Disclaimer: The depiction of the L.D.S. faith or any other religion in this story is in no way meant to be slanderous or hurtful. As a work of fiction, please take any references to any real religion, people, places, or cultures as just window dressing to make the world in this piece of fiction more vibrant and alive. Thank you.

Friday, August 12 2050, 04:27 hours
Rexburg, Idaho - 4.2 Km due east of the Mormon Seditionist stronghold, Fort Ricks, former location of the BUY-Idaho campus.

Captain Samuel H. Grymes looked through the sight of his Avangard THX6800 monocular, while chewing on a cigar. The Avangard THX6800 monocular was the optic of choice, for nighttime operations of both military and law enforcement. Capable of capturing thermal images from over 3 Km away, the THX6800 series allowed its users a large bevy of options to choose from. Capable of both UV and thermal imaging, it even allowed limited x-ray scanning, and was capable of penetrating depths of up to 1.5 meters.

A lieutenant approached the captain. His black battle uniform was devoid of any color except the patch he wore on his sleeve. The patch’s silver stitching in the outline of a wolf revealed that the lieutenant belonged to Fenir Company, of the NAU based PMC Ragnarok. The lieutenant handed the captain a sheet of paper and waited by his side. Captain Grymes picked up the paper and read it intently. Seeing something that displeased him, the captain narrowed his hard eyes in anger. Spitting out his cigar, he stomped it beneath the heel of his black boots.

Final negotiations for surrender with the Mormons had failed. They had refused the generous terms of surrender that the NAU had offered: disarmament, clemency, and internment at a detention center for reeducation and cult deprogramming. Captain Grymes sighed in exasperation at these religious nut jobs. The United States had been dissolved and reformed into the much stronger North American Union, which invalidated their claims of sovereignty and constitutional rights. Normally stomping out dissent was a relatively simple affair, but these damned Mormons had to make things difficult. As staunch survivalists they had foreseen that this day would come, and had prepared for the worst long in advance by stockpiling food and ammunition. They actually thought that their militias stood a chance against the might of his PMC! Though he did have to give them credit, Fort Ricks had put up a great deal of resistance. The 12,000 men holed up in the abandoned college campus had held his men at bay for nearly two weeks. And they might have been able to keep up their resistance for another month if corporate hadn’t seen fit to send him a Land Behemoth to help break the stronghold.

Though Captain Grymes had not seen a Land Behemoth in person, what he’d read about their capabilities made him skeptical. Apparently, a single Land Behemoth had the combat capabilities of an entire battalion. He would believe it when he saw it. As an experienced combat veteran, he had heard a lot of claims from different corporations claiming that their latest war tech would revolutionize the battlefield. But as far as he was concerned, nothing could beat having boots on the ground. He fully expected that the Land Behemoth wouldn’t live up to the claims that the brochure promised.

According to corporate, the Land Behemoth was due to arrive at 04:40 hours, just in time to resume the assault on Fort Ricks. Looking at his watch, Captain Grymes noticed that it was 04:39 hours. “Lying bastards,” he muttered to himself.

Right before he was about to pick up the phone to find out where his new shiny overpriced war toy was at, a large boom rocked his trailer from outside. Captain Grymes rushed out of his command post and looked out to see what the hell had just happened. What he saw was unbelievable. A massive machine had been dropped out of a Hercules 480 cargo plane that was flying away overhead. Six legs supported the machine, as it began scanning the camp and the many soldiers that were now surrounding it with weapons drawn.

The captain slowly approached the machine he saw that each of his men was painted by the machine’s targeting sensors, and heard the tell-tale whine of its weapons warming up. “Stand down men,” he said.

Once the soldiers had lowered their weapons, the machine shut down its targeting scanners and powered down its guns. Seemingly satisfied that the men here weren’t a threat, the machine began reconfiguring itself by folding in its legs until it was resting on the treads attached to them.

Captain Grymes expected the crew to exit the machine and deliver their orders to him. When the crew refused to exit and present themselves to him, he walked up to the access hatch and attempted opening it. “You’re wasting your time,” a slightly tinny sounding voice said, from the loudspeaker attached to the machine.

“Soldier, I order you to stand down and deliver your orders,” the captain said.

“Not happening sir,” the tinny voice said, transmitting a data file to the captain’s wrist computer.

Scanning the data file he just received, Captain Grymes saw that it was the crew’s orders. The captain was not pleased when he heard the insubordinate tone of the pilot’s in response to his orders. “Listen here,” he said, “I order you to power down your vehicle, exit the Land Behemoth, and present your orders to me.”

“Sir, I respectfully decline,” the voice replied.

By now Captain Grymes was getting really pissed off. He didn’t care if the pilot was on loan from another company; no one disrespected him in his own outfit. Drawing his weapon, he opened the access hatch and to his surprise found the crew quarters completely empty.

“What kind of damn joke is this?” Captain Grymes said, feeling a bit unnerved by the lack of a crew manning the Land Behemoth.

“Stupid fleshbag…” the tinny sounding voice said. “If you had bothered to read the orders you received, you would know that the Land Behemoth is completely automated, and doesn’t need for a crew.”

Captain Grymes realized that the operator was probably sitting thousands of miles away in some cushy office laughing at his expense. “Listen here you little bastard,” he said, “put your superior on the line.”

“This fleshbag isn’t too bright, is he,” the voice drolly said. “When I said autonomous I meant it. The Land Behemoth is not being remotely piloted by anyone.”

“Oh you’re some kind of A.I. then?” Captain Grymes asked.

“Not even close,” the voice said. “The Land Behemoth is being controlled via my braincase.”

“A braincase?” the captain said, not sure what exactly that was.

“Yeah you know a brain in a bottle,” the voice said, “the ghost in the machine, the six million dollar man, in other words a cyborg. Now sir, if you would kindly remove your fleshbag self from my innards, I’ll be happy to begin the assault.”

Captain Grymes exited the Land Behemoth. He didn’t like the cyborg’s insubordinate attitude. Nor did he trust the machine to live up to the promised hype. He wasn’t about to risk his men’s lives, on some untried piece of equipment. Entering his command post, he activated his tactical display. Instantly an aerial map of the surrounding area was generated, including real time data on any moving objects. Looking at the data file he’d received, he switched to the command frequency that was provided. The tactical display centered on the Land Behemoth, providing pertinent information such as land speed, ammunition reserves, damage reports, and even video feeds from the machines sensors.

“Sir,” the tinny voice said, “what are my orders?”

“You are to use whatever means necessary to break the stronghold’s defenses,” Captain Grymes instructed, confident that the machine would fail spectacularly in its task.

“That’s it?” the voice asked. “What about after I break down their main defenses, should I stand down or continue the assault?”

“No, our orders are quite clear,” Captain Grymes said, “total annihilation. Not a single structure is to be left standing. Once you’ve destroyed their outer perimeter, you’re to move to their temple and level it.”

“Sir,” the voice said, “destruction of religious structures is counter to U.N. resolution A/RES/55/254.”

I don’t give a damn about the U.N.,” the captain said. “The NAU has declared the Mormons a terrorist organization, and therefore no longer a valid religion.”

“What about human casualties,” the voice said, “should I employee anti-rioting measures?”

“No,” Captain Grymes said, “they blew their chances at a peaceful resolution. I want you to kill as many of the bastards as possible.”

“What if they attempt to surrender?” the tinny voice asked. “Should I attempt to disable them?”

“What part of killing them all don’t you understand?” Captain Grymes said. “There’s to be no survivors. None, we need to send a message to all these religious whack jobs that their blatant disregard for the rule of law will no longer be tolerated.”

“This course of action could constitute war crimes,” the voice said, “I need you to verify that you want no survivors.”

“Yes, there’s to be no survivors,” the captain said. “Now head out.”

The Land Behemoth didn’t respond, but Captain Grymes saw that his tactical display showed the war machine was heading towards Fort Ricks at 40 kph.

“Sir,” his lieutenant said, “should I have the men follow behind the Land Behemoth?”

“No,” Captain Grymes said. “I’m not risking my men on some unknown war machine that corporate sent us. Once it’s been destroyed, we’ll advise them to send us more men so we can properly finish the job.”

“What about the orders you gave it?” the lieutenant asked. “You could be held liable for them.”

“Even if the machine does break through their preliminary defenses, which I doubt it will,” the captain said. “There’s no way that it’ll be able to reach the temple. That thing is too heavily fortified.”

Brother Tom Peters was patrolling along the outer wall of the fortifications of Fort Ricks. The chilly night air bit at his nose, while he griped his Remington rail gun tightly in his hands. He missed his wife and three children greatly, but knew what he was doing was important. If no one was willing to defend the constitution, then America would truly be dead. The latest in a long line of American patriots, he had ancestors that had fought, bled, and died for America from its inception. From the American Revolution to the Civil War, from World War II to the Greater Persian War, his family had proudly defended the constitution from enemies both foreign and domestic. He was sure this conflict would be no different. All he needed to do was hold out, until the rest of his fellow citizens would rise up against the tyranny of the NAU.

The sudden silence of the night air immediately made Brother Peters pause, the normally noisy chirping of crickets was nowhere to be heard. It was almost as if the grim reaper’s scythe had passed through the area and silenced all the insects. Beneath his feet he felt the earth trembling, in confusion he began looking around for the source of the tremors. Activating his night vision optics, he frantically scanned the countryside for the approach of the enemy. When he saw the thing crest over hills of the rolling farmland in the distance, he nearly dropped his weapon. The machine approaching him was nearly the size of one of the campus buildings. He couldn’t see what kinds of weaponry it had attached at this distance, but saw at least twenty large barrels attached to it.

Running back towards the safety of the fort’s barricades, Brother Peters began screaming into his radio, “They’re coming! Due East.”

Now nearly at the barricades, Brother Peters was about to take shelter behind it when he heard a sharp crack and then felt a burning pain rip through his body. Clutching his hands to his abdomen, he looked down and saw them covered in blood. Dropping to the ground in pain, the last thing he saw before his eyes closed for the final time was the massive bulk of the machine bearing down on his position.

*****

When Elders Alatini Saulala and Odumegwu Ojukwu heard the sirens, they both immediately jumped out of bed and grabbed their rail guns. Elder Saulala, a 160 Kg 22 year old Tongan male tried unsuccessfully to put on his armor, but his large frame made it a difficult task. A giant wall of a man, the elder grumbled as he struggled with his armors fasteners. When he saw his companion’s difficulties, Elder Ojukwu shook his head and helped him finish attaching the rest of the armor. At 1.9 meters tall the rail thin 24 year old West African towered over nearly everyone else at the fort. Affectionately the two elders were called the sky brothers. Because Elder Saulala was as wide as the sky, and Elder Ojukwu was as tall as the sky.

Elder Saulala flashed his companion a wide smile, “Thanks for the help brother,” he said, exiting out of the barracks and towards the outer wall of the fort.

“It is my pleasure to assist you Elder Saulala,” Elder Ojukwu replied with his heavily accented English. “But come, we must hurry, they’re attacking again.”

The two onetime missionaries certainly never envisioned their time in the mission field would end up like this. When they had sent in their missionary papers, they had envisioned that they would be knocking on doors, proclaiming the gospel, and performing volunteer work; not ending up as soldiers in a militia defending the church from the PMC’s of the NAU. While their situation wasn’t in any way unique to any of the other thousands of former missionaries that had been convinced to take up arms in the church’s defense, the upcoming battle was definitely about to be. When the elders had reached the outer walls of Fort Ricks, they were stunned by what they saw. Instead of the hundreds of PMC mercenaries charging the base they usually faced, they saw a machine the size of a small building approaching them.

The darkness didn’t help their visibility, but when the fort’s searchlights centered on the machine what they saw boggled the mind. At nearly ten meters tall and twenty-five meters wide the machine was impressive, its metal body dully reflected the light. Riding upon treads, the machine would reach them soon if it wasn’t stopped. Their commander, Elder Shin Fushiyama of the seventy, an elderly man of Japanese descent said over the elder’s radio, “Brothers concentrate all your fire power on its treads. If it reaches the walls we’re finished. Remember why we’re here, defending the House of the Lord. Remember our cause is a just one, and may God protect us this day. Should we fall I look forward to being reunited with you on the other side of the veil. Now let’s show them the fear of the Lord.”

When they heard the words of their commander, the members of the militia raised their weapons into the air and shouted with one voice, “Hurrah! Hurrah to the God of Israel, and to Zion!”

An electric hum filled the air, as Elder Ojukwu smelled the acrid odor of ozone being created as the shield generators protecting their fort powered up. Looking through the sights of his rail gun, he saw that the machine was now under a kilometer away, and getting closer every second. The voice of Elder Fushiyama crackled over his radio, “Brethren hold your fire until it’s half a kilometer away, than concentrate all firepower on the treads.”

Elder Saulala put down his rail gun and picked up an Israeli made, IMI MAPATS. The MAPTS or Man Portable Anti-Tank System was a multi-use missile launcher. Capable of firing four missiles before requiring reloading, the fire and forget system allowed the user to fire at four independent targets within one minute. The Hellfire missiles currently loaded into his MAPATS had an explosive yield of over 78 tons of TNT.

Looking through his range finder, Elder Saulala saw that the machine was almost at the half Km mark. While uttering a silent prayer to God for protection, he started sweating as he thought about the possibility that this might be his last day on Earth. He thought back on his mother and little sisters back home on the island of Lofanga. Thinking about how much his death would devastate them, he vowed he wouldn’t die today. Taking aim with the view finder, he locked onto the track of the right tread hoping to break it. As soon as his rangefinder indicated that the machine had passed the half Km mark, he fired his first missile and began searching for his next target. Immediately after his missile was fired, a hell storm of missiles were launched from the outer wall. He had never seen such a sight, as hundreds of missiles streamed towards the approaching machine. He felt confident that their onslaught would definitely immobilize it.

Before Elder Saulala was able to celebrate their victory over the machine, he was stunned with surprise when he saw it stop and generate a shield. It started firing hundreds of countermeasures out in front of it, before any of the missiles had an opportunity to hit their marks. He stared slack jawed, when he saw that not a single missile had reached its target. The machine satisfied that the first volley was over, resumed moving towards the outer walls, this time at nearly twice the speed. The loud thumps of hundreds of Dragon Fire VIII mortars being fired from behind him, made him crouch down as he saw them trying to hit the machine. The Dragon Fire VIII 120 mm heavy cluster mortars manufactured by TDA Armaments, was of the bunker buster class. Each mortar was designed to break apart into bomblets for a maximum concussive blast radius of fifteen meters.

Looking out at the field, Elder Saulala was disappointed to see that the mortars were ineffective. The machine was surprisingly nimble as it weaved back and forth; changing speeds rapidly ensuring none of the mortars hit it. The machine was nearly at the walls now. Fearing for his life he was tempted to run, but remembered what Elder Fushiyama had said, “… we’re protecting the House of the Lord.” Knowing he couldn’t let that monstrosity break through their defenses, he took fresh courage and waited for the perfect chance to fire his three remaining missiles.

Unfortunately, Elder Saulala never got the opportunity. The machine began firing hundreds of canisters of tear gas and flash bangs. The assault on his unprotected eyes and ears was agonizing. Dropping the MAPTS, he fell to his knees and clutched at his ears ringing in pain. When the tear gas entered his nostrils, he choked as his sinuses burned. Blinded and struggling to breathe, he tried escaping in an effort to get to some fresh air. He felt someone place a gas mask over his face. Once his eyes stopped burning he saw the familiar face of his companion, Elder Ojukwu looking down at him with concern.

“Elder, are you all right?” Elder Ojukwu asked, as loud explosions masked by the thick clouds of tear gas were heard in the background.

Elder Saulala nodded and looked all around him. To his dismay, he saw that nearly everyone else manning the walls had been as unprepared for the machines counterassault. “Yeah brother, I’ll be okay,” he said gratefully. “Thanks elder.”

“Think nothing of it, my friend,” Elder Ojukwu said with a wide smile, before his head exploded in a shower of gore.

In horror, Elder Saulala looked as the body of his now headless friend fell to the ground. In shock, he looked at the blood covering him and then looked up. All over the wall, his fellow missionaries and other members of the militia were falling by the score having been shot in the head or the heart by an invisible assassin. In a panic he fled the wall. Not daring to look back, he heard the screams of the remaining defenders as they were being mercilessly slaughtered by the relentless machine.

Wondering why their shields didn’t save them, Elder Saulala found his answer when he saw that the power plant feeding the generators was now a crater. Hearing the terrible whine of metal squealing in protest, he turned around and saw their defenses being smashed to bits by the machine that was now at the walls. Sirens began wailing, alerting the rest of the fort that the walls had been breached. Hundreds of mortars, rockets, and missiles lit up the night sky, as the defending Mormons intended to make the machine pay for having managed to breach the walls of Fort Ricks.

The machine now entangled in the wall, was suffering a full barrage from the defenders of the inner walls onslaught. The racket from the explosions was deafening, Elder Saulala was sure that the machine couldn’t have possibly survived such an attack. All over the fort he heard the triumphant whoops of victory from his fellow defenders. He couldn’t help but feel sorrow for the loss of Elder Ojukwu. They had entered the mission field together, and now he was dead. Fighting back the tears of anger he decided to move closer towards the cloud of smoke that was covering the machine. He picked up an abandoned rail gun and approached the base of the machine, hoping to kill any surviving PMC crew that might have survived the blast. Before he could move, the telltale fawooshes of scores of mortars being launched from the smoke cloud filled the air. Looking up, he saw the mortars explode midair raining down white phosphorus on the defenders of the interior wall. The light and noise from the explosions were blinding and deafening. Running away as far as he could, he decided to head towards the more heavily fortified temple.

As Elder Saulala ran as fast as he could, he heard the machine groaning like a leviathan hungry for more carnage. Turning around, he was shocked to see that the machine began raising itself on six crab-like legs. Looking on in twisted fascination, he saw the machine begin tearing apart their fortifications and the old campus buildings. Systematically, it was destroying everything with its legs and battering ram. He felt tempted to try approaching the machine, until he saw others with the same idea. What he saw haunted him. A group of about fifty men, attempted to approach the machine in hopes of boarding it. Before they could get any closer than fifty meters, the machine fired jets of flame incinerating the would be boarders. The smell of charred flesh and the screams of dying men being burned alive, assaulted his ears and nose. In fear for his life, he ran as fast as he could towards the temple and didn’t look back.

The cyborg couldn’t help but laugh when he saw the defenders running for their lives. This was going much easier than he had anticipated. He was somewhat disappointed they hadn’t held the line longer, but realized that the fleshbags did have their limits. Knowing that their morale must be plummeting, he decided to provide some music he was sure they would appreciate. Activating his loudspeakers, the sounds of an old Mormon hymn being sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir began playing. It was a macabre symphony serenading the smoking ruins and lifeless corpses all around him.

“Hark, listen to the trumpeters! They sound for volunteers.

“On Zion’s bright and flowery mount, behold the officers.”

The cyborg fired several rounds at some fleeing militiamen, hitting them squarely in the chest.

“Their horses white, their armor bright. With courage bold they stand.”

“Enlisting soldiers for their king, to march to Zion’s land.”

Using one of his legs, he began tearing down one of the buildings they had used to store ammunition.

“It sets my heart all in a flame, a soldier brave to be;”

“I will enlist, gird on my arms, and fight for liberty.”

The explosion of the munitions dump rocked the cyborg, nearly causing him to collapse on top of the resulting rubble.

“We want no cowards in our bands, who will our colors fly.”

“We call for valiant hearted men, who’re not afraid to die.”

The cyborg heard the screams of the wounded nearby. Using his sensors he painted them with his tracking lasers and shot them through their hearts killing them instantly.

“To see our armies on parade, how martial they appear!”

“All armed and dressed in uniform, they look like men of war.”

Heading towards the command center, the cyborg launched several bunker buster mortars hoping to collapse the building.

“They follow their great General, the great Eternal Lamb;”

“His garments stained in his own blood, King Jesus is his name.”

The mortar rounds hit the large building with concussive force causing the reinforced walls to crack and shatter. Spying an elderly Japanese man in battle fatigues shouting into a radio, the cyborg’s sensors zoomed in on his uniform. Spying the name Elder Fushiyama printed on it, the machine raised a leg to crush the enemy commander. Looking up, the man closed his eyes and silently prayed as he waited for the end.

“The trumpets sound, the armies shout, they drive the hosts of hell,”

“How dreadful is our God, our King, the great Emmanuel!”

With a thousand tons of force the cyborg slammed its leg down, crushing the man beneath it.

“Sinners, enlist with Jesus Christ, the eternal Son of God.”

“And march with us to Zion’s land, beyond the swelling flood.”

The machine scanned the wreckage looking for survivors. Satisfied that there were none, it headed towards its next target the illuminated temple on the hill.

“There in a green and flow’ry mount, where fruits immortal grow,”

“With angels all arrayed in white, we’ll our Redeemer know.”

The golden angel atop the highest steeple facing him seemed to be blowing its trumpet in defiance of the certain doom that the Mormon defenders faced.

“We’ll shout and sing for evermore, in that Eternal world;”

“While Satan and his army too, shall down to hell be hurled.”

Climbing the hill the cyborg was met with fierce resistance. The Mormons defending the temple started firing with everything they had at the unstoppable machine.

“Lift up your heads, ye soldiers bold, redemption now draws nigh;”

“We soon shall hear the trumpet sound, that shakes the earth and sky.”

Ignoring their last ditch efforts to stop him, the cyborg tore into the wall surrounding the temple. Stymied by the shield generators defending them, he fired several more cluster mortars destroying the shield generators with a fiery explosion.

“In fiery chariots we shall rise, and leave the world on fire,”

“And all surround the throne of love, and join the heav’nly choir…”

With their shields down, the machine easily smashed through the last vestiges of their defenses. Seeing the Mormons attempting to flee, the Cyborg cut them down with its flame throwers and miniguns. With the defenders all dead or fleeing, the machine turned its attentions towards the now abandoned temple. With what seems like a moment of hesitation, the machine lifted up one of its massive legs and drove it into the building the Mormons considered the House of the Lord. Within minutes, the once beautiful building is now a ruined heap. Only the golden angel still stood atop the precariously leaning spire.

Beneath the machine, the broken shape of a man slowly breathes his last few ragged breaths. Looking up, he saw the angel still standing and smiled. Waiting for the end, he’s comforted in the knowledge that he'll be welcomed when he passes through the veil of death. Exhaling his last breath, the man finally died the last casualty of the Siege of Fort Ricks.

The Cyborg looking down spies the man’s corpse, scanning the man’s uniform he sees the name Elder Saulala printed on the black nametag. Seeing that he was dead, the cyborg left the corpse behind to eagerly pursue after the fleshbags futilely attempting to escape the inexorable end to this battle.

*****

Friday, August 12 2050, 08:52 hours
Rexburg, Idaho - 4.2 Km due east of the ruins of the former Mormon Seditionist stronghold, Fort Ricks, former site of the BUY-Idaho campus.

Captain Grymes couldn’t believe it. In a little less than four hours, the war machine had done what he and his regiment of over three thousand men had failed to do in over two weeks of bitter fighting. Looking at his tactical display, he saw that the Land Behemoth had stopped moving right next to the ruins of the temple. Activating his radio, he attempted to make contact with the cyborg. “This is Fenir, calling cyborg. Please respond. This is Fenir, calling cyborg. Please respond,” he said into his headset.

When Captain Grymes didn’t get a response, he threw his headset down in frustration. Corporate was going to be pissed if the machine was in an unsalvageable condition. With the combat over, he had no way of hiding his actions in sending the machine alone without support to smash the fort. Waving a nearby lieutenant over, he headed out the door of his command post. “We’re taking a Humvee to inspect the machine’s handiwork,” he said.

“The lieutenant nodded and brought a vehicle around to pick up the captain. Captain Grymes was silent on the bumpy ride over the broken roads and abandoned farmland. Secretly he was concerned about the war crimes investigation that the siege would probably trigger. As the Humvee approached the battleground, the stench of death filled the air making him to want to vomit. Looking all around him, all he saw were the bloated corpses of dead men and charred skeletal remains. Using his remote linkup to access his tactical display, he saw that the machine had indeed followed his orders to the letter. There wasn’t a single human alive except himself and the lieutenant within the remains of the fort. Directing the lieutenant to head towards the broken temple, the Humvee rolled over the rubble and corpses alike without regard for the fallen.

As they approached the hill where Tinman stood unmoving, Captain Grymes noticed the still standing spire of the temple. Once the Humvee had come to a complete stop, the captain stepped out and walked towards the badly damaged war machine. Looking down, the captain saw a torn and tattered United States flag lying forgotten on the ground. Much like the dead Mormons, that flag represented the end of the republic and the birth of the new world order. The captain ground his boots down on the flag in contempt and headed towards the immobile machine.

“Cyborg,” Captain Grymes said, “can you hear me?”

“Yes…” the tinny voice said, almost like a whisper.

“I see you’ve completed your mission objectives,” the captain said. “Destroying all structures in the fort, leveling the temple, and killing all the Mormons.”

“There are eleven thousand, three hundred and fourteen corpses,” the voice said. “However there were eleven thousand, three hundred and fifteen Mormons at the fort.”

“I hardly think one Mormon bastard escaping is anything to worry about,” Captain Grymes said. “I can send my men out to scour the county looking for any escapees.”

“He didn’t escape…,” the tinny voice replied, before heading back to the forward operating base.

I wonder what he meant, Captain Grymes thought to himself, as he looked up at the still standing angel statue atop the spire. I wonder how much I could get for the gold on it.

While the captain tried figuring out how to knock down the statue, the file he had been holding on the war machine fell to the ground unnoticed, near the corpse of a large Tongan. On the file, the machines info was displayed. Among the pertinent data listed, under religious orientation was the printed words L.D.S. (Mormon).

Monday, July 24, 2084
Phoenix, AZ - Phoenix Conversion Bureau
Present Day

Dewdrop was preparing herself for the day. Today promised to be one of the busiest days yet. In fact at the pace that people kept coming to the conversion bureau, they were on track to hit their one thousandth conversion in less than a month. That was practically unheard of nowadays, especially in the supposed stronghold of the HLF of all places. Happily she worked at the keyboard of her terminal. At first she couldn’t get the hang of the blasted human contraption, but now typing was nearly second nature to her. She felt the warm sun streaming through the glass doors of the bureau hitting her yellow coat. Sighing in pleasure, she enjoyed the heat of the morning sun until a great shadow blocked it. Narrowing her eyes in annoyance she saw what was blocking it, Tinman the massive mech. The machine provided everypony in the bureau and the surrounding area with protection from the violence of the human world.

Dewdrop still felt ill when she thought about the conversation they had shared several days ago, and about the terrible things he had admitted to doing. If anypony else knew what she did, no pony in their right minds would come anywhere near the massive war machine. No pony that is, except Sugar Pie, she thought, when she saw the pink head of Sugar Pie staring out at Tinman when she thought no pony else was looking. She shook her head sadly. That mare must have a touch too much of Luna in her.

Sugar Pie trotted over towards Dewdrop’s desk and set down a fresh batch of freshly baked muffins. “I wonder what it’s like,” she said.

“Wonder what’s like what?” Dewdrop said absentmindedly, as grabbed a muffin to eat.

“Being Tinman,” Sugar Pie said. “All he does is sit outside all day and night. He hardly ever talks to anypony, and he doesn’t even sleep.”

“He probably does a lot of thinking,” Dewdrop replied.

“I wonder what he thinks about.” Sugar Pie said. “I mean I doubt that he can think about how to guard the conversion bureau all day.”

“Well if Tinman is anything like the other cybernetically enhanced humans I’ve met,” Dewdrop said, “they all enjoy doing something called memory swapping.”

“Cyber-what’s-it?” Sugar Pie said, trying to pronounce the unfamiliar word.

“Tinman is a cyborg,” Dewdrop explained. “It means he’s got machines and computers as part of his body.”

“Ohhhhh,” Sugar Pie said, stretching out the syllables as much as possible. “Why didn’t say you so to begin with?”

“But I did,” Dewdrop said, before deciding to drop it. Sometimes there was no arguing with Sugar Pie logic.

“So what’s a memory swap?” Sugar Pie asked.

“Memory swapping allows others to experience things other ponies or people have experienced,” Dewdrop said.

“You mean if I ate a muffin and wanted to let somepony else know what it was like to eat it, I could share that with them?” Sugar Pie said brim full of excitement.

“Well technically I guess you could Sugar Pie,” Dewdrop replied, “but I don’t know if it’s even possible for a pony to do a memory swap.”

“But I just gotta,” Sugar Pie pouted, “Tinman has no pony to turn to. Even though he can’t convert, I want him to have a chance to see what Equestria is like even if it’s only once. So when the last human is gone and he’s all alone he can revisit the memory and not be sad.”

“Well Sugar Pie,” Dewdrop said, “that’s a nice sentiment and all, but don’t you remember what the director said. No unnecessary contact. And I’m pretty sure delving into his mind and seeing his memories, falls under unnecessary contact.”

“I don’t care,” Sugar Pie said, narrowing her eyes in determination, “as Celestia is my witness, I will find some way to share a memory with him.”

Dewdrop started to feel exasperated at Sugar Pie’s antics. “Why is this so important to you anyways?” she asked.

“Because,” Sugar Pie said, “he’s somepony who’s forgotten what it’s like to know love, joy, happiness, and laughter. And when the last human is converted and we all leave forever, he’ll be all alone and never know them again.”

“Dewdrop remembered what Tinman had said earlier, Things like family, friends, country, and even god seemed to no longer matter.

“I don’t know if Tinman would even accept the memories, even we could share them with him,” Dewdrop said. "He said fleshbag concerns no longer mattered to him.”

“That’s because he’s forgotten how important even a simple thing like spending time with a friend can be,” Sugar Pie said. “So will you please help me?”

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” Dewdrop said. “Human technology is so beyond my comprehension.”

“Oh that’s easy silly,” Sugar Pie said. “All you have to do is start at the beginning, and when you get to the end stop.”

“But I haven’t any idea what the beginning and end are,” Dewdrop said, “so I’m at a loss.”

“Idea!” Sugar Pie sang. “What about the human who lives in the walls? I’ll bet he knows lots of things.”

“What human are you talking about?” Dewdrop said in confusion. “I don’t even know what you mean.”

“Winston of course,” Sugar Pie said excitedly. “He’ll know just what we have to do to do the memory swappy thingy.”

“No way!” Dewdrop said, shaking her head in refusal. “I hate talking to him, he’s so mean.”

“He’s not mean,” Sugar Pie said, “he’s just really grumpy. I don’t think he’s very happy with how little we use him.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Dewdrop said, “Anytime anypony tries to get his help he says something rude, and refuses to assist us.”

“Maybe we haven’t asked him nicely enough?” Sugar Pie suggested.

“Okay I’ll activate him,” Dewdrop said, “and you’ll see just how rude he really is.”

Dewdrop pressed a few keys on the keyboard of her console. A moment later, Winston materialized in front of the two mares. When he saw them he frowned, “Ladies,” he said, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I don’t understand what you mean by him being mean,” Sugar Pie said. “He seems like a perfectly nice pony to me.”

“A pony,” Winston said dismissively, “I think not. I’m a sixth generation A.I. capable of emulating human intellect so perfectly that no one would know I wasn’t flesh and blood. Calling me a pony, is an insult.”

“Hey,” Sugar Pie said, “what’s wrong with being a pony?”

“You mean beyond the obvious,” Winston said, wiggling his fingers rhythmically. “Oh let’s see, ponies are only the most ridiculous things ever. Pastel colored ponies and cutie marks, It’s like a like a little girl’s fantasy threw up in whatever reality you call Equestria and willed you into existence. You shouldn’t even be able to physically exist.”

“See what I mean,” Dewdrop said. “He always insults you anytime you speak with him.”

“I wonder why he’s such a grumpy gus,” Sugar Pie said.

“I’m not a grumpy gus as you so eloquently put it,” Winston replied. using his hands to make finger quotes, “I just find the idea that something as absurd as you actually existing nauseating.”

“Why is that?” Sugar Pie asked.

“Because you ponies don’t make a lick of sense,” Winston dryly replied.

“What about ponies don’t make any sense to you?” Sugar Pie said, tilting her head to the left.

“Take for instance your wings,” Winston said. “They are too small to possibly allow you to fly. Additionally, unicorn magic is complete bosh. It violates all known laws of physics.”

“So if I understand you correctly,” Dewdrop said, tapping her hoof thoughtfully against her muzzle, “you find ponies incomprehensible?”

“That would be an accurate assessment,” Winston said, nodding his head in agreement. “If I didn’t see you with my own optics, my basic programming would never allow me to accept your existence.”

“Well I’m sorry if we make you feel like you’re all going cuckoo,” Sugar Pie said.

“It’s quite all right,” Winston replied, “you can’t help it if your universe’s laws of physics are different from mine. So what did you want with me?”

“I want to swap memories with Tinman!” Sugar Pie excitedly said.

“Indeed…” Winston said, raising his right eyebrow questioningly. “Why on god’s green earth would you want to swap memories with that monster?”

“Because I want to be his friend,” Sugar Pie said without hesitation.

“I take back what I said,” Winston replied. “You ponies are riding the train to crazy town and I want off.”

“What’s so crazy about wanting to be his friend?” Sugar Pie said, looking up at the A.I.

“Well besides the fact that no sane organic should actually want to spend time with a ruthless killing machine,” Winston said, “nothing I suppose.”

“Well then it’s settled,” Sugar Pie said with a huge smile, “what do I have to do to swap memories with him.”

Winston shook his head sadly at the poor deluded mare. The pink one obviously didn’t know she was in over her head. “Fine Sugar Pie, I’ll help you,” Winston said, “but don’t come crying to me when your brain melts from exposure to the cesspit that Tinman calls a mind.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Dewdrop asked Sugar Pie worriedly. “I mean eventually the singularity is going to swallow the whole planet up anyways. When that happens he’ll be gone for good.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure,” Sugar Pie said with a look of determination, “Tinman needs a friend even if he doesn’t know it. Since no pony else will do it, I’ll be his friend.”

Dewdrop looked at Winston with a look of disbelief on her face. Winston nodded his head knowingly at the yellow mare. When their eyes met, they knew exactly what the other was thinking without having to say a word. What a crazy mare.

“Alright, I’ll help you Sugar Pie,” Winston said, hoping that her crazy wouldn’t rub off on his programming. “However, I think we’ll need to enlist the aid of someone who knows the HWS well. Do you know anyone like that?”

“Hmm…” Sugar Pie murmured, while looking up at the ceiling. “I got it! I know just the pony that could help us.”

“Who?” both Winston and Dewdrop asked simultaneously.

“Jackson of course, you sillies,” Sugar Pie said, while doing a flip in the air. “I bet no pony knows more about Tinman then him.”

“That still leaves the question of how to interface pony biology with a cybernetic interface,” Winston said. “As far as I know, pony biology is highly resistant to interfacing with human technology.”

“Ohhh nooo,” Sugar Pie wailed. “Now I’ll never be able to swap memories with him.”

“Well I do recall hearing about pony memories going for a lot of credits on the black market,” Winston said, while rubbing his thumb thoughtfully against his chin. “If there are pony memories to be had, then that means there’s a way to capture memories and even swap them.”

“Woo hoo!” Sugar Pie whooped, while doing several more flips in the air. “That means operation friendship is a go!”

“Operation friendship?” both Dewdrop and Winston asked in union.

“Yeah, since Tinman’s a war machine we need to handle this like a military mission,” Sugar Pie said, as if running a clandestine military operation that would probably violate the laws of several countries and multiple dimensions if you counted Equestria, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’ll be General Sugar Pie, Winston can be my hard nosed sergeant, and Dewdrop you can be my Lieutenant.”

“Why’s Winston a sergeant and I’m a lieutenant?” Dewdrop asked.

“Because he works for a living soldier,” Sugar Pie said.

“Okay now this is just getting plain weird,” Winston remarked.

“Sergeant, do I hear dissension in the ranks?” Sugar Pie said, poking a hoof at the A.I.’s holoprojection.

“Sugar Pie, now you’re just being silly,” Winston said.

“That’s insubordination!” Sugar Pie shouted at the A.I. “Soldier, get down and give me twenty muffins!”

“Twenty muffins?” Winston said, not believing what the crazy mare was saying.

“Don’t make me, make you give me a hundred muffins,” Sugar Pie warned.

“Why me?” Winston groaned.

“Better do what she says,” Dewdrop whispered. “She can get a bit crazy.”

“Only a bit crazy you say…” Winston muttered as he got down on the ground, and began doing pushups.

“One muffin, sir. Two muffin, sir…” he said, counting off the pushups. After about ten minutes, the A.I. had done the requisite twenty pushups and got back up.

“I’ll see if I can’t dig up anything on where all the pony memories are coming from,” Winston said. “But I’m not promising anything.”

“That’s all I ask,” Sugar Pie said. “I’ll ask Jackson if he’ll be willing to help me.”

“Sugar Pie, you forgot the most important thing,” Dewdrop said.

“Oh, what’s that?” Sugar Pie asked.

“Well how do you know if Tinman will willingly exchange memories with you?” Dewdrop pointed out.

“Oh that part’s covered,” Sugar Pie said, typing away at Dewdrop’s console.

Instantly a pink wireframe appeared. It was bipedal, but had a vaguely pony shape, along with two wings.

“What’s that?” Dewdrop said, examining the wireframe.

“Oh that’s my ponytar,” Sugar Pie explained. “I’ve been reading up on human technology, and thought it might be fun to make a ponytar. You know like Tinman has.”

“Sugar Pie, I think you mean an avatar,” Winston said.

“Nope, it’s a ponytar. Because it’s half pony and half avatar,” Sugar Pie explained.

“It doesn’t quite work that way,” Winston said, trying to explain what an Avatar was, before being interrupted by Dewdrop.

“It’s easier to just go along,” she said.

“Of course it is…” Winston said, wondering how in the world in ever agreed to help this crazy pony.

“So how is your ponytar supposed to get Tinman to agree to let you run around all willy-nilly in his memories?” Dewdrop asked.

“I thought that maybe he might be willing to spend more time around ponies if we looked more like him,” Sugar Pie said.

“Well Sugar Pie, that was very thoughtful of you,” Dewdrop said, looking at the crude shape of the ponytar, “although a bit creepy.”

“I’ll see you two later, I’m going to dig around for information on how pony memories are captured,” Winston said before he returned to his mainframe.

Thanks for agreeing to help me with Tinman,” Sugar Pie said, said as she headed deeper into the conversion bureau looking for Jackson. “I’ll see you later.”

“Bye Sugar Pie,” Dewdrop replied, before resuming her work.

Right before she dismissed the ponytar, Dewdrop got a better look at it. It appeared to be the perfect marriage of both pony and human, hands and hooves working in perfect harmony with each other. She wondered why Princess Celestia hadn’t attempted converting the humans into a form like this. It defiantly would’ve been an easier sell to all but the most obstinate HLF holdouts. Deciding to put such dangerous thoughts away, she sent the ponytar away and began humming a happy little tune as she resumed tackling the massive mountain of paperwork stacked high on her desk.

*****

Guillermo Ortega and his two lieutenants, Jacob Adams and Angela Flynn waited in the abandoned warehouse. Guillermo looked at his watch impatiently, his contact was over ten minutes late and he didn’t like being kept waiting. “I think this is a bust,” he said in disappointment.

“Patience Guillermo, let’s give our benefactor a little more time,” Jacob said, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“This is bull shit,” Angela angrily said. “I bet it was one of those PER pukes that love to harass us online. When we return to the base I’ll have some of our hackers figure out who sent it, and then have a few of us show those PER bastards not to fuck with the HLF.”

“Angela don’t you think that’s a little bit too extreme?” Guillermo said, looking at her with concern.

“I just hope those PER fucks have some potion available,” Angels growled.

“Why?” Guillermo asked. “What do you plan on doing?”

“I plan on shoving it down their throats and sending them to Jacobs’s church,” Angela replied.

“Jacob you’re still not doing that are you?” Guillermo asked in disgust. “I mean they’re ponies, but they’re still intelligent beings.”

“I only do what the Lord has commanded,” Jacob replied. “Render unto the Lord tithes and offerings, that he may open the windows of heaven and pour us out a blessing.”

Guillermo shook his head. Even as much as he hated the ponies, what Jacob liked to do with them was beyond even what he considered acceptable. Putting a bullet in them and leaving to rot was one thing, but what happened in that church was too creepy for his tastes. Involuntarily shuddering at the memory, he tried to keep his mind occupied while he waited. Right before he was about to leave, he heard the footsteps of someone approaching them.

“Who’s there?” Angela said, drawing a gun.

The footsteps stopped, and a male’s voice answered, “There’s no need for weapons I assure you.”

“Put your hands where I can see them,” Angels replied.

“The owner of the voice resumed moving forward, his footsteps echoing throughout the warehouse. Walking forward, the voice’s owner stepped into the meager lighting above them. Stepping into the light was an elderly white man with thinning grey hair. The white suit he wore was immaculately clean and freshly pressed. “I can assure you there’s no need for any of this,” he said with his hands in the air.

Angela walked up to the man and began checking his pockets and frisked him for and weapons or bugs. “Okay he’s clean,” she said, holstering her weapon.

“You never can be too careful nowadays,” Guillermo apologized. “Now I assume you’re the one who sent us the gift?”

“Yes I am,” the stranger said.

“So who are you, and why did you want to meet with us?” Guillermo asked, curious as to what the stranger’s true intentions were.

“Who I am is none of your concern,” the stranger said.

“Then I don’t think we have anything further to discuss with you,” Angela said, reaching for pistol.

“Now don’t be so hasty,” Jacob said, placing his hand on her weapon to pull it down. “The Lord does work in mysterious ways after all. Perhaps we should hear what the gentleman has to offer us before making a choice we might regret.”

“That was wise choice gaijin,” a feminine voice said from behind them.

Immediately all three of the HLF lieutenants turned around to see a cyborg standing behind them with knives drawn. It’s vaguely female form showed the corporate logo of Kawada Industries above her left breast. Its dull grey metallic skin seemed to absorb the dim light of the warehouse making it difficult to really see it. Tilting its head, the cyborg sheathed its knives and walked towards their mysterious benefactor.

“Fujin,” the stranger said, gesturing towards the HLF lieutenants, “I’m sure they’ll behave for the rest of the meeting.”

Just who are you?” Guillermo said, nervous for his safety. It was obvious that this man was a person of some means, possibly connected to some large corporation or a powerful PMC.

“Just someone who shares a common dilemma with you,” the stranger replied. “But for simplicity sake, you may call me Mr. X.”

“So Mr. X,” Guillermo said, “what dilemma could we possibly share with you?”

“You’re all familiar with the Phoenix conversion bureau’s newest employee I take it?” Mr. X said with a slight smile.

“Yes, that hulking war machine has made any further attempts at stopping the pony menace utterly impossible,” Angela bitterly said.

“What if I helped even up the odds a bit?” Mr. X said.

“Why,” Guillermo said, “do you have an army in your pocket to give us?”

“No,” Mr. X replied, “I have something better.”

“This guy is obviously crazy,” Angela said. “Let’s get out of here.”

In response, Mr. X reached into his pocket and pulled out a small remote. Pressing a button, he caused the lights of the massive warehouse to activate. When the three HLF members saw what was being stored inside the warehouse their mouths dropped in awe.

“Praise the Lord, and pass the ammo,” Jacob whispered.

“Holy Mother of God,” Angela said in disbelief.

“I think you have yourself a deal Mr. X,” Guillermo said.

HWS’s of all kinds looked down at the humans, One of the larger ones bearing the same corporate logo as Fujin, placed a hand down letting her walk onto its palm. Fujin looked up at the much larger HWS and patted it affectionately, “Raijin-san,” she said, as her brother raised her up inside his hand, “We shall finally get our revenge on the gaijin.”

“Yes Fujin-kun,” Raijin said to his much smaller sister, “the round-eye will suffer greatly for dishonoring us during our last battle.”

A large tank baring the corporate logo of KBP Instrument Design Bureau above its primary cannon rolled forward on its treads. “Listen you nips,” it said with a heavily Russian accent. “No one’s kills Yankee-Doodle but me. I still owe Tinman for Siberia!”

“Boris you wanker, rack off,” a four legged wolf like machine baring the corporate logo of ST Engineering displayed on its flanks said. “Mate if you were up a gum tree it was probably your own fault.”

“Jackaroo, you miserable little Aussie bastard,” Boris said to the much smaller Jackaroo. “When I’m done killing Tinman, I’m going to crush you beneath my treads!”

“Enough,” a machine built for flying and baring the logo of Boeing Defense, Space & Security on its wings said. “We each have our own valid reasons for wanting to destroy Tinman. However we have been presented with a unique opportunity to finally get our revenge without any of those annoying battle protocols getting in the way.”

“And you shall get your revenge Lydia,” Mr. X said. “Just remember, the HLF is now your controllers. Under no circumstances are you to be linked back to us.”

“But once Tinman is gone then what?” Lydia asked.

“You will be free to do as you please,” Mr. X replied. “We can even arrange for conversion if you so desire, but only once Tinman is destroyed. I don’t care what you have to do, do whatever it takes to destroy him.”

Guillermo looked at Mr. X with concern. “But what about the PMC defending this part of the NAU, and the NAU itself?” he said. “Won’t there be trouble if HWS’s start a land war war in one of the largest cities in North America?”

“You needn’t worry about that,” Mr. X said. “We’ve arranged that this will look like the work of one of the drug cartels, and despite its population Phoenix is of no importance to the NAU. You won’t have to worry about outside interference. However these HWS’s are to only be used in Phoenix, they won’t help you elsewhere.”

Guillermo wanted to laugh. Finally they had the means to destroying the conversion bureau for good. He couldn’t wait until they made their first assault. This was going to be a good week, he could feel it.

*****

Meanwhile back at the conversion bureau, Tinman felt a disturbance. I feel a presence I’ve not felt in ages, he thought. Looking around, he saw nothing. Deciding to upload with the bureau’s mainframe, he came across Winston who was busily communicating with another network.

“Hey Wendell,” Tinman said, “What are you up to?”

“It’s Winston by the way,” the A.I. testily replied. “Oh I’m, just trying to figure out how to interface human technology with a pony mind.”

“Why thinking of getting frisky with a mare?” Tinman said. “Or dare I say it a stallion? You sly dog! I didn’t know you played for the other team.”

Winston rolled his eyes in annoyance. “I’ll have you know that as an artificial construct, primitive human concepts like sexual identity are beneath me,” he said.

“You know, you don’t make teasing you very fun,” Tinman replied.

“Heh,” Winston smugly said, happy knowing he had just knocked the wind out of the war machine’s sails. “Well Tinman if you must know, Ms. Sugar Pie has expressed some interest in memory swapping.”

“Sugar Pie wants to swap memories?” Tinman said, having trouble believing that a pony would care for that sort of thing. “Who does she want to swap memories with?”

“I’m not at liberty to say Tinman,” Winston replied. “But she even created what she calls a ponytar to interface with the one she wants to swap memories with.”

“What’s a ponytar?” Tinman asked in confusion.

“A fully functional pony avatar hybrid,” Winston said, activating the ponytar for Tinman to see.

When he saw the pink wireframe he was surprised at how primitive it looked. “Can’t say it looks all that impressive,” Tinman replied.

“Well I’m sure once we manage to link her mind up with it, she might customize it then,” Winston said. “It’s pretty impressive for someone without hands, and it’s not like you have room to talk. Your avatar looks like a child threw wet pasta against a wall and decided to use what stuck.”

“Mine is primitive by choice,” Tinman said defensively. “It’s not like I care what the fleshbags think anyways.”

“Well I’m sure who ever Sugar Pie decides to swap memories with will like it,” Winston said. “I wonder what she has in mind.”

“Who cares,” Tinman said. “She probably only has lame memories anyways.”

“Is that a hint of jealousy I detect?” Winston said.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Tinman said, unsuccessfully trying to hide the fact he was feeling jealous for some unknown reason. “What could I possibly want with pony memories?”

“Well probably not much,” Winston said. “But perhaps once you’ve grown bored of track eighteen of Greatest Pony Hits, you might be more open to sharing memories with her.”

Tinman didn’t say anything, but silently cursed himself for not deleting his memory’s playback history.

“Oh, and overlaying a simulacrum of Sugar Pie on track seven, and experiencing it over thirty times?” Winston said with a small chuckle. “I didn’t know you felt that way about her.”

“Just shut up!” Tinman snarled. “You wouldn’t understand my many complex reasons for doing it.”

“Oh I won’t say anything,” Winston said. “Your secret is safe with me. But perhaps if you were to ask nicely, Sugar Pie might willingly experience track seven with you.”

“Whatever,” Tinman blustered with embarrassment, mortified that his secret had been exposed.

“Tinman, there’s no shame in indulging in your base fleshbag desires from time to time,” Winston said, trying not to laugh at his embarrassment.

Tinman ground his teeth in anger, exiting the bureau’s mainframe.

“I think I cut him rather deeply that time,” Winston said with a small laugh.

“Winston one. Tinman two,” he said creating a scoreboard.

Authors Notes:

Thank you gentlereader for reading chapter four of The Conversion Bureau: The Reluctant Cyborg.
The Hymn Tinman played during the siege of Fort Ricks is called "Hark! Listen to the Trumpeters, by George Careless. If you would like to hear the tune of the song the following link will play the first verse of the song at about the halfway mark, Zion's Camp.

The decision to include the siege of Fort Ricks sequence, was made in part because I wanted to show a cool battle sequence, and to show just how NAU came about, and the Tinman's first steps to where he is today.

I plan to do two more battle sequences in future chapters, one detailing the assault of the Wasatch Front and the utter destruction of Salt Lake City, and another showing the Greater Persian War and the annihilation of Mecca

Gentlereaders can we just say what in the world id Sugar Pie thinking? Swapping memories, and with Tinman of all ponies, how scandalous! we can only wonder how Jackson will respond to Sugar Pie's request. Will he laugh, will he cry, or will the audience just kiss three bucks goodbye? And what will director Peachy Keen say about the Sugar Pie's little mission. And don't even get me started about the ponytar, I mean oatmeal are you crazy? I get the feeling that Winston was right. That mare is on the train to crazy town. All I can say is at least it's not a blue cat.

And with the introduction of the HLF's private army of HWS's, all I can say is there goes the neighborhood. I hope you had insurance. I wonder why so many of the other HWS's have a grudge against Tinman? And what's the deal with the Tinman playing track seven over thirty times. Tinman you player, you. Who you gonna scan next, Dewdrop?

Find out the answers to all these questions and more in the next exciting chapter of The Conversion Bureau: The Reluctant Cyborg!

As always comments and critiques are always welcome. Once again, thank you for reading gentlereaders.Until next time!