Day Two on a Brave New World: Sergeant Argjend Gjebrea awoke to find some of the snow was starting to melt. And not just around his pod; it was affecting the whole area. The ground was still covered with snow, though. And all that meltwater made trekking all the harder.

He went to check the snares: no such luck. There were more hoofprints where he found the orange feather. Some were consistent with a juvenile of its species (the stride patterns, though, revealed there was more than one juvenile involved), but many more were adults’ tracks. All of them were shoed, though. His HUDcom took photographs of the tracks. He then checked for residual body heat: virtually no signatures. It must have been a while since whatever they were were here.

He decided to brave it a little, and explore further. Some distance off, there was a fallen tree trunk spanning the length of the river, which he crossed without too much difficulty.

There was a bush about .2 clicks past the river, already producing berries. Ever the cautious one, Gjebrea scanned the berries and found a 3.5% hydrocyanic acid content in them. Close call.

At the base of a tree, he noted some flowers, somehow blooming in the cold. (This shouldn’t be entirely unexpected-- crocus and witch-hazel do the same.) Scanning it came up with an error-- Toksina e panjohur zbuluar-- Unknown toxin detected. He took a few photographs of it.

He turned to return, and spotted a shard of parchment. There was writing on it, but it resembled the Shavian script, nothing like the Latin orthography.

„Zot im,“ he commented. „Çfarë gjuhe do të përfaqësojë kjo?“ (My God. What language would this represent?) He scanned it into his HUDcom, intending to decode it at a later time. He pressed on.

Just shy of crossing the stream, he ducked behind a boulder. There were some extraterrestrial horses by the pods! What in God’s name were they doing!?

Gjebrea leaned out a bit and used the HUDcom’s directional microphone to eavesdrop on a possible conversation. This is what he heard:

“. . . been collecting tree moss. What for?”

“There’s more of these edibles in here. --What do these markings say?”

“Ah ain’t got the slightest idea. Looks like that time when Applebloom was speakin’ fancy.”

“That was French, Applejack. But this doesn’t look anything like French.”

„Kjo është e mahnitshme,“ said Gjebrea. „Gjuha e tyre është shumë i ngjashëm me atë të amerikan anglisht.“ (That’s amazing. Their language is strikingly similar to that of American English.)

“Hey, what’s that over there?” Gjebrea quickly dipped back behind the boulder. He crouched, remaining perfectly still. Straining his ears, he could the cautious footsteps of one of the horses creeping closer to his hiding location. He gripped his pistol with an almost painful tightness. He felt his sweat sting his eyes and pool up inside the respirator.

A few tense moments followed a pause in the footsteps as he held his breath. Was this the end?

“Uh, never mind,” said the horse. It turned back around and headed the other direction, muttering, “Must’ve been the ice or somethin’. . . .”

As casual as the dismissal was, it left Gjebrea’s heart palpitating rapidly. He looked over the photograph of the campsite, which he quickly took just before dipping back behind cover.

It showed most of the horses were dressed in metallic armor, reminiscent of preclassical Greece. Some of these horses had wings, some had horns, some had both, some had neither. Gjebrea assumed they were genetic variables, and may have lost their function. The wings didn’t appear to be able to support the body’s weight in flight. The horns appeared too blunt to be effective weapons, especially against metal armor.

The horses that weren’t wearing armor had a variety of differences between them-- eye color, coat color, the style of their manes, et alli. It looked like they were scavenging the pods. --Were they nomads?

Then his directional microphone picked up a voice. “Wait a sec-- How the hay do we have three more guards now than when we started off!?”

A familiar snarl confirmed their suspicions-- more of those horse-mosquito hybrids appeared literally out of nowhere and started assaulting the party.

“Everypony heads up!” shouted a violet winged unicorn. “We have a Changeling attack!” Although he knew he would regret it, Gjebrea decided not to take action, unless these “Changelings” targeted him directly. Quietly, he reloaded his pistol, just in case they did.

It wasn’t long before one of them spotted him. It converged to his position, where it got the surprise of its life: two hands grabbing its head and body, a mouth whispering in its ear, „Të. Je. Një. Turp. Të. Përgjakshme,“ (You. Are. A. Bloody. Disgrace.) and finally the arms swiftly moving to snap its neck.

Gjebrea peered out from behind the boulder, and found that one of them-- undoubtedly the leader, judging from its size and jewelery it wore-- was being overwhelmed. It managed to repel most of the attackers, but one Changeling was close to ending its life. Gjebrea decided to do what in his heart was the right thing-- he stopped thinking, aimed, pulled the trigger-- and the Changeling collapsed to the ground, blood oozing from where its head should have been.

Thus was the first contact with the first sapient species Humanity had encountered!

Then slowly, deliberately, Gjebrea crossed the river on the trunk, keeping his pistol trained on these horses, threatening to fire at the slightest provocation. That did not go over well with the Changelings. They immediately changed tactics and decided to eliminate Gjebrea. He grabbed a nearby branch and wielded it as a bō staff. „Ejani dhe marrë mua!“ he shouted. (Come and get me!)

He didn’t need to repeat himself. Dozens of these hive-minded organisms swarmed in on him, acting as though they were mere cells of one. Despite their overwhelming numbers, they were no match for a soldier of the Interplanetary Empire of Albania. One after the other fell to the branch, or the bullets. None of them would rise again.

Some of the other natives assisted him, giving him a chance to reload his pistol. Once he did so, he proved decisive in battle. None of the horses had even the most basic idea of firearms (or if they did, they did not demonstrate it). None of the Changelings knew what was going on-- the bullets flew too fast for them to see them coming.

Gjebrea spotted one horse walking up to him, rather calmly. Too calmly. He contemplated over his actions: Should I shoot? Or should I not shoot? A rather hyperactive pink horse knocked the other out of his way, where it actually revealed himself as a Changeling. Somehow, they could disguise themselves with startlingly convincing appearances-- hence the namesake. He realized he could barely trust any of these horses-- what if they did the same?

A Changeling pounced on his back. Reflexively, he grabbed it and hurled it to the ground. He stamped on its head, squishing the brains out.

Suddenly, Gjebrea was hit hard in the head, sending him careening into Ardita’s pod. He looked up, and barely caught a “Sorry ’bout that, Sugarcube!” Seeing with severe blurred vision, he managed to grab his pistol and pop off three more shots. His HUDcom’s aim assistance helped land two more kills, both headshots.

Taking advantage of his dazed state, two Changelings tried to carry him off. Unfortunately for them, he was too heavy to lift. Besides, even in a semi-comatose stupor, Gjebrea bashed their heads together like they were made of cardboard.

Finally, all the attackers were dead or had fled. Only then did Gjebrea allow himself to pass out. The last thing he could recall at that location was a soft voice saying, “Get it onto that wagon! . . .” Next Chapter: Indirect Introduction Estimated time remaining: 10 Minutes