dr. Omaha hailed from Normandy section.  As such they were both associated with large corporations in some way.  Mr. Utah held a high level corporate position, Dr. Omaha on the other hand was a chief scientist for a large, and growing, biomedical firm.

During the incident with Gryphonization several years prior, the JRSF had raided and subsequently dismantled one of the world's largest biomedical firms due to its sub rosa involvement with the PER.  The action had been a boon to the HLF, since it not only crippled the PER's Ponification Serum, or 'Potion,' production capabilities for a time, but it also brought startlingly large amounts of new business to Dr. Omaha's company.

The money and the connections were both invaluable to the HLF.

"I presume I was called here to see more than a mere demonstration of Phase-II's failings," Mr. Utah's tone made it clear that the sentance was neither threat, nor question, but simple and firm expectation.

The stone-faced scientists nodded once, with conviction. As he spoke, a wiry, tall, armor clad figure stepped into the combat chamber, "You were called here because within the month, Phase-II will be obsolete."

As he watched a very different set of events unfold in the test area, Mr. Utah took another, much more satisfied puff, on his cigarette.  The light from simulated weapons played menacingly on the creases of his face, accented by the smoke.

He smiled; a twisted expression of mildly repressed glee for the macabre that would have put a shark to shame.

"Tell me more."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 1st, Gregorian Calendar

Commander Aston liked train stations.  The thrum of high powered magnets, footsteps, and thousands of voices, made her feel connected to the world in a meaningful and almost relaxing fashion.

It helped that, no matter how advanced they became, trains never seemed to lose their romantic appeal.  Not even maglevs.

"Stealing a breather?"

Aston spared only a short glance over her shoulder, before smirking and returning her gaze to the crowds on the platform, "Stealing?  No no *this* is collecting *interest* on the month of sleep we're about to lose."

The owner of the voice, Hutch, slumped wearily onto the bench beside her, "In all fairness, the hard part is only just starting for you.  I've already spent the last two weeks losing plenty of shut-eye over the fallout this is generating."

Aston sighed deeply and rubbed at her eyes, her voice dropping to a more serious tone, "It's like a nightmare.  Just thinking about it makes my head hurt badly enough to need an ice pack."

She stared as one of the trains began to move, only the slightest of humans accompanying the mammoth electromagnetic forces that gave it motive power, "Twenty million people.  How are we supposed to move twenty *million* people in a month?  How did it even come to this?"

Hutch leaned back into the ergonomic plastic of the bench, crossed his arms, and gazed at the arching buttresses that supported the all-plexiglass ceiling, seventy feet above, "Well... for all our drive and ingenuity we are a damnably stubborn lot.  I think people try to forget about this mess because they don't want the loss of this city to become real.  If it becomes real, then the *whole* mess is real, and no one can afford to put things off indefinitely anymore."

Aston smiled wanly, and stared off into the middle-distance, "For a race of pioneers and inventors, we certainly like to put things off."

Hutch raised an eyebrow, "Well after a few years in this job, I can confidently say that I've learned some of the commonalities and differences of the races.  Let me tell you; doesn't matter the size, disposition, drive to improve, or lack thereof... We all get sentimental about certain things.  Even the Diamond Dogs."

The pair sat in silence for five minutes; enjoying eachothers' company, and watching the bustle on the platforms before them.

Their reverie was abruptly put to an end by the public address system, "Evacuation Train twelve now departing platform two.  All citizens in Evacuation Group Alpha-77, please report to platform eight for boarding of trains thirteen and fourteen."

As the PA system followed up by chiming the hour, Aston rose, and stretched, groaning, "Well.  I guess its crunch time."

As Hutch and Aston separated to their posts, the sky above was split by the whine of a dozen turbine engines.  VTOLs and transport airships began to depart the city in a seemingly never-ending stream, filling the skies to the point that it was impossible to find an entirely clear patch of the expanse.

Over the course of a few hours every maglev line, and major roadway, was repurposed to act as an outbound artery.  Only smaller rip-tracks, maintenance routes, and two-lane roads were allowed to handle ingress traffic.

Slowly but steadily, gaining momentum like the monstrous wheeled freight trains of old, the outflow of citizens began to gain traction.

Ships departed the Navy-secured southern corridors of the harbor, bound for the safer shores of the Carolinas.  Equestrian newfoal transports sailed directly into and out of the port, for the first time.

Everywhere throughout the city, and its far flung boroughs, signs trumpeted the message.  Internet terminals replaced their daily login message.  The Wall Street Ticker was pre-empted.  Times Square was, for once, without advertisements.

Even the digital signage attached to trains and other public transport displayed the messages.

"Hazard Zone Warning!"

"Proceed To Evacuation Points."

"Do *You* Have an Evacuation Plan?"

Chapter 6

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 8th, Gregorian Calendar

"And the power source?"

"Already integrated into the casing; you'll find that in the usual PO box.  The trigger is part of the main driver board, and it's set to go off within an hour of coming online, so make your entry plans accordingly.  The Potion is highly concentrated; we've re-enforced the anti-shock coating, but all the same if I were you?  I wouldn't jostle the canister."

The Pony, a dull-bronze toned Unicorn, levitated the dangerous cargo to his partner slowly, as if he could convey the.volatility of the substance within via the deliberateness of the gesture.  The human, a jacket-clad man in his late thirties, hefted the opaque unassuming cylinder thoughtfully.

"Are you sure this is enough?  What about the building's countermeasures?"

The Unicorn shook his head slowly, "We're not targeting the building.  Just the conference room."

The man stopped and glowered in a mixture of concern, curiosity, and confusion, "*Why*? Full-bore Dispersion Cylinders aren't exactly easy to build these days... With a bigger Potion reservoir we could..."

The Unicorn stopped, and held out a hoof, barring his partner's passage.  The pair stood, staring each other down in the center of the white, featureless corridor.  The Pony spoke first, his tone surprisingly harsh, "Ours is *not* to question.  Ours is to *obey.*"  He dipped his muzzle towards the floor, "Wait here.  I'll retrieve your passcards and car keys."

The equine ducked into a side-chamber, glaring back at the human as the door slid closed, "Don't move.  Don't touch anything.  Don't talk to anyone."

The man stood and fidgeted for several moments.  He had no qualms about his capacity to complete his mission; rather, the PER facility was beginning to weigh on his subconscious.  The white plastic-like walls, off-gray floors, and white tiled ceilings made the space feel eerily antiseptic.

Beyond architecture, the personnel were the biggest contributor to the agent's sense of disquiet.  The few humans he had seen coming and going did not speak to him, or to each other.  They kept their eyes on the floor and walked with a speed that seemed born of more than just purpose.

The Diamond Dog guards had, as far as he'd seen, all been wearing face-obscuring helmets that gave them a vicious, homogenous, and stark demeanor.

But worst of all by far, in the man's opinion, were the Ponies.  They were unlike the members of any PER cell he had ever worked with; his current count was twelve, so he felt qualified to make assessments.

The Equines he had met so far, within the base confines, all seemed to be by his internal terminology, 'off.'  It was true enough that most PER Ponies seemed perpetually uncomfortable, or tense; but the ones the man had met on the premises of the new facility were different on a deeper level.  From *any* Pony.

They seemed cold.  As lifeless, antiseptic, and goal-oriented as the skin and bones of the facility itself; the very antithesis of Equine culture, mentality, and even biology.

The man shuffled, and checked his watch; his bronze colored compatriot had been gone for nearly fifteen minutes.  He jammed his hands into his pockets, in a futile effort to curtail his pent-up energy.

He might have managed to remain where he was standing until the Pony returned, had he not heard a muffled thump emanating from the chamber across the hall.  The door was like all the others in the corridor; off-white surface with a reflective sheen, a single pastel stripe denoting department, and a number stenciled into the bar in gray.

The man stared at the door, piercing it with his gaze as if willing his eyes to gain the sudden capacity to x-ray the metal and plastic.  He was on the cusp of writing the noise off as his imagination, when the thump came once more.  And louder.

He slowly removed his hands from his pockets.  The man glanced first right, and then left down the corridor.  He was alone, save for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights interspersed in the ceiling at regular intervals.

The would-be terrorist crossed the tiles slowly, his sneakers creating a soft squeak on the linoleum that seemed gratingly loud in the absence of louder aural background stimuli.

He had just reached the portal, when there was a soft hiss, and the doors began to slide open.  He barely had time to notice that the lighter exterior covering belied a heavier unconventional blast-proof inner-layer as he ducked to the side, and shoved his hands back into his pockets.

To his surprise, two Unicorns exited the room, clad in white biophobic-textile lab coats.  They barely offered him a glance as they silently moved into the corridor, and away; eyes downcast, lips unmoving, muzzles locked in an expressionless thin line.

The man stood, shuffling, his own eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling, until the pit-pad of hooves had receded to inaudibility.  The door had already begun to close, and he had to make a flying leap to interpose his hand, and halt the locking cycle.  The portal irised back open; infrared sensors detecting the presence of an obstacle.

He stepped gingerly into the room, nearly tripping as his toes found a short set of steps down to a recessed lower floor.  He turned about in a full circle, taking stock of the chamber.

It was long, thin, and dark; the walls and floor were a dim shade of gunmetal gray, and lighting came from recessed blue-toned floor units.  The rear wall was taken up with a holo-console.  The side walls, however, provided the most eye-catching feature;  row upon row of peculiar tanks, stilted at a forty degree angle from vertical, and hooked to a bevy of glowing, pulsing, spinning apparati at their apexes.

The agent took a cautious step towards one of the tanks, noting the presence of a small plexiglass slit near the top.  The cylinders were only half the height of a human, sans crowning machinery, so the slit was slightly below eye level for him.

The Plexiglass was completely frosted-over.  He wiped his sleeve against it, but the frost was obviously on the interior surface.  He was on the verge of turning away when the jolt came.

There was a jarring 'THUMP' and something hit the plexiglass, momentarily clearing the frost.  The man jumped back reflexively, then peered closely at the slit, unsure of what he was seeing.  When he finally processed the image, the reflex to turn and run only *increased.*

He realized, with growing dread and confusion, that the misshapen object filling the viewport was a Pony muzzle.

The man had nearly reached the exit to the chamber, when the door opened on command from the corridor.  He beheld his partner standing in the entryway, framed by the glare from the hall lights.

The Pony spoke with a dour, yet calm, chilling tone, "I told you not to move."  He stepped aside gracefully, making room for three new forms in the hatchway.

The center creature was a midnight maned, lavender toned Unicorn; the flourescents of the ceiling created a striking pattern of starlike lights in her hair that was almost mesmerizing.  She was flanked by two Diamond Dogs, complete with unmarked white ceramic PER standard armor, and far less characteristic potion rifles normally wielded by troops on Conversion missions.

She smiled down on the man, then tossed her mane, "Take him.  We can always find someone else to deliver his asset."

The man had no time to glean any data from the words; they fell on his ears as though he were deaf.  Shortly thereafter, the bright purple bolts of the Potion rifles impacted his chest, the energy passing through textiles, flesh, and bone to deliver aerosolized potion directly to his bloodstream, complete with anesthetic.

As he drifted into unconsciousness, his mind finally began to register the true horror of what was befalling him.  He just had time to see the Diamond Dogs eject the casing on an empty tube, and begin to hoist his body inside, before his world went permanently black.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Tenth Day, Celestial Calendar

Fyrenn found his room exactly as he had left it.  The emotions the space evoked were equal parts welcome, and peculiar.  He had spent most of his adult life, Human and Gryphon, moving from place to place as part of his military career.  He rarely spent any length of time in one set of living quarters, and the last time he had called one truly his own had been decades previous.

It felt unquantifiably strange; to step into the warm, welcoming space and be greeted by fond memories and personal possessions.  To be home.

At the same time, the sense of belonging brought with it a profound sense of peace.  It was easier to live an active, far-roaming life, he had found, when one had a home to return to; easier both emotionally, and logistically.

The room was reminiscent of the guest quarters he had occupied on his first visit the city, but more expansive; clearly designed for a longer duration stay.  The floor was made of precisely cut stones fitted together in intricate patterns and trimmed at certain junctures with silver and brass.

The center of the asymmetric oval chamber was occupied by a small hearth that mimicked the shape of the floor overall.  One entire wall, opposite the entry door, was given over to a crystalline window, that could be opened and closed from both inside and out by means of an intricate clasp of, what most would call, vaguely celtic design.

Fyrenn glanced left from the window to his desk; a carved oaken piece of furniture with a thin granite top inlaid with a variety of Gryphic patterns in bronze filigree.  The contents of surface were fairly neat and tidy; papers arranged small stacks, a quill made from one of his own molted feathers resting in an inkwell, and a small magelamp.

At the opposite side of the hearth was his bed; more a nest of pillows on a flat round mattress than anything else.  The door to the corridor was closer to the desk than the right wall, and most of the back wall opposite the window was taken up with bookcases and a workbench.  A second door on the other side of the stone shelves led to a shower and sink tucked into a cozy alcove.

Betwixt the bookcases and the workbench there was a break, in which stood a frame, hooks, shelves, and drawers, for Fyrenn's weapons and armor.

The red Gryphon peeled off his accoutrements piece by piece, carefully examining each for damage that might need attention, before buffing it with a cloth from the workbench, and placing it lovingly in its place on the rack.

After all of his armor, his bow, and arrow had been closeted, he came at last to his sword.  Fyrenn flopped exhaustively into the chair at the workbench, and examined the hilt of the weapon with a fond smile.

The design was the symbolic rune for knowledge; a tribute to one of his closest friends whom he had, at the time the blade was forged, thought dead.

As he placed the weapon and its leather scabbard, complete with his clan crest, into the rack, he noticed a small package at the corner of the workbench.  He returned to a seated position, and slid the burlap lump, entwined in coarse string, to the center of the stone table.

One slice of his index talon later, and the cloth fell away to reveal a small steel tool.  Fyrenn grinned; he had requested the special corkscrew-like object as a special task from the city's weapon forges.

He unclasped one of the larger drawers beneath the bench, and withdrew his latest project.  In his spare time, the Gryphon had taken to putting his earthly weapons expertise to good use; he had begun to pursue what some were calling a 'career' in tinkering, inventing, and occasionally perfecting, new weapons for the Kingdoms.

His most recent concept was one part smooth steel, one part sharp alloy, one part carved oak, and entirely menacing.  He laid the device on the bench, snatched up his new tool in one claw, and fitted the instrument to the business end of the weapon.  He gave the object a few clockwise turns, then removed it gingerly, blew away the shavings of steel and peered into the tube.

His sharp eyes were greeted with a consistent grooved screw-like pattern.  He grinned once more, a dangerous expression, as he contemplated the potential damage his creation might be capable of.

He sighed, set down the corkscrew, and gave in to his exhaustion, dragging himself to the hearth to set a fire before he took his rest.  A small steel bar lay between two of the stones, and he chipped at it with a talon until the sparks ignited the leftover material in the pit, resulting in simmering embers.

Before finally sleeping, he unclasped his window, allowing the crystalline curved slab to fall away into its recessed floor slot.  Cool night air flooded into the room, bringing with it the comforting sounds of the mountains and forest beyond.

Fyrenn collapsed lazily into his nest, and sighed.

It *was* good to be home.

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

March 9th, Gregorian Calendar

Mr. Utah fiddled absently with his cigarette case.  The Retribution's torpedo room was, even in his eyes, an unsuitable place to introduce flammable materials.

Mr. Utah was surrounded on his left and right by tall, ominous racks of high-explosive torpedos, their sharp repeating magnetic waveguide fins giving them a dinosaur-like predatory aspect.  Behind him was the thin passage to the slightly more expansive rear of the room.  Before him, standing beside the launch tube one hatch, his subordinate was busy donning a pressure suit.

"You understand your objective?"

The agent nodded once abruptly, "Perfectly sir."

The suited man twirled a cigarette between finger and thumb, eyeing the gear the agent was busy slithering into.  To Mr. Utah, it looked like little more than a mess of dark blue plates and white fabric.  The shoulder pads, arm gauntlets, and leg greaves had conspicuous hardpoints on them, obviously for latching some sort of brace into.

"Prepare for silent running.  All crew to general quarters." In concert with the announcement, a series of red lights on the bulkhead began to blink, washing out the colors of the torpedo room on and off in favor of a single blood-stained tone.

Mr. Utah's face bore a deathly serious aspect, his aging skin thrown into lovecraftian relief by the alert lamps.  He placed a single hand on the agent's titanium-clad shoulder, "You must not fail.  Everything hinges on your success."

The man nodded a second time, again a single abrupt motion, "Understood."

Mr. Utah stepped back into the corridor as a pair of seamen squeezed into the weapon room, and began strapping the agent into a cylindrical metallic frame; bolting the superstructure to his armor via the external hardpoints.

Mr. Utah turned, and began making his way to the bridge as the seamen hoisted the cylindrical frame, agent and all, towards torpedo tube one.

He arrived just as the Captain did, and took up a position near the central scope to observe the first of several mission-critical phases.  The agent that the HLF was about to commit to his daring plan was an incredibly rare and unique asset.  If he died during phase-I of the operation it would not simply mean an end to the mission, but to Mr. Utah's career as well.

The Captain nodded in acknowledgement of Utah's presence, then turned to face the forward consoles of the bridge, "Helm, make your depth one-five-eight. XO, rig the boat for stealth.  Weapons, prepare a firing solution."

The executive officer clasped both hands behind her back, and stepped forward, repeating the orders in a loud, staccato military cadence, "HELM! make depth *one-five-eight!* WEAPONS! prepare *firing* solution!"  She reached up and snatched a microphone/headphone device from an overheat holder, tucking it behind her ear, "Rig ship for stealth! Main reactor to standby, open all capacitor junctions for backup power.  All crew to silence stations.  Secure exterior ports and shutdown communication suites!"

Several moments of tense silence passed before the officer manning the operations terminal turned to the command platform, "Sir, ship reports rigged for stealth."

The helmsman spoke next, keeping her eyes fixed on the depth gauge as she manipulated the diving plane controls with a feather-light touch, "Depth is one-five-eight and steady.  Speed zero-five knots."

The Captain turned to the tactical alcove, staring over the shoulders of the two aiming officers as their faces were cast in the eerie glow of a dozen holoscreens and backlit keypads, "Weapons?"

After several more seconds of quiet typing, the senior tactical officer nodded once, and glanced up, "Firing solution prepared sir.  Tubes set for eight degree up-angle.  Mags charged at thirty percent nominal.  Torpedo room reports hatch shut, package loaded. Tube flooded, ready to fire."

The Captain spared a short nervous glance in Mr. Utah's direction, before folding his arms, and sighing, "Computer; Weapons posture one: release maglocks, safeties off."

He paused.  After an acknowledging tri-tone from the bridge speakers, he threw a forward gesture at the tactical alcove with one hand, "Fire one."

"Firing one!"

There was a faint, but noticeable vibration in the deck plating, but otherwise absolute silence.  Five seconds passed.  Then ten.  Then twenty.  Finally, the communications officer gave an 'ok sign, "We have a heartbeat from the casket.  Package intact, and the frame is ascending."

Mr. Utah smiled, ever so slightly, and withdrew his lighter.  As he prepared his traditional nicotine stress release, the Captain sighed with relief, "Helm, make depth four-five above bottom, and move us away to the South.  Manhattan harbor is a chancy place for a long-term stay."

Earth Calendar: 2117

Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)

Fourth Month, Eleventh Day, Celestial Calendar

By the time Fyrenn arrived in the Library, still licking the edges of his beak to remove the last traces of his brown bread and shrimp breakfast, the rest of his companions had already arrived.

Tih’ré Seli’hn's library was legendary outside the bounds of the Kingdoms.  While the subject matter was less diverse than that of the canterlot Archives, the size was nearly equal.  The central chamber of the repository was a five story domed room, off of which jutted four vaulted chambers, four stories tall and wide enough for three Gryphons to stand with wings outstretched.

The dome of the center space mimicked the light conditions and color of the sky outside, by use of advanced light trickery and well crafted lenses.

Each of the four main halls not only had bookshelves, pigeonholes, and locked compartments of their own, but the floors above the 'ground' level recessed back into the rock, leading to a warren of bookstacks, cubbies, and rooms.

Fyrenn loved the library.  Curling up with an ancient scroll, or a new piece of fictional literature, wasn't just an experience in absorbing more of his new culture.  When he was in the library, he felt as if the tomes that surrounded him were a direct link to the history of his species.  The smell of the paper was mixed with the rich undertones of leather bindings and covers, the tang of ink, and a comforting whiff of sun-warmed feathers.

The red Gryphon shook himself, trying to turn down the intensity of his 'goofy' smile as he approached his friends and family.  Kephic, Varan, Carradan, a Gryphon he didn't recognize, and Sildinar were all gathered around a large stone table near the base of a supporting arch in one of the vaulted antechambers.

As he approached, Fyrenn could see that they were talking in hushed tones about the documents the group had seized, which were strewn across the table in a messy overlapping hash, along with several sheets of scratch paper, quills, and inkwells.

Fyrenn stood on his hind legs and placed both foreclaws on the table, "So... where do we begin?"

Sildinar gestured to the unfamiliar male Gryphon.  His feathers were pleasant shades of brown, ranging from dark to light in stripes reminiscent of a barred owl, "Fyrenn, this is Tenek.  He is a master mathematician and linguist."

Fyrenn extended a claw, smiling, "Glad to know someone has the numbers covered."

Tenek chuckled as he exchanged a clawshake, "You are not fond of arithmetic?"

Fyrenn snorted and shook his head, "Math is wonderful, and incredible, and ever-useful... As long as *I* don't have to do it.  I can mess up even the most basic long division.  I just don't have a head for numbers."

Tenek nodded slowly, "Well then as you say; it's good that you have me.  From what little I've seen so far, I can tell you that this code is no simple cipher.  It is based on well thought out equations and will not be easy to crack."

Carradan snapped a forehoof against the stone floor, "Then we'd best get cracking."

Varan glowered, "That was reprehensible.  You are forbidden from speaking."

The salmon Pegasus rolled his eyes, "Who's going to stop me?"

The golden Gryphon took one simple step forward, and Stan's muzzle snapped shut with an audible clack of teeth.  Varan smiled slightly, and returned his attention to Tenek.

The latter nodded slowly, looking mildly bemused, "Quite... Well in order to make a start on these I shall need several volumes."

Fyrenn jerked his head at Sildinar, "We can fetch those."

Tenek glanced between Kephic and Varan, "I will also need a large abacus, and further stores of scrap paper, if you would be so kind."

Stanley cocked his head, "And me?"

Tenek gestured to the quill and paper, "Your cutie mark identifies you as someone familiar with writing.  It will make all our lives easier if you handle the quill, while I juggle the numbers."

Carradan smiled, "Long as you don't mind if its all in common.  I'm gettin pretty handy with my hoof writing."

Varan inhaled slowly, and deeply, "But no better with your sense of humor."

The two Gryphons worked in silence for several moments, before Fyrenn finally spoke, "So... Things on Earth sound like they've taken a turn for the worse."

Sildinar shrugged his wings as he rifled through a collection of scrolls, "Climates fluxuate.  The situation *is* bad.  But not irrecoverable by any means."

Fyrenn nodded slowly, "Hutch?  Aston?  Seyal? How are they getting along?"

The roan Gryphon smiled slightly, "General Hutchinson is exceedingly busy, but otherwise as well as can be expected for a man losing his city.  Aston is still in the thick of things, but the last I heard of her she had plans to seek a sponsor for Conversion.  She would be a welcome addition to the species."

Sildinar's smile took on a wistful air, "Seyal... she is well."  He shook himself, and abruptly changed the focus of the topic, "Neyla too."

Fyrenn turned away abruptly, and began hovering beside a third story shelf, "Oh?"  He did his best to remove any hint of interest or emotion from his tone.  He failed miserably.

Sildinar grinned, "Oh yes.  She's in a Scalebuster unit now.  Highest kill-count in her division.  She is a quick study, of weapons and culture both."

The red Gryphon nodded again, keeping his eyes fixed intently on the book before him; 'Airstreams: The Dynamics of Thermoclines.' "Enjoying food, fun, and very big guns is she?"

"In my estimation?"  Sildinar laid down his scroll, and folded his forelegs, standing entirely on his hind limbs.  Fyrenn landed, and turned to face him.

The Gryphic prince eyed his younger companion knowingly, "Enjoying...? I suppose.  But not as much as she ought be.  The word I'd use is 'melancholy.' "

The corners of Fyrenn's beak turned down slightly, "Oh.  Well... I'm sorry to hear that."  He sighed, and began leafing through the book he had withdrawn, "Here's hoping things improve for her."

Fyrenn snapped the book shut, and strode off down the corridor, trying to appear nonchalant.  Sildinar twirled his scroll absently, and murmured as he set off after his friend, "You'll have to do more than hope, I think."