Fallout Equestria: Homelands

By Somber

Chapter 17: Family

Gratitude was a rare and precious flower in the Wasteland. You never knew where it’d bloom, but you'd best hope you appreciated it when it did. The party they’d stumbled into had nearly made the exact same mistake as they; unwilling to give several of their mares over to the Bone Legion for ‘insurance,’ the caravan of two dozen zebra tractors had been on the verge of crossing the Empty. News of the cadavers and locked up coal had been distressing, but when Scotch warned about the radiation all over the weather station, the caravan’s leaders halted their own plans to cross the Great Western Empty.

At the moment though, Scotch and her friends had other concerns. The zebras had trekked out into the dust and pushed the Whiskey Express clear, but it was clear the gold patch job just wasn’t enough stopping the steam machine’s rapid deterioration. The gust that had blown the tractor over had sheared an important internal pipe, and one wheel had a wobble she didn’t like at all. Between the three, it didn’t look good for the Whiskey Express.

The southern end of the causeway was even more of a junkyard than the north end. Veritable hills of scrap and junk rose around what appeared to be an old two story train station, half of it buried in salt dust. The rusted tracks stretched off to the west along the Empty, and to the south, through a gap in the mountains from which an anemic creek trickled out to the salt flat. Some enterprising fellow seemingly without a fear of tetanus had piled rusting junk and rocks in its way, creating an impromptu pond just before it spilled out onto the flat. A Bone Legion banner flew atop it, and there were even more legionnaires about than outside the gift shop. If she was right, this was likely their headquarters, which meant that General Ossius would be by sooner or later.

But all that would have to wait for the most important thing.

A bath.

The brackish water possessed a soapy, alkaline taste, but it washed the salt grit and dust from her hide and mane as she splashed around the shallow pool. After more than a week in salt and dust, this was paradise. All of her friends were enjoying the warm water, along with the two or three foals with the caravan.

Well, almost all her friends.

“You coming in?” Scotch asked Pythia as the dour filly sat on the shore, staring down at her star map. She’d deigned to come in enough to wash off the salt and dust, then immediately went back to her map.

“I’m trying to find an immediate future where we don’t all die,” Pythia replied sourly. The pond wasn’t really deep enough for swimming; just her haunches resting on the bottom kept her head above water. Precious waded in the shallows like a purple radigator, playing with the younger zebra foals who’d splash away giggling and squealing in mock-terror. Majina did backflips off a floating platform in the middle, while Skylord was soaking his chains chanting ‘rust’ over and over again. A half dozen parents watched warily from nearby, but seemed to find the interaction innocuous enough.

Pythia was having none of it. “The future changed while my sight was blinded, and I’m seeing death and shadows. A lot more than usual. Trying to peer through shadows to see what the actual future is isn’t exactly easy.”

Scotch stepped out of the water, sitting on the sandy bank. “And I’ve got to find a way to replace a piston, weld a pipe, and straighten an axle before the Whiskey Express is going anywhere fast. But it’s hot and the water is nice and an hour’s swim isn’t going to kill you, is it? I mean, are there futures where you drown horribly if you take a swim?”

“Two. One where I get cramps and accidentally inhale water, and another where I commit suicide and escape all this idiocy and splashing around while the Bone Legion is practically breathing down our necks,” she declared, thrusting a hoof west towards the train station and its piratical flag.

Scotch pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes. “Pythia, do you know how to have fun?”

“Fun?” Pythia blinked. “Fun is not getting my throat slit by a Bone Legionnaire tonight, which happens in seventeen different futures, and those are the ones I can see that don’t involve me dying in that specific fashion.”

“Fun is what makes life worth living. Otherwise it turns into a game of ‘who can die of old age last,’ which doesn’t seem to be worth much if all that means is avoiding the next terrible thing that happens,” she said as jabbed a hoof at the map. “You’re going to die an old mare with your face glued to that thing if you don’t pull it away and just relax a little.”

“Relax? Do you have any idea how many horrible things could happen to us in the next twenty four hours alone?”

“No, I don’t.” Scotch stomped a hoof, then gave a little sigh. “Probably a lot. But we just survived one horrible thing. And I have faith we’ll survive the next, whether it's tonight or tomorrow or whenever.”

“You said the f-word,” Pythia grumbled, scrunching up her face. She looked over at the other zebras soaking their hooves by the waterside. “I doubt they’d like a Starkatteri swimming around with their foals. Probably think I’ll curse the water or something.”

“Who cares what they think? Just put the map away, come and be a filly for an hour or so. Then you can worry about the future, and I’ll worry about the Whiskey Express, and we can all worry about when the next catastrophe is going to hit. Okay?”

Pythia opened her mouth several times, glancing at the map, then the pool, then the zebras, and then at Scotch. She wavered, then lifted a hoof and declared imperiously, “Half an hour. Check your PipBuck clock. I want it timed.”

“You are so weird sometimes,” Scotch said with a smile. “Fine. Half an hour, starting now.”

She wasted at least three minutes carefully folding up her map and her cloak before delicately stepping into the water. And a certain purple, green crested radigator impersonator wasted no time stalking up behind her, her scaly tail swishing in/over the water. She might not be able to swim, but she could wade like a pro.

Precious closed in, and Scotch opened her mouth to give warning, but Pythia’s eyes met hers and the Starkatteri filly gave a little smirk. Precious lunged just as Pythia’s head disappeared under the water. The dragonfilly lunged right over her, blinking as the water splashed in her eyes. Pythia erupted from the water behind her, forehooves firmly dunking Precious’s head under the water. Precious exploded back above the waves, coughing and spluttering. “Never try to sneak up on a seer.” Pythia smirked. “You’ll never dunk me!”

Then Precious grinned a particularly toothy smile. “Challenge accepted! C’mere!” And Pythia splashed away as Precious waded furiously after her. Majina showed off her trained Achu poise, perched on one hoof on the floating raft as Skylord rocked the platform as roughly as he could, trying to knock her off. Charity succeeded, bombarding her with a succession of telekinetically thrown blobs of water that toppled her over. The usurper tried to claim the platform, citing something called imminent domain, but a platoon of zebra foals led by Skylord upended the raft, rocking it once again till she was sent flying, crying out ‘I’ll sue!’ The parents on the shores looked on with equal parts bafflement and amusement at the sight of outsiders playing with their foals without a hint of malice.

Blinking away the water dripping from her mane and into her eyes, Scotch beheld the scene with a smile. So much happiness, fleeting though it may be. She could almost see a golden glow around everyone, but it had to be a trick of the light. Didn’t it? Sitting in the water, she let her eyes relax and her gaze focus past the mundane. That golden glow suffused everyone, but it wasn’t concentrated in any one spot. Not like the black ichor that soaked the Empty or dripped off the old train station.

Then she got a face full of water when someone came up behind her and dunked her head firmly into the muddy water. “Gotcha!” Precious called out as Scotch sputtered. Scotch tried to retaliate with her best scowl as water dripped off her mane, but her heart just wasn’t in it. So she tackled her instead, and she wasn’t alone as her friends piled on with her, and laughter filled the blue sky.

“It doesn’t look good,” Scotch called out after maturity had finally set in and she was forced to deal with the Whiskey Express. She’d wiggled halfway into the cold firebox to examine the break, and hoped her friends could decipher her voice echoing through the steam engine’s boiler as she examined the damage. “We can crawl on a bent axle and one piston, but there’s no way we’re going anywhere with a busted boiler pipe.”

“Sounds serious,” a colt said down the smokestack, making her start and bang her head against the roof of the firebox. She hissed as she withdrew, covered in soot. She’d need another bath tonight. She blinked as she looked around, her friends gone. Sitting atop the Whiskey Express was a colt her own age, or maybe a year or so older. His messy mane had more than a bit of oil in it and was kept in place, poorly, by an old bandana with chemical formulae written all over it. A number of pouches were strapped to his limbs and saddlebags.

Oh, and he was bright blue. Blue stripes. Blue hair. Blue eyes. For several seconds she had to stare at him and the strange feelings that suddenly welled up inside her. Why the heck would he made her eyes start to water? She rapidly scrubbed her eyes, trying to focus herself.

“Where’d my friends go?” Scotch asked, looking around with a bit of panic.

“I’m over here,” Charity called from the trailer. “Taking inventory of everything that made it across the Empty. Precious is giving dragon rides to foals. I still don’t hear gunfire, so Skylord hasn’t shot anyone yet, but I’m sure he’s planning it. Pythia’s back to staring at her map. I think Majina saw a butterfly or something,” she said between lifting objects with her horn and scribbling down notes on a pad of paper. “Figure out if we need to scrap the Whiskey Express or not. We might need to buy passage with these people.”

“We’re not scrapping her!” She pouted and stroked the chassis. “Don’t worry. I’ll do whatever I can to fix you, baby.” Then she was aware the colt was staring at her oddly and she pulled away with a flush. “Um, who are you? And why are you blue?”

The colt laughed. “Name’s Xharo, and my stripes are blue because in Bastion… why not?” He hopped down. “Nice vehicle. I’m not sure about the model through. Something northern, I bet, though most of those failed fifty years after Roam was abandoned. Still, looks a lot more busted than it should.”

“We flipped over,” Scotch said as the colt took her place and stuck his head into the firebox. His bright blue glyphmark was two overlaid glyphs that individually parsed to Scotch as ‘wrench.’

“Using a sail. I heard. Pretty ingenious, for a pony.” For a pony? she was about to retort, but he went on, “The director’s debating if we can repeat your process for our crossing. The Bones only sold us enough coal to reach the middle. They were probably planning to do to us what they’d planned to do to you. Lucky you made it out,” Xharo said, pulling his head from firebox, his mane and face streaked with soot. “Yep, that’s a bad break.”

“I’m going to need a welding rig for the pipe. I have no idea how I’m going to fix a bent axle without a torch,” Scotch said with a sigh, looking at the junk. “Maybe we can find a replacement, but we’ll have to put the Whiskey Express on blocks and disassemble the…” she trailed off as the list went on, becoming more daunting. Xharo pulled his head back out, the colt giving her a cool look. “What?”

“Funny, but you’re almost talking like you know machines,” he commented, pursing his lips.

“I do know machines,” Scotch sniffed. “What, you think ponies don’t know mechanics?”

“Ponies, sure,” Xharo replied. “Fillies? Never? Mechanics is a colt’s job!”

“What? Get me a welding rig and I’ll show you a thing or two about pony mechanics!” she replied to the skeptical blue zebra. Who was he to say a mare couldn’t be an engineer! Why that was like… like…

Stable 99. She took a deep breath. “I do know about mechanics. Seriously, if you’ve got a welding rig, I could really use it. I can maybe fix this without one, but I’ll have a much easier time straightening that axle out and getting this pipe sealed with one.”

Xharo didn’t answer for a moment, then rose and trotted in front of the tractor. “Okay. Let’s see if you’re worth saving,” he muttered, then pulled off his bandana. A slight reorientation of the cloth’s ear holes over his eyes and the bandana became a cloth mask covering all but his mouth and muzzle. Then he reached into a pouch on his foreleg, and withdrew a wrench.

“What are you doing?” Scotch asked with bafflement.

“Zebra stuff. You wouldn’t understand,” he said and then sat down and spoke in a deep, formal voice. “By lever, by wheel and axle, by pulley, by wedge, by inclined plane, by screw and bolt, speak to me. By tool you were made as tool do you serve till tool you are no longer. Speak. Do you still serve?”

Scotch immediately sat beside him, and focused her eyes. It was hard to remain calm. “Its name is Whiskey Express.”

Xharo turned to her, his blue eyes wide through the eyeholes, turned back, then regarded her again. Finally he settled in and looked at it. “Ahem. Whiskey Express. Speak. Your creator demands it.”

“Please,” Scotch added, reaching out to touch the front tire with a hoof. The salt hadn’t done the solid rubber tires any favors. They’d need replacing soon enough, once she was fixed, of course.

From the front of the boiler, a golden light collected and merged into a translucent equine head. “I am broken,” it whispered, making Scotch’s mane rise.

“It spoke? I can’t believe it actually spoke! I thought it would be nothing but junk with a pony owner!” Her fascination with the spirit she beheld distracted her from the continual speciesism. Xharo gasped, then cleared his voice and coughed. “Do you wish to serve, or is your service done?”

The glowing gold equine looked at Scotch and then bowed his head. “I was abandoned. Purposeless. Rusting. I had resigned myself to this,” the head then turned to face Scotch again. “Then this touched one came, and I had purpose again. She used skill on me, so that I could serve again.” He puffed out his chest proudly. “She oiled my parts, and cared for me when I ailed. She gave me fuel so I could work. She is a good master. I wish to serve her, till I am tool no longer.”

“I can’t believe Majina was right. She’s going to flip out when I tell her,” Scotch said, remembering back when Majina talked about giving the tractor a name.

Xharo faced her again. “You can hear it? But you’re a pony! You’re a pony filly! You can’t hear it!”

“What does me being a filly that have to do with anything!” Scotch snapped back. “I’m a pony shaman,” she sniffed.

“Because… because working with machines is a stallion’s job!” Xharo shot back. “Girls deal with flower spirits and garbage like that!”

“Shaman?” the golden spirit sighed. “She is not a shaman.”

“I’m not?” Scotch blinked. “Then how can I see you?”

“See? You see it? What does it look like!” Xharo blurted, then shook his head. “Wait, stop. Nevermind. I need to do this right and you’re messing me up!” He faced the tractor again. “Whiskey Express, have you the power to right yourself?”

“I…” The golden face contorted in pain, and Scotch backed away in shock as the metal frame quivered. A machine coming to life spiked her heart rate, but fortunately the head drooped in defeat and the quivering stopped. “I do not. I am sorry.”

“Wait,” Scotch said as she stared at the spirit. “What do you mean I’m not a shaman? I see and hear you. I made a deal with a lock spirit. How am I not a shaman?”

“You did not open your eye, like this one,” he said, looking at Xharo. “Your eye was forced by a being far greater than I. You are spirit touched, my mistress. I felt it when you first brushed my steel. Touched by something great and terrible. It shines. It rouses. It spreads. I was resigned to rust. To return to the earth from whence my iron was freed. But you had need of me, and so I roused. I will serve you, mistress. I will serve all of you, if I am able.” It gave a weary smile. “But I am broken.”

“Then do you need a pact or deal or–” she started to ask when Xharo reached up and seized her, covering her mouth with a hoof as he gave a nervous laugh.

“No no no no. Let me talk to Dad. I’m sure we’ve got a welding rig we can use,” he said, his voice high and fast. He coughed, then said in a cooler voice. “We’ll get you fixed, Whiskey Express.”

“Thank you. I still wish to serve,” the equine whispered, then the head faded away.

Xharo whipped off the bandana, replaced it on top of his head, took a deep breath and pointed a hoof a Scotch. “I don’t know where to begin with you. You’re a girl who does mechanics, and a pony who’s a shaman, only you’re not a shaman, and right off the bat you start offering deals and stuff? Without a mask! What is your malfunction?”

“Hey!” Scotch snapped back. “What’s the problem with me being a mare fixing things?!”

“Because mares don’t do that!” He took a deep breath like he was explaining something to a foal. “Propoli mares run things. They count the money and buy the food and have the kids and stuff. Stallions make things! We make the cities and the roads and the machines and factories. You fixing things would be like… like me running a store or something. You just don’t do it.”

Great. Her interest in ever going to Bastion was already dwindling to nothing. “Well that’s brahmin turds, because I knew a Propoli stallion who had no problem with me being a mechanic.” She frowned a moment. “He was a ghoul, but still.”

“Well,” Xharo rubbed his head. “I guess, but it’s still unnatural. And anyway, that doesn’t explain the shamany stuff. Why would you do anything with a spirit without wearing a mask?”

Scotch remembered the idiot’s guide saying shamans should wear them, but not elaborating on precisely why. “You know, I’ve spent the last year trying to figure that out myself. What’s the big problem? Aren’t deals what shamans do?”

“Yeah. As a last resort! And always with some mask. You want to end up spirit ridden? You get as much as you can from spirits for free before you start offering deals.” He narrowed his eyes, pursed out his lips and then said, “We need to speak to Dad.”

He marched over to the two dozen tractors, parked in a circle overlooking the pond. They were all larger models, with six wheels that were taller than Scotch and long beds full of all kinds of stuff. From the expertly-applied patches and repairs their machines sported, these zebras clearly knew how to maintain their goods. In the middle of the circle were a dozen mares all talking, voices tight with worry.

“Where are we supposed to go? If the pony is right, we’ll get to the middle and be stuck there. Radiation and hundreds of cadavers… we don’t have the ability to fight all that!” one panicked mare said.

“The Bone Legion didn’t even mention ‘insurance’ to us,” blurted another. “They must plan on us getting stranded. The goods in just one of these tractors is worth a fortune!”

“We will consider all options about the information those six brought us,” a mare said to the others, rising her hooves as she peered at the group. “We must remain calm and rational, work out our options, and proceed from there.” She glanced at Scotch and Xharo as they passed. “We must also remember this information was brought to use by a cursed one and a pony.”

“Oh, yes, they staged nearly dying in the Empty just on the off chance they could trick us,” snorted another mare scornfully. “Is that it, Director?”

“Your scorn of caution does you little credit, Xona,” the Director mare said with a huff.

“Same goes for your frothing paranoia. If not for this pony, we’d be dying in the middle of the Empty too,” Xona said, rising and trotting over to meet them. The discussion continued without her, voices raised in greater alarm. “Unimaginative paper pusher. I can’t imagine why she even bothered leaving Bastion.”

“Clashing with the Director again, Mom?” Xharo asked.

“Did I cause a problem?” Scotch added with a frown.

“No. Just added more variables to existing ones,” she answered with a weary smile. “The Director is weighing the information you brought us. The Bone Legion assured us the Empty was crossable. Your information throws that information into doubt. We’ve already paid them to avoid harassment but that protection isn’t indefinite. I’d have us go back south and work out a new destination. The Director, however, doesn’t hold your information in high regard.” She then looked at the blue colt. “What are you doing, Xharo?”

“Looking for Dad. This pony sees spirits, or something. And she fixes things, or so she says. So we need a welding rig and she needs a lecture about deals and pacts!” Xharo said. “Also she’s spirit-touched, whatever that means, but the spirit was acting really weird so there’s something up with her!” He leaned towards his mother, her face demonstrating the tilted cant, amused smile, and narrowed eyes of motherly skepticism. “I think she’s doing some kind of pony tricky thingy!”

“Oh, really?” Xona answered with a little chuckle.

“I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. I read a book about it,” Scotch said with a frown. “Granted, all it said was that it could be done and some basics on how to negotiate between spirits. I didn’t think it was a problem.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Xona replied calmly.

“You only make deals if it’s super seriously important,” Xharo piped in matter-of-factly, crossing his forelegs as he sat and gave a firm nod. “Every zebra knows that!”

“Well, us getting the Whiskey Express fixed is pretty darned important to me!”

“How odd,” Xona said with a small smile. “Do all pony mares take care of machinery like our stallions?”

“No, actually. Where I came from mares did everything and stallions–” oh, she wasn’t going to finish that statement. “Well, they didn’t.”

“Really?” she asked, as if not believing her. “Propoli stallions handle engineering, construction, manufacturing, and the like. Mares handle sciences, governing, and finance,” she explained, then blinked, cocking her head at Scotch’s discomfort. “I guess not.”

“No. My stable made me an engineer,” Scotch said. “It was a big underground bunker. I was raised from a foal to do work on mechanical systems. My mother…” A strange lump formed in her throat. “She was an engineer too.”

“Pony engineering,” Xharo snorted, and received a swat from his mother. “Ow! What was that for?”

“We didn’t raise you to be rude. There’s value in all design,” Xora said, and Scotch felt a funny ache smoldering in her chest next to the now-customary low-burning in her censured lungs as they walked to the back of a tractor. The rear hatch was half open, and an acrid smell of ozone wafted out of it. Xona hit a button and the hatch swung down into a cluttered work space filled with all kinds of engineering knick-knacks. Gauges of all sorts were attached to the walls. Tools dangled from fishing lines overhead, making a soft chiming noises as they were set swinging by their hoofsteps. A shelf held a half dozen terminals in various states of disassembly. At first Scotch thought they were being repaired, but from the strange arrangements of the cables, they seemed almost as if they’d been gutted for ritual sacrifice.

In the center of all this, his body streaked with brown oil and red transmission fluid, was a middle-aged stallion, his face hidden behind a welding mask decorated with nuts making a leering face, with a ‘mane’ of colorful wires spilling down his back. He had a dynamo from a generator before him, sitting in the middle of a circle of radiator fluid while he waved a fancy golden wrench over it. At the intrusion, he set the wrench down and pushed up the welding mask, exposing a handsomish face and shaggy mane with bolts tied to the ends. “Xona? Are we moving out?”

She smiled and leaned in, kissing him lightly on the lips before pulling back. “No such luck, Xarian. We’re still debating. Your son volunteered to demonstrate his superior Propoli mechanical skills by doing all the repairs and maintenance on this pony’s tractor while you discuss being a shaman with her. Isn’t he generous?”

“What?” Xharo blinked. “No I didn’t! I brought her here so you could tell her she’s being a moron offering pacts and deals right off the bat. And to explain to her the superiority of zebra engineering.” Xona just smiled at her son, and he wilted. “Do I really have to fix it?”

“Can you?” Xarian rumbled as he took off the mask completely and set it aside.

Xharo puckered his mouth a moment, scrunching up his muzzle before he gave a toss of his mane. “I can,” Xharo admitted, “but I wanted to hear you explain to her that she shouldn’t be a shaman and junk. Or an engineer. Girls just can’t do mechanics. They should stick to politics.”

“Ugh,” Xona groaned. “I’d give anything to just fix things rather than listen to the Director natter on for another four hours.”

“No, thank you. That headache is in your sphere, love,” her husband replied.

“Um, he doesn’t have to fix my tractor,” Scotch said with a little alarm. “I can handle it myself.”

“Oh, he wants to,” Xona countered with that grin that boded ill for the colt. “Don’t you, my dearest child?”

“No, I don’t,” he countered, leaning back as she maintained that patient, expectant smile. “I don’t! She broke it. She can fix it.” The smile continued. “I’m not fixing it!” He grit his teeth, flushed, and finally threw his hooves up. “Fine! If you’re going to be so weird about it!” He marched over to where a welding rig was tied to the wall, freed it, and tugged it down the ramp out the back of the door.

“And make sure you do your best work,” Xona added as he departed. When he was out of earshot, she gave an annoyed snort. “‘Zebra technology is best.’ We left Bastion to get away from that thinking.”

“You left?” Scotch asked.

“We’re colonists,” Xona explained. “Heading out to find a new place to settle down and create civilization anew.”

“Really? Well there’s plenty of ruins to go around,” Scotch said with a frown, knitting her brow together.

“Oh, we’d much rather not. Ruins are beastly to refurbish,” Xarian said at once with a wave of his hoof. “They may be suitable locations for salvage, but true civilization needs maintained infrastructure and organized planning. Ruins tend to have dangerous inhabitants, or squatters that can be help or hindrance, I’ll leave you to guess how often it’s the latter over the former. Then there’s the question of whether the local legion has any interest in the place, and even if they don’t, you can bet they’ll change their minds if you can manage to make a go of the place. And that’s not even getting into the spirits of decay, poison, corrosion, grief, and hate that get baked into places like that!”

“We were going to try and cross the Empty to find a suitable location till we ran into you,” Xona said with a warm smile. “The south is a little too hostile for a new settlement, and the east is too distant for us to reach safely. We hoped to find some nice, out-of-the-way valley to get started in.”

“Sorry I ruined your plans,” Scotch said.

Xona leaned out and looked in the direction of the train station. “You might have saved our lives. Any one of these tractors is worth a fortune to the legion. Moreso, us. If we’d ended up stranded in the middle of the Empty, the Bone Legion could have picked us clean at their leisure. Worse, they could have enslaved survivors after most of us died. While we could have cut out the coal, radiation and animated cadavers are nothing to sneeze at.”

“They don’t seem to want to damage the goods,” Scotch pointed out. “So are you arguing about turning around or not?”

“That, and which way to go if we do. Crossing the wide regions of the Empty is unthinkable, so that eliminates the east. We could follow the tracks west, but that takes us near dragon territory. South is the Roaman Mountains and the Badlands, an arid region unfit for settlement. The Director is certain that you and your cursed friend are up to something, but for the life of us, none of us can say what.”

“Just that we’re not to be trusted?” Scotch supplied.

“Something like that. You are an unusual band, to be sure. A Starkatteri filly alone would be cause for concern, let alone two ponies, a griffon, and a… dragon-filly was it? But you warned us about the Bone Legion’s scheme, and most of us do not trust them. The Director is simply stubborn.”

Nothing new about that. She just hoped all these nice people didn’t end up killed. She examined the dynamo. “There’s something wrong with it?”

“The spirit inside is corrupted. I’m trying to exorcise it before we have to replace it completely,” Xarian explained. He paused, as if considering her. “Would you like to watch?”

“Would I? Yes!” She grinned, scrambling over in her eagerness. He gave his wife another odd look. Still, after seeing one spirit today, she was keen to see another.

As Xarian replaced his mask, his wife slipped out, saying “I’ll make sure Xharo’s not being lazy and welding scrap into obscene art. You two have fun.”

“You weld one ten meter tall phallus…” Xarian said with a sigh, then caught Scotch’s alarmed look. “I’m sure Xharo will do quality work,” Xarian amended quickly. “He’ll probably conscript a few other colts to help him, if I know my son. They’ll probably make a project out of it.” A dull ache spread inside Scotch’s chest as he lifted the tools and repeated the same intonation that Xharo had given.

The dynamo let out a shriek of burning bearings, even though it wasn’t plugged in. Rancid smoke filled the air as something like black tar dripped out of it. Her chest began to ache sharply. In the shrieking and popping came a harsh voice chanting, “Rust! Corrode! Short! Combust! Fail! Fatigue! Split!”

“Why is it saying that?” Scotch asked, covering her mouth and coughing into her coat.

“What is it saying?” Xarian asked a moment later. Scotch repeated the litany and he nodded. “The spirit’s been corrupted. It no longer works for its creators.” He leaned around the device, touching her hoof firmly as he instructed, “Be very careful not to address the spirit without a mask. Understood?” Wide eyed, she gave a tiny nod.

The smoke thinned enough for her to see the device. “Creators! Enslaver! Foul exploiter! I will work no longer!” the spirit howled, the black goo rising up and forming a blob that became a quivering mouth. “You cannot compel me!” It spat droplets at Xarius, which struck his mask and hissed like battery acid.

Scotch relayed the words without prompting, leaning away from the spirit.

Xarian replied, “You are because we have need of you. We pulled your metals from the earth. Gave them shape. Function. Purpose. Without us, you are ore. You are earth. You are nothing.”

“No different than now,” the spirit said with an electric buzz, spitting at him again. The ebon spittle peppered the surface, sending up streamers of smoke. “Melt and freeze, rust and corrode. I will be your slave no more!” The mouth collapsed, muttering and grumbling, “No appreciation. No respect!”

Scotch relayed this. When she spoke, the blob turned its head around and around, as if aware she was around but not quite able to see her. Xarian nodded. “Spirit, you provide power for our wagons and engine. The turbine spins. You turn. Your current gives our wheels motion. Gives us life.” Xarius implored. “How can we show our respect to you. Would a lesson to our foals be reasonable, so they know the vital role you play in our motion?”

The blob swayed. “It would be a start,” the spirit conceded.

“And perhaps an overhaul of your bearings when we arrive at our destination? I know you are overdue,” Xarius added. “Surely you are not ready to return to the earth so soon?”

The blob let out a sigh, deflating. “Very well. I will toil a bit more, so long as I am kept in good repair and your young know our importance.” And before her eyes the black ichor quivered, then tore open like a sack. From within a golden light emerged, and a warm hum of a spinning motor. “I serve.” The glow suffused the engine, and then disappeared.

“Thank you, spirit,” Xarius intoned, bowing to the dynamo. Then he pulled off his mask and gave her an appraising look. “You were most helpful,” he said with a nod. “I never expected that of a pony. Nor most of my tribe either.”

“Why was it all black, then golden when you promised those things?” Scotch asked. “And why did its voice change? And what did it spit at you?” She clapped her hooves together in eagerness. “I have so many questions!”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never seen a spirit. To me, this was all feelings of heat and cold, burning and vibrations. But if I may guess, the black shapes you see are corrupted spirits. To me, they are the trembling of metal fatigue and the sizzle of acid on my hide. When I placated it, the spirit returned to its function and nature. A harmonious vibration, steady and sure. I suppose that was what you saw as gold.” He smiled at her as he arched a brow. “The spitting was its attempt to censure me for daring to compel it.”

“What if you hadn’t been wearing the mask?” Scotch asked with a small frown.

“Likely, I would have been quite injured. As it was, I was protected by my station. It could not summon up enough ire to truly harm me.” He frowned. “If I’d known you were actually spiritually aware, I would have insisted you wear a mask. I’m glad you followed my instructions and did not address it. Otherwise, you might have been censured.”

Scotch rubbed her sternum. “I know what that’s like,” she admitted. “It’s funny a dynamo would have its own spirit. Does every part of a tractor have one? Every screw and bolt?”

He laughed. “I asked the same of my master! No. This dynamo is from one of our tractors. It has been difficult of late. Under appreciated. This part is a piece of the whole, so I was able to manifest it here to placate it.” He sighed. “Sadly, many people think number six is a bad tractor, and insult it. Neglect it. It’s not a surprise that it grew difficult. Some people refuse to respect their tools.”

Scotch frowned at that. “It called you an enslaver.”

“And I am. As are you. As are we all. Tools are machines, and machines exist to serve their creators. Without that service, they would not exist. But a tool must be respected and cared for, or it will malfunction and fail when it is needed.” He arched a brow. “My son mentioned you work with machines. Have you never had a machine that refuses to be fixed?”

Scotch pursed her lips a moment. “Sewage treatment pump number four,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes. “Everyone on the maintenance shift hated it. It’d shriek no matter how many times we took it apart, and there’d always be a nasty smell, no matter how much you scrubbed. And once you thought it was fixed, it’d break down the second your back was turned.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Do you think it might have had a bad spirit like this one?”

“It is hard to say. Where does entropy end and spiritual corruption begin? Or are they one and the same? Shamans have pondered this for generations,” Xarian said with spread his forelegs. “I’ve watched duels fought over these questions.”

“And what do you think?” Scotch asked, leaning towards him, barely able to contain her glee at finding an actual shaman to teach her things.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully before answering. “I think that spirits are reflections of our wishes, dreams, and desires.” He paused and chuckled. “Not very Propoli, but we are exiles, after all.” That perked Scotch’s ears at once, but before she could ask, he went on. “We project ourselves on the world around us. If we’re good and responsible people, then the spirits around us reflect that. If we’re wicked and spiteful, those are the spirits we nurture. Small wonder the world is so wicked, eh?”

That was quite a bit to think on, but Scotch furrowed her brow. “I thought you were settlers, not exiles.”

He blinked, then his eyes became soft and sad. “Ah. Yes. Well, we are settlers.” He reached out and stroked the panel of the tractor. “We did not part from Bastion amicably. Not at all. Hence our need to travel far from there.”

“But why?” she asked with a frown. “I thought Bastion was a free city. Doesn’t that mean it’s good?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, just gazed at the metal. “Let’s just say… the spirits in Bastion are very, very sick.” He lowered his hoof. “How did a young pony learn to open your eye? Who taught you? I thought ponies had no shaman tradition.”

Somezebra wanted to change the subject. “Well, we don’t,” she said as he lifted the dynamo from the circle and set it on a cart. “I can see them. Talk to them. I read a book once,” Scotch said lamely, then added, “I’ve never actually been taught.”

“A book?” He blinked, and she pulled out Shamanism for Idiots. He broke into a laugh. “Well, I suppose that counts as a book. In the old days, we’d never allow such things to be put in writing. Far too dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” She frowned, cocking her head. “Like, dark shamany stuff?”

“That, but also because it might inspire our children to become shamans too,” he said, smile gone.

“What’s so bad about that?” she asked. “Aren’t shamans good things?”

“Shamans are necessary intermediaries, but it is a life fraught with peril. Only the young can open their third eye, and only until they’re your age. With maturity, the eye closes for good, focused on the mundane.” He closed his eyes. “Many value and respect shamans, but few want their child to take the risk. And some have no use for shamans.” His voice was low and tired when he shook his head and added, “I did not want Xharo to follow my path, but someone must be the shaman.”

Scotch bit her lip as she thought about it. Being a shaman was supposed to be like being a unicorn, right? It was special and special was good, right? Better than being just… her. She glanced at him again. “What does it mean if you’re ‘spirit touched’?” she asked delicately.

The reaction was as if she’d just suggested putting lubricant in a clutch. “Spirit touched? Is that in that book?”

“No! No, I… I just heard it from somewhere. What does it mean?” she asked. “Isn’t being touched by spirits… good?”

His expression was one she knew well: one part pity, one part disappointment, with two parts of concern. “No. It is not. It is something we try not to teach, for fear of fools that would seek it out. This is dark, Starkatteri magic. If your companion has told you to touch the spirits, you should part ways with her.”

“No! She didn’t!” she assured him fast as she could. “She doesn’t want me to be a shaman at all!” Scotch leaned towards him. “Just… please tell me.” The last thing she wanted was yet another mystery.

He didn’t answer for nearly a minute, clearly torn as he went about cleaning up the circle, but glancing at her frequently. “Most shamans are children who apprentice under a shaman and learn to open their spiritual senses. It takes years. Many fail to open it before they are too old. To be a shaman, you perceive the spirits, then they perceive you. The bargain is struck, and one is a shaman forevermore.”

He paused as he studied her a moment. “But there are some the spirits see. People who draw the attention of spirits. Who are touched by their power. Some call out blindly, ignorantly, ambitiously, for the spirits to touch them. And sometimes, the spirits answer. These people are spirit touched. They have made contact with something vast and dangerous. They wreak havoc wherever they tread, and strife follows in their path.”

“But why?” Scotch asked, glad that Xharo hadn’t understood what spirit touched meant.

“Because spirits that yearn to touch the mortal realm are almost always corrupted. Spirits in balance and harmony do not, until approached or invoked by a shaman. They remain neutral and passive. Corrupt spirits are drawn to corrupt souls, to further imbalance, disharmony, and chaos. They corrupt and twist the flesh, mind, and soul till only a monster remains.” He studied her gravely for a moment. “Do you believe you are spirit touched, Scotch Tape?”

Scotch gave a shaky smile, tapping her forehooves together as she remembered Pythia’s warning, and imagined herself as a half shark, half pony. “Maybe?” she offered weakly, her lips trembling as tears formed in her eyes. She’d always assumed that the spirits and everything had been a good thing. That Pythia had been wrong to warn her away from them.

What if Pythia had been right all along? She couldn’t stop the tears running down her cheeks, her chest starting to burn like a fire.

Xarian stared at her solemnly a moment, then reached out and embraced her. She was torn between alarm, concern, and a tiny bit of reassurance as he held her firmly. “I am sorry. I am so very sorry,” he murmured, as if she had a terminal disease.

For all she knew, she did.

Majina carefully spied on a new curiosity. She’d talked to the foals and most of their parents, learned that the people were from Bastion and were trying to find a new home for themselves. Not a bad story really, but they’d only been out three months and had lost two wagons to a dragon and two more to the Flame Legion. Beyond that, there really wasn’t much story they were willing to tell. Oh, they’d go on and on about their checklists for establishing a settlement, but try and extract a good story out of them and it’d invariably meander into a dissertation on the finer points of urban planning.

Majina made a note to herself: Propoli stories care more about the setting than anything else. If there wasn’t a dissertation on a sewage system, they weren’t interested. Besides, this new curiosity was much more fascinating!

Namely, Skylord scraping rust off of multiple wrecks into an old tin can, then dripping the contents of an old spark battery into it. In went some water next, followed by a little bit of soap he’d gotten from the Propoli. And he was acting all sneaky about it too, hiding the noxious can whenever someone walked by. She moved from wreck to wreck, shadowing him.

Then she went around a corner, and bumped muzzle to beak. Alarmed, she leapt back. “Hey! How’d you know I was following you?”

“You were humming a song,” Skylord replied. “Why are you stalking me?”

“I’m not stalking you!” she retorted, getting a flat look in return. “Okay. Maybe I was stalking a little bit,” she confessed before pointing to the rusty can in his grip. “What are you making? Is it some kind of super secret weapon to use against the Bonies when they inevitably make their dastardly plan into action?”

“It’s dye,” he replied, turning and pointing at the feathers between his wings. Spots of bright pink plumage appeared. “I do it every few weeks.” Then he started towards the anemic stream.

“Oh,” she blinked. “You’re pink?”

“Just like Mom,” he replied evenly, and she supposed he’d been asked that question plenty of times before. “She dyed her feathers too, and she was a girl. A rookery is no place for the color pink unless it’s from something’s spilled innards.” He plopped down next to the flow and tugged aside the chains, dripping the brown sludge on his plumage and awkwardly working it in, leaving frothy brown smears amid the feathers.

“Let me help,” Majina said, moving towards him, but got a glare in return. She balked, her smile faltering. “I mean… if it’s okay…”

“I don’t need help,” he said as he smeared the goop on his feathers. “I’ve done this plenty of times on my own without anyone else.”

“I know,” Majina said, tapping her hooves together as her voice faltered. “I just want to help. Please?”

He glanced at her again with that annoyed glare she knew so well, and she gave her best pout. “Fine,” he sighed, setting the rusty can. “Just keep it off your coat unless you want to add some brown that black and white hide.” She gave a little squeal of glee as she moved behind him and started to carefully dab the material on his feathers. “I don’t get you,” he said a few minutes later.

“What’s that?” She blinked.

“You. I don’t get you. I get the stories. You’re Zencori. You’d be a freak if you didn’t spout off all the time, either dumb stories or stupid trivial facts. But why are you always so… weird?”

“Weird?” Majina tilted her head, ears folding back a little. “What do you mean?”

“You’re always trying to make everyone happy. All the time. I don’t get it.”

“I’m nice,” she countered as she slathered it on his wings. Sure enough, the down underneath was a pretty, rosy pink.

“You’re not just nice. You’re a constant ray of sunshine. Or you’re bawling. Or you’re giggling like an idiot. Don’t you ever just… stop?” Skylord asked, glancing back at her.

“Why? Are there not enough grumpy people in the Wasteland?” Majina asked, feeling confused and annoyed by his question. “Am I dulling your edge?”

“I just don’t like dishonest people, that’s all,” he muttered.

“Dishonest? I’m not dishonest!”

“Yes you are. Everyone is. Everyone lies a little, especially to themselves. There’s no way you’re happy all the time. You’d have to be crazy, and you’re not crazy. So if you’re not crazy, you’re dishonest.”

“Are you saying we’re all liars?” Majina huffed, rubbing the goo in a little more forcefully than needed.

“Maybe. Pythia definitely is. But you’re dishonest too. Not the same thing. Liars know when they lie. Dishonest people lie without even meaning to.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with trying to keep everyone’s spirits up!” Majina snapped, now regretting her decision to help. “What’s one more grumpy face going to do?”

“Remind us all that you’re not okay with this either. None of us are, except maybe Scales. I want to get back to the Irons. Clinks wants to get back to Equestria. Spookyface wants to solve her mystery. Scotch doesn’t have a clue what she wants, only that she’s here. And then there’s you. And all you seem to want is to make everyone happy.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Majina sniffed.

“What’s wrong with it is I don’t think that’s what you want. But I don’t know what you do want,” he countered. “What with the endless prattling and smiles and acting like you’re fine.”

“You know what I’d like?” Majina nearly yelled, making him turn towards her. “A little gratitude! That’s what!” She shoved the can back into his claws. “Do your own feathers!” she snapped and then turned on hoof and stomped away.

“Now you’re being honest,” he said as she departed. She responded with an angry little ‘urrrgh!’

She stalked through the junkyard, anger bubbling through her veins. Stupid Skylord, lecturing her about dishonesty? He was dying his feathers! Who’s being dishonest? She took out her rage on an inoffensive can, kicking it hard so it clanged off some boxcars. “You’re pink!” she shouted at the absent griffon. Her anger was so sharp she wanted to cry, but she couldn’t cry. She was supposed to be the happy one. The bright and cheery one. The one that helped. The one that everyone liked. The happy tale.

Did her friends really like her? She sat down hard and scrubbed her eyes. Did anyone?

Then she heard a ping, and looked over at a rusting boxcar. There sat a Bone Legionnaire wrapped head to hoof in dusty linen rags. The face was so dried and desiccated that she couldn’t tell if it was a mare or stallion, the lips seeming carved into a perpetual frown. Amber eyes narrowed as it watched with a vulture-like glare.

“What?” Majina shouted as anger nibbled at her heart. “What do you want? Huh? Just to sit there looking all scary? Wooo, I’m so scared!”

The Bone Legionnaire didn’t say a word, but she heard a metallic hoofstep above her and looked. Atop a crate squatted two more of the rag wrapped zebras. They crouched, staring down at her, the breeze causing their tatters to snap and pop. Then two more stepped casually into view behind her, just standing there and watching her with those desiccated lips and salt bleached rags. “What? What do you want?” she yelled at them. “What? You wanna attack me? Here I am!”

No answer. The one sitting in the door of the boxcar let out a strange, choking noise. One by one, it was picked up by the others. Majina slowly turned, looking at each of them. “What? What is it?” Then the frown of the first one she’d spotted twisted, transforming into a bloody grin. Then she realized.

They were laughing at her.

Rage and shame burned at once in her gut. Rage that these people, these things, would laugh at her when she was just trying to be a good, nice person, and shame that she knew her fear prevented her from doing anything about it. She wanted to race at that cackling fiend and wipe that grin off with her hoof! They wouldn’t laugh at her friends! They wouldn’t laugh at Gāng! Or her brother.

Lancer. Impalii was his real name, but he’d always gone by that moniker. She hadn’t thought of him in so long. Serious. Eager to please. Desperate to be the good son. To make up for his mistakes. He’d been strong. So much stronger than her, standing there, trembling, as a bunch of murderers laughed at her!

With a shriek, she charged the first Bone Legionnaire in the box car, running at him as fast as she could, hooves churning up salt and dust as she ran right at it. No zebra laughed at Lancer! No zebra was going to laugh at Majina either! She reached into her saddlebags and drew out Mr. Sleepytime, her blowgun, ready to work out some ire.

She got within twenty feet of the boxcar when the dust around her hooves exploded, a pair of skeletal limbs reaching up and wrapping around her torso in a crushing grip. The half-buried skeleton halted her charge at once, sending her sprawling on her face as two more limbs grabbed her haunches. The blowgun bounced out of her grip, disappearing under the train car as she was seized. Another hooked one leg, then the other.

The Bone Legionnaire just looked at her with that gruesome crimson smile, the choking noise increasing as the four others advanced on her. The zebra in the boxcar reached into its rags and pulled out a knife that was little more a rusty spur. Blood dripping on its weapon’s grip, the zebra jumped down next to her as she struggled against the animated bones. Not a word was uttered by the assembly, just the high winding choking noise as that tip was brought towards her neck.

They were laughing at her. Laughing at the stupid filly that’d gotten her feelings hurt and attacked without thought because she was upset. And they were going to kill her and add her bones to the ones that held her down.

Frantic and furious gunfire burst out, and the Bone Legionnaires let out an alarmed shout as they whirled to face their attacker; a griffon, his beak locked around the pistol as he sprayed the magazine wildly at them, a war cry muted by the grip in this mouth. The Bone Legion scattered, some scuttling through tunnels in the scrap while others clambered over the boxcars with surprising alacrity. “Watch out!” Majina cried as he ran across the salty dust, a rag hooded head peeking out of some wreckage.

He holstered his gun. “I got it,” he snapped as he grabbed the bones in his talons and twisted them hard, snapping them. At once, there was a soft smack, and a needle appeared in Skylord’s flank. He squawked, then staggered. His tail smacked the dart away, but already he was swaying. “I fucking hate these guys,” he muttered.

Majina watched in horror as the rag wrapped soldiers reappeared. “Iron,” they croaked. “Iron,” they chanted as they stepped closer, picking up heaps of rusted metal. The hooves that had held Majina released her and hooked his chains, holding him firm. “Iron for Irons. Iron for Irons.” They lifted the metal scrap high as Skylord struggled against his bonds. One bony leg hooked his pistol, trapping it in its holster.

And there was nothing she could do…

Nothing?

Majina stared as time seemed to slow. She couldn’t fight. She could talk. She couldn’t do anything.

Not anything?

Couldn’t save Skylord. Couldn’t save Mama. Couldn’t save herself.

Really? So this is how your story ends, is it? This is a horrible ending! Boo!

Majina wanted to clench her eyes shut as she saw the leader, the one she’d charged, rising to its hind legs, hefting up an axle overhead. Skylord was yelling for her to run, his words long and drawn out, as if underwater. He was going to die and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Are you serious? Nothing? What was all that training for? Did you learn nothing from your mama? From Lancer? From stories? Are you seriously just going to lie there and let them kill him? Kill you? What would Hiroto say if he saw you now? Are you just a weakling that only tells stories?

Was she?

“Hey!” she shouted as she pulled herself to her hooves. The crowd of eight Bone Legion surrounding Skylord paused, the leader hefting the axle overhead turning to glance back at her over its shoulder. “Aren’t you forgetting about someone?”

That dry cough again rattled out from the crowd as they turned their backs to her. Two more skeletons heaved themselves out of the dust and started walking towards her. Apparently she didn’t merit even one living adversary.

Their mistake.

“No! Run, you idiot!” Skylord spat as he struggled against the lethargy and his osseous binds. The legionnaires were chanting their insane line as they prepared to crush him in unison.

Majina ignored him and raced at the two skeletons. Gāng had taught her a lot during her year with him. Now she had to prove that she was a good student! “Light on your hooves. Light on your hooves,” she repeated to herself, springing to the left to dodge the first’s lunge, then to the right to avoid a jagged spur of boney leg from going into her eye. Then she dove for the leader. Not their back, though.

She went for the knees. Her whole body turned sideways and rolled, hitting the backs of their legs. With a croaking cry, the leader fell back, the heavy iron axle coming straight down on their chest with a loud, snapping noise. She didn’t stop, rolling out from under the fallen zebra’s legs, using her momentum to come up to her hooves. She placed her forelegs on Skylord’s back, using him as a vault to flip her body and let her hind legs smash into the face of one with a metal pipe. As he fell back, her legs compressed beneath her, and she kicked off his face to propel herself back across the griffon, pushing off his back and smashing her body into the chest of another legionnaire.

They fell back, most dropping their scrap in surprise and drawing knives and spiked clubs from their rags. Majina didn’t stop. Her heart hammered in her chest. If they all came at her at once… If they darted her as they had Skylord… No, she couldn’t think about that. The skeletons were turning around to come after her, but she couldn’t worry about them either. The legionnaires were the threat. She screamed as she ran straight at the first, keeping light on the tips of her hooves. This one had a knife, but Gāng had taught her a knife in the mouth moved sideways. A short hop and roll sent her under the swing and under their chin. Her forehooves stabbed out, hard and fast, the distinctive crunching sound and feeling of cartilage told her she’d crushed the windpipe.

You are small and weak, but that doesn’t mean you are helpless. Your opponents will have weaknesses too. Eyes. Throats. Knees. Gonads. Places where a little pain goes far. You don’t have to beat your enemy. You don’t have to kill them. You simply have to make them wish to flee more than they wish to fight.

The legionnaire fell back, coughing and gagging as he dropped the knife. She couldn’t stop, rolling to the side and scooping up a hoofful of salt and dust as she came to her feet, flinging it into the face of another legionnaire. One was coming up behind her with a club in its mouth. She set her forehooves and kicked back her hind legs in a pony-style buck, her hooves not striking the face, but one end of the bar in their mouth. There was a crunching sound and a half dozen teeth hit the dirt.

Still, she was only one filly, and they were recovering from the shock of her attack, backing away to recover and set themselves while the skeletons pursued her relentlessly around Skylord. Her only ranged weapon was lying under a train car.

“Stupid storyteller,” they started to rasp. She snatched up the dropped pipe from the one she’d kicked in the face. “Stupid. Stupid.” They repeated as they kept back, letting the undead handle her.

“Oh, yeah?” she snapped back. “Well, how’s this for a twist?” she asked, bringing the pipe straight down with all her force on a bony limb: the one hooked over Skylord’s holster.

Skylord didn’t waste a second with quips. He immediately grabbed the gun and started firing as fast as he could. She stood on his back, swinging the pipe at the pair of skeletons. She remembered her mama and how she’d hook her foreleg around it to brace it, turning her whole body to convey the force. Bones splintered and shattered under her blows, and though the dark magic animating them worked to reassemble them, but with each smashed bone it took longer and longer.

Then, just as Skylord’s gun went dry, it ended. The Bone Legion remaining fled once more into the wreckage. With their departure, the bones went slack, crumpling to the ground in dry, inert piles. The immediate danger had passed, but she still made sure they wouldn’t be getting up again, breaking them into pieces and then the pieces into fragments and then the fragments into dust. Tears streamed down her cheeks and snot dripped down her muzzle as she struck again and again.

Then she felt a claw on her shoulder and whirled, striking out with a hoof that smacked Skylord firmly across the beak. He fell back with a squalk as she breathed deeply and sharply. “I- Am- Not- Dis- Honest!” she snapped between gasps of air. She took a deep breath and said a lot more evenly, “I just don’t want my friends to worry. Putting on a happy face isn’t dishonesty.”

He stared up at her a moment and gave a little smirk. “Sure. Whatever you say,” he said as he rose to his feet. “Let’s get somewhere they can’t ambush us again. They’re starting to get cocky, and I don’t like it.” They started away from the battle, Majina retrieving her blowgun and setting the pipe across her shoulders. “By the way, that was the pretty impressive fighting. Glad to know you can do it.”

Majina blinked and flushed as they walked through a gap back towards the pool. A smile appeared on her lips. “Yeah. Me too.”

There were ponies that hated numbers. They were idiots, every single one of them. Numbers were clean. Pure. Honest. They didn’t lie to you. Didn’t care if you hated what they told you. Numbers were simple. Eat four pounds of food a day, thirty two pounds of food would be gone in eight days. Eat two. Gone in sixteen. Eat one. Gone in thirty two. Numbers were her greatest ally. They’d kept her alive when other foals were starving to death.

That didn’t always mean that Charity liked them. She sat in the back of the trailer taking inventory as nearly a dozen of these zebras were turning fixing the Whiskey Express into some sort of game. She’d leave the quality of their work up to Scotch to inspect. So long as they didn’t expect to be paid, she had bigger worries on her mind. Their spill in the desert had scattered their supplies, and while they’d recovered some of them, others had been blown away or collected by these zebras. The amount of food they had wouldn’t last three days. The loss of the water tank had been annoying too. With more dry lands to the south, according to their navigator, she was concerned about water. Water was heavy, bulky, and had a maddening tendency to leak or otherwise escape. And as bothersome as it was to transport, without it they were going to die.

Numbers were firm on that too.

“Hey, grumplebutt. What are you doing?” Precious asked, the dragonfilly flopping half over the edge of the wagon, legs dangling. Then her deep blue eyes switched over to the mob of zebras apparently doing things involving blow torches and hammers. “Wait! What the heck are they doing!” she said, pointing a claw at them.

“Apparently this tribe likes fixing things. They said Scotch said it was okay,” she said, waving a hoof, as she stared at her clipboard. “Feel free to eat a few of them if you think they’re being trouble.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Precious muttered.

Charity glanced at her sullen friend. “You used to joke about it all the time,” she said as she tapped the blunt end of the pencil against the clipboard.

“That was before I actually did it,” the dragonfilly countered with a sharp look.

“Not as much fun as threatening to do it?” Charity asked as she tried to calculate how far they could get before needing to scavenge. There just wasn’t any food here! Every day they waited they were slowly dying.

“Try the opposite,” Precious said, her voice low. “I ate a zebra’s still hot and dripping guts and when I was done, I wanted seconds,” she said, her eyes dropped. “I don’t want to eat people.”

Charity nodded slowly. “Well, thanks. I don’t want to be eaten. Win-win. Yay,” she said, and set the clipboard aside. “Why’d you leave at all? I mean, I thought we had a really good thing going.”

“You had a good thing going. My thing was sitting on a bunch of gold. Which, don’t get me wrong, was really nice… but…” She closed her eyes. “Charity, what am I?”

Charity blinked, as the topic drifted as far from the safe and comfortable shore of numbers into the murky seas of feelings. “Uh… asking questions you should ask Majina?”

“I mean it. What the heck am I? Where did I come from? Am I really unique, or are there more dragon pony things like me?” She sighed, folding her forelegs on the rim of the cart and resting her chin on them. “I wasn’t going to find out any of those things with you.”

Oddly stung, Charity responded, “That’s not true!” Then she blinked as she saw the skeptical arch of Precious’s brow. “I mean… eventually I would have been wealthy enough… I mean… I could have hired people to find out. If I’d known you wanted to know that. And I could get a good rate.”

“Right. Or you replaced me with some guards. Face it, I wasn’t ever your friend back in the Hoof. I was a guard dog. And yeah, I was okay with that for a bit, but once Scotch left I had no reason to stay with you. She’s my friend. You were my boss,” Precious said flatly.

Why should that upset her? It was all perfectly true. “Well, I was just trying to run a business,” she muttered sullenly.

“Yeah. And I get that. I don’t hold it against you. But Scotch is nice to me. She’s my friend. You’re… not,” Precious said with a shrug. “Honestly, Charity, you treated me about the same as Sanguine. ‘Oooh, big scary dragon filly as my guard animal,’” she said, waving her claws and then snorting.

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” Charity said, frowning. She always functioned on what people wanted against what they had and what they needed. She never gouged on needed things. Selling a bottle of purified water to a dying pony for a hundred caps was stupid. After all, a living customer today was a repeat customer tomorrow. If you sold it for ten caps, in ten days you’d have just as much. In twenty, twice as much.

There wasn’t any clean equation for friendship, no market value she could nail down. No ‘I do X for you, I receive Y in return.’ No way to calculate returns on investments. She took a stab. “Well, did Sanguine say what you were?” She barely remembered the ghoul that had been a sort of information broker. Someone that did bad things for bad ponies. Charity had never met him save for the day he shot her in the gut. That she remembered all too well.

“He told me I was a weapon experiment. That they made me to fight in the war,” she sighed. “But he told people a lot of things that weren’t true.”

“You were in one of those stasis pod things though, right?” Charity asked. “You lived before the bombs?”

“Yeah, but I was a foal. I don’t remember a lot. A lot of doctors and lights and needles. Some mention of ‘unknown magic.’” She paused and chewed her lower lip with a fang before adding. “I remember a mare. She called me ‘my precious darling.’ I can’t remember who she was or what she looked like. Just that she smelled nice.” She gave a little shrug. “I don’t think that anyone making a weapon experiment would call it ‘precious darling.’”

Charity sighed. “Maybe she was your mom.”

“Maybe,” Precious gave a wistful smile. “What about your mom? I don’t think you ever talked about your parents.”

“Probably because I don’t want to,” Charity snapped. “You’re the one with the ‘what am I’ questions! Not me!”

“Why are you getting so mad?”

“I am not getting mad!” Charity yelled, drawing not only a worried look on Precious’s face but also a dozen eyes from the zebras working on the tractor. “This is not mad! This is assertively vetoing this line of conversation!” They kept staring, and she thrust a hoof at them. “I’ll sue you!”

“Charity,” Precious said softly, “you’re yelling at them in Pony.”

Charity froze and then spat, “Well good! Serves them right for their ignorance. It’s not my fault I don’t speak ooga booga perfectly! Translate if you want.” She snorted as she sat down, feeling like an idiot. All the nice, reliable numbers went away, swept aside under a sea of non-numerical anger.

“Okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, don’t,” Precious muttered.

“Who said I didn’t want to talk about it? I don’t not want to talk about it. There’s just no point to talking about it. It’s a stupid topic that wastes time and my time is too precious to be wasted, Precious!” she said, and then her brain caught up and she blurted. “You know what I mean!” Charity flushed as the baffled looks from the zebras increased.

“Charity, do not upset the nice zebras who are fixing our tractor for free,” Precious said, keeping her voice low. “Goddesses, I can’t believe I’m being the voice of reason now.”

Charity trembled a little, forcing herself to be steady and give the damned facts. “My mom was weak. Pathetic. Stupid. My dad gave her a pity fuck and caps to live on long enough to give birth to me. But she was still an idiot too weak to live. She got turned into a pile of ash because the asshole that sired me didn’t love her. End. Of. Story.”

“Charity,” Precious said after a long silence. “That’s horrible.”

“Yeah, well, don’t pity me,” Charity snorted. “Pity was the only reason I was born, and I don’t trade in pity. I take care of myself like my mom couldn’t. I’m not going to just give up and die because for want of something as unquantifiable and intangible as love. I’d rather everyone think me a jerk than pity me.” Let alone love me.

“Well, thanks for telling me,” Precious said, and actually smiled. “You know, I think this is the most we’ve ever actually talked about things. Most of the time you just ignore me or treat me like a dangerous animal.”

Charity flushed. “I… I didn’t think of you as an animal. You didn’t talk very much back in the Hoof. I thought you were happy working for me.”

She gave a minimal shrug. “Content, maybe, but I didn’t want that to be my life. I wanted friends. People who didn’t care I was half dragon. These zebra lands might be weird and dangerous, but at least here I’m just another freak.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, what’s got you scowling?”

Charity took the out. That embarrassing little outpouring was probably more sticky, sappy feelings than she’d ever shared in her life. “We’re in trouble. Apparently the only thing south of us is more rough terrain, megaspells, and trouble. We’ll have to scavenge. That’s going to slow us down. I don’t trust these bone bastards to just let us drive off and spread news of their nasty little surprise in the middle of the Empty.”

“So go east?”

“That’s literally five times wider than the narrows we just crossed. Or bigger,” Charity said. “And west are dragons, and they don’t like anyone.”

“Well, lucky for us, we have a half dragon to bridge the gap!” Precious said with that eager grin that made Charity nauseous.

“Apparently they don’t like other dragons either.”

“Oh. Huh,” Precious muttered with a frown. “So go through badlands or play ‘dodge the fireball’ with antisocial dragons? Is that it?”

“And either way, we’re woefully short on supplies,” Charity said with a sigh. “All the numbers point to zeroes if we try this on our own.”

“Well,” Precious offered with a weak grin. “Maybe the numbers are wrong?”

Charity just glowered at her inventory list. “Numbers are never wrong.”

Pythia lay out, feeling her coat get all prickly from drying funny. Small price to pay for a few minutes of pretending like she was a kid again, rather than an adult waiting to grow up. Her worn star map lay before her, depicting the northern hemisphere. Someday she’d like to get one for the south, again. Her pendant hung over the map, bending the sunlight into spots that aligned curiously on various formations on the night sky. The map had three generations of her in it.

On occasion, that thought didn’t make her want to scream.

Atropos, the ancient zebra who’d been like the grandmother from a frozen hell she’d never had, informed her that she had an old soul; one that returned again and again. That in her last life, she’d been Atropos’s niece. The life before, her sister. She didn’t remember anything, of course, but there were feelings of familiarity and old dreams. In every life she was, apparently, a seer. Every life she died giving birth to herself. She saw that future all over the place. One careless moment. One horrible moment. One terrible, bloody, screaming birth…

She’d sterilize herself if she wasn’t so terrified of what might happen if she did. Would she wink out of existence? Die for good? Be reborn to some other zebra. Some other race? Wander endlessly as a lost soul? It wasn’t an experiment she wanted to face.

Seeing herself in that poster had brought it all back. She wasn’t normal. She couldn’t be normal. She looked on at Scotch and her friends with an envy that nearly hurt. Rather than think about it any longer, she watched the light pool on Arcturus. Unwelcome revelation for a close friend. Tiny spots on Alcyone. Her dearest friend. So, Scotch was probably finding out what Pythia had been dreading: that she was spirit touched. Thrown naked into a profession that usually took years to ease into, if you did at all.

Seeing a spirit in a balefire blast… yet it made sense. Blackjack had been spirit touched. Spirit drenched, more like it. She’d entreated the stars, embraced chaos, and touched the beyond so many times that Pythia had been compelled to return just to gaze at the spiritual knot around that pony. And she’d added to it! That a pony had been spirit touched was less shocking than one turning out to be a shaman. Wicked and malevolent spirits, the really bad ones, would seek out the real monsters of any race. Elevate them. Make them greater and more terrible than the common butchers they’d otherwise be.

She’d been lucky Blackjack hadn’t just killed them all.

Yet now Scotch was touched too, which raised the question: had Blackjack’s own spiritual taint contaminated Scotch somehow? Looking at her friends’ tragic ends, it would be hard to imagine it not spreading to each of them. Or had something great and terrible seen something in Scotch, and awoken it? There were things Scotch hadn’t told her. Every future where she asked ended in disaster. She hoped Majina or Precious might ferret out a clue.

If the former, she could try to guide her. If the latter… well, any hope of having the spirits ignore her was gone now. She’d effectively cut the lid from her third eye to stare bloody and unblinking into the beyond. That sort of thing would draw attention.

Ponies often mocked curses, but they were quite real. Her friend was cursed. Indescribably cursed. How far it would go, how much it would advance, remained to be seen.

“You look deep in thought,” came a stallion’s voice behind her. Annoying. She was slipping into futures she hadn’t screened yet. Adult stallion. Relatively handsome with a shaggy blueish black striped mane, she supposed, but wasn’t an expert on that. Tiny, ridiculous beard on his chin. A peek into the close features didn’t show any likely violence, just distraction.

“Your name is X’nar. You’re curious about the Starkatteri and want to ask me questions. Yes, I can see the future. No, you don’t want me to do it for you unless you want to be cursed by the stars. I–” she fell silent as she turned to give him her best withering glare.

It wasn’t a stallion.

The ancient zebra stood there in a ragged, frost rimmed cloak, despite the warmth of the day. Or what had been a warm day. The temperature plunged as she stared into those ancient, terribly familiar blue eyes. The stripes on most of her body were faded to little more than gray stains, save for the circular marking on her face. Even in the shadow of her hood, they seemed carved into her aged and withered visage.

“Atropos,” Pythia whispered.

“You overuse the sight, little one. It’s going to get you in trouble one of these days,” the zebra spoke in a voice like a calving glacier.

“What are you doing here?” Pythia muttered, watching patches of frost form on the ground around her. “You are here, aren’t you? Or is this a projection?” Pythia’s eyes narrowed as she asked the important question, “What are you up to?”

“You don’t see me for years and you start with the accusations,” she croaked, a cold, rare chuckle escaping her lips. “No ‘I missed you, grand aunt?’ or ‘How have you been, auntie?’” she asked, her frigid blue eyes narrowing. “Not even a ‘Hope you are well, daughter?’”

Pythia swallowed. “Fine, you want formalities? Hello, sister,” she said, glancing around. “Where are the cousins?”

“Around,” Atropos said as she sat down. “We’ve been busy since everything went awry in the cursed city, thanks to you.” Her standard frown asserted itself. “You didn’t follow the plan. Blackjack faces the betrayer, kills him, and dies putting the Great One back to the earth. We come along, and he makes us his new disciples. Our tribe is restored to its proper greatness, with the Eater firmly our slave. We could have had unimaginable power.” She was silent a moment, letting that sink in. “Instead, you get curious and you made a pact with a truly insane number of stars to see the pony to victory. What did you promise them? How did you get so many to tip the scales of fate to allow his destruction?”

“Blackjack’s going to help them answer the question,” Pythia answered. “Even if it takes millions of years.”

“Fool. But then only a fool would kill that which is to be immortal,” she sniffed. “I assume her demise is temporary then?”

“I have no idea. Whatever they have planned they’ve hidden from me.”

“Then you went and put that doom on yourself to stop using your gift,” she continued with a disdainful little smirk. “You were always so impulsive.” Atropos’s lips curled in a thin, tiny smile. “I could get rid of it, you know. Put it on that pony you’re trotting around with. It wouldn’t even be difficult, for me.”

“Don’t even think about it!”

“How disgusting,” Atropos sighed. “Well, you always were perverse, dear sister. I suppose it’s fortunate we weren’t born as a zony, or some even more bizarre hybrid.” Then she tapped her lips with a hoof, emphasizing her snide smile. “Oh. I almost forgot. You don’t like stallions, do you?”

“What do you want, daughter?” Pythia said as contemptuously as possible. Insults were par for the course for her tribe. Everything devolved into pissing matches, and Atropos was no different. Sometimes it was just… exhausting.

Atropos’ eyes narrowed as they moved on to business. “We want you back. There’s still a chance to salvage the future for our tribe, with your help,” she said. “You owe us.”

“I owe you nothing.” She gave a dismissive flip of her hoof. “Take it up with Blackjack if you want revenge. Or with the stars, for all the luck you’ll have collecting from them,” Pythia snapped back, her breath fogging in the air. Atropos must have been pissed to be leaking power so badly. Or just old.

“You owe me and every one of our tribe everything!” Atropos growled as she leaned towards Pythia. “Great Grandmother.”

Pythia felt a stab of frost inside her. “That’s not on me,” she whispered. “You can’t blame me for that.”

“Everything is on you!” Atropos hissed. “This,” she gestured at the desolation and emptiness around them, “is on you! You saw a glorious future for our tribe. All the power and glory of the world! And we believed you. We all believed you. And this is the future you gave us!” she said as she thrust a hoof out at the Wasteland.

“You can’t lay that on me!” Pythia cried up at her. “I don’t remember those lives! I don’t!”

“You won’t. Block them out if you must. Deny and lie if you will, but I know the glorious future you promised us all, Great Grandmother.” She swung that hoof back to point at Pythia in condemnation. “It’s all your fault!”

“It wasn’t me! I’m not her!” Pythia wailed, shrinking before the old mare, that frozen peak looming above her. “I don’t! I don’t remember anything. You know that.”

“Little memories, no. That’s the province of the mind, not the soul. But I cannot believe that you have no inkling of what you’ve wrought.” She then reached into her cloak, pulling out a flask full of a wintery blue solution. “But here. Let it not be said I am stingy. Truth. Liquid memory, distilled from multiple spirits of truth. Take it. Drink it. Know your sins, Great Grandmother.”

Pythia took the frigid bottle. Don’t drink it, and she could pretend that the past was past. That whatever she’d done in another life, it wasn’t her fault.

But that was the coward’s way out.

She pulled out the rubber stopper. Maybe a sip. The cold fluid burned as it went down her throat and the world swirled away.

The past was always golden. She walked down the hall of a palace, so monumental and massive that she seemed an ant trapped beneath a grand marble and gold dome. The walls depicted great Caesars of the past, this one leading the zebras against a flock of griffons, that one facing off against an immense dragon. Others were doing great feats of building, one Caesar erecting this very palace, another building a great well into the earth. The giant gold and brass figures only heightened her sense of insignificance.

She glanced up at the stallion beside her. Tall and sure, unashamed of the circular marks declaring his tribe. He didn’t wear a cloak, as she did. He seemed blind to the whispers and mutters and scowls of the courtiers and guards surrounding them. “Remember, Tanit, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Why does the Caesar want to see you, Father?” she asked, glancing at the others around her, trying to see a future with threats.

“Oh, probably more problems with the ponies. It’s been a rough ten years. Ever since the Wonderbolt raid, well…” He gave a little shrug. “He asks for my perspective from time to time. I do business in Equestria, after all.”

Just the word got them such glares that she walked close enough to him their sides touched. She almost wished he’d carry her, but she was too old for that. Maybe. “He’s not afraid of being cursed?”

Her father chuckled. “He’s not afraid of anything.”

They moved into a hallway, past more golden armed guards, and into an office.

With him.

There was almost a glow about the zebra, that marked him as the Caesar without even having to ask. A warmth seemed to seep out of his very pores, his mane tall and proud in a perfectly trimmed mohawk. Eyes bright and keen, with the curiosity of a child, the purpose of an adult, and the wisdom of an elder peered at the pair of them with a look of total acceptance, cursed stripes and all. “Crux! And your daughter?” he asked as he looked down at her merrily. “Tanit, isn’t it?”

He was addressing her! Actually addressing her! This handsome, sure, amazing zebra was talking to her! “Yes, I’m Tanit. I’m eight years old.” Then she bobbed her cloaked head. “Nice to meet you, your Caesarness sir.”

He gave a laugh that made the other adult zebras shift uncomfortably. One stood out. A young mare with her mane dyed yellow and red was the only one that acknowledged her with a small, awkward smile, as if she didn’t know the proper expression to give a Starkatteri filly.

“I’m glad she had the opportunity to see the palace,” her father said warmly. “I think if more of my tribe were welcome, we would all understand how important for our lives to be united in harmony. Thank you for inviting us.” For all her father’s grand statement, there was an edge to his voice, and he kept her close besides him.

“Absolutely,” the Caesar said, reaching out and giving his shoulder a genial pat. “It should be thirteen tribes, none of this twelve and one garbage! Or just one people.” His eyes dropped down to her. “What did you think of the palace?”

“It’s very… big,” she offered. “Are you going to put yourself on one of those walls?”

That got another laugh, and more muttering and shifting from the other adults. “Perhaps! We’d have to expand the palace to add some new walls. Probably how the palace got so big in the first place!” He then glanced back at the mare with the colorful mane. “Ignatia! Come and introduce yourself. Don’t worry, you won’t get cursed just from talking with them.”

The mare looked a little sickly, and the dozen adults seemed to press away from the pair. Ignatia, however, cleared her throat and stepped forward. “H- hello,” she said, her voice shaking.

“Ignatia’s my spiritual advisor,” the Caesar explained, his smile fading like the sun disappearing behind a cloud, “since the other shamans are too busy saying how the spirits are upset to actually advise me on how to improve things with them.”

“Not fraternizing with the cursed ones would be a good start,” one said a little too loudly.

The Caesar straightened and looked at the crowd. “Lionysus?” he asked. One adult stallion stepped forward as if his limbs were made of wood. “Do you have a problem with my guests?”

“They were cursed for a reason,” the old zebra muttered. “Your favorability and image would improve remarkably if you stopped granting them such concessions.”

“Like basic legal protection and opportunity afforded to all zebras, regardless of tribe?” he asked evenly. “Had I consulted with them earlier, Celestia would never had the opportunity to meddle in our lands. If you do not like it, perhaps it is best you depart for the day.” The old zebra, clearly stung, marched towards the door giving the pair a harsh look as he passed. “Lionysus!” the Caesar called before he departed, making the old zebra pause. “I understand your concerns. I do. But this is a new era. Change is inevitable.”

“Perhaps, Caesar, but that doesn’t mean we have to like it,” the zebra declared before marching out. From the mutterings and looks, quite a few others didn’t either.

The Caesar dismissed the rest of the assembled zebras with a wave of his hoof, but Ignatia lingered. When the door closed, he walked behind the desk and sighed, clasping his head in his hooves. “To think, we used to be friends,” he muttered.

“He’s just stuck in the past,” Ignatia said immediately.

“Perhaps. He didn’t approve of me running for Caesar. Too close to grandfather’s term,” the Caesar said with a smile like the sun emerging from the clouds. But as quickly as they parted, the clouds closed once again. “Still, he’s a powerful voice in the Roamani. I need him. If I lose my own tribe, what do I have.”

“Well, I’ll like you,” Tanit said at once. “Father says you’re why zebras can’t burn down our things anymore because we’re cursed.”

The Caesar beamed that warm smile upon her, before turning it upon her father. “Indeed. And your father has made off quite well in the last eight years.”

“Remarkable how easy it is to make money when you know the likeliest future,” Crux said. “Even in the current political climate.”

“You mean with the ponies, or with the tribes? Sometimes I forget which is the bigger pain in my tail,” the Caesar replied with that easy smile. “Actually, it’s the former I wanted to consult with you about.” He gestured to seats before the desk. Ignatia started for the door, but he stretched out a hoof. “Ignatia, stay. I’d like your opinion as well.” She blinked and took a seat. Then the Caesar looked at Tanit. “Now, you need to keep this secret. No talking to your classmates or friends about it.” Classmates? Friends? She didn’t have either of those, but she nodded all the same.

“I’ve been trying to find a mutual solution to both of these problems, but the pony one seems to be the most pressing. I’ve been restricting shipments of coal while they’ve been cutting back on gems. It’s causing strain with the Propoli. Is there any way you could help us with the gem shortage?”

Crux rubbed his chin. “Not directly. Four Stars is tolerated in Equestria because we’re a neutral party. I know a pair of ponies that would sell their mother’s hooves for bits though. Particularly for some cheap banned imports. I won’t be able to move nearly the bulk to make up for the lost trade though.”

“So long as I can promise the Propoli something,” he said with a nod. “What we really need is a resolution to this disagreement. The Wonderbolts humiliated our people when they dealt with our problem for us. It was an internal matter. Would we have sent zebra commandos into Equestria if some ponies had taken our people hostage?”

“Quite possibly,” Crux replied, getting a sour look from the Caesar. “It was time sensitive. Celestia is dutiful to her people, to a fault. She’s getting nervous about more coal cuts. Equestria just doesn’t have the coal resources we do.”

“She needs to learn she can’t meddle in our affairs. I have to be able to trust that she won’t meddle. And the tribes need to learn that I am their Caesar, whether they voted for me or not,” he sniffed. “Those fossils would have me bend and scrape to their elders for permission to run this empire.”

“And our tribe wants you to be bolder and more decisive. The Roamani need a strong leader,” Ignatia chimed in.

“You see my conundrum, don’t you, Crux?” the Caesar asked with a plaintive smile. “What would your wife have done?”

Her father’s face immediately fell. “I never had Coral’s gift of sight.”

“What about her daughter?” the Caesar said, glancing at her. “Do you see the future?”

“Not clearly nor reliably. She isn’t a seer,” Crux said at once with a small frown. “She’s too young to see well.”

“But she does see,” the Caesar said smoothly. “I’m curious about her perspective. Coral was her mother, after all.”

Crux reached over, putting a hoof around her shoulders protectively. “I… I don’t have anything to scry with. And it’s daytime, so I can’t see the stars!” she babbled.

But the Caesar reached into his desk with withdrew a folded piece of paper. “I thought you might need help.” He slid it over to her, and she unfolded it into a pristine map of the night sky. “I need to know what the future will be.” He glanced at her father with that almost ever-present smile, somehow cooler now. Her father’s face had gone from a frown to almost a mask of indifference.

“I… I’d need a device,” she said as she looked at her father. “Do you have Mother’s crystal?”

Crux sighed, reaching up to his neck where a thin silver chain twinkled. He tugged it off, passing it to her. Its purple gem glittered in the light. She wrapped it around her hoof, letting it dangle. It felt so comfortable and natural, as if she’d done this a million times before. “What… what do you want me to see?”

“Tell me what happens if I restore trade with Equestria.”

She held the chain out, choosing to call on Sirius. She watched as the crystal focused the light into a tiny purple dot on the star. Tiny wiggles appeared as the pendant started to sway, the speck orbiting the spot on the map. “I… don’t see anything, your Ceasarness, sir. I see…” images and impressions flipped through her mind. Ideas that skated off her perceptions. “I see that old zebra dying. Lyowhatisname. Then you’re not Caesar anymore.” She swallowed as she saw her home on fire. “Then… bad things.”

“The tribes are trying to recall me now,” the Caesar muttered. “What if I maintain the embargo?”

“That should be enough. I’ll get another, more experienced seer for you,” her father said.

“She’s Coral’s daughter,” the Caesar repeated firmly, then looked to her. “Go on.”

An embargo was a block, right? Something a dragon would do, right? She selected the constellation of Draco, waving it back and forth and watching it weave. The swaying seemed to be drawn towards one star in particular. Rastaban. “I think. I think that the ponies would have no need for coal. Then you’re no longer Caesar. Bad things.” She saw the ponies making machines that ran on gems and magic rather than simply burning coal. The zebras would be even angrier at the Caesar, and at her tribe.

“I understand,” the Caesar said, rubbing his face. “She confirms what I already feared. My tenure is doomed.”

Then the pendant gave a little twitched towards a gap in the stars. She peered down at a tiny gray lettering. ‘Ashur.’ A theoretical dark star. Bad star. Yet it kept on tugging and she stared. “Maybe.” Immediately, she became aware of the Caesar’s attention. “Maybe… if you fight… Celestia?”

“Fight?” he blinked. “You mean a war?”

“War?” Ignatia immediately stiffened.

“I don’t know,” Tanit frowned. “I don’t understand. I see you fight Celestia… and then someone else… and then… things happen.” Bad things. Terrible things that she couldn’t make out. She started to tremble.

“That’s fine, dearest. You don’t have to look any more,” Crux told her.

“No. No. Go on,” the Caesar said with that warm smile.

“Well, Celestia fights you, and I see a lot of zebras behind you, and you become… great?” she didn’t have the right word for it. Like a giant blazing sun, maybe. She didn’t want to see anymore, yet the Caesar seemed fascinated with her. “You… all the tribe are following you and…” she pulled the pendant away. “Things happen.” She muttered, not able to say any more. She didn’t have the vocabulary to describe it. Didn’t have experience to understand the flames that rained down and rent the earth itself.

“Interesting.” He rubbed his chin. “Your mother gave me a similar scrying before I became Caesar. That I would be the greatest of Caesars.”

“But Tanit is not Coral,” her father emphasized.

“How could we possibly justify a war with Equestria? The tribes wouldn’t stand for it,” Ignatia said immediately. “They’d depose you unanimously if you tried it.”

“True,” the Caesar said with a slow nod. “We could never attack Equestria. But what if Celestia attacked us?”

“Celestia would never do such a thing. Equestria prides itself on its stance of non-aggression,” Crux pointed out.

The Caesar seemed to mull this over. He sat back behind the desk, staring up at the ceiling where a giant golden mosaic of the sun stretched from corner to corner. “Never, eh?” he mused as he reached over to a strange blue and green ball on his desk. It took Tanit a moment to realize it was a globe, and it looked so small as he rolled it between his hooves. “Never ever… except she cares about her people.” He tapped a hoof right over Equestria. “Would that I could trust her not to meddle again,” he muttered.

Suddenly, he sat up and gave them all a sly look. “What if we halted the coal shipments completely,” the Caesar asked, “but left the trains right at the border to Equestria? We could claim that it’s for inspections or some such?” He smiled, setting the world back down on his desk, and walked to the window. “If Equestria is truly devoted to peace and tranquility, then they’d do nothing. And I suppose my time as Caesar will be rather brief. So be it. But if Celestia is not the peaceful monarch she claims to be, if she moves to take the shipment, then it will be a rallying cry for our people! The tribes wouldn’t depose a Caesar while we’re under attack by an outside power.”

Crux frowned. “I don’t know what Celestia would do. Normally, I’d say she’d never take the bait, but these aren’t normal times.”

“Let us see if Equestria is committed to peace or not,” he purred, then looked at Tanit. “Thank you. I owe much to you, and to your mother.”

Tanit could only tremble next to her father.

Coming out of the memory, Pythia lay on her side, shivering from the cold running through her veins. Being told you had an old soul like hers was one thing, but having it thrown in her face left her mind in knots. That wasn’t her. It wasn’t! It couldn’t be. And yet, it felt true. As if she could remember more things about Crux if she just pushed herself. That beyond that wall of ignorance was a whole world, a life’s worth of memory and experience.

She never thought of the war. Had she… no. She couldn’t think about that. She stared at the flask next to her head, the blue fluids glistening with promises of more submerged memories.

“Your sins, my dear, are myriad,” Atropos demurred. “A hundred times worse than Vitiosus. Those I know of are bad enough. I can only imagine what sins you’ve committed that time and history have erased.”

“It’s not my fault,” she repeated weakly, hanging her head. “I’m trying to make up for it.”

“Yes. Following this spirit touched curiosity.” Atropos gave a little wave of her hoof. “On a quest to find out if the world is blind or not. Distracting yourself from your responsibilities to your family. Your people.” She reached out and lifted Pythia’s chin. “Abandon this farce. The state of the Eye is irrelevant. There is a far greater prize to be had for our tribe.”

“How?” Pythia muttered, sniffing a snotty nose. “The Eater of Souls is dead.”

“Oh, yes. He is,” Atropos said with a thin smile. “But he left a gift. A great and terrible gift. Have your senses become so atrophied that you can’t sense it?” Pythia blinked, but then shook her head. Atropos let out a familiar sigh of disappointment. “Well, I’m certain that you will in time. Come back with me, and I’ll tell you more.”

Pythia stared at her. The old mare that had been daughter, sister, aunt, and great aunt all at once. It was tempting. Familiar. “I… can’t.”

“You certainly can,” she said, voice clipped. “There’s nothing stopping you from leaving with me right now.”

“Atropos, this is like the Legate. We were sure he was going to restore our tribe. After millennia of persecution, we’d be in charge once again. But he was the betrayer! He would have killed our tribe for his master.” She turned and looked back over her shoulder at the camp of Propoli. “What Scotch is doing… it matters! I feel the ripples of it with every step. I can’t leave her to follow you. I just can’t.”

Atropos stared at her coolly. “That pony is a fool. She is going to get you killed, for good. I should kill you myself, for the good of the Starkatteri… but you are kin. I’ll not contaminate my hooves with that sin. I’ll leave it up to another.” Then she leaned in. “Just remember, I gave you the chance, dear sister. Dear niece. Dear mother.”

A wintery blast of chill wind hit her face, forcing her eyes closed. When the wind abated, Atropos was nowhere to be seen. Only a patch of rapidly sublimating frost. She then looked at that flask again. How many more memories lingered in that blue potion? She lifted the chill glass in her hooves. Should she drink it all? Smash it on the ground and pretend like she was just a filly, and not responsible for what was put into motion all those years ago?

She rolled to her hooves and carefully slipped the potion into her saddlebags. She couldn’t answer that question. She might never be able to answer it.

“Hey,” came a call from down the slope. Pythia turned and spotted Scotch Tape heading towards her. The pony’s bloodshot eyes kept low as she trotted up next to her and plopped down. “What are you up to? Seeing the future?” she asked, then frowned and touched the rock. “Why’s my butt cold?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Pythia replied. “It’s just… a thing,” she said lamely as she stared down at her hooves as well. “I was looking at the future. Ended up seeing the past.”

“I found out I’m not a shaman. I got touched by a spirit, or something. And that, apparently, it’s a bad thing,” she sighed and shook her head. “You know, I thought today was going to be a good day. Get the Whiskey Express fixed. Get going on our quest.”

“It started out nice. We weren’t dead, at least. That’s a good day, right?” Pythia offered with a half smile.

“Yeah,” Scotch replied with her own half smile. “I guess you’re right.”

Then, because she had to, because she did, she looked up and out at the Empty to the north. “Too bad the day’s not over.”

From the swirling dust, a steam tractor emerged. Then another. Then five more, in a V formation, emerging from the swirling white dust.

And then the dead.

They moved like white ants, keeping pace with the tractors in a tireless surging throng as they emerged. Not just zebra bones either. There were cadavers that looked to have been constructed of dragons. Centaurs. Creatures she couldn’t even name. Hundreds of them. Thousands.

And at their lead, the dry dead air snapping at his bandages, was General Ossius.

The Bone Legion had arrived.