Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 15: Trials, part I
Admiral Biscuit

Dale drifted in and out of sleep, shifting around to find a new comfortable position, until he realized that there was no point in fooling himself any more—he wasn't going to fall back asleep. He shoved the covers off and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. His first order of business was snatching his glasses off the bedside table. He began walking over to the window while the world came into focus, noticing that it was still raining outside, although the storm had changed from a torrential downpour to a more sedate soaking rain.

It was just like this my last day on Earth, he thought. Wouldn't it be something if they'd somehow made a rainstorm to welcome me to my new home because they thought I liked them? It'd be like the Truman Show.

Dale opened his dresser and picked his old shirt and the new pants Rarity had made, getting dressed quickly. He could smell coffee and eggs from downstairs, and that was a good reason to get to the breakfast table before it was too late. Already, he could see an advantage to having servants. For one, there would be no more morning struggles with a cantankerous percolator.

He paused in the hallway, considering looking into Lyra's room to see if she was up yet, but that would be rude—even though she had left her door open. Instead, he carefully descended the stairs and made his way to the side door of the house.

He opened the door and looked glumly at the rain dripping off the roof. The outhouse had suddenly risen on his most-hated features list to number one, pushing the stairs out of their coveted top spot. This was the dilemma of all campers—go through the rain and get wet, hold it and hope that the rain lets up, or just pee right outside the door and hope nobody sees? That option was probably off the table; given his position such behavior was unacceptable unless he had clear instructions from Lyra or some other official that it was all right.

It's just rain, you won't melt. He looked down at his bare feet, sighed, and trudged out the door. In his haste to get out of the rain, he didn't think about knocking until after he'd already opened the door. Luckily, the outhouse was empty.

A somewhat damper Dale left a trail of wet footprints through the office and foyer. He glanced at the stairs, debating if it would be prudent to change into his last set of clean and dry clothes, or just put up with these until they dried on their own. Deciding that the lazier option was the best option, he continued into the dining room.

Lyra was already there, a nearly empty plate in front of her. He watched from the doorway as the mug of coffee floated away from her mouth and back to the table, before he walked into the room. She looked up and smiled when she spotted him. “Good morning, Dale.”

“Good morning, Lyra,” he replied, taking a seat across from her. He noticed that one of her ears cocked towards the kitchen, and he turned in time to see Diamond Mint come through the doorway, two pieces of paper floating in front of her. She set the first down in front of him.

A menu? Dale looked at the simple sketches, which showed a variety of breakfast items. He pointed to the coffee, eggs, and toast, the looked at Diamond Mint hopefully. She nodded and took the first page away from him, then showed him the second page.

This simply had a drawing of what looked very much like a pork chop on a plate. He studied it thoughtfully, sneaking a glance at Lyra's plate to see if that provided any clues. I don't want to choose it and have a repeat of the woodchuck incident, he thought, but at the same time, this looks butchered and prepared . . . and hopefully not raw. If it is raw, I can probably get across that I want it cooked. With a trembling finger, he cautiously touched the page and nodded.

Diamond Mint took the paper out from under his hand and returned to the kitchen, letting the door swing closed behind her.

Dale looked back across to Lyra. She was mopping up the rest of her egg with a piece of toast, but her look was distant.

Does she object to me having meat for breakfast? Or at all? She was upset at the hospital when the yellow winged pony brought the woodchuck—but who can blame her? She didn't have a problem with me eating fish, though, and she ate half of my roast beef sandwich, so that probably isn't it.

Did the white pony do something or say something to her? She isn't here right now—I wonder why not? And who is she, anyway? Dale sighed, realizing that he probably had the same pensive look that Lyra did. You won't know if you don't ask, he told himself. “Is Lyra not happy? Is Dale make Lyra not happy?” She squeaked at the sound of his voice before looking up at him. I guess you were a million miles away.

“Lyra is . . . Lyra go soon to, to. . . . “ she waved a hoof around absently. “Is like before, like Dale meet ponies, but is not happy. Lyra go with Fancy Pants and Fleur; Fancy Pants and Fleur help Lyra.”

A funeral? A look of concern crossed Dale's face. “Dale help?”

She shook her head. “Is from Dale home there—Dale make draws for Fancy Pants yesterday yesterday?”

Dale nodded. Fancy Pants had taken all of his drawings with him when he left. He still wasn't entirely clear how they were to be used, but Lyra obviously trusted him with them. He scratched his chin, frowning at the stubble. I still haven't found a razor. That's going to be a problem eventually. Lyra has some kind of official position, obviously—so maybe it's a contact report or something like that. She must have had to do them after the first meeting. But she didn't have time after the second—she spent all her time at the hospital with me.

“Dale stay here,” she told him. “Dale make embassy Dale home. Later, Cheerilee help Dale make more words.”

Lyra picked up her mug and took another sip, before scooching her seat back. She went around the table and gently rubbed her muzzle against Dale's side. Before he could react to her affection, she trotted out of the kitchen and headed upstairs.

He heard the kitchen door open, and glanced that way in time to see Diamond Mint coming through the door with a plate of food, silverware, and a cup all floating in her field. Behind her, he caught a glimpse of Starlight peering into the open oven door, poking at something with a fork held in her mouth.

Diamond Mint watched with a curious fascination as Dale picked up his silverware and began eating breakfast. There was no pork chop—that's got to be what Starlight is cooking, he thought—but he was hungry. Last night's hors-d’oeuvres hadn't been enough, especially since he'd been so busy meeting ponies he'd hardly had a chance to eat anything.

He was half finished with his eggs when Diamond Mint came back out with the meat. Starlight was right behind her, watching the plate intently. Diamond set it in front of him with a flourish, and the two ponies both watched him closely. He noticed that while Starlight had her ears turned forward, Diamond's were partially lowered, and she kept shifting her weight from hoof to hoof.

He turned his attention back to the meat. They'd failed to provide him with a proper steak knife, but he had a butter knife, and it would work well enough, although slowly. I bet she's never cooked meat before, he thought as he began cutting into it. Diamond took a step backwards. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea . . . how come the unicorn is so uptight about it?

I'm really stuck now, though. If I don't eat it, I'll insult the cook. If I do, I'll freak out the unicorn. He stabbed it with his fork and examined it closely, making sure that it was cooked through.

As he chewed the first piece, Diamond finally lost her nerve and retreated to the safety of the kitchen, carrying Lyra's dishes with her. Meanwhile, Starlight continued watching him closely. He nodded and smiled at her—while it was far from the best pork chop he'd ever had, it was better than what he usually made on his own.

“Is good,” he told her once he'd swallowed. “Thank you.”

Starlight grinned back, before returning to the kitchen.

Luna sat in the ornate chair—almost a throne, really—that had been provided for her in the courtroom and gazed over at the gallery. It was nearly empty, save for a few reporters near the front. She would rather not have had them present, but Celestia insisted that was how things were done these days.

To her right, a young stallion—just barely out of colthood—was hunched over a small typewriter, a long scroll of paper in the hopper attached to the carriage on his machine. He was trying not to gawk at her, but failing miserably.

On her left, a pair of her night guards stood silent sentry, their pupils thin slits in the harsh light of the courtroom. Although she really didn't need them, Celestia had insisted that she ought to at least have a bailiff, and that there would be no question of neutrality if she brought her own thestrals. She covered a grin as one of the reporters glanced up at them guiltily and went back to sketching in her notebook. Even in Canterlot, those outside the inner circle of palace-goers rarely saw the thestrals.

“Show them in,” Luna ordered. Darkwing nodded imperceptibly and trotted to the door at the back of the room.

“Present yourselves to her majesty,” he bellowed. Throughout the courtroom, ears twitched and one pony gasped. She'd seen the same reaction in Canterlot—the Guards so rarely spoke while on duty, ponies seemed to forget they could.

Lyra came in first, with Fancy Pants beside her. Fleur followed, burdened by attache cases floating in her field. They bowed at the foot of the dais before taking their places at the defense table.

The prosecuting team came in next, two stallions with slicked-back manes and fancy suits, and a Royal Guard, wearing his dress uniform. All three of them were also carrying cases of documents. They gave their respects to Luna before taking a seat at the their bench on the left side of the courtroom.

“Good morning,” Luna began. “We are here to determine if Ambassador Heartstrings has breached the Equestrian Code of Military Conduct during her exploration of a foreign land. She has been charged with negligent injury of two non-Equestrian citizens, forcibly bringing non-Equestrian citizens into Equestria, importing dangerous creatures into Equestria, and deliberately sabotaging while acting under orders. Barrister Noble Voice, is this correct?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Ambassador Heartstrings, dost thou understand the charges?”

“Yes.”

“How dost thou plead?”

“Not guilty to all charges, Your Honor.”

“Very well. Doth the prosecution wish to make an opening statement?”

“We would.” Noble Voice got to his hooves. “It is the belief of the Guard that Ambassador Heartstrings willfully violated her orders by bringing two dangerous creatures back from a foreign land, injuring them in the process. We believe she was recklessly negligent.

“Medical records will show that both creatures were seriously injured. Witness testimony indicates that the female of the species did attack her doctors and nurses, and destroyed many of the furnishings in her hospital room. She was also discovered to be in possession of what are very likely dangerous weapons. We contend that the stallion conspired with Ambassador Heartstrings, both in the action of transport and in attempting to conceal the mare's weapons.

“We recommend that Ambassador Heartstrings be stripped of her rank, and that these foreigners be sent back to their homes as quickly as possible, and that we perform a proper reconnaissance of their society before opening an embassy with the first creatures we meet, who may have no authority whatsoever, save that which we have chosen to give them.”

“Art thou finished?” Luna asked sarcastically.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Thou dost overstep thy bounds,” she said flatly. “This court does not have the authority to determine the fate of the embassy, nor does it have the authority to determine the eventual disposition of the two creatures which have come to Equestria. Thou shouldst know that.” She waved a hoof at the reporters and glared at him. “If thou art trying to curry favor back Canterlot by broaching this subject, we shall have thee ejected from our courtroom. Dost thou understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he meekly replied.

“Very well. Doth the counsel for the accused wish to state a rebuttal?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Fancy Pants stood and faced Luna. “We intend to demonstrate that Ambassador Heartstrings did not disobey her orders. We contend that Dale and Ka-th-rin's arrival in Equestria was an unfortunate magical accident, rather than a willful or negligent act by the Ambassador. Her history as a duelist and her exemplary record as a member of the Auxillary Guard are being called into question, and we intend to prove that she behaved properly in all respects despite the magnitude of the task which Princess Celestia had set forth. Finally, we contend that since she was not culpable for the accidental teleportation of Dale and Ka-th-rin, she can in no way be held responsible for any actions which they may have taken, nor of their temperament—which, I might add, was a rather unexpected additional charge, especially to have been delivered on the morning of the trial.”

“Art thou suggesting that we dismiss two of these complaints, to be addressed at a later date, depending on the outcome of this court martial?”

“I leave that for you to decide, Your Honor,” Fancy Pants said evenly.

“Well spoken. The accusers may begin presenting their case.”

“Very well. We begin with Princess Celestia's orders.” He rummaged around in his case and produced a scroll. “I wish to have this entered as evidence.”

“Allow us to examine it.” Luna floated the scroll over to the bench, unrolling it as it came over. She read it quickly and then passed it to Fancy Pants. “This is a copy of orders as entered into the Guard's record.”

Once he'd finished reading, he returned it to Luna. “I accept its authenticity,” he said simply.

“Nowhere in that order does it in any way suggest—not by any stretch of the imagination—that Lyra is to bring any of the creatures back for any purpose whatsoever. The orders are a clear as they are simple.” Noble Voice pawed at the table. “Yet on her second visit, she returns with not one, but two of the creatures! She—“

“We stipulate that Lyra did indeed return with Dale and Ka-th-rin,” Fancy Pants interrupted. “Had she not, there would be no basis for this case.”

Noble Voice turned on Fancy Pants. “Yes, that's quite true.” He looked back down at the table. “They were horrifyingly injured: their first destination was the Ponyville hospital, where only the heroic efforts of the staff were able to save their lives. The mare in particular was grievously injured. Allow me to present the court with these photographs which document some of their injuries.” He produced an envelope full of photographs and spread them out on his table. One at a time, he sent them towards Luna, as he read off the doctor's report. “In this photograph, you will observe that the visible portion of the stallion's coat has been burned off, severely damaging the skin underneath. And here, you will observe on this X-ray print, his shoulder has been injured . . . here, as you cannot see the nature of the damage to the mare's hand, let me summarize the doctor's report: 'connective tissue burned away or missing, nearly complete skin necrosis, bone showing in some areas . . . prognosis for successful surgery is very low, and amputation may prove to be the only recourse.'”

“Where didst thou acquire these photographs?” Luna asked, as she flipped through the pile.

“They were taken by a pegasus in the employ of the Crown,” he said. “After initial emergency care was given, of course.”

“Objection!” Fancy Pants jumped to his hooves. “We were not informed that photographs were taken!”

“Your client is in some of those photographs,” Noble Voice replied smoothly. “Really, to claim that you were unaware of these is quite delusional.”

“Is this not Ambassador Heartstrings?” Luna asked, floating a picture to their table. "And is she not in the company of Twilight Sparkle and Fluttershy?"

“Yes,” Fancy Pants grudgingly admitted.

"Can he do that?" Lyra whispered. "Just hand out those photographs like that? I'm sure they're not flattering, and Dale doesn't normally have a coat!"

"The rules of evidence are far less stringent in a court martial," Fancy Pants whispered back. "But we will get a chance to rebut all the testimony, once he's done."

“And the doctor, a well-respected member of this community, and well-qualified to make his diagnosis, said in his case notes that the nature of the injuries was magical.”

“I got over here as quick as I could.” Richter sat down in front of Moller's desk. “We got a break?”

“Yeah.” Moller slid a fax over to him. “Park ranger up in the Leelenau State Park found our guy's car—well, he thinks it's his. It's got roofracks on the top, but no canoe to be seen. More importantly, the ranger got curious and asked around; nobody's seen the guy for at least a week. He looked in the tent, and the only thing in there is the spare tire for the car.”

“Why would you set up a tent, when he could have just parked the car at a marina and gone totally unnoticed for months?”

“Location.” Moller turned his computer monitor so Richter could see it. “Aside from Beaver Island, the closest land to North Fox is the Leelenau peninsula, and the state park's right at the tip. All he has to do is drag his canoe out into the water and start paddling in a straight line. According to the ranger, you can see Beaver Island from the park, so navigation wouldn't be a problem—he wouldn't even have to have a compass. He could just get in his boat and go.”

“His name's Dale Paard, huh? Doesn't ring any bells. He lives in East Grand Rapids—that's convenient for us.” Richter finished scanning the fax. "We going to go get him?"

“Waiting for a warrant,” Moller said. “Should have it here shortly. I've already notified the SWAT team to gear up. His campsite's being processed by the local police, and when they're done they'll have the car towed down here.”

“We ought to go right now,” Richter said.

“I bet my pension he's not there. We've got his car, after all. I don't think he meant to leave it behind.” Moller stood up. “And I've got a cruiser parked down the street, where they can see his house. Come on, let's get going.”

They took a patrol car from the carpool. As he turned onto Fuller Avenue and accelerated into traffic, he glanced over at Richter. “Your boys found anything yet?”

“Nothing from Gray's School of Wizardry; they haven't gotten back to us yet. Could be a good sign, could be a bad sign. Either means that they're translating the book, or they haven't figured it out yet. Let's see—hair and fiber, they've done an examination of the green hair. Believe it or not, it isn't dyed. I'll get the report to you. We're still waiting for DNA, but some of the hair had good roots with lots of cells, so we should get a match.”

“I'll call MSU and tell them that your boys found out the hair's not dyed—that should light a fire under them. They'll be falling all over themselves to get it analyzed, if they think they might be dealing with some never-before-seen mammal.” He chuckled. “It'll probably turn out to be some odd genetic mutation that will take a team of researchers a couple of years to pin down, but at least they'll be able to identify the species quickly.”

Richter nodded absently. “Had the carrot analyzed—the one in the baggie that said 'do not eat'. No common toxins; I told them to do it again with exotic poisons. You see that sometimes—someone thinks they can slip Hemlock or somthing like that by us.”

“Still no word from MichiCraft,” Moller said, merging onto I-196. “I don't have any real hopes there."

“Nothing on the books, either. All commonly available at any good bookstore, or Amazon.com.”

“There's a Barnes and Noble in the Woodland Mall; that's not too far from his house. If we don't find anything at his home, I'll have his credit card and bank records pulled, and see if we can find out where he bought them.” He flipped on the lights and passed a pair of semi-trucks on the left shoulder. “Probably doesn't matter too much with the books—after all, we know he's got them—but it would be interesting to know what else he's bought recently.”

They rode in silence for a while, until Moller exited the highway and headed down East Beltline. “I thought you weren't expecting him to be home,” Richter chided as Moller used the left turn lane to bypass a line of slow traffic.

“I've been wrong before.” He turned on Cascade Road, and floored the car. The Charger launched itself down the road, just as Moller's cell phone rang. He listened briefly before turning back to Richter. “Got the warrant. SWAT's about five minutes out. They're going to go in strong and fast.”

“Not the kind of neighborhood you'd expect to see a kidnapper living in,” Richter remarked as Moller turned onto Hodenpyl.

“Gacy's neighbors probably said the same thing. God, I hope this doesn't turn out like that. Keep an eye out for 649.” He slowed down and began weaving his way through an older subdivision, stopping when he was abreast of a East Grand Rapids police car. He rolled down his window as the officer approached.

“It's that one,” the officer informed him, pointing to a simple brick ranch house. Both Moller and Richter scrutinized the exterior, looking for signs of habitation. The lawn was shaggy, but the sidewalk was edged. Up and down the street, curbys were waiting for the garbage truck, but there was none in front of Dale's house.

“I bet his mailbox is just stuffed full,” Richter said.

“It is,” the officer replied. “I took a look. It's about half full. There's a copy of Boating magazine there which should have come early last week—that's when I got my copy, anyway.”

“Right. SWAT team's gonna be here soon.” Moller looked down the street, hoping to see their truck. “Once they're here, you'll probably go on crowd control, but you might want to give the incident commander a quick brief of what you saw while they're setting up.”

The officer nodded eagerly. Moller gunned his cruiser and raced to the other end of the block, turning around in a driveway.

“There they are,” Richter said eagerly, as a large blue truck trundled onto the street. It was being followed by several police cars and an ambulance, which took up a position at the end of the block.

Already, people were beginning to come out on their lawns and watch. Most of them were older—retirees, and he smiled. Old ladies loved getting involved in other people's business, and he was sure one of them would be a gold mine of information about Dale.

The first ponies had shown up at the door just after Lyra had left. Twilight came first—Diamond Mint let her in, and she folded an umbrella that was suspended in a glowing magenta field. Once she was inside, she undid the flap on her bag and pulled out a smaller bag with handles, which reminded Dale very much of a re-usable shopping bag, or the kind of tote bag his mother had taken with her when she shopped. It had a embroidered image of a tree on one side, and a book on the other.

Twilight tugged a few books out of it, to show Dale what she had brought, before handing it off to Diamond Mint. She held a piece of parchment up for Dale's benefit, showing him reading the books.

"Dale read," Twilight said. "Read." She pronounced the word slowly and carefully.

"Dale read," he replied. As if I wouldn't know what to do with a book.

She smiled happily, and headed out the door, unfolding her umbrella as she went. Once she was gone, Dale glanced over at the office. It was a good day for reading.

He sat down in the office chair and pulled the books out of the bag, spreading them out across the desk. They ran the gamut, from thin books with simple woodcut drawings on the cover, to a book about an inch thick with a blank cover. Dale was deciding which one to begin with when the front door opened again.

Curious, he went back into the foyer to see who had just arrived. Whoever it was was wearing a brown cloak that completely obscured her features, and for a moment he was at a loss—until she turned and he saw a striped muzzle under the cowl.

The zebra wasn't at the shindig last night, he thought. Odd. Maybe she had to stay at the hospital with Kate.

She turned her head away from him and tossed her cloak back. Diamond began levitating items out of her bags, arranging a collection of small bottles, phials and even a corked gourd on the floor beside the zebra. The zebra nodded, and Diamond picked the collection back up and headed towards the kitchen with it.

Free of her cargo, the zebra turned back to Dale. She closed the distance between them, before standing on her hind hooves and wrapping him in a surprisingly tight hug. He awkwardly hugged her back, the stiff bristles of her short mane tickling his arm. Then she dropped to all fours again and headed out the door.

A tan stallion arrived next, wearing an orange work vest. He had a pouch on his back with a oiled-cloth cover. He didn't stop to greet Dale or Diamond Mint, but instead proceeded directly into the kitchen, where he carefully unwrapped the contents of the pouch, revealing rough blueprints of the house.

Deciding that he was the foreman, and probably didn't want to make conversation, Dale went back to the office and began opening desk drawers. Surely they'd provided him with pens and paper. What use was a fancy desk if he didn't have those? He finally found a neat stack of quill pens and a small ink pot in the top left drawer, and a stack of blank papers in the bottom right.

He sketched out an as-built drawing of the staircase, and then made a second with a railing on the open side and a handrail on the other. He'd drawn in approximate measurements before he remembered that they wouldn't know what they meant—he hadn't learned their measuring systems yet.

But he could show him. Dale took the paper in one hand, and the inkpot and quill in the other and walked into the living room, drawing an X on the wall at the right height, then he added that same X to the top and bottom of the railing. Then he went into the dining room and set his drawing on top of the stallion's blueprints.

“Dale want,” he said, tapping the picture.

The stallion looked at him and jerked back, bumping the table hard enough to knock over one of the candelabras. He mumbled something in response, and pushed Dale's drawing aside.

“Dale want,” he repeated, sliding the paper back and jabbing his finger on the railings.

The stallion rolled his eyes and moved the drawing back to the center of the table, examining it carefully.

The door opened again, and another cluster of ponies came in. The first through the door had a bundle of dripping pipe floating beside her head, and a utility belt crammed full of pipefitting tools. She made her way towards the back of the house as a stallion entered, followed by a familiar mare.

Her green eyes lit up when she saw Dale, and she dropped her sawhorse by the door and she eagerly trotted into the dining room. Dale crouched down and held out his fist as she approached. He bumped with her and then had an idea. He reached up and took his sketch back off the table, and showed it to her. “Dale want,” he explained.

She turned and looked back at the living room, and then made an unmistakable 'come here' motion with her forehoof. He accompanied her out to the living room, and pointed to the X on the drawing and the X on the wall.

The construction mare rubbed her hoof on the wall, smearing the ink, and gave Dale an accusing look. He shrugged—how else was he supposed to get the measurement across?

She looked back at the drawing and nodded, then went back into the dining room and began talking to the stallion. Dale could hear that their conversation was getting argumentative, but after a few minutes she returned with a big smile on her face. She held a hoof up to her mouth and whistled, and the stallion who'd come in with her trotted over.

She showed him the drawing and started pointing to it as she gave him instructions. Probably telling him what kind of lumber to get, Dale thought. He went outside and quickly came back in, stacking boards near the staircase.

Once they began setting up their sawhorses, Dale went back to the office, satisfied that they'd get his railing built.—probably faster, if he didn't help. From the back of the house, he heard a short burst of hammering, followed by a loud clang as a pipe was dropped.

Be nice if I had a radio, he thought, grabbing a book off the desk. The cover gave him no clue as to what it contained—it had a generic drawing of a pony on the cover, and a title he couldn't read.

On the flyleaf was a rubber-stamped grid, with words and symbols written on the lines. This is a textbook, he thought. Those must be the student's names or symbols. There was a familiar-looking mark on one of the lines—a pair of dolphins. Wasn't that what the pony who'd recovered my glasses had for a mark? Maybe this used to be her book, he thought, flipping it open. I wonder why they sometimes use the mark and sometimes don't? Maybe the non-unicorns aren't as good at drawing a legible symbol. I seem to remember that one of the first things I learned at school was how to write my name, but it took a while before it was readable.

The first page had a drawing of a pony with all the parts clearly labeled. It looked exactly like the drawing he and Lyra had gone over on the beach, when she'd been identifying the parts on her own body. That had been right about when he figured out that she wasn't wearing a spacesuit. He turned the page, took one look at the drawings, and slammed the book back shut. I don't think I'll need to add those words to my vocabulary anytime soon.

He picked a second book from the pile. This one had a plain cover, and looked like a journal or diary. The inside cover had a drawing of him, and the table of contents were neatly printed in English. Intrigued, he turned to the first page, which was labeled 'Geography.'

“Bergschrund?” He looked at the foreign word, which helpfully had a translation into their language next to it. “What's a bergschrund?”

The next word, crevasse, he knew. He was halfway down the list when he realized that one side was alphabetized in English, while the facing page was presumably alphabetized in their language.

So they've compiled a rough translation dictionary, he thought. If I remember right, one of the first sections in the visual dictionary was about geography—they probably went through and translated every word they knew from the pictures. Giving Lyra that book was a brilliant idea! He skimmed through it, getting a handle on what the book included and what it did not.

He made it halfway through the book before he began to lose focus: it was as exciting as trying to read a dictionary. Still, it gave him an additional tool besides trying to draw—while he couldn't pronounce most of their words, he could copy them down and see if he got what he wanted.

Dale decided to try an experiment. He wrote down their word for pipe wrench and went out into the foyer.

It was a hive of activity. The construction pony and her assistant had already set up the newel post at the base of the stairs and were erecting a scaffolding towards the top. Can't disturb them, he thought, picking up a handsaw and setting it out of the way. Diamond Mint ought to know what it is, though. Where is she? He glanced in the living room, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Sighing, Dale went into the dining room. She wasn't there, either, but he could see Starlight in the kitchen. She had the firebox open on the stove and was raking the coals with a poker held in her mouth. Okay, she's out, too. Well, it was kind of a dumb idea—what was I going to do when they gave me the pipe wrench? He folded up the paper and stuck it in his pocket, before returning to the office.

Vigilance sat at the witness stand, looking quite uncomfortable. He shifted around in his seat, and his ears flicked back and forth as Noble Voice questioned him. Fancy Pants felt a pang of sympathy for the hospital guard—this was undoubtedly the most rarefied company he'd ever been in, and he was terrified of doing something wrong and losing his job.

Noble Voice had really backed a losing horse with this witness, but Fancy Pants guessed why he was stuck with Vigilance—none of the other doctors or nurses were willing to testify. Technically, he could have forced them to, but he was smart enough to know that a witness who was already overtly hostile to him would make a very poor witness indeed.

“You arrived too late to see the scuffle?”

“Yes, sir,” Vigilance mumbled, his face downcast.

“But you saw the damage, is that correct?”

“Yes, I did. Sir.”

“What kind of damage did you see?”

“Busted table. Busted machine. Busted wall.”

Noble Voice rolled his eyes. “'Busted' in what way?”

“Well, it was broke. The machine. Which hit the wall.”

A brief snicker in the courtroom caused Noble Voice to jerk his head around and glare at the cluster of reporters, who all suddenly had the sweetest, most innocent smiles on their faces. With a low growl, Noble Voice stomped over to his table and took a sheet of paper which his assistant had handed him. He began reading it as he moved back towards the center of the floor, finally looking up at Vigilance. “It says here that the short-range field analyzer—or as you called it, the machine—was completely destroyed. The side table had a leg torn off of it, and the female creature used that leg as a club. She threw her breakfast at Dr. Goodall. Her mattress was flung from her bed . . . does any of this sound familiar?”

“Yes, sir,” Vigilance mumbled. “I wrote that report, sir.”

“I wasn't sure if you'd remembered,” Noble Voice mumbled loud enough for the courtroom to hear. “No further questions.” As Vigilance relaxed in the bench, he turned to Luna. “I wish to submit this report as evidence. He wrote it, and grudgingly states that it is an accurate assessment of the damage.”

Luna looked at Fancy Pants expectantly. He nodded, and she took the paper from Noble Voice and levitated it over to him. He quickly scanned it, then passed it to Fleur. Once she had finished, she sent the paper back to Luna. “We have no objections to this document being entered as evidence. It is very concise and neatly written.”

Fancy Pants watched Vigilance closely as Fleur spoke, and observed that the stallion perked up at her words. He leaned over and whispered to her.

“If I may ask a few questions?” Fleur said. Without waiting for permission, she lightly stepped across the room. “You've been the security guard at the hospital for a long time, haven't you?”

“Yes.”

She moved closer to him, placing her body between the prosecution's bench and the witness stand.

“Your report was very professionally done. I noticed that it was on an official form—did you have any difficulty locating that form?”

“No? Why would I? I fill them out a lot.”

“Really?” Fleur's eyes went wide. “I would have thought that the hospital was a very . . . peaceful place. Not like, say, guarding the palace must be.”

Vigilance snorted. “Ponies react to injuries in a lot of different ways. Sometimes, they're scared, and they feel cornered. I've got to be able to calm them down without hurting them, you know, so the doctors can work on them.” He flattened his ears. “I should have been in her room.”

“She was brought in unconscious,” Fleur reminded him. “Nopony could have guessed how she'd react when she woke—and there were other injured ponies at the hospital, too. Weren't there some Guards?”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “They always seem to cause some kind of ruckus when they show up.”

“And I believe that the hospital has a few, um, mental cases?”

“You mean like Screwy?” He shook his head. “Such a shame, really. But she lives in a home, now; we hardly ever see her any more, unless she has a bad relapse. I guess if you wanted to know more about her, you'd have to ask Nurse Snowheart—she's the one who knows stuff about her.”

“Forgive me for asking, but have there been any incidents with Screwy?”

“Heh.” Vigilance chuckled. “Yeah, so, sometimes she thinks she's a dog, right? Well, she got brought in one night by a couple of new recruits in the Auxiliary, and they had her tied down to a stretcher, but didn't notice that she'd gnawed off her restraints. So,while they're waiting for the nurse, one of them ducks down the hall for a drink, and she gets up offa the stretcher and runs over to the waiting area and starts digging at the lounge chairs, before tearing up the cushion with her teeth. The one Auxiliary, he tried to stop her and got a hoof to the face, and then she charged down the hall, just stopping to piss on every door she passed. Well, she finally got into the kitchen, and when Nurse Snowheart showed up, she was lying on the floor, eating a box of biscuits that had fallen when she knocked down a shelf.”

“And she's in a house now? Out in public?”

“She didn't mean nothing by it—she just has spells, sometimes.”

“So you wouldn't characterize her as dangerous?”

“No way! Those Auxiliaries shouldn't have strapped her to a stretcher, they should have just told her to come along with them, and she would've. She just got scared, is all, and that made everything worse.” He leaned forward. “Look, when Nurse Snowheart saw her in the kitchen, you know what she did? She just kind of scolded her, like you would a bad puppy, and Screwy's face got all downcast, and she lay on the ground and began whimpering. Does that sound dangerous to you?”

“Not at all,” Fleur replied. “It just sounds like—and please excuse my terminology here—what any cornered animal might do.”

“Yes! That's exactly right. I'm no nurse, but even I know that you don't try and corner a patient who's scared, you talk them down.”

“Thank you, Vigilance. You've been very helpful.”

“Next witness?” Luna asked.

Noble Voice stood up and brushed an imaginary spot off his immaculate jacket. “We call Professor Laureate, a well-respected magical theoretician, and tenured professor at Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns. He is an unparalleled expert in Starswirl's spells.”

As the unicorn took his place in the witness stand, the reporters paused. Fancy Pants offered Lyra half a glass of water before he and Fleur began whispering in each other's ears.

“Now, Professor Laureate,” Noble Voice said, “if you would be so kind as to state your qualifications for the court?”

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “As you know, I'm the head of the magical studies department at Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns. Before I took the position, I worked for twenty years as a tenured professor in the Magical Studies department, in my free time closely studying Starswirl's body of work. My senior thesis was a study in the adaptation of Starswirl's theories of telekenetic spell efficiency, in which he codified the various methods used by different Unicorn Houses and then wrote a more efficient spell—one which is still used today. After that, I moved on to his treatise on hornwriting. That—my admission paper to graduate studies—was published in the Bitish Journal of Applied Magic." He paused in thought. "I was accepted to the graduate program, of course. I began my studies on using thaumic differential potential as a means of long-distance communication. Then—"

“Doth the defense agree that Professor Laureate is qualified?” Luna asked hopefully.

“Yes, we do,” Fancy Pants replied hastily. Professor Laureate's face fell.

“Let us begin,” Noble Voice said. “You have studied the spell which Lyra used to teleport herself to the distant land where she met Dale.”

“Exhaustively,” he said. “The important thing to know about Starswirl's spells is how flexible they are. The spell in question was developed in response to urging from his friend, Clopurnicus, who wished for a spell to study heavenly bodies, beginning with the moon.” An eager expression came over his face. “You see, teleportation spells at the time were generally limited in range, and often unpredictable, which was why most unicorns would not attempt to cast them.”

As his explanation continued, the scratching of quills on parchment dwindled into silence. Only the clacking of the stenographer’s typewriter broke up the monotone of the professor's voice.

Dale had moved on to a new book, leaving the vocabulary book for later. This was another textbook, and appeared to be targeted towards a young audience. It was done in the same style as the one Lyra had given him on the beach, and he wondered if they had their own version of Dick and Jane books, each one with new vocabulary and new actions.

This one centered around a young pony meeting new creatures. The first page showed it with its family, and then it moved on to meet first other ponies—winged ponies and unicorns—followed by more and more fantastic creatures. Dale wasn't sure if these were supposed to be creatures which actually existed, or if it was some kind of fairy tale. Nevertheless, he did notice that each time the foal met a new creature, there were dialogue balloons which said the same first phrases over and over again. He recognized their word what, and decided that each new character was telling the foal what kind of creature it was. Dale began writing those names down, along with a brief description of what the creature looked like.

Several pages after passing through what he thought of as ‘common’ ponies and into more fantastical beings, he discovered another familiar creature. It had the head and foreclaws of a bird, with the main part of its body very cat-like. He wrote the word down. That shows that this isn’t a book on their mythology, since I met one of those things. Such a hybrid couldn’t exist on earth—not naturally, and probably not even as a result of aggressive genetic tinkering. But the winged ponies already have fur and feathers; is this any odder?

He turned to the next page, where a bipedal creature that reminded him vaguely of classical drawings of the devil was towering over the colt. If these drawings are to scale, I think this thing might be taller than I am. At least it seems friendly to the colt. Then again, isn’t that how half the fairy tales went? The creature acts friendly at first, to lure the unsuspecting child to its doom? Shaking his head, he continued to work his way through the book.

He chuckled as he got to a page where the foal met something that looked like a cross between a wolf and a hedge. After the obligatory introduction, the next page showed the foal running for his life, followed by a drawing of a large stallion standing over the beheaded body of the hedgewolf, undoubtedly admonishing the foal to be more cautious in the future. Shades of Red Riding Hood, Dale thought. If such a creature actually exists, I would do well to avoid it.

He looked up as he heard a board hit the floor, and restrained himself from going out of his office to see what they were up to. At least they aren't using any power tools, he thought. I doubt I'd be able to concentrate at all if they were using circular saws to cut the boards for the railing. He flipped to the next page in the book—the colt had continued on his journey and was meeting something that looked like a buffalo. Dale dipped the quill in the ink and began writing its name in his notes.

He was halfway finished when he stopped writing. He lifted the quill off the paper and took a close look at it, set it back down—ignoring the small splotch of ink it bled on his parchment—and grabbed the vocabulary book again, quickly flipping through the pages. It took him a minute to find what he was looking for, but he finally found construction tools. He scanned down the mostly-familiar list: he had the common tools in his tool box at home, and those he didn't, he could guess at their function, based on what they were paired with. There were screwdrivers, planes, hammers, chisels, various kinds of paint brush, plumbing tools, clamps, a brace, drill bits . . . but no power tools.

Dale thought back to the simple drawings in the visual dictionary. Like things were generally paired together, and while he didn't have the book any more, it was a reasonable guess that a drill motor would have been on the same page as the brace, hand drill, and various types of drill bit. Likewise, it was hard to imagine that the makers of the book had thought to include a crosscut saw, hacksaw, keyhole saw, and miter saw, but forgotten a circular saw.

Some power tools don't look anything like their hand-operated counterparts, he reminded himself. A brace bore virtually no resemblance to a drill motor, for example. And this may not be complete, either.

He began flipping through the book, scanning the sections where he would expect there to be a significant difference between their world and Earth. Some things you can really only build in one general way, he reasoned. A wagon's got to have its wheels in pairs, for example. You can have a single axle, or two—or even more, if you have a heavy load—but you can't build a one-wheeled wagon and expect it to function. Likewise, the wheel has to be round. Any other shape won't work at all, and probably every civilization will make that discovery fairly early on. A boat has to have a certain type of shape to be useful.

So let's break it down into simple elements, he thought, as he reached the page on kitchen appliances. A spoon—that's pretty simple. A handle with tines—it's a fork. He traced his finger down the list. A handle with a pointy end and a sharp edge—a knife. Probably one of the earliest tools invented, and fairly universal.

An image went through his mind of a group of Hollywood-style cavemen huddled around a fire, patiently chipping flakes off of obsidian to make themselves a knife. It was quickly replaced with a knot of ponies doing the same thing, except they were lifting their tools with their auras. He chuckled at the thought.

But this doesn't just say 'knife,' does it? It has a bread knife, cook's knife, paring knife, and so on—all translated. Now, granted, they probably didn't get them all right, but I can't imagine that they would have put in an entry if they had no idea what they were identifying.

He kept scanning down the page. A bowl. A plate. Obvious. A whisk—well, I know that they cook things, so that makes sense. Colander—bowl with holes—pretty simple. Dale chuckled. I don't have half these utensils in my kitchen. Peeler, mixing bowl, cake pan, stove . . . no mixer. He scanned back up and down the list, trying to think back to what was in the book. An electric mixer was a ubiquitous kitchen appliance, and he couldn't imagine in a world where there were dozens of utensils that he hadn't even heard of, they would have trouble figuring out what an electric mixer was supposed to do, especially since they had included an egg beater on the list.

He reached in his pocket for the sheet of paper he'd written their word for 'pipe wrench' on. Finally reaching a decision, he picked up the paper and walked out into the living room.

It was a scene of chaos. The pony he'd met at the hospital was up on a scaffolding with her partner, putting the railing on the stairs. Cut-off boards were shoved against one wall, along with a pile of sawdust. Mindful of his bare feet, Dale looked carefully where he was stepping—he wasn't sure about how sensitive their hooves were when it came to nails, but he knew all too well about his own feet.

He headed towards the downstairs bathroom, where he'd seen the pony wearing the pipe-fitting tools go.

She was hard at work. Part of the floor had been removed and stacked neatly to the side so she could access the pipes. She was lying on her back under the sink, and he could occasionally see flashes of a silver-gray aura as the wrench she was using turned.

Her hind legs were splayed out, pointing towards the door. I guess plumber's crack is a universal problem, Dale thought. If it's still plumber's crack when your plumber's naked. An instant later, his face was beet red, and he dragged his eyes away from her hindquarters, concentrating instead on the view out the window.

He heard the screech of protesting threads, followed by a soft clank and a bit of muttering. Unable to help himself, he looked back just in time to see her banging something under the sink with her forehoof, followed by an open-ended wrench drifting lazily out of the vanity and depositing itself on her belly. A different wrench removed itself from her tool belt and disappeared into the space under the sink.

She began muttering again, and he leaned down to try and see what she was working on, but it was too dark to see anything, and he didn't think it would be a good idea to lean over her and watch—she might brain him with one of her wrenches. Instead, he stayed back, and thus saw when that same color of light that had been on the wrench suddenly surrounded the faucet and turned it on.

That would be a handy skill for a plumber to have, Dale thought. I wonder what the range is? Can she turn valves in the basement on and off? As he watched, the faucet spun all the way to its full flow, and then was shut again. The wrench she'd had drifted out, along with a tubing cutter, and they—along with the other wrench she'd set on her belly—were placed back in her tool belt, before she slid out from under the sink and rolled up onto her rump.

To her credit, she didn't scream or try to run away, and she didn't grab a tool to throw at him, either. Instead, she calmly regarded him with her blue-grey eyes and wiped a hoof across her forehead.

For a moment, Dale couldn't remember why he was there, and it took her looking down at his hand to remind him that he was holding a piece of paper there. He brought the paper up to his face, considered trying to pronounce the word, and then shrugged and handed the paper to her.

She studied it briefly, rolled her eyes, and pulled a pipe wrench out of her belt, sending it slowly towards him. When it was close enough, Dale grabbed it out of the air and the field around it vanished after a momentary tingling sensation.

It didn't look like the pipe wrench he had at home, yet he could easily tell how it was intended to function. If someone had given it to him on Earth—or even a photograph or a detailed drawing—he would have known what it was, and what it was meant to be used for. It vaguely reminded him of the pipe wrench his grandfather had had, down to the nicked wooden handgrip.

“Thank you,” he said, and set it back on the ground. He was about to turn and head out the door, but then he crouched down and stuck out a fist. “Dale.”

She looked at him and the pipe wrench, before walking over and bumping his fist with her hoof. “Silver Spanner.”

Dale nodded at her politely, then turned and walked out of the bathroom, deep in thought.

Author's Notes:

As always, be sure to click THIS LINK for a behind-the-scenes look!