Onto the Pony Planet

by Admiral Biscuit

First published 20th of September, 2013

Dale finds himself hospitalized in Equestria after defending Lyra from the Coast Guard. Worse--he's not the only person there.

After the accidental discovery of humans, Celestia tasked Lyra with learning about Dale's culture and Dale's language. Two meetings later, a misunderstanding caused Dale and a Coast Guard woman to be inadvertently transported to Equestria. With the two humans hospitalized and communication limited at best, the Equestrians just want to heal them, while back on earth the Coast Guard wants nothing more than to determine what happened to one of their sailors.

Chapter 1: Recovery

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 1: Recovery
Admiral Biscuit
8.20.13

Lyra turned her head as she heard the room’s door click open. Nurse Redheart had already left. Dale had dragged a chair over to the window and was looking outside with a frown. She couldn’t really blame him. Had their positions been reversed, she’d probably want to do some meditating. It might be harder for him with more ponies in the room, she thought. She’d grown used to meditating in the small rock garden out behind the house she shared with Bon Bon—a habit learned from her maestro—but sometimes even that was too noisy, and she retreated to a hill outside Ponyville. Maybe she could lead Dale there, once the doctor said he was healthy enough to leave the hospital.

When the mare stepped into the room, Lyra sighed. She’d known this was coming, but she’d hoped she could have put it off for a little bit. It didn’t sit right with her to have this meeting in Dale’s hospital room, where he should have been recuperating from his injuries.

“Lyra! I was so worried about you!” Bon Bon threw her hooves around Lyra’s neck, yanking the unicorn into a tight embrace. “You didn’t come back last night, and there were all kind of guards flying around. At first, everypony thought that it was just part of the training exercise we’d heard about, but then a rumor got started that there were monsters coming out of the Everfree.”

She loosened her grip before continuing. “I didn’t think it was monsters from the Everfree, of course, because I knew you were doing that long-distance teleportation spell for Princess Celestia at the reservoir, but nopony would listen to me, especially after Lily started panicking, and then Daisy got into it too. Somepony noticed that none of the Element Bearers were at their homes, either.

“I heard that unicorns had been shooting up flares, and I remembered what you’d said, so I took everything off the stove and shut the dampers, then grabbed my saddlebags and galloped out of town. Towards Whitetail Woods. But as I was running down the trail, I got even more scared.” She lowered her head. “So I went back home. I thought I’d be safer inside than alone in the woods.”

Lyra chuckled, then gently nuzzled Bon Bon’s neck. “It’s okay, Bons. I understand.”

“The mayor had called an assembly, and she’d said that there weren’t any monsters and everything was fine but some ponies had gotten hurt during the training exercise. Oh, I should have known. I should have come last night. I’m so sorry.” Bon Bon stuck her muzzle into her saddlebags. “I made you some of your favorite candy yesterday,” she muttered around a bag. “I knew if I made them you’d come back to eat them.”

She set the bag on the sole unoccupied chair and let Lyra open it with her magic. While she was occupied with the chocolate, Bon Bon turned towards Dale. “Is that—”

“Mm-hm,” Lyra muttered through a mouthful of cherry cordial. “His name’s Dale. The doctor said he got burned when he jumped into the spell.”

“He doesn’t look like much,” Bon Bon said dubiously. “Is that a bed sheet he’s wearing?”

Lyra swallowed before answering. “It is. He’s probably cold—his kind doesn’t have much fur. Judging by the drawing in the book he gave me during our first meeting, that’s normal for his type. He was wearing clothes each time we met, too. Very well-made clothes.” She eyed another cordial. “You should go introduce yourself.”

“I don’t know.” Bon Bon looked at him thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I really want to. . . .”

“He saved my life on the beach,” Lyra said. “We came out of his camp, and there were two stallions that came up to him. One of them said something, and he just threw my saddlebags at the first one and knocked the second one over and then told me to run. I almost made it, but the mare cast a spell that paralyzed me.” She shuddered at the memory: her legs had stopped working, and then the spell had failed. “But he was charging at her . . . he must have done something, because I got back. I lost almost all of my magic, and I got a strange burn on my side from the mare’s wand, but I made it back.”

“You didn’t say it was going to be dangerous,” Bon Bon protested. “You told me it was safe.”

“It was supposed to be,” Lyra replied. “I don’t know what went wrong.” She picked up another cordial.

“You’re not going back.” It was a statement, not a question.

The cordial hovered in front of Lyra’s face. “Probably not. I don’t think Princess Celestia would allow it. Not after how the last meeting ended.” She sighed regretfully. “It’s too bad. I’d have liked to see some more of his civilization. The things he had in his camp—they were beyond anything ponies can make. I can only imagine how fantastic his home must be.”

Bon Bon looked at him dubiously. He certainly didn’t look like much now. Finally, she moved closer, but kept out of reach of his arms. She circled him warily, watching for any threatening behavior. He just sat there, unmoving. Finally, she moved in close and took an experimental sniff of his knee, since it was the closest thing to her muzzle.

She backed up a step and half-closed her eyes, analyzing his scent. It was like nothing she’d smelled before. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was different. She critically examined Dale, since he didn’t seem to be doing anything other than staring out the window. Finally, she looked up at his face and nickered softly.

Dale gave no indication that he’d heard her. His eyes continued to stare off into the distance.

Dale sat hunched over in the uncomfortable wooden chair. Occasionally, he’d rub his hand across his gauze-wrapped head, but mostly he stayed still. His eyes were open, staring through the window, but he was no longer seeing what lay below. He feared that any further observations of their village might push him down the slippery slope of insanity.

Instead, he simply pondered what he had seen. He thought back to the pictures in the book Lyra had given him. He’d wondered about the lack of electrical cords . . . yet, the lamp by his bed and the heart monitor didn’t have cords. They must not have drawn them in the book because their appliances didn’t use them. While the lack of telephone poles didn’t absolutely confirm this hypothesis—power lines could be underground, after all—it was a strong hint in favor of it. Besides, he’d seen nothing in the hospital room which resembled an electrical outlet at all.

Nevertheless, they had appliances which seemed to run on electricity, or some equivalent to it. Since he’d gotten a tingle when he unintentionally stuck his fingers inside the heart monitor, it implied that the power came from the air, somehow and was focused in the appliance. Tesla had proposed that such a thing was possible, but had never built a functional prototype. On the other hand, it was hard to argue with the proof on the table beside him. However they did it, it worked.

He’d already dismissed the architecture as a clue. He wasn’t close enough to determine what the buildings were actually made out of, and styles came and went, anyway. There had been a time when it had been in fashion to build houses like these in America—although Americans usually omitted the lifting beam on the top floor and the thatched roof. In his own neighborhood, homes ran the gamut from turn-of-the-century to the dreadful futuristic abomination on the corner that someone had built a couple of years ago after a long legal battle with the city zoning commission. Maybe the ponies liked medieval architecture; maybe the melted-looking building was their modernistic eyesore. Maybe it was an edgy modern-art museum. If they had art.

They certainly liked flowers. Every home seemed to have window boxes or small planters around it. He was fairly sure he saw a pale white pony with a maroon mane eating out of one, but it was quite hard to tell without his glasses. Based on his observations so far, most ponies manipulated a lot of things by mouth, which really made sense given their lack of fingers. Weeding a flowerbox and grazing might not actually be dissimilar activities, now that he thought about it. And Lyra had given him a sandwich with flowers on it yesterday when they’d shared lunch in his camp. Her lunch at their first meeting had had a flower sandwich, too.

The fact was that his observations were necessarily limited. He couldn’t see well enough to be sure of what was happening in the town. What he needed to do was get some clothes and get out of here. Maybe it would make more sense when he was closer to it. If he could touch the buildings and look through the windows, maybe he’d get a better sense of them . . . but he couldn’t do it alone. He knew in his heart that if he stepped out into their weird little market and a cow addressed him . . . he’d be running back to his hospital room, gibbering like a madman. He just wasn’t ready for that yet. But he and Lyra could go around town together. . . .

Unless they didn’t want him to. Maybe they were keeping him a secret. Maybe the ponies in the market didn’t even know he was here. Would they panic if they saw him?

“Heya, Twilight! Heya, Spike!” Pinkie pronked over to the pair. “Are you going to the hospital to see the . . . um . . . the new not-ponies?”

“Huh?” Twilight looked up from her scroll in surprise. Once again, Pinkie had somehow managed to sneak up on her. “Oh, yes.”

“Okie-dokie.” She started to bounce off, but Twilight grabbed her tail.

“Pinkie, we need to talk.”

Pinkie stopped bouncing and turned around to face the unicorn. “I didn’t throw a party,” she said defensively. “I wanted to, but I didn’t. Redheart yelled at me when I sang to the Cake’s foals in the hospital, ‘cause hospitals are supposed to be quiet places like libraries where ponies can rest and read Daring Do and get better so they can come out of the hospital and then they can have their you-got-better party. I’m going to go make invitations now but I'm not sure if I should make two separate ones, ‘cause I don’t know if they’ll both get out of the hospital at the same time or not, and of course I’ll have to host a welcome-to-Ponyville party, but maybe that could be combined with the you-got-better party, I’m not really sure. I’ll have to leave the date blank, but that’s okay, I’ll make them for a time when nopony has other things to do, maybe a small soiree or shindig or even a hootenanny and we can probably use the Apple’s barn unless AJ’s still mad about all my clones knocking it down before it was even put all the way up.”

Twilight let out a long-suffering sigh. “That’s not what this is about. Don’t move; I’ll be right back.”

Pinkie rolled her eyes but stayed rooted to her spot as Twilight teleported away. A moment later she was back, this time floating a crayon-written note in front of her. “Sharing food is—” she began.

“The bestest way to make new friends!” Pinkie finished. “Ooh, did I get it right?”

“Yes, that’s what this note says. It smells like a frosted cupcake. I see frosting on the corner of the note, as if it were pinned to a cupcake once. Can you explain?”

“I put the note on a cupcake so Lyra could give it to her new friend.” Pinkie sniffed. “I guess it fell off the cupcake. I don’t know how that could have happened; I put the toothpick all the way through the note.”

"Pinkie, what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking . . . that sharing food is the bestest way to make new friends.” She looked uncertainly at Twilight. “When you first came to Ponyville, we had a big party at the library, remember? There was all sorts of food . . . but you were upstairs, you weren’t having fun at all.”

Twilight moved up and pressed her muzzle against the hyper bakers’. “How did you know it can eat our food?”

“Huh?”

“How do you know that the creature can eat our food?” Twilight stamped a hoof. “What gives you . . . the right to decide to bake it a cupcake without knowing what it can eat? What if it’s allergic to wheat? Or sugar? What if it can’t eat grains without being sick? Did you put sprinkles on it?”

“Yes?” Pinkie flattened her ears and stepped back. “Ru-ruby sprinkles. Maybe a teensy-bit of emeralds, too.”

“You could have killed it!” Twilight yelled.

“There were pictures of cupcake tins in the book, Twilight. What do you use them for if not cupcakes? And muffins, of course.”

Twilight snorted. “But you don’t know what they were made out of. If that’s something that it even eats. You can’t just jump to conclusions like that. Didn’t you learn anything from the fiasco with the Marzipan Mascarpone Meringue Madness about jumping to conclusions? You need careful study. You need to analyze its food! Wait. If you’re not throwing a party . . . why are you here?”

“Are you going to stop being shouty meany pants?”

Twilight blushed. Maybe she was being a little too harsh. “I’m all done.” She hugged the baker tightly. “I’m sorry, Pinkie. I was worried. I found the note, and I was worried that you’d done something really bad.”

“I made fish fillets for them. I thought the hospital kitchen wouldn’t think of it, but I saw in the book that there were boning knives and filleting knives and why would you have them if you weren’t cooking meat, because they were just like the set I got in the mail after I ordered a set of knives and pots and pans so I could cook for Gilda if she ever came back, or—”

Twilight jerked her head up in alarm. “I’ll just have to go to the kitchen and tell them not to serve them to the creatures.”

“It’s too late,” Pinkie said morosely, dropping on her rump. “I gave them to Nurse Redheart an hour ago. She was about to serve them breakfast.”

“Oh horse apples. I know one emergency emetic spell, but it’s not very pleasant.” She bit her lip. “I wonder if Dr. Stable knows any? There might be a chance, if he does it quickly, that there won’t be any harm.”

“It won’t matter,” Pinkie said.

“Why not?”

“Do you really think they can’t eat our food?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Twilight shifted into a more comfortable stance. “There’s lots of plants that can make ponies sick, and of course we know what they look like and smell like, so we don’t eat them by mistake. We can’t eat some things that ruminants can, and they can’t eat some things that we do. So, it makes sense—like Winter Rye suggested in one of his books—that a completely alien species could be unable to digest pony food at all.”

“I—” Pinkie swallowed hard. “I’d better start preparing then. I suppose the mayor will let us use the town hall for the ceremony.”

“Pinkie!” Twilight stomped. “What did I just get done telling you? No parties, no cakes, no cookies, no punch, no pony food. PERIOD.”

She shook her head sadly. “It’s not for them. If your hypotheosis is correct, they’ve only got a little time left, and then—” she dug a hoof in the dirt “—bam!”

“Bam?” Twilight looked at Pinkie, who had begun humming a mournful tune. “I—what do you even mean by . . . oh.” Unbidden, her head turned to the neatly-manicured cemetery beside the hospital. Her mind was already imagining two new markers. “Horse apples.”

Bon Bon left the hospital room after wrangling a promise from Lyra to come home for lunch. The unicorn sat back on the chair and turned her attention back to Dale, who had been fixed in his awkward position on the chair for nearly an hour. His few movements had been slowing until they stopped entirely. If it hadn’t been for the slow rise and fall of his chest, Lyra might have thought he had died. She knew that sometimes a pony would freeze when threatened, but she had never heard of one slowly grinding to a halt as Dale had. A couple of times, she’d approached him, once nuzzling him in the side, but he made no sign that he’d noticed. Speaking to him had not worked, either—she’d even stood in front of him, but his focus never shifted.

It was as if he was being paralyzed by a cockatrice—a very slow-acting paralysis, to be sure, but the eventual ending would be the same. If she looked at him just right, he could be made of marble—the white bandages that covered most of his flesh, and the diaphanous bed sheet that was draped across him, so much like a funeral shroud. It had once been the fashion to bury high-level unicorns in great marble sarcophagi with a carving in the lid of them at rest; if she were to tip him out of the chair and stretch him out along the floor, he would look much the same. And she was very afraid that if she did push him out of the chair, he would make no effort to resist her.

The only reassuring sign was the heart monitor. While the tempo had slowed, the trace still looked the same as it had all night. Lyra found her gaze drawn to the instrument more and more frequently. She wanted to call for the nurse, but Redheart knew even less about the patient than she did.

Finally, she could take it no more. The town clock had chimed off another quarter hour, and Dale hadn’t moved at all, aside from an occasional blink. She was going to get some kind of help, whether it be from the nurse, the doctor, or even Zecora. Lyra couldn’t just leave him sitting here without trying something. It was almost like something had broken in his mind.

She took two steps towards the door and then stopped. Although she had no clear recollection of the event, she had been controlled by Queen Chrysalis once, and it had turned her into little more than a zombie pony, only able to do her puppeteer’s bidding. What if some kind of magic was affecting Dale the same way? Maybe Twilight would be able to help. She’d figured out how to beat the changeling drones, after all, and mental illnesses usually required a unicorn to fix—if they could be fixed.

She looked at him sadly. What if it was already too late? Worse—what if her hesitation had caused it to be too late? She’d never forgive herself if there had been something that she could have done that was left undone.

Lyra was in the hallway when the screaming started. Instantly, her ears flattened and her fur stood on end. Unbidden, her horn lit, ready to fight off whatever threat was present. A loud crash echoed through the hallway, and a moment later she saw Nurse Redheart backpedaling out of a hospital room with a bloody muzzle, immediately followed by a lamp. It disintegrated against the wall in a cloud of plaster dust, its light failing when the base shattered and the wires shorted together.

She fought down the urge to bolt for home, reminding herself once again that it was her duty to run into these situations. Before she could move, thought, she was rudely pushed aside by a wraith.

It glided down the hallway silently, its shroud billowing around behind it. For an instant, it felt as if somepony had replaced all the blood in her body with ice water, and she came within an heartbeat of screaming herself. Her salvation was the realization that the wraith was Dale, charging down the hall with his nearly silent footfalls. A vast relief came over her. Dale had saved her on the beach, and he was ready to do it again.

She watched in awe as he approached the doorway, jerking to the side to avoid a heart monitor which briefly embedded itself into the plaster before disintegrating on the tiles of the hallway floor. He held his position, carefully observing the room where worrisome splintering noises were emanating. Nurse Redheart, meanwhile, retreated further down the hall, dithering between her patient and the safety that would come with more ponies.

Lyra galloped down the hallway towards the room. While Dale had taken charge the first time she had been threatened, there was no reason she should let him this time. After all, he was in Equestria now, and it was her duty to keep him safe, whatever it took. Her magical reserves were still low after the attack on the beach, but at the very least she could toss up a shield to buy them both some time to assess the situation. She knew that Ironhoof and his soldiers were still in town, and it wouldn’t be too long before they got on scene. Another loud crash spurred her on.

“I’d prefer to give laudanum,” Nurse Redheart protested as Dr. Goodall drew out a syringe of morphine. “She could drink a little, and tell us if she was feeling better. You’re just guessing at the dosage.”

“I know,” Goodall replied, her words muffled by the syringe in her mouth. “But there’s just too many hurdles to jump. She doesn’t speak Equus, and for all we know her culture hasn’t even invented modern medicine. To explain the concept of ‘feeling better’ would take time we don’t have—not if we want to have a hope of saving her hand.

“She’s just like the animals I see in the clinic.” The vet’s eyes went distant with memory. “They’re injured and scared, and sometimes they bite and claw, trying to defend themselves. They don’t really have a concept of the future—not like ponies do. All I can do is give them their medicine and wait for it to work. Maybe if you stay by her head and let her keep her eyes focused on you, I can give her the injection without her noticing.”

“I could put her breakfast in front of her,” Redheart said. “I suppose that might distract her, too. She’s probably hungry. If the stallion’s any indication—he finished everything on his plate.” She looked dubiously at the syringe. “Isn’t that an awfully large dose?”

“She’s more than twice as tall as a pony, so she probably weighs at least twice as much. Twenty drams is a good place to start. I guess we’ll have to just observe and see if it’s taking effect. I hope it does; Zecora’s supposed to be here soon with a potion which might fix her hand. Dr. Stable and I discussed her case all night. Both of them seem not only resistant to magic, but strong spells seem to hurt them somehow. In the stallion’s case, his injuries don’t seem too life-threatening, so we can move slowly. But the mare—her hand is badly burned. If Zecora’s potion doesn’t work, the doctor and I will have to amputate.”

Kate woke up to a painful tingling sensation in her right hand and the smell of maple syrup and fried fish. Before she had even opened her eyes, the tingling turned to pain and she snapped her eyes open, thinking for a moment that she’d somehow been sleeping in a way that put her hand to sleep. A millisecond later, unfamiliar sensations and a general feeling of wrongness began to flood her cobwebby brain. Her panties were missing, her shirt felt too rough, and she couldn’t remember what she’d done the night before.

Opening her eyes to get an idea where she was turned out to be a grave mistake. For a moment, she expected to find someone next to her; a few nights out on the town had ultimately resulted in a similar loss of memory and lack of clothing. While the unfamiliar room wasn’t a total shock, the fact that there were two small ponies studying her was. One of them had an empty syringe in its mouth. She screamed loud enough to wake the dead and grabbed the first weapon at hand, which happened to be the breakfast tray.

Her left-handed swing was pathetic, but sufficient. She scattered food and juice all over her sheets, and got one of them square in the nose. Both of them jumped back, but not far enough for comfort. She took a second swing at the closest one, knocking its hat off and causing it to hastily back towards the door.

She frisbeed the now-empty tray at it, catching it square across the throat and speeding its retreat. Curiously, it kept its freaky eyes on her even as it was backing away, almost as if it were expecting this kind of resistance. A stupid purple lamp made another fine weapon; she watched it tumble through the doorway and shatter against the wall as the injured pony ducked for cover.

Kate glanced around to see where the second one had gone. Rather than retreat for the safety of whatever lay beyond the door as the first had done, it had run to the far side of the room, where it was hiding behind a barricade of chairs. She sailed a flat table in its direction, knocking over one chair and eliciting a startled whinny from the pony. It was making odd noises, and seemed to be watching her with an almost human interest, although it was hard to be certain since it was still crouched behind the remaining chair.

She glanced back towards the door where the first creature appeared to be rallying. The table beside her bed yielded another weapon; a wooden box with a few dials across the bottom and a small green screen. She grabbed it and waved it threateningly towards the door which kept the pony at bay. Still, it seemed to be looking for an opening to return to the room. A scraping noise caught Kate’s ear; the second one was pushing the chair in front of it to provide cover, briefly peeking its head around the edge to watch her reaction. She suddenly realized that they were trying to flank her, and there was nothing she could do about it. Not here in her bed, anyway.

She lobbed the wood box at the doorway, to give her a couple more seconds to strengthen her position. The chair began sliding as soon as she committed to her move, reminding her uncomfortably of a baseball player stealing second. Of course, she wasn’t held to the same rules of conduct as a pitcher.

Kate jumped out of bed, yanking the sheets after her. They weren’t much of a weapon, but she could tangle one of the ponies up in it and hit it until it fell unconscious if she had to. As weird as they looked, they probably weren’t smarter than any other animal. If she showed dominance, they’d probably back off.

With that thought in mind, she threw the sheet over her right arm and grabbed the bedside table with her left. It was heavier than she’d expected—whoever had built the thing hadn’t skimped on the wood.

Fear lent her strength, and she smashed it against the footboard of the bed, splintering one of the legs off. Now she had a club, and she was going to make use of it.

She took one quick look out the window, but the angle of the scenery told her she wasn’t on the ground floor, so that was out as an escape. It was through the main doorway or nothing. The one behind the chair had stayed in its position after her latest barrage, and the last she’d seen of the one she’d wounded had put it to the left of the doorway.

Kate backed away from her bed, carefully keeping clear of splinters of table. She held her injured right hand slightly behind her back, feeling for the wall: with her back to it, she’d limit the ways in which these weird ponies could come at her.

She followed the wall around, keeping a wary eye on the doorway and the hiding one. Obviously, her weapon had given her an advantage, since it was no longer advancing. If she’d had her gun, she could have really shown them something, but that was wherever the rest of her clothes had gone. Still, she intended to find it, and the next one of these things that came at her was really going to be sorry. The Coast Guard might not have spent as much time on firearms training as the Army and Marines did, but she was still a damn good shot. Good enough to make these weird ponies leave her alone, anyway.

Nearly at the door, Kate slowed down. While it was hard to imagine that these ponies were smart enough to call for reinforcements, it would be foolish to assume that there weren’t more in the hallway. She’d have to risk sticking her head out for a moment, and that would give the hiding one time to move, if it wanted to risk it. She might not get a chance to swing at it, especially if her attention was occupied by more of them in the hallway. She couldn’t throw her table-leg at it, because that would leave her unarmed. She could probably fake it out, though.

One step short of freedom, she faked a toss. The pony behind the chair jerked back, just as she’d planned, and she glanced back at the doorway just in time to see a toga-ed man rushing her. She’d been expecting another little pony, but her reflexes quickly compensated, bringing the table-leg up from its low position as she pivoted instinctively.

Had she had a moment for reflection, her next act might have been slightly more civilized. However, she’d so far had a really bad day, and flashbacks to what might have been on the beach weren’t so easily overlooked. Without actually thinking through the potential outcomes of her action, she swung the table leg as if she were trying to knock his head into the outfield. It was a one-handed swing, but nevertheless it was to be a killing blow, struck in pure terror-fueled self-defense.

Dale never saw it coming.

Lyra was a step behind Dale as he entered the hospital room. While he rushed in without properly assessing the situation, Lyra’s training belatedly kicked in. She’d already learned that these creatures—Dale and the she-Dale—could move surprisingly fast, and jump to violence at the drop of a hoof. If she hadn’t spent so much time with him, she’d have been frightened, but now it was just another characteristic of their kind. She was confident that conversation and friendship would ultimately prove to be the solution to whatever was going through the mare’s mind, but she wasn’t foalish enough to believe that making contact with a hug was going to solve the immediate problem. She’d seen the fright in Nurse Redheart’s eyes and the blood on her muzzle. The wreckage of the heart monitor and lamp were poignant reminders of the injured creature’s violent overreaction.

Her side still hurt, too, and the memory of the temporary paralysis was not far from her mind, either. Whatever this mare was capable of, she clearly could wield enough power to lay a grandmaster flat, and Lyra wasn’t going to make the mistake of underestimating her again.

She was one step behind Dale, ready to duel, and it was a good thing. Just as Dale had leapt to action on the beach with no warning of his intention, the mare was noiselessly swinging a table-leg at Dale’s head. While Lyra was more accustomed to magical attacks, there were competing unicorns who got physical. An attack on the horn could force an early end to a match, and it was something that Lyra knew how to defend against. She instinctively threw a half-shield up to protect Dale, while also grasping the cudgel with her telekenesis and deflecting it upwards. A novice would have tried to stop its movement, but redirection of energy was much more efficient than stopping the same energy. The shield was a hopefully unnecessary precaution, since it went both ways—Dale bounced off and fell on his back as the weapon sailed harmlessly over his head.

Unwilling to risk a direct attack against the mare, Lyra yanked the mattress off the bed while also tugging the weapon towards the wall. The mare stared at the unicorn wide-eyed for a moment before being blindsided by the soaring mattress, which pinned her to the wall before she could even manage to arrange a token defense.

The telekinesis spell took more effort than she would have liked, and Lyra could feel herself weakening. She would have already conceded if she were duelling, but this was life-or-death. She’d keep up her pressure until the the mare fell—or she did.

Lyra could feel the creature’s struggles against the mattress; strength against magic. She was surprised that the mare hadn’t tried to cast a spell—there were dozens that would effectively negate the threat. Still, she wasn’t going to bemoan her good fortune. As Dale picked himself up off the floor, Lyra felt the creature’s struggles get weaker. She lightened her hold on the mattress—it was in nopony’s interest to cause permanent injury to the alien mare. Finally, she pulled the mattress back, letting it fall to the ground. She kept her eye on the mare, watching for her reaction. It was not what she’d expected.

Dale stood outside the room watching. His mind was running at a furious pace, trying to figure out the best way to defuse the situation. He’d realized that the attacks were probably coming from the bed, and had jumped to the logical conclusion that the room was arranged the same way his had been. It was not an unreasonable thought; the institutional mind tends to think the same way all across the vast reaches of the universe.

It was hard to imagine what was going on in there, but judging by the very human scream that had brought him to this point, he assumed that he was dealing with a frightened woman, and if she was as out of her league as he felt, he thought he might be uniquely qualified to help calm things down.

There certainly could have been other contact missions taking place; maybe when they’d pulled up stakes they’d grabbed every one of their interpreters. It stood to reason that they might have been smart enough to not put all their eggs in one basket; for all he knew, the building he now found himself in could be filled with other people. At his very best, he figured he was only average when it came to learning a new language—and that was if they’d picked humans randomly. Maybe that was why the delay after he’d first encountered them—maybe they needed time to find other, more promising recruits.

For a second the possible irony of a fluent linguist who didn’t speak English crossed his mind. Wouldn’t that be my luck? He couldn’t judge too much about her from his vantage point. She was wearing a hospital gown much like his own, although hers went to mid-thigh, unlike the one they’d put him in. She, too, was covered in bandages, although she still had her hair. He watched as she turned and began to draw back to throw the splintery club she was holding, and he saw his chance.

I can grab her when she tosses the stick, maybe talk to her and calm her down a little bit. If she’s as disoriented as— but that thought was rudely interrupted when he crashed into a shimmering golden barrier and dropped to the ground. His chest stung for an instant—like he’d accidentally walked into an electric fence—but the sensation was quickly forgotten as he watched the mattress fly off the bed and slam into the wall.

He looked around the hospital room as he got back to his feet, admiring the wreckage. A fan of food was spread out across the floor, interspersed with broken glass and ceramic. The footboard of the bed had suffered mightily under the onslaught of the side-table, which was scattered across the floor beside the bed. To his left, one chair was overturned, while a second had a pony wearing a shirt crouched behind it.

He saw no one else in the room, which led him to the inescapable conclusion that the girl was currently behind the mattress. It was hard to fathom how it could have flown over there, but he’d already estimated that if Lyra could move around marbles with her mind-controlled tractor beam, there was nothing to prevent her from tossing about larger objects. While the implications were terrifying, he took a vague bit of satisfaction in knowing that he’d guessed correctly. At the very least, she could pin a woman to the wall with a mattress, and he doubted he’d be able to put up significantly more resistance.

It did make him wonder why the unknown pony hadn’t mounted a more spirited defence. She—an assumption based on her similarity to Lyra and the nurse—was just now moving around the chair, casting a wary eye on the mattress.

Her appearance deepened Dale’s confusion about what was going on around here. Unlike all the others he’d seen so far, she was wearing what on a human would have been a button-down shirt, complete with cuffs. In the breast pocket was a traditional mercury thermometer. Her coat was a mustard-yellow color, while her mane and tail were two shades of blue. The former was pulled back in a ponytail, while the latter was wrapped at the base. She was unclothed from the waist down, which revealed her tattoo—a triangle of a stylized dog, cat, and bird.

It was obvious enough what the nurse’s role was, but she was a mystery. Perhaps she’d been working with the occupant of the room, but that didn’t explain the attack. He hadn’t heard any conversation between them, so either they weren’t talking yet, or the situation had escalated past that point.

He heard a soft thump behind him, and turned to see the mattress lying on the ground. Its placement was quite fortuitous, because a moment later the blonde girl collapsed onto it.

When the green pony ran into the room, Kate’s rational mind finally gave up. Whatever was happening was a horrible nightmare. There was no other explanation. Her weapon had somehow missed its target—she’d felt it jerk upwards as a stabbing pain rushed down her arm.

Before she could even draw in another breath, something slammed her into the wall, eliciting an unpleasant feeling of something loose inside her chest. At the same time, an unfamiliar tingling sensation made her muscles start to twitch, rendering any further resistance futile. Her battered mind tried to make sense of the new stimuli all screaming for attention before it finally gave up completely. She’d completely left panic behind, to be replaced with a dull, uncaring acceptance. Whatever was happening was no longer something she could control, so the best thing to do was to ride it out. It didn’t matter.

As the mattress fell away, she found she didn’t have the strength to stand any more, but it really wasn’t important. It was so much easier to surrender to gravity.

Kate felt like she was observing something from a strange movie. She felt no more fear as the small equines galloped towards her recumbent form. They seemed to be yelling at each other, which was quite strange. One of them had a thin trail of blood running down her muzzle, ruining her beautiful white coat. It was a shame, and Kate wondered how that had happened. Everything seemed so hard to remember. She had fallen on a mattress, but why?

“What’s your name?”

Kate turned her head slowly. There was a man leaning over her. His face went in and out of focus, but she really couldn’t make out any details anyway, since he was all wrapped up in gauze.

“Rorschach?” She gently reached a hand out for him, seeing it move slowly through a smoky mist. “Did you lose your hat?” With some amount of effort, she moved her focus off his face, seeing for the first time that he was wearing a white robe. “You’re . . . you died, didn’t you? Ozymandias killed you.” She pointed a finger at him accusingly.

“What’s your name?” He leaned closer and grabbed her hand in his own.

“Ozymandias, king of kings.” She giggled. “Look upon my works ye mighty, and despair.”

He shook his head sadly. “Tell me your name!”

She giggled again. “Rorschach . . . don’t.”

“Please, tell me.”

Kate squeezed his hand tightly. It was very comforting. It was warm—hot, almost. She thought she could feel the pulse below the soft gauze palms. Just like her own. They were both made of gauze. Was she wearing a white robe, too? Her head weighed a million pounds, so she couldn’t lift it to see. She experimentally touched her clothes, but could feel nothing. Her hand was wrapped up in something. Now when did that happen? She took a deep breath—she wanted to tell him. He was an angel, he must have been. But the words were stolen from her mouth by a paroxysm of coughing.

She looked at his hand in wonder as small red flowers bloomed on his gauzy skin. They were on hers, too. Beautiful red rubies. “I . . . my . . . “ He was dimming, somehow. Getting less vital. Farther away. The corners of the room were growing darker and darker and it seemed to take more effort to focus on his face.

“She’s bleeding,” he roared into the darkness. “Can’t somebody do something about it?”

“Don’t yell, Rorschach,” she rebuked, squeezing his hand weakly. “It’s not nice.”

“I wouldn’t yell at you,” he whispered. “You just need to hold on, everything will be okay.” He smiled reassuringly.

“I’m not scared,” Kate said with wonder. “You’ll—” A sudden image flashed through her mind. Cortez was yelling at her—no, yelling for her. It was on a beach, she was on a beach. “Tell Cortez I . . . tell him . . . if he says it’s his fault, I forgive him. He did—” She coughed again. “Rorschach, I—”

“Shh.” He held a finger to his lips. “Don’t you worry about a thing. It’s all taken care of. Just—keep your hand in mine, okay?”

“I can’t,” she confessed. The muscles in her hand had failed her utterly; she felt her grip loosen. His expression suddenly changed to one of—was it alarm? It was too hard to think of these things, especially since he’d started to give off a golden glow.

For a moment after Kate’s initial collapse, the hospital room was a silent tableaux. Dale was looking down at her in wonder, Lyra was watching her with a curious look, no longer certain if she was a threat or not.

Then the moment passed and the room became a flurry of activity.

Dale looked down at the injured woman. Her eyes were strangely unfocused, like she’d just gone into some mental fugue state. He’d felt the same way right before she started screaming, so he could sympathise.

Guessing that the mustard-colored pony who’d gingerly abandoned her makeshift fort had been working with the girl—just like Lyra had been with him—he asked the girl’s name.

He was met with a confused look.

Right, Dale. They don’t speak English. “Is Dale,” he said, tapping his chest. “Is Lyra.” He pointed to the unicorn. “Is?” He pointed to the girl.

She still looked confused. She trotted over and gave the woman a cursory inspection before turning to Lyra and rapidly speaking, occasionally pointing a hoof at him or at her. A wet cough from the girl caused her to snap her attention around, and she laid her head on the girl’s chest, listening with her eyes half-closed. She stayed that way for a moment before carefully moving her front hoof over the girl’s chest. The white nurse had returned, too, and was looking thoughtfully at the girl, shifting around on her hooves as if she didn’t quite know what to do.

Is she a doctor? She was wearing a lab coat. Maybe the nurses had red crosses on their hips and doctors had . . . three pets? If he was guessing right, her tattoo was of a dog, cat, and bird. Was it some sort of odd symbolism, their equivalent to a caduceus? They were all smiling.

Dale shook his head. Those mysteries were for another day. He reached down to the girl, taking her left hand into his own. Maybe some human contact would snap her out of it. “What’s your name?”

“Rorschach,” she replied dreamily. Dale stiffened. That name sounded familiar, although he didn’t know why. He’d heard it before, somewhere. It must have been her last name, although why she’d give that was beyond him. Or was Rory the diminutive of Rorschach? Parents were giving children odd names these days. But when she asked him about his hat, he knew she was seeing someone else; it wasn’t her name.

He asked her again, and her reply was more nonsense. He kept asking. Maybe if he could address her by name, he could pull her out of whatever dream world she was in.

He hardly noticed as another unicorn galloped into the room. This one wore a lab coat, and even had a collar and tie underneath. It glanced at the girl and then began conversing with the mustard pony.

Dale reached down and grabbed her hand. She was making less and less sense. Did they have her doped up on all sorts of weird pain-killers? One of her hands was wrapped in a thick bandage—and her arms were wrapped, too. So was her face, but she still had her hair, which seemed blatantly unfair.

Some of the gauze had come loose on her hand, he noticed. Maybe when she was throwing stuff around the room. He could see pale pink nail polish on two of her fingernails, where they’d cut through the bandage. It was such an odd detail to pick out of the chaos in the room, but it jabbed at his memory.

Something must have gone wrong with their transporter, he decided. At least we didn’t wind up fused together or something. But he could worry about that later. Right now, keeping her talking was the most important thing.

Suddenly she started coughing blood. He winced as it splattered on his hand and arm. A cold dread began to grip him—what if she were dying? He could only imagine that the doctors were working frantically to save her life.

He risked a glance at them, and they were still arguing. There was not a single machine in the room except another one of those stupid wooden heart monitors that the nurse was fiddling with.

Dale screamed at them then. He was beginning to wonder if he’d been led into a false sense of security by Lyra. Maybe they were really monsters. Maybe they didn’t give a damn if she lived or died. Lyra’s emotion had felt genuine, but he might have been ascribing too much to the hug and the tears. They were aliens, after all. In hospital dramas, there was always the crash cart . . . here there was nothing. Still . . . the nurse hadn’t used any instruments on him—none that he’d seen anyway.

“Don’t yell,” the girl said weakly, and it stuck him like a knife. After this was all over, he’d deal with the ponies. He’d have a nice long talk with Lyra, and they’d figure it out.

He looked at the fading light in her eyes. He felt her grip begin to weaken. He could hear the ponies talking, but he ignored them. Whatever happened, he hoped she would know that he’d held on. He’d stayed by her side.

The blue-maned one pointed to him and said something to Lyra. She shook her head and touched a hoof to her horn. The other horned pony in a lab coat joined in on the conversation. Meanwhile, the nurse with the bloody muzzle pulled a strip of gauze off the girl’s wrist and stuck it to her hoof somehow. With a practiced ease, she unwrapped the bandage over the girl’s hand, finally revealing something that reminded him of an overdone steak. He felt the bile rising in his throat, and had to turn his head away.

He concentrated on the girl’s face. She looked . . . peaceful. As soon as she’d stopped talking, she’d stopped coughing, which was an improvement. He watched as the nurse tugged the left side of the girl’s johnny open, and whistled in surprise at the giant bruise just under her armpit. Even through the lifejacket, he thought. I hit her harder than I meant to. No wonder my shoulder’s messed up.

As she had with him, the nurse placed her hoof in the center of the bruise, holding it there for a moment. He half-expected to see the bruise face away, but of course it didn’t. He suddenly realized he was looking at an unconscious woman’s breasts and his face reddened. Was he a lecherous old man for looking? Or was he doing his duty? What if she asked him what they’d done if—when—she woke? Could he say he’d looked away and didn’t know? What would he want her to do if their positions were reversed? He might spot something they wouldn’t—or was that just an excuse to keep staring? Being suddenly thrust into a strange culture had been bad enough; now they were violating his own cultural taboos—not out of malice, but just plain ignorance. He sighed, watching as the nurse laid her head on the girl’s chest, flattening an ear between her breasts to listen for a heartbeat.

He looked back at her right hand, where the male doctor and female doctor were working intently. They’d stripped back some of the bandage on her arm, and the female doctor was gently touching her forehoof to the girl’s fingers, while the male doctor studied an x-ray, occasionally talking to the female.

A new voice caught his attention. It, too, sounded female, but had a strange lyrical lilt to it—almost as if the owner were reading a poem or something. He almost dropped the girl’s hand when the pony attached to the voice walked into the room: she was wearing a brown cloak with a hood covering her head. Gold jewelry adorned her leg and neck, and she was even wearing golden earrings. If that wasn’t odd enough, she was a carrying a small corked bottle in her mouth, and she was striped like a zebra.

Enter the witch doctor, Dale thought.

Author's Notes:

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Author's Notes

Chapter 2: Gambit

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 2: Gambit
Admiral Biscuit

Celestia sat on a plush divan in her solarium, sipping a cup of tea. She’d spent most of the previous day catching up with events that had already passed out of her control, and was determined to rein it all in before the next crisis struck.

The situation in Ponyville is out of my hooves, she thought. Best to let Twilight and Lyra deal with it, and not butt in unless they ask for my help. It would seem less of a crisis if she didn’t have to personally intervene, and if Twilight handled the situation well—which she was sure the unicorn would—then it could only further Twilight’s stock. There would be thousands of tiny details that would crop up over the next few weeks.

That still left her with the thorny problem of Luna and Trixie. That, too, was not yet a crisis, and would be unlikely to be known outside the castle walls. The Royal Guard was hardly going to speak of how Trixie had escaped from right under their muzzles, after all, and with the showmare under Luna’s hoof, the situation—for now—required no intervention on her part. It might even serve me well to keep Luna guessing as to my intentions for a while longer. She’s probably been expecting me to rush right up there and take Trixie back. She’s probably already researching legal documents. So, the only thing left to do is start Lyra’s court-martial. “Raven?”

“Your majesty?”

“Take down a telegram. To Shining Armor: ‘Initiate court-martial against auxiliary guard Lyra Heartstrings for dereliction of duty in allowing two alien species to enter Equestria, and for causing bodily injury to said aliens. Shining Armor or a suitable officer is to prosecute. Due to injuries to Lyra Heartstrings, the trial will be held in Ponyville in one week’s time.’” As soon as Raven has stopped writing, she began again. “A letter, to Fancy Pants: ‘We formally request that you and an assistant of your choosing defend auxiliary guard Lyra Heartstrings of the charges of dereliction of duty and of causing bodily injury to another. Court martial is to be held in Ponyville in one week’s time; Princess Luna will preside.” Long ago, Celestia had had to write all these letters herself, complete with all the titles and boring legal language that they called for. While she still handled her own personal correspondence, it was very relaxing to have a secretary who would do all that for her.

“Shall I send a message to Luna, as well?”

“No.” Celestia shook her head. “I’ll tell her myself.”

Raven scribbled down a few notes. “Will that be all?”

Celestia sighed. “I’ll need to write a letter to Twilight, but I’ll do that myself. When you have finished with the telegram for Shining Armor and the letter for Fancy Pants, perhaps you could ask the head librarian to find the protocol for opening a new embassy? It has been centuries since we have done so.”

“Is this about the, um, creatures?”

“Indeed it is.” Celestia smiled. “We can’t have proper foreign relations with them without an embassy. I have already sent Twilight official papers. I had hoped that Lyra could explain them to Dale at their next meeting . . . little did I suspect that it would be on our own soil.”

Raven nodded. “If this Dale is to be their ambassador, who shall ours be? Were you planning on nominating Lyra?"

“If I nominate her first, Prince Blueblood will reject it. He’ll rile up the other nobles, and he’ll insist that he deserves the position.” Celestia sipped her tea. “He’s already upset that he didn’t get an ambassadorial position after the Crystal Empire reappeared; he was apparently unaware that we do not have ambassadors to our own territories. Given his impassioned speeches—before his error was pointed out, of course—if he is not offered the role he will drag the process on forever.”

“Is there nothing you can do?”

“Of course there is!” Celestia set down her teacup. “I intend to offer the position to him in a private meeting. First, though, I have to send a letter to Twilight Sparkle.”

A insistent push in Dale’s side drew his eyes away from the girl. He looked down to see Lyra nosing at his side. “Lyra no happy?”

She shook her head. “Dale no hand girl.” She jerked her head to indicate the problem. “Hand is . . . Dale hand cutie mark.” She illustrated the results of that experiment, making a quick jerk of her body as if she had just gotten an electrical shock. “Dale no hand girl.” She prodded him in the side again.

The nurse said something to her, and she answered back in her native language. Dale ignored them, keeping his hand tight on the girl’s. Lyra seemed to be suggesting that he should let go of her hand, but why? Admittedly, it wasn’t the kind of thing which would be allowed in a normal hospital, but this was far from a normal hospital. So far, he’d seen a distinct lack of any sort of surgical instrument. Aside from the weird heart monitors, the only other medical devices he’d noticed thus far were the thermometer in the female doctor’s coat and the stethoscope in the male’s—and why on earth did the ponies insist on listening to a heartbeat with their ears when they had stethoscopes? That practice had fallen out of favor on earth centuries ago.

The nurse seemed to accept his defiance gracefully; she spoke a few words to the male doctor and placed her hoof gently back on the girl’s chest. She made an odd gesture with her right foreleg—it reminded Dale of a ‘come on’ motion—and the doctors began to work.

The male doctor floated the bottle that the zebra had been holding, pulling the cork out without touching it. Dale felt his heartbeat increase as the cork continued floating in the air right next to the bottle, untouched by any hands. A light blue aura caused it—and the bottle—to glow slightly.

The doctor set the bottle on the ground gently and lifted a small wooden stick. It looked like a wooden coffee-stirrer: Dale hadn’t seen one of those in ages, but he supposed that somebody still made them. Unlike what he’d seen when Lyra’s aura lifted things, the stick only had a glowing aura around one end.

It was gently dipped into the bottle and removed. The un-auraed end was covered in a viscous liquid that looked very much like mayonnaise. With the zebra and the female doctor watching intently, the stick was brought close to the back of the girl’s hand and a small dollop of salve spread on one of the blisters.

Almost immediately, the girl twitched, jerking her clawed hand away from the doctors. Dale felt a sudden unpleasant jolt run up his arm—like he’d just grabbed onto an electric fence. He involuntarily opened his hand, and the pain stopped instantly.

“Dale no hand girl. Dale hand cutie mark there Dale no home.”

He grit his teeth trying to parse what Lyra had said. Not for the first time, he wished that he’d been more adept at languages—if he had been, than they could have made more progress in the two days of meetings than they had.

The first part was fairly obvious: she didn’t want him to hold the girl’s hand. When he’d touched her cutie mark on the beach he’d gotten a warm sort of tingle—it hadn’t been unpleasant, but it had been surprising. Since they’d foolishly not gone over the word danger, she was probably trying as well as she could to warn him that it was dangerous to touch during a procedure. The look from the nurse told him all he needed to know—even with their alien facial structure, the ‘I told you so’ came through loud and clear.

He wiped his hand on his bedsheet toga unconsciously, as if that would rub off the shock he’d felt touching the girl. The two doctors and the zebra were looking at the girl’s hand intently, as if they expected it to suddenly turn back to normal. They leaned close, studying it with the same intensity of a golfer willing the ball into the hole. Finally—whether satisfied or dissatisfied by the result—the female doctor turned the girl’s hand over, and Dale saw for the first time the true extent of the damage.

Dale was no stranger to blood and injuries. A machine shop is not a forgiving environment. That he still had ten complete fingers was as much luck as skill; a lathe was unable to discriminate between metal and flesh, and metal slivers were an expected hazard of the job. Rolls of electrical tape were kept in the first-aid kit along with a wide assortment of bandages. Serious injuries were rare nowadays, but he’d seen a few severe injuries throughout the years.

He had never seen anything like this. It was the most horrific thing he’d ever seen—even medical dramas didn’t go this far. He knew why her hand was clawed; it was trying to grip something it would never be able to again. For a moment he was certain he was going to faint; the whole room greyed out and he heard a roaring noise in his ears. He clenched his teeth tightly together, willing his breakfast to stay down.

He felt something press up against his side and looked down to see Lyra’s head pushed up against him, her eyes squeezed tightly closed. It was probably his imagination, but she looked paler than normal. Apparently she was as affected by the sight as he was.

You have to watch, he told himself. You told yourself that earlier, when you were looking at something you didn’t mind seeing. If you look away now you’re the worst kind of hypocrite. Reluctantly, he forced his look back up, unconsciously running his fingers through Lyra’s mane.

Dale looked back at the doctors, deliberately trying to keep the girl’s hand out of focus. They seemed unperturbed by the fact that the girl was stretched out across the floor; given their height, perhaps it was more convenient for them. The nurse had had to reach awkwardly a couple of times when she was examining him. He’d seen Lyra go to her hind hooves on the beach, but that had lead to her falling on him—on the same shoulder which was currently bandaged, as a matter of fact.

There was an occasional discussion between the three doctors—Dale was now including the zebra in the ‘doctor’ category—after each application of salve. While he wished them the best of luck, the only way they were going to be able to fix what was left of the girl’s hand was with some kind of magical regeneration cream. A topical lotion wasn’t going to do the trick.

Suddenly, the nurse barked out a sharp command, and the male doctor stopped working. Every eye in the room turned towards the heart monitor, where a baffling series of spiked lines had appeared across the top of the trace. There was a hasty conference between the three, and the female doctor rushed out of the room.

In her absence, the doctor flew the clipboard from the foot of the girl’s bed over. He left it floating in the air in front of the zebra and began to point to it, occasionally glancing over to look at the heart monitor again.

The zebra made an odd, shrug-like motion and leaned forward, her nose almost touching the girl’s hand. She stayed there for a moment, her position similar to a dog sniffing a stranger. She wrinkled her nose, pulling her lips back from her teeth, and held that position for a few seconds. She stepped back, apparently satisfied with her observation. She spoke to the doctor again, and then touched her hoof to the girl’s forearm gently. She half-closed her eyes and began softly chanting.

Since nothing else was going on for the moment, Dale glanced down to see what Lyra was doing. He’d felt her shift around a few times.

The first thing he noticed was that his hand was in her mane. Surprised, he pulled it away. It seemed rude—like he thought she was a pet. Although, he had to admit there was some resemblance. She’d folded her legs under herself, much like a cat. He’d never really seen horses lying on their bellies up close, so he wasn’t sure if this was a normal position or not. She did look comfortable, though.

“Dale yes hand Lyra mane,” she said softly, turning her head to look him in the eyes. “Dale yes-no hand not Lyra mane.” Dale chuckled softly and put his hand back on her head, scratching between her ears. They’d figured out ‘yes-no’ as a way of expressing uncertainty; it was a phrase they’d been using a lot on the beach. She obviously meant it was okay to run his hands through her mane, but not any other pony’s. At least, not without asking first.

They both looked towards the door as the female doctor returned carrying a tray balanced on her back. Dale sucked in his breath as she grabbed it with her teeth and set it down: there was no doubt in his mind what this kit was intended to be used for.

Dale was no authority on medical implements. He knew scalpels and forceps, but that was pretty much it. The purpose of the long spiked tools was beyond him—although it was a reasonable bet that they were some kind of probe. The cutting pliers were a familiar tool, although he used them for tubes and wires. None of those drew his attention like the saw.

He rarely assigned his tools any kind of personality, since most of them could be used for many things, good or ill. A pair of diagonal-cutting pliers might be used in one movie to cut a phone cord before a murder, and in the next save the heroine when the hero used them to cut the wires to the bomb at the last second. But the saw . . . it occupied the whole center of the tray, its teeth bared. It wanted to taste flesh and blood and sinew.

The male doctor lifted up the girl’s hand, while the zebra slid a thick piece of wood underneath. Dale’s doubts of their medical expertise suddenly returned full-force. He fortunately had never seen the instruments used for amputations, so he couldn’t say if the tools they had were primitive or modern. He did know that wood was notoriously hard to sterilize. If they were using a wooden block, either they had phenomenal aftercare, or were entirely unaware of the perils of infection. He was leaning towards the latter, since their medical kit seemed more like the contents of a carpenter’s toolbox than a surgeon’s instruments.

Without any fanfare, the female doctor wrapped a tourniquet around the girl’s forearm, about midway up. Unlike the tourniquets in the Boy Scout manual, this one had a thumbscrew to tighten it—although he supposed they’d call it something else, since the doctor was turning it with her mouth. She left it slightly loose and grabbed a bottle between her hooves, using her teeth to pull the cork out. Instead of dipping in a coffee-stirrer, though, she dumped some of the liquid on a bundle of rags the zebra was holding. She re-corked the bottle, set it aside, and took the rags from the zebra, using them to spread the fluid It turned the girl’s skin a bright orangey-red. Is that Mercurochrome? His mother had used the stuff liberally— it hurt more than the wound. He hadn’t seen it in stores for a while; it had probably been replaced by some kind of no-more-tears type of antiseptic.

Dale took several deep breaths, girding himself for what was to come next. He was already trying to think how he’d explain it to the girl. The reason for the amputation was clear enough, he supposed. It was the method that they were planning to use that left him concerned.

I’m going to have to see about getting my bed moved into here, he thought. She clearly doesn’t know what’s going on, and she’ll no doubt feel better if she has another human for company. He looked back over at the primitive operating theatre. God, I hope they don’t keep her hand and put it in a formaldehyde jar.

He looked back, watching the male doctor casually threading curved needles. Had it been in any other situation, he could have watched for hours—the level of dexterity the doctor had with his aura was amazing. He would take a needle, lift it in front of his face, yank a few inches of thread off a spool, snip it with a small pair of scissors, and then float the completed assembly onto the tray. Had he been doing that one at a time, it would have been impressive; to save time he was combining steps, so at any one time he had several needles and lengths of thread floating in front of him, along with the spool and scissors. “The force is strong in that one,” he muttered to himself, earning a cocked ear from Lyra.

Dale looked down at her thoughtfully. While he’d never seen her move more than a few marbles at a time, she certainly seemed to be capable of brute-force moves with her aura: while he had a very limited sample-set to draw from, she’d moved the mattress with no trouble at all, and been able to pin the girl against the wall with it. The doctor, presumably, wasn’t capable of such brute-force moves, but made up for it in finesse. How they did it was another question. Presumably, a certain type of intelligence was required, since they were moving objects in three dimensions. As far as he had been able to observe, the commands were all mental. The male doctor was occasionally talking to his two companions while he worked, seemingly unconcerned with the possibility of being distracted.

While it was hard to believe, it seemed likely that the horns were somehow attached to nerves, much like very high-end prosthetics. But if that were true, their medical technology must strongly surpass Earth’s . . . yet their surgical instruments seemed to be Civil War era. The disparity was inexplicable.

It was strange that they didn’t all have horns. Maybe there was a competency test before they were awarded, or it could be a badge of rank. It was worth remembering that the ones that made a blue light were good at fine control, while the gold-lit ones seemed to be better used for larger, heavier moves. True, he’d seen Lyra move some smaller items, but never with the precision that the doctor was displaying.

The female doctor lifted a hemostat in her lips, looking thoughtfully at the girl. He managed to suppress his vision of saliva and bacteria crawling all over the instrument with the thought of the grease and dirt that he’d gotten in innumerable wounds that had healed without too much scarring. There was the one time he’d been looking over at the exploded view of a feed mechanism, not really paying attention to what he was doing, and forgot that the nut was reverse-thread. He’d leaned with all his weight on the ratchet, stripping the teeth and slamming his hand painfully into the cutting bit. He’d torn off a huge chunk of flesh right at the base of his thumb . . . all because he was distracted by the instructions.

The instructions.

A sudden sinking feeling turned his heart to ice. Of all the things they had, the Gray’s Anatomy he’d given Lyra wasn’t one of them. He couldn’t imagine why they didn’t have it with them—but if they didn’t, he could at least save them from one potentially fatal mistake.

He moved forward, towards the girl. The nurse looked up in surprise when he touched his hand to her still-bloody muzzle. She moved her head back, looking at him warily.

He cleared his throat. The doctors looked up at him. He pointed to her muzzle again. He made a drip noise by popping his lower lip against his teeth, while emphasizing the downward flow with his finger.

Intrigued, the female doctor moved closer. Dale repeated the motion several times. He moved around the girl, carefully taking her wrist in his hand. Most of the nail polish is burned off. He tore his eyes away, focusing tightly on her wrist, but he couldn’t help but see where the skin reddened and then darkened as he traced along the veins and arteries. Focusing on the difficulty of what he meant to do with his right arm out of commission helped a little—but it meant all the movements were close to his chest, so he had to bring that . . . thing . . . close to himself.

He made a shhing sound, tracing each with a finger and then spreading his hand wide. The veins on the back of her hand were hard to see, but he could feel their slight bulge under his finger and could guess where they went.

He repeated the same gesture on the inside of her hand, desperately hoping that he was wrong about what he was seeing. It doesn’t matter what you’re seeing . . . they’re going to cut it off, and you’ll never have to see it again. Of course he would. This was the kind of thing nightmares were made of.

To further illustrate his point, he set her hand back down and then pointed to his own. He made a sawing motion at his wrist, repeated the flicking motion then fell over backwards, banging his head uncomfortably on the unyielding floor of the hospital and eliciting a spike of pain from his shoulder.

He sat back up, repeated the sawing gesture, but this time pinched his fingers together, over where he’d indicated the veins and arteries. This time he remained upright, and even managed to force a smile.

The female doctor nodded, apparently understanding his charade. She said something, then realizing he couldn’t understand, tapped her hoof on the floor four times. She accompanied each tap with a clicking tooth-clamp. He hoped there weren’t more major veins that he didn’t know about.

Satisfied that they’d at least be prepared to avoid her bleeding out, he moved back close to Lyra, twisting his fingers in her mane again. She resumed her earlier position; whether it was for her comfort or his was beyond his ken.

A sharp word from the nurse drew his attention back to the heart monitor. She was pointing excitedly with a hoof, indicating that the rough line had smoothed out again. She pulled her hoof off the girl’s bare chest and stuck her ear back down again, moving her head so that she could see the heart monitor. The news seemed to be good, because she broke out in a huge smile.

The other three began chattering excitedly. The male doctor dropped the needles and thread on the tray and pushed it off to the side, then went back to patiently applying the salve. Dale noticed that he was taking smaller amounts on the coffee-stirrer this time, and waiting several minutes between applications. Hope began to rise.

Dale watched them more carefully. He’d gotten accustomed to the girl’s ruined hand—at least, accustomed enough that he could see it in the corner of his eye without feeling faint. Lyra was still not watching; she’d rested her head on his left thigh and had fixed her eyes on the heart monitor. She was listening; her ears were frequently moving around, especially when the doctor spoke.

The nurse kept her ear glued to the girl’s chest and her eyes focused on the heart monitor. Dale soon identified the pattern: the doctor would apply some salve. The nurse would say something. The doctor would wait. A few minutes later, the nurse would say something again, and the doctor would apply another small bit of cream. He could occasionally pick up a ‘yes’ or a ‘no,’ but for the most part the conversation was incomprehensible.

After this procedure had been going on for a while, another pony walked into the room. This one was a pinkish color, with a candy-cane striped mane and tail. The marking on her hip was a white cross and hearts, which meant she was probably a nurse. Dale had noticed that many of the ones he’d seen so far had highlights of some sort in their manes and tails, and he wondered why that might be. Those had all been been presumably or provably female, so it might have been a bit of vanity on their part. He vaguely remembered a Larry Niven story where it was in fashion to go around nude with a skin dye-job; perhaps this was what passed for fashion among the ponies. It made sense that the doctors would want to wear coats, since they might get blood in their fur; the only other ponies he’d seen dressed were the guards. Painted-on armor was probably not very effective.

The pink nurse was pushing a small cleaning cart, like the kind maids had at hotels. He watched as she pulled a normal-looking broom out of a bracket on the cart, set the handle in her teeth, and made short work of sweeping the wreckage of the girl’s breakfast into a small pile. When she’d finished, she set a dustpan on the floor, choked up on the handle of the broom, and swept the rubbish into the pan. She tugged that across the floor with her teeth, carefully lifting it up and into the trash can, not losing an iota. He’d had beginners in the machine shop that weren’t that efficient at sweeping, and they had hands. They could have learned a lot from watching this pony.

The demolished bedside table gave her more trouble. She set it back upright easily enough, but as soon as she took her hoof off it, it listed sharply towards the missing leg. She repeated that motion a couple of times, muttering what were probably swear words at it. Finally, she lowered her head and pushed it against the wall with her forehead, jamming it in position so that it couldn’t fall.

She rocked it a couple more times, standing up on her hind hooves to get a better angle of attack. It wobbled but stayed nearly level. The nurse tilted her head underneath it, went out into the hallway, and brought the wrecked heart monitor back in, leaving a trail of plaster dust in her wake.

She pulled the table back out from the wall, set the heart monitor against the baseboard, and shoved the table back into position. It didn’t move at all. She stood back up on her hind legs, pushed against the edge of it, and it still didn’t move. She took a step back and rubbed her forehooves together. To Dale, it looked just like a man dusting his hands off after fixing something.

The mattress came next. He couldn’t see how she lifted it since she had her back to him, but she got one end over her head and crawled forward under it, balancing it easily on her head and rump. When she got over to the bed, she kind of shrugged it upward and sideways, neatly seating it nearly into position. A forehead bump squared it up.

She made the bed as efficiently as any hotel maid, tucking the sheet under at the corners to hold it in place. Obviously, the ponies had discovered that fitted sheets were the work of the devil, since this one had no elastic. The nurse had to stand on her hind legs to drop a pillow into the pillowcase, and she fluffed it by shaking it vigorously in her teeth, before tossing it onto the bed.

She spoke briefly to the other nurse, took one final look around the room to make sure everything was in place, and left.

Occasionally, other ponies would show up at the door. Two of them left quickly, while the third went away and then came back.

She was the purple one that Dale had observed carrying the small creature on her back. He presumed it had followed her into the hospital, since on her first visit she’d taken one look into the room and spoken to someone in the hallway before she’d entered.

On her first visit, she’d stared at Dale and the girl with wide-eyed wonder, like a kid opening a Christmas present. It had been kind of disturbing, in fact. Almost predatorial. He’d looked down at Lyra nervously, but she hadn’t seemed bothered; instead she’d begun by saying the word he’d learned was their ‘hello.’

The horned pony had reacted by taking a step backwards and looking at Lyra in confusion. She’d said something short that sounded like a question; Lyra had responded and pointed to her own throat. Dale had smiled, suddenly remembering that she’d done something that lowered her voice. He’d gotten so used to it that her lower voice seemed normal to him, but of course it wouldn’t to any of the other ponies who knew her.

Lyra had spoken to her briefly, and she’d gotten a look of frustration on her face, but turned and left the room, probably with her companion. Dale had heard a strange pop noise from the hallway, but nothing seemed to come of it.

Five salve-and-wait cycles later, she was back. This time she just waltzed right into the room, making sure to give the doctors plenty of space. She apparently knew them all, because she spoke to all three in turn—wisely refraining from speaking to the male doctor until he was between treatments. When they did speak, it was apparently an intellectual conversation, if the furrowed brows were anything to judge by.

Satisfied with the results of her conversation, she moved around the girl’s supine form until she was standing next to Lyra. The two of them conversed for several minutes, with her occasionally pointing a hoof at him. Dale smiled and tried to look pleasant. From the moment she’d walked into the room, he’d noticed that the doctors became a little more tense; even Lyra seemed slightly stiffer than usual. He hoped that the purple one wasn’t upset that he had his hand in Lyra’s mane again.

She didn’t seem to be. She floated a scroll from her saddlebags, reading it aloud. Unsurprisingly, he understood none of it.

When the pony had stopped speaking, Lyra nudged him. “Dale is yes.”

“Yes?” Both ponies nodded.

The purple one floated a quill and an inkpot towards Dale, setting the inkpot on the floor while leaving the quill floating at mid-chest height. He looked at it curiously. She seemed to be expecting that he’d take it, but there was no way he was going to grab a floating object. Fortunately, Lyra interceded on his behalf, and the quill was set on the ground, followed by the scroll.

Lyra pointed to a blank line. “Dale,” she said simply.

Dale picked up the quill and dipped it in the ink. He’d seen it done in numerous movies. There had still been a few fountain pens around when he was a kid, so he wasn’t totally inexperienced, but the motions were rusty with disuse, and he was using his off-hand.

The scroll no doubt contained some legal gibberish. The question was, what? What did they want him to sign? According to the American legal system, he wasn’t competent to sign this contract, since it was written in a language he could neither speak nor read. Was their legal system the same, or was he signing himself into slavery or something like that?

“Dale make write Dale,” Lyra suggested, pointing to the line again. “Write is good.”

He shook his head. There was no way he was going to sign something without reading it. Certainly not before he had some better understanding of their society. If they didn’t like it, it was too bad.

“No. Dale not make Dale. Dale not—” had they gone over ‘read’? “—not, um, take write.” He tapped the scroll and his head.

The purple one seemed prepared for this difficulty. She used her aura to tug the paper away, neatly rolling it up and putting it in her bag. A second scroll was pulled out and set before him. This one was different; instead of being covered in printing, it looked like a page from a comic. Did they have comic books? Or more properly, comic scrolls?

The first panel had a crude drawing of a man. Interestingly—and somewhat embarrassingly—he was unclothed. He was standing in front of a crowd of people; they were also nude. There were men and women who had been drawn just like the drawings in the visual dictionary, although the artist had made no attempt to keep their coloration realistic—skin and hair was drawn in the most fantastic colors. More strangely, there were some mono-colored furry humanoids interspersed with the people. He suddenly realized that they’d included Elmos, possibly assuming that Elmo was a subtype of humans.

The man—who he suspected was supposed to be himself—was addressing the crowd. There was a speech bubble above his head, although it was empty. In the next panel, the crowd responded with a blue triangle; the third panel showed him saying ‘triangle’ with all the other people.

A thick border separated this small cartoon from the next. The composition of the panels was the same, except this time there was a large white pony addressing the crowd. She had a horn and wings, and was unmistakably the same in appearance as the one he’d seen on the beach, and in the books Lyra had shown him. Instead of a triangle, her crowd was speaking in green square.

The third set of panels showed the two of them meeting together in front of a Russian-looking fantasy castle. He spoke his triangle, she her square, and in the final panel they both spoke a light-blue seven-pointed star to each other.

The final trio of images showed him giving the message to the people, her giving the message to the ponies, and finally a mixed group of colorful ponies and colorful people.

Assuming that there were no deeper meanings to the text, it was pretty obvious what it was meant to represent. They wanted him to speak for humanity. They meant for him to be an ambassador. Most encouragingly, the last panels showed him going back home, and showed a peaceful co-existence between the ponies and people.

Lyra took his hesitation for uncertainty, and touched her hoof to the speaking man. “Dale.” She gestured to the crowd. “Dales . . . mans, womans.”

Dale nodded absently, looking over at the girl. Had they prepared another similar scroll for her, and for anyone else they might have in the hospital? Was the purple pony going around, giving these to everyone they’d taken? Maybe her little rider was handing them out, too.

Lyra poked him in the thigh with her hoof, drawing his attention back. She pointed back at the comic. On the left side, under the drawing of him speaking a cyan star, were two blank lines. The other side—under the regal pony—had an elegant flowing signature, while the second line was made up of the letters Lyra had been teaching him.

“Dale write Dale,” Lyra said.

Dale sighed. Do I have a choice? He gripped the quill tightly in his left hand and carefully wrote his name. Both of them smiled when he finished.

“Dale make Dale name home,” Lyra instructed, pointing to the second line on the paper. He thought about that for a moment and decided that they wanted his address. He carefully wrote it out, scrunching the letters together to fit them all on the line. When he had finished, the lavender one rolled up the paper and stuck it back into her saddlebag.

Twilight stashed the signed scroll back into her bag. She hadn't expected it—Dale, she corrected herself—to be able to read the first, although it would have been a lot easier if he had signed it. At least he'd figured out the drawings. A thick stack of papers had come from the palace on yesterday morning's train, largely consisting of suggested topics for Lyra and Dale to cover at their next beach meeting. These scrolls had been among them.

Both scrolls granted him certain ambassadorial powers. There was a long history of treating with foreign nations who did not speak Equestrian. While those days were now past—or had been thought to be—Celestia remembered them well, and picture-scrolls had often been used in lieu of legal documents, at least until the language barrier was crossed. For that matter, pictograms were still widely in use throughout the more rural enclaves of Equestria; universal education was a very recent innovation. Most of the books in the Ponyville library carried nearly as many illustrations as words.

She turned her attention back to Dale. It was her first close-up look at him. The drawings in the visual dictionary hadn't done him justice, she thought. After the incident with Zecora, she'd researched various sapient species of Equestria, and spent a weekend in Canterlot during a summit actually watching the real thing. All of them were unique, but none of them seemed quite as . . . artful as him. It was almost as if he had been designed, somehow, by a skilled craftspony.

If somepony had asked her why she’d thought this, she wouldn’t have been able to answer. There was no anatomical feature she could point to that some species in Equestria did not possess, nor were his proportions particularly pleasant to her eye. At the same time, he gave off an impression of readiness and adaptability, almost as if the world he came from had thrown everything it had at him, and he’d shrugged it off. It was just an impression, no more scientific than Pinkie-Sense, but it stuck in her mind.

Twilight turned back towards the girl. She seemed underfed; her belly lay almost perfectly flat, except for the two mounds on either side of Redheart’s head. Maybe they store extra fat there, like camels. If they’re scavengers, that might make sense . . . Lyra said he saved the carrot. They could have problems with food scarcity. The island had dense foliage, but perhaps it was largely indigestible to them.

Twilight let her gaze travel to where the doctors were working. She bit her lip as she caught sight of the injured hand again. There had been no real improvement since she left. It was unfortunate . . . but the doctor had said that both of them had really low magical energy, which could have been the cause. Zecora’s salve was thinned out, too, and they were only applying a little bit at a time.

The zebra’s remedies were usually effective very quickly. The cure for poison joke had worked in only a few minutes of bathing, and Apple Bloom’s tooth had mended instantly—but of course that was an easier cure, since the tooth was not living flesh.

Dr. Stable had asked Twilight to bring her crystal array. She hadn’t, of course; there were more pressing matters at hoof. But, she could try casting Luna’s spell. She’d tried it a couple of times, but never really gotten satisfactory results. Here, though—if the doctor was right, she should see a difference between them and everypony else.

She closed her eyes and concentrated. Twilight had always been a quick study, able to replicate spells both by scroll and observation; while she prefered the book method, Rarity had been unable to write down how her gem-finding spell worked, casting it dozens of times instead. The two of them had spent an entire day working on it; Spike hid gems around the boutique and Twilight tried to find them. To his embarrassment, by the end of the day she’d even managed to find a sapphire in his belly that he’d eaten the night before while she’d been studying. She scolded him and he apologized, but she’d filed it away for later—it might be useful, one day, to have another spell that could help her find Spike.

When she opened her eyes, she knew immediately that the spell had worked. She took an involuntary step back in shock. The girl’s aura was very faint; only the dullest silver glow outlined her body. There were some concentrated areas, as well as a delicate tracery of silver lines throughout her body, almost like the roots of a tree. On the other hoof, her injured hand glowed a bright orange from Zecora’s salve, and the orange overwhelmed the silver all the way up her arm, fading out of prominence near her shoulder.

Twilight turned towards Dale. He, too, was nothing but ghostly silver lines, a mere shadow next to Lyra’s brilliant golden radiance. There were fish she’d heard of that had transparent flesh; only their bones and organs were visible. She’d never seen one, but imagined that this was what they must look like. Living ghosts. It was creepy as Tartarus, and she shuddered as she ended the spell. How could they live like that? No wonder the medicine was barely working. A pony with such low magical energy would be dead. Apparently, these creatures could survive that. Maybe magic was very limited where they came from, too. She broke her concentration and let the spell fail, turning her focus back to what her eyes could normally see.

Dale was watching her warily, while still keeping his hand on Lyra's head. It generally was a dominant gesture, and it was odd that Lyra was submitting to it. Twilight pulled out a blank parchment and a quill. “What happened on the beach? Princess Celestia is going to want to know.”

“When we left his camp, there was a boat on the beach,” Lyra began. “Two stallions and a mare.” She pointed to the girl on the floor. Twilight wrote furiously as Lyra softly recounted the tale. Dale watched in fascination as the quill danced across the paper, briefly turning away every time the nurse spoke.

He feels protective instincts towards the mare, Twilight thought. Even though she attacked Lyra, and he attacked her. I wonder why? “You said she cast a spell? What spell was it?”

“I don't know. Certainly not one we were ever allowed to use duelling. It paralyzed me and drained almost all my magical energy.” She pressed a little tighter against Dale's side.

“Hmf. There's a lot of forbidden spells in the archives. Not where anypony can get to them, of course,” she hastily added. “I suppose it might be a variant of one of those. The ancient unicorns came up with some pretty . . . interesting spells.” Twilight tapped her chin with her hoof. “They've got almost no natural magic weave.” She looked longingly at the girl. “It's touch and go whether Zecora's salve is going to be able to save her hand. There’s virtually no framework to build on. If it works at all, it’s going to take a long time.”

Lyra looked up, spotting the tourniquet and instruments for the first time. “It's that serious? I thought that unless rot had actually set into the flesh, it could be cured.”

“Well, usually. There are spells that can destroy flesh so it cannot be mended, although of course it's a hanging offense to cast one with malice. A few plant and animal toxins damage the flesh so badly it cannot easily be saved. The doctor said it looked like a thaumic burn, though. If he's right, then Zecora's salve will work. It preserves the remaining tissue from rot, and encourages it to regrow. That takes a lot of energy, though.” She paused for thought. “When you first met with Dale, you said he ate carrion?”

“He had a lot of different things. Yesterday, we shared lunch.”

Twilight's eyes widened in alarm. “Didn't I warn you not to do that?”

“Then why did you include a cupcake for him in my lunch? I thought Pinkie Pie had done it, but the note was neatly written in Unicorn.”

“I didn't—” She clamped her mouth shut, took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, extending her leg out in front of her body. “It was a mis-communication. Water under the bridge. Unless the food contains a slow-acting poison, you and he both seem fine. That's good to know.” She narrowed her eyes. “You're fine, right?”

“I guess?” Lyra shrugged. “The carrion sandwich made me a little gassy, but it wasn't too bad. It wasn't as sticky as the bean and fruit sandwich. Maybe it was all the oil. Everything seemed oily, and the lettuce was wilted.”

“You . . . ate. . . .”

“What else could I do?” She sighed. “I gave him the cupcake, and he divided his food in half and offered it to me, so I did the same with my lunch. I figured it would be the most direct way to see what he liked; I didn't think he'd eat it if he didn't like it. And I didn't want to insult him by not eating his food.”

“What if he was thinking the same thing?” Twilight snickered. “Maybe he saw you eating all of his food and thought it would be rude if he didn't eat all of yours.”

“Pinkie would have loved his O-ree-o cookies. Each one of them had its name written on it in strong letters. Maybe I can have the Cakes make some: there were two thin chocolate-flavored crackers with a creamy filling. Each cracker was nearly as detailed as a bit coin. They came in a little blue tube made out of a glassy paper.” She licked her lips.

“We should figure out what they like to eat.” She grabbed another piece of parchment and began writing again. “Besides fish, I don't know what kinds of carrion we could get around here. I suppose I could see if any of Fluttershy's raptors might be willing to share . . . or even Owlowlicious.” She grimaced. “I wonder how Fluttershy puts up with it? It just seems . . . unnatural to want to eat another creature.

“I didn't have time to go through all the lesson plans, but I'll work on that this afternoon. We might want to have Cheerilee help him with language. Nurse Sweetheart said that Rarity has his clothes and the mare's clothes to fix. I've got to get this scroll in the mail. Unfortunately, it can’t go via DragonFire. There are going to be a bunch of professors coming from Canterlot on the morning train. They’ll be there to help you with whatever you need. They’re supposed to have the anatomy book with them; I’ll make sure it gets here as quickly as possible. The guard's cordoned off this whole wing. Oh, and Bon Bon's mad that you aren't coming for lunch after all. She almost tore a strip off my hide when I told her.”

Lyra's ears flattened. “I can't leave him, not right now. The mare's unpredictable. She tried to club him with a table-leg. If I hadn't cast a shield spell and pinned her with the mattress, I don't know what she would have done next. I assume you saw where she threw the heart monitor and table lamp?”

Twilight nodded. The heart monitor had knocked a crater in the wall nearly big enough for her to fit her head in. If it had hit somepony, it could have caused some serious harm. These creatures should not be underestimated.

Prince Blueblood rubbed his hooves together. Princess Celestia was to speak at the Council of Nobles in the afternoon, which meant that something interesting was about to happen—interesting enough that he had considered actually attending, even though it would cut into his polo game. And then Raven had hoof-delivered a note to his office, requesting his presence at an informal lunch.

He’d even shown up fashionably early.

She came into the room late, but that didn’t really bother him too much. He was used to keeping his underlings waiting; he could extend the same courtesy to Her Highness, Protector of Equestria and Bringer of the Sun.

She nodded and he raised his head. He’d practiced the bow for an hour this morning, making sure that he showed just the right amount of deference—too much and she’d think him weak; too little and she’d be insulted.

“Let me cut through the chaff,” she said as the servingpony lifted the lid off the appetizer dish. Blueblood’s stomach rolled; it was a pile of apple fritters. Celestia grabbed one in her aura and began nibbling it daintily. “This afternoon, I intend to address the Council to ask for a vote on a new ambassadorship. Recently, we have made contact with a previously-unknown species in a previously-unknown country.”

“Really?” He eyed his fritter with suspicion. How was one supposed to eat these? Celestia was known for ignoring proper manners at all but the most formal of affairs, yet he dared not risk doing the same. It was kind of a dessert, so he should use his dessert fork—yet it was being served as an appetizer. The next course would probably be a salad . . . his thought trailed off as the magnitude of what she’d said sunk in. Think—what have you heard of explorations lately? Where might there have been a new country that wasn’t known? Funding for explorations had dropped off lately, since everything worth discovering had been discovered.

“Yes; it was quite the surprise. I met one of them a little over a month ago, and we agreed to begin formal relationships between our respective countries.” I hope Twilight got him to sign one of the scrolls. “Naturally, I need to formally open an embassy.”

Blueblood eyed her warily, his mind whirling. He’d heard of no new embassies being built—certainly not in Canterlot.

“More importantly—and the reason I am here today—is that I wish to propose you as an ambassador. The Prench embassy will have a vacancy in a year, but I know you don’t want your talents to go to waste, so I thought this might be the perfect opportunity for you.”

“Me?” If he’d actually been eating his fritter, he probably would have sprayed crumbs across the table. His chest swelled with pride. “Well, of course I would—”

“I’m sorry to say that it will be difficult going at first.” She set her half-eaten fritter back on the plate, and leaned across the table. “Both of the ambassadors were injured in an . . . unfortunate magical accident, so they’re confined to the hospital for the present. We expect that they will make a full recovery, of course. No expense is being spared in their treatment. Early meetings will need to be at the hospital, in the recovery rooms.

“This has caused some other issues, as you can imagine.” She rested her chin on her hooves, a very intimate gesture considering her rank. “The budget is rather limited, and I fear most of it will be spent on medical care. Naturally, I’d want to make sure that the pony I nominated would be able to work with a tight budget for the first year or so.”

“Naturally.” Blueblood swallowed audibly. “A tight budget.”

“The embassy . . . it’s quite charming. I have arranged to rent a half-timbered house. There is a nice room on the ground floor which is quite suitable for formal meetings, and a room on the second floor where you could work and sleep. Even as we speak, workers are constructing an outside staircase so that the room will be private. After all, I wouldn't want the ambassador to be disturbed by ponies walking through his chambers. I’ve been assured that it will most likely have a roof by wintertime, but one can’t rush these things. If they finish under-budget, I might have them install an indoor bathroom.”

“That sounds . . . lovely.”

“It looks much like the country club where you play polo. Smaller, of course. Much smaller.” She offered him a half-smile.

“There’s plenty of room for books, too, which is a good thing. It turns out that they don’t speak Equestrian, so of course the ambassador will have to learn their language. That should be no difficulty for a pony who’s co-chair of the Equestrian Education committee, though, so I have no worries there.”

Blueblood looked down at the table. The hateful fritters had been replaced with an unappealing apple salad. “No reason to be concerned at all,” he muttered.

“It’s really located quite well,” she added. “The embassy. There’s a fashion shop just down the street from it, and the proprietrix is quite the up-and-coming designer. I believe you’ve met her before—Rarity?”

Blueblood looked at her in stunned silence. A slice of apple fell off his fork.

“Yes, at the Grand Galloping Gala. You know, I hear she’s single. I’m sure the two of you would get along fabulously.” She began eating her salad, paying no mind to Blueblood’s shocked expression.

“I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“I’d meant to nominate Lyra Heartstrings,” Celestia added. “She’s familiar with his language, and she doesn’t take offense to his eating habits. Of course, that’s to be expected; she trained under a Neighponese maestro. Still, I’ve found a lot of ponies seem offended by the thought of carrion-eaters, even in this modern age.

“You’ll love the town, too. Ponyville. Have you been there? It’s quite charming. An earth pony enclave. It’s full of rough-and-tumble ponies. I suppose that’s to be expected, since they’re right on the edge of the Everfree Forest. Why, I can’t imagine that you’ll want to leave when your six-year ambassadorship is up.”

“Six . . . six years?” He dropped his fork.

“Well, of course. It’s the traditional length of an embassy posting.” Celestia looked at him slyly. “The time will just fly by. There’s so many things to do there—the Running of the Leaves is coming up, you know. I bet they’d want to compete—as guests of honor, of course—and it would be so wonderful to see them running alongside all the earth ponies. I have no doubt that you’ll want to be right there with them—they encourage unicorns to participate.”

Celestia looked over at the sunlight slanting through the window. “Oh, would you look at that? it’s already been a half-hour. I need to get ready for afternoon court.”

“Wait.” Blueblood held up a hoof. “What did you say the name of the mare who was working with them was?”

“Lyra Heartstrings? Equestria’s youngest grandmaster?” Celestia stepped off her bench. “You’ll like her. She’s been spending a lot of time with them. She’s in the hospital, too, but I’ve been told she’s expected to make a full recovery from the injuries she received when they attacked her. I haven’t got a full report yet, but I’m sure that it was just a simple misunderstanding that landed her in the hospital. The creatures hardly seem aggressive at all most of the time. . . given their size, they could have easily killed and eaten her if they’d wanted to.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Blueblood stammered.

"Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get plenty of congratulations after the council meeting.” She turned and walked out of the room, ignoring his belated bow.

Author's Notes:

Click the LINK for behind-the-scenes and fun facts!

Chapter 3: Investigation

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 3: Investigation
Admiral Biscuit

Detective William Moller hung his head. He’d just finished up with an enlightening interview with Boatswain’s Mate Mark Anthony, and desperately wanted a drink. The man had been frighteningly sincere, although obviously delusional. His descriptions of what had happened on North Fox Island were the ravings of a madman, as far as Moller was concerned.

It didn’t help that he’d undoubtedly been trying to spin his tale to deflect blame for his actions on the beach. Moller had expected that. But the man could have come up with a better story.

He scribbled on his notepad to make sure he mentioned that Anthony should get a psych evaluation. It probably wouldn’t hurt to hook him up to a polygraph, too. Maybe he’d change his story a little bit when he was attached to the machine.

Moller let out a long-suffering sigh and ran his hand through his thinning hair. He hadn’t planned on making a drive all the way up to Charlevoix, but a Coast Guard woman had disappeared without a trace. He couldn’t recall the State Police ever having investigated a missing Coast Guardsman before—especially not one where the disappearance was witnessed by three law enforcement officers, who collectively had no idea how it had happened.

He flipped through his notes, making sure he hadn’t missed anything. They were pretty simple; at this stage of the investigation there wasn’t much to miss. The Coast Guard boats had been sent out because a helicopter crew had reported an electrical disturbance on North Fox Island. The two small boats and the forty-one footer had rendezvoused south of Beaver Island, and according to the crew from Port Washington, there had been four people on the other RBS at the time—so that wasn’t in dispute.

Anthony’s boat had been the first to land. That the bubble was there was also indisputable: the crew of the helicopter had seen it, and so had the crews of all three boats. And the final puzzling fact was that Gunner’s Mate Katherine Loye Dybek had gotten off the boat and then had vanished with the bubble, leaving behind only a broken strobe-light.

The door opened as a police officer escorted the next man in. Moller immediately noticed the dark shadow on his cheeks and the bags under his eyes. He was slightly hunched over, as if the whole weight of the world was resting on his shoulders. He was holding his cap tightly in his hands, worrying the brim.

The detective stood and unconsciously brushed the wrinkles out of his suit coat. Moller extended his hand, pleased that his handshake was returned with a firm, warm grasp. He always liked getting that first impression—it made suspects believe he was ready to help them, and gave him a chance to feel body language in an unguarded social moment.

He gestured for the sailor to sit, and then took his own seat. “Poncio Cortez?” Moller pronounced the name slowly and carefully. A slight smile told him he’d gotten it right. “Please—is there anything I can get you? I know you’ve been in uniform for almost twenty-four hours now, and we’re trying to get this over with as quickly as we can so that you can get out of here, but we’ve been really busy.”

“No.” He twisted his hands together. “Maybe a cup of coffee?”

Moller nodded. “Sure thing. Do you take cream or sugar?”

“Black is fine.”

He stepped out of the office, leaving Cortez alone. Later, he could look back at the surveillance footage and watch his behavior—sometimes a little isolation helped a recalcitrant subject come out of his shell.

As he poured the coffee, he ran over what he’d learned so far. Cortez was deliberately his last interview; it was common gossip around the base that he had a soft spot for Ms. Dybek. While nobody knew if they’d ever dated, it was well known that he was always looking out for her welfare—she was not alone in this; he behaved the same way around all the women. Some of them were known to have used that to their advantage. He’d have to see about getting a female officer to conduct another interview in a couple of days. Maybe he would change his story for a woman.

Moller pushed the door to the interview room back open, holding the styrofoam cup carefully so it wouldn’t spill. He handed it to Cortez, who blew on it before taking a tentative sip.

“So.” Forsaking his chair, Moller leaned back against the desk. “Just what happened out there?”

The first part of Cortez’s story was nothing new. He’d already heard it, and it hardly varied in the telling. The only difference he noticed in this iteration was that Cortez was more outspoken about Anthony’s actions, implying that the man was unqualified to lead. Privately, Moller agreed. He’d had his suspicions reading through the file, and his interview with Anthony had just cemented that impression.

“You saw a trail into the woods, and motioned for Anthony—your CO—to come over?”

“He said I should check it out myself. I shoulda, maybe if I had, Kate’d still be here.”

“Why?”

“We seen him come outta the woods, and Anthony went up to him. I stayed back a little bit, and off to the side, just like we’d been trained. You know, don’t get in each other’s way. But the path was pretty tight, so I had to get closer than I’d’ve liked. He had a distant lost look . . . I thought he was just a boater who’d gotten stranded. You know, that happens sometimes. Ain’t too many people fool enough to get that far out on the lake without a proper boat, but it happens. Maybe he’d come ashore and not anchored his boat right, and it’d drifted off. He looked like the kind of guy that’s normally neat, but his shirt and pants were wrinkled, and he had stubble on his cheeks—and a well-trimmed beard, so he hadn’t been there too long.

“He didn’t answer Anthony right away, and I thought I’d seen how blank his look was, and I figured he was in a bad way . . . but he took this bag he was holding, and he tossed it at Anthony and knocked him off-balance, and then he turned and straight-armed me. Ain’t never had an old guy get the drop on me like that. Never.

“When he hit me . . . I got a real good look at his face, I’ll never forget it. Not ever.”

“Did he say anything?”

Cortez shook his head. “He didn’t have to. It was his eyes, man. They was . . . I’ve seen angry, scared, drunk, lost, confused, stoned . . . but he was apologetic, like. He was just doin’ what he had to do, even though he knew it was wrong. You’ll have to shoot him, it’s the only way. Don’t give him a chance. He’s a demon.” He crossed himself.

“What about the green creature? It was a little horse, or a big dog—”

“It was a caballo marino chilote,” he said flatly. “Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia: El Señor es contigo. . . .”

Moller waited until Cortez had finished his prayer. He was going to have to question him further on the caballo-whatever, but Cortez seemed to be the only one who knew what it was. He’d seen that phrase in one of the other reports he’d been given, although it had been spelled badly. He’d assumed it was either a bit of nonsense or some Coast Guard slang for something. It hadn’t seemed important at the time, but now that he’d seen Cortez’s reaction to mentioning the name, maybe there was something there.

“He knocked you over?”

“And took off down the beach, screaming. By the time I got to my feet it was too late. I couldn’t take a shot.” He slumped forward in the chair. “I seen him headed straight for Kate. She didn’t see him . . . she was looking the wrong way. She had her taser out, but it didn’t do her no good.

“He grabbed her and knocked her over, and then—before I could get close enough to drag him off—there was a huge flash. I saw a ball of lightning go across, and it engulfed her and the brujo. When it cleared, they was both gone.”

Moller folded his arms and leaned forward. “I don’t get it. What’s in it for you?”

“Huh?”

“What’s in it for you? A good recommendation from Anthony if you keep me in the dark? Maybe a promotion in the future?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Cortez slid back in his chair as Moller moved closer.

“Your story doesn’t make any sense! People don’t just up and vanish on a beach, not in front of three witnesses. What, was this guy Criss Angel or David Copperfield or something? Did he say ‘abracadabra’ and wave a magic wand?

“Look, I get that you want to protect your commander. But I think we both know he screwed up, and now you’re all trying to get out of it by telling some sort of crazy story. Do you really expect me to believe that it’s some freaky mystery from the Twilight Zone? Can I go back to my captain and say: ‘Aliens did it. Case closed.’ Is that what you want?”

“El burro sabe mas que tu.” Cortez stood up, eyes flashing. “I don’t care about Anthony. Anthony only cares about Anthony. I care about Kate.”

Bingo. “We all care about Kate.” Moller put his hand on Cortez’s shoulder. “But we can’t find her without your help. What happened to her? Where did she go?”

“The brujo took her. The old man.”

“How?”

“I do not know.” Cortez sat back down, hunching over in his chair. “I thought about it, ever since it happened. If I’d been quicker—if I had not let the old man get the drop on me—I could have saved Kate. It was stupid to be there. We shouldn’t have gone ashore.” He looked at Moller, eyes glistening. “I told Anthony . . . but he wouldn’t listen. He don’t never listen.”

“Tell me, again. Is there some detail you’re forgetting? What happened when the old man came out of the woods?”

“Anthony spoke to him, but he didn’t answer. I took my eyes off him—just for a moment. I looked down . . . I just had a feeling, you know, that there was something there. And I seen the monster. It was a little taller than my waist, and it was looking right at me. It had bright golden eyes . . . they captured me. I—I almost screamed, but then the old man hit me right in the chest.

“That moment . . . I’ll never forget that. Just for a second, I seen into him, and then he was gone. I was back up on my feet almost as fast as I hit the dirt, but it was too late. I was ready to shoot him, but I couldn’t get clear of Kate—what if I’d missed? And then it was too late. She fired her taser, she hit the monster, but it didn’t do no good. I mean, it fell down, but it didn’t change what happened next.”

“That was when she disappeared,” Moller said, thinking that he’d want a good look at the pictures of the crime scene. While sand wasn’t usually much use forensically, it had stopped raining on the island just before this happened. If there had been a creature of some sort—no matter how unlikely it seemed—there would be footprints and probably markings from where it fell. Normally, he liked to go through these things beforehand, to catch out any inconsistencies, but none of the reports from the forensic team were back yet. He was stuck doing an interrogation without the crime scene reports.

“Yeah. Kate and the brujo and the caballo. All at once. Poof” He put his head in his hands. “I thought—Anthony panicked. I got him calmed down just a little, and got him back to the boat. When he was on the radio, I walked up the beach. The sand was wet, and it was holding footprints real good, you know? It was an all-day soaking rain; couldn’t ask for anything better. But where the bubble had been, the sand was dry. It was as perfect a circle as you could want, like it had been under a giant beach umbrella.

“It was the footprints that got me. I stayed back, ‘cause I knew it was going to be a crime scene. I didn’t want to step into the—into where it happened. But even down near the water, I could see that there were three sets of footprints that went into the zone, y’know? And there weren't none that came out."

When Twinkleshine boarded the train in Canterlot, she headed towards the first car. It was well known that the soot from the locomotive didn’t fall that quickly, and to a pony with a white coat, such a consideration was important. The ride was smoother, too—when she’d asked the conductor why, he’d told her it was because of the slack action. She didn’t know what that was, but took his word for it.

Like any experienced traveller, Twinkleshine was wary of her travelling companions. She never knew who they were going to be, and a poor choice could make an otherwise pleasant trip a nearly-endless misery. Single travelers were the best, families with foals were all right, and sports fans were near the bottom of the barrel. The time she’d accidentally stumbled into a coachful of Cloudsdale fans on their way to a hoofball game had been her worst trip thus far. Ever since, she’d gotten in the habit of looking through the window in the vestibule before proceeding, lest she inadvertently place herself into a situation where polite extrication was impossible.

Her first glance of the lead car told the story. A tight cluster of stony-faced ponies dressed in fancy clothes meant one of two possibilities: either they were an extended family on their way to a funeral, or—even worse—a wedding. It was nothing she wanted anything to do with; turning tail, she passed back into the coach proper, stretching herself out across the frontmost seat on the right side of the coach. She knew from her travels that this side more often faced over the lowlands, which gave her a better view than a rock wall.

She stuck her muzzle out the window, taking in the smells of the steam locomotive and the baking creosote of the ties. The smell always excited her; it was the scent of travel, of strange and exotic places. True, she was only going to Ponyville—a trip she’d made countless times before—but that wasn’t the point. Here she was on the most modern form of transportation imaginable . . . all she had to do was sit back on the comfortable couch, and the train would take her—with no effort on her part—to her destination. She smiled, already forgetting the sombre group in the lead car.

In the lead car, the cluster of ponies were arguing. This was not a new development; they had been arguing for days. The object of their ire was currently hidden in Dean Bright Star’s saddlebags, but out of sight did not mean out of mind for them. That their argument was circular made no difference; each pony assumed that if she repeated variations on the same phrase over and over again, she could make her point. As heads of their respective departments, they all should have known better.

“A true scientist need never leave her laboratory,” Ivory Star opined. “Research should not be done out in the field; research should be conducted in sterile conditions.”

“I agree.” Perry Pierce looked at Ivory. “This trip is a waste of our talents. We should be back at the university instead of traipsing around on this . . . mission.” He almost spat the words out.

Bright Star shifted on her hooves. She didn’t want to leave the university behind, either, but she still remembered the excitement of her past self as a young mare travelling to the furthest ends of Equestria, bags full of new medicines and head full of hopes for changing lives. That fire had faded to the barest ember, but it was still there. “Princess Celestia told us to,” she reminded them. “Perhaps it will not be all bad. How often does one get the chance to observe a new species?”

“All the time,” Featherbrain—the sole pegasus—muttered. Her specialty was taxonomic classification of non-hooved creatures. As such, she was the most experienced pony in the group when it came to non-pony anatomy, and had written a well-received thesis about the common historical ancestor of griffons and manticores.

“You do,” Perry griped as the train lurched forward. “You look forward to flying out of Canterlot and slogging along muddy paths. But your students can never find you! You don’t even keep regular office hours.” He looked out the window at the station sliding by. “What if one of my students wants help with her thesis? What then? I won’t be there! I’ll be in some second-rate inn in Ponyville!”

“There is much to be learned from books, it is true.” Lecol deCheval leaned forward. Every eye turned to watch her—like most Prench mares she was slender and leggy. “Yet, it was a dearth of a proper archives in Mareseilles which led me to Canterlot. Even there, I could only learn so much.” She glanced over at Bright Star’s bulging saddlebag. “That book—that very book which we are on our way to deliver—contains more about the anatomy of The Creature than any book in Canterlot contains about a pony. I have seen surgeons graduate with less knowledge of anatomy than what that book presents. And—we have been told that the creature freely gave it to Lyra. Perhaps such books are commonplace in his world. He might have vaster knowledge of his own anatomy than we do of ours. Yet, we are bickering endlessly about going to see him!” She slammed her hoof down on the bench to illustrate her point. “We are ponies of knowledge! If we cannot summon the mountain to ourselves, than we must go to the mountain!”

Bright Star watched in amusement as Lecol warmed up. What were—in all honesty—political considerations had kept her from saying the very same thing. She could not afford to insult her tenured professors . . . but she had no compunctions about watching them insult each other. They all respected their colleague from Prance; she had systematically read through every treatise on pony surgical practice and single-hoofedly revised the Canterlot hospital’s routine—shaving an average of one day off each pony’s stay. Best of all, she was a guest professor, and had nothing to lose by stating her mind.

“You are cowards. The lot of you.” She waved a hoof around. “You’re scared of getting your hooves dirty. You’re a bunch of . . . of badly groomed sheep! And you!” Her focus narrowed on Perry. “You’re not just scared because you have to step outside of the comfortable university halls—you look like a pony on the way to the gallows. Have you got a jilted lover back in Ponyville?”

The blush on Perry’s face said it all. Lecol’s braying laugh filled the train coach. “I never would have thought you had it in you—you of all ponies. I’m surprised you could even get your muzzle out of a book long enough to—”

“That’s enough.” Bright Star glared at her department heads. “Princess Celestia asked us personally to go to Ponyville and assist Twilight Sparkle in whatever way possible. I don’t see how dredging up personal history will help with that task.” She glared at Perry in particular, wondering if it was Twilight who had been a past love. The unicorn was well-known throughout the halls of academia. It was hard to imagine that she had any interests beyond the pursuit of knowledge—even her professors had agreed that she spent altogether too much time in the library. Still—for a professor to even consider a relationship with a student. . . .

Bright Star’s eyes narrowed, and she glared at Perry. “It wasn’t Twilight Sparkle, was it?”

He shook his head, his face still glowing a furious scarlet.

“How about Dr. Stable?” Ivory offered. “Your brother—”

“It was a mare,” he sputtered. “A p—that’s all I’m saying. It’s not anypony who’s going to be at the hospital.” The I hope was unsaid, but obvious to everypony in the coach.

“—not that there’s anything wrong with liking other stallions that way,” Ivory finished.

“Let’s just skip all the tangents and get to what we’ve come to accomplish.” Bright Star pulled a well-read telegram out of her bag and floated it in front of her face. “I’m given to understand that there are two of the creatures, one mare and one stallion. Both are injured, the female more than the male. Lyra Heartstrings has been meeting with the stallion for several days now. All three are apparently confined to the hospital for the present.” She looked over the knot of professors. “We are to render every assistance possible, and I just don’t see how arguing about fieldwork or Perry’s past love life will accomplish that goal. What we should be doing is spending the time we have on this train ride going through the book. Maybe we can get some idea how we might be able to assist.”

“Nopony’s let me analyze it yet,” Featherbrain grumped. “How am I supposed to come up with a coherent study plan if I haven’t fully analyzed the materials?”

“Just wing it.” Apple Polish frowned at her. “You know, like I’ve heard you do in every one of your lectures.”

“It’s stream-of-consciousness lecturing. Free-form! Not like the rigid structure you prefer—an outmoded style of education!”

“It’s chaos! My lesson plans are set years in advance! Nopony has any idea what your students have learned!”

Featherbrain bristled. “Haven’t you read Dr. Blizzard’s treatise on education? You can’t just expect everypony to fit in a neat little box! Education should be about your students, not sating your own personal neuroses!”

“You need a plan, and you need to follow it. How else can you be sure your students are learning at maximum efficiency?”

As the train entered a tunnel, Dean Bright Star laid her head heavily on her hooves. She could only imagine what kind of fiasco this would turn into when they arrived in Ponyville. Ivory—as befitted a unicorn from a noble line—would probably begin complaining about their accommodations as soon as she saw the hotel. Eventually, Lecol would get annoyed and yell at her, and the two of them would just stare silently at each other. Meanwhile—if his increasingly paranoid behavior was any guide—Perry would gallop up to his room and refuse to come out. And as soon as she saw the opportunity, Featherbrain would be out the window and off to the hospital—without the book, of course—hoping to get her first look at the new creatures.

Her best hope—at least, in terms of having a career after tomorrow—was that Twilight would meet them at the train station, take the book, and send them away before anypony could open her mouth.

Dale watched as the lavender pony floated a half-dozen sheets in front of her. She had the look of a scholar—probably with OCD. As she and Lyra spoke, she often wrote down what was said, as if she didn’t trust herself to remember correctly. If he had to guess, she had a different page for each subject. It seemed remarkably inefficient. He’d have just used one page, and sorted it all out later.

The aura that twined around the papers and the quill was a light magenta—a third color. Clearly, his earlier theory that there was a strong color and a nimble color was wrong. Perhaps different materials called for different colors of field.

He looked back down at Lyra. She was watching the purple one, but still not looking at the ongoing medical treatment. He’d have to get her to lift something the other one had handled. He could just snatch one of the papers that was lying on the ground—but he doubted she’d appreciate that.

Fortunately, his dilemma was solved when the purple one slid a paper over to him. She thankfully pushed it with her hoof. The quill followed, and she set it carefully on the paper with the nib over the floor so it wouldn’t stain.

Dale picked up the quill, twisting it idly between his fingers. Both the ponies seemed fascinated by this behavior, watching intently as he twisted it between his fingertip and thumb. I suppose they’ve never seen any kind of hands before, he thought. Probably can’t do that with hooves.

The feather looked fairly normal. The calamus was thick enough for him to grip, although it would have been easier to write with if it had been fatter. The barbs were mostly intact, although there were a few gapped spots. There was a slightly iridescent sheen to it, although the overall color was quite uniform.

He wished he’d paid more attention to birds back on earth. There weren’t more than a couple dozen he could identify—and those were the distinct ones. As it was, whatever had formerly owned this feather had been pretty big, and a fairly bright red. It would have been unusual for a bird back on earth . . . but as surreal as the colors these ponies bore, it would probably fit right in here. Maybe it was some kind of bird they kept for food or eggs or something.

He held it up in front of him, parallel to the floor. He looked down at Lyra. “Lyra make—make hmmmmmm.” He wiggled the feather, as if it were floating.

Lyra looked at him curiously. He set it on the floor and lifted it several times, making the same humming noise as before—he still couldn’t think of a better way to illustrate their weird tractor beams. Finally, she looked at it and a golden glow surrounded the feather, which gently lifted off the ground. When it had reached his eye height, it wavered around—mimicking his earlier movement—and then she set it back down.

So, the color isn’t associated with what’s lifted. Dale picked the quill back up. It must be horn type, then. Or else they just choose the color they want. There was something about lightsaber color in Star Wars . . . some kind of arbitrary rule that had to do with what kind of crystals went into the handles, or maybe it was whether it was being wielded by a Jedi or a Sith. Lasers had different colors of light, too. There was a ‘ruby’ laser—but was that named for the color of light, or did it have an actual ruby that the beam went through?

It was a mystery that he might never solve. Still—if he could get them to give him an unattached horn to take back to earth, maybe some genius could figure it out. Better still, he could maybe convince them to give him schematics.

Dale turned his attention back to the page. It was obvious on first glance that the lavender pony hadn’t been the one who’d made the cartoon. This page was also filled with drawings, but they were much cruder.

At the top, there was a drawing of a horned pony on the right side of the page, with her mouth open. On the left, several drawings and an arrow to her mouth. Checkboxes on the extreme left indicated that this was probably a test or questionnaire of some sort.

Clearly, the part at the top was meant to be instructions, since they were already filled out. The first item was a flower; the left box was checked. Next was a piece of bread. Again, the left box was checked. Below that was a house, and the right box was checked. Finally, a crystal of some sort. The left box was checked.

Maybe it’s a menu! Dale’s stomach grumbled. Or perhaps simpler—just a dietary requirement guide. I’ve seen Lyra eat flowers and bread. I’d imagine she can’t eat a house . . . and I don’t know what the crystal is supposed to be. Rock candy? Still, it’s not a totally lost cause. I can check off what I know I can eat, and maybe Lyra and I can work together on the things I can’t recognise.

Three of the first four items were the same as in the instructions—the purple pony had understandably left out the house. He ticked off the ‘yes’ box for the bread, but hovered over the flower.

He’d eaten some on Lyra’s sandwich, and it hadn’t been too bad. On a few occasions in his life he’d been at a fancy restaurant or party where edible flowers garnished the food, but as far as he knew they generally weren’t nutritious—his body couldn’t process them easily. He knew clover and yarrow were edible blooms, and dandelions could be made into wine. Daisies, lilies, and roses were also edible, and he was pretty sure apple blossoms were too. Other than that, he’d had more interest in fruits and mint when he was in the woods, rather than flowers—and he’d always been careful to only eat plants that were so distinct that they couldn’t be misidentified. Christopher McCandless—and countless others before him—had learned the hard way about eating the wrong plant. He vaguely remembered when he was a kid that his grandfather had told him that most edible plants could be identified—if one was patient—by watching and seeing if any animals would eat them. On the other hand, he was pretty sure birds loved yew berries, and he was also fairly certain that they were toxic to humans.

Still, if Lyra was willing to share her lunch with me, they must have researched what they think I can eat, he thought. It’s not like they wouldn’t have thought of it. So maybe this is a list of things I’d prefer, rather than what I can eat. Oh, it would be so much easier if I could just see the actual food item, rather than have to rely on a drawing.

Finally reaching a conclusion, he put a checkmark between the two boxes for ‘flower.’ “Dale yes-no,” he told Lyra, pointing. She nodded, and spoke to the other pony, who seemed to be frustrated that he wasn’t neat enough to check inside boxes—or maybe that she hadn’t considered the possibility of uncertainty.

As he scanned down the list, he began to wonder if he was jumping to conclusions. There was a whole body of pictograms which had developed in America—things ranging from the silhouette of a man being maimed in various ways which adorned the machine shop, to the easily-recognizable symbols on road signs. No doubt these ponies had a similar body of icons, but he was unfamiliar with them. The haybale was obvious enough, but a simple ovoid shape was a complete unknown.

He was sure there was an order to it, even if he couldn’t figure it out: the first part seemed to be entirely devoted to plants, and the last part to animals—although they largely weren’t game animals on Earth. He could understand why they’d left cow off the list, but rat and snake seemed odd inclusions. The final picture was of a pony; Dale wondered what they’d do if he checked the yes box.

He filled out half the sheet before enlisting Lyra’s help. He began with the ovoid—it had been the first item after plants, suggesting that it was a common food for them. “Dale not know.” He pointed.

Lyra cocked her head, thinking. Finally, she made a clucking noise, an odd pop, mimed smashing something with her hoof, made a hissing sizzle, and pantomimed sliding a plate over to him. “Dale eat then. Dale eat here then.” She pointed towards the girl’s vacant bed.

I ate it here before? He considered her motions, then laughed. The stomp had thrown him off; obviously it was an egg. He hoped that wasn’t how she broke eggs before she cooked them. He nodded and checked the ‘yes’ box.

That still left him with half the list; and try as they might, he could only identify a few more items—even with Lyra’s charades. It wasn’t the purple one’s fault; she’d obviously put a lot of effort into drawing distinct types of plant, even going so far as to identify their common usage. Unfortunately, a drawing of soup was a drawing of soup, and aside from recognizing corn and wheat, he had no idea what all the other plants were. To be fair to her, if he’d been shopping at Meijers and they’d replaced the labels of all the foods with an image of the plant source, he’d have done no better.

In fact, now that he thought about it, it was a little odd. Lyra had easily recognized each drawing. He considered himself more in-tune with the source of food than most of his peers—his grandparents had been farmers, after all—yet he wasn’t very skilled at identifying common cereals. He didn’t have to. He just read the package, and he assumed that whoever had packaged it knew what they were doing. So, either they normally ate it raw—which made a lot of sense—or they were remarkably well-informed for a modern society.

But all of Lyra’s food was prepared. Except for the carrot she gave me the first time and the celery sticks. And the apple, I suppose. Those aren’t things that we generally prepare, though. Nobody but a hippie would eat wheat straight from the stalk. His breakfast had consisted of mostly familiar foods, and Lyra had gotten the same thing. Except for the fish. It was so confusing; every little thing was just different enough to knock him off-balance.

He finally decided he was done. He’d filled it out to the best of his ability. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be judged by the number of boxes he’d left blank—but the consequences of mis-identifying a toxic plant or animal were far worse than getting a failing grade.

The purple one glanced down at the paper and began taking notes. She’s some kind of official, he decided. Maybe the stars on her side were badges of rank. Probably she’d started with the star in the center, and more had been added as her rank increased. He’d have to keep an eye out for others. The guards he’d seen on the beach all had a single star at the center of their chests, so maybe that was what the footsoldiers got. Their armor had covered their hips, so he’d been unable to see if they had any kind of marking there, but he guessed they would—so far he hadn’t seen any pony who didn’t.

I never did get her name, he thought. I haven’t gotten any of their names. Funny, usually on Earth it’d be the first thing—at least, in America. Once she’d stopped writing, he cleared his throat to get her attention. “Dale.” He tapped his chest. “Lyra.” He pointed.

She raised an eyebrow and looked at him curiously. He could imagine gears turning inside her head. She suddenly brightened and held out her hoof towards him. “Twilight Sparkle.”

Dale looked down at the proffered limb. Instinctively, he reached out himself, wrapping his hand firmly around the hoof, his fingers grasping just above the keratin. He pumped her leg up and down while carefully pronouncing her name.

His attention was drawn to the glimmer of a horseshoe firmly attached to the bottom of her hoof. Just like a normal horse, he thought. He leaned forward to get a closer look. Were they nailed on?

She tugged her hoof back before he could finish his inspection. She had a slightly disgruntled look on her face, while Lyra had a huge smile. The two ponies exchanged a couple sentences while Dale blushed, suddenly realizing that he might have just committed a social faux pas. But how was he supposed to have known? Emily Post didn’t cover meeting a new species, as far as he knew.

Apparently satisfied that he meant no harm, Twilight looked back at him. He felt Lyra shifting her weight, and watched as she stood. She rolled slightly against him as she got her left foreleg out in front of her body with her knee bent, lifted her chest up to get her right leg out straight, and then pushed up with her hind legs. He’d never paid much attention to how real horses did it, but if it was that much effort, no wonder they hardly ever wanted to lie down.

“Dale.” She looked at him expectantly, then back to Twilight. “Dale see.” She extended her right foreleg, which Twilight matched. She bumped her hoof against Twilight’s, leaving it there a moment before the two lowered their hooves back to the ground. “Yes.” She repeated the action, but this time they shook their hooves up and down—just like he’d been doing. “Yes.” She mimicked—as best she could without hands of her own—where he’d placed his hand. “No.”

Turning back to face him, she held up her hoof, nodding at it. He made a fist and bumped it against the bottom, wincing as his knuckles struck something hard. Too late he remembered that Twilight wore metal shoes.

Lyra smiled, then began moving her leg slowly up and down, a move which he followed. Three pumps later, she pulled back, leaving him momentarily pushing against air. Three times. Got it.

Apparently satisfied with her etiquette lesson, she spoke to Twilight again, before stepping out into the hallway. He listened as her hoof-falls faded down the corridor.

Dale looked back over at the doctors. They were still working at the same slow pace. He wondered how they had the patience—whatever they were doing wasn’t showing any kind of satisfying result, as far as he could tell. There wasn’t a clock, so he couldn’t tell how long they’d been at it, but he was starting to feel hungry, so it much have been nearly lunchtime.

Suddenly, he realized that his interpreter had left. A sudden wave of terror washed over him—he felt like a kid abandoned in a grocery store. He quickly got to his feet—causing Twilight to take a few steps back—and walked into the hallway to see where she’d gone. He heard footsteps behind him, and guessed without turning around that Twilight had followed him.

There was no sign of Lyra, but the hallway was hardly empty. Just outside the door, a pale yellow pony was working on repairing the wall. She had a tie around the end of her white tail, and wore an orange vest. On her shoulder was a small white patch with writing on it.

He watched with fascination as she worked—she was standing on her hind legs, bracing herself with her left forehoof. Her right hoof held a stiff brush, which she was using to get bits of loose plaster off the lath. An open wooden box was filled with tools that looked quite familiar to Dale; she even had some kind of open pouch across her hips that held more tools in easy mouth-reach. One of the carts had been commandeered as a makeshift workbench; several freshly-sawn strips of lath were lying on top, their lengths written out neatly in pencil on each.

Further down the hall, two of the armored ponies stood sentry, facing away from him. He didn’t know whether he should be reassured or worried. They obviously weren’t trying to protect the other ponies from him—but maybe there was something they felt they needed to protect him from.

He looked back to the construction pony. He’d have to trust that Lyra was going to come back; while he waited he might as well watch the construction pony work. Here was something he could actually understand.

She finally finished knocking off loose plaster and stuck the brush back in her hip-pouch. It was a familiar action to her; she did it without even looking. She tapped the wall a couple of times with her now-free hoof, ears tilted alertly.

Then she turned and saw him for the first time. Her green eyes locked onto his for just a moment before she gasped and dropped to all fours, glancing frantically down the hallway as she backed away from him. She looked ready to bolt, but hesitated—and Dale knew why. She didn’t want to abandon her toolbox, but he was too close for her to grab it safely.

He kept his place in the hallway, squatting down so he’d appear smaller. He knew that Twilight was surely behind him, and a word from her might set this right—but it was something he wanted to try on his own. If she had good instincts, she’d let him. She probably knew it was more effective for someone to face something they were afraid of, rather than be told it was nothing to be frightened by.

She glanced down the hallway, past him. He imagined she was thinking about the guards there. They probably still were facing away, but he guessed that one or both of them had an ear turned in his direction. Surely they’d heard her. If he looked away, he figured she’d take the opportunity to snatch her toolbox and run.

He held his left hand out, fingers loosely balled into a fist. She looked at it thoughtfully and then back at his face. She was clearly as conflicted as Lyra had been when they’d first met on the beach.

Finally, she took a tentative step forward, then another. Dale remained motionless, letting her approach him. She flared her nostrils, clearly trying to identify his scent. He was surprised she hadn’t smelled him when he was watching her work—he wondered if the hospital smells had masked his own odor.

When she was just at the reach of his arm, she stuck her nose down against his fist, smelling him carefully. Finally, she extended her own leg, gently bumping Dale’s hand before pulling away again, He could see she was still wary; her ears were locked on him and her tail was flicking sharply.

She looked down at her hoof for a moment, and then came to a decision. She firmly planted it against Dale’s fist and shook three times before dropping back to all fours. Unlike the feel of Lyra’s hoof, hers was a little softer, and actually felt warm at the heel, although there was a tingling aspect as well. He couldn’t quite place the feel—it wasn’t unpleasant, just odd. His hand had been slightly higher when he shook Lyra’s hoof; maybe that made a difference.

Eat your heart out, Dale Carnegie. There was something honest about her—a vibe he hadn’t gotten from Lyra or Twilight. It was the kind of no-nonsense attitude that skilled tradesmen often had.

Without a word, she went back to fixing the wall. She grabbed a lath in her teeth, pinned it in place with her left hoof, and grabbed her hammer in her other hoof . . . somehow. She shifted her left foreleg, bracing with the length of it. He didn’t see how she transferred the nail from her mouth to the board, nor how she started it, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He’d long been curious how they managed to make anything without hands, but apparently they’d figured it out. Maybe their shoes had some kind of gripping apparatus on them, or even powerful electromagnets.

He thought about trying to help, but that was the kind of thing that simply wasn’t done on Earth. If he’d taken his Honda to a shop and offered to help the mechanic fix it, he’d have been politely refused—if he was lucky. If not, he’d have been dodging a thrown wrench.

At the same time, he didn’t like the idea of just standing around while there was work to be done. When she finished with the first lath, he picked up the second and held it in place for her.

She eyed him warily, clearly concerned about him looming over her—or else it was the unevenness of the board he was holding. She tapped it to where she wanted it, seated another nail, and pounded it in before moving towards his end.

He’d expected her to make a motion for him to move or something, but she just worked around him. Dale had to move his head back to avoid the enthusiastic backswing of her hammer, but she seemed to quickly become accustomed to his help, letting him select the right board and hold it in place for her. With the two of them working together, the repair proceeded quickly.

Much to his surprise, once the laths were all in place, she handed him the brush. Without instruction, he began to run it along the boards, carefully making sure he got all the sawdust and fuzzies off the wood. He also worked around the edge of the hole, roughing up the plaster so that the new material would stick.

When he’d finished, she ran a hoof over it, feeling the boards. She smiled at him before taking the brush back and putting it in her bag.

She’d mixed up a bucket of plaster while he was working and proceeded to spread it with a mouth-held trowel. Dale stood back out of the way and just watched; she wouldn’t want his help for this part of the job. Besides, he’d tried drywalling before, and even with modern joint compound he could never make a seamless joint; there was no way he could spread plaster evenly.

As she finished the patch, he noticed that the bucket was nearly empty. Apparently, she was experienced enough to know just how much plaster she needed. The finish was a little rough, but he knew she’d be applying another coat or two over the top—if plaster was put on too thick, it’d crack when it dried.

She rinsed off her trowel in a bucket of water and stuck it back in her toolbox. She reached for a small broom, but Dale was ahead of her. He swept the loose rubble up, pushing it into a small dustpan she held between her hooves.

She took a step back and examined her repair. Then she broke into a broad smile and held her hoof out again. Dale bumped it and she gave a satisfied nod, then turned and pushed the cart down the hallway.

He looked at the wall thoughtfully. It wasn’t much—a small spot of fresh plaster, maybe a foot and a half in diameter. But it gave him an incredible sense of accomplishment, because he’d helped. He supposed he could carve his name into the still-wet plaster—not that he would; it would be an insult to the carpenter pony. Once the final coats were put over it, and it was painted, no one would be able to see it . . . but he’d know it was there. While he knew intellectually he was making an impact on their world, this was a real thing. This was something he’d helped build with his own hands. And on top of that, he’d made a friend. True, they’d probably never meet again, but he was sure she’d never forget him.

Dale looked around the hallway and found it deserted, save for the guards. Twilight had apparently been satisfied to leave him to his own devices, although he could imagine that she’d been keeping an eye on him from the room.

As he stepped back inside, he noticed that the doctors had finally finished. The girl was back in her bed, neatly tucked under the covers. Two of the doctors had left; only the zebra remained behind, sitting on a chair next to the bed. She had her eyes closed and was softly chanting. Interestingly, she was keeping tempo with the heart monitor; whether that was deliberate or a coincidence was another mystery he didn’t expect to have an answer for any time soon.

Lyra was back, too. She was standing patiently in the room, while Twilight paced back and forth. Dale smiled; he could imagine what they were thinking. He’d already figured out that Lyra was very patient; clearly Twilight was not. She seemed the type to get frustrated when things didn’t happen as quickly as she wanted them to, and he was thankful she wasn’t the one who’d been meeting with him on the beach. If she had been—she probably would have just dumped a pile of books in front of him and then gotten more and more impatient as he didn’t understand them.

“Dale eat,” Lyra said. She nodded towards the hallway.

Guess since I’m on my feet I don’t get room service anymore. He turned back around and began walking down the hallway with the uncomfortable feeling that he was being led towards the gallows. He had a vision of causing a mass panic in the hospital cafeteria, but hopefully with Lyra and Twilight with him he’d be fine.

As he passed a familiar door, he paused. Might as well use the bathroom before I go to lunch. He pushed open the door gingerly, hoping fervently that no-one else was in there.

Author's Notes:

As always, author's notes are here.

The first • • • break is supposed to be a solid line, but for some reason it won't show up. I tried everything I could think of . . . maybe horizontal lines are NSFW or something.

Chapter 4: Lunch Break

Onto the Pony Planet
Lunch Break
Admiral Biscuit

Twilight turned towards the door as it swung shut. “We should probably go in there with him, to help him out. I bet he’ll need to be shown how—”

“I already did,” Lyra interrupted. “He seemed uncomfortable with . . . well, with everything. He didn’t seem to have any idea what any of the fixtures were for, so I had to show him. And then, he wouldn’t go until I looked away.”

“Oh.” Twilight looked at the door. “Do you think it’s an instinct? Or is it a social behavior?” She floated up a scroll and began scribbling. “Predators often try to avoid leaving a scent trail; that’s one possibility. I can’t see a scavenger wanting to spend the effort, though. I suppose it could be a social pressure, but why would it have developed? Maybe we should observe him. There’s sight spells; I could cast one on the wall.” Her horn began to glow.

“He’d be pretty mad if he figured it out,” Lyra replied. “Maybe we can ask the mare when she wakes up. It could be a dominance thing.” She giggled. “He used the wrong fixture, too.”

Twilight frowned. “He was probably just mimicking you. I doubt—from what you’ve said his home looked like—he has ever seen indoor plumbing before.”

“It could be his anatomy. I’d have to ask Nurse Redheart to be sure—she examined him. But if the book’s any guide. . . .” Lyra looked at Twilight carefully. “I’m not sure about the plumbing, either. The drawings in his foal’s books implied well-constructed homes, with furniture and pastures and gardens and cobblestone paths. Some of the drawings in his picture dictionary—things like knives and forks—could only be made by skilled tinkers or smiths. Obviously, they make clothing; Dale’s even improvised his peplos.

“Honestly, I don’t think he lived on the island. I’d been wondering how the first explorers missed spotting him, It started raining yesterday, and he took me back to his . . . camp, I guess. There wasn’t anything there that seemed to be a permanent structure, and he had some kind of metal boat. I think he was traveling to the island for some purpose.”

Twilight snapped her head up as a muffled shout came from the bathroom. “Do you think—” Twilight was already pushing to door open when Lyra’s hoof on her withers stopped her.

“He had trouble with the bidet the first time, too. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

As predicted, a minute later Dale came back out of the bathroom. His makeshift peplos was slightly damp, and Lyra had to suppress a chuckle. Dale glared at her anyway.

Twilight led them down the hallway and to a stairwell. She couldn’t help but watch as he tentatively descended—it was as if he’d never seen stairs before. Before even taking the first step off the landing, he’d looked at the walls in surprise, almost as if he were expecting some kind of trickery. He moved slowly, and kept his left hand against the wall. It’s probably for balance, since he hasn’t got a tail, she thought.

They reached the first floor without incident. Another pair of guards were waiting outside the stairwell. One of them fell in step with the trio as they made their way down the service hallway. As they finally reached their destination, Twilight hesitated.

She’d been kicking herself ever since she watched Dale struggle with the list of foods. It had seemed like a brilliant idea when she first conceived it—after all, he was obviously visually oriented; the picture-dictionary he’d loaned Lyra proved that. But she’d forgotten how much they’d struggled with the pictures, and that made her feel like a foal. If they couldn’t understand most of the drawings in his book, why should he understand her drawings? Especially since she wasn’t nearly as artistically skilled as whoever had drawn his book.

More importantly, there was no need to resort to drawings, anyway—except, perhaps, as a simple guideline. After all, he was here, and he was ambulatory, so she could simply take him to the food.

Even though Celestia had wanted to keep Dale secret, the cat was out of the bag now. It was hard to imagine that Ambrosia wouldn’t mention meeting him, and one of the nurses might have already blabbed. For that matter, any number of guards had seen Dale and the mare, and while they weren’t supposed to talk about such things, Twilight knew somepony probably would anyway. The regulars might keep their muzzles shut, but it was unlikely that all the auxiliary guards would be as restrained.

Nevertheless, the cafeteria was out. The last thing Twilight wanted to do was cause a bunch of sick ponies to gallop out the exit in panic. But that still left the kitchen. With a sigh, she pushed open the door, a slight smile playing across her muzzle as the guard shrank back slightly. She couldn’t blame him; she was about to enter—uninvited—into another mare’s domain. She could only rely on her standing in town and the Apple family’s legendary hospitality to prevent them from being ejected bodily for their trespass.

Already the pleasant smells of cooking greeted her. Every kitchen had its own particular scent—whether it was the sugary goodness of the bakery, the exotic spiciness of the Kalmyk Kabob in Canterlot, or even the familiar hominess of the Royal kitchens, the smells never failed to elicit pleasant memories; even the bland hospital food seemed more vibrant in its native habitat. Twilight had never understood why so many upper-class unicorns tried to seperate dining from food preparation. To her mind, the mysterious science of cooking was much more interesting than the boring artistry of food presentation that the nobles preferred.

Twilight was debating if she should announce herself, but a booming voice made the introduction moot. “Twilight Sparkle, what in the wide, wide world of Equestria brings you to my kitchen?”

“I need to look at your ingredients—”

Apple Cobbler glared at her over the stove.

“—to see what Dale can eat.”

“Dale, huh? Odd name for a pony. Can’tcha just ask him?”

“Oh, he’s not a pony.” Twilight waved a hoof behind her, unaware that she was the only visitor in the kitchen thus far. “He’s a . . . a man.”

“Never heard of one.”

Twilight looked back, noticing that the majority of her group was standing just outside the kitchen. She could barely see Dale around the door—which meant the chef couldn’t see him at all.

“He’s about as tall as a minotaur, but not nearly as well-muscled. He doesn’t have horns, either, and he’s got paws instead of hind hooves.”

Apple Cobbler glared at her.

“And, he doesn’t speak Equus. Or read it—or Unicorn.”

“Fine.” Her gaze hardened. “But if he puts his hooves in the soup, he’s out of here. And I don’t want anypony getting in the way of my chefs. It’s hard enough making meals to feed everypony in the hospital, especially with all the weird dietary restrictions the doctor adds. For Luna’s sake, my pantry chef’s got to make a special salad without any clover or timothy. How’s she supposed to make that appealing? ” She shoved a spatula into the pan. “Don’t let him mess up the spice rack, either. Or touch anything hot.” She expertly flipped the crepe onto a waiting plate and poured some more batter into the pan. “Or anything at all.” She dumped the pan out into a warmer tray and set it back on the stove. “In fact, let me show him around. Hey, Spring, you’re on the stove for now. Fifteen more crepes; don’t burn them. And go light on the preserves; we can’t get any more for a week—Winter’s sold out her entire stock.”

Twilight sighed. This won’t go well. But what was the alternative? She could take Dale to the market—and watch it empty before they even arrived, as it usually had done when Zecora needed to shop. Yet—they hadn’t been afraid of Iron Will. Perhaps the solution would be posters to garner interest before presenting Dale. Then everypony would think he was some sort of celebrity, rather than an unknown foreigner. Ponies would probably pay to hear him speak—once he learned Equus, anyway. “Bring him in. She said it’s okay.”

Dale entered the kitchen cautiously, following Lyra. Twilight watched as his eyes darted around, taking in the sights. It was hardly new to her—she’d spent enough time in the castle’s kitchens to at least know the protocol for staying out of trouble. It was strange how the chef would usually take great pride in showing a filly around, yet fight bitterly to keep any other mares out of the kitchen.

“Do you have any idea what he eats?”

“He ate his breakfast—everything but the gems.” Twilight pulled out the list she’d given Dale. “Here’s what he marked off.”

“Hmm.” Apple Cobbler studied it carefully. “Is that supposed to be red leaf or green leaf lettuce? Or is it kale? And what’s this? A beet, or a turnip?” She rolled her eyes. “No wonder he’s having trouble.” She glanced around the kitchen, frowning as a dozen pairs of eyes looked away guiltily. “Best option is to put it all in front of him, you know. I’ve got a prep table I’m not using for lunch. My potager finished early.”

Without so much as a glance at Dale, she weaved through the narrow aisleway, occasionally muttering to the station chefs. A few minutes later, she was back, pushing a heavily-laden cart before her. A half dozen bowls of grasses were neatly arrayed across the top. She pushed it right up to Dale. “All right, big guy. Go to it.”

When he didn’t begin selecting food, she turned to Twilight. “I’m not sure your Dale knows he can take some. Might want to tell him.”

Twilight looked to Lyra, who nodded.

“Dale . . . take Dale food.”

He looked at her curiously.

“Dale make yes/no Dale food?” She pointed towards Twilight’s list. “Twilight write Dale food.”

He looked down at the bowls dubiously. Twilight’s mouth began watering—she’d only managed a few bites for breakfast, and Apple Cobbler had presented a nearly irresistible array of forage: fresh fescue, crested wheatgrass, sweet clover, and even some tender thistle. The timothy was a little past its prime, but still plenty edible; even the bromegrass looked tempting.

Dale studied them all carefully, and refused every one. The clover drew the most scrutiny, but he finally gave a flat ‘no.’ It corresponded with the list he’d filled out earlier, although Twilight had found it hard to believe he would reject all pasture outright. Was it a personal preference, or was he really unable to eat any kind of grasses?

Even Apple Cobbler seemed insulted. “I got that wheatgrass this morning. The only way it could be fresher is if it were still growing.” She grabbed the bowl of clover and shoved it towards him. “And this clover—it’s one of the sweetest batches I’ve gotten from Lucky.” When Dale refused it again, she pushed it towards Twilight. “Go ahead, have a mouthful. Tell me what you think.”

It might violate experimental protocol, but I’m hungry. Twilight levitated a sensible portion out of the bowl and bit off a mouthful—almost, but not quite missing Dale’s startled expression. “Oh, this is divine. Please, please tell me he has more! You’ve got to try this.” She floated it over towards Dale. Again, he shook his head and held out his hand as if to ward it off. Twilight let out an exasperated snort which was quickly tempered by another mouthful of clover.

Meanwhile, Apple Cobbler wasn’t put off by Twilight’s gustatory ecstasy; while the unicorn was distracted she put the grasses away and brought out selection of grains. Most of them were imported from the Barnyard Bargains warehouse in Canterlot, as Filthy Rich’s smug profile on every barrel constantly reminded her. The few she was still allowed to source locally were in burlap sacks in the storeroom; she’d scooped a cup of each. Just looking at the difference between the stone-ground flax and the steel-cut oats made her blush, but Twilight didn’t notice—nor did her bipedal companion. He seemed interested in the barley; at a nod from her he took a small sample and tasted it. Most of the other food went ignored, although to Apple Cobbler’s profound embarrassment, he did sample the oats.

She finally struck pay dirt with the selection of garden vegetables. He scrutinized them all, sampling the majority. Twilight’s quill rasped across the parchment as he tasted greens from basil to zucchini. He occasionally acted as if a particular food was distasteful to him, and Lyra finally suggested—in a rather long-winded back-and-forth conversation—that he should say whether or not he liked it, as well as if it was edible. Unfortunately for Apple Cobbler’s blood pressure, they quickly discovered that while he could eat nearly any of the proffered foods, he didn’t like the majority of them. The trend continued with flowers; he refused them all outright. Bizarrely enough, his reaction to their scent seemed generally positive, but then he’d say ‘no,’ and set them back down.

Fruits were a different matter. He tried nearly all of them, leading Twilight to wonder if his ancestors had been frugivores; the success continued with dairy products. Like most unicorns, Twilight never understood the earth pony fondness for cheeses—they stank and were fattening—but Dale seemed to like them. She wondered if the scavenger-like behavior Lyra had said he’d displayed was due to malnutrition. If he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—eat grasses, cereals, and vegetables, he was probably at risk for all kinds of nutritional deficiencies. Cheese simply didn’t offer the healthy proteins a good clover did, and he’d be hard-pressed to get enough vitamins without eating at least some grasses. Maybe they just hadn’t found the right kind yet.

“You wouldn’t think a scavenger would be so picky.” Lyra watched as he closely examined a bowl of rye pasta. “I guess we could ask Dr. Goodall for some advice.”

“I’d like to see what kinds of carrion he’ll eat. He liked the fish that Pinkie offered him—well, he ate it anyway. Maybe I can come up with something by dinner; otherwise I’m going to have to ask the Princess. There must be sources in Canterlot; it’s just a question of getting them here. Still—somepony supplies the griffon embassy.”

Dale relaxed as they led him out of the kitchen. The pony in charge of the food had seemed a friendly enough sort, but she had an expression like he was breaking her heart whenever he refused to sample a particular kind of food. It was almost as if she were taking it as a personal insult. Twilight probably should have found someone who was more experienced in cooking for non-ponies. He’d already guessed from her list that she was thinking like a herbivore; he’d actually been surprised when Lyra had eaten half his roast-beef sandwich. Still, if they were so keen on exploring alien planets, it was hard to imagine that they’d never come across an omnivorous species before.

He wasn’t surprised by the cook’s behavior, though. His aunt had been like that. Whenever she came over, she’d insist on cooking. She claimed to have studied under a famous chef; he presumed she’d based that on having read The Joy of Cooking. Her dishes probably would have been tolerable, except she had a habit of buying fancy ingredients and trying to cook fancy dishes without having a full understanding of the process. That, coupled with a pig-headedness that prevented her from asking the right questions in specialty stores ruined more meals than even his uncle’s risque jokes. Fortunately, she’d lived far enough away that she rarely came by.

He’d done better with the actual plants than the list Twilight had presented him with. There were still dozens he didn’t recognize, but the same problem would have occurred if he had seen them in the produce section of a supermarket. A few brought back memories, like the kale—his mother had been sick with the flu and an early snowfall had blanket the garden, killing all the unprotected plants. The kale didn’t seem to mind; it grew throughout the winter and actually tasted a little better when he sampled a leaf.

A number of the grains had been in wooden barrels. Most of them had writing on them which presumably indicated the contents of the barrel; some also had a drawing in case it wasn’t clear. The sacks seemed normal enough, but it was a little odd to have wooden barrels for food storage. They didn’t stack well, and they were heavy even when they were empty. A five-gallon pail would have made more sense. The architecture might have been a stylistic choice, but wooden barrels? Of course, there could be some kind of law that mandated food items be shipped in wooden barrels even when an alternative container was available . . . there were enough of those weird laws in the US.

On top of that, just like the book seemed to indicate, the stoves in the kitchen were clearly wood-burning—he’d watched a pony toss a few logs in one—and while that seemed primitive, a number of his rural friends had been installing outdoor wood-burners for heat and hot water. They were often cheaper than propane—and ran on a renewable fuel source, to boot. There were supposedly differences in how the food tasted, too. Wood-fired pizza ovens were making a comeback in all the fancy pizza places. While hospital cafeterias normally weren’t considered fine dining establishments, maybe they were here. Maybe they ran a catering business out of the hospital kitchen.

The cook had offered him a selection of flowers; he’d refused all of them. Dale had never paid much attention to flowers, and had no idea which could be eaten and which could not. In retrospect, he’d probably been lucky that whatever kind of flowers had been on Lyra’s sandwich had been edible. A half-dozen jars of different colored sand sparkles were also turned down. He was going to have to ask Lyra why they ate it—was it to aid in digestion? Chickens and some other birds ate grit to help them digest food; maybe the ponies needed to do that, too. Did the colors signify different types of sand, or was it just to make it look more appealing?

He’d expected her to offer different kinds of meat next—especially since Twilight had included them on the list—but the cook skipped right to desserts. She had two different kinds of pie—strawberry and blackberry—and a cheesecake as well.

Lost in his memory of home-made pie, he didn’t notice right away that he wasn’t going back the same way he’d come. Instead, he was led into a new room.

He was immediately reminded of a war room, or a command post of some sort. The central table was a battle-scarred monstrosity, clearly salvaged from a fancy dining room once it was past its prime. It was surrounded by mis-matched chairs and a low bench. One wall held a couch with a permanent divot in the center, while the opposite wall had a cabinet finished in a different color than the rest of the walls. It was topped with a French Press and several mugs with oversized handles.

Opposite him, the wall was festooned with charts and several X-ray prints, which appeared to be clearer than the ones he’d seen on Earth. He walked over to get a better look, finally noticing that they were humanoid; presumably they were of him and the girl. He’d seen any number of X-rays on medical dramas; in real life they were more difficult to interpret to the untrained eye. He assumed the larger one was probably him. He studied it for a few minutes to see if anything seemed off, but couldn’t find anything.

The girl’s X-ray was no more clear—there was nothing which appeared to be out of place or damaged. Whatever technology they were using to take the images hopefully didn’t cause long-term damage, because they’d quite unnecessarily taken full-body images from the front, back, and both sides. He smiled briefly, imagining the doctors poring over them trying to figure out what they meant. It was like an episode of House—the male doctor would be Dr. House, of course, and the female one would be the girl—Cameron? Maybe the zebra could be the black guy . . . Dr. Foreman. Or was that racist? He looked at his three companions. Given the rainbow of fur he’d seen so far, if they’d invented racism it probably wasn’t based on color.

Next to them—and totally out of place—was what appeared to be a crude crayon drawing of a pony family, complete with a half-timbered house, flowerboxes, and even a smiling sun. It was likely drawn by one of the doctor’s children. The lack of stripes ruled the zebra out, but it did offer a useful insight into their mindset. The book Lyra had given him showed what he presumed was a family on the cover. Apparently, pony parents were proud of their children’s art.

He heard a loud clunk behind him and turned to see Twilight floating a pile of stuff out of a cupboard and onto the table. She seemed to be having difficulties sorting them; he watched her shuffle the items around on the table like a shyster dealing out three-card monte, before finally giving up and putting them back in a heap. She tilted her head towards the pile and floated out a sheet of paper.

He moved closer to the table to get a look at what she’d been floating around.

On the table end nearest the X-rays was a half-eaten sandwich and a nearly-empty bowl of some kind of vegetable soup. Dale wondered if the lack of a spoon was significant. Lyra had used utensils when she ate, but Twilight hadn’t back in the kitchen. If Twilight was coordinated enough to write with her aura, she presumably could use a spoon if she wanted to. Maybe it was more convenient to float the soup into a blob in front of her muzzle and suck it out of the air, like astronauts did sometimes.

The soup, however, was not what Twilight was interested in showing him. On the other end of the table was a collection of familiar-looking objects, including his wrist watch. He grabbed it and strapped it back onto his wrist before noticing that the crystal was cracked and the face was covered in condensation. It was still ticking, but probably wouldn’t be for too long. Still, it was a little touch of home. He could leave it on the windowsill and it might dry off enough to survive.

Dale surveyed the rest of the items quickly. His soggy billfold was there, and a quick flip through it showed everything still seemed to be in place. Of course, they could have copied his credit card numbers, but he decided he might as well not worry about that, If this was a scheme to get his personal information, it was so ludicrously over the top that he wouldn’t even mind. A green Bic lighter and a small pile of change rounded out the mix. Dale noticed with some amusement that one of the nickels was Canadian. Unfortunately, there was no sign of his glasses—or his clothes.

Simple curiosity led him to the dogtags next. He’d already guessed that the girl was the Coast Guardsman he’d tackled; it would be nice to know her name. Maybe he could reassure her that things were going to be all right.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Twilight was taking notes again. He wasn’t surprised. With as little as they knew about his culture, they’d probably be analyzing his every move to death. Maybe I could do something really weird and confuse them. He watched as the quill was dipped into a bobbing inkpot. Although, based on what I’ve seen so far, I’d have to really stretch to do anything weird enough to faze them.

He grabbed the chain and pulled the tags towards himself, turning them so he could read them. Dybek, Katherine L. “She’s named Katherine,” he said.

“Ka-th-rin,” Lyra pronounced back carefully.

He draped the dogtags around his neck. He’d take them back to her; she might feel more comfortable wearing them. He could tell the ponies that she was blood type B+ and Catholic, but neither of those things were likely to be useful information for them. If he could remember his own blood type, it might be handy. He was pretty sure he wasn’t O. Of course, since he wasn’t sure what types of blood were compatible and what ones weren’t, maybe it wasn’t helpful information at all. Then again, maybe they’d gotten around that whole problem of blood types by cloning her own blood . . . he’d heard about that being done on earth before elective surgeries—to avoid the risk of disease or adverse reactions—but perhaps they’d invented a way to make the process quick enough to provide blood on demand in the emergency room.

He picked up the gun next. Pointing it at the floor, he fumbled with it until he released the magazine, then racked the slide back to eject the chambered round. Dale considered it carefully. He might want to keep it for himself—he’d certainly feel better if he was armed. Just in case. Of course, Lyra probably knew it wasn’t his, and he wouldn’t want them to think he was a thief. In that case, it should be given back to Kate . . . but without ammo. Maybe when she was off whatever meds they were giving her, she could be trusted with it again, but not before. The fact that he was likely to be one of the first targets of her wrath did not go unconsidered.

He set the gun back down and picked up the shell he’d ejected. Absently, he pushed it into the magazine, considering what to do. It would be nice to keep, in case there was ever need of a gun . . . but he didn’t want it falling into the wrong hands—or hooves. He could try soaking the shells in water, which might make them useless . . . but the Coast Guard had to imagine that their ammunition might get a little wet, so they would probably have to remain underwater for days, maybe even weeks before he could be sure they wouldn’t work. He could try to pry the bullets off, but that would most likely end with him shooting himself or someone else. Tossing them in a fire was out, too. He could flush them down the toilet, but who knew where they’d wind up then? He’d heard horror stories of children finding unexploded ordinance and bringing it home. It seemed unlikely, but who knew what kind of sewage treatment plants they had? He could imagine some pony finding them and taking them home because they were shiny, or maybe a longer chain of events: a bird picks them up, takes them to its nest; later a couple of children find them in the woods. Maybe they want to make a necklace out of them, and try to drill a hole through the cartridge. . . .

The only sure way to denature them was to fire them, and that wasn’t something he particularly wanted to do, either. What kind of reaction might Lyra and Twilight have if he just re-loaded the gun and started firing into the floor? And what if there was another floor below this one? He could shoot out of a window and aim at the ground; that would probably be safe. It might also incite a panic in the marketplace.

Dale set the gun back down carefully. “No.” He pointed to it. “No Lyra. No Twilight. No Kathrine.” I’ll probably have to fire at least one shot, to give them an idea what it does. They’re smart enough to figure out that if it can make a big hole in dirt, it can also make a big hole in a pony. Hopefully this will keep them from messing with until later. I’m still keeping the ammo with me, though. Since he didn’t have pockets, he made a small pouch in his toga, gripping it with his right hand—which both supported his arm and held the ammunition secure.

There were two more magazines on the table, which he also took. A small aerosol can of pepper spray was added to his collection, too. It probably couldn’t be operated with hooves, but it was best not to risk it. Even if it is a food product, essentially, he muttered to himself sarcastically.

Her radio was useless, which came as no surprise. He turned it on and was greeted with static. There was nothing terribly useful in her billfold, her cell phone wouldn’t even turn on, and that covered every object on the table he could identify.

There was a final item that was a complete mystery. It bore some resemblance to a gun, but it was made entirely of plastic, aside from a short strand of wire dangling from the end. What he took to be a handgrip had partially melted, while the other end appeared to have exploded—it looked what might happen if a flare went off inside a flare gun. Oddly, Twilight seemed intensely interested in it.

This might be the first time she’s really looked at these things, Dale realized. After the fiasco of the food list, she probably realized that I’d be able to explain the stuff to her better than she could figure it out on her own. He looked back at the gun. Had she already examined it? Was she the type of person—pony—who would fiddle with things until she figured out how they worked, or what they were for? He hadn’t heard a gunshot . . . so either she’d been smart enough to leave well enough alone, or lucky enough to have not fired the gun accidentally.

You’re not giving them enough credit. Surely they knew what projectile weapons were; they’d just come up with something better. Undoubtedly, the gun to them was a primitive as a catapult or a sling or something. The difference in anatomy—which dictated the difference in design—was probably the only thing that kept them from recognizing Kate’s weapons. No doubt if it had been a quadruped-friendly gun they would have figured it out already.

Did she break this, or was it like this before? He held it in his left hand, holding it in what felt like the most natural position. It didn’t sit well, since there were depressions in the handle for fingers and thumb, but they were on the wrong side. Not made for lefties. Why did Katherine have it, then? She’s probably right-handed. She drew her gun with—

Dale looked at the mystery item with a frown. Could it be? He vaguely remembered thinking that her gun had been too short . . . but what if it hadn’t been a gun at all? What if it was a taser? It had somehow exploded—maybe Lyra had done something to it. If she had, it wouldn’t have been intentional. Probably she was just trying to defend herself . . . maybe that was why the doctors seemed so concerned with fixing her hand. Perhaps Lyra thought she was to blame, and then thought that if they took the girl with him, they could fix her and give her back uninjured.

He set it back down. “Taser?”

As the group walked back to Dale’s hospital room, Twilight vowed to avoid allowing anypony else to take charge that she didn’t trust implicitly. She just had a growing feeling of unease that things were spinning farther and farther out of control, and Dale hadn’t been here a whole day yet. All her good ideas and plans were dashed to the ground before they were even partially implemented. She’d wanted to introduce the foods to Dale in an orderly manner—such as the order in which they were drawn on her parchment—and to allow him to sample only one unsure food per day, at the most. That way, if he had a reaction, they’d know what food had caused it and could avoid it in the future.

Naturally, that had not been Apple Cobbler’s idea. Perhaps it was a cook thing. She’d started with pasture grasses, which was a logical enough plan. The grains had been a fairly sensible next choice, although she’d not presented any nuts until later. She’d forgotten to include the avocado with the flowers, and then she’d mixed some fruits in with her vegetables, like tomatoes and eggplants.

And that was to say nothing of offering him a slice of apple pie, blackberry pie, and cheesecake. Fruit and animal products clearly shouldn’t go together.

Dale had taken enough samples that if something went wrong, she’d have no idea what had caused it. On top of that, there was the potential delay to consider. An allergic reaction would probably be pretty quick; colic might take hours to manifest, and a poison or germ could take days—or even weeks—to become apparent. On top of that, there was the possibility of mineral deficiencies. It was unlikely that there were any experts in Ponyville, nor would it be a problem quickly . . . but she would want to write a letter to the Princess and see if there were doctors in Baltimare who specialized in treating sailors.

She frowned as she watched him ascend the staircase. He was having more success in climbing it than he had in descending, but he kept his left hand against the wall. Quadrupeds sometimes have trouble descending stairs, but the ascent usually isn’t a problem. Maybe his species only does well on flatter surfaces. This might be a problem when we take him to Canterlot.

“Lyra, are you going to be able to stay with him the rest of the afternoon?”

She nodded.

“I’ve got a bunch of other things I have to do. Spike’s helping out as much as he can: I gave him a pretty concise list, but he can’t do it all on his own. Try and find out what kind of living accommodations he prefers—you lost his book, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t my fault! He was carrying my bags and threw them at the stallion on the beach. I tried to get them back, but Princess Celestia said no offensive magic.”

“I’ll look through my notes. I’ve got to help get the embassy set up, check in with Rarity, and see if Cheerilee might be able to help tutor him I suppose we’ll want to let them share a room on the ground floor, since he doesn’t seem comfortable with stairs. I’ll want to let the construction ponies know as soon as possible. Did you see what kind of bed he had?”

“I assume it was in his domehouse, but he never let me in.”

“Did you see any kinds of furniture?”

“He had a strange white table and a chair with arms. Kind of like a throne, but with a smaller back. It went from his rump to his withers, and the seat reached just short of his . . . um, knees.” She pointed on her own leg. “He had an icebox he called Coleman that was strong enough to sit on, too. It seemed to be made out of metal—in fact, he had a lot of things made of metal. His pavilion poles and his narrow boat were both made out of a dull silver unpainted metal. I scratched the boat with my shoe and left a shiny spot.”

“Probably there was a protective oxidation.” Twilight cocked her head slightly. “Maybe an alloy of silver? It wouldn’t be strong enough on its own to make a structure out of. I’d have to do some research into metals; I’m not much of an expert on the subject.” She looked back at Dale, who had just topped the final step. “His pavilion was open, right?”

Lyra nodded.

“I should see about a gazebo or something for the yard. Maybe he doesn’t like confined spaces. It would be good for ponies to see him outside, too. They’d get used to him quicker that way.” She sighed. “Probably would want to make sure he doesn’t eat out there, though. That might make some ponies uncomfortable.” She floated the list back out of her saddlebags. “I’ll try to get Pinkie or Magnum get some more fish for tomorrow, and I’ve still got to get over to Fluttershy’s.”

Lyra pushed the door to the hospital room open and stopped in her tracks. “I don’t think you’ll have to go that far.”

“Oh?” Twilight looked up from her list. Hovering outside the window were two pegasi: Fluttershy and Professor Featherbrain. Fluttershy was staring raptly at the mare in the bed, while Professor Featherbrain was attempting to jimmy the window open from the outside. Judging by the rock held in her mouth, she had a fallback plan if the window wouldn’t open.

Detective Heather Poppenger brushed the hair out of her eyes and got back to work.

She’d been on this accursed island since she was helicoptered out last night, and honestly couldn’t wait to get back off. No stranger to crime scenes, it was the total isolation which was a bit disconcerting. While it was only a short hop back to the mainland—in theory—the helicopter had left, and she was nearly alone in the woods with the vague hope that the Coast Guard boats were still on shore.

Of course, twenty miles didn’t seem like so long a distance in a car . . . but twenty miles across Lake Michigan was a different matter entirely. Last night, she’d taken a break after they’d gotten done photographing everything on the beach, and just looked out over the water. It gave her an uncomfortable feeling of vertigo: a vast expanse of black nothingness between her and any sort of human civilization. True, the beacons of transmission towers could be seen far across the lake, and the navigation lights of airplanes passing overhead both served as reminders that she was not alone . . . but it had been hard to remember that when she stood on a lonely spit of sand, silent but for the soft slapping of wavelets and shivering of leaves. The portable lights set up around the suspect’s camp beckoned her back like a moth to a flame.

She yawned and took another sip of coffee from the foam cup someone hand handed her. Now that the sun was high in the sky, the island didn’t seem quite as hostile as it had the night before. Her phone told her it was 3:40, which meant she had one more chance to go through camp before the helicopter came back. Normally, they didn’t spend nearly this much time on a crime scene. Not unless it was the site of multiple murders . . . or a kidnapping.

For Heather, the most frustrating thing wasn’t a lack of evidence. Evidence they had. They already knew how the perpetrator had gotten to the island. His canoe may have been reasonably well-hidden from passing eyes, but not from a team of detectives. His camp was fairly easily located, as well—even taking precautions for booby traps and preserving evidence. The island was simply too small to hide things for too long. True, they didn’t know who he was yet, but his radio had a serial number, his canoe had a registration number, and even better, there was a credit-card receipt in one of the books. There were fingerprints all over camp, and the empty beer bottles probably had enough saliva in them for a good DNA sample. They’d have him IDed in a day or two at most.

Instead, her problem lay with the evidence on hand. None of it made sense.

His campsite was simple enough. A small dining fly with a white plastic table, a blue nylon folding chair with cup-holders in the armrests, and a beat-up green cooler in the central clearing, a Eureka dome tent on the southeast corner of the camp, and a few camp tools scattered around all looked like the typical wilderness camp as approved by the Boy Scouts of America. Even the fire pit had been carefully ringed with rocks taken from the beach—if their smooth surface was anything to judge by—and she had no doubt that when they eventually found the latrine, it would be straight out of a camping manual, too.

The contents of the cooler had given them pause, though. Specifically, a large carrot in a Ziploc bag, neatly labelled “Do Not Eat.” It might as well have been labeled “Evidence,” but evidence of what?

The strangeness continued in the tent. There was the requisite sleeping bag, lying atop the obligatory Therm-a-rest. A battered dufflebag served double-duty as a pillow, and was filled with nothing more interesting than clothing and basic toiletries. On the other side of the tent, though, a large supply of books were neatly stored in large Ziploc bags. Heather had seen a few campers who took the latest novel along with them for downtimes, and the Audubon guides weren’t that odd, either . . . but who on earth took Fun with Dick and Jane or Basic Geometry with them in case they got bored? And the weirdness didn’t stop with modern books; there was a thin book which looked as if it could be an antique, filled with woodcut illustrations of a Victorian England-looking house, labeled entirely in a weird code. It was the kind of thing a bibliophile or cryptologist might enjoy.

Even more confounding were the notebooks. She’d examined the one that was on top of the pile, expecting to find some sort of diary or a manifesto. Instead, it had been crude drawings of geometric figures, with every part neatly labeled in some kind of two-part code. Hiding a chemical reaction was one thing, but coding the formula for the circumference of a circle was so illogical she couldn’t even begin to fathom what kind of a person had occupied the tent.

If anything, it reminded her of an archaeological dig of some sort. The old book in a strange language, notes written out in what was possibly the same language—all that was missing was an overgrown pyramid or booby-trapped temple. Heck, even his button-down shirt was khaki . . . maybe his pith helmet was with him, wherever he was. She hadn’t heard any credible reports of secret societies operating in northern Michigan—the few militias and disorganized whackos didn’t bother with books in code, that was for sure.

Think, Heather. It might not be logical to you, but it was logical to the person who brought them here. Unless the whole crime scene was some kind of bizarre set-up—which only happened in works of fiction and the minds of conspiracy-theory bloggers—the old man who’d attacked Anthony and Cortez and kidnapped Kate had brought all these things here by hand-paddled canoe for a specific reason. It’s almost like he’s teaching some sort of class.

Dale was too busy watching the two ponies hovering outside the window to notice that the guards spread out to protect both him and the girl in the bed. The light green one jammed her front hooves under the double-hung window and forced it open, then jumped into the room. She was followed a moment later by a pink-maned pale yellow pony with bright red cheeks.

Twilight acted as if she knew both of them. Dale was still not very good at reading their body language, but she seemed to be frustrated and angry. Her voice hardly rose—although the pace of her speech seemed quicker than normal. The yellow one backed up until it ran into a wall, then ducked its head, turning until its mane blocked Twilight from its view. Meanwhile, the green one seemed unintimidated, responding back just as quickly. It flared its wings out—much like the leader had done on the beach—as if to emphasize what it was saying. The yellow pony appeared to be cowering in fear, turning until its mane covered its eyes.

He watched their behavior intently. It was obvious that the aggressive one was the ringleader, and the other had simply been cowed into coming along to do . . . whatever it was they were trying to do. He was no anthropologist—so his conclusions would have to be drawn carefully—but it was still instructive to watch them handle this situation. He’d already discovered that the plain ponies seemed to be subservient to the horned ones, but he was curious how the winged ones would fit into the mix. Granted, the small sample size was problematic, but still. . . .

After a little more back-and-forth—with the green pony flaring her wings for emphasis each time she finished a sentence—Twilight finally appeared to cave in. She barked out a command to the guards, who relaxed their pose.

The green pony was the first to respond, reaching back and nosing open one of her bags. She tugged out a rectangular box with a short length of cable attached to it. A strap looped around it provided her with a place to grab; rather than continue to hold it in her mouth, though, she flipped the strap over her head with an easy, practiced motion, and let it dangle around her neck.

Next, she got to her hind hooves—flapping her wings for balance—and grabbed the box with her forehooves. What on earth is she trying to do? None of the other ponies seemed too disturbed by her antics . . . but for all he knew, they’d already discussed this.

She turned the box towards him and squinted down towards the top. Apparently satisfied, she took the cable into her mouth. Dale heard a familiar clicking noise, and suddenly realized this was a camera of some sort. Apparently, this was the pony paparazzi.

Just when Dale was beginning to wonder if this camera ever ran out of film, the clicking stopped. By this time, she’d done a complete circle around him at ground level, as well as a series of photographs from shoulder-level. As usual, Lyra looked vaguely amused, while Twilight appeared to be moments away from holding her head in her hooves. She’d already developed a small tic in her left eyelid, and both her ears were twitching.

I wonder if they gamble? Dale clamped down on that thought before it could get him in trouble. He was supposed to be some kind of representative for humanity; taking the purple pony for all she had probably wouldn’t look good.

Meanwhile, the yellow one had gotten over some of her fright and turned her head so that she could peer out with one eye. Rather than look at him like he was a monster, though—which he would have expected—she was watching the green one.

The camera-pony landed and pulled a notebook out of her bag. She took a pencil between her lips and began scribbling, slowing moving closer to Dale. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to try and do an interview—it would take hours of back-and-forth between him and Lyra to fill a paragraph.

As she got close, Dale squatted down and held out his left fist. She sniffed it and did the same nose-scrunching thing the zebra had. Do I smell bad to them? He looked at Lyra. “Dale smell not good?”

Seeing her puzzled expression, he turned towards her and pantomimed smelling his armpit, then scrunched up his face. “Smell not good.” Then he moved over to her and leaned close to her side, repeated the sniffing, smiled, and said, “Smell good.”

To reinforce his point, he tapped himself on the chest, fanned a cupped hand towards his nose and frowned. “Smell.” Then he did the same with Lyra, smiling instead.

“Dale smell not here. Lyra, Twilight not smell Dale here then.”

He considered this carefully. His best guess—based as much on context as Lyra’s statement—was that his smell was different. Not bad, per se, but new to them. It didn’t explain why they bared their teeth, though. Well, some of them did, anyway. Of course, Lyra might not be speaking for all of them. The construction pony hadn’t done that, Lyra hadn’t, and Twilight hadn’t, either. Maybe it was just a case of beauty being in the eye of the beholder, or something like that. Dale by any other name would smell as sweet. . . . He noticed that the green one had stopped with her weird nose-scrunch finally, and was scribbling in her notebook again.

If dogs could write, I wonder how they’d describe smell? There’s not that large a body of specific smells that the layman knows, and most of them are food. Otherwise, they’re largely just pungent, unpleasant odors. Maybe these ponies are more scent-oriented than visually, and so they have a whole body of words—words which we’ll probably never be able to translate—that describe different types of scent. Maybe there’s even a scent spectrum for them. I wonder if it’s like the old proverb about Eskimos having twenty different words for snow?

The light green one finished writing and took flight again. She was staring at Kate with the kind of scrutiny a five-year-old might give a Christmas present—or a hungry bear a potential meal. She even licked her lips. He was waiting for her to rub her hooves together and giggle like a maniac, but apparently they didn’t go for that kind of motion here. He watched her reload her camera, hampered only by her flapping wings blocking her saddlebags with each beat.

She’s hardly getting any lift with those, Dale thought. They’re not big enough, and they’re not moving fast enough. How had he not noticed before? There was something more to her flight—some aspect of gravity-negation or something. It wasn’t physically possible any other way. Still—it cleared up one mystery: as she darted around the ceiling, taking photographs of the supine girl from every imaginable angle, he understood why they built the rooms and the doorways so tall.

He was distracted by a warm bump against his hip and looked down. The yellow one had stealthily approached while he was distracted and was staring at him intently. Her teal eyes held a deep compassionate look, and he smiled awkwardly. These ponies had no sense of personal boundaries—although it made a weird sort of sense. If they’d advanced to a point where they were comfortable crossing the vast reaches of space, they’d have to have a large percentage of their society which was willing to be in very close personal contact with relative strangers.

Dale crouched down to get a closer look at her. She seemed thinner and lighter than the other ponies he’d seen so far, although it was kind of hard to judge. When Lyra had landed on him, she’d been a lot lighter than he’d imagined she would be. He wondered how they’d feel about being picked up. He’d be tempted to try if his right arm wasn’t injured. She had a sort of sad puppy expression; whether that was because she’d been collateral in the argument, she didn’t like hospitals, or she was just normally that way was a question that he couldn’t answer. Nevertheless, he felt a strange comfort in her proximity.

She nuzzled him in the side, and he instinctively reached down his hand and touched her back, right between her wings. For an instant, he felt her tense under his hand, before she relaxed again.

Lyra and Twilight exchanged confused glances, and Dale wondered if he’d done something wrong again. Lyra had told him not to pet strangers on the head, but she hadn’t said anything about touching elsewhere. What he remembered of equine anatomy told him that the back wasn’t a very sensitive area, and she certainly hadn’t reacted negatively to his touch. If anything, she seemed to be quite submissive.

Experimentally, he ran his hand down to where the base of her wing joined her body at her shoulderblade. The attachment seemed perfect—there was a subtle transition from hair to downy feathers, and then normal-sized feathers. He noticed as his hand touched the boundary, the wing extended out from her barrel slightly. It must have been an involuntary movement, since the other wing didn’t extend.

Is this why they’re still using quill pens? Their feathers must fall out occasionally— A cold draft against his backside cut off the thought and Dale spun around to see the green pony had lifted the back of his makeshift toga and was apparently attempting to a get a closer look. Without even thinking about it, he smacked her on the hoof, causing her to jump backwards and regard him warily.

“No! Doesn’t anyone here have the slightest concept of personal space or modesty? I will not consent to being poked and prodded by every single one of you who has the slightest curiosity about human anatomy.” He pointed to Lyra. “If you’ve got a problem with that, talk to her.”

Cheeks flushed, he belatedly remembered that none of them except Lyra knew any English at all. At best, there were only a few words she would have recognized—but perhaps his tone of voice would carry the message across.

It seemed to have done—the dynamic of the room shifted slightly. Twilight barked out something to the green pony, which caused her to take a couple of steps back. Meanwhile, the guards were watching her intently, perhaps waiting for orders to throw her out of the room. The quiet yellow one looked up at him and sidestepped out of reach of his hand. There was an ineffable sorrow in her eyes, and he instantly regretted his outburst. He knew that they were at least as intelligent as he was . . . yet he felt as if he’d just kicked a puppy.

Author's Notes:

As usual, click HERE to be re-directed to my fantastic blog about this chapter.

Chapter 5: Unlikely Alliances

Chapter 5
Unlikely Alliances
Admiral Biscuit

“What do you mean, she’s gone?”

Perry didn’t even look at the dean; he just kept staring morosely out the window. His eyes were darting from pony to pony on the street and his right ear was twitching nervously. “I mean, she’s gone. Flew out the window.”

Bright Star resisted the sudden overwhelming urge to bang her muzzle repeatedly into something unyielding. The floor would be a good first choice, but Perry’s skull was running a close second. “You were supposed to watch her.”

“I did watch her.” Perry turned towards her for a moment. “I watched her fly right out the window. I watched her fly toward the hospital.” He pointed a hoof in the general direction of the builiding. “I suppose I could have grabbed her tail, but I didn’t. I could have lept out the window after her, but I didn’t do that, either.” He peered back out the window, muzzle pressed up against the glass. “I don’t see her anywhere.”

“She’s probably still at the hospital,” Bright Star muttered. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done for it now. We might as well deliver the book and get this over with.”

“I don’t see what help I can be. I should probably stay here until Featherbrain comes back. Somepony will have to open the window for her.”

Bright Star stomped across the floor, her rage further fueled by the circuitous path she had to take to avoid Featherbrain’s belongings. It appeared as if the pegasus had emptied her trunk by making a mini tornado—her journals and papers were scattered all around the room—mixed with half-empty jars of feather gloss and mane and tail shampoo. A small collection of badly-wrinkled formal clothes were laid out on the bed and bench; three striped socks were draped over the headboard.

I should have just given her the book, let her get to the hospital, deliver it—if she remembered—and come back. Bright Star paused to examine a book Featherbrain had re-bound by driving straightened shoe nails through the covers. On second thought, it’s better that I didn’t. “Come along, professor. We’re ready to go to the hospital, and you’re coming with us.”

“Very well.” He turned away from the window and made a dramatic show of straightening his tie. “I suppose the sooner it’s over with, the better. Then we can go back to our hotel and wait.” He absently kicked a jar of hoof polish out of his way. “Next time, I suggest we all get separate rooms. I prefer a tidy space.”

“Then you should be glad I didn’t get us rooms at the Paradise Inn. Just turn your back and pretend she isn’t here.” Bright Star led the stallion out onto the narrow balcony. “I see Lecol and Ivory are already waiting for us.”

Ivory looked up at the sound of the dean’s voice. “Can we get a carriage?” she asked hopefully. “My hooves hurt from walking from the train station.”

“It’s not that far. You can see the hospital from here.”

“You can see Canterlot, too. You’re not suggesting that we walk there are you?”

Lecol rolled her eyes. “Good physical exercise is good for the brain. Everypony says so. Good, well-balanced meals, too. All of you eat too quickly, that’s why you’re out of shape. A proper meal is served slowly with several courses, and should always be enjoyed with a glass of red wine.”

Ivory lowered her head. “Oh, please, not again. Don’t—”

“Good bowel health is also important. A mare shouldn’t—”

“All right, all right! I give. We’ll walk!” Ivory glared at Lecol.

Bright Star led the way, gritting her teeth at the group’s slow progress. Lecol frequently paused to admire a particular bit of the town—be it flowerbox, storefront, or fountain, she felt compelled to remark upon it. Ivory spent most of the walk looking down at the grassy thoroughfares below her hooves, trying to pick the firmest, cleanest patches of grass to step on. She only picked up her pace when the route took them across a paved courtyard. Perry remained close to the dean, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Had he been able to keep his neck still, he might have managed, but he was snapping his head around every time he heard a mare’s voice.

“She’s probably not even here any more,” Ivory muttered.

He jerked his head up. “She is,” he whined. “Pokey mentioned her in his last letter. She could be anywhere. Why couldn’t we have waited until after moonrise? I bet the street’s empty by then.” He flattened his ears as a distant bell rang across the town.

“That must be the school bell,” Lecol remarked. “How quaint. This would be a nice town to raise foals in, I think. Everypony here seems so friendly.”

“What’s wrong with Canterlot?” Ivory looked down at a patch of grass in front of a store suspiciously. It was greener and less-trampled than the surrounding grass. She cautiously stepped around it as a precaution. “If I’d known the streets weren’t paved, I’d have put in my calkins.”

“It’s not natural to walk on stones,” Lecol remarked. “Our foremothers did just fine with bare hooves on earth.”

“And they starved to death in the winter, too! If you’re such a hopeless romantic, write historical fiction!”

“Try walking with a little more toe,” Bright Star suggested to Ivory. “It helps.”

It’s hard not to be romantic,” Lecol replied. “Look at the homes: traditional earth-pony architecture. The beams are just as curved as they were when they came out of the forest. They’re not trying to change nature; they’re living in it. I saw a home built into a tree.”

“Which way is it from here?” Perry looked around. They’d rounded a corner and stumbled into an open-air market. Lecol gave a squeal of delight and trotted over to a small stand with a hoof-painted sign advertising grapes.

“I don’t know,” Bright Star admitted. It had seemed easy enough to get there when viewed from the inn—the hospital was one of the more substantial buildings in Ponyville, and could easily be seen over the cluster of houses and shops around the center of town. No road led straight there, though; houses had been built wherever there had been space with no thought of urban planning. Naturally, none of the roads or alleyways had names—or if they did, the Ponyvilleans assumed that everypony would know them, and didn’t bother with signs. “I think it’s that way. But maybe we better ask somepony.”

“Yeah.” Perry looked over towards a blonde unicorn filly that was eyeing a display of chocolate candy. “I’ll ask.” He quickly walked over to the stand, ignoring the cold blue eyes of the salesmare. “Excuse me, little filly. Do you happen to know the quickest way to the hospital?”

“I sure do.” The filly smiled brightly. “From here, it’s best to go around the end of the market, cut through the alleyway by Mr. Breezy’s fan shop, and then take the left road at the statue. Are you hurt?”

“No, I just have a . . . somepony I have to meet there.”

“My mom goes there sometimes, ‘cause she’s kinda clumsy,” she offered. Losing interest in the conversation, she turned back to the display of candy. “Hey, Bon Bon, do you have anything with coconut in it? Sparkler said I should try something different to see if I like it, and we learned about coconuts in school today. They’re from tropical islands and grow on trees.”

Perry began going down the road the filly had suggested, not bothering to see if the rest of the group was following. He’d decided that he’d already been around far too many unfamiliar ponies for his comfort; if he got to the hospital before anypony else, so be it. They could just catch up later.

However, Bright Star had managed to corral Lecol while he was talking, so the three mares fell in behind him. Unconsciously, Perry slowed enough so that the dean was back alongside his flank.

The fan shop was an easy enough landmark to identify; besides the expected signboard with a painting of a fan, the store’s name was lettered above the windows in neatly-painted Unicorn script—it was obvious the proprietor had meant to appeal to a high class of pony. A blue and yellow diamond awning hung over the front door. He hardly spared the neat display windows a passing glance, intent on not missing the alleyway.

As promised, it ran alongside the fan shop, past a small wainwright’s shop, and deposited them into another wide grass street. It was just the kind of shortcut a filly would like, but Lecol had to duck under a short arched brace that spanned the alleyway, and neatly-stacked spokes and felloes encroached into the path, requiring the unicorns to press up against the wall of the adjoining shop. Ivory seemed particularly distressed by this—she leaned over so that her clothes wouldn’t brush on the wall while carefully planting her hooves on the gravelly soil.

The statue was unmistakable: it was a pony balanced on a ball, carved out of pink marble. It certainly lacked the solemnity of Canterlot statues, but the artist had faithfully captured the essence of a playful pony. Best of all, the street was utterly deserted, lined with two-story homes instead of businesses.

Even if he hadn’t been instructed which street to take after the fountain, the correct route wasn’t hard to find: a quick glance revealed the hospital just over a bridge; the other street ended when it reached a pair of houses.

With their destination finally in sight, Perry picked up the pace. The dean and Lecol—who’d finally seen enough nearly-identical houses to be able to pass them without stopping—also followed, while Ivory kept up her slower pace, treading carefully on the unfamiliar grass.

The inside of the hospital was fairly familiar. Most of the rural hospitals had been built to nearly the same blueprint. The lobby was filled with simple benches and the same painting of Princess Celestia that graced every public building.

“We’re from the University,” Bright Star explained to a nurse. “Do you know what rooms the . . . aliens are in?”

“Second floor, south wing, in corner rooms—192 and 232. Up the main stairs, to the left. Should I wake the doctor? He was up all last night caring for the patients. He’s asleep in the nurse’s lounge.

“We could just give her the book,” Perry suggested. “And then go back to Canterlot.”

The dean narrowed her eyes.. “We did not come here just to hand off the book and be done with it. I wish we had. I wish I had. Then I wouldn’t have had to put up with all of you whining for the entire train ride, the trip to the hotel, the hour we were actually at the hotel, and the whole way to the hospital. But we are here now, we are highly educated—specialists in our various fields, in fact—and therefore we must offer any assistance we are able.”

“But—”

“I need not remind you that Princess Celestia personally asked for us to do this.” She opened the flap of her bag and pulled out a sheet of parchment. “I regret that it has come to this.”

“You read us that letter at least a dozen times on the train,” Ivory interjected. “I could recite it by heart.”

“This isn’t that.” The dean dangled the paper in the air between Ivory and Perry. “It’s a letter of resignation. I took the liberty of writing four of them. One for each of you. All you have to do is sign at the bottom, and you’re free to do whatever you want. Shall I ask the nurse for an inkpot and quill, or shall we go up to the second floor together?”

Twilight had already had concerns when Professor Featherbrain and Fluttershy had burst into the room. Still, her former professor had been a convincing talker, and she’d eventually relented and let them stay. She was, however, beginning to regret that decision.

A small part of her brain was wondering when she’d changed from the wide-eyed foal who believed that her elders and professors knew everything to the more mature mare who realized that even the most well-intentioned ponies made mistakes sometimes—and maybe some of them weren’t as wise as they’d seemed.

Oh, sure, she’d enjoyed her class with Featherbrain. First, the pegasus was more interesting than the other professors. They all wore jackets and ties and generally had conservative mane-cuts. If Featherbrain remembered to wear anything at all, it most often clashed with her coat. Her lectures were memorable as well—one time she had dumped a cage full of fruit bats out over a lab table. As the fillies ran around the room trying to catch them again, she first apologized for bringing the wrong container—and then calmly explained the bats’ flight habits to her students, and why they were particularly attracted to Blue Belle’s lunch. In the end, the bats had been successfully corralled, and Twilight was inspired to write a paper on them.

At the time, she’d assumed that Featherbrain had meant to do that as a way to spice up her lecture. After all, nopony had been hurt, and nothing had been lost except for Blue Belle’s sandwich. But if it had been an accident—and if it had happened with the more dangerous arboreal cephalopod—what would have happened then?

What was Featherbrain doing in Ponyville anyway? Had Princess Celestia sent her here to help them with Dale? The most helpful thing would have been either a doctor who specialized in Dale’s species—which didn’t exist—or the book which he had brought that had detailed pictures and drawings of his anatomy. She might have given it to the doctor already, Twilight thought. No, she probably didn’t. If she’d gone to see the doctor, she would have come in through the door, not the window. She regarded the pegasus again. Probably.

It was unsurprising to see her whip out her camera—she’d proudly passed around photographs of some of the less-common species of Equestria during her lectures. She’d flatly stated that a photograph was worth several pages of writing. Twilight had never imagined it from the receiving creature’s end, though. It was kind of intrusive, to be honest; even Dale seemed to be losing patience with the whole operation.

When she finally ran out of film, Featherbrain approached him cautiously, and Dale squatted down. ““He crouched like that a lot on the beach,” Lyra said. “He seemed generally opposed to having his rump touch the ground, at least at first. It’s probably so he can be prepared for flight at a moment’s notice.” Twilight nodded. She’d seen him do that with Ambrosia, too. Featherbrain held his scent in, getting a good memory of it. There was a lot one could learn from scent, although many unicorns overlooked it, since it wasn’t polite to go up sniffing strangers. It was interesting to see that—once again—Dale did not reply in kind. Instead he asked Lyra a question.

Despite not knowing more than a few words in Dale’s language, the entire process of communication was enlightening to study. Twilight hadn’t imagined the complexity of the exchanges Dale and Lyra had had on the beach: he combined charades with a few words; Lyra responded back in his language. Once he was satisfied, she turned to Twilight.

“He wondered about his scent,” she said. “Aside from food, I haven’t seen him smelling anything else consistently. It’s probably not a sense he uses very much.”

“He’s probably more oriented towards pungent smells. He hasn’t got very large nostrils, so he’d have trouble picking up subtle odors. I suppose that wouldn’t matter too much for a scavenger.”

Dale kept watching Featherbrain intently, so he didn’t notice as Fluttershy crept across the room to get a closer look at him. Twilight thought about saying something—but the way in which Dale and Ambrosia had interacted had been quite informative, and she wondered what he might do if he were approached unexpectedly.

At first, he did nothing. His ears did not turn towards Fluttershy, even though her approach—while quiet—had not been silent. Instead, Dale seemed to be focused on Featherbrain’s wings, almost to the point of rudeness. Of course, Featherbrain didn’t notice; she was occupied with her camera. She probably wouldn’t care if she did notice, Twilight thought.

Fluttershy sized him up and quietly tried to get his attention. As he continued to ignore her, she finally took matters into her own hooves and gently tapped his side. Dale looked down in surprise.

“Do you think he’s frightened of Fluttershy?” Twilight asked.

Lyra watched as Dale tentatively placed his hand on the pegasus’ back. “No, I don’t think he is.” She frowned. “I wonder how she does that? He seemed reluctant to come close enough to touch when we were on the beach. Do you think her influence on animals extends to him as well?” She looked over towards Kate’s bed. Featherbrain had pulled the covers back and was taking photographs of the girl. “If so, it might help when she wakes up.”

“I don’t know.” Twilight frowned. She hated not knowing things. “Fluttershy’s pretty introverted around other equines, but gets along with Spike quite well. I don’t think she liked Gilda—but nopony did. She doesn’t like adult dragons . . . Dr. Goodall said that Ka-th-rin attacked her and the nurse; if she’s aggressive towards Fluttershy, she might become frightened of Dale, too.”

“I wonder if the painkillers are having too much of an effect on them? Maybe they’re making Dale a little more . . . tactile. Maybe they’re why the mare reacted so badly when she first woke up.” Lyra looked over at the girl, assuring herself that she was still asleep.

“Painkillers sometimes have that effect—or he might be reaching for comfort in a stressful situation. When he had his hand on your head—it’s probably just a comfort reaction, like nuzzling or grooming or preening. You might want to tell the nurse that his behavior is a little unusual. If it is an adverse reaction to the medication, they’re better off knowing as soon as possible.”

“I wonder if they’re using anything special.” Twilight levitated over the clipboard on the foot of Kate’s bed. She took out a pen and parchment to make a few notes. “Fairly conventional, except for the potions. Maybe they’re sensitive to opiates? I’ll have to ask the nurse to cut back the dosage.” Her ears perked as a distant bell rang. “School must be out.”

The two mares shared a slightly horrified look. “I don’t suppose the—”

“I hope not.” Twilight tapped her hoof on the tile nervously. “Rhyme won’t be in for another hour, so I suppose they won’t find out until school tomorrow.”

Her ears snapped around at the sound of a loud smack. Featherbrain was rubbing a hoof and flapping slowly backwards while Dale shouted at her. His face was a brilliant crimson color.

“He’s quicker than he looks,” Lyra commented dryly.

“I wish I’d seen what angered him.”

“I think he doesn’t like her . . . or maybe pegasi in general.” Lyra’s ears were focused on Dale. He pointed at her, but Twilight took the initiative first.

“Professor Featherbrain, mind your manners.” Twilight looked at the two pegasi. Fluttershy was her friend, and Featherbrain had once been a respected professor—but she was no longer a student.

“But there is so much we can learn from this creature!”

“I don’t care.” Twilight stepped forward. “He is not a specimen in your lab, he’s a sapient being. Whatever his wishes and desires are, we must respect them.”

“He came here,” she muttered. “If he didn’t want to be studied, he wouldn’t have come.”

“No.” Twilight stomped her hoof. “That’s not relevant. An hour ago, he legally became an ambassador of Equestria. His motivations are no longer an issue, but his legal rights are. So long as he remains within the borders of Equestria, he is entitled to all the rights and privileges of every other Equestrian citizen, and that includes the sovereignty of his body. He is under the protection of the Crown.

“I will allow you to stay in this room and observe from a distance, if you so choose. However, I cannot in good conscious allow you to approach closer than two body lengths from him henceforth, unless he personally allows it.”

“He doesn't speak Equus,” she protested. “Does he? How can I ask him?”

“It makes no difference to his rights what language he speaks. Talk to his interpreter.” Twilight waved a hoof at Lyra.

“Fine.” Featherbrain pointed to the bed. “I suppose that one is another ambassador?”

“As far as you’re concerned, yes.” Twilight looked over at the bed. “Honestly, I’d think a little restraint would do you well. She is seriously injured, and despite the best efforts of the doctors and Zecora, she may not fully recover. As I am sure you are aware, Equestrian law provides automatic asylum for any refugee until such a time as they are clearly able to state their case before a judge or noble. Even if she spoke our language—or we hers—her injuries and treatment make her legally incompetent at the moment, so she cannot give consent. In fact, I think you should take your camera and leave. He’s obviously not in a mood to deal with you right now.”

Featherbrain snapped her wings out and snarled. “You’d be happy if we never made any progress . . . I see why you live in this backwater town, now. You never wanted to fit in with modern society.”

Twilight’s horn glowed faintly—just a small corona right at the tip. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Lyra side-step so she’d have a clear line if she needed to cast a spell.

“I’ve learned a lot since I left Canterlot,” Twilight said quietly. “I’ve learned to be respectful to guests, and to put myself in somepony else’s horseshoes.” She tilted her head towards Dale, never breaking her stare with the pegasus. “He’s awfully curious about you, too. Would you like it if I held you down while he satisfied his curiosity?” Her aura flared a little brighter.

Featherbrain glared at her for a moment, clearly thinking of something to say but failing. Her wings drooped in an unconscious signal of defeat. Finally, she nodded. “I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, to scare him. I’ll stay at the hotel. Even if the rest of the professors go back to Canterlot, I’ll stay. He’s—he’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I want to study him—I need to!” She placed her hooves on the windowsill. “Let me know if he changes his mind, okay?”

Twilight breathed a sigh of relief as Featherbrain flew out the window. Things were getting just a little too hectic . . . she’d have to set up some kind of rule, or else everypony would be crowding into the room. Especially since there were other professors here: they’d be falling all over themselves to gain access. And there would be the doctor and the nurses, Cheerilee to help with the language lessons—probably Octavia at first, too.

“Fluttershy, I ask you as a friend to keep back from him as well.” Twilight’s expression softened. “Please don’t make me order you.”

“He’s sick and hurt,” she protested. “I . . . I want to help him get better.”

“We all do . . . but we can’t mess this up.” Twilight smiled reassuringly. “Remember when you tried to care for Philomena?”

Fluttershy hung her head. “But . . . this isn’t the same. He needs somepony to look after him! Look at how skinny he is—he must be starving!”

Twilight saw her opportunity and seized it. “Yes, he probably is. Lyra says that he eats carrion. It’s probably an important part of his diet.”

“Are you sure?” Fluttershy looked back at Dale, then Lyra. “I, um, don’t want to contradict you, but from what I can see, his teeth look just like any other stallion’s.”

“He had it for lunch twice,” Lyra replied. “I know. I shared his meal.” Her face reddened.

“Oh.” Fluttershy looked at her curiously. “What was it like?”

“It was kind of salty—not like fortified grain, but more than pasture grass or vegetables. A little stringy, too; kind of like celery, but stretchier.”

“Was it tough, or tender? Did you have trouble chewing it or swallowing it?”

“No, not really. It wasn’t like anything I’ve ever eaten before.”

“He must either wait until it’s decomposed or cook it,” Fluttershy said. “That could explain why he hasn’t got good teeth for tearing flesh. It wouldn’t be any trouble to get some fish; that would probably do, but if he needs more calories in his diet it might not be enough. Some of Opalescence’s food might do in a pinch. I could have Mr. Vulture see what he can find in the Everfree, and tell the other birds to keep a watch out, too. I bet we can find something tasty for him by dinnertime.” She turned back to Twilight. “I’ll write a letter to the Griffon embassy. We can get a steady supply through their couriers.”

She turned towards Lyra again. “Did you see any insects? He might eat them, too.”

“Ew, really?” Twilight stuck out her tongue. “Who would eat bugs?”

“Oh, um, a lot of animals do. They’re full of protein and stuff, and a lot of them are pretty easy to catch . . . things like grubs and ants. But some of them are poisonous to the wrong kind of creature. I should bring some of them. A lot of my animal friends like them, and his teeth would be fine for eating them. Mr. Bear knows where there’s a bunch of rotten logs full of them.”

“Thanks for taking care of that, Fluttershy. It’s such a relief to be able to rely on you. I’m sure he’ll be happy with some food he likes.” She floated a sheet of parchment out of her saddlebag. “I already took him to the kitchen to pick whatever he liked that the hospital already had, but I made you a list of . . . of carrion he marked off on his list. I didn’t think to list any insects, but if you think that’s what he’ll want, can you get some of those, too?

“Oh, um, it’s not a problem.”

“Twilight?” One of the guards nosed into the room. “There’s some ponies here who want to talk to you.”

She turned to see the eager face of dean Bright Star peering around the guard’s backside, no doubt hoping for a glimpse of Dale.

“I’d better go see what she wants. She’s probably not alone . . . I’ll see if I can coax them into another room. Then, maybe we can bring in one at a time to look at Dale, if he’s willing.”

Fancy Pants shifted on the uncomfortable bench. Not for the first time he regretted his decision to take the local train from Canterlot, rather than the express.

You needed to make sure, he told himself for what seemed the hundredth time. You needed to know whose side Princess Celestia was on before you committed yourself. She’d hinted that it was more a political consideration, and she’d said that the trial was a formality—but she’d had to recuse herself. She’d promised to do her best to delay the warrant until the vote on the Ambassadorship.

In that, he had not been disappointed. When the Princess gave specific orders, they were carried out to the letter—in this case, it had been particularly easy. He knew that by law a Royal Guard serving legal papers must travel by the soonest available means of transport to get to his destination, and the local train left Canterlot a full half-hour before the express. True, it arrived many hours later—had Celestia wished haste, she would have told the guard to take the second train. But she had not, because she had wanted to buy just a little bit of time.

Fleur had paced up and down the superannuated coach, looking for her mark. It hadn’t been hard—he was wearing full regalia. She’d sat down beside him, engaging him in small talk while they sat at the station. Whether or not he’d guessed the purpose of her visit was immaterial; she was a sufficient distraction. He’d already told her to delay him at the station for as long as possible while he went into the office and received a very important telegram. Of course, this was assuming that the Nobles’ Council would successfully come to a decision—and that their decision would be the proper one. A stallion could hope..

Fancy Pants flattened his ears as the shriek of the brakes rang through the mostly-empty coach. From the other end, a feminine yelp followed by a loud thud announced Fleur’s latest ploy—a ruse so old the guard was sure to fall for it.

He trotted to the vestibule, a single small travelling bag suspended in his aura. Fleur was responsible for the rest of the baggage, and if he knew her, she’d convince the guard to carry it all off the train for her. If not—well, she played a weak fashion model well enough, but had a field strength stronger than any unicorn he’d known. She could tangle him up hopelessly in suitcases and bags, and make it look like an accident.

Before the train had come to a full stop, Fancy Pants executed a somewhat sloppy dismount, skidding across the wooden station platform before he regained his footing. The telegraph office was just to the end of—there.

A moment later he emerged, a small yellow rectangle floating securely in his aura. He glanced up the platform, noting with a small smile the careful way in which the conductor placed the step for Fleur to descend. As soon as her hooves were on the ground, she glanced up the platform in his direction. He waved the telegram slightly and nodded. Fleur smiled and gave him a wink, then he was off at a gallop.

His first stop was the Ponyville Express. The paper was written by the rather oddly-named Apple Honey—Fancy Pants had long since given up on determining how earth pony parents named their offspring—when she wasn’t busy running her small freehold or repairing and selling used farm implements. An antique printing press sat in the back of her shop, dutifully pressed into service once a week. While it would never win a literary award—the mare could barely spell, and her typesetting skills were sadly lacking—it was the one reliable source of local news, and she dutifully attended every major event in Ponyville. He’d discovered this with a few hastily-composed telegrams. Fancy Pants kept his ear to the ground in Canterlot, but was less well-informed of the events in Ponyville. Had it not been the home of the Element Bearers, he doubted whether he’d have known the town existed at all.

Before he even opened the door, the unmistakable smell of printer’s ink assaulted his nostrils. Oddly, it was more muted once he stepped inside the shop—the pervasive odor of grease and farm masked it somewhat.

When he entered the small office, she was nowhere to be seen. He heard a feminine voice call out “I’ll be right with you,” followed by a loud clang of a falling wrench.

He glanced around the shop. It was fairly neat—by Ponyville standards. A yellowed newspaper tacked to the wall announced the opening of this very shop; the tagline was her own name. Even the header was misspelled, which hardly surprised him. The plaster walls were in need of a coat of lime, and the chairs appeared to have been rejects from a rummage sale. The desk was piled high with harness pieces, rusty plow teeth, and a stack of papers weighed down with a bent horseshoe. A spool of twine and two small rolls of soft wire were hung from a fairly-straight branch, which was tied up to the bottom of a home-made desk. He glanced over the counter and discovered a faded Wonderbolts pin up calendar that was two months behind—although he had to admit, it was a flattering, if somewhat unrealistic portrayal of Soarin. No wonder she hasn’t changed it.

In short, it was not the kind of shop that he was accustomed to. However, he took it in stride. His business took him odd places, after all, far outside the comforts of Canterlot. And while this shop wasn’t as trendy or exclusive as Barneigh’s, it was the better for it. Barneigh’s made things for mares and stallions who never worked a day in their life; this store was a vital chain in Equestrian food production.

A mare he presumed to be Apple Honey finally emerged from the back room. A patch of dried mud matted down her coat on her left withers, and a small stripe of grease angled across her muzzle. A range of conflicting emotions ran across her face the instant she saw him, and he wasn’t surprised. He was hardly the type of stallion one would expect in such a place.

“What can I do for you, sir?” she managed, unconsciously rubbing her muzzle. She opened her mouth again for a moment and then clamped it shut.

“I’m from Canterlot,” he began before remembering that being ‘from Canterlot’ and a unicorn automatically meant he was one of ‘them,’ and therefore to be regarded with due caution in a small town such as Ponyville. “I’m on the Nobles’ Council.” Which did not help his case, if the narrowing of the mare’s eyes was any indication. “Just today—this afternoon, in fact—the Council approved a new embassy. It’s to be located in Ponyville. They also nominated a new ambassador. A resident of Ponyville. Lyra Heartstrings.”

That got her attention. “Lyra, eh? The things that mare gets up to . . . my cousin Bon Bon and her—” The mare’s mouth clamped shut again, suddenly realizing that he might be a reporter here to get an early scoop, one she desperately wanted for herself.

“I’m on my way to deliver the message,” he said, waving the telegram in his aura. “I’d heard Applejack speaks well of you—” a little flattery wouldn’t hurt, even if it wasn’t true— “and thought I ought to let you know. You are the mare who publishes the local paper, aren’t you?”

Her chest puffed out in pride. “Darn right I am.” She pointed a hoof at the wall, indicating the faded newspaper page. “Goin’ on twenty years. I suppose this’ll be front-page news in alla them Canterlot papers.”

“No doubt,” he replied. “I wouldn’t know. I’m on my way to let Lyra know. She hasn’t accepted the post yet.” Fancy Pants paused, waiting to see her reaction. The glint in her eyes was all he could have hoped for. As badly-composed as the local paper was, she at least had her ear to the ground when it came to important local news. “I wonder how the mayor will react?” He tapped his hoof against the ground. “I suppose by tomorrow, there’ll be Canterlot reporters all over Ponyville, and maybe even a story in the evening paper.” Back off a little, he reminded himself. Just because it’s a small town doesn’t make them all idiots. Rarity didn’t become any less of a designer when her humble hometown was revealed. “I have to meet with her, but I’d be glad to answer any questions you might have afterwards. She’s at the hospital, I’ve been told. Good day, ma’am.”

“Good day,” she muttered automatically. He could feel her eyes on him as he walked out the door. She’d be a little suspicious that the story had been dropped in her lap, but as soon as she took a trip down to the train station, it’d be confirmed—well, assuming that the stallion who took the message revealed the contents. He wasn’t supposed to—but Fancy Pants guessed that this was gossip too good to pass up. He smiled inwardly. The first half of his mission had been accomplished; now he had to tell Lyra before the guard made it to the hospital.

He ignored the stares from ponies walking through the streets. Some of them knew him, but most were probably just curious about what a well-dressed unicorn was doing walking through town. He couldn’t know that he was following in the hoofsteps of the professors, or that their behavior had been odd by anypony’s standards. Even without overhearing conversations, there were enough turned heads that he knew the townsponies were watching him carefully indeed. He would have to make some time for them later—they would be his strongest allies. The case would largely be tried in public court before it even got before Luna—and while that wouldn’t influence the younger diarch’s judgement, it would mitigate her sentence if the trial went badly.

The law was not unlike a good game of chess, he reflected. If one planned more moves ahead than one’s opponent, the game was won long before the final moves were played. His opponent had even given herself a handicap, and told him what moves she’d make—so his only challenge was to play to the best of his ability, and there he had no doubts. Luna was his only variable; otherwise, it was a done deal. It was difficult to lose a game when his ‘opponent’ was on his side—yet that was no excuse for poor planning. He knew of several noble unicorn houses that had discovered the hard way that what they had believed was a sure thing had been anything but.

He nudged open the doors of the hospital and boldly stepped up to the counter. Breaking into his most winning smile, he regarded the mare at the desk. “I’m looking for Lyra Heartstrtings. Would you happen to know where she is?”

“192 or 232,” the nurse replied. “I should just write a sign for as many ponies who are asking.”

“Thank you.” Fancy Pants flashed a smile at the nurse. She didn’t look impressed.

The room numbers told him that they were on the second floor, but he wasn’t familiar with the hospital’s layout. He looked towards the stairwell; the nurse helpfully pointed a hoof in the general direction. With a polite head-nod, he turned to the staircase.

He found the room the nurse had indicated without much difficulty—the two guards flanking the door gave it away. One of them gave him a polite nod before he stuck his muzzle into the room.

The creature—he could think of no better way to describe it—was crouched in the center of the room. He was draped in a bedsheet and wrapped in bandages; Fancy Pants had to suppress a snort of laughter. It looked like an ill-prepared foal’s Nightmare Night costume.

Lyra was standing next to it; judging by their posture he had caught them mid-conversation. Her eyes widened, and the creature turned to look at him. A brief thrill of fright overtook him, and he took a step backwards before moving into the room cautiously. How did she handle being alone with it on a beach? “Miss Heartstrings?”

“Yes?” Her glance was as guarded as the creature’s, and her voice was strange. Deeper than a stallion’s, even—it came out like a dragon’s bassoon rumble.

“Might I have a minute of your time? In the hallway, if you please?”

She nodded, and spoke some words to the creature before moving towards him. He noticed a faint glow on her throat which dissipated as she stepped into the hallway.

Lyra regarded Fancy Pants warily. Her gaze kept shifting off him and back to the hospital room, as if she were expecting some kind of trick. “As a member of the Nobles’ Council, it gives me great pleasure to announce that by majority vote, the Council has decided to appoint you to a six-year term as ambassador to . . . uh, the creature’s unknown government.” The telegram unfortunately was of little help, but he could improvise the rest. “A formal ceremony will be held as soon as the embassy is opened. You should think about who you wish to appoint for your staff. Personally, I suggest at least one pony who’s on the Council. It helps to get things done in Canterlot.” He waved his hoof dismissively. “There’s a lot more formal stuff, but that can be dealt with later, if you accept the post.”

She nodded.

“Let me be the first to congratulate you, Ambassador Heartstrings,” he said, extending a hoof. “If there is anything I can do for you, I’ll be more than happy to assist. On behalf of the Council, we all wish you the best.”

She glanced down at the telegram again, a small smile playing across her face. He watched as she read it again.

A faint click at the end of the hallway drew his attention. The guard pony Fleur had been distracting on the train had finally made his appearance. He slowly walked down the hall, frequently checking the paper that floated just in front of him. Fancy Pants couldn’t blame him; when he was younger he’d done the same.

When the stallion reached the pair, he looked at Fancy Pants uncertainly before reading the charge sheet. “Lyra Heartstrings, auxiliary guard of the Ponyville detachment, you are hereby accused by Captain Shining Armor for negligently injuring two non-Equestrian citizens during peacetime and forcibly bringing said aliens to Ponyville against their consent and against orders. Due to the severity of the charges, you shall be taken into custody in chains to the nearest barracks—which is Canterlot—and there you shall remain until the time of your trial, which is to be within one week's time.

He spoke quietly, which was a blessing—but the look on Lyra’s face, so different from her earlier elation—wounded him, and he stopped the stallion before he could finish.

“Miss Heartstrings,” he informed the stallion, “is an ambassador, and should be treated as such. She cannot be taken into custody until after a court has found her guilty of the charges being laid at her hooves.”

The stallion backed up a step. He hadn’t been prepared for this.

“As a member of the Nobles’ Council, it is my duty to defend her, unless she refuses my assistance.” He advanced on the hapless stallion. He took no satisfaction from the act; it was just another move in the game which was still unfolding. “I pledge my lands as a surety of her appearance.” The familiar words rolled off his tongue. “Grant us the complaint, then begone. Your duty is done.”

The stallion nodded and wordlessly passed the scroll to Fancy Pants. Without another word, he marched back down the hallway.

Dale glanced out in the hallway at the new group of ponies that were milling around the door. They were all wearing half-suits, which was a worrisome development. His observation of pony clothing thus far had revealed that they had not invented pants, but did sometimes cover the front part of their body. While he couldn’t imagine the cultural history which had led to covering what—for him—was the upper part of the body, while leaving the genitals exposed, they were dressed exactly like he would have expected pony FBI or CIA to dress. That Twilight personally had responded suggested how serious it might be: Lyra had been the one to take change until Twilight appeared, which clearly indicated Twilight’s rank.

The only good news was that her conversation with the new ponies seemed to be going in her favor. In a way, he was glad of the fiasco with the winged green pony earlier, because it gave him an opportunity to hear different intonations in speech—a valuable asset. He listened as the group marched down the hallway.

He stood up and checked on the girl. She was moving around a little bit, which he figured was probably a good sign. Of course, it meant that he would have to come up with something to tell her, and that was problematic.

Dale gently placed her dog tags back around her neck. Hopefully that small bit of familiarity would help. I could tell her I’m a doctor, but she wouldn’t fall for that. Not unless I can scrounge up some convincing scrubs in short order. They probably don’t know what scrub pants are, so that’s out. I could blindfold her, and tell her she’s got a problem with her eyes. She’ll still hear the doctors and nurses, but maybe if I tell her it’s an effect of the drugs, she’ll relax a bit.

He was considering what he might use for a blindfold when the folly of his plan struck him. The only thing worse than waking up in a hospital bed in a strange foreign land would be if you were also blind. And, if she took off the blindfold despite his suggestion, she’d see her vision was fine, and he’d lose any credibility he might have.

On the other hand, if he told her the truth, his credibility would be suspect, too. Of course, he didn’t know exactly what the truth was. He could ask Lyra . . . but how long would it take to explain?

He looked back to the door as stallion stuck his nose into the room. This one had a very fancy-looking suit jacket, light-colored waves in his blue mane, and—inexplicably—a thin blue moustache. With that much attention paid to his grooming, he was either very important, or very gay. Judging from Lyra’s surprised expression when he spoke, it was likely the former. She said something to him, and he frowned.

“Lyra speak there.” She pointed into the hall. “Dale wait here.” Then she stepped out of the room. A moment later, she began speaking in a higher register—Dale had gotten so accustomed to her lowered voice, he’d forgotten she didn’t normally speak like that, but of course it would seem odd to others. Twilight had reacted the same way, he recalled.

The girl gave a soft moan and stretched out her arms. Dale stood up and moved over towards her bed. I’ll have to tell her the truth, he thought. Even though I don’t know for sure what it is. She wouldn’t believe him, of course. Why should she? If he’d been in her position, he’d be just as skeptical.

What would she do next? She’d probably assume he’d somehow gotten out of the psych ward and call for a nurse. At that point, things would get interesting. He didn’t even know their word for nurse, but they’d probably send one anyway, just because she was up.

I need to get my hands on some paper. I think we’re going to be drawing messages back and forth for a little while yet. He smiled, imagining himself sitting at a desk in a fancy office, wearing his makeshift toga and passing drawings back and forth.

At that point, all bets were off. She might attack him again, and then Lyra would have to restrain her until the sedatives kicked in. She might comply, assuming she was hallucinating. She might even try to pull her bandages off; he’d have to figure out a way to prevent that. It would be safer for everyone involved if she were restrained—but the ponies hadn’t seen the need, and might not believe him if he suggested she be tied to her bed. Were they too trusting to try that, or were they just that confident in their ability to stop her if she rampaged? So far, they had every reason to be confident. . . .

If he sat in one of the short chairs, maybe he could pass for a doctor or nurse or intern or something for long enough to get her to listen to him, at least. Ultimately, of course, she wouldn’t have a choice. Nobody else would be able to tell her anything she could understand. Unless, of course, Twilight was prepared for that eventuality with another one of her picture-stories.

Suddenly remembering the magazines for her gun and the bottle of pepper spray tucked in his makeshift pouch, he quickly shoved them into the only hiding place he could think of—under her mattress. The bullets wouldn’t be of much use without the gun, but she could do a lot of damage with the pepper spray. Nobody was in the room to see what he’d done with them—but he’d want to remember to find a better hiding spot for them later.

She shifted around in the bed again and reached up to rub her face with her right hand. Predictably, the bandage collided with her face unexpectedly, and her eyes snapped open, focusing on her right hand before darting around the room. Her gaze paused on the heart monitor before locking on him.

“You’re in a hospital,” Dale began. “You hurt your hand and ribs in an accident.”

“I feel funny,” she slurred. “Like . . . everything’s weird.”

You have no idea. “It’s the medication. That’s normal. Don’t worry about that, Kate, you’ll be fine. The top experts are assigned to your case.” As far as he knew, that was true. Of course, there was a time when expertise was measured in how fast one could amputate a limb in a battlefield hospital. But they’re beyond that, he reminded himself. I think. I hope.

“Are you my nurse? ‘Cause, no offence, you don’t look too good. Were you in the accident, too? What happened? You look kind of familiar.”

“I’m a . . . uh, I’m kind of an assistant. To the nurse. Who’s busy with another patient right now.”

She looked at him suspiciously.

“Ok, look—I know this is going to be a lot to take in all at once, but—”

She grimaced and lifted the covers slightly before deciding she was sufficiently clothed to remove them. Before he could stop her, she’d tossed them off and was slowly sitting upright, gingerly pushing off the mattress with her left hand. “Never mind that right now. Where’s the bathroom?”

“Ah . . . well, about that.” Dale glanced down under the bed. The bedpan was still there—but he couldn't imagine telling her she had to use it. And what if she didn’t know how and asked him for advice? Or didn’t believe that she should have to—either way he was doomed. So, parade her past the cluster of ponies in the hall? And then—then what?

Well, there was a school of thought that said it was better to jump right into a cold lake than to lower yourself in slowly.

“Well?” Kate glared at him.

“Down the hall to your left. There’s a . . . uh, drawing of a pony on the door.”

Author's Notes:

Click here for NOTES AND PICTURES!

You won't be sorry!

Chapter 6: Nightfall

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 6: Nightfall
Admiral Biscuit

Once Kate had left the room, Dale moved towards the door to monitor her progress. He hoped she would go straight to the bathroom—he should have gone with her, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. At least he could watch and be ready if she freaked out again.

He turned back towards her bed. I can grab the pepper spray, just in case . . . no; better to let the ponies handle it.

Kate had only just made it out into the hallway before she’d become distracted by one of the guards. She was crouched down in front of him, petting his nose. Dale could see his legs were trembling slightly, but he was holding his position, although his eyes darted over towards his comrade, who appeared to be trying not to laugh.

Just a little way further down the hall, Lyra and the half-tuxedoed pony were watching with interest.

“They’re wearing little suits of armor,” Kate informed him in a dreamy voice. “Aren’t they cute?”

“They’ll still be there when you get back,” Dale said. “I think you’re making him uncomfortable.”

“He doesn’t have a bridle or a collar.” Kate stood up and looked down the hallway—fortunately towards the bathroom, and not in Lyra’s direction. “You don’t suppose he’s a stray?”

Dale scratched his chin. “I, ah, he’s probably not a stray. I don’t think so.”

“My chest feels weird.” She leaned towards the wall, supporting herself with her left hand. “So does my hand. My fingers are numb . . . it’s like they’re asleep.”

She pushed off the wall and began weaving down the hallway while Dale stayed just to her right, ready to grab her shoulder if she stumbled. Up ahead he could see the door to his former room was open, and he heard Twilight’s raised voice coming from within. Kate began angling that way.

“It’s just a little further on,” Dale encouraged. “That’s just another hospital room.”

“Why can’t I read the room numbers?” Kate paused in front of a door and traced a finger over the sign. “They’re written in . . . in sticks. Funny little sticks.”

“Just a little further.” Dale steered her around a broad-leafed plant in an urn. “See, it’s right there.” He pushed open the door for her helpfully.

Kate looked into the room dubiously. “Where are the stalls? Or the toilet?”

“That’s the sink,” Dale said, pointing to the left wall. “Over there is a . . . uh, I don’t know what those are called. It’s a butt-sink. As for the rest, it’s . . . you know, modern design. Low flow, paperless. Designed to be used without hands. You’ll figure it out.” He gave her a helpful push and pulled the door shut. “I’ll just wait out here and give you some privacy.”

Dale leaned back against the wall. He could probably hold the door shut if Kate totally flipped out, although that seemed unlikely. In his experience, people didn’t flip out while they were in the bathroom.

He looked back down the hallway. The guards seemed to have composed themselves, although they’d moved closer together and the untouched guard appeared to be talking to the one Kate had petted. Is that something that offends them? I’d be upset if one of them started treating me like I was a simple animal . . . I wonder how the guards at Buckingham Palace handle it? People are trying to get them to react all the time.

They were much like the ones he’d seen on the island, although both of these had wings. At the time, their similar appearance hadn’t seemed too strange, but now that he’d seen the rainbow of coat colors that the ponies had, they seemed like the odd ones—even their manes and eyes matched. They were also, he suddenly realized, the only ponies he’d seen who had deliberately obscured the marks on their hips. It was possible they didn’t have them; they could have been bred or cloned specifically as soldiers, which would explain their unified appearance.

The bathroom door opened while his attention was diverted, and Kate walked out, looking up and down the hallway in an unfocused manner. “I’m kind of hungry. Is there room service here?” She started shuffling back towards her room, bouncing off the wall before she recovered.

“Ah, I’m not sure what time dinner is.” Dale looked at his watch instinctively, frowning at the condensation across the crystal. I meant to put that on the windowsill to dry. “I could probably have the nurse—or someone—get you something.” Would she flip out when the nurse came back? They’d want to change her bandages, they’d probably have to do some more work on her hand . . . maybe they were still going to do some more stuff with him, too. Had they opened up his shoulder to work on it? “I’ll have to ask when we get back to the room.”

“This place is weird,” Kate muttered, running her hand loosely along the wall just above the wainscoting. “It’s not anything like House.”

“TV isn’t the same as reality,” Dale reminded her. He heard hooves on the floor behind him and turned to see Twilight coming out of the room with a thick book floating in front of her head. He breathed a sigh of relief when he realized it was the copy of Gray’s Anatomy he’d given Lyra. And you were worried that they were just guessing on treatment. Obviously, they’d had the book all along and developed treatments based on the information contained in it. They’d probably compared the X-rays to the pictures and drawings in the book.

As he turned back to Kate, he heard Twilight trot past him, and watched her head down the hallway towards the stairs. Kate watched her go by with a look of wonder on her face; for a second he thought she was going to chase after the pony, but she was distracted by the guards again.

The one she’d been petting took a single step sideways and then lowered his head, resigned to his fate. “He’s so soft,” she muttered, scratching under his chin. “What breed do you think he is?”

A chill came over Dale. He could too easily imagine the situation being reversed. The nurse had touched him all over . . . was she marveling at how soft his skin was? Did she speculate on what breed he might be? How close had he come to being auctioned off to the highest bidder? Or had he been? The government might be the highest bidder . . . could he have misinterpreted that comic he signed?

He looked up the hallway. Lyra was walking back towards him, the tuxedo-wearing stallion behind her. His coat was the same white as the soldier-ponies, and his mane nearly the same blue. And his moustache . . . a very odd thing for a pony to have. It reinforced his theory that they went for genetic manipulation on a large scale, but why?

As Lyra got closer, he saw white streaks on her cheek. Are those . . . has she been crying? Her brilliant golden eyes looked listless, and there were definite traces of tears in her coat. She absently wiped a hoof on her face.

“Lyra not happy?” He was going to get to the bottom of this as quickly as he could. Maybe while Kate was distracted with the guard, he could figure this out. “He . . . uh, him make take Dale?” Dale pointed to the unicorn stallion.

She shook her head. “Him Fancy Pants. Him—” she paused for a moment and he saw a flash of gold on her horn and throat. When she continued to speak, her voice was lower, like he’d become accustomed to. “Him is . . . is—Dale, Lyra now, um . . . family. Dale, Lyra is family. Fancy Pants is not family, is like family.”

“Friend?” Dale pointed to the fresh plaster and mimicked shaking a hoof then spreading plaster.

“Yes, friend.” She said the word carefully. “Is friend. Lyra is . . . then get not happy word, Fancy Pants help Lyra, is friend.”

Dale sighed. He wanted to believe her . . . but the history of America had largely been a story of false trust. It was hard to imagine that a spacefaring race of ponies would conquer the earth, though, and he supposed if they tried it would be a hard-fought battle.

Don’t be paranoid. They seem to know what they’re doing. With slight hesitation, he held out his left hand, balled into a fist, towards the one she’d called Fancy Pants. He looked at Dale thoughtfully and extended his own hoof, gently bumping Dale’s hand.

A squeal from Kate made him wince, and he shook his head to clear the ringing from his ears. Adrenaline flooded his body; for an instant he thought the guards had done something to her. “You can talk!”

Both guards had winced at the sound of her voice—the one she’d been petting had backed into the wall, while the other was shaking his head. Kate didn’t seem to notice; she was focused on Lyra with a disturbing look. It was like she’d just won the all-expense paid trip to the Côte d'Azur.

Lyra responded quickest and explained, “Dale make Lyra speak words. Is she-Dale . . . is Ka-th-rin Dale friend?”

She looked over at Dale. “How . . . are these your. . . .”

“No. Lyra just doesn’t speak English very well yet,” he said, as if that explained anything. “They’re . . . well, look. Remember in X-Files how Mulder had a poster saying ‘I want to believe?’ Well, believe, Kate. We are not alone.”

“Oh. Huh.” Her eyes hadn’t moved from Lyra. “You’re such a pretty unicorn. Do you have clothes too?”

Lyra looked at Kate warily. “Katherine friend,” Dale said helpfully. “See?” He extended his left hand, but Kate ignored him. Finally, he grabbed her hand and began pumping it up and down, which finally drew her attention. “Friends.”

She giggled. “You must be a horse whisperer. You don’t look like Redford.” She looked back at Lyra, a slightly wishful look in her eyes.

“Go on,” he suggested. “Make a fist and bump her hoof; that’s how they greet each other.” He demonstrated with Lyra, who absently bumped his hand while keeping a watchful eye on Kate.

“Talking ponies.” Kate stuck out her hand and bumped Lyra’s hoof with it. “I . . . this can’t be real. It’s like some eighties cartoon.” She turned towards Dale. “I think I’m hallucinating. I’m going to go lie down, and when I get up things will be nice and normal again, right?”

“I know what you’re going through.” Dale grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly. “I felt the same way the first time I saw them.” That sight would be etched in his mind for the rest of his life. He still wondered if he should have just run the other way—would they have chased him, or would they have left him alone? “I had a month to get ready, and I just kept doubting anyway. You’re hungry, you’re hurt, and you’re in a strange place. You’re on medications that make things seem odd—odder than they are. I can help; we can get through this together. Why don’t I see about getting us some dinner? Or maybe we’ll have the doctor get a look at your hand. It’s probably time for your, uh, treatment. Then you can have a nice sleep, and things will make a lot more sense in the morning.”

“Can I keep one?” Kate pointed to the guard. “He’s . . . I like him. He’s nice.”

“They aren’t mine to give,” he told her. “Maybe if you sit down here in the doorway? You can be right next to him, and he can keep doing his job. That would probably be all right.”

She grinned at him and slid to the floor gracelessly, sprawling in a rather undignified—and immodest—position on the floor. Her unbandaged hand gently grabbed the guard by the chin and turned his head toward hers. Much to Dale and the guard’s chagrin, she rubbed her nose against his muzzle while whispering soft words to him.

He turned to Lyra. “Katherine eat?” Maybe if she gets some food in her she’ll be less loopy. “Get Katherine food?”

“Lyra get. Small food. Big food later. Ka-th-rin eat Dale food?”

“Yes.” Presumably she meant to ask if Kate ate the same food as he did, not if Kate considered Dale a potential meal. He watched her hold a brief conversation with Fancy Pants, while keeping a weather eye on Kate.

The tuxedoed pony left, returning a few minutes later with a plate of food and a glass of water floating in front of him. Lyra said something, and pointed a hoof at him. The plate and glass wavered in the air before they were deposited on the floor, about five feet away from Dale.

“Is good. Hmmmmm is good.” He wavered his hand around in the air. It wasn’t a lie; he’d gotten used to seeing things float around in their energy fields. As frightening as it had been the first times he’d seen Lyra do it, he was beginning to accept that all the horned ones—the unicorns—did it as a matter of course, and it wasn’t fair of him to disallow it near himself.

Lyra looked at him skeptically, but took him at his word and lifted the plate and glass off the floor. She floated them alongside Kate—who was running her good hand over the hapless guard’s wing.

“Heh, magic room service. This place is pretty cool.” She picked up a piece of bread and took a bite before offering some to the guard, who refused. “You could lease it to Disney and make a billion dollars. But you’ve got to share, ‘cause I had the idea.”

Dale sighed.

Once she’d finished eating, he finally disentangled her from the guard. “The doctor will be back soon to fix you up, and he’ll want you to be in bed like a good girl.”

“But I didn’t get to play with the other ponies,” she protested. “They’ll feel left out.”

I doubt that. “They’ll be there afterwards. They’re all as interested in you as you are in them.”

“That’s good.” She held out her arm and he pulled her up off the floor. “I wouldn’t . . . ow! My side hurts. Why does it hurt?” Much to Dale’s embarrassment, she started tugging at her johnny, pulling the collar further and further down to try and see her ribs.

“Why don’t you wait until you’re in the room,” he suggested.

“Yeah, good idea. Have you seen my jeans? I can’t seem to remember where I left them.”

“Let’s look for them later, okay? Come on.” He grabbed her hand again and pulled her back into the room.

Lyra watched as Dale led Kate back into the hospital room. Dale seemed concerned for her, which was causing some confusion. His earlier actions—and hers—had led her to believe that the girl was one of Dale’s enemies or rivals, but their more recent actions called that into doubt.

“Those are interesting creatures,” Fancy Pants offered. “I confess, I don’t see the appeal in them, though.”

“I didn’t want them here,” Lyra countered. “That was an accident, and I’m not sure how it happened. The spell shouldn’t have allowed it! Princess Celestia said it was safe.”

“When we have time, I’ll want to go through the whole thing, and I’d rather it be sooner than later. I want to believe you’re innocent—although I can assure you, my defense of your actions will be no less spirited even if you’re not—but the more time I have to prepare, the better a defense I can mount. By the time this is all over, there are likely to be a few clerks who are cursing my name, since the legal precedent—if there is any at all—is likely to be buried in dusty tomes in the Canterlot Archives.”

Lyra sighed. “I was just following orders.”

“Sadly, that is not an admissible defense.” He patted her shoulder gently. “Don’t worry, we’ll get through this. I’ve been assured—by a very high-placed source I cannot name—that the trial is but a formality. Once it’s over, no matter what happens, you cannot be retried for this situation.”

“Shining Armor made out the warrant,” Lyra muttered. “How can I work with Twilight when even her own brother wants to throw me in jail?”

“That’s just a legal formality. Since you’re under the auspices of the Royal Guard—and all their regulations—the complaint must be treated as issuing from his office, even if his hoof never touched the paperwork. He probably doesn’t even know yet—any ranking officer can swear out the complaint.

“I do regret their timing; it would have been better to have waited until the embassy was formally established. At that point you would have had another layer of protection. Still, it should theoretically be available before the trial. Now, does this Dale speak Equestrian at all?”

“Some. He’s a little difficult to understand, and we haven’t gotten past the most basic concepts.”

“He might make a strong witness for you,” Fancy Pants said thoughtfully. “I can count on some on the Council to side with us—Blueblood especially. I twisted a few tails for him to get you this posting.” He didn’t feel the need to add that Blueblood had been onboard with the plan due to a deep desire to not get the ambassadorship for himself.

“He’s a jerk.”

“Yes, and often an idiot. He’s also well-connected, and in this case will be a strong ally. Now, I’d like to get a deposition from you and Dale—and the mare. What did you call her?”

“Ka-th-rin.”

“Ah, yes. I suppose we’ll have to make do with a statement from her. I’m not sure it will be admissible; she’s no doubt affected by her medication. It might make her more sympathetic, though, depending on what she says.”

“What if she says it’s all my fault and she wants me banished?”

“Well, that’s hardly likely.” Fancy Pants fiddled with his monocle for a moment. “Still, I suppose in that case I would have to make certain that her testimony was struck down."

Twilight trotted quickly to the hallway, the precious book floating in front of her. As soon as Bright Star had taken it out of her saddlebags, Twilight had wanted to dance around gleefully, but that would have been an undignified display in front of her former professors—especially since it seemed likely that she’d eventually wind up teaching alongside them. There wasn’t much else a book-smart unicorn from a minor noble house could aspire to, except perhaps some minor government posting like her library job. As it was, she shifted about on her hooves impatiently while the book was slowly moved towards her aura. It was all she could do to keep from grabbing it from the dean.

The funny thing is it’s not even for you. While she wanted more than anything to hop up on the empty bed—or even just stretch out on the floor—and look through the wonders that every page promised, the doctor had a much greater need of the book than she did. When copies had been made, she was going to demand one for the library. In fact, she’d send off a request as soon as she could, to beat the rush.

She swerved around Dale and the mare, making a beeline for the staircase. The doctor was probably still in his basement suite.

Twilight trotted down the steps two at a time, finally emerging in the basement hallway. This unseen corridor was the heart of the hospital; rooms of supplies and exotic medicines from all corners of the globe surrounded the nurse’s dormitory and the doctor’s suite. A small space for Rhyme had been eked out in one of the closets; the filly was sitting at her tiny desk solving math problems out of a battered textbook. Twilight smiled—while the child barely had a grasp of simple math, she knew more about pony anatomy and diseases than most, having been raised in the hospital, and it had been no surprise when her cutie mark had been just like her mother’s.

Before she even got to the end of the hallway, the exotic smell of Zebrican cooking teased her nostrils. The door to the doctor’s room was open, and she could hear a stallion’s voice from within.

“‘You don’t worry,’ the zebra said. ‘Unicorn doctors always want to operate. Wait two weeks, it falls off on its own.’”

Raucous laughter greeted the punchline, followed by an indignant snort. “A funny joke, it is true; but I’d have told it better than you.”

“The doctor’s not so good at rhyming, are you?” Twilight stepped into the doorway, following the book. “But he can oh hello Twilight!” Nurse Redheart made a show of brushing an imaginary spot of dirt off Dr. Stable’s lab coat, while Dr. Goodall badly hid a snicker, to the embarrassment of the nurse. “We were just about to eat dinner; would you care to join us?”

“Zecora is making Chakalaka,” Dr. Goodall said.

“Dinner I could not stand, for your bread is so bland,” the zebra explained before returning her attention to the pot.

“I’d love to stay, but there’s a few more things I need to get done yet today.” Twilight set the book gently in the center of the table. “That’s the anatomy book that Dale gave Lyra on his first visit. The professors just brought it. I left them in room 232, if there’s anything you need to ask them. The dean is insisting that they stay until you give your leave. Except for Featherbrain; she came, caused a scene, and left again. She’s going to stay in town, though, if we want her help. The mare’s awake and was in the hallway with Dale when I came down.”

“We’ll have to check on her after dinner. My father said to never practice medicine on an empty stomach.” The doctor slid the book over to himself and began flipping through the pages; Dr. Goodall and Nurse Redheart leaned in close, oohing at the pictures. Twilight sighed. She really wanted to be right there with them, ogling the book . . . but she had other things to do. Regretfully, she walked back out of the room, the spring gone from her step.

The afternoon sun was pleasantly warm on her coat, and cheered her up a little bit. She walked towards Sugarcube Corner, nodding politely to friends in the street. She took a brief detour as she spotted Rarity and Sweetie Belle outside Carousel Boutique—the filly had a small pink impatiens flower wavering in her aura. As Twilight watched, it fizzled and died, and the flower dropped back to the ground. She stomped the ground with her hoof. “Oh, come on! Dumb flower.”

Rarity looked up at Twilight with a long-suffering expression before turning her attention back to her sister. “Perhaps you’re pushing too hard. Proper unicorn magic isn’t about strength, it’s about finesse. Try clearing your mind of distractions, and focus solely on the flower.”

As soon as Sweetie had her muzzle up against the flower, Rarity trotted over to Twilight. “I’m not sure how much more I can teach her. Everything I try fails. Oh, I don’t remember having had this much trouble with my horn as a filly. I don’t suppose you’d have time to help?”

“I wish I could, but I have so many things on my to-do list. I just stopped by to see how you were doing with their clothes.”

Rarity sighed. “I’ve made less progress than I wished. Their clothes are made out of fabrics I’ve never seen before, by the most cunning looms imaginable. The knitting on the socks is so unbelievably tiny. I doubt I could reproduce them. But I’ll try! I should have an outfit for each of them ready by tomorrow morning.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “I’ll work all night.” She looked over to make sure Sweetie was still concentrating on the flower. “She doesn’t know what I’m making. I thought it best that the crusaders not have a new . . . object of their attention.”

“Hey!” Sweetie looked over at the unicorns. “Twilight! How come I can’t lift this dumb flower?” She glared at it and grunted. A pale green aura enveloped the flower before spreading to cover the grass in a small circle.

“You need to focus on the flower alone and separate it from the grass it’s resting on. Rarity, she might do better if she has a smooth surface to lift off of, and an object which is very different. When I was a foal, we used glass marbles and a wooden tabletop. If you don’t have those, put the flower on a dinner plate.”

“Put my dishes on the ground? Well, I suppose if I must. . . .”

“Don’t let her work too hard, either. Foal steps. Sorry, Rarity, I’d love to stay and help but I’ve got a list a mile long.”

“Oh, darling, it’s fine. We’ll be fine. I’ll go get a plate.”

Twilight sat in a comfortable booth in Sugarcube Corner, sipping a tall cup of dark coffee. You need to focus, she thought, pulling her checklist out of her saddlebag. There’s a lot to do today. Coffee will help my focus. She’d checked in with Rarity—technically, that was much later on her list, but there was no problem with getting it done early. Next, she’d have to go to the school and see if Cheerilee might have time to help Lyra teach Dale. After that, it would be a quick trip to the new embassy to see how the construction ponies were coming along—but she’d have to stop by the library first and see if Spike had received any plans from Celestia for the building.

If there was time, she was morbidly curious about what Fluttershy had come up with for Dale. She had an unpleasant vision of the pegasus dragging the carcass of some poor animal out of the Everfree and over to the hospital. Twilight shook her head to clear the image. It was best not to think about.

Lyra had said that Dale wore glasses. She hadn’t seen them on his face, nor were they in the pile of things they’d removed at the hospital. Most likely they were at the bottom of the reservoir. Maybe one of Fluttershy’s fishy friends could find them; if not, Sea Swirl probably could. It would be much simpler than taking him to an optometrist: besides the logistical nightmare of getting him to Canterlot or Manehattan, the instruments weren’t set up for his eyes. If they recovered his glasses, they could just take measurements off the lenses and grind more, if needed. She hastily scribbled out a note; she could give it to Owlowiscious and have him deliver it to Sea Swirl.

Twilight rolled up the scroll and finished her coffee. She took the cup back up to the counter and got her twelfth-bit deposit back, then walked back into the street.

Cheerilee was sitting at her desk, writing corrections on math homework when Twilight walked in. She smiled at the welcome distraction and pushed the stack of papers aside.

The unicorn wasted no time explaining the problem to the teacher. When she was done, Cheerilee looked at her brightly.

“I’m sure Lyra is doing a fine job, but I’d be glad to help if I could. I’m not very good at foreign languages.” She waved a hoof around the classroom. “There isn’t really much need for it here. I can teach him the basics, probably. You say he’s learned some Equus?”

“A little. He and Lyra switch languages when they’re talking—sometimes in the middle of a sentence. It’s really hard to follow. Octavia transcribed all of Lyra’s notes on all of his words we learned the first time Lyra visited him, but she used musical notation instead of phonetic symbols.”

“Is she still here?”

“She’s at the library, I think. Unless she left on the afternoon train. I don’t know; I haven’t been there since this morning.”

“I’ll grade these later. I’d like to go over her notes with her—if I can figure out how she wrote the sounds, I can transcribe them into proper phonetics. Why didn’t you have me do it in the first place?”

“Lyra used musical notation in her notes, so only Octavia understood them. It wasn’t the best solution, but we didn’t have time to turn Lyra into a linguist.”

Cheerilee stuffed the essays into a folder, which she slid into a compartment in her bag. Twilight helped her close the windows in the schoolhouse, then the pair headed back to the library.

Dale brushed his hand across his head. The day had gone reasonably well—he’d survived, at least, and as far as he knew hadn’t accidentally declared interstellar war. Lyra had asked if they wanted to eat before the doctor worked on Kate again, or if he’d rather wait until after. Faced with the choice of losing his appetite or losing his dinner, he’d decided to wait.

Kate had proved surprisingly pliant, no doubt as an effect of whatever painkiller the nurse had given her. This time it had come from a brown bottle, and been administered a spoonful at a time. She had taken to the idea of being spoon-fed by a pony surprisingly well, although the process was frequently delayed by Kate’s need to pet the nurse on the muzzle. Once the actual procedure—he couldn’t really call it surgery—started, Dale had given her a summary of what he knew of the ponies so far. The far-off look in her eyes made him wonder how much of it she was actually understanding.

She fell asleep midway through his explanation.

Once they were done, the nurse had spoken with Lyra for a bit, occasionally motioning at the other bed and Dale. Finally, Lyra nodded and produced a piece of paper and her pencil and began drawing.

When she had finished, she showed the paper to Dale. “Dale make yes or no,” she instructed, sliding the pencil to him.

He picked up the paper and examined it. The first drawing was a sketch of the room as it was arranged now, with Kate in her bed and the other vacant. The next drawing showed him in one bed and Kate in the other; the third had the two beds together, making one larger bed.

Dale pointed to the last image. “No.” He couldn’t imagine why they even would have suggested such a thing.

It might not be a bad idea to share the room, though. In case she woke up during the night, or something went wrong. At least he’d be able to get a nurse, or talk her down, or whatever she needed. The only downside was if she freaked out during the night, she could hurt him. That seemed unlikely; whatever they’d given her had been pretty calming. Anyway, he didn’t think he was likely to sleep much. He pointed to the second drawing and said yes.

Lyra nodded and took back the paper. After a short bit of sketching, she handed it back to him.

Dale’s face flushed as soon as he saw what she’d drawn: it was three sketches of the ‘Dale and Kate share a room’ theme, but she’d added herself in two of them: once off to the side, and once in Dale’s bed.

Hands shaking, he looked up into Lyra’s bright golden eyes. The drawing slipped from his hands, but he didn’t notice. What does it mean? He could hear blood roaring in his ears. Is it an offer? An offer of what? A social custom? What if I refuse? What if I don’t?

Okay. Let’s assume I say yes. No. No, I can’t—but what if she’s insulted? I could say ‘later,’ but that would just string her along, so that’s no good. Maybe? Can I say maybe? Or does that imply a ‘yes’ later? And just what would I be agreeing to, potentially?

He dimly noticed that Lyra’s ears had shifted towards the door, followed a moment later by her eyes. He surreptitiously glanced down at the paper, hoping it would provide him with some sort of a further clue as to her intentions when a squeaking noise caught his attention, too.

Saved by the dinner cart. He pushed the paper aside and walked over to the chairs on the other side of the room. Lyra followed and the two of them pushed the chairs into a makeshift table. He’d have to sit on the floor to eat, but that was all right.

The nurse—the same pink one who’d fixed the room earlier—looked over at Kate with a frown, finally setting a covered plate onto her bedside table. She carefully put a glass of water beside it, lifting it into place with her hoof. Dale squinted at her, trying to figure out how she did it.

She brought two plates over to them, carrying them one at a time in her mouth. Lyra helped by floating over the glasses of water.

Dale lifted the cover off his plate and smiled. The cook had clearly paid attention to what he liked and what he didn’t: there was a bowl of fruit salad, two thick pieces of buttered bread, and a large helping of scrambled eggs and melted cheese. Instead of eggs, Lyra had a plateful of hay which she was dusting with the colored sand.

He was halfway through his dinner when the yellow winged pony he’d been petting earlier came in. She was wearing a pair of saddlebags this time, and seemed to be proud of herself for some reason.

Lyra noticed her, too, and stopped eating. She paled slightly and took a step away from her plate. Her pupils shrank and her ears locked on the yellow pony, while her nostrils flared. She snorted a couple of times, and Dale was afraid that they were about to fight—but when Lyra spoke her voice was as calm as always.

The two of them carried on a brief conversation, before the winged pony reached back and grabbed a small bag with her teeth. She set it on the floor in front of Lyra, who approached it cautiously. A golden glow twined around the bag, and the mouth of the bag opened slightly. Lyra looked inside it thoughtfully, then floated it up into the air in front of her. She looked at their makeshift dinner table, hovered the bag over it uncertainly, and then set it down in front of Dale.

“For Dale eat? Yes, no.”

Curious, he opened the bag and looked inside. There was a decent-sized chunk of bark, clinging to some very rotten wood.

Did they think he ate wood? He tore a small piece of it off and pulled it out of the bag. A couple of small grubs wormed out of reach as he pulled it loose. “Dale not eat wood.” He dropped it back into the bag.

Lyra shook her head, and spoke to the yellow one again. Finally, she gave a resigned look and her horn lit up. A pale grub hovered in a golden nimbus, right in front of his face. “Dale eat? Yes, no?”

“Uh. . . .” She looked somewhat uncomfortable by the prospect, although the yellow one was looking on eagerly.

There’s a lot of places where people do eat insects. Shrimp are pretty much like insects, and even fast food restaurants sell them. Well, Long John Silver’s, anyway. It’s digestible, probably. Still, I’d rather not. Not unless I have to. “Dale not eat grubs.”

Lyra nodded with a small satisfied smile and dropped it back into the bag, closed the drawstring, and floated it back over to the yellow pony. She shook her head, in case it wasn’t obvious that he didn’t want them.

As the two ponies began another discussion, Dale thought back to the grub. Lyra hadn’t even looked into the bag before pulling it out, which meant that she could selectively pick up objects even when she couldn’t see them. It was a frightening new dimension to the abilities that all the unicorns seemed to possess . . . he’d been amazed that she could keep something floating in the air even when she wasn’t looking at it, but this added a whole new element to the mix. For starters, it meant that they could probably find him even if he tried to hide.

Like everything else, it could probably be spoofed—but only if he knew what it was seeking. There were rumors of a military gadget that could detect heartbeats at a range, although even if such a thing existed outside of Clancy’s novels, it still wouldn’t work on a grub; they didn’t have a heartbeat.

The only thing he could think of was that it worked like some sort of selective magnet. It wasn’t a very satisfactory explanation, but it was the best he could think of. If the grub had been chosen as the ‘magnetized’ object, then it alone would be attracted to the field . . . but he’d seen that there was more than one grub in there, so why hadn’t it picked them all up? Was that selectable, too?

This was the kind of sexy alien technology that everyone drooled over. The potential applications were nearly limitless, and he’d seen so far that it could work on a wide variety of materials, organic or not, living or dead. Best yet, it was the kind of thing that might get corporations interested—which could be a useful bargaining chip in the future.

Dale looked back, where the two ponies were arguing about something. Lyra was shaking her head and looking disgusted, while the yellow one had a determined look on her face. Finally, she stuck her muzzle into the other bag and pulled out a very dead woodchuck. She proudly walked over towards Dale, the animal hanging out of her teeth. Before he could yank his plate away, she dropped it on top of his dinner and looked at him expectantly.

Lyra was no help; she had turned her head away and was coughing into a hoof. Dale fought his dinner back down and pushed the plate away, trying to avoid touching the paw splayed over the side of the plate. He shook his head, hoping that she’d understand and take that . . . thing off his plate. Not that he’d be finishing his dinner; his appetite had vanished.

She locked her big teal eyes on his and calmly pushed the plate back in his direction. He grimaced. Something about her look made him briefly consider trying it, but he remained steadfast. He pushed the plate away again and shook his head. She narrowed her eyes and popped her wings, then used them to fan the smell of decaying woodchuck in his direction, as if that would make it more appetizing. He was about to try and tell her that eating it would make him sick, when his stomach decided to resolve the matter on its own.

He heard Lyra shouting something as he launched himself out of the hospital room, hoping to make it to the bathroom before it was too late. He grabbed the door frame to help buttonhook himself into the hallway, forgetting in the heat of the moment that his right arm was mostly useless—it did the job, but sent a lance of agony directly to his brain. He ignored it; his stomach was his first order of business at the moment.

Dale sprinted down the hallway, shoulder-checking the door—with his left shoulder—nearly hard enough to knock it off its hinges. He was glad that this was one of the few swinging doors in the place; he couldn't have coped with a doorknob.

A high-pitched shriek told him that the room wasn’t empty, but he didn’t care. He’d made it, with his dignity mostly intact.

When he had finished, he looked up at the icy blue eyes of the nurse. To his surprise, instead of yelling at him, she spoke soothingly, helping him wipe his face off with a damp towel. He apologized as best he could, and let her lead him back to his room.

They met Lyra halfway; he imagined that she had come out into the hallway to look for him. She nuzzled his hip gently. “Is good?”

He nodded. “I’m okay. Uh, Dale good.”

She looked at him skeptically, but let it slide. The nurse began asking her questions—presumably wanting to know what accounted for his behavior in the bathroom. Lyra answered them simply. He didn’t try to follow along, although he did hear a few words he learned from Lyra.

Dale ran his hand over his head. He really just wanted to climb into bed, but he was afraid if he went back into the room, the yellow pony might still be there and she might continue trying to offer him dead woodchuck. If he waited until Lyra and the nurse finished talking, maybe she’d be able to tell the yellow one what had prompted his sudden exit.

But he needn’t have worried. The two ponies escorted him back to the room, which was now vacant except for Kate. He climbed into the bed and pulled the covers over himself before worming out of his makeshift toga.

The nurse stuck her forelegs up on the bed and leaned over him before patting him gently on the head with her hoof. She clicked the bedside lamp off, leaving him in relative darkness. He could make out the silhouette of Lyra near the doorway. The nurse spoke a few words to her, and then left the room.

Lyra slowly walked over to his bed, pausing a couple of times as if she were uncertain if she should continue. Finally, she seemed to work her courage up and pulled herself up alongside him. She stretched her neck out and nuzzled him on the cheek before dropping back to the floor with a clack of hooves. “Lyra go Lyra home.”

He watched her leave with a heavy heart. He suddenly felt very, very alone.

Dale finally got tired of staring around the room and at the ceiling. It was obvious that sleep wasn’t going to come easily, despite how exhausted he felt.

The room was uncomfortably quiet, much more so than a hospital or hotel on earth would have been. He could clearly hear the ticking of his watch and Kate’s shallow breaths. Occasional creaks and pops of the building settling for the night were the only other noises—there were no mechanical sounds to break the stillness.

Lyra’s drawing implied that the beds moved easily enough, so he decided to push his closer to the window. Hopefully, the nurses wouldn’t mind if he did a little redecorating.

He considered wrapping his toga around himself, but decided that Kate was fast asleep, and it would be too much bother anyway. He gave the bed a few shoves with his left hand, but it barely moved. Instead, he settled on bumping the bed with his hip, until it was against the wall with the head by the window, slid the table next to it—carefully watching the lamp—and then climbed back into bed.

If it hadn’t been for lights in many of the windows, he would have thought the town was deserted. The market had closed for the night; all the stalls were shuttered. He opened the window a crack and let the sounds and smells of the town drift to him.

The night air smelled fresher than Earth’s—he wondered if it really was, or if it was just the smells of wood smoke and flowers and fresh-cut hay were comforting.

There wasn’t much in the way of noise—certainly there were no automobiles or passing jets. He could faintly hear doors closing every now and then, and once he heard a mare giggle. At one point he thought he saw a pony which looked like Twilight, but he could have been mistaken. They all looked very similar until they were close enough to see their colors and marks.

He glanced up at the sky, where an unfamiliar moon cast its light onto the town below. He could see a few stars, which he assumed were the particularly bright ones. He could make out some more when he squinted. He had to imagine that, as dark as the town was, the nighttime starscape would be magnificent. It would be interesting to see if he could find any constellations he recognized—that might give him an idea how far from Earth he was. If he were fairly close—say, a light year or two—he’d probably be able to see some familiar ones. One of those stars up there might be his very own sun. It would be nice to know which one. He’d have to ask Lyra—it would certainly be a view that no one else had ever had.

In so many science fiction novels, the characters seemed to have a desire to find the sun, and now he thought he knew why. Here he was, practically all alone on a world unimaginably distant from his own. He hoped they would bring him back . . . but he was completely at their mercy. He couldn’t even delude himself into believing that anyone would ever come to rescue him—barring some scientific miracle, there was no way humanity could reach him even if they tried, and that was assuming that they knew where to look. He suddenly felt very small and alone.

A shadowy blur of motion caught his attention, and he watched as a winged pony landed in front of a modest house and pushed the door open. It hesitated on the doorstep, where it was ambushed by a small blur that hugged it fiercely. A kid . . . that winged pony must be a parent. The pair went inside, so Dale rolled on his back and closed his eyes.

He is standing back on the beach on North Fox Island. He’s at the top of the rise, where the land falls towards the water; in front of him the Coast Guard boat is beached. He can see a spume of water at the stern, and there are three sailors on the beach, looking at him curiously.

“Run! They’re coming!” He feels a strange pull and turns to look back. The forest is gone, replaced by an army of soldier-ponies, lined into neat ranks as far as he can see. Each one of them is carrying a woodchuck in its mouth, and the yellow one is leading them. She drops her wings and the soldiers begin marching forward.

He tries to run down the beach to safety, but the sand slows him. He feels like he’s running in molasses. The people on the beach can’t hear him, and they—

He came half-awake, blearily looked around the hospital room, and then drifted off again.

“You must help us find the names for these things,” Twilight explained. Kate was in front of him, stretched out on the floor, and the doctor was calmly reaching inside and holding up organs. “What is that? What does it do? If you can’t answer our questions, I’m afraid we’ll have to continue experimenting on you.”

He looked down, against his will.

Heart hammering in his chest, Dale’s eyes snapped open. The room was still peaceful, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was looking for him. Almost without thinking he got out of bed and walked to the door and peered down the hallway. There was noone there.

His hair was standing on end—even the non-existent hair on his head—and he felt a deep chill that was more than the night air. Suddenly he believed very much in ghosts. He clicked the bedside lamp on and got back into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin.

He is running again. He splashes across a small creek, slipping on the smooth-worn rocks. He can hear the charging hoofbeats behind him, and he knows full well what they are. The Janissaries of Emilion, and everyone knows that they can kill a man while he dreams.

He trips over a root and tumbles to the ground. Before he can pick himself back up, they are on top of him, but they cannot see him—they ride past him, time and again, close enough that he could reach out and touch them if he dared . . . he knows to do so will spell his doom, yet the compulsion is irresistible. He reaches for one, grabs hold of its tail—

And they’re gone. He’s back in his bed, but he’s not alone.

He runs his hand across Lyra’s coat. There’s a strange tingling sensation traveling from his fingers to his chest, but it isn’t unpleasant. In fact, it’s kind of warm.

He can feel her chest rise and fall with each breath she takes, and he can feel the strong beating of her heart. She is asleep, snuggled under the covers with him. He gently moves his hand up her shoulder to stroke her mane, which is soft and silky under his rough skin. She is speaking softly in her sleep, and he can almost understand her words.

He tangles his hand up in her mane, gripping it tightly. He knows she won’t mind; he can see a small smile on her face. Her ears occasionally twitch as she sleeps; one of them keeps turning towards him. He wants to move his hand and touch it, but his hand is very heavy.

She shifts her position slightly, rolling into him. He’s glad that she’s careful to keep her chin down, because if she wasn’t, he’d stand a good chance of being stabbed by her horn.

Something seems off; the familiar walls of his bedroom are gone, and he sees that they are in an open field, midway up a small hill. Above his head, a thousand thousand stars shine forth. He is surprised to find that he is not cold at all, even though he seems to be wearing only khakis and a T-shirt.

He can feel her tail moving against his leg, gently brushing his knee. Below them, a still pond glows like a mirror until a mist covers it. It slowly spreads through the trees and crawls up the hill like streams of liquid moonlight.

He can see above her head; when he crosses his eyes just right he can see the delicate spiral that circumscribes her horn. There’s a very faint golden aura which surrounds it, invisible in all but darkness, and in this land of mists they’re in together.

He feels a presence in the shadows, and he wants to avoid it but he knows he cannot. It beckons to him, calling his name. He occasionally catches sight of it, brief flashes of witch-light that reveal her form before dissipating into the mists. He shouts at it, challenging it to come forth, but his words are strange, echoing and bouncing through the fog until they have no power at all.

The mist forms and coalesces into a shape he can’t quite see. He turns to ask Lyra what it is, but she bites him in the shoulder. Hard.

He reaches for her, but the mists get her first and she’s gone.

Author's Notes:

Once again, I couldn't've done it without my pre-readers!
Humanist, AnormalUnicornPony, metallusionsismagic, Woonsocket Wrench, and my parents.

As usual, here's the notes for the chapter

Chapter 7: Dreams

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 7: Dreams
Admiral Biscuit

Twilight yawned and blinked her eyes to focus on the wavering printing on the parchment in front of her. The main room of the library was a complete mess; every flat surface was covered with papers. Books lay open across the floor, and a half-dozen scrolls were neatly stacked in her saddlebags, waiting to be delivered in the morning. At least the messages to Princess Celestia had been sent—it had been the last thing Spike did before he trudged up the stairs to bed.

Clothing . . . clothing. Rarity said she’s making progress. But I didn’t look myself because of Sweetie—make a note, set aside a foal’s book of simple casting exercises—so maybe she’s not as far along as she claims. Should I check on her in the morning? Twilight forced her sleep-heavy eyes open. I’ll just mark it with an underline, to check later.

She picked up the list and walked into the small kitchen, intent on making herself a cup of strong black tea—just enough of a pick-me-up to get her through the night. Keeping one eye on the list, she filled the teapot and set it on the stove, opening the damper to let the coals flare up. She rinsed out her tea ball and filled it with some shredded leaves. Immersion might not be the proper way to make tea, but it was quick.

As the water heated, she turned her attention back to the checklist. Cheerilee and Octavia had made workable copies of Lyra’s notes before the cellist left on the late train, so that was as done as it would get. The notes which Octavia had would go to linguists in Canterlot, who would begin working on translation dictionaries and pronunciation guides. Meanwhile, Cheerilee would try and see if she could teach Dale more words. By the end of the week, it was hoped that somepony would have proved herself adept enough at the language to come to Ponyville and assist.

Food was largely taken care of, for now. Twilight hadn’t heard if Fluttershy had had any success finding insects or carrion for Dale, but she was sure she’d find out in the morning. In one of her many letters to the Princess, Twilight had requested that the griffon embassy staff see about what they could ship to Ponyville in the next couple of days. Apparently, they had some kind of special bags with preservative spells on them, as fresh meat went bad after a few days. That made meat seem like a poor choice for a food source—properly stored pasture grasses could stay edible for months or even years.

Her ears perked as the water boiled. She opened the cupboard only to discover that it was devoid of any cups. A glance at the counter told her why: with all the running around she and Spike had done in the last few days, there hadn’t been any time to wash the dishes, and with guests . . . she finally settled on a ceramic mug that looked fairly clean, reasoning that the boiling water would probably wash out anything nasty.

She tapped her hoof impatiently as the tea was steeping, returning her attention to the list. Embassy. She frowned. Dr. Stable had told her that the stallion would probably be able to leave the hospital tomorrow. He was ambulatory, and his injuries were not life-threatening. He could come back to have a new application of salve. Dr. Stable was of the opinion that ponies were better off healing up at home, rather than in the hospital. Of course, there was the slight difficulty that Dale didn’t have a home, and if the pace of construction ponies was anything to go by, he might not for a while yet.

To be fair, it wasn’t entirely their fault. There was simply too much work that needed to be done. Twilight had stopped by after she’d taken Cheerilee to the library. The inside of the house had been largely gutted—leaks in the roof had ruined the upstairs. Night Soil was cleaning out the pit behind the house, while pipefitters were adding a cistern-fed bathtub and kitchen sink.

The foreman had asked her if she knew any more about the inside arrangement yet, and she’d just shrugged and told him to leave it flexible. In time, they’d build a more fitting embassy, but that would simply have to wait. For right now, she’d settle for something that wouldn’t offend their guests.

She’d hated to leave—it was a rare chance for her to observe so many ponies working together on a common task. A group of pegasi was re-thatching the roof, flying willow-tied bundles of reed out of the gambo wagon sitting alongside the house. On the opposite end, a pegasus painter was applying fresh paint to the second story shutters.

Ambrosia and Rough Tumble were standing on a rickety scaffold. The stallion was fixing the wattle, while the mare filled in the daub when he was done. A colt assisted them, using a pulley hooked to the lifting beam to pull up buckets of daub and water and bundles of sticks.

Meanwhile, more tradesponies were pulling up wagons with furnishings, from a sofa to a stove. Even Mr. Greenhooves had gotten involved, weeding and overwatering the neglected kailyard. She might have watched for hours—except the foreman shoved a dirty piece of paper in her face. “Supplies. See if ya can get ‘em outta Canterlot. Don’t have ‘em in town.”

Twilight blinked and looked back at her tea. I must have zoned out there. It had cooled almost completely, but it would do. She underlined embassy on her checklist—maybe tomorrow they’d have a better idea how soon it would be habitable.

Banner. Pinkie Pie was supposed to be making that. Twilight hoped that the hype around the new embassy would spark interest in Ponyville’s newest residents. Already, ponies were gawking at the construction site, speculating out loud about the sudden interest in the old building. Apple Honey was planning to run an article in tomorrow’s newspaper about Lyra’s new ambassadorship, and an extra edition that night with an exclusive interview, which would drum up more interest. Hopefully, if there was enough hype, crowd psychology would do the rest—it had certainly worked for Iron Will and Trixie. Twilight dithered for a moment, her quill hovering just above the parchment. I haven’t seen it yet . . . but it’s for a party, kind of, and that’s something Pinkie takes seriously. I’m sure it will be ready tomorrow. She checked off the box and took a sip of tea, suddenly realizing that she’d reached the end of her checklist.

Maybe I’ll look into traditional griffon architecture. She yawned. There might be something useful that could go into the new embassy. Omnivores probably all think alike. She plodded back into the main room, levitating over another book. Lacking any usable table space, she set it on the floor and stretched out. I wish I had a crystal lamp like the ones in the hospital. It would make reading at night so much more comfortable. It would be too much work to fill a firefly light, and it was too risky with all the paper about to light a lamp, so she finally settled on a light spell.

Shifting into the perfect reading position, she flipped the book open and began reading. Five minutes later, she was asleep on top of the book.

Luna stood on her balcony, gazing thoughtfully at the dark valley below. These creatures that had come to Equestria were elusive. If they had any effect on the weave, it was far too small for her crystal apparatus to detect.

Celestia might not have intended that she discover their presence so quickly, but it was hard to miss it. She’d been briefed on the day’s progress in the Nobles’ Council, and it was obvious to anypony with half a brain why they were suddenly voting on a new ambassador. The creatures were here, and judging by the number of ponies who had suddenly been shifted to Ponyville, she knew where they were.

It was hardly surprising they’d be there. The chaotic forces of the Everfree tended to strengthen magic, at the same time causing it to go awry. That couldn’t be helped; it was more of an asset in its wild form than it ever would be if they tamed it—if they could. And if it wasn’t the forest that caused the magic to go malfunction, maybe it was Discord. Celestia thought he was powerless in his stone prison; Luna was not so certain. Like the Everfree, the Elements did what they wished without leave from ponies. Centuries of study, and the most gifted unicorns were no closer to understanding the Tree of Harmony than when they’d began.

She hated to dreamwalk with adult ponies—really, with adults of any species. She had, back in the formative days of Equestria, but it was difficult to get through all the mental barriers. Each species had their own. Naturally, she’d improved with practice, and had even been able to plant small seeds of ideas in the heads of a few griffons . . . but it just didn’t feel right to do that. If somepony called for her help, it was one thing, but to go in uninvited was no different than just stopping by some random pony’s house and eating all their flowers. No, that wasn’t true. It was worse.

Admittedly, she knew better than most that dreams usually didn’t mean anything, and often enough weren’t even remembered upon waking. What happened in dreams, no matter how inappropriate, was of no consequence if it stayed there. But she’d found that she could get the measure of ponies by carefully watching their dreams.

Best yet, Celestia hadn’t yet forbade her from trying to access the dreams of the new visitors, so this might be her only chance.

Her horn lit and her eyes began glowing a soft white as she cast herself out into the aether. She probed around, trying to get a feel for the strange creatures. Her aura wended through the delicate traceries of the dreamscape, gently feeling for something it had never encountered before.

She found the mare quickly. Something was wrong: colors and shapes and smells and ideas flashed into being and just as quickly dissolved into glittering dust. A brown-white meniscus crept up over the dust and swallowed it. Her dreams were completely broken, unrelated thoughts fluttering off like a photo album bucked into a wall. There was no rhyme or reason to it, and Luna could detect the influence of potions. It was risky to try and slip into the dreams of an intoxicated individual; it could lead to madness. It was only slightly less dangerous than turning dreaming magic around on one’s self. Luna moved away as quickly as she could.

The stallion was more subtle. She found him, close to the mare. There was a wall around his dream, a barrier she’d never encountered before. Faint spots of strong feelings burst on the surface—he was moving to a good/bad place. Hope and fright blended together in a fractal swirl. She experimentally spread herself over it, feeling it shift under her. The surface changed—it was easiest to call it color, although it wasn’t—in a swirling ripple, darkening where she touched. She felt it falter, and then vanish like a soap bubble, leaving her grasping nothing.

She waited patiently, and was rewarded. Out of nothing, a small seed of an idea sprang into life, spinning and twisting so quickly she could barely keep up. This one was darker; thunderclouds of emotion scudded around in a cyclonic frenzy. Luna pounced on it before it could fully form, hoping to pierce the barrier before it could reject her. Once again, the dream collapsed.

Luna blinked back into awareness on her balcony. There were ponies who knew how to block their dreamstates. They were few; the knowledge was not often shared. For the centuries she’d been imprisoned, the scrolls which contained the spells had mostly crumbled to dust; every few generations, a new pony discovered the ability, but it was generally considered useless. Still, there were old ponytales of races who were largely telepaths, and the ability to make a mental block in such a race would be very beneficial indeed.

Well, for every defensive spell, there is an offensive spell. Luna tried again. This time she formed her essence into a lance, piercing the outer bubble with no difficulty whatsoever. . . .

Only to find another inside, like those silly nesting reindeer figures that were so popular in the eastern steppes. This layer was a vast spectrum of smell—sweat and dirt and water and fir trees blending into a uniform cologne. She dropped another layer and was assaulted with a bedlam of noise. She poked through two more before giving up; she could potentially trap herself in the dream and not be able to escape until the stallion woke. It was unlikely, but possible.

She would change tactics. She would be clever. She would use her own stalking pony.

Luna shifted her focus, skimming across the dream-Ponyville. She flitted in and out of bedrooms like a wraith, until she finally found her target.

Detective Moller sat at his borrowed desk and thought. A folder to the left held the preliminary results of the investigation—which thus far amounted to little more than a dry factual account of what had allegedly transpired, two dozen photographs which he had chosen as the most representative, and the disappointing but anticipated fact that so far nobody knew who the old guy was. What they presumed to be his fingerprints hadn’t found a match. On a TV show, they’d have already found at least one suspect by now. And cut to commercial, he thought dryly.

On the right, a legal pad covered with the results of his interviews served as a fine surface to drum his pen against. The video tape would be gone over and transcribed, but he’d found that taking notes during and after an interview helped with his memory, and helped put the human account in line with the material evidence. Questions he’d wanted to revisit were underlined, while suspicious answers were circled.

Of course, not all cases were open-and-shut, and this was looking like it was going to be one of them. At first glance, it was very nearly what the crime writers loved to call a locked-room mystery, although there were dozens of ways that a reasonably enterprising individual could have spirited someone off the island, such as a hidden motorboat.

He opened the folder and flipped through the photographs again. He already had a deepening conviction that this was going to eventually blossom into a murder case. Whether they found Kate’s body while they were still trying to make sense of the evidence, or a multi-year manhunt eventually turned up a suspect, vague confession, and eventually maybe a burial site, this was how the case was probably going to end. There wouldn’t be any quick breaks.

In fact, the only good news about Kate was that the Coast Guard had taken it upon themselves to quickly circulate her picture, and it was going up in marinas up and down Michigan’s west coast. It wouldn’t be true to describe the crowd of pleasure-boaters as a ‘tight-knit group’—although that would undoubtedly how the news would report it if this particular well struck oil—but all it took was one concerned citizen to make a phone call. Sometimes they got lucky.

What was your game? On the surface, everything looked plain vanilla. If he discounted the interviews with the Coast Guard sailors, the case would be straightforward: man camping on an island sees a lone woman, overpowers her, drags her back to his camp—he’d unfortunately worked a few cases exactly like that. But there were too many people who all agreed that she had not been alone on the beach . . . true, she’d been a good distance from Cortez and Anthony, but no one would attempt a kidnapping in front of two other law enforcement officers no more than a couple hundred feet from him, and more coming from the water. Taking her hostage or shooting her outright because of some deranged impulse—he could see that. But it didn’t work for a kidnapping. If it was planned, how would their suspect have known she’d be coming to the beach? It made even less sense for a snatch-and-grab—who would wait on a deserted island for someone to come along?

And the camp . . . he just kept going back to that. Most crimes he’d investigated, everything was more-or-less as it seemed. There was the occasional criminal who made a clumsy attempt to hide or destroy evidence, but it rarely worked. This wasn’t so much an attempt at a cover-up; it was more like show-and-tell. There were so many out-of-place oddities, particularly in the tent. It seemed like a staged camp, but for what purpose he couldn’t imagine.

Moller studied a picture of one of the books. No doubt it would be making its way to cryptologists, eventually. While he was hardly a scholar of languages, there was nothing in the book which looked anything like a language he knew—not one currently in use, anyway. Had he seen it in a movie, he would have identified it as a spell-book, from the simple woodcut drawings at the top of each page and the runic-looking characters which made up the text. He’d have to get photos to an occultist . . . maybe the guy was part of some weird religion. It could explain why he had notebooks full of the same gibberish.

There had been three items on the beach . . . he fumbled through his notes. A claw, spear, and sword. That was kind of like a bell, book, and candle—maybe an initiation rite? Some kind of weird symbolism? The spear was broken, so maybe that was part of the ritual. Yet another thing to find out.

Moller ran a hand through his thinning hair. If the guy was a weird religious nut . . . that’s the worst kind. All bets are off. Some of them really believe that there’s a heaven waiting for them if they commit an atrocity, and they don’t care if they get caught. Such a person might just grab Kate despite the other Coast Guard men on the beach.

They’d probably know more once they figured out who he was. He’d been low-key, and no doubt his neighbors wouldn’t say anything bad about him—not at first. Not until the evidence began coming out of his house. Then everyone would see him for the monster he was, and would hurry to denounce him. Just like so many others.

He set the photograph down and picked up the next. They were in no particular order; he’d arranged and rearranged them numerous times, trying to get a sense of the guy and the crime. This was the one he couldn’t explain; this was the one that didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t the most detailed of the photographs—he’d selected a long scene-shot, rather than a detail shot, because getting a view of the whole crime scene was more important than getting bogged down in the details.

It was a simple enough photograph; unlike so many of the crime scene photos he’d examined over the years, this one would look good hanging on a wall. Maybe even in his office . . . maybe when the case had concluded satisfactorily he would put it in his office. Right now, though, it was a vexing thing.

On the left of the photograph, the woods curved towards the center, while on the right the water angled in. Right down the center was a slice of beach. You could tell by the angle of the shadows and the light that the photograph had been taken just before sunset. The photo quality was very good—the popularity of decent cell phone cameras had been one of the greatest law-enforcement tools ever invented.

On the water-side of the beach, a set of footprints ran down the sand. The closest footprints were easily identifiable as boots, and the length of stride and the way the sand was kicked up indicated the wearer was running. They ended in a large section of disturbed sand marked by a forlorn strobe light.

The more interesting detail was the prints on the landward side. They had unmistakably been made by a quadruped. He was less experienced at analyzing an animal’s gait by its tracks, but his gut told him that it was running. The prints looked kind of horse-like, but that wasn’t the interesting detail. No, the thing which had him flummoxed was the way the prints ended in a skid . . . and then nothing. Nothing at all. Just undisturbed sand all the way to the horizon.

Lyra trudged through the darkened streets of Ponyville, her head down. She should have never allowed Fluttershy to bring that woodchuck—she’d should have known that Dale’s sandwich wasn’t decomposed like that. The smell should have been a tip-off.

At least he wasn’t mad at her. She’d been a little nervous to approach him after the woodchuck incident—especially after the nurse had told her what had happened in the bathroom—but he hadn’t shied away from her good-night nuzzle. She yawned deeply. The day had been stressful, and coupled with the lack of sleep she’d had the night before, she was ready for bed. Maybe she could convince Bon Bon to—

Bon Bon! Her heart leapt into her throat. She’d promised to come home for lunch, and she hadn’t. It had totally slipped her mind. She looked up at their house—the windows were darkened and the first-floor shutters closed for the night.

Lyra stood off to the side of the door and swung it open with her horn, wincing at the slight exertion. All day long she’d been running on an adrenaline high, but now she was crashing fast, and the doctor’s orders to limit her magic usage came back to mind.

She poked her head around the doorframe, and no errant objects came flying out. It was a hopeful sign. Bon Bon was slow to anger, but when she was upset her temper was legendary, and forgiveness could be a long time in coming. Lyra stepped across the threshold and pushed the door shut with a hind hoof, looking warily around the darkened living room.

Nopony was lying in ambush for her. With a relieved sigh, she stepped into the kitchen, lighting her horn just enough to see her way. One of the earliest spells a foal learned, it was accessible to even the weakest casters—or tiredest. Her ears flattened as she saw two untouched bowls of salad neatly laid out on the table. It was the only thing out of place in the kitchen. All the cooking utensils were washed and hung on their pegs, the floor was swept, and the chairs were neatly tucked underneath the table.

With nothing else to do, Lyra walked over to the table and glanced down at her salad. It was one of her favorites: fresh alfalfa and timothy, topped with carrots and young bitter pea. After she’d left the hospital, Bon Bon must have spent the morning in the market, getting all the ingredients, and then all afternoon at her stand.

Lyra cleared the table and put the bowls in the icebox, resisting the urge to sample one of the rum balls she saw there. The last thing she needed was to give Bon Bon another reason to be upset.

She slowly walked up the stairs, carefully stepping past the third step that always squeaked no matter what they did to try and fix it.

Bon Bon was asleep on her side, facing the door. Her forelock had come uncurled and was spread across the pillow. Perhaps she’d fallen asleep waiting for Lyra to arrive. A slight smile crossed the unicorn’s lips as she saw the blankets were all crumpled at the base of the bed—Bon Bon had a habit of kicking off blankets in her sleep and would wake up in the morning complaining of the cold.

Lyra stayed in the doorway, watching Bon Bon sleep. She stayed there long enough for the shaft of moonlight to move from the stand which held the confectioner's saddlebags and apron to the foot of the bed, where it glinted off her sensible steel shoes.

Finally reaching a decision, she crossed the floor and climbed into bed, nestling up against Bon Bon’s back. Using what felt like the last dregs of her magical energy, she pulled the covers back up. She tucked her muzzle just above Bon Bon’s withers, feeling the tension slowly leave her as the familiar scents filled her nostrils. In a few minutes, she was sound asleep.

Luna carefully moved into Lyra’s dream, not wanting to alter it. Not yet. She hid in the deepest recesses, a shadow among shadow-images, carefully collecting small bits and pieces that came her way. They weren’t even full-formed elements; they were more ideas and thoughts. A gentle touch, a moonlit night, a sense of being. She had to wait the longest to get a piece of the stallion, but she eventually did—and to her great good fortune, it was a warm feeling of familial love.

She sneaked out of the dream and crafted her stalking pony, a golem of dreamstuff. It was the idea of Lyra and it would make its way through the layers, and it would find the stallion. Ever so gently, she pushed it into the stallion’s dream, a slender thread of magic trailing from its tail, out through the layers.

The alicorn watched carefully indeed, until the thread flashed a new color. Her golem had found its target and opened up a chink in the walls of his dreaming. Eagerly, she slipped in, following her thread through all the layers.

Unconsciously, she shifted the dream to her favorite pool. It was a focus she’d used for years—centuries—and while the dreamscape around it might change, the pool never did. Once it was in the mind of her subject, she could come back to it whenever she wished. She shrouded herself in mists and coalesced into her dream-form.

At first, the only clear images in the dream were the pool and the stalking pony. Her essence spread out from her hooves, pouring over the pool and covering the dreamscape, fixing it in place. Tendrils of mist rose up wherever she touched, and she saw her golem begin to lose form. The alien mind seemed to grab for it, and a silver-bright flash came up from beside the construct. She could feel the dream beginning to shift and weaken, and that would not do.

Luna came fully through the pool just as her stalking-Lyra vanished. She got her first glimpse of Dale just as he grabbed for Lyra—like so many things in a dream, the form was incomplete. Most of his body was missing; only his right arm which grasped futilely at the drifting fog was there. The rest of his body was little more than a mist, and she dared not attempt to pull his image forth from his memory. Maybe once she knew him a little bit better she could try, but right now the dreamworks were too fragile to make the attempt.

In the past, she’d always been able to fill in the details—even those that the dreamer did not know. In his case he was a complete unknown. Still, she’d seen that vocabulary book he had given them, and it had pictures of their bodies. She mentally added in the missing parts—not because she needed to, but because it was more comfortable to her than trying to interact with a disembodied soul. She hoped that the real Dale was more appealing than her mind’s creation.

He groped around in the fog for a few minutes before he felt her presence. She could sense that he was trying to identify her. She could see bright flashes of fright; she would have to come forth soon. She would learn nothing useful from a nightmare.

She concentrated, pushing herself more into the dream. It would be best, she decided, to appear as one of them, although she’d have to be careful. Too little illusion and he’d see right through it; too much and detail flaws would come out. But there was a perfect balance between detail and ambiguity, and she’d practiced for centuries. Recalling the illustration of the mare, she shifted her form and rose above the mist.

He relaxed as soon as he saw her, she was pleased to note. She drifted across the surface of the lake, allowing her to see herself as he did; it would make the illusion easier. Her shoes had transformed into flexible covers over her hands and feet, while her peytral remained around her neck. She could see her mane and tail drifting around out of the corner of her eye, looking out of place on her new bipedal form. When she crossed her eyes, she could spot the tip of her horn, and no doubt her crown was still in place, too. She resisted the urge to reach up and check.

—I am Luna, keeper of dreams.

He looked at her—gawked, really. Perhaps she hadn’t been so wise to chose this form, after all. It might have been safer to appear as the furry creature from the counting book. Maybe his kin regarded them as teachers, or even shamans.

—Why am I here?

Luna smiled benevolently. —Why did you come here? She released her hold on the dreamscape, allowing him to re-mold it to his desire. Some ponies believed that dreams allowed the mind to make sense of things that had happened during the day. Whether that was true or not was immaterial; she’d noticed that ponies who believed that often enough dreamed about problems in their lives. Maybe Dale would, too.

She found herself standing in an open field as Dale looked through a telescope. He seemed smaller than she’d imagined. Flashes of memories of giant rockets launching into the sky begin to appear around the mini-Dale. Vague bits of speech rang out, but she couldn’t understand the words. There was a brief sequence of some white-suited creature slowly walking down a ladder onto a desolate gray landscape, and then she saw giant oval-topped tripods shooting magical energy beams at tall stone and glass cities that reminded her of Manehattan. Odd self-propelled wagons rushed towards them, but they were destroyed in brilliant flashes of color. An instant later the dream was gone, and she found herself in a world filled with short bear-like creatures, jabbering like primitives as they tossed simple weapons at men wearing white armor. A human mare walked along a line of soldiers, sticking flowers into tubes that the soldiers were carrying, while another ran in terror from a flaming village.

Perhaps his people have unhappy memories of war. It would have to be recent—Equestria was certainly not without conflict, but that was mostly buried in the long-distant past. It was something that was covered in the history books, but they said nothing about the courtyards running red with blood, or the sickening thud of pegasi dropping onto the battlements; they never said a word about the stench of a battlefield, nor the crows that followed her father’s army. The history books did not speak of the pain of seeing young eyes gleaming out from under silvery helmets, only to be consumed by the funeral pyre that night. She could still see Clover’s broken body lying sprawled across the steps in front of the Water Gate, the splinters of the door mute testament to the unicorn’s last act in life.

She felt a warm pressure on her shoulder and realized that Dale had placed his hand there. Luna wiped a tear from her eye and stood back up, blanking her memory. Silly filly, you’re not trying to show him your memories, you’re trying to find his. She fluttered her wings in frustration.

She tried to move back to neutral ground, changing the landscape to nondescript grasslands. The sky darkened to night again, but there were lights shining down, and bleachers on either side. He was standing with ten other stallions in a tight huddle. All eleven were wearing blue shirts and yellow helms with a grille across the front. They shouted at each other—more strange words—and then they lined up against the enemy. On a call, the formations broke, and he was suddenly in possession of a strange brown ovoid object, clutching it against his chest. He must keep it away from the enemy. They dove at him, trying to knock him down. Suddenly he was in the clear—the field opened up and changed to a sandy beach. One mare, wearing a bright orange vest, was standing between him and the end of the beach. He turned his head, and she saw Lyra galloping alongside him. She could feel his elation and triumph bursting forth—until the human mare raised up a twisted blackened claw and pointed it at him. The sea turned angry and the wind picked up, flinging sand and spray into his face.

He tucked his head down against the maelstrom and crashed into the orange-vested mare and then everything went white. Luna concentrated and brought herself back into the dream. Dale was sitting alone in the vast expanse of nothingness, pushing a small metal cart back and forth. He was small again, and she began to realize that he was imagining himself as a foal. The scene coalesced into a living room, walls and floor forming first, layered over with details; she looked around curiously. So many things seemed so much like the average pony’s house, yet everything was completely different. He set his toy aside and ran to the window, pressing his face against the glass. Outside, she could see dozens of metal carts rushing along a street, and one in front of his house. A tall human stallion stepped out, his proportions distorted in the dream. More flashes of memory—the two tossing a white ball back and forth, fishing off a dock, running a train around a circle of track. Dale unwrapped a tube like the ones the soldiers carried—it’s under a decorated tree.

The scene shifted and they’re on a small boat. A loud buzzing noise came from behind her head as it skimmed across the top of waves, incredibly fast—maybe faster than an average pegasus could fly. Dale was holding on to a small wheel, which apparently controlled the boat. He brought it right up onto the beach and ran for Lyra who was being accosted by eleven ponies in helmets and one human mare holding up a tube—a weapon! He’s running for the woman, and she turns the tube at him and . . . .

They’re back in the white place again. Luna touched his shoulder. —You have done well. Your sire would be proud.

He relaxed when she spoke. She could feel the tension leaving his body. She took control of the dream back, summoning the pond. She took her hand off his shoulder and slowly walked away, toward the pond. She could stay, but he’s had enough for one night—she’d gotten far more than she’d imagined she would, and she couldn't risk damaging his sanity by dredging up any more memories. As she reached the center of the pool, she released her hold on the dream, letting it fragment and drift apart like smoke on the wind.

Author's Notes:

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Chapter 8: A New Dawn, part I

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 8: A New Dawn, part I
Admiral Biscuit

Dale woke well before the sun. He didn’t feel very rested, which was hardly surprising, but he was sure that he wasn’t going to get back to sleep.

Before he could remember to stop himself, he began stretching, only to be rewarded with a sharp stab of pain. His dreams suddenly came back to him in vivid technicolor, and for a moment he was afraid that he would find a bite wound on his shoulder, if he were to look. The thought seemed very plausible, especially in a dark hospital room.

He got out of bed, moving slowly to avoid further pain from his injured arm. He looked over towards the other bed and contemplated waking the girl, but decided against it. She had enough troubles on her plate, even if she was too stoned to know it. The last thing she needed was for an old man to wake her up in the middle of the night.

Instead, Dale walked towards the door before it occurred to him that he ought to put more clothes on first. He pulled the rumpled sheet off his bed and wrapped it around himself as he had the day before. Hopefully they’ll give me back my clothes soon. Maybe once they’re ready to let me out of here. He went back to the door and put his hand on the handle. Finally, he cracked it open, letting the soft light of the hallway wash into the room.

Two soldiers were still stationed outside the doorway. He wondered if they were the same ones from yesterday, or if those had been relieved. They were identical, as far as he could see. Both of them were watching him curiously, although neither made a move to impede him.

He stepped out into the hall and looked both ways, but nobody else was there. He’d covered most of its length yesterday, and doubted there were any great mysteries yet to be revealed. Maybe if he started poking into the rooms he’d find something interesting, but realistically the best-case was that he’d either find other patients—who probably wouldn’t want to wake up to see him—or two sleeping guards, if these really were relief guards. It wasn’t something that would make them happy, and it was something he’d rather not think about. Especially if he discovered that there weren’t just two, but dozens. The more he considered it, the more likely it seemed. It wouldn’t surprise him if there was a cordon of guards around the whole building, kept where he couldn’t see them.

I could always get Kate to distract them and make my escape. Yes, that was a plan. He could flee from the hospital, and then try to blend in. Why am I even thinking about an escape? It must have been the dreams.

He shivered, but not because it was cold. When he remembered them, he often tried to think about where his dreams had come from, and as strange as they’d been, there was a common theme. Enough unusual events had all stacked up, and his subconscious had mixed and matched them, like the menu at an old Chinese restaurant. How else could he explain an army of these soldiers, being chased by horsemen, and even a weird nude apparition? He hadn’t dreamed of his childhood in—well, it was hard to remember how long it’d been. But that was no doubt because in a way he was no better than a child now. At least until he’d figured some of their society out, he was incapable of functioning on his own.

Dale looked back at the guards, who were still watching him impassively. He could try and talk with them. Maybe they’d like that. What if it offended them, though? They might be under orders to not speak, unless he asked them for something. Even if he did, they probably wouldn’t understand him. There were very few phrases he could say in their language.

No. It was probably better to avoid rocking the boat for now. He moved across the hall and placed his hand on the patch of new plaster. It was still slightly damp, and he knew it would remain unpainted for days, until it had fully cured.

As he traced his fingers around the edges, he wondered how long it would stay there. Would it just be painted over and forgotten, or would it be removed from the wall and put into a museum? Might ponies gather around it, admiring the handiwork of an alien species? Was that the fate of his clothes? Were they already working on a display of human artifacts, or had they made contact with so many other races that it was practically a non-event for them? If their situations were reversed, he could imagine all the artifacts from First Contact being placed in the Air and Space Museum. There was a moon rock there that visitors could touch, so he’d have to start gathering interesting rocks and stuff. When they sent him back, he could start his own museum, like that weird extraterrologist in Asimov’s novels.

He’d have to start taking notes again. When Lyra came back in the morning, he’d ask her for some notebooks and a pen. He was surprised that she hadn’t thought of giving him some yet. He covered a yawn and looked back at his guards. They were as alert as ever, watching his every move.

He paced up and down the hallway a few times before he finally returned to his room. He checked on Kate, who was still asleep, then went back to his bed. It was more comfortable than the chairs, at least. He rolled on his side and pulled the blanket up over himself and just watched out the window.

There wasn’t much to see—it was still dark out, and apparently the ponies had little interest in venturing out during the night. A few buildings had lit windows, but the streets were largely dark. Toward the center of town, he could see the soft glow of some streetlights, but it was much darker than any Earth town he’d been in recently. The moon was gone; presumably he could see it if he were to look out a window on the other side of the building.

His mind drifted back to the dreams he’d had. Normally, he wasn’t one to remember them clearly, but this time they’d all stood out in sharp focus. The last one had been the oddest—there had been such a weird feeling to it. There were none of the unusual dream physics or inexplicable jumps in place and scale, and everything was cleanly presented. The dream had been more like a slideshow of memories, clearly separated. From the moment he was bitten, everything in the dream had seemed perfectly real—except for the woman. She was like the smoke which had been drifting around: something which was there, but couldn’t quite be grasped.

That wasn’t quite right, though. She had touched him, and he’d felt something there. It wasn’t the warm touch of a hand on his shoulder, though; it was something deeper and more feral. There was some indescribable power to her, like the feel of a powerful engine vibrating up through his feet. On top of that, covering it completely, she had a powerful presence. It reminded him of an angel—and she almost fit the bill, with the wings jutting out of her back. But angels didn’t have flowing hair, and they usually wore diaphanous robes. Her hair had flowed like the mane on the pearl pony he’d seen on the beach.

He looked over towards the other bed, where Kate was a lump curled under the blankets. Did my mind combine her with the big pony? The commander one? But he’d seen that one separately, leading a group of soldiers in the not-memory of the pony war. There was no reason why the two couldn’t have been related somehow.

Get a grip on yourself. How can you assign logic to a dream? That was a comforting thought, but a look around him served as a reminder that what he’d known as reality had been systematically torn from its foundations over the past month; how could he not think that anything was possible?

His eyes darted around the room. Was he mad? Would he know if he was? Maybe he was in an asylum. Maybe, maybe, maybe. It doesn’t matter; I have to assume this is real unless it’s proven otherwise. It would be easier if he had someone else to share his experience with, though.

Dale tugged the covers over his head and began to cry. It was too much. How could one man be expected to take this all in? How could he be left alone at a time like this? He thought back to the paper Lyra had shown him before the disastrous dinner . . . maybe she hadn’t wanted him to be left alone. And he’d rejected her. Not even with words; he hadn’t been kind enough to do that much. He’d just dropped the subject like it didn’t matter. Maybe the dream with her in it had been his subconscious giving him the kick in the butt he deserved.

I can’t even go to her. I don’t know how to find her. I’m alone until she decides to come back—if she decides to come back. I could ask the guards. If the purple one—Twilight Sparkle—comes, I can ask her. Or the nurse might know.

Dale drifted back off to sleep. He dreamt that Lyra was running from him, and he was chasing her, again and again. He finally began to stir when the morning’s light touched the bed. He was soaked in sweat, and his hospital johnny was uncomfortably twisted around his body. Something soft was relentlessly prodding him in the side, and he flailed for a moment before getting himself disentangled from the sheets.

He swatted his hand at the annoyance, only to hear a startled yelp. Before he could fully process what was going on, he felt a slight pressure on the corner of the mattress and the blankets were yanked off the bed. He jerked up and found himself staring into a pair of bright golden eyes.

“Lyra?” He reached his hand towards her. “I had the weirdest dream last night, and you were in it.”

She looked at him blankly. A silence stretched out between them, before he finally reached over and ran his fingers through her forelock, stretching just far enough to gently scratch behind an ear. She responded by leaning forward and nuzzling his cheek before taking a step back from the bed.

“Nurse . . . hand-look Dale,” she told him. “Then Dale eat.”

“Examine?” he asked, belatedly pulling the sheet back over himself. He wrapped it as best he could and slid out of bed, repositioning the sheet once he was standing. Nurse examine Dale?”

“Examine.” Lyra spoke the new word slowly, carefully. “Nurse examine Dale.”

Dale looked over at the white-coated nurse, who was setting a tray with a plate of food on his bedside table. She spared his heart monitor a brief glance, and appeared satisfied with what it showed her. She looked bright and chipper—as did Lyra. Are they all morning people, or did I just sleep in?

Dale squatted on the floor to allow the nurse to examine his head—since he could move around, he felt no need to remain in the bed. She’d unwrapped the bandages and was gently running her hoof over his bare skull, one of the strangest sensations Dale had ever felt. The edge of her hoof was hard, as he would expect, but the center portion felt softer and slightly warm, and wherever it traveled, there was an odd tingling sensation. He struggled to remember his horse anatomy. He hadn’t ridden one since Boy Scouts, but there was a reason why the shoes were U-shaped. There was something soft on the bottom of their hoof . . . not that these ponies necessarily had the same anatomy. He really wanted a chance to just look at a hoof up close. Really study it.

The nurse eventually finished feeling his scalp and got a bottle with a cotton-swab brush. It was filled with an electric-green liquid which she began spreading on his bare skin. After the initial coldness, there was a spreading warmth from it—kind of like an Icy-Hot patch, or maybe Vicks VapoRub. It had a vague medicinal smell, like a cross between licorice, spearmint, and a third smell which they masked, something sharp and bitter.

When she moved on to his face, he suddenly began to feel claustrophobic. It was too much like having an overly friendly dog licking his face, and he had to fight the urge to push her away and give himself some more space. The cotton applicator was tightly clamped in her lips, and he could feel her breath against his skin as she worked. She was—unsurprisingly—mostly cross-eyed for the duration of the procedure, and he wondered how difficult it must have been for her to work like that. It was odd that the nurses weren’t equipped with horns, but maybe they had to complete their residency before they got them.

But that didn’t make so much sense as he’d thought yesterday. First, Kate had called them unicorns; although unicorns were a myth on Earth, there was no shortage of other animals which had a horn, so it was biologically more likely than wings. Second, if they were a prosthetic, it would be logical to equip them as quickly as possible, rather than wait. He’d had a co-worker who’d been fitted with an artificial foot when he was seven, and didn’t walk noticeably different than anyone else. Other friends who’d lost limbs later in life had taken years to adapt to their new prosthetic, and some of them still didn’t walk right after months of physical therapy. A glance around the nurse showed Lyra was easily arranging lesson materials using her horn, while he’d struggled to eat breakfast left-handed the day before.

Well, I can’t confirm that they’re natural until I see one of them being born, but if I see kids with them, they probably are. The nurse finished painting his face and he had to hold back a sudden urge to scratch his nose. Of course, it had only started itching the moment she had spread it over his nose.

The nurse put the applicator back in the bottle and screwed the cap shut. It was not a simple process; she sat on her rump, gripped the bottle between her fore-hooves, and twisted her head several times before she was satisfied. He felt bad for her; obviously the bottles were meant for the unicorns to handle. I could have taken it from her and helped her with the cap. Shown her that I could be helpful.

The nurse stood back up and pointed to his shoulder. Dale obliged her, managing an awkward reordering of his makeshift toga and hospital johnny. She raised an eyebrow as he shifted things around, but otherwise showed no sign of irritation at his slow pace. Finally, he had the shoulder exposed.

As she had before, she put her hoof on his shoulder and closed her eyes. A sharp pain made him wince, but it was immediately followed by a warm spreading relief. He thought he could feel damaged tissue knitting back together with a strange prickling tugging sensation. Just your imagination. She finally let go and stuck her head against his chest, her ear flat to the center of his ribcage.

He looked down at her mane. The nurse’s cap was held in place by four small bobby pins, and he wondered how she’d put them there. I could yank it off and see what she does to put it back. Dale smiled. That wouldn’t earn him any friends, and he knew enough about hospital etiquette to know that it was a dumb idea to antagonize his nurse.

When she was satisfied with listening to his chest, she tapped her hoof against his hip, making a slight downward motion. Dale complied, pulling his bedsheet down just far enough for her to put her hoof on his bare skin. She held it there for a few moments, before removing it. She let him pull his sheet back up before motioning for him to lift a foot.

Guessing what she was about to do, Dale sat down and raised a leg. She pressed her hoof against his sole, but once again gave up quickly. It was obvious she wasn’t finding what she was looking for. She turned to Lyra and asked a question.

Lyra shrugged and put quill to paper. Meanwhile, the nurse pointed to his food. “Dale,” she said, her voice uncertain. Dale smiled at her reassuringly.

“Dale,” he said, tapping his chest. “Dale.” He pointed to her.

“Nurse Redheart,” she told him, touching a hoof to herself.

Progress is being made. He balled his left hand into a fist and stuck it out. She bumped it with her hoof.

He stood and went over to his breakfast. This time, he’d been given green pancakes, scrambled eggs, toast, and a fruit salad with flowers on the side. There was no colored sand this time, but instead a large blue gem rested on the tray.

Dale cut off a forkful of pancake and took a small bite, trying to classify what they’d put in the pancakes. Spinach and cheese. Odd. He had to give the chef credit, though—those were things he’d showed her that he ate, and she’d obliged him. Maybe it made more sense to the pony palate. However, just like the flower-and-cucumber sandwich Lyra had shared with him, it actually tasted pretty good.

Once he’d finished his pancakes and fruit salad, Dale picked up the blue gem. It was the same color blue as a Jolly Rancher, but a lick confirmed that it wasn’t hard candy. It had to be colored glass, as big as it was. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with it, so he set it back down and concentrated on his scrambled eggs instead.

His eye wandered towards the bedside lamp. There was a similar crystal in it; maybe this was a night-light for him? He set down his fork and picked the crystal back up, inspecting it. The taper on the ends looked nearly the same as the one in the lamp, so he took the shade off the lamp and pulled the crystal out of it.

He held the two side-by-side and compared them. The facets on both were remarkably similar, although the blue one was transparent, while the lamp-crystal was an opaque white, like the quartz crystals that people used to wear as necklaces. Well, the only way to find out is to try it. He set the blue crystal in the lamp and was about to push the button on the base when the nurse shouted at him and batted the lamp away from his hand, sending the crystal tumbling across the floor.

Lyra snapped her head around and dropped her quill. The nurse spoke to her and pointed at the lamp. Lyra looked at it thoughtfully and then came to a decision. She stood up and floated both gems and the lamp into the center of the floor. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that the milky crystal was giving off its own glow, besides the one caused by her lifting it.

“Dale look.” She set the lamp down on the ground and placed the milky crystal back into it. She walked over to it and pressed the button on the base, and the light illuminated.

“Magic,” she explained, pulling the crystal out. “Magic.” She let it float in the air in front of her.

“Magic?” He sounded out the strange Equine word. She nodded, then pointed to the other gem.

“Magic.” She put the first gem back in the lamp, then lifted the blue gem with her aura. “Two magic. Not same. Dale, Kate—not same.”

He nodded. “Two magic, not same.” Is she going to try and tell me how the lamp works? He hoped so. Dale watched her with the intensity he’d have studied a magician who was about to reveal a trick.

“Dale there. Dale watch.”

Lyra lifted the milky crystal out of the lamp and replaced it with the other. For a moment, nothing happened, then he smelled the reek of ozone. The body of the lamp began to glow a dull orange, and then the blue gem vanished in a brilliant flash of light. Acrid white smoke curled out of the socket of the lamp for a few seconds before finally subsiding.

“Two magic, not same is . . . sad.” Lyra pointed towards Kate’s bed. “Two magic, not same is Kate. Is Dale hair. Dale not make two magic.”

Satisfied that her lesson would stick, Lyra put the proper crystal back in the lamp and dropped it back on the table. He noticed that she half-closed her eyes when she picked the lamp up. Is the lamp not fully compatible with her tractor beam?

He sat back at his plate and went back to his breakfast, but he wasn’t really tasting it. The lamp drew his attention. Now that it was closer to him, he could smell the burned-wire smell that it was still giving off. He wasn’t so sure he wanted it that close to him, but apparently Lyra thought it was safe as long as it had the right crystal in it.

As he wiped the plate clean with his last piece of buttered bread, Lyra came over to him, a sheet of paper floating in front of her. She set it beside his plate and let him pick it up.

Dale studied the drawings. Her artistic talents left something to be desired, but he wasn’t a better artist himself, so he had no room to criticize. The upper left was a sketch of a unicorn, with a ray—for lack of a better term—coming from its horn, pointed at a floating book. A second, smaller ray was drawn over a symbol on its hip which presumably represented the marks they all seemed to have. The ones Lyra had called ‘cutie-marks.’

The second drawing was of a winged pony, with large rays coming from the wings, smaller rays from the hooves, and a short hip-ray. The third was a normal pony; it had large rays from its hooves, and also the hip-ray. Finally, there was a crude drawing of a person. She’d marked small crosses on the locations which corresponded to a pony, but not added any rays.

That must be what the nurse was feeling for, Dale thought. If all the ponies have those . . . rays, they would expect that I have them, too. Or that I’m supposed to. There had been a shock when he touched Lyra’s mark, and he felt a lesser version of the same thing whenever he’d been touched by the nurse’s hooves. She could have been varying the intensity, perhaps—he’d certainly seen evidence that Lyra’s horn could controllably lift objects of different weights. I wonder if that’s how the nurse can grab things with her hoof.

“Dale no have.” He pointed to the rays from the unicorn. “Kate no have.” To further illustrate his point, he touched every point on his body the drawing had indicated, saying ‘no’ each time.

To her credit, Lyra seemed less disturbed by this revelation than he would have expected, once again implying that his was not the first alien species the ponies had encountered. She simply took the drawing back and began talking to the nurse. After showing her the drawing, Lyra pointed to her horn, before making a cutting motion across one of the nurse’s legs with her own hoof. The nurse seemed interested in the prospect; she grabbed the clipboard with Kate’s record on it and began pointing to data.

Dale turned his head at a soft knock on the door. One of the guards stepped into the room and waved Lyra over. She went to him, and the two of them talked for a minute before she finally nodded her head. Almost immediately afterwards, the door opened fully and collection of bags floating in a light blue aura entered the room, followed by a white unicorn. She hesitated briefly when she saw him, but courageously pressed forward, efficiently sorting the bags into three separate groups. The first two she set in front of him, while the third group was set closer to Kate’s bed.

She had a faint blue color above her eyes; when she blinked, he realized that she was wearing eyeshadow. It complemented her purplish mane, which—along with her tail—looked permed, and her coat was so well-groomed it looked glossy, like show horses he’d seen. She was a significant contrast to the other ponies he’d seen so far, who had much more natural mane and tail styles. Therefore, whoever she was, she was important. Her hindquarters bore three light blue crystals, and he wondered if she’d been meant to instruct him on what he was to do with the gem. At least I now know what not to do with it.

She rapidly began emptying the bags, floating a full ensemble of clothes in front of Dale. He reached for them, stopping just short of grabbing them out of her aura. Lyra spoke to her, and she grudgingly moved them away from him, holding them there while she made his bed. Only then did she set them down, folding each garment neatly.

He turned and picked them up, examining them carefully. Aside from the socks, they were all the clothes he’d been wearing his last day in camp. Each of them had been mended; that much was obvious. It suddenly became clear that when they’d admitted him to the hospital, they’d cut his clothes off, and she’d done her best to repair them. A strip of piping ran down the sides of his button-down shirt, covering both the original seams and her repairs. She’d used the existing material on his jeans to make a new seam; apparently guessing that his undershirt and shorts wouldn’t be seen when he was dressed, she hadn’t bothered to cover her repairs on those.

The socks were new—the knit was more open than mass-produced socks. Picking them up, he was amazed to see that she’d even added Hanes in red thread on the bottom of each toe. She couldn’t have known what that meant, Dale thought. But she copied it anyway.

“Dale is happy,” he told Lyra, who relayed that to the unicorn. A broad grin split her face, and she floated over a second pile of clothes.

These were copies of the first set of clothes. The jeans were what really got his attention—she’d faithfully copied the style, while adding her own touches. She’d included the decorative stitching on the back pockets—but she’d added what looked like a cursive R to each, and used small chips of shell in place of the rivets. The only drawback was that she’d failed to include any manner to close the fly, which was an odd thing to leave off. She’d included buttons on his shirt, so it wasn’t like she didn’t know what they were for.

Maybe she meant to add it later. From what he’d seen of the town out the window, it was too small to have a tailor’s shop—those were rare enough in America, these days. When he looked around the room, he realized it was even less likely here. The only article of clothing worn by a pony was the nurse’s cap. Even finding a supply of fabric must have taken an effort for her, unless she had some kind of machine that could make it to order.

Well, let’s see. Back on earth, there’s 3D printers and computerized sewing machines, so the technology to print a suit is feasible—at least, the fabric part. I suppose that non-fabric details would still have to be added in, and a zipper is probably beyond the means of a simple machine. He set the new jeans back down and picked up his old clothes.

I can’t wait to get out of this makeshift toga, Dale thought. He’d felt like an ancient frat-boy for the past day.

The unicorn, he noticed, was eyeing him critically, watching every move he made. She finally lifted a tape measure and a thick pencil out of one of the bags in the central pile. A red-rimmed pair of glasses followed, floating to her muzzle. She made a waving motion with her hoof. Dale just stared at her.

“Dale . . . make. . . .” Lyra’s face was scrunched up in concentration. Finally, she pointed to the clothes.

“Shirt? Pants?”

“Dale make shirt pants on Dale.” Lyra smiled. “On Dale.”

He looked around the room. There wasn’t any privacy to be had—no curtained alcove, no convenient closet or telephone booth in which to perform a quick change. He could take the clothes and walk down to the bathroom, but they’d probably just follow him in. He didn’t want to insult them, either . . . if he walked down the hall with the pile of clothes, the white unicorn might think he didn’t like them. I can just get dressed under my sheet, he decided.

He reached for the underwear and began an awkward one-legged dance, struggling to pull them up his legs with his left hand while keeping his sheet in place with his right. Finally triumphant, he tugged the waistband into place.

A movement out of the corner of his eye made him jerk back, just in time to avoid a flying tape measure which seemed bent on touching him. Lyra shouted something, and the tape measure dropped to the floor like a dead snake. Dale turned and glared at the white unicorn; it was obviously her doing. The bluish color that had surrounded it—the same one that had been on her bags—was a dead giveaway.

The two unicorns held another brief conference while Dale watched. Finally, Lyra came over. “Rarity.” She pointed to the white unicorn. “Rarity make shirt pants. Rarity want make more shirt pants later. Rarity want—” she pointed to the tape measure— “Dale. Dale not want hmmmm.”

Dale nodded. “Measure,” he told her, pointing to the tape.

“Rarity not measure Dale. Lyra measure Dale. Dale shirt pants not on Dale.”

“No,” he replied. “Clothes, um, shirt pants on Dale.”

Eventually, the two of them working together managed to take measurements to Rarity’s satisfaction. He’d been allowed to wear his briefs—although even that seemed to annoy the white unicorn. Lyra had been thoughtful enough to allow him to hold one end of the tape, while she held the other and read off the numbers to Rarity.

When he’d agreed, he’d assumed that it would be a simple matter of measuring his pant size—two different measurements—and his arm length, neck size, and chest size. He had no idea that so many measurements of a human body could be taken, and began to wonder if she was going to build a statue of him. She wound up taking over two dozen measurements before she finally stopped. Dale had the impression that she still wasn’t satisfied, but Lyra had been glaring at her. She took the tape back from Lyra, coiling it as it crossed the gap between the two unicorns.

“Dale make shirt pants on Dale,” Lyra told him. He was only too happy to comply.

Wearing clean clothes served as a reminder that he hadn’t had a shower in days—the solar shower he’d used on the island was better than nothing, but he suddenly felt filthy. “Dale make write,” he said, pointing to the stack of papers Lyra had taken from her bag.

She floated a small stack of papers over to the table, followed by a quill and inkpot. Dale drew a sketch of himself in a bathtub—his initial idea to draw a shower was rejected when he thought they might misinterpret the water coming from the showerhead as a horn-ray. The last thing he wanted to happen was for Lyra to think he wanted to be lifted up.

This led to a burst of conversation between Lyra and the white unicorn—more than Dale imagined was strictly needed to convey the idea of a bath. He heard Lyra say no several times in the course of conversation, and he was fairly certain both unicorns mentioned Twilight Sparkle, giving further credence to the idea that she was some kind of commander or authority figure.

Finally, the pair came to an agreement. Rarity walked over to the other side of the room, her bags in tow. She set them neatly on the floor and primly sat in one of the chairs, while Lyra picked up her teaching materials.

Once she had finished, she closed the flap on her saddlebags and motioned him to follow her into the hall. She spoke briefly to the guards, and then the four of them set off down the corridor.

They descended on the same flight of stairs that had taken him to the kitchen and conference room, but turned the opposite way in the hall. One of the guards led the procession, checking to ensure nobody was coming down the hallways, and Dale was reminded of all the movies he’d seen where VIPs were escorted that way by their security detail. All that was missing was a little coil of wire leading to an earpiece, and perhaps a more modern weapon than the spears which both guards had placed in holsters.

The group finally arrived at a nondescript door—it had a drawing of a bar of soap on it, which was as much of a clue as the steamy floral scents coming from within. The point guard opened the door and looked around inside before waving a hoof for the rest of the group to continue.

Once he and Lyra were inside the room, the two guards spoke briefly, and one of them trotted off back in the direction of his room. Dale chuckled. They must have just realized that they left Kate unguarded.

Dale looked around the room. On his left side was a small alcove that served as a changing area. The wall which separated it from the main part of the room was made up of a chest-high shelf subdivided into small cubbies. A few damp towels were hung over a rack, while a stack of fresh ones awaited the next bather.

The main part of the room was taken up with two tubs. One of them was a clawfoot bathtub, instantly recognizable despite its odd proportions. It was sitting right under a large window, which naturally lacked a curtain. The other one was a much larger wooden tub—easily big enough for a dozen ponies Lyra’s size, or a few the size of the pearl one he’d seen on the beach. It was filled with presumably hot water. Up against one wall was a tiled area with a raised border, and three shower heads fitted to the wall. For him, they only came up to mid-chest, so if he wanted to take a shower, he’d have to sit down.

Lyra led him over to the bathtub first, demonstrating the hot and cold faucets by turning them on and motioning for him to hold his hand under the flow. She told him the words for hot and cold, and Dale reciprocated, naming them in English.

Next, she opened a large cabinet and began pulling out bottles, pantomiming their use. At first, she named each one, but when she noticed that Dale was struggling, she stopped. Hopefully, whatever they use on their fur works on flesh, too, Dale thought.

She led him to the wall opposite the showers. This was clearly a vanity—there was a large mirror in the center, and the top was littered with a variety of brushes and combs, many of them with an oversized strap that probably looped around a hoof. Off to one side were a small assortment of files and picks. She selected a file, lifted a hoof, then looked at Dale’s hands and feet and put the file back. She pointed vaguely to a collection of small tubes and bottles and brushes, taking the top off one of them and eyeing the contents, before pointing to her face.

Is that all makeup? The small jars all looked like the kind of things that makeup came in. If he hadn’t seen Rarity, he never would have imagined that ponies wore it. He picked up a small atomizer, trying to imagine how a pony would aim it at herself and squeeze the bulb.

Finally, she pointed to the large tub. “Dale later. Is sit water, not soap water.” Dale nodded. “Lyra help Dale?”

He shook his head. “Dale not need Lyra help.” I hope she’s not insulted.

She pointed with her hoof toward the changing alcove. “Lyra there, Dale here. Dale make word Lyra, Lyra help Dale.”

Dale waited until she had gone into the alcove before undressing, piling his clothes on top of the cabinet which held the soap. There was nothing to prevent Lyra from peering over the top, or from just coming out into the room if she wanted to, but he trusted that she wouldn’t unless he wanted her help. She seemed to be rapidly figuring out his desire for privacy, which was nice. The nurse had, too, letting him keep his toga on while she examined him.

He sat in the tub as the water flowed, mulling it over. On the one hand, since they don’t appear to wear clothes, it makes sense that they wouldn’t be overly concerned with privacy—to them, the only difference between someone in a bath and someone on the street is that the bather’s wet. But there wouldn’t be anything you wouldn’t see on the street that you would in a bath. At least, I don’t think there is. Still, they figured out pretty quickly that I would want clothes, and the fact that they fixed the ones I had tells me that they didn’t have any appropriate ones handy. Not surprising. If the situations were reversed, I’d be hard pressed to find a set of clothes that would fit Lyra. I wouldn’t know where to begin—there wouldn’t be anything on the rack at Meijer that would fit.

Some of them do wear clothes, but those could all be classed roughly as work clothes. The doctors would want their lab coats to protect their bodies, and the hospital johnnys might be used to help keep a patient warm if they have to shave an area for an operation. Obviously, the guards’ uniforms are both ceremonial and probably functional. For everyday wear, they wear nothing.

Dale shut off the water and reached for a bottle of soap. One side had a picture of soap bubbles and a flower; the other had fancy-looking copperplate writing. Between the label and the fancy glass bottle, he assumed it said something like “Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soap.” There was just something about it that reminded him of snake oil. Still, it smelled nice. There was a hint of lavender and some other flower he couldn't identify. He tipped the bottle and let some of the soap flow into his hand.

On the other hand, even primitive tribes have certain cultural rules and taboos; clearly the ponies do as well. I’ve already learned that grabbing hooves is bad, and apparently there are rules in place about touching the marks on them or petting a stranger’s mane. Lyra had said something about that—I forgot when the yellow one was in the room, but otherwise I’ve kept my hands to myself. That might be why the guard was so uncomfortable when Kate was touching him.

Dale had to stand up to lather most of his body—unsurprisingly, the liquid soap couldn’t be applied underwater, and he wished he’d thought about grabbing a bar instead. There had been a couple of them in the cabinet, but both had smelled very harsh. They reminded him of Borax soap, and weren’t what he wanted to get all over his body.

And if their society had rules, they would have recognized that a foreign society would also have rules. Maybe they didn’t get it right away, but after a few unfortunate misunderstandings, they’d have figured it out. Lyra’s pretty much been deferring to me, both back on the island and here. She’s obviously trying to smooth out the friction between our cultures as much as she can.

He sat back down in the tub and rinsed himself off, running his hands over himself. The lack of a washcloth was annoying, but not really surprising.

He pulled the plug on the tub and climbed out, gripping the edge of the tub carefully. Unlike most public buildings in America, the ponies hadn’t put ADA-compliant handrails on anything. While it was readily obvious why they hadn’t, he hadn’t realized how ubiquitous they’d become during his lifetime.

Drying off one-armed was a difficult procedure. He was halfway done when he thought about the big tub again. He looked over at his sore shoulder. His arm was somewhat mobile, so he clearly hadn’t torn anything vital. Hot showers had helped sore muscles and cramps back when he was working at the machine shop, so why not try it now? He wrapped the towel around his waist and walked over to the platform that surrounded the tub, knelt down, and stuck a finger in the water. It was hot, but not uncomfortably so. He set his towel on the platform and slowly lowered himself into the water. I could get used to this.

Ten minutes later, Dale was half-asleep, his head resting against the edge of the tub. He noticed a blur of movement, and Lyra peered around the edge of the alcove. “Dale happy?”

He gave her a thumbs-up, then smiled at his foolishness. Of course she wouldn’t know what that meant. “Dale happy.”

She vanished behind the half-wall. He wondered what she was doing there. Talking to the guard? Or was she just patiently waiting for him to finish? He began to feel slightly guilty—here he was taking a leisurely soak in a hot tub, and she was stuck there waiting for him. He felt less bothered by the guard—it was, after all, the guard’s job—but Lyra had spent all day with him yesterday, and all night, too, waiting at his bedside.

It’s probably her job, too. But I still should find some way to make it up to her. Somehow. But what could he do? He had nothing here of any value to her. He could give her his wallet or his watch, but what use would either of them serve?

He stood up, holding himself steady as a brief spell of dizziness robbed him of balance. Forgot about that drawback of being in a hot tub. Dale climbed the rest of the way out of the tub and walked back to the bathtub, dressing as quickly as he could manage. His right arm seemed to be working a little bit better—the pain had subsided from agonizing to annoying but tolerable. He wasn’t sure if it was the hot tub or whatever the nurse had done. Lyra had drawn rays from the normal pony’s hooves; maybe they did something like her telekinesis with their hooves. Something medical.

He walked over to the window and looked out. Dozens of ponies were out wandering the streets, going about their everyday business. Closer to the building, a pinkish pony with a white flower behind one ear had her muzzle down in a flowerbed. She was tugging up plants with her teeth and tossing them on the grass behind her. At first, it looked like she was grazing—and a very picky eater—but then he realized that she was weeding the flowerbed.

She moved out of his line of sight for a moment and then returned with a watering can in her mouth. As she sprinkled it on the flowers, she happened to look up and spot him. Her pupils shrank, she dropped the watering can, and galloped off towards town.

I wonder what that was all about? Dale reluctantly turned away from the window and walked back to the alcove.

As the trio left the room, Dale expected to return to the hospital room, but Lyra had other ideas. She led him back to the conference room he’d visited before.

“Dale there,” she said, pointing at the table.

He pulled one of the chairs out and tried to sit in it. Immediately, he discovered that his legs were far too long to sit comfortably; after some experimentation he finally settled on turning the chair so that the backrest was facing the table, and his legs were knelt under him, almost—the look of amusement on Lyra’s face, coupled with the ease in which she sat in her chair made him think back to her struggling to find a good sitting position on top of his cooler.

She emptied her saddlebags out onto the table, moving half her parchments over to him. Next came a quill and inkpot for both of them. Finally, a short wooden stick was lifted in her aura, and she sent it over to the wall, following the guard who had moved into the hallway after making sure that there was no one in the room.

Lyra tapped it on the door and pronounced a word, then spelled it. Dale shook his head. He didn’t remember their alphabet, and all his notes were gone.

She sighed, and set the stick down on the table. She quickly re-wrote their alphabet and passed the sheet to Dale. Now the stick moved right up to the paper, pointing to the first letter, which she pronounced for him.

He sounded it out and wrote it down, then moved on to the next letter.

There was no clock, so he couldn’t say how long the two of them had been in the room together, but after giving Dale his refresher on the pony alphabet, Lyra quickly moved on to naming everything in the room. Once she’d taught him their word for it, he told her the English equivalent. Unfortunately for his morale, she seemed to be a much quicker learner than he was.

They’d nearly finished with the basics when Twilight Sparkle entered into the room. In contrast to all the other ponies he’d seen thus far, she looked exhausted, but she smiled at him anyway. She gave him a small tan pouch, twisted shut with a piece of twine.

While he was fumbling with the bindings, the unicorn turned to Lyra, lifting a large stack of books from her bag and dropping them on the table. Dale ignored her; he’d finally gotten the cloth package open and discovered it contained his glasses. With a sigh of relief, he slid them back on his face and watched as everything in the world came back into focus. Now that he had clothing and his glasses back, he was beginning to feel normal again.

I wonder where she found them? He wasn’t sure how to express his gratitude, but she could probably tell by the big grin on his face how he felt. “Dale happy,” he told Lyra. “Tell Twilight Sparkle Dale happy.”

Author's Notes:

The LINK for the author's notes

Chapter 9: A New Dawn, part II

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 9: A New Dawn II
Admiral Biscuit

Kate woke to a gentle nudging against her left hip. She groggily reached her hand down and bumped into something warm and furry. “Mmm, Daisy, do you need to go out?” She ran her hand lightly back and forth through the soft hair. “Can you give me a few more minutes to sleep?”

Instead of a gentle woof or even a reassuring lick, Kate was answered by a feminine voice. What it said was utter gibberish—yet at the same time, it was gentle and compassionate.

“Yeah, didn’t quite catch that, Daisy. I—” Her hand froze mid-motion. Daisy couldn’t talk, because Daisy was a dog. On the heels of that: I don’t have a dog any more—I haven’t had a dog in years.

Well, maybe it’s Sarah’s dog. Did she come over last night? Kate cracked an eye open and looked down, expecting to see her friend’s black Lab. Instead, she was looking right into a pair of big blue eyes.

She froze for a moment, her hand still on the creature’s back. It had a pure white coat, pink mane and tail, and was wearing a small hat with a red cross on it. Loud alarm bells began ringing in Kate’s head—it looked kind of like a miniaturized Shetland pony, crossbred with heaven only knew what, and while she liked horses as much as any other girl, the last thing she wanted was to have one of them in her bedroom.

Kate’s heart leapt into her throat. She jerked her hand back and started scrabbling upwards in the bed, away from the creature. She pulled her knees up against her chest, tugged the blankets around herself, and grabbed her pillow as an extra defense, jamming herself up against the headboard while she waited to see what it was going to do. “Go on, get! You shouldn’t be inside. Ponies belong outside.”

Rather than leave, it spoke. “Ka-th-rin,” it said carefully, proving beyond a doubt that if she wasn’t still dreaming, she’d completely lost her marbles. It pointed off to her left in a very deliberate manner, and Kate looked over where it was indicating.

On the table next to her bed was a plate with a stack of pancakes, scrambled eggs, toast, and a bowl of fruit salad. A tall glass of green juice sat next to the plate. As if on cue, the smell got her attention, and she suddenly remembered how hungry she was. It felt like she hadn’t eaten in days. The mystery of where she was and what the weird pony was took a back seat to her overriding hunger.

While still keeping an eye on the creature, she reached out and grabbed a pancake, stuffing it in her mouth and chewing greedily. She washed it down with a few sips of the drink, grimacing at the bitter flavor. She added a spoonful of colored sugar from a small bowl on her tray, but it didn’t dissolve or sweeten the drink at all. Normally, she would have poured it out and gotten something else, but she was so thirsty she drank it anyway, despite the taste.

She was halfway through the second pancake before she noticed its unusual texture. She looked at the pancake and noticed the green flecks poking out of it. She set the pancake on her pillow and pulled one loose, putting it on the top of her tongue and sliding it over her teeth, trying to figure out what it was. I think that’s spinach. Interesting. I’ve never had a spinach pancake before. There was a sharp, buttery, caramelized flavor to it, as well—probably cheese, although it was so subtle it was hard to be sure.

Once she’d finished the pancakes, she moved on to the scrambled eggs, which were free of any surprises, then grabbed a piece of toast. The pony that had been nudging her remained in its earlier position, just watching her eat.

Maybe it’s hungry, Kate thought, taking another gulp of the bitter tea. A small part of her brain was still insisting that she should be worried, but it was getting easier and easier to ignore. Shut up, brain. You’re grumpy when you’re hungry, that’s all.

She held out her half-eaten bread toward the pony. “Go on, you can have it. Come on, it’s okay.” The pony shook her head. Shrugging, Kate ate the toast. “See, it’s fine. If I eat too much, I’ll get fat.” She patted her stomach to illustrate her point, suddenly noticing that her right hand was encased in a thick bundle of gauze.

“Huh, that’s weird.” Kate poked at the back of her bandaged hand. “It’s completely numb. I can’t feel anything.” She tried making a fist, but got no response. “Hey, hand, wake up!” She poked it a couple more times, but nothing happened. Dismissing it as unimportant, she brushed the crumbs off her pillow, and looked over at the white pony.

“Hey, pony, do you know where we are?” She had a vague sense of familiarity, of being here before; it was a nagging sense of deja-vu. She didn’t think she’d ever seen the room before, but her memories seemed disjointed and fickle. Whenever she tried to concentrate on something, it drifted away from her. Normally, she would have been worried about waking up somewhere this unfamiliar, but for some reason her mind didn’t seem to care particularly much.

Since thinking wasn’t a good option, she settled on plan B—doing. She unbundled herself from her makeshift bed-fort, and climbed out. Kate didn’t really have a plan of action, and by the time her bare feet had touched the floor she couldn’t remember why she’d bothered to get out of bed in the first place.

She looked around the room curiously. There was another unoccupied bed on the other side of the room, neatly made with clothes laid out on it. Kate looked down at her hospital robe and shrugged. “I’m going to see if those are my clothes,” she announced, staggering across the room. The pony didn’t respond; it turned away from her and said something.

She picked up the shirt and held it to her chest, even though she already knew it was too big for her. It was a man’s button-down shirt, and it looked kind of familiar, although she wasn’t sure why. “These clothes are too big,” she mumbled, tossing the shirt back down.

When she turned around, there were two white ponies looking at her. More importantly, her uniform and underwear were also there, hovering in the air, encapsulated in a shimmering blue light. As she watched, they drifted over towards her bed. Kate stumbled across the room after them, wanting to catch them before they got away from her.

“Look, they’re tired,” she told the ponies, pointing to her clothes as they lay on her bed. She turned to scold her clothes. “That’s what you get for trying to run away. You get . . . you get—yeah.” She checked the room to make sure she was still alone, and then shucked her johnny, tossing it on the bed.

She started humming. I need a doktor . . . something doktor . . . Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a glowing blue rope floating towards her. She tilted her head and looked at it curiously. It looked like a measuring tape, but there weren’t any numbers on it, just strange wingdings. Her mother had had that kind of tape, and she’d liked to unroll and re-roll it when she was a kid.

She watched in wonder as it gently wrapped itself around her, causing her skin to tingle where it touched. The unicorn—horn enveloped in an identical blue glow—moved closer to her, bringing a piece of paper with a pencil busily jotting down notes. It must be a mare, Kate thought. Her coat is groomed to such a luster, and her mane and tail are permed.

Curious, Kate walked over to the unicorn, smiling as the tape measure followed her, continuing its work. The unicorn took a step back as she got close, but the one with the little hat put a hoof on her withers and said something. Grudgingly, it seemed, the paper drifted away from the unicorn and turned so that Kate could see it. She grinned. “Hey, that’s me! Are you sketching me?” She struck a pose. The pencil returned to the paper and began scribbling frantically, while the tape measure kept up its work.

After a few more minutes, the unicorn rolled up the tape measure and paper and stuck them in a bag, grinning broadly. It said something to the other one, then pointed to the bed and nodded.

Kate looked back at the bed. Her clothes were sitting there, except for her panties—those were still in her left hand. She put them on, then went to get dressed the rest of the way.

She ran into trouble almost immediately. The clasp at the back of her bra utterly defeated every attempt to fasten it and she finally gave up after five frustrating minutes. The white unicorn frowned as she took it back off and tossed it back on the bed.

Before she could pick up her undershirt, the bra floated back off the bed, encapsulated in a blue glow. She turned to see the unicorn looking at her intently, a matching blue aura around her horn.

“I can’t put it on,” she said, pointing to her bandaged hand. “It’s too hard to do one-handed.”

The unicorn said something which sounded encouraging. Kate slid her arms back through the straps, then reached behind her for the traitorous clasp. She managed to hold the loop end in place with her right hand, but couldn’t get the hooks to engage. “See? It’s too hard.” She turned around to give the unicorn a better view of the problem.

Kate felt a sudden warmth on her back and a weird tugging sensation, and a moment later the strap moved under her hand. She loosened her grip slightly, and the hooks fastened themselves.

“Hey, thanks!” Kate turned back around, smiling at the unicorn, who was still a dozen feet from her. It—she—wore a broad smile. They’re pretty helpful little ponies. That’s nice.

Are they service animals? She’d heard of ponies as service animals before, but didn’t know that they could be so useful. A bit of concern began gnawing at her—did she need a service animal? Was something so wrong with her that the doctors had already selected a helping horse for her?

Kate got her undershirt and socks and pants on with little difficulty, although the button on her pants was problematic. She finally managed to get it by pressing the palm of her right hand against her waistband to hold her pants steady while she twisted the button in place.

Her uniform shirt presented a similar challenge: each button was a fight, but unlike her pants, her shirt didn’t fall off if she missed the button-hole. She tucked it in and made sure everything was lined up properly. She couldn’t remember there being an orange stripe on her pants and shirt before, but the tape above her left pocket said “DYBEK,” so it must have been her uniform. Maybe they’d been changed. She didn’t remember getting new uniforms, but she didn’t clearly remember yesterday, either.

When she threaded her belt through the loops on her pants, she noticed that all her equipment was missing—most importantly, her gun and spare magazines. If she couldn’t find them she’d have to fill out dozens of reports regarding their loss. She looked over at the small table hopefully—maybe they were in there? But a quick examination of the drawer revealed nothing except a small hard-bound book with a picture of a pony in a pith helmet swinging from a vine on the cover.

Kate looked down at her stocking feet and giggled. She couldn’t report for duty without her boots; that wouldn’t do at all. And she had to take care of her hair. It was a complete mess.

A quick inspection of the room revealed no brush, and she started to make do with her fingers as a makeshift comb when a polite noise from the unicorn caught her attention. Floating in front of the unicorn were two different brushes and a small mirror. With a squeal of delight, Kate grabbed them out of the air one at a time and began coaxing the tangles out of her hair.

When she had finally finished combing, she started trying to braid her hair, a process which went nowhere. She couldn’t even separate it into three strands with only one hand, to say nothing of weaving it. This time, the unicorn was no help, even after she asked nicely.

Kate tried to think of other hairstyles she could use, finally settling on a bun like the nurse had. She had to resort to pointing and gesturing, but the white unicorn finally figured out what she wanted and efficiently twisted her hair into a tight bun.

I need to find my boots before I get busted for wearing white socks. Where are my black socks, anyway? She struggled to remember, but couldn’t come up with an answer. Something had come up in a hurry, and she’d grabbed the first pair she could find. There weren’t any extras in her car—not even dirty socks, so she hadn’t had time to change before they headed out on the boat.

She looked out the window. She hadn’t thought to do that before; earlier, it had seemed unimportant, but now she was curious about where she was. It was no doubt some kind of low-care room in a hospital, although that didn’t explain the ponies. Still, if she could look out the window and see Lake Michigan, she’d know she was at Charlevoix hospital.

Maybe I was in a car accident, she thought, looking down at her hand. Maybe that’s why my chest hurts, too. The seatbelt—no, that’s on the other side. It was weird that she couldn’t remember, but she just had a vague recollection of being on the RB-S and there was a beach—a boat accident? Did Ryan run the boat aground? Maybe that’s whose clothes were on the other bed.

She heard the door open and looked curiously toward the entrance. Three more ponies came through the door, the last one wearing a robe.

Luna sat at the high table in the dining hall, enjoying a bowl of oatmeal. It was her favorite kind, with walnuts and raisins and honey all mixed in, thinned with a tiny bit of cream. She could have told the chefs that she loved it, and they would have made it every day, but it was better to have it be an occasional treat.

The doors opened and Celestia’s voice entered the hall, followed by the alicorn herself. “—and the second Pegasus wing should return to Canterlot, as well. Today, if possible. Also, I haven’t heard back from Bright Star or her professors yet; please send a telegram asking if everything is going well.”

“Very good. Is there anything else?” Raven replied.

“Send a formal letter to the minotaur embassy, asking for a meeting. The creatures most resemble them, and they’d be insulted if I didn’t ask for their assistance.”

Raven scribbled a note on her ever present parchment. “It will be done before you have finished your breakfast. You have a meeting in two hours with a delegation from Baltimare.”

“Thank you, Raven. That will be all.” Celestia nodded to her secretary, who marched out of the hall, pulling the doors shut behind her.

The solar diarch looked over the food on the table, deciding on a slice of quiche, two croissants, and a bowl of bran cereal. She carried them over to her usual seat, setting them on the table before taking her place. “I missed you on the balcony yesterday,” Celestia said. “And this morning, too.”

Luna set her spoon back in her bowl of oatmeal. “We were occupied, sister. We had much on our mind.”

“Our ponies prefer when we keep a routine, no matter what troubles us.”

Luna looked at her flatly. “Was our absence noted.”

Celestia lowered her head. “Only by the castle staff.” She chopped the end off a wedge of quiche and speared it with her fork. “I will make no move against you, if that was the reason for your absence.”

“We did not think thou wouldst. Tell us, didst thou consult thy legal tomes for a manner in which to wrest thy captive back?”

“I did not,” Celestia said.

“‘Tis so unlike thee, sister.”

“I didn’t have time, or I would have.” She set the quiche back on her plate. “Is that what you want to hear? Will it please you if I admit I made a mistake?”

Luna looked down at her bowl of oatmeal longingly. It was growing cold. “We did not offer the unicorn sanctuary to spite thee, sister. ‘Twas not meant as an insult. She asked—nay, demanded—and we could do naught but invite her in. She was on our threshold, she was injured . . . what else could we have done?”

“What else indeed?” Celestia picked up her forkful of quiche and began chewing it, while Luna discreetly cast a warming spell on her bowl of oatmeal. The room fell silent except for the quiet clatter of utensils on dishes. The servants exchanged uneasy glances.

Finally, Celestia spoke again. “Luna, you know what I most fear.”

“I can save her,” Luna mumbled. “I know I can.”

“Forgive me Luna, but you—”

“Do not think that we have learned naught from our missteps, sister. If our cure fails, we shall fall upon her ourself.” She glared at Celestia. “Until then, nopony shall touch her. We gave our bond that she shall be safe from all others in our House.”

Celestia tapped a gold-shod hoof on the table, the tap-tap-tap echoing loudly through the quiet breakfast chamber. Luna waited—it was a clear sign that her sister was deep in thought. “I shall defer to your judgement,” she said, lowering her head slightly. “But only if you promise to break fast with me every morning you are in Canterlot.”

“We swear it.” She started to get out of her chair.

“One more thing,” Celestia said. “Before you go. We need to discuss the creatures.”

“Yes, the little souvenirs thy agent hath brought,” Luna smiled brightly. “We are surprised they are not galavanting around the castle yet. Our staff has heard many whispers from thy servants, and we—”

“This is a very serious matter,” Celestia remarked. “It’s a diplomatic nightmare—or it will be, as soon as the other nations discover they are here. I have already granted them provisional ambassadorships, and yesterday the Nobles’ Council held a vote to nominate the new Equestrian ambassador.

“No doubt the griffons will be lodging the first protest. To be honest, I’m surprised that I haven’t seen it yet. Maybe they don’t know—their spies are lacking in Ponyville, perhaps. Still, they’re shrewd. They can’t have missed the troop movements to Ponyville, and somepony will talk, sooner or later. The Canterlot Times has already asked Raven for a statement about the new ambassadorship, and she promised to give them one—late, so they’ll miss today’s deadline—but you can imagine as soon as they get word, somepony will be on the next train to Ponyville.

“With that thought in mind—and in case this whole enterprise goes off the rails, I have already ordered that Lyra Heartstrings be court-martialled.”

“Dost thou not think such a measure is overly harsh? She was just following thy commands.”

“I know. But the griffons respect our laws, and if we have already done justice to Lyra, they won’t demand her head on a pike.”

“Do they still do that?”

“Every chance they get. I have a collection of head-on-pike demands. They’re quite creative. They like opening negotiations with a strong position or a strong demand. After we opened diplomatic relations with the minotaurs, they sent me a letter demanding my own head on a pike. I hung the letter on my wall.”

Luna rolled her eyes.

“The problem is, I need an impartial judge for the trial. Obviously, I cannot sit myself, since I gave the order. Cadance is out; she’s married to the Captain of the Guard. You, on the other hoof, have no allegiance to the Guard or to the creatures. You have never been in contact with them, so you’re as impartial a judge as any.”

“We—” Luna bit her tongue. She’d been about to admit that she’d visited the stallion’s dreams. “We shall rule as we deem fit. We shall not be instructed about our verdict in advance.”

“Please do,” Celestia said. “I would not insult you by demanding a verdict.”

“How soon shall Lyra be tried?”

“As quickly as possible.” Celestia nodded to a servant as a plate of chocolate eclairs was set on the table. She took one for herself and offered another to Luna. “Once the word gets out about the creatures, it will become political, and there will no longer be any point in having a court-martial.” She sighed, and took a bite of her eclair. “The decision will have already been reached by the public.”

“Very well. We shall prepare. Have Lyra Heartstrings brought to us, two days hence.”

Celestia bit off another piece of eclair. “I would rather have the trial held in Ponyville. Lyra is very busy with the male—Dale, he is called—since she’s the only one who speaks his language. I would hate to take his interpreter from him.”

“He shall lose her if we decide she is to be put in hobbles,” Luna muttered, ripping her eclair in half. “Or dost thou hint that we should not take her from him?”

“You should rule as you see fit,” Celestia said. “I trust that you will. But there is no reason to take her from him unless it is necessary. Surely, such a courtesy can be extended.”

Luna nodded. “Yes, we see. Very well. We shall hie to Ponyville on the morrow. We shall convene in their Hall at dawn, two days hence.”

“I will send word to Twilight and the Guard,” Celestia said, standing from the table. “Luna, please do your utmost to be discrete. I do not wish to cause a panic in Ponyville.”

Luna finished her eclair and stood as well. “We shall be subtle. Nopony saw us when we assisted Twilight Sparkle and Octavia Van Clef.”

Kate watched in awe as the zebra stood up on her hind legs and removed her brown robe, which she neatly hung over the back of a chair. Kate moved closer—she wanted to get a better look. Between her spiked mane and the hoops in her ears, down her neck, and around a leg, she had a more exotic look than any of the other ponies. Like some kind of African queen, Kate thought.

As the zebra came close, Kate reached out her hand. The zebra stuck her nose right up to Kate’s bandage and began sniffing carefully, moving up and down Kate’s arm. Her ears lowered, and she looked Kate right in the eye, before speaking.

Her voice was surprisingly musical. Kate thought it sounded like some kind of Arabic chant, maybe a prayer or something. Even though she didn’t understand a single word, she could detect a rhythm and rhyme to the zebra’s speech—something unlike the voices of the other two ponies.

When the zebra looked back down, Kate ran her left hand across the zebra’s bristly mane. She crossed her eyes comically to see what was touching her, before returning attention to Kate’s hand.

The other two ponies who had entered with the nurse—a mare and a stallion—were across the room talking to the white one with a hat, who was holding a drawing and pointing to it. Kate walked over to see what they were doing, and the zebra followed.

When Kate was next to them, the stallion glanced up at her, and then the paper floated in front of her face. Kate smiled; this was incredibly fun to watch. It was like they were doing magic tricks for her benefit—first the white unicorn had been flying clothes and a measuring tape through the air, and now the stallion was doing it, too. I wish I was smaller. I bet it would be a lot of fun to get a horseback ride from one of them.

She took the drawing, unperturbed by the small shock she got when she plucked it from the air. It showed three kinds of ponies, and they all had rays coming from them. The last drawing was of a man; he had no rays. Kate frowned. She had never been good at this kind of test. It was obvious she was supposed to discern the pattern from the first three, and apply it to the fourth—the man.

It didn’t help that there were five pairs of eyes watching her expectantly. She could almost hear the steady ticking of the wall clock as a fourth-grade Katie sat hunched over her MEAP test under the watchful glare of Ms. Kennedy. If you don’t do well on this test, you won’t get into college.

But she wasn’t in fourth-grade any more; she could afford to admit she didn’t know. Kate shook her head, and the equines began chattering at each other. Finally, the lone stallion pointed to the other unicorn, who walked out of the room.

The remaining ponies went back to their discussion, occasionally pointing to her. She finally sat Indian-style on the floor. She patted her thigh, hoping that one of them would come over and consent to being petted, but they seemed more interested in their discussion than her petting needs.

The stallion is the leader, she decided. He’s a doctor, ‘cause he’s got a stethoscope. The one with the light-blue mane is also a doctor, or maybe a senior nurse. She’s wearing a lab vest, just like he is. Only doctors and senior nurses can wear lab vests. That’s a hospital rule or something. That left her with three more to identify. The white one with the hat was easy; she was a nurse. The white unicorn might be a nurses’ assistant; that would explain why she was the one who’d brought the clothes, and she’d probably brought in the breakfast, too.

But what on earth is the zebra for? Kate wondered. She looked down at her hand, which the zebra had been particularly interested in. Is she a physical therapist? Did I have some kind of hand surgery? Or she could be an anesthesiologist. Kate looked around the room, wondering for the first time why there wasn’t more medical equipment. I’d think a hospital would look more hospitally.

The white unicorn returned with a flowerpot and a small cloud floating in front of her. A guard followed her, and looked at Kate warily. Flowerpot and cloud. Kate glanced back down at the sheet of paper. There wasn’t anything with flowers or clouds on the drawing. There should be a whale, too. Kate giggled. “I’ll call it ground. I wonder if it will be my friend?”

“Ka-th-rin.” the nurse said. How does she know my name? Kate’s eyes went down to her dog tags. Of course! She glanced up at the nurse, who pointed to the male doctor.

He motioned for her to set the paper down, which she did. Lifting a pencil from his pocket, he pointed to the picture of the unicorn first, indicating the horn. Then he pointed to the horn on the white unicorn. A blue light glowed around her horn and the flowerpot, and she picked it up, moving it around the air in lazy circles. A moment later, Kate’s breakfast dishes joined it, dancing through the air in an intricate pattern. She was so busy watching that it took several pokes from the doctor’s hoof before she looked back down at the picture. He indicated the ray from the horn, and pointed to the moving objects.

Horn moves things. Got it. Why is he showing me that? It’s not like I haven’t already figured it out. Why else would a unicorn have a horn? She nodded, and the doctor moved to his next demonstration. He pointed to the rays coming out of a pony’s wings, and then the guard.

Kate’s eyes widened as the guard unfolded wings from his side and flew up into the air, coming to rest on the small cloud. Once he was in contact with it, he laid his belly on the cloud and wrapped his hooves around the edge like he was giving the cloud a hug, then flapped his wings to bring the cloud down to ground level.

He jumped back off the cloud, turned to the white unicorn, and spoke a few words. As Kate watched, she floated a fork over the cloud and let go. It clattered to the ground under the cloud.

Kate clapped her hands, the sound oddly muffled by the thick bandage. Something didn’t feel right under there, but before she could figure it out, the guard had picked up the fork by sticking it to the bottom of his hoof. He took to the air again, hovering above the cloud. When he dropped the fork, it didn’t fall through.

How come I don’t feel much buffeting? Kate had worked around helicopters before, and the downdraft from the Dauphins was horrendous. She wasn’t much of an expert in flight, but in a space the size of their hospital room, she should have felt a significant wind. Instead, there was only a slight breeze from the guard’s wings. You don’t feel a breeze from a duck’s wings; birds don’t work like helicopters.

He landed again, on the side of the cloud opposite her. Using his wings for balance, he stood on his hind hooves and began tilting the cloud towards her. For a long time, the fork hung there, before it finally slid off the side of the cloud, clattering to the ground by her leg. Kate reached over and picked it up, getting a brief shock from the metal. She tossed it up at the cloud again, but it just passed through, bouncing off the guard’s armor.

Curious, she tried to grab a handful of cloud, wondering if it would feel like cotton candy. It didn’t—it was just cold and wet, but still more cohesive than fog. She couldn’t pull anything loose from the cloud at all, or affect its shape.

The guard noticed her efforts, and tore a piece off his side of the cloud, carrying it over to her on a hoof. He let it go just in front of her reaching hand, moving back before she could reward him with a pat on the muzzle.

Kate batted at the cloud again; as before, her hand just passed through it, although the cloud tuft re-formed as it tumbled on the slight gust of air she’d caused. Giggling, Kate swatted at it a few more times before looking back at the doctor.

Apparently satisfied that she’d learned something, he pointed to the picture of the winged pony again, indicating the vees off it. Kate nodded.

The guard pushed the cloud out the window and marched out of the room, his head held high, although he kept one ear turned back in her direction. Meanwhile, the nurse brought over the flowerpot, setting it right in front of Kate. She sat on her rump and picked up the pot with both her front hooves, pressing the pot tightly against her frogs. She half-closed her eyes and furrowed her brow. For a moment, Kate thought that she was going to crush the pot between her hooves; instead, a moment later a sprout came out of the pot, growing about four inches before the nurse set the pot down and wiped sweat off her forehead.

She patiently held her hoof out as the male doctor pointed to the bottom with his pencil, then back at the drawing. Kate looked at the hoof with interest—it looked fairly similar to the horses she was used to, but more developed. She’d never really been able to get a close look at a real horse’s hoof, since they were usually packed with dirt and stuff, but the nurse’s hoof was very clean.

Kate ran a finger around the edge of the frog, tracing the heart-shaped pattern. It was warm, and kind of velvety. The nurse finally withdrew her hoof and put it back on the ground, and Kate looked back at the picture. They’d explained everything except for the ray on the hip, where the picture was on each of the ponies.

Since he was closest, Kate reached over and poked the green square on the male doctor.

Kate felt a strong tingle, but it was kind of pleasant. She slid her fingers across the fur, ruffling it back and forth, marveling that she couldn’t feel any paint or anything—the pattern must have been dyed in, and she couldn’t imagine how much time that would take. Even having highlights put in her hair seemed to take forever; a complex pattern must take ages, especially to have the colors so vibrant and natural-looking. The zebra would have had to had her hip bleached first, to lighten up the stripes. Unless she was a boring grey pony that had been dyed to look like a zebra.

A low growl caused her to turn her head. The nurse was back up on all four legs, ears flattened, pawing at the ground with a forehoof. Meanwhile, the male doctor was staring at her hand, the female doctor was watching the nurse intently, and the white unicorn’s cheeks had turned bright red.

Completely confused, Kate let her hand drop. The only equine in the room that seemed to be enjoying the situation was the zebra, who had a hoof over her mouth, barely concealing a large grin.

The doctor stepped back and cleared his throat loudly, before glancing at the nurse and barking out a command. The nurse took a step back, and lowered her head. She stayed in that stance for a moment before moving up to Kate’s side and nuzzling her in the arm.

Apparently satisfied, the doctor picked the pencil back up and pointed to the paper again, before offering it to Kate. She grabbed it out of the air and crossed out all the marks on the man—after all, she couldn’t do any of the things that the ponies had done, and she certainly didn’t have any tattoos anywhere.

The doctor looked at it in interest, before looking thoughtfully at her. He seemed to be sizing up her arm. He was absently tapping a hoof on the ground as his internal debate continued. FInally, he seemed to arrive at a decision, pointing to the nurse and the other doctor and giving orders. They scurried off, along with the white unicorn, leaving Kate alone with the zebra and doctor.

The nurse returned first, along with a second nurse. The second nurse was pink, but wore the same cap and had a similar mark on her hip. Both her mane and tail were striped lavender and white.

They wasted no time setting up. The two nurses pushed Kate towards the bed, motioning for her to lie down. White gave her a glass of liquid and motioned for her to drink it. Kate almost spit it back out—it was even more bitter than the tea she’d had with breakfast—but the stern look on the nurse’s face gave her pause, and she forced it all down.

Pink climbed into bed with her and lay alongside her, with her head resting on top of Kate’s ribcage. She called a couple of orders out to White, who moved a beeping box around the head of the bed where Kate and Pink could see it easily.

White put a second box on top of the first, trailing a thin lead off of it over to her right arm. She balanced Kate’s arm on top of a hoof and then leaned over with her mouth. Kate felt a brief pressure in her forearm, and when White’s head withdrew, saw that the wire was leading out of her arm.

The second box immediately started tracing a pattern identical to the first one. Kate started to raise her arm, curious to see how the wire was fastened, but White shook her head.

The doctor and zebra had finished setting up the operating area. A few trays of instruments were set out, and Kate paled a little bit at the sight of one tray full of what appeared to be acupuncture needles. On the other hand, there weren’t any scalpels, so maybe whatever they were about to do wouldn’t be all that unpleasant. She didn’t have a problem with needles. She giggled. Acupuncture might be fun; she’d never tried it before.

The doctor came over and studied Kate’s arm before levitating a thick book from the bottom of the cart. She looked at it in surprise; the cover was in English. I thought Grey’s Anatomy was a TV show . . . is there a book, too?

He flipped through the book until he found what he was looking for, and very carefully stuck an acupuncture needle into her arm. He continued with the process, and Kate lost interest after a few minutes. It didn’t hurt at all, and was kind of boring to watch. The doctor placed a pin, studied the book, and then placed another. Since she had a fairly captive pony, she began running her free hand through the mane of Pink, careful not to mess it up too much. She couldn’t resist scratching behind Pink’s ears, and running her fingers up to the tip. Her fur was so soft and clean, more so than any real horse she’d ever touched.

Pink looked over at White, who shrugged. Kate ran her left hand through Pink’s forelock, moving slowly so that she wouldn’t tug her hair if there were any tangles. It was soft and clean—much cleaner than Kate’s hair. Just thinking about how dirty her hair was made her scalp itch. “Do you use mane and tail shampoo?” she asked the nurse.

The other doctor came back in the room, and she was followed by a slightly taller unicorn, which was much more slender than the other ponies. The taller unicorn had a pair of saddlebags on her back, and once she got over to where the doctor was working, floated a piece of copper wire out, followed by two pairs of tongs.

She used the tongs to pull a coil of thick wire that looked very much like oversized solder out of her bag. She set it, and the tongs, on the table next to where the doctor was working, then the two of them carried on a brief conversation. Kate paid the doctors very little attention. She was tracing her fingers around the small white spots on Pink’s cheek that looked very much like freckles.

The male doctor took the copper wire and gently wrapped it around all the needles, making one loop around each one. When he’d finished with the last, he took the extra wire and made a spiral pattern out of it, which he set against Kate’s arm.

Working carefully with the tongs, he next began wrapping the dull silver wire around her forearm, between her elbow and the needles. Once he’d made two turns, he bent the copper wire up, and continued wrapping. He kept the coils tight, making a dozen close turns before he was satisfied. Then he set the tongs aside, and pushed the copper wire down with his hoof. He looked up at the tall unicorn, and she nodded her approval.

Kate had moved on to Pink’s withers, gently scratching the short hair. A soft hum of satisfaction had crossed Pink’s lips, before her face turned red, which provided all the encouragement Kate needed to continue.

The taller unicorn looked at the two monitors and spoke to the doctor. The stallion leaned over Kate’s hand and lit it up in a light blue glow, which began faint but then intensified. Kate felt an odd tugging sensation as her arm rose a few inches before being set back down. Both unicorns shared a glance, and the taller one smiled, then touched a hoof to the coil of metal. Kate looked back at them, pleading with her eyes for the tall unicorn to come over. Her thinner face reminded Kate more of the unicorns she’d imagined as a kid, and her glossy coat just begged to be petted.

The doctor stepped back and let White take over. She began unwrapping the gauze, while the doctor opened a small pouch which looked like it might contain a Crown Royal bottle. Instead of a bottle of cheap whiskey, he removed a large blood-red radiant-cut gem. Before she had time to wonder what that was for, Kate could feel an unpleasant tug as White reached the end of the gauze and had a sudden conviction that she didn’t want to know what was under the final layer.

As if revealing a masterpiece, White yanked the rest of the bandage off. Kate didn’t need to know their language to know that it was bad. The tall unicorn took a step backward, and the zebra shook her head sadly, before moving to Kate’s side. She began to quietly chant in the singsong voice she had. Kate reached over and stroked the Zebra’s muzzle, hoping that Pink wouldn’t be upset with being ignored for a little bit.

The doctor pushed the glasses up on his muzzle and leaned very close, then his horn began glowing brightly.

Almost instantly, the top monitor went from beeping to a shrill screech. Kate felt an odd warmth in her arm, like warm water was being poured over it, along with a prickling sensation. White turned a dial on the top machine and it quieted down, reverting to fast-paced beeping. The doctor nodded in satisfaction and bent to his work.

The intensity of the glow from his horn grew, until it was nearly as bright as an arc welder. Kate felt her forearm begin to grow warm, and wondered if it really was, or if that was just her imagination. There was a very strong smell of ozone coming from him, and she tried to pull her hand away, but it was stuck as if it were glued to something. For all the light and smell, it was absolutely silent.

Fifteen minutes later, the doctor was clearly beginning to tire. At one point, White had placed a hoof on his back, but the doctor had shaken his head and the hoof was removed. With sweat pouring down his face, the doctor’s horn-light flickered and finally went out.

The tall unicorn stepped into his place, leaning close to Kate’s hand and bathing it in a new glow. She didn’t last as long as the doctor had, quitting ten minutes into the procedure. Kate was suddenly aware of a ravenous hunger and an incredibly dry feeling in her throat. Her head was beginning to throb, and she felt faint. She hoped lunch would be coming as soon as they were done working.

The female doctor stepped in next. She had a bottle of some kind of thick cream, which she spread all over Kate’s hand. When she’d finished, she wrapped it back up in gauze, then rested her hoof over the back of Kate’s hand.

Kate looked away just in time to see the stallion lift a milky-white gem off a metal tray and put it back into a pouch, which he then placed on the bottom of the cart. Before she could wonder too much about that, a tantalizing smell filled her nostrils, and she turned her head to see the zebra making room for White, who was sliding a platter of food onto her bedside table.

Pink climbed out of the bed, and then the two nurses helped Kate into a more upright position. The mare doctor made sure that all the wires stayed in place as Kate moved, before going back to resting her hoof on the back of Kate’s hand.

The first thing she reached for was a glass of water, which she downed in one shot. Then she lifted the lid off the large serving bowl and grabbed a spoon. The dish was unfamiliar—it was some kind of casserole with bell peppers, pineapple, and a mystery ingredient, over a bed of thin noodles and some sort of grain.

Pink put a bib over her uniform, before motioning for her to take the bowl. Kate wondered if she was supposed to share, but there weren’t any smaller bowls or plates, so she concluded that it must have been all for her.

The first bite was heavenly. It was reminiscent of sweet and sour chicken, but without the chicken. The mystery ingredient didn’t have the same texture as any kind of meat she’d ever had, which probably meant it was some kind of soy substitute. She didn’t care. Her stomach was making urgent demands, and she was going to satisfy it.

She ate half the bowl before she was full. She hoped it wouldn’t turn out like most Chinese food and leave her hungry again in a half hour. She set the bowl back on the table and smiled at the nurses. Pink nuzzled her side.

Once the nurses had taken her bib away and cleaned up the lunch tray, the female doctor began carefully pulling the needles out of her arm. With each one she removed, she glanced at the two monitors, which were now nearly in sync again.

Finally, working with the tongs, she unwrapped the coil around Kate’s arm. She dropped it on the tray, placed the copper wire next to it, and began cleaning up.

Once she had finished, White and Pink held a brief conversation with the female doctor. White was the more talkative of the pair, occasionally pointing a hoof towards Kate or Pink. The doctor nodded, and the ponies finally reached a consensus.

The two nurses reached up and grabbed her pants with their teeth, pulling her legs off the bed. I guess I have to get up again, Kate thought. She climbed out of bed, and Pink walked towards the door with the female doctor beside her. Kate just stood there until she felt a pressure from behind. She looked back, and saw White gently pushing her with her head. The message was easy to understand—she was to follow Pink and the female doctor.

The pair led her through the hospital, accompanied by the guard who had been stationed in the hall. They went down a flight of stairs, finally arriving at a room with a bar of soap on the door.

When she was younger, the highlight of Kate’s summer had been a week at the Manitou-Lin YMCA camp—specifically, the time spent at the Spirit Farms Riding Center, where she and hundreds of young girls had learned all about horse care, horseback riding, and in general been able to bond with the ponies they didn’t get for Christmas.

She’d never expected to be groomed by an equine, though. The female doctor had helped her undress, and then Pink had taken over, first washing her hair and then scrubbing her thoroughly with soapy water and a soft brush. She’d tried to protest that she could do it herself, but Pink would have none of that, swatting at her hand whenever she tried to take the brush away. Finally, she gave up, wondering if Pink was getting revenge for the petting.

The end result was worth it, though. She was spotlessly clean, and Pink had even allowed Kate to put on some makeup from the limited selection on the vanity. The doctor had helped her get dressed again, and then the two of them—accompanied by the guard—led her back to her room.

Author's Notes:

Shameless plug: if you didn't know about them, check out the Side Stories!

And, as always, be sure to view the blog HERE for exciting behind-the-scenes information!

Chapter 10: A New Dawn, part III

A New Dawn, part III
Onto the Pony Planet
Admiral Biscuit

Twilight sipped her coffee while staring absently at her checklist, a process which caused a slight twitch in her left eye—or maybe it was all the coffee she’d been drinking lately. Unlike her normal checklists, this one was a mess, with whole lines crossed out and new items penned in. Try as she might, she was unable to find any books that provided much more than the barest guideline for welcoming completely alien visitors to Equestria and getting everypony to like them in the shortest period of time possible.

Add in opening a new embassy, arranging for the remodeling and supply of said embassy, coordinating language lessons, and studying alien biology on the fly—it was really more than one mare could handle, even if she did have the most wonderful pair of assistants in the world. For now, large amounts of caffeine were serving as a sleep substitute, but it was difficult to predict how much longer that would work. A quick estimate, based on past experience at Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns, placed the time of the inevitable crash sometime between eight and twenty-four hours from now, which just meant she had to work extra hard in the time she had remaining.

Twilight grimaced, memories of a delirious Applejack suddenly coming to the forefront. What if the same thing happened to her? Or if she just cracked under the pressure? What if she didn’t know it was happening—would she know? Did Applejack know how much of a menace she’d been when she was sleep-deprived? I’ll just have to pen a nap into the schedule, she thought. Maybe after the follow-up with the embassy construction crew and the meeting with the mayor. If I delegate a representative to oversee transfer of materials off the platform at the train station, I could get an additional twenty minutes or more, but I’d have to spend the time to do the delegation, and who would I ask anyway? The answer came to her in a flash. Rarity. Good eye for detail, things would get to the embassy intact.

Now all I need to do is arrange for the welcoming party. Can’t have Carrot Top and Berry Punch making the banner. Maybe I could ask— Twilight jumped off her seat as a pink pony popped out from under the table. “Pinkie Pie!”

“Yuppers, I was just cleaning crumbs from under the tables before the mousies find them and infest Sugarcube Corner which would make Mrs. Cake shriek like you just did, except she would say ‘mouse!’ instead of ‘me,’ unless I was a mouse but you looked like you were on the horns of a conundrum or hooves of a dilemma and I thought that you needed some cheering up because you look so tired and pensive and so I brought you a carrot cheesecake.” Pinkie placed a plate on the table with a flourish.

“Pinkie Pie,” Twilight began, then stopped, her train of thought well and truly derailed.

Pinkie tilted her head to one side, looking at Twilight curiously. The unicorn just stared at her blankly. After three drowsy blinks, Pinkie took matters into her own hooves, and poked Twilight in the muzzle. “Boop!”

“Huh? Oh, sorry Pinkie, I think I zoned out there.”

“Duh. You look all sleepy. Sometimes when I stay up too late I. . . .” Pinkie frowned. “Can I help?”

“Yes!” Twilight seized onto Pinkie like a drowning mare might grab at a life preserver. “I need a Welcome-to-Equestria soiree ready by tomorrow morning. For Dale and Ka-th-rin. At the town hall. Something quiet and subdued, like the Grand Galloping Gala . . . before we wrecked it. Something so that ponies aren’t scared of them.”

Pinkie dropped her chin on a hoof and squinted at Twilight. “I could do a reprise of my unity song. Let’s see: You’ve gotta share, you’ve gotta care—”

“Not that song.” Twilight frowned. “It . . . it’s a perfectly reasonable song, but, uh, they don’t speak Equus. So they wouldn’t understand.”

“Got it.” Pinkie went back to contemplating, while Twilight took another sip of her coffee. “I’m not good at serious stuff. What if I just warm up the crowd?”

Twilight nodded. “That’s brilliant! Get everypony at the town hall, have them all hyped up, and then, then you could introduce the aliens, and everypony would love them.” Twilight grabbed her friend in a tight hug. “Pinkie, you’re a lifesaver.” Her ears flattened as she heard the town clock chime. “Oh, sorry, I’ve got to go. Put it on my tab.” She lit her horn and teleported out of Sugarcube Corner to the embassy. A loud silence greeted her, and Twilight suddenly realized that she was still holding Pinkie in a tight embrace.

“Thanks for the ride, Twilight. It was memorable.” Pinkie kissed Twilight on the cheek and pronked off in the direction of Sugarcube Corner, humming happily.

Twilight looked over at the cluster of construction ponies, who were all staring at her, and sighed deeply.

The inside of the embassy was a mess. A worried-looking Rivet was shifting around on his hooves as Twilight finished her examination of unpainted walls, unfinished floors, and the un-plumbed bathroom. She hadn’t said anything yet, but the disappointed look on her face was more than he could stand.

“Dale’s supposed to come here tomorrow,” Twilight said. “After the soiree and introductions, the mayor’s going to formally open the embassy. With Fancy Pants and Fleur.”

“I know.” He hung his head. “There was too much that had to be done, and we’ve already exhausted all the supplies in Ponyville. There are more coming on this morning’s train.” He pointed to the bathroom. “No pipe. Can’t put in fixtures until we’ve got pipe. Silver’s champing at the bit, but there’s nothing she can do.” He brightened a little bit. “We got the outhouse finished, though. Maybe they could use the spa until the bathroom is finished?”

Twilight consulted her messy checklist. “The walls aren’t painted.”

“Plaster won’t be dry for days. If we paint now, it’ll crack.”

Twilight frowned. “Can you do anything? If the walls are covered, they’ll look more finished. Maybe get some tapestries?”

“We could paper the walls,” he said. “Or skim-coat them with dyed plaster. Plaster’d be easier.”

“Do that. How’s the upstairs?”

“Bedrooms are done, except for the beds. They’ll be on the train, too. All the furniture's coming on the train.” He gave her a worried look. “Listen, I know this is important, but there’s a lot of townsponies upset that everything’s coming from Canterlot. I’ve had craftsponies stopping by all day, wondering why they aren’t getting work out of this deal.”

“It’s only temporary,” Twilight said. “Nopony would have had time to build furniture.” She looked around the room again. “A lot of what we’re getting are the extras and leftovers from the old minotaur embassy, I think.” She thought of Rarity spending all night fixing clothes, just to present them in the morning. She’d have to remember to ask her how well they’d been received. “Tell them that. Tell them that we need better furnishings made, matching the dimensions of the ones you’ll be getting. I don’t like the idea of equipping the embassy with cast-offs, and in the long-term, I want it done right. But we can’t have them living at the hospital for the next month, either—this is the best solution we have.”

Luna stepped off a low balcony on the north wing of the castle and took to the air. As she banked over the courtyard, she could hear the muffled gasps of a few unicorns on the ground below her. For a fleeting moment, she had a mad impulse to swoop down on them and knock them over with her hooves—did they really think she didn’t hear them?—but the thought passed as soon as she was over the labyrinth.

Only she and her sister fully appreciated it. A pegasus saw it from above, and perhaps the pattern caught her eye, but she’d never think of walking through it on her hooves. Unicorns and earth ponies only saw the maze from the ground, so to them it was a confusing series of narrow passages and perplexing turns. Luna had both flown over it and walked through it, sometimes seeking solitude in the center of the maze.

In ancient times, the legends said, a wise pony sat in the center of a labyrinth, giving sage advice to anypony who sought her out. Such a notion was silly; nopony would want to wait in the center of a labyrinth on the offhoof chance that somepony wandered by seeking guidance.

And yet, from a metaphorical point of view, it made sense. When a pony navigated the twists and turns of her mind, honestly seeking, she found her answer more often than not, so perhaps the wise pony in the center of the maze was the seeker herself.

Luna circled over it, letting the sun beat down upon her wings. There were a few ponies down in the maze, she saw, slowly wending their way towards the center. She could spiral down and land in the small central garden, perhaps offering her wisdom to the seekers, if that was what they sought.

She snorted. If she did that, the ponies would flee when they spotted her. Three short years had not been enough to build relationships with very many ponies. Only her servants, and a few loyal mares and foals scattered throughout the land. Why, it seemed even Cadance had more loyal followers than she.

She shot up to a cloud, dropping lightly on its fluffy top. Off in the distance, she could make out the tiny rooftops and fields of Ponyville. Maybe she could glide down there and help Twilight Sparkle with her research into the alien creatures.

But she couldn’t. She should stay away from them—she’d promised to—until after Lyra Heartstrings’ trial. Then, and only then, would she be free to act. She would do better to spend her time brushing up on the Royal Guard’s laws. Like everything else, in the thousand years of her absence, it was likely that the laws had been largely gelded.

On top of that, she had to deal with Beatrix. It was tempting to leave her until after the trial, but that would turn into another delay, and then another, and soon enough months would have passed, with the showmare still sleeping in her bed, the spell keeping her in a near-comatose state as the months and years and decades flew by. Had that been her goal, she might as well have turned the unicorn to stone and placed her on a plinth in the statue garden, maybe right next to Discord. No doubt the pair would get along well.

With a sigh, she turned back towards the castle and alighted on her balcony. As soon as she opened the doors, Dusk Glimmer was beside her, bowing deeply.

“Have Black Marble fetch us copies of the current laws for Celestia’s auxiliary Day Guard from our library,” Luna ordered. “Once he has been set to that task, we shall wake Beatrix. You shall bathe and groom her, and then escort her to us.”

Dusk Glimmer bowed.

Luna uncorked a bottle of pastis and filled her drinking glass to the etched line, then topped it off with water, watching in delight as the drink changed from a transparent amber to a milky yellow. It was so nice to find that ponies still made the stuff; it had long been her favorite beverage. Now the cellars were well-stocked with the liquor.

She took a sip, swishing it around in her mouth, letting the licorice flavor come to the forefront. Once she was satisfied she’d mixed it properly, she opened the thick book of law which Black Marble had brought and began to skim through the pages.

One of the first things she and Celestia had done when the tribes were united was to unify their laws—in truth, she’d done most of the work. Like so many of her pursuits, it had been a thankless task. Nopony had liked having their freedoms restricted, even when it was for the good of all.

At least in all the chaos of normal Equestrian Law, the Guard still have a simple code, she thought. Their lawbook was only a few hundred pages thick.

Finally, about midway through, she found the section she was looking for—the laws that most applied to what she believed the Guards’ case against Lyra was going to be.

If a Mare or a Stallion of the Guard is found to have caused injury to a foreign dignitary through negligence, she shall at a minimum be stripped of one rank. If said injury was caused with malice aforethought, she shall be removed from the Guard immediately.

If a Mare or a Stallion of the Guard is found to have caused the death of a foreign dignitary, she shall be removed from the Guard immediately and surrendered to a suitable representative of the aggrieved party.

Delightfully simple, yet it allowed her great latitude in her decision. That, in her mind, was what laws ought to be. One or more wise ponies should hear the testimony, and then make an informed judgement.

She drained her glass of pastis in celebration, and then poured herself another. Flipping back to the beginning of the book, she began to read the whole thing.

Detective Moller was back at his usual desk, which was a relief. I do my best thinking here, he thought. Well, and in the shower. He leaned back in his chair and cracked his knuckles.

He pulled out a copy of the map of the crime scene and began pencilling in the evidence by each photograph marker. There were the sword, spear, and claw, on the beach. Up a rise, and there had been the campsite, far enough back in the woods that it couldn’t be seen from the air or water. The Coast Guard had been right at the treeline—except for Kate—when the guy and his pet had come out of the woods.

His pet. Why does that keep nagging at me? There was something missing. What did he know about pets? Lots of people had them, they were good company. But there was some thought nagging at the front of his consciousness, something about a cat meowing. . . .

“Agent Richter to see you.”

Moller groaned. He’d known the FBI was going to jump into this case with both feet—how could they not? There was a federal agent missing, after all. While a part of him was grateful that they’d be handling the evidence and much of the legwork, it was always a blow to his professional pride when they showed up, especially if the agent had an attitude.

“Show him in,” Moller muttered, dragging the case file into prominence on his desk. He took a quick look at his uniform, making sure that there weren’t any grease stains that would further the impression that he was a clueless hick cop.

The FBI agent was wearing a neat black suit, with a red tie offering the only bit of color to his sober uniform. He was young, but fairly well-built, with a stance that made Moller think he’d been around the block a time or two. That was good; the last thing he needed was a beltway ass-kisser to babysit.

After a firm handshake, Richter sat easily across the desk from Moller. “I don’t want to step on your toes,” he began, and Moller’s estimation of the man went up. “It’s your territory, and everyone I asked says you’re a good cop. I want the girl found as soon as possible. I don’t give a damn how. That’s my number one concern.

“Second, I want this guy caught. I want to nail him to a wall. But if it’s a choice between the girl and the suspect, we get the girl and worry about him later.”

Moller nodded. He suddenly liked Richter a lot.

“So, what have you got so far?”

Moller shook his head. “Nothing.” He drummed his fingers on the file. “I’ve got evidence coming out the wazoo. We picked that island apart, and we got everything that matters off it. Coast Guard sent me copies of the first interviews with the crews, and I interviewed them all myself, too. Some of their testimony doesn’t make a bit of sense, but it’s consistent. Whatever happened, they all saw the same thing. It matches up with the evidence on the beach, too.

“I’ve got cops up and down the west coast stopping at every marina, looking for this guy’s car, and the Coast Guard’s put up fliers. I don’t have high hopes—for all we know, he launched it from his backyard—but there’s a chance. Got the serial number off the canoe, too. Michicraft’s going through their records, but they aren’t going to find anything. We don’t require registration on unpowered canoes, and I’ve got ten bucks that says that canoe is a used livery boat, probably sold in the late seventies. This guy could be the second owner of that canoe, or the hundredth. He might even have stolen it.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Ran them through IAFIS, nothing. Lab techs are working on DNA samples from the camp, but if he’s not in IAFIS, he’s probably not going to be in CODIS, either.” He drummed his fingers idly on the desk. “I sent samples from the bags that he threw at Anthony to hair and fiber—there was some blue-green hair stuck in the buckle, which is about the color that the phantom creature is said to be.”

“Phantom creature?” Richter leaned across the desk. “That wasn’t in the briefing.”

“I don’t imagine it would have been.” He opened the file and pulled out a sheet. “This is from Anthony’s second interview: ‘when I got back to my feet, the old guy was charging down the beach towards Gunner’s Mate Dybek. Right next to him, the old guy, was a little creature, like a horse or a pony, you know what I mean? Except it was all green, with white streaks in its tail. It was running—galloping—kinda alongside him. I shouted to Dybek, and she shot it with her taser and put it down, but then the guy hit her. There was a flash, and they were gone, and when I looked back at the beach, it was gone, too.’ And he’s not the only one who saw it—Cortez called it a ‘caballo marino chilote’ and indicated that the old man was commanding it. I looked that up, and apparently it’s some kind of monstrous mythological sea-horse.”

“Are they covering something up?”

“I thought they were. Can’t imagine why they’d come up with such a wild tale, but when I read through the Coast Guard’s interviews, that was the first thing that sprang to mind. You know, a kraken took her, or the Loch Ness Monster, or something like that. Even a shared hallucination . . . but when I interviewed them myself, I wasn’t so sure. Cortez would have thrown Anthony under the bus if there’d been any collusion in their story. And there’s another thing.” He rummaged through the folder. “See, if they’d been making it up, it wouldn’t have left evidence behind.”

He slid the picture across the desk, waiting for Richter to pick it up before continuing. “Whatever they saw left tracks in the sand, and I’m willing to put money that it left the hair on the buckle, too. It’s some kind of exotic pet, and once we figure out what kind, it’ll lead us right to the perp.”

“That’s a pretty good lead,” Richter said. “Probably gonna be more useful than the canoe. I assume you sent it to hair and fiber?”

“And Michigan State University,” Moller said. “Let their vet school have a crack at it, too. They’ve got pretty good DNA sequencing machines, and a better chance of identifying an exotic pet than we do.” He paused, before continuing. “I’ve got more hair; could give your boys some to play with, too. Maybe one of your labs could come up with something.”

Richter pulled out a slim leather-bound notebook and a silver Cross pen and took a note. “What else have you got?”

“Books, notebooks, you name it. It’s weird, there are research books and kids books all combined. And notebooks full of some kind of made-up language.” He gave Richter a photograph of a sample page. “See, some of this makes sense—this page is a translation of some words into English, best I can figure. Might be enough to get your cryptologists and linguists started. We found a couple of books written in that language. One of them looked like a kids book, you know small words, filled with pictures of cartoony characters. The other one looks like some kind of bizarre religious text. Like, some kind of weird new-age occult thing, wiccan or druidism or maybe even satanism.”

“Bet you haven’t made any progress with those.”

“Nope.” Moller shook his head. “Nobody recognized the language at first glance, but one of the evidence techs is a bibliophile, and he noticed that the style of the book—from the binding, pages, and ink—looked to him like an eighteenth-century book or older, and he said it was odd that it wasn’t leather-bound. That’s why he thought druidism. There was a woodcut of a horse with a crown on the first page, and each page after that had a picture of some kind of animal at the top, so I’m wondering if it’s some kind of old grimoire.”

Richter rolled his eyes. “Get me photographs of the pages, and I’ll send them to the Grey School of Wizardry, see if they can come up with anything.”

Moller looked at him suspiciously. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“Wish I was. It’s in California—where else? They’re like a Catholic school for pagans, and if anyone knows about your book, it’ll be them.”

Trixie made a foal of herself as soon as she got out of bed—tried to, rather. How could she have known that the bed was a cloud? As soon as she was off the comforter, she and her dignity had crashed face-first into the floor. So much for a dramatic entrance, but then Trixie had never been at her best first thing in the morning, and while she didn’t actually know what time it was, she had been in bed and now she wasn’t; therefore, it must have been morning.

It took her a moment for her surroundings to register, but Trixie had always been very adaptable. The pony standing by the door could only be a servant.

The maid led her to the tub and told her to make herself presentable, a task which Trixie was only to happy to undertake. It was only when she was in the bathtub that she began to worry about the future. She was no mook, and she suspected that the future was going to begin with pleading her case to an alicorn.

Worry began gnawing at her as she scrubbed her coat. What would she say? Perhaps the lunar diarch would take pity on her, because they were—in a way—in a similar predicament. Surely, she would remember that she herself had been shown mercy by her sister.

On the other hoof, foal’s stories were full of tales of Nightmare Moon gobbling up the unwary, and while that probably wasn’t true, it was undeniable that the younger diarch had twice tried to curse all of Equestria to eternal darkness.

She brushed her tail to a glossy sheen, pausing frequently to admire it. She’d been accused of vanity before, but really, she had the most magnificent tail in Equestria. It was one of her best traits, along with her mane and her showmareship and her eloquent voice.

She moved on to her mane. It felt nice to run a brush through it . . . she hadn’t been able to properly groom herself when she was in her cell. The brush obeyed her every command, gently working out the tangles in her platinum hair.

She lifted her hooves one at a time, checking to make sure that there wasn’t anything stuck in her shoes. It would have been nice to polish them—the bronze was tarnished, and the streaks of verdigris hardly matched her coat. Trixie sighed. She could hardly go through all the cabinets in the bathroom for a polishing compound, and she hadn’t seen any out in the open. She would just have to suffer with stained shoes.

Trixie looked in the mirror one more time, to make sure she was as presentable as she could be. If she’d had access to her own makeup, she could have hidden the gouges in her horn and the deep cut in her poll.

When she had spent as much time grooming as she felt she could get away with, Trixie finally emerged from the bathroom. The maid gave her an annoyed look, but Trixie just ignored her.

She followed the maid directly into Luna’s office. She stumbled slightly as she crossed the threshold; she’d expected to be admitted through a set of doors, like into the throne room. Instead, one moment she was in a hallway, and then she was facing Princess Luna.

When the maid bowed halfway into the room, Trixie followed suit, nearly touching her muzzle to the ground. The princess gave a curt nod, before Trixie felt comfortable raising her head.

The maid showed Trixie to a couch before leaving her alone. Trixie shifted around in the seat, trying to get into a position which was both comfortable and flattering. Her chest still hurt from being tackled and pummeled by the Royal Guards, and she didn’t want to show her stained shoes if she could avoid it, so she finally settled on folding her forelegs under her barrel and tucking her hind legs against her side, with her hooves down. If she had to, she could get back up pretty quickly. That was an advantage from years of live shows, sometimes in front of hostile audiences—like Ponyville. A mare’s got to know when to run, because an audience could turn quickly.

Luna said nothing, simply watching her for a minute. Trixie began to shift on her seat—should I stare back, or would that be rude? She lowered her eyes and studied the navy velvet upholstery on the bench.

Her ears swivelled as she heard the unmistakable sound of a book sliding across a desk, followed by the slow cadence of shoes on stone. Trixie looked back up to see the younger sister walking towards a bookshelf. While she was occupied, Trixie sneaked a covert look around the room.

It was more cluttered than she’d expected. This was clearly a room meant for work, not for show. A large brass orrery stood on a pedestal on one side of the room, the light sheen of grease on its drive chain a clear indication that it was not for show. Several stellar charts were hanging from the wall next to it.

Risking a quick glance behind her, the first thing that drew Trixie’s eye was a sword in a scabbard. She gulped—the locket was platinum with a rhomb-cut bloodstone, which the stylized alicorn head of the sword’s handle and quillons nested neatly into. She knew that symbol well. Had the amulet been attached to a sword? And if so, why did Luna have it? Were there more artifacts that were related to the amulet?

“It was King Sombra’s sword,” Luna said quietly.

Trixie jerked her head around. She hadn’t heard her approach. Why do you have it? She clamped her mouth shut before she said something she’d regret.

Luna reverently set a book in front of Trixie. It was open to a page showing the alicorn amulet. She didn’t need to read the page to know what it said; she’d seen a copy of this very same book many years ago, in a library in Manehattan. She’d been looking for some long-forgotten magical artifacts to add to her show, something with the right amount of flash. She’d finally settled on a silver diadem, and worn it for years, until she changed her costume to a cape and hat, but the memory of all those fantastic artifacts had never left her mind. How is it that the alicorn amulet—lost for a thousand years—just happened to show up in a curiosity shop? She hadn’t wondered about her good fortune then, but had had plenty of time since to think about it.

Luna returned to her desk, leaving Trixie alone with the book. She lovingly traced a hoof across the drawing, remembering how good it had felt to wear around her neck. How much more powerful she’d been. She’d felt the strength from her hooves to her horn, like a jolt of lightning. It was power she’d never have again.

“Why didst thou do it?” Luna’s voice was dangerously quiet.

“Trixie was. . . .” She fell silent. How could she justify what she’d done? Luna’s icy eyes were focused tightly on her. She could almost see a trail of frost moving from the desk to her chair. I did it because I wanted to. I wanted the amulet, and I found it. I wanted to show up Twilight Sparkle, and I did that too. In front of all her friends, just like she humiliated me in front of everypony in Ponyville. If only she hadn’t tricked me with her fake magic and fake amulet, Trixie would still be greater and powerful-er.

“We are waiting.”

“Trixie wanted to show up Twilight Sparkle,” she whispered. “The Great and Powerful Trixie could not stand being upstaged by anypony else.”

I did, too. In front of everypony—all her friends. I sent her away, and I even shut up that annoying pink pony.

“Yes, we see.” Luna sighed. “We have studied thy case, Beatrix Lulamoon. We know that thou didst flee Ponyville after the Ursa Minor those foalish colts awoke came into town. Rather than turn to explain thine actions and face justice like a mature pony, thou chosest to flee. We know that thou didst spend time stewing upon thy sorry lot in life, and rather than earn by merit that which thou didst believe thou deserved, thou sought to seize it by guile.

“In so doing, thou didst recklessly endanger the lives of everypony in Ponyville, and potentially all of Equestria. Twilight Sparkle is the bearer of the Element of Magic. As such, she and her friends are expected to be able to come to the defense of Equestria whenever they are needed. They cannot do that when they are separated by a magical barrier.”

Trixie lowered her head. It’s true. You’re a bad pony.

“Many years ago, had a pony behaved as thee, she would have been cast out of the herd and left to fend on her own. In thy case, thou wouldst have had thine horn broken and thy legs hobbled, most like. Thou wouldst not have survived, and nopony would have mourned thy loss.”

I should have taken my chances in the dungeon, or fled into the Everfree. The Princess probably would have quit looking after a while. Her eyes flicked towards the balcony window. She could leap towards it, cast a couple of smoke spells to disorient Luna, and hide behind a curtain before the smoke cleared. A misdirection—the Princess probably would assume she’d jumped out the window and look there. She could make it into the main chambers before Luna looked back. After that, it was just a matter of beating her down the stairs and into the keep . . . where she’d be mobbed by Royal Guards.

And if she got past them? Exile in the Everfree, at best. Maybe she’d be able to flee Equestria entirely and go somewhere where they hadn’t heard of her. Wander the world, maybe for the rest of her life.

But she was so tired of running.

With a low growl, she turned her head and grabbed the sword off the wall. “Just do it and get it over with.” She thrust the sword towards Luna. “You should have done it while Trixie slept; it would have been kinder.”

Luna took a step back from her desk and wrapped the sword in her own aura. She gently pulled it away from the unicorn, as if she was taking a toy from a foal.

She held it in front of her, looking at the razor-sharp steel thoughtfully. Finally, she set it on her desk. “Times have changed. Our laws are not as Draconian as they once were.” Luna stood back up and turned her back to the unicorn. “Wast thou aware of the provenance of the amulet thou briefly possessed?”

“It was said to have been crafted by a great unicorn king,” Trixie whispered. “From the crystals of the Crystal Empire.”

“Twas crafted from the blood of innocents,” Luna said bitterly. “The crystals were simply the focus. It gave him great power, but no wisdom, we know that now. He ruled an illusory empire built on a foundation of hate and emptiness. It beguiled the unwary, for it looked grander than Canterlot. Yet, there is more love to be found in a destitute mule’s shack than there ever was in his entire Crystal Empire.

“Such a kingdom cannot prosper, Beatrix. It must come crashing down, and it wounds the innocent as it falls.”

She lifted the sword once again and slowly walked over to the wall. “There was a time for the sword and a time for war, but that time has passed, and this sword shall shed no more innocent blood.” Luna gently slid it back into its sheath.

“We fear that thou didst seek to build such a kingdom for thyself. We knowest thou called for the rocks under thine hooves. Our sister knows not what we found when we visited thine empty chambers, for we destroyed all the crystals lest she see. Tell us true, what didst thou mean by trying to poison the very roots of our House? For so many months, thou wert a well-behaved prisoner, and then thou brought evil here. Was Ponyville not a grand enough prize for thee? Didst thou seek to cast us down?”

“Trixie did not!” she yelled. “The crystals came on their own—Trixie did not want them. She did not like them. They scared her, whispering to her in the dark. They spoke with the same voice as the amulet, which she wishes she had never found.

“Trixie had to leave. If she’d stayed, the crystals would have consumed her and made her their plaything.” She stepped off the couch. “They were no more welcome than the Ursa that crushed her wagon. Trixie did not summon them, somepony else did.

“Trixie thought you’d know what it was like to hear the dark voices whispering in your head. Trixie hoped that you could make the voices go away. But if not—”

“We hold the interests of Equestria in our heart!” Luna slammed her hoof down on the desk hard enough to leave a divot. “Speak not of things which thou knowest not.”

“Do you not remember Nightmare Moon? Because Trixie does, Princess. Trixie remembers the morning the sun did not rise. Trixie was in Canterlot, performing at the Summer Sun Celebration. She remembers the screams of foals as they ran to their mothers when the sun did not come. She remembers the Guards trying to keep order, and hearing the cries that Nightmare Moon had returned, that the prophecies were all true, that we were all doomed. Are those the interests of Equestria?”

“WE WERE NOT OURSELVES! Our mind had been corrupted by that very same dark magic which thou freely takest!”

“All Trixie wanted was to embarrass Twilight in front of her friends. Shallow, perhaps. But Trixie only sought an artifact which would increase her power, she did not wish to usurp the throne or hurt anypony!” She stomped up to Luna, glaring across the desk at her. “If you could be redeemed with the Elements of Harmony, why can’t I?”

“We have been struck twice,” Luna said softly. “We do not feel thou wouldst survive the experience.” She looked down at her desk. “We could not predict what they would do to thee, else we would have already asked our sister.

“We have removed the visible corruption we found on thee. If you give us leave, when thou sleepest tonight, we shall visit thy dreams, and see if there is a hidden menace there. But if thou speakest true, we shan’t find aught.

“On the morrow, we must go to Ponyville. Our sister has requested our presence there to settle a legal matter. We would have you stay in our chambers, and keep thy counsel.”

“Trixie supposes you will have your bat-guards staying close to her.”

“Nay, they shall have no such orders. If thou dost wish to leave our House, we shall not detain thee nor pursue thee.”

The first thing Twilight did when she walked out of the front door of the soon-to-be embassy was look at the clock. She’d actually—wonder of wonders—spent less time in there than she’d anticipated, so she was ahead of schedule. Not having any furnishings to inspect had shortened the inspection considerably. She could meet with the mayor early, and then stop by Rarity’s.

She pushed open the door of the mayor’s office and was promptly greeted by Apple Polish, who gave her a friendly wave. “Morning, Twilight!”

“Hello, professor. Is the mayor in?”

“Just went to the store-room to get a copy of the charter.” Apple Polish set her quill down. “I’ve been going through the typical laws regarding embassies, although it’s pretty much a work-in-progress, and will be for quite a while, especially since we know so little about the creatures. Ah, ambassadors,” she hastily corrected. “Maybe you could shed a little light?”

“Well . . . I don’t know as much as I’d like to,” she admitted. “Not about their customs, anyway. They seem interested in the night sky, and some of their mages have visited their moon and taken photographs of the surface. That probably isn’t very useful to know. They have very well-crafted books.”

“I’m more looking for what kind of things might cause conflicts between them and ponies.”

“I can’t really think of anything,” Twilight said. “Maybe their dietary habits? Dale eats fish and carrion, and he may also eat insects and small animals. That could cause a problem. I don’t think he hunts for it himself. He’s also wary of magic.”

Apple Polish scribbled down a few notes. “For now, we’re going to leave some of this very vague. I understand that there are still some communication difficulties?”

Twilight thought of the few pidgin conversations she’d heard between Dale and Lyra. It was a wonder that they’d managed to communicate anything. She nodded. “We’re working on that as quickly as we can.”

“One last question, and this one is very important. If either one of them should become unwelcome in Ponyville, where should they be sent?”

“What?”

“Sometimes, an ambassador does something bad. Since ambassadors have a certain amount of immunity, they generally aren’t prosecuted by the Crown, but they can’t stay, either. Normally, they’d be returned to their homelands, but I’m not certain that would be feasible in this particular case.”

“You’d have to ask Princess Celestia.” Twilight yawned, covering her mouth with a hoof at the last second. “I don’t think they could be returned at this point. Maybe later, when we figure out what went wrong with the spell in the first place, but it’s probably too risky.” She sighed. “It will have to work out; right now there aren’t any other options.”

“Just a moment, darling!”

Twilight nodded to herself and closed her eyes. The sun felt good on her coat, like a warm blanket. She blinked awake as she heard the door open. “Morning, Rarity.”

“Oh, Twilight. You look exhausted!” Rarity grabbed hold of her friend and dragged her into the shop. “Have you been up all night?”

“Not all of it,” Twilight said defensively. “Rarity, could you do me a huge favor? Please?”

Rarity’s eyes flicked over to the half-finished garments draped from makeshift dress forms, before returning to Twilight's sleepy face. She plastered the biggest, most sincere grin she could muster across her face. “Why, of course. Just name it!”

“There’s a shipment of . . . stuff for the embassy coming on the morning train. Do you think you could meet the train and make sure everything gets to the embassy intact?”

“Oh, of course darling. It wouldn’t be any trouble at all. Do you have an inventory?”

Twilight nodded, absently rummaging around in her saddlebags until she produced a scroll with Celestia’s seal. “Here it is.”

Rarity took it in her own aura, debated looking over it, and then floated it to a side-table. I’ll check it later, she thought. “Twilight, dear, you simply must get some more sleep. If you would like to use my sister’s room, you are more than welcome. I assure you, it’s quite neat and will be very quiet.”

“I’m going home to take a nap.” Twilight’s voice was almost triumphant. “But thank you so much.”

“Really, it’s no trouble.” Rarity showed her out the door before turning her attention back to the scroll. Now I wonder what’s coming on the train. She cracked the seal and unrolled the scroll, her eyes widening as the tail of the scroll cascaded to the floor. Oh, Celestia, what have I gotten myself into?

Twilight stepped back outside, her eyes fixating on the crown of the library. She decided to swing by Apple Honey’s shop on the way—it only would take her a block off-course, and she could get a copy of the newspaper. One of these days she’d have to get a subscription for the library, but the poor journalism irked her. How hard would it have been for Apple Honey to learn how to spell words properly? And tense agreement . . . but she shouldn’t complain, at least there was a Ponyville paper.

She grabbed a copy of the paper off the newsstand, her nose wrinkling at the sharp smell of the fresh purple ink, hallmark of a spirit duplicator. The smell is another good reason not to keep copies in the library, she thought as she scanned the headlines. Unsurprisingly, it was the leading story. “New Embasee in Ponyville!” the title proclaimed. Twilight groaned.

Aside from the numerous technical errors, though, the article was fairly informative. Apple Honey had interviewed Bon Bon, Fleur, and Fancy Pants, and promised an interview with Lyra for a special edition, to be published tomorrow. That was good—ponies could read copies of the paper while they waited for the soiree to begin tomorrow. Everypony would be enthused, and things would go smoothly.

Twilight opened the door to the library and set the paper in the basket under her mail slot. She could decide if she should file it for posterity later. Right now, a nap was calling her name.

Rather than head up the stairs to her bed, she laid a maroon cushion on the floor. She yawned and stretched out her forelegs before lying on the cushion.

She nested her chin on the soft plush and closed her eyes. Just a quick nap, and then she’d be—

An insistent pounding at the door snapped her out of her half-asleep state. She blinked and swallowed a little bit of drool. “Coming!” she said with much more cheer than she actually felt.

She opened the door to stare directly into the white muzzle of a Royal Guard.

“Twilight Sparkle?”

Her heart leapt into her throat. Something went wrong at the hospital. There should have been more guards, the mare wasn’t stable at all. Or maybe the operation went wrong. She cast a uneasy glance around the guard, wondering if she’d be able to see anything from the library.

The guard gave her a worried look. “Sea Swirl told me to give this to you personally.” He hoofed a small canvas package to her. “It’s the glasses.”

“Is there—” Getting her thoughts back on track, she took a deep breath and tried again. “Glasses, right. I’ll have to send a letter to the Princess telling her that they were found. That’s a relief; we won’t need to get a diving bell after all.” She held the pouch in her aura. Should I open it? What’s the point? I’ve never seen Dale’s glasses, so I won’t know if these are the right ones. The stallion stood in place, as if waiting for further instruction. Twilight bit her lip. “Do you—could you maybe ask your commander if he could station a few more soldiers around the hospital? Just in case?”

“I will tell him that you asked,” the stallion said. “Do you have any more orders?”

Twilight shook her head. “No, I don’t. Thanks for bringing these.”

He gave a slight bow and walked away. Twilight closed the door and slid the pouch into her saddlebags before stretching out on her cushion again.

She was half-asleep when somepony else began knocking on the library door. With a groan, Twilight got back to her hooves and went to see who it was.

Twilight yanked the door open to see Lily standing on her doorstep, her coat glistening with sweat.

“There’s a monster in the hospital,” she exclaimed. “I saw it! It tried to . . . to eat me!”

Twilight looked back at her pillow longingly. It seemed that she wasn’t going to be able to take a nap, after all.

Author's Notes:

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Chapter 11: Hype

Chapter 11: Hype
Onto the Pony Planet
Admiral Biscuit

Twilight quickly got down to business. She turned to Lyra and asked a brief question—Dale had noticed that just like in English, the pitch of the last word was raised when a question was asked. Lyra nodded and moved her papers out of the way, while Twilight pulled a scroll out of her bag, and slid it across the table until it was in front of Dale.

He looked down at it in puzzlement. It was a cartoon story like the one that had apparently offered him the ambassadorship, but longer and much more complicated. Details were drawn in that seemed to have no purpose, and many of the dialogue bubbles were filled with painfully tiny script—words which he had no hope of deciphering. At the same time, the artistry was much cruder. It began with a drawing of a large brick building with a white cross in front of it; he assumed it was the hospital. It’s interesting that they have the same symbol for hospital, Dale thought. The only difference is the four hearts in the corners. It was almost like the ponies had invented a compromise symbol between the six-pointed Star of Life on ambulances and the Red Cross.

The second panel was a map, with a dotted line leading from the hospital through the town and ending at a tall round building. After that, a sun, crescent moon, and another sun.

Next, a pony bearing a mark like Lyra’s drawn oversized on her barrel was beside to a humanoid figure—he assumed it was supposed to be Lyra and himself. As before, he’d been drawn nude, although this time the drawing lacked any embarrassing anatomical details. Arrows indicated that they were walking together; in context it looked likely that they would be going from the hospital to the round building.

He looked up from the drawings at the sound of Lyra’s voice. She had moved next to him, her pointing stick floating obediently beside her. Clearly, she’d noticed his confusion.

“Dale here,” she said, pointing to the first drawing. “This. . . .” She paused, her stick touching the sun. “This now. Later—” she pointed to the moon, then her face brightened. “Day! Here day, then not-day, then there day. One there day away.”

“Tomorrow,” he suggested. “One there day away is tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she agreed. “Dale, Lyra tomorrow go Ponyville.”

“Ponyville?” he asked, pointing to the round building. Was that what the building was called?

“No.” She drew her stick in a circle, surrounding the town. “Ponyville, is . . . all. Is Lyra house, Twilight house, is all house.”

“Dale, Lyra go Ponyville tomorrow,” Dale confirmed.

Lyra nodded and pointed to the next picture, which showed several ponies with speech-bubbles above their heads, the bubbles filled with more of the tiny, obsessively neat script. It would be nice to know what they were supposed to be saying—it was strange that this had obviously been drawn for him, yet included language that he couldn’t hope to understand. “Dale make friend all Ponyville,” she said confidently.

If only it was that easy, Dale thought, remembering the pink pony who’d been tending the garden.

“Then Dale go Dale now home,” she said. “Dale, then Ka-th-rin. Twilight make Dale home.”

She pointed to the next picture. It showed a half-timbered house surrounded with flowers, just like all the other ones he’d seen around town. He’d expected something kind of fancy, maybe with marble columns and a few statues out front, and dozens of flags—that was how embassies always seemed to be drawn. This could have been any house. Maybe that was the idea.

“Lyra help Dale there,” she continued. “Help Dale make more words.” She squinted down at the paper, trying to see if there was anything pertinent in the dialogue bubbles. “Dale . . . Dale, all ponies make friends, make words. Dale tell other mans, womans later.”

Dale nodded. More words would be helpful. It was discouraging how few he knew. In a movie, he’d have already been fluent, but it really wasn’t that easy. Especially when there wasn’t a handy translation phrasebook or linguistic software available. He’d heard ads for Rosetta Stone—did it really work? And if it did, how soon would they be offering CDs in the ponies’ language? Did the ponies have their own version? Maybe they did—that one book Lyra had given him had what looked like a bunch of different languages. Would he be expected to know all of them? He hoped not. Maybe Lyra was a linguist; she was picking up English well enough.

“Dale help Ka-th-rin make words,” Lyra suggested. Dale snorted. Do they really expect me to be able to teach their language to someone else? But the look on Lyra’s face was quite sincere.

He was saved from having to make an awkward explanation of how unqualified he was to teach a language by the arrival of lunch.

It was wheeled in by the chef herself, who Dale remembered from his tour of the kitchen. She grabbed the plate covers in her mouth and pulled them off the serving-dishes as if she were revealing a masterpiece. Twilight helpfully levitated the dishes over to the table, neatly setting places for all three of them before floating the serving dishes to the table.

For a moment, Dale could believe he was back at home. The meal was like something he could have been served around the family table so many years ago. There was a big bowl of salad, with a smaller bowl of dressing beside it. A pair of wooden tongs was laid next to the salad.

There was a giant tart on one tray, already cut into twelve slices, while a second tray held stuffed green peppers. Aside from the shredded yellow cheese on the top, the filling was unidentifiable. Dale was amused to note that the peppers were smaller than those he was used to seeing at the supermarket, and he briefly wondered if pony crops were smaller than their Earth equivalents. That can’t be true, though; the apple was huge. A nagging thought was going through his mind that there was no reason to assume that their crops were identical to Earth’s, but he pushed it aside. They looked the same, and he could eat them . . . besides, most of the food in the kitchen had been recognizable.

A fruit salad was also included, containing apples, blueberries, raspberries, and raisins. Next to that, Twilight set a large pie with a beautiful lattice crust. Small strips of cheese were stacked beside the pie on a serving dish, while a loaf of bread and bowls of butter and blue powder rounded out the mix.

Without even thinking, Dale bowed his head and said grace. “Dear Lord, thank you for this food. Bless the hands that prepared it. Bless it to our use and us to Your service. And make us ever mindful of the needs of others. Through Christ our Lord we pray.” When he didn’t hear an amen, he looked up, his cheeks reddening at the mystified expressions on the faces of the two unicorns.

“Dale not happy food?” Lyra asked. She studied the table, looking for the item which had displeased Dale. Meanwhile, Twilight and the chef were exchanging confused glances.

“Yes, Dale happy,” he began. Did these ponies have some kind of religion of their own? They probably did, but it was far beyond the language they shared thus far to meaningfully discuss. “Dale make happy words. Dale make words from Dale home.”

Lyra nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Twilight writing something on a sheet of paper.

He wasn’t sure what their etiquette was when it came to meals, but in most cultures he could think of, the guest served himself first, and while that might not be the rule here, he noticed that neither of them had made a move for the food, either for themselves or for him.

He began with the salad, opting to pass on the dressing. He’d always been picky when it came to salad dressing, preferring to eat it dry if bleu cheese wasn’t available.

One forkful of salad later, Dale was beginning to regret his decision. The salad mostly consisted of dandelion and kale, both incredibly bitter. He took a spoonful of dressing and poured it on his plate, dipping the next bit of salad in it before bringing it to his mouth. There was an unmistakable hint of maple syrup in it. For just a moment, he’d been feeling like he was home again—but the dressing was another forceful reminder that he was in a totally alien place.

The maple dressing didn’t entirely mask the flavor, but it added a little sweetness, which helped a great deal. As he chewed on the tough leaves, he was conscious of the azure eyes of the chef watching his every move. She never said a word, but he could see her alertly watching as every forkful of salad made it to his mouth.

Once he’d finally finished his salad, he moved on to the tart and stuffed peppers.

The tart was sweet and buttery, loaded with finely-chopped vegetables. Dale wanted to get a closer look at them, but the watchful eyes of the cook prevented him—he was sure she’d be insulted if he started to disassemble his tart and inspect the ingredients. He chuckled to himself—here he was trying to act like one of the judges on some cooking show, when he really should have been grateful that they were actually putting forth the effort to make food that he might like, rather than giving him bland energy bars or rehydrated spacefood or something like that. This was certainly better food than he could have made on his own.

He glanced across the table. Both Lyra and Twilight were eating their own tarts with a fork. He’d seen Lyra eating on the beach, too; there, she’d just floated the food in front of her face and eaten it that way, but apparently that wasn’t how food was supposed to be eaten. Dale looked over at the chef—how would she eat the food? She couldn’t float it in front of her face, nor could she use a fork—or could she? Until yesterday, the idea of a pony cooking hadn’t been something he could have imagined, yet he’d seen several ponies working in the hospital kitchen as efficiently as any chef on Hell’s Kitchen. Did she eat with utensils, or did she just stick her face into the plate and chow down that way?

He finished the last bite of his tart, still deep in thought. I haven’t seen any of them eat, besides the . . . well, unicorns, I suppose. I’ll have to pay attention the next time I’m eating with plain ponies. Dale cut off a slice of stuffed pepper and brought it to his mouth, trying to ignore the hopeful look on the face of the chef. Does she wish she had a horn so she could lift things with it, or is she happy the way she is? He took a bit of the pepper and chewed it thoughtfully. He could taste beans and nuts in it, both flavors almost overwhelming the slightly bitter taste of the pepper. A hint of strong cheese complimented the flavor—it wasn’t quite as strong as feta, but close.

He finished chewing before taking another sip of his cider. He’d been surprised to discover that it was fizzy and slightly alcoholic, which seemed like a very odd thing to be served in a hospital. Of course, if they were planning to move him out tomorrow, that meant he was cured. If he was cured, that he ought to be able to eat what they normally ate—at least that was the logic he assumed the hospital would use.

He waited until both unicorns had finished their meals before reaching for the pie. Without even asking, he took the knife and cut the pie into eight slices, serving each of the unicorns. They could have cut their own slices, as they had done with the bread, but watching them eat with floating forks had been weird enough, and Twilight hovering a bread knife had been kind of alarming. It was too easy to imagine it going off course and stabbing him.

He furrowed his brow as Lyra took several pieces of cheese and placed them neatly atop her pie. He wasn’t the only one who thought her behavior odd; Twilight was giving her a strange look as well.

Dale noticed that both Twilight and Lyra put their heads down and did . . . something to the pie. Their horns both glowed briefly, surrounding their slices in auras of colors. As before, Twilight’s was magenta and Lyra’s was golden. Further observation was still needed, but every unicorn had had the same color no matter what they were doing, so there was no way to identify what kind of ability they were using by horn color.

He watched carefully, drawing in a breath as the cheese on Lyra’s pie softened and melted before his eyes. A sudden scent of fresh-baked apple pie filled his nostrils. Did they just reheat their pies? Dale looked down at his cold pie, an experiment forming in his mind. He grabbed a slice of cheese and stretched it across his pie, then waited. It didn’t soften at all, which wasn’t surprising.

He took a bit of pie, eating it slowly. It was cold, which was to be expected. It had sat for however long it took to get the food from the kitchen to the table, and then the whole length of the meal. Dale glanced at the chef, then back at Lyra’s pie. She didn’t act upset when both unicorns did something to their pies, he concluded. So she shouldn't be angry if I do the same. He pushed his pie towards Lyra.

“Lyra make Dale—” he pointed to his pie— “Lyra.” He pointed to hers.

She looked at the two wedges, considering what he was asking her. Then, with a nod, she tilted her head down and lit her horn. A moment later, the slice of cheese on Dale’s pie slumped and began flowing towards the edge of the crust. The glow around the pie vanished, and she looked back at him with a smug look on her face, like she’d just performed a particularly clever trick. He took the pie back, feeling the slight warmth radiating off it—as far as he was concerned, she had just performed a clever trick. Sooner or later he was going to find out how they managed to do all those things with their horns. What limits do their horns have? he wondered.

Once they’d finished eating, Dale picked up the diminished tart and carried it over to the lunch cart. When he turned, he was nearly assaulted by the rest of the dishes; each one encased in a lavender glow. It was the largest display of telekinesis he’d seen thus far, and Twilight didn’t appear to be concentrating overly hard—in fact, she was covering a yawn.

Dale watched as the chef rolled the cart out of the room. He hoped she’d been satisfied with how much he’d appreciated the meal.

Lyra began re-arranging her study materials on the table when a soft knock sounded at the door. Dale turned his head to see a light green pony with a blonde mane enter the room. Both Twilight and Lyra clearly recognized her, although Twilight had a brief look of distaste on her face, which was quickly masked by a welcoming smile.

The pony spoke to Lyra, then took a pencil in her mouth and began writing down her response. Is she somehow related to the pony who was taking pictures? Dale wondered. She acted like a journalist. Maybe that’s why Twilight doesn’t like her. But she hadn’t protested right away when the pegasus had started taking photographs, so maybe it was something deeper than that. Perhaps they were some kind of rivals.

She kept glancing nervously in his direction, and he wished he could say something reassuring to her. The nurses didn't seem bothered by him, but if they behaved anything like the Catholic nurses he knew when he was growing up, they’d be very protective—almost maternal—towards any patient under their care.

He looked over at Twilight. Her head was bobbing slowly up and down, and her eyes were half-closed. She looked like a child who was up past his bedtime in the hopes of something interesting happening. He wanted to try and engage her—maybe it would help alleviate the sinking feeling he had whenever he thought about trying to befriend “all Ponyville.” Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of anything to say—just her name would exhaust a good portion of the words he knew in their language.

But he suddenly had an idea. “Twilight Sparkle,” he said carefully. She looked up at him. “Where?” he asked, pointing to his glasses.

She started to say something, paused, and picked up her quill. After a little sketching, she passed him a drawing of a rowboat on the water, and a tethered pony in a diving suit.

So they fell off in the water, he thought. That had always been one of his fears—losing his glasses while canoeing. He’d even taken to keeping a second pair in the glove box of his Accord, just in case—he probably could drive without them, but it didn’t seem wise.

His watch had been wet, too—now that he thought about it, that was odd. Yesterday, he’d still been pretty disoriented, but he didn’t remember being in the water. Of course, he’d gone from being on an island to being in a hospital with no clear idea of how he’d gotten there.

“Dale happy,” he told her again. “Twilight?” he asked, pointing to the diver.

She shook her head and reached for the paper. “Sea Swirl,” she informed him, pointing to a pair of dolphins drawn on the diving pony.

“Sea Swirl,” he repeated. He should have made the connection sooner; they like to associate the names with the marks. They might have some kind of hierarchy, where the mark symbolized the rank, or perhaps the skill. Dolphins were appropriate for a diving pony, after all. And the cook had some kind of food on her hips—maybe a casserole, or maybe it was supposed to be a cake.

What did the presumably-a-journalist have? He wasn't used to looking for marks—it hadn’t really registered when she came in. He’d have to get a look when she left. It might be a newspaper, or maybe a notebook. It was such a non-earth thing to do—he’d have been slapped if he looked at a woman’s hips instead of her face, but the ponies seemed to use these marks for identification, to the point where it was apparently expected that they would be scrutinized. That could be why the two doctors didn’t cover their hindquarters, so that anyone could recognize their specialty.

He looked back at Twilight. It would be fair if they took turns with question, he decided. How to communicate that?

He looked down at the paper. He could write it down! Dale drew a quick cartoon—a stick-figure for himself and a stick-pony for Twilight. He made sure to include her mark, although it was pretty crude. He couldn’t remember how many stars surrounded the big one, and settled on six. He was sure she’d get the idea. The first panel had him asking her a question, then he answered. Next, she asked a question and he answered.

She looked at the paper curiously, and for a while, Dale wondered if she didn’t understand. He had put a question mark in the speech bubble, but that might not mean anything to her. Or worse, it might mean something else entirely. There had been question marks in the Dick and Jane book—he and Lyra had gone over them—but had Lyra shared their meaning with Twilight?

Apparently, she had, because Twilight turned and opened a drawer, selected Kate’s radio, and set it on the table.

Dale looked at the radio in horror. How on earth was he going to explain a radio? If he’d had a pair, he could have demonstrated, but one would only produce static, unless there were some kind of radio transmitter operating on the same frequency. Based on his earlier experiments with the color-changing hair from the tall white leader-pony he’d found on the island, it was pretty unlikely there was.

Nevertheless, he turned it on, adjusting the volume until he had a soft static hiss. Unsurprisingly, changing the tuning knob only produced channel after channel of static. That was too bad, but if it had produced results, she probably wouldn't be asking about it.

He didn’t know what kind of communication devices they had, so he could hardly explain it by drawing a picture of a telephone or tricorder or anything else. He had to do something, though. She might think less of him if he didn’t at least try to answer.

He picked up the quill and began drawing. When he’d finished, he slid the paper towards her, halfway across the table. This was going to require some charades to explain.

“Radio,” he began, pointing to the device. He gave her time to try and pronounce it, before spelling it out for her. “Dale make words there.” He pantomimed speaking into the microphone. “Radio make words there.”

Now for the more complicated part of the explanation—the communication aspect of a radio. He pointed to the drawing of him moving through town. “Two radio,” he said, pointing to the hospital and the round building. “One there, one there. Dale make words one radio, Lyra hear words there one radio.” He paused for a moment, thinking of how he might clarify. “Now. Make words now, hear words now.”

Twilight looked at the radio skeptically. He couldn’t blame her. It was a pretty lousy explanation, and if their wireless lamps were anything to go on, they probably had far better communication equipment. He imagined proudly showing off an old bag phone to a kid with an iPhone. She probably wouldn’t be impressed even if it did work—he wondered what she’d thought it was for. He left it on and motioned for her to try it. As soon as she picked it up, the soft static became much louder, disappearing only when she pushed in the transmit button. She muttered something into the radio, and Dale smiled, imagining her voice suddenly being broadcast all over the Coast Guard’s radio channel. It was impossible, of course—there was no way the radio had that kind of range—but it was still an amusing thought.

She turned off the radio with her field, silencing the static. She seemed satisfied with his explanation—at least, satisfied enough to take the radio off the table and put it back in the drawer. “Now Dale,” she told him.

What to ask her next? He really wanted more of an explanation of the marks, but he and Lyra had already tried that on the island and hadn’t really come to an understanding. Or the horns, or even wings . . . but none of those things would lead to a short explanation, either. He could ask her about her hoof, but she’d already been uncomfortable with him holding it before, and what question might she ask in response? Lyra had been quick to learn what made him uncomfortable; he wasn’t so sure about Twilight. A thousand questions in your mind, and you can’t think of a single one, he lamented.

Her quill was still hovering next to the inkpot, and she was just looking at him, waiting for a question. Well, hopefully she’s more interested in technology than anatomy, he decided. Maybe I’ll just take my chances. How to word it?

“Dale hand,” he said, pushing his hand across the table and wiggling his fingers. “Twilight no hand.” He pointed to the hoof-area of the pony in her drawing. “Twilight?”

“Hoof,” she told him.

“Dale examine hoof?” he asked.

She looked at him blankly, before turning to Lyra and saying the word examine. Lyra nodded, then turned to Dale. “Dale examine?”

“Dale examine Twilight hoof,” he said.

Lyra nodded, and spoke briefly to Twilight. The lavender unicorn’s face reddened, and she looked down under the table, then muttered something under her breath to Lyra, who replied with a fairly short sentence and an amused twinkle in her eyes. Meanwhile, the journalist was scribbling down the whole exchange, much to Twilight’s obvious mortification.

Finally, Twilight shrugged, and glanced down under the table. Dale saw her horn flash briefly, before she looked up at him with a resigned expression on her face. She tentatively stretched her right foreleg across the table, her hoof in plain view.

Dale was suddenly regretting his impulse, but he was committed now. It was odd how they had no concerns about being nude, but were bothered by showing the bottoms of their hooves. Whatever the reason, it was probably hugely socially complicated: he’d seen Lyra point with a hoof, he’d bumped hooves with the wall-repair pony, and the nurse had touched him all over with her hoof . . . he might as well learn from his impulse; this was likely the only chance he’d get.

He knew better than to touch or grab it, but he still leaned close to get a good look. She was wearing a shoe, very much like the ones equines wore on earth. There were grooves where nails might be pounded in, although he didn’t seen any nailheads. It seemed like he ought to, but he’d never paid that much attention to the shoes on Earth horses. Anyway, it would stand to reason that the ponies would have had more incentive than humans to improve their own shoeing techniques.

The hard, bone-like part of her hoof was a whitish-grey, while at the heel there was a dark-colored heart—almost the same color of flesh he’d seen under the nurse’s tail. His cheeks burned at the memory, and he covered his embarrassment by leaning closer, seeing small chips in the purple above Twilight’s shoe. Underneath was the same white-grey color as on the bottom of her hoof, and he realized it was some kind of paint or hoof-polish, which explained how their hooves were nearly indistinguishable from the rest of their coats—they clearly painted them to match.

That led him to wondering about the magenta stripe in her mane and tail—were they dyed, too? Even Lyra’s windblown look was multi-colored, but they might have been aspiring to a standard of beauty—to them—that didn’t come naturally. That maybe wasn’t so odd—he remembered that archaeologists had discovered containers of kohl eye makeup from the ancient Egyptians, and they probably weren’t the first humans to use makeup. And there had been a lot of beauty supplies in the bathing room at the hospital, and the white unicorn who brought his mended clothes was wearing eyeshadow and had permed hair. Really, it made a lot of sense that they’d spend a fair amount of time on personal beauty, especially since they didn’t wear clothing.

Unfortunately, it didn’t answer the question of how they picked things up, but at least he now knew that they did wear shoes—a useless bit of trivia, to be sure, but it was a nice bit of grounding in this crazy world. Later, he’d have to name all the parts of the hoof with Lyra, but he didn’t think Twilight would be up for it. He nodded his head, and she pulled her leg back off the table a little too quickly.

Just as he’d guessed, Twilight picked another item out of the drawer, this time choosing Kate’s gun.

Dale nodded, and began sketching. This, at least, was easy enough to describe. He began with a sketch of a cartridge. Unlike his earlier drawings, he was at home making sketches of machines; his only difficulty was using a quill as a writing implement. He drew both an unfired and a fired cartridge, with a dotted line and arrow to show the motion of the bullet.

Next, a sketch of the magazine to show where the ammunition went. That, in turn, was shown to fit into the handle of the pistol. He wasn’t sure if the ponies had ejected the magazine, but Twilight had seen him do it, so she’d understand the concept.

He finished that series of drawings with a sketch showing the bullet coming out of the barrel of the gun. He thought about adding the spent casing, but decided that would complicate the image. What happened to the shell casing wasn’t really important in understanding what the gun did, after all.

So far, the series of pictures showed only what the result of pulling the trigger was. The next series of drawings was likely to be a little more complicated, but he really needed to get the concept across that the gun could be dangerous, if it were treated like a toy.

Given that one of the first things Lyra had shown him were weapons, and that the guards had spears, he knew that the ponies had the concept of ‘a tool which is meant to wound or kill.’ Not wanting to appear overly hostile, he drew a sketch of a pony sticking a spear into another pony—it was crude, but Twilight seemed to get the idea. It might have been his imagination, but she seemed a little queasy at the thought of actually stabbing a pony with a spear, which made him wonder how she’d been chosen as a leader. On the other hand, maybe it was better that the apparent local commander of the military forces was against bloodshed and death: it turned out that replacing the eyes with exes was a universal sign for dead—another handy bit of knowledge.

Nonetheless, the concept had been illustrated, and it was a simple matter to make another, similar sketch, replacing the spear with the gun. This time, he chose to use two stick figure humans to represent the shooter and victim, to avoid giving her the impression that the gun was created to kill ponies—that might not be unwise.

To further demonstrate the function, he picked the gun off the table—first making sure that it was unloaded—and pointed it towards the wall. He gripped it tightly in his right hand, wincing slightly at the pain from his injured shoulder. Dale rested his elbow on the table, which helped alleviate the pain. Then he walked Twilight through the motions of firing the gun, squeezing the trigger and drawing the imaginary path of the bullet with his left index finger.

Finally, to make sure that Twilight had a concept of the range of a gun, he drew a quick sketch of the room, marking off the distance between her and the door with a single hash mark. Next, he pointed to the dotted line between the barrel and the bullet, and began filling in dozens of hash marks, remembering as he drew that the ponies crossed them off in sixes, rather than fives. He didn’t count how many he used, so he was probably over-estimating the range of the pistol, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

He was just finishing up when the journalist pony stood. Dale looked over at her hindquarters intently, observing that she had three green-frosted cupcakes on her hip rather than the journalistic mark he would have expected to see. Now I’m really curious about what the marks mean.

Lyra and Twilight held a brief conference; when Twilight raised the radio and the gun, he assumed that Twilight was giving Lyra a briefing of what they’d discussed. He just watched them patiently, waiting for Lyra to address him.

“Cheerilee make learn Dale more words,” Lyra finally said. “Not now, not tomorrow . . . one, now; four, tomorrow; Cheerilee two.”

“Cheerilee?” Dale asked. Twilight was sketching a symbol, so he assumed it was probably another name. What had she meant with the numbers? They must be indicating a period of time—and one was closer to two than four. So, she would be coming soon, maybe. “Dale, Lyra here then, soon eat. Lyra, pony make words; Dale, Twilight soon make words. Now, soon, later, tomorrow.”

“Soon,” Lyra agreed. Twilight showed him a sketch of three smiling flowers. He furrowed his brow. What on earth did smiling flowers have to do with language lessons? Well, he’d know soon.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait too long. After a little bit of pantomiming and sketching about his mission tomorrow—in which he mostly learned that he was the worst artist of the three when it came to drawing ponies and people—the door opened to admit a plum-colored mare with the three smiling flowers on her hip that Twilight had sketched, and a matching grin on her face. It faltered a bit when she saw him, but quickly re-appeared.

She reached her muzzle under her belly and tugged the straps on her saddlebags loose, shaking her hips to slide them back to where she could reach the back-strap with her teeth. She set them on the table, and spoke briefly to Lyra, who nodded.

Cheerilee went back into the hallway and returned with a wheeled chalkboard. Dale smiled. He hadn’t seen one of those in years. She wasted no time in writing the alphabet across the top of the chalkboard; by the ease with which she worked with a mouthful of chalk, he guessed that she must be an actual teacher. Lyra didn’t appear to be upset that her duties were being assumed by a more qualified pony.

His thoughts were interrupted by the door again. His white nurse—Redheart—poked her muzzle through the door, and was followed by a shorter grey pony with a curly brunette mane and tail. It was also wearing a nurse’s cap, and had the same markings on its hindquarters as all the nurses he’d seen so far. Is that the white one’s child? he wondered. If it was, he wasn’t sure if he should be troubled that it was here, or inspired by the fact they didn’t think he was a threat.

It kept close to the white nurse’s heels, peering around her legs for the longest time before it finally got enough confidence to come out, no doubt encouraged by the nurse’s gentle voice. Redhart finally moved close to Dale, and touched his arm with a hoof, a clear indication that he was not a threat. Still, he sat as motionless as possible, not wanting to frighten the small pony.

It moved forward slowly, frequently looking at the nurse for reassurance. Finally, it was right up against his leg, and it reached out a hoof and touched him, jerking back almost as quickly as it had made contact. Dale fought back an urge to reach down and ruff its mane. He was sure that the rest of the ponies in the room were watching his every move quite intently; perhaps this was a sort of trial run for tomorrow, or perhaps the nurse just wanted to give her child a first look at one of the monsters in the hospital. He was probably a safer choice than Kate—they had every reason to be confident he wouldn’t do anything crazy.

It moved its face close enough to sniff his leg thoroughly, before looking up and saying something to him. He shook his head—it sounded like a greeting, but he couldn’t be sure. To his surprise, Cheerilee answered, speaking with a quiet confidence. The foal put great credence in what she had to say, going as far as to nuzzle Dale’s leg.

Dale smiled. Maybe he could win over Ponyville. He was two-for-one with strangers so far, not a bad average. The nurse said something to him—it sounded like she was thanking him. He smiled and nodded, watching as she led the foal back out of the room.

Cheerilee didn’t seem upset at all by the delay in her lesson. He’d noticed that all the ponies he’d met so far didn’t get impatient when things took a while. There were a lot of people back on earth who could learn a valuable lesson from them.

Twilight and Lyra both got up from their seats, moving to his side of the table. Lyra sat on his right, while Twilight left an open spot between Dale and herself as a personal buffer. She was having trouble focusing on the blackboard, and he could see her head nodding down as she tried to concentrate, while Lyra was as bright-eyed as ever. She gripped a book with her magic and pulled it across the table, placing it right in front of Dale. A second volume was moved in front of the empty seat.

A minute later, Kate came in, flanked by two guards. She had her hand lightly resting on the back of one and a zonked look in her eyes. The guard guided her to the open seat, which she took, protesting as the guard moved away.

He looked back at her with a small smirk on his face—the first emotion Dale had seen one of the guards show—and tilted his head meaningfully towards Twilight. Kate looked over at the unicorn and her eyes lit up.

Twilight jerked her head up as Kate’s hand found her mane, and she muttered a brief protest, but as soon as the girl’s fingers were scratching behind the unicorn’s ears, she laid her head back down on the table with a contented sigh. Cheerilee glared at the pair before returning her attention to the chalkboard.

By the time the cook brought in dinner, everyone in the room was exhausted—except for Twilight, who was still fast asleep. Cheerilee cleared her teaching materials off the desk, placing them neatly back in her saddlebags. “Goodbye, everypony. Dale, and Lyra, I will see you tomorrow.”

“Goodbye, Cheerilee,” Dale replied. She’d taught him a handful of greetings, some pronouns, and how to say “I don’t speak your language,” as well as a few more basic verbs. The book she’d been teaching out of appeared to be their equivalent to the Dick and Jane books, but her lessons had been much more focused than Lyra’s. It was obvious that there was more to teaching than the brute-force method he and Lyra had been using on the island.

Dinner was largely leftovers, although the chef set an extra bowl of some kind of bean casserole in front of Kate. It didn’t look terribly appetizing, but Kate seemed to like it. She got her own drink, too—a tall glass of greenish water—while Dale and Lyra drank fizzy alcoholic apple juice; Twilight alone drank tea. She ate her meal in silence, a slightly guilty look on her face. Whether that was a result of sleeping through the language lesson, or enjoying the petting, Dale wasn’t sure. It might have been a combination of both.

“How come we’re here?” Kate asked around a mouthful of her casserole.

“I think we’re supposed to be some kind of ambassadors,” Dale told her. “That’s what they told me, anyway.”

“Oh.” She looked around the room. “How come we’re here, and not in a fancy building in a big city? This town looks pretty small.”

Dale frowned. He’d already wondered the same thing. He was sure they had their reasons—this might very well be a big town for them—but so far they hadn’t shared those reasons with him. What if they want to start off small, with something simple and familiar? he wondered. It might be overwhelming to be in a bustling city with hovercars and millions of ponies all living together—here, it’s peaceful and laid-back. At the same time, the ponies hadn’t seemed quite prepared for their arrival. What if they were just bad at first contact? Dale laughed. That notion was ridiculous.

He turned as the door opened again. This time, a familiar moustached muzzle poked in—it was the pony which had been talking to Lyra when she’d been sad. What was his name again? The three crowns didn’t give Dale any clues, except that this guy was important. He heard a brief commotion off to his side, and turned to see Twilight swatting away Kate’s hand.

The stallion looked slightly uncomfortable with the arrangement—Dale wasn’t sure if he was unhappy to see them, or if he was upset that he’d interrupted dinner. He tugged an attache case—which was a particularly useless item for a pony to have invented—into the room behind him, and then set it on the table, next to Lyra.

She said something to Twilight, who got out of her seat and went to the door. A moment later, two guards entered and stood on either side of Kate. “Tell Ka-th-rin go . . . home,” Lyra told him quietly. “Dale not go, Dale here with Lyra.”

“Kate, could you follow the guards and Twilight back to your room?”

“But I’m not done eating yet,” she protested.

“I’m sure they’ll take your food up to your room,” he assured her. “Kathrine take food home,” he told Lyra, who nodded and passed the suggestion on to Twilight. The unicorn picked up Kate’s dishes in her aura, yanking them away from Kate’s grabbing hands. She quickly trotted towards the door, waving the plates slightly in the air, in much the same way Dale had enticed dogs to chase sticks and balls. It had the desired effect; Kate got out of her chair and headed for the door, the two guards trailing behind her.

If the fancy white stallion was perplexed by Kate’s behavior, he had the grace to not show it. His face remained neutral.

Once the door closed, he took notebooks and pens out of his bag. Dale looked at the pen with interest—so far, he’d only seen pencils and quills being used as writing implements, but this was a fairly traditional felt-tip pen. The barrel was metal, but otherwise it was much like the Flair pens he had at home.

The stallion stuck out his hoof and shook with Lyra, and then Dale—three pumps, just like Lyra had shown him yesterday. As soon as he’d accomplished that bit of pleasantry, the stallion got down to business, asking Lyra dozens of questions. It was like the interview she’d had earlier, except she looked a lot less comfortable talking to him. He wasn’t hostile, but he was aggressive, and he was clearly asking questions that Lyra didn’t want to answer. Dale put his hand on her shoulder, hoping that the touch would be reassuring.

The stallion seemed taken aback by the behavior. He asked Lyra another question, and she shook her head, a blush forming on her cheeks. He didn’t appear entirely satisfied with her answer; he was tapping his pen against the paper. Dale wasn’t sure what kind of body language that was—it seemed like an awful lot of effort to write with a pen telekinetically, so what was the point of the tapping motion? Unless it was somehow symbolic. Finally, he wrote down a few notes on his paper. Dale glanced at the page—the unicorn was writing in some kind of cursive: the letters were entirely different than the ones he’d been learning so far. That was just what he didn’t want to have to deal with—a second alphabet that they used.

Finally, the stallion pointed to him, and asked Lyra a question. She turned to face Dale, before attempting to explain what the stallion wanted. “Dale make write there. Before here, Dale, Lyra there—at Dale not-home. What did Dale see? What did Dale do? Why did Dale do? What did Ka-th-rin do? Why did do?”

Dale looked at the notebook dubiously. That was going to be difficult to get across in drawings.

“Lyra not mean take Dale, Ka-th-rin,” she told him. “Dale, Ka-th-rin stay their home, Lyra stay Lyra home. Take is not good. Lyra make bad, not know why. Dale help Lyra know why. Help Fancy Pants know why.”

Dale looked back at her earnest face. All of a sudden, pieces were beginning to fall into place. If they hadn’t meant to bring him or Kate here, it made a lot more sense why they were so ill-prepared to deal with them. Something must have gone terribly wrong, and they were trying to rectify their mistake as quickly as they could. They must have meant for the meetings to go on for a long while, slowly exploring each other’s culture and language; to have it all blow up in their faces this quickly had sent everyone chasing their own tails.

On top of that, they probably hadn’t gotten any of the groundwork done before he and Kate had arrived. How chaotic would it have been if the first lunar mission had not only found aliens, but those aliens had hitched a ride back to earth on the Apollo? The ponies must have been terrified that they’d do something else wrong, and perhaps further injure their unwitting visitors. No wonder Twilight was so exhausted; she’d probably been frantically preparing things for the last couple of days, waiting for the cavalry to arrive.

They’d no doubt brought in the best local experts they could find. In hindsight, it was obvious that they had never intended Dale or Kate to be here—that was why they hadn’t had the anatomy book at first. The doctors had probably been improvising their treatment from the very beginning, doing the bare minimum to keep he and Kate alive. It was probably painfully obvious to them that whatever painkillers they were using on Kate were having an unintended side-effect, but they were too scared to risk changing them.

His respect for them increased immeasurably. Years from now, no doubt they’d look back on all the mistakes they’d made with shame, but looking at it in the present, they were quickly adapting to a rapidly-evolving situation with at least as much grace as Americans would have, perhaps even more.

With a new resolved, he put his pen to paper. He was determined to do whatever it took to make sure that Lyra didn’t get blamed for any of this.

Author's Notes:

Kids, you know the drill! Click HERE to be re-routed to the blog post.

Chapter 12: Disposition and Dress

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 12: Disposition and Dress
Admiral Biscuit

Lyra felt a twinge of disappointment as Dale's hand left her shoulder, but she could tell that Fancy Pants was more comfortable when Dale wasn't touching her. I should tell him that he needs to interview Ka-th-rin, she thought darkly. See how he feels then. The thought brought a faint smile to her face.

But she couldn't do that; he was her best hope of getting through the trial unscathed, and it would be incredibly foalish to antagonize her barrister. Instead, she smiled politely when he asked her to go through the whole thing again.

It seemed like a year ago—she'd gotten in a tiff with Bon Bon the night before and then hadn't had time to make up in the morning, instead leaving Bon Bon asleep in bed. What if I hadn't made it back, she thought. What if the last memory she had of me was our silly little argument? What if . . . but it was no good thinking of what ifs.

“Dale met me on the beach," she began. "He was there when I arrived."

She'd hardly gotten to the point where she'd taken off her saddlebags with the buckle that always pulled her hair out—not that she'd ever have to worry about those saddlebags again; they were now forever out of her reach—when Fancy Pants interrupted her.

"Tell me about casting the spell. The Princess taught you the spell, is that correct?"

"Yes, and she also gave me a magical boost. I'm not strong enough to cast it on my own," Lyra admitted. "Not very many unicorns are. Twilight probably is, maybe her brother."

Fancy Pants nodded. "And you cast it exactly right?"

"Yes." Lyra snorted. "That spell has so many fail-safes if I hadn't, I wouldn't have gone anywhere at all. It's elegant, but clunky—does that make sense?"

Fancy Pants nodded. Unicorn magic was generally considered to be in one of two disciplines: earth or sky. It was widely believed that a pegasus' best trait was her grace, while an earth pony's was her strength, hence the names. Most spells displayed one attribute or the other, but certain spells combined both. It was, in fact, a signature of Starswirl's spells to be both strong and elegant simultaneously, like a farm mare in a fancy dress. "Very well," he said. "What happened next?"

"Well, Dale was waiting for me on the beach," Lyra repeated. "He'd arranged the peace signs himself—the ones I brought to the first meeting and left."

“Peace signs?”

“Deliberately broken weapons,” Lyra said, explaining how Twilight had come up with the idea.

“I understand,” the stallion replied. “Please continue.”

While she continued recounting the day, Fancy Pants scribbled down notes, frequently interrupting her for clarifications on what seemed the most minor points, often causing her to lose her train of thought and repeat something. He didn't seem bothered by the disjointed narrative, but her voice was becoming a little hoarse from the constant talking. Lyra wished she had one of the water-carriers like the one Dale had been wearing on the beach.

She looked over at Dale. He had dozens of sheets of parchment spread around him, and was sketching pictures of them at the beach. As crude as his drawings were, she could easily recognize what he was illustrating—he was currently sketching one of the orange and silver boats, with people in it. Each of them had an exclamation point above its head. She noticed that his drawings of objects were more recognizable and more detailed than his simple people and wondered if that was significant.

Dale noticed that she was watching him, and absently stretched out his left hand, brushing it through her mane. She sighed happily—this was almost as good as a massage at the spa.

Fancy Pants cleared his throat and she spun to face him again, causing Dale's hand to slip off her head.

"So you went back to his home," he prompted her.

"It wasn't a home, exactly," she said. "A camp, really. Although I didn't know it at the time—I didn't figure that out until later that day. See, he had this pavilion in the center, which was supported with spindly poles, and a small domehouse on the edge."

"Domehouse?"

"I suppose you haven't seen the book," Lyra remarked. "It's a hemispherical home. There are drawings of it in the book he gave me—Bucky Fuller told Twilight what they were called."

Fancy Pants scribbled down a note. "I suppose he would know what they were called if anypony would." He scanned the paper for a moment. "So, tell me again why you went to his home—excuse me, his camp."

"It was raining," she said. "I already told you that. Why are you taking notes if you keep asking the same questions?"

Fancy Pants set down his pen. "Miss Heartstrings, my one desire is to have you walk out of the trial a free mare. Whether or not that happens is entirely dependent on two things: Princess Luna's verdict, which we cannot predict, and your behavior when you give testimony—which we can. I do not know who will be cross-examining you on behalf of the Royal Guard, but if he is as aggressive as any decent prosecutor, he will keep asking you the same questions in the hopes that you contradict yourself or become agitated. Should he discover his line of questioning is getting under your skin, he will press on, in the hopes of you giving something away you'd rather not."

"Aren't you going to speak on my behalf? Isn't that how trials work? Don't I just tell you everything now, and then you tell the judge?"

"In a civilian trial, yes. But since you were acting under the purview of the Royal Guard, and are being tried under their laws, you have no choice but to speak, or else be ruled in contempt." He pointed to Dale. "He, on the other hoof, does not have to speak or present evidence, although if he is willing—and if he is able to provide testimony which will prove useful to our case—he may be allowed to present evidence. Of course, should I make a motion to have his testimony brought before the court, it may be disallowed, as you are his sole interpreter, and there is a potential conflict of interest.

"Now, if you would please tell me why you decided to go to his camp? You could have returned home instead, isn't that so? Why did you not not feel uncomfortable leaving the safety of the spell's anchor behind?"

Lyra slumped in her chair. The truth was, she'd never really thought about the risks in leaving the safety of the bubble behind. The way Princess Celestia had explained the spell to her, she thought she would be returned to Equestria if the spell were to fail, regardless of where she was at the time. In hindsight, she wasn't sure that was actually true. She thought she'd crossed over the boundary before the spell collapsed, but she wasn't certain. "He . . . we'd spent enough time together, Dale seemed harmless," Lyra finally said. "He hadn't done anything threatening, even when he’d had the opportunity: I fell down on the beach, and he caught me, but he didn’t do anything aggressive. So I followed him into the woods, back to his camp."

Fancy Pants nodded, and let her continue without interruption. She gave him a description of the camp, as well as a summary of their meal together. He raised an eyebrow when she mentioned sharing food, but didn't say anything.

Once she'd ended her tale, he nodded. "And that's the last thing you remember before waking up in the hospital?"

"Yes," Lyra said. Fancy Pants didn't speak right away, but began flipping through his notes. I hope I'm done, Lyra thought. Her ears perked at an odd drumming noise, and she looked over at Dale, who had set down the pen and was pounding his fingers against the table in a strange rhythm. Her eyes narrowed—they were moving in a wave-like manner, but what did it mean? She'd seen Spike tap a single claw on a table when he was irritated; did that mean Dale was four times as irritated? "Is Dale—" she began, struggling to think of the next word.

"Yes," he replied, and her heart fell. Of course, it was hardly surprising; it felt like she and Fancy Pants had been talking for hours; he must be so bored. He slid over a pile of drawings. "Dale is done."

Lyra looked at the sketches with interest. He had wasted a lot of paper with his large sketches, and clearly had no sense of composition, but they would serve to get the message across. Maybe they would contain a clue how the spell had failed and brought Dale and the girl to Equestria.

“Why don’t we take a little break before we get to these drawings?" Fancy Pants suggested. "I’ll see if I can find a nurse to bring us some drinks.”

Dale took the opportunity to find his way to the bathroom. Lyra, remembering his solitary preference, waited outside until he was done before going in herself, then the two of them walked back to the conference room together. Fancy Pants had already returned with a tall pitcher of juice, from which he had already poured three glasses. Lyra took hers gratefully, before taking a seat on Dale’s right, where she could watch over his shoulder as he showed the drawings to Fancy Pants.

"Dale, Lyra," Dale began, pointing to the drawing. "Is leave Dale not-home. Is now when Lyra go Lyra home." He moved another drawing close; this one was a map of the end of the island, showing the camp, the woods, the beach, and the boats. He pointed to a small trail drawn through the woods. "Dale, Lyra go."

He traced his finger along the path, moving it toward the beach. "Dale see . . . see. . . ." His voice trailed off.

"There were boats on the beach," Lyra told Fancy Pants, pointing a hoof at the drawing. "One of them was up on shore, while another was a little bit offshore. The boats made a growling-buzzing noise from their sterns, and there was a small tribe of humans aboard each one. Dressed in blue, like Ka-th-rin was today."

"Is bad," Dale said when Lyra stopped speaking. "Is maybe bad," he corrected. "Is like . . . when Lyra came then, twelve." He pointed toward the door.

Doors? Twelve doors? She shrugged. "Not know."

"Has. . . ." His voice trailed off and he took a fresh piece of parchment, and quickly sketched out a pointed shaft. Below it, he drew the same thing, but broken in the middle.

Spear, Lyra thought. The guard! Twelve guards. Broken spear, unbroken spear. "He's drawing one of the peace symbols," Lyra told Fancy Pants. "The broken spear means peace, the unbroken one means war."

"Is this, maybe this." Dale pointed to the two spear-drawings in turn. "Dale not know. They have gun, they have radio, can make words to radio, more is go here. Dale think Lyra is home, then Dale make words with—" he pointed to the figures in the drawing— "after.

"He didn't know if they were hostile or not, so he thought it would be safest if I were to return, and he would learn their intent on his own," Lyra translated.

Fancy Pants raised an eyebrow. "How would he not know? If they're Royal Guards, who would disobey them? They serve the Princess . . . what manner of pony would defy them?"

"They could make a mistake," Lyra reminded him.

"I don't think that's relevant."

"And yet here we are," Lyra said, turning back to Dale and nodding for him to continue.

"Dale tell Lyra run," he said, and showed a drawing of her running across a pair of squiggly lines to a cluster of half-timbered houses. "Lyra run home. But Kathrine there." He pointed to the drawing. "Kathrine have gun. Dale think Katherine hurt Lyra, so Dale stop Katherine. Dale run." His shoulders slumped. "Dale not run enough. Katherine use taser."

He revealed another drawing. It showed a stick figure with a hat, holding out a weapon. Small lightning bolts were coming out of the weapon, and traveling towards the second figure, who was lying on its back, with birds circling over its head.

Below it, he had drawn a similar picture, only this time there was a small ball moving from the weapon, and the figure on the ground had exes over its eyes. "This, not this," Dale explained, pointing first to the top picture and then the bottom. "Dale not know, but not matter. Lyra must run home. Not safe."

"A lightning spell in a wand—or maybe a machine that makes lightning," Lyra mumbled. "Clever." She looked down at her side, at a small patch of missing hair. "And that must be where it struck. Overly potent, but weapons often are—no point in making a wand that doesn't always work." She turned to Fancy Pants. "The mare—Ka-th-rin—has a weapon which shoots invisible lightning bolts to disrupt spells. Dale tried to stop her."

"He keeps mentioning a gun. What's that?"

"I'll show you," Lyra said. She opened a drawer and pulled out Kate's sidearm, levitating it over the table. She didn't notice how warily Dale was watching it, or how he relaxed when she turned its profile towards him, allowing him to clearly see that the slide was racked back and the chamber was empty. "This is a gun. It is filled with small pellets, which come out the end, here. Kind of like a miniature cannon. If a pellet hits you in the right place, you die."

The stallion looked at it cautiously. He didn't sense any kind of magic to it, so it was simply a machine. It was probably more advanced than the guards' spears, but seemed less useful: certainly, it wasn't much to look at, so would hardly be a visual deterrent. "May I examine it?" he asked.

Lyra shrugged and set it down on the table in front of him. Fancy Pants reached out a hoof and picked it up. It was heavier than he'd expected, so it could also be used as a club. It was quite intricate; a lot of thought and craftsmanship had gone into its design. Such an object would probably be quite rare—only elite guards would be likely to have them. He wondered if he could get permission to make copies. Once Dale became a public figure, ponies would be clamoring to get their hooves on anything uniquely . . . Dale. Copies of a gun would probably fetch a good price in Canterlot. He could commission metal ones for the well-off, and cheaper painted wooden ones for ponies who didn't want to spend as much.

You're beginning to think like Filthy Rich. He set the gun back on the table, and focused back on the task at hoof. Maybe later, once Lyra had walked out of the courtroom doors a free mare, maybe then he'd work on marketing human artifacts. Now, it was too soon.

He noticed that Dale relaxed after Lyra closed the gun back in the drawer. Perhaps they shouldn't have been moving it around so freely—after all, Dale would have reason to fear such a thing. "What happened next?" he asked Lyra.

She turned to Dale, who revealed the final drawing. Lyra was lying on the ground on one side of the page, while he and the girl were on the other, their arms wrapped around each other. Dale pointed to the picture. "Dale is stop Kate, but too late. Lyra is hurt. Dale not soon enough. Dale make mistake."

"It's not your fault!" Lyra nuzzled Dale's side, eliciting a surprised squawk before he wrapped his arm around her head and pulled her close and buried his head in her mane. A moment later he released her.

"I sorry. Dale sorry."

"It's okay," she reassured him.

Fancy Pants watched the pair. For a moment, when Dale had grabbed Lyra, he'd thought he was about to do something . . . predatory, but it had just turned into a hug. He considered how he might use that. Ponies were wary of creatures who were bigger than them, so that was one angle he could play. Everypony knew bedtime stories of a monster who had a change of heart and saved a poor lost foal. On the other hoof, Dale was clearly capable of becoming emotional; that might also work in their favor. As long as he could make Princess Luna believe that Dale or the girl had been the cause of whatever went wrong, Lyra would be home free. He smiled—that was the angle to play. Dale or the girl had made the spell fail in an unexpected manner, one which Lyra could not have anticipated. It might be a blessing that there had been no other witnesses, for who could say that was not what had occurred?

A moment later, he frowned, imagining what the prosecution's rebuttal would be.

"Let me ask you a few more questions," he told Lyra. "Then we'll be done for the night, and you can get ready for your big day tomorrow."

"My . . . oh, right, the embassy." Lyra's ears flattened. "Will I have to give a speech?"

Fancy Pants nodded. "I suggest wearing something nice, maybe do something with your mane. If you find yourself lacking in inspiration, you could speak with Rarity. She has a clothing shop in town, and a very good eye for fashion. Fleur has a few of her dresses—she and I have been fans of her style since we met Rarity in Canterlot."

"Yes, I know her," Lyra said. "I have a couple of her dresses myself."

"Excellent! That will be just the thing." He picked up his pen again. "Lyra, are you now, or have you been during any of your trips to visit Dale's home, receptive to a stallion?"

"Are you asking if I'm in estrus?" Lyra's face reddened.

"Yes."

"No! What kind of question is that to ask?"

"I would like to ask one of the nurses to verify," he said.

"Fine, let her," Lyra spat. "It won't change the truth."

Fancy Pants nodded. "Has Dale promised you anything at all? Wealth, property?"

"No. What kind of questions are these?"

"Why did you volunteer to go back to see Dale a second and third time? Why not somepony who is more qualified?"

"Because I'd already approached him once. We all agreed that he would be uncomfortable if another pony were to arrive in my stead."

"Who made that suggestion?"

"Twilight Sparkle, I think. We were talking about it, and I'd expected that Princess Celestia would ask her to go, but that night she asked me."

"Has Dale made any advances toward you?"

"What? No . . . I don't think so."

"And have you made any towards him?"

"Of course not!" Lyra's face flushed. "It—I don't. . . ." She turned towards Dale, who was glaring at Fancy Pants. He saw her looking and put a reassuring hand on her head, resting his palm just behind her ears.

"I see." Fancy Pants began gathering his notes. "I believe I have an understanding of how I shall defend you. I look forward to your speech tomorrow, and I will see you at the embassy afterward. If you have any further thoughts about the matter of the trial, I will of course be more than happy to discuss them with you.

“Should we not have a chance to talk again before the trial, I would like to offer a few more bits of advice. Stick to yes or no answers—don’t volunteer information. If you feel a point needs to be clarified, we will have a chance later, after the prosecutor has finished. Try not to get angry; if you do, he’s sure to use it against you. Watch out for him making a leading statement. If he does not ask a question, you do not have to answer, no matter how inflammatory his remark may be.” He looked at Dale, who was examining the felt-tip pen again. "You can tell him that he may keep the pen if he desires—I have more. Good evening, Miss Heartstrings."

Once the stallion had left the room, Lyra let out a long breath and leaned into Dale. She'd felt like she’d been under a microscope the whole time Fancy Pants was questioning her, and it hadn't helped that he'd left her worried about tomorrow and worried about the trial. She should have realized she was going to have to give a speech—it was so obvious; a pony didn't just get a position like this without thanking everypony and shaking a few hooves.

She'd have to get to the spa first thing in the morning. Tonight, she'd have to pick out a formal dress, even though she'd be more comfortable without.

"Lyra happy/sad?" Dale asked, his hand stroking her mane.

She nodded. Happy/sad was a good way to put it.

"Lyra meet Ponyville tomorrow. Dale meet Ponyville tomorrow." She sighed. "Then Dale go new home. Dale not here after, Dale is go new home. Soon, Ka-th-rin new home also. With Dale."

He nodded absently, before covering a yawn. "Dale is tired," he told her.

"Lyra is tired also." She considered for a moment just laying her head on the table and falling asleep under his hand, but knew that if she did, he'd get no sleep . . . and she'd pay with a stiff neck in the morning, if she got any rest herself. "Now Lyra is go Lyra home, Dale is go Dale home."

Dale groaned as he felt his shoulder being prodded. He cracked open his eyes to see the stern visage of one of the door guards.

He practically bolted out of bed—the guards had never touched him before, nor had they made any real attempt to communicate beyond the occasional pointing. He immediately began to consider what might have gone wrong during the night; the first, and most obvious conclusion, was that Kate had taken a turn for the worse. He fumbled for his glasses and looked over at her bed, expecting to see that she was gone, or covered by a sheet. However, she was still there, and there was still a trace running across the monitor. A slow rise and fall of her chest confirmed that she was still breathing.

His next thought was that something had happened to Lyra. After all, she had been his nearly constant companion, but she wasn't here now. He was trying to organize his jumble of thoughts into enough command of the language to ask the guard, when he was handed a piece of paper with a simple drawing on it: it showed him in a bathtub.

I took a bath yesterday, he thought. Isn't that good enough? But they might have more demanding expectations of hygiene, and a refusal would make him seem like a petulant child. Furthermore, if it was that important, and he refused, there was every possibility that the guard or the nurses would hold him down and bathe him against his will—if the somewhat common sniffing behavior he'd noticed was an indicator, they might be very sensitive to body odor.

Yet, if that was the case—if they relied on scent for identification—why would they want him to mask his scent with soap? Unless it bothered them for some reason. Lyra had indicated—at least he thought—that his smell wasn't bad, just different. Still, she might have been more accepting than some of the other ponies. She'd have to be, to be making contact with alien species.

Dale kicked his legs out of bed and stood up. He grabbed his pants and pulled them on, then followed the guard out the door. As he entered the hallway he remembered he should probably have grabbed the rest of his clothes, but it was too late for that now.

The bathroom was nearly deserted when Dale arrived: Redheart was in front of the makeup desk adjusting her cap. She smiled broadly when she saw him enter the room, and when she stepped away from the vanity, he thought she was going to come over and do an examination of him right there. Instead, she nodded politely as she passed him and continued out the door, undoubtedly getting a start to her rounds.

I'm apparently cured, Dale thought. He looked at the nurse as the door swung shut and then back at the guard, and chuckled. Being cured meant that his nurse had been replaced by a taciturn guard . . . maybe he could convince them that he was still in pain, and get the nurse to wait on him again.

That plan was likely to backfire, though. The nurses probably had effective ways of dealing with malingerers, and it would be best if he didn't discover what that method was. He moved over into the small changing area, his guard following him. Dale grabbed a towel and headed over to the bathtub; the guard stayed put. Was he briefed, or was he the same one who was here before?

Dale started the water, twisting the knobs to until the temperature was satisfactory, and then went to the soap cabinet to get his bathing supplies. He set them beside the tub where he could easily reach them, then went over to the mirror while the tub continued to fill. He hadn't looked at himself in a mirror in . . . well, it was hard to say how long it had been.

He looked terrible. It was just as well he hadn't known how terrible he looked, because he would have been tempted to have Lyra find him a paper bag that he could wear over his head.

His face was an unnatural pink, no doubt the result of the flash burns he'd received. There were dark patches under his bloodshot eyes, and when he grinned it looked like the face of a corpse. For a moment, his eyes were drawn to the jars of beauty supplies scattered across the desk, and he wondered if any of them would improve things. Could he really go in front of a bunch of ponies looking like this? True, they wouldn't know it was abnormal, but that made it even worse. What if they thought all men looked like he did? Granted, he was no George Clooney, but he normally looked human, at least.

Dale dragged his eyes away from the mirror and went over to the bathtub. At least I can smell nice for them, he thought as he undressed. He folded his clothes and set them on the floor close to the tub before climbing into the warm water.

He bathed as quickly as he could—his right shoulder was beginning to feel normal again, with only a dull, easily ignorable pain when he moved it. As he was rinsing off the soap, he glanced over at the showers, wishing that they were taller. He could have been in and out in five minutes if he hadn't had to fool around with filling the bathtub.

A flash of movement caught his eye, and he looked out the window. It was still fairly dark outside, and he couldn't see anything, so Dale finished rinsing himself off and hoisted himself out of the bath. Naturally, he'd forgotten to bring the towel next to the tub, so he had to walk all the way over to the cabinet that contained the soaps to get it. He moved slowly; the tile floor wasn't anti-skid. Four legs and a short stance made it all right for ponies, he figured, but a little risky for a human.

As he was drying himself off, he thought he saw a pink blur at the window; again, by the time he managed to get a good look, it was gone. If it had even been there to begin with.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and went to pick up his clothes, which were still lying by the bathtub. He ran his hand across the stubble on his chin, and looked over at the vanity. If there was a razor there, I'd shave. But of course there wasn't; what use would a pony have for a razor? But what about that stallion from yesterday? He had a moustache . . . even if it’s a hairpiece, this is a hospital. They can’t do surgery without shaving the area first, I don’t think. The wound would get contaminated, so there must be razors or clippers somewhere in the hospital. Maybe when I have time I’ll see if I can borrow one.

Looking at the mirror gave him an idea, though. He casually moved around the room with his back to the outside wall until he could clearly see the window reflected in the mirror. Dale stepped into his pants and pulled them up to his waist—under his towel—all the while keeping a close look on the mirror. As he leaned over to pick up his shirt, he'd begun to think that he was wasting his time, but then he noticed a pink muzzle slowly moving into view, and a half-opened eye above it. He almost laughed; it was like watching a puppy try and be sneaky.

He lost sight of her when he pulled the hospital johnny over his head, but when the fabric cleared his vision, he saw that she was still there, her eye now fully open. If she'd stayed back a few dozen feet, I'd have never seen her, and she could have watched as long as she wanted, he thought. For a moment, a feeling of agoraphobia washed over him—what if there were other ponies further back? What if there were hundreds? He shook his head. That was unlikely; he'd noticed that there were more guards now, and they'd probably move to disperse a crowd. If she really was the gardener, they would have let her through.

Since he was clean and dressed, he picked his towel off the floor, looking in the mirror one more time for the pink pony, who was now gone. He walked back to the storage area, where the guard was still waiting patiently, his face a mask of detached professionalism. Dale nodded at him, and the guard led him out of the bathing room.

The route was becoming familiar to Dale. He followed the guard to the conference room and pushed open the door. There were two nurses and the doctor at the table, and he saw a flash of grey as something dove under the table. Since there was a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of a vacant seat beside Nurse Redheart, he surmised that the grey blur he'd spotted was the foal who the nurse had brought to see him yesterday.

"Hello," he said uncertainly. "Good afternoon."

The pink nurse and the doctor looked at each other; Redheart smiled broadly. "Not afternoon," she told him gently. "Good morning."

"Morning," he repeated.

She motioned to the table, and then to the breakfast. "Okay." Then she leaned under the table and began speaking sharply.

Dale took a seat across from the group of ponies—there was no need to alarm the little one needlessly—and grabbed a bowl. It was a let-down from his last two breakfasts, but more along the lines of what he'd have made for himself at home. He scooped a ladleful of oatmeal into his bowl, pretending not to notice the teeth-marks in the wooden handle.

As he ate, the grey foal finally reappeared and resumed eating its breakfast, but it kept regarding him with suspicious looks, occasionally looking towards Redheart, as if to get assurance that she was still there.

Once it had finished its oatmeal, it leaned over and nuzzled Redheart's side. She turned and bowed her head down, nuzzling its forehead gently before speaking what he imagined were inspirational words. It nodded and kissed Redheart in the cheek. As it climbed off the chair, Dale noticed that it was wearing little saddlebags, and suddenly realized it would be heading off to school. That would be something to see; a whole school full of little foals.

It stopped by the other two ponies, kissing the doctor and the pink nurse in turn, before it headed out the door, blithely ignoring the guard.

Dale scraped his bowl clean and pushed it away—he hadn't learned how to say he was done eating—which got the doctor's attention. He got up and came around the table the long way; while Dale was watching him, Redheart sneaked up behind him.

A moment later, the doctor had a clipboard floating beside his head, and the nurse had her hoof stuck up Dale's shirt. He made a token protest, but he knew when he was outclassed. He let them finish their examination, which fortunately was quick and cursory. The doctor set the clipboard back down on the table with an expression that spoke volumes: Dale was cured.

Redheart trotted out of the room cheerfully, followed shortly after by the pink nurse. The doctor levitated all the bowls off the table and placed them on the counter, then poured himself a mug of coffee. He dropped a couple of sugarcubes into it, then opened a hatch in the counter and pulled out a glass carafe of milk, which he added to his drink before putting a tongue depressor in the cup as a stir-stick.

He looked at Dale thoughtfully, and then handed Dale a mug, too, before returning to his seat. Dale got up to get some milk for his own coffee, but paused when he noticed that there were two hatches side-by-side on the countertop. Puzzled, he opened the one on his left first, revealing a large block of ice. He closed the lid and opened the other, where the milk resided, along with several earthenware jars of jelly. I haven’t seen an honest-to-goodness icebox in decades, he thought as he poured the milk into his mug.

The doctor turned his head and floated a newspaper over, holding it in front of his face while taking occasional sips of his coffee. Dale looked at him thoughtfully—if he ignored the glowing green field around the newspaper, it was very much like being in the break room at the machine shop. Cleaner, yes, and there weren't any pinup calendars on the wall, but otherwise very similar.

I want to see a machine shop or factory or something like that, he thought. Someplace where I can really get my head around how it works and what everything does. He savored his coffee, forgetting for the moment that soon enough he was going to be paraded in front of the town. Instead, he wondered what the guard's reaction would be if he offered him a cup of coffee, and he wondered if the ponies had invented pinup calendars, and if they had, what they might look like.

Reality came crashing back with a vengeance, as it always does. The white unicorn who'd fixed his clothes—Rarity—came in, accompanied by a blue stallion who was dragging a large trunk. At the sight of the musical notes on his hip, Dale swallowed a lump in his throat—was he going to have to sing? But Rarity spoke to him and put a hoof on his back, and he promptly departed with a smile on his face.

As soon as she turned back towards him, he spotted the eager look in her eyes, and a sense of foreboding fell over him. No longer was Lyra around to help defend his personal space, and unless the guard was willing to intercede on his behalf, she'd have unfettered access to his person.

She began by scrutinizing his face, moving around to consider it from different angles. Every now and then she'd tap a hoof on the ground nervously, or close her eyes for a few seconds. Finally, her face lit up and she opened the box.

A moment later, the table around Dale was littered with bottles and jars in a pattern not unlike the vanity in the bathroom. When Rarity slipped on a red-framed pair of pince-nez glasses and picked up an applicator, Dale cringed.

You were considering putting on makeup when you were in the bathroom, he reminded himself. Because you look so bad. You're about to make a first impression on a bunch of ponies, so you want to look good. You want them to think well of you, not that you've got one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. If you have to suffer through a few minutes of makeup, it'll be worth it in the end. She’s got a permed mane and tail, and eyeshadow, too, so she must know about makeup She fixed your clothes, and did a fine job of it; you can let her fix your face. You've survived worse things.

He flinched as the applicator touched his cheek—the foundation was cold. Rarity gave him a stern look over her glasses and tried again.

As she worked, he did his best to ignore the implements flying around his face. It seemed a lifetime ago that he'd first seen Lyra lift something, and now he was allowing a stranger to paint his face, which just went to show how quickly a person could adapt to a strange situation. Ever since he'd seen the doctor threading needles with an aura, he had a lot more confidence in the precision of their fields, which meant that as long as he could override his body's natural instinct to shy away from the shimmering blue eyeliner brush, he would probably be fine.

It felt like she was working for an eternity, but it couldn't have been more than a quarter hour before she was done, and stood back to admire her handiwork. She darted back in, made a couple of corrections, and moved back again, scrutinizing his face. Dale wondered if he'd get any say in the finished product—or if he'd even be allowed to see it. So far, she'd failed to produce a mirror.

She went to the trunk again and proudly pulled out a bundle of maroon fabric. As she moved it to him, she let it slowly unfold. She held it in the air in front of him, letting him get a good view of it, but he'd already seen enough. The heavy fabric reminded him of movie theatre curtains, and the shape was unmistakably a toga. Dale groaned inwardly—she'd undoubtedly drawn some false conclusions from makeshift bedsheet toga, and gone and sewed him a proper one. He'd been planning on wearing just jeans and the new shirt she'd made, but the look of expectation on her face was too much to refuse.

Well, they say that when in Rome, do as the Romans do, Dale thought. And what's more Roman than a toga? All the senators and emperors wore them, if the movies were to be believed.

There was a line of decorative trim on one end; if Rarity was holding it like it was meant to be worn, that was the bottom. He pulled it over his head and wormed his way through it, expecting to find a head-hole, but instead the whole tube was the same diameter, and taller than his body. He held the top of it in puzzlement, until he noticed the large golden buttons on the inside. Rarity watched him struggle to fold the top down and fasten the buttons with puzzlement. She probably thinks I wear these all the time . . . no wonder she’s confused that I can’t figure it out.

Once he’d gotten it buttoned, it made more sense: the top part draped over the bottom, giving the upper part a more voluminous appearance. It was still too long, though. He pulled up at the bottom, trying to figure out if there were any more attachments, when he noticed that she was pointing to a belt on his bed. He grinned and grabbed it, cinching it around his waist, just above his hips. When he pulled the fabric above the belt, it gave him good freedom of movement.

It actually looks pretty good, he thought with wonder. The overall color, while not his first choice, spoke of wealth and sophistication without being pretentious. Had togas still been in fashion, this would have been a perfect outfit for a church service or even a wedding.

Rarity was looking at him hopefully, so he smiled at her. "Dale happy," he told her, scrambling to remember more useful words in their language. "Thank you, Rarity," he said. He briefly considered hugging her, or putting his hand on her shoulder like she’d done with the stallion, but Lyra had said something about that.

She beamed at him and reached into her trunk again. Dale hoped that she would bring out a pair of shoes; instead, her aura was carrying a small furry mass.

Dale moved back, memories of a dead woodchuck coming to the fore. He thought he'd made himself perfectly clear about that, and Lyra had probably set the yellow pony straight. There hadn't been any repeats, at least.

But this wasn't a dead animal. Rarity straightened it out and fluffed it up, and he realized it was a hairpiece. She set it on top of his head, and started tweaking it to straighten it. Dale winced—it felt like a dentist's drill running wild across his scalp. Rarity stopped what she was doing, and the feeling vanished instantly.

How come I didn't feel that when she was putting on the makeup? But that was obvious—the business end of the brushes and pads hadn't been covered in the blue glow. The unicorn made a displeased humph and looked at the wig critically. Dale reached up and began adjusting it, a process made simpler when she finally produced a mirror from the trunk.

He stopped working on his hair long enough to admire himself in the mirror. While he still wasn't any more handsome than he had been before, he at least looked respectable and non-threatening. True, she'd managed to soften his face enough that he looked slightly feminine, and the hair on the wig was longer than anything he'd ever sported—even back in the sixties, he'd never felt the need to grow his hair out like a hippie. Still, his mom had always told him that beggars can’t be choosers. His grandmother had had similar advice, although it was slightly more colorful.

"Thank you, Rarity," he told her again.

Once Rarity had gone, Dale was left to his own devices. He was sure his guard was still outside the door, but he didn't feel the need to bother the stallion. He paced around the room nervously, wondering how soon Lyra would show up, and how soon he'd have to go out and meet everyone. On top of that, his scalp itched, but he didn't want to mess up his wig. He was sure that Rarity was going to be among the crowd of ponies welcoming him, and the last thing he wanted to do was annoy her by mussing up his outfit.

The door opened to admit four guards. One of them, Dale was certain, was the one who'd been stationed at the door, although he was impossible to positively identify. Two of them stopped just inside the doorway, while the other duo came towards him.

The one on the left looked up at him and pointed out the door. Dale swallowed and nodded. Why isn't Lyra here yet? It had to be getting pretty late, although the drawings Twilight had shown him yesterday hadn't given a timeframe for him to depart. It was slightly worrisome that his guard contingent had been beefed up: assuming that the door to their hospital room was still guarded, that meant that there were at least three new guards now, and a guess at how the military mind worked made it pretty certain to Dale that there were in fact more than three new guards; there were probably over a dozen.

I'm sure Twilight had this all arranged, he thought. They wouldn't do anything without her orders, and she's fairly trustworthy, I hope. She can't be mad that I looked at her hoof, can she? That was a pretty petty thing to risk an incident over, and she could have not put it on the table like that if she was uncomfortable. He walked to the door; the two lead guards turned and filed out, with the remaining pair of guards keeping close to Dale's heels.

They led him to the stairs and marched up, but instead of going back to the second floor, they stopped at the first, where another pair of guards were waiting. One of them held open the door, and the other passed through, well ahead of his group.

As soon as they got into the hallway, Dale saw the tail of the lead guard disappear around a bend, and realized that they were leapfrogging him somewhere. He wasn't entirely familiar with the process of bodyguarding, but got the impression that the first guard was making sure that the way was clear, the four guards were to protect him if somebody got past the first, and the final guard would keep a rear position, making certain nobody came up behind them. They weren't subtle, but if they had a good enough reputation, they wouldn't want to be. That begged the question of what they were supposed to be protecting him from.

They marched him into the lobby, where the pink nurse was sitting at a desk. She gave him a friendly wave as he passed. Dale returned the gesture, his heart sitting a little more easy—if the guards had hostile intentions, they wouldn't have let her stay at the desk as a potential witness.

As soon as the front doors of the hospital opened, Dale snickered, rapidly masking his mirth with a fake cough. Sitting in front of the hospital was a beautiful carriage, with four of the guard ponies hooked to the front. Until that moment, Dale hadn't imagined that they would have even considered horse-drawn carriages, but obviously they had.

The door was open, and it would have been obvious to even a child what came next. Dale walked across the short-cropped grass in front of the hospital and ducked his head to climb into the carriage: while the hospital had been built with high ceilings, the carriage had not.

The inside was luxurious, with deep upholstered seats and brass brightwork. A pair of oil lamps were mounted in brackets on the wall, although they were not lit. The back window was closed off with a curtain, while the side windows had been left open.

Dale leaned back in the rear seat, stretching his legs out across the floor. He expected one or two of the guards to join him, but instead the door was closed, and the wagon suddenly jolted forward.

Outside the carriage, the other guards had fallen into formation, trotting along either side. Dale kept his face glued to the glass, watching as the hospital moved out of his view and the town began to become revealed.

He felt a slight jolt as the coach began descending a hill. They crossed a stone bridge over a small stream, and soon there were buildings on either side of the street.

All the ponies he saw had stopped whatever it was they were doing to watch the carriage go by, so it clearly wasn't a common sight. He would probably done the same if he'd seen a knot of police cars accompanying a limo. And he still looked out the window whenever he heard the sirens of emergency vehicles, even if the days of trying to follow a fire truck on his bicycle were long behind him.

The buildings seemed very medieval; his earlier observations from the hospital were confirmed in that regard. The street wasn't paved; wasn't really a street, even, just an open swath of grass. That didn't seem like it would handle much traffic, but maybe this wasn’t a busy part of town.

Most of the buildings had Dutch doors and large windows on their ground floors. He saw a couple of ponies with their forelegs braced on the bottom half of the door, watching the procession go by with interest. They crossed by a narrow alleyway, and Dale found himself looking into the open entrance of a wagon shop, where two ponies were holding a board against the side of a flatbed wagon, while a third held a mallet in her mouth.

It's kind of like riding the train, he thought. I'm just passing through these ponies' workdays, and in a moment they'll go back to what they were doing, as if I were never there. He saw a mare look up from a small vegetable garden, while a stallion walking a dog paused as they went by. A second later, the absurdity of what he'd just seen registered, and he banged his head on the glass to get a second look, which was still unmistakably was a stallion with a leash in his teeth walking a dog.

The wagon lurched as it moved onto a cobblestones and went past a fountain. They turned and headed down another street, this one lined with stores on both sides. Dale was puzzling over what the sign over one shop meant when they came abreast of an outdoor cafe with tables shaped like mushrooms. It was nearly deserted, but for a deep red mare with a blonde mane and a bright yellow unicorn stallion with a light purple mane seated together at a table. They both looked up from their meal as he went by.

The procession passed through a collection of stores, until it finally came to a stop in front of a modest stone structure. One of the guards stationed himself by the door, but he made no move to open it. Dale guessed that he was waiting for instructions, and watched as one of the many guards detached himself from the group and walked towards the front door.

Dale couldn't see who was inside, but after a minute the guard walked back down the brick path and approached the carriage, then nodded at the pony who was standing there.

The door was swung open and Dale stepped out. This was nothing like the picture Twilight had drawn. Am I being Shanghaied? That didn't seem like the kind of thing they'd do . . . but, he would have thought the same about whatever brought him here. Lyra hadn't known, and he didn't, either. All the time they'd spent the night before going over drawings, and explaining what had happened on the beach for the benefit of the fancy white stallion, and there still didn’t seem to be an answer—or if there was, they weren’t sharing it with him.

Dale was bracketed by a pair of guards as he made his way down the path. The building reminded him of an English manor house, although on a much smaller scale. It had an air of nobility to it, and it was easy to imagine that some important pony lived here. I wonder if this is Twilight's house?

The wide front door still stood open, and for better or worse, it was large enough to admit Dale and his two guards simultaneously.

The room was spacious, and nearly devoid of furniture, although there were several marble busts of ponies on pedestals, and a large tapestry depicting a pair of white and blue winged unicorns chasing each other around a half-sun, half-moon.

In the center of the room, a light tan pony with a grey mane and tail was waiting for him. She wore a white collar and green cravat, and had a pair of half-glasses perched on her muzzle, and was obviously sizing him up. Finally, she nodded and extended a hoof.

Dale moved closer to her, squatted down, and extended a fist, pumping three times before pulling his hand back. She seemed a little surprised that he knew this gesture, but recovered her composure quickly.

She waved a hoof, before turning and walking down a hallway. Dale heard his guards shift and begin walking, so he followed her down the hall, glancing through open doors as he went by.

The first room he passed looked like a small sanctuary—there were rows of benches facing a podium, and a smaller version of the tapestry was hanging on the far wall. On the opposite side was an office of some sort. A stallion was leaning over a desk with a pencil in his mouth, busily scribbling away. He didn't even glance up as they passed.

They continued down the hallway, going by several more unoccupied offices and a bathroom before the tan pony opened a door and motioned for Dale to enter.

He broke out into a smile when he saw Lyra; she was standing next to one of the benches, and he could see why: she was wearing a dress. It was white with gold trim, which encircled her forelegs, swooped down her back in a saddle-like outline, and had a golden girth-strap, holding what he supposed would be the bodice on a normal dress in place around her belly.

She wore a thick golden torc around her neck with a blue- and yellow-striped tie in the center; under that was a golden lyre broach that matched the mark on her flank. Her hooves were covered in golden slippers, and her mane was tied back, with a golden comb holding the hair in place.

Her cheeks reddened, and Dale realized he'd been staring. "You look really pretty," he said by way of an explanation, remembering a moment later that she might not know all those words. "Lyra look . . . good-happy," he tried.

"Thank you," she said. "Dale sit?" She pointed to the bench next to her. "Dale sit here?" He nodded and moved beside her, remembering to pull his toga forward before he sat down, so that it wouldn't tug against his neck.

"Dale, Lyra wait here, then soon go meet Ponyville," she informed him. "Lyra make words, then Dale make words."

"Dale make words?" He shrugged. "Do I have a speechwriter?"

She gave him a confused look. "Lyra not know speechwriter."

"That's what I thought," he mumbled. "Not important. Dale will try make words." He reached out and gently touched the back of her neck. He felt the muscles in her neck tense for just a moment before they relaxed, and she took a half-step backwards to press herself more firmly against his hand—an unambiguous signal that the contact was welcome.

He began to hear voices that were carrying into the building. He felt Lyra shift under his hand, sidestepping until her cheek came into contact with his knee. I think she's as nervous as I am, he thought. That wasn't reassuring.

The door opened again, and Fancy Pants entered, followed by a slender unicorn who was a half-head taller than any one he'd seen before. The stallion stopped in his tracks, causing the unicorn to bump into his back. He didn't seem to notice; his gaze was locked on them. It took Dale but a moment to remember that his reaction yesterday had been the same when he'd touched Lyra's shoulder. It belatedly occurred to him that he was probably sending some kind of signal he probably shouldn't be, but Lyra didn't seem upset, and he was more concerned with her feelings than offending Fancy Pants.

The tall white unicorn came around his back and looked at the two of them, her eyes cold and appraising. It was the same look the tan pony had given him earlier; just like with the tan one, her expression softened quickly, and she chuckled. She leaned over to the stallion and spoke; he replied while casting a surreptitious eye at Lyra, who gave no reaction other than a quick ear-flick.

The pair of them moved over to the benches opposite them. The stallion remained standing, while the mare climbed up on the seat and folded her legs under herself and watched him and Lyra with an amused smile on her face.

Author's Notes:

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Chapter 13: Official Functions

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 13: Official Functions
Admiral Biscuit

It wasn't very long before the door opened again, and Twilight Sparkle came into the room. She was wearing a flowing dark blue dress with stars on the hem and a curved bodice that resembled a saddle. Her hooves were covered in light blue boots like the golden shoes the guards wore. Two matching stars were affixed to each foreleg, and a large white star on her chest held the front of the dress together. Dale glanced over at the tall white unicorn, who now stood out for being the only one of the group who was completely nude.

Nude isn't right, though, Dale thought. She's covered in fur. But why is she wearing nothing, and the other three are wearing varying degrees of formal dress? This must have something to do with their social standing—the more formal the clothing, the more significant the pony is. Unless the tall white ones are all important leaders, in which case they wouldn’t want to cover themselves.

Twilight came over and nuzzled Lyra, then spoke to Dale. "Good morning," she said quietly.

"Good morning, Twilight," he replied. Fancy Pants looked surprised that he'd spoken in their language; his companion smiled brightly, before leaning over and whispering something in the stallion's ear.

Twilight briefly spoke with Lyra, and Dale was pleased to discover that he recognized a few words—not many, but enough to understand that the gist of the conversation was that they were about ready. Sure enough, the door opened and the tan pony with the cravat he'd already met peeked into the room and made a 'come along' gesture with her hoof.

The group was split up—he and Lyra were led back the way he'd come, while the others went in the opposite direction. As he passed the open office, he glanced through the door, where the stallion was still focused on his paperwork. A pair of guards escorted them back out to the carriage. Lyra didn't seem to think it was odd at all; she climbed gracefully up the step that one of the guards was holding for her.

He followed her in, and took his familiar seat back, while Lyra remained standing. Dale heard the command from the soldiers, and the carriage lurched back into motion.

It was a short journey. As the coach rounded a bend, Dale looked out the side window and saw their destination. The drawing had been a perfect representation; if he'd had a better view of the town from his hospital room, he would have already seen it. The height nagged at his mind—why would ponies want to build something so tall?—but the architectural details were quickly lost to a more vital issue.

There were hundreds of ponies clustered around the building, possibly even thousands. It looked like the crowd at an open-air rock concert, although they were quiet compared to a human audience. While most of them were standing around the building in a large arc, there were dozens of the winged ponies in the air above the crowd, all facing the stage.

He tried to study them as they blurred by, but there were simply too many to focus on. They had coats and manes in every color of the rainbow. Dale couldn't even imagine what sort of wild genetics could account for such a thing.

He caught sight of a stallion pushing a food cart and it relaxed him slightly. If they treated important politics like sporting events, he might do all right. It tugged at his memory that there was historical precedent in the United States, but maybe that wasn't right. It had been too many years since he'd taken a history class.

The carriage continued around the building, cutting off his view of the audience. It came to a smooth stop, and the door was opened by one of the guards. Dale motioned for Lyra to disembark, and then followed her out.

He took one step and stopped, just looking around. The guards waited patiently, one on either side of him. He wondered what they would do if he just started walking through town—would they follow alongside him? Would they point him back towards the door Lyra had just entered? And what if he still didn't obey? They would probably be reluctant to use force against him, and he could just feign ignorance and ignore verbal orders.

For a moment, the temptation was almost overpowering. Part of him resented the way they were leading him along like a child, showing him what they wanted him to see and taking him where they wanted him to go. Why shouldn't he be allowed to visit that small cafe with the mushroom-patterned tables if he wanted to?

In time, he thought. They need to know that they can trust me to behave before they'll give me free reign. Remember, Kate wrecked her hospital room and attacked her nurses. Surely the guards knew that, and they'd have no reason to believe I might not do the same.

Dale shook his head, not noticing the worried looks his guards were exchanging, and turned back towards the building. He walked quickly, afraid that if he dallied he might lose his nerve.

He stopped just inside the doorway. As wonderful as his glasses were, the transition from outside to inside took the lenses a moment to complete. Once he could see where he was going again, he followed the corridor towards the front of the building.

One of the guards motioned for him to enter a large room, and he complied. It was quickly evident that it had been re-purposed: a collection of stage flats was leaned against the far wall, and there was a rack of costumes partially covered by a black fabric drape. Since he had nothing better to do, he walked over to give them a look. He'd been mildly curious about how Lyra got into her dress, but it would hardly have been polite to ask her.

The hangers were strangely proportioned, since the clothing was longer than it was tall. He picked a costume at random off the rack, and looked around to make sure that the guards weren't trying to stop him.

That's really clever, he thought, as he slid his fingers along the seam. It would be hidden when the suit was worn, yet would allow it to fasten securely. The sleeves and legs—or would they all be legs?—were similarly designed.

He turned when he heard the distinct clopping of hooves on wood, and the tan pony entered, followed by Fancy Pants and the white unicorn. The tan pony cleared her throat and spoke a few words. Lyra nodded, while Twilight had an inscrutable expression on her face. Dale hung the costume back on its hanger and returned to the cluster of ponies.

Without anyone telling him, he knew when the mayor left that it was time to begin. Shortly after she left, he heard a thunderous rumble outside that set the floor trembling. He couldn't figure out what it was, but the other ponies didn't seem bothered by it. Twilight had a stack of notecards, and was shuffling them in front of her face with a small frown.

When the hoof-stomps had died down, Mayor Mare smiled brightly. She scanned the audience, not surprised to see that nearly everyone in town was present. Not just ponies, either: two cows were watching from under a tree, Cranky and Matilda were between Mr. Greenhooves and Mr. Wattles, and at the very back of the crowd, a griffon she didn't recognize was staring over the crowd. The griffon, she noticed, had a vacant space around it; no doubt her ponies remembered Gilda.

She waited a moment to begin. She'd discovered that if she didn't start speaking right away, the ponies paid better attention, as if what she was about to say was so important, she had to really think about it before she said anything.

“Fillies and gentlecolts of Ponyville,” she began, pausing for another round of hoof-stomps. “Thank you all for coming out on this momentous day. As you've read in the special edition of the Ponyville Express, our town was specially selected by Princess Celestia Herself to host the newest Equestrian embassy. In a minute, a very special guest from Canterlot is going to talk about that.

“I just want to say how honored I am that we have been chosen, and I know that everypony in town will do their part to make our foreign guests feel welcome.”

The mayor was savvy enough to know how well that line would be received, and she didn't even bother to begin the next line of her speech. It took a moment for her words to sink in, but when they did, she was greeted with a thunderous roar from the crowd.

“Thank you,” she said once the applause had died down. “Now, I know we all want to hear what Fancy Pants has to say, but first, Twilight Sparkle has a few words.”

She stepped down from the podium. The crowd was less enthusiastic about the thought of Twilight's speech—they all knew what constituted 'a few words' in the librarian's mind.

“Hello, everypony,” Twilight said cheerfully. “I'll keep this brief.” She looked down at the crowd. She didn't really like public speaking all that much, so she found it easiest if she could focus on one pony, and act as if she were having an everyday conversation, just speaking a little bit louder than usual. For important speeches, Applejack was usually her best bet. She got an honest reaction from the farmer, and she could adjust her speech as needed.

“Ah, as you all know, the Nobles' Council nominated a new ambassador and Princess Celestia dedicated a new embassy right here in Ponyville. It's for a new species of creature—one which the Princess discovered about a month ago—that comes from a distant land, farther away than anypony has ever been before. It's farther away than the moon, or the sun; it's orbited by a sun called Eratosthenes which is so far away it looks like a star to us.” She noticed that Applejack was rolling her eyes and flipped a few cards ahead. “Um, anyways, the Princess decided that these creatures were friendly, and suggested that Lyra began meeting with him. Meanwhile, I remained behind, studying books on their society which the creature had given us.

“After a couple of meetings, there was a . . . um, mishap, and two of the creatures found their way here, to Ponyville.” A small frown crossed Applejack's face. “It was a minor thing, nothing to worry about,” Twilight hastily amended. “The mare's magic caused a slight conflict in the field strength of the spell, which, according to Van Hoof's Law, inversely . . . um, well, it caused them to arrive here in an unfortun—unexpected manner.”

She leaned down and flipped through her notecards. “The stallion's name is Dale, and he'll be giving a short speech later. I've been meeting with him at the hospital, where he's been recovering from his injuries. Er, which were really quite minor,” she added.

“We're still learning about his civilization, and he's still learning about ours. Soon, he'll be out and about, and I want everypony to give a helping hoof, if they see he's having problems. I know this is the friendliest town in Equestria; that's why the Princess sent me here to study friendship."

She glanced over the crowd, finally settling on the flower trio, who were whispering amongst themselves. “Finally,” Twilight said, looking right at them, “I want it to be understood that Dale is not a monster; he's a rational creature just like us. Thank you.”

Twilight neatly squared her pile of cue cards back up and stepped back from the podium, taking a seat at the back of the stage next to the mayor. When a new speaker wasn't immediately forthcoming, the crowd began whispering to each other. Let them whisper, Twilight thought. They've already heard from two authority figures that there's nothing to be worried about, and Fancy Pants will have the crowd eating out of his hoof. He always does. At the same time, a nagging doubt was playing through her mind. Would they have been more at ease if she'd explained Van Hoof's constant to them? The equations were pretty simple; even a laymare would understand it if Twilight gave her a bit of a foundation to build on.

Or she could have said more about the books. Books were an important sign of civilization, everypony knew that. And the books Dale had given Lyra were marvelous—why, she had three notecards prepared listing the quality of the paper and binding and typesetting, and that was saying nothing of the beautiful pictures. Her left eyelid began to twitch. Where is Fancy Pants? Should I go back up to the podium and say a few more words? Her ruminations were cut short as the unicorn came forth.

“Hello, Ponyville,” Fancy Pants said loudly. He ignored the podium, instead walking to the very edge of the stage. “It's a great honor for Fleur and myself to be standing in front of you today, on this auspicious morn.” He waited to give the stallions a chance to look over at Fleur, who had taken up a position in the middle of the stage.

“You know, I've heard so much about your charming little town, and met so many wonderful ponies from here, it's a shame I haven't been able to make more time to visit.” He sighed and stepped off the stage, moving into the crowd. “I dare say, Fleur and I will be back whenever we can make time. You have the quaintest little restaurants, and your produce is far superior to what we get in Canterlot.”

“Naturally,” he said, pausing in front of a cluster of earth ponies with vegetable cutie marks, “when the Princess proposed constructing a new embassy right here, in Ponyville—away from all the petty infighting the nobles get to—I was ecstatic. It's ponies like you who make Equestria great, and it's ponies like you who are best suited to welcoming a new citizen to our great land.”

He gave them a moment to consider his words, as he moved through the audience. “Both your mayor and Twilight Sparkle said it: this is the friendliest town in all of Equestria.” He swept his hoof across the crowd. “All of you are what makes this town great, and carry within you the spirit of friendship which makes this nation great. So what better place—I ask you, what better place could there be for an embassy? Not in Canterlot, no.” He gestured toward the distant gleaming towers of the palace. “Down here. Right down here, where ponies know their neighbors and lend each other a helping hoof without even being asked.”

As the crowd thundered around him, Fancy Pants slowly walked towards a pair of unicorns. “Of course, what's an embassy without an ambassador?” He stopped in front of them and turned back toward the stage. “I regret that I cannot be the one to make the announcement—your wonderful newspaper has done that already—but it is my great honor to introduce Ambassador Lyra Heartstrings!”

Fleur was standing next to the curtain when Lyra came through, and she bowed her head as Lyra passed. The crowd's noise quieted enough that Fancy Pants could hear the clicking of cameras from the gaggle of Canterlot press. He was sure they'd gotten a whole roll of film of Lyra's procession to the stage, and he was equally sure one of those photos would make the front page.

Instead of going back up to stage and taking his seat, he remained where he was, standing with the crowd. Fleur sat down in the back, leaving an empty seat between herself and Twilight Sparkle, which would serve as a reminder to everypony in the audience that he was with them. Sky Dream had accused him of mingling with crowds as a political tool, but he'd never seen it that way. If he wanted to know what the common mare thought, the only way to find out was to ask her. And he'd met the most wonderful ponies that way. Good, salt-of-the-earth, hardworking ponies who didn't have a political agenda. Ponies who didn't talk about doing things, but just did them.

“I'm honored to be here today,” Lyra began. “I didn't expect this. I met Dale about a month ago, when Princess Celestia took a short vacation and asked me to come along, and, well, now I'm an ambassador.” She tried to block out the cameras on her left. “I'll keep it brief,” she promised. “I've spent days with Dale, and he's really nice when you get to know him. He doesn't speak Equestrian yet, but we're working on that. He only knows a few words.” She grinned at the crowd. “So his speech is gonna be a lot shorter than mine.”

She stood down from the podium, blinking a bit of sweat out of her eyes. It was just as well that she didn't know her entire speech would be re-printed verbatim in the Canterlot paper.

“Thank you, Lyra.” The mayor went back to the podium. “In just a moment, Dale is going to come out and meet everypony. After his speech, I’ll come back and answer questions, and then some of us are going to go to the new embassy.” She leaned forward, bracing her forehooves against the wood. “And I know you're all curious, but please let's not make a big spectacle. This is a quiet, boring, official affair, and it won't be helped along by hundreds of ponies with their muzzles pressed against the glass. Later, once Dale has had a chance to settle in, we're going to have a Ponyville party, where anypony who wants to can come up and meet him, but for right now, let's keep this laid-back, okay?” She pointed a hoof towards the photographers. “That goes for you, too.”

As soon as the mayor had taken her seat, every neck in the audience craned to see Dale. A hush fell over the audience, until a pegasus suddenly shouted “There he is!”

A murmur rippled through the pegasi, and cameras began clicking furiously. “I see him,” an earth pony called out, and then the whole crowd was talking as Dale made his way to the podium.

He grasped the wood tightly, his eyes roving over the vast audience in front of him. The whispers in the crowd briefly grew to a dull roar, before they faded out.

As soon as Lyra had left the room, Dale started pacing. He was never one for giving speeches, and the fact that he didn't speak the language was a strong argument against him saying anything. At the same time, they'd be recording this for posterity, so he'd have to say something that the history books could remember.

Was Neil Armstrong this nervous before he stepped on the moon? Was he thinking about how whatever he said was going to be witnessed by millions—maybe even a billion—people, and going to be in every history book thereafter? Because making contact with an alien civilization, while it might be old hat to the ponies, was arguably the single greatest thing mankind had ever done, even if it wasn't entirely by their choosing.

Dale smiled. Technically, this was far beyond first contact. First contact had happened on North Fox Island, and there were any number of historians and scientists would gladly have built a museum over the first messages he and Lyra had scratched in the sand—messages which had long since been erased by Lake Michigan.

His thoughts were interrupted by a stallion who pointed him toward the door. Dale nervously ran his hand through his wig before wiping it off on his peplos, and stepped onto the stage.

Hearing the noise of the ponies had been bad. Seeing them all was worse. The crowd grew in his estimation, spreading out in front of him as an all-encompassing mass that could have numbered ten thousand. He tried not to gawk, but his eyes kept being drawn to a new cluster of ponies. Off to his left was a group of winged ponies with cameras, all pointed in his direction. In the front, he saw Rarity, standing next to a mare wearing a cowboy hat, of all things. On her other side was a small purple and green lizard, who was dividing his attention between Rarity and the stage.

Further back, he saw his language instructor—Cheerilee, if he remembered her name correctly—standing guard over a group of foals, who were all staring at him intently. The little gray one who'd kissed the nurses and doctor in the morning was among the group, and when she saw he was looking in her direction, she gave a small wave before turning her head to talk excitedly to a fat yellow pony next to her.

There was a weird half-bird, half-lion standing by itself, and under a tree were a pair of cows. Suddenly, he remembered seeing a cow at the market—and hadn't it been with the blonde pony in the front row, the one who was wearing the Stetson? His stomach clenched as he thought of the creamer he'd blithely poured into his coffee. Had it come from one of those cows?

He slowly became aware of the loud silence hanging over the crowd and realized they were all waiting for him to speak. He relaxed his deathgrip on the podium slightly, briefly wondering if he'd squeezed it hard enough to leave divots in the wood, and cleared his throat.

“Hello, good morning.” Dale tried to remember other words he knew, but came up with nothing. Finally he shrugged—later on, he and Lyra could come up with a translation. “I know you can't understand me, so I'll be quick. Thank you all for coming out here to see me. I, um, I . . . this is unprecedented, we've always wondered if there were other civilizations out there, and I can't say how much it means to all of humanity to be the first man to have encountered one. I'm not the most qualified guy, but I'll do what I can. I hope you'll help me.” He took a deep breath, dredging the dusty corners of his brain for an appropriate way to end his speech, but couldn't come up with anything. He took a step back from the podium and glanced over at a row of chairs, before taking a seat next to Lyra. The chair was too short—uncomfortably so—and he wound up with his knees halfway up his chest.

The audience took a moment to react to his brief speech, but finally began stomping their hooves, shaking the ground. Dale instinctively reached his hand over toward Lyra, but stopped short, remembering the disapproving look Fancy Pants had given him. This was the last place he wanted to do something that might be inappropriate.

The tan pony went back to the podium, and spoke a few more words once the crowd had calmed down, before she motioned to the chairs. That was apparently the cue to leave, because the white mare stood and walked offstage, followed by Twilight—who seemed surprised that the speeches had ended. He stood after Lyra, and trailed her backstage.

Dale followed Lyra back the small room, but they didn't stay for long. Twilight and Lyra had a short conversation and were quickly joined by Fancy Pants; Dale was ignored.

It was a good sign, he reasoned. They were comfortable enough around him to let him have a bit more lead. He didn't notice the tall white unicorn moving towards him. Instead he was remembering that the fat yellow pony next to the foal from the hospital had had a horn.

Not a prosthetic, then. Had some of them had wings? They were too far away to be certain.

“Hello,” a voice said practically in his ear. He caught a white blur out of the corner of his eye and took an involuntary step back, which in turn startled the white pony.

“Sorry,” Dale apologized.

She reached up with a hoof and brushed a lock of hair out of her face before trying again.

“Good morning,” she repeated, sticking a hoof forward. Dale bumped it absently, thinking how that phrase was becoming rapidly useful. Thank heavens Cheerilee had taught it to him. “Fleur De Lis,” she said, touching a hoof to her breast.

“Dale,” he said, although he was sure she already knew that.

Lyra came over to him, one of Lyra's note-cards floating along in her golden aura. “Lyra, Dale go Dale new home.” She paused. “Is embassy. Dale new home is embassy.”

“Embassy,” he repeated carefully. She'd become lax about changing her voice, and he'd gotten used to it, although it was still difficult to pronounce their words.

She nodded. “Dale, Lyra go, then Fancy Pants, Twilight, Fleur, Mayor Mare.”

“Mayor Mare?” he asked. He hadn't heard that name before.

“Mayor Mare is pony make words first, make words last. Is there.” She pointed in the direction of the stage. “Now Dale, Lyra go—“ she held up the note-card, where there was a simple sketch of the pony-drawn carriage, a dividing line, and then a drawing of them walking—“this or this?”

He touched the drawing of them walking. It was a nice day, and after being trapped in the hospital for so long, he couldn't miss the opportunity to stretch his legs.

Of course, the guards weren't content to let him and Lyra travel on their own. Dale figured there was a good chance they’d be with him for a while. They were kind enough to try and remain back—clearly they trusted Lyra to keep him out of trouble.

He unconsciously adjusted his stride to match hers—while her gallop was much faster than he could run, his normal walking pace was quicker than hers, and he couldn't imagine that it would be comfortable to trot in that dress.

Dale glanced up as a shadow passed overhead, and he caught a glimpse of a gray pony with a blonde mane gliding towards the center of town. She was staring at him, and as a result nearly hit a tree. At the last second, she saw it and dove under the branches, before turning down a street and flying out of his sight.

As he looked around, he realized the presence of the guard wasn't entirely a bad thing—after the gray pony passed, a quartet of them took to the air and kept the sky overhead clear. He was hardly surprised to see two of the winged photographers he'd spotted before, keeping behind the imaginary line the guards had set, snapping pictures of them walking through town. Other ponies—both in the air and on the ground—watched him from further back.

Lyra led him across the broad field which surrounded the rotunda. The grass under his bare feet was well-groomed and he wasn't feeling any stones underfoot, which was fortunate since he didn’t have shoes. Somebody spent a lot of time keeping it neat, he reasoned.

They finally came to a street—it must have been important, since it was cobbled. Lyra walked across without even bothering to turn her head. Dale couldn’t help but stop at the edge and check both ways for traffic, although he saw no vehicles.

A few ponies were walking on the street, though. He didn't recognize any of them from the gathering, but it was certainly possible they had been present—they would have had enough time to go back to their ordinary lives.

As they continued through town, Dale began getting nervous. While he hadn't had the pleasure of attending any kind of formal event of this magnitude, it seemed like the kind of event where there would be all sorts of pomp and circumstance. There were crowds waiting when the president stepped off Air Force One, and a Marine band, as well as all the security detail. . . . He looked around him: he still had his own personal security detail, the four patrolling the sky and the others keeping a healthy perimeter around him and Lyra.

So it came as a bit of a surprise as Lyra led him to a very ordinary-looking half-timbered house, and she'd even opened the door before he realized it was his destination. There were no guards standing out front, no fancy gate and fence, not even an American flag flying out front. Dale smiled—maybe he'd see if he could get a flag for the house. He'd seen banners here and there around town, so some pony knew how to make them. All he'd have to do is make a sketch . . . although he suddenly couldn't remember whether the top stripe was red or white.

The front door was an entirely normal Dutch door, and Dale hesitated at the threshold, instinctively waiting for Lyra to precede him through the doorway. When she did not, he stepped through himself, and she followed him in, closing the door behind her.

He was not greeted by a brass band, nor a cluster of dignitaries, which was quite a relief. The front door opened right into a foyer, with a couple of doors leading off to his left, and a staircase along the south wall. Just like the hospital stairs, they hadn't bothered with handrails—what was even more disturbing was that one side was just open to the main room. That was something he was going to have to address; he could too easily see himself falling off the stairs, and while the hospital had been nice, Dale was in no hurry to go back as a patient.

Since there was no one there to make demands of him, Dale began looking around the room. The walls were a dark beige; when he put his hand against the plaster, it was still damp. He could smell fresh sawdust, and that—coupled with the emptiness of the foyer—made him suspect that they weren't done working on it yet. He grinned, his hand still resting on the wet plaster. They weren't expecting me to come along so quickly.

He turned at the sound of hooves on slate. Lyra was moving to the center of the room. She was looking around with a curious expression on her face: she hadn't seen the building yet, either. Dale walked over towards her, a big grin still on his face.

“Dale, Lyra see?” He encompassed the room with his outstretched arm.

Lyra nodded. “Lyra not see then; Lyra see first now.” She paused, then added: “Lyra, Dale see first now.”

A short hall led off to his right. A very formal looking dining table, complete with candlesticks in fancy silver candelabras and a flower arrangement in the center, took up most of the room. He thought about taking a brief walk down there, but figured that dining rooms pretty much all looked the same.

Instead, he went through the archway at the end of the foyer and entered the living room. Crystal lamps like the ones he'd seen in the hospital were mounted in wall sconces, with tapestries hung between them. A plain door was in the center of the east wall, while the north wall had a heavy oak double door which was wide open, and a second door marked with the silhouette of a pony. A quick check through that door verified that it was a bathroom—or would be, once they finished the plumbing.

Dale went through the double doors, and found himself in an office. There was a small desk in line with the door, where he could imagine a receptionist might sit, if he had one. He looked over at Lyra, who'd followed him into the room. Is she supposed to be my receptionist, or assistant, or what? He wasn't exactly sure what role she played in the whole enterprise, besides being his translator.

The end of the room towards the front of the house was dominated by a massive desk. He suspected that they might have had to take a wall down to get it into the house. It was a monstrous wooden edifice, big enough that it made him feel small. The chair behind the desk was too tall and too wide for a human, and it reminded him more of a throne than an office chair. It looked comfortable, though.

A Dutch door behind the desk opened into a small courtyard, which he gave a cursory glance before walking back out of the office. He wanted to see the rest of the interior before he walked around the outside.

Back in the living room, he opened the plain door, and closed it just as quickly. The room had four beds, each one with two small lockers at the foot. It didn't take much imagination to see that this was an attached barracks, so it was obvious that he was going to be keeping his contingent of guards for a while. That was something he should have expected.

Once they'd completed their initial tour, Dale looked at the stairs. He really wasn't looking forward to using them, although he was sure the problem was more psychological than anything. It was just like the steel-workers back in the old days, walking along beams hundreds of feet in the air with no safety net. They said the beams were as wide as a sidewalk . . . but he wondered how many of them had fallen off.

Deciding that the upstairs could wait, Dale went into the dining room. He had trouble picturing himself actually eating there; it looked like the kind of place where a servant would be on hand to take care of his every want, and was leagues away from the simple Wal-Mart card table he had at home for his meals.

A French door opened into another courtyard, which was fenced in by a hedge. That wasn't something they'd just done; it had to have taken years to grow it and groom it so neatly.

Dale turned his attention to the other door, which common sense said would be a kitchen. Unsurprisingly, it was. He took in the sink with a pump handle, the wood stove with a bellows and stack of firewood next to it, and shook his head. This was the kind of kitchen his grandmother would have been right at home in, but why here? He felt like he was missing something important.

"Dale," Lyra said, and pointed a hoof at the ceiling. "Dale, Lyra go up. Other ponies here soon."

The staircase was wider than a normal home's would be, although not as wide as an institutional staircase, like the one at the hospital. Just like that one, the risers were spaced completely wrong, which was another thing to add to the discomfort. He took a deep breath and began ascending, ignoring the mental images of himself tripping and falling, or Lyra butting him off the staircase like she was a goat. If she really wanted to make me fall, hitting me with a mattress—like she did with Kate—would do the trick nicely.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the top hallway. Counting the staircase, the upper hallways made a cross shape along the four cardinal directions; each of the hallways ended in a door, and there were entrances to four other rooms off the halls.

The first four rooms were all bedrooms. Each one held identical furniture: a king-sized bed, a wardrobe, small chest of drawers, a vanity with a mirror, a bedside table with a crystal lamp, and a trunk. Dale looked over at Lyra—who was inspecting a bed—and covered a snicker. While the beds were excessive by his standards, they positively dwarfed Lyra.

The north hallway ended in an unfinished bathroom; unlike the simple one on the first floor, this one was home to a luxurious tub, and an unfinished tile mosaic on the wall. He hoped that completing it was high on their list of priorities. Did they pull the workers off the job for the day so that we could come and tour the new house? He hoped not, but he had a feeling that they had. Of course, they could also be waiting to see what he wanted. A shower would be nice, even with the low ceiling. He'd have to tell Lyra to let them know to put one in.

He closed the door and walked back to the landing. Deciding that proceeding straight was his simplest choice, he walked to the end of the hallway and entered another office which took up the whole south side of the upstairs. Built-in bookshelves lined the exterior wall, which was only about four feet tall because of the slope of the roof. Three dormers let in plenty of light, and there were additional windows in the east and west walls.

A short ladder led up to the attic. Dale peeked in, noticing a large supply of newly-cut boards placed across the rafters, along with a collection of crates and barrels. He considered taking a closer look, but decided that the construction ponies wouldn't be happy if he messed with their stuff, and climbed back down the ladder.

He went down the last hallway, finding himself in another long, narrow room. This one had two small beds arranged side-by-side, with a shared center table. It reminded him of a hotel room.

"Is Lyra?" he asked, pointing to the beds.

"No," she said. "Is . . . other ponies." She tapped her hoof on the ground, trying to think of how to describe them. "Is help ponies." She nodded, happy with her explanation.

"Help ponies?" Does she mean servants, or something else?

Lyra nodded. "Make Dale food, make help Dale shirt pants, make embassy . . . happy."

Dale frowned. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. It would be nice to be able to focus on his job—whatever that was going to be—without having to worry about taking care of the house, or cooking, or shopping, or any other domestic chore, but at the same time, servants were the kind of thing that the idle rich had, not normal people. And weren't they calling them 'domestic assistants,' now, anyway, to get rid of that stigma? Of course, he probably wasn't going to have much say in the matter. He was going to get them, whether he wanted them or not.

Since the room had been built in a lean-to fashion, the ceiling was sloped towards the outside wall: more of a problem for him than Lyra. There were two dormer windows, and a third dormer with a door in it. Dale ducked into the alcove and opened the door, revealing a small deck with a pony-sized railing and stairs leading down to the backyard.

A newly-constructed fence delineated the property, although it was hardly a privacy fence—he would have expected the building to be more isolated from its neighbors, but their windows overlooked the backyard. Dale imagined that the pony paparazzi were already making arrangements to rent those rooms.

Behind a screen of hedges, Dale found an outhouse. Aside from the door having the silhouette of a pony, it was essentially the same as every other outhouse he'd ever seen. A basket of flowers filled the air with perfume, and there was a bucket of white powder with a small scoop next to the toilet. It tugged at his memory—he was pretty sure that you were supposed to dump some in the pit after using it—but he couldn't remember what the powder was. At least the outhouse solved one problem with the unfinished bathrooms, but he'd really have liked to find a shower or bathtub, unless the construction crew was planning on having the plumbing done tomorrow. If not, he could always go back to the hospital.

His tour completed, Dale re-entered the house from the side door, holding it open for Lyra to pass.

When Dale came back from the courtyard, he discovered that there was a wagon out front, and two ponies wearing aprons—a pudgy blue mare and a gangly yellow stallion—were in the foyer, setting food out on the tables. Taking that as a hint that the reception was about to begin, Dale went into the bathroom and inspected himself in the mirror, making sure that his makeup was still presentable and his wig was still on straight. Fortunately, it was—he wasn't sure what he would have done if it hadn't been, since the house was lacking in basic toiletries.

When he came back out of the bathroom, Lyra went in—clearly having the same idea he'd had. He went under the archway into the foyer, where there was an unfamiliar pink mare wearing saddlebags strapped on her back. She smiled at him and stuck out a hoof. He stole a quick glance at her hip, in the hopes it would identify her role. It was three white stars in a diagonal line, with the center star bigger. What it meant was beyond him.

“Hello,” Dale replied, crouching down and gently touching the end of her hoof. “Dale.”

“Starlight,” she replied, giving him a quick handshake, after which she spoke a rather long sentence. Dale shook his head, and her smile faded, but a moment later it was back as if it had never left. She said something else—the only word he picked out of it was 'Lyra'.

Dale looked back at the bathroom door, then pointed in case she didn't know where Lyra was. She nodded pleasantly, before her ears swiveled back at the sound of approaching hooves. A light blue unicorn mare dressed in a short yellow skirt came down the stairs and boldly walked over to Dale, tipping her head when she was close. “Diamond Mint,” she said simply.

“Dale,” he replied, tapping his chest. Apparently she doesn't go for handshakes. He smiled broadly at her, not sure if there was something else he should do to be properly social. Meanwhile, Starlight headed for the stairs and disappeared on the second floor. Dale listened to the soft clopping of her hooves as she moved down the hallway—it was really weird to hear them overhead.

I wonder if those are the servants? The unicorn stayed near him, as if she were waiting for orders. Or maybe she was just watching him; maybe she just thought he was unusual enough to warrant a close study.

The two ponies who were catering had finally finished setting up the tables to their satisfaction, and retreated to the hallway between the foyer and dining room. As soon as Starlight descended the stairs, the pudgy mare called out to her, and she joined them, then the trio headed towards the kitchen.

Dale moved over to one of the benches in the living room and took a seat, since he had nothing better to do. He was curious what they were doing in the kitchen, but knew that they'd rather not have him in the way, and it just seemed awkward to be standing around next to her.

He was studying one of the tapestries, which showed a starscape at the top and a crescent moon at the bottom, when someone began knocking on the front door. Before Dale could even get up, the unicorn had trotted over to the door and opened it, smiling politely at the visitor. Dale leaned forward, instantly recognizing Nurse Redheart. She didn’t have her nurse’s cap on, and Dale wondered if she was off-duty for the day.

Diamond stepped back to let her in, and Redheart made a beeline for Dale, who crouched down to greet her. She hugged him before reaching into her bag and pulling out his neatly-folded clothes with her teeth. One item at a time, she made a small stack of the clothes next to him, until her bag was empty.

Dale looked over at the small pile of clothing. Besides what he was wearing, it was everything he owned now. It was kind of sad, when he thought of it like that. He picked the shirt off the top of the pile and ran his fingers over the new seams Rarity had sewn.

Redheart gave his thigh a gentle nuzzle, then she turned tail and walked back out the door.

I must be cured. Dale re-folded the shirt and set it on top of the stack. A moment later, it was surrounded by a pale blue aura, and he glanced at Diamond, who had the same color corona surrounding her horn. He dully watched as the pile of clothing was lifted off the cushion.

She looked at him expectantly, and he realized that she wanted to put the clothes in his room for him. Since she hadn't already left, she didn't know which room was supposed to be his—as all four were identically furnished, he supposed he ought to choose one.

With a sigh, he got up off the couch. As he trudged up the stairs, he weighed the advantages of each of the four bedrooms, finally deciding on the one in the front of the house next to the office: a west-facing window would be nice at night, plus it would give him a view of the street below. It wouldn't have the potential disadvantages of a bedroom sharing a wall with the bathroom, and he wouldn't have to contend with being blinded by morning sunlight.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he noticed that the door into the servant's room was open, and Starlight was standing on her hind legs, tugging a skirt over her head. Dale stopped mid-step and stared as she wriggled it down her body, shifting it around with her forelegs before she dropped back to all four hooves, satisfied with how it sat.

He suddenly remembered that Diamond Mint was right behind him, and resumed his trek, keeping his eyes low and wondering if Starlight had seen him watching. What would she think? She wouldn't care, right? She wasn't wearing anything when she came into the house, so why should she care if I saw her getting dressed? But . . . it's just not right to be spying on her like that, even if she did leave the door open, is it? Or don't care? Rarity had to be told . . . there have to be dozens of layers of social etiquette involved, he thought. If only Emily Post were here, she could explain it all to me. He pushed open the door to his bedroom and let Diamond Mint enter.

She glanced around the room, taking in its emptiness, and frowned, before levitating the clothing over to the dresser. She expertly sorted it in the air, putting identical items in drawers, hesitating slightly as she lifted his socks. It looked even more depressing when they were sorted: one drawer held two pairs of socks, when it could have held dozens. Dale was never one to figure that a man's worth was measured in personal belongings, but at the same time, two pairs of socks was not enough. He thought a man ought to have two week's worth of clothing at a minimum.

Diamond Mint gave him a look that said 'Is that all?' and Dale gave her a shrug.

Once I start earning money—if they have money—I'll have to buy some more clothes. That's my first priority. He looked down at his bare feet. Okay, shoes first. Then clothes.

Lyra came out of the bathroom just in time to see Dale headed upstairs with Diamond Mint following behind him. The Cakes were bustling around in the kitchen, making sure that everything would run smoothly. Normally, Pinkie helped cater these kinds of parties, but since she was an Element bearer—and since Twilight had decided that things might run more smoothly if she wasn't given any responsibilities—the hyperactive mare wasn't present.

She looked around the living room one more time, making sure that everything was in place. Everypony knew it wasn't finished yet, but it wouldn't look good to have a guest trip over a hammer, or something like that. If Diamond Mint and Starlight had arrived sooner, they would have done it themselves.

Starlight came down the stairs, wearing a neat skirt. “It's almost time,” Lyra reminded her.

“I know,” Starlight said. She took a deep breath and extended a hoof in front of her chest, sweeping it across the floor as she exhaled. “Okay, I'm ready,” she mumbled, walking over to the door.

Lyra looked up the stairs as Dale came down, giving him a big smile. When he reached the floor, she trotted over to him and nuzzled his hand—he seemed to like those little affectionate touches, and it was much easier than standing on her hind legs and giving him a proper nuzzle on the cheek.

Diamond disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a knife floating point-down in her field. She set it on the table and made one last inspection, before taking her place at the head of the table.

It was just in time; a soft knocking sounded from the door. Starlight opened the top half first and hooked it against the wall, then opened the lower door to allow Mayor Mare to enter the room, followed by Twilight.

Instead of approaching her or Dale, the two mares took up a prominent position in the center of the room, where they could intercept and greet the first wave of guests—nobles from Canterlot. Fancy Pants and Fleur were the first to enter, of course, but they were trailed by a group of worthless nobles whose only purpose in coming was to be seen with Dale. Most of them skipped the refreshments, instead quickly mobbing Dale and Lyra, while their personal photographers discreetly took pictures. One of them—Sky Dreams, if she remembered correctly—did take a glass of punch from Diamond Mint, quaffing half of it before he made his way to an unoccupied corner of the room. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he pulled a silver flask out of his vest and used it to top off his punch.

“Excuse me,” Starlight said quietly. Lyra looked at her in surprise—she hadn't heard the mare approach. “If it's not too much bother, there's a griffon at the door who wants to come in.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He wasn't on the guest list. I asked Fancy Pants, and he said it would be impolite to snub him, but if you don't think Dale is up to meeting him, I can have him sent away.”

“I don't know how to explain it to Dale,” Lyra admitted. “But I think the Princess would be mad if we kept him out.” She let her eyes wander over the crowd of nobles and smirked. “Besides, it might shake them up some.”

“All right. I'll tell the guards to let him by.” Starlight made her way through the crowd, skimming around the edges of clusters of nobles.

“Dale,” Lyra said quietly, tapping his leg with a hoof to get his attention. “Is, um, new not-pony soon. Is okay, is friend.”

He nodded absently, trying to focus on the buzz of conversation around the room. She felt bad for him—Dale had to be completely overwhelmed by the nobles.

Suddenly, the room fell silent as the griffon entered. His eyes locked on Dale, and he began moving across the foyer as ponies scrambled to get out of his way. Dale took a step back, as well; Lyra pressed up against his leg as a reminder that she was there—and she also closed her eyes for a moment, calling up a shield spell. Just in case.

The griffon stopped just short of the couple, his eyes unashamedly taking Dale's measure before he spoke. “I am Sharpbeak, son of Swiftwing here to offer our regards to the new ambassador from the planet of the sun of Eratosthenes.” He tilted his head towards the couches. “I see that the minotaurs have already made their contribution.”

“I am Grandmaster Lyra Heartstrings of Her Majesty's Auxillary Royal Unicorn Guard,” Lyra said back, her face expressionless. “It is a pleasure to meet you.” She extended a hoof, keeping her face blank as he took it in a talon and proceeded to try and crush it. “And he is Dale Paard, ambassador to all of Equestria.”

“I see.” Sharpbeak released her hoof and extended a talon to Dale, who still seemed mildly in shock.

Dale took the proffered limb, wrapping his fingers around Sharpbeak's talons. The two stared at each other for a moment longer, before they began their handshake. Sharpbeak finally broke Dale's grasp, lowering his talon back to the floor. “He's stronger than he looks,” he mumbled. “It was a pleasure to meet you both,” Sharpbeak said loudly enough for everypony in the room to hear. “I look forward to working with you in the future.” With that said, he turned and walked out of the embassy, taking flight as soon as he had cleared the door.

Even before Sharpbeak took flight, Lyra had felt Dale's hand resting in the back of her neck, and she could feel the pulse hammering in his hand. I shouldn't have told Starlight to let him in, she thought. He wasn't prepared for that at all. How was he going to react to a minotaur or diamond dog? She closed the distance between them again, lightly touching his leg. What if Chief Thunderhooves wants to meet him, or even a dragon? I'll have to remember to leave a note for Twilight to have Cheerilee go over a primer in the species of Equestria tomorrow.

“Is friend,” Lyra reminded Dale, even though that wasn't quite true.

Before they had time to fully recover from the griffon, a cluster of professors entered. Lyra recognized Apple Polish and Dean Bright Star from her time in Canterlot. Before they could even make their way across the room, there was a flash of green, and an enthusiastic pegasus was hovering above a silver-coated noble whose name Lyra couldn't remember, studying Dale with a maniac grin on her muzzle. An instant later, her tail was enveloped in a magenta glow, and she was yanked across the room, where she hovered in front of Twilight.

Lyra turned an ear, curious what Twilight would do about her, but she kept her voice down, to avoid disturbing the other guests. Featherbrain, on the other hoof, was not so restrained. “I'm only banned from the hospital, she protested loudly. “Nopony said I couldn't come to the embassy.”

Lyra glanced back at Bright Star, who looked like she wanted to dig a hole in the floor and dive into it. Lecol was ignoring them both, and had moved up to Dale, giving him a warm hoofshake before she moved aside to let Perry Pierce have a turn. Ivory Star had stopped by the refreshment table, and was loading a plate with a sensible amount of fruit and a single brownie.

Once they'd all given their greetings and moved back, Twilight finally let go of Featherbrain's tail, and the pegasus took a moment to smooth it back in place before trotting over to Dale. After she'd introduced herself, she retreated to the couch, where she squeezed in between a pair of unicorns and simply watched Dale.

At least she's quiet now, Lyra thought as the door opened and Rarity entered, followed by Applejack, Pinkie Pie, and Rainbow Dash. She watched with amusement as Rarity stopped Dash from flying straight to Dale—which caused her to take her attention off Pinkie. The earth pony happily zipped over to the table and had eaten two plates of desserts before Rarity noticed she was gone and corralled her, finally bringing the three mares over to Dale.

While they were introducing themselves to Dale, Bon Bon came in the front door and waved happily at Lyra, who gave her a more subdued wave in return. As soon as the Element bearers had split up, she came over, hugging Lyra.

“Is Bon Bon,” Lyra told Dale.

He crouched down to give her a hoofshake. “Dale,” he said, his voice scratchy.

“We could use a drink,” Lyra told Bon Bon. “Haven't had time yet.”

Bon Bon nodded and trotted over to Diamond Mint, who followed her back with a pair of glasses floating in her aura. As soon as they'd finished their punch and given the glasses back to the unicorn, Lyra leaned close to Bon Bon. “If you go through the office to my right, there's an entrance to a private courtyard with an outhouse. Stay close to the wall of the house, and nopony will know you're there.”

“Is that really necessary?”

Lyra grinned. “Isn't it more fun when you don't ask permission first?”

“It won't be fun if somepony brings it up tomorrow,” she mumbled, before giving Lyra a quick peck on the muzzle. “I'll mingle for a bit, then head outside.”

If he hadn't been a guest of honor, Dale would have left the party hours ago, but of course he was stuck. He felt like a trained chimp being paraded in front of a group of high-class Victorians, and his only solace was the occasional trips to the dessert table.

The two ponies who'd set it up, assisted by Diamond Mint, made sure that the table stayed full, despite Pinkie Pie's best attempts to deplete it. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the guests trickled out the door. As Diamond helped the caterers clear the tables, Dale collapsed on one of the couches, his legs sore and his face hurting from the fake grin he'd had plastered on all evening.

He yawned, not bothering to cover it, and debated whether or not it was worth trying to move, or if he should just stay where he was. As much as not moving again was a worthwhile plan for the night, his bladder had other ideas, and he groaned and got back to his feet, glad that he'd had time to find the outhouse before the party began.

The outside air was a welcome relief. Dale yawned loudly as he followed the path to the outhouse. Between the moon and the light streaming through the windows of the house, he had no trouble navigating the yard, and when he got to the outhouse, he was happy to discover that someone had thought to hang a lamp inside.

Once he was done, he tarried in the yard briefly, getting a feel for how things looked at night. A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he walked over to the house, where the bathroom curtains were blowing outside the open window.

That was closed earlier, he thought, unless Lyra opened it when she was checking her makeup in the mirror. Dale pushed the glass shut, noticing a small streak of dirt on the windowsill, almost as if someone had climbed through. Intrigued, he pulled the window back open and looked inside, but he could see no one in the unfinished bathroom, and the lawn yielded no clues.

When he finally went back inside the house, the caterers were gone, and the living room was empty.

That was as good a sign as any that the night was over, he reasoned. Dale trudged up the stairs, pushing open the door to his room. The covers on the bed were turned down, and a pitcher of water and a glass and been placed on the bedside table for him.

He closed the door to his room and hung his toga up in the wardrobe, then padded over to the window in his underwear. He opened the window and stuck his head out, looking up and down the mostly-deserted street, before looking down at the pair of guards who were flanking the front entrance.

Dale left the window open and climbed into bed, reveling in the luxurious feel of the mattress. He turned off the lamp and listened to the creaks and pops of the house settling for the night, along with the steady song of crickets and frogs. It was so quiet and peaceful, it reminded him of visiting his great uncle's farm back when he was a kid.

Author's Notes:

Click the shiny green text to be re-directed to the notes!

Chapter 14: Tempest

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 14: Tempest
Admiral Biscuit

"Do you think she’s ready to be moved?" Redheart asked.

"Hmm?" Dr. Stable set Kate’s chart down and slid it off to the side.

"The girl—Ka-th-rin? Is she healthy enough to be moved to the embassy?"

"I don't know." The unicorn frowned and glanced back at the chart, even though he didn’t need to re-examine it to answer Redheart’s question. "Her magical signature has hardly improved . . . although, it is a close match to the stallion's, um, to Dale's. It's worryingly low, still, but perhaps that's normal for them."

"Dale seemed in good condition this afternoon, when I took his clothes to the embassy," Redheart reported. She reached up and began tugging at her cap.

"Here, let me." Dr. Stable turned to face Redheart and wrapped his field around her cap. "I just don't know if it's safe to have her out of our care."

"Is it safer—ouch!—to leave her here, though? She might do better with—stop tugging on my mane—Dale!"

"Sorry."

"You'd think that after this many years of practice, you could do it right." Redheart reached up and wiggled her cap free of the bobby pins. “Give you a pair of tweezers, and you can slip a splinter out in a trice, but I swear to Celestia, as soon as you touch a mare's mane. . . ."

"I know, I know." Dr. Stable sighed. "Why didn't you have Sweetheart do it?"

"She’s stuck upstairs: Ka-th-rin's feeling 'touchy' again. Sweetheart's waiting her out." Redheart rolled her eyes. "That's eating into other patients’ time, you know."

"But what if something does happen?" He slid over on the bench and Redheart joined him. "She's not like Screwy; she's barely capable of functioning on her own. You're lucky she even remembers to use the toilet."

"I disagree." Redheart pulled a cardboard canister of dried apricots across the table. "Did you swipe this from the kitchen?"

"I was hungry!"

"Bad doctor!" Redheart slapped his hoof. "If Apple Cobbler finds out, she'll hobble you—see if she doesn't." She tipped it out on the table. "Half Ka-th-rin's problem is she's completely intoxicated on morphine, and the other half is that she doesn't understand a word we say. If she's with Dale, that at least solves one problem."

Redheart reached for an apricot, but the doctor pulled them out of her reach. "Ah, ah. If she knows you're eating them too, you'll be in hobbles as well, and then who will take care of our patients?"

Redheart made a face. "Ka-th-rin would love it if I couldn't run away." She reached a hoof toward the floating apricots the doctor was dancing in front of her muzzle. "Besides, I'm not the one who stole them. Cobbie'll forgive me."

Dr. Stable kept waving the apricots just out of her reach. "Who's the best doctor in the whole hospital?"

Redheart rolled her eyes. "You are."

"That's my mare." He dropped them back on the table and Redheart stuffed them in her mouth before he could yank them away again.

"Unless Dr. Goodall's still here," Redheart said around a mouthful of apricots. Dr. Stable swatted her with the chart.

"I'm not sure I feel comfortable moving her. This is all she knows—how's she going to react with being transported through town to the embassy? Will we have to carry her? Probably will—we can get a wagon. We might have to use restraints."

Redheart swallowed the fruit. "Goodall could keep an eye on her at the embassy, and Zecora too. You, as well, part of the day. Just to make sure everything's okay. And we'd have to have a couple of nurses—me and Sweetheart, probably, over there twice a day for treatment." She pushed an apricot over the table idly. "Of course, we can get Lecol to keep helping as long as we need—that's another pair of eyes. There’s ample room to have someone there full-time, for as long as it takes for her to be healed."

"Not too many patients are here right now," Dr. Stable said thoughtfully. “So it wouldn’t hurt us if we were a little short-hooved.”

"No; I'm glad Ka-th-rin and Dale came after foaling season." Redheart leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Why don't you soak in the hot tub and think about it, hmm? I'm gonna tuck Rhyme in, and then check on Sweetheart if she isn't down yet."

"I—"

"It'll clear your head. Celestia knows you need it." She tousled his mane and got up off the bench.

“All right. I can run it by Lecol, Goodall, and Zecora tomorrow morning when we get ready for surgery.”

“Were you and Daddy fighting?”

“No, dear.” Redheart pulled Rhyme's blanket up. “We were talking about a patient. We're discussing treatment options. Grown-up stuff.”

“Okay, that's good.” She wrapped her forehooves around her doll. "It's not nice to fight."

“What did you think about the field trip?”

“It was fun, even if we had to be all the way in the back.” Her eyes twinkled in the soft light of the lamp. “I couldn't barely hear what the . . . Deal said.”

“It's Dale,” Redheart corrected. “Did he speak Equus?”

“I think so?” she said uncertainly. “He said 'good morning,' but then I didn't hear the rest. He was too quiet and his voice was too low.” She turned her ears back up. “Fancy Pants said a bunch of nice things. How come some ponies in town don't like Canterlot unicorns? He was nice.”

“It's complicated.”

“Everypony likes Miss Twilight Sparkle, an' she's from Canterlot.”

Not everypony, Redheart thought. “She's nice and helpful, that's why we like her. Plus, she lives here.” She patted Nursery Rhyme on the head. “What did the rest of the class think about him?”

“Um . . . well, everypony was kind of scared of Deal. 'Cause he was big, like a minotaur. Even from far away, you could see how big he was. Big enough to carry off a foal.” She hugged her doll tightly. “Oh, and there was a griffon too; Scootaloo saw him. But we all agreed that if Miss Mayor said Deal was okay, and Miss Twilight Sparkle said he was okay, then he must be okay, because they wouldn't say so if it wasn't true. They can't lie about things like that. But nopony said anything specific about the other one, the one that's still here. How come they didn't? Is she going to die?”

“Where do you get that idea?”

“Well . . . yesterday Sweetie Belle overheard her sister talking to Twilight about her, but when Sweetie came into the room, everypony got real quiet, like it was something that she shouldn't know about, and I heard you and Sweetheart talking about how badly hurt she is, and I know sometimes older ponies hide it from younger ponies when somepony is in a bad way, so I thought—“

Redheart patted her on the head. “She's not going to die.” She lowered her voice. “She's got a badly burned hand—that's like what Spike's got instead of hooves on his arms—and we had trouble finding the right spell to fix it. But we did, and it's getting better. We're thinking of moving her out of the hospital soon, and we wouldn't be if we thought she was about to die. Now—did you take a bath and brush your teeth?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That's a good filly. Time to go to sleep, so you'll be ready for school tomorrow.”

"Can you wake me up early so I can have breakfast with Zecora and the pretty white Prench doctor?”

“If they're here, yes you can. I’ll make sure of it.” Redheart reached over and turned out the light. “Good night.”

“Night!”

Redheart pulled the door shut behind her gently, listening to the latch click home. She yawned, looked up and down the hall to make sure nopony had seen that breach of decorum, and then quietly headed for the washroom. She could always check on Sweetheart after a nice soak in the hot tub.

If anypony had seen Fancy Pants, they would have been in shock. Rumors around the Nobles' Council were that he never took off his jacket or tie, and while that was certainly not true—a stallion had to bathe, and he certainly didn’t sleep in his clothes—he would never be seen in public without them, or his trademark monocle.

But nopony besides Fleur ever watched him when he was burning the midnight oil. He was hunched over the tiny writing-desk in the hotel room, papers spread all around him, some balanced on the very edge of the desk and a few more on the floor, scattered around the chair. He was poking holes in his own defense of Lyra. Better that he spot the flaws in his argument and have a counterargument prepared, than be taken by surprise in court.

His tie was undone, and his jacket was neatly hung in the closet. He still wore his shirt and vest, but the top button and cuffs were unfastened. His monocle was neatly set on the side table, its chain providing a protective barrier for his cufflinks.

Will they bring up the possibility of spell modification? Fancy Pants twirled his felt-tip pen around in his field, deep in thought. It's beyond what Lyra could do on her own—based on the evidence from school, but they might imply it was possible . . . especially if somepony helped her. Who would gain from such a thing? Lyra, possibly. There weren't very many ponies who knew about Dale before he arrived. But the spell was one of Starswirl's—I can play that angle. Or should I downplay it? His spells were known for their flexibility.

He cocked an ear as a key slid into the lock, and a moment later Fleur entered, a grin on her face like a cat that had just gotten into the cream.

“Where have you been?”

“Down at the train station.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Picking up on gossip. I called in a favor in Manehattan and found out who's going to be presenting the Crown's case.”

“Oh?”

She nodded. “You're going to love this—it's Noble Voice.”

“That's not the reason you look so smug,” he said. “Any foal could have guessed that. Who else would it have been?”

Fleur blew a raspberry. “You're saying that, but you had no idea.” She lifted a page of his notes in front of her face. “Let’s see: ‘What if pros. brings dueling history into question—Lyra's signature spells? Misinterpreted? Can dumb down, Princess Luna won't be fooled.’ As if Noble Voice would ever dumb down an explanation. He loves to hear himself talk.”

“And that will be the rope with which I shall hang him.” He sighed. “At least, on the magic part. He's quick when it comes to motive, though; I'll give him credit for that. His strongest argument is going to be a believable why, most likely.” He tapped a hoof on the desk. “I could ask for a continuance. Give me more time to interview Dale, see if I could get some more information out of him. On the other hoof, Noble Voice's operating under the same handicap. Is he in town yet?”

“No, his train was delayed in Baltimare. His assistant is already here, though, and the two of them have been telegraphing back and forth for hours.”

“And naturally, you just happened to have business down at the train station.”

“Of course! I’d sent a telegram to our estate in Canterlot, and had to wait for a reply.” Fleur gave him a guileless look. “And what better place to read my copy of Equestria’s Railroads than the Ponyville train station? It’s not my fault that the most comfortable bench is right next to the telegraph office, or that I just so happen to know telegraph code.” She ran a hoof through his mane. “If you were hoping he’d miss the trial, Noble Voice will still be here in the morning."

"He wouldn't miss it for the world, I'm sure." Fancy Pants rolled his head around, cracking his neck. “It's fine if he's on time, or a few minutes late. That might work to our favor—if he's had a long uncomfortable night, he won't be able to focus his questions."

“He'll be calling a local guard as a witness, and he's got one with him, too—one of the ones who was with Princess Celestia the first time. He's bringing Professor Laureate from Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns. They're trying to wrangle a psychologist, too, but I couldn't tell from the messages if that's a done deal, or who it is.”

"I wish this was a civilian trial. He'd have to give me the list of his witnesses before springing them at the trial. Still, I bet I can get Miss Sparkle to rebut Professor Laureate, if I need to." Fancy Pants scribbled down a note. “I'll have to ask Lyra about the first meeting. So, give. You've still got that half-smile of yours—what else did you find out?”

Fleur rested a hoof on his shoulder. “I remember the griffon that was at the embassy. We saw him a couple of years ago at a play in Manehattan. Remember? He was sitting in a box across the theatre from us.”

“But was never introduced during the reception, was he?” Fancy Pants finished for her. “So, he's not griffon ambassadorial staff. Not then. He probably still had his birth name.”

“And probably not now,” she replied. “You know that the griffons still organize in clans, and his plumage doesn't match the embassy staff's. Unless there was a coup recently, he's got no official standing.”

“They all look the same to me,” Fancy Pants lamented.

“That's because you're a stallion. You don't notice the small details.” Fleur patted him on the shoulder. “I telegraphed a message to Canterlot before I left the station. Princess Celestia isn't going to be happy about this.”

Gerard had flown northeast for hours after leaving the embassy in Ponyville, not stopping for anything except occasional sips from streams. It was a pity he was in a hurry; the land below was teeming with wildlife, and he had to fight the urging of his empty stomach to dive down on a tender, juicy fawn, disembowel it, eat his fill, and carry some home with him for the rest of his clan.

Instead, he focused back on his day in Ponyville. As the strongest endurance flier in his clan, he'd been sent to investigate the troop movements, a mission which had gotten much more urgent when the evening watch received a message from the embassy in Canterlot that new creatures had appeared in Ponyville. The message was vague on details, just that a credible source had discussed them at length at the embassy.

Once he'd arrived in Ponyville, he hadn't even had to find a local contact—the first pony he'd met asked him if he was going to the embassy meeting, and then given him directions.

Once all the speeches were over, he had more questions than answers, and was curious to get a closer look at the creature that had allegedly come from the stars. As if that were possible, he thought. Everyone knew that there was nothing up there but cold, unforgiving emptiness. Certainly, nothing could live there. Why, at the tops of the tallest peaks, the air was barely thick enough to breathe, and flight was nearly impossible. One would have thought that it would be warm, since it was closer to the sun, but it wasn't.

Pretending to be Sharpbeak was worth it. Those stuffy nobles didn't know, the guardponies didn't know, and Ambassador Heartstrings surely didn't know. And even if they figure out that I’m not who I said I was, it’s too late.

Once the sun set, he kept his position by following the true stars—those which Luna held no sway over—and the magical leylines which circled the planet. As important as it was, he dared not go to Canterlot with the information he had; while he may have bluffed his way by the guardponies at the door of the embassy, they might have included his name and description on the guest list after the fact. If they had, he might find himself answering awkward questions in Canterlot, or even imprisoned for a night or two before the Griffon embassy could secure his release.

But there were lonely peaks in the Unicorn range where the ponies didn't go, and one of those peaks was his destination. A large cave which overlooked a lush valley was temporary home to a small clan of griffons, and while it was no real eyrie, it had the advantage of being centrally-located, a long day’s flight—for a fast flier—from Canterlot, and conveniently close to the railroad.

Gerard dipped a wing and circled the mountain, his sharp eyes scanning the face for any sign of ponies. Seeing none, he dove towards the mountain, as if he had just sighted prey. He dropped along a fault escarpment in the rock, which hid him from view from all but one direction, flaring his wings to check his speed. Some judicious pruning of the foliage had made this a near-perfect landing field, yet it looked completely natural from a distance.

He dropped down rapidly once he reached a small clearing, and came in for a hard landing, skidding for a moment on the dewy grass before he caught himself. He turned to locate the trail and stepped on a sharp rock they should have cleared from their landing area.

"Rave!" Gerard lifted his hind paw and pulled it loose with the opposite talon. He clutched the stone tightly and flung it as far away as he could, before he loped through the woods, towards the rear entrance to their cave.

As he reached the tree which served as their outer marker, he hooted quietly, his voice very nearly resembling an owl. An answering hoot came from the thicket, and he impatiently pushed his way through, reaching the dark tunnel of the cave. He didn't bother to look for the sentry.

Gerard shuddered as his head entered the cavern. It wasn't natural to have the sky covered, and he'd always had trouble with claustrophobia, something which had almost made him lose his place on the team.

“Brothers,” he announced. “My mission was a complete success.”

He waited while his junior companions gave him pats on the back and shook his talon, and gratefully accepted a half-full bottle of Red Minotaur. With his beak, he tugged the cork out and drank a quarter of the bottle, grimacing as the rotgut burned its way down his throat. He handed the bottle back, and it was passed solemnly around the room, leaving only dregs at the bottom when it came back to him.

He finished it off, and threw it against the wall. “Brothers,” he said again. “Last night, you sent me to Ponyville to see what the pony Princess was up to. I quickly made contact with a pegasus mare, and she told me that there was to be a dedication of a new embassy today, and that all were welcome to attend.

“I listened to their speeches—mostly congratulating themselves on being so clever—and I saw their ambassador. What's more, I saw who they were welcoming to Ponyville. It was some kind of biped, which they said came from the stars.”

He paused, waiting for the chuckles to die down. “I do not know if that is true, or if they found it in some distant land, and wished to inflate its powers. But I wanted a closer look, so I went to the embassy.

“I posed as Sharpbeak, and I demanded that they let me in. The guards fell for it, of course, and presently I was admitted to the embassy. I spoke briefly with Lyra, and shook with her and with the 'alien.' He was well-dressed in traditional garb, but only spoke broken Equestrian.”

“Until yesterday, I had never heard of such a creature. Not even in Griffon legends, which the ponies have long forgotten. It may indeed be an inhabitant of a far-off planet." The elder griffon stepped to the center of the circle. His coat was crossed with old battle scars, and his left talon was missing a toe. “We now know that there was a magical spell which summoned one or more creatures to Equestria from somewhere else, and it is very likely that this is one of them. And it was rumored that long ago, the ponies had spells which let them travel to the sun and moon. Perhaps they have re-discovered and improved them. We must get this news to Canterlot quickly, and our allies will know what to do.” He turned to Gerard. “You were lucky to get in, and were fortunate that Princess Celestia's soldiers in Ponyville have drawn down. What do you think of the strategic situation around the embassy?”

“Their defenses are not very good, Chief Threeclaw. They let me in, after all. The embassy is a converted house with a thatch roof, and not properly defended, although he had a group of guards—both unicorns and pegasi—with him when he traveled. As usual, they are complacent in their security. If this creature is as unique or valuable as they claim, he should be held in a fortress.”

“Lyra should not be underestimated,” the chief said. “She was a grandmaster.”

“That was years ago.”

“Spells and instincts learned are not so quickly forgotten.” Threeclaw retorted. He looked at the faces around him. “We should quickly pass this along.” He tapped a talon against the stone. “Get me Le Quadrille De Homards. We'll use that one.”

“We never use that one,” a griffon muttered as he walked over to a bookshelf.

“Then they won't be expecting it.” Threeclaw swished his tail eagerly. “Gerard, take a piece of paper and write a summary of what you saw. Be concise; we still have to encode it, get down the mountain, and transmit it, and we'll want it done in time for our embassy staff to decode it by the morning.”

“I'll start with a description of the 'alien,'” he said. “In case somebody on the staff knows what it is.” He walked over and grabbed a handful of paper, then stretched himself out on the floor uncomfortably and began writing.

It took five minutes to write the message, then another hour to encode it, despite its brevity. The method was simple: each letter was replaced with a four-digit code. The first two digits represented a page number in the book, and the second two were the line number; the letter thus encoded was the first letter of that line. At the end of each word, they added the letter E, since by design it was the easiest to transmit. They repeated this until they'd reached the end of the book, and then started again from the beginning.

They had formerly used a simple substitution cipher, but ponies had used letter frequency analysis to break it. This was much more random, and the 'codebooks' they used could be picked up in any Prench bookstore, so their presence was completely innocuous.

To prevent counterintelligence figuring out which book they were using, they didn't ever transmit a title, but rather began every message with the same phrase—in Lyonnais instead of Prench or Equus—encoded with the book they were using. On the other end, a griffon would go through each of the dozen books so employed, until he got the correct phrase, and then he would know which one they'd used.

Once it was done, two of the smallest griffons—Ganix and Gorka—took the message and headed down the mountain, towards the railroad tracks. While they were waiting for the message, they had dusted their white feathers with wood ash, giving them a curiously mottled look. As ridiculous as it appeared, it was very effective camouflage.

They quickly arrived at a bend where the tracks swerved to avoid a rocky outcropping the ponies hadn't wanted to blast their way through. The telegraph key was well-hidden in a small cleft, and Ganix grabbed it free while Gorka looked up and down the tracks to make sure nobody was coming.

He didn’t seen any smoke from a locomotive, but sometimes it was hard to tell in the mountains—there were too many things that were too close, and the rails didn’t go straight at all. He stuck his talon on the rail, and then his head, feeling for vibrations. He’d been told that it was possible to know a train was coming by feeling the rails vibrate, but all he felt was a slight magical tingle.

Satisfied it was clear, he grabbed the spool of specially insulated wire and ran it out to the tracks, clipping one lead to the near rail, and the other to the ground rod they'd installed months ago.

“Who should we say it's from?” Ganix asked.

“Who did we use last?”

“Erm, Vanhoover.”

Gorka tapped a talon against the rocky ground, “Let's . . . let's say Vanhoover again. Make the EIA think they're on to something.” He grinned devilishly as Ganix began transmitting the call sign for Vanhoover station. Since they were tapped into the line, there was no way to know where the message had actually originated, but he'd bet his pinfeathers that there were EIA ponies trying to find out. As soon as they got this one, they'd be falling all over themselves to get back to the Vanhoover station, a copy of the message in hoof, demanding to know who'd sent it. Further down the line, the ponies would just relay the message until it got to the Canterlot station, where it would sit—nopony came to collect these messages. One of the staff at the Griffon Embassy had a house next to the tracks, and an automatic receiver in her basement. Every morning, she’d take the tape off the receiver and load it into her saddlebags, and bring it to the embassy, where it would promptly be turned over to the wizened griffon who headed their espionage department.

He fluffed his wings as the transmitting key clicked out the code. There was something so wonderful about using the ponies' own communications systems against them. It was a rush every time. His father had had to rely on encoded letters, and one never knew who was reading those. With the telegraph, though—everybody on the line got the message, but nobody knew who it was from or who it was addressed to, and Gorka thought that was much more satisfactory. Spying was better when it was done in plain sight, right under the oblivious muzzles of the ponies.

Luna stood on her balcony, her nose to the air. Her eyes were half-lidded, gazing beyond the horizon. She had been standing that way for an hour, and Dusk Glimmer was starting to get worried. Ever since Twilight had first gone to the Crystal Empire, Luna had seemed more preoccupied than usual, and Dusk wasn't sure if that was a sign of her gradual reintegration into Crown business, or a sign of something else.

She knew that Luna preferred to be undisturbed when she was on her balcony at night, so she kept herself busy inside, dusting around the piles of parchment and strange foreign books on Luna's desk, every so often looking out the Prench doors to see if Luna was still in the same position. Then she returned to her rounds, even though the room was already entirely dust-free.

For her part, Luna was watching over Equestria the way a ship's captain might watch the seas around her ship. She saw nothing of concern, yet she had a feeling that things were quickly coming to a head, and her senses were working overtime to determine what that threat might be. While Celestia may have had the advantage of knowing how ponies thought and acted, Luna had always been the better tactician. Well, almost always—her string of successes was marred with one humiliating defeat.

Off in the distance, over Ponyville, she could see faint flickers of lightning in the clouds. They haven't had any rain since the creatures arrived—the farmers must be having fits. A delayed rainstorm was the only reason the pegasi would set up a nighttime storm. They might have been getting pressure from Cloudsdale, too. Unfulfilled cloud orders had a way of rippling out over Equestria, and it could be weeks before the weather was back on schedule.

It's no bother. I've never minded flying above storms. She walked off her balcony and went back into her tower. All the law books she thought she'd need were packed and delivered to her guard tower, and she was certain that her thestrals were eager to leave.

She stuck her muzzle into her bedroom, where Trixie was fast asleep in the new bed her servants had finally assembled. If you are still here when I return, I'll know what kind of pony you really are, she thought.

“Dusk Glimmer?”

“Right here, Princess.”

“We must hie to Ponyville. Thou art in charge of our ward’s welfare for the duration of our absence. Keep a close watch on her, yet let her have her freedom. Should she make reasonable demands, thou shalt do thine utmost to fulfill them.”

Dusk Glimmer bowed. “Very good, Princess Luna.”

Luna leaned in close to her. “Thou art a good parent—we ask that thou dost treat Beatrix as thou wouldst one of thine own.” She gently nuzzled her maid on the neck and turned and walked out to her balcony.

She jumped over the low railing, snapping her wings open as she cleared the edge. Luna banked towards the barracks, hovering in front of the wide archway of their ready room. The wooden doors were open, and her two thestrals were waiting for her, their armor secured and polished to a dull gleam. The junior thestral, Darkwing, had bulky saddlebags strapped over his armor containing the legal tomes Luna felt she should bring along. Nightshade was wearing a red crystal medallion around his neck. Normally, the night guard patrolled without any lights, since their eyes were well-suited to the dark, but for a long flight like this, there was the possibility they could collide with another pegasus, especially as they neared the thunderstorm over Ponyville.

“Art thou ready?” Luna asked them. Both nodded.

Without a response, Luna dropped and inverted, rolling upright as her flight came level. Behind and above, the thestrals leapt into the night, following their Princess.

The flight to Ponyville was always easy, since it was below Canterlot. Even without the lights of the village to guide her, Luna knew exactly where she was headed, and maintained a fairly high altitude as they cleared Canterlot.

As they got close, she could begin to feel the flickers in the leylines as lightning discharged. Some pegasi were particularly sensitive to it; one of the castle servants’ coats stood on end for hours before a storm rolled in, and anypony who touched her got a shock.

The trio circled over Ponyville, keeping a watchful eye out for weather pegasi. Below them, they could see dozens of lights moving around as the night patrol maintained the storm. The lightning had diminished in frequency, but Luna could still see fairly frequent flashes.

She pointed a hoof down to where a cluster of pegasi were standing around a hole in the thick clouds, and they dropped down into the center of the group. As soon as they were spotted, pegasi began backing away from them even as they bowed.

“Princess Luna,” a stallion said. “What are you doing here?”

“We have Crown business in Ponyville,” she said. “Pray, who doth guide this storm?”

“Parasol,” he replied. “She’s down with Sky Wishes’ team, on fire patrol. We set up a deluge at the beginning, to try and wet things down, but sometimes a tree or house gets hit and set on fire by mistake.”

“A wise precaution. Have ye had any such accidents?”

“Nothing major for a few years,” he told her. “The last fire was a woodpile near Roma’s house. It was under trees and stayed dry, and then one of the trees got hit . . . it should have been cleared, the tree was half-dead. But we saw it before it got out of hoof, and moved some rainclouds right over it.”

Luna nodded and peered through the hole. It took her a minute to resolve the upside-down view of Ponyville with her memory of the village, but before too long she located the library, where a few lights were glowing in the upstairs windows.

“Thou shalt inform Parasol that we wish to commend her beautiful storm.” Luna looked back at her guards. “Come, we shall visit our sister’s student at the library.” She dove through the hole in the clouds, and was followed by her thestrals.

A very soft knocking at the hotel door drew Fleur's attention. Fancy had been up later than was wise, going over his notes and formulating his strategy for tomorrow. He might have stayed up all night, but she started undressing him after she woke to use the bathroom and saw he was still working.

She'd gotten most of his clothes off before he even noticed what she was doing, and was worrying that she might have to levitate him over to the bed; fortunately, he'd gotten the hint as she slipped his shirt off.

Fleur hadn't had to do much more than groom his mane before he was fast asleep, but she found that Luna's dreamscape was beyond her—at least, temporarily. She could smell rain, and it put her on edge. Ever since she was a filly, she liked playing in the rain, but now that she was a full-grown society mare, she hardly ever had the chance.

So, when a gentle tapping—not much louder than the first raindrops falling on the hotel's awning—came at the door, she turned to face it in annoyance. Now who would be calling at this hour? She disentangled herself from Fancy Pants and slid out of bed, tugging the door open before she was all the way across the room.

A surprised-looking guard stood on the other side of the door, sheets of official paper tucked under his wing. Fleur glared at him. “What brings you by at this hour?”

“Um.” He shifted on his hooves, turned his head and looked at the paper, then looked back at Fleur with an uncertain expression. “I, ah, I'm sorry to wake you, but I was told to deliver these charge sheets.” He relaxed his wing and let them fall; Fleur grabbed them with her horn before they could hit the ground. “I'm just following orders,” he added defensively.

Fleur relaxed her expression slightly. “Charge sheets,” she said flatly.

“That's all I know,” he mumbled, shifting his weight backwards. “I should have just slipped them under your door.”

“No, you shouldn't have,” she told him, and slammed the door in his face. Fleur went over to the desk—still covered with Fancy's papers—and sparked the oil lamp alight. Turning the wick down to give her the barest illumination, she read the warrants. The flickering light as the wind gusted across the lamp's chimney and the sudden increase in rain were appropriate for her mood, and for a moment she found herself wishing that the guard who'd delivered the message would be struck by lightning on his way back to his billet. No, better that he should have been struck on his way here, she thought darkly, looking back at the bed. I have no choice but to wake him. These can't wait until tomorrow.

She turned the wick up, and began sparking the rest of the lights in the room. Then she reluctantly trudged across to the bed and yanked the covers off, before putting a hoof on Fancy's withers and unceremoniously shaking him.

“What time is it?” he muttered groggily.

“I just received new warrants,” she informed him. Fancy Pants' head jerked up and he scrambled to his hooves.

“Where are they?”

She floated them towards him, and he snatched them halfway, bringing them to his face. Rude, yes, but it could be overlooked.

“Deliberate sabotage? Dangerous creatures?” He glanced up from the sheets. “That's utterly ridiculous.” He turned to Fleur. “Tell me, how did you come to receive this?”

She told him about the guardpony's quiet knocks, and his desire to simply slip it under the door. Fancy Pants furrowed his brow in thought and began pacing, the sheets following along beside him. “What’s your game?” he said to himself. “Why the new charges?” He suddenly stopped in his tracks, and looked back at Fleur. “This is a good thing,” he said. “This may work in our favor.” He skimmed the documents again, before setting it back on the desk. “They've gone too far. Yes, I can deal with this. Fleur, dear, do you think you could find a source of good espresso? I don't think I'll be getting any sleep tonight.” He turned his ears as thunder echoed through the room. “Never mind. I forgot there was a storm scheduled for tonight. I'll just go without.”

"A good mare must provide for her stallion," Fleur said. "I'll find some."

It was a beautiful day to be on the lake. The sky was perfectly cloudless, and the wind was just enough to be cooling, without raising any real chop. Dale paddled the canoe easily, knifing it through the waves towards North Fox. Lyra was standing just behind the bow thwart, and it would have been nice if she'd been paddling, too, but of course she couldn't because she was a pony and ponies can't hold paddles.

“What's that noise?” she asked him.

“It's nothing,” he said calmly. “Just the sound of the canoe going over the waves.”

“Really? Because it sounds like an outboard motor.”

Dale cocked an ear. It really did sound like an outboard motor. He turned around, spotting a boat racing up behind them. He recognized it instantly—it was a Coast Guard boat, and Kate was standing on the bow, lightly gripping the machine gun. I wonder why they have that out? he thought, before the water around the canoe turned to froth as a distant booming rumble came from the gun.

“Why are they shooting at us?” Lyra asked curiously.

“Because you're an alien! Help me out—pick up the paddle and use it!” he shouted back, but it was already too late. Somehow, the boat had circled around them, and was approaching from the bow. This time they weren't going to shoot, they were going to ram them and there was no way he could paddle fast enough to—

He sputtered and spit water out of his mouth. Aside from the floating paddles, there was nothing to be seen of the canoe. Behind him, the Coast Guard boat was sinking, the stern stuck comically in the air as it slipped beneath the lake. He began swimming towards Lyra, but a strong pair of hooves grabbed him under the arms and pulled him away. He looked up and saw that Kate was riding on the back of this green pony, and he started struggling and dropped back in the water, next to Lyra. He reached over and grabbed for her as a wave broke across his face and—

Dale woke up with a gasp. For a moment, he was completely disoriented—he was in bed, that much was certain, but where? And why was the booming noise from his dream continuing, and why was his face wet?

A brilliant flash of lightning answered all his questions. A blurry image of the room burned on his retinas, and he began blinking his eyes even as he was sliding out from under the damp covers.

He shuffled across the floorboards, trying to see through the afterimages of the last flash. Dale jerked in surprise as a wet curtain hit him in the cheek, followed immediately after by a wind-driven facefull of rainwater. He slammed the window shut and latched it, before wiping his arm across his face.

Lucky the weather held off until tonight, he thought. If this storm was that close, I'm surprised that they wanted to have the speeches outside, unless they've got more confidence in their weather forecasters than I would. Another bright flash illuminated the room, and he suddenly realized he was standing in a puddle. The wood floor was soaking wet in a wide arc from the window to the bed.

There will be towels in the kitchen, he thought. Need to dry the floor before it's damaged. Wouldn't that be something, to ruin my room the first day I'm in it? He returned to the bed, and slid his hand around the side table until he'd located his glasses, then went out into the hallway, trailing his left hand against the wall until it ended. Okay, this is the top of the stairs. Remember, there's no railing, and they're spaced wrong. Tentatively, he stuck a foot over the edge of the abyss, slowly lowering it until he felt it touch wood. He slowly shifted his weight forward, and put his other foot beside the first, then worked his way to the edge of that step.

He eventually made it to the bottom, and considered kissing the floor. First thing tomorrow, he reminded himself, tell them to put in a railing. That's more important than the plumbing.

As he reached the foyer, he looked at the front door, and wondered if the guards were standing outside, or if they had the good sense to seek shelter from the rain. He hoped they had—the thought of standing out there while wearing metal armor gave him a rather vivid mental image he hoped wouldn't come to pass.

It took several minutes in the kitchen to locate the towels. They were in a drawer he was certain he'd checked twice before. Dale grabbed a handful of them and headed back through the dining room, carefully skirting the table. He stopped for a brief look outside, before returning to the base of the staircase.

Thank heavens I don't have to pee, he thought. On a night like this—I wouldn't want to set foot outside the door, and even then I probably wouldn't stay dry. I can't imagine how inconvenient it would be to have to deal with this every day. I'll be so happy once the plumbing is finished.

He heard the windows rattle as a fresh gust of wind blew through the house. It brought with it the scent of damp soil, and he suddenly remembered that the downstairs bathroom window had been left open.

Dale went in the bathroom, which was also thoroughly soaked. He yanked the window shut and latched it, noticing that the rain had washed all the mud off the sill. With a regretful sigh, he got down on his knees and began mopping up the water in the bathroom.

He had to go to the kitchen twice to wring out the rags in the sink, and he was glad he'd seen Starlight using it, or else he would have assumed that its plumbing wasn't connected, either. Disappointingly, all the food from the party was gone—he would have liked a midnight snack, since he was up.

Once he was satisfied that the bathroom floor was as dry as he could make it with the tools at hand, he headed back to the staircase.

Going up was a little quicker, since he at least had the advantage that if he fell, he'd fall towards the stairs, although the open side was still quite disconcerting.

It took very little time before the towels were soaked and so he decided that rather than walk up and down the stairs, he'd just go into the bathroom and wring them out in the bathtub. In the morning, it could be emptied out, and if he couldn't find a stopper for the drain, he could just prop that end up on some of the tiles that were scattered around in the unfinished room.

As he walked down the hallway, a soft snort caught his attention. He followed the source of the noise to one of the other bedrooms and peered through the door before he could ask himself if that was a wise idea.

At the head of the bed, Lyra was lying on her side, half-covered by a comforter much like his own. Her face was buried in the mane of a white pony, who was lying on her back, the covers kicked down behind her hind hooves. Her mouth was open, and every now and then when her chest fell, she'd make a quiet snorting noise.

She looked vaguely familiar, but in the dim light Dale couldn't be sure that he'd seen her before, and her position was obscuring her cutie marks. She had a dark streak along her belly, and at first he thought it was her coat, but the longer he looked the more certain he was that it was mud. Is she the one who came in through the bathroom window? he wondered.

Dale shook his head and headed to the bathroom. He propped the tub up on a short stack of floor tiles and wrung his rags out, then walked down the hallway back to his room. He looked into Lyra's room as he went by; she and the other pony were still in the same position.

If she is the one who sneaked in through the window, why would they leave the door open? Maybe it's a weird kind of situation—maybe the white one wanted to stay away from someone who was at the reception. Now that they're all gone, it doesn't matter who sees her.

He knelt down on the floor of his room and wiped up some more water. There could be a political factor in play, too. Seems like these types of weird shenanigans were always going on in Washington, and every now and then some senator or congressman got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

That would make sense if they weren't both girls, he told himself as he walked back to the bathroom. What if they just don't like sleeping alone? That could explain why the beds were so big, and maybe even why she gave me that drawing back at the hospital.

I hope they don't think that I want to share a bed with Kate. Dale looked up at the gigantic bed looming beside him. That just wouldn't be right. He stood up, dripping cloths in hand. No, I already told them that I wouldn't, back at the hospital, so they shouldn't be surprised when I won't here, either.

He made his last trip into the bathroom and simply dropped the towels into the bathtub, then he paused one more time in the doorway at Lyra's room. Maybe Lyra is just afraid of storms. She didn't seem to like it too much when it started raining on the island.

His bed was wet where he had been sleeping, but it was big enough that by changing sides, he was able to sleep in a mostly-dry spot, although the top of the comforter was still damp. He didn't care; he was exhausted. He hadn't slept well in days. He rolled on his side away from the window, in the hopes that would at least cut down on the flashes from the storm.

Author's Notes:

Click the link for the blog!

Apologies for any formatting errors; my internet is being . . . dumb.

Chapter 15: Trials, part I

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!

Chapter 16: Trials, part II

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 16: Trial, part II
Admiral Biscuit

“As I have already plainly said, Starswirl's spells were quite ingenious, in that their design encouraged modification. In common parlance, some unicorns refer to the layers of the corona, although I stress that those are laypony's terms. So, to put it simply, Starswirl's spells were layered in such a way that each separate effect had its own layer, and it could be changed by the caster at will, without requiring the complex effort of writing a spell from scratch.”

“Thank you. No further questions.” If Noble Voice noticed the way downcast ears perked up in the courtroom as he tendered his witness, he was polite enough not to show it. Unfortunately, the lift in spirits was short-lived.

“Thou mayst cross-examine the witness,” Luna said, nodding her head towards the defense table.

"Thank you, Your Highness." Fancy Pants stood and slowly walked towards the stand. “Professor Laureate, we have heard your comprehensive testimony about how unicorn spells work—indeed, I have learned things I was not taught in school. I wonder, as such a renowned expert, if you could suggest to me a way in which to modify the teleport spell in question, so to teleport two additional creatures back to the starting point?”

“The simplest, most elegant way, would be to include an open marker in the teleport layer, and re-fulfill its conditions for the return journey.”

“Forgive me, but I am not much of a theoretician. What is a marker?”

“Aha!” The professor leaned forward eagerly. “Most simple teleportation spells are designed to transport the caster herself, and as such, the caster is the target of the spell. Of course, there is no reason why anypony else cannot be the target, but such spells are rarely taught or used. One simple variant is the marked teleport, in which any creature marked immediately before the teleport is triggered is carried along with it.”

“And one could do that with any number of ponies?”

“Well, it of course depends on the caster's field strength. Most unicorns don't have the strength to even teleport themselves very far, so of course they would be unable to teleport any more than one or two other ponies a very short distance, or a similar mass of objects.”

“So, in short, teleportation is much like levitation, in that it can target any discrete object that the caster desires.”

“Yes, you could say that. Of course, the field requirements for teleportation are orders of magnitude higher.”

“Hypothetically, then, if I were to desire to teleport from this courtroom to the local tavern, in company with my lovely wife, I should be able to cast a marker teleport spell, target her and myself, and then just pop out of here? And back again, in the company of the tavern owner and enough pints for everypony in the courtroom?”

The professor waited until the chuckling had died down before responding. “I have not properly assessed your field strength, so I cannot say whether you could do it or not. However, it is theoretically possible. I'm sure I could do it.”

“Hmm, I see.” Fancy Pants turned from the witness stand and walked halfway back to the defense table, before suddenly stopping as if a new point had occurred to him. “But, what if the proprietrix of the tavern had placed a magical barrier across her door?”

“That would depend on the nature of the spells.”

“Suppose that it were a simple teleport versus a comprehensive shield spell . . . perhaps like the one Shining Armor protected Canterlot with before the Royal Wedding? Do you remember that spell?”

“Well, vaguely, yes. I believe it failed after many changelings had collided with it repeatedly. Shield spells require a constant application of energy to repair damage caused by impacts or counterspells.”

“So, in the case of the shield over the tavern, if I were to bang my hoof on it long enough, it would fail.”

“Eventually, assuming the caster did not put any more energy into it, and assuming it had no provisions for self-power. You see, shield spells come in a variety of, ah, complexities."

“But I could not teleport through it.”

“For your scenario, no. It wouldn't be much of a shield spell if any unicorn could simply teleport through it.” Professor Laureate tapped his hoof on the stand before Fancy Pants could ask another question. “And, before you ask, you cannot levitate objects through it, either. It cancels out a unicorn's field where it crosses the boundary of the shield. The more clever designs absorb this energy to make themselves stronger.”

“I see.” Fancy Pants walked back to the witness stand. “So, this just leaves us with the difficulty of a shield between the teleport spell and Dale and Ka-th-rin. For them to get through, they must have been marked by Lyra somehow, is that not correct?”

He nodded, then remembered to speak. “Yes—unless she let the spell fizzle and cast a new one to get back."

"She needed a boost to cast the first spell. Without the inherent field kick in Starswirl's spell, she'd have never made it back on her own." Fancy Pants returned to his table and pulled a scroll out of his attache case. “I wonder,” he began as he walked back towards the witness stand, “if you might suggest where best to modify this spell—a spell which my client could not even cast without the help of Princess Celestia's magic—in order to pre-load it for markers?”

The courtroom was silent as Professor Laureate read over the scroll. Finally, the stallion looked up from the spell. “I don't know. I'm sure it could be done. Starswirl's spells are very open.”

“Yet you are an expert—you said so yourself. You are possibly the most well-read expert of Starswirl's spells in this age, and you cannot tell me how you would modify the spell to, um, take on additional passengers?” Fancy Pants looked back at the courtroom with an expression of disbelief. “I—“

“I can figure it out,” the professor snarled. “I just need some time.”

“My sincerest apologies.” Fancy Pants bowed his head. “Of course you can.” He looked up at Luna. “Princess Luna, I wish to end my examination of this witness now, but would like him to remain available for further testimony—since this case hangs so heavily on magical theory, and he is the foremost expert.”

“Very well.” Luna turned towards the witness stand, where the professor was re-reading the spell, his lips moving silently. “Professor Laureate, thou mayest step down from the stand now, but thou shalt remain available for further testimony.”

Three teacups circled above the table, surrounded by a dull magenta glow. Two pairs of eyes watched their flight very carefully—Dusk Glimmer, who had a vested interest in their continued well-being, and Trixie.

After finishing breakfast, Trixie had felt the need to polish her magician’s skills and seized upon the cups as an appropriate target for some juggling practice. Before Dusk Glimmer could protest, the cups were in the air.

By the time they got their cutie marks, nearly every unicorn could use telekinesis. It was, after all, a very handy skill to have. However, the complexity of the telekinetic prowess dropped off sharply, with most unicorns not taught much more than simple lifting and writing, and rarely bothering to learn the focus required to lift more than two objects simultaneously. Certainly, Dusk Glimmer never had.

Which left her in a bit of a predicament. Snatching an object out of another pony's aura was difficult, at best. If said object was moving, it was even more challenging, and while Dusk was adept at redirecting thrown objects—she did have foals, after all—teacups being juggled by an adult mare was a different matter.

Furthermore, Princess Luna had said that she was to give Trixie free reign. While the Princess had undoubtedly not considered airborne teacups as a possibility, unless Trixie dropped one it would cause no harm. She could only watch and hope the showmare got tired of her tricks before deciding to add a few utensils to her routine.

Finally, after a few hoof-biting minutes of play, Trixie finally set the teacups neatly back on their saucers and bowed her head. Dusk Glimmer resisted the urge to stomp her hooves, correctly surmising that if she did, it would lead to more and more tricks, until there were broken dishes all over the floor.

After giving an appropriate amount of time for adulation to materialize, Trixie raised her muzzle haughtily. “That is a simple trick for the Great and Powerful Trixie,” she huffed. “Be thankful that Trixie has graced your presence with . . . um. . . .” Her voice trailed off and she looked around the luxurious dining room, before glancing back at the table. Dusk was clearing it as quickly as she could.

Trixie's focus locked on a serving bowl half-full of salad, and she glanced down at her empty plate then back at the bowl. Dusk Glimmer held it in place, her eyes glued to the showmare.

“Would you like some more?” she finally asked, more to break the silence than anything.

“The . . . Trixie is satisfied with what she was given for lunch.”

“Are you sure?” Dusk began moving the bowl back towards the table. “It really would be no problem to—“

“Trixie does not need your pity!”

Dusk bristled at her shout. “I can see your ribs,” she spit. “And you know it, too. Why do you have to be such a, a nag?”

“Is that what you think?” Trixie lowered her ears and looked down at the table. “Well, why not? What good has Trixie ever done for anypony, anyway?” She shoved her plate away and dropped her chin on the table. “Everypony would be happier if Trixie would just fall off a balcony.”

Dusk dropped the bowl back on the table as Trixie got out of her chair. "I don't—"

“In the old days,” she said, as she began walking out of the dining room, “Trixie would have been cast out of the herd in hobbles with her horn broken. It is what she deserves—what everypony wants. And why not?” Her voice became a harsh whisper. “Her mother was no good, everypony said so, and her father threw Trixie out.”

“You're not no good,” Dusk said, trotting towards the doorway, the lunch dishes completely forgotten. “I'm sure somepony loves you.”

“Do they?” Trixie pushed past her. “Trixie knows why you're putting up with her. Because Princess Luna ordered you to. Trixie can see the look in your eyes—what you really think. Trixie is a parasprite in the Princess' chambers. Everypony would be happier if she was gone. Other ponies have cleaned up too many of her messes already; she does not wish to be any more bother.” Trixie turned down the hallway and headed towards Luna's office.

“Nopony thinks that,” Dusk Glimmer said, but the words felt like a lie.

“Don't delude yourself.” Trixie shoved the doors open with a burst of magic. “Trixie knows that she is a thorn in Princess Celestia's side.” She stepped into the room and turned her attention to the Prench doors that opened onto the balcony. “And she knows that Princess Luna only took her in to get back at her sister.”

“That's not true! Princess Luna cares about you!” She even bathed you herself.

Trixie shook her head sadly. “Trixie is sure she told you that, but she didn't mean it.” She grasped the handles on the door, jerking her head around as Dusk's magic wrapped around the frames, holding the doors shut. “Don't—Trixie is stronger than you are.”

“I won't be able to catch you,” Dusk said. “If that's what you're hoping.”

“I'm not,” Trixie grunted. “I just don't want to be a burden anymore.” Her horn flashed and the doors crashed open. “This cage may be gilded, but it is a cage just the same.”

Dusk didn't even hesitate. As soon as Trixie took one step onto the balcony, she galloped across the kitchen and tackled the showmare, pinning her against the stone. Before Trixie could even react, Dusk swiped her horn with the edge of a hoof, dispelling whatever the unicorn might have been about to cast.

As Trixie shook her head, Dusk Glimmer pinned her with a Mom glare. "I can hit a lot harder," she hissed. "Now get back inside, missy."

Nurse Tenderheart finished unwrapping the bandages around Kate's hand, and the doctor leaned in to get a closer look. If somepony in town saw this, she'd be horrified, he thought.

It was not an unfair assessment. It was the most horrific injury he'd seen in his entire career, and thus far the combined magic of the nurses, two unicorns, and Zebrican potions had failed to fix it. Still, he had hope. He could see granulating flesh, and while the process was much slower than It had been on any other pony, it was still progress.

He glanced back at their improvised magic sink. As far as he knew, no doctor had ever made such a thing before—there had never been a need. The very concept of blocking magic fields to improve healing was unheard of. It was fortunate that they'd been able to discover it in time to do some good. He could hardly credit himself with the idea; it had been Redheart who had first proposed that the creatures were allergic to magic, and Lecol had come up with the design—and the lead. You never would have thought of that on your own, he reminded himself. Maybe the copper wire, but never the lead.

Dr. Stable glanced at Sweetheart, who had an ear pressed against the girl's chest. His heart went out to her—she was going far beyond the call of duty, willingly accepting the alien's grooming to keep her calm. He couldn't even imagine how she tolerated that fleshy hand running through her mane and touching her ears and muzzle. Especially when she knew full well the violence the girl was capable of.

He licked his lips. Stay on task. Dr. Stable looked up at Lecol and nodded. “I'm ready.”

“Go ahead,” Lecol told him, placing a hoof on his withers. “I'll take over when you get tired.”

Dr. Stable nodded. He took a deep breath and focused on the task at hoof. He glanced back down at the gem, then back at her ruined hand. He felt his mind clearing; all the doubts and concerns he had faded in the face of an injured patient. She was not an alien; she was a poor injured foal, crying in pain . . . as he exhaled his focus drifted back to the moment he'd felt the warm glow of his cutie mark appearing, the moment he felt his destiny calling.

Everything took on a preternatural clarity. It was just him and the hand, and he was going to win. He'd studied the anatomy book until he had every drawing memorized. Even if he didn't understand the words, the drawings were perfectly clear to him. His horn lit and he grabbed onto the stored energy in the gem, feeling the familiar rush as its power augmented his own.

Here we go.

His corona flared as he bent to his task.

Noble Voice wore a small smile on the corner of his face as Professor Laureate stepped down. Fancy Pants remained stoic; he'd expected to take a bit of a beating. His only worry was that Professor Laureate would think of a way to modify the spell. That was the only reason he hadn't called on Twilight Sparkle. After all, there was nothing to prevent Noble Voice from asking the very same question, and if anypony would have an answer it would be Twilight.

“Thou mayst call thy next witness,” Luna said.

“We call upon Storm Cloud, a member of Her Highness' Royal Guard.” Noble Voice looked at Fancy Pants expectantly. When no objection came, he turned back to Luna. “He served as one of the guards at the hospital.”

Fancy Pants stood halfway, resting his forehooves on the desk. “Objection.”

“What cause?”

“Guard Storm Cloud is tasked with protecting an ambassador. As such, anything he has learned is to be considered a state secret.”

“Might I remind you this is a court martial? Civilian trial rules don't apply.” Noble sneered at him. “Nice try though.”

“On the contrary,” Fancy Pants said calmly. “As is plain for anypony to see, there are civilians present in the courtroom. State secrets should not to be revealed in their presence. If he were to say anything, his testimony could be considered an act of treason.”

Luna glanced at the two lawyers. “It is the opinion of the court that the witness may testify upon any matter which occurred before Lyra Heartstrings accepted her post. He shall not speak of anything which took place after that event, unless it be knowledge generally available to the public.”

“That's a broad ruling, Your Honor.” Noble Voice stepped out from behind the table. “What if something started before Lyra became ambassador, and continued after?”

“Then he shall testify on those matters which happened before, while ignoring those that came after.”

“But what if—“

“Do not try our patience, councillor. We see that thy co-council is champing at the bit to have a chance to lead. Perhaps we should allow him the opportunity.”

“Very well, Your Honor.”

Fancy Pants turned over to Fleur and gave her an encouraging smile. He listened patiently as the guard—prompted by Noble Voice—listed off his qualifications and began telling his story.

“So what happened next?”

“Well, there were flares everywhere, from the unicorn spotters. We all did our duty and rushed towards the water. The pegasi got there first, of course, because the unicorn scouts were checking spellcraft while they went forward.”

“Had you been expecting the creatures?”

“No.” He shook his head to emphasise his point. “We'd been told that there was the possibility of an invasion, of course. Orders had come down from Shining Armor to practice tactics, and it was generally believed among the soldiers that Lyra was communicating with minotaur-like creatures.”

“Which was not far from the truth, was it?”

“No.”

“We stipulate again that Dale and Ka-th-rin did come back with Lyra,” Fancy Pants said.

“I'm just trying to set the scene,” Noble Voice protested.

Luna shook her head. “Please try to stick to the significant facts of the case.”

“Very well. Briefly, could you say what happened after you rescued Lyra and the creatures?”

“We took them to the hospital.”

Noble Voice gritted his teeth. “Perhaps you could elaborate on that statement a little?”

The guard cast a wary eye at Luna. “Uh, because they were injured?”

“Yes, I see.” Noble Voice shook his head. “And you decided that since they were invaders from an alien land, guards ought to be posted to protect other ponies from them, is that correct?”

“Well, what I heard is—“

“Objection!”

Luna nodded.

“Hearsay testimony. The witness should only testify on what he personally observed.”

“Objection overruled.” Luna glared at Fancy Pants. “Were this a jury trial, thou wouldst be correct. In this case, it is impractical to summon the entire chain of command here to determine who gave orders, or when. The objective of this trial is simply to determine Lyra Heartstrings' innocence or guilt, and to determine an appropriate punishment. As such, we believe that the prosecution ought to have leeway in establishing generalities about the events.”

“Especially since the mindset of a member of the Guard is being called into question,” Noble Voice added, hoping to score a point with Luna.

“We do not require thine opinion on legal matters,” Luna said icily. “May we remind thee we laid the foundation for the laws which thine ancestors obeyed?”

He gave her an awkward smile before turning back to his witness. “Continue, please.”

“Er, I heard that there were no orders to guard them initially. But the mare flipped out, I guess, and after they got her calmed down, we got orders to watch the rooms, keeping the creatures confined to appropriate areas, and away from the general population.”

“And who did you take orders from?”

“My superior officers.”

“And who did they take orders from?”

“I don't know. The Princess—Celestia, maybe Twilight Sparkle and the Mayor, and we were told to obey reasonable instructions from the doctors and nurses.”

“Reasonable instructions?”

“Sure. It's a hospital, so if we had to get out of the way so that they could get somepony through, or whatever. Of course, if there was danger, we would have to tell the doctor to back off, but we weren't supposed to cordon off the whole hallway, or anything like that.

“During the time I was there, the orders got more and more relaxed, though. We led the stallion down to the kitchen and—“

“Objection. Dale was made an ambassador prior to that event.”

“He can't speak Equestrian; what kind of state secret is he going to reveal?” Noble Voice looked down at his notes. “Or is the fact that he did not appear to like timothy a state secret?”

Fancy Pants turned and glanced meaningfully at the reporters who were busy scrawling down this latest revelation.

Noble Voice gave Luna a pleading look. “May I approach the bench?”

“Both of you,” Luna ordered.

“Your Honor,” Noble began. “While I do understand the requirement for secrecy in state matters, if the witness cannot testify to the behavior of the creature or Lyra, what case could we possibly make? There were no witnesses save themselves present on the beach, and it's only by examining their motives that we may begin to establish the truth of what happened. I don't want to sound alarmist, but if there is a threat, ought we not learn of it now rather than later?”

“Dost thou have an opinion, Fancy Pants?”

“I want the trial to be fair,” he said carefully, “and open. Equestrian citizens deserve to know the truth. However, I do respect the need for some matters to be kept behind a veil of secrecy, and must object in those cases. Perhaps the courtroom could be emptied for sensitive testimony?”

“We shall consider it,” Luna said. “Our sister wished that this trial be conducted under the observant eyes of reporters, and we shall respect her wish. To throw them out now might imply that we were attempting to cloak the more prurient events. We further believe that an open court would benefit everyone, even should it come at the expense of some potential secrets. Quite honestly, though, surely his dietary preference is not a matter of great import.”

“Just suppose something is revealed which is a matter of great import? What's to stop the reporters from sending a hot copy to the Griffon embassy?”

“We believe we have an answer. Please return to your tables, and we shall sort this out.” As soon as they had taken their places, Princess Luna banged her gavel on the lectern. “Ponies of the court—it is possible that a state secret might be revealed during this trial. Should that happen, we shall respectfully ask you to not report it.” She glared at the assemblage of ponies. “If you do, we shall be most displeased.”

Overeager nods greeted her pronouncement.

“Now, we may proceed.”

“Right.” Noble Voice looked back at his witness. “I am given to understand you led one of the creatures around the hospital.”

“Objection,” Fancy Pants said. “Noble Voice's continued references to Dale as 'the creature' are intended to characterize him as a monster, rather than a reasoning being.”

“How dost thou respond?” Luna asked.

“The creature has not proven that he is intelligent by our laws,” Noble Voice said flatly, pounding a hoof on the doctor's report. “Nowhere in here does it state that he is a—and I quote—'reasoning being.'”

“Dale drew pictures that have been admitted as evidence,” Fancy Pants said. “Dale chose his preferred foods from a list Twilight Sparkle gave him, and has spent days learning our language and teaching Lyra his own. He wears clothing, gives speeches, and can shake hooves. What more evidence do you need?”

“Court rules in favor of the defense,” Luna said. “Dale will hereafter be referred to by name.” She considered for a moment. “Ka-th-rin, too, shall be referred to by name.”

“Very well.” He turned back to the witness stand. "You led Dale around the hospital; what about Ka-th-rin?"

“She was confined to bed, at first, due to her injuries. But then she was allowed out. Her first act was grooming my partner.”

The courtroom broke into an excited babel, which Luna finally silenced with her gavel. As the guardpony continued his tale, Fancy Pants tensed. He'd known this was coming; it was the only plausible motive card Noble Voice could play. Had they been in a closed courtroom, he would have shouted an objection at every insinuation, but here that would just add more fuel to the journalist's fires.

He cocked one ear back to listen to the frantic scratching of quills on paper, and even the occasional muted gasp as the guardpony gave a particularly juicy bit of testimony.

“And then I saw her stroke Dr. Stable's cutie mark,” the guard said, his face red.

“Who else was there?”

“Nurse Redheart, Dr. Goodall, Rarity, and Zecora.”

Fancy Pants turned his attention back to the front of the court. Luna was listening to the testimony attentively, with a slightly sour look on her face. It was subtle, but Fancy Pants had spent time at the Night Court, getting to know her, and it was paying off now. In the short term, it mattered more what she thought than how the journalists interpreted events. Noble Voice had not, and was operating under a handicap.

“The next morning, when I came on duty, the one of the night guards showed me a picture which Lyra had drawn.”

“How did he come about it?”

“There had been a disturbance in the room the night before, involving a pegasus and a dead woodchuck. Nopony was quite sure what had happened—just that there was a commotion, and after the creature ran out of the room, the guard went in.”

“It's this paper, is that correct?” Noble Voice showed him a torn piece of paper with a drawing of Dale and Lyra sharing a bed.

“Yes, that one.”

“You kept the paper safe, knowing it was important evidence. Well done.” He turned to Luna. “I wish to submit this.”

“I want it entered into the record that the paper is torn,” Fancy Pants said, “and there is no way to know what might have been contained on the rest of the paper.”

He turned to Lyra, who was blushing furiously, and whispered in her ear. “What was on the rest of the paper?”

“A drawing of me in the room and another of me not in the room,” she replied. “They had separate rooms when they first came to the hospital, and I thought they ought to be together, if they wanted to. I sketched out one set of drawings showing them alone, together in the same room, and together in the same bed. Then, I did the same with Dale and I. It wasn't meant to imply—“

“I believe you.” Fancy Pants gave her a sympathetic look. “Keep a stoic face, Lyra. I expect things are going to get worse from here on.”

“You escorted the pair to the hospital's bath, is that correct?”

“Lyra and the, uh, Dale. I was one of the ponies who did.”

“And you remained there for the duration, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

Fancy Pants sighed.

“Did you observe—with any of your senses—any inappropriate behavior between Lyra and Dale when they were bathing? Anything more than simple washing or grooming?”

“She showed him around the room, like she was explaining soap to him or something. Once she'd done that, she went back to the alcove—I was expecting him to undress there, like any pony would. But he didn't. She stayed there, while he went to the bath, still wearing his clothes. They'd been talking quietly earlier—I think they didn't want anypony to see he was aroused, and that's why he kept his clothes on.

“While he was in the bath, I watched Lyra and she seemed tense, agitated—she kept moving around and flicking her ears over in his direction, and I could tell she really wanted to join him. But they weren't fooling anypony. It would have looked less suspicious if the two of them had just helped each other like normal ponies would—or if Dale and Ka-th-rin had bathed together, you know? But I think they expected I'd stay outside the door, and they wouldn't have had to hide from me.”

“In your opinion, then, this would explain why Lyra brought them here.”

“All the evidence points to it. The constant touching, the drawing, their behavior in the bath.”

Noble Voice turned towards Luna. “As you can see, it's as plain to see as your own muzzle that both Lyra Heartstrings and the creature are—and have been—engaged in a—“

“Noble Voice,” Luna boomed from the bench. “Thou dost seem to have forgotten that a closing statement comes at the end of witness testimony, not during it. Might we suggest that thou savest thy closing statement until all the witnesses have been examined and cross-examined?”

“Sorry, Your Honor,” he mumbled. “No further questions for this witness.”

"The defense may cross-examine the witness."

Fancy Pants leaned over to Fleur. “Destroy him.”

Allie Way rapped a hoof impatiently against the door of the embassy. She'd already unhitched her cart—after all, it wasn't going to fit through the door—and left it parked neatly alongside all the other trademares’ carts.

She'd unconsciously glanced over the wagons as she approached the embassy, just to see who was there. There were no surprises—tavern gossip had been remarkably accurate.

The door finally opened, tugged by the field of a vaguely-familiar unicorn. “Diamond . . . ah. . . .” Allie craned her neck to get a glimpse of the mare's cutie mark, hoping it might provide some sort of clue. She's seen her at market; she'd seen her family around town. Of course, the two mares ran in totally different social circles. You try explaining that to an earth pony, though—they assume all us unicorns are some kind of a tight-knit group.

“Diamond Mint. And if I may ask who's calling?”

At least I got the family name right. And she doesn't know who I am, either. Allie grinned. “Allie Way. Busts. I mean, I was asked to make some busts, plaques, and trim for the embassy, and I have some of it finished.”

“Ah, yes.” Diamond's formal face softened. “That will be nice. It's pretty barren in here right now.”

Allie nodded eagerly. “My mother always said that a house without a bust wasn't a home. 'Course, she might have been just a bit biased . . . should I just bring them in?”

“Go right ahead. Dale doesn't seem to mind all the hoof traffic, so long as you don't cause a ruckus.”

“I wouldn't think of it.” Allie glanced at the pair of guards flanking the doorway. “They won't mind if I kind of come and go? I have more pieces than I can lift at once.”

“They'll be fine,” Diamond said. "Just make sure you wipe your hooves off on the mat. Oh—I should warn you, though . . . it's almost lunchtime. Starlight's in the kitchen, finishing his meal.”

Something about the way Diamond had spoken gave Allie pause. “So?”

“He eats meat,” Diamond whispered.

“Not just fish?”

Diamond shook her head.

Allie swallowed. She'd seen Dale at the announcement-meeting—probably everypony had—and he seemed like an all right sort of creature. While she'd been too far back to get a good view, nothing about him besides his height looked overly threatening, so it was hard to imagine that he was dangerous, especially since everypony on stage had acted as if he were a peaceful creature. But how could he be, if he lived on the flesh of some other poor animal? And now that she thought about it, it was kind of weird how he didn't have a coat. Only creepy animals didn't have coats—like snakes and lizards and bugs and fish.

“I hope that, um, he isn't planning to share his lunch with everypony,” she said. “He isn't, is he?” Her nostrils flared as she took in the strange scents of the new embassy. Any one of them might be the decaying corpse of an innocent animal. “Where does he get his . . . you know?” She'd met Applejack's tenants; it couldn't be one of them, could it? She'd heard that back in the olden days, griffons ate cows and sheep and pigs and maybe even ponies when they could catch them, and of course there were the monsters of the Everfree to consider, but as long as she stayed out of the forest she'd be safe—they couldn't come into town, probably. Hopefully.

“It's. . . .” Diamond gave her an awkward look. “I probably shouldn't say. And don't repeat it with your marefriends. It's not supposed to be general knowledge right now, you know? I just didn't want you to go in there and smell it and vomit all over the floor like Rough Tumble did.” She glanced at the guards meaningfully.

“Oh, sure.” Allie nonchalantly leaned close to the unicorn.

“It's imported,” Diamond whispered in her ear. “From Canterlot, I hear. So it's no one you know.” Her eyes flicked back to the guards before returning to Allie. “I guess if you were really curious about it you could ask Starlight.” She lowered her voice even further, pressing her mouth almost against Allie's ear. “I think she got hired just 'cause she's willing to cook meat.”

Allie bit her lip. She really couldn't think of an appropriate response for a conversation which had taken such a macabre turn. She couldn't even decide how she ought to feel—horrified that the ambassador was so barbaric that he took pleasure at eating another animal, or sympathetic that he had to? She'd never had to deal with meeting a griffon . . . how did such a thing factor into the relationships between species, anyway? And what did that make Starlight? Was she equally monstrous for her willingness to touch the meat of an animal, or was it another example of earth pony pragmatism? It was leading her mind down all sorts of paths which were perhaps best not considered.

“Well, I wasn't planning to put any busts in the kitchen,” Allie said with a false note of cheer in her voice. “So I guess it'll be okay.” She turned her head back to her cart, where the results of days of hard work were carefully tarped down. Probably an unnecessary precaution, but a mare couldn't afford to be too careful. Allie gingerly reached out and wrapped her aura around the knots.

As she carried the woodwork in, she couldn't help but try and sneak a glance at Dale. On her way into the house, her eyes were glued on the dining room entry. He's probably waiting right outside the kitchen for his meal, she thought. But there was no sign of him, even though she could see most of the room.

She set the first few pieces down next to the staircase. They'd be mounted on the wall once the plaster was dry; in the meantime, Diamond Mint or the construction crew would find a place to store them. She had dozens more to make, so she wanted to know now if they were unsuitable.

“Hey, 'Brosia!”

“Allie!” Ambrosia leaned over the edge of the scaffolding. “What brings you by? Did you finish all the carvings?”

“Ha! Not hardly.” She motioned to the small pile. “I've got eight rosettes here; enough to trim around four doors or windows. I just wanted to make sure the pattern was suitable. I thought flowers, 'cause everypony likes having flowers around. But I wasn't sure what kinds of flowers Dale or the mare like.”

“I'm sure they'll be fine.” Ambrosia grabbed a board and shoved it into position. Once she was satisfied with its placement, she nodded and Rough Tumble leaned his forehooves against it, holding the wood in place. She pinned it with nails on both ends, before taking a small step back to examine her work. “Dale doesn't seem the type to get upset over window trim.”

“I hope not.” She looked back down at her rosettes uncertainly.

“If he doesn't like them we can peel them back off the wall and try again.”

“Easy for you to say; you're not the one carving them.” She looked around the room curiously. “Where is he, anyway?” Maybe I should show him and see if he likes them.

“In his office.” Ambrosia pointed a hoof at the open door behind her. “He's been in there all morning with a stack of books, can you imagine? Hey, listen—when I came over this morning, he gave me a drawing for this bannister, would you believe? I was sorta hoping that he'd help.”

Allie glanced at the open office door, wondering if she might catch a glimpse of him from where she was standing, but she could only see the corner of a desk. “I thought you said at the pub that he wasn't all that good.”

Ambrosia shrugged. “He could pass boards up and stuff. And maybe I could teach him a thing or two. You got more outside?”

“Couple of busts. Do you think I should do finials for the newel posts?”

“It would look a lot neater.” Ambrosia got another board. “I wanna get this finished before lunch, so that we can start working upstairs in the afternoon.”

Allie nodded and waited for Ambrosia to turn back to her work. Once she had, the unicorn glanced across the room again, towards the office. She danced around indecisively before sweeping up the rosettes with her horn. “I'll just move these out of the way,” she announced, as she headed towards the office. Don't stare; just a quick look as you go by the door.

But she couldn't help herself; a glance turned into a gawk. Yesterday he'd been wearing a fancy robe, just like the ancient pegasi costumes in the Hearth's Warming pageant. Today, it was a plain shirt with sleeves that barely covered any of his arms—arms which were conspicuously lacking a coat. Even weirder, his head was bare today as well. She could understand why he would have wanted to wear a wig yesterday, but why wasn't he still wearing it? She'd be embarrassed to be seen in public with some of her coat—or Celestia forbid, her mane—missing.

Just as Ambrosia had said, he was bent over a book, studying it intently. The cover gave her no clue as to the contents, so it could have been anything. She looked him just a moment longer, before moving clear of the doorway and back into the foyer. Allie brushed a hoof against her mane absently, before she headed outside to bring the busts in.

The three mares walked abreast through Ponyville. Allie was in the middle, bracketed by Silver Spanner and Ambrosia.

“So what did you think?”

“Huh?” Allie turned her head.

“About Dale. It's the first time you saw him up close.”

“I—how did you know?”

Ambrosia chuckled. “You were staring through that door for a whole minute, maybe more.”

“He's kind of weird, I guess. Funny-looking. He's going to be hard to get used to.”

“That's what I thought about Spike, too, first time I met him. Imagine, first a dragon in our little town, now a, ah, now Dale—who do you think will show up next? Maybe a noble will move here. The way Fancy Pants was talking. . . .”

“He'll stay in Canterlot. That was just crowd-talk.”

“I don't know. He sounded pretty sincere.”

“Well, I can't wait to see the mare,” Silver Spanner interrupted. “Maybe she looks more . . . normal.”

“You've seen him up close, too?” Ambrosia glanced over Allie's shoulders, the disbelief evident on her face.

"I got something I've got to show you—let's get out of the rain under that awning." She pointed a hoof.

Once they were sheltered, Silver Spanner nodded and reached back into her tool belt. Normally, she wouldn't have worn it to lunch, but she didn't feel comfortable leaving it behind. Just in case Dale had sticky hooves. “He gave me this,” she said, displaying it proudly in front of the other two mares.

Ambrosia and Allie looked at it, and then back at Silver Spanner, all thoughts of lunch momentarily gone.

“What does it say?” Allie said hesitantly.

“Who taught him to hoofwrite, that's what I want to know.”

“Obviously, Lyra.” Silver folded the note back up and stuck it in her pouch. “It says pipe wrench.”

“How come he wrote it out? Why didn't he just draw a picture?”

Silver got a self-satisfied look on her face. “I'm kind of thirsty right now. You know, from being stuck in the bathrooms all morning long, working with pipes under the sink and bathtub and—“

“Why, you conniving little—“

“I'll buy your drink,” Ambrosia said. “'Cause I'm curious.”

“That's mighty kind of you.” Silver flashed the earth pony a smile and began walking again. “So, I was under the sink, connecting the feed pipes to the faucet. I was lying on my back, you know, looking up at the fittings, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him walk into the bathroom and then just stop where he was.

“He kind of crouched over—just a little—and I could sorta see his face in a gap between the vanity and the cabinet. I don't think he could see that I saw him, though." She paused at the door of the pub, letting the other two mares precede her through the door.

“He looked away for a moment, and I thought he was maybe just getting a look at the room—you know how ponies always want to see what you've been up to when you're working at their house?”

Ambrosia nodded.

“But then he just looks back, almost staring. And I thought about what you'd said, Ambrosia, about how he was interested in construction. So that's why he was staring; he was curious what I was doing under the sink. If I'd had a lantern, I'd have turned it on, to help him see.”

"Tray of sandwiches and a pitcher of beer," Allie said. "Put it on Ambrosia's tab." As soon as the waitress set the order on the counter, she turned back to Silver Spanner. “Weren't you scared? Lying on your back like that.”

“You've never seen how far she can chuck a wrench." Ambrosia slid into a booth while Allie and Silver Spanner set their lunch on the table.

“Yeah,” Silver agreed. “I coulda tossed a wrench at him if he'd gotten too close, but he stayed back. So when I was all done, I rolled out from under the sink and just looked at him, figuring I'd let him make the first move. He was holding that piece of paper, and I glanced at it, and . . . well, then he gave it to me. I don't know what he wanted a pipe wrench for; after he looked it over he just gave it back.”

“I wonder why he's so interested in us?” Ambrosia waved a hoof around the table before grabbing a sandwich off the platter. “If he's smart enough to write, you'd think he'd be more interested in unicorns.”

Silver Spanner tapped her hoof to her horn. “What d'ya call this?”

“Normal unicorns, that do normal unicorn stuff. Not us working ponies.”

Allie topped off Silver's mug for her. “I wanna know how he knew you could read.”

“It's 'cause I got my cutie mark late. My mom thought I might be the next Starswirl, can you believe? I had to sit through so much school while you were learning your crafts. But I dropped out and got an apprenticeship once I got my cutie mark.”

“I know; you've told us before. How would Dale know that, though?”

“I dunno. Maybe 'cause he spent so much time in the hospital with Lyra and Twilight and the nurses he thought everypony could? Or maybe Lyra taught him how.” She drained her mug and banged it back down on the table. “Well, time to hit the pit before we head back.”

“Are you coming back after lunch?”

“I dunno.” Allie slid out of the booth and followed the other two mares out the side entrance that led to the outhouse. “I didn't bring any of my tools, so I can't really work on anything there.”

“You can help upstairs,” Ambrosia suggested as she held the door open for the other two mares. “Or maybe just go and bump hooves with Dale. If you've got a tool in your aura, he'll love you. I promise.”

“You really think so?”

“Trust me; you'll get along with him just fine.”

Fleur stood and moved towards the witness stand. “Just a few questions,” she told Luna, before turning back to the guard.

“Have you ever personally observed Lyra and Dale kissing?”

“No.”

“Have you ever personally observed Lyra and Dale engaging in sexual activity?”

“No.”

“Have any of your fellow guards told you that they have witnessed such behavior?”

“No.”

“How many fellow guards are in your unit?”

“Um, I'm not sure. Do you mean foot soldiers, commanders, auxiliaries, or what?”

“Forgive me for my lack of clarity; I'm not entirely clear on the details of how your command structure is organized. How many soldiers, of similar rank to you—your peers, that is—are in your unit?”

“A normal unit is one hundred forty soldiers,” he told her. “Although our ranks are rarely completely filled. Oftentimes, as many as half of our troop is comprised of auxiliary guards, who do not normally serve with us, except for in times of emergency. We subdivide into flights, and each of those contains a dozen soldiers.”

“So it would be fair to say that there are eleven other ponies in your unit who you are most close to—those in your flight, who you bunk with, eat with, train with, and confide in.”

“Yes.”

“Very well.” Fleur moved across the aisle, stopping when she was close to the witness chair. “Have you ever put a hoof on the back of one of your fellow soldiers, perhaps to congratulate him on a job well done?”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever, in a stressful situation, hugged one of your fellow unit-members, or seen two of your fellow unit-members hugging each other?”

“I . . . yes, I suppose I have.”

“Have you ever observed any two pegasi in your unit preening or otherwise grooming each other?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Answer the question!”

“It's, you're not a pegasus—there are some spots that are troublesome, and a good soldier helps his fellows, but it's not—“

“And,” Fleur interrupted, “given that it is well-known that preening can be a form of foreplay between pegasi, it is therefore reasonable to assume that some or all of the pegasi in your unit are having sexual relationships with each other.”

“Objection!” Noble Voice's hoof slammed down on his table. “The question is irrelevant, leading, and insulting!”

“I didn't ask a question!” Fleur's voice cut over the excited chatter from the reporters. Without waiting for a response from Luna, she turned back to the witness stand. “In light of my previous statement, have you seen any behavior between Dale and Lyra which could only be considered as sexual?”

He didn't answer, and Fleur looked up at Luna before turning back the witness stand. “Do you not understand the question? Would you like me to clarify behaviors which are generally considered to be sexual in nature?”

“No,” he said, his face turning an interesting shade of red. “I have not personally observed any such behaviors between them.”

“So, it could be that they are simply close in the same manner that any professionals working together towards a common goal would be, is that not correct? And given the nature of their injuries, Dale and Lyra and Ka-th-rin could be in a stressful situation, in which case you—based on your prior testimony—might expect them to make physical contact as a form of reassurance, rather than as a prelude to sexual activity.”

“I suppose that's fair,” he said quietly.

“No further questions,” Fleur said.

Most ponies believed that the gardens around the Royal Castle were meant simply to look pretty. They did—thanks to the tireless work of a legion of royal gardeners—but that was not their primary function. There were some foreign dignitaries who were uncomfortable in confined spaces, and Princess Celestia felt it was her duty to meet them where they were most relaxed.

Chief Shooting Star of the buffalo tribe was one such creature. Accustomed to life on the open plains, anything sturdier than a tent was looked upon with disfavor, and important meetings simply had to take place out in the open. He did not begrudge the Princesses their castle, but at the same time he would not deign to enter it. Ever. For any reason.

Like most buffalo, he also had a general mistrust of weather management, and as such the pegasi left the traditional buffalo grazing grounds alone. That hadn't always been the case—centuries ago, Celestia had tried to help them during a drought, a noble gesture which had caused frosty relations for decades.

“Tell me again about these creatures,” Chief Shooting Star said slowly. “These new allies of yours.”

“We don't know much. They come from a distant planet.” Celestia smiled pleasantly. “They are bipedal, and from what limited evidence we have thus far, they prefer to live close to the land, and do not make much use of magic.”

“That is good.” He paused and looked over the garden. “You ponies are sometimes too concerned with your desire for order to see the beauty in untamed nature. You think you are making it better, when you are really changing it from what it wants to be into what you wish it to be. I should like to meet with these creatures.”

“We have yet to set up dates for diplomatic meetings, as both of the creatures are still . . . acclimatizing to Equestrian life.”

“Perhaps they would be happier with the buffalo? Where they can range free, apart from your rigid constraints on nature?”

Celestia sipped at her tea. “You may be right,” she said thoughtfully. “Although we are still working around a language barrier, I will be glad to ask them once we have mastered communications. Assuming that there are more, and assuming that they do prefer the simple life, would you consider hosting some of them?”

Chief Shooting Star considered the question. Finally, he nodded his head. “I feel that if the creatures embrace a nomadic lifestyle, there would be a place for them among the buffalo. I look forward to meeting these new creatures.” He smiled. “On behalf of my people, I will sign a peace treaty, and will formally open an invitation to them at our meeting circle.”

“Thank you.” Celestia bowed her head.

For the next half hour, Princess Celestia and Chief Shooting Star ironed out the details of the peace treaty and made brief statements to the lesser buffalo representatives who had accompanied their chief. Once they were finally finished, the pair walked off together, out of earshot of their retinues.

“Tell me, Chief Shooting Star, how are relations in Appleloosa? I have heard no ill reports since my student and her friends visited, but I would like to hear your perspective, if I may.”

“Things are going well,” he said. “Chief Thunderhooves and Sheriff Silver Star frequently meet to make sure of it. Why, late last year a new family moved in and began planting on our stampeding grounds, and the Sheriff made them move before Chief Thunderhooves even lodged a protest. Although, I have heard that Little Strongheart and Braeburn are a little closer than Chief Thunderhooves is comfortable with.”

Celestia frowned. “I'm afraid I don't quite understand your meaning.”

“I fear that they may be . . . romantically involved.”

“Oh, dear.” Celestia looked at the buffalo with a sincere expression. “Is that against your traditional tribal rules?”

“We never saw a need,” he admitted. “The Elder Council is discussing it. Perhaps you could apply some pressure on the ponies?"

“As you know, interspecies relationships are not against Equestrian laws, and therefore I cannot intervene,” Celestia pointed out. “By our treaty, of course, you are free to rule your territories as you see fit, but only if it does not interfere with Equestrian law.”

“Yes, I know. It's quite a vexing problem. Chief Thunderhooves risks losing standing if he allows it—what kind of Chief cannot control his own daughter? Some of the other buffalo clamor for her banishment from tribal lands."

“I hope that you can find an equitable solution,” Celestia said. "Before unity, ponies did not allow intertribal marriages. But when the daughter of a pegasus clan chief married into a unicorn House, it brought the two tribes closer together. Chief Thunderhooves and the Appleloosans have already seen the benefits of peace; might such a marriage serve to strengthen those bonds?"

Shooting Star rubbed a hoof across his chin. "Perhaps you are right. I shall ruminate upon it."

"Please do. Nopony benefits from hasty decisions." Celestia smiled brightly. “As always, I would be honored to sit in on one of your meetings, if you would have me.”

“Thank you. We do appreciate your understanding.” He nodded politely to her, then turned and walked out of the garden, while Celestia remained on her bench The griffons are next, she thought. That will be fun.

Author's Notes:

You know the drill: click here for the blog!

Chapter 17: Trials, part III

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 17: Trials, part III
Admiral Biscuit

Dale shifted around in the overly-comfortable chair until he could take it no longer, and stood. His eyes hurt, his head hurt, and he had a compelling urge to be anywhere except bent over a desk. While he could enjoy slowly working his way through a good sci-fi novel—or even a mystery, if he was feeling up to something different—reading technical manuals was boring, and attempting to read a child's language primer he barely understood even more so.

He felt a little guilty at giving up on his task, but judging by the lack of sound from outside the room, he wasn't the first to come to the conclusion that a break was in order. He rolled his shoulders back to let some of the tension out of his neck as he crossed the room. I wonder if the construction ponies have the same kind of work schedule that highway workers do? Maybe they have unions, or mob connections. He glanced back at the books—he could hardly ask until he learned their language, but it wasn't something he was going to get by reading a book. It hadn't worked in Mrs. Brown's Spanish class in high school, and it wasn't going to work now.

As he was crossing the foyer, Diamond Mint appeared at his side. She looked up at him as if awaiting orders. I guess it might not be a bad idea to have a snack, he thought. It must be nearly lunchtime now. He looked up at the wall for a clock, but there wasn't one to be seen.

Somewhere in that pile of books was undoubtedly the word for food. Maybe it was too general a word to have been in the visual dictionary, but surely they'd thought to include that in one of the books.

Such a basic necessity, and yet she never taught me their word. On the beach, I kind of led the meal times, and then when I was in the hospital I didn't really have a choice about when I would get my meals, so now what? I could go back in there and find whichever book has food listed, find the pictures of what I want to eat, then write them out on a piece of paper, give it to Diamond Mint, and eventually have her bring me a meal, but that could take hours. I bet Lyra shared the English words she knows, though.

"Dale eat?" he asked Diamond hopefully. She looked at him blankly, before shaking her head.

Okay, she doesn't know that word. Dale pointed to the dining room table, then pantomimed scooping food into his mouth, finishing by rubbing his belly.

Diamond just gave him a confused look.

Okay, where did I go wrong? Dale looked back at her, and thought about his motions—body language he took for granted that had been totally lost on her. Is it any wonder? She probably uses her horn to bring the food to her, like Lyra did on the beach with my sandwiches . . . I'm making gestures which have no meaning to them. He gave an awkward smile as Diamond flicked her tail. Well, I might as well show her.

He went into the kitchen, Diamond at his heels, and began opening cupboards. Starlight was nowhere to be seen, and he wondered where she'd gone.

If he'd found a tin of cookies, or maybe a box of crackers, he would have made the motion and then eaten some food, to give Diamond an idea what he meant. Unfortunately, he soon discovered that the only food he could find was unprepared, and there wasn't very much of it, either. A quick spin told him that the eggs in the bowl on the counter were uncooked, and he didn't want to open up any of the unlabeled jars and just take a sample of whatever they contained. The icebox was half-filled with tightly-wrapped packets of butcher's paper, labeled with pencil in pony script. As tempting as it was to cook one of them, it would undoubtedly be a huge breach of decorum to do so; plus, he'd probably burn down the house trying to get the wood stove to work, since he'd never used one before.

His thoughts were interrupted as the back door of the kitchen opened and Starlight stepped inside the house from the back entrance. She had a large cloth shopping bag gripped tightly in her mouth, and was wearing thin straps along her back. When she saw him, her pupils shrank and she took a step back, gave him a sheepish half-grin and lifted her head up to set the bag on the kitchen counter.

Dale looked out the door and saw a small, two-wheeled cart in the yard, its shafts resting on the ground. A couple of straps were hanging on a peg on the front of the wagon; it was obvious that was the rest of her harness. He went out into the yard—not to get a closer look; from the wagons he'd seen earlier he had a pretty good idea of how they worked—but to help her bring in the groceries.

He grimaced as his bare feet sank into the cold, wet grass and mud squelched between his toes. Still, the sun was shining now; there was a large open patch above town, although most of the surrounding sky was still overcast. He could see dozens of winged ponies in the air near the clouds, flitting around in the clear air. One in particular caught his eye when it rapidly streaked from one pony to another, leaving a rainbow contrail behind. Maybe if they move through the air quickly, they move around the moisture—there must be a lot of it still up there, since it just rained—and that's what causes it.

He kept glancing at the sky, hoping to see a repeat which might give him further clues, but only one pony seemed to have that effect. He took three bags out of the wagon—two in his left hand and one in his right—and made his way back into the kitchen with a load of groceries, his eyes still constantly scanning the skies.

Both ponies turned to stare at him as he set the bags on the counter. Diamond's ears went midships and she opened her mouth, before she bit her lip and gave Starlight a significant look. Starlight—who was on her hind hooves, putting a box into one of the cupboards—gave her a shrug in return, and shook her head. Dale ignored them and unceremoniously set the bags on the kitchen counter.

Diamond nodded back at Starlight and trotted out the door. Free of his baggage, Dale followed her, just in time to see two bags lift themselves out of the wagon, surrounded by a familiar aura. Not wanting to be outdone, he grabbed the remaining five bags, and followed her into the kitchen.

Starlight said something just as Diamond set her bags down, and she looked over at Dale. Her ears lowered, and she muttered something under her breath. Starlight just giggled, and motioned a hoof at the counter, indicating where she wanted Dale to set the groceries.

Dale tried to help her put them away, but the language barrier was simply too much, and he could tell he was slowing her down. He'd selected a stuffed burlap sack that had a paper label tied on the neck and held it up for her to see; she'd pointed over to one of the cupboards. He watched her as he put it on each shelf, and each time she'd shaken her head, until she finally came over and pulled a scratched metal cylinder out of the cupboard, untied the knot with practiced ease, and emptied the bag into the container. The whole cupboard was filled with various storage containers, and Dale realized that she wanted any dry goods in them—probably to keep rodents away. They provided no hints as what they were meant to contain; the few which had writing on them were completely incomprehensible.

However, he took some satisfaction in watching Diamond struggle, too. She'd pull a container out with her aura, Starlight would correct her, and if she was lucky, she got it right on the second try.

Dale thought back to how his toolbox at work had been arranged, and grinned. He could never explain to anyone the logic behind what went where—his system had undergone a lifetime of changes and additions, and while everything made sense to him, he never could figure out anyone else's toolbox.

Before half the groceries were put away, Starlight was already starting on lunch. She tossed a couple of logs in the stove and opened the dampers, then began pumping water into a large stockpot. Dale frowned at the muddy streaks from her fetlocks on the pot, but it was on the outside rather than the inside, and he'd certainly dealt with that while camping. Of course, being a house rather than a tent hopefully meant food with less grit.

His worries were unfounded. Before she touched anything else, she put some water in the sink and dribbled soap in. She stuck her forehooves in the cold water, grabbed a washcloth with her teeth, and scrubbed them clean. Still on her hind legs, she yanked open a drawer with her mouth and selected a knife, and set it on the counter. Dale stood back and watched as she grabbed a cutting board and a selection of vegetables and went to work. At first, she occasionally glanced up at him, but as she progressed, she stopped paying him any attention at all, aside from occasionally turning an ear in his direction.

Dale had gotten a taste of a pony kitchen in the hospital, but he hadn't ever seen the whole process. Starlight moved with a practiced efficiency, dicing the soup's ingredients while also beginning to make a pie. Midway through the process—just after she'd neatly tucked the crust into a pie pan—she grabbed a cut of meat out of the icebox and slapped it down in a cast-iron pan, added some seasoning and a few herbs, and slid it into the oven. She didn't act bothered by it at all, although Diamond Mint was conspicuously absent by then.

When she opened the cupboard nearest the stove, Dale saw a familiar list tacked inside the door—it was the one where he'd marked what he could eat. He smiled at the memory. It seemed so long ago, yet it had only been a few days. Already, this was beginning to seem more normal than when he'd been on the beach on North Fox Island, or even before, when he was at home, microwaving a meal. It's really weird how fast people can get used to a new situation, he thought.

“We call upon Sandy Tail, a Royal Guard who was present at the first meeting with Dale.”

“We had the same maestro,” Lyra whispered to Fancy Pants.

The stallion took the stand like a soldier storming a beachhead. Unlike Storm Cloud, he wasn't wearing any armor, yet his military bearing was evident to everypony in the courtroom.

“You were present at Princess Celestia's first meeting with Dale, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.” His foreleg twitched as if he'd meant to give a salute, but he kept his hooves on the polished wood of the podium.

“I wonder if you could tell us a little about it?”

Fleur scribbled on a notepad as he spoke, while Fancy Pants paid him rapt attention. Even Lyra was captivated by his telling of the story—some of his details were dry and emotionless, but many of the things he'd noticed had never crossed her mind, and for the first time she began to wonder just how crazy she'd been to actually approach Dale. True, it had turned out well, but to hear him tell it, he could have been about to go into a murderous frenzy at the drop of a shoe.

“When he reached down towards his waist, I focused my attention on his hands, to see if he was going to produce a weapon,” Sandy Tail explained.

“Why is that?”

“Bipeds—they often carry things they wish to access quickly around their waist,” he said. “Because of their stature . . . it's just like how an earth pony will naturally want to keep things close to her mouth, so too bipeds want to keep things near their hands. Since when they're standing on their hind legs, their hands fall at their waists, that's the natural place.”

“Aren't you going to object?” Lyra asked.

“No,” Fancy Pants whispered back. “We'd look like fools if we did. He's saying what he was trained to believe, and what he observed. I can deflect some of his statements on cross, though.”

“Dale never had a weapon,” Lyra replied.

“You don't know that.” He turned to face her. “He never used a weapon, that's undeniable. Whether or not he had one is pure speculation, and honestly, immaterial to the case at hand. I imagine, despite Noble Voice's theatrics, Princess Luna is fully aware of this.”

“It was tense, I'll admit.” Sandy Tail looked at Noble Voice, who gave him an encouraging nod. “I didn't know what he might do, and I never got a good sense for the leylines there—I could feel some faintly off over the water, but none up close, so I couldn't guess what he might be about to do.”

“And that's when Lyra approached him.”

“That's correct.” He licked his lips. “She spoke quietly to Princess Celestia, and I wasn't paying attention to her at that point, so I can't say what it was that she said.”

“Go on,” Noble Voice instructed.

“I did, however, distinctly hear Princess Celestia reply that she could approach him if she wanted, but that if She judged the situation to be turning dangerous, we would teleport back to Equestria without Lyra.”

“What, exactly, did Princess Celestia say?” Fancy Pants whispered.

Lyra frowned. “I don't remember. I was both nervous and excited. It was probably about what he said.”

“Okay.” Noble Voice took a few steps across the courtroom floor before turning back to the stallion on the stand. “If the defense doesn't object, I'd like to ask you some questions about what happened after you got back to Equestria. I am given to understand that Lyra attended a secret meeting with the Diarchs and Twilight Sparkle.”

“I don't know,” Sandy Tail said honestly. “We were told to speak to nopony of what we'd seen, and then dismissed from duty.”

Noble Voice frowned. “Surely you talked to your fellow Guards?”

“Objection!” Fancy Pants leapt to his hooves. “Any speculative conversation between them is wholly irrelevant to the case at hoof.”

“It establishes the observations of the Guards,” Noble Voice retorted.

“They are not on trial.” Fancy Pants sat back down, waiting for Luna's verdict.

“Overruled,” Luna replied. “The court finds that Noble Voice's question is relevant, in regard to the charges in question. May the court reporter repeat the question?”

He nodded eagerly and squinted at his paper. “Noble Voice asks, 'Surely you talked to your fellow Guards.'”

“Yes,” Sandy Tail told him. “It was an informal after-action report, not to be—“

“And what conclusions did you reach?” Noble Voice interrupted.

The Guard slid a hoof across the stand. “We decided that we had done the right thing. Overall, while he may have been a threat, he took no aggressive action that day on the beach.”

“Are you telling me that you felt okay with taking a purely defensive stance, in light of the threat the creature . . . scratch that—don't answer that question.” Noble Voice glanced over at the defense table. Fancy Pants paid him no mind, jotting on his notepad. “Are you familiar with Lyra Heartstrings?”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

“Well, we used to duel . . . but she gave it up, and the next year I joined the Guard.”

“Had you encountered her in a professional setting before your trip to the beach?”

“No.”

“Had you encountered her dueling before?”

“Yes.”

“As an opponent?”

“Yes.”

“What were your impressions?”

“She was good.” Lyra blushed—despite her string of successes, she'd never felt that she was anything special, which was one of the reasons why she'd given it up. She'd always thought of it as a fond adolescent memory, rather than a defining character trait. Still, it was hard to imagine she'd be where she was right now if it hadn't been for the time she'd spent competing.

Noble Voice looked down at his notes. “Did she have any particular traits she was known for?”

“Improvisation.” He leaned forward in his chair. “That's what made her dangerous. Most unicorns knew a set of spells, but Lyra always seemed to be good at modification and misdirection . . . she'd make you think that she was going to do one thing, and then she'd do something entirely different.”

Noble Voice's ears perked. “Oh? Can you give an example?”

Lyra lowered her head as Sandy Tail recounted her match with Primrose. To hear him tell it, she'd planned the whole thing from the beginning, leading her through a flurry of spells to get to the point where she'd been able to surprise her with a well-placed lightning bolt, but the truth was that she just remembered all her other spells failing to Primrose’s counterspells, and had tried that as a gambit. She'd guessed that she wasn't defending against elemental weather spells, and that was the only one Lyra knew.

“So she's good at using spells to suit her purpose,” Noble Voice stated.

“I don't know her well enough to state that as fact,” Sandy Tail replied. “But in my experience with her, yes, she is. She's subtle, too. She beat me in every match.”

“No further questions.” Noble Voice was already standing by his chair; as soon as he had finished speaking, he sat down and glared at the witness stand, defying Sandy Tail to speak against him.

Fancy Pants leisurely got to his hooves and sauntered to the center of the floor. He held his notepad up in front of him, gave it a cursory glance, and then looked up at Sandy Tail. "How long have you been a Guard?"

"Six years and three moons since I took my oath."

Fancy Pants nodded. "In that time, you've undoubtedly had both training and hooves-on experience with a variety of situations. Would that be a fair statement? Would you consider yourself experienced as a Guard?"

"Yes."

"And the other Guards in your flight? Did they all have a similar amount of experience to you?"

"Well, the commander—"

"Besides him. The other stallions of similar rank—did they all have a similar amount of experience?"

He shook his head. "We usually . . . I hope it's okay to say this. Shining Armor likes to mix up the flights, with experienced soldiers and rookies. He thinks that gives each flight a broader pool of experience to draw on. I'd say I'm in the middle of the herd, when it comes to experience."

"I would think Celestia would have wanted to choose the most experienced Guards to accompany her."

"As a flight, we have the broadest diversity," he said proudly. "We've even had training in the Crystal Empire."

"Yet she could have chosen solely commanders, for example—ponies who you admit have more experience than you."

"Tactically, when going into a dangerous situation, it's unwise to break up a team," Sandy Tail explained. "We all know how the other ponies in our flight are going to react to danger."

"I see." Fancy Pants looked back down at his notes. "That must be very reassuring, in such a strange situation, to know that your fellow stallion has your back, and will behave predictably.

"Tell me, earlier Noble Voice almost asked a question which he didn't deem was worth an answer, but I'm curious. What led you to conclude after the fact that you had taken the right action in not making a more defensive stance on the beach?"

"Well. . . ." Sandy Tail shuffled his hoof over the table. "He was bigger than us, and he was a complete unknown. Both of those were factors to consider. We didn't know how quickly he could move, or if he had any weapons.

"Those were points in favor of quickly attacking him, of course. When two foes meet by surprise, he who acts fastest generally has the upper hoof, and had we known him to be an enemy, we would have struck quickly, and in unison.

"On another hoof, we were in his land, so there was little to be gained in being the aggressor. Should he have had allies on beach, for example, a fight might have been disastrous.

"In such a situation, we decided that we had done the prudent thing, even knowing that if he had attacked first, he might very well have slain some of the Guards before we could escape."

"Thank you," Fancy Pants said. "Let me ask a hypothetical question: if Princess Celestia had asked you to approach Dale, would you have? Based on what you knew then."

"Yes."

"Yet, you seem to think that Lyra doing so was foolhardy."

"If Princess Celestia had given an order, I would have obeyed. If my commander had given an order, I would have obeyed." He slid his hoof absently across the desk. "But, to answer your next question, I don't think I would have volunteered on my own initiative."

"Thank you. Now, getting back to Ambassador Heartstrings. You've spoken about her dueling career, but it is worth mentioning that she is also an auxiliary Guard member; were she not, we would not be here today. As such, she's required to undergo some of the same training as you are.”

He held up a hoof as Sandy Tail opened his mouth. “It's plain that Princess Celestia had her reasons for choosing Lyra Heartstrings as a companion on her journey, and I would imagine—without putting words in the Princess' mouth—that her ability to modify spells as the situation demanded was a compelling reason. It's clear, even to myself, how useful that might be in an unknown situation. Yet, I ask you this: in your time competing, did you ever get the sense that Lyra was willing to bend the rules to her advantage?”

“That's not an easy question to answer,” Sandy Tail admitted. “The rulebook was one of your opponents, and there were times when a competetor could use it to her advantage.”

“But there's using it to your advantage, and abusing it,” Fancy Pants countered. “We've all seen hoofball games where a player will tumble to the ground and cry foul at the lightest touch, and while that may technically be legitimate, it's obviously against the spirit of the sport. Did you ever observe Lyra to do anything like that?”

“No.”

“Did you ever hear any credible rumors that she did?”

Noble Voice jumped out of his seat. “I object—what does this have to do with her actions on the beach?”

“You opened the line of questioning,” Fancy Pants retorted. “We ought to be allowed to follow it.”

“Objection overruled.” Luna glanced down at Fancy Pants. “Thou shalt keep thine questioning on this subject brief.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” He turned back to the witness. “Did you ever hear any credible rumors that Lyra manipulated the rules in such a manner that she was—in your opinion—going beyond the spirit of the game?”

“No.”

“So it would be fair to say, would it not, that while she may be creative when it comes to spell choice and manner of casting, she is—in your opinion—unlikely to make a habit of violating the spirit of the game to gain an advantage.”

“I guess?” He shrugged.

“As such,” Fancy Pants pressed, “were you, at the time that you visited the beach, concerned that she might manipulate whatever situation she found to her advantage, even if it was to the detriment of other ponies?”

“It was a while ago, so I can't say clearly what my mental state was at the time,” he hedged. “But . . . I guess that would be fair.”

“Knowing what you now know, would you say that Lyra is likely to have abused her trust and defied orders from Princess Celestia in order to bring Dale and Ka-th-rin to Equestria?"

“Objection!” Noble Voice shot to his hooves. “The question is overly speculative. Sandy Tail can hardly be expected to speak on Lyra's mental state.”

“Given his prior testimony, he's as well-qualified as any witness we've had thus far.” Fancy Pants glanced up at Luna. “Especially since, thus far, he's the only actual witness to any of the events on the beach.”

“We agree,” she said. “The question can be answered.”

“I . . . don't know.” The Guard shifted in his seat. "They're here, aren't they?"

"They are," Fancy Pants agreed. "But I am sure you would agree that there is a difference between a commander who makes an error in judgement and loses his position, compared to one who willingly surrenders it to an enemy force. Do you believe, based on your past history with Lyra, that she is the type of pony who would willingly sell her loyalty to her country?"

"I don't know. Some ponies will do things you'd never expect." He gave Fancy Pants a pleading look. "It's not a fair question."

"It is the most important question of the trial," Fancy Pants said softly. "Do you have a compelling reason to believe that Ambassador Lyra Heartstrings willfully betrayed her nation for her own personal gain?"

The Guard looked helplessly at Noble Voice, but remained silent.

"It is a simple question: yes or no? Should the court find her guilty? Should she be exiled? Or were her crimes so heinous she should be executed?" Fancy Pants moved closer to the witness stand. "Did you see her cheat? Do you have any evidence whatsoever, based on your own personal knowledge, to suggest that she is a traitor? Can you, in good conscience, tell the court that she is a bad pony?"

"No," he whispered. "I cannot."

"No further questions, Your Honor." Fancy Pants bowed to Princess Luna and took a seat back at his table.

Starlight's smile was strained as she sliced up enough pieces of pie to serve all the construction ponies. As soon as they had returned from their lunch break, Dale had invited them into the dining room and generously offered them dessert—and while she had no objections to sharing, she hadn't been planning to serve so many. She wasn't going to get a piece, and Diamond wouldn't either.

That feeling quickly passed, though, as Silver Spanner gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “I didn't know you could make pie that good.”

“I got the recipe from my grandmare,” she said. “It's not as good as—“

“It's better than my Mama makes,” Rough Tumble told her. “So help me, it's true. The crust is too soft or too hard, and she never puts enough sugar in the filling . . . but I can't tell her.”

“Wait, in't she an earth pony?”

“Yeah? So?”

“See? I told you!” Ambrosia turned to Allie. “Not every earth pony's good at cooking.”

Allie shrugged. “I just figured you never made dinner for us 'cause you didn't want to spend any of your bits.”

“I bought Silver's lunch, didn't I?”

“Only 'cause you wanted to hear her gossip.” Allie stuck her tongue out at Ambrosia, then glanced over at Dale, who was watching them intently from his place at the table. “Are you sure he doesn't bite or something? I can smell meat on his breath.”

Silver Spanner wrinkled her nose. “He does smell kind of like a griffon.” She shifted her hips, the tools in her belt clinking around. “But don't you kind of feel sorry for him? He's as naked as a fish, almost.”

“I wasn't expecting my pie to come with a side of psychoanalysis.” Ambrosia turned her head back toward the unfinished living room. “And it won't build the bannister or run the plumbing. C'mon, Roughie. Time to earn those bits.”

He looked down at his plate and rebelliously licked it clean, before getting to his hooves. “Real good pie, Ms. Starlight.”

Starlight nodded politely as the ponies left the dining room. Dale stayed there for a minute, looking absently at the now-empty table, before pushing his chair back and heading out of the room himself.

Instead of busing the table right away, Starlight waited until Dale cleared the doorway, and then followed him, quickly spotting him in the living room. He wasn't in any hurry to get back to his books—he had a hand out, steadying the scaffolding as Rough Tumble climbed into position. While the stallion had his ears down, Ambrosia was treating it as if it was normal—and from what she'd said, it was.

“I'll get used to it,” Diamond said. Starlight jerked back in surprise. She hadn't heard the unicorn come through the kitchen.

“Get used to it?”

“The meat.” She grimaced as she spoke. “It's just . . . weird. It's one thing to read about it, or have it mentioned in cultural awareness class; to see it for myself?” Plates began floating off of the table onto a serving tray, one at a time.

“I'm surprised you got hired,” Starlight said quietly, still watching Dale working. Both Rough Tumble and Allie were much more skittish than they'd been in the morning, their eyes constantly returned to him, keeping track of where he was in the room and which exit was the closest.

“I guess they couldn't find anypony local who was more qualified.” She dropped a plate onto the tray.

“I figured I'd never in my life have another opportunity like this,” Starlight admitted. “I don't mind so much—I used to live with a pegasus, you know. That's kind of weird.”

“How so? I've never shared a room with a, ah, non-unicorn before, but you're all right.” Diamond lifted the tray and began floating it into the kitchen. "What's different about pegasi?"

"They leave down everywhere . . . but that's not what I meant. He's helping them—he's giving them boards, and Ambrosia's encouraging it. You don't think—“

“He helped you with the groceries, didn't he?”

“Yeah.” Starlight turned away from the living room and began walking toward the kitchen. The dishes wouldn't wash themselves, and she didn't trust Diamond Mint to do a good job with them—not without supervision, anyway. “Horseapples. I've got to put the wagon away still.”

“I already did it, and hung up your tack, too.”

“Thanks.” Starlight jammed the stopper in the sink and slipped her forehooves into a pair of mitts. “Watch out,” she warned as she grabbed the stock pot off the stove.

Once she'd served Dale's portion, she'd put some soup aside for herself and Diamond, before transferring the rest of it to a serving bowl which was precariously perched in the icebox. She'd warm it up for dinner and serve it—along with a salad and fresh toast—to the Guards for their evening meal.

As soon as the pot had been emptied, she'd refilled it with clean water, so that she would have it ready for the dishes. The fire in the stove was already banked, but it would stay hot for quite some time; long enough to have boiled the pot of water by the time dinner was finished.

She gingerly emptied it into the sink, being careful to not pour the water in so quickly that it dislodged the stopper and wasted all the hot water.

Once it was emptied, she pulled the cork out of a bottle of soap and gripped it in her teeth—no matter how careful she was, there was always soap residue on the bottle, and it tasted terrible. She dumped a little in the sink, before setting the bottle back on the sill and positioning her hoof on the pump handle. “He's not what I expected, you know?”

“I thought he'd be more stuck-up,” Diamond agreed. “But he's willing to get his paws dirty.” She moved close to Starlight and lowered her voice to a near whisper. “I can't help but wonder—you'd think that the mayor would have had a better briefing. Does she even know anything about him? Or are we just being thrown into a situation that nopony really understands?

Starlight shrugged and began pumping. “Maybe his cutie mark is for some kind of construction skill, and he just is an ambassador on the side. Have you seen it?”

Diamond Mint shook her head. “Weird how he covers it up. I bet Nurse Redheart knows. I'll ask her.” As Starlight placed dishes in the rack, Diamond began toweling them dry. “He just doesn't act like a diplomat, I guess. I always had an idea in my mind that they'd be more aloof, and with Guards everywhere they went. Like a snobby Canterlot noble."

Starlight grinned. “He's got his own flight of them. I've been keeping an eye on them. Have you noticed the unicorn who's on day door duty? I'd like to get my hooves on him for a night.”

“You could bounce a bit off his flanks,” Diamond Mint agreed. “He's the most muscled unicorn I've ever seen.”

“Just 'cause you get a free look every time you open the door for somepony—“

“That's an unexpected job perk.”

“I called him first.” Starlight stuck her tongue out. “You'll just have to wait your turn.”

Ambassador Swiftwing pushed the door of the meeting chambers open and stopped short, his ceremonial guard nearly crashing into his backside. Instead of the pomp he was expecting, he found himself in a room devoid of any fancy ponies. A simple desk was tucked discreetly off to the right of the entrance, far enough back so that a line could form, and portable benches were arranged in neat rows. True, they were covered in plush cushions, but a portable bench was a portable bench.

A pair of nondescript stallions were occupying the benches, each of them intently studying a Canterlot newspaper. Neither of them showed the slightest reaction to the griffons.

“Is that—“ one of the griffons began, before the nasally voice of the mare at the desk cut them off.

“You must be Ambassador Swiftwing and retinue,” she stated flatly. “Sorry 'bout the accommodations. The castle staff makes a point of maintaining the rooms, don'tcha know, and it was this room's turn. Hasn't had a good going-over in half a century.”

“I have an appointment with the Princess,” he hissed.

“She'll get to ya as quick as she can.” The mare tilted her head towards the bench. “She's been awful busy today.”

Swiftwing leaned forward, his eyes boring into the mare. “Where's Raven?”

“Oh, she's sick. Nasty bout of poll evil. Doctor ordered her to take a coupla days off.”

“What about Kibitz?” he asked, exhausting the names of castle staff he actually knew.

“Ooh, he doesn’t normally handle this kind of thing.” She shrugged indifferently. “The Princess will be with you just as soon as she can. Her schedule's been mighty full these past couple of days.”

Swiftwing regarded her with a look he normally reserved for small prey animals. “Now, what could she be so busy with that she wouldn't be waiting to meet with me, one of her staunchest of allies?”

“I'm sure I don't know.” The mare waved a hoof at her appointment book. “All kinds of meetings.” She grinned at him, before making a grand gesture at the mostly-empty room. “There are plenty of benches available, and we've got lots of copies of today's paper. Feel free to make yourselves at home.”

He glanced back, where the two stallions were still stoically reading their copies of the paper. “I suppose they're going before me?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” she said with a vapid smile. “They've got an appointment for after you finish; they're here to discuss the looming shortage of ryegrass.”

“Of course they are.” Swiftwing glanced over at the nearest bench, and finally made his decision, stalking over and plopping on the cushion, while his retinue remained standing, scanning the room for threats.

Just as he began shifting to find a comfortable position, the double doors swung open and Princess Celestia stepped through. She quickly crossed the distance between them before holding out a hoof. He took it in a talon and shook briefly, then got to his feet.

“I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting.” She waited until he'd gotten to his feet before starting back through the doors. “Especially with the room in such a terrible state. I hope you have not been here overlong.”

“Only a couple of minutes,” he admitted.

“That's good.” A pair of her guards saluted as the procession made its way through the doors. The princess nodded at them; Swiftwing ignored them. “Would you like anything to eat or drink?”

"I would appreciate some coffee," he said.

Celestia nodded pleasantly and whispered into one of her guard's ears. "He'll bring it to our chambers," she said pleasantly. "No food?"

"We do not eat the same things, you and I," Swiftwing said. "Surely you know this by now."

"Perhaps one day I might entice you into trying one of our selection of salads. The castle employs a number of chefs whose sole skills revolve around them."

"And perhaps one day I can entice you into trying one of our chef's stuffed quails. The meat is so tender, it practically falls off the bone." Swiftwing paced down the hallway behind her, his mind brimming with questions. It was obvious that this meeting regarded the creature in Ponyville—the one Gerard had sent a telegram about—and he was burning to know how much she was going to share with him. Too little, and he could press his knowledge to his advantage, perhaps even seize an ambassador or two for the griffons.

Protocol, however, demanded that he not bring up the subject until after they had been seated, and taken a drink of the coffee he was now regretting having requested. Celestia was sipping her cup with maddening slowness.

“I wish to thank you for your support of our new embassy.” Celestia took a sip of her tea. “I know we've had our differences in the past, but I'm grateful we've been able to put them behind us in this case. It's such an unprecedented situation—but of course, you know that.

“And for your embassy here in Canterlot to have been so helpful on such short notice, too. I realize that our citizens haven't always seen eye-to-eye, but it's good to know who our friends are in a case like this. Why, I had to request a favor from the minotaur embassy, so of course they knew, but they didn't send a representative.”

Swiftwing shifted uncomfortably. The whole situation—from the waiting room to the meeting—seemed off. He couldn't put a talon on it, but Celestia's smile looked more smug than normal. “We do object to the way the situation has been handled thus far.”

“It has been quite a learning process,” Princess Celestia admitted. “And I do apologize for the mess your representative encountered. We didn't have any time to finish the embassy before the meeting—but you will agree, do you not, that having the building is preferable to holding the meeting in some makeshift quarters? I remember when we used to hold these meetings in open fields, under mildewed pavilions.”

“I, well, yes,” he mumbled, suddenly finding himself at a loss for words.

Celestia nodded, as if that settled the matter. “Good. Once the business of the trial has been settled, we'll bring Dale to Canterlot for a proper reception at the castle. You, of course are invited. I hope that Miss Heartstrings can attend, but of course, the whole situation is a bit precarious right now.”

Swiftwing nodded eagerly. “Yes, her situation. We object to how she was nominated without any input from other races, especially as . . . such a situation demands a show of unity." His eyes gleamed. "We were most concerned to learn that she is on trial so soon after you sponsored her."

“Well of course it's only temporary,” Celestia said smoothly. “As are all of our ambassadorial posts. They have traditionally been so.”

She took a quill in her field and wrote a brief note on a sheet of paper, before looking back up at Swiftwing. “Excuse me. My secretary is absent today. She found herself ill with a nasty case of—“

“Poll evil,” Swiftwing muttered. A disease which sounds conveniently made-up. “I do hope she finds herself well quickly.” He scraped a talon across the floor. “We—the griffon embassy—would be quite willing to provide you with a personal secretary as a show of friendship. You'd be amazed how quickly a griffon can take notes with his talon. It's far more efficient than using a field to write, so he wouldn't miss a detail . . . and of course, he'd have a ready supply of quills.”

Celestia nodded placidly. “I will consider it. An assistant to Princess Luna's Night Court would be welcome, and a good starting point for a secretary.” She glanced down at the table and shuffled a few papers around. "I'm sorry. Raven usually has things so well laid-out."

Swiftwing shifted his weight around as the silence between them grew. “I want to know when we'll get to meet him,” he blurted out. “You can't keep a diplomat from us forever, you know. Even if you are hiding him outside of Canterlot.”

“You know full well that we don't hide things from the other races.” Celestia lifted up a newspaper and began floating it towards Swiftwing. “This newspaper is one of the first things which was brought to my attention this morning.” She narrowed her eyes as the paper drew close to the griffon. “You'll be pleased to know that while the front page devotes itself to a rather speculative article about Dale, the photospread on the next few pages is quite revealing.”

As Swiftwing snatched the paper and began flipping through it, Princess Celestia continued on. “I can only assume that the reporter made a mistake in the griffon's title, since I was unaware you'd had a son. I do pride myself on my command of Catalan, and read your newspapers every morning. They’ve never mentioned a son.”

Ignoring the look of dawning horror on Swiftwing's face, Celestia continued on. “So, assuming he isn't, I congratulate you on promoting an unrelated griffon to such an important role, and I can't wait to meet him at the next meeting." She reached with her aura under the table and lifted a package wrapped in simple brown paper.

“There were no official griffon photographers present, to the best of my knowledge. All the papers reported a sole griffon, as did the personal retinue of the various nobles who managed to make the train trip to Ponyville in time. I can only conclude that you lack a photograph suitable for framing, so I took the liberty providing one for you.” Celestia gave him a benign smile. “And they really do seem to have hit it off—Dale and Sharpbeak—so I'm sure that they'll be pleased to meet again here in Canterlot. Have you considered having him as the liaison to the embassy in Ponyville? We'd love to see more of him.”

Swiftwing shredded the wrapping and glared at the photograph, unaware that Princess Celestia had finished speaking. He wanted to call out that it was a fraud—that she had somehow had her ponies manipulate the photograph. She might not have thought of it, but maybe one of her EIA ponies had done it without informing her. They could have been on to Gerard; he'd spent more time in Canterlot than was wise . . . but what if it wasn't fake? If he opened his beak and accused her of trickery, what then? Gerard had been in the field ever since the cowardly pegasus had come by the embassy, and he had gone to Ponyville. I'm going to pluck him bare when he comes back, Swiftwing decided.

“It's very nice, Princess,” he said smoothly. “I will be sure to give it the place of honor it deserves.”

"I'm so glad you like it. I've had copies made for the library in Ponyville and Canterlot, as well as the embassy in Ponyville."

Cheerilee paused on the street in front of the embassy to collect her thoughts. At the hospital, it had been easy enough to just imagine Dale and Ka-th-rin as lost foals, in need of simple correction by an adult, but now that he had his own home—and more importantly, a brace of guards at the door—things were taking a more serious turn. What if I teach him something wrong? What if he doesn't learn fast enough to make Princess Celestia happy? Or what if he mispronounces something important at a diplomatic meeting and insults somebody?

She pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind, also ignoring the faint odor from the building, and made her way to the door. I hope he's read through the books Twilight brought him. I should have had a drink before I came over.

Once the Guards were satisfied that she wasn't a changeling or whatever it was they were guarding against, Diamond Mint admitted her to the embassy. Cheerilee politely stepped clear of the door before taking a look around the room. She'd been curious ever since the meeting about how the embassy looked inside, although she was far too polite to have tried to wrangle herself an invitation.

The air was filled with the pleasant aroma of sawdust and plaster, and she quickly spotted Dale. Unfortunately but unsurprisingly, he was no more studious than her fillies and colts, and while it was nice to see him getting along so well with other ponies, the fact that Ambrosia was gesturing what she wanted done showed the severe limitations of his lack of language, something she had every intention of fixing as quickly as possible.

She called out his name, and as soon as he turned, she pointed a hoof off in the direction of his office. Cheerilee watched him as he climbed down the scaffolding, forgoing the steps at the end in favor of lowering himself down the diagonal braces like some kind of monkey. Once he was on the ground and moving in the right direction, she tucked herself in behind him, herding him like she would a schoolfilly that didn't want to come in from recess.

He stopped so quickly that she nearly hit her head on his hindquarters, but ducked aside just in time. Dale turned and made to walk out of the room, but a quick push in the stomach ended his rebellion, and he took his place at his desk, sinking into the enormous chair with a resigned look on his face.

Cheerilee sorted through the scattered books, quickly finding a foal’s primer. She reached up on the desk and flipped it open, turning it to face him.

“Good afternoon, Dale,” she began. He looked down at the book, trying to find the words, then looked back up at her. She shook her head. “Good. Afternoon. Dale.”

“Good afternoon Dale?” he repeated, then looked up at her with a smile. “Good morning. Not morning. Afternoon. Good afternoon. Um, Good afternoon Chair-ully.”

“Cheerilee,” she automatically corrected, touching a hoof to her breast.

“Chair—alee.” He moved his mouth, trying to get a feel for the proper pronunciation of her name. “Cha—Cheerilee?”

She nodded, and put her hoof on the book, indicating the first words. Normally, she would go through the book a single word at a time, but Dale already knew how to read his language. “It is the first day,” she began, then waited for him to reply.

“It . . . is the fer-fu-first day?” He looked up for her nod of approval, but before she could continue, he pointed down at the word which was giving him trouble. “First? What is first?”

“It's the beginning of a series,” she began, belatedly remembering that he barely spoke Equestrian. She wrinkled her muzzle—she'd heard Lyra speak to him, and while she'd thought the mare was overly condescending, it was now painfully obvious that he had no vocabulary to speak of.

If she'd stopped to consider the actual magnitude of her task, she would have turned tail and walked right back out of the embassy. Dale needed more than a simple schoolteacher to get him up to speed; he was far behind what any filly would have known before she even set hoof in the schoolhouse. Instead, she tapped her hoof on the desktop. “One.” She waited until he repeated the word, then tapped twice. “Two.”

Dale's face brightened. "Three," he said, tapping on the desk three times. When she gave him an encouraging nod, he counted all the way to twelve.

Satisfied that he remembered his numbers, she turned the paper sideways, and then wrote one through six across the top. Below them, a series of sketches of a mare preparing to go shopping, buying a melon, apples, and a bunch of carrots, then returning home and putting them in the pantry. “One, mare puts on—gets—bag. Mare gets bag.”

Dale nodded, and repeated it back to her.

“First, mare gets bag.”

Dale scratched his head, then parroted that sentence back.

Cheerilee was wracking her brain for a different way to illustrate it, since it was obvious he was missing the concept, when he snapped his finger. As she watched, he reached over for the quill with deliberate slowness. “One: Dale take quill.”

She nodded.

“Two: Dale make quill ink.” He illustrated by dipping it in the inkpot. “Three, Dale make words.” He scrawled out “Lyra” on the paper. “Or—first Dale take quill.” He repeated the motion. “Then Dale make quill ink.”

A smile touched her face as he looked at her hopefully. “Yes. One is first. Two is second.”

“Second?”

“First one, then second two.” They continued the process until they'd reached sixth, then she moved the papers aside and picked the book back up. “It is the first day.”

Had such an unprepared student arrived in her classroom, Cheerilee would have had stern words with her parents. In Dale's case, he had virtually no knowledge of the Equestrian language, and despite the fact it had taken them an hour to get through a beginning primer, Cheerilee felt her heart swell with pride at how well Dale was doing.

She closed the book and moved it aside, studying him across the table. He was shifting in his seat restlessly, so she looked at the spines of the books stacked on the desk, thinking which one might be a good choice, when Dale spoke.

"Dale . . . make water." His cheeks were tinged with a slight blush. "Dale go make water."

Cheerilee shook her head. "Bathroom."

"Bathroom?"

Cheerilee nodded. "Dale—I. I go to the bathroom. Dale speak."

"I go to the bathroom?"

She nodded again. "Go to the bathroom."

Dale got out of his chair and left the office. She listened to the friendly greetings from Ambrosia and Starlight, then the outside door opening and closing, before slumping to the desk. This was too much to take after a day in class. Every time she had to tutor a pony, she asked herself why she would take on one more responsibility when she could be home, relaxing with a good book or in her garden, or going on a date with her special somepony.

She jerked her head up as she heard Dale crossing the living room. He walked back into the room and sat back in his chair. "First Da . . . first I go to the bathroom. Second, I learn more words." He grimly picked up his quill, and motioned towards the stack of books.

Cheerilee could have leaned over the desk and hugged him. Instead, she pulled another primer from the stack. "Your Home," she began. "Your home is a wonderful place."

"What is wonderful place?"

Author's Notes:

You know what to do

Chapter 18: Verdict

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 18: Verdict
Admiral Biscuit

“No further questions of this witness, Your Honor.”

“Very well.” Luna glanced back over at the prosecution table. “Thy next witness?”

“We have no further witnesses.” Noble Voice bowed his head slightly. “The prosecution rests.”

Luna turned back to Fancy Pants. “Who dost thou call as thy first witness?”

“The defense calls upon Twilight Sparkle.”

Luna glared around at the packed courtroom as it exploded into muffled noise. Ponies were whispering into each other's ears, and quills were frantically scratching across papers. A unicorn sketch artist focused intently on the door in the hopes of capturing the perfect image of Princess Celestia's protege being escorted by a batpony, and when they opened, she got her wish. Luna's frown deepened—she was glad she'd put her hoof down and forbidden cameras. She'd had enough of them sullying a rousing hoofball match, crowded along the sidelines or fluttering up in somepony's view.

Twilight gave a brief bow to the bench, and Luna nodded politely in response. The bailiff showed her to her seat, and the unicorn spent what seemed like an unnecessarily long time getting comfortable. Fancy Pants gave no sign of impatience; he remained seated with a small smile on his muzzle, despite this being his most dangerous gambit. He'd decided to use her as a counter to both Professor Laureate and Sandy Tail, even though he had no idea how good a witness she'd actually make.

Canterlot gossip had indicated a schism between Twilight and the younger diarch; what it was had never been explained. The slightly frosty look from Luna confirmed his theory. He leaned over and whispered into Fleur's ear. “You question her. Keep your questions short and simple. We know she likes to lecture. She's brilliant, but naive. If there's a weak point in our favor, don't press it—let Noble fall into that trap.”

Fleur nodded, and stepped around the table. Twilight's ears fell as she moved toward the witness stand, and Fancy Pants had a moment of regret at his impromptu decision. Would she be hostile to Fleur? Some mares were—but he suspected that she'd soon open up to his Prench wife.

“Miss Twilight,” Fleur began, “I wonder if you could briefly state, for the record, your connection to this case?”

“Oh.” Twilight glanced down at the railing. “I was there when Princess Celestia came back. I had arranged the experiment which proved that Trixie could correctly identify living matter from a great distance, and theorized that she could put that to use through a telescope to find a distant planet which Princess Celestia might . . . visit.

“I wasn't invited on the first trip. I spent the night in the company of Princess Luna.” She glanced up at the bench, and Fancy Pants didn't miss the slight warming of the alicorn's expression. “When she got back, she invited Princess Luna, Lyra, and myself to her chambers for breakfast and a discussion of what she'd seen.”

“Which was Dale,” Fleur prompted.

“Yes. That was the important topic.” Twilight nodded. “She . . . wanted our opinion on how to deal with that.” She looked up at Luna. “You were there.”

“Objection!” Noble Voice leapt to his hooves. “We believe the court is bia—“ He immediately realized his mistake, and dropped back into his chair. “We withdraw our objection,” he said meekly.

“Art thou certain? Thou didst appear quite eager.”

Noble nodded.

“Pray continue.” Luna turned towards Twilight.

“I, um, told Lyra that she would be a better representative than me, even though I really wanted to meet Dale. We spent much of the next month on plans to communicate with him, and making guesses about what he'd be like.” Her ears lowered along with her voice. “We made a lot of wrong guesses.”

“So you—scratch that. Did Lyra, at any time, give any indication that she had a desire to bring Dale back to Equestria?”

“No, she never said anything about bringing him back.”

“She never asked for your help in modifying Starswirl's spell?”

“No. She was intimidated by how difficult it was. I—it was right on the edge of what I could cast, and Lyra couldn't at all. We had to have Princess Celestia help her, both in explaining some of the parts of the spell, and in boosting her magic.”

Fleur nodded. “Could you think of an easy way for a unicorn such as Lyra to modify Starswirl's spell, in order to bring Dale and Ka-th-rin to Equestria?”

When Twilight didn't answer, the audience in the courtroom leaned forward. When her head went down and her hoof began tracing over the desk, whispers were exchanged. Fleur glanced back at Fancy Pants, an unreadable expression on her face. As the silence dragged on, Twilight's hoof movements became more pronounced, and Noble Voice got a broad grin on his face, like his worst enemy had just fallen into her own trap.

Fleur kept her composure, even when Luna looked over her bench curiously at the unicorn making small gestures and moving her lips. Finally, after an agonizing minute, she looked brightly at Fleur. “I can't think of a single way that the spell could be modified by a unicorn of Lyra's skills.”

Fancy Pants resisted an urge to hoof-pump under the table, especially when he saw Noble Voice's head drop.

“The spell is adjustable, like most of Starswirl's spells,” Twilight informed Fleur. “But there are no elements which Lyra had the skill to work with. Now, if they were touching, that would be a different matter.”

Fleur glanced back at Fancy Pants, who tapped a hoof on his attache case and nodded.

“Could you explain that? Touching?”

“It's a standard feature in many teleport spells.” Twilight mumbled something under her breath, then looked back at Fleur eagerly. “The early versions only allowed for inanimate objects. According to his diary, Starswirl once teleported and wound up at his destination without clothes or shoes, and as a result modified the original spell. Subsequently, it was further modified to allow for a caster to take a companion who was touching her at the time the spell was cast.”

“Wouldn't that require extra energy?”

Twilight nodded. “It does. When it's not planned for, it can be disconcerting, or even uncomfortable for both parties. It can also make the spell fail, if the unicorn is not putting enough energy in it.

“But Starswirl worked around that in his spell!” Twilight grinned. “I saw what he'd done, based on what Princess Luna told me a few nights ago. In case of extra mass, his spell pays for it with a reduction in accuracy and inertial damping.”

Fleur looked at her blankly. “Can you explain that to a laypony?”

“Oh . . . well, if the caster finds herself with too much mass—if another pony interferes and is also teleported, or if her cargo is too heavy—the spell allows for it instead of fizzling. But, since the energy has to come from somewhere, it is taken from the local inertial equalizing portion of the spell. Thus, if a pony takes along too much mass, she hits her destination a lot harder than she meant to—unless she had the energy to compensate for that. I had that happen with Spike one time.”

“Couldn't that be dangerous?” Fleur looked uncertainly at Twilight. “I'm not a particularly strong caster myself; I doubt I could teleport much further than a hoofball field. If I remember my classes correctly, the inertial dampening over longer distances puts a natural limit on most spells. If you lost that. . . .”

“If it were entirely unmanaged,” Twilight said, “It could. Historically, there have been many cases of unicorns being killed from a mismanaged teleport. In this case, since Starswirl initially designed the spell to transport a unicorn a vast distance, he had the foresight to account for that. I'd need a chalkboard to write out the pertinent part of the spell, but in essence it shed a lot of excess energy by dumping it in the lake. That's why the raft was destroyed. If Lyra and Dale had landed on the ground, though. . . .”

“Then we wouldn't be having this trial, would we?”

Twilight shook her head.

“That seems like an excessively risky modification—wouldn't it be safer to just have the spell fail for lack of energy?”

“Most spells would, but this one is different. It was meant to transport a unicorn to a different planet, and bring her back if she was unable to cast a return spell on her own. Starswirl was always interested in other worlds, and since he explored some of them himself, he wanted to assure his safe return. He probably didn’t consider what might happen if a unicorn found herself unexpectedly returning with four times the mass she’d started with. Once he got more involved with portals, he probably stopped working on the spell. Much of his research has been lost, unfortunately. This spell was among Clopurnicus’ records, or else we wouldn’t know of it.”

“I see. Thank you. One last question: you've spent some time with Dale—do you think he's dangerous?”

“No.” Twilight shook her head for emphasis. “He's very friendly and curious. I never felt intimidated when I was with him.”

“No further questions.”

“The prosecution may examine the witness.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Noble Voice remained seated at his table. “Miss Twilight, you've known Lyra for a long time, haven't you?”

“We went to school together. Then, when I moved to Ponyville, she was already here.”

“Mm-hmm.” He glanced at his notes. “And you told the defense that it was your idea that she should meet with Dale.”

“Yes.” Twilight shifted around on the bench.

“You're a curious pony, Miss Sparkle. Everypony who knew you in Canterlot agreed that you frequently stayed up all night pursuing a subject which had caught your fancy. If I were to ask around Ponyville, I bet anypony who knew you would say the same thing.” He narrowed his eyes. “Is that a fair assessment?”

Twilight blushed. “I guess so.”

“And you spent a month with Lyra, you said, working and planning for the next meeting. One which you would not be attending. Were you nervous about what Dale was really like?”

“No; I just thought he'd be more comfortable seeing a familiar face. I really wanted to go. There is so much we can learn from a totally alien species. Scientific samples could be taken, magical fields analyzed . . . he's given us books which have provided the barest grasp of his culture, but to see it for ourselves. . . .” Her eyes took on a distant, dreamy look.

“Did you spend all of your time in Canterlot with Lyra?”

“Much of it, although we split up to do research.”

“And in that time, did you ever study Starswirl's spell?”

“Of course! I'd never seen it before. I knew it existed, but it's locked in the archives, so we didn't discuss it in detail in class.”

Noble Voice nodded. “And did you discuss it with Lyra?”

“Yes. I helped her practice it. It's a very complex spell.”

“Earlier, when Fancy Pants asked if the spell could be modified, you said no. Professor Laureate testified earlier, and he also could not think of a way it could be modified. And yet—you had no trouble coming to the conclusion that a physical connection was all that was required to make multiple parties travel with the spell. Did you ever mention that to Lyra?”

Twilight nodded. “I don't know if she was listening to me, though.”

“I'm sure she was.” Noble Voice looked up at the bench. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

“The defense calls their final witness: Ambassador Lyra Heartstrings.”

Luna frowned as the audience began murmuring at the announcement. Lyra got up from the bench and walked over to the witness stand, giving a polite nod to Twilight as the unicorn relinquished her spot. Fancy Pants groaned: it was about the worst thing she could have done, implying Twilight might not be an impartial witness.

Once she'd settled into position, Fancy Pants got to his hooves and moved over next to the witness stand, turning to where he could watch both Luna and Noble Voice.

“We have already heard testimony from two Guards and Miss Twilight about what happened in Equestria, but the court has yet to hear from a witness who was actually present. Before I begin, I would like to introduce as evidence a series of drawings which Dale made.”

“I object.” Noble Voice glared at the witness stand. “How are we to know that she did not put him up to that—tell him exactly what to draw?”

“The court wishes to consider these drawings,” Luna said.

Fancy Pants nodded, and Fleur floated a packet of papers over to Luna. The alicorn took her time studying the drawings, while Lyra fidgeted on the bench. Quiet conversations broke out in the courtroom, and a few runners took the opportunity to head for the telegraph office, the reporters’ copies held firmly in their auras. Luna finally reached the end of the drawings, and looked curiously down at Lyra.

“Thou mayst begin,” she instructed Fancy Pants.

As soon as Dr. Stable and Lecol had finished with their procedure, the nurses began clearing the equipment, while the two unicorns stumbled off to recuperate. Kate was fast asleep; Redheart had upped her morphine dosage prior to the operation. Zecora gently worked her way out of Kate's tight embrace—she'd volunteered to be the distraction this time.

They'd debated for hours on the best way to move her. Obviously, since she was ambulatory, the easiest way would have been for her to walk—but now that Dale and Lyra were gone, nopony could tell her what to do. Their choice had also been influenced by Kate becoming restless in the afternoon, and having to be patiently corralled back to her room after she'd wandered loose in the hospital.

Once the surgical instruments were packed away, Redheart brought in a stretcher. With a great deal of effort, the three nurses and Zecora managed to transfer their unconscious patient off the bed, taking care not to cause further injury to her damaged hand.

Breathing heavily, Redheart trotted off to get the Guard, while the other two nurses busied themselves with gathering her few belongings—the extra clothing which Rarity had made, and the small pile of equipment which Dr. Stable had returned to her room after Dale had left. That had been the subject of much debate. Dr. Stable had wanted to send it to Canterlot, where the university ponies could get a look at it; Redheart and Snowheart had insisted that it be returned to her, reminding him that unless Kate died, her belongings were hers, not the Crown's.

As the guards took up their position around the stretcher, Redheart kept fretting over the girl, making certain that she was in a comfortable position that wouldn't exacerbate her injuries.

It's best for us to move her, Redheart thought. Intellectually, she knew it was true, but emotionally, letting an uncured patient leave the hospital felt like a failure. “Be careful,” she told the Guards. “No quick movements. Steady steps down the stairs, and keep the stretcher as level as you can. We don't want to jostle her.”

The move down the stairs turned into a tense adventure. Redheart watched the Guards like a hawk, barking out orders for each step they took, and the normally unflappable stallions withered under her assault. Everypony relaxed once Kate was on the ground floor, and the soldiers quickly rushed her out of the hospital and into a waiting wagon.

They could hardly have picked a worse time to perform the transfer. While the hospital was nowhere near the busy center of the town, lots of ponies were milling about, either on their way home from market, or just happening to pass by because they'd heard a rumor that something must be happening at the hospital, since there was a flight of Guards out front.

Still, the crowd stayed respectfully back as the Guards maneuvered the stretcher into the wagon. A few pegasi zoomed low overhead, getting a good glimpse of who or what was on the stretcher, before alighting in front of clusters of ponies and reporting what they'd seen.

Once Redheart was satisfied that Kate was properly secured in the back of the wagon, she clambered over the tailboard, unwilling to leave her patient behind. As far as she was concerned, her duty wouldn't end until Kate was safely in place at the embassy, at which point she'd be Sweetheart and Lecol's responsibility.

The wagon jerked under her, and she stumbled once before regaining her balance. Behind them, ponies were beginning to move, following the wagon to see where it went. She could faintly hear small remarks of disappointment as it turned off the path leading to the cemetery, and a few ponies broke off from the crowd, no longer interested in what was happening.

Dale left in a carriage pulled by the Guard, and he didn't attract so much attention. Maybe because everypony was already at the town rotunda, waiting to see him. She resisted the urge to stand at the back of the cart like a noble and wave her hoof at the audience, instead concentrating on Kate. Her biggest fear was that the girl would wake up and panic, maybe even jump out of the wagon.

But as they trundled over the stone bridge and into town proper, she began to relax. The jostling had finally caused Kate's eyes to flutter open, but she was still quite woozy, and showed no signs of flight. As a precaution, Redheart lowered her muzzle to Kate's chest and began gently nuzzling her.

“Easy, Ka-th-rin,” the nurse whispered. “We're almost there.” She knew her words wouldn't be understood, but hoped that the tone would be calming. “We don't have much further to go, and then you'll be home with Dale and Lyra.”

Kate nodded weakly and slowly brought her arms up, resting them on Redheart's withers. As the wagon jerked through a low spot, she gripped the mare tighter, before beginning to stroke her short coat.

She's looking better than when they brought her in. Her heart sounded strong, and the blood in her lungs had completely cleared up, thanks to their careful work. It had been dicey—she now knew that they had almost killed her when they first began fixing her broken ribs, and the thought made her shudder.

Redheart lifted her head slightly, ignoring the sound of protest from Kate. She took one glance at the stores they were passing to get an idea of where they were, before her eyes fixed on the parade that was following the wagon. We should have done this at midnight, when nopony would have witnessed it. It was too late now; the market was closed and this was the most interesting thing happening in town. At least we're not going by the pub, and at least the crowd is staying back from the Guards.

She lowered her head back down and let out a long breath, letting the stress of the last week escape. There would be follow-up visits for a while yet—the doctor and Lecol both estimated a half-dozen treatments would still be needed before her body could heal the rest of the way on its own—but they were out of the woods.

“You were in full gallop across the beach, and then what happened?”

“I felt—like something stung me. I went limp, fell down, and lost the spell.” Lyra brushed her mane out of her eyes. “That’s it. I woke up in the hospital.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Before the prosecution cross-examines the witness, the court will take a one-hour break for dinner,” Luna ordered. “The witnesses in the case are not to speak to each other, in the event that any of them need to be further questioned. Miss Mayor Mare has provided separate rooms for each.

“Both the prosecution and defense may use their respective chambers in whatever manner they choose. Food and drink have been provided in each room.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Fancy Pants nodded at Lyra, who looked absolutely exhausted. Her voice was rough, even though she'd emptied the pitcher of water that had been provided at the table.

He and Fleur escorted her to the small antechamber off the courtroom, and Fancy Pants busied himself making a plate for her. Meanwhile, Lyra dashed off to the bathroom.

“I hope she can hold out,” Fleur whispered.

“It's almost over,” Fancy Pants said quietly. “I want her to have a chance to eat in peace, and then I'll give her some final prompts for how to deal with Noble Voice. She's done very well so far. I'm proud of her.” He set Lyra's plate on the table, then glanced over at the still-closed bathroom door. “Dear, do you want to check on her? She might be trying to climb out the window.”

“You'd better leave me a couple of eclairs,” Fleur told him, glancing at the table. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and slipped into the bathroom.

Lyra paced around nervously as Fancy Pants attempted to give her last-minute instructions. Fleur, meanwhile, shuffled through the notes she'd taken, trying to anticipate what questions Noble Voice might ask.

Fleur looked up at the clock, and then at Lyra's nervous walk. She sighed and set the papers down on the table, then moved to intercept the agitated unicorn. As soon as Lyra was next to her, she nickered quietly and pressed the flat of her muzzle against Lyra's withers, shifting and turning as Lyra stopped.

“Easy,” Fleur whispered, leaning her weight into Lyra's side. “Relax. Don't worry about him. We'll take care of you.”

“I'm tired of being cooped up in here all day long,” Lyra muttered. “Tired of listening to him.” She waved a hoof off in the direction of the courtroom. “I just want this to be over with.”

“It's tough.” Fleur guided her to a bench, half-pushing until Lyra sat. “I know it's tough, but it will only be for a little bit longer.” She stood alongside Lyra, leaning slightly into the unicorn. “We'll take care of you . . . but you have to take care of yourself, too. You have to relax.” She let out a breath and continued speaking quietly, while Fancy Pants picked up the notes she'd abandoned.

“Don't rush. Take your time. Repeat the question to yourself before you answer. Don't tell him any more than you need to in order to answer the question.” She picked up a brush and began gently grooming Lyra's mane. “If it’s a vague question, don’t guess at what he wants answered. Ask him to clarify. He might try to catch you off-guard by asking a series of questions on one topic, and then changing subjects.” Fleur gave a small smile, while keeping the brush moving. “You won't win by guessing what he's going to ask next. Did you ever practice using nothing but defensive spells?”

“I was the best,” Lyra said. “My maestro said so.”

“Do that. React only to what he says, only when he asks a question.” She set the brush aside and ran her muzzle down Lyra's neck. “This is just another competition to him, and he revels in his victories. Don't let him have this one. We've put up a stronger case than he has so far. Keep up the momentum, and don't let him get under your skin, no matter what he might say.”

Lyra nodded and closed her eyes. She imagined her maestro's rock garden, picturing the smooth stones arranged in their gentle arcs. It didn't shiver in the wind, like a tree; its changes were slower, and only came about when a pony spent hours of her time meticulously raking and adjusting it into a pleasing shape.

As always, her first arrangement came to mind, her symphony in stone. She thought back to the familiar flows, of their melody and relationship, and she pictured the boulder in the very center, the one that no filly could so much as budge. What does the stone want?

She didn't notice as the door opened and the bailiff stepped in. Fleur nuzzled her in the barrel and she mechanically got to her hooves, returning to the courtroom with Fancy Pants in the lead and Fleur following. She gave honors to Luna, then made her way to the witness stand.

Her eyes kept focusing on Noble Voice, and she could almost see the stone in his eyes.

“Miss Lyra Heartstrings,” he began, making it sound like a curse. “Would you be so kind as to give the court a brief summary of how you happened to find yourself on the beach alone with the—with Dale?”

“Princess Celestia asked me, and I consented.”

“Surely you could have refused.”

Lyra smiled pleasantly at him, waiting for a question. Noble Voice shifted awkwardly, before glancing at his notes. “Did she give you an order?”

“No. She asked if I would, and I said yes.”

“Has she asked you to perform any other duties before?”

“Yes.” Lyra smiled sweetly at him. “She asked, by proxy, if I was willing to give my life to defend Equestria and uphold her laws, and I agreed. I still agree.”

“She . . . your oath as an Auxiliary Guard. Yes . . . that's hardly specific, though, isn't it? There was no threat at the time, nor was she asking you specifically to render her a service, or to defend Equestria from some looming invasion. Really, every guard gives the very same oath, don't they?”

“They do. And I hope they all mean it as sincerely as I do.”

“And yet you were so readily willing to break that oath and bring two hostile aliens to our land.” Noble Voice tilted his head towards the vacant jury box. “A treasonous act, if ever there was one.”

“Objection!” Fancy Pants slammed a hoof on the table. “Lyra is not charged with treason. If the prosecution believes she has committed treason, they ought to have charged her with it from the beginning, rather than on examination.”

“Sustained.” Luna narrowed her eyes and glared at Noble Voice. “Thou mayst not attempt to muddy the waters with accusations of misconduct with which thou didst not see fit to actually charge the defendant.”

“It's—“ Noble clamped his mouth shut as Luna's icy stare transfixed him. He shook it off and looked back at Lyra. “Very well. It is, by now, common knowledge that besides your first journey, you spent a second and then a third full day in an alien land. At the end of that third day, you returned to Equestria in the company of two injured creatures, who had to be immediately hospitalized due to the severity of their injuries.

“The court will note that, as stipulated by the defense, both of the wounded creatures were unconscious upon their arrival, and that the doctor stated that their injuries appeared to be magical in nature.” He glanced back at Lyra. “In your vast repertoire of dueling spells, how many stunning spells are you familiar with?”

Lyra flinched as he asked the question, and her eyes moved over to her bench, where no defense was forthcoming. Fancy Pants had his head down, a pen moving across his notepad, while Fleur gave her an encouraging smile.

“Two.”

“Two.” Noble Voice rolled his eyes. “Only two.” He nodded at his assistant, who floated him a small folder.

“Twinkleshine. In your match at Celestia’s School for Gifted unicorns she cast her final spell at your shield, your horn flashed, and she dropped.

“Then there was Sandy Tail, who testified earlier. He had the upper hoof, until you deflected his elemental water spell with a quarter-shield, twitched your head, and clipped him with the edge, breaking his concentration.

“And let’s not forget the Filly Nationals. Moondancer hit your shield with one spell—one—and she was prone. And yet you claim you only know two stunning spells? I find that hard to believe.”

“I used the stunning spell on Twinkleshine, after I blocked her attack. Sandy Tail—the shield hitting his horn was the same spellbreaker as if I’d done it with a hoof. In the Filly Nationals, I tweaked the shield so my opponent’s spell would charge it. Moondancer always went big on her spells, and I used that. Just a minor variation.”

“Just a minor variation.” Noble Voice nodded his head. “Like modifying a teleportation spell.” He let his words sit for a moment, but not long enough for Lyra to speak. “Now, you were trained under a Neighponese maestro, is that correct?”

“Yes—but let me make it clear that I don't know any variations on teleportation spells. They were prohibited in dueling.”

“Of course you don't.” Noble Voice shook his head sadly. “You were undergoing training with your maestro at the same time as you were enrolled in the Royal Canterlot Conservatory, isn't that so?”

Lyra nodded.

“Please speak aloud, so that the court reporter may record your responses,” he sneered.

“Yes, I was.”

“That's a little odd. Unconventional. Your cutie mark indicates that your special talent lies in music—anypony can see that—and yet you found yourself pursuing two wildly different skills.”

Music and martial arts share the same principles. “As I already testified, I was a duelist before I enrolled in the Conservatory,” she snapped.

Noble Voice gave her an offended look and turned to Luna. “I am simply trying to get to the bottom of this case, Ms. Heartstrings. There is no need to resort to personal insults.”

“You're one to—“ A frantic head-shake from Fancy Pants caused Lyra to snap her mouth shut.

“And I'm given to understand that some ponies find Neighponese teachings, ah, eccentric. Perhaps not the thing we ought to be teaching an impressionable unicorn filly.” He let that thought hang in the air as he went back to his table and took a drink of water. “Yet, despite all of this, you were given the honor of becoming an Auxiliary Guard. Tell me, how many of your peers were granted the same privilege?”

Lyra shrugged. “I don't know. Sandy Tail is a guard.”

“Yes, he just testified. But he went through proper training,” he snapped.

Lyra ground her teeth and looked over at her lawyers, who were engaged in a furious debate with each other. Finally, Fleur shook her head at Fancy Pants, who gave a small nod.

“Are you going to answer the question?”

“You didn't ask one,” Lyra said. “You implied that I didn't receive any training.”

“Ah, of course. How silly of me.” Noble Voice grinned. “After you were awarded with your rank, did you attend basic training at Trotheim?”

“No,” Lyra admitted.

“Any other military academy?”

“No.”

“And yet, every one of the Guards who accompanied you and the Princess did.” Noble Voice moved close to the stand and put a hoof on the railing. “Tell me, Ms. Heartstrings. Earlier, Guard Sandy Tail testified that he overheard Princess Celestia saying that if the situation appeared dangerous, they would teleport back to Equestria without you. Did the Princess, in fact, say words to that effect to you?”

Lyra nodded. “Yes, she said that. It might not have been phrased exactly that way, but that was the gist of what she said.”

“Words which should have been an indicator of how serious such a situation was. Indeed, you have already testified that you were willing—that you took an oath—to give your life in the defense of Equestria.” He took a breath and shifted back a step. “Words that ought to have made an impression on you . . . on how dangerous the situation might be. You did not back down; you approached this cre—Dale, and the first thing you did was to present to him. Why would you do that?”

“I . . . that's not what I was doing!” Lyra's face turned red. “I thought . . . I didn't want to appear dangerous, and he seemed curious. . . .”

“Have you recently had any intimate encounters with a stallion?”

“What!”

“Objection!” Fancy Pants slammed his hoof down on the table hard enough to knock a stack of papers onto the floor. “We have listened to Noble Voice engage in flights of fancy down every path imaginable in the desperate hope that Ambassador Heartstrings might confess to some salacious crime for the sole benefit of his sponsors and the Canterlot newspapers, but this goes too far. The charges in this trial in no way relate to Ambassador Heartstrings' personal life.”

“We believe that the defense has a valid point,” Luna said. “We fail to see how Lyra Heartstrings' love life is any way relevant to the matter at hoof.”

“Oh, it's relevant, Your Honor.” Noble Voice pointed to Luna's table, where Lyra's drawing was sitting on top of copies of Featherbrain's photographs. “It's as plain as the muzzle on my face that she had an interest in Dale, right from the very beginning. Her own actions—both on the beach and in the hospital—do not alter that fact. And what more basic motive is there? A mare in heat will do anything.”

“Objection!” Fleur bolted from her seat and stormed across the courtroom, her eyes flashing. “Do you base this on your own personal experience—because from what I've seen, a mare would have to be desperate to put herself under you—or have you not even been that fortunate in your life?”

“I don't have to reply to your insults! I am not—“

“Do you even have the slightest understanding of a mare’s—”

“ORDER IN THE COURT!” Luna's voice tore through the courtroom, her voice echoing off the walls. The banging of her gavel was anticlimactic as everypony turned their heads to face the bench. “We shall not have this trial degrade into an adolescent name-calling farce! You shalt conduct yourselves with dignity, or else we shall have ye ejected from the courtroom.”

“As to the matter of the objection, the court agrees that unless the prosecution can provide compelling proof that Lyra's past relationships bear significance in the case, they are irrelevant.”

“May I approach the bench?” Noble Voice asked.

Luna sighed. “Very well.”

“Your Honor,” Noble Voice whispered, “I understand that this is an uncomfortable topic for many ponies, but if we cannot question the motives behind this heinous crime, what case can we bring? Or has the court already decided the case? Should I just end my questioning and go back to Baltimare?”

“Thou art on thin ice,” Luna hissed. “We hope that thou hast just had a slip of the tongue, because it sounded to us as if thou wert suggesting we were prejudiced in this case, and we can assure thee this is not so.”

“Forgive me, Princess Luna.” Noble Voice bowed his head. “I of course did not mean to imply that your final verdict would be any less than fair. I just find it . . . frustrating that the defense is given such great latitude on what topics may or may not be explored, such that it may appear to other ponies—or to other nations—that there is an unfair bias in this case.”

“Very well.” Luna glared at him. “We do not wish to appear to be unfairly biasing the direction of your questioning. However, we remind you that this is a civil process, and thou art skirting the edge of civility. We shall allow thee to continue thine questioning, but know that we are reaching the end of our patience, and we shall not allow thee to make a mockery of our courtroom.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Noble Voice turned back to the witness stand, crossing the floor as he spoke. “Ms. Heartstrings, do you feel that perhaps one of the reasons Princess Celestia chose you for this mission was your, ah, broad cultural experiences?”

“I don't know.”

“But it is plausible, is it not, that the Princess took that into consideration?”

“She might have. Twilight was the first to suggest that I ought to be the one to go back, and then—“

“Does Twilight Sparkle know of your xenosociological interests?”

“It hasn't really come up in conversation, I guess.”

“She's the librarian,” Noble Voice said. “So, it would be reasonable to assume that she would have some idea what types of books you'd checked out from the library—and in a town like this, it would no doubt make an impression on her, wouldn’t it?”

“Objection!” Fancy Pants gave Noble Voice a flat stare. “What kind of statement is 'a town like this?'”

“I am merely establishing that the library is not a destination for many of the ponies who live in Ponyville. I am given to understand that the public school is quite recent, and many of the older ponies in town don't read much, if at all—as evidenced by the fact that before Twilight Sparkle came to Ponyville, there was no librarian.”

“Sustained,” Luna said flatly. “You may continue.”

“I can't say what kind of impression my reading habits would have on her,” Lyra said. “I told you before, we never had any kind of discussion about that.”

“She wasn't curious about your experiences with Neighponese culture?”

“It never came up.”

“Or when your chamber group hosted a minotaur choir?” Noble Voice grabbed a paper off his desk. “Tell me, it says here that the students shared rooms with the minotaurs. Because there weren't enough colt's rooms available, didn't you offer to host a bull?“

“Objection!”

The courtroom erupted into noise again as Lyra hung her head. Luna slammed her gavel down on the desk. “Sustained! We have warned thee, Noble Voice.”

“All I was asking was if she made an offer, or if the rooms were randomly assigned,” Noble Voice said smoothly.

Luna tapped her hoof on the front of the bench. Noble Voice approached it slowly and looked up at her with innocent eyes. “We warned thee,” Luna repeated. “We see full well what thou art doing, and we shall not tolerate thy flouting of Equestrian law. Thou hast one more chance to turn thine questions to a relevant subject before we muzzle thee.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Noble Voice stepped back from the podium. He brushed his mane back and turned to the witness stand, waiting patiently as the buzz of conversation in the courtroom died down.

“Miss Heartstrings, if I may change the subject. What happened that last day on the beach? I would like to hear it again in your own words.”

Lyra let out a deep sigh and began recounting how she'd spent her day. Noble Voice raised an eyebrow when she mentioned returning to Dale's camp and sharing lunch, but he didn't say a word. The whole court leaned forward attentively as she told the story, which had lost none of its fascination in the second telling. Dozens of quills were scratching across paper, accompanied by staccato bursts from the court reporter's typewriter. Even Luna was watching Lyra with rapt attention. Finally, she reached the end of her story, and Noble Voice nodded pleasantly.

“That must have been quite frightening,” he said, “to have been confronted with dozens of creatures like Dale all at once.”

“There were three others I saw,” Lyra said. “Three.”

“But there must have been more on the boats,” Noble Voice countered. “Surely you would have expected there to be.”

“It happened so quickly . . . I guess I didn't think about that,” Lyra admitted.

“So quickly.” He nodded. “Like when Dale knocked one of them over with your saddlebags. He didn't say a word before that, did he? Not to you, and not to the other creature?”

“He pushed one over first,” Lyra said. “Then he threw my saddlebags at the second.” Fancy Pants dropped his head onto his hoof.

“Of course. He attacked one of them with his talon, and then attacked a second. Forgive me for my misstatement. Then he told you to run, is that correct?”

“Yes . . . it was one of the words he'd taught me.”

“And you did—back towards the safety of the shield. You knew—from what Princess Celestia had told you—that once you crossed its border, you would be safe.”

Lyra nodded, and Noble Voice continued. “You also knew—and have said previously—that Princess Celestia had stated to you that this mission was so fraught with danger that if things turned violent, she would leave you behind for the safety of other ponies, is that correct? She would abandon you to your fate?”

“That wasn't an issue while I was meeting with Dale alone.” Lyra leaned forward in the chair. “Nopony else's life was in danger.”

“You believed that once you were safely inside the shield, you could dispel it, and you would be safely returned to Equestria. At that point, whatever happened to Dale would no longer be your concern. You could have simply returned, given a report on what you'd learned, and then let the Princess decide whether or not it was worth risking another mission.

“But tell me—I want to make sure I have this right.” He glanced over at Luna for an instant, before returning his gaze to the witness stand. “Did you look back over your shoulder and see Dale at any point during your gallop to safety?”

“Yes—he got off to a quicker start than I did, but as soon as I broke into a canter, I passed him.”

“Mm hmm. And the other two creatures—the ones he'd knocked over—where were they? Did you see them?”

“They were further back. Only Dale and Ka-th-rin were near me.”

“And—based on your judgement of how fast Dale was running, did you believe that you could be caught by Ka-th-rin before your reached the shield?”

“No.”

“So that gave you time, didn't it? Time enough to modify the spell—but you misjudged. You didn't want to leave Dale—you knew that Princess Celestia would get your report and not allow you back. So you—excuse me.” He turned and grabbed the notepad his assistant was scribbling on. “So you 'suddenly felt your muscles cramp, fell over, and the spell failed.' This, despite the mare—the Ka-th-rin being nowhere near you, and having shown no aptitude whatsoever for any kind of magic. Indeed, the doctor's own tests show that they haven't got the magical potential to sprout a single piece of dandelion fluff, but she could stun a grandmaster from that distance? And then you don't remember anything else until you woke up in the hospital, in the company of her and Dale? Isn't that convenient?”

“That's what happened,” Lyra insisted. “I don't know why.”

“But I do! Maybe you believe that you never modified the spell—maybe you honestly can’t remember—which I doubt—but what happens when a unicorn overexerts herself? And I remind you that you're under oath.”

“She collapses,” Lyra said woodenly.

“She collapses,” Noble Voice repeated. “And we all know that the recovery time—the refractory period, if you will—is directly tied to the magical expenditure. It is obvious that you, at the last second, modified the spell out of your twisted desire to keep Dale for yourself—and you got your wish; you're sharing a house with him now.” He shook his head sadly. “Tell me, is it worth it? Have you gotten him in your bed yet? Is he—“

“Objection!”

“THOU ART DONE!” Luna eyes flashed white as she slammed her gavel against the desk hard enough to break the handle. She launched herself out of her chair, her silver-shod hooves digging into the podium. “WE WARNED THEE TIME AND AGAIN! Bailiff, remove Noble Voice from our courtroom. We shall deal with him later.”

“With pleasure.” He bowed his head and lit his horn, wrapping Noble Voice's hooves in ethereal hobbles. Dozens of eyes watched as he was shoved down the center aisle, the Lunar Guard against his shoulder. A collective sigh echoed through the courtroom as the doors slammed shut.

Luna took her time getting back to her seat, and brushed the broken gavel aside with a look of distaste. “We have reached our verdict.”

Fancy Pants’ mouth dropped open in shock. Normally, he’d have had a chance to question Lyra one more time, to clear up any questions which the prosecution raised. He leaned over to Fleur, and the two touched horns affectionately.

Lyra took her stand in front of the bench, her posture rigid. She looked up at Princess Luna and waited.

“Ambassador Heartstrings. We, the court, find thee not guilty of the charge of deliberate sabotage. We find that the prosecution failed to prove either a motive, or a reasonable explanation of means.

“We, the court, believe that the charge of Dale and Ka-th-rin being dangerous creatures should not have been levied, and dismiss it.

“We, the court, find thee guilty of one charge of negligent injury. Thou hadst ample opportunity to warn Dale of the nature of thy spells and the risks thereof, and thou didst not. We therefore, in accordance with Martial Law, demote thee one rank in the Guard, effective from the time of injury. We do not find thee responsible for Ka-th-rin’s injuries, as by thine testimony and Dale’s drawings, there was no opportunity to warn her of the danger.

“We, the court, find thee negligently culpable for the charge of transporting Dale and Ka-th-rin to Equestria. Normally, in such cases, it is the injured nation who presents charges to the Crown. In this case, the court has no means of soliciting their opinion on the matter. Therefore, the court decrees that thou shalt lose thy diplomatic immunity in the matter of any charges which the injured nation chooses to press. Upon their request, thou shalt present thyself to their courts so justice may be done upon thee. Until that time, thou shalt serve as an ambassador to the best of thine abilities.”

Luna glanced over the courtroom. “The court is dismissed. Bailiff, bring Noble Voice to us.”

Lyra bowed to Luna, touching her muzzle to the courtroom floor. She turned and headed out of the courtroom, Fleur and Fancy Pants neatly bracketing her as she passed the defense table.

“Do you feel up to facing reporters now?” Fancy Pants whispered. He brushed against her side, and could feel her muscles quivering under her skin.

Lyra shook her head.

“Fleur—take her out the back, and somewhere calm and quiet. Our hotel room, maybe, or back to the embassy if she wants. I’ll deal with the wolves. Buy you some time.”

“I wanna go to Bonnie’s,” Lyra whispered.

Author's Notes:

Author's notes! CLICK HEREOnto the Pony Planet

Chapter 19: Surprise Meetings

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 19: Surprise Meetings
Admiral Biscuit

Dale breathed a sigh of relief when Cheerilee finally put away the lesson materials. He knew that they'd gotten more accomplished in a few hours than he and Lyra had in their time on the beach, but Cheerilee wasn't nearly as fun an instructor.

Just the same, he thanked her for her instruction as best he could, mentally kicking himself when he saw the small frown on her face that indicated he'd mispronounced a word. Well, at least I got her name right.

He followed her out into the main room, nearly tripping over her backside when she went straight instead of turning for the front door. Dale paused to collect his thoughts, and get a look at how far the construction ponies had progressed.

For the small team they'd had, they'd done a good day's work. The banister was in place, complete as far as he could tell. The windows were trimmed out, and he heard running water from the bathroom, which meant that the plumber pony had finished her tasks, at least downstairs. Two of the house's biggest drawbacks remedied in a day—and even if the upstairs bathroom wasn't done yet, it would only be a matter of time. They had all the fixtures in there, after all.

He looked down as a nose bumped his arm. The construction pony from the hospital was standing next to him, and when she saw she had his attention, she pointed to the banister.

“Thank you,” Dale said.

She stepped back in surprise, before giving him a broad smile. “You're welcome.” She pointed a hoof at the dining room, and gave him a rapid burst of Equish, which was completely incomprehensible. Not waiting for an answer, she headed into the dining room, and Dale followed her.

The table was already crowded with ponies, from the foreman who had been looking at drawings in the morning, to the plumber. Cheerilee was sitting next to the stallion who had been helping with the banister; the carpenter took the vacant seat between him and the head of the table.

Their conversations trailed off as Dale took his place, and he wondered if he wasn't making a mistake—maybe he was supposed to eat in the office. He thought about how nervous Diamond Mint had gotten when he'd had his pork chop for breakfast. She was one of his servants; she must have been told before. How would complete strangers react? He couldn’t help but feel the dinner was about to be a magnificent disaster of misunderstandings.

On the other hand, they'd shared pie with him for lunch, and none of them had thought that strange, and he had been directed into the dining room. In the hospital, too—he'd eaten meals with the doctor and nurses and a child. It vaguely reminded him of a Victorian dinner, although he couldn't say why.

To his relief, Cheerilee took charge. She looked over the table, said a brief phrase, and then clearly and slowly said “I’m Cheerilee.”

From the confused look on their faces, Dale guessed that they all already knew what Cheerilee’s name was. The plumber caught on the quickest. “Silver Spanner,” she said.

Dale repeated her name cautiously—the last thing he wanted to do was screw their names up so badly that they wouldn’t come back and work on the house again, but he needn’t have worried. They chuckled as he mispronounced Ambrosia’s name, but she patiently corrected him, before letting the stallion next to her speak.

By the time they’d gotten done introducing themselves, the mood at the table had lightened considerably. Dale was still nervous, but it helped to know their names—it wasn’t a meal with strangers any more; now it was a meal with acquaintances. And, upon reflection, he was in more familiar company than he’d been during the stuffy meeting the night before. Aside from Cheerilee, they were all working ponies, who got their hooves dirty actually doing things.

While he was thinking, Diamond Mint started bringing trays out from the kitchen. Not surprisingly, she began by putting two large bowls of salad on either end of the table, with a smaller bowl of some sort of hay next to them.

I really should have read Emily Post, Dale thought, nervously looking up and down the table. He was probably the guest of honor—but did that mean he was supposed to eat first, or last? Should he serve himself, or wait for Diamond Mint to do it? And which utensil should he use? Did they arrange them from outside in, or was there some other pattern? What about Lyra? They probably weren't expecting her to show up if dinner had already been served.

Cheerilee leaned forward, and looked at Dale. “Go ahead,” she told him.

Dale nodded, and reached for the salad bowl, scooping a respectable pile on his plate. He considered the hay, but decided not to risk it. He'd occasionally chewed on a sprig of grass when he was out camping, but it wasn't the kind of thing he wanted on his salad.

Out of habit, he passed the bowl to his left, setting it in front of Ambrosia. In a flash, Diamond Mint was behind the carpenter, helpfully lifting out some salad with her aura, and following it with some hay. He watched as she continued down the line that way—helping the normal ponies, but letting the unicorns do it themselves.

Is there a caste structure here? Is she serving the normal ponies because she's superior, or inferior? Or is it just a case of being helpful to them? Does every one of them have a horned helper at home, either a servant or a family member, or do they have a different protocol when they're on their own? The doctor didn't help the nurses—was it because it was a less-formal meal, or because he outranked them?

He was still trying to sort out their mealtime etiquette when he heard the clatter of silverware and looked up to see Cheerilee giving Rough Tumble a dirty look. Dale realized that everyone had been served, and was waiting on him to begin, so he picked up the outermost fork and speared a pile of salad, managing to get it to his mouth without dropping any, which was fortunate, since all the ponies were watching him intently.

I hope I didn't just do something else wrong. He glanced down at his plate—he hadn't paid any attention to what was in the salad. There were several kinds of leaf—he vaguely recognized some of them, but he couldn't name them—as well as carrots, raisins, beets, and walnuts. Well, that explains why it's so sweet. Dale looked back up—none of the ponies were looking at him in horror; they'd all bent to their own plates, and were busily eating and not paying him any attention at all, which was a relief.

Unexpectedly, once the salad course was gone, Diamond Mint didn't take away the plates. She brought a tray of sandwiches—about the last thing Dale had expected for a semi-formal dinner. Or do they consider sandwiches formal? He'd have to write this down in one of his notebooks. Maybe with enough observation, he could make sense of it.

As usual, none of the other ponies touched their sandwiches until he'd taken a bite of his. Just like the ones Lyra had had on the beach, his had flowers on it. Dale chewed slowly, letting the other ponies enjoy their own food, while he considered whether it would be insulting to take the flowers off his sandwich, or just eat it the way it was.

He was interrupted by Diamond Mint bringing around drinks. Each of them already had a mug of water at their place, just like in a restaurant, along with a second empty glass. She held the tray in front of him so he could see what she had to offer. Luckily, she'd also been kind enough to place a small card under each bottle which had a picture of the contents, but the labels weren't quite specific enough for him to be certain. An apple was probably apple juice; an apple and a barrel was less certain.

Barrels are used to keep things. He had a memory of watching a documentary about the Jack Daniel’s distillery—they aged it in oak barrels or something. When he examined a card with a hop and barrel, it clinched the deal. A barrel means it’s aged—and therefore alcohol. No barrel, and it’s juice.

The last thing he wanted to do was get drunk in front of a bunch of strangers at a formal dinner, so he selected the apple juice as the safest option, before turning his attention back to his dinner partners. He still hadn't solved the sandwich dilemma.

Fortunately, Rough Tumble had removed the tomatoes from his sandwich and left them neatly on his plate, and Silver Spanner didn’t like the cheese, which was all the excuse Dale needed to pick out the flower petals. Diamond didn't give the stallion a dirty look when she poured him a drink, so it was probably okay to be a picky eater. Hopefully, the cook wouldn't be mad at him.

The tray got passed around a second time, and Dale took another sandwich, once again peeling off all the flowers. Diamond kept up her patrol of the table with the drinks, refilling cups as they emptied. Conversations began to erupt around the table, which had the unfortunate effect of making Dale feel more like an outsider again: he hardly understood a word which was spoken. Cheerilee tried several times to get a conversation going with him—more out of a sense of politeness than any real belief that they could have a meaningful discussion, he was sure.

A fruit course came next, and Dale took one of everything to try. The fruits were all nearly identical to their Earthly counterparts, although slightly larger, and much more flavorful. Unfortunately, there was only just enough to go around—he would have liked to have had more. I'll have to tell Diamond Mint or Starlight to stock up on fruit, he thought. It's really good.

Diamond Mint ended the meal by bringing out a pot of tea and a tray of cookies. Dale had never been much of a tea-drinker, so he only took small sips of his. It was very bitter, although the cookies helped to get the taste out of his mouth.

The construction ponies were the first to leave. Both Rough Tumble and Silver Spanner gave him hoof-bumps on the way out; Ambrosia went one step further and brushed her nose across his cheek, much to his confusion. Dale smiled as each one of them leaned into the kitchen and spoke to Starlight before filing out of the dining room, leaving him alone with Cheerilee.

She seemed in no particular hurry to finish her tea, and Dale was starting to wonder just how rude it would be to get up and leave—but she settled the matter when she put down her cup and got out of her seat. She actually went all the way into the kitchen, and spoke with the cook for almost a minute before she came back out, gave Diamond Mint a friendly nuzzle, and then departed, leaving him alone with the servants.

Diamond began clearing the table, and Dale helped her, ignoring the sharp look she gave him. He was going to be with them for a while, and he might as well start working out a fair division of labor. Paid or not, he couldn't just sit idly by while they did all the work—it just wasn't in his nature.

Once all the dishes had been taken to the kitchen, he made a brief stop in the bathroom, before returning to the office and taking notes on the night's meal.

“I'm so glad we're finally done in this miserable town,” Perry griped as he folded a shirt and tucked it neatly into his suitcase. “I can't imagine the mountain of correspondence I'll have to catch up on when I get back to the university.”

“I just leave mine to my secretary.” Featherbrain had a more direct approach to packing—she grabbed hooffulls of her belongings and shoved them in her bag in a gigantic wrinkled mess. He winced as she slammed her hooves down on the flap of her suitcase, trying to get the bulging luggage to shut properly.

Why did she pack so much stuff when she never wore any clothes the whole time we were here? She'd worn her mismatched socks to bed, but that was it. The books accounted for some of the bulk, and of course she had her grooming supplies, but the fabric contents of her suitcase were a total mystery to him. Had he been more curious, he would have gone through it while she was out, but he wasn't sure he really wanted to know what she'd packed.

“She's probably going to have quite a lot for you to deal with when you get back,” Perry said conversationally as he glanced around the room one last time to make sure he'd not forgotten anything.

“Probably.” Featherbrain finally succeeded in yanking the straps on her suitcase tight. “That'll remain a mystery for another day—I'm not going back to Canterlot with you.”

“You—wait, you're not going back?”

She shook her head. “I still haven't gotten a chance to examine them fully. Now that Dale's at the embassy, I'll have the perfect chance to observe how he behaves in a natural setting. I should have thought of that sooner, but I got so excited when I first saw them in the hospital.”

Perry narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean by 'observe him in a natural setting?'”

Featherbrain had the grace to blush slightly. “Well, you know, at the embassy—he's got to come out sometime, and I can watch and see what he does.”

“He'll have Guards with him all the time, I'm sure.”

“Not in the backyard,” she said cheerfully.

“And you've rented a room that looks over the backyard, haven't you?” Perry groaned. “I don't imagine you've told the dean yet.”

“I've got tenure.” Featherbrain shrugged. “As long as I'm back when the fall term starts, it's none of her business what I do. She didn't complain when I went to Siput to study the native slugs; this is no different. Besides, Lecol's gonna be here a while longer, too, helping the girl. She'll be happy that I got us a room so close.”

“I'm sure,” Perry said sarcastically, wincing at the thought of those two sharing a room. “Whatever, have fun. I'm going to take my bags to the train station, then go visit my brother while I'm in town. Haven't seen him since he came to Canterlot for Hearth's Warming last year.”

“Toodeloo!” Featherbrain grabbed her suitcase in her teeth and dragged it up to the window, before grabbing the ledge with her forehooves. “I'll see you in the fall,” she muttered around her baggage.

Perry watched her go before a broad smile crossed his face. Not having her at the university would be a relaxing change of pace, and it would make the train ride much more enjoyable. He and Ivory Star could have a nice, educated conversation on the way back.

He eagerly trotted to the train station and dropped off his luggage with the baggage attendant before making his way back into town. Even the wet ground didn't dampen his spirits—the sun was shining, and in a few hours he'd be back on the evening train to Canterlot.

He turned down a side street and paused in thought. None of these houses look familiar. Hmm. I thought he lived just down the road from the bakery. Or was that the farrier's house? Perry chuckled to himself. Funny how a small town could change in the span of years—to the ponies who lived there, the changes were so gradual, they hardly noticed. Well, there's no shame in asking for directions. Halfway up the street, a grey pegasus wearing the blue coat and hat of the Equestrian Post was dutifully delivering bundles of mail from house to house—surely she'll know where Pokey lives.

He trotted up the street, intercepting her as she walked down the street with her muzzle tucked into her bag, in preparation of pulling forth another string-wrapped bundle of letters. “Excuse me, miss, could you tell me—“

Her ears turned in his direction as he spoke, and she came up with a mouthful of mail, turning her head in his direction curiously. His blood turned to ice when her golden eyes locked on his. She unceremoniously—and expertly, the analytical part of his brain told him—flipped the letters out of her mouth, sending them sailing neatly to the front step of the next house on her route. “You.”

Her voice could have crumbled granite. Perry's tail clamped between his legs, and he took one hesitant step back before a blinding left hook knocked him on his rump. Before he could move, she was on top of him, rolling him onto his back.

She straddled him, dragging a hind hoof roughly down the inside of his thigh. “Don't even think of moving,” she hissed.

He meekly nodded, his every thought consumed with how easily she could geld him by striking down with that hoof. His horn was jammed painfully in the mud, and his head was still ringing from her blow. “We were young,” he said. “You don't have to be like this.”

“If you ever come near my daughter again, so help me, I will rip your throat out.” She slid her hind hoof lower, her shoe grating painfully against his skin. “She’s mine—you gave up any claim when you left.”

Perry thought about protesting—that wasn't why he'd come here at all, and he honestly had no interest in her foal, but he was terrified that if he spoke at all, she’d hurt him. At this point, he had little interest beyond escaping this confrontation unmaimed.

“Equestria is a big place,” she said, increasing the pressure on him. “And there's no reason we ever have to see each other again, do you understand?”

He nodded his head eagerly. Yes, he understood clearly. Yes, it would be a cold day in Tartarus before he set hoof in Ponyville again.

“Good.” She looked down at him curiously, before lifting her hind hoof. He let out a sigh of relief before a searing pain tore down his flank. “That's for leaving me,” she said coldly as he gasped for breath, fighting back a scream. His left hind leg twitched painfully, and he curled it inwards as she got off him and looked up and down the street. She took a step to the side, and he cowered in fear of the next strike. He closed his eyes as her muzzle darted in towards his face, and buried himself in his forehooves to protect himself.

It did no good; she was stronger than him. She slid a hoof under his chin and pried his head up. She leaned down and kissed him tenderly on the snout. “That's for giving me the most wonderful daughter in all of Equestria.”

He lay there unmoving as she grabbed her hat off the street, flipped it on top of her head with practiced ease, and continued her route as if nothing had happened. When she was four houses away, he struggled back to his hooves and wiped the tears off his cheeks, wincing as his mud-coated forelocks ground against his face. His clothes were ruined and he could feel blood trickling down his leg, but his only thought was for escape as he began trotting clumsily down the street away from her.

“I was very confident in our case,” Fancy Pants told the reporter from the Canterlot Times. “Noble Voice did nothing but shout baseless allegations throughout the whole trial.”

“But you didn't address those,” the stallion protested. “How do we know the creature isn't dangerous? He put Lyra in the hospital.”

“Dale was more seriously injured in the accident than Ambassador Heartstrings,” Fancy Pants said, and turned towards another upraised hoof. “Yes?”

“Do you see this case as a sign of the developing schism between our nations?”

Fancy Pants furrowed his brow. “In what way?”

“Three injured parties on a diplomatic mission? You don't see a problem with that?”

“Of course it's a problem, and it's one the Crown has every intention of getting to the bottom of.” You just sat through a trial on that very issue, Fancy Pants thought, but he didn't change his pleasant expression.

“There could be sanctions—new laws preventing an ambassador from causing injuries—is the Nobles' Council looking into that?”

“We are exploring all relevant avenues,” Fancy Pants assured him. It wasn't much of an answer, but the question was idiotic. “Excuse me, please. I promised this wonderful mare I'd give her an exclusive interview.”

He ignored the mutters of outrage as the reporters realized they weren't going to get anything else out of him, and moved on to a new target for questioning. Unfortunately for them, Noble Voice and his assistant were still inside the courtroom, so they instead cornered Professor Laureate, who was completely baffled by the sudden surge of attention.

“I've never covered anything this . . . important,” Apple Honey said.

“You'll do fine.” The pair walked down the street in silence, until Apple Honey reached her shop. She pushed open the door and went inside, followed by Fancy Pants. He waited as she shoved a pile of broken farm tools off to the side on her desk, got out a fresh notebook and a pencil, and nodded to him.

“Let me begin by saying it was an honor to defend Ambassador Heartstrings.” He paused to let her write that down, before continuing. “She has done a fine job so far, dealing with a very difficult and stressful situation.

“Certain ponies don't think so, though. At a meeting of the Nobles' Council, shortly before the trial, some ponies voted to reject her as ambassador and replace her, and there was even consideration of moving the embassy to Canterlot or Manehattan. They didn't think that your town was suitable for an embassy, nor that one of your residents would make a proper representative.

“I, of course, was against such a proposal.” Fancy Pants moved slightly closer to her desk, and looked her right in the eye. “Most of the nobles don't ever even leave their estates, except to attend important functions—here's a town of ponies who know how to get things done, and where better to have an embassy?”

Apple Honey set her pencil down. “How come Noble Voice said so many mean things about Lyra? She's a little eccentric, but she's not a bad pony.”

“Ah.” He rubbed his hoof on his chin. “Because he didn't have a case, and he hoped that if he made enough scandalous claims, ponies would start to believe them, even though they're not true. In fact, we're fairly certain what actually happened.”

He let that thought hang in the air between them, waiting for Apple Honey to pounce on it. The truth was that he wasn't quite sure—communicating with Dale had been a tricky proposition, and his theory was as much guess as actual evidence, but his gut was telling him he was on the right track; if he wasn't completely correct, he was close.

Besides, it would be great for a badly-written small-town newspaper to get the scoop on all the big papers with their leagues of professional reporters, and it served them right for not asking the right questions.

“Tell me.” She bent back down to her notebook.

“Some of this is purely educated guess,” Fancy Pants said, “and there are a few parts we haven't fully determined yet, but I know the gist of the story. On Ambassador Heartstrings' second solo visit, Dale took her back to his home. He trusted her that much. They spent the afternoon there, even sharing a meal, before it was time for Lyra to return.

“As they came back to the beach, they were confronted by a pair of rogue stallions. It’s not clear what they were doing, but Dale acted to protect Lyra. He distracted them, to give her a head start, and followed her down the beach to protect her.

“In the confusion, Ka-th-rin accidentally triggered a wand of some sort, which briefly disabled Lyra, while Dale acted to protect her. Unfortunately, the two spells interacted badly, and as a result, the three of them were flung back to Equestria, all seriously injured.” He licked his lips. “We know, from the physical evidence, that the mare—Ka-th-rin—was holding the wand in her right hand, which resulted in severe injury; unfortunately, we have been unable to analyze it fully, as it was nearly completely destroyed in the backlash.”

“So the mare is violent?”

“No, no. It was a complete misunderstanding.” He leaned on the counter. “She’s on a lot of medications, and they’re the cause of some of her behavior.” Fancy Pants licked his lips nervously, hoping Apple Honey wouldn’t pick up on the fact she’d initially attacked Dale and Lyra before she was on morphine.

“I—it didn’t get mentioned at the trial, but I should say that the doctor and nurses and your Zebra herbalist have done an exemplary job treating both Dale and Ka-th-rin.”

“I thought that was why all those unicorns from Canterlot came,” she said.

“But they came later,” he reminded her. “If it hadn’t been for the brilliant work of the hospital staff, she would have died before they arrived.”

“That’s true,” she said proudly, looking back at her notes. “How do you spell exemplary?”

Luna idly flipped through a book of case law in the judge's chambers. Sadly, she could find no precedent for what she really wanted to do to Noble Voice, and she suspected that he knew just how far the law could reach. Sometimes it was disappointing how much the law had been gelded while she'd been absent.

At the same time, she wasn't going to let him have his victory here, no matter how minor it might be. She slammed the book shut. Allowing all those reporters into what should have been a sober proceeding was a mistake. We should have banned them, and made a statement afterward about our verdict.

She stormed across the room and threw the door open. “Bring forth Noble Voice, that we may pass judgment upon him.”

She retreated back to her desk, waiting for her thestral to lead him in. She'd barely gotten seated in the chair before he was led into the room by her Night Guard. Luna gave him a curt nod, and waited until he had closed the door before directing her glare upon the stallion.

“Thou didst make a mockery of our court,” she quietly began. “And we are most displeased. Regrettably, thine actions skirted the very edge of what is permissible, as we are sure thou dost know.

“We are fortunate that the law giveth us broad latitude to punish such transgressions. We regret that we can only fine thee a token amount for thy disruptions, and we further regret that such fines appear not to have been changed in many a year; however, we do take pleasure in ordering that thou dost pay a twelve-bit fine.

“We also, as the law permits, order thee to be confined to a cell for a half-day, where we hope that thou wilt consider thy transgressions.”

“I'm very sorry,” Noble Voice said smoothly. “I only presented what I believed to be pertinent evidence in the case.”

“We are sure thou believest that.” Luna leaned forward. “We also, as is in our power, command that after thou hast completed thine prison sentence, that thou must henceforth follow a nurse for one full day, that thou mayst fill the gaps in thine education regarding a mare's reproductive biology. We feel that thine education in that field has been incomplete.

“Finally, we place upon thee a gag order for a fortnight, as is in our power. Thou shalt not discuss with anypony the case, nor the punishment which we have levied upon thee until the duration of those days has passed. Failure to comply with the gag order shall be regarded as treason, as a foreign embassy is involved in the case.” The look of horror on his face brought a small smile to Luna's face. “We have rendered our judgment; present thyself to our bailiff who shall remain at thy side until thou hast completed thy sentence. Bailiff!”

Princess Luna kept a stern face until Noble Voice was removed from the judge's chambers, before permitting herself a smile. She'd skirted the very edge of what was legal herself—but the gag order couldn't be overturned before it expired, and if he was wise, he would just suffer in silence, rather than risk her wrath by defying her. Were he naive enough to defy her? Well, at that point she had a few more options that would make his life miserable.

I could send him a month's worth of terrible nightmares, she thought. Weave his dreams in a terrifying manner. But she would not; such a thing only built distrust in the long run, as satisfying as it would be in the short.

She wrote her judgment down on a scroll, being sure to cite case law. A legal secretary would file it in the morning, and send a duplicate on to Canterlot.

Luna covered a yawn, and got out of her chair. She didn't feel like flying back to Canterlot tonight. She could go to the library and spend the night with Twilight Sparkle—but first, she wanted to go to the embassy and meet Dale face-to-face. Now that the trial was over and the paperwork had been completed, there was no conflict of interest to worry about any more.

Luna smiled as she reached the Ponyville streets, her second Night Guard trailing respectfully behind. How many fine memories the town held—it almost made her feel like dancing in the street, but that wouldn't be decorous at all. It might give ponies the wrong impression of her.

Her smile faltered as she was assaulted by journalists.

“Princess Luna, do you have any comment about your verdict?”

“Princess Luna, can you tell us what actions you have taken in regard to Noble Voice's conduct during the trial?”

“Are you heading back to Canterlot tonight?”

“Are you visiting ponies while you're here? Who?”

She held up a hoof. The reporters fell silent.

“Our verdict speaks for itself,” she began. “Noble Voice has been given a fitting punishment. We shall head back to Canterlot on the morrow. We shall spend the night at Twilight Sparkle's home, after we have visited the new embassy.”

Without waiting for them to finish writing—and thus come up with further questions to ask—she jumped into the air and took flight, teleporting across town once she was level with the rooftops. It was a total waste of energy, but it would keep the press corps from following her. Perhaps now that she was gone, they could entertain themselves by interviewing the flowers in the planters outside the courtroom, in the hopes of getting an exclusive viewpoint on the trial.

She glided down the street fronting the embassy, lightly landing behind what appeared to be an odd parade. A group of Royal Guards were towing a wagon, which was being followed by dozens of townsponies. Curious, she fell in line with them, her stature allowing her to easily see over the crowd.

Luna did not have to follow the procession for very long; the wagon stopped in front of the embassy, and a white pony climbed out of the back, then began coaxing the other occupant out.

The crowd made appreciative noises as a bipedal creature dressed in a too-short hospital johnny struggled out of the wagon. Two of the stallions who'd been pulling the wagon hastily flanked her, and she leaned down to rub one on the chin.

The white mare who'd been her traveling companion moved in front of her and backed towards the embassy door. It was only when she'd been successfully moved inside that the crowd finally relaxed, and began to talk amongst themselves. Luna took that as her cue to move on; rather than wait until they discovered she was behind them, she headed down a side street, intending to circle the block. It would give the crowd a bit of time to become distracted, and would avoid her having to force her way through them. Sometimes she was upset that the ponies didn't react as favorably to her as her sister; other times it was a blessing—Celestia could hardly walk a block without being accosted by ponies on the street.

Nevertheless, her arrival did not go unnoticed; she saw pointing hooves and dozens of ponies bowing uncertainly as she made her way to the embassy door.

The guards respectfully held it open for her, and Princess Luna set hoof in the newest embassy in Equestria.

Dusk Glimmer watched Trixie warily. After their struggle on the balcony, the unicorn had tried to make several more breaks for the edge, and she'd finally just pinned Trixie until the showmare tired out. She might have been stronger at magic, but a quick hoof-swipe took care of that, and Dusk had far more physical endurance than the half-starved Trixie.

She hadn't been surprised when the unicorn broke down completely, pinned under her and sobbing her heart out. Dusk had relaxed then, and slid off Trixie's belly, wincing slightly at the fresh bruises on her barrel from Trixie’s kicks. She'd wrapped the showmare in a tight hug, gently nuzzling her neck and cheek.

Dusk stayed silent until Trixie's tears had tapered off. Wordlessly, she levitated over a neatly-folded cloth and let the showmare wipe her face with it. Dusk winced as she blew her nose in the fabric, but there were more important things in life than a little piece of cloth, after all. Even if it had, until recently, been serving as a spare pillowcase.

“Would you like tea and a blanket?”

Trixie nodded, her eyes still squinted closed. The fur on her cheeks was still matted down, and Dusk had to resist the maternal urge to pat them dry.

She turned back towards the doorway, giving a small nod to the thestral stationed there. He'd shown up after their first scuffle, but had had the good sense to do nothing. Still, his presence had been infinitely reassuring; had Trixie actually made it off the edge of the balcony, he undoubtedly would have followed her and caught her before she hit the ground.

He stepped respectfully back as she passed him, his amber eyes watching the chamber alertly.

Dusk gave the order for tea and cakes to Luna's pantler, grabbed a warm comforter from Luna's bedroom, and hurried back to the office. She didn't want to leave Trixie alone for too long, even if the thestral was watching her. The Night Guard was remarkably competent, but they weren't known for being very comforting. The last thing she wanted was to get back, find out Trixie had freaked out again, and had a pile of thestrals on top of her.

Nothing had changed when she got back to the room. Trixie was still lying on the floor, looking listlessly out the balcony doors.

“Come on,” Dusk said quietly. “Let's go sit on the couch, shall we? It's more comfortable than the floor.”

The showmare nodded and struggled to her hooves. Dusk stayed between her and the balcony doors, directing her towards the couch. She waited until Trixie had found a comfortable position before draping the down comforter over her back.

She sat next to her, watching the unicorn carefully. The two sat in silence until the pantler brought in a tray, and set it wordlessly in front of them. Dusk mouthed a few more orders—technically, she was overstepping her bounds, but all of Luna's servants had a good working relationship, and she'd get what she needed. Later, she'd repay the favor . . . but that was a problem for later, and this was now.

Dusk poured a cup for Trixie, holding it just in front of the showmare. She tensed slightly as their fields mingled, but kept her grasp on the cup until she was sure it was fully held. Despite her tiredness, Trixie brought the cup to her lips without it wavering at all.

She sipped it slowly, her eyes slowly coming back to life. It wasn't much, but Dusk felt a weight leave her chest as Trixie levitated a jam cookie off the tea tray.

Her own stomach grumbled at her as he stress began bleeding off. She had the shakes, that was for sure—her mind kept replaying the image of Trixie leaping off the balcony, and her powerless to stop it. Only now could she consider what Princess Luna might have said when she found out. She was going to wind up collecting a debt from the bottler tonight, and maybe even owing him one. What a strange day, she thought, watching as Trixie took a second cookie.

Dusk nodded politely as the pantler set a second serving tray down in front of her, this one simply carrying a collection of combs. She levitated one free, and without asking permission, began working on Trixie's mane.

The showmare jerked, and rolled her eyes upward to look at the brush, but kept on eating her cookie, washing it down with another sip of tea.

“Trixie doesn't need her mane groomed.” She bumped her hoof against the brush.

“Eat your cookies,” Dusk ordered. “And drink your tea before it gets cold.”

“Trixie doesn't want tea and cookies.” She slammed her field against the tray, flipping it over. Dusk didn't bother trying to catch it; she gave a short head-shake to the thestral and went back to brushing Trixie's mane, ignoring the mess on the floor. “Trixie doesn't deserve tea and cookies. She's a bad pony. You shouldn't serve her.”

“I serve one worse than you.” Dusk grimaced as Trixie jerked under her brush—she hadn't meant to say that out loud, and she certainly hadn't meant for it to sound like it did, but that made it no less true. She had been one of the few ponies who had been willing to serve the Lunar diarch, and she'd had to put up with Luna's mercurial moods and slow adjustments to modern society. More than once, she'd trudged to her bed at the end of the day with every intention of handing in her resignation to the seneschal the next morning . . . but she never had. She never could.

“Everypony makes mistakes,” she said. “Sometimes we get in swift current, and we can't get out—but our friends are there to help us.”

“Trixie doesn't have any friends,” the unicorn whispered, her voice bitter.

Dusk Glimmer moved the brush through her mane. “Yes, you do.”

Dale set down the quill and shook out his hand. His notes were a nearly-illegible jumble, but he was sure he'd gotten every significant dinner interaction down.

He looked back over at the pile of books—it wouldn't hurt to go through them again; he could refresh his memory on what Cheerilee had taught him—but he just didn't feel in the mood. Studying books was exhausting, and now would be a good time to relax. Unfortunately, there was no TV, so he couldn't zone out in front of the idiot box. Wherever Lyra had gone, she hadn't come back yet. He was starting to get a little bit worried about that. She'd been at the hospital when he woke up in the morning, and stayed until he went to bed—so where was she now? I hope she wasn't trying to tell me that her time with me was done. Maybe that was why she seemed upset this morning. He ran his hand over his scalp, grimacing at the feel of short stubble under his hand.

The front door opening got his hopes up, and Dale was halfway out of his seat before he decided it might be best to show some restraint, but he kept his eyes fixed on the doorway, praying to see Lyra.

Instead, he saw the pink-maned nurse, walking slowly backwards across the room, followed by Kate, who was looking at her surroundings in a dazed confusion.

For a moment, Dale had an urge to hide under his desk. He might have actually done it had he not remembered that Diamond Mint and Starlight both knew where he was, and probably would not be amused by his antics.

He shoved his chair back and walked into the room. The nurse gave him a broad smile as soon as she saw him—he could only imagine the difficulty they'd had getting Kate here. I hope she's out of danger, he thought. But of course she is. The doctor wouldn't have let her go if he was worried about her.

Still, her hand was wrapped in gauze, and while it was reassuring to know that they hadn't needed to amputate while he'd been gone, he didn't want to think what it looked like. Hopefully, the nurse being here meant he wouldn't have to deal with that—if they thought he was a capable doctor, they had another think coming.

“Hello, Kate.” He started to stick out his hand, before remembering and switching to his left.

She spun to face him, and only hesitated slightly before extending her own hand—her right.

He shook his head, and she looked down at her bandaged hand in confusion, before switching. She still had some polish on her fingernails, and he fought down a brief wave of nausea before clasping her hand in his own and giving her a quick, business-like shake. “Welcome to your new home. Shall I give you the tour?”

The nurse looked relieved when Kate nodded and began to follow Dale.

He showed her the bathroom first, and then led her across the room to the dining room. “They serve three meals a day, and we have to share with anyone who's working, okay?”

Kate nodded.

“Let me show you to your bedroom.” Dale led her up the stairs, taking the opportunity to make sure the bannister was solidly anchored. It didn't budge under his grasp at all, which was a relief.

When he reached the upstairs landing, he made a quick choice. Obviously, she couldn’t stay in his room, and he hoped Lyra would be back, so her room was out of the question, as well, even though there were no personal belongings in the room, which wasn’t a good omen. That left him with two choices, and after a very brief deliberation, he showed her to the room furthest from his..

“This bathroom isn't finished yet,” he told her. “They'll probably finish it tomorrow. But the downstairs bathroom works, or there's an outhouse, if it's occupied and you're in a hurry.”

“How long do I have to stay here?”

“I . . . don't know.” Dale pointed to her hand. “Probably until that gets better.”

She sighed and began opening the drawers to her dresser. “This place is weird.”

“Yeah.” Dale slowly edged towards the door. At least she's calm. “Uh, I'll be downstairs in the office if you need me. I've got some paperwork I have to go through, and—“

“Is there a telephone? I can't find my cell phone. I need to call the station, and tell them . . . tell them. . . .”

“They know,” Dale said reassuringly. “You don't have to worry about that.”

“Oh. That's good.” Kate sat down on her bed listlessly. “How come I feel so tired?”

“It's the medicine. But you'll be better soon, I'm sure.” He moved towards the door and stopped as a thought struck him. “Uh, is there anything that you need?”

“I don't have a toothbrush. I must have forgotten to pack it.”

“I'll see what I can do.” Dale ran his tongue over his teeth. How had he forgotten about a toothbrush? He could certainly use one, and some dental floss, too. Deodorant wouldn't be a bad idea—did they have that? He vaguely recalled one of the books having a section on common household goods; they might have some hygiene supplies. I’ll have to make a list; maybe see what Diamond Mint can get for us tomorrow.

She was still on whatever they'd been giving her, and he had a nagging feeling that the longer it lasted, the better off everyone would be. When she sobered up, she was going to be face-to-face with a whole new reality she wasn't ready for—he wasn't ready for it—and he would have to make sure that there were an ample number of ponies around her, just in case.

He was halfway down the stairs, lost in his own thoughts, when he noticed that a new pony had come into the embassy while he'd been upstairs. He stopped short, his hand clutching the balcony railing. The nurse was kneeling at her hooves, as was Diamond Mint; the Guards were giving her a sharp salute.

Standing just behind her was a grey-coated pony in bluish armor. Like some of the white Guards, he had wings, but unlike the others, his wings were leathery, like bat-wings, and the crest on his helmet matched his wings. Dale groaned—here were two more types of pony . . . just how many different kinds were there?

She turned her head in his direction, and the instant her blue eyes locked on his own, a wave of deja-vu struck him. He knew he'd seen her in one of Lyra's books; she'd been drawn next to a moon, which was nearly an exact match for the one she had on her backside, shining proudly above a field of black. But he was convinced he’d seen her somewhere else, as well.

Her mane and tail were flowing gently, just like the big white one he'd seen on the beach, and like the other, she had both wings and a horn; combined with the way the other ponies were behaving around her, she was a very important pony.

Dale moved down the rest of the stairs slowly, his mind a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. When he reached the floor, he paused momentarily, mulling over proper protocol in his mind. Finally deciding that the respectful response was the best, he gave her a deep bow, hoping against hope that he didn't screw it up.

“Good evening,” he said. “I am Dale.”

She gave a curt head-nod, but he waited until the nurse and Diamond got back to their hooves before ending his bow.

“We are Princess Luna,” she began.

“Okay, this guy is officially nuts.”

Richter nodded.

They were in his office. The room had been completely searched—as had the rest of the house—and all the promising evidence had been taken away. Over the next couple of days, evidence tech would go through his computer, sort all his papers, comb through bank account records, telephone records, and do all the things they normally did in a case like this, and those records would all point in one unambiguous direction . . . but it didn't answer the fundamental question of where Kate and Dale were.

The paper trail ended at the Leelanau State Park, which was where Dale's car and cell phone were found. Fingerprints, and probably DNA, would prove that he was on North Fox Island for a period of time . . . but that didn't help them. Unless they could find a receipt for a small submarine or a map to his secret lair, they were no further along than they had been.

“It's almost overwhelming evidence in court,” Moller said flatly. “We've got just about everything.”

“Could he have made it to Wisconsin?” Richter tapped his fingers on the desk. “One of the other islands nearby? Maybe—“

“How did he make Kate and himself disappear?” Moller leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “It . . . his note . . . it almost hangs together.”

“No.” Richter shook his head. “Believe me, there's nothing down that road. Don't you go thinking that this rant has anything to do with reality. Man came unhinged.”

“You've read the statements,” Moller countered, “but you didn't interview them. I could discount some of Anthony's statement; he screwed up and he knows it; I got the vibe from him that he'd blame anybody but himself for his mistake. Cortez, though . . . he was utterly convinced at what he saw.”

“Okay, fine. He's convinced.” Richter set the copy of Dale's note on the table. “Look, I can line you up a hundred people that are convinced that 9/11 was an inside job, or that FEMA has concentration camps ready to go, or even that the Loch Ness monster is real. That doesn't make him—or them—any less crazy. Eyewitness testimony is crap. You know it and I know it.”

“Hard to argue with the footprints, though.” Moller sighed. “You're right, though. It's some kind of paranoid delusion that Mr. Paard had, and it coincidentally coincided with a currently inexplicable event.”

“Right.”

“And he's still out there, somewhere.”

“That's the spirit.”

“And we'll find him.” Moller leaned back in the chair. “Maybe not right away, because whatever he did to vanish didn't leave any obvious evidence behind, but like every other case it'll be obvious in hindsight. Or maybe we'll get a break before that.” He began chuckling.

Richter gave him a strange look.

“It's just—did you ever watch X-Files? Because I just had a strange feeling that you're like Scully, trying to give a nice, scientific basis for this case, and I'm Mulder, coming up with some nutty theory about aliens.”

“Well, your name is kind of close.” Richter shrugged. “But I've got to admit, I'm no Gillian Anderson.”

“Yeah.” Moller got out of the chair. “I wonder what's in that safe-deposit box?”

Author's Notes:

Click through for thank yous and story notes

Chapter 20: Shifting Priorities

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 20: Shifting Priorities
Admiral Biscuit

As they walked through town, Fleur let Lyra take the lead. She felt bad leaving Fancy Pants alone with the press, but the last thing Lyra needed was for a reporter to corner her and start asking leading questions about her relationship with Dale.

Noble Voice's line of questioning had done its work, though. Fleur found herself constantly returning to the idea, and turning it over in her mind. If it was true . . . well, what difference would it make? On one hoof, there were serious political implications; on another, why shouldn't a pony find love outside her species? While such pairings weren't common, they weren't unknown, either.

She followed Lyra down a side street, ears swiveling alertly for the sound of hoofsteps, but the streets were completely deserted. It was eerie—Canterlot had a decent nightlife, almost as good as Mareseille; here, they either went to bed early, or something else was going on.

Midway down the block, Lyra turned towards a modest home and shoved open the front door. Fleur followed her in, pushing the door closed behind her, and stood patiently in the entryway, taking in the comforting scents of a home.

She smiled wistfully as a pudgy earth pony wearing a stained apron came out of the kitchen. The ivory mare nuzzled Lyra's cheek briefly before wrapping her in a tight hug. For the first time in hours, the tight lines around Lyra’s mouth and ears softened as she hugged back.

The two of them held their embrace long enough for Fleur to begin feeling very awkward, but she kept her mouth shut. The important thing was that Lyra had somepony to go to—Fleur could build on that, but she couldn't replace it.

“Do you want dinner? I could heat something up real quick, or toss a salad together.”

Lyra shook her head. The earth pony glared at Fleur, who replied with a small shrug.

“How could he say those things?” Lyra looked at Fleur accusingly. “They weren't true—he tried to make me look like a monster.”

That's his job, she thought, but of course she'd never say such a thing out loud. Still, it was time to give Lyra a small dose of reality. “Like it or not, you're a public figure now. Your tiniest action might be scrutinized and interpreted however the public sees fit.”

“That's not fair.”

“I know.” Fleur looked at her sadly. “But that's the way it is. I'm sorry.”

“You dealt with this back in your duelling days, remember?”

Lyra nodded. “It isn't the same, Bon Bon. Then, it was just if I'd done the right thing strategically or not. Nopony asked questions about my personal life.” She turned to Fleur. “Do ponies ever act like that to you and Fancy Pants?”

Fleur nodded.

“How do you deal with it?”

“I ignore them.” She moved closer to Lyra. “I do what I want. Let them judge me, or Fancy Pants—we don't care. If we spent all our time trying to make everypony happy, we wouldn't make anypony happy . . . most of all, we wouldn't make ourselves happy.”

“It's just not fair.”

“Why don't we go sit in the living room?” Fleur suggested. “It'll be more comfortable. You should talk about this. Trust me, it will help.”

“I don't—“

“Tomorrow, you're going to have to go back to the embassy,” Fleur reminded her. “And you're going to have to talk to Dale—you can't avoid that; you are the ambassador. What's he going to think if you're short-tempered, or staying away from him because you're worried about what the embassy staff or other ponies might think? He won't understand, but he'll see you're snubbing him.”

Lyra's ears fell, but she turned to the living room and flopped on the couch. Bon Bon followed, resting her head lightly on Lyra’s rump, while Fleur had no choice but to sit on the floor facing the couch. Bon Bon's eyes widened when she sat down on the floor without a moment's hesitation.

“Tomorrow,” Fleur began, “you're going to go back to the embassy, and you're going to see Dale. I know you're going to have all the things Noble Voice and his witnesses said in your mind, but I want you to think about this instead: you went to another world, and you made friends with a completely alien species. Nopony else has ever done that. Noble Voice might shout out his accusations, and the newspapers will print what they will as a result of the trial . . . but not one of them has done what you did. Of all the ponies in Equestria, the Princess chose you. Not Noble Voice, not a newspaper reporter, not even her personal student. Everypony who whines about what you did or didn't do is no better than a schoolyard bully, and deserves no more respect.”

Lyra hesitantly nodded.

“You've got a lot of good friends,” Fleur told her. “And we'll stand behind you. Fancy Pants and I are never more than a telegram away.” She got back to her hooves. “We'll be in town through tomorrow, at least, and if you need anything—if either of you need anything—come by the hotel. Until then, it has been a great pleasure to serve you.” She walked over to the couch and gave Lyra a brief nuzzle, and a less-formal hoof-bump to Bon Bon.

She let herself out, pausing in the street to look back at the house. She could see the pair through the window, and it brought a smile to her face. Maybe Lyra didn't fully appreciate it, but she had strong supports. Earth ponies were stubborn and patient; it was just the thing that Lyra needed to keep her sane. Things were only going to get more challenging from here.

We are Princess Luna, she’d said. Dale knew that name, but from where? Had it been something Lyra mentioned, or had it been Cheerilee? Try as he might, he couldn't remember.

She was in the book that showed a house, he thought. And the book with the colt who met all the monsters . . . she showed up at the very end, when he was in bed. Dale glanced at his office. He could get the book and have her confirm that it was, indeed, her in the drawing, but it might be insulting to just walk away. He hadn't seen any of the ponies bow before, which meant she was more important than any of the ponies who had come for the embassy fete. She could be a political leader, or a spiritual one.

Dale took a quick look around, observing what the other ponies were doing, hoping they might provide him with some cue. Diamond Mint was watching him, while the nurse had moved to the wall, and was cautiously heading for the front door. Neither of them looked like they could provide him with any help. Without Lyra, he’d have a hard time puzzling out her significance.

“I see Princess Luna in book then,” Dale said carefully. “I get book.”

A slight frown crossed her face as he spoke, but her ears remained pointed forward. A month ago, he would never have considered that he might one day be picking up social cues from ear position.

He quickly ducked into the office and dug through the stack of books until he found the one he was looking for. It didn't take long to find the right page: as he'd remembered, the colt was laying in bed after his stressful day meeting monsters, and a blue winged unicorn was holding the moon in the sky.

She hadn't moved, although she'd turned to watch him. He came back out of the office and held the book in front of her. “Is you?” He jabbed a finger against the drawing.

“Yes.” She nodded in confirmation, before continuing her explanation of why she was in the drawing. Unfortunately, none of her explanation was in words which he'd been taught.

“Dale not know words,” he confessed. “Dale not speak good pony words.”

Again, she flinched slightly as he spoke. What does she expect, that I'd be fluent in a few days? Am I not being properly formal? Visions of angry despots crossed his mind unbidden—based on his experience thus far, it didn't seem likely he'd anger her enough to do something unpleasant to him, but he unfortunately couldn't rule out the possibility.

“We. . . .” Luna made a face, and lit her horn. Dale took a step back; while he'd begun to get used to the unicorns doing that, he wanted to give them a wide berth when they did, especially when he was around strangers. Lyra and the doctors might have had his best interests at heart, but he couldn't be sure about complete strangers—although, if she was acting benevolent in a kid’s book, she was probably okay.

She tilted her head down, and a strange image appeared on the ground between them. Dale immediately thought of the hologram messages in Star Wars, as an ethereal miniature Luna appeared on the ground.

The hologram Luna lit her horn, and a moon rose from the embassy floor. It made an arc across the imaginary sky, before sinking into the floorboards. A second pony—this one white—appeared, and lifted a sun out of the floor.

Luna pointed a hoof at the display. “We are Princess Luna,” she said again. “We . . . moon. Our sister . . . sun.”

Dale nodded, even though he'd missed a bit of her explanation. She seemed to be implying that she did things during the night, while her sister did things during the day. Unless he missed his guess, the second pony was the one he'd met on the island.

She stopped the motion of her hologram, with the white pony on one side, and her on the other. The sun and moon were both just above the floor.

“Is she pony Dale met Dale home?” He pointed to the white pony who was looking at the sun.

Princess Luna absorbed his words, and nodded.

Okay. I’m right. The white one is in charge during the day, and she's in charge during the night, he thought. Outside, it was still light, although it wouldn't be much longer. Maybe she’s getting an early start to her workday.

What would we do in America? He looked into her big blue eyes and considered her presence. If the situation were reversed, it wouldn't take too long before the alien met with the Vice President, or maybe even the President. Such a meeting would be a huge political coup, even if the pair couldn’t communicate, and Dale was surprised at the lack of photographers. Maybe they’ll be along later. The bat-winged pony was clearly her guard; every time Dale had looked his way, the pony's eyes had been locked on him, doubtlessly watching in case he were to try something stupid.

That was an irrational worry on their part, he thought. There wasn't much he could do; even if her horn was limited to making holograms on the floor, and her wings were decorative, her strength alone would be enough to put him down. She was the first one he'd seen who was nearly his height.

He was considering the implications of how their size might relate to their authority when she lit her horn again and looked down at the floor, tapping a hoof to make sure he paid attention.

Dale followed her gaze as a small hologram of himself and Lyra appeared on a generic beach. While the details were oversimplified, it was the most amazing simulation he'd ever seen. He'd lived through the transitions from small black-and-white TVs to the 3D technology that everybody was pushing nowadays, but with those it was still an image on a flat screen. He moved off to the side, finally circling halfway around the picture, as he studied it intently.

She got his attention back when she asked him something—he only caught a few words, and shook his head regretfully. “I do not speak much words.”

Luna frowned, and looked back to the image. She concentrated, and the small figure of him brightened. “Dale,” she said plainly. “Yes? No?”

“Yes, Dale.” He tapped his chest, then pointed to the little figure. “Lyra,” he indicated, pointing to the other.

“Dale and Lyra . . . speak.” She said the last word slowly, with careful consideration. “Then?” The two figures cautiously approached, before he bumped a hand against Lyra’s hoof. “Yes?”

“Yes,” he confirmed.

The two simulacra sat down on the beach and took books out of their bags. Their mouths moved, and small symbols appeared above their heads. Dale nodded—that was more or less what had happened.

Encouraged, she moved forward with the replay. Lyra began running across the beach, suddenly tripping over her hooves. The miniature Dale reached forward and caught her, and the pair tumbled to the sand together, with Lyra on top. It wasn't quite how it had occurred, and he didn't know nearly enough of their language to correct it. Still, it was a reasonable enough simulation of what had happened.

He unconsciously rubbed his shoulder. It wasn't completely healed, but it felt much better, thanks to whatever the doctor and nurse had done. There was a slight ache whenever he moved it, but no real pain any more.

The pair finished out their day, uneventfully reading the books, and then Lyra disappeared. The sun went down, the moon rose and passed overhead, and then the sun came back up. Lyra reappeared in a golden flash.

Their day started out the same, until clouds suddenly appeared in the sky, and the two of them scrambled into the woods, quickly reappearing in his camp.

If he'd had any doubts about their lack of actual observance of the meetings, Princess Luna's idea of his camp put those to rest. His tent was oversized, and looked to be made out of bricks, and his dining fly was a camping pavilion. He and Lyra sat on wooden planks and passed their lunch across a wood table. Luna was clearly putting her own spin on the events—no doubt from a briefing she’d received—filling in the details of what she assumed his camp looked like.

They shared their food across the table, and then Lyra came around the table and stood next to him, turning her butt at him. He blushed at the memory of touching her mark. She'd insisted, even though she'd been uncomfortable with it. He nodded in confirmation—that had happened.

An apprehensive expression crossed her face, and the picture briefly flickered. The mini-Dale put his hand on Lyra’s shoulder, and the two of them headed for his oversized tent. Dale shook his head, and said, “No.” He pointed to the table. “Books. Learn.”

She gave a self-satisfied smile at his words, and put the two figures back across from each other, deep in study again.

She'd just begun to set the scene for the Coast Guard confrontation when the image flashed and then winked out. Dale frowned and glanced up at her, observing that she was looking up at the staircase with interest.

He turned his head just in time to see Kate begin to descend.

Bon Bon breathed a sigh of relief as Fleur let herself out. She preferred for her life to be simple, regular, and uncomplicated, and lately it had been anything but. Lyra had been gone for a whole month, come back utterly tight-lipped, and then the next time Bon-Bon had seen her had been in the hospital. She had always preferred the quiet life, predictable and stable, but this whole mess had turned things completely on their head.

And now, things weren't ever going to be the same.

She could be happy for Lyra if Lyra was happy, but right now she was obviously not. She was as stressed as Bon Bon had ever seen her, and completely exhausted to boot. The earth pony leaned over and gently nuzzled Lyra's back, wrinkling her muzzle at the sour smell of fear.

I should have been there, she thought. I didn't have to go to market today. Everypony would have understood if I'd missed it. Lyra hadn't wanted her to come to the trial, though. She told me that Fancy Pants said it might get ugly—but maybe I could have done something to help, rather than leave her in the hooves of a bunch of unicorns who don’t even know her.

She snuggled up against Lyra, worming her way into the narrow space between the unicorn and the edge of the couch, and draped a leg around Lyra's shoulders—both for comfort and to keep her from falling off. She pulled in tightly, nestling her head just under Lyra's chin.

Lyra responded by hooking a hind leg over Bon Bon's rump and burying her muzzle in Bon Bon’s mane. She didn't say anything, but as the minutes ticked past, Bon Bon felt Lyra’s heart slow to a relaxed pace. The earth pony waited until Lyra’s breaths were soft and regular before she dared move from her uncomfortable position.

Disentangling herself without waking Lyra was a challenge, especially since one of her legs had gone completely numb. Bon Bon stood awkwardly on the remaining three, her left foreleg dragging uselessly on the ground. A few shakes did nothing but reward her with the painful tingle of returning circulation.

She gave Lyra a fond look, leaned down, and brushed the unicorn's forelock back with her muzzle, before limping up the stairs to the bedroom. She threw her apron into the wicker laundry basket, grabbed the comforter off the bed, and brought it downstairs. With a toss of her head, she draped it over Lyra, smoothing it with her hooves, before she went back up to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

Once she was done, she settled in on the couch, taking the opposite end. It was a bit crowded—the unicorn had sprawled out once she'd left—but it was doable. Bon Bon slid under the cover and laid her head on the siderest. She closed her eyes, but sleep proved to be elusive. Yesterday, when Lyra had been officially announced, she’d cheered herself hoarse. Spending the night at the embassy had been fun, especially since she’d sneaked in; it added a little more thrill to the rush she normally felt when she was sleeping somewhere unfamiliar. Now, though, doubts were beginning to creep in. Were days like this going to be continual? Was some reporter from Canterlot going to accost her on the street and ask her personal questions? If he did, he’d get bucked right in the teeth. That would give him something to report.

And Fleur had said that Lyra would have to go back to the embassy. Was that a forever thing? Would she be spending every night there? What if she never came home again? Could the Princess be so cruel?

“Do you want to come to the pub for a late dinner?” Lecol asked.

“Can you bring me back something?” Featherbrain stared out the window at the embassy.

“He won't be out for a while.” Lecol entered Featherbrain’s bedroom, stepping carefully around the mounds of stuff that the pegasus had dumped out of her suitcase in her version of 'unpacking.' “I just got done talking to Nurse Redheart. She said that Princess Luna was there, talking to Dale. I bet the two of them are going to be occupied for quite some time.”

Featherbrain pointed a hoof out the window excitedly. “I saw him earlier. He was in the room with the mare, showing her stuff, I guess. She's walking around—he left, but she comes to the window sometimes and looks out. She put her clothes in the dresser."

“What a concept,” Lecol said dryly, glancing back at the mess on the floor. “Do—“

“Ssh—here she comes again.” Featherbrain leaned out of the window, craning her neck to get the best view.

Out of curiosity, Lecol joined her, arriving in time to see Kate stop in front of the glass and look out. At first, she was focused on the backyard, studying it curiously, but she eventually looked up and noticed the two mares looking her direction. She gave them a tentative wave, which Featherbrain enthusiastically returned.

She watched the ponies for a minute or two, before she looked down at her bandaged hand, and started to lightly scratch the back of her wrist. “She does that a lot,” Featherbrain said.

“The itchiness is good,” Lecol informed her. “It means it's healing. I think we'll have it cured in a week or so.”

Featherbrain grunted in reply, waiting until Kate had left the window to slide over her notebook and scribble out some quick notes in her inscrutable mouth-writing.

Lecol shrugged, and left her to her own devices, headed out the door and into town. She’d have to remember to bring back a dinner for Featherbrain—whenever the pegasus got fully immersed in her studies, she forgot to eat.

There was a tense mood in town that hadn't been present before. A few ponies glared at her as she walked past, and she self-consciously moved closer to the side of the street, where she'd at least be out of their way. She wasn't sure what had brought about the change in tone, although she was experienced enough to know that it was a reaction to something. She'd seen it before in Canterlot, when a large enough group of ponies had gotten fixated on a subject.

When she finally made it to the Prancing Pony, she noticed that the tone of the patrons changed as she walked to her booth, and she could practically feel all the eyes following her passage. She shrugged, and slid into the same booth she'd occupied a few nights ago.

At least her waitress wasn't rude, and once Lecol was out of everypony's sight, the noise of the tavern slowly picked up again.

Her food hadn't even arrived yet when the door opened and Fleur and Fancy Pants stepped in. She waved a hoof, and the couple quickly made their way over to her. She got out of her seat and gave Fleur a quick peck on the cheek.

“How was the trial?”

“Brutal,” Fleur admitted. “Noble Voice dragged her through the mud. Fancy did a good job though.” She petted him on the head lightly.

“Don't be modest; you did as well, dear.”

“What are you having?” Fleur asked curiously.

“A fresh Spring salad, a tomato, spinach, and cheese quiche, and maybe some apple pie for dessert. Did you know Sweet Apple Acres is here, in Ponyville?” Lecol motioned over the room. “Why, I bet some ponies here actually work on the orchard . . . and I can’t believe how cheap it is. You'd pay twice as much in Canterlot, maybe more, and it wouldn't be as fresh.”

“I know.” Fancy Pants picked up the menu and began skimming over it. “Really, it's hard to see how they make a profit here. I suppose it's just too out-of-the-way for anypony to visit. Shame. It's quite a charming little town, and everypony is just so friendly. It's so much nicer than dealing with all the nobles in Canterlot.”

“They haven't been friendly to me today,” Lecol groused.

“Word about the trial got around.” Fleur took the menu from Fancy Pants and quickly flipped through it. “They probably aren't feeling charitable towards anypony from Canterlot right now. Lyra’s housemate was very short with me. I wouldn't be surprised if they're burning Noble Voice in effigy by the end of the night.”

“Do ponies still do that?”

“In frontier towns, I've heard. Never seen it myself.” Fleur looked brightly up at the waitress. “I'll have a Spring salad, vegetable stew, and a bowl of sugared timothy, light on the sugar. He'll have the salad, the stew with extra salt, and a piece of apple pie. I'd also like a glass of light fruit wine, and he'd like a dark beer. Whatever you think is good.”

The waitress scribbled down their order, then tucked the pencil back in her apron. “Hey, aren't you the ponies who were at the embassy meeting and defended Lyra?”

“Yes,” Fancy Pants said, bowing his head. “Fancy Pants and Fleur De Lis at your service.”

“You done real good,” she said, before turning to Lecol. “What about you?”

“I’m assisting the doctors at the hospital.”

The waitress gave a satisfied smile, and headed back to the counter. Lecol watched her go; she stopped at several tables and talked to the ponies sitting there on her way. More than a few discreet looks were aimed at their booth in the waitress' wake.

“Okay, that was a little weird.” Lecol turned her attention back to her tablemates. “So, how much longer are you two going to be in Ponyville?”

“Until tomorrow afternoon. We've got tickets back on the evening train. Fancy Pants and I want a day to look through town—visit the market and some of the craft shops, and stop in for a brief chat with Twilight Sparkle.”

“Don't forget ordering another dress from Miss Rarity,” Fancy Pants told her. “We aren't leaving town without that. I should like to spend some time with her again . . . perhaps we could have a nice lunch, if her schedule permits.”

“How about you, Lecol? Will you be headed back to Canterlot soon?”

“I have to stay behind, to help with the girl. Her hand isn't healed yet, although she was discharged from the hospital earlier today. I'm sharing an upstairs apartment near the embassy with my colleague, Featherbrain.”

Fancy Pants nodded. “We've met her at a university fundraiser, haven't we dear?”

“Green pegasus, magnifying glass cutie mark, almost never wears clothes?”

“Oh, yes.”

“That's her,” Lecol confirmed.

The group fell silent as the waitress brought their food. She smiled broadly as she set the serving tray on the table with a flourish.

“Stop by if you can, before you go back to Canterlot,” Lecol said. “We're just behind the embassy. I'll either be up in Ka-th-rin's room, or at the house all day.”

“We will,” Fancy Pants assured her. “I do want to see Dale one more time before I leave. He's a most fascinating creature.”

Lecol gave them a friendly wave as they left, then went up to the counter. She still needed to order a meal for Featherbrain. And while she waited, she could invite the hurdy-gurdy player back to her room for a private concert.

Moller and Richter stood outside the Macatawa Bank, warrant in hand. It was a nice, modern-looking bank, not too far from Dale's house.

“I'd like to think that we're going to find the thing that blows this case wide open,” Moller said glumly, “but I think it's just going to be another mystery.”

Richter nodded. “I got a call from Gray's last night. Nobody there has the slightest idea about the books. They've never seen anything like it.”

“MSU struck out, too. So far.” Moller grimaced. “No identifiable DNA on the sample we sent. One of the professors hazarded a guess that the hair looked equine—except for the color, of course—which at least backs up the witness testimony.” He rubbed a hand through his hair. “But he said he's never heard of any kind of disease or mutation that would produce hair that color on a horse. He said something about problems with the equipment, too. Maybe when they get it fixed, they'll have better luck.”

“Don’t get your hopes up too much,” Richter cautioned. “Getting DNA off hair is a bit iffy. There isn’t any in the hair itself, so you’ve got to get enough follicle cells with the hair.”

“But the hair was in the buckle—pulled out. Should've been roots. You know, those bags did kind of look like saddlebags,” Moller mused. “So maybe we're on to something. Could it have been some kind of experimental animal?”

“What, a Frankenstein's monster? Something somebody created in a lab that got out?”

“Well, why not?” Moller said. “They're always doing weird things to lab mice and flies—why not a horse? Maybe the Russians came up with it, and Dale somehow got his hands on it. Could be some sort of an animal rights nut. Look—here's an idea. He somehow got his hands on a weird horse. One of a kind. He wants to protect it, right? So he heads off to a remote island, where he thinks he'll be safe . . . but through bad luck, the Coast Guard comes. So he flips out and runs to safety, with his strange horse.”

“Where did they go? And what about Ms. Dybek?”

“Maybe she ran off with them. You know, a girl and her pony.”

Richter shook his head. “If it hadn't taken place in front of three other eyewitnesses, maybe I'd consider that as a possibility. How's he going to have gotten a horse on the island in a canoe, anyway?”

“What if it were there first? Or, he could have taken it in a bigger boat—chartered one, maybe. Paid cash. Or he has a friend with a suitable boat. Leaves the horse there, knowing there aren't any predators on the island, comes back, gets his canoe, and heads back out.

“See, here's why I like the theory. Let's say he's just a little bit nuts. Not full-on basket-weaving nuts, but just a bit loopy. He comes across this thing somehow—let's say it's a research subject that's gotten away. He's convinced it's proof of extraterrestrials, but now he's a bit paranoid. He thinks that the Men in Black are going to find him, so he's got to hide it. Takes it to the island, leaves a note behind; that way if everything goes wrong, he can hope someone'll find it, and maybe put it on the internet. Get him some more publicity, you know.”

“Sure.” Richter took a sip of his coffee. “Okay, let's explore that for a bit. Suppose he did think it was an alien, and did go to the island to hide it. What's up with all the books?”

“He's got to communicate with it. It wouldn't speak English.”

“Of course it wouldn't speak English—it's a horse. That might not have ever existed, despite eyewitness testimony.”

“The eyewitnesses didn't leave the hoofprints in the sand, or the hairs on the bag,” Moller retorted. “Those came from something real, something tangible.” He started to pace on the sidewalk. “So he's got books, and maybe the other books are in its language. Maybe they were all part of the set-up. Some part of an elaborate scam, let's say. I'm just thinking out loud, but what would make this alien horse more credible than a bag full of books written in its language?”

Richter narrowed his eyes. “I've never worked with you before this, so I'm gonna assume you're an okay guy. Nobody I talked to had a bad thing to say about you, but you've got me wondering here.”

“I'm not saying it is so,” Moller countered. “But let's say Dale thinks it's so. He had a ton of old sci-fi books at his house, so surely he's thought about the possibility before. His recent computer history had a bunch of kooky first-contact type sites. I know everybody said he was a pretty decent guy, but that old lady who lived next door said he was acting a little funny over the last couple of months, and that all fits the timeline with his browser history, and some of his more recent purchases. I'm willing to bet once we go through all the evidence, we'll see he was a pretty normal guy up to six months ago—or maybe less—and then the records are going to show him buying all this weird stuff. I'll bet you lunch that this safe-deposit box is only a couple of months old, and that it's going to have something inside that's 'proof' of the alien. Maybe a bunch of pictures, or more hair samples, or some kind of long, rambling manifesto—but I'll tell you what we won't find: his mother's wedding ring, or stock certificates, or any of the kind of things most people keep in safe-deposit boxes.”

“And I suppose the Faraday cage in his garage was supposed to protect him from the 'orbital mind-control lasers?'” Richter made air-quotes at the last part.

Moller nodded soberly. “He's gone completely 'round the bend, of course. Too bad none of this speculation tells us where Kate is.”

“Maybe they got beamed up to the mothership. Him and his horse, and Kate too. Maybe that’s what the bubble was—some kind of tractor beam.”

“Don't patronize me,” Moller growled.

They both turned towards the door as a bank employee unlocked it. Both of them stepped into the lobby, Moller leading. All the employees were watching them—undoubtedly wondering what was going on. “Need to see the manager,” Moller said, waving the warrant. The employee nodded wide-eyed and led them into a small, private office.

“What we need, Mr. Vandervoort,” Moller began, reading his name off the plaque on his desk, “is access to a safe-deposit box. We've got a warrant, and—lucky for you—we've got a key.”

The bank manager nodded and got out of his chair. “What's this about, gentlemen?”

“Kidnapping and assault of federal agents,” Richter said. “If you'd be so kind?”

Vandervoort's face blanched. “Of course.”

He led them to the vault, and briefly examined their key before selecting the appropriate box. He nodded at them, put in the bank's key, and unlocked the box. Moller shooed him off before using Dale's key to open the other lock. He wrapped a glove around the handle and used it to pull out the box. “You know, this is the kind of thing people do in movies all the time, but they never think about how difficult it actually is to get access to a stranger’s box. Remind me to see if Mr. Vandervoort knows who’s got Dale’s other key. Might be another witness to his madness.”

“Do you think there might be a booby trap in there?” Richter asked.

“Doubt it. Not the way a guy like him would operate,” Moller said, slipping on a pair of black latex gloves. “If he was into booby trapping things, he'd have done it at his house, or left his car with a bomb in it. But if you're worried, go stand outside the vault.” When Richter didn't move, Moller gingerly lifted the lid.

The box contained a long tube wrapped in aluminum foil, and a stack of computer paper covered in neat handwriting and bound with a paperclip. Moller set a paper evidence ruler in the box and took several pictures on his digital camera, then picked it up the tube and looked at it with a frown. “Looks like you owe me lunch.”

“Not until we see what's inside.”

“This might not be the best place,” Moller reminded him. “Let's get back to my office, and we'll look at it there. Maybe have someone from the bomb squad give it a look, too, just to be sure.”

“If it's alien technology, it'll pass.”

“Oh shut up.”

Moller dropped the tube in an evidence bag, handed it to Richter, and took out the paper. He shook his head, slipped it into another evidence bag, and shoved the box back shut.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Vandervoort asked as Moller and Richter exited the vault.

“Hope so. Do you know who has the other key?”

“No; we have no requirement that the box-holder inform us. I have no next-of-kin listed for Mr. Paard, nor has the bank been notified of anyone else able to access his accounts or box in his stead.” He smiled faintly at Moller. “I took the liberty of checking while you were in the vault. Now, are you done with the key? And is Mr. Paard done with the box?”

Moller looked at the key. Technically, it was evidence, and technically, he should hold on to it until the court case. At the same time, the case—when it came—could be months or years off, and it wasn't fair to the bank to keep the box out of service for all that time. “Tell you what. I'll send a fingerprinting team out this afternoon, to print the box. If you've got a locksmith standing by, I'll tell them to let you change out the lock on the box, but I've got to keep the key for evidence. Is that fair?”

Vandervoort nodded. “I'll make the call.”

“And listen—if Mr. Paard does come back—or if you notice any activity on his account—you call me, okay?” He handed the manager a business card. “Don't wait. Flag his account or whatever it is you do, and call me right away.”

A soft nicker from her Guard caused Luna to drop her spell and raise her head. The girl—the one they had called Ka-th-rin was on the stairs, and Luna immediately focused on her. She'd already gotten a good sense of Dale's measure—both from her dreamwalking and from Lyra’s testimony during the trial—but the girl was a complete unknown. Like Dale, she had no appreciable magical aura around her, which was unheard of in all the sapient species in Equestria.

Her hesitant, clumsy steps on the stairs bespoke some kind of intoxication, and while she rested her hand on the balcony to steady herself, it was her bandaged hand, which could not serve her particularly well in case of a fall.

Luna noticed Dale getting back to his feet and stepping off to her side—and her Guard saw the movement, too, and also moved aside, giving himself a bit more space. She snorted, and the thestral sheepishly bowed his head. Dale remained at the ready.

He's already attacked her twice, Luna thought. What sort of animosity lies between them? She narrowed her eyes and watched the girl for any sign of aggression, but as she completed her journey down the stairs, her movements were closer to those of a curious drunkard—a sight which Luna had seen often from her tower.

“Kate, this is Princess Luna,” Dale said slowly. The girl paused briefly. Was that an introduction? Is Kate-this-is another form of her name, or is it a title? Luna mouthed the word slowly, quietly, wrapping her tongue around the strange syllables. It was easier to say than 'Ka-th-rin,' but she couldn't very well use it unless she was sure it was proper.

Her skin was paler than his—almost ashen—and her mane was a golden-wheat color, still in remarkably good condition given her stay in the hospital. She's either obsessed with her mane, or the nurses have taken very good care of her. Considering how dazedly she's moving, it's probably the latter. I ought to give those nurses a commendation.

The girl muttered something in reply to Dale, and picked up speed as she marched across the room towards Luna. Her Guard quickly moved to intercept.

Dale also reacted, although he was slower, and had to go around Luna. He was almost to the girl when she dropped down to her knees, lifted her good hand, and gently placed it on the Guard's muzzle.

“Hold,” Luna commanded, barely suppressing a snicker as he went cross-eyed looking at her hand. His wings had snapped open at her touch, and he cautiously folded them down as she began running her hand gently up his muzzle.

She began babbling at him, and although she didn't know the words, they were spoken in the same tone of voice that she'd heard some ponies use towards a favored pet. Luna was above that; she only spoke proper Equestrian to Tiberius. To do any less would be disrespectful.

Dale moved to the girl's side and gripped her shoulder, speaking softly to her in their language. She shook her head in response, lifted her good hand, and lightly scratched the thestral's ear.

He pushed her off with a hoof and stepped back, moving just out of her hand range. She reached for him, but Dale kept his hand on her shoulder.

The two of them held a brief conversation. Luna paid careful attention. Dale's slow and methodical method of speaking to Lyra was good for learning, but didn't give the sense of how the language was supposed to flow.

Finally, Dale shook his head, and spoke more slowly to her. She nodded each time he'd finished speaking, and then looked over at Luna eagerly.

He got to his feet, and moved halfway between her and the girl, then he bowed again. She grimaced. Such acts of supplication were usually reserved for ponies who were frightened of being punished.

“Kate is. . . .” he began hesitantly, then reconsidered. “Princess Luna, is Kate.” He pointed a hand in her direction. Kate bowed, then giggled when Luna ducked her head. “Kate, Princess Luna.

“Kate, um, want to pet you.” He made a patting motion with his hand on the top of his head.

Conflicting thoughts quickly ran through Luna's head. From the reports I got after Lyra's first meeting, and from her courtroom testimony, Dale is generally stand-offish, although he has slowly become more affectionate. Not to the point Noble Voice implied, though—if that truly was Lyra's hope, she's grazing at the wrong pasture. But stallions are more reserved, and that might hold true for their species as well. If that's the case, it would be unwise to not accept the gesture, as she may have more authority to treat than he does.

“We accept,” she said, turning her head to face Kate. “Come forth, Ka-th-rin.”

She nodded eagerly, and shuffled toward the alicorn, while both Dale and the Guard watched closely. Kate held out her hand, pushing it toward Luna's nose insistently. Luna leaned down and nuzzled it gently, holding steady as the girl gently pet her nose.

But when her hand strayed up into Luna's mane, she jerked back as if she'd been burned. Luna felt the spark of magic, and pulled her head back. I should have remembered they were sensitive to magic.

Kate didn't give up, but she kept clear of Luna's mane, settling on running her hands across Luna's cheek, and then down her neck.

Dale barked an order at Kate, and she let go. She looked at Dale, and he shook his head. Kate crossed her arms and gave him a dirty look, but she backed away from Luna.

There was so much more Luna wanted to know, but she cautioned herself to be patient. Dale hardly spoke Equestrian at all, and it would still be a while before he could carry on a meaningful conversation with her. Still, overall she was pleased with what she had accomplished. He was friendly towards her—almost deferential—and Kate had also greeted her. Dale had indicated that she'd gotten the events on the island correct enough, which was a huge weight off her back. She never would have forgiven herself if it had turned out Noble Voice had been right. More importantly, her impression of him was that he was of as good character as she'd seen in his dreams.

Luna glanced over at her Guard. “Thou shalt inform one of the servants or Guards at the embassy that we wish a formal meeting in Canterlot with Dale and Ka-th-rin—if she is able—as quickly as can be arranged, and order that Lyra shall also attend.”

He glanced around the empty room, before heading for the door to carry out her instructions.

“We thank thee for welcoming us into thine House,” Luna said, looking Dale in the eyes. “Thou art a worthy stallion, and we eagerly anticipate working with thee.” She bowed formally, touching her left knee to the ground, before rising and turning to face Kate. “We wish thee haste in thy recovery, and we also eagerly await thy visit to Canterlot.” Once again, she bowed. When she rose, she walked all the way to the front door before turning back to face them. “We grant thee the protection of our House, for as long as thou art in our domain.”

“Well, you got your motive right,” Richter grudgingly admitted. He was reading through the loose papers which had accompanied the tube. “Except that Dale didn't buy the horse. He saw it on North Fox, along with a dozen others. He says that it came over to meet him, and made a sign in the beach that it was going to come back.”

“Be nice if he'd thought to take a picture of it,” Moller said. “These days, when every damn phone in the world has a camera, how did he forget to do that?”

“He gives a decent description. Tallies with what the witnesses said.”

Moller nodded, and checked the mirror before changing lanes for the US-131 interchange. “Does it say in there what we're going to find in the tube?”

“Some sort of super-advanced alien hair. Don't you even say that's why MSU can't identify the hair they found.”

“What, exactly, makes an alien hair super-advanced?”

“He says that it can block some radio signals. Spends nearly a page talking about it. It was the thing which convinced him he wasn't crazy.”

Moller grunted, and turned into the parking lot at the barracks, sliding into his usual space. “Guess that's why it's wrapped in tinfoil.” He got out of the car and looked up into the clear sky. “Last night,” he said, “I didn't go right home. I got in my car and I drove north. Sometimes I do my best thinking in a car. Called my wife, told her I was working a case and I'd be home late—you ever do that?”

Richter nodded as he bumped the door shut with an arm. “So?”

“So I went all the way up to the White Cloud exit. Drove a couple miles into the Hiawatha National Forest, and pulled off the road. Just sat in the car for a little bit, then I got out and looked up. It's easy to forget just how many stars there are. Can't see them with all the city lights.”

Richter looked up at the sky dubiously. “I guess, but—you can't be taking this seriously.” He waved the papers in front of Moller. “Rantings of a madman. Sure, he sounds convincing, but that's just because he believes it.”

“When we open that tube, we're going to see his proof. If you're right, it's going to be something completely ordinary. Maybe a bit weird—maybe he was so far 'round the bend, he couldn't see the forest for the trees—or maybe it's going to be inexplicable. Like the bubble on the island. Or the disappearing footprints.

“If it is something we can't explain, we need to get real experts on it. Like, real scientists. Give them everything we've got, and see what they make of it.”

“The FBI has the best forensic team—“

“So? So far we've struck out. A veterinary college can't identify the hair—never mind our own forensics labs. None of your cult experts, nor your school of wizards can figure out the books. We're going to have to take this all the way if we want to know the truth.”

“And you think that will help us find Kate?”

Moller jabbed a finger in his chest. “We've got nothing, and you know it. We've got boxes and boxes of evidence, and it all adds up to we don't know.”

“I'm not participating in your madness,” Richter growled. “I'll go solo—use what I've got. Get a federal judge to seize all the evidence.”

“You want to prove me wrong? Fine. I'd love to be proved wrong. Let's go up to my office, and let's open that tube, and let's see what's in there. And you know what? I hope you're right. I hope it's something dumb. Something only a lunatic would think was proof. Because then we'll know.” He leaned over Richter. “But if it isn't—we'll do it my way.”

Richter's eyes flicked down to the tube. “Deal.”

Author's Notes:

As always, click HERE for fun facts and behind-the-scenes stuff!

Chapter 21: Respite

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 21: A Brief Respite
Admiral Biscuit

Have you ever stolen anything?

I didn't—

What about that apple at Mrs. Smith's stand?

I was—

Did you cheat in school? Did you ever glance at anypony else's test?

I wasn't cheating.

But you changed your answer, did you not?

I—

Were the rooms randomly assigned, or did you ask?

It wasn't, I didn't mean. . . .

Did you ever—

I was curious. You hear things.

Have you ever—

Were you—

Did you—

In my considered opinion, she is a disgrace to all unicorns.

I object.

She suffers from an incurable moral turpitude.

I didn't ask a question!

Were you not preening the Dale?

Lyra backs through the courtroom, her tail clamped between her legs and her ears pinned flat. A dozen Noble Voices surround her, their questions and accusations blurring together into an unanswerable crushing wave.

She wants to run, but she's trapped. The witness box is too small for escape, and the bared teeth of the bailiff gleam wickedly in the guttering lamplight of the courtroom.

She is pressed in on all sides. She wants to run, to gallop, and she coils her legs underneath her, leaping over the witness stand, over the collective herd of barristers, flying almost as high as a pegasus could. She is galloping in the air, galloping over the heads of her enemies, but for every step she takes, they take two, advancing in a relentless tide, their questions never ceasing.

Her hooves hit the ground but she does not move. Her legs move in a familiar cadence, but she gains no ground. Pews full of gape-mouthed reporters, scribbling on their notebooks, slowly drift by as the distance to the door stretches to infinity and beyond.

She cannot outrun them.

She does the only other thing she can do. She spins to face them, her horn lighting in a blaze of glory. The magic fills her, screaming for release. She knows all the spells, she can do anything.

They meet singly, as is the custom. The stage is recessed, so that everypony can see what's happening. A magenta bubble glows around the ancient runes, protecting the audience from spells and preventing cheating.

Because a mare in heat might do anything.

Bon Bon never liked going to her matches, not after the time she was knocked out in practice. Spent a day in the hospital.

They meet singly, as is the custom. She bows her head to her opponent, but Noble Voice stands there, unmoving, as if he were carved out of marble.

She doesn't know his weakness. She's unprepared.

A simple stunning spell.

He's unmoved. When you first saw Dale, he begins, as he moves towards her. Nopony in the audience can hear him, but his voice rings through her head and distracts her. She can't remember any of her defensive spells!

Did you ever—

Another stunning spell. Failure. She can hear the crowd booing. Bon Bon is there, sitting next to Buck Withers and is she nuzzling him?

Have—

She screams loudly enough to shatter the shield, a cry of anguish which can be heard all the way in Vanhoover. The audience is all Noble Voice and they are all against her, they all want her to fail, they want to take away everything. She's outside her house as the auctioneer begins selling her belongings because it's the only way she can pay her debt to society but it would have been better if they hadn't made her watch as her life is sold piecemeal. Her parents don't bid on anything, they just look at her contemptuously.

And who will give me one bit for this lyre? Only one bit—do I have a bid for one bit?

—Lyra.

No bids? Into the fire with it.

—Lyra.

Who will—

When did—

—Lyra Heartstrings, look at us.

Have you ever—

—Look at us.

The rock sits in the middle of the garden, as it always has and always will. Such is the nature of things. Smoothly raked paths circle out and around it, but they do not change the rock, for it is inviolate. A thousand thousand generations will pass it by; the rock was there before the maestro, and it will be there long after she is gone. What secrets it harbors are a mystery that shall never be solved, not by a philosopher nor a scientist.

Her panic falls away, gone in a puff of smoke. A tall, slender pony, completely covered by a neophyte's robe and cowl, patiently rakes the garden.

—Fear not, the robed figure tells her.

She looks around her. Only the robed pony is there, and if she makes her pattern well, there will be no evidence once she leaves the garden, for she will have raked over her own hoofprints.

—We are with thee. We shall banish thy demons and keep thee safe throughout our night.

She reaches the end of her final row and steps onto the stone-flagged pathway. The rake is leaned against the ghostly-white bark of a paper birch, where it will be available to the next student in need.

Out of habit, Lyra looks at the pattern. It is deceptively simple, but she’s learned how to tease out its complexities. It swirls and eddies around the rock, flowing by like a river, trying to claim what cannot belong to it.

Lyra bows respectfully to the robed pony, almost touching her muzzle to the stone path, before looking back up. The hooded pony is gone. She blinks her eyes, and

For a moment, she is completely disoriented. Everything is not quite right, but not really wrong, either. It's a strange moment of jamais vu, of disconnect, but a moment later it snapped back into position and she knew where she was, and more importantly, who she was.

As the last bits of unreality faded from her mind, Lyra stayed perfectly still, letting the comforting familiarity of her home drift back in. The strange moonshadow in the corner wasn't a monster, it was the stupid fern she'd won at a carnival in Canterlot and stubbornly held onto even after any sensible mare could have seen it was never going to amount to anything . . . and then she'd met Bon Bon, and the mare had felt pity for the dumb plant, and now it thrived. Over there, on the wall, an unskilled painting of a grassy field Bon Bon had found at a flea market, which was still ugly, but now it was also a fixture in the living room.

And more important than any thing in the room, the other end of the couch held a warm lump curled under a blanket, revealed to her in the soft rays of moonlight glowing through the window and lighting everything with a preternatural clarity.

Her rock.

Lyra rolled on her side and closed her eyes again. She was joined by the feather-touch of coat against coat, of intertwined tails and intermingled scent, gentle reminders that she was never truly alone.

Lyra laid on her side, stretched out on the couch, and slept the sleep of the just.

Up in Twilight's loft, two beds were neatly made, the pillows fluffed to perfection and the sheets and blankets laid out with near-geometric accuracy. Two nightstands each contained an empty glass with an ewer of water beside it, and a sachet of fresh flowers hanging just above the partially-opened balcony doors gave the space a nice, fresh smell. Aside from the dragon sprawled out in his basket, the scene could very well have been an illustration in a book about hosting a proper sleepover. That, and the lack of anypony in the beds.

Twilight and Luna were seated in the central room of the library. A stack of books, which had been steadily growing throughout the night, stood beside a table.

A faint, almost motherly smile played across Luna's lips as Twilight's head dipped yet again . . . and then she jerked back up, blinking owlishly at the Princess of the Night.

“More tea!” The pot trembled ever so slightly in Twilight's field as she filled her cup, then drained it in a gulp in a desperate bid to stay awake.

“Thou needst not stay awake for us,” Luna said for the umpteenth time.

Twilight nodded instinctively, before rubbing her face. “Yes, I do. We have so much to talk about.” She lifted a stack of slightly crumpled notes in her field and flipped through them. “We . . . the trial. No, we covered that. Professor Laureate . . . Starswirl . . . spell.” She covered a yawn, and then looked back at Luna.

“We spoke of him,” Luna reminded her. “Starswirl was not infallible. There were spells even he could not complete, and he did make his share of mistakes.” Her eyes focused on a point beyond Twilight. “Even before our . . . folly, his experimentations carried him down some paths which were ill-advised. Although she has not spoken freely of it, our sister did place too much credence in him.”

“I know.” Twilight drained her teacup and set it neatly on the saucer, the handle pointed halfway between Luna and herself. “But . . . I've been through this spell dozens of times, and I can't figure out how it went wrong.”

“Celestia thought his spell foolproof, as well.” Luna gently pushed the papers down with her field. “Everypony makes mistakes, Twilight Sparkle. What is important is that we learn from them.”

“If they had been touching,” Twilight muttered. “But Lyra said they weren't. She wouldn't have lied. She took an oath—she swore she was telling the truth.”

Luna nodded. It wasn't the first time this subject had been broached.

“She was telling the truth, wasn't she? Everypony was, right?”

“We . . . do not know.”

Twilight set her papers back on the table and looked Luna in the face, then she glanced back at the papers and penned in a brief note. “What if—“

“No.”

“But. . . .”

“There are spells.” Luna closed her eyes. “And potions. The subject rarely arises, fortunately. Perhaps once or twice in a generation, some bright-eyed pony comes to court with a spell she has discovered, which, she assures us, will revolutionize the Equestrian justice system. They are not new spells, of course; variations, perhaps, but the end result is the same.

“And she is not wrong in her assessment, either.”

The mines were a favorite punishment. Ponies in hobbles, chained to each other. The courts were efficient—one spell, a few questions to the defendant, and punishment was meted out. Perhaps it had begun as a fair system, but it was no longer so.

But the crystal mines always needed more ponies.

Luna lifted the teapot and filled Twilight's cup once again. She set the pot in the center of the table and looked Twilight directly in the eye, even as her horn lit brightly, enveloping Twilight's teacup in a coruscus of light.

“Wert thou to drink that tea,” Luna said quietly, “thou wouldst discover that thou wert unable to speak a falsehood.” Her horn flashed again. “More. Thou wouldst be unable to keep thine mouth stilled. For the next quarter of an hour, thou wouldst be compelled to honestly answer any question we didst ask.”

She gently pushed the cup towards Twilight.

“Drink, and we shall discover together just how efficient the law can be.”

Twilight looked at the cup in horror.

“Shall we order thee?” Luna said softly, nudging the saucer. “Dost thou not drink from the cup because we proffer it? Wouldst thou, if it were our sister? Dost thou not love us? Shall we use a spell to compel thee?”

A faint magenta glow formed around the handle of the cup, and it slowly began lifting off the table, trembling as it went.

Luna grabbed it in her aura and dumped it into a fern.

“We know not how many unicorns offered their spell to our sister during our absence,” she said softly. “But we can guess how many of them would chose to drink from their poison cup. Think no further of this madness.”

Twilight blinked awake, the familiar sound of Spike's snoring turning her ears slightly. I just had the weirdest dream, she thought.

She pushed the comforter off her body and sat up in bed, her mind already racing. If it hadn't been for the urgent pressure in her bladder, she would have rushed right to the stacks to grab a book.

Her mind barely registered the empty bed across the room from her own; not until she'd answered nature's call did she even remember why it was there.

A quick tour of the library revealed that Princess Luna was indeed, gone. It was hardly a surprise—the Lunar Diarch would have no reason not to travel in the pre-dawn hour. Still, it would have been nice to say goodbye.

Yet the problem from the night before had seated itself in her brain, and it wouldn't let go.

She absently cleared the worktable, dumping the rest of the tea down her sink. A spell could warm it easily enough, but she wasn't sure she wanted to try what was left in the pot. Just in case.

The embers in the stove were still quite warm, and it was but a minute's work to get it going again. She set the kettle on to boil, then headed back into the library.

Naturally, the book she was looking for had been re-filed in one of her organizational purges. Twilight blamed her sleepy state for her repeated instinct to look for the book where it had been, when any sensible mare would have put it somewhere else, even if she couldn't quite remember where that was.

On her third pass of the shelves, she finally found it. In her defense, the book had seemed thicker when she'd first read it as a filly.

She quickly flipped through the pages, skipping back and forth until she found the passage she was looking for.

In spellcraft, even a thin wire of pure chalkos, hardly thicker than a hair, was found to be sufficient to guide a spell. Wrapt around a horn, with a blindfold on and a barrier spell betwixt her and a table, a test subject was able to lift a quill and an inkpot with but a simple strand connecting the two.

Progressively larger objects were tried, however it was discovered that the wire had the unfortunate property of heating, and some subjects complained of discomfort. As the weight was further increased, the wire would heat to glowing, or even melt, causing burns to the horn. At this time, the initial experimentation was ceased, although subsequent research is being carried out in Manehattan.

Based on an earlier experiment with hoof-conduction, a second experiment with a pegasus wings was attempted, although it showed more limited success. This was not due to the failure of the conductive wire, but rather the difficulty of spreading it over a sufficient number of feathers.

The experiment was re-tried with a captive cloud, which proved even more difficult. The chalkos wire could not be easily worked by horn, and had to be woven into a broad mesh by tongs held in the mouth.

We suspect that such a net might enable a unicorn, or even a common pony, to drag along clouds behind her, although we confess we can think of no reason why there would be any benefit to this arrangement.

Although an interesting aside on the magical potential of the material, it is far more useful for simple crafts, or as a medium for reflection: that which the laypony would call a mirror. Given its softness, it should be plain that despite its conductive advantages, it is unsuitable for shoes.

A weary smile crossed Twilight's face. She knew.

Dale yawned and stretched, his mind momentarily casting himself back to when he was a child, before the ache in his bones reminded him that he was no spring chicken anymore. A second after that, the unfamiliar bed and unnatural silence snapped him back to reality.

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat up, instinctively reaching for his glasses on the bedside stand. When his outstretched hand found nothing, he opened his eyes. As the muzziness of sleep fell away, he remembered that the table was on the other side of the bed.

After giving his eyes a second to come back into focus, he sat up, turning himself so his legs were draped over the side of the bed. With a final moment of regret, he pushed the covers off his lap, nearly ready to face the new day.

He could already smell the brewing coffee, but it took a second to notice that there was no frying bacon to accompany it.

The dresser was almost an insult. There were no clean clothes, and he had to make do with the same thing he'd worn the day before. The nagging voice of his mother ran through his head as he pulled his pants over the same underwear he'd worn to bed, but what choice did he have? It was either wear them or go commando.

I'm going to have to get that white unicorn to come up with more clothes, he decided. A man couldn't only have two pairs of underwear.

Once he was dressed, Dale pushed open the door to his room and stepped out into the hallway. Lyra's room was still empty: the door was open, and the neatly-made bed served only as a reminder of how far away from home he was.

For a moment, the thought of heading down the back hall and checking to make sure Kate was still there crossed his mind, but he couldn't do that. Wouldn't. She was entitled to her privacy.

He hesitated at the head of the stairs, his hand resting loosely on the new bannister. It was a minor touchstone to reality, a thing he had helped create. If he hadn't been here, neither would it.

Dale rolled his shoulder experimentally as he walked down the stairs. Aside from a little stiffness, it was as good as new. Too bad the same couldn't be said about his hair.

Starlight looked up in surprise as he leaned into the kitchen. She was in the midst of getting out breakfast supplies: two empty pans and a coffee percolator were on the stove, warming up, and on the counter beside them, a small wicker basket that looked not unlike an Easter basket was filled with brown eggs, protected with straw.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully, eyeing the percolator. “Can . . . may Dale—may I have?” He pointed at the pot.

Starlight blinked, and then nodded. She turned and reached up, hooking a mug out of the cabinet. She dropped back to three hooves and held it out for him.

There is no logical reason why that cup isn't shattered on the floor, he thought. He reached out to grasp the mug, feeling a slight tingle in his hand as soon as he made contact with the ceramic. As he went to pull it towards himself, it held fast for just a moment before behaving like a normal cup should.

He cautiously picked up the percolator, poured himself a cup, and politely held it over Starlight's cup. She nodded, and he topped her drink off before putting the percolator back on the stove.

With his coffee in hand, Dale stood a moment longer in the kitchen, trying to decide if he should make an offer to help her with breakfast, but such an offer would likely be more of a hindrance than a help. There was no way they could make small talk—if these ponies even did that. So far, they'd been very task-oriented; maybe they thought shooting the bull was a total waste of time.

As the silence stretched out, Dale finally made up his mind. He could review the words Cheerilee had taught him while they were still fairly fresh in his head, and maybe even figure out something else from the book. Hopefully, Lyra would come back today, and they could work together some more. He already missed her—her unconventional method of teaching and learning might not have been as effective as Cheerilee's classroom manner, but it was a lot more fun, and she wasn't bothered when their lessons went off on a wild tangent.

Back in the office, Dale held the cup indecisively above his desk. He didn't have a coaster or a trivet, and while he wouldn't bother with such a thing at home, he didn't want to ruin somebody else's furniture. Finally, he settled on using a stack of blank paper.

He picked up the copy of Your Home, and shuffled through his notes until he found the ones he'd taken while he and Cheerilee had gone through the book.

Okay, he thought as he opened the book. If I've got this right, there are four types of pony. The plain ones, the ones that look kind of like horses back home, are called earth ponies. The ones with horns are unicorns, the ones with wings are pegasuses, and the ones with both horns and wings are princesses. They're all born that way, and they all live together. He frowned and picked up his coffee, trying to think back to high school biology. I got the impression that there's a bit of unpredictability when it comes to offspring: if the first picture is accurate, that's their version of a nuclear family, and it has three of the four types of pony. The princess type is probably rare, and has higher social standing, which is why everyone was deferential towards Luna last night.

So if that’s true—as weird as it is—wings, horns, or neither, are probably genetically determined, much like gender. I wonder if their coat and mane color is, too. Perhaps the foal I saw at the hospital had the white nurse as her mother, and maybe a dark-colored pony as her father, or even the doctor . . . or is the coloration more complex? And what purpose would such a wide variety of hair color serve, anyway? How could that have come about?

He absently took another sip of his coffee, pondering the first illustration in the book. I guess it could work. I think that some parts of the human body choose to be one thing or another early in pregnancy, and maybe if they've got more complex DNA, whole new bone structures could form. . . .

I wonder if the unicorns are the only ones who can lift things remotely? Maybe it depends on their family tree. Starlight was holding the cup up somehow.

Dale closed his eyes, trying to mentally imagine what sort of strange evolution might make such a thing even possible. It was something he sometimes struggled with, even thinking about human evolution. How could an eye come about? What use was a half-eye? How did some of the ponies get wings, some of them get horns, and some of them get neither? And the dusky guard who had been with Princess Luna—he had cat-like eyes and leathery bat-wings, but otherwise looked much like the pegasus guards. How could that have happened? Or was he now trying to put too much faith on one outlier?

Could it be that it wasn’t all natural selection? What might a future scientist think if he saw our genetically-engineered crops? Or glowing zebrafish? If all the records had somehow been lost, if there were some kind of protracted Dark Ages on Earth . . . what would they think when they found ancient mutated Monsanto corn?

Maybe this civilization was built upon the ruins of another. He looked thoughtfully at the frontispiece of the book. I haven't seen any children up close, besides the one at the hospital, and she was a normal pony. But if the book's correct—and so far, I haven't seen anything to demonstrate it isn't—the children come in all three varieties, and presumably a fourth.

“Dale?”

He jerked his head up, almost spilling his coffee. Diamond Mint was standing in the doorway, looking at him curiously. “Is now Dale eat.”

Dale nodded absently and pushed his chair back. He hadn't gotten to any of the vocabulary, but that was all right. It would be there when he got back from breakfast.

When he got to the dining room, he wasn't entirely surprised to see Kate there, absently pushing at her scrambled eggs with a fork. She was seated beside a tall, white unicorn dressed in a shirt that was a few shades lighter than Lyra's coat. The design of the clothing looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place it . . . until he felt a warm bump against his hand, and looked down at the pink nurse from the hospital.

She's wearing scrubs, he thought. I think I saw her with the other dressed-up ponies one time. They must be doing in-home care. It made sense: Kate was ambulatory, and her injuries were no longer life-threatening. Despite the damage being beyond the ability of Earth doctors to repair, whatever the ponies were doing was working.

If they’re that good at medicine, might they be doing genetic modifications in the womb? He looked at his dining companions—two different types of pony, and the unicorn wearing scrubs was half a head taller than the others. All their coats were different colors, and yet all the armored guards he'd seen so far had had matching coats and manes.

The thought was horrifying—but maybe they had a good reason for it, and wasn't there the possibility that human medicine might one day advance to that point? Values shifted, and anyway, who was he to question another society on their practices? If it's even true, he told himself. You don't know enough to jump to conclusions. All the fundamental rules of life we hold for granted on Earth need not apply on another planet.

Dale took his seat, barely suppressing a grin as the nurse sat opposite the unicorn doctor, neatly flanking Kate, doubtlessly there to keep her in place during breakfast.

Diamond set a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of him, then gave him a glass of water before retreating back to the kitchen. Since everyone else had already dug in, Dale began eating.

“I don't like scrambled eggs.”

“Huh?” He looked up at Kate.

“I don't like scrambled eggs,” she repeated, shoving them to the side of her plate. “They're nasty.”

“I could—“

“How come they listen to you? That’s not fair.” She narrowed her eyes. “Tell them I don't want scrambled eggs.”

Dale glanced around the table. All eyes were on him.

The problem was, of course, he couldn't just walk into the kitchen and boldly tell Starlight or Diamond Mint that Kate didn't like her scrambled eggs, and did they have anything else? It would be rude, and there was the problem of language: they hadn’t covered the names of many foods yet. He could make a few gestures, say some words in their language to try and get the idea across . . . but that was more than Kate could do.

And how might their thought process be running? If he liked something, they'd have to assume she would too, and that any refusal was more likely to be belligerence than anything else. It wasn't a great assumption, but it was all they had to work with. “What do you like for breakfast? What do you usually have?”

“Frosted Flakes,” she said. “Or a bagel with cream cheese. Anything but scrambled eggs.”

He thought about what they might have in the kitchen. Frosted Flakes were out; the nearest supply was . . . well, wherever Earth was. “Fruit? Do you like fruit?”

“A banana? Grapefruit's okay with lots of sugar. Or pancakes . . . I like pancakes.”

Dale tapped his thumb on the table in thought. He still didn’t like the idea of bothering Starlight if he could help it, but there was Kate’s comfort to consider, too. She hasn’t said she was allergic to eggs, but if they gave her a stomach ache or indigestion or . . . maybe it was better to just bite the bullet and make the request. It wasn’t unreasonable, after all.

How am I going to explain pancakes? “I don't speak their language very well,” he temporized. “So—“

“The green unicorn with the white and blue mane knows English,” Kate told him. “Tell her. Where is she?”

“I wish I knew,” he muttered. “I could—I know. Kate, do you mind if I take your nurse to the kitchen with me?”

Kate looked over at the pink pony sitting next to her, and shrugged.

“Good.” Dale pointed to the nurse. “Come with me. Help me.” He stood, and after a short mental deliberation, the nurse did, too. Dale walked around the table and took Kate's plate, then walked into the kitchen, the nurse following along on his heels.

Starlight and Diamond Mint were seated at a small table in the back of the kitchen, eating their own breakfast, and a pang of guilt made Dale pause. The last thing he wanted to do was annoy the cook . . . but at some point, menu choices were going to come up, and while he'd hoped it would be later rather than sooner, here he was.

“Kate not eat,” he began, sounding the words carefully. “Not, um, sad eat.”

“Sad . . . eat?” Starlight looked at Dale in confusion.

He nodded, stuck his tongue out, and made a face. “Kate,” he reminded them.

The nurse brightened and rapidly said a sentence in their language.

“Sad eat.” Starlight looked down at her plate, and stuck her own tongue out, then pushed the plate away from her. “Sad eat?”

He nodded. Starlight got to her hooves and moved to the cupboard, pulling the door open that had the list of foods he'd checked off in the hospital. She pointed to the egg on the list. “Dale sad eat?”

He shook his head. “Dale happy eat.” Based on what he'd seen so far, he was safe making vegetable choices, so he pointed to an apple. “Maybe Starlight happy eat, Diamond Mint sad eat.” He moved his finger further down, to a drawing of a fish. “Dale happy eat, Diamond Mint sad eat?”

Starlight nodded, and waved a hoof over the drawing, in a clear 'pick one' motion.

Dale held up a finger. Wait. He crouched down in front of the nurse. “You—food. There. Dale, Kate food. You bring—look.” Dale pointed to the toast. “First.” He pantomimed pouring flour into a bowl, stirring it, kneading it, and rolling it. “Then.” He motioned towards the oven, pulled an imaginary loaf out, and then made sawing motions, finally placing the imaginary toast on the plate.

Starlight and the nurse just stared at him.

“First,” he reiterated, making the flour motion. “Then,” pointing at the oven. “Now.”

Starlight drooped her ears, and Dale sighed. She doesn't get it.

The nurse asked a question, and Starlight's ears perked. She looked back at him, then moved over to a cabinet, opened the door, and pulled out a large box. She tugged the lid off and showed him the powdery white contents. “First,” she declared, pantomiming taking a scoop of flour.

She moved throughout the entire bread-making process, going so far as to open cupboards and show him the mixing bowls and breadpans, culminating in a triumphant smile as she placed the phantom toast on the plate.

“Yes.” Dale nodded, to reinforce the point. “Kate want—look.” He pointed to the flour, and began the pantomime anew.

Both the nurse and Starlight were watching him intently as he went through the motion of making pancakes. “Dale and Kate eat there then,” he told the nurse helpfully. “Before.”

Once he was done with his pantomime, the two ponies exchanged a look and began a heated discussion. Finally, a consensus was reached, and Starlight began getting out ingredients.

As Dale looked on, he regretted not knowing how to make pancakes that didn't come from a Bisquick box. He hoped she was making the right thing—he wasn't sure he could go through this again if the whole process ended in a crepe or French toast or something else Kate wouldn't eat. His fears were ameliorated when Starlight finally finished with the batter and began pouring pancakes into the frying pan.

Once she'd finished and stacked them all neatly on a plate, Dale triumphantly came out of the kitchen holding Kate's pancakes aloft. “There. Pancakes.”

He'd just settled into his seat when Kate spoke. “Is there any syrup?”

The sun was just above the horizon when Lyra woke again. This time, it only took her a second to register her surroundings, and she rolled her neck to get the cricks out. She was getting too old for sleeping on the couch.

Bon Bon was still asleep. Unlike most earth ponies, she'd never been an early riser. Lyra gingerly disentangled herself from the covers and slid off the couch, stretching once all four hooves were on the floor.

She reeked of morning breath and stale sweat, so she quickly headed for the bathroom.

Lyra let her mind go blank as she stood in the shower, moving the soap and shampoo in an automatic pattern. She could do nothing to change the past, but the future was still hers to mold.

Grooming only took a few minutes. She'd never been one to spend much time on her mane and tail. Brush the tangles out, a quick check in the mirror to make sure that there weren't any crazy cowlicks sticking up, and she was good to go.

It was only once she was out of the bathroom that the doubts began to set in. Sure, she'd won the court case, but she'd bared herself to the whole town. Everypony was sure to know by now what she'd said on the stand, what kind of questions Noble Voice had asked, and they'd be wondering what she was up to.

She went into her conservatory and looked out the window nervously, almost expecting a pegasus with a camera to be hovering there, but the sun was hardly up, and nopony was out on their street yet.

Just the same, she felt awkward doing her morning stretching routine. She told herself it was because she hadn't had time to do it in a while, but her ears and eyes kept turning to the window, checking to make sure nopony was spying on her.

After she'd finished, she just sat on the floor, looking at her lyre. She hadn't touched it since she'd first been summoned to Canterlot.

She picked it up in her field, frowning at the thin film of dust on its body. I really ought to get to the embassy, she thought, picking up a rag. So I'll just clean it, and then eat a quick breakfast, say goodbye to Bon Bon, and be on my way.

Her ear twitched as hoofsteps caught her attention, and she turned her head towards the doorway. Bon Bon was standing there, her mane in tangles and her coat matted from sleep.

“Morning, Lyra.”

“Bon Bon! You're up early!”

“I heard you playing.” Bon Bon held up a hoof to cover a yawn. “I'm a mess.”

Lyra set her lyre back on its stand reverently. “You look fine,” she assured the earth pony. “How did you sleep?”

“Pretty well, considering.” Bon Bon covered another yawn. “I . . . it was nice to wake up to music.”

Lyra looked back at her instrument. “It was out of tune.”

Bon Bon nodded. “I need a shower. Could you be a sweetheart and get the stove going?”

“Sure.” Lyra crossed to the door and nuzzled Bon Bon's nose.

“Are you going to the embassy today?”

“I should have been there already,” Lyra admitted, looking guiltily out the window. “I hope Dale isn't having any problems. He's pretty smart, though.”

“I wasn't impressed with him at the hospital.” Bon Bon pushed open the bathroom door and Lyra followed her in.

“He wasn't at his best. Neither of us were.”

“Are you going to stay at the embassy tonight?”

“I ought to. I think I'm supposed to, but nopony's told me for sure yet.”

“It's not fair.” Bon Bon stuck a hoof under the water, to make sure the temperature was to her liking.

“I'll talk to Twilight. If she doesn't stop by before Cheerilee comes over, I'll find her and see what she says. Maybe I could even get her to send a letter to the Princess about it.”

“I don't know about bothering her for—“

“She won't mind,” Lyra insisted. “I'll go get the stove started, and then I have to get to the embassy.”

Her domestic duties complete, Lyra stood in the doorway to the house, her fears and worries coming back full force. Once she was out on the street, she was going to run into ponies she knew, ponies who had heard what happened in the trial. The gossip machine in Ponyville ran smoothly and efficiently, and never missed an event.

I should have left early. I should have left right after I got out of the shower. I could have been there before there were too many ponies on the street.

But then Bon Bon would have woken up all alone again.

She looked up and down the street. Mercifully, it was vacant.

Her pace was slow, but she reached the end of the block all too soon. She stuck her head around the corner; just as she'd feared, the road was teeming with ponies going about their morning business. Lyra swallowed down a lump in her throat. I could go back home and grab Bonnie's winter cloak.

No. That would just give mares more to gossip about. She took a few deep breaths, letting the stress flow out of her, and proudly stepped forward, head held high.

She kept her head and ears forward, moving down the center of the road at a sedate pace. She was the rock, and the raked lines were just moving around her, never touching her, never changing who she was.

“Hey Lyra!”

Her ears dropped and she turned her head up just in time to catch Raindrops' perfect landing. The yellow mare trotted to a stop right beside her. “Heard about the trial yesterday.”

Lyra hung her head. And so it begins. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see other ponies approaching.

“Me and some of the other weather girls were talking about it this morning,” the pegasus continued. “And we heard what they said about you 'n the creature.”

“It's not—“ Lyra began, but Raindrops continued unabated.

“It isn't right. You did all those things, bringing him here and bringing an embassy to Ponyville, and now some dumb unicorn from out East thinks he can take it all away?” She spat on the ground. “We aren't gonna let him. This is our town, and we look after everypony in it.”

Lyra blinked in confusion.

“Yeah!” She turned to see Daisy, a scowl on her face. “They think we're stupid because we live here instead of some city. Who wants to live in a city? I hear they don't even have flowerboxes on their houses.”

“And they think we don't know what's best for our town.” Lemon Hearts pushed her way beside Daisy. “But we do.”

“And nopony is going to take that away.” Raindrops pawed at the ground. “Nopony.”

How did I not see this coming? Lyra looked around at the encouraging faces, a warm glow suffusing her. Of course they wouldn't turn on me—not for something like this. She took a couple of steps forward, the crowd moving with her.

“What's he like?” Lemon Hearts asked. “I was late to the Mayor's announcement, and was pretty far from the stage.”

“He's nice,” Lyra told her.

“What's his world like?”

“Are there flowers? Does he like flowers?”

By the time she reached the end of Singletree Street, Lyra had attracted quite a retinue. While it was likely that some of them were just ponies going along with the crowd, unsure of its purpose, the majority were genuinely interested in protecting her from her vague and undefined foe.

As they got close to the embassy, Flitter, Cloudchaser, and Thunderlane chased a pegasus with a camera across town, while Caramel and Goldengrape cantered ahead to block off the road, much to the consternation of a group of mares trying to get to market.

It was only when the Guards turned to face the crowd that they backed off a little bit, letting Lyra move to the fore. She marched down the deserted street, with the townsponies behind her and the Guards in front, her head held high.

She stopped when she was between the two guards, the door invitingly open in front of her. I should say something, she thought. The crowd was still there; she could hear them behind her, feel the pressing weight of their eyes on her as they held their collective breath.

I'm not so good at speeches. Lyra bit her lip and considered what she might say. She could kind of quote Fancy Pants, but the whole meeting at the town hall had passed by in a flash . . . she'd been nervous about tripping over her hooves, or forgetting what she was supposed to say, and then it was over.

Still, her heart was bursting from her chest, like a song she had to share. She'd been expecting to be vilified, and instead everypony she'd seen had been on her side. Even in her dueling matches, there had been ponies who wanted her to lose. But not so now—not in Ponyville.

Sweat beading on her brow, she turned to face the crowd. “Thank you.” Her smile threatened to split her face. “Thank you so much. It means so much to me—to us, to me and Dale, that you're all here for us. I—we couldn't have picked a better town. Thank you. Thank you.”

As the crowd stomped their approval, Lyra went through the embassy door. Even as it shut behind her, she could still hear the ponies outside, and feel their hooves shaking the ground.

“What's going on?” Diamond Mint looked at Lyra curiously. “I heard a commotion, and then you show up at the head of a . . . a mob.”

“That's not a mob,” Lyra said. “It's our town.” She leaned in close to Diamond. “Our town,” she whispered, before skipping off into the office.

Dale had his head down over a stack of paper when she walked in, and he didn't notice her. She'd already guessed that his ears weren't very good at locating sound—like a griffon, he depended more on eyesight than hearing. With his vision focused on the paper, he had no idea she was coming, even though she was making no attempt to be stealthy.

He looked up just as she approached his chair. His face brightened, and he dropped his quill. Before he could even turn his chair, she had her forelegs wrapped around him in a hug.

He stiffened, and shifted his weight away from her, almost as if her were trying to back out of the embrace. Lyra’s ears drooped, but then he reached an arm around her withers and squeezed her back.

“Dale . . . did Dale have good night?” she asked, finally releasing her grip and dropping back to all fours.

“I sad Lyra not here,” he told her. “Cheerilee teach me more words, but I miss you. Is you with me here now?”

His words were hesitant, but his meaning was clear. Lyra nodded. “I am. I am here for seventy-eight moons.”

“Seventy-eight . . . “ Dale started to count on his fingers.

“Day. Light, dark, day.” Lyra picked up his quill, turned over the paper, and began to draw a grid. “Day, day, day.” She pointed to each of the boxes she’d sketched in turn. “This—these days are a week.”

Dale nodded. “A week. Is this a moon?” He circled his hand around the grid. “All this? Day, day, day, week, week, week?”

“Yes.” She nodded.

So, either they have a word which sounds the same for their month and their moon, or it’s a lunar calendar. I wonder how they deal with calendar creep? I’ll want to find about that later on. He did some quick mental calculations. She’s going to be with me for years.

Starlight breathed a sigh of relief as Diamond brought the last dishes in from the dining room. She peeked through the door one more time, to make sure all the bipeds and ponies were gone, before limply resting her head on the kitchen counter.

“I can't believe Ka-th-rin refused my scrambled eggs. Right in front of a Canterlot pony, too. There wasn't anything wrong with them.”

Diamond Mint shrugged sympathetically as she set the dishes down. “I thought they were good. Everypony else enjoyed them.”

“Right in front of a Canterlot unicorn. I'm so embarrassed.”

“Maybe she just doesn't like eggs.”

“Dale likes eggs.” Starlight pointed to the list on the cupboard. “Everypony likes eggs.” She stepped back from the counter and scuffed her hoof on the floor. “Maybe . . . maybe the mares and stallions like different things.”

Diamond nodded absently.

“And she dumped the syrup on without even tasting the pancakes first.” Starlight moved over to the sink and began washing dishes. “Hmph.”

“I hope . . . I need to talk to Lyra. She's the only one who can really talk with Dale, and Dale can talk to Ka-th-rin. Maybe Dale can find out what Ka-th-rin likes to eat, and tell Lyra, and then she can tell you? It'd be faster than pantomimes and drawing pictures.

“I can ask the nurse, too. What they gave her to eat in the hospital.” Diamond picked up a plate and began drying it off. “Dale's pretty low-key, so I don't have to wait on him horn and hoof. It'll give me something to do.”

Starlight nodded. “I'd like to know before I start making lunch. I was going to cook some more meat, but if she won't eat it, it'll go to waste. Nopony else would want to touch the stuff, and I don't know if I could save it for later if I've already cooked it. I've heard it goes rancid really quick, like fish.” Her ears lowered again. “What if she refuses lunch?”

“You could make her pancakes again,” Diamond suggested. “Until you know what she likes.”

“I am not making pancakes for lunch. A good cook provides a variety of food, not the same meal every time.”

“I've got a cookbook up in our room that I got from the library.”

Starlight shot the unicorn a withering glare.

“Not for you,” Diamond amended. “For her. They've all got drawings of the ingredients, and the finished dish, so even without having Lyra or Dale translate, she'd be able to say what she wants.”

Starlight turned and gave Diamond a friendly nuzzle. “That's a great idea. Why don't you do that right now, so if I have to get anything, I'll have time.”

“The market doesn't open until noon, you know.”

Starlight grinned. “I have ways of getting what I need.”

“You mean like bugging a farmer?” Diamond looked at her skeptically. “I tried that once before a party—I ran out of cherries for my punch, and I went over to Cherry Berry's house, and she made me pay double. You're going to spend a fortune if you have to buy ingredients early, and you'll be trotting all over town.”

“Just trust me, I can handle it.” Starlight had no intention of begging a farmer or salespony. Diamond was right: if a merchant thought you were desperate, they raised their rates accordingly. Rather, in much the same way that unicorns generally had a network of acquaintances who they could call upon for spellcraft, most earth ponies unconsciously kept an eye out at the market for who was buying what, and trading between chefs was not uncommon. With her new job, all she needed to do was show up at the back door of a restaurant, and so long as she wanted a common ingredient, she could have it for market price, no questions asked.

Diamond shot her a final questioning look, but Starlight shook her head and bent over the sink.

The unicorn waited hopefully a moment longer, before turning out of the kitchen and heading upstairs.

She'd checked out the cookbook in the hopes of learning a thing or two from Starlight. She could make simple dishes, but everything complicated she'd tried her hoof at just turned into mush, and she wasn't sure why. She couldn't ask around, either; Ponyville was pretty accepting when it came to unicorns, but there weren't very many earth ponies who'd be willing to share baking secrets with one.

But a co-worker was a different story. Sure, she'd probably never be as good a cook as Starlight, but she might be able to learn enough to make some of her favorite meals on her own, and that would save her some bits.

Of course, she hadn't meant to say she had the cookbook. That had just sort of slipped out. But no harm done, and maybe if it saved Starlight some embarrassment, she'd have a better shot at prying some of the secrets of the stove free. It wasn't like she was going to get them from any of her unicorn friends—Minuette was against the idea of eating anything overly prepared, Amethyst Star had trouble with peanut butter, and Lemon Hearts could burn down a kitchen just by setting hoof in it.

She'd arranged most of her stuff already, but the cookbook was still in her saddlebags. Diamond lifted the flap and brought the book out, resisting the urge to flip through it then and there.

She'd just stepped into the hallway when a problem occurred to her: she couldn't just waltz into Kate's room and show her the book. Kate would have no idea what she was trying to get at. She'd have to ask her first, but she didn't speak their language, and Kate didn't speak hers.

So she went back down the stairs, cookbook in tow.

Dale and Lyra were in the office, poring over a foal's primer. She tapped her hoof on the open doorway, just to be polite, before entering the room.

“I want to ask Ka-th-rin what she wants for lunch,” she explained to Lyra. “But I don't know how to ask her. I was going to show her the book—let her pick.”

Lyra blinked, and furrowed her brow in thought. “Tell her . . . tell her this.” She spoke slowly, one word at a time. Diamond dutifully repeated the phrase until she'd gotten it right.

Dale still looked slightly dubious, and got up out of his chair. Lyra held up a hoof and told him something, and then he and Lyra had a short discussion in pidgin.

It wasn't the first she'd heard between them, but they always fascinated her. Both of them switched languages frequently as they debated, so she was able to pick up the gist of the conversation, even if she didn't know all the words. Dale wanted to help her, afraid that she'd have trouble interacting with the mare, while Lyra felt that she ought to get accustomed to it sooner rather than later. Intellectually, she agreed with Lyra, although she would have welcomed Dale's help.

Finally, they reached a consensus. Lyra wished her luck, and repeated the phrase one more time. Diamond parroted it back, then headed upstairs again.

She hesitated at the entrance to Kate's room just the same. It was frightening to be in a room with a creature nearly as tall as Princess Celestia, who—if rumors were to be believed—could be quite violent, with no provocation. Luckily, she wasn't seen right away; the girl was looking out the window at the backyard.

Once again, Diamond tapped her hoof politely on the doorframe before entering the room. Lecol looked over at her; Nurse Sweetheart was nowhere to be seen.

“Ka-th-rin,” Diamond began uncertainly. “I ask what you want eat in book.” When Kate turned, she bounced the book in her aura. “I ask what you want eat in book,” she repeated, opening the book and levitating it over to the bed. She'd been warned to watch her magic around the bipeds, a warning she took to heart.

“Yes?” she asked, pointing to the first page, and exhausting almost the rest of her vocabulary. “Yes? No?”

Kate squinted down at the book, a glazed look on her face. She crouched down so she could see the book clearly, before picking it up off the bed. Diamond moved back, trying to get a glimpse at what she was looking at as she began to flip through the pages, but it was difficult.

Still, she could tell that Kate wasn't fully examining every recipe. She'd skip a bunch of pages, slow down like she was considering something, and then jump ahead again. It was hard to tell what she was thinking—her ears never moved at all.

When she reached the end of the book, she furrowed her brow and said something unintelligible to Diamond, then went back to the beginning.

I'm a failure. Diamond flattened her ears. She can't even figure out the pictures. But hope was kindled anew as she started spending some time on each page, tracing a finger along the lines as she took in the recipes.

She slowly made her way through the book again, reaching the end before she looked at Diamond curiously.

Oh ponyfeathers, I forgot how to say the phrase. “I axe what you wan eat in book,” she stammered out, ears burning.

Kate blinked, and made her choice, pointing to a lasagne. Diamond winced—she knew Starlight didn't have any noodles, and the full recipe would take hours to prepare. Starlight was going to hate her.

Still . . . if she ate it. . . .

She jerked as a warm hand touched her mane, instinctively side-stepping away from the contact.

Kate gave her a hurt look as Diamond hastily picked the book up off the bed and retreated from the room, nearly crashing into the nurse.

“Sorry,” Diamond said. “I wasn't paying attention.”

Author's Notes:

Blog Entry!

Chapter 22: New Objectives

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 22—New Objectives
Admiral Biscuit

Trixie couldn't sleep.

It wasn't for a lack of trying. The bed which had been brought up for her was fit for nobility—she'd have expected nothing else in the palace—and she did not want for covers or pillows. It was, undoubtedly, the best bed she'd ever lain upon, better than the simple cot in her old wagon, and much better than the pallet of straw she'd had in her cell.

The problem was her mind. It just wouldn't shut up.

She was no stranger to sleepless nights. Her cell certainly hadn’t been restful, but even before that, there were nights in her wagon when she wondered just what she was doing with her life. She’d had her share of bad shows, of days when she put everything she had into a performance, only to be met with silence or scorn from the audience.

And even when she had a good show, she always was cursed with self-doubt. Tricks hadn’t gone quite right, or props had malfunctioned. She’d misspoken, or accidentally chosen an audience member who’d upstaged her. No matter how much effort she put into her craft, it was never perfect, and that bothered her.

It’s stupid to be thinking about my show. She rolled over, kicking around her legs to reposition the blanket. Stupid Trixie. There is no show, there is no wagon because you traded it all for a doomed revenge scheme.

She buried her face in the pillow and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to think of something soothing. What was it you told Sparkle? A calm pool of water . . .

For a moment, the image came to her. It had been one of her meditation techniques before her shows; now, like everything else, it was hopelessly corrupted. Instead of being restful and calming, it brought back more painful memories, although there was at least a little bit of joy to it: she had been able to teach Twilight something new, and she’d even helped Princess Celestia.

She rolled on to her back. Neither of those things provided much in the way of comfort.

Finally, she pushed the covers off herself. If sleep would not come, she might as well do something. Even if she didn't know what that something was.

Trixie lit her horn to guide her way and left the bedroom.

She stopped in the bathroom long enough to study her reflection in the mirror. She never considered herself vain, but a mare ought to look her best no matter what, and it was hardly any effort to brush her platinum mane and tail into their proper order. A quick illusion took care of the bags under her eyes, and she was ready to face the house.

Satisfied that she looked as presentable as anypony would in the middle of the night, she marched into the central room of Luna's tower. She had come to think of it as a living room, although she was sure that wasn't what Luna would call it.

Trixie made slow circuits of the room, examining the paintings on the wall with vague curiosity. Art wasn't really to her interest, and the only thing which could be said for these was that they were old. Probably worth thousands of bits to a collector.

Surely, they were worth enough to buy a new wagon, with some left over to start a new traveling magic show. She'd never made it out West, which was one of her regrets. It was too expensive to have her wagon hauled by train, which had forced her hoof. Long expanses of Equestria were barren, and although she probably could have hired a stallion or two to help her pull the wagon cross-country, she wasn’t sure she’d like the constant company.

Not that it had been anything more than a dream, and it was now more out of reach than it had ever been. Her wagon was gone, reduced to splinters by the star-bear, and that had just been the beginning of her downhill slide.

Even her revenge had turned to ashes in her mouth. And if the humiliation of failure hadn't been enough, it had been followed by prison, a daring escape, and a new gilded cage.

It was no way for a mare to live. One way or another, she needed to be free.

She paused in front of the doors leading to Luna's study, and the balcony beyond.

I'll just get some fresh air, she thought. That's all. I can go out to the balcony, and maybe look up at the stars.

Whatever came of the star I found for the Princess? She paused, her hoof on the door knob. As always, instinctively saving her magic for the show won out over using it for the mundane task of turning a doorknob.

Those had been good nights. She’d been able to spend time outside, and pretend that she wasn’t a huge failure while she searched the night sky.

With a low snarl, she turned the doorknob and slipped through the opening, pushing the door shut behind her.

The silvery moonlight illuminated the room and softened the edges of everything. She quickly looked around, half-expecting one of the weird bat-guards to be standing off in corner, watching her, but the room was empty.

She was partway across when the books piled on Luna’s desk caught her eye. She hadn’t really been paying attention to them before, although she had noticed them. They stood out—they didn’t look like anything a pony would make.

Trixie stopped in thought. She was in Princess Luna’s study without permission, and she was about to go over to the Princess’ desk and look at her personal books. She knew that there were bat-guards patrolling, and Dusk Glimmer might even check in her bedroom and notice she was missing. She should hurry back to her bed, thank the stars that she hadn’t been caught, and not even consider picking up one of those books and looking at them.

She took one last look back at the door, stealthily crossed to the desk, and grabbed the top one on the stack. Her ears flicked around for any kind of noise, but the room stayed silent.

I’ll just take one quick look, and then put it back, she thought. Nopony will know.

Dusk Glimmer examined the empty bedroom, her heart sinking. This was not what she wanted to see first thing in the morning.

She trotted across the room and unceremoniously yanked the covers off the bed, even though she knew she would find nothing there. Trixie was gone. She made a circuit of the bedroom, just to be certain, even going as far as checking under the bed, but found nothing, so she went back into the hallway.

She turned her head to the bathroom. Maybe Trixie had just gotten up, and was in there. Dusk knocked softly on the door, but there was no answer. She pushed the door open and looked around the vacant room. At least the window’s shut, so she didn’t go out that way.

Princess Luna ordered you to keep a good eye on her, and you failed.

Dusk had ordered the thestrals to keep watch on all the windows and balconies, just in case Trixie tried to jump again, but she hadn’t thought to order them to guard the unicorn’s room. She’d assumed that she’d wake up if Trixie got up, but clearly she hadn’t, and if she couldn’t find the showmare alive and well, Luna would have her head.

She frantically looked up and down the hallway. She didn’t want to raise the alarm too soon; there might be a perfectly logical explanation for Trixie’s disappearance. She might have been looking for the kitchen—maybe she was hungry. She might be hiding somewhere, either as a joke, or because she was scared.

I should have been in the room with her. I won’t make that mistake again. If there is an again. Luna will be back from Ponyville soon, and if I can’t produce Trixie. . . .

Dusk opened a broom closet, checked the corners, and then nosed the door back shut. Don’t panic. Think logically. Start from one place, and work your way through the tower. First thestral you see, you ask him for help. Now is not the time for foalish pride.

If she’s trying to escape, she’ll want to be by the tower doors, Dusk decided. Close enough that she can make a quick break for it, but far enough away that she won’t be obvious to the guards.

She headed down the hallway to the tower entrance. Luna enjoyed flying much more than Celestia, and rarely used that door, but she occasionally had flightless visitors, and of course most of her domestic staff had to use the stairs.

“Have either of you seen Trixie?” she asked the door guards.

“She’s in the study. Captain’s watching the door, and Nightgazer is outside on the balcony.” He turned his head down the hallway and began making the high-pitched chittering that was unique to the thestrals. Dusk could very faintly pick it up, if she concentrated, but not clearly enough to have learned any of their language.

“What’s she doing?”

He grinned at her, just enough to show his fangs. “She’s sleeping, captain says. On the couch. On a book.”

Dusk let out a huge sigh of relief. “Thanks, guys. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

Dale had been so focused on learning with Lyra that he barely even noticed when the construction ponies came in. He probably would have missed them completely, except that Ambrosia stuck her head in the room and greeted him.

It was tempting to leave the books behind and go and see what they were up to—Dale always preferred hands-on learning to book learning—but he was still frustrated by his inability to pick up their language. The whole process of making gestures and speaking like an infant was stressful, and it was proving a barrier to understanding their world.

Still, he'd rather be with her than Cheerilee. Lyra didn't get frustrated when the lesson went off on a tangent. He looked back down at the top book on the pile—the copy of Your Home he and Cheerilee had been wading through last night—and suddenly it occurred to him that he could have both.

“Dale want . . . Dale and Lyra not read books, Dale and Lyra walk house. Dale show thing, Lyra speak thing, Dale speak thing.”

Lyra blinked at him, and then her eyes lit up. Apparently, she didn't like the idea of sitting in the office going over books all day long, either. Besides, he thought, I'm probably going to be back here when Cheerilee returns. Might as well walk around during the morning.

“Start here,” Lyra instructed, and pointed to the window behind him. She gave her name for it, spelling it out for him.

“Wait.” Dale rummaged through his notes, until he found the sheet of paper that had their alphabet written out in it. Lyra began again, while he slowly wrote down the letters.

“Window,” he told her, once he'd finished writing the pronunciation, spelling, and definition on his paper.

She nodded, and parroted the word back to him, lifting a quill with her field to write it down on her paper.

As they continued through the room, both of their papers quickly filled up. Dale vaguely remembered that dictionaries had once been assembled out of file cards with words and definitions written on them, and a wry smile came to his face as he imagined these notes one day being used as the backbone of a Pony-to-English dictionary.

Once they made it further into the house, though, the repeated trips to the inkwell would be problematic, and it would be nearly impossible to juggle paper, an inkwell, and a quill without either writing illegibly, or spilling ink all over the floor. Suddenly, he remembered the felt-tip pen that Fancy Pants had given him. It was upstairs in his dresser—it wouldn't take more than a moment to retrieve.

Plus, now that they were done with the office, they had to start somewhere in the house; why not his room?

“Underpants,” Dale said, a faint blush on his face. It hadn't occurred to him that Lyra would see him opening the dresser drawer as invitation to empty the contents on the bed, and then to name them all.

She nodded, and took the pen from his hand. The tingling still bothered him slightly—it brought to mind all the scare stories he'd heard about getting brain cancer from living under power lines—but hopefully that wouldn't happen here. More likely, his apprehension was caused by her telekinesis being something he couldn't explain, and therefore instinctively concluded that it must be dangerous.

“Um.” Lyra studied the underwear closely. He was not going to take off his pants to show her where they went. “Is . . .”

“First underpants,” Dale said, pantomiming putting on a pair, “Then pants.” He pointed to his second pair of trousers, the ones that Rarity had mended, then to the pair he was currently wearing. Finally, when she still hadn’t come up with a word, he lifted his shirt and pulled the waistband of his underwear up slightly, so that she could see it.

She frowned, giving them a dubious look. “Diaper?” she suggested.

Dale dutifully wrote the word down. It figures that she's having trouble with that word, since if they wear anything at all, they don't seem to like covering their backsides. That wasn't totally true; Lyra's fancy dress that she'd worn to the town meeting had covered her as completely as a formal gown, but it wasn't the sort of thing he saw ponies wearing around town.

As they finished going through his meager possessions, Dale wondered what a pony house really looked like. Even the book only showed the basics; they didn't have the trinkets and souvenirs that everyone picked up over their life, and of course the embassy didn't either. It would be nice to see a home where normal ponies lived.

Dale led her out into the hallway, and looked up and down. On one end was Starlight and Diamond Mint's room—he couldn't go in there. Kate's room was out, and there probably wasn't anything in Lyra's room, either. That left only the bathroom to explore.

Ambrosia and Silver Spanner were both in the bathroom, installing tile over the cut they'd made in the floor to run pipes. Neither of them noticed him standing in the doorway, and he paused to watch them work.

The two were as professional as any construction crew he'd ever seen on Earth. Ambrosia would spread a patch of grout on the subfloor, and then Silver Spanner would levitate over a tile and set into place. Ambrosia gave each a slight nudge to make sure that they were square, and then grouted the edges, before moving on to the next one.

He could see that the tiles they'd already installed were perfectly aligned, even though neither pony was giving the floor her full attention. While he only picked up a few words of their conversation, it was fairly obvious given their giggles and occasional hoof-gestures that they weren't talking about the tiles.

What are they talking about, I wonder? What kind of idle gossip do ponies have? Is it like the boys back in the machine shop, always talking about girls and cars and sports? Do they have professional sports? Would they brag about their wagons? Do they customize them?

Ambrosia cocked her head as she went back to the grout pan, and he saw an ear turn back. Silver Spanner looked up at him and shuffled backward for an instant, before breaking into a smile.

“Hello,” Dale said, feeling slightly foolish for interrupting their work. “Dale and Lyra, um, name things in house. In here.”

He held out the paper with their notes. Both construction ponies stood and walked over to him, and looked at the list.

Dale was utterly confounded at their expressions. Ambrosia looked at the paper blankly, while Silver Spanner nodded, then tapped her co-worker on the shoulder.

The pair held a brief conference. Dale wasn't sure what to make of it—he didn't want to move into the room, in case they were debating whether or not the tile was dry enough to walk on—but he had a feeling that there was something else they were talking about, something that Silver Spanner understood, but Ambrosia didn't.

He looked down at Lyra—surely she was following along with the discussion, even if she wasn't adding anything to it. He was going to have to ask her later—he was really curious. Finally, the two ponies reached some sort of an understanding, although Ambrosia still looked dubious.

Dale kept the conversation in the back of his mind as he and Lyra went through the bathroom, identifying fixtures. True, they had all been in the book downstairs, but it was so much easier to look at the actual physical object, to point to it and touch it, than it had been to see a flat drawing of it.

Both of the construction ponies got involved as well, identifying individual parts rather than entire assemblies. That was less-useful vocabulary for him; he wasn't going to be going to the hardware store any time soon to purchase a bag of grout or a bathtub drainpipe. Still, he didn't want to discourage them, so he dutifully wrote the words down, and gave them the English translations.

Before too long, he and the construction ponies were in a vocabulary competition. After he'd provided English translations for every pipe that Silver Spanner had named, she moved on to her tool belt, and it hadn't taken long before Ambrosia had joined in with her own tools.

They'd only stumped him once. Ambrosia kept a hoof-pick in her toolkit, something he never would have been able to identify if she hadn't demonstrated it for him.

Well, they wouldn't have figured out fingernail clippers, he thought. If I had a pair.

That was something he wasn't going to be able to find here. There were so many basic toiletries he didn't have—they hadn't been on his mind at the hospital. He'd have to figure out a way to discuss those with Lyra, along with finding out how soon he could get more clothes.

“What are you doing?”

He turned around to see Kate looking at him with a slightly glassy look, the pink nurse right behind her.

“Um, we're talking about the bathroom. What's finished, and what isn't,” he told her. It wasn't quite true, of course, but Silver Spanner had proudly showed off the working shower, bathtub, sink, and toilet, which told him that they were finished and connected to the pipes. There was still a bit of finish-work to be done; there was no shower curtain, nor were their shades on the window.

Of course, if the hospital bathroom were any indicator, those might not have been planned for the bathroom. The floor might have been designed so that a shower curtain wasn’t needed . . . but he’d be really happy to have some kind of drape for the window. It was yet another thing he'd have to discuss with Lyra once he learned a bit more vocabulary.

“Oh.” Kate looked over the room curiously. “I hope they get done soon. I don't like the outhouse. It's dirty.”

Dale rolled his eyes. He was no stranger to outhouses, and the one here was the cleanest he'd ever seen, unlike those stinky pit toilets that still were all over campgrounds and rest stops in the UP. There hadn't even been a single fly buzzing around inside.

“It's ready to use—or it will be, by the end of the day, I'd imagine.” He pointed at the floor. “Once they finish with the tiles. The toilet's installed, and Silver Spanner was flushing it earlier. The sink's hooked up, too—and so's the shower. Probably shouldn't use that until tomorrow, though. Give the grout time to dry.”

“Good.” She reached down and ran her hand through Lyra's mane. “Do you know when we're going to get TVs?”

“I'll have to ask.” Dale added that to his mental list. They hadn't had them at the hospital, or at least not that he'd seen. No reason to expect that theirs look like ours. They might have been there, and you just didn't recognize them.

He looked back towards the bathroom, to see what the two construction ponies were doing. Silver Spanner was back at the tile pile, while Ambrosia was still standing in the doorway, her nostrils flaring as she took in Kate's scent.

A short whistle from Silver Spanner caused her to turn her head, and she went back to the tiling, flicking her tail a couple of times before she settled down and began work again.

It's mostly the normal ponies that do the sniffing thing, Dale thought. As far as I've seen, anyway. I wonder if they have a better sense of smell than the unicorns? I’ll have to ask Lyra about that, too. He scribbled a short note on his paper.

“Do you want to come with us?” he asked Kate. “Lyra and I are learning each other's language. Maybe you could join us, and pick up a few words. Then you could talk to your nurse.”

“I guess. There's nothing else to do.” She picked at her bandage idly, then lifted her left hand and glanced at her fingernail polish. “I—you don't think they have any nail polish, do you? It's chipped. Oh, and I need a hairbrush, too. I can’t find mine. I think my bag got lost.”

Okay, I'm going to spend the afternoon telling them to find things like brushes and combs and so forth. Soap, too. And towels—I think they're starting to wean Kate off the drugs, and she's going to be a lot happier if she at least has her basic needs taken care of.

Moller and Richter leaned over the desk, where the tube took center stage. It was about the diameter of a magic marker, although longer—about a foot long.

Moller carefully slit the foil with his Swiss Army pocketknife and pulled the lid off. They'd found similar tubes in Dale's garage and basement, most of them holding machine tool bits. Undoubtedly, this had begun as the same, until Dale had repurposed it.

He tipped the tube over his desk, increasing the angle when nothing came out. When it was all the way vertical, and still nothing had come, Richter groaned.

“Well, that's a bust,” Richter said sarcastically. “Maybe he forgot to put anything in there. Or maybe it's some kind of crazy symbolism. He said it would be proof, there's nothing, therefore there is no proof.”

“It's not nothing.” Moller squinted down the tube. “It's . . . a hair.”

He slid the tweezers out of his pocketknife, and delicately pulled the hair forth. It was a long, pink strand, curled up to fit inside the tube. With a frown, he stretched it out on the desk as best he could.

“Okay.” Richter glanced at it. “We've already got aqua hair, and now we've got pink hair. Any reports of missing clowns in Kent County?”

Moller ignored the sarcasm. “I don't think it was a clown.” He opened a drawer and pulled out an evidence bag. “It's more—well, keeping with the funny-colored horse theme, it might be a tail hair.”

“Except your witnesses said the little horse was aqua with a whitish mane and tail.”

Moller shrugged, grabbed it with a latex glove, and pushed it into an evidence bag. He sealed it, wrote his badge number on it, and grabbed a second for the tube. “Might have been another one back at his camp. You know, there was a horse ranch on South Fox, and horses can swim.”

“Doesn't matter,” Richter decided. “Look, I don't doubt that there was some kind of animal there in the camp. All the eyewitnesses saw it, and it left hoofprints. The lab says that both the stride and hoof size suggest it was a pony, foal, or miniature horse—something equine.

“But listen to me—whether we find it or not isn't my big concern. Because the pony didn't make them disappear; he did that. Somehow.” He picked up the evidence bag and examined it for a moment, before tossing it back on the desk.

“We can snip a bit off this, and get it to Quantico, Michigan State University, the MSP lab, whatever, and I bet you gross examination will come back as being equine in nature, just like the last one. And if they ever get a workable DNA sample, that'll say the same thing, too. Fine. So there was a second pony. He could have a whole goddamn team of ponies on that island, and I promise you, none of them made Kate vanish.

“Look, Moller. I don't want to disrespect you. This is your building, your town, your state, your people. I told you I asked around, and everyone said you were one of the good guys. And I'm okay with getting second billing on this thing, so long as we solve it, right? We get Kate back, I don't care if the headline says Michigan State Police or Federal Bureau of Investigation first. I really don't.

“But that lenience only goes so far. I'm not going to watch you go haring off on some wild goose chase to find the phantom pony. What we need to do is retrench, rethink what we've got. Go through all the evidence in the house—Mr. Paard's surely left clues behind; we just haven't figured them out yet. Maybe go back further in his history. Think about places he might be familiar with. If Kate's still alive, she's in some obscure place he knows very well. Somewhere private. We should get more investigators out on Beaver Island and South Fox. Press the locals. That kind of thing.

“I want to keep working with you, but I can't have you screwing up the case, so from here on out, it's gonna be my way or I'll get you pulled off.” Richter reached into his pocket and slid out his cell phone.

He punched in the local director's phone number, then looked back at Moller. The detective's face was pale, and his eyes were bugging out of his head.

Richter was briefly distracted by a warning tone from his phone. “No signal?”

He looked up just in time to see Moller lean across the desk and put a hand over the evidence bag.

“What color is this hair?”

“I am through playing games.”

“What color is it?!” Moller roared. “Come on, you looked at it with me. You dismissed it as being irrelevant—what color is it?”

“It's pink. You know that. So what?”

Moller shook his head. “Not any more.”

Richter stared down at the bag as Moller pulled his hand off.

The hair was still pink.

He was at a complete loss. He'd been growing slightly concerned over Moller's actions, but he was now wondering if the man wasn't having an aneurysm or a mental breakdown.

He'd seen it before, unfortunately. Too much time on a case, pressure from above and from the media—it added up. Usually, by the time a cop had gotten Moller's seniority, he'd learned how to manage that, but there were cases that just gnawed and gnawed. The FBI’s failure to find the Unabomber had been one of them, a thorn in their side for decades.

And then the hair turned cerulean. Not all at once; it changed from one end to the other over a period of several seconds.

Richter's cell phone dropped from nerveless fingers. He was distantly aware of the clatter as it hit the tile, but that was unimportant. He stared at the hair, daring it to perform, and perform it did, slowly changing to turquoise in the same manner.

It turned cobalt blue next, and then back to pink, starting the cycle anew. It reminded Richter of some fuzzball made out of fiber optics he'd seen in a store once—it did the same thing, although only the ends of the fiber glowed. The color would slowly shift from one thing to another—but how was it possible that a hair could do that?

He warily picked up the evidence bag, making sure that there was no trickery. Meanwhile, Moller pointed his cell phone at the bag, and started taking a video. As soon as it was recording, he moved his arm next to the hair, where the camera could pick up the sweep of the second hand on his watch.

He waited until it went through two complete cycles, saved the video, and then set his phone down on the desk. “You know, I don't have a cell signal, either. No bars. I should have a cell signal.”

Moller tugged the bag out of Richter's grasp, and set it back on the center of the desk. Then he opened the bottom left drawer, pulled out a fifth of Jack Daniels, and set it beside the hair.

“When I got promoted to detective,” Moller began, “my squad all chipped in and bought that bottle for me—said that every proper detective has a bottle of hooch in his desk. I was going to pass it around at the party, but then somebody said something about saving it until I had some 'hot dame' walk in, or got a case worthy of Sherlock Holmes. First one's never happened—but I'd say we've got the second right here.

“Here's what I think now. Yesterday, I thought that maybe the Faraday cage in the garage was to protect him, or something of his, from some sort of evil government rays. Power lines, cell phones, orbital mind-control lasers—take your pick. And I thought his tinfoil tube served the same purpose. Keep 'Them' from finding his 'Proof.' But now, I think it was to protect him from this.

“We know that the Coast Guard reported that their radios weren't working when they got close to the island—not until after that bubble disappeared. Cell phones probably wouldn't have a signal that far out, anyway, so nobody'd think anything of that.”

He slid the bag idly around on the desk. “I don't want to cut off a sample. I don't know what would happen if we did. But I think this goes beyond what any police lab can figure out, wouldn't you agree?”

Richter nodded dumbly.

“We're also going to need to keep this thing protected when we're not looking at it.” Moller picked up the desk phone, and punched a couple of numbers. “Adams? It's Moller. You still got any of those lead bags for film? Yeah. Yeah, the ones for if you think you might have to go through an X-ray. I know we've been digital for years, but you boys never throw anything out. Uh-huh. No, biggest one you've got. Okay. Send someone up with it as soon as you find it, okay? Yes, if you come up with it, I'll tell Pineda to stop calling you a bunch of hoarders.” He hung up the phone. “Well, that's taken care of.” He slid the phone across the desk, turning it so that Richter could see the keypad. “Landline still works, so unless you want to wait for that lead bag and see if my theory's right, you might as well use it to call your boss and get me off the case.

“No? Pity. I've got a feeling when this is over, there's going to be so many levels of 'top secret' applied to the case, I won't even be able to talk to anyone about anything.”

He twisted the cap off the fifth and took a swig, and then slid it to Richter. “I don’t have any tumblers—never actually thought I’d be opening this.”

Moller waited until the FBI agent took the bottle. He didn’t uncap it; he tilted it up on edge and slowly rocked it under his finger, watching the amber liquid slosh back and forth inside.

Moller crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back slightly in his chair. “Alright. Here's where we go from here.

“Sooner or later this thing's gonna turn into a government hairball. When that happens, we're gonna have every single DHS agency, you guys included, running around in circles, desperately trying to assign the blame to someone else—and that goat grab is going to be about keeping jobs, not finding Kate. Seen it before when the budget gets tight and there's the threat of a State Police barracks closing. If the TV coverage I saw after Katrina is any indicator, you feds have it down to a fine art.”

“Before that happens, I want answers. You and I, we're the only ones who have seen all the evidence together. We send a bit here, and a bit there, to the expert in whatever field who can get up on the stand and say, ‘Yes, this is AB blood.’ They don't even know the vic, because if they did, there'd be the potential accusation of collusion.

“And that's fine for a normal case. I get a report from the coroner saying that the vic died of ten stab wounds, I get a report that the knife is consistent with the wounds, I get a report that the blood on the knife matches the vic's, I get prints off the knife, and another expert seals the deal with DNA—you know how it is.

“But you go to a museum, that's not how they work. They've got a whole team, who knows where the ancient urn was found. One guy says what it was made out of, and he tells everyone. Another guy's carbon-dated it, so everyone on the team knows how old it is. They all pool their knowledge and come up with a best theory collectively. They're probably not always right; maybe that ancient Greek amphora is really an ancient Persian knock-off amphora, but they usually figure it out.

“I didn't tell the lab boys at MSU anything, other than they were backing up what the FBI lab found. Which was nothing. What if I add in some other details? Maybe give some more context to the evidence.

“And that book—the one you've got your wizards looking at. I know that in the antique art world, the canvas, wood, and paint are all big deals. Do you think we might know more if we know what the book is bound with? What kind of glue was used? Maybe the ink type? We've got those odd weapons on the beach. Let's get the metal analyzed. See what it's made of. Ditto for the buckle on those saddlebags.

“And let's get a team of actual scientists out to the beach. See what they can find. I know we'd ignore it if it didn't look like evidence that would prove a crime, but maybe they can come up with something we overlooked.”

“You're not seriously giving your aliens pitch again, are you?” Richter wrapped his hand around the neck of the bottle. “Because, no offense, everyone you suggest that to is going to dismiss you as a nut.”

“Of course I'm not going to say aliens. I'm going to lay out the facts. Say what we have. What we know. Maybe a little of what we suspect—you know, eyewitnesses testimony, that kind of thing. Three witnesses saw this. Let the scientists piece it all together. Heck, for all I know, Dale built himself a Star-Trek style teleporter in his basement and took it out to the island to try it out. Maybe he had a bunch of lasers, and he accidentally zapped himself, Kate, and the horse out of existence.”

Richter took a long pull from the bottle. “You can't really build that. And even if you did, it would leave evidence behind.”

“First time we tried to prosecute a hacker, we lost the case. Caught the guy red-handed, but we didn't know enough about computers to prove it was him. Could have been anyone, the jury thought—'cause they didn't know, either.

“He's in jail, now, because after that we got experts, and we learned about electronic evidence. The next time we caught the guy, we could prove he did it, and how he did it. Whatever Dale did—it may be a one-time thing. Maybe it's not something we're ever going to see again . . . or maybe this is just the first crime we've seen committed in a new way.

“All I know is it won't hurt to have a few more experts weigh in. See what they come up with.”

Richter sighed. “You do that, and you run the risk of losing chain of custody for most of the evidence. It’s one thing with the book; that’s not likely to be a primary piece of evidence, which is the only reason I let the School of Wizardry look at it. But you’re talking giving away things that’re going to matter in a case, and when the D.A. looks through the file, he’s going to object to everything involving those items.”

“MSU handles evidence for us all the time, and we’ve got procedures in place to maintain chain of custody. I’m not saying that we send off evidence packets to every major university in the Midwest, just that we give them some context and start looking for things we normally wouldn’t. Let the scientists figure out what they can do with the evidence, rather than tell them what to look for.”

“Fine.” Richter took another drink, then capped the bottle. “Go ahead. You can have lead on this tar-baby. Call whoever you want.”

The chalkboard in the library was covered with equations. After coming up with her theory, Twilight had thought that before she wrote a letter to the Princess, she ought to make sure that there weren't any other possibilities.

Unfortunately, a morning's research had proven that there were other possibilities. Different kinds of wire might have worked as well—even a trail of bit coins, so long as they were all touching, would have done the job.

On top of that, there was the big unknown when it came to the creatures. In her time in Ponyville, she'd learned that zebras excelled in potions and natural remedies, which was a completely foreign concept to her. They'd been given no more mention in school other than the fact that earth ponies were good at growing things and making machines, or pegasi could manipulate the weather. Everypony knew that—that was why the three tribes had had to work together to make Equestria great. No one tribe could do it on their own.

For all she knew, the creatures might posses a magic heretofore unknown to ponykind. Their world could be brimming with it, but if it wasn't something ponies had ever observed, she would be unable to account for it in her calculations.

Furthermore, Luna had got her to thinking—maybe Lyra really was better at magic than she let on. Heck, she could even have paid a unicorn mage to find a loophole in the spell. It didn't strike Twilight as the kind of thing she'd do, but Rarity once ran a race after hiding in a mudhole, and even Rainbow Dash went to the spa on rare occasions. Ponies were annoyingly unpredictable.

She was about to throw her chalk to the ground in frustration, and pen a letter to Celestia saying that there was no way to know how the creatures had gotten to Equestria, when a basic scientific principle reoccurred to her: Hockam's Razor. The simplest explanation which fit the facts was probably the right solution.

Lyra could secretly be more powerful than her, but had been hiding it all these years.

The alien creatures could posses some type of magic which nopony was aware of.

The whole thing could have been an elaborate sabotage conspiracy by Trixie and Princess Luna, for reasons unknown. Since I’m wildly speculating, maybe they plan to usurp the Equestrian throne, Twilight thought. And maybe I’ll sprout wings.

Or the wand the girl had been holding had contained fine, conductive wires. Small enough to be practically invisible, and they had burned off in the fulfillment of the spell.

She needed to get to the hospital. The proof would be in the pudding—or, in this case, the wand.

Twilight threw on her saddlebags, tossed a couple of reference books in, plus a copy of Starswirl's spell—just in case; she didn't want to have to go back to the library if she didn't have to—put a note on the door, and headed towards the hospital.

Much to her frustration, once she got there she discovered that the nurses had convinced Dr. Stable that all Kate's personal belongings should go with her to the embassy, no matter what they were or what condition they were in.

It was a pity; she would have liked to look at the white-noise producing rectangle again. Twilight was fairly well attuned to the leylines, and when the knobs on the top were played with, she'd been able to pick up layers of field. It wasn't very sensitive; the short-range thaumic analyzers the hospital had were far superior, and she had a machine in her basement which put them all to shame . . . but it was small and portable, and if she'd understood Dale's explanation, it was a way to carry voice over thaumic wave. Such a concept could revolutionize the telegraph industry.

She knew sound waves could be captured—records were proof of that—but the only way to get them from one place to another was to physically carry them. True, a pair of particularly high-level unicorns could potentially use dragonfire spells to get them back and forth—or, for that matter, one high-level unicorn and a dragon, or just two dragons—but dragonfire spells had several practical limitations.

“We do have something that may be helpful,” Redheart said, pulling Twilight out of her thoughts. “We weren't sure if it belonged to Ka-th-rin or not, and we didn't have any way to ask her.”

“Oh?” Twilight looked at the nurse hopefully.

Redheart nodded. “Come with me downstairs. We . . . I'm sorry, but we keep things we find stuck in ponies.”

“That must be a small collection.”

“You'd be surprised.”

Twilight followed Redheart to the basement, and into the doctor's lounge. “Wait here,” Redheart instructed. “The doctor's probably sleeping, so I'll get it and come right out. Last night, Lotus came in with an abscessed hoof—you’d think that she, of all ponies, would know how important proper hoof care is, but she was too busy to get it treated. The doctor was up half the night operating on it.”

“Is—is she going to be all right?”

“She’ll be on three legs for a day or two, but there won’t be any permanent harm done. Hopefully, she’ll learn for next time.”

Redheart was only gone for a couple of minutes, before she returned with a small cloth bag. Twilight opened it and looked inside, pulling out the darts which had been stuck in Lyra’s side.

They were slender cylinders, slightly bigger around than the shaft of a quill, and made out of a silver metal which felt slippery in Twilight’s field. One end had a short stump of wire, finer than the hair in her mane; the other end had a tiny barbed harpoon.

Twilight looked at the barb thoughtfully. It was a malevolent object, no doubt about that. It kind of reminded her of a fishhook, although it was straight. She could see how it was designed to stick into a pony and not easily come out, and she wondered about what kind of world these creatures lived in where such a thing was needed.

At the same time, it was an ingenious way to deliver a spell. Being entirely non-magical, it would probably pass through most ordinary shields, and if it moved at a fairly slow velocity, it would likely even make it through one with a kinetic barrier.

Kate followed them around until lunchtime; after lunch was over, she went back to her room with her doctors. Dale had mixed feelings about her: on the one hand, he was glad that she was up and about, but he couldn't help but think she was a time bomb just waiting for the right moment to explode.

He spent the first half of the afternoon discussing further needs with Lyra, which was a tedious process of sketching out the item he wanted, using their limited vocabulary to try and pin down exactly what it was, and then hope that they'd come to the same understanding.

When Cheerilee arrived, Lyra gave the list to Diamond Mint, and then sat down with Dale. He was relieved to know that she'd be going through the lesson with him, even if it was boring: moreso for her, since she already knew the basic words Cheerilee was teaching.

To his surprise, she didn't just sit there taking notes; instead, she chipped in, helping to explain things whenever he wasn't completely clear on the concept. Cheerilee was grateful for the assistance as well; while she was a better teacher than Lyra, she didn't have any idea what he knew and what he didn't, which had proved to be a major handicap for her the night before.

After their dinner break, the lesson finished up quicker than he'd expected, and Cheerilee actually seemed pleased by his progress, although he'd noticed she frequently flicked her ears back when he tried to pronounce something.

When it was over, Lyra gave the teacher a friendly nuzzle on the cheek; Dale settled for a fist-bump. Then he headed for the outhouse—even though the bathroom was finished, he desperately wanted to get outside, and it was as good an excuse as any.

Lyra came with him. He could guess by the look on her face she was having the same thoughts. He let her go first.

While he waited, he leaned back against the wall of the outhouse and looked around the yard. It was as quiet and peaceful as any Thomas Kinkade painting. Across the backyard, he saw the silhouette of a pony behind a window, and he idly wondered if she was a normal pony or a pegasus, and what she might think of having him as a neighbor.

He heard the door creak open beside him, and caught the top of the door with his hand, holding it open for Lyra, before stepping through to take his turn.

Lyra was standing on the path when he came out, looking up at the sky. Dale moved next to her and squatted down, so his head was nearly level with hers.

“Does Lyra—“ She turned her head to face him, her golden eyes dark in the faint light of a crescent moon. Dale swallowed a lump in his throat. “Does Lyra know which star Dale's home?”

She nodded and pointed a hoof into the sky.

He crouched down next to her, resting his face against her shoulder, where his eye could follow where she was pointing.

It's so tiny, he thought, and then he sat down hard, his eyes still glued to the sky. Everything he'd known his entire life was contained in a faint pinprick of light in a sea of blackness.

“Don't tell Kate,” he whispered, a hitch in his voice. Then he grabbed Lyra in a tight hug and wept into her mane.

Author's Notes:

Chapter notes! Click here!

Chapter 23: Dale's Day Out

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 23: Dale's Day Out
Admiral Biscuit

Things had begun to settle into a routine for Dale. He and Lyra would work together until mid-afternoon, when Cheerilee showed up, and then the three of them together would have a lesson, eat dinner, have a second, shorter lesson, and then relax for a little bit before bedtime.

The lessons were intense, and it felt like he was getting nowhere, but Dale could tell progress was being made. Fortunately, unlike high school Spanish, the lessons were immediately useful. He'd learned enough of their language to have at least broken conversations with the construction ponies, and had picked out the paint for what he considered the 'human' part of the embassy. The only exception was Kate's room; he'd let her pick her own color palette. He hoped she still liked it when they weaned her off the morphine.

During meals, he'd taught the construction ponies some English words, and he'd noticed that Diamond Mint and Starlight were picking up on quite a few, as well. A few communications problems and other setbacks had occurred, of course, but nothing too upsetting, and everyone had had a good laugh once things had been straightened out. Dale wasn’t a very demanding person, and the ponies working at the embassy were very laid-back.

He'd also discovered, quite by accident, that Twilight was copying his notes. He'd gotten up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, and had heard a noise downstairs; when he went to see what was going on, he'd discovered the purple unicorn sitting in his oversized chair, copying down his vocabulary notes onto a fresh scroll.

Dale wasn't surprised that some pony was doing that, although he'd assumed Twilight was some sort of important figure, since she’d given a speech and had been at the embassy open house. However, she'd revealed in a drawn-out discussion that she was just the town librarian and archivist. He suspected that something had been lost in translation, but to her frustration and his own, they simply didn’t know enough words between them to clarify.

The one thing he liked most about mornings was his coffee. Starlight brewed it just right, and there was something ineffably satisfying about sitting down at his desk with a hot cup of coffee in his hand while he looked over notes from the day before.

It's like when I had a job, he thought. There's a purpose to it. That was how his day at the machine shop had always started: gossip with the night watchman, turn on the shop lights, start the air compressor, power up the tools, and then head to the office with a cup of fresh coffee to review the coming day's work.

The only difference now was that Starlight played the role of the night watchman, and there was no gossip—not yet, anyway. But he was getting closer every day. She'd learned to ask him what he wanted for breakfast, and he'd learned to name a dozen or more different breakfast foods.

Dale leaned back in his chair and waited for Lyra to arrive, idly going through his notes from the night before. Cheerilee had thrown him for a loop, covering vocabulary which he thought was a bit illogical this early in the game. He was sure they had their reasons, though.

He was lost in attempting to pronounce ‘princess’ when Lyra walked in, a cup of coffee floating next to her head. Her hair was still damp from her morning shower.

“Morning, Dale.”

He set the papers neatly on the desk and smiled at her. “Morning, Lyra.”

She switched to their language—this had become part of their morning routine. They'd exchange greetings in English, and then try to speak Equestrian for the rest of the time. It was his idea: while Lyra and Cheerilee were becoming proficient, he knew that while he was here, he'd be better off speaking Equestrian rather than English.

“Did you sleep well?”

He nodded. “I feel well-rested.”

“That's good.” She tilted her head towards the papers on the desk. “Are you ready to begin?”

Dale pushed the papers aside. “I have different idea. I would like to take the day off.” He'd been thinking about this for a couple of days. While the utility of language lessons was obvious, he just wasn't the type to deal with sitting inside and having intensive sessions every day until he was fluent. He’d go completely stir-crazy.

He watched her closely. In general, the ponies weren't very good at hiding their feelings—their ears especially tended to give them away. Not for the first time he wondered if they ever played bluffing games like poker.

She didn't act opposed. If anything, he'd guess she was intrigued by the idea. She cocked her head slightly to the side, her ears turned out just a little bit, and she swished her tail.

What he was really curious about was how much latitude he'd be allowed. He understood that they were giving him lots of things, and he knew that such things came with a catch. It was obvious that they were working as hard as they could to get a home for him and Kate ready, and it was equally plain that his responsibility in the deal was to sit through the language lessons and not complain; to learn their language so that he could fulfill whatever they imagined his duties to be.

But it wasn't something he felt he could keep up every day until he was fluent. He was a bit of an explorer at heart, and his curiosity needed to be sated. He'd just about reached his saturation point with books and things on the embassy property—he and Lyra had spent one morning naming all the plants outside, and he needed that type of escape again.

“What . . . are you tired of books?”

Dale nodded.

“What do you want to do? Go outside? Sit in yard?”

Dale shook his head. “Walk around. See town.”

It hadn't been a great week for the detective and the FBI agent. Even after agreeing to give more out to other labs—despite the risk it might compromise their court case—they were no closer to a solution than they had been before.

It takes time, Moller reminded himself as he checked his e-mail for the hundredth time. Time to process the samples. Time to run the tests, and then re-run them because they keep coming back as 'inconclusive.'

His actions had become so automatic, that he almost missed that there was, indeed, a new e-mail from an archaeology professor who specialized in weapons. Moller clicked it open and skimmed past the opening pleasantries until he got to the meat of the text.

Regarding the photographs of weapons you sent: the spearhead, unfortunately, has no distinct characteristics which would enable us to positively identify a culture of origin. Your attached report indicates that it was most likely hand-forged, although that does very little to limit its providence. As I'm sure you know, most spearheads were historically made this way, and there are many modern blacksmiths who could easily produce a spearhead.

We are also unable to determine what the curved 'sword' blade is for. The holes make it obvious that it was meant to be attached to something, and perhaps if we knew what that something was, we could provide a better answer. It could plausibly be a blade for some sort of industrial machine. We checked some of the more obvious uses for such a blade, and could identify no commercial machine which would use it. However, the report indicates that this blade was also hand forged, and as such, may have been intended as a repair piece for some old-fashioned piece of equipment.

If you were to have the metal of the weapons analyzed, it might help you determine their origin. Trace elements could provide clues about the source of the metal, and the microstructure might provide an additional determination of how and where they were produced.

Moller typed out a non-committal reply, hit send, and leaned back in his chair. They'd already thought of that—they just hadn't gotten the lab results yet. CSI makes it look so easy. Put it under some fancy-looking thing hooked up to a computer, and ten seconds later you've got an indisputable result, unless the plot requires there to be some confusion.

He drummed his fingers on the desk. Gross examination of the objects had turned up one interesting trend, at least. All the items that they could identify were commercially-available items: Dale's canoe, his marine radio, all the research books that had been in his tent. All the items they could not identify were assumed to have been hand-made by someone, down to the smallest detail. Even the buckle on the saddlebags wasn't a mass-produced buckle.

There was a second person there, he thought. Maybe not on the final day, but before that. Dale had been there for a couple of days at least. His thoughts wandered to the odd books out in the tent, and an image came of Christopher Colombus exchanging trinkets with the natives in exchange for food.

He turned back to the computer and pulled up the case file. They'd found the receipt for Dale's inexplicable book purchase, and a lot of those books had been in his tent—but not all of them. He suddenly had a feeling that they wouldn't be at Dale's home, either. It wasn't much of a lead, but it was something tangible.

They'd found a stack of books in his office along with the receipt. That had stood out—all the rest of the books in the house were on shelves, except for a Poul Anderson novel on the toilet tank. Moller started clicking through screens, scribbling the results down on a legal pad.

When he was done, he had a short list of books which were neither place. He picked up the phone and punched a number.

“Hey, Adams? It’s Moller. Need you to check out a car and run over to Mr. Paard’s house. What? No, we never closed the warrant; there’s still an officer out there. You got the address? Yeah, that’s it. Okay. I need you to look for some books: a visual dictionary, a copy of Gray’s Anatomy—that’s a textbook, not the TV show—and a book called Stars and Planets. Look everywhere. The first two are pretty big books; they shouldn’t be hard to find. Call me back if you find them, or if you don’t.”

After he hung up the phone, he leaned back in his chair. Who would want a visual dictionary, an anatomy book, and a book about the galaxy?

“See the town?” Lyra repeated back, stalling for time to think. She could tell Dale was getting antsy—the longer they studied together, the more he'd shift around in his chair, and the more easily distracted he was. He was already fidgety this morning, so they probably wouldn’t get a whole lot accomplished here, anyways.

It's not his fault, she thought. He was no more prepared to be a student than I was to be a teacher. Really, it was a miracle they'd gotten as far as they had. She didn't like to think where they might be if Cheerilee and Twilight hadn't been helping—even if she'd forgotten half the stuff Twilight told her before she took her first solo visit to Dale's world, she remembered enough of it to not be overwhelmed.

Truth be told, she didn't like being cooped up in the house either. She'd had more freedom when she'd been on the beach with Dale. There hadn't been the pressure to get him speaking well enough to be formally introduced at the official embassy opening, for example. Which is tomorrow, she thought. I need to tell him that, if Cheerilee doesn’t.

“We need to come back before Cheerilee arrives,” Lyra said.

Dale nodded. “Yes. I need Cheerilee to teach me more. I not want to make her disappointed.”

“‘Do not want,’” Lyra automatically corrected.

“I do not want to make her disappointed,” he repeated.

“If we go into town, will you work extra hard with Cheerilee this afternoon?”

“Yes.” Dale put on his most sincere face and looked her right in the eye. “I want a break, and it is a beautiful day.”

It's an opportunity, Lyra decided. She knew that ponies in the town were getting anxious to meet Dale—over the last week, Bon Bon's stand had been inundated by ponies wanting to get the latest gossip, and the uptick in business had helped offset the bitterness over Lyra's new living situation.

I can see where he’s coming from, she thought. When Tavros was visiting Canterlot, he wanted to go around and see all sorts of stuff that wasn’t on the official tour. He didn’t want to stay on the school grounds when he wasn’t practicing with the choir. He didn’t like lounging around the dorm room.

There was no reason not to use this to her advantage. It was a market day, and Dale wanted to see town. Plus, she'd get a chance to see Bonnie, which further sweetened the deal. “Okay. We'll go into town in the morning, but we need to come back here for lunch.”

Dale smiled. “Thank you!”

“And you need to work on your language while we’re out, too.”

His smile faltered a little bit, but it quickly came back. “How soon can we go? Do you need to get ready?”

She shook her head. “Finish your coffee, and we'll go.”

It was silly, but the air felt different when Dale stepped outside. It wasn't like he'd never seen what was around the house before—he had a view of the street from his room, and he'd watched the ponies go by. He’d studied the houses around his, taking in every detail of their style and the decorations around them. He'd seen his neighbors coming and going, and working in their backyards, although he hadn't been formally introduced to any of them yet. I wonder if they normally bring casseroles or cookies or something like that to their new neighbors? Are they holding back because this is an official building?

I wonder if I could have Starlight make casseroles for the neighbors? Or we could have a cookout. I should introduce them to some American customs. I’m supposed to be exchanging triangles and squares.

Lyra interrupted him from a vision of a bunch of ponies standing around a barbeque grill, cans of Budweiser in their hooves. She was about thirty feet down the street—obviously, she had a destination in mind, and he'd just been standing there. “Sorry!”

Dale walked up to her sheepishly. She frowned at him. “Please stay close. I don't want an incident.”

“Incident?”

“Trouble. Bad.” She reached back and touched her barrel. “On the beach, with Kate.”

He nodded. I've been too busy thinking that they're like my neighbors in Grand Rapids—almost all kind and friendly. It would only take one mistake—one misunderstanding—to cause all sorts of problems, just like on the beach. He glanced behind him, and noticed that one of the door guards had detached himself from his post and was following along behind. They're probably not all friendly, and some of them might be violent.

Lyra beckoned him to move closely, and then said “Down.” She motioned with her foreleg in a downward wave, and Dale crouched down.

Lyra moved close to him and spoke quietly right into his ear. “The town can be dangerous. Not all ponies are like you or me. There are monsters who live in the forest, and they sometimes come out. If something happens, you need to do what I say.”

And he didn't need reminding of what the ponies could do. He remembered Lyra flattening Kate at the hospital, as well as the work the doctor had done. He knew that they could lift multiple objects with their horns, and he also knew that a fair number of them could fly. He was beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea after all.

She had seemed hesitant. Maybe she was worried about security. It had certainly crossed his mind on the island, but he'd been too complacent, figuring the remote location would keep them safe. That hadn’t worked out as well as he’d planned.

He could suggest that they go back.

No.

Dale squared his shoulders. If he was here, he might as well explore. And if that wound up costing him, so be it. Scott hadn't made it back from the South Pole, Magellan never finished his journey, and nobody knew what had happened to Earhart. History didn’t think less of them for their noble attempts and ultimate failures.

He couldn't afford to risk too much, of course—Kate still depended on him to get her needs across to the ponies—but there was a line between a reasonable risk and cowardice. Since Lyra and the guard were with him, and she'd approved the trip, she didn't think it was too risky.

I'll just make sure to stay close to her, and do what she tells me, he decided. “I agree.”

She nodded in satisfaction and began walking again, with Dale at her side. When they got to the end of the street, Lyra didn't hesitate; she crossed the street, angling to the left. Dale lagged slightly behind—he instinctively checked both ways for traffic.

He was halfway across, still glancing both ways to ensure that there wasn't a vehicle bearing down on him, when he noticed a cluster of ponies standing in front of a shop window.

He looked at Lyra—she'd spotted them, too. Her ears bent in their direction. They hadn’t noticed him yet, but it was only a matter of moments before they did.

Like the shops he’d seen on his carriage-ride from the hospital to the round meeting-hall tower, this looked the same as nearly every other house, except that there was a board out front with a pair of interlinked horseshoes on it—one silver and one gold. It gave him no real insight into the purpose of the shop. He suspected the ponies would have just as much trouble with Earthly corporate logos—Pepsi’s little ball-thing or McDonald’s golden arches wouldn’t mean anything to a person who hadn’t been inundated with advertising all their lives.

The three ponies turned and looked at him. The tan one who was closest to him took a step back, the light yellow one in the middle lifted her tail slightly, and the green one on the end took a sideways step away from the other two, before all three froze in position, their eyes and ears on him.

They stood that way for just a moment, before the tan one ducked inside the store, and the light yellow one with bows in her mane stepped forward. Dale looked over to Lyra for guidance. He didn't want every approach to be the same as the one he'd taken with Ambrosia in the hospital—it had worked, but if he had to crouch down and wait for every individual pony to come to him, he wasn't ever going to get anywhere in town.

At the same time, he didn't want to be panicking the populace, either. His height made that a very real concern, and for the first time he wondered why they built their buildings so tall, until he remembered that Victorian houses often had ten foot ceilings despite the lack of ten-foot humans.

“Hi, girls! We were tired of being inside, so Dale and I thought we should go for a walk around town.” Lyra gave them a friendly wave.

His face turned bright red. Of course he could just talk to them: that was the whole point of the language lessons.

“Um, good morning.” He waved, keeping his hand low and feeling kind of foolish. “How are you?”

The yellow one replied; Dale caught about half of it. He turned to Lyra. “What did she say?”

Now it was Lyra's turn to blush. The two ponies who were on the street held their hooves up in front of their muzzles, and he swore they were snickering at him. However, that served as a good tension-breaker, and once their mirth had subsided, the one with the bows started walking over, while her companion went into the building, either to hide, or to recover the third member of their trio.

“Good morning, Dale,” she said slowly. “I saw you at the town meeting. I’m Lavender Fritter. It's nice to see you out.”

“Thanks,” he said, to stall for time while he parsed what she'd said, and came up with a response. He'd gotten used to Lyra and Cheerilee's speaking habits, but Lavender Fritter had a different intonation, and it was giving him a bit of trouble. He actually wasn't sure what else to say; he hadn't learned the language nearly well enough to engage in small talk, nor did he know what pony small talk was. Did they talk about the weather? Gossip about other ponies? Ask about the family?

Instead of trying to guess any further, he hedged his bets by crouching down and extending a fist, figuring if it had worked once, it would work again. “I am please to meet you.”

She grinned at that, and lightly bumped his knuckles.

Emboldened, Dale went on. “May I know your friends?”

“Meet,” Lyra corrected. “Meet your friends.”

“I have only spoken for a week,” Dale said apologetically. “My language is not good.”

“It's okay; you’re doing better than you did at the town meeting,” Lavender Fritter reassured him. “Yes, my friends would like to meet you.”

She turned and walked back towards the store, keeping both ears pointed back in his direction. Bemused, Dale followed her, with Lyra walking at his side. She doesn’t look entirely happy with this turn of events. I hope the guard is still back there in case things go awry.

Lavender Fritter led him to the front of the shop, but Lyra held a foreleg up against his thigh when he went to follow. “We should wait outside,” she told him.

“Why?” Dale motioned to the door which was closing behind Lavender Fritter. “She didn’t say to wait outside.”

“To be polite,” she said. “Nice.”

Dale suspected that wasn't the whole reason, but he kept his mouth shut. If he couldn't figure out the answer by context, he'd ask her once they were back at the embassy. Lyra probably wanted to avoid making a scene.

Lavender Fritter came back outside a moment later, her two friends in tow.

“Good morning,” he said again. “I am Dale.” He waved his hand, feeling slightly less foolish this time around.

“Apple Leaves,” the tan said, reaching out for a bump.

“Peachy Sweet,” the green one told him.

“I am happy to kn—to meet you.” He backed up his words with a big grin. “Can I come inside? I would like to see what is inside.”

Lavender Fritter nodded. Peachy Sweet shook her head no. Then the three mares leaned towards one another and held a brief palaver. Dale took the opportunity to crouch down in front of Lyra. “Is this like a pony OB/GYN?” he asked in English.

“What is OB/GYN?”

“A place for girls—mares—only.”

She smirked. “No—it's for both. But.” She licked her lip as she considered an explanation. “You might scare Caramel if you go in, um, by surprise.”

“Caramel? Does she work here?”

Lyra snickered. “He is a customer.”

“How do you know he's in there?”

She touched a hoof to her nose.

Right. Dale leaned down and sniffed himself. They didn’t have any deodorant—or if they did, he’d utterly failed to communicate the concept. However, the scented soaps did an ample job if he showered every day. True, he smelled a bit girly, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that, and he doubted they were going to judge him based on that.

Dale looked at the cluster of mares, who were still having a heated discussion. I can see scent being a possible issue going forward, since they are so much more attuned to it than I am. Would they be offended if I used so much cologne that I completely masked my natural smells—if that’s even possible? Are there particular scents they don’t like? What do I do if certain things are only communicated by scent, or reinforced by it? If I say I’m scared, but I don’t smell scared, are they going to believe me?

Heck, certain facial expressions are universal among humans, and for all I know, some primates, too. I’ve already seen that they use their ears and tails for body language, and I can’t do that. Then again, if they have multiple colony worlds, maybe they have different ponies who specialize in different tasks, and they just keep like with like. Maybe these ponies can deal with fixed ears and no conscious scent-control.

“You can come in,” Lavender Fritter announced, motioning towards the door. Dale noticed that Apple Leaves was gone again; she'd probably gone inside to warn Caramel about him.

The first thing that Dale noticed when he stepped inside was that the floor felt very rough—it felt like an endless procession of cleats had scarred up the wood. Even before he'd taken in the whole room, he looked down to make sure there weren't any big splinters sticking up to skewer his bare feet.

Seeing none, he carefully stepped away from the door to let Lyra follow him in, before looking up at the inside of the shop.

It was nothing like the customer side of an Earth shop; instead, it bore a resemblance to a storeroom. There were shelves with wooden boxes all around the room, but they looked more like they were being used for storage, rather than display. Each of the boxes, he noticed, had colored tacks in the end, which apparently served as the filing system, since they were otherwise unlabeled.

The counter itself had a row of horseshoes hung along the edge. It wasn't until he saw the little tags hanging off of each one that he realized he was in a farrier's shop.

Moments like these reminded him of the familiar alien-ness of the world. He’d almost be to the point where he thought of them as little furry humans, and then he’d see Starlight wearing a harness. Wearing horseshoes felt like a subjugating behavior—but to who? Or was he overthinking it; were the shoes a necessity of hooves?

A tan stallion was standing in the center of the room, with one hind leg bent over a tripod that looked very much like a cross between a jackstand and a crutch. Apple Leaves was right under the stallion's neck, resting her barrel against his breast. His chin was on her withers, which put his muzzle right against the bun in her green mane.

A light blue mare with a curly mane and tail was crouched down behind his hoof; Dale could tell by the way she was moving that she was shoeing him, and he didn't want to interrupt her, so he stood awkwardly where he was, trying to give the immobilized stallion a harmless look.

I shouldn't have come in here, he thought. That's what Lyra was trying to warn me about. As interesting as it was, as much of an insight into their culture as it appeared, he felt for the poor stallion. He could imagine how he'd feel if visiting aliens stopped by while he was in a dentist's chair. And this would be even worse; while he didn't know all that much about shoeing a horse, it was a fair bet that when the process was only half done, that leg was out of commission.

He moved back against the wall and squatted down, figuring that if he stayed back, it would reassure the stallion. Plus, it gave him an opportunity to observe.

I would be so much better at this if I’d grown up on a horse farm, gone to college, and majored in Anthropology and Language Theory, he thought, shifting until he was comfortable.

From his vantage point, he didn’t have a full view of the operation, but he knew enough from working in a machine shop to make a very good guess what she was doing as she leaned over Caramel’s hoof, turned and set the shoe on the horn of an anvil, struck it a few times, then turned back to the hoof.

She was pretty good—he hadn’t heard any hammering as he came in to the shop, so she was just starting the fitting, and it only took her three tries before she was satisfied. That was the kind of thing which came with experience.

When she was satisfied with the fit, she grabbed a hammer and a mouthful of nails. Dale winced as she began driving them in, imagining how it would feel to have nails pounded into the soles of his feet. To try and distract himself, he turned to Lyra. “What are those for, on the counter?”

“They're all the different kinds of shoes she sells,” Lyra explained.

“Why the different shapes?”

“It depends on what they're going to be used for. A pony who only does light work around town and spends a lot of time inside would want to wear a simple, smooth shoe, but a farmpony needs a shoe with calks.”

”Calks?”

“They’re . . . points. Like a round triangle, or a knife.” She frowned at her inability to explain.

“Like a chisel.” He used the Equestrian word—naming tools with Ambrosia and Silver Spanner had paid off.

Lyra brightened. “Yes! During planting season, for the soft earth, they dig in. They’re useful in snow, too, but they’re hard on floors.”

Dale looked at the stallion dubiously. His pompadour and glossy tail didn’t suggest he did hard work, although he supposed that even fairly light farm work would be impeded by slipping and falling.

“Oh.” He'd never considered that there might be different kinds of horseshoe, but it made sense. Normal shoes came in all kinds of different varieties; he had his work boots, hiking boots, and loafers, as well as the dress shoes he almost never wore. Is the type of shoe a pony wears sort of a status symbol? On Earth, no one would trust a banker who wore battered sneakers to work. Maybe that was why Twilight was so reluctant to show her hoof at the hospital. She might have been embarrassed by her shoes.

When the nailing was done, she grabbed a pair of end cutters and proceeded to nip off the points of the nails that stuck out of Caramel’s hoof wall, then crimped them down with the hammer and cutters. When she was done with that, she picked up a file and smoothed off the rough edges of the nails and the border between his hooves and shoes. Then she sat on her rump and lifted Caramel's leg with one foreleg, while pushing the jack out of the way with the other.

He looked relieved to be standing back on his feet again. He touched his hoof to the ground lightly at first, and rocked it back and forth experimentally, before putting his full weight on it.

Dale felt some of the tension in the room dissipate. The mare who had been standing protectively under his neck moved back, then headed out the door while he turned to look at Dale. Then, much to Dale's surprise, he bowed slightly—just a little head-nod, but it was unmistakably a bow. Without so much as a word in greeting, he walked out the door, followed by Peachy Sweet. Lavender Fritter gave him a small wave, then left with her friends, leaving Dale and Lyra alone in the shop.

“Let me put my tools away,” the farrier told them, and then proceeded to do just that. Dale took another look over at the rows of storage boxes. There was a definite pattern to the colored pins, although without the key, it told him nothing.

He didn't notice the farrier right away. The ponies often were quieter than he thought they ought to be, and she got next to him before he noticed her. He caught a bit of movement out of his eye, and looked down to see her examining his feet.

“I can't fit shoes for you,” she told him flatly when she looked up. “Sorry. Maybe the cobbler can make you some kind of paw-boots.”

“I just came to look,” Dale said. “I was . . . I do not know the word.”

“Curious,” Lyra suggested.

Dale nodded in agreement. “I am Dale.” He stuck out his fist, and the mare bumped it lightly.

“Shoeshine.”

“Can I look here?”

“Look?”

“At the things you have here.”

“Sure. Follow me.” She bumped her muzzle into his hip to give him a light push in the right direction, before leading him across the room. Like most of the ponies did when he was around, she kept one ear cocked in his direction.

He began at the very end of the counter, examining the first shoe. It looked to be made of plain steel, tarnished from exposure, but with no significant wear.

Is there a market for used shoes? The shoes she'd taken off Caramel were hanging over the edge of her tool bucket, and there were enough storage boxes around it was easy to imagine that some of them might be filled with used shoes.

The tag had three circles on it, and no other markings. He glanced down the counter—even to his untrained eye, all the shoes looked different, so there would be no need for a label to tell the pony what kind of shoe each was.

“You can pick it up,” Shoeshine said, startling him again. She leaned in and grabbed the shoe in her mouth, then tilted her head up towards his hand with it.

Dale took it from her and hefted it thoughtfully. Unsurprisingly, it was smaller and lighter than what a terrestrial Equine would wear, although it was still a bit heavier than he would have guessed.

He was pretty sure on Earth, horses usually wore shoes on all four hooves, although he'd noticed here that a lot of the ponies didn't have shoes on their forehooves—of the construction ponies, only Silver Spanner and Allie wore them up front. Diamond Mint did as well, but not Starlight. He was less sure about the hind hooves—he'd seen Silver Spanner's when she was lying under the sink, but the rest of the ponies had kept their hind legs on the ground when he'd been around them.

Dale set it down and moved along the counter, picking up the next shoe. This one had six circles on the tag, and had threaded holes between the nail holes. Unlike the others, the bottom didn't have any calks for traction.

As he moved down the counter, he discovered that not only were they in different shapes—including ones with connecting bars across the heel—but they were made from several different metals, as well. Whether that was a fashion statement, or had some other purpose behind it, he didn't know.

He did know racehorses sometimes wore aluminum shoes. They didn't wear very well, but they let the horse run faster. But racehorses didn't get to choose the shoes they wore—if his shoes were nailed to his feet, he'd be certain to wear the one shoe that did everything and had good durability.

Of course, women did a lot of things for vanity. Probably mares and some stallions were no different, and put up with frequent shoe changes for the sake of their vanity. If bronze shoes were ‘in,’ surely all the fashionable ponies would be wearing them.

Or maybe the lighter shoes were just for the fliers. He hadn’t paid much attention to their hooves, but if they spent a lot of time in the air, it would stand to reason they wouldn’t wear out their shoes as fast.

That, and a thousand other questions were on his mind when he looked over at Lyra.

Lyra appeared to be getting bored of his inspection of the shoes—her ears had gone to what he considered to be the ‘neutral’ position. Shoeshine was watching him with the interest of a shopkeeper who's just going through the motions, since she already knows he's not going to be buying what she has to offer.

He was still curious, but he lacked enough vocabulary to have a meaningful discussion of horseshoes with a stranger—or anything else, for that matter—so some of the mysteries would have to wait until later. He nodded to Lyra, gave Shoeshine a polite fist-bump, and headed back outside.

The first thing he noticed was a green pegasus perched on the lifting beam of the building across the street. Her stance was almost bird-like, and she looked vaguely familiar. He churned through all the different ponies he’d met until he placed her at the hospital, along with the timid pegasus that had later offered him a dead woodchuck. He was pretty sure she lived in the house on the next street over—he’d seen a pony that looked just like her through the back window several times. It was funny how she kept turning up. He gave her a wave, which she returned enthusiastically, and he looked back to the street.

Even though he'd told himself more than once that he was going to stay close to Lyra, to keep himself out of trouble, he kept on becoming distracted by the shops they passed. Most of them were the ground floor of a house, and he only caught a quick glimpse through the front door.

The board out front apparently advertised the shop, but his brief glimpses inside didn’t help him make sense of the signs. One of the stores had a drawing of a brush and an hourglass; a quick look through the front door revealed a dark blue unicorn leaning over a pony who was lying back in a strange chair. He assumed that was some sort of hairdresser. And further down the street, he saw a pony go into a shop with a drawing of a couch and a quill; if it had been a pegasus, he might have thought it was a pegasus psychologist, but it was a light magenta unicorn with a diamond trio for a cutie mark.

On top of that, they had to stop several times so that he could introduce himself to a new group of ponies. Oddly, Lyra acted less bothered by those delays, often carrying on short conversations while Dale fumbled his way through an introduction.

Luckily, they were almost as formulaic as pleasantries on Earth, and by the third group of ponies he'd encountered, he'd gotten the hang of it. Sadly, the same couldn't be said for their names. He'd already forgotten how to pronounce the farrier's name. He was going to have to come up with some clever mnemonics or something. He’d heard of a few tricks using human names, but word association was a lot more difficult in a foreign language.

They turned down another street and came out into the market. He hadn't seen a proper open-air market in decades—most of the farmer's markets that the trendy cities had established were a pale imitation of what once had been, with organized sales booths arranged underneath a pavilion or inside a building. This was the real deal. No two stalls were identical: each had been decorated in whatever manner the owner felt would attract the most attention. Most of them had painted signs or banners with an illustration of what they had to offer, although some were a little more esoteric, like the ladybug. Small brightly-colored triangular banners were stretched from trees and poles and tents, giving the whole thing the appearance of a used car lot or a church function. All that was missing was one of those silly waving windsocks.

Wagons were haphazardly parked near many of the stalls—wagons were some of the stalls—and shoppers wearing saddlebags or towing small single-axle carts were working their way through. He spotted Apple Cobbler over at a lettuce stall, with one of the mares he'd seen in the kitchen next to her, hitched to a wagon that was almost certainly loaded with food for the hospital. If she had been looking his way, he would have waved.

As he watched, a greyish pegasus with a spiky blue-white mane stepped into a clear spot with a bag held in her teeth and took a brief flight up to a low cloud. She disappeared over the edge, only to return a moment later with the same bag, empty of its contents. As Dale gaped at the inexplicable sight, he saw a charcoal-colored leg point over the edge towards a stand, and the grey pegasus soared off the cloud and headed that way.

Lyra let out a little sigh of relief as they finally reached the market. Dale had behaved like a filly window shopping as they'd gone through town, and while she thought it was cute, it wasn't the goal she'd had in mind for the morning.

Although, it had been interesting to see what caught Dale's eye, and he'd been friendly to all the ponies they'd met on the street. Luckily, they had remembered what Twilight and Fancy Pants had said at the meeting, and hadn't panicked when they saw him.

She glanced over at him for a moment. He was just looking around the market, trying to take it all in. It was almost as if he'd never seen a market before. But he'd had all sorts of stuff at his camp; if he hadn't gotten it at a market, where had it come from?

Perhaps humans favored indoor stores. In her opinion, that was all right for some things—it wouldn't be practical for Shoeshine or Davenport to set up a stall at the market, for example—but food was far too important to buy without talking to the farm mare who grew it. Any sensible pony knew that.

She was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder, and looked up at Dale.

“Do I have any . . . can I get anything?”

Lyra's eyes narrowed and her ears dropped slightly. She didn't know. In all the discussions with Twilight, the subject of spending money had never come up. She knew that normally, the guest nation paid all expenses for its ambassadors, but of course that wasn't a possibility here, and the Crown had covered all expenses incurred thus far. Twilight had assured her that going forward, 'reasonable expenses' would be covered, along with food and shelter—but would purchases at the market be considered 'reasonable expenses?'

“We can just look,” Dale decided.

“If you see food you like,” Lyra said, “tell me, and I can make sure that Starlight buys it at the next market day. Otherwise, I don't know what financial arrangements are going to be made. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.” Dale lightly rested his hand on her shoulder. “We can have that . . . we can speak about it later.”

Lyra looked over to Bon Bon's booth. “I'll get us a treat.”

“Treat?”

“A . . . nice food.” She pointed a hoof. “Over there. Bon Bon. You like chocolates. You had chocolate biscuits—Oreos—on the beach.”

“Yes, I would like that. Thank you.”

They only made it to the first stall before Dale got accosted by Roma. Lyra stepped back slightly to let him take the lead, but she was ready to step in if he made a hash of things. She knew that the market ponies would prioritize selling their wares over fleeing or being overly judgmental, which was one of the reasons she'd chosen the market in the first place.

“They do look good,” Dale said, leaning close to the table. Roma watched him closely, but made no attempt to shoo him away. “How much is a tomato?”

She narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “One bit.”

Lyra glared at her, but Roma didn't notice. Even this early in the spring, one bit per tomato was greedy.

“I do not have any money,” Dale said, holding out his empty hands. “But I do like tomatoes. If Starlight would come and buy a bag of tomatoes for the embassy, how much would that cost?”

Lyra snickered at Roma's wince. Serves you right.

“Three bits,” she said finally.

“How many tomatoes are in a bag?”

Roma looked between Dale and Lyra, and her ears drooped. “A dozen and a half.”

Well, that's fair at least. She won't have any room to haggle on that price. Poor Roma. Lyra guessed she'd gone lower than she would have otherwise, probably figuring that since Starlight was now employed by the Crown, it might be unwise to factor in haggling.

“But that's only for these tomatoes,” Roma said, giving herself an out.

“Thank you.” Dale stuck out his fist, and Roma reluctantly bumped it, before turning her attention towards Flitter, who had landed behind Dale.

Does he bite? Flitter mouthed around her shopping bag.

Lyra shook her head, but Flitter took a precautionary step backwards anyway as Dale walked to the next stall.

Dale's technique with Roma had worked unintentionally well. The mare next to her had heard the whole conversation, and made no attempt to try and sell Dale anything, although she gave him a big smile as he examined her asparagus.

“Do you like asparagus?” she asked hopefully. “It's good for you. Lots of ponies like it.”

He nodded. “I'll ask Starlight. What's your name?”

“Tiessen,” she said. “Tissy to my friends.”

“I'll tell her to see you.”

“Okay.” She smiled cheerfully, before turning and waving a hoof at Flitter.

When Dale looked towards the next stall, Lyra intervened, bumping him in the hip. “Let's go get the treat,” she suggested, pointing a hoof towards Bon Bon's stall. “Before she sells all the good stuff.”

Dale nodded and began walking in that direction. Lyra stayed close to his right side, gently herding him closer to the center of the thoroughfare. She didn't want to disrupt the market overly much, especially for Dale's first time out. He'd handled himself well enough at the two vegetable stalls, but if he went from stall-to-stall all morning and took up a lot of time without buying anything, word would get around, and ponies would start to get resentful, and that might ultimately hurt her, Starlight, or Bon Bon.

Just the same, their path to Bon Bon's stall was interrupted by shoppers wanting to meet Dale, or give Lyra words of encouragement, or both. Lyra tried to keep Dale moving forward as much as she could without being rude. That was the drawback to her idea to go to market, one she should have foreseen. Almost everypony was curious about Dale, and they hadn't seen him since the town announcement.

Eventually, though, they finally reached the booth. Lyra shrugged her shoulders lightly at the look of vague amusement on Bon Bon's face.

“I wasn't expecting to see you here,” Bon Bon whispered, after glancing over to make sure that Dale was occupied.

“I wasn't expecting to be. Dale wanted to go out, and what better place for us to go and meet ponies?”

“You just want some free candy, don't you?”

Lyra nodded eagerly. “Please?”

Bon Bon picked up her candy scoop. She leaned under the counter and opened the lid to her portable ice chest, and picked up the two biggest mint-fudge bonbons she had, a small smile on her face.

She set them on the counter, where they were immediately enveloped in Lyra's golden aura. “Thanks, Bonnie. You're the best.” Lyra leaned in and nuzzled her, then recklessly kissed her cheek.

Bon Bon looked at her shrewdly. “Do you think Dale would mind hanging out at my booth for a while?”

“I don't think he'd mind.” Lyra looked back to where Dale was, surrounded by curious mares. “Maybe we should get a barrel for him to sit on. Let me give him his candy, and I'll ask him.”

She waited until there was a break in the crowd, and then gave him his candy. “Would you like to sit down for a while? I can get something for you to sit on.”

“I not mind standing,” he told her. “I have been sitting too much.” He looked at the candy then bit off an end. “This is good. Did she make it?”

Lyra nodded. “Bon Bon makes all sorts of confections.”

“Bon Bon,” he repeated, thoughtfully. “I . . . I have seen her before.” He popped the rest of the candy in his mouth and chewed it before continuing. “She was with you at the embassy.”

“Yes.” Lyra tilted her head towards the booth. "She is my marefriend."

Author's Notes:

Click through for story notes!

Chapter 24: Studies

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 24: Studies
Admiral Biscuit

Lyra looked away from Bon Bon long enough to check on Dale. Unsurprisingly, he'd attracted a fair bit of attention, and there was a steady stream of market-goers stopping by to see him up close. The crowd he’d attracted wasn't hurting Bon Bon's business, either—she was selling candy like it was going out of style. Nopony was impolite enough to take up Bon Bon’s time without buying something.

But for all the draw that Dale was, Lyra was running a close second. Nearly everypony who came over to see Dale wanted to talk to her too, and all the talking was making her a little hoarse.

"Of course I was scared," she told Bumblesweet. "Who wouldn't be? I was all alone with him . . . but he was just as scared as I was."

"He looked bigger on stage." She glanced back at Dale. “Now that I’ve seen him up close and talked to him, he isn’t scary at all.”

Lyra nodded.

"How come he's wearing such nice clothes? Does he normally dress up for the market?"

"I don't know." Lyra shrugged. "He isn't comfortable without them. Neither is the mare—the girl. I think it's a racial thing . . . like, how only the lowest-status Diamond Dogs go without a vest. I'm pretty sure they show tribal alliance by the patterns of clothing they wear. All of Ka-th-rin's herd wore matching blue clothing. But it’s hard to figure out. Dale wore different colors each time I saw him."

"How is she? Ah, Ka-th-rin?" Bumblesweet moved in closer. "I heard that she was hurt pretty bad. I heard that she had to ride in a wagon from the hospital ‘cause she was hurt too bad to walk."

"She almost lost a paw." Lyra frowned at the memory. "But she's getting better now. The doctor and the nurses have been doing a really good job healing her."

Bumblesweet hunched her back to adjust her saddlebags. "Are you going to bring her out when she's better?"

"I hope so. We haven't talked much." Lyra scraped the ground. "They've got her on a lot of morphine, so she doesn't make a lot of sense when she talks. The nurses have been communicating with nudges and hoof-gestures."

"That must be difficult," Bumblesweet said sympathetically. "Hey, before I get back to shopping, I heard you can talk their language, right?"

"Some," Lyra said, then switched to English. "I make food safe in cooler."

"What does that mean?"

"I keep my food in an icebox."

"Hmm. That sounds weird: almost like you’re imitating a dragon with a cold.” Bumblesweet glanced over as a whistle cut above the hubbub of the crowd. "Uh-oh, Tealove's calling. I've got to get back to shopping. Good to see you're out and about again."

"I’m glad to be out," Lyra admitted as she gave Bumblesweet a friendly nuzzle. “I hope we’ll be able to spend some more time just hanging out in town in the future.”

Lyra turned her attention back to Dale. She was worried about him. For her, the last week had been stressful—out of her familiar element, and living with new ponies in the embassy. Not that she didn't like them, but they weren't her familiar herd. She was less sure of his social preferences, but whether he preferred to be solitary or with his kin, the market might be a bit overwhelming. I should have thought of that. Maybe he would have been happier going to the park and sitting on a bench there—somewhere without so many ponies.

Either way, the day was getting on, and while Starlight might understand if they missed lunch, Cheerilee—and by extension, Princess Celestia—wouldn't be happy if Dale skipped his afternoon language lesson.

Still, she hesitated. It’s a nice day, it’s good to be out, and we aren’t late for lunch yet. Lyra turned her head; when Bon Bon looked away to talk to a customer, she levitated two candies over, dropping one in Dale’s lap and keeping the second for herself.

He regarded it with bemusement, before he turned and looked at her questioningly.

“Eat it,” she mouthed, devouring her own candy before Bon Bon noticed they were missing.

With a shrug, he popped it into his mouth. He’d barely finished it before Sugargrape landed beside Bon Bon’s stall and trotted up to him.

While the two of them were talking, Lyra regretfully walked over to the candy stand. "Sorry, Bons, we've got to go."

“But we hardly even talked,” Bon Bon protested. “I—oh, I wish you’d told me you were leaving before lunch. I don’t get to see you hardly ever any more.”

“Maybe after tomorrow, things will get more relaxed,” Lyra said hopefully. She leaned over the counter and gave the confectioner a kiss.

"Do you want me to stop by after market's closed?"

Lyra considered that. It might not help her focus; on the other hoof, it would help her relax. There was, however, the possibility of getting in trouble . . . so far, nopony had said anything, but it might be unwise to continue pushing her luck.

"What about the spa?" Lyra suggested. "I can meet you there this evening. Maybe Dale will want to go, too. 'Cause Princess Celestia is coming tomorrow."

"She is?"

Lyra nodded, then noticed that the mares who had been clustered around the stall were looking at her with eager eyes. "Um . . . it's supposed to be a low-key affair. Just business stuff. Boring."

"I bet she'll want some flowers," Heather Rose said. "She'll want to see them. And smell them. It’ll cover up the smell of all the new paint— nopony likes the smell of fresh paint. If there aren’t flowers, she'll think we're not being hospitable enough."

"I hope Allie is done with the busts," Hazel Broach commented. "Last night she said she wasn't done. I’ll see her this afternoon—I’ll tell her to finish them up, and she can bring them over in the evening."

"What color are the walls inside? Are they still green?"

"Woah." Lyra held up a hoof. "We don't want to overwhelm her."

"But she never even saw our banner! Goldie still has it at the farm."

Lyra sighed. "Small stuff, okay? Maybe some fresh flowers at the embassy, that would be good. It would brighten the place up, and if she gets hungry. . . . I'm sure she'll like the banner, Berry. Hazel, if Allie can get the busts done, that would be wonderful. Bonnie, maybe you could make some candies for her. She likes chocolate cake, so I bet she likes candy, too. But that's it, all right?"

Dr. Dillamond parked his Buick outside Cottage Inn and shut off the engine. He'd dithered over just skipping the dinner entirely: his whole department was working extra hours on the North Fox case. But his ex-wife had accused him of spending too much time in academia at the expense of his personal life, and deep down he knew it was true.

Still, he grabbed his briefcase off the passenger seat. He might have a chance to review some of his notes while he was at the restaurant.

He straightened his tie and went inside. When the hostess pointed him to his table, his scowl vanished. I didn't know Meghan was coming. They didn't have a thing going—probably never would, if he were being honest—but she was still great company, and her cheerful mood was infectious. How she could stay cheerful after teaching deaf kids all day long was beyond him.

“Bringing your work home again, eh?” she commented.

He leaned the briefcase against his chair and sat down. “Yeah, we've got a case for the State Police we're analyzing evidence for.” Dillamond nodded to the couple across the table. “Hey, Jen. Congratulations on your book. Happy Birthday, Matt.”

“Thanks for coming,” Matt said, tipping his hat slightly. “Appreciate it. Jen said you wouldn't make it.”

“I just said he'd probably have an excuse.”

“I occasionally leave college, you know. I even own a house.”

“Do you know what color it's painted?”

Dillamond waved his hand. “Pfft, details.”

The obligatory small-talk completed, Dr. Dillamond picked up his menu, only to be interrupted by Meghan. “You said you're analyzing evidence from a State Police case? I thought they had their own forensics labs for that, like in CSI.”

“Well, they do.” He set his menu back down. “But sometimes they come across stuff that's out of their area of expertise, or that they don't have the equipment to analyze.”

“Oh.” She brushed a lock of red hair behind her ear. “But you study books.”

“Sometimes ancient art gets involved in a case. If, hypothetically, the police were to discover a painting they thought might be a stolen Vermeer, let’s say, they'd want an actual art expert to look at it. It's not the kind of thing they normally know about.” He reached back with his heel and touched the briefcase lightly. “So right now, the university is doing metals analysis and examining several books of unknown origin.”

“And you figured them out, haven’t you?”

He wanted to tell her yes. He wanted to tell her that they had all the answers . . . but they didn't.

Oh, they knew things. They knew what the paper was made of. They knew how the books were bound. They knew what inks were used, and what kind of printing process had laid the words upon the pages. They had more than enough to send a report off to Detective Moller.

In fact, the subject of the meeting had been whether they should send a report to Moller yet. Because these books were another Voynich manuscript: clearly written in languages nobody had ever seen before. Unlike the Voynich manuscript, though, carbon dating had failed utterly. Even as they debated, technicians were swarming over the machine, since it was impossible for a book to not have detectable amounts of carbon-14 in it.

He probably wasn't supposed to talk about it. Some small part of his mind cautioned silence. This was police evidence, and it could potentially be used in a trial.

But professors didn't expand their knowledge by not talking to each other. The very idea was unthinkable. And he was sitting next to a beautiful redhead who wanted to hear what he had to say, so he leaned down and snapped the latches of his briefcase open, and pulled out a stack of copies. The original book, of course, was safe back in the lab.

“The State Police found it on an island where an old guy kidnapped a Coast Guard woman right in front of the rest of her crewmembers and then vanished,” Dillamond began. “This was one of the books in his tent.”

“Looks like a kid's book,” Meghan said, after flipping through a few pages.

“Huh?”

“Like a Dr. Seuss kind of thing. See, you've got these cute ponies showing you around.” She pointed to the first page. “There's a group of them on the first page—that's your introduction.”

“Well, that's one interpretation.” It was one of many ideas which had been floated around, since it bore a superficial resemblance to a child’s book. However, the simplistic drawings were present in other books which had a much higher text-density, and the professors had concluded that it was probably an artistic choice.

“Many of them have a distinct mark on their butt, and the ones who don't are all different, so you can tell them apart. A unicorn, or a pegasus. Even their manes and tails are different, to make it more obvious. Look here, that one on the cover, she's in the kitchen.”

“How do you know it's a she?”

“Well, who else would be in the kitchen? It’s the mother, if this is a family.” Meghan looked intently at the drawing of the group. “See, right there on the cover, her name is underneath her, and then on this page you see it again. And look, here are a couple of repeated words—this word occurs a couple of times on the page. Probably means 'stove,' or 'food,' since we're in the kitchen. Maybe a specific food item, like a cake.”

“I wonder. . . .” Dillamond's enthusiasm began rising, and he spread the printed pages over the table. “Okay, this one, this . . . regular pony, it's in the yard. A flower garden. It's working in a flower garden. And I see—here, this word. It's on the page four times. Yes, and its name, too.”

“This is a kid's book,” Megan said. “Very simple, ignorable backgrounds. Clearly drawn characters, and the focal point of each page-story centered on the page. Short, simple sentences. I use ‘em all the time.”

“Let's say it is.” Dillamond pointed to the scattered papers. “Let's say that you're right.”

“I know I'm right.”

“Who wrote it? Why did he have it?”

“You said several books of unknown origin.” Meghan grabbed a slice of pizza and set it on her plate—Dillamond hadn't noticed that the meal had arrived. “So, how many of them were in this language?”

“Well . . . all of them had this language in them.”

“Well, there you go.” Meghan gave him a satisfied look, as if that explained anything.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur, and while Dillamond participated in the smalltalk, he could neither remember it, nor his drive home. He went right inside, unceremoniously evicted all the books and papers from his desk, and eagerly spread out the copies of the so-called kid's book.

It didn't take him too long to verify what Meghan had said. Every page had one word which was repeated at least three times. Each 'page-story,' as she'd called them, spanned a pair of facing pages, and in each case, one of the ponies on the front page—the family portrait—was named later in the text.

He wasn't an expert in languages—either real or imagined. The university had such experts, and they'd come up dry. This was no language system which anybody had ever encountered before, nor was it a mere substitution cipher. There weren't enough letters for that.

Dillamond wrote down all the words in a notebook, circled them on the copied pages for good measure, and scanned the lot. It only took a few minutes to email them to all his colleagues; when it was done, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

One of the books had been—as Doctor Cunningham had described it—the Rosetta Stone of gibberish. Pages upon pages of unique indecipherable language . . . but looking back in his memory, he was sure that one of the pages had been this language.

If Meghan was right—if this really was a kid's book—then they ought to be able to get a handle on what it said. From there, they might get enough to start translating the books, and maybe then they could start to figure out what was going on.

“Dale!”

He jerked his head back around and looked at Cheerilee. She tapped a hoof on the chalkboard and he tried to focus back on the work, but it was just no good.

He'd thought that a morning off would have helped him focus. He hadn't considered how stressful it would be, mainly because he hadn't considered that the ponies were just as curious about him as he was about them. It had been easy to forget at the hospital—the doctors and nurses were professionals first—and at the embassy, Starlight and Diamond Mint felt more like co-workers than strangers. Even though he’d only known them for a couple of weeks, it felt like so much longer.

Before they’d left the embassy, his mind had conjured up a vision of walking along the peaceful streets of town, with maybe a friendly wave or two from other ponies on the sidewalk—like something out of a commercial for a travel agency. Lyra would point out the sights, and that would be that.

It's not fair to blame the townsfolk, he thought. I could have walked by the farrier's without going in, or maybe just looked through the door and then moved on. I didn't have to approach the market stalls, either. But I was curious! How often will an opportunity like this come along?

Plenty often, said his rational side. It's not like you're going home anytime soon, so you ought to be building a good foundation of the language, not bumbling along like an idiot.

Even though that's all I know how to do, quipped Cynical.

And this isn't helping me learn. He squinted at the board. Over the course of the lesson, Cheerilee's look had slowly changed from indulgent to impatient.

I must be the worst student she's ever had. “Um . . . Printest Celespia.” He gave her an awkward smile.

He could have sworn he saw hairs in her mane sproinging out of place, and she did grit her teeth as the smile on her face faltered. “Princess. Princess.”

“Princess?”

She nodded.

“Princess Celespia?”

A snicker on his left told him all he needed to know about his pronunciation. Cheerilee took a deep breath, and then shook her head no. “Celestia.”

“Celespia.”

“Tia.”

“Celes . . . tia.”

A genuine smile broke out on Cheerilee's face, the first one he'd seen since the lesson began. “Now say all.”

“Princest Celestia.”

Cheerilee's eye twitched.

Dinner was a somewhat sombre affair. Dale felt terrible about his poor performance, and Cheerilee didn't look very happy with him either. Conversation was awkward, and Dale couldn't help but think back to the younger him who’d brought lousy report cards home. It was bad enough feeling that he'd let down his teacher and his friend, but it was nagging at the back of his mind that he might be letting down humanity as well. Kate—she wasn't much of a good example, although at least she was sculpting her mashed potatoes with a fork, rather than her fingers.

“How is it?” Dale leaned over to Redheart, and pointed at Kate's bandaged hand. Of all the nurses, she felt the most approachable to him, and spoke the most English. She’d practice with him during meals, then try to draw Kate into a conversation. They never got too far, but Redheart looked happy every time she or Dale managed to draw Kate out of her drug-induced haze.

“Soon,” she told him. “It . . .” she paused, and he could practically see the gears in her head turning. “It move, but still some bad.”

“Move,” he said, wiggling his fingers.

“Yes.” She nodded. “All move. Move, move, move, move, move.” Redheart touched her hoof to his hand, gently tapping each one of his fingers as she spoke. “Were worried, um, ropes not work.”

Ropes. Dale looked down at his hand and flexed it experimentally, thinking about what she'd call ropes for his benefit. “Tendons?” He drew a line down his finger, where he figured they were.

“Yes. Tendons.” She pointed to his finger again. “Many tendons.”

Are there two per finger joint? He looked down at his hand and flexed a finger. There must be, or else how would they work? How does that all fit in there?

An unwanted memory of Kate’s burned hand flashed across his mind, and he swallowed down a wave of nausea. I can't imagine how she deals with it—the things she must see. Doctors and nurses must have a stronger constitution than most people. Indeed, Redheart had turned back to her dinner, undaunted by whatever images their conversation had conjured up. For once, Dale was glad that Starlight had made a vegetarian dinner: if he’d looked down at a plate of seared meat after thinking of Kate’s hand, he probably would have vomited. As it was, he’d lost his appetite, and pushed his plate away.

He sat in silence while the rest of the ponies finished their meals, and Kate razed her mashed potato tower by devouring it. He smiled at her antics—in some ways, she was better off than he was. Her drug-induced haze kept her concerns at bay. Maybe I should ask for some of her drink.

“Is food not right?”

Dale turned to look at Diamond Mint. Of course she noticed I wasn’t eating. “Um . . . I am not hungry.”

“You like potato mash,” Diamond insisted. “You should eat.”

Yes, Mom. “I am not hungry right now. Can I save for later?”

Diamond nodded, and cleared his mostly untouched plate away, and Dale focused back in on the chatter. Lyra and Cheerilee were carrying on a quiet conversation, while Redheart tried to convince Kate to drink more of her medicine.

Lyra wrapped up the discussion she was having with Cheerilee, and turned to Dale. “Does Dale want to go to spa after dinner? Cheerilee and I are going, and you can come too.”

“Spa?”

“Is . . . place to relax. And to be clean—to look nice. Princess Celestia is coming tomorrow, and we need to get ready.”

“Princess Celestia?”

Both Lyra and Cheerilee nodded.

“Here?”

“You didn't tell him?”

Lyra turned to Cheerilee. “I forgot.” She looked back at Dale. “Yes, here, tomorrow. Dale should look nice. She is our princess.”

Yes, I know. I said that word enough times. He tapped his fingers against the tablecloth. Whoever Princess Celestia was, she was important. They hadn't been entirely clear on how important she was, which he thought might have been a result of running out of time while Cheerilee made sure he could pronounce her name correctly.

Then it hit him like a bolt from the blue. “Princess is . . . title. Like teacher—Cheerilee is teacher. Teacher Cheerilee. Princess Celestia; Celestia is princess.” He tapped his hand on the table. “Luna—Princess Luna.”

Lyra nodded. “You saw Princess Celestia on the beach, the first day.”

Aha. Puzzle pieces were falling into place. He’d noticed how both Lyra and the guards had deferred to her—she was the leader of the expedition, and she was also probably the one who’d been in the drawings he’d gotten at the hospital. It was kind of surprising it had taken this long for her to meet him.

I ought to go with them, he thought. Maybe we can talk more about Princess Celestia—if she’s as important as they’re making her out to be, I’d do well to know more about her before we meet. And maybe spending a little more time away from here will help me focus. “Will there be many ponies there?”

“Not too many,” Cheerilee said. “Some. Few. Not like the market.”

A few won’t be so bad. A little bit of distraction, and then we can get down to a nice quiet conversation. “Okay, yes. I will go.”

Lyra looked surprised that he'd agreed, and all of a sudden he had second thoughts.

Too late, he realized why Lyra had been surprised he'd agreed.

Going forward, I ought to get all the details before I agree to anything. He should have suspected all the way back at the hospital—it wasn't like there weren't Earth precedents. The Japanese had public baths, and so did the Romans, and he was sure that there were more societies that did which he didn't know about.

Not that he would have been visiting those places back on Earth. There was no way he was going to get in a public tub with a bunch of mares. Maybe if he had a swimsuit, and if there were changing rooms. Otherwise he was perfectly happy using the embassy’s shower alone for his personal hygiene needs, their social conventions be damned.

So he’d sat on one of the benches, his legs folded awkwardly, and leaned back against the wall. He and the guard exchanged a look of solidarity, the look of a man who’s been dragged along shopping or to something cultural by his wife.

He’d watched as the mares rinsed off their hooves in a shallow bath, then climbed into a big oaken tub together, sitting close enough that they could carry on a low conversation.

They weren't alone in the tub; he saw a few other mares and a stallion. Dale was fairly certain he’d seen one of the mares at the market, but without being able to see her cutie mark, he couldn’t be sure. He was fairly certain that they were all unique—he hadn’t confirmed any duplicates, anyway.

He felt like a dirty old man watching them, and he idly wondered if that feeling might change if he were in the tub with them, but he wasn't about to find out.

Just the same, the atmosphere was relaxing. After the novelty of his presence had worn off, the ponies mostly ignored him. He assumed that they weren't curious enough to get out of the tub and approach him.

He closed his eyes and let the sounds and smells of the spa fill his mind. There was no chlorine in the water, although they were using some kind of scented bath salt that was faintly noticeable.

Besides the occasional splashing of water, the spa was very quiet. Conversations were kept hushed, and the ambient music that was playing was set to a low enough volume to not be distracting, though the occasional pops and hisses were a little annoying. Still, he could tune them out—for the first half of his life, they'd been a constant companion to any music he played at home. Although the music felt kind of New-Age, it reminded him of hearing his parent’s records from up in his bedroom.

He let his mind drift, not really thinking about anything in particular, although it kept returning to his morning tour of town and the cluster of ponies at the market. The whole place had a kind of medieval flavor.

There was something he wasn't seeing. He was sure of that. He kept coming back to it. It was like a missing tooth—annoying because it wasn't there.

He opened his eyes again as the music stopped and changed to a quiet rhythmic pop . . . pop . . . pop. He knew that sound, too. The blue and pink mare from the front counter ducked into a side room, and the noise stopped. After a brief period of silence, there was a gentle skrit from the speakers, then the music started again.

A second later, he was distracted when a familiar green pegasus trotted into the room. She had her eyes focused on the tub, and she stopped in her tracks practically in front of him.

He was pretty sure she was the one who’d been taking pictures of Kate and himself at the hospital—the one he’d gotten kicked out of the room for invading his privacy. Given his current situation, he wondered if he hadn’t overreacted.

Apparently uninterested in him, she turned until she was facing completely away and flicked her tail a couple of times. The motion drew Dale's attention and he saw more than he meant to before he looked away and tried to guess what she was looking at.

Judging by her ears, she was concentrating on where Lyra and Cheerilee were sitting. They'd been joined by Bon Bon, he noticed—she must have come in when I had my eyes closed.

She crouched down, leaning forward as she bent her legs. Before he could figure out what she was doing, she popped her wings out and jumped straight up, hovering a few feet in the air, her hindquarters practically in front of his face. He couldn’t help but look—he hadn’t seen a pegasus take flight from such a close distance before.

Like most of the others he'd seen, she hovered with her head raised and tail down, putting her at a nearly-standing angle. Her hind legs hung straight and free, while her forelegs were bent and loosely tucked into her body. It looked like a natural, relaxed pose.

Her head turned as she glanced around the room; a moment later, her body followed as she rotated clockwise to scan her surroundings. None of the ponies in the tub were paying her—or him—any attention, so he turned his attention back to her.

When she finally had turned halfway around, she looked down and spotted him. Her ears both snapped directly forward, even as she flew back a couple of feet. Then she rotated her body into a weird, uncomfortable-looking rump-high hover as she scrutinized him.

Not sure what else to do, Dale waved. “Hello.”

She dropped back down to the ground, leading with her tail. Her hind hooves hit the floor first, and then she rotated down onto her front legs. Most of the pegasi he'd seen landing tucked their wings in right after they were on the ground, but she did not—she kept them slightly off her sides. It looked to him like she was prepared to take flight again in a hurry.

“Hello,” she said, an excited look on her face. She glanced back at the tub for a moment, before returning her attention to Dale.

“You live in house across grass from me?”

She nodded. “I didn't know you could speak Equestrian.”

“I am learning. I am not very good.”

Featherbrain couldn't believe her luck. The day had been just perfect so far—she'd been lucky enough to catch Dale and Lyra leaving the embassy, and she'd followed him all the way to the market. She'd stayed back, mingling with the crowd, just in case Lyra or the guard spotted her and chased her off. Watching how he walked, watching how he talked—she'd forgotten her notebook and camera back at the rental room, but she'd had all afternoon to take notes.

She knew he was taking lessons from the local schoolteacher in the afternoons, so there wasn’t anything to see anyway unless Kate was outside. Not unless she crept up on the house and looked at things through the window, but the guards didn’t like that and chased her off every time she tried.

And then she'd happened to notice him leaving a second time, and to the spa, no less. She was curious about his bathing and grooming habits. You could tell a lot about a creature by its cleanliness.

She'd waited outside for a bit, in case they were just going in to set up a private appointment or buy some beauty products for the meeting with the Princess tomorrow. After she'd judged a long enough interval had passed, she went inside, begged the pink pony at the counter to give her credit—she'd left her bits back at the rental—and hurried through the door, her eyes locked on the soaking tub.

Lyra was there, with a plum earth pony on one side, and the ivory one from the market on the other. Even better, they were facing away from her.

But Dale wasn't there. She could smell him in the room, but she didn't see him.

Maybe he's completely submerged, she thought. Like a beaver or an otter. It would be an interesting insight into his physiology. Merponies could bask on rocks, but didn’t move very effectively on land, Seaponies and Kelpies were practically helpless out of the water; Sirens were supposed to be amphibious, although she was pretty sure they were a legend. Nopony reliable had reported seeing any in over a millennium.

Dale and Kate being amphibious would explain a lot. Lecol had told her that they'd been found on an uninhabited island—how else would they have gotten there if they hadn't swam?

She took flight and hovered high enough that she could see most of the bottom of the tub, but she didn't see Dale, nor did she see his clothes. He probably took them off when he went in the water—Lecol said that Kate got undressed for her showers and to sleep.

Featherbrain started looking around the room, unconsciously rotating her body rather than her neck. He wasn't on any of the grooming couches, although he could have been in one of the back rooms. She didn't think that Lyra would let him get that far away from her, but it was possible she had.

She tilted her head down as the wall came into her field of vision, and there Dale was, sitting on a low bench against the wall, looking up at her curiously.

“Hello,” he said, in gravelly but understandable Equish.

She instinctively flew back before checking her motion and landing lightly in front of him. It took her a moment to guess at his expression: watching him from a distance hadn't allowed her the benefit of being able to read him well.

He's not dangerous, Featherbrain reminded herself. Lots of mares talked to him at the market, and he just sat there and talked back.

“Hello,” she replied eagerly, not quite closing the distance between them. She told herself it was because she didn't want to attract undue attention—she'd gotten in trouble before when she tried to look under his clothes at the hospital, and she didn't want a repeat. Moving at a slower pace than she preferred was less ignoble than being run out of town by the Guard.

She shifted her wings unconsciously. This was actually a bit of an awkward situation for her. A proper zoologist observed from a distance, not letting the subjects know they were being watched. It was the only way to ensure that their behavior was natural.

On the other hoof, a biologist got close to her subject, so that she could understand what made it up.

Things got fuzzier with xenobiology, since it combined elements of both fields. While the slugs in Siput might not have known or cared that she was watching them, she couldn't enter a Diamond Dog burrow without being observed in fairly short order. In that case, it was better to introduce herself right away, rather than be viewed as an intruder.

“Can I talk to you?” she asked.

She had so many questions, it was hard to know where to begin. Lecol's access to the she-Dale had given her some tantalizing tidbits, but it was nothing compared to getting answers right from the horse's mouth. He might be able to validate some of her guesses, from the possibly patriarchal society Dale lived in, to the finer details like having impractically soft feet.

“Yes,” he said. She knew she was probably reading too much into his expression and intonation—he'd only been speaking for a few weeks, tops, so it wasn't reasonable to think he'd gotten the subtle inflections down yet—but her gut told her that he was eager to have something distract him from watching his friends bathe.

She had so many questions, and her mind was racing, trying to organize her jumbled thoughts into order. Her time with Dale would be limited, so she didn't want to waste any of it covering subjects she could learn easily enough from observation.

The tidbits of information she'd gathered since her arrival had painted a pretty good picture of him, and by extension the mare. She knew he was an opportunistic omnivore, she knew he tended to be solitary. She also knew from the quality of his clothing and the books he had brought that he—or his people—were expert craftsponies. It was to be expected with hands; many creatures with hands weren't able to properly access the magical fields, and crafted things to compensate for their lack of innate magic.

She flicked her ears in annoyance. This was getting her nowhere, and he was starting to get impatient. She could feel it.

Nothing about now, who cares about now? I can see now whenever I want to—I want to know about his home. I can't go there; I can't observe it.

“What's your home like?” she blurted.

“My home?”

Featherbrain nodded eagerly. “I heard you had a cloth domehouse and a cloth pavilion.”

“That was not my home.” Dale put his elbows on his knees and bent down closer to her. “I live far away from there. In . . . a place like this town, but much bigger. A hundred, um, ten hundred times bigger.”

“Like Manehattan?”

“I do not know Manehattan. I do not speak very well.”

Featherbrain considered her words carefully. A good zoologist worked through language difficulties. “It's a big city, with thousands of ponies. There are so many, the streets are paved, and there are buildings a dozen floors tall—some are even taller.”

“Yes, I live in a city like that.”

“What's it called?”

Now it was his turn to pause. Featherbrain understood—names of places had meaning, and were important. One of her students had done a study on the meanings of buffalo place names.

“Big, fast, rough water,” he finally said.

“Did you live in a house by yourself, or with others?”

“By myself.”

Solitary preference confirmed. Featherbrain glanced back at the tub, to make sure that nopony was paying her undue attention. She needn't have worried; Lyra was engrossed in a conversation with her friends. The guard was watching her closely, though. She gave him a smile—just a mare and a man having a friendly conversation, just like at the market. Nothing to concern yourself with.

“Do you hunt?”

“Hunt?” He held his hands palm-up. “I do not know the word.”

“For food—where do you get food?”

“Starlight cooks it.”

Featherbrain shook her head. “At home.”

“Oh.” He smiled at her, and she fluffed her wings excitedly. I'm really getting through to him. “I buy food at a place like your market.” He leaned back down, staring at her wings, and she shifted uncomfortably. “Can I ask you a question?”

It was only fair—and his question might provide another insight. She nodded.

He licked his lips and shifted on his seat. If she had to guess, he looked nervous. A silence stretched between them long enough for her ears to droop slightly.

“Did you always have wings?” he finally blurted out.

She almost laughed at the absurdity of the question, until she remembered that dragons didn't get theirs until an adolescent moult, and some species never did.

“Pegasi are born with them.”

“So.” He rubbed his chin and looked at her intently. He spoke clearly and carefully. “You pegasi—you are different from the unicorns? They are born with horns?”

She nodded.

“When you were small, you had wings.”

Featherbrain nodded again. “Do any, um, any of you have wings?”

“Humans?” Dale shook his head.

“Humans?” She sounded out the word carefully. “Is that what you call your kind?”

He nodded in confirmation.

I wish I’d brought my notebook.

Both Cheerilee and Bon Bon went their separate ways at the entrance of the spa. It was darker than he'd thought it would be—they'd spent more time inside the spa than he had imagined. Probably well over an hour. He'd had that vaguely disorienting experience at movie theatres before, of it being light when he went inside, and then dark when he got out.

And much like a movie, it hadn't felt that long while he was in there. Featherbrain had proved to be a good distraction. She was intensely curious about everything—like a child, almost—and had answered a few questions he’d been afraid to ask Lyra.

He noticed that while the streets weren't empty, they weren't exactly full, either. He wasn't surprised—most smaller towns shut down after dark.

He looked up as a shadow passed overhead, wondering if it was Featherbrain, taking a more direct route home. If she was, it was a shortcut unavailable to him or Lyra.

“I am sorry,” Lyra said in English when he looked back down at her.

“Huh? Sorry why?”

“I should have spoken more clear about the spa. I knew that you like to wash in secret. I thought. . . .” Her voice trailed off as she turned her head slightly away from him.

“I’m not mad.” Dale stopped walking and crouched down, to be more at her level. “I’m not mad at you—our customs are not the same.”

“I—“ She bent her head down and muttered something quickly in Equestrian. It sounded like a curse. “Are we friends?”

“Yes.” Dale reached over and touched her on the shoulder, just under the base of her mane. Her coat was still damp from the tub, and the pleasant smell of the bath salts lingered on her. “We’re friends.”

She turned back to look at him, and brushed her nose lightly against his knee before looking him in the eye. “It . . . sometimes it's hard to tell. I should know better.”

“I don’t know how you normally do things, but it’s not like we do on Earth. The—the customs are different. Between you and me. Between ponies and people.”

“Customs?” Lyra touched his thigh with her hoof. “What is customs?”

“Well, here it is a custom for you to bathe with your friends, but it is not a custom for me.”

“So how you wear clothes all the time? That is customs for you?”

Dale nodded. “And you don’t—you only wear them for formal occasions, right?”

Lyra nodded. “Do . . . what do humans do together?”

“We watch games. Go to buy food. Play games. Talk on the phone. Work all week, and go to church on Sunday.”

“Ah.” Lyra moved away and began heading back towards the embassy. “So some things are like ponies, but not other things.”

“Yes. Not all humans have the same customs.” Dale picked up his pace until he was right next to her. “There are different nations—countries. Do you have those?”

“Nations—countries?”

“The words both mean the same thing. A nation is a country. A country is a nation. It is a collection of cities and towns that are all ruled—that are all led by the same per—pony. Or not a pony, I guess.”

“Like pony nation and minotaur nation?”

“Not quite what I was thinking.” Dale scratched his chin. “Um, maybe Zecora—did she come from a different place? Yes.” He nodded in memory. “The book that was in all the languages. You showed me that on the beach, hoping I could speak one of them. There were different kinds of pony—not only the zebra. Several different pages, with ponies on each one, before the minotaur and griffon.”

“You are talk too fast,” Lyra complained. “I do not understand.”

Dale blinked at her. I’m going native. He’d gotten so used to switching back and forth with Lyra, he hadn’t realized they’d been speaking English. “The book with all the different writings you showed me on the beach. The beginning—Equestrian—what you and me are speaking. That was under a picture of a unicorn. But there were other ponies with different words. A narrow one, like the tall mare doctor that comes to the embassy.”

“Lecol,” Lyra said automatically. “Oh. Yes. Prench. Lecol is Prench. From Prance.”

“Prance. Is that a different nation?”

Lyra nodded, and pointed a hoof. “That way, Prance and other countries.” She swept her hoof in an arc to the north. “Up that way is the Crystal Empire. They speak our language, but are a different, um, type of pony. There are many nations, and they speak many different languages.”

“And they have different customs,” Dale said.

“Yes.” Lyra brightened. “In Neighpon, lots of ponies eat fish. Most ponies here don't.”

“Have you been there?”

She shook her head. “I’d like to visit one day, but it’s very far away. You also might like visiting there.”

“But—“ Dale stopped as he came around the corner. Stretched across the street between the embassy and its neighbor was a large banner with pink writing on it. He recognized the first two words—Welcome Princess—but the third gave him pause. It looked like Celestia, but it was cut off.

Maybe they abbreviate things. Canadian coins were common in Michigan, and most of them abbreviated the Latin phrase that went with Queen Elizabeth’s name.

Lyra had perked back up when she saw the sign, Dale noticed. She twitched an ear and then resumed the walk back to the embassy; Dale fell in step behind her. He heard a muffled snort from the guard who’d been trailing them back, but when he turned, the guard’s expression was as stoic as ever.

Dale automatically took a step forward to open the door, letting her go in first, then almost tripped over her as he followed her in. She'd stopped just past the threshold, and was looking around the room in surprise.

He couldn't blame her—while they'd been out, the place had been decorated. Practically every flat surface in the main room had been brightened up with a vase of fresh flowers. A garland had been wrapped around the bannister, and bows were tied to some of the balusters. Tables had been set up and draped with tablecloths; they, too, were covered with flowers.

The pièce de résistance was in the center of the room. Three columns supported a trio of busts. The one on the left was clearly a horse's head—it reminded Dale of a knight in chess—and the one in the center was clearly human. He was unsure of what the final one was supposed to be.

Dale looked down at Lyra. She gave a small shrug. “They decorated for Princess Celestia's visit.”

“That was nice of them,” Dale said absently. He glanced into his office, which looked mostly untouched, although the books were stacked more neatly on his desk, and the chalkboard had been stowed along a wall.

A quick look in the dining room revealed that it had also been spared some of the decoration, although there was a cloth on the table and two vases chock-full of flowers.

He moved over to the busts. The middle one was clearly supposed to be him, and by his best guess it was a pretty good likeness. It took a bit of mental work to decide what he'd look like if he were made out of wood, and of course he knew that his mental image of himself wasn't what other people saw . . . but he couldn't imagine that it was supposed to be anybody else. Certainly, it wasn't Kate.

He looked kind of like a Roman emperor, he finally decided. The folds under the neckline and the large golden button were probably inspired by the toga-thing Rarity had made for him—all it was missing was a crown of laurel leaves.

I wonder if Caesar had busts of himself around his palace? He probably did.

He moved on to the final bust. It took him a minute to place—he was sure it was in one of the books he'd seen. When it finally hit him, he stared at it dumbfounded, and then he couldn't unsee.

I knew I should have found a different counting book. Dale rested his hand gently on the wooden Elmo's carved head. Someone had spent a lot of time with it: the detail work in the fur was incredible.

Maybe I won't tell them just yet. “That's about all the excitement I can handle for one evening,” Dale muttered to himself. His eye went back to the Elmo bust again, and he chuckled. It was funny every time he saw it—it was so dignified, and yet it was a muppet. “I am going to bed.”

“Me, too,” Lyra said, covering a yawn. “I need to get up early so I can be dressed before Princess Celestia arrives.” She started making her way up the stairs. “Good night, Dale.”

“Good night, Lyra.” He went over to the Elmo bust and ran his hand over the wood. He wondered who had made it, and on whose orders. And he wondered how long it would take to get used to seeing it there.

There ought to be one of those in every US embassy. He started walking up the stairs, pausing long enough to take one last look at it. Keep them from taking themselves too seriously.

Dale woke earlier than usual. After the brief disorientation of his dream had passed, he felt confident and refreshed. He walked to the window and looked outside, seeing the distant moon hanging slightly above the treetops. It was a comfortable, familiar object in the strange world. True, the craters on it didn't match up with those on Earth's moon, but it did slowly wax and wane, giving him the assurance that as strange as this place was, the laws of the universe still applied.

He'd barely finished getting dressed when there was a quiet knock at his door. When he opened it, he was surprised to see a bleary-eyed Lyra standing there.

“You're up early,” he quipped, and then repeated himself in Equestrian for her benefit.

She nodded. “I need to go home and get dressed. Rarity is going to come by with some new clothes for you, and new clothes for Kate. Make sure you are ready before Princess Celestia gets here.”

“I will.”

“I will see you in a couple of hours.” Lyra backed out of the doorway and started down the hallway. She was halfway down when she paused and turned her head back. “Please pronounce her name correctly.”

In that moment, Dale knew two things. He knew that Princess Celestia wouldn't be upset if he bungled her name—she'd understand. He wasn't sure how he knew this, but it was absolutely certain in his mind.

He also knew that if he got it wrong, it would be a reflection on Lyra, not himself. Or at least, that's how Lyra would see it.

He hadn't realized that he'd followed her down the hall, but he was standing right next to her, and there was only one thing to do. He squatted down next to her and brushed his hand over her head, knocking down some of the bed-hair. “I won't get it wrong,” he assured her. “Princess Celestia will be pleased.”

Lyra didn't say anything, but she didn't have to. She wrapped her forelegs around his shoulders and nuzzled his cheek; a moment later he was hugging her back.

He led her down the stairs, and showed her out the front door. It was barely light out—he hadn’t seen Lyra up this early ever. Maybe her alarm woke me, he thought as he closed the door.

He could hear Starlight in the kitchen, so he walked in and said good morning and poured himself a cup of coffee from the percolator. He didn’t need her to tell him how busy she was getting ready, so he settled for just exchanging a few brief words, then he headed out of the kitchen, resolving to keep out of her way. He’d considered offering her a hand, but he knew that she'd do better without his amateurish assistance in the kitchen.

On his way out of the dining room, Dale spotted Diamond Mint on the far side of the main room, making sure that everything was neat and in its proper place. He knew better than to help her, too. He couldn’t work in his office, either: she’d have his head if he messed it up. At least I get a break from the language lessons today.

He took his morning coffee up to his room. If he had to, he'd hide the empty cup in his underwear drawer—he certainly wasn't going to put it back in the kitchen. The last thing Starlight would want to deal with was finding a dirty mug placed by the sink after she’d spent all morning ensuring everything was shipshape.

He stood by the window, looking down at the street and sipping his coffee as he waited for Rarity to arrive.

Dale was not disappointed in the spectacle. The blueish glow gave her away as she came around the corner—she was floating enough bags to outfit an expedition to the North Pole, and wearing a pair of positively stuffed saddlebags to boot.

For all of that, she had enough manners to knock at the front door. Dale finished his coffee and had hidden the empty mug in his dresser before she got up the stairs and followed her bags into his room.

“Good morning, Rarity,” he said cheerfully.

The bags faltered in her aura before she gave him a broad smile. “Somepony has been practicing the language, I see.”

“Lyra and Cheerilee have been teaching me.”.

“Your accent could use a bit of work, and your vowels aren't clear.” She reached into a bag and pulled his shoes out. “Nevertheless,” she continued as she set them on the floor, “you are understandable. Now, these are hardly formal wear, but I had to twist the cobbler's tail to get them done at all, and there was certainly no time to commission a second pair. He had great difficulty with the material.”

Dale nodded, even though a good third of her words were beyond his knowledge. He had shoes again!

“Knowing that,” she continued, “I made clothes which matched the style. Quite frankly, they are not what I would consider proper formal wear, but nopony has any point of comparison. I was lucky Twilight was able to assist me in choosing something appropriate for a gentlestallion, or I would have been hopelessly lost.” She levitated a pair of pants and a button-down shirt out of one of the bags and set them on the bed. At her nod, he picked them up.

He wasn't sure what kind of fabric they were made out of. The pants, especially, didn't have a feel he was used to—if anything, they felt like broken-in jeans, kind of a soft denim. The shirt was even lighter. It was almost certainly a natural fabric, or else they'd taken synthetics to a whole new level.

“Should I put them on?”

Rarity nodded.

Dale went down the hall and closed himself in the bathroom. The cut of the pants was a bit different than he was used to, but they fit well enough. The pleating on the front was sort of weird, although he imagined she'd had her reasons for it. They didn't bind anywhere, nor did they restrict his movement at all.

The shirt, too, fit perfectly. He noticed that she hadn't made a buttonhole for the top button—she'd observed that he never closed that one. It would have been nice if Earth shirt-makers had done that. Then he would have had an excuse.

Dale examined himself in the mirror critically. Aside from the stubble on his head, he looked pretty good. More importantly, the clothes fit properly—all the measurements she had taken the first time he met her had been put to good use. He had never owned a set of tailored clothing before, and he felt like he'd missed out.

Back in his bedroom, Rarity spent a few minutes fussing over his clothes with a measuring tape and a small piece of chalk before demanding that he take them off again. He wasn't sure what the big deal was, but she insisted.

When he returned from his second trip to the bathroom, his room had been rearranged into an impromptu sewing room. Dale stood back and gave her space to work. Watching a unicorn do precision work hadn't lost its charm, and he doubted it ever would. While the pants hovered in front of her, she attacked the legs with a needle and thread, re-hemming the cuffs.

Once she was satisfied with the pants, she went to work on the shirt. The time passed in a blur, but there was morning light outside the window when she finished and gave him back the clothes to try again.

After a second round of measuring and marking, and dressed back in his casual clothes, he watched as she attacked them with needle and thread. He hoped she knew he was on a timeline, although he figured she probably had a better idea of when Princess Celestia would arrive than he did. Since Lyra wasn't back yet, it was probably well before she was due to arrive.

Her work didn't take very long at all, and she put the clothes back on the bed for him. Once again, he returned dressed; once again, she examined him from every angle, made a few more marks on the clothing, and pointed back at the bed.

When she'd finished with her third set of alterations, he got dressed again, and posed again. She gave him a curt nod and wound up her measuring tape, and Dale breathed a sigh of relief.

She gathered up her bags and went into the hall. Dale glanced out the doorway just in time to see her barge into Kate's room. For a moment, he thought about helping her, but then he decided that since there was at least one nurse in the room she’d be fine. He opened the dresser drawer, grabbed his coffee mug, and headed downstairs for seconds. As he went downstairs, he kept repeating Princess Celestia’s name over and over again.

Author's Notes:

Click HERE for the always awesome behind-the-scene notes!

Chapter 25: A Royal Meeting, part I

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 25: A Royal Meeting, part I
Admiral Biscuit

“Art thou not hungry?”

Celestia set her spoon down and pushed her bowl of oatmeal away. “I . . . I find myself at a loss. You know that I am going to Ponyville today.”

“Yes.” Luna ate a bite of her own oatmeal, tasting it as if it were fine wine while she waited for Celestia to collect her thoughts. A second and third spoonful followed before Celestia spoke again.

“I confess, I don't know what to say to him.” She sighed. “Scholars at the university have made no progress on a teleportation spell which could safely return them home, nor has Twilight—unless she hasn't sent me a letter with her results yet.”

“Sister, hath thy faithful student ever failed to send thee a letter when she hast made a new discovery?”

Celestia's ears drooped. “No. I wish I hadn't done it.” Why do we goad each other on? Why do we rise to each other’s bait so often? “I can make him comfortable here, but that is small consolation. I have taken from him everything.”

“Not everything, sister. Despite thine efforts, he still has Lyra.”

“You know that the only way I could preserve their professional relationship was to hold a trial, as distasteful as it was.”

“We miss the days where we could simply strike fear into ponies' hearts.” Luna sighed. “'Twas a simpler time. Nevertheless, we did so enjoy Noble Voice's natural nightmares that we tarried on the edges overlong.” She brightened. “Thou wert correct—'tis more satisfying to make a stallion confront his fears rather than simply strike him down. Perhaps it is a lesson we should teach Prince Blueblood? We can think of many ways to improve his character.”

Celestia chuckled. “I have tried and failed. Tell me, how is Dale adjusting to his present situation? I know you've visited him.”

“He is strong—perhaps stronger than thou believ’st. We—“ Luna looked down and scraped her hoof on the tabletop.

“I know.” Celestia's eyes twinkled with amusement. “The Baltimare Sun published a rather scathing editorial. 'Colluding with the Enemy,' I believe it was called.”

“Consorting,” Luna muttered. “Thereby implying a lack of focus in our meeting. Were this the old days, we would give that mare screaming nightmares for a full week if she was lucky, and a cracked horn if we were feeling petulant.”

“Tell me what he’s like.”

Luna flicked her ears. Ignoring her bait proved how apprehensive her sister was. Luna bit down a snarky response and leaned forward. “He has—we are not as good at reading ponies as thou art, and his experiences are foreign to us. He—Dale—has known war and strife. He knows of machines which are unknown to us, giant rockets which carry his kin into the sky and wands which cast death-spells. Yet . . . he fears conflict. Nay.” She closed her eyes and thought back to his strange dream-memories. “He understands it in a way . . . in a way we cannot.” Luna dropped her head. “Perhaps we gave too much of ourself in the dream, but he provided comfort. We could not help but think of the price we paid for what we have.” She looked down at the table. “Despite thy council, we watched the Hearth's Warming Eve pageant . . . thou wert right to raze the unicorn stronghold to the ground. Better that there be no memory of it. We wanted to cry out that they had misunderstood what the conflict was about. That there is no such thing as a Windigo, except in the heart of a greedy pony. But we held our tongue, even as they lampooned Chancellor Puddinghead.”

Celestia’s eyes flashed. “Wouldst thou prefer ponies think of thee as the bringer of eternal darkness? Art thou the nightmare? Yea, thou art—yet thou art also the protector of dreams. One night a year, our citizens pay thee tribute; centuries ago, they burned thee in effigy. You are not your father, and his crimes are not yours. Even now . . . even now, ponies call to you in the night. You.”

“He . . . Dale will forgive you. We—I am certain of that. He may not show it in a way that you will understand, but he will forgive you.” Luna focused back on her sister. “We do not know what the mare Ka-th-rine thinks, for she is not of a sane mind.”

“Should I even attempt to reach out to her?”

“Yes.” Luna smiled. “We believe thou wilt find her most affectionate.”

“Thank you.” Celestia slid off the bench and got to her hooves. “I'll see you at dinner.”

Luna picked up her spoon and dipped it in her bowl, then looked over at her sister's unfinished breakfast. “We shall advise the kitchen staff to prepare thee a generous meal.”

Celestia didn't reply. Luna brought the spoon to her lips and chewed it absently, her eyes still looking across the room but not focused on anything in particular. She was picturing Celestia's reaction to oatmeal cookies for dessert.

Every morning when Kate woke, she looked around the room to see which nurse was with her. She thought that they sometimes switched in the night, but her sense of time was so confused, she couldn't be sure.

She had clear—if fragmented—memories of a time before the ponies, but after that everything was strange and blurred together, and there were times when she thought she must be dreaming it all, or at least some of it, but she couldn't tell.

She had a sense that they were drugging her.

The white nurse offered her a glass of bitter juice, and she accepted it gratefully. Before she'd even finished it, the pretty white unicorn came into the room. Kate finished her drink and lay back down in bed—this was routine. Every morning and every night, as long as she could remember, they did something to her hand.

This morning was no different. The white unicorn pulled a cart out from the wall and Kate set her arm on it. She felt the bed shift as the white nurse climbed up with her. Even if the nurses were sometimes kind of mean, they liked to lay their heads on her chest when the unicorns were looking at her hand, and she didn't mind. It was soothing to have them there.

Kate watched as the unicorn carefully stuck needles in her arm, then used floating tongs to twist some wire around them. After that, she looked away, because the glowing part that followed hurt her eyes. Concentrating on White kept her eyes occupied elsewhere, and kept her mind from thinking too much about the strange sensation in her hand.

She didn't know how long the procedure took, because there weren't any clocks in the room. At one point during the operation, she saw the bald man walk down the hall, wearing a suit. Normally, he just wore jeans and a khaki shirt, and she wondered why he was all dressed up today. She waved at him, but he didn't notice.

When the lightshow was finally completed, the unicorn packed all the equipment back up and pushed the cart back against the wall.

This time, their routine was different. While the leggy white unicorn packed up her equipment, White climbed off the bed. Instead of re-bandaging Kate's hand, she went out into the hallway. Kate listened attentively as her hoofsteps faded away, before turning her attention back to the white unicorn.

“Is good.”

Kate looked around the room, wondering who the doctor was talking to, before realizing that she was the one being addressed.

“Good?”

The unicorn nodded, and lifted Kate's arm with a hoof. “Try move.”

Kate raised her arm the rest of the way, bringing it in front of her face. She began by studying it intently. She hadn't seen it in what felt like forever, and couldn't quite remember what it was supposed to look like when it wasn't covered with gauze.

She was fairly certain that her two hands ought to match, and in that regard, her right hand failed inspection. The flesh on her left hand matched her arm; on her right, there was a reddish inflamed slightly-glossy area where the needles had been stuck, and below that, the skin was a pinker color. Kate wasn't sure why, but it reminded her of a newborn baby's hands.

She reached out and experimentally touched the back of her right hand. It felt strange and foreign—like it wasn't really a part of her. Still, even though her memories were clouded, she was sure that it was supposed to be there.

The doctor was watching her intently, so she laced her fingers together and did the first thing that came to mind. “This is the church,” she began.

One of the doctor's ears flicked.

“This is the steeple,” she said, raising her index fingers and touching them together. “Open the doors, see all the people.” Kate wiggled her fingers around. It felt weird, but it felt right. Like a part of her which had been missing was suddenly there again.

Kate pulled her hands apart and touched a finger to her right palm. It tickled. She experimentally clenched her fist, feeling an odd, creaking stretching in her hand, like she was wearing a glove that was too tight.

The doctor leaned close, presumably to get a better look, and Kate reached out with both hands, running them along the doctor's cheeks. She knew that she hadn't been able to do that before, but she'd already forgotten why. The nurse flicked an ear as Kate's right hand moved down and brushed against her muzzle. “I can do it,” she stated absently, giggling as the doctor exhaled against her palm.

A noise at the door drew her attention, and she watched with interest as White came into the room, a tray of food balanced on her back. Kate clapped her hands together—she liked getting breakfast in bed better than when she had to go downstairs and sit around the table with Rorschach. He was always asking her difficult questions and not letting her eat in peace.

After the doctor floated the plate to her bed and lifted the cover off, Kate frowned. It looked like it was dinner: a casserole with potatoes, mushrooms, and garlic sat on the center of the plate, framed with two thick pieces of bread. She'd thought it was breakfast time, but the meal told her she was wrong. She was fairly certain she'd had the same thing before she went to bed last night, but her memory was so fuzzy. . . .

Regardless, she was starving. What time it was was a puzzle for later; right now she wanted to eat.

Without consciously thinking about it, she picked up the fork with her right hand. She was vaguely aware that the two ponies in her room were watching her intently as she lifted her food to her mouth. Kate wasn't sure why they were so excited about watching her eat—they'd had lots of meals together with her.

After she'd polished off her food, the unicorn doctor set her plate aside and White tugged the covers back. Kate knew this routine too: it was time for a shower.

She climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom. It wasn't until she was inside she noticed that both ponies had followed her this time. That was new.

She turned on the water, then stripped out of her pajamas and set them on the sink. It was easier, now that she could use both hands. Disused motions were flooding back into her mind. She actually grabbed the shower curtain and pushed it back, then steadied herself on the bathtub with her right hand as she stepped over the rim.

Kate happily regarded her bandageless hand. I'll finally be able to take a shower without Pink or White helping keep my hand dry. It might have been a small victory, but it was a victory.

Her guards banked the sky chariot in a broad circle around Ponyville, instinctively checking for threats, although as always there were none. She'd debated yesterday whether to use it, or to fly herself, or to simply teleport to Ponyville, ultimately deciding that any other method of arrival might cause wild speculation. Even though, in her opinion, the visit wasn't formal, the news of it had certainly gotten out by now, and it might send the wrong signal if she were to travel on hoof or wing.

They glided in for a landing on the grassy meadow north of town. As she stepped off the chariot, she noticed a number of ponies around the perimeter, ostensibly working in the town's gardens, but doubtless actually waiting and hoping to get a look at her.

It was a welcome change from Canterlot. There, the self-important ponies came right up to her and demanded an audience as if nopony else had any right to interact with her at all. Not so here; the ponies often actively pretended she wasn't important. And yet—if she were to falter, they would rush to her aid without a second's hesitation. That was why she had sent Twilight here for her final lessons: the backbiting and politics of Canterlot would have sucked the life right out of her student.

She bowed her head slightly to acknowledge their presence, dismissed her charioteers, and walked to the library, letting the serenity of Ponyville clear her head, although her breakfast conversation with her sister remained fresh in her mind. There would have been some advantages to putting this meeting off for a few weeks: Dale would be more adept at the language, Kate would be fully healed and off the morphine, and Lyra's memories of the trial would have faded. If not for the pressing need of making the embassy officially official, she probably would have waited—but it was only a matter of time before someone managed to throw a wrench in the works. Right now, it was a toss-up between the griffons and the noble ponies, but one thing she'd learned over her centuries of leadership was that sometimes trouble came from the source you least expected.

Celestia knocked once at the library door, and it was pulled open before she could even set her hoof back on the ground. Spike bowed politely to her as he stepped back from the door to let her enter.

She always enjoyed visiting, even though she rarely had the opportunity. While Twilight’s room in Canterlot had been more of a classroom, almost, the Golden Oaks was much more of an appropriate home for the young unicorn. She’d seen too many promising students get so immersed in their studies that they spent all their time in libraries, losing their fillyhood friends one-by-one, until there was nothing left but dusty old books.

“Good morning, Princess. Would you like some tea?”

“If it isn’t any trouble.” Celestia leaned down and nuzzled Twilight, while Spike scurried off to get the tea.

“Has the University found any spells?”

Celestia shook her head. “Nothing which shows much hope, I'm afraid.”

Twilight nodded. It was a disappointing answer, but hardly unexpected. “The doctors used a sink on the mare—on Ka-th-rine. Or Kate: that's what Dale calls her.”

“There isn't much hope of that working. There has been little experimentation done in that field for centuries, but I do remember a time when spell disruptors wore woven copper chain.”

“Spell disruptors?”

“Yes.” Celestia paused to take a sip of her tea, and to gather her thoughts. “It was a herd of earth ponies, back in the pre-unification days. They were called that by the unicorns, because spells just slipped right off of them.” They had been a force to be reckoned with, winning several skirmishes with ease and taking the unicorn garrison at Longeing Cavesson without a single casualty. But then they'd gotten cocky and cruel, breaking the horns of every prisoner, then setting them free to seek salvation at the great fortress at the base of the unicorn mountains. “The concept was adapted into some of the modern guards' armor.”

“Why not cover them completely?”

The next attack had been their undoing. The unicorns routed their attack by turning the very earth against the spell disruptors, pulling jagged rocks out of the ground to trip and impale even as they flung boulders down on the stallions, and no flag of surrender would stop the slaughter. “Because it also blocks beneficial spells,” Celestia said simply. “We do still have some similar armor, but it's only used for special cases.

“Disrupting armor would not solve our problem anyway. The spell would simply miss Dale and Ka—Kate.”

Twilight frowned. “The doctor's sink was able to prevent the magic from moving beyond her hand. I've seen Dale pick up field-held objects before. And they must be familiar with leylines: Kate had a field-sensor, as well as her wand. That tells me that they have some way to work with magic—if we could figure out how, we could potentially add that to the spell, and solve the problem.”

“Perhaps.” Celestia closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. “I wish there were some quicker way to let the other humans know that Dale and Ka—Kate are alive and well. I had considered sending a senior unicorn guard, but he would be bound by the limitations of Starswirl’s spell, or trapped. No unicorn I know of—besides you—would be able to cast two separate spells of that magnitude.”

“You could boost his magic like you did with Lyra, couldn’t you?”

“It would only work for the first casting.”

“Hmm.” It only took a moment for Twilight to call up the spell in her mind; she’d been reading through it nearly every day, first to figure out what had gone wrong, and then to figure out how to change it. “There is a self-limiting power clause . . . Lyra told me that aside from Dale’s camp, the island appeared deserted, so even if somepony went, there would be no guarantee anypony would be there.”

Celestia nodded. “If it were a busy place, it would be a simple matter to have the guard speak to any passer-by.”

“Why not leave a message? You could have a photographer take some pictures of Dale and Kate, have them write letters, and put it all in the box. The guard wouldn’t need more than a few moments to push the box outside the bubble, and then he could return. When somepony came along, they’d find the box. . . .”

“There would be no guarantee that it would make its way into the right hooves,” Celestia said, “But there is no harm in trying. Do you know any photographers in Ponyville?” When Twilight nodded, Celestia changed subjects. “Tell me, how are things going at the embassy? What have you heard? Be honest.”

“It's going . . . quite well. I've talked to Diamond Mint some, and Starlight too. They both like him. Lecol says Kate's almost healed, but she still acts weird; they think it's because of the morphine. He seems friendly and helpful, but he's not very good at learning.” She sighed. “He's smart enough, but he's no linguist.”

“His language is quite complicated. The university has been having no end of troubles figuring it out. Have you ever studied Minos?”

Twilight shook her head.

“They have always been a nation of traders and drifters. Their language picked up all sorts of foreign words over the centuries, and they simply added them in. My scholars tell me that one third of their words are adapted from someone else . . . it makes it nearly impossible to learn, since they have no consistent rules for anything. Dale's language is much the same, I am afraid.

“Such a language is often passed along without a true understanding of the fundamentals . . . there is no purpose to learning them as we do, since there are so many exceptions. Verbs can be nouns, words can be spelled the same way but pronounced differently; even the order of consonants and vowels is not consistent.”

“How could such a system even function? No wonder they seem so . . . juvenile. A proper language is the foundation of everything.”

Celestia smiled. “I think they are quite contradictory creatures. If what my scholars report is true, while they may be foals when it comes to magic, their technical innovations are beyond the imaginings of anypony in Equestria. If you don't mind, I would like for Diamond Mint to take over your scribe duties, and for you to come back to Canterlot with me for a week. The scholars at my university have made some interesting discoveries, and perhaps you could help them put it all together. You have a unique way of looking at problems.”

“Really?”

Celestia nodded.

Rarity tapped her hoof lightly on the bathroom door, her bags of supplies set neatly around her. While it might not have been the plan to dress up Kate for the Princess' visit, she was not going to let the girl have such an important meeting in the tattered rags she owned. Furthermore, she was certain that a nice new dress might improve her mood.

Redheart cracked the door open and blinked in surprise at the sight. “Rarity! I didn't know you were still here.”

“I brought a dress,” Rarity said simply. “And makeup.”

“Makeup?” Redheart eyed her suspiciously.

“I heard about Diamond Mint going around town, buying up brushes and combs and files—don't think I don't know what they were for. Or should I say, who. Dale hasn't got a mane to brush.” She picked up her supplies and moved towards the door. “You can't let her meet Princess Celestia with the poor clothing she has now.”

“She . . . she might not even get to meet the Princess.” Redheart lowered her voice. “It would be easier if she did not.”

“And if the Princess asks to meet her?” Rarity nudged the bathroom door open with her field. “What then? Will she be sitting in her bed, dressed in one of your hospital johnnys, looking for all the world like she might expire at any moment? What message does that send?” She didn't add what would the princess think of you, but she didn't have to. The unspoken message got through loud and clear, and Rarity went into the bathroom without any further opposition.

Her eye immediately went to the hospital johnny draped over the edge of the sink, and she looked at Redheart accusingly.

“She wears that to bed.”

“Of course.” Rarity made a slight bow as Lecol stuck her head around the edge of the bathtub and waved. Then she began unpacking.

She hadn't even finished laying out her beauty supplies when the water cut off, and Lecol pulled the shower curtain back.

Rarity gave Kate a critical assessment, quickly formulating a strategy in her mind. The weeks of healing had benefitted her—she looked fitter than she had back in the hospital, and her hand was no longer bandaged. She still had a glassy-eyed look, and that was something that makeup couldn't fix, but it could draw attention away.

“She had her fore . . . claws painted,” Rarity said. “I brought some pink hoof paint. Brush out her mane, pull it back a little bit. Get some of the pallor out of her skin. Give her fancy new clothes.”

Rarity watched intently as Kate dried herself off. She was almost certain that her range of motions were the same as Dale's . . . but she hadn't been positive, and it had been nagging at her mind the whole time she was working on the outfit that she would fail—that the dress would fail, and humiliate both Kate and herself.

On top of that, she hadn't been sure of what to make. Dale's second outfit had come naturally—some of the drawings of stallion's clothes had been remarkably similar to what was in fashion. Lacking any evidence that Dale had worn his peplos a second time, she'd gone with a suit instead. It was not that different from the clothing he normally wore, so she assumed he'd be comfortable in it.

For mares, the rules were more complicated—and the book showed that their customs were no less complicated. Many pages of the book were devoted to different articles of clothing, from complicated lacy pieces which only covered the hips and teats, to long flowing dresses. It was fair to assume that the amount of body one covered, as well as the complexity of that article of clothing, played an important part of their society . . . and she simply didn't know their rules.

She'd almost torn up her sketches. It would be safer to wait. Do nothing, and risk nothing.

Instead, she'd gone over her notes again and again. Tried to wrap her head around their clothes, and the Equestrian equivalent. Determine what would make Kate happy and what would be socially acceptable. Figure out how much of her body to cover, and how much to hide, and figure out what colors and fabrics suited her the best.

She had done her best, and she hoped it was enough. She'd compromised on her design, making the outfit in as many separate parts as she could, to allow Kate to pick and choose. Coordinating it all had been a chore, but she'd been proud of the finished products. She only hoped that they'd look as good on Kate as they did in her sketchbook. Without appropriate dress forms, she'd been forced to fall back on her experience and a few best-guesses.

“How much can you tell her?”

“I'm sorry?” Redheart turned back to Rarity. “Tell her?”

“Her language—how much of it do you speak?”

Redheart frowned and held up a hoof, waffling it back and forth. “Some?” Her ears drooped. “She's on morphine, you know. Makes it hard to guess what she knows and what she doesn't. Dale does okay talking to her, but he won't want to help her dress. He doesn't like that.”

“Hmf. Stallions.” Rarity motioned over to her bags. “Well. I guess we'll just have to make do.”

Dale paced around the hallway like a caged animal. He could be patient when he was on his own timeline, but when he was on someone else's, it didn't take too long for the boredom to set in.

It wasn't that he couldn't go wherever he wanted—certainly, Diamond Mint and Starlight spoke enough pidgin that if they meant to ban him from a room, they could make their point abundantly clear. Even the nurses would have managed; what Redheart lacked in language skill, she got through by gestures and pure force of will.

It was simply the circumstances of the event. He was dressed in brand-new formal clothes, so he had to caution himself not to do anything which might cause them to become dirty. His office had been put in order, and he dared not mess it up.

On top of that, the whole place was buzzing with mares preparing for a guest, and he was wise enough to know that a man's place in such a situation is somewhere out of the way.

Had it only been Diamond Mint and Starlight downstairs, he might have suffered through it, but a handful of mares had come in with baskets full of flowers, and while they'd been interested in him yesterday at the market, today they only had eyes for their flower arrangements. Diamond Mint was getting increasingly frazzled watching them, and frequently issued short commands regarding the placement. Matters were not improved when the catering ponies he'd seen at the last embassy event dropped by with a cake and two baskets of cupcakes, which prompted another re-arranging of flowers to make room for it all.

Dale eyed the door leading to the guards’ barracks, considering the merits of hiding out in there. On the plus side, he was sure the off-duty stallions were as eager as he was to avoid all the womenfolk. The fact that they couldn't carry on a meaningful conversation was probably a wash—the guards hardly ever spoke anyway. But it was a fair bet that the nighttime guards were getting a brief nap in before Princess Celestia showed up—unless he missed his guess, her arrival was very much going to be an all-hands-on-deck moment.

Finally, his options entirely exhausted, he went back upstairs to his room, where he could brood undisturbed. He opened his window, sat on the edge of his bed, and let his mind wander.

Foremost in his thoughts was Princess Celestia. He dredged up his memories of meeting her on the beach, of how she'd looked when she was asleep on the sand, surrounded by her guards and by Lyra. How when she'd first awakened and seen him, she was initially aggressive, but almost instantly backed down—that was important, he was sure. It was his deepest insight into her character.

At the same time, he felt the need to be cautious. Just because she hadn't ordered her guards to run him through on the beach didn't assure him that her intentions were benevolent. She could have dismissed him as a threat—simple enough to do when he was alone, and outnumbered fourteen to one. Even if he had drawn his gun, he would have run out of ammunition before she ran out of soldiers, and that was assuming they were dumb enough to stand still while he emptied his magazine. He'd reflected on that, and had come to the conclusion that he probably would have gotten one, maybe two, before one of the unicorns flattened him with a spell, or a pegasus got him from behind. Although he wouldn't have been around to appreciate it, it wasn't hard to imagine that their secondary response would not be particularly beneficial to Earth.

The way things had turned out . . . it wasn't ideal, but there were hundreds of ways it could be worse.

Nagging at the back of his mind was the history of Western imperialism, and he couldn't help but wonder if the Native Americans had thought they were getting a good deal when the first group of explorers showed up. Thus far, the ponies’ behavior hadn’t led him to believe this was actually a possibility, but it was something to keep in mind—especially if it turned out they weren’t the top dogs.

He got up and went to the window, pushed it open, rested his palms on the wooden casing, and stuck his head out. The lack of window screens was a benefit when he wanted to check out the activity on the street below. Aside from yet another mare bringing a basketful of flowers, there was no interesting activity to be seen.

He ran his hands over the casing. He’d always imagined that an alien civilization would build their houses out of fancier materials . . . although, despite numerous innovations on Earth in home design, most people still settled with tried-and-true methods of home construction.

Of course, he’d also thought it unlikely that an alien civilization would find their way to Earth and begin by kidnapping humans for research. That was just the plot of bad novels and low-budget TV shows. Yet, here he was. . . .

There wasn't anything he could do about it now. Good deal or bad, his fate was out of his hands—out of humanity's hands, at the moment. Nobody could imagine where he and Kate had gone, much less follow.

He sighed and sat back on the bed. He hated waiting for things.

Dale blinked back to the present as he heard a gentle tapping at his door. He turned his head, and his face broke into a smile as he saw Lyra. She wore a dark blue dress with gold trim. Unlike the white dress she'd worn to the town meeting, this one left her belly and some of her side bare. Her hooves were covered with tall form-fitting woven shoes, which reminded him vaguely of Roman sandals. On her head was a simple silver circlet with a blue gem.

He looked down at his own fancy clothes and smiled. We look like we're about to go to prom. “Is Princess Celestia here?”

Lyra shook her head. “Soon. We should go out to meet her.”

“Out?”

“She—“ Lyra tapped a forehoof on the floor. “She thought it would be . . . proper.”

“Because we first met on a beach?”

Lyra nodded. “And, I think, because this is your house. It is not proper to enter somepony else's house without being invited.”

“What if I don't let her in?”

Lyra stepped back. “You have to. You are in her herd.”

“Herd?”

“Herd is complicated. Is like friends, but—” Her ears turned as the town clock began chiming. “Is too complicated to explain now. The Princess will be here very soon.” Lyra walked beside him and nudged him on the hip with her muzzle.

Dale shrugged and nodded. I'm not sure what I'm getting into, but do I have a choice? If I do wrong, and they kick me out, then what would I do?

Lyra led him down the stairs and through the house. As her aura twined around the handle for the door, the memory of his dream surfaced so strongly he expected to see a barbeque in full-swing, and he could almost smell the burgers on the grill.

Of course, when she opened the door, there was no barbeque.

The yard had been tidied up; until that moment, Dale hadn’t realized that a yard could be tidied. Mowed, yes. Landscaped, certainly. Bushes could be neatly trimmed, and of course flowerbeds and gardens could be properly weeded—but none of that really seemed to apply here. All those things had been done, but they'd somehow managed to add an extra bit of tidiness and perfection that was just beyond what nature could do on her own.

The only thing which offset the perfection was the outhouse. Admittedly, it too had been prettified, with hanging baskets of flowers along the eaves, but it hadn't been hidden. The days of outhouses in the U.S. were long gone, but as he looked at it, he wondered if the U.S. Capitol used to have one on its grounds. He couldn't recall ever having learned about that in any of his history classes.

He looked over at a bench, and thought about sitting there while he waited—maybe Lyra would want to get off her hooves—but it was a little low for him, and she probably wouldn't want to wrinkle her dress.

Still, he crouched down on his heels, putting his head level with hers. She didn't notice right away; her eyes were fixed on the sky, her ears locked forward. For a moment, Dale was confused, then he remembered that Princess Celestia had wings. If she behaved like all the other pegasi he'd seen, she'd probably fly in.

That must be an interesting factor in their social customs. Yesterday at the market, there were pegasi who flew down to the stands they wanted to visit, and then back up to their . . . cloud. I saw at the hospital that they could come in through windows, and I've seen them perching on houses. What incentive do the ground-bound ponies have to accommodate that? What could a plain pony do against a pegasus burglar? They must have separate police forces to handle the different types of pony.

He reached over and touched Lyra on the neck, being careful not to accidentally muss her mane. While it looked as windblown as ever to him, for all he knew it took her hours to get that look. He could feel the tenseness in her, and knew that whatever beneficial effects the spa might have had, they'd worn off by now.

Dale opened his hand and just let it rest on her neck, and he could have sworn he felt some of the stress leave her. She turned towards him and exhaled, blowing her warm breath across his face, then rested her chin against his shoulder.

They stayed like that for a minute, long enough for Dale's knees and calves to start to protest. He shifted slightly, giving an apologetic grin to Lyra. She nosed him lightly on the thigh as he stood up, and then he looked forward, and Princess Celestia was there.

She was standing just inside the archway to the backyard, a guard on either side of her, her mane drifting and shifting in the nonexistent wind. He could feel Lyra moving, but he paid her no attention—his focus was locked on Princess Celestia.

Without even stopping to think what he was doing, he knelt and bowed his head, for that was how one behaved in front of a queen—he'd seen enough movies to know. And she was a queen; that was certain.

How did I not see that on the beach? Her power radiated off of her, as real and tangible a thing as sunlight. Beside him, he could see Lyra prostrated on the lawn.

He did not move, even when her gold-covered forehooves moved into his view. He dared not. His clenched fist dug into the grass as he felt her breath on his head, and then she shifted, touching his shoulder lightly with her horn. He could feel heat radiating off of it. Her mane hung down in front of his face, and he watched it slowly shift colors. I wonder what happened to that hair I found on the beach?

She moved back, leaning down to touch Lyra in a similar manner. She spoke quietly to the unicorn, then brushed her muzzle against Lyra's cheek.

“Please rise,” she said softly. Dale waited until he saw Lyra getting up before he moved—he wasn't sure if there was some kind of important protocol in how long a bow should be. He couldn't help but wonder again if his lesson with Cheerilee yesterday was meant to be longer, and cover more than just how to pronounce her name.

She stood only a few feet from him. The backyard was otherwise deserted—the guards had not followed her in. They could have been behind him, ready to move if he did anything untoward, but one look in her eyes, and he rejected the idea. Here, she had no need of guards, for she had nothing to fear—and she knew it.

Strangely, Dale found that thought comforting.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I did not mean for this. I did not mean to hurt you.” She closed her eyes and bowed her head.

Dale only hesitated a moment before he went to her and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. It felt like the right thing to do.

His thoughts went back to the beach, and how he should have done things differently. He'd gotten cocky, and it had cost them—all of them. It didn't just end with him and Kate: her family would have no idea what had happened to her. But if he hadn't done what he did, then maybe here they would be wondering what had happened to Lyra.

He nodded to himself. If anybody deserved an apology, it was Kate. He didn't—the whole mess was as much his fault as anybody's. Still . . . aside from her being there the first time, there could be more going on than he knew about. She didn't know what had happened on the beach; he didn't know what had happened back here.

“I forgive you,” he said.

He took his hand off her shoulder and backed up as she lifted her head. I probably should have worn my wig. He fought back the urge to run his hand across his stubble, and instead kept his arms loosely by his side.

“Welcome to the Embassy,” Lyra began, tilting her head in his direction.

Dale stared at her dumbly for a moment longer, before he suddenly realized he was the one who was supposed to speak. It was his embassy, not hers. He was the host, and he had to make the decisions.

Dollars to donuts, everyone in the embassy has her muzzle up against the window, watching me screw up what may very well be humanity's most important first impression ever. “Welcome to the Human embassy, Princess Celestia. Would you like—” I actually got her name right!— “to come in?”

“Thank you.”

“Your English is quite good.” Dale wasn't sure whether he should lead her or let her go first. Lyra liked to lead him around, but of course he didn't know much of anything about the town.

“I have learning from Twilight Sparkle's notes.” Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “I do not know many words yet. The books are help, but there are many . . . things.” A slight frown crossed her face and she looked over in Lyra's direction.

A moment later, the two mares began speaking to each other in their own language. Dale recognized this process: he'd seen it numerous times before. Starlight was quicker with English than Diamond Mint, so Diamond would often ask her for help translating a concept. Likewise, the two construction ponies—Ambrosia and Silver Spanner—often debated terms.

It was actually a bit refreshing to see. She was obviously very important, moreso than Princess Luna, and yet she was speaking English for his behalf. No translator came with her—she was satisfied using Lyra's services.

That actually tied the scene at the beach together nicely. He'd been looking at it in the wrong light all this time. They'd been planning on meeting someone—maybe him, maybe somebody else. The guards—their function was obvious. Lyra was meant to be the translator. The brains of the operation.

They’d been cautious, too. They’d chosen a secluded location. They’d probably scouted out a bunch of different spots, and waited until the right moment to move in. The island had been perfect—no quick way of communicating with the mainland, not since they could block his marine radio, and they could see threats coming for miles. If only he hadn’t led Lyra away from the beach.

Clearly, Princess Celestia trusted her implicitly. Knowing that was actually a bit of a relief: while it didn't totally explain their hierarchy, it meant that Lyra wasn't just some mare off the street. She'd surely been trained to deal with people like him, and more importantly, people like Kate. It also meant that if things began to go off the rails, Lyra would be able to smooth things over.

Hopefully.

“Hard,” Lyra said, yanking Dale back to the present. “Books are hard. There is much we do not know. When language is better, we want you to help.”

“Okay.” If it's questions about technology, I'll do okay. If they're looking at the Stars and Planets book and are hoping I can provide galactic coordinates for some of the stars, they're out of luck. “I will try.” He dropped his voice and cupped his hand across his mouth, shielding it from Princess Celestia. “Am I supposed to lead her in?”

Lyra nodded slightly. It was almost unnoticeable—he was sure Princess Celestia hadn't seen it.

“Let's go inside.” Dale motioned towards the door. “Unless you'd prefer staying out here.”

“Whatever makes you most happy.”

He headed back for the house, but kept a deliberately slow pace, just in case Princess Celestia was supposed to go in before him.

He held open the door for the two mares, and after a moment of hesitation, Princess Celestia entered. Dale shrank back slightly as she passed him. By his guess, she was about the same size as an average riding horse, and he still had distant memories from his days as a Boy Scout of how much it hurt when he'd been pinned against a stable wall by a gelding.

Once they were inside, he was briefly at a loss. One of the things that hadn't been provided in the embassy yet was couches. There were chairs around the dining room table, and of course there were also the chairs in his office, but none of them seemed appropriately formal. Don't they usually have plush armchairs for important diplomatic meetings? That's what I've seen on TV, anyway. He glanced over at Princess Celestia, who had her nose stuck against a flower arrangement. Then again, Japan surrendered aboard a battleship. I guess whatever arrangement we can make work will do. Besides, they’re probably used to this kind of thing—makeshift arrangements wherever is most convenient for them.

Once again, the advantage goes to the ponies. Based on the number of intelligent species pictured in that book Lyra gave me on the beach—or even that child’s book with all the creatures—they’ve probably visited dozens of planets. Lyra probably told her what I’d be comfortable with, and then let me think it was her idea.

Since the two mares were occupied, Dale went into the dining room and slid a pair of chairs out from under the table. Just as he picked the first one up, Diamond Mint came out of the kitchen and looked at him, then at the chair in his hand.

Dale tilted his head towards the living room. Diamond Mint blinked, and then got it—she picked up a third and fourth chair with her horn, and followed him.

Dale set his two chairs facing each other, a few feet apart. Close enough to be friendly, without being intimate. Diamond gave his arrangement a quick appraisal, and scooched the chairs just a bit further apart, before adding her two chairs to the collection.

He’d expected them to be put in some kind of a square arrangement, as if the chairs were set around an invisible table, but she paired them instead, close enough that the seats were touching.

Before he could question the arrangement, she headed upstairs. A minute later, she returned, with two pillows on her back and two more floating beside her. One look at the trio of gems embroidered on the pillows in her aura, and it was obvious that they were her pillows—and probably Starlight’s, as well.

Dale shook his head. It wasn’t right for them to have to give up their pillows for his comfort—he’d be fine on the chair. When she ignored him and set them neatly on the chairs, he quickly capitulated—there was no need to cause a scene with his staff while the Princess was there. Even if he was puzzled at how she’d put one of each on each pair of chairs, rather than matching them in sets.

It wasn't the best arrangement, but he supposed it would be good enough. Still, next time he'd make sure that everything was ready before the guest arrived. Looking around the embassy, he could think of a few other things it needed to be proper, an American flag being chief among them. As soon as the meeting was over, he was going to have one made: it wasn't a proper embassy without it. There was a nice spot on the back wall where it would fit perfectly.

He felt Lyra bump her nose in his hip, and looked down. She had two plates of hors-d'ouvres floating beside her head. “Dale eat,” she said, sending one plate in his direction.

He picked the plate back up, noticing that Princess Celestia also had her own plate of food.

A quick glance at the plate revealed that Lyra had been selective at what she'd chosen—her plate included several flowers, while his did not. While it was vaguely insulting that she'd taken it upon herself to choose his food, it at least prevented the possibility of him making a faux-pas.

He waited until Princess Celestia was done picking her food, and then motioned for the chairs, remembering just a moment too late that there weren't any tables to set the plates on.

Princess Celestia didn't act affronted by the lack of end tables. She stretched out on one ersatz couch, letting her plate float in front of her.

Once she was settled, Dale sat on the other, making sure to leave plenty of room in case Lyra was also supposed to use it—he wasn’t entirely sure she ranked high enough to get a seat.

I could have taken the middle, he thought, as she turned her head towards the empty spot. Just in case it makes a difference if she sits on my right or left.

His position also put the busts directly in his line of sight. Well, at least I'm not the only one who isn't getting everything right.

Author's Notes:

Click HERE to be re-directed to the chapter notes!

Chapter 26: A Royal Meeting, part II

Onto the Pony Planet
Chapter 26: A Royal Meeting, part II
Admiral Biscuit

Lyra eyed the open half of the makeshift bench. We were supposed to only come inside for the food and tea, then take it back outside. That was the plan—I thought he understood. Her dress wasn't exactly made for sitting in, not without a whole bunch of awkward twisting around.

I can't stay standing, though—not with Princess Celestia already seated. She ran through a quick list of options in her head and rejected them all, before deciding simplicity was best. She stuck a hoof on the chair to hold it stationary, took a moment to compose herself, and pushed upward, while using a tiny bit of telekinesis to keep the hem of her dress out from underhoof. Her plate wavered briefly in her field, but she got her hind legs on the chair without slipping off or dropping anything.

She lifted her tail to push the dress as far back as she could, her face reddening slightly at the inappropriateness of the motion. Still, better that than using a noticeable amount of magic shifting the hem, which would be even less appropriate. Luckily, Celestia was focused on her plate, and Dale was focused on the princess.

She quickly dropped to her belly, letting her tail fall and her dress drape over the edge of the chair, before letting out a breath. I'm okay until I have to get back off this stupid chair.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Diamond Mint watching from the doorway to the dining room, a pot of tea and a tray of teacups floating beside her head.

Why did you let him bring out the chairs? Lyra mouthed at her.

She shrugged and tipped her ears back. It was his idea. What could I do?

Lyra rolled her eyes, then closed them. She took a deep breath and held it, picturing the placid rock garden in her mind. She couldn't change what had passed, but she'd have to make sure that Dale clearly understood what was supposed to happen next time.

She let out a long, slow exhale, and reached out her left forehoof just enough to lightly touch Dale's thigh, then she opened her eyes and pulled her plate closer.

Dale, she was happy to see, hadn't touched his food yet. Even if they hadn't had time to cover proper etiquette with Cheerilee, he'd been smart enough to bow without instructions, and had figured out he wasn't supposed to start eating until the tea was poured.

Right on cue, Diamond walked around them. She bowed slightly, making sure to let the serving tray also lower respectfully, then poured a cup for Princess Celestia.

After the princess had levitated it off the tray, Diamond turned and poured two more, offering one to Dale first. He glanced over at Celestia's cup and hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do. Take it, Lyra thought, giving him a gentle nudge with her hoof.

Dale jerked, and then picked the cup and saucer off the tray. As soon as his arm had completely cleared the tray, Lyra took hers, holding it in place beside her plate.

A moment later, she wanted to kick herself. She and the Princess would have no difficulty with their food, but Dale had a challenge—with both hands full, he couldn't eat anything unless he drank all his tea first, and the only way he could drink would be if he used two fingers to hold the cup, while supporting the saucer with the others. There was no place to set it except the floor, and to do that would be incredibly gauche in any company, never mind the Princess's.

I could hold onto his plates with my field. Hopefully, he doesn't jerk away. She watched as Celestia lifted her teacup and took a sip. Lyra was just about to reach out when Dale set his plate on his knee. His brow furrowed as he brought the cup close to his lips, but he took a sip and let the flavor coat his palate before swallowing.

She breathed a sigh of relief at his creative solution and sampled her licorice tea. His method might not be conventional, but it was probably socially acceptable. I bet Princess Celestia sees all kinds of different social customs—I wonder how she keeps track of them all? While the university had held a semi-formal dinner for the minotaurs, she hadn’t actually paid all that much attention to what they were doing with their hands. Now she wished she had.

That led to thoughts of what else might go wrong, and she quickly tried to shove them back. Intellectually, she knew that Princess Celestia wouldn't get upset if everything didn't go exactly according to plan, but it would be a reflection on her, and she didn't need that.

She eyed the staircase warily. Any moment now, she expected Kate to come down. She knew Lecol and Redheart were up there, and if Rarity hadn't left, she was upstairs, too. In the backyard, they'd have been fine: Kate hadn't shown much interest in exploring outside, undoubtedly due to her injuries.

They ate in silence. Normally it would have been polite to make small-talk, but Lyra imagined that Princess Celestia was avoiding it in order to not make Dale feel uncomfortable. She surely knew that he didn't know much of their language, and it was hard to believe that Princess Celestia knew much of his. With all of her other responsibilities, it was impressive that she had learned any of it.

That was going to make the upcoming conversation very difficult. Lyra hoped that the Princess had a plan, because she wasn't sure she was ready to translate anything really important.

You should have spent more time studying. You knew Princess Celestia would be coming, and you knew it was your duty to make sure all of her words are understood. Anything less would be a failure.

Moller was idly tapping his pen on his desk when Richter walked in. It was the first time he'd seen the federal agent since the incident with the hair, although they had spoken on the phone a few times. Richter had gone back to his field office for a couple of days. Probably wanted to go over everything one more time on his home turf before he came back to Crazyville.

But that was unfair. The agent had probably gotten a dressing-down for failure to produce any viable suspects yet. The only good news was that in the interim, the local media had found something else to focus on, and the case hadn’t yet made national news.

"So I found a guy," Moller announced. "A professor who’ll be able to tie this all together."

"Oh, really?" Richter didn't sound enthused. "Got the answer, does he?"

"No." Moller tapped his pen against the desk a few more times before sticking it in his pocket. "No, he hasn't got an answer. He hasn't even got a theory, yet. I e-mailed him copies of some of the reports we've received so far to see what he makes of them."

"Despite what I said earlier, I've got my doubts." Richter pulled a chair across the office and sat down. "I don't want to send evidence to some guy—professor or not—and have it come back and bite us in the trial."

"I'm not sending him evidence," Moller countered. "Not yet, anyway. Do you think I just got out of the academy? All that's still being handled the usual way. I've only given him reports so far."

"Even that's kind of iffy," Richter reminded him.

Moller shrugged. "I've got to pique his interest. Look, we might be overlooking something obvious here—you, me, the labs. Let's say we are. Just hypothetically. Maybe he gets the stuff I've sent him, and reads through it, and says that there's a perfectly mundane explanation for all the things Mr. Paard left behind. Weird, maybe, but mundane. Maybe he says he's not interested in going any further with this. Even at that, we might know more than we do now.

"Or maybe he finds some incongruities. Maybe even if it doesn't give us a location, it gives us a method—that's something, right? More than we've got now."

"That's an awful lot of 'maybes.'" Richter leaned forward. "I assume you've already gone over the analysis of the books?"

"Yeah. Didn't really mean much to me . . . see, this is what I'm talking about."

"What, that you aren't an expert in old books? Neither of us are. That's why we have the experts at the lab." He waved his hand at the stack of papers on Moller's desk. "That's why you have that. You're not Sherlock Holmes, and neither am I. The days of being an expert at everything are long gone."

"Yeah, the lab report. Don't you find it odd that nobody has the slightest clue what language the books are in? Because I do."

"Oh come on." Richter crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. "We've been over that. It's some kind of made-up language, or it's a weird code." He sighed. "They're probably a dead-end, although I suppose there's the possibility that they've got a route to his secret lair."

"I sent it to Professor Forsyth last night," Moller said. "This morning, I got a reply. It wasn't what I was expecting."

"Let me guess, he translated it."

"Not hardly."

"Already, I'm getting tired of playing this game. If he didn't translate it, what did he do?"

"He put the pieces together. Sort of." Moller frowned at Richter's raised eyebrow. "Sorry—I'm not trying to be mysterious. Look, it's the subtle details we've been missing, and they're the ones that are jumping out at him. For starters, he noticed that the report indicated that each book was printed on a different press."

"Well, we didn't think that Mr. Paard printed them out on his own computer."

"Then there's the interesting matter of there being no animal products used in the glue or in the cover. They're not synthetic, either, they're organic. Odd for books of this type—they're usually leather-bound. Even more interesting is that the folios are only twelve pages. Most commercial presses aren't set up that way."

"So? They could have been hand-done. That's a hobby, you know."

"I know. And you're right. They could have been, uh, sexturnion. Nothing to prevent that. It's just odd, that's all. Here's what else is odd—how closely did you look at that report? Because the grimoire was typeset."

"I thought you weren't an expert in old books."

"I'm not." Moller turned his monitor around. "It's all right here—here and in the report your lab ginned up."

"Okay, yeah. I do remember seeing that. That's how stuff used to be printed, though, right? I mean, everything, from the Gutenberg Bible to those pulp novels in the thirties."

"So imagine you wanted to reprint one of those novels in Chinese," Moller said. "You'd need a whole new set of letters. More than one of each, because the same letter might occur more than once on each set of pages. With these, you'd need to have enough letters to print six pages at a time. I'm sure that there's some kind of printer's formula that covers that, but the point is you'd need it all."

"Which means, somebody had to do all that just to print one book."

"And they had to do it more than once, since the characters are different. That's a lot of effort to put into a one-off hoax."

Richter rubbed his chin. "If you were planning on printing a bunch of these books, it might make sense, though."

"Yeah. That's the only way it makes sense." He spread his arms on the desk. "See, I told you it was worth getting another expert on board."

"Is it? Because that still doesn't answer the most obvious question."

"No. You're right, it doesn't. It just gives us another lead to pursue—somewhere, there are more of these books, and I'd bet that if we can find where they are, that'll give us a nice, solid lead on where Kate is."

Dale had felt Lyra getting increasingly tense throughout the refreshments, and he wished he could reach out to her. He already knew how much most of the ponies loved physical contact—something Kate was fully exploiting—but he wasn't exactly comfortable with it, especially in light of the important meeting they were having. Practically any motion could be misunderstood, and he'd been keeping his fidgeting to a minimum by virtue of his plate and teacup. Those had kept his hands occupied.

Once they’d finished their snacks and their tea, Diamond Mint had taken all the dishes away. Then she’d brought in a salver with a second tea service on it, which she’d set off to the side. Dale imagined that as a servant, she wasn’t supposed to be in the room when they were having an important discussion, and they would have to serve themselves whenever they got thirsty.

For a moment, the room was silent. Dale rested his hands on his thighs, resisting the urge to wipe them on his pants. Instead, he focused on Princess Celestia's mane. Just like the hair he'd found on the beach, it kept changing colors and slowly shifting around despite the lack of wind in the room.

He blinked as he felt a prod against his thigh, which reminded him that Lyra was still touching him with a hoof. That gave him an idea which he hoped wouldn't be misconstrued. He let his hands fall to the chair, his right against the cushion while his left touched her leg. It was a small thing, but it was reassuring: a reminder that they were both in this together until the end.

The wrap of her shoes felt odd under his hand—it was a sign of his acclimation to their culture that touching a mare through clothes felt weird. Wouldn’t it be something if I finally got so accustomed to it that I decided to start going around in my birthday suit? He wouldn’t, of course . . . but what if Kate decided to? Could he get used to that?

He clenched his hand as Princess Celestia's horn lit. During the refreshments the glow had been muted, to the point he'd hardly noticed. Now that there was no obvious focus, Dale was slightly apprehensive. Yet, he'd already made the visceral decision that he could trust her, even if he wasn't quite sure why. So he leaned forward in his chair, feeling Lyra doing the same.

She focused on a spot between them, and a moment later, a scene sprung to life. It was another sort-of hologram, something that George Lucas could have only wished was possible.

It was a little less impressive than it would have been otherwise, since he'd already seen Princess Luna do the same. These figures were slightly cruder, and there weren’t a lot of extraneous details, as if Princess Celestia had less practice making holograms—or maybe less talent.

The little figures were just standing around, awaiting their orders, when Celestia spoke. "My language is not good yet. Does this make you upset?"

"No?" Upset? About what? That she can't speak much English? That there's a little me she's guiding with her horn? Does she not know that the other Princess has already done the same thing? "It is okay."

"Earlier, Twilight ask you if you will be ambassador." Her speech was smooth and melodious, almost musical. He wondered if that was her normal way of speaking, or if it was a result of translating her language into English. Lyra, he'd noticed, had a similar habit, while the rest of the ponies spoke more normally. Zecora was the only other exception—while she hadn't ever said a word in English, there was a rhythmic cadence to her speech that was lacking in all the other ponies.

While he watched, a small purple unicorn moved to him, a rolled-up paper in her mouth. Mini-Dale held the scroll and looked at it.

The scene changed slightly; now he and Lyra were before Princess Celestia, complete with small speech-bubbles above them. As before, there were simple geometric patterns in their speech. It was basically an animated version of the cartoon which he had been shown at the hospital.

"Yes," he said cautiously. "I signed that."

"Then, you maybe did not understand," Celestia said. Mini-Dale's eyes swirled around in his head. "Did not know much language. Lyra did choose with knowing, but you did not have knowing. I would like to have her explain however she must before I hear your choice."

She bowed her head slightly and the figures winked out. "Before she does, I must tell you that we cannot send you back." Two figures re-appeared—himself and Celestia. A beam of light shot from Celestia's horn, and his figure flashed brightly, then a wisp of smoke came out of mini-Dale's head and it fell on its face. "We are trying to fix this."

He only noticed the ranks of unicorns bent over their scrolls for an instant, because his mind had locked on mini-Dale being zapped. Without even thinking, he turned to Lyra. "What did that mean?"

Her ears drooped, and Dale clenched his hand around her leg.

"Is not . . . that." Her ears flicked back, then forward again. "Not." She licked her lips. "When Lyra and Princess Celestia went to Dale home, we did not expect you, but we were not . . . against you. We could have. . . ." Her ears went down again, and Dale turned fully towards her. For just a moment, Lyra's eyes went distant, and when she spoke again, her voice was husky. "We . . . I wanted to go back, to learn more. Even if . . . if it not go right." She muttered something else under her breath, something which sounded suspiciously like a swear. "You do not use magic like we, and all magic can hurt you. Is like crystal in lamp, yes?"

Dale looked at her in confusion, trying to process what she was saying, then he remembered when she had taken the gemstone and exploded it in the lamp.

That was the whole crux of the matter: whatever it was they did with their horns could hurt him quite badly. He'd already grasped that concept, but he hadn't really internalized it. Celestia's cartoon hologram was illustrating that if they did whatever they'd done to get them here, it might injure them. Electricity was useful, but sticking a fork in the wall socket could kill you.

He rubbed his free hand across the stubble on his head. If flashburns and hair loss were all that happened . . . well, that was unpleasant, but something that could be survived. The rest of his injuries could be attributed to the fight on the beach. Still, that left Kate's hand unexplained—it hadn't just been flashburned, it had been cooked off.

Dale held his hand over his mouth as he swallowed down bile. Now that he was thinking about it, he couldn't think of anything else. Suddenly, Princess Celestia's caution was crystal clear. He could wind up back on Earth as a charred husk if something went wrong, and they were being rightly cautious.

It’s like the lamp—it’s the ponies’ lamp and crystal conundrum. They don’t know why their teleporter malfunctioned, and they can’t be sure it won’t happen again. “You don't know what happened, do you?"

Lyra shook her head.

"So you don't want to risk it." He thought back to the beach—there had been others there. The two Coast Guard men he'd knocked down—were they here? When Lyra beamed back to her home—however she'd done it—had they come with them? And if they had . . . did they live? Were they in a hospital room? An isolation ward? Were they charred husks? Would it be better if they'd arrived dead? Or had they been far enough back to avoid being taken? He had to know. "What about the others?"

"Others?"

"On the beach. Before the beach. We came out of woods, and there were two . . . guards. Dressed like Kate. I knocked them down."

She nodded. "Yes, I remember. Dale say, 'Run.'"

"Are they here?"

Lyra shook her head. "Only Dale and Kate."

So they survived, or else whatever they did to get me here doesn't take dead bodies with it. He tried to reconstruct the scene . . . maybe the further you were from the central effect, the more damage you took. Maybe that was why Lyra had gotten off scot-free, he'd gotten flashburns, and Kate had nearly lost a hand. Maybe they had somehow been out of the primary range.

That didn't quite make sense, since she still had her hair, and since he couldn’t think of any effect that caused greater damage the farther you were from it.

"So." He suddenly remembered Princess Celestia, and turned back to face her. "You're asking if I am still willing to be bound by this agreement, knowing that I may not actually be able to ever go back to Earth."

"Lyra, please translate—I do not want to misunderstand."

Lyra nodded, and spoke directly to the princess. Dale marvelled that he could catch any words at all—despite his slacking, he really was picking up their language.

"Yes." Princess Celestia said once Lyra was done speaking.

What would the point be? he wanted to ask. If there's no way for safe back-and-forth travel, what's my purpose?

"Even if we cannot send you back, it is only a matter of time before your kin find us."

Longer than you think. Or was it? How many inventions had gone from nonexistent to everyday in his lifetime . . . and what about his grandfather's? Perhaps once mankind figured out it was possible, it wouldn't take that long to figure out how to do it.

Even if it did take a while—even if he was in the ground long before the next human arrived—the ponies would benefit from everything they could learn from him. He would have no way of knowing if that knowledge might translate into a military advantage; in that light, was talking to them selling out? Was he a traitor if he accepted? Or was it already too late? Had he already given them too much with the books? And did it really matter?

"Does what I decide affect Kate? Will I choose for her?" He had never sworn duty to his country, but she had. He could not, in good conscience, speak for her about this.

Celestia thought about this for a moment. "No. She must decide when she is able."

"Will you give Kate the same offer?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation in her answer.

He narrowed his eyes. "What if she doesn't accept? What then?"

"I will not force you or her to act against your will, and I will not punish you or her if you do not accept."

He hesitated for a moment, worried about overstepping his bounds, but he had to know, so he spoke slowly and clearly. “She did not choose any of this. If she does not accept your terms, will you ensure that she is kept in comfort until you can send her back?”

“Yes. I accept full responsibility for her care until Kate is safely returned to her home.”

Dale nodded: he had nothing to lose by taking her offer. Not in the near future, anyway. Maybe he'd regret it once regular travel was established between the worlds; until then, he could do his best to learn about their culture and teach them about Earth. That was what he'd had a mind to do after he agreed to the first meeting on North Fox, and there was no reason to change now.

Still, he was going to have to have a good heart-to-heart conversation with Kate before Princess Celestia presented the question. Make sure she had plenty of time to weigh the options in her mind, since she hadn't asked for any of this.

"I agree to your terms."

"Very well." Celestia beamed at him, then turned to Lyra, and the two of them carried on a short discussion in their language.

"We do not know how long your ambassadors serve for," Lyra told him.

"Neither do I." He was pretty sure it wasn't a lifetime thing. It probably had to do with the whims of the sitting President. That was another thing to consider—one he couldn’t predict. Going forward, he was going to have to explain that to Lyra. He wasn’t sure what kind of timeline the ponies were on, but if it took them more than a few months to figure this out, they might be negotiating with Romney instead of Obama. “Until they’re replaced, I guess.”

Lyra frowned, and spoke briefly with the princess. “She will have an official paper brought to you, once you have made your choice."

"A contract?"

"I do not know contract."

"A plan? It says what I'm supposed to do, and how long I'm supposed to do it for."

Lyra brightened. "Yes. It does not have a stop day, because you do not know enough of our language to understand at the beginning." Her ears fell. "So you can stop whenever you want."

That was something no contract lawyer on Earth would come up with—usually, they hoped people would get bogged down in the legalese and sign themselves up for something they ought not to have. If it wasn't a lie—if he was understanding Lyra correctly—they were making an effort to be certain that wouldn't happen here. Either they were that certain he'd take the offer and stick with it, or there was a nasty penalty clause somewhere.

Well, until he signed the actual contract, it wasn't a done deal, and he had every intention of going through it line-by-line with Lyra before he signed.

"There is one more important matter." Celestia lit her horn again, and two figures reappeared—Lyra and himself. "We have chosen Lyra as our ambassador, but you do not have to accept her." Mini-Dale snubbed Lyra and walked away. "We can choose another." A white unicorn stallion with a blonde mane appeared in place of Lyra.

"No." Dale shook his head to emphasize his point. "I will not have anyone else. It is her or nothing."

Kate twirled around in her room, letting her new dress fan out around her. She'd tried on everything the alabaster unicorn had brought her before finally deciding on her ensemble.

The three ponies in her room had chattered amongst themselves while she was getting dressed, and once she'd finished, the white one had brought out a small bottle of pink nail polish.

The slender white unicorn began painting her fingernails, while the shorter one who'd brought her clothes attacked her hair with a brush. Kate wasn't sure why she suddenly rated the full beauty treatment, and the old man wasn't around to explain it to her. She'd spotted him crouching in the backyard earlier, accompanied by the mint unicorn he hung out with.

He'd named a few of them when they sat around the table downstairs, but all their names were dumb and unpronounceable. He should have given them normal names—she resented that he hadn't.

After finishing her fingernails, the slender unicorn moved on to her feet. Kate watched her for a minute, then reached across the bed for the lacy chemise she'd tried on earlier. It would be the perfect thing to wear to bed tonight, a real improvement over the open-backed hospital shirts she'd been wearing.

A blue glow in front of her face caused her to focus back in front of her. The unicorn had finished styling her hair, piling it on top of her head in a loose bun held in place with a pair of chopsticks.

Both unicorns gave her a once-over, and the nurse flashed an encouraging smile. Kate grinned back—it had been a long time since she’d gotten all prettied up for anything. The last time she’d worn a formal dress was Senior Prom; now she was wondering why she’d ever stopped. The silky fabric made her feel like some kind of fashion model.

She only lacked shoes. Somehow, with all the other clothes she’d been given, there hadn’t been any shoes.

Kate walked into the hallway, then went to the bathroom. There was a bigger mirror over the sink, where she could get a better look at herself.

“I want to be certain that he understands these documents,” Princess Celestia said. “After I leave, I want you to go over them with him until you are positive he understands completely. If there are parts you do not understand, perhaps Twilight could help you, or you could go to the town hall and ask one of the ponies there. Please tell him that.”

Lyra nodded. “Princess Celestia says . . . this is very important, and Dale should take time to understand all first. Not write mark before.”

“Write mark?”

Lyra pointed to her hip, sketching out the outline of her cutie mark with her hoof. Dale looked at her blankly for a moment.

“You write mark before, at hospital.”

“Oh.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together and imitated signing his name. “Write mark?”

“Yes.”

He furrowed his brow and looked at Lyra curiously, and then back at Princess Celestia. She could tell that he was slightly confused, although she wasn't certain why. It was almost as if he didn't understand the concept of a civil bond, although it was hard to conceive how that was possible—his definition had been roughly accurate. Even if some ponies thought that his world was backwards and barbaric, she was certain from what she'd seen in his camp that that wasn't the case.

But the memory of his reaction to the blue-suited tribe nagged at her. The way he had reacted to them. Back then, she hadn’t known enough of his language to tease the intent out of the tone, but now she could, and to her memory, the dark-skinned man who had first addressed Dale hadn’t been combative, but simply curious. So why had Dale attacked him? The recent trial had brought that question back to the fore of her mind, and she heard Noble Voice’s incessant questioning echoing through her head:

How well did she really know him?

It was a dangerous line of thinking. Aside from that incident, he had been curious and patient. Cautious. Deliberate. So why had he so violently reacted to what sounded to her like an innocent statement?

Could it be that Dale's tribe was at war with Kate's tribe? After the scuffle in the hospital, he had shown no signs of aggression towards Kate, and had taken an interest in making sure that her treatment was effective. That wasn't how enemies behaved: she knew from the Hearth's Warming pageant that the earth ponies of old would have happily stood by while the unicorns starved to death, even if in so doing they doomed themselves. The schism was too deeply seated for it to have been any other way, and if it hadn't been for the stroke of luck that brought the three tribes together, there might not have been a modern Equestria.

She blew out her nostrils, remembering too late that she was in the presence of the Princess. “Sorry. Um, it may take him a while to understand the contract. I . . . there may be some difficult concepts to translate. That won't be a problem, will it?”

“No. The original contract is provisional, and while it does not have an ending date, it is not as encompassing as the one you have in front of you now. However, it is not as durable a contract, and as such could be challenged by other interested parties. In the short term, you should not worry, but in the long term, if he does not sign the new contract, things might become . . . interesting in Canterlot.”

“I understand.” It wasn't entirely true, but she knew it was what she was supposed to say. National politics were something most mares tried not to think about too much: while a civics class in primary school had laid out the framework of how the system was supposed to work, according to every newspaper she’d ever read, the Nobles’ Council was mostly filled with empty-headed stallions who spent all their time shirking their own responsibilities, while explaining how nopony else was doing their job. It was a wonder anything got accomplished.

Lyra had noticed that Dale also kept glancing up the stairs. She knew what he was worried about—it was constantly on her mind as well. It was one thing when Kate decided to get friendly with a guard; everypony had a good chuckle afterward, and no harm was done. The Princess was another matter entirely. It would reflect badly on all of them if Kate staggered down the stairs and glomped the Princess.

She hoped that the nurses were doing their best to keep Kate upstairs, and she hoped that the Princess wouldn't ask to see Kate. Deep down, though, she knew that was a forlorn hope. The two coming in contact was inevitable, and all she could pray was that things wouldn't go too horribly wrong when it happened.

Lyra emptied her teacup and gently floated it over to the serving tray Diamond Mint had left for them. Dale hadn't quite finished his, but it would be all right to continue the conversation before he did.

“I would like to keep his actual duties vague for the time being,” Celestia explained. “I believe that we will learn more from a casual relationship than a formal one. You should continue to work on language as much as possible, but do not cloister yourself in the embassy unless he wishes to do so.”

“Do I have to stay here?” Lyra's pupils shrank as she realized what she'd just said. “I mean, um, at night.”

Celestia's eyes sparkled with amusement. “Far be it for me to forbid you from contact with your friends. I would not want you to have to resort to foalish games in an attempt to circumvent such a prohibition. This is not a jail sentence, Lyra Heartstrings; you should take some time for yourself. I cannot ask you to stop being yourself in light of your new duties.

“I do ask that whenever it is reasonable, you make an attempt to include Dale in your activities. I understand that there will be occasions when you wish to have some free time, and you should take it. I do not want either of you to become overstressed by your duties. You should continue to live your own lives whenever possible.”

“We went to the market yesterday,” she said. “And then to the spa.” She looked over at Dale. It was awkward carrying on a discussion with the Princess while he just sat there. She could never tell how much he understood in normal conversation; it felt like they were making significant progress, even if they both spoke slower than they normally would, but when Dale spoke to Kate, Lyra usually missed most of the words. “Did you enjoy visiting the market yesterday?”

It took a moment before he answered—she guessed that during the long conversation he hadn't been a part of, he'd zoned out. “Um, yes.” Dale looked at Princess Celestia. “I had a nice time at market. I met very many ponies and they were nice. One of them gave me candy.”

Celestia smiled at him. “Lyra tells me you visited the spa, as well. Did you enjoy that?”

“Um . . . it was nice.”

Lyra winced at the insincerity in his voice. “He doesn't like social bathing. I’m not sure about the mare—about Kate. It’s been a necessity, because of her injury.” And because she's doped to the gills on morphine. “Doctor Lecol says that she’s nearly cured.”

“I would like to see her.”

“That isn't—“

“She's loopy in the morning.”

Celestia frowned. “What is loopy?”

“The drugs,” Dale explained. “They make her not normal.”

“What he means to say,” Lyra said, “is that Kate is not . . . behaving.”

“I’ve read the reports.” Celestia frowned at the pair. “From the hospital, and from the trial. I understand that her behavior is not normal due to the drugs the doctors have been administering, and I do not consider that a reflection on anypony in Ponyville. It is regrettable that she has had such a reaction to her medication, but I am fully aware that such side effects happen. I will not judge either of you by her behavior, nor will I consider her behavior to be representative. Unless the nurses have a compelling reason why I shouldn’t speak with her, I must insist on it.”

“May I talk to Dale?”

Celestia nodded.

She could have whispered in his ear, in the hopes that he might come up with some excuse why Kate had to remain cloistered in her room, and if it had been anypony besides Princess Celestia, she probably would have. “Princess Celestia wants to see Kate,” she said simply. “If Redheart says it is okay.”

“She—“ Dale studied her for a moment, then looked back at Lyra. “She does not wish to punish Kate, does she? It is not her fault that she is acting like she is. It is the drugs the doctors are giving her.”

“She knows,” Lyra said. “I think—“ Her mind flashed back to the hospital room. “I think that if the Princess wanted to punish Kate for her behavior, she already would have.”

“Good point. Well, if she wants to.” He squeezed her pastern lightly. “I hope she likes being petted.”

Lyra winced at his words. Of course she knew what Kate's first reaction to everypony she met was, but to have said it in front of the Princess!

“Should I go upstairs and fetch her?”

“Not now,” Lyra whispered, then turned to face the Princess. “When would you like to see her? She usually has a treatment in the morning, and then eats breakfast and takes a shower. It, um, takes her a while to get ready. Because of her injury.”

“There’s no rush. We still have some things we should talk about,” Princess Celestia said. “Although you have not brought the subject up, there is the question of a budget for the embassy. You need not concern yourself with the day-to-day operations, of course. Now, your salary is determined by Equestrian law. Has Twilight shown you the paperwork?”

Lyra nodded. It was more than she'd ever earned in her life.

“I wish it were more, but the Nobles' Council was unwilling to budge on the issue. At least Raven was able to raise the amount somewhat, since ambassadors don't normally have to learn a language from scratch.

“As for Dale and Kate . . . typically, their home nation would pay their salary. In this case, of course, it is impossible. I am sure that both of them will wish to buy things.”

“Dale asked when we were at the market,” Lyra confirmed. “I didn’t know what to tell him.”

“Besides yourself, who do you think Dale trusts the most?”

It didn't take Lyra very long to come up with an answer. She'd noticed that Dale seemed the most comfortable around earth ponies. “Starlight.”

“Very well. I shall have her handle the embassy's accounts, if she’s willing to do so.” Celestia sighed. “It has been quite some time since we’ve had to set up an embassy from scratch. I think that next week, I’ll send Raven out to help with all the minutiae, unless you would prefer that I handle it myself.”

Lyra shook her head. It wouldn’t be right to monopolize the Princess’s time with minor contractual details. Surely Dale would understand that, too.

“When she is here, I would like you to schedule a time when you and Dale could come to Canterlot. There are a lot of people who would like to meet him, and the castle has more space for such a gathering. If you think she is able to travel, I would like for Kate to attend as well.”

He had only begun to scratch the surface, of that he was certain. Dr. Forsyth had been up far later than he should have the night before, reading through the materials the cop had sent him. He'd hammered out a quick e-mail back, covering the oddities he'd found in the lab report about the books . . . it wasn't much, but he’d been sure the cop would be impressed enough to send more.

And send more he had. This time it was a police report. Some of it had been censored with a Sharpie—witness names, mostly, but a few locations had been blacked out as well. That probably wasn't necessary; the mention of North Fox Island had been enough for some elementary Googling to let him figure out that it was about the missing Coast Guard woman. He'd seen posts on Facebook, and he'd overheard a fellow professor who had a friend that lived in Kewadin theorizing about the case, but he hadn't thought much else about it.

That had changed the moment he'd read through the—as he jokingly called it—Book Report. While an evening's work hadn't provided any answers, it had raised an awful lot of questions. The latest report only raised more questions. He couldn't blame the police for being stumped; he was stumped. While he might have been the last person in the world who could successfully identify a suspect, he was no slouch at figuring things out, and the evidence should have been more than enough. Their suspect had left behind a literal campsite full of potential clues.

Admittedly, he didn't know all that much more about police work than what he saw on TV, but it struck him as perfectly logical that the police would focus on what they believed were likely clues, and ignore the rest. He also knew that most scientists would take the opposite tack, documenting everything and figuring out later what was useless. On top of that, he was sure that to them, a success was when somebody went to jail. For a scientist, even an experiment which failed was useful, because it made the next experiment better.

If the books were an example, most of the evidence which the police had collected—and which Moller was willing to share with him—would come pre-analyzed. He had no illusions that he was ever going to get an actual piece of evidence to hold in his hands; cops just didn't work that way. Frankly, it was surprising that Moller had been willing to go as far off the reservation as he had. It was possible that could change—if he could come up with something absolutely brilliant, he might shake something loose—but it was best not to count on that.

He could probably anticipate a slow trickle of reports to cross his desk, and he'd shuttle them on to the most appropriate person. He'd already sent a copy of the Book Report on to Doctor Seymour in the Medieval History department for a more detailed examination, and even if that was his only role in the investigation, he could be happy with it. The pursuit of knowledge was its own reward, after all, and it would be a nice break from teaching apathetic glassy-eyed students fresh from summer vacation.

But he still had some time left before the fall semester started, and he could use that time productively by going beyond. He knew, deep down, that sooner or later he'd reach a point in the data where he wanted to go to North Fox—where he needed to go to North Fox—and it would be his luck that when that point was reached, it was mid-terms, or the lake was partially iced-over. But if he went now. . . .

Getting funded was out of the question, of course. While he could probably come up with a grant proposal, it would take months for it to be approved, if it ever was. He'd need something more solid than a few weird books, anyway. A hunch wasn't going to fly, even if it was a really good hunch. Luckily, although his pay was hardly princely, his frugal lifestyle and general disdain for vacations and the like left him with a decent amount of disposable income, and this was as good a way to spend it as any. If he picked the right friends, he could get a reasonably well-equipped expedition out to the island for a few grand, and if they found anything substantial, other professors would be falling all over themselves to join his little expedition.

He'd been at the university long enough that he had a fair number of friends scattered throughout nearly every department, so the real challenge was deciding on who would make up his primary task force—who'd give him the most bang for the buck, so to speak. He guessed that he probably wouldn't be able to take more than a dozen on a charter boat, once all the equipment was factored in, although he'd have to talk to his colleague who had the relative in Kewadin. Since it was the tail end of the tourist season, a boat might be hard to come by on short notice, but he was sure that he could find one somewhere.

He printed out a new copy of the latest e-mail and started to pore over it again, this time reading it to decide who might be the most helpful on the island, and what parts of the report he could show them to pique their interest.

Kate made her way cautiously down the hallway. It had been too long since she'd last worn a dress, and even without high heels it was difficult to manage. She kept worrying that she'd step on the hem and trip herself. The tall unicorn was in front of her, while nurse White was just behind, and trailing at the very end of their little procession was the alabaster unicorn.

When she reached the top of the stairs and saw the new pegacorn in the room, she didn't rush right down the stairs to greet it. She'd already realized that the stairs could be problematic with the dress, even if she did have both hands to help her.

If she'd been wearing her pajamas or her uniform, she would have run, because the new pegacorn was tall enough to ride. All of the ones she'd encountered so far had been too short and stumpy, except for the midnight-blue one with the biting mane.

It only took her a second to realize that this one also had a moving mane. Why? It's not fair! She narrowed her eyes shrewdly. Maybe . . . maybe one of the unicorns that helped her could touch it. They moved things around all the time with their magic glowy light. Surely this would be no different.

White normally wears her mane in a bun, and they just put my hair the same way. I bet they could do the same to the new pegacorn. Kate nodded resolutely. She'd get downstairs, and then ask one of the ponies to help her. If they didn't understand, she could ask Rorschach. He talked to them, after all.

She set one foot on the riser, and then paused. These ponies are all smart, so they won't want to be ridden without something in exchange. Petting might not be enough. I could get a treat from the kitchen . . . but maybe I should offer something more. She lifted her foot back off the riser and turned.

There was a bit of confusion as she went back to her room. The pair who had been following her had to clear the way: Clothes Horse turned around, while Nurse White just backed down the hall, her head turned so she could see where she was going.

At her room, it was no better. They had no idea what she was planning, and could only react to her movements. The two shorter ponies got briefly tangled in her doorway, while the tall unicorn kept back, keeping an eye on the proceedings. Kate didn’t worry about them; she had a more important goal in mind.

It didn't take long for Kate to grab up the basket of grooming supplies. They were still on top of her dresser, where Tall had put them. She slid the basket up her left arm and headed back into the hallway, causing another brief flurry of hooves as the ponies got back into their positions.

Kate stopped at the top of the stairs, gripped the banister firmly, and began her descent. This time, Tall waited until she was sure Kate was following before proceeding down the staircase.

All the way down, she cautioned herself to pay attention to her feet and not the white pegacorn who was standing with Rorschach and his pet unicorn. She didn't really focus on her surroundings until she'd reached the safety of the ground floor without tripping.

It was then that she noticed that the room had been significantly re-decorated since she'd last been downstairs. Last night before she went to bed, she'd seen a couple of ponies bringing in flowers, but now the whole room was full of them, their scent nearly overpowering. To her right, a short table carried a small buffet, which would be nice for later. After she got her horseback ride.

She clapped her hands eagerly as the tall white pegacorn moved towards her. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It was her vision of what a unicorn should be—what she'd imagined they must look like when she was a child.

The golden yoke around its neck worried her slightly. She remembered in the old myths that a golden bridle could capture a unicorn, and perhaps pegacorns could be bound into servitude by placing a golden yoke around their necks: the fairy tales hadn't been clear on that last detail. If she could find a way past its mane, perhaps she could get the yoke off and free it.

Then it was right in front of her, and she drank in every detail of the flawless muzzle and the kind magenta eyes. When it bowed its head, she was no longer able to restrain herself, and she stepped forward and hugged its head against her breast, tears of joy leaking down her cheeks.

“You're beautiful,” she whispered.

“Thank you,” the pegacorn whispered back.

Author's Notes:

As always, click HERE for behind-the-scenes stuff and some fun facts!

I've got to give a huge thanks to my pre-readers and creative consultants—they spent two weeks working on this, up to about four hours ago: Humanist, AnormalUnicornPony, metallusionsismagic, AShadowOfCygnus, bitbrony, MSPiper, MrZJunior, Forderz, Woonsocket Wrench, and my parents.

Chapter 27: A Royal Meeting, part III

Chapter 27: A Royal Meeting, part III
Admiral Biscuit

Short of physically restraining her, there was nothing Dale could do. As soon as he saw Kate coming down the stairs, he knew what was going to happen.

He hoped that Lyra's assessment of the situation was correct, because if it wasn't, he was going to spend the rest of his life regretting this moment. He'd seen how fast Lyra had moved in the hospital, and he could only assume that Princess Celestia was even quicker. He couldn’t even imagine what she might be capable of—he’d felt the power radiating off of her on the embassy lawn. Even on the beach, he’d felt something; here it was magnified a thousandfold.

Dale squeezed Lyra's pastern tightly and sat as if he were carved out of stone, watching for a moment of anger in the Princess's eyes, hoping that if it was there, he'd see it before it was too late, and then the two came together with a cosmic inevitability. Kate hesitated but a moment before she moved in, the Princess bowed her head, and then Kate had wrapped her in a tight hug . . . and that was it.

He could feel the tension draining out of his body.

Kate whispered in the Princess's ear, and the Princess spoke back, her voice muffled by Kate's body. Kate's shoulders slumped, and she reluctantly broke the hug.

Her hand moved down to the golden yoke, and she brushed a finger along it, tracing its curve; then, with a look of resignation, she sat down on the floor next to Celestia.

Since Celestia's focus was no longer on him, he risked a glance around the room to see how all the other ponies were reacting. Rarity and Lecol were both still on the stairs, eyes wide and mouths agape. Redheart had taken a position at the base of the stairs, her focus locked entirely on Kate.

He turned his head a little further back. Diamond Mint was standing in the doorway to the dining room, with a chair floating alongside her, clearly at a complete loss.

With everyone else stunned into immobility, Dale decided it was his duty to salvage the situation. "Would—" His throat felt like it was full of sand. "Would you prefer a moment in private, Princess?" Dale inclined his head towards Kate.

Celestia nodded.

"Diamond Mint, will you tell us when the Princess wishes to speak with us again?" He stood on trembling knees, remembering at the very last second to let go of Lyra's hoof.

It was a thousand miles to his office, but he made it, and collapsed into his oversized chair. Lyra was right behind him, a faint blush on her face. The only other sound in the embassy was the soft clatter of a chair landing on the floor.

Mindful of the fact that the door to his office wasn’t likely to block all sounds, Dale reminded himself to keep his voice very low. He wasn't sure how good ponies were at picking up multiple conversations, but he did know that they could point their ears in two different directions, which was sure to give them an advantage over humans when it came to eavesdropping.

He desperately wanted to giggle, which was certainly something that an ambassador ought not do—at least, not in the presence of a head of state.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of anything but the last few minutes. Not even a second later, he felt the chair list slightly to one side, and then Lyra was leaning over the arm, pressing her head up against his chest.

His arm moved of its own accord, holding her close. He could feel her shaking against him; whether she was laughing or crying, he couldn't tell.

Twilight had been wandering around the town for an hour in search of somepony with a camera. Despite her assurances to Princess Celestia that she knew one—and she did; she knew several—finding one of them on short notice was proving to be a bit of a challenge.

Featherweight was out. Besides a slight, nagging discomfort at the idea of him photographing Princess Celestia, school was too important to interrupt for something as mundane as taking a few pictures.

The Apple family had a camera, but when she stopped by the farm, nopony answered her knocks. She saw Granny Smith through the window, dozing in her rocking chair. Apple Bloom was in school, of course, and Big Mac and Applejack were nowhere to be seen. Undoubtedly they were out working in one of their fields or groves . . . but which one? She didn't really have the time to search for them.

Rarity had one as well, but she was at the embassy already, and there was almost no chance she’d want to come out until after the meeting was over. Still, if all her other options were exhausted, Rarity would come through for her.

The final pony with a camera who immediately came to mind was Featherbrain, and that wasn't even worth considering.

Think, Twilight. Cameras weren't as commonplace in Ponyville as they were in cities like Canterlot. They were expensive, and most of them weren't overly hoof-friendly, requiring either a tripod or an awkward neck-rig to use.

Maybe Apple Honey—a newspaper mare ought to have a camera, right? She glanced towards the center of town. Well, it’s not like I have a better idea. She started trotting towards Apple Honey’s shop, still trying to think of other ponies she knew just in case Apple Honey couldn’t help her.

When she passed by the shop, she glanced in through the open service door, and flinched briefly at the scene within. It was so cluttered. There was a plow sitting next to the door on its back, with a thin rusty strip showing where the mouldboards had been removed. Further in, a mechanical reaper sat partially disassembled, supported on one corner by castoff wood beams.

Apple Honey wasn't anyplace obvious in the shop, so Twilight pushed open the front door, her ears turning involuntarily as the bell tinkled. The office was empty, save for a well-used side-backer harness draped over the counter. As Twilight sat in one of the chairs—brushing it off first—she grinned at the thought that before she'd come to Ponyville, she hadn't even known what a side-backer harness was.

After a few minutes of waiting, Twilight had managed to successfully identify a few more pieces of farm equipment and study the calendar hanging on the back wall. In deference to her timeline, she got out of her seat and made for the back of the shop to see if Apple Honey was even there—she could have been out back and not heard Twilight come in.

Twilight had just made it to the half-door and rested her forelegs on the top of the lock rail when she spotted Apple Honey emerging from the maw of the machine, a large streak of grease across her forehead and a patch on her right foreleg wet with something that smelled a lot like blood.

Her head was down as she rubbed unsuccessfully at the grease with a filthy rag. "Sorry, I was in the middle of taking apart a floor chain and didn't . . . hello, Twilight!" Apple Honey's face lit up. "What can I do for you?"

"Do you have a camera?"

Apple Honey shook her head. "Sorry. Why?"

"I need to find a photographer to take pictures of Dale and Kate."

"Who's Kate?"

"The girl—mare—at the embassy."

"Oh. Ka-th-rin." Apple Honey frowned. "That's a funny-sounding nickname. Why do you want to take pictures of them?"

Twilight explained their idea. Midway through, Apple Honey began nodding eagerly. "That's a great idea. I wish I had a camera." Apple Honey sat down on her haunches and touched her hoof to her chin. "There's a new pegasus in town who has a camera. I heard she took pictures at the hospital."

Twilight shook her head emphatically.

"Well, Minuette's got one, too. I don't know if she's in town today, though. She's only in town one or two days a week, 'cause there isn't enough business for her to keep open all the time. Maybe she is, though! You should stop by her office and see."

"Thanks, Apple Honey! I will."

Twilight hesitated until she saw Apple Honey’s tail disappear inside the machine, then she headed back out into the street, hoping that her next destination would mark the end of her quest.

She found herself taking a somewhat circuitous route to Minuette's—even though it was friendly visit, Twilight didn't like going to the dentist. She absently ran her tongue over her molars, feeling for sharp edges.

When she finally turned down the street, she involuntarily winced. Every time she saw the proximity of the farrier and the dentist it made her cringe: it was like they were trying to set up a street dedicated to pain.

Twilight flicked her tail in annoyance. She wasn't a filly anymore, and anyways, she wasn't going to be shod or have her teeth cleaned and filed. She was just going to see if Minuette, her old fillyhood friend, was able to swing by the embassy with her camera as a favor to Princess Celestia. That was all.

The front door was open, so Twilight stepped into the reception area. Her nose was instantly assaulted with the smells of medicine and fear.

She marched up to the desk and glanced at the appointment book. Minuette didn't have a receptionist or an apprentice in Ponyville, so she instead left the book open on the desk so that ponies could make their own appointments.

According to the book, Minuette was working on Serena. Twilight only vaguely knew her—she was related to Golden Harvest and often ran the carrot stand at market. Bluebell and Sugarberry had appointments after that, then nothing. The schedule was X'ed out mid-afternoon, about an hour before the train to Canterlot left the station.

Twilight pushed her muzzle into the exam room, knocking politely on the doorframe to announce her presence. Serena was leaned back in the dental chair, while Minuette was bent over her, a pair of floats in her aura. Both of them turned at her knock, Serena more gingerly than Minuette.

"Twilight!" Minuette unceremoniously dropped the floats to the instrument tray as she trotted across the room. "I haven't seen you around in a while." She furrowed her brow. "I heard you were at the big meeting in town, but I wasn't there. All kinds of rumors in Canterlot . . . and I haven't heard from Lyra, either. What are these new creatures?"

"They're bipeds," Serena offered, sitting up in the dentist’s chair. "I saw the Dale at market yesterday. He was looking at tomatoes, then he looked at asparagus and then went over to Bon Bon's stand with Lyra. I wanted to go over and visit too, but I couldn’t ‘cause I was helping cousin Goldie."

Twilight nodded in confirmation. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but—"

"It's okay."

"I don't mind."

The two mares shared a look, then Minuette turned back to Twilight. "What else can you tell us about them? Haven’t you talked face-to-face with them?"

Twilight eventually finished answering their questions and looked back at Minuette, finally managing to focus on why she'd come in to begin with. "Do you have your camera here? Apple Honey said you have one."

Minuette nodded. "I thought maybe I'd see one of them in town. Some of the girls back in Canterlot would kill to get a photo of him, something that wasn't in the newspaper. Those aren't very good quality pictures, you know. And the mare—nopony’s seen any pictures of her. I heard that she got taken to the embassy in a produce wagon. Even here, nopony really knows what’s going on, and in Canterlot . . . Princess Celestia is keeping a lid on them as much as she can, but rumors get around." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "I heard Princess Celestia is coming to town today. There wasn’t an official announcement, so I wasn’t sure, but everypony said so."

"She's already here."

"Really?" Both mares looked at Twilight eagerly. Twilight resisted the urge to grind her teeth. "She wants some pictures of Dale and Kate—that's the mare—so that they can be sent back to their homeland."

"I'll do it. Are they going to be at the embassy?"

Twilight nodded.

"What are we waiting for?" Minuette reached up and pushed her mane-net back. "I'll get my camera, and—"

"You ought to finish your appointments first," Twilight chided. "Anyway, they won't be ready for you for a while. Princess Celestia is having a private meeting with them, and she probably won't be done until long after lunch."

"Oh, right." Minuette turned her head back to the examining chair, and Serena once more obligingly lay down and opened her mouth. Twilight watched for a moment as Minuette picked up the floats and went back to work, then turned to leave.

"Thanks, Minuette. Sorry for taking up your time."

“It’s okay,” Minuette said brightly. Serena gingerly nodded her own agreement.

Celestia held back a faint smile of amusement until Dale and all the ponies had cleared the room, leaving only Diamond Mint hovering in the dining room doorway, uncertain of whether to leave completely or stay close in case she was needed. Celestia had long since trained that out of the castle staff, but Diamond could be forgiven for not knowing her princess’s preference. Celestia gave her a slight nod, and she backed around the doorframe, bowing her head as she went.

Undoubtedly, she was just on the other side of the wall, waiting for a summons.

Overall, it was hardly an ideal space for a truly private meeting, but then Celestia wasn't intending to reveal any state secrets. In fact, it hardly mattered if everypony in the embassy heard what she had to say; she had jumped on Dale's suggestion to have a private meeting to avoid anypony becoming embarrassed for her.

She looked down at Kate, who was sorting through a basket of brushes, her movements overly deliberate. Celestia gave her an appraising look. While she hadn't seen the photographs which documented Kate's injuries, the castle physician had, and his ashen-faced descriptions had been plenty convincing enough for her to fill in the blanks. Even now she could see lingering effects. Kate appeared to be having trouble figuring out which hand to use to sort through the basket, and had to adjust her grip a couple of times. She'd occasionally brush her fingers across her right hand, as if to make sure that it was still there.

It was a shame that Kate had been inadvertently dragged along—while Dale seemed somewhat aware of what he’d been getting into, Kate hadn’t really had any choice in the matter. She’d been an innocent victim of Celestia’s actions. It didn’t matter that it hadn’t been a foreseen consequence; she still had been harmed. Her friends and family were probably worried sick about her disappearance, and for the moment, there was very little that Celestia could do to alleviate their concerns.

Now was not the time to think of such things, however. Celestia sat down on the ground beside Kate, lightly touching her muzzle against her cheek. The girl jerked in surprise, dropping her brush, then lifted her hand up and rested it on Celestia's nose.

"Kate." Celestia kept her voice soft and steady. She had a feeling she was going to be using every bit of language she'd learned thus far.

Kate faltered for a moment, then ran her hand along the side of Celestia's jaw. Her eyes were distant and dreamy.

"Do you know where you are?"

Kate nodded soberly. "I'm at. . . ." Her voice trailed off and she looked down at her dress, then around the room as if it might offer a clue. "Horse camp?"

"You are in Equestria. I do not know if you have a word for it."

She looked at Princess Celestia blankly. "Equestria?" She sounded out the word slowly and carefully.

"Yes. I brought you here by accident. I am sorry."

Kate shrugged. "I like it here. There’s a white mare who’s nice to me; she's my friend. Sometimes she shares snacks with me in my room, even though I don’t think we’re supposed to. She’s my roommate. Her and a pink one." She frowned and looked around the room before looking back at Celestia. "Another one, a unicorn, brings me clothes. She brought me this dress. Do you like it?”

“Did Rarity make it for you?”

“Most of them talk to each other but don't talk so that I can understand them."

"Language is difficult," Celestia said simply. "We are still learning."

"Rorschach can talk to the ponies. It’s not fair. I see him around here a lot. He was just over there. I don't know where he went."

"Would you like me to get him?"

"He visited me in the hospital," Kate said. "That was nice of him. I didn't think he was nice."

Celestia brushed her chin against Kate's forehead. "Do you know why you were in the hospital?"

"I got hurt, and the doctors made me better." She closed her eyes and dropped her head. "It wasn't . . . I didn't like it there. I like it here better, even though they still had to fix my hand. The doctors made it better." She turned and brushed it lightly against Celestia's withers. "Can I ride you?"

"Maybe when the doctor says you are healed."

“I want to ride a horse.” Kate crossed her arms and stuck out her bottom lip. “What kind of horse camp doesn’t let you ride a horse?” She reached up with a curry brush. “I could brush you—can I ride you if I brush you? I’ll even put on the saddle and bridle myself, I know how.”

“No.” Celestia shook her head to punctuate her words. “You need to heal. Here—” she touched Kate’s hand “—and here.” She gently laid her gold-shod hoof to Kate’s forehead.

Kate glanced at the tables behind her. "I can get you a treat."

"Let us both get a treat, shall we?"

“Do you want my chair?”

Lyra shook her head. “It isn’t easy to get in a chair with my dress.” She frowned at him. “We were supposed to meet outside. I thought I made that clear.”

“You told me to invite her inside,” Dale said, keeping his voice low. “I thought I had not understood what you had said before.” He sighed. “I guess we can go outside after she gets done talking with Kate.”

“If she wants to.” Lyra bumped his arm with her nose. “I should have been more clear.”

“I should have paid better attention yesterday.”

“Neither of us enjoys learning inside. It’s boring.”

“I just wish I had known before how important this meeting was.”

Lyra's ears fell. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault.” Dale set his hands on the desk and began tapping his fingers. Lyra watched with interest—there was a beguiling rhythm to the way he did it. “Well, since we are here, can you fill me in on what I missed yesterday?”

“About Princess Celestia?”

Dale nodded.

Lyra glanced over at the open door, then back at Dale. “She is one of the princesses who rule Equestria. She raises the sun and brings the day, while her sister Princess Luna raises the moon and brings the night.”

Dale mulled that over. “One is in charge during the day and one at night?”

“Yes. For a long time, only Princess Celestia occupied the throne, because Princess Luna had been . . . .” Lyra paused, trying to think of a way to explain Nightmare Moon without making Dale afraid of Celestia. “Away. Princess Luna was away. Do you have a princess to lead you?”

“In my country, we choose a man every four years. He listens to the voice of the citizens and does what they want him to do.”

She could tell by the way he hesitated that he, too, was simplifying the situation. “Is there just one man who leads everyone?”

“In our country?” Dale touched a finger to his chin. “Sort of. There are different levels of leader. It is complicated.”

It would do for now; they could get into the specifics later. “We have a mayor for Ponyville, and a pony in Canterlot who speaks for us before the Princess. Is it like that?”

“Yes, it is similar.” He tapped his fingers on the desk again. “Does Princess Celestia often meet with ambassadors?”

“They usually visit Canterlot. Most of the foreign embassies are in Canterlot, but not all of them. Some creatures don't like to travel.”

“She said that we should visit Canterlot.”

“Yes. I think you will like it there. I can show you around; I went to college there.”

“College?”

“College is advanced school.” Lyra tapped her horn. “I went to Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns.”

“Does everybody go to college?”

“No. Most ponies don't.”

Dale considered this. “Is Princess Celestia in charge of the school?”

“Not anymore. She founded it, and she takes interest in the students and sometimes teaches lessons.”

“Is there anything else I should know about Princess Celestia?”

Lyra shrugged. “She is kind and forgiving. She is very wise and clever.” Lyra turned an ear back at the sound of approaching hoofsteps. Dale leaned forward in his chair just as she turned her head and Diamond Mint stepped into the room. “The Princess is ready to see you again.”

Diamond trailed behind as Dale and Lyra returned to the living room, remaining stoic despite the fiasco this meeting had become. Kate had caused her temporary chair arrangement to fall apart, opting to sit on the floor beside Princess Celestia rather than take the chair she'd been offered.

Lecol had politely departed through the back door after Kate had come downstairs—Diamond had seen her crossing the backyard through the kitchen window. Rarity and Nurse Redheart were presumably still upstairs.

She wore a pleasant smile on her face as Dale easily took his seat, this time offering a helping hand to Lyra. Once the two were settled, she trotted back to the kitchen to prepare another tea service.

Starlight had her hooves in the sink when Diamond walked into the kitchen. She was rinsing off the teacups from the last service, neatly arranging them on the drying rack for their next use.

“How's it going out there?”

Diamond shrugged. “Okay, I guess. At least nopony's complaining about the snacks.” She sighed. “Nopony touched the tea service I set for Princess Celestia and Kate. I don't think Kate likes tea.” She reached with her horn and pulled open a cabinet.

“She's hard to cook for.” Starlight put the last cup in the rack and turned her attention back to the stove. “She's asked for Frosted Flakes every morning. I don't even know what those are. Nopony seems to. Dale won’t tell me, he just says we don’t have them here. How does he know that if he won’t tell me what they are?”

Diamond nodded absently—this wasn’t the first time Kate’s pickiness had come up, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. “Do you think a carrot tea would be good?”

“Either that or beet.”

“Carrot,” Diamond decided, pulling down a muslin bag. “It'll go better with the snacks, and I think Dale will like it, at least. He liked the sauteed carrots you made a couple of night ago.”

The two of them efficiently prepared the tea service. While it wasn't technically Diamond's responsibility to help in the kitchen, she could tell that Starlight was working her tail off to make sure that the dishes were kept clean and that there was always hot water ready for tea, on top of preparing lunch.

It only took a couple of minutes, and Diamond arranged the cups and saucers neatly on the salver they'd borrowed from Sugarcube Corner. She looked at the door, and took a deep breath before stepping through.

Lyra and Dale were conversing with Princess Celestia, while Kate sat to her side, paying rapt attention to the Princess's words.

She kept to the back of the room, waiting for a command from the Princess. Until then, she would stay put, trying her best not to eavesdrop on the conversation. Luckily, most of it was in a language she didn't speak fluently. She only picked up a few words here and there.

Finally, Celestia nodded her head, and she came forth, the tea service floating proudly in front of her. She bowed respectfully before offering the first cup to the Princess.

This time, Kate actually took a cup, apparently picking up on her cue from everybody around her. Diamond bowed again and set the tray off to the side where they could pour themselves more tea if they wanted, then retreated back to the doorway where she could keep a watchful eye and be ready to serve if she was needed.

Her gaze kept returning to Dale. She liked him. He wasn't very demanding, and tried his very best to fit in. At first, she'd been bothered by how he'd do things that she was supposed to do for him, but she'd come to realize that was just how he was. He wasn't trying to insult her competence, just helping in his own way.

Starlight had pointed it out when the construction ponies were working on the house—Dale would often help them, and spend time talking with them. She'd kept a close eye on him and had come to the same conclusion: Dale wasn't some fancy noble that always expected things to be done for him, but rather the complete opposite. It actually left her with very little to do most of the time.

She suspected that once the nurses were gone, she was going to be responsible for wrangling Kate. That was a task she wasn’t looking forward to.

Diamond glanced over at the closed door leading to the guards' barracks. That was the other perk to working here. While Starlight had been the only one to take full advantage yet, she had every intention of doing the same.

After a short discussion about an upcoming trip to Canterlot, Diamond Mint summoned them all to the dining room for a light lunch. Dale could see the frustration on her face as she had to confiscate the chairs to put back around the table, and he resolved that he was going to make an effort to move the meeting outside after lunch, as they'd originally intended.

He didn't really pay all that much attention to what they were eating; he was more concerned with not accidentally spilling food down his shirt.

It was crowded around the table. Lecol and Nurse Redheart were flanking Kate, practically pinning her in place. Rarity sat between Lecol and Lyra, while Dale was given a position on the right side of Celestia.

When the meal was over, Diamond Mint brought a cake out and set it in the center of the table, then neatly sliced it and served it. Dale waited until Celestia had taken a bite before sampling his own. While Starlight's normal desserts were quite good, this cake set a new high bar. She'd really pulled out all the stops, although it made sense that she would for a royal visit.

He toyed with the idea of asking for another slice, but then remembered that he ought to be polite and leave some for Diamond Mint and Starlight—not to mention the guards.

I wonder when they eat, he thought, looking down at his empty plate. They didn't share meals with everyone else—did they do their own cooking in their room, or did Starlight serve them separately and he just hadn't noticed? I'll ask later. It'd be even more crowded if they ate with us, and it might not be practical for the night guards, but I'd feel better if I knew they weren't stuck eating our leftovers.

He blinked as his plate was suddenly wrapped in Diamond Mint's aura, which he took as his cue to move the group out of the dining room. “Princess Celestia, would you like to go to the backyard?”

“Thank you.” She got up out of her seat and walked through the house. Dale scrambled to follow, then remembered Lyra. He turned to help her out of her chair, and almost crashed into her.

He turned back around and followed Celestia into the backyard. Oddly, other than Lyra, nobody else followed—he supposed that Kate had been redirected upstairs, and Rarity was apparently also content to remain behind.

“I know you have not signed the agreement yet,” Celestia said. “I hope that you do, although I do not wish to press you.” She turned her head towards the street. “So far, this embassy has not been open, to allow you to get comfortable, but I would like to change that. Many ponies and other creatures are eager to meet you.”

He could believe that. Given the size of the crowd that had witnessed his speech, and the ponies who had come to the brief gathering afterward, he was surprised that it hadn't happened yet. So far, they'd been staying back, barring the construction ponies and a few visitors who'd brought things for the embassy—yet when he'd been at the market, most of them had been interested in him.

“I guess that would be all right,” he said. Not that I really have a choice—they aren't giving me all these things for nothing. “I do not speak very well yet.”

“The guards can limit who visits, and when,” Lyra pointed out. “And we can also go out and meet ponies.”

“Yes,” Dale said. “So long as there is some sort of schedule. Especially for Kate's sake.”

“Very well.” Celestia smiled at him. “I declare the embassy officially open. I look forward to seeing you in Canterlot in the future. And please—if you need anything at all, inform Diamond Mint or Twilight Sparkle, and we will see to it.”

She stretched forward and nuzzled Dale lightly on the cheek, then bent down and did the same to Lyra, before turning and stretching out her wings.

Dale stood on the lawn, watching as Princess Celestia flew off. He wasn't sure what one was expected to do in a situation like this: had they been inside, he would have assumed his responsibility to see her off ended at the door, but outside it might extend indefinitely—or at least until he couldn't clearly see her anymore.

She was about fifty feet above the roof of the neighbor's house when there was a bright golden flash, and she vanished with a bang.

Dale stood rooted to the spot, looking at where she'd been, until he felt Lyra bump his hip. He jerked out of his reverie and looked down at her. "What just happened?"

"Princess Celestia teleported back to Canterlot." She pointed a hoof off to the east, where a distant mountain range rose sharply.

"Teleported." Dale rubbed his chin, then crouched down in front of her. "What is teleported?"

"It is . . . a unicorn can go somewhere without walking." She stuck her nose down in the grass and looked around briefly before lighting her horn and lifting a small rock. "This is telekinesis."