Firearms were strangely fascinating; Red Field quickly finished the book on the contraband machines before dinner the next day. By method of expanding propellant gasses, firearms had the capacity to launch very light, spitzer projectiles at incredible speeds. He had of course realized why such inventions were banned. Nopony needed such a dangerous object laying around. Yet Red Field couldn’t help but grin a little as he read about the power of the .40 PAG round.

Mr. Whittaker was right, he did like guns.

Yet guns could not get him a job with Cargill, and more importantly, get him out of his terrible future.
After finishing all of the books regarding any sort of algorithm, Red Field had a fairly clear understanding of the general notion of an investment algorithm. Taking a sheet of paper, Red Field first wrote down all of the possible signs that a stock or investment might increase substantially in value. An education in rock identification did not prepare him for his task, and he spent the better part of the day staring at a piece of paper bearing the words “The price increases substantially”. What could indicate that an investment might increase in value?
Red Field didn’t know, and it killed him to know he didn’t know.

The sun was just setting as the family sat down to eat. Red Field was discouraged, not hungry, and ready to throw his plate across the room should his father even utter a word about rocks. Silently shoveling snap peas to his mouth, Red Field hunched over even more than usual. His mother politely cleared her throat and Red Field readied for the critique on his posture. He heard his parents whisper something and Red Field nearly sat upright in preemptive irritation.

“Red, your father has something for you.” His mother said. Slowly raising his line of vision to parallel that of his father’s, Red Field saw an envelope placed before his plate.

“What is this?” He asked.

“A letter, for you.” Said his father. Red Field’s father was no doubt full of himself for obtaining a form letter requesting his son’s presence at a job interview for Talie. But as Red Field opened the envelope, he realized this letter had not come from anypony from Talie.
Red Field tilted his head; this letter didn’t seem to have come from anypony at all.
The white sheet laid in his hooves. The letter was empty and the envelope not addressed or even sealed. His father seemed to grow more pleased with himself as Red Field stared at the blank document.

“So, what are you going to write?” Cyrus asked.

“To whom?!” Red Field’s confusion turned to exasperation. He heard his mother take a scared breath at his outburst.

Strangely, Cyrus didn’t seem to care.

“I was speaking with the Whitmans, they said their son had received a letter from Gale Force Academy a few months ago. But their colt, Chuck, he didn’t graduate valedictorian. Apparently being valedictorian is very important to Gale Force.” Said Cyrus. He nudged the paper toward Red Field. “You’re Rockvale’s valedictorian this year.” Red Field didn’t care about Gale Force. He didn’t know anything about the school, he didn’t need to. Any school besides the Academy of Advanced Magic wasn’t an option for him. “Gale Force Academy is a very selective school. They-”

“I see.”

Oftentimes, Red Field crossed lines. It usually happened with his father, when the two of them talked for too long. This time had been less than seventy words.
The room became deathly quiet. Rockvale generated no ambient background noise save for crickets. Cyrus looked at his son for a few, long seconds. Then the older pony retreated back to his usual self. Shoving his chair out from the table, he rose.

“Thanks for the meal Moon. I’m going out.” Red Field and his mother watched the concrete-colored stallion leave. The room felt like a broken glass, and Red Field knew that if he moved, it would break more. His mother sat for a second, then got up and mechanically started to clear the table. Red Field picked up his plate and set it in the sink. He heard a sob from his mother as she leaned over the worn metal sink.

“I’m sorry.” He said softly.

“Why Red? Why does everything have to be so hard with you?”

“I’m sorry.” He said. “I don’t know anything about that place and I don’t think it would fit me.”

“Why can’t you be happy that you got a letter to go to a somewhere that isn’t Talie? We thought that’s what you wanted.” She sniffed and pointed to the letter. “Mr. Whitman didn’t offer to give his son’s invitation to you, your father had to-”

“Fine!” Red Field shouted. Yanking a pen from near his bed, he took a seat at the table. “I’ll write to them! I’ll tell them every good deed I’ve done in my whole life!” His mother started to cry and Cyrus burst into the room.

“God dammit Red! You have no right to yell at your mother. Every time I leave you-” He saw his son with the letter. The grey stallion blinked, as if he wasn’t sure if his son was on the verge of destroying the paper. “What are you doing?”

Red Field uncapped the pen and set it on the page. His mother looked over her shoulder at him, her forelegs were still buried in the sudsy water of the sink. A tear ran down her cheek and fell into the filthy dishwater.

“I’m sending Gale Force Academy my transcript.” Said Red Field.

The letter took him fifteen minutes to compose. He wrote of his GPA, which had never fallen beneath 4.0, and of his extracurricular activities, which involved taking every possible course in the scant school. He composed a short essay regarding his demeanor and temperament, both “never causing an issue in group projects or with teacher interaction.”

At first, Cyrus studied him. Over the course of the next few minutes, Cyrus realized Red Field was writing in earnest. As Red Field wrote, his father began to speak of what he knew about Gale Force Academy.
Gale Force was a highly-selective boarding school, with opportunities in most promising fields. The Whitmans were apparently the only ponies in a hundred mile radius to receive a letter of acceptance. His father relayed how only class valedictorians were eligible for admittance, and the proctor of the school had mistakenly assumed that Chuck would be valedictorian, like his father had been.
Red Field asked if maybe not actually getting a letter of invitation would somehow disqualify him as an applicant. His father replied by saying that since only valedictorians could enter the school and since Red Field was a valedictorian in a town that had received a letter, he had a good shot.

Red Field did not want to go to Gale Force Academy. He did not want to send the letter. He did not want to write a message to a school, begging for entrance, when he would rather be learning about alchemy. He wanted nothing to do with a school that surely wanted nothing to do with him.

The family walked to the post office that night to mail the extrapolated attempt at admission. Dropping the little envelope into the mail chute, his father turned to the pair.

“Well there you are! One transcript mailed!” He gave Red Field a pat on the shoulder. “Looks like somepony might not be a Talie employee after all!”

“I’m sure you’re going to be head of the class at Gale Force.”Red Field’s mother gave him a kiss on his ear.
Red Field didn’t say anything. He didn’t say that he was never going to Gale Force Academy, even in the unlikely event he actually got accepted. He didn’t say how nothing in the world appealed to him but alchemy. They started for home, everypony but Red Field feeling refreshed and hopeful about the future of the intelligent stallion. As they all went to bed, his father gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“I hope this can be a compromise for us.” He said. “I’ll talk to the Whitmans and see if they can give me some more details. I know it’s a bit unexpected, but I think you’ll like Gale Force.” Red Field nodded and picked up his next book, which was about fertilizer dispersal patterns.

The story of Red Field’s Cutie Mark wasn’t particularly clear, even to him. No one knew exactly when the symbol appeared on his flank. When Red Field first began school, he had been introduced to the game of chess by his teacher, Miss Wormwood. The polka dotted mare had given the colt a used magnetic chess set as a sort of gift for braving the trek to the school. Chess had been the first indication that Red Field was a different pony. For three days he had studied the smudged vinyl checkerboard, shifting the pieces back in forth in their correct movements.

Then without warning, Red Field played chess.

Against Miss Wormwood, against his parents, against the town of Rockvale, Red Field played everypony. Blitz, rook down, queen down, blindfolded- he had played everypony in Rockvale in every way imaginable. And Red Field had never lost. The inhabitants of the little town jokingly maintained that the world was going to end when Red Field lost at chess. By the fourth straight day of victories against his family and schoolmates, he’d gone in search of somepony to beat him.
He’d found no one, although this had been in part due to the intellectual wasteland of Rockvale. He had gone from house to house looking for somepony to best, or even match him at the game. Sometime during his quest, somepony saw the mark on his flank. Red Field had been too focused on finding a suitable opponent to see or hear the appearance of his Cutie Mark.

Nopony was surprised that Red Field had a chessboard Cutie Mark. He had after all, an apparent talent for the strategic game that bore his body’s color scheme. Red Field had studied his mark many times. It was a partially foreshortened chess board that lacked pieces.

He knew that his special talent was not in chess. Rather, the board symbolized the way he saw everything. He functioned best when given facts and information and a distinct goal, along with proper time to formulate a strategy. Red Field was good at chess because it was how he wanted the world to be: something difficult, but understandable, and with the potential to be assimilated into clean categories for proper calculation.

The day after mailing the letter to Gale Force was predictably warm and Red Field was looking forward to spending some time in the cool and cave-like library. He had with him a notebook, pencils, and a calculator; he was going look for any more information on algorithms and then design one. He opened the door to the machine-shed-turned-reading center and walked to the desk.

Mr. Whittaker was not dozing lightly in his chair. He wasn’t even at the desk, and Red Field looked about for the elderly librarian. He set his books on the desk and walked to M section. Maybe a book on mathematical concepts including algorithms had mistakenly entered the town.
He began to scan for relevant books. He was just tugging one from its tight fit between two larger volumes regarding thresher maintenance when he heard a loud slam on the concrete floor.
Loud noises spooked Red Field, and a sort of rage overtook him whenever such a noise interrupted his thoughts. Jumping to his hooves, he peeked around the corner of the shelf. Mr. Whittaker muttered something as he bent to recover an atlas-sized book from where he had dropped it. Red Field took a deep breath to steady himself, then walked out to Mr. Whittaker.

“Excuse me.” The elder stallion jumped back, dropping the book again. He had apparently been unaware of Red Field’s presence.

“Oh! Red, you startled me!” Said Mr. Whittaker.

“Sorry about that.” Red Field said, the fright from the slam still humming in his mind. “Do you know where any books on algorithmic mathematics would be?”

“The what?” Asked the librarian.

“Algorithms.” Mr. Whittaker squinted at him and Red Field realized he had not encountered an issue of audibility. “Never mind.”

“Red, hang on.” Mr. Whittaker tapped his shoulder as Red Field turned to bookshelves. The librarian held a black book under his shoulder. “How did you like the book on guns?” He asked with a grin.

“Interesting.” Said Red Field. “But they seem a little too dangerous for any practical use.” Mr. Whittaker showed him the book.

“Most of these books are in collections ‘cause of their rarity. But I had a few stashed away somewhere.” Red Field read the cover. Equestrian Projectile Ballistics: An Evolutionary Perspective. “Guns used to be a big part of Equestria. Way back in the day there used to be tons of books like this.”

“I see.” Red Field said, slipping the book into his bag. He would read it later; he had an algorithm to design. “Thanks for the reading.” He said as he returned to the shelf.

“No problem.” Mr. Whittaker said, shuffling off to his desk for a nap. “A pony who reads as much as you do ought to know about firearms.”

Red Field began his algorithm. Designing an algorithm was no easy task, especially given that he knew next to nothing about them. Yet the pages of the notebook were soon filling with the notes and ideas. Nearly everything was lost to Red Field when he concentrated. Time became a foreign concept, hunger and thirst vaporized, and even breathing itself occasionally left him. Thinking was one of his greatest joys, because it was a time when things made sense, or at least, could be made to make sense.
Cargill invested in produce. Red Field would make an algorithm based on the seasonal cabbage varieties around Rockvale. He gradually compiled a list of questions.

Was the cabbage’s price more than four bits a load, if yes then proceed. Could the cabbage be had in at least two pecks a purchase, if yes than proceed. Did the agriculture suggest supporting this particular strain for at least four years (here he had written a separate algorithm for calculating the general projection of a plot of land), if yes than proceed. Was there sufficient growing safety, that is, security against droughts, blights, etc (another algorithm for this), if yes, or more than 85%, than proceed. Assuming the crop passed these tests, it would then move to relative profit analysis. Would this crop become inflated in less than four years, if no then proceed.

He was midway down his third page, engaged in another sub algorithm, when he felt a hoof on his shoulder. Red Field detested interruption, especially when his thoughts became loud.

“What?” He asked loudly. His mother took a step back from the table.

“I was coming to take you to the picnic.” She said. Red Field sighed. He had forgotten about the picnic.

“I’m sorry.” He flipped the notebook closed and blew the eraser sprinkles off of the table. “I forgot that was today.” Rising from the chair, Red Field slung his book bag over his shoulder and started for the door.

“It’s peaceful in here.” Said his mother. Red Field nodded.

“Yeah, I like it.”

“How is Mr. Whittaker? Is he a good librarian?” She asked. Not in a technical sense.

“Yeah, he’s great.” Red Field was still back in his work, trying to define crop consistency.

They stepped outside, and Red Field realized just how long he had been in the library. The sun was setting, and the muggy air began to take a cooler, mist-like feel.

“Your father is bragging about your letter, just let him.” His mother said as they walked to the church. Red Field didn’t care; he might have, had he not spent several hours on an algorithm that would nullify the purpose of said letter. “Oh, and Fannie Mae, you know her, she’s Freddie Mac’s mare, she said she wants a picture of you with her daughter.” Red Field realized he would have to be a presence at the picnic. The weight of Rockvale returned and the world of clean rules faded from his mind.

“How long do I have to be there?” He asked. His mother sighed.

“Red, this is the one time your class will all be together since you didn’t want to stay for your graduation.”

“Okay.” He said.

Rockvale had a church. The reason the seventh and arguably most important building in the town had not been not counted in the total was that the decently-sized church also doubled as the Mcholsteins’ house.
Red Field believed in God. Maybe not the spirit-slaying, miracle granting deity that Rockvale adhered to, but a God nonetheless. For Red Field, God was essentially unknowable. He could do everything, but didn’t have to anything. His motives and actions followed a shrouded and cosmic thread that was of course, impossible to ascertain. If anything was to be said about God, it was that He didn’t really care.
Red Field understood that God owed him nothing, and therefore the very gift of life was an unwarranted blessing. This logic allowed him to conscionably worship with his parents every Sunday at the crowded farmhouse. Unfortunately, this theology essentially clashed with the ideals of the rest of the churchgoers. For Rockvale, a lame leg or addiction to “self-abuse” required nothing less than a full assault from the Prayer Mares, a group of older mares with a strangely vast knowledge of the actions and mistakes of the congregation. Rockvale believed in God, and by the way they acted, God probably believed in them.

Red Field and his mother carried their tub of cabbage soup to the farmhouse. Red Field tried to think more on his algorithm, but his concentration had shattered and he gave up after a few minutes.
The picnic took place behind the Mcholsteins’ house. The tiny dirt yard had seen many funerals, revivals, and Easter egg hunts. They reached the picnic just as the group of church mares was setting out the various crockpot dishes and upside-down casseroles. Red Field set the tub of soup atop the checkered table and looked for a place to retreat.

“Ohhh Red Field!” Helping Hoof gripped him in a choking hug. She was the head of the Prayer Mares and an unfortunate friend of Red Field’s parents. Helping Hoof was a kind enough pony, but she asked too many questions. She was the epitome of the Free Church of Rockvale. Like everypony in Rockvale, she had “known him since he was a skinny little colt.”

“I heard you graduated!” The beefy mare said. He painted a smile and nodded.

“Yep!”

“So what are your plans now?”

“My father got a letter of acceptance, er, invitation from Gale Force Academy. I’m probably going there.”

Helping Hoof smacked her lips in approval.

“Well isn’t that just the most wonderful thing? You know, I had heard that one of those Pegasus ponies out in Gravel got a letter from them too!”

Red Field’s mother came to his rescue.

“Well you know, I had heard that they don’t send a lot of those letters.” She said. Helping Hoof nodded.

“Well I was just talking to Mrs. Freisen and she said-” Red Field had started to slip away from them but Helping Hoof caught his shoulder. “Hold on now! You still haven’t told me what your plans are!”

“Well I’m going to attend the Academy.” He said. She cackled and gave his shoulder a slap.

“That’s not a plan! Tell me what you want to study, what are you interested in?” Red Field hated discussing his fictional plans more than anything, because it forced him to come up with a lie that nopony had written for him.

“I would like to study,” he thought for a few seconds. He knew nothing he wanted to study besides alchemy, and he made no consideration for anything else. Yet he had to think of something that interested him. “Mechanics. Spring and aerodynamic based.” Firearms were interesting. He desperately hoped this would satisfy Helping Hoof. The grey mare’s eyes went wide with surprise.

“Mechanics! That’s a tough field!” She looked to Moonlit Night. “But I know he can handle it, back when we had him in the nursery he would always-” Red Field again began to slip away. A hoof again caught his shoulder. “Hang on!” Said Helping Hoof. “What is it about mechanics that interests you so much?”

Moonlit Night stepped in to rescue Red Field.

“So tell me, how has Iain’s leg been?” She asked. “I heard he was going to that foreign doctor.”

“Oh you haven’t heard?” Said Helping Hoof.

Red Field left the table as the clucking resumed.

He walked for the oak tree that sat on the edge of the property. Taking a seat against the thick tree, Red Field closed his eyes and tried to picture his algorithm, and more importantly, how he could make it better. He heard hoofsteps behind him and looked back. Elroy was approaching the tree, carrying a plate of pineapple-dandelion casserole. The milky white pony took a seat beside Red Field.

“Greetings.” Said Elroy.

“Hey, how are you?” Red Field asked.

Elroy most resembled Red Field in the town of Rockvale. Both were highly intelligent and had experienced the frustration of the limited resources of their tiny school. The only pony who inexplicably pissed off the Tartlets more than Red Field was Elroy. The glue-colored weakling had been the bearer of the nickname “Jizz pony” and had suffered many beatings at the hooves of the inbred brothers for the crimes of “readin’ too many books” and “thinkin’ he was above them.”

Yet unlike Red Field, Elroy was a cheerful pony. He had an active involvement with the church, even garnering a prophetic word regarding his future of “running a thriving ministry”. He actually liked the idea of Talie mining and was planning on accepting a job as a shaft inspector for the corporation. Elroy was weak and sickly, but well-liked amongst the school, which had voted him as “having the brightest future out of all of the graduates” (Red Field had not taken part in the yearbook and thus had not been eligible for the title.)

Unlike Red Field, Elroy was fine with Rockvale.

“I’m well. How are things at the library?” Asked Elroy.

“Unchanged. I left a list with Mr. Whittaker with all of the books you might like. There are a few old encyclopedias with some interesting perspectives. That’s about all that I can recommend.” Red Field said.

“I’ve been in there a few times." Said Elroy with a chuckle. "I’m impressed you can stand to read all of those old manuals.” He took a bite of casserole. “So, you missed the graduation party.”

“Yeah, I’m not really one for loud events.” Said Red Field. Elroy nodded.

“Understandable.” He set his plate in the dust. “What are you going to do now?”

“Gale Force Academy. If that doesn’t work out, then Talie.” Red Field answered quickly.

Instead of the usual resentment and fury the question elicited, Elroy’s inquiry stirred in Red Field an amount of insecurity.

Maybe he felt insecure because they were both smart and had relatively equal options before them. If Red Field had to guess why he cared what Elroy thought, Red Field would have supposed that it was because he didn’t want another smart pony to look down on him for not having a plan for his life.

“I spent a lot of time thinking and praying over which shaft to go to, but I think the first new on in town is definitely where I should go.” He stretched his back out. “So which department do you think you’ll head to if you end up at Talie?”

Red Field knew nothing about Talie.

“The research and development division.” His father had always said that he’d be an engineer. “Working on a new flipper I guess.” He shouldn’t have said “I guess”. Elroy would question him for the uncertainty.
Yet Elroy merely frowned thoughtfully and finished the last of his casserole. Red Field didn’t mind Elroy, he was a nice pony, and smart too. But deep down, Red Field wondered if he resented the milky colt for being another version of himself, only with a brighter future.

“Maybe we can work together.” Elroy said. “You and I always worked well on our group projects.” He smiled. “And I know there aren’t a lot of other ponies in this town who are, well, like us.”

“Yeah.” Red Field rose. “I’m going to get something to eat.” He used up his only excuse for the night in under five minutes. Elroy closed his eyes and reclined against the tree. Red Field heard him heave a contented sigh.

He was smarter.

When they’d both taken Equestria’s standardized tests at sixteen, Ms. Wormwood had remarked that she’d nearly gotten his and Elroy’s test scores mixed up. Red Field had broken into the school’s records cabinet a week later (the lock was a one tumbler design). Red Field had scored a perfect 30, Elroy had only gotten a 29.667. Yet both were above the school average of 16.25. They were both geniuses; but only one of them was going somewhere.

Red Field hated potluck food, it was cream based, fattening, and while easily ingested, poorly digested. He dropped some caramel hay onto his plate aside some dinner rolls that resembled pound cake. The picnic was in full swing, and ponies milled about in the yard, eating and chatting. He pushed his way through the crowd and looked for a place to sit. He took a position at the steps of the porch. The sun had become a semi-circle on the horizon, and the night sky was starting to turn reddish orange. He began to quietly eat his dinner when the screen door banged shut behind him.

“Hey Red!” Said Larson, one of the Mcholstein stallions. Larson and Red Field had only met once at a funeral and Red Field had promptly pushed the stocky stallion out of his mind after their introduction. Larson did not attend the school, worked with his father flipping rocks, and was about as relevant to Red Field as the Tartlets. The light green stallion sat down beside him. “Watcha eatin’?”

“Just some caramel hay.”

“Shoulda seen that.” Said Larson.
Red Field did not reply, and continued to down his meal. Larson sat beside him as Red Field ate. Red Field became uncomfortable. Why wasn’t Larson going out and socializing with the other ponies?
Red Field stood and walked toward the trash drum that was buzzing with bees, to deposit his paper plate. Larson followed him. Red Field nervously threw the plate into the trash and began to think of an excuse to distance himself from the green pony.

“You want to come running with me and some guys?” Larson asked.
He hadn’t asked about his graduation, or his plans; Larson gained a bit of respect from Red Field. Red Field was so impressed with the question that he didn’t think about how to reply.

“Red!” He looked back and his mother waved to him. She was standing beside Fannie Mae.

“Sorry! I’m going running!” Red Field called.

Running was something stallions liked to do. Red Field wasn’t certain why, he just figured that other males enjoyed exertion. He followed Larson through the crowd of ponies. The muscular green stallion gathered a few of his friends from the picnickers and they walked to the front of the house. As the other stallions laughed and chatted around Red Field, he became nervous about not knowing how to even participate in the simple activity. The group of four stallions stopped at the end of the dusty driveway.

“How far we goin’?’” Asked one.

“Not far, I got a bum hamstring.” Said another.

“Haha, yeah, that’s why.” Said Larson. The second stallion pretended to take offense to this and the two exchanged in a few good-natured recounts of prior runs. Red Field felt supremely out of place amidst them.

“Hey!” Larson said. “Let’s let the grad decide!” He turned to Red Field.

“Where do you want to go?”

Red Field swallowed, he had no time to think of a good answer.

“Uh, where is there?” He asked. Larson slapped him on the shoulder.

“Reverse extended goose, up and down, Floaty Bridge.” Red Field had no idea what he was saying. Larson saw this. “Four miles, two miles, eight miles.”

“Four miles.” Red Field answered quickly. He didn’t even consider how far he might actually be able to run; he just wanted to satiate them without appearing to be more of an idiot.

“Alright! Reverse goose it is!” Larson and his friends apparently had no more of an introduction than that, and they started to jog down the empty road.

Why Larson invited him along, Red Field still didn’t know. As they ran down the road, which was lined with poplar trees, Larson and his friends didn’t even seem to notice the tiny pony jogging behind them. They joked and recalled earlier runs, and Red Field focused on simply keeping pace. Thankfully they didn’t run particularly fast, and Red Field managed to enjoy the passing countryside.

Rockvale wasn’t a perfectly displeasing place. Beyond the dry dirt of the cabbage and rock fields, the little town had a few swatches of forest. Red Field loved the forest. Something about the calmness, or the relative silence, or the infinite areas of study drew the young pony back to the quiet trees many times during his education. The road was flanked by trees and eventually ran into a small forest that acted as the temporary reprieve from the flat, sleeping land. The trees around them cooled the air, and Red Field relished the dampness of the leaves beneath his hooves.

The other stallions gradually shifted the topic of conversation over to more personal matters and subjects as time went on. As they splashed across the one stream that ran through Rockvale, Larson looked back at Red Field.

“So Red, what’s your plan now that you’re done with school?” Red Field had been awaiting the stream for some time and was enjoying the cool water that had just splashed his legs. “Red?”

“What?” Red Field looked up. The other stallions were watching him; he had missed a question (Red Field hated missing questions almost as much as he hated Rockvale). Larson laughed.

“What are you going to be doing now that you’re done with school?”

“Talie, going to be a research and design engineer.” He was still fixated on the foliage around him and didn’t bother to update his lie to Gale Force Academy.

“Oh Talie, that’d be cool, I know some guys there.” Said one of the other stallions.

“Yeah, it’s a cool company. That’s cool bro.” Larson said.

They rounded a curve and Red Field guessed they were beginning to loop back. Where would the halfway point be?

“So what do you think about that?”

Larson had asked him another question. Red Field looked up from the passing ground.

“What?” He asked, preparing to be laughed at for his inattention.

“Queen Twilight Sparkle, what do you think of her?” Larson said without a hint of mockery.

“Yeah, she’s been queen for what, a couple months now?” Asked another stallion. Red Field hadn’t realized that other ponies were interested in the recent change of power in Equestria. He had more or less assumed that most of the famers, and certainly their colts, wouldn’t bother to read about the fantastic assassination of Princess Celestia. Red Field himself hadn’t actually thought much on what it would mean, as he had only pondered it for a few hours.

“Well, I’m not sure.” He said.

“They say she’s big into education.”

“Oh yeah, but she somehow forgot to do Rockvale?” Said Larson.

“She did do here!” Red Field said. “She mandated the library.”

The three looked at him.

“I didn’t know we had a library.” Larson said, his brow knitting with confusion. “Where’s that at?”

“It’s Rock Candy’s old shed.” Said one of his friends. Larson seemed to have trouble pinpointing the location. “Maybe if you came off the farm more you’d know!”

“Hey! I do come off the farm thank you!” Red Field assumed they were going to slip back into the conversation and he returned to surveying his surroundings. “So who do you think did it? I mean, who do you think planted the bomb?” Larson asked.

“Oh geez, here we go!” Said one stallion with a roll of his eyes.

“Hey, I’m asking Red since he’s the Brainiac. What do you think Red?” Red Field didn’t expect a question that appealed to his intellect. He struggled to produce his evaluation of the Blast.

“Uh, well, I would imagine-” Said Red Field.

“Her sister, that’s who.” Said the first stallion. “She disappeared the day after the explosion, no excuse, no alibi, just disappeared. You can’t tell me she wasn’t in on it.”

“Shut up, I’m asking Red.” Larson said. Red Field had trouble believing they were actually asking his opinion on something.

“Princess Luna was probably not the bomber, at least not the primary conspirator.” He thought aloud.

“What? You can’t possibly believe that.” Said one of Larson’s friends.

“She could have arranged for business to take her away at the time of the Blast. She was reported to have been last seen in the cafeteria the evening of the explosion. To assume she would plan an assassination on her sister and not even attempt to fabricate an alibi is idiotic.” Said Red Field.

"Ah, well, I never thought of it like that.” Said one of Larson’s friends. They reached a hill amidst the trees and began to climb the incline. Red Field felt his breath being pulled away, but he liked having ponies ask his opinion and continued to offer his thoughts.

“Assuming she was privy to at least part of the plan, she must have not known the time or much of the details. Her exit was unplanned and she knows she is suspect because of it.”

“Yeah, that’s true-”

Red Field cut Larson off.

“Unless she understands the thinking of the investigators, in which case she is attempting to throw them off by appearing too unskilled to be the main suspect. That’s assuming she knows their usual method of investigation.” He started to pant, as the hill was getting to him. “But then, she must still know that she has no explanation and must be a prime suspect regardless.” The other ponies were staring at him. “Game Theory. Preempting actions by means of-” He gasped for breath suddenly.

“Haha just take a deep breath.” Larson said as they drove up the hill. Red Field nodded and began to pant heavily. The hill grew exponentially more difficult to climb and the other stallions ceased speaking and focused on ascension. By the time they reached the summit, Red Field was gasping for breath and on the verge of collapsing. He had fallen behind the group and took a few seconds to reach the other ponies, who had halted at the top of the hill.

The hill overlooked The Flats. The Flats was the colloquial name given to the Neigharan Desert. The giant expanse of flat, almost tundra-like sand extended out for miles. The Flats were so large that Neighara Falls, which laid on the opposite end of the desert, was not visible. The Flats were uninhabited, resource devoid, lacked any sort of oases and somehow deader than Rockvale.

Red Field wished he could have at least seen Neighara Falls from the hill.

Night was falling and darkness shrouded the desolate land below them. Larson and the other stallions were staring intently off into the distance. Red Field had no idea if this were some sort of running ritual and waited for them to finish.

“Oh, there it is.” Larson said, pointing into the desert. The other runners crowded around him.

“Where is it?” Asked one.

“Right there!” Larson said with a laugh. He looked around and saw Red Field behind them. “Hey Red, take a look at this.” He motioned for Red Field to join them. “Look out there.” He said, pointing out to the horizon. Red Field saw nothing.

“Oh I see it now!” Said the other pony. “I’m pretty sure it’s moved.”

“No, that’s where it’s always at.” Said the other. Red Field squinted at the blank landscape. “We call it Dome, not moving Dome.”

“It’s right over your right shoulder.” Larson said, leaning over Red Field. Red Field did not like Larson hanging over his shoulder. He felt as if he were being treated like a mare.

“What is it?” He asked.

“A dome.” Said the first of Larson’s friends. “What do you think?” Red Field looked at the literally empty desert before them. He saw no dome. “Geez, it’s not that hard to see.” One by one the other runners spotted the apparent dome and began to turn away from the ledge.

“Oh yeah there it is, cool.” Red Field lied.

“It is pretty hard to see, I mean, it moves.” Larson said as they left the overlook.

“It doesn’t move though.” The one of his friends said. “It never moves.” They ran back down the hill. Red Field realized he was sweating, and his lungs held less air then they had on their approach. “You just think it moves cause of the mirage effect.” Red Field was going to clarify that that wasn’t how mirages worked, but soon the conversation shifted and Red Field stopped trying to get a word in.
He was too tired and too sick of running.

As they ran back through the forest, darkness starting to envelop them, Red Field began to fall behind the group. Though he urged his legs on, he was soon reduced to a trot. He watched as the runners began to pull away, yet he dared not call to them and appear weaker than he already was. Nevertheless, he felt a chill run down his spine as he made his way through the darkened forest. Rockvale had no truly dangerous animals, yet he could not stave off the irrational fear that crept over him. He watched as the group rounded a bend and disappeared from sight. He sighed and began to walk; he’d just have to find his way home now.
He hated running, he hated any activities that most stallions did. Stallion activities were always loud, painful, exhausting, pointless and of course, very bullish. He began to cantor and attempt to recoup his breath when he saw Larson jog back around the bend toward him. Instantly Red Field began to run again.

“Haha, getting’ tired? That’s cool.” Larson said as he fell in step with the unicorn. “I just didn’t want to lose you.”

“Thanks.” Red Field panted as they reaccelerated to the previously unbearable pace. The pair ran for some time before Larson spoke.

“Dude, I wish I could have met you sooner. You’re really smart.” He said as they breezed by the trees. Red Field looked up at him and Larson laughed. “Yeah, I’ve never heard anypony talk like you do, are you like going to a magic academy or something before you go to Talie?” Red Field took a few breaths that did not improve his winded condition.

“No, I’m not really sure where I’m going.” In his exhaustion he didn’t even realize that this was not the proper lie. Larson flicked his head.

“Yeah, it’s probably really hard to find a good school around here. Have your parents sent any letters to like colleges or something?”

“Gale Force Academy.” Red Field said between breaths.

“Never heard of it. What would you study?”

“I don’t know, something basic.”

“Seriously? With all your smartness?”

“I’m not really sure what I’m going to do with my life.” Red Field said.

“Yeah, me too.” Larson said with a nod. They reached the end of the forest and started along the dusty driveway. The darkness of night had fallen around them and the damp air had grown cool. Up ahead they saw the remainder of the runners, catching their breath. “Well hey, no matter where you’re going, I know God’s gonna do something great with you.” Larson said, giving Red Field a sweaty thump on the back.
The group saw the two belated stallions and called to them. Larson laughed and started to sprint toward the farmhouse.
Red Field picked his pace up and tried to match the galloping farm pony, but his legs suddenly deadened and he slowed to a walk. Larson didn’t notice and in a few moments had reached the farmhouse. He and the other ponies resumed their banter and Red Field slowly walked up the road toward them. In a minute he had rejoined the group, who were just starting to stretch.

“Hey Red, you want to stretch with us?” Larson asked. Red Field spotted his mother in the backyard. She was still talking to Helping Hoof, but she held the emptied tub of cabbage soup and looked like she was getting ready to leave.

“No, I’m good thanks.” He said and started around the house. “Thanks for the run!”

“Thanks for coming Red, it was really great meeting you. Let me know when you solve Game Theory!” Larson called.

Red Field walked to his mother. She and Helping Hoof were discussing the rise in colic in the nursery, and the possible causes for the meaningless epidemic. The picnic was winding down and only a few bunches of ponies stood and conversed in the darkened yard. The traditional second course of “bars” and “goodies”, which represented dessert, had been almost completely depleted from the table. As exhausted as he was, Red Field was at least glad that the run had saved him from the gratuitous discussion of his future plans.

Still, his side ached and he wanted to get back to work on his algorithm. Red Field looked at the two mares, Moonlit Night was nodding a lot and not really saying much; she was ready to go.

“I’m ready to go.” Said Red Field. She nodded.

“Once you get a picture we can go.” She said, not looking back to him. Red Field sighed and looked around. He searched the few groups of chatting ponies for the overgrown mare and her daughter. He caught sight the grey pony with the carrot on a stick Cutie Mark cleaning off one of the picnic tables and shuffled over to her. Red Field didn’t have to say anything, he simply approached Fannie Mae and she noticed him immediately.

The Maes were rich. They were the only ponies in Rockvale with that quality. Having made a surprisingly large fortune out of the incentivizing of the sales of his stables, Freddie Mae had started his family in the miniscule mining town. Freddie was not a well-known pony, despite his overwhelming influence on the denizens of the small town. His mare, Fannie Mae, was more of the face to the family.

“Oh Red!” Fannie gave him a hug that smelled of powdered sugar. “We haven’t seen you in forever!”

“I heard you wanted to get a picture of me.” He said, attempting to keep her on track. She released him.

“Well of course we do!” She turned and scouted for her daughter. “She’s here somewhere, Action was worried she’d miss you.”

While possessing the talent to generate a tremendous amount of wealth in a short period of time, the Maes had trouble carrying on their legacy. Sickly sperm, the preponderance of airborne granite dust which caused genetic damage, or maybe just inborn flaws caused their only foal to mature into a pony even weaker than Red Field.
Affirmative Action, a richly multicolored mare with an acute triangle for a Cutie Mark, was destined to be the only indication of the existence of the Maes.

Affirmative Action was not smart, she was a shortsighted mare with thick glasses. And although her glasses gave her the appearance of intelligence, her academic success had been tied to the average amount of effort she had expended in her studies. She was not a burly mare that could tear cabbage from the earth, but simultaneously Affirmative Action had difficulty performing dainty tasks typically suited to affluent ponies. Nothing about her seemed to work very well. But a willingness on the part of her parents to expend any amount of money to solve her deficiencies meant she grew up with every advantage imaginable.

She skipped up to Red Field and gave him a choking hug.

“Red Field! I missed you! I didn’t see you with us at the graduation!”

“Yeah, I had a headache, sorry.” He said.

“Oh yeah, your headaches! Are they still coming on whenever you try to do stuff? You know, we have some pills we could get you.”

“Oh no, I’m fine.” He cleared his throat. “But I heard you wanted a picture of me!”

“Of course!” She said with a giggle.

Affirmative Action liked Red Field. Or rather, her parents liked Red Field. After watching his demonstration of stoichiometry in the third grade, and learning of his family’s yearly income, the Maes had invited Red Field to their modern stable on numerous occasions. The Maes had sent both Red Field and Affirmative Action on countless playdates, and Freddie had even arranged for Rockvale Community High to offer a class on basic magic ethics for Red Field. Fannie had purchased some scrolls of spells for Red Field and had offered him the chance to read them at their stable any time he wished.

The Maes had told him of the Academy of Advanced Magic in Cantorlot, how he would excel there, and how much tuition typically ran. They hinted a bit at how if Red Field ever got close with their daughter, they’d have to send him to school as a dowry.

But as the years had gone by, the Maes had realized that Red Field was not a normal stallion, and no compensation could evoke any feelings of attraction or even mindless lust for their daughter. However, Red Field was too shy to decline any invitation they extended, and no amount of disinterest would stop the Maes from attempting to showcase the many desirable qualities of Affirmative Action.

She and he stood beside one another. Behind them lay a backdrop of chunks of dirty granite and mud. Affirmative Action pulled close to Red Field. She smelled like lilacs and since no flowers grew in Rockvale, Red Field knew the Maes had spent quite a bit of money on the fleeting odor.

He felt sorry for her most of the time. Affirmative Action couldn’t carry on her parents’ legacy of wealth, no matter how much they propped her up. Red Field did not like her, and not even his obsession with the Academy would permit him to create any relationship with the gangly filly. But that didn’t stop the Maes from trying.

“So Red, what are you up these days?” Asked Freddie as he set up the tripod for the camera.

“Not much sir, I just read most days.”

“From the library?”

“Yes sir.”

“Farming manuals?” Freddie asked. The Maes owned countless books on a variety of esoteric and interesting subjects; one of which was probably algorithms. Red Field said nothing and stood frigidly beside Affirmative Action.

The flashbulb blinded him and it was over.

“So what are your plans now?” Affirmative Action asked. Desperate to escape the situation, Red Field glanced behind him and saw his mother starting toward the farmhouse with Helping Hoof; they were probably going to exchange recipes.

“Oh not much I-”

“You know the Academy of Advanced Magic cut back their class size by thirty-three percent.” Freddie said. Red Field looked back at him. Freddie was dismantling the tripod and packing it into a case. He looked up at Red Field. “Royal mandate, Queen Twilight Sparkle is trying to reduce government spending and since the Academy handles most of the magic research they got the cut.” Freddie set the camera into the case and snapped the clasp closed. “Action, could you please find your mother and tell her we are ready to go.” Red Field looked for his mother and saw her following Helping Hoof onto the porch.

Freddie was still watching him.

“Red Field, I happen to be on good terms with the president of-”

“No thank you sir, I appreciate your generosity however.” Red Field said, not looking back to the lineage-less stallion who offered him what he wanted more than anything.

“I’ll be sure and visit you at Talie.” Said Freddie.

Red Field didn’t say anything. Freddie put the camera case over his shoulder and walked in the opposite direction. When he was younger, Red Field had considered dating Affirmative Action. He had no other means of getting to the Academy, and Rockvale had already equipped him for dealing with disgust.
Freddie was why Red Field stayed away from Affirmative Action. Freddie had made Red Field realize that he was worth more as a virile stallion with a bit of intelligence, than a shy stallion with a lot of intelligence. Freddie put more value on Red Field’s testicles than his brain.

Moonlit Night was just opening the rusty screen door when Red Field caught her.

“I’m ready to go.” He said. She looked back at her son.

“Did you get the-”

“Yes.” He said.

“Okay well hold on just a minute, Helping Hoof was just going to get me her recipe for-”

“We’re leaving.” Red Field said, not releasing her. She stared at him for a moment, then poked her head into the house.

“Helping! I’m sorry, Red Field would like to get home now. Have it ready on Sunday, and we’ll swap after the service.” She turned back to him. “Okay, let’s go.” She said with a sigh.

Red Field’s legs ached from the short run and his stomach rolled from the rich potluck food. They walked home in silence.

They reached the little shack and his mother went immediately to her bed.

“Where’s dad?” Red Field asked as Moonlit Night pulled the blankets around herself.

“He’s out with Mr. Pie and some of the other stallions, there was an emergency boulder slide in Slate and he won’t be back until the morning.” Red Field shrugged and sat down atop his bed. He picked up the first book atop the stack of farm writing and opened it. Moonlit Night switched out the light and the room grew dark save for the glow of a tiny candle beside Red Field's bed.
He remembered his algorithm and opened his notebook to the lengthy grid. He scanned the parameters and tried to think of a way to refine them. However his head swam from the unpleasant evening and he discarded the notebook beside his bed. Picking up the topmost book from the pile, he prepared for a night of mindless reading.

“Early ponies were known to use rocks to dislodge honeycombs and fruits. Today, their descendants utilize gas impingement rifles to safely trigger avalanches and mine certain stones. This book chronicles the evolution of Equestrian ballistics, from the first chunks of thrown slate, to the .40 PAG, which throws a projectile at three times the speed of sound.”

Red Field smiled and felt a silent touch of gratitude for Mr. Whittaker. Guns were the most interesting subject he’d found at the library.

Red Field worked on his algorithm all of the next day. By the time his father and mother had set the dinner table, he had created seven sub-algorithms that calculated everything from crop consistency to the likelihood of thievery. He felt good, his work had gone well and tomorrow he delivered crops to the market and would show his work to Cargill. He sat down at the table and was even looking up from his plate as his parents served the boiled cabbage and greens. His father seemed to be in an equally good mood.

“Well we got the boulder moved.” He said to Moonlit Night. “Took us eight hours and probably about seventy guys, but we flipped her.” He turned to his son. “How are you Red? Read any good books?”

“Not really, most are just tractor pamphlets and crop catalogues.” Red Field said with a small smile. “Just because we have a library doesn’t mean we have literature.” He said jokingly. Cyrus seemed to enjoy his son’s distaste for once.

“Heh, well, I’m sure you’re going to be exposed to some great books at Gale Force.” Red Field didn’t even mind hearing this inaccurate assessment of his future and nodded in falsified agreement. Cyrus leaned back in his chair and thought aloud. “You know, I still think you’re going to have something to do with rockflipping, even if it’s not with Talie. Have you given any thought to what you might study while you’re there?”

Red Field thought of firearms.

“Mechanical engineering and maybe some ballistic physics.” Red Field said. His father grinned and looked to Moonlit Night.

“Well if that isn’t a preliminary for rockflipper designing than I don’t know what is.” He said. “Are you filling that with some designs?” He pointed to the notebook containing the algorithm.

“Yep.” Red Field said without breaking character. Cyrus became almost suspicious at the sudden enthusiasm from his son.

“Could your old pops take a look at your work?” He asked. Red Field thought for a sufficient lie to distance his father from the notebook.

“Nope, I have to finish it first.” He should have left it at that, but he continued to speak for some reason. “I don’t want my ideas getting stolen before I’m done.” The excuse was so strangely worded and disjointedly reasoned that Red Field wondered if he had even spoken it. The refusal sounded mistrustful and downright offensive and Red Field nervously gauged his father’s response. Cyrus looked at him in puzzlement for a few seconds, then a smile broke out across his face.

“Well then!” He said. “I’m glad to see that you’re already thinking like an engineer. And since you don’t even trust your own family I’d say that you’re already thinking like a successful engineer at that!”

Red Field hadn’t told his father that he wasn’t afraid of having his ideas stolen so much as he was afraid of having his future stolen. He hadn’t told him that his mistrust stemmed more from his venomous dislike for his town than a supposed business strategy. Red Field had never told his father that the reason he would never look inside of the notebook was that it contained the only replacement to the life his father was now celebrating. And as he watched the grey stallion that had raised him talk with his mother about how proud he was to have raised a shrewd son, Red Field came to the realization that he hadn’t told his father about much of anything.

They finished dinner and Red Field said he was going to take a walk. His mother began to ask that he help with the dishes, but Cyrus shrugged her off.

“He’s going to spend a lot of time at a drafting table, let’s let him take some time off before that.” He looked to Red Field and gave him an approving nod. “I’ll do the dishes tonight. You go have fun.”

Red Field walked into the humid night. The sun was nearing the horizon and the bugs swirled over the muddy field. He walked down the road and toward the six buildings that were Rockvale.

Everypony had a plan for him. His parents, his school, practically the entire town knew he would be the inventor of the perfect rockflipper. They had known it since his birth and they saw no other possibility for him. He had never told anypony of alchemy, or the Academy of Advanced Magic. The Maes were the only ones who knew of his desire to learn magic.

He walked aimlessly through the single intersection. The dust, continually churned and torn by carts and rocks, swirled about him as he strolled through the plus-shaped pathway. He heard the clatter of cans behind him and Red Field whirled around. Spook stood before the dumpster of the general store, he had dropped a bag of recycling. He looked as startled as Red Field.

“Sorry.” The black pony said. Red Field walked over to him. The cans had spilled out of the half-empty bag and rolled into the street. Red Field said nothing and began to assist Spook in recovering the fallen refuse.

Spook’s family ran the recycling service in Rockvale and Red Field had often seen Spook out collecting the minute amount of garbage Rockvale generated. Spook’s family was the second richest in Rockvale, though they made nowhere near the level of income as the Maes.

“Thanks.” Mumbled Spook as Red Field dumped the cans into the bag.

“No problem.” Red Field mumbled back. The two gathered the trash in a few moments and Spook retied the bag.

“I hate recycling. I’m gonna be glad when I leave this stupid town.” Spook said as he shouldered the bag and started toward the ice cream parlor.

“Where are you going?” Red Field asked. Spook shrugged.

“I talked with my dad, he said I could go to Cantorlot and study whatever I want.”

“Wish I could do that.” Said Red Field.

“Why can’t you?”

“Because I’ve got a great future in rockflipping. And I got this letter to some stupid college that my dad really wants me to go to.” Red Field laughed. “My dad loves me, but more importantly, he loves seeing me doing what he wants.”

“Are you sure he wouldn’t listen?” Asked Spook. “My parents were pretty mad at first, but they came around to it.” He said. “You’re really smart, you could probably think of a good way to tell your dad you don’t want to do what he does.”

Red Field thought of the algorithm.

“I’ve got a better plan.” He said.

The next day, Red Field spent the four hours that he had before his mother returned with the cabbages to polish his work. He refined some variables, defined some ratios, and copied the entire work onto new paper. By the time Moonlit Night tugged the stained wicker basket of purple vegetables into the shack, Red Field had finished the algorithm.

“Here you go.” She said, catching her breath. “It’s a lot today, make sure you get full price.” She seated herself at the table and wiped some perspiration from her brow. Red Field descended on the cabbages and quickly transferred them to the satchel. His mother noticed his excitement. “What’s gotten into you?” She asked with an overheated smile.

“Oh nothing.” Red Field replied, zipping the bag closed. “Just glad to see Cargill.”

“Has he got some puzzles for you?” She asked. Red Field nodded without a thought and gave her a quick kiss.

“I’ll be back later today.” He was fairly certain that Cargill would at least give him a day or so to collect his belongings before taking him to Cantorlot. His mother held onto him for a second.

“It’s very hot out there, make sure you get something to drink.” She said as Red Field pulled away.

“I’ll get something at the market.” He took one of the bits his father had given him and dropped it into the bag on his way out. “See you later.”

Even in his eagerness, Red Field still felt the warm carpet of humidity around him. The golden sun was masked beneath the haze of the granite dust robing the town. The dusty road offered no shade and Red Field took the full force of the sweltering sun without respite. Sweat began to pop over his body before he made a quarter mile. He anxiously checked that the notebook was not absorbing any condensation from the worthless vegetables that surrounded it. He repeated this action every time he felt a drop of sweat roll down his body.

He was going to get the job, he knew that. He was a smart pony, and no amount of professionalism would mask Cargill’s imminent amazement at the well-crafted calculations. Red Field smiled, he was going to show just how smart he could be when he worked toward something he wanted. Of course, his parents would take the news of his departure hard. Should he even tell them?
As he rechecked the notebook, Red Field saw the dull shine of one of the bits his father had given him. He wasn’t going to tell them anything. Red Field thought of his mother. He would tell her. But then she would tell his father.

Red Field shook his head, he would figure out how to break the news when he needed to. He looked down the long stretch of road toward the market. Right now he would just relax in his future.

Red Field reached the gathering of tents and carts twenty minutes before Cargill’s scheduled arrival. He purchased a cup of lemonade and took a seat in the shade of a fruit tent as he waited. Somehow his heart was pounding and he was now fighting a persistent nausea. He wiped away some sweat and looked down the road.
Cargill was a formidable businesspony, and despite perfect preparation, Red Field was still intimidated by the prospect of proposing employment to him. He didn’t doubt the algorithm would wow Cargill.
Red Field tried to shrug off the anxiety as pre-interview jitters. In a few minutes, he saw the white stallion trotting down the road. Red Field stood, then sat down. He ought to wait until the other famers sold their produce and he had a chance to hold a proper conversation with Cargill.

Red Field waited as the other farmers exchanged their goods. Finally, Red Field saw nopony else and rose out of the shade. Cargill was checking his receipts and he looked up as Red Field approached him.

“Oh! Hello Red Field! I didn’t know if you would be here today.” He said. Red Field’s stomach knotted and he quickly produced the notebook.

“I have this sir.” He fumbled through pages for a moment before displaying the algorithm. “An algorithm, to calculate your decision to invest in any particular seasonal cabbage variety.”

He held out the notebook.

“Do you have anything to sell today?” Asked Cargill. Red Field hesitated, then gave him the bag containing the cabbages. Cargill inspected them, then gave a pre-measured pouch of bits to Red Field. “Now then.” Said Cargill as he began to hitch himself to his cart. “You made an algorithm did you?” Red Field nodded and again offered the gridded paper. Cargill adjusted the fit of the harness and then took the notebook. Red Field held his breath as Cargill scanned the paper.

“I assumed that since you are investing primarily in-” Red Field tentatively began. Cargill flipped the page over, saw the other side was blank and handed the notebook back to him.

“Impressive.” He said, starting to cantor down the road. “You clearly spent a lot of time working it out.”

Red Field followed him.

“Sir, if I may ask, is there anything else I can do to show you my ability?” He asked.

“I’ve already added your name to the list.”

“Have I demonstrated my capacity?”

“Absolutely, and should you land the job, I don’t doubt that you will begin to write more serious algorithms.”

“Was there something wrong with this one?”

“I typically use percentage-based algorithms in my investments. A list of yes/no questions with an all or nothing outcome isn’t very helpful.” Red Field’s mouth went dry. How had he not realized that? “Red Field, you’ve definitely got what I need for this position, and should it work out, I would like to see you use your skills in my business. I’ll let you know in a couple of days about the job.”

Red Field watched Cargill continue down the road.

It was a simple algorithm. Red Field looked into the notebook. It was just a list of yes/no questions that gave a yes/no answer. It was a worthless algorithm that a pony with a third of his intelligence could have devised. He tore the page from the notebook and crumpled it up. He hadn’t accomplished anything. Red Field turned and started back toward town. He was going to write another algorithm, one that wasn’t so pathetic.
The walk back from the little market only stirred Red Field’s anger more. The choking heat of summer and still grasses around him channeled his thoughts back into his failure. He was going to create a percentage-based algorithm that Cargill could use.

Even with his newfound goal, Red Field was still stinging with irritation as he opened the doors to the tomb-like library. He set his satchel by the door and walked directly to the small table in the center of the room. Dropping his notebook and pencil before him, Red Field started on a new algorithm.

For half an hour he started.

Not knowing something was unspeakably shameful to Red Field. As the minutes ticked by and he stared at the blank page that needed to bear his improved algorithm, Red Field began to fiercely resent his ignorance. How could he include percentages? Red Field realized that research, most likely many months’ worth, was needed to determine percentages. He had no solid numbers or odds collected on the growing patterns or price ranges of seasonal cabbage varieties. He looked back at his old algorithm; it wasn’t even related to seasonal cabbage varieties, it was just a lot of questions that could be applied to any investment.

He knew nothing about algorithms at all.

Red Field slammed his hoof into the table. The tears burned his tightly closed eyes and he wrestled back an outraged sob. He knew nothing about a field in which he was trying to gain employment. Worse yet, the field of competing applicants surely contained ponies that knew a great deal about algorithmic trading, even if they weren’t on his level of cognition. Red Field sniffed and felt a gentle hoof on his shoulder. Red Field held back his despair and turned to face Mr. Whittaker.

“Working on something?” He asked. Red Field swallowed some tears.

“No.” He muttered as he started toward the door. He scooped up the empty satchel as he made his way to the door. The burlap bag had been filled with several thick books and as Red Field yanked the bag up, they spilled out. One jumped into the air and caught him in the snout. Red Field recoiled and held his face

“I’m sorry, I should have told you. I slipped a few more books on firearms into your-” Mr. Whittaker began.

“I don’t care about firearms!” Red Field shouted as his rage broke free. He grabbed the offending book and hurled into the darkened fringes of the toolshed-turned-library. “I don’t care about anything in this Goddamn town! I only care about making my life into something I want and not what anypony else wants!” He took hold of his notebook and wrenched it apart. He flung the unbound notebook to the ground, scattering the loosened pages. Tears trickled down his face. “And I can’t even do that.” Red Field kicked the door open and walked into the sweaty night.

The rock dust mixed with his tears and soon his face his streaked with dark grey lines of grit. Red Field paused before the entrance to his home. He heard his parents talking. They were talking about him.
He miserably wiped his face and checked the pouch of bits. Assuring himself of a passable appearance, he strolled into the shack. Cyrus and Moonlit Night both stood as if they had been talking for a long time and they looked up upon his arrival.

“Red.” His mother said softly. He was late for dinner.

“I’m sorry, I went to the library.” He mumbled as he set the small bag of coins on the counter.

“Red Field, listen to me.” Cyrus acted like he’d committed some worse infraction.

“Yes sir?” Red Field asked cautiously.

“Son, have a seat.” Cyrus motioned to a chair. Red Field’s nervousness rose as his father waited for him to seat himself. His father was crestfallen, and the grey rock farmer took a seat across from him. “There isn’t a good way to lead into this.” His father said. “Red, I received a letter today.” Cyrus stopped. He gazed at the table before him as if he were trying to come to grips with a terrible tragedy. He looked up at his only son. Their eyes met and Red Field saw a defeat in his father’s face.
“Gale Force Academy declined your application.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

Red Field crossed a line that night. The disappointment with Cargill, combined with his outrage at the absolute ignorance of his father as to what he wanted, caused Red Field to utter a single sardonic snort.

“Good.”

He got up from the table and walked to his bed. He was just picking up his next book on thresher lubrication when the shock from his response wore off and his father began to shout. Red Field hadn’t told his father how much he hated being shouted at, or how angry it made him. And as his father rose from the table and started toward him, Red Field slammed the book down on the flattened mattress and began to shout back.

Next Chapter: Chapter 3 Estimated time remaining: 16 Hours, 39 Minutes