Chapter 31

Mystic was awoken by a muffled thump.

She had finished the Tactica Equestrialis the night before, and had spent so long studying the diagrams and maps in the back of the book, that they were the last thing she saw in her sleeping mind before her eyes started to open. As she stirred, the heavy book finally slipped off the bed, making a loud thud.

She shot straight upright. For a moment, she wasn't sure if she had imagined the first noise, or if her sleep-addled mind had confused the timing. Then another thump rocked the Grand Pferdian Hotel, one louder and closer. All the decorations and paintings in the room rattled, and Mystic felt it even through her soft bed.

It was an explosion.

She recognized it a moment before the fire alarms went off. After the blaring began, she jumped out of her bed and limped toward the exit, the book lying forgotten where it had landed. Her door flung open before she could even reach it.

“Something has happened,” said Fyzzix matter-of-factly as he entered. That much was apparent, but it wouldn't have been like Fyzzix to skip any detail, no matter how obvious. “I believe the hotel is under some kind of attack.”

“By who?” said Mystic. The potential list was short, but she still couldn’t imagine anypony being brazen enough to attack such a public place in broad daylight.

“I don’t have sufficient data to determine that, but I suspect we’ll know soon.” The smile on his face-grille was at odds with the note of worry creeping into his augmetic monotone. He hastily began removing the last bandages from her healed leg.

Out in the hall, panicked voices could be heard, other well-to-do ponies who shared the high-priced floor. At the opposite end of the hall, Mystic could hear the barked commands from fighters exiting the stairs. There was a shriek, a volley of pie impacts, and then silence. It only lasted a moment before the tromp of marching hooves made toward Mystic’s room.

It was almost unreal: usually, it was Caballus and his team who went bucking in the doors, and the heretics who cowered in the corner until vengeance found them. Today, the Throne Agents were on the defensive. Mystic was barely aware that Fyzzix had cut away the last bandage, and shoved a pie into her hooves.

Fortunately, her training kicked in and she retreated to a firing position behind her bed, assumed a throwing posture aimed at the door. Fyzzix stood with his back to the wall just beside the entrance. He raised a hoof once, twice, three times to signal he had identified that many separate sets of hoofsteps outside.

The door flew open, the dark wood splintering around the latch and swinging wide. A teal stallion rushed in, pie drawn, followed by a tan one who had bucked the door in. Mystic dropped the first with her throw, and then ducked behind the bed as the other returned fire. Fyzzix, whom neither attacker had noticed, plastered the back of his head with pastry.

As a final invader entered, the Meq-priest’s mechadendrite clamped around her neck before she could even react to her comrades’ swift defeat. He flipped her overhead as if she weighed nothing, and slammed her to the ground.

“Death to the Plutarch and his dogs!” she managed to spit out as she gasped and squirmed. Then Fyzzix’ vice grip cut off her air completely, and she stopped moving a moment later.

“Are you injured?” he asked when he released the limp mare.

Mystic poked her head above the bedside. “No. I’m fine.”

The red-robed stallion gave the three attackers a quick glance. “No identifying markings. Poorly trained and equipped.” Indeed, the assailants wore little except their ammo bags, and they’d been almost comically unprepared for any resistance. “It’s unlikely that they’re professionals hired by one of the Ver Kaufers’ rivals. However, that small sample of rhetoric suggests they might be-”

“Cultists,” said Mystic.

Fyzzix nodded. “Children of Liberation, in all likelihood. What remains unknown is their objective.”

Mystic tried to imagine what they had in the hotel that the Children would want. All their operational information was stored on encrypted data-scrolls, useless without Caballus’s codes. Most of their more exotic gear was stored aboard the Majesty, in one of Meister’s secure hangars at the aerodrome. Which really only leaves… “Could they be after the nav-stack?”

Fyzzix nodded again. “I concur. Although, if we’re lucky, they’re simply here to kill us.”

“That would simplify things,” Mystic admitted.

A prehensile cable wriggled its way out from under Fyzzix’ robes as he approached the room’s cogitator terminal. It plunged into an empty port, and Mystic gave him some silence as he interfaced with the machine spirits and immersed himself in the data-stream.

“I can see seventeen more cultists,” the Meq-priest said, using the hotel’s security network in place of his own eyes. “They’ve secured the first floor, and are… oh dear.”

“What?” Fyzzix only sounded slightly perturbed, but even that much emotion spoke volumes to Mystic. And not good volumes either.

“The Children appear to be assembling some kind of explosive device in the lobby. Judging by its size, and some of the components I recognize, it will be of sufficient yield to level this building.”

Mystic’s blood ran cold. “What do we do?”

Her friend was still and silent for a moment. It lasted only a few seconds, but during those few seconds, the pony she knew as Fyzzix was gone. In his place stood a machine of pure, cold logic, one that analyzed all the available information, calculated every possible course of action, and determined which option maximized the chances of success.

“We need to split up,” he finally said. “I have to prevent them from completing the device, or disarm it if necessary. You must remain on this floor to defend the nav-stack. I've sent a distress call to Meister and the Constabulary, but neither will be able to send help in time. It’s the only way.”

The green unicorn almost asked him if he was sure, but Fyzzix never proposed a plan he wasn't sure about. Mystic took a deep breath, and nodded.

He disconnected from the terminal. “Seven of them are coming up the stairs. They’ll be here soon.” Mystic followed him down to the end of the hall, where he overrode the elevator door’s emergency lock. His mechadendrite reached out to the cable in the center of the elevator shaft.

“Remember,” said Fyzzix gravely, “the nav-stack might hold data crucial to this investigation. You can’t let them damage it. They’ll be here in forty seconds.”

He turned toward the drop, but paused. “Have faith. You can do this.”

Then he leapt into the darkness, the elevator doors closing behind him.

Mystic galloped back down the hallway, counting.

Caballus took cover behind the statue that had, only moments ago, been one of Velour’s bodyguards.

Craning his neck, he poked a single eye over the limestone corpse, looking for the hatchlings. He dared not look for more than a second, lest he find one of them closer than he expected. But there was no sign of them, which Caballus decided was the even worse.

The miniature bird-serpents had burst from their eggs with such speed, the ponies barely had time to react. The Inquisipony and his compatriots had scattered, except for the single guard, who only managed to rear back in surprise and terror before the cockatrice’s gaze found him. His weight, suddenly increased by flesh turning to stone, continued to carry him backward. By the time he hit the ground, he was solid enough to break into a few large pieces.

To Caballus’s left stood the cogitator bank, against which Roughshod was huddled. The two exchanged a quick nod. To his right, he saw Hairtrigger hovering near the ceiling, scanning for targets.

But where’s Velour? The Inquisipony’s head darted back and forth, looking for some sign of her. When is eyes swept over the door through which they had come, and saw a flash of pink feathers, and a splotch of ivory uniform. And behind them, two slithering ribbons of green scale.

His blood froze. “There!” he shouted, pointing toward the exit.

Hairtrigger wheeled around and dove, wings folded close for speed. In a blink, he was gone. Caballus followed, but by the time he reached the door, everypony had disappeared into the labyrinthine lab.

“Velour!” he called. Only his own echo, and the distant, indistinct drone of an aging ventilation system answered him.

Roughshod came up behind him. “We need to find her,” Caballus said to his friend, alarm creeping into his voice.

“We need to find those freaky Cocka-things before they get anypony else,” Roughshod replied, but Caballus didn't seem to hear him.

“You go that way,” the Inquisipony said, pointing to one path into the scientific sprawl, “and I’ll look over there.”

Roughshod frowned. “I really don’t think we should-”

“There’s no time, Roughshod!” Caballus snapped.

Roughshod scowled and glared, but he obeyed. With a final snort, the brown stallion disappeared into the gloomy, tangled laboratory.

Even with all the time he had just spent wandering around in Uhrwerk’s lab, Caballus still found it nearly impossible to navigate. And trying to do so at a gallop made matters even worse. Unable to tell if it minutes or hours had passed since he set out, Caballus found himself lost and alone.

“Velour!” he shouted once more, but again there was no answer.

When he slowed his fruitless pursuit to a calmer pace, he became acutely aware of how pointless the task really was. Velour could fly; in all likelihood, she had risen above the mess, reached the exit, and was halfway back to Kaufschloss by now.

What was I thinking? he wondered, scolding himself for his recklessness. Velour has training to fall back on, and a bodyguard too. Roughshod was right. We should be trying to track down the hatchlings before they start hunting-

His thoughts were interrupted by a piercing, feminine scream.

Mystic hated it when they screamed like that.

It was an animal scream, the pitiful noise a pony made when their instinct to flee took over, and there was nothing they wouldn't do to get away. It was the noise heard from a pony who was drowning, or attacked by a ravenous monster. Or from somepony facing magic for the first time.

When the cultists had arrived, forty seconds later, Mystic was waiting for them. The first of the seven, a blue mare no more than a few years older than Mystic, was their first casualty. Inexperienced and overeager, she foolishly rushed forward into the hallway by herself, right into Mystic’s line of fire.

Mystic blasted her with lightning. In the instant before it lashed out from the end of her horn, Mystic could see the mare’s eyes grow wide and white. She’d probably never been this close to magic before, familiar only with the hushed hearsay and mistrustful superstitions of the ignorant masses. When the electric bolt struck her, she screamed, and didn't stop until she couldn't scream anymore.

Unfortunately, the others were better disciplined than their smoking comrade. They took cover at the end of the hallway, and filled it with suppressive fire. With nowhere to hide, Mystic dove back into her room, whipped cream splattering on the door as she slammed it behind her.

One down, six to go. Mystic knew if they were after the nav-stack, they’d have to go past her door to get to it. They would be more cautious now, which bought her some time, and when she heard them approach her room, she would come out swinging. Hopefully she could pick off another few, and sow enough confusion to buy her time to fall back to Fyzzix’ room for a final stand.

Final because that was the last line of defense for the nav-stack, she reminded herself, and not for any other reason.

Using a technique she had practiced with Caballus and Roughshod, Mystic slowed her breathing, and listened for hoofsteps out in the hall. Ears straining, she found them, and as expected, they were gradual, hesitant. There were nervous whispers as well. Her preemptive strike had put the fear of the Princess into these heretics, Mystic thought with some pride. She quietly recited the Litany of True Aim as she waited for just the right moment…

The initiative was stolen from her, along with the air from her lungs, when an explosion ripped open the wall to her right. Pieces of wood and plaster pelted her in the face and chest, stinging like a swarm of hornets, and the force threw her to the ground. Though they were cautious approaching her door, it seemed the cultists weren't so shy about making their own.

Blinded and deafened, Mystic sprawled on the floor, trying to regain her footing, but finding her legs too shaky to lift her. Everything was spinning and ringing, and her whole body felt numb and sluggish. Until a sharp pain struck the unicorn in the gut.

By the time the second kick caught her on the chin, her sight had returned well enough to make out two blurry figures standing over her. Instinctively, she kicked back, catching one of them in the pastern. He yelped, and tried to stomp on her, but she had already rolled to the side. Frantically, Mystic scrambled to get away. Blinking away the stars from her vision, she spotted the pie she had dropped, lying on the floor in the center of the room, and dove for it. In one mostly fluid motion, she grabbed it, somersaulted, stood, and turned to face the cultists. But before she could draw it back for a throw, the other pony tackled her.

She gasped for breath, and felt her weapon slip from her hoof once again. The attacker carried her all the way into the far window of the room. With hooves around her neck, he lifted her up against the glass. Struggling for breath, Mystic bucked. At the same time, she summoned a spell to her horn.

A wave of fire rolled out from the unicorn. Letting her go, the stallion shrieked and backpedalled, more in surprise than in pain. His peach-colored coat was singed black in front, and Mystic’s nose filled with the stink of burnt hair. There were only seconds before he would recover, though, and behind him, she could see the other heretic pick up the pie she had dropped.

Two on one are bad odds, no matter how well you can fight, Roughshod always told her, so Mystic picked the burnt one, and teleported him. The spell was much easier than the last time she tried it. She was only moving one pony, and not very far. Just from one side of the window to the other. A look of confusion swept over the stallion’s features when the flash of her magic faded, and he suddenly realized he was not where he had just been. An instant later, he was gone. Mystic silently thanked the Princess that Caballus had booked their suites on the fortieth floor.

Unfortunately, the other pony was still standing there, and still armed. “Die!” he screamed, throwing Mystic’s own pie at her.

There was only an instant to react, and with it, Mystic raised a telekinetic barrier. If she’d had more time to prepare, she might have been able to nudge the pie’s trajectory, or angle her defenses to deflect the force away. But such finesse was a luxury the young unicorn could ill-afford in a split second.

The pastry struck the shimmering green wall and exploded. The barrier cracked, then shattered like glass, the shards dissolving into twinkling light. Crumbs and caramelized fruit sprayed on her face.

But she survived.

The cost of her survival suddenly swept over her in a wave of exhaustion. Using so much magic so quickly had drained her of nearly all her strength. She collapsed, and the last thing she saw as she blacked out was the cultist standing over her.

It seemed the second bodyguard didn’t last much longer than the first. Caballus found the source of the scream just in time to see the wave of evil magic envelop the poor mare’s head, and silence her forever.

He caught a glimpse of the freakish creature as well, perched upon a stack of supply crates, before it slithered into a gap between two of them.

Although her late bodyguard was here, there was no sign of Velour. She either had fled as soon as the zoono struck, or she had been separated from her guard as soon as he lost sight of them. Either option might mean that Velour was still somewhere in the lab, but Caballus fought the urge to call out to her again. It might spook the cockatrice when he ought to be hunting it, and worse yet, if Velour was around, it might draw her back into danger.

Pie drawn, Caballus circled around the crates, each step slow, careful, and above all, silent. His eyes were fixed on the stack, watching for the slightest movement. He saw how fast the cockatrice’s magic worked. I’ll only have one chance.

He caught a flash of white feathers in a crack beneath one box, but an instant later it was gone. Sweat beaded on his brow, and trickled down his back. The sound of his own heartbeat drowned out everything else. The Inquisipony didn’t even dare to breathe.

But his throwing arm stayed steady.

I hope there’s a special pit in Tartarus for Tier and Uhrwerk and Sniffles for unleashing monsters like this on Equestria. And Meister will have to make himself exceptionally useful to avoid joining them. At least we can be thankful there were only…

There was the lightest rush of air on Caballus’s neck, and a hiss in his ear.

Two of them…

Crumbs bounced off his face. The Inquisipony winced and turned his head away from the shot, but he looked over his shoulder as soon as he realized he was unharmed. On the floor behind him, a cockatrice hatchling lay writhing and twitching, covered in frosting and cupcake. And beyond that stood Velour, holding a slingshot.

Before he could say a word, the mare rushed up and wrapped her forelegs around his neck, and her wings over his back.

“Oh Swift!” she cried, “I’m so glad you’re alright! When the creature cornered Mercy Nary and I… I flew away, but then I saw you, and it was right behind you and… and…”

For a moment, Caballus was lost in the softness of Velour’s embrace and his desire to soothe her, but he heard the crates rattle behind him, and he remembered that the hatchling that had been killed was not the one he had been hunting.

“No Velour!” he said, trying to push the hysterical pegasus away. But she was too distraught to listen, and clung to him until they both heard the other monster’s hiss as it pounced at them.

An orange blur appeared overhead. When Caballus managed to disentangle himself from Velour, he found Hairtrigger in the air above him, tumbling and wrestling with the cockatrice. It clawed at him, shrieking like jagged metal being scraped across other jagged metal. The Arbitrotter grunted as the serpent wriggled and flapped its leathery wings, holding fast to its tail. Though he was several times the hatchling’s size, Hairtrigger was clearly struggling to keep hold of the scaly, spiny creature with his hooves.

“Get away from it, Hairtrigger!” Caballus yelled. “Don’t look into its eyes!”

Caballus wasn’t sure if Hairtrigger heard him, but the pegasus seemed to take his advice. He spun around a few times, and when he’d gained sufficient speed, he flung the cockatrice into a huge pile of boxes. In a single fluid motion the Arbitrotter had drawn his slingshot and taken aim. “I told ya, miss,” he said, “if ever you get in a fix, we’ll swoop in to save ya, easy as you please.”

The dazed but still enraged hatchling flew to the top of the stack, coiled on top of the highest crate, and crowed at its pony prey. The screeching squawk bounced off every surface in the lab, its malevolence seeming to come at them from every direction at once.

In answer, Hairtrigger loosed a single cupcake at it. The shot was uncharacteristically off, striking the box instead of the cockatrice. It was only then that Caballus realized he recognized the boxes.

Every one bore the stencil of Ver Kaufer Premium Arms. And every one was stuffed full of Waffen’s highly explosive, and highly unstable, zap apple pies.

Caballus’s blood froze. “Princess protec-” was all he said before the crates went off.

Mystic opened her eyes, but the world remained dark. Because of the headache and the dizziness, it took her a moment to realize she was blindfolded, and another to realize she’d been hogtied.

“Carefully, you idiot!” hissed a voice nearby. It sounded like the stallion that had taken her down.

“Do you know the rituals?” retorted another, a young mare. There was a pause until the first grunted.

For the next minute, there was only the sound of tinkering, very delicate tinkering, from the opposite side of the room. Assuming they were breaking into the nav-stack, and it was where Fyzzix left it, Mystic was able to figure out which corner she was likely in. She used magic to tug at her blindfold.

A hoof took her in the gut, forcing Mystic to gasp and release the spell. “None of that, or I’ll put a pie in you,” said a third heretic to Mystic’s right. “She’s awake. Let’s hurry it up.”

The impatient tapping of a hoof to her left alerted Mystic of a fourth pony. The door opened across the room, and a fifth entered. Fyzzix had said seven were coming for her at first, and she had defeated two already, so that meant all the heretics were accounted for.

“The coast is clear for now,” said the newcomer, another mare. “No sign of the Meq-priest.”

“What’s taking so long?” said the hoof-tapper, a stallion who must have been even younger than Mystic.

“Nothing,” the second voice snapped. “It’s just…”

“What?” said the first.

The tinkerer sighed with a frustrated rasp. “The instructions are… time consuming. I know faster ways to do it.”

A silence fell on the room, one that was tense even to Mystic. “Are you questioning the High Apostate?” the first heretic said.

“Of course not,” she said, defensively. “It’s just that… I’m sure he’s just being cautious.”

The first gave her a snort, but nopony else had anything else to say. While the tinkerer worked, Mystic tested her bonds as quietly as she could. The ropes didn't budge, and the unicorn received only friction burns for her trouble.

“Time to check in with the others,” said the third heretic.

There was a pause, then the static crackle of a vox. “No answer,” the fifth declared.

“Th-that’s not good,” number four, the hoof-tapper, said. “It was the Meq-priest. He took them all out.”

“Shut up!” First and Second said in unison. “The Constabulary will be here any minute,” Second continued. “I… I don’t think I can finish the rites before they get here. We need to take the nav-stack and go.”

Fifth’s dismay was plain in her voice. “What? No. It’ll take all of us to carry it out. What about the prisoner?”

“The High Apostate was clear,” First replied. “Get the data first, and if possible, take prisoners. Leave no survivors.”

A hoof lifted Mystic by the scruff of her neck, and tossed her into the center of the room. She landed on her face, grunting. “Sorry, love,” Third said. “Orders are orders.”

The green unicorn squirmed in desperation, fighting back the urge to cry and beg for her life. She needed to do something, and quickly, but she didn't know what to do. She didn't know any techniques to escape the ropes. She didn't know any spells that could save her.

So she cast a spell she didn’t know. Following instructions she’d never learned. From a book she’d never read.

An unholy chorus erupted around her, so Mystic tentatively pulled the blindfold away from her eyes. It was a decision she immediately came to regret.

Mystic hated it when they screamed like that.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Roughshod asked, for what seemed the hundredth time.

Mystic nodded, though her friend didn't seem convinced.

“I've examined her for injury,” said Fyzzix, also for the hundredth time, “and besides a few abrasions and contusions, she is unharmed.”

“I… really, I’m fine,” she agreed.

Roughshod nodded, but the look on his face told Mystic he was going to ask her again later.

She didn't blame him. It took deliberate effort not to shake, even now. Fyzzix was the one who found her, still hogtied on the floor of his room. Alone. She hardly spoke until the rest of the team returned, hours later. And the first thing out of her mouth was asking if they were alright. They had returned blackened, covered in scratches, and their clothes in tatters.

“That’d be my fault, little missy,” Hairtrigger had replied, a bit sheepishly. “Took a shot and hit somethin’ that I oughta not hit.”

Hearing their story, and noting that such a miss seemed unusual for the otherwise sharpshooting pegasus, Fyzzix checked out the Arbitrotter’s augmetic eye. He found the entire miniature targeting cogitator had fused together and turned entirely to stone.

Hairtrigger nodded as Fyzzix removed the useless rock. “As I was rasslin’ with the scaly varmint, I kept my soft eye closed. But I can’t really ‘shut’ the other one. I remember lookin’ at the Cockatice, I saw red and… I felt… cold… all of a sudden. Right in my head. Damndest thing.”

“That eye of yours comes in awfully handy,” said Mystic, managing a weak smile.

“Ain’t never ceases to amaze, don’t it?” the Arbitrotter said. He winked his natural eye. “Thanks to the cog-boys, a’course. Speakin’ of… little help here?”

At his behest, Fyzzix spent the next hour fixing Hairtrigger’s augmetics, enacting countless Litanies of Repair, and everypony was brought up to speed on the day’s events. Nopony asked Mystic how she had secured the nav-stack, for which she was thankful. She wouldn't have known what to tell them anyway. As the Meq-priest was finishing the final Prayer of Cybernetic Installation, Caballus rejoined them.

“So what did you tell Meister?” said Roughshod.

Caballus frowned. “I told him what was relevant: we found evidence that connected his son to heresy. We’ll make our move tomorrow.”

“And what did Velour tell him?” Roughshod asked.

“That…” Caballus said frowning, “is entirely up to her. But I don’t expect to see her again. After the little ‘adventure’ we put her through today, I wouldn't let my wife anywhere near us if I were him.”

The Inquisipony turned to leave. “I have to contact Sera with our plans. Something tells me Waffen won’t be as easy to bring in as Juwel was. We’ll need her help.” If he heard Roughshod grumble, or felt the stallion’s glare on his back, it didn't seem to bother him.

A moment later, Roughshod broke the silence. “Better get some sleep,” he mumbled. “We've all had a rough day, and tomorrow… tomorrow is gonna be rough too, I bet.”

Mystic bid her friend goodnight, and she, along with Hairtrigger, returned to their room down the hall. As soon as the door was closed, Mystic leaned against it, and sank to her haunches.

Looking back and seeing her, the Arbitrotter rushed to help, but Mystic held up a hoof. “No,” she said, “I’m fine. I’m just… I’m tired.” She rose on shaky legs, but stumbled.

In a flash, Hairtrigger caught her. “Like hell you are,” he said. “I’ve put in tough days in my line of work, too. Days where it don’t catch up to you until you kick your boots off and have time to think on all the ponies you ended ‘tween sunup and sundown. But by the time I laid my head down, I always slept like a foal. They were all heretics, traitors, or law-breakin’ scum. Far as I’m concerned, whatever they got, it was comin’ to ‘em.”

He draped her foreleg over his shoulders, and helped her to her hooves. The instant he did, she pulled him close into an embrace. Surprised at first, the pegasus returned the hug when he felt the sobs she tried to muffle into his chest. “There there, little missy,” he said, rocking her back and forth.

For a while, neither said a word. But when she had finished crying, Mystic realized they were slowly rotating as Hairtrigger rocked her. Then he lifted one of her hooves with his. She dried her tears and looked up at him. “What are you doing?”

“Dancing with you, little lady.”

It took her only a second to realize he was right, and he had been leading her in the steps without her even noticing. “Are you… are you sure now’s the right time?” With all that had happened to both of them that day, something about it didn't seem appropriate.

“Now’s the only time,” he said with gentle certainty. “Sun’s set on yesterday, and tomorrow, we might all be statues. All you really got is the here and now, and I aim to make the most of it.”

Mystic smiled. “That almost sounds like something I’d read in a-”

His kiss silenced her. For the first time Mystic could remember, she wasn't worried. She closed her eyes, let him lead, and their dance lasted long into the night.