The Conversion Bureau: The Reluctant Cyborg

A Story by TalonMach5

Chapter 1

Initializing brain case linkup… Check.
Initializing primary and secondary fusion reactors… Check.
Initializing primary targeting scanner diagnostics… Check.
Clearing frame hydraulics… Check

Initiating uplink with Halliburton mainframe… Check
Receiving activation authorization… Check
Loading mission parameters and objectives… Check

Activating human interface… Check

“God damn it Jackson,” a slightly tinny voice demanded through a loudspeaker. “What’s taking this refit so long?”

Jackson, a balding fifty something white male was busily typing away at a keyboard attached to a large piece of diagnostics equipment. “Now we can either do this fast, or we can do this right,” Jackson crankily said. “Which would you prefer?”

The tinny voice fell silent for a minute, “I suppose the right way Jackson,” the voice sighed.

“Tinman, what’s the rush anyways?” Jackson asked.

Tinman thought about for a minute, “I’m just worried the battle will end before I get to kill me some fleshbags,” he said.

Jackson looked at the speaker with disgust on his face. “You certainly are extra morbid today, aren’t you?” he said.

“What?” Tinman asked. “I love my job, so sue me.”

“How can you be so casual about killin’?” Jackson asked Tinman.

“Well Jackson I can see your point,” Tinman replied, “being a fleshbag and all. But I’m only ever killing soldiers and troublemakers, it’s not like I’m torching orphanages and hospitals.”

“Except when they order you to,” Jackson countered.

“Hell, if corporate designates a target as hostile,” Tinman said, “it’s gonna talk to the business end of my weapons. Besides, it’s not like your hands are exactly free of the blood of your fellow man.”

Jackson sighed like a soul who was tired of life and ready for its final rest. “Tinman, I’ve been thinking of becoming one of them,” he said, while making last minute adjustments to the massive machine next to him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Tinman said in concern. “Becoming one of them? You mean like becoming one of those pastel colored freaks?”

“That should do it Tinman,” Jackson said, trying to avoid the question.

“God damn it Jackson,” Tinman said. “If you want to fuck horses, I hear there’s a place outside Vegas real discreet like. They serve the fetishes of depraved people like you, offering both livestock and those pastel freaks for some barnyard loving.”

Jackson looked up at the speaker with disgust. “I have no desire to fuck animals,” he said, “but I’ve grown weary of life here. I hear there are lush forests and green fields in Equestria, just like when I was a kid.”

“Nah Jackson, you don’t really mean it,” Tinman said, “I’ll bet once the mission is over you’ll go home to your dumpy little wife and miserable family and forget all about it.”

Jackson looked up at the massive machine malevolently. “Tinman go fuck yourself,” he said.

“Touché,” Tinman replied. “So Santa, what new goodies did you get me?”

“I don’t know Tinman, you’ve been a real dick lately,” Jackson growled.

“Hey if it’s about your wife being dumpy, it’s okay,” Tinman replied. “I mean as long as you’re happy and she’s happy, so what if her breasts aren’t firm and sag, there’s a pill for that.”

Jackson sighed, “Tinman, I don’t think you could truly appreciate why I’m so tired.”

“Jackson, still waiting on these new specs over here,” Tinman said impatiently.

Sighing once again, Jackson pressed a button on the keyboard. Immediately Tinman saw his new frame’s capabilities. “Oh, ho, ho,” Tinman laughed manically over the speakers. “Someone’s been a very bad boy.”

Jackson pressed a few more keys on his console, moments later the scaffolding around Tinman’s frame pulled away, revealing the massive machine underneath. It was a massive ten meter tall behemoth the size of a small building. The machine engaged its internal fusion engines, and shuddered to life. His six spider like legs were currently supporting his frame. Switching to his treads, he lowered himself to the ground and engaged the treads attached to his legs. He began rolling forward towards the coordinates of today’s battlefield; he tested his targeting scanners for accuracy on some rusting cans about a kilometer away

“Jackson,” Tinman said, “please monitor my performance today. I want to compare how capable my new refit is, versus my old hardware.”

Jackson wordlessly nodded in agreement and began typing away at his keyboard. “I’ve established an uplink with your weapons systems, navsat, and your sensors,” he said. “We should be able to monitor everything.”

“Thanks Jackson,” Tinman’s tinny voice said, barely audible over the rumbling din of his frame.

Before moving out onto the battlefield Tinman activated the lights illuminating his frame. The logos of his corporate masters lit up, like some sort of perverse billboard of death. These refits didn’t pay for themselves; advertising to the opposition just who kicked their ass was a great way to drum up future business once your current contract was up. Tinman almost left when he remembered about his new shoulder mounted weapons system. Deciding to correct the oversight, Tinman had his frame’s nanopaint quickly create a new logo for his latest acquisition. A vivid green dragon breathing flames to form the bright red and green letters of the corporate logo of CHICOM Industrial Weapons Systems or CHICOM IWS (Five thousand years of war and counting.), appeared right below his left shoulder.

Tinman actually liked the slogan, although he didn’t care much for his paymaster as a consequence of the bigotry of his former life. Before he went metal, he was hostile to the commie bastards as he called them. Now however, CHICOM corp was probably the most cutthroat of the world corps that were still in operation, Adam Smith would’ve been proud. Seeing his newest logo, Tinman laughed, his former fleshbag self would have probably been furious that he had gone red for the slant eyed yellows. His external sensors interrupted his thoughts, seeing the energy signature his sensors returned made him surprised. “No way, the Africans rented Lao Chi for this battle,” he thought to himself.

Moving forward he opened a channel, “Lao Chi, how’ve you been you yellow pile of rusting scrap?” Tinman asked.

Lao Chi’s heavily accented response made him laugh. “American,” he retorted, “I see you finally whored yourself out to the commies.”

“Well,” Tinman replied, “you know how it is. CHICOM IWS had a new model out this year and I just had to try it out.”

“American,” Lao Chi said, “it’s been a while. I still owe you for sending me to the bottom of the South China Sea.”

“Lao Chi, you know where I am,” Tinman taunted. “Feel free to send me the bill at any time.”

Lao Chi didn’t respond, but sent his answer by way of a salvo of missiles. Tinman couldn’t believe Lao Chi would waste missiles on something so easy to avoid. Releasing a chaff countermeasure, the concussion from the exploding missiles barely registered on his sensors. Moving forward on his treads, Tinman was determined to win this conflict and rub it in Lao Chi’s face.

After having moved about half a klick forward, Tinman wondered why Lao Chi hadn’t begun firing again. Suspicious of his opponent, he activated his infrared sensors and found his answer. The Africans had thought themselves clever enough to set up an ambush! Feigning mechanical trouble to mask the reason for slowing his approach, he used his passive scanners to plot the location of every last one of the sneaky bastards. Apparently, the Africans really wanted to win this battle, because his sensors discovered over a thousand troops. Each of them was equipped with active camouflage suits, and anti-tank weapons. A few dozen hits from anti-tank rounds wouldn’t have been an issue, but over a thousand would have made him dead to rights.

Now he knew what Lao Chi had meant! He intended to cripple him, disable his communications and leave him to rot out in the Sahara. Tinman knew exactly what was needed to remedy this situation, white phosphorous. Using the active uplink he had with his H.Q.’s arsenal, he made the request for one thousand eighty two UAV’s, one for each of his ambushers. Each of them would be carrying a payload of white phosphorus, to be sent to their coordinates with an ETA of about three minutes.

Still feigning mechanical trouble, Tinman started firing at Lao Chi with his Remington rail gun. With an effective range of five kilometers, Remington rail guns were a staple of the modern battle field. Although more of an anti-personnel weapon, he knew that Lao Chi’s internal sensors would be going off like crazy giving him the distraction he desired.

“A rail gun?” Lao Chi said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “American, you must getting desperate, but allow me to show you the superiority of Chinese engineering!”

Tinman’s sensor grid showed an incoming volley of electronic scattershot from Lao Chi’s PLA Sleeping Dragon mortar. The PLA Zhuge Liang, or Sleeping Dragon was an ingenious device that launched specially designed nanites into the air, effectively disabling sensors and electronic communications by deionizing the atmosphere.

Tinman groaned internally to himself, the mortar assault was surely the prelude to triggering the ambush. Firing several Northrop anti-nanotek rockets into the air to buy himself some time, he had the nanopaint covering his frame adjust itself to protect him from the incoming white phosphorus bath the area was about to receive. With only thirty seconds before impact, he began rushing forward at full speed.

To say Lao Chi was surprised would be an understatement; it took him nearly ten seconds to launch his counterassault. The African ambushers with their frail fleshbag bodies took another fifteen seconds to respond. To an A.I. this might have been a problem, but Tinman was no A.I., he was a cyborg. He launched every flash bang he had in his arsenal in every direction possible. To his mechanical eyes and ears it was a beautiful work of art and symphony to behold, but to the poor Africans outside with their unprotected biological ears and eyes it was torturous. His ambushers were so overwhelmed by his assault they didn’t even notice when the white phosphorus started hitting them. Well they did once their fleshbag bodies started burning, but Tinman considered that more along the lines of an academic inquiry. Much like the oft asked question, “If a tree in the forest hits a mime, does anyone outside of France care?” since either way the mime was still flattened, it was all rhetorical anyways.

Tinman had Lao Chi’s PLA CAO CAO frame in his sites. Readying his CHICOM IWS Metal Storm scattershot, he began firing. The CHICOM IWS Metal Storm, was the latest and greatest in the “anti-anything and everything” category. Though the anti-personnel version had been around for a while, most considered such a weapons system to be too cumbersome to properly use on the battlefield due to it ravenous appetite for ammunition. Capable of firing over a million rounds per minute, the only drawback to this weapons system was the weight and cost of the ammunition you had to carry into the field. This particular model used depleted uranium rounds. As the depleted uranium rounds smashed into Lao Chi's frame, they tore through him like tissue paper.

Already into his forth reloading, Tinman could see that Lao Chi had seen better days. “Lao Chi, do you surrender,” he asked.

“American, yes I do,” Lao Chi bitterly replied.

Surveying the battlefield, Tinman saw the over one thousand burning corpses. If he still had a mouth he would have laughed. The poor fools didn’t even know what they were up against. His forty year service record spoke for itself, yet he felt a bit of admiration for the clever tactic that they had attempted to use. Scanning the carnage, he detected four Africans who somehow had managed to survive the hellfire he had brought down on their heads.

Activating his targeting lasers he painted each of them, letting the survivors know that he could easily kill them. “Fellow warriors, I applaud your tactics,” Tinman said over his loudspeakers. “Please alert your superiors that you have lost the battle, and that you request terms for surrender.”

Tinman enjoyed fighting the Africans. They almost always used inventive tactics and usually accepted defeat gracefully, unlike the Europeans and Russian Federation. About fifteen minutes later, he received a notice from the corporation that he was to return to H.Q. for his debriefing. With the battle being over, he felt a bit sad that it had ended before he had a chance to do any real combat. Truth be told, a real war hadn’t been fought since the American led invasion of Iran in 2019. Back then, machines like himself were nothing more than the wet dreams of nerds and sci-fi junkies. That’s not to say that the combat that occurred now was any less violent than it was sixty years ago. But the idea of two massive armies slogging it out was definitely a thing of the past.

Leaving his wistful dreams of glorious hand to hand melee combat against a skilled opponent behind him, Tinman opened up a channel. “Hey Lao Chi,” he said. “Take care of yourself.”

“Zài jiàn Biggs,” Lao Chi said.

Tinman stopped when he heard Lao Chi say his name. “What gives Lao Chi?” he asked. “You’ve never called me by my name before.”

“American, I fear we may never meet again,” Lao Chi said. “I’m set for decommissioning once I’ve been salvaged.”

“Decommissioning?” Tinman said, almost not believing what he had just heard. It was almost unthinkable, Lao Chi and he were the two most sought after HWS in existence.

HWS or Human Weapons System was the term for weapons platforms controlled by a braincase. The braincase or the brain in a bottle as Tinman like to call them, allowed humans to become one with a machine effectively becoming a cyborg. While many people did some cybernetic augmentation to their bodies or even fully functional dolls shaped like the human form, very few became HWS. Tinman always thought that it was because people were so attached to their so called humanity. But the emergence of the conversion bureaus three years ago put a kibosh to that theory.

“Yes,” Lao Chi said, “the PLA has decided that it’s no longer cost effective to continue my maintenance or to fight for territory, this was to be my last battle.”

“So what are you going to do?” Tinman asked, genuinely curious.

“I’m thinking of going to a conversion bureau,” Lao Chi replied.

“A conversion bureau?” Tinman said in disbelief. Of all the people in the world to have said that they were going to go pony, Lao Chi was the last person he would have thought would want to become one of those four legged freaks.

“I think that maybe I would enjoy running a farm, like my great great grandfather once did before the great leap forward,” Lao Chi said.

“No, I can’t accept it!” Tinman angrily replied. “I was always hoping that we would go down fighting each other right before the world was consumed by that weird magic bubble.”

“Go in peace my American friend,” Lao Chi said, before cutting off the transmission.

Stunned by his rival’s confession, Tinman rolled back towards his H.Q. in silence. When he entered his maintenance bay he was greeted by Jackson. “Okay Tinman, I’ve got plenty of data for you,” he said. “By the way that was a masterstroke of genius out there.”

Tinman didn’t respond, but simply rolled into his refitting station and shut down.

Jackson knew something was bothering his friend, so he began hacking his frame. After a minute, he broke through his defenses. “Getting sloppy there Tinman,” he teased. “If I was a saboteur you would be in a world of trouble.”

“Lao Chi is being decommissioned,” Tinman replied sullenly.

“Damn that was unexpected,” Jackson replied, “did he mention why.”

“Yeah the PLA’s no longer going to fight for resources and territory,” Tinman said.

Jackson whistled in surprise, at over three billion people as of the last world census, the Chinese Authority was always hungry for resources. “I guess the PLA has been losing a lot of its population to the conversion bureaus,” he said. “Well isn’t this great news for you Tinman? You’re now the uncontested top HWS, the contracts should come flowing in.”

“I would tend to agree with you,” Tinman replied, “But with Lao Chi quitting the game, I fear that I’m now an overpriced weapons system.”

“Well at least you own yourself,” Jackson said. “Every last bit of Lao Chi belongs to the PLA right down to his braincase.”

“Well small comfort for that I suppose,” Tinman said ruefully. “Hey Jackson, I’m sorry for what I said earlier. That was out of line.”

Jackson couldn’t believe what he had just heard, Tinman was actually apologizing. Would wonders never cease? He must have taken the news of Lao Chi’s decommissioning harder than he realized. “Hey, it looks like corporate is requesting us to return home for a performance evaluation,” he said.

“Wake me when we get there,” Tinman answered, before shutting himself down for the thirty-six hour trip back to Virginia Beach, Virginia in the North American Union.

While his system was offline Tinman was dead to the world, only in this state could he experience what might be considered dreams. Over the past several months they had always been the same, the running shadowy forms of horses whispering, “Join us Biggs, come to where the fields are green and the sky is blue.”

Every time he had this dream, a part of him longed to join them as they ran into the green fields. Looking down he would always see his metal form which made him shake with frustration. Dreaming had always been an interesting experience for him, due to his unique ability to only ever experience lucid dreams. At first these dreams had been a novel experience, but over the months they only served to taunt him with something that would forever be beyond his reach.

His internal clock showed that thirty-six hours had elapsed, eager to be free of the dream he reactivated himself. He saw that Jackson was in the process of performing some of his maintenance. “So Jackson,” Tinman asked, “when do you plan to go to a conversion bureau?”

“Oh not for a while yet,” Jackson replied, while finishing his work. Satisfied he was done with his task, he walked out of the hangar.

Tinman remembered when he had first gone fully metal, almost forty years ago. This place had been a beehive of activity; both corporate technicians and A.I. controlled drones would perform construction and maintenance on thousands of different machines of war. But now, with the exception of a few drones tasked with keeping the massive hangar clean, this monument to the North American Union’s military industrial complex was nothing more than a brightly lit mausoleum.

His musings were interrupted by the echoes of the footsteps of the C.T.O. of Halliburton, Edmund Price and a squadron of Halliburton’s elite M.P.’s or military police. The C.T.O. was an elderly white man with thinning grey hair. “Land Behemoth model number X003456, a.k.a. Tinman. I’ve come to congratulate you on your marvelous performance during yesterday’s battle,” he said. “Unfortunately I’m also going to have to terminate your contract with us.”

The day Tinman had been dreading had finally come, he was being downsized. “Why?” was all he said.

“Tinman, you are a marvel of modern technology,” the C.T.O. said. “In fact your frame combined with your braincase could be considered the apex of human ingenuity. Unfortunately, you are also an obsolete relic. All world corporations have recently agreed to stop the resource wars. With the introduction of conversion bureaus worldwide and ponification, the wars have been nothing but a drain of resources that we can no longer afford. Of course you will receive a generous compensation package, and letter of recommendation.”

“Of course…” was all Tinman could utter in response.

“You will have to surrender your weapons though,” Edmund said.

“I think you better check my contract again,” Tinman testily replied through his speakers.

The C.T.O. looked at the datapad containing Tinman’s contract and began reading. When he realized what Tinman had said was true, the blood drained from his face leaving him very pale. “The fact that you own the weapons installed on your frame, doesn’t change the fact that you still need employment to keep them installed,” he smugly said.

Tinman felt extremely annoyed, this fleshbag deigned to fire him and then try to order him around. “Listen well Mr. Price,” he venomously said, “Seeing as I’m the only still functioning and fully armed Land Behemoth on the continent, I’m only going to say this once. Don’t fuck with me!”

To emphasize his point, Tinman painted each fleshbag with infrared targeting lasers and powered up his pulse guns. The whine of the weapon, cut through the silence of the hangar like an assassin’s knife through a mark’s kidney. “You’ll be hearing from our attorney’s,” the CTO said, as he hurriedly stormed off followed by his M.P. bodyguards.

Satisfied that he had made his point, Tinman shut down his weapons and targeting sensors to think about what he should do. Accessing the Omninet he researched the laws regarding cyborgs in his situation. Edmund Price had been right about needing approved gainful employment to keep his weapons. Seeing an obscure subsection of the law in question, he rejoiced when he read what it said. Apparently, as long as he attempted to find work he could keep the ‘needful tools of his trade’ (i.e. his weapons) for a period no greater than thirty days before having to surrender them.

Checking the Omninet, he saw that the lawyers of Halliburton had been quick to request an injunction against him. Citing the subsection that the lawyers used to file against him, Tinman argued that since he was a war machine, his weapons were his tools of the trade and any attempt to disarm him would be a clear violation of the law. Additionally he filled a counter lawsuit against the company for attempting to prevent him from being able to find new employment in his chosen field. Within thirty minutes, the courts had found in favor of Tinman, and had issued a ruling that as long as he found an approved employer within thirty days he would be able to keep his weapons.

Tinman’s celebrations were cut short when he saw a very angry looking Jackson enter the hangar. “Just what did you do!” he yelled.

“Jackson, what’s wrong?” Tinman asked.

“I just received a notice of termination, and had my home repossessed by the company!” Jackson raged, dearly wishing that Tinman had a throat so he could strangle it.

“How’s that my fault?” Tinman asked in confusion.

“They said I was an accomplice to your workplace violence!” Jackson accused Tinman.

“Look Jackson, I’m sorry about you losing your home,” Tinman apologized, “but didn’t you say you wanted to go pony anyway?”

“Yes, but on my own terms,” Jackson said, seething with rage.

“How about I hire you as my personal technician until you get back on your feet?” Tinman offered.

“How are you going to pay for my salary?” Jackson asked. “You gonna pay me with your good looks, or your dazzling personality?”

“I’ll have you know I’m a very wealthy man,” Tinman replied, snaking out one of his metal claws towards Jackson. “Besides, I need you to help me find a new employer.”

“Alright I’ll do it,” Jackson sighed, shaking the offered claw knowing that he would probably regret it.

“Alright, our first step is refitting me for extended travel,” Tinman said retracting the claw.

*****

Meanwhile, half a continent away in Phoenix, Arizona in the NAU, a battle was taking place. The shelling had finally stopped; the frightened receptionist poked her nose out from under her desk, half expecting the front of the building to be missing. To her surprise, the building had survived the latest attack.

Her boss, the director timidly walked down the hall towards the reception area. “Are you okay?” he asked in concern.

The receptionist nodded weakly, her blue eyes filling with tears, “Why won’t they stop it?” she cried. “I only ever wanted to help them.”

The director narrowed his green eyes in righteous indignation. “That’s it!” the director shouted. “I’m hiring some protection.”

“Dewdrop, take a note,” the director said, his body still trembling from the adrenaline surge from surviving yet another mortar attack from those H.L.F. monsters. His normally straw blonde mane was covered with dust and bits of plaster that had rained down on his head. His light red coat was so heavily covered in plaster dust, that it nearly obscured the large peach emblazoned on his flank.

Nodding in agreement, the yellow unicorn mare with a watering can on her flank lit up her horn. Using her magic, she picked up a notepad and pen. Blowing away some stray white hairs from her muzzle she held the pen at the ready. “Okay Director Peachy Keen,” she said, “I’m ready.”

“Help wanted,” Peachy Keen said, “Looking for somepony... er someone to provide security for a G4 class facility in Phoenix, Arizona. Military experience preferred, but not required. Room and board are included as part of pay. Please contact PK at TN 602-555-4857 at the Phoenix conversion bureau for further details.”

“Okay, I think I got it all, “Director Peachy Keen,” Dewdrop said.

“Okay post it on the omninet,” Peachy Keen replied. “Hopefully somepony will take us up on our offer.”

*****

“Hey Tinman!” Jackson shouted, “I think I just found you a new job.”

“Well that was fast,” Tinman replied, “Where’s the job at?”

“Phoenix,” Jackson said, “and more importantly they are a G4 class facility, so that solves your little employment issue.”

“G4…” Tinman mused, “That means they’re a civilian outfit. Hopefully they won’t mind hiring me.”

“What’s their number?” Tinman asked.

“Oh, 602-555-4857, and ask for PK,” Jackson said. “But don’t you want to hear about the rest of the ad?”

“Not particularly,” Tinman said, “as long as they are a G4 facility that’s all that really matters.”

Tinman placed the call, thinking about how current events. That even though those pastel colored freaks and their damn conversion bureaus had screwed him over; he would still survive and even thrive. After a few rings a feminine sounding voice answered, “Hello, thank you for calling the bzzrt… hiss, how may I direct your call?” she asked.

“Hello I’m responding to the ad you posted looking for some security for your G4 facility,” Tinman said.

“Oh yes, thank Celestia,” the feminine voice replied.

“Thank who?” Tinman asked in confusion. “Actually never mind, could you please transfer me to PK?”

“Certainly, and may I have your name please?” she asked sweetly.

“Sure, I go by Tinman,” he said.

“One minute Mr. Tinman,” the voice cheerfully said.

After a minute of waiting on hold, a male voice spoke into the receiver. “This is the Director,” the tired sounding voice said.

“Hello, I understand your looking for someone with experience to provide your facility with security?” Tinman asked.

“Why yes we are,” the director said. “I just placed the ad less than fifteen minutes ago.”

“Well I would like to take the job,” Tinman said, “But you’re absolutely sure, yours is a G4 facility?”

“Absolutely,” the director said, “But I’ll need some references from you before we could hire you.”

Tinman sent a data packet containing his forty three year service record. “You’ll find that the information I provided,” he said, “should meet any requirements that you could possibly have.”

Director Peachy Keen skimmed over the data packet, and could scarcely believe that someone so experienced was willing to work for his tiny conversion bureau. “Are you sure you’re really interested in working for us?” Peachy Keen asked. “We’re a smaller branch and…”

“I don’t care one way or the other, as long as you’re a G4 class facility,” Tinman said, interrupting the director. “So am I hired?”

“Don’t you want to hear about the pay or working conditions?” Peachy Keen asked.

“Not particularly,” Tinman said. “Your facility will be well protected under my watch. By the way you can call me Tinman.”

Peachy Keen sat back in disbelief. He couldn’t believe his luck, someone of Tinman’s skill had practically begged for the job. “Okay you're hired Mr. Tinman…” Peachy Keen said.

“PK, Just call me Tinman,” he said. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Tinman, how will we know you when we see you?” the director asked.

“You’ll know me when you see me,” Tinman said, before hanging up the phone.

“By the way you can call me Peachy Keen…” the director said, before realizing he was talking to dead air.

“I wonder what kind of pony, er person he’ll be?” Director Peachy Keen thought to himself.

*****

The trip to Phoenix had been uneventful, yet expensive. Chartering a train to move him west had been a bit pricey, but Tinman felt the expense had been worth it. Looking around him, he saw that the skies above Phoenix were pretty empty. Except for a few pegasi flying above overhead, he hardly saw anything. When he was younger and still a fleshbag, in remembered that the skies above phoenix were choked full with all sorts of aircraft.

The streets were no different. The empty streets were devoid of any traffic except for the odd car. Had he tried to move through a major metropolitan area like Phoenix even two years ago, he wouldn’t have been able to move fifty feet before crushing a car. But now, the once choked arteries of the city were empty. Pulling up his satnav, he found the shortest route to his new job. What he was guarding he didn’t know, and in particular he didn’t care. As long as it was G4, that’s all that mattered.

Once he got the Signature from Director PK, he would be safe from any legal challenges. As he moved closer towards the address, he saw that this section of the city looked like a warzone. Sure a lot of the larger cities had gone downhill, but he recognized damage done by rockets and mortars marring the pavement and surrounding buildings. “Jackson,” he asked, “are you sure we got the right address?”

“Yes,” Jackson replied, “right as rain Tinman.”

“The only reason I’m asking is cause all I see is a conversion bureau and nothing else,” Tinman asked tersely.

“That’s because you answered a help wanted ad from a conversion bureau,” Jackson replied with a chuckle.

“God damn it!” Tinman raged. “You mean I’m going to be helping those fucking ponies?”

“And even taking orders from them,” Jackson replied. “Additionally, since the conversion bureaus technically belong to Equestria, you just can’t quit without getting a release from the head of their government.”

“You mean I can’t even back out now?” Tinman asked.

“No,” Jackson said. “Not without a waiver from Princess Celestia. Otherwise, you’ll be marked as having gone rogue. Not unless Director PK withdraws his employment offer.”

“That’s just super,” Tinman grumbled. “And here I was thinking we were friends.”

“Hey I tried to warn you,” Jackson said. “But cheer up Tinman; I think this area is having issues with the HLF.”

“Which means they need me to kill some fleshbags!” Tinman excitedly said.

“I don’t think that they would dare once you’ve been hired on,” Jackson said. “They would have to be crazy to try taking on a Land Behemoth without at least four full battalions and air support.”

“Ugh, you sure know how to ruin my good moods,” Tinman sighed.

“Well you never know…” Jackson said. “They might actually be crazy.”

“Here’s to hoping,” Tinman said.

Stopping in front of the Phoenix conversion bureau, Tinman saw how ridiculous this job really was. He was nearly twice the mass of the building itself. Additionally, his approach hadn’t been entirely subtle either. Even using his treads, the ground groaned in complaint whenever he moved.

Using his sensors, he saw a red pony looking up at him in fear. Zooming in on the pony he saw that it was wearing a nametag. Taking a closer look at the nametag he saw ‘Director Peachy Keen’ printed on it. Director PK, Peachy Keen. Tinman groaned to himself, even their names were stupid.

Deciding to introduce himself, Tinman extended a claw with the datapad containing his preliminary contract down towards the director. “Director PK,” he said through his loudspeakers, “we spoke over the phone, I’m Tinman.”

The director remained silent, still shocked at the monstrosity standing in front of his conversion bureau. A loud crack rippled through the air narrowly missing him. “Celestia help me,” he screamed, trying in vain to find cover.

Tinman’s sensors lit up, fleshbags at eight o’clock. Attempting to shoot at the offending humans before the director could withdraw his employment offer; Tinman found his weapons were still locked. “Damn it,” he hissed. “Several more shots went off, both narrowly missing the pony because Tinman moved to protect him.

“Director, I can’t protect you until you sign the contract, or withdraw your offer,” Tinman said, half hoping the pony would terminate the contract.

The director nodded and put his hoof on the datapad. Instantly, all of Tinman’s systems were restored to his control. Tinman activated an energy shield, to stop any more shots from reaching the director and went to work. He knew if he killed them outright that the HLF would probably never make any more attacks on the bureau. But if he humiliated them, they would keep coming back for sure.

Using his targeting scanners, he aimed for the trigger fingers of the snipers. Crack, crack, crack broke through the air, quickly followed by three screams. Tinman activated his loudspeakers, “Your attention please,” he said. “This has been a message from the emergency broadcasting network, if this had been an actual emergency you would be dead. Thank you.”

Director Peachy Keen couldn’t believe it, he had hired an actual Land Behemoth and not the pilot like he had assumed. His body was trembling with adrenaline and terror as he stumbled back inside the lobby of the conversion bureau. “Sweet Celestia,” he gasped.

“What’s wrong?” several of the bureau employees asked.

Peachy Keen just sat on his haunches and didn’t say anything, but instead pointed towards the lobby door. The assembled ponies stared in awe at the giant machine that was now guarding them.

A maintenance hatch opened up allowing Jackson to leave Tinman. Entering the bureau, he smiled. “Howdy folks,” he said. “My name is Jackson, I’m Tinman’s technician. He was wondering if the offer for room and board could be extended to me since he obviously won’t be needing it.”

Director Peachy Keen coughed and nodded. “Dewdrop, see that Mr. Jackson gets a room,” he said.

Jackson smiled when the yellow unicorn extended her hoof in greeting. “Hi there Mr. Jackson,” she said. “I’m Dewdrop, and welcome to the Phoenix Conversion Bureau.”

“A pleasure,” Jackson said shaking her offered hoof. “Does the building have an onboard A.I.?

“Oh yes we do,” Dewdrop said, “But I don’t think it likes ponies very much.”

“May I?” Jackson asked, pointing to her computer terminal.

“Certainly,” Dewdrop replied.

Jackson entered some commands into the terminal, moments later an angry looking A.I. was holographically projected in front of him. “Unhand me you swine!” the A.I. demanded.

“See what I mean?” Dewdrop said. “It’s so mean.”

“What’s your designation?” Jackson asked.

“Winston,” the A.I. said with a faux British accent.

“Well Winston,” Jackson said, “I hope you don’t mind having a roommate, because I’m interfacing you with Tinman.”

“Sir, how dare you!” Winston said, puffing up his nonexistent chest.

Jackson tried to interface with Tinman’s onboard computer and found that he was locked out by Winston.

“Only authorized personnel are allowed to make changes to the computers controlling this facility,” Winston said, trying to be as intimidating as possible.

Having recovered from the excitement from earlier, the director trotted over to the terminal. “Winston,” Peachy Keen said, “he has my authorization.”

“You philistines,” Winston complained, “making me share my systems with an uneducated brute of a war machine!”

Jackson uplinked with the onboard systems of Tinman’s frame, a moment later a wireframe face appeared. “Tinman what’s with the wireframe?” Jackson asked.

“I’ve never created a hologram for human interaction before,” Tinman explained. “I’ve always felt that doing anything more killing fleshbags was too much.”

Winston looked over at the wireframe in disgust. “You sir should be ashamed,” he chided the wireframe. “Using such language in the presence of organics, how scandalous!”

“Listen up Lord British,” Tinman replied. “I just met you and already don’t like you, stay out of my way and I won’t hurt you. As long as you don’t prevent me from doing my job I’ll stay out of your nonexistent hair.”

“Seeing as how the Visigoths have already sacked Rome, and are raping and plundering the city,” Winston sighed in resignation, “I have no choice, I’ll accept your offer.”

“Jackson,” Tinman said, “go and get some rest. I’ll begin checking the building and surrounding neighborhoods for weaknesses in our security. We can discuss upgrading the building’s security tomorrow.”

Dewdrop trotted over to the floating wireframe. “What would you like me to do?” she asked.

“Uh, carry on I suppose…” Tinman said, before returning to his frame.

Flitting all around his frame with those ridiculously tiny wings of theirs, pegasi were oohing and ahhing all over him. While the unicorns and earth ponies were gingerly touching his metal skin. An obnoxiously bright pink pegasus mare with bright pink ribbons in her equally bright pink mane, flew in front of his sensor array. Looking at her flank he saw that she had three cupcakes for her mark. “My name is Sugar Pie and I’m super excited to meet you! I love meeting new ponies… er people… er or whatever you are! You look like you could use a friend, would you like to be my friend? Cause I would sure love to be your friend!”

Listening to the pegasus’ nonstop babbling, made Tinman inwardly groan. “Well I’m pretty much fucked…”

Author's notes:

Gentlereader thank you for reading chapter one of The Conversion Bureau: The Reluctant Cyborg. This story is a bit of an experiment, and a departure from my usual prose found in the The Great Slave King. I've found that for some reason, some readers just hate the conversion bureau universe. Why I don't know, the setting is fun and the philosophical question of 'Would I convert?', I think makes the conversion bureau a fun read. the story I wish to tell is the plight of the technology that's fundamentally incompatible with Equestria in this universe's setting. I will probably let this story stew for a few weeks depending on reader enthusiasm, until the Book of Earth has been finished in The Great Slave King. As always, critiques and comments are always welcomed. Once again thank you for reading gentlereader, until next time.